As always, thanks to Theresa and Kassidy!  This one spilled out of me in four days while I was sick with a bad cold (what else is there to do when you’re wretchedly ill except wring sympathy from your husband, suffer melodramatically while sniffling and sneezing, and write S&H fanfic?).  One thing I learned - - never write a story when you’re sick! Between the file mishaps and two little blunders I won’t mention here, I realized my mind was mostly in a fog.  Fortunately I have a beta reader who knows what I mean even when I don’t!  Hope you enjoy.

 

 

 

 

It was a strange feeling - - being on top of the world, exhausted, exhilarated and terrified at the same time.  Starsky couldn’t remember ever feeling such a complex snarl of emotion before, but he was too tired, and ultimately, too relieved to sort it out.  If he’d had a shred of energy left, he would have done cartwheels from the airport terminal to his Torino, safely parked clear of the busy white tow zone.  As it was, all he could do was grin at his friend as Hutch rambled on about tracking down an obscure Russian province and living until he was 100+.

 

Starsky didn’t care about Azerbaijan or even the exceptional life expectancy rate of its inhabitants.  All he cared about was the semi-healthy man at his side.  “Healthy,” because Hutch had survived the plague.  “Semi,” because the road to complete recovery wouldn’t be without a few bumps along the way.  Hutch was too ensconced on a euphoric high to think rationally right now, but Starsky knew once the initial elation wore off, the reality of recovering from a potentially fatal disease would set in.  Hutch might have gotten a vaccine from Callendar’s blood in the nick of time, but as extraordinary as the remedy was, it didn’t amount to a miracle cure. 

 

Starsky had gotten a shot himself just in case his brief exposure to Hutch in the isolation ward had put him at risk.  Most of the city was being inoculated, the vaccine administered at varying medical posts including hospitals, churches and schools.  For the last week, police, emergency personnel and news media had worked side-by-side, tirelessly ensuring that everyone was aware of the vaccination stations.  What might have been cause for a major citywide panic had been reduced to an interesting footnote, briefly addressed with the day’s lunchtime gossip.

 

Starsky was grateful Bay City had been spared the epidemic, but more than that, he was exceedingly thankful Hutch was alive. It would take awhile for the nightmares to recede - - visions of his friend, sweat-soaked and shivering, gasping for breath in an oxygen tent . . . his own frantic pulse-pounding search to find Callendar as precious seconds ticked away.  Even now those garish images had a way of reaching out and twisting his gut when he least expected it.  He could be listening to Hutch joke and ramble on about National Geographic’s account of Azerbaijan, when suddenly the hideous memories were plastered on the inside of his mind.  At times like that he couldn’t keep his hand from straying, briefly touching Hutch’s sleeve or collar just to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming . . . that Hutch, beautiful as a vision of light and whiteness, really was walking by his side, grinning enthusiastically as if seeing the world for the first time.

 

And perhaps in a way he was.  Second chances, rebirth.  If Starsky were a philosophical man he might have delved into the cryptic mystery behind Hutch’s recovery.  But he’d always been pragmatic, and in the end, it simply came down to an international assassin looking for a free ride out of the country.  Maybe Callendar had redeemed himself in some small way, but to Starsky, a reformed killer was just a killer with a belated streak of conscience.  One that usually kicked in when it was most beneficial and convenient.

 

Even that didn’t matter.  He would have kissed Callendar’s feet to save Hutch’s life.  Putting him on a plane and shipping him overseas was almost too easy, a miniscule price to pay.  It was harder trying to quell his own shaking heart when he realized Hutch was going to live.  When the isolation ward no longer represented death and the revolting oxygen tent came down.  He’d grinned like an idiot, choked back a few tears, then stumbled into the nearest bathroom and spewed his guts. 

 

Afterward, when he could think clearly again, he’d consulted with Dr. Judith Kauffman, getting the full details on what to expect during Hutch’s recovery.  She’d warned him his partner would likely experience a number of setbacks along the way as his body struggled to repair itself.  Extreme fatigue, shortness of breath, low grade fever, coughing spasms, even bouts of nausea and vomiting could all be expected.  Hutch had listened to the warnings as well but had been too elated by his progress to give them more than a passing acknowledgement.  Dr. Meredith had written him three prescriptions (which the hospital pharmacy promptly filled), but Starsky had a strong suspicion they were still untouched.  Hutch and medication were about as compatible as oil and water ever since his involuntary addiction to heroin.  Starsky knew he was going to have to do some serious arm twisting to get his stubborn partner to even look at the pills, let alone swallow them. 

 

Now as they walked from the airport terminal to the parking lot after seeing Judith to her flight, Starsky found all he wanted to do was get Hutch safely home and tucked into bed.  Everything around them was suddenly a potential hazard to his still-healing friend . . . airborne germs, infectious elements, random contact with anything or anyone.  What was to stop another Callendar from contaminating Hutch, this time permanently?  He knew he was being silly, but couldn’t stop his protective instinct from kicking into high gear.

 

Hutch sprinted the last couple feet to the Torino and yanked open the passenger’s door.  “Hey, Starsk. You think if Judith had stayed, she and I might have . . .”  He grinned, his smile a blinding flash of white, laden with naturally magnetic charm.  “You know . . .”

 

“I think you’d have found yourself comin’ up short in the home stretch, Blondie.”  If Starsky had been a woman that smile would have sent his heart racing, no two ways about it.  Instead it got under his skin, made him feel light-headed and giddy.  “There’s a reason she went back to Alabama, and I think it had a lot to do with givin’ you a chance to recover.”

 

Hutch waved off the explanation as he slid into the car.  “I’m already recovered, Starsk, and I’m far from impaired, if that’s what you’re trying to say.”

 

“Well, I’m no doctor . . .”  Starsky slid in beside him.  He cranked the ignition and the car rumbled obediently to life.  The motor purred, sending a subtle vibration through the frame like an undercurrent of leashed energy. “It seems to me the only thing you should be doin’ between the sheets - - at least for awhile, Romeo - -” Starsky sent him a pointed glance.  “Is sleepin’.”

 

“You’ve got a one track mind, you know that?”  Hutch rolled down the window, propping his arm on the door as Starsky backed out of the parking stall.  Fresh air rushed into the car, pleasantly warm, faintly perfumed by the Torino’s exhaust fumes.  “Judith isn’t the kind of woman you just tumble into bed.  She’s intelligent, sophisticated and elegant.  She needs romancing.  And I don’t mean dinner and a movie followed by a cheap bottle of wine.”

 

“Which you can just forget anyway,” Starsky inserted as he eased the car into the flow of traffic.  “Because it ain’t gonna happen.”  He flashed his partner a toothy smile.  “Hate to break it to you, Hutchinson, but I’m your one and only for the next couple of days.  Dobey’s marked you off through the end of the month - - that’s a good two weeks out.  Plenty of time for you to buy me dinner and take me to a movie.”  He winked, his grin growing exaggerated. “If you’re decent to me I’ll even let you skip the wine and buy me a beer, but none of that cheap domestic stuff.  Maybe I ain’t elegant,” he pointed his nose in the air.  “But I got standards too.”

 

“Wouldn’t know it driving around in this striped tomato,” Hutch mumbled.  He leaned back in the seat, clearly comfortable.  “Where are you taking me anyway?”

 

“Where d’ya think, dummy?  Home.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “It’s early, Starsk.  I don’t want to go home yet.”

 

“I don’t remember puttin’ it out for a committee vote.”  Starsky braked at a red light and reached for his sunglasses.  Hutch was right - - it was early, just a little after 2:00 in the afternoon, the sun dancing off the hood of his car with diamondine brilliance.   The streets teemed with strings of stop-and-go traffic - - cars, buses and taxis, all made chrome-bright and dazzling beneath a white metallic sun.  Bicycles and pedestrians crossed intersections with carefree ease, seemingly unaware that just a week before, the city had been close to destruction.  

 

Mentally putting his foot down, Starsky rubbed the bridge of his nose, butting his sunglasses higher in the process.  “Judith and Meredith both said you should get a lot of rest, Hutch.  Best thing you can do right now is go home and go to bed.”

 

“I’d rather do that.”  Hutch pointed across the street.

 

Starsky followed the direction of his finger, gaping when it resulted in an actual source.  “Bowlin’?” he asked incredulously.

 

Hutch shrugged.  “Why not?”

 

“Because, dummy. It’s not the first thing most people do when they get out of the hospital after nearly dyin’.”

 

“Don’t be so melodramatic.  I want to go bowling.  You can switch lanes when the light changes.”

 

“Hutch, I am not takin’ you bowlin’.”  From the corner of his eye Starsky saw the light cycle to green.

 

“Fine.  I’ll go myself.”  Hutch popped the door, readying to step from the car.  He had one leg outside when Starsky clamped a hand on his wrist.  Behind them a horn blared, loudly protesting the delay.  Within seconds another joined in, creating a clamoring screech.  

 

“Stuff it!” Starsky yelled over his shoulder to the impatient drivers behind him.  His gaze swiveled back to his ridiculously unreasonable partner. “All right, already, I’ll take you bowlin’.  Just get your overeager ass back in the car, will ya?”

 

Hutch closed the door and grinned.  “Want me to go tell off those jerks behind us?”

 

Starsky pressed down on the gas, cutting across lanes as soon as he was clear of the light.  “I’m more worried about the jerk beside me.”  He leaned forward to get a clear view of the driver’s side before spinning the wheel and banking the heavy car up a slanted cement ramp into the parking lot.  Quickly killing the ignition, he shifted sideways to face his friend, left arm draped over the steering wheel. “Come on, Hutch - - bowlin’?   Why now?” 

 

“Why not?”  Hutch was still smiling, but the grin was no longer spontaneous.  It looked plastic, a little too staged.  There was wear around his eyes, the kind that starts creeping in when exhaustion is flirting at the edges.  He looked paler than he did at the airport, his fair hair whitened by the raw light of city sun, his complexion faintly beaded with sweat over the cheekbones. 

 

Starsky held his gaze, quietly dissecting until Hutch heaved a tired sigh and looked away.   “I just need to do something, Starsk,” he said softly.  “Anything.  I’ve been stuck in that hospital for . . .”  He gave a hollow laugh, his eyes dropping to his hands.  “Too long,” he finished quietly.  “Judith left and now you want to treat me like I’m made of glass.”  His eyes came back up, glittering and sharp, the vibrant blue of painted skies.  “I need more than that, buddy.  I need to feel normal again.”

 

Starsky wet his lips, suddenly positive he wasn’t getting the complete story.  That behind the quiet appeal for understanding lingered something deeper and darker that Hutch didn’t want to share. Yet the simplistic plea was enough for now.  Hutch was slowly coming down from the euphoric high that had carried him ever since leaving the hospital.  His life had been shattered, turned upside down by the onslaught of the plague.  It was only natural he’d want to re-establish a sense of normalcy.  And what could be more normal than bowling?

 

“Okay.”  Starsky gave a playful shove to his shoulder, hoping to lighten the suddenly bleak mood.  “We’ll go bowl a few rounds, then find something to eat.  How’s that sound?”

 

Hutch smiled easily this time.  “Like pure bliss, buddy.”

 

+++++

 

Hutch didn’t last long at the bowling alley.  Five frames into the game he started to realize he’d made a mistake as exertion took its toll.  Rather than admit his limitations, he continued anyway, unwilling to look foolish or weak in front of his partner after making such a fuss.  But after the eighth frame he couldn't maintain the charade and had to sit to catch his breath, wheezing in air like it was abruptly precious.  Seconds later he was seized by a coughing jag so fierce it left his eyes tearing and his chest screaming under the pressure.  Starsky somehow managed to get him out of the bowling alley and into the car where he curled sideways on the seat, facing his friend. 

 

Wordlessly, Starsky slid behind the wheel and started the ignition.

 

“You’re pissed aren’t you?”  Hutch asked wearily, his voice no more than a faint thread.  The coughing spell had depleted his strength, leaving his throat dry and sore.  He swallowed, trying to gather more saliva.  His cheek was pressed against the soft leather seat, its pungent scent filling his nostrils, making him wish he could sink into it like a bed.  He was tired, his ribs tender from the coughing jag, his lungs aching for air.  Worse was the emptiness he felt inside, like everything around him was glittery and gold on the surface but hollow and dark within. It made him feel sad without understanding why. 

 

And now Starsky was pissed.

 

“I’m not pissed,” Starsky said tightly, his hands locked on the wheel, eyes straight ahead.  “Irritated maybe, but not pissed.  There’s a difference.  And I ain’t mad at you anyway, just irked at myself for lettin’ you sway me with all that benevolence and buddy talk.  I shoulda just listened to my gut and taken you home when I said I was gonna.”

 

Hutch swayed slightly as the car veered into traffic.  He closed his eyes, too tired to figure out if he should apologize.  Starsky would get him home.  Starsky was the rock in his strangely turbulent world of the last week.  It actually felt good to sink into the gradual oblivion of sleep, to be lulled by the slight jostling of the vehicle, the hum of passing traffic and the familiar sounds of the city.   He hadn’t heard any of those in the oxygen tent.  All he’d heard was the frantic hammering of his heart, the painful wheeze of his laboring lungs, the near-vocal scream of cramping muscles.  He didn’t want to remember, yet if he sank too deeply the dreams would come, and with them the lingering phantom of death. 

 

He whimpered slightly, tucking his chin closer to his chest.  A warm hand slid onto the back of his neck, rubbing gently until the ugly specter departed.  He floated, never really aware if he actually slept.  Sometime later he heard the car door open and felt an insistent tug on his arm. 

