This story is dedicated to friend and beta reader supreme, Theresa K.
who won it in the auction to benefit victims of Hurricane Katrina.
Ever wonder why Starsky had that
cane in the tag of “A Coffin for Starsky?”
Well, Theresa did, and the plot in this story is her explanation of how
he ended up with it. So to my good
friend Theresa—I hope you enjoy what I did with your ideas. Thank you for letting me run with your plot
and thanks as always for your valuable advice (even when you make me go back
and insert a scene . . . which we both know always makes the story better).
The side plot with Hutch is my own, er, um. . . twisted addition. When I started writing this one, I didn’t intend for it to veer in the direction it did. But in the end it meshed with the major threads of the story . . . so there you go! Comments are always welcomed in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net.
Illusions and Secrets
By Kate (CMT)
He’d
never really thought of time as an enemy before, yet for the last 24+ hours
time had been Ken Hutchinson’s primary tormenter, demon, and strangely enough,
beguiling seductress. The latter came
when he’d somehow managed to connect Vic Bellamy, a petty thug and drug dealer
who had injected Starsky with a lethal poison to Dr. Claymore Jennings, a
respected science professor at Gatwood University. Grieving for his dead son, Jennings had placed the blame for his
tragic passing on Hutch and Starsky, singling Starsky out for death by a
painfully destructive toxin. Only at the last minute had Hutch been able to
convince Jennings to part with the combination and dosage he’d used. Up until
that point hope had been an elusive phantom, cruelly mocking him with the
devastating specter of his partner’s murder.
Don’t go there. Not now.
Not when he’s gonna recover.
Exhausted,
Hutch dragged a hand over his face, desperately wanting to believe Starsky
would be fine. Franklin, the doctor in
charge of Starsky’s case was working on an antidote to combat the
injection. He’d even read off the list
of drugs Jennings had used with a half-hopeful smile and faintly reassuring
nod. So what if he had to go consult
with a few specialists? It wasn’t
everyday someone stumbled into the ER after being juiced with a lethal hypo of
synthetically engineered drugs. He
probably just wanted to double-check his facts, make sure the rest of the
brain-trust was in complete agreement with his diagnosis.
Yeah, that’s it. Kick it around with some other
eggheads. Make sure they don’t do
anything to get their butts sued.
Except
it was Starsky. His partner. His friend.
The
other half of his soul.
Hutch
swore softly, distressed to realize his hands were trembling. Just yesterday he couldn’t fathom the
possibility of living so abominable a nightmare - - one that left him screaming on the inside even as he tried to
project an outward aura of calm, if only for his partner. Yet as the twenty-four hour deadline passed
and Starsky continued to breathe, to live,
he found his own fragile control threatening to crack. If the nightmare was really over, why
couldn’t he see his partner? Why was he
stuck pacing in a desolate hallway while a grim-faced group of doctors and
nurses converged on Starsky like a flock of highly agitated birds?
What’s taking Franklin so
fucking long?
Restless,
Hutch paced off a small circle. They’d
hustled him out of the exam room twenty minutes ago, leaving him to drown in
his own misery as he conjured frightful image after frightful image of his
partner lying helpless and still on a narrow bed, IV tubing, monitors and
abhorrently clinical equipment clustered around him.
Starsky’s
unnatural stillness terrified Hutch.
Normally his excitable partner was the epitome of movement even when
resting. Starsky was all about
impulsive energy, childlike enthusiasm . . .
life. Yet over the last twenty-four hours Hutch had watched that
passion slowly bleed out of him like a once bright light dimming in his
eyes. The loss left Hutch feeling cold
inside, nauseatingly empty, as if nothing could ever fill his soul again. Except it wasn’t over, it hadn’t ended. The twenty-four hour deadline had come and
gone and Starsky was still alive.
Unconscious and in a hospital bed, but he was alive and wasn’t that the only fucking thing that mattered?
Time to wake up,
Starsk. The good guys were supposed
to win this one . . . walk off into the sunset to a chorus of happily-ever-afters,
having beaten the odds just like in the old Hollywood westerns. Good triumphing over evil, faith over
adversity, friendship over . . .
You’re my pal, Hutch.
Oh
shit, why did he have to remember that now?
He
blinked hard. Their conversation at Metro came back to him with a suddenness
that made his eyes burn. If he didn’t get his act together soon, he’d end up
sobbing, broken by the effortless love and trust Starsky had shown in that
moment when they’d clasped hands.
Bracing his arm against the wall, Hutch hung his head.
If this were a cowboy movie
I’d give you my boots.
He
could still see the look on Starsky’s face, his features ravaged and hollow,
streaked with sweat, a heartfelt smile lifting one corner of his mouth. He could feel the warm pressure of his
partner’s fingers clasped in his, Starsky’s voice a cherished echo in his
head: You’re my pal, Hutch.
“Then
don’t leave me,” Hutch whispered out loud.
For the last twenty-four hours he’d been on a sadistically fickle
rollercoaster - - one that tossed him between the giddy peaks of hope and
wretched valleys of despair. One minute
he was convinced Starsky was going to live, the next he was terrified his
friend would die. And the thought of
that absolute separation, of finite and overwhelming loss, was far more painful
than anything he’d ever known.
Angrily
he’d shoved the fear aside. Franklin
was working on an antidote. Starsky was
going to live. If only - -
His
head jerked up sharply as the doors to the exam room swung open and Franklin
appeared on cue. It had been a long
night for the doctor too, evidenced by the drawn lines of his face, the rings
of shadow beneath his red-veined eyes.
Spying Hutch, he adjusted his glasses, allowing himself a small sigh.
“Well?” Hutch snapped anxiously, stalking
closer.
Franklin
shrugged. Behind him the door swung
open again. Two of the specialists
called in for consultation moved off down the hall, talking quietly, heads bent
together. Their hushed solemnity sent a
stab of fear knifing through Hutch.
Frantic, he looked back toward Franklin. “Doctor - -”
“It’s
all right, Detective.” Franklin held up
a hand at the edge of restrained hysteria in Hutch’s voice. “Your friend is still unconscious, but we’ve
initiated the first stages of treatment for his recovery. After consulting with Doctors Meddinger and
Cole, we believe the best approach is a series of timed injections.”
Hutch
flinched. “More injections? Doctor, he
just went through - -”
“I’m
well aware of what he’s been through,” Franklin inserted calmly. Taking Hutch by the sleeve he steered him
away from the door where nurses and medical personnel now breezed in and out
with crisp efficiency. The sudden
activity in the previously deserted hallway made Hutch glance worriedly toward
the exam room.
“The
compound your friend was injected with consists of four chemicals,” Franklin
announced neutrally, snagging Hutch’s attention once again. “ - - 2cc’s hydrochloride, 1cc bromoacetone,
4cc’s benzylcyanide, 1cc diphenylamide.
The combination was specifically designed to slow respiratory and
circulatory functions while causing damage to major muscle groups and
life-sustaining organs, eventually resulting in total collapse. We feel the best way to neutralize its
effects is through a series of three targeted injections. We’ve already given your friend the first by
intravenous application. It should
gradually counteract any harm to his respiratory system. Because of the
complexity of the original compound, we’ll wait thirty minutes before
proceeding with an intramuscular injection to help boost his circulatory
system. Your partner’s body is on
overload right now. Another drug, even
an antitoxin could produce an adverse chemical reaction resulting in physical
trauma at this point. The human body
can only take so much before shutting down completely. Do you understand, Detective?”
“Yeah
. . . okay.” Hutch’s voice sounded
thick and strangled even to his own ears.
He flexed his hands to still their trembling, shaken to realize there
was no miraculous cure for Starsky. Not
even after he’d managed to nab the hypo from Jennings. What
the hell good did it do, he wanted to scream, but bit back his frustration
and fear. He swallowed hard, visibly
fighting for composure. “What about the
third injection?”
Franklin
drew a breath. “That will be the
deciding factor as to whether the antitoxin is successful. Assuming Detective Starsky tolerates the
first two injections without trauma, we’ll proceed by administering the third
directly into his spine.”
Hutch
blanched.
“I
realize that may sound excessive, Sergeant,” Franklin rushed to explain, noting
his reaction, “But it’s the only effective means of counteracting the poison
benzylcyanide. You have to understand
these injections are essentially restoring your friend’s life in the same
gradual manner it was nearly taken from him.
My colleagues and I strongly feel we’ve come up with the most viable
means of treatment, but we’re basically battling an unknown. As in any medical procedure, there are risks
and elements beyond our control. While
we have a basic grasp of how the compound affected your partner’s chemistry, we
can’t accurately gauge the extent of the damage. It’s one of the reasons we’re spacing the injections at thirty
minute intervals.”
“And
if he has an adverse reaction?”
Franklin
wet his lips. “That’s one of the
unknowns I was talking about, Detective.”
His eyes darted nervously away before returning to Hutch’s face. “Perhaps you should consider medicine is
sometimes equal parts science and equal parts faith.” Raising his arm, he cast a quick glance at his watch. “It’s already been ten minutes. We don’t normally allow guests in the exam
rooms, but if you’d like to sit with him for a brief time, I’ll allow it. Perhaps it will do you both a bit of good.”
Hutch
nodded, his throat too tight to speak.
Miracles weren’t supposed to come with attached strings, what ifs, and
unknowns. He thought he’d saved the
day, hell he’d thought he’d saved his
partner by getting that hypo from Jennings, but he was back among a muddle
of gray and grim warnings again. He
turned toward the door, his feet dragging as he stepped closer. Five minutes ago he’d wanted to barrel
inside, shoving nurses and doctors out of the way so he could reach
Starsky. Now he was terrified,
frightened by what he might see, by the crawling fear in his gut that had
spooned itself around Franklin’s bleak words.
Drawing
a breath, he batted the swinging door aside and slipped into the room. The first thing he heard was the steady beep
of a monitor followed by the slither and hiss of the breathing apparatus
cocooned over Starsky’s face. Hutch
grimaced, hating the sight of the wretched machine, stricken by the dizzying
knowledge it was breathing for his friend.
It didn’t seem possible a healthy thirty-one-year-old streetcop could be
reduced to a fragile shell in a hospital bed in a matter of twenty-four hours. He blinked, feeling the emotional burn in
his eyes again as he took in the rest of the room - -
A
nurse and a lab tech were huddled over a monitor in the corner. They glanced once in his direction but
quickly dismissed him, engrossed in the charts they were comparing. Pieces of medical tape and tubing lay
scattered on the counters, along with scissors, swabs, a discarded stethoscope,
gauze pads, and a handful of empty vials commonly used for blood samples. A single IV dripped clear liquid into
Starsky’s limp left arm through a needle taped to the back of his hand. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his
bicep, the ends draped over the bed.
The rail on the left side had been raised to keep him from falling, but
the right was lowered to accommodate a squat heart monitor placed on the foot
of the bed. Wires ran from its base to
the nodes taped to his bare chest, the hospital sheet bunched down around his
waist.
Hutch
took a faltering step forward, anxiously wanting to touch, frightened even that
light contact might somehow make Starsky worse. Desperation won out in the end.
Wordlessly, he hovered over his partner, curling his fingers around
Starsky’s limp right hand. “Starsk . .
.” His voice was strained, barely
audible in the quiet room. There was no
reaction, reality all the grimmer for Starsky’s lack of response. Franklin said ten minutes had already
passed. Twenty yet remained for fate to
decide their course.
Hutch
swayed briefly, leaning into the bed as dizziness washed over him. Emotion, adrenalin and tightly-strung nerves
stretched him dangerously close to the breaking point. His fingers tightened on Starsky’s
wrist. In some detached corner of his
mind he realized he should have called Dobey and brought the captain up to date
on this latest round of twists and turns.
The older man had headed home shortly after Hutch had returned to the
hospital with Jennings’ compound, convinced Starsky would be fine.
There
was a cruel lesson in there somewhere about counting chickens before they were
hatched. Someone brought him a chair,
and he eased into it with a vacant nod of gratitude, never releasing his hold
on Starsky. Eventually he’d get around
to Dobey. Right now all he wanted to do
was cling to his partner, glued by the steady life-affirming pulse beneath his
fingertips.
“Starsk?” Hutch smoothed his thumb over the inside of
Starsky’s arm, willing the heavily lashed eyes to open. But there was only a frightful stillness in
the face he knew so well, the head tilted slightly back, black curls lying
loose and askew on Starsky’s forehead.
With his free hand, Hutch gently touched his partner’s cheek, blotting
out the ugly sight of the breathing apparatus.
“Buddy, I don’t know if you can hear me, but it’s gonna be okay
now. You just hang in there and let the
doctors do their thing.” His voice
quavered, his fingers trembling even as they lightly contoured the curve of
Starsky’s cheek.
Oh, damn, babe, why are you
so freaking still? Why won’t you open
your eyes . . . look at me? If I could
breathe for you . . . give you my lungs, my heart . . . Starsk, if I could only
take your place, I would.
Saddened,
Hutch hung his head. His eyesight
blurred again and he stubbornly willed the tears away, knowing if he lost it
now he’d never stop crying. Better to
turn his mind elsewhere, to look inward and embrace the hope that Starsky would
survive, that in a short while he’d have his partner back. His fingers tightened, wrapping firmly
around Starsky’s forearm, bonding them flesh to flesh as his mind wandered back
through time . . .
“If I could take your
place,” Starsky said with a grin, “You know I would.”
“Yeah, right.” Exhaling loudly, Hutch tilted his beer glass
watching the amber liquid slosh against the side. With the prospect of two days
off he could already feel knots of tension unraveling from his body. Most
rookie cops had to go through the ropes, but Hutch’s partner, Anthony “Vlad”
Impala, was doing his diabolical best to publicly hang Hutch with them. As much
as he loved being a cop, the prospect of another day getting browbeaten by
Impala had him questioning the wisdom of leaving medical school.
“It’s just’ cuz you’re - -”
“I’m what?” Hutch snapped, shooting an acid glare at his
friend. He already knew what Starsky was going to say. He’d heard it from the other cops on the force,
rookies and seasoned officers alike.
He’d even heard it from his instructors at the Academy until they
realized what he could do in hand-to-hand combat, let alone with a revolver. But he was getting sick of constantly having
to prove himself, especially with Impala riding his ass day after day. Even now
he could hear the older man’s snide voice in his head as the grizzled veteran
let loose with a string of belittling remarks:
“ .
. . Hey, Hutchinson, you wanna stop at the beauty salon . . . maybe fix your
hair before we go on patrol?”
“ .
. . Hey, Hutchinson, you hear the one about the pretty blond cop who took a
wrong turn on his way to the Country Club?”
“ .
. . Hutchinson, Drake says he saw you
moonlightin’ as a security guard for some retail dive, but I told him he hadda
be wrong. Everyone knows exotic dancer
at a male strip club is more your style . . .”
That one still made his face
flame red, especially when he recalled the hoots and catcalls it incited from
his fellow officers. “All in good fun,”
a fellow rookie had tried to assure him, but the truth was the others were
simply glad Impala had chosen someone else as the butt of his degrading
jokes. Not to mention the way the
bastard treated him in front of other officers and even perps. He was constantly talked down to, constantly
given the shit and grunt work, then left to fend on his own if a situation
smelled remotely of danger.
“Vlad the Impaler,” the
scathing fifty-one-year-old was commonly called around the precinct. He took perverse delight in mercilessly
riding rookie officers, even having caused a few to wash out prematurely. But none seemed to give him the same vicious
satisfaction as humiliating Hutch.
“Stinkin’ blond pretty boy,”
he’d once heard Impala grumbling to the desk sergeant. “You believe they saddled me with a
panty-ass fag like that? Probably tear
up and bawl for his mom we ever get into any real trouble.”
“He doesn’t seem that bad to
me,” the desk sergeant had countered.
“Tops in his class at the Academy, second in marksmanship. Bailey rode with him last week while you
were out sick and said the kid’s got a real head on his shoulders. Gutsy too.”
“Bailey’s an ass.”
And so the conversation
went, Impala’s insults growing nastier by the moment. He’d been crueler than usual when they’d eventually gone on
patrol, purposefully stranding Hutch at an abandoned warehouse after they’d
chased some vagrants away. He’d been
forced to walk six blocks in one of the worst sections of the city in order to
find a phone and call in for help.
Impala had turned the whole thing around, degrading him for getting
“lost” and having to be rescued like a kid in the woods. The mortifying experience had resulted in
more laughter and ribbing from his fellow officers.
“Look, Hutch . . .” Starsky shrugged, clearly
uncomfortable. “Impala’s a creep. We all know that. Personally I think the bastard should be drummed outta the force,
but it ain’t my decision to make. In
the meantime, well, you know . . . you sort of got that Ivy League
jock-looking-thing going on. It ain’t
that you’re pretty exactly . . .”
Hutch quirked a brow,
deciding he’d had enough and it was high time to have some fun of his own. “So you think I’m ugly?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then you think I’m pretty?”
Starsky flushed. “No, you ass, I didn’t say that either.”
Hutch feigned
confusion. “Well, not that I’d go out
with you Starsk, but on a scale of one to ten, one being toad-ugly and ten
being Greek God status, where would you say I - -”
“Hutchinson, shut the fuck
up!”
Hutch grinned, enjoying his
friend’s flustered agitation. They’d
only known one another since the Academy but their friendship had been quickly sealed
within a few weeks. Hutch figured he’d
eventually survive Impala as long as he could complain to Starsky every now and
then, unwinding with a beer when the shame became too great. The other rookies told him it was “all in
fun” but Starsky took Impala’s continued attempts to humiliate Hutch
personally.
Still grinning, the
blond-haired man cocked his head. “So
would you really change places with me, Starsk? Go up against Vlad the Impaler?”
“You kiddin?” Starsky
snorted. “The creep wouldn’t know what
hit ‘im. He can’t pull that blond and
pretty shit on me - -”
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” A
mischievous smile flitted over Hutch’s lips.
“I’d give you an 8 out of 10.
Maybe 9 if you combed your hair.”
“Forget it, Blondie. You ain’t my type. ‘Sides I got a feelin’
Vlad’s gonna ease up on you. Maybe even
trade you off for another partner.”
“You’re dreaming.”
Starsky shrugged, draining
the last of his beer. “You wan’
another? I’m buyin’.”
“Sure, why not?” Hutch shrugged a little despondently as
Starsky got up and walked toward the bar to get them another round. The long day and longer week was starting to
catch up with him, prompted by the welcoming company of his friend and the
dulling haze of two beers. Ducking his head, he rubbed his eyes and stifled a
yawn, slouching deeper into the padded bench seat of the booth. He was letting his gloom roll over onto
Starsky and that was out of line. His friend had invited him out for a drink,
not to listen to him moan about how unfair it was that he’d been partnered with
a slob like Impala.
“Hey, you - - pretty boy.”
Hutch jerked his head up,
surprised to find Impala standing at the corner of the booth. It wasn’t unusual for off-duty cops to
wander into the bar, but it was a little out of the way for most of them. The last person he expected to see in a
semi-questionable establishment like “Huggy’s” was a dyed-in-the-wool bully
like Impala.
“What’cha doin’ here,
boy?” Impala’s lips curled in a
condescending grin. “Pimpin’ for a
mark?”
Hutch felt his face flame
red.
“Well, if he was, he sure
wouldn’t be lookin’ to score with a butt-ugly slug like you.” Starsky’s voice was sudden and sharp,
delivered with the biting crack of a whip.
Impala jerked to look over his shoulder, startled to find Starsky behind
him, a beer in each hand.
“Just in case that went over
your pointy head, genius,” Starsky continued in the same cutting tone, “This is
a closed party. Take a hike.” Shouldering past the older man, he slid into
the booth, shoving Hutch’s beer across the table towards him.
Seething to be dismissed so
bluntly, Impala looked down his hooked nose at the dark-haired cop. His face, already flushed by too much
alcohol, had grown a shade darker. It
turned his black, flinty eyes to ice, accentuating the bristled cut of his
closely-shaven hair. “Starsky, ain’t it?
More rookie shit. Yeah, I heard
about you - - the loudmouthed one. Glued to Hutchinson’s side like gum to a hot
street.”
“Well, I ain’t payin’ for
it, if that’s what you mean.”
Hutch groaned. “Starsky - -”
Impala snickered. “I figured that was the way of it, him
looking like he does.” He gave a jerk
of his head to indicate Hutch, but his eyes stayed on Starsky. “I’m thinking I oughta share that around the
precinct. Cops got a right to know when
one of their own likes it A/C, D/C.”
“Probably.” Starsky took a swig of beer. Rather than look at Impala, he kept his eyes
trained across the table on Hutch.
“Never know what you’d find on a guy like that . . . photos in his
locker . . . probably enough to destroy a career. ‘Course if he were to back off, use better judgment, that might
all go away.”
Impala’s face drained of
color. “You little shit - -”
Confused by a conversation
he couldn’t follow, Hutch cleared his throat.
“Impala, maybe you should - -”
“Go impale something, Vlad,”
Starsky spat suddenly. “And keep your
freakin’ distance.” He leveled a glare
on the older man, his voice dripping with acid. “I ain’t gonna be plainer than that. Slips of the tongue got a
way of happenin’ when you mess with a guy’s friend. You hear what I’m sayin’?”
With a violent curse, Impala
turned and stormed off into the distance.
Bewildered, Hutch looked at Starsky.
“What was that all about?”
“Nuthin.” Starsky scowled. “The man’s just scum.
Stay clear of him.”
Hutch laughed. “Love to, but scum or not, he’s my
partner. I’m stuck with him.”
Starsky shrugged. “Things got a way of turnin’ upside down
when you least expect ‘em to, Blondie.”
“Yeah . . . well, you didn’t
do me any favors just now. Why’d you
have to go and make that crack about not paying for it? The guy already thinks I’m a - -”
“Hutch.” Starsky cut him off, his glance strangely
direct. “Forget it, will ya? He ain’t gonna be botherin’ ya anymore.”
Suddenly suspicious, Hutch
narrowed his eyes. “What does that
mean?”
Slouching back in his seat,
Starsky rolled his shoulders, affecting nonchalance. “Nuthin’. Just don’t go
near him if you can help it. I don’t want
you around him, okay?”
“Like I wanna be around him? Starsky, what
the hell did you do?”
The
memories trailed away into a fog. Hutch
dragged his free hand over his face.
His right was still wrapped around Starsky’s wrist, clinging for all he
was worth. The image of that long-ago
bar slowly faded from his mind as the grim reality of the present returned in
shocking clarity. Yeah, things had a
way of turning upside down when you least expected them to - - like when some
two-bit hood shot your partner full of lethal poison then got himself pumped
full of holes by that same self-sacrificing idiot.
Ahh, buddy, why’d you have
to do that?
Time
was getting tangled for him . . . the memory of Starsky shooting Bellamy on the
rooftop . . . the faded recollection that Impala had requested a new partner
the very next day after that strange confrontation in the bar . . . the
sibilant beep of the heart monitor assuring him Starsky was alive and
breathing.
Breathing. On his own.
Hutch
gave a startled jerk, shocked to realize the breathing apparatus had been
removed. Starsky looked almost
peaceful, his head turned to the side.
He breathed comfortably, his chest rising and falling with each gentle
inhalation of breath. Hutch glanced
around the room, saw Franklin standing in the corner talking to one of the
other doctors.
Had
he really been that far gone, immersed in the membrane of his own thoughts that
he’d been unaware when they’d removed the breathing equipment? What kind of partner was he . . . selfishly
inattentive, wrapped up in his own miserable memories when his partner and best
friend was fighting for his life?
Leaning
forward, he swiped a thumb over Starsky’s brow, pleased to note a slight flush
of color in his cheeks. “Doctor?” He spoke without moving, his gaze riveted on
Starsky. “Has it been thirty minutes
yet?”
