This story is for my good buddy, Trish, who gets credit for planting the seed that generated the basic plot for “Checkmate.”  After reading “Game Playing” she said “ . . . it’s nice to see Hutch and Grant getting along so well, but what if something happened to cause friction in their relationship all over again?”   Hmmm . . . WOW!  I liked that idea - - a lot!  Of course, I couldn’t rest until I figured out what that “something” was.  So a huge thanks to Trish for sending me off on a writing binge.  I really enjoyed weaving this tale!

 

And for my Starsky friends - - fear not! - - the dark-haired guy gets his own detailed side plot to mesh with the main one.  (After all . . . Theresa would be upset with me if I didn’t take care of her boy J).

 

I would also like to dedicate this story to the memory of my friend, Jane.  I’m sure she’d have a thing or two to say about having a story dedicated to her in which Hutch has a mustache . . . but then she’d likely tell me I redeemed myself with all the Starsky details.  I can almost hear her now! J  I miss our emails, Jane.  Be at peace.

 

And finally, for my dear friend and exceptional beta reader, Theresa, I would like to dedicate this story in her honor, to the people of Enterprise, Alabama. For those of you not in the U.S., Theresa’s hometown of Enterprise was recently ravaged by twelve strong tornadoes in a single afternoon.  Enterprise is a small town where everyone knows everyone and lives are intertwined.  Tragically, the high school was devastated and much of the town was destroyed.  Eight teenagers and a beloved grandmother lost their lives. And so this story is for those lives lost . . . for the relatives and families  . . . for the high school and for the people of Enterprise itself.  Please offer your prayers as this town of exceptional spirit continues to heal. 

 

Checkmate is set post Sweet-Revenge and takes place approximately two months before my story “The Jade Club.”  As always, I hope you enjoy spending some time with my vision of the S&H world . . .

 

Checkmate

By Kate (CMT)

 

“Well?”  Starsky glanced up expectantly as Hutch exited Dobey’s office, looking twice as frazzled as when he’d entered. Sometimes it was hard reading his friend, especially when Hutch’s tendency toward moodiness made him annoyingly withdrawn - - like now.  It was at times like this that Starsky just wanted to rattle him, forcibly reminding him they were on the same side.

 

“Well?” he prompted again, irked when his partner didn’t immediately answer. Ain’t like I don’t got a stake in this too.

 

Agitated, Hutch jerked his jacket free of his desk chair, shooting Starsky a glare.  “What do you think?” he spat. “Westlake is bowing to media pressure. Big surprise there. He told Dobey pointblank I’m to back off.”

 

Starsky’s face fell.  “But that ain’t fair!”  He wasn’t sure if he felt rage, resentment, disappointment or a grating muddle of all three.  It wasn’t even his case to begin with - - it was Hutch’s.  And it would stay Hutch’s alone as long as Starsky remained confined to a desk.

 

His mouth twisted.  He had James Gunther and a grisly hail of gunfire to thank for that.

 

Sniffling, he dragged a hand under his nose.  It was bad enough he’d spent a month in the hospital and three more of intense physical therapy . . . bad enough that he’d finally graduated to his second month of restricted desk duty, dependent on therapist visits three times a week.  Throw in his own personal pharmacy of pain meds, salves and medicinal ointments, and he was a regular at rehab and the drug store.  The last thing he needed was a damn cold on top of it, aggravating the fact that they - - Er. . . Hutch, he mentally corrected - - had been ordered to leave Jorge Delgado alone.

 

“What the hell is Dobey thinkin’?”  he exploded.  “Don’t he know what Delgado’s up to?  I can’t believe Westlake is buyin’ into all that goodwill bullshit.”

 

“More like he’s buying into public bias,” Hutch countered.  He tugged on his jacket, his mouth tightening in an angry scowl as he flipped up his collar.  “It’s worse than you think, Starsk.  Westlake told Dobey to give me a week on the street.”

 

“What?”  Stunned, Starsky rose to his feet, his face blanking at the news.  He took a step closer, knowing he was mostly at fault for any suspension the department inflicted on Hutch. 

 

The blond-haired man had initially worked the Delgado case alone, picking it up shortly after Starsky’s release from the hospital.  In the beginning, Jorge Delgado had seemed just another slick businessman with questionable connections and a thumb on Bay City’s criminal element.  In record time he’d turned loan shark, fronting struggling businesses with cash to stay afloat, sending his “collection squad” around when the already impoverished owners failed to pay.

 

Faced with the threat of crippling body harm, even death, most willingly signed over their shops or storefronts, easily giving Delgado a stranglehold on the north side of town.  As clever as he was diabolical, he made sure he did something of a charitable nature for every head he busted or business he acquired - - whether it was buying textbooks for the local school or supplying funding for a decrepit tenement project so it wouldn’t be torn down.  As a result, the media saw only his philanthropic face, dubbing him an “urban angel” in the press.  A handsome man, who was admittedly well spoken and charming, Delgado used his public prestige to best advantage.  With little effort, he’d made himself the unjustly persecuted victim of a police witch-hunt.  It didn’t help matters that those storeowners who might have made a case against him were too terrified to press charges or too intimidated by his larger-than-life reputation.

 

And so he continued strong-arming and gobbling up businesses.  Hutch had crossed paths with him on several occasions but had never been able to make anything stick.  It was rumored Delgado had ties to a larger syndicate and was fed his endless stream of cash from somewhere out of state. In an effort to make him stumble, Hutch began monitoring his every activity, applying pressure where he could, treading a delicately fine line between surveillance and outright harassment.  As a result, Delgado had boisterously complained to the press, singling Hutch out specifically:  Sergeant Hutchinson is on a witch hunt.  He has a personal vendetta against me, which is totally without merit.  It’s simply appalling that a member of the police force can unjustly harass a man of my public standing and not be called on it.  Hutchinson’s own Commissioner refuses to do anything about him. If Westlake can’t control one of his own men, maybe he needs to be replaced too.

 

And so it had progressed - - a battle of words and insinuations carried out in the Bay City Dispatch and a number of other local papers, all eager to paint the police department as corrupt and bias.  The matter finally catapulted over the edge when Delgado seized a small bakery on Monroe Street called The Bagel Box.  When the owner defaulted on a loan with 80% interest, then defiantly refused to sign over his shop, Delgado sent his goon squad around to teach the man a lesson.  He’d ended up in critical condition in the hospital, fighting for his life.

 

Starsky had known it was coming, even feared it was coming.  Joey Eichelman, owner of The Bagel Box, had once been a close high school friend. Over the years, time and circumstance had created distance between them, but they’d still managed to stay in touch, if only infrequently.  Other friends had come and gone and, of course, no one - - past, present or future - - would ever match the extraordinary relationship he had with Hutch, but that didn’t mean Starsky cherished his high school memories any less.

 

Both he and Hutch had talked to Eichelman about Delgado, but anything they’d try to pass to the media had been construed as hearsay and slander. Before Eichelman could make his own statement, he’d ended up with two broken legs, internal bleeding and a battered skull.  After four days in ICU, his condition had been upgraded from critical to stable. 

 

Infuriated by his inability to pin Delgado with the crime, Hutch had trailed him to a public restaurant and brazenly vowed to bring him down.  Unfortunately, one of Delgado’s dinner guests for the evening had been the editor of the Bay City Dispatch who’d witnessed the entire scene. The next morning the whole ugly mess was splashed over the front of the paper, sending Westlake on the warpath for Hutch’s head.  The entire squadroom had held a collective breath, waiting to see if he’d be suspended.

 

Dobey had bought him a day.  Realistically, Starsky knew Dobey was the only thing standing between Hutch and suspension, but even Dobey was limited in what he could do without putting his head on the chopping block.   Delgado wanted Hutch - - and Westlake seemed determined to surrender his badge.

 

“This sucks, you know that, don’t you?”  Starsky felt the frustration of the last six months catch up to him in a heated rush. It was all blatantly unfair.  He was the one who should have been fighting the case, planting himself under Delgado’s nose, challenging the bastard every time he so much as stuck his foot out the door.  But Gunther had made that impossible, shattering his everyday reality in a violent hail of gunfire.

 

So instead, he’d suffered through a grueling recovery, relegated to having his hands tied while he watched his partner take the heat for a case he vehemently wanted to close.  Legally, they couldn’t touch Delgado.  Even worse, if Hutch were given a week’s suspension as reprimand for his conduct, Starsky would lose his tie to the street.  Stuck behind a desk, he’d been banished to research - - attempting to pin down Delgado’s out-of-state connections while Hutch handled face-to-face intimidation and questioning. All of that would go out the window, allowing Delgado five full days to increase his stranglehold and wreak chaos on the northside of town. 

 

“You ain’t just gonna take this lyin’ down, are you?”  Lowering his voice so he wouldn’t draw attention, Starsky circled the corner of the joined tables they shared as desk space.  He bent his head close to Hutch’s, well aware of several curious glances behind him.  He wasn’t the only one who’d been waiting for word on Hutch’s fate.  Though the other detectives in the room tried to appear busy, Starsky knew most were likely straining to overhear their discussion. “Dobey can’t suspend you - -”

 

“He isn’t,” Hutch interrupted, his voice flat.  His eyes flashed to Starsky’s face, crystalline blue, edgier than usual.  “He’s suggesting I take a week’s vacation - - paid, of course.”  Heavy sarcasm bled through on the last three words.  “If I decline, he’ll follow through on Westlake’s directive and suspend me for a week - - which we both know goes on my service record.”

 

“That’s blackmail!” Starsky fumed, his voice cracking higher than he’d intended. Abruptly self-conscious, he shot a quick glance to the other officers in the room.  Hunched over a report, Sullivan looked up with a scowl before refocusing on his paperwork.  Baker pretended to be engrossed in a phone call, but it was obvious he was hoping to overhear something of interest.  Seemingly absorbed in a file, Rocherty had his back turned.

 

Huffing down an agitated breath, Starsky spoke quietly, seething through his teeth.  “You can’t just take this, Hutch.  You can’t just - -”

 

“Starsky, I’m tired,” Hutch inserted irritably.  He spoke quickly, leaving little room for argument, an edge to his voice Starsky hadn’t heard earlier that morning.

 

Caught off guard, the dark-haired man studied his friend speculatively.  The last six months had been sheer hell for him, but they hadn’t exactly been paradise for Hutch either.  His partner had lost a good deal of weight, thinner than he’d been in a long time.  If he had to guess, Starsky would have placed him close to 170, the same weight he’d been after a cruelly debilitating bout with heroin withdrawal.  Dangerously gaunt then, Hutch was beginning to adopt the same haggard look all over again. He’d let his hair grow longer in the last year and added a mustache, changes that made his face appear thinner still.  His eyes burned vivid blue, contrasting the sun-whitened highlights of his pale hair, bleached ivory and platinum from the California sun.

 

Starsky knew he was partially to blame for the fatigue his friend felt.  He’d been relying on him heavily, almost exclusively, for the last six months.  Hutch had been his constant rock through the difficult recovery phase after Gunther’s assassination attempt. Even now, the blond-haired man continued to provide emotional and mental support, helping Starsky through therapy, doing everything from assisting with his strengthening exercises to massaging his muscles when exhaustion made them constrict with painful cramps. In the beginning he’d even taken care of Starsky’s bills, writing out checks, balancing his bank statements, making sure his rent, car payment and other monthly expenses were paid from Starsky’s account.  He’d done laundry, cleaned Starsky’s apartment, ran errands for everything from groceries, prescriptions and gas to hunting up the current issues of Starsky’s favorite comic books and car magazines.  In short, Hutch had put his life on hold to care for his partner.

 

Except for Janet Morrisey, Starsky thought distractedly.  Part of him was envious his friend had found someone to love, the other part rejoiced that Hutch had finally connected with a woman who just might end up being his future wife. And she’s my doctor of all people, he thought with a tight smirk, immediately shoving the thought aside. Hutch was still watching him with that same weary, guarded expression. 

 

He sniffled again, wishing the head cold would just do its thing or skip town altogether.  “What about Vivian Clarke?” he suggested, knowing even as he made the statement it would probably go nowhere. “She might be Westlake’s wife now, but you know she’s always gonna carry a torch for you.  All you’d have to do is call her.  I bet she’s already houndin’ the dip-shit to back off from this suspension thing.  If you asked her to - -”

 

“No.”

 

Starsky frowned.  He knew finality when he heard it.  “So what’re you sayin’?”  He felt an irrational spike of anger, prompted no doubt, from the pounding in his head. He could already feel a faint scratchiness in his throat and knew in a day or two he’d be wallowing in the misery of a full-blown head cold. Everything was so much worse now, his stamina and immune system depleted after the damage Gunther had done.  In the ‘old days,’ he would have whined his way through a cold, but fought it off easily.  Now it was equivalent to a fourteen-day setback.

 

“So you’re just gonna take a week off?” he snapped, allowing his frustration to bleed through. It wasn’t Hutch’s fault he couldn’t manage a simple cold, yet he let that irrational anger tumble over onto his friend. “Tail between your legs, huh?  You’re just gonna back down and let Delgado do his thing?”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, visibly striving for patience.  Starsky knew the look.  He’d pushed his friend close to the limit on several occasions over the last six months.  More than once, Hutch had come close to exploding but in the end he’d always managed to collar his anger.  ‘Cuz he thinks I’m too damn fragile.  Like I’m gonna shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as raises his voice at me.

 

He hated being treated like an invalid. Before Gunther, if he’d pissed his partner off, Hutch would have told him pointblank he was acting like a jerk.  Their friendship had endured a rocky patch or two over the years, even outright shouting matches.  Hutch had never pulled punches with him, letting his temper flare when Starsky annoyed him.  Now everything was different.  Lately, no matter what Starsky said or did - - no matter how rude or inconsiderate - - Hutch let him get away with it.  Sometimes that endless patience galled Starsky to the point of belligerence.  Irked by Hutch’s excessively tolerant behavior, he’d thrown several temper tantrums in an attempt to make his partner react. Each time all Hutch had done was walk away and give him breathing room to cool down.  Even now, he wouldn’t be baited into hostility.    

 

“What do you want me to do, Starsk?” he asked wearily.  “A week on the street isn’t going to do any good.  And I don’t need another suspension in my file.”

 

Another. Starsky immediately thought of Vanessa and how she’d turned up dead in Hutch’s apartment.  His friend had been cleared of that charge, but it obviously still haunted him over a year later. Feeling abruptly like a heel, he frowned. “I’ll talk to Dobey,” he volunteered.

 

“And do what?”  Hutch shook his head.  “The directive came from Westlake.”  He started to turn away, clearly intending to call it a day.  “Dobey’s hands are tied.  Just let it go.”

 

“No can do, buddy.”  Starsky snagged his sleeve and held fast.  “I’ve got a friend in the hospital. I can’t walk away from this one.”

 

“It’s not your case,” Hutch said sharply.  “It’s mine - - and I’m giving it a week.  Maybe you should do the same.”  Before Starsky could say another word, he yanked his arm free and strode briskly from the squadroom, sending the door swinging shut behind him.

 

Only then did Starsky realize Joey Eichelman wasn’t the only one who was hurting.

 

+++++

 

Hutch stood under the spray of a hot shower and closed his eyes, letting the lazy heat and penetrating moisture soak into his stiff muscles.  It felt like sheer heaven, chasing away a host of punishing aches and unnatural fatigue.  He knew he’d been pushing himself too hard lately, amplifying his exhaustion. The last six months had been taxing, emotionally and physically.  That strain was now starting to show in everything from his declining weight to the disturbing spatter of blood he’d tasted in his mouth earlier that afternoon.

 

Once and done.  It was no big deal.  He’d finished up in the john, washed his hands, then stepped into the precinct hallway.  Almost immediately, he’d been seized by a fit of coughing, the short, wet spasms polluted by the coppery tang of blood. True, he’d experienced the same thing in the past, but that critical illness was over a year behind him.  He’d been cured, the toxic plague-germ long driven from his body.  Today’s episode was a fluke, nothing more.  Almost everyone at Metro had some minor affliction they were dealing with.  Even Starsky was coming down with a head cold.

 

Hutch frowned, distracted by the thought of his friend contending with illness.  Despite the rampant heat of the shower, he felt suddenly cold. Groping for the knob, he shut off the water, then reached for the nearest towel, burying his face in the plush terry fibers. He stood dripping in the tub, chilled as trickles of water ran down his back, and he considered all the things that could go wrong. 

 

Starsky’s stamina was still far below par.  The slightest germ could easily wend its way from minor congestion into something more severe like bronchitis or pneumonia.  He knew his partner was sick of taking pills, had even tried to wean down the dosage. Would his friend neglect seeing a doctor simply because he was sick of the endless therapy and constant scrutiny in the wake of Gunther’s attack?  More than once Hutch had found Starsky hunched over the toilet, heaving into the bowl from the combination of so many drugs.  At such times he’d lent his support, talking softly, rubbing Starsky’s back, encouraging him to get it out of his system.  Or - - on those occasions when Starsky stubbornly insisted he wanted to be alone - - Hutch had paced outside the bathroom, anxiously waiting for the seizure to pass.

 

Daily, Starsky pushed himself to recover, irked when his body didn’t respond as quickly as he wanted. Lately, that disappointment had been channeled into explosive bursts of anger, even rudeness.  Repeatedly, Hutch had been forced to bite his tongue rather than snap back and insist Starsky make the best of the situation.

 

Realistically that was difficult to do with Starsky stuck behind a desk, his close friend recuperating in the hospital.  Even with Eichelman’s condition updated to stable, he could easily experience a setback at any given time.  Worse, the man responsible for putting him there in the first place, continued to thumb his nose at the police department, free to intimidate through strong-arm tactics.

 

Hutch knew Starsky wanted Delgado.  Hutch wanted him too, but he was growing tired of constantly bucking the system.  Maybe a week off would help him focus and enable him to concentrate on a legitimate angle instead of sloppily trying to pin any available misstep on the loan shark.  The problem was Starsky wanted Delgado now.  

 

Enough to tell me I’m slinking off with my tail between my legs while his friend is stuck in the hospital.

 

He grimaced, disturbed by the thought more than he wanted to admit. He knew Starsky didn’t really blame him for failing to nail Delgado, but underneath his friend’s perturbed griping, it still felt that way.  If he’d wrapped the case before Joey Eichelman had been stupid enough to take a loan from the bastard, Starsky’s friend wouldn’t have wound up with two broken legs and internal injuries. From the day Eichelman had been found beaten and bloody, Starsky had relentlessly pushed Hutch to pin the crime on Delgado. Eichelman himself could remember little.  Barely able to speak, his memory spotty at best, his testimony was of limited value. When it came right down to it, Hutch couldn’t help feeling Starsky didn’t care how exhausted he was as long as Eichelman was vindicated.

 

He doesn’t give a shit if I run myself into the ground, as long as I nail the bastard who hurt his friend.

 

Troubled by the bleak thought, Hutch stepped from the shower and finished drying off.  He winced when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror.  Even Janet was concerned by the weight he’d dropped, 170 pounds far too meager for his tall 6’1” frame.  He’d been eating on the fly a lot lately, the Delgado case consuming the majority of his free time.  Most of what he got from lunch carts and hamburger stands ended up being lukewarm or greasy and he dumped it after a few bites. At least tonight, he had a healthy dinner planned with Janet.

 

The tempting aroma of pot roast and vegetables wafted from the kitchen as if on cue.  Starsky’s favorite, he thought with a minor twinge of guilt.  His friend would be disappointed he hadn’t been invited to dinner, but Hutch would make it up to him another time. Tonight he planned to spend a leisurely evening with the woman he loved.

 

Momentarily taken aback by the thought, he paused. Love was such a strong word, but remarkably appropriate - - scary too.  He hadn’t allowed his heart to become involved with a woman in a long time.  For too many years, he’d contentedly engaged in fair-weather girlfriends and one-night stands. After Gillian’s death, he’d told himself he wouldn’t grow emotionally attached again, thus he’d become the king of meaningless affairs.  He hadn’t realized how truly callous he’d become until he’d committed the ultimate faux pas by sleeping with Kira - - a woman Starsky once thought he’d loved.  Thankfully, that ugly mess was behind them.  Hutch wasn't quite ready to admit Janet was ‘the one,’ but he grew alarmingly close to surrendering his heart daily.

 

His passionate relationship with the critical care doctor was even more ironic, given the first words they’d ever exchanged were blatantly antagonistic. He could still recall standing in Starsky’s hospital room three weeks after his partner had nearly died in a hail of gunfire.  There were so many physicians and surgeons consulting on Starsky’s case it was impossible to keep track of them, new specialists assigned and reassigned daily.  On the day Hutch had first encountered Dr. Janet Morrisey, he’d entered his partner’s hospital room to find Starsky limp with pain, being helped into bed by an attending nurse. Furious at his condition, Hutch had exploded, demanding to know what had caused his excessive fatigue.

 

“His physical therapy session was increased, starting today,” the nurse patiently explained, attentively fussing over Starsky, smoothing the blankets across his chest.  “It’s difficult for him.”

 

Hutch thought her name was Betsy, but couldn’t be sure.  He’d come to realize most of the nursing staff considered him an obstacle - - always in the way, refusing to leave, stubbornly insisting he be kept abreast of any changes in Starsky’s routine or condition. 

 

“Increased therapy?”  He repeated hotly. “What yahoo ordered that? I’m sick of these quacks playing guinea pig with him.  Starsky was barely getting through his sessions the way they were.”

 

“Hutch, don’t - -” Starsky tried to intervene.

 

He waved his friend off.  “Forget it, Starsk.”  Still glaring at Betsy, Hutch braced his hands on his hips, staring her down as if facing a perp.  “I want the name of the idiot who changed his schedule - -”

 

Behind him he heard the sound of someone pointedly clearing her throat.  Annoyed by the interruption, he turned to find a competent looking woman with red gold hair and piercing green eyes watching him coolly.  “I’m the idiot, Sergeant Hutchinson.  And unless you have a medical degree you’d like to show me, I suggest you stick to what you know and let me do my job.  I’m sure you have better things to do than interrogate my nurse.”

 

The woman’s arrogance struck him like a slap in the face.  For a minute he was speechless, unprepared for her cutting response and confident poise. Uncomfortable, Betsy dipped her head demurely and slipped from the room. By that time Hutch had recovered enough to grow angrier.  He stalked to the foot of the bed, but the red-haired woman had already dismissed him and was in the process of scanning Starsky’s chart.

 

“Who are you?” he demanded.  “You’re not one of the doctors on his case.”

 

“I am now.”  She didn’t bother looking up.  “Dr. Janet Morrisey.  Don’t worry about introducing yourself.  I’ve already been forewarned about Detective Starsky’s partner - - a blond Viking with a short fuse.” She gave him a dismissive look from the corner of her eye, clearly unimpressed by his growing agitation.  “I need to talk to my patient now.  Feel free to wait in the hallway, Sergeant.”

 

A hot flush of color washed over Hutch’s face.  He heard his partner chuckle.

 

“Hey, Hutch,” Starsky called. “I like this one.”

 

If it weren’t for the pain he saw behind Starsky’s drooping eyelids, Hutch would have told his partner exactly where he could stuff the giddy observation. Still ignoring him, Dr. Morrisey moved to Starsky’s bedside and began speaking softly, asking questions about his therapy session.  Carefully, she folded back the blankets to check his bandages.

 

Unaccustomed to being deliberately slighted, Hutch waffled between a burning desire to put her in her place and a greater need to know Starsky’s condition.  He kept his mouth shut, his face tight with anger as he approached the opposite side of the bed. The moment he saw the exhaustion in Starsky’s eyes, he immediately softened, reaching out to lightly trace his fingertips over his partner’s inner arm.

 

“Hey, buddy,” he said gently.  “Rough one today, huh?”

 

Janet Morrisey shot him a startled glance, caught off guard by the benevolence in his voice, the flagrant tenderness of his touch.  It didn’t take her long, however, to recover.  “What are you still doing here? I thought I told you to wait in the hall, Sergeant.”

 

Hutch scowled openly.  Names like ‘harpie,’ ‘shrew’ and ‘witch’ popped into his head.  Smiling tightly, he adopted a façade of geniality, the heavy taint of saccharin dripping from his voice. “I’m not used to taking orders from women with dictatorial complexes - - doctor.” 

 

Her lips thinned, but she gave no other indication the remark had fazed her.  “I’m surprised you take orders at all.” Neatly, she arranged the blankets over Starsky’s chest, her examination complete. “Then again, I can understand where a long-haired Neanderthal would have problems following simple instructions.”  Her eyes flashed to his face, cutting and challenging.  “In the future, keep your nose out of my diagnosis and treatment, Detective, and we’ll get along just fine.”

 

As miserable as he was feeling, Starsky burst into laughter, actually applauding when she left the room.

 

A grin tugged Hutch’s lips at the memory.  Naked, he padded to the bedroom and rummaged for clothes, settling on a pair of overly bleached jeans and a snug maroon turtleneck. He sometimes found it amazing that his relationship with Janet had progressed from sheer antagonism to heated passion.  He’d been the one to break the ice first, inviting her to dinner on the pretext of discussing Starsky’s progress.  He’d felt bad using his friend as an excuse, but the longer he was around her, the more he found himself attracted to her. It got to the point he couldn’t think straight when she walked into a room.  After a time he began to suspect she felt the same about him, though she did everything humanly possible to give the opposite impression. Neither was prepared when their evening out ended on her couch, both succumbing to the simmering passion that had underscored their interaction from almost the start.  Now, four months later, he wasn’t ashamed to admit he was smitten.

 

In love.

 

Hutch ran a comb through his damp hair and headed for the living room.  Janet would be arriving in a little under an hour, the roast done shortly afterward.  By the time they finally sat down to eat, it would be going on nine o’clock, but he didn’t mind the late evening. Her schedule at the hospital was often as scattershot as his at the precinct.  Despite the complexity of their erratic shifts, they somehow managed to make it all work.  Maybe because they’d both been through so much, a string of broken and failed relationships littered behind each of them.  At forty, Janet was six years older than he was, one failed engagement and several short-lived romances in her past.  Hutch got the impression she was as committed to their relationship as he was.

 

Retrieving a beer from the refrigerator, he stopped at the oven to check on the roast. The smell was enticing, a flavorful blend of spices, savory beef and seasoned vegetables. He hadn’t bothered eating since that morning  - - a bad habit he’d been falling into lately - - and realized he was starved.  He rummaged in the cupboard until he found a few pretzels to go with the beer, just enough to satisfy his grumbling stomach temporarily.

 

He lit the candles on the coffee table, selected several mellow albums for the stereo, then folded into the couch with an appreciative sigh. It was peaceful in the apartment.  The rich harmonies of the Eagles wafted from dual speakers, singing about Lyin’ Eyes and how city girls “just seem to find out early.”

 

Settling into the cushions, Hutch took a swallow of his beer but was immediately sidelined by an unexpected fit of coughing.  Startled, he rolled his hand into a fist, hacking against his bunched fingers. Pain shot through his chest, forking into his throat with the violence of lightning. In a heartbeat, it was over, the metallic tang of copper heavy in his mouth. Frowning, he lowered his hand, shaken to find it flecked with blood.

