A semi-sequel to “Favored Son,” this story is set late third season.  I waffled on this one a long time trying to decide whether or not to keep a particular plot thread (among the many in this story) that may not appeal to all readers.  All I can say is stick with it until the end before passing judgment.    Thanks to T. as always for the beta and Kass for the fic home.  Please send feedback to veniceplace12@verizon.net!

 

Boneyard

by Kate (CMT)

 

 

 

Starsky tossed a handful of M&M’s into his mouth, chewing contentedly as he sauntered back to the squadroom.  He and Hutch had only made it halfway through lunch before getting called on an “all units” for a 211 in progress.  A patrol car was already on the scene by the time they arrived at the location - - a Chinese herb emporium tucked between a discount bakery and an all-night laundromat in the waterfront district.  Panicked, the perp had bolted out the back door at the first sign of flashing lights, clumsily managing to snag a passing motorist, physically dragging the startled man from his 500cc cycle.

 

Rounding the corner, Starsky had gunned the Torino in siren-blaring pursuit, nearly sending Hutch through the windshield.  His friend retaliated with a blistering string of profanity that still made Starsky’s ears flame red when he thought about it.  It never ceased to amaze him that someone as soft-spoken and introspective as Hutch could spew words like raw sewage when he was hot enough.  Ten minutes later the perp spilled his bike trying to take a hairpin turn and they had a suspect in custody. 

 

They’d just finished booking him at the station and were readying to go back on the streets when Hutch got a phone call from his mother.  Deciding to make the most of the time, Starsky went in search of the nearest vending machine, hoping to stuff his still grumbling stomach.  When a Snickers didn’t fill the void, the M&M’s followed, sucking up the last of his pocket change. Once they were back on the streets, he was fairly certain he could coerce Hutch into a quick stop for a hot dog.  Assuming his partner had lightened up and moved past his foul-mouthed cussing streak.

 

“ . . . yeah, okay, I’ll tell him,” Hutch was saying as Starsky wandered back into the squadroom.  He flashed an amused glance at his partner, a brilliant white smile sinking a dimple into his cheek.  “No, Mom.  We don’t have anything planned.  What about the bridge?”

 

Starsky grinned.  Apparently his partner was in a better mood, the windshield incident forgotten.  Blond, blue-eyed and flaunting a dazzling line of near-perfect teeth, Hutch might have been rehearsing a toothpaste commercial, if it weren’t for the too-long hair splayed over his collar and the Magnum holstered under his arm.  Part boy next door, part intimidating street cop, Starsky sometimes wasn’t sure where his friend fit best. 

 

Well, that wasn’t exactly true.  Hutch fit best as Starsky’s partner and friend - - even when he was biting Starsky’s head off for something as silly as taking a turn too fast.

 

The criminal element had learned the hard way to take Hutch seriously despite his glaringly WASPy appearance.  The last few years had given him a grittier edge, complete with longer, shaggier hair, a coldly chilling stare, and a deadly softness of voice that was often worse than anger.  Still, when he smiled like that, it was all about Mr. Collegiate-Midwestern-America and his strange mix of farmboy awkwardness and elite sophistication. 

“I promise, Mom,”  Hutch said with another glance for Starsky.  “No, he’s standing right here.  I’ll tell him.  Okay . . . see you then.  Love you too.”  He hung up shaking his head, still grinning good-naturedly.  “Hey, Starsk, you ever thought about seeing Lake Superior?”

 

Lounging with his back to a file cabinet, Starsky popped the last of the M&M’s into his mouth. He wadded the wrapper into a ball and lobbed it into the nearest trashcan. “Superior.  Is that how you got that Sea Scout badge thing?”

 

“Something like that.”  Hutch stood, snagging his jacket from the back of his chair.  “Come on.  We gotta roll.”

 

“Hey, wait a minute!”  Starsky trailed him as he pushed through the squadroom doors.  “What were you sayin’ to your mom . . . somethin’ about tellin’ me . . . tellin’ me what?”

 

Hutch grinned over his shoulder.  “Got you curious?”

 

“Stuff it, Hutchinson.  What did she want?”

 

Hutch chuckled, walking faster, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the hall.  Starsky scowled, keeping pace, instinctively wondering what it might be like to be partnered with a midget.  Or at the very least, someone who didn’t have legs like a giraffe.  A few months ago he’d curled up against those long legs when Hutch’s father had cut a bullet out of him on King Island.  Right now he wouldn’t have minded if his 6’1” partner had a little less speed in his lean frame.

 

“Slow up, will ya?”

 

Ignoring him, Hutch sprinted down a short stairwell and into the garage, making a beeline for Starsky’s red and white Torino.  “Come on, Starsk.  It’s too nice outside to be cooped up at Metro.  I want to get back on the street.”

 

Now he had something - - bargaining power. “Huh-uh, Blondie.”  Starsky stopped by the driver’s door, leaning forward to brace an arm against the roof.  He sent Hutch an arch glance across the top. “Not ‘till you tell me what your mom wanted.  Spill it or pack it in.”  He tossed his keys in the air, snatching them in a jangling fist, clearly making a point of who was in control.  Gotcha, pal!

 

Hutch did his best to look put out, but they both knew it was for show.   “Okay,” he rested his hands lightly on the roof of the car.  “You know that week off we got coming up?  Well . . . it’s  been two years since I’ve been home and my parents want me to fly back to spend some time with them.”  He shrugged, a little uncomfortable.  “My dad’s idea.”

 

“You mean since you and King Medicine patched things up?”  Starsky’s grin grew barbed.  “So the high-and-mighty surgeon has dear Adele call and ask you - - play on your sympathy . . . can’t say no to mom and all that?”

 

Hutch wrenched open the car door.  “Starsky, the man’s only just come to terms with the fact I’m a cop.  That doesn’t mean he’s gonna ditch his attitude overnight.  He wants me to fly home, he’s just too proud to call himself.”

 

“Because he’s afraid you might get a stick up your tight ass and say no.”

 

Hutch scowled.  “He and I are past that.”

 

“Yeah, I seem to remember he even got a hug outta you the last time he left.”  Relenting, Starsky popped open the door and dropped into the car.  He really couldn’t say anything bad about Grant Hutchinson.  The man had saved his life, pulling him through an agonizing surgery without proper equipment, facilities, sanitary measures, anesthetic or medication.

 

Starsky grew warm, feeling a little awkward when he recalled his partner’s role in that same surgery.  He never would have survived without Hutch’s devotion and care, given completely and utterly with love.  Blowing out a breath, he gripped the steering wheel.  “What’s any of this gotta do with me?”

 

 “You’re invited.”  Hutch slid in beside him.   “Uh, actually sort of expected, Starsk.  My parents thought it would be nice for you to come along too.  Air fare and rental car are already paid for if you say yes.”

 

Startled, Starsky blinked.  “What?  They don’t want to spend time alone with their son?”

 

Hutch laughed.  “I’m not sure my father and I will get through a whole week intact.  Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think he wants you there as a diversion.”  Hutch shrugged, looking sheepish.  “He knows if I cop an attitude, you’ll be there to put me back in line.  He figures I’ll listen to you, even if I blow up at him.”

 

Twisting sideways, Starsky turned to face him.  “Since when do you listen to me?”

 

Hutch scrunched lower, making himself comfortable.  He stretched his long legs and tilted his head back on the seat.  “Humor me, Starsk.  You wanna come home with me to Duluth or not?”

 

Starsky hesitated, even though he already knew the answer.  Seeing where his friend grew up, understanding that part of him would only bring them closer.  And he was already closer to Hutch than he thought two people could possibly be. But he wanted to know more, to understand more.  To see that half of Hutch he’d never been permitted to glimpse - - the past. His family, his upbringing, all the elements that flowed together to make him who he was.  The person who meant more to Starsky than any other in life.  “Duluth, huh?”

 

When he didn’t answer immediately, Hutch rolled his head on the seat to look at him, a worried crease forming between his eyes.  “Starsk?”

 

“I was just thinkin’ . . .”  His smile came slow and deliberate.  “You’re not gonna make me hike through woods or do anything nature-weird like that, are you?  Think I’d rather take my chance with the lake and you know how I feel about water.”

 

Hutch grinned.  “Thanks, buddy.  I really didn’t want to do this one alone.”

 

Starsky turned over the ignition.  “Coward.”

 

“No denial there, pal.” Hutch rolled down his window, letting exhaust-laced air flood the car as they pulled into traffic.  “My old man still knows what buttons to push.”  He shot Starsky a long, level glance.  “You’ve probably already figured it out by now, but he can still intimidate the hell out of me.”

 

“Yeah?”  Starsky’s voice dropped to a murmur as he joined the flow of traffic.  “Well, from what I’ve seen, you do the same to him.”

 

+++++

 

There were worse times to be in Duluth than mid July, Hutch thought as he contemplated the upcoming trip. The phone call from his mother had caught him by surprise, but now that he thought about it, he was actually looking forward to going home.  He hadn’t been back for two full years, even skipping Thanksgivings and Christmases.  Most of that missed time he could blame on an erratic work schedule, but there’d also been the cool distance between him and his father.  They’d managed to clear a lot of that up after the incident on King Island.  Now they were finally, if tentatively, getting to know and respect one another the way they should have years ago.

 

Still, Hutch was glad Starsky would be going with him, acting as buffer if things got a little too strained.  Although he didn’t anticipate any problems, having Starsky along would bolster his confidence and help ease any latent anxiety he had kicking around.  They still had a week to plan the trip and finalize the plane ticket and rental car preparations.  His father’s secretary had taken care of most of that already.  All he had to do was contact her for the details and give the go ahead.

 

His mother had told him they’d had a lot more rain than normal and White Timber Creek was running high.  His father had built the secluded gated estate, isolated from the surrounding town by the path of the meandering creek just six years ago.  During that time the bridge had never washed out, but Hutch knew the possibility was there.  He’d even argued with his father when Grant wanted to build the lavish estate accessible only by bridge.  It seemed excessive when compared to the well appointed home in which Hutch had grown up.  But Grant had made a fortune since then.  His career as a highly respected surgeon, coupled with the proceeds from the sale of his father’s farm to real estate developers had made him extremely wealthy.

 

Thus came a private residence, complete with guesthouse, in-home office, swimming pool, tennis courts and acres and acres of secluded grounds.  Numerous creeks and rivers crisscrossed Duluth itself, but White Timber on the outskirts ran higher than most.  Even the drive to reach his parent’s home could be precarious, navigating roads cut into steep rocky cliffsides. Hopefully the rain would ease up until then.

 

“Zebra 3.”  The radio crackled to life, startling Hutch from his reverie.  Suddenly he was back in Bay City amid blaring horns, congested traffic, dilapidated storefronts and hot, smog-choked air. “Zebra 3 respond to reports of a domestic disturbance, 49a Breezeway Apartments.  Time in 1:18.”

 

“Zebra 3 responding,” Hutch said into the microphone.  He plopped the mars light onto the roof, looking across at Starsky as something about the address jarred his memory.  “49a. Why’s that sound familiar?”

 

Starsky maneuvered the Torino past a city taxi and a white sedan. “Sweet Alice’s place,” his partner responded without looking.  Concentrating solely on driving, he turned sharply sending Hutch careening to the side. 

 

The blond detective grappled quickly for the open window, anchoring himself so he wouldn’t collide with Starsky.  Apparently his earlier tirade hadn’t made much of an impression on his speed-demon partner.  At least this time, Starsky hadn’t tossed him face-first toward the windshield. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him to slow down but something curled in the pit of Hutch’s stomach.  Sweet Alice.  Domestic disturbance. 

 

She’d done something stupid, probably picked up the wrong john who was now slapping her around.  Hutch hung onto the window, silently willing Starsky to go faster.  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have a soft spot for Alice.  If there was one woman he wanted out of the hustling game it was her.  At least she’d gotten away from the pimps, but she was still turning tricks from her middle-of-the road apartment.  He’d heard she’d been busted three weeks ago for trying to pick up an undercover cop in a businessmen’s bar.

 

A gaudy green and turquoise sign proclaiming Breezeway Apartments in flowing yellow letters came into view.  From past experience Hutch knew Alice’s apartment was in the end building, tucked behind an inground swimming pool with concrete sundeck. Starsky screeched to a halt just outside her apartment, siren still wailing, and flung open his door.  A man burst from the building, running at full clip across the parking lot. 

 

“I got him,” Starsky yelled, immediately giving pursuit.   

 

Hutch pulled his gun and darted inside the building.  A few heads peeked from cracked doorways, neighbors who were nosey enough to watch, but not concerned enough to help.  At least one of them had phoned in the call.  “Police,” he snapped crisply.  “Stay inside.” 

 

One door shut but the others stayed open, leeringly intent on the action.  Hutch ignored them, gun at his side and pointed skyward as he made his way to Alice’s apartment.  The door yawned open, busted at the hinges as though someone had kicked it in.  “Police,” he called out, pivoting to the side and fanning the Magnum across the open doorway.

 

The interior was a shambles.  A few strands of hanging beads, which had once served as a room divider between the entry and living area, had been ripped from their ceiling restraints.  Two silver strands lay curled on the floor, others swayed freely with motion as though only recently disturbed.  Hutch pushed past them, brushing glittery plastic aside to step into the ravaged room.

 

“Alice?” 

 

The couch lay heaved on its back, a wood-veneer coffee table overturned beside it.  A few feet away, Alice’s antique-looking phone had been ripped from the wall, split and frayed wires proclaiming its uselessness.  Pieces of glass crunched beneath Hutch’s shoes as he strode across the carpet.  A tall green lamp had been upended near the sliding doors, its shade bent and deformed from striking the floor.  Hutch stooped to pick it up, stepping over the shattered remnants of a once graceful vase.  His eyes tracked to the side, registering on a series of dark, quarter-sized splotches strung haphazardly across the olive carpet.  “Alice?”  

 

A soft sound came from the direction of the bedroom.  Heart pushing into his throat, Hutch dropped the lamp and darted in search of the noise.  “Alice?”  Blindly, he fumbled for the wall switch, flooding a short hallway with a cone of yellow light.  The sudden illumination threw her image back at him in nightmarish detail . . . black silk and cameo-pale flesh; the wet, ruby stain of blood; a flowing cascade of soft corn-gold hair. 

 

“God, no!”  Hutch lurched forward.  Alice lay crumpled on her side, clad only in a short black shift, one thin spaghetti strap broken and hanging limply from her shoulder.  Her right arm was lacerated, leaking blood over her side, hip and leg.  A dark stain soaked into the faded carpet beneath her body, growing even as Hutch watched. 

 

“Alice.”  Plunging the Magnum into its holster, he leaned into the bathroom, snagging the first towel he spied.  “Alice, honey, can you hear me?”  Gently raising her arm, he wrapped the soft terry cloth over the wound, applying pressure to stop the bleeding.  She moaned softly, trying to pull away.

 

“Ssh.  Alice.  Alice, look at me.”  It wasn’t that bad, he realized.  She’d need a few stitches and was probably scared out of her mind, but it looked like a surface wound.  A lot of blood but no serious damage.  “Alice.”  Softening his voice, Hutch smoothed a hand over her hair.  He felt a bump under his fingers and realized she probably had a concussion too.

 

“Who . . .?”  Her eyelashes fluttered.  It took her a moment to put two-and-two together.  To sort through the clinging horror of the last few minutes and make sense of the face bending over her, the gentle touch, the melodious voice.  The panic withered from her gaze.  “Hutch?”

 

“That’s it, sweetheart.”  He palmed her cheek, smiling warmly.  “Think you can sit up?”

 

She nodded slowly, a little foggily.  Hutch guided her to a sitting position, then stripped off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.  Her legs were bare, the right one covered with blood, but no wound that he could see.  He ran a hand over the soles of her bare feet feeling for glass.

She shivered.  “What . . . what are ya doing?”

 

He placed her hand over the towel on her arm.  “Hold that, okay?”

 

She nodded, still dazed.  He left only a minute to duck back into the bathroom, snag another towel and wrap it over the first.  She was more focused now, watching warily, that wild mane of golden hair tumbled in riotous waves over her shoulders.  Hutch touched her chin.  “Wanna tell me what happened here?”

 

“It’s not what you think.”  She drew his jacket closer, covering up in modesty, the plunging neckline of the skimpy shift leaving little to his imagination.  “I . . . I’ve got a late night planned.  I was goin’ to bed.”

 

Hutch scowled.  “With the guy who went barreling out of here at lightspeed?  Alice, when are you going to give this up?”

 

She looked away.  “It wasn’t like that.”

 

Hutch sighed.  At least she was talking coherently. Shaken and bruised, but she was breathing.  It could have been a lot worse.  Many of the men who frequented hookers were violent by nature.  Alice had always played it safe, sticking with the same johns, taking new ones by referral or finding them in the business bars. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Starsky step into the hallway.     

   

“Hey,” Starsky interrupted.  “How’s it going in here?  I got our man cuffed in the back seat.  Pretty much admitted what happened, but said he had the wrong apartment. . . . was lookin’ for some redhead who lifted his wallet last night.  Busted down the door tryin’ to get in, then things got outta hand.  Said he didn’t mean to hurt her.”

 

“Shit.”  Hutch hung his head.

 

“I told you it wasn’t like ya thought,” Alice said quietly.

 

Exhaling noisily, Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  Yeah, he’d jumped to the worst conclusion, but it was the most logical too.  A man bolting from a hooker’s apartment usually signaled things had gotten kinky and rough.   

 

Hutch looked over his shoulder.  “Starsk, she’s got a knife wound and a pretty good sized bump on the head.  The phone’s dead.  Think you could radio for an ambulance?”

 

“No!”  Alarmed, Alice snatched at his shirt.  “No ambulance.  I don’t want that.”

 

“Alice, you’ve got to go to the hospital.” 

 

“No,” she said again, softer this time.  Her grip grew less possessive, became coyly submissive.  “Please, Handsome Hutch.”  She used the tone of voice that got him every time - - that soft southern drawl with a combination of vulnerability and open promise.  “I’ll go to the hospital, like ya’ll want, but no ambulance.  Couldn’t you and Starsky just take me?”

 

Trapped.  He owed her for thinking the worst.  More than that, he wanted to make certain she would be all right.  He couldn’t help feeling protective toward her.  Couldn’t quite squash the glimmer of attraction that had always simmered between them despite their at-odds professions.  Once again he looked over his shoulder at his friend. 

 

Starsky read the question in his eyes and sighed.  “Okay, partner.  I’ll call a patrol unit to come collect our boy.  Wanna see if you can get some clothes on her?”

 

Hutch nodded his thanks, conveying gratitude with his eyes. 

 

Starsky’s message was just as clear, communicated through a silent rapport eight years of close friendship had built:  Just don’t do anything stupid, Blondie.

 

+++++

 

Hutch walked down the hall toward the waiting room, wondering what Starsky considered stupid.  The patrol unit had come for their suspect as promised ninety minutes ago.  Alice had dressed while they waited, slipping a pair of jeans and sandals under the shift, not bothering with a top.  Keeping Hutch’s jacket wrapped around her, she’d ridden up front on the way to the hospital, huddled close to Hutch.

 

He’d wrapped a protective arm around her shoulders, inviting the curve of her body against his.  That innocent bit of nestling had induced a pointed silence from his partner.  Hutch knew Starsky thought he was playing it too close, too personal.  Maybe he was.  Sometimes the black and white lines of his carefully structured world bled into muddled gray.  It was no secret he cared for Alice on a purely compassionate level.  Problem was, there was another side too.  A side that whispered if she weren’t a hooker, he might have given rein to an attraction he’d long tried to bury. 

 

Starsky saw it.  Starsky knew it, just as he intuitively knew almost everything about Hutch.  It was useless trying to hide his feelings around his bloodhound-like partner.   Which meant that Starsky would sniff out what was sure to be labeled his latest round of glaring stupidity.

 

She’s hurt, Hutch reminded himself.  Starsky will understand. 

 

He found his partner in the hospital waiting room, crisply leafing through a copy of Popular Mechanics, his feet wedged against the edge of a squat coffee table.  The room was otherwise deserted but it crackled with Starsky's barely restrained energy.  Even his posture screamed impatience.  Hutch knew he’d been sitting there a good thirty minutes  - - a virtual eternity in Starsky’s high-strung world  - - while Hutch conferred with the on-call doctor and Alice.

 

Spying Hutch, Starsky tossed the magazine aside and bounced quickly to his feet.   “Well?  You satisfied now?  Can we get outta here?”

Hutch hedged.  “Not exactly, Starsk.”

 

“What’dya mean, ‘not exactly?’”  Starsky paced nearer, instinctively honing in on what Hutch hadn’t said.   “She need a ride back to her apartment or somethin’?  What ain’t you tellin’ me, Blondie?”

 

Hutch scuffed a finger under his nose, abruptly tongue-tied and awkward.  He should just spit it out and get it over with:  She’s going home with me for the night.  Instead he dragged a hand through his long hair and paced to the other side of the room.  “She’s got a mild concussion and she’s a little loopy from the pain medication they gave her.  Doctor wants someone to stay with her tonight.  She’s got no one to call, and she’s petrified of staying in the hospital . . . something about her mother dying after surgery.”

 

Starsky’s eyes narrowed.  “What are you tryin’ to tell me, partner?”

 

Hutch shrugged.  He picked up the magazine Starsky had tossed aside and pretended interest. “I . . . I’m gonna take her home with me tonight.” 

 

Silence.  Lots and lots of it. 

 

Not good.

 

Hutch flipped a page, grimacing when the paper crinkled loudly.  Pins dropping had nothing on a good glossy magazine.  He cleared his throat.  “Starsk, did you hear what I said?”

 

A footstep, then two.  Suddenly Starsky was at his side, breathing down his neck, glaring at him with those dark ocean-blue eyes.  “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Hutch.”  Carefully spoken, neutral, surprisingly level.

 

Hutch raised his eyes.  “Why not?’

 

Starsky sighed theatrically, letting the pent-up drama punch through.  “Because, dummy.  You two have always been just a little gone on each other.  She’s vulnerable and you’re drippin’ protective hormones all over the place.  I’ve been cleaning ‘em up for close to two hours now.  You take her back to your apartment, you know where it’s gonna end up.”

 

Hutch balked.  “Starsky, she’s hurt.  What do you think I am  - - a lecher?  Besides, I know what she is.”

 

“Yeah, right.  Got a clear head, do you?”

 

“Crystal.”

 

“Know exactly what you’re doin’?”

 

“Couldn’t be more focused.”

“Then how come you’re readin’ upside down, genius?”  Snatching the magazine from his hands, Starsky spun it around, reseating it correctly in Hutch’s suddenly lax grip.  Smiling acidly, he leaned closer, looking up into his partner’s startled eyes.  “You end up in bed with her, I don’t wanna know about it.  In fact . . . once I drop the two of you off, I’m done with the whole thing.  I don’t wanna hear a single, freakin’ word about it.  Got that, partner?”

 

Hutch swallowed hard.  “Okay,” he agreed quietly, abruptly realizing Starsky was probably right.  He was in over his head.  But it was only one night.  One lousy night. 

 

What could possibly go wrong in the span of twelve hours?

 

+++++  

 

Hutch was oddly nervous, but couldn’t understand why.  It wasn’t as if he’d never had a woman in his apartment before.  Under normal circumstances he knew precisely what his intent was  - - dinner, music and romance, not necessarily in that order.  It was rare for a woman to spend the night who didn’t figure into his bedroom, much less his bed.

 

As a cop he knew he was being stupid, taking a known prostitute home with him.  Starsky’s less-than-enthusiastic remarks at the hospital followed by his stony silence on the drive to Venice Place had been proof of that. 

 

“I’d call you a colossal ass, but that’d be givin’ you too much credit,” his partner had muttered after dropping Hutch and Alice off for the night.  Fortunately Alice had been too disoriented by pain medication to overhear.  Hutch’s only reply had been a frown, followed by a softly spoken “See you, pal,” as he closed the door.

 

Now three hours later, he lay on the couch, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.  It was still early in the evening, not quite seven o’clock.  The leftover chicken stir-fry he’d cooked for dinner was still warming on the stove on the off chance his guest might want some. 

 

Alice had curled up on his bed, falling into a deep sleep shortly after arriving at his apartment.  He’d paced back to the bedroom on three separate occasions, feeling the need to make sure she was sleeping comfortably.  Ever since finding her half-dressed, lying in a pool of blood, he hadn’t been able to get rid of the tight feeling in his stomach.  Prostitution was an ugly trade that often ended in violence.  This time the outburst had been unrelated to what she did for a living, but Hutch knew the same couldn’t be said about the past.  Her own “boyfriend” had once beaten her half to death in front of a camera.

 

Agitated by the memory, Hutch pushed from the couch and began to pace.  The woman just didn’t have common sense if she couldn’t see she was playing with fire.  Sooner or later she was going to get burned for keeps.

 

Like Gillian.

 

He hadn’t thought about his ex-lover in a long time.  Her death had been hard, ripping him up inside, his grief compounded by the emotional turmoil of learning she’d been a prostitute.  What did it say about him that he was repeatedly attracted to women with a less than respectable reputation?  A psychologist would have a field day with that one - - upstanding doctor’s son with a hooker fixation.  He paused, frowning.

 

Was he attracted to Alice?

 

Hutch scuffed a hand through his hair. 

 

No.  He was just concerned - - sort of.  Maybe.  Okay, so he couldn’t help noticing the way her hair tumbled around her shoulders or that her eyes sparkled when she laughed.  And that soft lilting drawl got under his skin more than he wanted to admit, but it wasn’t like Starsky said.  He hadn’t brought her home to seduce her.  He was just concerned.  She hadn’t wanted to stay in the hospital and there hadn’t been anyone else she could call for help.  So what if he was a cop?  The whole scenario was purely platonic.

 

“Hutch?”

 

He gave a startled jerk and looked over his shoulder.  Alice stood in the doorway to his bedroom, sleep-tousled and groggy.   Before bringing her home, he’d had Starsky swing by her apartment so she could pick up a few items for the night, including some comfortable clothes.  She’d found something short and clingy to sleep in, then covered it up with a long satin robe the deep hue of a painted western sky. Definitely not practical for a platonic sleepover.  She took a halting step forward and Hutch saw a flash of bare leg beneath the shimmery material.

 

“Do . . . do you have the pain pills from the doctor?”

 

“What’s the matter?”  Concerned, Hutch snatched the plastic pill bottle from the corner of the coffee table as he strode toward her.  Her arm had been stitched and wrapped at the hospital, but he knew it had to be uncomfortable, flaring with prickly pain.  “Go back to bed, Alice, and I’ll bring you some water for the pills.” 

 

“You’re very sweet, Handsome Hutch.  Did anyone ever tell you that?”  She smiled slightly, looking pale and fragile like a delicate bird.  The pain had taken its toll, bleeding color from her normally tawny skin, turning her eyes darker by contrast. 

 

He stopped just shy of her, gazing down on her upturned face, realizing for the first time just how much he towered over her.  He hadn’t noticed it before, but she was tiny and petite, barely reaching his shoulders without the 3 ½ inch heels she normally wore.  

 

Her mouth melted in a smile.  “Something smells good.  My mama used to cook the most enchantin’ meals.  I swear I haven’t smelled anything so heavenly since she passed.”

 

Hutch cleared his throat, found his voice.  “It’s chicken stir-fry.  Do you want some?”

 

“My!  But you are a man of many talents, aren’t you? “  Hugging her arms close to her chest, Alice walked toward the kitchen.  “Might be just the thing I need to go with those pain pills.  I can’t rightly recall the last time I had stir-fry.”  She glanced around the apartment, pausing to look back at him.  “I guess I was a little groggy when Starsky dropped us off.  I didn’t take the time to appreciate your apartment.  All these plants . . . the colors . . . they suit you.”  She crossed to the piano, stopping to trail a hand over the edge.  “And music.  Do you play?”