“Thirty-three,” Franklin informed him from across the
room. “We’re preparing the next
injection now.”
Hutch
breathed a little easier. One down, two
to go. Come on, buddy, I know you can do this. His fingers tightened, silently pleading to feel return pressure
on his hand, but Starsky’s grip remained slack.
It’s okay, Hutch tried to reassure
himself. He’ll be coming around any minute now once the injections start to do
their job. It was simply a waiting game, praying that Starsky’s body was
strong enough to absorb the antitoxins without reaction. Looking at his friend,
at the abhorrently still body entombed in the bed, Hutch paused to consider the
hell Starsky had been through. He
couldn’t even begin to fathom the pain, let alone the fear and psychological
trauma of impending death. A little
over forty-eight hours ago they’d been watching a ball game, eating pizza and
drinking beer in Starsky’s apartment.
Twenty-four hours ago they’d been trying to catch a madman while
contemplating the very real possibility of Starsky’s death.
Irritated,
Hutch tugged at the collar of his black turtleneck. It suddenly occurred to him
that his father might have some valuable insight into Starsky’s recovery. His relationship with Grant Hutchinson was
strained, but there was no question his father was a brilliant surgeon,
consulting on difficult cases throughout the country. They didn’t talk much anymore, at least not since Hutch had dropped
out of medical school and altered career paths to become a cop. Usually when they did speak their
conversations deteriorated into shouting matches, followed by long periods of
silence. He hadn’t spoken to his father in at least three months but if it meant
helping Starsky, he’d swallow his pride and pick up the phone that morning.
“Detective
Hutchinson, I think you should leave now.”
Hutch
raised his head to find Franklin at his shoulder. His hand was still wrapped tightly around Starsky’s, the steady
thrum of his partner’s pulse a constant assurance beneath his fingertips. Across the bed, a nurse swabbed a cotton
ball against Starsky’s arm, injecting him with a hypo of amber-colored liquid.
Hutch
winced at the sight of the needle, the memory of Forest, Monk and his forced
heroin addiction only a few months old.
Turning his head slightly, he gazed up at Franklin. “That’s the second injection?”
Franklin
nodded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “To help alleviate the strain to his
circulatory system. We’ll wait another
thirty minutes to make sure he doesn’t react to it. If he responds as well as he did to the first injection, the
third should be relatively free of risk.
It’s probably best if you leave now . . . maybe grab a cup of coffee
from the cafeteria or the vending machine in the waiting room. I can have a nurse give you an update as
soon as we know more.”
Hutch
turned his attention back to Starsky.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Franklin
blinked, taken aback by the flat refusal.
“Detective . . . Sergeant Hutchinson . . . I’m afraid you don’t
understand. In order to properly
monitor your friend, we need complete - -”
“I
won’t get in your way,’ Hutch said in the same flat tone, refusing to look at
the doctor. The tightness was back in
his throat, plummeting deeper into his gut.
With his free hand he traced a soothing line up and down Starsky’s bare
arm. “You said these injections are
going to bring him slowly back, right?”
Flustered,
Franklin nodded. “Yes, but - -”
“Then
he’s going to wake up gradually . . . a little bit at a time?”
“Yes. Limited awareness followed by a measured
increase as the antitoxins destroy the chemicals in his body.”
“What
about pain?” Hutch asked. He looked to the side but still didn’t raise
his head. His whole body tensed as he
waited for the answer, dreading the response.
“Is he going to feel pain, Doctor?”
Franklin
sighed. “I’m afraid we can’t prevent
that. To administer something to offset his discomfort would only dilute the
effects of the antitoxins. There’s no
way of gauging how much pain he’ll be in.”
“Then
I’m not going anywhere,” Hutch said
quickly. He felt a slight spasm in the
arm beneath his hand and looked sharply at Starsky. The heavy black line of his friend’s lashes fluttered, a barely
audible moan slipping from his lips.
Hutch
stopped breathing. “Starsky?”
Franklin
was past him in an instant, checking pulse, calling for a BP reading. Hutch watched as the doctor lifted Starsky’s
eyelids, flashing a penlight into first one pupil, then the other. For a brief period Hutch was shuffled out of
the way as Franklin and a group of nurses converged on the bed, calling out
readings, conferring among themselves.
The prognosis seemed good, despite the fact Starsky appeared
agitated. His eyes never opened, but
slow spasms began in his limbs, making him twitch even as the medical staff
fussed over him. Another moan came from
the bed and Hutch bit his lip, fighting the urge to shoulder his way back to
his friend’s side.
Eventually
the nurses parted, and even Franklin stepped back, dragging a hand over his
face with a fatigued sigh. Hutch moved swiftly
back to the bedside, reaching for Starsky’s right hand even as it twitched on
top of the bedcovers. Starsky’s breath
came harsher now, interspersed with deep-throated groans and fitful movement.
Concerned,
Hutch shot a frantic glance at Franklin.
“Doctor, what’s wrong with him?
Is he having a reaction to the injection?”
Franklin
shook his head. “The antitoxin is
dragging him back toward consciousness.
Unfortunately, as I explained earlier, there is an inherent level of
pain with the return of awareness. Perhaps now you understand why we don’t like
to have family or friends in the exam rooms.”
Hutch
ducked his head, trying to hold his anxiety in check. “I won’t get in the way,” he promised. He dragged the plastic scoop-backed chair he’d been using earlier
closer to the bedside, forcing himself to breathe deeply, manually calming his
rattled nerves. He knew Franklin could
kick him out in a heartbeat. Determined
to stay on the doctor’s good side, he concentrated on Starsky.
It
was hard holding his emotions in check with Starsky shifting so restlessly,
those miserable groans of pain ripped from his throat every few seconds. Ohgod,
buddy, if I could only take your place I would. Gripping Starsky’s right hand in both of his, he leaned closer to
the bed, hoping that somewhere through the muddle of pain and returning
consciousness, Starsky would know he was there.
“Easy,”
he breathed. “Starsk, I’m right here with you.
Take it easy, buddy. I know it
hurts, but it’s gonna get better.” One
hand left Starsky’s long enough to reach up and stroke through the loosely
tumbled curls on his forehead. Hutch’s
touch lingered . . . feather-light, gentle, as softly soothing as his voice. “Buddy, you’re gonna get through this. I promise you, Starsk. Hang in there with me, babe.”
His
hand slid to Starsky’s shoulder. He
suddenly realized the heart monitor had been removed, apparently shuffled aside
in the last flurry of activity.
Reaching for the sheet bunched around Starsky’s waist, Hutch dragged it
higher over his chest. His fingers
immediately returned to his friend’s grip, clinging hand-to-hand as they had in
Metro some eight hours before.
You’re my pal, Hutch.
Once
again the memory of Starsky’s words made his throat constrict. He could still remember how Starsky had
tugged that silly blue dog from his top desk drawer. The ridiculously childish toy fit with his partner . . .
innocence and steel, woven so tightly together Hutch was often unsure which was
more dominant. How could he ever hope to
survive without that wondrously complex influence of vulnerability and grit in
his life?
Another
groan from the bed and his heart dropped to his stomach. This time Starsky’s hand tightened over his,
holding fast. Hutch opened his mouth to
speak, found that the words wouldn’t come.
Somewhere in the background he knew Franklin and two of the nurses
remained in the room, silently watching the bald-faced clock on the wall, the
restless stirring of the man on the bed . . . counting down the slowly-ticking minutes
until they could all breathe easier.
Hutch held fast to Starsky’s hand, determined that if nothing else, his
friend would realize he wasn’t alone . . .
“What’s this? Didn’t think I’d ever find you alone without
that smart-assed partner glued to your side, Hutchinson.”
Startled by the unexpected
voice, Hutch glanced over his shoulder.
Stationed at the filing cabinet just inside the squadroom door, he’d
been rifling through a series of folders on past offenders, hoping to find one
that might tie in to his present case with Starsky. The room was deserted, pared down to a skeleton crew for
Christmas Eve. Even Starsky was off,
visiting his mother in New York, but Hutch simply didn’t have the stomach to go
home to Duluth. Since he’d made
detective, his already strained relationship with his father had deteriorated
further. As a result he’d volunteered
to work the holidays. Phil Baker was
sharing shift with him, but he was off down the hall flirting with the female
officer manning the front desk.
“Impala.” Hutch blinked, shocked to find the older man
standing behind him. Piped in music
provided an instrumental version of O’Come All Ye Faithful through overhead speakers, a tune that
seemed dreadfully out of place given Impala’s hateful glare. “What are you doing here?”
Hutch cringed at his own
stupidly voiced question. He hadn’t
seen his old partner since Impala had transferred to the 61st
shortly after that strange encounter in Huggy’s bar. His abrupt presence caught Hutch reeling completely off
guard. How many years ago was
that? Four? Five? Apparently nothing
much had changed for the older man. He
was still wearing blue, still driving a patrol car, but if precinct scuttlebutt
was to believed, had stopped being partnered with rookie officers years ago.
“I’m looking for Baker,”
Impala said coldly. “He wanted information on a pusher my partner and I picked
up. See, we do all the grunt work for
you glory hounds in plain clothes. Even
rich, pretty jerk-offs who never shoulda gotten Rank.”
Hutch ignored the slur. Pulling three folders from the cabinet, he
shoved the drawer closed. “Baker’s down
the hall. Check the front desk.” Determined not to be baited into trading
insults, he started back toward his own desk, head bent as he flipped through
the top folder. Five years ago he’d
been nervous and unsure of himself around Impala, now the man just grated on
his nerves. Seeing him again brought
back a horde of unpleasant memories, including the deliberate humiliation and
constant badgering Impala had put him through.
There’d always been something a little “off” in the way Impala had
watched him, a sensation that made his skin crawl. He felt it now as the older cop’s eyes tracked him across the
room.
Impala stayed near the door,
but his face grew mottled. It didn’t
take a genius to see he was irked by Hutch’s refusal to rise to the verbal
bait. “So where’s that shithead partner
of yours, anyway?”
“I wouldn’t know, since I
don’t have a shithead partner.” Still
outwardly calm, his voice neutral, Hutch slid into the chair behind his
desk. “If you mean Starsky, he’s on
vacation.” The piped in music shifted
melodies, easing into an instrumental rendition of The Little Drummer Boy. Hutch
sighed, irritated to realize there was still so much hostility between himself
and Impala, when he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it in the first
place. It was almost Christmas, a time
for good will and forgiveness. How
could one man still harbor such intense dislike for him five years after the
fact? To the best of his knowledge,
he’d never done anything to warrant the hate.
“You ain’t always gonna have
Starsky to look out for you, Hutchinson,” Impala announced suddenly. He moved closer to the desk, his large frame
filling the room. He’d grown soft
around the middle, his fleshy gut strained against an ample-sized belt. Even his jowl was flabby, bloated by an excess
of alcohol, fatty foods and too little exercise. Despite the changes, his eyes hadn’t lost their malicious edge or
the cutting way in which they raked over Hutch. “I shoulda kicked that little shit’s ass for what he did, ‘cept
getting transferred to the 61st was the best thing that ever
happened to me. Got me away from a fag rookie
partner.”
Hutch bit back a flare of
anger, deliberately holding his temper.
Beneath the rage was a burgeoning
flicker of alarm. He’d always
felt Starsky was somehow responsible for Impala’s request for a different
partner all those years ago . . . possibly even for the man’s sudden
transfer. He’d asked his friend about
it a number of times, but on each occasion Starsky had simply shrugged it off,
always ending by telling Hutch to “stay away from the creep.”
“What do you mean ‘what
Starsky did.’?” Hutch’s eyes
narrowed. He’d long believed there was
something his friend wasn’t telling him.
Something that went beyond what he suspected was Starsky’s deliberate
interference between a senior officer and his inexperienced rookie partner.
Impala snorted. “What’s the matter, Hutchinson? Your Jew friend keeping secrets from you?”
“Watch your mouth when you
talk about Starsky.” Hutch slammed the
folder shut. It was one thing to take
the verbal abuse himself, but he wasn’t about to listen to some fat slug
slander his friend. “And in case you’ve
forgotten - - it’s Sergeant to you, Patrolman Impala.
Now get the fuck out of here.”
Satisfied he’d gotten the
rise he’d been fishing for, Impala shrugged, smiling snidely. “Sure, why not - - Sergeant.” The title was drawn out with deliberate cutting mockery. “Least ways back at the 61st I
don’t gotta look at panty-assed blonds who probably kissed ass to get
Rank. Then again, I’m guessing in your
case it was a little more than simple ass-kissing, huh, pretty boy?”
Hutch surged to his
feet. Before he could spit a reply the
door swung open and Baker came in loudly singing Deck the Halls in time to the piped-in music that had
changed yet again. He carried a tray
brimming with assorted cookies, each liberally doused with red and green
sprinkles or a smattering of powdered sugar.
“Hey Hutch, look what I got
from Kim Connelly at the lab - -” He
stopped suddenly, seeming to realize he’d interrupted something not entirely
friendly. Impala shot him a scathing
glare, shouldering past him and out the door before another word could be said.
“Ohh-kaay.” Drawing out the
word, Baker looked toward Hutch. “The next time you invite playmates over, we
put ‘em through a personality test first.”
Walking toward Hutch’s desk, he slid the tray of cookies on top of the
nearest folder. “Who was that idiot
anyway?”
Sagging back into his chair,
Hutch made a conscious effort to let go of his anger. “The guy from the 61st you wanted to see - - Officer Impala.”
“Figures.” Baker exhaled. Reaching for a cookie, he winked at Hutch. “If nothing else, you keep things kinda
interesting around here, Hutchinson.”
“Detective
Hutchinson?”
Hutch
jerked at the hand on his shoulder. Snapping
from his thoughts, he looked up to find Dr. Franklin standing at his side. The man didn’t seem to realize he’d caught
him unaware.
“Thirty-six
minutes,” Franklin said with a small grin.
“We’re almost in the clear now.
I’ll allow you to stay for the last injection. Your presence seems to have a calming effect on your partner and
that’s going to be sorely needed with the last shot. Give us about five minutes to prepare and we’ll be ready to
proceed.”
Hutch
nodded, his mouth bone dry. Starsky had
actually stilled his fitful squirming, quieting in what could almost be termed
restful sleep. There was a hint more
color in his face now and his features seemed relaxed. Hutch’s hand was still twined over his, so
intricately laced his fingers were beginning to cramp.
“You’re
doing good, buddy,” Hutch whispered, reaching up to feather a thumb across
Starsky’s cheek. In the background he
was aware of a nurse wheeling a tray into the room, of Franklin relaying
instructions to an assisting doctor. It
all became a blur in Hutch’s mind as he concentrated on tuning out the
distractions . . . the cramps in his legs and back from sitting hunched over so
long, the clack and clatter of various instruments against a metal tray, the
sight of the nightmarishly large needle intended for Starsky’s spine. Just a glimpse of it, caught in the corner
of his eye instilled a buffeting surge of panic. Oh shit, oh shit, they
can’t stick that thing into his spine!
Not something that fucking long!
“Starsky . . .” He heard the
catch in his voice, fought to calm his jumpy nerves for his friend’s sake. “I’m gonna be right here with you, pal.
“ His fingers tightened on the limp
hand beneath his. “I promise,
Starsk. I promise.”
“All
right,” Franklin announced from the other side of the bed. “We’re going to roll him onto his side
now. We need him facing you, Detective
Hutchinson.”
Hutch
gave a clipped nod, distressed to realize he was sweating, his heart hammering
against his ribs. He clung to Starsky’s
hand as Franklin and the nurse eased the dark-haired man onto his side. The movement, gentle as it was, ripped a
tortured moan from Starsky’s throat, the sound sending Hutch’s frantic nerves
through the roof.
“Easy,
easy,” he soothed, reaching with his free hand to stroke Starsky’s brow. “It’s gonna be okay, Starsk. Just one more - -” He swallowed hard, unable to say the word “injection” after everything
Starsky had been through. “One more
treatment and you’re in the clear, pal.
Hang in there for me, okay?”
He
wasn’t even certain Starsky could hear him.
His friend’s consciousness was returning slowly, enough to allow him to
feel pain, but not to communicate.
Whimpering slightly, Starsky tried to drag his left leg forward. The attending nurse had pulled the bedsheet
down around his waist, leaving his back bare and exposed. Behind him, Franklin and his assistant had
their heads tilted together as they conversed in whispers while prodding
Starsky’s spine. The insistent jabbing
only served to increase his agitation, dragging him ever closer to
consciousness and a punishing threshold of pain. Turning his head, he groaned into his pillow.
Hutch
felt his gut contract. “Easy,
Starsky.” He wanted to curse, to snap
at Franklin and insist the man get his act together - - get the whole frigging
thing over with as quickly as possible.
He didn’t understand how the doctor could be so detached and clinical
when muscle spasms and cramps were likely tearing Starsky apart inside. Yet he knew to open his mouth would doom him
to the desolate hallway outside . . . to frantic moments of endless pacing away
from his vulnerable partner. Wetting
his lips, he smoothed his thumb over Starsky’s knuckles, offering the only
comfort he could. “Starsky, I’m right
here with you.”
“All
right, Detective . . . we’re proceeding.”
Hutch’s
eyes flashed to Franklin still bent intently over Starsky. He caught another glimpse of the needle,
sterile and cold, right before it slid into Starsky’s spine. The contact was swift and shocking, wrenching
a tormented cry from Starsky’s lips.
His body jerked at the cruel invasion, his hands clenching hard over
Hutch’s unflinching grip.
The
sound went through Hutch like a knife.
“Oh, buddy . . . buddy, it’s okay . . .” But Starsky was moaning now, his face twisted in a grimace of
pain. Hutch felt like a sadist. How could it ever be okay with that
impossibly thick, obscene piece of metal wedged in Starsky’s spine? He wanted to rant and swear a blue
streak. How could treatment designed to
bring healing, to fucking help, for
crying out loud, cause such cruel and prolonged agony? Cold sweat trickled into his eyes as he
leaned closer to Starsky. “Just a
little longer, babe. It’s almost over,
I promise.”
Within
seconds the needle was withdrawn. Starsky
immediately went limp, sweat breaking out on his forehead, his breath deepening
into a ragged wheeze. Terrified that
something had gone horribly wrong, Hutch looked toward Franklin. The doctor gave him a slight nod of
reassurance, seemingly satisfied with the outcome.
“We
should see a change for the positive within a few minutes,” he said
quietly.
Hutch
found himself unable to relax. Five
minutes later when Starsky’s breathing settled into a smooth and untroubled flow
he only grew tenser, praying the seductress of time would be gentle. Twenty-five minutes to decide life or
death. Shaken, he rubbed his eyes, his
right hand still anchored to Starsky. I won’t leave you, babe. I promise I won’t
leave you.
Ten
minutes with only the clock on the wall to gauge the agonizing passage of
time. Hutch realized the assisting
doctor had left. Franklin was still
glued to the left side of Starsky’s bed, checking his pulse every few minutes,
taking a blood pressure reading, seemingly satisfied with the results. When fifteen minutes passed and Starsky was
still, breathing without trouble, he gave Hutch a slight grin. “I think we’re in the clear.”
Hutch
looked at his partner’s face. “Why’s he
sweating so badly?” Even as he asked
the question, hating the pessimistic sound of it, he wiped his hand over
Starsky’s cheek, flecking away the sheen of building perspiration.
Franklin
passed him a small towel to use.
“Probably just a mild reaction.
Nothing to be overly concerned with, Sergeant.” He gave a brief nod to the nurses who had
started to clean up the room, tossing away the evidence of a long night - -
discarded tubing and syringes, scattered gauze clippings and IV bags.
Hutch
wet his lips, desperately wanting to believe the long nightmare was over, that
Starsky was really on the path to a full recovery. Still hunched over in the chair, he kept his fingers wrapped over
his partner’s, his thumb softly stroking the back of Starsky’s hand. In the
background the nurses were talking about some new restaurant on the corner a
friend had visited. The assisting
doctor returned, conferred briefly with Franklin.
Another
five minutes passed, then ten.
The
nurses came and went. The assisting
doctor left. Franklin stretched a kink
from his back, said something to one of the women about going next door for a
smoke break.
Hutch
shot a glance at the wall clock. It was
almost 6am, well past the 3:58 deadline Jennings had given Starsky. The room was calm, peaceful. Despite the glistening sheen of perspiration
on Starsky’s cheeks and brow, he was peaceful too.
Hutch
bowed his head, breathing a tired sigh.
The long day had blended into night and back into day, its toll starting
to catch up with him. He’d been over
twenty-four hours without sleep, almost as long without eating. His nerves were frazzled and shot, fried by
his panicked worry for Starsky. The
sight of that godawful needle had left him shaken, wretchedly nauseous. Freeing his hand from Starsky’s limp grip,
he stood, wincing at the biting cramps in his legs and lower back.
Scrubbing
a hand over his chin, he walked a short distance away, willing the fatigue down
a notch. They’d beaten the odds. They’d really done it. This time tomorrow Starsky would be sitting
up in bed, complaining about being stuck in a hospital. He’d - -
Hutch’s
thoughts came to a screeching halt at the sound of a loud crash.
He
whirled around instantly, pivoting on his heel to find his worst nightmare
realized. Starsky was on the floor,
having tumbled from the bed, his whole body locked in the grip of seizure. For one frightening moment Hutch’s mind
completely shut down. He stood
immobilized, listening to the frantic calls of the nurses, shocked into
paralysis by the ghastly sight of a petite redhead forcing a tongue depressor
between Starsky’s teeth. In the next
instant Franklin was back in the room, shouting orders, most lost in the
frenzied hammering of Hutch’s heart.
He
lurched forward, demanding to know what had happened, realizing at the same
time he was in the way . . . that as much as he wanted to help, he was only
hindering. Franklin ignored him and
Hutch had to force himself from thrusting to Starsky’s side, dropping to his knees,
trying to still the abominable convulsions racking his friend’s body by mere
presence alone. The whole situation felt surreal, the vile flotsam of a bad
dream. He had the sudden childish urge
to throw a tempter tantrum . . . to kick and scream, lashing out at anyone and
anything that dared hurt his partner.
It just wasn’t fair. Not fucking fair! Not after everything they’d been through,
even managing to survive the last 24+ grisly hours. How could they come so close to winning, only to have something
so debauched and heinous trip them up now?
Starsky didn’t deserve this. Not
now, not ever!
Franklin
barked an order for another syringe.
Within seconds a plump nurse thrust a needle into his hand. Shaken, Hutch watched as the doctor plunged
the thick tip into Starsky’s hip. There
was nothing gentle about the action, just the crackling need of dire
necessity. Hutch felt the endless
nightmare he was living continue to grow. It reached further, spreading deeper,
never satisfied with the abysmal pain it brought his partner. His friend. Please
God, please . . .
Hutch
held his breath . . . waiting, praying . . . horrified when Starsky went
abruptly limp. A choked sound wormed
free of his throat. “He’s stopped
breathing. Damn it, he’s stopped breathing!”
The
staggering realization sent a simultaneous bolt through everyone in the
room. Recovering quickly, Franklin
barked an order, shouting directions to intubate the patient. Dazed, Hutch watched the grim procedure, the
bottom ready to drop from his quaking world.
The sick thing in his stomach clenched down hard, made him suck in a
breath that was suspiciously close to a sob.
Please, babe . . . please hang
on. Ohgod, Starsk, I need you to fight
this thing . . .
Someone
shoved him out of the way. There were
more people in the room now, all of them talking frantically, urgently. Starsky was lifted back onto the gurney, the
flurry of activity around him never ceasing.