 

Oh shit, not again.

 

He’d be lying if he said the blood didn’t scare him. But Judith had assured him the cure was finite . . . that it simply wasn’t possible for the plague-germ to incubate in his system, returning to affect him later.  So why am I coughing up blood?  He could ask Janet about it, but knew she’d overreact and subject him to a battery of tests.  He’d told her about the plague, even confessed to his ordeal with heroin one moon-drenched night when they’d made love on the beach, sharing everything from childhood memories to their careers.  He had a week’s forced vacation coming, but he wasn’t going to spend it in a hospital, especially not in Bay City where Delgado would surely get wind of the news.  He could always ask his father, but Grant would probably react just as badly as Janet.

 

The sudden shrill ringing of the phone jarred him from his reverie.  He knew without answering, it was likely Janet, stuck at the hospital and running late. Hastily wiping his bloody hand against his jeans, he leaned forward and snatched up the receiver.  “Hello?”

 

“Ken?”  His mother’s voice caught him off guard.

 

“Mom?”  Surprised, Hutch blinked.  He immediately broke into a grin, pleased by the unexpected call. “You actually caught me at home for a change.”  It suddenly dawned on him that she didn’t normally call him in the middle of the week.  A faint whisper of unease stirred sluggishly awake in the back of his mind.  “Is something wrong?”

 

“No.”  Her voice wavered over the phone, threatening to crack.  He could almost imagine her smiling, but the levity was strained and watery.  “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

 

He might have bought it if it weren’t for the rampant anxiety coloring her tone.

 

“Don’t lie to me.  Something’s wrong, I can sense it.”  She sounded so unlike herself it left him unnerved, cold dread settling into the pit of his stomach. Even on her worse days, Adele Hutchinson wasn’t a woman given to emotional drama. “Is everyone all right - - Kelly? Dad? - -”

 

“Oh, Ken.”  She made a muffled sound, suspiciously like a sob.  He heard a rustling over the receiver and knew she had balled a Kleenex into her hand.  “I don’t know why I’m calling you about this.  I just don’t know where to turn . . . what to do.”

 

“Mom?”  Truly worried, Hutch felt his heartbeat spike higher in alarm.  He immediately thought the worse - - there’d been an accident . . . a family member had been injured or hurt . . . his father had suffered something devastating like a heart attack or stroke.  He parted with a weak cough, absently pressing his fist to his mouth, trapping a faint mist of blood.  “Tell me what’s wrong,” he insisted. “Is it Kelly?”

 

“No.”  The word was almost a moan, forced with reluctance.

 

Hutch swallowed audibly.  “Is it Dad?”

 

“No,” she said again, then faltered.  “Oh, Ken . . . he’s . . . I . . .” She drew a shaky breath.  “I’m afraid your father is having an affair.”

 

Hutch balked, sure he’d heard wrong.  “Mom?”  he sputtered incredulously.

 

“I know it sounds impossible,” she rushed to explain, her voice growing wobbly. “You just can’t imagine how he’s been lately - - so secretive, telling me he’s working late when he really isn’t at his office . . . making phone calls at all hours of the night then growing evasive and angry when I ask him about them.  Last weekend he told me he had to go out of town on business and I - -”  Her voice broke and she sniffled into the phone, fighting back a sob.  He could easily imagine her muffling her mouth with her hand as she fought to compose herself.  “ - - I found out he did nothing of the sort.  He went to some hotel in Sevensport.  I found the credit card receipt in his coat pocket - -”

 

Frazzled, Hutch impatiently wiped aside a faint smattering of blood clinging to his lips.  Barely conscious of what he did, he struggled to wrap his mind around the implausibility of what he was hearing.  His mother was a practical woman, not given to hysterics or flights of fancy.  The fact she actually thought her husband was having an affair left Hutch reeling mentally off-balance.  His relationship with his father had been tumultuous over the years, but even as a child, he’d never doubted the foundation of his parents’ marriage or Grant’s fidelity.  Even when he and Grant had been at odds, he’d always known his father was loyal and ethical. Now that they’d grown inordinately close, he couldn’t conceive of anything so heinous and hurtful as an extramarital affair.

 

“Mom . . . maybe Dad had a legitimate reason for being there.”

 

“At some roadside motel?” she demanded shrilly.  “I checked with the manager, and he registered under a fake name - - Ethan Cross - - explain that to me!”

 

“I - -”  Hutch wet his lips, abruptly nauseous.  A cold fist clutched his stomach in a murderous grip.  The more he heard, the worse it sounded.  His carefully honed cop-instincts kicked up a series of red flags, all worrisome possibilities he dreaded examining too closely. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew the name Ethan Cross should mean something to him, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. “Did . . . did you ask Dad about it?”

 

“No, I can’t talk to him about this. I tried to ask him about the phone calls and he just got angry.  We had a terrible fight and he stormed out of the house.  Oh, Kenny, if he really is having an affair, I’m not sure I want to know.”  Her voice cracked and she began to cry, weeping softly into the phone.

 

Hutch felt his heart break.  “Mom, please don’t.  I’m sure it’s not what you think.”

 

“Of course it is.  He’s successful, distinguished and handsome, still relatively young . . .” She sniffled, losing what little composure she had left as she recited a list of Grant’s qualities. “Your father has never lacked for female attention, Ken. Only last month at the Autumn Charity Gala--”

 

“Mom,” Hutch interrupted flatly, knowing she was likely to make reference to some woman who had attempted to flirt with Grant.  It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened and probably wouldn’t be the last.  Aside from being wealthy and successful, Grant was renowned among his peers, a combination that routinely invited attention. Factor in his above-average looks, commanding presence and 6’3” frame, and it was understandable why he often turned heads. “Dad has never encouraged or even responded to that kind of attention.  He loves you.”

 

She sobbed.

 

“Please, Mom,” he tried again.

 

“I’m sorry, Kenny - - I shouldn’t bother you with this.  It’s just that he listens to you now.  Your opinion matters to him.  I don’t want you to ask him directly, but I thought - -”

 

“I’ll talk to him,” Hutch assured, understanding her need for an ally.  It worried him to think of her so far away, struggling with the possible failure of a thirty-five year marriage.  He had no doubt Grant was as head-over-heels in love with her as the day they’d gotten married, but there was clearly something out of whack with his father’s behavior.  He was about to tell her he’d call him tomorrow when he realized he could do one better. “Um . . . as it turns out, I suddenly find myself with a week’s vacation. I bet I could get a flight home tomorrow.”

 

Her sniffling abated slightly.  “You . . . you’d do that?”

 

“Sure.”  Hutch smiled softly.  “I’ll just tell Dad I felt like a visit.  I won’t let him know you talked to me.  I’ll just say I wanted to surprise you both.”

 

Adele hesitated.  “I don’t know, Ken.  You and he have such a good relationship now.  I’d hate to do anything to jeopardize it after all the years the two of you spent at odds.  If he thought I’d talked to you about this, he’d be furious with both of us.”

 

“He’s not going to find out.  But if there is something going on - - and it’s not an affair,” he reaffirmed emphatically, “ - - maybe he’ll tell me.  You don’t have to worry about Dad and me, we’ll be fine.  The bottom line is he loves you.  You need to get this affair nonsense out of your head. I don’t care what the damn receipt said.”

 

She started crying again. “Oh, Kenny, I miss you. If you were here I could almost believe - -”

 

“I’ll be there tomorrow,” he promised, then halted abruptly as his mind wrapped around the domino effect of an impromptu trip. 

 

It was one thing for him to pack up and fly to Duluth, but jetting out of Bay City meant he’d be leaving Starsky to his own devices.  Normally that wouldn’t be an issue, but his friend had developed an irritating pit-bull mentality where Jorge Delgado was concerned. Even restricted to a desk, Starsky would likely find a way to immerse himself neck deep in trouble if left on his own. Throw in the fact he was fighting a cold on top of his recent recovery, and Hutch’s instinctive worry-meter veered into the danger zone. 

 

“Uh, maybe I’ll bring Starsky with me,” he suggested as neutrally as he could.  He really didn’t want to go into the reasons behind his “forced” vacation or his need to have Starsky along.  Both of his parents were aware of what had happened to his partner six months ago in the police parking garage. Grant had flown in shortly after the incident when Starsky was still critical, offering what emotional and medical support he could.  Later, when Starsky was stable, Adele had visited as well. “With Starsky along, everything will seem less confrontational to Dad,” Hutch continued.  “I always bring him when I visit.  It’ll seem just like another trip.”

 

“All right,” Adele agreed.  He could hear the emotional exhaustion in her voice . . . knew that she’d probably struggled with the decision to call him for days before she’d actually followed through. “I shouldn’t put you in this position,” she said miserably.

 

“It’s okay, Mom . . . I’m glad you called.”  He spoke quietly, allowing a smile to warm his tone.  “I’ll call you tomorrow morning and let you know what time my flight’s going to get in.  You can tell Dad it was a spur of the moment decision on my part.”

 

“Okay.”  He heard the return smile in her voice, sensed that it was tremulous and emotional. “I feel just terrible, burdening you with my problems.  I didn’t even ask you about David . . . or Janet.”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “One’s beautiful and the other’s a pain in the butt.  I’ll leave it up to you to figure out which is which.” 

 

After that they spoke for a short time about simple things - - the collie/sheperd mix Kelly and her husband Vincent had brought home from the pound, Hutch’s newly purchased Olds Cutlass - - used and slightly dented, but reliable - - and Duluth’s Annual Halloween parade, held only a few weeks past. By the time he hung up with his mother, Adele had stopped crying and even managed a weak laugh or two.  He promised to check in with her in the morning once he had everything finalized for his flight, then set about looking up the phone number for the airport.

 

He was about to call when he realized he needed to touch base with someone else first.

 

“H’ullo?”  Starsky answered on the fourth ring, sounding groggy and congested.

 

Hutch felt a reactionary stab of worry. “Hey, partner - - did I wake you?”

 

“Nah . . .”  Starsky’s voice was slightly slurred.  “Jus’ sittin’ here on the couch watchin’ TV.  Guess I dozed off.”  He yawned loudly into the phone, not bothering to muffle the sound.  “So what’re you doin’ - - playin’ doctor with your girl, or feelin’ shitty ‘cuza the way you left Metro today?”

 

Hutch’s brow launched into his hair.  “I left Metro?” he repeated skeptically.  “Look, buddy, all I did was point out the obvious.  However you slice it, I’ve still got a week on the street.”  He paused . . . just enough to let Starsky catch his mental breath.  “Which is kind of why I’m calling.  Turns out I’m flying home to see my folks tomorrow and I thought you might want to tag along.”

 

“Why would I wanna do that?”  Hutch could almost hear the frown in his friend’s voice.  “And ain’t that kinda sudden?  I was hopin’ you’d hang around and we’d work the Delgado thing on the sly.”

 

Hutch knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but Starsky’s relentless tenacity still made him uncomfortable.  In some distantly remote corner of his mind it left him feeling slighted too, as if Joey Eichelman was the only one who mattered to Starsky.  I’m not jealous, he told himself.  It would be stupid and reprehensible to feel resentment for a man who had suffered such a violent attack, yet he couldn’t help feeling his opinion no longer meant anything to Starsky - - at least not when measured against Eichelman’s welfare.

 

“Look, Starsk - - if Westlake pulled me off Delgado, he’s gonna order Dobey to do the same with you.  I’m starting to think a week away isn’t such a bad idea.  With some breathing room, Delgado might get careless.  I’m not suggesting we give up - - just that we back off for awhile.  We can start fresh later.  We both need the space.”

 

“You mean you need the space,” Starsky countered, sniffling loudly.  He broke into a short coughing spell.  An impatient rustling followed as he blew his nose.

 

Hutch heard the sound from a distance, guessing his friend had temporarily muffled the receiver against his chest. “You don’t sound so good,” he observed.  He knew he was pushing it, but couldn’t turn off his ingrained tendency to worry.  There were just too many things that could go wrong, even with something as mundane as a common head cold.  “You are taking your pills, right, buddy?”  He waited through a heavy pause, mentally visualizing Starsky with an annoyed scowl.

 

“Yes, damn it, Dr. Hutchinson,” came his friend’s irritated reply. “Look - - everybody’s got something at Metro right now.  Baker just got over that flu thing and Polaski’s fightin’ a sinus infection.  So I picked up a germ - - big deal. I ain’t gonna end up in ICU no matter what your overactive blond brain is tellin’ you.”

 

Hutch pressed his lips together, biting his tongue.  Starsky’s tone was entirely too surly, an ugly habit of late.  True, Hutch hovered too close on occasion, but he didn’t know how to shut off that impulse.  Not after Gunther . . . not after having his soulmate and partner flatline in a hospital bed.  Eternity had stopped in that moment, held suspended in time while life itself came crashing down around him.  It was a moment he never wanted to experience again, one that still gave him nightmares, often jarring him from a sound sleep. Bottom line - - he’d earned the right to be overprotective of Starsky, however annoying that inclination might be.  Get used to it, pal, because I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe and well.

 

“As it happens,” Hutch retaliated a little too tightly, “My overactive blond brain says you need to take a week off and fly with me to Duluth.”

 

“That so?”  Starsky gave one long sniffle.  Hutch imagined him mopping his hand beneath his nose. “And where exactly is that vacation time gonna come from?  In case you forgot, genius, I don’t got any left.  Gunther sucked it all up - - along with sick time, disability, and anything else you can think of.”

 

Hutch waited a beat, sensing growing agitation from his friend. “Dobey would give you the time.  It’d save him the hassle of pulling you off Delgado.  He’d do cartwheels to have you out of his hair for a week.”

 

“Maybe.” The agreement was given grudgingly.  Starsky sniffled again, blowing his nose a second time.  “But it’d be without pay, and I ain’t in any position to do that.  Not now.”

 

Hutch sighed.  He cupped his forehead in his free hand, deliberately massaging his temples. It irked him having to be in this position - - wanting to help, needing to help, yet knowing his offer would be refused.  “I could cover it for you . . . that’s not a problem.”

 

Starsky bristled through the phone.  “Like you covered my rent and car payment and - -”

 

“Buddy, don’t.”

 

“I told you I was gonna pay you back.”

 

“I know you did.”  Hutch was reaching his limit, felt it teeter precariously on edge.  You’re such a frigging ass, thinking any of that matters when all I care about is you.  Irked, he tangled his hand in the phone cord.  “Cut the crap, huh?  After everything we’ve been through over the years, you think I give a shit about a few bucks?  I’m glad my grandfather’s trust account was finally good for something.”

 

Starsky remained defiant.  “I don’t take charity.”

 

“It’s not charity!” Hutch exploded, shooting to his feet.  “Damn it, Starsky, if I were some yahoo off the street, I could understand your attitude, but I thought our friendship meant more than that.”  He waited a beat, his own frustration mounting as he began to pace.  Rather than concede to anger, he channeled his agitation into quiet sincerity. “Do I have to spell it out for you, babe?”  I care about you, always have.  And no matter how pissed off you get, I’m gonna do my damnedest to take care of you.

 

“All right.”  Miserable, contrite, Starsky lowered his voice.  Hutch could easily imagine him hanging his head.  “I’ll go to Duluth with you.  I’ll give Delgado a week.  But when we get back - -”

 

“We go after him,” Hutch promised.  “ - - with both barrels.”

 

+++++

 

He didn’t remember falling asleep.  Hutch shifted slightly at the soft pressure against his lips.  Only half awake, he cracked his eyes, becoming aware of a number of things simultaneously  - - one, that he’d fallen asleep slouched into the corner of the couch; two, that his back vehemently protested the scrunched position; and three, that being kissed awake was definitely something he could get used to.  “You’re late,” he chided lazily, making no attempt to hide his pleasure at being so intimately awakened.

 

Janet Morrisey smiled against his lips.  “If I’m bothering you, I can leave.”

 

“Not a chance.”  Hutch wrapped his arms around her, pulling her down next to him on the couch.  He gave a soft grunt, half indulgence, half pain.  Ignoring the tight discomfort in his back, he tucked his face against her hair, savoring the aromatic florals of her perfume. Even after all this time, he couldn’t place the combination . . . just knew it contained a whisper of violet blended with something exotic and sweet like jasmine or gardenia.  In the early stages of their relationship he’d tried to buy her cologne, thinking it would earn him points.  She’d fawned appropriately over the gesture, but after sampling his choice of fragrance had told him to stick with what he knew best - - soft serenades, wine and candlelight.

 

Firmly cupping her chin, he tilted her face up and kissed her - - slowly, deeply, taking his time, savoring her closeness.  She moaned softly, melting against him, as eager for the contact as he was.  He loved how pliable she became in his arms, how incredibly sensual and willing to surrender.  He’d had lovers in the past who were uncommunicative and rigid, but Janet had surprised him from the start. Her professional poise had shattered in a heartbeat the first time he’d ever kissed her.  Even now, he wanted that pleasure to go on indefinitely, both of them drunk with the intimacy of the moment.  Yet he knew if he didn’t stop soon, they’d end up in the bedroom prematurely.  That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, given the betraying tightness of his jeans, but he cherished her company as much as their passionate lovemaking.

 

“What kept you?” he murmured against her mouth.

 

“Surgery.  You know . . . that thing I get paid for, Ken.”  She smiled under his lips, lightly skimming her hand up his thigh.  The barely there graze of her fingertips sent a heated streak of desire pulsing to his groin.  She’d always known how to get to him.  From the very start, it had taken all of his control to patiently court her rather than seduce her.  Over the last two years, he’d grown notorious for no-strings-attached relationships, but from the moment she’d first cuttingly put him into place, he’d known Janet Morrisey was different.  Special.

 

He was still afraid to admit how special despite surrendering his heart daily.

 

Straightening up a little, she drew back to study him.  “I tried to call, but the phone was busy - - constantly.”  She emphasized the word almost as dramatically as Starsky could. A flicker of amusement danced through her eyes, her lips curling playfully.  “I don’t know, Kenny. Maybe I should worry you’re busy being rude and insulting to some other doctor who wants to end up on your couch.”

 

“You mean like that witch Atkinson?” He groaned. “God, Jan, that’s enough to make any man celibate.”

 

She giggled.  “Fat chance of that.  You don’t know the meaning of the word.  And you shouldn’t talk about my boss that way.  Besides . . . she’d probably melt if you were nice to her for a change.  Your attitude goes right out the window when you smile.  Did you know that?” Grinning, she rested her head on his arm, staring up at him.  “I think that’s what did it for me.  You were so demanding and opinionated, then I saw you smile at David.” Her own smile thinned, her eyes dropping to his mouth. Attentive, she drew her hand over his cheek.  “You have such a beautiful smile, Ken.”

 

His lips stretched in a dazzling grin, exactly as she’d intended.  “Are you trying to seduce me?”

 

“Mmm.”  Intrigued, she thought about it.  “Maybe,” she conceded.  “But I was hoping you’d feed me first.  I haven’t eaten all day.”

 

“So basically I rate second to a piece of roast beef?” He cocked a brow, feigning mild offense.  “I knew there was a reason I thought you were insolent the first time I met you.”

 

“Did you?” she tilted her head back, sending a ripple of light dancing through her cinnamon-gold hair.  Her eyes sparkled mischievously, lit with the engaging warmth of laughter and love.  “You were besotted, Hutchinson, and you know it!”  She saw him about to object and pressed a finger to his lips to stop the protest. “If you even think about denying that, we might have to re-evaluate your worth versus that pot roast in the oven.”

 

“You mean the one that’s shriveled and dried up by now?” He trapped her hand, bending his head to nibble on her fingertips. “Face it, Jan - - the first time I met you, the kindest name I could come up with was ‘harpie shrew.’”

 

She made a tsking sound, a little too throaty and indulgent.  He knew he was getting to her, the heat of his tongue streaking from her fingertips to the soles of her feet.  Turning her hand over, he pressed his lips to her palm, holding her fingers cupped in his. 

 

“You are such a liar, Kenny,” she said breathlessly.  “All you could think about was getting me into bed.”

 

He chucked softly.  “Guilty,” he relented with a grin. “Actually . . .I’m thinking about it right now.”  

 

It was amazing the power words had, especially when wrapped in the melodious velvet of a sensual whisper.  Aroused, he nuzzled her ear, enjoying the betraying tremor that raced through her body. He thought about taking her back to his bed . . . of the delicious hours they would spend twined in each other’s arms as obsidian night ebbed into silver-dusted dawn.

 

“Admit it - -”  He kissed her hair, then bent his head to lightly graze his lips over her mouth. “You wanted me too.  You couldn’t stop thinking about me . . .”  He teased the corner of her mouth with his tongue, tugged her bottom lip softly between his.  “ . . . fantasizing about me.”

 

“A long-haired Neanderthal?” she scoffed. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she snuggled closer. “You’re just lucky you’re so damn good-looking.  I could have settled for a brilliant doctor instead of a sexy cop.  There’s always Brenner over in Cardiology.”

 

“Brenner’s a fossil,” Hutch retorted. “He’s almost sixty.”

 

“Really?”  She acted surprised.  “Maybe I like distinguished men.”

 

“You like younger men,” he countered.  “Six years younger.” Deciding to up the ammunition, he splayed his hand over her side, tracking his fingers upward until he encountered the soft swell of her breast.  “You like the fact I’m a cop,” he whispered, lightly stroking her flesh.  His touch was boldly possessive, the rough pad of his thumb intimately rubbing her nipple.

 

She drew in a shocky breath, arching her back to better feel his caress.  “You’re not playing fair, Kenny.”

 

He forgot about the pain in his back, the dried-up roast in the oven.  He didn’t even know what time it was.  All that mattered to him was the willingly sensual woman in his arms and the fact he yearned to make slow, passionate love to her.  Tangling his hand in her hair, he drew her head back.  His attention dropped to her mouth, grown moist and puffy from his kisses.  Aroused, he traced a tantalizingly unhurried finger over her lips. “You can always stop me if I do something you don’t like.”

 

Her eyelashes dipped in a sultry veil, her gaze falling to rest on his mouth.  “I think it would be better if you just kissed me,” she murmured. 

 

Before he could say anything, she wrapped her arms around his neck and decided the matter for both of them.

 

+++++

 

Somewhere around 1:00 in the morning - - after several leisurely hours of lovemaking and an impromptu dinner of reheated pot roast in bed - - Hutch got around to telling Janet about his day.

He explained the mess with Delgado, his subsequent suspension and the phone call he’d gotten from his mother.  He avoided mentioning anything about the blood-laced coughing spasms he’d had, but did share his concern over Starsky’s health.

 

“He sounded worse when I talked to him on the phone tonight.”  Sitting straighter, he plumped a pillow at his back.  The pot roast had been passable despite the fact he’d overcooked it the first time then reheated it for a late night snack.  Coupled with a bottle of red wine and some crackers (the vegetables had turned to mush) it filled the void considering they were both hungry. 

 

Hutch set his plate aside on the nightstand and dragged a hand through his hair, smoothing it into place.  Janet might have made less than flattering remarks about the length before they were dating, but the truth was she couldn’t keep her hands off it - - especially when they were making love.  He finger-combed it into place, settling back with his wine. The anxiety he’d felt earlier crept over him like a fog. “It seems like everyone’s sick with something at Metro right now, but Starsky - -”

 

“ - - will be fine as long as he sticks to his medication,” Janet interrupted.  Balancing her plate on her bare legs, she sat cross-legged facing him, wearing only her panties and a black-and-white plaid shirt she’d confiscated from his closet.  The garment did little for her modesty.  Bunched high on her thighs, it also gaped at the throat, baring the crescent curve of one shapely breast.  Unaware of how provocative she looked, she shrugged her hair back from her shoulders.  As mussed as Hutch’s, it hung in loose, disheveled waves, the faint glow of a bedside lamp highlighting it with threads of apricot and strawberry.  “David isn’t going to be careless, Kenny.  He knows how critical it is to look after himself.  I’m sure if he’s feeling worse, he’ll see his regular doctor.”

 

“How can he, with me dragging him off to Duluth?”  He frowned, having second thoughts about taking Starsky along.  He didn’t know which was worse - - leaving his friend in Bay City where Starsky could end up doing something stupid or dangerous in his efforts to bring down Delgado, or dragging him halfway across the country.  Normally, the answer would be obvious, but a simple cold was no longer so simple in the wake of Gunther.

“Your father is far superior to any doctor David’s going to see in Bay City,” Janet reminded him.  Setting her plate aside at the foot of the bed, she laid a hand on his arm.  “I’m more worried about what your mother told you than I am about David having a relapse.”  She looked at him levelly. “He’s too smart for that, Ken.  I know you have a hard time backing off, but you need to give him some breathing room.  I don’t like what Westlake and Dobey did to you or how they went about it, but I can’t say I’m sorry you’ll be away from Delgado for a week.  Maybe you and David can relax for a change.”  She tilted her head, a small crease forming on her brow.  “I think you could use a break too. You’ve lost too much weight and you look run down, Kenny.”

 

Hutch shrugged, taking a sudden interest in his wine.  “I’m just tired,” he mumbled.  There was no question he wasn’t at his peak, but at least it hadn’t shown in his lovemaking.  He’d made sure he’d satisfied both of them, no hint of lethargy affecting his performance.

 

Janet’s eyes flicked to the clock.  “What time is your flight?”

 

“Early. I already called Starsk back.  He complained about having to drag his butt out of bed before dawn.”

 

“Then you need to get some sleep.”  Janet stood, collecting her plate and his, then yanking the wineglass from his hand.

 

“Hey!” he protested.  “I wasn’t done with that.”

 

“You are now,” she called over her shoulder.

 

He watched her pad barefoot to the kitchen, the tail of his shirt swishing enticingly over her backside.  A second later he heard the clatter of dishes in the sink followed by a spurt of running water. He’d left the candles burning in the living room, and she blew them out before returning to bed.

 

“I’ll clean up in the morning while you shower,” she said, nestling against him.  She draped an arm over his waist, snuggling close to rest her head on his chest. When he didn’t immediately switch off the bedside lamp, she rolled her eyes upward.  “If I’m supposed to last an entire week without you, Hutchinson, the least you can do is turn off the light and pretend you’ll miss me.”

 

“Pretend?”  Despite the playfulness of her tone, the word still got to him.  Hutch reached for the lamp, plunging the room into licorice-laced darkness.  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. “You’re probably glad to get rid of me,” he chided gently.  “You just want to go flirt with what’s-his face . . . the old guy.”

 

“You found me out, Kenny.  I can barely wait to ship you off to Duluth before I go at it hot-and-heavy with Brenner in the broom closet.”  Smiling, she looked up at him.  “Don’t go ruining things for me by coming back too soon, okay?”

 

“Vixen,” he chastised.

 

“Mmm.”  She hugged him closer.  “Turnabout is fair play, Sergeant - - if some blond bimbo so much as bats her eyes at you, I expect you to hightail it in the opposite direction.  Fortunately, not everyone warms up to you as quickly as I did.”

