If you’re used to my usual pattern of a Hutch story, followed by a Starsky story, followed by a Hutch story, you’re probably expecting this to be a Starsky story. Well, in the words of Theresa (my beta reader) it is a “Hutchfest.” I’ve always been pretty vocal about being thoroughly enamored (translation: 100%) of the blond half of our fave detective duo. Every once in awhile a writer just needs to be selfishly indulgent, so I guess you could say I wrote this story to treat myself - - lots of Hutch from start to finish, including shameless descriptive passages.

Mystery, plenty of Hutch angst, Hutch h/c, and (because I do try to keep Theresa entertained <g>) some Starsky h/c too.

If you’re a Starsky reader I hope you will still give the story a try. There is plenty of the curly-haired guy too, he just doesn’t get the limelight this time around (next story for sure . . . I’ve promised T). Thanks to Theresa for wading through page after page of rampant Hutchiness and for doing her usual exceptional beta job. As always thanks to Kass for the fic haven, and a special thanks to Pepper, my “Duluth Operative” for all the information on Minnesota, Duluth, Lake Superior, air travel and air security in the 70s. You are a wellspring of information, my friend! If I fouled anything up in the translation, the blame is mine.

This story is set late season 3 and follows my previous stories “Favored Son” and “Boneyard.” It’s not necessary to have read either (Storm Gathering is complete in itself) but it helps to establish a familiarity with the character of Grant Hutchinson. As always be forewarned of occasional coarse language . . . somehow unavoidable when I’m writing about street cops. Sorry for being so long winded. And now on with the tale . . .

Storm Gathering

By Kate (CMT)

“You sure about this?” Starsky had serious doubts about his partner’s health but tried not to be overly judgmental or too doting. When Hutch had first told him about the trip four weeks ago, he’d thought it an excellent idea - - the perfect opportunity for one desperate-to-please, fair-haired son and his mostly aloof father to spend quality time together. But that was before a petty criminal commonly known as “Southside” Dan DeGree had slipped a knife between Hutch’s ribs, leaving him bleeding and gagged, cuffed to a mill table rigged with an industrial-sized rotary saw. Hutch had ripped up both wrists trying to free himself before the 24” blade cut a grisly blood-soaked path between his spread legs, through his torso and into his skull.

The image of his friend fettered to the steel table, the deadly notched blade whirring just inches from Hutch’s groin had the ability to turn Starsky weak-kneed with nausea even now. If he, Dobey, Baker, and the phalanx of other cops who’d busted into the mill had arrived a second or two later, Hutch would have died a gory mass of butchered flesh. Unfortunately DeGree managed to escape in the ensuing chaos and barrage of gunfire, a fact that still had Starsky uneasy. Most of his goons had been rounded up, but the small time hood had successfully vanished into the labyrinth of city streets. Not even Huggy had been able to turn up anything on his suspected whereabouts.

Starsky frowned, the memory of his friend bound to the table rushing back even as he tried to squash it.

“Hutch?” Shaken, Starsky reached to unlock the blood-drenched cuffs securing his injured partner to the table. Someone had bolted a metal rod into the horizontal slot for the saw, creating a makeshift crossbar a short distance from the edge. He could barely look at the massive blade, its lethal tips having stopped just inches shy of flaying open Hutch’s groin.

And his flesh.

His partner’s own cuffs held him secure, arms stretched taut over his head, hands hooked behind the crossbar. His wrists were a grisly mess, sliced open and rubbed raw from his desperate struggles to free himself. Blood dripped from the metal bands, splattering the table in bright dime-sized droplets, soaking the crisp sleeves of his ivory shirt. A darker, larger stain spread below his ribs on his right side, the contrast of claret on white startling and somehow obscene.

“Hutch . . . babe . . .” Starsky ripped the gag from his friend’s mouth, sliding a hand behind Hutch’s head to carefully cradle his skull. A single bruise splayed outward in a garish mottling of crimson and black contouring the high arch of Hutch’s left cheek. Puffy and swollen, the skin pushed against his eye. “Buddy, I’m gonna get you outta here, I promise.”

Hutch gasped, choking down a harsh lungful of air. Adrenaline snaked from his body, inflicting the punishing aftereffects of delayed shock. Shuddering, he turned his face against his arm and moaned. “S-Starsky . . . my side . . .”

“Easy. Just take it easy.”

But Hutch looked like he hadn’t heard, eyes closed, face pressed tightly to his arm as if to stifle terror. “G-Get me off this table . . .”

Starsky fumbled, hastily inserting the key in the blood-soaked cuffs. “Just another second, babe. Hang on . . .”

“Starsky, he’s been stabbed.”

He jerked, startled to find Dobey at his shoulder. The black man moved to the foot of the table, briskly tugging the ropes that had held Hutch’s legs open and secure while the deadly blade whirred between them. Given how disoriented his partner seemed, Starsky knew it was likely he’d been beaten too.

“Get something on that wound,” Dobey ordered with a jerk of his head to indicate Hutch’s bloody side. “Ambulance is on its way.” And then with a quick glance for his stricken detective: “Hang on, Ken. It’s over now. You’re safe.”

Shaken, Starsky dragged himself back to the present. Hutch had spent exactly two nights in the hospital, another two resting at home. Four measly days and he was planning on boarding an airplane to Duluth, the knife wound in his side far from healed. Even the bruise over his cheek had yet to fade, though thankfully the swelling had vanished. His badly lacerated wrists were wrapped in heavy gauze, requiring the application of a salve each night to aid in healing. Throw in the fact he’d taken a bad beating, and he was an ideal candidate for a week of bed rest. He’d barely spoken about the ordeal, shrugging it off with a generic “just-glad-to-be-alive” comment.

“You know, Hutch, your dad would probably understand if you just told him what’s going on.”

“I’m not welching on this trip, Starsky.” Pulling a handful of socks and underwear from the top drawer of his dresser, Hutch plunked them in the open suitcase on his bed. The clock on the nightstand read 7 P.M., a reminder of the late-day September sun slanting through the greenhouse windows, turning the room red-gold with fading light. “My dad’s never asked me to go anywhere with him. If I back out now - -”

“ - - he’d understand,” Starsky interrupted. “All you gotta do is tell ‘im - -”

“ - - what? That I got beaten, stabbed, tied down, and almost sliced in half by a circular saw? He’s already convinced my job’s too dangerous. That should really cement things for him.”

Starsky frowned. He plopped on the bed beside the suitcase, absently fingering a blue-and-white striped dress shirt Hutch had folded neatly on top. “I don’t like the idea of you leavin’ so soon after that mess,” he admitted, sounding petulant. It was hard not to appear worried or resentful when it was obvious, just from the way he moved, that Hutch was in pain. Stupid ass. “What if something happens - - like you rip open your stitches?”

Hutch turned back to his dresser, sorting through a stack of jeans and casual shirts. “I’ll be careful. Besides, I’m going to be surrounded by doctors. And I already told you - - if you’re so worried, come along. You were invited, you know.”

Starsky dismissed the idea with a mild snort. “Your dad don’t want me there, he’s just bein’ polite. You can’t tell me anybody else is bringin’ a tag-along guest.”

“Starsky, Bentley opens his house every five years to his med school buddies and their families. On any given night there can be anywhere from 3 to 30 people flocked around the place. Trust me, one more isn’t going to matter.”

“I dunno. What kinda name is Bentley Crest anyway? Sounds like some pricey monogrammed towel.”

Hutch ignored him. “If I know my dad’s friend Nathan Dunner, he’ll show up with all three of his sons - - all doctors, two of them egotistical as hell. I spent seventeen years going to school with the middle one, Roger, and every moment since getting reminded how incredibly successful he is.”

“By your dad?” Starsky guessed.

Uncomfortable, Hutch looked away. “That’s behind us now . . . or at least I think it is.” He blew out a breath, tossing a pair of severely bleached jeans back into the drawer. “The point is, it isn’t too late for you to change your mind and come along.” Hesitating, he cast a speculative glance over his shoulder. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

“”Oh no, you don’t.” Propping a pillow behind him, Starsky leaned against the headboard, stretching both legs over the mattress. The bed bobbled slightly with his movement as he scritched about in an attempt to get comfortable. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know where Hutch was headed with the thought. “Don’t go gettin’ all Cowardly Lion on me. You’re just worried about bein’ alone with the illustrious Dr. H . . . not really sure how to act now that the two of you are actually speakin’ to each other instead of at each other.” Distracted, he refocused on the shirt, pulling the blue-and-white garment from the suitcase. “Hey, ain’t this mine?” Hefting it in the air, he let the arms droop for a better look.

“No. It’s not.” Snatching it back, Hutch wadded it into a ball and shot it into the case. Jarred by the abrupt movement he blanched and dropped to a seat on the bed. “Oh . . . shit.” Butting Starsky’s knees aside with one hand, he hung his head.

“Toldja you weren’t ready for this trip,” Starsky commented, watching the blood drain from his face. In more ways than one. It was bad enough recovering from a beating and a knife wound, but the psychological element of being tied down and almost cut in half by an industrial saw wasn’t just something that went away overnight. Inwardly, Starsky shuddered. That kind of sick execution was the stuff horror movies and nightmares were made of.

Hutch waved the observation aside. Eyes closed, he cupped his ribs and weakly panted for air. “I . . . I just moved too quickly, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Starsky scowled heavily. Getting Hutch out of Bay City would at least give him peace of mind about Dan DeGree. With his partner safely in Duluth, Hutch would be out of DeGree’s reach. Problem was, he’d also be miles from home nursing a knife wound that was far from healed. “Uh, maybe you’re right.” Tucking his legs closer to his body, Starsky leaned forward and rubbed a hand soothingly over Hutch’s back. “Maybe I should go with you.”

Hopeful, Hutch stole a glance from the corner of his eye. “You do and I’ll ignore the fact you’ve got your dirty sneakers on my bedspread.” He grinned, the blinding flash of his smile used to best effect. “Come on, Starsk . . . a long weekend in a lavish country estate with a bunch of stuffy, overbearing doctors. What more could you possibly want from a vacation?”

“I Dunno - - Purgatory?”

“You’re Jewish.”

“So I’ll pretend.”

Hutch raised an eyebrow. “Starsky, come with me.” He hesitated, obviously uncomfortable, his eyes flicking away before returning in a steady gold-lashed glance. “I . . . I don’t want to go alone, Starsk. I really want you to come.”

Starsky blinked. “Wow.” No more dancing around the issue, no more trying to bribe him or jokingly coerce him into the trip, just a straight out admission that Hutch didn’t want to go alone. The request left him strangely off balance. He knew his friend was determined to keep his promise to his father, but he hadn’t guessed just how anxious Hutch was feeling over the whole situation. Clearly his recent trauma and injuries hadn’t helped.

“Okay,” he agreed, smiling gently. In truth keeping Hutch where he could see him would make him feel better. Southside Dan DeGree had been out to settle a score when he’d nabbed Hutch, and while nothing like that was likely to happen in Duluth, keeping his still-healing friend under his eye wouldn’t hurt. “Think I can still get a ticket this late? Ain’t your flight first thing Friday mornin’?”

“Yeah. My dad will arrange it, Starsk. Actually, he already has - - the ticket, I mean.” He dropped his eyes, suddenly sheepish. “I just didn’t want you to feel obligated to come.”

“Oh . . . so pullin’ that ‘I-don’t-wanna-go-alone’ routine is supposed to make me come to the decision on my own? Well, here’s the deal, Blondie - -” Hooking a finger beneath Hutch’s chin, Starsky tipped his head up until their eyes met. “I’ll tag along and be the odd man out, but you gotta be reasonable about what you can and can’t do. Like takin’ care of yourself and that wound . . . wrappin’ your wrists each night like you’re supposed to, and takin’ the pain pills you stashed in the back of your dresser where you thought I wouldn’t see ‘em. Uh-huh - -” He held up a hand when Hutch moved to protest. “Don’t even try’n tell me you were gonna put ‘em in your suitcase. I get you don’t wanna tell your dad what happened to you, but you ain’t gonna go ridin’ bareback or rock climbin’ when we get to Duluth either. And you’re gonna take the pain medication when you need it. Clear, partner?”

Hutch’s ready protest faded to an appreciative smile. “Clear,” he said softly. “Thanks, buddy. And by the way, it’s mostly billiards, cards and conversation. A hell of a stimulating weekend, Starsky.”

“Yeah.” Slouching against his friend, Starsky dropped his chin to rest on Hutch’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait.”

+++++

Starsky sighed and stretched as best he could in the cramped airplane seat. Ever conscious of status, Hutch’s father had sprung for first class tickets, but Hutch stubbornly had them downgraded to coach before boarding. Father and son might now be on speaking terms but there were still lines Hutch didn’t like crossing. Normally Starsky would have agreed they didn’t need the extravagant fawning reserved for first class passengers, but incapacitated as he was, Hutch could have used the additional legroom. Cramping his 6’1” frame into the small airplane seat was less than comfortable on a good day, close to unbearable with a freshly stitched knife wound.

The blond detective shifted and fidgeted through most of the three-and-a-half hour flight to St. Paul, wincing every time he moved. Already on edge from their experience in the LAX terminal, Starsky tried not to read too much into his friend’s growing anxiety and discomfort. Starsky’s first sign that Hutch was feeling anxious had come when they walked through the metal detector in LAX. Unlike Starsky who’d packed his .38 for the trip, Hutch arrived armed, wearing the Magnum in his shoulder holster. He’d had to stop and declare the gun, identifying himself as a police officer. Once the red tape was out of the way, the airline was actually thankful for the additional security. Skyjackings grew more common daily, taxing the thinly stretched ranks of Air Marshals. Both detectives were introduced to the captain and co-pilot on boarding and shown every courtesy due a professional colleague.

Despite the champagne treatment, Starsky was uneasy. True, Hutch was attached to the Magnum and rarely went anywhere without it, but it was out of character for him to go on vacation armed. Worse, he was going to see his father, a man he had a tenuous relationship with at best and who still wasn’t entirely sold on his choice of occupation. The last time Hutch had gone to Duluth he hadn’t even taken the gun with him, let alone wear it, for fear it would upset Grant.

So why now? Why go through the trouble of having to declare a lethal weapon and sift through yards of red tape, just to board with it strapped under his arm? What did he gain from it?

Starsky’s eyes slewed to the side, settling on his friend. A sense of security? Could it be as simple as that? Was he still feeling the terror of nearly being chewed to pieces by an obscenely large saw and simply craved an extra measure of protection as a result? Surely he didn’t think DeGree was going to follow him to Minnesota?

Hutch had taken down DeGree’s older brother, killing him in an alley shootout during a botched burglary attempt. Southside Dan wanted revenge, but Starsky didn’t think he was crazed enough to chase Hutch halfway across the country.

“Hey.” Sliding his hand over Hutch’s wrist, he gave a light squeeze. They’d boarded a commuter after delay in St. Paul for the short jaunt to Duluth. The plane was small, a squat metal cylinder with wings, eating up the nearly non-existent legroom Hutch had on the previous flight. Even Starsky felt cramped. Worse, the confined space and rougher ride were taking their toll on his partner. “No welchin’,” Starsky said pointedly. “Remember the deal - - if you’re hurtin’, you down some pills. I can drive when we land. All you gotta do is navigate.”

“Starsk - -”

“I’m serious, Hutch. I agreed to come on this trip. It’s time for you to live up to your half of the bargain.”

“Yeah, okay.” Hutch bowed his head, briefly closing his eyes. His mouth compressed in a white line, a clear indication he was in pain.

Irritated, Starsky frowned. Beneath his fingertips he could feel the heavy gauze bandage swaddling Hutch’s lacerated wrist. “Where’s the pills?” he demanded tightly.

“In my pocket.” Hutch shot him a hasty glance. “I’ll take them when we land. We’re gonna be down in another few minutes.”

It sounded like a logical plan, but Starsky had the feeling his friend was stalling. Ever since leaving LAX, Hutch had been abnormally quiet, shifting uncomfortably through the cramped flights. It didn’t take a genius to realize he was experiencing his usual apprehension about meeting his father. Despite everything that had happened the last time they’d been in Duluth - - Hutch’s leg injury, Grant coming to terms with the knowledge his son had once been abducted and forcibly addicted to heroin - - unresolved issues remained between them.

Or maybe, Starsky thought, that was all in Hutch’s mind . . . the son who’d always been too eager to please, defiant and stubborn when he failed. When it came to Grant Hutchinson, Hutch viewed himself as woefully inadequate, a sad disappointment to a disciplinarian father who’d expected more from his overly sensitive son. Even now, with a large chunk of their earlier awkwardness behind them, Hutch was still unsure how to behave around Grant. It saddened and exasperated Starsky that the confident partner he knew became backward and uncertain the moment they headed toward Duluth.

More than likely Hutch didn’t want to cloud his anxiety further with pain medication, regardless how badly he needed it.

Starsky sighed. They had a fifty-odd mile drive from Duluth International once they landed, heading northwest toward the estate of Grant’s friend, Bentley Crest. Grant and a number of other colleagues would already be there by the time they arrived. Starsky didn’t completely understand Bentley’s “September Retreat,” as Hutch said he liked to call it - - he just knew he’d been invited along for an extended weekend of socializing. Personally, it was the last thing he wanted to do with his time, but he couldn’t say no to Hutch - - especially given his friend’s recent injuries and how panicked he was over the prospect of seeing his father again.

Two of ‘em need to be locked up for a week and forced to hash out their issues. Idiots, both of ‘em. I bet the old goat’s as nervous as his kid.

Rather than part with what he was thinking, Starsky tracked his thumb over the back of Hutch’s hand. “Bet your dad can’t wait to see you.”

Hutch winced. “I’m gonna be setting myself up with all those doctors . . . and their sons who are doctors,” he said a bit remorsefully. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe this was a bad idea, Starsk.”

“So you ain’t carryin’ around a little black bag like the rest of ‘em. Big deal.” No . . . you gotta be carryin’ around three-and-a-half pounds of steel strapped under your arm. Not smart, Hutch. He frowned, noticing the discolored blotch faintly visible on his partner’s cheek. It stood out against the taller man’s pale skin, the tan he’d picked up over the summer already dwindling in favor of his natural Nordic coloring. “How you gonna explain that bruise?”

Instinctively, Hutch raised two fingers to trace over the mark. It had faded, layered with yellow and charcoal at the edges, still visible but no longer so garish. “I don’t know,” he admitted truthfully. “I’ll think of something.”

Ten minutes later they were on the ground. Starsky fidgeted, growing claustrophobic as they waited for the portable stairs to be rolled out to the plane. He hated sitting still. The cramped space wasn’t helping nor was Hutch’s unnatural tenseness and strained expression. Damn idiot’s hurtin’ and he’s too tight-lipped to admit it. He shoulda taken a pill before we left St. Paul.

Fortunately in another few minutes the ground crew had the stairs in place and they were able to exit to the terminal for their luggage. As promised, Hutch detoured to the nearest water fountain, promptly swallowing two pain pills under Starsky’s watchful eye. Later, after securing their suitcases, they headed for the rental car window. After a small debate and some heated discussion, they drove away in a shiny new black Camaro.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this flashbucket,” Hutch said as they drove northwest from the city. Lake Superior was just visible to the right, a watery blend of blue-gray, gunmetal and white, its vast expanse cold and barren despite the marigold haze of midday sun. Dense pockets of aspen and pine jutted from craggy hillsides on the left, green and lush with velvety moss and cooling patches of grape-purple shadow. The air temperature was pleasantly warm, hovering in the high 70s with a light breeze from the lake.

“I could have gotten two Pintos for the price of this souped-up flash in the pan,” Hutch complained from the passenger’s seat. “Do you have any idea how impractical a sports car is in Minnesota?”

Contented, Starsky leaned into the buttery-soft gray leather at his back and grinned. “You’d never get those giraffe-long legs into a Pinto. Besides, it’s mid September. There ain’t any snow . . . even way up near the Canadian border where we’re headed. I checked.”

“Sure you did.”

Starsky snorted. “Look . . . it’d take two Pintos to get us there in the same amount of time this Camaro’s gonna do it. Quit grumblin’, sit back, play navigator, and enjoy the ride.” Curious, he arched a brow at his friend. “How’s your side holdin’ up?”

“Better.” Hutch ducked his head, turning to look out the passenger window.

Okay, so that’s a lie, but I ain’t gonna call you on it. Least you took the pills.

“So, um . . . tell me about this September Retreat thing Bentley does.”

Hutch’s gaze, light blue and heavily lashed with gold, swung back to catch his. A pine-scented breeze swirled through the open window, ruffling the sun-bleached edges of Hutch’s long hair. He almost seemed content but for the idle way he plucked at a stray thread in his jet-black slacks. Wearing an olive shirt, thin brown belt and crisply tailored brown leather jacket, he looked like he was headed for an upscale party - - unlike Starsky who’d dressed more comfortably in faded blue jeans, worn Adidas sneakers, a yellow knit shirt and navy windbreaker. If anyone had a right to be nervous about not fitting in with a bunch of highbrow doctors and their snotty sons, it was him.

‘Cept I don’t really give a shit one way or the other. I’m just here for Hutch.

“So what’s with Doc Bentley?” he prompted again when Hutch had been quiet too long.

Hutch shrugged. “He’s a friend of my dad’s from back in their college days. Every five years he invites all the med school buddies to come to his house and bring their families. Mostly it just ends up being the guys . . . the women get bored and stay home, like my mom and sister are doing.”

“So you mean that Jeremy guy - - what was his name - - ?”

“Jeremy Eckert,” Hutch supplied, thinking of his father’s friend who’d once mistakenly received a letter intended for him.

“Yeah. You mean he’s gonna be there too?”

“Probably. And his son Mitchell. I know most of these guys by name and some I’ve met once or twice when I was a kid. The only ones I really know are Dunner and his sons, and that’s because we grew up together. Most are strangers.”

“So you’ve never been to one of these retreat things before?” Starsky asked.

Hutch frowned. For a moment he looked uncertain, vaguely disturbed. The hesitation vanished as quickly as it came. “Once. I think I was ten, but it was so long ago, I barely remember. I didn’t have a choice then, and after that . . . well, my dad and I just didn’t communicate too well. He stopped taking me. When I was old enough to make up my own mind, I didn’t want to go . . . uh, not that I was ever invited again.”

Starsky was silent, watching the scenery roll by as he digested the information. No wonder Hutch was so nervous. “So, um . . . this is a pretty big deal for you? I mean the fact the old man invited you?” Maybe not the brightest move, puttin’ his cop kid in with a bunch of overly critical doctors. Grant Hutchinson, renowned physician and often arrogant, status-conscious fool, was enough for anyone to deal with, let alone a son who grew defensive and insecure with the flip of a switch.

“Yeah.” Hutch sounded uneasy again. It was no wonder, given the circumstances. He would be under the scrutiny of his father’s long-time closest friends, all who shared a profession he’d abandoned. Sorta like their own little club with him bein’ the outsider. No wonder he didn’t wanna go alone. Given that Hutch’s footing with his father was unstable at best, it put him in a doubly precarious position - - navigating his awkward relationship with Grant while trying to measure up under the harsh dissection of his friends.

So why had Grant invited him? He had to know Hutch didn’t exactly fit in. Was it Grant’s attempt to show he’d accepted Hutch’s career . . . that he wasn’t ashamed of his police sergeant son mingling with his peers, or was it just Grant wanting to rub Hutch’s nose in what he’d given up?

He wouldn’t do that. Not after the way they parted the last time. I gotta believe the old goat’s changin’, and he ain’t settin’ his kid up for a fall.

Starsky hand’s tightened on the steering wheel. If Grant had made the invitation maliciously, with the intent of embarrassing his son, Starsky vowed he wouldn’t be held responsible for his actions. I’ll deck the puffed-up S.O.B. and anyone else who gets in my way. Hutch was hurting enough as it was. He’d suffered through a traumatic ordeal and didn’t need the added emotional upheaval of rejection.

He tried to shift gears before his friend sank further into what appeared to be increasing depression. Obviously Hutch was having the same thoughts he was, fearing there was something underhanded in Grant’s invitation. Starsky grasped the first thing he could think of to snap Hutch from his mood. “So . . . Bentley . . . he must have a pretty huge place, huh?”

Hutch blinked as if jarred back to the present. The medication clearly wasn’t helping. Combined with the lolling ride of the car and his introspective mood, it served to make his eyes heavy.

Reaching across the seat, Starsky rubbed his knee. “Why don’t you take a nap, babe? We got another hour of drivin’ ahead of us. I can follow the map just as easily as you can.”

“No . . . um . . . I’m okay.” Hutch sat up straighter in an attempt to shake off the fog. Clearing his throat, he laced a hand through his hair and cranked the window down a little further. Sunlight danced on the hood of the car, splattering leafed patterns against the glossy black paint. The further they drove north, the thicker the woods became, broken every few hundred feet by sprawling outcroppings of jagged stone and large boulders.

“Bentley has an estate that overlooks the Lake,” Hutch explained in an effort to refocus his thoughts.

“You mean Superior?”

“Yeah. Although around here everyone just calls it ‘the Lake.’ If you grew up in Minnesota, it’s the only lake that matters - - too cold most of the year for swimming, and the winds can get really rough at times. I’ve seen it after a storm when eight foot waves hit the shore. It’s not very forgiving. You’ve got to respect the Lake, know when it’s too dangerous. Jack and I used to go swimming in late August, about the only time you could tolerate the water. I wouldn’t even think about getting in it now. It’s taken a turn to the cold.”

Starsky grinned, shooting him a stray glance. “ ‘Taken a turn to the cold?’ Is that some kind of local expression? You’re goin’ Midwestern on me, Hutch.”

Hutch chuckled. “I guess it doesn’t go away, even after all those years in Bay City.” He shifted, looking a little more at ease. “You’ll like Bentley’s place . . . I think. Impressive as hell from what I can remember, but I was 10 the last time I was here. I remember it being huge, tucked up in the trees with the Lake spread out below. I, um . . .” He stopped suddenly, bewilderment creasing his brow. “ . . . seem to remember . . .” His voice funneled away in a strange reflective whisper. Absently, he rubbed his left wrist.

“What?” Starsky prodded.