 

“Come on, Hutch.  All you gotta do is shamble up the steps, buddy.”

 

The tug was unrelenting, forcing him around and out of the car.  He made his tired body obey, letting Starsky drag him up the steps and into the apartment.  The next thing he knew he was standing in his bedroom, blinking stupidly as Starsky helped him from his jacket.  Afternoon light streamed through the windows, drenching the bed in a warm buttery haze.  It made him want to curl up like a cat, soaking up the heat and toasted gold light until it chased every memory of cold from his sore body. 

 

Starsky gave him a gentle push and he collapsed to a seat on the edge of the bed, numb with fatigue. 

 

“Just a bit longer, buddy,” Starsky said kneeling in front of him, his head bent as he tugged at the laces on Hutch’s shoes. 

 

Hutch stared at the top of his head, at the thick mass of dark curls tipped with ink and ebony.  Experimentally he fingered a stray lock, watching sunlight dance on its edges. “Starsk?” 

 

“You gettin’ fresh with me, Blintz?” 

 

Hutch heard warm humor in his voice, but it got lost somewhere in grimmer memories.  He had a sudden vivid recollection of Starsky in the isolation ward, sitting on the edge of the bed, his nose and mouth obscured by a white mask, his skin waxy and gray beneath a crown of raven-dark hair.  He never should have been there . . . never should have placed his own health in jeopardy for those precious few minutes when he’d made the world a less terrifying place for Hutch.  And yet that devotion, that utter lack of self-preservation had meant eternity to Hutch.  He’d selfishly needed Starsky . . . needed to know that he wasn’t alone or forgotten.  In those bittersweet moments he’d cherished his partner as he never had before.

 

Instinctively he dropped his hand to Starsky’s shoulder, tightening his grip until his friend looked up at him. 

 

“I . . .”  The words wouldn’t come, stuck on his tongue, knotted in his gut like raw dough. He felt emotionally drained, physically battered, the world crumbling as quickly as it had been put back together.  A little exertion in the bowling alley and suddenly he was falling apart.  He couldn’t even get through a measly game without wheezing like an old man.  What if Judith and Meredith had been wrong?  What if the utter desolation he’d felt in the hospital, when he’d teetered on the threshold of death returned?  What if . . .

 

He swallowed hard.  “Starsky  . . . what if the vaccine doesn’t work?”

 

Starsky frowned, his sea blue eyes darkening to deeper navy as the implication of Hutch’s question washed over him.  “Don’t be an idiot.  Of course it’s going to work - - it already has.  Just because you feel a little tired - -”

 

“I’m exhausted,” Hutch mumbled, unsure if he was talking to himself or his friend.  He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder and let Starsky guide him back into the plump embrace of pillows on the bed.  It felt good to lie down even if it confirmed his feeling of growing weakness. 

 

“Look, buddy,” Starsky said, sitting beside him. “This is normal.  Just because you can’t get up and jog a few miles doesn’t mean the vaccine hasn’t worked.  Judith said you were gonna have some setbacks, remember?  Don’t get frustrated ‘cuz you ain’t 100%.  After all - -”  Starsky grinned and patted his arm in a clear attempt to lighten the mood.  “We can’t all be a specimen of perfection like me.”

 

The humor soared over Hutch’s head.  “They should have never let you in the isolation ward,” he said glumly.

 

Starsky scowled.  “Don’t do this, Hutch.  You’re just tired.  It’s makin’ you think crazy things.  And Meredith gave me a vaccination just in case.”

 

Hutch sighed, tucking a hand under his pillow as he rolled onto his side.  He could barely keep his eyes open any longer. He felt Starsky’s hand sweep through his bangs then settle onto his forehead as if checking for fever.  The contact steadied him, reconnected him to his partner.  A second later the bed creaked as Starsky stood.  Hutch heard him rustling around, setting something on the nightstand.  His footsteps retreated into the distance and there was a muted tinkle of glass from the kitchen.  Hutch was almost completely under, tugged into the soothing blackness of sleep when Starsky gently shook his shoulder.

 

“Hutch.  Come on, buddy.”  The prodding grew more insistent.  “You’re startin’ on a fever.  I want you to swallow these pills, then you can go back to sleep.”

 

He moaned, batting the hand aside.  “Lemme alone.”

 

“Sure, babe.”  Starsky chuckled at his slurred speech.  “As soon as you down these for me, you can play Rip Van Winkle till your little blond heart’s content.  Otherwise I’m just gonna keep proddin’ you like a side of beef.”

 

Hutch cracked an eyelid.  “Sadist.”

 

Starsky grinned.  “Learned all my tricks from you.”  He dumped the pills into Hutch’s hand, then helped him sit up and swallow a mouthful of water. 

 

Hutch tried not to cringe at the thought of the medication.  Pills didn’t send his heart into triple time the way needles did, but they weren’t without their own particular brand of revulsion.  Wearily, he sank back into the pillows, the small bit of effort it took to sit up completely sapping his strength.  He thought about telling Starsky to go home but knew his friend would never leave. And the truth of the matter was he didn’t want Starsky to leave. 

 

Maybe the vaccine really was the miracle cure, but right now he felt weak and depleted, memories of sickness and near-death cluttered close in his mind.  His world hadn’t completely stabilized, and he knew the only force that would hold it together until it finally did was Starsky.  

 

“Wanna get undressed?” his friend asked.

 

He shook his head, not wanting to expend the effort.  Any other time he would have tossed back some quip, making a joke of the question, but couldn’t even string together two concise thoughts.

 

“Okay, babe.”  He felt the stroke of warm fingers against his cheek.  Seconds later a blanket was draped over him and the seductive call of sleep grew stronger.  He slipped closer to oblivion, vaguely aware the phone started ringing in the background.

 

“I’ll get it.”  Starsky’s voice sounded far away and feather-light.  The phone cycled through two more rings before Starsky finally answered.  “Hello?  Uh, no . . . it’s Dave.  Dave Starsky, his partner.”

 

Pause. 

 

“He’s sleepin’ right now, Mrs. Hutchinson.”  A briefer pause.  “Okay . . . Adele.  No, uh . . . he’s fine . . .just got a cold is all . . . kinda run down and tired.”

 

Hutch tried to concentrate on the conversation, but the words were growing muddy and indistinct.  He was too tired to sort it out.  Too tired to wonder why his mother was calling mid-week, mid afternoon, hoping to catch him at home. 

 

“Sure, I’ll tell him,” Starsky said.

 

And then there was only the bliss and grayness of a shadow world as sleep pulled him under.

 

+++++

 

Starsky sat scrunched in the corner of the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table.  Hutch had been sleeping for close to four hours now, and he knew he really should try to throw something together for dinner.  The allure and ease of running to the pizzeria on the corner was awfully tempting, but Hutch would do better with something light in his stomach.  Judith had warned him his friend might end up nauseated, and he didn’t want to contribute to that with gooey cheese, spicy sauce and dough.  Maybe just a can of soup or some broiled chicken.

 

Groaning, he shoved from the sofa and headed for the kitchen.  He’d already watered all of Hutch’s plants, gathered his mail and newspapers and dumped them on the end table by the couch.  He’d even put away some of the odds-and-ends Hutch had left lying around before being admitted so unexpectedly to the hospital - - his guitar and a few sheets of half-composed songs, three hiking magazines (most heavily dog-eared), his brown leather jacket tossed carelessly over a chair, a bowl full of stale pine nuts that Starsky had promptly thrown in the trash, and some packets of half-used plant food. 

 

Yawning widely, he stood in front of the kitchen counter, looking out the window.  Across the street the late-day sun slipped between the buildings, streaking brick and glass with cooling eddies of pink and plum. Tiredly, he rubbed grit from his eyes.  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept for more than a few hours, nerves, adrenalin and fear propelling him into motion even when his mind and body protested.  And as loathe as he was to admit it to Hutch, he had picked up a shred of something in that isolation ward.  The vaccine was taking care of the worst of it, but his muscles ached and there was a tight knot of pressure rooted at the back of his skull.  He’d downed a few aspirin with a glass of Coke earlier, but he might as well have been popping candy for all the good it did.

 

Parting with another yawn, Starsky wedged his hands in the small of his back and stretched.  His joints popped painfully, reminding him he’d probably aged a good ten years in the last week.  He did a quick search of the kitchen and unearthed a few cans of soup that might be mild enough not to upset Hutch’s still sensitive stomach.  His own rumbled loudly, demanding something of greater substance, but devouring pizza while Hutch was stuck eating chicken-rice-and-stars just wasn’t an option.

 

He found a pot and dumped two cans of the unappetizing mess inside, shoving it onto the stove.  Maybe if he loaded his bowl with crackers it would actually feel like he was eating something instead of drinking his dinner. 

 

He heard movement behind him and turned in time to see Hutch shuffle sleepily from the bedroom.  He smiled fondly, affection for his bleary-eyed partner immediately squashing his fatigue. “Hey, Blondie - -  where ya goin’?”

 

Hutch stopped, blinking over his shoulder.  “To take a leak.  Do you mind?”

 

Starsky chuckled at his tone and stirred the soup.  “Depends.  They had you on auto-pilot in the hospital.  How do I know you’re ready for manual control?”

 

Hutch glared.  “Stuff it, Starsky.”  The bathroom door clicked forcibly shut behind him.

 

Starsky parted with a loud laugh.  It felt good to needle his friend, even better that Hutch could snap back.  His flaxen-haired partner was far from 100%, but he was slowly getting there.  Humming, he stirred the soup then scrounged two bowls from the cupboard, setting them on the table with a box of crackers.  He wasn’t looking forward to parting with the reason for Adele’s phone call, but knew he’d have to share the information eventually.  He just hoped the news wouldn’t derail Hutch’s improvement.  

 

When his friend emerged from the bathroom it was obvious he’d done some minor grooming.  He looked more alert and his disheveled hair was damp, finger combed into place.  By contrast his shirt was open, gaping on his chest, the tails hanging loose and rumpled over his pants.  When he dropped to a seat at the table, the first thing Starsky did was slide a hand onto his forehead checking for fever.

 

Hutch batted it aside. “Ease off, Starsk.  The pills did their thing.”

 

“Couldn’t knit you a new disposition in the process, huh?”  Grinning to ease the sting, Starsky pushed a bowl of soup under his nose.  “See if that makes you feel more human.”

 

Hutch picked up the spoon, swirling it briefly in the bowl.  Starsky supposed it looked like a feast to a man who’d been fed intravenously for most of the last few days.  The healthy flush of color on his friend’s cheeks made his own spirits soar higher.  Until he thought of Adele’s phone call.

 

“Uh . . . you know your mom called while you were sleepin’,” he admitted hesitantly.  How big of a deal was Ryan Carrick to Hutch anyway?  Reaching for a handful of crackers, he crumbled them into his soup, trying to appear nonchalant.

 

Hutch swallowed a mouthful of broth and rice, testing to see if his stomach would tolerate it.  “You didn’t tell her about me having the plague did you?”

 

“Course not.  I told her you were sleepin’ and that you had a cold.”  Admitting to a potentially fatal disease was entirely up to Hutch.  But knowing his friend the way he did, he doubted Hutch would ever part with the information.  “She called to tell you about someone named Ryan Carrick . . . said he was a friend of yours . . . that you grew up together.”

 

“Yeah.”  Surprised, Hutch tilted his head to the side, clearly trying to make sense of the information.  “I haven’t spoken to him in about two years.  What’d she want?  Last I heard, Ryan was teaching at some university in Washington State.”

 

“Well, he’s not there now,” Starsky said as gently as he could.  “His mother called your mom ‘cuz the police contacted her.”  He hedged, knowing there was no easy way to break the news.  As a result, he simply plodded ahead.  “His apartment was ransacked a few days ago and he’s been reported missin’.  I got the impression his mom and your mom are kinda tight.”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch nodded vacantly, plainly unsettled by the news.  “We, um . . .” He wet his lips, the soup now forgotten, his hands resting laxly on the table.  “ . . . I mean my parents . . . have a summer home in Pennsylvania where Ryan’s folks live.  My mom was born there.  When I was about ten, my dad bought this house in the mountains, and we’d spend the first half of our summer there every year.  It’s how I met Ryan.  Mom and Jenna . . . Mrs. Carrick . . . are still really close.”

 

“How ‘bout you and Ryan?”  Starsky prodded.

 

Hutch shifted.  “We stay in touch.”  Picking up the spoon, he prodded the soup again, but it was a mechanical, distracted gesture.  “A phone call here, a letter there.  Last time I saw him was about five years ago when he was in town on business.  I haven’t called him in a while.  It’s probably been about two years since we’ve talked.”

 

Starsky arched a brow.  “Growin’ apart?” he guessed.

 

“Something like that.”  Refocusing, he cleared his throat and straightened in his seat.  “So what did the police have to say - - anything?”

 

“Not according to your mom.”  Starsky hated parting with the grim news but it couldn’t be avoided.  “Just that his apartment had been ransacked.  A colleague reported him missin’ when he didn’t show up for work.  Cops found his car in front of his apartment.  Nuthin’ of value taken . . . no one heard or saw anything.  Speculation is he went on a bender, then ran off on his own.  He’d gotten engaged a month before - - did you know that?  Cops are workin’ the angle he’d made a mistake and couldn’t face up to it.”