In the next instant his bed was wheeled out of the room, Franklin and
the others rushing alongside. Hutch
followed as far as the door, standing in the threshold as he watched the group
hustle Starsky away. The silence that
followed was sudden and wrenching.
Stunned,
he glanced back inside, sickened by the sight of medical paraphernalia strewn
across the cabinets and floor. A rush
of vertigo washed over him and he leaned into the wall, one hand clutching his
contracting stomach. He swallowed back
bile, closing his eyes against a sudden rush of moisture.
It
simply wasn’t possible to be living such a vile nightmare. Fate was cruel and twisted, playing games
with a relationship he valued as highly as life itself. If anything happened to Starsky . . . if by
some grim, sadistic quirk of fate, Starsky was taken from him, he would simply
cease to exist. Oh, his body would go
on, his mind too, drudging through the bleak monotony of forced survival but he
would cease to really be. Everything that had meaning before would be
relegated to some murky corner of half-existence. He would become a shadow, broken by a short-lived,
once-in-a-lifetime relationship, never to be experienced again. God,
if you can hear me . . . if you can even remember the sound of my voice, I’m
begging you - - please don’t let him die.
He
squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the bitter acid in his stomach, the
razor-tipped pain in his heart. Not
knowing what else to do, he went in search of a phone and called Dobey. Even that conversation was fuzzy in his
mind, clipped and short, spoken in broken syllables and shuddering gasps for
breath. Afterwards he prowled the
corridors, pacing up and down, repeatedly rubbing one hand over the other as he
counted seconds into minutes and minutes into an excruciating hour. The back of his left hand grew red from the
constant rubbing. Distracted, he heard
the tread of heavily plodding footsteps behind him.
“Hutch.”
Pivoting
on his heel, he came face to face with Dobey.
The captain looked disheveled, his eyes still rimmed with the fatigue of
the last twenty-four hours, his clothing more than a little rumpled and
unkempt. The black man blew out a
breath, shaking his head in frustration.
“What the hell happened? Last
word I had, Starsky was going to be fine.
Now you tell me he’s had some kind of seizure, and - -”
“ -
- and I don’t know shit!” Hutch
exploded, his voice rising with volatile emotion. Thrusting a hand into his
hair, he stalked a short distance away.
The raging frustration he’d fought to contain for the last hour tumbled
out in a heated rush. “It’s like the
whole fucking hospital suddenly went AWOL.
No one’s telling me anything. I
haven’t seen Franklin, his assistant or even a damn nurse since they wheeled
Starsky out of the exam room. Captain,
you should have seen him - - thrashing on the floor, this nurse shoving a tube
down his throat, his whole body jerking like it was fried by electrical
current. I - -” He choked on a
strangled gasp, his breath cutting out on him.
With effort, he brought his frightfully raging emotions under control.
“It was like some sick lateshow creepfest.
I can still see him on the floor - -”
His voice cracked, forcing him to drag a hand over his face.
“Easy,”
Dobey said, stepping to his side, anchoring his arm. “You aren’t doing your partner any good by ripping yourself
apart. Let’s go get a cup of coffee and
you can tell me everything that’s happened since I left.”
Hutch
blinked, his mind sluggish and uncooperative.
He suddenly realized Dobey didn’t know anything about the three shots
Franklin had proposed or what they were supposed to accomplish. Sending a glance down the hall to the doors
Starsky had disappeared through, he debated about abandoning his vigil. What if the moment he left, the gurney was
wheeled back into the starkly clinical hallway? What if he missed seeing his partner . . . touching his face,
settling a reassuring hand over his, brushing the impossibly thick fringe of
black curls from his forehead? Even if
Starsky was unconscious, he’d know Hutch was there.
“Come
on.” Dobey tugged on his arm and
suddenly he didn’t have the will to resist.
He was wretchedly tired, battered emotionally, his gut twisted into a
frigid knot. With a mute nod, he
allowed himself to be led into the waiting room. A young couple sat in the corner, faces pinched and white, hands
clasped together in a grip of desperation.
Further along the wall a bedraggled teenager sprawled on a vinyl-padded
bench, apparently asleep.
Dobey
steered Hutch to the far side of the room, giving him a gentle push when
Hutch’s legs collided with the padded bench seat. He folded tiredly, sinking onto the mustard-yellow vinyl,
immediately bracing his legs apart and dropping his head into his hands. A few seconds later a steaming cup of black
coffee was thrust under his nose.
“Here. Drink this,” Dobey said.
Hutch
took the cup, staring at the dark liquid as if it held the secrets of the
universe. The styrofoam warmed his
hand. Closing his eyes, he forced a
swallow, feeling the heat burn all the way to his sour stomach. He grimaced and set the cup aside on an end
table, immediately returning to rubbing his right thumb over the knuckles of
his left hand.
Dobey
scowled at the nervous action. “Talk to
me, Hutch.”
He
wanted to. God¸ he wanted to talk to someone . . . to spill his guts and bawl
like a three-year-old who’d lost everything dear to him. Instead he swallowed hard and made himself
relive each moment since he’d brought Professor Jennings’ hypo to the
hospital. His voice cracked in places,
grew whisper-thin in others, but he held it together and forced himself to part
with the whole miserable tale of what had happened to Starsky. When he was through, he realized the young
couple had left, summoned by a nurse.
The teen had started to snore softly, the sound oddly distracting in the
otherwise hushed stillness of the room.
Dobey
cleared his throat. “We’ve got to
believe he’s going to be all right,” he said steadily.
Hutch’s
eyes slid to the side, latching onto the captain. “All right?” he echoed
hollowly. “Captain, he was frigging
seizing on the floor like some kind of shell-shocked trauma patient. Don’t you get it?” His voice rose as he forced the ugly truth he’d desperately been
trying to deny since those grisly moments in the exam room. “Franklin fucked up. Whatever he injected Starsky with pushed him
over the edge. Getting the hypo from
Jennings hasn’t done shit. For all the good it’s done, I could’ve - -”
“Don’t
be an ass!” Dobey snapped, thrusting to
his feet. “He’s alive, isn’t he? Without that hypo, your partner would
already be in the morgue, Hutchinson, so pull yourself together. I know you’re upset, man. I know you’re hurting inside, but what the
hell do you think he’s going through?
You want him to come out of this, you better start thinking positive.”
“Sergeant
Hutchinson?”
Hutch
flinched. Mired in the well-deserved
tongue lashing Dobey was giving him, he was shocked to realize Franklin stood
in the doorway. Forgetting everything
else, he surged to his feet and sprinted across the room. His heart thrummed in his chest, desperate
and wild, engorged by fear. “How’s
Starsky?”
Franklin
looked behind him to Dobey, acknowledging the older man with a slight
inclination of his head. “Captain.
Perhaps the two of you could join me in my office?”
“Why?” The word bulleted from Hutch instantly,
bordering on panic. Something was
wrong. Oh, shit! Oh, shit! He wouldn’t ask us to go to his office
unless he had bad news. The color
drained from his face, leaving his flesh pale and bleached with shock.
Dobey
gripped him around the upper arm, forcing him one step forward. “We’ll, talk in Dr. Franklin’s office,
Hutch,” he said evenly. He gave a nod
to Franklin indicating the doctor should lead the way. Hutch followed numbly, blindly, steered by
the insistent pressure of Dobey’s hand on his arm. He felt like he stood on a precipice, his emotions ready to
shatter with the slightest provocation.
He needed to see his partner.
Needed to assure himself Starsky was well and alive. He didn’t want to bother with doctors or
offices or even details that could wait until later. He just wanted his partner and he wanted him now!
Agitated,
he wrenched free of Dobey’s grip, stalking behind Franklin into his private
office. “Where’s Starsky?”
Franklin
walked behind a large mahogany desk, turning to indicate two chairs placed just
in front. An expansive window loomed behind him, covered by the horizontal
slats of a Venetian blind. The shade had been angled to catch the morning light
as Bay City woke to another day. It
washed over the desk and chairs, creating a deep gold haze like slow-cooked
broth. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down
Sergeant? Captain?”
For
the first time Hutch noticed the deeply ingrained lines in Franklin’s face, the
heavy shadow of fatigue. He had no
sympathy left, not when his partner’s life was on the line. Blatantly ignoring the offer to sit, he
glared at the older man. “Where’s
Starsky, damn it?”
Dobey
pulled on his sleeve. “Sit down,
Hutchinson.”
“Captain
- - ”
“I
said sit!”
Hutch
frowned, but complied nonetheless, hearing the hostile edge of command in his
superior’s voice. Dobey took the other
chair and Franklin eased into a seat behind his desk. Fidgeting irritably, Hutch leaned forward, locking eyes with the
weary doctor. “If we’re all through
with protocol now, I’d like some answers.
What happened to my partner, and where is he?”
Even
Dobey stayed silent this time, giving Hutch the headway to run with the
questioning. He suddenly felt like he
was grilling a suspect, all niceties and polish abandoned long ago.
Sensing
his hostility, Franklin heaved a sigh and plodded forward. “The good news is Sergeant Starsky is
stable. Apparently the last injection -
- the one inserted directly into his spine - - was simply too much for his body
to absorb after the forced trauma of the past twenty-four hours. The seizure he had was the result of an
allergic reaction, likely induced by the excess of chemicals in his system. We have him in ICU and we’re monitoring him
closely. There are, however, additional
complications. They’re serious, but we
strongly feel they’re of a temporary nature.”
Hutch
balked, his emotions plummeting from the high of learning Starsky was stable to
the crippling low of learning there were other problems. “What complications?” he asked tightly.
Franklin
met his gaze. “I’m afraid there’s no
easy way to say this, so I’ll be blunt, Detective. Your partner is paralyzed from the neck down. He has no feeling in his torso or any of his
extremities. We have him on a
respirator because he can’t breathe on his own.”
The
bottom dropped from Hutch’s world. “What?” Shakily, he rose to his feet.
Franklin
stared up at him. “Before you go off
the deep end, you should know it’s my considered opinion and the opinion of my
associates, the paralysis is only temporary - - likely the result of Sergeant
Starsky’s reaction to the last injection.
Once his body begins to stabilize, effectively detoxing from all the
chemicals in his system, the paralysis will gradually fade.”
Hutch’s
hands were clenched so tightly he could feel blood on his palms where his nails
embedded into the flesh. “You’re sure
of that?”
“Well
. . . no, I’m not 100% positive,” Franklin admitted, “But these kinds of
paralysis are usually short-lived, particularly if induced by a traumatic
incident such as the one your friend incurred.”
“How
long?” Dobey asked.
Hutch
was thankful for the intervention, his throat suddenly constricted to the point
where he couldn’t speak.
Wearily,
Franklin rubbed the bridge of his nose, butting his glasses higher in the
process. “It’s difficult to say - - a
day, maybe two . . . a week . . . possibly a month or longer. There is a very slim chance the paralysis
could be permanent, but the odds are in Detective Starsky’s favor. He’s young, strong, otherwise in good health
- -”
“Permanent?” Hutch echoed hollowly, hearing nothing beyond the wretchedly
dreadful word. Reaching behind him, he
clasped the arm of the chair he’d just vacated, sinking unsteadily into the seat. A loud rush of noise filled his ears like
the pounding roar of a waterfall. The
room started to spin at the edges, making him swallow hard and blink back a
wave of dizziness.
“It’s
unlikely,” he heard Franklin say, “But the chance is always there. At the very least, you should be aware of
it.”
Hutch
felt cold inside. “Does he . . . is he
awake?”
“No,
he’s still unconscious.”
“Then
he doesn’t know?” The thought sank like
lead into the pit of his stomach . . . Starsky waking alone, with tubes, wires
and monitors sticking out of him, unable to move, unable to talk, terrified by
the dead unresponsiveness in his limbs.
“I want to see him. I need to be
there when he wakes up.”
Franklin
shook his head, dismissing the notion.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Sergeant. ICU is not an exam room.
We have qualified medical personnel who - -”
“I need to be there!” Hutch snarled, lurching to his feet, no
longer caring that he crossed the line of protocol. Planting both hands on Franklin’s desk, he leaned forward,
towering over the older man. “Now you
listen to me. You’ve had your chance -
- shot needles into his spine, damn near turned him into a freaking zombie, all
in the name of trying to heal him. I am
not - - do you hear me, Doctor - - not going to let him wake up in ICU
alone, paralyzed, unable to talk, and scared out of his skull because he
doesn’t know what the hell’s going on.
At this point, he doesn’t even know I got the hypo from Jennings. He wakes up now, paralyzed, he could think
he survived the poisoning only to end up with permanent nerve damage. You do
whatever you’ve gotta do, make whatever arrangements you’ve gotta make, but I
want to be there when he wakes up.
Somebody’s got to reassure him he can kick this thing, especially after
you and your crew fucked it up - -”
“Hutchinson!” Dobey snapped.
Franklin
was on his feet. “You’re out of line,
Sergeant. You have no idea what we’re
up against with this.”
“Well,
apparently you don’t either, or Starsky wouldn’t be in ICU with a frigging
machine breathing for him!”
“That’s enough, Sergeant!” Dobey growled, rising to stand beside him.
Hutch
clamped his mouth shut, glaring over his shoulder at the captain. Their eyes locked and held, Dobey’s surly
expression never changing. After a
moment the black man looked away, zeroing in on Franklin. The doctor’s face had grown pinched and
white in view of Hutch’s rising hostility.
“Well?” Dobey asked, his voice rankled, bristling at
the edges. “You heard the man - - have
someone escort him to the ICU and tell your staff they’re to accommodate him
until Starsky wakes up. After that,
I’ll make sure he’s out of your hair for awhile. I’ll send him home to get some sleep . . . maybe even eat
something and shower.”
Hutch
stiffened. “Captain, I am not - -”
“Shut
up, Hutchinson. You’ll do what I tell
you to do.” Dobey’s piercing gaze
swiveled back to the doctor. “Are we in
agreement?”
Franklin
flushed. “Captain, be sensible. There are reasons why visitors are not allowed
in ICU, or at the very least why they’re only permitted on a limited
basis. I can perhaps arrange five
minutes for Sergeant Hutchinson, but other than that - -”
Dobey
hiked up his belt, glowering under his brows.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, Doctor.
I’d certainly hate to have to drag your Chief of Staff into this
discussion. All things considered, I’m
sure some leniency can be granted Sergeant Hutchinson for the sake of his
partner. After all, we’re talking about
a police officer, a civil servant, who got pumped full of garbage simply for
doing his job.”
Nettled
by the threat of going over his head, Franklin tugged at his collar. He looked from Dobey to Hutch, his gaze
darkening as he met Hutch’s biting stare.
With a crisp nod, he reached for the phone on his desk and punched the
button for the intercom. “Who’s this .
. . Sally? Yes, this is Dr.
Franklin. Would you please send an aide
to my office? I’d like her to escort a
police detective to the ICU. No . . . I
want him to have full access to his partner, a Detective David Starsky. I’ll call ahead to the floor and advise the
shift supervisor. Thank you.”
Satisfied,
Hutch paced away, walking toward the door.
Behind him he could hear Franklin calling the floor, giving full
clearance for his presence. He felt
edgy and irritable, ready to snap at the tiniest obstacle. Dobey appeared at his side and suggested he
get something to eat before heading to the ICU but Hutch merely shook his head,
his empty stomach tight and sour.
A
short time later an aide arrived and escorted him two floors up to ICU. He followed in a daze, anxious to see
Starsky, vaguely aware he’d promised to call Dobey with an update. As he followed the aide, striding crisply
down a wide hallway to Intensive Care, jittery nerves making his head pound, he
thought back to a phone call he’d shared with his friend a number of years ago
. . .
Hutch pushed open the door
to his cottage on the canal and stepped inside. Shrugging out of his brown leather jacket, he tossed it on the
couch, then bent to plug in the lights on the small Christmas tree tucked in
the corner. A myriad of soft blues,
greens and reds spilled into the darkness, gently pushing aside the collective
shadows. Popping the snaps on his
holster, he moved toward the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the
refrigerator. It was after 1:00 a.m. on
Christmas Eve - - officially Christmas
Day - - and he’d just finished a twelve hour shift at Metro.
He shrugged out of the
holster and hung it on the hook inside the wardrobe closet in his bedroom. It felt good to stretch, even better to
swallow a long mouthful of cold beer.
Not wanting to disturb the darkness, he returned to the kitchen and
fumbled in the top drawer for a pack of matches. Moving mostly by instinct, he lit the candles on his small
kitchen/dining room table, followed by the three squat pillars clustered on the
coffee table in front of the couch. Between the lights from the tree and the
flickering flames of the candles, the room was almost fully illuminated in a
dusky, brass-like glow. Tuning the
radio to the first station he found playing Christmas music, he settled down
with the beer.
It was then he noticed the
package on his couch, the gaily wrapped parcel adorned with a bow of bright
green ribbon. Ten-to-one he knew the
culprit. Starsky had left for New York
two days ago, finally going solo when all his whining and pleading hadn’t
gotten Hutch to go with him. Odds were he’d had Huggy drop off the gift tonight
while Hutch was at the station.
A fond smile lifted the
corner of his mouth as he traced his finger along the edge of pine-colored
ribbon. Leave it to Starsky to worry
about him sitting home alone on the holiday.
Shoving his beer onto the
table, Hutch pulled the package into his lap and peeled away the bow. The paper came next, leaving a plain brown
box beneath. Hutch pulled back the lid
and grinned. “Starsky, you are such an
ass.”
Nestled amid a few crumpled
wads of tissue paper was a pristine replica of a brown LTD. Hutch lifted it from the box, realizing it
had been painstakingly put together piece by piece to produce an immaculate,
showcase Ford. Somehow Starsky had even
managed to find a mars light for the roof, a thin black cord running from the
tiny light through the passenger’s window and into the dash. The body was smooth and dent-free, painted a
metallic mocha-brown. The license plate
had been carefully lettered with black paint to spell out ZEBRA 3, while a white flag attached to the antenna
read “A Hutchinson Original.”
Grinning like an idiot,
Hutch sat back on the couch, pulling a folded slip of paper from the box. Even in glow of muted candlelight it was
easy to make out Starsky’s distinctive left-handed, backward scrawl:
Merry Christmas, buddy. Since you’re driving around in that
hunk-a-junk,
and since I couldn’t afford to get
you the real thing, this’ll have to do.
I
know a guy named Merle who’ll give
you a customization job on it cheap.
(And in case you ain’t figured it
out, that’s a hint about fixing up the real one).
Wish you were in New York (or at least,
Duluth). See ya soon,
Starsk
Shoving the box aside, Hutch
set the car on the coffee table, taking the time to study it. He knew Starsky liked to tinker with models,
but had no idea his friend would pull such a ridiculously silly, totally
endearing stunt. As much as Hutch had
previously protested he didn’t mind being alone for the holiday, part of him
felt depressed. Running into Anthony
Impala hadn’t helped. It was bad enough
he didn’t feel comfortable going home to his family because of his strained
relationship with his father, but encountering his old partner at Metro had
left him feeling unsettled and angry.
When they’d worked together Impala had routinely criticized and insulted
him, but he hadn’t remembered the slurs being so vicious before. He’d needed something tonight, and Starsky’s
silly gift was just the thing to remind him he wasn’t alone.
The phone rang, cutting
through the soaring strings of Angels We Have Heard of High. Realizing there weren’t too
many people who’d be calling him at 1:10 a.m. on Christmas Eve, he snatched up
the phone and grinned. “Merry
Christmas, Starsk.”
There was a pause, followed
by a slightly miffed voice. “How’d you
know it was me? I wanted to surprise
ya.”
“Who else would be calling
at this time? Besides . . . you already
surprised me.” Getting comfortable,
Hutch leaned back in the couch, hooking his right ankle over his left knee. His eyes traveled to the model car on his
coffee table. “I got your gift.”
Another pause, but this time
there was something child-like in it.
“Didja like it?”
Hutch laughed. “Like it?
I love it! Thanks, buddy, but
you didn’t have to, you know?”
Starsky snorted into the
phone. “Like I was gonna leave you all
alone on Christmas without a gift?
Still wish you woulda come with me.
Ma’s dyin’ to meet ya and I coulda used help keepin’ Nicky in line. You
know . . .” Starsky paused, letting the
thought trail into momentary silence.
“It’s still not too late for you to get a flight to Duluth.”
Hutch sighed into the
phone. It felt lonely in the apartment
again, the bright twinkling lights of the Christmas tree making him suddenly
sad. “Starsky, I don’t want to go home
and ruin Christmas for everyone else.
My dad and I will just get into an argument. My mom’ll end up crying, my sister will read me the riot act and
I’ll leave in a huff. Why put everyone
through that misery? It’s better if I
just stay away. Maybe next year after
he’s had time to get used to the idea I’ve made Detective Sergeant, I’ll go
home. With any luck, we’ll be speaking
by Easter.”
“You and the proverbial
doctor?” Starsky laughed into the
phone. “One of you needs to give up the
stubborn gene, pal. If he’s anything
like you, I think we’ll be waitin’ for Hell to freeze over. Hey - - who were you on with tonight? Baker or Norris? Norris is such a sour-ass.”
“I was on with Baker. He keeps it lively and interesting.” Hutch
paused, deciding to venture further. “You’ll
never guess who showed up. Remember my
old partner, Anthony Impala?”
A long silence flowed from
the other end of the phone. When
Starsky finally spoke his voice held tightly controlled anger. “What’d he want?”
The change in tone wasn’t
lost on Hutch. “Baker called him about
some case he’s working on. He showed up
while Phil was out, down the hall.”
“So you saw that scum? You talked to him?”
“Yeah.”
“Hutch, I thought I told you
a long time ago to stay away from that creep.”
Hutch frowned, puzzled by
Starsky’s growing hostility. “Is there
something you’re not telling me?
Something about Impala?”
“No, he’s just an ass. I don’t want you talkin’ to him.”
“Well, I’m not overly fond
of it myself. I got the usual round of
insults - - fag, rookie partner . . . pretty, rich jerk-off who never should
have gotten Rank . . . oh, and plenty of pointed insinuations on just what I did do to get Rank.”
“He’s a fuckin’ asshole.”
Hutch winced at the acid in
his voice. “Starsky it’s Christmas. Ease up on the four-letter stuff, huh?”
“Look who’s talkin.’ You can go from soft-spoken to foulmouthed
in the blink of an eye. At least when I
spew off, it’s at some jerkwad who deserves it. Listen, Hutch, he ain’t comin’ back again, is he? I mean, Baker’s got plenty of meets. Heck, he can get off his lazy butt and go
down to the 61st. I think
you should tell him you don’t want Impala around.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because I don’t want Impala around
you!”
Hutch grew momentarily
quiet. “Okay, that’s it. What aren’t you telling me? What don’t I know about this guy?”
“You know all you need to
know, Hutch. Leave it at that.” A
hasty breath and suddenly Starsky was deliberately off on another track. “Listen, I gotta run - -”
“You’re copping out on me,
Starsk.”
“No, really. Come on, Hutch. It’s almost 4:30 here in New York. Ma’s gonna have a fit if she wakes up and finds me yakkin’ on the
phone at this time of mornin.’ I just
called, cuz . . .” His voice faltered
briefly. “I don’t like you bein’
alone. I miss ya, Hutch.”
Sudden warmth displaced
Hutch’s previous agitation. “I miss you
too, buddy.” He smiled shyly. “Thanks for my car. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
The
memories faded, replaced by the astringent medicinal odors of the ICU. Before Hutch knew it, he was standing in the
doorway, looking in at the broken form of his partner. Starsky looked frail, lying on his back
beneath the congestion of machines and wires hooked to the bed. His flesh had lost most of its color, now a
sick, pasty white, shocking in contrast against his raven-colored hair. The respirator hissed and clicked, a grim
reminder of just how precarious Starsky’s health had become. Two
days ago I was razzing him about his diet, now he can’t even swallow water.
