This story takes place in early Season 2 and is set immediately following “The Las Vegas Strangler” episodes.  Special thanks to Theresa for her outstanding beta work (and for sucking me into this fandom in the first place by reminding me of the show I loved as a kid - - not to mention the guys who made it so fantastic . . . er, um, especially that blond! <wink>)  Thanks to Kass for the lovely new home for my stories.  I really am trying to become active on the S&H lists (RL just keeps getting in the way!).  In the meantime, I truly appreciate hearing from anyone who would like to drop me a line.  Comments are always welcome in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net.  Enjoy the story!

 

 

Hunted

By Kate (CMT)

 

Marshmallow jack-o-lanterns didn’t exactly make it to the top of Ken Hutchinson’s favorite indulgences list, but he supposed the two foil-wrapped candies on his desk were a sight better than the skeleton-shaped chocolate and caramel-coated pretzels that had shown up yesterday.  “Starsk, think you can keep this junk on your side?” Sliding an open folder from beneath the brightly wrapped treats, he nudged them across the desk to his partner.  “You know you’ve got an annoying habit of using candy for paperweights - - most of the time on my desk.”

 

“That’s ‘cuz you collect all the paper, genius.”  Popping a handful of candy corn into his mouth, Starsky leaned forward and scooped up the jack-o-lanterns.  “I was lookin’ for these.  Got the last two at that candy shop around the corner.  They only make these things once a year, ya know.”

 

“One time too many,” Hutch muttered under his breath. 

 

He wasn’t deliberately trying to be sour, but nothing had felt right since returning from Las Vegas.  What had started out as a case assisting the LVPD in apprehending a serial killer had ended with the death of his high school friend, Jack Mitchell.  To make matters worse, Jack had died thinking Hutch had lied to him and used him. The fact he hadn’t been able to correct that betrayal still tore him up inside.  He’d gone home to Minnesota for the funeral, said all the proper things to Jack’s parents, even nodded solemnly when his own father went on about what a great doctor Jack would have been and wasn’t it a shame that he’d made all the right choices but had been treated so shabbily by life? 

 

Through it all Hutch had acted mechanically, existing without emotion, carefully shuttering away his remorse and guilt.  He had used his friend, had betrayed him. That sting might not have felt so lethal if he’d only had a chance to explain his actions, but Jack had died before Hutch could rectify matters.  According to Vicky - - the showgirl they’d befriended in Vegas - - Jack had even believed Hutch was trying to kill him.  He knew his friend’s mental stability had been questionable toward the end, rapidly deteriorating because of a brain tumor, but that didn’t lessen his enormous sense of guilt.   He hadn’t even been able to talk to Starsky about how conflicted he felt, fearing his friend wouldn’t understand.  For a brief time his partner had actually believed Jack was the Strangler . . . had gone so far as to complain about Hutch’s loyalty to his friend.

 

Closing his eyes, Hutch bent his head and rubbed his temple.  He could still recall their harsh words to each other in the hospital:

 

“Starsky, Jack didn’t attack Vicky and he didn’t kill anybody.”

 

“Oh come on, will ya?  That’s another thing I’m sick of  - - I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.”

 

“Is that present company included or excluded?”

 

Just thinking about the ugliness and hostile emotions of the last month gave him a headache.  The truth of the matter was he hadn’t been sleeping well, plagued by disturbing dreams almost nightly.  During the day he often felt like he was operating in a fog.  Starsky had tried to pry the reason for his moodiness from him on a few occasions, but Hutch found himself unwilling to open up.  And that disturbed him even more.  He’d always been able to talk to Starsky about virtually anything.  That he found himself reluctant to this time, heightened his sense of guilt.  Had he really been so affected by that mini blow-up at the hospital that he couldn’t confide in Starsky?

 

“ . . . I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.”

 

If Starsky hadn’t been able to understand then, why would now be any different?  No . . . Jack was his friend, his problem.  He’d laid him to rest in a cold Minnesota cemetery.  Eventually he would do the same to the lingering ghosts who accused him of betrayal.  For now it was better to embrace the simple and everyday circumstances that made life so mundane.  Like Starsky’s childlike addiction to pumpkin-shaped, chocolate-coated marshmallow.

 

Hutch flashed a smile.  “Better stock up, partner.  Halloween’s only a week away.”

 

“Think I don’t know that?”  Reaching for an oversized toy spider on his desk, Starsky hefted it in the air, jiggling it under Hutch’s nose.  It did a floppy sort of dance, its long jointed legs jerking up and down as if suspended on invisible wire. “Not bad, huh?  I woulda bought you sumethin’ too, but they were outta regurgitated bat spit.”

 

“You’re all heart, Starsk.  When you’re done playing and eating, how about seeing if you can sign off on that report I gave you half an hour ago?  I’d like to get out of here, buddy.”

 

“Oh.”  Looking slightly chagrined, Starsky eyed the mess on his desk. 

 

Hutch guessed the report had gotten buried somewhere between the sports section, three wadded up reports that had never seen the light of day and which he’d eventually had to type over himself, an assortment of month-old vacation brochures, October’s Car and Driver and an empty box of Ju-Ju-Bees.  It often amazed him that Starsky could be so lackadaisical about his desk while so fastidious with his car and apartment.  Then again, he tended to wear his clothes on the rumpled side, so maybe there was some strange correlation there.

 

Sighing, Hutch butted the sports section aside, unearthing the report he’d finished typing just a short time before.  “Sign it,” he said, pushing it under Starsky’s nose.  Before his partner could even begin to look it over, Dobey suddenly appeared in the doorway of his office.

 

“Hutchinson.  Starsky.  Get in here.”  The command was brusque, backed by the captain’s customary glower.  His legendary gruffness had been known to send rookie officers scurrying in fear, but Hutch merely sighed and pushed back his chair. 

 

Trying to decide if they’d recently done anything to warrant a reprimand, he shot his partner a sideways glance.  Starsky looked just as clueless about the abrupt summons as he was. 

 

Dobey had been a no-show, sequestered in his office from the time they returned with Milroy Johnson, a small time crook and drug dealer who’d made the mistake of attempting to rob a toy store just over an hour ago.  After booking him and filling out the arrest report, Hutch was ready to leave.   He’d only managed a few hours sleep last night and was really starting to feel the drag on his stamina.  Besides, their shift had ended over an hour ago.  Unfortunately, the look on Dobey’s face told him the day was far from officially over.

 

Following Starsky into the office, he came to an abrupt halt at the sight of another man standing behind Dobey’s desk.  Tall and broad-shouldered, he had black hair graying at the temples, his age lost in the muddle of years somewhere past fifty.  Caught off guard, Hutch tensed unexpectedly.  “Lieutenant Stone.”

 

“Hutchinson.”  Wayne Stone of the Cold Harbor police force gave him a crisp nod.  

 

Hutch had always thought him a no-nonsense commander, a little too stuck on authority and superiority when they’d been forced to work together briefly last summer.  At that time, imported muscle had surrounded the upscale artist’s community of Shelter Pointe, located midway between Bay City and Cold Harbor.  A full scale war had ensued, involving State and County police along with officers from both outlying cities, medical personnel, even S.W.A.T. teams.  Eventually the National Guard had been called in to round up strategically placed snipers.

 

Hutch had been returning from a vacation with Abby and gotten snarled in Shelter Pointe while driving home. He hadn’t realized it at the time, but Starsky had already been there for hours.  In trying to aid another officer, his partner had been shot and badly wounded, trapped in the hills.  Unable to reach him, Hutch had nearly gone ballistic, butting heads with Stone who shared joint command of the combined operation, along with Dobey and an officer from State.  It was only at the end when Starsky had finally been rescued and transported to Cold Harbor G.H. that Hutch finally eased up long enough to be civil with Stone. 

 

They’d parted on fairly good terms, ending with a healthy antagonistic respect for each other.  Even so, he regarded the older man warily.  It wasn’t simply a matter of clashing personalities.   Stone reminded him of his father, displaying the same regimental attitude that often rubbed him the wrong way whenever he confronted Grant Hutchinson.  By nature Stone was critical in his judgment of others, and Hutch had spent years listening to the criticisms of his father:   You’ll never earn a decent living as a cop . . . no wonder Vanessa left you - - I’m just surprised she lasted as long as she did . . . when are you going to put some serious thought into your future and stop playing urban commando on the streets? . . . Don’t tell me you’re still indulging that silly music hobby?  I thought you would have outgrown that by now . . .

 

He couldn’t help feeling an instinctive rise of defensiveness the moment he saw Stone.

 

“Hey! “  Starsky smiled warmly and extended his hand to the older man.  “Lieutenant Stone, it’s good to see you.” 

 

Hutch knew his partner had only met Stone briefly in the hospital while recovering from a bullet wound.  Starsky had no reason to dislike the man.  If anything, he and Stone seemed to “click,” a direct result of Starsky’s attempt to save Officer Delressi, one of Stone’s men and a close personal friend.  That attempt was the sole reason Starsky had been shot and trapped to begin with. 

 

“Kinda strayed a little far from Cold Harbor, ain’t ya?”  Starsky asked.

 

Dobey pointed him to a chair.  “Sit down.  You too, Hutchinson.”

 

“Thanks, Captain, I’ll stand.”  The words were out before Hutch could stop them, the edge in his voice unmistakably clear.  He caught Dobey’s scowl and tried to ease back from being immediately defensive.  Moving closer to the wall, he braced his arm on top of a four-drawer file cabinet.  He had to admit he was curious about Stone’s presence.  The Lieutenant didn’t strike him as the kind of man who’d make social calls.  He forced a grin, but it was barbed.  “So I guess it’s fair to assume you didn’t come all this way because you missed my charming personality?”

 

Stone smiled thinly.  “That’s what I like about you Hutchinson - - you think everything centers around you.  Unfortunately, in this case you’re right.” He nodded toward the empty chair in front of Dobey’s desk.  “You might want to sit down.  This could take awhile.”

 

Surprised, Hutch looked to his partner.  At Stone’s announcement, Starsky’s expression immediately changed from open to guarded.  Snagging Hutch by the sleeve, he tilted his head to indicate the empty chair beside him.  “Sounds interesting.  You wanna hear the man out?”

 

Still uncertain, Hutch moved around Starsky and eased into the chair.  Dobey had trooped behind his desk and now sank into his seat with a grunt.  One squat finger stabbed in Hutch’s direction, then Starsky’s.  “You listen to this man and listen good.  If you’re agreeable, I’ve already green-lighted a temporary transfer to Cold Harbor for both of you.”

 

“What?”  Hutch came half out of his chair. 

 

“It’s strictly voluntary, Hutchinson,” Dobey clarified.  “We’ve had a good working relationship with Cold Harbor in the past.  Shelter Pointe was just one example of pulling together.  The problem with Stone’s force is most of his men are recognizable.  Now he’s got a situation calling for undercover work.  I realize you’ve just been through this with Cameron in Vegas, but I want you to hear him out.  Afterward, you can agree to his terms or walk, but you listen first.  Understand?”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Growing impatient, Hutch sent Starsky a frowning glance.  He’d never been averse to helping out another department, but they’d only recently returned from the mess in Nevada.  Worse, he wasn’t sure the idea of teaming with Stone appealed to him.  What was it exactly the older man had said when they parted?  “If you ever transfer to Cold Harbor, I will personally ride your cocky, arrogant, uptight ass into the ground, and take immense pleasure in doing it.”  Definitely not the basis for a healthy working relationship. 

 

Hutch rubbed a hand over his mouth, hiding a spontaneous grin.  If Stone thought he was cocky, wait until he got to know Starsky a little better. 

 

His partner looked from Dobey to their visitor.  “So what exactly are you askin’ us to do?”

 

“We need your help in finding a serial killer,” Stone announced. 

 

“Serial killer?”  Starsky blew out an exasperated breath. “Aw, come on Cap’n, there’s plenty of other detectives in this unit. We just came off a serial case.” 

 

“I know that,” Dobey snapped. “What do you think I do - - sit around and twiddle my thumbs . . . don’t keep track of my own men?”  He glared from under his brows.  “There’s a reason the two of you are in here, just like there’s a reason Stone’s here.  Now shut up and listen, before I bust you down to beat cop.”

 

Disgruntled, Starsky mumbled something under his breath.  Accustomed to his partner’s mutterings, Hutch might have caught it if he hadn’t been so focused on Stone.  It wasn’t like Dobey to ship them out on something so similar, so quickly.  He could have sent Baker and Gibson, or Rocherty and Sullivan.  Hutch knew Dobey often referred to them as his “best team” - - usually when they were out of earshot  - - but he wouldn’t risk burning them out, unless he felt they were the only match for Stone’s assignment.      

 

Content to have remained in the background up until now, the Cold Harbor Lieutenant walked around the front of the desk, bracing a hip against the edge.  A thick brown folder brimming with well-thumbed papers and news clippings was wedged beneath his arm.  “Ever hear of the Vampire Hunter Murders?” he asked the two detectives.

 

Starsky gave a low chuckle and shook his head.  “That’s a new one on me.  You wouldn’t be yankin’ our chain, would ya, Lieutenant?” 

 

“Afraid not.”  Stone’s expression was grim.  “We’ve had three murders in the last ten months, committed by some sicko who likes to drive a stake through the heart of his victims.  The media’s dubbed him the Vampire Hunter.  All three victims were nonresidents of Cold Harbor - - two staying at the same local bed and breakfast, the other a backpacker, murdered along a hiking trail.”

 

Intrigued despite what they’d only recently been through, Hutch found himself setting aside personal dislikes and concentrating on the case.  Any unsolved crime was a challenge, easily engaging the part of his psyche that thrived on being a cop.  As tired and emotionally drained as he felt, he couldn’t help being pulled into the mystery.  “Any correlation between the victims, other than the bed and breakfast?”  he asked.

 

“A major one.,” Stone confirmed.  “It’s the reason I’m here.”  Rummaging through the folder, he located three 8” x 10” color photographs and spread them on Dobey’s desk.   The images were grisly, taken at various crime scenes.  Other than the gruesome manner of death, a single distinction stood out at first glance.

 

Leaning forward in his chair, Starsky picked up the nearest photo.  “Damn, Hutch.  This guy looks like you.”

 

“Tall, blond, lean, athletically built,” Stone recited, ticking off points on his fingers.  “All three victims were between thirty and thirty-five years of age.  All three had what could be considered above-average looks and all three were single.  Now gentlemen, do you see why I’m here?”  He looked meaningfully at Hutch.

 

Sensing where he was headed, Hutch raised a single brow.  “You want me to be bait?”

 

“You fit the description, Hutchinson.”

 

Agitated by the suggestion, Starsky shifted.  “Why now?  You said these murders go back ten months.  What makes you think this guy’s gonna strike now?”

 

“Because he kills every three to four months.”  Stone fished more documents from the folder, handing a stack to Starsky, another to Hutch.  “These are victim profiles.  The first murder took place at the bed and breakfast, occurring on January 23^rd.  The backpacker was killed the end of April, with the final murder happening late July.  If the pattern holds true, our killer is due to strike the end of this month.  We figure our best chance of nabbing him is putting someone who matches the victim profile into The Northstar Inn  - - that’s the bed and breakfast.  We’ve thoroughly checked everyone who works there as possible suspects, even past employees who might have maintained a connection or had keys to the property.  It’s independently run with a small staff, so it’s been fairly easy to keep tabs on everyone.  Unfortunately all of our leads have washed out.”

 

Hutch tried to assimilate the information, shuffling through the papers.  If he and Starsky agreed to go undercover, they’d need to study each murder in minute detail later.  For now he needed a quick grasp of the basics.  “What about professions among the victims?  Any crossover there?”

 

Stone shook his head.  “An auto mechanic from Vegas who was vacationing with two friends; the backpacker, who was a club musician by trade and lived in Phoenix, and an investment banker from San Diego in town on business.”

 

Hutch looked up at the taller man.  “You’ve had this for ten months.  Any leads?”  He didn’t intend it as an insult, but saw Stone stiffen and guessed he took it that way.   Frowning, he tried not to react.  If Starsky or Dobey had asked the same question, he doubted there would have been any defensiveness on Stone’s part.  And he wants me to work under him?

 

“Afraid not,” the lieutenant said tightly.  “I can tell you all three victims were drugged before they were killed.  Seems the killer wanted them sedated, but fully conscious of what was happening to them.  The drug’s a synthetic compound, affecting muscle coordination and instilling mild paralysis.  It lasts long enough for the killer to complete his task.  We’re already checking into pharmaceutical companies, drug labs, hospitals, doctors’ offices - - anywhere that might present an opportunity for someone to pilfer illegal medications.”

 

“What about bodies?”  Starsky asked.  “Place of death?”

 

Stone shot him a glance.  “All three victims were discovered in the woods around the Northstar Inn.  The area’s very rural with hiking trails and streams for fishing.  A lot of backpackers hike up from the south, which is what victim number two, Nicholas Corriander, did.”

 

“He’s the odd one out,” Starsky commented quietly, obviously working the details through.  Frowning, he leaned back in his chair.  “Is it possible the killer, whoever he is, just stumbled over this guy on a hiking trail? And if that’s the case, where’d he come from?  He’d have to be local, wouldn’t he?”

 

“Possibly.  The men who were guests of the Northstar may have simply gone out for a walk on one of the trails - - many of the guests do.  We could have someone targeting hikers or someone who sees their presence in the woods as an intrusion.  We’ve worked up a number of potential profiles on the killer, but so far they’ve dead-ended. We will, of course, share all of our research with you.  For example:  both of the men who stayed at the Northstar rented the same third floor room, although months apart.  I’ve arranged to have that same room available for Detective Hutchinson, should you decide to take the case.”

 

Pausing, Stone looked toward Dobey.  “Your captain and I have discussed this in detail.  I could go to any number of precincts in the city, but we’ve all worked together before in a manner of speaking, and Hutchinson fits the victim profile to a ‘T.’”

 

“Uh . . .”  Unsettled, Hutch waved the comment aside.  “I’d really rather you stop referring to me as a victim.  Assuming we do this . . .”  He raised his head to look up at Stone.  “How soon would you want us in place, and what’s our cover?”

 

“Check in time is tomorrow, Sergeant.  We’ve set you up as Ken Hammond, a freelance writer for naturalist-style magazines.  You’re doing a story on rural vacation spots in the northwest.  Starsky is your photographer, Dave Sorenski.  We understand he’s quite skilled with a camera, so the cover should be natural.  You’ve worked together for the last five years and have had moderate success establishing yourself with a small but loyal core audience.”

 

“Tomorrow?”  Starsky was incredulous.  “That barely gives us time to review the case.”

 

“I’ve given you the highlights,” Stone countered.  “You can pick up the rest tonight.  We’ve got a Jeep in place for you along with camera equipment.  For Sergeant Hutchinson, we’ve come up with some fabricated bylines, though from what your captain tells me,” Stone continued with a glance in Hutch’s direction.  “You should have no trouble convincing anyone you’re an expert in hiking and the outdoors.  If nothing happens within a week, we’ve blown our chance and you’re both in the clear.  I realize I can’t keep you on payroll indefinitely.  A week’s all I ask.  We’re either gonna nail this guy or miss the boat entirely.”  

 

Silence hung over the room.  It was Dobey who finally broke it, looking between his two detectives.  “There’s nothing like short notice, but I need a decision.”  He glanced directly at Hutch.  “You don’t have to do this.”

 

Hutch shifted.  He felt Starsky’s gaze settle on him.  “It’s your call, partner,” the dark-haired detective said softly. 

 

Hutch nodded.  Part of going undercover was knowing how to play various roles, adopting the lifestyle and mannerisms of a totally different character like an actor would.  The difference between being an undercover cop and a celebrity, however, often came down to life or death.  He and Starsky had both been bait before, numerous times.  It went with the job, but somehow this time it felt disquieting  . . . eerie.  They’d be out of their realm working with Stone, a man he had clear reservations about.  Could he count on the Lieutenant to come through in a pinch and back them up?  With Starsky and Dobey he knew where he stood, but Stone . . .

 

The thought made him uneasy.  He’d been the target of street thugs, drug dealers and gun smugglers before, but had never set himself up as the prize trinket for a serial killer.   He’d botched the personal end of his assignment in Vegas with Jack, but then again, Cameron hadn’t been upfront about the reason for requesting them in the first place.  Stone was letting him know beforehand  - - no sugarcoating or gloss - - his role, plain and simple was to put his neck on the line and hope some sicko came calling.  Wielding a hammer and stake no less.

 

“Yeah, sure,” he said, sounding a little off center.  What the hell, it was almost Halloween anyway.   What better way to spend it than in a remote bed and breakfast waiting for some psycho killer to drive a stake through his heart? 

 

Lacing a hand through his hair, he stood and passed the papers back to Stone.  “I’d like copies of everything you’ve got.  I assume you’ll have a way for us to contact you once we arrive at the Northstar?”

 

Stone nodded.

 

Turning away, Hutch glanced at his friend.  “Well then, partner, how ‘bout you and I go grab some dinner and talk this thing over?”  Initially all he’d wanted to do was go home and crash in his apartment, maybe catch up on some of the sleep he’d been lacking for days.  Now his mind was in overdrive, thinking ahead to the case, trying to separate and decipher the various threads.  It was the curse of an analytical mind, the curse of a cop. 

 

“Looks like we’re in this for at least a week,” he told Starsky.  “If I’m gonna set myself up for bait, I’d at least like to do it on a full stomach.  Come on.”  Hutch headed for the door.

 

Behind him, Starsky stood and tossed his papers onto Dobey’s desk.  “Too bad your boy didn’t have a thing for curly-haired brunets,” Hutch heard him say to Stone.  “I’d feel a hell of a lot better about this if Blondie weren’t the bait.” 

 

Hutch waited in the outer office, still oddly uneasy.  Randomly he picked at the papers on his desk until he heard the door close and Starsky appeared at his side.  “Did you hear that man say he got me a Jeep?” his partner demanded.  “A Jeep, for cryin’ out loud!  You got any idea what that’s gonna do to my style?”

 

Hutch grinned, knowing his friend was trying to put him at ease.  Diversion was a great tactic, but before the night was over they were going to have to examine the grisly case in detail.  At least by concentrating on the new assignment, he’d keep his mind off Jack. 

 

Snagging his jacket from the back of his chair, Hutch steered Starsky toward the door.  “Tell you what, buddy.  I’ll let you drive me to dinner in that striped tomato, how’s that?”

 

“You’re all heart,” Starsky shot back.

 

“Yeah,” Hutch mumbled, pushing his partner out the door.  “And I’m kind of partial to keeping it.”

 

+++++

 

The last time Starsky had been in Cold Harbor had been to have a bullet removed from his groin. He hadn’t really taken the time to appreciate the town then, but eyed it a bit more thoroughly now.  A mid-sized community, it was neat and well structured, tucked among canyons and hills in Northern California.  The drive had been long and not all that comfortable in a Jeep, but for the sake of their cover, the rugged vehicle was their only viable means of transportation.  They’d left the top and doors off, packing all of their equipment into the back.  Despite the cooling temperatures which dipped even lower in the north, the drive had been comfortably pleasant.  Starsky’s brown leather jacket was perfect for the late fall temperatures, as was Hutch’s green-and-white plaid, both outer garments effectively concealing their holstered weapons.  

 

“How ‘bout stopping for lunch before hitting the Northstar?” Starsky suggested to his silently engrossed partner.  “I’m starvin’.” 

 

They’d been traveling since 6:30 a.m., and it was after 1:00 in the afternoon.  Most of that time, Hutch had been absorbed in rifling through the case file Stone had given them, occasionally commenting on some new detail he happened upon.  He’d balanced a letter-sized tablet on one knee for most of the trip, attempting to scribble notes despite the rocky jostling of the Jeep.  A brimming box-bottom folder stuffed with papers was wedged between his feet on the floor.

 

Immersed in what he was doing, Hutch ignored Starsky’s suggestion completely.  “Starsk, did you know the murder rate’s practically non-existent in Cold Harbor?  Prior to these serial slayings, they only had four murders in the last three years - - two stabbings, a shooting, and a strangulation. There were also two suicides and a drug overdose, with that one occurring just a few days prior to the first serial.  No wonder Stone’s at the end of his rope.”

 

“Just what I wanna talk about when I’m ready to chow down on a burger and fries.”

 

Distracted, Hutch raised his head.  “Huh?”

 

“What makes you think he’s at the end of his rope anyway?”  Deciding to take matters into his own hands, Starsky looked for the first restaurant or diner he could find.  They passed a number of small shops and businesses, all sporting cardboard pumpkins and ghosts in the windows or Indian corn tacked above spider web-draped doorways.  A few three-story Victorian’s lined the streets in the older section of town, their sprawling wraparound porches decorated with cornstalks, baskets of colorful gourds and hay bales.  One even had a life-sized scarecrow reclining in a wooden rocker, a trio of plastic bats dangling above its head.

 

Hutch transferred his pencil to his mouth, using both hands to rummage through the thick stack of papers balanced on his knee.  “ ‘ots fotr blds cud’ve otten.”

 

Starsky frowned over the top of his sunglasses.  “You wanna translate that one?”

 

Shooting him a stray glance, Hutch took the pencil from his mouth.  “I said there’re lots of other blonds he could’ve gotten.  He must have been pretty desperate to call me.”

 

“Why?  You think every natural blond is tall, fit and good-looking?”  Starsky shot him a lopsided grin.  “You match the profile, Beautiful.”

 

“Starsky, the man can’t stand me.”

 

“All of that aside . . .”  Starsky shrugged, going back to the obvious.  “You fit the profile.”  Spying a small café tucked between a dry cleaners and a drug store, he pulled off the street.  “Besides, I’m thinking it’s the opposite way around - - you can’t stand him. A bit of a Grant Hutchinson fixation, maybe?  All that attitude and criticism remind you of your old man?”

 

“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”  Hutch said distractedly.  He raised his head, realizing they’d come to a stop.  “Starsky, what are you doing?  We should’ve been at the B&B an hour ago.”

 

“I told you, I’m hungry.  I want something to eat.”

 

“We can eat there.”

 

“I don’t wanna eat there.”  Starsky killed the ignition.  “I’m hungry now.  I’m just surprised I got any appetite left with you feedin’ me gory facts for the last five hours.”

 

“Well, excuse me for wanting to be informed.”  Exasperated, Hutch leaned back in his seat, his mouth thinning in a tight line.  “I’ve got a personal stake in this, you know.”

 

“Yeah.”  Starsky smirked, trying to lighten the mood.  “ . . . driven by a mallet no less.”

 

Hutch scowled.  “Could we lay off the vampire jokes for a while?”  He shoved his tablet and pencil into the folder, tucking the whole mess under the seat. 

 

It suddenly occurred to Starsky that Hutch was feeling more than a little skittish about setting himself up as bait.  His partner had every right to be concerned and wary, but his terseness was out of character, as if he was trying to hide his anxiety behind curt behavior.   That combination didn’t bode well if Hutch was to keep his wits about him.

 

He hadn’t really been himself ever since their stint in Vegas, and Starsky knew part of that was his fault.  Hutch was obviously harboring a deep sense of guilt over what had happened to Jack, but Starsky hadn’t been able to get him to talk about it.  Probably ‘cuz I wasn’t all that sympathetic while it was goin’ down.  At the time he’d entertained the notion that Jack might really be guilty and Hutch was simply blinded by loyalty. 

