The Disappearance of Hutch

alternate version of the episode “The Fix”

by Kassidy Rae

betaed by Rachel Rice

Gen/R rated/violence, language

send comments/feedback to valwp@yahoo.com

He opened his eyes, but it made no difference. Still dark. The back of his head throbbed like a sore tooth. He tried to sit up, pain wrenching his back as he pulled upward and met resistance. What the hell? Something held his wrists down.

Tied. His hands were pulled back behind his body on a chair. The slats that made up the back support pressed uncomfortably against his shoulder blades.

Behind the blindfold came a shadowy vision. Three men, awaiting his arrival, swarming from the dark corners of his home. They attacked him. He tried to fight, but one of them hit him from behind. Then blackness.

Adrenaline shot through his body at the memory, heart leaping in his chest like a fish caught on a hook. He surged outward from the chair, panting, trying to escape. Someone laughed, and he whipped his head towards the sound.

A hard blow slammed his jaw. "Where is she?" a voice asked, and Hutch knew immediately why he was here. Jeanie. He’d hidden her away from her former mobster boyfriend, Ben Forest, who’d evidently decided it was time she came home. Thank God these assholes didn’t know where she was.

But Hutch knew.

Coney stood before his captive in an open stance, feet flat on the ground, anchoring himself firmly to put more power behind the blows. His knuckles were wrapped for protection. This was his job, and he was a professional. He took pride in the damage he could inflict.

He drew back in a full swing and backhanded the detective. Hutch’s head snapped sideways, then rolled slowly back. Another blow. Hutch heard the dull whump in his ears. Again.

His head felt like a water balloon perched on his neck, filling with hot pain, wobbling. Then there was silence. His head fell back. Couldn’t make it stay upright.

Coney stepped away, joining a blond named Morrisey who stood to one side of Hutch. Monk stood opposite, looking first bored, then irritated. Tiny drops of the cop’s blood had rained upon his brown vest. Monk flicked at it, then looked at the cop. "Where is she, Hutchinson?"

"I’m Starsky,” Hutch answered, slurring. The blood in his mouth made it hard to speak clearly. He fought to clear his head. Think. Find a way out of this. An image of his partner flashed in his head. But Starsky thought he was with Jeanie.

Monk grabbed a fistful of Hutchinson’s hair at the crown, jerking him upright. "Don’t be stupid. She’s only a broad. You tell us where she is, you wake up in your own bed tomorrow morning like nothing happened." If the cop had any brains he’d see the light, but Monk sincerely doubted the cop’s good sense.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," came the answer in a low, sluggish voice. Monk flung Hutch’s head aside in disgust and strode from the room. Coney stood to the side, flexed his arm, and then nodded to Morrisey, deciding to hand off to him. If this cop wanted to learn the hard way, fine. In the end they all broke.

A fist landed in Hutch’s gut, his breath flying from him in a woosh. He tried to curl around the pain, but the restraints prevented it. “Guess what, pal. I’m the new guy up to bat. That way we don’t ever let up, capisce? You’re gonna tell us what we want to know.” Hutch jerked away from the voice breathing in his ear. He’d heard it in the room earlier, but this was the first time it addressed him. This voice made him afraid. It held an edge of excitement. It liked hurting him.

There was a pause, then another blow to the face. Hutch’s ears rang, and the copper blood washed over his mouth. “Bastard,” he muttered, and regretted it immediately.

The fists smashed into Hutch’s face over and over, until there was nothing left in the world but pain, piling on top of itself in crashing waves. He tried to push the fear aside, trying to prepare himself for the next blow, and the next and the next. He knew what he was facing, but it didn’t matter. He’d never betray Jeannie.

So he thought.

----------

Horse swirled in the spoon, cooked over candle-flame. Hoping to catch their prisoner by surprise, the three men were quiet, the only noise the clink of the spoon laid upon the wooden table. The dirty brown liquid was suctioned up from the spoon to fill the needle. Coney’s finger tapped the barrel of the hypo, knocking any air bubbles to the surface, then sprayed a small amount of the stuff from the tip before handing the hypo to Monk.

