Given that I’ve been away from the fandom for so long, I couldn’t resist the urge to use Grant Hutchinson in a story again.  I’m a sucker for his up-and-down relationship with Hutch and his often antagonistic interaction with Starsky. 

 

This one is a bit darker than normal for me, and despite my pledge to write shorter pieces, over twice the length of Lunacy.

 

Much gratitude as always to my phenomenal beta reader, Theresa. Don’t know what I’d do without your meticulous eye looking over my stories and making them shine!  Any remaining goofs are mine.  I also have to extend thanks to KK, my mainstream critique partner, who valiantly offered up feedback and suggestions, despite the fact fanfic is an entirely different creature.  And an extra special thanks to my good buddy, Trish, who steered the story back on track when I was floundering at the beginning.  Her input helped me rework some of the darker threads into a comfort level I could live with.

 

In my S&H world, Color and Light would follow in sequence after The Jade Club.  I’ve got to dedicate this one to the memory of my late friend, Jane.  I’m sure she’s happily doing cartwheels, shrieking “I won! I won!” because I made Hutch get rid of his mustache. As someone who thinks he looks undeniably sexy in all four seasons (including his edgier look with mustache and longer hair) I really didn’t think I had it in me. My muse, however, decided it had to go and for the sake of the story, I conceded.

 

And then promptly put my foot down on that long, lovely hair!  Some things just aren’t debatable. *grin*

 

 

Color and Light

By Kate (CMT)

 

+++++

 

PART ONE:  RED

 

Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Raymond Mogue:

I struggle to see it, to grasp it but, as always, lack an appropriate affinity for the color red. I feel no heat, no flame, only a glaring absence for what might have been.  My patients see it, many of them taunted by its intensity, its sheer, vulgar passion. The law deems them incapable of determining right from wrong.  They have been labeled the criminally insane, locked away in windowless prisons and asylums, left to rot for their sins.  Sometimes I hear them screaming in my head.

 

Mostly, I hear only myself.

 

+++++

 

He hadn’t anticipated it being quite so dreadful.  He likes blonds, the intelligence report had said. Likes a responsive, intelligent listener when he talks.  Sometimes he gets mean and uses his fists or worse.

 

And so Hutch had found himself in the middle of an undercover assignment, going deeper than usual, posing in a role that grew increasingly difficult to maintain each time he came in contact with the eminent Dr. Raymond Mogue.   Initially, it had seemed fairly simple.  All he had to do was play the part of a young, down-on-his-luck hustler, willing to do anything for a buck. Six days ago, he’d thrown on a pair of crisply tailored black pants with a blue-striped tradewinds shirt and wandered into the Upper Shelf, a favorite club of Mogue’s.  It hadn’t taken long for the 50ish doctor to single him out and invite him for a drink.  He’d introduced himself as Ken Hagen, Mogue’s interest apparent from the start.  After three hours of whiskey sours and broad-based discussions covering everything from current events, literature and science to complex personality disorders, phobias and social behavior, he’d found himself with a foot in the door as Mogue’s paid companion.  

 

Nothing sexual, the intelligence report had assured.  Mogue likes head games and power trips.  Recently, he’s developed a fanatical obsession with asphyxiation. 

 

Grimacing, Hutch rubbed a hand over his bruised throat.  Stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the shower, eager to wash away the ugly taint of the last several hours.  He ducked his head under the water, groaning as the hot spray pummeled his back.  It made him want to melt into the water-slicked tile and forget the punishing grip of fingers wrapped around his neck.  There was something seriously wrong with a man, publicly revered for helping others, who privately took delight in games of strangulation.

 

Is it wrong?  Mogue had asked with a trace of unbalanced curiosity. Children play a similar game with scarves and belts, even their hands. I’m merely taking it one step further, past a dangerous high to a controlled level of experimentation.  That euphoria when the blood rushes back into your head . . . I promise you’ll never experience anything like it. Sheer Nirvana, Ken.  I can take you there.

 

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut.  He’d been asked to do a lot of things over the course of his career, but willingly setting himself up to be choked by a corrupt doctor was pushing the envelope.  The first time it had happened caught him completely by surprise.  After a night of discussing the impact of positive and negative stimuli on an individual’s emotional state, Hutch had awakened with a severe sore throat.  It had hurt just to swallow, the soft tissues lining his neck abnormally enflamed.  At first, he’d thought he was coming down with a highly aggressive strain of flu, but when he’d stumbled to the bathroom mirror he’d discovered a series of grisly blotches encircling his neck.

 

Just that quickly it came back to him  . . . surreal pieces of memory plucked at random like abstract images from a dream.  He remembered Mogue giving him a scotch and water, the psychiatrist intently lecturing on aberrant behavioral patterns.  It hadn’t taken long for the older man’s voice to filter into a drone, sucked down into a deepening spiral of white noise.  He remembered the glass slipping from his fingers, hitting the carpet with a soft thud . . . a flash of rose crystal against avocado, one half-melted cube of ice butting up against Mogue’s expensive Italian loafers. 

 

Head spinning, Hutch had crumbled into the sofa, his body limp and useless.  Drugged!  He could still feel a latent flicker of that repulsive horror.  He remembered Mogue beside him, telling him not to be afraid . . . that the pain would be brief, but the euphoria pure bliss.  He’d tried to move, tried to speak, but his body and mind had ceased to respond.  Trapped, he slumped against the cushions as Mogue unhurriedly rifled in his jacket pocket, removing a pair of black gloves.

 

He won’t soil his hands.

 

Even as Hutch had felt the leather-clad fingers wrap around his neck, the thought wormed into his sluggishly firing mind.  He tried to reason why it should be important, but there was only pain - - a fury of white fire in his throat, a wall of red-veined horror splayed on the inside of his skull.  He couldn’t breathe.  Chest heaving, lungs weeping for air, he fought for sanity, but even that eluded him as Mogue squeezed harder.  Then just when he thought the blackness would claim him, sweet air rushed into his throat, and his head reeled with a quickening rush of pure giddy sensation. 

 

He felt bliss and terror at once, the painful cocktail of emotion crashing over him with an intensity that left him gasping, choking for air. 

 

Mogue stroked his cheek.  “I promised you it would be sweet.”

 

They were the last words Hutch remembered hearing.  He recalled nothing more until he’d awakened in his own apartment the next morning.  After that, the spiral into darkness had come easier, faster.

 

He’d been undercover before; he’d even been in gritty situations, but he’d never felt compromised.  Just thinking about Mogue made him want to toss what little dinner he’d eaten. 

 

Realistically, he wouldn’t be taking such excessive risks if a woman’s life wasn’t on the line, if Metro’s investigation hadn’t already dead-ended at several different turns.  Even knowing that, he didn’t feel any less manipulated and controlled.  Sinking into darkness was a vile and steady defilement, the kind that slowly eroded a man’s soul, his sanity.

 

He lingered in the shower another ten minutes, soaking up the heat and humidity, the liquid caress of water gradually loosening his muscles.  Afterward, he toweled off, pulled on a pair of comfortable sweats with a black tee-shirt, then headed for the refrigerator and a beer.

 

Someone rapped sharply on the front door.  “Hutch?”  Starsky’s muffled voice floated through the intervening wood.  A second later, the knob turned and the dark-haired cop let himself inside.

 

“Hey.”  He lingered a moment on the threshold, hand still locked on the knob as he glanced across the room, making eye contact with Hutch.  “I called earlier.  How come you didn’t pick up?”

 

Hutch took a swig of beer, grimacing slightly as his bruised throat muscles contracted.  “I just got in a half hour ago.  Long night.  Help yourself to a beer.” He paced to the sofa, collapsing gratefully into the cushions with a sigh.  “Did I tell you Mogue’s headed out of town?” Thank God.  I need a break from this shit.

 

Ignoring the question and the offer for a beer, Starsky headed straight for the couch.  Bending, he slipped his fingers under his friend’s chin, tilting his face to the side.

 

“Starsk, don’t.”  Hutch moved to bat his hand away, but Starsky deflected the blow.

 

“He hit you?”

 

“It happens.”

 

Starsky brushed his fingers over the rising red welt on Hutch’s cheek.  “Bastard,” he muttered.  His eyes dipped to the laddering blotches on Hutch’s throat.  “Enough of this crap.  He’s gonna strangle you for real.  The man’s a raging psychotic - - a doctor who likes to play choking games with his victims.  I say you get your ass out while you still can.”

 

Hutch shoved his hand aside, leaning forward to brace his arms against his knees.  “I’m not a victim,” he said tightly.  He took another swig of beer. “Mogue pays me for every hour of disgusting fantasy I let him have, remember?  Cold cash in 100 dollar bills.  Besides . . .”  Bowing his head, he rubbed his temple.  “He’s heading out of town for a few days, so I’ll have a break from all of this.  Rocherty and Sullivan might have better luck picking up a trail on Helen Yardley if Mogue isn’t around to cry foul at every turn.”

