This one is for Brook who patiently asked for
several months that I bring back Impala (from Illusions and Secrets) and turn
him loose on Starsky. So I did.
Only problem - - I don’t do well writing violence. Give me angst, injuries, sickness or wounds, and I’m in my element, but sadistic bad guys dropkick me out of my comfort zone - - big time. (Expect for when I wrote “Hunted” - - don’t know why, but that story didn’t faze me). This one is different. I’m nervous about it. It’s . . . *shudder* . . . ugly. I suppose I could have tried to find a way to write Impala without making him such a slug, but it just didn’t seem true to the character I’d created (what the &#*!%*! was I thinking when I dreamt him up in the first place? Note to self: No more scum-of-the-earth villains.)
For those of you who don’t know my tolerance level when it comes to violence and torture, here it is - - I’m a wuss. Surprise! Unfortunately, it’s nearly impossible to have a sicko like Impala and not have . . . well, “situations” that are offensive. So although I did my best with this story line, I feel compelled to point out the following warnings:
Revoltingly coarse language (more so than usual), nastiness and disgusting innuendo abound. Uh, then again, I might be over-reacting and the whole thing could be basically tame (although I doubt it). If it bothered me, it’s very likely it could bother someone else, so please be forewarned. I found it a challenge to write, which was intriguing given there was a day (many moons ago) when dark fic and horror were my forte. I guess that just goes to show we continually change in our tastes as writers.
So to Brook (and everyone else) I hope you enjoy the tale, but be forewarned it’s not my usual stuff. I spent an interesting few weeks creating this story, writing myself into corners I didn’t escape completely unscathed (there were nasty battles with my muse as well as my conscience!). Hopefully the end result will provide at least a few minutes of intriguing reading.
By Kate (CMT)
“Detective Starsky?”
David Starsky raised his head at the slightly inquiring tone, surprised to find detective third class Jared Mercer standing at the corner of his desk. Well, that wasn’t entirely precise. “Hovering” would have been a better description, Mercer’s posture conveying acute unease in everything from his tense shoulders to the abnormally tight lines of his face. Starsky had a passing relationship with the officer from the 33rd precinct, though they’d never comfortably moved to a first-name basis. Hutch was friendlier with the brown-haired cop having developed a friendship with him while Starsky was hospitalized, recovering from a near-lethal dose of poison.
Two years had passed since that incident, Hutch and Mercer getting together a couple of times every month for a game of pool or just to shoot the breeze over a few beers. Starsky had even joined them once or twice at his partner’s prompting but had never felt entirely at ease. Maybe it was because Hutch had first connected with Mercer when he’d been suffering from temporary paralysis. As a result, the association resurrected a host of unwanted memories. Whatever the reason, Starsky had been polite and friendly with Mercer but had always remained aloof.
“Hey.” He managed a smile, admittedly interested in the other’s presence. Mercer had been a patrolman, partnered with Sam Impala when he and Hutch had first met. Two years later, much had changed. Mercer had not only received a promotion to detective third class, but Sam had married and moved to Colorado. The last Starsky had heard, the rookie cop was working as a sheriff’s deputy in a rural ranching community. “Hutch ain’t here right now. He’s in court, doing testimony on a drug case.”
“I know that.” Mercer shuffled from foot to foot, looking strangely anxious. “I really came to see you, Sergeant.”
“Starsky,” the dark-haired man corrected automatically. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to feel at ease with Mercer. In hindsight, he realized the anxiety wasn’t strictly his. Mercer was just as uncomfortable around him as he was around the other cop. If he were a betting man, he’d place money on Hutch as the reason neither could relax. He wasn’t exactly jealous of his partner’s friendship with Mercer, but he often felt like a third wheel when the three of them were together. Odds were Mercer did too. “Ain’t you strayed a little far from the 33rd?” he asked.
Starsky waved casually at Hutch’s seat across from him, inviting the other man to sit. Wired, Mercer gave a tight shake of his head, his expression growing tenser. “I can’t stay,” he explained. “But I knew Hutch was in court and I thought you should know what’s going on.”
Starsky’s brows arched into his hair. “About what?”
“Um . . .” Shuffling again, Mercer licked his lips. “Look, Starsky, this isn’t easy for me. I feel torn about it. I know how Hutch gets, but it’s only been a few weeks since he had the plague and got that bullet crease in Pennsylvania. He’s had a lot on him lately. He doesn’t need this.”
Alarms went off in Starsky’s head. It wasn’t so much what Mercer said as the way he said it, coupled with his highly agitated posture. Clearly something had him upset and that particular “something” was connected to a certain fair-haired Midwesterner.
“Maybe you’d better explain yourself,” Starsky suggested.
“Yeah . . .” Mercer shot a quick glance to the side, making sure he wouldn’t be overheard. Leaning a little closer, he lowered his voice. “Look, I’m not really sure how to say this, but you know about Tony Impala and Hutch, right? I mean . . .” He swallowed hard. “ . . . the way Impala had, um . . . a ‘thing’ for your partner?”
Involuntarily, Starsky grimaced. He couldn’t help the reaction. It had been a number of years since Hutch (then a rookie cop) had been paired with Anthony “Vlad” Impala, but the disgust Starsky felt for the senior officer hadn’t changed. The older man had been exceptionally hard on Hutch, humiliating and degrading him every chance he got. Only later did Starsky realize the motivation behind his behavior was twisted infatuation and lust. For years Impala had kept his dark sexual fantasies under wraps, but partnering with Hutch - - who was unquestionably good-looking - - had been too much for the older man. More than just homosexual, his desires were sordid, of the perverted variety. Starsky had gotten an eyeful when he’d caught the man in the police locker room practically hyperventilating while ogling a photo of Hutch. Impala had taken the picture without the younger man’s knowledge when he was exiting the shower, only a towel wrapped around his waist.
Starsky could still remember the rage he’d felt at that moment and how it had taken everything in his power not to deck the pervert right there. Instead, he’d leashed his anger and had basically blackmailed Impala, threatening to reveal his lurid sexual tendencies if he didn’t request another partner. He’d done everything in his power to protect Hutch, only revealing his hand in the situation years later when he’d been suffering from Bellamy’s poison and the whole sordid affair had come to light all over again.
“What’re you tryin’ to tell me?” he demanded, something unsettling slithering into his stomach.
Uncomfortable, Mercer ducked his head. He was friends with Hutch, but he clearly didn’t like thinking about the blond-haired cop being an object of infatuation for his former partner’s father. It was true too that Hutch had just gotten over the plague as well as a bullet wound to his right shoulder. Still not 100%, he was functioning as well as could be expected, given the circumstances.
“You know Sam’s in Colorado now, right?” Mercer prompted, making mention of Impala’s son and Mercer’s former partner. “Well, he and I still keep in touch. He’s a good kid and was a great partner, no matter what his old man did. Last time I talked to him, he was worried about his dad . . . said Impala was ranting about making someone pay. I don’t know if you heard, but he was working as a security guard at the Bayside Mall. Pretty sad for a washed-up cop. Anyway, Sam said he got fired and after that just went off the deep end, talking crazy shit. He was worried, so I checked on the old guy to make sure he was all right. You know - - put Sam’s mind at ease. He’s got a place on the corner of Remington and Wharf - - just a room really above the Dockside bar.”
“And?” Starsky prompted, the acid in his gut growing stronger. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but a sudden feeling of foreboding built in his chest.
Mercer inhaled unevenly as if bracing himself for what he had to say. “Impala wasn’t there when I stopped by. I knocked, but the place was empty. The door was unlocked so I went inside and looked around.” He grimaced, distaste washing over his face. “It was a mess - - trash and food everywhere like he just stopped caring about anything. A real pig sty. I, um . . .” Mercer hedged. “Found a room in the back where he had a bunch of photos strewn around . . . tacked up on the wall, spread out over a table.”