 

Hutch chuckled, knowing what an understatement that was. They’d been positively acidic with one another the first few weeks of their association, every encounter erupting into a heated argument.  Only later did he realize his animosity was borne of frustrated attraction.  Janet had repeatedly challenged him, verbally sparring at the drop of a pin.  Despite his initial belligerence, he couldn’t deny he’d found her boldness intriguing from the get-go. It was hard not to be smitten with a woman who was intelligent, successful and confident. Fortunately, she’d been just as infatuated as he was.  It simply took them awhile to move past stubborn hostility toward mutual attraction.

 

“What about a brunette bimbo?” he mused aloud.  “ . . . or one who just dyed her hair blonde?”

 

“Kenny,” Janet warned.  She punched him in the side.

 

“Ow!”  Chuckling, he snuggled down with her, tipping her chin up for a kiss.  Although he looked forward to seeing his parents again, he hated the thought of leaving Janet for a week.  They’d been dating for roughly five months, and he still hadn’t told her he loved her.  He didn’t know if he was scared by the idea or just too stupid to admit his feelings.  Women he’d loved in the past had an unhealthy habit of winding up dead or in danger.  The thought Janet might come to harm terrified him, but he couldn’t deny she’d become a vital part of his life . . . that maybe, just maybe, he wanted her there permanently.

 

“I’ll miss you,” he said quietly.

 

Sensing his mood had changed, she tucked her face against his neck.  “I’m on late shift tomorrow.  Call me and let me know your flight got in safely.”

 

“Okay.”  Closing his eyes, Hutch brushed his lips against her hair.  He drew a deep breath.

 

“I love you,” he whispered.

 

+++++

 

Starsky shifted in the cramped airplane seat, settling more comfortably.  He’d been dozing off and on for the last hour, slumped against Hutch’s shoulder.  Normally, that proximity in such a public place might have given him pause, but he was too tired and too wretched to really care.

 

Dragging himself out of bed before the crack of dawn hadn’t been easy, especially since he’d tossed and turned through most of the night, managing little sleep.  The cold had left him miserable, mucous draining into his chest every time he’d tried to lie down.  Repeatedly, he’d woke up hacking, his already weakened lungs straining against a thick burble of phlegm.  His head was achy and congested, and he was beginning to suffer occasional chills.

 

Probably gettin’ that flu thing that’s goin’ around Metro.

 

He’d already downed his usual pills then added some liquid cold medication on top of it.  By the time they were halfway to Duluth, he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer and had wearily folded against his friend, comforted by the familiar cushion of his partner’s shoulder.

 

He heard Hutch cough lightly and cracked an eyelid to see his friend press a folded handkerchief against his mouth. Half asleep, he found it odd the way Hutch curled it over his lips then balled it almost distastefully in his fist. Tilting his head back, the blond-haired man closed his eyes wearily, his face upturned to the roof of the plane.

 

Troubled, Starsky frowned, unable to accurately gauge what bothered him.  “Sumthin’ wrong?” he slurred.

 

“Huh?”  Startled, Hutch sat up straighter.  The moment he realized Starsky was watching him, his mouth relaxed in a soft smile.  “How you doing, buddy?”  Unobtrusively, he tucked the used handkerchief into the pocket of his gray cords. “We’ve still got a while to go before our connector flight.  Go back to sleep if you’re tired.”  Lightly, he rubbed Starsky’s forearm.

 

Content to rest against Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky didn’t bother lifting his head. From the corner of his eye he caught an older woman watching them from her seat across the aisle.  “How much you wanna bet that old lady thinks I’m mental or something?  Maybe I should start droolin’.  What d’ya think?”

 

Hutch followed his gaze, prompting the woman to look quickly away.  “Only if she starts batting her eyes at us.  Janet already gave me orders about that.”

 

Starsky snorted.  “You’re pathetic, Hutchinson.”  Groaning, he forced himself to sit up, letting his head roll against the back of the seat. “You didn’t tell me it’d be torture to fly with a cold.  I thought my eardrums were gonna shatter when this thing took off.”  Worried, he shot his friend a concerned glance from the corner of his eye. “It ain’t gonna be like that when we land, is it?”

 

“No, you’ll be fine,” Hutch assured.  “I’m sorry, Starsk - - I should have told you to chew gum or something.  When we get to Duluth, I think maybe my dad should check you over.”

 

“Forget it.”  Starsky’s refusal was flat and immediate.

 

Rather than grow annoyed, Hutch wrapped his hand around his friend’s wrist.  “You feel warm.  You might be starting on a fever.”

 

“Low-grade,” Starsky countered.  He wrenched his hand free.  In truth, he had no idea if he had a fever or even what range it hovered in.  He just knew he felt flushed, his skin hotter than the outside air. Worse than anything was the pull of crippling fatigue and the incessant yearning to curl up somewhere warm and fall asleep.  “So how come I got this miserable cold and you didn’t get anything?” he griped.  “We both work at the same place.”

 

But even as he voiced the complaint, he already knew the answer.  His immune system was still impaired, his stamina hovering woefully shy of what it had been pre-Gunther.  The police department had decreed him fit enough to sit behind a desk for a reduced shift, but he was still months away from returning to active street duty. 

 

Hutch, on the other hand, despite an alarming drop in weight, didn’t have the same limitations.  He’d even gone back to drinking his disgusting health shakes and indulging in a ridiculously nutritious diet.  Starsky guessed it was simple stress and the ruthless pace of the last few months that kept his partner looking so thin.

 

His folks’re gonna freak when they see him.  He’s even thinner than the last time they were in Bay City. 

 

Starsky knew he looked just as bad, his cheeks hollowed by his long recovery.  He’d dropped weight himself, the jeans that used to fit so snugly, now hanging loose on his leaner frame.  They both looked like they’d been through a grueling ordeal, an observation not far from the truth.   

 

Coupled with his head cold, sitting cramped in the airline seat for so long, awakened a slumbering cavalcade of aches. He’d fought hard to get his mobility back after Gunther had nearly robbed him of it, but there were still occasions when his muscles knotted painfully. At the moment he wasn’t sure what hurt worse - - his back or his pounding head.  Even his leg felt like it was stiffening up, the tendons in his chest shooting unforgiving spasms all the way down to his thigh.

 

He shifted, aware Hutch was watching him intently.

 

“How about a pain pill?” his partner asked softly.

 

Starsky’s mouth twisted in a frown.  “Back off, Blondie.”

 

“Starsk - -”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Yeah, you look fine.”  Irritated, Hutch glanced away, staring out the window.  His hands tightened on the arms of the seat in obvious frustration.

 

Disturbed, Starsky scowled.  He hadn’t meant to be so snappish . . . didn’t know why he couldn’t settle into some form of remote civility.  Yeah, he was irked about the whole Delgado thing, worried about Joey Eichelman and even miffed at Hutch for dragging him to Duluth, but he should have been able to find balance in the mess.

 

Bothered by a spike of pain, he shifted again, biting his lip to stifle a grunt.  Normally, he would have claimed the seat by the window, eager for a view of sun-streaked clouds and the sprawling vistas below.  This time, however, Hutch had insisted he take the aisle seat, giving him more freedom to stretch.  Starsky had to admit it helped.  He’d be suffering greater twinges of pain if he’d been scrunched into the limited space by the window.  Almost reluctantly, he watched Hutch from the corner of his eye.  He knew his long-legged partner had to be uncomfortable, crammed into such a confining area.     

 

“Stop worryin’,” he groused as favorably as he could.  “I’m just a little stiff, that’s all.  And this cold sucks - - big time.”

 

Hutch’s head swiveled back around.  “Which is why you should let my dad check you over when we land,” he insisted, refusing to give ground despite Starsky’s ineffective attempt at compromise.  “I don’t care how damn stubborn you want to be, Starsky - - you can’t mess with a cold like you could before.”

 

“Before Gunther?”  Starsky snapped back.  Already miserable, he felt his irritation soar.  “Guess you shoulda thought of that before strong-armin’ me into this trip.  I could be back with Joey, you know . . . makin’ sure he’s okay.  It ain’t like you need me to hold your hand or anything, Hutch.  You got your priorities and I got mine.”

 

“Yeah.”  Hutch’s mouth thinned in a tight line.  “Sorry.  I didn’t realize how important your friend was.”  Once again he turned away, looking out the window.

 

Disgusted, Starsky thumped his head back against the seat.  He didn’t know why Hutch was being so difficult about everything lately.  Okay, so Joey was out of ICU and recovering nicely according to his doctors, but Starsky still felt a responsibility to hang around.  Joey was his friend . . . Joey needed him.  Maybe they hadn’t really talked over the last eighteen years, but they had history together and that had to count for something. 

 

It wasn’t that Hutch really needed him to go to Duluth.  His annoyingly attentive partner was just being his usual over-protective self, a mantle that was starting to wear a little too thin lately where Starsky was concerned.  He needed breathing room.  He needed the freedom to stumble on his own without having some guardian Viking there to scoop him up at a moment’s notice.  If he didn’t want to take a damn pain pill, that was his choice.  Hutch freaked when he had to swallow a Tylenol.  The least he could do was respect Starsky’s aversion to the countless drugs he’d been forced to pump into his system over the last six months.  He’d gotten to the point where the mere smell from a newly uncapped bottle of pills turned his stomach.  Sometimes it was better to suffer the pain than the nausea and mental revulsion.

 

Deciding to let his blond friend sulk, Starsky kept his mouth shut.  He would have liked to pillow against Hutch again but didn’t feel that was appropriate given the tension radiating from the other man.  Instead he pulled out a pocket notebook he’d used to scribble notations about Delgado and began reviewing the list.  After a while, he felt Hutch’s attention grudgingly shift in his direction.

 

“What’s that?”

 

Starsky didn’t bother looking up.  “Just some notes on Delgado.  I was talkin’ with Joey last night, and he mentioned how Delgado did everything on the sly - - meets, threats, even the loan.  There was no real direct contact between them.”

 

Hutch exhaled heavily.  “You know, Starsk - - Eichelman was pretty stupid to take on a loan with 80% interest.”

 

Starsky’s head shot up.  “And what would you do if the business your parents built was one step shy of goin’ belly up and no bank would touch you?”

 

“I don’t know, but I sure as hell wouldn’t crawl into bed with a loan shark.  Maybe he should have just managed things a little better in the first place.”

 

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say - - sittin’ there with your grandfather’s trust account and parents who live on their own freakin’ estate.”  Starsky ground his teeth together, the pounding in his head making his temper flare hotter.  He didn’t really begrudge Hutch his upbringing or wealth, but he couldn’t help feeling momentarily slighted that he’d had it so much harder - - that he still did.  He knew what it was like to be financially destitute, his back against a wall, creditors not caring that he’d almost been killed in a botched assassination attempt while protecting the public. And who had bailed him out, quietly paying his bills, insisting there was no such thing as a loan between friends, that the money was a gift?  Part of him was overwhelmed by his friend’s generosity, the other part galled that Hutch had never felt the bite of desperation.

 

Joey Eichelman had.  It was something Starsky and his high school friend had in common.

 

“Not everyone grew up living a charmed life like you did, Hutch,” he retaliated.  “ - - monogrammed sweaters, summer homes and private clubs.  Some of us had to take hard knocks and claw our way up from the street.  Joey understands that.  So do I.”

 

“And I can’t?”  Hutch’s eyes dropped to the book in Starsky’s hands.  “I want Delgado as much as you do.”

 

“Then why’d you let Westlake pull this crap on you?  You could have called Vivian.”  There it was - - the crux of the whole thing, blurted before he could stop it.  Incensed that he’d let his true feelings blunder through, Starsky tightened his hands on the small notebook and looked away.

 

Hutch had connections.  Hutch had Vivian Clarke, a woman who’d once been thoroughly enamored of him . . . who’d still do anything he asked of her, simply because he was the one asking.  A wealthy socialite in her own right, she’d married Martin Westlake, the Bay City Police Commissioner just over two years ago. Although Westlake kept his job separate, Starsky was almost certain Vivian would have interceded for Hutch if he’d only asked.

 

But his blond friend was too proud or simply didn’t want to play on those connections.  As a result, Hutch was on forced leave and Delgado was free, growing fat with the hard-earned money of people like Joey Eichelmann.  It galled Starsky to no end that his friend wouldn’t make the one phone call that would put them back on the case.

 

“Vivian doesn’t have that much power,” Hutch said curtly.  “And if I can’t handle my own career - - including suspensions and departmental politics - - I’ve got no business being a cop.   I’m certainly not going to go whining to Vivian about it, expecting her to solve my problems.”

 

Starsky bit his lip.  He knew Hutch was right, but he couldn’t stop resentment from washing over him.  The only reason he was going to Duluth was because Hutch had asked and because Hutch had selflessly taken care of him all during his convalescence.  He owed his friend the favor, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. 

 

Realizing they were both growing short-tempered, Starsky fell silent.  He almost wished Hutch would unload on him, tired of the way his friend always leashed his temper.  Before Gunther, Hutch would have exploded when irked, but now he measured each word carefully as if fearful Starsky couldn’t handle his belligerence.

 

For the duration of the flight they rode in silence.  In St. Paul, they changed over to a smaller connector, something that might have been called a “puddle hopper” in the early days of aviation history.  Once again, Hutch squeezed his long-legged frame into the window seat, giving Starsky the roomier space by the aisle. Shortly after take-off they hit turbulence, the constant jarring ratcheting up the pain in Starsky’s back and arm. Tight-lipped, he bowed his head to his hand and tried to ride it out.  After a few minutes, he felt Hutch tug gently on his arm.

 

“Lean against me, babe, it’ll help,” his partner said softly.

 

Starsky raised his head, catching the naked glimmer of compassion in his friend’s eyes.  They basically had the back of the plane to themselves, six other passengers seated toward the front. The plane bucked again, and he bit back a groan, hating the fact that something as simple as turbulence made his bones feel like they were going to shatter into pieces.  Hutch pulled again, unwilling to release him.  This time he folded without protest, ashamed he’d been so snappish with a man who only wanted to help him.

 

“Where are your pills?”  Hutch asked quietly.  Starsky barely heard him over the rumble of the outside engines, the noise adding to the claxon-like din in his skull.  He narrowed his eyes against the ache, thinking again how wonderful it would be to curl up someplace warm and soft. 

 

“Pocket,” he said simply.

 

Hutch reached across him, rummaging in his jacket pocket.  Retrieving a plastic vial, he popped the lid and spilled two yellow tablets into his palm.  “You’ll have to swallow them dry.”

 

This time Starsky didn’t argue, knowing the pain steadily eked beyond his control.  He raised his head long enough to toss the pills to the back of his throat and swallow. Sniffling, he dragged a hand under his nose and resettled against Hutch’s shoulder. “I’m probably gonna make you sick.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.”  Soothingly, Hutch rubbed a palm over his knee.  “When we land, I’ll take care of the baggage and get a rental car. You just find someplace to sit and wait.”

 

“Hate waitin’,” Starsky grumbled.

 

Hutch laughed.  “I know you do, pal.”

 

+++++

 

It took longer than Hutch expected - - by the time they got through the terminal, rounded up their baggage and secured a rental car, Starsky was really starting to fade.  Hutch could read the heavy fatigue in his eyes as clearly as if Starsky had complained aloud. The pain medication had helped somewhat, but the dark-haired man still moved stiffly from the cramped plane ride.

 

Hutch got him settled in the car - - he’d rented a Lincoln for the legroom, hoping Starsky would stretch out on the back seat.  Instead, his friend climbed into the passenger’s side, moving considerably slower than usual.  Biting his lip so he wouldn’t worry aloud, Hutch carted their luggage to the back then manually began loading it in the trunk.  He was halfway through when a cough bubbled up from his lungs, wet with blood.

 

This time it came with a surprisingly sharp stab of pain, doubling him over.

 

“Ughnn . . .”  Shaken, Hutch folded an arm across his ribs.  Hidden behind the open trunk, he dug in his pocket, fishing for his handkerchief.  The white linen was already spotted with blood from an earlier attack he’d had on their main flight. Thankfully, Starsky had been dozing at the time, and he hadn’t been forced to explain the problem.  The fact it was growing more frequent made him realize he might be in serious trouble.  The plague had almost killed him once before. This time, there would be no miracle antidote or serum made from an assassin’s blood.  If the disease returned, it would likely spell his end. 

 

It’s just a fluke, he told himself nervously.  It’ll go away.  It has too.  Hastily wiping his mouth, he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and finished with the luggage.

 

Starsky was sniffling and coughing by the time Hutch slid into the driver’s seat. “Feeling better?” he asked with a grin, forcing levity he didn’t feel.  The thought of the plague terrified him.  With a start he realized his hands were shaking and quickly gripped the steering wheel to mask the telltale tremors.

 

Starsky shot him a black glare.  “I feel like shit.  What’s got you so all-fired perky, Hutchinson?” Almost immediately his eyes narrowed as he took a second, longer glance at his friend.  “Wait a minute . . . something’s wrong.  You’re shakin’.”

 

Hutch gave a nervous laugh, inconspicuously striving for control. He’d achieved almost perfect harmony in his life - - his best friend and partner was recovering from a near-fatal catastrophe, he was in love with a woman he suspected he might want to marry, he’d made peace with what he did for a living after a brief desire to quit, and his father had come to accept him for who he was.  There was no room in his ideally balanced world for an ugly resurgence of the plague. “You’re imagining things, Starsk.  I’m just tired.  Janet and I were up late last night.”

 

Starsky took the diversionary bait.  “Playin’ doctor, no doubt.”  Drawing a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket, he scrunched down in the seat, blowing his nose.  “I should get some kinda finder’s fee for bringin’ the two of you together.  If it weren’t for me you never woulda met.”

 

Mentally breathing a sigh of relief, Hutch turned over the ignition and steered the car from the lot. “I seem to remember you telling me Janet had better taste than - - and I quote - - ‘a mouthy blond with a stick up his ass.’”

 

Starsky laughed.  “Damn.  I had you pegged, didn’t I?”  He folded his arms across his chest, looking inordinately pleased.  “Still do.”  

 

Their earlier tension from the plane vanished and Hutch felt himself relax.  As he’d done before, he shoved thoughts of the plague from his mind and concentrated on Starsky’s welfare.  He hadn’t yet told his friend about his mother’s phone call or her suspicion that Grant was having an affair. He’d been afraid if he’d told Starsky the truth, his partner might have refused his invitation. With Joey Eichelman so firmly entrenched in Starsky’s mind, the curly-haired cop might easily scoff off the notion of Grant with another woman.  Even Hutch thought it was absurd, but he wasn’t ready to share that with his friend.  Not just yet.

 

Starsky’s remarks on the plane about Hutch’s upbringing had hurt more than he was willing to admit. In hindsight, he knew that wound was mostly rooted in Starsky’s blind allegiance to Eichelman.  It didn’t matter that they hadn’t spoken in almost eighteen years - - Eichelman had the same hard-knocks, blue-collar background as Starsky.  He’d grown up a Jewish kid in the same schools, on the same streets.  That gave them a connection Hutch could never share.  As a result he felt excluded - - the third wheel, always in the way.  Starsky didn’t snap at Eichelman or tell him to mind his own business.  He didn’t berate him for not picking up the phone and calling a woman who might have helped him out of a jam.   In fact, Starsky hadn’t even rebuked his friend for taking money from a loan shark, then being stupid enough to get his head busted over it.

 

Eichelman was a saint who could do no wrong.  Hutch, on the other hand, appeared to be a constant pain-in-the-ass who did nothing right.

 

Maybe I should have called Vivian.

 

Even as the thought surfaced, he shoved it aside.  He wasn’t going to play a trump card, getting Westlake’s wife to run interference just so Starsky could cling to Delgado’s ass end another week.  Screw that.

 

Tamping down his hurt, he tried to forget about Eichelman even though he was fairly certain he knew where Starsky preferred to be.  So he’s friendly with a guy from his past  . . . so lately he’s been more worried about him than me . . . big deal.  Eichelman almost bought the farm.  Starsky should be worried. Grow up, Hutchinson, and quit being so damn jealous.

 

Starsky sneezed, jarring him back to the present.  From the corner of his eye, he watched his friend snuffle into a handkerchief, loudly blowing his nose.  Hutch felt a reactionary stab of compassion at seeing him so miserable. “Not too much further, buddy, and you can rest . . . maybe take a nap if you want.” 

 

Starsky grimaced and rubbed his throat.  “I ain’t a kid, Hutch.”

 

The blond-haired man grinned.  “Depends on the day of the week.”

 

Starsky shot him an affectionate smirk.  Afterward, they rode in companionable silence for a time, the stillness broken now and again by Starsky’s weak cough and sniffling. 

 

Hutch’s parents lived on a thirty-six acre estate, tucked high amid the rocky, treed hillsides of Duluth.  Known as White Rock Manor, it was remote and private, the only means of access across a bridge spanning White Timber Creek.  Once rickety and unstable, the original bridge had since been replaced with a paved structure, forded by old-fashioned cobblestone on either side.  Extending in an arc above the creek, it blended yesteryear charm with modern day safety and convenience.  For years, Hutch had been after his father to replace the original bridge.  It was only after a severe rainstorm had washed away the wooden trestles, stranding an injured Hutch with his family, that Grant had realized the importance of restructuring it.  Within a year, the new bridge had been built.  It might not have had the historic significance of the original, but no one would ever get stranded at White Rock Manor again.  

 

Hutch drove across the bridge then took the winding lane toward the main home.  In addition to the residence, the estate contained a guesthouse, tennis courts, basketball court, stables and a swimming pool with cabana-style bar.

 

Hutch drove the Lincoln up a horseshoe-shaped driveway and parked in front of the main entrance.  It had been almost a year since he’d made it home, but the house was much as he remembered, surrounded by towering trees, curving walkways and botanical gardens, now brown with the heavy taint of late fall.  Stately columns flanked the porch, offsetting a formal double-door entry with leaded glass sidelights.  Further away, an elaborate fountain created a focal point for the curving driveway.

 

He intended to help Starsky from the car, but his friend climbed out before he could round the front. 

 

Starsky stretched, thankful for the freedom, then cast a glance over his shoulder toward the trunk.  “Wanna grab the bags now?”

 

Hutch waved the notion aside.  “I’ll get them later.  Come on - -”

 

Gone were the days when he felt anxiety visiting his parents’ home.  Years in the past, he’d been reluctant to face his father, but that relationship had since become a cornerstone of Hutch’s life.  He’d told Grant things he never thought he’d tell anyone other than Starsky . . . sharing his fears and past traumas as well as all the positive influences in his life.  Once - - two weeks after Starsky was shot, his friend’s condition still dangerously precarious - - Hutch had gone home to his cottage and got roaringly drunk.  When his father found him an hour later, he’d broken down sobbing in Grant’s arms. 

 

It was something they’d never told Hutch’s mother, just as they’d never told her about his heroin addiction or the fact he’d nearly died pinned beneath his car in a deserted canyon. Those were secrets Hutch kept with his father.  His relationship with his mother was different.  She’d always been open and giving, her love and devotion freely bestowed.  There’d been plenty of times during his childhood when she’d stood up to Grant for being too hard on him.  His father had been the disciplinarian - - harsh and overbearing, icily remote, but never physically abusive. By contrast, his mother had been counselor and confidante, always ready with a kind word or affectionate gesture. 

 

“Mom?”  Hutch shoved the door open and stuck his head inside.  He’d called earlier from the airport to say he and Starsky were on the way, the drive equivalent to just under a half an hour.  Within seconds, his mother swept into the foyer, a warm smile breaking over her lips. 

 

“Ken!”  Impeccably dressed in gray slacks and an emerald-green blouse, she should have looked the picture of genteel poise. Instead, she seemed tired, her face pinched and white beneath the sleek black waves of her hair.  Even then, she gave him a heartfelt smile, reaching up to wrap her arms around his neck.  “Oh, Kenny, I’m so glad you’re here!”

 

He bent to accommodate her, gathering her close.  She was so tiny and thin-boned, she felt practically insubstantial in his arms.  Pressing a kiss to her temple, he hugged her tightly. “I missed you, Mom.”

 

She gave a small sound that might have been a choked whimper. It took her a moment to compose herself, but she drew back, smiling up at him, laying a hand against his cheek.  “You look so thin.  Are you sick?”

 

“Of course not.”  He cringed as soon as he voiced the lie, thoughts of the plague clamoring awake in the back of his head.  From nowhere a catastrophic thought streaked through his mind: God, what if I’m contagious?

 

He blanched, the reality too frightening to assimilate. Distracted, his mother looked to the side, focusing on Starsky who was in the process of closing the door.

 

“Hi, Adele,” Hutch heard his partner greet warmly.

 

“David, it’s so good to see you.”  Disentangling herself, Adele turned her attention on Starsky.  She hugged him like family, then immediately started to fret over his obvious cold.  “But you look dreadful.  Ken didn’t tell me you were sick.”

 

“Well . . . Ken’s kinda short in the information department these days,” the dark-haired cop returned, shooting his friend an affectionate grin.  It did wonders for Hutch’s spirit, momentarily bludgeoned by the grim finality of his own illness.  He was still grappling with that reality when he saw his mother nervously finger Starsky’s collar.

 

“I suppose Kenny told you why I wanted him to come home?”

“Uh . . .”  Starsky looked surprised.

 

“Mom,” Hutch said quickly.  “We’ve been up since before dawn, and we’re both pretty wiped.  How about I grab the luggage, and we give Starsky a chance to rest for awhile?”

 

His friend frowned.  “I’m fine.”

 

“Well, certainly some rest and a hot bowl of soup won’t hurt,” Adele agreed.  She lowered her eyes, sending a skittering glance to Hutch.  “Your father got tied up at the hospital, but he’ll be home for dinner.  He seemed a little . . . frazzled . . . by your unexpected visit.  I think maybe the timing could have been better, Ken.”  A guilty flush stole over her cheeks.

 

“Don’t worry.”  Hutch wrapped an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.  “I’ll handle Dad.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky knew something was wrong.  He couldn’t really put his finger on it, but the sense was there, eating at the back of his mind, insisting all was not right in the Hutchinson household.  He’d helped his friend drag their luggage from the Lincoln - - even though Hutch had insisted he not bother.  Afterward, feeling weaker for having carted his bags up the steps, he’d sprawled face down on his bed, letting the familiarity of the guest room wash over him.

 

He’d stayed in a number of different rooms when visiting Hutch’s parents, but this one had always been his favorite.  It overlooked the pool to the rear of the property, a dense treeline tucked further to the north like a jagged ridge of bone. In the summer the grounds were lush and green, the pool sparkling with the flash of sunlight and crystal.  In the fall and winter the land looked dry, even barren, but there was something serenely majestic about it, wrapped up in the tree-crowned hillsides.

 

Inside, the room was warmed by toasted shades of apricot, sienna and chestnut.  Best of all, it was one of the few guestrooms with a working fireplace - - one of those new-fangled gas things that lit with a flip of a switch.  Starsky adored the ease and the atmosphere it created.  Flicking it on was the first thing he’d done before crashing on the king-sized bed.