 

Starsky’s brows drew together.  “Maybe.  Where’s the sick putz goin’?”

 

“He didn’t say.  Wherever a mentally disturbed psychiatrist goes to get away, I guess.”

 

Starsky gave a loud snort.  “You ask me, he needs to be committed.  The sooner, the better. The man’s a fucking sadist.”

 

“He a theorist, Starsk, searching for a mythical light . . . the ultimate Nirvana.  And it’s not always bad.”  Hutch waved the rebuttal aside.  “Most of the time, all he wants to do is talk . . . to discuss conjecture and opinion.  He’s only put his hands on me three times.  Mostly he just wants an audience.  He can be riveting and concise, other times he babbles.  I don’t know . . .”  He shook his head.  “It’s like he’s constantly treading a fine line between genius and madness.  As much as I hate to admit it, a lot of what he says about social conduct and learned behavior makes sense.  For Mogue, it all comes down to color and light.”

 

“Damn it, Hutch!”  Starsky wrenched the beer from his hand, forcibly plunking it on the coffee table.  “Don’t let this creep get under your skin.  I don’t care how fucking brilliant he is, he’s the prime suspect in two murders and a missing persons case.”

 

“With no hard evidence on any of them, just a lot of coincidence and speculation.”

 

“I don’t give a shit!  You’ve been walkin’ around in a damn fog ever since you started this assignment. That nutcase is sucking the life out of you like some kind of modern-day vampire.  You’re dumping this case in someone else’s lap, startin’ tomorrow. You ain’t the only blond cop in Metro.  This ghoul Mogue is messin’ with your head, not to mention the shit he’s doin’ to your neck.”

 

Hutch smiled faintly, unable to scrounge up any true anger. Starsky’s fierce protectiveness was intensely welcome after the ghastly night he’d had.  Maybe it was because Mogue had wanted to do more than just talk.  He’d used his fists, something he rarely did.  Afterward, he’d pulled a pair of black gloves from his back pocket, and Hutch had known exactly what was expected of him.

 

Strangely calm, he picked up his beer.  “Last time I looked, buddy, I was in charge of my own life.”  He felt mellow . . . all soothing lavenders and blues with a splash of silver slumbering underneath.  Odd, how he’d started to think in terms of color.  Mogue always talked that way when he went off on a spiel, vividly comparing divergent emotions to shades in a color wheel.  Early on, Hutch had learned the psychiatrist hated red. 

 

He’d made that clear at the very start.  Hutch wasn’t allowed to wear it around him or have anything in his possession that included a hint of the despised shade when he was with Mogue.

 

“An evil color,” the older man had said.  “All passion, heat and lust.  The carnal taint of blood.  I’ll have none of it.  Absolutely none.”

 

He was a difficult man, distinguished in his profession, particularly among his peers.  In that respect, Mogue reminded Hutch of his own father, but there the similarity ended.   As gifted as he was, the psychiatrist had an obscenely dark side that flirted with madness and self-torture.

 

And he had specific rules . . . Hutch had learned early on he was required to wear button shirts, always open at the throat, no jackets, hard-soled shoes with slacks, no jeans. After their second meeting, the psychiatrist had insisted he shave off his mustache.  Hutch could still recall the day he’d been summoned to the doctor’s private hotel suite, Mogue fixating on his mustache almost immediately.

 

“I don’t like it.  Get rid of it.  You’ll look younger without it.  But I want you to keep your hair long.  It reminds me of the Norse Thunder gods, the Scandinavian princes who ruled when the world was young.”  Tilting his head, he eyed Hutch openly as if considering a prized jewel.  “You have good bone structure, Kenneth.  Like royalty.” 

 

Rather than reply, Hutch sipped at his scotch, the liquor burning all the way to his gut.  His partner was seven stories below, sitting stakeout and listening through a hidden microphone they’d managed to plant earlier in the week.  Mogue owned a lavish estate, but he had a standing hotel suite that gave him anonymity away from his wife of twenty-plus years, the private playground bought with cold cash.  For her part, Carolyn Mogue stayed sequestered in their mammoth property, suffering from a debilitating illness.  Over the last several months, she’d grown completely reclusive as her condition deteriorated.

 

Hutch wet his lips.  “I’ll shave tomorrow.”  The mustache was trivial.  Janet had been after him to get rid of it anyway. Fortunately, his fiancée was in Arizona visiting her sister. Even if she weren’t in love with him, as a doctor she never would have condoned what he was doing.  He knew Mogue had the gloves in his pocket . . . that he always put them on before initiating the game.  Black against egg-cream flesh.  It was all about color. 

 

Hutch tried not to let his nervousness show.  “What do you want me to do?”

 

Cool, gray eyes studied him.  “For now we’ll just talk.”  Mogue headed behind his bar, fixing himself a second cocktail.  “I suppose some of my stick-in-the-mud contemporaries would term me a modern day Dr. Frankenstein if they knew how I spent my off hours, but I don’t see the harm in indulging, especially when I’m paying for it.  Juggling what I do on a daily basis, working with the criminally insane, requires a certain level of release.  I admit my diversions are edgier than most, but who can say what is truly acceptable?”

 

“Society,” Hutch countered. “We have laws, a code of ethics.  We’re not animals, Dr. Mogue.   From the moment we’re born, we develop a moral compass.”

 

“Set by learned standards.” Mogue dismissed the idea with a flighty wave of his hand.  “The world is a roadmap of moral ambiguity. Good people do bad things, bad people do good things. We measure values by society, a fallacy that implies the majority must be correct.  But what if the majority was comprised of individuals suffering acute psychosis? Would that change your perception of right and wrong, Kenneth? Would the sane be relegated to a state of delusional madness?  My patients see in emotions, but I see in colors.  Every person has a unique aura. When it comes right down to it, you and I have a contract, the same as any doctor and patient.  The difference is I’ve paid for certain services, and you’ve agreed to perform, regardless of any objections your conscience might raise.”

 

Perform.

 

His stomach clenched.  His head was spinning.  Sometimes when Mogue talked, he couldn’t think straight, the psychiatrist’s string of rapidly-firing thoughts sucking the life blood from his soul.  With the older man’s articulately commanding voice filling his head, he often forgot who he was - - his values, his essence.  It left him feeling empty, his emotions raw and exposed.  In the short span of their acquaintance, he’d already moved past resisting, to a numb kind of acceptance. Ugly as they were to suffer through, certain things were expected of him.    

 

Hutch swallowed hard, uncomfortable when Mogue’s eyes flicked to his neck.

 

“Do you know why I like blonds, Ken?”

 

He shook his head, uncertain if he wanted to trust his voice.  The two murder victims, one male and one female, had both been blond. A third potential victim, Helen Yardley, had been missing for six days. Her roommate said her hair was pale gold, sugared with streaks of snowy white.

 

Hutch watched as Mogue transferred two cubes from a silver ice bucket to his highball glass with a pair of engraved tongs.  The splash of whiskey that followed had him thinking in terms of color:  sienna and butterscotch, a melting amber sun over a field of ginger and bronze. 

 

“Skin is like a canvas,” Mogue said conversationally. “Blonds tend to be paler, their pigmentation lighter.  As a result, bruising is more pronounced, starkly dramatic.  I look at you and I see whiteness and light, all that’s fair and beautiful - - your aura, if you will - - but I see intelligence too.  I’ve known the women who’ve entertained me to be frail, the men to be noble.  Some don’t have the capacity for thought, only action, and I treat them accordingly.  You, in particular, are a refreshing change of pace.  I like an intellectual conversation as much as I enjoy the rush of physical power. That aside, there is something to be said for the base satisfaction of watching flesh turn color.  Do you understand?”  

 

Hutch felt the danger level in the room pop with agitation and decided to test the waters.

 

“You pay me to understand.  $200 an hour.”

 

The words were no sooner past his lips then Mogue cracked him hard across the face.

 

Hutch felt heat rise on the back of his neck, a sting of red sear painfully across his cheek.  Biting down on instinct, he flecked a dispassionate gaze to the doctor, his eyes the frigid blue of river ice.

 

Mogue took a deep breath, nostrils flaring as he made a visible effort to control his emotions.  “That was uncalled for, Kenneth.”

 

“A simple reminder, Doctor.  I didn’t realize it would upset you.  As it stands, I’m sure I’ll bruise.  That should be worth something to you.”

 

Mogue smiled thinly, appreciating his gall.  “I think we’ve wasted enough time chatting.”  He reached into his pocket, slipping out the black gloves.

 

Hutch felt his gut curdle.