 

“ . . . I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.”

 

It hadn’t been the most sensitive thing to say and certainly not the wisest.  Hutch had immediately snapped back at him, but after a few tense words they’d moved past anger.  They’d solved the case, but sadly Jack had died.  It was no good telling Hutch he might have died anyway.  That even without the bullet wound and the fall from Vicky’s balcony, his failing health might have taken a toll sooner than expected. 

 

But that didn’t work with Hutch who had an annoying habit of seeing everything as being his fault. He did guilt better than anyone Starsky knew.   

 

“You’re a little restless about this one, huh, buddy?”  Starsky asked quietly.  And still hurtin’ ‘cuz of your friend.  The tone of his voice made Hutch stop halfway from the Jeep. 

 

Glancing over his shoulder, the blond-haired detective hesitated indecisively before folding back into his seat.   Huffing out a breath, he dragged a hand through his hair.  “I’m sorry, Starsk.  I didn’t mean to snap.  It’s just . . .”  He shrugged, groping to explain his feelings.  “Something just feels off about this whole thing.”

 

“You think Stone isn’t being entirely straight with us?”

 

“No, it isn’t that.  It’s just . . .”  Hutch hedged.  His eyes slid sideways, river-blue, lashed heavily with gold in the early afternoon light.  “I’ve just got a weird feeling about the whole thing.  Like it’s gonna end bad . . .”  His voice dropped another notch, and he mumbled the last words.  “ . . . for me.”

 

Starsky felt his mouth go dry.  “What’re you talkin’ about?”  He was surprised to hear the strangled emotion in his own voice, blundering through despite his best efforts to swallow it. He gave a short laugh, but it came out hollow.  “Look, Hutch - - Stone . . . me . . . the boys on Cold Harbor - - we’re all gonna have you monitored twenty-four hours a day.  There’s no way some psycho creep is even gonna look in your direction without one of us knowin’ about it.  You think I’d let anything happen to you?  I know you’re still miffed about Jack, but that don’t change what’s between us.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about Jack.”  Hutch looked away before Starsky could catch the expression in his eyes.  He was silent a minute, visibly tense.  Within seconds he shifted gears, refocusing on their assignment.  His voice dropped. “I know I’m being a little freaky.”  He gave a shy sort of smile and a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe it’s just having Halloween right around the corner.  It makes everything twice as creepy, you know - - all this shit about vampire hunters and stakes.”  His smile flashed brighter, revealing the near-perfect line of his teeth.  “Let’s forget about it for awhile and get something to eat.  I promise not to gross you out with case details.  After all - - wouldn’t wanna spoil your greasy burger and fries.”

 

Sensing the moment of seriousness had passed, Starsky feigned affront. “Hey, who says it’s gonna be greasy?  Shock the hell out of you if I ordered something healthy like a salad, huh?”

 

Hutch climbed out of the Jeep.  “Shock the hell out of most of California.”  With a grin for his friend, he headed toward the café. 

 

+++++

 

Hutch ordered a turkey club while Starsky gorged himself on a double cheeseburger and fries.  Despite the lunch hour, the establishment wasn’t all that busy.  Both men chatted with their waitress, asking directions to the Northstar, playing up their cover of writer and photographer.  Halfway through their meal, a CHPD officer arrived, ordering a cup of coffee at the breakfast bar.  He glanced once in their direction then turned away to converse with the plump mail carrier seated beside him. 

 

Hutch supposed he should feel more confident knowing local law enforcement was aware he’d arrived, but the strange sensation he’d felt ever since agreeing to take the case lingered in the pit of his stomach.  It whispered everything was going to end badly, that this was one time he shouldn’t have pushed the envelope because he was in over his head. Grimacing, he shoved the troubling thoughts silent.

 

Afterward they paid for their meal then drove to the Northstar Inn.  Located a good twenty-five minutes outside of town, the sprawling home was surrounded by lush woodlands and lazily meandering streams. The ground rose and sloped gently, populated with dense thickets of spruce, pine and fir.  At any other time Hutch would have paused to appreciate its fertile beauty, but now all he wanted to do was check in and immerse himself in the case.  The sooner they captured a lead and snared the killer, the sooner he and Starsky could be on their way back to Bay City.

 

The Northstar itself was a combination of rustic charm and old-fashioned quaintness.   With three stories, a covered porch and detached summer house to the rear, it conjured memories of a gentler era and slower pace.  From the brochure Stone had given him, Hutch knew the inn had a large dining room and parlor, screened rear porch and eight guest suites, most with private baths.  Stone had booked them into adjoining rooms on the third floor.  It gave them the highest view of the surrounding woods, while putting Hutch in the very suite where two of the victims had stayed.   

 

The desk clerk eyed Hutch strangely when they arrived, but made no comment other than to tell them where to sign the register.  Comfortably dressed in jeans and a bulky sweater, he carried a good 260 lbs on his 6’4” frame, making him look blatantly out of place behind the small check-in counter.  He thawed slightly when he passed them their keys, taking a moment to introduce himself as Murphy Emerick, the Northstar’s owner.  Afterward he wished them a good stay and pointed out an elaborately-gated elevator to take them to the third floor.

 

“Whew!” Starsky muttered to Hutch when they stepped into the elevator with their luggage.  “That’s gotta be the heftiest hotel owner I ever saw.  Wouldn’t wanna tell him the mattresses are lumpy.”

 

Once in his room, Hutch tossed his suitcase onto the bed and dropped into the nearest chair.  Leaning forward, he ducked his head into his hands, trying to silence a growing ache at the base of his skull.  Weak sunlight, filtered by the heavy tree cover, dappled the copper-colored carpet and brightened custard-cream walls.  A king-sized four poster bed, two heavy wooden bureaus, an antique writing desk and small seating area with a marble-top table and claw-footed chairs comprised the furnishings.  A series of oil paintings, mostly landscapes and English cottage scenes decorated the walls, framed in walnut and brass.  The blend of colors throughout reflected the natural hues of a woodland - - moss, russets and golds, contrasted with splashes of cinnamon and plum.  The Victorian-inspired furnishings were a drastic change from the contemporary apartment he and Starsky had shared with Jack in Vegas. Then again - - Cold Harbor was a long way from the glitz of Sin City.

 

“Hey, this is really sumthin’, huh?”  Starsky appeared in the doorway of their adjoining bathroom.  “If we weren’t on a case - -”

 

Hutch rubbed his eyes.  “If we weren’t on a case, you wouldn’t think twice about staying in a house in the center of the woods.  Think you can really pull off being a nature photographer?”

 

Starsky snorted.  “Hey, I love photography - - it’s the nature part I’m not wild about.”  Strolling into the room, he paused by the nearest window.  Shaped like a five-pointed star, it was recessed into an alcove above the writing desk, overlooking the rear of the property.  Hutch remembered reading something in the brochure about it being the only window in the inn shaped that way.  Facing north, it gave the house its name.

 

“What’dya think the summer house is used for?”  Starsky asked, craning his neck to see the dizzying drop below.  Before Hutch could reply, he grinned, already off on another track.  “It’s pretty high up here.  Makes you a bit like Rapunzel stuck in her tower, Blondie.”

 

Hutch allowed himself a small smile.  “Does that mean you’re going to climb up and rescue me?”  Moving to the bed, he popped the latches on his suitcase and began unpacking.  “I think you should grab a camera, I’ll grab a tablet, and we go for a hike in the woods.  We can check out the summer house on the way.  I wanna look at all three areas where the victim’s bodies were found.  You have that map Stone gave us?”

 

“Sure do.” Starsky stuffed his hands in his pockets.  “But I’m thinkin’ we should have a chat with the owner too.  What was his name - - Murphy Emerick?  Didja see that look he gave you when we checked in?  Stone said there’s been plenty of blonds who stayed here matchin’ the description, so why d’ya think the guy got a little sideways when he saw you?”

 

Hutch walked to the dresser, settling three turtlenecks into the top drawer.  “Maybe because it’s the end of October, time for another murder, and I just happen to be staying in the same room as two of the guys who were killed.”  He paused, looking around the suite speculatively. Cold Harbor PD had probably been over it thoroughly already, but it seemed as good a place to start as any. “What do you think the odds are Cold Harbor missed something?”

 

“Slim,” Starsky admitted, following his train of thought.  “But I’d feel better if we did some checking ourselves.”

 

They spent the next forty minutes searching the suite, including the bath and Starsky’s connecting room, but came up empty.  While Starsky left to get his camera bag, Hutch threw a backpack together, stuffing it with wire bound notebooks, pencils, and a few camping magazines.  Within five minutes they were downstairs and headed outside.

 

“Summer house?”  Starsky asked.

 

“Summer house,” Hutch confirmed.

 

Located just a few yards behind the main home, the smaller structure was connected by a cobblestone walkway.  The house’s façade was similar to the Northstar, combining mountain stone and natural wood, but there the resemblance ended.  Most of the windows were shuttered, the few that weren’t, heavily caked with grime.  Once, long ago, the covered porch had sported summery shades of blue and white, but the paint was peeling now, the wood beneath long neglected.  Even the chimney was crumbling.  Vines clung to the sagging porch railing and hugged the side of the house.

 

“Think they’d keep it up better, huh?”  Starsky stepped onto the porch, testing the front door.  The knob creaked, begging for oil, but didn’t budge.  “Locked.”  Frowning, he leaned to the right, vigorously scrubbing his sleeve over a grime-encrusted window.  Raising a hand to shield his eyes, he peered inside.  “Can’t see much, but it looks empty inside.”

 

“Hey!  What are you two doing?”

 

Directly behind Starsky, Hutch turned, looking over his shoulder.  Murphy Emerick was barreling down the cobblestone path, his broad face scrunched in what could only be described as near-panic.  Smiling congenially, Hutch stepped down from the porch.  “Oh, hello, Mr. Emerick.”  He hefted his backpack, looping it over one shoulder so the notebooks and pencils were plainly exposed. “We just wanted to see what the summer house was about.  Don’t know if we told you, but we’re doing a story on rural America . . . hiking trails, rustic vacation spots, that sort of thing.  Maybe you could give us some details about the Northstar.”  He snapped his fingers, as if happening on a brilliant idea.  “Hey, I know - - how about a picture?  Dave, think you could get one of Mr. Emerick?”

 

“That’s a great idea.”  Playing along, Starsky jumped off the porch, raising the 35mm camera he had hooked around his neck.  Before he could even adjust the shutter, Emerick roughly waved the notion aside.

 

“I don’t care what you’re doing here.  You wanna go traipse through the woods, take pictures, make notes, that’s fine.  But the summer house is off limits.”  He tugged down on his sweater, as if realizing he’d been coming on too strong. Making an obvious attempt to collect himself, he lowered his voice to a more conversational tone.  “I use it as a work shed, but it ain’t in the best of repair.  All I need is to have some writer-tourist get hurt and sue my butt for injury.”

 

“Maybe you should put up No Trespassing signs,” Starsky suggested mildly.

 

Emerick frowned.  “Don’t have to.  Most folks know not to go where they ain’t been invited.  Just stay away.”  He jabbed a finger in their direction.  “That’s all.”

 

Hutch watched him stalk off back toward the main house, his shoulders hunched, hands balled into tight fists.  “That is one overly frazzled man,” he commented still staring ahead as Starsky stepped to his side.  “I’d like to see what Stone’s managed to collect on him.”

 

“Me too.”  He fiddled with the shutter on his camera.  “This stinks, ya know it? I didn’t even get a chance to snap his picture.”  Feigning disappointment, he waggled a brow at Hutch.  “What d’ya think - - summer house tonight?”

 

“I think Stone first, then the summer house.”

 

+++++ 

 

Their meeting with Stone took place at eight o’clock that night, midway between Cold Harbor and the Northstar, in a rundown barn tucked back from the road.  The lieutenant’s car was already there when Starsky pulled the Jeep behind the barn and silenced the engine.  The redolent odor of straw struck him the moment they stepped inside.  It mingled with the ghost-scent of horses and manure, the smokier musk of autumn, borne inside on a slipper breeze.

 

Starsky hunched into his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets.  Earlier they’d checked all three spots where the victims’ bodies had been discovered but found nothing of note.  Emerick and the summer house still seemed like the best leads.

 

They’d gotten acquainted with a few other guests over dinner, most vacationing or stopping on their way through to other destinations - - an older couple headed south to see a new granddaughter; a business man on what appeared to be a rendezvous with his secretary; a trucker who was in between runs, and an artist who’d come for the scenery.  There was a younger couple too, but they’d kept mostly to themselves, discussing astrological signs and planet alignments over meatloaf and gravy. 

 

Stone waited in the dimly lit barn, pacing beneath an oil lantern suspended from an overhead beam.  “You’re late,” he grumbled, frowning at their entrance.  A sharp glance at his watch deepened the lines on his brow.  “ . . . by twelve minutes.  I expect you to be on time, gentlemen.  I have other things to do than simply waiting on you.”

 

At Starsky’s side, Hutch immediately tensed.  “Like solving a serial murder?” he snapped. 

 

“Easy, boys.” Starsky said lightly, stepping between the two of them. There was no doubt Stone was a strictly by-the-book player, but for some reason that sense of superiority didn’t grate on his nerves.  By contrast, all the older man had to do was look at Hutch wrong to push his buttons. “We got hung up chattin’ with a few of Emerick’s guests.”  He shot a sideways glance at Stone.  “You check all of them out on the other three occurrences?”

 

Easing back a little, Stone nodded.  “All clean.”  

 

“What about the summer house on Emerick’s property?”  Starsky persisted.  “He keeps it locked.  Got more than a little freaky when we went pokin’ around there today.”

 

“What about Emerick himself?”  Hutch inserted.

 

Stone looked from one to the other, scowling when his glance collided with Hutch.  “We checked the summer house at the same time we checked the grounds and the B&B.  All we found was a lot of junk.  Emerick uses it for a workshop.”

 

“Yeah, that’s what he said.”  Starsky kicked at a moldy layering of straw scattered over the dirt floor. “Still . . . he got awfully riled. Wouldn’t even let me take his picture.”  Beside him, he felt some of the tension flow from his partner.  Years of working together had told him exactly how to diffuse Hutch’s anger even when it wasn’t directed at him. Sometimes all it took was an offhand quip to remind the blond-haired detective he had a tendency to take things too seriously.  “So what about Emerick?”  Starsky continued, picking up Hutch’s question.

 

Stone blew out a breath and paced off a small circle.  “He was one of our primary suspects, but had a staunch alibi for all three killings.  Each time something took place he was at the Northstar in plain view of several guests.”

 

“Something’s still out of whack,” Hutch said, more to himself than the others. 

 

Starsky zeroed in on it immediately.  He had the same feeling but couldn’t pinpoint it with any certainty.  One thing he did know was people, and Emerick had gone off the deep end when he’d found them snooping around the summer house. It was early in the game, but at the moment the Northstar’s owner was their only viable lead.

 

“We’ll keep on it,” Starsky said.  He cast his partner a sideways glance, noting Hutch’s strange distraction.  Between his friend’s dislike of Stone and his lingering remorse over Jack, Starsky feared he wouldn’t be focused enough when the situation demanded.  More than ever he was determined to shadow his melancholy partner, making certain whatever evil lingered in the wings, it wouldn’t overcome Hutch.  His friend had a tendency to be a bit too idealistic at times, but he was a good cop with natural instincts.  Starsky just didn’t like him being the target of a depraved serial killer.

 

Drugged.  A stake through the heart.

 

He suppressed a shudder.  “We’re gonna go back and check out the summer house tonight,” he told Stone.  “After it’s dark.  Tomorrow we’ll scout the grounds again.”

 

The older man nodded.

 

“Can you get us profiles on the other deaths  - - the ones prior to the serial slayings?”  Hutch asked.  “You had a few murders, two suicides and one drug overdose in the last few years.”

 

Stone scowled, caught off guard by the out-of-the blue request.  Even Starsky had to admit he thought it odd.  Hutch had given no indication of a suspected connection between the current slayings and cases he’d only mentioned in passing.  It wasn’t like his partner to keep silent about something he obviously considered of note.  Disturbed by the lapse and more than a little intrigued, Starsky sent his friend a querying glance.  Rather than acknowledge the non-verbal communication, Hutch kept his gaze fixed on Stone.     

 

“I fail to see how any of those deaths relate to the current case,” the lieutenant said flatly.

 

“Maybe.”  Hutch stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced a short distance away, again ignoring Starsky’s direct glance. “But I’d like to know if any of the victims matched the victim profile of the serial slayings.” 

 

Stone’s frown dug deeper.  “Some of those murders date back three years.  It’s a waste of time.”

 

“Humor me.” 

 

“Okay, I guess that’s it for the night.”  Starsky stepped between them, sensing the mood about to grow ugly.  Hutch’s voice had turned barbed and the smile he forced was a little too fanged.  He had the sly demeanor of a predator waiting for his prey to make the inevitable, stupid mistake.  “We’ll call you tomorrow, Lieutenant,” Starsky offered.  “I don’t think we necessarily gotta meet up again.  Maybe by tomorrow you can round up that info Hutch wants?”

 

Stone kept his eyes on the blond-haired detective, his gaze narrow and cold.  The tension in the old barn was once again palpable.  “Maybe.”

 

“We’ll call it a night then.”  Starsky caught his friend’s arm and tugged him around, steering him out of the barn.  He didn’t speak until they were outside, his voice coming low and fast as he prodded Hutch crisply in the direction of the Jeep.  “You got a real knack for pushin’ buttons, you know that, Blondie?  Just what the hell were you tryin’ to do in there?  You got an angle you ain’t shared with me?”

 

“No angle, Starsky.” Hutch spoke evenly, lacking emotion. Around them the night huddled cold and black, dense with long shadows and the filtered light of a cloud-laced moon.  A passing breeze scuffed across the ground, kicking up a handful of dry leaves, butting them against the tires of the Jeep. “It just makes sense to check the previous victims in a town with a death rate as low as Cold Harbor’s.”

 

“You could’ve told me about it,” Starsky accused.

 

Hutch rolled his shoulders.  “Thought I’d wait until I had something more concrete.”  He climbed into the Jeep, lowering his voice to a tight mutter.  “Wouldn’t want you to think I was acting on emotion.”

 

Starsky’s eyes narrowed.  “What the hell does that mean?”

 

“Nothing.”  Hutch adjusted the collar on his jacket, a move clearly meant to deflect the question.  “You gonna start this thing so we can get back to the Northstar?”

 

Starsky scowled.  He had the distinct feeling Hutch had just cast him an unflattering “dig” but he couldn’t quite pin down the reason why.  Jack?  Irked, he climbed into the driver’s seat but didn’t bother with the ignition. He sat for a moment, hands locked on the wheel, eyes straight ahead as he sorted through the flicker of irritation in his gut.  “It ain’t like you to pursue a thread of reasonin’ on your own - -  not when it’s related to a case,” he said at last.  “Just when were you gonna share your idea about those previous deaths with me?”

 

“It’s not an idea, Starsky,” Hutch said, sounding suddenly tired. “It’s just something I think should be checked out.  And I told you  - - when I had something more concrete.  Can we go now?”

 

“No, we can’t go!”  Growing increasingly exasperated by the minute, Starsky turned to look at his friend.  A short distance away, Stone’s car rumbled to life, the headlights cutting a yellow swath through the darkness.  In a matter of seconds the illumination vanished, chased by the flash of red taillights as the car vanished around a curve.  Alone in the darkness, Starsky glared at his friend.  “I wanna know what’s goin’ on.  Either you’re pissed at me, you’re pissed at Stone or you’re pissed at both of us.  If you’re pissed at me, I wanna know why.”

 

“Starsky, I’m just tired.”  Hutch rubbed his eyes.  In the darkness, his face was planed with shadows, his fair hair gilded with the luminous kiss of silver.  By contrast, his voice sounded drained, but Starsky knew his friend too well to buy into the act.  Hutch’s fatigue was emotional not physical, clearly underscored by a lingering whisper of resentment. 

 

“This is about Jack, isn’t it?” he challenged.

 

Hutch shot him a frazzled glance.  “Jack’s dead.”

 

“Think I don’t know that?”  Realizing he was getting nowhere, Starsky cranked the ignition to life.  He jerked on the headlights and popped the clutch.  The heavy vehicle lurched into drive, reflecting the sourness of his rapidly deteriorating mood.  Okay, so he’d made some mistakes in Vegas, said some things he shouldn’t have said, but wasn’t it time to move past that?  “You know what really irks me?”  He reached the bottom of the incline and pulled the Jeep onto the road.  “If you’re pissed about Vegas . . . about Jack, then I wish you’d just freakin’ spit it out and get it over with.  I can’t fix sumethin’ if I don’t know what’s wrong, Hutch.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong, Starsky.”  Hutch’s voice was quiet, strangely soft in the darkness. 

 

Starsky shot him a perturbed glance and realized he was staring straight ahead.  “If nothin’s wrong, then how come you didn’t tell me you were gonna ask Stone about those other cases?  That’s not how we work, partner.  At least we never have.”

 

Hutch bowed his head, studying the hands resting loosely in his lap.  “Yeah, okay,” he conceded.   “I should have told you.”  The wind whipped through the open vehicle scattering the bangs on his brow.  Exasperated, he exhaled loudly, thunking his head back against the seat.  “I don’t know, Starsk . . . the whole thing with Jack . . . it’s too fresh.  This case feels wrong, like it’s a repeat of disaster.  I’m just . . .”

 

“You’re pissed at me,” Starsky said reasonably.

 

Hutch rolled his head on the seat, turning to face him.  In the darkness his pupils were distended to catch light, obliterating all but a thin rim of blue around his eyes.  “Some,” he admitted.  “But I’m getting over it.  Sorry I took a cheap shot at you.”

 

“That thing about waitin’ for somethin’ concrete?”  Starsky palmed the wheel, banking the Jeep into a turn.  He shrugged, reading between the lines, uncertain how he felt about the whole situation.  Hutch was talking reasonably but he’d also admitted to harboring anger.  Obviously everything was not on an even keel between them.  “What you were really sayin’ was you didn’t think I’d believe you, ‘cause I didn’t believe you about Jack.”  Starsky frowned.  “I was tired and irritable, Hutch, worried out of my skull about Vicky.  How long you gonna hold that over my head?”

 

Hutch turned away, looking over his right shoulder.  “Let’s just forget it,” he mumbled.

 

“I’m tryin’ to, but you won’t let go.  I know Jack was your best friend, but what am I?”

 

“Starsky, don’t even go there.”

 

“Why?”  Because I won’t like what I find?  Because if I push the issue I’ll never measure up to your high school friend?  Irritated by his partner’s silence, Starsky looked away, concentrating on the road.  It really shouldn’t have come as such a surprise to him that Hutch was so loyal to Jack.  They were cut from the same cloth.  Maybe Jack’s family had been a bit wealthier, but they’d moved in the same circles, were pretty much on the same level socially.  Both were college-educated with strong academic backgrounds.  They fit together ideally as friends.

 

On the flip side, what did he really have in common with his intellectual partner?  What possible connection could there be between a sharp-tongued troublemaker and a class Valedictorian?  If they’d met as teenagers, Hutch probably would have snubbed him and he would have retaliated with a string of belittling remarks.  They would have been natural adversaries, polar opposites.  The truth was they were still opposites - - only now that extreme diversity was the very thing that made them click. “I just don’t want you doin’ anything stupid,” he muttered at last.

 

Hutch cast him an arch glance.  “Like what?”

 

“How the hell should I know?”  Annoyed that he couldn’t express himself better, Starsky shook off the conversation.  “You’re right - - we should forget this.  Just don’t do anything . . .”  He groped for something to explain the cloud hanging over his head and came back to the same conclusion.  “ . . . stupid.  We stick together, right partner?  No soloing, and no playing hero.”

 

The ghost of a smile danced over Hutch’s lips.  “I thought that was your role.  I’m the blond in the tower, remember?  It’s your job to ride up and rescue me.”

 

Starsky snorted.  “Don’t hold your breath waitin’ if somethin’ prettier comes along.”

 

Hutch’s smile bloomed a little brighter and Starsky felt himself relax marginally.  Even so, in retrospect he knew they should have declined the case.  Hutch’s heart just wasn’t in it, no matter how hard he pushed himself to embrace their current cover.  He was still too preoccupied by Jack’s death and that distraction could very well prove fatal should Cold Harbor’s serial killer come calling.

 

Back at the Northstar, they found the inn draped with pumpkin-shaped lights in the windows, the small globes emitting a warm orange glow against the darkness. Murphy Emerick was in the main room, arranging brightly-colored gourds and ears of Indian corn in an assortment of heavy harvest baskets.  The young couple who’d been discussing astrological signs over dinner, sat on the sofa, sipping cocoa, making an occasional suggestion to Emerick as they watched his progress. A well-thumbed copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula rested on the coffee table beside a plate of oatmeal cookies and a pot of hot chocolate ringed by empty mugs.  The trucker, Brian Fenton, perched on the arm of the couch, munching contentedly on a cookie, occasionally adding his two cents to the decorating discussion.

 

“Never did get all the fuss over Halloween,” he said as the two detectives wandered in the front door.  “Pumpkins, scarecrows, trick-or-treat . . . seems like a bother over some silly make-believe.”

 

“You’re missing the fun,” the girl said brightly, dark eyes dancing.  “Mr. Emerick, if I were you, I’d hang ghosts from the trees out front.  All you need are some sheets and wire.  Back home in Boiling Springs, I always do a huge window display.  I work for a book dealer and October’s always a great time for sales.  The wonderful thing about Halloween is adults like it as much as kids do.”

 

Fenton snorted.  “Just a lot of mish-mash if you ask me.”

 

“Hey, the place looks great,”  Starsky said as they wandered into the lobby.  He sent Emerick a broad wink.  “You got a real flair there for decoratin’, Mr. Emerick.  Saw those pumpkin lights a mile away.  Mmm . . . and somethin’ smells good too.”  Zeroing in on the hot chocolate, he helped himself to a cup, well aware of Emerick’s scowl behind his back. 

 

The young couple turned out to be chatty despite the fact most of their conversation ran toward astrology and the supernatural.  Starsky hung around with Hutch, both of them falling into their respective roles of writer and photographer.  After a while the older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Lockton, arrived after a trip to town and joined them as well.  Starsky disappeared to grab his camera, and by the time he returned, Emerick had added a pan of brownies to the cookies and cocoa.  For the next hour the group chatted about their favorite rural vacation spots, prodded on by Hutch who played the role of freelance writer with remarkable ease. 

 

As a trucker, Fenton had traveled more than most of them and was able to throw in a few gems about truly backwoods lodging.  Starsky snapped several shots, even managing to sneak in one or two of the habitually solitary Emerick.  While the Northstar’s owner joined in the conversation from time to time he was mostly quiet, listening more than talking.

