Line of Duty

By

Theresa K.

send comments to tkarle@hotmail.com

 
"I wrote my first Starsky and Hutch story
 25 years ago. Here is my second. It's
 been a long time coming. Thanks to Kass 
for giving it a lovely 'home' and for 
being my friend, and to Ginxie, my Okie 
sister, who's a great nag. Finally, thanks 
and much gratitude to Kate (CMT) for 
igniting the flame of creativity again, 
for a wonderful beta job, and for finding 
my muse and sending her home. You don't 
know what you've unleashed on an 
unsuspecting fandom."

"Hutch."

A questing glance at his partner, slumped in the office chair, long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles gave the impression of complete relaxation. To the casual observer, Kenneth Hutchinson's limp, lanky body suggested contentment and just a hint of boredom. Of course, most of them couldn't know that beneath that calm exterior was a man in the throes of barely-held-in-check grief. Gillian Ingram, the blonde beauty who had shared his life and his bed lay lifeless and alone on a hard slab in the gloomy recesses of Memorial Hospital's morgue.

"Hutch!" Louder, more insistent, but again, no response. Vacant pools of liquid blue, glazed and achingly empty, stared across the squadroom at nothing. Morbid reality had settled heavily on shoulders already burdened with the weight of the ‘civilized’ world.

Lights are on, but nobody's home. Sighing at the injustice, Starsky grabbed the typewriter eraser, swiped it across a particularly stubborn typo. But the 't' that should've been a 'd' had burrowed into the paper so deeply that no amount of scrubbing could make it invisible. Teeth clenched in growing frustration, Starsky finally gave up, back-spaced, and pounded the 'd' key several times. He leaned back in his chair, did a cursory check of Grossman's arrest report, declared it 'okay enough for government work', then yanked the paper free. The original came out clean and intact, but only half of the two carbon copies emerged whole.

"Shit!" Nostrils flared, Starsky slammed the single remaining sheet onto the desk, wincing as the action elevated the pain level in his sore jaw. Maneuvering his tongue around inside his mouth, he explored the golf-ball-sized swelling pressing against his left wisdom tooth, applying pressure tentatively. Something abruptly gave way, and the coppery tang of blood suddenly flooded his throat. He resisted the immediate gag reflex, reluctantly swallowing the vile fluid, then waged an inconspicuous battle to keep his stomach contents from disgorging on the fresh, clean report. Another moment passed before he regained a tenuous control on the nausea. Then he caught sight of the tattered carbons, still clutched tightly in the roller of his ancient manual typewriter. Reaching out, he freed them with one abrupt pull. "Shit! Shit! Shit!!"

"Starsky!" Dobey, looking rumpled with his tie loosened and slightly askew, emerged from his office. "How many times do I have to tell you: No expletives in the office during duty hours."

The dark-haired detective stole a quick glance at the wall clock; the hands showed 9:45. "Duty hours, Cap'n? I thought ours were over at five o'clock."

Dobey didn't deign to acknowledge the retort. "I know what time it is, Starsky. Have you and Hutch finished that report yet?"

Casting an unconcealed look of concern toward his silent friend, Starsky slid his chair back, grabbed the report in question, and met his superior mid-way across the room. "Here y'go, Cap'n. All T's crossed and all I's dotted, just the way you like 'em."

Dobey accepted the single sheet mutely, made a show of scanning it critically. "You do know we have an office dictionary? And I assume you know how to use it? 'Starecase' has an 'i' in it. I'm also sure you're aware of the standard procedure for turning in reports. They're supposed to be in triplicate?" When his familiar scolding was met with uncharacteristic silence, Dobey inclined his head toward the slumped figure in the chair. "Your partner gonna be okay?" he asked, voice lowered and abnormally soft.

Starsky licked suddenly dry lips and nodded. "You know what they say about time and wounds. It was a pretty big shock, but he'll heal."

"Yeah," Dobey said quietly. His eyes filled with sympathy and locked with those of his subordinate. Suddenly, he frowned, reaching out a beefy hand to carefully position Starsky's face to profile. "That bruise looks pretty bad, Starsky. And with all that swelling, there might be a hairline fracture. You need to make sure it's in your report. Adding assault charges to Murder Second should tack on another decade to Grossman's sentence."