Starsky tensed at the mention of photos.
The brown-haired cop met his eyes. “They were of Hutch,” he said firmly. “Recent ones too. A whole pile of ‘em, Starsky, like . . . like . . .” he groped for words. “Like he’s been stalking him for weeks, maybe months. I hate to say it, but the creep is obsessed with Hutch - - gonzo-obsessed. You hear what I’m sayin’? With him talking crap about making someone pay, I’m worried he might be after your partner - - and I’m worried what he might do to Hutch if he ever catches up with him.”
Starsky’s stomach contracted. “You aren’t the only one,” he muttered. He thought they’d seen the last of Impala two years ago when Hutch had confronted him in Starsky’s hospital room. He’d been incapacitated at the time, paralyzed from the waist down, unable to help his blond friend. That hadn’t stopped his protective instincts from kicking in, wanting to keep Hutch as far away from Impala as possible. Even now, his gut reaction hadn’t changed.
“You ain’t told Hutch any of this, have you?”
Mercer shook his head.
“Good.” Starsky stood, pushing back his chair in the process. “Make sure you don’t. I’ll deal with this, Mercer. Between the plague and getting shot, Hutch doesn’t need anymore shit messin’ him up.”
“What are you gonna do?” Mercer asked.
“I’ll work it out,” Starsky said grimly. “ - - my own way. You get a line on Impala, let me know. The first thing I’m gonna do is track down that scumbag and make sure he knows he ain’t to get within five hundred fuckin’ yards of Hutch. I don’t want my partner freakin’ over this, but I wanna make sure he’s safe too. If that dickwad is really stalkin’ Hutch, he needs to be warned off - - permanently.”
Merecer nodded his understanding. “You could get a search warrant. Those photos would be more than enough for a restraining order and - -”
“No way.” Starsky shook his head. “That’d just open Hutch up to a lot of gossip and cheap speculation. There's plenty of jerks on the Force who’d say he encouraged Impala. Don’t tell me you’ve never heard the gossip ‘bout him and me?”
“Uh . . .” Mercer flushed and ducked his head uncomfortably. “I know you two are close, and yeah . . . I’ve heard some rumors, but I don’t believe ‘em.”
“Maybe you don’t,” Starsky countered, “But there’re a slew of idiots who do. It’d be like a feedin’ frenzy for them if this thing with Impala leaked, and I ain’t gonna put my partner through that. I can handle Impala without a search warrant. Hutch don’t even gotta know about it.” He paused, staring Mercer down, making sure the other man understood how strongly he felt about the situation. “I appreciate you tellin’ me about this. Now I want you to stay out of it.”
“I hear you.” Mercer nodded, if a bit reluctantly.
Unable to concentrate after the other man left, Starsky shuffled irritably through the scattered papers on his desk. Inwardly he fumed, the conversation with Mercer playing over and over in his head. How long had Impala been following Hutch, photographing him unaware? The man was scum, literal filth. The mere suggestion of him ogling Hutch left Starsky’s hands trembling with rage. His partner was street tough but tended to be overly sensitive and introspective at times - - especially now, having just survived the plague and a near fatal brush with death. Hutch was having a hard enough time readjusting to everyday life. The last thing he needed was the unwanted attentions of a depraved ex-cop who spent his off time dreaming up twisted sexual fantasies.
“Hey, Starsk.”
The casual intrusion of Hutch’s greeting drew Starsky back to the present. He blinked rapidly, glancing up as his partner shrugged from his gray suit jacket and looped it over the back of his desk chair. He moved a bit slower than normal, favoring his right arm. If Starsky didn’t know him as well as he did, he might not have even thought twice about it.
“Hey!” He grinned, noting the absence of the support bandage that had been Hutch’s constant companion for the last two weeks. “No more sling!”
Hutch smiled appreciatively. “It came off last night after my doctor gave me the green light to ditch it. I’m done with restricted duty too.” His smile inched a little broader. “Guess that means you and I can get back to the streets.”
That at least was good news, highly welcomed after Mercer’s bombshell about Impala. Starsky watched as his partner moved to the coffeepot, helping himself to a cup of decaf. Hutch still looked a bit on the thin side, an aftereffect of his toxic bout with the plague. His stamina had returned, but it came with the assistance of pills he was loathed to down on a regular basis. Starsky frequently had to remind him, even nag him about popping them at the ordered times. Three prescriptions had eventually dwindled to one, but Hutch would need the maintenance drug for at least another month before his body’s natural defenses could function without assistance.
Looking at him now, Starsky felt a surge of fierce protectiveness. Hutch was dressed for court, wearing crisp black slacks and a tailored white shirt. He’d ditched his tie somewhere, leaving his collar open at the neck. The Magnum was holstered under his left arm - - something Starsky knew from routine he hadn’t been able to carry into the courthouse. Lately, he’d been letting his hair grow longer. Soft and sun gold, it framed his face in flowing waves, heightening the river blue of his eyes. All in all, he looked healthy, but there was still a quietness about him . . . an underlying whisper of fatigue that bothered Starsky. Impala ain’t gonna touch him. If I got anything to say about it, that creep ain’t even gonna breathe in his direction.
“What do you say we celebrate tonight?” Hutch prompted, returning to his desk with the coffee. “I’ll even spring for dinner if we can agree on something halfway decent.”
“You mean like tofu burritos?” Starsky shuddered dramatically. “Sorry, buddy, but as appetizing as that sounds, I’m gonna have to pass. I already made other plans.”
“Oh?” Hutch appeared mildly intrigued. “Hot date?”
“Something like that,” Starsky supplied evasively. Truth was, he would have preferred having dinner with Hutch, but there was Impala to think about and his collection of photographs. The man had clearly been disturbed for a long time, but losing his job appeared to have pushed him over the edge. Even his kid was worried, calling Mercer to check up on the old man. How long before Impala snapped completely?
“Say, uh . . .” Attempting to appear casual, Starsky pried back the corner of the nearest file, taking a blasé peek inside. “You still leavin’ your key above your door for any yahoo to find?”
Hutch frowned, caught off guard by the strange change of topic. “What brought that up?”
“I dunno.” Starsky
shrugged. After the incident with Diana
Harmon, Hutch had been more cautious, keeping his keys with him, but a few
weeks later he’d gone right back to his bad habit. Realizing that anyone who took the time to look had a direct
route into Hutch’s apartment made Starsky abruptly queasy. It would be a simple matter for Impala to
slip inside while Hutch slept. And wouldn’t the sicko get his rocks off on
that - - findin’ Hutch all but naked in bed?
Shoving the revolting thought aside, Starsky cleared his throat. “I’m guessin’ court didn’t go all that well since you didn’t breeze in here with a bouncy smile. If Barton walked, he might be lookin’ to get even. Dobey said he threatened you when you took him down.” It seemed a valid enough reason to worry about a stray key on a doorframe.
Hutch waved the observation aside. “The system came through for once, Starsk. The jury found Barton guilty. Sentencing is next week.”
Starsky blinked. Even with his mind wrapped around Impala, he knew something was wrong. Hutch had taken down Clive Barton, a drug dealer who dabbled in porn, while Starsky was in New York for an uncle’s funeral. According to Dobey, the arrest hadn’t been easy and Barton had sworn vengeance against Hutch. The blond-haired man should have been elated by the prospect of the thug in prison, but instead he appeared abnormally low-key.
“You don’t seem very upbeat for a guy who just won a case,” he pointed out. “Not to mention you got to ditch your sling and you’re cleared for street duty.” He frowned, having second thoughts about passing on dinner with Hutch. At least then he could keep an eye on his friend, maybe even pocket that damn extra key Hutch kept on his lintel - - at least until the mess with Impala was straightened out.