 

“I can give you something if you want,” the psychiatrist offered.  “A few drops of a tranquilizer in your drink, like before, or a pill to help you relax.  I know you’re still fairly new at this - -”

 

“What happened to the others?” Hutch interrupted, unwilling to think of what waited around the corner.

 

Mogue’s shaggy brows crimped in a crease.  “Others?”

 

“The ones before me.  The women  . . . the men.  I’m not the first you’ve paid to entertain you.  To discuss theory and behavior and . . .” He forced the words past his suddenly dry tongue.  “ . . . to play your game.”

 

Mogue gave a soft snort.  “Certainly not, but I fail to see the importance.”

 

“Curiosity.”  Hutch dangled a string.  “I can’t place a color for it.”

 

That gave the older man pause.  The crease in his brow grew more pronounced, his eyes clouding with a brief flicker of uncertainty.  He hesitated in the act of pulling on a glove.  “Orange,” he decided at last. 

 

“A good match.”  Hutch struggled to control his breathing, knew his heart was beating out of control.  The thought of those long fingers pinching his neck had him recalling the sharp spike of pain, the restrictive agony of his lungs fighting for air.  “Bold, but wary.  Independent enough to plow ahead, cautious enough to sense there might be danger.”

 

“Excellent, Kenneth.”  Mogue smiled in approval.  “For that I will tell you the others eventually left.  A woman might whore herself to a man over and over again, but the threat and pain of strangulation makes even cash grow insignificant after awhile.  Sometimes they just never came back.”

 

Hutch wet his lips.  “The men too?”

 

“You make it sound like I’ve had legions of marks.  There have only been three others before you.”

 

Most dead.  He didn’t say it.  One missing.

 

“What does your wife think?”

 

“Carolyn?”  Mogue looked at him like he’d taken leave of his senses.  “You don’t seriously think she knows how I amuse myself?  She’s walled herself up in that house in a mantle of sickness.  We live in different worlds now. She was once so blonde, so fair, but she has no right to this part of me.  She never did.”  Abruptly stone-faced, he pulled on the other glove.  “I’m tired of talking.  Do you want the pills or not?  I have a narcotic that will have you floating inside of five minutes.”

 

“No.”  Hutch took an involuntary step backward.  It was bad enough facing what he was about to do, but there was simply no way he was going to swallow a handful of pills on top of it.  The first time Mogue had choked him, he’d been drugged.  While that had kept him docile and prevented him from fighting back, it hadn’t made him feel any less violated.  After what Forrest and Monk had done to him, he simply couldn’t abide the thought of being drugged again, one abuse as horrifying as the other.

 

“Have it your way.”  Mogue motioned to the sofa.  “Sit down, Hagen.  I’m weary of talk.”

 

He grimaced, not wanting to remember what followed after. 

 

Sensing his unease, Starsky sat beside him, sliding a hand onto his shoulder, squeezing lightly.

“Babe . . . talk to me.”

 

Hutch shook his head, reluctant to share his feelings, even with Starsky.  It was just too humiliating, forced to stay defenseless, unable to fight back when Mogue chose to hurt him.  He couldn’t rationalize his willing compliance and that was perhaps the most disturbing aspect of all. Yes, he was playing a game, assuming a role, but natural instinct should have made him belligerent, not gloomily passive.  Despite the voice in his head that told him not to, he’d been surrendering to Mogue all too easily.

 

“Starsk . . . I just want to forget about it for awhile.  My dad has that awards ceremony coming up in Vegas.  Rocherty and Sullivan are going to keep working all available leads on Helen Yardley.  Let’s take a few extra days and enjoy the time off, huh?”

 

Thankfully, the timing worked in his favor.  Grant Hutchinson was due to be honored for the advancements he’d contributed to the medical field over his long career.  A man who was renowned among his peers, who’d authored several books and countless articles, who routinely lectured on cutting-edge surgical techniques, Grant had been asked to accept a lifetime achievement award.  Members of the medical community from several states were expected to attend.  It was important for Hutch to be there, and he’d invited Starsky along.

 

“Sure.” Starsky slipped his hand behind Hutch’s neck, gently massaging. “We could use some time away, a chance to unwind.”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, tilting his head to savor the blissful infusion of warmth. The touch of his partner’s fingers chased away the lingering taint of his evening with Mogue.  Any other time, it would have been enough to simply appreciate Starsky’s concern, but he needed more.  With a low moan, he folded against his partner, tucking his face into the curve of Starsky’s neck. “I wish it would just go away,” he admitted regretfully.

 

“I know you do, babe.”  Starsky hugged him close, dipping his chin to Hutch’s hair.  His stomach clenched in a fist as the other man’s vulnerability washed over him.  He felt powerless, unable to help, resigned to waiting as Hutch played out a sick charade with Mogue.  It was time some of the other dickheads at the department stepped up to bat and did their share.  Hutch had been under a relatively short time, but his exposure to Mogue was exceptionally intense, both mentally and physically. Starsky wanted the chain snapped before it ended with Hutch face down in an alley, dead of strangulation like the other victims.

 

Both had been hustlers, one male, one female. Gallingly, though Mogue had been spotted with both and was the prime suspect in the case, there was no concrete evidence against him.  He’d been questioned and released.  The third victim, Helen Yardley, was still missing.  Hutch had gone undercover in hopes of discovering a lead to her whereabouts, fully aware he might be required to suffer through Mogue’s “game” himself.  Starsky feared if his friend wasn’t careful, he was likely to become victim number four.

 

“I’m gonna get you outta here, buddy.”  Starsky rubbed his arm, hugging him closer. “Take you to see your dad.  In two weeks, Janet’ll be home and you can curl up in bed with her for a night of mindless sex.”

 

Hutch gave a soft snort.  “Mindless?  Only a night?”

 

“Okay, Romeo, how about a week - - no interruptions, just the two of you wrapped up with a few bottles of champagne and an endless supply of whipped cream?”

 

“Better.”

 

Grinning, Starsky ruffled a hand through his hair.  “Only the best for my partner.”

 

+++++    

 

Starsky adjusted his tie, taking a moment to study himself in the bedroom mirror.  He’d never been comfortable in a tuxedo, but even he had to admit the rented ensemble fit like it had been tailored to his lean frame.  The sharp contrast of white shirt and black jacket against his dark hair magnified the blue of his eyes.  Too bad he didn’t have a date to dazzle with his charm. It almost felt like a sin to waste the impact of such a good tuxedo.  

 

Personally, the last thing he wanted to do in Vegas was attend a stuffy reception with a bunch of highbrow doctors and their spouses, listening to canned speeches and polite smatterings of applause. Grant wasn’t the only one being honored tonight, but he was certainly the most deserving.  As much as Starsky hated uppity ceremonies, he’d come to think highly of Grant Hutchinson, if for no other reason than Hutch had been under his father’s spell for as long as Starsky could remember.

 

Their relationship hadn’t always been steady or even agreeable.  As a child, Hutch had been cautious, even fearful of his disciplinarian father.  They’d had a cold, distant relationship that had remained that way through most of Hutch’s adult life.  Ironically, Hutch had gone out of his way, repeatedly trying to please his father, convinced nothing he did was ever good enough.  Grant had been short and sparse with his affection, a failing that only made Hutch try harder.  Wounded on the inside, he’d channeled his hurt into hostility rather than acknowledge the pain.  With the flip of a switch, Starsky had routinely watched his partner go from confident street cop to insecure and antagonistic son whenever Grant Hutchinson entered the picture.

 

But all of that had changed now.  Over the last two years father and son had found mutual ground, bridging the long-standing differences between them, eagerly making up for lost time. Whereas Grant had been remote, even critical of Hutch in the past, he’d grown visibly demonstrative and supportive, a man who’d undergone a radical transformation.  For his part, Hutch had progressed through triggered aggression and insecurity to open affection.  In the course of eight-plus years, Starsky had weathered the ups and downs of Hutch’s complicated relationship with his father, pleased to see both men emerge stronger in the end.

 

His own relationship with Grant had experienced peaks and valleys as he’d alternately butted heads and acted as co-conspirator with the upper crust doctor.  He hadn’t been so sure of Grant in the beginning, but no longer doubted the man loved his son unconditionally.

 

Irritatingly, it had taken Hutch a ridiculously long time to realize the same thing.

 

“What time is it?”

 

Hutch strode from the bathroom, adjusting his black bow tie. He hadn’t donned his jacket yet, the crisp white linen of his tuxedo shirt accentuating the platinum highlights in his hair.  His collar hid the darkening blotches on his neck, but the bruise splayed over his cheek was plainly visible.

 

Starsky glanced at his watch.  “Time to go.  Your mom and dad are probably already downstairs.  Your sister too.”