 

Eventually the young couple  - - Carla and Gary Dugan - - went for a walk outside and the Locktons disappeared upstairs.  Starsky thought about telling the Dugans to be careful but realized he was probably overreacting.  Both were dark-haired, relatively short and in their early twenties, not even a close match to the killer’s preferred victim profile of 30ish, tall and blond.  If they wanted to stroll around at night it was certainly their prerogative.  If he’d been Gary Dugan and had a young, pretty wife he’d probably want to do a little romantic cuddling beneath the moon too.

 

Emerick disappeared into the kitchen and after a while Fenton yawned and called it a night, taking the copy of Dracula with him when he disappeared upstairs.

 

Starsky shot Hutch a glance.  “You see that?  I just figured that book belonged to Carla.”

 

Hutch shrugged.  “Starsky, just because a guy reads Dracula, doesn’t make him a serial killer.  It is near Halloween, you know.”  He glanced at his watch.  “It’s almost 11:00.  Let’s give it a little over an hour then try the summer house again.  We should probably call it a night, or at least pretend to.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Scowling, Starsky followed his friend upstairs.  Hutch was right - - it was near Halloween.  Just because a guy read Dracula didn’t mean he had a habit of carrying around mallets and stakes. Besides, Fenton was pretty scrawny, kind of lean and lanky looking like a bony scarecrow.  Starsky doubted the wiry trucker would have been able to take down any of the victims he’d seen in the photographs.  In fact, none of the current guests of the Northstar seemed a good match for the killer.  In the long run it kept coming back to Emerick’s nervousness over the summer house.

 

Hopefully in a little over an hour, they’d be able to decipher why their host was so determined to keep that part of his property off limits.

 

+++++

 

Hutch sat on the bed, weeding through the notes he’d made on the case during the trip to Cold Harbor.  It was hard concentrating when his mind kept wandering back to the conversation he’d had with Starsky outside of the barn.  Hutch knew he needed to ease up on his friend, yet a thin sliver of resentment still hovered in the back of his mind, whispering that Starsky hadn’t believed him about Jack.  It was easy to understand why his partner might have held reservations about Mitchell - -  he didn’t know the man, but he did know Hutch and shouldn’t that have been all that mattered?  Shouldn’t he have taken his friend’s word for it when Hutch told him Jack wasn’t the killer?  True, Starsky had been worried about Vicky, but  - -

 

“ . . . I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.”

 

Wincing, Hutch closed his eyes.  Some loyal friend he’d been.  Jack Mitchell had died thinking he’d been set up and betrayed by his high school buddy.  Hutch might have been the one voted “Most Likely to Succeed” but Jack had been the one everyone admired.  Including his own father.

 

In Grant Hutchinson’s eyes, Jack had made the right career choice by going to med school and becoming a doctor.  It was only through the grim quirks of fate, no fault of his own, that he’d ultimately failed.  In Duluth, Hutch had tried to talk to his father about what had happened in Vegas.  Confused, stricken by guilt, he’d needed a sounding board - - someone other than his normally supportive partner who was as deeply entangled in the mess as he was.  But once Grant Hutchinson knew the circumstances, he wanted nothing to do with his son’s remorse.  “You actually thought he was some perverted serial killer?  Damn it, Ken, you should feel guilty for what you did!  I can’t believe you could act so underhanded with a friend!  I only hope to God you never have to tell his parents how horribly you betrayed their son.  I’m ashamed of you.”

 

Ashamed. 

 

Big surprise there.  As a matter of routine, Grant was normally disappointed in his son’s actions.  Shame was just one more step in the ever-widening gulf between them.  No matter how hard he tried, Hutch knew he’d never be able to measure up to his father’s expectations.  He’d blown any chance of that happening when he’d walked away from medical school.  That had been his choice, and to this day he’d never regretted that decision. 

 

What he did regret was the loss of balance in his life.  In the past that had always been achieved through his steadfast and unique friendship with Starsky.  But even that felt off kilter now and the reason for the rift lay with Jack.   

 

Starsky’s words in the Jeep came back to haunt him.  “I know Jack was your best friend, but what am I?”

 

Hutch had ducked away from the question, shocked that his friend had even asked it.  In high school he’d bonded with Jack and that friendship had carried him through numerous rough spots, most related to his father’s harsh criticism.  But after dropping out of med school, he and Jack had drifted apart.  The memories were still there, tinged with nostalgia and welcome as ever - - girls, sports, parties - - all the vibrantly slick gloss of his glory days rolled into one.

 

But his relationship with Starsky . . . that went beyond simple friendship, existing on a level that was intrinsic and natural.  Simply put, Starsky was the other half of his soul.  And that was something no one could ever or would ever claim from him again.  Jack hadn’t even come close.

 

So how could his friend ask something so basic when the answer was so blatantly obvious:  “I know Jack was your best friend, but what am I?” 

 

God, buddy, don’t you know?

 

Friend didn’t even begin to cover it.  The fact Starsky had actually asked, that he didn’t instinctively know, made Hutch uneasy.  And that growing uneasiness was distracting him from the case. 

 

He never noticed when the time inched past midnight.  His only real awareness was a pulsing cramp in his lower back and legs from sitting still for so long.  Starsky appeared in the bathroom moments later, dressed in a heavy black button shirt and jeans.  His leather jacket was slung over his shoulder, half concealing the Beretta holstered under his arm.

 

“Zero hour, Blintz.”  Carrying two flashlights, Starsky tossed one onto the bed.  It rolled a short distance before butting up against Hutch’s knee.  “If you’re all done pourin’ over your notes, how ‘bout we go do some real investigatin’?  I know we’re stuck with that halo of blond hair you got, but think you could at least put on some dark clothes?”

 

Hutch looked down at his sky blue turtleneck and light beige trousers.  He’d meant to change when he’d returned to the room, but had gotten sidetracked by his notes, more recently,  wandering thoughts.  He gave a slightly abashed nod and shoved the papers aside.  Starsky waited while he changed into black jeans and a black turtleneck, then passed him a small rectangular case.  “You’re better at pickin’ locks then I am.  You do the honors and get us inside.”

 

“Sure.”  Hutch slipped the case into his back pocket.  Grabbing the flashlight from the bed, he motioned to Starsky and together they eased into the shadow-draped hallway.  The house was still, its eerie silence broken only by occasional creaks and groans as weathered timbers sighed in the wind.  Both men kept their flashlights switched off, moving silently through the dark house, stepping as lightly as they could on the wide staircase.  Downstairs, the glow from the pumpkin lanterns created a smoky orange haze around the front windows, puddling like spilled blood on the hardwood floor. Hutch eased opened the door and slipped outside, coming to an immediate halt. 

 

Caught off guard, Starsky butted up against him with a grunt.  “Hey. You wanna keep this train movin’?”

 

“Starsk . . .”  Hutch’s voice sounded strangely off kilter. “ I was just thinking.”  Catching Starsky’s sleeve, he pulled him aside, away from the path of the door and the glow of plastic jack-o-lanterns.  Around them the wind rattled through the trees, clacking branches together like disembodied bones. “I was thinking about that book Fenton was reading  - - you know - -Dracula.”

 

“You’re thinkin’ about that now?”  Starsky sounded incredulous.  “How ‘bout you concentrate on the summer house and getting us through that lock?”

 

“I got that part,” Hutch said impatiently.  He sprinted from the porch, Starsky close at his side.  As they ducked around the corner of the house, he refocused on the disturbing thought he’d had just a second ago.  “Listen, buddy . . . this nut’s killing people with a mallet and stake, right?  He’s living out some sick scenario about vampires and justice.  I don’t know . . . maybe he’s convinced he’s some kind of avenging angel or something.”

 

“You’re point bein’?”  Now it was Starsky’s turn to sound impatient.  As they neared the summer house, both men checked to make sure they were unobserved before stealing onto the dilapidated front porch.  Dropping immediately to one knee, Hutch pulled the tiny tool case from his back pocket.  Beside him, Starsky switched on his flashlight, directing the yellow cone between Hutch’s hands and the door knob. 

 

“We already know we got some sicko playin’ Van Helsing,” the dark-haired detective groused.  “Those pictures Stone gave us made that pretty clear.”

 

“Yeah,” Hutch worked the lock as he talked.  “But think about it . . . if you were gonna hunt vampires, when would you do it?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “I dunno.  At night?”

 

“No, dummy,”  Hutch chided lightly, still fiddling with the door knob.  “You’d do it during the day when they sleep.  Yet according to the autopsy reports, every one of those murders occurred after midnight.  Which means this guy isn’t following any pre-defined rules, like in Dracula.  It also means anyone who could’ve given Emerick a staunch alibi would have been sleeping, which is probably what he said he was doing when questioned.”

 

Starsky frowned.  “So he could’ve slipped off durin’ the night, done the stake-and-mallet routine then crawled back into bed with no one bein’ the wiser.  He really wasn’t in ‘plain view’ of his guests like Stone said.”

 

The lock tumbled over with an audible click.  “So why’d our friend the Lieutenant tell us that?”  Hutch raised his head to glance up at his partner.  Behind Starsky he could see the rear of the inn, including his own third floor room faintly illuminated through the star-shaped window.  A shadow passed in front of the glass, vanishing within seconds.  Just as quickly the illumination winked into darkness.  Hutch frowned.

 

“Why don’t we ask him?”  Starsky suggested.

 

Hutch jerked, wrenched back to the conversation at hand.  “Huh?”

 

“I said why don’t we ask Stone?  If you think he’s keepin’ something from us or misleadin’ us on purpose, I say let’s confront him about it.  Unless you think the guy’s in on the whole deal.” 

 

“No.”  Still distracted, Hutch shook his head.

 

Starsky butted the door open.  “Not bad, Hutch.  Always said you were better at pickin’ locks than I was.”  Moving past his partner, he stepped inside.

 

Hutch followed, closing the door behind him.  It was musty inside, the air thick and heavy, smelling faintly of paint thinner and cleaning solvents.  A single work table was shoved against the far wall, a fluorescent light suspended loosely overhead.  Gardening equipment took up one corner of the room while a riding mower, its deck still covered with grass clippings, occupied another.  Various tools hung from pegs on the walls, a few bright orange electrical cords looped among them. 

 

“Looks like Emerick really was tellin’ the truth,” Starsky said.  “Not much in here but a bunch of tools.  Can’t imagine why he got so irked about us snoopin’ around.”

 

Hutch nodded, thinking much the same thing.  They spent the next half hour going over the place regardless, but came up empty.  He’d at least expected to find a stake and mallet, confirming Emerick’s potential as their killer, but there was nothing remotely suspicious.  Back outside, Hutch laced a hand through his hair.  “So why’d he freak?”

 

“Who knows?”  Starsky tugged the door shut and together they stepped off the porch.  “This whole thing is makin’ less and less sense the deeper we get.  Got any ideas you ain’t sharin’?”

 

Hutch scowled at his friend’s choice of words but decided maybe he deserved them after his stunt at the barn.  To anyone else the whole incident would have seemed trivial, but Starsky had been right - - keeping things from one another had never been the way they operated.  “I think someone might have been in my room just now,” he admitted.

 

Starsky balked.  “Huh?”

 

“I saw someone  . . . through the window . . .”  Hutch pointed up to the glass star on the third floor.  He hedged, knowing he really didn’t have a lot to go on.  “When I was working on the lock, I thought I saw a light inside . . . saw someone moving around.”

 

“So why the hell didn’t you say anything?” Starsky demanded.  They had reached the back of the house now.  Frustration bubbling over, Starsky caught his friend by the arm and wheeled him around, shoving him up against the stonework.  “Listen, Hutch, this bullshit ends now, you understand?  Somethin’s goin’ on, I expect you to tell me.  How the hell am I supposed to protect you if I don’t know someone’s been in your room?”

 

“Starsky, I wasn’t even sure.”

 

“That ain’t it.”  Agitated, Starsky shook his head.  He planted a hand against the stone just above Hutch’s shoulder, aggravation rising in his voice. “Your head just ain’t in this case, and that’s dangerous, Hutch.  You spent all that time pourin’ over those notes Stone gave you and you ain’t even focused.  It’s like - - I don’t know - - ”  He threw his hands in the air, acknowledging defeat.  “ - - like you’re walkin’ around in a daze or something.  You wanna get yourself killed?  Is that it?  Think that’s gonna bring Jack back?”

 

The blood drained from Hutch’s face.  “Don’t,” he said through gritted teeth. 

 

But Starsky wasn’t done.  “That’s it, ain’t it?  You don’t care if you screw up or not.  Get yourself killed, even up the score.  Well I got news for you, Hutch.”  Starsky jabbed a finger into his shoulder, bluntly grinding his point home.  “Jack Mitchell ain’t worth dyin’ for!”

 

“I never said he was!”  Hutch swatted his hand aside, trying to keep his voice calm.  “You’re an idiot, you know that?” All they needed to do was wake up the inn with a shouting match.  “I might be distracted, Starsky, but I’m not suicidal.  If I didn’t tell you about the profiles I wanted, it’s because I didn’t think they were worth mentioning at this point.  As for the person I might have seen in my room, the whole thing seems pretty stupid when I’m not even sure what I saw myself.  And yes, damn it, I am pissed about Jack.  And yes, I am pissed at you, but that ain’t anything new, partner, so I’ll get over it.  What I don’t need is you second-guessing my motives every time I overlook something.  You wanna do something - - start trusting my judgment.”  Shoving his arm aside, Hutch stalked toward the front of the house. 

 

Following just as quickly, Starsky clung to his heels, huffing out a perturbed breath.  “So what’s that - - a dig about not believin’ you in Vegas?”

 

“Starsky, drop it, huh?”  They were on the front porch now and Hutch knew their hissed voices were sure to carry.  Aside from that, he just wanted to go to bed.  He was tired of the case, tired of constantly defending his actions and tired of arguing with his friend.  A headache had started at the back of his skull, rooting behind his eyes.  If they continued with the argument now, one of them was sure to say something they’d regret.  Maybe in the morning Hutch could think more clearly. Lately it seemed every time he opened his mouth he just dug himself into a deeper hole with his friend.  “I’m tired.  I want to go to bed,” he said softly.

 

He wasn’t certain if it was his words, his tone, or merely the fact he pushed open the door, but Starsky gave a crisp nod and didn’t say anything further until they were on the third floor.  When Hutch walked past him toward his room, Starsky caught his arm. 

 

“Humor me,” his partner said.  Starsky drew his gun from beneath his jacket.  “Let’s just make sure no one’s waitin’ for you inside, okay?”

 

It seemed a reasonable precaution given what he thought he’d seen. Hutch gave a nod, drawing his own gun. He exchanged a silent glance with Starsky then swung the door wide, pivoting to the left.  At his side, Starsky wheeled to the right, but the room was empty.  Nothing looked disturbed, and after a brief search even Starsky was satisfied. 

 

Sighing, Hutch freed the snaps on his holster and dropped it onto the bed.  “Let’s call it a night.  I’ll see you in the morning, Starsk.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Starsky hesitated in the doorway of the shared bath.  “Lock your door before you go to sleep.  No sense taking chances, right?”

 

Hutch gave him a dismissive salute, a little too curt to be appreciative.  He knew Starsky was only looking out for his best interest, but right now he just wanted to be left alone.  Starsky’s words still bothered him, resurrecting an unavoidable measure of truth.  If he wasn’t focused on the case, then he jeopardized not only his own safety, but Starsky’s as well.  It was one matter to screw up and get himself hurt, possibly killed, but another to endanger his friend.  Realizing he’d been acting selfishly only increased the throbbing knot at the back of his skull. 

 

Hutch locked the door even as he heard Starsky disappear into the bathroom.  A moment later he sprawled face down on the bed and closed his eyes, trying to block the ugly day from his mind.

 

+++++

 

Shortly after 2:00 a.m., Starsky got up to use the bathroom.  Afterward he hovered in the doorway of Hutch’s room, easily picking out his friend’s sleeping form on the bed.  Hutch hadn’t bothered to undress, but lay curled on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other hooked over his stomach.  He’d kicked off his shoes and his black turtleneck had worked free of his belt, but otherwise he was still fully clothed. 

 

Frowning at the sight, Starsky crossed to the closet and rummaged on the top shelf until he located a spare blanket.  Gently he draped it over his friend, pausing to lightly brush a hand through Hutch’s hair after it was placed.  He hated the fact they were still arguing, hadn’t quite managed to move past the rift caused by Jack’s death.

 

In retrospect he understood his friend’s frustration and guilt, but a small part of him couldn’t help feeling strangely jealous.  He hated that emotion, knew it was silly and childish, especially given the fact Jack had died so needlessly.  But Jack and Hutch had shared something he’d never be able to experience.  As close as he was to his overly sensitive partner, a portion of Hutch would always belong to Jack.  A part that included high school parties and sports, Valedictorian speeches and med school.  A part he could only wonder about, strangely saddened that it had existed without his influence.

 

Settling in a bedside chair, he decided it wouldn’t hurt to linger awhile and keep unwelcome visitors away. There was no harm in making certain Hutch didn’t end up the latest victim of a serial killer.  If the way to do that was by camping out in his room nightly, so be it.  As long as Hutch didn’t know . . . 

 

Frowning, Starsky studied his sleeping friend.  It really had been unfair of Stone, even Dobey, to ask Hutch to undertake the Cold Harbor case.  Yes, the final decision had ultimately rested with Hutch, but Dobey had to know the blond-haired man wouldn’t walk away once the facts were presented to him.  To Hutch, that would have been the same as admitting failure, something his perfectionist-driven nature never would have allowed.  It shouldn’t have been a decision he had to make.  Not after Vegas.  Not after Jack.

 

On the bed, Hutch moaned softly in his sleep and stirred, rolling onto his back.  His eyes shifted beneath his closed lids, clear indication he was dreaming.  Or havin’ a nightmare, Starsky thought as his friend moaned again, his breathing growing choppy and rapid. 

 

Leaning forward, Starsky brushed aside a fringe of starlight-silvered bangs. Even in the darkness, Hutch’s fair hair gleamed with an infusion of natural light.

 

“Ssh, take it easy, buddy,” Starsky soothed, his touch as gentle as his voice.  “It’s just a dream.  Nothing to get worked up about.”  Tenderly, he contoured three fingers down the curve of Hutch’s cheek, transmitting calm and reassurance with the simple brush of his hand.  Within moments Hutch stilled, unconsciously turning his face toward Starsky’s palm.  His breathing evened into a smoother flow and his body relaxed. Reluctant to let go, Starsky let his thumb track upward, ghosting across an ashen eyebrow before slipping once again into a feather-light fringe of wheat-pale hair.

 

He knew he should traipse back to his room and go to bed, but the “shadow” Hutch thought he’d seen in his bedroom window still disturbed him.  Had someone been snooping through the room, looking perhaps for a blond-haired, thirty-two year old to turn into a serial victim?  

 

He stayed another hour before fatigue eventually caught up with him and forced him back to bed . . . before Hutch could wake up himself and launch into a tirade about not needing a babysitter.  His friend was less terse in the morning, but still cool, as if he hadn’t shaken off the words they’d exchanged the previous night. 

 

They had breakfast with Fenton and the Locktons, never really talking much to each other but interacting easily with the older couple and the trucker.  Mrs. Lockton dug out pictures of their new grandchild, beaming with pride as she shared the photos.  Playing his role of travel writer to the hilt, Hutch admitted to desiring children of his own someday if he ever stopped traveling long enough to meet a woman and settle down.  Shortly after, the Dugans joined them, followed within moments by Clyde Hale, the business executive, and his secretary/consort, Fiona Reese. 

 

Afterward the two detectives drove into town, calling Stone from a pay phone located just outside a drug store where Starsky stopped to buy more film. Since Hutch was still being moody, he made the call and talked to Stone, frowning when the Lieutenant parted with information he hadn’t expected.

 

“You sure about that?” he said into the phone.  He paused, listening to Stone’s reply, aware of the sharp glance Hutch cast in his direction.  “All right,” he said after a moment, turning his back to block the noise of traffic.  “Let us know what you end up with, Lieutenant.  We came up nil in the summer house last night, but there might’ve been someone snoopin’ through Hutch’s room.  Can’t say for certain, but it’s lookin’ like someone’s interested in what we’re doin’ - - or in Hutch at the very least.  Keep us posted on what you find out.”

 

“Well?”  Hutch demanded when he hung up the phone.

 

Starsky sighed, his hand still hooked on the receiver.  “Looks like you were right about those other deaths.  The drug O.D. anyway.  Guy’s name is Lou Almond, and he’s a perfect match for the serial victim profile - - thirty-four, blond, single, tall and athletic. Stone’s men never put two-and-two together.  Seems Almond had a history of drug abuse in his teen years so they never gave it a thought.  There still might not be a connection but  - - ”

 

“Starsky, the guy died two weeks before the first killing.  You realize this opens the case on his death all over again.  Maybe he didn’t O.D.”

 

“Well, he sure didn’t end up with a stake in his heart,” Starsky pointed out.  “Stone said he worked for a chemical lab.  In fact, he’d just gotten a huge promotion with a fat pay raise.  His future was lookin’ far from bleak.”

 

“You get the name of the lab?”  Hutch asked.

 

Starsky nodded.  “Brighton Chemical.  Stone says the plant’s twelve miles out of town.”  He flashed a grin.  “Feel like a ride?”

 

“I’ll drive,” Hutch said and started for the Jeep.

 

+++++ 

 

Hutch was quiet throughout the drive, irritated that his mind wasn’t on the case the way it should have been.  Despite his efforts to the contrary, a part of him remained distracted, hung up on Jack, Starsky’s momentary lapse of loyalty in Vegas, and even his father’s wounding remarks.  He hated that his high school friend had died thinking the worst of him.  Yes, Jack had been terminally ill but it didn’t take away the sting of his passing, and it didn’t ease Hutch’s festering guilt.  The long and short of it was he felt miserable  - - emotionally despondent, plagued by growing remorse, and the one person he normally talked to when he was feeling down had become part of the problem himself.

 

Yanking his sunglasses from his jacket pocket, Hutch slipped them over his eyes.  Beside him Starsky was quiet, clearly thinking up ways around the silence.  He fidgeted as only Starsky could fidget, shifting in his seat, periodically tapping out an imaginary drum beat on his thighs or making some inane remark about the weather and the countryside.  Hutch acknowledged the attempts with an occasional grunt, but mostly more silence, all of it strained.  He didn’t know why he was being so difficult, so reclusive.  It wasn’t Starsky’s fault Jack had died, and it wasn’t Starsky’s fault they were working another serial murder when all he really wanted to do was crawl into a hole and shut out the world for a few days.  With effort, Hutch forced himself to concentrate on the case.

 

“If Almond’s tied into the serials,” he announced as conversationally as he could.  “Maybe whatever he OD’d on is similar in compound to what the killer uses to subdue his victims.  We should have Stone run a match.”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Starsky said just as neutrally.  “That’s not a bad idea.”  He was silent a moment, then his gaze sidled to the side.  “At the risk of openin’ up a can of worms, you’ve barely strung three sentences together all mornin’.  Whatsa matter, Hutch?”  His mouth thinned in a tight smile.  “Bad night?”

 

Hutch spared only a brief glance before looking back to the road.  He had had a wretched night, plagued by disjointed dreams and nightmares again.  Images of death and dying, of Jack and betrayal.  Somewhere in the middle of all that gut-churning confusion there’d been a brief moment of calm, of familiar peace, almost as if Starsky had been with him, battering aside the darkness.

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled under his breath.

 

“Does matter,” Starsky shot back.  “You’re still pissed.”

 

Hutch sighed.  “Starsk, this isn’t any way to work together.”

 

“You’re tellin’ me!  I feel like I’ve been partnered with a stranger these last couple days, so how ‘bout droppin’ the martyr act?  Here’s the deal Hutch - - you either spit it out and tell me what’s got you so tight-lipped and moody, or I call Dobey and tell him to pull us off the case.”

 

Hutch felt his irritation flare.  “Don’t be stupid, Starsky.”

 

“It ain’t stupid, Hutchinson!  I feel like I’m workin’ with a damn zombie!  You got any idea what that’s like?”  He was shouting now, his voice carried by the whipping rush of wind through the open vehicle.  “I don’t even know what’s goin’ through your head anymore . . . what you’re gonna share and what you ain’t gonna share - -”

 

“I made a stupid mistake,” Hutch snapped.  “How long are you going to keep throwing that back in my face?”

 

“Dunno.  How long you gonna keep throwing the mistake I made in Vegas in my face?”

 

Hutch clamped his mouth shut.  God, what an idiot!  It didn’t feel the same, but of course it was true.  Starsky hadn’t believed him about Jack and Hutch had felt betrayed.  Yet he’d done the exact same thing with Starsky, working a thread of their current serial case by himself . . .  formulating ideas and running them by Stone without conferring first with his partner.  That pretty much said it all:  I don’t need you.  I don’t trust you.  He’d broken a faith they’d held for six years.  No wonder the silence grew so strained between them.  It wasn’t simply his own guilt and fear pressing him under but Starsky’s growing frustration.

 

“Okay.”  Hutch sucked in a breath and dragged a hand over his face.  He had to fix matters before he dug himself in any deeper.  “I admit it - - I screwed up.”  He shot a glance in Starsky’s direction.  The wind tossed the mass of jet curls on Starsky’s brow, lacing them back from his forehead.  By contrast the heat in his blue eyes seemed all the brighter, kindled by aggravation and wounded disappointment.  “I didn’t mean to take this out on you, Starsk.”

 

That wasn’t entirely true.  If Hutch was honest he had to acknowledge a disturbing inner voice that whispered he had wanted to hurt his friend for that small breach of trust in Vegas.  There was nothing wrong in disagreeing.  They’d disagreed countless times before, but Vegas had been different. 

 

I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.  Translation:  I’ve got no faith in your judgment.

 

If that had been the case, what did it come down to?  Wasn’t Starsky basically saying that Hutch would have sided with Jack against his own partner?  That his blind loyalty to his high school friend would have overridden his judgment, therefore placing Starsky in danger?  And that was the crux of the whole nasty affair - - the accusation that stuck like acid in Hutch’s gut, shaking a foundation that had always been unshakable.  Throw in his own sense of guilt and his father’s shame and he didn’t know how to pull himself from the suffocating desolation.

 

“Let’s start over,” he said coolly, not sure he really could.  His voice was too smooth, plainly detached, and he cringed to hear the lack of emotion in it.

 

“Whatever,” Starsky muttered, apparently having had enough.  Gripping the frame on the windshield, he looked away, ending his participation in the strained conversation. 

 

Inwardly, Hutch sighed.  He knew he deserved his friend’s hostility.  Starsky had been trying to smooth the discord between them, but Hutch had rebuffed him every step of the way.  His mouth was suddenly dry for lack of anything to say.  He was thankful when they finally reached their destination and Brighton Chemical loomed before them.

 

Hutch parked near the business office and, together, he and Starsky climbed from the Jeep.  Tucking his sunglasses into his jacket, he looked from the large brick building looming before them to his partner who was stretching the kinks from his back.  “How do you wanna play this?”

 

Starsky stopped what he was doing long enough to spare an exaggerated glance.  “What?  You mean I actually got a say in it?”