Hutch’s eyes opened. Where—? The blindfold was still on, and he saw nothing but blackness. Everything hurt. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. Someone grabbed his left arm up and outwards, yanking at the shirtsleeve. He looked up in a stupor, beginning to remember, realizing his hands were no longer tied. An elbow wedged beneath his chin, forcing his head to the right. He couldn’t move, his other arm held securely by the man who took so much pleasure in beating him. Monk snapped a rubber tourniquet over Hutch’s arm and the detective finally came alert, panicking. Morrisey yanked Hutch’s head backwards viciously so that he couldn’t struggle.

“You got one more chance, where is she?” asked Monk. He didn’t expect an answer.

Hutch’s body tensed, the chords of his throat straining in sharp relief. “Stuff it!” he rasped. Monk shrugged, unsurprised. He didn’t like any of this. Too risky, messing with a cop. But Ben Forest was obsessed with finding Jeanie, and nothing was going to stand in his way. In Monk’s opinion, allowing a woman to overcome good business sense was the mistake of a rank amateur, and it should have been beneath Ben Forest. But what Monk thought didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

Monk leaned over Hutch and inserted the needle in a vein. Hutch opened his mouth, gasping, body arching out from the chair as the smack entered his veins and fled deeper. He froze in place. Slowly, slowly the muscles in his neck relaxed. His mouth slackened, warmth flushing through his body. His head rolled back and his limbs grew heavy.

“There you go, cop, “ said Monk, the word sounding like a curse. “First mile in a long, long trip.” His blue eyes stared contemptuously at Hutch’s sagging body. “The minute he starts to come down, call me. I want him flying high,” Monk directed the two men.

----------

Starsky picked up his date, a petite girl with honey-brown hair named Cassandra, and they headed out for the movies. Double creature-feature. The fact that Cassandra was up for monster movies shot his opinion of her skyward. Nothing like a girl who enjoyed being scared at a drive-in. It had all the makings of a great date. And it had been years since he made out in a car.

Now he just couldn’t see Jeanie enjoying a creature feature. But then, he couldn’t imagine Hutch enjoying it, either. He knew just what Hutch would say, as a matter of fact. Okay, actually, he and Hutch had discussed monster movies before, and Blondie informed him that he wasn’t interested in babysitting Starsk after he saw one of those things.

Like he ever had to, Starsky thought. Where did the guy get these ideas? Well, okay. Maybe after that vampire flick six months ago. But that was different. It was a really really scary movie. ‘Sides that, after the movie Hutch had jumped out at him from a dark corner, yelling, then laughed when Starsky jumped out of his skin. The man was a nut.

Hey, maybe if he got scared this time, Cassandra could babysit. Starsky’s smile was a bit lecherous.

His partner had fallen big-time for Jeanie, and no wonder. She was definitely Hutch’s type, though Starsky sometimes thought privately that Hutch’s ‘type’ wasn’t exactly conducive to lasting relationships. The big turkey. He grinned, knowing that Hutch was going to come back to work so tired he’d be worthless. The price to pay for screwing yourself blind over a long weekend.

Wished he could be as lucky.

Who knows? Maybe he would be, he thought, and smiled again. Cassy smiled back.

----------

No, no. God. Not again. I…gimme some time. Hutch felt the presence of the men in the room. His instincts told him they were watching, gauging his trip, whether or not it was safe to dose him again. He was high, always high, but there came a time when he came off the euphoria and began to notice his surroundings, and somehow Monk knew, even when he tried to fake it. Then they’d shove another needle in his arm.

Sometimes he dreamed about needles, bristling from his body in a hundred different places at once, shooting him up for one last hellacious ride, up and away, never coming back. He’d wake up, making panicky noises deep in his throat.

He never had a chance to think. His mind, his strength and willpower flew high above him, losing touch, disappearing somewhere up in the clouds. Sometimes he forgot why he was here, or what started all this.

Worse than anything else was how bad he wanted the needle. It was a death sentence, but the part of him that cared about that little fact was also disappearing. So you’re just gonna lie here and let them finish you? he thought, trying to make himself move, react, but his mind was white noise and everything slipped away. He drifted.

Hutch, came a voice, sometime later. It whispered in his ear. His eyelids dragged open. What the hell are you doing? Givin’ up?

Starsk? Hutch struggled to sit up, full of wild hope, and surprised himself when he made it.

That’s it. Get up.

Coney stood, dropping the magazine onto the floor. “Time for your medicine, big guy?” Hutch didn’t even look his way. He was listening.