 

Grant and Adele had booked a room next door, but hadn’t managed much more than a brief hello earlier that day. Grant had been pulled in too many directions, meeting with colleagues, AMA personnel, the team that planned the banquet and so forth.  Though Hutch clearly understood his father’s public commitments, Starsky could tell his partner hungered for privacy and quiet conversation with the physician.

 

With a nod, Hutch snagged his jacket from the bed, wordlessly slipping into the fashionable garment. He looked tired to Starsky, the melancholy light of depression and fatigue mingling in his sky-colored eyes.  They’d flown rather than driven, Hutch sleeping through most of the flight, but Starsky knew his exhaustion went deeper, as much mental as it was physical.

 

“How ‘bout a drink?”  Starsky asked.  “We’ll grab something at the bar, then mingle with your folks.  It’ll help you relax.”  The worry in his voice was automatic, something he couldn’t mask even if he’d wanted to. 

 

Hutch nodded, fidgeting with his collar, his cuffs.  “Sure.”  His voice was soft, quieter than usual. 

 

Starsky watched his hands flick back to his collar, self-consciously tugging the crisp edge higher.  It had become a nervous twitch, something he’d done over and over that day, attempting to hide the grisly bruising underneath.

 

“I can’t see anything, Hutch.  Stop messin’ with it.”

 

“Yeah . . . okay.”  An uncertain glance, a final tug then Hutch filtered a hand through his long hair.  “Let’s just go, huh?   Hope they have something good for dinner.”

 

Starsky managed a smile, saddened to hear the forced casualness in his friend’s voice.  Together, they headed for the elevator and the top floor of the hotel where the glitz of a sky-domed casino attracted with flashing lights, shrill bells and whistles. Soaring to the sky, the glass ceiling left the glitter and flash of multi-colored lights and slot machines exposed to the heavens.  As they left the elevator, a cocktail waitress tottered past on four-inch spike heels, breathlessly hustling to make the next shift.  Behind her, a man in a white Stetson and topcoat strolled slowly, his arm hooked around a bottle-blonde, dripping with diamonds and sequins.

 

“Players and payers,” Starsky commented with a shake of his head.  He pointed toward the casino as he and Hutch veered left toward the main banquet room.  “We could check out the slots later, maybe try the blackjack table.”

 

“Sure, Starsk.  Whatever you want.”

 

He frowned, well aware Hutch wasn’t listening.  The response was automatic, his friend’s thoughts miles away, caught up in the sick cruelty of Mogue’s mind games and the need for Grant Hutchinson’s continued approval and pride.  It didn’t take a genius to know Hutch feared his father discovering the repulsive details of his most recent case.  How could the status-conscious doctor ever feel pride in his son, knowing Hutch had allowed himself to become a willing victim?

 

Aggravated, he shoved the thought aside.  After everything Hutch had been through lately, Starsky wasn’t about to let him muck up his relationship with his father.  If Hutch had been able to withstand learning Adele wasn’t his biological mother, he could certainly weather any bump in his constantly evolving relationship with Grant.

 

Chewing over the thought, Starsky trailed his friend into the banquet room.  It had been lavishly set with rounds of eight.  White linen tablecloths, polished silver and bone china gleamed beneath the fawning light of several massive lead crystal chandeliers.  A raised dais at the front of the room supported a podium, microphone and drop-down projection screen.  As Starsky watched, the latter cycled through random photos and news clippings of Grant, accumulated throughout his long career.

 

Hutch stopped just inside the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he studied the photos on the screen.  A feeling of immense pride washed over him - - pride that his father should be receiving such an incredible honor when men like Mogue had chosen to embrace darkness instead.  Swept up in the images, he stood silent, seeing his father as a young man, a middle-aged surgeon building his career, then later, settled into his fifties, his black hair touched by the faintest trace of silver.

 

A hand slid onto his shoulder, and he immediately flinched, uncomfortable being touched when he was unaware.  He had Mogue to thank for that. Shrinking from the contact, he jerked away.

 

“Ken?” Surprised distress bled through in Grant’s voice.

 

Hutch swallowed hard, troubled that he’d reacted so instinctively. “Dad.”  The last person he wanted to alienate was his father.  Next to Starsky, there was no one he trusted more, cherished more.  “I-I didn’t see . . .”  His voice faltered as he struggled to find a reason for his reactionary impulse.

 

“You feel tense.” Grant gripped his shoulder.  He let his fingers go further, feathering beneath the edge of Hutch’s long hair to stroke over the back of his neck.  Two years ago, the overly correct physician would never have considered touching him, that intimate contact something he couldn’t conceive initiating, and certainly not in public.

 

Hutch closed his eyes briefly, greedily soaking up the warmth and affection.  After the punishing crush of Mogue’s fingers, Grant’s casual touch shot through him like a blinding flare of sunlight.

 

At 6’3”, the older man was two inches taller than his son, his raven-black hair filtered with gray at the temples, his eyes the same pale blue.  He’d been a young father, only now 54, enjoying the best years of his life, both professionally and personally.

 

“I wish you’d tell me how you got this bruise.” Grant’s expression darkened, the same as it had earlier that afternoon when they’d managed to grab a brief ten minutes together. Frowning, he grazed his knuckles over Hutch’s cheek.

 

“Routine cop stuff,” Starsky said, saving his friend from rummaging up an answer.  He flashed a quick smile at the physician.  “I don’t see the Missus, Doc.  She leave you for the next best thing?”

 

Grant grinned, always appreciative of Starsky’s off-the-cuff humor.  “She’s off somewhere with Kelly.  It’s been difficult for Kell since her divorce came through.  This is her first real night out.”

 

Hutch grimaced, chagrined he’d been too focused on himself to appreciate what his sister was going through. After several years of trying to hold her marriage together, Kelly had ultimately given up, finalizing her divorce from Dr. Vince Blaney just six weeks ago.  She’d passed through the grieving process but still hadn’t settled into the idea of life as a single woman.

 

Divorced himself, Hutch knew he should have helped.  He’d been through it all with Vanessa . . . the ups and downs, in-betweens, and every should-of-could-of-would-of ever conceived.  He’d been close with Kelly all his life and felt bad he couldn’t pull it together now, when she needed him the most.  Her own marriage had crumbled while he was in the planning stages of a new life with Janet.  

 

The thought of his fiancée had him recalling the silken brush of her flesh against his, the sleek fall of her red-gold hair.  They’d made love on the beach the night before she’d left for Arizona, the roar of the ocean and a star-strewn sky wrapping them in music and mystery.  Hutch would have given anything to drown himself in lovemaking now, to forget the last few days and the ugliness that accompanied them.

 

Behind him, more and more people filed into the room, a few pausing to offer a brief hello to Grant before straying away to mingle.  Uncomfortable with the press of attention his father was receiving, Hutch drew back a step.  He was proud of Grant, but he was also out of his element - - a burned out, exhausted cop mingling with men and women considered the elite of their profession.  As much as he wanted to stand and applaud Grant, he also wanted to shrink into a corner and fade from view.

 

Like the color gray.

 

A flash of movement drew his attention across the room.   Curious, Hutch lifted his head.

 

And made direct eye contact with Dr. Raymond Mogue.

 

+++++

 

PART TWO:  BLUE

 

Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Raymond Mogue:

I feel it when I least expect it, lingering like a disease, as much lover as tormentor. Blue is for depression, a color that has haunted me since I was a child.  It hovers near, wrapped in the guise of a phantom, yet I know it is real.  My patients have moved past it into the realm of red and green, but I continue to hover, always uncertain, never sure of the path.  I look for the light but am blinded by color.  Always color.   Still, I hope for a deliverer.

 

 . . . praying Kenneth is the one.

 

+++++

 

Hutch balked.

 

For a second, his mind simply shut down, that impossible-couldn’t-be glimpse of Mogue sending his thoughts into turmoil.  “Fuck.”

 

“Double fuck” Starsky seconded, spying the psychiatrist at precisely the same moment.  “What the hell is that dirtbag doing here?”

 

“This isn’t happening.”  Hutch scrubbed a hand over his face.  Mogue had already spotted him and was making a beeline between the tables.  Nervous, Hutch spoke quickly to Grant.  “Whatever happens in the next few minutes, Dad, just follow my lead.  I’m not your son, tonight. My name is Hagen. Ken Hagen.  Got that?”

 

“What?”  Grant rounded on him, distracted.  “You’re not my - -”  His eyes flicked across the room, settling on the man who was fast approaching them.  “Ken, what’s going on?”  Just as quickly, he forced a smile on his face, extending a hand.  “Dr. Mogue isn’t it?  I’ve read your work on experimental behavioral techniques for patients with acute psychosis.”