Stomach knotting, the detective shot a fleeting look back at their work station, but his partner appeared oblivious to the conversation. Even so, he lowered his voice to near-whisper level. "No assault charges, Cap'n. And it's okay, just a little bruised. I've had worse … lotsa times."

Dobey turned on his heel and headed back into his office. "Well, at least let me get you some aspirin. Then take your partner home, see to him, and put some ice on that jaw. You may have had worse, but I haven't seen it."

Starsky's lips started a hint of a smile but squelched it when the simple action escalated the nagging ache to full-blown throbbing. His hand moved up to massage the warm swollen flesh.

"Starsk …" His partner's voice was hollow, jagged with guilt.

God … not now!

Lowering his hand, he started toward Hutch, but a glimpse of the man's stricken face froze him in place. "Buddy, it's okay. Grossman and his goons are in jail, and they're gonna stay there. I've got all the paperwork done, so Dobey's happy. We’re free now. All there is for us to do is go home, eat something and grab some zzz's."

But Hutch was already on his feet, long fingers tentatively reaching out to examine Starsky's black-and-blue cheek. "My God, I didn't mean to …"

Starsky backed away, abruptly turning his face away so that only the uninjured side showed. He suppressed a wince at the escalated pain the simple movement brought. "I know, Hutch, so stop it. Right now! I’m all right." Then, aware that his tone had been harsher than intended, he reached out, coiled warm fingers around his partner's cold ones. He continued but in a softer voice. "I've already forgotten about it, Hutch. I want you to forget it too. Okay? Please?"

At that moment, Dobey emerged, thrusting two white pills into Starsky's hand, then filling a disposable paper cup with water from the cooler and offering it. "If that doesn't look any better by morning,” he advised, “you might want to have a doctor check it out." He waited until Starsky swallowed the aspirin, then turned and looked at his other detective. "Hutch, I'm so sorry about your girl. I never got to meet her, but I know she must've been very special. If there's anything I can do …"

Hutch swallowed loudly, nodded once, then lowered his head and looked away.

Uncomfortable in the silence, Dobey harrumphed loudly, breaking the somber mood. "All right! Getcher sorry cans outta here, and take care of each other. Take a couple of days to regroup, then I want you back in here Wednesday, bright-eyed, bushy tailed and ready for work. Is that clear?"

Starsky managed a weak lopsided grin. "Perfectly." He reached for his reticent partner's elbow, aimed him at the door and shoved gently. "See ya in a few, Cap," he said to his departing friend's back. Once Hutch was safely out of hearing range, he turned back. "And thanks."

*****************

A chalky crescent moon flickered dimly over the Angeles Mountains, the only heavenly body visible above the bright evening glow of Bay City. Except for the occasional blinking of an aircraft’s taillights, the rest of the night sky was stark indigo.

Purring contentedly, the Torino obeyed the deft manipulations of its weary driver, sliding easily through the darkened streets and sparse traffic. Although the car’s interior wasn’t overtly warm, Starsky cranked the driver’s window down, allowing a draft of chilled air to filter through and keep him alert. It wasn’t yet eleven o’clock, but it had been a long day, and it might prove to be an even longer night.

“So whaddya wanna eat, Hutch?” he asked, keeping his voice soft and light.

To his right, Hutch hunched in the passenger seat, head leaning against the window, cheek cradled in the palm of his hand. “I’m not hungry,” was a sigh.

Starsky negotiated a left turn onto Wilshire Boulevard and headed west at a leisurely pace. “Me either,” he admitted. “So, whaddya wanna eat?"

This brought a slight snort from his too-quiet partner, but Starsky couldn’t tell if it was amused or impatient.

A sniff. A swallow. A slight shrug. “I really don’t think I could keep anything down right now, Starsk, but thanks anyway.”

Starsky nodded understandingly, reaching across the car’s length to bestow an encouraging pat on his partner’s knee. “Okay. Home and to bed then.”

The simple declaration brought Hutch immediately out of his reverie. He straightened, elongating his upper body as if waking from a sound sleep, and took in the passing view. “Hey, this isn’t the way to my house.”

“I know. I just thought you might not wanna be alone right now, so I’m takin’ you to mine and …”

“I’m a big boy, Starsk. I can handle this.”

“Yeah? Well, answer me one question then, Blondie. If you’re so ‘okay’, where’s that brown metal thing you laughingly call a ‘car’?”

At this Hutch started, then looked around. The ghost of a smile softened his haggard features. “Guess I must’ve left it somewhere, huh?”

