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.”

 

Hutch plopped down on his stomach, hanging over the edge to scan the pit.  It was about nine feet deep, not an insurmountable height, but too high for one man to scale on his own.  Covered by loosely laid greens and vines that had buckled at the first sign of pressure, it blended remarkably well with its tropical surroundings.  “Nice trap,” he muttered.

 

Starsky scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck.  Half of his mind was still focused on Grant Hutchinson’s presence in the pit.  The tape recording they’d heard had referenced “help in the jungle . . . if you can find him.”  Was Hutch’s father the promised help and what exactly did his “help” amount to?  “Hey.”  He rounded on the physician.  “Do you really got a knife?”

 

Taken aback by the sudden attention, Grant nodded.  “Someone left it with me.  I-I was hit over the head, and I-I woke up here, and-and . . .”

 

So that’s where Hutch gets the stutterin’ thing.  Who would have thought a fancy-talkin’ doctor would stammer when he’s nervous. 

 

Starsky held out his hand.  “We’ll work out the schematics later.  Just give it to me.”

 

Grant opened his tailored jacket.  He looked out of place standing there in pleated black trousers, a white button shirt with black tie and a charcoal blazer.  The knife wasn’t overly long, tucked into his inner breast pocket.  Withdrawing it carefully, he passed it to Starsky.  “None of this makes sense to me.”

 

“You ain’t the only one, Doc.”  Starsky tilted his head back to stare up at Hutch.  “I’m gonna toss the knife up.  See if you can catch it.” He grinned a little crookedly.  “But not by the pointy part, okay, partner?”

 

Hutch’s answering smile was slight.  Starsky knew he didn’t have to explain further, detailing what Hutch should actually do with the slender blade.  Eight years of working together meant his partner’s mind operated on the same wavelength as his.  Hutch caught the weapon on the first try and immediately disappeared from view, scooting backward.

 

Grant glanced at Starsky.  “What’s he doing?”

 

“Findin’ somethin’ to haul us outta here - - I hope.”  He tilted his head to the side, taking a good look at the doctor.  “You have any idea what you’re doin’ here . . . who might’ve arranged this little getaway?”

 

Grant shook his head.  “Up until this morning I was in San Francisco attending a medical convention.  I had breakfast with a group of colleagues then left on my own to attend a session on surgical procedures.  I made it as far as the parking lot.  The next thing I knew, I woke up in this pit.”

 

“And you’ve got no idea why you’re here?”

 

“I don’t exactly make it a practice of being ambushed and kidnapped, David.  Perhaps this is routine for you and my son, but I don’t associate with the kind of people who would orchestrate something so vile.”

 

No stutterin’ now, that’s for sure. 

 

Starsky frowned.  Hutch didn’t often talk about his father but what little he had said left Starsky with the impression Grant Hutchinson had a high opinion of himself and tended to talk down to others.  The fact that he was here at all put a whole new spin on their situation.  Before Starsky could say anything further, Hutch was back, snaking a thick vine down the side of the pit. 

 

“Grab hold,” he called to Starsky.

 

Starsky caught the vine, but passed it to Grant, guiding the doctor beneath the lip of the pit. 

 

Hutch stared down on his father.  “You’re going to have to climb up,” he instructed. “I’ll hold the vine steady, but you’re going to have to brace yourself against the wall and pull yourself up.”

 

Grant nodded.  “I’m not totally helpless, Ken” he returned stiffly.

 

Starsky watched as his partner braced himself overhead, wedging his knees in the soft soil and wrapping the thick vine around his waist to anchor himself.  At 175 pounds, Hutch supporting Starsky’s 155 body weight while clinging to a slippery vine was one matter, but his 6’3” overly buff father clearly topped 210.  Starsky moved beneath the older man, bracing himself for added security in case one or the other would slip. 

 

Hutch grunted, straining as he held fast and pulled.  His father braced his feet against the sod wall and slowly inched his way skyward.  After some initial side-to-side swaying, both men kept the vine steady and Grant Hutchinson clambered free of the pit. 

 

Starsky was next.  More in sync with his partner, he gripped the vine and climbed up swiftly.  Hutch grasped his shirt behind the shoulders and pulled him onto firm soil.  Collapsing in a heap, Starsky heaved a sigh of relief and rolled onto his back.  Reawakened pain drummed to sickly life in his skull making him grimace.

 

Hutch kept a hand on his shoulder.  “You okay, pal?”

 

Starsky nodded.  “Let’s get out of here, huh?”

 

“Wait a minute!”  Perturbed, Grant stepped forward, brusquely crowding his son’s space.  Now that he was back on firm soil, no longer alone, his uncertainty faded.  Clearly this was a man accustomed to getting his way.  Starsky heard ringing superiority in his voice when he faced down his son.  “Ken, I want to know what’s going on.  I want to know why we’re here . . . where we are.  If this has anything to do with that back-alley job of yours - -”

 

“Not now, Dad.”  Hutch’s voice was strained. “We’ll discuss it later, when we’re out of danger.”

 

“We’ll discuss it now!”

 

“Look - -”  Hutch snapped, raising a threatening finger. 

 

“Hold on both of you.”  Starsky immediately stepped between them.  Hutch thrusting an index finger in anyone’s face was indication he was on a short fuse.  Throw in Grant’s overbearing attitude and the combination was bound to end in disaster.  Shifting his attention to the doctor, Starsky tried to play peacemaker.  “I know this doesn’t make a whole lotta sense now, but Hutch - - er, Ken,” he corrected himself, “is right.  This isn’t the place to figure out facts.  We’ll do it later.”

 

Grant cast him an indignant look.  “I want to know - - ”

 

“We all want to know,” Starsky said quickly.  He took a few steps away from the pit and pointedly looked over his shoulder.  “Later,” he insisted to Grant.

 

At last the command had the desired effect.  With a short huff of breath Grant tromped a few paces ahead of Starsky, disappearing into the dense vegetation.  Scowling slightly but with an appreciative nod for Starsky as he passed him, Hutch followed.  There was no further discussion as the three men moved deeper into the tropical growth, stepping cautiously and maintaining a wary eye to avoid pitfalls and traps.  A few hundred yards later they spied a tripwire rigged to launch a series of lethal airborne spears.

 

“Our friend on the tape recorder definitely wasn’t kiddin’ when he said this jungle was booby-trapped,” Starsky muttered to Hutch as they sidestepped the trap.  Having dropped a few paces behind, Grant walked silently, head down, studiously concentrating where he stepped.  Hutch’s expression was closed, a little too guarded and tight for a man Starsky could normally read like a book.  “What’sa matter?” he asked in a low whisper.  “The old man got you uneasy?”

 

Hutch frowned.  He was silent too long, making Starsky think he wasn’t going to answer.  Finally he leaned closer, pitching his voice so only Starsky could hear.  “What’s he doing here, Starsk?  I mean . . . what’s he doing here?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “You could ask him.”

 

Hutch’s scowl deepened.  “We aren’t exactly on speaking terms.”

 

“Since when?”

 

Tight-lipped, Hutch looked away.  They walked in silence some more, time passing slowly as they labored through trees and foliage.  After a while the dense growth thinned and the land sloped to a shaded pool cradled among pockets of lush vegetation. In the sticky tropical heat the blue-green water looked as serenely inviting as a desert oasis. A few lazy insects skimmed the surface, chased by a duo of needle-beaked birds in search of a quick meal. Tree frogs warbled from the shelter of intertwining branches, croaking and burbling loudly in a strange off key language.  Halting a few yards from the water, the three men hovered at the edge of the protective jungle canopy.

 

Starsky licked his lips, vainly striving to ease his dry throat.  The water looked inviting, but an inner sense told him all wasn’t as it seemed.  “Great place for an ambush,” he mused aloud. 

 

He knew Hutch was thinking the same thing, but Grant had different ideas.  “We need water,” the physician said simply.

 

Hutch shot him a frowning glance.  “And we need to be cautious, Dad.  Whoever dropped us in the middle of this jungle and set those traps isn’t going to pass up something like this.  It’s a prime target for an ambush.”

 

Grant sighed.  “I’m tired and I’m hot, Ken.  Do what you want.  I’m going to get a drink.”  Before anyone could protest he stepped from the shelter and boldly walked down the bank. 

 

Hutch swore tightly.  Drawing his gun, he sprinted quickly in his father’s wake, leaving Starsky to follow more slowly.

 

“Hey, if this is gonna turn into one of those family things,” he said as he drew abreast of Hutch at the water’s edge, “Just tell me to take a hike.”  His lips tipped upward, but Hutch remained stoic, his glance bristling at the edges.  Ooh-kay.  Sliding into the testy zone, huh, Blintz?

 

Shrugging, Starsky turned away and dipped his hands into the water.  As long as he was there, he planned to take advantage of the relief.  A few feet to the right, Grant knelt at the water’s edge, dipping his handkerchief below the surface, patting it over his face and neck.  Leaning forward, he cupped his hands to drink deeply.

 

Starsky wasn’t so reserved.  Tempted to dive in, he settled for crouching on hands and knees, greedily thrusting his face below the surface.  The shock was anything but kind.  He emerged sputtering, grimacing in pain at the knife-like eruption in his head.  Shaken, he groaned and toppled hip-heavy to side. 

 

“What are you doing, dummy?”  Slipping the Magnum back into his shoulder holster, Hutch crouched beside him, steadying him with a firm hand around his bicep.  Questing fingers prodded the back of Starsky’s head, gently separating curling hair from blood-caked scalp. “That was stupid.”

 

Starsky winced. “You’re just full of compliments today.”

 

“Yeah . . . well look what I’ve got for material.”  Hutch stopped his prodding long enough to drag a handkerchief from his front pocket. “Hold still.  This might clean up now.”

 

Leave it to a society-bred Hutchinson never to be without a handkerchief, Starsky thought absently.  He watched as Hutch mimicked his father, dipping the square of white fabric beneath the water, then carefully raising the dripping edge to swab at his head. 

 

Starsky hissed and wrenched back. “Easy, huh?”

 

“Don’t be such a baby, Starsk.” 

 

“Maybe I wouldn’t be if I didn’t have the Marquis DeSade for a doctor.”

 

The exchange was light, voiced entirely without malice.  Listening to their easy banter, Grant wandered closer.  Starsky felt him hovering off to the side, hands thrust in trouser pockets as he watched his son’s careful ministrations. 

 

“That looks like a bad cut,” the older man said to Starsky.  “Head wounds can be tricky if not properly tended.  Would you like me to take a look?”

 

“I got it, Dad,” Hutch said quickly, never ceasing what he was doing.  He didn’t bother raising his head or glancing over his shoulder.  It suddenly occurred to Starsky that he was studiously avoiding looking at his father completely. 

 

And that he was now pressing a little too firmly as he swabbed dried blood from Starsky’s face. 

“Uh, Hutch?”

 

“Yeah, Starsk?”

 

“Could you maybe not gouge my brains out while you’re doin’ that?”

 

Embarrassed, Hutch flushed and quickly stopped what he was doing.  Lowering his hands, he sat back on his haunches. “I think I got most of it,” he announced, looking abruptly uncomfortable.

 

Dismissing his assessment, Grant turned his back and paced a short distance away.  This time Hutch followed him with his eyes. 

 

Starsky sighed.  Just his luck to inherent a father-son team with a dysfunctional relationship.  “Okay, boys and girls, I think we need to take a serious look at what’s happenin’ here.”  Using Hutch for a brace, Starsky planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved to his feet.  “Accordin’ to our tape-happy host, I’m just along for the ride.  It’s my blond blintz of a partner here - - ”  He motioned vaguely in Hutch’s direction, “ - - that he’s really after.  Throw in one Minnesota physician who just happened to be attendin’ a convention in San Francisco and now we’ve got two - - count ‘em two - - ” He held up two fingers.  “ - - Hutchinsons for the price of one.”  His gaze sidled to Hutch who had climbed to his feet.  “How much you wanna bet this’s got nuthin’ to do with us and everthin’ to do with you and the good doctor?”

 

Hutch blinked.  “Two years ago - - ”

 

Starsky tilted his head.  “Two years ago, what?”

 

“That’s what I’d like to know.”  Hutch took a step toward his father.  “You’re right Starsky.  This isn’t about you or me, it’s about him.  Something from his past.  Something that must have happened two years ago.”

 

Grant looked blank.  “What are you talking about?”

 

Briefly Hutch explained how they’d arrived in the jungle and the information they’d gotten from the tape.  When he was through Grant looked at him incredulously.  “And I’m supposed to make sense of that?  You think this man, whoever he is, is doing all of this because of me? Ken, I’m not the one with the career that attracts lunatics and killers.”  He looked pointedly at the gun resting in Hutch’s holster.  “I’m a healer, Ken.  I don’t take lives, I save them.”

 

A horrible transformation swept over Hutch’s face.  “What the hell does that mean?”

 

“Okay, calm down.”  Starsky stepped between them, laying an open palm on Hutch’s chest to butt him backward.  Grant might be oblivious, but Starsky knew Hutch was ready to explode in a fit of temper.  All the signs were there, from the deep crease between his friend’s brows, to the combative set of his shoulders, the smoldering glint of his pale eyes.  Hutch rarely went off the deep end, but when he did it wasn’t pretty.  It amazed him that Hutch could routinely turn aside the digs of others, remaining calm and controlled in most circumstances.  Yet let his father make one snide remark and he was ready to blow up. 

 

I’m a healer, Ken.  I don’t take lives, I save them.  Even Starsky read the underlying accusation in the pointedly direct statement.  He huffed out a breath.  Dang, but this wasn’t going to be easy!

 

“We’ve got time to figure this out,” Starsky told both men.  “But this probably ain’t the best place to rehash facts.  I say we take advantage of the water while we’ve got the chance, then get outta here before the welcomin’ committee shows up.”

 

Knowing his partner was right, Hutch relented with a sigh.  He dragged a hand through his long hair and nodded.  The slump of his shoulders indicated a release of tension, followed by resigned acceptance.  Starsky tugged him toward the water.  “Come on, Blondie.  Let’s get a drink.”

 

Hutch squatted at the pool’s edge, bending forward to splash water over the back of his neck.  He looked aside as Starsky crouched next to him.  “Thanks.”

 

One dark brow crimped into Starsky’s tousled hair.  “For what?”

 

“For making me back off.”  Frowning, Hutch gazed past Starsky to where his father stood facing away from them.  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do with him, Starsk,” he admitted quietly.  “Yeah, I’m pissed at him, but he’s out of his element here.  You and I might survive this.  I’m not so sure about him.  We’ve only got one gun and five bullets between the three of us.  If I’m worrying about him, looking out for him, then I’m not doing everything I should be doing for you.  For all of us.  I could screw up.”

 

Starsky cupped his hands to drink water.  Personally he thought his friend was being stupid worrying about whether or not he’d “screw up,” but decided it probably wasn’t wise to point that out.  Not after Hutch’s near-fit of righteous temper.  Leave it to a Hutchinson to sweat the small stuff.  “We’ll both look out for him.” 

 

Starsky took a long swallow of water, savoring the coolness as it trickled down his parched throat.  “I think we should sit down and try’n remember as much as we can from that message.  It had a lot of puzzlin’ stuff in it.  Maybe with the three of us puttin’ our heads together we can make sense of it.”

 

Hutch nodded.  He took a drink of water, then dipped his hands a second time, soaking his hair.  Starsky followed suit, the shock not as startling now that his whole head wasn’t immersed.  “Hutch?”

 

“Huh?”

 

Starsky shot a quick glance in Grant’s direction, deciding the physician was safely out of earshot but close enough in the event of danger.  “I know things ain’t always been the best between you and your dad, but you kinda overreacted back there.  Wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

 

Silent, Hutch took another drink of water.  Starsky decided he’d pushed the wrong button  - - the one to make a borderline-irate Hutch retreat into an unwilling-to-share Hutch - - but after a few seconds his partner relented with a shrug.  “Let’s just say I saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.”  Hutch’s eyes slid to the side, shadowed with a hint of apology.  “It’s why I’ve been on edge the last three days.”

 

Starsky quirked a brow and grinned.  “On edge?”

 

“Okay, it’s why I’ve been treating you like shit.”  Now clearly irritated, Hutch raked at his damp hair.  “You didn’t deserve any of it, Starsk.  It’s just . . .”  He wet his lips, cast another darting glance at his father.  Grant kept close but still out of earshot, kneeling by the pool to slake his thirst.  “I got this letter . . . from my father,” Hutch explained.  “Only he put it in the wrong envelope.  It was for a colleague of his.”  Digging a folded piece of paper from the front pocket of his jeans, he passed it to Starsky.  “Start reading about halfway down, second paragraph.”

 

Surprised that Hutch was now willing to share something so personal - -  not when he’d originally received it, not when it had been silently eating at him for days, but now in the midst of who-knew-where, with one gun and five bullets between them, a tape-recorded riddle to solve, and water from a tropical pool marking the highlight of their day. Starsky might have laughed except for the half-wounded, half-angry expression on his friend’s face. Using one hand he thumbed the letter open and started reading silently where Hutch had directed.

 

I was thrilled to hear about your son’s plans to follow you into medicine.  How proud you must be, Jeremy, to know that Mitchell embraces your dreams and will pursue such a noble profession.  I sometimes forget that a father-son relationship needn’t be strained.  I remember a time, long ago, when Ken looked up to me.  I know I was never overly affectionate with the boy, perhaps even a little too demanding and controlling, but I did have his best interest at heart.  Somehow I fear that got lost in translation as he grew older.  

 

I try to remember that Ken is doing what he wants, 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.  If there is disappointment in my relationship with Ken, perhaps I must carry the blame for that.  We don’t talk anymore.  We speak at each other, a sad difference.  Perhaps that is because our relationship was always based on excelling and perfection, but I only wanted what was best for him.  If I pushed him too hard, was often unforgiving of failure and weakness, it’s only because I wanted him to succeed.  I certainly never saw him strapping on a gun and taking lives.  That image is hard for a man of medicine to swallow, as I’m sure you can imagine.  Still, I am happy for your own good news and Mitchell’s commitment to follow medicine.  Give my love to Beth and if you see Fletcher, tell the old fool he still owes me a bottle of his best brandy for that last round of golf. 