 

Hutch nodded, his throat suddenly dry.  Had he made a mistake in bringing in her here?  Suddenly the glimpses she was seeing of his life felt too personal.  They were private and protected.  Would she now expect favors from him in the future?  What would happen the next time he had to bust her?

 

Disturbed, Hutch strode to the stove, locating a clean plate in the drainboard.  “Sit down, Anne.  I’ll get you something to eat.” 

 

Anna Sinclair.  Her real name.  The name printed in neat typewritten letters on the pill bottle, the name he’d used on arrest reports.  It sounded strange on his tongue, but he needed them to be something other than cop and hooker tonight.  Someone other than Sweet Alice and Hutch.

 

He felt her presence behind him, quiet and whispery soft, attention-provoking all the same.  Hutch concentrated instead on the plate of vegetables - -  snow peas, shitaki mushrooms, broccoli, julienned carrots and water chestnuts, ladling the still-warm mixture over strips of chicken, lightly seasoned with ginger and soy. 

 

“No one’s called me Anne in a long, long time,” Alice said into the silence.  “My mama used to call me Annie.  I always liked that, but she died when I was a little girl.”  A humorless laugh caught in her throat.  “An ambulance came and got her, but it didn’t do any good.  Her heart gave out and she died at the hospital.  I just can’t abide those places ever since.  You understand, don’tcha, Hutch?”

 

He nodded, still not able to turn.

 

“I didn’t mean to impose.  Truth is, I didn’t think you’d actually bring me home with you. I was just hopin’ you’d talk that doc into lettin’ me go.  It’s plain as day you don’t like me being here.”

 

“It’s not that.”  Now he did turn.  How did he explain the knot of emotions in his gut, when he wasn’t sure he understood them himself?  “It’s awkward.  And not just for me.”  He shrugged, sliding her plate onto the table.  “There’s a certain element on the street that isn’t going to take kindly to me bringing you home.  Your old boyfriend, Martini’s just one.  I can’t be there to protect you if someone misconstrues what happened here tonight.  If word gets out, someone might think you’re feeding me information and that could put you in danger.”

 

She smiled brightly.  “Are you frettin’ over me, Handsome Hutch?  I declare it’s almost worth the trouble, havin’ you behave so chivalrous.”

 

“Eat your dinner, Annie.”  Hutch filled a glass with water and set it beside her plate.  He popped the lid on the pill bottle, tumbling one of the white tablets into her palm.  “Take that before you eat.” 

 

“My, but you are a worrier.  You know what your problem is?”

 

“What’s my problem?”  Sitting down across from her, he watched as she swallowed the pill.  Somehow it felt right to call her Annie instead of Alice.  Alice walked the streets in short, tight dresses and platform heels, her lips red and sultry with candy-apple gloss.  Annie talked fondly of her mother while meticulously weeding broccoli from her dinner like a child who thought green vegetables were poison.

 

“Your problem,” Alice instructed Hutch, all the while sorting through the food on her plate.  “Is that you need to visit the Boneyard.”

 

He arched a brow.  “You’re going to have to explain that one.”

 

“It’s simple.  When I was a little girl in Kentucky, there was an old cemetery a few miles from my daddy’s farm.  A lot of the folks - - especially those brought up on superstition - - just called it the Boneyard.  My mama used to say the best way to get rid of a problem was to take it to the Boneyard.  Anything you put there stayed dead and buried.  It couldn’t come back to haunt you, see?”  Alice popped a water chestnut in her mouth.  She pointed her fork at him.  “Tomorrow, I’ll go my way, you’ll go yours and you can dump this whole night in the Boneyard.”

 

Hutch sighed, rubbing his temple.  “Annie, I didn’t mean to imply - - ”

 

“I like when you call me Annie.”

 

The simple statement caught him off guard.  Startled he raised his head, meeting her eyes across the table. 

 

“Tomorrow we’ll be back to Alice and Hutch,” she said somewhat sadly.  “But I’d like tonight to be different.  I’d like to be Annie again for just one night.”  She hesitated, lowering her eyes and looking at him through her lashes.  “Can I call you Ken?”

 

Confused, he found himself momentarily speechless.  The signals were all wrong . . . his and hers, getting crossed in some strange emotional time warp.  He’d brought her home to heal, to rest.  Not to fantasize about some impossible if-only-you-weren’t-what-you-are-and-I-wasn’t-what-I-am scenario.  Maybe Starsky was right.  Maybe he was just a little too gone on her.

 

She’s a hooker, he reminded himself.  A hooker.

 

“Hutch?”  She reached across the table and touched his hand.  “Did you hear what I said?  Can I call you Ken?”

 

The contact of her flesh sent a spark racing up his arm.  He nodded, his throat tight.  “Sure.”  What would it hurt - - one night pretending they were something other than they really were?  It was only one night.  Without conscious thought, he twined his fingers with hers.  “You should go back to bed.  Lie down.”

 

Her smile turned playful.  “Will you tuck me in?”

 

Definitely in over my head.  Way over my head.

 

Panicky, he stood and paced to the kitchen sink, enforcing distance between them.  What he needed was a distraction - - drink, TV, maybe his guitar.  Something to make him remember what he was . . . who he was. 

 

A cop.

 

“Ken?”

 

With an inward groan, he laced a hand through his long hair.  Hearing her use his first name was dramatically more intimate than the sensual drawl and playful banter she normally reserved for teasing him.  Maybe what he needed to do was call Starsky.  Ask his friend to come over  . . . sit and talk, play cards, drink beer.  You were right, buddy.  I screwed up.  What I’m feeling right now has absolutely nothing to do with wanting to be a big brother.   I know it’s wrong, Starsk.  God help me I do, but I can’t help being attracted to her.

 

He kept his back toward her.  “Annie . . .Alice,” he corrected firmly.  Needing something to do, he distracted himself by filling the sink with water and dishliquid.  The stovetop wok he’d used to make the stir-fry clunked against the sides of the basin as it sank beneath the soapy water.  “Before things get out of hand maybe we should set some boundaries.”

 

“Like north and south?”  She chuckled softly.  “You’re just feelin’ all kinds of heat that’s got nothing to do with the outside air.”  He heard her chair scrape against the floorboards.  A second later he felt her presence behind him. “Don’t worry, Hutch.”  There was clear emphasis on his name, putting them back into safe territory.  “I didn’t mean to tempt you, though it’s awfully nice to know you’re not completely immune.”  A hand crept onto his back, her touch dangerously stimulating through the light linen of his shirt.  “You brought me home and I’m grateful for that.  I just thought that maybe tonight we could forget who we are . . .pretend we just met.”

 

Hutch looked straight ahead, ignoring the water in the sink, desperately trying to discount the betraying feelings in his body.  Lots of cops slept with hookers.

 

I’m not lots of cops, and she means more than that.  “I don’t go to bed with somebody I just met,” he said, unable to mask the hoarse strain in his voice.

 

She rested her cheek against his back.  “Then maybe we could pretend we’ve known each other a few months.  Ken and Annie don’t have to play by the same rules as Hutch and Sweet Alice.”  Her arms encircled his waist.  He stiffened, but made no move to pull away. 

 

“I’ve never made a secret of my attraction for you,” she whispered.  “Maybe you could forget what I am for the next twelve hours.  I sure wouldn’t mind spendin’ the rest of the night cuddled up against you.  I promise come mornin’, we can leave the whole mess in the Boneyard.”

 

He turned around, pulled by the sincerity in her voice.  She was hurt  - - a mild bump on the head and a stitched arm.  The pain medication had probably eased both, but to take advantage of her now would in some ways be worse than what Martini had done.  It was Hutch’s role to protect, to help her heal, not to elicit a good-time freebie for his own personal pleasure.

 

Yet as he stared down into her eyes, he realized it wasn’t like that.  He cared for her, had even entertained the thought of caring more if only their situations were different.  What was a single night out of their lives to experience what they’d both privately fantasized about?  Once and done. 

 

Raising his hands, still wet and dripping with dishwater, he cupped her face.  “Are you sure about this?”  Starsky would kill him.  Hell, Starsky would probably castrate him, but his partner didn’t have to know.

 

The corners of her lips tipped upward in an enticing smile.  “I could convince you better if you kissed me.”

 

It was all the invitation he needed.  Ignoring the condemning voice of his conscience, Hutch leaned forward and slanted his mouth over hers.

 

+++++

 

It was 2:06 a.m., six minutes past the last time Starsky had looked at the bedside clock.  Frustrated, he flopped onto his back, staring at the mirrored canopy of his waterbed.  He could just distinguish semi-shapes in the diffused darkness - - a wad of bunched black-and-white sheets, the lumpy bulk of two fist-plumped pillows, both reflected in the moon-streaked glass suspended overhead. 

 

Exhaling loudly, he thrust the checkered sheets aside and swung his legs over the bed, annoyed that he couldn’t sleep.  He’d been tossing and turning for hours now, his mind on overdrive. The slice of pizza and glass of rootbeer he’d had around midnight, halfway through Horror Showcase probably had something to do with it. 

 

A better guess would be his suddenly grousing fixation on a certain fair-haired partner.  Starsky just knew Hutch was in the middle of doing something insanely stupid.  Typical air-headed blond.  His friend might be a gentleman when he chose, but he was also a healthy single male with an active sex life.  He might not have a mirror hanging over his bed, but he had plenty of moves and lots of practice.

 

He wouldn’t be that stupid, Starsky tried to convince himself.  His head’s on straighter than that. 

 

Thirsty from the pepperoni and sausage that had decorated his pizza, Starsky pushed to his feet, the water-filled mattress waffling beneath him.  Clad only in a pair of black briefs, he padded barefoot to the bathroom and ran the cold water.  It tasted tepid, a little like the green plastic cup he used to catch it in.  No denying tap water had a unique taste at 2:07 in the morning.  Sort of like an upper shelf cocktail - - partly satisfying, mostly overrated. 

 

Flipping the toilet seat shut, Starsky sat on the closed lid.  The touch of ceramic tile against the soles of his bare feet felt cool and welcome.  At least it distracted him from his rambling thoughts. 

 

It wasn’t just that Hutch had taken Sweet Alice home with him and was probably in the process of making an enormous mistake.  Now that he’d had time to quietly mull over their upcoming visit to Duluth, Starsky found himself uneasy.  He hadn’t seen Grant Hutchinson since the incident on King Island a few months ago.  Encountering Hutch’s father was likely to bring back all the horror of that torturous surgery.  

 

Sometimes he still woke disoriented at night, memories clinging to his sleep-fogged thoughts like stray particles of a grisly dream.  He remembered feeling helpless, handcuffed to a tree while Hutch held him down, his screams suffocated by the pressure of his partner’s broad hand.  God, Hutch, you’re hurting me!  Please let me go.  Please make it stop!

 

He could still hear his own tormented thoughts . . . taste the remembered tang of blood in his mouth, released when the brutal press of Hutch’s hand had ground his teeth into his lips.   He’d put all of that behind him.  They’d put it behind them, but seeing Grant would likely stir it up all over again.  He didn’t want to remember.  And he especially didn’t want his overly sensitive partner nose-driving into a guilt-trip like he had on the island.  It had taken Starsky repeated efforts to pull Hutch from a quagmire of self-imposed loathing, none of which he was ready to repeat.

 

Still, it would be interesting to see the Hutchinson Estate, to have Hutch and his stringently correct father interacting again.  And then there was Adele - -  warm, giving, not greatly enamored of her son’s career, but supportive of his right to choose it all the same.  Hutch also had a younger sister Kelly, and a brother-in-law Vince, neither of whom Starsky had met.

 

He had hoped he and Hutch might enjoy some time alone on this vacation - -  they needed it after the island   - - but he also understood his partner’s desire to go home.  It had been too long since Starsky had seen his own mother in Brooklyn.  Although he talked to her by phone at least once a week, long-distance conversations couldn’t replace seeing her in person. 

 

Starsky had always been about physical touch.  Those he were closest to required that extra measure of contact.  It was why the phone couldn’t replace a hug from his mother, why his relationship with Hutch went beyond the standard rules of friendship.  His Midwestern partner had been cool in the beginning, proper and reserved, a clear-cut product of his precise upbringing.  There was even a time initially when Starsky had thought him stiff and conceited.

 

Hard to imagine now.  Also hard to believe that Hutch had been the one who first crossed the boundary of touch. Hutch who had sensed a need in him when he’d been hurting and vulnerable and had responded to that need with physical compassion.  

 

No question the overture had surprised Starsky.  They’d been good friends by then, having gone through the Academy together, doing their rookie stints separately, then partnering up at the first opportunity.  They’d only been together a few months, the partnership new and tentative, their casual friendship already branching into something deeper.   It had been a bad case of the flu that initially turned Hutch into a hovering mother hen.  He’d basically moved into Starsky’s apartment, camping out on his couch for three full days.  It was the first time Starsky realized Ken Hutchinson would have made a good doctor after all.  He had an attentive and calming bedside manner.  And his voice, whispery soft when he chose, was as soothing as the lap of low tide against a shoreline. 

 

The memory of that first comfort-encounter came back with little prompting:

 

“Starsky?  Come on, buddy.  I want you to drink some water for me. It’ll help with the fever.”

 

Starsky groaned, too miserable to unfurl from the ball he’d made of his sweat-soaked body.  He’d never known anyone personally who’d died from the flu but he felt like he was a step away from hanging it up himself.  Every muscle in his body hurt.  Even his fingernails ached.  The hairs on his arms felt like exposed nerve-endings, turning every slight current of air into the cold cut of a knife.  “G’way,” he managed through a raw, puffy throat.

 

The bed creaked behind him, the ancient boxspring and mattress giving way under new weight.  One of these days he was going to have to invest in a new bed.  Maybe one of those sleek water-filled thingies with a mirrored canopy. 

 

“Come on, Starsk,” his partner said behind him.  “Just a little water.  And I’ve got some pills.  They’ll make you feel better.”

 

Dr. Hutchinson. 

 

Starsky snorted.  His partner, the cop, had apparently decided to channel his aborted med school background. The truth of the matter was, Starsky was just plain muck-and-grime miserable and nothing - - pills, water, not even a comfortable new mattress was going to make him feel any better.  He groped for the blankets, pulling them up around his chin.  Despite the sticky sweat soaking his body he was freezing.  Water was the last thing he wanted.

 

“G’way,” he croaked again.

 

There was a muted clink, telling Starsky that Hutch set the glass aside on the nightstand.  He scrunched his eyes closed, hoping his friend would take the hint and leave.  Hutch had arrived three hours ago after a short trip to the pharmacy, but it didn’t look like he had any intention of leaving.  It would be the last time Starsky asked his new partner to pick up a prescription for him.  Most people were smart enough to realize when the errand was over, it was time to bail.  But not soft-spoken Blondie.  He’d come armed with cans of soup, fruit juices, a brand new thermometer, half a dozen boxes of Kleenex and the single prescription bag that was really all Starsky wanted.

 

His last partner would have known when to back off.  He’d only been with Stoner three months before finally getting assigned with Hutch, but Jim had known where to draw the line.  Hell could have frozen over before Stoner carted an armload of bags from the drug store, followed immediately by doing his partner’s laundry and cleaning up his neglected apartment.  Just who did Blondie think he was anyway?

 

Starsky curled tighter, shivering.  His body felt like it wanted to shake apart.  If only - -

 

He gave a startled jerk when a hand settled lightly on his shoulder.  “Starsk?  Do you want me to make you something to eat?”

 

The hand moved soothingly up and down his arm, rubbing aching flesh until the pain slithered into quiet submission.  He felt warmth and sun-soaked heat, found himself relaxing under the comforting stroke of long fingers. He gave a short shake of his head, too startled to speak, too afraid to move for fear the calming touch might stop.

 

Instead it moved to his back, rubbed circles over his bunched and aching muscles.  The bed gave again.  He felt more than saw Hutch sit behind him, back to the headboard, legs stretched over the mattress.  The infusion of warmth was immensely gratifying.  Emboldened by its touch, Starsky inched a little closer.  Still he stayed hunched and curled, afraid to turn, trapped in a pocket of phlegmy misery.  He coughed and hacked into his hand.  Maybe the pills weren’t such a bad idea after all.

 

“Starsk, turn around.  Try to get comfortable.  I’ll sit here for awhile if you want me to.”

 

Why would he want that?  And who in their right mind would sit so close to a germ-infested, hacking, sniffling, wheezing, sweating, shivering, flu-stricken lump?  “ ‘M gonna make ya sick.”

 

“I already had the flu this year.”  Hutch tugged on his shoulder, pulling him around. 

 

Half reluctantly, half hopefully, Starsky rolled onto his side and immediately found his head nestled in a clean pillow.  It took him a moment to realize the cushion rested in Hutch’s lap and that he was now huddled up against his partner’s legs. 

 

An arm draped over his shoulder, chasing away the perpetual chill.  Fingers stroked his flesh making him feel safe, protected and cared for.  It was a strange feeling.  One he’d not felt in a very long time.  Who would have thought his perfectionist-driven partner could be so compassionately  . . . human? 

 

Starsky coughed lightly and sniffled.

 

“Here.”  Hutch passed him a Kleenex.  “You gonna swallow these pills for me now?”

 

“Throat hurts.”

 

“I’ll make you some chicken soup.  It’ll help your throat and warm you up at the same time.”

 

“No.”  Starsky shook his head, nestling closer.  The infusion of warmth was delicious, the stroke of long fingers over his arm and back, blessedly soothing.  “Just stay here.”  A pause as he heard Hutch sigh.  “Ok, partner.  I’ll take the pills.  Just don’t move for awhile.  I think I can finally get some sleep.”

 

He had slept.  A good five hours, Hutch beside him the entire time.  He’d woken later to find his partner still there, slumped uncomfortably against the headboard.  It was odd, Starsky thought as he padded back into the bedroom, how two random people could connect in such an intense way.  Instant rapport.  That’s what it had been like from his first encounter with Hutch.  Even when he’d thought the blond-haired man too precise for his taste, they’d clicked.  Hutch had mellowed a lot since then, gradually loosening up on his perfectionist-driven nature.  The Ken Hutchinson Starsky met at the Academy never would have taken a hooker home with him.

 

“Idiot.”  With a loud groan, Starsky plopped face down on the waterbed, sending the mattress bouncing crazily beneath him.  At least they’d be leaving for Duluth in a week.  If Hutch did do something stupid tonight, Starsky could still hustle him out of town before he compounded it by making it worse.

 

Hi, Dr. Hutchinson.  What’s that - -  your son’s latest girl?  Oh, you’d like her.  She’s in customer relations.  Lots of clients, probably even a few doctors in the bunch.

 

Starsky pulled the pillow over his head, exhaling loudly.  2:26 a.m.   I’m not your conscience, Hutch.  I’m going to bed now.  I mean it this time.  Really.  You screw this one up, you’re on your own, pal.

 

He was still awake when the clock clicked 3:00.

 

+++++

 

Hutch stirred, drowsy from lovemaking, tugging Alice closer.  She lay nestled against his chest, the shared heat of their bodies a lazy toxin seeping into his blood.  Haloed by the glow of moonlight, her hair gleamed with the kiss of treasure-ship gold, her flesh like milk and cream.  He kissed her forehead, dipped his lips to brush the soft bow of her mouth.   He still had three hours before he had to be up for work . . . three hours of pretending the night was magic, that the woman in his arms was part of his make-believe fairytale. 

 

“How’s your arm, sweetheart?”  Gently he stroked the hourglass dip and swell of her side.  He felt her shiver, pleased that her flesh became so pliant and responsive beneath his touch. 

“It doesn’t hurt,” she whispered against his lips.  Her teeth nipped the corner of his mouth and she smiled seductively.  “But I could use some distraction.”

 

He grinned, rolling her onto her back.  She was everything he’d imagined - - soft pleasure, the spice and heat of earthy sensuality, the cool satin of champagne-dusted flesh.  Maybe it was simply the knowledge he’d done something forbidden . . . that he’d crossed a line clearly marked taboo, but every minute in her arms crackled with storm-charged electricity.

 

Dipping his head, he moved his mouth over hers, tasting, giving, growing immediately aroused when she whimpered softly.  She was fire and heat, the gold of summer, the wind-laced smoke of autumn.  Her hair smelled of aloe and cucumber, a fresh herbal concoction that sent his senses reeling.  Deepening his kiss, he cupped his hand around her waist, tugging her against him.  Her fingers slid into his long hair, holding fast, urging him to greater intimacy.  His arousal became almost painful and he groaned aloud, turning his head to nuzzle her ear.  Her hands were on his hips, guiding him, wanting him, her need as desperate as his own. 

 

One night.  One night only. 

 

He wanted the memory to be as pleasurable for her as it was for him.  He found her lips again, her mouth already puffy and moist from his kisses.  She tasted of ginger and soy, her overly sensitized body yielding and eager.  Naked flesh to naked flesh, he carried them to a lightning-streaked summit, her release simultaneous with his own shocking discharge. Groaning, Hutch buried his face in her hair, his body shuddering with the aftereffect.

 

Alice’s arms tightened around his neck.  “I always knew you’d make a good lover, Ken,” she breathed into his ear. 

 

She wasn’t one of his dates, she wasn’t even someone he intended to see again.  Still he kissed her softly, tenderly, enjoying the moment despite its star-crossed impossibility.  In a few hours he’d have to face reality.  Starlight would be stripped away, leaving grim truth like chipped and peeling paint beneath.  She wasn’t a fairy queen and he wasn’t a knight in shining armor.  She was a common prostitute and he was a cop.

 

Hutch bowed his brow to hers.  “I won’t forget tonight,” he vowed.

 

+++++

 

Hutch stood gazing out his kitchen window, nursing a cup of coffee.  Despite the scant amount of sleep he’d had last night, he wasn’t tired.  He’d skipped his morning run but showered and shaved, feeling refreshed afterward.  Dressed for work, he wore an olive green shirt with a pair of black jeans, the Magnum holstered and strapped under his left arm.

 

Alice was still in the bedroom, getting dressed.  A part of him was tempted to join her and entice her back into bed, better yet the shower.  There was something erotically satisfying about making love beneath a spray of heated water.  But they’d made a pact, an agreement  - - a single night to satisfy them both.  He wasn’t going to try to change her, and she wasn’t going to ply him for favors.  It was over.

 

So why did he feel miserable?

 

Hutch stared into his coffee cup, jarred from his thoughts a second later by a knock on the front door.

 

Starsky.

 

“It’s open.”

 

He turned away, quickly busying himself at the kitchen counter.  One look in his eyes and Starsky would know what he’d done.  “You’re early for a change,” he called, trying to keep his voice neutral.  He screwed the lid back on the creamer, wiped some spilled sugar into his palm, then dusted it free over the sink. 

 

Starsky sauntered up beside him, oddly quiet but watching.  No, Starsky was staring.

 

Hutch pretended not to notice.  “Want some coffee?”

 

“Where’s Alice?”

 

“Getting dressed.”  Hutch found another mug in the cupboard and reached for the coffeepot.  “If it’s okay with you, we’ll take her back to her apartment before heading to Metro.”  To occupy himself, Hutch dumped sugar into the coffee - - more than any sane person could possibly want - - and added a small whisk of cream.  He gave it a quick stir, then passed it to his partner, knowing it was just the way Starsky liked it.  “Drink up.”

 

His friend’s eyes narrowed.  Not easily put off, Starsky tilted his head, pointedly trying to catch Hutch’s gaze.  “So how’d it go last night?”

 

“Fine.”  Hutch took a sip of coffee, another moment of avoidance.  He couldn’t keep it up all day.  Realistically he couldn’t keep it up for more than a few minutes.

 

“Mornin’ ya’ll.”  Alice stepped from his bedroom looking bright-eyed and refreshed.  The bandage on her arm was still visible beneath the sleeve of her pink peasant blouse, but her face was free of pain.  She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail, her cheeks framed by a few straggling wisps of wheat-gold.  “Something smells mighty good.  Think I could get a cup of that before you send me on my way?”

 

Hutch nodded, suddenly not trusting his voice.  Wordlessly he poured a cup and passed it to her, acutely aware of his partner’s gaze.  The next few minutes passed with small talk flowing easily between Alice and Starsky, continuing until Hutch announced it was time to leave. 

 

Alice chatted on the way to her apartment, talking about everything from her mama’s favorite breakfast recipes to the when-are-they-ever-gonna-get-it-finished construction by the bay bridge.  She was surprisingly at ease, and Hutch had the feeling her endless chatter was for his benefit.  He knew he was broadcasting tension, but didn’t know how to corral it.

 

When they arrived at her apartment, he helped her from the car, surprised when Starsky got out and walked around the side to join them.  His partner was wearing one of his overeager, a little too showy smiles, completely staged and stuffed to the gills with patented Starsky charm. 

 

“You take care of that arm now, Alice,” Hutch heard him say.

 

“Oh, I will.  And thanks for the ride, Starsky.”

 

Starsky was still grinning.  “You need some help inside?”

 

“No, I can manage.  All I need’s my bag.”  Her eyes shifted to Hutch.

 

Realizing they were both watching him expectantly, Hutch jerked and quickly passed her the overnight bag.  His fingers brushed against hers, kindling a jolt of remembered contact.  He had a brief memory of her body arched beneath his, another of her straddling his hips, loose golden hair tumbled over her bare shoulders.  He’d gripped her by the waist, holding fast as she’d rocked against him, pleasing them both. 

 

Flushing, Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  He looked away, uneasy.  “Be careful, Alice,” he muttered.

 

“Promise,” her smile was warm and encouraging.  She waited, making certain he glanced back to catch her eyes.  “I’ve already been to the Boneyard, Hutch.  Nothing left in the night to scare me or change the way things were before.”  Her smile turned playful and light.  “Thanks for letting me stay with you.  You really are a gentleman.”

 

Hutch knew it was said for Starsky’s benefit.  Didn’t matter though, his partner could read him like a book.  With a departing wave, Alice turned and headed for the building. 

 

Hutch felt something shrivel in the pit of his stomach, a residual emotion that was both cramping and cold.  “Alice wait.”  He sprinted after her, catching her in three quick strides.  Gripping her elbow, he spun her around and tipped her face up to his.  Before he could think it through, he kissed her softly.  “Take care of yourself.”

 

No going back now, Boneyard or no Boneyard.  Hutch walked back to the Torino, studiously ignoring his partner. Only when they were both seated inside, did he acknowledge the silence.  “All right, let’s get this over with.  Spit it out.”

 

“What?”  Starsky pretended innocence, but his expression was grim as he turned over the ignition.  “I can’t help it you’re an ass.”

 

The car pulled into traffic and the topic wasn’t broached again.

 

+++++

 

Duluth in July was pleasantly warm.  The high temperature rarely rose above 75, making for beautiful balmy days.  A recent glut of summer rains had kept the air even cooler, and Hutch found he was comfortable in his light black jacket, denim shirt and faded jeans.  It would be sweltering in Bay City as the time inched toward midday, but Duluth benefited from an ideal location, cradled between rocky hillsides and Lake Superior’s westernmost tip.  Although he hadn’t been home for two years, the city was much as he remembered, crisscrossed by rivers and creeks, enjoying acres of manicured parks and flowering gardens.  Golf courses and tennis courts shared space with nearby hiking trails, senior centers and cultural attractions.   He’d forgotten all the city had to offer, including a healthy tourist trade. 

 

“So this is home,” Starsky observed as Hutch steered their rental car away from Duluth International.  The Buick was plush and loaded, every conceivable electronic gadget at his fingertips, the gray leather interior soft as churned butter.  Hutch would have been satisfied with something less ostentatious, even on the rugged side like a Jeep or a truck now that he was home, but his father was the one who’d planned the trip.  His father rarely did anything that wasn’t showy.

