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!