 

“Starsky - -”

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”  Starsky waved off Hutch’s frigid protest.  “As friendly as you are these days, how ‘bout hangin’ back and lettin’ me take the reins?  We stay Hammond and Sorenski, but a friend told us to look up Lou if we ever made it to Cold Harbor.  If we go in actin’ like we don’t know he’s dead, maybe someone will spill something useful.”

 

Hutch nodded.  It was as good a plan as any, and he owed Starsky for the crappy way he’d been treating him lately.  Doing as his friend suggested, he stayed in the background while Starsky took the lead. 

 

They introduced themselves to the receptionist, then played off each other’s staged shock when the girl revealed Lou had died last January.  Far too chatty for her own good, she parted with a wealth of information with little prodding. 

 

“No one even knew Lou was still doing drugs.  He had a problem back when he was a teenager, you know, but he’d been clean for so long . . . we were all just so shocked.” Chewing on a bright green piece of spearmint gum, the girl tucked a strand of bottle-bleached hair behind her ear.  She smiled up at Starsky. “We all thought everything was going so well.  Lou had just got a huge promotion and a pay raise.”  She drew back, studying the dark-haired detective from under her lashes.  “Say, you’re awfully cute.  What kind of photography did you say you do?”

 

“Nature,” Starsky answered with a grin.  He propped an arm on the reception counter, leaning forward to smile down on the girl.  “So, um . . . Tammy.” The grin grew decidedly friendlier as he made note of her name tag.  “Lou didn’t have any problems with anyone here at the plant did he?”

 

“Heaven’s no!” She pawed the air dismissively as if the notion were absurd.  “Everyone got along with Lou.  Although he did have to fire Billy Emerick, which was kinda sad seeing how they’d been such good friends and all.”

 

Hutch exchanged a glance with Starsky.  “Emerick?”  A thread of urgency slipped into his voice as he leaned onto the reception counter.  “Is that any relation to Murphy Emerick who owns the Northstar Inn?”

 

Tammy looked as though the connection should be obvious.  “Of course, silly.  They’re brothers.”  Dismissing Hutch, she immediately returned her attention to Starsky, wiggling a little closer to the counter in her secretarial chair.  Propping an elbow on her desk, she grinned up at him.  “I don’t suppose you know Billy too?  He left town not long after Lou died.  I guess getting fired, then losing his friend was just too much for him.  They were almost a picture of each other you know - - both of them fitness nuts, blond and built like lifeguards.”  Lowering her lashes, she smiled demurely.  “Me, I’ve always been attracted to dark-haired guys.”

 

“That so?  I’ve always had a thing for blonds.”  Starsky shot Hutch a grinning look from the corner of his eye. 

 

Ducking his head, Hutch scuffed a hand beneath his nose, grinning stupidly. Typical Starsky, catching him totally off guard with a remark like that.  It was amazing how easily his friend could diffuse the tension between them with one goofy play on words. 

 

Totally clueless that Starsky had been talking about his partner, Tammy perked up, tilting her head to the side and fluffing her bleached blond hair.  The roots had already started to come in and the frosting job looked like it had been done at a cheap salon, but she knew how to sell sex appeal.  “I don’t suppose you’d like someone to show you around Cold Harbor?”

 

Starsky feigned disappointment.  “Love to, but we’re on a tight schedule.”  He snapped his fingers as if happening on a plan.  “Hey, maybe I could take you to lunch this afternoon if you’re free?  I know there’s not really anything around out here, but - -”

 

“That’s okay, we’ve got a cafeteria,” Tammy said quickly.  She looked at her watch.  “I get an hour lunch starting at 12:30.”

 

“It’s a date then.”  Starsky grinned and prodded Hutch toward the door. 

 

Once outside, Hutch felt his irritation return.  “Starsky, what was that all about?”

 

“What do you think, dummy?  That girl’s a goldmine of information.  Whatever went down with Billy Emerick, I’m sure she’ll have all the details.  So this is what we’ll do . . .”  Starsky steered him toward the Jeep.  “I’ll take you back to the Northstar where you can snoop around ‘till your little blond heart’s content.  I’ll come back and chat up our friendly receptionist, then we’ll compare notes over dinner.  Sound like a plan?”

 

Hutch nodded, seeing sense in it.  The connection between Almond and Emerick now seemed more than coincidental, as did Lou Almond’s suddenly suspicious death.  Possibly Murphy Emerick had even killed him for firing his brother.  But if that was the case, how had he made it look like an OD, and how did any of that tie into the Vampire Hunter Murders?  More to the point, what had become of Billy Emerick?

 

Later that afternoon when Starsky went off for his lunch date, Hutch headed for his room, intent on reviewing the notes he’d made on the case.  Factoring in Almond and Billy Emerick changed the whole framework he’d been building.  Digging everything out, he spread the notes and news clippings over the bed, sitting on the edge as he tried to make sense of the mishmash of facts and speculation. 

 

A trickle of cold air seeped around the open collar of his button-front green shirt, reminding him it was late October.  With a glance for the window, he noticed it was closed and latched.  Still the draft persisted. 

 

Frowning, he stood and paced toward the bathroom.  No draft from the half open door, but there was a whisper of cold air from the adjoining wall.  Hutch felt along the edge, pressing on the heavy paneling.  The wall felt chill to the touch and there appeared to be a definite draft seeping between the baseboard and floor.  Crouching to examine the area more closely, Hutch was shocked to discover a hair-fine crack on each end of the board. Realizing the panel had to conceal something behind it, he stood, leaning into the false wall and feeling along both sides.  It took five minutes of experimental pressing but eventually a hidden release sprang free and the panel swung inward. 

 

A draft of cold air hit Hutch in the face, smelling faintly of damp earth and decay.  He stood at the top of a narrow wooden stairway, banked on either side by crudely slopping walls.  The steps disappeared into darkness, swallowed in nests of twining black shadow.  Knowing he should probably wait for Starsky but too impatient to be bothered, Hutch bolted back into the room.  He rummaged on top of the dresser until he located the flashlight he’d used last night.  Flicking on the beam, he pulled the Magnum from his shoulder holster and eased through the gaping hole in the open panel. 

 

The rush of chill air made him momentarily consider returning to the bedroom for his jacket, but he was too keyed up by his discovery to spare the time.   The beam of his flashlight bobbed in the darkness, creating a disembodied cone of yellow light.  Beneath his feet, the stairs creaked and groaned, rickety slats protesting the addition of his weight. He stepped carefully, the Magnum a constant presence before him as he descended deeper and deeper, the air growing cooler as it whisked around his face.  It suddenly occurred to him he was mirroring the floors of the Northstar, descending one at a time until the wooden walls on either side of him eventually fell away, replaced by crudely-cut stone. 

 

Hutch knew when he’d stepped below ground.  He could feel the change in the air, the minute increase in the amount of moisture.  It beaded in the tips of his hair now, cold and slick like morning dew.  The narrow passage broadened into something wider, leveling off on a dirt-packed floor.  He could smell mold and mildew, the rot of decaying bark and water-logged leaves.  The beam of his flashlight snagged a few, clustered in the corners as if they’d been tracked inside or blown there by an errant wind. 

 

After a few more feet the ground gradually sloped upward again, the incline gentle.  The stone walls narrowed on either side and he found himself at a dead end, facing what appeared to be another panel.  Hutch felt along the edge until he discovered a recessed latch.  Pressing down, he stepped aside as the hidden door swung inward.  Switching off his flashlight, Hutch eased through the opening, shocked to realize he stood inside the summer house.

 

He and Starsky had been over it bit by bit, but they hadn’t taken the time to examine the walls in painstaking detail.  It suddenly made sense why two of the victims had shared the same third floor bedroom - - a room he now occupied.  In both cases, the time of death had been after midnight.  It would have been an easy matter for the killer to enter the summer house, creep up the hidden stairway, drug his victims while they slept then carry them down into the woods where he could finish the deed with a hammer and stake.  No doubt about it - - Emerick had to be involved.

 

Distracted by the discovery and the fact he finally had something worthwhile to share with Starsky, Hutch was unprepared when he heard an enraged hiss behind him.  Pivoting, he managed to half-turn toward the open panel before something swung up and clipped him on the side of the face, splitting his skin apart.

 

The world exploded in a conflagration of shooting stars.  He felt his knees buckle even as the room swooned and kaleidoscoped into bursts of raging color around him.  He was vaguely aware of his shoulder hitting the floor, the Magnum tumbling top-heavy from his suddenly limp fingers.  Blood seeped from his torn cheek, tracking across his face in rapidly spreading trails, the shock of unexpected heat warming and terrifying at the same time.  He groaned, trying to cling to fading consciousness as his head thunked back on the plank floor.  A baseball bat clattered near his head, the end splattered with droplets of blood, and he suddenly realized what had struck him . . . what caused the drilling ache in his head and the throbbing pain in his split cheek even now.

 

He blinked groggily trying to keep his eyes open, terrified what would happen to him if he fell asleep.  A stake through the heart.  Someone stepped closer and he focused on a pair of steel-tipped workboots, the laces browned and frayed, looped through tarnished eyelets.  The scene waffled, grew muddy with upside-down distortion then slowly settled again.  Hutch tried to raise his head.

 

“Stupid, cop,” someone said in disgust.  “Couldn’t keep your nose outta it, could ya?  Well, you’re up to your neck in it now, that’s for sure.” 

 

Hands grabbed him and rolled him roughly onto his stomach.  His arms were wrenched behind his back, a knee wedged low on his spine to hold him in place.  He gave an involuntary cry of pain as the unexpected weight ruthlessly crushed down on bone. 

 

“None of that,” the voice commanded sharply.  A hand fisted in his hair, brutally twisting his head to the side.  A second later a sour-smelling rag was stuffed into his mouth.  He started to gag, but another cloth was forced over it, wrapped around his face and tied tightly behind his head, sealing the foul rag in place.  Hutch moaned, fighting dizziness as his breath came rapid and quick through his nostrils.  The pull on his arms increased.  He felt his wrists lashed together, bound by a length of coarse rope.  The stiff and abrasive scratch of hemp chafed his skin. The room was still spinning, fading in and out of focus as his fragile consciousness waned.  The weight left his back and he heard footsteps moving away.  Desperate, he rolled onto his side, trying to catch a glimpse of his attacker, anxious for anything that might help him.

 

He could see the front windows overlooking the porch, but he was too far away for them to be of any benefit, the pallid light streaming through the gritty panes falling far short of where he lay on the dirty floor.   He choked on the gag, fighting back nausea, the rancid cloth making his stomach convulse and contract.  The fear of vomiting and choking to death made his breath come faster, bordering on frenzied hyperventilating.

 

Hearing the heightened hitch in his breathing, his tormentor turned.  For the first time, Hutch got a good look at his face and realized he was wearing a mask.  The visage was nightmarish, heightened by a macabre death grin, chalky flesh and red-veined eyes.  A thick wig of black hair sprouted from a rubbery scalp diseased with oozing sores.  Laughter rumbled from behind the plastic countenance.

 

“Pretty, ain’t I, Detective Hutchinson?  Don’t worry . . . you won’t have to look at me long.”

 

Hutch tried to concentrate on the voice, but it was muffled by the mask.  The man walked toward him  - - big and solidly built - - easily the size of Murphy Emerick or Stone.  He prodded Hutch with a workboot, rolling him roughly onto his back. 

 

“This part ain’t so bad,” the man promised.  And suddenly there was a knee in Hutch’s gut, pinning him to the ground, making the pain spike higher and brighter in his head.  He saw the flash of a syringe and reflexively panicked.  Heroin . . . Forest . . .all the ugly pain of that torturous addiction and savage withdrawal came crashing back in a single panicked heartbeat.  He struggled violently, getting his feet under him and bucking upward to dislodge his tormentor.  He almost succeeded in squirming free.

 

“Sonuvabitch!”  A fist cracked across his face, violently driving his head to the side.  “You ain’t going anywhere, Goldilocks.”  A massive weight pinioned his hips as the man straddled him bodily. 

 

Frantic, Hutch tried to twist free, the gag making him choke for breath, the room one step away from deteriorating into utter blackness.  He felt a hand wedge beneath his chin, forcing his head back at an angle until his throat was fully exposed, the arcing strain on his neck almost unbearable.  From the corner of his eye he saw the flash of the syringe and tensed involuntarily.  The needle sank into his throat, jammed with such shocking brutality, he screamed through the muffling gag. 

 

“Ah, it ain’t so bad.”  The leering mask above him laughed softly. 

 

Hutch felt a light pat on his torn cheek.  A second later the pressure eased and the needle was withdrawn, a thick trickle of blood oozing in its wake.  Hot nausea rocketed through his gut, leaving him weak and sweating. 

 

His head slumped to the side.  He could still feel the weight of the man on top of him, but it was distant now, a phantom pressure, barely substantial.  There was a loud whining in his ears, the taste of blood a bitter metallic tang in his mouth.  A distant part of his mind registered the fact the gag had cut into his mouth, cracking his skin in the corner.  He rolled his head on the floor, trying to fight off the sudden rush of crowding darkness.

 

“Don’t fight it,” the voice above him crooned.  “Just go to sleep.  It’ll all be over soon.  I promise.”

 

Hutch cracked his eyelids.  A hand rose and tugged away the mask.  He tried to focus on the face swimming before him, but there was no true substance any more, just a garish jumble of color and light.  The weight departed and he felt his body jostled, rolled listlessly to the side.  For a moment he floated, aware of nothing, feeling nothing.  Then there were hands on him again and something tightened over his chest, looped around his arms and hips, binding his legs together.  He groaned, trying to make sense of the unwelcome restriction.  It gleamed bright orange, like a thread loosely binding him from shoulder to ankles.  An electrical cord.

 

The realization came with a shocking moment of clarity, gone all too quickly.  His attacker had bound him with an orange electrical cord, securing his arms to his chest, looping it down around his legs, hampering his movement.  No chance of standing now.

 

He felt himself dragged backward into the hidden staircase and fog of clustering shadows.  The ground beneath him smelled strongly of earth and browning leaves.  A hand touched his face, his consciousness fading fast.

 

 “We’ll finish this tonight,” a distant voice promised.  Then something was thrown over him - - a canvas dropcloth, reeking of paint thinner and cleaning solvent - - covering him from head to foot, concealing him like a body in a burial shroud. 

 

The light rolled into his head and he knew only darkness.

 

+++++

 

It was after two o’clock by the time Starsky returned to the Northstar.  His lunch with Tammy had proved extremely informative, and he’d walked away with a wealth of information.  When a quick look around the lounge didn’t produce Hutch, he headed up to their shared room. His partner was absent but he found an excess of notes spread over his bed.  Hutch’s jacket was hooked over the back of his desk chair but his gun was missing.  Puzzled, only mildly concerned, Starsky did a quick scout of the surrounding grounds.  When he came up empty, he wandered back to the inn and checked in with Emerick.

 

“Uh, you happen to see my partner around, Mr. Emerick?  You know, Ken Hammond . . .I can’t find him in his room.”

 

Emerick shrugged, more concerned with the ledger he was reviewing than Starsky’s presence or his question.  He scowled.  “I don’t keep track of the guests, Mr. Sorenski.  Maybe your friend went hiking in the woods.”

 

Starsky frowned.  “Without his jacket?”

 

Emerick looked up, clearly annoyed.  He rifled through another stack of papers, his movements crisp and efficient.  “Then maybe he headed into town,” he suggested pointedly.

 

“Nothin’ doin’.”  Starsky’s voice came out sharper than he’d intended.  “I had our Jeep.”  Expelling a sigh, he dragged a hand through his hair.  If Emerick did know something, he doubted the man would volunteer the information.  At the moment, Starsky considered him the prime suspect in their serial case.  It was possible Hutch had simply wandered off to check something, but the jacket in his room contradicted that theory.  Growing worried, he did another check of the hotel, top to bottom, then hiked out into the woods.  He spent over an hour scouring the grounds, coming up empty despite his efforts.

 

Returning to the inn, he closeted himself in his room and phoned Stone.  By mutual arrangement they had agreed not to call the lieutenant from the Northstar in case the lines were monitored, but Starsky no longer cared.  His partner had been missing for over three hours now - - it was presently after 5 PM, and his anxiety level had ratcheted through the roof.  Had the killer zeroed in on Hutch, dragging him away to be the next victim?  In retrospect he realized it had been foolish to split up.  He should have stayed with Hutch, kept his blond friend at his side every minute of the day if that’s what it took to keep him safe.

 

“Stone,” he barked into the receiver when the lieutenant answered.  “Hutch has disappeared.”  Briefly he explained what had happened, how he’d hooked up with Tammy for lunch and how he’d found Hutch missing on his return to the inn.  “Looks like he was in the middle of goin’ over the case,” Starsky explained.  “Notes spread out over the bed and his jacket’s still in his room.  He wouldn’ta gone out without it, Lieutenant.”  He swallowed hard, forcing the next words.  “I think maybe the killer’s got him.”

 

Stone heaved a sigh into the phone.  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

 

“I ain’t jumpin’ to conclusions!”  Starsky shouted, fear pinging like wildfire through his veins.  How could he have been so stupid, leaving Hutch to fend on his own?  His partner hadn’t been thinking straight to begin with, his mind stuck in Vegas, weighted with misery and grief over what had happened to Jack. “Listen, Stone.  I need a task force out here to scout the woods and question the guests.  If something’s happened to Hutch - -”

 

“He’s probably off following up a lead on his own,” Stone responded.

 

“Is that what you think?”  Starsky ground his teeth together.  “He’s tall, blond and thirty-two, a perfect match for your serial killer.  He’s stayin’ in the same room as two of the victims did and it’s prime time for another attack.  Now he’s missing without any logical explanation.  If that ain’t enough to light a fire under your butt, I’ll personally turn this inn upside down and blow the lid off this operation in the process.  I want a task force out here and I want it out here now!  I’m officially reporting a missing officer, you got that, Lieutenant?   You got more’n enough for probable cause so don’t give me any shit about a warrant.  I want this place searched top to bottom, including Emerick’s fucking summer house!”

 

“Yeah, all right.”  Stone’s voice sounded clipped.  “I got that.”

 

The task force arrived within 20 minutes, scouring the grounds and rounding up the guests for questioning.  After another two-and-a half hours, it was clear no one knew anything concerning Hutch’s whereabouts.  Frazzled, his nerves stretched to the breaking point, Starsky prowled the lobby of the Northstar like a man who’d abandoned sanity.

 

What an idiot he’d been leaving Hutch on his own!  Wasn’t that the one thing he’d originally assured his friend would never happen?  Look, Hutch - - Stone . . . me . . . the boys on Cold Harbor - - we’re all gonna have you monitored twenty-four hours a day.  There’s no way some psycho creep is even gonna look in your direction without one of us knowin’ about it.  You think I’d let anything happen to you? 

 

That was one promise he’d fucked up royally. After all the questioning he’d done of Emerick’s guests, his cover now officially blown, he’d gotten nowhere.  The Locktons remembered seeing Hutch arrive - - he’d said hello to them on his way up to his room - - but that was the last anyone had seen of him.  Frustrated, Starsky shoved open the front door and stepped onto the covered porch.

 

It had started to rain a few minutes ago, the steady downpour blending all the crisp colors of autumn in a watery canvas of orange, cinnamon and gold. Three police cruisers and Stone’s black sedan sat tucked among the trees, stray leaves plastered like spidery gems on their windshields.  Stepping to the edge of the porch, Starsky gripped the railing with both hands, locking his arms and hanging his head.

 

God, Hutch, I don’t know what to do.  I’m so sorry I screwed up, buddy.  So sorry I let you down.

 

All their stupid fighting and bickering, the little digs they’d been casting at one another, now seemed painfully ugly.  What he wouldn’t give to have his friend back, to tell him he was sorry and that, yeah - - he’d been messed up in Vegas, but maybe, just maybe, some of that muddled confusion had to do with a buried thread of jealousy.  Maybe on some hidden subconscious level, a part of him had actually wanted Jack to be the Strangler so there’d be no competition for Hutch’s friendship. 

 

He knew it was stupid - - fucking, what-an-idiot-I-can’t-believe-I’m-even-thinking-it-colossal-stupid, but some barely-there sliver of his soul had worried that maybe if Hutch and Jack got too close, his fair-haired partner would miss his “other” life.  The one he’d had before Bay City, before becoming a cop.  A life that was all about status and wealth, moving in the right circles, having high-society fun, maybe even going back to med school, or at the very least relocating to Duluth.  Starsky hadn’t consciously acknowledged those thoughts, but he knew they were the driving emotions behind his short-tempered remark at the hospital:  I’m sick of your stinkin’ loyalty to your friends.  Translation:  I don’t want you relivin’ the past, growin’ fond of it all over again..

 

Irritated, he rubbed his eyes.  Behind him the front door opened and closed.  He heard the creak of floorboards as someone stepped onto the porch.  The rain continued to patter overhead, drumming gently against the sloped roof, dripping from the overhang to the sodden ground below.  Starsky propped a shoulder against the nearest support post, turning as Stone approached him.

 

“We’ve scoured this place from top to bottom including the summer house.  Hutchinson isn’t here,” the lieutenant said.  “I’ve still got men in the woods, but it’s almost dark.  We’ll give it another hour then start fresh in the morning if he hasn’t returned.”

 

“Oh, that’s great,” Starsky bit off scathingly.  “A lot of good that’s gonna do if Hutch winds up with a stake through his heart.”  Shoving away from the railing, he confronted Stone face-to-face.  “Look, Lieutenant, you’re the one who dragged Hutch into this case. . . who asked him to come out here and set himself up as the next victim for your sicko vampire hunter.  If anything happens to him - -”

 

“We’re doing all we can, Starsky.”

 

“Bullshit!  You could get a fuckin’ brigade out into those woods - -”

 

“I’ve got every available man I can spare looking for your partner,” Stone snapped.  Grinding his teeth together, he sucked down a breath as if striving for patience.  “I know this isn’t easy, but I’m not going to risk my men on a foolhardy search, in the dark, in the rain!  If I had something concrete to go on - -”

 

“You’ve got Emerick.”

 

“Emerick’s been checked out,” Stone said sharply, seemingly reaching the end of his always short rope.  “I told you he had an alibi for all three of the other murders.”

 

“Yeah, I remember  - - he was in plain view.”  Taking a step forward, Starsky glared up at the taller man.  Behind him the rain had become a hissing drone, conjuring a vapor-like mist from the warmer ground.  The woods would be dark tonight, laced with fog from the combination of chilling rain and warmer earth, turning any search, no matter how limited, into treacherous going.  “There’s just one problem with that, Lieutenant.  According to the autopsy reports, all three murders occurred between the hours of midnight and 4:00 a.m.  You wanna explain how Emerick just happened to be in ‘plain view’  of his guests at that time?  A time when every single one of ‘em were probably sleepin’?  And while you’re at it, maybe you wanna tell me about Billy Emerick too.”

 

Stone balked.  “Billy?  What’s he got to do with any of this?”

 

“That’s what I’d like to know.”  Starsky backed off slightly, lacing a hand through his hair.  Mist from the rain had already lodged in the thick curls, tipping the ends with moisture.  He could feel it beading in his bangs, chilling the skin on the back of his neck.  “Hutch and I took a ride out to Brighton Chemical today, and I had a chat with a girl named Tammy.  She told me Billy Emerick and Lou Almond were really good friends . . . right up until the point where Lou got promoted and had to fire him.  You know Almond supposedly OD’d a few weeks after that? And a few weeks beyond that, you had your first serial killin’, right around the time Billy Emerick disappeared.  You ever wonder what became of him?”

 

“I don’t have to.”  Stone’s voice had gone cold, his gaze flat.  Clearly the lieutenant did not like being second-guessed.  “He only got as far as Harrington Vista, halfway between here and Vegas.  Two nights after he left Cold Harbor he was staying in some fleabag motor lodge when the thing burnt to the ground, Billy inside it.  A tanker truck lost control and careened straight into his room.  Pure chemical fire.  There wasn’t anything left to ID.”

 

Caught off guard, Starsky sobered.  It was not the answer he’d expected.  His discovery of Billy, coupled with Lou Almond’s dead-on match to the Vampire Hunter’s preferred victim profile, all seemed to open a new door on the case - - especially considering Lou’s death had never been investigated as a possible homicide.  Tammy had also told him Billy had an obsessive fascination with the supernatural.  He routinely read graphic novels and comic books depicting werewolves, vampires and creatures of the night.  He’d loved Bram Stoker’s Dracula, having read it at least four times, often heaping praise on Van Helsing for his role in slaying “demon creatures.”   What’s more, Billy Emerick had been a chemist with an intricate understanding of drugs and designer compounds.  He could have easily created something for his brother Murphy to use to subdue his victims.  In Starsky’s mind, both brothers were involved somehow, but his money rested on Murphy as the killer.

 

“What about Murphy?”  he persisted.  “How could anyone have given him an alibi between midnight and four?”

 

Growing uncomfortable, Stone looked away.  He paced a short distance to the edge of the porch and stood staring out at the rain.  The downpour came heavier now, soaking the ground, creating puddles among pockets of wet leaves and scattered sticks.  The air smelled heavily of damp bark and earthworms, of soil that had turned black and boggy with mud.  “My sister  . . . and Murphy were having an affair,” Stone admitted with a heavy-sounding sigh.  “She was here with him . . . at night . . . in bed.”  Turning, he cast Starsky a glance over his shoulder.  “Wanda’s a very light sleeper.  There’s no way Emerick could have ever left the room without her knowing it.  Besides . . .”  He shrugged.  “Some of those nights they were both awake . . . together.”

 

Irked at the revelation, Starsky stalked closer.  “You mean all this time you’ve had a personal interest in Murphy Emerick and you ain’t told us?  Damn it, Stone, you shouldn’t even be on this case!”

 

“I’m not on it!”  Stone snapped back.  “At least not in the investigative sense.  I’ve got subordinates working it, just like you and Hutchinson are working it.  And to set the record straight, Detective Starsky, I’ve never been overly fond of Emerick.  For months I tried to get my sister to break it off with him - - especially after all this Vampire Hunter shit started happening.  She finally took my advice and ended the relationship three weeks ago.  If you’re questioning my involvement or my ethics, Sergeant, I suggest you damn well spit it out and get it over with.”

 

“What I’m questionin’!” Starsky shouted, his voice rising as creeping anger took hold.  “Is your commitment to findin’ my partner!  I don’t give a flyin’ fuck about you, your sister, Emerick, or even this freakin’ case anymore.  All I wanna do is find Hutch!  You got that, Lieutenant?”

 

Stone looked ready to snap a venomous reply, but in the end he heaved a sigh and nodded wearily.  “Yeah,” he said quietly.  “I got that.  And I feel like I’m reliving Shelter Pointe all over again when I was butting heads with that blond partner of yours.  I should have known you wouldn’t be any different when he’s missing.  Look, Starsky - -  I’ll do what I can.  I’ll keep my men out here as long as I can, and we’ll start over as soon as it’s light.  In the meantime, we’ll pull everything we’ve got on Lou Almond’s death and Billy Emerick.  I’m just afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

 

“So humor me,” Starsky said, mimicking Hutch’s frosty retort in the barn.

 

Stone nodded, leaving without another word as he stepped back inside.  As promised, he did what he could, but when nine o’clock rolled around and the woods were black as ink, impenetrable with fog, Cold Harbor’s lieutenant called off the search.  Starsky fumed and paced, parting with a stinging parcel of words, but none of it did any good. 

