Text Box: Text Box: For Theresa K. who asked for a Starsky hurt story. Thanks for the beta as always. Any remaining goofs are mine. This story takes place late Season 3. Please send feedback to veniceplace12@verizon.net +++++ Favored Son By Kate (CMT) Hutch paced in front of his apartment, muttering under his breath. It was bad enough his car was in the shop waiting on a backordered part, but relying on Starsky for a daily ride to Metro was growing old fast. This afternoon marked the third time in the last four days his irresponsible partner had been late picking him up. Saturday’s excuse had been a faulty alarm clock, Sunday’s an unexpected phone call as Starsky was heading out the door, and Monday’s a sizzling night with a redhead that had turned into a long morning shower for two. Hutch could almost forgive that one -- he knew what it was like to be sidetracked by a willing female -- but Starsky was late again, and the redhead had taken a hike. Which meant Starsky was being his usual irresponsible self. The man needed a keeper. Or at the very least a reliable watch. A late ride meant a late start, all but guaranteeing another tongue lashing from Dobey and a few hours of shit work as punishment. More ribbing and snickers from the other cops and detectives in the squadroom, followed by the always popular rehashing of Dobey’s tirade by every file clerk and office stray gathered at the water cooler. Irritated, Hutch thrust a hand through his long hair. He was still adjusting to the length. Originally he’d let it grow simply because he couldn’t find the time to make it to the barber. Now used to the long waves, he found he actually liked it that way. Most of his girlfriends did too. His surgeon father would probably disapprove, but his surgeon father apparently disapproved of a lot of things, including Hutch’s life, judging by the letter he’d received three days ago. Even now he kept it tucked in the pocket of his white windbreaker, planning to send it back this afternoon with a scathing reply. Frustrated, he shoved the thoughts aside and kicked a stone clear of his path. Looking at his pocket watch would only make him madder, but he couldn’t help it. Like a man drawn to a train wreck he dug the gold fob from the front pocket of his tight jeans and flipped it open. 2:20 P.M. Assuming Starsky showed up within the next ten minutes, they’d only be forty-five minutes late for work. With any luck Dobey would do cartwheels it wasn’t an hour. Hutch heard the car coming down the street before he actually saw it. There was no mistaking the deep rumble of the Torino’s custom engine. He knew the sound of Starsky’s car like he knew his own heartbeat. At times he found that sonorous purr comforting, but right now the loudly reverberating motor was simply a better-late-than-never intrusion. Pausing, Hutch glanced over his shoulder in time to see the red-and-white vehicle round a corner. Bright sunlight caught the glint of polished chrome and candy-apple paint. Starsky nearly kissed the bumper of a blue sedan as he cut across lanes and slid to a screeching stop in front of Hutch. Typical Starsky, playing Speed Racer in his showy tomato. Hutch frowned. He didn’t know why he was in such a piss-poor mood. Okay, so maybe his father’s letter had something to do with it. Irked, he shoved the thought aside and opened the door. Starsky had one wrist draped over the steering wheel as he leaned slightly toward Hutch, a sloppy grin on his face. “Hey, sorry I’m late. I got caught in traffic.”  

          

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hutch paced in front of his apartment, muttering under his breath.  It was bad enough his car was in the shop waiting on a backordered part, but relying on Starsky for a daily ride to Metro was growing old fast.  This afternoon marked the third time in the last four days his irresponsible partner had been late picking him up.  Saturday’s excuse had been a faulty alarm clock, Sunday’s an unexpected phone call as Starsky was heading out the door, and Monday’s a sizzling night with a redhead that had turned into a long morning shower for two. 

 

Hutch could almost forgive that one -- he knew what it was like to be sidetracked by a willing female -- but Starsky was late again, and the redhead had taken a hike.  Which meant Starsky was being his usual irresponsible self.  The man needed a keeper.  Or at the very least a reliable watch. 

 

A late ride meant a late start, all but guaranteeing another tongue lashing from Dobey and a few hours of shit work as punishment.  More ribbing and snickers from the other cops and detectives in the squadroom, followed by the always popular rehashing of Dobey’s tirade by every file clerk and office stray gathered at the water cooler.

 

Irritated, Hutch thrust a hand through his long hair.  He was still adjusting to the length.  Originally he’d let it grow simply because he couldn’t find the time to make it to the barber.  Now used to the long waves, he found he actually liked it that way.  Most of his girlfriends did too.  His surgeon father would probably disapprove, but his surgeon father apparently disapproved of a lot of things, including Hutch’s life, judging by the letter he’d received three days ago.  Even now he kept it tucked in the pocket of his white windbreaker, planning to send it back this afternoon with a scathing reply.

 

Frustrated, he shoved the thoughts aside and kicked a stone clear of his path.  Looking at his pocket watch would only make him madder, but he couldn’t help it.  Like a man drawn to a train wreck he dug the gold fob from the front pocket of his tight jeans and flipped it open.  2:20 P.M.  Assuming Starsky showed up within the next ten minutes, they’d only be forty-five minutes late for work.  With any luck Dobey would do cartwheels it wasn’t an hour.

 

Hutch heard the car coming down the street before he actually saw it.  There was no mistaking the deep rumble of the Torino’s custom engine.  He knew the sound of Starsky’s car like he knew his own heartbeat. At times he found that sonorous purr comforting, but right now the loudly reverberating motor was simply a better-late-than-never intrusion. 