 

“That’s bullshit.”  Annoyed, Hutch shoved from the chair and began to pace the small kitchen.  “Ryan had some faults, but being irresponsible wasn’t one of them.  If he proposed, it was the real deal and he intended to see it through. He wasn’t a guy who did things halfway, Starsk.  He was all or nothing.  The damn idiot’s been chasing the 25^th Rune ever since I’ve known him.”

 

“The what?”

 

Scowling, Hutch waved the question aside.  “Nothing.  Just some nonsense from Norse Mythology.”

 

Starsky chuckled despite his friend’s agitation.  “You tryin’ to tell me this guy is one of your Viking playmates?  ‘Carrick’ doesn’t have quite the ring ‘Hutchinson’ does.”

 

“Probably because it’s Irish.”  Hutch paced to the refrigerator, yanked open the door and retrieved a beer.  He was halfway back to the table when Starsky stood, wordlessly pulled it from his hand and exchanged it for a bottle of Coke.  Hutch looked from the fizzy brown drink to his friend, his mouth dipping in an exaggerated frown. 

 

“You ain’t ready for the big leagues yet,” Starsky reminded him.  He located a bottle opener in the nearest drawer, did the honors, then pressed the drink back into his friend’s hand. “So how does an Irish guy get interested in Viking folktales?” On the table, the soup was growing cold, but it had lost its limited appeal even for Starsky.  He was going to have to get his moody blond friend to eat something, but he’d force the issue once Hutch got past his agitation.

 

“Courtesy of my grandfather.” Heaving a sigh, Hutch raked a hand through his hair.  “When I was about thirteen, he came with us one summer to the house in Pennsylvania.  Ryan and I used to stay up late, sitting around on the rear deck, listening to Granddad talk about Norse Mythology. Ryan fell in love with the stuff, especially the idea of a 25^th Rune.”

 

“You’re gonna have to explain that one to me.” Starsky shoved the soup aside and helped himself to a cracker.  They actually weren’t too bad, even if they did stick in his throat.  Then again, maybe he was just hungry - - or starved, more like it.  Standing, he grabbed a soda from the refrigerator, then returned to the table.  Hutch was still restless, still pacing.  Starsky ate another saltine while his friend decided where to begin.

 

“It’s kind of involved, Starsk,” he said at last.  Turning, he braced his back against the counter, pausing long enough to take a swig of soda.  “There’s an old legend about Odin and the Yggdrasil tree.”

 

Starsky stopped chewing.  “The whatsit?”

 

“Yggdrasil,” Hutch repeated more slowly.  “It’s the World Tree from Norse Mythology - - a great white ash that shelters the nine worlds of Viking myth.”

 

“You guys got more than one?”

 

Hutch ignored him.  “Legend says Odin, the Norse High God, impaled himself on the tree with his own spear so he could learn the magic of the Runes.”

 

“Sheesh.”  Starsky shook his head.  “Kinda extreme, don’tcha think?”

 

Hutch parted with a small smile.  “Well, Runes are supposed to be magic.  The Elder Futhark is the oldest form of the Runic Alphabet.  It has 24 Runes . . . eventually reduced to sixteen when the alphabet was taken into Scandinavia.  See, Vikings didn’t really use runes for writing.  They used them to mark and identify possessions and boundaries - - household items, chunks of wood and stone . . . things like that.”

 

“Practical, your people.”

 

“Superstitious too,” Hutch was quick to point out.  “They also carved them on spearheads and swords, believing the runes endowed the wielder with formidable power . . . strength over enemies, protection from harm, that sort of thing.”

 

“So if there were only 24 runes, where’s the 25^th come in?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch returned to his seat at the table.  He looked tired again, his shoulders slumping as he sank into the chair.  “I don’t remember everything.  I guess I wasn’t as glued to Granddad’s stories as Ryan was, but I think the 25^th Rune was so powerful even Odin was afraid of what it could do.  So instead of passing it to Ask - - the first man - - he carved it into his spearhead.  Find the spear and you find the 25^th Rune.”

 

Starsky stared, not quite sure he’d grasped the whole thing.  “You’re talkin’ about the spear of some god?  And you’re tryin’ to tell me that your friend - - your highly educated friend who teaches at a University - - believes this spear actually exists?”

 

Hutch shrugged.  “Look, I never said he wasn’t a little obsessed.  And as far as Odin . . . history’s already taught us mythical figures and folktales are often based on actual fact.  Or at the very least a combination of facts.  King Arthur and Robin Hood are perfect examples of legends drawn from composites of people who really lived.  Was Odin a god?”  Hutch gave a slight chuckle and a tired shake of his head.  “- - No.  Could he have been based on a long forgotten Viking Warlord or two - - possibly.   Is Ryan chasing pipe dreams - - yeah, probably.  Am I tired of educating an overly curious partner about Norse Myth - - yes!”

 

Starsky feigned offense.  “And here I was riveted.  I was even hopin’ you’d get to the part about how you ended up with a black-haired father in that long string of Nordic blonds.”

 

“Because my grandmother was Welsh.  You figure it out.”

 

“And he married a raven-haired French lady.”  Starsky chuckled.  “All that black hair and you get a recessive blond gene.  Seems to me you shoulda been the one chasin’ down Runes, not your Irish friend.”  He grinned broadly.  “Ain’t much of a Viking, are you Hutchinson?”

 

“Only when I lose my cool because of an obnoxiously wordy partner.”

 

Starsky made a tsking sound. “Well, if you ain’t gonna chat, then you better eat.  I’m gonna heat up that soup again.  Think you can swallow some of it?”

 

Hutch sighed.  “Yeah,” he said glumly, his eyes dropping despondently to his hands. 

 

Starsky frowned.  So Ryan Carrick wasn’t the be-all/end-all of friends to Hutch, but he obviously held a revered place in the blond-haired man’s heart. Childhood connections had a way of remaining magical despite the intervening bulk of passing years and decades.  Starsky could still recall some of his own closest friends from his days as a kid in Brooklyn, including Frankie Nello who had died far too young.

 

Standing, he retrieved Hutch’s bowl of soup and dumped the contents back into the pot on the stove.  “Why don’t you give your mom a call?” he suggested.  “By the time you’re off the phone, this’ll be ready to eat.”

 

Hutch nodded and headed into the living room where he dropped to a seat on the couch.  Starsky watched as he switched on the light on the end table, several days worth of mail puddled in a mass of brown and white envelopes beneath it.  Hutch’s hand was halfway to the phone, when he suddenly froze.  “Starsky!”

 

Alerted by the strange tone in his partner’s voice, Starsky turned the burner to simmer and walked into the living room. “What’s the matter?”  Hutch was staring at a letter-sized white envelope with a peculiar mixture of shock and uncertainty in his eyes.  “Let me guess - - someone wants to repossess that hunk-a-junk car of yours?”

 

He chuckled at his own humor, but Hutch didn’t respond, still focused on the envelope.  Curious, Starsky sat beside him, craning his neck to see over his shoulder.  There was no return address on the paper that he could see, but two crudely scratched symbols had been inserted after Hutch’s name.   One looked like a railroad-crossing signpost, the other like a stick with a bar angled from the top. 

 

“It’s from Ryan,” Hutch said matter-of-factly.

 

Starsky gave a small jolt.  “Ryan Carrick?  How can you be so sure?”  His eyes went to the postmark.  The envelope had been mailed from Oregon.

 

Hutch pointed to the two stick figures behind his name.  “Those are the Viking runic symbols for my initials - - K and H.  Ryan always adds them whenever he writes to me.”  He frowned, his eyes on the postmark.  “Oregon,” he said thoughtfully.  “Starsk, this was mailed four days ago.”  He shifted on the couch, facing Starsky.  “When was his apartment ransacked?”

 

Stalling for time, Starsky cleared his throat.  He felt a prickle of cold air curl around his neck.  “About four days ago.”  He was curious, wanting to know what was in the envelope as much as Hutch, but didn’t like the idea of some long-ago friend involving his partner in something that was starting to feel very wrong.  

 

Hutch flipped the envelope over and dragged his thumb beneath the flap.  Inside was a brown sheet of parchment paper, a small key taped to the center.  Beneath it someone  - - likely Ryan - - had scrawled three words in a heavy looping script - -“Tree of Song.”

 

Starsky stared at it blankly.  The words meant nothing to him, but they obviously had a profound affect on Hutch, who visibly tensed.  His hands tightened on the paper.  “I have to go to Pennsylvania,” he announced abruptly.

 

“What?”  Starsky stood, certain he’d heard wrong.  Surely his normally sane, suddenly lunatic partner, who’d only marginally survived dying and was far from fully recovered, had not just suggested taking a plane ride across the country.  “Hutch, be serious!”

 

“I am serious.”  Hutch looked up at him, clear blue eyes and white-gold hair, all calm determination.  “Ryan left me something.”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky snapped without thinking.  “He left you a friggin’ mess.  What’s with the key and the ‘tree of music’ thing?”

 

“Tree of Song,” Hutch corrected patiently.  Briefly he fingered the key.  “It’s a willow tree on my parent’s property in Pennsylvania.  We used to call it the Tree of Song because of the way the leaves sounded when the wind blew through them - - like music.”

 

“Oh, shit.”  Starsky dragged a hand over his face and turned away.  “So this guy isn’t just obsessed and slightly whacked, he has to be poetic, obsessed and slightly whacked.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “Tree of Song was my idea.  Cut me a break, huh?  I was thirteen at the time.  The name just sort of stuck.”

 

Still irritated, Starsky looked over his shoulder.  “And the key?”

 

“Um . . .”  Hutch seemed at a momentary loss.  “It’s been years since, uh . . .”  He cleared his throat in an obvious attempt to refocus his thoughts.  The light from the table lamp angled over his cheekbone, accentuating how terribly gaunt his face had grown over the last several days. 

 

“There’s a deep hollow in the trunk,” Hutch explained.  “Ryan got in the habit of leaving things there for me.  My family normally didn’t go to Pennsylvania until early July.  Ryan’s parents always spent the first week of the month - - over the 4^th - - at the beach.  They’d take Ryan with them . . . so I’d already be at our summer house by the time he returned.  Anything he wanted me to have - - notes, things he’d found - - you know, the stupid stuff kids collect - - he’d leave in a strongbox in the willow tree and he’d mail me a key with a note that said ‘Tree of Song’.  That way I’d know to go there and find whatever he’d left.”  Hutch looked up at his friend.  “Starsk, I haven’t gotten a key from Ryan since I was in high school.”  Standing, he paced to his friend’s side, the sheet of paper clutched tightly in his hand.  “Don’t you get it - - he’s hidden something.  Something important.  Whatever it is, it’s probably the reason his apartment was ransacked and that’s he’s disappeared.”

 

“And now he’s draggin’ you right into the middle of it,” Starsky snapped.  “Hutch, you’re on three freakin’ prescriptions, for cryin’ out loud.  Your stomach can’t handle more’n chicken broth, you get winded from crossin’ the street . . . I can tell just by lookin’ at you the fever’s comin’ back, and you wanna go chase wild geese across the country!  Well forget it, pal.  As far as I’m concerned, you’re on medical disability for the next two weeks.”

 

Scowling, Hutch turned away and stalked into the bedroom.  Starsky made it as far as the doorway before Hutch was back, a phone book in his hand.  He plopped it on the coffee table, sat on the couch and flipped it open. Starsky tried to grasp what the hastily shuffled pages meant, but the ache in the back of his skull had splintered behind his eyes.  Wincing, he rubbed his temple.  “What’re you doin’?” he demanded tightly.

 

Hutch didn’t bother raising his head.  “Looking up the number for the airport.”

 

“Hutch - -”  Starsky drew in a deep breath, trying to calm his highly agitated nerves.  He knew Hutchinson stubbornness when he saw it.  He also knew he was probably going to get nowhere.  His gut reaction was to lay down another ultimatum, but clearly that tactic didn’t carry weight with his willful partner.  “Will you at least think about this?  I mean . . .” He grasped the first thing that popped into his head.  “ . . . what’re you gonna do if you get another one of those coughin’ jags like at the bowlin’ alley?  You could barely breathe, Hutch!”

 

Hutch flipped another page, running his finger down the center.  “I’ll pack some cough drops.”  He reached for the phone. 

 

“All right, hold it!”  Starsky clamped a hand over his, locking the receiver in place. He didn’t know if he wanted to be angry or sympathetic.  His obstinate partner had the uncanny ability to provoke both reactions at once, twisting Starsky’s emotions into a pent-up knot.  Hutch could be damnably spontaneous when he wanted.  Booking a flight because he’d been sent a coded message to visit an old willow tree was not only impulsive, but ludicrous as well.  It didn’t matter though - - Starsky knew when to admit defeat.  Heaving a sigh, he folded into the couch.  “Get two tickets.  I’m goin’ with you.”

 

Hutch looked mildly surprised, but his astonishment quickly changed to relief.  He smiled warmly.  “Thanks, buddy.  I really didn’t want to go alone.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky flipped through the pages of the travel magazine that had been shoved into the pocket of the airplane seat in front of him.  He’d already gone through two packets of courtesy nuts - - his and Hutch’s - - and three cans of ginger ale.  He had the seat tray lowered, the magazine spread open in the center, but the articles were textbook dry, the crossword clues too obscure.  He’d lost interest after a short time, impatient for the plane to land.

 

Hutch had given him the window seat and that amused him for the first few hours, but they were above the clouds now, gray mist and white vapor obscuring the ground below.  They’d left LAX shortly after 8:00 a.m., switching planes in Denver before the final leg of the flight to Harrisburg.  Hutch’s parents’ home was further northwest in a small mountain community called Fleet’s Crossing, located on the banks of the Thistle River. 