Hutch jerked, shooting him a startled glance. “Huh?”

“What do you remember?” Starsky persisted, puzzled by his strange distraction.

“Oh.” Hutch shook his head. “I-I don’t know. I guess I don’t remember much of anything.” He frowned. “It was so long ago.” Quickly shifting gears, he flashed a shy smile. “Starsk, I’m really glad you came. I didn’t want to do this alone.” Unconsciously, he continued rubbing his wrist.

“Stop that,” Starsky said.

“What?”

“Your wrist.” Starsky nodded his head to indicate the nervous action. “It ain’t gonna help it heal any quicker . . . probably just make it worse, so cut it out. And all I gotta say about you draggin’ me up here is I better not be bored outta my skull listenin’ to alotta hokey medical theory and borin’ shit like that.”

“We can always cut out the back, partner,” Hutch suggested with a grin.

It sounded like a plan to Starsky who worried he was in over his head. A long weekend with a moody, insecure friend, a less than demonstrative doctor masquerading as a father, and a catty group of physicians who were probably going to talk golf scores, European vacations and nurse’s legs, and not necessarily in that order. Nope - - he wasn’t being judgmental, just realistic. Unfortunately those were the problems that went along with having an uppercrust doctor’s son as your best friend and partner. Hutch had been an over-achiever all his life, perfection-driven to a fault. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be on the defensive the entire time they were at Bentley’s estate, trying to measure up to his father’s snooty friends. Putting Hutch in the middle of all those status-oriented doctors was a little like throwing a rabbit to the wolves.

Starsky’s hands tightened on the steering wheel and he grinned wickedly.

Or in Hutch’s case . . . setting the wolf loose on the rabbits.

+++++

Hutch dozed lightly, his head resting against the seat. The long drive, combined with the pain pills, had finally taken a toll, sapping his energy. His side didn’t hurt much if he didn’t move around, though the tension in his shoulders and back wouldn’t go away. He was too wound up to really sleep, worried over seeing his father again. The invitation to Bentley’s estate had left him confused from the moment Grant phoned him. In the past, his father would have shied away from parading his police-sergeant son in front of his overly critical friends. But Dunner, Jeremy Eckert, and some of the others would have their sons there. Was that why he’d been invited . . . so Grant wouldn’t feel left out? Or did his father simply want to put him under a microscope, embarrass and humiliate him, hoping he’d realize what a mistake he’d made when he’d walked away from the medical profession?

He wouldn’t do that to me.

Grant had sounded sincere on the phone, but it was hard to tell. All his life, Hutch had been reading hidden meanings into everything his father said.

“I can’t say I’m happy with your decision.” (Translation: “You’ve let me down, failed completely.”)

“I really wish you’d given medical school a chance.” (“You humiliated me by leaving.”)

“I’m worried your career is too dangerous.” (“I’m ashamed to admit my son is a cop.”)

“Are you still writing music?” (“You’re wasting your time. You’ve got no talent.”)

Disturbed, Hutch dragged a hand over his face. He knew he was overreacting . . . had overreacted most of his adult life. His father loved him. Maybe they didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but he’d never meant the things Hutch had secretly read into their conversations. Part of the reason they’d been at odds so long was his own stubbornness in refusing to listen to what his father was really saying.

“Hey, look at that!” Starsky’s voice drew his head up from the seat.

He blinked groggily, trying to focus. A sprawling stone home, offset with two circular towers, catwalks, lavish balconies and a gated drive could just be glimpsed high on a hillside, tucked between sheltering pockets of hemlock, aspen and fir. As impressive as the home was, Starsky’s attention was diverted elsewhere, riveted to the base of the craggy hillside where the land had been mostly cleared of timber. Several large gray tents, each gaily adorned with yellow ribbons and flags, streamers snapping from their peaks in the breeze, dotted sloping knolls. Four brightly colored poles had been erected mid field, draped with a crisscrossing mesh of filmy material to resemble clouds. Nearby, a group of people dressed in monk-like hooded gray robes passed out pinwheels and bags of candy to waiting children.

The area was crowded, bustling with adults and children alike, all weaving between the tents, two pavilions, a handful of foodstands and a small assortment of amusement rides. Hutch saw a carousel, its wooden horses painted with lightning bolts, crescent moons and frolicking streamers of wind. Far in the background, a Ferris wheel jutted against the sky, lemon-bright seats adorned with giddy swirls of sapphire and silver. A dozen lightning rods protruded from the ground close by, each gleaming with the sun-heated kiss of molded plastic.

Not metal. Not any more. Hutch rubbed his wrist.

Further away, a grassy patch acted as a makeshift parking lot, cars neatly lined in a middling attempt at order.

Braking, Starsky slowed to a crawl. “What is that?” he asked.

Hutch felt goosebumps prickle the hair on the back of his neck. “It’s . . . a Storm Festival.”

Starsky came to a complete stop on the narrow roadway, swiveling his head to look at Hutch. “A what?”

“A Storm Festival.” Nervous without understanding why, Hutch wet his lips. He’d forgotten about the annual carnival, coordinated through a traveling circus group and the nearest volunteer fire department. Bentley had allowed them the use of his land for decades now, even clearing a section of timber, his way of ensuring he was his town’s prime beneficiary and permanent darling of the local media. Something that was already starting to pay off according to Grant, as Bentley had announced a bid for Congressional office a few weeks ago.

“I, um . . . told you there were a lot of storms on the Lake - - shipwrecks, too,” Hutch said, still strangely uneasy. “Look what happened to the Edmund Fitzgerald. The Festival’s sort of an affirmation of where we live . . . a reminder to respect Superior.” His mood changed abruptly, crashing without warning. Irritated, he rubbed his wrist. “I don’t know, Starsk,” he snapped a little too hotly. “It’s just a stupid local thing.”

“Hey . . .” Starsky scowled. “No reason to get huffy about it. I know you’re pissy ‘cuz you’re about to meet your dad and all, but - -”

“Sorry.” Grimacing, Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose. Raising his head, he looked up through the trees to the mammoth stone home on its rocky hillside. A gated drive lay just ahead on the right. Further in the background, Superior winked faintly through the pines, a broken ribbon of Wedgwood blue, crystal and smoke. “It’s almost four o’clock. How about we head up to Bentley’s place? I’m sure my dad’s wondering where we are after that delay in St. Paul.”

“Okay.” Starsky eased off the brake with a lingering glance for the Festival. “I wouldn’t mind comin’ back down here later, checkin’ things out,” he commented neutrally. “Might be a good diversion with all that doc talk zingin’ around up at the house. How ‘bout it?”

“Sure . . . why not?” Hutch kept his glance straight ahead, uncertain why he suddenly felt so frazzled. Was it simply the fear of seeing his father again . . . not knowing how to approach Grant, especially in front of virtual strangers?

At the entrance to the drive, Starsky stopped long enough to lean out the window and press the guest buzzer for the house. Seconds later the gates swung open with a hiss of hydraulics. “Look at that,” he quipped. “We’re off to see the wizard.”

Still uneasy, Hutch didn’t comment. The home was just as imposing as he remembered, reached via a snaking driveway flanked by ornate gas lamps. Circular towers added contemporary design and architectural appeal to the east and west sides, each turret crowned with a glass-enclosed room and gracefully curving catwalk. The entrance was massive, recessed beneath a stone archway, dominated by a double set of hand hewn maple doors. A marble fountain, stamped concrete walkways, ornamental landscaping, and strategic ground lighting blended in pristine symmetry.

Starsky gave a low whistle. “This is worse than your dad’s place. What is it with you rich guys, always tryin’ to outdo each other?”

Hutch frowned in his direction. “I’m not rich.”

“Your dad is. Same difference.” Popping the door handle, he got out and stretched his legs. “Come on, Blondie. Let’s get the reunion over with.”

Hutch moved more slowly, bowed under from growing apprehension and the fact his side had stiffened over the long ride. He could feel his stitches pull beneath the bandage as he straightened and leaned against the car. As much as he was hoping for a new beginning with his father, he suddenly desperately wanted to be back in Bay City. He’d made a mistake. He was out of his element here. Worse, he’d dragged Starsky into the mess right along with him.

“So let’s go!” Clapping his hands together, Starsky appeared at his side with a breezy smile. His bouncy energy should have been contagious, but Hutch was still stuck in a listless narcotic haze.

Obviously his friend was determined to see him through his awkward initial meeting with Grant. How hard could it be to shake hands and say “Hi, Dad?” Wincing a little as he stepped away from the car, Hutch gave a marginal nod. Too late to back out now. “ Okay.”

He led Starsky up the steps, trying not to think about the prickling pain in his side. Maybe it hadn’t been the brightest move - - flying halfway across the country so soon after getting knifed below the ribs. And almost sawed in half.

Grimacing, he shoved the thought out of his head and pressed the doorbell. It played some kind of archaic melody, staunchly medieval and imposing in tone. Within seconds a dour-faced man appeared in the doorway, smartly dressed in a fitted black suit with starched white shirt and crisp bow tie. “May I help you?”

“Ken Hutchinson and David Starsky.” Hutch wasn’t sure where his cool reserve came from, but the sight of an honest-to-goodness butler immediately instilled the stiff protocol of his upbringing. “We’ve been invited by Dr. Crest for the weekend. I believe you’ll find he’s expecting us.”

“Of course.” Stepping aside, the man held the door while they entered. “I’m Clayton, gentlemen - - Dr. Crest’s steward. If you’ll please follow me. The other guests are already gathered in the drawing room.”

Starsky gave a soft snort, his sneakers whisking across a polished Italian marble floor as they followed behind the stiffly-postured Clayton. “Didja hear that . . . the drawin’ room. Probably fit my whole freakin’ apartment inside it, judgin’ by the size of this godawful foyer.”

Despite his nervousness, Hutch cracked a smile. Leave it to his bluntly down-to-earth friend to put things in perspective. Hutch had to admit the foyer was obviously designed to be ostentatious with its sweeping curved staircase, black-flecked marble floor and mammoth lead crystal chandelier. The walls were papered in antique gold, crowned with oversized cherry molding and corner inlays. An ornately scrolled black iron banister forded the staircase, extending to include an exposed overlook above. Classical marble statues, an indoor corner fountain and gilt-framed watercolors added accent to the predominately black and gold furnishings. Hutch could have easily fit his entire living room, kitchen and bedroom into the obscenely-sized foyer.

Tilting his head closer to Starsky, he lowered his voice. “It’s all about first impressions, Starsk. The foyer’s got to make a statement, because it’s the first thing guests see.”

“How ‘bout gaggin’ me on an overdose of gold and black? Maybe I should puke up breakfast, just to add some real color.”

“Starsky,” Hutch warned, but not without a trace of humor.

“Ken Hutchinson and David Starsky,” Clayton announced as he lead them into the drawing room.

Hutch instantly forgot everything else. Stepping through the double door entry was like stepping under a spotlight. Ten heads immediately swiveled in his direction, a host of curious eyes raking him in a quick, appraising gaze. He could almost feel each man sizing him up, swiftly and quietly cataloging their instant impression - - his hair was too long . . . he looked nothing like his raven-haired father . . . it was no wonder he’d dropped out of med school . . . he obviously didn’t have what it took to cut it as a doctor, and so on.

In the middle of that stilted awkwardness, he made eye contact with his father across the room.

Smiling, Grant strode toward him, extending a hand. “Ken . . . I was getting worried you missed your plane.”

Hutch reacted instinctively, lifting his hand, stiffly catching his father’s fingers in his. “We got hung up flying out of St. Paul.” A tentative smile lifted the corner of his mouth. Before he could say another word Grant tugged him forward against his chest, still holding onto his hand, and slipped an arm behind his neck. Shocked by the sudden embrace, Hutch tensed. He could recall only two other times when his father had hugged him, both recent - - once after the incident on King Island, another time just a few short months ago when he and Starsky had visited Duluth and he’d ended up with a metal rod through his leg. Certainly his father had never - - ever - - hugged him in public and especially not in front of professional colleagues.

It took him a moment to respond. Dazed, he simply clung, closing his eyes and savoring what had once been an impossibility between them. He’d been so panicked by the thought of this meeting. In all the stomach-twisting ways he’d imagined it, he’d never envisioned it like this. Seconds passed and still he didn’t let go, the room and Bentley’s staring guests momentarily forgotten.

“Still didn’t get this cut, I see.” He felt Grant’s hand ruffle his hair. His father drew back slightly, unwillingly to release him completely. He grinned affectionately. “It’s really good to see you, Ken.” The smile dimmed a bit as his eyes dropped to the bruise on Hutch’s cheek. “What happened to your face?”

“What?” Still baffled by his greeting, it took Hutch a moment to catch up. “Oh . . . that.” He gave a sheepish shake of his head, disentangling himself to step back and brush a hand over the discoloration. “Nothing major. Just a little disagreement in an alley.” His face grew warm as he realized he was the center of attention for the room once again. His father’s greeting had shocked not only him, but clearly had the same staggering effect on Grant’s colleagues as well. Like Hutch, they were accustomed to a fanatically proper and coolly detached Dr. Hutchinson.

Starsky cleared his throat, holding out his hand. “Hiya, Doc. How’ya been?”

Hutch breathed a sigh of relief, thankful Starsky intervened before Grant could question him further about the bruise. He scanned the room briefly, noting some of the faces now turned away in vain boredom to sip at highballs and brandy.

Like the foyer, the drawing room was ornate, furnished with heavy leather sofas, walnut tables and plush olive carpeting. A large fireplace, towering windows, inverted white tray ceiling and a baby grand piano added lavish accent to the two-story room. Bold splashes of burgundy, navy and pine blended with deeper gold and champagne for a distinctly masculine ambiance. It worked well, considering there wasn’t a single female in the room.

A small buffet table had been set near the fireplace, its linen-covered surface artfully arranged with platters of hors d’oeuvres. Mini tarts, cocktail shrimp, cherry tomatoes stuffed with smoked chicken and horseradish mousse, parmesan artichoke hearts and a host of other puff pastries and delicacies Hutch could only guess at, decorated lavish silver trays. Nearby, a corner bar was well stocked with everything from smooth scotch whiskey to brandy and dessert liquors.

“Let me introduce you to the group,” Grant said, motioning Hutch and his partner into the room.

“A moment, please.” Clayton interrupted pleasantly. “I’ll take the gentlemen’s coats and have their luggage brought in from their car.” Extending his hand, he addressed Hutch directly. “Your coat, Sir?”

“Oh.” Hutch started to shrug out of his jacket, noting Starsky was halfway out of his when he remembered the Magnum strapped under his arm. His father’s greeting was one matter, but he really didn’t think Grant would appreciate the fact he’d showed up armed.

So I don’t feel like getting knifed and strapped down on a saw table again. Can I help it if I want a little extra firepower to make sure that doesn’t happen?

“Uh . . . maybe I’ll just hang onto it.”

Grant looked at him strangely. “Ken, don’t be ridiculous. You’re inside . . . sit down and get comfortable. We’ll be eating dinner soon.”

Starsky had already handed over his windbreaker. Those who’d been disinterested just moments before were now mildly intrigued again. Hutch felt several gazes wander back in his direction.

“Um . . .” he made a half-hearted attempt to keep his coat, knowing he was on the spot. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Someone sighed loudly from across the room. “Clayton, do take Kenny’s jacket before he decides to make it part of a permanent fashion statement.”

Friggin’ Roger Dunner. Rankled by the slightly nasal, moderately bored tone, Hutch pressed his mouth in a tight line. He’d been measured against Roger Dunner most his life - - a self-centered, spoiled brat who’d never outgrown that phase of his childhood. He might be a successful physician, but he was still clearly an arrogant, selfish clod.

“Fine. Here you go, Clayton.” Irked, Hutch pulled his jacket down a little too briskly, inwardly wincing when pain flared in his side. The reaction in the room at the sight of the Magnum beneath his arm was almost priceless . . . definitely worth the aggravation of being put on display.

Roger choked on his drink, dribbling alcohol down his chin. A few people he didn’t know openly stared, and the man he vaguely remembered as Bentley Crest frowned in annoyance. Clayton froze in mid reach, his hand extended for the jacket, uncertain what to do. Hutch settled it for him by thrusting the garment over his arm. Warily, he glanced at his father, Grant’s reaction the only one he was concerned about.

His father’s expression was unreadable.

“Grant, when you told us your son was a police officer, we didn’t expect him to show up with his own personal arsenal,” Bentley commented mildly.

Hutch opened his mouth to make some excuse - - he owed his father that much - - but Starsky beat him to it.

“He provided security on the flight from LAX . . . just didn’t get a chance to unload the hardware yet, that’s all.”

Roger had recovered enough to look affronted. “I thought they have Air Marshals for that?”

“Not enough,” Starsky shot back quickly. Strolling closer, he picked up a napkin from the buffet table and waggled it beneath Roger’s nose. “Made a mess with your drink, pal. Better sop up your dribble.”

Flustered, Roger scrambled for the napkin. Appreciating the diversion and the way Starsky had taken his long-time nemesis down a peg, Hutch looked at Grant. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, so only his father heard. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” Grant’s expression was still unreadable, his voice neutral.

Great! I fucked it up! I get the greeting of a lifetime from my father, and I gotta shoot it all to hell by showing up with my gun.

He tried to remain amiable as introductions were made. Jeremy Eckert, his father’s closest friend, had flown in from Dorchester along with his twenty-three year old son, Mitchell, who attended medical school in Baltimore. Nathan Dunner, a man Hutch had known since he was a child, had brought all three of his physician sons, Reece, Roger and Richard, ranging in age from thirty-five to twenty-eight. Franklin Lane, whom Hutch only knew by reputation, had come with his optometrist son, Casey, a thirty-two year old with copper-colored hair, a retiring manner and twenty pounds of excess body weight.

Bentley Crest was older than Hutch remembered, an imposing man with brown hair generously filtered by gray. He had an easy smile and an engaging personality when relaxed, well suited to someone running for public office. “My wife took her sister and headed to Florida for the week,” he explained to Hutch after the introductions were made. “Can’t say as I blame her not wanting to be cooped up with a bunch of stuffy men talking shop. You probably don’t remember me, but you were here once. Your father brought you when you were just a little kid. About eight-years-old, I think.”

“Ten,” Hutch corrected. He grew uneasy, once again unable to explain the strange reactionary twinge in his gut. Absently he rubbed his left wrist. “I remember the house - - sort of. The towers and the Storm Festival.”

Bentley snorted. “You mean our local splash of culture? I think we can find something more suitable to hold your interest besides carnival games and shenanigans, Kenneth. Do you play pool? Or maybe darts?”

“He was collegiate dart champion,” Starsky said swiftly at his side.

“That’s more like it.” Bentley grinned and slapped Hutch on the back. “Now how about a drink? I’ve got everything and anything - - just name your poison.” Strolling behind the bar, he plunked a heavy crystal glass on top.

Hutch wet his lips, painfully aware his father was watching him. “Gin and tonic.”

Bentley whistled as he mixed the drink, asking Starsky for his choice as well. When he finished with Hutch’s, he poured Starsky a rum and Coke, his eyes straying to Hutch’s Magnum. “Do you really use that thing?” He nodded toward the gun. “I know you’re a cop, but it looks like a small cannon. I guess you have to be extra showy on the streets, is that it? Adopt an in-your-face-attitude to keep the criminals at bay.”

“I - -” Hutch got no further.

“He’s a Detective Sergeant,” his father snapped a little too tightly, appearing suddenly at his side. “ - - working one of the worst criminal districts in a major city. What do you expect him to carry? A pocket knife?”

Hutch blinked, shocked by the rebuff and the fact his father had gotten his rank right. “Dad - -”

At his side, Starsky muffled a grin behind his hand. “Actually we got one of those too. Keep it in the glove box of my Torino . . . never know when it’ll come in handy.”

“Your what?” Richard Dunner asked from the sofa.

Starsky turned around. Unlike his older brother Roger, Richard didn’t appear to take himself too seriously. “My car,” Starsky explained. Warming to the subject, he slid into a chair across from the youngest Dunner brother. “You’d have to see it to appreciate it - - mint condition, candy apple red with a custom white stripe, mag tires and chrome wheels. She’s a beaut.”

“She’s a gaudy eyesore,” Hutch said automatically.

Starsky waved a dismissive hand over his back. “He’s just jealous. Don’t listen to Blondie. I’d trust him with my life, but his taste in cars is seriously out of whack.”

Jeremy Eckert chuckled. “Blondie?”

Hutch colored. “Starsky’s pretty liberal with his descriptions.”

“Well, seeing you’ve never looked anything like your father,” Nathan commented mildly from his seat near the window, “I’d have to agree with that one.”

Grant frowned again, deeply this time, leaving Hutch unsure of his mood. Is he mad at me or mad at Nathan? Mad because I really don’t look like him, or mad because it’s just one more example of how diametrically opposite we are? For most of Hutch’s life, Nathan Dunner had taken immense pleasure in pointing out how very different he looked from the rest of his raven-haired family. (“You know what they say about blonds, Grant,” he’d once overheard Nathan tell his father. “They’re not very bright. Don’t be too hard on the boy if he doesn’t do well in school. Maybe you should start thinking about other alternatives for him now - - steer him toward a trade or something practical.”).

Starsky took a swig of his drink. “Maybe Hutch don’t got black hair or a mustache, but I’d say he’s the spittin’ image of Doc Hutchinson otherwise. Same blue eyes and profile - - and they’re both irritatin’ and stubborn as hell. See, unlike all the rest of you gents, I’ve butted heads with both of ‘em.” Setting his glass down, he grinned over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Doc?”

Hutch was surprised to see a twinkle of amusement in his father’s eyes. “Entirely, David. Hopefully you and I can get through this weekend on fairly agreeable terms.”

“I’ll do my best,” Starsky promised. Turning back to Richard, he leaned forward as if sensing a kindred soul. “You remember the original ‘Vette when it was new off the block? Now that was a car . . .”

Tired, Hutch listed into the bar, aware of his friend’s voice droning steadily in the background. It suddenly occurred to him that mixing alcohol with pain pills wasn’t the brightest thing he’d ever done. He shoved the glass away before he found himself tempted to finish the drink. The sleeve of his shirt jerked backward with the movement, exposing the heavy gauze bandage on his wrist.

Grant caught his arm before he could withdraw, turning his hand to inspect the padding. “What happened here?” His eyes flashed to Hutch’s other arm, noting the outer edge of a similar white bandage visible just beneath the cuff.

Hutch resisted the urge to tug free, knowing he didn’t have a quick-fix answer. “Not now, Dad.” He dropped his voice, aware of Bentley hovering in the background. “ . . . please.”

Grant released him, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Sensing the mood in the room had changed, Bentley focused on the two people responsible for the shift. “Ken, why don’t you and your friend take a moment to freshen up before dinner? You’ve had a long flight, and I’m sure you want to get comfortable. We still have over an hour before the staff will have things ready in the Circular dining room. I’ll have Clayton show you to a room. I hope you don’t mind sharing? The house only has eight guestrooms.”

“Imagine that,” Starsky muttered as he wandered over beside Hutch. “We’re staying in a virtual hovel.”

Thankful for his partner’s grounded sense of humor, Hutch resisted the urge to touch him. The only person who felt real to him in the stuffy room was Starsky. He’d made a mess of things by wearing his gun, blatantly announcing he was a cop. He’d pretty much shouted the fact he didn’t belong in his father’s world. Between the drugs he’d taken, the gnawing pain in his side, and the growing knots of tension contorting his back and shoulders, he wondered why he’d bothered to come in the first place. “We’ll be fine,” he told Bentley with a forced smile. “We’re partners. We’re used to sharing.”

Five minutes later, Clayton showed them to a mammoth room paneled with cherry wainscoting. The upper half of the walls were papered in a decorative striped pattern of green, rust and gold, offsetting plush cocoa colored carpeting, two queen-sized beds and a brick fireplace. The adjoining bath had a raised whirlpool tub, sit down shower and a double vanity with a full wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. A private balcony overlooked the rear grounds, affording a view of Lake Superior in the distance.

Starsky parted with another whistle, proclaiming the hovel had been upgraded to a marginally acceptable shack. They found their luggage already delivered and unpacked, everything neatly folded, put away in drawers or hung in closets.

Yawning, Hutch popped the straps on his shoulder harness and shrugged free of the Magnum. Winding the cords around the holstered weapon, he shoved it in the top drawer of the nightstand. “I really blew it, Starsk.” With little else to do, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed, grateful for the cushioning embrace of the mattress against his tightly corded shoulders and back. “I can’t believe I screwed up like that.”

“What - - you mean your Joe Cop performance?” Ever attuned to what his partner was thinking, he sat on the edge of the bed. “It wasn’t that bad, Hutch. So everyone got a little freaked and Roger did a dribble-glass impersonation.” He grinned. “That part was kinda cool, huh?”

Hutch chuckled, remembering how Starsky had thrust a napkin under his childhood nemesis’ chin. “Okay, maybe that was worth it,” he admitted. “I haven’t seen that twerp in over eight years and time’s done absolutely nothing to improve my opinion of him. It’s just my dad, you know?” He sighed, not sure Starsky would understand. His gaze tracked to the side, hesitant and abruptly reserved. “Did you, um . . . did you see the way he - -”

“ - - greeted you?” Starsky finished for him. Smiling, he fingered a strand of white-gold hair, brushing it behind Hutch’s ear. “Yeah, buddy, I saw. Pretty special, I guess.”

Hutch closed his eyes. He felt like an idiot getting so worked up over a simple hug. But it wasn’t simple - - not coming from his properly constrained, icily aloof father. “I blew it,” he muttered miserably. “If there was anything special, it’s gone now. He’s got to be furious I showed up wearing a gun in front of his friends. What the hell was I thinking, Starsk?”

“Don’t know, babe.” Starsky’s hand dropped to his shoulder, rubbing gently. “What were you thinking?”

He couldn’t answer. How did he tell his friend he was still terrified over what Dan DeGree had done to him? Sometimes the grisly memories flooded back in a rush, so fierce his head felt like it would explode. He remembered coming home after an overly long 3PM to midnight shift, unaware DeGree’s thugs waited inside his apartment. They’d jumped him the moment he was in the door, beating him unconscious, kicking him in the ribs until the pain pummeled him into black submission.