 

Mogue shook hands, eyeing him with a clinical kind of scrutiny - - politeness with a predatory edge.  “Dr. Hutchinson, if I’m not mistaken.  Our esteemed guest of honor.  I see you know an acquaintance of mine.”  An unmistakable trace of possessiveness lingered in the tone as his gaze shifted to Hutch.  “Kenneth.”  He dipped a hand into his pocket, pulling out a blue poker chip to randomly rifle between his fingers.  A nervous twitch.  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

“I brought ‘im,” Starsky said quickly.

 

Mogue’s heavily-lidded gaze flicked over him in thinly veiled distaste.  “And you are?”

 

“Stanton.  I collect a percentage of everything Hagen brings in.  Let’s just say he wouldn’t have the connections he’s got to men like you, if it weren’t for me.  Follow?”

 

“Perfectly.”  Mogue’s eyes narrowed.  The chip stilled in his hand.  “But I still don’t understand what you’re doing here, Kenneth.”

 

“I requested him,” Grant inserted smoothly.

 

Hutch wasn’t certain if he wanted to curse his father’s stupidity or applaud his interference.  He wasn’t entirely convinced Grant had picked up on what was happening, but his father seemed determined to stick his nose in anyway. 

 

“You go where the money is, don’t you Hagen?”  Grant inquired silkily.

 

Hutch swallowed, parting with a curt nod.  He could sense the wheels spinning in his father’s head. Inwardly, he cringed, loathed to imagine the vile things Grant had to be thinking of him.  He knew the older man understood the necessity of undercover assignments, but that grudging acceptance didn’t mean Grant had to like them.

 

“I didn’t realize you had a taste for certain . . . diversions,” Mogue tossed at the surgeon.  “Is your wife here?”

 

“That’s hardly relevant.” Deliberately, Grant placed himself in front of Hutch, marking his territory.  “Perhaps you should find a cocktail, Dr. Mogue.”

 

Hutch wanted to sink through the floor, mortified to think he’d just been pimped to his own father.  He felt a slow boil in his blood and had to bite his tongue to keep from blowing his cover.  If it’s not already blown.

 

Mogue shot him a dark look.  “We’ll discuss our business relationship later, Hagen.  When the setting isn’t so public.”  His fist snapped over the chip, drove it back into his pocket.  Rather than fade into the crowd, he exited through the main doorway, purposefully heading toward the elevator.   

 

Hutch felt heat flame on his face as he rounded on his father.  “I can’t believe you did that,” he snapped once the psychiatrist was out of earshot.  “You have no idea what’s going on here.”

 

“True, but you’re going to tell me.  Now.”

 

There was a quarrelsome finality in Grant’s voice that made Hutch grow immediately defensive.  “It’s police business.”

 

“In which I just got involved.”  The older man swiveled his attention to Starsky, a hawk zeroing in on prey.  “David?”

 

“Whoa.”  Starsky held up both hands, taking one step backward.  “I happen to agree with your kid.  You’re not gonna like what he’s got his nose in, Doc. We’re up to our eyeballs in this mess, and there’s no easy way out.”

 

“I figured that.  The medical community has its own grapevine.  I’ve been aware of Raymond Mogue for several years, mostly through his research and work.  I don’t know him personally, but I’ve heard several disturbing items related to his private life.  Granted, they’re only rumors, and a man of his status is always a target for scandal and gossip.  In the past I’ve chosen not to believe what I’ve heard, but I can’t help feeling uneasy now.”  His eyes shifted to Hutch.  “Color and light.  It’s what he’s been chasing after all his life.”

 

Unable to hold his father’s gaze, Hutch looked away.  Nervously, he tugged at his collar.  “You’re about to get an award, Dad.  We can talk about this later.”

 

“We have twenty minutes until they begin seating for dinner.  I happen to know there’s a lounge at the end of the hall.  We’ll have fewer interruptions there.”  He motioned toward the door. 

 

When Hutch made no move to leave, Grant slipped a hand behind his back, applying pressure.  Realizing his father wasn’t going to relent until the issue was addressed, Hutch sent his partner a resigned look and headed for the lounge. 

 

Thankfully, it was mostly deserted, a middle-aged businessman sleeping off one too many drinks in the corner and two gray-haired women sorting through a stack of colorful brochures depicting local attractions.  The man was oblivious, the women suitably distracted.

 

Grant steered his son to a quiet corner, waiting for Starsky to join them before lowering his voice.  “All right.  Which one of you wants to tell me why Raymond Mogue is slithering around Ken like a serpent?  He obviously showed up for the awards ceremony tonight.  He may even be on the recipient list, but he certainly didn’t expect to find Ken here.  Or should I say Hagen?”

 

Hutch slipped a finger under his collar, tugging at the restrictive material.  Uncomfortable with the odd turn of events, he tensed, a trickle of sweat growing at the back of his neck.  He had hoped Vegas would give him a chance to put everything back in perspective, allowing him to blot out the heinous memories of the last week.  He’d looked forward to seeing his family, most especially his father, his relationship with Grant always a catalyst for the direction his moods took.  He’d come seeking solace without having to divulge anything but now felt only anger and shame to be caught with his back against the wall.

 

“I’m playing a role, Dad.  Nothing I haven’t done before.  We didn’t know Mogue would be here.”

 

“That’s obvious.”

 

“Look, Doc,” Starsky inserted with an air of impatience.  “We all know the guy’s slime.  Other than that, we can’t say much without jeopardizing our case.”

 

Grant frowned.  “I’m not asking you to spell it out, David.  It’s clear Ken is playing the part of a hustler and Mogue is paying him. Or was paying him.”  His eyes flicked to Hutch.  “What’s bothering me is a nasty rumor that’s been floating around involving a pair of black gloves.  I can’t believe you’d - -”

 

“Don’t.”  Shaken, Hutch looked away.  He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly sore.  Unconsciously, he massaged his collar, unaware his jerky movement exposed the angry blotches on his neck.

 

Seeing them, Grant swore. “I’m going to wring that bastard’s neck myself.”

 

“Dad.”  Realizing his blunder, Hutch clutched his father’s arm before Grant could storm off.   Part of him thrilled at the instinctive protectiveness of a man who’d once paid him no heed, the other part muddling through uncertainty.  Inside, it felt like he was falling apart.  Like the color peach . . . pale and unstable, easily crushed.  Despite that doubt, he spoke sharply, his voice laced with heat.  “Mogue hasn’t done anything I didn’t willingly let him do for the sake of this case.  I knew going into it what might happen, but we’re too close to blow everything now.   Starsky and I have two dead bodies on our hands and a missing girl who could still be alive.”

 

“So you’re next?”  Grant balled his hands at his side, his eyes flaring with anger.  “You want me to stand around and do nothing knowing that bastard is choking you?”

 

Hutch blanched.  He shot a nervous glance to the drunk, still snoring obliviously on a gaudy gold couch.  The women had left, taking their glossy brochures with them, the lounge otherwise deserted.  Troubled by his father’s hostility, Hutch raked nervous fingers through his hair.  It felt so much worse hearing Grant say it, to have him spell everything out in black-and-white.  It left him feeling defiled, sudden vulnerability overriding the hard edge he’d maintained. “D-Don’t make th-this worse than it is - -”

 

“The hell with it.”  Grant caught his arm, wrenched him a step closer.  “You want to do this to yourself , let some demented psychotic practically asphyxiate you  . . . who am I to stop you?  It’s never enough to be a cop, is it, Ken?  You always have to be a cop on the edge, the one pushing the envelope, the one taking the risks.  For what it’s worth, you’ve pushed too far this time.”  He shook his head, his face a mask of carefully controlled rage.  “I’ve had enough.  Don’t expect me to stand by, waiting to pick up the pieces.”  Curtly, Grant pivoted on his heel and left.

 

Shocked, Hutch stared after him.  It felt like the bottom had fallen out of his world.  He’d expected his father to be upset, but he’d never expected him to wash his hands of the whole affair, his son included.  The wound sliced through his heart, leaving him reeling off balance.

“He thinks I’m scum.  He thinks I’m as messed up in the head as Mogue.”  And maybe I am.

 

“He didn’t mean it,” Starsky said quickly.  Lightly, he touched his arm.  “He just needs to blow off some steam, buddy. The whole thing blindsided him, that’s all.  You’re his kid.  He can’t handle the idea of you gettin’ hurt, ‘specially not the way Mogue’s doin’ it.  ‘Specially not knowin’ you’re lettin’ it happen.”

 

Unsure, Hutch nodded.  He knew Starsky meant well, but nothing his friend said could override the disgust he’d felt emanating from his father.  His choice of profession had been the main sticking point between them in the past, and now it appeared to be rearing its ugly head again. 

 

It’s never enough to be a cop, is it, Ken?  You always have to be a cop on the edge, the one pushing the envelope, the one taking the risks. 