Hutch swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Sorry. I was just thinking . . .” He lowered his eyes briefly, the crease between his brows growing more pronounced as his expression turned troubled. “When I left the courthouse today, I felt like . . .” He shrugged a bit sheepishly. “Like I was being watched. I know it sounds stupid, but I couldn’t shake it. Then when I got to my car, I found this inside . . .” Reaching into his trouser pocket, Hutch withdrew a small black object and passed it to Starsky.
“A chess piece?” Starsky’s heartbeat grew fluttery and agitated. He had no idea what the carved black knight meant, but he was certain it was connected to Impala - - somehow, someway. Over the years, Hutch had earned a reputation as the “White Knight” of the Force . . . a name that had even trickled onto the street. Simon Marcus had used it to taunt him when Starsky was held prisoner by the cult leader’s fanatical followers. Even a few of their snitches referred to Hutch as Metro’s White Knight behind his back. But the black chess piece . . .
“Um . . . maybe Barton’s tryin’ to rattle you,” Starsky suggested, eyeing the carved wooden horsehead. It wasn’t anywhere near as elaborate as the ornate pieces Hutch had in his own chess set, but it wasn’t of the cheap plastic variety either. “Or it could be nothing.” Fisting his hand over the ebony knight, he looked squarely at Hutch. “Either way, it probably wouldn’t hurt to be a bit more cautious - - get that damn key off your doorframe and don’t go strollin’ in any dark alleyways.”
“Starsky - -”
“I’m serious, Hutch. You gotta wake up to the fact you’re a cop. That means a lot of lowlife street thugs are gonna have a kick-ass grudge against you - - and you’re all but invitin’ ‘em into your apartment with that damn key. I want you to pocket it tonight - - at least until we make sure there ain’t nothing goin’ on to be worried about.” He shoved the chess piece back at Hutch. “Don’t suppose you thought about havin’ that thing fingerprinted?”
Hutch rolled it in his palm. “It’s probably just a joke - - some kid playing a prank.”
“And that sense of being watched?”
Hutch hedged, shifting uncomfortably. His eyes flitted to the side, veering clear of Starsky’s gaze. “Probably just my imagination,” he muttered, but it was plain the situation bothered him more than he was willing to admit. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Starsky pressed his lips together. “Don’t piss me off, Hutchinson. If someone’s stalkin’ you, I wanna know about it.”
“Stalking?” Genuinely surprised, Hutch shot him a startled glance. “Who said anything about stalking?”
“Uh . . .” Flustered by the slip, Starsky tried to fluff it off. “I’m just sayin’ if someone were, that ain’t something to keep from your partner. Look, let’s blow this place, huh?” Forcing a grin, he shoved to his feet, reaching behind him to snatch up his jacket. “It’s almost noon and I’m starvin.’ What d’ya say we go grab some lunch? Since you were all eager to spring for dinner, I’ll even let you treat.”
“Gee, that’s generous of you, Starsk.”
“Ain’t it though?” The grin came easier this time, especially when he saw Hutch smile in return. A half hour later, seated at a booth in Huggy’s bar, Starsky was able to forget about Impala, if only momentarily. Hutch talked easily, no longer pensive as they bantered back and forth over burgers and fries. Despite his earlier gloom, Starsky felt his spirits lift.
When their shift ended later that afternoon, he immediately headed to the eastside of Bay City and Vlad Impala’s last known address.
+++++
Mercer had been right about one thing. The place was a pigsty. Starsky parked across the street and down a block, approaching the Dockside Bar at a leisurely stroll. Still early in the evening, there were few cars in the small corner lot and only one or two at the curbside. As he neared the entrance, he caught a whiff of fried fish and stale cigarettes mixed with the weaker scent of Pine-sol. A poorly hand-lettered sign to the right of the door read Room for Rent. To the left, neon placards in the window flashed Budweiser and Miller in luminous bursts of vermilion and metallic gold.
Inside it was murky and dark, several rickety tables and chairs grouped around an L-shaped bar. To the rear, a jukebox and pool table - - its felt top faded to the watery green of weak pea soup - - occupied a small alcove by the john. One or two of the patrons spared a passing glance as Starsky entered, giving him a cursory once-over, but most were content to hunch over their drinks, oblivious to the surroundings. Sauntering nearer, he zeroed in on the bartender, a medium-height man with a greasy mat of blond hair pulled tight in a short ponytail. Odds were he was the owner or at least the one responsible for renting out the rooms.
Chewing around a fat cigar, the man eyed Starsky through a haze of smoke. “You ain’t one of my regulars,” he noted in a gravely voice.
“Ain’t lookin’ for a drink,” Starsky corrected, sidling up to the bar. “I need a room.” To the right, he spied a narrow staircase forded by a scarred wooden banister. Once cocoa brown, its finish had darkened and weathered with age, blackened in spots, worn rough and bare in others. Hooking his thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the sign outside. “You got a vacancy upstairs?”
“Maybe.” The man eyed him suspiciously, taking a pull on his stogie. A lazy plume of smoke curled in the air, the acrid smell reminding Starsky of moldy leaves and wet wood ash. “Pay by the week, all in advance. I don’t put up with no hokey shit, neither.” He eyed Starsky up and down, noting the exceptionally tight fit of his jeans. His bottom lip curled in a sneer, his expression settling into a cross of smug revulsion and subtle interest. “You push tricks from that room, I don’t want no problems ‘cuza it.”
“No problems,” Starsky said, deciding not to correct the snide observation. The man could think whatever he wanted as long as it got Starsky up the steps. Clearly, his threadbare jeans and battered leather jacket went a long way in giving him the hungry look of a seasoned hustler. If that action was commonplace, it was no wonder Impala had chosen to room here. The slimy reptile probably feels right at home. Likely pays for it too, all the while thinkin’ about gettin’ it on with Hutch.
His mouth twisted at the revolting thought, and it was all he could do to recover his composure. Thinking about Impala upstairs with pictures of Hutch tacked up in his filthy little apartment made Starsky want to retch. “You got a key?” he snapped at the bartender, his voice unnaturally sharp. Immediately, he grimaced, trying not to let his revulsion show. “I don’t take nothin’ without seein’ it first.”
“Yeah, yeah. All you scummy little bitches think alike. Don’t know what the hell it matters, since all you’re gonna do is bend over and drop your jeans.” He jutted his jaw in the direction of the steps. “Door’s unlocked . . . top of the steps, Romeo.”
Starsky grunted something unflattering and pivoted on his heel. The sooner he checked Impala’s place, the sooner he could get out of the smelly rat hole and away from the bartender’s scornful remarks. After talking to Mercer, he didn’t really expect to find Impala at home but hoped he would unearth something to tell him what the ex-cop was planning.
At the top of the stairs, he found the vacant room unlocked as promised. Starsky cracked the door then immediately turned to the only remaining room, situated on his left. He tried the handle, found the deadbolt unlocked and eased inside. As Mercer had told him, the place was a mess. Crumpled bags of trash, half-eaten food, empty beer cans and overflowing ashtrays polluted the small space wherever he looked. The air was stale, heavy with the taint of accumulated garbage and week-old cigarette butts. A threadbare sofa, two stick-backed chairs and a metal-framed, fold-down mattress were strewn with clothing. Dirty socks and soiled underwear littered the bed, its blankets rumpled and askew, hanging onto the cheap pine floor.
The bathroom was just as bad - - cigarette butts floating in the toilet, filters browned and waterlogged, the tips turned the ugly black of road tar. Rust stains bled coppery streaks from the faucet to the deep bowl of a blush enamel sink. A faint odor of urine, coupled with something equally unpleasant, underscored the headachy reek of a white vinyl shower curtain. Stained and splotched with mildew, it added to the soiled atmosphere of the grubby bathroom.