Up. You can do it. I got faith in you, buddy. Hutch leaned with his hands on the mattress and pushed up to stand, swaying, his hands still tied loosely before him. Coney watched with an amused smile, then walked over in front of Hutch.

Now. C’mon, now!

Hutch swung his fists around together, slamming a roundhouse into Coney’s jaw. Coney fell, a look of shocked surprise on his face. Hutch nearly fell with him, but grabbed the bedpost to steady himself.

Now find a way out. Something, damnit! There’s gotta be a way out of here! Hutch lurched towards the bathroom.

Morrisey walked in the room. His eyes widened. Coney was rising from the floor and the cop was nowhere in sight. “In there!” Coney yelled, gesturing at the bathroom door, running for it, but Morrisey was already there.

Unbelievable. The cop was halfway out the window. Morrisey grabbed his long legs and pulled, dragging the suddenly dead weight back in, towards the bedroom.

Teeth sank into his arm, right above the crook of his elbow. Morrisey’s back stiffened in shock. He howled, letting go of Hutch with one hand, slapping at him, and nearly dropped the son of a bitch in the process. The bastard just sank his teeth in deeper.

Then Coney was there, wedging the cop’s mouth open with considerable difficulty, forcing him off Morrisey’s arm. The crazy cop smiled. His teeth were red. “Goddammit!” Morrisey shrieked, stumbling away, nearly weeping. Coney slammed the cop’s head against the bedpost. He went down like a felled tree.

Morrisey turned back, full of rage, drawing his foot backwards, ready to kick the cop’s brains out of his ears and splash them all over the carpet. Coney grabbed his arm, a strange expression on his face. “What what what??” Morrisey yelled.

“Settle down. I told you, he’s a tough monkey. You got a job to do. Get back to it.”

“What the hell was that?” Morrisey asked, unnerved and furious. He swore, staring at the imprint of teeth in his arm, bleeding dashes gouged in the shape of an oval. It needed disinfecting and quick.

“Never seen anything like it,” Coney murmured, looking down at Hutch. Morrisey glanced at him, and suddenly knew what the look on Coney’s face was.

Admiration.

----------

Judging the amount of juice to feed their captive was a delicate job—if they OD’d him, Mr. Forest would kill them all. Literally. But Monk was forced to up the cop’s dosage after yesterday’s performance when the asshole went rabid.

The needle bit into Hutch’s arm again. Warmth radiated through him. It felt so good. His body, his breathing... expanded. No more barriers, just the limitless horizons of the mind. It didn’t matter that he wore the same clothes for three days, stained with sweat and blood. Didn’t matter his face was so swollen as to be nearly unrecognizable, or that it hurt to move, or that his torso was laced with deep blue-purple bruises the color of pain, stark against pale skin. All that mattered to Hutch, as they lowered him onto the bed, was that he could fly.

Morrisey stood over the prone man and took a deep drag from his cigarette. He was alone with the cop, and the place was silent. Morrisey leaned over Hutch. “Dream while you can,” he whispered. “Real soon all you’ll have left are nightmares.” He chuckled at his own wit and sat down on the bed. Extending the cigarette, Morrisey tapped ashes over the detective’s chest. Hutch was oblivious.

The detective they’d kidnapped was nearly gone. All Hutch’s fear, the bravado, the determination... disappeared. He tried to think of something, anything that might help him get out of here, but most of the time he barely knew his name. Hard to plan an escape when you were stoned. Hard to care. Jeanie, Starsky... his lover and his best friend, both pleasant memories, but removed. Everything came in a distant second behind the euphoria singing in his body from the end of a needle.

An idea occurred to Morrisey and he grinned again, jerking the hem of Hutch’s shirt upwards. Morrisey took a last, long drag and exhaled, smoke streaming from his nose. Calmly and deliberately he placed the burning tip of the cigarette on Hutch’s bare stomach.

Sweat popped out on Hutch’s forehead and he twitched like a horse shaking off a fly. Morrisey leaned closer, absorbed, leaning on the supine form as skin crackled around the fading ember. Hutch moaned softly, eyebrows knitting. The heavy smell of singed flesh rose in the room.

Morrisey removed the blackened butt from Hutch’s skin. A small, dark circle with bright red edges swelled on the flat stomach. He stared at the wound, his eyes strangely like his captive’s, focused inward. He put his finger on the weeping circle of flesh and pressed deeply.