 

Pausing, Hutch glanced over his shoulder in time to see the red-and-white vehicle round a corner.  Bright sunlight caught the glint of polished chrome and candy-apple paint.  Starsky nearly kissed the bumper of a blue sedan as he cut across lanes and slid to a screeching stop in front of Hutch. 

 

Typical Starsky, playing Speed Racer in his showy tomato.  Hutch frowned.  He didn’t know why he was in such a piss-poor mood.  Okay, so maybe his father’s letter had something to do with it.

 

Irked, he shoved the thought aside and opened the door.  Starsky had one wrist draped over the steering wheel as he leaned slightly toward Hutch, a sloppy grin on his face.  “Hey, sorry I’m late.  I got caught in traffic.”

 

 “Uh-huh.”  Hutch ducked into the car and slammed the door.  Too rankled to acknowledge Starsky’s welcoming grin, he kept his eyes straight ahead, his expression obstinate.  “What kept you -- an accident?”

 

“Sort of.”  Starsky eased the vehicle into traffic.

 

“Just what the hell is a ‘sort of’ accident, Starsky?”  Hutch snapped.

 

Taken aback by his acid tone, Starsky shot him a surprised glance.  “Whoa.  Sounds like somebody got up on the wrong side of the bed this mornin’.”

 

“Yeah, well at least I got up.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“What do you think?  Do you have any idea what friggin’ time it is?”  Hutch pinned him with a frosty glare. Even he was surprised by the hostility in his voice.  “We’re already half an hour late, third time this week.  Dobey’s gonna have a cow.”

 

“I already checked us in. ‘Sides – it’s better’n havin’ a pig.”

 

“Starsky, make sense, will you?  What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “Dunno.  What’s got you so all-fired pissy anyway?  You’ve been a bear for the last three days, grumpin’ and snappin’ and bitin’ my head off every half-hour like clockwork.  If you’ve got a bone to pick with me partner, spit it out.”

 

Hutch looked away.  Yeah, he had a bone to pick.  Wasn’t it irresponsible being late all the time when someone was counting on you, relying on you?  Wasn’t it irresponsible playing cop when family expected more of you?   He grimaced.

 

“Nothing,” he muttered.

 

Starsky fell silent.  Outside the noises of the city blended in a strange kind of jumbled harmony - - horns and squealing tires, a dog baying for attention, the metal thunk of a sewer lid beneath the weight of passing mail truck, the laughter and yells of a group of teens playing basketball.  Hutch propped his elbow on the door and rubbed his temple. His head hurt, most of it from tension. The muscles in his neck felt bunched and knotted, unable to relax.  Had he really been an ogre for the last three days?  Starsky was doing him a favor giving him a lift to work.  He could have just as easily called a taxi.  He was the one who’d asked for the ride.  Just because his father thought he was a failure didn’t mean he had to take his frustrations out on Starsky.

 

“Zebra 3, come in.” 

 

Thankful for the radio’s interruption, Hutch snatched up the microphone.  “Zebra 3.”

 

“Zebra 3, see the man at The Pits restaurant with information on the Lincoln robbery.”

 

Hutch shot a puzzled glance at Starsky.  For the mike he said:  “Zebra 3, we are responding.”  Some of his irritation faded, forgotten in the face of this new puzzle.  The Lincoln Jewelers robbery had been all over last night’s news.  The clerk who’d been on duty during the hold-up was still in the hospital, listed in critical condition.  One customer had been killed, another seriously injured.  Surveillance cameras had caught two masked men on tape, but had otherwise left no leads.  Every cop in the city wanted to nail the suspects who’d killed an old woman and put two others in the hospital.  That Huggy had information and had it so quickly was an oddity.  Then again -- if there was news on the street, the Bear would find it.    

 

“Looks like Huggy’s earnin’ his keep,” Starsky commented casually.

 

Hutch gave a non-committal grunt. He regretted his earlier explosion but wasn’t completely ready to let go of his anger.  Odds were Starsky’s “sort of accident” translated into a stop for a burrito or some flirting with his new neighbor.  If there’d been an accident, it would be all over the Sky-Traff Reports.

 

Needing to feel vindicated, Hutch switched on the car radio.  Starsky changed directions, turning around and heading for Huggy’s bar, but taking an out-of-the-way left turn.

 

“What are you doing?”  Hutch asked.  On the radio a screechy-voiced used car salesman was promising “Low, low prices - - so low we’re practically givin’ ‘em away!  If we can’t sell you a car, you shouldn’t be drivin’.” 

 

“I’m takin’ a detour,” Starsky answered his question.  “Can’t go up Dockside.  There’s a chicken truck overturned in the middle of the road.”  He chuckled, enjoying the memory.  “Chickens squawkin’ and runnin’ everywhere.  I saw a couple lucky fellas from traffic control tryin’ to round ‘em up.”

 

Hutch wavered, still not convinced.  “That’s your ‘sort of’ accident?”

 

“Well, what’dya think?  That I was late on purpose?”