Disgusted, Starsky returned to the main living area, immediately focusing on the only remaining doorknob he hadn’t touched. It opened onto a meager storage area, not a room so much as an alcove. A small rectangular table and chair were shoved up against the adjacent wall, a bare bulb suspended overhead providing the only illumination. Starsky felt for the light switch then stood agape as a blanched glow washed over countless photos of Hutch. Both black and white and full color, they were strewn over the table and tacked to the walls.
Horrified, he felt his mind go numb. In the next instant, he heard a soft chuckle, immediately followed by the creak of a floorboard. Then there was only blinding pain as something hot ripped through his skull and smothered him in suffocating darkness.
+++++
He blinked, groaning back to awareness and the massive knot of pain rooted at the base of his skull. Witch fire chased flame down his neck and exploded against his temples. He winced, sucking down a startled breath, something clotted and scratchy clogging his throat. Swaddled in darkness, it took him a moment to realize his wrists were bound behind his back, his ankles tied just as tightly. The abject dryness in his mouth was the result of a gag, its constricting edges cutting into the soft corners of his lips. He tasted blood, felt a fat trickle of sticky wetness dribble beneath his collar.
Experiencing a moment of sheer panic, he bucked against the restraints, the coarse bite of rope contracting sharply over his wrists and ankles. Distantly, he became aware of a hum in the background, the smooth vibration of movement beneath his tightly coiled body. The air was close and heavy, barely enough to fill his oxygen-starved lungs.
Once more he sucked for air, nostrils flaring hungrily, the gag backwashing into his mouth. He choked, unable to breathe, his heart ratcheting up in blood-pounding alarm. Slowly his rationality returned. He became aware of confines in the darkness, oppressive curves and slopes closing in on him. Coupled with the hum and vibration he felt, he pieced together the fact he was in a trunk of an automobile, his body crammed into the limiting space.
He remembered being in Impala’s apartment, the countless photos of Hutch, a sound, and then - -
What?
He scrambled for the answer, moaning through the gag when a sudden wave of nausea made his head spin. He broke out in a sweat, dizzy and sick, the imprisoning confinement of the stuffy trunk sending his thumping heart through the roof. He needed out . . . needed air . . . needed to breathe! The car hit a bump, bouncing hard, igniting dragon-tailed rockets in his skull. His body jostled roughly with the movement. Unable to stop his forward momentum, he pitched into a sloping plate of solid steel, his forehead cracking against the interior wall of the trunk.
For a minute there was nothing - - just the numbing shock of contact. Then pain exploded in a bonfire of demon flame and trauma, sucking hum, vibration, and even the suffocating obstruction of the gag into oblivion.
+++++
“Get over it, already.”
Something cracked sharply against his cheek . . . made him groan and blink his way back to a murky state of semi-consciousness. Starsky turned his head and tried to focus. The clingy darkness of the trunk was gone, the gag no longer tight against his mouth. Instead of lying curled on his side, he was flat on his back, arms and legs spread eagle, tied securely to the headboard and footrest of a twin bed. Tony Impala sat on the edge of the mattress, grinning down on him in smug superiority. “About time you woke up,” the older cop complained.
Starsky wet his lips. He became aware of the gag looped under his chin, hanging loose and abandoned around his neck. In the background, he had a vague impression of a sparsely furnished room. A cheap pressed-board dresser with a dark veneer finish, matching nightstand and olive carpeting conjured the strange sense of being in a hotel room. The far wall was covered with a heavy drawstring drape from floor to ceiling, but there was no window that he could see. The only lighting was cast from a trio of recessed globes overhead, the waxy illumination turning Impala’s skin the crusty yellow of congealed eye-grit.
Swallowing hard, Starsky flexed his hands against the coarse rope binding his wrists and tried to think around the thunderous pounding in his head. “This ain’t accomplishin’ an’thin,” he slurred, his words weaker than he’d hoped. It galled him to think he’d been so stupid as to let the older man get the drop on him.
Impala chuckled. “That all depends on your outlook, shithead.” The years hadn’t been kind to the ex-cop, his flesh puffy and red-veined, hanging in droopy bags under his eyes. His hair was still cut abominably short, buzzed close to his head in a severe military crop. He’d packed on a few more pounds, his body turning soft with flab, paunchy and swollen through the middle. “See, the way I figure it, you owe me. If it weren’t for you and that damn blackmail stunt you pulled when you were a stinkin’ rookie, my whole life mighta been different. I’ve been thinkin’ about hurtin’ you and gettin’ even for a long time, Starsky.” As he spoke, Impala tracked a single finger beneath Starsky’s arm, down his side, butting up against his belt.
With his arms tethered over his head, there was little Starsky could do but grimace at the lazily taunting touch. Latent pain made his senses spin, a sticky mat of wetness plastering his curls to the pancake-thin pillow supporting his head. His mouth felt dry, still clotted by the residual grime and fibers of the gag. “Don’t touch me,” he warned between clenched teeth.
Amused, Impala let his hand slide lower, curving over Starsky’s hip and onto his thigh. He rubbed slowly, letting his squat fingers fondle the worn denim. “What’s the matter, Jewboy - - don’tcha like me pawin’ you?” His fingers dipped inward, curling higher over Starsky’s inner thigh, squeezing tightly. “I bet you let that blond fag touch you like this . . . do whatever he wants to you. Bet you put your hands all over him and he enjoys it, huh?”
“Shut the fuck up!” Starsky ground his teeth together, incensed he had no one to blame but himself. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Supreme idiocy and recklessness had driven him to his present predicament. Foolishly, he hadn’t even told Hutch about Impala’s renewed interest. Hadn’t he learned before that keeping secrets from his partner was never a good idea - - especially when those same reprehensible secrets involved Hutch directly?
“You ain’t gonna touch Hutch, you filthy pervert!” Incensed, he tried to lurch upright, violently jerking his head from the pillow. The room waffled and jumped but he plowed ahead, too infuriated to acknowledge the punishment. “You hear me, you fat creep? You ain’t gonna - -”
The words choked off abruptly in his throat as Impala fisted a hand in his hair, brutally yanking his head to the side. “Think so?” the older man sneered, thrusting his face close to Starsky’s. His lips twisted in a caricature of sadistic pleasure. “Let me tell you how it’s gonna be, asshole. That blond queer is gonna let me do whatever I wanna as long as I got you. Think about it, Starsky - - what d’ya guess your precious Hutch’ll do to save your worthless neck? Think he’ll let me put my hands on him and feel him up anytime I want?” Wrenching Starsky closer, Impala thrust his lips against the younger cop’s ear, his breath atrociously moist, wantonly hot. “You can bet your balls, I’m gonna do a helluva lot more’n grope him. His pretty ass is gonna keep me entertained for a long time to come, and maybe, just maybe - - I’ll let you watch the fun.”
“Bastard!” Starsky ripped his head free, a clump of hair tearing off in Impala’s meaty fist. Enraged, he barely felt the pain or the pummeling spike of vertigo that drove it. There was only red fury and savage anger, a blistering string of curses spewed over and over. He heard himself screaming and didn’t even know what he said . . . knew only that he couldn’t think straight, that madness and hatred consumed him like the lethal plague that had almost taken his partner.
Hutch! Ohgod, babe, ohgod!
The mere thought of Impala touching his friend drove him to the extreme brink of sanity. “I’ll kill you!” he spat. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
Impala struck him across the face. “Think so?”
Starsky’s head rang. His ears jangled, white spots popping like fireworks before his eyes.
Impala struck him again, harder this time. He tasted blood in his mouth. “You ain’t gonna do shit!” Clambering onto the bed, the older man loomed over Starsky, ramming one knee tightly between his legs. Unable to stop himself, Starsky squirmed, pain and pressure curling up into his gut. Impala hit him again, splitting the skin open on his cheek. His anger drained a fraction, tangled up in a crippling wave of pain.