 

Is that what he did?  Was Grant ashamed of him . . . repulsed?

 

He felt sick in the stomach, confused.  Mogue had been in his head too long, twisting his thoughts into some kind of bleak acceptance pattern.  Little by little, he was losing the ability to think and reason for himself.  He knew what the psychiatrist did to him was wrong, yet he couldn’t seem to stop it from happening.  Nirvana.  Light.  Was it even out there?  Somewhere along the line his own thoughts had been eroded by Mogue’s obsessions. 

 

Color.  What was he feeling?  A pallet of blues overshadowed by murkier black.  No ribbon of light or ethereal streak of whiteness, only the entombing press of charcoal and gunmetal gray.

 

“Hutch?”  Starsky’s voice drew him back to the present.  “Buddy, you okay?”

 

He blinked, forcing aside the string of clustering thoughts.  Unconsciously, he rubbed his bruised throat.  “Yeah.  I’m okay.  I, uh . . .”  He stuffed his hands in his pockets, the acid in his stomach ripping through his nerves.  My father’s ashamed of me.  “I think maybe I’ll hit the casino.”

 

“Huh?”  Starsky gaped openly.  “Hutch, that awards thing is startin’ in ten minutes.”  He shot a quick glance at his watch, confirming the time.  “We gotta go grab our seats.”

 

“I’m not going.”

 

“What’dya mean you’re not going?  We flew all this way just so you could see your dad stand up and be honored by his peers.”  Starsky’s mouth compressed in a hard line.  “Look - - your old man’s rattled right now, but that don’t mean you get to act like a jerk with an unlimited pass.”

 

“Starsky!”  The name cracked out like a whip, Hutch’s composure snapping with it.  He knew he was making a mess of things, both with his partner and his father yet couldn’t seem to rein in his hostility or depression.  The last thing Grant needed was a son mired in darkness to stand beside him at a ceremony celebrating noble accomplishments.  His father deserved every well-earned accolade he received, and Hutch wasn’t about to spoil that for him. As much as he wanted to applaud his father along with everyone else, he felt he no longer had the right.

 

Grant didn’t want him there.   He’d made that plain only seconds ago.

 

For what it’s worth, you’ve pushed too far this time.  Translation:  I’ve lost respect for you.

 

I’ve had enough.  Don’t expect me to stand by, waiting to pick up the pieces.  Translation:  Sink or swim on your own.  I wash my hands of you and your repulsive career.

 

“Starsky.”  He said it calmly this time, forcing a breath of air through his lungs.  “My father doesn’t want me with him.  He couldn’t have made that plainer.”

 

“Damn it, Hutch, don’t be stupid.  That’s not what he said.”

 

“I’m being realistic.  Besides . . . if I go back in there now, I stand a good chance of blowing my cover.  Sooner or later someone’s going to make me as Grant Hutchinson’s son.  It’s better if I just stay out of it.  That way, I won’t ruin his evening or blow our case.”

 

Starsky looked at him levelly, his eyes intently blue.  “You’re serious?  You really think your old man feels that way about you?  That he’d just - -” Starsky snapped his fingers in the air. “ - -dump you like that?”

 

Hutch looked away, unwilling to answer.  A cold fist clamped over his gut.  It hurt so much more to hear someone else say it.  Why was it he never seemed able to please himself or Grant?

 

Starsky swore softly.  “You need your head examined, Hutchinson.  That whacked-out psychiatrist just set you back eight years with your dad, and I ain’t goin’ through that shit all over again.”  Angrily, Starsky gripped his chin and forced his head around.  “Stay here, you got that?”

 

Hutch shoved his hand away.  “I already told you, I’m going to the casino.”

 

“Fine, but you can cool your impatient ass a few minutes while I go break the news to your dad.”

 

“Starsky - -”

 

“I’m serious, Hutch.  Your old man deserves that courtesy.  It won’t kill you to wait here for me to get back.  Afterward, we’ll go to the casino or do whatever you want.”  He softened his voice, reaching out to lightly stroke his fingers over Hutch’s sleeve.  “Please, buddy.  I need you to cut me some slack.”

 

Hutch felt his resolve crumble.  It was easier to hold onto his bleak determination when Starsky was angry, but the beseeching tone of his voice had Hutch immediately conciliatory.  His lashes dipped, fringed with gold, and he swallowed hard, managing a short nod.  Starsky’s simple touch had sent a vibrant infusion of red rocketing into his grimly desolate world. 

 

Mogue was wrong. 

 

It wasn’t an evil color.  It was warm and thriving, full of heart-felt devotion, the devotion of his partner.  He wanted to wrap himself in it, engulfed by the protective affection of his friend. It was shield and cocoon, expertly crafted from loyalty and love.  God, Starsk, I need you to pull me out of this.  I feel like I’m drowning. I don’t have the words, buddy, but I need you.

 

Dipping his head to catch Hutch’s downcast gaze, Starsky spoke evenly.  “We okay, now?  You gonna wait here?”

 

“I’ll wait,” Hutch promised.  He flicked a worried sideways glance at his friend, a storm of emotion in his eyes.  If he was going to say it, it had to be now, fear be damned.  Even the strongest man succumbed to terror at the darkest stroke of night.  “I . . . I think I’m in too deep.”  He swallowed hard, forced to face the grim reality that had been hounding him for days.  “Starsk . . . I’m scared.”

 

“I know you are.” Starsky’s expression softened, the lines of his face melting into concern.  He cupped Hutch’s cheek, gently dragging his thumb over the bone, contouring a thin ridge of bruised flesh. “We’re gonna end it, babe.  I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.  You just sit tight till I get back, got that?”

 

Hutch’s lips curled with the ghost of a smile.  There was no one in his life who made him feel as unconditionally loved as Starsky did.

 

Sadly, at the moment, that included his father.

 

+++++

 

PART THREE:  GREEN

 

Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Raymond Mogue:

Of all the people I’ve known, Carolyn is the most inept at appreciating the myriad variables of green.  She simply cannot relate.  Jealousy, envy, petty emotions that have no room in life, she says.  I fear my wife is inhibited by a closed mind, incapable of understanding the scope of such raging passion.  For passion it is, of a righteous kind.

 

I have paid good money, showered Hagen with cash, opened his mind to intellectual pursuits, brought him to the brink of physical euphoria.  I have educated, cajoled, taught and introduced him to unimaginable pleasure. 

 

Granted, he is unique, the light within him utterly blinding, his trust and vulnerability almost as dominant as his courage and strength.  He is unlike any subject I have encountered before, wounding so very easily, the emotional and physical evidence unguarded in his remarkable eyes.    

 

I believe he is the one in which color and light will ultimately join together, but he has soiled that juncture, polluting our relationship by entertaining another. There is a physical resemblance between him and Dr. Grant Hutchinson that disturbs me - - one raven-dark, the other eternally fair, yet so similar in feature. I don’t understand it, but I know Hagen has taken money from the man regardless, selling himself for the sheer indulgence of cash.  I realize now our discussions meant nothing, the euphoria I showed him, a gift to be tossed away.  He used me, disgraced me, concerned only by what I could pay.  I cannot abide such deceit.

 

Worse, I will not stand idle and watch him sell himself to another.  He belongs to me.  Has always belonged to me, burned through the spectrum of color, by the purity of light.  He will pay for betraying me with Hutchinson. 

 

Nothing remains now but to take back what is mine.

 

+++++  

 

Hutch paced from the lounge into the hallway, his mind looping through depression and anger, back to depression again.  He hadn’t lied to Starsky - - the more he was exposed to Mogue, the more terrifying those encounters became.  It wasn’t that they grew more physical, only that Mogue’s hold on him festered ever deeper into his soul.  He felt contaminated, his mind no longer his own.  Sometimes in the middle of the night, he woke chilled to the bone, damp with sweat, dreaming of the psychiatrist’s hands around his neck.  If they didn’t end the case soon, he feared he would tumble into darkness for real.

 

Was it any wonder his father wanted nothing to do with him?  He was filthy, defiled, a cop who’d willingly sunken into a cesspool of sick head games and metered strangulation.  Had Helen Yardley done the same, selling herself for a few hundred bucks, never realizing she flirted with madness and death? 

 

He closed his eyes, tortured by the acid hole in his gut, unprepared when the soft tread of a shoe whispered behind him.  Caught off guard, he spied a glimpse of thinning dark hair, Mogue’s mouth set like the slash of a razor in the hard mask of his face.  

 

An arm clamped over his shoulder, rigidly holding him in place as a sweet-smelling cloth was forced over his nose and mouth.  He felt his head spin and struggled instinctively, Mogue’s grip surprisingly strong.  The noxious perfume seeped into his head, kicking alive his panicky fear of drugs.  He knew it wasn’t chloroform, but likely a derivative, just as potent.