Starsky’s lips started a slow smile of his own, but the slight movement rekindled the ache inside his swollen jaw. He turned quickly, pretending to look out the window while waiting for the pain level to recede. When he could speak again, he quipped, “Yeah … that’s where it is, partner. Somewhere … in the precinct parking lot… ” Turning back, he watched as Hutch visibly deflated once more, slumping dejectedly into the soft comfort of the Torino’s leather seat. For several minutes, they drove in complete silence.

Then it came. “Starsk?”

“Yeah?”

“Why do you think I couldn’t see what she …” The voice was veined with anguish, a question wrenched from the soul.

Oh, babe …don’t do this to yourself. Not now.

“I mean, we deal with this kind of shit all day, every day, 365 days a year. I don’t understand how I couldn’t see what she really was.”

Gaze riveted on the intersection ahead, Starsky continued. “And what was that, Hutch?”

In the shadowed recesses of the car, his partner’s eyes flashed electric blue. “A hooker.” Ragged, hoarse, biting words spewed out. “A whore, Starsk. A fuckin’ common street whore ...”

//”Is that what you’re trying to tell me, buddy … friend … that my girl is a hooker … a prostitute!?”

“Look around ya. Whaddya think bought this place?”//

Closing his eyes to the pain-filled memory, Starsky slowed for a red light that turned green almost immediately. He applied pressure to the gas pedal, and the car shot forward. “…who loved you, buddy …” he finished.

“I know.” Hutch’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry … shouldn’t be laying this on your shoulders right now.”

“Oh, I think they’re broad enough, partner. I know yours must be kinda overburdened right now. Feel free to use ‘em.”

Hutch ran a shaky hand over his face, then rolled down the passenger-side window and stuck his head out. The wind caught strands of silvered gold, whipping them furiously in the rushing air. Moments later, hair windblown haphazardly, Hutch pulled his head back inside and closed the window.

“I need a drink,” he said quietly. “Got beer?”

“Huh?”

“I said, ‘got beer’?”

Starsky frowned in puzzlement.  “O’course, I got beer.  Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you say it that way?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  Thought it sounded kinda catchy … more like a slogan or something.  You know … like ‘got juice’ or ‘got milk’.”

“You thinkin’ of giving up police work and goin’ into advertising?”

“Maybe.  You don’t agree?”

Starsky made a big show of thinking.  “Well, ‘got beer’’s okay, I guess.  And ‘got juice’.  But ‘got milk’?  Nah!  Not catchy at all.”

Hutch pursed his lips and nodded.  “Yeah. I see what you mean.”

“Got anything else you might need too, pard. Pretzels, chips, pickles.”

“What kind?”

Starsky frowned. “What kind of what?”

“Pickles.”

“Oh! Bread and butter.”

Hutch nodded and lowered his head. “I’ll pass on the pickles. But I think I may need the beer ….” His voice wavered and he drew a shaky breath before finishing. “…and I think I’ll take you up on the shoulders.” It was a watery whisper.

A lump rose in the back of Starsky's sore throat. With difficulty, he swallowed it. It took another moment before he could compose himself and reply. “You got ‘em, Hutch ... for as long as you need ‘em.”

**********

Starsky noted the time – 12:15 a.m. -- as he went through his parlor gathering up empty beer bottles. So far, the total was six, none of them his own. He placed them gently, one-by-one, into the corner trash can, careful not to make any noise that might awaken his sleeping partner. Only moments before, he had poured an out-on-his-feet Hutch into the warmth of his waterbed, and he didn’t want anything to disturb him until his friend had at least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Looking around the small apartment, he located a half-eaten saltine on the arm of his couch. Where the imprint of his buddy’s body still left a slight depression on the sofa lay the squashed remains of what had been a quarter-slice of cheddar cheese. He scraped it off the Mexican blanket with his fingernails and took possession of the cracker, removing both to the steadily filling trash can.

The scent of cheese made his stomach lurch with hunger, but an earlier attempt at chewing a thin pretzel stick had failed miserably. The left inside of his mouth was so swollen that his teeth couldn't bite down without at least an inch of tender cheek tissue getting in the way. Then the beer he'd tried had fizzed and burned all the way down, escalating the throbbing pain that just wouldn't go away.