 

Starsky wasn’t overly fond of the idea of mountains and trees, but he was extremely fond of the man slouched against his side.  Which meant if Hutch was headed to a town with mountains and trees, Starsky was too, instinctive aversion and all.  Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night - - Hutch because of the lingering effects of the plague and a steadily escalating fever, Starsky because he was up every two hours to check on his fitfully tossing friend.  Throw in his own persistent headache and he felt like he was operating in a fog.

 

Hutch had held up through most of the morning, but the fatigue had eventually caught up with him.  He’d fallen into a doze half an hour ago, deciding to nap slumped against Starsky’s shoulder. The stewardesses found the sight a little too much to resist, wanting to fret over both of them . . . Hutch in particular, his pale hair splayed like white silk over his brow, the gauntness of his face subtly hinting of illness. Did Starsky need a blanket for his friend?  A pillow? 

 

He flushed under the attention, shaking his head to each question, sorry his partner wasn’t awake to take advantage of the fuss.  His right arm eventually went numb, but he only flexed his hand, content to have his partner finally resting.  Every once in a while Hutch would shift marginally, parting with a light cough or a soft moan, never coming fully awake.  Over the last ten minutes those meager disturbances were growing more frequent and Starsky guessed his friend was starting to feel pain and tightness in his chest.  One of the prescriptions Meredith had written was to help alleviate discomfort, but thus far Hutch had declined taking any.

 

Stubborn, Starsky thought as his friend shifted yet again, this time drawing away slightly.  The plane hit a pocket of disturbance and Hutch opened his eyes, his mouth drawn in a tight line.

 

“Hey.” Sitting forward, Starsky touched his arm.  “What’s the matter?  You hurtin’?”

 

Hutch closed his eyes tightly, giving a quick shake of his head.

 

“Okay . . .”  Starsky dug into his jacket pocket.  “Not very good at lyin’, are ya?”  Because he didn’t trust Hutch to actually carry his pills, Starsky had taken to doing it.  Had he left it up to his willful partner, all three bottles would probably be at the bottom of a trashcan in Venice Place.  Starsky checked the label on the first one, realized it was for fever, then fished out a second plastic vial.  “Ah . . . here it is.  One pill every four hours as needed for pain,” he read the typewritten script.  A glance at Hutch revealed his friend still had his eyes closed, but now his right arm was wrapped tightly over his ribs.  Starsky frowned.  “Come on, Hutch.  I know you’re hurtin’.  I still got some ginger ale left.  It ain’t gonna kill you to swallow this thing.”

 

“Okay,” Hutch said quietly.

 

Starsky balked, prepared for resistance. He’d expected a battle, not subdued acceptance which could only mean one thing - - Hutch was in considerable more pain than he’d originally thought.  It was no wonder - - cramming that long-legged frame into an airplane seat for the last five hours had to be uncomfortable.  He tried not to stare too critically as he passed the pill to Hutch, but the golden sheen of perspiration was back on his friend’s cheeks, the strands of hair curled against his collar damp with sweat.  Starsky debated about pressing the issue of fever, but guessed his partner would likely grow belligerent if he started mother-henning him in a crowded airplane. 

 

The seatbelt light clicked on, followed immediately by an announcement the plane was preparing to land.  Thirty minutes later Hutch was signing off on a rental car statement and Starsky was loading their luggage into a blue Granada. He took the keys from Hutch, steering his friend to the passenger’s door the moment he stepped outside.  “You play navigator.  I’ll drive.”

 

Hutch hesitated, indecision clouding his pale eyes. After a brief pause he nodded.  “Thanks.”

 

The gratitude fired an unexpected twinge in Starsky’s heart.  It made him realize how absurd the whole trip was, his friend obviously in a good deal of pain but still insistent on visiting a decades-old tree.  An ugly thought struck him as he slid behind the wheel of the Granada.  “Hutch, I ain’t never heard you talk about this place your folks got in Fleet’s Crossin’.”  He started the ignition, eyeing his blond friend suspiciously.  “When’s the last time you were here?”

 

“Um . . .”  In his present state, it took Hutch a moment to calculate.  He blinked, rousing from what appeared a half-stupor.  “I don’t know . . . eight or nine years.”

 

“Then how do you know this Tree of Song thing is still there?  Maybe your folks got tired of it and cut it down . . . maybe it grew too big or got struck by lightning.”

 

Hutch sighed, tilting his head back against the seat rest.  “It’s there because Ryan wouldn’t have sent me the key otherwise.”  He turned his head watching a 737 rise from the distant runway.  “Look for Interstate 81 Starsk, then head northwest.  Fleet’s Crossing is about two hours from here.”

 

Starsky nodded.  With layovers the flight had taken close to 5 ½ hours.  Tack on an extra three for the time difference and the delay in securing a rental car, and it was already 5:00 in the afternoon.  He’d had lunch on the plane, but Hutch had been unable to swallow the processed hamburgers and French fries.  “How ‘bout we find someplace to eat first?” he suggested.  He bit his lip, not wanting to add that his naturally lean friend was beginning to look a little too thin.  The plague had taken more than just stamina from Hutch. Starsky’s hand crept across the seat and knotted in his sleeve.  “Buddy, you listenin’ to me?”

 

“Okay, Starsk.”  Hutch gave a weary nod.  “Food’s fine.”

 

Again with acceptance when he’d expected a fight.  Starsky followed the flow of traffic from the airport and took the second exit toward the Interstate.  There was something more than just illness troubling Hutch.  He could feel it . . . a sad and defeated weariness in his friend’s replies that went beyond helpful compliance.  The realization made his headache crimp more tightly behind his eyes.  He would have killed for a pair of sunglasses to block the glare of late daylight.

 

Instead he thought back to the isolation ward . . . to an ailing Hutch staring up at him, so weak and frail as to appear insubstantial, his hair matted with sweat, his eyes glazed and bright with fever.  He’d hated how useless he’d felt in those moments, unable to ease the agonizing pain his friend was in or crush the choking fear of death.  The memory made his hands white-knuckle on the steering wheel.  He’d have given anything, done anything, to save Hutch’s life.  And now, when he should be rejoicing over his friend’s recovery, he felt himself drowning in doubt.  He wanted the partner he remembered, not the strangely melancholy man sitting beside him.  The headache pounded fiercely.  “You’re feelin’ worse, ain’tcha?”

 

Hutch stirred as if waking from slumber.  “No.”  He shifted, his voice as hesitant as his glance.  “It’s not that.  I just feel . . . disconnected . . .” He parted with a shaky smile.  “Kind of like the world went on for awhile without me.”

 

Because it did.  Starsky made an effort to steer clear of his friend’s depression. “Yesterday you were gonna live till you were 148.  You were flirtin’ with a woman you clearly wanted to take to bed, and you were convinced you could bowl me under the table.”  Starsky dropped a hand onto Hutch’s knee, squeezing gently.  “What happened?”

 

“I don’t know - - ”  Hutch chuckled bitterly.  “ - - a healthy dose of reality?”

 

Starsky frowned.  “It ain’t like you to be so negative, Hutch.”

 

“I know.  And I know I’m not really good company on this trip, but thanks for coming anyway.”

 

Starsky patted his knee before withdrawing his hand.  At least Hutch was talking.  If nothing else it was a start to discovering what was really bothering him.  “How ‘bout that food?”  he asked, grinning as convincingly as he could.  His own fatigue was starting to grow bothersome, pulling at his tired body with awakening aches and pains.  His shoulder hurt where Hutch had rested against it, and his right leg pinged with sharp spasms as if he had a bad case of the flu.  Judith had warned him that if he’d picked up anything from Hutch in isolation, he’d feel the effects in a few days. 

 

At least the vaccine would take care of it, and food would help. Once he filled the growing hollow in his gut, Starsky was convinced he’d feel fine.  Spying a restaurant, he banked the car into the parking lot, hoping the pounding in his head and the aches in his body would recede in favor of a decent meal.

 

+++++

 

By the time they reached the house in Fleet’s Crossing, the sky had deepened with the heavy violet of dusk.  Hutch wanted to head immediately for the willow tree, tucked on the far perimeter of the property, but Starsky convinced him to wait until daylight.  He’d conceded mainly because he knew his overly taxed lungs wouldn’t be able to handle the extra burden of hiking.  He was also starting to worry about Starsky who was beginning to look fatigued despite his best efforts to appear alert.

 

He knew his friend had overextended himself in the grueling search for Callendar and hadn’t gotten the rest he needed to recuperate.  He was also worried about Starsky’s brief stint in the isolation ward, fearing it may have resulted in exposure to the plague.  In the long run, waiting for morning would benefit them both.

 

Hutch dumped his duffel bag inside the front door.  The house was much as he remembered, sprawling and stylish, the furnishings updated since he’d been there last.  A four bedroom with a den, the two-story home featured a rear deck overlooking the river, two full baths plus powder room, an eat-in kitchen, dining room, and a large living room with a soaring cathedral ceiling and stone fireplace.

 

Starsky gave a low whistle.  “Impressive.”

 

“My father wouldn’t have anything less,” Hutch said, slightly bitter.  It was hard to talk about the overly critical Dr. Grant Hutchinson without feeling immediately defensive. Years of being at odds with his medically gifted father had always made him feel inferior, as if he didn’t measure up to the man’s lofty ideas.  Becoming a cop when his father had clearly wanted him to stay in medical school hadn’t helped.  Instinctively defensive when he thought of Grant, what he really craved was the man’s unconditional acceptance.    

 

Hutch walked through the house uncovering ornate pieces of furniture that hadn’t been used in months, switching on the breakers and well pump, turning up the heat.  The air inside smelled stale as it always had when they’d arrived each summer.  It was much cooler now, perfumed with the musk of late fall, the house feeling desolate and empty.  Hutch switched on a few lights, desperate to banish thick beds of nesting shadow.  The feeling of depression that had plagued him ever since leaving the airport grew heavier.  Behind him, Starsky had opened the sliding doors and stepped onto the deck overlooking the river.

 

Hutch followed more slowly, memories of summer evenings when he and Ryan had sat enthralled by his grandfather’s tales tumbling back.  He’d always enjoyed the stories, mostly because it allowed him to spend time with his father’s father, the one person in life who’d never judged him . . . who accepted him for his own merits and ideas.  But all those stories - - Odin, Ask, the Yggdrasil Tree, even the 25^th Rune - - were just fanciful fables to him.  Fun tales to share on warm summer nights, the enchanted glow of fireflies lighting the darkness with make-believe magic.

 

To Ryan they’d been something more. 

 

As he grew older, Hutch’s friend became obsessed with factual evidence the Vikings had arrived in North America long before Columbus.  According to Ryan, some historians were even convinced Erik the Red had brought his longboats to American shores before visiting Greenland in 986.  In the beginning Hutch had found it amusing an Irishman would devote his life to the pursuit of Norse legend, when Ireland itself was practically the birthplace of myth.  But Ryan wasn’t interested in tales of the Daoine O’Sidhe, enchanted woods or changelings.  He was fixated on a rune that didn’t exist and a spearhead that would never be found.  Still he had left something in the Tree of Song and that something was important enough that he wanted Hutch to retrieve it.

 

Hutch stepped onto the deck, drawing his jacket against the cooler air that blew in from the river. The water snaked black and cold in the distance, cutting through trees and embankments of grass like a twisting opaque ribbon.  The surface was shiny, almost oily, jet-colored in the gathering gloom.  He could well remember how it looked when it gleamed with the spectral kiss of full moonlight.  Starsky stood leaning on the railing, a breeze faintly tugging the tousled curls of his hair.  Hutch stepped to his side.

 

“So where’s this Tree of Song?”  Starsky asked.

 

Hutch pointed south, down the bank of the river.  “That way.  See that copse of trees on the horizon?”  It was difficult to see much of anything in the steadily creeping darkness, but the leafless limbs stood out, stark and barren against a charcoal sky.  “The Tree of Song is about 100 feet into the center of that thicket.”

 

“That’s a hike.”  Starsky eyed him skeptically.  “Sure you’re gonna be up for it?  Maybe you should just give me the key or let me bring back the box.”

 

Hutch shook his head.  “I’ll be fine in the morning, Starsk.”  Except that maybe he’d still feel disconnected, like a rider on a slowly-turning merry-go-round, when the rest of the world was in fast forward.  He shivered, bothered by the cold but not willing to face the empty house alone. 

 

Starsky tugged on his sleeve, pulling him back toward the door.  “Kinda nippy out here,” he said.  “How ‘bout we get you inside?”

 

Hutch didn’t protest.  He wanted the embrace of warmth and the light. The darkness reminded him too much of how he’d felt cocooned in the oxygen tent, his life slipping away with each passing second.  Inside, Starsky fixated on a large blowup of a family photograph above the fireplace.  “Hey, look at this,” he grinned.

 

Hutch stepped to his side, staring up at the glossy photo in its matted gold frame.  It looked exactly as his father had wanted it to look - - the perfect picture of a successful physician and his model-pretty adoring family. Hutch could still remember sitting for the photographer, his parents perfectly posed, he and Kelly - -  thirteen and nine at the time - - needing to be told repeatedly to sit still.  Grant had wanted them all wearing matching shirt colors, something he’d seen done in a studio layout.  Hutch’s mother and Kelly were to wear dark green, while he and his father wore navy blue.  Except he’d forgotten to pack the shirt Grant had bought for him when they’d left Duluth.  As a result his father had fumed the morning they’d sat for the Pennsylvania photographer, ranting tirelessly about how irresponsible Hutch was until even Adele grew short with her husband. 