 

“This is home.”  Hutch fidgeted, fumbling on the dash for his sunglasses.  It wasn’t all that bright outside, the sky bordered by rain clouds, but he needed something to do.  Yes, he and his father had made peace, but he still felt intimidated by Grant Hutchinson.  Coming home put him on his father’s turf, the same affection-starved ground on which he’d grown up.  He was thirty-four, a Detective Sergeant, but returning home made him feel like an awkward teenager.

 

“Hey, Blintz, you’re being awful quiet.”  Grinning crookedly, Starsky gave him a bump on the arm.  “Here I am lookin’ forward to gettin’ the Hutchinson family tour and you clam up like an oyster with a pearl.  Ain’t you got any tales you wanna share about all these sights that keep whizzin’ by?”

 

Hutch blinked, looking through the windshield.  Duluth had fallen away behind them, its precise city streets replaced by winding roads and rocky hillsides.  Each stretch and turn felt familiar, yet strangely alien.    

 

“So how far away was your grandfather’s farm?”  Starsky prodded when his first query was met with bewildered silence.

 

“Thirty miles south,” Hutch said.  At least he had an answer for that.  He remembered fields of towering corn, the candied smell of summer grass and cut hay, fields rolling beneath him as he rode bareback on his favorite gelding.  He remembered cookouts on a sprawling wraparound porch, glasses of iced lemonade, sun-sweetened watermelon, and his grandmother’s homemade cherry pie. All of that was gone now, as lost as the family farm his father had sold to real estate developers.   His grandfather’s pride and joy was now the site of 75 single-family homes and thirty upscale condos.  Convenient, luxury living!  The realization made him abruptly sad.

 

“So where’d you grow up?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch jerked a thumb over his shoulder.  “Back there, along the lake.  My parents had a place on the coast . . . elaborate, pricey, but not good enough for my father.”  Hutch smiled tightly.  “He had to go and build a monstrous estate up in the hills.  The only way to reach the thing is across a bridge fording White Timber Creek.  The only bridge.”

 

Starsky scowled.  “You say that like it’s a problem.”

 

“Hasn’t been yet, but one of these days the bridge is gonna wash out and he and my mom are gonna be stuck up there.”  Hutch gave a grunt of laughter.  “Come to think of it, he’d probably like that, isolated from the rest of the world.”  Everyone else is just screwed up anyway, right Dad? 

 

“You’re actin’ weird, you know that?”  Starsky shifted sideways, tucking a knee onto the seat, turning to face him.  “Don’t tense up on me, pal.  You’re supposed to be enjoyin’ this vacation, not sinkin’ into the doldrums.  I don’t mind runnin’ interference, but we haven’t even reached your folks’ place yet.  Might be time for you to lighten up, Blondie.”

 

Properly chagrined, Hutch gave a sheepish nod.  “Sorry.”  His hands tightened on the steering wheel.  “Don’t know why I’m so tense.” 

 

That was only partially true.  Compounding his nervousness about coming home was lingering guilt over the way he’d handled things with Alice.  He’d been selfish, intent on pleasing himself when he’d slept with her, wanting to live out some sick cop-and-hooker fantasy.  It wasn’t like him to act so out of character.  The more he dwelled on it, the more he couldn’t fathom why he’d done it.  She’d probably changed her entire opinion of him, deciding he was no better than the balding businessmen who sniffed around her door, offering fifty-dollar bills as enticement.  He hadn’t seen or spoken a single word to her since dropping her off at her apartment a week ago and that made him feel even worse - -  like he was a user, a game player.  Wam, bam, thank you ma’am!  When had he become so callous, so uncaring?  So fucking selfish?

 

Hutch ground his teeth together.

 

Their relationship was over  - - not that there’d ever really been one to begin with - -  but what transpired that night, ended that night.  Just like Alice had promised.  One night only.  Still he felt guilty, lecherously ugly when he admitted to himself how much he’d enjoyed their lovemaking.  The White Knight had slipped.  Hell, the White Knight had scraped rock bottom.  He’d been righteous and indignant when he’d found out Gillian was a hooker, yet he’d thought nothing of pleasing himself with Alice.  Women who hooked were trash, but men who slept with them were just exercising their masculine prerogative.  Talk about a double standard!  

 

He already had heroin addiction behind him.  Now he could add base sexual pleasure for the pure sake of pleasure.  A fine upstanding citizen he’d become.   

 

Dumb ass.

 

Starsky had avoided addressing the whole situation much to Hutch’s immense relief.  He knew he deserved an ass chewing but was thankful he’d been spared. They both knew he’d made a colossal mistake.  He still expected Starsky to launch into him any day about his lack of judgement.  In the meantime he mentally picked at the mess he’d made, shelving it only temporarily to worry over his visit home.

 

Hutch rolled down his window, drinking in the heady green scent of pine and firs.  Making an effort to banish his bleak mood, he searched for a distraction. “You ever go horseback riding, Starsk?”

 

“You gotta be kiddin’.”  Starsky looked at him like he’d gone off the deep end.  “The only horses I wanna be around are under the hood of my car.  Don’t tell me your father’s got horses too?”

 

“Stables,” Hutch elaborated.  “He and my mom are both avid riders.”  Feeling more relaxed, he let his lips curl in an indulgent grin.  “Come on, buddy.  Aren’t you a little curious what riding’s like?  What if I get you one of those shaggy carnival ponies and lead you around by the reins?”

 

“Stuff it, Hutchinson.”

 

Hutch laughed.  The fist that had made a knot of his stomach slowly relaxed.   Having Starsky with him put a whole new spin on coming home.  Suddenly he was thinking about things he’d done, memories he wanted to share, places he wanted to revisit, all the while pulling Starsky along.  The rest of the drive passed pleasantly as he reminisced out loud, completely banishing the bleak thoughts that had plagued him earlier.  The winding roads were as narrow and heavily tree-lined as he remembered, White Timber running fast and high by the time they reached the bridge.

 

Starsky gave a low whistle.  “That thing safe to cross?”

 

Hutch stopped at the mouth of the narrow bridge, frowning at the swift flow of water.  Heavy downpours had swollen the creek to its banks, dislodging loosely rooted shrubs and saplings from the shoreline.  Broken branches and leaves were carried by the rapid current, many snagging the edge of the bridge before being swept underneath by torrents of muddy water.

 

“I’ve never seen it this high,” Hutch muttered.  He thought of Kelly and Vince arriving late tomorrow night.  Even without rain, the creek was likely to swell further, fed by the runoff from numerous rivulets and streams on higher ground.  Constructed of wood and steel in the early 1900s, the bridge had once served as over-water access for farm wagons.  When Hutch’s father purchased his thirty-six acre estate, the bridge and part of the creek had fallen within those boundaries.  Adele quickly fell in love with the folksy quaintness of the old structure so Grant had kept it, shoring it up as needed, instead of replacing it with something modern and sturdy.  It had been a sore point with Hutch from day one, amounting to a few unpleasant arguments between the two men. 

 

Hutch eased off the brake, allowing the mammoth luxury car to crawl ahead at a slow pace.  “You do know how to swim, right buddy” 

 

He kept his voice light, but Starsky tensed, wrapping a hand around the door handle as the front tires of the Buick bumped across the first rickety wooden slats of the bridge’s surface.  Unnerved, Starsky shot a glance out the side window, watching the swiftly churning water race by.  “No shit, Hutch.   You know what you’re doin’, right?  I ain’t real fond of the drink.”

 

Hutch tried to put him at ease, silently attempting to quiet his own heightened sense of alarm.  “Been across this bridge a hundred times, Starsk.”  Just not when it was inches away from making the six o’clock news.  “Trust me, it’s safer than it looks.”  He grimaced slightly, tightening his hands on the steering wheel as a series of loose boards bumped and clanked under the Buick’s tires. 

 

Really stupid, Dad.  You could’ve at least had the thing repaired. 

 

A few minutes later they had reached the other side and Hutch expelled an audible sigh of relief. 

 

Unwinding, Starsky slumped in his seat.  “Safe, huh?  The next time you wanna project calm,  skip the tensin’ up part.  It doesn’t do a whole heck of a lot for bolsterin’ confidence, if you know what I mean.” 

 

With a nervous laugh, Hutch dragged a hand through his long hair.  “Sorry.  Guess it was rougher than I remembered.”

 

“Yeah.  And your sister and her husband are gonna cross that thing tomorrow night?”  Starsky shook his head.  “Sounds a little risky if you ask me.”

 

Hutch wet his lips thinking much the same thing.  “Maybe the water will recede until then.”  Even as he voiced the optimistic thought, he knew it wasn’t likely.  If anything, White Timber would swell further, blanketing the shores, swamping the battered old bridge.  In his opinion, Kelly and Vince should just wait a day or two and hold up in a hotel on Superior’s shore. 

 

He squinted through the windshield, looking up at the cloud-laced sky. Odds were another storm would pass through Duluth before the night was over, swelling the creek even further.  A strange sense of foreboding settled over him, refusing to vanish even when he pulled the car through a gated entrance proclaiming White Rock Manor in flowing script-like letters.

 

“It has a name?”  Starsky asked a little incredulously.

 

Hutch shrugged.  “My father’s idea.  He wanted a Country Gentleman’s Estate, complete with a name, so he tied it into White Timber Creek.”  A bit chagrined, he shook his head.  “Starsk, you know I’ve outgrown this lifestyle, right?  I mean . . . it’s always a bit uncomfortable for me coming home.  We were well off when I was a kid, but my dad’s really upped the amperage since then.  Problem is I’ve gone the reverse direction, so it makes the gulf feel bigger.”

 

“Don’t go there,” Starsky warned.  “You’ve already patched things up with your dad.  Don’t go rippin’ ‘em apart again.”

 

Hutch was about to protest that wasn’t what he’d meant, when the main house came into view.  He’d forgotten how striking it could look, surrounded by towering trees, curving walkways, botanical gardens and a lavish oversized fountain flanking a horseshoe shaped drive.  The porch was imposing, offset by a double-door entry, leaded glass sidelights and towering white columns. 

 

Starsky gave a low chuckle.  “Hey, how come I’m always springin’ for lunch if you’re really this loaded?”

 

“My family’s loaded,” Hutch corrected with a frown.  “I live on a cop’s salary.  Could’ve had the good life plus a monthly allowance if I’d gone into med school, according to my dad.”

 

“Ah, don’t be such a sourpuss.”  Starsky popped open the door and stepped outside, pausing to stretch the cramps from his muscles.  Refreshed, he let his eyes skim over the house and gardens.  “I don’t know, Hutch.  I’m startin’ to think that wine I brought is too low-brow for your folks.”

 

“I picked it out didn’t I?”  Hutch tossed his sunglasses onto the dash and gave the door a slam.  “It’ll be fine, Starsk.  Come on - - we can get the luggage later.”

 

He hadn’t even made it around the side of the car when the front door opened and his mother swept onto the front porch.  “Ken!”

 

+++++

 

Starsky watched a surge of pure emotion flow through Hutch.  If his partner had been edgy and anxious for the last few days, fretting over God-only-knew-what, worrying about the trip, those concerns vanished at the sight of his mother.  As raven-haired as her husband, Adele was short and petite, a picture of delicate charm and sophistication.

 

With a laugh, Hutch sprinted up the steps, catching his mother in his arms.   It had obviously been far too long since he’d seen her, Starsky realized, even longer since Hutch had been home.  The warm reunion made him think longingly of his own mother in New York.  He’d neglected visiting for far too long.  Maybe the next time he went east, he’d coerce Hutch into going with him.  There was nothing like a Midwestern farmboy in the heart of Brooklyn to make for a unique and light-hearted trip.

 

“It’s so good to see you,” Adele was telling Hutch.  “And you, David.”  She extended her arm to Starsky who came up the porch steps at a slower pace.

 

“You too, Adele.”  Starsky’s smile danced into his eyes as he took her extended hand and bent forward to kiss her cheek.   She’d always been friendly and warm with him, unlike Grant who’d been a shadowy distant figure until just recently.  Starsky thought it odd that while he was on a first name basis with Hutch’s mother, he couldn’t imagine addressing Grant as anything other than Dr. Hutchinson, or  - -  when making an off-the-cuff point - - “Doc.” 

 

“Hey, this is some spread you’ve got here.”

 

“You haven’t even seen inside, Dear.  Oh . . . and the guesthouse . . . I’m having it renovated.  Ken, you just have to see the color scheme the decorator and I have planned.  Your father thinks it’s atrocious, far too modern, but we all know how impossibly stuffy he is.”  Guiding them both by the arms, she steered them through the front door, talking faster than Starsky could follow.  “You remember how tawdry that old wallpaper was?  I want to do Grant’s office next, but he tells me his personal space is off limits.  Maybe you can convince him it needs updating while you’re here.”

 

Hutch seemed slightly bewildered.  “Where is Dad?”

 

Adele rolled her eyes.  “Where else?  In his office.  Why don’t you boys bring your luggage in and take a moment to freshen up.  It’s almost time for dinner anyway.”

 

Starsky was still trying to adjust to the mammoth scope of the house.  A marble-tiled foyer opened onto a formal living room and parlor, each brightened by a towering wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.  A study and dining room were situated to the left, the latter sporting French doors, oversized crown molding and a built-in corner cupboard.   Wherever Starsky looked, colors and decor flowed in harmony . . . soft champagnes with deeper golds and bronze; pine green and burnt sienna fusing with apricot and honey.  The furnishings were lavish, clearly reflecting wealth.  Just off the foyer, an oversized staircase swept in a dramatic turn, rising loftily to the second floor.  It was easy to imagine Scarlett O’Hara making a grand entrance on that commanding staircase.

 

“Ken.”  Grant came around the corner before Starsky could contemplate his surroundings further.  “I thought I heard you out here.  It’s good to see you, Son.”  Grant held out his hand, obviously awkward, and his son equally awkward, accepted the handshake with a faltering smile. 

 

Starsky bit back a sigh, deciding they needed to have their heads knocked together.  “Hey, Dr. Hutchinson.  It’s good to see you again.”

 

Grant jerked as though only then realizing Starsky was in the room.  “You too, David.  You uh . . . look much better than the last time I saw you.”

 

“Feelin’ better too.”  Starsky smiled tightly.  He didn’t want to remember the island or anything remotely associated with it, most especially the grueling surgery he’d survived.  It struck him suddenly how uncomfortable Hutch was and he realized his friend was reliving the past too.  Refocusing, Starsky cleared his throat.  “Hey, Hutch . . . how ‘bout that luggage?  Let’s haul everything inside, huh?”

 

“What?”  Hutch blinked.  “Oh.  Yeah, sure.”  He flashed a smile, quick and dental-white.  Hutchinson ease pulled from some hidden reserve.  It was a facade Starsky knew like the back of his hand - - Hutch being street-smooth, emotions safely tucked away.  His partner clearly still had some unresolved issues related to his upbringing and his relationship with Grant.  In truth, Starsky had to admit his blond friend looked oddly out of place with two black-haired parents.  He’d seen photos of Kelly and knew Hutch’s sister had the same raven coloring as Grant and Adele.  A fair-haired son.  Only the son in question was doing anything but living up to the reputation of a golden child at the moment. 

 

Catching Hutch’s sleeve, Starsky tugged him toward the door.  “Back in a flash,” he said with a wave and a smile for Hutch’s parents.  Outside he practically dragged his friend down the porch steps and around the back of the car.   “What the hell are you doin’?” he hissed.  “Quit being such a stick in the mud and loosen up.  No wonder you got issues.”  Popping the trunk, Starsky groped for the nearest bag.  “You’re about as social as a tarantula, you know that?”

 

“Starsk - - ”

 

“Here - - ”  He shoved the shapeless duffel bag against Hutch’s chest.  “Plaster a grin on your face and start actin’ like a human being.  I ain’t your counselor, but even I know a strained reunion when I see one. ”  Shaking his head, Starsky grabbed the remaining two bags and shut the trunk.  Muttering under his breath he steered Hutch back toward the house.  “I got a feelin’ this is gonna be a painfully long week, buddy.  Do me a favor and surprise me, huh?”

 

Hutch cast him a sidelong glance.  “You’re just not used to reserved family relationships,” he commented.  “This is typical.  You’ll get used to it.”

 

Scowling, Starsky refrained from comment, watching as his friend sprinted lithely up the porch steps.  It was hard to imagine Hutch, who in his mind was anything but reserved, falling into such a restrained role.  The Hutch he knew was compassionate and emotional, far more demonstrative and uninhibited than anyone he’d ever met.  

 

But only with me, he reminded himself.

 

Hutch’s face for the public was usually aloof and cool.  People who didn’t know him well often mistook his reserve for arrogance, his distance for conceit.    He didn’t think he could stomach a whole week of Hutch acting so . . . un-Hutch like.

 

Pressing his lips in a tight smile, Starsky followed his friend into the house.  He had exactly a week to inject some liveliness into the Hutchinson household and vowed to make sure he succeeded.

 

+++++

 

Dinner was relatively relaxed, the refined menu exceeding the casual fare Starsky was accustomed to.  Filet mignon drizzled with lump crabmeat, butter-drenched red potatoes, Caesar salad and grilled summer squash were preceded by an appetizer of chilled cocktail shrimp and toast points with smoked salmon, cucumber and dill.  Starsky was thankful Hutch had helped him pick out the wine he’d brought as a gift for Grant and Adele.  At the time he couldn’t imagine paying so much for a single bottle of alcohol, but it was worth the extra expense to see Grant smile appreciatively and remark what good taste he had (even if he knew it was really Hutch who had the taste.) 

 

After an initial bit of awkward conversation between his ill-at-ease partner and Grant, the evening settled into a comfortable flow.  A soft shower started shortly into the meal, pattering lightly against the windows before transforming into a steady rain.  Starsky shot Hutch a sideways glance, knowing his friend was thinking of the bridge and the damage likely to result from more rain.  Before anything could be said, Adele turned the conversation to the changes she was making at the guesthouse. 

 

“Ken, you simply won’t recognize it.  I had the decorator rip out all that depressing wallpaper.  You remember  - -  it was so dreadfully dark - - and I’m replacing it with pastel paints.”

 

“Victorian Heather,” Grant supplied from the head of the table, pointedly rolling his eyes.  “Who comes up with these names anyway?  In my day we called it ‘pink.’ You walk through the front door and it’s like sticking your head into a cotton candy machine.”

 

“He’s exaggerating.”  Adele dismissed the statement with a trivializing wave of her hand.  “It’s very tasteful. The main room is accented with winter whites, dove gray and a few splashes of green.  Tomorrow morning when it isn’t raining, we’ll walk over so you can see it.  David, you have to come too.  I need all the help I can get in convincing Grant he should let me redo his office.”

 

Starsky grinned. He knew from Hutch’s brief afternoon tour, Grant’s office was located in the back of the main home while the guesthouse was a completely separate residence, a few hundred yards to the south.  For the staunchly traditional physician, the distance between the two clearly wasn’t far enough. “Sure,” he smiled.  “Truth is I’m kinda partial to pink.  It’s just one step down from red - - ”

 

“ - - and we all know how fond you are of tomatoes,” Hutch inserted.  “Especially anything loud and obnoxious with a gaudy white stripe.”

 

Adele zeroed in on the statement.  “Oh, David!  You mean you still have that snazzy red sports car? I so wish Ken would buy something flashy like that.”

 

Hutch nearly choked on his wine.  At his side, Starsky visibly preened, his high opinion of Adele soaring another ten degrees.  “It’s good to know some Hutchinsons still have a morsel of good taste,” he announced loftily, but was unable to hold the haughty pose for long.  Dissolving into laughter, he was glad to see the light-hearted mood carried around the table as the others joined him. 

The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly and Starsky found himself drifting to sleep almost as soon as he went to bed. Morning came quickly and he opened his eyes to the sight of lemon-dusted light streaming through an oversized window.  A glance outside revealed the heavy cloud cover of the day before had retreated but not before unleashing another downpour.  Sometime during the night a fresh storm had blown through, leaving the ground littered with puddles and mud.

 

Starsky showered then traipsed across the hall to rouse Hutch, but his friend’s room was empty.  Downstairs he learned his partner had left almost an hour ago, intent on an early morning horseback ride.  Hutch left a note promising to join him, Grant and Adele at the guesthouse where Adele planned an informal picnic-basket breakfast of fresh fruit, croissants, bagels with flavored cream cheeses, Mimosas and assorted juices.

 

Informal, Starsky thought with mild amusement as he wandered toward the back of the house.  He was beginning to realize Hutch’s parents rarely did anything low key.  He wouldn’t have been surprised to find they employed a kitchen staff in addition to the horticulturists, landscapers and domestic cleaning crews that visited almost daily.  

 

“Good morning, David,” Grant called from his office as Starsky wandered closer. 

 

The dark-haired detective hesitated then sauntered through the open doorway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans.  Seated behind a large mahogany desk, a row of floor-to-ceiling bookcases behind him, Grant looked dignified and imposing, the picture of an Oxford scholar.  Off to the side, a small sitting area was composed of a leather sofa and two chairs, dyed nut-brown and trimmed with brass fittings.  A locked closet containing a small refrigerated unit at the rear of the room housed a modest supply of prescription narcotics and medicines, kept on hand according to Hutch, in the event of an emergency. 

 

Sighing, Grant shoved a push-button phone from the center of his desk.  “I’m afraid I have bad news.  That was an associate of mine from the hospital.  He called to say he passed White Timber earlier and the bridge is out.”

 

Starsky balked.  “The bridge?  You mean the bridge over the creek?  The one you gotta cross to reach this place?”

 

“That would be the one.”  Grant leaned back in his chair, a pen held thoughtfully to his lips.  “I suppose it’s a good thing you boys are here for the rest of the week.  It will probably take a few days for the water to recede and then who knows what repairs may be needed.”

 

“You mean we’re stuck here?”  Starsky’s voice lurched up an octave.  “Stranded?”

 

Grant chuckled.  “Don’t sound so panicked, David.  There’s plenty to keep you occupied.  The trick is going to be convincing Ken the loss of the bridge doesn’t constitute a national crisis.  He’s never been thrilled with my decision to keep it, and this is only going to add fuel to the fire.  I’d really rather not get into an argument with him.”  He raised a single brow much like Hutch often did.  “I could really use a co-conspirator.”

 

“Against my partner?”  Starsky held up both hands and took a step backward.  “Sorry, Doc.  I’m just along for the ride.  Which reminds me - - shouldn’t we be headin’ for the guesthouse?” 

 

Grant sighed.  “I should have expected that answer.  And yes - - Adele probably already has everything packed in the kitchen.  If I know my wife, she’ll have three or four picnic baskets loaded with food and will want us to carry them for her.  Ken’s supposed to meet us at the guesthouse after his ride.”

 

“Yeah, okay.  But why anyone would wanna spend their mornin’ on a four-legged animal beats me.”

 

Starsky followed Grant to the kitchen where Adele greeted them enthusiastically and immediately put them to work packing picnic baskets.  Grant told her about the bridge, prompting her to make a quick phone call to Seattle.  Fortunately she was able to catch Kelly and Vince just as they were readying to leave for the airport. 

 

“Stay put,” she told them.  “I know it changes our plans, but it might be a few days until we can get the bridge repaired.”

 

Grant promised to survey the damage after breakfast and line up a crew to do the maintenance work as soon as possible.   It was on the tip of Starsky’s tongue to suggest he replace the bridge rather than simply having it repaired, but wisely kept his mouth shut.  He had a sinking feeling his uptight partner wasn’t going to be as cooperative or forgiving. The derelict bridge had been a sore spot with Hutch from the beginning.

 

The fact that Kelly and Vince wouldn’t be able to join them until possibly the end of the week put a visible damper on Adele’s spirits, but she quickly pushed her disappointment aside.  Refocusing on the two men in the kitchen, she beamed a smile.  “Time to go.”  

 

Bridge momentarily forgotten, all three headed to the guesthouse and a leisurely breakfast.

 

+++++

 

Chad Rutter dragged a hand through his lanky black hair, sweeping it back from his eyes.  “Almost there, Jake,” he said to his younger brother.  There had been a time when Jake would have known exactly where they were, but that was before heroin had turned his mind to mush, his body to a shivering mass of stick-thin limbs.  All he cared about now was where the next fix was coming from.

 

As drifters and pickpockets who lived on whatever they could scavenge, thieve or score, keeping Jake in drugs wasn’t easy.  Chad liked hard liquid and the occasional joint, but he’d never been stupid enough to get involved in anything heavier.  Jake on the other hand, hadn’t been as bright.  His last girlfriend, a stripper-for-hire from St. Paul, had turned him onto the habit. 

 

Stupid bitch.

 

Chad had smacked her around good for the trouble, then hauled his brother’s ass out of town.  They’d left enemies behind, a few of them hard-core pushers.  On the run, constantly trying to stay one step ahead of disaster, it was all Chad could do to keep Jake supplied.  He’d been hurting for some time now and Chad was out of money.  As chance would have it, he’d tripped over a solution while passing through Duluth.  At a hamburger stand he’d overheard a conversation between two painters fresh off a redecorating job.  They’d been discussing a local doctor who lived on a secluded mountain estate and who reportedly kept a supply of narcotics in his office under lock and key.  No heroin, but most definitely something to buy Jake a morsel of time until Chad could find a way to score again.  Morphine, if he was lucky.

 

Huffing out a breath, he wrapped an arm around the stricken form huddled beside him.  It had been a hell of a hike, not to mention a hair-raising experience crossing some rickety old bridge a few miles back.  “Hangin’ in there, Bro?”

 

“ ‘m hurtin’ . . .”  The voice was craggy, whisper thin.  A skeletal hand clutched at Chad’s grimy tee-shirt.  “ . . .need sum . . .sumthin’”

 

“I know what you need and it’s right there.” Chad pointed through the trees to the one story structure he’d determined was the doctor’s office.  Separated from the main house, it was isolated among a grove of hemlock, pine and elm, accessed by a winding cobblestone path.  Perfect for visitors who wanted medical advice.  “Has to be our dude’s office.   We’ll find somethin’ in there to fix ya up, huh?”  He gave Jake’s arm a quick squeeze then pulled a .38 from his waistband.  He’d used it before, even blew away some goon in Cedar Rapids when a payoff went bad. No qualms about using it again.  If he’d had more time he might have even pumped that slut stripper full of holes. 

 

Idly rubbing the barrel, Chad cast a measuring glance at the sky.  It was clouding up.  No big deal, except they’d barely made it across that piece-of-shit bridge before the whole freaking thing collapsed. Guess if they had to, they could dig in at the doc’s place.  With any luck the rich bastard wouldn’t even use his office.  Who the hell worked on a Saturday anyway?  The stiff was probably golfing or counting his money on some sun-baked tropical island.

 

“Come on, Jake.”  Hauling his brother to his feet, Chad dragged him forward.  He’d already spied out the west end of the house and knew it offered the best chance of entrance. The sliding glass door on that side was ridiculously ornamental, overlaid with wrought iron tines like a gothic-inspired cemetery gate.  Leave it to the rich to do something obnoxiously overstated.

 

As he’d suspected, the lock jimmied easily and he slid the door open, pulling Jake inside.  “Come on.  Stuff’s gotta be here somewhere.”  He shoved his brother down on the nearest chair and turned to do the searching himself.  He knew Jake was basically worthless, a bag of bones and limp flesh.  H did that to you.  Yeah, he shoulda plugged that slut bitch full of holes.  In fact maybe he’d pay her a return visit when things cooled down.  Then he could - -

 

He froze suddenly, jarred from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps and voices on the front porch. Someone laughed and a key turned in the lock.

 

“Damn.”  Moving swiftly, Chad yanked his brother into a short hallway, turning to level the .38 at the door.  “Whoever the hell you are,” he breathed.  “You damn well better know where the drugs are.”