 

Hutch was just next door in a room that was practically a mirror image of his, but the colors were different - - earthy shades of moss, walnut and gold. Both bedrooms shared a Jack-and-Jill bath with connecting doors. 

 

Flopping onto his back, Starsky folded his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.  It felt wonderful to lie down, the pillowy mattress sheer heaven.  Eventually he knew phlegm would collect in his throat and launch him into a coughing attack, but for the moment it was utter bliss to just relax. 

 

The problem rested with his overactive imagination  - - a worrisome voice that insisted something wasn’t right.  Adele had been as gracious as always, but there’d been something strained in her greeting.  He’d noticed a puffiness around her eyes that he would have attributed to crying if he didn’t know her better.  Over the years, he’d come to think of her as a second mother.  Elegant and refined, yes, but just as warm and giving as his own lovely mother.  And what about her reference to a specific reason for wanting Hutch at home?

 

Before he could ponder the matter further, Starsky erupted in a fit of coughing.   The hacking took him by surprise, fierce and painful, forcing him upright.  Bending double, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and rode it out, a sharp stab of pain lurching into his throat.  He heard a soft knock at the door but couldn’t manage even a gasp in acknowledgement.  A second later, Hutch stepped into the room.

 

“Hey!” his friend cried in alarm.  He crossed to the bed in several swift strides, plunking down beside Starsky, one hand locking onto his arm in firm support. “Take it easy,” he soothed, attentively rubbing Starsky’s back.  “Were you lying down, buddy?”     

 

Starsky nodded, hacking into his hand.  Blindly, he groped for his handkerchief.  His eyes were starting to water, the congestion building in his head and dripping from the end of his nose.

 

“I think you’re going to have to sleep with some pillows behind you,” Hutch said, still rubbing his back. “You need to keep yourself elevated.”

 

“No shit, dummy.”  As soon as he said the words, Starsky sighed in frustration.  The coughing stopped, and he buried his nose in the handkerchief, blowing loudly.  “I’m sorry, Hutch.  I don’t mean to be so pissy.”

 

“I know.”  Hutch slid a hand up to his neck, tugging gently on his hair.  “It just comes naturally.”

 

Starsky took the teasing in the affectionate vein it was tendered.  Over all, he knew Hutch had been inordinately patient with him lately, excusing his moodiness and short temper.  He’d had a hard enough time holding his irritability in check, frustrated by his lengthy recovery and the limitations of his still-healing body.  Factor in the situation with Delgado and Joey Eichelman plus a full-blown head cold and his sociability level had plummeted to subterranean depths.  As much as he hated to admit it, he knew a short nap would go a long way in improving his outlook - - something he needed to work on before having dinner with Hutch’s parents later that evening.

 

“I’ll be fine after a short nap,” Starsky mumbled.  He hated having to own up to the weakness but was realistic enough to know Hutch would probably insist anyway.  Getting up before dawn after a restless night had pretty much sapped his limited reserves.  Reaching behind him, he mounded the pillows together then stretched out comfortably, folding his arms behind his head.  Lying down was a luxury he could easily get used to as long as his lungs stayed clear.  “So  . . . what exactly did your mom mean about wantin’ you here for some specific reason?” he asked his partner.

 

“Oh - - that.”  Hutch looked like he’d rather not discuss it.  Shifting to face Starsky, he drew one leg onto the bed, bent at the knee.  “I was going to tell you about it.  She called me last night, upset.  She’s got this crazy idea that my dad is having an affair.”

 

Starsky balked.  “Your dad - - Mister-Social-Image himself - - an affair?”

 

“I know it sounds nuts - -”

 

“Wait a minute.”  Starsky narrowed his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows.  “So what you’re tellin’ me is . . . this spur-of-the-moment trip really wasn’t about you wantin’ to take a vacation and get out of the city . . . forget about Delgado and all that other crap like you told me.  You came back here ‘cuz your mom asked you to.”

 

“No - - it was my idea,” Hutch clarified quickly.  “She called upset, and since I had the week off anyway - -”

 

“ - - you thought you’d drag me along to solve a problem that ain’t a problem at all.”  Disgusted, Starsky flopped back against the pillows.  “Hutch, your dad ain’t the ‘affair’ type.  I’m not sayin’ he doesn’t have it together and, sure, there might be some women out there who’d be interested - - probably a lot of  ‘em - - but your dad’s too faithful for that.  He loves your mom.”  Frustrated by the absurdity of the whole thing, Starsky exhaled loudly, washing a hand over his face.  “I can’t believe you dragged me out here when I coulda been snoopin’ stuff up on Delgado.”

 

Hutch’s lips thinned.  “Can we just drop Delgado for awhile, huh, Starsk?  So I got you away from the case for a week.  You needed a fresh perspective.”  Annoyed, he shoved off the bed and began to pace, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his gray cords.

 

Starsky watched for a moment then scrunched higher against the pillows, half sitting.  Sniffling, he mopped his balled-up handkerchief under his nose.  “You’re kinda touchy all of a sudden.”

 

Hutch wheeled around, eyes flashing like river stone snared by the sun.  “No, I am not touchy,” he snapped.  “I’m just sick of hearing about the same frigging case over and over.  If it isn’t Delgado, it’s Eichelman.  If it isn’t Eichelman, it’s Delgado.  It’d just be nice to have you focus on something else for a change.  It doesn’t seem to bother you, I’m the one stuck carrying the bad press, departmental reprimand and all the other shit.  If Westlake is gonna roll somebody’s head, it’s gonna be mine, not yours.”

 

Starsky blinked, shocked by his heat and crankiness.  Though he still hadn’t really exploded, it had been awhile since Hutch had been this vocal with him.  He might have actually felt some vindication in finally getting a rise out of his self-controlled partner if it weren’t for the fact he felt Hutch’s outburst was unjustified. 

 

“So you think I like playin’ second fiddle to the White Knight of Metro?” he spat acidly, shoving from the bed and confronting Hutch face to face.  “You think I wanna be the one in the background while you’re out there takin’ the heat?  You think I enjoy sittin’ behind a desk like some invalid, havin’ to rely on my own private pharmacy of pills just to get through the day?”

 

It was a cheap shot and he knew it. 

 

Hutch’s face fell.  “No.”  Mortified, he looked away, shoulders slumping in defeat.  “I’m sorry, Starsky,” he whispered.  “I didn’t mean - -”

 

“Don’t!”  Starsky seethed before he could finish.  He hated how easily his friend wounded.  Hutch had always been too quick to apologize, wrapping himself in guilt with annoying ease.  “I ain’t tryin’ to play on your pity.  I’m just pointin’ out we were a team before Gunther, and we’re still a team.  Maybe it don’t feel that way to you - -”

 

“It does,” Hutch said quickly.  Unnerved, he rifled a hand through his hair and sat on the edge of the bed.  “God, Starsk, I’m sorry.  I know you’d be out there with me if you could . . .”

 

Yet another apology from a man who excelled at them.  Too tired to call him on it again, Starsky merely shook his head wearily and sat down beside his friend.  He was silent a moment, staring at his hands, letting the achy fatigue of the cold seep over him.  His throat felt raw and scratchy, abominably sore when he swallowed.  He could feel the heated flush of a low-grade fever burn against his cheeks. Yet as wretchedly uncomfortable as he felt, he knew that misery was not the true cause of his surliness.

 

“We’ve been bickerin’ a lot lately,” he noted quietly.  He shot Hutch a contemplative glance from the corner of his eye.  “Or at least I’ve been bickerin’ and you’ve been bitin’ your tongue most of the time.”

 

Uneasy with the observation, Hutch shrugged.  “The last couple of months have been a little rocky but nothing we can’t get through.”  He offered a hesitant smile as if uncertain it would be welcomed.  “Look how far you’ve come since, well . . . since that day in the garage.”

 

Starsky coughed into his hand.  He’d thought about that day a lot.  About how everything might have turned out differently if he’d only done this or that . . . reacted faster, been more alert to his surroundings, quicker with his gun . . . the list was endless.  Yet the one thing that never changed was the steadfast loyalty of the friend and partner who’d helped him through the last six months, even when the obstacles had amounted to moments of sheer hell. 

 

He managed a half smile of his own, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a semi-grin.  “So does that mean you’re gonna put up with my attitude a bit longer?”

 

“That depends.”  Sensing the tension had passed, Hutch broke into a breezy smile.  He slid a hand onto Starsky’s shoulder, tightening his fingers in a companionable grip. “You have to allow me the luxury of worrying over you now and again.  I can’t just turn that off.”

 

“I know.  It’s annoyin’ as hell.”  Wishing he had something to ease the burning in his throat, Starsky grimaced and massaged his neck.  “How about a deal - - I’ll try to lighten up on Delgado if you ease up on the mother hen routine?”

 

Hutch bit his lip, considering.  “Will you let my father look you over?”

 

Starsky was beginning to think that wasn’t such a bad idea but wasn’t quite ready to admit his change of heart to Hutch - - especially after making such a fuss over how ridiculously unnecessary it was. Caving too easily might give his partner a swelled head.  “Does your dad even know you were comin’ on this trip?” he asked suspiciously.

 

“He found out this morning.  He - -” Turning his head abruptly, Hutch coughed into his fist, the spasm deep and racking.  “I - -”  Sputtering, he pushed from the bed, his back turned as he dug frantically into his pocket.  A second later, he wadded a white handkerchief against his mouth, coughing forcibly.

 

“Hey . . .”  Concerned, Starsky scowled.  “Looks like whatever I got is finally catchin’ up to you.”

 

“No, I - -”  More coughing.  Back still turned, Hutch shook his head.  “I just got something in my throat,” he muttered at last.  Balling the handkerchief into his hand, he shoved it back into his pocket.  When he turned to face Starsky, his expression was tight, a faint sheen of perspiration on his cheeks.  If Starsky didn’t know him better, he would have thought he looked anxious, even a little frightened.

 

“Uh . . . about my dad, Starsk  - -”

 

“Yeah, okay.  I’ll let him check me over,” Starsky agreed before he could finish.  The scowl dug deeper.  “Hey, you okay?  You look kinda pale.”

 

“Fine.”  A nervous smile danced across Hutch’s lips.  “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night either.  You know . . . Janet . . .”  His eyes dipped self-consciously.  “We were up late.  I guess I could use some rest too.”

 

Not entirely convinced, Starsky nodded.  The familiar sense of something being out of place stirred awake in the back of his mind.  “So, uh . . . what about this thing with your dad?” he persisted.  “You know . . . your mom thinkin’ he’s havin’ an affair?”

 

Hutch dabbed his fist against his lips.  “I think she’s worrying over nothing.”

 

Starsky listened as his friend relayed Grant’s unusual behavior.  “You don’t think he’s sick or something, do you?  Maybe tryin’ to keep it from your mom?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Hutch grimaced.  “Whatever’s going on, I can’t let him know she told me.  My dad can be, um . . . difficult.  I’ll just have to take my time and work it out.”

 

Starsky nodded, listing slightly to the side.  As much as he wanted to stay awake, the punishing weight of the cold insisted he rest.  He sniffled, stuffy and congested, stretching out on the bed with a weary sigh.  “You know . . . it might not be a bad idea to have your dad check you over too.”

 

“I told you, Starsk,” Hutch insisted.  “I just had something in my throat.  I’ll check on you in a few hours, okay?”

 

Tired, Starsky closed his eyes.  “I’ll be up before then,” he protested sleepily.

 

“Sure you will.” 

 

A moment later Starsky heard the closing snick of the door as Hutch left, exiting into the bathroom.  The sound of running water intruded on his thoughts, gently carrying him to sleep.

 

+++++

 

Hutch bent over the bathroom sink, one hand on the faucet as he cranked open the water.  He caught the stream in his mouth, spitting out a residual taint of blood.  It had been worse this time - - the pain in his chest not as severe, but the metallic tang in his mouth heavier than usual.  He’d been shaken when it happened but had been able to keep his composure in front of Starsky.  Now, away from his friend, the grim reality of what he was experiencing washed over him in a sticky wave of fear.

 

Plague.

 

The word terrified him, kept him fighting in stark denial of what was really happening to him.  Judith promised.  Judith said it couldn’t come back.  He didn’t feel any of the other effects he’d suffered with the disease.  Pain in his chest, yes, but that was only when he coughed.  Maybe it really was nothing more than some strain of cold with an abnormal side-effect.  He’d had nosebleeds before, brought on by anxiety and stress.  Admittedly, he’d been under a lot of pressure.  Maybe the blood was nothing more than the cumulative result of the last six months finally catching up with him.

 

Dragging down a deep breath, he cupped his hand under the faucet and bathed his face in the cold spray of water.  It helped clear his head and calm his frazzled nerves until he could think semi-coherently again.  At least Starsky was resting, catching up on much needed sleep.  He’d have to keep a closer eye on his friend - - make sure he was taking his pills and that the cold didn’t get out of hand.

 

Straightening, Hutch shut off the water and reached for a towel.  He rubbed his face dry, wearily sagging against the sink.  He knew he should rest like Starsky, but the coughing spell had him too wired, his mind tripping over all the things that could go wrong.  Eventually he wandered downstairs, visited with his mother for a short while, then headed for the stables.

 

He’d always loved riding - - one of the things he missed most living in a metro area like Bay City.  As a child, he remembered being thrown from a gelding when the horse bucked unexpectedly.  He’d been nine at the time, riding a good distance from the house with his parents and sister. The spill had busted his arm in two places, the fiery lick of pain something he could still recall with little effort.  Rather than cry, he’d choked back his tears, fearful his demanding father would be furious with him for not being able to command the horse.

 

Instead, Grant had surprised him, showing genuine concern, one of the few times in his life Hutch actually remembered his father fussing over him,  White-faced with pain, he’d held back his tears, obediently allowing  Grant to examine his arm.  Afterward, he ridden back to the house, tucked snugly against his father’s chest to mute the jostling motion of the horse.  He’d never felt so special or protected, the security of being held in his father’s arms shocking and new.  Later, Grant had carried him to the car, pain and nausea turning him light-headed and dizzy.

 

At the hospital, he’d been hustled past other, more deserving, cases in the emergency room because of his father’s prestige.  He remembered the exam room only briefly, his mother hovering anxiously at his side, his father barking orders at the attending physician.  The man was young, kind but jittery, unnerved by Grant’s icy, authoritarian presence.  Hutch remembered a nurse asking him a few questions, then the doctor did something to his arm that made him pass out completely.  After that, everything was a blur.

 

He remembered waking in his bedroom hours later, his arm in a cast.  His mother had made a fuss over him, but his father checked on him only briefly, a hurtful lapse that had left him inordinately sad. Looking back on it, Hutch realized Grant had always been attentive to Adele, and although he’d been strict with Kelly, he’d never been distant or judgmental as he’d been with Hutch.  Perhaps fathers really were more demanding of sons than daughters.  Kelly had often complained about Grant’s ‘rules’ and rigidity, but she’d never doubted his love or felt a lack of it.

 

As a child, there’d been plenty of times Hutch had.  Thankfully, that was behind him now.

 

He rode for a little over an hour, enjoying the solitude and crispness of the autumn air, the vast openness of his parents’ estate.  Halfway through, he experienced a brief coughing spell, but it was relatively free of blood, an improvement that made him think the ailment might be passing.  The late afternoon air grew cooler, shadows slanted and long by the time he returned the horse to the stables then walked back to the house.  Entering in the rear, he headed for the back staircase, distracted when he heard his father’s voice coming from the den.

 

Detouring, Hutch hovered outside, one hand wrapped around the doorknob, uncertain if he should enter. There was heated agitation in Grant’s tone, and although he couldn’t make out the exact words, there was no mistaking his father’s animosity.  Fearful Grant might be arguing with Adele, Hutch cracked the door just wide enough to glance inside.

 

He spied Grant on the phone, standing behind his desk, his back half turned.

 

“You have to give me more time,” he heard his father snap.  A slight pause.  “No, I didn’t ask him to come here.  Of course, I realize it complicates matters.”  Another pause.  “Yes! Yes!  I’m well aware of that.  I told you I would deal with it!”  Furious, Grant slammed the receiver onto the phone.  He stood a moment, chest heaving, glaring out the window, his face drawn and white. 

 

Disturbed by the scene, Hutch pushed the door open and stepped into the room.  “Dad?”

 

Grant jerked, snapped from his angry reverie.  For a split second his expression was unmasked, a blatant mixture of alarm and fear.  “Ken . . .”  Just as quickly, he shoved the betraying anxiety aside in favor of a shaky smile.  “Y-Your mother said you were flying in today.”  Rounding the desk, he caught Hutch’s hand in his, raising his other hand to clasp Hutch on the shoulder.  “When did you get here?”

 

“A few hours ago,” Hutch said guardedly.  It wasn’t often Grant stuttered, the stammer - - slight as it was - - sending up a red flag in his mind.  He could feel suppressed tension in his father’s body, his greeting nowhere as relaxed as it normally was.  “Did I interrupt something?” he ventured carefully.

 

“What?  Oh - - you mean the phone call?”  Grant released him with a short shake of his head.  “It was nothing . . . just, uh . . . some complications at the hospital with a patient’s father.”  Forcing a smile, he stuffed his hands into his pockets.  “So . . .your mother tells me you brought David with you as well.”

 

Hutch nodded, uncertain if he was ready to drop the scene he’d just witnessed.  He knew his father wasn’t being truthful but didn’t have the necessary ammunition to accurately pinpoint why.  Had he just observed one of the secretive phone calls his mother had told him about?

 

“Yeah,” he acknowledged after a pause. He fiddled with a paperweight on the edge of his father’s desk, allowing his eyes to casually skim the surface.  Nothing seemed out of place - - no note or betraying reference as to what the phone call might have been about.  “Starsk is fighting a bad cold, Dad.  I probably should have left him home, but I was worried about him being alone.  His stamina still isn’t what it should be and I think he’s been skimping on his pain pills.  Maybe you could check him over later tonight?” Hopeful, he cast his father a questioning glance. “He was sleeping when I went riding.”

 

“Of course.”  Grant’s composure returned quickly, evidenced by a warm, reassuring grin. “Sit down, Ken,” he invited, motioning to a chair. “Tell me what you’ve been up to since the last time we talked.”  His eyes narrowed a bit as he folded into the seat behind his desk.  “You’ve lost more weight.  Maybe I should check you over too.”

 

“It’s nothing.”  Sitting, Hutch waved the comment aside. “Just the usual stuff - - working too hard, worrying over Starsky, trying to find time for Janet.”

 

Grant raised a single brow much like his son often did.  “She stayed home this trip?”

 

Hutch nodded.  “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision, and her schedule’s been tight lately.  She did want me to ask you something though  . . .”  He hedged, uncomfortable using his lover in a lie.  Clearing his throat, he braced his elbows on the arms of his chair and laced his hands together, striving for casualness.  “I was asking her about Starsky and if he could expect any setbacks - - because of this cold he’s got.”  Knowing he was lying, Hutch felt himself grow disturbingly warm.  A fat trickle of sweat seeped down the back of his neck.  “That got me to thinking about, uh . . . myself, and the plague. I know it was over a year ago, but I was just wondering, um . . . wh-what the chances were it might come back . . . someday.”  He swallowed audibly.  “Janet told me it couldn’t happen, and if I didn’t believe her, I should check with you.”

 

No longer flustered, Grant studied him openly, a bit too intently for Hutch’s liking. “Why?  Are you having problems?”

 

“No, of course not.”  Hutch laughed nervously, averting his eyes.  Shifting, he slouched deeper into the chair, striving for a relaxed look.  “I was just curious.  I guess I’ve let myself get run down over the last few months and just wanted to make sure I wasn’t setting myself up for something worse.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to worry about the plague, Ken.  From what you’ve told me and from what I learned after checking with Dr. Meredith and your friend Judith at the CDC, I’m fairly certain there’s no chance of the germ incubating in your blood.”

 

Hutch looked at him sharply.  “Only fairly certain?”

 

Sensing something out of the ordinary, Grant sat forward, deliberately folding his arms on top of his desk. The sternness Hutch remembered so well from childhood glimmered in his eyes. “Kenneth, is there something you’re not telling me?”

 

“Dad, I was just curious,” Hutch said quickly.  Standing, he paced to the window, hoping to distance himself from the subject.  In the back of his mind, he fretted over Grant’s “fairly certain,” a term that left him apprehensive and slightly nauseous.  Before his father could hone in on his nervousness, he switched topics, changing back to Starsky and his concern for his partner’s health.

 

Eventually, Grant went to check on Starsky himself.  By that time, Hutch’s partner was awake, chilled and flushed with fever. Grant gave him a thorough examination then rounded up some medication to bring his temperature down.  Hutch wanted him to stay in bed for the night, but Starsky was adamant about having dinner with Hutch’s family.  Somewhere around seven o’clock, they finally all sat down at the dining room table.

 

Hutch could feel an underlying strain in Adele’s interaction with Grant, but no one else seemed to notice. Starsky still looked miserable, his cheeks pink with the waning flush of fever, his blue eyes overly bright by contrast.  At least he’d dressed warmly in a bulky red and black sweater with jeans.  Hutch had showered after his ride, rounding up a pair of beige corduroys, yellow turtleneck and a chocolate-brown jacket.  He’d never quite outgrown the habit of dressing a bit more upscale for dinner with his parents, especially as he’d gotten older.

 

The food was a cut above what he normally ate  - - chicken oscar, prepared with the delicate sauce and spices of his parents’ weekly gourmet dinner service. His father selected a bottle of chardonnay from the wine cellar to compliment the meal, then rummaged up a non-alcoholic sparkling cider for Starsky.  Hutch realized just how under the weather his friend felt when Starsky didn’t even bother protesting that he couldn’t have wine.

 

I shouldn’t have brought him, he thought guiltily, watching the dark-haired man across the table.  Grant and Adele were seated at either end, both keeping up a steady stream of questions and comments about life in Bay City and sharing the latest news on Duluth.  Hutch answered most of their questions, watching his friend idly pick at his food.  Usually talkative to a fault, it was unusual to have Starsky so quiet.  Occasionally, he’d sniffle or clear his throat, once excusing himself completely to blow his nose.

 

“So, Ken . . .” Grant ventured abruptly from out of the blue.  “You never did tell me what prompted this trip - - not that your mother and I don’t enjoy your company,” he added with a grin.

 

Hutch grinned in return, noting his mother’s sudden excessive tension from the corner of his eye.  He knew she was worried Grant would somehow find out she’d instigated the trip with her phone call. To bide time, Hutch took a sip of his wine.  “I just . . . found myself with some extra time on my hands,” he said carefully.  Across the table, Starsky stopped prodding a piece of asparagus and raised his head.

 

Grant nodded thoughtfully.  “You mean vacation?”

 

“Sort of.”  Hutch squirmed, uncertain what his father was driving at. “What does it matter?”

 

“That depends.”  Patting his mouth with his napkin, Grant set it on the table then stood.  He walked a few feet to an elaborate walnut buffet Adele used to house her finest linens and silver.  Opening the top drawer, he extracted a folded newspaper. “I was wondering if it might have anything to do with this.”  Returning to his seat, he splayed the paper upright on the table for Hutch to see. 

 

The legend Bay City Dispatch leaped from the masthead, followed by the ugly proclamation “Renegade Cop Threatens Urban Angel.”  Dated a week ago, Hutch’s picture was splashed on the page along with a separate shot of Jorge Delgado.  The photo of Hutch was an old one, taken a number of years ago - - the same one he and Starsky had used when they’d faked an issue of the paper to trap Vanessa’s killer.  Apparently, the Dispatch had it archived somewhere.  By contrast, the shot of Delgado was recent, showing him surrounded by a smiling throng of children with their hands extended. Grinning, he passed out textbooks, purchased  - - according to the caption  - - with money he’d donated to a struggling inner city school.

 

Hutch was well acquainted with the paper and the edition.  It was the one that had caused him all his trouble, reporting how he’d boldly strolled into a public restaurant and threatened Delgado during dinner in front of multiple witnesses, including the editor of the Dispatch.  Irked, he rubbed his temple.  “Where did you get that?”

 

“I have friends in the medical community in Bay City, Ken,” Grant said patiently, but his eyes were hard.  He sat with his hands on the arms of his chair, measuring his son directly.  “I’ve gotten to know quite a few people at Memorial General through you and David.  A doctor friend sent me that - - she thought I’d be interested.  I believe you know Greta Atkinson.”

 

Hutch’s mouth twisted.  Janet’s boss.  The woman hated him.  It was no wonder she’d passed along a paper that made him look like a vigilante.

 

Confused, Adele sat forward in her chair.  She looked from the paper to Hutch.  Clearly it was the first time she’d seen the issue or had news of the events. “I don’t understand, Ken.  What is your picture doing on the front of the Bay City Dispatch?”

 

Hutch wet his lips, trying to shrug it off.  “It’s nothing, Mom.”

 

“What it is . . .” Grant said tightly, “ . . . is our son publicly threatening a prominent and respected member of the Bay City community.”

 

Starsky gave a derogatory laugh. “Delgado’s pure scum,” he inserted quickly.  Impatient, he waved a hand over the paper.  “Don’t believe the crap you read in there, Dr. Hutchinson.  It’s all bias.  The editor of that paper’s practically in bed with Jorge Delgado.  The swine has everyone buffaloed.”

 

“But not the two of you?” Grant challenged.  “Not my son?”

 

“You got that right!”  Agitated into a cough, Starsky averted his head and hacked into his hand. Immediately, he refocused on Grant.  “You have no idea what Delgado’s done - - the people he’s hurt - - taking their businesses and homes . . .siccing his goon squad on anyone who gets in the way.  He put my friend in the hospital with two broken legs, a busted head and internal bleedin’.  What kinda ‘urban angel’ is that?”

 

“Starsk - -” Hutch said quietly, sensing his friend’s ratcheting irritation.  He’d no sooner gotten Starsky to agree to leave Delgado and Eichelman behind them, only to have his father drag the whole mess back under the spotlight. 

 

Grant shifted his attention from Starsky, frowning openly.  “According to this article,” he spoke directly to Hutch, “there were demands for your Commissioner to suspend you.”

 

Hutch drew a breath, disturbed by the uncharacteristic flutter in his stomach.  He didn’t know why his father was being so difficult, dwelling on a matter that didn’t concern him.  “I’m on vacation,” he repeated firmly. “There’s no official suspension involved.  Dobey suggested - -”  Annoyed emphasis bled through on the word, “ - - that I take a week off to avoid official reprimand.”  He shot his father a pointed gaze, icier than he’d intended. “Greta Atkinson isn’t particularly fond of me, Dad.  Maybe you should start questioning her motives the next time she sends you something related to my career.”

 

Grant leaned back in his chair.  “It doesn’t seem to me like you’re going to have much of a career left if you maintain this kind of foolishness.  Obviously, you need to back off and leave this man alone.”

 

“Whoa - -!”  Starsky half rose out of his chair.  “Just a minute - - we don’t tell you what to do at your hospital.  Maybe you should keep your nose out of our precinct.”