 

Returning to Hutch’s room he scoured it again, only to come up glaringly empty.  His partner had left his jacket, which indicated he hadn’t gone outside - - at least not willingly, Starsky amended.  The Magnum was missing so he was armed, but he surely wouldn’t walk around the inn wearing his shoulder holster and no jacket.  That seemed to indicate he couldn’t be inside either, which brought Starsky right back to a confounding zero.

 

Frustrated, he searched through Hutch’s closet, then his dresser.  He was about to admit defeat when he realized the flashlight was missing.  It had been before noon when he’d dropped Hutch off at the inn, bright outside, with no need for artificial light.

 

Unless his friend had gone outside to explore a rock fissure or a cave.  There were a few scattered throughout the area.  ‘Cept he woulda taken his jacket.  There was a basement to the old inn, but Stone’s men had gone over it thoroughly, and even Starsky had checked it out.  Besides, it had plenty of light - - old bulbs and fluorescents strung from a low-beamed wooden ceiling.  There was simply no need for Hutch to use a flashlight at twelve in the afternoon - -

except the damn thing was missing.

 

Disgusted, Starsky sat on the bed and cast a half-hearted glance at Hutch’s notes.  He picked up the nearest tablet, a strange ache pinging through his gut at the sight of his friend’s familiar handwriting.  He knew it like he knew his own, the oversized caps and too-narrow vowels, all looped together in a rambling scrawl.  His eyes scanned the page, picking out bits and pieces of Hutch’s thoughts, notes on all three victims and brief impressions of people he’d met at the Northstar.  Emerick had the most notations behind his name - - everything from his rabid protection of the summer house to his close-mouthed manner and strange alibis.  At the end of the list Hutch had scrawled a few words as a question to himself: Connection to Stone?

 

Obviously Starsky’s partner had picked up on a possible relationship without even knowing the circumstances surrounding Emerick and Stone’s sister.  The other guests had shorter lists, most of them just vague impressions.  Behind Brian Fenton’s name, Hutch had written:  Trucker.  Rarely in one place for long.  Likes Dracula.

 

Thoughtful, Starsky tugged on his bottom lip.  Hadn’t Stone said a tanker truck had plowed through Billy Emerick’s room at a motor lodge?   Probably yet another coincidence, but now that Starsky thought about it, how many truckers stayed at a remote bed and breakfast when they were in between rounds?  Fenton did seem to enjoy the outdoors, but hanging out at a B&B with no true recreational or leisure amenities in sight was an acquired taste for most people.  And he had that copy of Dracula, well-thumbed, like it had been read over and over.

 

Of course there were the Dugans too, with their fanatical attachment to the supernatural, planetary alignments and astrological signs.  A nice but strangely unbalanced young couple.  What if the serial killer was working in tandem with someone else?  Although none of the guests had been at the inn previously . . . or had they? 

 

Feeling like his head was going to explode, Starsky slumped back against the pillows.  Hutch, damn it, where are you?  And why would you take a flashlight at 12:00 in the afternoon?

 

Starsky closed his eyes, needing a moment of quiet to sort through his cluttered thoughts.  He could feel his friend’s presence in the scattered remnants around him  - - Hutch’s jacket looped over the desk chair, scattered notes on the bed, a barely-there whisper of aftershave and shampoo clinging to the pillowcase.  The familiar scent, the scent of his partner, eased the flutter in his heart, kindling a badly needed sliver of peace, if only for a moment. 

 

Exhaustion crept over Starsky, the burden of plundering worry and crippling anxiety catching up with him in a single heartbeat.  He never intended to drift, but within moments the lulling patter of rain against the windows and his own heavy fatigue pushed him over the edge and tumbled him into deep sleep.

 

+++++

 

Hutch groaned, only half aware someone was tugging at him.  The hands were rough and insistent, jarring his body.  Groggy, he tried to twist away, but the electrical cord wrapped around him hampered his sluggish movements.  He became aware of the gag in his mouth at the same time a prickle of nausea rushed up from his stomach.  He moaned against the repugnant cloth, trying to get his hands free, but the rope binding his wrists kept his arms securely pinned behind his back.  Rolling onto his side, he tried to inch away from the presence he felt looming over him.  His surroundings were dark, muddled with the drape of impenetrable black shadow. 

 

“Time to finish this,” a voice somewhere overhead announced.  A voice he almost recognized, if he could only force his floundering mind into a semi-logical veneer of coherency. The side of his face throbbed where his cheek was split apart, sending knife-like splinters of pain into his jaw and temple.  Now that sensation was returning, he felt the cramping ache of his muscles, restricted from movement for so very long, the abraded skin on his wrists where rope had rubbed it raw . . . even the choking dryness of the gag in his mouth, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe.  The lower left side of his face was caked with dried blood, dribbled in gory streams from the oozing cut on his cheek.  Another muffled groan came through the gag before he could stop it, alerting his attacker to the pain he was in.

 

“Hurting, are you?”  A hand fisted into his hair, ruthlessly dragging his head back.  Panicked, he tried to separate darkness and light, but there was only blackness above him, lined with a faint distortion of gray that may have been a face.  “Just a little more to keep you under . . . till we get where we’re going,” the disembodied voice crooned. 

 

Hutch felt a needle slide into his neck but he had no breath left to scream.  His body quaked as pain spiked through him, the sudden release of the drug burning nova-hot in his veins.  Blood sluiced from the hole in his throat as the tip was withdrawn, twining with the dried ribbons already encrusted there.  The shadows above him spun into an epicenter of fanged darkness, pressing down with a crushing weight that made him lurch against his bindings and groan.  The hand was still knotted in his hair, holding tight, the face above him drawing closer now, swimming in a distorted mass of fleshtones and writhing fog. 

 

“Stop fighting it, Hutchinson and it won’t hurt so bad.  It ain’t personal, you know, but I protected him this long.  Ain’t gonna let you have him now.  You hear me?”

 

The hand in his hair gave a brutal shake, and Hutch felt his head jarred to the side.  Don’t fight it, the voice had said, but he was blinded by pain, consumed by sheer terror.  The drug crept through his body, bringing on instant lethargy, turning his muscles to useless gel even as it plundered him with scalding fire.  The shock boomeranged into his head, made him try to suck desperate breaths through the gag.  He twisted in the grip of the hated orange cord, fighting the punishing fingers and the restriction that held him. 

 

“Stupid cop.”  The hand left his hair, cracked sharply across his face.  He felt flesh blood gush from the tear on his cheek, but it was inconsequential compared to the agony the drug brought.  His stomach convulsed, pushing hot bile into the back of his throat.  He swallowed on instinct, terrified he would suffocate on his own vomit. Prodding hands manhandled him onto his back.  A knee wedged into his abdomen, the crush of solid bone grinding into flesh, making him gasp and pant against the hated gag.  “I ain’t gonna tell you again.  Stop fighting it, and it’ll get easier.  You hear me, pig?  You’re only hurting yourself.”

 

Hutch tried to talk against the gag . . to explain that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, that it fucking hurt so bad, he couldn’t help but fight it.  But he only moaned against the clotted cloth, his voice stolen from him as terror and pain drenched him in a cold sweat.  He squeezed his eyes shut, futility trying to silence the biting agony.  Is this what the other victims had felt before they’d died - - a systematic raping of internal organs that made his body whither like a corpse even as blood pumped and flowed shockingly hot through his veins?  Was this the agony that preceded the final stroke of death - - a stake hammered through his beating heart while he still maintained the clarity of mind to drown in the horror of that savage murder? 

 

“Enough now.”  The knee was still in his gut, grinding harder.  A hand tapped the side of his face.  “Don’t make me give you another shot, Hutchinson.  I don’t want to kill you like that.”

 

No, you fucking wanna nail me with a stake!  Frantic, Hutch bucked against the restraining weight.  His muscles were all but useless, sapped by lassitude and the bubbling white fire of the drug.  Even as he twisted against his captor, a hot streak of pain rocketed through him, so viciously brutal and terrifying, he screamed against the gag.  Once - - then again, as the pain spiked higher and hotter in his head and his veins were gored from the inside out. 

 

Oh god!  It came again, and this time he couldn’t stop screaming.  Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as the sheer agony of a slow and violent death engulfed him, dragging him down . . . suffocating him in pain, making him choke on the clinging remnants of a life that had ceased to be anything but an eternity of suffering.  

 

“Stupid shit!” An enraged voice roared above him.  “I told you to stop fighting it!” 

 

Something descended and clipped the side of his head, igniting fresh splinters of pain.  Darkness came just as quickly, sucking him down into a world where the agony receded into a distant ache and the threat of dying thinned into an insubstantial fog. 

 

With a final groan, Hutch rolled his head to the side and fainted.

 

+++++

 

Starsky woke to an eerily quiet room and the faint glow of a reading lamp on the bedside table.  He blinked fog from his sluggishly responding mind, realizing he’d fallen asleep.  A hasty glance at his watch revealed the time to be 12:23 a.m., an hour that sent dread spiking through his heart.  If the Vampire Hunter killer really did have Hutch, it was prime time for another gruesome murder. 

 

Shaking off the fog of sleep, Starsky sprang from the bed and bolted through the shared bathroom to his own connecting room.  Retrieving his jacket and a flashlight, he paused for a moment at the window, looking out at the dark grounds below.  The rain had stopped, but a vaporous mist hugged the ground, seeping between the trees, turning the glow from a coppery moon into an eerily creeping haze. 

 

“Hutch, hang on.  If you’re out there, I’m gonna find you,” he vowed to the cold glass of the window pane.

 

With nothing but instinct, determination and devotion to go on, Starsky crept from the sleeping inn and ventured into the night-blackened woods.

 

+++++

 

Hutch woke up shivering.  The ground beneath him was sodden, soaking through the light weave of his button shirt and saturating the back of his jeans.  His awareness of cold was quickly overshadowed by an awareness of pain.  The fire still nipped and prickled through his veins, but it was muted now, eclipsed by the throbbing ache in his head, the cramping stiffness in his muscles and the agonizing pull of ruptured skin on his throat.  Sensation returned in haphazard bits and pieces - - the muddy smell of rain-soaked earth clogging his nostrils, the press of tiny stones and twigs digging into his back and thighs, the obstructing swell of the thick cloth wedged tightly in his mouth.  He heard a rasping hitch of breath and realized it was his own labored breathing.  Shivering, he struggled to silence the grueling barbs of pain knifing through his body.   With effort, he focused on his surroundings. 

 

Trees loomed around him, blocking all but a few weak slivers of light from a bloated orange moon overhead.  Coils of mist seeped across the ground and curled around his legs, still wrapped in the hated electrical cord.  The sight and scent of the woodland told him he was deep in the treed thicket surrounding the Northstar Inn.  Disoriented, he glanced to the side and spied an open pit, its edges creating a stark, black rectangular hole in the earth.  Loose soil and dirt were mounded near its lip, just scant inches from where he lay.  With a shudder of dread, he realized the open chasm was a grave - - his grave.

 

Ice lanced through him, poisoning and swift.  Cold Harbor’s serial killer intended to murder him then bury his body in the woods. 

 

Except the MO didn’t fit the Vampire Hunter.  The other victims hadn’t been buried.  They’d been left among the trees, a stake driven through their hearts like a grisly offering to the dawn.  Plus the killer had called him by name, indicated that he knew Hutch was a cop.  No one but Stone and his men knew he and Starsky were undercover. 

 

Twisting, he tried to see past his limited field of vision.  He could hear someone walking through the woods now, drawing closer.  Fearing his abductor was returning, Hutch strained against his bonds, fighting the rope on his wrists, the cord twined around his body.  His movements were sluggish, hampered by the restraints and the unknown drug invading his system.  He could barely move, his weak attempts at struggle only heightening the cramping agony in his muscles. 

 

He could feel the press of cold earth against his lacerated cheek, the touch of wet grass clinging to the side of his neck where the needle holes still burned with the forge-kiss of raging fire.  The combination of hot and cold made him shudder with rising nausea.  He moaned against the gag, his attempts to free himself sliding into fatigued desperation.  Then suddenly something bit into the ground near his head and he was staring at the blade of a shovel, bits of clumped earth clinging to its worn triangular tip.

 

“Take a good look, Hutchinson,” a voice said from somewhere overhead.  “That’s your grave beside you.  Dug it myself.”  A heavy workbook settled on his hip, stilling his feeble squirming.

 

Hutch twisted his head, trying to look back over his shoulder.  His vision was fogged and blurred, inhibited by darkness and drugs.  At first he couldn’t distinguish the man’s features, but within seconds clarity returned and he recognized the rubber mask he’d seen in the summer house.  His tormenter grinned through the macabre decoration.  With a firm push, he sent Hutch rolling face-first into the open pit.

 

Hutch struck the ground with a thud, the wind knocked out of him, the heavy odor of dark earth rising to clog his head.  Dirt bit into the open cut on his cheek, sending stinging tendrils lancing into his jaw.  He struggled to right himself, to twist onto his side.  A shovelful of dirt struck the back of his legs.  

 

“You see Hutchinson,” the voice was clearer now as if the mask was gone.  “I ain’t your Vampire Hunter, but I ain’t gonna let you take him down either.  It’s not his fault . . . all that killing.  He just got caught up in it after that mess with Lou Almond.  Billy ain’t right in the head. That ain’t no reason to lock him away.”

 

Another heavy load of dirt hit Hutch in the back of the legs, escalating the knot of cold panic in his gut.   The cramps in his muscles were intensifying. Despite the pain and the cord hampering his movements, he rolled onto his back. 

 

Murphy Emerick’s face loomed over the pit. 

 

“Saw those notes in your room,” he told Hutch.  “That night you and your friend went nosing around the summer house, I did some snooping of my own.  That’s how I found out who you were, what you and your partner were doing at the inn.  Soon as I saw you, I knew Billy would try to kill you.  You look too much like Lou, and that’s what it’s all about  . . . at least it was in the beginning.  Knew I’d have to get rid of you myself or he’d be playing vampire hunter again.” 

 

More dirt tumbled down on Hutch’s legs.  He suddenly realized Emerick had no intention of driving a stake through his heart. That was something Billy did, had obviously done before.  In protecting his brother from the police, Murphy Emerick intended to bury him alive.

 

Oh god, Starsk!  His mind latched onto his partner as fear threatened to consume him.  More earth rained down, pattering against his legs, sliding helter-skelter into the open grave.  Justice catching up with him  - - his payment for betraying Jack, for turning his father’s heart cold with shame and enforcing brittle distance between himself and Starsky through his own selfish bickering.  He had no one to blame but himself.  His distraction and remoteness had made him clumsy, willingly and stubbornly separating him from his partner.  He’d been so focused on Jack, on his guilt over his friend’s death, he’d cut himself off from the only person who really mattered. 

 

Starsk . . . ohgod, babe, what’d I do?  I’m so frigging sorry.  I need you, Starsk . . . need you to understand  I don’t wanna  die like this . . .with anger and guilt between us, like I did with Jack.  Please babe, come find me  . . . I need you  . . .   

 

“The drug is Billy’s concoction,” Emerick said from what seemed like a great distance, dragging his tormented thoughts back to the present.  A disembodied chuckle followed.  “He uses it to subdue his victims before he drives a stake through their hearts.  Hurts, don’t it Hutchinson?  All that fire and tight cramping in your gut, stringing heat through your veins.  I gotta admit, cop - - I don’t mind seeing you suffer, knowing you’re here to take my brother down.  I never buried a man alive before, but I’d do just about anything to protect Billy.  You hear that, you stupid blond pig?  Should’ve kept your nose out of it like I said.”

 

A heavy shovelful of dirt struck Hutch in the stomach.  He choked on the smell, on the horrifying mass of loose earth pressing down on his body.  It couldn’t end like this - - not abandoned in a grave, suffocated by cold soil and buried alive. Sheer terror ratcheted through his brain, ripping a scream from behind the gag.  He was beyond rational thought now, struggling against his restraints and the lingering lassitude of the drug . . . of the mind-numbing horror that made him agonizingly aware of what was happening to him. 

 

He thrashed against the cord as more dirt fell into the pit striking him on the hip, the shoulder, splattering across the side of his neck and face.  It felt alive, heated and cold with the vulgar kiss of clawing death.  He choked and panted for air, sucking desperate gasp after desperate gasp through his laboring nostrils. His chest heaved, his heart hammering out a frenzied pulse of mortal fear.

 

The cord fumbled loose from his legs.  Kicking the clinging restriction free, he fought to get his feet under him.  He could feel the dangling length of cord still hanging off his hips.  With a groan of effort he struggled to his knees, nearly undone by the invasive pain, and wedged a trembling shoulder against the side of the pit.

 

“No you don’t,” Murphy growled. 

 

Hutch looked up in time to see the shovel swooping toward his head.  He lurched to the side but wasn’t fast enough to escape a glancing blow to his shoulder.  The spade scraped upward, ripping and tearing flesh, flaying open the side of his neck.  Blood gushed from the wound in a searing deluge, splattering his throat, soaking into the dirt-encrusted edges of his collar.  The impact of the blow sent him sprawling backward, his muffled cry choked short behind the stifling gag. 

 

Dazed, he lay panting, his heart blood-thumping red-veined terror into his skull. The shovel descended a second time, brutally clipping his hip, spinning him forcefully onto his back.  The shock coursed down his leg, rendering the limb useless and numb with pain. Weakly he tried to struggle upright but there was little strength left in his cramping muscles.  A kiss of cold air whispered across his lacerated cheek, bringing with it the tart odor of a rain-dampened night.  Dirt tumbled down on his legs and thighs, made him choke back terror as it splattered over his chest. 

 

His mind reeled in horror, insisting the gruesome night was only a dream, but even then stark reality remained.  The dirt came heavier, faster, piling up against his knees, pinning his legs beneath the crush of oppressive weight.  His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe against his own rising panic.  He didn’t want to die.  Not buried alive in the woods, not desolate and alone, his fear as stark as the pain that turned his body numb and useless.  He moaned, new terror dredged up from his stomach as the certainty of a long and brutal death left his weakened body trembling and spent. 

 

And then he heard someone yell.  Heard the sickening rhythm of the shovel halt mid dig.  A soft thud followed like the strike of something heavy against a cushioning bed of earth.  He heard the harsh report of a gun, the ping and whiz of a bullet, the pounding slap of retreating footsteps.  It took him a second to realize the dirt had stopped tumbling in on him.  By then he was shaking with cold and the punishing tremors of delayed shock, barely conscious that he moaned against the gag.

 

“Hutch!”

 

Starsky’s voice drifted from overhead.  In his confusion he thought he was dreaming.   Even so his body arched against his restraints, a deep groan instinctively rising in his throat at the sound of his friend’s voice.  A warm flush engulfed him, bringing with it the desperate desire for his partner’s presence.  If he could have screamed out Starsky’s name he would have, instead there was only the cold press of dank earth, the suffocating confines of a premature grave.

 

“Hutch!”  The shout came again, closer this time, and he felt a surge of hope that he wasn’t dreaming . . . that Starsky really was up there among the contorted shadows and phantom-like mist. That his friend wasn’t angry or upset for the way Hutch had been treating him and that somewhere in the jumbled kaleidoscope of stupidly clashing feelings, there was room for forgiveness after all.     

 

Oh, please, Starsk.  Please, I need you.

 

He was terrified, plain and simple . . . of dying, of being buried alive, of suffering through an agonizingly slow death.  He heard running, saw the narrow, yellow cone of a flashlight sweep across his legs.  Someone knelt at the edge of the pit, angling a beam into the open grave, features eclipsed behind the bobbing shaft of light. 

 

“Hutch?” 

 

This time there was no mistaking Starsky’s voice, and he groaned his relief, huffing out a strangled breath against the gag.  Hastily, Starsky scrambled into the pit, carelessly dropping the flashlight in the dirt.  Hutch felt pressure and warmth on his legs as his friend straddled his body, frantically clawing aside loose clumps of soil from his chest and hips.

 

“Hutch!  It’s okay, babe - -”  Starsky sounded as terrified as he felt, his words coming in a frenzied rush. 

 

Hutch felt a hand settle briefly on his split cheek, the touch as gentle as a fleeting cushion of air.  It sent a coil of heat spiraling into his stomach, displacing the nightmarish gloom of impending death.  Then Starsky was leaning over him, so close he could feel the warmth of his friend’s breath against his throat.  Fingers fumbled with the knot at the back of his neck, ripping aside the punishing gag.  The cloth blundered free and he choked on cold air.  He shuddered, heat, fire and fear spiking into his head all at once.  He tried to speak, but the words got tangled in his throat, his mouth bitterly dry from the gag.  “Starsk -- -”

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  A feather-light touch skimmed his hair, tenderly sweeping his bangs back from his brow before dipping to curve his cheek.  “Hutch, I’m sorry.  I never shoulda left you alone.  I wasn’t thinkin’ . . . ”

 

Starsky’s hand traveled down his body, cupping his neck then rounding his shoulder before tracking down his arm.  He shifted slightly, rolling onto his hip to allow Starsky access to the rope binding his wrists.  His friend ripped the electrical cord aside, yanking it free of his chest before unraveling the twine from his hands.  The air stung his chafed skin as the coarse binding fell away.   

 

Once again Hutch tried to speak, but the sound died on his lips.  Adrenalin surged in his veins, the aftershock of near-death catching up with him all at once.  Curling onto his side, he tucked his knees close to his chest, surrendering to a string of violent tremors. Nausea bubbled hot and fierce in his gut.  Had he really come within inches of being buried alive, no one to hear his screams?

 

Starsky was still huddled above him, his body a blazing source of heat as he straddled Hutch’s hips.  Even his touch felt electrified, burning with the welcome stroke of shared contact.  Hutch wanted to vanish into that protective buffer of comfort . . . to surrender to latent fear and terror and let Starsky sort it out for him. “I - -” he managed, but got no further.

 

“Easy.”  Starsky wedged an arm under his shoulders and levered him up against the side of the pit.  Hutch nearly toppled, the world reeling drunkenly askew as dizziness washed over him.  His stomach knotted and convulsed.  Grinding his teeth together, he struggled to silence a rush of sticky sickness.  Beside him, Starsky shrugged from his jacket, tucking it around his shoulders. 

 

“Just take it easy, Hutch.  You’re tremblin’ bad, babe. You okay?”

 

He wasn’t even close to being okay, but his mind was still stuck in low gear.  Earth braced his side and shoulder, Starsky’s body spooned close beside him.  The stark odor of rain, autumn cold, and moldy leaves whisked down from overhead, clogging his throat and nostrils.  It curled into his stomach, colliding with deeply-rooted tentacles of shock and fear. Groaning, he shifted to the side, pressing into Starsky.  Acid ripped through his gut and he sprawled forward across his friend’s lap, heaving up the meager contents of his stomach. 

 

In the narrow confines of the grave, Hutch realized he’d fouled the seam of Starsky’s jeans.  Mortified, he tried to pull back.  “Shit.  I-I’m sorry,” he croaked.  “I- -”

 

“Forget it.”  Starsky’s hand embedded in his hair, stilling his trembling, silencing the hot glut of shame that bubbled up from his stomach.  “Don’t worry about it, babe.” 

 

An arm wrapped around him, pulling him close into a pocket of enveloping warmth and heat.  Before he could think it through, he melted into his friend’s embrace, openly clinging to Starsky, uncaring that a few short hours ago they’d been snipping at each other.  “Emerick . . .” he tried to explain. 

 

“I know.  I saw him.”  Gingerly, Starsky touched his neck, his fingers drawing away stained with blood and dirt.  “He got by me Hutch, but I doubt he’ll get far.  Once we get back to the inn, I’ll have Stone issue an all-points.”  He paused and wet his lips.  “Tell me what hurts, buddy.  Your neck is messed up bad.  And your cheek - -”

 

“Drugs,” Hutch said, knowing the single word failed to explain the shock of a needle jammed into his throat or the fire of an alien substance ripping through his veins.  He shuddered and burrowed closer to Starsky.  “Help me  . . . outta here.”  

 

The confines of the would-be grave were abruptly suffocating.  He felt like he couldn’t breathe, like the air was being pushed into his lungs, compressed and clotted by mud.  It made his skin crawl, his gut tighten up.  Growing agitated, he tried to pull away from Starsky, but his limbs were stiff and unresponsive, deadened by the drug and the bite of returning circulation.  He felt filthy, knew he reeked of blood, soil, and the sour stench of sickness.  His jeans and shirt were covered with dirt, festooned with clinging blades of wet grass.  The realization that he’d almost become a permanent part of the earth, that he stank of earth, brought on another punishing swell of nausea.  His fingers dug into Starsky’s arms as his stomach spasmed, pushing bile into his throat. He swallowed hard and sucked down air, unable to stop a racking bout of dry heaves.  A half-cry of pain slipped from his lips.

 

“Hutch, take it easy.”  He felt Starsky’s hand on his back, heard the whispered drone of his friend’s voice, but he couldn’t make out the words through his misery.  The tone was soft and soothing, steering him through the worst of it.  In another second it was over.  Drained, he slumped into his friend’s arms.   

 

“Hang on,” Starsky said.  “I’m gonna get you outta here, I promise.   The dark-haired detective wedged his feet into the earth, bracing his knees and lodging a shoulder under Hutch’s arm.  It took a good five minutes of struggling, but eventually Starsky was able to pull him free of the pit. 

 

Hutch immediately crumbled, tucking a shoulder beneath him as he lay panting on the grass.  The fire inside was slowly dwindling, but his lacerated neck pulsed with agony and his cheek thrummed with pain.  Unable to control his trembling, he shivered in the grip of cold and misery.  The dampness soaking through his clothes left his skin icy to the touch but blistering with fire underneath.  In some abstract part of his mind he knew he had started on a fever.  “How far . . .”  His teeth chattered together.  “ . . . back to the inn?”

 

“Not that far,” Starsky said.

 

Hutch sensed he was lying but didn’t challenge it.  He tried to get up, but Starsky pressed a hand against his shoulder, pushing him flat on the ground.

 

“Just lie back a minute,” his friend instructed.  “I wanna look at your neck.”

 

Hutch tried to wave him off, but the beam of Starsky’s flashlight had already touched his neck.  His partner spied the twin needle holes and swore softly.  “What’d Emerick juice you with, Hutch?”

 

“I-I don’t know.”  The thought scared him.  He doubted the drug was addictive, surely nothing that would make him relive his heroin nightmare.  But since that gruesome day, any drug regardless of compound, had a habit of making his stomach knot up.  “H-He said Billy came up with it . . . some kind of c-compound to keep his victims docile but in pain wh-while he killed them.”  He swallowed hard, trying to still his shivering.  “S-Starsk . . . Billy Emerick’s the Vampire Hunter.  Murphy’s just protecting him.”

 

“Billy Emerick’s dead,” Starsky said flatly.  He shook his head.  “We ain’t gonna worry about it now.  I just wanna get you to a hospital . . . get you cleaned up and warm . . . have a doc take a good look at you.  You look like a Halloween nightmare, Hutch.  Between the dirt and the blood, and this beauty . . .”  Gentle fingers lightly grazed the blood-caked gash on his cheek.  “You’d scare the shit outta a real vampire.”  He grimaced, sudden anger turning his eyes cobalt blue with flame.  “ ‘Course some sick bastard already put two holes in your neck.  It’s gonna be my pleasure to friggin’ take Emerick down personally.”