+++++

 

Hutch pulled on the reins, wheeling the high-strung thoroughbred around.  His father didn’t do anything cheap and that included buying horseflesh.  Pulling the powerful animal to a stop, Hutch took a moment to survey his surroundings. 

 

It was good to get out of the city and remember what fresh air felt like, to inhale the sweet scent of summer grass, dew-soaked earth and rain-nourished leaves.  Riding reawakened memories of long-ago summers on his grandfather’s farm, streaking bareback across hillsides, the wind in his face, the thunder of hoofs drumming ancient music from the ground. The ride had been pleasant, clearing his head, washing away the day-to-day grit that came from working the seedier parts of Bay City.  Clearing his head of clutter and regrets.  Of mistakes like . . .

 

Alice.

 

Hutch frowned.  He couldn’t get rid of that one so easily . . . couldn’t figure out if he was more upset over his actions or concerned for his reputation. 

 

Selfish bastard.   I spend a night pretending she’s someone else . . .something else, and now I’m worried about being found out.  Serves me right if I end up looking flawed as shit.

 

And what of Alice?  How could he simply write off what had happened between them? Toss it in the Boneyard, she’d said, but he couldn’t do that.  Sure a lot of cops slept with hookers, but he wasn’t most cops.  He couldn’t turn off his conscience, his morals, even if he’d conveniently abandoned them for one night.

 

The renewal he’d felt earlier shattered, trampled by guilt and melancholy.  He deserved to be miserable.  He didn’t even have a valid excuse for what he’d done.  He hadn’t been drunk, depressed or hurting when he’d slept with her.  He’d known perfectly well what he was doing - - plummeting headfirst from the pedestal she’d put him on.  Guess what, Alice?  I screw up just like everybody else.  Truth is I need a good lay once in awhile too.  Not much of a White Knight, huh?   Hell, he was scum.  Arthur would have booted him from the Round Table, Tristan would have sent him on a one-way sail across the sea, and Taliesin would have struck his name from every chivalrous ballad ever written.  Scum.

 

Irked, Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  A few sprinkles of rain pattered the backs of his long fingers.  What the hell am I thinking?  It wasn’t that he’d needed a good lay, it was that he cared.  That he still cared . . . that he couldn’t shut off his emotions like a switch or conveniently toss them into some mystical boneyard. 

 

A glance at the sky told him another storm brewed on the horizon, waiting to sweep through. Hopefully it wouldn’t be bad - - a passing shower  - - though the clouds looked anything but gentle.  Rain brought change, storm’s destruction.  He’d unleashed a few in his own life, most recently with Alice.

 

“Come on, boy.  We’re gonna be late for breakfast.”  Hutch kicked his heels to the horse’s side, leading at a gentle canter, then letting the animal do what it yearned to do - - run at full gallop. He wished he could do the same. The release was invigorating, making him realize he needed to talk to Starsky . . . to spill his guts and hope his partner would help him pick up the pieces, get his head on straight.  If anyone could sort through the tangled mess he’d made of his emotions, it was his closest friend. 

 

Wind and the fleeting touch of rain struck Hutch in the face, lashing hair back from his eyes.  Yet even that attempted cleansing and natural purification couldn’t touch the deep-rooted silt of his soul.  It didn’t matter though. 

 

Because Starsky would.

 

+++++  

 

Starsky wouldn’t have called the guesthouse “pink” exactly but the wall colors were a bit more vibrant than he’d imagined. 

 

“Well,” Adele stood in the center of the main room and held out her arms.  “What do you think?”

 

“I think . . .”  Starsky searched for words.  The room was large and open, branching off to a small kitchen, bath and bedroom in the rear.  Light streamed through two front windows and a large sliding door banked by glass panels on each side.  Ornamental wrought iron tines had been placed over the glass in a unique decorator effect. Long and spiked, the tines reminded Starsky of the gated entrance to a gothic mausoleum.  The entire room was painted a dusty rose, accented by marshmallow-white trim and walnut-stained hardwood floors.  Furnishings blended pastel shades of dove gray and mint green with dark wood accents.  “It’s very . . . airy,” Starsky settled for at last.

 

“It’s pink,” Grant grumbled.  He set the two oversized picnic baskets he’d been carrying on an oblong coffee table and shook his head.  “And she wonders why I’m reluctant to let her touch my office.”

 

“Where is your office?” an unfamiliar voice inserted coldly.

 

Starsky jerked, caught by surprise when a dark-haired man slid from the side hallway, stepping into plain view.  He heard Adele give a startled gasp, prompted no doubt by the business-end of a .38 Smith & Wesson.  Beside him, Grant froze. 

 

“Hey.”  Smiling shakily, Starsky tried to appear non-threatening.  Warily he set his picnic basket on the floor and raised both hands into the air.  “What is this?”

 

“I’ll tell you what it is.”  Red-veined gray eyes shifted to Grant.  “You the doc?  The guy who lives here?”

 

Grant gave a quick nod, snagging Adele’s arm to pull her behind him.  “What do you want?”

 

“Drugs.  Whatever you got.  Something strong.  My brother’s hurting.”

 

“Is he injured?”

 

“Yeah, if you consider the fact he ain’t had no smack in 22 hours.  We heard in town you got drugs stored out here.”  As he spoke another man stumbled into the room.  Slighter of build than the first, he had the same lanky black hair, not as long, and puffy gray eyes.  Neither man looked like they’d slept for a week but the second resembled an apparition, ready to curl in on himself.  Starsky had seen the look before, remembered the sickly smell of a man going through forced withdrawal.  Something tightened in his gut as he thought of Hutch.

 

“Chad . . .”  The second man stumbled, dropping to his knees.  “Someone else . . . is comin’ . . .”

 

The man called Chad grabbed his brother and wrenched him back against the wall where he tried to prop him upright.  Starsky took one step forward, but the gun swung quickly in his direction.  “Don’t move, asshole.”  The sound of hooves drumming against the earth reverberated through the open room. Starsky could see Hutch approaching through the sliding glass door, his partner’s long hair sun-bright even in the overcast light.

 

Chad’s gaze followed his.  “Who the hell is that?”

 

“Ken,” Adele said quickly.  “My - - ”

 

“ - - neighbor,” Starsky inserted before she could finish.

 

Chad’s eyes swung back to him.  “What’s he doing here?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  Hutch had rounded the front of the house now, the drumming hoofbeats falling into silence.  “Probably came over to say hello . . . see if the rains caused any damage.”

 

“That so?”  Lurching forward, Chad snagged Adele by the arm.  She gave a frightened squawk as he wrenched her against him, the gun pressing into her side.  Alarmed, Grant surged forward.  “Don’t move, Pops.”  The pistol swung momentarily in his direction before burrowing again in her side.  Chad looked across the room at Starsky, his gaze slitted and cold. “You  - -  Mr. New York - - get your butt out front and get rid of blond beauty.  Be quick and don’t be cute about it, or I’ll blow this bitch away.  I’ll be listenin’ to every word you say.  Got that?”

 

Starsky nodded.  “I got it.” If anything happened to Hutch’s parents while he was with them, he’d never forgive himself.  Unfortunately he wasn’t armed and neither he nor Hutch had brought their weapons.  He’d been surprised his ever-armed partner had left the Magnum behind, but Hutch had said he didn’t want to upset Grant.  His father was finally starting to accept his choice of career, but he’d never been comfortable around the gun, or the fact his son carried one.  Come on, Hutch.  Please tell me you got it stashed in your luggage somewhere.

 

Praying that neither Grant nor Adele would do anything stupid, Starsky opened the door and stepped onto the front porch.  Hutch had dismounted and was in the process of looping the thoroughbred’s reins over the porch railing.  

 

“Hey, Ken.  How’s it goin’?  Some weather we’re havin’, huh?”

 

His partner stopped abruptly, looking at him strangely, but it was a quicksilver, gone-in-a-heartbeat glance.  Smiling easily, he shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.  “Sure is.”

 

“You folks all right next door?  We got some trouble but nothin’ we ain’t seen before.  Rains made a muck of things in the back,” Starsky gave a jerk of his head over his shoulder.  “Probably take, oh . . . two days to clean everything up.  Already fouled up my breakfast.”

 

“Need some help?”                              

 

“Nah, you take it easy, Ken.   Tell Alice we said hello.”

 

“Will do.”  Hutch untied the reins and swung up onto the horse.  His gaze was direct, the mental telepathy they so often shared crackling between them.  Take care of my folks.

 

Starsky gave a barely perceptible nod.  With my life.  Hurry back.  He turned away and stepped into the guesthouse.  Fading hoofbeats disappeared over his shoulder, telling him Hutch rode into the distance.

 

“Took your good ole time, didn’tcha?”  Chad grabbed his arm and wrenched him inside, shoving the door shut behind him.  The gun hovered under his nose.  “Took you awful long.  Bein’ kinda cute weren’t ya?  What was that shit about breakfast?”

 

“I got rid of him, didn’t I?”  Starsky snapped. 

 

“Get over there.”  Chad propelled him toward Adele and Grant who were huddled in a corner by the sliding door.  The surgeon had his arms wrapped around his wife, holding her closely guarded against his chest.  Starsky imagined seeing her personally threatened with a gun had pushed Grant into hover mode.  Though Adele’s eyes were wide and frightened, she remained composed, even dignified.

 

“David.” She extended a hand to him.  “Please do what the man says.”

 

“That’s right, David,” Chad grinned snidely as Starsky joined the others.  “Nobody likes a hero.  All I want are the drugs and we’ll be outta here.”  He started forward but was sidetracked by the bevy of smells wafting from the picnic baskets. Drawn like a man who hasn’t seen a meal in a week, he flipped open the closest lid and stuffed his arm inside.  Groping blindly, he snagged a croissant, cramming half of the flaky pastry into his mouth.

 

“Hey, Jake.  Jake, we got food.”  Momentarily forgetting the reason why they were there, Chad grabbed two baskets and carted them to his brother who still sat slumped against the wall.

 

Through the sliding glass doors, Starsky spied a disappearing glint of sun-blond hair and knew that Hutch was circling to the rear of the house.  He hadn’t expected his partner to act so quickly, but clearly Hutch had understood his coded message: A situation in the house . . . nothin’ we ain’t dealt with before . . . two low-lives . . . your folks are there . . . messed up the breakfast your mom had planned.

 

“Whatever happens,” he told Adele and Grant, lowering his voice to a whisper.  “Stay out of it.”

 

Comprehension flashed suddenly in Grant’s eyes.  “What are you saying?”

 

And then all hell broke loose.

 

+++++  

 

Hutch crouched outside the rear door of the guesthouse, adrenaline swelling his heart, blood pumping a machine gun pulse in his ears. There were times when he and Starsky were on a chase or he was running down some perp on the streets, that he actually got a rush from that adrenaline high.  He supposed most cops did.  The feeling was like a drug.  And like a drug, it brought addiction, creating a feeling he needed to experience over and over again. A feeling he sometimes craved.  An adrenaline junkie.  Someone who got off on the thrill, the chase.  While he didn’t think he was quite so far gone, he knew part of liking his job was the rush he got from that giddy high.  Strangely, it was absent this time.

 

Maybe because it was Starsky and his parents trapped inside with two potential killers.  Starsky hadn’t indicated they were armed, but if they weren’t, his partner wouldn’t have been trying to feed him code.  Hi, Ken.  How’s it goin’?

 

He didn’t think Starsky had ever called him Ken in his life, unless it was as an introduction to someone else.  Two days to clean up had clearly meant two perps to subdue.  Unarmed, feeling queerly naked, Hutch cursed silently.  Any other time, he would have brought the Magnum with him, but he’d left it behind in an effort to please his father.  It was a token gesture of meeting halfway.  Grant was slowly accepting what he did for a living and in gratitude, Hutch chose not to rub his father’s face in his potentially dangerous career. They’d had enough of that on King Island.

 

Twisting the door open, Hutch cracked it far enough to see, then swept inside.  The kitchen was empty, but he could hear voices from the main room.  Someone was pleading in a slightly nasal tone, imploring “Jake” to eat something.  Keeping his back pressed to the wall, Hutch inched cautiously around the corner. The hallway was short and within a few steps he could see Starsky and his parents in the corner diagonally across from him. All three spied him within seconds of each other.  Adjacent at the end of the short hall, a dark-haired man hovered over a slighter form, slumped on the floor.  The first man held a .38 but the second appeared unarmed.

 

Hutch flung Starsky a pointed glance across the room: Show time.

 

And then he plowed forward, roughly catching the black-haired man about the waist, driving them both to the hardwood floor.  Hutch grunted with the impact.  He grappled for possession of the weapon, both hands wrapped around a skinny wrist. Though slighter of build, the man beneath him was surprisingly strong.  A bony knee thrust into his stomach, brutally forcing air from his lungs, momentarily sucking away the upper hand.  The weapon exploded, spitting a bullet into the winter-white ceiling, dislodging pieces of fresh plaster.  Hutch heard his mother scream, felt the patter of drywall dust against his back and hair.  He twisted to the side, freed one hand long enough to crack his fist across the man’s face.  With a yelp his opponent dropped the pistol.  Before he could snatch it again, Hutch struck it with his hand, sending it skittering across the floor to Starsky.  His partner lurched for the gun.

                                                                                                           

“Chad!”  Someone yelled. 

 

Jake.

 

Hutch felt the presence behind him and rolled clear.  The younger man took a clumsy swing at nothing and crumpled into a boneless heap.  Hutch clambered to his feet, aware that Chad was doing the same.  From the corner of his eye he saw Starsky grab the gun.

 

“Hold it!” his partner ordered.

 

But Chad was already airborne, launching himself at Hutch.  The smaller man plowed into him with enough enraged force to send them both careening backward into the sliding door.  Glass cracked and shattered, the violent impact like a streak of storm-charged lightning.  Something cold and hard rammed against Hutch’s back, but the brief resistance couldn’t stop him from crashing to the ground.  Pain came all at once, arrow-slick and staggering.  He heard a ripping noise and realized distractedly it was the sound of his own flesh splitting apart.  Panicked, he tried to rise.  A glut of fire ballooned in his thigh, wrenching an agonized cry from his throat. He gagged on blood, tasted bitter copper in his mouth.  His lips were wet and sticky, coated with the blood from his nose . . . or was it his brow?  He couldn’t see, couldn’t think.  Even his vision had turned red and foggy

 

He tried to move, but pain rocketed through his left leg, dizzily plastering him to the ground.  Chad lay slumped and unmoving on his chest.  Disoriented from pain, feeling strangely trapped, he tried to shove the dead weight aside.  Frantic, he maneuvered his arms beneath the limp burden, but it hurt too much to shift further.  His head throbbed, his arms ached, and - - oh God! - - his leg!

 

Hutch lifted his head, desperately trying to see what was causing the agonizing pain.  He caught a glimpse of a blood-soaked rod, the spiked tip jutting obscenely from his thigh.  Then the pain washed over him, glittering sharp with pointed teeth, chased by a sickening wave of dizziness.  Unable to hold his head up, he slumped against the ground, heard the crackle and crunch of glass beneath his shoulders. Darkness chased daylight from his eyes.

 

“Hutch!” 

 

Someone loomed over him, touched his cheek.

 

He knew the voice, tried to form a name:  Starsky.  But the darkness was greater, the pain a ruthless master.  The light dwindled in a void, sucking him with it.  Too weak to cling to consciousness, he passed out.

 

+++++

 

“Let me see.”

 

Reluctantly, Starsky yielded his spot beside Hutch, making room for Grant.  Chad was dead, no question of that.  A single wrought iron tine had gone straight through his chest, breaking the skin on his back.  Starsky had shoved the broken body aside, but paid it no further heed.  His attention was riveted on Hutch.  On the graying skin, the bright blood on his face and arms . . . worst of all, the thick metal rod bulging grotesquely from his leg.  The long spike had pierced the rear, its barbed head jutting completely from the front, halfway down his denim-clad thigh.

 

Starsky couldn’t stand the sight of the gory tip, blood-soaked, fouled by small pieces of clinging flesh.  It was like an alien presence in his partner’s body, invasive, barbarous and cold.  He itched to rip it free, to fling it far from his injured friend.  “Oh. shit.”  The thought came out despite his effort to bite it back. Impatient, he rubbed his hands on his thighs.  “Well?” he barked at Grant, shifting from foot to foot.  Broken shards of glass crunched beneath his sneakers.  “What are we gonna do?  That thing can’t stay in his leg.”        

 

He wanted to shove the older man aside, demand that he get out of the way.  Everything inside of him screamed with the need to touch Hutch, to assure himself there was still life under all that blood and rapidly graying skin.

 

“Come on, Doc.”  Starsky fidgeted, his nerves ratcheting into overdrive.  He heard the hasty clack of heels against hardwood floor and turned in time to see Adele rush from the bathroom, an armload of towels clutched to her chest, her face pinched and white.  Acting on impulse, he snagged a towel from the top of the pile and dropped beside Hutch. Something sharp bit into his knee - - a tiny particle of glass - - but the cut and a small trickle of oozing blood went unnoticed.

 

“Dr. Hutchinson, you ain’t sayin’ nothin’,” he observed worriedly as he raised his friend’s head, gently sliding the folded towel underneath.  He felt blood on the back of Hutch’s neck and realized it was seeping outward from his back.  There was more on Hutch’s face, so much blood that Starsky couldn’t tell where the skin was actually lacerated and what was merely the gory result of runoff bleeding. Snagging another towel, he started to gently swab away the excess.   Please, Hutch.  Don’t be hurt bad.  You’re scarin’ me, babe.

 

“He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”  Adele pleaded with her husband.  Starsky noted she too was on her knees, holding a small hand towel pressed to a cut on Hutch’s brow. “Grant, that thing in his leg - - ”

 

“No.” Grant shook his head at her lack of understanding.  “The greatest danger is shock.  Leaning forward, he thumbed Hutch’s right eyelid back, pausing briefly to study the pupil before doing the same to the left.  “His leg isn’t bleeding badly, but if we try to remove that tine - -”

 

“You ain’t just gonna leave it there?” Starsky protested hotly.  Nearly six feet long, the grotesque rod was attached to Hutch’s leg like a mutant appendage, making it impossible for him to lie flat.  The damaged leg was raised, bent slightly at the knee, his weight shifted to the opposite hip.  Lying slightly on his side, the awkward position allowed Starsky to slip a towel beneath his back in an effort to stem the bleeding from a smattering of lacerations and cuts.  He knew movement of any kind, no matter how slight, would wrench the impaling rod, causing greater damage.  Worried, he rubbed a comforting hand down his friend’s arm. 

 

“David, the only thing keeping him from hemorrhaging right now is that tine,” Grant countered.  “It might not make much sense but if we remove it, the release of pressure will be like a dam bursting under floodwaters.  He could bleed to death if it’s not done properly.  As painful as it might be, it needs to stay there until we can get him to a hospital.”

 

“And just how are you gonna do that?”  Starsky challenged.  “Are you forgettin’ the bridge is washed out - - our only freakin’ channel back to civilization?”

 

Grant visibly paled.  Beside him, Adele made an anguished sound in the back of her throat and blinked back tears.  The sudden silence was foreboding. 

 

“A helicopter,” Grant said after a moment’s pause.  “Duluth’s main hospital has an airlift medical crew.”  His attention shifted to his wife.  “Adele, call Duluth General and tell them what’s happened.  Request immediate airlift and instruct them to bring a shock unit.”

 

“Yes, yes, all right.”  Driven to action, the petite woman scurried away.  Crouched over Hutch, Starsky felt the cold patter of rain against his back. 

 

“T’rrific,” he muttered, moving to shield his friend as much as possible.  He’d cleaned a good deal of blood from Hutch’s face and could now see the cuts were minimal . . . a deep gash above his left brow - - that one had bled profusely - - a slighter slash over his right cheek and three scratches on his chin.  His left arm was lacerated in two places mid bicep, his right relatively unscathed.  Gently raising his friend’s arm, Starsky wrapped a towel over the oozing cuts.  

 

Dragged close to consciousness, Hutch rolled his head against the concrete patio and groaned.

 

“Easy, pal,” Starsky breathed.  “Just take it easy.” 

 

Adele was back in an instant, composure threatening to crack.  “Grant, the phone’s dead.  I couldn’t get a dial tone.”

 

“What?”  Rattled by the news, Grant rose to his feet.  “That can’t be.”  He looked to Starsky for help.  “Do you think those two . . .”  Faltering, he glanced around at Chad’s lifeless body, then back inside the house where they’d last seen Jake. 

 

It struck Starsky suddenly that he hadn’t heard a single sound from Jake about his brother’s death.  Alarmed, he craned his head around Grant, plagued by a sinking feeling when he realized the living room was empty.

 

“He’s gone,” Adele said forlornly.  She went to her husband’s side, moving into the protective circle of his arm.  “Oh, Grant, do you think he cut the phone lines to keep us from reporting him?”

 

“The main house,” Starsky said.  He didn’t want to leave Hutch, but his friend needed medical attention more than he needed a comforting arm.  “I’ll run back and call emergency services from there.  Keep an eye out for that kid.  I don’t think he’ll be back, but in his frame of mind, who knows what he might do.”  Starsky hesitated, pausing to track a lingering thumb over Hutch’s cheek.  “See ya, buddy.  Just hang in there.  I promise I won’t be long.”

 

Starsky gave a grim nod to Grant then sprinted from the patio, racing for all he was worth in the direction of the manor home.

 

+++++

 

Starsky’s heart was in his throat by the time he returned to the guesthouse.  He didn’t bother with the front door, but raced around the side, skidding to a wrenching halt at the sight on the patio.  Hutch was half awake, fidgeting restlessly, his head cradled in his mother’s lap.  Adele caressed his cheek, her face streaked with mascara and tears, black hair hanging limp and bedraggled in the misting rain.  Bent over his son’s leg, Grant was applying the finishing touches to a thick bandage cut from terry towels.  The material had been wrapped in such a way as to cradle the protruding head of the tine, basically immobilizing it.  The main rod snaked from Hutch’s leg like some prehistoric reptilian creature, the very sight of it souring Starsky’s stomach.  Someone had swept up the broken glass nearest Hutch, and Chad’s body had been moved to the far corner of the patio, covered by a blue and white striped blanket.

 

“David!”  Adele latched onto his sudden presence like a lifeline.  “Did you reach the hospital?  How soon will the airlift crew be here?”

 

Starsky swallowed hard, his gut contorting in a tight fist.  “No airlift,” he said miserably.  His glance shifted to Grant.  “Jake didn’t cut the phone lines.  The main house is out too, and I checked the lines . . . they’re intact.  The weather musta knocked ‘em out further down the road.”  Unnerved, he dragged a hand over his face, his gaze involuntarily dropping to Hutch.  “Who knows how long it’ll be till we can get help.  That thing can’t stay in his leg forever, Doc.”

 

Grant raised his eyes.  His face looked haggard, drawn with stress.  Patches of red stained his shirt over the abdomen and his hands glistened with blood. Hutch’s blood.

 

“It needs to be surgically removed,” the physician said in a voice far calmer than Starsky thought possible.  “Movement alone could cause further tissue damage, possibly maim him for life.  The chances of hemorrhaging - - ”

 

“We don’t’ got a choice!”  Starsky snapped.  Desperate, he took three quick strides forward, looming over Grant.  “I know he’s your son, but he’s my partner.  I’ve spent close to eighteen hours a day with him for the last eight years.  That gives me one hell of a say in what happens to him.  Now, I brought the car . . . got it parked out front.  I say we get that thing outta his leg, get him back to the house, and you do what you can for him.  If you really got drugs stashed up there, maybe now’s the time to use ‘em.  Without a phone, without an ambulance, you’re the best shot we’ve got Doc.”

 

Grant scowled.  He tugged at his collar, leaving stark red fingerprints on the pale blue material.

 

“Please, Grant,” Adele implored when he was silent too long. 

 

“All right.”  He nodded, the movement brusque and crisp.   “But you should go inside,” he told his wife.  “This isn’t going to be pleasant.”

 

“I want to stay with Ken.”

 

“Adele.”  Starsky touched her shoulder.  He knew his partner wouldn’t want his mother to see him suffer.  The pain involved in removing the metal rod was certain to be excruciating.  “He’s right.  How ‘bout roundin’ up some blankets and pilin’ ‘em in the car?  Hutch is gonna need ‘em.”

 

“And we’re going to need more towels too,” Grant added.  “As thick as you can find, Adele.  When that tine comes out, the wound is going to bleed profusely.”  He looked aside at Starsky, lowering his voice so only the dark-haired detective could hear.  “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t go into shock.”

 

Adele sniffled.  “Okay.”  Regaining her composure, she wiped her cheeks, shakily brushing away tears.  Bending forward, she pressed a lingering kiss on Hutch’s brow.  “It’s going to be all right, darling.”  Starsky heard her voice catch and knew she was close to crumpling all over again.  “Your father will take care of everything.  And David’s here . . . all the people who love you.”

 

Whether Hutch heard, Starsky wasn’t sure, but his friend moaned slightly as Adele shifted from beneath him.  Starsky helped her to her feet then squatted near Hutch’s shoulder the moment she’d gone inside.  The rain, really only a pattering mist, had turned Hutch’s white-gold hair to deeper brass and soaked the light navy weave of his button shirt. Starsky laid a hand on his arm, shaken to realize he was trembling.  Whether from cold, shock or pain he couldn’t be sure.  “Hutch?”

 

“Listen to me,” Grant said, recapturing his attention.  “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.  I want you to brace your back there . . . against the rear of the house.”  He pointed behind Hutch.  “Sit with your legs open so you can support his hips and back.  You’re going to have to hold him tight. . . . like this, around the waist.”  Grant demonstrated by wrapping his arms around his own waist.  “I’ll grasp the tine on the underside of his leg at the point of entry.  You need to hold him as still as possible . . . keep your arms locked on his waist.  Once the rod’s out, I’ll wrap his leg to slow the bleeding.  I need you to apply pressure on the supplying artery, here - -”  Grasping Starsky by the wrist, Grant placed his hand, heel down just above the crease on Hutch’s leg.  “Press firmly with the fatty part of your hand.  Do you understand, David?”

 

“Yeah, I got it, but maybe we should cut it, instead of tryin’ to yank it out.  We could shear it off below the underside of his thigh . . . pull the cut end through instead of tryin’ to yank the tip back the way it came.” 

 

The mere thought of that ugly barbed tip being wrest back into Hutch’s leg made Starsky’s blood run cold.  He had ghastly visions of his partner maimed for life, never able to walk again.  In the blink of an eye he saw Hutch’s career go belly-up.  What would become of the street cop who relied on his natural physical abilities as much as his wits?  Of the health-conscious friend who loved to run every morning at the crack of dawn?  The athlete who worked out at the gym four days a week, and who spent every other vacation hiking wilderness trails?  Hutch would never forgive him for the loss of his leg if he could do anything to prevent it.

 

“What d’ya say, Doc?  It makes more sense to cut the thing instead of - - ”

 

“Yes, I know.”  Grant’s interruption was weary but attention grabbing all the same.  “I already thought of that, but I don’t have any equipment capable of cutting through iron.  I keep very few tools on hand, David, and certainly nothing of the power variety.  Anything requiring that level of maintenance I contract to skilled tradesmen.  I’ve got no choice now but to pull the rod from Ken’s leg.”  His gaze dropped to Hutch and he faltered, suddenly uncertain.  “Will he . . . will he h-handle this, do y-you think?”

 

This ain’t no time for the Hutchinson stutter, Doc.  I need you focused.

 

“Your kid’s a lot tougher than you think.  Hutch is a survivor.  He’ll get through it.”

 

“Yes, of course.”  Grant collected himself.  “Help me get him back by the wall.”