 

“Starsk, please - -”  Hutch ground his teeth together. “Sit down.”  He didn’t know if he was angry, insulted or both.  Even when his father hadn’t been enamored of his career, he’d never actually tried to tell him how to conduct an investigation. Uncomfortable, he felt a measure of their old friction return.  It was an ugly feeling that left him reeling off kilter.  Grant had given completely of himself over the last two years.  To have him wrench the rug out now was devastating.  Sucking down a calming breath, Hutch tried to convince himself he was reading too much into his father’s scrutiny.  “Look, Dad - - Starsky and I made an agreement not to discuss this case until we get back to Bay City.  It hasn’t exactly been an easy one.  If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.”

 

Irritated, Grant pressed his lips together.  “I’m not particularly fond of having the Hutchinson name splashed all over the front page of your city paper.”  Snatching the newspaper from the table, he shook it under Hutch’s nose.  “Do you have any idea how bad this looks for me - - the damage it could do to my reputation?”

 

Hutch blanched, certain he’d stepped into a time warp.  He might have expected such a reaction from Grant a few years back, but not now.  Not after they’d painstakingly cleansed their relationship of animosity and prejudice.  Was this more of his father’s strange behavior - - as out of place as his secretive phone calls and an unexplained visit to a roadside motel under an assumed name?

 

Bewildered, Hutch looked to his mother for help.  His chest hurt, the painful tightening forewarning of a severe coughing spasm.  Fumbling in his jacket pocket, he pressed a clean handkerchief against his lips.  “Excuse me,” he mumbled, too hurt to raise his head, too shaken by the pain to linger.  He started coughing before he was out of the chair, the deep hacking flooding his mouth with the tart taste of blood. Blindly, he shoved through the doorway, ducking into a connecting butler’s pantry. The unexpected violence of the seizure doubled him over in pain.  Panicked, he stumbled to the wet bar, bracing both hands against the edge, spitting thick globs of blood into the sink.  Something hot and knife-like streaked across his chest.  His legs wobbled, threatening to send him crashing to the floor.

 

“Hutch?”  Starsky’s voice drifted through the doorway.

 

Frantic, Hutch wiped his mouth.  He cranked open the faucet, sending streamers of blood swirling down the drain. Starsky walked into the hall just as the last betraying glimmer of redness was swept away in a tide of water.  

 

“Hey, buddy - -”  Hutch called in a rasp voice. Limp and lightheaded from the assault, he knew he couldn’t convincingly pull off casual.  Still he forced a smile, hoping he didn’t look as shocky as he felt. Afraid to release his grip on the sink, he turned sideways, leaning heavily against the bar.  If he had to guess, he’d venture his face was the color of bleached milk.  “Maybe I am coming down with something after all.”

 

“Bullshit!”  Starsky crowded his space, getting into his face. “That’s more than a ‘something,’ Hutch.  You look like you’re on the verge of passing out.”

 

“It just caught me off guard,” Hutch lied.  He dropped his eyes, only then realizing his right hand still rested on the sink, the handkerchief balled tight in his fist.  A tuft of white linen peeked from the top, soiled and splotched with blood. Unobtrusively, he tightened his fingers around it, forcing it deeper into his hand so it wouldn’t be seen. 

 

Starsky gripped his forearm.  “You’re shakin’, damn it!  Tell me what the hell is goin’ on.”

 

“I just have a bad cough,” Hutch said quickly.  “It started yesterday.  Like you said, everybody at Metro is fighting some kind of cold.”  Feeling steadier, he took a step away from the sink, shoving the soiled handkerchief into his jacket pocket.  “Don’t tell my dad - - or my mom.    There’s enough going on with the two of them right now.”

 

Starsky scowled.  “So you don’t mind me gettin’ poked and prodded by your old man, but you’re electin’ to sit the whole thing out.  That ain’t fair, Hutch.”

 

“I think I can handle a cold a little better than you can, buddy.”  Growing more and more certain of himself, Hutch drew a breath, relieved the pain had passed.  There was no tightening in his chest, no hot streak of agony ripping apart his lungs.  He was about to comment on Grant’s odd behavior in the dining room when his father suddenly thrust his way into the butler’s pantry.

 

“Kenneth!”  he exploded.  Though the name was snapped, raw concern clearly lingered under the gruffness.  “What exactly is going on in here?”

 

Hutch cringed, unwilling to confront his father face to face when he was feeling so unsettled.  “Nothing,” he said quickly. “I just had something stuck in my throat.  I’m fine now.”  Unwilling to be questioned further, he pushed past the older man into the dining room.

 

Eventually, Grant and Starsky followed. There was no further discussion about Delgado or Hutch’s suspension but the conversation grew strained, composed mostly of stilted small talk.  Halfway through dessert, Hutch became aware of just how quickly his partner was fading.  Starsky began sniffling and sneezing, the fever turning him limp with fatigue.  

 

Hutch decided to call it an evening for both of them.  Making an excuse about the early flight, he got Starsky up the steps and into the bedroom.   His friend collapsed with little preamble, sprawling onto the bed in a boneless heap of fever damp arms and legs.  Feeling more and more like a heel for dragging him from home, Hutch silently berated himself as he worked at getting Starsky’s shoes unlaced. “You’ll feel better tomorrow, buddy.  You just need a good night’s sleep.”

 

Yet even as he said the words, Hutch wasn’t so sure.  Starsky started to shiver, drawing his legs up to curl in on himself.  Hutch plopped his sneakers on the floor then tugged on his arm, trying to get him to sit up.  “Come on - - you need to get under the blankets, dummy. And how about getting out of those clothes?”

 

“I’m freezing!” Starsky complained. 

 

“I know you are, but you’ll feel a lot better under the blankets with your body heat to keep you warm.  If you want, I’m sure I can find a hot water bottle around somewhere.”

 

Standing, Starsky sneezed.  “I just wanna go to sleep,” he whined.  “And if I ever find the bastard responsible for givin’ me this shitty cold, I’m gonna show him exactly what he can do with it.”

 

“Here - -”  Hutch snatched a wad of Kleenex off the nightstand, shoving them into his hand.  He’d deposited the box earlier that afternoon, thinking the tissue would be softer on his friend’s cold-reddened nose rather than the scratchy linen of his handkerchief. He waited while Starsky blew and snuffled, then helped him from his sweater and jeans, flinging the clothes over a nearby chair. 

 

Naked, but for his briefs, Starsky scrambled under the blankets, wrenching them close to his chin.  Flopping onto his side, he huddled into a pathetic ball.

 

Hutch bit his lip, a frown emphasizing the crease in his forehead.  “I’m gonna get your pills, buddy.  It’s time for your nightly dosage.”

 

Starsky grunted what he thought of the idea, none of it flattering.  Hutch shut out the protest, rummaging through Starsky’s luggage until he found the three vials he was looking for.  He made a short trip to the bathroom for a glass of water, then returned with the prescription caplets in his hand.

 

“Starsk - -”  Setting the glass on the nightstand, he tugged impatiently on Starsky’s shoulder, urging him around.  “Come on, you know you gotta take these.  I even added the extra one my dad said would help with your fever.”

 

“Gee, another friggin’ pill,” Starsky mocked, but obediently struggled up on his elbows.  “I feel so special.”

 

Hutch silenced a retort, dumping the pills into Starsky’s palm with a tight-lipped expression.  His agitation eased when his friend swallowed them all then sank against the pillows with a sigh.  He really did look dreadful, his face drawn and white, stained with perspiration across his cheeks.  His nose was red and chapped, a harsh contrast against the doughy pallor of his skin. The pink tinge of fever ringed his eyes, burning bright and gem-blue in his gaze.  Shivering, he hunched beneath the blankets, the wad of Kleenex balled tightly in his fist. “See ya in the mornin’,” he groused.

 

Unwilling to leave so soon, Hutch sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the headboard.  “I’m just gonna hang out for awhile,” he said quietly.  His presence was all it took for Starsky to scrunch closer, the heat of his body a barrier to ward off chills. 

 

Over the past six months, he’d done a lot of sitting with Starsky, not all of it welcome.  For the most part, any lingering shyness between them had been permanently eradicated.  Not that they’d been shy before, but in the past Hutch had usually offered and given comfort based on Starsky’s receptiveness.  All of that had changed after Gunther.  In the wake of that gruesome hail of gunfire, he’d made of habit of being there whether Starsky needed him or not.  In the beginning, his partner had sometimes been resistant to those overtures, wanting his need for Hutch to be on his terms.  Eventually, however, he just accepted it, curling against Hutch as he did now.

 

Relaxing, the blond cop settled against the headboard, draping his arm over his friend’s shoulders.  “I’m sorry I dragged you with me,” he observed quietly.  “You should be at home where you can rest better.”

 

“Don’t pull that apology crap on me,” Starsky mumbled.  He nestled a little closer, positioning his pillow more comfortably in Hutch’s lap. “I’d be just as miserable at home as I am here.  And at least here, I got my own personal doctor - - even if he did act like a jerk tonight.”

 

Pensive, Hutch absently threaded his hand into Starsky’s hair.  He did it without thought, reconnecting to his friend after all their snappish bickering of late.  The warm contact made him abruptly drowsy, his partner’s body heat adding to his sudden lethargy.  It often amazed him how content he could become with Starsky resting beside him.  Their early flight, combined with the painful bouts of coughing that had been troubling him off and on all day, left him with little energy.  Yawning, he rolled his head to the side, content to settle against the backboard.

 

“Hey, Blondie - -”  Starsky stirred, looking up slightly.  “Don’t go all airy on me.  I said your dad acted like a jerk tonight.”

 

Hutch didn’t bother opening his eyes.  “I heard you.  I’m just too tired to think about it right now.  Go to sleep, huh?”

 

“Maybe you should crawl into your own bed,” Starsky ventured.

 

“In a while,” Hutch murmured, feeling his eyes grow heavier still.  He heard Starsky expel a sigh, then hunker down more snugly.  The weight of his body pressed to Hutch’s burned with the excessive heat of fever but was exceedingly comforting all the same.  When he thought about it, Hutch realized they would probably get more sleep together than apart.

 

Maybe tomorrow, if Starsky improved, he’d actually be able to concentrate on why he’d come to Duluth in the first place.  Maybe tomorrow, he’d work up the nerve to confront his father about his odd behavior.

 

+++++

 

Starsky woke to the sound of someone getting sick. 

 

The noise intruded on his sleep-fogged brain much like the insubstantial tendrils of a dream.  Chilled, he curled tighter, vaguely aware Hutch had left for his own bed, taking all the heat with him. Uncertain if he was truly awake or just hovering beneath the fringe of consciousness, Starsky tried to force his eyes open.  His mind and body remained resistant, drugged with the clinging residue of deep REM sleep. 

 

He’d been dreaming - - disjointed images of hospitals, planes, and senseless newspaper headlines still spinning through his mind like the brightly painted horses of a merry-go-round. He heard the sound again  - - a painful choking noise coming from the vicinity of the bathroom. Somewhere in the hazy recesses of his mind he knew he should be concerned but couldn’t quite claw himself up from the limbo of slumber.  He worried over the noise, then felt it gradually drift away as if it had been caught in an imaginary tide.

 

The next thing he knew, he woke to a room bathed in the butter-warmed light of early morning.  Sunlight splashed through a trio of tall windows on his left, slanting directly across the foot of the bed.  Blinking, he rubbed his face, grimacing at the distasteful collection of gunk in his throat.  He tried to inhale naturally but immediately abandoned the idea, breathing through his mouth instead.  His nose was clogged shut, his head stuffed tight with congestion.  Thankfully, his chills and fever seemed to have passed with the night.

 

Rolling onto his side, he strained to see the alarm clock on the nightstand:  9:12 a.m.  Uncertain if he wanted to fall back asleep or drag himself downstairs to face the day, he lay for a minute contemplating his options.  He hated the idea of crawling from bed, but knew once he got up and showered he’d probably feel better.  Odds were Hutch was already downstairs, likely having woken up hours ago.  Knowing his early-rising partner, he’d probably already gone for a jog or horseback ride shortly after the crack of dawn. 

 

You’re one sick puppy, partner, you know that?

 

Starsky frowned, disturbed by something in the thought he couldn’t place his finger on.  True, he thought Hutch’s penchant for getting up early every morning just to torture himself with a two-mile run was shamefully unnatural  - - but that’s not what bothered him. 

 

Restless, he shoved the blankets away and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.  The plush-pile carpet felt cushiony and soft against his bare feet.

 

Sick.  Someone was sick last night.  In the bathroom, while I was sleepin’.

 

The memory returned, vague and fractured as any dream.  His gut tightened, soured by worry despite the bright sunlight cheerfully bathing the room.  Had he dreamed the whole thing or had Hutch really been ill last night?  Disturbed, he stood and padded barefoot to the bathroom, troubled that he might have been so oblivious to his partner’s distress.

 

“Hey, pal, you in there?”  Starsky rapped a knuckle against the door separating his bedroom from the jack-and-jill bath.  When he received no answer, he stepped inside, finding the room empty.  Hutch had clearly already showered, judging by two damp towels carelessly looped over the nearest rod and a bottle of VO5 left abandoned on the edge of the tub.  He’s probably already downstairs havin’ breakfast.

 

Just to be certain, Starsky stuck his head into Hutch’s room.  As expected, the area was a mess - - bed rumpled, clothing strewn carelessly over a nearby chair, a brown belt his friend had likely considered, then discarded, snaked over the foot of the mattress.  Looking at the sloppy disarray, Starsky grinned broadly.

 

Janet Morrisey definitely had her work cut out for her if she ever hoped to domesticate Hutch.  Always immaculate about his physical appearance, the blond-haired cop was a class-A disaster as a housekeeper. Fortunately there was FiFi to ensure Venice Place stayed organized and tidy - - though Starsky guessed she’d likely get the boot if Hutch and Janet ever set up house together.  It was one matter to have a cleaning lady, another to have one who followed her employer around with wistful doe-eyed glances and dreamy sighs. No doubt Janet would put an end to that immediately.

 

Withdrawing into the bathroom, Starsky headed for the sink in the hopes of washing the grit from his eyes.  His reflection in the mirror still startled him at times, the scars on his chest an ugly reminder of that fateful day in the police garage.  He knew he should be used to the sight by now but wasn’t certain he’d ever truly adjust. 

 

When he finished at the sink, he headed for the shower, stripping off his briefs and cranking the faucet to hot.  The warm deluge of water helped clear his head, the steam doing wonders to loosen the congestion in his chest far better than any medication could.

 

He was actually feeling halfway decent by the time he dressed.  Because it was part of his morning ritual, he paused to fish out his pills and swallow the necessary dosage.  With any luck, he wouldn’t need a pain pill today, or at least if he did, it wouldn’t be until later.  Eventually, he wandered downstairs, locating Hutch and Adele in the kitchen.

 

Seated at an oval-shaped table in a windowed alcove, both were talking quietly over cups of coffee.  Hutch sat close to his mother, one hand covering hers as he spoke earnestly.  Behind them, a bump-out windowed bay overlooked the swimming pool and cabana-style bar.  Closed for the season, dried leaves had collected on the pool cover, scrunched together in a few dense pockets of muddy brown and dull gold.  The bar was no more than a shell, stools and bamboo-topped tables placed in storage until the warmer weather of late spring.

 

Hesitating in the doorway, Starsky’s eyes returned to mother and son.  Adele looked tired, but she managed to nod now and again at Hutch’s softly spoken assurances.  The blond cop appeared wearier still, gaunt and hollow, his Nordic-pale complexion fairer than usual.

 

“Mornin’,” Starsky greeted casually.  He entered through the main doorway, pausing at an L-shaped counter to pour a cup of coffee.  Oversized, with three separate entrances, the kitchen included granite counters, Italian halogen lighting, rich cherry cabinetry, two center islands and a butter-crème ceramic tile floor.

 

Starsky half expected to see a culinary chef at the six-burner cooktop, whipping up a gourmet omelet or batch of eggs Benedict complete with a thick Hollandaise sauce.  Instead, Adele had set out a collection of mugs and spoons along with cream, sugar, milk and orange juice.  An assortment of fresh bagels, danish, muffins, cookies and donuts decorated two large platters - - enough to feed at least a dozen people.  Starsky helped himself to a cheese danish and a jelly-filled donut, piling both onto a small plate before sauntering to the table. “How’s it goin’?”  You look like shit, partner.

 

Hutch kept his hand over his mother’s where it rested on the table. “You don’t sound as congested,” he observed with some relief.  At his side, Adele offered a weak smile in greeting.

 

Starsky bit into the donut, annoyed that he couldn’t really taste it.  There was nothing better than a fresh-baked pastry, especially when the texture was so light and airy as to practically melt in his mouth.  Swallowing a cooling lump of grape jelly, he took a swig of his coffee then focused on Hutch. “The shower helped.  And I think my fever’s gone.”

 

“I’m so glad, David,” Adele said sincerely. “I do want your time here to be enjoyable, even if --”  She stopped abruptly, pressing a knuckle against her lips, choking down a little cry.  Her eyes filled with tears as her composure wavered.  Flustered, she shook her head.  “I’m sorry - - I don’t mean to be such a gloomy hostess.”

 

“Mom, please . . .” Hooking an arm around her shoulders, Hutch hugged her close.  “You’ve got to stop this.”  Speaking softly, he kissed her temple.  “Whatever’s going on with Dad, he’s not having an affair - - I’m sure of it.”

 

“Yeah,” Starsky seconded, quickly abandoning the donut.  He’d never seen Hutch’s normally poised mother so distressed.  She looked so tiny and lost in her tall son’s arms, almost like a small child - - raven-dark to Hutch’s sun-touched fairness. 

 

“Grant’s gonzo over you, Adele,” Starsky insisted. “He might be a jerk sometimes, but I’d lay money he’s 100% devoted to you.”

 

“That’s sweet, David.”  Adele sniffled, unraveling a rumpled tissue in her hands.  Apparently, she’d been teary-eyed for some time, Hutch patiently trying to talk her through her fears.  “I’m afraid I’m just not very good company right now.  It seems all I can do lately is cry.”  She looked at Hutch imploringly.  “You must think I’m dreadful . . . dragging you all the way out here, then doing nothing but weeping like some helpless  . . . schoolgirl.  I haven’t lost my backbone, Kenny.  I’m just - -”

 

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Mom,” Hutch interrupted.  “When I see Dad for lunch, I’ll try to get to the bottom of this.”

 

“I hope you have better luck than I’ve had.”  Pushing back her chair, she stood with a shaky smile.  “Please excuse me, both of you.  I think I just need to be alone for awhile.”

 

Starsky watched her leave, feeling as helpless as he had about Joey Eichelman.  “This sucks.  Where’s your dad anyway?”

 

“At the hospital.”  Exhaling loudly, Hutch slumped back in his chair.  He really did look terrible, an unhealthy smudge of shadow dulling the crystalline spark of his sky-colored eyes.  “He’s got several surgeries this morning then some meetings at his office in the afternoon.  He left a note that he wants to meet me for lunch.”

 

“Gee - - magnanimous of him,” Starsky returned tartly. “Hopefully he’ll treat you better than he’s been treatin’ the woman who loves him.”

 

Hutch scowled, staring at his coffee cup.  Absently, he rotated it between his hands, the downward sweep of his gold-tipped lashes accentuating the circles under his eyes.  “They got into another argument this morning.  Apparently my mom didn’t like the way he behaved last night at dinner and called him on it.  He got upset and stormed out of the house.  I just don’t get it, Starsk.”  Tugging his bottom lip between his teeth, he shook his head.  “Even if I forget everything my mom told me about him having an affair, something still doesn’t add up.  Like last night and those things he said.  It was almost like . . .”  He shrugged, clearly forcing the next words.  “ . . . like he was upset with me for doing my job.  For going after Delgado.”

 

Starsky nodded, understanding where his friend was headed.  “You kind of thought those days were all behind you, huh?  Your dad havin’ a problem with you being a cop, I mean.”

 

Hutch’s eyes flashed to his face, his expression plainly worried. 

 

T’rrific!  Starsky berated himself.  Hadda go and open my mouth!  It’s bad enough Adele’s worryin’ about the old buzzard’s attitude, but now his kid is gonna get all insecure on me after that genius remark.  

 

“Hutch, your dad’s past all that stuff,” he said firmly, clumsily trying to repair the damage. “Go to lunch with him and work it out.  I’ll hang around here and be moral support for your mom.  Hopefully, by the time evening rolls around, we can have them toastin’ another blissful year of marriage.”

 

Hutch managed a wan smile.  “Sure,” he agreed, but his tone was far from convinced.  The worry remained in his gaze, underscored by a deeper hint of melancholy.

 

Mentally, Starsky sighed.  He’d learned long ago life with his overly sensitive partner and Hutch’s status-minded parents was almost always complicated. 

 

You’re just damn lucky I consider you worth the effort, Blondie.

 

+++++  

 

Hutch met his father at precisely 12:30.  He’d learned long ago that Grant was always punctual and expected others to be just as meticulous with their timing. That trait hadn’t changed, despite any softening of character he might have experienced over the last two years.

 

Hutch found him already seated at a corner table when he strolled into the Fox Den Café.  Unlike many of the well-known chain restaurants in the area, the Fox Den was quiet and small with an English Estate atmosphere well suited to the medical professionals and business executives who frequented it.  Just a few blocks from the hospital, tucked into a one-way side street, it was relatively easy to miss.

 

Unassuming from the outside, it was richly decorated within, relying heavily on dark wood and brass to accentuate tavern colors of hunter green, burgundy and gold.  Prints of foxhunts and steeplechases adorned the walls, along with several multi-paned brass lanterns.  Despite a love of white linens and elegant formal dining, Grant had always enjoyed a quieter, tavern-like atmosphere. Even as a child, Hutch could remember his father frequenting upscale pubs - - meeting colleagues over a cigar or taking Adele for a drink and dinner.

 

Not quite as provincial as Huggy’s bar, Hutch was nevertheless thankful his father had chosen to meet at the Fox Den as opposed to his country club.  Feeling considerably worse than he had yesterday, Hutch knew he wasn’t up to navigating the social nuances of a members-only dining establishment.

 

He’d avoided breakfast that morning, having only coffee after spending most of the night in the bathroom.  He’d slept comfortably with Starsky for almost two hours before being awakened with an upset stomach.  He remembered stirring listlessly, half asleep, moaning at the cramping annoyance.  Within minutes, the queasiness had morphed into a crippling wave of nausea.  He’d barely made it to the bathroom in time, dropping to his knees, retching repeatedly into the toilet.

 

By the time the spell passed, he’d been drenched in sweat, his legs having all the stability of water.  A coughing spell had followed, bloodier than usual, chased by a debilitating onslaught of chills. He’d spent the rest of the night going back and forth between his bed and the bathroom, nauseous one moment, chilled the next.  In all likelihood, he’d just become another victim of the flu/garden-variety-head-cold/bronchial infection circulating Metro.  But the blood bothered him.  Coupled with a frighteningly sharp streaking pain in his chest, he couldn’t help but connect it to the plague.

 

Eventually, he’d showered and dressed, going downstairs about an hour after dawn.  Knowing he wasn’t in any shape for jogging (or even horseback riding), he’d taken one of the nearby hiking trails to White Timber Creek.  By the time he’d returned to the house, his father had already left for the hospital. He’d found a handwritten invitation on the kitchen counter for lunch at the Fox Den. His mother materialized shortly afterward, admitting she and Grant had had another fight.  

 

Hutch knew his father could be difficult.  He’d experienced that unflagging rigidity for most of his adult life.  But even at his worst, Grant had always been attentive to Adele.  Their contention simply made no sense.

 

“Hi, Dad.”  Sliding into a seat across from the older man, Hutch was pleased to see his father smile in return.

 

“Right on time,” Grant said. His eyes crinkled at the corners, the same pale blue as Hutch’s, shockingly more intense against his jet-black hair.  Gray was starting to come in heavily at his temples, but rather than age him, it just made him look that more distinguished.  He seemed tired, noticeably haggard, but didn’t give himself a passing thought once he got a good look at Hutch. 

 

“You’re sick - -”  Grant’s gaze immediately turned flinty and flat. “ - - aren’t you?”

 

Nonchalant, Hutch picked up a menu and flipped it open.  “Your greeting needs a little work, Dad.”

 

Grant was unimpressed.  “Kenneth - -”

 

“All right,” Hutch relented with a sigh.  “I think I’ve got whatever Starsky has.  Half of Metro’s been out with something or other.  I guess it’s just my turn.”

 

Uncertain, Grant narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing him more closely.  “Maybe you should let me examine you.”

 

A twinge of alarm lumbered awake in the back of Hutch’s mind.  As frightened as he was by coughing up blood, he was more terrified to have his father confirm it was a resurgence of the plague. As long as Grant didn’t touch him, didn’t examine him, he could keep stalling that nightmarish reality.  True, he was feeling worse than he had yesterday, but that was to be expected with any cold.  Over forty-eight hours had passed since he’d first started coughing up blood.  If he really had the plague again, wouldn’t his body be failing by now? 

 

He cleared his throat.  “I’m a big boy, Dad.  They even let me carry a badge and a gun.” 

 

“Don’t be smart, Ken.  You might be an officer of the law, but I’m still your father.”  Grant paused a beat, hedging as if he wanted to say something more.  Before he could broach it, their waiter arrived and asked for their lunch order.

 

Hungry, but uncertain of his stomach, Hutch requested a cup of mushroom soup and a roasted turkey sandwich on a cracked wheat roll.  His father went for a grilled fillet of Atlantic salmon with a sake lime vinaigrette.  Grant ordered iced tea but Hutch stuck with lemon water.

 

For a time they talked casually, the older man sharing a few of his more complicated cases at the hospital. The meal came and their idle conversation continued, pleasant, but with a strange undertone Hutch couldn’t quite place.  It was almost like his father was biding time, waiting to strike at the heart of something specific.

 

For his part, Hutch found himself uncertain how to broach Grant’s odd behavior without involving his mother. Finally he just came to the point.  “Mom said the two of you had a fight this morning . . . about last night and what happened at dinner.”

 

In the process of using his fork to flake off a piece of salmon, Grant froze.  His mouth thinned in irritation, something stony and closed robbing the camaraderie from his gaze.  “Your mother forgets I have an opinion too - - and a reputation to uphold.”  Briskly, he broke off a piece of grilled fish.  “I can’t help feeling you handled the Delgado situation rather shamefully, Ken.  Clearly, your Commissioner wouldn’t have suspended you without legitimate reason.  Perhaps you should just back off and forget this case altogether.”

 

Hutch tensed.  The same feeling that had come over him last night returned - - a sickening sense of déjà vu.  It had been a good two years since his father had made any kind of derogatory comment about his career, and while Grant wasn’t exactly berating him for being a cop, he was berating him for his conduct as a cop.  I have a reputation to uphold, his father had said.  Could he really be reverting to the same pretentiousness that had factored so unfavorably into his behavior in the past? 

 

Annoyed, Hutch shook his head. “What is this obsession with Delgado?” he asked.

 

“It’s not an obsession,” Grant countered.  “I just think you should leave the man alone.  He’s obviously highly respected in your community.  If you continue to harass him, you’re going to end up damaging your career.”