Hutch
went to the bedside, pulling a chair close.
His fingers closed over Starsky’s limp right hand and he shuddered to
feel how cold his friend’s flesh had grown.
The fingers felt normal . . . pliable, movable, yet he knew Starsky
couldn’t feel a thing. Not even the
touch of his hand. The ugly thought
saddened him. So much of their
friendship relied on physical contact, even if it was only a fleeting stroke
here or there . . . the brush of fingertips against a sleeve, an arm slung
companionably over shoulders or waist, a playful cuff to the back of the head
or the ghosting of fingers through hair. . . all passing gestures to reaffirm
their inordinate closeness.
And
now Starsky couldn’t feel.
“Buddy
. . .” Hutch swallowed hard, hearing
the tremor in his voice. “If you can
hear me, I want you to know we’re gonna get through this. I . . .I’m gonna be right here when you wake
up.” He leaned forward, reaching with
his free hand to stroke Starsky’s cheek.
“I’m not going anywhere, Starsk.
Not without you, babe. Not
without you . . .” His voice trailed
away in a phantom whisper, his throat tightening up.
Time
was back to being a demon again, a cold and merciless tormentor that inched by
slowly as he maintained a grim vigil at his friend’s bedside. Thinking perhaps Starsky could hear him he
talked endlessly about any stupid subject that popped into his head - - where
they should take their next vacation, the price of alfalfa sprouts at the
downtown open market, the taillight he needed to get repaired on his LTD, the
latest plant he’d added to his collection, even the new taco stand that had
opened on Third, and yeah . . . maybe, just maybe, he’d let Starsky drag him
there for lunch one afternoon. When he
ran out of things to talk about, his mind going stubbornly blank with fatigue,
he sang softly, but after a time his over-used voice grew croaky and thin and
he had to stop.
That
was when his mind went crazy, conjuring up ghastly images of Starsky paralyzed
for life, his friend reduced to a shadow of his former self. He cursed silently, ducking his head and
rubbing the grit from his eyes.
Eventually he’d have to make a decision about calling Starsky’s mother,
but for now he put the thought to the back of his mind. If the paralysis really was temporary,
wasn’t it better to wait rather than give her such dire news when she was clear
across the country?
Exhausted
he leaned back in his chair, no longer conscious of how much time had passed. Nurses came and went constantly, checking
Starsky, monitoring his vitals and the equipment. He left twice for very brief
periods, just long enough to use the bathroom and gulp down a cup of black
coffee. Outside the sky had brightened
with the dazzling light of full day. He
stood occasionally, stretching his cramped muscles, pacing in a small circle as
he worked the kinks from his lower back, all the while listening to the hated
hiss and clack of the respirator.
Franklin stopped by once and Hutch gave him a curt nod but otherwise
they didn’t speak. Somewhere after 6:00
that evening, he dozed in the chair, unable to keep his eyes open. He’d been close to thirty-eight hours
without sleep, even caffeine starting to lose its wired effect. He was just beginning to slip into a
half-doze when he “heard” an anguished scream rebounding silently in his head.
Hutch’s
eyes snapped open.
His
heart lurched to his chest, the innate mental telepathy he shared with his
partner crackling to sudden, shocking life.
Starsky was awake and plainly terrified, his eyes wide and panicked,
focused on the ceiling overhead. Hutch
not only felt, but heard his terror,
a string of screams bouncing soundlessly inside his skull. He thrust forward, bodily forcing himself into
his partner’s line of vision.
“Starsk.” Instinctively, he reached for his friend’s
face and neck, the only parts of Starsky’s battered body that could still
experience sensation. His fingertips traveled over the familiar features,
stroking cool flesh, beard stubble, the curling tips of heavy black hair. But
Starsky’s eyes remained vacant, lost somewhere in the horror of waking and
finding himself trapped in a hideous nightmare. Hutch gripped his chin, forcing his attention through the
bubbling terror. “Starsk . . . Starsk,
look at me, I’m right here.”
Starsky’s
eyes shifted, dark as midnight against the bleached pallor of his face. Hutch saw terror there, a fear so great it
threatened to overwhelm both of them.
“Buddy . . . buddy, I need you to listen to me. I know you’re scared, I know you can’t move,
but I need you to concentrate on what I’m saying.” He kept the pressure of his fingertips light, contouring the lines
of Starsky’s cheek, his brow, the tight column of his neck. He knew his fingers
were shaking but couldn’t seem to still the tremors in his hands. He felt like he was falling apart from the
inside out.
By
contrast his gaze was steady, his voice reassuring. He smiled softly when Starsky focused on him at last, the thread
of terror in his eyes dimming slightly.
“That’s it, babe. Keep your
attention on me. The rest of this stuff
. . . it’s all just temporary, Starsk.”
Hutch
wet his lips, maintaining the gentle pressure of his hands . . .touching,
stroking, feathering his fingertips through a mass of velvety black curls. What he couldn’t convey with words, he did
with his hands, instilling a small measure of peace in his partner’s abruptly
nightmarish world. “See, buddy, I found
the hypo. It was Professor Jennings,
Cheryl’s father - -” He saw Starsky’s
eyes widen at the revelation, and rushed to continue, wanting to get the sordid
tale over with.
“Dr.
Franklin came up with an antitoxin, but you’ve just been through so much, pal .
. .” Even voicing the words brought a
tightness to his throat. He swallowed
with difficulty, feeling the sting of tears behind his eyes. “The antidote
worked, but it was a bit too much for your body to take. The important thing is you survived the
poison, Starsk. You’re not in any
danger of dying, no matter what it feels like.
All that shit is in the past.
You’re gonna be fine.”
He
forced a tight smile, the effort igniting a throbbing ache in his temple. “It’s um . . . hell, I don’t know . . . somewhere
after six in the evening the next day.”
He laughed softly, still stroking, still touching, giving warmth as much
as he was taking it. “The days kinda went together on me. What you need to remember is that all of
this garbage - - the respirator, the paralysis you feel - - it’s all just temporary. Do you hear me, Starsky?
I know you can’t move, and I know you’re scared, but everything will get
back to normal. You’ve got to concentrate
on getting better. The rest will come
in its own time.”
Starsky
closed his eyes, a single tear leaking from the corner, tracking down the side
of his face.
Hutch
felt the reactive burn in his own eyes.
He couldn’t even begin to fathom what Starsky was feeling after the
uncertainty and pain he’d lived through.
The sheer terror of thinking he was dying and the excruciating agony of
Jennings’ poison had been replaced by something as equally grim - - the
staggering horror of paralysis, emotional trauma, raw confusion. How much punishment could one person
possibly endure?
Another
tear slid from beneath the heavy black fringe of Starsky’s lashes.
“Ohgod,
babe, please don’t do that.” Hutch
brushed the back of his knuckles over Starsky’s cheek, shakily collecting the
glimmering tracks of moisture. The
sight of his normally street-tough friend crying left him feeling abruptly
winded, like he couldn’t breathe.
“Ssh
. . . buddy, please. I know it seems
like the whole world is turned upside down right now, but this is just
temporary. You’re gonna get feeling
back . . . movement back. Before you
know it, you’ll be chasing down perps, driving that ugly tomato you call a car,
and stuffing your mouth with burritos.”
He gave a strangled sort of laugh, blinking back tears as the moisture
came faster from beneath Starsky’s closed eyelids. “Babe, please . . . please don’t . . .” Not knowing what else to do, Hutch bent forward, pressing his
brow to his friend’s forehead. His
voice dropped to a soft whisper. “I’ll
get you through this, Starsk. I promise
I’ll be here. I’m not going to leave
you - - I’ll never leave you. Trust me, buddy.”
He
drew back. Starsky’s eyes were open, staring up at him through a watery veil of
tears. Hutch smiled gently, dusting his
fingertips across his partner’s wet cheeks.
He could see faith and belief behind the fear now, the bond of their
friendship stronger than the bleak terror of the unknown. What
did I ever do to deserve someone who trusts me so completely . . . to be
blessed by such an irreplaceable friend?
He
watched as Starsky’s eyes drifted shut, fear and exhaustion exacting their
toll. Starsky tilted his head toward
Hutch’s palm, the lines of strain gradually fading from his face. A second later a nurse appeared in the
doorway. Noticing Starsky’s
half-conscious state, she immediately shuffled Hutch to the side, bending to
fuss over the patient.
More poking and prodding, Hutch thought as he watched
the procedure with a dazed sort of detachment.
And Starsky can’t feel any of
it. It’s like a freaking horror
show!
He
blinked, trying to shake aside the stupor.
Starsky had finally woken up.
How much longer before he was sitting up in bed? Talking?
Walking? Franklin said the
duration of the paralysis could be as short as an hour, or as long as - -
He
winced, choosing not to remember the doctor’s halting admission that the
paralysis could be permanent. That’s not gonna happen. I’m not gonna let it happen . . . Starsky
won’t let it happen. He dragged a
hand over his face, feeling abruptly light-headed. Oh shit, I’m so fucking
tired.
He
got lost in the muddle of what happened next . . .was vaguely aware of the
nurse calling Dr. Franklin who appeared in the room within moments to check on
his patient. Starsky stayed sleepy but
half-awake. Hutch watched from a corner,
slumped against the wall, bone-tired, all but dead on his feet. After a while the nurse left and the doctor
wandered closer, eyeing him with frank disapproval.
“All
right, Sergeant Hutchinson - - your partner has woken up and you’ve had a
chance to talk to him. Now I’d like you
to leave the ICU as we agreed.” His
voice was professional and cool, a little too clipped.
Hutch
realized he probably harbored a good deal of resentment over the scathing
remarks he’d made in the man’s office. Got your feathers ruffled, Doc? Too fucking bad! If it meant being an
S.O.B. to get results out of the man, Hutch could pull off nasty in his
sleep. At the moment he didn’t feel
like arguing or apologizing. Dobey had
laid down the law, and he knew if he didn’t head home soon, the captain
wouldn’t be above having him handcuffed and physically dragged from the
hospital.
“Sure
. . okay.” He rubbed his eyes, his
vision going fuzzy at the corners.
“When can I come back? When can
I see him again?”
Franklin
scowled. “Not for twenty-four
hours. That’s as much for your benefit
as his. Have you looked at yourself
lately, Sergeant? I suggest you go
home, get something to eat and sleep for a day.”
“I’ll
be back in the morning,” Hutch said flatly, overriding the doctor’s
orders. He shoved away from the wall,
swaying slightly at the sudden movement.
Starsky was already asleep, his eyes closed in peaceful exhaustion. Leaning over the metal bedrail, Hutch
stroked his cheek. “I gotta go now,
buddy, but I’ll be back in the morning.
You sleep and concentrate on getting better. I’ll see you soon, pal.”
Another stroke of his hand, this time laced through the riotous curls
scattered on Starsky’s brow. How many
times had he done that over the years?
What friend in the past had ever allowed him such blessed familiarity,
something to be treasured and cherished?
His
vision darkened again, accompanied by a loud rush of buzzing in his ears. Leaning into the bed, he gripped the top
rail with both hands, hanging on as the room did a cut-rate impression of a
merry-go-round on acid.
“Detective
. . .?” Franklin was suddenly beside
him, one hand reaching out to hover in his general vicinity as if fearful he
might collapse. Despite that close
proximity, the doctor’s voice sounded muddy and thick, impaired by
distance. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,”
Hutch snapped. He could feel sweat
break out on his brow, knew that his hands were shaking.
“I
think you should sit down. You’re white
as a sheet.”
Hutch
swallowed. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he
said flatly, turning his back while he still had the strength to walk out of
the hospital. In the lobby he paused
long enough to phone Dobey and bring him up to date on Starsky’s condition. His head was pounding, the glare from the
overhead fluorescents hurting his eyes.
When he finished the phone call he went in the direction of the
cafeteria and mechanically downed a bowl of vegetable soup along with a few
club crackers. The warmth felt good in
his stomach, but the food stuck in his throat.
He
knew he should feel better. Starsky had
woken up and that was a step in the right direction, but the whole thing still
felt like a nightmarish ordeal. It was
after 7:30 by the time he wandered in the direction of the parking lot. From the passing stares cast in his
direction, he knew he looked like some drugged-out lunatic. The food had helped a little. At least his legs felt steadier and his
vision wasn’t waffling in and out, but the pounding in his head was merciless,
reducing his eyes to light-sensitive slits.
He
was halfway to the back of the lot when he realized he didn’t know where his
car was, or even what vehicle he was driving.
A black-and-white, the LTD, or did he have Starsky’s Torino? Frustrated that he couldn’t remember, he dug
in his pocket, fumbling out a wad of keys, the ring for the Torino among
them. That’s right, I drove it back here.
Parked it, um . . .
He
raised his head, glancing across the lot, frustrated that his mind wouldn’t
cooperate. A woman gave him a wide
berth as she steered two young boys to a station wagon three rows over.
Irritated, Hutch laced a hand through his unkempt hair. He spied the Torino
halfway across the lot in the opposite direction, silently cursing his lack of
memory.
“Excuse
me, Sir. Do you need help?”
“What?” Irritated by the interruption, Hutch glanced
over his shoulder. A black-and-white
had cruised to a stop behind him, its officers zeroing in on his strange
rambling behavior. Both men had exited
the car, one standing just off the passenger door, the other - - the driver - -
standing by his shoulder.
Hutch
frowned. “I’m fine.”
“You
don’t look fine,” the officer closest to him observed. His name tag read J. Mercer. The older of the
two, he appeared in his mid-thirties, his hair straight and brown, offset by a
neatly-trimmed mustache. His partner
was a good deal younger, too far away for Hutch to tell much about him other
than the fact his hair was dark and closely cropped.
Irked,
Hutch rubbed his temple. “Look, I’m
fine. I just forgot where I parked my
car for a moment, okay?”
“Sure. But why don’t we talk about it over
here.” Mercer motioned to the patrol
car. “You don’t look in any condition
to drive.”
Hutch
felt his anger flare. “Look, you ass,
I’m a cop. I’ve just spent the last
thirty-eight hours with my partner, trying to keep him alive after some
vengeful hood pumped him full of poison.
I haven’t slept and I’m irritable as hell. Right now all I wanna do is find my car and get the fuck out of
here.”
“I
think you should step over to the patrol car, Sir.”
Hutch
ground his teeth together. “I told you
I’m a cop.” He reached for his ID, but
suddenly Mercer’s gun was in his face and the other patrolman had moved around
to the front of the vehicle. Hutch
fought to hold his temper in check. “I
just wanna get my ID.”
Mercer’s
expression was tight. “You know what I
think? I think you’re juiced on
something. I know an addict when I see
him. Get the hell over by the car and
assume the position.”
Hutch
closed his eyes. This simply wasn’t
happening. Not after everything he’d
been through in the last day and a half.
If it weren’t so aggravating it would be almost comical. At the very least, it was a shame Franklin
wasn’t around to enjoy the show. He
supposed he deserved a jarring dose of humility after the grief he’d given the
physician.
Raising
his hands into the air, Hutch walked toward the vehicle, doing his best to
constrain a slow burn of anger. As he
neared the car, the junior officer suddenly gripped him by the back of the neck
and slammed him face down against the hood.
For all of eight seconds Hutch blacked out, the abrupt movement
shattering his overly taxed stamina. He
felt himself slipping toward the ground.
Someone gripped the back of his belt, hauling him roughly upright. Hands patted down his sides.
“Hey,
Jared - - this guy’s packing!” The
startled voice sliced into his mind, rekindling the ruthless ache behind his
eyes. He felt his jacket ripped aside,
the Magnum wrenched from his holster.
“Holy shit!” the younger cop breathed.
“Check out the size of this thing!”
Hutch’s
head was still spinning. “Back pocket,” he wheezed. “My shield . . .”
He
felt Mercer dig in his jeans, the slim leather case sliding free. Experimentally he lifted his head, aware the
junior officer held his own gun pointed at him. A few people had stopped to gawk in the background, pausing on
their way to or from the hospital. He
heard Mercer curse softly and stood up the rest of the way, thankful when the
movement didn’t send the ground bucking and heaving beneath him.
“Put
it down, Sam,” Mercer told his partner with a nod for the Magnum. Wincing at their blunder, he passed Hutch’s
shield back to him. “I’m sorry about
this, Sergeant Hutchinson . . .”
The
blood drained from the younger officer’s face.
“Sergeant? Oh, shit.”
“You
got that right.” Hutch turned,
snatching the gun from the man’s suddenly limp grip. He was ready to rip someone’s head off over the fiasco, and the
stupidly eager rookie who’d slammed him into the car seemed a better choice
than the more controlled Mercer. “Let’s
get this straight, Officer . . .” His eyes dropped to the name tag pinned to
the man’s shirt front and he blanched.
“Impala?”
“Yes,
Sir!” Snapping to attention, Impala
sent a nervous glance skittering to his older, wiser partner. “Samuel Impala, Sir. 33rd Precinct, West Side
Division. I’m sorry about the rough
stuff, Sir. I really thought . . . that
is, we thought you - -”
“Stuff
it!” Hutch snapped getting some of his
composure back. He holstered the Magnum
and sent an aggravated glance to Mercer who had approached cautiously. “Don’t you know how to rein him in,
Patrolman?”
“Yes,
Sir.” Mercer gave a repentant
shrug. “I guess I was on the wrong
track too. You really do look a sight,
Sergeant, and the way you were wandering around the lot . . .” Another shrug. “Someone’s pushing pills from the hospital. We’ve had four buys in the last two weeks,
including a sixteen-year-old-girl who OD’d.
Her parents buried her three days ago.
I guess we were just desperate for a lead.”
Slightly
mollified by the explanation, knowing he probably did look like an addict,
Hutch glanced back to Impala. The younger
man was trim and fit with vibrant black eyes and glossy short-cropped hair.
Though he looked slightly nauseous at the moment (Most likely thinking he just
ended his career, Hutch thought with some satisfaction) he didn’t have the
same hooded expression Hutch remembered so well from another Impala. This man’s
face was more open. He could almost
imagine him being friendly and helpful under other circumstances. “Are you related to an Anthony Impala who
used to work out of the 61st?” he asked.
“Uh
. . . yeah.” The younger officer
dropped his eyes as if momentarily ashamed by the admission. He stared at his feet for a long time. “My Dad.”
Looking
at his bowed head, Hutch felt the last of his anger drain. “Vlad” Impala had left the force in disgrace
just last year. Whatever Samuel Impala
had to go through to win the respect of his fellow officers was surely a lot
worse than anything the senior Impala had put Hutch through. “I was partnered with him when I was a
rookie,” Hutch announced, not really sure why he bothered to share the
information.
Samuel’s
head snapped up. He grew even paler as
something seemed to dawn in his eyes.
“You’re . . . you’re him. I-I mean, you’re Ken Hutchinson.”
Hutch
narrowed his eyes, uncertain how the younger officer knew him. “Last time I looked,” he said carefully.
Mercer
cleared his throat. “Sergeant, we
really should get back on patrol. If
you don’t need us for anything else . . .”
Hutch
shot him a frowning glance. Part of him
wanted to know why Sam Impala had reacted so strangely to his name, but the
other half just wanted to go home and crawl into bed. His mind was too numb to function anyway. “Yeah, okay,” he said, lacing a hand through
his hair. “Next time, be sure of
yourself before you pull the commando routine.”
“I’m
really sorry, Sergeant,” Mercer offered.
Hutch
waived the apology aside, his eyes darting back to Samuel even as he forced a
final burst of energy and sprinted across the lot. The younger man watched him go, a strange mixture of confusion,
loathing and respect in his gaze. Too
tired to sort it out, Hutch found the Torino and slid inside.
Back
at his cottage, he peeled off his jacket and gun, heading for the bathroom,
deliriously intent on a hot shower. A
single glance in the mirror wrenched him up short and he suddenly realized why
Mercer and Impala had pegged him as a user.
He looked wired, his eyes red and glossy, his cheeks sunken into harsh
shadows. His normally immaculate hair
was tangled and unkempt and he was in dire need of a shave. The jet hue of his turtleneck made his skin
look sallower by contrast, as if he’d just recovered from a lengthy
illness.
Gripping
both sides of the sink, Hutch hung his head.
He needed a shower and he needed sleep.
After both maybe he could put the pieces of his life back together again
and force a brave front for Starsky.
The
thought of his friend lying defenseless and alone in a hospital bed sent a
sharp cramp ripping through his gut.
Hutch groaned, leaning further into the sink. It just wasn’t fair. Why
couldn’t the injections have worked the way they were supposed to . . . why had
Professor Jennings turned into such a vindictive killer in the first
place? After everything that had
happened to Starsky, he had no sympathy left for the confused, grieving
father. Even after all of Cheryl’s
help, he knew the best thing he could do right now was to stay away from both
of them.
He
needed to concentrate on Starsky. Do
whatever was necessary to speed his healing.
Whatever’s necessary.
Hutch
raised his head, staring at his reflection in the mirror. There was one thing he could do immediately
. . . something he should have done sooner.
Rushing into the living room, he snagged the phone and dragged it with
him onto the couch. His hands shook as
he dialed the familiar phone number, his heart beating wildly as he listened to
the connection cycle through a series of rings.
He
didn’t think he had the strength to talk to his mother just now. She would instinctively know something was
wrong, alerted by the intuition all mothers seemed to possess. She’d pry and question, gently encouraging
with love, and he’d end up losing it. God, please don’t let her answer. Please don’t let her . . .
“Hello.”
The
clipped masculine voice in his ear was familiar, and Hutch breathed a thankful
sigh of relief.
“Dad?”
“Ken.” There was nothing overly warm in the
greeting. “Were you calling for your
mother?”
“No!” The word came in a hasty rush, prompted by
his fear the phone would be passed off to his mother before he had a chance to
correct the misconception. “N-No,
Dad. I . . . I need to talk to
you. I-I need some advice about
Starsky.”
“Starsky?”
The
one word answers were starting to get to him, but Hutch closed his eyes,
forcing himself to talk calmly. “David
Starsky. You remember - - my
partner. We went through the Academy
together. You met him at my police
graduation.”
“Oh.” A pause.
“Yes.”
Well,
bully for that. He’d gotten two whole
words, even if they were one syllable a piece.
Wrapping his hand around the phone cord, Hutch fought down his
instinctive anger. They could be
discussing something as simple as the weather, and they’d each find fault in
the other. Tone of voice, choice of words, it didn’t matter. There was always
something to pick apart. Determined the
conversation wouldn’t deteriorate into an argument, Hutch drew in a ragged
breath. His nerves really were one step
shy of shattering. “Dad, I need your
help.”
A
soft chuckle came across the line.
“You’re joking, right Ken? You
haven’t spoken to me in three months and now you call from out of the blue
claiming to need my help?”
“Dad, please!”
This
time there was no judgment, no mockery.
“What’s wrong?”
Hutch
heard concern in the rapidly spoken question. It surprised him, leaving him floundering uncertainly at the
jarring shift in mood. Was his father
actually worried about him?
Ducking
his head, he rubbed his eyes. They were
burning again. He could understand that
he’d get weepy with his mother but not his overly critical father. “Something . . . something terrible has
happened to Starsky.” In a halting
voice he relayed the whole ugly tale, starting with Bellamy poisoning his
partner and ending with Starsky waking up on a respirator, paralyzed from the
neck down. “So Franklin keeps saying it’s only temporary,” he explained, his
voice cracking slightly as the ugly memories of the last thirty-eight hours
bubbled back to the surface. “But I
don’t know if I should believe him.