His next coherent memory was opening his eyes to a massive gridwork of iron suspended above his head. He’d become aware of several things at once - - the bite of imprisoning steel on his wrists, a cold press of metal against his back and legs, the overpowering smell of cut lumber and the astringent reek of industrial oil. A gritty cloth was stuffed in his mouth, held in place by another thicker strip, securely tied behind his head. The restraints terrified him, but the gag made him panic. He sucked air through his nose, startled when a deafening whirring noise set the metal vibrating beneath him.

Lifting his head, he found himself shackled to a table, his legs spread apart and anchored on either side of an enormous commercial saw. The whirring stopped and suddenly DeGree appeared from nowhere, his leering face thrust close to Hutch’s own.

“You see that saw, Hutchinson? You hear the sound it made? I’m gonna cut you in pieces - - pieces, pig! That blade’s gonna rip you open like so much diced meat. When I’m done guttin’ you, they’re gonna have to hose your blood off the walls.” A maniacal grin spread across his face, the rabid fire of bloodlust pulsing in his close-set eyes. “I’m gonna do you a little bit at a time, cop. First I’ll cut up your balls, then your gut. When I’m done there, I’m gonna flay open your chest. Eventually I’ll get to that pretty glamour-boy face of yours. ‘Course by then you won’t got any lungs left to scream.” A hand fisted roughly in his hair. “Looks like you pissed off the boss . . . got on the wrong side of Mr. Bigshot, huh? Just so you know it ain’t all about him, I wanna give you sumthin’ for my brother. Make sure you understand why you’re here.”

DeGree leaned forward, pressing against him almost intimately. Hutch grunted behind the gag, shaken by a jolting hot-cold intrusion of metal beneath his ribs. In another second DeGree’s knife blundered free and the room went into a reeling tailspin. He could smell the hot coppery scent of blood pumping from his side, feel his consciousness waning with each gory gush and flow. DeGree slapped him hard, demanding he stay awake for his own gruesome execution. The whirring started again, and suddenly the dizzying pain and blood were insignificant. All that mattered was the trajectory of the deadly saw, inching ever closer to his groin.

Dragged back to the present, Hutch groaned. Shaken, he rolled onto his side, away from Starsky.

Behind him, he felt his friend tense.

“What’sa matter?”

“Nothing.” His voice wavered, entirely too thin and strained.

Starsky sighed. “Ain’t buyin’ it, Hutch.” He shifted, angling to sit more comfortably, giving a gentle prod to the middle of Hutch’s back. “Roll onto your stomach and let me work some of these knots from your back. Geez, buddy . . . you got freakin’ dinosaur eggs back here.”

Hutch hesitated, about to protest when he felt Starsky’s hands slide onto his shoulders. The touch was warm, achingly familiar. After everything he’d been through recently he didn’t feel like arguing over something he desperately craved. In another frame of mind, pride might have kept him resistant, but he wanted the touch of his partner . . . needed Starsky’s attentive care to chase away all the idiotic blunders and mistakes he’d made.

With a deep-throated groan he rolled onto his stomach, thrusting his arms under a plump pillow, turning his face toward Starsky and letting his eyes drift close. His stitches protested the full-body stretch, but the pain was marginal, well worth the trade-off of having Starsky knead his tension-stiffened shoulders and upper back.

“How’s your side?” Starsky asked, worried.

“ ‘M okay,” Hutch mumbled drowsily. Two pain pills and most of a gin and tonic combined with Starsky’s skillful hands turned him abruptly sleepy. “Mmm, Starsk . . . that feels good.”

He heard a soft chuckle. “After all this time, I think I know what you like, Blondie. You’re gonna have to ease up though, if you wanna survive this weekend. I say we head down to that carnival tonight and take a break from all this stodgy doctorin’ and social-status shit. You can even strap that mini-cannon under your arm if you want.”

Hutch tensed.

“Blintz, you listenin’ to me?”

He tried to refocus on the massage, but something Starsky had said made him suddenly uneasy. The frustrating part was not being able to put his finger on why he abruptly felt so disturbed. “Um . . .”

Starsky leaned closer, smoothing a hand through his hair. “ ‘Um’ ain’t an answer, Hutch.”

He flicked a gaze up at his friend and saw Starsky grin. “Okay.”

There was a knock on the door followed almost immediately by Grant’s voice. “Ken?”

“Come on in, Doc,” Starsky called before Hutch - - still functioning below par - - could formulate a single word. He made an aborted effort to get up, but Starsky shoved him down, continuing to work on his shoulders.

“Stay put,” his friend ordered. “You ain’t even close to bein’ relaxed.”

Hutch winced, uncertain how he felt about his father finding Starsky massaging his back. At least he had his shirt on, but it still felt a little awkward, most people failing miserably when it came to understanding his relationship with his partner. He couldn’t help tensing even as his friend worked at easing the knots in his shoulder blades.

Grant walked into the room, hovering just off the side of the bed. Frowning, he looked at Starsky. “Is something wrong?”

“Your kid’s just tense,” Starsky returned without glancing up. “He’s got a bad habit of lettin’ it go to his shoulders and back . . . gets knotted up like a board.”

“Starsk - -”

“What’s got him so tense?”

“Dad - -”

“Dunno. Could have something to do with that scene downstairs.”

“Hey!” Irked, Hutch propped himself up on his elbows. “I can speak for myself, you know. Do you two mind not discussing me like I’m not even in the room?”

Starsky arched a brow, his expression inscrutable. He was silent a moment, then shifted his gaze to Grant. “Think I need to use the bathroom. How ‘bout takin’ over?”

Hutch felt a bolt of panic. “Starsky, don’t.” He started to scrabble from the bed, terrified by the thought of his father giving him a massage. It was something that just wouldn’t happen . . . not in a hundred thousand years. Starsky was an ass to even think - -

“Ken, stay still.” Grant’s large hand settled on the back of his head before he could scramble free. “I want to talk to you.”

Shit! Panic became a strangled knot in his throat. Defeated, he sank back into the pillow, turning his face away. He felt the mattress give as Starsky left, then immediately bow under Grant’s weight as his father sat beside him. He closed his eyes, his whole body taut, desperately wanting to sink through the floor.

He’d screwed up . . . brought a gun into the home of his father’s friend. To make matters worse, Starsky had thrust him into a situation he wasn’t prepared to deal with . . . at least not emotionally. Grant’s shockingly affectionate greeting in the drawing room had taken his breath away, but now it felt like they were strangers again. His father was surely pissed at him, hardly in the mood to be giving massages. Just what the hell had Starsky been thinking?

“Dad, I - -”

“Relax, Ken.” Grant’s hands slid onto his shoulders, his touch firm and surprisingly warm. “I’m a doctor. I do know a thing or two about giving a rubdown.”

Just not to your own son, Hutch thought bitterly. He couldn’t relax, worried about the blunder he’d made, feeling awkward and vulnerable beneath his father’s large hands. He still didn’t know why Grant had invited him to begin with. Dragging an arm free of the pillow, he plopped it on top, turning his face into the half-cradle it made. “I’m sorry about the gun,” he blurted. “You’ve got to understand . . . it’s part of who I am.”

“I know that.” Grant’s hands moved down to his shoulder blades, gently kneading, working tired muscle, expertly loosening tendons with pressurized heat. “Why do you always have to read things into what I say - - or don’t say? I thought this weekend would give us a chance to get past that.”

Hutch turned his head, openly staring up at his father. Doubt slackened its hold on his heart. “Surrounded by all your doctor friends and their successful sons?”

Grant grinned faintly, pausing to sweep the bangs from Hutch’s brow. “I wouldn’t exactly call Roger successful given the malpractice suits against him. And you’re reading motive into my actions again, Kenneth. I asked you here to show them I’m proud of you . . . maybe convince you of that too, since you seem so determined to paint me as your enemy.”

Unnerved, Hutch swallowed. Is that what he did? And wasn’t he doing it even now, ridiculously tense and on edge with a man he was supposed to love? Groaning aloud, he buried his face in the pillow. “Sorry, Dad. I was being an ass.”

“Well . . . it’s not like I haven’t given you cause a time or two.” Grant chuckled, moving his hands lower on Hutch’s back. “The gun didn’t bother me, Ken, so much as catching me by surprise. I know you’re a cop, but you’re on vacation. I’m worried about the reason behind it. Just like that bruise on your face. I’m not stupid. Take your wrists for example - - I can only think of one or two reasons why you’d have them bandaged, and since I know you’re not suicidal, that means you were likely restrained against your will.” His hand shifted, drifting closer to Hutch’s side and the edge of the bandage covering the knife wound. “That’s something I’m not comfortable imagining, son.”

Panicked his father would feel the dressing, Hutch pulled away, quickly sitting up and scritching around until his back was against the headboard. “It’s not what you think.”

Grant frowned. “No, it’s probably worse than I think.”

“Dad.”

“Ken.”

Neither said anything for five seconds, each steadily watching the other. In the end it was Hutch who broke eye contact, parting with a soft snort of laughter. “You’re throwing me off here. Was that humor . . . because I’m still getting used to the affection/pride thing. Are you trying to tell me if I go out tonight with Starsky and take my gun, it’s not going to bother you?”

Grant spread his hands. “Like I said . . . it’s your motive I’m concerned about.”

“Okay.” Hutch thought it through. “That’s fair. Can we just say I’m a little edgy right now and leave it at that?”

“Because of something that happened? Something that involves that bruise and the reason your wrists are wrapped?”

Hutch sighed. “You’re going to have to trust me to tell you when I’m ready. I just. . . I can’t . . .” He bit his lip, struggling to explain his hesitation. “I don’t want to talk about it yet.”

Grant clearly didn’t like the answer, but it was also apparent he wasn’t going to press the issue. “Okay.” He slid a hand onto Hutch’s shoulder, gently molding the knob. “We’ll wait until you’re ready. In the meantime . . .” His hand dropped and one eyebrow climbed into his hair, a perfect match for his son’s habitual gesture. “I guess you have dinner in the Circular dining room to look forward to.”

“Is that something like the Emerald City?” Starsky called casually, walking from the bathroom, drying his hands on a plump scarlet towel. “You gotta check out the size of this bathroom, Blintz. I could do laps in the tub.” Grinning, he plopped on the bed beside Hutch, one leg dangling over the side, the other tucked close to his body Indian-style. He butted his shoulder up against his friend. “So . . . you all massaged and relaxed now?”

Hutch took the towel from him, spinning it into a tight corkscrew. “Yeah, Gordo . . . all relaxed.” With a quick snap, he released it against Starsky’s leg, then tossed it into his lap. “How ‘bout we go visit the wolves again?”

“Ken.” Grant slid a hand behind his neck, holding fast, forcing their eyes to meet. “Give them a chance. They might get a little unsettled when someone walks into a room armed, but they’re not a bad group of people.”

+++++

“Bad” didn’t begin to describe Roger Dunner. After an hour of listening to the egotistical M.D. talk about himself, his booming practice, socialite wife and Florida summer home, Starsky came up with a dozen other phrases better suited for the vainly puffed up doctor - - most involving four-letter words and the letter “F.”

The Circular dining room turned out to be the glass-enclosed area at the top of the westside tower. Even Starsky had to admit it was breathtaking, soaring above the home’s intricate roofline and surrounding trees for a spectacular lake view. Superior gleamed raw and untamed in the waning light, crested with the milky tangerine glow of a dying sun. The visible shoreline was ragged and rocky, bulging with tumbled boulders and densely timbered forest.

Bentley’s domestic staff had served up a gourmet dinner, including various appetizers, side dishes and sauces, most of which Starsky couldn’t pronounce. He just knew the filet had been sumptuously tender, the broiled lobster tail the best he’d ever eaten. Deciding to be a little more upscale for dinner, he’d even put on a nice red button shirt to go with his jeans. Hutch, already dressed like a male fashion model, had traded his olive shirt for one of a softer coral hue to offset his tailored black pants.

Despite Roger dominating most of the evening’s discussions, Starsky quickly developed an appreciation for Jeremy Eckert’s sly sense of humor and Richard Dunner’s often bored dismissal of his older brother’s exaggerated accomplishments. By the time dessert arrived, the conversation had predictably veered toward medical techniques.

“I do believe we’re boring Ken and David,” Roger announced languidly, delicately prodding his white chocolate torte after a somewhat lengthy conversation involving chest wounds. “I’m sure they really don’t care about tension pneumothorax, cardiac tamponade or massive hemothorax.”

“That ain’t exactly true,” Starsky countered, dumping two huge spoonfuls of sugar into his delicate china coffee cup. Three swallows and the sissy thing’ll be empty. How practical is that? Roger was getting on his nerves again.

Bored with telling everyone how successful he was, the snotty doctor had apparently decided to shift gears, clearly hoping to lord his superior medical knowledge over Hutch. Starsky’s friend had been mostly quiet through dinner, listening rather than participating in the conversations. Deciding he’d had enough of Roger Dunner and his game of one-upmanship, Starsky plowed ahead.

“As cops we gotta know basic first-aid,” he explained. “Remember - -we’re generally first on the scene. Never know when we’re gonna have to deal with a hype who gets holda some bad junk and ends up chokin’ on his own vomit . . . or some two-bit hood who tries to off the competition, but gets gut-shot instead.”

Appalled, Roger blanched.

“You’d be surprised too, what you can pick up hangin’ around emergency rooms and hospitals. Like that tension pneu-mo-thorax thing,” he pronounced it carefully, unashamed it didn’t roll off his tongue as easily as Roger’s. “Happens from blunt trauma, right? Like a lung collapses ‘cuz of gettin’ stabbed or shot.”

“Starsky - -” Hutch warned softly.

Intrigued, Jeremy Eckert, tilted his head. “That’s correct, David. Increased pressure from a broken rib can do it too. But I’m curious - - why would you be hanging around emergency rooms?”

Starsky laughed. “Been a patient plenty of times. It goes with the job. Plus my partner - -”

Beneath the table Hutch gently squeezed his thigh, warning him to tread carefully - - (don’t let my father know I’ve been hurt).

“ - - my partner has some hazy medical know-how from way back when,” Starsky finished without missing a beat. He felt Hutch’s hand relax in grateful appreciation. “Every once in awhile that still comes out.” Grinning, he shot Hutch a glance from the corner of his eye. He knew his friend had wanted to avoid addressing how often he’d personally ended up a guest of Memorial General . . . including his most recent stay, courtesy of Southside Dan DeGree.

Roger fiddled with his fork. Not one to share the spotlight for long, he’d quickly recovered from Starsky’s crass descriptions of shooting victims and drug users. “I’m surprised Kenny even bothers.” Smiling benignly, he looked directly at Hutch. “Although I can’t say I was surprised when he dropped out of medical school. Very few people have what it takes to tough it out.”

“True.” Pushing his empty dessert plate away, Grant patted his mouth with a crisp linen napkin. “Surprised me too, given he was your class Valedictorian and had several Ivy League colleges fighting for his admission. I guess the fact you actually had to work to be accepted, Roger, probably made you want to stick it out longer . . . prove you could actually accomplish something.” Casually, he set the napkin on the table. “Although wanting that beach house in Florida probably went a long way in motivating you too.”

Hutch looked shocked. “Dad - -”

Starsky muffled a snort of laughter behind his hand, catching a quick grin from Jeremy Eckert and Richard. By contrast, Nathan Dunner tried not to look put out, though it was obvious he was flustered by remarks he hadn’t expected from his long-time friend. “Grant . . . you um . . . you certainly seem to have changed your opinion about Kenneth’s profession. I remember a few years ago - -”

“A few years ago I didn’t listen to anyone’s opinion but my own,” Grant interrupted quickly. Dismissing the matter, he shifted his attention to Bentley, his quick grin nonchalant and diversionary. “Hopefully you’re going to be considerably more open minded, my friend, if you end up in public office.”

Bentley waved the observation aside. “It’s a stepping stone, Grant. Of course I’m going to be open-minded. How else do expect me to waltz through the ranks?”

Across the table, Franklin Lane parted with a low whistle. “So this isn’t a one stop ambition?”

“Why should it be?” Bentley shrugged, taking a sip of his brandy-laced coffee. “I’m a prominent citizen of the area, well-connected, successful. It’s the perfect recipe for political office.”

“You mean your wife is well-connected,” Nathan inserted with a mild chuckle. “Her family owns half the real estate around here, and she’s the prime darling of the country club - - head of how many charitable organizations?”

Bentley shrugged. “Three or four. Who can keep count? It doesn’t matter one way or the other. She can dote on her pet charities - - pass out soup at the abused women’s shelter, volunteer at the free clinic, and visit those poor saps in drug rebah all she wants. What do I care, so long as it helps get me elected?”

He laughed heartily, prompting Nathan and most of the others to join in. At Starsky’s side, Hutch tensed.

“You’re forgetting one thing,” the blond detective said a bit tersely. “Political candidates have a responsibility to truthfully address issues. This isn’t about a popularity contest or who has the most money. It’s about who can do the most good.”

Bentley rolled his eyes and returned to his coffee. “Grant, I think your son is taking his civic responsibilities a little too seriously. Must be what happens when you’re on a municipal payroll.”

Annoyed, Hutch leaned forward. “Maybe because I’ve seen firsthand what happens when politicians don’t care - - when they’re too concerned with shaking hands and passing out cigars to worry about things like violent crime, building violations, environmental hazards and lack of funding for social programs. Maybe you should sit up and pay attention to what your wife is doing. It sounds like she’s got her priorities straight. Maybe she’s the one who should be running for office.”

Bentley frowned, plunking his coffee cup into his saucer. “I don’t need a lecture, young man. And I don’t appreciate your sarcasm.”

Hutch was undeterred. “All I’m saying, Dr. Crest, is political office shouldn’t be a typewritten line on your resume. If you’re sincere, that’s great. But if you’re looking at this like some kind of power-game or feather in your cap - -”

“I think we get the point, Ken.” Smiling a little nervously, Grant held up a hand to stop his son’s tirade. “Aside from which . . .” Patting his stomach with both hands, he stretched in his chair. “That was a wonderful meal, but I feel the need for a cigar. I think I’m going to enjoy it outside on the catwalk. Excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” Jeremy consented. “I’ll join you, Grant.”

One by one, chairs were pushed back as others stood. “Great dinner, Dr. Crest,” Starsky agreed. “We’re just gonna skip out for a while . . .” He tugged on Hutch’s sleeve, forcing him to stand. “ . . . check out that Storm Festival. We don’t got nothin’ like that in Brooklyn . . .” As he spoke he edged Hutch to the nearest archway leading down from the tower. “See you all a bit later,” he ended with a wide smile and parting wave.

Once on the stairs, he gave Hutch a slight push to move him along. “Quiet all night . . .” he grumbled mostly to himself. “Sittin’ there like some kinda backward blond sculpture, lettin’ all that talk fly around your head. I’ll say one thing for you, partner - - when you finally do open your mouth, you sure know how to put your foot in it.”

“Starsky, the guy’s a jerk. A stereotypical politician, more concerned with how he’s going to benefit if he gets elected, than what he can do for the community.”

“Hutch, the guy’s just blowin’ steam . . . showin’ off for his pals. Besides, he’s your host.” He bit his lip, not sure he should venture further, braving it regardless. “And your dad’s friend. You need to loosen up.”

“I know.” Hutch laced a hand through his hair as they reached the bottom of the staircase. He looked slightly winded, a faint sheen of perspiration clinging to his cheeks. “Something about this weekend just rubs me the wrong way. I guess Roger and his constant sniping has me on edge. And Bentley’s just as bad as the rest of them, maybe worse, living off his wife’s name and money. Reminds me of something DeGree said about Mr. Bigshot, right before he - -” He stopped suddenly, his face draining of color.

Starsky zeroed in on his stricken expression. “Hutch?” It was the first he’d heard a reference to anyone other than DeGree being involved in Hutch’s attempted murder.

Disturbed, Hutch looked over his shoulder. “Starsk, I - -” Slumping against the nearest wall, he dragged a hand over his face. “I just remembered something Degree said right before he . . . he stabbed me.” Clearly the memory of the knife slipping beneath his ribs still had the power to unnerve him. “He said I’d pissed somebody off - - called him ‘the boss’ and ‘Mr. Bigshot.’ Said I’d got on his bad side. He made it sound like this guy - - whoever he is - - wanted me dead too.”

“Oh that’s just great!” Agitated, Starsky threw his hands in the air. “That ain’t something to forget about, Hutch.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s just that . . . I’ve been trying to forget the whole thing.” The admission came reluctantly, plainly conveying how troubled he was over the incident. Drawing a quick breath, he straightened and started walking again. “When you made that comment about Bentley, it brought it all back.”

“So this guy . . . you think he’s DeGree’s drug supplier . . . maybe someone you rattled without even knowin’ it?”

“I guess so.” Hutch paused, sending an uncertain sideways glance in his partner’s direction. “Maybe someone we crossed together. Who knows? Let’s think about it later, huh? I need to swing by our room before we go to the festival.”

Starsky was instantly suspicious. “What for?”

“I want my gun. And don’t give me any grief, Starsky. You said you weren’t going to make an issue out of it.”

“Geez, what - - now you’re takin’ notes?” Starsky exhaled, thinking about DeGree and a new shadowy enemy he knew only as “Mr. Bigshot.” Chump name. Sounds like something a loser like DeGree would say. He smiled shakily at Hutch. “Maybe I’ll take mine too - - just so you don’t feel awkward.”

+++++

Grant Hutchinson took a long draw on the slender cigar he’d lit, savoring the mild flavor. Exhaling, he braced both hands on the wrought iron railing of the catwalk, surveying the picturesque vista below. The sun was beginning to set beyond the treeline, tipping the blue-tinged branches of deep-rooted firs with splashes of scarlet and gold. Already he could feel the air temperature dropping, coaxed by a cooling mist from the lake. At the front of the house, he spied the gleaming white crown of his son’s fair hair as Ken and his partner walked toward a black Camaro.

“I guess they’re going down to the Storm Festival,” Jeremy Eckert commented at his side. He puffed on a shorter cigar, thick and robust in flavor. The heavy odor lay in the back of Grant’s throat, reminding him of cocoa beans and chocolate with a slightly woody overtone.

He nodded, inwardly frustrated by the way the evening had progressed. His son had stayed silent when he’d wanted him to speak up . . . then chosen to voice his highly inflammatory opinion when Grant wished he’d refrain.

But - - he smiled tightly - - that’s Ken to a fault.

He’d basically let Roger Dunner talk down to him most of the evening, unwilling to fly off the handle and ruin the weekend for Grant. Yet when Bentley had taken a shot at people less fortunate, seemingly uncaring about their plight, Ken hadn’t thought twice about lashing out at his host. As was his habit, he’d kept his mouth shut, unwilling to make an issue of it when someone insulted him, but not when they insulted someone he felt compassion for.

“Your son is a bit of a surprise,” Jeremy commented mildly, turning his back to lean against the banister and stare openly at Grant. He rolled his plump cigar between the fingers of his right hand. “After all those years of having you reference him in your letters, I expected him to be more . . . I don’t know . . .” He shrugged. “Belligerent? Or maybe ‘cold’ is the better word. I got the impression you two didn’t have much of a relationship, but he seems very responsive to you.”

“I suppose,” Grant agreed thoughtfully. Ken had been responsive - - returning his initial hug with a fierceness that had surprised him, trying to explain his blunder with the gun, even eventually relaxing during Grant’s brief attempt at a massage in the bedroom. It was amazing how he’d changed. How they’d both changed. A year ago he would have blanched at the very idea of hugging his son, yet it had felt instinctively natural the moment he’d seen Ken walk through the door. The mere sight of him had kindled a surprisingly strong rush of emotion. Grant was still trying to sort out exactly what it was he’d felt at that first glimpse of his tall, flaxen-haired son - - pride, love, a bit of nervousness, maybe even a lingering hint of reserve. Ken was no longer the son who rebelled against him, arguing with him at every turn, but a man worthy of respect.

“So are you still disappointed?” Jeremy prodded when he’d been reflective too long.

Puzzled, Grant raised a brow. “About what?”

“About Ken not becoming a doctor.”

“Of course not!” Grant snorted, unable to recall what all the fuss had once been about. Nothing could be further from the truth now. “When I think about it, it’s all very silly . . . doctors, wealth, prestige . . . our own little circle of privilege. I sometimes forget my father was a farmer. He didn’t have a college education, but he was a highly successful and principled man. I used to think the success part soared over Ken’s head and he inherited too much of his grandfather’s principles. Now I realize I’m the one who was always lacking. Ken’s doing what he loves to do, something he feels strongly about - - fighting to protect others. He’s got an exceptional friend and an extremely devoted partner in David. They’re unbelievably protective of one another . . . I’ve seen that side of them in action.”

He paused, taking a savoring pull on his cigar. “No, Jeremy. I’m quite comfortable with Ken doing what he’s doing. I’m proud of him for standing up and making his own decisions - - and achieving so much at a young age. He and David both hold a rank most officers don’t see until much later in their careers. What bothers me is the danger. He won’t tell me when something bad happens to him. I’ve learned he and Starsky have a reputation for sticking their necks on the line, something that frequently makes them targets for criminals out to settle a score. Ken’s had a few scrapes I’m vaguely aware of, and one that was quite severe.” He paused, his mind funneling back to Duluth and a rain-drenched afternoon. He could still hear Starsky bluntly relaying how his partner had been beaten and forcibly addicted to heroin. Grant had been troubled by nightmares for weeks afterward. Even now he occasionally had them, waking in a cold sweat, horrified by the thought of Ken being tortured and abused.

Deliberately, he shook the nightmarish thoughts aside. “It’s a dangerous occupation. God knows, he and I have an unspoken agreement to keep the worst of his experiences from his mother. I’m just afraid something bad has happened recently - - that bruise on his cheek. I’m afraid there’s a lot more involved than he’s telling me.”

“I wondered.” Jeremy pursed his lips, thoughtful for a moment. “I’ve seen him holding his right side when he thinks no one is looking. He favors it sometimes too when he walks. Have you noticed that?”