“You wanna know why you ain’t gonna do shit?” Grabbing his collar, Impala pulled tight, yanking his shoulders off the bed. “You ain’t gonna be in any shape to do nuthin’, dickhead. Cause every time you piss me off, I’m gonna friggin’ hurt you - - just like now.” Freeing one hand, he clamped his fingers between Starsky’s legs and squeezed with vicious deliberation. “How’s that feel, Jewboy? Want some more of that?”
Starsky screamed. He swore, snarling words so guttural, he’d never thought they’d cross his lips - - then screamed again when Impala only laughed and groped him harder. “Oh, that ain’t nothing,” the older man purred, leaning close. “You and I got plenty of time to get acquainted before your White Knight comes ridin’ to the rescue. See, you ain’t nuthin’ but a pawn.” He relaxed his hand slightly and Starsky gasped for breath. “I told Sam all that shit on purpose, so he’d tell Mercer. I knew Jared’d run to you instead of that slut Hutchinson, and I knew you’d come lookin’. It’s all strategy, just like in chess. And just like in chess, I’m gonna checkmate that fag partner of yours and have him on his knees.”
Starsky ground his teeth together, trying to think past the agony. His head felt like it was going to explode and the rabidly hot pain between his legs had pushed his stomach into his throat. The room was starting to spin at the edges, Impala’s face waffling in and out of focus like a cheap carnival sideshow. “Hutch is too smart for you,” he managed between hissing breaths. “He - -”
“He’s an asswipe,” Impala spat. “He’s gonna be my asswipe - - and you’re gonna be responsible for gettin’ him here.”
“Fuck you!” With a snarl of rage, Starsky heaved a wad of spit directly into Impala’s face. It gave him the immense satisfaction of seeing the man purple and swell up like a bullfrog. His pleasure was short-lived, however, when four seconds later Impala’s ham-like fist cracked against his head and blasted the daylight from his eyes.
+++++
The next time he woke, it was darker in the room, and Impala was sitting on a folding chair to the right of the bed. The skin over his cheek felt scratchy, caked with dried blood. He could taste copper in his mouth, tangy and wretchedly bitter at the same time. It made him long for water, something cool and slick to ease his parched throat. He moved his head and felt his stomach convulse in reaction. A groan escaped him before he could clamp down on his bottom lip.
“It’s after dawn,” Impala announced casually. He crossed his feet at the ankles, getting comfortable in the chair as if preparing for a long vigil. “In a few more hours, your partner’s gonna realize you ain’t showing for your regular shift at Metro. I already paid a two-bit snitch to call in a tip on the Torino - - directly to Hutchinson. He’s gonna come looking and that’s gonna lead his pretty blond ass right here. That’s when the fun’s really gonna begin.”
Starsky licked his lips. They were dry and cracked, making him long again for water. There was no way in hell he was going to ask Impala. The sick monster would surely just gloat and taunt him with the possibility of relief. “Where’s ‘here’?” he asked instead. His voice was cracky, thinner than he expected.
Impala snickered. “What’s the matter, Starsky - - I smack you around too hard?” His nostrils flared, his eyes darkening as if the thought secretly excited him. “Don’t worry, I ain’t done with you yet. I got all kinds of goodies planned for you - - cattle prods, box cutters, even extension cords. Sounds silly, don’t it? Ain’t to worry though - - I’ll make sure I educate you on all of ‘em. My old man was the one who taught me an extension cord makes a helluva whip. Takes the skin right off your back. And a box cutter does delicate carving work. I remember my third year on the Force, my partner and I found a guy who’d been castrated with one. I always wanted to see if I could duplicate that.”
Starsky clamped down on his jaw. He knew the creep was just trying to get under his skin and shake him up, but he was feeling pretty vulnerable, tied down to the bed, his legs spread wide. “You’re a fuckin’ ass,” he said disgustedly.
Unfazed, Impala shrugged, glancing at his fingernails. “Say what you want, prick. Your slut will show up soon enough. And just for the record, I’ve got you tucked away in a secluded spot outside of Bay City. When he does get here, ain’t gonna be no one around for miles to help him.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Impala.” Growing more and more concerned by the grim predicament the ex-cop spelled out, Starsky tried to think his way through the mess. His mind still wasn’t functioning up to par, ravaged by pain and his increasing thirst. Even through those distractions, he knew Hutch was walking into a trap and he was partially responsible. “This whole thing is gonna blow up in your face,” he insisted. “If you’ve got any sense, you’ll untie me and leave Hutch out of it.”
“Not a chance.” Standing, Impala loomed over the bed. He dropped his eyes, his gaze growing heavy and hooded as it traveled over Starsky’s body. “It’s gonna be a few hours ‘till Hutchinson shows up,” he murmured, seemingly talking to himself. “And it don’t seem to me like you learned your lesson yet.” His lips drew back in a sadistic smile, exposing a receding gum line. “Don’t you go anywhere now,” he whispered, mocking the restraints that kept Starsky tied to the bed. “I’m gonna get me an extension cord, then you’n me are gonna have some fun while we wait for your blond whore to get here.”
“Don’t strain yourself.” Starsky glared, but his defiance was short-lived. He waited until Impala left the room before allowing an icy wave of fear to crash over him. Shivering, he sucked down a jagged breath. Ohgod, Hutch, I screwed up. I don’t want you anywhere near him, but he’s crazy, and I’m afraid I ain’t gonna be able to take what he dishes out. I wish I knew what to do, babe . . . wish I knew how to get out of this.
Ten minutes later Impala returned, tapping a folded brown cord against his trouser leg. With a deliberately fanged smile, he approached the bed and shook out the cable. “You know,” he gloated, the dark taint of mushrooming lust back in his eyes. “I’m gonna enjoy this almost as much as screwin’ that pansy-assed blond.”
Starsky never even had time for a curse before the first strike ripped across his stomach and sent lightning crackling into his skull.
+++++
Hutch took a sip of his beer, then folded into the couch with his latest novel. He was halfway through Frank Herbert’s Dune, a book Jared Mercer had recommended. While science fiction was normally more Starsky’s realm, he found himself intrigued by the sand planet Arrakis, its Freeman inhabitants, Bene Gesserit witches and rival feudal houses. The problem was, his head just wasn’t involved in the battle between House Atreides and House Harkonnen tonight. He’d thrown a Seals and Croft album onto the turntable for background music, but even the breezy guitar rifts of Diamond Girl couldn’t help him relax. His mind kept wandering back over the events of the day, recalling the strange sensation he’d had of being watched, the chess piece in his car, even Starsky’s stubborn insistence he pull his spare key from the door frame.
Damn! With a grimace, he realized the key was right where it always was - - tucked away on the lintel over his door. Shoving from the sofa, he made a point of retrieving it and depositing it on the coffee table, if for no other reason than he’d promised his friend.
The ugly incident with Diana Harmon had opened his eyes to the danger of being openly trusting, but it just wasn’t his nature to be suspicious or overly cautious in his day-to-day routine. Winning a court case, especially against a brutal thug like Clive Barton, would have normally left him operating on a high, if it weren’t for all the strange obstacles he’d encountered throughout the day.
He was used to threats from convicted felons, thus Barton’s spitefully hissed vow as he was led away in handcuffs to make certain Hutch met with an agonizingly slow death, “butchered and gutted like a pig,” really had no effect on him. What did set him on edge was the strange sensation of someone observing everything he did. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it was stronger as he’d left the courtroom, making him pause and glance over his shoulder in the hallway. Then there’d been that damn stupid black knight on his car seat, left like a phantom calling card, ratcheting up his uncharacteristic anxiety. Factor in Starsky’s evasive behavior in the squadroom, coupled with his partner’s abrupt obsession with his door key, and suddenly his mind was tripping over puzzles he didn’t understand.