 

“And that bothers you?”  Hutch challenged.

 

“Why wouldn’t it?”

 

“I don’t know.  Except you seem a little irked about me doing my job.  It’s like Starsky said last night, Dad - - I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to perform complex surgery  . . . don’t tell me how to be a cop.  In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a veteran police sergeant.  I think I know my job a little better than you do.”  Growing defensive, he reached for his water.  “I don’t want to talk about Delgado again.”

 

“I see.  But you don’t mind pointing fingers because I made a few remarks last night that bruised your ego?”

 

Shocked into disbelief, Hutch plunked his glass down on the table.  “Dad, are you deliberately trying to get me pissed?  I mean, what the hell is this - - ?”  He spread both hands at a dreadful loss.  Everything felt wrong, out of place, dramatically augmented by his father’s tone and the unforgiving light in his eyes.  This was not the man he’d come to confide in and trust, the man who’d helped him remain strong for Starsky when James Gunther had turned his world on end.  He wanted that man back . . . not this look-alike doppelganger that only masqueraded as Grant.

 

His father set his fork down with the finality of someone who has grown tired of playing games.  “I don’t want to belabor this - - especially given your language has already taken a dive toward the streets, but you aren’t the only one affected by your decisions, Kenneth.  It’s one matter to say you’re going to do exactly as you choose, but when those choices reflect badly on me or your mother, that’s selfishness plain and simple.  I can’t change what you’ve elected to do with your life, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable to request that you conduct yourself in a respectful manner - - one that doesn’t bring shame to the Hutchinson name.”

 

“What?” Blindsided, Hutch stared.  He felt like someone had played a cruel joke on him, upending the world into the sky until no semblance of sanity remained.  His heart went into overdrive, pumping furiously, igniting the pulse in his throat with a triple-timed beat.  Dizzy, he tried to wrap his mind around the incomprehensible things his father was saying - - ugly, hurtful words that cut into his soul.  “So you’re telling me you’re ashamed of me - - of the way I’ve behaved?” he asked, barely able to force the bitter words past his lips.

 

Grant showed no leniency, no emotion.  “I’m telling you I want you to leave Delgado alone.”

 

“Fuck Delgado!”  Hutch snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.

 

That at least brought a reaction.  A hot flush of color washed over Grant’s face.  Seething, he cast a quick glance to the side, making sure no one had overheard.  “Keep your voice down, Kenneth.”

 

“Oh - - I’m sorry.”  Hutch feigned surprise with a bitter edge.  “Am I embarrassing you?”

 

Grant bowed his head, pressing his hand to his temple.  He muttered something Hutch didn’t catch but it sounded suspiciously like “not how I wanted it . . .”

 

Too angry to cool down, Hutch stood and fished in his wallet until he came up with a handful of bills.  “For lunch,” he said, tossing the money on the table.  “I’ll try to stay out of your way for the rest of the week, Dad.  After all - - I wouldn’t want to do anything else that might embarrass you or shame the Hutchinson family name.  Thanks for nothing.”  Furious, he strode from the café, fully aware his father made no effort to stop him.

 

It was just as well.

 

They were quickly becoming strangers again.

 

+++++

 

By the time Hutch returned to the house, Adele had already left, previously committed to a social engagement with some friends.  He was just as glad, his emotions bordering on volatile after the disastrous lunch with his father.  He found Starsky in the solarium, reclining on a plump chaise lounge.  Drenched in sunlight, the glass-enclosed room was bright and warm, composed of a terra-cotta tile floor and white wicker furniture adorned with cushions in showy tropical hues of mango, coral and plum.  Potted plants and hanging baskets added splashes of greenery while a few oddly ornamental pieces like a pedestal sundial and a corner fountain composed of leaping frogs created eclectic interest.

 

Starsky had propped himself up with a glass of juice, a box of Kleenex and several assorted magazines.  He looked content, idly flipping through the pages of National Geographic when Hutch stormed into the room.  Before his friend could so much as sputter a word in greeting, the blond-haired man immediately launched into a heated tirade about everything that had gone wrong at the Fox Den. He used words and phrases like “disastrous,” “narrow-minded” and “taken leave of his senses,” before realizing he came close to abandoning his own.

 

Heaving an agitated sigh, he rifled a hand through his hair.  “Nothing makes sense.  Why the hell would he keep bringing up Delgado?”

 

Starsky had sat forward on the chaise, swinging his legs over the side so his feet were firmly planted on the floor.  With his elbows resting on his knees, he laced his fingers together and turned his hands palms up, indicating his openness to suggestion.  “Think it’s got anything to do with this presumed ‘affair’ he’s supposed to be havin’?”

 

Hutch had been thinking much the same thing.  “I should have just confronted him about it and asked him straight out,” he complained.  Frustrated, he began to pace.  “If he wants to play games and take on fake identities . . .”  He trailed off, thinking again of the name his father had supposedly registered under while visiting an obscure hotel in Sevensport- - Ethan Cross.  Once again it stirred awake a vague memory, an annoyingly nebulous thread he couldn’t pin down.  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he stopped abruptly and scowled.  

 

“Starsky . . . what if he’s really had a change of heart?”  The revolting idea sent a cramp of cold rocketing through his gut.  “He’s spent the last two years embracing the fact I’m a cop.  What if this thing with Delgado has made him look at everything differently? What if he’s changed his mind about what I do for a living?”  

 

“Don’t be stupid.”  Starsky looked annoyed.  More than annoyed, he looked like he wanted to slap some sense into a particular idiot blond partner.  “That’s like sayin’ your dad’s havin’ an affair - - both are circumstances that just ain’t gonna happen in his lifetime.”  Turning to snatch a Kleenex from the box, he blew his nose, snuffling loudly to ease his congestion.  Balling the used tissue into his fist, he lifted scratchy, cold-reddened eyes to Hutch. “Know what I think?  I think maybe your dad’s in trouble and he don’t wanna own up to it.  I’m no psychiatrist, but he’s actin’ awful strange - - sorta like Joey did before he ‘fessed up to borrowing money from Delgado.”

 

The last thing Hutch wanted to hear about was Joey Eichelman - - Starsky’s sainted friend.  He knew his hostility was uncalled for, but couldn’t stop the thin thread of jealousy that stubbornly reared its head any time the name was mentioned.  Facing numerous problems of his own, he needed to have his partner in his corner - - not worrying about a childhood friend who’d been stupid enough to get involved with a loan shark.  Still - - there was a measure of truth in what Starsky said.  Maybe Grant really had gotten involved in something unscrupulous and was now in over his head.  It happened to the best of people.  Hadn’t his old partner, Luke Huntley, taken a waltz on the wrong side of the law when his wife’s gambling depths spiraled out of control?   Was it so inconceivable his father couldn’t do something equally as foolish?

 

Pressing his lips together, he came to a decision.  “If he’s involved in something he shouldn’t be, we might find evidence of it in his den.”  Not waiting to see if his partner followed, Hutch stalked from the solarium, heading down the back hallway, past the rear staircase to his father’s office.  Even as a child, it had always been Grant’s private sanctuary.   Though they’d lived in a different house along the coast of Lake Superior at the time  - - the purchase of White Rock Manor coming after Hutch had married and moved away - - his father had always had a private den.  He wouldn’t have thought of entering it uninvited, much less snooping through the older man’s personal documents.

 

“Hey - - what d’ya think you’re doin’?”  Starsky caught up to him just as he stepped into the neatly kept room. 

 

It reminded Hutch of something out of a dean’s office with its stately rows of floor-to-ceiling bookcases, large mahogany desk and nut-brown leather furniture trimmed with brass fittings.  “Looking for clues,” he returned, going immediately to his father’s desk and tugging open the top drawer.  “Help me search.”

 

“Uh . . .”  Starsky cast a nervous glance over his shoulder in the direction of the door.  “You sure this is a good idea?”

 

Hutch didn’t bother raising his head.  “It’s the only idea I’ve got, partner.”  He coughed lightly, a barely there mist of blood coating his throat and the back of his mouth.  Damn it, not now!  “My father will be at his office most of the afternoon.  If we’re going to find out what’s going on, this is our best shot.”

 

“All right,” Starsky agreed moving to a three-drawer wooden file cabinet just inside the door.  He tried the top drawer and found it locked, the bottom two similarly secure.

 

“Surprise, surprise,” Hutch heard him say.  Intent on what he was doing, he was vaguely aware of Starsky crossing to the rows of bookcases behind him.  Grant’s desk was a collection of the usual paper, pens, pencils, paperclips and assorted accessories one would expect to find.  Hutch located an address book and a page-a-day desk calendar but didn’t uncover anything of note - - even when he backtracked to the day Grant had supposedly visited Sevensport. 

 

Sitting behind the desk, he pulled open drawer after drawer, carefully rummaging through the contents and coming up empty.  Finally, he stumbled over an old medical journal, tucked beneath a stack of blank loose-leaf.  While not of note itself, someone had pressed a folded slip of paper between the pages.

 

“Starsk, look at this - - ”  Hutch beckoned, carefully unfolding the lightweight piece of bond.  A small black and white photo tumbled from the center crease.  The paper itself bore only two sparse lines of handwritten script.  Frowning, Hutch tilted the page so Starsky could see as he read the words aloud:  Benjamin died three months ago.  I know the truth. 

 

Puzzled, he ran his fingers over the paper as if touching the bizarre declaration would somehow make its meaning apparent. The note was signed by someone who referred to himself only as “Sara Spencer’s Son.”

 

“Well, that definitely clears things up for me,” Starsky grumbled.

 

Only half listening, Hutch eyed the picture in his hand.  It depicted a young woman in her early twenties.  Judging by the nipped-in style of her dress and the upsweep of her blond hair, the photo had been taken sometime in the 1940s.  Turning it over, Hutch found his suspicions confirmed when he spied a caption written in the same looping script:  Sara Spencer, 1944. 

 

“Turn it over again,” Starsky said.  Standing directly behind Hutch, he leaned forward, bracing his arms on the top of Hutch’s chair.  “Look there - -”  He pointed a finger.  “That building behind her - - I think it’s a tavern or some kind of restaurant.  Look at the name.”

 

Hutch’s eyes went to the building tucked in the background.  He’d been so focused on the fetching woman in the photograph, he hadn’t noticed anything else.  But now that Starsky pointed it out, he saw that the small building was indeed a tavern.  More shocking still was the name carved into an elaborate wooden sign hanging above the door:  The Ethan Cross.

 

“It’s a tavern,” he said stupefied.  It came back to him in a flash - - a name he barely remembered from childhood.  He’d heard his father mention it once or twice - - a favorite hangout when Grant had been in college.  Small and quaint, the tavern had been within walking distance of Grant’s fraternity house. Even then, with a group of raucous college buddies gathered for beer, he’d preferred a pub-like atmosphere for socializing. “I remember my dad talking about this place,” Hutch explained to Starsky.  “That’s why the name Ethan Cross sounded familiar to me.  He used to hang out there with his college buddies.”

 

“So who’s Sara?” Starsky asked, still intent on the photo. “An old girlfriend?”

 

“What the hell is going on in here?”

 

Startled by the whipcord crack of his father’s voice, Hutch jerked, snapping his head up.  Grant stood framed in the doorway, his face white and bloodless, his eyes black with cold fury. 

 

Hutch swallowed, uncertain how to explain himself.  He knew he’d crossed the line by rummaging through his father’s personal possessions.  Caught red-handed at Grant’s desk, the journal lying forgotten in his lap, he’d committed the ultimate sin.  Knowing it was useless to try to explain himself, he lifted the paper and picture, scissored together between two fingers.  “Who’s Sara Spencer?”

 

Grant was livid.  “Damn it, Ken, you had no right!”  Striding across the room, he violently ripped both from Hutch’s hand, his expression murderous.  “How dare you!  I came home to apologize  . . . to make sure I didn’t upset you, and this is how I’m rewarded - - betrayed by my own son?” He shook the photo in his fist, speaking through tightly clenched teeth. “This is unforgivable, Kenneth!  Do you hear me? Unquestionably and without issue, your behavior is inexcusable.”

 

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”  Starsky countered.  “All he did was look through a couple of desk drawers.  Ain’t like he did an F.B.I. search on you or anything.  For a man who’s got nothing to hide, you’re gettin’ awfully bent out of shape.”

 

“You stay out of this,” Grant warned, bluntly pointing a finger at him. “This doesn’t concern you.  It doesn’t concern either of you.”  Seething, he looked back to Hutch, his gaze cutting and diamond-hard. “There is nothing more reprehensible than a breach of privacy by someone you trust.  I can’t believe you would stoop this low.”

 

Uncertain if he wanted to defend himself or beg forgiveness, Hutch ducked his head.  He’d already committed the supreme sin and knew he couldn’t sink much lower in his father’s eyes.  Miserable, he decided to go for broke.  “I know about Sevensport, Dad.  I know you registered under the name of Ethan Cross - - probably to meet someone.”  Raising his eyes, he nodded to the picture in Grant’s hand.  “Is it that woman - - Sara Spencer?”

 

Hutch didn’t think his father could get any paler than he already was, but the older man blanched the cold white of cemetery marble. A flicker of pure panic crackled through his gaze.  “Stay out of this,” he warned.

 

“Why?” Angry now, Hutch lurched to his feet.  He was tired of dancing around the issue, tired of pretending there was nothing wrong.  “Something’s going on  - - something that has you acting crazy, saying and doing impossible things.  For crying out loud, Dad, I’m a cop!  If you’re in some kind of trouble, I can help.”

 

“Not with this.”  Grant looked away, his expression closed.  “Now get out.  Both of you.”

 

Hutch felt his irritation flare at the blunt finality of the words.  He exchanged a quick glance with Starsky, catching a “Your call, partner,” in his friend’s level gaze.  Determined, he strode around the desk and confronted his father face to face.  “I am not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on.  I deserve that much.”

 

“You don’t deserve anything!” Grant snarled, viciously going on the attack.  “When are you going to get it through your head I don’t want your help and I don’t need your help?  There is nothing to help with.  You’ve overstepped your authority and your bounds.  Go back to Bay City, Kenneth.  You’re not welcome here any longer.  I want you out of the house by morning.”

 

“Hey - - whoa!”  Starsky shoved forward, trying to step between them.  “Back off, Doc!”

 

But the damage had already been done.  Hutch stared blankly, shocked by the vehemence of his father’s outburst.  Before he could sputter a single syllable in reply, Grant whirled on his heel and stormed from the room.  Seconds later, Hutch heard the resounding bang of the front door followed by the start of an engine and the high-pitched squeal of tires screeching from the driveway.

 

Starsky touched his arm.  “He didn’t mean it, Hutch.”

 

Emotionally bruised, Hutch folded wearily into the desk chair.  “Sure he did.”  Bending his head, he massaged his temple, sudden pain reducing his eyes to mere slits. “That went well,” he muttered despondently.  It was like reaching the end of the line, setting off yet another fouled up mistake to match the one he’d left behind in Bay City.  Only this time he couldn’t blame it on a biased newspaper editor or a suspension-hungry Police Commissioner.  He would have willingly taken a suspension ten times over to earn back his father’s faith and confidence.  “Now what am I going to do?” he asked miserably.

 

“Simple.”  Starsky crouched in front of him, balancing on the balls of his feet.  “We’re gonna keep at this thing until it shakes loose.  I vote tomorrow we take a drive to Sevensport and visit that hotel your mom told you about.”

 

Hutch looked unsure.  “What about my dad?  He doesn’t want me here.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Starsky gave a dismissive snort.  “You’re his kid.  He’s not gonna kick you out on the street.  I say we just lay low for the rest of the day.  Tomorrow mornin’, we head out and do some investigatin’ of our own.  Sound like a plan, partner?”

 

Hutch felt a faint smile tug at his lips.  Starsky almost sounded like himself again, his cold slowly abating.  “Okay,” he agreed.  “It sounds like a plan.”

 

+++++

 

The problem with big houses was that they grew unnaturally quiet, almost tomb-silent when empty.  Starsky liked noise and activity - - lights, music, tv, chatter in general.  If he were at home, he would have switched on a game or popped a few albums onto the turntable, but he was at White Creek Manor - - a virtual estate, complete with endlessly silent rooms.

 

In an effort to get his moody friend’s mind off what had happened earlier that day, Starsky had sent Hutch and Adele into town for dinner.  There was simply too much tension in the house with all three Hutchinsons sulking around in various stages of depression, regret or anger.   Taking the blowup with his father exceptionally hard, Hutch had grown glum and uncommunicative, shutting himself away in his room.  It didn’t help that the flu - - or whatever ailment was steadily creeping over him - - appeared to have gotten worse.   He was coughing a lot and Starsky would have bet he’d started on a low-grade fever.  Thinking maybe Adele could get him to take some medication, Starsky suggested the two of them have a mother-son dinner in Duluth.  Although he was feeling marginally better, Starsky wasn’t up to tagging along.  And in truth, he had an ulterior motive in getting the two of them out of the house.

 

Shortly after they’d left, he wandered to Grant’s office and knocked on the door.  Well aware the physician was sequestered inside, he grew immediately short-tempered when the older man didn’t bother acknowledging him. Irked, he pounded harder then brusquely shoved the door open and stalked into the room without invitation.

 

Seated at his desk, calmly making notes on a legal-sized tablet, Grant didn’t bother raising his head.  “Returning to the scene of the crime, Officer?” he asked mildly.

 

Starsky felt the overwhelming urge to punch something.  Instead, he held his temper and flopped into the chair positioned in front of the older man’s desk.

 

Grant spared a single dismissive glance before going back to his notes.  “I didn’t invite you to sit.”

 

“Tough shit.  I didn’t ask for permission.”

 

“Respectful as always, I see,” Grant observed with tightly heaved sigh.  Dropping his pen onto the tablet, he folded his arms across his chest, giving Starsky his full attention.  “I have a lecture on advance surgery techniques in three days, David, and have yet to prepare for it.  If there’s a point to your visit, kindly make it fast.”

 

“You know,”  Starsky waggled a finger at him.  “That’s what I like about you, Doc.  You’re always so  . . . I dunno . . .”  He shrugged as if groping for the right description. “ . . . cool and precise, even when you wanna bite my head off.  You got this kinda  . . . aura.  Your kid’s got it too, but his is all about being oversensitive and feelin’ he’s to blame for everything.  He could win awards in that department - - a regular guilt magnet.  But then you already know that, don’t ‘cha?”

 

Grant stared balefully.  “Don’t lecture me about my son.”

 

“Why not?” Starsky arched his brows, abruptly confrontational.  “From where I’m sittin’, you could use a good lecture.  You acted like a shithead - - first at lunch from what he told me, then later when you caught him with that photo.  Why’d you have to be so damn hard on him?”

 

“He had no right doing what he did.”

 

“You think he wanted to go snoopin’ around in your stuff?”  Starsky challenged.  It was amazing what anger did for the congestion in his head, basically making him forget it even existed.  He could actually think clearly for a change, his mind uncluttered by stubborn aches and lingering stuffiness. “I got no idea what’s goin’ on with you, Doc, but I know it’s messin’ with my partner’s head.  Just be straight with him and cut him some slack. The way he’s been actin’ since this afternoon, you’d think he’d committed some kinda cardinal sin.  Hutch ain’t never gotten past tryin’ to please you.  He knows something is wrong.  Hell, I can tell something’s wrong with you.  Why do you gotta go and screw up the last two years?  All he wants to do is help you. Don’t you know how much you mean to that blond idiot?”

 

“Don’t!”  Grant held up a hand to stop him.  Just as quickly, he exhaled and pressed stiff fingers to his temple.  “You just have no idea what’s involved . . . what you’re asking me to divulge.  Ken has no idea . . .”

 

“Then tell him!” Starsky exploded.

 

For a second it almost looked like the older man wanted to share his misery, indecision abundantly clear in his wintry gaze.  Then his expression hardened, and he shook his head, briskly returning his attention to his notes.  “I’m sorry, David, I really am busy.”  Retrieving his pen, he scratched a few notations on the tablet, bringing the conversation to a close.  “If you’ll excuse me . . .” he mumbled, not bothering to look up.

 

Starsky ground his teeth together.  He decided that even hitting something wouldn’t make him feel any better - - unless, of course, that “something” was a raven-haired doctor with a doggedly superior attitude.

 

Before he could carry through on the impulse, Starsky stood and left the room.

 

+++++

 

It was bad enough they’d crawled out of bed at 6:00 a.m. and were on the road by 7:00.  Factor in a bleak cloud-laden sky and a chilling drizzle, and Starsky found his spirits sinking lower by the second.  Worried, he bounced his thumbs against the steering wheel and chanced a sidelong glance from the corner of his eye. 

 

He wouldn’t call it flu exactly, but something was definitely affecting Hutch.  His partner’s health had taken an abrupt nosedive over the last twenty-four hours, plainly obvious in the sticky sheen of perspiration clinging to his cheeks . . . the washed-out, anemic cast of his flesh.  Like a man who clings to a security blanket, he kept a handkerchief balled in his fist, coughing into it every few minutes. The harsh rattle of his lungs had Starsky imagining bronchitis or walking pneumonia. He tried to tell himself he was overreacting - - that the flu had steadily been making its way through the ranks of Metro right up to the point when they’d left.  In all likelihood, it was simply Hutch’s turn. 

 

Yet there was something disturbingly unnatural about his friend’s cough and the quiet way in which he withdrew into himself.  When Starsky  - - feeling better than he had in days - - suggested he be the one to drive to Sevensport, Hutch had surrendered the keys to the Lincoln without a single protest.  Now, sitting hunched against the passenger’s door, his hands tucked between his legs, he’d lapsed into moody silence.

 

Starsky knew he was still bothered by what he perceived as a rapidly deteriorating relationship with Grant.  Add the strain of his parents’ marriage, Grant’s odd behavior, and his own questionable health and Hutch was carrying far too many burdens for one person.    

 

“So . . .” Starsky dragged out the word just to hear the sound of his voice.  “How much further we got, d’ya think?”  He didn’t particularly care, he just wanted Hutch to say something - - anything.  Ever since the incident with Grant in his office, Hutch had been tight-lipped and moodily sullen.

 

“About thirty minutes yet,” the blond-haired man answered, not bothering to raise his head from where it rested against the window.  

 

Starsky frowned.  Chatty, ain’t ya, babe?

 

The drive to Sevensport took them on a winding stretch of road through rocky hillsides and dense thickets of trees.  Eerily deserted, it wound through increasingly craggy terrain, the surroundings void of anything hospitable.  Starsky couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a store, restaurant, gas station or even a house. Passing cars were a rare occurrence on the lonely stretch of road, making him long for the cluttered congestion of Bay City. “Sure would hate to break down around here,” he muttered.

 

That at least snared Hutch’s interest.  He folded his arms across his chest as if trying to trap his body heat. “Be glad it’s not snowing,” he tossed back.

 

Starsky chuckled.  “That’s what I like about you, Hutchinson - - always an optimist.”  Distracted by a flash of chrome in the rearview mirror, he grinned.  “Hey, look at that - - we ain’t alone out here after all.” The Lincoln banked through a curve, followed closely by a dark green El Camino.  “I was beginnin’ to think we were the only ones who even knew Sevensport existed.”

 

Hutch bent double, coughing into his hand, the ever-present handkerchief bunched against his lips.  Taking his eyes from the Chevy in the mirror, Starsky frowned.  “That cough’s soundin’ worse, buddy.  Maybe you should let your dad check you over.”

 

Hutch snorted.  “Fat chance of that.”  Shivering, he huddled against the door.

 

Pigheaded as always.

 

Starsky fiddled with the heater, cranking the temperature higher.  The drizzle continued, a faint mist that turned the roadway as slick as his rain-oiled windshield.  The wipers snicked back and forth, creating a rhythmic thwick-thwack above the hum of the heater.  Chilled, Hutch angled his body closer to the fan.  Watching, Starsky bit his tongue, aching to point out what a colossal idiot he was being.  Grant was a doctor and Hutch was sick.  The outcome should have been obvious.

 

At least to anyone with an ounce of sense in his thick blond head.

 

The acid thought had scarcely formed when the Chevy suddenly loomed closer behind them. Starsky barely registered the change before the front end of the El Camino rammed his bumper.  The car lurched beneath the impact, bucking him forward in the seat.

 

“What the - -?”  Hutch swiveled to look over his shoulder.

 

Starsky hit the brake then immediately changed tactics, jamming the gas pedal to the floor. The engine roared as the Lincoln shot forward on the slick road, banking through a tight S-turn.  In the rearview mirror, the grill of the Camino surged closer.  “Looks like we’ve got company,” he announced tightly. 

 

He didn’t stop to consider the fact they were hundreds of miles from home in an area where they shouldn’t have warranted unfavorable attention.  Instead he focused on the danger, fighting the steering wheel through hairpin turn after hairpin turn.  The big car didn’t handle like his Torino, responding sluggishly when he jerked hard on the wheel.  He couldn’t really make out the features of the men in the Camino, but knew there were two. 

 

The Chevy hit him again and the Lincoln veered off course, its right-side tires spewing loose gravel from the shoulder of the road.  Starsky felt the rear end fishtail dangerously behind him.  He caught an eyeful of a steep embankment, rocks and trees dipping into a ravine several hundred feet below.  With effort, he brought the car back under control.

 

“Who the hell are those jerks?” Hutch made an abortive grab for his gun, swearing softly when he came up empty.  They’d both left their sidearms behind this trip, deciding the firepower wouldn’t be needed.  Gripping the backrest, he turned sideways, drawing one knee onto the seat.  “On your left, buddy,” he warned.

 

Like the demon-possessed object from a cheap horror movie, the shiny grill of the Chevy materialized in Starsky’s side-view mirror.  He waited a beat, letting the oversized car draw abreast. Just as its nose inched past his door, he jerked the wheel to the left, battering the Lincoln into the other vehicle.  The steering column shuddered at the impact, but he held the wheel locked, propelling the Lincoln across lanes, forcing the Camino off the road.  At the last second the driver of the Chevy braked.  As soon as the Lincoln was past, the man accelerated again, ramming the luxury car from behind. 

 

Starsky spun the wheel, trying to keep to the road, but the rear end fishtailed behind him, careening out of control.  “Hold on!” he yelled to Hutch, feeling the tires skate on the rain-slicked asphalt.  He hit the brake hard, unable to stop the perilous momentum. The El Camino hit him again, and this time the car dipped over the edge, plummeting down the embankment.  Trapped, Starsky was thrown upward at the impact, his head painfully banging against the roof as he jammed down on the brake.  The nose of the Lincoln bounced then plowed into the earth, shoveling up gravel, stone and grass.  The front end buckled like a toy, caving mid hood.  Thrown against the steering column, Starsky felt an explosion of pain rip across his chest.  His head snapped back and for a moment he almost blacked out, thick globs of darkness dangling before his eyes. 

 

Stillness washed over him, broken by the harsh sound of his own breathing . . . the tinkling noise of settling gravel . . .the loud screech of tires as the El Camino bulleted off into the distance.