Sighing, he finished picking up after his untidy friend, straightened the new striped serape that covered the back of his couch, and headed toward the bathroom. A quick detour to check on Hutch showed his partner sprawled on the waterbed, mouth slightly open and soft nasal snores echoing through the room.

Starsky smiled to himself, recalling that there'd been barely a word spoken between them since they'd arrived at his apartment. Sensing his partner needed time to contemplate the loss of the woman he loved, he'd merely turned the television to a Laurel and Hardy marathon, retrieved snacks and beer, and served them to his pensive friend. They'd spent half an hour staring at the insipid antics of two long-dead men with Hutch taking short sips of the first beer, then gulping down a single saltine and cheese hors d'oeuvre. He took one bite of a second cracker, washed it down with five more beers in quick succession and promptly fell asleep sitting up. It had taken Starsky some effort to get his limp, semi-conscious partner out of his shoes and jeans and into bed.

Satisfied that Hutch was out for the night, Starsky headed toward the bathroom and turned on the shower. He stripped off the clothing he'd been wearing for nearly 24 hours and stepped into the warm moistness, sighing as the relaxing stream massaged the tension from his back and shoulder muscles. He lingered, taking his time shampooing and rinsing his hair, even lathering his exhausted body twice in order to take advantage of the soothing water. Finally, after more than twenty minutes, he stepped reluctantly from the humid cubicle and dried off. Wrapping the damp towel around his hips, he ran the lavatory water, squeezed a dab of Ultra-Brite onto his toothbrush, and cautiously ran the bristles across his front teeth, carefully avoiding the swollen tissue inside his left cheek. When he first spit toothpaste and saliva into the sink, there were several streaks of pink. A second expulsion was bright crimson, tinged with pink and gray. Gagging, Starsky filled a disposable Dixie cup with cold water and rinsed his mouth again and again until the discharged liquid hit the basin clear.

The bathroom mirror had fogged up during his lengthy shower. Grabbing a face towel, he wiped it clean, then gasped when he glimpsed his reflection. The right side of his face appeared completely normal, but the left looked worn and haggard, the skin swollen, almost too heavy for his skull and facial bones. It sagged beneath his eye, and the distended cheek flesh pulled downward, almost into a middle-aged jowl. Even worse was the pain which had gone from a mild, centrally located ache at the jawline to a distracting throbbing in his ear, neck, and even into the back of his throat.

Sighing, Starsky reached into his medicine chest, grabbed three more aspirin and swallowed them with another cupful of water. He toweled his damp hair one more time, finger-combed the curls into submission, then tiptoed from the bathroom to his own bedroom where, in the darkness, he pulled on briefs, a faded Grand Funk tee-shirt and his best worn pair of sweats.

A last quick check on Hutch showed that his partner hadn't moved an inch while he showered, so he grabbed sheets and a blanket from the linen closet, then pilfered an extra pillow from the waterbed. Moments later, couch prepped for several hours of repose, he reclined into the softness, and let his tired, aching body drift off to sleep.

************

His eyes were closed, but he could still smell a hint of sweet lilacs and talcum powder. The light scents went hand-in-hand with his mental image of her, and he opened his eyes to find her sitting across from him on the bed, wearing nothing but a welcoming smile. Tentatively, Hutch reached out a hand, cupped it behind her swanlike neck and drew her slender body closer. His lips lowered, opening slightly, and she leaned forward to accept his kiss. It was sweet, feather light, and Hutch could sense an almost shy hesitance in her reactions that made his heart ache with tenderness.

Abruptly, he lay back, pulling her smooth and pliant body on top of his. He caressed the muscles of her back, the soft velvet of her shoulders, then moved downward to knead the firm mounds of her buttocks. She whisper-moaned her pleasure, bending once more to press her warm full lips to his. This time the kiss was deeper, longer, filled with passion, and Hutch felt a familiar thrill of electricity as the intensity of their lovemaking exploded.

Quickly, he rolled both of them over until he was on top staring into her soul; his silent question was answered as her sky blue eyes begged him to continue. He bent his head to her neck, trailing hot kisses across her throat, nuzzling the softness of her breast with his fair hair. She groaned in mock protest, arching beneath him wantonly, urging him to move faster.

Then she was reaching up, pulling his head down to hers, plying him with warm, open-mouthed kisses. Inflamed, he reciprocated, plunging his tongue between her parted teeth. Touching hers was like being struck by lighting, jolting and thrilling him to the very marrow of his being. Reaching down, he stroked her pelvic bone, then lifted his aching sweat-sheened body, and entered her.