 

Hutch frowned.  The car commercial ended and the DJ came back on the air, immediately making cracks about chicken dinners “to go.” “You heard that right folks.  Unless you want ‘hen-pecked’ by some of the City’s Finest, steer clear of Dockside and Fourteenth.  Our roving reporter tells us our friendly boys in blue are trying to round up a flock of egg-layers.  Either that or they’re planning tonight’s dinner.  Whatever they’re up to, hot asphalt and farm-fed birds are giving a whole new meaning to the words ‘tar and feather.’”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “Toldja.”

 

Hutch switched off the radio but couldn’t bring himself to apologize.  His anger refused to drain.  He knew Starsky didn’t deserve it, but he couldn’t seem to let go of his carefully nurtured resentment.  For three days he’d been silently seething over the letter his father had sent him by mistake.  A letter intended for Jeremy Eckert, a colleague in Dorchester.  The esteemed Dr. Eckert had no doubt received the letter Grant Hutchinson had intended for his son.  A letter that was probably full of carefully worded small talk and little emotion. 

 

Hutch swore silently, recalling a few choice phrases from Eckert’s letter:  “I try to remember that Ken is doing what he wants,” his father had written, “Even if it is a career choice I can’t condone.  Obviously my son will never aspire to the vision I had for his future. You are fortunate, Jeremy, in that you have a son to be proud of, one who has chosen to follow you into medicine.

 

Shock had come first, followed by hurt then anger.  He’d carried the latter for three straight days, letting it fester inside of him, transferring it to an undeserving Starsky at every bump in the road.  His partner didn’t deserve it.  Disturbed, Hutch swallowed hard and rubbed his temple again.  God, his head hurt!  Starsky seemed to be waiting, wanting him to say something about the chickens, but it was too hard to think straight.  He felt sick to the stomach, wanted to crawl back into bed and forget the last three days existed.  Maybe if he concentrated on the robbery suspects.

 

“What do you think Huggy’s got?” he asked quietly.

 

“Let’s hope it’s something good.”  Starsky palmed the wheel, making a smooth turn.  Another fifteen minutes and they had reached The Pits, Huggy’s latest venture into the nightclub realm.  The bar wasn’t open for business yet, so they went around the back rather than use the front entrance, recessed at the bottom of eight concrete steps.

 

“Hey, Hug.”  Starsky went through the door first, pushing it open and swaggering boldly inside.  Hutch followed more slowly, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the dim interior.  None of the lights were on, making the deserted restaurant feel oddly isolated. Huggy was nowhere in sight. 

 

“Hug,” Starsky called again.

 

Hutch paused a few feet inside, feeling the first unsettling prick of alarm.  It wasn’t anything definite, nothing he could put his finger on.  Just an instinctive gut reaction, gleaned from years of street experience.  He had the sudden uneasy feeling he’d walked into a carefully laid trap.  “Starsk.”

 

His partner sensed it too.

 

Starsky turned in his direction, automatically reaching for his gun.  Hutch moved to snag his Magnum when he felt something loom unexpectedly behind him.  There was no sound, just a hissing displacement of air. He barely had time to register the disturbance before someone grabbed him roughly from behind.  A heavy cloth descended over his nose and mouth, clogging his head with a sickly sweet scent.  Before he realized what was happening, he sucked in a lungful of air and the chloroform rushed to his head.  His body sagged, supported by an unfamiliar set of beefy arms.  His head was spinning, his vision dwindling into a blurred kaleidoscope of color.  He thought he heard Starsky call his name . . . caught a glimpse of his friend lurching toward him.  And then Starsky crumpled, dropping to his knees, and the world went unerringly black for Hutch.

 

+++++

 

Hutch groaned and rolled onto his side.  He regretted the action immediately, bowled over by an unforgiving rush of nausea.  The world tilted erratically, spun out-of-control, then bucked violently upward.  He brought his knees closer to his chest and swallowed convulsively, urgently trying to calm his roiling stomach.  His head felt fuzzy, his thoughts sluggish and choppy.  He got his hands under him and pushed to a sitting position. 

 

His surroundings waffled, spun into a blur then settled again.  Hutch sagged backward, thankful to find a wall behind him.  He leaned against it for support and tried to focus.  His surroundings were foggy and dark, but he appeared to be in a large empty room.  The floor beneath him was tiled, smooth and slick, but not overtly cold.  Shadows nestled dense and black a few feet in either direction, making it impossible to see far.  “Starsky?”

 

The memory of what happened was coming back to him.  He reached under his jacket for the Magnum, surprised to find it still housed in its holster.  Hutch slipped the weapon free and did a quick check of the chamber.  Five rounds were in place.  He hadn’t fired a bullet, yet one was missing.  Odder still, why would someone go to the trouble of abducting him, then leave the gun?  A quick sniff told him the .44 hadn’t been fired.  He patted his jacket pockets, but the extra shells he normally carried were missing.  His father’s letter was still in place, a reality that seemed strangely surreal, lifted from another time.  He slipped it free and transferred it to his jeans.

 

Reaching behind him, he used his hand to brace himself against the wall and clambered unsteadily to his feet.  His head pounded with the movement.  The nausea returned, swift and fierce awakening the sickening memory of chloroform. Hutch bit his lip, checking a groan.  “Starsky?” he tried again.

 

What had become of his friend?  He had a vague recollection of Starsky in Huggy’s bar.  Like the flotsam of a dream, disjointed images rushed through his mind . . . Starsky drawing his gun . . . lurching toward him . . . crumbling to his knees.  Had someone hit his partner from behind?  Hutch felt sick to the stomach, but this time it had nothing to do with being drugged.  “Starsky?” he demanded loudly.