 

Regards,

Grant

 

Starsky gave a low whistle and shook his head.  He really didn’t know what to say.  The letter sat heavily in his gut, abominably ugly and weighted with stone.  He felt a quicksilver flash of rage toward the man who had written so clinically and distantly about his partner.  What an ass!  Hutch had grown up in a cold, affection-free environment, but somehow he’d managed to become the most compassionate person Starsky had ever encountered.  His mother’s influence, no doubt.  Starsky knew his partner had a loving relationship with Adele Hutchinson, even though she too frowned on his career choice.  He’d spoken with her a few times on the phone since their Academy graduation, and once even spent a weekend with her and Hutch when she’d flown in for an unexpected visit.  She was elegant and sophisticated, a woman whose very presence inspired words like “regal” and “graceful,” but she was also warm, caring and giving.  Unlike her perfectionist-driven husband. 

 

Starsky frowned.  If Grant Hutchinson had made no other impression on his son, he’d firmly instilled in Hutch the drive - - no, the outright need - - to be perfect in everything he did.  And when he failed, as was only natural, Starsky’s overly-sensitive friend spent days beating himself up over what he perceived as weaknesses.  That was Hutch on a normal day.  Throw in a letter like the one he currently held in his hand and Hutch’s tightly controlled emotions teetered on the snapping point.

 

“Ah, buddy, I’m sorry.” Starsky shook his head, looking at the letter like it was poison.  “This really sucks. I’d wished you told me about it.  You shouldn’t have to deal with shit like this on your own.”

 

Grim-faced, Hutch took the letter and slipped it back into his pocket.  “It’s no big deal,” he said quietly.

 

“Bullshit!  Don’t be pulling the martyr act on me, Hutchinson.”  Lowering his voice, he shot a dark glance in Grant’s direction.  Right now he’d willingly pay money to throttle the man.  Five seconds, that’s all he needed.  “So did you tell King Medicine he screwed up and sent you the wrong letter?”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “I’m sure he knows, though.  He and Jeremy Eckert are close . . . they did their residency together.  Jeremy probably called him the moment he got my letter.”  Hutch gave a soft snort.  “I bet it was filled with stuff about the weather and the latest stock news.  My father spills his guts to Jeremy about my career and our relationship and to me he writes things like ‘your mother is having the gardener plant new rose bushes by the guest house.’”

 

“So say something to him,” Starsky prodded.  He tried to hold his frustration in check, but it spilled out in his next thought:  “Or let me.”  Yeah, he’d say something to the good doctor.  A whole lot of something, given the chance!  He hated the fact that Hutch was hurting, had been hurting for some time and hadn’t confided in him.

 

Hutch chuckled.  “Thanks, buddy, but now’s not the time.”  Wearily, Hutch stood.  “Maybe later, when this mess is over.”  He offered his hand to Starsky, pulling his partner to his feet.  A strange look crossed his face and he tilted his head to the side as if stumbling over something unexpectedly.  “Did you notice how quiet it’s gotten?”

 

“Huh?”  It took Starsky a second longer to focus.  He realized abruptly that everything around them had stilled.  Bird calls, the warbling croak of tree frogs, even the natural rustling of the jungle had stopped. An eerie quiet surrounded the pool as though it hung suspended in an air-tight vacuum. 

 

On reflex, Starsky reached for his shoulder holster, silently cursing when he came up empty.

 

“Dad!”  Hutch sprinted toward his father, frantically motioning him away from the water.  “Get down!”  Unmindful of the danger, Grant didn’t react.

 

Starsky barely had time to draw a breath before the first shot erupted from the thicket.  He saw Hutch barrel into his father, physically throwing the older man to the ground.  Just as quickly, Hutch pivoted, rising up on one knee, the Magnum aligned with deadly accuracy.  Starsky heard the crack of the powerful weapon and saw a body roll from the vegetation.  Rather than run for cover, Grant froze, immobilized in a terrified half-crouch beside his son.

 

Starsky swore.  They were sitting ducks in the open.  He knew Hutch would never leave his father, but the older man was clearly paralyzed by fear. 

 

“Get to cover!” Starsky waved his arms, racing toward Grant.  A spray of bullets pockmarked the ground at his feet, but didn’t deter his path.  Hutch slipped a hand under his father’s arm, trying to pull him up even as he fired a second shot.  Another body tumbled from the trees.  Starsky was close enough to hear Grant moan, the sound tortured and low like a wounded animal.

 

Hutch spurred him forward.  “Damn it, Dad - - run!”

 

This time the command was obeyed, sluggishly at first, then with more speed.  Grant tripped over his feet, pulled himself back up, staggering into a loping run.  Starsky was almost side-by-side with his partner when he saw sunlight bounce off the barrel of a semi-automatic wedged between the trees. 

 

Starsky’s heart went cold.  The weapon’s trajectory was clear, but Hutch’s attention was still on his father.  He’d never react in time.  In that millisecond of terror when eternity hung suspended, his partner’s life in the balance, Starsky felt the world crumble beneath him. 

 

“Huuuutch!”  The name ripped from his lungs at the same time the automatic exploded.  He saw a flash of blond hair as Hutch started to turn, then Starsky’s shoulder collided painfully with his partner’s back.  He heard a grunt, felt the jarring shock of impact meant for his friend.  His body was spun violently to the side, something lethal and hot flaring to agonizing life below his ribs. 

 

Dazed, Starsky lay on his back staring up at the sky.

 

It took a moment for the pain to really register, for the dragon-tongue of flame to lick a scalding conduit to his brain.  He cried aloud on reflex, both hands groping for the burning hole in his side.  His fingers stumbled over blood-soaked flesh, bringing a chokehold of sudden panic.  “Oh, god!”  A bullet pinged near his head.

 

“Don’t worry, buddy, it’s gonna be okay.   I’ve got you.”  Hutch’s voice sounded rushed, breathless.  An arm slid under his shoulders, not as gentle as it might have been under other circumstances.  “Starsk, help me out.  Please, buddy, you’ve gotta walk!”  

 

He knew that.  Heard another bullet nick the ground near his feet.  Hutch pivoted against his shoulder and fired.  Wasted bullet.  How many shells did that make?  Three?  Four?  If he didn’t do something soon, Hutch would fire all of them trying to protect him.

 

“Okay,” he panted, clutching desperately at Hutch’s arm.  “I can do it.  Help me - - ”

 

Hutch hooked an arm around his waist, got him to his feet, half-dragging, half-helping stumble to cover.  Starsky’s legs buckled even before they reached the trees.  Oddly enough, the firing behind them had stopped, the guns going silent.  All he heard was the torturous racing of his own heart, the hitching wheeze of Hutch’s labored breathing.

 

He folded into a cool bed of ferns, guided by his friend’s gentle arm.  His senses were on fire, overly heightened by a brittle invasion of pain. Every sound and distraction felt magnified ten-fold . . . the warm ground against his jeans, the scrape of grass under his palms, the soothing brush of a caressing thumb across his cheek.  Oh God, thank you for that!  He floated, carried by a pillowy cushion of air.

 

“Starsk?  Starsk are you with me?”

 

He moaned, dragged back to punishing reality.  Hot pain flared in his side, turning the soft moan into something more vocal.  He clutched at Hutch’s arm, vaguely aware that Grant Hutchinson was bent over him, intently probing the area below his ribs.  “Hu - - Hutch?”

 

“Easy buddy.”  The thumb swept higher, tracing the contour of his cheek.  Hutch’s voice was soft, gentle.  A tone of affection reserved solely for him.  “You took a bullet in the side.  What were you doing playing hero like that, pushing me out of the way?”  

 

Starsky tried to answer, found his tongue wouldn’t move.  His eyes locked on Hutch’s, oceanic blue riveted on lighter sky.  “Hu . . . tch - - ”

 

“Ssh.”

 

“It’s deep,” Starsky heard Grant say.  The probing stopped.  The doctor pulled off his tie, folded it into a square and wadded it over the wound.  “We need to stop the bleeding.”

 

“We need to get him out of here.” Hutch shot a quick glance over his shoulder.  “Fast.  Before those goons come back.”

 

Starsky wanted to tell him he didn’t think they would . . . that maybe whoever was playing games with them had gotten what they wanted  - - for one of them to suffer.  But the only sound that came from his throat was a tortured groan. 

 

“Easy, pal.”  Hutch immediately fixated on him, everything else, including his father forgotten. 

 

Starsky felt gentle fingers thread his hair, carefully avoiding the raw wound on his scalp.  He’d forgotten that pain in face of the new torture in his side.  His hand wrapped around Hutch’s wrist. 

 

“We need safe cover,” Hutch said softly.  Untying his jacket, he bundled it together and slid it under Starsky’s head.  “I’m gonna leave the gun with you . . .scout ahead, see if I can find some place for us to hole up.”

 

“ . . . no . . .”  Only one word managed, when Starsky wanted to say so much more.  It was an impossible situation.  Hutch couldn’t send Grant, fearing the doctor would become lost, or worse be killed.  He couldn’t leave the gun with Grant, for his father would never use it, and he wouldn’t take the gun himself even though he needed the protection, because he wanted Starsky to have it.  “Take . . . it,” Starsky ordered.

 

Hutch laid a hand on his shoulder.  “You’ve got two bullets left,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard.  His gaze lingered, warm yet worried, emotion passing between them with an ease words never had.  For a second the overwhelming warmth of Hutch’s love eradicated the agony of his side.  There was only peace, gentleness, compassion . . . all the elements he’d come to associate with his friend’s spirit.   

 

Starsky raised a blood-soaked hand, wrapping his fingers around Hutch’s. “Don’t . . . be long.”

 

Hutch gave a slight smile, touched the side of his face.  “Wait for me, babe.”

 

And then he was gone, leaves swaying to mark his passage in the thick vegetation.  Starsky clasped the Magnum to his chest and closed his eyes.

 

+++++

 

He’d been drifting.  Floating somewhere in that pillowy softness again.  Every now and then a surge of pain rudely jostled him back to awareness and he had a moment of near clarity.  At those times he was normally hot, aggravated, consumed by fire until the blissful darkness coaxed him away.  Occasionally someone would brush his face, the touch achingly familiar.  A soothing voice would offer reassurances, the touch dropping to gently rub his shoulder.  Once, he had a strange dream of being carried, his body hanging limply, broken sky and leafy branches wheeling overhead in a sickening helter-skelter carousel.  He’d thought he was going to be sick, the pain so hot and furious he wanted to curl into a ball.

 

But the voice came back, the gentle touch . . . soothing, caressing, until the fire dwindled to something he could tolerate and the nausea snaked from his stomach.  He’d tried to cling to the voice, wanted the touch to go on and on, but the darkness was more insistent, pulling him into a soft web.  So he drifted some more, content until the next spike of pain.   

 

+++++

 

Hutch sat with his head in his hands.  He knew he should be thankful. The cave he’d found was a godsend, tucked into a thick pocket of vegetation and trees.  Halfway up a natural stone wall, it overlooked a small pond and trickling waterfall, thickly sheltered with flora and foliage.  His father had even found mangos, coconuts and another pulpy fruit not far from the entrance.  With Grant’s knife they’d been able to slice up a hodgepodge meal, eaten in tense silence.  Hutch had taken only a few bites before concern for Starsky made his throat close up and he’d been unable to finish.

 

Moody, withdrawn, insane with worry, he’d fidgeted over his friend, disgusted at how useless he felt.  Starsky had been unconscious by the time he returned after initially locating the cave.  He’d tried to rouse him, but in the end he’d been forced to carry Starsky.  With his father’s help, they’d gotten the unconscious man through the jungle and settled near the back wall of the small cavern on a bed of broad palm leaves and grass.  Grant had managed to stop the bleeding and had even used coconut shells to fetch water and clean the wound. 

 

Hutch was torn between striking out on his own and trying to find help, to knowing he couldn’t leave his father alone, expecting him to protect himself and Starsky in the event of trouble.  If there truly was a boat on the north side of the island, the odds of getting Starsky there in his present condition were slim.   Hutch knew he had a better chance of finding whoever had marooned them.  There had to be a house or a dwelling tucked somewhere in the jungle.  If he could find that, he could locate a communications channel - - phone, radio - - to the outside world.  There would likely also be first-aid supplies, possibly even medicines.  At the very least, shelter would offer more comfort for Starsky than the rough floor of an outdoor cave.

 

Exhaling, Hutch dragged a hand through his hair.  His father was just outside the cave mouth smoking one of the thin cigars he routinely carried in his jacket pocket.  A bad habit for a doctor, but one Grant Hutchinson couldn’t shake.  Even he’s not perfect.

 

Hutch frowned. They hadn’t spoken since the incident at the pool except to confer about Starsky, but that was fine with Hutch.  He was too worried about his friend to be concerned with the strained silence between him and his father.  At the moment, he was grateful for Grant’s presence on the island.  Hutch had some medical school under his belt but that limited knowledge would never match his father’s expertise.  Despite all his faults, Grant Hutchinson was a highly skilled doctor.  At least that was some help for Starsky.

 

Hutch shifted where he sat on the ground, leaning closer to his partner. A need for touch made him brush his friend’s forehead lightly . . . just enough to feel warm flesh and the blessed familiarity of tumbled curls.  He’d removed Starsky’s shoulder holster earlier, tucking his own jacket and Starsky’s battered leather beneath his shoulders and head as a makeshift pillow.  His friend’s skin was hot, a sickly gray-white gleaming with sweat.  Perspiration pooled in the hollow of Starsky’s throat and beaded in the curling ends of his thick hair. 

 

Hutch hated the lifelessness of him.  Starsky was all about energy and motion, a volatile ball of non-stop activity even when he was still.  Sometimes that ceaseless motion could be overwhelming, occasionally irritating, but it was an integral part of his friend’s complex personality.  To be suddenly without it left Hutch feeling empty, stripped of an essential half of his soul.  He needed it back.  Desperately wanted Starsky to open his eyes and offer up one of his patented lopsided grins. 

 

Leaning forward, Hutch rubbed his thumb over Starsky’s cheek.  “Ah, buddy, why’d you have to go and push me out of the way?”  His voice thinned, stuck in his throat.  He swallowed hard, shoving down a rising lump of emotion.  “Don’t you know this hurts worse than any bullet ever could?”

 

“He isn’t going to make it if that bullet doesn’t come out.” 

 

Grant’s somber voice drew Hutch’s attention to the mouth of the cave.  His father had stepped inside, his broad frame silhouetted against the dying light at his back.  They’d been immobile for hours now, hidden in the cave as the sun slowly sank into the cradle of the jungle.  Twilight seeped through the trees, a cooling blend of grape-purple and blue pewter that inched into the cavern.  Outside, nocturnal creatures stirred from heavy slumber, shaking off the gummy heat of day.

 

“He’ll be all right,” Hutch said rigidly, trying to convince himself.  Suddenly hot, he thumbed open another button on his black workshirt, the material gaping on his chest in a deep “v.”  He thought of the cool pool outside, of how soothing the water would feel on his heated skin, maybe even help Starsky.

 

Grant came nearer and crouched off to the side.  “He’s starting on a fever.”

 

“I know that,” Hutch snapped.  Why the hell state the obvious?  Of course Starsky was starting on a fever!  He wasn’t blind.  He had eyes. 

 

He stiffened involuntarily, unintentionally transmitting his agitation to Starsky. 

 

His friend moaned and stirred restlessly, a sliver of blue appearing under his lashes.  “Hutch?”

Starsky’s hand faltered in the air.

 

“Ssh, pal.  I’m right here.”  Hutch caught his fingers, ignoring the fact they were both stained with blood.  His friend’s eyes were wide now, looking overhead, tracking the strange surroundings, trying to make sense of a pain-filled fog.  “It’s gonna be okay, buddy.  I’m gonna get you out of here.  You just need to rest.”

 

“ . . . can’t . . .”

 

“Sure you can.”  Hutch laid a hand on his shoulder.  He looked past his father to one of the hollowed out coconut shells they’d been using for water.  He gave Grant a prodding nod.  Understanding the silent directive, his father left to fetch Starsky a drink. 

 

“You were sleeping pretty good there for awhile,” Hutch told his friend.  He tried to smile past the lump in his throat.  “Thought maybe you just wanted to be carted through the jungle like some kind of Jewish-Polish-Brooklyn royalty.”

 

Starsky gave a soft snort.  His fingers tightened around Hutch’s.  “Royalty.  Didn’t . . . didn’t our host say somethin’  . . . ‘bout royalty on that tape?”

 

“Maybe.”  Hutch didn’t want to think about that now.  About the kind of sick mind responsible for the whole mess, but most especially for putting a bullet in his friend’s side.  Tenderly, he traced the curve of Starsky’s cheek with an index finger.  “Let me worry about that, okay?”

 

Starsky swallowed, falling silent for a moment.  In the confines of the small cave, his breathing sounded ragged.  “Hutch?”

 

“What is it, babe?”

 

“It hurts.”

 

“God - - ” Tortured by the thought, Hutch dropped his head, helpless frustration twisting his stomach.  He rested his brow against Starsky’s.  “What can I do, buddy?  Please tell me how I can help you.”

 

Starsky turned his head, angling his face against Hutch’s neck.  “You’re . . . doing it,” he whispered.

 

Hutch closed his eyes, mortified by the agonizing strain he felt in his friend’s body.  Starsky was tense, every muscle constricted as he tried to silence a punishing wave of pain.  A soft moan slipped from his lips and he instinctively grabbed Hutch’s shirt.

 

“I got you, buddy.”  Hutch pulled him close, blanketing his own body around Starsky’s, feeling the growing heat of fever invade his skin.  If he could only get his friend to relax, maybe it would lessen the pain, give him some relief.  “You wanna lie flat again?”

 

“No.”  Desperate, Starsky clung to his shirt.

 

“Okay, bad suggestion.”  Hutch laughed softly into Starsky’s hair.  The dark curls smelled of dried blood and jungle heat, yet he could still scent his partner there - - musk and leather, a whisper of soap and shampoo lingering from Starsky’s morning shower; the lighter spice of his aftershave. 

 

Inwardly, Hutch chuckled.  He was probably more familiar with that earthy scent than most of Starsky’s dates.  His friend had been stuck on the same ridiculously priced aftershave for as long as he’d known him.  One of Starsky’s “gotta have” luxuries.  It often filled the Tornio, clung to his friend’s clothing, sometimes mixed with the sweaty tang of perspiration after they’d chased down some two-penny hood.  Other times Hutch had noticed it when he’d slept on Starsky’s couch, the familiar odor like a balm for his soul.  He’d spent years ragging Starsky about the price - - hell, he didn’t even know the name of the thing, but he’d come to think of it solely as his partner’s scent.  It fit Starsky, a tantalizing combination of street steel and child-like fragility.  Even now it left Hutch fighting back a rising tide of emotion. “Want me to stay?” he managed.