 

“Hutch.”  Gently lowering his voice, Starsky touched his friend’s shoulder.  A distracted corner of his mind noted that while Grant could stomach wrenching an iron rod from his son’s leg, he seemed oddly reluctant to touch him.  “Buddy, I know you’re half awake.  Come on, Hutch, look at me.”  He raised his hand, feathering damp hair from Hutch’s brow.  His friend’s skin felt clammy and cold, but whether that alarming taint was from shock or rain, Starsky couldn’t tell.   “Hutch.”  Gingerly, he tapped the blond-haired man on the cheek.  “Come on, babe.  Look at me.  Open those blue eyes, Blondie.”  His hand shifted, rounded a shoulder then soothingly tracked down a sleeve-encased arm to the limp hand.  Starsky wrapped his fingers around his friend’s.   “Hutch?”

 

Hutch moaned and rolled his head to the side.  “Starsk?”  Gold-tipped lashes fluttered, a sliver of electric blue glinting underneath.  Long fingers tightened on Starsky’s hand.  Sluggish, only partially conscious, Hutch moved lethargically.  His face contorted at the first shock of pain.  “Ughnn . . .”

 

“Easy, buddy.”  Starsky squeezed his hand, stroked one cold cheek.  “You got yourself in a situation here, pal.  I’m gonna move you just a little . . . shift you back against the wall with me, okay?”

 

Hutch swallowed hard, tried to grasp what was happening.  “My leg.  God, Starsk, my leg . . .”  

 

“I know, buddy.”  Starsky saw the fight for clarity in his eyes, a stark determination to be aware and conscious of what was transpiring.  Frustrated, Hutch tried to raise his head.

 

“Easy.” Starsky laid a hand on his chest. 

 

At the familiar touch Hutch obediently folded, his eyelids dipping in exhaustion.  A second later he fought them open, pain crimping his brow in a deep crease.  “My leg,” he said again.

 

Starsky hung his head.  “It ain’t pretty, Hutch.  You got a metal rod through your thigh.  No, don’t move,” he said quickly when Hutch tried to look again.  He anchored a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, cupped the side of his face.  “Thing is . . . me and your dad, we gotta move you just a bit.  Probably gonna hurt like hell.”

 

Hutch turned his face away, swallowing convulsively and Starsky guessed the level of pain had upped its amperage. “Sure . . . okay . . . what should I do?”

 

“Let us get you moved,” Starsky said.  “It’s just a foot or two to the wall.  I’m gonna grip you under the arms and slide you backward on your butt.  Your dad’s gonna try to keep that thing in your leg immobilized as much as possible. Just don’t fight it and let us do the work, okay?”

 

Hutch gave a vacant nod, face still turned away, eyes closed.  Trying to keep the pain level in check, Starsky realized.  Dragging Hutch was going to send every minute vibration through the rod directly into his leg, but trying to lift him was out of the question.  He sent a silent query to Grant, wishing the man had the same innate ability to understand his nonverbal communication the way Hutch did. 

 

“Ken, I want you to relax your leg,” Grant said.  He slid his hand onto the thick makeshift bandage.  At his touch, Hutch sucked in a hissing breath.  “Don’t tense up,” Grant said calmly, his voice low and even. “The more you tense, the more chance there is of greater damage to the muscle.  I’ll hold your leg and the rod immobile.  You have to trust me.”

 

Again Hutch gave a short nod.  Starsky huffed out a breath and bent to grip his friend beneath the arms. He and Grant exchanged a silent glance before the doctor lowered his hand to the rod.  The slight contact, fragile as it was, made Hutch shiver.  He grimaced, bracing his good leg against the concrete, preparing for movement. 

 

“Don’t tense,” Grant said again.  He nodded to Starsky who gritted his teeth and pulled as smoothly as he could.  Hutch gave a single startled cry, then clamped his mouth shut. The veins in his neck protruded like disease-swollen cords, all color draining from his face. 

 

The movement was over in a matter of seconds.  Starsky felt Hutch crumple against him, thoroughly exhausted.  Wedged between his legs, his friend’s body felt oddly insubstantial, more ephemeral matter than solid flesh. Starsky bowed his head, wrapping his arms around Hutch’s waist as Grant had instructed.  Held so close, he could smell the acerbic odor of blood mingle with the fresher scent of rain on Hutch’s clothing and hair.  “You still with me, pal?”

 

Chilled, Hutch shivered.  “ ‘m ‘ere . . .”  He kept his eyes closed, his face turned to the side

 

Starsky shot a questioning glance to Grant. What now?

 

The physician had his head bent, looking strangely at the fresh red smear snaking across the concrete.  Rain diluted it with moisture, turning crimson to lighter ruby until it ballooned outward in water-veined trails.  Darker blood dripped from the underside of Hutch’s thigh, splattering the patio in gory dime-sized drops.

 

“Adele!”  Grant shouted.  “I need those towels.”

 

“Coming!”  She appeared in a rush, arms loaded with towels and blankets, all neatly folded as though freshly gathered from a linen closet. The gem-like colors looked garishly out of place to Starsky - - smoky topaz, deep jade, ribbon-striped amethyst and sapphire.  The towels were meant for elegant bathrooms, not as swaddling for a nightmare-impaled leg. 

 

“Set them there.” Grant grabbed the closest, giving a quick nod to indicate the concrete at his side.

 

Adele did as instructed, but crouched by her son to gently touch his face.  “Ken?”

 

“Please, Mom . . . go inside,” he croaked. 

 

Starsky knew instinctively that he fought to control the steadily escalating torment.  Cold fingers tightened over his hand, silently begging his help.  “Adele,” the dark-haired detective said softly. “Take some blankets out to the car, a couple of pillows too.  Make sure the front seat is all the way forward, we’ll need the room in the back.”

 

“Yes . . . all right.”  She seemed reluctant to leave, but understood it was expected of her.  Kissing her fingertips, she lightly touched her hand to Hutch’s mouth.  A tear-filled gaze shifted to Starsky.  “Take care of him, David.”

 

She was gone before he could respond, a sob catching loudly in her throat. 

 

Hutch sighed, relaxing against Starsky’s chest.  “Thanks.”  His voice cracked, thready and whisper-thin.  He shivered, prompting Starsky to hold him closer. 

 

“I don’t understand . . . what happened,” Hutch mumbled.  “ . . . those two . . .”

 

Gut instinct told Starsky he was talking about Jake and Chad.  “Lookin’ for drugs,” he supplied.  “The younger one musta been a hype . . . hadn’t seen a fix in a while.  Just bad timin’, buddy.”

 

“A hype?”  Something caught in Hutch’s throat.

 

“There’s no excuse for it,” Grant muttered in disgust, still bent over his leg.  He folded a garnet-red towel in half and draped it across Hutch’s knee.  “Users, junkies . . . I’ve seen firsthand the kind of trash they become.  That boy would sell his soul for a needle. Anyone dependent on drugs for a personal high should be forced to live through a hellish withdrawal.”

 

Hutch flinched, turning his face away.  Starsky knew the reaction had nothing to do with Grant fussing over the wound, but rather his heartless choice of words.  He doesn’t know, he reminded himself.  Be fair.  He ain’t got no way of knowin’ his own kid suffered that fate.  

 

“The rod,” he said to Grant, quickly changing the subject.

 

The physician nodded, apparently ready to move forward.  “Ken, look at me,” he instructed firmly.

 

Somewhat reluctantly Hutch opened his eyes and met his father’s level gaze. 

 

“The storms have washed the bridge out and the phones are dead.  There’s no way to get you to a hospital.  That rod has to come out.  It isn’t going to be pleasant, but we’re out of options.  Do you understand, Son?”

 

Hutch nodded, drawing a breath to steel himself.  “Just . . .get the damn thing out of there.”

 

Grant’s eyes shifted to Starsky.  “David?”

 

Something cold and shivery constricted Starsky’s gut in a vice-like fist.  “Ready.”  He tightened his arms around Hutch’s waist.

 

“Don’t forget,” Grant told him.  “As soon as the rod’s free, put pressure on the supplying artery.  I’ll wrap his leg, but the wound’s going to gush.  At all cost, we need to stop the bleeding.” 

    

Starsky nodded, his heart beating like a wild drum.  He wondered if Hutch could sense it, hear it, feel it through his back, it was so distressingly frantic.  Grant splayed a hand over Hutch’s thigh, locking the damaged limb in place.  With his other hand he gripped the rod at the point of entry. Barely substantial, the touch carried through the iron like a transmitted signal, turning hesitant aid to harsh punishment. 

 

Hutch choked for air, fingers sinking convulsively into the backs of Starsky’s hands.  His breath grew fast and shallow, increasingly ragged with each choppy inhalation.  Starsky heard the loud clack of his friend’s jaw hinge shut, felt Hutch’s body snap taut like a bowstring.

 

“Relax, Ken,” Grant ordered.

 

“ . . . can’t . . .”  Hutch groaned, doing his best not to twist free.  “Pull  - - pull it out!”

 

“If you don’t relax - -”

 

“Get it out!”  Hutch yelled, his endurance a step away from shattering. 

 

Grimacing, he wilted against Starsky, his whole body shuddering beneath the ugly onslaught of pain.  What had been a cold alien substance plundering his leg, became a blazing knot of fire.  He jerked unintentionally, sending the barbed head into his already mangled flesh.  Blood ribboned from his leg, wrapping his thigh in a clinging veil of wet heat.  He felt cold then hot, bitterly nauseous, his head reeling from one sickening sensation after the next.

 

Light exploded inside his head and all that was left was the cruel dynamic of steel-tipped pain.  “Please . . .please . . .damn it . . .pull.”  The words came chopped and garbled.  Unable to breathe, he gasped for air, knowing he was one step shy of hyperventilating.  Somewhere through the torturous fog he felt Starsky lean forward, sensed the gentle caress of his friend’s breath against his cheek.

 

“Easy, babe, easy.  You gotta be still.” The arms around his waist tightened, holding him closer.

 

Hutch rocked his head from side to side, eyes scrunched shut in choke-hold misery.  A part of him understood what Starsky was saying, but that part no longer had control of his ability to reason.  Pain swamped over him.  Shaken, he flung his head back, his body arcing convulsively in Starsky’s restrictive embrace.  “Let me go,” he pleaded. 

 

“Can’t.”  In outright defiance, Starsky squeezed him tighter, melding their bodies into one shuddering knot of flesh and bone.  “Hutch, you gotta stop strugglin’.  I know it hurts, babe, but you gotta be still.”

 

“Starsk, lemme go.”

 

“No.”

 

“Starsky, please.”

 

Soft curls scraped his cheek as his friend leaned forward. “You think I wanna hurt you like this?”  Starsky’s voice sounded watery, oddly thick.  “Don’t fight me.  It’s almost over now.  I ain’t gonna let you go, so you tough it out.  You hear me babe?”

 

But he heard only the quivering pulse of his heart, the blood-thump of the mutilated artery in his leg.  His father was still tugging on that wretched piece of metal but he’d lost the ability to see.  Everything was red and gray, his stomach threatening to rupture up through his throat.  All he wanted to do was escape, to twist away from the fire-laced agony in his leg. Instead he clutched at his friend’s arm, turned his face into Starsky’s chest and drew a single shuddering breath.

 

In another heartbeat it was over.  He heard the clank of metal on concrete.  Someone was wrapping his leg, tightening a thick bandage over blood-soaked butchered skin. The sudden pressure hurt almost as badly as the crude removal of the rod.  He moaned aloud, tried to burrow deeper against Starsky.  An arm went around his shoulders, hugging him close.  His friend’s voice was soft and reassuring, whispered near his ear.  “What’d I tell ya?  It’s all over now.” 

 

He felt pressure just off the crease in his leg and tried to swat the troubling hand away.  His wrist was easily trapped and restrained.  “Lie still, babe.” Starsky’s voice again. 

 

He felt cold, horribly cold, his thoughts growing more disjointed by the moment.  Starsky was talking to him, reassuring him, but he’d lost track of the words.  His leg felt heavy yet strangely unencumbered at the same time, like it might float free from the rest of his body. Experimentally he tried to move, but was once again denied that simple luxury.  Hands held him down, immune to his mumbled protests.  Someone tugged on his eyelid, raising it to allow an obnoxious intrusion of light. He grunted and tried to shy away, startled to realize his body wouldn’t respond. 

 

“He’s going into shock,” a distant voice said.  “Grab the blankets.”

 

Warmth enveloped him, made the sticky wetness soaking his thigh seem somehow unimportant. 

 

Except it hurt. 

 

God, it hurt!  Once acknowledged, the pain raged like a volcano, all brimstone and fire, hot, spewing lava. He grappled for sanity, tried to find something familiar and comforting in the torrent of raging pain.  “ . . . Starsky . . .”  The name left his lips in a strangled gasp.

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  A warm hand cradled his cheek, gently guiding his head until it rested against a pocket of living, breathing warmth.  Blessed heat seared the cusp of his cheek.  He felt the familiar pulsing beat of his partner’s heart, a sound that he’d heard, that he’d felt a hundred intimate times before.  His hand rose, knotting in the fabric of Starsky’s shirt.   “ . . . don’t go . . .” he pleaded.

 

Fingers stroked the back of his neck, kneading liquid warmth into rigid tendons. “Not without you, babe.”        

 

Placated, Hutch closed his eyes, weakly lulled toward sleep.

 

+++++

 

Starsky was never really sure if Adele understood.  Strange . . . a few months ago he would have said it was Grant who lacked a basic grasp of his relationship with Hutch.  But that was before King Island . . . before the physician had witnessed their utter dependency, trust for each other and staunch over-the-top devotion firsthand. When they finally moved Hutch to the car, it was Starsky who climbed in the back with his partner.  He had wanted to relinquish that spot to Adele, but Grant had his own ideas. 

 

“Hold him as still as possible, David.  It’s a short drive, but it won’t be pleasant.”  He guided Adele toward the front seat.  “Come on, sweetheart.  Ken will be fine.”

 

Frantic, she tried to resist.  “No, I need to stay with him.”

 

“You can’t keep him immobile and David can. Adele, Ken doesn’t know up from down right now.  Please sweetheart, just get in the car.”

 

Who would have thought overly staunch Dr. Hutchinson even knew what a term of endearment sounded like, yet alone how to use one?  Realizing Adele was torn, consumed by the need to be physically near her injured son, Starsky attempted a reassuring smile.  “It’s gonna be okay, Adele.  You’ll see.”  Dropping his eyes, he looked down on Hutch who lay wrapped in blankets, huddled in his arms.  He gave his friend a slight squeeze.  “Blondie’s tough.”

 

Be tough, Blondie, he thought mournfully. 

 

Reluctantly, Adele slid into the front seat.  She turned immediately, reaching over the back to grasp Hutch’s limp hand.  Starsky caught her gaze and felt a lump rise in his throat.  It was hard enough for him to see Hutch so brutally injured.  What must it be like for Hutch’s parents, his mother in particular?  Starsky knew his own mother would move heaven and earth to save him if he was hurt.  A single glance at Adele told him she was no different.  It didn’t matter that Hutch was thirty-four, a man whose very occupation often put him in the path of danger.  To the woman who raised him, Hutch would always be her fair-haired child and only son.

 

He moved his hand over hers where it rested on Hutch’s, caught the look of heartfelt gratitude in her eyes.  Grant popped the Buick into “drive” and the vehicle crawled forward at a limping ten miles an hour.  Starsky kept an arm around Hutch’s waist, locking his partner against him to mute the jostling movement.  At least they’d managed to stem the flow of blood from his leg.  Even now, heavily saturated bandages ringed Hutch’s thigh.  The left leg of his jeans was soaked, the stonewashed denim more rust-colored than blue. Bright red streaks slanted across the soft leather seat of the posh rental car, further evidence of his butchered limb.

 

It took only moments to reach the manor home, but every slight lurch of the tires sent pain rocketing through Hutch.  Even half-conscious he tensed in Starsky’s arms, trying to burrow closer with each devastating spike. 

 

Starsky swore silently, hating how useless he felt.  How long until the phone lines came up?  How long until they could get Hutch real help, a hospital, intravenous medications and proper care? 

 

Uneasy, he stroked his friend’s arm. “Almost there, babe,” he soothed.  “We’ll get you inside, get you comfortable, then you can rest.”  He didn’t want to think about the potential damage they’d caused by pulling the rod free.  Grant had been mostly quiet since removing the tine, his expression closed and sober.  Not a particularly forthcoming man to begin with, Starsky couldn’t tell if he was worried or simply acting normally. 

 

Grant drove around to the back of the house rather than the front.  While Adele hurried inside, opening doors, clearing a path to the first-floor bedroom, Grant rounded the rear of the car to help Starsky in maneuvering Hutch from the vehicle. Between the two of them they managed to get the blond-haired man inside and settled into a bed.  Adele mounded pillows at his back so he was able to sit slightly elevated.  Attentive to his wounded leg, Grant slipped another under his knee, raising the damaged limb.  As he worked he asked Starsky about Hutch’s most recent tetanus shot and Starsky informed him Hutch had one earlier that year.  Satisfied, the physician disappeared to his office, while Starsky unlaced Hutch’s shoes, tossing them onto the floor.

 

Adele hovered at his back.  “What about his shirt?  David, it’s damp from the rain and so are his jeans. He’s still shivering.  Help me get him undressed.”

                                                                                                                                               

Starsky hesitated.  Adele might be Hutch’s mother but he had the gut feeling his friend would chafe at the thought of her undressing him.  Besides that, the bandage was too crucial to jostle. “We need to leave the jeans alone,” he said.  “I don’t want to disturb the bandage without Dr. Hutchinson’s supervision.  Let’s just get his shirt off.” 

 

Adele seemed appreciative for something to do.  Something that involved actual touching and coddling.  Together they stripped the rain damp shirt from Hutch, Adele lingering to stroke her son’s brow when he roused close to consciousness.  “Ssh,” she cooed.  “Go back to sleep, Ken.”  She tucked the blankets close around his chin but he only squirmed restlessly, a tormented sound slipping from his lips. 

 

Concerned, Starsky straightened the blankets over his friend’s leg.  The denim was starting to stiffen as blood dried and caked on Hutch’s jeans.  He would have liked nothing better than to strip the soiled garments away, providing his friend a measure of comfort, but without proper care to stabilize the wound, the idea was out of the question.  The mounting pain worried him however.  Hutch was clearly agitated and restless.  He shifted on the bed, fidgety beneath the punishing torment, his eyes flickering every few seconds as he neared consciousness. 

 

Worried, Starsky sat on the edge of the mattress.  As it had earlier that day, the need to touch returned in staggering force.  Suddenly he couldn’t keep his hands off his partner. In the past, a simple glance would have sufficed to kindle the quicksilver connection between them, but Hutch’s eyes were closed now.  Starsky dragged a thumb over his friend’s cheek, lifted a hand to smooth the rain-dampened hair from his brow.  “Rest easy, babe.”

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch’s raspy voice startled him.  A hand floundered in the air, weak and directionless until he caught it, guiding the way for long fingers to wrap gratefully over his.  “My leg . . .” Hutch rolled to the side, groaning softly. 

 

“I know, buddy.”  Starsky’s stomach contorted. Lightly, he stroked the inside of his friend’s arm. “I know it hurts, but at least the rod’s out.  Try to keep still.”

 

“ Can’t. . .  feels on fire.”  Shuddering, Hutch turned his face into the pillow.  “Muscles keep crampin’ in my thigh.”

 

Starsky frowned, realizing that although Hutch might lie still for a few moments, the damaged tendons in his leg continued to twitch spasmodically and painfully contract.  No wonder he was so restless.  Hopefully Grant would have something in his office to ease the pain. 

 

Bent over the bed, Adele spoke soothingly, stroking Hutch’s brow.  “Honey, you need to try to rest.  Your father’s getting you something to help with the pain.  I’m going upstairs to gather some more quilts to keep you warm.”  Worriedly, she bit her lip, her eyes misting with tears.  “Is there anything else I can do for you, Ken?  Anything else you need?”

 

“No.”  Hutch’s lips curved in a phantom smile, gone as quickly as it came.  “Thanks, Mom.”

 

Starsky watched her leave, then turned to his partner with a choked grin.  “Fusses over you, huh?”

 

“Like . . . someone else I know.” Hutch’s eyes dipped, heavy with fatigue. 

 

“Yeah, well . . .”  Starsky gave a soft snort.  “Ain’t like I’m fond of you or anything.”   Attentively he stroked the inside of Hutch’s arm, using touch to convey his own endless supply of warmth and affection - - a direct counterpart to his teasing words.  After a time Hutch actually stilled, his eyelids closing completely beneath the soothing caress. 

 

Seconds later, Grant reappeared, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in one hand, something long and tubular in the other.  Still dressed in clothing that was stained with his son’s blood, his raven hair rumpled and rain-slick, he looked more back-alley butcher than professional physician.

 

“I brought something to help with the pain,” he announced, holding the skinny tubular object aloft.  Weak light glinted from a thin metal tip.  With a sinking sensation, Starsky realized Grant held a syringe.

 

+++++

 

Hutch was only half listening, half awake when the sight of the needle registered.  Muddled by pain, his mind wrapped around the image with a sense of delayed shock.  Suddenly he was three years in the past, remembering a nightmare he desperately hoped to forget:  the musty smell of a closed-up room that quickly became prison and personal hell.  The hard press of wood against his back, his arms tied roughly behind a chair . . . the oppressive weight of a blindfold sealing him in darkness . . . a fist cracking across his face, driving his head back . . . pain, blood . . . the prick of a needle in his arm, drenching him in the cold sweat of fear, and then . . .

 

Oblivion.

 

Sweet.  Deceptively sensual.  Gloriously compelling.

 

The torn muscles in his thigh contracted abruptly, spitting flame into pain-swollen blood vessels. Punishing, brutally relentless, the downward spiral into agony meshed with the sight of the needle, resurrecting ghosts from another time, a darker place.  Stricken by unwanted memories, he struggled to breathe.  “What . . . what is that?”

 

“It’s just morphine, Ken.”  Grant set the rubbing alcohol on the nightstand.  Opening a drawer in the center of the table, he removed a small bag of cotton.  “It will help with the pain  . . . help you to relax.  I’ll have you feeling better in a minute.”

 

Alarm streaked through him.  Relax?  Dosed with morphine?  “No.”  His voice was a rasp croak. 

Still trapped in a mind-numbing haze of pain, he tossed restlessly. “I-I don’t need anything . . .

d-don’t want it . . .” 

 

He knew morphine was an opium product with the same addictive qualities as heroin.  To anyone else the syringe and the relief-promising drug may have seemed fairly innocuous, but to Hutch they represented a direct conduit back to his nightmare.  “I-I-I don’t want any,” he stammered again.  His heart shuddered in his chest. “Starsky?”  Panicked, he looked around for his partner.  Please babe, don’t let him do this to me.  Don’t let him give me anything. 

 

“I’m right here, buddy.”  The mattress creaked beneath gentle weight.  Reassuring hands slid onto his shoulder, one rising to cup his cheek. 

 

Hutch groaned aloud, trying to make his unresponsive limbs move.  Fire shrieked through his leg, pumping wave after wave of stomach-churning nausea into his gut.  He felt trapped like he’d been three years ago.  There was no blindfold this time, no rope binding his wrists but he needed to get away . . . from the room and the syringe.  From the father who would look into his eyes and surely realize what he’d been  - - a hype, a user.   

 

Like that kid.  Like Jake.

 

There’s no excuse for it, Grant had said.  Anyone dependent on drugs for a personal high should be forced to live through a hellish withdrawal.

 

“Oh, God!”  The cry slipped from his lips in a choked whisper, a surge of nausea making him gag.  He ground his teeth together, rolling his head on the pillow, desperately seeking his friend.  “Starsk, I can’t go through that hell again.  Please . . . no morphine.”

 

Starsky held his gaze, eyes locked, reading every heartfelt flicker of emotion and primal fear.  “It’ll help with the pain,” he said evenly, never breaking eye contact.  His fingertips ghosted across Hutch’s brow, tracking further to lightly caress long waves of flaxen hair. 

 

Hutch swallowed, forcing down nausea.  With an imploring glance, he wrapped a sweaty hand around Starsky’s wrist.  “No morphine.”

 

“Okay, babe.”  Smiling softly, Starsky thumbed his cheek.  His touch lingered a moment longer.  “We’ll do it your way.”

 

Hutch heard soothing reassurance in his voice, and struggled to control his increasingly rapid breathing.  Sooner or later his father would unearth the ugly trauma in his past.  Grant would come to realize his son was no better than the drug-hungry low-lives who populated the dark alleys of every city.  He’d learn there’d been a point when Hutch had craved . . . actually begged for the mindless oblivion that came with the needle.  Crawled on my knees and begged Forest to shoot me up, pump me full of that shit so I could fly.  He had little morals left anymore and those he still retained were easily tossed aside these days.  Hadn’t he just proved that by sleeping with Sweet Alice?  Tortured by pain and memory, he thrashed sluggishly.

 

“Hutch.”  Starsky touched the side of his face, sending his thoughts crashing back to bleak reality.  “Come on, buddy.  You’re breathing way too fast.  I know you’re hurtin’ - - ”

 

“No morphine.”  It was the only thought that mattered.

 

“Yeah, I got that.  Take deep breaths, pal.  You’re scarin’ me.”

 

“Starsk . . .”  His mind was one step away from shutting down completely.  Past, present and the residual pain of both merged in a single knot of confusion.  His thigh muscles cramped violently.  “I slept with her.  I slept with Alice.”

 

“I know that too.”

 

“A prostitute.  I’m no better than - -”

 

“Don’t!”  Starsky sounded angry.  “You want me to believe that?  Is that how you think of her - - how you thought of her then when it mattered?”

 

Hutch groaned.  “I don’t know.”  Pain bulleted through him.  “Oh, God, it hurts!”

 

Grant’s face went white at the anguish in that cry.  Gripping the syringe tightly, he thrust forward.  “Get out of my way, David.”

 

Starsky shot to his feet, miserable to be the stone-hearted barrier between an anxious parent and injured child, knowing he was doomed to the role.  For Hutch he would do whatever was necessary even if it went against his own gut-instincts.  One look at Grant and he understood the coolly reserved father bled emotionally for his son. “I can’t let you give him that injection, Dr. Hutchinson.”

 

Grant frowned.  “David, I don’t understand half of what Ken said to you or even why he said it.  But I do know he’s in pain and that pain is only going to get worse unless I medicate him. Kindly move out of the way!”  The last was said through tightly gritted teeth.

 

Starsky held his ground.  “I can’t do that, Doc.  You heard him  - - no morphine.  And since he ain’t got the strength to resist if you try to stick ‘im with that needle, I’m gonna have to do it for him.”

 

Frustrated, more than a little unnerved by Starsky’s outright denial, Grant looked toward the bed.  Starsky didn’t have to look to know Hutch was hurting and restless.  He could hear the scrape of blood-stiffened denim against cotton sheets, the sound of pained breathing, choked short every now and then by a teeth-clenched moan or barely-vocal whimper.

 

“Ken, let me help you,” Grant spoke directly to his son.

 

Hutch’s reply was a pained-filled gasp.  “No . . . mor . . phine.”

 

“Damn it!”  Prompted by his son’s obvious physical distress, Grant tried to skirt around Starsky.  The level-headed physician was gone, replaced by a man running out of patience. 

 

With good cause Starsky knew, but moved to intercept him regardless.  At 6’3”, Grant was a good deal taller, but his intimidating height didn’t stop Starsky from grasping his arm and wrenching him to an abrupt halt.  Part of playing guard dog was the ability to bully.   “You ain’t injectin’ him with that needle, Dr. Hutchinson.  Don’t make me take it from you.”

 

Grant balked.  “David, are you threatening me?”