 

Someone groaned softly to his left.  A weak voice drifted from the darkness.  “Hu . . Hutch?”  

 

Simultaneous alarm and relief spiked through Hutch.  Before he could think through the consequences, he sprinted blindly into the shadows. The frantic rush of movement dropped him to his knees after a few clumsy steps.  He could see someone on the floor just ahead and crawled forward until he could touch Starsky. 

 

“Starsk?”  He groped a leather-covered sleeve, felt upward toward the shoulder, touched the side of Starsky’s face.  Hutch sucked in a hissing breath.  Even in the relative darkness he could see the inky stain of blood on Starsky’s skin, feel the warm tackiness of it against his fingers.  “Starsky!”  He tried to keep panic from his voice but wasn’t entirely successful.  “Starsky, come on, buddy.  Talk to me.”  Cautiously, Hutch rolled his friend’s head to the side.  Blood glinted wet and slick in the curling tips of Starsky’s hair.

 

“Hutch?”  Groggily, Starsky raised his hand.  He blinked with concentrated effort as if trying to focus.  His fingers found Hutch’s and twined around them.  “Wh-what happened?”

 

“I don’t know buddy.”  Hutch felt momentarily relief that Starsky was at least talking semi-coherently.  “It looks like you took a pretty bad blow to the head.  Think you can sit up?”

 

“Yeah.  Okay.”  The voice didn’t sound all that convincing, but with a low groan of effort, Starsky tried to move. 

 

Hutch got an arm under his shoulders and propped him back against the wall.  Once he knew Starsky wasn’t going to teeter to the side, he moved around in front of him and gripped his chin, forcing him to look straight ahead.  “How’s your vision, buddy?  You seeing me okay?”

 

“Sure.  All three of you.”  Starsky chuckled weakly, then immediately winced.  “Ow.  That hurt.”  Gingerly he fingered the side of his head.  “Where’s the gorilla that hit me?”

 

“Dunno.”  Hutch pulled Starsky’s jacket open and fumbled inside until he encountered the shoulder holster.  The Berretta was missing.

 

“You always grope on a first date?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch sat back on his haunches.  “Your gun’s missing.”

 

“No shit, Sherlock.”

 

“I’ve got mine.  Loaded too.”

 

“So someone’s either stupid or  . . . really stupid.”  Starsky sighed and closed his eyes.  “The last thing I remember was being in Huggy’s bar.  I saw some ape grab you  - - a real knuckle dragger if you know what I mean, then I got whacked from behind.” Cracking open one eye, he studied Hutch.  “Me, I’m havin’ a party, but how ‘bout you, Blondie.  How ya feelin’?”

 

“Better than you.”  Hutch licked his lips.  His mouth felt dry.  “Chloroform or some derivative.  My stomach’s still tryin’ to decide if it wants to decorate the floor.”

 

“Make sure you hit the tile and not me.”  Starsky shifted, moaning slightly with the movement.  His hand butted up against something positioned beside him.  “Hey, look.  Someone left us a goodie.” 

 

Hutch watched as he pulled a small tape recorder onto his lap.  Looking from the innocuous machine, obviously left for their benefit to his partner, Hutch frowned.  “I’ve never liked being manipulated,” he commented mildly.  The two men exchanged a long glance and Hutch relented with a sigh.  “Then again, I’ve never really been fond of guessing games either.  Let’s get on with it.”  He nodded at Starsky to proceed.  His partner depressed the “play” button and after a few seconds of whirling tape a man’s voice filled the room.

 

“Gentlemen.  Welcome to King Island.  First, let me assure you that your friend Huggy Bear is basically unharmed.  He’ll awake in his rather crude establishment with a slight headache but that is all.  Sadly there is no information on the Lincoln Robbery suspects.  That bait was simply used to lure you to a trusted location where my . . . shall we say . . . associates . . . could intercept you.  Excuse me for not greeting you personally, but it’s probably better if we don’t meet face to face.  I’d apologize for the manner in which I had you brought here, but it hardly seems valid since I plan to kill you both.  I really only wanted one of you, but I couldn’t have the other snooping around trying to track his partner down.  My apologies to Detective Starsky for his unprovoked but necessary death through the channels of association.”

 

Starsky hit the stop button.  “Nice guy.”  He looked at Hutch.  “You recognize the voice?”

 

Hutch shook his head.  Usually when someone wanted to settle a score it was with both of them.  That this person only held a grudge against him, meant that whatever prompted it had likely occurred before he’d partnered with Starsky.  Busts he’d made that long ago had mostly faded from memory.  He’d been in uniform most of that time and there had really been nothing of note. 

 

Or had there?

 

He grimaced, trying to remember.  His head was pounding again, reawakening the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.  Sweat broke out on his upper lip.

 

“Well?”  Starsky prompted.

 

“No.”  Hutch rubbed his eyes.  Judging by the sound of the recording, whoever made it had probably used a voice distorter.  The speaker’s tone was muffled, a little too low and gravelly to be natural. “Well-spoken S.O.B. whoever he is.”

 

“Yeah, I noticed that too.”  Starsky pressed “play” and the recording continued.