 

In the end, Hutch wore a white button shirt, the only blond in a raven-haired family.  The photographer had loved the contrast of his fair coloring and light clothing against the darker tones of the rest of his family.  Eventually the man’s enthusiasm had even won Grant over and Hutch’s paler looks became the focal point the image was centered around.  Starsky obviously found the contrast amusing.   

 

“You look like one of those spoiled little rich kids - - all blond and flawless.  And you still got that same toothpaste-perfect grin.”

 

“You’re all heart, Starsky.”  Hutch turned away from the photograph, saddened by the image of family.  He’d almost died of the plague and he couldn’t even tell his parents or sister.  His father, the physician, would want clinical details, then after learning what he needed would denounce the whole episode as a result of Hutch’s less-than-savory occupation.  His mother would become hysterical, demanding that he let his father examine him  - - just to be safe - - and his sister would try to get him to talk about the emotional impact.  Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose.  “I think I’m gonna go lie down.”

 

Starsky zeroed in on the statement, quickly abandoning the photo and hovering worriedly at his side.  “What’s wrong?  You feelin’ okay?”

 

“Fine.”  Hutch couldn’t stop a shy smile.  Maybe he couldn’t talk to his family, but he had an extremely loyal friend who more than made up for all the dismal grays in his life.  Right now it just felt like there were so many of them. Like the gold and glitter had faded, and the perfect boy in the photograph was just that - - a false image, nothing more.  “I’m just tired.  Judith said I should get a lot of rest, didn’t she?

 

Starsky’s brows drew together.  He nodded, but it was clear to Hutch he wasn’t entirely placated.  “How’s your stomach?  That chicken you had stayin’ quiet?  You need some more pills?”  He pulled all three vials from his jacket pocket.  “Look here,” he said, waving a plastic bottle in front of Hutch’s face.  “I got one for nausea you ain’t even tried yet.”

 

Hutch shook his head, knowing Starsky was determined to make sure he took the medication as needed.  “Trust me, pal.  I’ll survive without it.”  He turned toward the steps then hesitated.  Glancing over his shoulder, he again noticed the overly drawn lines on his friend’s face.  It might have been the lighting, lack of sleep, too much worrying, or - -

 

His stomach constricted.  “Starsk, you’d tell me if you were feeling sick, right?”

 

Starsky blinked, clearly caught off guard.  A second later he gave a dismissive snort, setting Hutch’s pills on the coffee table.  “What kind of stupid question is that?”  He crossed the few feet that separated them and gave Hutch a nudge in the direction of the steps.  “Go to bed, Hutch.  We’ll go visit your singin’ tree in the mornin’ then get outta here before this miserable eastern cold turns us both into popsicles.” 

 

Hutch grinned.  “What happened to that tough New Yorker blood?”

 

“It got spoiled in sunny California.”  Starsky gave him another shove.  “Go, already.  I’m just gonna sit down here and soak up all this lavish Hutchinson family livin’ for awhile.”

 

Hutch hesitated but finally left.  Starsky waited until he’d vanished up the steps before collapsing on the couch.  He wasn’t always the best judge of distance, but he knew the hike to the copse of trees Hutch had pointed out had to be several hundred yards.  On a good day that wouldn’t be enough to make Hutch break a sweat, but in his present condition he’d be lucky to walk a few feet before his weak lungs protested in pain.  It just made more sense if he went and retrieved the damn box Ryan had put in the tree and brought it back to Hutch. 

 

Of course, his unreasonably stubborn partner wouldn’t see it that way.  Starsky didn’t like the idea of leaving Hutch alone in the house while he went after the box, but if he waited until morning, he’d never get Hutch to stay behind.  He’d wait until Hutch was asleep then scrounge up a flashlight - - there had to be one around here somewhere.  In the morning, he’d dump the box on Hutch with breakfast. 

 

His friend would probably be mad, even throw one of his infamous and rare fits of temper, but in the end the thing would be done and there wouldn’t be anything Hutch could do about it.  He’d almost convinced himself the plan would work when he heard footsteps descending the stairs.

 

Huffing out a breath, Starsky stood and turned.  “I thought you were gonna - -”  He stopped suddenly, the world short-circuiting when he realized Hutch had his hands raised in the air.  A bald man stood behind him, prodding him in the back with the muzzle of a .38 as they descended the steps. 

 

“Uh-uh.  I wouldn’t,” the man warned as Starsky made a threatening move forward.

 

He cursed, fervently wishing they hadn’t packed their guns in their carryon bags.  Hutch’s duffel was still inside the door, Starsky’s resting where he’d dropped it halfway to the deck.  Almost as if on cue, the sliding door opened and another, bearded man stepped in behind him, armed with a semi-automatic. Both apparently had been in hiding, waiting for the right moment to make their presence known.  The second man had his hand wrapped around the arm of an angular-looking stranger with brick-colored hair and blue eyes.  Judging by his unkempt appearance and a smattering of recent bruises on his face, his handling had not been gentle.

 

Hutch jerked.  “Ryan.”

 

“Sorry, Ken.”  The red-haired man hung his head.  “They caught up with me in Oregon right after I mailed you the key.  I ended up telling them about the Tree of Song.”

 

The bald man shoved Hutch, roughly pushing him to the center of the room.  “Which is all very amusing, except we want what’s in the strongbox.”

 

Hutch kept his elbows at waist height.  “What strongbox?”

 

“Don’t get cute, blondie.”  The man holding Ryan propelled him toward the couch, where he dropped obediently to a seat. 

 

Hutch’s friend was thinner than Starsky expected with a sort of haunted, nervous look to his eyes.  His hair was long and scraggly, tethered in a pony tail that dangled halfway down his back.  He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses, easily accentuating the look of eccentric scholar. Clearly nervous, he wiped his hands on the legs of his dirt-stained jeans, glancing anxiously to Hutch.  “It’s all right, Ken.  They already have the box.  They just don’t want to risk forcing it open and damaging what’s inside.”  He licked his lips. “I don’t want it damaged either.  Give them the key.”

 

“Must have hid it here a while ago, huh?” Starsky said with a sour glance at Ryan.  The man had obviously been in danger for some time, stashed whatever valuable item he had inside the Tree of Song, then fled, hanging onto the key for the strongbox as long as he could.  When the pressure became too great, he’d popped it in the mail and sent it to Hutch figuring his friend would retrieve his stash for him.  But the people who were after him had caught up with him in Oregon, and he’d spilled his guts, placing Hutch smack in the middle of his problems. 

 

Starsky decided he didn’t like Ryan Carrick at all.

 

“Weeks ago,” the man admitted.  “Brought my fiancée out here to meet my parents and stashed it at the same time.”

 

Starsky shot a glance across the room to Hutch. Did Ryan mean the spearhead?  Based on what he knew from his Nordic partner, Carrick was pretty much admitting the impossible. Unless as Hutch suggested, the myth of Odin was really a composite of historical fact, folktales and superstition. In that case, there may have been an ancient spear, even a 25^th Rune.

 

“Odin’s spear?” Starsky asked.  He didn’t really care one way or another, but if he was going to carve a path out of this mess, he needed to know what he was up against.  Hutch was looking paler by the moment, and his own head was pounding again.  Both were far from their top form, and both were unarmed. 

 

“Yeah, Odin’s spear,” the bald man agreed.  “Worth a sizeable fortune on the international antiquities market, if we can prove it’s authentic.”  He jammed the barrel of his gun into Hutch’s side.  “Enough of this screwing around.  Where’s the key, asshole?”

 

Hutch drew in a breath.  Even from across the room Starsky could see him physically steeling himself against the pain, the pressure of the pistol wedged against his ribs sheer agony. “It’s  . . . in a hidden zipper compartment in my duffel bag.”  Hutch gave a brief nod toward the front door. “There on the floor.”

 

Starsky tensed marginally.  He knew the key was in Hutch’s pocket, he also knew the Magnum was in Hutch’s bag.  Ultimately his friend was running a gamble.  If one of their abductors searched the bag themselves, they’d find the gun which would only make matters worse.  But if they allowed Hutch to search it - - a possibility since his partner had indicated the key was in a “hidden zipper compartment”  - - they might just come out on top.

 

The bald man exchanged a glance with his bearded partner who still held a gun trained on Starsky.  “All right,” he said after a pause.  The pistol prodded deeply and Hutch winced.  “Get it.”

 

Starsky watched, silently preparing to spring into action.  He felt more than saw Hutch’s glance, mental communication that told him to prepare for anything.  Ryan was still fidgeting, nervously looking between their captors as he continued to rub his hands on his thighs.  Hutch crouched beside the bag, the bald man crowded close over his shoulder.  The moment Starsky saw his friend’s hand disappear inside the duffel, he pivoted, driving his elbow into the midsection of the man behind him.

 

Action became a blur.  He tucked and rolled, heard the ping of a bullet followed quickly by another.  The Magnum boomed suddenly behind him, followed by a frenzied shuffling of feet.  “Starsky, the deck!” he heard Hutch yell. 

 

Starsky clambered to his feet, aware the bearded man was curled into a ball, holding his shoulder. Ryan had backed up against the sliding door, his face the blanched white of curdling milk. Grabbing him by the arm, Starsky wheeled him around and bodily thrust him outside.  From the corner of his eye he saw Hutch darting toward him, the bald man struggling to get up off the floor. Hutch spun, firing in his direction, but his aim was off.  Starsky ran onto the deck, his partner close behind.  They vaulted the railing almost simultaneously, dropping to the soft ground below.  Starsky heard Hutch groan at the impact.  Ryan was already ahead of them, running into the darkness.  Hutch faltered, stumbling and banging to his knees.

 

Starsky hooked a hand under his left arm and dragged him forward.  “Give me the gun,” he said.

 

Hutch pressed it into his palm without question.  The grip felt slick and wet, a sensation that made Starsky glance down in confusion.  It was too dark to see much of anything, but he could hear Hutch wheezing painfully at his side.  He ran for the river and trees, the angry shouts of their pursuers exploding behind him.

 

Hutch stumbled again, panting heavily.  “Go!” he hissed between clenched teeth.  “I’m holding you back.”  

 

“Nuthin’ doin’, buddy.”  Starsky wedged a shoulder beneath Hutch’s arm taking most of his weight.  “Just lean on me and we’ll get out of here.”  He blundered forward, not as steady on his feet as he’d hoped with Hutch’s added weight.  Feeling his way in the growing darkness, he weaved into the tree line banking the river, hoping the scant cover would give them protection. The sound of pursuit grew fainter, squashed beneath the hiss and wheeze of their own labored breathing.  He knew at least one of the men - - the bearded one - - had been nicked by Hutch’s gun.

 

Leafless branches raked Starsky’s arms, catching on his jacket.  Jutting roots and rocks threatened to send him sprawling forward with every other step.  It was darker between the trees, saturated with the heavier gray of full dusk. A thin mist from the river coiled around his ankles, plaiting the pungent earth with vapor-thin wisps of white.  Hutch sagged in his grip, sucking down painful gasp after painful gasp of cold air.  Starsky could feel him shuddering as punishing tremors raced through his weakened body.

 

Hutch had discarded his jacket before the bald man and his accomplice had arrived, and now wore only a thin button shirt against the cold.  The tremors in his body grew stronger as the frigid air dug deeper.  “Where’s Ryan?” he gasped.

 

“Dunno.”  Starsky gave a quick shake of his head.  He considered telling Hutch he didn’t much care, but decided the truth wouldn’t go over well with his friend.  “Somewhere ahead of us probably.”  They were close to the river’s edge now, the ground spongy and soft from run-off.  It was easier walking, but damper too.  “Hutch where am I goin’?”  Starsky felt like he was running blind.  “Where’s the closest house?” 

 

Rather than reply Hutch groaned and stumbled.  It was then Starsky saw the glistening jagged stains on the sleeve of his shirt . . . realized why Hutch’s aim had been off back at the house, why the grip of the Magnum felt tacky and wet.  Hutch’s upper right arm was saturated in blood, dark slivers running down his forearm onto the back of his hand.

 

Alarmed, Starsky spat the first thing that came into his mind.  “Damn it, why didn’t you tell me you were hit?”

 

But Hutch merely shook his head, still crouched on the ground, one hand pressed to his fiercely laboring chest.  Winded, he tried to catch his breath, the wheezing gasps hideous to hear.  In a matter of seconds he was coughing, spitting up phlegm and bile, his body convulsing under the grim punishment. 

 

Starsky held onto him.  He groped for the handkerchief he knew Hutch always carried in his front pocket and blotted it against his friend’s arm. “Buddy . . .” Starsky’s voice dropped to a whisper.  “Help me out here.  We can’t go back the way we came.  Where’s the nearest house?”  He couldn’t see anything through the trees.  There were no lights or roof outlines, no cars or boats, no signs of civilization at all.  If he were by himself he might try to backtrack, flank the house and head for the Granada, but he had Hutch to worry about.

 

Shaken, his partner wilted against him.  Hutch’s eyes looked overly bright in the darkness, the luminous blue of kiln-fired glass.  Judging by the heat radiating from his body, Starsky knew the fever had returned, no longer low-grade but spiking. The bullet in his arm hadn’t helped. Chalk up another one for Ryan let-me-drag-you-into-my-problems-old-friend Carrick. “Hutch,” he tried again.  “Buddy, you have to tell me where I’m goin’ . . .”

 

Hutch pointed across the river, blood dripping from his hand.  “Over there.”