 

Mutely Starsky nodded.

 

Hutch angled behind him, lifting him slightly to get a leg on either side of his body.  He knew the movement had to hurt, yet Starsky didn’t make a sound.  He merely clung tight, holding his breath.  When Hutch was still, he sagged against his chest, a soft sound escaping his lips.  Curling onto his side, he groped suddenly for the wound as if it flared unexpectedly with pain.

 

“No!  Babe, I’m sorry, but you can’t.”  Hutch trapped his wrists, hating himself when Starsky moaned.  “I know it hurts, Starsk, but the bleeding’s stopped.  You don’t want to bust it open.”  He rubbed a hand over Starsky’s arm, tracing bunched muscle in a slow, soothing caress.  “Try to rest for a bit, huh?  I’ll stay right here with you.  Okay, buddy?”

 

“I . . . okay.”  Starsky’s voice came heavier, slurred with exhaustion. 

 

Relieved, Hutch dropped his head back against the wall.  It was then he saw his father standing a few feet away, holding the coconut shell full of water.  It struck him all at once that he’d probably been standing there for a long time, watching and listening to the two of them.  He felt his mouth tighten involuntarily.  What’s the matter, Dad?  Surprised that I can care about someone?  That I learned to love and give even when I didn’t have that from you?  Silently, he held out his hand for the water.

 

Grant passed it to him wordlessly.

 

“Starsk?”  Focused on his partner, Hutch immediately dismissed all thought of his father.  There was only the man cradled in his arms, a life more precious than his own. Lowering his head, he dipped his lips near Starsky’s ear.  “You want a drink, buddy?”

 

Starsky gave a soft grunt, his cheek pressed to Hutch’s chest where his shirt gaped open.  The sound was tired, listless.  As much as Hutch wanted him to rest, he knew the importance of fluids.  More so, the water would help combat the burgeoning growth of fever he felt trapped under Starsky’s skin.  Gently, Hutch stroked his friend’s neck.  “Starsk?  Come on, pal, just a few sips.”  He held the coconut shell closer, felt his own stomach roil at the underlying sweetness of the coarse white meat.

 

Starsky smelled it too.  He gave a grunt and tried to recoil.  

 

“Okay, okay.  I’m sorry,” Hutch said quickly, his voice soft and calming.  “I know it doesn’t smell too good right now.”  Gingerly, he set the shell beside him, carefully repositioning Starsky so that his head rested on Hutch’s shoulder. The hint of a smile touched his lips.  “I know it’s not root beer or that fizzy grape stuff you like, but it’ll make you feel better.  Come on, babe - - ”   Dipping his hand in the carved out hollow of the shell, Hutch scooped up a palm-full of water.  “Just a few swallows.”

 

Tilting his hand to Starsky’s mouth, he dribbled clear liquid onto his friend’s lips.  Starsky shifted, trying to tuck closer against him.  And then the coolness registered on his parched flesh and his tongue snaked across his lips. 

 

“That’s it,” Hutch whispered encouragingly.

 

A sliver of electric blue appeared beneath the curling edge of Starsky’s lashes.  Like a girl’s, Hutch thought affectionately.  Girls and women routinely turned to hormonal putty when Starsky batted those long lashes at them.  Throw in a devastatingly hooked grin and his curly-haired partner was suddenly irresistible.  Even Hutch had fallen prey to his lethal charisma, unable to say “no” to some ridiculous plea when Starsky upped the amperage on his natural charm.

 

“Tastes  . . . like mud  . . . sweeter,” Starsky mumbled.

 

“Pretend it’s a milkshake,” Hutch countered.  He dribbled another handful, only this time Starsky swallowed all of it.  Two more followed before his friend emphatically turned his face into Hutch’s shoulder.  Raising his arm, he hooked it around Hutch’s neck and nestled closer.

 

Hutch gave an indulgent chuckle.  “So I guess that means you don’t want anymore water?”  When Starsky didn’t answer but continued to cling to him, Hutch rubbed a hand up and down his back.  “Go to sleep, babe.  I’m staying right here.”

 

Watching, Grant gave a disapproving shake of his head.  “Coddling him isn’t going to help.  That bullet needs to come out, Ken.  You know it and I know it.”

 

Hutch shot him a black glare.  He could sense Starsky was half-asleep, trapped in the gray limbo between full consciousness and slumber.  “Not now, Dad.”

 

“Then when?”  Grant challenged.  He stood and paced a few steps away.  “When the sicko who orchestrated this whole mess finally shows up with a platoon of hitmen?  Might that be a good time, Kenneth?  Maybe you can convince them your partner’s life is worth sparing, if they haven’t already put a bullet through you.”

 

“You think I wouldn’t help him now, if I could?”  Hutch snapped. 

 

Disturbed, Starsky fidgeted and moaned.

 

Hutch swore softly.  “Ssh, ssh.  I’m sorry, partner.  I didn’t mean to bother you.  Just take it easy and rest.  I’m right here, buddy.”  He hugged Starsky a little closer, inhaling a tangle of spicy-sweet sweat, leather and blood.  His fingers found the base of Starsky’s neck and began a slow, methodic massage.  

 

He’d done the same thing three nights ago when Starsky got sidelined by muscle pain after a run-in with a user twice his size.  He’d finally had to sit on the perp to cuff him, and that was only after he’d been tossed around a few times.  Hutch had arrived on the scene too late to help, but later that evening when they’d had pizza and beer at his apartment, he’d done what he could for Starsky.  His friend had been whining for hours about his increasingly stiff neck.  Unable to take the theatric fussing any longer, Hutch had sat on the sofa and motioned his friend to join him.  The memory came easily with little prompting:

 

“Come here.”  Tired of listening to Starsky moan about the crick in his neck, Hutch motioned him over to the couch. 

 

The endless complaining stopped abruptly, cut off in mid gripe.  Standing next to Hutch’s kitchen table, a beer in one hand, a slice of pizza in the other, Starsky looked like a deer caught unexpectedly in the headlights.  “What?”

 

Hutch batted the cushion beside him.  “Get your butt over here.”

 

“Why?” Starsky stayed rooted to the spot. 

 

“Why?”  Hutch gave an incredulous laugh.  “Why do you think, dummy?  So I can take care of that knot in your neck and give one of us some peace - -  mainly me.”

 

Eyeing him suspiciously, Starsky set the pizza down.  “What’re you gonna do?”

 

Hutch rolled his eyes, making an effort to hang onto his rapidly dwindling patience. “Starsk, I’m gonna stuff you under the floorboards and feed you pizza through a straw.  What do you think I’m gonna do, dummy?  Would you get your ass over here?

 

Starsky’s eyes narrowed.  “You’re gettin’ pissy, Hutchinson. You just went from butt to ass.”

 

“Well unless you want me to go someplace worse, you’ll quit screwing around and come here.”

 

Somewhat reluctantly, Starsky obeyed.  He set his beer on the coffee table, then perched uneasily on the edge of the cushion, warily eyeing Hutch.

 

“Starsky, quit being so jittery.”  Hutch shifted sideways, angling his body toward his friend’s.  He gripped Starsky’s shoulders, physically shifting him so they sat front-to-back.  His partner flinched slightly as if he wanted to draw away . . . as if the brusque movement had momentarily hurt. 

 

Hutch swore softly, realizing abruptly Starsky hadn’t been playing around. All his melodramatic whining had truly masked deep-rooted pain. “Starsk.”  His voice dropped, instantly losing its impatient edge.  “I won’t hurt you, babe.  I promise.”

 

“I know that.” Starsky’s tone was soft, trusting.

 

Hutch stared at the back of his head.  At the riotous mass of impossibly thick curls, coffee-black and soft like silk.  Filled with sudden doubt, he hesitated.  “Maybe you should see a doctor.”

 

“Why?”  Starsky turned to angle a glance over his shoulder.  Grimacing, he quickly thought better of it.  “You got pre-med and - - what? - - three months of the real thing under your belt?  Makes you a veritable expert.   Just be gentle.” Hutch could hear the smile in is voice.  “And don’t skip out on me in the mornin’.”

 

Leave it to Starsky to fall back on humor when he wanted to put someone else at ease.    Chuckling, Hutch slid his hands onto his friend’s neck, feeling the scrape of tumbled curls against his knuckles.  Carefully, slowly, he began to work his long fingers, kneading stiff tendons, systematically working warmth and heat into tight flesh.  Muscles loosened beneath his fingertips, flowing into relaxed liquid.

 

Starsky groaned low in his throat. “God, that feels good.” He rolled his head to the side, giving Hutch freedom to work. 

 

“And you didn’t want to sit down.”

 

“Who knew you were so talented?”

 

Hutch gave a soft laugh.  He could feel Starsky growing relaxed, his body going limp under the concentrated massage.  It had been a long day and Starsky had gotten the worst of it.  Even now his head lolled forward on his chest. 

 

“Tired, Starsk?”  Hutch asked.

 

He got a half-grunt in reply.  Drained himself, Hutch leaned into the corner of the couch, pulling his friend with him.  He kept up the massage even as Starsky settled on his chest, eyes already closed, a contented half grin on his face.  He never realized when he fell asleep, only that he woke hours later, Starsky slumped against him. 

 

The irony, of course, was that Hutch had a stiff neck.

 

His thoughts returned to the present, refocusing on the man nestled against his chest.  Starsky appeared to be asleep, his breathing not as choppy.  His arm was still hooked around Hutch’s neck but it grew lax in slumber, hanging limply.  The fact he was resting at all was testament to the bond they’d always had . . . an ability to provide each other a level of comfort no one else could give.  Part of that came with touching, the assurance of safety and protection gleaned from physical contact.  Yet another was strictly mental, the blending of two minds and spirits so in tune with each other, words became a secondary form of communication.

 

In the early stages of their friendship, Hutch had been unsure how far he could push those boundaries. His upbringing had been cool and reserved, structured for the spotlight of proper society.  He was the son of a respected surgeon, fully expected to conduct himself as such.  For the most part he’d maintained a cordial distance even with friends. 

 

Then he’d met Starsky . . . a rough-around-the edges Brooklynite from the wrong side of the tracks.  In high school and college when Hutch had run with the A-list crowd, he probably wouldn’t have looked twice in Starsky’s direction.  But three months into med school, he’d realized he didn’t want to be Dr. Kenneth Hutchinson, a pale imitation of his brilliantly gifted father.  He’d ended up in another state, seated next to a wisecracking troublemaker with a hard-to-miss New York accent.  His initial impression of Starsky was that he should be living on the streets, instead of protecting them.

 

It had taken Hutch awhile to look past Starsky’s natural swagger and off-the-cuff remarks.  To ease up on his own stiff-upper-lip-have-to-be-perfect-at-everything demeanor.   Sometimes that residual streak of perfectionism still got in his way.  But despite seemingly insurmountable odds, they’d managed to become friends.  And taken that friendship to an extraordinary level without limits or boundaries.

 

Hutch knew they were a strange pair, mismatched not only in their light/dark looks and polar-opposite backgrounds, but in personalities and interests too.  Yet somehow they made it all work.  No one else had ever touched his life - -  would ever touch his life - - the way Starsky did.

 

His partner was as complex as he was baffling. One moment grit and hot-tempered steel, the next wide-eyed innocence and child-like curiosity.  Vulnerability too.  That very human emotion was the catalyst that had first stirred Hutch’s protective streak . . . made him reach out and touch when he wasn’t sure if he’d be rebuffed.  Surprisingly, Starsky had responded, letting down walls Hutch knew had never come down for anyone else.  After that initial awkwardness and a few fumbling attempts at giving comfort, the connection became reciprocal.  Hutch found he could take as easily as give.  After years of precise conduct and sparse affection, he craved the bond that allowed him to be dependent on someone else . . . that made someone else dependent on him.

 

Torn by the thoughts, Hutch bowed his head, hugging his partner close.  “Please, Starsk,” he whispered.  “Please, babe, just hang on until I can get you out of here.”

 

“And just how do you plan on doing that?”  Grant asked, wrenching him from his thoughts.

 

Hutch raised his head, realizing he’d been overheard.  His father stood off to the side, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, blue eyes narrowed as he considered his son. Dirt and grime left black streaks on his immaculate suit-jacket and his white shirt was stained with mango juice.  Despite that rumpled appearance there remained something inherently superior about him, an air of dictatorial authority he wore like a second skin.  Yet a few hours ago Hutch had seen him immobile with terror, frozen and unable to move as bullets zipped past him.

 

“I don’t know,” he admitted.  His voice sounded petulant.  Part of that was because every time he thought the uncomfortable situation through, he knew the only option was to leave Starsky and his father undefended and strike out for help.  Unwilling to face the inevitable, he pressed his cheek to the crown of Starsky’s hair, wrapping his arms around his partner and closing his eyes.  “He’s resting now,” he whispered to his father.  “Let me just sit with him for awhile.  It’ll be dark soon anyway.  We can’t do anything until morning.”

 

Grant sighed in frustration.  “I don’t understand you, Ken.”

 

That made him blink and raise his head, the unspoken question clear in his eyes.

 

His father frowned.  “I know David’s important to you.  He’s your partner, a friend.  Yet, this . . . this . . .”  He waved one hand, clearly at a loss for words.  “This display of affection . . . of emotion . . . I’ve never seen you so . . .” He grimaced.  “Touchy-feely.  I don’t understand how you can be so . . . compassionate . . . when I just watched you kill two men in cold blood.”

 

So that was it.  Hutch bit back an instinctive knee-jerk reply. There was nothing pretty in what he wanted to spit out, that was certain.  He could almost hear Starsky in his head, running interference:  Don’t do it, babe.  Don’t let him back you into a corner.

 

Starsky made a plaintive sound in his sleep, stirring slightly as if sensing Hutch’s agitation.  Never taking his eyes from his father, Hutch smoothed a hand up and down his arm, quietly soothing him.  “Dad, those guys were shooting at us.  At you. What did you expect me to do?”

 

Grant gave a short, humorless laugh.  “Expect you to do?  Ken, you stopped doing what I expected of you eight years ago.  What you do now is pretty much a matter of your own whim.”  His eyes narrowed.  “And conscience - -  if you still have one.”  

 

“Oh, that’s kind.”

 

“What do you want me to say?”  Perturbed, Grant paced to the other side of the cave.  He walked off a small circle, bottled-up anger spilling out with every step. “My God, I watched you pull out that gun and take the lives of two men.  Don’t you get it?  This career of yours - - this choice - -  it isn’t something just anyone decides to do.  You’ve made a conscious decision to kill in order to protect if you have to.  Something you do daily if required.  It’s not like choosing to study law or medicine, or even drive a truck or build houses for a living.  It takes a certain individual to do what you do.”  He sobered, a strange mixture of revulsion, sorrow and reluctant pride in his gaze.  “I just never thought that person would be my son.”

 

Hutch missed the pride completely.  He felt his gut twist.  The anger and hurt he’d carried for the last three days after mistakenly receiving Jeremy Eckart’s letter returned in full force.  “Look, Dad, I’m sorry if I didn’t turn out the way you wanted . . . if I screwed up your dream of the ideal kid, but you’ve still got Kelly.  At least she married a doctor.  And just so you know, I don’t make a habit of blowing people away on a daily basis.”  His voice hardened, clipped with steel.  “I will however go to any means and all extremes to protect my partner and myself  - - and yeah, even you, whether you want it or not.”  Something ugly and bitter crept into his voice.  “Guess maybe you and Mom should have had another kid.  One you could’ve molded into your favored son since I’m such a damn disappointment.”

 

“Ken - - ”

 

Hutch held up a hand.  “Let it go, Dad.  Please.”

 

Grant pressed his lips together, took a step toward him.  “This is about Jeremy’s letter, isn’t it? He called and told me he’d received yours, so I can only guess where his ended up.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”  Miserable, Hutch lowered his head, unconsciously hugging Starsky close. Shared contact and familiar warmth helped mute the sting in his soul.  Oh, partner, I need you.  You’re right - - I don’t wanna deal with this shit on my own.  Wish you were awake and well so you could straighten me out, babe.

 

“You hate what I do?” Hutch asked his father, his voice soft.  He kept his eyes downcast, his gaze on Starsky’s face as he lightly traced the curve of his cheek with one hand.  “Let me tell you something - - if Starsky hadn’t pushed me out of the way, I’d be the one lying here with a bullet in my side.  What he did was selfless.  I love him for that, but I hate him for it too, because it hurts worse when he’s injured . . . when he’s the one who suffers.”  Hutch raised his eyes, not bothering to hide his emotions.  “That’s what my partnership, my friendship with him is about.  Maybe it’s more intense for us because of what we do.  All I know is most people live a lifetime and never experience a bond like that.  I feel privileged.”  His voice hardened again.  “The bottom line is, I would’ve never met Starsky if I hadn’t become a cop.  So if you wanna disown me, pretend I don’t exist, or even write me out of your fucking will, by all means do it.  You’ve got my blessing!  I wouldn’t give up what I have for anything I left behind.”

 

Grant scowled.  “Ken, don’t be a bastard.”

 

“Why not?”  Hutch asked bitterly.  “I learned from the best, Dad.  You should know.”    

 

It was as disrespectful as he’d ever been in his life.  Part of him hated what he was doing, another part wanted to keep going until he’d spewed every venomous slur he could think of.  But he couldn’t.  As bitter, angry and hurt as he was, he knew he’d crossed the line.  He was still Ken Hutchinson, proper son, raised to be polite, courteous and white-bread American. 

 

Unable to stomach the sliver of hurt in his father’s eyes, he looked away.  Who knew the old man even had feelings?  Shit, but he hated himself!  Starsk.  Buddy, I’m drowning here, sinking lower than pond scum.  I’m gonna hang myself with my own pissing attitude if I don’t get it together soon. 

 

Without another word, Grant turned away and walked to the extreme corner of the cave.  Shedding his jacket, he folded it under him and made a seat on the ground, resolutely looking away from his son.

 

Looks like I’m out of the will and the family, Hutch thought morosely watching his father.  After that speech, I guess I deserve it.  Sighing, he leaned back against the wall.