 

“Due north on the opposite side of King Island, you’ll find a boat ready to take you back to the mainland.  I am not an unreasonable man, gentlemen.  Reach the boat and you’re home free. I must warn you however, it is my intention to make certain you fail in achieving that goal. Between your present location and the dock are ten miles of wilderness, jungle and natural pitfalls.  You’ll also find a dozen trained guards who will do everything in their power to stop you from reaching your destination. These men have no qualms about killing you.  To be sporting, I have left Detective Hutchinson his weapon and five rounds.  It’s all you get, gentlemen . . . that and some ‘help’ -- ” A strange emphasis was placed on the final word, followed by a self-indulgent chuckle.  “-- in the jungle . . . if you can find him.  So, why am I doing this?”  A pause broken only by the whirling of the tape.  In the recorded silence, a bell tolled faintly in the background, followed by a low horn.  “I’ll leave you to figure that out, but you’ll have to go back two years and uncover a royal deception to do it.  A word of advice, before we begin:  Be careful of the jungle.  Like much medical advice, it’s booby-trapped. And now to move things along . . . you have precisely five minutes to leave your present location before the building you’re in explodes.”  The tape ended on its own, forcefully clicking off the machine.

 

Hutch looked at his partner.  “Five minutes?”

 

“He must have it rigged somehow  . . . time detonation when it reaches the end of the tape.  Clever.”  Starsky grimaced.  “Creepy too.  Let’s get out of here, huh?”

 

“Right.”  Like his partner, Hutch wasn’t inclined to take chances.  He pulled the Magnum from under his jacket, hooked an arm around Starsky’s waist and helped him to his feet.  Was it really possible they’d been squabbling about late rides and chickens just a short while ago?

 

Starsky teetered, sucking down a wobbling breath.  He clutched Hutch’s jacket, knotting his fingers in the lightweight material to steady himself.  “Remind me to nail the guy who hit me if I ever catch up with him.”

 

“Somehow, buddy, I’m afraid you might get that chance.”  Hutch guided him into the darkness, keeping the gun in front like a shield.  His eyesight had adjusted to the clustering shadows, giving him a broader sense of the room.  Large and empty, it had a gradually sloping floor designed to steer any occupant in the direction of the exit.  Hutch scowled, feeling like he was being manipulated, carefully herded out the only door.  Still, there was little option and he didn’t want to stay caged in the room.

 

“Wait here.”  Positioning Starsky to the right of the door, he moved to the left, gun pointed skyward.  He reached for the knob, but Starsky’s hand slid over it first.  A silent look passed between them, no need for explanation or planning.  Hutch nodded and on a mental count of three, Starsky wrenched open the door. 

 

Light spilled into the room.  Momentarily blinded, Hutch pivoted into the opening, sweeping the .44 left to right to cover the largest area.  He squinted against the sudden glare, shocked to find a tangle of green growth a few feet from the door.  Hot air struck him in the face, moist and tacky against his skin.  “Clear,” he said to Starsky, reaching around the door to grab his partner. 

 

Together they bolted from the room, running for cover beneath a lush snarl of tropical trees, low-hanging vines and blooming plants.  Hutch kept one hand locked on Starsky’s upper arm, half-leading, half-dragging him forward.  He used his other hand to wield the Magnum, raising it like a machete, forcefully hacking through the dense overgrowth.  Each chopping movement sent a spike of nausea straight to his head, but he never slowed. 

 

In a short time he was panting.  His mental clock ticked down on five minutes, alerting him the time for running had passed.  Pushing Starsky to the ground, flat on his stomach, Hutch dropped beside him.  He wiped sweat from his eyes and tried to peer back through the tangled tropical growth. 

 

“Nice of you to let me catch my breath,” Starsky wheezed.

 

Hutch didn’t answer.  He couldn’t.  He was too busy trying to hold his guts in check.  Barring a miracle, he knew he was going to be sick before long.  Pushing aside a broad, yellow-tipped leaf, he took a good look at the building they’d been trapped in.  No larger than twenty-by-twenty square, it was windowless, composed of a rough stone exterior and thatched roof.  Judging by the crude construction, he guessed the tile had been clay.  That would explain the texture, and the fact it hadn’t been cold to the touch, like ceramic.  The single door they’d used for their escape was still standing open, yawning drunkenly into the moist tropical air. 

 

“Starsk -- ”

 

Boom!

 

The explosion caught him completely off guard, rocketing the ground with an impact similar to the brutal aftershock of a quake.  Hutch ducked, folding his arms over his head, waiting a millisecond for the backwash of heat and ash to pass.

 

“Guess our friend was tellin’ the truth.”  With a groan, Starsky rolled onto his back, butting up against Hutch who was still lying on his stomach.  “If I didn’t have the mother of all headaches before, I got it now.  Don’t suppose you’ve got a Tylenol?”

 

Hutch ignored the quip.  “So if he was telling the truth about the bomb, think he’s telling the truth about the boat?”

 

“How far are you willin’ to trust a man who wants to end our careers - - permanently?”   Starsky rolled to the side, shifting onto his stomach and propping himself on Hutch’s back to peer through the trees.  “Sure wish I knew what you did to piss off this psycho.  Any idea where we are?”