Shoving the book aside, he took another swig of his beer. In the background, Diamond Girl had given way to Ruby Jean and Billie Lee. It made him oddly melancholy to hear a song professing love when there was no special woman in his life. So many had come and gone - - Vanessa, Jeannie, Abby, Gillian. He wondered what his life might have been like if Gillian had lived . . . if they might have overcome the stigma of her profession and somehow married their love with a brighter future. It saddened him to think he might not have loved her as much as he thought he had . . .that maybe he’d only been in love with the idea of love itself. It was hard maintaining a relationship in a profession that demanded more of him than most women were willing to concede. He wondered if the day would ever come when he finally met that “special” woman - - the one who could balance love and commitment with surrender and understanding.
Probably more than anyone is willing to give.
He shook away the thought, realizing what a bleak mood he was in. It was Starsky’s fault, he decided. Starsky with his talk of stray keys, stalking - - where the hell did that come from? - - and the grim realities of being a cop. Briefly, he wondered what his partner was doing. Starsky had alluded to a hot date night, but Hutch doubted that was actually the case. If there’d been a girl, at least one of any consequence, Starsky would have told him about her before now. And if there were someone new, his excitable and impressionable partner would have gushed about her nonstop, until Hutch felt like he was going on the date with them. No, more than likely, Starsky was off doing something silly or stupid - - like the time Huggy had convinced him to compete in Bay City’s Air Guitar Championship. Thankfully, Starsky had worn a wig so no one actually knew it was him. Hutch chuckled, remembering his partner had pulled off fifth place with some finesse - - at least according to Huggy - - only admitting to the showy stunt after the fact.
A ping of fond affection washed away his gloom. Swallowing the last of his beer, he set the empty bottle on a nearby end table. It was almost midnight, a sobering fact that made him realize he should head back to bed. He felt the return of the usual strength-sapping fatigue that normally caught up with him at the end of the day. He’d been skipping his nightly pill lately, opting for a few beers instead. It wasn’t all that long ago he’d thought he was going to die, the debilitating crush of plague systematically destroying his immune system, making his organs ineffective.
Starsky would read him the riot act for skipping the pills, but he was tired of taking them - - sick of having to depend on a drug to get him through a twenty-four hour cycle without pain, nausea or fatigue. Occasionally, even now, exhaustion would overcome him to the point he was physically ill. Just two days ago, he’d gotten to the john just in time to hurl up his lunch. He’d blamed it on the lukewarm hotdog he’d bought in the precinct cafeteria and fortunately Starsky had believed him.
Thinking of his partner, Hutch pulled the phone into his lap and dialed Starsky’s apartment. He wasn’t buying the “hot date” routine and decided he wanted to know what was at the bottom of Starsky’s secretive excursion. He listened to the phone cycle through a series of rings, frowning when the number increased from seven to twelve and finally fifteen. Scowling, Hutch returned the receiver to its cradle.
Okay, so whatever you’re doing, it’s silly, stupid and late . . . too late for me, partner. Whatever you’re up to, I hope you’re having a good time.
Fighting back a yawn, Hutch turned off the stereo and doused the lights. It was only later when he’d stripped and crawled into bed that he remembered the spare key on the coffee table. As much as it should have brought a sense of security, knowing it was indoors, it left him feeling vaguely uneasy. Before he could contemplate it further, fatigue pulled him under the radar of sleep, blotting all but oppressive exhaustion from his mind.
+++++
Starsky grunted and attempted to move, his mouth abhorrently bitter with the metallic tang of blood. It was dark in the windowless room, suffocating and black like the belly of an underground cavern. He guessed the hour was somewhere after midnight though he couldn’t be sure of anything in his disoriented state. Fire streaked across his chest, stomach and thighs in ravaging bursts of flame. He moaned against the agony, twisting his head on the blood-caked pillow, electric needles pinging awake in his skull. His skin was flushed, stoked by fever. Impala had stuffed the gag back in his mouth, surprising, given how much he’d enjoyed hearing Starsky scream earlier.
The memory made Starsky shudder. His throat was raw from yelling, each strike of the extension cord savage enough to rip a strangled gasp from his mouth. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel his skin tear and burn beneath the blows. He hadn’t thought anything could hurt so badly - - until Impala turned the cattle prod on him.
There was no question the man had enjoyed his pain, siphoning dark, almost hedonistic pleasure from his agony. There was something wretchedly perverted about it, a lust that bordered on sexual. Impala had taken his time - - alternately beating him and taunting him, occasionally pausing to rub his bloody and burning thighs in a suggestively intimate manner.
“Had enough, Jewboy?” the ex-cop had goaded time and again, each grasp of his hands invasive and rough, each strike of the whip-like cord more brutal than the last. Tied to the bed, Starsky couldn’t even curl inward to protect himself, his vulnerable stomach taking as many lashes as his chest and thighs. He’d lasted as long as he could, grinding his teeth against the pain, screaming when it became unbearable.
The shocks from the cattle prod brought a new level of torment, his body jerking against the restraints at the punishing surge of current. He didn’t have any strength left to scream, but Impala made sure he endured the pain over and over - - telling him it was payback, that he should have minded his business all those years ago. In the end, Starsky’s eyes had simply rolled into his head, his body shutting down when the punishment became too much to endure. He told himself it was a nightmare, that he’d wake to find himself in his own bed.
Instead, he found himself in the abysmally dark room, his body bloodied and battered, his mind numb with pain. For a time he couldn’t think, could barely breathe, the gag making him suck desperately for air. He thought of Hutch puttering around Venice Place, reading a book, tending to his plants, strumming his guitar. The thought of his partner was both bittersweet and comforting. It gave him something to cherish in the darkness even as the slower side of his mind worried for Hutch’s safety. He’d screwed up, got himself fucked over by a sadistic S.O.B., but that didn’t mean the same thing had to happen to Hutch. He wanted - - needed - - his partner to find him, but not at the cost of Hutch’s virtue or life.
You’re smarter than he
is, Hutch. Please, babe . . . I need
you . . .
He swallowed hard as slumbering pain woke with a vengeance and chased fire through his limbs. Shaken, he moaned against the gag. A draft of cold air scuttled across his chest, clinging to his bruised skin where Impala had ripped his shirt open. The touch made him shiver and squirm in the coarse restraints. It was icy, strangely unnatural. Abruptly chilled, he craned his neck, trying to see if there was a window somewhere that he’d missed. But the darkness was impermeable, suffocating like a tomb, and lifting his head ignited a sickly rush of dizziness.
With a grunt of defeat, he dropped his head to the blood-stiffened pillow, wincing when the jolt of contact crackled painfully through his skull. I’m not gonna die like this. I am fuckin’ not gonna die like this. It became an anthem, a mantra, repeated over and over against desolation, agony and cold. The frigidness of the room increased, and for a time he imagined he could see his breath in the air. Pain nipped at his consciousness, eager to pull him under. He had the sudden chilling sensation of being watched and wondered if Impala sat in the darkness, observing his misery.
He tried to make his tongue move, but only moaned into the abhorrent gag, his nerve endings exploding in shockwaves of pain. Each twitch of muscle brought new and compounded torture, heightened by the unexplainable chill in the room. Buffeted by agony, Starsky latched onto the only thought that brought a slim measure of hope:
Hutch! Ohgod, babe, it hurts! Please, Hutch . . . find me . . .
“Just thought you’d wanna know,” Freddie had said in his trademark gravel-worn voice. “I heard rumors Starsky’s Torino was ditched over by the old R. White hotel. You know - - that place that got converted to a loony house? Ain’t none of my business, ‘cept the rear tires are supposed to be split and that don’t sound like sumethin’ Starsky would do.” He’d waited a beat then breathed heavily into the phone. Hutch could almost imagine the sour stench of scotch and cigarettes on his breath.