She cried out, with pain or pleasure he couldn't be sure, and he hesitated, waiting until she forcibly pulled him closer, wrapping her long legs around his torso, melding her body to his. Satisfied, he began to move inside her, slowly at first, pacing himself, matching each thrust to the moans of delight issuing from his partner. Her nails dug into the tender flesh of his shoulders, raked painfully down his back and sides, spurring him on, and they rocked together, involuntary moans of pleasure raised as both moved frenziedly toward the single goal of release

Then, somewhere an alarm clock shrieked, and his partner went suddenly limp beneath him.

"Time's up," she said, disinterest dripping in her tone.

Momentarily confused and breathing hard with exertion, Hutch didn't resist the hard shove that abruptly disconnected their joined bodies. He landed on his back, his long sweat-slickened body still ready and achingly unfulfilled. When he could speak, he breathed her name. "Gillian."

But he was speaking to her back as she rose from the bed, tossed on a short flowered robe, and reached for a pencil. She scribbled something on a small pad of lined paper, tore it free, then handed it to him.

"Hurry up, Ken. I've got others waiting," she said, watching him as he tried to focus on the hastily written words.

"For Services Rendered," he read aloud. "$250."

"Cash only. And I don't make change."

Nausea and disbelief combined to nearly smother him in their intensity, freezing him in a half-upright position. Somewhere, very far away, he heard an echoing knock at the door. Her bare feet made soft padding noises as she walked across the room to answer it. A grating metallic squeak sounded when she turned the knob.

"You must be the tv repairman," she said with a low sultry laugh. "Come in, and tell me your name."

"Al," a familiar voice said

Hutch turned at the name, catching only a glimpse of the naked body of Al Grossman before Gillian covered him with her own. They moved in tandem toward the vanilla bean sofa, Gillian shedding the robe before they fell together onto the pillows. He watched, feeling like a lowlife voyeur, as his girl kissed and licked her way down the front of Grossman's flabby out-of-shape torso.

"Ken!" She halted just as she reached the heart of the man, stopping long enough to address the room's only other occupant. "Just leave the money on the table by the door and let yourself out. Al had a 2:30 appointment. I'm sure you understand." With that, she returned enthusiastically to her job.

Dressing quickly and deliberately averting his eyes, Hutch jammed long fingers into his pocket, grabbing his wallet and ripping several fifty dollar bills from it .As he started to leave, Gillian's voice froze him in his tracks.

"Come again, Ken. Anytime."

And then Grossman was groaning, loud throaty moans of pleasure. Carelessly tossing the bills onto the floor, Hutch pointedly slammed the door shutting out the grotesque scene, but the moans and cries still filled his ears as he first walked, then ran down the stairs and out into the cool night.

*******
 
 Hideous impassioned moans still echoed inside his brain, even as he mentally shook himself awake. Inside, he knew it had all been a dream, a nightmare that never really happened. But the heavy cloak of disgust couldn't keep away a hoarse groan that filtered through the thick fog still holding his consciousness hostage.
 
 Sick at heart, he opened his eyes to gloomy darkness and disorienting shades of gray. To his left was dusky nothingness, on the right, tarnished shadows. And floating just above his prone body, a silver-hued disembodied face stared down at him. Startled by the unexpected sight, he cringed backward, then rolled over, instinctively reaching for the heavy gun he already realized wasn’t there. The abrupt movement caused the world beneath him to heave and undulate, and suddenly, he knew where he was. Starsky’s waterbed.  
 
 Immediately calming, he relaxed into the warm security of his partner’s bed, letting its light rippling motions soothe away the tension in his rigid muscles. Overhead, the shameless mirrored canopy he frequently teased Starsky about reflected down his own ghostly image. He closed his eyes to the sight, a slight smile of embarrassment playing on his lips, and let his mind work at remembering the who, what, where, when and why he was lying in Starsky’s waterbed at -- a cursory check of his buddy's ultra-modern tableside chronometer showed the ungodly hour -- 1:17 a.m. 
 
 Confused, he tiptoed backward into the recesses of his muddled brain. Carefully sidestepping the recent nightmare, he recalled the reason for the uncomfortable fullness of his bladder … five … or was it six? … bottles of beer. Before or after dinner? Or did he even eat dinner? He couldn't remember. Everything was off kilter, memories jam-packed together into a knotted ball of indistinct impressions and vague emotions. Yet through all the haze of his confused recollections, there was one unmistakable crystal clear memory … the face of a partner whose warm presence and unwavering concern blunted the pain of losing …. 
 