Then he tells me there’s a chance the paralysis could be permanent and I
feel like I’m going out of my head - -
up, down, not knowing what to believe.
Dad - -” He sucked in a quavering breath. “Starsky’s more than just my partner. He’s my closest friend. I
guess I just need some reassurance it’s going to work out.” He paused, making sure his father understood
what he said next . . . what it cost him to admit it. “I need to hear it from someone I trust.”
If
Grant Hutchinson was surprised by such vulnerability from his normally reserved
son it didn’t show. He waited only a
heartbeat before giving a clinical answer.
“Ken, I’m not there. Without
actually examining your friend . . . without seeing his test results there are
just too many variables to factor into play.
It sounds like this Dr. Franklin is doing everything he can, and from
what you’ve told me he appears competent.
Do you have any reason to doubt his diagnosis?”
Groaning,
Hutch bowed his head into his hand.
He’d been hoping for something more from his father. He needed
something more. Some concrete
reassurance from a man he was often at odds with, but whom he respected for his
medical brilliance. The last thing he wanted was dispassionate doubletalk,
especially when he was a hair shy of sobbing into the phone and making a fool
of himself. “Dad, isn’t there anything
you can do?” he persisted, ignoring his father’s question entirely. “I mean maybe if you called Franklin, told
him who you were, he’d share Starsky’s test results with you.”
“I
don’t think so,” Grant told him. “More
than likely he’d be irritated I was poking my nose where it didn’t belong. Besides, doctor-patient privilege doesn’t
permit it. It’s his case, Ken, and I
haven’t been asked to consult. You’re
going to have to ride this one out.”
Angry
frustration made him abruptly short-tempered.
“You’re not listening!” he snapped.
“Didn’t you hear what I said about Starsky? You don’t know what he means to me.”
“I
know that he’s your friend and you’re upset,” Grant said a little too tightly,
prompted by the heat in Hutch’s voice.
“But I’m half the country away and you’re asking me to make a blind
diagnosis about a critical patient I haven’t even seen. I’m not a miracle worker, Ken, and I’m not
in the habit of butting my nose into another, fully competent doctor’s
caseload, regardless who might be asking.
If you’d stayed in the field, you’d realize medicine isn’t an exact
science. Sometimes all a doctor can
offer are best and worst case scenarios.
The rest is often up to the patient.”
“So
you’re not even going to try to help?
For the first time in my life I’m practically begging you to do
something, and you’re shutting me out.”
“I’m
not shutting you out, Kenneth - -”
“Then what the hell do you call it?” he
snapped, his patience shattering.
Surging to his feet, he began to pace, holding the base of the phone
clamped against his leg. “I guess if I
wanted reassurance, I picked the wrong person to give it, huh, Dad? Big surprise there. You never knew how to do it when I was a
kid, and you don’t know how to do it now!”
A
long silence crackled over the receiver.
Hutch found himself closing his eyes, desperately trying to calm his
hostile anger. Yet even as he struggled
to bring his panic-induced rage under control, he knew he’d crossed the line,
drawn first blood. Your turn, Dad.
“Ken.” Grant’s tone when he finally spoke was
measured and cool, clipped with frost.
“I’m not in the habit of making false promises. You’re upset and you’re overwrought. I can hear it in your voice. If you want answers, I suggest you talk to
the doctor in charge of your friend’s case. Maybe - -”
“That’s not why I called you!” Hutch yelled into the phone, the last feeble
strands of his control snapping. “For
crying out loud, Dad, don’t you get it?
I was hoping you’d come down off your freaking ivory pedestal and act
like a father for a change.”
“Kenneth
- -” Stern now.
“Yeah,
yeah.” His own voice dripped
bitterness. “You can skip the
lecture. I get it.”
“I
don’t think you do - -”
“Bullshit! Let me tell you what I get, Dad.
I get that nothing between us has changed.”
Seething,
Hutch slammed the phone down. An influx
of rage and adrenalin left him physically quaking, his legs suddenly weak, gut
knotted and sour. Choking back fury, he
stalked through the small house, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths, the
suffocating ugliness of the last thirty-eight hours catching up with him all at
once. Worry, panic, confusion, too
little sleep, lack of food, too much caffeine, frustration, fear - - it all came crashing down in wave after
sickening wave.
Ohgod, what if Starsky’s
paralysis is permanent?
Panicked,
he stalked to the bedroom, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to quiet
his ratcheting heartbeat. On the verge
of hyperventilating he dropped to a seat on the bed, cradling his head in his
hands. Damn it, Dad, why couldn’t you just tell me it’s all going to work
out? Why couldn’t you say what I needed
to hear, if for no other reason than I needed to hear it?
He’d
never felt so utterly helpless in his life - - first watching his friend slowly
die, minute by minute, second by second.
Unable to stop time, unable to ease Starsky’s excruciating pain . . .
trying to hold it together, to be strong when he so desperately wanted to
crack, to break down and sob. To scream and curse, to demand that heaven and
earth hear the agony of his soul . . . that he didn’t want to be left alone,
bereft of his friend, part of his very life,
his flesh-and-blood purpose for being . .
. that Starsky didn’t deserve to die, that fate wasn’t playing fair and his
friend was too young, too treasured, too loved,
to have his life ended so callously and abruptly.
Why couldn’t I help
him? Oh damn it, why can’t I help him now!
The
tide of emotion burst.
Sobbing,
Hutch fell back on the bed. Blindly, he
snagged a pillow and hugged it close to his chest, burying his face in the soft
linen. His tears flowed hot and
furious. He cried like he hadn’t cried
since he was a child - - wrenching, choking sobs that left him panting for
breath, his chest heaving, his head clogged and pounding. During any other time of distress he would
have physically curled against his partner, only his partner wasn’t there for
him . . . might never be there for him again, and the twisted selfishness in
that thought horrified him as much, if not more, than his pain for
Starsky. The guilt brought more sobs,
heavier tears, until eventually fatigue caught up with him. Long hours of suppressed emotional turmoil
and lack of sleep took their toll.
Completely
drained, his tears spent, Hutch fell into an exhausted slumber.
+++++
The
bright glare of morning sunlight slanting through the bedroom blinds drew Hutch
groggily awake. Tossing an arm over his
eyes, he rolled onto his back, groaning as his stiff body protested the
movement. The sleep should have done
him good, except he’d spent the night fully dressed, cramped and curled around
a bed pillow. At first he couldn’t
fathom the reason for sleeping so strangely, anymore than he could explain the
gritty sensation of dried salt on his cheeks.
Then the ugliness of the last two days hurtled violently back. Shaken, he pushed up on one elbow, trying to
focus his red-veined eyes on the alarm clock by his bed. 9:20
a.m.
Guilt
knifed through him.
Starsky
could have been awake for hours . . . lying helpless and alone, hooked up to
all those revolting machines, no one to talk to him, to reassure him and quiet
the rush of renewed terror he was sure to experience on waking. Flinging the pillow from the bed, Hutch
shoved off the opposite side and staggered toward the bathroom. He had a splitting headache. Likely the result of his hysterical sobbing
bout the night before, he thought with a wince. And he’d overslept. He
should have been at the hospital hours ago, demanding admittance to ICU. What kind of friend was he, sleeping and
feeling sorry for himself, leaving Starsky to the dispassionate mercy of
hospital personnel?
Cringing
at his negligence, Hutch hurried through the mechanics of showering and
dressing. He knew he should eat
something, but the thought of food turned his stomach. He managed to force a glass of milk, two
Tylenol, and a piece of wheat toast for sheer necessity. The bread stuck in his
throat but the milk helped quiet his gut.
He thought about calling Dobey then decided he could do it from the
hospital. The less time he wasted now,
the quicker he could be at his partner’s side.
No
one challenged him at the hospital.
Maybe it was because the medical staff had already experienced his blunt
single-mindedness when it came to the dark-haired patient in ICU Ward 23. Or maybe Franklin had told them to give him
a wide berth. A few stray glances
wandered in his direction, but the nursing staff left him alone. Thankful he didn’t have to bully his way
into Starsky’s room, Hutch paused just outside the door, mentally gathering
himself.
With
a deep breath, he entered the room.
+++++
Starsky
didn’t think he’d ever look at white the same way again. There was too much of it - - the ceiling,
the walls, the sheets on the bed, even his flesh. It was bloodless and pasty . . . no living color. And wasn’t that appropriate considering his
body felt dead? Is dead. The difference was
really schematics, right? Tomato,
To-moto.
He
might have laughed if he wasn’t on the verge of crying. Lack of color, that’s what white was all
about - - a lack of life.
Last
night he’d dreamed in vibrant hues . . . seascapes and cloudscapes of cobalt
blue, lush, green woods where streams burbled softly over water-smoothed stones
and the ground lay wrapped in dense purple shade . . . sandy deserts baked gold beneath a champagne
sun, arroyos of wind-blasted stone bordered by soaring pinnacles of jagged red
rock . . .
It
had all seemed so real, an explosion of color, sight and sensation in his
mind. But he woke to a dark room, the
gray light of predawn seeping cold and onion-pale through the blinds. He woke to terror and the cruel shock of
immobility, a tube in his throat . . . alone in the darkness, alone with the
horror.
He
thought he’d go insane, trapped, unable to move, unable to talk. For one fragile second, he thought he was
living a nightmare. That the dazzling landscape of his dreams was the real
reality, and he’d wake up any moment back among that harvest of blazing color.
Then the memories tumbled back:
Bellamy, the poison, desperately scrambling to find the antidote,
shooting to death the only man who could save him. He’d consciously made that choice, fully aware of the
consequences, and he’d make it again in a heartbeat. Even if it meant ending up in the same grisly condition, this
barbed mockery of life.
At
least Hutch was alive. One of them
could live and breathe outside of the white.
He
remembered his friend yesterday in this very room, talking to him, touching
him, stroking his face and hair. He’d
almost shriveled up and died from the terror that first time he’d wakened,
horrified to realize he couldn’t move, that his body was dead. But Hutch was there, speaking softly,
assuring him it would all be fine, that the ugly paralysis he felt was only
temporary.
Starsky
closed his eyes.
He’d
said goodbye to Hutch twice. Once at
the police station, clasping hands across his desk.
Y’know, if this were a cowboy
movie, I’d give you my boots. You’re my
pal, Hutch.
And
again in the ER, when he was certain he was going to die, nothing but a long
look passing between them. A look that
spoke volumes. Emotion and love without
words, all the things he held cherished in his soul. Things he wanted Hutch to
know. Eternal words, eternal love.
But
it hadn’t ended there.
He’d
lost track of time even though he could see a clock on the wall across the
room. 9:55 a.m. It meant nothing to him - - seconds, minutes,
hours. From the moment he’d awakened
last night to find his world turned upside down, time only had two measures - -
when he was alone and when Hutch was there.
Nurses had been in and out of his room all morning, talking to him,
checking his vitals, emptying the foley tube he’d come to realize was hooked to
his bladder by means of a catheter . . . marking the chart at the foot of his
bed, replacing the IV bags. Once or
twice he dozed, waking to find himself alone again, almost glad for the
solitude, except for the lack of a particular 6’1” blond.
Throughout
the long morning he lay still and listened, every infinitesimal sound magnified
and snared by his ears - - overhead pages, the creak and whine of carts wheeled
across waxed linoleum, the muffled sobs of visitors as they came and went from
the rooms of their loved ones. A short
while ago he’d overheard two nurses talking outside the doorway of the patient
parallel to his.
. . . brought him in last night . . . gunshot . . .
Polly was on . . .
. . . looks bad . . .
another cop . . .
. . . took two units of whole blood . . .
. . . Dr. Garner wants updates every hour . . .
He
moaned softly, needing Hutch as he’d never needed him before. Was it worse to be shot and critical or
paralyzed and helpless? Tormented, he
willed himself to move, but the cruel deadness in his body only mocked him.
Depression sent a silent scream ripping through his head. He hated his uselessness, his utter lack of
being. He felt like a husk, ravaged and
discarded. In desperation, his eyes
flicked to the door, hoping to see a familiar crown of blond hair, the glint of
compassionate blue eyes. But there was
only emptiness, a reality that sank deeper and heavier into his badly lacerated
soul.
He
hated himself. There was a cop dying in
the room across the hall, others critical and clinging to life further down the
ward, yet he couldn’t stop feeling sorry for his own miserable existence. Didn’t that make him a loathsome, selfish
S.O.B? And yet he couldn’t stop the
feelings . . . the horror, shame and choking remorse. When it came right down to it, he was scared out of his
skull.
Please, Hutch.
Too
much white. He was drowning in it,
suffocating, pulled under in a quicksand of fear. Ohgod, babe, where are you? Hutch, I need you. I . . .
From
out of nowhere a thoroughly horrifying thought struck him. What
if Hutch was the cop across the hall?
Starsky’s
heart stopped beating. And then almost
immediately, something warm washed over him, as shocking for its suddenness as
it was welcome for its blissful relief.
He turned his head on the pillow, the sight of the man in the doorway
filling his mind, heart, and soul to bursting.
Hutch!
In four
quick strides his friend was across the room, those large, gentle hands
reaching out to touch his face, his hair.
The contact was electric.
Starsky closed his eyes, revealing in the giddy sensation. He wanted it
to go on and on, warmth and tenderness magnified in every exquisite stroke of
Hutch’s fingertips. For a time he’d
forgotten he could feel at all, his body numb to touch. But his partner had
reawakened that awareness like bringing food to a starving man.
He’d
never really thought about Hutch’s hands before. They were larger than his, powerful and strong, but gentle at the
same time, the fingers long and supple.
Hutch had a musician’s hands; the fingertips calloused from the strings
of his guitar, his right palm toughened further by the weight of his
Magnum. And yet, the stroke of those
wonderfully imperfect hands was the most beautiful thing Starsky had ever felt
in his life.
“Starsk?”
The
gentle prodding of Hutch’s voice drew his eyes open and he stared up into the
face of his friend.
Hutch
smiled softly, compassion shining in his blue eyes. “How you doing, buddy?”
One hand fell to his side, but the other kept up its steady pressure,
lightly sculpting an eyebrow, contouring a cheek. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner.
I, um . . .” Hutch licked his
lips and looked away as if uncomfortable with the reason for his absence.
Starsky
scrunched his brows together. He knew
that look even as Hutch tried to hide it.
Feeling guilty. If he’d had his voice, he would have
told his friend what an idiot he was being, but Hutch was already off on
another track.
“I
called Dobey. Told him where I
was. He’s worried about you too.” Hutch’s eyes returned, crimped with a shadow
of pain. “Everyone’s worried about you,
Starsk. The guys at the station, the
garage . . . even that goof Bigelow down in Supply. Everyone’s sending up prayers for you, buddy. They all just want you to get better.”
Starsky
felt fingers thread into his hair, the light pressure sheer magic. If Hutch stayed like that, his fingertips
twined deeply in loose curls, Starsky thought he might be able to fall asleep
contented. He would have preferred to
pillow up against Hutch, the steadying pressure of his partner’s arms around
him, but his cursed body wouldn’t allow it.
At least the fear was withering now, ebbing slowly in Hutch’s calming
presence.
It
wasn’t fair. Not only to him, but to
Hutch as well. What would become of
them if he couldn’t shake the paralysis, if Franklin was wrong? Starsky knew his friend would never leave
him.
He told me that last
night. I remember . . .
It
came back in a rush, the remembered tears of frustration and fear spilling from
his eyes, Hutch bent over him, pleading with him not to cry, so close he might
as well have been in the same bed. He’d
vowed never to leave, and Starsky knew he wouldn’t. He’d grind himself into bone-weary fatigue first, doing whatever
was necessary to remain at Starsky’s side, even if it meant quitting the Force
and abandoning the career he loved.
Through doctors, treatments and therapy, Hutch would be there. Through
medications, in-home care, wheelchairs and ramps, hospital beds, toilet and
shower modifications . . .
Starsky
groaned, smothered by the violent return of horror.
“Ssh,
babe, it’s okay. I’m right here.” Hutch’s fingers swept through his hair then
slipped lower to stroke his cheek.
“We’re going to get through this, Starsky. You’re going to get
through it.”
He
wanted to believe . . . desperately and completely, but knew the hopelessness he
felt lay bare in his eyes. With one hand, Hutch reached behind him, dragging a
chair close to the bed. His other hand
stayed pressed against Starsky’s cheek.
“I know you,” Hutch said
firmly. “And I know you’re not going to
put up with this for long. Just
remember, buddy - - it’s only temporary.
A couple of days, maybe a little longer . . .” He swallowed hard. Once
again his eyes darted away, but this time it wasn’t guilt Starsky saw there.
He’s keepin’ something from
me.
The
thought was staggering. He knew Hutch
would never lie to him, never deliberately deceive him. Yet if his friend thought he was withholding
information for Starsky’s benefit, he’d be as tight-lipped as a clam. Hadn’t he done the same to Hutch before,
hoping to spare him from ugly gossip and rumor?
Unable
to grasp the vicious twists and turns of the present, Starsky’s mind retreated
into the past.
Rookie patrolman David
Michael Starsky was still wired on adrenalin as he headed for the locker room
at the end of his workday. Shift
change had already taken place, most of the remaining teams having called it a
night. He and his partner, George
Klinger had been tied up with a robbery bust, but it was textbook clean and he
couldn’t help feel exhilarated by the tidy outcome. No one hurt, money recovered, and the perp had been caught
red-handed with the goods. Best of all,
he’d been instrumental in bringing the guy down.
He couldn’t wait to tell
Hutch about the experience. They’d
already planned to get together tomorrow night at Huggy Bear’s for a beer, but
he knew he’d be calling his blond friend as soon as he got the chance. Hutch’s car had been missing from the lot
when he and George returned, but that was to be expected. Hutch’s shift had ended two hours earlier, something
Starsky was certain he was immensely grateful for.
Hutch had already endured
five days of nonstop verbal abuse from his partner Anthony “Vlad the Impaler”
Impala. Of all the senior officers to draw as a partner, Hutch had to snag the
worst. There was always talk around the
precinct about how Impala treated rookies, but even those doing the gossiping
admitted they’d never seen him ride anyone as hard as he did Hutch.
And it wasn’t just the usual
rough-riding all rookies endured. This
was spiteful in nature, deliberate attempts to humiliate and degrade. Starsky had tried to convince Hutch to say
something to their captain, but his friend would have none of it, fearing he’d
lose the respect of his fellow officers.
And so he took the abuse in stride, did as he was told, and suffered
silently.
Starsky knew their captain,
Royce Claremont, was a bit of a jerk anyway and probably would have sided with
Impala. They were both “old school,”
felt that rookies who couldn’t cut it needed to be weaned out early. If Impala was a little rough with his
car-mates, so be it. He was doing the
Force a favor by washing out the ones who’d only go belly up later anyway.
His mood soured by the
thought, Starsky stepped into the locker room.
He rounded the corner and drew to an immediate halt, surprised to find
Impala still there. The older man stood
with his back turned, dressed in his street clothes, the door of his locker
hanging open. His head was bent and he
was muttering something under his breath.
Starsky’s first reaction was
to blurt a sarcastic remark, but something about Impala’s tone made him
stop. The man sounded almost
breathless, a sort of hitching gasp coming between the low mumbles. Drawing back to the edge of the lockers so
he couldn’t be seen, Starsky peered around the corner. Something about Impala’s demeanor made the
hair on the back of his neck stand on edge.
The older cop shifted, leaning heavily into the metal lockers, and
Starsky realized he held a photograph in his hands. From the distance he
couldn’t see the actual picture, just the gloss sheen of an 8” x 10” image, but
he could see Impala’s eyes.
And what he saw there made
him sick.
There was something
perverted and goatish in the dark-eyed gaze, an ugly sort of lust that he would
have expected from a rutting pig. He
guessed the photo was probably from a porn shop, likely a naked woman in a
provocative pose. Surely nothing else
could have provoked that kind of sick immoral gaze. So Impala wasn’t without his own ugly little secrets. He was just
about to step from his hiding place, hopefully shocking the shit out of the
scumbag, when a detective team strolled around the corner from the opposite end
of the room.
“Hey, Tony, how’s it
going?” one of the men greeted.
Impala jerked, hastily
thrusting the photo behind his back, the image turned toward Starsky, who was
still tucked in his hiding place.
He stared, unable to believe
his eyes, the room suddenly reeling chaotically like it had been clamped on an
unstable axis. The blood drained from
his face, shock and rage rocketing through him. The high-gloss image clutched
in Impala’s hand was a picture of Hutch, towel wrapped around his waist as he
stepped from the shower. Starsky guessed
it had been taken from a distance with a close-up lens, his friend never even
aware he’d been photographed . . . or
that he was the unfortunate subject of depraved infatuation for a filthy,
bottom-feeding pervert.
Ducking back into the first
row of lockers, Starsky fought to keep his chest from heaving, his whole body
trembling with rage. He wanted nothing
more than to rip the photograph from the man’s hand, confront him and tear it
into tiny pieces. He wanted to spit, curse, and drive his knuckles into that
sickly lecherous face. But what would
Hutch do? What would Hutch say? And what if . . .
He blanched.
What if Imapla’s sick
obsession for Hutch wound its way through the department? Would that affect Hutch too, make him the
subject of malicious and unfounded gossip, possibly smear his service
record? Was Starsky ready to risk his
friend for his anger? Wasn’t there a
better way of handling this?
He glanced back around the
corner in time to see Impala shove the photo into his locker. The man grabbed his coat, said something to
the two detectives then left the same way they’d entered.
One thing was for
certain - - Hutch couldn’t stay
partners with a pervert like that. Not
when the dirtbag was practically hyperventilating just from looking at a
photograph. Yet if he said anything to
Hutch, his partner would probably just tough it out, still unwilling to go to
their captain. Which meant Starsky had
to take care of it in his own way.
Grimly determined he headed
for his locker.
Blackmail would work best,
bluntly spelled out in an anonymous letter.
At least he’d stay anonymous for now.
His friendship with Hutch was too well known, and he didn’t want Impala
thinking his friend had anything to do with the ultimatum Starsky planned on
giving - - “Request
another partner, or risk the exposure of your dirty little secret.”
“Starsk?”
He
blinked, abruptly aware the locker room had faded and he was awash in white
again - - walls, ceiling, blankets.
Except now there was color too - - soft ash and gold, sky blue - - the
cherished colors of his friend. He
looked toward Hutch and saw him smile hesitantly.
The
gentle pressure of fingertips lodged in Starsky’s hair. “You went away there for awhile, buddy. Are you tired?”
Starsky
gave a small shake of his head.
“Okay.” Again the smile, surer this time. “How about if I just talk for awhile and try
to keep you entertained?” The corners of Hutch’s lips tipped higher and Starsky
felt his heart quake. How could one
person have such a blessed all-consuming effect on him?
There
were deep lines etched into Hutch’s face and his cheeks were gaunt. Starsky knew he hadn’t been taking care of
himself, but he also selfishly wanted him to stay. Just a while, babe. Just ‘till the world makes sense again. He gave a tiny nod, momentarily
contented when Hutch started to talk.
He
listened for awhile, but it was really the sound of his friend’s voice he
wanted more than the actual words.
After awhile his eyelids dipped and he fell into a light doze. When he woke an hour later, Hutch was
slumped in the bedside chair, sound asleep, his hand still nestled in Starsky’s
hair.
+++++
Two
days later, Hutch arrived at the hospital before visiting hours had even
officially begun. The ICU staff had
grown used to him, allowing him to come and go pretty much as he pleased. There had been some token resistance at
first until it was noted how much more alert Starsky appeared to be whenever he
was around. Though he was frequently
shooed from Starsky’s room when any detailed examination was required, he was
allowed to return immediately afterward.