 

“Ah, Starsky,” he whispered.  “I really miss you, buddy.”

 

+++++

 

Hutch gave a startled jerk, waking to total darkness.  He hadn’t planned on napping.  He was going to let his father sleep through half the night, then wake him.  That way one of them would always be alert for potential danger. Somewhere along the way his mind and body had rebelled, and he’d drifted into deep slumber. 

 

He wasn’t sure what woke him.  The cave was completely black now, layered with jet and licorice shadows.  A lighter gray marked the entrance, where he could just distinguish the outline of his father’s body huddled on the rocky floor.  A soft snore told him Grant slept undisturbed, likely as exhausted as he was.  Yawning, Hutch rubbed his eyes, letting them adjust to the darkness.  He listened for any unusual noise warning of a lurking intruder, but there were only the eerie nighttime sounds of the jungle.

 

Beyond the cavern mouth he could see a dim glimmer of stars where branches and leaves didn’t quite obscure the sky.  The air was lighter, not as heavy and oppressive as during the day, but still underscored by warmth.  It skimmed across his arm, kindling goosebumps despite its lingering heat.

 

Starsky moaned.

 

The sound went through Hutch like a knife and he suddenly realized what had awakened him.  It took a moment for the haze to clear from his sleep-fogged mind. Starsky lay huddled against him, his cheek on Hutch’s chest, his whole body drenched in sweat.  Fever blazed from his skin, a raging torch wherever Hutch touched him. 

 

Alarmed, he tried to sit straighter.  His legs were stiff, one completely asleep.  He grimaced as returning circulation sent prickly needles pinging from his ankle to his knee.  “Starsk?”

 

The name provoked another groan.  Starsky shifted restlessly, rolling his head on Hutch’s chest.  Even in the darkness, the blond-haired detective could see a high sheen of perspiration glinting on his friend’s face and neck.  Starsky’s shirt was saturated, Hutch’s own, damp and growing damper where Starsky rested against him.

 

“Starsk.  Buddy, can you hear me?”  Gently, Hutch gripped his chin, forcing his head up.  He used his other hand to brush a tangled mat of sweaty curls from Starsky’s brow.  “You’re burning up, babe.”

 

A sliver of blue appeared under curling lashes.  “ . . . hot . . .”

 

“I know you are.”  Hutch dug out his handkerchief and smoothed it over Starsky’s brow and face.  “I’m gonna take care of that for you.  Get you cooled down.”  He wet his lips.  A few coconut shells filled with water probably weren’t going to do the trick, but it was the only real option he had.  Starsky needed to be immersed, his whole body benefiting from the touch of cooling liquid, but the pool was below the cave and there was his injury to consider.  Walking would be painful, realistically unfeasible.  Movement of any kind could break open the protective clots that had formed over the wound. 

 

Hutch gnawed on his lip as Starsky continued to fidget.  A high fever was as potentially dangerous as the bullet, but he knew he’d never be able to get Starsky to the pool.

Frustrated, he cast a glance at his father, debating whether or not to wake him.  In the end he decided against it.  Shifting to the side, he slid free, carefully inching from beneath Starsky. 

 

Immediately his friend grappled for his shirt, hitching in a pain-stricken breath.  “Don’go.” The word came jumbled together, one panicked slur of sound.  Starsky’s eyes snapped open, his grip surprisingly strong as he clung to Hutch’s shirt.

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  Hutch gripped his wrists.  “I’m not going far.  I just want to go down to the pool and get you some water.  It’ll help cool you down.”

 

“That all?”  Exhausted, Starsky sagged, letting Hutch tug his hands free.  He slumped against the jackets pillowed beneath him. “A pool, huh?” A glimmer of clarity replaced the fog in his eyes, a wan smile flickering over his lips.  “Not Nordic-lookin’ enough, Blondie?  Gonna go soak up the sun?”

 

Hutch crouched beside him on cramped, sleep-stiffened knees. “The moon, dummy.  It’s dark out.”  Smiling softly, he smoothed a thumb over Starsky’s cheek.  “How are you feeling, pal?”

 

“Shitty.  Fire the guy who booked this trip.”

 

“Done.”  Hutch hesitated, his hand dropping to Starsky’s shoulder.  “If I disappear for a few minutes you gonna be okay?”

 

“Depends.”  Starsky grimaced as cresting pain sliced through him.  He tensed, his back arching reflexively, one hand clamping onto Hutch’s arm in a desperate, ironclad grip.  Within seconds the onslaught passed and his body went limp again.  Rolling his head on the makeshift pillow of folded jackets and earth, he sucked in a wavering breath.  “I . . .”  His eyes latched onto Hutch.  “I’m thirsty.”

 

“I’ll take care of it.”  Hutch smoothed a hand through Starsky’s hair, letting his touch linger.   Even in the dark he could see the sallow cast of his friend’s skin, the washed out, sunken hollows of his face.  How much longer could a man exist with a bullet lodged in his side, before infection, fever or both combined to turn the damaging wound lethal?  His stomach cramped just thinking about it.  “Try not to move around a lot, okay?”

 

Starsky nodded but Hutch could tell he wasn’t listening any longer, just responding to a tone of voice.  His eyes had drifted shut again and his face was lined heavily with pain.  Swearing softly, Hutch tore himself away, rounding up the discarded coconut shells.  Drawing the Magnum, he sprinted from the cave, slipping down the rock face until he could drop next to the pool, senses heightened and alert.

 

The jungle sang to him, whispering and rustling, awakening what was felt rather than heard.  A warm breeze seeped under his open shirt, ghosting his skin with a caress that was strangely physical.  He blinked, craning his neck to see overhead, his surroundings eerily different at night.  He heard the soft trickle of the waterfall to his left, the croak of a tree frog lodged somewhere above his right shoulder. The pool was black and still, layered at the edges with glittering pearls of moonlight. Under other circumstances, he might have considered it beautiful. 

 

Hutch stood by the natural fall, slipping one shell beneath the cooling rush of water.  Stars glittered through gaping holes in the trees.  Stripped of the interfering haze of streetlights and urban smog, the sky looked vivid and dazzling, so close it seemed he could touch it.  He cupped a hand beneath the fall and swallowed a mouthful of water, one eye on the radiant heavens.  Something was wrong.  Glaringly off. 

 

Frowning, he set the coconut shell aside and held another beneath the water.   Puzzled by the nagging sense of wrongness, he tilted his head and latched onto the sky from another angle.  A single constellation jumped out at him. 

 

“My god.” He almost dropped his makeshift cup. 

 

Instinct told him he couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was seeing, but there was the constellation Crux spread in dazzling array across the dark sky.  Shaking the shock aside, he refocused on Starsky.  He’d deal with his discovery later when he could better grasp the implications.  For now all he wanted to do was get back to his sick partner.

 

Hutch filled two more shells with water, somehow managing to juggle all four as he trudged up the slope to the cave.  The sight of a feverish and restless Starsky immediately put all thought of the troubling constellation from his head.  His friend had fallen into a fitful slumber, twisting agitatedly, moaning every few seconds.  Hutch knelt beside him and dug his soiled handkerchief from his front pocket.  Soaking it in water, he smoothed the sodden mass over Starsky’s heat-slicked skin, stroking his face and neck.

 

Starsky’s eyes fluttered.  “ . . . drink?”  he asked hoarsely.

 

“Right here.”  Hutch slid a hand behind his head and supported him while he swallowed a few greedy mouthfuls. The effort was taxing, draining Starsky completely.  He quickly fell back into a fever-laden sleep.  Heat radiated from his skin.

 

Frowning, Hutch fingered his friend’s collar.  The shirt had to come off.  While the blue knit wasn’t heavy, it didn’t allow Starsky’s skin the chance to adequately breathe and cool.  With the fever spiking dangerously high, his partner would be more comfortable without it.  Unfortunately the soft material was stuck to the wound, congealed there with dried blood.  After a silent moment of debate, Hutch soaked his handkerchief again.  When it was sopping wet, he gently laid it over the shirt where it stuck to the wound, hoping the moisture would loosen the clots.

 

Despite his careful touch, Starsky moaned.

 

“Ssh. It’s okay, babe.”  Leaning forward, Hutch smoothed a thumb over his cheek.  “I’m sorry if I hurt you.  Just rest.  Everything’s gonna be okay.”  His voice was smooth and soft, inherently calming, but inside he felt like he was screaming.  If he ever got his hands on the vindictive S.O.B. who was responsible for this - -

 

Refocusing, he shook the thought away.  For Starsky’s sake, he couldn’t afford to be sidetracked by anger.  He tugged on his friend’s belt, sliding the silver buckle free.  Starsky stirred restlessly, a grunt of pain slipping from his lips. 

 

“You’re doing fine, pal.  Just fine.”  Hutch kept up an endless stream of assurances, uncertain whether he was heard.  Slipping his fingers beneath Starsky’s waistband, he popped the button on his jeans.  The zipper slid down easily.  With the impossibly tight denim loosened, Hutch was able to pull Starsky’s shirt free.  He slid one hand under the material, palm down, on his partner’s taut stomach.  With his free hand he worked the outside of the shirt, carefully manipulating the torn and bloodied fabric free of the wound.

 

Starsky twisted, moaning aloud.

 

“Almost done.” Hutch rubbed his friend’s stomach encouragingly.  He pushed the now loosened shirt higher on Starsky’s ribs.  In the darkness, the hole in his friend’s side gleamed like a sickly black chasm.  A faint whiff of diseased flesh rose from the ugly laceration.

 

Hutch felt his stomach roil.  “Babe, I’m sorry you gotta go through this.  It’s my fault.”  He didn’t understand how, but instinctively knew it was true.  Some how, some way, he was responsible for what had happened to Starsky.  At the very least, the bullet lodged in his friend’s side had been meant for him. 

 

With the shirt free of the wound, Hutch didn’t waste time removing it.  He found Grant’s knife and slit the fabric up the center, cutting away the sleeves but leaving the butchered mess as cushioning under Starsky’s back.  He made another trip to the waterfall and returned with the coconut urns brimming over.  Once more he soaked the handkerchief, smoothing the sodden mass over Starsky’s bare chest.  

 

His friend breathed a little easier. 

 

Ten minutes later when he felt Starsky had sufficiently cooled down, Hutch sat back against the wall, one leg raised and bent at the knee, an arm draped wearily across the top. 

 

“You look exhausted,” a quiet voice observed.

 

Hutch gave a small start, unaware his father had woken up and now sat staring at him across the small cavern.  He shrugged, his mouth gone suddenly dry.  He wanted to curl up and sleep for a week, but that wasn’t an option as long as Starsky was ill.  “I made a couple of trips outside,” he said, as if that should explain his unnatural fatigue.  In truth his exhaustion was purely emotional, but he didn’t think his father would understand or appreciate the depth of his bond to Starsky.  Instead he refocused on his discovery of an hour before.  “Interesting thing about the sky over this island.  It’s got a great view of the Southern Cross.”

 

“What?”  Grant sounded incredulous.  He gave a soft chuckle.  “I think you’re confused, Ken.  That’s only visible in the southern hemisphere, and we’re - - ”  He stopped suddenly, surprised by the pointed look in his son’s eyes. Flabbergasted, he leaned forward.  “You mean, you think we’re actually somewhere in the South Pacific?”

 

Once again Hutch shrugged.  “The only thing I can’t figure out is how.  We weren’t out that long.”

 

Grant tugged at his bottom lip.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.” He was silent a moment, thinking the possibilities through.  Raising his hand, he felt behind his right ear.  “Ah, yes.  There it is.  I think I have the answer.”

 

“What answer?”

 

“If I’m right, you’ll have one too.  And David.”  Grant moved to his side, crouching next to him.  “I’m not sure what type of compound was used, but I believe I’ve found the means of application.”  Gripping Hutch’s chin, he turned his face to the side and began weeding through his hair. “You’re starting to look like a hippie, Ken.  My god, when’s the last time you had a haircut?”

 

Big surprise there.  Upper society doctors didn’t have hair that covered their ears, let alone their collars. Apparently upper society doctor’s sons shouldn’t either.

 

“There’s no such things as ‘hippies’ anymore, Dad,” Hutch replied with a small sigh.  He should have expected some type of comment, yet if all they argued about was the length of his hair, he could live with that.  He jerked away when his father prodded an unusually tender spot below his ear.  “Ow!  Hey!”  Wincing, he raised a hand to the side of his neck.

 

Grant sat back on his haunches.  “Needle puncture.  I can’t see it clearly, but it’s there.”

 

Hutch’s eyes narrowed.  “What are you suggesting?”

 

Grant rolled his shoulders.  “Only what you already believe - - that we really are somewhere in the South Pacific or thereabout.  My guess is whoever did this, used drugs to keep us sedated after the initial abduction.  We thought only one day passed, but it’s probably a lot more.”

 

“Do you realize how rich somebody would have to be to pull this off?  How powerful?  And it still doesn’t explain why.”  Frustrated, Hutch dragged a hand over his face.  Who did he know with connections to the South Pacific, who could abduct three men with ease, have them drugged and flown to a remote tropical island with no one but a few goons being the wiser?  He thought back to the tape-recorded message and some of its more cryptic components.  What he wouldn’t give to be able to hear that damn tape a second time:  King Island . . . a royal deception.  There had been something about the jungle being booby-trapped too, something that hadn’t made sense at the time.  And “help” if they could find “him.”  Obviously the help was Grant, most likely in the sense of his medical background, but why drag his father into it all?

 

Annoyed by his inability to concentrate, Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing the lids.  “Dad, did you see anybody when they got you . . . hear anybody?  What about the people at the convention you were attending?  Are you sure they were all doctors?”

 

“Of course not.”  Grant eased down beside him, shoulders to the rough stone wall.  “It was a national convention.  There were thousands of people there, Ken.  I didn’t know most of them.”

 

“What about a tape recorded message like the one we got?”

 

“No.  As I told David, I had breakfast with colleagues, left to attend a procedural seminar and made it as far as the parking lot.  Someone must have hit me over the head, because I had a mild headache when I woke up.  I came to in the pit where you and David found me.”

 

David.

 

Hutch’s eyes tracked to his friend.  Starsky was still sleeping, but every now and then he’d shift slightly, a soft half-whimper slipping from his lips.  Without thinking about it, Hutch

reached over and soothingly rubbed his shoulder.  His skin was still hot, but not as rocket-raging as before. 

 

“Dad, you’re here for a reason.  You need to go back two years and try to remember anything out of the ordinary . . . a patient you might have had.  Possibly someone named King or Royal.”  He was grasping but knew the connection had to be there.  Closing his eyes, he placed himself in the room where he’d initially awakened, trying to remember image for image, sound for sound.

 

Starsky had been leaning up against the wall, the tape recorder on his lap.  The man’s voice had been muffled, intentionally distorted, making it impossible to decipher any type of ethnic background, accent or age.  He’d left Hutch with five rounds of ammunition, removing one shell from the Magnum.  Why just one?

 

Was the significance in the missing bullet  - - a single something or other- - or in the number five itself?  They’d been given five minutes to leave the single-room building before it had exploded.  Five again - - coincidence or intentional choice?

 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.  There’d been background noise on the tape.  He remembered that now as he mentally placed himself in the room, Starsky beside him.  The recording had clicked through a few seconds of silence, inadvertently picking up background sounds:  a faintly tolling bell and a low horn.  Not a car horn, but something deeper, more sonorous.  Like a foghorn, or a boat.

 

Marina? Dock?  Somewhere near a church?

 

Again he kicked around ideas, wishing he had Starsky to bounce them off of.  They always worked better in tandem, spontaneity an intrinsic part of how they operated.  Ideas just naturally ping-ponged back and forth between them, gaining momentum and clarity with each new shared thought and counter argument.

 

King island . . . a royal deception.  Someone’s cryptic play on words.  Their kidnapper was obviously verbose, well-spoken, probably with a higher education - - college grad or above.  He had no qualms about killing Starsky even though he’d indicated he hadn’t been interested in Hutch’s partner.  He just hadn’t wanted Starsky “snooping around” trying to track Hutch down.  And because of that, Starsky became expendable.  Which told Hutch their kidnapper had little or no conscience.  He’d do whatever was necessary to get what he wanted. 

 

But what the hell does he want?

 

Exasperated, Hutch sighed aloud and tilted his head back against the wall, his eyes on the shadows overhead.  Outside the sky was starting to lighten a little, announcing the arrival of dawn. “Dad, did you ever treat anyone named King?”

 

“No.”  A pause, rife with irritation.  “I don’t know, Ken.  Maybe.”  

 

“How about Royal?”

 

“I don’t know!  Do you remember every lunatic you arrested?”

 

“Most of them.  I never know when one might wanna come back and settle the score.”

 

Grant looked at him pointedly.  “Like now?  Is that why I’m here . . . why David’s been shot?  Because someone has a score to settle?”

 

 Hutch felt a surge of anger.  “You’re not helping.”

 

“I’m a surgeon, not a cop.  This isn’t my job.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Hutch said bitterly.  “You save lives, not take them.”  He started to shove away when Starsky moaned, roused from sleep by the growing heat in their voices.  Hutch felt like he’d been gut-punched, all wind immediately sucked from his lungs.  “Buddy, I’m sorry.”  His tone dropped, immediately soft and solicitous as he leaned forward.  Gently, he rubbed his friend’s shoulder.  “Easy.  Easy, babe.  Just go back to sleep.”

 

Starsky’s eyes barely opened before closing again.  Half asleep, he folded his hand over Hutch’s.  There was no question when the sun rose, Hutch was going to have to go looking for help . . . a phone or radio, transportation and most importantly, medical supplies.

 

Medical.

 

The word made something click in his head.  Something that had been on the tape.  He heard the voice of their kidnapper clearly now:  Be careful of the jungle.  Like much medical advice, it’s booby-trapped.

 

Hutch zeroed in on his father.  “You gave somebody advice.  Two years ago.  Medical advice to somebody who was probably very wealthy.  It must have been wrong, or at least the person thought it was wrong and something horrible happened.  Maybe, uh . . . paralysis or a debilitating handicap, possibly someone died.  Think!”