 

Hutch shook his head and immediately wished he hadn’t.  Grinding his teeth together, he fought back another crippling wave of nausea.  There were too many people he’d crossed over the years, too many lunatics put away.  And to go back seven years before he’d partnered with Starsky - -

 

“Hey.  Wait a minute.”  Hutch sat up, dislodging his partner in the process.  The nausea came again and he ducked his head to fight it back.  From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Starsky, and realized his friend wasn’t doing well either. 

 

Starsky steadied himself with a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, using it as a brace to remain sitting upright.  In the bright glare of tropical sunlight, the blood clotted in his hair was plainly visible.  “You got somethin’?” he asked.

 

“Maybe.”  Hutch tried to put the pieces together, but his mind was still sluggish from the chloroform.  It had all seemed so clear just a few seconds ago.  With effort, he forced himself to concentrate.  “This guy said he’s got no grudge against you, right?  That you’re only here by association.”

 

“Don’t remind me.”

 

“Look, Starsk.  Initially I was thinking whatever I did to this whacko had to be before we were partnered, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense.”

 

“I’ll buy that.”

 

“But on the tape he said we’d have to go back two years for his reason - - two.  You and I were together then.”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “So it must have been some bust you made on your own.  Maybe I was out of commission . . . laid up.”

 

“No.”

 

“How can you be so sure?  What about that time I got plugged by those guys in the restaurant?  I was off the streets for - - ”

 

“No,”  Hutch interrupted firmly.  “I pushed papers until you were ready for active duty again.  Dobey wanted to partner me with someone else temporarily but I wouldn’t let him.  I’m telling you, Starsky, nothing happened two years ago that didn’t involve both of us.”

 

“So why’s he only got it in for you?”

 

Hutch looked away.  “I don’t know.”  The question bothered him.  Something just didn’t add up, but he wasn’t able to put his finger on it.  Sighing, he rubbed his forehead.  There was nothing like being dropped into the middle of a roller-coaster ride and trying to figure out which way was up.  “Wherever we are it can’t be too far from home,” he reasoned.  “How long do the effects of chloroform last?  A blow on the head?  We weren’t out that long.”

 

“Yeah . . . well . . .”  Starsky took a slow look around him.  “When’s the last time you had a tropical forest show up in your back yard?  Last count, there weren’t too many islands in the general vicinity of Metro.   I’m startin’ to feel like Alice in the Looking Glass.  I bet that truckload of chickens were really Cheshire Cats in disguise.”

 

“You’ve got a really twisted sense of logic, you know that Starsk?”  Hutch climbed to his feet.   In the distance, a plume of black smoke billowed above the trees, marking the spot where the one-room building had stood.  Hutch squinted against the glare of raw sunlight, trying to mute the ache in his head.  “One thing’s for sure . . . I don’t feel like camping out here.  Whoever rigged that bomb is probably close by.  Boat or no boat, I say we take a hike.  Think you can make it?”

 

“Do I got a choice?”  Starsky raised a hand.  “Help me up.”

 

Although the dark-haired detective kept his voice light, Hutch heard a grimace of pain underneath.  He knew his friend was hurting -- far worse than he was -- but Starsky wouldn’t admit it.  He also knew that if they were going to find a way out of the mess they were in, it wasn’t going to be by sitting still and waiting for luck to find them.  Clasping Starsky’s forearm, Hutch hauled his partner to his feet.

 

“Whoa.”  Starsky stumbled, bumping into him, clutching at Hutch’s arm to steady himself.  He swayed off balance, sucking down a ragged breath.  “Hope you’re not expectin’ any fancy footwork,” he muttered.  Closing his eyes tightly, he waited until he could stand without assistance, slowly releasing his grip.  “Okay, Blondie, due north it is.”  He took a deliberate step toward the trees.

 

“Starsky?”  Hutch tapped him on the shoulder. 

 

“Huh?”

 

Hutch pointed in the opposite direction.  “North’s that way.”

 

“Oh.  Yeah . . . I knew that.” A craggy smile lifted one corner of his mouth.  “Just testin’.”   With a last glance for his partner, Starsky changed directions and walked into the jungle.

 

+++++

 

His head was pounding.  A horrible ping-ponging pain that bounced around the inside of his skull and left him unsteady on his feet.  Somewhere up ahead a bird cackled, its shrill hyena laugh as oddly out of place as the bizarre tropical surroundings. Starsky wiped sweat from his eyes and ducked under the leafy frond of a squat tree.  Sticky humidity made it difficult to breathe.  Up ahead, Hutch had removed his white windbreaker and tied it around his waist, cuffing back the sleeves on his black workshirt.  A triangle of sweat soaked the back of the dark fabric, tapering to a trim vee halfway down his spine.  The ends of his long hair were plastered to his neck, sun blond deepening to dark gold where dry tresses grew damp with perspiration.

 

Starsky shrugged from his own jacket, the heavy leather all but suffocating him in the muggy tropical air.  Mimicking Hutch, he wrapped the sleeves around his waist, knotting them below his belt.  Something landed on the side of his neck and he swatted it away, feeling it squish beneath his fingertips.  Up ahead, Hutch stopped abruptly and folded double, hands on knees.

 

Still walking, Starsky bumped into him.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothin’.”  Hutch’s voice came out strangled.

 

“Chloroform catchin’ up with you?”  Sensing the problem, Starsky smoothed a hand over his friend’s back.  “Won’t kill us to take a break.”