 

Starsky balked.  The water looked low but it moved swiftly, racing over protruding rocks as it sliced through the tree line.  He had his Adidas on but Hutch was wearing boots, much too slick-soled for walking on slippery river stone.  “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully.  His head was pounding and the aches in his limbs were starting to feel knife-edged and fiery.  It was bad enough they were stumbling along a gravelly embankment, but crossing a river . . .

 

He shivered, suddenly cold in the damp, chill air.

 

Hutch moaned and pressed against him.  “It’s low here,” he mumbled.  “The Brunners have a house on the other side.  Empty this time of year, but - -”

 

“I get the picture,” Starsky said.  He also got the picture that Hutch was freezing.  He shrugged from his jacket, grimacing at the stinging rush of frigid air, fighting to keep his teeth from chattering.  Hutch needed the warmth more than he did.  “Here, pal . . . this will make you feel a little better.” 

 

It was easy sliding Hutch’s left arm into the jacket, but the right was more of a problem.  Hutch hissed in a breath, tensing involuntarily as Starsky guided his damaged arm into the warm material.  He could feel the blaze of fever radiating off his blond friend and cursed the fact Hutch’s pills were back at the house.  Nobody’s gonna believe this.  Getting’ chased and shot over a freakin’ mythological spearhead!

 

“Ready?” he asked.  He hadn’t heard any sounds of pursuit in awhile, but he wasn’t convinced the bald man and his accomplice had abandoned the chase.  Hutch gave a weak nod and Starsky pulled him as gently as he could to his feet.  “Okay, just hang onto me.”  Steadying himself, Starsky guided Hutch down the embankment to the soft muddy edge of water.  It sloshed over his feet, soaking into his shoes and socks, cold as liquid ice. The grubby scent of earthworms and browning reeds clogged his head.  He stepped carefully, one arm secured tightly around Hutch’s waist.

 

His friend’s head was bent, Hutch clearly concentrating on the slick, uneven surface beneath his feet. The water rushed higher, swirling around their ankles, prodding and cold as it climbed halfway up their calves then surged above their knees.  They’d almost reached the other side when Starsky heard an enraged shout behind them.  A second later the night exploded with gunfire, and he heard a bullet whiz past his head. 

 

With a curse he propelled Hutch forward, spinning to return fire.  The Magnum roared, erupting with a bolt of red flame.  Beside him, Hutch slipped, sinking shoulder-deep into the icy water.  Starsky caught his arm and hauled him upright, sending another shot exploding behind him. His legs pumped with effort as he forced them both through the resistant water, up the far bank and into another sheltering copse of trees.  Hutch’s strength simply gave out and he sagged forward on hands and knees, retching violently.

 

“Aw, shit, babe, I’m sorry.”  Starsky laid a hand on his back, hastily looking over his shoulder for pursuit.  The river lay undisturbed, the only sound the steady rush of current as it swelled over rocks and beds of stone.  At his side, Hutch’s body convulsed, the sour stench of vomit mixing with the mustiness of waterlogged earth, moss and wet denim.

 

“Easy.”  Starsky rested a chilled hand on the back of Hutch’s mist-dampened hair.  “I don’t think they’re followin’ us.  Just take your time, buddy.”  It was hard to talk, his body riddled with tremors of cold.  Hutch was shivering uncontrollably, his jeans, shirt and Starsky’s borrowed jacket soaked through.  The sounds coming from his throat were a strangled combination of choking and wheezing gasps for breath. 

 

When his stomach was empty, Hutch dragged a shaky hand across his mouth and wilted against Starsky.  He raised his left arm, hooking it around the front of Starsky’s neck.  “I’m sorry . . . t-this is my fault.”  

 

“Nuthin’ doin, babe.”  Starsky felt the chill press of Hutch’s cheek where it rested against his throat.  He knew the tremor in his friend’s voice was as much from sickness as it was from cold.  Wrapping an arm around Hutch, he hugged him closer, imparting what warmth he could. He cast a distracted glance through the trees, jerking slightly when he spied the sloping outline of a shingled roof.  “I think we found that house you were talkin’ about,” he whispered, his voice thinned by exhaustion. 

 

Fifteen minutes later he had Hutch inside, gaining access through a jimmied window.  Depositing Hutch on a low-backed sofa, he went immediately to the phone, but found it dead.

 

Hutch’s eyes burned blue and bright through the darkness.  “Most people don’t . . . pay for services through the fall and winter months,” he said weakly, noting Starsky’s look of disgust.  “My parents do . . . phone too . . . but they’re a rare exception.”

 

“Figures.”  Starsky dragged a shaking hand through his hair.  Hutch had curled in on himself, his long legs drawn up to his chest as he fought to trap limited body heat.  “Stay there.”

 

Moving blindly through the unfamiliar darkened house, Starsky looked for dry clothes and blankets.  He found towels and quilts in an upstairs closet along with some clothes that looked like they might fit Hutch.  By the time he returned downstairs, Hutch was mumbling, his fever raging out of control.

 

“Shit.  This just ain’t happenin’.”  Starsky knelt beside him, sliding the Magnum onto the sofa. He dumped the clothes and the towels in a pile over the gun.  “Hutch.”  Tentatively, he swept his fingers through his friend’s fever-dampened bangs.  The blond detective coughed weakly, a loose rattle bubbling up from his lungs.  “Babe?  Come on, babe, I need you to sit up.”

 

When his friend only moaned, refusing to move, Starsky sighed heavily and pressed his brow to Hutch’s forehead.  He didn’t know if he had the strength to physically grapple the larger man upright and force him through the act of undressing.  It was hard enough handling Hutch’s extra two inches of height and additional weight when Starsky was healthy, but depleted as he was, the task seemed monumental.  Throw in the fact Hutch was basically unresponsive flesh and bone, and he was facing the impossible.  “At least let me look at your arm,” he persisted. 

 

Fortunately Hutch lay on his left side, the right exposed.  Tracks of blood lined the back of his hand, dribbling between his limp fingers, a sure sign the wound was still bleeding.  Reaching inside the wet jacket, Starsky gripped his forearm and gently tried to free him of the clinging garment.

 

Hutch gave an unexpected gasp and tried to recoil.

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  Starsky’s heart jumped to his throat.  Hutch was coherent now, watching him with fever-glazed eyes.  “I need to look at your arm.  You’re losing too much blood, pal.”  Starsky peeled the jacket away, shaken by the sight of the grisly mess beneath.  The bullet had blundered through, leaving a gory exit wound on the underside.  Starsky felt better knowing the slug wasn’t wedged against bone, but knew the jagged mutilation had to hurt like hell. The amount of blood Hutch was steadily losing only heightened his violent shivering and rapidly waning strength. 

 

Wrapping a towel around Hutch’s freed arm, Starsky pressed down hard. 

 

+++++

 

Hutch moaned, blanching beneath the merciless pressure.  His head rolled to the side as blackness rushed eagerly forward.  His lashes dipped, and he blinked rapidly, struggling to stay awake, terrified of the darkness.  It had come so close to claiming him in the oxygen tent, part enchantress, part tormenting demon. 

 

Starsky’s voice floated from a great distance.  “Hang on, babe.  You need to stay with me.” 

 

There was a slight tap against his cheek.  He started drifting, crushed by the oppressive blackness, the hot spike of pain in his arm. The tap came again, harder this time, stinging his cheek.  “Hutch.”

 

His eyelashes fluttered, dragged open to the murky gray paste of shadow.  Starsky was bent over him, concern and alarm warring in the glittering depths of his eyes.  Slowly the fear faded, replaced by relief.  Starsky’s teeth flashed white in the darkness.  “That’s better.” 

 

Hutch felt a hand cup his cheek.  The fingers were trembling, chill as his own, but the touch was pure bliss.  He tried to talk, but the sound came out a muddled groan.

 

“Ssh, it’s okay.”  Starsky’s thumb tracked across his cheek.  With a delayed sense of shock he realized his eyes were tearing, hot liquid streaming over his clumped lower lashes.  The painful ache in his lungs drew tighter and tighter until he couldn’t breathe.  It made him remember the oxygen tent, how he’d squirmed and labored for air, the grim specter of death so close he could almost smell it - - diseased flesh and rotting bones, the putrid stench of carrion and bloated white maggots.  All the horrors of childhood nightmares scrabbling greedily close, chortling for a bloodfeast, insisting his life was over.  No more glitter, no more gold, no more white or lightness.

 

Terror twined with pain and he clawed at Starsky’s arm.

 

“Easy, Hutch.” 

 

He felt the pressure of Starsky’s hand against his heaving chest . . . the track of gentle fingers lightly contouring the protruding edges of his ribs.  His lungs swelled and deflated, rapid and shallow as he struggled for air.

 

“Not so fast,” Starsky coaxed, his voice soothing and firm despite Hutch’s growing panic.  “Not so deep.  Breathe easier, babe.  I’m right here with you.  Don’t fight it - -”

 

Hutch’s blood-soaked fingers grappled for purchase in the sleeve of Starsky’s shirt.  The terror slowly receded, winced away as hot bands of pressure eased from his lungs.  I’m right here with you.  There really was something more valuable than gold under all the glitter . . . someone to chase away the darkness and fill the empty void that had mocked him ever since leaving the hospital.  He’d feared life that wasn’t life, a cruel cardboard cutout of something he’d known before. 

 

But his fear withered.  As Starsky had done in the isolation ward, he blunted Hutch’s pain, effectively destroying the chokehold of terror.  For the first time in days, Hutch felt true life and brightness again, saw it magnified in the clear crystal gaze of his friend.  He blinked, shuttering the blurred edges from his vision, slowly regaining control.

 

“That’s it . . . you’re doin’ better.”  Starsky swiped a tear from his face. 

 

When the pain receded, cold set in.  Hutch didn’t know which was worse.  He tried to huddle deeper into the sofa, shivering as fever, shock and cold all caught up with him at once.  At least the fear was gone.  “ . . . sucks . . .” he mumbled belligerently.

 

That small bit of grouchy defiance was enough to bring a grin to his partner’s face.  “Definitely not the Ritz,” Starsky agreed.  “You wanna get outta those wet clothes, I got something warmer for you to wear.”  He gave a nod to indicate the pile of garments tossed over the Magnum.  “Found some stuff upstairs that should fit.  The waist might be a little big, but at least your knobby ankles won’t be stickin’ out.”  He grinned, smoothing a hand over Hutch’s chest as if to assure himself the crisis had passed.  “Once you’re settled, I’ll circle back to the house and call for help.”

 

“I wouldn’t count on that,” a flat voice announced behind Starsky.

 

Hutch tensed.  In the gloom of the shadow-draped house, he could just make out the features of the bald man, gun in hand, standing approximately ten feet away.  Crouched in front of him, Starsky went abruptly rigid, his muscles cording like steel.  His partner’s back was turned toward the man, Starsky’s body partially blocking Hutch from view.

 

“Just my luck to snag a couple of heroes,” the man said bitterly.  “You already took out Carver at the river, but I’m not as careless as my colleague.”  He stepped closer.  “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for pulling that stunt with the duffel bag, blondie.  Now where’s the gun?”

 

Hutch wet his lips.  Starsky slowly stood, arms raised to show he was unarmed.  Hutch felt the touch of his eyes, silently signaling.

 

“Lost it.  At the river,” Hutch said.  Inconspicuously, he reached beneath the pile of clothes and towels, his fingers curling over the familiar heavy grip of the revolver. He angled the gun for a rough shot, the action never even noticed beneath the heavy swaddling of garments. In another second Starsky would be out of the way, giving him clear access.

 

“I’m not that gullible,” the man said.

 

“Wouldn’t count on it,” Starsky countered and dove clear.

 

Hutch pulled the trigger.  The bald man flew backward, slammed against the wall by the blunt force of the Magnum.  The gun blew a chunk from his hip, instantly crippling him.  He dropped like a sack of stone, writhing on the floor, moaning and gasping in pain.  Indifferent to his pathetic cries, Starsky snatched his gun before he could recover enough to use it.  Keeping it trained on the intruder, he returned to Hutch’s side.  “Not bad for a left-handed shot.”

 

Hutch sagged into the couch, the Magnum hanging limply in his hand.  With the adrenalin of the moment fading, tremors swiftly returned to his overly taxed body.  “I was aiming for his shoulder.”

 

Starsky crouched beside him.  “Then maybe I should be in charge of the firepower for awhile,” he suggested, gently pulling the gun from Hutch’s lax grip. 

 

It was the last thing Hutch remembered before parting with a tired sigh and crumpling into unconsciousness.

 

+++++

 

The remainder of the night passed at light-speed.  Ryan eventually showed up and the police were summoned.  Carver and Layton were taken into custody, the bearded man, like his partner, only wounded, though more severely.  Hutch refused the ambulance and was taken to the hospital by Starsky where his wound was treated and bandaged, his arm immobilized in a sling. 

 

The strongbox was recovered, but Hutch didn’t have the desire or the stamina to care what was inside. Ryan showed up at the house hours later asking for the key, but Starsky - - irritated with the whole scenario and more than ready to take it out on Carrick - - pointedly told him to take a hike while he still had the legs to do it.  When the long-haired man grew frantic, pleading for the key, Starsky shoved him out of the door and told him (in choice four letter words) to come back in the morning.