 "Gillian …". 
 
 The whispered word brought a tidal wave of anguish rising and cresting over him, driving him emotionally to his knees. 
 
 Gillian!
 
 Her name flitted across his consciousness, bringing with it shards of soul-shredding grief. He stifled a moan, stuffing the unwanted sound and accompanying despair back into the dark recesses of his brain. But shutting his eyes to the bittersweet memories -- her fragile beauty, the softness of her smile, the sweet taste of her lips -- didn’t halt the strangled cry that wriggled through the tear in his heart, worked up his burning throat, and finally slipped past his lips. The sob reverberated loudly in the quiet room, and Hutch slapped a hand over his mouth to contain any others that might involuntarily spill out. 
 
 But in spite of his efforts, muted sounds of distress continued. Moans of pain or pleasure, groans of ecstasy or agony surrounded him. Confused, Hutch sat up, listening carefully, but the only sound he heard now was the rapid beating of his own heart, slamming loudly in his ears. He waited a moment more, focusing on the dimly lit parlor where his partner should be sleeping. A muted 'click' came from his right; the transparent clock's minute mechanism dropped to reveal 1:20 A.M. 
 
 And all's not right with my world. 
 
  Sighing, Hutch tossed aside the velour patchwork quilt and carefully slid his long bare legs off the bed. An unexpected wave of alcohol-induced dizziness assaulted him, and he slumped on the wooden bedrail for a moment, waiting for it to pass. When the room finally stopped tilt-a-whirling around him, he pushed to a standing position, then walked carefully from the bedroom into the parlor. 
 
 Starsky's black-and-white television set was still on, its faint snowy screen the only light in the small room. He checked the couch as he headed purposefully for the bathroom. Except for a rumpled sheet, it was empty. A blanket and pillow had been tossed aside and lay on the floor in separate piles beside the heavy coffee table. 
 
 He reached the bathroom only to find the door shut, bright light spilling out from under the threshold. "Starsk?" he called, his voice sounding loud in the quietness. He lowered the volume. "You gonna be long?"
 
 Something that sounded like a cross between a hoarse grunt and a yawn filtered out.
 
 "Hey, buddy, I gotta go, and soon, so hurry up in there, willya!"
 
 When his barely disguised plea wasn't acknowledged, Hutch turned and paced back to the sofa. With nothing else to do but wait, he bent over and picked up the rumpled blanket, dropping it in a jumbled heap onto the sheet. Moving forward, he started to do the same with the pillow but, when his fingers closed over a sticky wetness, he dropped it immediately. 
 
 Wiping his hands dry on his briefs, he shook his head in irritation. "Jesus, Starsk! You need to do something about that disgusting drool problem of yours!" Walking toward the bathroom again, he shot a distasteful look at the pillow, then back at the irritating silence coming from behind the door. "Hey, pal, come on! If you don't get out of there soon, I'm going to have to use your kitchen sink … and I know how much you hate it when I do that." 
 
 Again, there was no forthcoming reply. His discomfort level was becoming critical, so he did a one-eighty, heading purposefully for the kitchen, but another quick glance down at the damp pillow caused him to stop in his tracks. In the colorless glow of the tv set, he could see that the stain on the light-colored case was dark. Not the transparent wetness of saliva. In fact, it looked more like … 
 
 A chorus of alarm bells suddenly went off in his head. Aborting his trek to the kitchen, he found the closest lamp, snapped it on and, as the room flooded with light, gasped. 
 
 Blood? 
 
 Squinting against the sudden brightness, he focused on the dark red stain soaking a third of the pillowcase. Swiftly, he glanced back to the couch. There was blood smeared on the sheet, more smudging down the side of the sofa. A line of glistening droplets on the beige carpet led a crimson trail to the bathroom. Concern rose to anxiety which escalated immediately to near panic, and he crossed the room in two strides, pounding forcefully on the door. 
 
 "Starsky! Are you okay in there? Answer me!" 
 
 Silence.
 
 "Starsk! You're scaring the shit outta me! If you don’t tell me you’re okay I’m gonna break down the door, and your landlord’s not gonna be real happy about it.” 
 