 

Starsky leaned close, dropping his voice to the menacing tone he normally reserved for the streets.  “You take it anyway you want.  All I’m sayin’ is my partner’s made it plain he don’t want that shot.  Neither you or anybody else is gonna stick him with a needle as long as I’m standin’ here.”

 

Grant’s face darkened with anger.  “David, don’t be foolish.  It’s a simple dose of

morphine - - ”

 

“ - - it ain’t so simple to him.”

 

Fuming, Grant shook his head.  “This is preposterous!  Do you have any idea what you’re doing?  How you’re hurting him?”

 

Starsky had every idea, but kept it from showing in his face. “Maybe you could find something else in that supply of drugs you got,” he suggested calmly.  “Something without a needle or a syringe.  I think he’d swallow some painkillers for ya, Doc.  He’s just got a thing about, uh . . . needles and, um . . . morphine in particular.”

 

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”  Grant’s expression was flat.  His gaze tracked to the bed where Hutch lay, eyes tightly closed, lips bloodless and pain-clenched.  “I also know the only reason a man is that adamant about refusing morphine is addiction.  Are you trying to tell me my son - - ”

 

“ - - I’m tryin’ to tell you,” Starsky said with an effort at patience, “That your pigheaded son would rather punish himself than take a chance, and possibly end up less than A+ perfect.   Wonder where the hell that brilliant idea came from?”  Bitter sarcasm bled into his voice but he made no effort to stop it.  “I know morphine ain’t gonna hurt him.  You know it ain’t gonna hurt him.  But he’d rather suffer through the pain than risk becomin’ something he detests.  Now we could stand here and debate it some more, but the fact is - - father or no father, doctor or no doctor, you ain’t stickin’ that needle in him.  If you wanna help your kid, go back to that stash of meds you got and find somethin’ for him to swallow.”

 

Grant’s eyes narrowed to venom-dripping slits.  “Very well, David,” he said coldly.  “I see this is useless.  I just hope you understand what you’re subjecting him to.  Hours from now when the pain has gotten so far ahead of him that I can no longer alleviate it, I hope you’ll remember it was your decision for him to suffer so unnecessarily.”  Turning on his heel, Grant strode crisply from the room.

 

Starsky stood for a moment looking after him, rooted to the spot, too shaken to move.  His hands curled into fists, the guilt-roar of blood deafening his ears.  His stomach knotted like he’d been punched in the gut.  In a way he had.  I hope you’ll remember it was your decision for him to suffer . . .

 

Starsky blanched.  Your decision . . .

 

“God, Hutch, what’d I do?”  Turning back to the bed, he folded onto the edge of the mattress, impulsively reaching out to grasp his friend’s limp hand.  Hutch’s eyes were still closed, but he was restless, twitching fitfully, visible spasms contracting his mutilated thigh.  Right now he was managing the pain  - - barely - - but what if Grant was right? 

 

Worried, Starsky gnawed on his bottom lip.  What if the pain continued to escalate past the point of help from oral medication?  If Starsky felt twisted up inside now, how would he survive knowing he’d subjected Hutch to more torment?  

 

Grant was the physician.  He’d know better than Starsky what drugs would work and what wouldn’t.  Surely the low dose of morphine wouldn’t be addictive, even with Hutch’s background.  Maybe if he just leveled with the man . . . told him what had happened to Hutch . . . that way there’d be no question of the dosage being habit-forming. 

 

Except Hutch would never forgive him and his partner had already made his choice.  No morphine. 

 

Sighing, Starsky scraped a thumb over Hutch’s knuckles.  ”I really wish you’d quit bein’ so hard on yourself,” he whispered.  “It ain’t like the sky’s gonna come crashin’ down, the ground’s gonna go belly up, or folks’ll stop lovin’ ya if you mess up every now and then.  Think I didn’t know about Alice?  Think it mattered to me you made a dumb mistake?  Welcome to the human race, pal.  Now if you were only awake enough to hear this shit.”

 

“I hear you,” Hutch said softly without opening his eyes.  “And . . . I heard . . . what my Dad said to you.”  Hutch rolled onto his good side, wincing with the slight movement.  His hair was almost dry now, a disheveled snarl of white-gold and sun-tipped bronze, his eyes the pale blue of winter-washed skies.  “He was wrong, Starsk.”  Hutch’s hand shifted in his grip, wrapping around his.  “It’s my choice, my decision.  Not yours.”

 

Starsky shrugged trying to appear unfazed.  “He’s just blowin’ steam.  The old man’s worried about you.” 

 

Starsky was too.  Hutch’s pupils were too large, still dilated with the after-effects of traumatic shock.  All that black against a thin ring of sky blue was disturbing.  His friend looked out of whack, almost otherworldly, like an alien visitor in a sci-fi movie.  Concerned, Starsky gripped his neck, thumb sliding upward to position Hutch’s jaw so his partner was looking directly at him.  “You seein’ everything ok, Blondie?”

 

“Fine.”  Hutch grimaced, tensing beneath an unexpected wave of pain.  “You look as lopsided as ever.”

 

Starsky’s mouth curled but before he could say anything, Adele reappeared, followed within seconds by Grant.  The dark-haired woman moved to the foot of the bed, setting the quilts she was carrying on a nearby chair.  “Ken, how are you feeling?”  Hurrying to his side, she bent to smooth the pillows at his back, lingering longer to touch his brow and fondle a stray wisp of long hair.  “You look so pale,” she whispered, stroking a hand down his cheek.  “Did your father give you something for the pain?” 

 

Starsky wet his lips.  “I think we were just getting there,” he answered for his partner, casting a questioning glance at Grant.

 

Scowling, the physician walked past them into an adjoining bathroom.  A second later he returned holding a small disposable cup of water.  “Ken, I’ve got some Vicodin for you.”

 

“Vicodin?”  Adele looked at him like he’d lost his mind.  “Grant, surely you can give him something stronger than that?  For heaven’s sake, you ripped a metal rod from his leg!  I have friends who take Vicodin for muscle pulls.”

 

A drug of choice for the pampered no doubt, Starsky thought with a frown.  Vicodin had street value and like most narcotics could be highly habit-forming, but for Hutch it wouldn’t have the same traumatic impact of morphine or a needle.

 

“No.  Mom, it’s okay.”  Hutch tried to sit straighter in order to accept the water and pills from his father.

 

Lending a hand, Starsky adjusted the pillows at his back.  He could feel Grant’s steely eyes on him and knew the physician was still furious over his earlier actions.  He was gentler with his son however, giving Hutch’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze after he swallowed the pills.  Somehow in the doctor’s mind, Hutch’s refusal of the morphine had become Starsky’s fault.

 

Which was fine with him.  He’d gladly take all of Grant’s anger and frustration if it meant sparing Hutch more pain.  If venting at Starsky made the aloof physician more demonstrative with his injured son, Starsky would willingly strap a target on his back and declare open season. 

 

Feeling a little like an interloper among family, he drew back from the bed, watching as Adele retrieved a quilt, tucking it around Hutch for warmth.  Grant folded the blankets back to briefly inspect the bandage on Hutch’s thigh.  Satisfied, he returned them to their original position, patting Hutch lightly on the calf.  “I want you to try to sleep now, Son.  The pills will help.”  

 

“Dad?” 

 

Grant drew up short, halted by the hoarse hesitancy in Hutch’s voice.

 

“What’s . . . what’s going to happen to my leg?”

 

Across the room Starsky looked away.  What Hutch was really asking was if he’d ever walk again.  If the injury had maimed him for life, possibly ruined his career and robbed him of the athletic enjoyment he valued so highly. 

 

Don’t be a stone. Doc.  Time to drag out your best bedside manner.

 

Reluctantly Starsky’s eyes swung back to the three people gathered around the bed.  Adele stood near the headboard, one hand clutching the post, the other pressed to her stomach as if she might be physically sick.  Rooted to the spot, she watched Grant with a mixture of desperation and fear on her face.  By contrast Hutch looked oddly serene, his pupils still overly large, all jet-dark eyes, alabaster flesh and sun-gilded hair. 

 

Like a wounded angel.

 

Starsky’s stomach contorted.

 

Grant smiled, an almost too-fleeting twitch of his lips.  Warmth remained in his eyes long after the expression had vanished.  Bracing one hand against the headboard, he bent down, leaning over the bed.  Hutch tilted his head back, pupil-black eyes upturned to his father.

 

“I promise it will be all right,” Grant said reassuringly.  “You’ll likely have to do intensive physical therapy, Ken, but you’re not going to lose the use of your leg.  I know you’re tough, a fighter.  You’ll get through it, Son.”  Tentatively he cupped a hand around Hutch’s neck.  “Trust me.  I promise I’ll take care of you.”

 

Starsky felt his throat close up.  He knew exactly at what moment four became a crowd and quietly slipped out the door.

 

+++++ 

 

Starsky exited the house at a sprint, his mind on overload.  Outside he found Grant had left the keys in the Buick, dangling from the ignition.  Sliding into the car, he pointedly refused to acknowledge the streaks of red smeared across the back seat.   He hated leaving Hutch, but his friend needed time alone with his parents.  Determined to occupy his mind, Starsky drove in the direction of White Timber Creek.  Rolling green hills, majestic trees and broken slopes of rock created a natural tapestry wherever he looked, but nothing could clear his head of Grant’s cutting accusation: . . . it was your decision for him to suffer . . .

 

It didn’t matter he’d been following Hutch’s wishes.  His friend wasn’t in any position to think rationally.  The fact he was still terrified by something that had happened over three years ago was proof of that.  A simple injection could have alleviated his pain, but Hutch had fixated on a nightmare from his past, unwilling to let go.  Instead of trying to change his mind, Starsky had stood by his side and stupidly agreed with him.  Which basically amounts to puttin’ Hutch through more pain.   No wonder Grant was furious!

 

Shit.

 

Agitated, Starsky drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel.  Undoubtedly Hutch had felt a similar sense of hopeless frustration when they’d been trapped on King Island.  Starsky had been the one incapacitated then, a bullet in his side, Hutch forced to make the hard decisions.  He was starting to realize how heavy that burden could be.  They’d been in tight spots before, but this time there were no quick fixes, no easy solutions, and worst of all - - his partner was in pain.

 

Starsky grimaced.  It was one thing to be hurt himself, another to watch Hutch suffer.  He’d rather endure physical injury than the mental anguish of seeing his partner in pain. 

 

Reaching the creek, Starsky pulled the car off the side of the road and walked around the front of the vehicle.  White Timber ran high and muddy, immediately destroying any secretly held hopes for finding a way across the creek.  Sadly, there simply wasn’t any way to navigate the rain-swollen waters.  What remained of the antiquated bridge was buried beneath an angry current.  Any attempt to cross would be blatant suicide.

 

Dejected, Starsky slumped against the hood, oblivious to the light misting rain.  Maybe Grant had a boat or a canoe, anything that floated for that matter.  What kind of fool built a house that could be cut off from the rest of the world by a prolonged rainstorm anyway? 

 

A rich, arrogant one, Starsky thought grimly.  With the creek running dangerously high even a boat would be risky, but he was willing to take the chance.  He knew little about the outdoors, even less about boating - - that was Hutch’s territory - - but was willing to give it a shot for the sake of his friend. 

 

Quickly rounding the car, Starsky slid inside and headed back toward the house.

 

+++++

 

Hutch had fallen into a fitful doze by the time Starsky returned.  He stuck his head in the room long enough to determine his friend was sleeping.  Adele sat glued to his side in a chair drawn close to the bed.   Neither noticed him and he quietly withdrew, heading for Grant’s office.

 

He found Hutch’s father sitting behind his desk, elbows propped on the surface, head slumped in his hands.  Lost in his own misery, the physician never heard him enter.  For a man who normally projected poise and confidence, Starsky found his defeatist posture nerve-rattling.  A cold sliver of alarm snaked up his spine.  “Did ya lie to him?” he demanded, his voice sharper than he’d intended.  “About his leg?  About walkin’ again?”

 

Grant jerked upright, the confusion in his eyes quickly giving way to anger.  “No I didn’t lie to him.  He’s fit and he’s strong.  With time and therapy he’ll heal.”  His gaze narrowed, became glacial.  “No thanks to you.”

 

Starsky ignored the jibe and strolled closer to the desk.  “You got a boat, Doc?  I just came from the creek.  The bridge is a goner, but I thought I could - - ”

 

“Well you thought wrong,” Grant said crisply.  “I don’t have a boat.  Or a canoe.  Or even a damn raft for that matter.  The only thing I’ve got, David Starsky, is a syringe full of morphine, and now even that’s worthless.”

 

“Okay, I get it.”  Starsky’s reply was quiet.  He knew he should be angry, but it was hard being cross with a man whose foremost concern was the welfare of his son.  Expelling a breath, he slumped in a chair across from the desk.  “Look, Doc, I know you’re teed off at me, but I ain’t your enemy.  I love him too.”

 

Uncomfortable with such an outright declaration of affection, Grant looked away.  His gaze shied to the desk and he cleared his throat awkwardly, busily fumbling with a stack of papers.

 

Starsky experienced a profound sense of sadness.  Probably never even told him you love him, didja?  

 

What must it be like to have gone through life with such a distantly reserved father, never once hearing those three simple words:  I love you.  What was it about men, especially status-driven, social-climbing professionals that made vows of fondness so difficult to voice?  His stomach knotted as he thought of his friend lying in pain, never realizing his own worth to the man who had helped give him life.

 

Regaining his composure, Grant stacked the papers in front of him, folding his hands neatly on top.  “David.”  His voice was cool again, carefully cultured and poised.  “I want you to tell me why Ken was so adamant about refusing the morphine.  I simply can’t believe my son - -”  He paused, visibly steeling himself to continue. “ - - a police officer no less, is an addict.”

 

“Is that what you think?”  Starsky made no effort to hide the disgust he felt.  “Your son ain’t no addict, Dr. Hutchinson.  You think he’d willingly get mixed up with drugs?  And if he was, don’t you think he woulda been beggin’ for that shot instead of refusin’ it?  Maybe you’ve just seen too many ‘Jakes’ in the world.”

 

Rather than flinch from the hostility in his voice, Grant met his gaze head on.  “Then you tell me what happened back there.  You tell me why Ken would rather suffer than let me give him something to help the pain.”

 

Starsky looked away, trying to appear indifferent.  He shrugged.  “You’re gonna have to ask him that.”

 

“And I suppose in the meantime, no matter how bad the pain gets, you’ll make sure his wishes are upheld?  What are you going to do when he’s in agony, David?” 

 

Stricken by the thought, Starsky closed his eyes.

 

Grant blew out a breath.  “I don’t appreciate you coming between me and my son.  And I certainly don’t think you have his best interests at heart.  Perhaps when this is over, Ken should consider getting a new partner.”

 

Starsky felt like he’d been punched in the gut.  “Maybe.”  His voice was low, tightly controlled.   To the casual observer, he knew he looked and sounded unfeeling, but it was his way of coping.  Strike Hutch an emotional blow and it was written all over his face.  Do the same to Starsky and he turned to steel.  At least on the outside.  On the inside he died a slow death, ripped apart by the thought of his best friend working with someone else.  Hutch would never willingly do it, but if his father pushed hard enough  - -

 

Stiffly, Starsky rose to his feet.  “You do what you gotta do, Doc.  Truth is, I don’t give a flyin’ fuck what you think of me.  All I care about is Hutch.”  Planting his hands palm down on the desk, he leaned forward, confronting Grant across the top.  “But you remember this  - -  you go anywhere near him with a needle and I’ll take you down.  You got my word on that.”

 

Grant’s face went bone white.  Then red.  Shoving violently to his feet, he towered over Starsky, 6’3” of quivering indignant rage.  A single index finger snapped under Starsky’s nose, keenly reminiscent of another Hutchinson.  “Now you listen here, David - - ”  But before Grant could spit a single savage word in rebuttal, Adele’s frantic voice bounded down the hall. 

 

“Grant!  Grant, hurry!”

 

Both Starsky and Grant bolted toward the door, arriving in time to catch a breathless Adele in the hallway.  Her face had lost all color, bleached and bloodless like the flesh of a cadaver.  “Hurry!”  Wrenching Grant by the arm, she attempted to drag him from the room.  “It’s Ken.  Grant, he’s in such terrible pain.  Please .  . . you have to do something for him!”

 

Grant shot Starsky a loathsome glare as though he were personally responsible for Hutch’s condition before following his wife down the hall.  Cursing silently, Starsky darted after them.  He hovered in the doorway when they reached Hutch’s room, anxiously craning his neck to see past his friend’s parents.  Even from the distance he could tell Hutch was in agony.  The blond-haired man writhed sluggishly on the bed, his skin clammy and drawn, streaked with glistening beads of perspiration.  One hand spasmed in the blankets, knotting convulsively over bunched, sweat-soaked material.  Most of the quilts had been kicked aside, tangled around Hutch’s long legs or humped over the blood-stiffened bandages on his left thigh.  His bare chest heaved up and down, laboring under the force of rattling breaths.  Groaning loudly, he twisted his head to the wall, eyes clenched tightly against the pain.

 

“Ken, lie still.”  Grant pressed a hand to his forehead, abruptly clinical, tightly controlled.  Satisfied with the brief inspection, he refocused on Hutch’s mangled leg.  “You have to lie still,” he ordered stringently when Hutch continued to squirm against the sheets.  Starsky heard the doctor mumble something about the “damn Vicodin” not being strong enough. 

 

Grant made an attempt to readjust the blankets, shifting the pillow that supported Hutch’s thigh.  His efforts earned him another tortured moan from the man on the bed.  “Ken, listen to me.  I know it hurts.  I know your leg is cramping, but you need to keep it as still and immobile as you can.”

 

“Grant, don’t lecture him, help him!” Adele snapped at his back.  Starsky hated the hopeless expression on her face, a mixture of desperation and fear so powerful she looked physically ill.  Not for the first time he wondered how such a tiny petite woman and a towering man, both raven-haired and medium-skinned, could produce such a Nordic looking son.   Recessive genes often brought startling results.  Just like situations that were buried and forgotten for centuries or decades.

 

Or a freakin’ three years.  Damn it, Hutch, you’re hurtin’ yourself and you’re rippin’ your folks apart.

 

Grant shook his head.  “The Vicodin isn’t working, Adele. It’s the strongest oral medication I have.  Unfortunately, Ken’s refused a shot of morphine.”

 

“What?”  Adele looked like she’d just been handed something hideously repulsive.  “Grant!  Are you saying you’re just going to stand there and let him make that decision for you?”  She tugged on his arm, wheeling him around, a diminutive firecracker confronting an emotionless Goliath.  “For heaven’s sake, Grant, your son is in pain!  Do something!”

 

Starsky stepped quickly forward, recognizing the time to intervene.  “Let me talk to Hutch,” he suggested.  The last thing he needed was for husband and wife to be at each other’s throats.  His eyes tracked aside to Grant, fully aware the doctor had relegated him to a subterranean status lower than pond scum.  “Give me five minutes, Dr. Hutchinson . . . please.”  His voice wavered, brimming with more emotion than he’d intended to show.  Awkward, Starsky cleared his throat.  He tilted his head, jerking it in the direction of the door.  “Maybe you could take your wife . . . get that shot ready, just in case.  I ain’t promisin’, but I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Confused, Adele looked between the two men.  “Grant, what is he talking about?”

 

“I’ll explain later.  Come on. ” He started to tug her toward the door, but she resisted.

 

“Ken - -”

 

“If you want to help him, let David talk to him.”  Grant looped an arm around her shoulders and steered her from the room, shooting Starsky a withering glare as he brushed past.

 

Bet you used that one on Hutch when he was a kid, huh?  Probably did wonders for his self-confidence when he came home with an “A” instead of an “A+.”

 

He waited until he heard the door snick into place before approaching the bed.

 

“Hey,” he called softly, forcing a smile into his voice.  Afraid the slightest movement would only bring more misery for his friend, he eased onto the edge of the mattress gently.  Of its own volition his hand reached out, latching onto the inside of Hutch’s elbow.  A thin sheen of sweat clung to his friend’s face and chest, but Hutch’s skin felt alarmingly cold.

 

At his touch, Hutch rolled his head on the pillow, turning to look at him.  “Starsk . . .”  His voice was rasp, deeper than usual.  “You went away . . . for awhile.”

 

It wasn’t an accusation exactly but Starsky felt a sliver of guilt all the same.  “Just down to the creek.  I thought you could use some rest.”  His thumb tracked over taut flesh, drawing tiny goosebumps to the surface.  Concerned by the reaction, Starsky reached for the blankets, trying to tug them higher.

 

“Hot,” Hutch complained, pushing them aside with a lethargic grunt.

 

“You’re shiverin’.”

 

“Hot,” Hutch said again, but his teeth chattered.  Groaning, he wrapped his arms around his stomach and rolled onto his good side, facing Starsky.  “Don’t know what I am.   Miserable,” he decided, the words dwindling in a thready mumble.  His brow drew down, crimping in a grimace of pain.  “God, Starsk, my leg - - ”  He made a feeble attempt to grasp the bandages, but Starsky pushed his hands away.     

 

“You gotta leave it alone, babe.”

 

“Keeps crampin.”  Hutch turned his face into the pillow, sighing out a shuddering breath.  His whole body shook then tensed as the pain spiked hotter.  “ ‘m so tired, Starsk.”

 

Starsky rubbed his arm, letting his hand track upward to a clammy shoulder.  “Pain won’t let you sleep, huh?”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “Damn thing hurts like hell.”  He sucked down a breath, shifting again, restless and clearly miserable.

 

Starsky knew he couldn’t find a position of comfort and wasn’t likely to as long as the pain escalated.  Hutch had always been exceptionally good at making him feel better when he was hurt or sick.  He hated that he couldn’t do the same for his friend.  A few months ago he’d curled up against Hutch’s legs on King Island, oblivious to all but the pain in his side and the comforting presence of his partner. 

 

“Babe, I can’t help you, if you don’t meet me half way.”  Starsky gripped his chin, forcing his head around until their eyes met.  “You gotta let your father give you that shot of morphine.”

 

Hutch blanched.  “No!”  He jerked away, recoiling on the bed.  The visible retreat felt like a physical blow to Starsky.

 

“Listen to me, pal.  The people who did that to you are dead or in jail.  They can’t hurt you.  The drug can’t hurt you.  Morphine ain’t heroin.”

 

“Close enough.”   Shivering, Hutch wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.  Standing, Starsky grasped the blankets, succeeding in pulling them higher this time.  He tried not to let his hurt show when Hutch flinched from his touch. 

 

“You said you wouldn’t let him.”  Hutch’s voice was a whisper, but his eyes were direct, brimming with betrayal.  Clutching the blankets he tugged them beneath his chin, creating a physical barrier between himself and Starsky.

 

“And I won’t if that’s what you want.”  Wounded, Starsky sat closer to the head of the mattress.  “But I happen to agree with him.”  It took all of his effort not to touch . . . to reach out and brush long strands of pillow-mussed hair from Hutch’s brow, or tenderly stroke a cold cheek glistening with the sickly sheen of illness.  “Hutch, I want you to listen to me . . . it’s been three years since Forest hooked you on heroin - - ”  He saw Hutch wince at the ugly memory. “Three years since you kicked it.  I know you’re scared, but it’s time to move past it, buddy.  You gotta quit tormentin’ yourself with this shit.  Get rid of it, dump it, whatever you gotta do.”

           

“You sound like Alice.”  Hutch sucked down a ragged breath, shifting uneasily.  The restless movement brought him a little closer to Starsky. 

 

The dark-haired detective couldn’t tell if the move was deliberate or instinctive but was thankful all the same.  He braved resting a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, eternally grateful when his friend didn’t flinch away. 

 

“Alice said   . . . I hang onto things too long.”  A flicker of pain crossed Hutch’s face but Starsky couldn’t tell if it was from his wound or the troubling memory of a night spent with a woman he should have avoided.  “Said I need to let go . . . dump things in the Boneyard.”

 

“The what?”

 

“Some make-believe cemetery where you dump things you don’t want to haunt you.”

 

Starsky rubbed his shoulder.  “Smart woman.  You’re fond of her, ain’t cha?”

 

Hutch avoided answering.  “I shouldn’t have slept with her.”

 

“Why did you?”  The question was out before he could stop it.   Now wasn’t the time to dredge up matters of conscience.  Hutch was in pain, emotionally vulnerable, physically weak.  It was like looming over a man dangling from the side of a cliff and asking if he knew the value of rope.  “Dumb question.”  Now it was Starsky who inched closer, the gentle caress of his hand changing to a solid grip.  “Forget I asked.”

 

“No.”  Hutch let his head drop from the pillow, sighing as it came to rest against Starsky’s thigh.  “I . . . don’t know why,” he tried to explain. “We were talking about being other people, and suddenly we were . . .other people.”  He moaned slightly, burrowing closer to his friend, his leg cramping with a sudden seizure.  Long fingers dug into Starsky’s knee. 

 

“Easy, babe.”  Starsky looped an arm around his shoulders, encouraging Hutch to rest against him.  Gently, he rubbed soothing circles over his friend’s back, trying to ease rigid flesh beneath the light fabric of summer blankets.

 

But Hutch was still focused on Alice.  “She was Annie . . . Sinclair.  Did you know that’s her real name?  And I was Ken instead of Hutch.  Different people.  Kinda like Halloween when you get to pretend for one night . . . or-or those old masquerade parties.”  Hutch gasped, slithered nearer.  “I screwed up, Starsk.  God, I-I screwed up.  I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen . . . t-turn my feelings off.” 

 

Starsky stroked his neck.  He knew he should be discussing morphine, but at the moment this seemed more important to Hutch.  “Do you have feelings for her?”

 

“Not like that.”  Hutch groaned in pain, turning his face against Starsky’s thigh.  “If she weren’t what she was . . . maybe.  I just . . . just don’t want her getting hurt.  And . . . I-I don’t want her thinking less of me.”

 

Anyone else might have labeled it a selfish thought, but Starsky recognized it for what it was:  Hutch beating himself up because he thought he’d failed living up to somebody’s lofty standards.  Just like he frequently thought he failed his father . . . his partner . . . his job.  To overly-sensitive and perfection-driven Kenneth Richard Hutchinson, he frequently failed the world in general. 

 

Starsky scrunched down slightly, holding Hutch against his chest.  “Listen to me, babe.  Alice ain’t never gonna change her opinion of you.  If anything, maybe you’re a little more human in her eyes.  Less untouchable Nordic God and more chivalrous White Knight.”  He chuckled softly, threading his hand into Hutch’s long hair.  “Any woman would preen herself silly to learn your feelin’s aren’t on a one night switch.”

 

“You said,” Hutch reminded him of his comment the morning Starsky had arrived to take Alice home. “That I was a dumb ass,”

 

“No.  I said you were an ass,” Starsky clarified.  “Plain and simple ‘ass.’  You musta ad-libbed the dumb part.”

 

“Thanks for the clarification.” Hutch grimaced as pain knifed through him.  “Wouldn’t want to go to my grave confused about that.”

 

Starsky rubbed his shoulder, hoping to impart a measure of comfort.  “You ain’t goin’ anywhere, Blintz.  And I didn’t mean you were an ass for sleepin’ with her.  You’re an ass for not knowin’ when to let go.”  He paused, waiting a breath before dropping the kicker:  “Like with this heroin thing.”

 

Hutch groaned.  “Starsky don’t.”  He turned his face against his friend’s chest.  “I don’t need morphine.  I’m better.  I’m talking calmly, right?”

 

“Yeah-huh.  Then how about explainin’ that death-grip you’ve had on my knee for the last five minutes?  Guess that’s just your way of keepin’ in touch.  And don’t think I can’t feel ya shiverin’  . . .”  Starsky tugged the blankets closer around Hutch‘s shoulders.  “ . . . or your leg twitchin’ and your whole body tensin’ up like you’re gonna crawl through your skin.   Babe, do you really think I’d stand by and let anyone hurt you . . do anything that might cause ya harm?”