 

Chilled, Hutch shivered, unable to concentrate on anything but his ratcheting misery.  “Can I get up now?” he asked weakly. 

 

Starsky swore at his own stupidity.  “I’m sorry, babe.”  Slipping an arm beneath Hutch’s back, he eased him forward, readjusting the jacket on his shoulders.  The wet ground had left the blond detective trembling more than before, his eyes touched with the glass-like glow of a rapidly rising fever.  Despite the shivers riddling his body, Hutch’s skin burned with heat.  Starsky wrapped an arm around him, reluctant to let go.  “Think you can stand, pal?”

 

Hutch hung his head, panting through parted lips.  He gave a clipped nod but didn’t speak.  Hooking his fingers into his friend’s belt, Starsky hauled him to his feet, dragging one of Hutch’s arms over his shoulders.  Pressed hip-to-hip, he could feel each punishing quake and tremor that raced through Hutch’s lean body.  He kept the flashlight in his left hand, looped around Hutch’s waist. 

 

The drug had obviously taken its toll, leaving Hutch weak and unsteady as he plodded through the woods at Starsky’s side.  His breath came harsh and ragged through parted lips, an occasional grunt or whimper ripped from his throat before he was even aware the sound had escaped.

 

Starsky tensed with each barely-audible vocalization, hating himself for forcing his friend forward when he was in such obvious pain.  Hutch’s side grew soaked with sweat where he pressed against Starsky, his fatigue-induced trembling gradually growing worse. 

 

Starsky was unsure how far they walked.  The crush of congealing darkness, pillowing mist and densely cluttered trees continued without abate. His own breath was growing labored, his arm weakening with the strain of holding Hutch upright.  More and more he carried the load for both of them, Hutch’s knees faltering and bending with every other step.  Twice the taller man nearly stumbled, his foot catching on the humped back of a protruding root.  Starsky could almost feel the sluggish lethargy of Hutch’s cramping muscles as he forced himself through the painful process of walking. 

 

“I . . .need a break,” he panted at last, this time unable to stop himself when his long legs folded.

 

Starsky went down with him, kneeling at his side when Hutch sank onto the wet grass.  Overhead the moon had turned to brass, morphing from Halloween-tinged orange.  Vibrant against the trees, it glimmered through the spiny branches of towering firs and spruce, splattering the ground with pockets of mustard-laced light.  Starsky swept the beam of his flashlight through the trees, panning across gnarled trunks and roots, skimming the shadowed edges of rocks and ferns.  The beam touched on a pair of glowing eyes, startling some small woodland creature, before the animal scurried safely into the underbrush.

 

Hutch lifted his head at the sound of rustling.  “What’s . . . that?”  he asked distractedly, but it was obvious he didn’t have the strength or energy to care if something truly lingered in the woods.

 

“Just an animal,” Starsky assured.    

 

Hutch expelled a breath.  Drained, he slumped lower, resting his head on Starsky’s shoulder, leaning into the hollow of his friend’s neck.  “I screwed up,” he whispered.  “Should’ve waited for you.”

 

“Huh?”  Starsky tilted his head, trying to glance down on his exhausted partner.  Even in the darkness Hutch’s hair gleamed with its own infused light, ash and white-gold, pale as winter sun.  It made the dried blood and dirt encrusted on his face and neck all the starker by contrast.  “Waited for me when?”  Starsky persisted.

 

Wearily, his voice faltering, Hutch told him about the summer house and the hidden passage leading to his room.  He explained how Emerick had caught him by surprise, how he’d searched Hutch’s room, discovering he was a cop in the process. 

 

Starsky pondered it all with varying degrees of conflicting emotion.  “So why didn’t you wait for me?” he asked eventually, though he already knew the answer.  It came down to the same reason Hutch had asked Stone for the profiles on the unrelated deaths without consulting him  . . . the reason his blond friend had been distracted from the start, his mind elsewhere.  He hadn’t wanted the case, but he’d felt obligated to take it.  In Ken Hutchinson’s perfection-driven world, refusing a case was the same as admitting failure.  Letting his superiors down, letting his partner down.  It placed an imaginary black mark on his record, and that was something he’d never allow, no matter how much he was hurting inside or how badly he needed time to recover after losing his friend in Vegas. 

 

The hidden passage was the same.  Waiting for Starsky would have been admitting he needed help, that he was too incompetent to handle circumstances on his own - -failure.  Any other time the inherent trust of their partnership would have overridden such negative emotions, but that foundation had grown fragile of late.

 

Hutch gave a noncommittal grunt, but he squirmed closer, freely admitting dependency.  Starsky could feel heat from his body, raging hot and rabidly uncontrolled.  At the same time, he felt the clamminess of cold sweat against his neck where Hutch rested his forehead.  Between his friend’s escalating fever and ever-present pain, Starsky had the distinct feeling he wasn’t thinking clearly.  “Maybe we should talk about this later,” he suggested.

 

Hutch shook his head.  He wrapped his arms close to his chest, huddling deeper into Starsky’s borrowed jacket.  “I screwed up in Vegas too,” he said in a paper-thin voice.  “S-Screwed up with this case . . . with you.  God, Starsk, I’m such an idiot sometimes.”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “I ain’t gonna argue with that one, but let’s worry about it later, huh?  You ain’t up for this right now.”

 

“I miss Jack,” Hutch said as if he hadn’t heard.  His voice caught in his throat.  “I never got to tell him it was all a mistake.  H-He died thinking - -”

 

“ - - thinkin’ you were his friend,” Starsky assured, cutting him off.  “I don’t care what he told Vicky.  He was messed up in the head, Hutch.  The tumor did that to him.  You heard the doc about how erratic his behavior had gotten.  In the end, when it mattered, he knew.  There’s no way a guy could be friends with you and not know, pal.  You just ain’t got what it takes to be malicious and underhanded.” 

 

“I - -”  In the brief silence, Hutch’s breath was uneven and strained.  His words came with obvious effort.  “I’m not so sure, Starsk.  My own father s-said h-he was - -”  He paused, swallowing hard. “ - - ashamed,”  His voice cracked with emotion on the despicable word.

“ . . . of me f-for what I did to Jack.”

 

“Oh for the love of . . . fuck it!” Starsky felt the explosive heat of sudden anger.  Score another point for the always exalted, ridiculously-demanding-of-his-overly-sensitive-son-I-can-do-no-wrong, Dr. Grant Hutchinson.  “Sorry, pal,” he snapped bitterly, “But sometimes your Dad’s a real prick.  If I ever get to have a sit down chat with the bastard - -”

 

“He’s right,” Hutch said in a forlorn voice.  He shivered, dispelling a small sound that may have been a moan of pain.  “He’s always right.”

 

“That’s the fever talkin’,” Starsky shot back.  “Any other time King Medicine’s name gets mentioned, you bristle and cringe and rant about how narrow-minded he is.”  Worried when Hutch continued to shiver, Starsky slipped a hand onto his forehead, frowning at the swell of trapped heat. “I really need to get you to a hospital, Hutch.”

 

But Hutch was still caught up in a muddled haze of fever and guilt.  “S-Starsky . . .”  The emotion was back in his voice, heavier now, slurring his words.  “I . . . I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk.  It just hurts so bad . . . losing Jack . . . then what my father said - -”

 

“Ssh, I know.  It’s okay.”  Starsky palmed his neck, smoothing a calming hand over the undamaged side of his throat.  He could feel the edges of Hutch’s hair, damp with perspiration and mist, scraping across his knuckles.  Throw in my brilliant remark at the hospital and no wonder you’re such a wreck.  “Jack was your best friend . . .”

 

“No.”  Hutch groaned and burrowed closer.  “Don’t be such an ass.  Why the hell do you think it hurts so bad?” 

 

His voice cracked and this time Starsky heard tears of grief and frustration.  He raised his hand to Hutch’s face, shocked to realize his friend was crying, his face damp.  “Hey!”  A lump stuck in his throat.  “Don’t do that.  You know what that salt’s gonna do to that gash on your cheek?”

 

Hutch gave a soft snort and closed his eyes, the hot moisture of his tears soaking into Starsky’s collar.

 

“Babe . . .”  Starsky’s  voice faltered, a cold uncertainty spreading through his gut.  He knew Hutch had been upset, but his heightened emotion seemed over the top.  “Why are you so messed up?”

 

Hutch’s long fingers hooked in his shirt.  “Because it feels like I lost my best friend,” he admitted softly.

 

Starsky’s heart hammered against his ribs.  His mouth went dry as he realized Hutch wasn’t talking about Jack Mitchell . . . that he’d never been talking about Jack Mitchell.  “I . . . I wasn’t there for you,” he said with sudden understanding. 

 

“I didn’t let you,” Hutch confessed and sighed.  He sniffled.  “Losing Jack hurt, but I hadn’t seen him in years.  Losing you . . .”  Another sigh, deeper this time.  “It’s my fault, Starsk.  Shutting you out, pushing you away.  I’ve never been good about letting other people hold it together for me.  I’ve always had to do everything on my own.  It’s the way I am.  Then I met you and -  - ” He shrugged, a ghost tremor making him shiver.  “You’re the only one I’ve ever trusted.”  He stopped suddenly, dragging the back of his sleeve across his face, mopping up tears.  “You’re right.  Damn salt does sting.”

 

But Starsky was stuck on what he hadn’t said.  “You felt you couldn’t talk to me because of what I said at the hospital - - about Jack and you . . . about loyalty.”

 

Hutch groaned, physically pulling away.  “You know what?  This is a bad idea.  I’m just fucked up, Starsk.  Between the drugs and the fever, I don’t even know what the hell I’m saying anymore.”

 

Starsky let him pull free.  He watched as Hutch sat huddled in the jacket, his shoulders hunched forward to trap warmth despite his fever.  “You sound pretty concise to me,” he commented.

 

Hutch cast him a sideways glance.  His eyes were watery and red-rimmed, tears snared on the gold-tipped fringe of his lashes.  “I just don’t want to screw up again,” he admitted carefully.  “I-I’m afraid if I keep talking, I’ll say something to hurt you or piss you off.   I just want - -”

 

“What do you want?”  Starsky pounced on the thought before it could be finished.

 

Nervous, Hutch met his gaze head on.  “I want my best friend back.”

 

Anxiety unraveled in Starsky’s gut.  “You idiot.”  Lightly he touched Hutch’s damaged cheek.  “I never went anywhere, dummy.”  Dropping his hand, he curled his fingers around the back of Hutch’s neck, firmly tugging him into an embrace. 

 

Hutch folded willingly, his breath hissing out in a relieved sigh.  Starsky grinned at the sound, comforted by the familiar weight pressing on his chest, Hutch tucked snuggly under his arm.  He knew there was no one else who would ever be this dependent on him no matter how long he lived . . . who would allow him the same utter dependency in return.  Being partners didn’t cover it, and even friendship fell short of what he had with Hutch.  He’d go nuts thinking about it if he tried to put a tag on it and squeeze it into a definable box.  All he knew was that blinding devotion was now securely back in place, his heart ten-fold lighter as a result.

 

“Know what?” he prodded.

 

“What?”

 

“I think I’m startin’ to recognize all these trees.  That clump over there - -”  He angled his flashlight toward the right. “ I think they’re only about a mile from the inn.  I recognize that short fat one ‘cuz I remember thinkin’ it looked like Dobey.  Weird, but it didn’t seem like I ran that far.”

 

Hutch raised his head.  His eyes were dry now but there were still glimmers of tears on his face, mixed with the sheen of perspiration and cold sweat.  “How’d you find me?”

 

“How else?”  Starsky feigned affront.  “I’m part bloodhound, dummy.  I just hit the woods and went on instinct.  Stone had his men out here until about 9:00, but I’m guessin’ Emerick didn’t pull you from his hidey-hole until after midnight.”

 

Hutch grimaced.  “Don’t remind me.”  Experimentally, he dragged one leg closer to his body.  “Feels steadier,” he commented.  “I think the drug’s wearing off.  I’m ready to try walking again if you help me up.”

 

“Okay, but take it slow and tell me if you need to stop.”

 

Hutch nodded.  His eyes were overly bright, shockingly blue and rimmed with red in a face that was streaked with blood and dirt.  Starsky doubted he’d admit to weakness a second time, but at least the rest had given him a chance to collect himself emotionally and physically. 

 

It took another half hour of walking and stumbling for them to reach the inn.  Hutch was exhausted by the time Starsky got him through the front door and eased him onto the couch in the lobby.  The dark-haired man went immediately to the reception desk and called for an ambulance, requesting Stone be notified as well.  Hutch was already drifting to sleep by the time Starsky hung up the phone. 

 

He tucked his friend’s legs onto the sofa then rummaged through the coat closet, grabbing some of the longer, heavier garments to drape over Hutch.  By the time the ambulance arrived, Mr. and Mrs. Lockton and the Dugans had wandered into the lobby, awakened by the sirens.  Clyde Hale and his secretary/mistress Fiona Reese strayed down a few minutes later, arriving at almost the same moment Stone walked through the front door.

 

Focusing on the lieutenant, Starsky flagged him aside.  “Stone, over here!”  Quickly he explained what had happened, all the while conscience of his partner, busily attended by medics in the background.  Before Starsky had even finished his story, Stone sent officers to investigate the hidden passage leading to the summer house.  In the same breath, he had a patrolman issue an APB on Emerick.

 

“Found these,” a young officer announced ten minutes later when he returned to the lobby.  Raising both hands, he displayed Hutch’s Magnum and an empty syringe, the latter stashed in a plastic evidence bag. 

 

“That’s my partner’s gun.”  Starsky immediately confiscated the pistol.  The syringe was taken by one of the medics who agreed to turn it over to the hospital’s lab for complete diagnosis.

 

“I don’t think your friend’s been given anything lethal,” the man told Starsky, “But we won’t know for certain until we run some tests.  Having the syringe helps.  Hopefully there are enough residual traces of the compound remaining to tell us what we’re dealing with.”

 

“What about Hutch?”  Starsky cast a worried glance at the stretcher now being loaded into the back of the ambulance.  He felt torn . . . needing to know the particulars but wanting to be at his friend’s side.  Restless, he fidgeted nervously, his anxiety crackling like a live wire.

 

“He’s been through a traumatic ordeal,” the paramedic explained. “But none of his injuries are life-threatening.  We’ve started him on an IV to combat the fever.  That cut on his cheek is going to take stitches, but his neck is mostly abrasions and scrapes.  It looks worse than it is - - a lot of blood, and no doubt it’s gonna sting like hell for a couple days, but with some rest and antibiotics, he should be fine.”

 

“What about the drug?”  Stone asked.

 

The man shrugged.  “Again, we won’t know until we run tests.  From all appearances, it’s an inhibitor, meant to induce pain and cramping while affecting muscle coordination and depleting strength.  My guess is it’s already done its job.”  The man’s eyes returned to Starsky.  “Your friend also mentioned pain in his right shoulder and hip . . . said he got struck with a shovel.  They’ll probably take x-rays at the hospital to be on the safe side, but I’m guessing he’s just going to be bruised and sore for a few days.  All things considered, Detective Hutchinson was lucky.”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed quietly.  The knot was back in his stomach, conjured by hideous thoughts of what might have been.  “Excuse me.”  Pivoting on his heel, he left the medic with Stone and hurried to the back of the ambulance.  Two EMTs were just getting ready to load Hutch’s gurney inside.  He latched onto the frame, abruptly preventing the action. 

 

“Hey, buddy.”  His voice was soft and calming despite his own frantic worry.  Gently, he brushed a few clinging particles of dirt from Hutch’s hair, surprised he hadn’t noticed them before.  In the woods, surrounded by darkness and shadow, Hutch’s hair had gleamed with silver.  Now haloed by the flickering strobe of emergency lighting and the yellow glow from the inn’s porch lamps, it looked listless and dull.  He hated seeing Hutch so vulnerable . . . so hurt, battered and weak.  “I’m gonna follow you in,” he assured.  “Be right behind you in the Jeep.  You just take it easy, okay?”

 

Hutch gave a sleepy nod, the grueling events of the night already having caught up with him.  Starsky stepped back, swallowing hard as the gurney was loaded. Cramming his hand into his pocket, he dug out the keys for the Jeep.  Hurrying toward the vehicle, he rammed Hutch’s Magnum into the back of his waistband.  The weight of the gun felt alien but somehow made him feel closer to his injured partner.

 

At the hospital he paced a restless circuit through hallways and an empty waiting room.  Stone showed up thirty minutes later to give him an update on the case. 

 

“Nothing on Emerick yet,” the lieutenant relayed.  “But my guess is we’ll have him before morning. “

 

“What about Almond?”  Starsky asked.  “Did you cross-match the drug he used to OD?”

 

Stone nodded, his expression grim.  “Looks like my guys blew it.  It’s not a direct match, but it’s a derivative of what the Vampire Hunter has been dosing his victims with.  My guess is it was the beta version, altered in dosage and compound, initially intended to kill.  Either that or the guy screwed up and gave Almond too much.”

 

“But the rest of the MO doesn’t match,” Starsky pointed out.  “Maybe he really wanted to kill Almond.  After that, he only wanted to incapacitate his victims.  Who knows?  Maybe he decided fakin’ an overdose wasn’t as satisfyin’ as drivin’ a stake through someone’s heart.  From what Hutch said, Emerick all but admitted Billy is the killer.”

 

“Except Billy’s dead.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve been wonderin’ about that.  Awful coincidental there wasn’t anything left to ID in that fire.”

 

“You think someone was bought off?”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “I dunno.”  Frazzled, he dragged a hand over his face.  It was after three in the morning.  Between his mushrooming concern for Hutch and his own creeping exhaustion, he’d stopped thinking rationally.  With effort, he tried to get his mind back on track. “Tammy said Lou and Billy were friends,” he mused aloud to Stone.  “Best buds right up until Lou got a big promotion and a fat pay raise . . . which was right before he died.  Accordin’ to Tammy, Billy was up for the same job, even felt cheated that he didn’t get it.  So Lou ends up with the brass ring, then to make it worse, he fires Billy.”

 

“Why?”  Stone asked.

 

“Who knows?”  Starsky forced silent a yawn, wishing Hutch was around to bounce ideas back and forth.  His partner’s naturally low-key energy would have been dramatically more stimulating than Stone’s implacable questions.  He sighed, trying to force his tired mind through the scenario he was building.  “Maybe Billy really did deserve the job and Lou hustled it away from him.  Billy gets pissed, thinks he’s been dimed out, so he whacks Almond and makes it look like a drug overdose.”

 

“Possible,” Stone agreed.  “But that still doesn’t connect the serial slayings with Almond or explain what happened to Billy.”

 

“Except maybe Billy got off on doin’ Almond, especially if he thought he was vindicated in the killin’.  Every single one of the serial victims looked like Almond.  Maybe Billy’s still killin’ him every time he takes a life, only now he’s turned it into some psychological head game.  Vampires are evil.  He’s doin’ the world a favor by killin’ evil men . . . at least in his mind.”

 

Stone was silent a minute, thinking it through.  “Not bad for 3:00 in the morning, Sergeant, but bottom line - - Billy Emerick is still dead.”

 

This time Starsky didn’t hide his fatigue.  “I think that’s something your boys should check into,” he said around a huge yawn.  “Me, I’m gonna go rattle some medical cages until a few doctors roll out and tell me where my partner is.  I’ve had the shits of waitin’.  And just in case I didn’t make it clear earlier, Lieutenant - - I’ve had the shits of this case.”  He started down the hallway but was drawn up short by Stone’s painfully flat voice. 

 

“Starsky.”

 

“Now what?”  Heaving a sigh, he turned.

 

Stone’s expression was still rigid but his shoulders had drooped slightly, no longer ramrod straight.  He cleared his throat and shifted his weight to one side.  “You and Hutchinson . . . you’re close, aren’t you?”

 

“We’re close?”  Incredulous, Starsky repeated the thought with a disbelieving stare.  Was it him, or did people just naturally turn into blithering idiots after 3:00 a.m.?  “What kind of question is that?” Stalking back toward Stone, he tried to force his molasses slow mind into shifting gears.  “Of course we’re close!  Why d’ya think I spent most of the night mouthin’ off to you?  I - -”

 

“I can’t quite figure out why he dislikes me so intently.”

 

Starsky balked, taken aback by the seemingly sincere statement. “You mean Hutch?”  He snorted, imagining his friend’s reaction to the Lieutenant’s observation.  Um, well let’s see. . .  could be your winnin’ personality, sunny disposition or maybe even your shameless compassion.  Indulging in a tired grin, he dragged a hand over the back of his neck.  “Don’t take it personally, Stone.  Hutch just has a problem with, uh . . . authority figures.  He gets a little snarly when someone cracks the whip.  Doesn’t help any that you sorta look and sound like his old man, a high-brow doctor who likes to point out flaws in others  - - especially his kid.  See, I know all that ‘cuz I’m Hutch’s partner . . .”  He grinned toothily.  “And we’re close.”

 

“Point taken.”  Stone waved him away.  “Go find out where they’ve got him.  If I get a chance, I’ll stop by later.”

 

Starsky narrowed his eyes.  “Not to ride him, you won’t.  Not to tell him he screwed up.  I’m the one who did that, leavin’ him alone.”

 

“I don’t consider giving us Murphy Emerick a screw up.  Hutchinson might not have taken him into custody, but at least now we know who we’re looking for.  As for leaving him alone, that might have been the best thing you ever did.”

 

“What?” Sudden anger crackled through Starsky, lightning fierce, bubbling hot.  Seething, he took a bullying step closer.  “He almost gets buried alive and you’ve got the gall to say it’s the best thing I ever did?  You arrogant, selfish, sonuva - -”

 

“There you are!” A nasal-tinged voice cut Starsky off in mid-tirade. 

 

He clamped his mouth shut by sheer reflex, casting an acid glare over his shoulder, ready to transfer his hostility to the unfortunate idiot who had dared to interrupt him.  His anger drained immediately when he realized the man who had just materialized from a side door wore a white lab coat and had a stethoscope looped around his neck.   Doctor.  Or intern.  Hell, at this point he didn’t care which, he just wanted some answers.

 

“You’re with Detective Hutchinson, correct?”  the man asked, approaching at a brisk pace.

 

Starsky nodded, shaking the hand that was offered him.  “David Starsky.  I’m his partner.”

 

“Yes.” The man digested that with a nod.  “And you’re Lieutenant Stone.” He directed an acknowledging glance at Stone.  “I’ve seen you in here before.  I’m Dr. Manning.”  His attention returned to Starsky almost immediately.  “Your partner has been transferred to Room 206, Detective.  I’d wait about twenty minutes . . . give the nurses time to get him settled, but after that you can check in on him briefly.  We’ve placed him in a private room, rather than disturb another patient at this late hour.  All in all, he’s been very fortunate - - nothing broken and nothing life-threatening.  He’s on antibiotics to combat the fever and stave off infection.  I’m not overly concerned about the drug he was given.  It seems to be quick-acting, but also of limited scope, designed to inhibit muscle coordination for a brief time only.  The cramping and pain your friend experienced are random side effects, also of a temporary nature.  I don’t foresee any complications or long-term difficulty.”

 

Starsky heaved a sigh of relief. “What about the rest?  Doc, his neck looked a mess.  And that gash on his cheek - - ”

 

“The cut on his cheek took several stitches, and I’ve placed a bandage on the side of his neck to keep the wound clean and give it time to heal.  There’s one fairly deep cut, but it’s mostly skin abrasions.  We also took several x-rays of his hip and shoulder, but everything came back clean.  I’m afraid he’s going to have extensive bruising and will probably be uncomfortably stiff and sore for a few days, almost as if he’d suffered through a vehicle accident.  I can prescribe something for pain, but he seemed reluctant to take anything.  Even tonight . . . I wanted to give him a small dose of morphine to help him sleep, but - -”

 

“ - - let me guess,” Starsky interrupted, smiling sourly.  “He said no.”

 

“Yes.  Rather bluntly, in fact.”  Puzzled, Manning scratched his chin.  “I’m afraid as the night progresses your friend is going to be in a considerable amount of pain, Detective.  If there are religious concerns or restrictions relating to medications in general - -”

 

“No.”  Wearily, Starsky shook his head, his eyes dropping momentarily to the floor.  Fondness for his partner turned his smile inward as he thought of Hutch lying in the ER, bone-tired and hurting, stubbornly refusing anything to help with the pain.  Hopefully there had been something mildly narcotic in the IV the paramedics had started at the Northstar.  And Novocain would have helped with the stitching.  Assumin’ Hutch didn’t freak at the sight of the needle.

 

Starsky laced a hand through his hair.  “Doc, if you give me the prescription I’ll get it filled, and make sure he takes ‘em when he needs ‘em.  I can probably get something in him tonight too, if you have a nurse bring it around.”

 

“Very well.  As I said . . . he’s going to grow considerably more uncomfortable as the night progresses.  I’d like to keep him here for a day or two for observation.  We’ve been able to identify the compounds of the drug Detective Hutchinson was injected with, based upon trace elements found in the syringe, but we can’t be sure of the dosage he was given. While I don’t anticipate any complications, I’d rather err on the side of caution.”

 

Starsky nodded.  It sounded sensible to him.  And while Hutch was recuperating, he could help Stone and his men track down Murphy Emerick, maybe even unearth something they’d overlooked relating to Billy.  If someone really had died in the accident with the tanker truck, Starsky was convinced that person was not Billy Emerick.  He’d bet hard cash younger brother Billy was still running around, using the summer house as his access to the inn whenever he was in the mood to butcher thirty-something-year-olds who reminded him of Lou Almond. 

 

Eventually Manning left and Starsky was once again alone with Stone.  He longed to check on his partner - - to see for himself that Hutch was truly safe and on the path to recovery.  To lightly run his fingertips through the familiar texture of pale, cornsilk-fine hair. 

 

While he and Hutch connected on several levels most friends never achieved, touch was a key element in their strangely intimate, yet wholly nonsexual relationship.   Most people simply didn’t get it.  He’d given up trying to figure out their unique connection years ago.  What he did know was that he’d already failed Hutch once by leaving him alone and unprotected.  That wasn’t going to happen a second time, even if he was out looking for Murphy Emerick and his younger brother - - who at this point had as much chance as being flesh-and-bone, as he did incinerated remains.

 

Bottom line, when Starsky shook aside all the stupid labels, innuendo and even silly masculine restrictions the world tried to pin on him  - - he loved Hutch, plain and simple.  Loved.  With his mind, heart and soul. 

 

That fiercely glittering emotion was what drove him to pin Stone with a hotly determined stare.  “Before you leave, I want a 24-hour guard on Hutch’s door.”

 

Stone balked.  “Sergeant, don’t go off the deep end - -”

 

“Deep end, shit!” Starsky snapped before he could finish.  “You’ve got two psychos running around out there - - Emerick and his brother  - - both with ties to my partner, who just happens to be an ideal target for both of them.”