Grant had noticed. Just like he’d noticed the wrist bandages and the bruise. A fat knot bloomed in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe I’ll stroll down to the Storm Festival,” he muttered.

Jeremy smiled. “I kind of thought you might. By the way - - you were a little hard on Roger Dunner earlier.”

Grant gave a disgusted grunt. “Roger’s an ass. I’m beginning to realize his father is too.”

This time Jeremy laughed out loud. “And I remember the day you used to say ‘I wish Ken were more like Roger.’”

“Okay - - I was an ass. Somebody should have shot me. Thank God Ken had a mind of his own and defied me at every turn. The thought I might’ve ended up with a carbon copy of that nasal-voiced, egotistical, simpering milksop is enough to make me bring up dinner. And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He grinned a bit theatrically. “I’m going to go hunt down my very blond, police sergeant son. Who, yes - - I’m well aware, thanks to Nathan Dunner’s little dig earlier - - looks nothing like me. Fortunately, he doesn’t think like me either. I’ll see you later, Jeremy.”

Feeling strangely liberated, Grant left the balcony.

+++++

The uneasiness Hutch had been feeling off and on since arriving at Bentley’s estate returned in greater force. Starsky had parked the Camaro in a grassy patch just off the main road. They could have easily walked the distance from Bentley’s home, but with Hutch’s side still far from healed, Starsky had insisted on the car. Now with the gray film of dusk beginning to settle over the trees, the cleared area for the Storm Festival took on a strangely sinister tone.

Maybe it was the starkness of the open field, so glaringly unnatural among the craggy, treed hillsides. Or the fact the festival’s tents deepened in hue as the light faded, turning the bleak steel of a storm-tossed lake. The carnival attendants moved like cloister monks, dressed in druid-like gray robes, their faces painted with bold slashes of ebony, pewter and white. Even the rides, adorned with twinkling whorls of blue and yellow lights, seemed strangely archaic. The paint on the Ferris wheel had chipped and worn away, exposing bare wood beneath the bright yellow seats. Nearby, music screeched from pole-mounted speakers, but it was brittle and tinny, making a sound like the wind weeping through arroyos of stone.

“Needs a bit of a facelift, huh?” Starsky joked.

All the giddy mingled scents of a carnival were there, tangling with the pungent musk of the surrounding trees. Hutch could smell hot caramel popcorn, roasted peanuts, sugary cotton candy and funnel cakes. After a gourmet dinner of filet mignon and lobster tail it seemed almost crude. Another time he would have delighted in the festive atmosphere, but tonight it felt wrong. Uneasy, he pressed his left arm to his side, comforted by the familiar weight of the Magnum beneath his leather jacket.

“It’s an old carnival,” Hutch explained. “They’ve been doing this for years.”

“How long?”

“I - -” Hutch groped backward in time for an answer, feeling unexplained anxiety seep over him. “ - - can’t remember.” Nervously, he rubbed his left wrist. It wasn’t all he couldn’t recall. Something tugged at the corner of his mind, a shadowy whisper he couldn’t place. The lightning rods weren’t metal any longer, but plastic. Why was that so important?

Agitated, he looked across the field. Masked in the shadow of the Ferris wheel, a dozen gaily painted rods protruded from the ground. There would be a dance later tonight . . . the women of the carnival troop would cast off their robes and circle between the poles, dressed in glimmering costumes of sapphire, onyx, silver and steel - - storm colors.

It came back suddenly, gently prodding the corner of his mind. A woman with dark blue eyes and impossible lengths of gleaming blond hair. A man who - -

He rubbed his wrist harder.

“Hutch, will you knock that off?” Irritated, Starsky tugged at his hand. “How many times do I gotta tell you - - leave your damn wrist alone before you make it worse.”

“Huh?” Bewildered, Hutch blinked. A second later a blistering stab of pain rocketed through his arm, the enflamed skin of his lacerated wrist reacting to the vigorous scrubbing. Wincing, he tucked his arm closer to his body.

Starsky frowned openly. “Hurts now, don’t it?”

“Yes, damn it!” He didn’t know where the anger came from and immediately sighed. “Look, this festival’s kind of creepy. Maybe we should just get out of here.”

“Why? I think it’s pretty bizarre. I mean who ever heard of a Storm Festival?”

Hutch felt Starsky’s hand settle in the middle of his back, prodding him forward. “Your side ain’t hurtin’ is it?”

“No.” All he had to do was hint at a minor thread of discomfort, and Starsky would have him back in the Camaro in a heartbeat, but he didn’t want to play a sympathy card. Not when it was obvious Starsky wasn’t ready to leave. The side of his partner that was perpetually boyish and innocent clearly enjoyed the off-kilter whimsy so prevalent in the strange carnival.

“Hey, look at that.” Starsky pointed off to the side where a pre-teen boy was trying to win a plump pair of fuzzy red dice at a gaming booth. Brightly colored balloons had been tacked to an oversized dartboard, edged in silver and blue. Various prizes and stuffed animals dangled from hooks under the booth’s roof, including a sole pair of candy apple red dice the boy eyed wistfully. “So, Mister Collegiate Dart Champion . . . how’dya like to take a spin at that?”

Hutch stared, a sudden pounding in his temples making him abruptly light-headed. He had another flash of the woman with blond hair and blue eyes. This time there was a man too, his face turned away, his back in silhouette. An imaginary smell struck his nostrils - - a sharp mixture of amber and myrrh. Feeling abruptly queasy, he raked nervous fingers through his hair.

“Hey.” Starsky prodded his elbow. “Think I’m talkin’ ‘cuz I like the sound of my voice? I said how’dya like to take a spin at that?” He pointed to the dart game.

Hutch forced himself to relax. “What - - your car isn’t gaudy enough as it is? Now you’ve gotta add dice to the dash?”

“I wasn’t thinking of me, dummy.”

A small crowd had gathered around the booth, including the boy who’d been eyeing the dice and three or four of his friends. Several teenagers stood on the opposite side, finding enormous humor in his failed attempts to win.

“Four green balloons for the dice,” Hutch heard the gray-robed barker call. Three of the boy’s attempts had bounced off the board without sticking, while one sank shy of hitting. The last took out a yellow balloon. Crestfallen, the boy hung his head.

High-fiving one another, the teenagers snickered. “Tough luck, little dude,” one of them called.

“Asses,” Starsky muttered. He nudged Hutch gently. “Come on, Blondie . . . show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Starsky those things are rigged. The dart tips are blunted and the board’s too thick.”

“Go again?” The barker asked the boy. “Fifty cents will get you five more tries, sonny.”

Disgusted, Hutch rubbed his temple. “The dice are probably worth a nickel.”

The boy reluctantly shook his head. Quickly dismissing him, the barker zeroed in on the crowd. “Who else wants to try their luck? Step up now - - it’s dirt cheap at just fifty cents.”

“I got one for you,” Starsky volunteered, prodding Hutch forward. “Fifty cents! Here you go - -” He dug in his pocket even as he hustled Hutch to the forefront of the crowd.

Annoyed, Hutch squinted in the harsh glare of yellow light streaming from the booth. Heat fanned outward from the suspended bulbs, hitting him in the face, turning the air abruptly sticky and warm. A few yards away, the merry-go-round blared a screechy, tinkling melody. The off-key music grated on his tattered nerves, adding to the acid in his stomach. “Starsky - -” He tried to protest.

His partner leaned close, one hand locked under his arm. “Come on, buddy. Look at that kid.”

Against his better judgment, Hutch glanced aside. The downcast boy stood with his friends, sullenly toeing the ground with the tip of a dirty sneaker. On the opposite side of the booth one of the teenagers mimicked his last throw, theatrically overshooting, while his two friends busted up with laughter. “Hey, Jimmy. Maybe Mom’ll buy you some dice for that treehouse of yours - - or maybe if you cough up the rest of your money, I'll win 'em for you myself, little brother.” He turned his head to include his snickering friends. “Yeah, right,” he mumbled, rewarded by a sarcastic round of laughter.

“T’rrfic,” Starsky muttered. “A smartass older brother - - just what every kid needs.”

“Give me the darts,” Hutch said, now as annoyed as his partner.

“Ooooh, look . . . new shooter.” One of the teens pointed in Hutch’s direction, and the boy, who’d started to leave, turned back to watch.

“How much for the dice?” Hutch asked the barker.

“Four green balloons.” He cast a quick glance at the darts, rubbing a grubby finger over the tips before passing them to Hutch.

Shooting darts was something he and Starsky routinely did at Huggy’s, but using cheap plastic missiles with blunt tips and (most likely) weighted barrels at an outdoor carnival put serious limitations on what he could accomplish. Five darts and he needed four of them to pop green balloons.

At his side Starsky grinned encouragingly. “Come on, Blondie. This should be a cake-walk for you.”

“Thanks for the added pressure, Starsk.” Shifting four of the darts to his left hand, Hutch raised his right to shoot. His first attempt popped a blue balloon, bouncing off the board without sticking.

“That’s okay,” Starsky said quickly when he heard one of the teens snicker. “We still got four more to go.” Holding up four fingers, he flashed them in the air for anyone who happened to be paying attention.

Hutch’s next two darts took out green balloons. The boy, who’d been sullen, now appeared animated and interested. “Hey, mister,” he called. “What are you gonna do with the dice if you win?”

Relaxing, getting into the spirit of the moment, Hutch flashed a smile. “I don’t know. I might have to put them in somebody’s treehouse.”

At the mention of the treehouse, the boy perked up and Hutch took out a third balloon. A cheer went up from Starsky, Jimmy and his friends. Hutch raised the last dart, briefly settling his left hand on his hip. His jacket ballooned open with the movement, leaving his gun momentarily exposed. From the corner of his eye he saw Jimmy’s older brother, point to the weapon and mouth the word “cop” to his friends. In the next second, Hutch dropped his arm and released the dart, nailing a green balloon dead center in the board. Another loud cheer erupted from the crowd. Grinning, Hutch felt Starsky clap him on the back.

“Ain’t no silly carnival game gonna get the best of my partner,” he boasted.

His earlier unease forgotten, Hutch motioned for the barker to retrieve the fuzzy red dice hanging above the booth. He thought they were the gaudiest things he’d ever seen, short of one red-and-white Torino, but then he wasn’t an eleven-year-old boy. “Here you go,” he said, passing the obnoxious dice to Jimmy. “From me and my partner. Put them in your treehouse.”

The boy’s eyes bobbled like marbles. “Cool! Thanks, Mister!” His excitement dimmed momentarily as he looked between Hutch and Starsky. “Partners?” he asked, confused.

“We’re cops,” Starsky explained. “Police officers.” With a nudge, he gave the boy a gentle push toward his friends. “Now go have some fun and spend your money on something worthwhile - - like popcorn or cotton candy.”

“Yes sir!” Jimmy shot back, then beamed a smile at Hutch. “Thanks again.”

The crowd dispersed, including the teens, Jimmy’s older brother shooting one or two stray glances over his shoulder. Hutch felt a hand slide onto his back. “That was incredibly nice of you, Ken.” Turning his head, he found his father standing behind him.

“You too, David,” Grant said.

Starsky chuckled. “What’sa matter, Doc? You get bored with all the stuffy talk and cigar smoke up at the house? All that political raggin’ make you hanker for some harmless fun?”

“I think my son took care of the political ragging,” Grant countered, his fingers tightening on Hutch’s shoulder. He raised a hand to forestall the blond detective’s protest. “You have an uncanny ability to say the right things at the wrong time, do you know that, Kenneth?”

“Dad, you can’t tell me you think Bentley is suited for office?”

Grant gave him a nudge to get him walking away from the booth, Starsky falling in at their side. “It doesn’t matter. Thankfully he’s outside of my district, so I won’t be faced with that choice.”

“And if you were?” Hutch prodded, unable to let the matter rest. The air was growing considerably cooler. He slipped his hands into the pockets of his jacket, tugging the garment tight. Daylight faded quickly, the sun almost completely gone now, a watery red stain on the horizon. All around the festival grounds pole lights winked on to hold the dusky shadows at bay. For some reason it was important he knew where his father stood.

“Ken, there are two things you never discuss with close friends or family - - politics and religion. It’s unlikely anything I say will ever influence your opinion or vice-versa, so why go through the aggravation? Normally all that results is an argument and bruised feelings.”

Hutch frowned. “Then you do think he’s suited for office?”

“You’re not listening to me, are you? Of course I don’t think he’s suited, but why hash it out? You made your point . . . I agree with you, but Bentley is a very old friend. A close friend. I don’t feel like getting in between my son and my friend, so I think we should drop it.” He smiled encouragingly, gripping Hutch behind the neck. “Besides, you came down here to enjoy the Festival. You have to do something other than win fuzzy dice for eleven-year-old boys.”

“There - - that’s it.” Starsky pointed the way to an ice cream stand, its silvery canopy painted with fluffy cumulous clouds. “That’s what I want. That white-chocolate-whatever-thing Bentley served for dessert was way too uppity for me. I mean, who the hell puts orange slices and cream sauce on chocolate?” He gave a theatrical shudder and bounded off for the small stand.

“I guess we’re having ice cream,” Grant said to Hutch.

Later, seated under one of the pavilions, Hutch watched Starsky devour a double-dip chocolate cone. He’d skipped getting anything, not really hungry after such an enormous dinner. Even then he hadn’t felt much like eating, but hadn’t wanted to insult his host. As a result, he’d eaten only a small portion of his filet but all of the lobster. Now, watching Starsky slurp at the mocha-chocolate with its embedded walnuts and darker-chocolate chips, he felt a moment’s regret for not getting something small - - maybe a scoop or two of vanilla. Starsky had a way of making any junk food look momentarily appetizing.

“You’re making a mess of that, Gordo.” Hutch plucked the cone away, taking a few licks of the melting chocolate, finding it surprisingly good. He grinned down at his partner from the top of a square picnic table, Starsky and Grant having both elected to sit on the bench. Sucking the excess chocolate off his fingers, he thrust the cone back at his friend.

Starsky did his best to look shocked, even affronted, but it had become routine between them. One cone was just as good as two, as was one cup of slightly sugared coffee, a sort of middle-of-the-road territory they could both agree on. By choice, Starsky would have had his with at least three teaspoonfuls of sugar and Hutch would have taken his black. “You could’ve gotten your own, you know.”

“I’m not hungry,” Hutch replied automatically, claiming his partner’s coffee.

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Grant watched amused. “So what do you think of the Storm Festival, David? This is Ken’s first time here too.”

“It is?” Startled, Hutch rounded on his father before his partner could answer. “But I remember it,” he said deliberately, unsure who he was trying to convince - - himself or Grant. Setting the coffee aside, he absently rubbed his wrist. “I remember coming here.”

“When you were ten,” Grant agreed, “But you never actually made it to the festival. And I suppose that’s my fault.”

Hutch’s earlier apprehension returned. He felt abruptly chilled despite the bright yellow glow of the lighted pavilion. Outside, darkness huddled against the storm-colored tents, swelling the night with licorice-laced shadow. “What do you mean?” Even as he asked the words, he felt his pulse quicken for no apparent reason, his heart thud against his ribs.

Grant shrugged, growing uncomfortable. “The night we arrived was the last night of the festival. You wanted to come, but we’d had an argument in the car on the drive up. I don’t even remember what it was about, just that I was angry with you, and . . . um . . .” Shifting awkwardly, he cleared his throat.

“You told me I couldn’t come,” Hutch said quietly, the memory flooding back. The shock of it unnerved him, almost like finding a piece of himself he’d misplaced. “We argued in the car because you wanted me to join the debate team like Roger, but I wanted to join the band. You told me I couldn’t do both . . . that it was silly to play piano.” He swallowed hard, the memory of an age-old argument suddenly hurting all over again. Grant had never understood his passion for music, frequently telling him he was wasting his time. He was old enough and wise enough to realize he wasn’t going to make it commercially at this point in his life, but if it gave him pleasure writing songs, maybe occasionally singing for a few close friends or in a club, where was the harm?

“You made the decision for me - - said I had to join the debate team. Then when we got to Bentley’s house you made me stay in my room because I wasn’t ‘respectful enough’,” the words stuck in his throat. “to meet your friends.”

“I think we need to lighten this up.” Finishing the last bite of his cone, Starsky slid a hand onto Hutch’s thigh. “Ease up, buddy. That was a long time ago.”

Hutch closed his eyes, trying to sort through the hurt. He was surprised at how deeply it still stung. The age-old ache had tumbled out in his words. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s just - -” Warily, he looked at his father. “You’ve never tried to appreciate my passion for music, or what it means to me.”

“I know.” Pushing from the table, Grant stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced a short distance away. He stood staring into the darkness while Hutch made a concentrated effort to remember what had happened to him twenty-three years ago.

“If I never came to the festival, why do I remember it?” he asked his father’s back. “There was a woman with blond hair, and the lightning rods were metal then. I remember her . . .” His voice trailed away, the fingers of his right hand molding his left wrist. “I remember because . . .” I threw darts like tonight, and she was the one working the booth. I took out three balloons and won a cheap plastic compass. She smiled at me and told me I was going to break hearts as easily as balloons someday.

The flash of memory was staggering, like thrusting his head into a bucket of cold water - - the woman laughing and ruffling his hair, telling him he was beautiful. Not just handsome, but beautiful. He’d been enthralled by her - - the way her eyes danced with the magical enchantment of midnight skies, her hair shimmering with silver, amber and gold beneath the rising moon. She’d looked like a Faerie Queen, ethereal and angelic, so beautiful his heart had broken in a single glance. He’d fallen head-over-heels in love that night.

“There’s nothing to remember,” Grant said, unaware of his distraction. “You probably just overheard someone talking about the festival and that’s why you think you remember it.” Slightly exasperated, he turned around. “Ken, you got up during the night to get a drink and fell climbing out of bed. You broke your wrist. I took you to the hospital to have it set and we left the next day. Your mother wanted you home.”

Shocked, Hutch glanced down at his wrist, his right hand still wrapped around the gauze bandage he’d been rubbing. A staggering flash of memory ripped through him, reawakening the fear of a ten-year-old boy.

A man he couldn’t see pressed him face-first into a linen-covered pillow, pinning him to his bed. He choked for air, barely able to breathe, terrified he was about to be murdered. The sudden engulfing scent of amber and myrrh clogged his throat and head. His left arm was wrenched behind his back, the thin bones of his wrist twisted and squeezed until he whimpered in pain.

“Forget what you saw, boy,” a muffled voice commanded.

With a sudden violence that left him gasping, his wrist was snapped like so much dry kindling. Hot, brutal pain rocketed through his arm. He screamed into the pillow, heated and soaked with his tears, the pain so fierce he thought he’d pass out from the sheer intensity.

“Forget what you saw, or I’ll do more than break your wrist, my Raphael. I’ll come back and kill you!”

He screamed again, his face mashed into the pillow by a cruel hand at the back of his head. Terror curdled his stomach and groin.

“No one’s going to believe you, runt,” the ugly voice taunted. “Especially not your father. Why would he listen to a sniveling sap like you, who only disappoints him? Say anything to him or anyone else and I’ll do more than break your wrist. You hear me, Raphael? Open your mouth to anyone, and I’ll break your fucking neck.”

Something sharp cuffed him on the side of the head and the world went abruptly dark.

“Hey.” Starsky’s voice intruded on his thoughts. He felt a warm hand squeeze his leg. “Babe . . . talk to me. What’s wrong? You look like you’re gonna be sick or something.”

Hutch blinked, dragged back to the present. Starsky watched him intently, lines of concern creasing his face, one hand firmly hooked around Hutch’s knee. His eyes glowed with the warmth of companionship, the uncertainty of worry.

“Hutch.” Starsky’s voice was sharper now. One thumb tracked across the crisp black fabric of Hutch’s pants. “You okay? Your side hurtin’?”

“What’s wrong with your side?” Grant asked quickly.

“Nothing.” Hutch shook off the daze. “I’m fine.” Inwardly disturbed, he pushed off the table, trying not to let his anxiety show. The memories were powerful, buried for so long he’d forgotten they’d existed. Had he chosen to shut them out, or had he been too traumatized by the ordeal to allow them a place in his past? Even now they were just bits and stray flotsam without logical order . . . a frightening experience no more than a vague shadow. His father said he’d fallen and broken his wrist. Obviously Grant didn’t know what really happened to him. Did that mean he’d lied about the whole horrific experience? As a child, he must have made a conscious decision not to tell anyone of the sadistic stranger who’d visited his room.

After the festival, Hutch realized with a start. I saw something at the festival.

“Hey.” Starsky was at his side, too concerned to leave him alone. His friend tugged on his sleeve, the deep blue of Starsky’s eyes like smoked glass and winter skies. A faint breeze frolicked at the curling edges of his raven hair. “I think the day’s been a little too long for you, buddy. How ‘bout if we head back up to the house?”

Hutch’s eyes slewed to the side, touching on his partner before settling briefly on his father. He feared appearing weak or incapacitated in front of Grant. His side was hurting, but he didn’t want to admit it. The long day of air travel, car travel and walking the festival grounds made him yearn for a hot shower, promptly followed by crashing bonelessly into bed. If he and Starsky had been alone he might have conceded to the weakness, but not with his father watching him like a hawk . . . trying to decipher whether or not he’d been injured.

Yeah, Dad. Got gut-stabbed by some two-bit drug dealer with a score to settle. Hurts like a bitch, but it’s all part of the job.

Collecting his wits, he dragged a hand over the back of his neck. “I’m fine, Starsk. Let’s stretch our legs . . . walk around some more. Okay?”

Before Starsky could say anything Grant gripped his arm, firmly and unexpectedly pulling him from the lighted pavilion into the darkness. “Forget it. You’re going back to the car.”

Caught off guard, Hutch stumbled. He felt Grant’s hand shift to his side, prodding below the ribs. Taken aback by the invasive touch, he groaned, what little blood remained draining rapidly from his face. Slumping against his father’s side, he panted for air.

Grant swore softly. “Damn it, Ken, what happened to your side? And don’t lie to me. I can feel the bandage through your shirt.”

For a moment he thought he might be sick, the jarring, jostling movement sending a streak of fire pinballing through his ribs. He clamped down on the agony, trembling as he struggled to hold it in check.

“Hutch.” Starsky stepped closer, his voice tight and worried. “Just level with him. If you’re hurtin’, he can help. Quit being so damn tightlipped about what happened. I know you don’t wanna worry your dad, but you’re white as a sheet, buddy. You need some help.”

“I . . .” Hutch bowed his head, extreme fatigue catching up with him. He tensed, feeling his father’s scrutinizing gaze. Grant’s hand returned to his arm, holding fast, firmly supporting him when he would have sagged. Suddenly he couldn’t stop trembling. “It’s . . . a knife wound,” he admitted reluctantly.

Grant’s fingers tightened on his arm. “How deep?”

Hutch wet his lips. Despite the chill air he could feel sweat collecting on his brow, soaking into the whisper-fine fringe of his bangs. “Deep,” he admitted. “Happened five days ago.” He closed his eyes, shaken by the memory of Dan DeGree coolly sliding the blade into his flesh. Enjoying it, relishing it.

Sick bastard.

He could almost hear the sound the tip made as it pierced his side, like the hissing release of pressurized air . . . feel the sticky splash of blood sluicing from the wound . . . the morbidly metallic scent of death clotting his throat until he choked for air. There was no question DeGree had savored his agony, tangled up in the sick ecstasy of watching Hutch suffer. The pain had been sharp and swift, a sickening combination of savage intensity and mind-numbing shock. He heard the grating whir of the saw, remembered the helplessness of being shackled to a metal table.

“ . . . gonna cut you into pieces, pig. When I’m through, they’re gonna have to hose your blood off the walls . . .”

Unprepared for the brutality of the memory, he turned his face against his father’s shoulder and moaned. “Dad . . .” His breath came faster, a little too rapid. “I . . .”

“That’s it.” Grant’s grip grew stronger. “We’re going back to the house. You shouldn’t have even come on this trip.”

“He’s too damn bullheaded for that,” Starsky said.

Frazzled, Hutch shot him a glance from the corner of his eye. “Don’t even say ‘I told you so.’”

“Don’t need too. It’s frickin’ obvious.”

Hutch winced, stung by the anger in his friend’s tone.

Frowning, Starsky immediately dropped his voice to a soothing whisper. “Forget about it, babe. I think it’s time to take you back to the house and tuck you into bed.” Catching him under the arm, Starsky pulled him close in a supportive grip, something he’d done countless times before. “I’ll get him to the car, Dr. Hutchinson. He won’t argue with me.”

“I believe that, David.”

Grant released his son, allowing Starsky to steer a mostly uncommunicative Hutch to the Camaro. The blond detective stumbled along in his partner’s grip only partially conscious of what transpired around him. His mind was caught up in a past of long ago - - a time of lightning rods, night terrors and half images that didn’t make sense. Dream visions snarled with flashes of recent reality - - the cold steel of a thick-bladed knife . . . blood, attempted murder, the notched death of a hideously whirring saw.

He folded into the car with an appreciative grunt, barely conscious of the short drive to Bentley’s home. Later in his room, Starsky lead him to the nearest bed. Shedding his coat and Magnum, he curled onto his side, too tired to sort through the confusion in his mind. Minutes later his father arrived, carrying the small black bag favored by so many doctors.

The sight of it immediately made Hutch tense. “Dad, I’m okay.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Grant pulled a chair close to the bedside, setting his case on the nightstand. Without pausing for breath, he began to loosen the buttons on Hutch’s coral-colored shirt. “I want to look at your wrists too.”

“They need some salve on ‘em anyway,” Starsky called, heading toward the bathroom. “I’ll get it for you, Doc.”

Hutch wasn’t sure which of them deserved a pointed retort more. He settled for rolling onto his back, reluctantly letting his father finish with the shirt. He was in over his head. It was unrealistic to think he could keep something as diabolical as being strapped down and nearly sawed in half to himself. In a few more minutes, the whole ugly mess involving Southside Dan DeGree and his vendetta would likely spill out.

He tensed, sucking down a breath as Grant peeled back the bandage beneath his ribs. His father’s face visibly tightened when he got a good look at the newly-stitched wound. Hutch tried not to flinch at the handling, settling for digging his fingers into the mattress instead. Without even looking he knew the skin was inflamed, rubbed raw and irritated from his careless exertion. “How bad is it?” he asked the ceiling.