 

The hallway spun into an elongated funnel, overhead lights leering down in glazed, fish-eyed distortion.  He moaned softly, crumbling backward into Mogue’s arms, unable to support his own weight.  A young couple rounded the corner, and he heard a muddied gasp of surprise when the girl spotted him.

 

“It’s all right,” Mogue assured them with a chuckle.  “Young fool just had too much too drink and needs some air.  Help me get him to the elevator, will you?  I can manage him from there.”

 

Hutch tried to protest, to say something, anything through the muffled cotton of his mouth.  The drug-soaked cloth was gone, stuffed back in the psychiatrist’s pocket.  His brain wouldn’t function, misfiring every time he tried to match speech to thought.  “‘Mmmm not . . . drunnn,” he slurred.

 

“Quiet now, Ken” Mogue hushed him, not unkindly.  “These nice people are going to help us.  You’ll feel better once you sleep it off.”

 

Hutch felt hands grip him under the shoulders, was vaguely aware of a young man with reddish-brown hair, a slender girl with anxious green eyes.  “He looks really sick,” she worried aloud.

 

“Just ‘till he pukes it up,” her date joked with a snort of laughter. 

 

The next thing Hutch knew he was inside the elevator, supported by Mogue.  The door glided shut, sealing him off from potential help. Clumsily, he reached for the emergency phone, the panel of lights next to the door blurring into a kaleidoscope of dancing circles. His fingers barely made contact, hanging useless in the air.

 

Mogue slapped his hand away.  “I’m not ready to hurt you yet, Kenneth.  Don’t fight me and I might be lenient.”  He pushed a button on the panel, sending the cart lurching into motion.

 

Hutch groaned as a sharp wave of nausea ripped through him. Weakly, he tried to shove away, swallowing convulsively to choke back bile. 

 

Mogue tightened his grip, clamping an arm around his waist.  “Bend forward, it’ll help.  If you get sick on me, Hagen, you’ll live to regret it.  I’m not going to drag you, so stay on your feet.  I want you conscious.” 

 

“Cop,” Hutch managed through the fog in his head, the throbbing agony in his stomach.  He tried to turn but the elevator blurred, stretching and contracting like a funhouse mirror.  Mogue’s face bobbed in and out of focus, a garish clown head suspended on invisible wire.  “Cop,” he said again. “’m a cop.”

 

Mogue snorted.  “Sure you are.”  With a single yank, he unraveled Hutch’s tie, popping the top two buttons of his shirt.  He rubbed a hand over Hutch’s throat, openly toying, pinching folds of already bruised flesh between his fingernails. “No cop would let me do this.”

 

Hutch grimaced, hating how incapacitated he was.  His limbs were practically useless, his head reeling with waves of vertigo. The nausea made him shiver and sweat at the same time, fat drops of perspiration clinging to his bangs.  Mogue’s touch sent an icy bolt of fear rocketing to his gut.  “Grant . . . Hutchinson . . . my father,” he rasped.  The elevator dinged, wrenching to a delayed stop, nearly buckling him to his knees.

 

Mogue hoisted him up, his limbs as useless as a rag doll’s.  “You look like him,” he agreed.  The door opened, and Mogue dragged him into a service hallway, up a short flight of painted concrete steps.   He stumbled, tripping and banging his knees, the jolt setting off a fierce clanging in his head.  A draft of chill air seeped across the floor, tightening the cold knot in his stomach.  He felt a hand fist in the back of his jacket, brutally tightening the material across his shoulders.

 

“You were going to be special!  Different!”  Mogue spat. The psychiatrist wrenched him to his feet, hurtling him face forward against a closed door. 

 

Hutch fell into the crash bar and it spilled open, tumbling him into the darkness beyond.  Once more he lost his footing, sprawling to his hands and knees.  He heard the sudden rush of muted traffic, felt a biting sting of cold air across his face. He was outside, the short trip in the elevator telling him it had to be the roof.  Anxious to confirm his theory, he tilted his head back, watching a star-strewn sky reel overhead.  Off balance, he swayed to the side.  

 

“Get up.”  Mogue gripped his jacket again, ruthlessly propelling him forward. 

 

The drug made him clumsy, sent him sprawling against a knee wall of concrete where he lay panting, his arms wrapped over the top for support.  His head pounded mercilessly, but the pain was nothing compared to what he knew Mogue had planned for him. Trapped in a nightmare, he squinted against a dizzying pulse of neon lights spread three floors below.  Somewhere through the haze in his mind he realized he was looking down through the curving glass of the skydome to the casino. The flash and glitter of lights speared into his head, sending his already shaky equilibrium careening off balance.  With a groan, he folded one arm over his stomach and leaned into the wall, panting through his mouth.

 

“You understand why I brought you here, don’t you?” Mogue asked behind him.

 

He turned, twisting his neck to glance over his shoulder.  He could barely think, barely see through the mutinous throbbing in his temples. 

 

Then Mogue’s fist cracked over his cheek, snapping his head to the side, and the night swallowed him whole.

 

+++++  

 

Starsky strolled into the banquet room on a preset mission: lay the facts out to Grant, let the idiot doctor sort through the usual complex mess he’d made with his kid, then get back to Hutch.   His partner’s quiet admission - - Starsk, I’m scared - - had frightened the crap out of him.  From experience, he knew Hutch had a vulnerable side, but it rarely exhibited itself on a case.  They’d both been on the streets too long, seen too much to allow their emotions to take center stage.  Almost from the start of the highly disturbing case, Hutch hadn’t been himself.

 

He’s in too deep.  Never shoulda set himself up as a target in the first place.  Stupid blond needs to remember he’s not infallible.  When it gets too dicey, he’s gotta haul his dumb ass outta there, pronto.

 

“David.  We wondered where you were.  The reception will be starting soon.”

 

Starsky blinked, realizing he’d somehow allowed himself to be cornered by Adele Hutchinson.  “Uh . . .”  Stumbling to put his thoughts in order, he shot a quick glance through the room, scanning for Grant.  Most of the tables were full now, a few people still milling about in quiet conversation or lining up for a drink at one of several bars.  As the guest of honor, he expected to find Grant near the dais and wasn’t surprised when he spied the physician talking with another man just off to the side.  “It’s always good to see you, Adele.”  He took her hand, masking his anxiety with a perfectly charming smile.

 

If he wasn’t in such a rush to get back to Hutch, he would have stayed and chatted with her.  Slim and dark-haired, she was elegant and poised, a true picture of quiet grace.  He’d always been a little in awe of her beauty and refinement, finding her as cultured as royalty yet as refreshingly down-to earth as his own mother.  Even when he’d thought the worst of Grant, he’d always held a soft spot in his heart for Adele Hutchinson.

 

“Hi, Dave.  Where’s that long-haired brother of mine?”

 

The smile stayed in place as he shifted his attention to Hutch’s sister, Kelly.  Caught off guard, he did a double take, used to seeing her in baggy sweaters and jeans.  She looked positively stunning in an off-the shoulder violet dress, the silky color enhancing the cool floral shade of her eyes.  She wore her raven hair long, tumbling over her shoulders in a straight, glossy cascade. Not for the first time he thought Vince Blaney was a colossal ass for letting her get away.

 

“Uh, hi Kell.”  What was he going to say? Your moron brother and your equally moronic father had another one of their stupid misunderstandings and now Hutch is convinced he’s dirt? “He’s, uh . . . he’s just off using the bathroom.”  That wasn’t going to fly - - not when his mule-headed partner failed to show up for the entire three-hour function - - but at least it got him off the hook temporarily.  “Excuse me, ladies.”  Another flash of his patented smile and he bowed out gracefully.  He was halfway to the front of the room when he caught Grant’s eye and flagged him off to the side.

 

Impatient, the doctor shot a curt glance to his watch as he joined him.  “Dinner is going to begin any minute now.  Where’s Ken?”

 

“Waiting for me in the lounge.”  There was no smile this time, just a flat finality accompanied by the darkest glare he could manage.  “We’re gonna spend the night pullin’ slots and flippin’ cards.  Your kid’s convinced you don’t want him here.”

 

“What?”  A swift stab of disbelief, chased by immediate anger, swept over Grant’s face.  “Of all the boneheaded, idiotic - -”

 

“You weren’t exactly supportive back there,” Starsky cut him off, though he couldn’t help secretly agreeing with Grant’s assessment. “I’m gonna raise you on the insults, Doc.  How ‘bout I toss in dumb-assed, dim-witted, stick-up-his-butt-stubborn, and see if we can’t get a match.  You two lunkheads have always been a pair in my book.”

 

“Starsky.” 

 

Not David.