 

“What are you talking about?”  Irritated, Grant shoved to his feet and started to pace restlessly.  He jammed his hands in his pockets, jiggling loose change and his cigar lighter.  “If you’re still trying to make this whole mess about me - - ”

 

“Damn it, Dad, it is about you!”  Hutch snapped heatedly.  Starsky grunted and he immediately lowered his voice.  He shot his father a piercing glare, his tone crisp but quiet.  “Nothing else makes sense.  And as you so bluntly pointed out a minute ago, you’re not a cop.  I am.  I think I’ve got a damn sight better perspective than you do about what’s happening here.”

 

“I told you I didn’t treat anybody named King.  Or Royal,” Grant snapped.  Or - -”  He stopped suddenly, all color draining from his face.  “Oh dear god.  It can’t be.”

 

“What?”  Hutch was on his feet in an instant, posture combative as he crowded his father’s space.  “You remembered something didn’t you?”

 

“I . . .”  Nervously, Grant dragged a hand over his mouth.  He looked suddenly ill, his face slack with the dawning horror of realization.  “Th-there was a man brought in on emergency.  A-A young man, barely thirty, who’d been involved in a horrible freeway accident.”

 

“Two years ago?”

 

Grant nodded.  He still looked shell-shocked but was starting to regain some composure as he concentrated on relaying what had taken place.  “I was called in on the case because it was so complex . . . there was organ damage, massive tissue loss, blood loss. The young man’s father was with him but had only sustained non life-threatening injuries  . . a fracture to his leg, some broken ribs and a facial cut that required stitching.  He was wealthy, wanted to fly in his personal surgeon.  I advised immediate surgery, even though the patient wasn’t stable.  It was the only chance he had with damage like that.  It wasn’t my fault he died.”

 

“You say that so matter-of-factly.”  Hutch looked at him, amazed.  Any other man might have relayed the tale with a moment or two of conscience wrestling and doubt.  But not his father.  Grant Hutchinson couldn’t be accused of arrogance exactly, but it was clear he held no qualms over what had happened.  Hutch was sure he’d felt some remorse at the time of the young man’s death, but certainly hadn’t attributed his passing to any fault of his own.  And more than likely that was true.  The accident sounded fatal.  If anyone could have saved the man, it was Grant Hutchinson.  Hutch’s father was an excellent surgeon, he simply lacked compassion and more often than not, humility.

 

Grant walked a few paces away.  “I did everything I could to save that boy.  He died five hours after surgery.”

 

Five.

 

Hutch licked his lips.  “What was his name?”

 

“Alec.  Alec Monarch.  His father’s name was Stanton.  A very wealthy man.”  He looked Hutch in the eye as the pieces fell into place.  “I believe he owns a seaside estate near Lendle Sound.  He and his son were in Minnesota for a friend’s wedding.”

 

“So if he blamed you for his son’s death, why wait two years to settle the score?”

 

Grant shrugged.  “Perhaps it’s taken him that long to reach this level of hate.  People who grieve don’t immediately snap, Ken.  For some, the hole in their life festers, eating at them a little more each day.”  His voice thinned, oddly melancholy. A tone Hutch could never really recall hearing from his father before.  “Then one day they wake up and realize they’re missing something important . . . someone important.  And that realization hurts far worse than any pain they’ve ever known.”  

 

Grant’s eyes locked with his across the small cave, and Hutch had the sudden impression they were no longer discussing Stanton Monarch or his son.  He swallowed hard, not sure he wanted to examine what Grant was trying to say.  Not now.  You’re not fucking doing this to me now.  Not after all these years.  And especially not after that letter you sent Jeremy.

 

He pointedly ignored the double meaning.  “So I’m here because Monarch is playing eye-for-an-eye, or more precisely, son-for-a-son.  You’re supposed to watch me die, probably after I suffer for awhile like his son did.”  Grinning humorlessly, he shook his head.  “Boy, did he pick the wrong father/son combo.  He’s going to be disappointed as hell when he realizes we can’t stand each other.”

 

Grant stiffened.  “I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

 

Neither did I.

 

Hurting inside, Hutch turned away.   He rolled his hands into fists, wanting to hit something, to make something hurt as much as he did.  Would his father really care if his son were lying on the ground, a bullet in his side?  Oh sure he’d be concerned.  Efficient, clinical, but would he care?  Would every breath, every thought be mental torture, as Hutch’s were for Starsky?  Would he feel like his life dangled on a precipice, unable to go on without the person who had come to mean so much to him? 

 

“It’ll be dawn soon,” Hutch told his father softly, dropping the conversation.  “You should try to get some sleep.  As soon as it’s light, I’ll leave to find help.”

 

Grant pulled a cigar from his pocket and paced to the mouth of the cave.  “I’ll keep watch,” he said stiffly.  “If you’re leaving, you’re the one who needs sleep.”

 

Hutch watched him walk toward the entrance.  He was right of course.  Cold and superior, but right.  Somewhere in that rigid reply, if Hutch dug deeply enough, there might have even been an element of concern.  Did his father love him?  Probably, but only because it was expected, the proper thing to do.  Did Grant respect him? 

 

Hell, no.

 

Too exhausted to think further, Hutch stretched out on the cave floor beside Starsky.  Sharp stone and rocky earth dug uncomfortably into his back. Folding an arm beneath his head, he stared morosely at the cavern roof, praying his tension wouldn’t transfer to Starsky.  Maybe it was better if he slept elsewhere . . . on the other side of the cave or down by the pool.

 

He started to get up when Starsky shifted closer to him.  A hand snaked across his chest, settling on his opposite shoulder.  Warm curls eased onto his upper arm and Starsky huddled against him. 

 

Hutch closed his eyes, undone by the simple display of trust from his partner.

 

“Idiot.”  Starsky’s voice came in a barely-there whisper. “Your dad . . . loves you.”

 

So he’d overheard their conversation.  Kind of hard to miss with both of them snapping at each other like they’d been.  “Don’t worry about it.”  Hutch shifted closer, soothed by the mere presence of his partner.  Tension melted from his body, chased into nothingness by the warm infusion of Starsky's affection. 

 

Within seconds, Hutch was asleep.

 

+++++

 

He woke shortly after dawn, but it wasn’t the light that brought him back to consciousness.  Starsky was no longer resting peacefully against him, but had started to thrash back and forth, his body again soaked with sweat.

 

Hutch felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up into his father’s face.  “I’ve been trying to calm him, but it’s no good.  He doesn’t respond to me.  I think the wound’s becoming infected.”

 

Feeling the bottom drop out of his world, Hutch scrambled to his knees.  The flesh around Starsky’s wound was indeed enflamed, a vibrant scarlet broken by pockets of deeper red and puce.  Blood oozed from the hole, dripping onto ground that was already splotched and stained. 

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch smoothed a hand over his brow.

 

“He can’t hear you,” Grant said calmly.  “Fever and infection are starting to take a toll.  He’s mostly incoherent.  I’m afraid, if he doesn’t get help soon, it may be too late.”

 

Hutch jerked as if slapped.  “Too late?” 

 

It just wasn’t possible.  Not by a bullet that had been meant for him.  Not here, and damn it, not now!  His stomach curled in on itself.  It wasn’t supposed to end this way.  He and Starsky were supposed to grow old together with wives and families . . . be uncles to each other’s kids  . . . retire together.  “What if the bullet came out?” he asked quickly.  “Would the infection go down?”

 

“Theoretically yes.  With proper surgery and medicine - -”

 

Hutch lurched to his feet.  Gripping his father by the lapels, he dragged him a few steps away.  “Then you’ve gotta remove it.”

 

“Remove it?  You mean  - -”  Grant stopped suddenly, his eyes widening with disbelief.  “Ken, you aren’t seriously suggesting I should operate here?  Now?  In a cave, with no instruments and no anesthesia.  No  way to stop bleeding.  No. . . anything?”

 

“We’ve got a knife,” Hutch said quickly.  “And-and your lighter to sterilize it.  And water.”  He was grasping now, half insane with what he was proposing.  “We’ll cut your jacket up for bandages.  Mine too.”

 

Grant looked at him as if he’d gone off the deep end.

 

“You have to,” Hutch cried emphatically.   “You just said unless the bullet comes out, he isn’t going to make it.”

 

“Yes, but I never meant - -”  Grant wrenched away.  “My god, do you realize what you’re asking?  The kind of pain you’d be putting David through?”

 

“Do you think I want to hurt him?”  Hutch spat, striding forward.  His voice cracked, on the verge of breaking completely.  Thrusting his hands into his hair, he spun on his heel, and stalked to the other side of the cave.  “Don’t do this to me, Dad.  Please don’t do this.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Give up!”  Hutch snapped.  He was back in a flash, jabbing a finger under Grant’s nose.  “This isn’t your decision, damn it!  It’s mine.  You have to do this for me.  He’s my partner and if he dies - -”  He stopped abruptly, unable to complete the ugly thought, shocked that he’d even voiced the revolting words.  How could he possibly make his father understand what Starsky meant to him?

 

“Please.”  The anger faded, chased by desperation.  “We may not agree on most things, but I know you’re a good surgeon.  I respect you for that.  Please, Dad, do this for me.  Save his life and I’ll do anything you ask.”

 

Grant looked momentarily taken aback.  He was quiet as though considering, Hutch visibly hanging on the silence.

 

“What if I ask you to give up your career?”  Grant said carefully.  “To move back to Minnesota and enroll in med school again?”

 

“To save Starsky?”  Hutch didn’t hesitate.  “If that’s what it takes, then you have my promise.”

 

Silence filled the cave again, broken only by Starsky’s labored breathing.  Unable to stomach the separation any longer, Hutch knelt by his side.  “Ssh, buddy.  It’s gonna be okay.  I’m right here.  We’ll get through this together.”  His voice faltered.  Tenderly, he scraped a knuckle across Starsky’s cheek. “Me and thee, babe.  Hang in there.  Just please hang in.”

 

“We’re going to need water,” Grant announced suddenly behind him.  He shrugged out of his coat.  “Lots of it.  I’ll see what I can rig up.”

 

Relieved, Hutch hung his head.  He knew the rest would be up to Starsky.

 

+++++

 

Starsky felt like he was drowning, pulled into a black abyss without air, light or sound.  There was only pain.  Raw tongues of it greedily dancing up his ribs, freeing caged swells of liquid fire and heat.  Moaning, he rolled onto his side, trying to huddle against the one soothing presence in a pain-tossed storm.  Agony ripped across his stomach, so sudden and fierce, he instinctively groped for the source.

 

“Starsky, you can’t.”  Something restrained him, kept his hands from pressing against the abominably torturous ache.  He tried to pull away, groping for the blazing root again, but the gentle restraint held him in place.  “I know it hurts,” a soothing voice said.  “You’re too tense.  Try to relax.”

 

Hutch.

 

He tried to open his eyes, but his lashes felt gummed shut.  His lips were cracked and dry, barely able to move.  “Hu . . . tch?”

 

A moist finger tracked over his lips, bringing cooling relief.  He sucked at the moisture it left, then felt more dribbled into his mouth. 

 

“Just take it slow, buddy.” 

 

There was an arm around his shoulders, holding him, bracing him.  Something touched his lips smelling sweetly of coconut.  The odor almost made him gag, but the water was cool and his throat painfully dry.  He swallowed quickly, felt liquid run down his chin.  The object was withdrawn and a gentle hand wiped his mouth.  A second later he felt the brush of a moist cloth against his cheek and brow.  “Better?”

 

“Hurts.”

 

“I know.”  The voice was sad now, layered with guilt.  It was that desolate tone that finally got Starsky to open his eyes. 

 

The first thing he saw was Hutch kneeling beside him, bending forward.  He looked horribly uncomfortable in his cramped position, one arm under Starsky’s shoulders for comfort and support.  His face was lined, horribly gray, the cheeks sunken and hollow.  “Hey,” Starsky said softly.  “You . . . look like shit, Blondie.”

 

A wan smile flickered over Hutch’s lips.  “You don’t look too good yourself, Gordo.”  He brushed a stray curl from Starsky’s brow.  “Dad and I were talking.  That bullet’s bad.”  He swallowed hard, clearly forcing the next words.  “I think it’s gonna have to come out.”

 

Starsky grinned.  “Yeah, well . . . I don’t plan . . . on keepin’ it, dummy.”

 

Undone by the light response, Hutch bowed his head.  “I mean now, Starsk.  It’s gonna have to come out now.”

 

He frowned, trying to make sense of the words, but his brain was stuck in low gear.  Come out now?  He wrapped his fingers around his friend’s wrist, too weary to try to figure it out. 

“ . . . hurts,” he mumbled just as another wave of pain streaked through him.  His grip turned vice-like and he tensed involuntarily.  White heat pulsed from the hole in his side, leaving him shuddering, his body drenched in cold sweat.    “ . . . can’t . . . can’t . . . ohgod, Hutch . . ”

 

“I’m here, babe.”  An open palm pressed against his cheek. 

 

Miserable, he turned his face into that familiar warmth, wishing touch alone could hold the agony at bay.  It took all of his effort to focus for a brief few seconds.  “ . . . where?”  he managed, not exactly sure what he was asking.  He knew it wasn’t the right question, but he couldn’t seem to sort through the logic.  Bullet . . . now. . .  Clumsily his thoughts tripped over themselves.  Tired, he sighed.  “Home yet?”

 

Hutch’s expression softened, the strain melting from his sky-colored eyes. “Soon,” he promised.  He let his weight shift to the side, one leg bending beneath him as he sat on the cavern floor.  Starsky followed the flow of his body, willingly folding with him.  He moaned softly at the jostling movement, biting back a grimace of pain.

 

“I’m sorry, buddy.  I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

“ . . .no . . .”  That was the last thing he wanted Hutch to think.  He tried to raise his head, but it took too much effort.  He was so miserably tired.  The pain kept him constantly on edge, battering him relentlessly making even sleep, sparse as it was, something that offered little relief.

Agitated, he shifted restlessly.

 

Long fingers stroked his neck in an attempt to quiet him.    “Starsk . . .”  He felt the brush of satin-fine hair against his cheek as Hutch leaned forward, speaking softly into his ear.  “Buddy do you trust me?”

 

Dumb question.  Of course he trusted Hutch.  He wanted to mouth off a snappy reply, but putting one together required too much effort.  “ . . ‘course.”  Mild irritation that it was even asked.

 

The caress shifted from the back of his neck to the side.  He realized he was breathing unevenly, air wheezing in and out of his lungs a little too fast, a little too shallow.  Instinctively his fingers curled into Hutch’s shirt.  He felt a hand close over his, surprised by a shaky tremor in Hutch’s grip.

 

“Starsky, I’d never hurt you intentionally.  You know that don’t you, pal?”  Hutch’s voice threatened to crack.  “If-if there were any other way, I-I-I’d  . . . god, Starsk, I don’t want to hurt you.”  Wrapping both arms around his shoulders, Hutch bowed his face against Starsky’s hair.  He clung tight, sucking down a ragged breath.  An involuntary tremor raced through his body. “Do you understand what I’m saying, babe, what we’ve gotta do?”

 

And this time Starsky did.  Suddenly Hutch’s acute anxiety, the shorn quality of his voice and his uncontrolled trembling all made sense.  Starsky swallowed hard, uncertain if he wanted to laugh or cry, his throat too dry to do either.  “Not my idea . . . of a fun time,” he said quietly.  He felt Hutch deflate, as if whatever had been holding him together for the last few seconds suddenly released him.  “When?” Starsky asked.

 

Hutch was quiet a moment before responding.  “As soon as it’s light enough.  Dad found a spot by the pool that’s well camouflaged.  He thinks it’s better that we . . . that we, uh . . .”  The words stuck in his throat.  “ . . . take care of things . . . by the water.”

 

Starsky’s mouth went dry just thinking about it.  “Movin’ me to the OR?” he asked thinly.

 

Hutch groaned. 

 

Starsky squeezed his hand, realizing Hutch needed the encouragement as much as he did.  Realistically, what were the odds of survival?  He’d seen some horrible life-or-death situations while in the Army.  On-the-spot field surgeries that left platoon mates clinging to life, others wheezing their last breath.  Grant Hutchinson was a skilled surgeon.  Didn’t that give him a better chance than most?

 

His head spun, the cave waffling around him as his tenuous thread to consciousness threatened to break.  Grinding his teeth together, he drew his legs up, half curling onto his side, instinctively folding his arms over his middle.  A crippling wave of pain rocketed through him.  Oh god, Hutch.  God, it hurts! 

 

Shuddering, he closed his eyes, trying to make the punishment stop.  He didn’t know which was worse - - living with the life-sapping agony or having his guts cut open in an attempt to save him.  He’d go insane just thinking about it.

 

“Anything new . . . on our host?” he asked, needing something - - anything  - - to take his mind off the grilling pain.  On what would happen to him a few short hours from now.  

 

“Starsk - - ”  Hutch sounded reluctant.

 

“Talk to me,” he whispered.  “I need . . . the diversion.”

 

He heard Hutch inhale, a jagged lungful of air that told him his friend was having a rough time holding it together.  And then Hutch started talking . . . his voice and manner under control as he told Starsky about a man named Stanton Monarch and how he’d lost his son two years ago.  After a time his voice faded into the background, melting into the nothingness of waning consciousness.  Starsky stopped listening to the words and just concentrated on the familiar sound of his friend’s voice, the gentle timbre and flow.  And then even that thinned, swallowed by a pillowy fog that left him floating, one moment bitingly aware of pain, the next oblivious to everything. 

 

He closed his eyes, sleep barely seeming to nuzzle the corners of his mind when he was jarred rudely back to reality.  Bottled agony knifed through him, poisoning his side with fire.  He cried out involuntarily, trying to twist away from the heat.   

 

“Easy . . . easy” a soft voice crooned.  “I’m sorry, babe.  I know it hurts, but we’re almost there.”

 

There?  His mind tried to make sense of the misplaced word.  His eyelids cracked, narrowing immediately to slits when struck by sunlight.  The gray half-light of dawn had faded replaced by the apple-gold haze of mid morning.  He realized somewhat sluggishly that time too had lapsed.  His body felt limp and raggedy.  Someone held him, cradling him protectively as they walked, carrying him down a short incline.

 

He hated the sense of helplessness that dependency induced and fought it momentarily.  A sticky wave of nausea swept over him, awakened by the jostling movement.  He swallowed hard, convulsively, sidelined by vertigo. 

 

“Ssh, Starsk.” The gentle voice was back again, more urgent this time.  “We’re almost there.”