“You’ll remember I toldja, Hutch, next time I need a break, right?”
Hutch had agreed absently, disturbed by the information. Next, he’d called Starsky’s apartment, but like the previous night, the phone repeatedly cycled through a series of endless rings. Feeling the first ping of alarm, he’d hustled through dressing, his mind tripping over the possibilities of Starsky’s whereabouts. Even if his partner were up to some stupid stunt, the R. White didn’t make sense.
Located off Canyon Road, the hotel had fallen into disrepair somewhere in the 60s and been left abandoned for years. Eventually, a mental health organization had set up shop with several dozen patients, attempting to establish a group home environment. Years later, murky circumstance - - the details had never been clear - - resulted in the tragic murder/suicide of two staff members. Funding was yanked and the group was forced to leave. Since that time, the hotel had stood empty, tied up in litigation. Occasionally, squatters took refuge for the night or teenagers broke through the boarded-up windows. For the most part, whispers of ghosts and hauntings kept all but paranormal curiosity-seekers away. Situated midway between Shelter Pointe and Bay City, it occupied twenty acres of private grounds that had once included gardens, hiking trails and stables.
Hastily, Hutch shrugged into his shoulder harness, snapping the straps of the bulky Magnum around his belt. It was amazing how quickly his morning had changed. His two-mile jog had been pleasant enough, the outside temperature crisp but invigorating. Afterward, he’d showered and downed his customary daily breakfast shake, even popping one of the loathsome maintenance pills he needed to get through the day. Dime’s phone call had come just as he’d finished dressing.
Even now, morning sunlight streamed through the windows of
his apartment, splattering the floor in a dazzling mix of butterscotch and rum
but he felt only a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Starsky was impulsive about a good many
things, but he wasn’t stupid. It was
possible he was even at the R. White
legitimately, investigating some tip he hadn’t wanted to share.
In which case, buddy,
your ass is fried when I catch up with you.
Even as the irate thought surfaced, Dime’s mention of the Torino’s rear tires being slashed made Hutch suddenly queasy. He takes better care of that damn muscle car than he does himself half the time. No way would Starsky let anything happen to his precious tomato.
Wrapped up in his thoughts, Hutch flinched at the sound of the doorbell reverberating throughout the apartment. His heart leapt in relieved anticipation. “Starsky!”
Yet, when he wrenched open the door, it was Jared Mercer who stood on the threshold, not his curly-haired absent partner. Hutch couldn’t help the disappointment that washed over his face. “Jared? What are - -”
“ - - you got a minute?” his friend asked anxiously before he could so much as form another syllable. He didn’t wait for an answer, but shouldered past Hutch into the apartment, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his beige trousers. Since making detective, Mercer had taken to dressing in slacks with sport coats and ties whenever he was headed to his precinct. Only three years older than Hutch, he was graying prematurely at the temples, his straight walnut-brown distinguished by a prominent touch of silver.
“Jared?” At a loss, Hutch left the door hanging open and shot an impatient glance at his watch. “Sorry - - whatever it is, this is going to have to wait. I don’t have a lot of time right now.” He was halfway out the door, his hand on the knob, when the other man’s words brought him to an immediate halt.
“It’s about Starsky.”
Hutch froze on the threshold, his eyes narrowing, snapping back to Mercer. Suddenly Freddie Dime’s call took on an entirely new and somber meaning. “What do you know about my partner?” he demanded.
“Ease up.” Mercer raised both hands, palms outward to offset the angry strain in his voice. Stepping closer, he spoke neutrally. “Look, I did something stupid, okay? I’ve been thinking about it all night and realized I probably made a mistake telling Starsky what I did yesterday. I should have been up front with you about the whole thing.”
Abruptly suspicious, Hutch stepped back inside the apartment. “What thing?”
He listened in growing horror as Mercer unfolded the tale he’d told Starsky yesterday. It wasn’t so much the thought of Impala with photos of him, perhaps even stalking him - - though that particular knowledge made his stomach lurch. Rather it was worry for his friend. They’d always been protective of one another, but sometimes Starsky’s penchant to play guardian got out of control. That was no more evident than in his zealously sheltering behavior where Impala was concerned. Ever since Hutch had been a rookie cop and was first paired with the amoral older officer, Starsky had made it his mission in life to keep Impala away from him. In the process, he’d resorted to threats and blackmail, making an enemy of a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. When it came right down to it, Impala hated Starsky. In some warped way, he saw the younger officer as a rival for Hutch’s affection and blamed him for everything from his failure as a cop, to his tarnished reputation with the Force.
Unable to comprehend the foolishness in what he was hearing, Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jared, how could you be so stupid? You should have known Starsky would freak. I told you how he was about Impala before. He’s got it in his head he needs to protect me from this guy. No wonder he wouldn’t tell me what he was up to last night.”
Mercer licked his lips. “I think he went to Impala’s place.”
Hutch’s head came up with a snap. “Why?”
“Um . . .” Uncomfortable, Mercer cleared his throat. “I told you I was uneasy about telling him, so I swung by Impala’s place just to check it out again. I, uh . . .” More hedging as he shifted from foot to foot. “I found some blood inside, Hutch. Blood that wasn’t there before. And the bartender said some guy fitting Starsky’s description was there yesterday asking about a room for rent.”
Hutch swore. “Of all the stupid, asinine - -” Furious, he swung toward the door.
“Wait!” Mercer caught his arm before he could storm off in a rage. “Look, it could be nothing. Maybe he’s at home. I know you and Starsky are close, but there’s no reason to get hot like this.”
“Don’t - -” Hutch thrust a finger under his nose. “ - - attempt to tell me what I feel for my partner. I Just found out his car was spotted abandoned at the R. White hotel. If I were you, I’d get Sam on the phone, because if Impala’s hurt Starsky and I catch up with him, he isn’t long for this world.” The finger waved menacingly, emphasizing his point. “This time, Jared, follow through on your instincts.”
He pivoted, bolting through the door and down the steps before Mercer could so much as sputter a word in reply. There was a time when anxiety wouldn’t have immediately mushroomed into white-knuckled fear, but somewhere over the last few weeks, his perspective had changed. Normally, Starsky pulling a vanishing act for the night wouldn’t have raised red flags in his head. But his friend’s absence, coupled with Mercer’s confession and Freddie Dime’s strange rumor, had him abnormally apprehensive.
Maybe it was just his mental state lately, still precarious and gratingly on edge after nearly dying from a case of twentieth century plague. Starsky had contracted residual side effects himself while they were in Pennsylvania, chasing down one of Hutch’s childhood friends and research documents related to an obscure bit of Norse Myth. While his curly-haired partner had recovered quickly, Hutch was still battling lingering fatigue, weakened muscles and joints, even an impaired immune system. The maintenance drug he took three times daily would gradually correct the problems, but couldn’t ease the hypersensitivity he felt toward most everything lately. He’d been cleared for street duty, but no one had bothered to ask how it felt to have his life handed back at the disturbingly young age of 33. Or to know the only reason he was around to begin with was because his best friend and partner hadn’t given up.
Even when Hutch had accepted the fact he was going to die, Starsky still fought tooth and nail to save him. He’d exhausted himself in a purely relentless search for a man named Callendar - - an international assassin who’d carried the cure in his blood.
Starsky hadn’t stopped looking, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. With precious seconds slipping away, he’d done everything humanly possible to save Hutch’s life. And that was why the mere thought his friend might be in trouble had Hutch forgetting everything else and driving hell-bent for the R. White hotel.
