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