A soft, hurt sound came from Hutch, and he opened his eyes, the pupils mere pinpricks. He looked around as if blind, gradually blinking into focus the form leaning over him. Morrisey watched the detective without expression, his finger still digging in Hutch’s wound. “It hurts,” Hutch whispered. He twisted, trying to get away, and fumbled with Morrisey’s hand.

Morrisey smiled. “We’re gonna have some fun together,” he said low, patting the cop’s hand with his free one. “Watch and see.” The smile turned into something sinister. “Did you really think you could get away from us? Think sinking your teeth into me was worth this?” and he jabbed his finger at the burned flesh again. Hutch moaned. Blue eyes stared up at their captor, uncomprehending, then fled behind closed eyelids.

----------

Where the hell are Monk and Coney, wondered Morrisey later. They’d been gone for hours.

Morrisey was fairly new on the job, here because he was sadistic bastard who could perform almost any task required without hesitation. It just didn’t get too nasty for him. And he was also here because he was Monk’s cousin, twice removed, and the mob utilized family.

The cop’s legs were trembling. He made a strangled moaning sound, down deep. Morrisey watched him, not saying anything. The asshole was clearly in need –agitated and shivering, goose bumps standing out on his skin. They weren’t supposed to let Hutch come down, but Monk was in charge; he would decide when to cut the cop off from his junk, he’d supervise the withdrawal, and when the time was right, he’d call Mr. Forest in. Monk wasn’t here, so Detective Kenneth Hutchinson, one of Bay City’s finest, was coming down cold turkey. Morrisey smirked at the thought.

It was kind of funny, because earlier Morrisey thought Monk had maybe OD’d their captive. While he waited on the others to return, Morrisey had burned a couple more holes in the man, but Hutch never reacted after the first time. How much high-grade smack could the human body withstand in such a short time? Apparently plenty. More than Morrisey would have guessed.

Yeah, he thought maybe the cop was going bye-bye from an over-dose, all right, just this morning. Now look at him.

“I—I need—” said Hutch, mumbling. Morrisey watched the dirty, disheveled form leaning against the headboard of the bed, eyes threaded bright red. His pupils were enlarged, and his fingers drummed restlessly on his jumping leg.

“Yeah, yah. They’ll be back soon, and you’ll be on Cloud 9 again,” said Morrisey. “Just shut up, willya?”

Skag was infamous for quick addiction, the craving for more of the drug coming back to bite you in the ass within hours of the last dose. Fucking junkies, Morrisey thought. He watched the cop closely, finally deciding he’d better tie him up again, after what happened yesterday. He walked over to the bed. “Get up,” he said. Hutch didn’t move, and Morrisey slapped his face. “I said up!”

“GET YOUR GODDAMNED HANDS OFF ME!” Hutch screamed. He kicked at Morrisey, who moved back just in time. The thug’s first inclination was to beat the shit out of Mr. Detective. But not until he was safely tied.

“You want some juice, pig, or you want to sit there and burn up inside?” Morrisey asked, modulating his voice with effort. “Get your ass up.”

Hutch stilled and looked up at his torturer for a long moment. Morrisey didn’t move a muscle, just met his eyes. I got what you need and you know it. Defeated, Hutch pushed himself out of the bed. Morrisey smiled and led him to the hated chair. As soon as Hutch was secure, Morrisey slammed him a few good blows. The cop’s eyes shouted his hatred, but Morrisey kept hitting ‘till those baby blues closed.

Tires crunched on the gravel outside, and then came the sound of car doors slamming shut. The front door opened. “What’s he doing in the chair?” asked Coney as he entered the room. He ran his hand through his hair, slicking it back.

“He’s strung out. I had to tie him. Where’ve you been? He’s coming down fast.”

“We checked out Hutchinson’s apartment again,” said Coney.

“Any luck?”

“Yeah. All of it bad. That partner of his was there. We waited until he cleared out, then searched the place.”

“And?” prompted Morrisey.

“And we got nothing,” Coney answered. “Then we’re on the freeway back here and got behind an accident. Traffic at a stand-still, a damned nightmare.”

Monk bent over Hutch, whose face was swelling again. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Had to show him who’s boss, that’s all,” answered Morrisey, and Monk’s eyes narrowed.

“You watch what the hell you’re doing. This is a job, not playtime. You don’t do anything unless you’re told,” Monk warned. It pissed Morrisey off, but he nodded.