 

“No,” Hutch moaned against his chest, clearly miserable.

 

“Then you think I’d let your father give you an injection if I thought it would get you hung up again?”

 

Hutch’s hand left his knee and knotted in his shirt.  “No.”  He kept his face pressed to Starsky’s chest, shuddering convulsively now.  His breathing grew harsh and ragged, coming faster as fear washed over him.  “Starsk, I-I don’t know if I can.”

                                                                                               

“Sure you can.”  Starsky stroked his back, comforted by the warm press of Hutch’s weight against his chest. Wanting to give that same calming sense of security to his stricken friend, he lowered his head, speaking in hushed tones near Hutch’s ear.  “Do you trust me, Hutch?”

 

With my life. 

 

This time the choked reply wasn’t verbal, but Starsky heard it all the same.  “Then trust me to make this decision for you. I know you’re scared, but I promise your dad ain’t gonna give ya enough morphine to hook ya.”

 

Hutch fidgeted, not convinced.  “What if he does?”

 

“He won’t.  I’ll make sure he doesn’t.”  Starsky wet his lips, chancing the worst.  “Let me tell him what happened to you.”

 

“No!”  Hutch’s outburst was instantaneous and violent.  He started to pull away but the opening scrape of the bedroom door stopped him short.

 

“He doesn’t have to tell me,” Grant announced evenly. 

 

All color drained from Hutch’s face.  He looked crushed, betrayed.  “How long have you been out there?  Listening?”

 

“Long enough.”

 

“And Mom?”

 

“Don’t worry.  She’s in the kitchen, making you something to eat.”

 

Hutch’s frantic gaze swung back to Starsky.  “Did you plan this?”

 

“No!”  Affronted, Starsky glared at Grant.  “What the hell are ya doin’?  I told you I’d talk to him.”

 

“Then you did plan it,” Hutch accused.  Agitated, he tried to get out of bed, to pull away.  To put as much distance as possible between himself and his partner . . . his father . . . and - -

 

Starsky saw his eyes widen in shock.  Disturbed he swung around, looking over his shoulder to see what had so upset his friend.  It took only a second for the dark-haired man to fixate on the needle, its tip glinting coldly in a weak shaft of light. 

 

“Shit!”  Furious, Starsky shot to his feet, hands balling into tight fists as he turned to confront Grant.  “This is not what we discussed.  I said I’d talk to him - -  talk - - that’s all! You ain’t stickin’ him with that, you got that, genius?”

 

Grant ignored the insult, looking past him toward the bed.  “Ken, listen to me.  I don’t know what happened to you.  I don’t need to know right now.  But I can tell you, the amount of morphine in this syringe is not addictive.”  He sobered, straightening his shoulders, clearly forcing the next few words.  “Even for someone who was hooked on heroin.”

 

“God.”  Mortified, Hutch dragged both hands over his face.  If he was hurting before, panic had pushed him over the edge.  Even from a distance Starsky could see his body convulse with tremors.  Trickles of cold sweat dripped from his brow, saturating the long hair curling against his cheeks. 

 

“This . . . this isn’t happening.”  Recklessly, Hutch flung the covers aside and tried to swing his legs off the bed.  The torn muscles in his mutilated thigh contracted with excruciating suddenness, wrenching a pain-wracked cry from his lips.  He buckled immediately, curling into a tight ball against the mattress. 

 

“Damn!”  Starsky’s oath of protest tangled with Grant’s distraught shout.  He took two quick strides, reaching his friend before the doctor did.  “Hutch.”  Starsky tugged him toward the head of the bed, holding him tightly as violent convulsions pummeled his body.

 

Resistant at first, his friend wilted against him, clinging in mute desperation.  His fingers grasped for Starsky’s shirt, twisting in the light weave like it was a lifeline.  Breathless and shivering, Hutch buried his face against Starsky’s neck.  “You . . . lied . . . to me.”

 

“Babe, I would never lie to you.”  Starsky’s voice cracked.  He sucked down an uneven breath, moisture rising swiftly in his eyes.  Every nerve in his body rebelled, scraped raw by the mere thought Hutch believed he would deliberately deceive him.  And deceive him when he was hurting so badly!  Clinging tightly to his friend, he lowered his head until he felt a whispering brush of satin-fine hair against his brow.  “Hutch, babe . . . all I did was try to make you understand - -”

 

“ - - he didn’t know I was listening, Ken.”  Grant announced, cutting him off.  Starsky felt the bed give and lifted his head marginally to find Grant sitting on the edge of the mattress.  If he moved his knees slightly he would have butted up against the physician, Grant was sitting so close.

 

For his part, Hutch remained oblivious to his father’s presence.  As upset as he was with Starsky, the perceived betrayal didn’t stop him from burrowing closer.  Starsky guessed it was like choosing the lesser of two evils.

 

“Starsk, please.  No morphine.”

 

Starsky scrunched his eyes closed, silencing the bitter sting.  As hurt as Hutch was, his initial reaction was to promise his friend whatever he had to in order to make him feel better.  Anything to put them on the same side again and right the ugly wrong.  But helping Hutch now, would only hurt him later.  As much as Starsky didn’t want to be the bad guy, he knew he couldn’t back down.

 

“Buddy, do you remember what I said?”  He swallowed hard, wondering if the words even had value anymore:  “Do you trust me?”  How could he possibly ask such a ridiculous thing after Hutch thought he’d set him up? 

 

But Hutch shocked him by nodding against his chest without hesitation.

 

Warmth flowed through Starsky, piercing and bittersweet.  He exchanged a sharp glance with Grant, warning him still.  How far did trust go?  How far could he push the bonds testing the limits of heedless devotion?  It was one matter for Hutch to be frightened.  Another for him to step onto a limb, placing blind faith in Starsky to keep him from falling.

 

Starsky held his breath.  “Then give me your arm.” 

 

Hutch didn’t move and for an agonizing minute Starsky thought he’d failed . . .that the trust between them had been damaged after all.  Then slowly, breathing a barely audible moan ribbed with fear, Hutch shifted and unfurled his arm. 

 

Starsky exchanged a glance with Grant over his friend’s bowed head.  Go ahead, he mouthed silently.  He locked one arm around Hutch, holding him close, rubbing his shoulder encouragingly.  His partner kept his face turned against Starsky’s neck, refusing to look. 

 

Grant tied a small piece of rubber tubing around his arm, the mere touch making Hutch jerk violently.

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  Starsky rubbed his arm, instinctively knowing he remembered Forest, the horror of being tied to a chair and forcibly injected.  “That was a long time ago, babe.  This is gonna make you feel better. I promise . . . not like that other stuff.”

 

Hutch flinched at the cool swipe of rubbing alcohol.  “Dad?”

 

Startled that Hutch was talking to him when he seemed so intent on Starsky, Grant raised his head, holding the needle poised.  “What is it, Ken?”

 

Hutch swallowed, turning his head on Starsky’s shoulder so he could face his father directly.  “Don’t tell Mom . . . about the heroin.”

 

Starsky felt his stomach contort.  Hutch’s face was streaked with tears, his eyes damp and glistening.

 

Hastily, Grant lowered his head, clearly uncomfortable.  “No, I won’t.”  The needle slipped into Hutch’s arm.

 

He tensed, biting back a moan that had more to do with fear than pain.  A second later the tip was withdrawn and a cotton ball was wedged in the crook of his arm.  Grant applied a stick-on bandage, then finished swiftly, gathering up his supplies. 

 

“I’ll be back in a little while,” he said gruffly, never raising his eyes, never looking at his son.  In a matter of moments he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

 

“He thinks I’m trash.”  Miserable, Hutch closed his eyes.  “You heard what he said at the guesthouse  . . . about users.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot.” Starsky’s voice came harsher than he’d intended.  It was hard to swallow the festering anger he’d built toward Grant.  He couldn’t understand how a man could see his son hurting so badly, moved to tears, and not offer some token of comfort in response.  Not one freakin’ word!  Couldn’t even look at ‘im!  Yeah, Doc, you definitely get my vote for Cold-hearted Bastard of the Year.

 

For his friend’s sake, Starsky tried to shove his bitterness aside.  Hutch was frequently too hard on himself on a normal day.  Throw in a traumatic injury, a difficult father and a nightmarish memory of addiction, and he was on a fast track hurtling toward disaster.  Hutch didn’t cave easily.  The very fact he’d shed a few tears in front of his indifferent father was just one more reason to tear himself apart. 

 

Mellowing, Starsky raised a hand, smoothing clinging tracks of moisture from his friend’s damp face.  Despite his own feelings for Grant, he tried to soften the blow.  “Your dad’s just worried about ya, dummy.”

 

Hutch laughed bitterly, tipping his head to gaze upward.  “An ex-hype?  A cop who’s attracted to a hooker?”  His voice thinned to a whisper.  “Some upstanding son I turned out to be.  I screw up everything I touch, Starsk, just like I did with Alice.”  His breath caught in his throat, an unexpected stab of pain making him wince.  “My dad’s just had longer to realize it than you have.”  Closing his eyes, he turned his head aside.  “ ‘m tired,” he mumbled, effectively ending the conversation.

 

Starsky frowned, troubled by the despondent quiver in his voice. There was little he could do about it, much as he might want to - - no quick fix to miraculously change Hutch’s mind.  That had to come from Grant, an instinctive heartfelt magic kindled between father and son.  The problem was Hutch was a little too eager to please where Grant was concerned, bitterly certain he always failed.  By contrast the physician remained coolly detached, positive any overtures of affection he attempted would be bluntly rejected.  Idiots, both of them.  One intimidated the other without even trying, never realizing the endless loop of hurt and ever widening distance they created. 

 

Starsky sighed.  “Okay, babe.” Tenderly he rubbed his friend’s arm.  “You go to sleep.  Things’ll look better later, I promise.”

 

Even if I gotta wring Doc Sourface’s neck to make it happen.

 

+++++

 

Starsky stayed with Hutch until his friend drifted into a medicated daze.  By the time Adele arrived in the room with a bowl of chicken soup and a tall glass of water, Hutch had fallen asleep.  Starsky left his friend to Adele’s attentive care and wandered into the hall.  His earlier anger had cooled, but his anxiety over Hutch’s condition continued to peak.  Agitated, he walked to the living room, pausing to check the phone.

 

Still dead.

 

Dropping the receiver into its cradle, he slumped into the nearest chair, leaning forward to brace his head in his hands.  In mockery of everything else that had taken place, it started raining again. Steady droplets pattered against the windowpanes, seemingly too benevolent to transform White Timber into a raging maelstrom of water.

 

Hutch in pain.  No phone and more friggin’ rain.  Can it get any worse?

 

“David,” a firm voice interrupted his thoughts.

 

Had to ask.

 

Starsky raised his head, blinking tiredly at the man who stood framed in the doorway.  “Yeah, Doc?”  His voice sounded as drained as he felt.  Suddenly all his anger was gone, replaced by bone-weary fatigue.  He rubbed grit from his eyes, slouching lower in the chair.  Hooking his right ankle over his left knee, he laced his hands over his stomach.  “What round is this?  I kinda lost track.”

 

Grant frowned at the flippant remark.  “I didn’t come to argue.  In fact, I . . . ”  Abruptly hesitant, he walked into the room, pausing to stare out the rain-streaked window.  Broken trails of water snaked over the glass, zig-zagging in a soggy stop-and-go race to the bottom.  Restless, Grant stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets, jiggling loose change.

 

And a lighter, Starsky remembered.  He always carries that fancy cigar lighter  - - the one he used to help save my butt on King Island.

 

Humbled by the memory, Starsky sobered.  Grant could be a stiff, arrogant SOB, his nose in the air, emotions locked in a steel-plated cauldron, but he’d also saved Starsky’s life.  And no matter how much father and son danced around the issue he loved Hutch, even if he was incapable of showing it. 

 

“I’m just curious,” Starsky mused aloud, the thought out before he could stop it.  “If you ever told him how you feel?  He’s got a lot of affection in him, ya know.  Too much compassion and tenderness . . . which is why he gets hurt a lot, way too easy.  Your kid’s got a real gentle spirit, Doc.”

 

Glumly, Grant shook his head.  “Not with me he doesn’t.”    

 

“Maybe ‘cause he’s always been afraid of disappointin’ you.  Still is.  Like this thing with the heroin.”

 

Grant turned to face him, a muscle jumping to life in his jaw.  The bitter melancholy that marked his features moments before was replaced by barely disguised intensity.  Starsky had the sudden feeling the sole reason Grant had sought him out was to discuss Hutch’s addiction.  Now that it was out in the open, he couldn’t let Grant think the worst.  Hutch might want to avoid discussing it, but his father had a right to know.  A right to know his son hadn’t been swallowed whole by the seedier vices of working as a street cop . . . to know the highly moralistic child he’d raised had become a man who clung to the same virtues, even if he stumbled over them occasionally. 

 

He shifted, sitting forward again, one heel taping restlessly against the floor. “The entire thing was against his will, Dr. Hutchinson.”  Starsky scowled, opening his mind to the heinous memories of three years ago.  “A couple of goons grabbed him and worked him over real good.  Their boss - - some guy named Forest  - -  was after a girl Hutch was datin’.  They wanted to know where he had her hid, but he wouldn’t spill his guts.  So when they couldn’t beat it outta him, they tied him up and shot him full of horse to make him crack.”

 

Never taking his eyes off Starsky, Grant eased into a chair directly across from him.  “That’s . . . that’s . . .”  He couldn’t seem to find his voice.  “ . . . reprehensible,” he breathed at last.  One arm stayed locked in the cumbersome position of lowering himself to the chair.  Shock bleached the color from his face.  “I-I . . . how could Ken n-not have told us?”

 

“You think he wanted to worry you?  Worry his mom?  Besides . . .”  Starsky squirmed, rumpling a hand through his black curls.  “He’s ashamed of the whole thing.  Rips him up inside every time he thinks about it.  Back at the guesthouse when you were talkin’ about that kid Jake, and said anyone who used drugs for pleasure should be forced to suffer through a hellish withdrawal - - ”

 

Grant groaned.

 

“ - - I think he kinda took that to heart.  See, there wasn’t any medical help available.  He would have lost his badge if anyone found out about it, so I locked myself in a room with him above Huggy’s bar - - remember Huggy? - -  and he just had to . . .”  Starsky shrugged, hating the memories. “  . . . tough it out.  It took about forty-eight hours just to get him to the point of knowin’ which way was up and makin’ sure he wasn’t gonna crawl outta his skin.  For a while there it was touch and go.”

 

“I know all about heroin withdrawal, David,” Grant said sharply.  Clenching his teeth, he shoved to his feet and started to pace, his face twisted in a tight mask of frustration and rage.  “I’m a doctor, remember?  I can give you a clinical blow-by-blow description of the symptoms:  excessive nervousness, anxiety, acute muscle aches and cramps, severe vomiting and diarrhea, extreme hot and cold flashes, horrible pain in the back, abdomen and legs - - oh dear God!”  Stricken, he dragged a hand over his face, breathing heavily.  “What kind of sick bastard could do such a thing to my son?”

 

“Maybe what you oughta ask yourself is how your son kicked it.”  Starsky stood, confronting him face-to-face, forcing him to stop his aimless pacing.  “That ain’t somethin’ just anyone could do.  Hutch went through hell, and he’s terrified of havin’ to go through it again.  That was three years ago.  Doesn’t matter though.  He sees a needle and it’s like it was yesterday.  Throw in morphine and something inside him just freaks, you hear what I’m sayin’?  The last thing he needs is a critical and distant father.”

 

Grant sighed, the fight draining out of him.  He paused by an oversized navy couch, its plump cushions festooned with antique gold and ivory swirls. Gripping the back, he confronted Starsky across the top.  “What do you want me to do, David?”

 

“I want you to go back into that room,” Starsky pointed down the hallway.  “And act like a father.  I know you got it in ya, Doc.  Every now and then you let a glimmer of it out, but a glimmer ain’t gonna cut it this time.  Your kid’s hurtin’, and I don’t mean just physically.  Now that you know about the heroin . . . and probably guessed about a few other things,” Starsky added, thinking briefly of Alice.  “You need to let him know you still care.”  He knew Grant had overheard them talking about Alice and her profession.  Addiction and hookers.  His blond friend certainly didn’t do anything the easy way. 

 

Refocusing on the physician, Starsky blew out a breath.  “Wanna hear something crazy?  Hutch is convinced you think he’s ‘trash’. His word, not mine.  Doesn’t matter though.  No matter how you look at it, it’s a pretty sad state of affairs for two men with the same genes.”

 

Chastised, Grant nodded.  He was silent a long time, as still as he was restless moments before.  “Tell me one thing.”

 

Starsky tilted his head.  “What’s that?”

 

“When he was going through all that stuff . . . the withdrawal . . . were you with him the whole time?”

 

Starsky sobered.  Was I with him?  The memories came swiftly, brutal and emotionally charged:  Hutch, curled into a sweat-drenched ball of quivering flesh, begging for a fix, the wild desperation in his eyes sickeningly close to drug-fueled insanity . . . Hutch on his hands and knees, gagging repeatedly until there was nothing left in his stomach but the punishing force of dry convulsions.  The sour stench of a closed room ripe with perspiration and vomit. . . .the feel  of a cold face soaked with tears and mucous, pressed against his chest . . .

 

“Yeah, I was with him,” he said softly. 

 

“And bled with him too no doubt,” Grant mumbled pensively.  Hesitantly he met Starsky’s eyes.  “I was wrong in what I said earlier . . . about you not having Ken’s best interests at heart.  I don’t think he’ll ever find anyone who cares about him as much as you do, David.  I’m eternally grateful you’re his partner and best friend.  I was wrong to treat you so shabbily and I’m sorry.  Anger is an easier emotion to display than . . .”  He trailed off awkwardly and shrugged.  “ . . . affection.  I suppose the longer I snapped at you, the less time I had to fuss over Ken.  Classic avoidance, you might say.”  He held out his hand.  “I’ll understand if you don’t want to accept it.”    

 

Starsky looked from the hand to Grant’s face.  The physician’s eyes were candid and direct, the same pale blue as his flaxen-haired son’s.  He wasn’t exactly warmth and affection personified, but at least he was trying.  “Thing is . . .”  Starsky smiled crookedly and clasped his hand.  " . . . if I  didn’t make nice with you, Blondie would kick my butt.  Go on, Dr. Hutchinson, be a dad for a change.”

 

The older man’s answering smile was slight.  “Call me Grant, David.”

 

Promoted to the First Kingdom.  “Grant it is.”  Starsky let his hand drop free, watching as the physician headed toward the door.  Who knew the old goat had a reservoir of humanity buried beneath all that prim and proper superiority?  “Want a word of advice?”  he called.

 

Pausing on the threshold, Grant turned to look over his shoulder.  He lifted one brow in acknowledgment.

 

“Hutch is hurtin’ right now, and when he’s hurtin’ that bad he gets a little snarly.  His hackles go up, he gets tight-lipped and makes like nothin’ is wrong.   Thing is, he’s dyin’ on the inside, just won’t admit it.  Some people can take piles and piles of emotional abuse.  Your kid?  He’s a rock when it comes to the physical stuff, but mush when his feelings get trampled on.  Point is, you ain’t gonna get through to him bein’ all proper and aloof.  Drop the doctor routine and start actin’ like his dad.  He doesn’t need an M.D. right now, he needs a father.”

        

“Point taken, David.  And very well I might say.”  Grant gave a sober nod, a rueful smile flitting over his lips.  “It never ceases to amaze me how intricately you know my son.  I’ll do what I can . . .”

 

Starsky heard the unspoken thought in his head as he left the room:   . . . but Ken has to meet me halfway. 

 

Exhaling, Starsky flopped backward over the arm of the couch landing on the paisley cushions with a grunt.  Stretching one arm above his head, he stared at the ceiling, legs hooked over the arm, dangling loosely above the floor.  Rain drummed softly against the windows, strangely melodic in the still room.  His eyelids sagged, coaxed by the silvery pitter-patter and the unraveling tension of trying to hold things together for him and his partner.  Annoyed by the slowly creeping fatigue, he huffed out a breath. 

 

Okay Hutch, the ball’s in your court.  Tell the old man like it is, and for once in your life don’t shut down.  It’s time to ditch the emotional recluse and own up to all the garbage between you two.

 

With any luck, Hutch’s inbred Viking stubbornness would roll over in favor of a truce.  Two men, one bloodline, one family.  And a whole lot of morphine. 

 

Starsky scowled.

 

Good or bad, father and son were one step away from a long overdue meeting of the minds.   When it was over, hopefully both would emerge unscathed.

 

+++++

 

Grant paused outside the bedroom, his hand resting on the doorknob.  It amazed him to realize he could perform highly intricate surgeries without breaking a sweat, but the mere thought of holding a heartfelt conversation with his son left him trembling in dread.   It wasn’t that he didn’t love Ken, simply that he didn’t know how to express it. 

 

Their relationship had been simpler when Ken was growing up.  He’d been reserved, exceedingly polite, suitably distant, the way a proper child should be.  Oh, he was affectionate with his mother, but that was where the openness stopped, and that suited Grant just fine.  Even through high school and college, Ken had held his emotions carefully in check.  But then he’d left for California after a short stint in medical school.  He’d become a police officer, adopted a different lifestyle, and hooked up with a high strung, bluntly-to-the-point partner.   In the beginning Grant had considered David Starsky a shred above crude.  

 

At first the changes he’d noticed in Ken were slight:  a measure of impatience for the protocols his son had embraced so stringently before . . . a disregard for elevated status and wealth . . . a more relaxed mode of dress, sometimes distressingly casual to Grant’s way of thinking.  Then the changes became more noticeable and Ken actually stopped visiting Duluth.  The impatience became frustration, the disregard separation by choice, the casualness a wanton embracing of a near-Bohemian lifestyle.  It was hard equating the seasoned street cop with the high school Valedictorian and college athlete Ken had once been. 

 

And then Grant met David Starsky - - really met him - - not like that brief stint after Ken’s Academy graduation.  King Island and Starsky’s injury had opened Grant’s eyes to another side of his son.  The man he’d always considered properly aloof was suddenly a different person.  One who engaged in abject displays of affection, completely unabashed to touch, soothe and comfort his friend.

 

Grant gave a soft grunt.  What kind of a man called another man “babe?” And yet they both did it so freely, thoroughly at ease with the unusual intimacy, thinking nothing of stroking an arm, rubbing a shoulder, or  - - Grant swallowed with difficulty - - curling up against a lap.  He’d seen all that and more on King Island, was witnessing it again in his own home.  Starsky and his son had an easy relationship, comfortable and bantering most of the time.  Yet let one of them hurt, emotionally or physically, and it was like they shut out the rest of the world, relying solely on each other for comfort and strength.

 

It had been a staggering eye-opener to realize his son had such a fierce capacity for affection . . . that he craved it as much as he gave it.  And yet Grant couldn’t quite bring himself to touch, to coddle.  He’d never done it with Ken as a child, it seemed awkward and silly to start now.  His son was a grown man, a police Sergeant, annoyingly hardheaded when he wanted to be, icily intimidating if he chose.  The man who’d wept from fear and misery of a haunting drug addiction hardly seemed like the same man who’d taunted a deranged killer on King Island.   And yet . . .

 

Grant’s stomach knotted.  He couldn’t imagine the pain and horror his son must have endured at Forest’s hands.  The mere thought sickened him, left him trembling with revulsion and rage.  “When they couldn’t beat it outta him . . .” Starsky had said.  It would be just like Ken to be unflinching if he was protecting someone he cared about - - a girl in this case.  So Forest’s men had viciously beaten him, then injected him when he remained tight-lipped through the abuse, forcing him into the heinous realm of drug-addicted nightmares.  He must have felt tortured, alone, impossibly far from anyone who cared about him.

 

Damn it!

 

Grant’s hands rolled into fists at his sides.  He knew Ken’s withdrawal would have been excruciating . . . “hellish” by his own snotty terms.  He’d been so outspokenly righteous when he’d spouted off that trite sermon in the guesthouse, never knowing his own son had suffered a traumatic ordeal.  The memory of his short, haughty speech made him cringe.

 

Ken had survived heroin withdrawal without proper medical help and facilities.  He’d lasted through gut-busting vomiting and convulsions, brutal muscle cramps, mortifying diarrhea, hot and cold flashes so extreme he must have thought he was dying.  And he’d done it all with nothing more than the help of a staunchly loyal friend and his own grim determination.  

 

And where the hell was I when he was suffering? Probably condemning his career choice over filet mignon and a scotch and soda at my country club!

 

Bowing his head in shame, Grant pressed two squat fingers against the bridge of his nose.  He’d since come around to accepting Ken’s profession, but he’d never really moved past being an overly correct and unapproachable father.  If I’d been more demonstrative with my affection maybe he would have told me what he went through.  Maybe I could have been there for him like Starsky was. 

 

Straightening, Grant sucked down a breath of resolve.  He couldn’t change the past, but with effort he still had time to fix the future.  Pushing open the door, he stepped purposefully into the bedroom.

 

Immediately he noted Adele sitting by the bedside, a book forgotten on her lap, her eyes on Ken.  His son looked comfortable now, his expression almost peaceful.  Adele had tugged the blankets halfway up his chest.  Lying on his back, one hand resting on his stomach, the other hanging limply over the edge of the bed, Ken appeared to be asleep. Long hair feathered back from his brow, splayed against the ivory pillowcase in soft waves of ash and gold. 

 

All that blond hair, fair as winter sun.  Grant could still recall some of the cruder comments made by a handful of snide colleagues when Ken was young: 

 

“ . . . blond as a sun-bleached billy goat.  Sure that kid’s yours, Grant? Maybe he got switched at the hospital . . .”

 

“. . .  I wouldn’t worry.  You can always throw some dye on his hair to make him look like the rest of the family . . .”

 

“ . . .tell people he’s adopted.  You know what they say about blonds anyway.  He’ll probably turn out to be the dumb one in the lot . . .”     

 

Grant had actually punched that particular idiot in the nose, one of the few times he’d lost control of his temper.  Ken had been six years old, overly impressionable and easily hurt.  He’d overheard the sarcastic remark and latched onto it, refusing to let go.   Surprisingly it wasn’t the “dumb” part that bothered him, but rather an overwhelming fear of being adopted. It was only when Grant and Adele dug out old photos of Grant’s father as a child, showing Ken the striking resemblance he bore to his grandfather, that he’d finally decided he was a Hutchinson.  Looking back on it, Grant could see Starsky was right.  Ken did bruise easily when it came to emotional issues.

 

Closing the door softly, he stepped into the room.

 

+++++

 

Hutch was vaguely aware of movement and conversation.  His mother’s voice came from a great distance, drifting through the muddled haze of pain medication: “He’s been dozing, drifting in and out of sleep. The pain doesn’t seem as bad.  I think the morphine is helping.”

 

Morphine.

 

His stomach tightened up, protesting with a weak flicker of nausea. It dragged him close to the surface of consciousness, made him aware of the gnawing ache in his leg - - not as bad as before, but fiery enough to draw a soft moan from his lips.

 

The sound of movement by the bed abruptly stopped.  A broad hand settled on his brow then  slid down to press his cheek.  “At least there’s no fever.  Would you mind if I sat with him for awhile, Adele?  Alone?” 

 

His father’s voice, his father’s touch.  Hutch groaned again, shifting lethargically.  His arms and legs felt heavy, weighted with stone. He tried to open his eyes but the drug kept him hovering beneath the brink of consciousness.

 

More movement and shuffling, a whispered response from his mother, then someone leaving, the door closing.  Hands adjusted the pillow beneath his leg, moved to straighten the blankets over his chest.  Sluggishly, he tried to push them away and realized they were larger than his own. 