 

Changed, dressed in warm clothes and medicated - - thanks to Starsky’s dogged persistence - - Hutch sat wrapped in a blanket on the sofa, watching the hiss and crackle of flames in the stone hearth.  It was after midnight, yet as exhausted as he felt, he didn’t want to go upstairs.  Starsky had built a fire solely because he’d asked.  It was something he rarely got to experience anymore, living in a warmer California climate and one of the few things he truly missed about Duluth.  There’d been some initial grumbling and a few curses from his friend when the fire hadn’t caught on first try, but eventually even Starsky admitted it was kind of soothing.  Factor in the pain medication Hutch had taken, and he felt pleasantly numb, the pressure in his chest and the ache in his arm all but forgotten. 

 

The room was dark, illuminated only by the amber flicker of firelight, but for once he didn’t fear the blackness.  He felt warm and safe for the first time in a long time.  

 

With a sigh, Starsky sat beside him.  “You should be in bed, Hutch.”

 

His sense of humor returning, Hutch arched a brow.  “Are you making me an offer?”

 

Starsky snorted, shifting to sit more comfortably.  “Don’t flatter yourself, Blondie.  You ain’t that pretty.”  Angling into the corner, he lifted his legs from the floor, stretching them over Hutch’s lap with a huge yawn.  He’d changed his sodden jeans and sneakers a while ago, opting for sweat pants and thick socks. 

 

Hutch draped a hand over his calves, fingers reflexively curling around Starsky’s leg. It felt natural to be sitting so closely, no inhibition between them, and he realized that feeling was something he’d never shared with Ryan or any other friend before. He frowned slightly, watching Starsky.  There were circles under his partner’s eyes, his face lined with more than simple fatigue. 

 

His hand tightened on Starsky’s leg.  “You’re not feeling well, are you?”

 

Starsky gave a soft chuff.  “Um . . . we kinda had a crazed night - - dodgin’ bullets, runnin’ through a river, gettin’ drenched, gettin’ shot at  . . . so I’m a little off the game - -”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”  Hutch wet his lips.  He didn’t know why he hadn’t seen it before.  “You haven’t been feeling well, yet you came out here - - following me on some ridiculous quest to do a favor for a guy you don’t even know.”

 

Starsky shrugged.  “Doesn’t matter.  I know you.”  He nudged Hutch with his foot, parting with a loopy grin.  “Kinda got attached, ya know?”

 

“Is that why you came into the isolation ward?”  Hutch asked quietly.

 

He saw Starsky stiffen, his face undergoing a sobering transformation.  The dark-haired man started to say something, to revert back to a lighter mode of conversation, but at the last minute seemed to realize it was not what Hutch wanted to hear.  “I, um . . .”  Starsky licked his lips.  “I just needed to see you.  Needed to make sure you were still fightin’ it.”

 

Hutch stared at the flame, forcing himself to part with the truth.  “God, Starsk - - if you hadn’t come . . .”   He paused only briefly before plodding quietly forward.  “You don’t know what that did for me . . . what it meant.”  His eyes returned to Starsky.  “I was terrified, and you took some of that away, even if just for a minute.  And then tonight  . . . ”  

 

Maybe it was the medication, but Hutch’s inhibitions were falling by the wayside.  Everything he’d tried to horde close and guard so carefully no longer needed protecting.  “Something happened tonight . . . when I couldn’t breathe and you helped me through it . . . like you did when I was in pain at the hospital.”  He lowered his eyes, momentarily uncertain.  “It made me realize I didn’t have to be afraid any more.  That I really could go on living.  Everything just felt so . . . fake  . . . there for awhile, you know?”  He glanced back to Starsky, trying to gauge if he was making any kind of sense.  “It was like I was on a different track from the rest of the world.  Like it was all carnival colors on the outside, but underneath everything was dead.”

 

“Jeez, Hutch.  What kind of drugs you on anyway?”

 

Embarrassed, Hutch flushed.  “I know - - stupid, huh?”

 

“Don’t be an ass.”  Starsky prodded his thigh with a socked foot.  “Almost dyin’ does strange things to your head.  You shoulda told me how you were feelin’ before.”  He sat forward, drawing one leg onto the couch, hooking his arm loosely behind Hutch’s neck.  “I just don’t wanna have to wait till you get shot, nearly drowned and pumped full of pills to know something’s botherin’ you.”

 

Hutch’s eyes dropped to his hands.  He was silent a long moment then shrugged, realizing he needed to lighten the mood.  There’d been too much gloom and doom lately. “Maybe if you’d built me a fire before . . .”

 

Starsky cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “Cheap date, ain’t ya, Blondie?”  He twisted in the couch, shouldering up against Hutch’s left side, drawing both legs bent at the knees, onto the sofa.  Scrunching lower, he rested his back against his friend’s good shoulder.  “You know what I think?”

 

Hutch smiled affectionately at the riotous mass of dark curls Starsky presented.  “What?”

 

“I think after Ryan shows up tomorrow and you chew him a new butthole for being such a selfish, inconsiderate friend, you should show me this Tree of Song thingie.  I mean, I flew all the way out here.  At the very least I wanna see the willow that inspired this mess.”

 

“Sure, okay.”  Hutch sagged a little deeper into the sofa, his eyes growing heavy.  Between the warmth of the fire, the blanket, and his partner pressed up against him, he felt like he could sleep for a week.  The narcotic-laced pain medication wasn’t helping, seducing him with velvety promises of slumber. “Starsk?”

 

“Mmm?”

 

“Wha’ d’ya thinks really in th’box?”

 

“Do we care?”  Starsky angled his head back to stare up at him.  “You’re startin’ to slur your words, babe.  I think it’s time you called it a night.”

 

Hutch yawned sleepily.  “Y’ never answered me.”

 

“About the box?”

 

“Box?”  Hutch drew his brows together.   There was something about a box, but he was abruptly too tired to muddle through it.  “No, dummy.  I meant  . . . you’re not feelin’ well?”

“Are you tellin’ me or askin’ me?”  Starsky twisted around, grinning up at him. 

 

Hutch blinked.

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

The next thing he knew Starsky was helping him upstairs into the bedroom, the warmth and cascading gold of the fireplace only a distant memory.

 

+++++

 

Ryan Carrick slid the strongbox onto the kitchen table and glanced expectantly at Hutch.  The box was different then the one Ryan had used when they were kids, larger and more solid by the looks of it.  Hutch traded a glance with Starsky, noting his friend’s jaded scowl. Despite Ryan’s stammered apology for involving Hutch - - given as he’d danced from foot to foot on the doorstep that morning - - Starsky clearly had little sympathy for the man.  It made Hutch feel pleasantly warm inside to know his partner was that protective of him. 

 

Even now he knew Starsky should be in bed.  Muted strains of the plague had finally caught up with his bullheaded partner, evident in his fever-flushed face and watery eyes.  Yet despite the fact he was clearly miserable, it was also plain Starsky had no intention of leaving Hutch alone with Ryan.

 

“Starsk, sit down,” Hutch said, pushing his friend into a seat at the table.  If nothing else, at least maybe Starsky would sit before he keeled over. 

 

It was shortly after 9:00 a.m., the sun streaming lemon-bright and gold-tipped through the expansive eastern windows.  The kitchen was luminous, flooded with light, yet the atmosphere felt heavy and oppressive.  Hutch had to admit a certain curiosity about what was in the strongbox.  He’d known Ryan too long to simply dismiss it, but when the red-haired man pulled back the lid, he stared in open bewilderment.

 

“It’s just a bunch of papers,” Starsky said hotly, shoving to his feet.  “You almost got my partner killed for a bunch of friggin’ papers?”

 

Hutch clamped a restraining hand on his shoulder.  Confused, he looked at Ryan.  “I really didn’t expect Odin’s spear, but - -”

 

“It’s my research, Ken.  Everything I’ve ever tracked on the 25^th Rune.  Carver and Layton were working for a rival scholar - -”

 

“You mean there’s more than one jackass who believes this shit?”  Starsky exploded.

 

Hutch’s grip tightened.  “Starsk, take it easy.”

 

“Forget it!”  Starsky thrust his arm aside.  “Hutch, this idiot - -  fuckin’ Prince of Idiots - - nearly gets you killed over a bunch of looseleaf and you want me to take it easy?”

 

“You don’t’ understand.”  Ryan recoiled, clearly intimidated by Starsky’s hostility.  “Carver and Layton really thought I’d found the spear.  They were going to sell out their boss and make a mint on the antiquities market.  I knew the guy they were working for - - a Dr. Clyde Dresslinger - - wanted my notes, so I stashed them.  I tried to tell Carver and Layton it was just paper.  Really, I did.  But they wouldn’t listen.  They thought I had the spear . . . especially after I mailed the key to Ken.”

 

“Which you never shoulda done!”  Starsky spat, backing him against the wall. 

 

Ryan cringed, his face draining of color as he glanced desperately to Hutch.  “Ken, if you’d just opened the box last night, none of this would have happened.”

 

“Oh, so now it’s his fault?”

 

Hutch didn’t think he’d ever seen his friend so volatile.  Maybe it was the hot flush of fever in his eyes, but Starsky definitely looked a little scary.  His partner had the uncanny ability to play “bad cop” to the hilt in the interrogation room, making suspects squirm until they cracked, confessing in fear.  Hutch had the feeling Starsky was doing the same now - -making Ryan sweat for his stupidity.  If he wasn’t half dazed from the pain medication Starsky had forced on him that morning, he might have joined his highly excitable partner in the performance.  As it was, Starsky was doing a good enough job for both of them.

 

Ryan blanched.

 

“Ken, come on - -”  Another pleading glance, this one bordering on hysteria.  “You know I’d never do anything to intentionally get you hurt.  I just thought - -”  His eyes darted to Starsky before returning to Hutch.  He shrugged nervously.  “Who better to retrieve my stuff than a cop?  I figured once Dresslinger backed off, I could go back to my research.  I’m decades ahead of the guy and he knows it.”

 

“You know what you are?”  Starsky’s hand closed on his collar.  Roughly, he shoved the thinner man against the wall.  “You’re a piss-poor excuse for a friend, that’s what you are.  You ever think of just callin’ Hutch and tellin’ him what was goin’ down instead of pullin’ this Tree of Song bullshit?”

 

Ryan tried to say something, but all that came from his lips was a pitiful squeak.

 

“Starsky, let him go,” Hutch said quietly.   Bad Cop had done his job, time for Good Cop to come to the rescue.  Starsky turned around, releasing Ryan, sending Hutch a wink in the process.  The blond-haired man bowed his head in a vain attempt to smother a smile.  It took him a minute to recover.  “Ryan, I think you should go now.”

 

“But . . .”  Uncertain, Ryan hesitated.  He looked nervously from Hutch to Starsky, then back again.  “I . . . I feel bad about all this, Ken.  I really never meant for it to go this far.”

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Hutch bowed his head, rubbed his temple.  He could already hear Ryan flipping shut the lid of the strongbox, locking it with the key.  His friend might have the grace to apologize, but he clearly wanted out of the house and away from Starsky.  Which was fine with Hutch, who just wanted his overly taxed partner to sit down and rest.  Starsky might be playing it rough-and-tumble, but Hutch knew him well enough to know when he was existing on fumes.  “Just go, Ryan, okay?  I’ll call you when I get back to California.”

 

The red-haired man didn’t have to be told again.  Hooking the strongbox under his arm, he pushed his way out the back door and was racing for the front of the house and his car before Hutch even eased into a seat at the table. Wearily he smiled up at his partner. “You were a little hard on him weren’t you?”

 

“The idiot deserved it.”  Starsky sat beside him.  “Hopefully he’ll think twice before he sends you any kind of key again.”  With a theatrical moan he leaned forward, folding his arms on the tabletop, resting his head in the cradle. Turning his cheek against his hand, he stared up at Hutch.   “So here we are . . . two pathetically sick Bay City street cops stuck on twelve acres in the middle of  Pennsylvania.  You gonna show me that tree now?”

 

“I think you should rest, Starsk.  It’s just a tree.”

 

“Aw, come on . . .”  Starsky sat up.  “It made you come up with a dorky name like ‘Tree of Song.’  It’s obviously a bit more than your run-of-the-mill bundle of branches and leaves.” He parted with a yawn.  “Didn’t you ever hear cold air is good for a fever?”

 

“I think my father would argue that one with you.”  Hutch shifted.  Part of him really did want to see if the willow was really still there, tall and majestic as he remembered, its umbrella canopy like the gateway to a private world. It had been nine years since he’d been here last.  As a child the tree had always held special meaning for him and not just because of Ryan. 

 

He thought of the Hutchinson family photo above the fireplace.  Of the white shirt he’d worn instead of the blue one his father had wanted . . . of the careless remarks his father had made as a result and how the photographer had been the one to see something better in Hutch’s mistake.  His father had been blind at first because he’d only been looking for one thing - - what he’d wanted.  It had always been about what Grant wanted, what Grant expected.  Even now nothing had changed.

 

But the Tree of Song had been Hutch’s escape.

 

With a grin, he gave Starsky a nudge on the shoulder.  “Okay, buddy.  Let’s go see if it’s still there.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky drove.  It felt kind of silly to be taking the car just a few hundred yards down the river bank, but he wasn’t about to let Hutch walk the distance with his lungs still under strain.  And if he was honest, he wasn’t exactly up to the task himself.  A low-grade fever had finally caught up with him that morning, along with a barrage of insistent and chill-inducing aches in his limbs.  He’d popped some aspirin and dug out a warmer sweater, realizing if it weren’t for the vaccine he’d be suffering a lot worse - - living what Hutch had endured, one step shy of having his body collapse completely.