Hutch
found it growing harder to keep his partner’s spirits up as Starsky entered his
third full day of paralysis. It’s only temporary, he reminded himself
for the umpteenth time, hurrying from the hospital parking lot into the lobby.
Lately it had become a mantra he repeated nightly, each twenty-four hour span
bringing the niggling fear that it might become permanent. If only his partner could get off the damn
respirator at least.
Scowling
heavily, he hustled his way into the elevator, shaking water from his wet hair
and jacket. The rain had started last evening, drenching him as he’d raced for
his car, leaving him soaked and shivering.
The downpour had continued throughout the night, finally tapering to a
steady drizzle near dawn. It left him feeling moody and glum, emotions he
couldn’t afford to display in front of Starsky.
He
knew his friend was growing agitated and restless, Hutch’s fear the paralysis
might be permanent waffling between anger and intense horror. Though Starsky
couldn’t speak and couldn’t move, Hutch could see every transitory emotion
conveyed in his expressive eyes. Doing
what he could, Hutch tried to reassure him with touch and words . . .through
the unspoken telepathy that crackled between them, but even that was failing.
Starsky’s depression grew worse daily.
Determined
to maintain a positive attitude, Hutch ran his fingers through his damp hair
and stepped into the room with a smile.
It died on his lips instantly at the sight of a young LPN bent over his
partner’s bed, a bathing basin on a roll-away table beside her. Without even
looking at his partner, Hutch felt Starsky’s sharp agitation coupled with
something like shame.
“Starsk.” He was at the bedside in an instant, his
hand instinctively moving to rest on the crown of his friend’s hair. His gaze shifted from his partner’s chalky
face to the nurse. “What’s going on
here?” he demanded.
“Sergeant
Hutchinson.” The LPN spared a dismissive
glance as she continued to fuss with the wash basin, adjusting the height of
the table. Hutch noticed towels,
washcloth and water set to the side, along with lotion and a bar of soap. He’d just tended to his friend yesterday,
bathing Starsky himself and didn’t understand what the preparation was
about.
“You’ll
have to leave, Sergeant. I need to give
your friend a bath.” As she spoke, she
caught the privacy curtain in her hand, crisply drawing it around the bed as if
he weren’t even there.
Hutch
found himself trapped on the inside, wedged against the mattress, which was
just fine with him. He wasn’t about to
leave Starsky when he sensed such restless agitation from his friend. Almost unconsciously, his fingers sank
deeper into Starsky’s hair.
“He
had a bath yesterday,” Hutch said tersely, prompted by the resilient mental
tension radiating from his partner
Starsky’s acute anxiety confused him, and the nurse - - young as she was
- - had a dispassionate, business-like manner that already rubbed him the wrong
way. Irritated, he glanced at the
woman’s nametag. “Look . . . Nurse
Orley, I think you - -”
“You
really are in the way, Sergeant,” she cut him off bluntly. “Kindly leave so I can get started.”
“He
doesn’t need a bath.”
“I’m
afraid he does.”
Hutch’s
anger got the better of him. “What the
hell for? It’s not like he’s been
outside wallowing around in the mud.”
Her
stare was pointed and chill. “It’s not mud he’s wallowing in.”
Realizing
what she meant, Hutch’s gaze dropped to his friend. Mortified, Starsky closed his eyes, his face crumpling in shame.
And suddenly that look, the wretchedness of seeing his friend so vulnerable was
too much to bear. Starsky shouldn’t have to endure any of this. Not the paralysis, the respirator, the
heartlessness of this cold, clinical nurse, and certainly not embarrassment
over something that was beyond his control.
“Get
out!” he hissed at the woman, his teeth clenched in rage.
“Sergeant
- -”
“I
said get out. I’ll do it myself.” He moved to wrench the curtain aside, his
fury over the situation leaving his face white and strained. From the corner of his eye he caught
Starsky’s gaze and suddenly stopped.
Starsky
was ashamed, yes. Angry, yes, but there
was something else in his eyes - - an almost-pleading quality that sent knives
ripping through Hutch’s heart. He
recalled October, five months before when he’d endured a hellish 48 hours of
forced heroin withdrawal. He’d been the
one who’d needed bathing then, his body filthy and fouled by a lack of control
over normal digestive functions. He remembered the degradation and burning
shame, memories that could wake him from a sound sleep even now, leaving him
drenched and shivering in a cold sweat. Through it all, Starsky had tended to
his soiled body, silently and quickly.
Never saying a word about what he was doing, never mentioning it again.
Hutch
dragged a hand over his face, understanding.
As humiliated as Starsky was feeling, he didn’t want Hutch to be the one
to bathe him. He could suffer the
paralysis, the respirator, even the helplessness of being unable to talk or
move, but he wanted that single dignity to remain intact where his friend was
concerned. Starsky wanted him to leave. Was practically begging him with his
eyes.
Anger
draining, Hutch bowed his head.
“Starsky, I’m sorry.”
The
nurse’s initial shock at being ordered from the room had faded. Recovering, she
planted her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Sergeant, am I going to have to call security and have you
physically removed?”
“No.” His voice was low, despondent. Leaning over the bed, he smiled gently down
on his friend. “I’ll be back in a
little bit, buddy.” Hutch brushed his
fingertips over Starsky’s brow, noting the heightened flush of embarrassment on
his cheeks. He hated that he couldn’t make that ugly emotion go away, but knew
the best thing he could do for his mortified partner was to leave.
With
another gentle smile for his friend, and a less than forgiving glare for the
nurse, Hutch ducked from inside the curtain and walked into the hallway.
+++++
Four
hours after Starsky’s bath, Hutch sat in the room opening cards that had
arrived from numerous well-wishers, making sure Starsky saw the cover and
inside of each before he actually read them.
It seemed almost every single person at the precinct had dropped a
get-well wish into the mail or sent a scribbled letter plastered with smiley
faces. Dobey had come by earlier,
allotted a brief 15 minutes by the ICU staff.
Despite his higher rank, he didn’t rate Hutch’s virtually unrestricted
status, probably because he wasn’t as volatile about getting his way.
Hutch
was down to the last couple cards when one of the RN’s breezed in to check on
Starsky. Hutch had grown so accustomed
to their constant coming and going he barely noticed anymore until he heard the
woman gasp. “Did you see that?” she
cried excitedly.
Puzzled,
more than a little concerned, Hutch raised his head. “See what?”
“Detective
Starsky. He was taking a few breaths on
his own!”
Shoving
the cards aside, Hutch pushed from the chair where he’d been sitting, leaning
over the bed. The nurse was finagling
with the respirator, checking readings, scribbling notes on the chart she’d
grabbed from the foot of the bed, but her animation was obvious. “For every few
breaths of the respirator, he’s taking one for himself.”
“Buddy
. . .” Hutch reached for Starsky’s
hand, desperate hope in his eyes. He
gripped the limp fingers and squeezed.
At first there was nothing, just the same dead unresponsiveness he’d
known for days, but then he felt a faint pressure in return.
Giddy
elation streaked through Hutch. “He
just squeezed my hand!” His words
spilled out in a rush of excitement, heart thumping wildly in his chest. Had he really just felt the impossibly
wonderful sensation of his partner’s fingers tightening over his? “Starsk!”
Ecstatic, he leaned over the bed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s it, buddy. It’s all coming together now.
You’re going to be fine.” The
fingers tightened again, harder this time and Hutch felt tears sting his eyes.
Starsky’s
face was upturned to his, theirs eyes locked together, the nurse, the
respirator and every other distraction around them quickly forgotten. He was vaguely aware of her paging a doctor
to the room in the background, but the sound got lost in the crackle of a bond
that could never be broken . . . an intrinsic connection that defied time, fate
and impossible odds. Hutch expelled a
sighing breath, half sob, half laughter.
“What took you so long?” he whispered.
A
second later he was shuffled aside as a glut of doctors and nurses converged on
the bed. He didn’t mind though. This time the attention was over something
positive. A nurse steered him from the
room and pointed him down the hall to a small waiting area reserved for family.
He went numbly, still grinning, sending up silent prayers of gratitude.
Once
there, he found he couldn’t sit, his body surging with adrenalin, despite the
fact he hadn’t slept more than a few hours each night since Bellamy had first
injected Starsky. He paced back and
forth in the empty room, dragging nervous fingers through his hair. When he heard footsteps behind him, he
turned quickly expecting to see a nurse, but found only a forlorn-looking man
with brown hair.
Vague
recollection tugged at Hutch’s senses and he frowned. “Mercer?”
The
patrolman looked different out of uniform, dressed in a pair of brown cords and
a gray sweatshirt. His face was
thinner, his shoulders tucked in a despondent slump. Jerking his head around, he stared owlishly at Hutch, before
sluggish memory fired in his brain.
“Sergeant Hutchinson.” The hint
of a smile touched his lips, but it was too tight to be warm. “You look different, Sir. Not as, uh . . . frazzled as the last time I
saw you.”
Taking
a step closer, Hutch tilted his head to the side. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting.” Mercer’s gray eyes suddenly took on a bleak
haze. “We got the guy who was pushing
out of the hospital two days ago, but my partner took a bullet in the
scuffle. Sam’s down the hall, critical
. . . a gunshot wound to the stomach.
They, uh . . . they’re not sure he’s gonna make it. I keep coming back . . . hoping, you
know? They let me in to see him for a
couple minutes then shove me down here.
He’s been in a coma ever since it went down.”
“My
God . . .” The words tumbled from
Hutch’s lips from sheer reflex. “I’m
sorry.”
Mercer
glanced at him sharply as if gauging his sincerity. “I know the kid’s just a rookie, but we’re close. He’s had to put up with a lot of shit
because of who his father is and he’s done it with grit, you know? It shouldn’t end like this.”
“No,”
Hutch agreed quietly. He wet his
lips. “That doesn’t mean it will, Mercer. He’s hung on for two days. That has to count for something . . . tell
you about his will to live.” He paused,
fully understanding what the man was going through. “Is there any improvement?”
Mercer
gave a half-hearted shrug. “A
little. Which should have me doing
cartwheels, I guess, except I can’t forget how he looked when that creep shot
him . . . all that blood gushing out of
his stomach. He was scared out of his
skull, telling me he didn’t want to die, and all I could do was hang onto him .
. . plead with him not to give up.”
“You
were with him, that’s what counted.”
The
gray eyes returned, piercing this time.
“You say that like you mean it, Sergeant.”
“Call
me Hutch.” Motioning Mercer to a seat
on one of the vinyl-padded chairs placed throughout the room, Hutch sat
adjacent to him. “My partner’s in here
too.”
“That’s
right.” Mercer blinked as if suddenly
remembering Hutch’s comment from their initial encounter in the parking
lot. “You said something about him
being poisoned.”
“Yeah. I think he’s on the upswing though.” Hutch gave an abbreviated version of what
had happened to Starsky. Mercer seemed
okay, but he wasn’t ready to start sharing Starsky’s condition with the world
at large, even fellow officers. His
relationship with his partner had always been on the private side. While they readily interacted with others,
their extraordinary bond was jealously guarded, sectioned off by a boundary no
one else could cross. It was the “me and thee” element of their
relationship . . . a clearly defined line visibly excluding the rest of the
world. And that was the way Hutch wanted it - - his partner to himself. “I guess we’re both kind of in the same
situation,” he finished quietly.
Mercer
nodded thoughtfully. “Hopefully it
won’t be long before Sam turns the corner too.
Like I said - - we’re
close.” He frowned suddenly, eyeing
Hutch almost critically. “He’s not like
his dad, you know? The kid’s had a lot
to live down, least of all his father’s legacy. I guess you’ve got no love lost for his old man, huh?”
Caught
off guard by the observation, Hutch was momentarily at a loss for words. His days of working with Anthony Impala were
buried deep in the past, memories he rarely visited. Arching a brow, he eyed Mercer speculatively. “What does that mean?”
The
other man shrugged. He looked
tired. As worn and exhausted as Hutch
felt. “Just that . . . well, I know you
were partnered with him. You know how
it gets on stakeout . . . long hours night after night. After awhile, that’ll
make anyone talk.” Another shrug, this
one clearly uncomfortable. “Sam told me
some stuff about his dad. Guess he knew
I’d keep it to myself, but I figure you already know the half of it, huh? Must have creeped you out big time when you
realized the old man had a thing for you.”
Hutch
blinked, unable to comprehend the words.
Thing for you. What the hell exactly was a “thing?” He felt himself flush, unable to stop the
preconceived notion. Surely, Mercer
didn’t mean - - couldn’t possibly mean
. . .
“Sergeant
Hutchinson?”
He
jerked, startled to realize his nerves had balled into taut wire. The same RN who had been in the room with
him when Starsky squeezed his hand was standing in the doorway, a smile on her
face.
“It’s
all right if you want to go back to the room now, Sergeant,” she told him.
“Your friend is still on the respirator, but Dr. Franklin is extremely
optimistic with the progress he’s making.
I think Detective Starsky would probably like to see you. I’m no psychic, but he seemed highly
agitated when we sent you away.”
And I’d bust down doors to
see him.
Like
a marionette on a string, Hutch was instantly on his feet, concern plain on his
face. He itched to be with Starsky, to
make sure his friend knew he hadn’t been deserted. Shooting Mercer a parting glance, he smoothed his hands nervously
over his jeans, eager to be away. “Look
. . . I’m on the same floor. Keep in
touch, huh? And I’ll be thinking about
Sam - -” He paused suddenly, realizing
how horrible Mercer had to feel . . . that he had to be experiencing the same
bleak emotions Hutch had lived with for the last five days. Deliberately slowing his words, he held out
his hand. “I’ll check in if they let
me. I hope it all works out for both of
you.”
“Yeah.” Mercer nodded, but his expression had turned
bleak. He shook the hand Hutch offered,
then dropped his eyes to the floor. As
much as Hutch wanted to offer reassurances, Starsky came first. He left the room behind the nurse, darting
swiftly down the hall. The pressure in
his chest didn’t ease until he was back at Starsky’s side, his fingertips
reaching out to lace through a riotous mass of inky curls.
Starsky
had squeezed his hand. Starsky had
taken a few faltering breaths on his own.
It was a start.
He could
almost believe the mantra he’d been repeating nightly, that the paralysis was
temporary, that it would all work out in time and the world would eventually
return to normal. For the first time in
a long time, Hutch felt blissfully optimistic.
+++++
He
slept fairly well that night, an indulgence he hadn’t enjoyed since Bellamy had
first injected Starsky with poison. As
per his normal routine, he was at the hospital the next morning before the
start of visiting hours. A sheer moment
of panic ensued when he arrived at Starsky’s room only to find it glaringly
empty. Before he could fall apart
completely a nurse appeared at his shoulder and informed him Starsky had been
moved to a regular room on the fifth floor - - private, but without all the
constant monitoring and round-the-clock care of ICU.
His
heart lightened twofold, Hutch sprinted toward the elevator, bursting with
impatience. A regular room meant
further improvement. It meant that
Starsky had turned the corner, that the worst was past and he - -
Hutch
came to a dead halt in the doorway of Starsky’s room.
He
had expected the respirator to be gone.
He had not expected Starsky to be sitting propped up in bed, his eyes at
half-mast as he tried to focus on some inane game show muted to half-volume on
the TV.
“Starsk?” Barely daring to breathe, Hutch took a step
closer to the bed.
Starsky’s
eyes slid from the TV on the far wall to touch on him with undisguised
warmth. “Hey.” The corner of his mouth curled slightly as
he extended his right hand.
Elation,
profound relief and giddy confusion sent Hutch bolting for the bed. His hand reached out, sliding from Starsky’s
palm all the way up his forearm, wrapping tightly just beneath his elbow in an
arm-to-arm grip. “My god, Starsk!” His breath came in a rush too fast for
words, euphoric thought tripping over lightning-fired euphoric thought. “The respirator . . . your hand, your arm .
. .”
Unable
to articulate what he was feeling, Hutch glanced down at the hand locked on his
forearm. The grip lacked strength, but
it was warm, blessedly mobile and pulsing with life.
“Kinda
. . . happened quick,” Starsky said weakly, his voice shorn and rasp.
Hutch
immediately zeroed in on the sound.
“Don’t talk,” he said hastily. Instinctively
he reached with his other hand to touch Starsky’s cheek. A dazzling smile spread over his lips. “I mean . . . don’t talk, but, ohgod, babe,
it’s so good to hear your voice . . . to see you smile.” Emotion caught in his throat and he had to
look away briefly to collect himself.
Starsky
gave a soft chuckle. “You always were .
. . the sensitive one.”
“Got
that right.” Hutch’s head was still
bowed. His eyes traveled over Starsky’s
body, propped up in bed, the daze of euphoria slowly fading. He tightened his grip on Starsky’s arm,
splaying his fingers to feel the warmth of responsive flesh beneath. “You, uh . . . you don’t mind if I just hang
on to you for awhile? I mean . . . the fact I can actually touch you - -”
“Hey
. . . I can actually feel it, Blondie.” Starsky’s voice grew thinner and
thready. He winced slightly, shifting
his shoulders on the fluffy brace of pillows at his back. “It ain’t the whole way though, Hutch.” His
eyes dipped and his jaw tightened as if he struggled with pain. “I . . . I can’t feel my legs, buddy. Just down to my waist . . . that’s all . .
.”
The
euphoria dimmed further. “That’s
okay. It’ll come eventually,
Starsk.” But Hutch wasn’t thinking
about the paralysis now. Starsky’s
fingers tightened reflexively on his arm, his shoulders and upper body going
abruptly taut. The dark-haired man
ground his teeth together, his brow crimping down as he turned his face
away. A sliver of perspiration trickled
from his temple to his jaw.
Hutch
felt a flicker of alarm. “Starsky,
what’s wrong?”
“Mmm
. . . nuthin’.” Spoken too quickly, too
tightly.
Recognizing
the onset of pain, Hutch reached across him for the call button, but Starsky
clamped a hand on his wrist. “Forget
it. Won’t do any good.”
“You’re
in pain.”
“Franklin
says it’s ‘cuz of all the drugs . . . body’s tryin’ . . . to get back to
normal.”
Hutch
frowned, hating the breathless pauses in his friend’s shorn voice. The respirator had left Starsky’s throat
blistered and raw. His breathing
capacity still wasn’t at maximum and it showed in how easily he became
winded. Hutch tried to remind himself
that the setbacks were normal, that miraculous healing didn’t just happen
overnight, and the road to Starsky’s complete recovery was likely to be a long
one. Even now, he still lacked feeling
below the waist.
Easing
onto the side of the bed, Hutch pulled Starsky’s hand into his lap. His fingers twined over the limp palm,
sealing them together. “What about pain
medication? Are they giving you
anything?”
Starsky
shook his head. “Too many drugs in my
system . . . said it’ll just mess me up more.
‘Sides . . .” The hand that
wasn’t entwined with Hutch’s pressed over his stomach. “Everything . . . everything makes me sick,
Hutch.” He swallowed hard, licked his
lips. “I get thirsty, and then spit it
back up. Kinda like a bad joke, huh?”
Starsky
tried to smile, but his mouth was dry.
He didn’t see any sense in telling Hutch the small plastic basin on the
nightstand had been his constant companion since 2:00 a.m., or that the nurses
had already emptied it three times.
When he’d first gotten sick, they’d given him a shot for the nausea, but
that just made it worse and a half hour later he was throwing up again, hanging
over the side of the bed, sweat streaming down his face.
He
was just so damn glad to be off the respirator it almost didn’t matter. He’d willingly put up with the vomiting and
cramps in his gut, if it meant he could actually feel something again. He’d been
terrified, lying on his back in the ICU, certain his life had come to an ugly
end. And when he hadn’t been able to
care for himself, attend to his basic needs . . . that humiliation was worse
than anything he’d ever imagined. He
couldn’t even conceive how Hutch had managed to bounce back from such utter
degradation. The day Hutch had interrupted the LPN who’d been ready to give him
a sponge bath, he’d wanted to sink through the floor. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Hutch, nothing his partner wouldn’t
do for him. But along with that
unrestricted and utter devotion were certain matters of personal privacy
Starsky didn’t want his friend to ever attend.
That
dignity was tantamount to his recovery and Hutch had respected it when he’d
left the room. Hutch had been there day
in, day out since the hell with Bellamy began.
And when Starsky had thought his life was over . . . when he couldn’t
move, couldn’t speak, Hutch had been the only stabling influence in an insane
world.
His
hand tightened over Hutch’s as the pain in his body spiked hotter. Clenching his teeth together, Starsky turned
his head away. “Ughnn . . .”
“Easy.” Hutch’s free hand slid onto his
shoulder. “Just take it easy, pal.”
Starsky
felt the back of Hutch’s knuckles brush over his cheek. He was sweating, yet bitterly cold. He could feel trickles of perspiration
seeping from the edges of his hair, soaking the back of his neck. The nausea had returned, acid hot, clotted
with sharp edges. He wanted to curl
into a ball, tuck his knees close to his chest and choke down the sickness, but
his legs were dead. It was like being
buried waist deep in cement. An
electric pulse boomeranged from his shoulders to his gut and he groaned.
“Starsky?”
Hutch’s
voice got lost in the seizure of pain.
The spasms weren’t nearly as frequent as the sticky waves of nausea, but
they were twice as crippling - - piercing bursts of agony that ricocheted
pell-mell through his arms and chest and left him panting for breath. Instinctively he gripped the side of the
bed, clamping down on a moan as he attempted to ride out the buffeting wave.
Hutch
swore softly. “I’m gonna go find a
nurse.”
“No!” Starsky hung onto him in desperation. “Don’t go.”
Not you. Please, babe . . . not you.
He couldn’t do it without Hutch - - not the pain, the nausea, the
revolting lifelessness of his legs, but most of all the simple act of
being. He needed Hutch to remind him of
who he was . . . of the life that still waited for him outside of a confining
hospital bed. Panting, he sucked down a
lungful of air, his hand creeping higher on Hutch’s arm, knotting in the coarse
material of his jacket. “Please . . .
just . . . just give me a minute.
Franklin says it’ll get better soon.
I . . . I just gotta get rid of
all these chemicals in my body. Sorta
like . . . like sweatin’ it out, and -
-”
“ -
- and throwing up,” Hutch finished bitterly.
But
Starsky wasn’t listening. He arched his
head back, feeling the pillows beneath him, the cherished pressure of Hutch’s
fingertips now laced in his hair. He
closed his eyes, blotting out everything except the steadying warmth and acute
compassion of his friend. It enveloped
him, pushed through the pain and shoved it down a notch.
After
a time Starsky breathed easier. Opening
his eyes, he smiled slightly and focused on his partner. “You’re better’n pain meds, ya know that?”
“Starsk
- - ”
Starsky
shifted, angling his upper body toward his friend. “I . . . I wouldn’tna made it in the ICU without you.” Suddenly it was important that Hutch know
that. He tugged, urging the
blond-haired man closer.
Hutch
leaned forward, looking into his eyes, no words spoken . . . just a measured
gaze of trust that transcended everything around them. Starsky freed his hand. Raising both arms, he wrapped them around
Hutch’s neck and pulled him into a hug.
“Thanks, buddy,” he whispered softly, breathing the words into a mesh of
ultra fine blond hair.
Hutch
bowed his head, burying his face against Starsky’s shoulder. Resilient tension danced through his body
and he clung tight. “It’s good to have
you back, buddy.”
+++++
Starsky
dozed fitfully, pain making it impossible to sleep for more than a few minutes
at a time. When he woke, it was to
cramping nausea, his tender gut convulsing with a merciless round of dry
heaves. There was little left in his
stomach to actually spit up, but that didn’t stop the punishing contractions or
the unrelenting agony that accompanied it. Exhausted and weak, he crumpled
against the pillows, panting heavily while Hutch bathed his sweaty face with a
cool cloth.