 

Stone chuffed lightly, dismissing the notion with a patronizing shake of his head.  “You’re not thinking clearly, Starsky.  Emerick is going to high-tail it for the nearest border.  He’s not stupid.  He’s got to know every cop from here ‘till Christmas is looking for him.  As for Billy . . . we don’t even know he’s alive.  I’m not going to waste a man on babysitting detail.”

 

“The hell you’re not!” Starsky snarled, taking a bristling step forward.  He drilled an index finger against the Lieutenant’s chest.  “Maybe you ain’t been listenin’, or maybe you’re just naturally dense.  Point is you’re responsible for draggin’ Hutch into this mess.  You set him up like a fuckin’ canary for a half-starved cat.  He already nearly got killed because I was off chasin’ leads when I shoulda been protectin’ his back.  Your boys weren’t anywhere in sight.  Now, I ain’t layin’ all that fault on you - - most of it’s mine - - but I sure as hell ain’t gonna let it happen again.  I want a uniform posted outside his door until Emerick’s rounded up and we know for certain Billy’s dead.  You fight me, and I’ll make sure this is the last time Bay City PD lifts a finger to help you or your department.”

 

Stone huffed out an impatient sigh.  “You’re overreacting.”

 

“He’s my partner, damn it!”  Sudden heat boomeranged through Starsky.  “You’re not the one who found him half buried, trussed up, gagged, drugged and bloody.  Do you have any idea what the hell that felt like - - what he must have gone through?”  The finger was back, pounding against Stone’s chest, driving his outrage home with every incremental detail of what Hutch had suffered.  “He damn near died because of this freakin’ case.  The least you can do is motivate your sorry ass and order a patrolman to stand guard duty.”

 

Stone slapped his hand aside, his lips curling in a goading smile.  “You mean you’re not gonna sit by his bedside and hold his hand for the next twenty-four hours yourself?”  The smile faded, replaced by a mixture of disgust, anger, and beneath it all, a thread of grudging respect. “For crying out loud, if I had a pair of detectives as joined at the hip as you two are, I transfer to another precinct!  I don’t know how the hell Dobey stands the two of you, day after day.  First Shelter Pointe and now this shit.  I’m just thankful you’re his problem and not mine.”

 

Starsky opened his mouth to spit a reply, but Stone waved the antagonism aside.

 

“Forget it.  You’ve got your freaking babysitter.  Go find your blond playmate and I’ll arrange for a guard.  After all - - I wouldn’t want anyone to ruffle that pretty hair of his.”  Shaking his head, grumbling under his breath, he stomped down the hallway.

 

Screw you, dickwad.

 

 It took a minute for Starsky’s hostility to drain.  Before this case he’d never had anything against Stone.  He’d even liked the man, but he was beginning to understand what set Hutch so quickly on edge whenever the regimental Lieutenant was around.  The older man had a narrow black-and-white view of life.  He dealt in finals and absolutes, an annoying tunnel-vision philosophy that left very little room for partners who constantly crossed the boundaries of acceptable behavior.

 

At least the oaf had consented in the end, agreeing to post a guard for Hutch.  Part of Starsky wanted to stay the night, glued to his friend’s bedside as Stone had snidely suggested, but the other half knew the importance of wrapping the case - - of finding Murphy Emerick and determining whether or not Billy was really still alive.  He’d serve Hutch better outside of the hospital, even at such an ungodly hour.

 

Stifling another yawn, he paced off the remaining minutes until he could visit his friend.  It was almost 4:00 a.m. by the time he peered around the corner of Room 206 and spied his partner lying in bed.  The upper half of the metal hospital bed was slightly elevated, Hutch’s shoulders raised at an angle, the standard-issue blankets and sheets drawn to his waist.  He wore a short-sleeved hospital gown, his arms bare but for twin bracelets of white gauze on each wrist. 

 

Coverin’ up rope burns, Starsky thought and grimaced when he realized how forcibly Hutch must have struggled against his bonds.  His friend’s head was turned to the side, facing away from the door.  Moonlight streaming through a nearby window kindled silvery threads in his fair hair and gleamed off a crisp white bandage taped to the side of his neck.  Mounted above the bed, the wall light had been dimmed to its lowest setting, no brighter than a candle in the room’s velvety darkness.        

 

Uncertain if Hutch was asleep or awake, Starsky approached quietly.  He’d taken only two steps when Hutch rolled his head on the pillow, turning to face him. 

 

“Hey.”  The blond detective’s voice was soft, devastatingly soft.  Yet that simple, single word went through Starsky with the power of a thunderbolt.

 

“Hey.”  He was across the room in three quick strides, disheartened to realize his voice had cracked.  His eyes dropped to the narrow white bandage on Hutch’s cheek.  Experimentally, he grazed his fingertips across the edge, shivering in reaction when Hutch lowered his eyes.  He swallowed hard.  “Hope you let them give you Novocain before they stitched that.”

 

Hutch gave a fleeting nod.  His eyes opened, a shocking flash of river and sky, vibrant blue in the semi-darkness.  “They wanted to give me morphine,” he said quietly, sounding oddly forlorn.

 

Starsky snorted.  “And you said ‘no’.  I already got the run-down from the doc.  He says you’re gonna be hurtin’ a lot worse as the night goes on.  He’s sendin’ around a nurse with some pain pills.  I told him you’d take ‘em like a good patient.”

 

“Starsky - -”

 

“Save your breath, Blondie.”  With a meaningful glance, Starsky perched on the side of the bed.  “Look, it ain’t’ that bad.  I’m not gonna make a fuss about the morphine.”  His fingers curled over Hutch’s forearm, squeezing slightly in a move designed to bring reassurance and comfort to both of them.  “I think you’re wrong in refusin’ it, but at least I know where your head’s at on that one, buddy.  Thing is, pain pills don’t come in a needle - -”

 

An involuntarily groan slipped from Hutch’s lips, half frustration, half anger.  He tensed and tried to draw away, but Starsky hung tight to his arm. 

 

“I don’t need them,” Hutch muttered tightly.

 

“That so?”  Starsky’s glare turned barbed.  “So humor me.”  The familiar phrase, delivered with the same pointed sting Hutch had used on Stone, made the injured man part with an arch glance.  

 

“What’d you do?  Promise your first born as collateral?”

 

“Something like that.”  Grinning, Starsky raised his hand, lightly brushing aside a fringe of softly-layered bangs from Hutch’s forehead.  His arm was batted aside, but rather than grow annoyed by his partner’s obvious agitation, he merely chuckled and made a soft tsking sound.  “Ain’t we the grumpy patient?”

 

Hutch scrunched lower against the pillows.  “I’ll be fine once I fall asleep.” Still focused on the pain pills and his reluctance to take them, his features grew clipped with irritation. 

 

As if on cue, a nurse arrived in the room carrying a small white dosage cup.  Starsky took one look at the innocent looking paper and cringed.

 

“Dr. Manning’s ordered something for your pain, Sergeant Hutchinson,” the nurse announced, striding briskly toward the bed.  From the starched press of her impeccable uniform to her tightly-curled mouse-brown hair, she looked every inch a no-nonsense candidate for iron-willed Shrew of the Year.  The problem as Starsky saw it was her inevitable collision with one notoriously stubborn, deceptively ethereal-looking Viking.  People often mistook Hutch’s classical features and angelic coloring as a sign he was mild-mannered.  And while his friend was soft-spoken and easy-going most of the time, Hutch had a hair-trigger temper when pushed.  All he needed was an excuse to turn the night’s already fiendishly up-and-down rollercoaster ride into something bitterly explosive.

 

“I’ll, uh, see he takes those . . . Nurse Curtis” Starsky interrupted, noting the name tag pinned to the woman’s crisply pressed uniform.  He snatched the small paper cup from her hand before she could protest, flashing his most winning smile.  Holding the charmingly exaggerated grin in place made his face hurt.  Shit, I’m tired!  “Dr. Manning might have mentioned me.  I’m Detective Hutchinson’s partner.”

 

“Yes.”  The word was drawn out much too long to be complimentary, his staged smile obviously having little effect. 

 

Ice water in her veins.  Probably ain’t been laid in over a year.  Poor Hutch, stuck with an old maid for a nurse.  Hope you ain’t gonna need a sponge bath, babe, ‘cuz it’s gonna be disappointin’ as hell.  

 

The woman looked him over from head to toe as if measuring his competency against hers.  Obviously Dr. Manning had given her the word Starsky would assist with getting Hutch to take the pills.   She clearly thought little of “difficult” patients, Hutch now bumped to the top of her list.  “Very well, Detective,” she consented with a frown.  “See that he takes both tablets with a swallow of water.”

 

Starsky glanced down at the innocuous looking pills in the shallow cup, parting with a vacant nod.  Yeah, he’d get Hutch to swallow the pills.  Stupid, if he thought about it.  His mind was lost somewhere in the ridiculous realization that his partner adamantly opposed priming his system with commonplace drugs.  Then again, if he was honest about it, he couldn’t begin to comprehend the horror Hutch had experienced when Forest juiced him with heroin.  It made him realize the terror his friend must have felt when Emerick rammed a needle into his neck.

 

Panic, plain and simple.  An emotion that didn’t fade quickly, even after warmth and security had taken its place. 

 

“By the way,” Nurse Curtis announced, shattering his thoughts.  “There is an Officer Riley outside the door.  He’s informed me he’ll be there for the next six hours after which time another officer will take his place.”  She frowned, looking down on Hutch, clearly not liking the disruption to her regular hospital routine.  “I suppose his presence is warranted, all things considered.  It is however distracting for the nursing staff and will likely be upsetting to the patients, come morning.”

 

“They’ll survive,” Starsky said bluntly.

 

Hutch shifted restlessly.  “Officer?”  he asked, bewildered.

 

“Just a precaution,” Starsky said quickly.  “Ssh, forget about it, babe.”  He smoothed a hand through Hutch’s hair.  The overly familiar action, coupled with his gentling tone of voice and choice of endearment earned him a disapproving glance from Nurse Curtis.  Apparently getting laid wasn’t the only thing she needed.  Could use a whoppin’ dose of humanity too, Starsky thought sourly.

 

“The pills, Detective,” she reminded him tartly and left the room. 

 

Dismissing the crotchety nurse, Starsky found himself standing beside Hutch’s bed, pills in his hand, looking at his stubbornly resistant partner.

 

Buying time, he poured a cup of water from a pitcher on the bedside table.  “No grief, Hutch.  I want you to swallow these things and get a good night’s sleep.”  He chanced a sideways glance at his friend, noting Hutch’s frown and the irritation-spurned crease between his brows.  Softening, Starsky rubbed a thumb over the endearingly familiar crinkle.  He couldn’t count the times he’d used it as a measure of how irritated Hutch was over a particular set of circumstances.

 

“Lighten up, pal.  It ain’t the end of the world.”  Starsky thrust the pills under his nose.  “Stop being such a Viking-bred hard nose and take these things.”  He paused, waggling the container.  “It’ll make me feel better.”

 

Hutch’s protest died before it could be voiced, squelched as Starsky had planned beneath his own shameless prodding.  It was a bit like a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.  Take the inbred reluctance of one Midwestern partner and marry it to the skin-crawling anxiety of an overly emotional New Yorker.  The outcome (at least for one of them) resulted in triumphant victory.    Starsky scores!   

 

With a defeated sigh, Hutch held out his hand.  Starsky passed him the pills and waited while he swallowed both.  He smiled a little as he set the cup of water to the side on the nightstand, unable to hide his pleasure at gaining the upper hand.  It had nothing to do with winning, but rather that his willful friend would benefit from a restful night, free of all but the fiercest pain.

 

“What time is it?”  Hutch asked.

 

Starsky was brought back to the crashing reality of an ungodly hour.  “After 4:00 a.m.”

 

“Murphy?”

 

“Nothing yet.”  Starsky brought him up-to-date on his theories surrounding Billy Emerick, Lou Almond and the Vampire Hunter killings. 

 

Hutch’s eyelashes were already dipping with exhaustion by the time he finished.  “So, um . . .”  It was obvious to Starsky he struggled to formulate a string of coherent thought.  His voice came slurred and whisper soft.  “ . . . you think Billy’s still out there?”

 

“Well, don’t you?”  A part of him wanted his friend articulate and concise, able to bounce theory back and forth with his usual superior sharpness of mind.  But the realistic part of him understood Hutch’s creeping fatigue and desperate need for sleep.  A soft smile touched his lips.

 

“How ‘bout we talk about it in the morning?”  He fingered the tousled fringe of Hutch’s bangs, his touch now accepted rather than impulsively rebuffed like before.  His hand skimmed lower, contouring Hutch’s cheek even as he noticed his friend’s eyes had stayed closed, grown heavy with the long ignored need for sleep.  Hutch’s breathing settled into a steady, melodic flow. 

 

Contented, Starsky felt the last of his apprehension drain away.  “I’m gonna head back to the Northstar, buddy,” he said softly.  “Check out those files Stone gave you on the serial slayings.  Now that we know Murphy Emerick and his brother are involved, maybe we can connect the dots.”

 

Hutch gave a soft grunt.

 

The sound was enough to induce a bright quivering flutter in Starsky’s heart.  Just a few short hours ago they’d been stranded in the woods, Hutch trembling with fever and exhaustion, Starsky faced with the realization that he’d been anything but supportive about Jack.  The fact that he’d let his friend down . . .that the underlying emotion for that glaring failure had been jealousy, still left him reeling off kilter.  After everything he and Hutch had been through, he found it hard to believe he’d reacted so heinously. 

 

Stupid.  Dumb-assed dim-witted.  No excuse.

 

‘Cept I didn’t wanna lose you, babe, and I was terrified you might pack it up and head home with Mitchell.

 

Exhausted, Starsky dropped his head into his hand.  Worse yet, he’d left Hutch alone when he’d known he was the prime target for a serial killer.  That ridiculously moronic blunder had almost cost his friend his life.  Hutch hadn’t truly been focused on the case from day one - - not the way he should have been  - - but Starsky hadn’t been much better. 

 

There was a part of him that only wanted to sleep for a week, circumstance and serial slayings be damned.  Yet the part that moved and breathed with Hutch, the part that felt every infinitesimal nuance of his partner’s psyche, refused to surrender to fatigue.  Hutch might be too drained to hold his eyes open, but that didn’t mean the danger had passed.  They were closer to solving the case, but it was far from over.

 

He let his touch linger a moment longer, redefining the intrinsic connection between them.  Finally, when he felt his friend had slipped over the edge into slumber, he switched off the light above the bed and quietly left the room.  Outside he stopped to confer with Riley, making sure the officer understood the consequence of his role and the drastic importance of keeping Hutch safe. The patrolman - - clearly competent, but all of twenty-five years old if he was a day - - quickly ran out of “Yes Sirs,” literally quaking by the time Starsky was done.  

 

Satisfied no one would get past Riley after his intensive grilling, Starsky left his partner under the protection of the young officer and headed for the Northstar.

 

+++++

 

Hutch moaned softly, shifting onto his good side.  His hip hurt and his shoulder throbbed with pulses of pain like the thrum of a beating heart.  It was amazing how minor twinges of discomfort only hours before had morphed into seething shock-rockets of agony.  He bit down on his lip to stifle a whimper and dragged his eyes open.

 

Someone had switched off the wall light, leaving the room draped in dense layers of shadow.  The door was angled three-quarters shut, admitting only a faint crack of illumination from the hallway.  The bars on both sides of his bed had been raised, effectively sealing him inside.  Moonlight splayed over the foot of the mattress, drenching the sheets with bone and pearl, turning them eerily luminescent against the staid gloom of the room.

 

The pain medication was doing its job, at least marginally, not quite strong enough to mute the aches in his shoulder and hip.  Only half conscious of his surroundings, he became aware of someone sitting in the chair by the bedside. 

 

“Starsk?”  Hutch’s voice came out in a hoarse croak.  “I . . . I thought you left.”

 

At first there was no answer and Hutch thought maybe he was dreaming, trapped in a drugged haze between sleep and wakefulness . . . that if he blinked or shifted, the form in the chair would evaporate into shadow.  He heard a soft chuckle, but the pitch was all wrong, too smooth for Starsky.  With effort he shook off his stupor, narrowing his eyes against the room’s swaddling darkness. 

 

“Starsk?”  He felt a prickle of alarm lift the hair on the back of his neck.

 

“Your friend’s not here,” an unfamiliar voice announced.  Coming from the faceless form silhouetted against the hall light, it seemed eerily disembodied.  Another chuckle followed, deeper this time.  “Then again, neither is the cop who was standing guard outside your door.”

 

Alarmed, Hutch struggled to sit up, but the barrel of a .38 was suddenly inches from his face. 

 

“I wouldn’t do that, Hammond . . . Hutchinson.  Whatever the hell your name is.”  Leaning forward, the man reached behind Hutch and switched the wall light to its lowest setting.  A soft burst of amber and topaz chased shadows deeper into the room, etching a small circle of illumination around the bed. 

 

Hutch blinked, trying to make sense of the angular face staring back at him . . . at the lanky, shoulder-length brown hair and reed-thin body.  His mind muddled by pain and drugs, he couldn’t quite make the pieces fit.  “Fenton.”  His eyes dipped briefly and he had to fight off the medicated pull of sleep.  “Brian Fenton . . .”

 

The trucker from the Northstar stood, bracing his arms on the metal restraining bar.  “Just this time around.  Real name’s Billy Emerick.  I hear you met my brother.” 

 

The gun pressed into Hutch’s neck.  Though the force wasn’t enough to cause pain, he couldn’t swallow without the barrel digging into the gauze bandage, aggravating the torn skin beneath.  Still sluggish, he considered making a grab for the gun, but knew his reflexes were on low ebb.  Between the stiffness in his muscles, the pain medication, and the residual effects of whatever Emerick had given him, he’d be lucky to blink before Billy got off a shot.

 

The long-haired man seemed to come to the conclusion at the same time.  “Thinking about making a grab for the gun, cop?  I wouldn’t do that if I were you.  See, I set up a little diversion down the hall.”  He dropped his voice slightly as if sharing a secret.  “The poor guy in 231 started having unexplained seizures about five minutes ago.  It’s amazing what a hypo of the right drug can do.”  Smiling thinly, he patted his hip pocket. 

 

Hutch saw the bulk of a syringe through the fabric of his pants.  “What’d you give him?” He winced when the simple action of talking made the barrel of the automatic dig into his neck.   

 

Billy eased back on the pressure.  “Nothing to cause permanent harm.  Just enough to keep the nurses occupied at that end of the building for awhile.  Your cop friend outside the door is in the bathroom, taking a short snooze courtesy of a well-timed head blow.  See, the thing is . . . you make a play for the gun, it’s gonna go off and someone’s gonna come running in here - - nurse, doctor, even another patient.  You wouldn’t want to get anyone shot now would you, Hutchinson?”

 

Trying to buy time, Hutch shook his head.  “What do you want?”

 

Billy guffawed.  “I thought that was obvious.  I mean look at you - - tall, blond, thirty-something and single.  I know you’re single ‘cause I heard you tell that old couple, the Locktons, the other morning at breakfast.  I wouldn’t do in a married man or a guy with kids. See, I got principles.  I chatted with all my victims before I decided to kill ‘em.  Made sure every one of ‘em was single, just like you.  You’re perfect, Goldilocks.  A little too thin, a little too pretty, but I’m willing to overlook your flaws.” 

 

Keeping the gun trained on Hutch, Emerick stepped back from the bed and reached behind him.  One handed, he rummaged through the top drawer of the bedside dresser. In a matter of seconds, he had located Hutch’s clothes and tossed them onto the foot of the mattress.  “Get up, Hutchinson.  Get dressed.  You and I have an appointment in the woods with a hammer and stake.  I might be a hunter, but I do my killing based on the habits of the creatures I track.  The sun won’t be up for another hour, which means we’ve still got time to finish this.  Ironic, huh, that the fair-haired and angelic-looking are really the ghouls and vampires of the world?”

 

Hutch’s head was spinning.  The medication tugged at his senses making everything around him feel like it was unfolding in slow motion.  The debilitating pain in his hip and shoulder incapacitated the entire left side of his body.  Gritting his teeth, he gripped the metal restraining bar and used it to pull himself upright, checking a moan when the pain spiked hotter.  He felt like he was living a Halloween-spawned nightmare, calmly discussing his own gruesomely-planned death with a madman.  Panting, he braced an arm over his abdomen, trying to squelch the flare of pain in his battered hip.  “Billy, you need help.  I’m not a vampire, and neither was Lou Almond.”

 

“So you know about him, huh?”  Emerick’s voice was stronger now, edged with heat.  “Yeah, I need help all right - - help finishing what Van Helsing started centuries ago.  He knew the world needed to be purged of evil, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.  Murph told me everything about you  - - who you are, what you’re doing here, and how he tried to bury you out in the woods so I wouldn’t chase you down with a hammer and stake.  He should’ve known you were meant for me.”

 

Shocked, Hutch raised his head.  “You saw Murphy?”

 

“Yeah, about twenty minutes ago - - right before I blew his fucking brains out.”

 

The words came so matter-of-factly, Hutch wasn’t even sure he heard them.  Appalled, he could only stare in disbelief.  “You killed your own brother?”

 

“Sure, why not?  He screwed up everything.  If he’d stayed out of it, I would’ve done you like the others . . . crept into your room at night through that hidden stairway.  Shot you up with some special juice, then dragged you out into the woods.  That was always the hardest part, but I’m stronger than I look.  By the time you came around, I would’ve had you trussed up and gagged, fully conscious but unable to stop what was happening.”  The gun waved impatiently.  “You’re not getting dressed, Hutchinson.  Don’t make me tell you again.”

 

Wincing with the movement, Hutch shoved the bar down and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  The room tilted crazily and he swayed off balance, darkness eager to swallow his waning consciousness.  He caught himself almost immediately, jarred back to punishing reality.   Unchecked, a moan slipped from his lips. 

 

“Still hurting, huh?”  Emerick’s mouth curled in a savoring sneer.  “Murph really did a number on you.  Too bad he didn’t understand it has to be with a stake.  That’s the only way to kill true evil.  To drive it from the world.  Men like Lou Almond . . .”

 

You mean men like you - - you fucking butcher.  Hutch knew calling out for help would spell disaster for someone else, but he couldn’t see himself trotting off meekly to death.  The best he could do was to play along, bide his time and hope for an opportunity later.  Maybe dressing would limber his muscles and help ease the cramping pain in his hip and shoulder.  Fully conscious of Billy Emerick watching his every move, he tugged on his jeans. 

 

“What did Almond do to you - - aside from getting a promotion and firing you?”

 

“Ain’t that enough?”  The heat was back in Billy’s voice now.  “I was the one who should’ve gotten that promotion.  I was the one who did all the work on the project that got him noticed.  And what did he do - - stab me in the back and take all the credit for himself, the worthless piece of shit!  Then when I told him I was gonna go to the brass with the truth, he up and fired me!  Think I was gonna let the bastard get away with that?”

 

“So you killed him?”  Hutch sat to tug on his socks and shoes.  He panted with exertion, even the slight movement of dressing making him breathe heavily through parted lips. He could feel sweat collecting on the back of his neck, soaking into the fringe of his hair.  His fingers trembled as he tied the laces on his shoes, fatigue making him dangerously light-headed and dizzy.

 

“Yeah, I killed the sonuvabitch,” Billy said flatly.  “But it wasn’t satisfying, you know?  Not ODing him like that.  After I did it, I thought of how I could’ve done it better . . . how I could’ve made him suffer. So I decided to test it out on another ‘Lou.’  That’s when I killed that blond mechanic who was staying at the Northstar.  Afterwards I split town, made it look like I died in that tanker truck fire.  It was an accident . . . poor guy going off the road like that, and since everyone thought I was in that hotel room anyway, I figured it was best to stay dead. No one really checked, and by the time they did, I was halfway across the country.”

 

“Still killing?”  Hutch pulled on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons.  The pain in his shoulder made it nearly impossible to raise his left arm.  Visibly trembling with fatigue, he tried to fasten the shirt, but his fingers felt clumsy and stiff, slick with sweat.  The room was spinning again and he felt close to passing out. 

 

“Still killing,” Billy agreed.  “I didn’t come back for four months.  Got a job as a trucker.  Took me all over the country, so no one could ever pin me down.  I did a guy in Memphis, another in Houston, and one in Albany.  By the time I came back to Cold Harbor, I’d dyed my hair, let it grow long and dropped thirty pounds.  No one even knew who I was.  I camped in the woods . . . that’s how I met that backpacker.  Later when I came back again, I used the staircase from the summer house to take out the guy you call ‘Victim Number Three.’  I’d never posed as a guest before now.  Thought it would be fun to pretend I was a stranger in my own hometown.  Murphy knew everything, of course.  Had it in his head that if he got rid of you, he’d keep me from killing . . . maybe even getting caught.   But I couldn’t have him interfering like that.” 

 

Pausing, he scrubbed a hand over his chin.  In the muted rum-colored light, his eyes gleamed like a cat’s.  “There’s a quarry five miles outside of town.  We used to hang out there was kids, and I figured that’s where he’d head, knowing I’d look for him.”  He shrugged indifferently as if relating the plot of a book he’d read or the ending of a movie.  “Murph thought we’d skip town together, but I blew his head off for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.  Afterward, I weighted his body with rocks and tossed him in the quarry.  So you see, Pig . . . not only do you gotta die, ‘cause you’re just like Lou, but you’re also the reason my brother’s dead, and you gotta pay for that.”  He stepped closer.  “Lay back on the bed.”

 

Caught off guard by the abrupt directive, Hutch glanced up sharply.  “What?”

 

The hand with the gun hurtled downward, cracking across his damaged cheek, driving him to the side.  “I already told you, I don’t like repeating myself.  Now lay the fuck back on the bed!”

 

It wasn’t so much that he decided to obey, that his body couldn’t stay upright any longer.  Hutch crumbled to the side with a barely-audible moan, folding back against the pillow.  He could feel blood seeping beneath the bandage on his cheek, wet and sticky against his skin.  From the throbbing that sent roots to his temple and jaw, he knew the stitches had broken apart.  The shift in position from vertical to horizontal made the room spin and heave.  His stomach lurched to his throat, and he groaned aloud, rolling onto his back, barely conscious that he’d made any sound at all.  His eyelashes dipped as darkness rushed close.

 

“Hutchinson, stay awake.”  A hand tapped his good cheek, not overly hard, but sharply enough to drag him back to full consciousness.  He barely had time to register the sight of Billy Emerick bent over him before the bandage on his neck was ripped away.

 

Hutch gasped. 

 

“Don’t move.”  The barrel of the .38 pressed tightly against his temple.  “Now, since you and I have to walk out of this hospital together, I’m just gonna make sure you don’t get it in your head to try anything stupid.  Keep in mind what I said about innocent people getting hurt.  And if that ain’t enough, this should keep you mellow.” 

 

Emerick raised his right hand, the gun, in his left, still wedged against Hutch’s temple.  Light gleamed off the thin metal tip of a needle. 

 

“No!”  Gut reaction made Hutch jerk despite the pressure of the pistol. 