He sincerely hoped, when the time came, that he ‘d be the one to kill this cop.

----------

Monk took off his jacket, revealing a blue vest and shirt, white tie. He didn’t want the jacket to get dirty while he worked on Hutchinson.

“You lousy creeps,” Hutch said, while Morrisey pulled up his shirtsleeve.

Monk tightened the tourniquet. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, looking over Hutch’s arm. At least they didn’t have to hold the cop down anymore. More like they had to hold him up. He’d been flying high since yesterday—by the time Monk had gotten the needle in his vein then, the cop was ready to kiss him. But today he was showing a little backbone.

“I’m not gonna tell you anything,” Hutch swore, his voice slurred. He sounded like a resentful child, but it was the only resistance he could offer.

“I can’t find a vein!” Monk said, exasperated. He thwacked Hutch’s arm with his fingers to encourage a blood vessel to rise. “There we go.” The cop made a sound somewhere between a sob and a sigh as the smack started to circulate. Morrisey slapped his cheeks in a jovial manner, then released Hutch to slump across the end of the bed.

The cop groaned in stoner bliss, and Coney laughed. “Look at him, he took to that stuff like a baby to a bottle.” He bent over Hutch and slapped his cheeks playfully. “Hey, come on baby, wanna tell us where little mommy is, huh?” He slapped him again, not hard, just rattling the cage.

“It’s when he doesn’t get it, is when he’ll talk,” said Monk, staring down at the helpless figure on the bed. He used a flashlight to peer into Hutch’s eyes. The pupils were small and reacted very little. The cop blinked, but didn’t move.

“I figure another day oughta do it,” said Monk, satisfaction in his voice.

----------

Starsky gave in to the nagging voice of worry and headed over to his partner’s house after Hutch hadn’t shown for work. He walked in and it was strange, like he could smell it in the air. Something was wrong.

He wandered through the house, letting the familiar sensory inputs sink into his brain. He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly –maybe just something to confirm his gut instinct.

Hutch’s jacket on the bed. Sun coming in through the window. He opened the closet door, Hutch’s gun and holster swinging out and banging against it. Everything slowed and stilled around Starsky for a moment before all the alarm bells in his head rose to a shriek.

He drove like a maniac to the police station and Captain Dobey.

----------

“Hutch doesn’t visit his mother without his gun,” Starsky said hotly to Dobey. The Captain took Hutch’s disappearance with a grain of salt, figuring he was playing hooky with his new lady. A second look at Starsky convinced him otherwise—his whole body thrummed with leashed tension.

“Settle down, Starsky. What do you want to do about it?” Dobey asked, his chocolate eyes watchful. He trusted this man’s instincts, with good reason.

“Missing persons,” Starsky answered with no hesitation.

“That’s a missing officer.”

“No, I mean missing partner,” answered Starsky. His blue eyes blazed with the need to do something, anything. Captain Dobey considered him for a long moment, then picked up the phone and put out an APB on Starsky’s partner.

Hutch’s girlfriend, Jeanie Walden, had disappeared too. How long has he been gone—days? thought Starsky. And he’d done nothing, known nothing, while his partner was in trouble. He could be dead for all I know. Where were my instincts then?

His own thoughts accused him until he couldn’t sit still. Quickly he stood, almost knocking over the chair, and headed out on the streets.

Somebody had to know something. He was gonna find that somebody.

----------

The bedroom was dim. Hutch perched on the high-backed chair, leaning his arms and head over the back. He was a mess—dirty, sweaty, bruised, a black eye. Monk held a flashlight and pointed it at him. He didn’t react, comprehending of little except the need gnawing from inside.

Behind Monk stood his boss—Ben Forest, dark, hawk-faced. Morrisey stood against the wall behind Hutch, Coney to the side.

“Hey, cop,” said Forest, “what’s your name?”

Cop? thought Hutch, muzzily. No cop here. Not anymore. He played restlessly with the rope still around his wrist. “Gimme some help. Smhelp,” he slurred, red eyes looking up to where the voice came from. Monk stared at him, transfixed.

Forest slapped Hutch’s face, hard. “What’s your name?” he asked, steel in his voice.

“HUTCHINSON! What’s yours, you lousy creep,” he snapped, but what was supposedly a display of bravado faded to misery before it finished leaving his mouth. He rubbed the crook of his arm, riddled with needle tracks, visible even in the darkened room. “Gimme some help?” he muttered again.