 

And then he felt something cool and silky beneath him.  His head filled with the scent of earth, exotic greens and flowers.  Fingers stroked the inside of his arm and he opened his eyes to stare up into the leafy fronds of a small tree, a criss-cross of vines and leaves meshed together in its branches.  He felt someone touch his hand, lightly rub his wrist and then something cold and metal snapped over it.  Handcuffs.

 

He blinked, groggily.  “Wh . . .what’re ya . . . cuffin’ fer?”  His voice came out in a slur, his mind just as sluggish.  “Hutch?”

 

“Trust me,” the gentle voice said.

 

Starsky closed his eyes and surrendered to unconsciousness.

 

+++++

 

Hutch stood, agitatedly scraping fingers through his long hair.  His hands trembled and his stomach congealed into a tight knot.  He knew if he was going to be of any help to his father - - more importantly to Starsky - - he needed to get his act together. 

 

Moving his friend to the concealed area by the pool had not been as difficult as he’d initially feared.  Starsky remained lethargic through most of it, hovering between wakefulness and sleep, never really aware of what was transpiring.  Hutch had gotten him settled at the base of a small tree, the area shielded and camouflaged by sheltering vegetation and clustering foliage.  The pool and waterfall were just a step away, and lush grass made a cushioning bed, much softer than the cave floor. 

 

Quiet and grim, Grant bided his time by carefully shredding their jackets into thick strips.  Starsky’s knit shirt was cut up for compresses and the lining sliced from his leather jacket.  The surgeon worked silently, but he shot a puzzled glance in Hutch’s direction when his son snapped the handcuff around Starsky’s wrist. 

 

 “What’s that for?” he asked as Hutch moved away, kneeling by the pool.

 

Hutch blanched.  He didn’t want to think about it, but the truth was if his father was going to slice Starsky open, there was no way he could effectively restrain his friend’s arms and legs.  He’d thought about that long and hard after Grant had agreed to do the surgery.  He’d also thought about the noise Starsky was likely to make, potentially alerting the kidnapper to their location.  He’d address that issue later, but in the meantime there was the matter of the handcuffs his abductor hadn’t bothered to take.

 

Brusquely he busied himself, filling empty coconut shells with water.  “When you’re ready, I’ll secure his arms around the base of the tree.  That’ll keep him from moving . . .”  His voice trailed into a whisper.  “While you operate.”

 

Grant stared at him, momentarily speechless.  “You’re going to handcuff him?”

 

“Have you got a better idea?”  Hutch snapped.  His stomach contracted and he swallowed back the sharp sting of bile.  Yes, I’m gonna cuff him, because sadistic bastard that I am, I’m out of freakin’ options.  He shot a quick glance at his friend, hating himself for what he had to do.  The whole idea was crazy.  He was crazy . . .out of his mind, three-cards-short-of-a-full-deck-ready-for-the-asylum-stark-raving-mad-crazy for thinking they could pull off a delicate surgery in the middle of a jungle.  If Starsky died - -

 

The thought was too painful.  Even thinking about it sent him nose-diving toward panic.  If he ever needed to have faith in his father, now was the time.  Exhaling, he hung his head.  “Dad, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to snap.” 

 

Normally the apology would have stuck on his tongue, pride a common stumbling block whenever he talked to Grant.  But this time it wasn’t about him.  It was about Starsky, and for his friend he’d willingly sacrifice whatever was required.  He met his father’s gaze across the distance.  “I need you to save him for me, Dad.  Please.”

 

Uncomfortable with the naked emotion in his voice, Grant looked away.  He nodded once but said nothing.  They worked the next few minutes in silence, Hutch growing increasingly anxious. He wanted the nightmare of surgery over, yet he didn’t want it to begin.  Who was he to decide what was best for Starsky - - to subject his friend to excruciating pain based on his own skewed judgement?  He was beginning to have second thoughts when Grant announced he was ready.

 

Hutch swallowed hard, his heart thumping in his chest.  His father had done a crude sterilization procedure on the knife using his cigar lighter.  Bandages were laid on Starsky’s jacket to keep them off the ground, and a few makeshift urns of water were near at hand. Grant had also put together some poultices comprised of moss and a webbing of plants he claimed had medicinal properties. 

 

His face white, Hutch nodded and quickly moved to his friend’s side.  If he stopped to think about what he was doing, he’d never go through with it.  Starsky was still trapped in that gray limbo between worlds, eyes closed, his skin glistening with perspiration. The pigment had been leached from his face leaving flesh like dough, sharp hollows gouged beneath his cheeks.  His breath was choppy, rattling unevenly with each painful inhalation.

 

Hutch knelt beside him and smoothed a hand over his brow.  “Buddy, I’m sorry I have to do this,” he whispered.  Gripping Starsky’s right arm he drew it above his head, looping it behind the slender tree.  His friend groaned and tried to pull away, but Hutch held his wrist trapped.  “Easy.  Just take it easy, Starsk.”  He saw a flash of blue beneath Starsky’s lashes as he guided his friend’s left arm into place.  The cuffs snapped with a single click and the sound went through him like a knife. 

 

Panicked, Starsky tried to wrench free.

 

“Starsk, calm down!”  Hutch caught his wrists, trapping him before he could do unintentional damage.  Already the wound had started to bleed, jostled open with the jarring movement.  Hutch knew his partner was hurting, arms stretched taut over his head, ribcage spread and elevated, the torn flesh in his side pulled uncomfortably tight.  “I promise it won’t be long.”  God, please don’t let it be long!  “You need to lie still, Starsk.  We talked about this, babe.  I’m right here with you.”

 

From the corner of his eye, Hutch realized his father was hunched over the wound, prodding it gently, wiping it free of blood with a water-soaked cloth.  Tortured by the touch, Starsky moaned aloud.  One sweat-slick hand wrapped over Hutch’s wrist.

 

“Ssh, ssh.”  Hutch said quickly.  He sent his father a worried look.  “Dad?”

 

“I’ll be as quick as I can.  You better hold his legs.  When I start cutting, he’s going to kick.”

 

Hutch nodded, feeling his own panic slam into high gear.  Kick!  This isn’t happening.  It can’t freakin’ be happening!  He hesitated, swallowing a rush of self-loathing, forcing himself to focus solely on Starsky. “You’re gonna be okay, buddy.  Don’t breathe so fast.  Take slow breaths, Starsk.  Concentrate.”

 

There was a glimmer of comprehension in the dark-lashed eyes, but it faded quickly, smothered by pain.  Hutch had no warning when his father started cutting.  He locked his hands over Starsky’s knees just as Grant made the first careful incision with the knife.  The sterilized blade sank into raw flesh and Starsky screamed.

 

“Shit!” Hutch’s blood ran cold.

 

Before he had time to think about what he was doing, he clamped his hand forcefully over Starsky’s mouth, smothering his screams. “Babe, you gotta be quiet.”  

 

Panicked gasps and muffled grunts swelled against his palm.  Hutch felt sweat drip into his eyes, his heart jack hammering wildly against his chest.  Starsky squirmed and writhed beneath him, crazed by pain, desperately trying to twist free.  “Hold still, Starsk.  I know it hurts, babe.  I know it does, but you gotta be quiet.  Please Starsky.  Please . . .”

 

He didn’t know who was more frightened, him or his panicked partner.  Suddenly all he could hear was the loud thump of his heart, the tortured rasp of Starsky’s breath.  The air smelled hot, rank and metallic.  From the corner of his eye he saw blood sluice raggedly across Starsky’s stomach, seeping from the incision in spider-legged trails.  Grant was huddled over the wound, working feverishly, the knife slick with blood, his hands and fingers covered with it. 

 

The sight of it sickened Hutch.  Starsky’s body was ramrod tight beneath him, coiled with agony.  He shifted, drawing his hand away from Starsky’s mouth, sweeping it back through sweat-dampened tangles of curling black hair.  Leaning forward, he let his lower body pin Starsky’s legs in place.  “You’re gonna be okay,” he whispered, desperately trying to believe it himself, hating the wretched torment he was causing his partner. 

 

Starsky gasped, struggling to suck down air.  His body bucked, quaked. 

 

Hutch hung his head. “Starsk, I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry, buddy.”

 

The words reached Starsky through a semi-coherent haze.  Excruciating pain ravaged his side, buffeting him in rolling waves of blistering heat.  Something jabbed sharply below his ribs and the world exploded in mushrooming pain.  He writhed against the cuffs entrapping his wrists, but cold steel bit into his skin, mockingly snapping taut on his straining arms. He would have begged for the agony to end if he had a voice . . . pleaded and moaned for his partner to help him, but his throat closed up.  Choking, he gasped for air.

 

“ . . . Hutch! . .  .”  His partner’s name became an agonized cry.

 

“God, buddy - - ”

 

For a second time a hand clamped down on Starsky’s mouth, brutally muffling his screams.  His teeth sank into his bottom lip and the coppery tang of blood flooded his mouth.   Terrified he struggled to twist away, his pain-racked mind trying to make sense of the cruel restriction. His nostrils flared as he fought to drag breath into his rapidly tightening lungs.  Somewhere through the haze he realized Hutch was holding him down, restraining him, forcing him to endure the hideous torture.  Oh god, Hutch, you’re hurting me!  Please babe, let me go!  Please make it stop!

 

Nothing made sense.  The world was upside down, shards of light and sound splayed on the inside of his skull like some bad hallucinogenic trip.  Agony streaked from the gory hole in his side, spiking through his body with each labored breath.  He twisted, groaning deep in his lungs, but through it all, the hateful hand, the hand of his partner, stayed locked over his mouth. 

 

He could feel blood beneath the handcuffs now, his skin gouged and lacerated by the blunt metal.  His body was on fire, blazing with heat, the piercing pain back in his side. It burrowed beneath his flesh, savagely blundering through tissue and muscle.  Raw sensation spiked to his brain, shredding his mind like useless pulp.  His fingers contorted, groping the air, bound hands clawing at nothingness.  Blood trickled down his forearms.  Crazed with pain he groaned aloud, frantically trying to buck free, forcefully fighting for leverage.  The restriction on his knees kept him locked firmly in place.

 

“Easy, babe,” a choked voice pleaded.  Then sharper, crackling with undisguised rage:  “Damn it, Dad, can’t you fucking go any faster?”

 

From deep in his mind came the ghost of a memory.  A distant time when his body was tortured by the effects of an unknown toxin:  “Softly.  Don’t antagonize the people I need.”  He twisted, fighting the restraints, whimpering now as the pain threatened to strip him of sanity.

 

“Hold him, damn it!”  A second voice snapped, just as incensed.  “Ken, I’ve almost got it.  For the love of god, keep him still!”

 

Ken. 

 

Hutch. 

 

His partner was there.  Restraining him not because he wanted to, but because he had to.  He knew that even as his lungs exploded in an agonized scream.  Hutch, Hutch, you’re hurting me!  The muffling hand forced it back into his throat and he moaned, digging his heels into the earth.  His stomach was wet and sticky, soaked with his own hot blood. The smell gagged him.

 

He tried to focus on the blurry prism of light strung overhead . . . leaves, sun, sky, a white-gold glimmer of his friend’s medallion-bright hair.  It all webbed together in a riot of color and dazzling brilliance, searing his sensitive eyes.  He felt sick, violently nauseous, pain roller-coasting across his stomach and ribs. 

 

A spike of agony ripped through him, sword-edged and razor-hot, dragging tears from the corners of his eyes. He rolled his head from side to side, yelling against the muffling hand.  It was too much to bear, too much for any one person to withstand and still maintain a grip on sanity.  His world fractured and crumbled.  Oh god, please make it stop!  Hutch . . . please, babe . . . I can’t . . . I can’t, it hurts so bad!

 

“Starsk!”

 

Someone was talking to him, trying to reach him through the blinding agony.   He latched onto the voice, grappled for the security it offered.  For a fleeting moment there was blessed clarity, startling for its abruptness.  His eyes found Hutch’s, their gazes locking for a heart-thumping splinter of eternity. 

 

Remorse poured from his friend, washing over him in a deluge of self-loathing and crushing regret.  He saw Hutch’s eyes cloud and in that moment was blinded by tears.  Hot liquid streamed from his eyes, tracking wetly down his cheeks.   Hutch.  Oh, babe.

 

He wanted to touch, to comfort his partner despite his own staggering misery.  The grief was plain in Hutch’s eyes, the message as clear as if he’d spoken aloud:  I’m so sorry, buddy.  I’d give my right arm to spare you this pain!  Please, Starsk.  Please forgive me for hurting you.

 

And his own message conveyed just as clearly without words or sound:  There’s nothing to forgive.

 

The ugly thing in his side burrowed deep beneath his flesh.  Starsky’s eyes rolled into his head.

 

“I’ve got it,” someone said from far away.  “I’ve got the bullet.”

 

A dam of pressure broke and the world upended in a grisly glut of pain and blood.  Starsky screamed, dumped headfirst into a shadowed hole without light, consciousness or sound.  

 

+++++

 

“I got the bullet.  Here.” Grant grabbed Hutch by the wrist and shoved his hand down onto a thick wad of bandages he quickly mounded over Starsky’s wound.   “Keep pressure on it.  Don’t let go.”

 

I’m not about to let go.  Hutch shot a quick glance at his friend’s face, relieved to find him unconscious.  No one should ever have to endure the excruciating level of pain he’d subjected Starsky to.  What he’d done made him worse than a sadist.  He’d knowingly handcuffed his best friend to a tree, physically holding him down while another man carved up his side with a knife. 

 

Shit.

 

He felt blood beneath his hands, sticky-hot, soaking the tips of his fingers.  Grunting, he applied heavier pressure to the bandage.  Starsky’s blood.  His heart pounded fiercely.  Sweat trickled down the side of his face and dripped into his eyes.  He felt suddenly cold.  His arms and legs trembled, riddled with the onslaught of delayed shock.  The punishment was fast, unforgiving and hard.

 

Unable to stop himself, Hutch swayed to the side and groaned.

 

Grant took one look at him and shoved him out of the way.  “I’ve got it.”

 

Hutch spun on his heel, hand clamped over his mouth and stumbled to the pool, unable to move fast enough.  Seconds later he was gagging, hands on knees, spitting up what little food had found its way into his stomach the day before.  Embarrassed by the weakness, he straightened and dragged a shaky hand over his mouth. 

 

Never stopping his work, Grant watched him closely as he walked back to Starsky’s side.  “You need to get some rest,” he said.  “Real rest.  Not ten minutes here and fifteen minutes there.  You’re exhausted, Ken.”

 

He shook his head, dropping to his knees beside Starsky.  “I’m fine,” he lied.  Ashamed by the nausea when his friend had endured so much more, he ducked his head, fumbling with the key to unlock the handcuffs.  Blood and torn flesh marred Starsky’s wrists where he’d twisted against the restraints.  Grimacing, Hutch pocketed the cuffs.  He gently lowered his friend’s arms, bathing first one, then the other in cool water, washing away the ugly stain of blood.  Starsky remained motionless through it all, his face etched with lines of pain even in unconsciousness.

 

Grant dressed the wound, cleaning it, then packing it with a soft poultice of healing herbs and leaves.  He layered a bandage over it, but didn’t wrap the makeshift binding around Starsky’s waist.  When he was through he walked to the waterfall, quietly washing his hands free of blood.   

 

Miserable, Hutch sat beside Starsky, his own body riddled with tremors that left him light-headed and weak.  Sound and light came to him from a great distance, piping through a hollow tunnel.   He laid one hand on Starsky’s shoulder, unconsciously rubbing his friend’s sweat-streaked flesh, his gaze locked on his father’s back.  When he spoke his voice was soft.  “Is he going to be all right?”

 

Grant turned to face him, wiping his hands dry on his trousers.  “I wish I could say for certain, Ken.  The wound’s clean, but there’s still the chance of infection or fever, plus he’s lost a good deal of blood.  I’ve done everything I can.  It’s up to David now.”

 

Hutch’s gaze swept back to his friend.  Starsky looked still and lifeless, the black webbing of his lashes resting like jet thread against his too-white flesh.  There was blood on the ground beneath him, pooled in the leaves butted up against his side.  The sight of it sickened Hutch, sending a reawakened whisper of nausea licking against the back of his throat.  Exhausted, he leaned against the tree, legs curled, body angled toward Starsky as if he could somehow shut out the rest of the world.

 

His eyes drifted shut.  “Thank you,” he whispered to his father. 

 

Starsky stirred, moaning softy in his sleep.  Hutch stroked his shoulder and his friend inched closer, as if subconsciously aware and comforted by his presence.  The reassurance went both ways. 

 

Starsky turned his face against Hutch’s leg, one hand instinctively gripping the back of his knee. 

Worn out, warm sunlight beating down on him, his partner nestled by his side, Hutch wanted to stay where he was, but knew he didn’t have the luxury.  He needed to scout the island for an escape route.  Now more than ever, Starsky needed a way back to civilization. Freeing the Magnum from its holster, Hutch flipped open the housing and checked the chambers. 

 

Crouched a short distance away, Grant watched warily. “What are you going to do with that?”

 

Hutch’s eyes flashed to his father’s face.  There was no question the gun made Grant uncomfortable.

 

Hutch hesitated.  If he was caught stealing through the jungle, at least he had a chance of survival, even escape.  He didn’t necessarily need to be armed.  Depending on the odds, he could stand and fight.  If he had to run, he was young enough and fast enough to rate a good chance of outdistancing any pursuers.  Starsky didn’t have those same options.  Realistically, his father didn’t either.  Hutch frowned.  After a moment, he spun the gun around and offered it to Grant, butt first.

 

“Take it.”

 

His father drew back, raising both hands in automatic refusal.  “You can’t be serious.”

 

“I’m going to go try to find a way off this island,” Hutch said patiently.  “If Monarch or any of his friends show up while I’m gone, you have to protect Starsky.”

 

“Ken, be realistic.”  Grant gave a strangled laugh.  “You can’t honestly expect me to - - ”

 

“Take it,” Hutch spat, his voice ringing with command, a tone he normally reserved for perps and criminals. “You’ve got two bullets left.  If you have to use them, make them count.”

 

Grant looked ready to protest again, then thought better of it.  Shrugging off the ridiculous demand, he tried another track.  “I’ll go,” he volunteered.  “You stay here with David and I’ll look for a means of escape.  He responds better to you anyway.”