 

Rather than reply Hutch lurched into the trees.  A second later Starsky heard him getting violently sick.  Sighing, he leaned against the trunk of the nearest palm and closed his eyes.  It would be so easy to let his legs bend, to slide to an exhausted heap on the ground.  The earth was soft and spongy, ideal for a nap in the heated sun.  Even that gummy warmth would feel comforting drifting to a well-deserved rest.

 

He heard a rustling in the vegetation and opened his eyes in time to see Hutch emerge from a thicket of leafy plants. His friend’s face was white and drawn, beaded with sweat above the upper lip and brow.  Still clutching the Magnum, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.   Starsky’s eyes tracked the path of the revolver as Hutch dropped his arm to his side and slumped against the tree.

 

“Better?”

 

Hutch grunted.

 

“Yeah, that’s about how I feel.”  Starsky rubbed his eyes.  “So I’m thinkin’ . . . why did this goon take my gun and leave yours?”

 

“Huh?”  Hutch glanced at him, caught off guard by the change of topic.

 

Starsky rolled his shoulders.  Rough bark bit through the airy fabric of his knit pull-on shirt.  He tugged at the sky blue material, feeling a sticky bead of sweat roll across his ribs.  “Think about it . . . I mean why your gun?  Why not mine?”

 

Hutch rested his head against the tree and closed his eyes.  “It’s got a longer range.”

 

“Yeah, so why give us that edge?  And why five rounds . . . why not six?  Why take out one bullet?”

 

Disturbed, Hutch looked at him.  A frown deepened the crease between his eyes.  “You think it’s been tampered with?”  He glanced at the weapon as if seeing it for the first time.  Jerking away from the tree, he flipped the chamber open, upending the gun and spilling the bullets into his open palm.  He butted the shells with his index finger, picking them up one by one to eyeball the casing.

 

Still leaning wearily against the tree, Starsky scrubbed at his temple where dried blood and sweat congealed to make his skin itch.  Gritty red crust flaked off beneath his fingers.  “Looks okay,” he commented, referring to the shells.  No nicks or marks, nothing to indicate they’d been pried apart and put back together.

 

“Hold these.”  Hutch dumped the shells into Starsky’s palm then raised the gun, housing open, to peer down the barrel.  Satisfied, he shrugged and refilled the chamber.  “Barrel’s clean.  Guess I won’t know for sure until I pull the trigger.”

 

Starsky scowled.  The idea of the weapon backfiring, possibly maiming or blinding Hutch unsettled his already sour stomach.  “Maybe I should carry it for a while,” he suggested.  “You’ve been usin’ it to hack through jungle growth for over an hour now.  It’s my turn.”

 

“My gun,” Hutch said simply.  He flashed Starsky a tight smile.  “Ready to start walking again?”

 

“Sadist.”  With a weary groan, Starsky fell into step behind Hutch as the taller man began clearing a path through the dense vegetation. “Think they got any water stashed on this island?” he asked.  “Like maybe a big, clear tropical pool?”  Starsky swatted another bug from the back of his neck. “My mouth’s dry as a bone. And how come these golf ball-sized blood suckers aren’t goin’ after you?”

 

Hutch chuckled and looked over his shoulder.  “Because I’m not sporting a feast all over the side of my face and neck.  You’re covered with dried blood, Starsky.  It’s like ringing the dinner bell.”  His smile thinned with worry.  “You holdin’ up okay, Gordo?” 

 

Starsky lowered his eyes on the pretext of watching where he stepped.  He couldn’t look Hutch in the face and blatantly lie.  So what if his head felt like it was going to roll off his shoulders and his stomach clenched in ever-constricting knots?  “Yeah,” he muttered.  “Just thirsty.”

 

Hutch stopped suddenly and Starsky bumped into him.  “Hey - - what are you - - ?”

 

“Ssh!”  Hutch hissed.  “Listen!”

 

Starsky moved to protest again when a rustling sound behind him made him clamp his mouth shut.  The noise stopped abruptly and something snapped loudly in the stillness.  A brightly colored bird winged from a nearby tree, bursting into startled flight.  A second later something whistled past his ear, eliciting a rapid tap-tap as it pinged through vines and leaves.

 

“Duck!”  Hutch forced his head down, thrusting him forward into leafy cover.  

 

Starsky stumbled off balance, momentarily top heavy until he could get his feet under him.  Sound and motion pummeled him in a frenzied rush  - - the slap of satin-sleek ferns against his face; the crack and snap of saplings as he blundered headfirst through dense tropical growth, arms raised to protect his eyes; the labored pant of Hutch’s breath behind him; the loud crack of a semi-automatic followed by the shrieking path of a bullet.  He heard it thud into a tree off to the side, splintering bark as it struck.  By contrast, the Magnum stayed ominously silent.  

 

Only five bullets.  Hutch wouldn’t waste them.  He’d wait for a clear shot or he wouldn’t fire at all. 

 

Another crack and another ping.  Starsky’s head felt like it was going to explode. How many goons were chasing them?  He couldn’t tell by the thud of footfalls.  Normally he could detect his partner’s fleet-footed step, but Hutch was running clumsily making it hard to decipher his path from the erratic course of their pursuers.  Worse, Starsky’s head felt clogged, turning the already alien sounds of the jungle muddy and gray.   Sweat streamed into his eyes.  He tried to swipe it aside, but more dripped from his saturated bangs, eager to take its place. 