“Well, you clearly haven’t done anything to help with healing,” Grant chided, though his voice was uncharacteristically soft. He took his time - - inspecting the stitches, blotting away flakes of dried blood, making sure the wound was clean. His touch was deliberately light, but each stroke of his fingers spiked through Hutch with a lick of forge-heated fire.

Shaken, the younger man closed his eyes and averted his face.

Grant paused. “I’m sorry.”

Hutch felt a hand settle on his hair, gently stroking it back from his forehead.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Kenneth. It’s just you haven’t given this sufficient time to heal. My recommendation is that you try not to put any undo strain on your side. Even normal exertion - - the kind that comes from standing, sitting or walking can easily aggravate this type of wound. I’m sure your doctor would have balked at the thought of you taking a trip so soon.”

“His doctor didn’t know,” Starsky announced, striding back into the room carrying a glass of water and a small plastic jar. A hand towel was carelessly draped over his shoulder. Sliding the glass onto the nightstand, he sat on the bed opposite Grant, facing Hutch. “In typical Hutchinson fashion, Blondie decided he was a better judge of his health than the guy with all those credentials hangin’ on his wall.” A heavy frown twisted his mouth as his eyes settled on his partner. “Dummy,” he chided softly.

Too tired to argue, Hutch reached for his hand. “Babe, I don’t want to do this.”

“Too bad.” Starsky was suddenly merciless. “You ain’t pullin’ that vulnerable shit on me. Not now. You thought you could come here and waltz through this weekend with no one bein’ the wiser how messed up you are. Well guess what, Hutch? You’re hurtin’ and it shows. Number one: We had a deal. I expect you to down some pain pills like you promised. Number two . . .” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “You need to tell your dad what really happened. Keeping it bottled up ain’t healthy, no matter how much you wanna spare his feelings. You won’t talk to me about it, so talk to him.” His eyes flashed to Grant’s face. “My guess is it ain’t gonna change how your old man feels about you.” Passing the jar of medicinal salve and the towel to Grant, Starsky stood. “While you two gents chat, I’m gonna take a shower. Hutch’s pills are in the drawer by the nightstand, Doc. There’s the water. He needs two of ‘em to do any good.”

Unable to prevent a reactionary stab of fear, Hutch made a grab for his partner’s hand as he moved off the bed. “Starsk - -”

“Don’t sweat it, pal.” Softening a bit, Starsky slid a hand onto his shoulder. Bending very close, he dipped his lips beside Hutch’s ear, whispering so only he could hear. “Don’t sell your old man short. He ain’t the same guy, babe. The fact he loves you is plain as day.” Smiling crookedly he drew back and winked. With a final pat for Hutch’s shoulder, he turned and headed toward the bathroom, whistling as he went.

Inhaling deeply, steeling himself, Hutch closed his eyes. A second later, he looked at his father. “I need to tell you about Dan DeGree . . .”

+++++

Grant leaned against the bar in the drawing room, nursing a scotch and soda. It was a few minutes after 9PM and Ken was upstairs sleeping, a fact that hadn’t been easily explained to their host. It’s just been a long day for him. Grant had tried to keep his explanation as brief as possible when Bentley queried him about Ken’s whereabouts. I’m sure he’ll be feeling more energetic tomorrow.

Across the room Nathan, Roger, Jeremy and Bentley played Blackjack while Richard and Starsky sat nearby watching, discussing everything from cars and horror movies to music, medicine and crime. Reece, Franklin Lane, his son Casey, and Mitchell Eckert were down the hall in the billiard room passing the time with a few games of pool. It left Grant the opportunity to simply observe and let his mind go blank.

Or at least blank of his present surroundings.

He was too caught up in imagining a deserted sawmill rigged with a metal table, his son gagged and strapped to the surface. The gory knife wound in Ken’s side was frightening enough, but he’d actually paled looking at the horrific damage Ken had done to his wrists. It made him realize how desperately his son had fought to free himself, how close he’d come to a shockingly gruesome death.

If not for David . . .

Grant’s eyes tracked across the room to the dark-haired man. They’d frequently been at odds in the past, but right now he felt only warmth and dizzying appreciation for his son’s partner. It terrified him to think of the vast danger Ken routinely faced on the street. As a doctor, it was sometimes difficult to grasp that his son was a cop. When push came to shove, he knew he’d never survive in Ken’s world. Yet as illogical as it was, part of him wanted to be there, defiantly holding disaster at bay. He knew his son was far better skilled in defensive measures and combat training than he could ever hope to be, but that didn’t quell his natural parental instinct to protect at all cost.

How could a man stand by and do nothing, knowing his son had almost been butchered and dismembered? And why? Because of a senseless vendetta . . . drugs, burglary, back-alley crime . . . all the revolting squalor that comprised Ken’s filth-encrusted world of hookers, rapists, dealers and murderers.

Perturbed, Grant dragged a hand over his face. Why couldn’t he have been a doctor? Hell, I’d have settled for a lawyer or a business executive. Something safe.

DeGree was still out there, waiting for another opportunity to finish the sick game he’d started. The thought terrified him, left him feeling like the world threatened to plummet beneath him. In some ways it had been easier when he’d been at odds with Ken. Then it had been a simple matter to tune out his son’s less-than-acceptable world. He’d spent all of his time criticizing Ken for his career choice, never stopping to consider just what that career choice entailed.

Until King Island and a man named Stanton Monarch. Until he’d learned about Ben Forest and how ridiculously defiant Ken could be even when facing danger. About heroin and how criminals often targeted cops . . . especially cops who skirted the rules, playing it hard and ruthless. It amazed him that his soft-spoken, respectful son could be frighteningly cold and intimidating when he chose.

Even if right now he’s feeling vulnerable.

Ken had been awkward, even hesitant when he’d talked about the incident with DeGree, looking away more often than meeting Grant’s eyes. Clearly the whole ordeal had left him badly shaken. How worse might it have been if David hadn’t been there for him?

Grant’s eyes tracked back to his son’s partner. The dark-haired detective was talking animatedly, immersed in a lively conversation with Richard Dunner. Grant wasn’t sure he’d ever fully understand his son’s partner, but there was no mistaking David’s extraordinary bond with Ken. He’d had a chance to observe them in numerous circumstances now, and while he still didn’t understand what made them connect so effortlessly, he couldn’t deny the link. Now that he knew what to look for, he saw it in every minute thing they did. It was almost tangible, a crackling affection that underscored every glance, word, touch, traded jibe . . . even words snapped in the heat of anger. That closeness had intimidated him on King Island, then later intrigued him. Mainly because he’d never thought of his rigidly polite son as having the capacity for such casual affection.

Ken had shocked the hell out of him . . . not only because he was so openly demonstrative with David, but because he didn’t seem to care what others thought about that candor. In the beginning Grant had found it a little unnerving, but that was before he’d looked past the surface of their unusual relationship. He’d even gotten used to hearing them call one another “babe,” something he was sure his male colleagues would bristle over. Men just didn’t talk like that to other men. Well . . . unless they happened to have an attachment that defied definition, rooted in extreme emotions like self-sacrificing love and limitless devotion.

“Jeremy’s cleaning house in cards,” Bentley announced with an overly wide grin as he moved behind the bar to pour himself a drink.

Jarred from his thoughts by his friend’s presence, Grant gave a distracted grunt. Straightening, he watched as Bentley mixed a whiskey sour. A quick glance at his watch informed him over half an hour had passed since he’d stood in quiet reflection, nursing his thoughts. Richard and Starsky had both joined the card game, making him feel abruptly like the odd man out. Disturbed to have been so completely oblivious, Grant rubbed his eyes.

“You’re not up for cards or billiards?” Bentley asked. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows against the bar, his glass cupped snugly in one hand. His eyes were slightly glazed, giving the impression he’d had a bit too much to drink. It wouldn’t be the first time one of them had gotten sloshed during a September Retreat.

“No.” Grant shook off the question. “Not tonight.”

“Let me guess . . .” Bentley’s grin thinned. He tilted his glass, letting the ice roll and clink against the sides. “You’re worried about Ken?” A soft tsking sound escaped him. “I’ve got to admit, I can’t figure it, Grant. All these years we’ve been getting together up here, all you’ve ever done is gripe about what a disappointment he is. Now it’s like the kid can’t do any wrong. I mean he walked in here wearing a gun - -”

“There was a reason for that,” Grant said quickly. You’d go around armed too, if you’d nearly been hacked in pieces. Especially with the bastard who wanted to cut you up still on the loose. He shrugged casually as if the answer were obvious. “David explained all that. Ken just acted as extra security on their flight from LAX.”

“Yeah . . . David.” Thoughtful, Bentley took a slow sip of his drink. His eyes slid across the room to the Blackjack table where Starsky let out a victorious whoop. “He’s a bit different, huh? Blunt . . . crass . . . not like your poster-pretty son at all. I have a hard time figuring them as partners, much less friends.”

Grant frowned. Over the years he’d gotten used to people commenting on Ken’s looks. Even when they’d been at odds, he’d been exceptionally proud to have such a tall, good-looking son. Occasionally he heard an off-color comment, usually with the word “pretty” thrown in, but he wasn’t accustomed to hearing it from his friends. Then again, Bentley had clearly had too much to drink and was likely still smarting over Ken’s pointed remarks at dinner. Plus he’d always been a little condescending to men he considered overly attractive, having grown up with a brother who’d been fawned over for his model-perfect looks. Ken was an ideal target for veiled ridicule with his classical features, river-blue eyes and pale, sun-whitened hair.

“Sometimes opposites are the best fit,” Grant countered, deciding to overlook the barb and refocus on Ken’s friendship with his partner. “I’ve been on the receiving end of David’s disrespect and his temper. More than once.” Briefly he recalled a time a few short months ago when he’d been determined to inject Ken with a hypo of morphine, and David had been just as determined to stop him. He’d found himself intimidated by a man who was a good four inches shorter, Starsky’s threats delivered with a deadly sincerity that turned his blood cold.

“David’s not a man I’d want to cross,” Grant told his friend. “I’ve learned a lot about him in a relatively short time. He grew up on the streets . . . fought in the Army. He’s friendly and outgoing most of the time, but I’ve seen him turn lethal in the blink of an eye. He might be a little on the crass side, but no matter how mouthy he is with me, I know he’s infinitely loyal to my son. I’d stake my life on that.”

“Still . . .” Bentley rolled one shoulder, musing the thought over. He polished off his drink and reached for the bottle to refill his glass. “He doesn’t exactly fit the niche of Ken’s other friends. From what you’ve told me, some of them are extremely successful today - - board memberships, law partners, society chairs . . .”

“That’s not how I measure success or friendship,” Grant said a little too pointedly. He caught movement from the corner of his eye and glanced to the doorway, surprised to see his son hovering just inside. A confusing bolt of affection, worry and pride streaked through him.

Dressed in the same tailored black pants and blush-coral shirt he’d worn earlier, Ken had clearly taken the time to freshen up. His blond hair gleamed in the lamplight, a brilliant tangle of amber and white-gold. The pain medication had helped, easing lines of fatigue from beneath his pale eyes. Even with the imperfection of a bruise splayed over his left cheek, his features were nearly flawless, a fact that didn’t escape Bentley. He mumbled something into his glass. Grant caught the words “nap” and “beauty sleep” but decided to let the mutterings pass unchallenged.

“Ken.” Stepping to his son’s side, he slid an arm around his shoulders, guiding him into the room. “I thought . . .” Lowering his voice, he leaned close, pitching his words so they wouldn’t be overhead. “I thought you were going to stay in your room and let the pain medication work?”

“I feel better.” His son’s words were just as soft, meant only for his ears. Then suddenly David was there and Grant relinquished his hold, knowing he wasn’t the only one who was worried.

+++++

Starsky did his best to appear at ease, but he would have preferred if Hutch had stayed in their room. His friend needed a good night’s sleep to let the knife wound repair itself and give his body time to heal. The problem was Hutch’s determination to make the weekend pleasant for Grant - - a situation that meant socializing with his father’s friends. Yet even Starsky had to admit there was only so much fraternizing a person could take when it involved a group of mostly status-conscious doctors.

He and Hutch strayed down the hall to shoot pool with Jeremy and Richard. Later, Casey Lane and Mitchell Eckert joined them. After about an hour, the group returned to the drawing room, where the conversation once again veered dangerously close to political issues and Bentley’s bid for office. Distancing himself before an argument developed, Hutch stood and walked to the opposite side of the room where the piano quickly reeled him in.

The baby grand was so highly polished its mirror-like surface cast back the lamplit glow of the room. Starsky knew little about music, but he could tell a quality instrument when he saw it. Not just mediocre or even upper end, but so far off the scale it had to seem like priceless treasure to Hutch.

His friend stood to the side of the showy piano, one hand lightly trailing across the glossy wood. Hutch’s head was bowed, his long hair a splash of pale winter sun against the deeper tones of the room. Mesmerized, a soft smile ghosted across his lips. Sliding into the seat, he gently stroked one key, his features softening with appreciation.

“Play something,” Starsky called out before he knew what he was doing. Hutch’s eyes flashed up, locking on his, the look he cast across the top of the piano instantly making him regret his hasty request. Irked, he debated whether or not to backpedal.

Hutch was an incredibly gifted singer/musician with a light tenor voice. Starsky loved listening to him, inwardly bursting with pride whenever he heard his friend play. The problem came down to Hutch’s reluctance to share his gift around strangers. Starsky still hadn’t decided if it was shyness or a lack of confidence on his friend’s part. Deciding to press the issue, he plowed forward. “Play that one you wrote called “Twilight Days.” I’ve heard you do it on guitar, but never piano.”

Jeremy was instantly intrigued, twisting in his seat to stare over his shoulder at Hutch. “You play?”

“He’s good,” Starsky said, before Hutch could answer. “If you can convince him to share something. Writes most of his own stuff too. He’s the standin’ hit of the policeman’s barbecue runnin’.”

“Starsky - -” Hutch attempted.

“A policeman’s barbecue?” Roger, who’d only just returned from the billiard room, rifled behind the bar, seeking out a bottle of scotch. “Now there’s a quality audience if I ever heard one.” He raised his glass in mock salute. “Kenny’s seal of approval comes from a bunch of pigs roasting a bigger pig on a spit.” Giggling, he flushed.

“He’s flagged,” Richard said with a disgusted shake of his head. “Gets bombed every time he comes here. Don’t pay him any mind, Ken.” Standing, he wandered closer to the piano. “We could use some distraction. Play something.”

Hutch’s eyes tracked aside to Bentley. “Dr. Crest, I didn’t mean to - -”

Uncaring, Bentley shrugged. “It’s my wife’s piano. Myself I’m tone death. Knock yourself out, Ken.”

“Yeah, buddy, come on!” Starsky bounded across the room, anxious to turn the evening into something other than boring talk about medical procedures, which intern was boinking which nurse, smoke, alcohol and cards. He grinned down at his friend, nodding encouragingly. Hutch frowned and glanced across the room, his gaze settling nervously on Grant. Inwardly, Starsky swore.

Shit! His father’s probably never heard him play before. Or at least not that he ever actually listened. And probably not in the last fifteen years. Nothin’ like puttin’ Blondie on the spot.

Unconsciously his hand slid forward, lightly covering Hutch’s sleeve. His friend looked up, parting with a barely visible nod, a signal he was okay with what Starsky had done. Withdrawing to the nearest chair, Starsky listened as the first chords of music flowed into the room. The exceptional quality of the piano made every note resonate with melodic clarity. Combined with Hutch’s light tenor, the song Twilight Days was a near-visual glimpse into a life of gritty ups and downs, conveying hope and trials in the same breath. Hutch’s voice soared stronger with the chorus, then turned soft again as the tune wound to its conclusion. A round of applause and a few whistles erupted when it was over, given by most everyone except Roger and Nathan. Starsky stole a quick glance at Grant, catching the rapt attention and surprised shock on the older man’s face.

“Well, Grant. . .” Nathan tapped his hands together a little too politely, then quickly went back to his drink. “I guess Ken’s different from you in more ways than that long mop of blond hair and testosterone-driven profession. He certainly didn’t learn music from you.”

Starsky ignored the comment though he could see Grant had flushed. At his side, Jeremy and Richard were talking to Hutch, asking if he knew this song or that. In a matter of minutes, the evening veered into a pleasant diversion with Hutch playing songs by request, most everyone joining in on the choruses, if not the verses themselves. Grant eventually wandered over, bracing an arm against the top of the piano, grinning down at his son as he played. Laughter, talk and music flowed with a spontaneity that had previously been lacking. For the first time since stepping foot in Bentley Crest’s mansion, Starsky was actually enjoying himself. Unfortunately, after about forty minutes of nonstop playing, the activity began to take a toll on Hutch.

He fidgeted on the bench seat, the tight pull of the knife wound clearly starting to hurt all over again. With his hands poised over the keyboard, the fresh wrist bandages Grant had applied earlier were noticeably visible beneath the cuffs of his long-sleeved shirt. Starsky guessed the pain medication was beginning to wear off. He waited for the next song to end, then shoved a glass of tonic water with a spritz of lemon at Hutch. “I think the singer needs a break.”

There were the expected good-natured boos and protests, but everyone eventually relented, a few clapping Hutch on the back as they wandered away into conversational groups. Only Grant stayed at the piano with Starsky.

“Ken, that was . . .” he wet his lips, strangely awkward. “ . . . amazing. I never guessed . . . I mean I knew you fiddled around with music, but I never realized how . . .” He flushed and grinned sheepishly. “ . . .polished you play. I guess I should have let you take band instead of debate all those years ago.”

Hutch gave a tired chuckle. “The debate came in handy, Dad. It helps me out with Starsky when he’s stuck on some stupid topic like the importance of junk food or why tomatoes make good cars.”

“No fair,” Starsky protested. “Just ‘cuz you’re feelin’ under the weather doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you rack up cheap shots on me.” He slid a hand onto Hutch’s shoulder, kneading gently. “It’s after 11:00. You wanna call it a night?”

“No. I’ve just been sitting too long.” Hutch lifted his head to stare up at him. “I think I wanna walk around for awhile, Starsk. I’m gonna go back to the room and grab my jacket.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Starsky said swiftly. He looked at Grant. “Keep ‘im occupied, Doc. Turned out to be a decent night, huh? Who’da thought mixin’ cops and doctors would work so well?”

“Yeah,” Grant agreed with a pensive smile. “I guess I should have recognized a good combination years ago.”

Starsky grinned, knowing the older man was referring to the relationship between himself and his son. Sprinting back to the bedroom, he grabbed Hutch’s brown leather jacket along with his own lighter windbreaker. Ten minutes later they were outside, walking around the rear of the house. Neatly manicured grounds flowed toward an expansive terrace where a flagstone patio and kidney-shaped pool glittered beneath the white shell of a half moon. Outdoor tables and cushioned chairs ringed the area, flanked by triple-tiered pole lanterns. The poolwater gleamed crystal clear and brilliant blue, illuminated by recessed lighting below the surface.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Starsky lifted his face to the breeze, inhaling the scent of juniper, pine and chlorine. “Kinda late in the season to keep a pool open, ain’t it?” he asked conversationally.

Hutch looked at him distractedly. Since leaving the house he’d been quiet, caught up in his own thoughts. “Bentley keeps it open until after this weekend on the off chance the weather’s warm enough to use it.”

“Too bad it’s not,” Starsky countered. “I could do with a swim . . . wash off all that stuffiness from the drawin’ room, though I gotta admit, the last half hour wasn’t too bad. You put on a good show, Hutch. Sorry I cornered you into it.” He tilted his head, catching a faint lilt of music rising over the hills. “Hey . . . listen to that.”

Hutch paled. “It’s the Storm Festival.” He grew fidgety, swallowing hard. “It’s winding down for the night. There’s a sort of Gyspy-dance at the end . . . the carnival troupe puts on a show between the lightning rods. When I was a kid . . .” His voice grew tight, heavily strained at the edges. “ . . . I hid in the shadows and watched. There was a woman with flowing blond hair and dark blue eyes. I remember watching her dance. She was gorgeous, Starsk.”

Starsky frowned, puzzled. “I thought your dad said you were never there?”

“He’s wrong.” Hutch paced a short distance away, his shoulders tensing beneath his jacket. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Since we got here, Starsk, I keep having flashes of memory . . . bits of something I must have buried in my subconscious. I did break my wrist when I was ten, but I didn’t do it falling out of bed.”

Starsky listened in growing horror as Hutch told him of the man who’d entered his bedroom at Bentley’s house so long ago. “You mean you never said anything?” he cried, appalled. “You let some guy threaten you like that, bust your wrist, and you never told anyone? You actually made up some stupid story about fallin’ out of bed?”

“Starsky, I was scared! I was ten years old,” Hutch shot back. “Besides, who was I going to tell - - my father? I was afraid of him back then - - afraid of always screwing up, disappointing him or doing something to make him mad. The only time he ever really talked to me was to tell me what to do, reprimand or punish me. I didn’t think he’d believe me.”

“Why? ‘Cuz some chump told you that? And how would your attacker know anyway? What about it, Hutch - this guy sneaks into your room, shoves you face down in bed, and he just happens to know you and your dad aren’t on good terms?”

Hutch balked. Somehow he’d overlooked that, too distracted by the revolting memory to spot its glaring oddity. Even now the man’s voice swirled in his head: No one’s going to believe you, runt. Especially not your father. Why would he listen to a sniveling sap like you, who only disappoints him?

“Starsky, you’re right.” Hutch paced closer, his face animated as the realization washed over him. “He couldn’t possibly know how my father felt about me unless he knew my father personally. That means . . .” He flexed his hands as sickening comprehension dawned. “Whoever it was must have been a guest at Bentley’s September Retreat.”

A heavy silence descended. Rankled, Starsky blew out a breath and paced off an agitated circle. “Shit. Hutch, do you realize what you’re sayin’? You’re implyin’ one of your Dad’s best buds snapped your wrist and threatened to kill you. That means one of the guys we’re chummin’ around with has a serious nasty streak.” He turned to face his friend. “Why?”

“I . . .” Hutch fumbled for the memory. “I don’t know. I think I saw something at the Storm Festival I wasn’t supposed to see. I remember sneaking out that night after my father sent me to my room. I played the dart game and won a cheap plastic compass. There was a woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, and later she danced between the lightning rods. I remember her because . . .” He flushed. “I think I fell in love with her that night, or as close to love as a ten-year-old can come. Starsk, I think something bad happened to her.”

“Like what?”

Hutch frowned, bewildered. The night was simply a string of shadowy images and disconnected thoughts, hazed by a surreal dream-like quality. Everything had happened so long ago buried in the painful mire of a lonely childhood, he wasn’t sure anything unusual had actually taken place. Dragging a hand over his face, he folded into the nearest chair, his gaze tracking to the shimmering surface of the pool. The woman’s eyes had been nearly the same color - - vibrant, sparkling blue, rimmed with violet at the edges. He could see her face clearly, remember the lilt of her laughter.

Sylvia.

The name materialized with a suddenness that made him glance sharply at Starsky. “I . . . I remember winning the dart game and she asked me my name. She told me hers was Sylvia.” He’d thought it beautiful and magical at the time, a name reserved for Faerie Queens and storybook princesses. She’d fawned over him with a cooing kind of attention that had made him feel singled out and special.

“Kinda reeled you in, huh?” Starsky sat beside him, bracing his knees apart, lacing his hands between his legs. The chairs were positioned closely enough that Hutch felt the gentle bump of his thigh against his own. The familiar touch helped anchor him in the present.

“You would’ve had to see her, Starsky, to understand. She really was a vision . . . like an angel. I wanted to hang around the dart game, but I’d run out of money so I lingered nearby until the carnival closed. I’d overheard a couple of people talking about a dance at the lightning rods, so I killed time hoping Sylvia would be there.” His brow creased in an unsettled frown, confusion clouding his sky-colored eyes. “The rods were metal then,” he said softly, almost as if reminding himself.

“And that’s important?” Starsky prodded.

Agitated, Hutch shifted. “Maybe.” It was important but he couldn’t pinpoint why anymore than he could pinpoint what had happened that night. Unconsciously, he rubbed his wrist.

Starsky observed the nervous action for all of five seconds before placing a hand over his. “I ain’t no doctor, but you obviously got some kinda mental trigger goin’ on here. Stop with the wrist already, before you rub it raw again.” He scowled, looking from Hutch’s hand to his gold-lashed eyes. In the moonlight, the blond detective’s pupils were fully dilated and luminescent, obliterating all but a thin rim of blue at the outer edge of his irises. The light from a nearby pole lantern filtered through his lashes, spiking long, sliver-thin shadows onto his cheeks. Narrowing his eyes, Starsky met his gaze directly.

“You know what I think? I think you don’t wanna remember what happened. Every time you get remotely close, it’s like you shut off your memories and focus on the pain in your wrist. You remember what it felt like when that guy snapped it ‘cuz it’s all you let yourself remember.”

Hutch pressed his lips together. “And you got your Ph.D. when?”

“Don’t be a smart ass.” Shifting slightly, Starsky inadvertently withdrew the warmth of his leg. “All I’m sayin’ is you should think about it. Maybe subconsciously you’re punishin’ yourself for something, Hutch. How come all you remember is the pain and not the cause of it? You ever think of that?”

“I think you’ve read too many issues of Psychology Today,” Hutch snapped tersely. Uneasy, he shoved to his feet and paced a short distance away. The skin on the back of his neck crawled, warning Starsky had struck a cord. Was he intentionally blocking the memories? Frazzled, he closed his eyes, shaken by an abrupt flash of light-headedness. The long day, coupled with rekindled fatigue, was beginning to take its toll, sapping both mental and physical strength. Unconsciously, he cupped a hand over his damaged side, trying to ease the persistent pain below his ribs. Suddenly the thought of crashing into bed was immensely appealing. With effort, he stifled a yawn. “I think I should turn in.”