Monk stood in front of his boss, keeping the flashlight trained on the cop. Forest laughed, shaking his head. “That’s fantastic, what a little change in body chemistry can do.”

Monk watched the detective. His mouth twitched. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but the shit was getting to him. This wasn’t the same man they’d kidnapped just a few days ago. Hell, he wasn’t even a man anymore, just a car accident you couldn’t drag your eyes from.

Hutch listened to Forest talk about him as if he were a science experiment. He found a moment’s pride and turned away, eyes sullen. “Get out of here. Get out of here and leave me alone,” he said, mouth tightening. His voice was thick, boggy. Couldn’t clear his throat.

“Sure, baby,” Forest replied, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “We’ll get out of here.” Monk turned off the flashlight and they both turned to go.

Eyes flaring wide, Hutch pushed the chair aside, slid quickly to the floor and crawled after them like a man possessed. “Don’t go, you gotta help me.” He grabbed Forest’s legs and held on.

Forest grabbed Hutch and flung him away. “Where’s Jeanie Walden? Huh? Where’s Jeanie Walden?” Hutch crawled back to him. Forest pinned him to the ground, wanting to grind this bastard’s face into a pulp. The piece of shit thought he could do anything he wanted because he was a cop.

Hutch saw the look on Forest’s face and huddled away from it, then reached out again, desperate. Oh God he needed help. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t live until he got some help.

“Jeanie Walden, what’d you do with her? Jeanie Walden, where is she?” Forest asked again. The cop was so fucked up it was like talking to an idiot.

Hutch lay on the floor, panting shallow breaths through his mouth. Fascinated, repulsed, Monk looked at the cop and thought about the man they’d beaten and starved for days, who still managed to bust Coney in the chops and very nearly escape. That man was gone, buried alive beneath the addiction. This man was about to sell Jeanie out for another hit of smack.

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Hutch said miserably. Everything hurt and he was losing his mind to the need tearing his body apart, this fire in the veins. Nothing else mattered.

“You think you’re bad now, sucker—in a couple of hours, you’re gonna be banging your head on the floor,” Forest said, and grabbed the cop’s arm and hit him, saying the magic name once again, the one he obsessed over day and night: “Jeanie Walden.”

“I.. I don’t know where.” Just a dream. All a bad dream, Hutch. It doesn’t matter what you say. “The... the beach,” he said, mumbling.

Forest hit the cop, keeping his attention. He was close. So close. “What beach?” The cop mumbled again, and Forest blinked back a violent urge to crack the skull of this pig in two. Nobody took something from Ben Forest until he was ready to let it go. Nobody.

“What beach, where’d you take her?” Forest slammed his fist into the cop, who huddled up more.

“Seaview. Seaview Point... Point,” Hutch said, repeating it, as if just figuring it out himself.

“Seaview Point,” said Forest. He snarled at Hutch, slapping him with all his force behind it. Hutch flinched backwards and Forest stood up.

“Don’t go.” Hutch was all reaction now, no real ability to reason. Climbing to his knees, he reached for the two men. Forest slung his arms away, throwing him backwards, disgust for the shambles of what had once been a man written plainly over his features.

“DON’T LEAVE ME!” Hutch screamed after him. He sank to the floor as the door closed, and stayed there. Nowhere to go. No way out. Starsky’s face flashed through his mind. My partner.

No, no partner. Couldn’t have a partner when he wasn’t a cop, and the cop he used to be was dead.

Long live the junkie.

----------

It was a nightmare. Or Starsky wished it were a nightmare. Everywhere he looked, everyone he asked, or threatened, gave him nothing. Zilch. The hours kept ticking down and he was no closer to finding Hutch. Starsky was very conscious of that ticking sound –the longer it went on, the bigger the odds against him.

He shrugged off the fear impatiently. Keep looking. Whatever was going down was either very secret or people were scared of someone else more than of him. But even Huggy had nothing to give him.

He went to Mickey the stoolie. The old drunk would sell his soul for a drink. But Mickey had nothing, not even when Starsky offered him enough money to keep him in booze for a month.

Dammit Hutch, where are you?

