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.”