“I think you should try’n remember what happened,” Starsky insisted, appearing at his side. His eyes blazed electric blue in the darkness. “This isn’t a game, Hutch. One of those guys your dad calls his friends threatened and abused you as a kid. You can’t just let that go.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Irked, Hutch swung around to confront his partner. “Just when I’m starting to get on an even playing field with my dad, you want me to shoot it all to hell by telling him one of his best buds is a sadistic bastard. Starsky, my dad’s known these guys since college. Do you have any idea how many years that is - - how far back those friendships go?”

“Like that’s gonna matter.” Annoyed, Starsky rolled his eyes. “Damn it, Hutch, be reasonable! You think your dad is gonna give a shit about any of that once he learns some S.O.B. he called a friend, traumatized and hurt his kid? You think so little of your dad, you really believe he’s gonna place friendship before the welfare of his son?”

Stung, Hutch winced. “It’s not that I think so little of him,” he said quietly. “Just that I . . .” The words stuck on his tongue, catapulting a spiny lump into his throat. “ . . . think so little of me.” Buried insecurity made him uncertain whom Grant would choose if circumstance forced his father to decide between himself and a long-time friend. Hadn’t he all but admitted that earlier tonight, pointing out how he didn’t want to get between his son and Bentley?

And who could blame him? In Grant’s eyes, Hutch had been a burden and irritating disappointment most all of his life. Even now, his father had merely accepted his profession. That was still a long way from embracing it . . . being proud of the son who’d been a thorn in his side for most of the last thirty-three years. Wounded by the truth, he turned away, his shoulders slumping. “I’m going to bed,” he mumbled. “See you in the morning, buddy.”

Before Starsky could reply, he hurried toward the house.

+++++

Hutch said a quick goodnight to his father, host and guests, then headed straight for the bathroom. Stripping off his clothes, he dumped them unceremoniously on the floor. The sharp glare of a double-sided light over the sink reduced his eyes to pained slits. Behind him, a wall of floor-to-ceiling mirrors cast back his reflection, his bare flesh haloed and bronzed by an overhead sunlamp. The warmth was delicious despite the sluggish sting against his sensitive eyes.

Naked, he leaned into the vanity, carefully peeling the bandages from his wrists and side. The white patch of gauze below his ribs had turned rust-brown in the center, stained with a sizable glob of dried blood. By contrast, the dressings on his wrists felt moist, tainted pale yellow from the salve Grant had applied earlier. Wadding all three strips into a soiled ball, he dumped them into a trashcan beneath the sink. Taking a moment to steady himself, he turned the shower to ‘hot’ then stepped beneath the spray. A rapid infusion of heat seeped into his tired muscles, intensifying his sense of fatigue. In a few short minutes, he had to brace himself with an arm locked against the wall. He withstood the heat as long as he could, scrubbing the day’s grit from his body. When he was done, he stepped free and dried himself with a thick apricot-colored towel.

Grabbing another, he scuffed it over his hair, mopping up excess water. His father was right, he did need a haircut. At least a trim on the ends which curled a little too waywardly against the back of his neck. The added length meant it would take longer to dry despite its inherently light texture. Even now, weighted with dampness and crowned by the glow of the heatlamp, the normally sun-gilded strands appeared dark gold. Rummaging through the toiletries he’d brought, Hutch located a comb and swiped it through his hair, managing a passing semblance of order. He knew he should take the time to rebandage his side and wrists, but couldn’t summon the energy. Sliding into a pair of dark red boxer shorts, he scooped up his clothes and exited to the bedroom.

Starsky sat on the bed closest to the door, legs stretched over the mattress, comfortably crossed at the ankles. Fully dressed, he leafed through a magazine with casual ease. The dimmer light in the bedroom turned his dark hair the velvety ink of midnight skies, his eyes the dusky blue of a wind-and-rain-tossed lake.

Unnerved by the thought of storms, Hutch dumped his clothes by the dresser and detoured to his bed. He felt his friend’s eyes follow his movements . . . knew that Starsky had noticed the grisly red rings on his wrists, the purpling, stitch-puckered gash on his side.

“Ain’t you supposed to bandage those?” Starsky asked.

Hutch pulled the blankets back and slid into bed. The sheets felt exquisitely cool against his bare skin like the shock of poolwater on sun-heated flesh. He shivered in reaction. “Tomorrow,” he answered, as if the single word were explanation enough.

Starsky sighed. There was a muted crinkle of gloss-slicked paper as he tossed the magazine aside. “You’re gettin’ on my nerves, Hutch. It’ll only take a minute. I’ll go dig up some fresh bandages . . . you stay there. You should probably take another pain pill too.”

This time it was Hutch who sighed. He folded an arm over his eyes, conveying what he hoped was an anti-social mood. “Let’s skip the doctoring routine, okay, Starsky? I’m tired. I want to go to bed. I’ll take care of the rest of the stuff in the morning.”

He expected an argument but got only grumbling and some fumbling about instead. Accustomed to his partner’s movements, Hutch listened as Starsky stripped off his clothes, kicked back the covers on his bed and sprawled face down across the mattress. A second later the light winked off, sealing the room in blissful darkness.

Hutch lay quietly, listening to Starsky breathe just as he was sure his friend listened to his own soft inhalations, the two queen-sized beds separated by a double-wide nightstand. He’d lost track of time but guessed it was somewhere after midnight, the storm festival now over. Dancers, barkers, carnival troupe and crowds would have all departed for the night, leaving the tents and rides empty beneath a dark, star-laced sky. The thought bothered him, resurrecting the scent of amber and myrrh. Unconsciously he dropped his arm and rubbed his left wrist. A sudden burst of pain made him suck down a startled breath. Without the gauze to protect him, the friction against his mangled skin was sheer agony. Clenching his teeth, he stared at the ceiling and waited for the pain to pass.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s voice came from the darkness. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Rolling away from Starsky, he tucked his arm close to his body, thankful the fiery sting was gradually easing. The day was over, and he’d survived it without making an utter fool of himself or embarrassing his father. Well . . . at the very least he hadn’t embarrassed Grant too badly. There was that minor incident with Bentley and his quest for political office, but overall he and his father had behaved congenially with each other.

Congenially.

He gave a soft, mental snort. It was almost like thinking about a business associate or someone he’d only recently met - - not about a blood relative, and certainly not about someone he was supposed to love unconditionally. What would Grant do when faced with the knowledge a close friend had once violently hurt his son? He’d have to take a stand of course, but just how unforgiving would he be and on whose side would that judgment fall? Already he could hear the excuses in his head:

“You’re overreacting, Ken. It was probably just an accident and you confused it with something else.”

“You don’t seriously expect me to believe one of my closest friends would hurt you like that?”

“I think you’ve spent too many years exposed to the darker side of humanity. It’s obviously coloring your memory of what really happened.”

“I think you should apologize. You’ve been invited here as a guest and now you want to make ugly accusations. I should have known you’d foul things up.”

Biting his lip to stifle a pathetic moan, Hutch curled into a ball. He wanted to believe things had changed between him and his father but didn’t know how. The first small whisper of doubt and suddenly he was dissecting the last twelve hours under a mental microscope. Had Grant been putting on a show, wanting to appear magnanimous in front of his friends? Was that the reason for his suddenly generous and supportive behavior? When the weekend concluded would he go back to his usual boorish attitude, becoming the cold, distant father Hutch remembered from childhood?

The thought made his stomach clench. He couldn’t go back to that . . . not after being given a glimpse of the relationship he’d craved all along. Worse - - what if he failed? What if he botched things up so badly, Grant turned away in disgust?

Like when I tell him one of his friends is a sadistic bastard who snapped my wrist.

The memory of that night funneled back in abstract images: the raw-boned terror of not being able to breathe, his face crushed against the linen pillow case . . . his frantic gasps for air . . . the sickening sound his bones made when they’d snapped, how the pain had streaked into his hand and arm until he’d screamed into the pillow, hot tears mingling with sweat. He’d almost passed out from the agony. He could still recall the sickening stench of amber and myrrh, how it had clung to the man’s flesh and clothing. He remembered the stinging cuff against his skull, a blow that sent him tumbling into darkness. He’d woken hours later, too terrified to move, shivering and balled up on the bed, the pain chasing fire into his arm. Eventually it had gotten the best of him. He’d tried to make it to the bathroom, but his stomach protested violently. He was only a few feet from the bed when he vomited all over Bentley’s pristine carpet. Sobbing, he’d cleaned it up as best he could, knowing he had to lie to his father.

Grant would never forgive him for sneaking out and going to the Storm Festival . . . he wouldn’t believe someone had actually been in his son’s room threatening to kill him and certainly not that a stranger had maliciously busted his wrist. Any other ten-year old boy who’d been severely traumatized would have looked to his father to feel safe and protected. Instead, Hutch had dried his tears, gotten his roiling stomach under control and made up a lie about falling, all the while terrified the man would return to kill him.

It’s one of his friends.

The thought followed him into sleep, physical and mental exhaustion claiming a toll. Eventually his eyelids grew heavy, and pent-up tension flowed from his body. He was thankful for the darkness when it came, but dreams followed just as quickly. Caught up in a different kind of blackness, he twisted fitfully, plagued by memories.

And all too recent nightmares.

+++++

“Hutch?” Starsky struggled with the blood-drenched cuffs securing him to the table. Someone had bolted a metal rod into the horizontal slot for the saw, creating a makeshift crossbar a short distance from the edge. His own handcuffs were locked behind it, holding him securely in place. He’d twisted against the metal restraints until his wrists were a grisly mess. Even now he could feel blood trickling down his forearms, sticky and wet against his sweat-chilled flesh. More puddled beneath him on the table, soaking into the sleeves of his white shirt. He knew the massive blade had stopped just shy of flaying open his groin. The thought terrified him, sent hot nausea waffling up from his stomach. He choked on the gag.

“Hutch . . . babe . . .” Starsky ripped the repugnant cloth from his mouth, sliding a hand behind his head to carefully cradle his skull. “Buddy, I’m gonna get you outta here, I promise.”

His cheek throbbed where one of DeGree’s goons had hit him, the swollen skin nearly pushing his eye closed. He choked down a lungful of air, feeling the punishing aftereffects of delayed shock kick in. Shuddering, he turned his face against his arm and moaned. “S-Starsky . . . my side . . .”

DeGree had shoved a knife into him . . . enjoyed every sick second of his pain. The memory only made him tremble harder. “Ohgod, Starsk . . .”

“Easy. Just take it easy.”

But the terror was too real, too stifling. Eyes closed, he kept his face pressed tightly to his arm, trying to stifle his fear. “G-Get me off this table . . .”

Starsky fumbled, hastily inserting the key into the blood-soaked cuffs. “Just another second, babe. Hang on . . .”

“Starsky, he’s been stabbed.”

Dobey’s voice came to him from a distance. He felt a tug on the ropes that held his legs spread and bound to the table. “Get something on that wound,” the captain commanded. “Ambulance is on its way.” His voice softened. “Hang on, Ken. It’s over now. You’re safe.”

Safe.

He wouldn’t be safe until he was off the table, away from the lethal saw. He heard the click of the cuffs and suddenly his wrists were free, a rush of air stinging his lacerated flesh. Something heavy pressed against his torn side and he cried out instinctively, shaken by the backlash of pain.

“I’m sorry, babe.” Starsky’s voice again, closer this time. Warm fingers threaded into his hair, pushing the sweat-sticky mop back from his brow. Moaning against the sting of returning circulation, he dragged his arms down and tried to grope the source of burning fire in his side.

A hand caught his forearm, careful of his mutilated wrist and pushed it away. “It’s just a compress, Hutch. I know it hurts, but it’s gotta stay there.”

He blinked, completely disoriented. His legs were free now, sending a new series of tremors through his battered body. He became aware of jumbled noises in the background - - voices and footsteps, the crackle and hiss of a radio, car doors and sirens . . . all of it snarled in one confusing knot. It made thorns stab behind his temples, acid bloom in his gut. Dragging his knees up, he tried to roll onto his side, wholly unsteady. “I want . . .” He panted, weakly trying to push to a sitting position. “ . . . off . . . table . . .”

“I know you do.” A strong arm slipped under his shoulders. Suddenly there was a body pressed against his, taking the brunt of his weight. The familiar scent of his partner engulfed him in a musky cloud of leather and sandalwood, displacing the darker stench of blood and butchered flesh. Gratitude tangled with terror. Shuddering, he turned his face into Starsky’s neck and clung fast.

“S-Starsk . . . he was go-goin’ to cut me open . . .”

“But you’re safe now,” Starsky said quickly.

Hutch felt a hand on his legs, guiding them over the side of the table. His feet touched the floor, and he tried to stand. Immediately his knees buckled, the sudden drop of body position pushing prickly nausea into his throat. Dobey caught his other arm before he could stumble. Supported between his partner and captain, he was led from the table, steered to a quiet corner away from the commotion and confusion.

“Ambulance will be here soon,” Dobey assured him.

It didn’t matter, he just wanted security and safety away from the dreaded saw. He tried to put his mind back into shape but couldn’t stop trembling, the terror unwilling to let go. The room was starting to spin, graying dangerously at the edges. “I need to sit down,” he mumbled through the cotton in his throat, not sure he was even heard.

“Okay, I got ya . . .” Starsky stayed with him, easing him to the ground where his legs just gave out like so much liquid. Pain pinged from his side, streaking across his ribs and into his chest. He clenched his teeth, wiping at the cold sweat dripping from his saturated bangs.

“DeGree . . .”

“Don’t worry about him,” Starsky ordered.

Hutch dragged his tongue across his lips. They were cracked, the bottom corner split and caked with blood. He’d forgotten how DeGree’s goons had jumped and beaten him in his apartment, long before their boss’s sadistic pleasure in cuffing him to a table.

“ . . . gonna cut you into pieces, pig. When I’m done with you they’re gonna have to hose your blood off the walls.”

He groaned, the ugly thought inducing a shudder. He’d come so close to dying . . . not a quick death, but one that turned his stomach to stringy pulp every time he thought about it. How could he explain that to Starsky - - that he was terrified like he’d never been terrified before? That even in escaping such a gruesome death, he was petrified by how close he’d come to buying it.

Bowing his head, he sagged against his friend. “DeGree got away, didn’t he?” He wanted to crawl under a rock . . . disappear . . . ball into something so small there was no chance he’d ever be seen. The shaking grew harder. His teeth clattered and he moaned.

“It’s okay, Hutch, you’re safe now.” Starsky kept one arm around his shoulder. “DeGree ain’t gonna hurt you again. I ain’t gonna let him. You just lean against me and rest ‘till that ambulance gets here. Dobey’s roundin’ things up and there’s plenty of cops on the scene. All you gotta do is stay with me.”

The compress on his side dug deeper, and he bit back a whimper of pain. With effort he made himself relax, the blood from his wrists now smeared all over his thighs. He glanced down at his arms, realizing what a mess he was, his white shirt stained and blotched with bright crimson splatters, his side soaked scarlet in blood. It had sluiced over his belt, oozing onto his jeans, turning the stone-washed denim the color of old metal. He felt dizzy and light-headed, the sickle-sharp pain in his side throbbing in time to the hot agony of his mutilated wrists. Clearly DeGree had had a field day with him.

Shivering, he tucked closer to Starsky, desperately wanting to believe the vile nightmare was over. But it clung tenaciously, slithering into his mind, hooking lethal-tipped talons into his vulnerable emotions. Humiliation and rage tangled with fear, unwilling to let go. He shuddered, abruptly cold despite the press of his partner’s body against his.

“Hutch . . . come on . . . you’re shiverin’ . . .” The voice intruded with a clarity that was almost shocking. “Hutch, wake up. . .”

He felt a light tap on his cheek.

And blinked up into the worried eyes of his friend. The warehouse was gone, replaced by the apricot-and-gold papered walls of a semi-familiar bedroom, the light on the nightstand driving back the darkness. He suddenly realized he was shaking, the sheets beneath him drenched in sweat, his body afflicted and buffeted by cold. Clutching at the blankets, he tried to draw them closer in a feeble effort to ward off the chill. His right side throbbed with fire.

“That’s it, buddy.” Starsky’s hand swiped over his cheek, flecking away perspiration. “You had me worried there, moanin’ in your sleep. You’re burnin’ up with fever, Hutch. I’m gonna go get your dad.”

“N-No.” The word stuck on his tongue, locked up in the confusion of the warehouse. Sylvia was there, trapped by a storm . . . or was it DeGree and a monstrous saw? Freezing, he wrapped his arms close to his chest. His teeth chattered together and he fought back a wave of nausea. “I . . . don’t wan’ him to know . . .”

“About DeGree?” Starsky guessed. “Hutch, your dad already knows what happened. You told him, buddy . . . remember?” The hand swept over his face again, brushing back his damp hair. “I want you to stay here. Try to stay awake, but stay in bed. I’ll only be gone a minute while I get your dad.”

“Starsk . . .” Hutch clutched his arm, vaguely trying to reason where the past had forked into the confusing muck of the present. “Don’t tell him . . . about when I was a kid.” He wet his lips, desperate for Starsky to understand the importance of the secret. He couldn’t face the thought of Grant siding with his friends. “Promise me . . .” His voice wavered, broken by the punishing onslaught of chills. “Promise you won’t tell him.”

“Okay, babe. I promise.” Starsky squeezed his hand. Extracting himself from Hutch’s sweat-slicked grip, he flashed a smile. “I’ll be back in a breeze. Just hang in for a while, okay?”

Hutch nodded sleepily, his eyes growing heavy. He wanted to escape the cold, to doze in a blissful state of half-slumber where warmth was more than just a phantom memory. He heard his friend leave, felt himself float on a cold current of air. Tucking his knees close to this chest, he curled onto his side, moaning softly when his stomach churned in protest.

Sometime later he heard voices, felt the intrusion of brighter light against his closed eyelids. Someone pulled at the blankets and tried to straighten out his cold-cramped limbs. He resisted, desperate to trap the warmth.

“Ssh, it’s okay,” he heard his partner croon when he groaned in protest. The mattress gave, then suddenly there was a body beside him, collecting him close, easing him back against a clean pillow. He felt the swipe of something scratchy and cold against his upper arm and cracked his eyelids to see his father sitting on the edge of the bed, measuring out a syringe. Yellow lamplight glinted from the tip of a needle. Shaken, he tried to recoil.

“Hey.” Seated behind him, Starsky wrapped an arm around his shoulders, holding him snugly against a pillow positioned in his lap. “Take it easy, babe. It’s not what you think.”

Unable to quell a bolt of reactionary panic, Hutch gasped.

“Ken, it’s okay.” Seeing he was awake, Grant smiled reassuringly. “I haven’t forgotten how you feel about needles, but it’s just a dose of antibiotics. I promise I’m not giving you anything narcotic.” Lightly, he scuffed his hand up and down Hutch’s forearm, the touch warm and encouraging. “You’ve got a high fever and oral medication just isn’t a fast enough remedy. One shot of antibiotics, and I’ll have you feeling almost normal by tomorrow evening.” His hand stilled, long fingers wrapping firmly over Hutch’s arm. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” The word was a hoarse croak. He tensed, waiting for the bite of the needle in his arm, one hand instinctively latching onto Starsky’s wrist. His stomach flip-flopped in queasy anticipation. I’m not gonna make an ass out of myself in front of my father. Not again. He clenched his teeth, instinctively remembering the last time Grant had tried to inject him. Seconds later the thin metal spine pierced his flesh and the acid in his stomach burbled into his throat.

Groaning, he tried to lurch free of the entangling sheets but only managed to snarl his long legs in the blankets. Gasping, he pitched his upper body over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor. “Oh shit . . .” The cold returned, brutal and relentless. Shaking, he dragged a trembling hand across his mouth, averting his eyes, too humiliated to face Grant. Nothing like spewing your guts five inches from your father’s shoes. “I’m sorry. Oh shit, Dad, I’m sorry.”

“Ken, stop it.” Grant gripped his shoulder.

He flinched from the touch, feeling the burn of disgrace seep over his cheeks, white and sheened with sweat. Mortified by his weakness, he thought only of escape . . . of locking himself in the bathroom where he could be alone with his shame. “I . . . I didn’t m-mean t-to.” The stammer made everything that much worse, tightening his sour stomach in a viciously constrictive knot. “I-I . . . I’ll c-clean it up.” Like I did before when I was ten. Instinctively, he curled against Starsky, sliding an arm around his partner’s waist, ducking his head to avoid eye contact. The room was spinning again, fish-eyeing into grotesquely distorted edges. Fire leeched pain from his lacerated side, spreading over his tender stomach and ribs in thin scalding veins.

“ . . . need the bathroom, buddy,” he mumbled morosely. Starsky would understand. Even at his lowest, Hutch knew there was no shame with his partner, only protection and warmth.

“Okay,” Starsky agreed, the single word a whisper against his hair. “I’ll help you inside, then me and your dad are gonna strip the bed and clean things up. Get you some fresh sheets so you’re not shiverin’ in your own sweat. How ‘bout another shower, babe? Might help you sleep better.”

He closed his eyes, too devastated to care one way or the other. As usual, he’d made a mess of the weekend. The knife wound was causing nothing but grief, hindering his relationship with his father. He should have just listened to Starsky and stayed home in the first place. “Help me up,” he muttered. “I can handle the rest.”

Before he could move, Grant circled around the foot of the bed and approached from the other side. “It’s all right, David,” he said evenly. “Ken needs to start trusting me. I’ll help my son,

then I’ll clean up out here. In the meantime, maybe you could check the closet for fresh sheets.”

Hutch balked, unwilling to uncurl from the cocoon he’d made against Starsky. He felt his friend tense uncertainly, clearly reluctant to concede his role as protector and caregiver. “Okay, Doc,” he consented at last, one hand rubbing over Hutch’s neck before pronging affectionately into his hair. “You’re gonna be all right, buddy,” he whispered.

The intensity of their shared body heat was sweltering. It vanished in a heartbeat, crushed by a sharp intrusion of glacial air when Starsky drew away. Hutch shivered violently. Cold curled into the pit of his stomach, debilitating him under a sticky wave of nausea. He swallowed convulsively, groaning softly when his gut lurched in protest.

“Come on, Ken.” Grant gripped his arm.

“I’m gonna be sick again,” he choked, pressing hard on his abdomen. Suddenly hot, he broke out in a sweat, perspiration trickling from the tips of his bangs.

“It’s okay,” Grant tried to soothe. “Just let me help you to the bathroom.”

The hand on his arm tightened perceptively, guiding him to his feet. He listed to the side, caught in his father’s strong grip. Grant had two inches of height on him and that difference came in handy now as Hutch wobbled unsteadily, desperate to reach the bathroom in time. Once there he slammed the door, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, immediately puking up his dinner. The force brought tears to his eyes, enflaming the prickly gash in his side. It suddenly occurred to him he was far sicker than he should have been . . . that something in all the pain, fever and vomiting didn’t add up, but his mind was too fried to muddle through the mess.

Seconds later the door opened again and he decided he was too exhausted to worry over how embarrassed he should be. He’d already puked in the open. At least now he was doing it in the proper context. Wearily, he blinked up at his father. “I could use some privacy.”

“Here.” Grant crouched beside him, a glass in one hand, a single petal-pink pill in the other. “I want you to take this. It’s for nausea.”

Hutch eyed it skeptically. Flipping the lid of the toilet shut, he flushed the bowl. Rather than stand, he sagged onto the tile, one arm braced across the top of the porcelain seat. “What makes you think I’ll keep it down?”

“Because I’m the doctor.” Clearly worried, Grant grabbed a hand towel from a nearby rack and used it to blot the beads of perspiration clinging to Hutch’s cheeks. “With your stomach convulsing like that, I’m worried what you’ll do to those stitches. Were you feeling sick before you got here?”

Hutch shook his head. He reached for the pill and swallowed it with a mouthful of water. “I-I’m sorry about earlier . . .” The hot stain of embarrassment crept over his cheeks. “ . . . g-getting sick like that. I sh-should have been able to make it to the bathroom.”

“Stop apologizing.” Frowning, Grant retrieved the glass and set it on top of the toilet tank. “What do you think I am, Kenneth - - some kind of ogre?”

“No.” Hutch shook his head quickly, chagrined by the blunder. “I-I didn’t mean it that way. I just - -”

“That’s enough, Ken,” Grant said, not unkindly. “I’ll wait while you finish up. Between the antibiotics for the fever and the pill for the nausea, you should be able to sleep. If you’re not feeling any better tomorrow, we’ll head back to Duluth.”

Like the last time, Hutch thought with a sick kind of recognition. Some bastard broke my wrist and I went home the next day.

“I’ll be fine,” he said hastily. At least his stomach was quiet. Whether because he’d completely emptied his gut, or from the pill Grant had given him, the nausea had thankfully passed.

He allowed his father to help him to his feet, then rinsed out his mouth and scrubbed his face clean. He simply didn’t have the energy for a shower. By the time he returned to the bedroom, Starsky was just finishing up. Hutch’s bed had been stripped, the old sheets wadded into a ball and dumped near the dresser. The room smelled of lemons, the by-product of a can of air freshener still sitting on the nightstand.

Steadier on his feet, the blond-haired man crawled into bed on his own, shooting his partner a grateful glance. He caught a faint whiff of sour vomit but it was gone almost immediately, crushed by the freshness of sun-kissed lemons.

“How’re you feelin’?” Starsky asked, going to his side the moment he had slid beneath the blankets.

Hutch nodded, smiling faintly up at his friend. “Better. Thanks, pal.”

Starsky squeezed his shoulder. “Anytime, Blondie. Now how ‘bout knockin’ off the chatter and tryin’ to get some sleep? It’s after 2:00 in the mornin’.”

“Yeah . . . okay.” He yawned, realizing the chills he’d experienced earlier had mostly faded as well. He was vaguely aware of his father puttering around in the background. Pulling the blankets beneath his chin, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes.

It was the last thing he remembered before waking to the smell of coffee and bacon in the morning.

+++++

One day down. Two to go.

Starsky swallowed a mouthful of heavily sugared coffee and let his eyes sidle across the table. Somehow he’d ended up seated between Franklin Lane and Roger Dunner, his partner directly across from him. All things considered, Hutch looked surprisingly good given how he’d passed the night. Grant’s antibiotic had done its job, reducing his fever to the low-grade range just above 99 degrees. He’d woken sporadically throughout the night, complaining of thirst or nausea, one frequently on the tail end of the other. Starsky had fully intended to watch over him until dawn, but Grant had quickly assumed that post, slumped in a chair by Hutch’s bedside. Thankfully, despite his restless sleep and queasy stomach, the blond detective didn’t experience further bouts of vomiting or chills.