 

After a time, he lost all sense of direction, even thought the pursuit had stopped.  He couldn’t hear Hutch any longer or his pursuers.  “Hutch?”  Still running, he glanced over his shoulder, trying to spy his partner between clustering pockets of leaf-heavy plants.  “Hu--”  The ground gave way beneath him, the shock so unexpected and violent it choked off his voice. 

 

Panicked, he free-fell into blackness.  For a terrifying moment there was only a staggering sense of disorientation.  Then his feet hit something solid and his knees buckled.  He sprawled flat on his stomach, the odor of dark earth rising to clog his throbbing head.  Confused, he tried to blink away the fog.  His palms sank into loose soil and he realized he was lying face down in an earthen pit.  With a groan of effort, Starsky righted himself.  A square patch of trees and open sky yawned overhead.  “Sonova--”

 

“Stay where you are!” A shaky voice warned from the darkness.  “I . . . I’ve got a knife.”

 

“T’rrific.”  Starsky climbed to his feet, wavering a little before slumping against the wall of the pit to hold himself upright.  “How ‘bout sharin’ it?”  Judging by the quaking sound of the man’s voice he wasn’t in any immediate danger. His partner, however, was another matter.  Starsky tilted his head back.  

 

“Huuutch!”  

 

He sucked down a lung full of air and felt it explode in his skull.  Wincing, he raised both hands to his temples.  A shuffling sound to his left told him someone moved cautiously in the darkness.  “I’m warning you,” the perfectly articulated but wavering voice said.  “St-stay where you are.”

 

“Yeah, yeah I hear ya.”  Squinting, Starsky looked up at the open lip of the pit. He felt queasy.   Was it possible he’d outdistanced his long-legged partner?  He’d thought Hutch was right behind him, but what if one of the winging bullets had caught his friend in the back and he lay fighting for life in the jungle even now?  Panicked, Starsky stepped directly below the opening.  This time he cupped both hands around his mouth.  “Huuutch!”

 

Scraping and rustling drew his attention.  A second later his partner’s blond hair eclipsed the pit and Hutch looked down on him.  “Starsky?  Starsk, are you all right down there?”

 

Starsky heaved a sigh of relief.  Thankful to find his friend whole, he slumped back against the sod wall again.  “Took you long enough,” he complained.  “Where ya been?  Here I was thinkin’ you took a bullet.”

 

Hutch dragged a hand through his long hair and shook his head.  “Think I lost ‘em.  What happened to you?”

 

Incredulous, Starsky spread his arms wide.  “What d’ya think happened, genius?  This look like the Hilton to you?”

 

“Ken?” 

 

The oddly tentative voice came from Starsky’s left.  He turned his head, surprised to see an older-looking distinguished man step from the shadows.  Trim and fit, he appeared to be about 6’3” in height with dark hair, a manicured mustache and pale blue eyes.  It was the eyes that got Starsky, somehow painfully familiar even in that unknown face.  And then he heard Hutch’s shocked voice drift from above. 

 

“Dad?”

 

Starsky did a double take.  He’d met Dr. Grant Hutchinson at his and Hutch’s Academy graduation but it had been a brief introduction.  The doctor and his elegant wife had been more concerned with escaping the throng of well-wishers than in chatting with the man who’d been partnered with their uppercrust son.  He’d had a gut impression of a reserved, polite man who’d done his best to appear supportive despite a desire to be somewhere else.  In the eight years he’d known Hutch, he’d never crossed paths with the surgeon again.  Hutch for the most part, avoided talk about his family - - particularly his father - - except around the holidays.  Starsky knew there had been some tension between the two men about Hutch’s choice of career, but he’d considered most of that water under the bridge. 

 

Looking now from father to son he was reminded once again of the oddity in Hutch’s coloring . . . a fair-haired son born to dark-haired parents.  There was a clear resemblance in bone-structure and eye color but the hair was all wrong.  Years ago someone had taken the time to explain recessive and dominant genes to him, so he knew Hutch’s unusual coloring was easily possible.  No milkman involved as some of his cruder friends might insinuate, but still the difference was startling.  From memory he knew that Hutch favored his grandfather, a man who had made his living as a farmer.  Looking now at the distinguished surgeon who stood a few feet away, he felt his mouth drop.  “Dr. Hutchinson?”

 

No longer timid, Grant Hutchinson tore his gaze from his son and focused on Starsky.  “David?  David Starsky?”

 

“Um . . . yeah.”  Bewildered he glanced up at his partner.  “Buddy, you know what’s goin’ on here?”

 

Hutch looked even more befuddled than he was. “No. I--”  Visibly gathering himself, he threw a glance over his shoulder.  “We don’t have time for this now.  We’ll sort it out later.  I lost the guys who were tracking us, but I don’t know how long before they pick up our trail again.  I get the strange feeling they stopped on purpose.”  Seating the Magnum in its shoulder holster, he looked between the two men.  “Any chance of you two climbing out of there?”

Exhaling loudly, Starsky glanced around the pit.  “Walls are smooth,” he called back.  “I could probably give your father a leg up if you stretch down, but I wouldn’t be climbin’ out after him.”