 

He’d checked on his partner early, looking in before dawn was a tangerine streak in the eastern sky.  Hutch had slept soundly through the night, pain medication and exhaustion offsetting the biting ache of the bullet wound.  Starsky had crawled back into bed, shivering with the onslaught of chills and fever, then forced himself awake shortly after 8:00 when he heard Hutch fumbling around in the hall bath.  With one arm basically useless, his blond friend was clearly having a rough time trying to shower.  Playing coy and awkward, Starsky had stuck his head in the door and gamely offered to help.

 

One tossed towel and a blistering string of Viking curses later, he’d ducked laughing into the hallway, listening as Hutch stepped beneath the running water. When his partner finally did emerge, looking slightly bedraggled, his blond hair wet and pin-straight, Starsky was waiting with a glass of water and a dose of pain medication.  Hutch took the pills, but eyed him critically.  That’s when the aspirin and sweater had come into play, followed by a heavier jacket when they got into the Granada.

 

The ground was soft, still damp from mist, the sun burning gold and treasure-bright across the river.  The water didn’t look as cold as it had last night, but Starsky shivered regardless, remembering his friend floundering in its icy grasp.  He banked the car to the left, the heavily treaded tires digging into the sodden ground.  A few feet shy of the thicket he parked, and they walked the remainder of the way.  

 

Ash, spruce, elm and oak all huddled together in a dense clump, leafless branches stripped by the unforgiving kiss of late fall.  In the center of the group was a single willow, its gnarled trunk easily the width of two men, thick branches creating a massive, drooping canopy overhead.  It looked like the kind of tree folktales were built around, environmentalists protected, and kids made into secret hiding places.  He had the sudden feeling escape was exactly what the tree had represented to one overly sensitive thirteen year-old-boy.

 

Hutch stepped between the bulging roots, sliding his hand into a hollow at the center of the willow.  “Empty,” he said a little dispiritedly, pulling out a clump of dry leaves, letting the breeze feather them from his hand.

 

Starsky watched his profile, noting the way the sun plaited his pale hair with brilliant veins of ash and gold.  He thought of the Hutchinson family photograph, of a fair-haired child so diametrically contrasted against his darker-coiffed family.  It wasn’t just looks and coloring that set Hutch apart from the rest of his family.  It went deeper than that.  It always had.

 

Coughing Starsky fought down the sting in his chest and stepped to his friend’s side.  Tilting his head, he stared into the dizzying mesh of limbs suspended overhead.  A breeze rippled through the supple dangling branches and made a soft sound like a sigh.  “It don’t really sound like music, Hutch,” he observed.

 

“Yeah, I know.”  Hutch leaned against the trunk.

 

Starsky eyed him critically.  “That’s not really why you called it the Tree of Song, is it?”

 

“No.”  Hutch plucked a single slender leaf from the hollow.  He sent his friend a lopsided grin.  “The reason is even stupider than what I told you before.”

 

I don’t think so, pal.  “Okay, so let’s hear it.”

 

Hutch shrugged.  He pilfered a sliver of dried flesh from the leaf, letting the broken pieces float into the air.  “I used to play guitar here.  My dad was never really fond of it as a hobby . . . thought I was wasting my time, so I’d come here when I wanted to sing or write music.”

 

“Tree of Song,” Starsky said with understanding.

 

“Told you it was pathetic.”

 

“Not really.”  Starsky sat at the base of the tree, propping his butt on a large knotted root.  He linked his arms loosely around his knees and stared up at his friend.  “This is where you came to get away from him - - your old man?”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch crouched beside him, his expression turning melancholy.  “You know the sad part?  If he and I lived under the same roof today, I’d be doing the same thing - - looking for another Tree of Song.  Nothing’s changed between us, Starsk.  I’m thirty-three years old and my father’s a stranger.”

 

Starsky hedged.  He knew the whole thing went much deeper than Hutch’s passion for music and his desire to have a place to play his songs.  While Starsky had only met Grant Hutchinson briefly one time, (and hadn’t walked away with a very high opinion of the man) he had faith in the uppercrust doctor and his more down-to-earth son.  “You know, Hutch - - I think the guy’s gonna come around one of these days.  He can’t be all that bad.”

 

Hutch gave a dismissive snort.  “You don’t even know him.”

 

“No.  But I know his kid.  And I know you couldn’t have turned out to be highly ethical and compassionate without havin’ a solid foundation from your folks.  I mean, come on - - you’re the White Knight, right?”  He chuckled trying to make a joke of it, not wanting to delve too deeply into a subject that had always been a sore spot with Hutch.  Stupid idiot just can’t admit he wants the old man’s blessin’ . . . would do friggin’ cartwheels to get it.  “Your mom’s a queen, Hutch.  Don’t make your dad out to be a frog.  Maybe you’re just too much alike.”

 

Hutch sent him a pointed sideways glance.  “Oh, so now I’m a frog?”

 

“You kiddin’?”  Starsky smiled, slapping his leg.  “A pretty blond thing like you?  I bet the girls all called you a prince.”  His grin turned mischievous and sharp.  “Too bad they don’t know about that snortin’ sound you make when you got a cold, or how you leave your gym shorts balled up in your locker until - -”

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch seemed to realize the moment of seriousness had passed.  “On the risk of sounding like I care - - get your butt off the ground and into the car before you get any sicker.”  Standing, he hooked his left hand under Starsky’s arm and pulled him to his feet.  “How ‘bout we hang out at the house for a day or two until we both feel up to a flight home?  I still got medical leave for two weeks.”

 

Hutch veered for the Granada and Starsky followed compliantly.  “Okay,” he agreed. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked back at the tree, thankful he’d seen it, grateful Hutch had shared the true measure of its importance.  “You know . . .” His mind was already off, scampering ahead on another track.  “As much as I dislike that Carrick guy, the whole key thing was kinda smart.  Maybe we should have a code like that.  I mean, if you wanted me to find something  . . . and you didn’t want anyone else to know where to look for it . . . what could you send me, so I’d know where it’d be?”

 

“That’s easy.”

 

Startled by his friend’s quick reply, Starsky blinked.  “Huh?”

 

“Starsk, I’d send you a tomato.”

 

“A tomato?  Hutch, why in the world - -”   He stopped suddenly, realization washing over him as Hutch pushed him toward the driver’s side of the car.  “Ahhh, I get it.”  Starsky parted with a tight, knowing grin.  It was good to see Hutch smiling so openly, clearly enjoying himself, even if it was at Starsky’s expense.  “You know . . .”  He waggled a finger across the Granada’s roof as Hutch walked to the passenger’s side.  “You’re just lucky I can take a joke about my Torino.”

 

“Who’s joking?”  Hutch disappeared into the car.

 

Starsky gaped, then quickly followed.  “In that case - -”  He slammed the door shut, his tone clearly implying a royal snit to follow.  He turned toward Hutch, ready to unload both barrels. 

 

And grinned.

 

“You’re just lucky I care about your blond ass.  Now sit there and enjoy the scenery while I chauffeur you back to the Hutchinson Family Estate.”  Starsky gripped the key, ready to turn over the ignition when Hutch caught his hand.

 

“Hey, buddy.”  Hutch’s voice changed, soft and serious now. 

 

Starsky looked at him expectantly, worried at first, then pleased to note the familiar features were relaxed and openly affectionate. 

 

Hutch gave a one-shouldered shrug and a half-grin.  “If you’d been around when I was thirteen, maybe I wouldn’t have needed a Tree of Song.”

 

“As long as you don’t need one now.”  Starsky turned over the ignition.  “You ready to go back and sit in front of that obnoxiously large fireplace again?”

 

A single brow crept into the pale fringe of Hutch’s hair.  “You gonna build me another fire?”

 

“Well . . .”  Starsky looked away, spinning the wheel as he pointed the car back toward the house.  “I figure maybe you’re worth two.”

 

+++++

 

Epilogue

Three weeks later

 

Hutch tossed the bowling ball down the lane, watching as it hooked into the front pocket of pins at the last second.  The clatter that followed tangled with his triumphant cry of “Strike!” and Starsky’s groan of disbelief.  Grinning, Hutch joined his friend as Starsky marked off the strike on the final frame of the game.

 

“You know, I let you win that,” the dark-haired man commented. 

 

“Sure you did.”  Hutch snagged his beer from the scoring table where Starsky was sitting and plopped to a seat on the u-shaped bench.  Around them the noisy racket of the bowling alley continued amid clanks and rattles and the sizzling hum of rocketing balls across waxed hardwood.  Tilting the bottle to his lips, Hutch grinned brazenly.  “You just magically helped me bowl all those strikes, right Starsk?”

 

“Don’t get cocky, just because you got in a few strikes.”

 

“Five,” Hutch reminded him.  “Including a turkey - - three in a row.  Left you in the dust, pal.”

“Three in a row,” Starsky parroted, making a face.  He grabbed his own beer and took a long swallow.  “Just ‘cuz you’re back to 100% now, don’t think you’re King Pin.  I just haven’t warmed up yet.”

 

Hutch reclined on the bench, draping one arm along the hard plastic backrest.  Wedging a foot against Starsky’s seat, he let his grin curl higher.  “We’ve played three games, Starsk, and I’ve beaten you at two.”

“You know what your problem is, Hutchinson?”  Starsky angled the tip of his beer bottle at Hutch.  “You’re too damn competitive, that’s what your problem is. Who says we can’t just bowl a few friendly games without keepin’ score?  The important thing is that we’re havin’ a good time, right?  Celebratin’ your first full week back on the job.  I mean . . . there you are, all blond and spiffy, not even breakin’ a sweat after a week of chasin’ down bad guys.  That’s what we should be celebratin’ - - not a 230 bowlin’ score.”

 

“240,” Hutch corrected him.  He’d lost the first game intentionally, finagling his score to a perfect 148 - - the life expectancy age of the citizens of the Russian province of Azerbaijan.  After pointing out the “coincidence” to Starsky and having his friend grow a little freaky as a result, Hutch had enjoyed a laugh, then settled down to bowl for real.  A few weeks ago he hadn’t even been able to make it through eight frames without growing winded.  He could still recall that disastrous bowling alley visit after the airport, when he’d deteriorated into a coughing fit.  Amazing what time and recovery did. 

 

Tonight’s second game had been close with he and Starsky both near the 200 mark, but Hutch had pulled it out by a few pins.  In the third and last game, everything had come together for him, and he’d walked away with the lead. 

 

Starsky was right - - he was competitive, but so was his dark-haired partner.  It created a healthy balance for their uniquely close relationship.  Tonight, Hutch knew, he had the edge.  A week back on the force, and he felt like he was on top of the world again - - strong, healthy, in the prime of his life.  The sun seemed brighter, the air fresher, his job invigorating, his friendship with Starsky - - well, it was only natural that had cycled from dependency into competitiveness again too.  He knew Starsky would be there the next time he needed to unload or wanted consoling, but in the meantime it felt wonderful to banter and compete over trivial matters.  Tonight had been pizza, beer and bowling - - the perfect Starsky “date” and his friend hadn’t even insisted on imported ale.

 

Too bad Judith wasn’t around.  Or other diverting female company for that matter, since his sophisticated CDC doctor was back in Alabama (probably already flirting with another blond patient, he thought sourly). 

 

Casually, Hutch glanced down the lanes.   “You know, Starsk . . . speaking of being competitive . . .”  Three lanes down two single women had just arrived and were changing into bowling shoes.  Both appeared in their late twenties, both shapely and pretty, apparently unattached.  He caught the taller one, a slim woman with dark red hair, looking in his direction and grinned. “We could wander down there and see if those two ladies want to bowl doubles, then we wouldn’t have to worry about being competitive.”

 

“Least not with bowlin’,” Starsky agreed.  He had spotted the girls too and was currently in the process of making eye contact with a petite brunette.  Seated on the bench, the two young women had their heads together, giggling now and again as they tugged on their shoes, throwing obvious glances and clear signals to the detectives.  “I’ve got the brunette,” Starsky announced, standing and grabbing his beer.

 

“Works for me.”  Hutch stood too, but on afterthought held out his arm to stop Starsky.  “Hey, wait a minute, Starsk.”

 

“Now what?”

 

Hutch looked troubled.  “Well . . . we only brought one car.  What if things work out, and you know . . . we decide to split up for the night?”

 

“Jeez, Hutch.”  Starsky rolled his eyes.  “You ain’t even said hello to the girl and you automatically think you’re gonna score?  Odds are they only brought one car too.  You can hitch a ride from the redhead.”

 

“I thought I had the brunette?”

 

Starsky feigned exasperation.

 

Hutch grinned.  “Yanking your chain, partner.”  He tugged lightly on Starsky’s sleeve and this time his smile was wholly genuine, solely for his friend.  “Feels kind of good to actually be able to do it again.”

 

Starsky paused.  “Yeah,” he agreed with a smile of his own, the lightness of it warming his eyes.   “Feels good to hear it.”  He gave Hutch a nudge forward.  “Now let’s see if you’ve still got that smooth Hutchinson charm.”

 

“Piece of cake,” Hutch shot back and headed for the girls.  Pizza, bowling, beer and a potential date who didn’t drive around in a flashy striped tomato.

 

Hutch sighed contentedly. 

 

It was shaping up to be a beautiful night.

 

+++++

- -  End Tree of Song - -

 

Author’s note:  While many of the references relating to Norse Myth in this story are accurate, the 25^th Rune and the concept it was carved onto Odin’s spear are purely my own plot devices. The Elder Futhark - - the Viking Runic Alphabet - - contained only 24 Runes, eventually reduced to 16.   Comments are welcomed in my mailbox at veniceplace12@verizon.net