Within
seconds his teeth started chattering, a barbarous chill displacing the
weakening cone of torrid heat. Nothing
his friend did - - adding extra blankets to the bed, tucking them tightly
around his neck and body, briskly rubbing his arms for warmth - - nothing
helped ease a fiercely abrupt onslaught of cold. Miserable, Starsky closed his eyes tightly and tried to ride it
out. He wondered if this was anything like Hutch had felt when he’d been going
through forced withdrawal - - hot then cold, his raw, empty stomach clamping
down on acid. He’d never felt so
wretchedly sick in his life.
Trying
to check a groan, he ducked his head into the blankets, burrowing deeper for
warmth.
“Ah,
buddy, I wish there was something I could do for you,” he heard Hutch say in a
forlorn voice.
He
thought about telling his friend to go home.
Hutch’s constant presence in the hospital was starting to take a toll,
leaving the blond-haired man gaunt and haggard. Starsky knew he hadn’t been getting enough sleep or eating right,
existing on caffeine and whatever Hutch managed to choke down in a quick ten
minutes at the hospital cafeteria. Yet
as much as Starsky wanted him to leave, he desperately wanted him to stay. As
cold and miserable as he was, he knew he’d be ten times worse without Hutch at
his side.
“G’home,”
he mumbled, dismissing Hutch while he still had the strength to do it. He didn’t want to be alone, bereft of his
partner, but he knew his friend desperately needed the rest. Shivering, he closed his eyes and tried to
scrunch further beneath the blankets.
It was impossible to trap his body heat with his legs stubbornly
immobile, unwilling to bend. He fought
to keep his teeth from chattering.
The
bed gave slightly with pressure and he felt a staggering infusion of warmth
beside him.
“Come
here, Starsk.”
Dazed,
Starsky opened his eyes, surprised to find his partner sitting on the edge of
the bed, facing the same way he was.
Hutch shifted slightly, easing closer until they were positioned hip to
hip. Starsky could feel the shocking
warmth of his friend’s lean body all the way down to his waist. Once there, that wondrous sensation suddenly
vanished in a crippling dead zone. Even with the loss, the blessed infusion of
Hutch’s body heat was like the touch of desert sun. Hutch looped an arm around his shoulders, tugging him close
against his chest.
Unexpectedly,
Starsky tensed.
“Relax,
babe,” Hutch said softly.
But
Starsky’s heartbeat had jumped into overdrive.
Okay, so they’d done this at home in the privacy of one or the other’s
apartment - - nestled close for comfort or warmth when the need arose. But this was a hospital with doctors and
nurses and all manner of people traipsing past the doorway every five minutes
for one reason or another. He’d seen
mothers pulling kids along to visit family members, recovering patients taking
slow strolls down the corridor, interns, lab technicians, food service
personnel, janitors - - it was like the whole freaking world paraded past his
doorway on a regular basis.
And
he was cuddled up against Hutch like a . . . like a - -
Starsky
swallowed hard. The hell with it. If Hutch
didn’t care, why should he? His blond friend
was obviously more concerned with comforting him than he was about his own
reputation. But then, Hutch had always
been the more liberal of the two. When
it came right down to it, Hutch didn’t give a shit about things like that. At least not when it involved Starsky. He knew he should be grateful to have
someone who placed his welfare above the petty views of the world, but he still
felt odd to be so publicly . . . dependent.
Relaxing
slightly, he leaned into Hutch, coaxed by the warmth of shared heat.
Hutch’s
hand skimmed up his arm, smoothing the blankets. “Go to sleep, Starsk.”
His
eyes did feel heavy. With Hutch beside him, his gut had even
quieted, but - - “You can’t stay like this,” he murmured. “We
can’t stay like this.”
“Why
not?” Hutch gave a soft chuckle. “I already had the whole ICU talking about
us. Might as well let the fifth floor
in on the action too. What are you
worried about, partner? Think Franklin
or one of his cronies is gonna walk in here and - -”
“ -
- and have you arrested for perversion,” Starsky interrupted sleepily.
“Hey,
let’s not forget who coaxed whom into bed.
That ‘I’m cold routine’ is the
oldest trick in the book.”
Starsky
gave a soft snort. “Don’t know who
could sleep with a big oaf like you anyway.
You hog up too much room.”
Hutch
looked down at the mass of curls bowed against his chest. “Want me to leave?”
“Shut
up, Hutchinson. Let me sleep.”
“Okay.”
Starsky
couldn’t see his friend’s face but he heard the grin in his voice. Strange that the two of them could be as
close as they were and not think anything of it, while the rest of the world
immediately tried to pigeonhole that relationship into something sexual. He and Hutch had laughed over the absurdity
of the whole thing a time or two, but both knew heterosexual men rarely
connected on the same level they did.
As a result, their highly unusual friendship just couldn’t be grasped by
most people - - those who were only comfortable when they could attach labels
and break relationships into clearly definable categories. All the more reason to cherish their
extraordinary friendship, Starsky realized, the haze of sleep tugging at his
senses. As much as he loved Hutch there
was nothing remotely sexual about it - - never had been, never would be. Hutch had an almost ridiculous weakness for
women, easily turning into a love-sick idiot when he was wrapped up in a
relationship. Starsky knew he wasn’t
much better, but Hutch tended to cross the line, throwing his heart out there
to get trampled over. Like he’d done
with Vanessa and Jeannie and countless others.
Starsky
coughed lightly, nuzzling closer as sleep seduced his weary body. He could hear a Dr. Garner being paged to
the ICU on the overhead speaker, hear the soft inhalation of Hutch’s breath,
feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
Somewhere amid the warmth and contentment, Starsky’s mind spiraled back
through time, tugged by his unique relationship with Hutch and another, darker
relationship that had long hung unknowingly over his partner like a cloud.
Starsky chewed on the end of
his pen, trying to decide if the guy he and Hutch had dropped off in booking
looked more like Don Knotts or Don Rickles.
Somehow he always got the two confused, even though he knew they were
nothing alike.
“The scrawny one who played
the deputy . . . you know, in that show . . .”
He motioned to Hutch who was seated across from him at his desk, blond
head bent over the monstrous manual typewriter that always tripped Starsky up no
matter how careful he tried to be. He was thankful Hutch had gotten in the
habit of volunteering to type their reports, even though he knew his partner
only did it because he didn’t want to spend the night waiting for Starsky to
finish.
There were occasional fringe
benefits to being as slow as a snail on a typewriter, he thought with a
grin. Of course, Bigelow in Supply had
once complained to Dobey that Starsky went through typewriter erasers and
carbon paper with the same reckless abandon he went through bullets.
Hutch pounded out a couple
of keys, clickity-clacking like a pro, and raised his head. “Barney Fife.”
Starsky sighed
theatrically. “No, dummy. One of the Dons - - you know . . .
Rickles. Knotts.”
Hutch shook his head and
reached for his coffee. “Try Knotts,
Starsk. Barney Fife is the character he
played. Besides, you’re out of your
mind. That guy looked more like Jerry
Lewis on speed.”
“Not even close.” Starsky kicked back and propped his feet up
on the edge of his desk. “Hey, you
wanna grab something to eat when we’re done here?”
Hutch shot him an arched
glance. “Don’t you mean when I’m done here?”
Starsky was just about to
grumble what a nitpicker he was when Phil Baker breezed into the room, followed
by his partner Stu Gibson. Both were in the middle of an animated conversation,
but Baker came to an immediate halt when he saw the two of them.
“Hey, guys - -” The wiry
detective was across the room in a couple of quick strides. “You’re not gonna believe this.” His eyes darted between the two before
briefly returning to Gibson as if to confirm what he was about to say. “We just
heard about a shake-up at the 61st.
Word is one of our fellow cops was playing it fast and loose on the
side. Seems like he was pressuring one of his busts for certain favors - - you
know, a little blackmail to sweeten the pot.
Only it turns out the perp had high brow connections.”
“Yeah,” Gibson chimed
in. “The kid’s dad has a seat on the
city council. He found out what was
going down and hit the roof. Shit hit
the fan and the whole thing blew up in the cop’s face. Word is he’s gonna be
forced to resign.”
Hutch stopped typing long
enough to exchange a glance with Starsky.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Your old partner,” Baker
told him with a certain amount of satisfaction. “Tony Impala. Didn’t you
tell me you worked with that creep when you were a rookie?”
“Hey, guys - -” Starsky
butted in, prompted by a rapid-fire streak of alarm. Dropping his feet to the floor, he hastily sat upright. The last
thing he wanted was talk of Anthony Impala anywhere near Hutch. He’d kept the secret of the photograph and
the man’s twisted infatuation all these years, hoping to spare Hutch’s
feelings. He wasn’t about to see them
ripped apart now. “We got a report to
finish here, Baker - -”
“Wait a minute,
Starsky.” Hutch leaned forward in his
seat, intent on the other two detectives.
“I don’t get it. Impala isn’t
loaded but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d try to hustle money
from someone he’d busted. I mean he was
an S.O.B., but I can’t see him being on the take.”
“Who said anything about
money?” Gibson asked.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Starsky shoved his chair back and
stood. “I’m starved and I wanna get outta
here while I still got an appetite. How
‘bout you two take’ a hike and let my partner finish his report?” From the corner of his eye he could see a
crease form between Hutch’s brows, his face pinched in confusion.
“Sure, okay.” Baker rolled his shoulders. “I just thought Hutch would wanna know the
guy who ragged on him so hard when he was a rookie turned out to be a queer.”
Hutch’s head jerked up at
the revelation, but Starsky had physically pushed the other two out of the way,
shoving them clear of the desks. He
could feel Hutch’s eyes on him and did everything in his power to keep his
expression neutral. Dropping back into
his seat, he scuffed a hand through his hair.
“Okay, enough dilly-dallyin,’ Blondie.
I’m starved. You writin’ a novel
or a report?”
Hutch looked at him steadily
across the typewriter. “Starsky, that
makes no sense.”
“Sure it does. See, when you write a novel, you - -”
“No.” Hutch shook his head emphatically,
dismissing the inane observation. “I’m
talking about Impala. All that guy ever
did was try to insinuate that I was, well . . .” He stopped suddenly, flushing abruptly as he tripped over the
uncomfortable words. “You know . . .
that I was like that.’ He colored
deeply. “ . . . gay.”
Starsky puffed out his
cheeks, expelling a loud breath. If
what Baker and Gibson had told them was really true, the scuttlebutt would be
all over Metro by tomorrow. Sooner or
later Hutch would hear it anyway. At
least he didn’t know about the photograph, and that was what was really
important. There was no way anyone was
ever going to connect his partner to a filthy bottom-feeding leech like Vlad
Impala.
“Look, Hutch.” Leaning forward, Starsky folded his arms on
top of his desk and lowered his voice.
“Sometimes when people can’t own up to things about themselves, they’ll
. . . well, they’ll put other people down for the same thing. It’s like they hate what they are, but they
can’t face it, so they gotta hate someone else.”
“That’s called projection,
Starsk.”
“Huh?”
Hutch shook his head. “Never mind. I get what you’re saying.”
Closing his eyes, he rubbed his temple.
“What I don’t get is how I could’ve worked with the guy and not
noticed.”
Starsky snorted. “Well, considerin’ he spent most of his days
callin’ you a fag, you probably figured he was more bigot than queer - - you
know, the kind of ignorant pig who figures women should be kept barefoot and
pregnant, and it’s the duty of every red-blooded man to see they stay that
way.” Even saying the loathsome swill turned
his stomach, but it was better than having Hutch closely examine Impala’s
less-than-heterosexual tendencies.
“Hey, can we drop this and go get something to eat now? I think I’m gonna go belly up from hunger.”
“Sure, okay.” Hutch went back to the typewriter, putting
the finishing touches on the report, but there was something guarded and
pensive in his face. Lifting the
platen, he pulled the sheets from the machine, scribbled his name at the
bottom, then shoved them across the desk for Starsky to review.
Without so much as a glance,
Starsky scrawled his name under Hutch’s, wanting nothing more than to get his
partner as far away from police gossip as he possibly could.
Starsky
groaned, dragged back to the present by the fierce cramping in his gut. Moving sluggishly, he tried to raise his
head, trapped in a sticky wave of torrential heat. His cheek felt damp, plastered to Hutch’s shirt by perspiration.
“Starsk?”
He
tried to move, but his muscles felt stiff and his legs were dead weight. Pulling away from his friend, he got his
arms beneath him. Knuckling his fists
into the mattress, he used that limited strength to push higher in the
bed. “ . . . gonna be sick,” he
mumbled, looking about dazedly for the plastic basin.
Hutch
shoved off the bed, reaching across him to grab it. A second later it was beneath his chin, Hutch’s hand a steadying
pressure on the back of his neck. He
gripped the basin clumsily, shoving Hutch aside with his other arm. “I’ll do it.” He was only half conscious of what he was saying, his mind still
fogged by a cloud of sleep. He had no
idea how long he’d been out, but he knew it was the first truly restful slumber
he’d had in a long time. Because of Hutch holdin’ me.
He
gave a soft snort even as bile stung the back of his throat. Groaning, he hung his head, hating the
wicked surge of nausea. It left him hot and trembling, his stomach contracting
into a murderous fist. He panted,
leaning away from Hutch to spit into the basin. Bile came first, just a trickle. Then the heaving started,
leaving him white and trembling, sweat streaking his face in hot, sticky
trails.
“Starsky
. . .” Hutch’s hand was on his
shoulder, trying to pull him back around. “Let me help you.”
He
shook his head, made a choked sound through the heaving. His hand was trembling so badly the basin
fell to the bed. Upright, thank God. Before
he could retrieve it, Hutch had scooped it up, and was bending over him,
holding it close to his face.
“Take
it easy, pal.” Hutch’s hand slid over
his bowed back, rubbing through the damp material of his hospital gown. “I don’t think you need this. It’s just heaves, huh, Starsk? There’s nothing left inside you.” The observation was bitter, as if it left
Hutch physically hurting. He lowered
the basin but kept it handy and in reach.
“I wish I could help you, Starsk.
I wish there was something I could do for you.”
Starsky
wrapped an arm across his middle, choking as his stomach convulsed. He wanted to tell Hutch he was doing something - - more than anyone
else could ever do. Doctors, nurses and
pills were fine, but Hutch was the one who made him want to live again. Who gave him hope and determination enough
to suffer through the agony.
The
bout ended and he collapsed against the pillows with a sigh, completely
drained. Hutch got him a cup of water
to rinse his mouth, the cool liquid like sheer bliss on his ravaged throat. Hutch’s hand went to his forehead, brushing
aside his sweat-sticky bangs. Once,
then again, the soothing action completed over and over.
Starsky
met his gaze, his friend’s eyes like pale moonwater, slivered with crystal and
blue. “How long was I asleep?”
Hutch
looked away briefly, consulting the clock on the wall. “About three hours.”
“You
stayed like that the whole time?” Hutch
was standing now, but Starsky knew his back had to be hurting from sitting
cramped on the corner of the bed. “You
shouldna done that, Hutch. I ain’t a
little kid. I can sleep on my own.”
“I
know that, Gordo.” The corner of
Hutch’s mouth curved briefly. His hand
dropped to Starsky’s shoulder where it rubbed gently. “See, the thing is . . .”
The smile grew wider, dazzling and white. “I haven’t been sleeping too good myself, and well . . .” He shrugged. “I figured here was as good a place as any, since you didn’t mind
sharing the bed.”
“Uh-huh.” Starsky watched him with clear
affection. “And I bet you got some porridge
in the cafeteria too, didn’t ya, Goldilocks?
Think I don’t know bullshit when I hear it, Hutchinson?”
“I
think,” Hutch said, tugging playfully on one black curl. “You could be a little more grateful after
using my shoulder for a pillow. You aren’t
exactly light, Starsk. And you snore.”
Starsky
opened his mouth to toss off a reply, when he suddenly spied Dr. Franklin in
the doorway. The man cleared his
throat, adjusting his glasses as he entered the room. He shot Hutch a darting glance before focusing on Starsky. “I see you’re looking better today,
Detective.” Grabbing the chart from the
foot of Starsky’s bed, he gave it a quick perusal. “How are you feeling?”
Starsky
shrugged. “About the same.”
“He’s
miserable,” Hutch inserted flatly.
“Sick to the stomach, dry heaves . . . cramps, muscle spasms. He can’t even sleep for more than a few
hours at a time. Can’t you give him
something?”
Franklin
spared him a glance over the top of his clipboard. “I’ve already discussed this with your partner, Sergeant
Hutchinson. Coming out of the paralysis
is unfortunately equivalent to a double-edged sword. Whereas your partner now has movement and flexibility, the pain sensors
in his nerves are on overload. Factor
in all the drugs his system has absorbed and, well . . .” He adjusted his glasses again. “We certainly don’t want to mistakenly
induce another toxic reaction.” His eyes
shifted back to Starsky. “We can try to
give you something orally to help with the nausea.”
Starsky
shook his head. “Already tried that,
but I just spit it back up.” He
grimaced suddenly, his hand tightening over his stomach. “Sure would like to get the use of my legs
back, Doc. How much longer you think?”
“Well
. . .” Franklin considered. “Assuming
that part of the paralysis is not permanent, I would say you just need to be
patient for a few more days.”
Hutch
blanched, instinctively curling his fingers around the lowered bed rail.
Starsky
stilled completely. “What do you mean
permanent?”
Franklin
returned the chart to the foot of the bed.
“As I told your partner, there’s always a slim chance this type of
paralysis can be permanent. But I
really don’t think you have anything to worry about, Sergeant. You’ve already made considerable
progress. Give it a few days.” He smiled encouragingly. “I’ll check back this evening.”
As I told your partner . . .
Starsky
listened to Franklin’s retreating footsteps, feeling like the rug had just been
ripped out from under his feet. Beside
him, Hutch stood ramrod straight, both hands locked in a death grip around the
lowered bedrail, his face devoid of color.
Of course he wouldn’t say anything . . . wouldn’t admit the truth
hanging out there like a death shroud, because to Hutch it simply didn’t
matter. Whatever happened, he intended
to be there. If Starsky was confined to
a wheelchair for the rest of his life, then Hutch would be at his side,
self-sacrificing as always. Only he was the one getting stuck in the
frigging wheelchair. He was the one who had a right to know
about it - - odds, longshots and skin-of-the-teeth possibilities spelled out up
front, thank you very much! Just who
the hell did Hutch think he was, holding something like that back, deciding
what he should and shouldn’t know?
Heat
flushed Starsky’s cheeks. “You lied to
me,” he said acidly, the words tight and deliberate.
“I
didn’t.” Hutch flexed his hands on the
metal rail, his voice unsteady. “It
wasn’t a lie, Starsk.”
Starsky
hated the quiver in his partner’s voice, hated even more that he was the
cause. Still he plowed ahead, terrified
to the point of hostile anger. He
didn’t have feeling in his legs because he was never going to have feeling in his legs, and Hutch didn’t have the
balls to tell him.
“Then
what the hell do you call it?” He was livid without even trying. From the time he’d first awakened in ICU
there was only one thing that had gotten him through the long toll of
emotion-sapping days - - the belief his condition was temporary. Isn’t that what
his partner, his always devoted, trustworthy
partner had told him? “You deceived
me. You wanna split apples and
oranges?” The anger came again, harder
this time, spearing into his gut to twine with the hot misery already lodged
there. “You told me the paralysis was
temporary, Hutch. Temporary!”
“I
told you what I believed!” Hutch
defended himself. “What did you want me
to do, Starsk? Sit by your bed in the ICU with that godawful machine breathing
for you . . .your whole body dead from the neck down, and tell you there was a
possibility you were gonna be like that for the rest of your life?” His lips
were bloodless, white with shock.
“Don’t be an idiot, Starsky. I
care about you too much.”
“So
when were you gonna share it with me, huh, buddy?” The word rolled from Starsky’s tongue with
bitter emphasis, Hutch’s frank admission of devotion soaring over his
head. Suddenly all the ugliness of the
last week - - the agony, fear and humiliation he’d been forced to endure, never
knowing from one hour to the next if he was going to live or how he was going
to live, tumbled down like a ton of bricks.
Frustration bubbled into volatile anger
- - at himself, at Bellamy and Jennings, at the world in general. And even - - because he needed someone to
hurt as much as he did, if only for a moment - - at Hutch. “You had no right to keep that from me. If you didn’t lie, then what the hell do you
call it?”
Hutch
was appalled. “Starsky, I told you what
I believed. What I still believe. What I tell myself every fucking day when I
come into this hospital and see you lying there.” His voice rose, impassioned and hot. “I’m not gonna feed you some
downer shit that might never happen.
Why are you so damn intent on knowing the worst? The world doesn’t end in this room,
buddy. You’ve still got a life out
there on the streets.” His voice caught
in his throat, cracked. “A life that
includes me.”
Not if I’m gonna be a
cripple.
“Forget
it.” Starsky shook his head, hating
himself for treating his friend so cruelly but unable to stop. They’d had a
great friendship - - a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenal bond, but he wasn’t about
to let the other man throw his life away, chained to an invalid partner. He’d do whatever was necessary to survive
without Hutch - - leave the Force, go back to New York, learn some career he
could manage on his own. He’d gotten
part of his mobility back, but Starsky was a realist. He knew the rest wasn’t coming.
It would have all returned at once, not in teasing bits and pieces.
Franklin and Hutch could play optimists all they wanted, but he understood as
surely as he understood the tight sickness in his gut - - this was his fate,
this vile half-life that would leave him forever paralyzed from the waist down.
Permanent.
The
truth hurt as much as Hutch’s deceit in keeping it secret. The strength of their partnership had always
been rooted in their complete honesty with one another, but now that unshakable
foundation had taken a nosedive.
Bluntly, Starsky presented his back.
“Just leave me alone, Hutch. Get
out of here.”
He
felt a quiver in the air near the bed.
A shaken tremor of disbelief.
Then softly, spoken with outright fear, he heard the shocked voice of
his friend. “What?”
“I
said get out.” The malicious words
stuck in his throat even as tears burned the back of his eyes. “I don’t want
you around right now, Hutch. Do I gotta
be plainer than that?”
Apparently
not. The quiver in the air intensified
then violently burst from the room, leaving Starsky shaken and dazed. Miserable, he bowed his face into his arms Yeah, go ‘head, he taunted, brazenly
furious at every denizen of fate who could hear him. Give me the ungrateful Bastard of the Year award. But while you’re at it, remind that
overprotective blond what ‘me and thee’ is all about. If there was anything left to hate, including himself, he’d
already exhausted it.
When
the nausea struck, Starsky retched violently.
+++++
Hutch
walked to the waiting room to blow off steam but there were too many people
there to make him feel even remotely at ease.
His nerves were shot, his already defenseless emotions fried by
Starsky’s volatile outburst. The last
thing he needed was the company of strangers.
Edgy,
he took the elevator to the first floor and headed for the parking lot. Maybe he really should leave . . . let
Starsky spend a few hours, even a day completely alone. Let him realize how stubborn and cruel he
was being. Maybe then he’d come to his
senses.
Oh hell, what am I
thinking?
Dismayed,
Hutch slumped to a seat on an outside bench.
Starsky was out of his mind, wired by pain. He’s spewing his guts every
hour like clockwork. He just went
through the trauma of thinking he was dying, then wakes up to find himself
paralyzed. Now he learns it could be
permanent, and I’m pissed because he tells me to take a hike. Grow up,
Hutchinson. He needs you.