 

“I’m not a doctor.”  Hutch’s grim expression wavered slightly and a flash of indecision entered his eyes.  He lowered the gun.  If he was honest, he preferred to stay . . . to make sure his partner was safe, well cared for, and protected.  He didn’t have full confidence in his father’s ability to safely navigate the jungle, but Grant looking for a way off the island was better than relying on him to use a gun.  Unfortunately he was also best suited to look after Starsky. 

 

Hutch wet his lips.  “You need to stay here.  If something happened to him - - ”

 

“Ken.”  Grant sent him a pointed glance.  “Look at him.”  He motioned to Starsky who was nestled up against Hutch’s thigh, his cheek resting on a jean-clad leg, one hand wrapped around the back of Hutch’s knee.  “Do you honestly think I’m going to be of any comfort to him?  He’s resting because you’re here, because you’re with him.  I just put him through hell.  By all rights he should be out of his head with pain.  You’re the one keeping him calm.  It makes more sense for me to go and you to stay.”

 

There was logic in that even if it was nothing more than the better of two impossible choices. 

And knowing Starsky, if he did wake and find Hutch gone, he wouldn’t rest easy until he knew his partner had safely returned.

 

Still undecided, Hutch looked down on his friend.  Curled slightly on his good side, his cheek pressed to Hutch's thigh, Starsky breathed unevenly, his chest rising and falling too rapidly.  “Easy buddy,” Hutch murmured, unconsciously rubbing slow circles over his partner’s hunched back.

 

Taking that as a sign the decision had been made, Grant stood and straightened his clothing.  “I’ll head north.  In the direction where the boat is supposed to be docked.”  Absently he finger-combed his short black hair, then bent to retrieve his knife.  Wiping the blade clean, he placed it in the grass near the extra bandages and some fruit he’d picked earlier.  “Keep David calm and rested.  Try to get as much fluid into him as you can, and it wouldn’t hurt for him to eat something.  The danger now is fever and infection.  Keep him hydrated and cool - - ”

 

“ - - Dad.”  Hutch interrupted, his mouth suddenly dry.  What did he say to a man to whom he could barely speak civilly for more than five minutes at a time?  A man, who despite all the anger and dejection he instilled - - and despite that damn, nasty letter - - Hutch really did love.   He knew that now when faced with the possibility of loss.  His father could walk into the jungle and never come back, the victim of a sniper’s bullet or some other grisly end. 

 

Acutely uncomfortable, he wet his lips. “Be careful.”  Hutch’s voice faltered. He cleared his throat, swallowing an unexpected knot of emotion.  “Make sure you come back before sundown.”

 

The flicker of a smile touched Grant’s mouth.  “Watch it, Ken.  If you’re not careful I might actually think you care.”

 

Hutch opened his mouth to protest he’d always cared but Grant slipped into the vegetation, pocketing two pieces of fruit as he ducked beneath a netting of broad leaves.  The plants swayed then stilled at his passing, settling into place as if he’d never been.  Agitated, Hutch blew out a breath and glanced down at his sleeping partner.

 

At least Starsky was safe.

 

+++++

 

“Hu . . . utch.”

 

The tortured voice dragged him instantly awake.  Hutch came to with a jerk, tensed for action, senses immediately alert.  He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep.  Throughout the morning and most of the afternoon, he’d tended to Starsky’s needs, bathing his partner’s sweat-streaked face and chest with cooling water, forcing him to drink any time he came near consciousness.  Shortly after noon, Hutch had even managed to get a few pieces of chopped fruit past Starsky’s dry lips. He’d checked the wound twice, changing the dressing when it became fouled with sticky secretions. The flesh around the incision was puckered and raw, warm to the touch, but did not look infected. 

 

Starsky had stayed mostly incoherent through the careful handling, waking only when the pain became too great and dragged him groaning into the light of day.  He was often confused and disoriented when he woke.  Sometimes he rambled, mistaking the present for some foggy past when he was in the Army.   Those were the worst times, when he thought the enemy had trapped him.  It took Hutch long moments of soothing attention and whispered reassurances to calm him.  Other times he woke, his mind on some case from their early days as partners.  Once he even talked to Hutch as if they were still in the Academy. 

 

Through it all, Hutch calmed him with repeated touches and words, gently smoothing tension from a furrowed brow or massaging the bunched muscles in Starsky’s back.  There was no sign of Grant, and as the day went on Hutch began to worry.  He tried to keep his growing tension to himself but was mostly unsuccessful.  Starsky fidgeted every time he tensed or let his mind grow bogged down with silent unease.  Knowing he was hurting both of them, Hutch eventually settled by his friend, back propped to the slender tree, his long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles.  With concentrated effort, he tried to relax.  Somewhere during that mental exercise, exhaustion caught up with him and he fell asleep.

 

“Hu . . .tch!”

 

He jerked awake, finding Starsky’s head in his lap, a riot of black curls against his thighs. It took him a moment to realize the sticky dampness soaking his jeans was sweat, the glittering sheen on Starsky’s face, perspiration.  Heat poured from the huddled mass beside him, drenching his own flesh. 

 

Moaning, Starsky gripped his knee, his fingers spasmodically clutching folds of dirt-stained denim.  “Hutch.”  His breath came ragged and chopped.  “I . . . can’t . . . please . . . hot . . .”

 

“Babe?”  Horrified, Hutch realized the one thing Grant feared was setting in - - fever.  Blazing, barbarous, scorching-hot fever.   Hutch immediately reached for a cloth, wiping it across Starsky’s cheek and brow.  What little moisture it once retained had been sucked dry by the hot, tropical sun.  The coconut shells were empty too, but he knew refilling them wasn’t the answer.

 

Twisting onto his side, instinctively drawing his legs up, Starsky moaned again.

 

“Easy, buddy.”  Hutch slid free, cradling his friend’s head until he could gently ease it onto the ground.  The scalp wound was still tender, likely sore.  He let his hand linger, long fingers splayed against Starsky’s cheek.  Everywhere he touched, his friend’s body burned with fever.  “Ahh, buddy, I’m sorry,” he murmured.  “I’m gonna get you cooled down.  Just hang in there, okay, pal?  We’ll get you feeling better in a minute.”

 

Bending quickly, he rechecked the incision.  Involuntarily, Starsky sucked in a breath and flinched from his touch.  His eyelids fluttered as he struggled awake.  “Hutch?”

 

“Ssh, I’m right here.”  Hutch rubbed his shoulder.  The dressing on the wound was holding, but Hutch gently worked it free, exposing the incision.  He wadded another bandage together, this time tying it in place with a strip of cloth wrapped around Starsky’s middle.  When he was through, he unlaced Starsky’s sneakers and tossed them aside, socks following in a small heap on the ground.

 

Starsky tried to raise his head.  “What . . . what’re ya doin’?”

 

Hutch flashed him a brilliant smile.  “You wakin’ up, babe?  That’s good, Starsk, but your fever’s too high.”  He folded back on the open fly on Starsky’s jeans.  “Think you can raise your hips a little?”

 

“Why?”

 

“You need to get in the water . . . cool down.”  Hutch wasn’t really sure why he was explaining.  The glazed look in Starsky’s eyes told him his friend was barely coherent of what was happening.  He moaned again, trying to twist away and Hutch caught him.  “Starsky, come on.  I don’t want to hurt you buddy.  Help me out, huh?  Raise your hips so I can get these damn tight jeans off you.”

 

Snug was one matter, but Starsky liked his jeans ridiculously close-fitted.  His friend’s eyes shut again, but Starsky responded, grunting slightly as he rolled to the side so Hutch could tug the tight denim down over his thighs and knees. 

 

Hutch tossed the jeans aside, then popped the snaps on his own shoulder holster, shrugging free of the contraption.  His black shirt followed in a rush and he sat back to tug off his socks and shoes.  The sun felt overly warm on his fair skin.  Although he had a base tan, warm and bronze, it wasn’t protection enough from the hot tropical sun.  His chest had burned already where his shirt gaped open, the flesh reddened and pink.  Starsky too was sunburned on both his face and chest, his shoulders getting the worst of it.

 

Knowing he couldn’t be caught without a weapon, Hutch re-rigged the shoulder holster over his bare back, making sure the Magnum was securely seated.  Standing, he undid his belt, then quickly shed his jeans.  Clad only in his shorts, he bent over Starsky, sliding one arm beneath his friend’s shoulders, the other below his knees.  Straightening his back, he stood carefully, trying not to jar his semi-conscious friend. 

 

Starsky grimaced, his head lolling to the side.

 

“Easy, babe.  I’ve got you.  Just trust me.”

 

Cool water rushed around Hutch’s ankles as he stepped into the pool.  It was colder than he expected, the ground uneven, sporadically populated with aquatic plants.  He felt the brush of feathery leaves and snaking tendrils against his legs as he moved deeper into the water.  It rolled away from him in undulating ripples, soft as silk, shimmering with reflected sunlight.  When it lapped just above his knees, Hutch knelt and eased Starsky into the pond. 

 

His friend gave a startled grunt, sucking down a hissing breath as the water washed over the incision.  “Hutch!”

 

“Right here, buddy,” Hutch said softly.  He cupped a handful of water, letting it escape in a trickle against Starsky’s fever-flushed cheek.  Even with the water lapping around them, he could feel an underlying blaze of heat from Starsky’s body.  It seeped into his, desert-hot, fed by the pulse and swell of the grisly incision.  Despite that searing warmth, his friend shivered, one moment torrentially hot, the next achingly cold. 

 

Agitated, Starsky tried to get his feet under him.

 

“Relax, Starsk.” Hutch dipped his lips near his friend’s ear, whispering softly, gingerly holding Starsky’s body trapped against his own.  For his perpetually impulsive, shoot-from-the-hip friend, Hutch knew the continued dependency was wearing thin despite the devotion between them.  “Trust me, babe.  Relax and let the water do its stuff.  You’ve got a nasty fever, Gordo.  I know your gut reaction is to be stubborn as shit, but you’ve gotta listen to me this time.”

 

Starsky grunted.  He turned his face against Hutch’s neck.   “ . . . sucks . . .”

 

Hutch chuckled, raising a dripping hand to stroke his cheek.   “Yeah, it does, but the fact that you’re talking at all is a freaking miracle.  Don’t get too bent out of shape if I try to kiss you.”

 

Starsky cracked a single eye, foggy-minded and lethargic but responding a bit as Hutch intended. “That’ll cost ya.”

 

Hutch grinned, his heart leaping at the bantering sound of Starsky’s voice. “Hey, buddy, I’ll pay.  All those women who are always fawning all over you must know something I don’t. Either that or you’ve got a small fortune tucked away somewhere.”

 

Starsky snorted.  His eyelashes dipped again, his voice thinning as sleep nuzzled close.  “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured. “I don’t kiss . . . stuck-up snots . . . thought you were a conceited ass . . . first time I met you . . . know that?”

 

“Sure,” Hutch responded softly.  “You told me - - bluntly too.  Doesn’t matter though.  I thought you were an uncouth jerk.  Still do.”  He dipped his head, lightly brushing his lips against Starsky’s brow.  His breath caught in his throat with an audible hitch.  “Guess you kind of wore on me.”

 

Starsky rolled his eyes.  “So what  . . . I’m gonna turn into a prince now?”

 

Hutch gave a short strangled laugh.  “A frog, you ass.”  He dropped his forehead against Starsky’s, imagining a time and place where danger and death didn’t linger around every corner.  Where his father wasn’t off lumbering through a jungle, possibly captured or dead, and Starsky wasn’t a step away from dying himself.  Where surgery meant more than a crudely sterilized knife and a cold set of handcuffs for restraint.

 

Hutch moaned softly, pulling away at the ugly memory.  “Starsk?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I . . . I’m sorry I handcuffed you.  I, uh . . .” His voice faltered as the repulsive image blundered back in glaring clarity.  “I-I didn’t kn-know what else to do.  I never wanted to hurt you like that.”

 

“ S’alright.”  Starsky voice came slurred, heavy with fatigue.  “You’re stutterin’, Blondie.  Don’t work yourself up.”  He huddled nearer.  “ ’m cold.”  

 

Hutch gave a guilty start.  The heat had slaked from Starsky’s body, washed away in the cooling waters of the pond.  Crisis past, Hutch carried his friend from the water, gently laying him on a clean cushion of grass and leaves.  Water streamed from his own body, absorbing sun as soon as he stepped onto land.  Within a half an hour he was dry enough to tug his jeans back on.  He didn’t bother with shirt or shoes, and after a moment’s silent debate, decided it wasn’t worth the effort of trying to fight the impossibly tight denim up Starsky’s legs and hips.  His own jeans were snug, but they didn’t fit like they’d been spray-painted onto his body like Starsky’s did. Attempting to get his partner’s pants into place would jostle open the wound, and that wasn’t a risk he was willing to take.  Starsky would just have to do without the normal vanity, clad for the time being in only his tight blue briefs.

 

Because his friend still shivered, he slipped his own shirt around him, then spent the next few minutes carving up a handful of overripe fruit.  Where he’d always enjoyed it in the past, he was suddenly hungry for something disgustingly fattening like an obscenely stuffed burrito or a dough-heavy stromboli dripping with salami, pepperoni and cheese.  He settled for the fruit, absently wondering why he was suddenly channeling Starsky’s eating habits.

 

His friend slept undisturbed for a few hours, then woke disoriented, fidgety with pain.  Hutch sat with him, calming him, talking and stroking until the torturing spikes slithered into submission.   The sun was starting to set, sinking between the trees, spreading long cooling shadows into their secluded haven. 

 

Hutch gnawed on his lip, secretly worried about his father.  He busied himself with Starsky, getting his friend to eat a few mouthfuls of fruit, followed by a coconut shell full of water.  He checked the wound again, making sure the dressing held.  Starsky grunted but made no protest at the ginger prodding.  Weary, Hutch sagged into the grass.

 

He shoved aside the knife, still sticky with fruit juice and pulp, the sweet scent rising to clog his head.  He concentrated on Starsky, unwilling to think about his father’s continued absence.  Overhead the first faint glimmer of starlight appeared in the sky, cool and silvery, mirroring the pewter lace of encroaching twilight.

 

The vegetation rustled to his right and Hutch was instantly on his feet, hope and fear warring simultaneously as he instinctively reached for his gun.

 

“Uh-uh,” an unfamiliar voice chided. 

 

Grant stumbled from the trees, dropping clumsily to his knees.  Disheveled and ragged, he looked like he’d gone a few rounds with a championship boxer.  His right eye was puffy and red, swelling shut even as Hutch watched.  An ugly welt marred the side of his face and blood dripped from the corner of his split bottom lip.  His shirt was muddy and torn at the shoulder. 

Before the surgeon could so much as flinch, a copper-haired man snaked an arm around his throat, roughly restraining him.

 

Grant’s eyes flashed to Hutch’s face.  “I’m sorry, son.  I tried.”

 

Son.  Not Ken. 

 

Hutch’s mouth thinned in a white line as he looked at the man who had mistreated his father.  A surge of protective anger spiked through him.

 

“Hello, Sergeant Hutchinson,” the stranger said smoothly.  “In case you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m Stanton Monarch.  Get rid of your gun, unless you want to watch your father die.” The blunt barrel of a .38 was shoved against Grant’s temple.  “Of course I was really hoping to reserve that particular pleasure for you.”  A malignant smile lifted the corners of the man’s lips.   “You see, Detective . . . the good doctor owes me a life, and I’ve decided to collect yours.”

 

+++++

 

There really was no choice.  Hutch pulled the Magnum from its holster and tossed it at Monarch’s feet.  His eyes shifted to his father.  “You okay, Dad?”

 

The older man gave a quick nod, his expression tight.  He looked miserable, but Hutch understood instinctively that misery wasn’t about his own discomfort, rather at having failed.  Hutch wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault.  That it wasn’t over yet and not to give up, but Grant averted his eyes, too shamed to face him.

 

Monarch snickered.  “How very touching.  The situation hasn’t gone exactly as I’d planned, but there’s still time to fix the mistakes.”  The gun waved somewhat languidly in Hutch’s direction.  “You are the one who was supposed to be shot, not your friend there.” He gave a short nod to indicate Starsky who had fallen into a pain-hazed sleep, his breathing quick and rasp.  “I suppose that’s what I get for hiring incompetent buffoons.  The idiots even took off after they realized their mistake, too afraid to admit they’d botched the job.”

 

“And what job was that?”  Hutch asked quietly.

 

“Come now, Sergeant.  You seem like a bright boy.  Surely you’ve figured things out.  You and your father have had a chance to talk . . . to put your heads together and decipher the puzzle. I have nothing against you personally, but I believe in an eye for an eye.  It’s a philosophy that’s kept me alive in a cutthroat business for a very long time.  Drugs are lucrative but only if you have the stomach to be merciless along the way. ”

 

“I should have known.” 

 

Monarch laughed.  “Well, you can’t be expected to know every crime lord, especially those

beyond your tiny jurisdiction and level of competence.”  His smile turned wolfish.  “I must admit, however, a certain degree of satisfaction in knowing I’ll be killing a cop.  A double pleasure, if you will.”

 

“I did everything I could to save your son,” Grant spoke up suddenly, irritably.  “You have no right to subject Ken - - ”

 

“Ken is going to die, Doctor,” Monarch snapped heatedly.  He jammed the barrel of the gun against Grant’s neck, grinding it into his flesh.  “And then you and his partner are going to follow.  But before I dispose of you, you’re going to watch your beloved Ken suffer.  I promise you it won’t be quick.  He’s going to linger as my son lingered.  I’m quite skilled at pumping someone full of bullets, then keeping them alive for hours.  The shells have to be placed just right to induce the maximum amount of pain while ensuring the victim remains alive.  As a doctor, I’m sure you appreciate that.  It’s taken me two years to master the skill. . . two years of practice and planning revenge after you took my son’s life.”

 

“A freeway accident took your son’s life,” Grant snapped. 

 

“Incompetence took his life!” Monarch roared.

 

Behind Hutch, Starsky moaned softly.  Worried, the fair-haired man stole a quick glance at his partner.  They’d been in worse situations, but in the past they’d faced them together.  This time Starsky was pretty much out of the ballgame which left Hutch holding the bag for all three of them, Grant included.  That realization had him wired and on edge, adrenaline pumping through his veins like high-octane fuel.  He’d already surrendered his revolver.  The only other weapon they had was the knife.