Once outside of Bay City, he pulled off the main road and followed several secondary turns until he found himself at the bottom of a private drive cut between an overgrown treeline. A heavy chain had been strung across the entrance, bolted to stone pillars on either side of the lane. Suspended in the center, a metal sign warned off trespassers, declaring Private Property. The road wound upward into a gradually ascending hillside, the hotel itself towering above most of its surroundings, affording a view of Canyon Road, and further along, the rolling hem of the Pacific.
Hutch parked the LTD, stepping outside into the piercing embrace of crisp morning air. Early December was cold in California, particularly before the golden heat of midday had a chance to work its magic. He’d worn heavier jeans today - - black to match his leather coat - - but his shirt was thin, a linen-plaid in dark gem colors of onyx, garnet and topaz. Turning up his collar, he sank his hands into his coat pockets and stepped over the chain.
The air felt dead, strangely dry despite the hotel’s close proximity to the ocean. He kept close to the trees and darted up the curving drive, alert for anything out of the ordinary. Several crows watched from the branches, leering down on him with intent black eyes. Appropriate, he supposed, given the R. White had once been home to a notorious murder/suicide. He’d read somewhere that a flock of crows was called a “murder,” and wondered if Poe hadn’t had a hand in that.
Another turn in the road and the R. White came into view, brooding and silent, its windows boarded up against the elements. Once beautiful and grand, it had long since fallen into neglect. Chipped white pillars flanked the entrance of a massive stone porch where scattered debris and leaves had collected in abundance, huddled into cobwebby corners and strewn over the steps. The surrounding grounds were overgrown and wild, clumps of shrubbery tangled together in contorted silhouettes, each choking life from the other. To the right, a once-manicured garden had become a sprawling collection of thistle, weeds and dry undergrowth, bordered by a crumbling stone wall.
Hutch digested it all in a single glance. His heart triple-timed in his chest when he
spied the Torino tucked to the left of the entrance, its rear tires slashed
just as Freddie Dime had reported.
Alarmed, he drew his Magnum, a cold slice of dread turning the air icier
still. Mentally, he sifted through the
cases he and Starsky currently had pending, trying to decipher why his partner
would be anywhere near the R. White. If Impala were truly involved - - if he was
the one who’d left the black chess piece in Hutch’s car and was responsible for
Starsky’s abandoned Torino - - what was his tie to the R. White and where was Hutch’s partner?
With a careful glance for the surroundings, he crept closer to the muscle car, gun held before him. He scanned the interior of the Ford, even popped the door to look inside, but found nothing of interest and no indication of foul play.
Puzzled, he sprinted up the crumbling steps onto the porch. The door was securely bolted, but someone had pried a board loose on one of the windows. Hutch pulled until he was able to yank the whole thing free, then quickly ducked through the opening.
The interior was dark, muffled in a velvety cloak of shadows. It took Hutch a moment for his eyes to adjust, a moment more to distinguish the faded, once elegant lines of a hotel lobby - - medallion-backed sofas and chairs, a mahogany reception desk, the massive spindles of a turned wooden staircase. He heard the faint tinkle of glass and spied a heavy chandelier dangling overhead. Caught in a draft from the open window, it whispered in a voice of crystal and gold, hinting of grandeur and days long past.
With effort, Hutch suppressed a cough, the dusty, moldy air collecting in his throat. Uncertain where Starsky might be in the six-story hotel, Hutch started for the steps. He’d placed one foot on the bottom when he felt an unsettling presence behind him. Pivoting on his heel, he spun with the gun fanning before him but saw only shadow and the hunched-back shapes of scattered furniture. From somewhere outside a crow called loudly and another answered. The echo danced through the lobby, chased by a draft of cold air.
Hutch realized it came not so much from the open window, but the hallway above. Refocusing on the murky shadows, he eased his way up the stairs. When he reached the fourth floor landing, he spied a crack of light seeping under the nearest door. He hadn’t bothered investigating any other rooms thus far, but this one beckoned with its teasing glimmer of brightness.
Fourth floor. Isn’t that where they’d found the bodies? He wasn’t a superstitious man or even one given to flights of paranormal fancy, but Hutch had to admit a creeping sense of uneasiness as he stood with his hand wrapped around the doorknob, listening for a hint of sound on the other side. Starsky? Buddy, where are you?
Nothing.
Shoving the door wide, he stepped into the room. Unlike the rest of the hotel, it was lighted by several recessed globes in the ceiling. A double bed, an oversized cushioned chair and a round table flanked by two stools, all worn and aged, comprised the only furniture - - with one notable exception.
The nearest wall was covered by a heavy antique gold drape, stretching from floor to ceiling. A single folding chair was placed close at hand, almost touching the faded fabric. Baffled, Hutch took another step into the room, realizing too late, he left his back exposed. Behind him, the telltale creek of a floorboard alerted him he wasn’t alone. A second later, he felt the muzzle of a 9mm in his back.
“Nice of you to join us,” a disturbingly familiar voice goaded. Hutch tensed, every muscle in his body rebelling at the thought that bounced through his head - - Impala! Though it had been two years since he’d last encountered the man, he’d never forget the older cop’s voice . . . smug, condescending, and - - this time - - unquestionably suggestive. The vulgar inflection in his tone immediately told Hutch he’d walked into a trap. As a rookie cop, he’d been taunted and ridiculed by that same sickening voice. Hearing it now made his skin crawl. He flexed his fingers over the Magnum, but knew he’d lost the upper hand the moment he’d stepped into the room.
“Where’s Starsky?” he demanded.
“You’ll find out soon enough,” Impala promised. “But we got unfinished business first.” The 9mm pressed harder, digging into his back. “Get rid of your gun. Toss it to the right, on the bed. And no tricks, Hutchinson, or I’ll blow a hole through you and you’ll never know what happened to that tight-assed Jew partner of yours.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Hutch said, but tossed the gun as instructed. Frantically, his mind retraced his steps, trying to recall if he’d overlooked blood in his piece-meal search. There hadn’t been any in the Torino - - no evidence of a struggle in the car or the hotel, but that didn’t mean Starsky wasn’t hurt. Jared had found blood in Impala’s apartment, a worrisome fact that made his pulse race in alarm. “You were a cop, Impala. Do you know what that means?”
“I know what it used to mean,” the older man spat, spinning him around abruptly and slamming his back to the wall. He shoved the barrel of the pistol under Hutch’s chin, glaring into his eyes. “I know what it meant before some yahoo saddled me with a pretty blond partner. You were all the talk of the precinct back then - - half the guys sayin’ you didn’t have what it took to ride out your rookie year, the other half convinced you’d bought yourself a badge. Well guess what, Sergeant?” Impala’s lips curled in a wolfish leer. “You just bought yourself a shitload of trouble. Maybe you really ain’t a fag slut, but when I’m done with you, boy, ain’t no one ever gonna call you a White Knight again.”
Hutch’s lips curled. “Fuck you! You’re gonna have to use that gun before you put your stinking hands on me.”
“We’ll see.” Instead of the slavering reaction he’d expected, Impala merely grinned. His free hand slipped around Hutch’s waist, feeling over the back of his belt. “And just what do we have here?” Grinning, he yanked Hutch’s handcuffs free and shoved him toward the folding chair. “Over there. Sit your ass down.”
With the gun trained on him, there wasn’t much Hutch could do. The handcuffs bothered him more than the pistol. As long as he had his hands free, there was still a chance he could wrestle the gun from Impala, but cuffed, he was as good as helpless. Uneasily, he sat in the chair, his eyes flicking over the weapon. Only then did he realize it was Starsky’s, his sense of dread escalating ten-fold. “What did you do with my partner?”
Impala ignored the question. “Hands behind your back,” he ordered. “Around the chair.”
Hutch hedged. He had no doubt Impala would shoot him. He