 

Emerick ground it against his skull.  “You so much as flinch again cop, I’ll blow your brains out right here . . . along with whoever comes running in to see what all the noise is about.  I ain’t gonna give you what Murphy did . . . at least not now.  That’s for later, in the woods.  This is just something to keep you slow and under control while we walk outta here. A standard sedative.  I’d shoot it into your arm, but it ain’t as satisfying as ramming it into your neck.”

 

Hutch tensed, his mind on overload at the thought of more drugs.  His breathing quickened, growing fast and shallow as he struggled to silence his own terror.  This time it was some thug other than Forest, pumping him full of alien shit, making him relive his own worst nightmare.  He felt his skin crawl in anticipation of the cold metal spine invading his flesh, the hot bubble of crude medication surging into his body.  

 

Starsky.

 

His mind went to his friend, to the partner who had helped him survive Forest, the flush of heroin in his veins and the agonizing withdrawal that followed.  He grappled for sanity and calm, but there was only shock and piercing pain as the needle slid into his neck.  Clutching the edges of the mattress, he moaned aloud, too shaken to care that Emerick was probably enjoying his pain.

 

The other man chuckled softly.  He withdrew the needle, sending a thin trickle of blood down Hutch’s throat.  “Now get up,” he was told.  This time he knew better than to make Emerick repeat the command - - especially with the needle still clutched in his hand.  The pressure of the .38 eased from Hutch’s temple and he pulled himself up, almost toppling when the floor reeled beneath him.   

 

Staggering, he reached behind him to grip the bed rail, stunned to find his reaction time had taken another nosedive.  He missed the bar completely, his wrist buckling against the mattress.  Emerick caught him beneath the arm and wrenched him upright, giving him a brutal shake in the process. 

 

“Stay on your feet, Pig.  You screw this up and I swear a lot of innocent people are gonna get hurt.  Now this is the way we’re gonna play it - - ”  He pulled his jacket from the back of the chair and draped it over his arm.  The thick material easily concealed the gun in his hand, hiding it from view.  Hutch felt the muzzle press against his side.  Emerick still had a hand beneath his arm, locking him in place against the compact pistol.  “You’re a little tired, that’s all.  If anyone asks, we’ve been here all night with our brother who’s terminally ill.  You’re not feeling well and I’m taking you home.  You keep close, do what I tell you, and no one else will get hurt.  You got that, Hutchinson?”

 

When Hutch didn’t respond, Emerick gave another brutal shake to his arm, sending a hot barb of pain to his damaged shoulder.

 

“I got that!” he snapped through tightly gritted teeth.

 

“That’s better.  You’ll get used to the way it works - - I ask, you answer.  I tell you to do something, you do it without hesitation.  When we get outside, I’ve got some rope to tie your hands, then you’re going in the trunk of my car.  You fight, you die.  It’s as simple as that.  And don’t worry . . . I was careful to park where no one will see us. I’m thorough, Hutchinson.  Why do you think I’ve never been caught?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know . . .”  Fighting the creeping haze of the drug, Hutch shot him an acid glare.  “Maybe because you’re a fucking psychopath?”

 

Billy grinned.  “Compliments ain’t gonna save you, Pig.”  Roughly, he tugged Hutch forward.  “Get moving.”

 

As they passed the partially open door to the bathroom, Hutch glimpsed a pale white hand stretched limply against the tile floor.  Riley.  Billy said he hadn’t killed the officer, just knocked him unconscious.  Then again, could he really trust anything a serial killer said?  If the man truly was just unconscious, hopefully he’d wake up before much longer and realize what had happened.  Starsky was back at the Northstar or who knew where, chasing down leads on a man who was already dead at the bottom of a quarry, and another who had a gun jammed in Hutch’s side. 

 

I screwed up, Starsk.  Didn’t put the pieces together fast enough.  Didn’t really even try, hung up on Jack and Vegas and how I felt about you.  Shitty police work, that’s for sure.  If this fuck-up ends up killing me, I can’t blame anyone but myself.

 

The hallway was quiet, eerily deserted.  Even the nurses’ station was abandoned, though Hutch could hear frantic voices drifting from the other end of the corridor. Apparently the man in room 231 was still in the throes of seizures, demanding the attention of all available medical personnel.  The main lobby was two flights down, and although the stairs would have been the surest means of avoiding other people, Emerick steered them toward the elevator.

 

Hutch sighed inwardly, grateful for the meager allowance.  He never would have gotten his failing body to make it down the steps.  Even now, waiting for the elevator, he sagged against the wall, barely able to stand on his own.  Emerick’s grip tightened on his arm, forcing him upright, when his knees threatened to buckle.  

 

“Stay on your feet, Hutchinson.”

 

The words seemed to come from a great distance, the sound muddy and hollow in his ears.  “Should’ve thought of that . . . ‘fore you pumped me full of this shit,” he spat, his chin bobbing forward on his chest. The elevator pinged and he jerked back, startled by the sudden sound.

 

Emerick shoved him forward into the empty car, wrenching him to the side when he would have crumbled. “Not too much longer, Goldilocks.”  For the first time, Hutch heard a trace of darkly savoring excitement in his voice.  “You know, I ain’t never done a cop before.  Not even on the road.  You’re gonna be my first.”  He was getting sloppy now, bracing the arm with the gun across Hutch’s chest, pinning him to the wall to keep him upright while he manipulated the “door close” button on the elevator panel.

 

As the doors whisked shut, the elevator gave a slight lurch and Hutch made a clumsy grab for the pistol. The sudden descent hurled his already skewed equilibrium out of control.  He stumbled, crashing into the wall, still grappling for the gun, dragging an enraged Emerick with him.

 

“You idiot!” 

 

An elbow rammed into his gut, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees.   He folded, his body turning traitorous and unresponsive, abused beyond its weakening capacity to fight back. With a groan, he sagged into the corner, sweaty and white with gut-churning fatigue.  Trembling, he splayed his hands against the wall and tried to pull himself up.

 

“I should fucking kill you now for that dumb-assed stunt!”  Emerick exploded.

 

Hutch felt a boot catch him beneath the ribs, lifting him up and driving him back into the corner.  His shoulder and hip hit the wall with enough force to make him choke for air.  Gasping, he slid to the floor, vaguely aware the elevator had descended one level. 

 

“On your feet!” 

 

Emerick’s hand knotted in his hair, dragging his head up.  He heard the urgency in the killer’s voice . . .knew if the doors opened on the main level and he was still sprawled on the floor, they were going to attract attention.  And that was certain to end in disaster.

 

Grunting with effort, Hutch got his legs under him and somehow managed to push upright.  Every muscle in his body protested with pain and fire, sending a punishing series of tremors through his limbs. He swayed dangerously as blood rushed to his head, but Emerick crowded close, pressing him back against the wall, shoving the muzzle of the gun under his chin.

 

“Just for that I’m gonna prolong things when we get to the woods.  Before I’m done making you suffer, you’re gonna beg me to die, cop.”

 

Barely coherent, Hutch focused on the words through a thickening drug-induced haze.  “I think . . .”  he mumbled, dimly conscious the elevator had lurched to a stop.  “It would just be best . . . to end it here.”

 

The light pinged, signaling the lobby.  Emerick whirled at the sound, pivoting toward the doors while hastily trying to conceal the gun.  Released, Hutch felt himself sliding toward the floor, unable to hold himself upright.  The doors jerked apart, overly loud in the night time stillness.

 

Hutch experienced a split second of recognition, shocked to realize someone waited on the other side, impatiently shuffling from foot to foot.  Horrified, he lurched forward, crashing into Emerick even as the man brought his gun up to fire.

 

+++++

 

Starsky was only halfway to the Northstar when he started second-guessing his decision to leave the hospital. True, Murphy and Billy were still roaming around, but all of Cold Harbor was looking for them.  By morning there would be bulletins on the local news and in the papers, making Murphy an easy target for any citizen with eyes. 

 

Hutch, on the other hand, was a mess - - physically and emotionally.  They’d worked out their differences, but leaving him alone with Riley might not have been the smartest thing to do.  Starsky had already screwed up in Vegas, then compounded his mistake by leaving Hutch unprotected in Cold Harbor.  Riley was probably a good cop, but he couldn’t fill the void Starsky did in Hutch’s life.  As low as his partner was feeling right now, battered and in pain, Starsky should have stayed by his side.

 

He could always start searching tomorrow.  The inn would be a mess with Murphy gone and the guests frazzled by what had happened anyway.  He’d already witnessed their frightened agitation earlier when they’d all gathered in the lobby, watching and whispering among themselves as medics had loaded Hutch onto a gurney.  The sirens had dragged them out of bed.  Every single one of them - - the Locktons, the Dugans, Clyde Hale and Fiona Reese . . .

 

He stopped suddenly, his heart thudding against his ribs as he realized Brian Fenton hadn’t been there.  Fenton - - who carried around a well-thumbed paperback edition of Dracula, who could conveniently disappear on the road for months at a time with a truck driver’s schedule.  Mentally, Starsky recounted the scene in the lobby, ticking off everyone who’d been there or who’d stood grouped outside, watching the activity.  Cops, medics, inn guests, but no Fenton.

 

Stone’s men turned that place over top to bottom, looking for Murphy and no one else was there. 

 

Shit!

 

Maybe he was going off the deep end, chasing wild geese and acting on hunches, but he suddenly felt a cold knot form in his gut.  Tammy had dug up a picture of Billy Emerick from Brighton Chemical’s personnel files, and while he looked nothing like Brian Fenton, a change of hair color, thirty pounds and ten months of hard living could make all the difference.

 

And so the hell what if he was overreacting?  If he came off looking an idiot in the name of protecting his friend, he’d do it a thousand times a day, then willingly get in line for more.  He needed to be with Hutch anyway.  To sit by his side and reassure himself the person who mattered most in his life hadn’t ended up buried in six feet of earth.  Just being in the same room . . . watching his partner sleep, listening to the soft exhalation of his breath would go a long way to easing the cramping hole in his gut.  

 

He could call Stone from the hospital, drag the lieutenant’s tight ass out of bed and tell him his suspicions about Brian Fenton.  Tomorrow they could round the trucker up, take him in for questioning and run him through Cold Harbor’s R&I to see what the system spit back.  In the meantime, he could watch over Hutch, maybe even catch a few winks of sleep in the bedside chair. And if he was right and Fenton really was Billy . . . well, he’d be there to make sure a deranged serial killer didn’t pay his ailing partner a visit.

 

Spinning the Jeep around, Starsky headed back toward the hospital.  Nurse Curtis would probably have a few choice words when he showed up again, staking a claim for the night, but he’d dealt with dragon ladies before.  Even imperial nurses.  He and Hutch had enough practice dealing with doctors, hospitals and medics to account for three lifetimes.  Cold Harbor General simply had no idea what they were in for with one mismatched pair of Bay City detectives. 

 

Don’t worry, babe, I’m comin’.

 

It took him another fifteen minutes to reach the parking lot.  It was all but deserted, enabling him to park near the front doors, the only accessible entrance at such a late hour.  Quickly, he sprinted inside, tugging his jacket down to hide the bulk of Hutch’s Magnum still wedged in the back of his belt.  He stopped at the desk, impatiently checking in with a night watchman who questioned anyone’s appearance after visiting hours.  A quick flash of his badge earned him the okay to continue and he trotted down the hall to the main elevators, shuffling from foot to foot as he waited for the car to arrive.

 

4:45 a.m.  Who else could be usin’ the freaking thing?

 

The light blinked signaling the elevator’s arrival and he huffed out a pent-up breath.  Finally!  The doors parted and Starsky impulsively hustled forward, determined to shoulder past whoever dared linger inside.  Shocked, he drew up short at the sight of Hutch sprawled on the floor in the rear corner.  He felt a staggering quicksilver flash as their gazes locked, then Hutch lurched violently to the side. Starsky caught a glimpse of Brian Fenton from the corner of his eye even as the other man hoisted a pistol into the air.

 

Before he could get off a shot, Hutch crashed into him, sending the bullet pinging wide.  Starsky dove to the side, yanking the Magnum from his belt even as he tucked and rolled.  It took only a second to see that Hutch was clear on the ground, Fenton pivoting for another shot.  Jerking to one knee, Starsky pumped off three bullets in quick succession.  Fenton’s body jerked with the brutal impact, thrown backward against the rear wall before slumping lifeless to the ground.

 

“What the hell’s going on here?”  Gun drawn, the night watchman came pounding down the hall.

 

“Call Lieutenant Stone,” Starsky ordered.  “And get someone down here with a body bag.”  Shoving the revolver back into his belt, Starsky sprinted toward Hutch.  He stepped over Fenton’s leg which extended past the elevator shaft, keeping the doors from bumping shut.

 

“Hutch.”  Frantic, Starsky knelt in the cramped car at his partner’s side.  “Buddy, you okay?”  Half frightened to touch his motionless friend, he laid a gentle hand on his good shoulder and was immediately rewarded with a soft moan. “Hutch . . . come on, pal, you’re scarin’ me here.  Tell me what hurts.”

 

Hutch shifted slightly, but didn’t bother raising his head. “ . . . be easier to tell you what doesn’t.”

 

Relieved by the flippant reply, Starsky wheezed out a breath and slid his hand into Hutch’s hair.  If his friend came back with an answer like that, odds were nothing life-threatening was involved.  “Wanna stand up?  Get out of this elevator?”

 

Hutch groaned at the thought.  “I wanna sleep, Starsk.  Fenton  . . . er, Emerick  . . . shot me up with something t’keep me foggy.  Said it was standard stuff.”  He sighed, grunting with effort as he pushed upright and sagged back against his friend.  “Unfortunately, it’s not doing much for the pain.”

 

Starsky flinched, getting his first good look at Hutch since he’d left earlier.  The narrow bandage over his partner’s cheek was saturated with blood, a few spidery trails contouring the curve of his jaw.  The thicker bandage was missing from his neck.  There appeared to be a new hole in the center of his gorily abraded flesh, the puncture wound already caked with dried blood.  His skin was white, blanched to the point of looking shocky, the back of his hair soaked in cold sweat. 

 

“Come on.  Let me get you into the lobby.”  Starsky pulled him to his feet, expecting Hutch to make an effort to follow, but his friend’s lean body went the way of gravity.  It reminded him of the time when he’d found Hutch curled in an alley, panting from the early stages of heroin withdrawal, his muscles unwilling to respond.  Looping both of Hutch’s arms around his neck, he peered into his friend’s unfocused eyes.  “Just hang onto me, okay?”

 

Hutch nodded, his eyelids drooping even as he leaned into Starsky.  He wasn’t heavy by a long shot, but he was still fifteen pounds heavier and two inches taller.  To top it off, he was uncoordinated and cumbersome as hell at the moment. It didn’t matter though.  Starsky wanted him out of the elevator, away from the stench of death and Fenton’s bloody body.  So he’s Billy Emerick after all.  God, Hutch, I should have seen it sooner.  I’m sorry, babe.  Almost got you killed a second time.

 

The thought made him squeeze a little tighter as he pulled Hutch from the elevator toward the nearest vinyl-padded sectional.  His friend gave a soft grunt, half pain, half appreciation as he sagged onto the stiff cushions.  Starsky hovered over him.  “I’m gonna go get you a doctor.”

 

“No.”  Hutch clasped his hand, looking up with shockingly blue eyes.  “Later.  Stay, huh?  I wan’ you with me.”

 

Starsky swallowed hard, moved by the slurred edge in his voice.  After all the screw-ups he’d made he was still the most important element in Hutch’s healing, an insight as staggering as it was gratifying.  Nodding because his throat was too constricted to speak, Starsky sat on the sectional.  His friend crumbled almost immediately, too weak to stay upright, his undamaged cheek coming to rest against Starsky’s thigh.

 

Ten minutes later when Stone barreled through the front door he found them in that same position, Hutch sound asleep, Starsky’s hand threaded into the fine strands of his friend’s flaxen hair.  His own head was tilted back, resting on the rear of the sectional as he tuned out the medical personnel and police who buzzed around them, collecting evidence, bagging Fenton’s body and sealing off the elevator.  After a glance at Hutch and a brief examination to insure the drug was indeed a standard sedative, even Dr. Manning had decided to leave him alone for a few minutes of uninterrupted sleep.    

 

“Stone.”  Starsky raised his head, acknowledging the older man’s presence.  He shifted slightly, realizing his leg was starting to tingle with needles from lack of circulation.  When Hutch moaned softly at the disruptive movement, Starsky dropped a hand onto his shoulder, rubbing soothingly until the muffled agitation faded into silence. 

 

“Looks like Billy Emerick really was our Vampire Hunter,” he said to Stone.  With a jerk of his head he indicated the body bag only now being zippered shut on a metal gurney.  “He was masquerading as Fenton.  Showed up and tried to kill Hutch.  I don’t know all the details, but he shot Hutch full of something to keep him dopey.  They were comin’ down in the elevator when I was goin’ up.  Looks like Billy was plannin’ on takin’ him out into the woods to finish him off.   One of your officers already found rope, a hammer and stake in the trunk of Fenton’s car, parked around the side.”  He grimaced, his eyes dropping to Hutch.  Unsettled, he fingered a stray strand of gold-tipped hair.  “If I hadn’t come back when I did . . .”

 

Stone looked at the sleeping man.  “How is he?”

 

“Doped to the gills.  I think he’s gonna sleep for a week.  Messed up too.  Fenton musta cracked him around some.   Doc Manning’s gotta re-stitch his cheek . . . take care of a couple of other things, but they’re gonna let him rest ‘till they get this mess cleared outta here.”  Starsky raised his eyes, an edge of frost creeping into his gaze.  “So you got your killer and I get to keep my partner.  I just wish this damn case hadn’t been so hard on him.”  His gaze narrowed.  “You owe him, Lieutenant - - a commendation, a letter of appreciation  - - hell, all he really wants from you is ‘a job well done.’  After what he’s been through, I think you owe him that.”

 

The strident tone of his voice made Hutch moan and shift in agitation.  Dragged back to awareness, his eyes fluttered open.  “S-Starsk?”

 

“Ssh, go back to sleep, buddy.”  Mortified to realize his frustration at Stone was responsible for disturbing Hutch, Starsky inwardly cringed.  Immediately refocusing, he scuffed a hand up his friend’s arm, rounding his shoulder and lightly brushing his damaged cheek.  “You’ve got a few minutes till the doc wants to prod you again.  Go to sleep, Hutch.”

 

His partner blinked, blearily focusing on Stone.  “Lieutenant?”  He sounded uncertain, his mind clearly muddled and slow with the taint of Emerick’s sedative. 

 

Starsky chanced a glance at the older man and realized Hutch’s hesitancy had caught him by surprise.  He was more readily accustomed to hostility and arrogance from the blond detective, leaving him at a momentary loss.  “Take it easy, Hutchinson.  Your work’s done here.”  He straightened uncomfortably, clearing his throat.  “Good job.”

 

Hutch chuckled, clearly too tired to focus.  He shifted a little, tucking closer to Starsky, slipping a hand under his knee as though adjusting a pillow.  “My partner told you to say that,” he mumbled. In the next instant he was asleep, his breath a soft constant flow, an unusual contrast when measured against the bands of dried blood still clinging to his jaw and neck.

 

Stone frowned, glancing at Starsky.  “I’ll need a complete statement from him when he’s coherent.”

 

Starsky nodded.  “When he’s coherent, I’ll call you . . . probably 48 to 72 hours. Don’t hold your breath waiting.”

 

It was as kind a dismissal as he could make.  When Stone wandered away to confer with the officers milling around the elevator, Starsky turned his attention back to the man whose head was pillowed on his lap.  He’d come foolishly close to losing him this time and all because neither of them were sufficiently focused on the case . . .most importantly, on each other.  They’d acted separately rather than together, often at odds because of a frustrating failure to communicate in Vegas.  How had he ever let anything - - anyone - - come between him and Hutch?

 

Buddy, I know Jack was your friend.  I should have respected that . . . should’ve known it wouldn’t change anything between us.

 

Sighing, he dropped his head back against the rear of the sectional, his arm slipping forward to hug Hutch closer.  Guess I’m feelin’ overprotective ‘cuz I almost lost you.  That scum, Fenton . . . when I think about what he had planned  . . . what he almost did to you . . .

 

Starsky groaned.  The important thing now was that Hutch was safe.  That they both had a second chance, something he’d never take for granted again.  When Manning appeared ten minutes later and announced it was time to move Hutch, Starsky found himself unwilling to let go.

 

+++++

 

Four days later, Hutch finished dressing, buttoning the windowpane shirt Starsky had brought to the hospital.   Crisscrossing blocks of crimson, yellow and black plaid decorated the soft material, offsetting the dark blue denim of his jeans.  He felt mostly whole again, the drug Emerick had injected him with now completely gone from his system.  The stiffness was slowly receding from his bruised hip and shoulder, though both still flared with occasional bursts of pain when he twisted too suddenly. The bandage on his neck had been removed, revealing skin that was chafed and discolored, the three needle holes on his throat distinguishable as a smattering of small red rings.  Only the thin strip of gauze on his cheek remained, covering Dr. Manning’s carefully repaired stitches.

 

“Ready to go home?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch nodded, grinning openly at his friend.  He knew Starsky already had their car parked outside.  With their cover blown, the dark-haired detective had turned in the Jeep - - guaranteed to produce a jostling ride  - - and had rented a large luxury sedan, courtesy of Stone so Hutch could travel in comfort.  He’d already packed it with their belongings from the Northstar, anxious to head home to Bay City.

 

For his part, Stone had shown up two days ago, intent on securing a complete statement from Hutch.  Afterward the local PD had dragged the quarry, locating Murphy Emerick’s body at the bottom within a scant two hours.  The Lieutenant never actually apologized to Hutch for what he’d endured, but did offer his grudging appreciation for a case closed.  They parted with a handshake and a pointed mutual desire not to cross paths again.  Phone calls to Dobey brought the BCPD captain up to date on the entire case.  As a result, both detectives were extended three days of paid leave before being required to report to work, courtesy of an appreciative police captain who understood Hutch was still healing. 

 

Anxious to leave, he eased into the wheelchair Nurse Curtis had deposited in his room only minutes before.  She’d been insistent he ride down to the main exit rather than walk, but she’d eventually consented to Starsky’s insistence he be the one to push the chair.  Comfortable, Hutch folded his black leather jacket in his lap, content to let Starsky wheel him into the elevator.

 

The moment the doors pinged shut, he experienced a sudden, tight ache in the pit of his stomach.  He recalled the ugly sensation of being trapped inside with Billy Emerick, his mind clouded by drugs, his body barely able to stay upright.  Unconsciously, he groaned, ducking his head and rubbing his temple. 

 

Starsky’s hand slid onto his shoulder, as if he sensed his friend’s distress.   “Almost outta here, Hutch.  Wait’ll you see the car I rented.  Plenty of room for those long legs of yours.  You can sleep on the way home if you want.”

 

“What - - and miss all your riveting conversation?”  Expelling a breath, Hutch raised his head.  “I was hoping you’d talk my ear off on the drive back, buddy.”  He cast Starsky a sideways glance, parting with a shy smile.  “I kinda miss the sound of your voice, even if it does grate on my nerves at times.”

 

Starsky laughed.  “Chatting with Nurse Curtis just ain’t the same, huh?”  The elevator reached the lobby and Starsky wheeled Hutch through the doors.  Outside, his friend climbed from the chair into the waiting car and Starsky passed the wheelchair off to a nearby orderly.  A good five minutes passed before Hutch spoke again. 

 

“Starsk, that night Billy Emerick was killed . . .”  He hesitated, uncertain how to voice the question that had been hovering in the back of his mind.  Most of the night was a blur from the time Emerick had slipped the needle into his neck, but he could vividly recall the doors snapping open to reveal Starsky on the other side.  He remembered trying to shove Emerick out of the way as he’d raised his gun to fire . . . could still hear the familiar roar of his own Magnum . . . remembered clinging to his partner as they’d shuffled out of the elevator together, then later lying curled against his lap. 

 

“What made you come back to the hospital?” he asked.

 

“Huh?”  Starsky looked at him startled.  “Why d’ya think, dummy?  I was worried about you.  And I had a sneakin’ suspicion Fenton might not be who he said he was.  I’d already screwed up leavin’ you alone once.  I wasn’t gonna do that again.”

 

“That wasn’t your fault.”  Hutch shifted uncomfortably, feeling a creeping sluggishness slip into his veins.  It was too early to be tired, but he still grew fatigued easily.  The simple act of dressing had sapped his energy, making him sink deeper into the plush leather seat of the big sedan.  Outside, trees, businesses and homes rushed by in a jumbled blur of color and contrast.  Bright orange pumpkins dotted porches and windowsills alike, dwindling as Victorians and brick duplexes gave way to an occasional gas station or a mom-and-pop shop.  “We wouldn’t have split up to begin with if I hadn’t been so close-mouthed about what was bothering me,” he said to Starsky.  “Next time I won’t be so - -”

 

“Stubborn?”  Starsky grinned.  Palming the wheel, he steered the big car through an S-turn.  “Don’t worry, Blondie.  If Dobey even hints about shippin’ us off somewhere again, I’ll turn in my badge.  Unless it comes attached to something wonderful like a cruise ship or a tropical island, I say all outside trips are off.   There’re plenty of other guys on the force who can set themselves up as bait.  Hey, by the way, did I tell you the Locktons and the Dugans asked about you?  Even Clyde what’s-his-face and that sleazy secretary of his.  You developed a real fan club there, pal.  Today before I came to pick you up at the hospital they were all askin’ about you.  Wanted to know how you were feelin’ and - -”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, sinking further into the seat as his friend droned on about the guests from the Northstar.  Starsky yakking about anything in general was an intrinsic natural part of life.  For too long he’d been without that wonderful sound, strained silence reigning between them.  As far back as Vegas he’d felt the unnatural rift in their friendship.  Contentment and warmth seeped into his veins and he let his head roll to the side.

 

Starsky’s hand settled on his knee.  His friend gave him a light pat then reached up to gently ruffle his hair.  “Go to sleep, babe.”

 

Hutch cracked an eyelid.  “Starsk, I just got up three hours ago.”  He stifled a yawn, tempted by the offer but reluctant to take his friend up on it.  The car swayed through another turn and he sagged to the left, butting up against Starsky.  Before he could think it through, he tucked one leg onto the seat, letting his head come to rest on his friend’s shoulder.

 

“It’s a long drive,” Starsky said neutrally, though he made no attempt to move.  “You look kinda scrunched up like a pretzel, Hutch.  Wouldn’t you be more comfortable stretched out in the back?”

 

Hutch thought it over  . . . how the gloriously roomy back seat of the mammoth car would ease the lingering cramps in his hip and shoulder . . . give him the room to extend his legs.  It would almost be like sleeping in his own bed.  Except it would lack the warmth of the body beside him, something he desperately wanted right now. 

 

Yawning, he shifted slightly, making himself more comfortable.  “No, Starsk, I wouldn’t.  I think I like it fine right here.”

 

He thought he heard a soft chuckle but the motion of the vehicle was already lulling him under.  The hand returned to his knee and stayed, a comforting presence that ushered him toward the blissful oblivion of sleep.

 

 

 

- -  End Hunted - -