 

His eyes tracked to the side and he felt an involuntary jolt when he realized Starsky’s hand had closed over the slender blade, discarded in the grass.  Eyes shut, Starsky maintained a believable façade of unconsciousness, his features crimped in pain.  That at least, Hutch thought bitterly, was probably real.  Aware his friend was awake and listening, Hutch bit his lip.

 

Starsk, if I ever needed you to pull a rabbit out of the hat, now’s the time, buddy.

 

“If you want to take revenge on someone,” Hutch heard his father announce suddenly, “then take it out on me, but leave Ken alone.  He has nothing to do with what happened to your son.”

 

A strange sensation fluttered through Hutch’s stomach.  Was his father actually trying to protect him . . . at cost to his own life?

 

Tethered to an imaginary string, he took an impromptu step forward.  “Dad?”  Inwardly he cringed.  They were playing it all wrong.  For years they’d been critical and aloof with one another, now in the eleventh hour his father had decided to become self-sacrificing.  Between Grant’s suddenly selfless courage and Hutch’s own frazzled concern they were stumbling right into Monarch’s hands.  What had happened to the two men who couldn’t stand one another, he wondered distractedly?  Who couldn’t talk for more than five minutes without ending in a heated argument?

 

Unaware of his rambling thoughts, Monarch laughed.  “Now isn’t that heartfelt?  Too bad your friend is unconscious and missing the show. Judging by the looks of him, he’s suffered enough for the two of you combined.  Ironic, since he’s the only true innocent victim in the whole ordeal.”                        

 

“You sick bastard.”  Suppressed rage crackled through Hutch. He took another step forward, voice dripping with contempt and stabbed the air with a raised index finger.  “I don’t expect scum like you to have ethics, so your son probably didn’t either.  If that’s the case, he deserved what he got.  Every fucking, agonizing minute of pain.  But Starsky doesn’t and neither does my father.  Don’t expect me to feel remorse for a shit like you after you’ve leeched off others all your life.  After you’ve built an empire on butchering and blood.   I’ve got news for you asshole - -  you’re just another two-bit hood.  Trash is trash.  With or without money, it’s still A-plus garbage.”

 

“Ken.”  Grant’s face went bone white, his eyes round and frightened.  “Don’t antagonize him.”

 

“Why not?”  Silently Hutch measured the distance to his discarded Magnum.  He still had two shells left - - more than enough to take care of Monarch - - if he could only reach it.   Come on, Starsk.  Now’s the time to step up to bat.  I can’t keep his attention forever.  Any minute now he’s gonna get pissed and off me.   “If I’m gonna get pumped full of lead, why not have my say first?” 

 

“Indeed, Detective, why not?”  Monarch’s face was hard, but his attention had shifted.  No longer holding the gun rigidly on Grant, he focused solely on Hutch.  “You realize you’re digging your own grave.  How long you suffer is entirely up to me.”

 

Hutch smiled thinly.  From the corner of his eye he saw Starsky tense.  “Don’t be so sure.” 

 

Even as he said the words, the innate mental telepathy he’d long shared with his partner sprang to life.  Hutch dove instinctively to the side, snagging the Magnum as he tucked and rolled to regain his feet.  Caught off guard, Monarch pivoted, tracking him with his revolver.  A whirling flash of silver snapped past Hutch’s eye.  He heard a small thud as it impacted with Monarch’s chest, dropping him to his knees.  The gun discharged, thrown wide and Hutch felt a hissing displacement of air above his shoulder. Before he could fully recover, Grant shoved his captor to the side and scrambled for the gun.  He had it seconds before Hutch reached him.

 

“Take it!”  Grant hissed distastefully, thrusting the weapon at him. His face was pale, stripped of color like waterlogged cabbage. By contrast his blue eyes looked abnormally dark, almost as black as his raven-colored hair.  Spinning on his heel, he blundered through the nearest patch of vegetation.  Seconds later, choking and gagging noises rose from the jungle as the trauma finally caught up with him.

 

Exhaling, Hutch looked from Monarch who huddled subdued, one hand clutching the knife protruding from his lower chest cavity, to Starsky.  His friend sat forward, legs spread and drawn close to his body in a semi-crossed position.  He looked winded and pained, but otherwise whole.  Deciding Monarch wasn’t going anywhere, Hutch headed for his partner.  “Good aim, buddy. I knew you wouldn’t let me hang myself.”

 

“You were doin’ such a damn good job of it.”  Starsky sent him a weak smile.  “It’s a real gift you’ve got, Hutchinson . . . pissin’ people off.”

 

“I’ve had lots of practice on my partner.”  With a quick smile Hutch crouched beside him, immediately moving to check the wound.

 

Starsky brushed his hands aside.  “I’ve been prodded enough . . . okay?”  His breath caught on a pain-riddled hitch, but he refocused quickly, looking behind Hutch.  “Dr. Hutchinson . . .”

 

Hutch cast a glance over his shoulder, caught off guard by his father’s sudden reappearance.   Grant looked shaken and haggard, but his eyes were back to normal, no longer dark with terror.   He stepped closer, pointedly avoiding Hutch’s gaze.

 

“That was good work on your part,” Starsky told him. “Grabbing Monarch’s gun like that.

Uh - - ”  He leaned forward, grinding his teeth together as another wave of pain washed over him.

 

“Starsk.”  Concerned, Hutch gripped his shoulder.  “Take it easy, buddy.  Flinging that knife didn’t do you any good.”

 

“I’ll check his wound,” Grant offered, and this time Starsky did not protest.  “What about Monarch?”

 

Hutch’s gaze tracked back to the copper-haired man who had folded in on himself, lying curled in the grass.  He’d pulled the knife from his chest and was moaning softly, his hands covered in blood.  Hutch had seen enough of it from his own partner to last a lifetime.  “He’ll live.  We’ll patch him up and get out of here.  If he doesn’t tell us the nearest way to civilization, I’ll make sure he suffers.”

 

Grant frowned, finally meeting his eyes.  “You can be disturbingly intimidating when you want to be, Kenneth, do you know that?   Those things you said to him when you antagonized him . . . you could have gotten yourself killed.  I could feel him tensing up, becoming enraged.  He was one step away from putting a bullet in you.”

 

Suddenly Grant’s quick trip to the bushes made sense.  Hutch wasn’t sure if he should feel appreciative or reprimanded.  “I know how far too push, Dad.  Risk is part of the package.”

 

“Then it’s a sick package.”  Quickly averting his eyes, Grant refocused on Starsky.  “Lie back, David.”  His voice was crisp, pointedly dismissing the topic.  “I need to look at that wound.”

 

Hutch traded a glance with his partner.  It was what he wanted too - - for Starsky to be well, but for an impossible minute he’d actually thought he’d gained ground with Grant.  His father had been selfless, trying to protect him by offering his own life in place of Hutch’s.  Those fiercely protective emotions were gone now, buried beneath aloof decorum.  Grant was brusque and efficient, examining Starsky with little thought for anything else including his son.

 

He saw me playing tough cop and didn’t like it.

 

Grimacing, Hutch stood.   There were worse ways to make a living, but apparently not for a doctor’s son.  In the long run, none of it really mattered.  He’d promised his father he’d quit the force and move back to Minnesota . . . become a doctor, and live a proper-society structured life.  Dr. Kenneth Hutchinson.

 

He looked down on Starsky.  Ah, buddy, I’m gonna miss you.  I could leave California, even the job, but saying goodbye to you - -

 

The thought was too painful to finish.  Whirling on his heal, Hutch darted away to confront Monarch.

 

+++++

 

Hutch suppressed a yawn and rubbed grit from his eyes.  After four days of waiting at the hospital he still hadn’t gotten used to the medicinal smell that permeated the hallways.  In the past he’d always associated it with some sort for traumatic injury for himself or his partner  - -  painful or troubling situations that often left him pacing hallways and waiting rooms.  This time had been no different.  It had taken a full 72 hours of gut-wrenching worry before he was convinced Starsky would heal.  Rested, medicated and cared for, his partner was finally on the path to recovery. 

 

A glance at the stark black-and-white clock mounted on the wall told Hutch it was 4:20 P.M.  In another half-hour or so, someone on the hospital staff would arrive with Starsky’s dinner - - cardboard-tasting turkey and gravy with green beans and mashed potatoes if rumors were true.  Coffee, tea, maybe even some applesauce, but not a single enchilada or mustard-and-relish-slathered corn dog in the bunch.

 

He was going to miss all that artery-clogging junk food when he moved back to Minnesota.  Not that he really wanted to eat any of it, but he would miss Starsky’s impassioned speeches about how obnoxiously satisfying it was.  He’d miss seeing his partner make a mess of his shirt and jeans as he tried to juggle an overstuffed burrito and onion rings while driving through downtown traffic.  Most of all he’d miss badgering Starsky about how unhealthy it was.

 

Ah, Starsk, it just isn’t fair.

 

With an audible groan, Hutch leaned forward in his chair, resting his head against the edge of Starsky’s bed.  His friend slept soundly, no longer needing the extra precaution of the raised guardrails on either side of the mattress.  For two days after his admittance they had been in place, ensuring he didn’t inadvertently topple to the floor.  His incision had been rechecked, stitched and dressed.  He’d been treated for a number of minor cuts and bruises, including a scalp laceration.  Dosed with antibiotics, fluids and painkillers, he’d slept more than he’d been awake.  Hutch had spent the time dozing in the bedside chair, thankful the semi-private room was currently minus a second occupant.  Too tired to drive to the hotel last night, he’d stretched out on the vacant bed, pleased when the nursing staff had been kind enough to leave him alone. 

 

At some point he’d managed to bring Starsky up to date on how they’d arrived at the hospital. His friend had been semi-conscious through most of it, his thoughts fogged and hazed.  Hutch explained how pointed coercion had gotten Monarch to lead them to his home on the island, securing safe transportation to the nearest medical facility and unearthing something startling in the process:  King Island was in fact situated just southeast of Hawaii, only a few nautical miles offshore. 

 

Extravagant and wildly eccentric, Monarch had constructed a self-contained tropical paradise on a five-mile plot of ground in the center of a private island.  Built beneath a geodesic dome, the area was climate controlled, maintained with authentic tropical plants, vegetation and wildlife.  Even the pseudo-faux sky was made to mimic the constellations of the South Pacific.   

 

Hutch, his father and Starsky had been injected with something to keep them mildly sedated during transport to the island, but only for a brief time.  Which explained why he’d still felt the effects of chloroform on waking.  They turned Monarch over to the local authorities upon reaching the Hawaiian mainland, and Starsky was transported to the nearest hospital.

 

Hutch and his father were both checked over and declared fit, minus some bumps and scrapes, his father a little worse for wear after his encounter with Stanton Monarch.  While Starsky was settled in a room, Hutch took the time to call Dobey and bring their captain up to date on what had happened.  Grant stayed mostly in the background but after a few hours of nervous fidgeting, announced his need to return to San Francisco in order to tie up loose ends with the medical convention.  He promised to fly back as soon as possible.

 

It was just as well, Hutch thought dismally.  He wasn’t exactly sure what he wanted say to the man.  He was grateful for what Grant had done, but he was also angry.  His emotions ran the gamut from confusion and gratitude to hurt and stubborn defiance.  His father had saved Starsky’s life and for that he’d be eternally grateful, but Grant was also making Hutch leave the friend who’d come to mean more to him than anyone else.  It was one thing to force him to walk away from his career and his home, but another to make him abandon his partner.  And yet, he was the one who’d willingly vowed to do whatever Grant requested as long as he saved Starsky’s life.  He’d never renege or alter the deal, he was just finding it harder to fulfill than he’d originally thought.  Leaving Starsky was equivalent to stripping away half of his soul.

 

There was no easy way to tell his partner what he’d promised and no easy time to do it.  He wasn’t sure what would be better - -  wait until they returned to California, or just tell Starsky now and get it over with.  Maybe the longer they had to prepare for the separation the easier it would be on both of them. 

 

Get a grip, Hutchinson.  It’s not the end of the world. 

 

Starsky could always visit.  Maybe even bring his new partner along - -

 

His fingers c­ontorted involuntarily, crimping into the mattress.  The thought of Starsky working with someone else, riding around in that ridiculous striped tomato, bantering back and forth about Mexican takeout, monster movies and double dates was a solid punch in the gut.  Starsky would probably end up with someone who actually liked onion-drenched Philly cheesesteaks and beefed-up custom sports cars.  After a few weeks of Hutch in Minnesota, Starsky would forget all about him. 

 

It served him right too.  Wasn’t he always nagging Starsky . . . complaining about everything from his eating habits and choice of cars to his taste in music and his sometimes limited vocabulary?

 

You’ve got no class, Starsk.  A little culture never hurt anyone.  And no, I’m not talking about a trip to Don’s Disco.

 

You call that food?  It looks like someone regurgitated it.

 

How much longer you gonna force me to ride around in this tomato on wheels? 

 

It wouldn’t hurt for you to put on a tie once in awhile.  You might actually impress someone.

 

With a low moan, Hutch buried his face in the mattress. 

 

“Hey, Blondie.”  A hand settled on the back of his head, warm fingertips gently massaging his hair.  “You wanna tell me what all that groanin’s about?  Either you just saw the dinner special or the doc dumped some bad news on ya.  Which is it?”

 

“Starsk?”  The touch almost made him lose his composure completely.  He didn’t deserve that kind of affection and fondness, especially not from someone he’d cuffed to a tree, then practically suffocated while trying to smother his screams.

 

Hutch raised his head, unsettling Starsky’s hand.  It dropped to his shoulder, and he reciprocated by gripping his friend’s wrist.  Beneath his palm he could feel a thin padding of gauze where his handcuffs had mauled and lacerated flesh.  A matching bracelet of white bandages encircled Starsky’s other arm.  “Sorry, buddy.  I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

Starsky yawned.  Tugging his hand free, he stretched lazily, wincing a little when the movement drew his newly stitched incision.  “All I do is sleep.  When’s the next train outta here?”

 

“Depends.”  Hutch shrugged, parting with the information he’d gotten only that afternoon.  “Doc says you can leave tomorrow, but you’re gonna be laid up at home for awhile.  I can get us a late flight.  If you don’t mind the timeline, we can be back in Bay City around midnight.”

 

Starsky grinned.  “Just in time for you to turn into a pumpkin.  Think Hug could pick us up at the airport?”

 

“Yeah, I think I can arrange that.”  Hutch’s hand closed over his forearm again.  Without conscious thought, he began lightly tracking his thumb back and forth over Starsky’s wrist.  The simple contact was reassuring and soothing, kindling the unspoken bond between them.  It made Hutch feel safe, secure.  Sadly, he knew it couldn’t last.  “I was thinking . . .”

 

Feeling more like his old self, Starsky gave a soft snort.  “Don’t strain yourself.”

 

The flicker of a bittersweet smile touched Hutch’s lips.  He would miss their verbal sparring and games of one upmanship. “We really fell into something when they partnered us up at the Academy.  You never know when something like that could happen again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”  Starsky frowned, suddenly suspicious.

 

“Just that you never know what’s going to happen from day to day.  I mean . . . one of us could end up in a situation where he couldn’t be on the force anymore.  Maybe the other one would have to go out on his own . . . partner up with somebody else.”

 

“Fat chance of that.  ‘Me and thee’ remember?”

 

“Yeah, Starsk, I know, but - - ”

 

“Hutch nothing’s going to happen to me,” Starsky interrupted firmly, a slight edge to his voice.  “Quit talkin’ crazy.  I’m fine and I’ll be back on the streets before you know it.

 

“I wasn’t talking about you, Starsk.”

 

That brought immediate, thundering silence to the room.  Hutch felt it settle on his shoulders, his heartbeat suddenly loud and pulsing in his ears.  Starsky stared openly, disbelief and shock warring for dominance in his gaze.  Hutch hated when he looked like that, earnest and trusting, a lost child-like confusion making him seem a good five years younger.  “Starsk, there’s something I need to tell you.”  He tried to quell his natural protective reflex, something that became instinctive where his partner was concerned.  Having Starsky hurt and vulnerable in a hospital bed didn’t make the admission any easier. 

 

“When you were injured on the island, I didn’t know if you were gonna make it.”  Hutch kept up a steady massage with his thumb, the warmth of Starsky’s flesh transmitted to him even through the gauze padding wrapped around his wrist.  “My dad didn’t want to operate.  He thought it was too risky.  B-But th-the chance of infection . . . fever . . . Starsk, y-you could’ve died!  I couldn’t have that.  Do you understand, babe?  I just couldn’t let that happen! No matter what.  I would have done anything he asked, just for him to make the effort to save your life.”  His voice wavered, cracked as emotion caught up with him.  Sucking down a jagged breath, he fought to regain control.  "I don’t regret what I promised, Starsky.  Just that . . . that . . .”

 

“You have to leave,” Starsky finished for him, his voice soft.   “You promised him you’d go back to med school, didn’t you?”

 

Hutch groaned.  Slumping back in his chair, he dropped his head into his hand.  “It’s not gonna happen overnight, Starsk.  There’s a lot I have to get in order before I can even think about . . .”  He swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.  From down the hall came the odor of roast turkey and gravy, dinner arriving early.  His stomach flip-flopped, abruptly queasy and tight.  “I heard Jenkins is looking for a partner.  He’s not bad, you know?”  It was getting harder to talk, his throat closing up with each word, a strange burning sensation rising behind his eyes.   “You could talk to Dobey and - - ”

 

“You think I’m gonna stay on the force if you go?  Think I’d trust my life to anybody besides you?”  Starsky was livid, practically shouting as he lurched forward on the bed.  The vehemence of his outburst so startled Hutch that for a moment all he could do was stare.  “So that’s it - - you make a promise and end both our careers?  Where the hell was I when you were handin’ out stupid vows?  Did you consult me - - no!  Did you even think how this would affect me - -no!  Not White-Knight-Hutchinson.  Damn it, Hutch, don’t you think I shoulda had a say in my own future?  You can’t just end eight years of partnership  . . . of friendship . . . like that!”

 

Wounded by the attack, Hutch found himself too shaken to lash back.  “Starsky, I’m not ending our friendship.  You think I want to go back to Minnesota?  You think I want to be a doctor?”

 

“Then stand up to your old man and tell him that!”

 

“Tell me what?”  A calm voice inserted from the doorway.

 

Hutch whirled in his chair.  “Dad.  I-I thought you were at the convention.”<