It
was true. How many times had he snarled
and spit at Starsky when he’d been going through heroin withdrawal? His friend’s blunt dismissal had all the
sting of a nursery rhyme compared to some of the nasty things Hutch had hurled
at his dark-haired partner. But Starsky
had stayed, swallowing his hurt and battered feelings, never holding Hutch
responsible for his cruel words.
“Shit.” Hutch dragged a hand over his face. Why was he always hurting the one person he
cared about? Even now his distance . .
. his docile acceptance of Starsky’s anger meant his friend was alone and
hurting, too stubborn to realize he needed help. If he had any kind of
backbone, he’d march up to Starsky’s room and lay it on the line: You’re
stuck with me, so you better get used to it, cause I ain’t going anywhere.
Okay
. . . so he hadn’t been entirely truthful, keeping that one tidbit of
information to himself. But why hold a
might-never-happen, gloom-and-doom scenario over Starsky’s head when it was
hope that would push him to recover?
Even Franklin had said the odds of the paralysis being permanent were
slim. S-L-I-M. How could his
partner ever think he’d withheld the information to deliberately harm him? Especially when the complete opposite was
true? I did it because I care about you, Starsk. Because no one, or anything, matters more to me than you do.
So
why was he sitting on a bench watching lunch traffic come and go from the
hospital parking lot when he should be upstairs laying down ultimatums for his
stubbornly willful partner? Sighing, he rubbed his temple, fatigue collecting
at the edges of his mind. How long
since he’d really slept for more than a few scant hours . . . since he’d had a
decent meal that didn’t come from a cardboard box or was warmed by a heat lamp?
“Hey,
Sergeant.”
He
glanced up to find Jared Mercer at his shoulder, a semi half-smile on the other
cop’s lips. “Er, um . . . Hutch,
right?” Mercer gave a nervous laugh,
his grin brightening a little. He was
off duty again, dressed casually in jeans and a pullover red sweater. The haggard lines had faded from his face
and his posture was straighter than the last time Hutch had seen him. All things considered, he looked decidedly
upbeat.
“Mercer.” Hutch forced a smile, though it reflected
the strain of his mood. “How’s Sam?”
“Better.” Mercer grinned in obvious relief. “They moved him out of ICU to a private room
last night. Looks like he’s in the
clear. I even talked to him over the
phone this morning. Can you believe the
kid was sitting up, complaining about the lousy food they’re feeding him?” He chuckled indulgently, affection for his
young partner clearly evident. “I’m on my way in to see him now . . . tell him
I miss his overeager ass in the car.”
Hutch
grinned. “That’s great.”
“What
about you?” Mercer prodded. “How’s Starsky doing?”
“Getting
there,” Hutch said carefully. He didn’t
want to talk about Starsky. Not now,
when his mind was so messed up over how to best help his resistant
partner. “Maybe I’ll swing by and say
hello to Sam with you.”
“Uh
. . .” Mercer hedged, his expression
clouding. “I’m not sure that’s such a
good idea, Sergeant.” He grimaced. “Hutch.”
A
prickle of disquiet rippled through Hutch’s mind. “Because of his father?”
“Yeah.” Mercer shrugged uncomfortably, glancing at
his boots. “I mean . . . I guess.”
Hutch
exhaled, abruptly irked. For too long
he’d been in the dark about Impala, while everyone around him seemed to know
more than he did. Throw in Starsky’s
dressing down a few minutes ago and he was suddenly out of patience. “Sit down,” he said curtly.
Mercer
glanced up in surprise. “Why?”
Hutch
slid further to the side, making room for him on the bench. “Because you’re going to tell me everything
Sam told you about his father . . .” He
cleared his throat, determined and uncomfortable. “ . . . and me.”
Mercer
paled. “Why dredge that up?”
“Because
I’m in the mood. Now sit down and start
talking.”
Clearly
reluctant, Mercer edged onto the bench.
It was fairly common knowledge Impala had left the Force a year ago in
disgrace after pressuring a councilman’s son for sexual favors. There’d been a
scandal, short but ugly, shocking most people, leaving others gleefully
snickering behind their hands. Hutch
guessed Samuel Impala had likely had a rough time overcoming the stigma of his
father’s name, but if Mercer was any indication, he’d been accepted on his own
merit. Taking a bullet in the line of
duty would only bump him higher in the eyes of his fellow officers.
“Look,
it’s like I said before . . .” Mercer
spread his hands wide with a shrug.
“Sam told me some things when we were on stakeout. His parents’ marriage broke up after that
scandal with the councilman’s kid. I
guess he went home one night and found his dad drunk and the old man told him all
sorts of things. Like how he never
really had those kind of, um . . . urges before. That if he did, it didn’t amount to anything and he could just
shrug them off. Then they partnered him
with you, and . . .” Embarrassed,
Mercer looked at his hands. “Look,
Sergeant, no one’s saying anything about you, okay? But according to Sam, the old man couldn’t get you out of his
head and he hated you for it. He wanted
you to be gay so he could feel justified in how he felt, but you weren’t. And that made him hate you all the
more. Then Starsky went and blackmailed
him, and - -”
“What?” Hutch didn’t think he could be
any more shocked than he already was.
Blood pounded in his ears, left him suddenly cold.
Mercer
peered at him closely, noting his obvious distress. “You mean . . .” He
looked stunned. “ . . . you didn’t
know any of this?”
Hutch
shook his head.
“Then
I’m not sure, I should be the one to tell you.”
“You
don’t have a choice, Patrolman,” Hutch said bluntly.
Mercer
winced. “Yeah, okay, I get it. Rank has its privileges and all that. You do remember what it was like to be a
rookie, right Hutch?” His name was
deliberate now. “Everyone knows Impala
Senior was scum . . . how he ragged on rookies for kicks, but even down at the
33rd I’ve heard how he treated you.
Guess that made an impression on a lot of people, your friend Starsky
most of all. Sam said his dad kept a
picture of you in his locker. Some
telephoto shot you didn’t even know he took.”
Squirming, Mercer looked away, a flush of color creeping up his
neck. “Um . . . Impala took it in the
locker room. When . . . when you were
coming out of the shower.”
Hutch
swore, suddenly nauseous.
Mercer’s
gaze returned reluctantly. “According
to Sam . . . who got the story from his dad . . . Starsky found out about the
photo and freaked - - big time. He
basically told Impala to find another partner or he’d spill what he knew. That’s why the old man dumped you and went
to the 61st. He didn’t have
a choice - - your partner backed him into a corner. After that, I think he probably hated Starsky more than he hated
you. And he was jealous as shit over
your friendship. So you see . . . Sam
knows who you are and knows what you cost his father. He doesn’t blame you exactly, but he’s not ready to accept you
either. His dad might be scum, but he’s
still the kid’s dad, and in Sam’s eyes you’re the one who ruined his career.”
“By
doing what?” Hutch snapped, abruptly hostile. The impossible situation turned
his already abused nerves to pulp. It was devastating and humiliating to learn
the true motive behind Impala’s harsh ridicule. And Starsky knew! All along he’d kept the seedy secret to
himself. Suddenly his partner’s
emphatic orders to stay clear of Impala all made sense.
“So
let me get this straight - -” Hutch
glared at Mercer. “I go through the
Academy, bust my butt to come out tops in my class, do my job, and because some
sadistic pervert has closet fantasies about me, I’m at fault for ruining his
career? A career that was obviously shit to begin with, considering he was
fifty-six when he resigned, still in a patrol car and is best remembered for
antagonizing junior officers.”
Mercer
flinched. “You’ve got every right to be
angry, Sergeant. Sorry to be the one to
dump this on you, but I just figured you knew.
It never got out . . . the only reason I know is because of Sam. I just figured since Impala had a thing for
you, he would’ve tried . . . you know . . .”
Mercer swallowed uncomfortably and looked at the ground. “ . . . something.” He shifted, forcing
himself to continue. “I figured he would have made a pass at you.”
“No,”
Hutch said flatly. “If he had, he wouldn’t be around to talk about it.”
Mercer’s
head came up with a jerk. “So your partner never told you what he did?”
No. He kept that from me, likely for my own good. Just like I kept the thing about the
paralysis from him.
Hutch
smiled grimly and shook his head. He
wasn’t sure who he was angrier at - - Impala, Mercer, himself or Starsky. His idiot friend - - just a rookie at the time - - had knowingly blackmailed a
senior officer. One who routinely
devoured new cops for breakfast, then spit them out with the afternoon
trash. And still Starsky had gone up
against him.
To protect me. Stupid ass could’ve ended
his career right there.
Affection
warred with anger at the thought of his foolhardy partner putting his
profession on the line over Impala. It wasn’t something just any friend would
do.
Restless,
he stood, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Look, Mercer, I appreciate what you told me. I’m not going to cause problems for Sam or his dad, so don’t
worry about repercussions. It’s just a
lot to assimilate, especially after everything that’s happened to
Starsky.” He found the grace to look
mildly chagrined. “Sorry if I was rough
on you. I guess between our first
meeting and this, you must think I’m a real hard ass, huh?”
Relieved,
Mercer stood. “Well, to be honest,
Sergeant, I’ve heard that about you.
But I’ve also heard you’re pretty easy going. I, um . . .” He laughed
sheepishly. “I just haven’t been able
to figure out how those two images piece together.” Grinning, he held out his hand.
“See you around sometime?”
With
a nod, Hutch shook his hand.
“By
the way . . .” Mercer gave an awkward
shrug. “Impala’s been in and out of the
hospital to see his kid. I guess it’s
just been luck the two of you haven’t run into each other yet. You might want to stay clear of the fifth
floor, Room 536.”
“Sure,
okay.” Hutch gave a vacant nod. So Sam was in a room located at the opposite
end of Starsky’s hallway. All things
considered, it was a miracle Hutch hadn’t crossed paths with Impala Senior over
the last few days. Hopefully that same
extraordinary luck would hold. Just the
thought of seeing the man again - -
knowing what he knew now - - made his skin crawl.
He
watched Mercer walk away, heading for the main doors of the hospital intent on
seeing Sam. His gut tightened as he thought of Starsky, alone and in pain. If he went back now, Hutch knew his highly
excitable partner would just repeat what he’d already said, telling him to get
lost. He was frustrated and irritable,
hurt to be banished from Starsky’s room.
Even so, Hutch knew he needed to give his emotional friend some
temporary breathing space.
He’d
wait a few hours. By evening Starsky
would come to his senses.
+++++
When
Hutch finally returned to Starsky’s room later that night, he found it occupied
by Dobey and Huggy. He hung in the
background as a result, letting the other two men do most of the talking. They
didn’t stay long, however, but left after a short half-hour visit when it
became apparent Starsky was still in a good deal of pain.
The
moment they were gone, Hutch stepped closer to the bed, attempting to adjust
the pillows at his friend’s back.
“Quit
it.” With a grimace, the dark-haired
man shoved his hands aside. “I might be
dead from the waist down, but I’m not an invalid. At least not yet.”
Bitterness clung to the muttered thought. “I wanna get some sleep - -”
“You’re
in pain - -”
“No
shit. And you ain’t helpin’.”
The
blood drained from Hutch’s face.
Swallowing his hurt, he reminded himself he’d said worse to Starsky when
his partner had helped him through the torturous agony of heroin withdrawal. He made a feeble gesture - - a light stroke
of his hand over Starsky’s arm - - but his friend pulled away, folding the arm
over his chest. Starsky’s face was
tight and strained, white with fatigue.
Hutch knew he had to be in considerable pain, but also knew Starsky
wouldn’t show vulnerability now. Not
when he was still so angry.
Stupid jackass.
He
didn’t know if he should be upset or furious.
At the moment, being shut out hurt far worse than all the
off-the-cuff-rage he could summon.
“Buddy . . . don’t do this.
Don’t shut me out.”
“Can’t
do this right now, Hutch.”
Tight-lipped, Starsky looked away.
“Maybe tomorrow.”
Dismissal,
plain and simple. Hutch swallowed hard, tempted to tell his friend what a
stubborn idiot he was being, but couldn’t talk past the lump in his throat. He’d
never been good at handling emotional pain, especially when it involved those
closest to him. “Okay,” he returned,
clearly miserable, unable to still the tremor in his voice. “See you tomorrow.”
He
left quickly, his foremost thought one of flight and escape. He’d never needed to put distance between
himself and Starsky before, but suddenly the pain was just too great. It made him feel empty and battered,
wretchedly alone every time he thought of the repugnant wall slowly building
between them. Blind to direction, Hutch
walked briskly down the corridor, head bent, a flush of bitter anger heating
his cheeks. He rounded the corner by
the nurses’ station and public restrooms, nearly colliding with a burly, heavy-set
man headed in the opposite direction.
“Sorry. I - -”
He came to a dead halt, the words dying violently in his throat when
recognition dawned. His whole body
tensed in shocked reaction.
“Hutchinson.” Anthony Impala parted with a throaty
snicker. “I heard you were in here with
that spineless partner of yours.” His
gaze raked Hutch from head to toe, the touch of his eyes sickeningly
direct. Now that he was off the force,
pretense was gone. “What’s the hurry,
boy?” A wolfish smile spread over his
fleshy lips, igniting an immoral glimmer in his eyes. “I got all night to get reacquainted . . . maybe even educate you
on some of the things you’ve been missing.”
“Get
the hell out of my way,” Hutch snarled.
His stomach clamped down in a tight knot, anger and outrage jumbled
together with the betrayal and lingering pain of Starsky’s rejection. It was
betrayal . . . it was rejection, no
matter how much he tried to tell himself differently. The one person he’d always believed would never turn away had
coldly and pointedly rebuffed him. That
knowledge was devastating, flooding him with a sense of delayed shock. He simply couldn’t face Impala now . . . not
with his guts already twisted by the bitter dregs of a broken friendship.
Hutch
ground his teeth together, trying to keep his seething anger in check. His voice dropped, cold and deadly. “One more time, asshole: get out of my way before I take your fucking
head off.”
Impala
snickered. With a mocking sweep of his
arm, he stepped clear. Too wired to
push the confrontation, Hutch shouldered past, his stomach constricted and
sour. Laughter trailed behind him,
tangling with the raw pain of Starsky’s rejection. It made his face burn hotter, his gut churn violently. In another moment he knew the contents of
his stomach would be splattered all over the floor, a result of his tightly
strung nerves. He stumbled into the
restroom, immensely grateful to find it empty, and banged aside the door of the
nearest stall. Parting with a low moan,
he dropped to his knees and vomited.
The
spell left him light-headed and dizzy, trembling with shame and fury. He hated the man, hated himself for not
dealing with the situation . . . hated that he couldn’t juggle his anger and
the pain of his parting from Starsky at the same time.
Minutes later he heard footsteps in the room and tensed involuntarily, thinking Impala had come in after him. Within seconds he heard two men talking and gradually relaxed. The easing of tension made him realize how tightly his nerves were wound. It wasn’t every day some sick pervert wanted to do a detailed check of his anatomy. Just the thought sent a new flush of anger creeping up his neck. Toss in his emotional turmoil over Starsky, and it was a miracle he hadn’t lost his cool in a berserker rage, emulating his Viking forefathers. Heaving a sigh, he stood and flushed the toilet, dragging shaking fingers through his hair. Spent, he tilted his head back against the stall to stare up at the ceiling.
He
could handle Impala - - hell, he could
handle virtually anything - - if the rest of his world wasn’t falling
apart. The rest of his world, meaning
his relationship with Starsky. His
friend was being unreasonable, creating an argument where one didn’t exist.
Tomorrow he’d make certain Starsky saw how ludicrous the whole thing was.
Drawing
a deep breath, Hutch gathered what was left of his battered resolve and left
the hospital.
+++++
He
arrived the following morning after breakfast to find Starsky on the phone with
his mother. Not wanting to interrupt
the call, the blond detective waited in the background, hovering at a discreet
distance. At least the pain seemed more
manageable for his friend today, reduced to a minor discomfort. Hutch wanted to remark on the improvement
but unfortunately the moment Starsky finished the call, a nurse arrived to take
him to therapy.
He
was gone all morning, returning at noon, lamenting the need for sleep. Hutch backed off again, going to the
cafeteria for lunch. When he returned,
Starsky was just being wheeled from the room for additional tests. Contenting himself with pacing in the
hallway, Hutch tried to quiet his growing frustration but minutes soon dragged
into hours, sending his frayed nerves through the roof. It had been nearly two days since he’d
really communicated with Starsky on any level above sniping, and the strain was
starting to show.
When
his friend finally returned, he paced and fidgeted like a caged bear while the
nurses got Starsky settled. The moment
they left, he was at the bedside, all gentleness forgotten. “I want to talk to you.”
Starsky
spared him a moody glance. “I’m tired.”
“Bullshit. You’re not pulling that crap on me again.”
Mildly
surprised by his hostility, Starsky cocked an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure
it out,” Hutch snapped, his patience gone.
“I’ve let you wallow around in self pity for two days. I think it’s time you got over it.”
Anger
flared in Starsky’s eyes. “Well, aren’t
you just a fuckin’ ray of sunshine? Who
died and made you my conscience?”
“Look,
Starsky - -”
“No - - you look! You don’t know shit what I’m feelin’, so don’t tell me everything’s going to be
fine. I got news for you, pal - - everything is not fine. It’s a long way
from it! I can’t feel my legs, and you
and Franklin just happened to overlook mentionin’ that could be permanent . . .
as in forever! By the way, Starsk - - ” he mimicked bitterly. “ - - you
could be stuck in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, but don’t sweat
it. I would’ve told you if I thought it
was important.’ ” Curtly looking
away, Starsky folded his arms over his chest.
“Some friend you are.”
At
a loss for words, Hutch simply stared.
It took him a full ten seconds to find his voice. “That’s not fair,” he protested, his temper suddenly
cooled. He felt empty, defeated by the
brittle hostility in his friend’s voice.
“Oh,
yeah?” Starsky’s gaze swiveled back,
piercing and hot. “Let me tell you what
ain’t fair. A week ago I was scared I
was gonna die; now I’m afraid I might live.”
Aggravated, he shook his head, his eyes fired with impassioned blue
flame. “You don’t get it, do you,
Hutch? Confined to a wheelchair . . .
to a bed - - that’s not life. It’s an illusion of life. Sure, I know there are plenty of people out
there who cope with it everyday, who turn it into something inspirational, but
I’m not one of them. Guess I’m just not
strong enough to deal with that kind of change. The least you could’ve done was own up to it, instead of feedin’
me false hope.”
“Damn
it, Starsky.” Hutch felt his world
collapsing. “Will you get off it
already? Didn’t you hear Franklin? The chances of the paralysis being permanent
are next to nothing - - slim.
Marginal. You’re overreacting, buddy.”
“Think
so?” The bitterness was back, heavier
this time. “If the chances are so damn
slim, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because
- -” Hutch bit down on his lip. This simply wasn’t happening. How many days had it been since Starsky was moved from ICU? He’d lost track - - two? Three? Why had
his friend gotten his mobility back everywhere but in his legs? Was it possible his recovery had stalled, or
was this as far as it would ever go? Permanent.
Niggling
doubt crept into Hutch’s mind.
Starsky’s voice came again, trapped inside his head: A week
ago I was scared I was gonna die; now I’m afraid I might live. What must it be like to recover from
near-death only to discover a darker terror in life? Saddened, Hutch knew he couldn’t begin to understand what his
friend was feeling. Suddenly all he
wanted to do was comfort and help. He
knew Starsky was hurting emotionally, his feelings battered and damaged, but
the walls were still there, firmly in place.
Reaching out a hand, Hutch wrapped his fingers over Starsky’s
wrist. “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I . . . I just did what I thought was best.”
Starsky
dropped his eyes, but didn’t pull away this time. “Yeah, okay. I think you
should go now.”
Dismissal
again. It tore Hutch up inside, even as
he knew it had to be doing the same to Starsky. Despite the obvious conflict,
his stubborn friend persisted in weathering the storm alone. “Babe, why are you being this way?” Hutch persisted.
Starsky
closed his eyes as if moved by the familiar endearment. For a moment Hutch thought he’d gotten
through, that Starsky would concede the battle. In the end, his partner tugged his wrist free, his face hardening
with grim determination. “I wanna be
alone now, Hutch.”
“Starsky
- -”
“I’m
serious. Just go away. Don’t come back for awhile.”
Hutch
tried to tell himself the banishment was only temporary. That he’d made some small progress and
surely Starsky would realize how much he was hurting both of them. Yet even as he left, a long parting glance
cast over his shoulder at his moody partner, the separation felt horribly . .
. permanent.
+++++
Hutch
shuffled through the files on his desk without really seeing them. He’d answered repeated questions about
Starsky’s progress as optimistically as he could, keeping his own hurt and pain
buried where it wouldn’t show. Phil
Baker and a few of the other detectives and officers were anxious to see
Starsky, but Hutch suggested his partner wasn’t ready for visits. After a short
bout of sincerely expressed well wishes for his friend, the others returned to
their various tasks and Hutch was able to slink away to the refuge of his desk,
where he’d sat numbly ever since.
He
didn’t know what to do with himself. He
couldn’t focus, the files made no sense and the backlog of paper was
overwhelmingly daunting. It was as
though his mind had shut down, immune to everything except his pain. He sat morosely, staring at the jumbled mass
of files, trying to remember why they were there in the first place. He could
hear Baker in the background, good-naturedly harassing his partner Gibson and a
junior officer. Someone said something
he didn’t catch and the group erupted with laughter. Bowing his head, Hutch propped an elbow on the edge of his desk
and rubbed his temple. He felt like
crawling under a rock and disappearing for a few days.
It
didn’t seem fair others were enjoying themselves when he was so miserable . . .
when Starsky was stuck in a hospital wallowing in depression. Hutch’s inability to magically “fix” things
for his friend made the sting dig deeper.
He’d never felt so useless in his life, a sensation only compounded by
Starsky’s blunt insistence he leave.
“Hutchinson.”
He
raised his head to find Captain Dobey framed in the doorway of his office. The black man looked him over with a
speculative eye then eased into the chair behind Starsky’s desk. “I figured you’d still be at the hospital,”
he observed neutrally. “How’s he doing
anyway?”
“I
wouldn’t know.” Hutch located a pencil
and made a half-hearted attempt to look busy.
“He doesn’t want me there.” He
tried to keep the bitterness from his voice but it bled through anyway. Irked by his failure, he parted with a sigh,
accepting the defeat. “He won’t talk to
me, Captain. He’s pissed because I
didn’t tell him there was a slim chance the paralysis could be permanent. The stupid idiot thinks he’s going to be
crippled for life.” Just admitting the
truth made Hutch want to curl up in misery.
“Who knows,” he muttered, melancholy tangling with sick frustration. “Maybe if I’d gotten to Jennings sooner . .
. thought it through and realized he was the one behind the poisoning . . .
maybe if - -”
“Stop
it,” Dobey said harshly.
Startled
by his tone, Hutch raised his head.
“What’s
the matter with you?” Dobey
demanded. “Is it your fault Jennings
turned into a vindictive old man or that Bellamy was scum enough to carry out
his plan in the first place? Think you
could have done Franklin’s job or made a better diagnosis? While you’re at it, how about rewriting the
rules of medicine in general?” He
frowned, bracing an arm on top of the desk.
“Look Hutch, you and Starsky did everything you could. He needs to ride it out and you need to let
him.”
“Yeah,”
Hutch said bitterly. “Alone.” He prodded one of the folders. “He’s scared, Captain, and he’s channeling
it into anger . . . shoving me aside.
Damn it.” Closing his eyes, he
let the pain wash over him. “I don’t
know how to help. He’s such a stubborn
jackass sometimes, I just want to choke him.”
Dobey
was silent a moment, his expression softening.
“And then tell him how worried you are?”