 

“Ssh, Ken.  Lie still.”  His father’s voice, surprisingly gentle.  The same father’s who’d called users “trash,” condemning them to a “hellish” withdrawal.  Who’d been unable to meet his eyes when Hutch had asked that Adele not be told about his addiction.

 

Because he can’t stand to look at me . . . can’t stand the sight of me, knowing what I was, what I could become again. 

 

His stomach knotted, kindling another spark of nausea to match the emotional distress.  Abruptly bitter, he forced the feelings silent, dragged his eyes open and met his father’s level gaze.  The morphine left him dazed, his thoughts scattered helter-skelter.  “I . . .I’m okay.”  One hand floundered toward the nightstand.   “Can I have . . . water?”

 

“What?  Oh - - ” Looking around, Grant spied a half-full glass of water on the small table.  “Of course.”  He passed it to Hutch, moving to slide a hand under his son’s neck for support.

 

At the first brush of fingertips, Hutch struggled up on one elbow, effectively snubbing the offer of help. A few greedy gulps of cold liquid helped clear his head.  “Thanks.”  He passed the glass back, sinking into the pillows with a sigh of fatigue.  Grant set the glass on the nightstand, but his eyes stayed on Hutch, quietly probing.

 

Probably trying to decide if I use my badge to shake down dealers for my own personal supply of junk.  And let’s not forget hookers.

 

“Ken.”  Grant’s voice was firmer this time, not quite as solicitous.  “I think we should talk. David told me what happened to you three years ago . . . how you were forcibly injected with heroin and addicted against your will.  I know about the withdrawal and why you didn’t want the morphine.”

 

Hutch tensed.  Leave it to Starsky to spill his guts while taking on the role of go-between and peacemaker.  Too bad, partner.  I’m not dredging up this shit again.  “Not now, Dad.  I’m tired.”

 

Grant scowled.  “I’d let you rest if I believed that.  But we both know you’re just trying to find a way around discussing this.”

 

“Discussing what?  That I was a user?  A hype?”  Anger flared unexpectedly in Hutch, chased quickly by hideous self-loathing. Memories washed over him, lightning-swift and merciless. His face twisted. “How’s that for poetic imagery, Dad, or would you rather just call me trash?  Maybe you’d like to hear all the lurid details about what withdrawal felt like . . . how I begged Starsky for a fix, crawled on my hands and knees, spit up my insides and shit out my pride.”  His voice wavered, cracked.  “Is that what you want to hear?  Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t give a fuck what you think.  It doesn’t matter to me.”

 

But it did matter.  God it mattered, and the thought that Grant was disappointed in him hurt so badly he wanted to curl up and die.  He turned his head away, clenched his eyes.  Moisture burned behind the lids.  Not now! I am not fucking going to break down in front of him again.

 

“Damn it, Ken!”  Grant surged to his feet, towering over the bed. “David said you’d do this - -  put up walls, turn defensive as steel.  When are you going to get it through your thick head that I’m not your enemy?  I’m your father!  Do you have any idea what that means?”

 

Hutch quivered - - tense, sweaty.  The room was too small, the rush of blood in his ears excessively loud.  Nothing made sense.  Not the cold misery knotting his stomach, the needle-hot pain stabbing his leg or his father’s agitated words.  He wanted to be angry, as dispassionate as wood, but knew he was losing the battle.  A rush of hot moisture scalded his eyes.  No, I don’t know what it means, not any more.  I need you to tell me.  I need to hear you say it.

 

The mattress gave slightly as Grant settled on the edge of the bed.  Strong fingers gripped Hutch’s chin and forced his head around.  “Ken, look at me.”

 

“No.”  Why?  So you can see me make an emotional fool of myself again?  

 

“Ken - - ”

 

“No.”  Harder this time, underscored by misery. 

 

Hutch kept his eyes tightly closed, fearful the betraying moisture would spill over his lashes.  In direct mockery, a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, tracking wetly across his cheek.  He drew in a sharp, shuddering breath, tensing involuntarily as gentle fingers brushed it away. 

 

“Ken . . . I’m so sorry.”  The touch shifted, sliding down his throat to curl firmly around the back of his neck.  “Do you hear me, Son?  I’m sorry some sadistic bastard put you through hell . . . that you had to go through the agony of withdrawal and I wasn’t there to help you.  But most of all I’m sorry you ever thought I would feel differently toward you.  That you were afraid to tell me.  Ken - -” Grant’s voice cracked. “I know I don’t say it, but I . . . I do love you, Son.  You mean the world to me.”

 

Completely undone by a declaration of love from the man who’d spent his life hiding it, Hutch choked back a sob.

 

Grant continued, his voice gentle and soothing.  “It . . . it wasn’t that I was upset with you before, when I gave you the shot of morphine.  Just that I couldn’t bear to see you in such pain.  Ken . . .” Soothing fingertips brushed again, swiping aside more tears.  “You’re always so perfectly controlled.  I-I’ve never seen you cry, Son.  I just didn’t know how to handle it.”

 

“God - - ” Mortified, Hutch tried to twist away. 

 

Grant caught his shoulder, dragging the younger man against him.  Hutch resisted, rigid and tense, too ashamed to be comforted.  But Grant refused to let go, hugging him despite his staunch opposition. “Don’t fight me,” he whispered against Hutch’s hair.  “I wasn’t there for you when you needed me . . . when Forest hurt you.  Let me be here for you now.”

 

The last of Hutch’s resistance cracked.  With a choked sob he folded against his father, wrapping his arms around Grant’s waist.  His tears came harder, freed after being bottled for thirty-four years.  The release broke like a dam, washing over him with the steady outpouring of Grant’s love.  The tortured memories of three years ago bled into oblivion, eradicated beneath the gentle support of the one man he’d always secretly hoped to please. 

 

A hand threaded into his hair, swept lower to rub a soothing caress over his back.  “I never knew you could be so . . . demonstrative, Ken.  I guess I have David to thank for cluing me in. I hope you won’t be angry with your partner for telling me about Forest.”

 

Angry with Starsky?  It was hard for Hutch to think.  Between the morphine heightening his emotions and the shocking revelation his father could be supportive instead of critical, Hutch felt like he’d tumbled into an alternate reality.  Yet through it all he felt the steadfast, heart-thumping assurance Starsky would never change.  In any reality, no matter how extreme or topsy-turvy, his doggedly loyal partner would always have Hutch’s best interest at heart.

 

Stripped empty from emotion and pain, Hutch sagged against his father.  “Thank you,” he whispered, eyes growing lidded and heavy with fatigue.  Warmth surrounded him, muted the sting of pain in his thigh, the fading lick of nausea in this stomach.  He felt himself drifting, gently floating, carried by a cushion of morphine.

 

A door burst open in the distance but the sound was foggy, muffled by a gently thickening haze.

 

“Hey, Doc,” a blessedly familiar voice called.  “You ain’t gonna believe it - - the phone lines are up.”

 

“Isn’t it wonderful, Grant?”  Another sweetly endearing voice followed.  “David reached the hospital and they’re sending an airlift unit immediately.”

 

Hutch knew it was good news but couldn’t bring himself to focus.  The arms holding him released him, guiding him back into the cradling softness of plump pillows.  A hand stroked across his brow, lingering in the disheveled fringe of his hair. 

 

“That’s fantastic,” his father said.

 

He heard a chuckle, achingly familiar, making his heart lurch in response.  “Hey, Blondie.” The weight of comforting fingers stroked over his cheek. “Your limousine’s on the way.  Nothing too good for my partner, huh, babe?”

 

Hutch shifted.  Never opening his eyes, he moved sluggishly, reaching to clasp Starsky’s hand.

Warm fingers wrapped around his, held on in a blatantly comforting grip.         

 

For the first time in a long time, Hutch felt solely at peace.

 

+++++

 

Six days after he’d been airlifted to Duluth Community General Hutch struggled for a position of comfort in his hospital bed.  Morning sunlight slanted through a large window, splashing bands of lemon and brass across the foot of the mattress.  He pushed his breakfast tray away, thankful it wouldn’t be much longer he had to exist on a diet of hospital food.  The watery eggs, dry toast and overly strong coffee had done nothing to jumpstart his appetite.  Hopefully Starsky would show up with something semi-edible.

 

“Mornin’ Rapunzel.”  He no sooner thought of his energetic partner than Starsky’s rumpled curls appeared in the doorway.  “Hey, do you know you gotta climb up fourteen floors to reach your room?  If the elevator ever stops workin’ you better be ready to let down that fair hair ‘cause I ain’t doin’ the steps.”  Grinning, Starsky sauntered into the room and plopped a small bag onto the roll-away table containing Hutch’s breakfast tray.  “Brought you a cheese danish and a cinnamon-raisin bagel from the bakery down the street.  Figured you were tired of powdered eggs and styrofoam toast.”        

 

“Thanks, Starsk.”  Enticed by the smells, Hutch dug into the bag.  For once in his life he didn’t want a blended concoction of wheat germ oil, sea kelp, raw eggs and vitamin supplements.   The danish tasted heavenly and he sank back against the pillows, chewing contentedly. 

 

“Rumor has it you’re gettin’ sprung later today.  Lots of therapy waitin’ for you back in Bay City, but at least you’ll be home in your own place.”  Starsky leaned against the window ledge, facing Hutch.  “Your dad’s flyin’ us back first class just so you got plenty of room to stretch those giraffe-long legs of yours.  Not a bad guy, even if he’s permanently fixated on dollar signs.”

 

A few days ago Hutch might not have agreed so readily, but that had all changed.  Since their emotional talk about Hutch’s addiction, Grant had become extremely attentive.  Even Kelly and Vince who’d finally made it in from Seattle three days ago had noticed and commented on the change.  Adele couldn’t be happier to see the two men in her life interacting so positively and even Starsky had chuckled over it.

 

The damaged bridge was repaired temporarily until a sturdier replacement could be constructed. Chad Rutter’s body was located and removed by the local police force.  Sadly, Jake was found floating in White Timber, apparently having attempted to cross the swollen creek in his desperate and highly irrational frame of mind. 

 

“Not bad,” Hutch said finishing the last of the danish.  He wiped his hands clean on a napkin, turning his attention to Starsky.  “Sorry this didn’t turn out to be much of a vacation for you, partner.”

 

“What?  And it did for you?”  Starsky folded his arms across his chest, crossing his feet at the ankles.  “I’m just glad I don’t have to cart your sorry butt back to California in pieces.  Besides . . . I’m gettin’ a free first class flight out of it - - cocktails, movies, maybe somethin fancy with an olive in it. Turns out you’re worth your weight in gold, Blintz. ”  Sobering abruptly he cleared his throat, his eyes growing skittish as they dropped from Hutch’s face.  “You really had me worried there for a while.”

 

Hutch sighed, laced a hand through his hair.  “The morphine . . .”  No longer hungry he pushed the tray away, rolling on his side to face Starsky.  “Buddy, I know I wasn’t thinkin’ too clearly.  I said some things . . .”  You lied to me.  “ . . . reacted badly.”  He had a vivid memory of flinching from Starsky’s touch.  In all the time they’d been together he’d never once shied away from his partner.  “I was messed up, didn’t mean any of it.”

 

“It’s all right, Hutch.”

 

“No, it isn’t.  If it hadn’t been for you . . . Starsk . . .”  His voice caught.  “What I’m tryin’ to say is - - ”

 

Starsky grinned, reached out and ruffled his hair.  “You don’t gotta say it.”

 

“My father said it to me.”

 

“Doesn’t matter.  You needed to hear it from your old man, but me and you . . . hell, Hutch, it’s just always been there from the start.  Think I didn’t know you were messed up?  Think I don’t know how you really feel?  If I thought any differently, I’d kick your blond butt from here to Bay City.”

 

Hutch laughed.  “You have a way with words, partner.”

 

Starsky took a playful swipe at his head.  “So get over yourself.  Your parents, Kelly and Vince are on the way here to pack you up and take you back to that fancy manor for a big-time Hutchinson party before we fly out tomorrow.  Think you’re up for all that fussin’ with family?”

 

Hutch leaned into the pillows, contented, immensely warmed by the thought.  Family.  For him that included one dark, curly-haired partner with a slightly skewed Brooklyn accent. 

 

“As long as you’re there too, babe,” he whispered.

 

+++++

 

Hutch shifted on the couch, trying to find a position of greater comfort.  Despite daily therapy and a regime of long-term pain medication his leg still troubled him, growing stiff and sore as afternoon wore into early evening.  He was doing better, hobbling around on crutches, making extraordinary advances in rehabilitation sessions according to his therapist.  Yet when evening rolled around, muscles that had been limber and loose during the day tightened in painful constriction.  Despite his better judgment he’d popped two pain pills.  The dependency on narcotics left him uneasy, but he’d been careful to use them sparingly.  It had been almost a week since he’d returned to Bay City, still adjusting to his limited movement.  For someone who thrived on physical activity the change to partial restriction was a hard pill to swallow.  Hutch went through periods of feeling useless and frustrated but mostly angry.  He wanted the use of his leg back, wanted to be back on the street at Starsky’s side doing the job he loved.  It was as much a mental adjustment as a physical one.

 

“Quit looking so piss-poor moody,”  Starsky complained from the kitchen. 

 

His steadfast friend had been nothing short of dedicated over the last week, camping out on his sofa for three nights before finally sleeping at his own apartment.  Even then he popped in a couple times a day as work permitted, preparing lunch and dinner for Hutch and visiting in the evenings until the hours stretched past midnight.  Occasionally when it grew too late, he just crashed on Hutch’s couch rather than make the lonely drive back to his apartment.  Hutch was too grateful to complain.  Sometimes he felt joined at the hip with Starsky, a relationship and state of mind he wholeheartedly welcomed.  He wasn’t sure how he would have survived without his partner, how he would have made it through the grueling pain-filled days of Duluth, most of which lingered like dream images in his mind.

 

“I’m just tired of looking at four walls, Starsk,” Hutch retorted. He sat straighter, adjusting the pillows in the corner of the couch, stretching his long leg the length of the brown and gold cushions.  Clad in black sweatpants, white socks and a dark green tee-shirt he was comfortable but mentally restless.  “I’m sick of using crutches, sick of going to the hospital for therapy, sick of hobbling around like an invalid, and sick of having you wait on me.”

 

“Gripe, gripe, gripe,” Starsky shot back good-naturedly.  Using a hotpad, he pulled the oven door open and adjusted a bubbling pan of pasta on the center rack.  Not quite lasagna, sort of a baked spaghetti with a few extras like sliced sausage and a smidgen of honey thrown in, it was his aunt’s favorite recipe.  If nothing else it filled the apartment with the delicious aroma of home cooking, accented further by the plump loaf of garlic bread he had warming on the top rack.  He’d even taken the time to make a lush green salad for Hutch.  He knew his friend would have liked a good bottle of merlot or cabernet to compliment the meal, but the pain medication Hutch relied on dictated nothing stronger than water or a fizzy soda.

 

“You’ll feel better after you eat,” Starsky told him.  Wandering to the couch, he gave Hutch’s back a brief rub, then bent to clear the coffee table of assorted magazines, doodled song sheets, two paperback novels and a collection of old mail.  “You stay put tonight.  I’ll bring you a plate in here.  What’s your pleasure - -  water or ginger ale?”

 

Hutch made a face. “If those are my only choices I’ll take beer.”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “Think again, Blondie.  As long as you’re poppin’ pain pills you’re stayin’ alcohol free.  ”

 

“You’re a sadist, you know that?”

 

“Only when you’re my entertainment for the night.  Dinner’s almost ready.  Think you can quit being a grouch long enough to swallow a few mouthfuls?”

 

“Starsky - - ”

 

Before Hutch could say anything further, someone knocked at the front door.  The two men exchanged a look before Starsky blew out a breath and strode across the room to answer it.  “Shoulda told me you were expectin’ company,” he muttered.  “I woulda made a bigger batch.”’

 

Hutch sat a little straighter, knowing he wasn’t expecting anyone, wondering who was showing up unannounced.  A few friends had dropped by since his return from Duluth but most came during the day or later in the evening to visit for an hour or two.  He had to admit the tempting smells wafting through the apartment were nothing short of mouthwatering, even without the added benefit of a cold beer to wash them down.  He was looking forward to dinner and a few leisurely hours with his best friend.  As much as he groused and complained, he was eternally grateful to Starsky, taking silent comfort from his continued presence.  There was no one who put him at ease as much as his partner, who made him feel safe and secure, even when he was frustrated with his own spotty health. 

 

“Hey.” 

 

Hutch heard a sliver of surprise in Starsky’s voice.  Since his friend’s back was turned to him, blocking the doorway he couldn’t tell who his visitor was.  “Nice ta see ya,” Starsky said, then stepped aside.  “Come on in.”

 

Hutch felt his gut tighten.  It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see the woman who eased so fluidly into the apartment, just that he wasn’t sure what the complex tangle of suddenly surging emotions meant.  Alice looked different, dressed in white jeans and a cranberry crop blouse, her wheat-gold hair pulled back in a shimmering pony tail.  A few wisps had worked free, framing her face in soft curling threads.  Her makeup, normally heavily applied, was soft and subdued, a hint of mascara, plum blush and cinnamon lip gloss. 

 

Hutch swallowed hard.  “Hi, Alice.”

 

Her face lit with a beautiful smile.  “Hi, Handsome Hutch.”  She breezed past Starsky into the apartment, stirring the air with a whispering hint of primrose and honeysuckle.  “I promise not to stay long.”  She bent over him, pressing a light kiss to his brow in greeting, drawing back to smile widely into his confused blue eyes.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not gonna make a habit of droppin’ by your apartment, if that’s what you’re worried about Sugar.  In fact, I came to say goodbye.”

 

Hutch blinked, concern that she’d come to his apartment  - - something he had to avoid at all cost if he was to maintain any respect as a cop  - - swiftly funneling into deeper fear that she would leave.  “G-Goodbye?”   They’d spent one night together.  Maybe he was a little infatuated with her, but he certainly didn’t love her.  So why the constricting knot in his gut, the cold fist that made everything inside of him shrivel up like a pruned knot?  “I-I don’t understand.”

 

Alice cast a sideways glance at Starsky from under her lashes.  Taking the hint, the dark-haired man cleared his throat.  “Hey, I think those green things out on the deck are overdue for a waterin’.  I’m just gonna take a short hike while you two lovebirds chat.”

 

Hutch cringed.  Lovebirds.  Leave it to Starsky to be flippant while trying to be diplomatic.  His friend disappeared onto the greenhouse terrace, not even bothering with a watering can.  Talk about an obvious exit. 

 

Sighing, Hutch laced a hand through his hair.  “Alice, where are you going?  What do you mean you’re leaving?”

 

She smiled.  “I’m goin’ home to Kentucky.  I called my daddy and we talked things out.”  Her expression turned a little rueful, inwardly abashed.  “Mostly stupid stuff about my StepMama.  I even talked to her.  Guess I just couldn’t handle her takin’ my Mama’s place.  I thought comin’ out here would give me a chance to start fresh, have my own life, but nothing turned out the way I planned.  My daddy breeds thoroughbreds, Hutch  - - he’s one of the top five breeders in the state.  Guess I got his pride and stubbornness, a little too mulish to admit when I’m in the wrong.   Well, no more.”  Easing onto the coffee table, Alice made a makeshift seat for herself on the edge, sitting so she was facing Hutch.  He caught a whiff of her perfume again, understated rather than heavy, sweetly feminine. It resurrected memories of the night they’d spent together, how incredibly sensuous those all-too brief magic hours had been.

 

Leaning forward, Alice rested a slim hand on his wrist.  “I heard what happened to you, Hutch .  . .. your leg and all.”  She gave a brief nod to the long limb he had stretched over the sofa.  “I wanted to come earlier, to see if you were all right, but somehow it just didn’t seem proper.  I didn’t want people talkin’ about ya, so I thought it best if I stayed away.”  Her eyes lowered briefly.  “Like I said I would.”

 

He frowned, uncomfortable with the whole situation.  No, he couldn’t have her visiting his apartment, but it wasn’t possible to go back to the way things had been before.  Toss the whole mess in the Boneyard, he thought sardonically.  It doesn’t really work for me, Alice, and somehow I think it’s not working for you either.

 

“When are you leaving?” he managed at last.

 

“Day after tomorrow.  And I’ve got you to thank for it.”

 

“Me?”

 

She nodded.  “It was that night we spent together, Hutch.”  Her eyes dipped, her demeanor suddenly shy.  “It made me realize what I was missin’ . . . someone to love and hold without worryin’ how much money I was gonna get out of it.”  Wistful blue eyes flashed to his face.  “You were so lovin’ and attentive, it darn near tore me up inside.  I’m not used to a man takin’ my feelings and my pleasure into consideration.  That night made me sit up and realize I was never gonna have a life with somebody as long as I was walkin’ the streets.  I wanna find that person Hutch . . . someone to love and love me in return . . . but I’m never gonna find him as long as I stay in Bay City.  Here I’ll always be Sweet Alice.”

 

His throat tightened.  She was leaving for real, moving on to a life that didn’t include him.  He knew he should be pleased that she’d made the decision to move past prostitution, that she’d reconnected with her family and was going home.  Yet part of him would always miss her, remembering the night they’d spent in each other’s arms as Ken and Annie.  He lifted his hand to her cheek.  “I’m happy for you Annie.”

Her smile, hesitant only moments before, bloomed brilliant and beautiful.  “I sure wish we’d met in another time, Ken.  I’ve got the feeling a compassionate street cop with a genteel streak might have fallen for the daughter of a champion horse breeder.”   

 

Smiling softly Hutch leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the lips.  “There’s no maybe about it, Annie.  I guess I’m just not very good at getting rid of things in the Boneyard.”

 

“That’s okay.  Truth is, I could never get rid of that night either.  And I don’t want to.”  Standing, she looked down on him, warmth and affection mingling in her eyes.  “I’ll never forget you, Hutch.  If you ever get out to Kentucky . . .”

 

He nodded, neither of them needing the thought to be completed.  “And if you ever come back to Bay City . . .” 

 

She bent a final time to kiss him and then she was gone, a hint of floral perfume lingering in the air long after she’d departed.  Hutch sighed, sagging back against the cushions.  He was partially responsible for her resolve to return to Kentucky.  If he’d never slept with her, she might never have made the decision to go home. So even though he’d screwed things up, it had all worked out in the end.

 

Except that he felt oddly despondent.

 

“Hey.”  Starsky wandered back from the terrace.  “Alice gone?”

 

Hutch nodded.  He bent his leg at the knee, clearing a single cushion for his friend to sit beside him on the sofa.  The invitation was as plain as if it had been spoken aloud.

 

Complying, Starsky folded into a seat.  Cupping Hutch’s leg beneath the calf, he guided the damaged limb back to its original position, stretching it over his lap.  “She didn’t stay long,” he commented.

 

Hutch nodded thoughtfully, aware of Starsky’s hand molding his knee, sliding up to gently massage his healing thigh.  The touch was blessedly familiar, strung with welcoming pulses of heat.  The comforting feel of his friend’s skilled fingers loosened cramped muscles and helped eased the sting in his heart.  “She just came to say goodbye.  She’s going back to Kentucky . . . wants a shot at a normal life.”

 

“Hey, that’s great!”  Starsky’s smile faltered at the look on Hutch’s face.  “Isn’t it?”

 

“Sure it is.”

 

“But you’re gonna miss her.”  Starsky gave Hutch’s knee a knowing pat.  “Got a little too close, huh, babe?  You ain’t never been good at one night stands, don’t know what made you think you could start now.”

 

Hutch shrugged, looking at his hands.  “I guess I should be glad I didn’t screw things up permanently.  I mean . . . some good did come from Alice and I . . . um . . .”  He trailed off, not really sure how to finish.  He’d never been awkward or shy about anything in front of Starsky, but for some reason couldn’t bring himself to finish.  Maybe because he couldn’t escape the knowledge he’d done something ridiculously stupid in sleeping with her.  If Alice hadn’t decided to go back to Kentucky, what might have become of their relationship?  What would he have done the next time he had to bust her?  How would he have felt stumbling over one of her johns?

 

Grimacing, he shifted uneasily.  The decisions he made didn’t affect him alone.  He and Starsky were more than partners, more than a team, even more than friends.  He’d made a choice that could have turned life difficult for both of them.  Thankfully it had all worked out for the best - - this time.  But in the future Hutch knew he’d have to be more cautious, reacting with his head instead of his heart.

 

He sighed, aware of Starsky’s attention to his leg again.  His friend kneaded the tight muscles in his calf, his knee, finally his thigh.  Despite efforts to the contrary, Hutch felt his eyelids dipping.  “Mmm  . . . that feels good, Starsk.”

 

His friend gave a soft grunt.  “Don’t go driftin’ off on me, Blondie.  Are you forgettin’ I spent the last hour slavin’ in your kitchen?”

 

Hutch cracked an eye. “I’d hardly call boiling pasta and mixing sauce ‘slaving’.” Scrunching down in the sofa, he rolled onto his side, tucking his head against a pillow propped on the sofa’s arm.  It was amazing how a simple massage could turn his bones to putty, his muscles to limp jell.  Then again, it wasn’t just any massage.  It was Starsky behind that magic fingerwork, and his longtime friend knew exactly where to press, how deeply to knead. “Save me dinner, okay, buddy?”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “Okay, Blintz.”  His hand shifted, sliding beneath Hutch’s tee-shirt to rub soothingly over his back.  “But don’t think this is gonna be SOP until you’re back on your feet.”

 

“Wouldn’t think of it.”  Hutch yawned.  “A little higher, Starsk.”

 

“Whatd’ya think I am - -  your own personal therapist?”

 

“Better than the real ones, that’s for sure,” Hutch murmured, growing sleepier by the moment.  The hint of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.  “Cheaper too.”

 

Starsky snorted.  A moment later Hutch felt his friend slide free of the sofa, gently repositioning his leg.  Footsteps tracked across the carpet.  He heard the sound of the oven door opening, a muted clank of dishes and pans.  The enticing aroma of baked spaghetti and butter-drenched garlic bread tickled his nose, but the narcotic-laced lure of sleep was stronger. 

 

Sinking deeper into slumber, he shivered slightly in the apartment’s cool air conditioning.  Shortly afterward the enveloping warmth of a light blanket was draped over his shoulders and hips.  A hand threaded through his hair, leisurely brushing bangs back from his brow.  The touch made him feel comforted and secure.  “You stayin’ tonight, Starsk?” he whispered, barely aware he’d spoken aloud.

 

“Yeah, babe, I’ll stay.  Go to sleep.”  Starsky gave his shoulder a rub, then flitted away to the kitchen and a mouthwatering meal of baked pasta.

 

Hutch smiled, pulled down into the fuzzy mire of dreams, realizing he hadn’t made such a mess of life after all.  In Duluth he’d made peace with his father, dispelling most of the demons linked to his heroin addiction.  He and Grant had parted on good terms, taking another step in their tenuous but strengthening relationship, each learning to respond to and respect the other.    Alice was leaving but Starsky was staying. He would miss the sweetly endearing girl with the southern accent, but he’d still have his once-in-a-lifetime friend . . . the person who stood by him even when he did something outrageously stupid or struggled with fears he should have dumped years ago.  Like the heroin thing.

 

He didn’t need a boneyard.  All he needed - - all he’d ever really needed was Starsky.

 

Contented by the thought, Hutch fell asleep listening to the soft clank of dishes in the kitchen.  After a while his partner started whistling some obscure melody, pausing every now and then to talk to the fern on the windowsill.  I’m rubbing off on him.  The whistling morphed into a hum, growing glaringly off key. 

 

To Hutch it was the sweetest music in the world.

 

+++++

 

- -  End Boneyard - -