 Something that sounded like gagging followed by a low moan came from within. Heart in his throat, Hutch didn’t hesitate. He backed off, rammed his right shoulder against the door and threw his weight into it. The flimsy hollow wood buckled beneath the force, then opened wide to reveal his semi-prone partner, huddled over the toilet basin. The white porcelain lid and bowl were covered with blood. 
 
 "Starsky … buddy … "
 
 As he spoke, his friend's upper body suddenly convulsed, and he watched in horror as Starsky vomited a stream of bile and blood into the bowl. When he was finished, his head dropped limply onto the lid. 
 
 Hutch grabbed a hand towel, doused it with water, wrung it out. Bending down for a closer look, he used it to carefully bathe his friend's mouth and face. 
 
 Starsky lifted his head, turning instinctively toward the soft coolness of the cloth, and Hutch's breath caught in his throat at the sight. The left side of his partner's face was grotesquely swollen and discolored, the eye closed, trapped within the doughy flesh. 
 
 "…utch …" 
 
 "Easy, Starsk. I'm here," he said, amazed that his own voice could sound so calm and reassuring when inside, his thoughts and emotions were a jangled mass of exposed nerves.
 
 What the hell did I do to you, buddy? What was I thinking! 
 
 //Is that what you're trying to tell me … buddy … 'friend' … that my girl is a hooker? A prostitute?"
 
 "Look around you. Whatddya think bought this place."//
 
 He'd been surrounded by sin … deception … lies. He'd loved … no, worshiped! … a whore… a fornicator. And, by association, he'd become one too. Yet, the only innocent, the only one who'd sought the truth … who'd told the truth … had been punished by the very person he'd tried to protect. 
 
 He felt tears starting, blinked them away. "God, Starsk!" He almost choked on the words. "I never meant to hurt you like this." 
 
 Blood-spattered fingers reached out, clutched his forearm tightly. 
 
 "…you … can't help …I got a … glass jaw …"
 
 The ache in his chest constricted into a painful band, and Hutch jammed his hands underneath his partner's armpits, lifted him into a vertical position. Starsky reached up and grasped the green knit fabric of his shirt, flesh and cloth closing into desperate fists. 
 
 "Think you can walk, Starsk? I've gotta get you to the hospital."
 
 The dark head lifted once, then again, but the movement only exacerbated the trickle of blood oozing from the left side of his slack mouth. It trailed down his chin and neck, disappearing into the crew-neck of his red t-shirt. 
 
 Ignoring his rising terror, Hutch turned sideways and headed back toward the living room, pulling Starsky's swaying body with him. It took several moments of concerted effort, but he finally got his partner settled onto the couch. 
 
 Racing back into the bathroom, he grabbed the damp towel, then returned to Starsky, dabbing at the stream of blood that continued to leak from inside his jaw. He placed the towel in his buddy's hand, positioning it against his mouth. "Can you hold it there, Starsk? I've gotta get my pants and shoes on and then we'll be ready to go. Okay, babe?" 
 
 There wasn't time to wait for a reply. Hutch jumped into his brown jeans, slipped on the tan wallabies, threw on his jacket, and headed back to retrieve his partner. 
 
 Starsky was where he'd left him, slumped on the couch, but his neck seemed to have lost the strength to hold his head up. Both eyes were now closed, and every breath was a gurgling grunt of pain. 
 
 Searching frantically on the coffee table and breakfast bar, Hutch swore aloud. 
 
 "…lookin' fer?" came from the couch. 
 
 "Keys … where're the fuckin' keys to your car?"
 
 "… jeans … pocket …"
 
 Again, there was a panic-stricken rush through the apartment. "Where, Starsk? Which pair?"
 
 The heavy head drooped forward, releasing a fresh stream of blood. "… floor … 'ath room …" 
 
 Five seconds later, keys firmly in his own pants pocket, Hutch retrieved the blanket from the sofa, wrapped it around his partner's upper torso, and helped him from the apartment, down the stairs, and into the Torino. A minute later, they were speeding through the desolate streets, Mars light flashing, siren screaming loudly. 
 
 
*********
 

"Sergeant Hutchinson."

It was a statement, not a question, and Hutch halted his nonstop pacing in the hospital corridor, turned around to find a familiar face emerging through the ER doors. After forty-five minutes of going-out-of-his-mind worry, Doctor Warren Franklin's presence was a sedative for his frayed nerves.<