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.

Tree of Song

By Kate (CMT)

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.