 

“Hey . . .”  Shaken, Starsky reached across the seat, clutching his friend on the shoulder.  Bowed over the dash, Hutch sat forward, his arms wedged into the space beneath the windshield.

 

“I’m okay,” he mumbled thickly.  Groaning, he leaned backward, a small splotch of blood visible just below his hairline.  A red trickle ran from the cut, curving along his jaw in a spidery trail. Gingerly, he fingered the wound, his eyes on Starsky.  “You?”

 

“Been better.” Starsky worked his jaw with one hand, trying to decide if it had been dislocated.  He gave Hutch a nod.  Of one accord they popped the doors and crawled from the damaged car.  Slanted forward, its nose buried in the ground, it took everything he had to force the door open. He practically fell from the driver’s side, pitching to his knees on the wet, rock-strewn soil.

 

“Come on - -”  Hutch clutched him by the jacket, forcibly propelling him uphill away from the Lincoln.  It was unlikely the gas tank was in danger of blowing, but neither man wanted to take chances.

 

Starsky scrabbled on the hillside.  The pitch of the climb kept him mostly bent over, his sneakers slipping on the rocky slope, hands fumbling for purchase among jutting clumps of wet grass.  Occasionally, Hutch would grip him beneath the arm or latch onto his jacket, holding him upright when he would have stumbled.  He could hear the ragged breathing of his fair-haired partner and knew it was a match for his own.

 

Eventually, they made it to the roadway, weak-kneed and gasping from the exertion.  Bending double, sucking down huge lungfuls of air, Starsky wheezed through his teeth.  “How the hell did we piss somebody off way out here?”

 

Hutch turned away.  He took three faltering steps then broke into a violent fit of coughing.  His legs buckled and he dropped to one knee, splaying a hand against the wet asphalt to keep from toppling completely.

 

“Hey!” Alarmed, Starsky sprinted to his side. “Take it easy.”  Even as he said the words, he felt his heart lurch in dread.  Hutch had his head bowed, a fist pressed to his mouth to mute the painful coughing.  Standing behind him, Starsky could plainly see the bright red stain on his fingers, the wet sheen of blood coating his lips.  “God, Hutch!  What the hell is going on?”

 

“N-Nothing.”  Hutch shook his head, denying the obvious.  “It’s nothing . . . just a cough.”  Frantically, he pawed in his pocket for his handkerchief, and dragged it across his mouth.  Rumpled and used, it was already soiled with dried blood, a sure sign that told Starsky his friend had known about the ailment for some time.       

 

“Cough, my ass!  You’re spittin’ up blood.”

 

“It’s over now.”  Trembling, Hutch tottered upright and staggered a step away.  Clumsily, he mopped the soiled handkerchief across his mouth, his face the sickly gray of bone.  The steady drizzle left him shivering, his long hair deepened to brass beneath the dampening mist.  By contrast his eyes burned too bright, spiked Starsky was sure, by ratcheting fever.  

 

Furious his friend would keep something so potentially lethal to himself, Starsky pushed in front of him.  He didn’t know if he was more frightened or angry, only that the toxic combination left him trembling with rage. “How long has this been going on?”

 

Evasive, Hutch avoided his eyes.  “It’s my problem.”

 

“Bullshit!  You were coughin’ up blood when you had the plague.  What the hell is wrong with you, Hutch?”

 

“I - -”

 

The sound of an approaching car ended the brewing argument, immediately snaring both men’s attention.  Fearing they were still targets, Starsky wasted no time in giving his friend a shove, propelling him from the road.  Weakened from the seizure, Hutch stumbled.  Starsky snared him beneath the arm, shocked by the punishing intensity of cold and pain-induced tremors racing through his body.  

 

Stupid blond.  He’s seriously fucked up.

 

“Starsk - -”  Panting heavily, Hutch hung his head.  The coughing spell had depleted him.  Coupled with the damp drizzle and chill air, it was plain he operated on fumes.

 

“Come on, buddy . . . hang onto me.”  Wrapping an arm around the taller man’s waist, Starsky hooked Hutch’s arm across his shoulders.  Grappling his friend by the wrist, he forced him into the trees on the opposite side of the road. The ground was rockier here, climbing upward in a steep incline.  He heard a car screech to a halt behind him and threw a panicked glance over his shoulder. The breath whistled through his teeth when he spied a familiar black BMW. “Hutch, it’s your dad.”

 

“Ken!  David!”  Grant’s voice bounced across the deserted road.  Hastily, he rushed to his son’s side, immediately snatching up Hutch’s free arm and draping it over his shoulders.  “We have to get off the road,” he said with a darting, furtive glance to the trees.  “ - - keep moving.  I know a place not far from here that should be safe.”

 

“Look, I don’t know what the hell is going on,” Starsky snapped, aware Grant was talking gibberish, “But Hutch needs a hospital.  He’s spittin’ up blood - - like he did when he had the plague.”

 

Hutch tried to pull free of their grip.  “No hospital,” he muttered.

 

“I’m afraid he’s right,” Grant said despondently.  He started walking back toward the car, forcing Hutch with him.  “It’s too late for that now.”

 

At wit’s end, tired of the games and half explanations, Starsky wrenched him to a grinding halt.  “I’ve had enough!” he exploded.  “You’ve been actin’ like a jerk from the day we got here.  You’ve got your wife in tears and your son thinkin’ you despise him.  You register in some fleabag motel under an assumed name, then we almost get our asses burned goin’ to check it out.  To top it all off, you tell me we can’t take Hutch to a hospital after I watched him spit up a pint of blood. Out with it, Doc- - just what the hell is goin’ on?”

 

“All right.”  Squaring his shoulders, Grant sucked in a resigned breath.  “I’ll tell you, but not here.  We can’t stay in the open.  I think I may have signed Ken’s death warrant.”

 

+++++

 

 Hutch didn’t comment.

 

In fact, he wasn’t talking at all.  With Grant’s help, Starsky got him to the car and into the back seat, sliding in beside him.  The surgeon’s ominous declaration had the dark-haired cop anxiously glancing out the rear window, expecting to see a pursuit vehicle.  Grant was clearly frazzled, shifting the BMW into gear as quickly as he could.  His eyes flecked to the rearview mirror, worriedly studying Hutch.

 

“How bad is the cough?” he asked Starsky.

 

“I’ll live,” Hutch said quietly before his friend could answer.  Shivering, he immediately lapsed into silence.

 

Seated behind Grant, Starsky exchanged a glance in the mirror with the physician.  He could feel heat radiating from his partner’s body despite the chills plaguing Hutch.  The mist hadn’t helped, dampening their clothing and hair, amplifying the invasive touch of wet autumn air.  Still not over his cold, he sniffled loudly, rummaging in his pocket for his handkerchief.  Beside him, Hutch wrapped his arms close to his chest for warmth, the severity of the coughing seizure leaving his face haggard and strained.

 

“Crank the heater up, Doc,” Starsky called to Grant.  “Your kid’s freezin’ back here.” 

 

“Starsk,” Hutch admonished softly so that only he heard.

 

Not bothering to acknowledge the warning, Starsky curled his fingers around his friend’s leg, soothingly rubbing the damp denim.  With his free hand, he snuffled into the handkerchief, blowing his nose.  The congestion was starting all over again, brought on by the miserably sodden weather. Even now the rain increased in strength, transitioning from a faint drizzle to a steady downpour.  The sound of it beating against the windows and roof echoed in the silent car, magnified above the incessant whir of the heater.

 

Shivering harder, Hutch tucked his chin closer to his chest.  The blood-soiled handkerchief he’d used earlier was still clutched in his fist, as if he feared needing it again.

 

Worried, Starsky scowled.  “How much further till we get where we’re goin’?”  he demanded of the physician.

 

“Not far,” Grant supplied, casting yet another troubled glance at his son. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, he steered the car off the main road, taking a hidden lane that forked between a dense pocket of trees.  Uneven and rock-strewn, the road was really no more than two tire paths gutted into the midst of a wooded copse.  Wet leaves, tinted with the smoky hues of autumn, littered the ground, creating a tapestry of orange and gold. Grant kept to the dirt lane for approximately two miles, veering to the left before finally parking in front of a ranch-style cabin. 

 

Starsky spared the structure a passing glance, unconcerned with the condition as long as it was warm and dry inside. “Come on, partner,” he said to Hutch, hooking the taller man under the arm.  “We’re going to get you inside where it’s warm.”

 

Normally one to complain he didn’t need help, Hutch obeyed mutely, his lack of protest catapulting Starsky’s worry-meter into the stratosphere. 

 

Inside, the cabin was small but well appointed, designed for coziness and intimacy.  A one-room affair comprised of a dinette, studio kitchen and small living area, it was furnished in the greens and golds of the surrounding woodlands.  A beamed ceiling, stained woodwork and stone fireplace blended to create a rustic ambiance despite the presence of electric baseboard heaters.  A queen-sized bed, draped with thick quilts and invitingly stacked with plump pillows, occupied the far corner of the room.  To the rear, a closed door led to the bathroom, small but fully serviceable.   

 

“Out of that jacket . . .”  Starsky peeled the wet garment from Hutch, then pointed him in the direction of the couch.  While Grant turned up the heat, he vanished into the bathroom, confiscating two towels, tossing one to his partner when he returned.

 

Hutch rifled it through his hair, soaking up the worst of the moisture.  Wearily, he sagged against the sofa, finger-combing the mussed blond tresses into place.  With his elbow planted on the arm of the couch, he mopped the towel over his face collecting clinging droplets of rain.  His eyes slued to the side, watching as Grant paced back and forth.  Every few seconds the older man shot a nervous glance out the front window.

 

“Who are you looking for?” Hutch asked.

 

His voice brought an immediate halt to the pacing, Grant startling abruptly as if he’d been apprehended in a crime.  When he failed to answer quickly enough, Starsky stalked in front of him, bluntly confrontational.  “Enough of this dancin’ around the issue bullcrap.  Exactly what did you mean back there about signin’ Hutch’s death warrant?  And why the hell can’t I take him to a hospital?”

 

“Starsky,” Hutch attempted.  “I don’t need - -”

 

“Knock it off, Hutch!” Starsky exploded, whirling to face him.  Furious that his friend had kept something as serious as coughing up blood to himself, he jabbed a finger in Hutch’s direction.  “Don’t even fuckin’ try to tell me you’re fine, ‘cuz it’s plain as day you ain’t even close!  If you got any sense at all, you’re not gonna piss me off right now - - not after being so damn tight-lipped in the first place.”  Anger crashed over him, barbarous and hot, fueled by fear.  All he could think about was the plague - - a terrifying, shouldn’t-have-existed-at-all disease that had come abhorrently close to stealing his partner permanently.  When Hutch had been at his worst in the hospital, before delirium and the oxygen tent, he’d suffered several violent paroxysms that had left him spitting up blood.  To think that same vile affliction might be reasserting itself all over again left Starsky dizzy with dread.  Oh hell, buddy, why wouldn’t you tell me?  Why would you keep something like that to yourself?

 

Shaking with rage, he ground his teeth together and refocused on Grant.  “As for you - - I wanna know why I’m stuck in a cabin somewhere, sneakin’ glances over my shoulder instead of havin’ my partner checked over in an ER.”

 

“All right,” Grant agreed, dispensing with his nervousness.  “I’ll tell you everything.  But first . . .”  He looked imploringly to Hutch.  “Ken, I’d like you to lie down on the bed so I can check you over.  If you really are having problems - -”

 

“No.”

 

Hutch’s voice was flat and obstinate, kindling a surge of blind reactionary rage in Starsky.

 

“Think again,” he snarled, stalking to the sofa.  “That wasn’t a friggin’ request!”  Hooking Hutch under the arm, he wrenched the taller man to his feet, his blood pressure dangerously near the boiling point.  You are not gonna almost die on me again, you damn blond idiot!  “Get your ass back on that bed and do what he tells you to do.  So help me, Hutch - -”

 

“Get off!” Angrily, Hutch ripped his arm free.  Just as quickly his face twisted in pain, as if the motion itself had jarred him. The seizure hit hard, doubling him over in a violent fit of coughing.  He fumbled the handkerchief against his mouth, groaning through a punishing surge of blood.

 

“Ohgod, babe - -”  Starsky caught him just as his legs started to buckle.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to snap.” 

 

In a quicksilver flash Grant was at his side, clutching Hutch’s other arm in a firm hold.  Together both men helped the blond detective to the bed, holding him upright when he would have stumbled. Trembling with fatigue, Hutch collapsed with a tortured sigh.

 

“It’s okay,” Starsky said quickly, sitting beside him.  He could see the strain of discomfort on his friend’s face and knew the coughing spells had to be taking a toll in pain as well as blood.  “It’s gonna be fine now,” he assured, attentively brushing his fingers across Hutch’s cheek.  His friend’s skin felt hot to the touch, unnaturally clammy.  The fear of fever, coupled with blood, made Starsky dart a troubled glance at the physician. “He’s too warm.”

 

Grant ignored him, concentrating instead on his son.  “Try to breathe evenly, Ken,” he urged calmly.  Mounding some of the pillows together, he wedged them behind the younger man’s back. “That’s it . . .” he coaxed as Hutch automatically adjusted his position.  “I want you to sit up, but lean back so we keep your lungs clear.” As he spoke, he worked at unbuttoning his son’s shirt. Mostly dry, the olive green garment was spotted here and there with small splotches of rain. It shouldn’t have been enough to induce chills, but Hutch shivered as if he’d been drenched in ice water. Gingerly, Grant placed his hands on the younger man’s abdomen, pressing lightly on his stomach, then beneath his ribs.  “Does that hurt?”

 

Hutch shook his head. 

 

Watching, Starsky bit his lip.  Grant finished the brief examination, then raised both hands to Hutch’s throat, carefully feeling and manipulating the glands. Finishing, he affectionately rifled a hand through his son’s long hair.  Starsky thought it an odd gesture for a man who had only yesterday told Hutch he was no longer welcome in his home.

 

He caught the look in Hutch’s eyes and recognized it as something he hadn’t seen in a long time - - about two years to be precise.  Once again questioning the stability of his relationship with his father, Hutch appeared too eager to please, soaking up the sparse affection like a favor he didn’t deserve.

 

“Kenneth, how long have you been sick?”

 

The question killed Hutch’s openness in the blink of an eye.  Just that quickly he shuttered his emotions away, uncomfortably averting his gaze.  “A few days,” he admitted.

 

“And the blood?”  Grant persisted.  “How long has that been going on?”

 

Restless, Hutch cleared his throat. “About the same.”  His eyes flashed to his father’s face.  “But it wasn’t this bad.  Well . . . only once or twice,” he amended.  “Two nights ago I got sick and  . . . I threw up blood.”

 

Swearing softly, Starsky looked away.  He remembered the semi-dream he’d had when he’d wakened briefly to the sound of someone getting ill in the bathroom.  Clearly, he hadn’t been dreaming.  Clearly, that “someone” had been Hutch.  He should have been intuitive enough to put two-and-two together.  Based on Hutch’s own admission, his blond friend had been sick before they’d left Bay City.  True, Starsky had been fighting a cold, his powers of observation blunted, but if he was honest about it, his mind had been wrapped up elsewhere.  He’d been too concerned with Joey Eichelman and Jorge Delgado to really pay attention to what might be troubling his friend.  Even in Duluth, he hadn’t been able to let go of the case.  He’d barely spoken to Joey in the last eighteen years, but somehow his high school buddy had taken precedence over his partner and soul mate. So Hutch basically puts his life on hold for the last six months to take care of me, and this is how I repay him?

 

Overcome with guilt, he barely heard Grant ask the next question.

 

“Does it hurt when you cough, Ken?”

 

“Yes.”  Spoken reluctantly.

 

“Your lungs?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What about your stomach?”

 

“Some.”

 

Starsky couldn’t take it any longer.  “So exactly what the hell does all that mean?” he demanded of Grant.  The same ugly fear he’d experienced before surfaced in his head.  “You know he had the plague . . .”  He simply couldn’t say the rest of the thought aloud:  You know it almost killed him.

 

“I don’t think it’s anything so severe, David,” Grant assured him with a pacifying glance.  In the next instant, his attention was back on Hutch, one hand soothingly rubbing over his son’s wrist. Again, Starsky found the action oddly tender for a man who’d been so difficult with Hutch from practically the moment of their arrival.

 

“It could be a number of things but my guess is walking pneumonia,” the surgeon continued.  “It all fits - - the cough, swollen glands, chills, fever, nausea, chest pain.  The blood is an oddity, however, and that concerns me.  Pneumonia will sometimes cause it, but there are other possibilities as well.  It could be any type respiratory tract infection or even gastrointestinal. My guess is a form of mild hemoptysis, which doesn’t affect breathing and is generally sporadic.  The issue is to determine the underlying cause - - it could be something as simple as the germs Ken said were circulating around the police department.  The good news is hemoptysis generally disappears on its own.  The bad news - - ”  He cast Hutch a sympathetic glance.  “ - - is that it’s miserable to suffer through. ”

 

“He should be in a hospital,” Starsky said flatly.

 

“Walking pneumonia isn’t normally severe enough to require hospitalization,” Grant countered.  “Left untreated, of course, it can become dangerous - - just like any other ailment.”  As he spoke, the physician stood and grabbed a folded quilt from the foot of the bed.  Shaking it open, he draped it over his son’s shoulders.

 

Hutch gave him an appreciative smile and gathered it close. The movement jarred a cough from him, and he immediately pressed the soiled handkerchief to his mouth. 

 

“Here - -”  Grant dug into his pocket, pulling out a neatly folded square of expensive white linen.  “It’s clean,” he said, passing the unused handkerchief to his son.  “The two of you need to get back to Bay City as quickly as possible,” he continued, this time addressing Starsky.  “Ken can check with the hospital once he’s there, or better yet - - have Janet examine him.  You can’t stay here.”

 

“Why not?”  Starsky demanded.  Absently, he fiddled with the comforter, adjusting it around Hutch’s shoulders.  He shot Grant a frowning glance from the corner of his eye.  “And just where is ‘here’ anyway?  What are we doin’ in this cabin?”

 

“It belongs to a friend,” Grant supplied.  “I use it now and then when I want a place to think . . . a place to get away and work on my study notes or compile the research for my next book.”

 

“What friend?” Hutch queried softly.  One brow launched into the fringe of his long blond hair.  “You mean Sara Spencer?”

 

Grant blanched.  Dragging a hand over his face, he paced to the foot of the bed.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Sudden tension crept into his voice, his demeanor growing frazzled, inordinately shaken.

 

Starsky exchanged a long glance with his partner. The surgeon was normally confident and poised no matter the circumstance, but that was clearly not the case now.  Acutely uncomfortable, the older man stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, nervously fiddling with a handful of loose change.  A thin sheen of nervous sweat glistened on his forehead. 

 

“Dad, I think it’s time you told me what’s going on,” Hutch said, settling the matter for all of them.

 

+++++

 

It was odd seeing his father so rattled.  Coughing weakly, Hutch ducked his head, pressing the clean white handkerchief to his lips.  He was still shivering, afflicted with a chill that had lodged in his bones.  Thankfully, the quilt helped blunt the worst of it.  The short coughing spasm passed, and he let his head fall back against the pillows, studying his father through the feathery veil of his eyelashes.

 

Grant didn’t seem nearly as angry with him as he had yesterday and for that he was grateful, but the erratic ups and downs of his father’s volatile mood swings left him confused. Hutch didn’t understand why they were hiding in a cabin or even who they were running from, but he was certain Grant was running from someone.  A woman in a picture taken thirty-plus years ago didn’t seem a likely choice, but there was the sender of the note he’d found - - Sara Spencer’s son.

 

“Dad,” he prompted again when Grant had been quiet too long. “What’s going on?”

 

His father shot him an edgy glance.  “This is difficult, you understand?”  Once more he dragged a hand over his face.  Dressed in a suit and tie, he tugged nervously at the latter, almost as if it choked him.  He worked at the knot until the tie hung loose and askew on his shirt then impatiently thumbed open his collar.  “I never wanted to have this discussion with you, Ken - - never!  You have to believe that.”

 

More than a little unnerved by his father’s strident tone, Hutch sat more attentively.  He was vaguely aware of Starsky moving into the kitchen area and returning with two straight-backed chairs.  The dark-haired cop shoved one in Grant’s direction, depositing the other close to the bed at Hutch’s side. He spun it around and straddled it backwards, bracing his arms across the top, his gaze locked unwaveringly on Grant.  Hutch could feel his partner’s agitation and instinctively knew it came from worry.  The blood frightened his friend almost as much as it frightened him, both tormented by ugly memories of the plague.

 

Too keyed up to sit, Grant continued his nervous pacing.  He scrubbed at his chin as he walked, an impulsive twitch magnified to near-neurosis.  “I’m not sure where to begin,” he said miserably.

 

“How ‘bout starting with Jorge Delgado?” Starsky suggested.  “You’ve been obsessed with him ever since we showed up.”

 

It was a good starting point and Hutch knew it.  He might have asked the same question, but coming from Starsky, it felt wrong.  Was his friend thinking about Joey Eichelman again, worrying over his welfare when Hutch was so - -  well, miserable, he admitted.  Disturbed, but unwilling to show how much the question bothered him, he huddled deeper into the blanket.  He glanced at his father in time to see Grant nod reluctantly.

 

“There’s a man who’s blackmailing me - - Neal Spencer.  In the beginning it was about money, but then he decided he wanted something else.  Apparently, he’s part of a syndicate and that same syndicate bankrolls Jorge Delgado.  I was ordered to make Ken back off - - to leave Delgado alone.” Despondent, he shook his head, a man broken by what he’d been forced to do.  “Yesterday was my last chance to gain your promise,” he explained, his gaze flecking guiltily to Hutch. “I’m afraid we were observed at lunch, Ken. Spencer had someone in the restaurant.  When you stormed out, it was obvious you hadn’t agreed to anything.  I got a call at my office shortly afterward informing me you’d become expendable.  It’s why I wanted you in Bay City - - I don’t think they’d touch you there.”  

 

“Wait a minute.”  Agitated, Hutch held up a hand to stop the impossible flow of words.  His head was reeling, an ache pounding viciously behind his eyes.  “You’re telling me someone is blackmailing you - - insisting you get me to leave Delgado alone?”

 

“So you knew he was scum?” Starsky demanded.

 

“Yes!” Grant hissed, his temper coming through.

 

Hutch felt sick.  Physically sick, his stomach churning with acid.  “This man is related to the woman in the photograph - - Sara Spencer?”

 

“Her son,” Grant admitted.

 

“But the photo was taken over 30 years ago.”  He shook his head, unable to put the pieces together.  “Dad, that doesn’t make sense.”

 

“It makes perfect sense,” Grant insisted fervently. “It’s complicated, but . . .” He heaved a dejected sigh and slumped into the chair.  “Ken, this syndicate is well aware of the pressure you’re exerting on Delgado.  You’re making them nervous.  Very nervous.  They want you out of the picture.  Once Spencer realized who you were . . . how we were related, he realized he could make a name for himself within the organization if he managed to put Delgado in the clear.   That meant removing you - - either willingly or unwillingly.  When I failed to get your agreement, he took matters into his own hands.”

 

“So we shoulda died in that car crash?”  Starsky asked.  Hutch could feel his growing animosity, bubbling menacingly near the surface.  Starsky was like a simmering volcano waiting to erupt in a tirade of vindictive and righteous anger.  His friend had never learned to hold his temper, a shortcoming that often landed the dark-haired cop in trouble.  Given their present circumstances and Grant’s continued evasiveness, Hutch couldn’t fault his partner the growing hostility.  He was beginning to feel a flicker of it himself.     

 

“That’s why you don’t want me takin’ Hutch to a hospital, ain’t it?” Starsky challenged the physician. “You figure they’ll track us down . . . kill him or kill us both.”

 

“Yes,” Grant admitted miserably.  His gaze shifted to Hutch, desperation in his pale eyes.  “I never wanted this to happen, Kenneth.  I never thought . . . all th-those years ago . . .”  Unable to finish, he dropped his eyes, all semblance of poise bled from his slumped and defeated posture.  “I’ve made a horrible mess of things,” he whispered.

 

Hutch was torn between wanting an answer to his questions and a desire to assure his father everything would be all right.  Whatever the problem, they’d work it out together.  Yet something inside - - a coldly realistic voice - - told him this was bigger than any obstacle he’d ever faced in his constantly evolving relationship with Grant.  Part of him needed to know more. 

 

Part of him was terrified to discover the truth.

 

The cold left him shaking, trembling with bone-crushing fatigue and chills.  His father didn’t seem to think he had the plague, yet Grant hadn’t been entirely assuring in his answer.  There was the troubling issue of “an underlying cause,” a caveat that had already rooted in the fertile soil of Hutch’s imagination.  He knew he was steadily getting worse, fever sapping him of strength, swelling the tender tissue of his throat until it throbbed with each painful swallow.  He wanted to curl up  . . . close his eyes and go to sleep, blissfully escaping the crippling tightness banded across his chest.  But too much remained unresolved, his father’s involvement with Delgado at the top of the list.

 

“You told me to leave,” Hutch said, offering no quarter as he stared at his father.  The words had hurt, cutting through him like one of Grant’s quarrelsome cheap shots from years past.  He’d thought they’d moved beyond that hostility, replacing anger and defensiveness with honesty and compassion.  Please, Dad . . . don’t go back on me now.  I value what we have too much to lose it.

 

Grant bowed his head . . . looked at his hands for a moment.  He nodded reluctantly. “Yes, I did.”

 

“You were angry with me for going behind your back,” Hutch said softly, thinking of their confrontation in the den.

.

“No . . . you don’t understand, Ken.”  Disgusted, Grant stood and began to pace all over again.  Outside, the rain drummed against the roof and windows, creating a steady, almost monotonous patter as backdrop.  In another place and time it might have been soothing, but given the circumstances, it felt ominously foreboding - - an omen of darker tidings to come. 

 

Hutch coughed lightly into the wadded up handkerchief, tasting blood. 

 

Pausing by the foot of the bed, Grant rubbed his temple, his expression troubled.  “Ken . . . I wasn’t angry with you because of what you did.  I was angry because of what you found.”

 

“The picture,” Hutch said, fitting the pieces together.  “ . . . and the note.”  He frowned, coughing again, catching the blood in a balled pocket of expensive white linen.  At his side, Starsky sent him a worried glance, soothingly rubbing his leg.  The simple contact helped ease the prickly scratchiness in his throat, the ripple of pain lapping across his chest.  “Did you pay this man money?” he demanded.

 

Grant nodded.  “Yes.  $50,000.  I thought that would be the end of it.”

 

Hutch was appalled.  “$50,000!” he repeated, his mind shocked into overdrive.  There were few things in life that would warrant that kind of blackmail money, all of them too heinous to contemplate.  That his upstanding father would be involved in any one of them left his mind reeling at the implausibility.  “How could you do something so despicable to Mom?”  

 

“Your mother didn’t know about it,” Grant said quickly. “I manipulated funds between several accounts, so she wouldn’t notice the loss.  Had she known . . .” he looked at Hutch directly, his gaze abruptly rigid and resigned.  “ . . . she would have condoned what I did.”