----------

A willowy blond walked into the bedroom where Hutch lay. Jeanie knew Hutch would never have willingly betrayed her, and all the pieces clicked into place when she saw him propped up against the headboard stoned out of his mind, staring as if rapt at the rope still loosely wrapped around his wrists. His face was luridly colored, features swollen, his suffering so apparent that for a moment her mind tried to backpedal into denial.

“Hutch… oh my God.” She sank down beside him on the bed and ran her hands over his chest and face, petting and holding him, trying to absorb the shock of what had happened.

“Whoops, somebody must have tied me up,” Hutch said, his voice slow and removed. Jeanie, his mind registered. Nice.

Jeanie half smiled, half sobbed, and unwound the rope. “You gonna untie me?” asked Hutch.

“Oh Hutch, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said. She couldn’t stop running her hands over his skin, touching him, making sure he was real. This was all her fault. She should have known she couldn’t escape her past. Jeanie cradled Hutch’s head in her arms, willing him to know she never meant for him to get hurt.

Hutch just smiled. He had only the vaguest notion that Jeanie was upset.

“All right baby, that’s enough,” came Forest’s voice from the doorway. Jeanie didn’t even look at him, her eyes glued to Hutch’s face.

“You let him go,” she said.

“Sure baby, didn’t I promise you? It’ll be just like old times. He’ll stay alive,” said Forest, his dark face bland.

“You let him go!” Now she did look at him, afraid. Forest nodded, assuring her.

“Beautiful,” murmured Hutch, and Jeanie sobbed again at the sound of that far-away voice. She stood and walked towards Forest, her face wiped magically clean of expression. “I’ll be anything you want,’ she said to Forest. Just please let him live, she added silently, and walked through the doorway. Forest followed her into the living room.

Monk and his cronies were there, and Forest met Monk’s eyes, exchanging a long look with his right-hand man. Then he and his newly reclaimed prized possession walked out the front door.

Monk waited in silence for the sound of their car to recede. “Let’s get this over with.” Morrisey went after the cop in the bedroom.

Monk came out the door first, scouting the area for anyone out and about. Coney came next, then Morrisey, almost carrying the sagging cop. The day was bright and clear. It made Monk nervous –he preferred the dark for the job they had to do.

“He ain’t gonna know what hit him, even when he hits the water,” Coney observed. The cop was higher than a kite. Monk opened the driver’s side door of the maroon LTD.

“Get in,” said Monk, waving Coney to the passenger side. His voice was somber, preoccupied.

“What’s the matter, Monk? It ain’t like we never iced nobody before,” asked Coney, moving to the opposite side of the car.

“We never killed a cop,” Monk said, his voice growing angry. He couldn’t shake a sense of foreboding. From day one, this operation had been a mistake, but he’d never been able to get that through to Forest. Ben had tunnel vision when it came to Jeanie.

Morrisey pushed Hutch before him, the detective’s body slamming bonelessly into the side of the car. Morrisey stuffed him into the back seat, then slid in beside him.

----------

“If you take Ninth, you can hit the freeway to the harbor,” Coney said, glancing over at Monk.

“I’ll drive, you just keep your eye on him,” Monk replied, jerking his thumb back at the cop.

Coney craned his neck to look at Hutch who lay in the back seat, staring off into nothing. He snorted. “Like a baby.” Morrisey slouched down in his seat. This was gonna be too easy. He’d have preferred something a little more drawn out. Fun.

“What do you figure, Monk?” asked Coney.

Hutch heard the question, but it faded. He remembered that Jeanie came to see him. She was… upset? And now they were taking him somewhere.

They always did one of two things to him. They got him high, or they hurt him.

He was already high.

“Off the point, the water’s deep. Current oughta carry that body out about two hundred miles,” Monk answered.

Hutch heard the words, floating from over the front seat. …water… body…. When he was a cop, they called it a ‘body’ when someone got killed. No longer a person. A body.

“By then he oughta be shark’s bait.”

Blue eyes stared glassily at the back of the car seat. Shark’s bait? He turned the phrase over in his mind. Morrisey stared out the window, ignoring him.

Fueled by sudden panic, Hutch picked up his foot and slammed it into Morrisey’s face, which smashed against the window. Monk threw the steering wheel sharply to the right and slammed on the brakes, the car coming to a stop. Hutch threw the back door open, Coney’s fingers stretching out behind him, grabbing only air.

Run run— Hutch ran down the sidewalk behind the car and into something. Someone.