He’d been a little sheepish to find his father watching over him come morning, but Starsky could tell by the way his eyes dipped, hesitant and awkward, that he was also secretly pleased. For as long as Starsky had known him, Hutch had always behaved a bit neurotically around Grant . . . mainly because of Grant. Watching the two of them interact was frequently painful, occasionally gratifying and almost always frustrating. For every step Starsky’s fair-haired friend took forward in the tremulous relationship, he seemed determined to take another two back. It was so blatantly obvious what the problem was Starsky often wondered why Hutch didn’t see it. Simply put, his highly analytical, intellectual, and overly sensitive friend craved his father’s approval.

Period.

It had nothing to do with a meeting of the minds, crossroads of philosophy or even moral viewpoints. Hutch wanted to know - - needed to know, Starsky mentally corrected himself - - that Grant loved and accepted him solely on his own merit. Unconditionally. Having spent most of his life without that support it was now the driving force behind everything Hutch did in Grant’s presence. Like he’s terrified of screwin’ up and gettin’ kicked back down the ladder.

Swallowing another mouthful of coffee, Starsky studied his partner unobtrusively. Earlier, Grant had wrapped Hutch’s wrists and applied a fresh dressing to his side. Whereas he might have stubbornly refused the same care from Starsky, he’d allowed Grant’s ministrations without protest. Starsky knew he should be pleased but couldn’t quite decide if Hutch’s compliance came from his yearning for acceptance or true pleasure in having his father care for him. Either way, Hutch and Grant had come a long way from the two men who’d barely been able to speak civilly to one another on King Island.

Watching his friend now, Starsky could almost believe Hutch hadn’t been sick. A flush of color warmed his cheeks washing away the pasty stain of illness. Maybe he didn’t scoop up his food with the same vigorous relish as everyone else, but at least he was eating and keeping it down. What puzzled Starsky the most was how quickly and how severely his friend had become sick last night. Even Grant had commented on it, pulling Starsky aside while Hutch took his morning shower to inquire if his son had eaten or drank anything out of the ordinary.

“Same as all of us, Doc,” Starsky had replied. “And not too much. If you remember, he barely touched his filet, and pretty much skipped dessert. Even at the Storm Festival, he passed on ice cream. Lucky thing too, him gettin’ as sick as he did - - probably would’ve been a lot worse with a fuller stomach.”

Starsky frowned, recalling Grant had merely looked thoughtful at the explanation but not entirely satisfied. And that was the part that bothered him the most. Clearly, Hutch’s father was kicking around a few ideas of his own. But what exactly . . . food poisoning? Even with a gourmet cook and choice selection of meat and seafood, contamination was possible. Yet had that been the case, they all would have suffered the effects. No . . . speculation aside, it was most likely Hutch had simply picked up an aggressive strain of stomach flu. At least the worst of it was over.

“ . . . a tradition of the September Retreat.”

Starsky blinked, thoughts scattering when Bentley Crest set a bottle of cologne by his breakfast plate. With a start he realized the doctor had given similar bottles to each guest on his right and was finishing up by ringing around to the left.

“I know, I know . . .” Bentley grinned at the group. “It’s the same tradition every year, but you’ve got to admit, it’s not a bad reminder of our weekend together. And where else are you going to get a French cologne made exclusively for me by the best perfumer in Paris? Enjoy, gentlemen!”

There followed grateful murmurs, good-natured chuckles and “thank yous” all around the table. Starsky picked up the ornate bottle to examine it, marveling at the rich vibrancy of hand-blown vermilion glass. A silver plate adorned the front of the bottle, beautifully engraved with a flowing script proclaiming “September Retreat 1978.”

“Wow!” Realizing the trinket had to cost a small fortune, Starsky cast a glance at his host who was looking awfully pleased with himself. “Thanks Dr. Crest. It’s not everyday I get a treat like this.” Removing the stopper, Starsky sniffed the contents, rewarded with a rich mixture of amber and myrrh.

“Bentley gives us a bottle every September Retreat, David,” Franklin Lane explained at his side. “He started the tradition the very first time we got together and hasn’t missed doing it since. Now you take Grant over there, the old fuddy-duddy.” Winking conspiratorially, Franklin pointed across the table to the raven-haired physician. “He’s got allergy problems and won’t wear cologne. Sniffling would be beneath such a renowned surgeon, you see.” He grinned as he said it, watching Grant roll his eyes. “Keeps telling Bentley that too, but Bentley just keeps giving him bottle after bottle, Retreat after Retreat. So what does the old fool do? He packs them away as mementos and never wears the stuff. Silly, huh? On the other hand, Nathan practically bathes in it. He’ll be splashing some on tonight before dinner, too impatient to wait until he gets home.”

Starsky grinned. He could readily see Nathan Dunner as a man indulging in expensive cologne, but he’d always pictured the very proper, very status-conscious Grant Hutchinson in the same light. To think of the eminent doctor plagued by something as mundane as allergies was almost comical. He glanced to Hutch expecting to see his friend chuckling appreciatively, but the fair-haired man looked shaken. Hutch quickly resealed his bottle, having gotten a small whiff of the cologne. His hands trembled as he set it back on the table, his face strained and white, the ghost of nausea rising in his eyes.

Starsky’s smile dimmed instantly. “Hutch?”

Across the table, Grant had noticed his son’s unusual reaction as well. “Ken, what’s wrong? You look pale.”

“I’m surprised you can tell,” Nathan Dunner mumbled bitingly, “Given how ridiculously fair he looks on a normal day.”

Stuffing a forkful of eggs into his mouth, Roger gave a loud snort of laughter.

“Hey!” Irked, Starsky smacked him between the shoulder blades. “Be careful you don’t choke on that!” On the pretext of helping he pushed forward, sending Roger chin-first into the table. The young doctor careened into his plate, upending his half-eaten breakfast directly into his lap. “Whoa . . .” Starsky feigned shocked innocence. “You really got a clumsy streak goin’ there, pal.” Shoving a wad of napkins under his reddening face, Starsky smacked him a second time. That’ll teach you to smirk at my friend, asshole! “Better clean yourself up before something stains.”

Enraged, Roger shoved back from the table, springing hastily to his feet. Eggs, bacon, butter-drenched hash browns and jellied toast dripped from his pleated gray slacks. “You . . . you!” he sputtered at Starsky, so furious he could barely speak. His face turned the color of old beets left to sour in an open jar.

“Not ‘Hugh,’” Starsky continued patiently, brazenly guileless. “It’s David. Dav-id.” He dragged out the name as if speaking to a slow-witted child. “But that’s okay. I’m not the best with names either, Randy.”

“Roger!” the other man spat. “My name is Roger, you hopelessly uncouth - -”

But Starsky barely heard. Too much was happening at once. Nathan was on his feet, attempting to help his son. Reece loudly complained about the nature of klutzes in general while Richard openly laughed at his red-faced brother. Franklin was attempting to help clean up the mess even as Bentley bellowed for his maid. Hutch had his head bent, eyes closed, thumb and index finger pinched together over the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Grant leaned close, speaking softly. Hutch lasted only a second before giving a terse shake of his head, shoving to his feet and bolting out the back door.

“ - - are without a doubt the most repulsively, uncivilized backward idiot I have ever encountered - -” Roger was still babbling at him.

Not bothering to look, Starsky pushed past, shoving a palm to his chest. Off balance, Roger windmilled backward, slipped on a patch of scrambled eggs, and plummeted butt-first to the floor.

“Toldja,” Starsky cracked. “ - - clumsy.”

He overtook Grant just as the physician was about to slip through the rear door. “Let me,” he said, catching the older man by the arm. “There’s more goin’ on here than you know about, Doc. Give me a minute with him, huh?”

Grant looked tempted to protest but eventually relented with a nod. Starsky pushed past him onto the terrace, blinded by a bright wash of daylight. Overhead the sky was a cloudless blue, crowned with the golden haze of early morning. He could feel the kiss of sun-heated warmth against his cheeks, the playful tug of a mild breeze ruffling his hair. The air smelled fresh and green, still ripe with the lingering whisper of morning dew.

Failing to spy Hutch anywhere, he took off on a loping run, rounding the side of the house. It wasn’t until he reached the front that he found his partner. Hutch had slumped against the side of the Camaro, both arms locked behind him on the hood, eyes staring blankly into space.

“Hey?” A twig snapped under Starsky’s foot as he approached, the sound magnified three times in the mute stillness.

Hutch jerked, shooting him a startled glance. “Starsk . . .” His expression changed quickly, morphing from agitation to relief. “I thought maybe . . .” He shook his head and motioned his friend closer. “Sorry I bolted buddy, but I didn’t wanna blow my guts in front of everyone.”

Alarmed, Starsky stepped closer, gripping him just above the elbow. “You feelin’ sick again?”

Hutch shook his head. “I’m okay now.” Uneasy, he dragged a hand through his hair. His skin still looked sallow, his light blue eyes deepening to darker navy by contrast. “I just didn’t expect . . .” He stopped again, his glance shifting to the side. “That cologne Bentley gave us . . . for a minute there, the smell brought back everything about what happened to me the last time I was here.”

“Meaning?” Starsky prompted.

Hutch eased onto the hood of the car, pushing off the ground to sit more comfortably. “Meaning the guy who snapped my wrist smelled like he’d taken a bath in the stuff.”

Starsky hedged, recalling Franklin Lane’s words. “Like Nathan Dunner?”

“No . . . I can’t buy that.” Hutch frowned. “Dunner is an arrogant ass and he’s never been fond of me, but I can’t see him doing anything so sadistic. He doesn’t like me - - never has - - but I don’t think he’d go out of his way to actually hurt me. He’s too skittish. He’d be afraid of getting caught.”

Starsky slid onto the hood beside him. “So why doesn’t he like you?”

“I don’t know.” Hutch shrugged. The sun was gradually returning the flush of color to his wan cheeks, simultaneously infusing his long hair with radiant threads of wheat and gold. “I heard rumors once . . . something to do with my mother and how he fell in love with her before she’d met my father. Obviously he can’t hate my dad - - they’re friends - - so he hates me instead, the product of my parents’ union. Hell, I don’t know, Starsk.” With a soft snort of laughter, he dragged a hand over his face. “Most everyone at this stupid retreat is fucked up. They’ve all got some asinine secret or personal hang-up. I wouldn’t want a single one of them as my doctor.”

“Including your dad?”

Hutch flung him a sideways glance. “My dad’s biggest hang-up is me.” His eyes narrowed. “Let’s move past that one, okay?”

Starsky spread his hands, surrendering the point. “Whatever you want, pal. Personally, I’m more interested in why some unnamed bastard was so intent on roughin’ you up and scarin’ the shit outta you when you were a kid. I think you should take another crack at rememberin’ what happened at the Storm Festival.”

“I already told you.” Sounding abruptly impatient, Hutch rubbed his wrist. “I played darts, met Sylvia, then hung around to watch her dance.”

“What about after that?” Starsky prodded.

Hutch’s expression went blank. “After?”

“Yeah. After she danced - - then what’d you do?”

Starsky’s glance dropped to the hand wrapped around Hutch’s wrist. It was twisting fitfully now, his long fingers rotating back and forth across the gauze bandage Grant had applied only that morning. The crease in Hutch’s forehead deepened as his brows drew together in bewildered concentration.

“I . . . I think I . . .” Hutch wet his lips, clearly struggling to remember the events of that night. Starsky slid a hand onto his knee, squeezing in encouragement. A silent battle raged in his friend’s gold-lashed eyes, determination against confusion, each struggling for dominance. Eventually the conflict dimmed beneath a glimmer of distant memory, Hutch’s eyes taking on a faraway glaze. His hand stilled its restless twisting on his wrist, but his grip remained locked in place. “I think I waited until most of the crowds had left,” he said in a halting voice. “Then I started back to Bentley’s house.”

Quietly, he relayed what he could remember . . .

A full moon sent his shadow scampering ahead on the grass. Just a few hours ago he’d been angry and withdrawn, hurt over the way his father had treated him. It was bad enough he was going to have to join the debate team rather than the band, but to be sent to “his room” like a misbehaved toddler in front of his father’s friends was humiliating. He’d seen Dr. Dunner smile thinly, clearly enjoying the spectacle Grant made of him. Roger and Reece had snickered, neither making any effort to hide their gleeful amusement. His father had even made him apologize to Dr. Crest for being such a disrespectful guest. He still wasn’t sure what he’d done other than to argue on the car trip, refusing to join the debate team. How that affected Dr. Crest or any of his guests was a puzzle. He knew the real reason he was being punished was because he’d challenged his father’s decision, something that simply didn’t happen in the Hutchinson household . . . at least not where his children were concerned.

In the end he knew he’d do exactly what Grant wanted him to do - - told him he had to do, because his father’s word was law. He’d been taught from a young age to be a proper, dutiful son, doing exactly what was expected of him. Grant had never laid a finger on him, but physical punishment hadn’t been necessary even when he failed. His father accomplished more with a stern glance and a few cutting words, making sure Hutch understood he’d never measure up to expectation. Withholding love had always been far more devastating to him than physical discipline, because it was the one thing he craved above all else.

Tonight he’d promised himself he wouldn’t dwell on any of that. Tonight all he wanted to do was remember the Storm Festival. It was over now, people wandering slowly back to their cars, reluctant to leave the hodgepodge circle of tents, gaming booths and rides. Some of the lights winked off on the smaller booths as attendants shut down for the night. Even if he had to spend the remainder of the weekend in his room, Hutch was glad he’d made it to the festival.

It had seemed so eerie and strange as they’d driven by earlier, storm-colored tents and ribbon-strung poles erected against a cobalt sky. He’d been sulky and uncommunicative with his father after their heated argument but intrigued enough to stare out the window as they’d passed. The sight had loosened his tongue enough to ask for permission to visit after dinner. It was how well mannered children behaved according to Grant.

“May I go to the Festival after dinner, Dad?”

Grant had scowled openly, bluntly telling him he’d be spending the night in his room for his disrespectful attitude. He was sent there immediately upon arrival, but only after a humiliating dressing down in front of his father’s friends. A butler had brought him dinner but he’d barely touched it, too angry and too hurt over the way he’d been treated. Once it was dark enough, he’d crept outside, sneaking down to the Storm Festival while his father and his father’s friends gathered in the drawing room with brandy and cigars.

He’d won a compass at the dart game - - just a cheap plastic thing, but it was something he’d accomplished himself. He’d fallen in love with the woman acting as attendant, enthralled by the way she’d fussed over him and how proud she’d made him feel over his silly win. He’d learned her name was Sylvia and had stayed long enough to watch her dance between the lightning rods, her long blonde hair gleaming like pearlized silk in the moonlight. Now with the giddy flush of memories still warming his mind, he skirted the backside of the tents, clinging to the coalescing shadows as he headed toward Bentley’s massive home brooding on its tree-lined hill.

By the time he reached the perimeter of the festival grounds he was alone, muted voices and the occasional slam of a car door swallowed by distance behind him. The only light left to guide his steps was the soft spectral glow of a full moon. It fawned over empty tents, conjuring skeletal shadows from drooping ribbons and streamers, turning the canvas husks into brooding mausoleums. He felt a prickle of apprehension and realized he was completely alone, the night pressing close around him.

As he rounded the last tent, he heard two voices raised in argument, one masculine, the other light and feminine. He couldn’t make out everything that was said but heard the words “wife” “pregnant” and “baby.” The woman sounded desperate, the man angry. Uncertain if he should turn back, he hesitated at the corner. Moonlight afforded him a clear glimpse of the woman, sending a ripple of shock ping-ponging from his heart to his brain. The moment he saw her, hair gleaming shell-white in the moonlight, he knew it was Sylvia. The man stood facing away from him, only his back visible, his whole body swallowed in the shadow of the tent. A faint breeze carried the exotic scent of amber and myrrh.

Before Hutch could do anything, the man lashed out, cracking his hand across the woman’s face, brutally driving her to the ground. Shaken, Hutch gave an involuntary yell and took a lurching step forward. Sylvia met his eyes, her cheeks wet and stained with tears. “Run!” she screamed. “Get out of here, Ken! Run!”

He needed no further cajoling. The fear in her voice was enough to make him turn and flee back the way he’d come. He heard a shout behind him - - the man this time, cursing loudly - - followed by a burst of pounding footsteps. The pursuit terrified him. He ran as fast as he could, never looking back, weaving between the tents and trees until he was safely on the road. He squeezed through the main gate barring Bentley’s house from the outside world, thin enough to slip through the ornamental bars. Panting, he raced up the long drive, his heart triple-timing through a jackhammer beat. He never slowed, racing around the rear of the house, stumbling up a back staircase and into his room. Only when he was safely inside, warm light holding the darkness at bay, did he even attempt to catch his breath.

“So she was pregnant,” Starsky interrupted, shattering the memory.

Hutch blinked as if waking from a dream, the images falling away in bits and pieces. He tried to focus on what his friend was saying but the past clung tenaciously, making him shiver beneath the warm September sun. He’d left the house without a jacket, dressed in whitewashed jeans and a black denim shirt. Disturbed, he scuffed a hand up his arm, displacing the chill. He looked at his partner warily. “Could be.”

“Could be nothing!” Starsky said adamantly. He pushed from the car, spinning to confront his partner, talking rapidly now that he’d latched onto the idea. “Look Hutch, it all makes perfect sense. This woman Sylvia gets pregnant by one of your dad’s friends. Odds are she probably had an ongoin’ relationship with the guy . . . meetin’ up a buncha times throughout the year, then again when she’s in town with the Festival. Only she’s some carnie in a travelin’ sideshow. Not the kind of woman a status-conscious doctor wants to hook up with, especially if he’s already married. She threatens to spill the beans, tell his wife. He gets hot under the collar, slaps her around some then realizes you’ve seen the whole thing. Problem is you happen to be the kid of one of his best buds so all he can really do is put the fear of God into you. He visits your room, plays out some sick torture scenario and hopes it’ll be enough to convince you to keep your mouth shut. Make sense?”

Hutch nodded reluctantly. Everything Starsky said did make sense, but something still felt wrong, glaringly out of place.

The lightning rods used to be metal, made of iron.

“Any of those guys could’ve doused themselves in cologne,” Starsky continued half to himself. He rubbed his chin, pacing off a short circle. “Bentley gives ‘em each a bottle every Retreat, so there’s no hope of narrowin’ it down through that. The only ones we can really eliminate are the sons - - Reece, Roger, Richard, Casey and Mitchell. They would’ve been too young. And yeah, I guess we can eliminate your dad too,” he said with a tight grin. “Even if he was a pompous jackass back then. The question is - - what happened to Sylvia and her baby?”

“I think . . .” Hutch swallowed hard, plagued by a lingering chill. In the back of his mind a grisly memory slowly took shape. He tried to stop it from forming but it was like opening a door to a distant past . . . one he had studiously denied and buried so deeply he’d forgotten existed. Once opened, he couldn’t end it. Memory and sensation struck him with such appalling clarity he trembled in reaction. The blood drained from his face, leaving him stammering over the vile truth: “I-I think s-somone . . . God, Starsk, I th-think sh-she was murdered.”

The shock went through him like a bolt of lightning. The enchanting woman he’d loved . . . the beautiful fairy queen who’d made him feel so special and singled out had been murdered the same night he’d seen her. He’d always imagined her dancing beneath the stars, not terrified and alone, her life snuffed out like a thing of no value.

Shaken, he struggled for breath, a deafening rush of blood thumping in his ears. His eyes dropped to his hand and he realized he’d been rubbing his wrist repeatedly. Beneath the gauze bandage, the skin throbbed painfully, aggravated and inflamed. His stomach knotted, his chest growing tight with the effort to breathe. “Starsk . . . th-they f-found her body the next m-morning.”

He could barely get the words past his tongue, the wretched stammer growing worse as he forced himself to face the truth - - truth he’d buried and denied for twenty-three long years. Black spots swarmed angrily behind his eyes, a punishing rush of dizziness causing him to clamp down hard on the car. “S-Someone r-rammed one of th-the lightning rods th-through her stomach. Ohgod - -

“Easy . . .” Starsky slid a hand onto his shoulder.

Hutch barely heard, barely felt the touch. He choked on the hideous memory, leaning forward, burying his face in his hands. He remembered his father talking about the woman’s murder in strained whispers to his friends the following morning. Grant had tried to shelter him from the ugliness, but he’d overheard, lingering in the background. They’d left soon after, headed home to Duluth because of his broken wrist. Hutch had thrown up ten minutes after they were in the car, forcing his father to stop a short distance down the road so he could open the door and retch up what little remained in his stomach. Thinking the sickness related to his injury, Grant had ordered him to lie down in the back. Hutch had curled up wordlessly, terrified and alone, desperately craving the love, assurance, and protection of his father, uncertain how to ask . . . frightened that if he did, Grant would refuse. As a result he’d suffered in silence, blaming himself for Sylvia’s brutal murder.

“I should have told someone,” he said into his hands. “Damn it, why the fuck didn’t I tell someone?” Anger came with the roaring crack of a thunderbolt. Seething, he shoved to his feet, rage, nausea and guilt snowballing into one lethal combination. He wheeled around to face his friend, the decades-old memory drenched in pain and blood. “Starsky if I’d told someone that night . . . if I’d told my father what I’d seen, she might still be alive.”

“You don’t know that,” Starsky protested quickly. “And think about what you’re sayin’, Hutch - - one of your dad’s friends mighta knocked this girl up, but do you really think he killed her? I mean can you see any one of those guys doin’ something that hideous . . . especially knowin’ how she died? Ain’t it more likely a coincidence she was killed the same night you saw her in an argument? It coulda been anyone who did it, Hutch - - a member of the carnival troupe, someone from town. It mighta had nothing to do with what you overhead. Do you know if they ever solved the case?”

“No.” Hutch spoke softly, deflated by the logic in his friend’s words. “I shut everything out of my head for so long, I couldn’t begin to tell you anything. When I realized she’d been murdered, it hurt too much to think I might have been able to save her - -”

“ - - Hutch - -”

“ - - so I just stopped remembering. I pretended it never happened, and after awhile it was like it never did. Starsk, I’d really forgotten about it . . . repressed it until I came here. The Storm Festival bothered me from the moment we drove past, and now I know why.”

“That still don’t solve the problem about your dad’s friend. I’m all for believin’ Sylvia’s death had nothing to do with what happened to you, but one of those guys inside - -”

“Forget it.” Suddenly tired, Hutch waved it off. “That was a long time ago. Why drag it up now?”

“Why?” Starsky was practically livid. “Because the kinda guy who’d pull that shit on a little kid deserves to be called on the carpet. Hutch, the bastard broke your wrist!”

“Starsky, listen to me.” Fighting a headache, Hutch pressed quavering fingertips against his temple. “For the first time in my life I’m actually connecting with my father. I feel . . .” He let his hand drop away. His eyes darted with it, the heat of self-consciousness creeping up his face. “ . . .like he actually cares about me . . . loves me. That’s just not a word you use in the same breath with my father.” His gaze flashed back to Starsky’s face. “I haven’t felt that in thirty-three years, and nothing is going to screw it up for me. I am not going to make him choose between me and one of his friends.”

“Damn it, Hutch, we’ve already been through this.”

“Yeah, we have. And if I didn’t make it clear before, I want to forget about it. I value my relationship with my father a whole lot more than some antiquated need for revenge.” Softening a little, he scuffed his fingers lightly over Starsky’s sleeve, his eyes seeking his friend’s gaze. “Give me this one, Partner. It’s important to me.”

Starsky heaved out a sigh, unable to resist the plea just as Hutch expected. “All right, Blondie, you win. We make nice for the rest of the weekend and pretend every one of your dad’s buds - - even the bastard who hurt you - - is a saint. How’s that?”

“Well . . .” Grinning, Hutch cocked his head. “We don’t have to include Roger.”

Laughing, Starsky looped an arm around his shoulders. “Thank God you’ve still got some sense left.”

They headed back toward the house together, walking comfortably side by side. As they rounded the rear, crossing the terrace, Hutch was reminded of something he’d forgotten. “Not that it matters, but there was something pretty strange about the night that guy showed up in my room. He kept calling me Raphael.”

“Probably ‘cuz you look sorta angel-like,” Starsky countered with a grin. “You know . . . all that blond hair and fair skin. Given how Nathan likes to beat up on you about that, I’m surprised he hasn’t called you the same thing.” He quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. “I thought we were droppin’ all this?”

“We are.” Hutch nodded determinedly. “I just thought it was odd . . . the name.”

“No odder than this weekend, pal.” Reaching the back door, Starsky sucked down a breath and plastered on a smile. “Okay . . . let’s see if Roger got his breakfast cleaned up.”

+++++

The breakfast hour eventually passed. With the weather pleasant and unseasonably fair, a number of Bentley’s guests headed for Lake Superior, intending to spend the afternoon boating. Still battling a low-grade fever, Hutch declined, detouring to his host’s library, readily enthralled by Bentley’s sizable collection of fiction, non-fiction and reference manuals. Starsky lingered briefly but grew quickly bored by the thought of wallowing through stuffy literature. Not overly fond of water he avoided the lake as well, eventually wandering off on his own. He shot pool for a short time, but soon grew bored with that too. Sauntering outside, he strolled down the long drive to the gated entrance, pleased to simply enjoy the mild weather.

The Storm Festival had yet to begin for the day but the tents were easily visible, clustered together, gray canvas flaps billowing gently in the breeze. The surrounding grounds were barren, oddly sparse and desolate looking among adjacent stands of thick timber.

Hutch was right - - it does seem eerie, all screwed up and surreal. He was about to turn back when he spied a small envelope wedged in the corner of the gate, jammed between the frame and a bordering brace of stone. Curious, he yanked it free. Someone had scribbled the words “For the Cop” across the front in red ink.