 

“What?”  Hutch flung the blankets back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

 

“Buddy - - ” Starsky tried to stop him.

 

Ignoring the overture, Hutch pushed to his feet, rounding the foot of the mattress to confront his father face to face.  Grant had always been taller, broader through the chest and huskier over all.  Hutch felt that difference now, his weight at a minimum, the illness leaving him depleted and emotionally drained.  From the very first taste of blood, he’d been living with the potentially lethal nightmare of succumbing to the plague all over again.  Mental fragility and physical exhaustion combined to put him at an acute disadvantage  - - one he couldn’t help but notice when opposing his taller, healthier father.  

 

“Why would this man blackmail you?” he demanded.  Almost immediately his mother’s words returned to haunt him - - “I’m afraid your father might be having an affair.” 

 

Hutch balked, the cold light of reality blinding him with the ugly shock of scandalous truth. For one crazy, upside down moment, he thought he understood.  Suddenly the picture of the woman and the man claiming to be “Sara Spencer’s Son” all made sense.  Barely daring to breathe, he asked his father the impossible:  “My God . . . is Neal Spencer your son?”

 

Mortified, Grant shook his head.  “No.”

 

It didn’t make sense.  None of it did.  Quickly running out of patience, Hutch felt his composure crack. “Then who the hell is Sara Spencer?” he exploded.

 

Grant looked like he wanted to sink through the floor.  “Your mother,” he said morosely “Sara Spencer is your mother, Ken.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky stared as if unable to believe the impossible declaration.   It took a moment to sink in, a moment longer for Hutch’s face to twist in contempt.

 

“You’re lying,” he spat.

 

Grant shook his head.  “No.  It happened long ago, before your mother and I were married.  Sara died giving birth to you.   Later . . . your mother . . . accepted you as her own child.  Son - -”  Unable to finish, Grant stretched out a hand, reaching for his shoulder. 

 

“Keep away from me!”  Incensed, Hutch knocked his arm aside.  He took three steps backward, his chest heaving, eyes the cold blue of polar ice.  “Why are you doing this?” he demanded, the coarse rasp of blood heavy in his voice.  He gave a short agitated cough, hacking once into the handkerchief.  Somewhere in the back of his mind all the ugly whispers of his childhood surfaced - - the cruel snickers of children, the lewd insinuations of adults.  He’d lived with the stigma of being a blond-haired son born to black-haired parents all of his life.

 

As a young child, he’d been too sheltered to understand.  As a teenager he’d tuned out the gossip, ignoring the scandalous whispers that hinted his mother must have had an affair.  Over all it had been easy to ignore the offensive chatter.  One look in the mirror and it was obvious he was Grant’s son.  His hair might have been blond instead of black, but he had his father’s features, most especially Grant’s light blue eyes.  Only an idiot would have suggested he had a different father.

 

But a different mother?

 

Hutch backed away.  “I don’t fucking believe you!  Why are you telling me this shit - - making up these lies?”

 

“They’re not lies,” Grant insisted.

 

“Buddy, calm down.”  Starsky reached for him, snaring his elbow when he would have stalked further away.  “Take it easy.”

 

“Easy?”  Hutch scoffed.  He knew he was out of control, one step shy of snapping completely.  Between the fatigue and punishment of the cough, coupled with his abruptly precarious emotional state, he got caught in a downward spiral of buffeting rage and self-recrimination.  “Starsky, did you hear a single freaking word my father just said?  He - -”

 

“I know what he said!”  Starsky snapped.  Angrily, he thrust between the two men, his eyes bright with frustration. “But you ain’t helpin’ matters. Give him a chance to explain. And you --”  Agitated, he turned on Grant.  “You got a helluva lotta nerve actin’ the way you’ve been, then dumpin’ this shit on your kid. The way I see it, you better do some fast talkin’, and maybe - - just maybe - - you might save your ass in the process.”

Too devastated to take offense, Grant merely nodded.  Reluctantly, his eyes flashed to Hutch.  “I was in college,” he said quietly.  “In love with your mother . . . Adele.  She was a theater major.  We planned to marry once I finished med school.”

 

“Theater?”  The word slipped out before Hutch could stop it.  He’d never even known his mother had gone to college.  As far back as he could remember, she’d always been at home with him and Kelly, involved in clubs and school meetings, helping them with scholastics and cheering them on at after-school sporting events. There’d been PTA, bake sales, dance committees, carpools and student fundraisers.  She’d never had a career or pined for lack of one. Shocked,

he folded into the nearest chair.

 

“We had a fight,” Grant continued.  “A horrible fight. I don’t even remember what it was about, it was so long ago.  I just remember storming off in a huff. I ended up in a tavern near the school - - The Ethan Cross­.  I used to go there a lot with friends, but that night I went alone.  I started throwing down shots, thinking that would help cool me off.  It was stupid, but I was 19 at the time and getting drunk seemed like a good idea. I hit it off with the waitress and, when she invited me back to her place for a drink, I took her up on it.  I don’t remember much after that, but somehow we ended up in bed together.  I know being drunk isn’t an excuse, but - -”

 

“The waitress was Sara Spencer?”  Starsky interrupted bluntly.

 

Grant nodded.  “I didn’t even know where I was when I woke up the next morning.  I crawled out of there thinking that would be the end of it, but she tracked me down a few months later and told me she was pregnant.”

 

“Damn it.”  Unable to believe what he was hearing, Hutch bowed his head and rifled a hand through his hair.  His fingers were trembling, but he wasn’t sure if it was with rage or anxiety. 

If Adele Hutchinson wasn’t really his mother, then his whole life had amounted to a lie.  He’d lived as someone else’s child, taking part in a carefully orchestrated charade.  And the woman who’d given him birth had died before he’d had a chance to know her.  Chilled, he wrapped his arms close to his chest, wishing he could block out the repulsive words.

 

“She already had a two-year-old son - - Neal,” Grant explained.  “Widowed, barely making ends meet, she was living with her father, a man named Benjamin Greer.  She told me she couldn’t afford to have another baby . . . that they were barely above poverty level as it was.  She intended to have an abortion.”

 

Hutch’s head shot up, his face going slack at the revelation.  Something cold and ugly clawed its way into his gut at the staggering pronouncement.  An abortion.  Feeling abruptly nauseous, he tried to recall what Neal’s brief note to Grant had said - - Benjamin died three months ago.  I know the truth.  Had that been the same Benjamin . . . in effect, Hutch’s grandfather?

 

Nervous, Grant wet his lips.  Outside, the rain lessened, tapering to a faint drizzle, pattering lightly against the windows.  He shot a worried glance at Hutch, all of his characteristic composure like shards of broken glass. “I couldn’t let her go through with it . . . the abortion,” he explained.  “So I told her I would take care of all the medical expenses and fees.  Afterward, I would be financially responsible for the child.  I just wanted her to have the baby.  I-I felt responsible for that life.  I-I c-couldn’t just let her . . .”  Trailing off, he dragged a hand over his face, inhaling deeply in an attempt to compose himself.  Like his son, Grant Hutchinson only stuttered in times of extreme stress. 

 

“Eventually, she agreed and I told your mother . . . Adele,” Grant clarified somewhat guiltily.  He tugged at his tie again.  “After our fight, she took me back but when I told her what I’d done . . . when I told her about Sara, she didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

 

“Smart woman,” Starsky said sourly.

 

Hutch wasn’t so sure.  His father could have walked away . . . agreed to the abortion and been a free man.  Juggling a college education with an infant son couldn’t have been easy and not something just any nineteen-year-old would undertake.  Even so, he couldn’t help feeling hurt and betrayed, his emotions on a high speed roller coaster.

 

Grant started pacing again as if the frantic movement somehow made the story easier to relay.  “It was two months before Adele would talk to me again . . . before she forgave me and took me back.  She knew what she was getting into - - involved with a man soon to have a child - - but she went into it with her eyes open.  I always thought . . .”  Swallowing hard, he stopped directly in front of Hutch looking down on him.  “I-I thought Sara would be there . . . raise you.  Th-that I’d see you now and then and pay support - -”

 

“You mean pay for your mistake,” Hutch said bitterly.  He felt Starsky move behind him and slide a hand onto his shoulder.  But even that normally rapturous touch couldn’t stop the repulsive truth from crashing over him:  Grant had intended to support his infant son financially but otherwise wash his hands of any emotional attachment. He hadn’t wanted to be involved.  It meant his father resented him . . . had always resented him. Why else had Grant been so hard on him, sparse with affection, demanding and gruff with discipline?   He’d been kinder and gentler with Kelly, exacting yes, but never to the point where she’d questioned his affection.  The truth settled into his stomach, toxic and bitter as snake venom.  In reality, the last two years amounted to nothing more than a cruel game, Grant’s way of easing his conscience for past sins.

 

Hutch felt his throat close up.  “So you never really loved me.  You never wanted me.”

 

“That’s not true!”  Impassioned, Grant reached for him.

 

“Bullshit!”  Hutch knocked his hand aside.  Lurching to his feet, he sent the chair flying backward. “You just fucking admitted it!  You were gonna pawn me off on Sara Spencer . . . throw a few bucks her way every so often to ease your conscience . . . pretend to be upstanding and moral like some puritanical pillar of society.  No wonder you treated me like shit most of my life!  I was just a damn, dirty secret.” He could feel his face growing hotter, the flush of fever and shame dampening his cheeks with sweat. He wanted to retch, wanted to punch something and make it hurt as badly as he did. 

 

Furious, he spun away and rammed his fist into the wall. 

 

“Hutch.”  Starsky gripped his shoulder.

 

Just as quickly the fight drained out of him.  Exhausted, Hutch let his brow sink against the plaster.  “Leave me alone,” he muttered.  His chest hurt, a needle-bright band of fire leeching over his ribs with each shuddering breath.   He wanted it to end . . . like a nightmare he could shake off at daybreak.  But the reality remained, as ugly and hurtful as the ache in his lungs.  He coughed weakly, too despondent to wipe away the blood.  “Why did you pay Neal Spencer $50,000 dollars?” he asked his father without turning.

 

In some distracted corner of his mind, he was aware of the older man and Starsky exchanging a glance behind his back.  He could sense it even if he couldn’t see it.  There was worry in that silent exchange . . . worry and something more.

 

“He found out about you,” Grant said resignedly. “He was only two when you were born, Ken . . . when his mother died giving birth.  I took you from the hospital as soon as I was able.  Adele and I married years earlier than we’d planned. She quit school so she could stay home with you.”  He paused, speaking softly.  “Kenneth, she gave up her own ambitions to raise you.  You are, in every respect but blood, her child.  If she ever thought you knew the truth, it would destroy her. You mean the world to her.”

 

That at least reached Hutch.  But not to you.  Turning toward his father, he sagged against the wall.

 

“That’s why I paid Neal Spencer $50,000,” Grant said flatly.  “His grandfather - - your grandfather - - Benjamin Greer died a few months ago.  Apparently he had written down information about me . . . and you.  He blamed us both for his daughter’s death  - - me for getting her pregnant in the first place and you for being the child that ultimately resulted in her passing. Neal discovered the information and sent me several threatening letters.  The first contained the photograph of Sara you found.  I didn’t take them seriously in the beginning.  When I didn’t respond, he moved onto phone calls.  He said he’d tell you everything unless I paid him the money.  I couldn’t let that happen, Ken.”  Grant opened his hands, desperate to make his point.  “Not to you or to your mother.  So I did what he asked  - - I met him at a hotel in Sevensport and gave him the money.  I registered under the name Ethan Cross so he’d know who I was and how to find me.  I thought that would be the end of it.”

 

“Until he realized Hutch was a cop in Bay City,” Starsky inserted quietly.  “Not just any cop, but the cop who was making life miserable for Jorge Delgado.  So he decided to do blackmail job #2 and told you unless you got Hutch to back down, he’d spill the beans.  At which point your $50,000 didn’t mean shit.”

 

Grant nodded sullenly.  “And now he’s decided Ken’s life is forfeit. He’s made his money off me.  The only thing that matters to him now is securing a higher position in his syndicate.  If he gets to avenge his mother’s death along the way, so much the better.”  His eyes shifted to Hutch, his gaze conciliatory, almost pleading.  It was not a look Grant Hutchinson wore often, if ever.  “Ken . . . Son . . .”  Once more he reached for Hutch’s arm.

 

“Don’t,” Hutch warned quietly, the icy tone of his voice stopping Grant’s hand in mid reach.   He’d heard all he’d needed to hear to utterly destroy his life in the matter of a few minutes.  His father could say whatever he’d wanted, but the truth was Grant had never wanted him to begin with. He’d been ready to fork over a few dollars, fully intending to walk away from Sara and her baby, hoping money would cover the blunder of his one-night stand.

 

Hutch didn’t think any pain could hurt as badly as that hateful knowledge.  All his life he’d struggled to please his overly demanding father only to learn nothing he did was ever good enough.  It was no wonder he constantly failed. The man hadn't wanted him to begin with.  When Sara died, he’d only taken Hutch out of a sense of responsibility and shame.  There’d never been any love - - a stony reality that explained why he’d been so emotionally detached from his only son the majority of his life.    

 

Incensed, Hutch shoved away from the wall.  He balled his hands into fists, knotting his fingers to stop a convulsive tremor. Anger warred with hurt and betrayal, each volatile emotion more venomous than the last. The truth poisoned him, left him bleeding and battered inside.

His mind was fried, too torn to make sense of the impossibly wretched half-truths Grant stumbled to convey.  When all was said and done, everything came down to lies.

 

“Funny thing,” he said tightly, acid dripping from his voice.  He took a step forward, confronting Grant directly.  “When I was a kid, people used to whisper behind my back.  I mean, it’s not every day you see a blond kid with black-haired parents.  I was five when some stuck-up barbie doll patted me on the head and called me a ‘cute little bastard.’”

 

Grant looked chagrined.  “Ken, don’t . . .”

 

“Why not?  As long as we’re being fucking truthful about everything, shouldn’t we own up to what I am?  Come on, Dad, admit it.  Or do words like ‘bastard’ clash with your saintly country club mentality, Dr. Hutchinson?”

 

“Hey - - come on, buddy. That’s enough.”  Starsky tried to grab his arm, but Hutch was beyond caring.  He knew he’d moved past angry into spiteful and cruel . . . knew he’d crossed the line but couldn’t cool his rabid temper.  Out of control, he wanted his father to hurt as badly as he did.

 

“It’s not like you never heard it before,” he sneered at Grant.  “All those years . . . all those comments people made about me . . . you knew they were true.  The women were catty, but the men were vulgar, saying lewd things about Mom having an affair.”  He gave a snort of bitter laughter.  “Turns out it wasn’t Mom at all.  You were the one too fucking drunk and horny to keep your dick in your pants.”

 

“That’s enough!”  Furious, Grant slapped him hard across the cheek, spinning his face to the side. 

 

Hutch balked, shock crashing over him with the frigidness of icy water, instantly clearing his head of rage. For a minute he couldn’t fit the pieces together, stunned by the reality his father had struck him.  Grant had only ever hit him once before in his entire life.  The fact that he’d been enraged enough to do it now . . . that Hutch had deliberately provoked him to that precipice spoke volumes about the dire condition of their once close relationship.

 

Recovering, Hutch turned to leave.  “You made your point,” he snapped acidly.

 

“Hutch, wait!”  Starsky caught up to him just as he wrenched open the front door - -

 

-  - and came face to face with the barrel of a 9mm handgun.

 

+++++

 

“Perfect timing, Officers.” 

 

The man holding the gun had slicked- back brown hair and walnut dark eyes.  His face was pinched and angular, marred by a two-inch knife scar running from the corner of his eye to the bottom of his jaw.  Immaculately dressed in a tailored Italian suit, he was approximately 5’10”, of medium build with an unmistakable aura of command.  Two taller, huskier men flanked him, one bald, one fair-haired, each similarly armed.  There was no mistaking the presence or purpose of hired muscle.  Behind the bodyguards, a sleek black car could be seen parked near Grant’s BMW. 

 

Starsky hadn’t even heard it approach, wrapped up in the ugly deterioration of Hutch’s relationship with his father.  One step in front of him, his blond friend was as tense as tightly strung wire. Though he didn’t visibly shake, Starsky could feel high-voltage tension rolling off him in waves. 

 

“Let me guess,” Hutch said scathingly.  “You must be Spencer?”

 

The brown-haired man chuckled.  “So daddy’s told you all about me?  Get your ass into the cabin, pig.  It’s not every day I get to meet my baby brother.”

 

Outmatched, there was little they could do but comply.  Starsky stepped backward, giving Hutch room.  Grim-faced, both men joined Grant near the bed as Spencer and his goons moved inside. 

 

“There’s no need for this,” Grant said quickly, eyeing the gun in Spencer’s hand.  Deliberately, he stepped in front of Hutch.  “I’m not going to let you kill my son.”

 

“That’s damn noble of you, Doctor, but I’ve got no intention of shooting him.  Now get out of the way.”  He motioned with the gun.  “Moser take care of him.”

 

Immediately, the bigger of the two bodyguards pulled Grant aside, forcing him to sit in one of the straight-backed chairs.  Hutch’s attention remained on Spencer but Starsky could sense his keen awareness of Grant.  As hurt and betrayed as he felt, Hutch remained devoted to his father, quietly concerned for his welfare.

 

“Kirkland,” Spencer addressed the bald-headed man.  “Get what we need from the car. I want things done smoothly, not like that mess you made with the accident. How fucking hard is it to drive somebody off the road anyway?”

 

“Yes, sir.”  Grumbling beneath his breath, the bald man exited the cabin.

 

Starsky debated the odds of jumping Spencer and his remaining thug, but the guns presented too much of a problem.  With a well-timed distraction, he just might be lucky enough to wrest the gun away from Moser.  But Hutch was far from prime condition, steadily deteriorating with each passing second.  Spencer might be shorter but he was healthy and clearly knew how to defend himself.  He wouldn’t have risen to any level of prestige in a crime syndicate without the ability to savagely butcher others.  The knife scar on his cheek was proof he’d lived a hard life, cruelly punishing those stupid enough to cross him.  As sick as Hutch was, Starsky wasn’t certain his partner could take the other man down.  He could practically feel Hutch’s fatigue, the punishing toll of fever leaving his cheeks gaunt and ravaged.

 

Spencer eyed him closely.  “You don’t look so good, you know that?  Kinda sickly like you ain’t right or something.”

 

“Skip the concern,” Hutch snapped.

 

Spencer chuckled.  “Oh, I ain’t concerned, Hutchinson - - or do I get to call you ‘Ken’ since we’re brothers?”  Another chuckle, this one superior and gloating.  “You don’t look nothing like that picture in the Dispatch - - all pretty and photogenic like some kinda damn fucking model.  No . . .”   he mused thoughtfully.  “You look about ready to keel over.  I bet it’s taking everything you got just to stay on your feet, ain’t it?  You’re that sick. . . . probably pay money to sit down, but you’re too damn tough to show weakness, ain’t cha, Goldilocks?”

 

Silent, Hutch ground his teeth together.

 

“Not too chatty, huh?” Spencer tilted his head, boldly scrutinizing the tall cop, clearly enjoying the upper hand. “You got her hair.  She was blond, you know - - or maybe you didn’t.  I got pictures to prove it.  I can’t remember her at all - - just vague impressions thanks to you and that S.O.B. father of yours.  When I was a kid, my grandfather told me she was sick and that’s why she died.  Wasn’t until a few months ago I found out the truth. Then I learn you’re some kind of rich shit on top of it.” His mouth twisted in a vulgar sneer.  “ . . . grew up all pampered while I barely knew were my next meal was coming from. I had to tough it out on the street . . . swore I wasn’t gonna live like that the rest of my life.  I made good on that promise - - now I’m gonna make good on another one.”  Forcibly, he jabbed his finger against Hutch’s chest.  “Originally, I was just gonna get rid of you, but now I’m gonna take care of your old man and your interfering partner.  Kinda like a package deal - - three-for-one.”

 

“Kinda like listenin’ to a lot of hot air,” Starsky inserted dryly.  “Skip the sob story.”

 

“Watch your attitude, hothead.”  Spencer’s eyes flashed to the curly-haired cop. “I know all about you too - - got yourself blasted in a police garage, but don’t got enough sense to quit even after getting drilled with a phalanx of bullets. Delgado knows you’re as much to blame for his problems in Bay City as Hutchinson is.”

 

“Delgado’s days are numbered.”

 

“I wouldn’t count on it.  On the other hand . . .”  Spencer looked over his shoulder just as Kirkland returned, carrying coils of rope and a can of gasoline.  “Yours are about to run out completely.”  Turning toward Hutch, he shoved him on the shoulder.  “Sit down.”

 

In a flash, Hutch brought his hand up, catching Spencer on the wrist, folding his arm down and under.  Intrinsically keyed to his partner, Starsky rammed his elbow backward, jabbing Moser in the gut.  The goon grunted, doubling over with a hiss of surprised air.  From the corner of his eye, Starsky saw Hutch take Spencer down.  He was about to do the same to Moser when the crack of a gunshot exploded in the small room, bouncing off the walls with the deafening boom of thunder.

 

“Next one’s gonna kill somebody,” Kirkland growled from his position inside the door, his gun leveled menacingly.  Recognizing the threat, Starsky brought up both hands to signal a truce.  He shot a worried glance at Hutch.  Livid, Spencer clawed to his feet, wheeling on the fair-haired man like a rabid wolf.

 

“No one pulls that shit on me!”  Viciously, he cracked the barrel of his pistol over Hutch’s cheek, dropping him to one knee.

 

Panting and sweaty, Hutch tried to shake off the punishing effect of the blow.  Before he could recover, Spencer kicked him in the ribs, brutally doubling him over. Hutch folded with a groan, curling onto his side.  Drawing up his legs, he wrapped his arms around his stomach to shield his tender middle.

 

“Learned your lesson yet, cop?” Spencer taunted, kicking him again.  “You get the message now, hardhead?”

 

“Bastard!”  Reacting purely on instinct, Starsky lurched forward.  He was vaguely aware of Grant bolting from his chair, both men vehemently determined to protect Hutch.  He’d barely taken a step when Moser caught him from behind.  In one swift motion, the blond-haired goon cracked the butt of his pistol across Starsky’s head, sending the world into a suffocating tailspin of utter blackness.

 

+++++

 

Hutch groaned, only half aware of what happened around him.  He didn’t understand the voices or the intrusive hands roughly pulling him to his feet, unceremoniously dropping him onto the bed.  He was forced upright, his back to the headboard, his hands tugged roughly behind him and bound to one corner of the frame.  “Starsk . . .” he mumbled.

 

Somebody laughed and gruffly tapped his cheek.  “He’s just as bad off as you are, pig.  Your old man too.”  More laughter, followed by the hands again, this time cruelly winching rope around his chest, binding him tightly to the headboard.  He gasped, unable to breathe, fighting pain and sickly disorientation at the same time.  The reek of gasoline clogged his head, brought on a coughing seizure that left blood clinging to his lips, his body shuddering with ruthless fatigue.

 

“  . . . looks like he’s gonna die ‘fore the fire gets ‘im, boss,”  somebody said.

 

“Just take care of it,” came the short reply.

 

Hutch heard the sound of footsteps, the splash of liquid.  The reek of gasoline grew stronger making his head throb.  He was vaguely aware of someone towering over him but could barely crack his eyes open.  His cheek ached and his ribs burned with the molten stab of white flame.  A hand knotted in his hair, yanking his head back.  He groaned at the punishing grip, the harsh movement sending hot splinters of pain crackling through his skull.  He blinked, tasting blood in his mouth, the room spinning and weaving around him in nightmarish contortions. 

 

“This is how I’m gonna remember you, cop,” Neal Spencer said.  “For her.  And for me.  A real tragedy what happens to people when they get careless with gasoline. You shoulda backed off from Delgado.”

 

The hand released him, the words still spinning senselessly through his head.  He heard Spencer’s retreating footsteps, the strike of a match, followed by a deafening “whuff” as the gasoline ignited.  A wall of heat washed over him, sticky and furnace hot.  “Starsky!”

 

Somewhere in the distance he heard the squeal of tires as Spencer and his thugs peeled down the lane.  Clarity came back in bits and pieces - - the room engulfed in flame by the door, spreading rapidly from furniture to walls to ceiling.  Black smoke billowed from the angry conflagration, filling his throat and aching lungs with the flash-flame of searing heat.  He coughed uncontrollably, the spasm kicking blood up through his throat.  Unable to wipe it away, he felt it dribble onto his chin, the heavy metallic tang turning his stomach sour with acid.

 

“Dad!”  He could barely see his father, slumped on the floor at the foot of the mattress.  Grant’s legs were splayed out straight before him, his arms bound behind him, secured to one foot of the massive bed.  As Hutch called, he stirred groggily.

 

“Buddy . . .”  Starsky’s disoriented voice intruded like an infusion of cooling water.

 

Hutch refocused, turning his head to find his partner at the opposite side of the bed, his hands bound behind him to the headboard.  Unlike Hutch, his chest and waist hadn’t been secured with rope.

 

“Starsk . . .”  Coughing uncontrollably, Hutch struggled to free himself.  The tightening of coarse hemp across his chest sent new daggers of pain knifing into his ribs.  He could feel tears on his cheeks but didn’t know if it was from pain or from smoke.  He heard his father coughing, the flames crackling hungrily just beyond Grant’s legs.  The cabin was rapidly filling with fumes, the threat of asphyxiation as grave a danger as the fire itself.  Helpless to free himself, Hutch choked on blood.  The pain in his chest was abominable, so fierce he couldn’t breathe.  He felt himself blacking out, then abruptly heard something snap.  In the next instant, Starsky crouched beside him, rope dangling from his wrists as he frantically tugged at the restraints holding Hutch prisoner.

 

“Get my father,” Hutch said weakly.

     

“In a minute.”

 

“Now,” he insisted.

 

He heard his partner swear.  The bed bobbled as Starsky lurched away to do his bidding.  Though it was only seconds he was gone, Hutch felt his sanity slipping, sucked up in the raging torrent of fire.  His flesh felt like it was aflame, burning from the inside out, acid eroding his throat, stomach and lungs. 

 

“Okay, buddy.”  Starsky touched his face, alerting him of his presence.  “We’re getting out of here now.”  Two sets of hands pulled at the rope keeping him prisoner.  In a matter of minutes the restraints tumbled free, and Hutch felt the binding droop from his chest.  Released, he drew in a shuddering breath, the convulsive inrush of air immediately setting off a coughing spasm.  

 

“This way,” Grant ordered Starsky.  Picking up a chair, the older man hurled it through a side window, shattering the glass in one fell swoop.  Fresh oxygen raced into the room, cool and blissfully sweet.  Their appreciation lasted only a moment before it fed the flames, sending the fire leaping to the roof in a wood-devouring blaze. Turning, Grant clamped his hand over Hutch’s wrist.  Together, he and Starsky got the weaker man through the window and onto the rain-misted ground. 

 

Hutch crumbled as soon as they’d dragged him a safe distance from the cabin.