Frowning, Starsky tugged the envelope open and withdrew a single slip of paper. A childish scrawl looped over the center in the same shaky hand, the words appearing rushed and unsteady: “Please help, I’m scared. Meet me at the dart game, 10:00 a.m. Jimmy.”

It took Starsky a moment to realize “Jimmy” was the same young boy he and Hutch had met at the dart booth. Starsky couldn’t quite picture him writing a note addressed to “the cop” (“policeman” seemed more likely) but considered the very real possibility the boy could be in danger. A quick glance at his watch told him it was 9:50 a.m. Deciding his partner was fine where he was, safely tucked in Bentley’s library, Starsky resolved to investigate on his own. The note hadn’t specified which of them Jimmy wanted to see, and Hutch had more than enough on his plate already. Factor in his spotty health, and he was a prime candidate for uninterrupted rest. The last thing he needed was another problem.

That resolved, Starsky shoved through the gate and broke into a loping run, heading for the Storm Festival.

+++++

The grounds were deserted when he arrived, even the carnies tucked in their trailers on the opposite side of the field. Walking swiftly, he headed for the dart game. It suddenly occurred to him he didn’t have his gun, but the odds of encountering significant trouble were slim. Danger for an eleven-year-old boy probably amounted to a skirmish with the local bully, or something silly like his asshole older brother making off with his treehouse dice. Starsky would take care of the situation, then laugh about it later it with Hutch.

When he reached the dart game, Jimmy was nowhere in sight. The booth was closed, boarded up and tightly sealed against the raw invasion of morning sun. Come evening it would be lit by a flashing strobe of blue, green and white lights, gaily beckoning anyone who passed nearby. Now deserted, stripped of laughter and voices, the booth appeared desolate, the shell of something eviscerated and abandoned by time.

Geez - - enough already! Hutch is just creepin’ me out with all that talk about lightning rods and murder.

Deliberately shaking off the images, Starsky hesitated by the booth. He was meeting a kid whose main concern in life was a pair of fuzzy red dice, so why was he suddenly channeling goosebumps? Maybe he should have gone back to the house for his gun after all.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck.

He heard a soft curse followed by the echoing snap of a twig directly behind him. Whirling, he caught a glimpse of black hair and darker eyes. Something clubbed the side of his head, smashing against his skull with enough force to drive him to his knees. Stunned, he crumbled under the blow, folding onto the grass with a low groan.

“Idiot!” Someone hissed. “You snagged the wrong cop. I wanted the blond, you ass! The freaking blond!”

There was a loud slap, like the sting of an open palm cracking against unprotected flesh.

“I’m sorry,” a younger voice whimpered. “I didn’t know there was more than one.”

Starsky’s head spun, the sky reeling drunkenly above. He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision had blurred at the edges. He could feel something wet and sticky against his temple, forking down the side of his face. He rolled onto his back, grunting with effort as sudden pain gloved his skull. A hand fisted in his collar and yanked him up from the ground.

“It doesn’t matter.” The voice was near his ear now, a narrow pinched face swimming in and out of focus. Something about the close set features was vaguely familiar, but his mind was too muddled by pain to sort through the oddity. He tried to hold his head up and failed.

Hutch. God, Hutch, what’d I walk into?

Blackness rushed close, crowding behind his eyes.

“This one will do,” the deadly voice crooned beside his ear. “He might not be Hutchinson, but he’ll bleed just as easily as that vanity-puffed blond.”

Released, he crumpled back against the grass. A biting intrusion of cold metal and liquid heat pierced the flesh just below his ribs. Hot pain flared in his side, the invasion so sharp and shockingly abrupt, he cried out involuntarily. He would have screamed, but the sudden pressure of a hand clamping over his mouth muffled the sound. Twisting beneath the brutal restriction he gasped for air, his breath coming in harsh snorts, forced through his nose.

“Hurts, huh?” the goatish voice prodded. “I did the same thing to your pretty partner. Woulda done a hell of a lot more to that freaking blond bastard, but you loused it up, Pig. I wanted to cut him up bit by bit, but you showed up with the cavalry just when I was gettin’ ready to saw him in half.” The thing in his side dug deeper.

Starsky screamed, grunting against the muffling hand.

“Oh shit!” the other voice cried, now plainly terrified. “Are you fuckin’ nuts? You stabbed him, you psychotic bastard! You didn’t tell me you were gonna do that. You didn’t - -”

“Shut up!”

The knife in his side was wrenched abruptly free, disgorging a blistering stream of blood. He felt it splash onto his stomach, drenching the cottony weave of his light blue shirt. Pain spiked in his head and his gut revolted, pushing sour bile into his throat. Clutching both hands to the gushing wound he groaned, futility trying to push away from his attacker. His head lolled to the side and for the first time he got a clear look at the man. “DeGree,” he choked.

The drug runner smiled wolfishly. “In the flesh . . . sent all the way to Minnesota by order of the Boss. Guess he wants your blond friend dead more than I do.” The thought obviously pleased him, the leering grin spreading back over his gums. “Looks like Hutchinson’s number is up. Maybe yours too, Detective Sergeant Starsky.” Snide emphasis dripped from every word.

Starsky’s head was spinning, the pain in his side forking across his chest and abdomen. He tried to cling to consciousness, knowing he was the only chance Hutch had of any forewarning. DeGree was demented - - a sadistic and vengeful lunatic. If he couldn’t kill Hutch with a saw, he’d find some other debauched way of doing it.

“DeGree . . .” He tried to talk, but his throat closed up. Stomach acid blistered his esophagus, the sudden heat of nausea tangling with the searing agony plundering his side. His hands were sticky and wet, coated in his own blood, the coppery odor clogging his nostrils and throat. Behind DeGree, he could just make out the face of a second person. Thin and shocky-looking, his stringy brown hair falling into his face, Jimmy’s older brother appeared pale as a ghost.

Got more’n he bargained for with DeGree.

“Get help,” Starsky croaked, looking directly at him.

DeGree snickered. “Forget it, cop. J.P.’s in my pocket, ain’t ya, John Patrick?” He grinned over his shoulder at the frightened teenager, his dark eyes dancing in amusement. “Now all we gotta do,” he said turning back to Starsky, “Is make you comfy until Goldilocks shows up for the party.”

Starsky tried to recoil when DeGree gripped him by the collar. The sudden movement of being wrenched abruptly upright made the world spin in a maddening rush of chaotic sight and sound. Fierce pressure bloomed in his chest, crushing his lungs until he gasped aloud, choking for air. Weakly he tried to shove DeGree’s hands away, but his cumbersome limbs wouldn’t obey. The only thing that mattered was the razor-edged pain in his side, the cruel tightening bands across his chest. Darkness swarmed close, promising a release from the agony.

“That’s it, Pig,” DeGree purred, giving his collar a brutal shake. “Go to sleep, and if you’re lucky, maybe I’ll let you live long enough to watch me kill your partner.”

Hutch!

Starsky gasped the name in mental desperation, but the darkness was too strong. DeGree gave him another pummeling shake and the pain pushed him over the edge into a numbing void stripped of consciousness.

+++++

Starsky stirred, blinking groggily, dragged awake by pain. He was scrunched on his side, legs bound at the ankles, arms tethered behind his back. A thick cloth had been shoved into his mouth, tied tightly in place behind his neck. He became aware of intense thirst at the same time he grew cognizant of a throbbing pain in his skull, the biting lick of dragon fire under his ribs. He shifted fitfully, moaning against the restriction and the sluggish return of consciousness.

His cheek was pressed to a slab foundation, the reek of gasoline, motor oil and mold clogging his nose. The combination made his stomach roil dangerously, and for a moment he simply lay gasping against the gag, trying to silence the nausea. If he threw up now he’d choke on his own vomit. The thought terrified him, made him bite down on the repugnant cloth to stifle a moan. Closing his eyes, he fought back the sticky sickness, breathing evenly until he adjusted to the musty odors.

The pain was harder to control, knifing through his skull every time he twisted his head. The hole in his side was merciless, throbbing with heat and the stinging bite of cold. It made his gut knot up, his arms and legs tremble. The wound had clotted, leaving his blood-drenched shirt plastered to his side. Now stiff and dried, the light material clung to the gash, pinching his enflamed skin with every slight nuance of movement.

Dazed, he blinked up at a peaked roof. He appeared to be in a wooden shed of some sort, the walls around him lined with ropes, pulleys and fishing tackle. Floatation devices and life jackets spilled from an orange bin wedged in the corner. Trolling buckets, most encrusted with the stubborn grime of algae, hung from hooks screwed into the rafters. Grass clippings littered the floor, scattered here and there over dirty concrete. A few gas cans and a 35 horsepower boat motor were stored separately, partially covered under canvas tarps. To the right of the door, a single window allowed the entrance of diffused, tree-filtered light.

From where he lay, Starsky could see the sky clearly, brilliant patches of blue broken intermittently by the spiny peaks of towering pines. The door was solid and windowless, likely locked from the outside. From all appearances he was in a boat shed, located close to the water, judging by the dampness of the air. Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell how much time had elapsed or whether he was still on Bentley’s property.

Deciding his best chance of escape was to shatter the window, he tried to leverage to a sitting position. The movement immediately sent pain pinging into his neck and side. Grimacing through the gag, he forced his shoulder back against the wall, pushing with his tied feet. Somehow he managed to prop himself upright but got no further. The rope binding his wrists had been tethered to a massive eyehook firmly bored into the wall. It allowed him a few precious inches of motion - - the choice to sit or lay - - but that was all the freedom he had.

He bit back a frustrated sigh, once again trying to ignore the dual punishment of thirst and pain. His mouth felt abominably dry, clogged with cotton behind the gag. He was still light-headed, the blood on the side of his face now dried to a sticky trail that slanted across his right cheek. He felt weak and fatigued, drained by slow blood loss from the knife wound. He wanted Hutch to find him, but another part wanted his partner to stay as far away as possible. If DeGree planned to use him as bait to lure Hutch into a trap, he wanted no part of it.

What had the drug runner said? Something about being called all the way to Minnesota by “the Boss” - - someone who wanted Hutch dead more than DeGree did. It didn’t make sense but even DeGree wasn’t vindictive enough to follow Hutch halfway across the country to settle a personal score. As lazy as he was sadistic, he would have simply waited for Hutch to return to Bay City, then lined up another macabre murder scenario to satisfy his sick need for vengeance.

Bastard.

Shivering, Starsky drew his legs up and dropped his head to his knees. It was cold in the shed, what little sunlight trickled through the window not adequate enough to warm the interior. He shifted deliberately, testing the rope on his wrists. The action sent a pulsing beat of pain through his mangled side. Shaken, he whimpered softly, sucking breath after breath through his nose in an attempt to still his ratcheting heartbeat. The threat of nausea doubled. Instantly he panicked, moaning against the gag.

Twisting as far as he could, he rubbed his face against the wall, using the rough boards to snag the revolting cloth. It caught on the first try, but it took six more before he was able to work it free of his mouth. By then he was drenched in cold sweat, the ache in his head pounding mercilessly. He spat lint and dryness from his mouth, stray fibers from the gag sticking stubbornly to his tongue. He choked, swallowing convulsively to hold back a reactionary surge of nausea. Fresh blood leaked from his side, the tacky wetness against his torn skin making him moan aloud. Exhausted, he sagged into the wall.

He waited only a heartbeat before filling his lungs with air - -

- - and screaming for help.

+++++

Hutch set aside the book he’d been reading and glanced at the clock on Bentley’s desk. 12:40 P.M. He’d been immersed for over two hours now, perusing the numerous tomes lined on the heavy oak bookcases in Bentley’s personal library. A man who was obviously well read, Dr. Crest’s collection included a wide range of literary classics - - most bound in leather and foil-stamped in gold leaf - - reference manuals, medical texts, and nonfiction covering everything from earth sciences and religion to world history.

He’d been reading a detailed breakdown on autopsy procedure, not light study by any means. But having sat through a number of postmortems and having a very basic medical background, he was able to gain better insight into a critical aspect of his job. The more he understood, the better chance he had of tying cause-of-death to motive and means on any case.

Yawning, he stood and stretched the kinks from his lower back. It suddenly dawned on him he hadn’t seen Starsky in over two hours. Wandering from the library, Hutch headed toward the drawing room. He detoured long enough to look into the billiard room but found it empty. Bentley, along with most his guests, was probably still on the Lake and wouldn’t be back for hours. Hutch had even convinced his father to go, insisting Grant spend some time alone with his friends - - wasn’t that what the weekend was supposed to be about? - - and quit worrying about his son’s health.

He encountered Clayton, Dr. Crest’s butler, just outside of the kitchen. "Clayton, have you seen my partner around anywhere?”

“Not for a few hours.” Polite, but rigidly correct, Clayton looked only mildly approachable. “I saw him heading out of the main gate sometime before 10:00.”

“Outside?” Hutch couldn’t hide his surprise. The only thing Starsky was familiar with in the immediate area was the Storm Festival and that wouldn’t start for hours yet. Other than the patch of land that had been cleared for the carnival, the surrounding grounds were heavily wooded and ragged, layered with beds of rock and steep ravines. Knowing how his partner detested the outdoors, Hutch knew he wasn’t likely to venture far in any direction. There was a rear trail that led to the Lake, but it too wound through dense groves of aspen, pine and fir and could be treacherous in spots. “Are you sure?”

“Positive, Sir.” He hesitated only briefly. “Is there anything else?”

“No. Thank you, Clayton.” Disturbed, Hutch waved the man aside. Frowning, he headed for the front staircase. Starsky might have gone for a walk, but there was no way he’d last two hours without getting bored. He would have been back checking up, pestering or whining in Hutch’s ear before the first half-hour had elapsed.

Entering their shared bedroom, Hutch went immediately to the nightstand and yanked his Magnum from the top drawer. Habit made him check the housing, ensuring he had a full load in each chamber. Starsky would tell him he was being silly taking the gun, but he still hadn’t managed to shake the specter of DeGree. Shrugging into the harness, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the stairs. He was halfway down the steps, still snapping the holster into place around his belt, the jacket looped over his arm, when Bentley and his father entered through the front door.

“Ken!” Grant’s surprise turned to concern at the sight of the revolver. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m just going for a walk.”

“Armed?” Bentley countered as Hutch reached the bottom of the mammoth staircase, halting on the last step. “I suppose that must be habit for you . . . almost like a politician who immediately replies ‘no comment’ when questioned about something he’d rather avoid.”

Hutch smiled tightly. “No comment.”

“Touché!” Bentley grinned in delight. “Grant, I do believe your son has a sense of humor after all.”

“At least one of us does,” Grant returned crisply, clearly not amused. He watched disapprovingly as Hutch eased into the leather jacket, careful of his tender side. “Ken, I thought you were going to rest for the afternoon?”

“I was - - I did,” Hutch said quickly. Wetting his lips, he tried to steer the topic off course. “What happened at the Lake? I thought you were spending the day boating?”

“We were,” Bentley replied, “But Grant wanted to come back and I said I’d tag along. He told me how you came down with a bout of stomach flu last night. I figured once you assured him you were feeling fine, he wouldn’t have anything to do but sit around and be bored.”

Hutch looked at his father, annoyed by the thought of Grant discussing his illness with Bentley. A single brow arched into his bangs. “You came back to check on me?” He wasn’t sure if he should be angry or pleased. The conflict showed on his face, irritation winning over gratitude. Standing on the staircase a step above his taller father, gave him a marginal advantage of height.

“I did.” Matching his stubbornness, Grant folded his arms across his chest, squaring his shoulders, unconsciously planting his feet apart as if preparing for a confrontation. His casual dress belied the aggressive stance. Attired in crisp olive slacks, a white knit shirt and pricey navy windbreaker, he looked like he’d just stepped off a sailing yacht. His black hair and deeply sun-bronzed skin heightened the intensity of his pale blue eyes, a mirror-match to Hutch’s own.

Flustered, Hutch dragged a hand through his hair. “Dad - -”

“Ease up on him, Raphael.” With a soft chuff of laughter, Bentley gave him a passing clap on the shoulder as he headed up the stairs. “He is a doctor after all.”

Hutch blanched. Bentley was already past him, whistling softly as he rounded the top of the staircase. In a matter of seconds, he vanished completely, swallowed by the hallway. Dazed, Hutch looked at his father.

Grant gripped his upper arm and pulled him down the remaining step to the floor. “Enough, Kenneth.” His voice dropped into the disapproving tone he’d used to maximum effect when Hutch was a child. “You’re white as a ghost. What’s going on?”

“I . . .” Disconcerted, Hutch blinked. Had he really just heard what he thought he’d heard, the name tossed so casually into Bentley’s conversation, the simple spontaneity left him reeling? “Why . . . why did Dr. Crest call me ‘Raphael?’”

“What?” Caught off guard by the question, Grant shook his head. “Oh that.” He gave a dismissive snort. “Just a pet name he has for anyone who is, well . . .” He scowled, eyeing Hutch as if seeing him in a different light. “ . . . exceptionally fair and good-looking. It was his brother’s name, Ken. Rafe was blond, like you, and very fair. Bentley always said he looked like an angel, but I don’t think he always meant it in a flattering light. Personally I think he was jealous as hell over him. He died almost thirty years ago in a boating accident.”

“His brother?” Hutch couldn’t shake his bewilderment. He’d known it had to be one of his father’s friends who’d visited his room on that night so long ago . . . who’d terrorized him and viciously snapped his wrist. But putting a face and name with the shadowy assailant made the remembered trauma that much worse.

Bentley.

That meant he was the man Hutch had seen with Sylvia - - the same man responsible for getting her pregnant. Given the connections his wife had and that most of his wealth, prestige and social status was a direct result of their marriage, it was no wonder he’d been so hostile with Sylvia. Especially if she threatened to tell Bentley’s wife.

Did that mean he’d killed her too?

Unnerved, he dragged a hand over his face and turned away from his father.

Grant pressed his lips together. “Damn it, Ken, what is going on?”

“I’m not sure.” There was no sense explaining now, not until he had it sorted through in his mind. Not until he’d talked the whole thing over with Starsky. Bentley’s crime had waited twenty-three years to be addressed, it could wait a few more hours. “Clayton saw Starsky leaving through the front gate a few hours ago. I’m going to walk around and see if I can find him.”

“I’ll go with you.” Grant fell into step beside him as he headed for the door. “Maybe he just went for a walk.”

“Not Starsk.” Hutch shot him a frowning glance. He really didn’t want his father tagging along, preferring the solitude to mull over what he’d learned about Bentley. But Grant looked determined and he didn’t feel like arguing. He and his father were experts at disagreeing, usually falling into the same belligerent patterns within a few minutes of speaking. It would be so easy to revert back to that mode of conditioned behavior, but Hutch was determined to keep their relationship moving forward. He held the door as his father stepped outside.

“Starsky hates the woods, Dad. I mean really hates them. It’s not like he would have wandered off and taken a hike. And, um . . .” He hedged, still uncertain how his father viewed his inordinately close relationship with his partner. “With the way I was feeling last night and this morning, Starsky wouldn’t disappear for so long.”

Grant nodded thoughtfully. Hutch was surprised to realize nothing about the observation had struck him as odd.

“I’ll give you that,” the older man agreed as they walked down the steps and began the trek to the long driveway. “He does take excessively good care of you, thank God for that.” He frowned openly. “Speaking of which, maybe we should take the car. You’ve still got a fever and your side isn’t going to hold up under a lot of walking.”

“I’ll be okay,” Hutch assured. As they walked, he glanced to each side of the drive, half expecting to find Starsky casually sitting among the bordering trees. At least the air was mild, the sun warm on his face. It felt good to be outside, even if he was still slightly fatigued from his bout of sickness last night. At least he wasn’t feeling nauseous. “Whatever I had is pretty much gone, Dad.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t take care of the hole in your side.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, Grant shook his head. He looked vaguely annoyed. “And I don’t think you had the stomach flu.”

Hutch narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?” As a cop he’d read body language too long not to understand his father’s unexpected tension, the hint of aggravation in his voice.

Grant blew out a breath. “I don’t know. Food poisoning maybe or . . . something else.” His voice tightened on the last two words, his expression growing hard.

Once again Hutch read what he didn’t say. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Grant met his eyes briefly before looking away. “Ken, if you’d had food poisoning, we’d all have gotten sick. And a stomach ailment wouldn’t have come on you that violently or had the side effects you experienced - - uncontrolled trembling and chills, profuse sweating and disorientation. It was almost like - -” He stopped walking abruptly, unable to finish the ugly thought.

Realizing where he was headed, Hutch halted beside him. His heartbeat escalated slightly, kick-started by fear of where the conversation would ultimately lead. “Like someone deliberately poisoned me?”

Grant eyed him openly. “You realize what you’re suggesting? Aside from Bentley’s staff, the only people at this Retreat are my friends. Close friends, Kenneth.”

“I’m aware of that.” Hutch held his gaze, painfully conscious of the steadily increasing beat of his own heart. Ohgod, I don’t want to go here. I don’t want to force him to choose. Terrified of the outcome, he stood rigidly, every muscle in his body tensing. Realistically he knew there was no turning back. Sooner or later the bridge would have to be crossed.

“I think you’re probably right about why I got sick,” he agreed. Years of inbred police training made it easy to keep emotion from his voice and school his face to relative blankness. Only that morning he’d considered the possibility of poisoning himself, but hadn’t admitted it even to Starsky. Too many pieces were still missing from the puzzle. But there was one thing of which he was relatively certain: “I don’t think anyone on Bentley’s staff was responsible.” He hesitated briefly then plowed ahead, deciding to go for broke. His father was the one who’d brought the troubling matter up, after all. “I know what I’m suggesting seems impossible, but I need you to trust me on this, Dad.”

Disturbed, Grant rubbed his temple. The “old” Grant would have scoffed and tossed out a few cutting remarks, pointedly telling his son what he could do with the ridiculous insinuation. Instead he looked away, his jaw hardening into a rigid line.

Hutch waited, tensed for a verbal explosion.

“Ken . . . it’s a very difficult position you’re placing me in.”

“I know that.” He tried not to react, inwardly hurt when the first fierce stab of rejection pierced his gut. There it was - - the definitive line between friend and son. Okay, so he’s not gonna go ballistic. He’s going to let me down easy, tell me I’m fucking deluded or something like that . . . too many years on the street and I need to remember there are still good people in the world.

It simply wasn’t fair. His father had pretended to care . . . doing and saying all the right things until it came down to the one that really mattered - - trust. Feeling abruptly cheated and trapped, Hutch looked away, his breath hissing tightly between his teeth.

Alerted by the sound, Grant touched his arm.

Hutch pivoted to face him, eyes blazing. Seething, he snapped an index finger under his father’s nose. “Go ahead and say it!” he spat. Hostility had framed his relationship with Grant too long not to feel wretchedly familiar now. He reacted instinctively, lashing out rather than admitting the hurt. “Tell me what a fucking disappointment I am for thinking something so hideous about one of your saintly friends!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ken.” Grant caught his forearm and shoved the accusing finger aside. “Will you listen to yourself? It’s like I push a button, and you immediately change personalities. You could try talking this out instead of attempting to intimidate me with your foul-mouthed street cop routine.”

Hutch balked. Is that what he was doing?

“I never said I didn’t believe you,” Grant continued, watching him steadily. Tentatively he slid a hand onto Hutch’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’re my son, Ken - - of course I believe you. I know you wouldn’t toss around accusations carelessly, especially not when it’s related to something so sensitive. I also happen to respect your judgment in matters like this. You’re a trained police officer, accustomed to dealing with aspects of human nature I know nothing about. Obviously I wouldn’t have brought up the subject of poisoning if I didn’t suspect it was valid. It’s just . . . difficult to believe. You understand?”

Hutch nodded and flushed. His father hadn’t gone ballistic, but Grant had still managed to work in a lecture, just not the one he’d been expecting.

“Now . . .” Grant tightened his hand over Hutch’s shoulder. “Do you have a valid reason why one of my friends would want to hurt you?”

He nodded again, still not trusting his voice. He felt suddenly embarrassed, reverting to his old behavior when Grant had clearly moved past belligerence. It amazed him when he realized how completely his father had turned around. For the first time he allowed himself to believe - - really believe - - that maybe Grant respected him after all.

“It’s Bentley, Dad.” He gave a quick, condensed version of everything he knew about Bentley and Sylvia. When he was through his father looked livid, his naturally tan complexion burning red with anger.

“Are you telling me Bentley snapped your wrist and you lied about it? You let me go on treating this man like a friend after he’d abused you?”

There was such naked anger in Grant’s voice, Hutch caught his arm and roughly propelled him forward, fearful he would charge back to the house and demand justice from Dr. Crest. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he admitted.

“What the hell does that mean?” Wrenching to a violent halt, Grant whirled to face him, succumbing to the impetuous rage Hutch had expected earlier. His voice thundered in the peaceful stillness, startling a trio of sparrows from a sheltering juniper. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth? Damn it, Ken - - even if you didn’t know who it was at the time, I would have figured it out. The cologne, the blonde carnival worker - - Bentley’s always had a weakness for women - - calling you Raphael. Why in the world would you lie about something so traumatic?”

Uncomfortable now, Hutch looked away. There was a wormy tightness in his gut that made it difficult to breathe. He kept his fingers wrapped around his father’s arm, but his grip grew slack. “I-I don’t know.”

“That’s not true,” Grant snapped. “You don’t lie about something like that without a reason. God - -!” Wrenching free, he dragged a hand over his face, clearly unnerved.

Hutch felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. “I . . . I wanted to tell you,” he attempted, uncertain if the halting admission made matters better or worse. Somewhere on the road a car passed by and he heard the fading whine of the engine like an intrusion from another time. Standing face to face on the tree-lined drive, it seemed no one else existed besides his father. For the space of a single heartbeat the only thing that mattered was making certain he didn’t screw up what he’d only recently repaired.

Trust.

It was the issue everything boiled down to. No matter how difficult, he knew he had to be truthful and trust his father to still love him when he was through explaining.

“I w-wanted to tell you but I was afraid,” he continued. “Afraid you’d be mad at me for sneaking out to the festival . . . afraid that m-maybe you wouldn’t believe me.” He saw devastating hurt on Grant’s face and felt a reactionary sting in his own eyes. He’d never thought how painful the truth would be to his father.