 

A red flag snapped to attention in his head. Grant only called him by his last name when he was dangerously perturbed.    

 

“I will not have you lecture me about Ken’s welfare.  Do you seriously expect me to condone the fact he’s letting someone deliberately hurt him?  Did you see his neck?  Did you look at what that sick bastard Mogue did to him?  And you want me to emotionlessly chalk it up to being part of his job?  Sooner or later there has to be a line he’s unwilling to cross.”

 

“He’s got plenty of lines, Grant.”  Two could play the name-game.  “But he’s only got one father, and right now you’re pushing all the wrong buttons.  He doesn’t want to ruin your evening.  He didn’t even want me comin’ back in here.  I just thought you deserved to know why your kid isn’t gonna be around to see you get your award.  Enjoy it, huh?”  He started to turn away.

 

“David, wait.”  Irked, Grant pinched the bridge of his nose, much the way Hutch did.  “Damn it.”  Frustrated, he drew in a breath.  “Give me a minute to tell Adele I’m ducking out.  She may need to cover until I can get back.”

 

Intrigued, Starsky raised his brows.  “Let me get this straight - - you’re blowing off your own awards ceremony?”  His face split with a broad grin.  It sometimes took awhile, but he was usually adept at getting both Hutchinson men talking when their communication channels broke down.  Grant tended to be the easier to reason with, his overly sensitive partner annoyingly stubborn when he was hurt. “So what’re you gonna tell your wife?”

 

“The truth,” Grant said evenly.  “That my son needs me.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky’s initial reaction when he strode into the lounge and found it empty was to curse his missing partner.  “Never can do what I ask him to,” he groused, turning to face Grant.  “Stubborn cuss probably already headed to the casino.”  

 

He was ready to suggest they do the same when he spied a blue poker chip just outside the doorway.  Stooping, he plucked it from the floor, rotating it between his thumb and forefinger. “Mogue was a fiddlin’ with one of these the whole time he was talkin’ to us.”

 

Grant spared it a distracted glance.  “David, it’s a poker chip. Half the people on this floor probably have one stuffed in their pocket.”

 

“Yeah, but half the people on this floor don’t have a beef with Hutch.”

 

Grant hedged, the observation catching him off guard.  He’d clearly wanted to dismiss it as nonsense but found himself unable to shelve the logic.  Troubled, he looked from the chip to Starsky, his face tightening with worry.  “You think Mogue - -”

 

“I wouldn’t put anything past that certified nutcase,” Starsky cut him off.  He snapped his fist over the chip and strode in the direction of the elevator, looking up and down the hall for a sign of his missing partner.  The high pitched whir of clanging bells and whistles drifted from the casino, meshed with a jumbled din of voices and laughter.  He found himself irrationally irked others could be having fun when his panic-meter had lurched into overdrive.  He wanted the world to come to a grinding halt.  His partner, the man who meant more to him than any other in life - - who was closer than his own brother  - - might be hurt, in serious jeopardy.  The hell with blackjack, slots and awards ceremonies.   The only thing that mattered was Hutch.  His fair-haired friend might be maddeningly willful, but he was sensitive too.  He wouldn’t have just left, not after Starsky had gone out of his way, earnestly asking him to wait. 

 

Frowning, he bit his lip.  At the opposite end of the hallway, the doors of the banquet room had closed, signaling the start of Grant’s awards dinner and reception.  Could Hutch have changed his mind and wandered back, anxious to see his father honored?   Starsky knew Grant’s stinging rebuttal had hurt him, but it didn’t change the fact Hutch remained inordinately proud of the surgeon.  He would have wanted to see Grant get that award - - somehow, someway.  It had ripped him up emotionally to think Grant didn’t want him there.

 

Stupid idiot!  Now he’s got me messed up in the head, second guessin’ him.

 

He felt Grant come up behind him and was about to lash out at the physician for causing such a ridiculous misunderstanding in the first place, when his attention was snagged by a young couple across from the elevator.  Seated on a padded bench, the man was rummaging through his pockets, the girl waiting with an air of bored impatience, one hand propped to the side, holding an unlit cigarette.

 

“Need a light?” Starsky asked.

 

“Oh, thanks.”  The girl brightened considerably, smiling as she tossed back a short bob of brown hair and lifted a Virginia Slims to her lips.

 

Starsky flung Grant a sharp glance.  Your cue, Doc.  From experience, he knew the physician always carried a cigar lighter.

 

Looking as distracted as he had a minute ago, Grant nevertheless obliged. “Have you been here long?” he asked, his mind clearly on his missing son.  As frustrating as he could be at times, Starsky had to admit that when it came to Hutch, the surgeon’s heart was always in the right place. 

 

“A few minutes,” the girl replied.

 

“We’re taking a break from the casino,” her boyfriend chimed in.

 

“Fun, huh?”  Starsky forced a smile.  Vegas had ceased being fun the moment Raymond Mogue had waltzed into the banquet room.  “Hey, we’re lookin’ for a friend  - - guy in a tux like us.  Tall, blond-haired, on the lean side.  Any chance you saw him out here a few minutes ago?”

 

“You mean the drunk?” the guy piped up.

 

“Craig, don’t be rude.”  Embarrassed, the girl elbowed him in the ribs.  She took a quick drag off the cigarette, composing herself before replying.  “He didn’t mean it that way,” she apologized.  “It’s just we saw this guy and his friend said he’d had too much to drink.”

 

“Friend?” Grant prodded.

 

Her eyes shifted to the physician.  “Yeah, dark-haired guy . . . older.  He was wearing a tux too.  He said Ken - - that’s what he called him - - had too much to drink and he needed some air.”

 

“Shit!”  Starsky’s curse was heated and swift.  “Where’d they’d go?”

 

His rapid change in personality left her flustered.  “I-I don’t know.  We helped them to the elevator.  Your friend Ken couldn’t even stand up on his own.”

 

“Hey, man, don’t blame us ‘cause he tossed down one too many,” Craig snapped angrily, expecting a fight.

 

“Forget it.”  Starsky waved his frustration aside, unwilling to waste valuable time explaining or arguing.  Mogue had Hutch, somehow managing to incapacitate the younger man.  From the sound of it, he had no intention of letting him go.  The last two hustlers he’d crossed paths with had ended up facedown in an alley, their throats crushed.  “Did you see what floor he pushed?”  Starsky drilled the couple.  “Did the other guy take Hutch - - Ken - -” He shook his head, aggravated he couldn’t get the name right.  “Did he take Ken to the lobby?”

 

“Don’t get so bent out of shape.” Craig snapped, growing defensive as Starsky’s agitation ratcheted higher.  “He was wasted.  The old guy was just trying to help him.”

 

“Answer him!” Grant ordered.

 

This time Craig came to his feet.  “No, I didn’t fucking see!  Shit. You try to be a good Samaritan, do a guy a favor - -”

 

“He took him to the roof,” the girl interrupted quickly.  She stood too, her eyes flicking worriedly between Starsky and Grant.  Unlike her boyfriend, she seemed to sense their hostility was rooted in concern rather than aggression. “I remember noticing the ‘up’ button was lit when the elevator closed.  I thought it was weird because the only thing above the casino is the roof.  I just thought maybe the old guy was afraid your friend wouldn’t make it down to the lobby, so he took him up there for some air.”  She smiled nervously, sucking on the cigarette.  “Things happen in Vegas, you know?  Your friend is young and good looking, and you know how that goes.  I thought maybe we should just stay out of it.  If there was trouble, I figured he’d bought that ticket on his own.”

 

“Good Samaritan,” Starsky scoffed.  He didn’t need to hear any more.  What he’d heard already left him sick in the gut, his blood curdling in disgust. He darted for the elevator, Grant on his heels.  “So basically they were just gonna turn a blind eye - - let Hutch get rolled, worked over, fucked.  The guy didn’t give a shit and the girl wanted nuthin’ to do with it.”  Incensed, he punched the ‘up’ arrow.

 

“Forget it,” Grant snapped, his face tense and white.  “Why the roof?” 

 

“Open.  Deserted.  Who knows?  The S.O.B. has obviously crossed over the edge.  He must have drugged Hutch or knocked him out.”

 

“Drugged,” Grant countered.  “Those kids would have noticed if he was completely out.” 

 

“Those kids don’t give a shit.”  Impatient, Starsky jabbed the button repeatedly.  “Screw this.  Maybe we should take the stairs.” 

 

“Too far. They’re on the other side of the hall.” Grant pointed the way.

 

Starsky followed his direction, looking toward the casino. “That’s it,” he said, struck by the dazzling glitter of light and sound spilling from the gaming establishment.  In a flash, it clicked together in his head like the final piece of a puzzle.  His heart pounded faster making him realize Mogue had truly crossed a line of no return. “The whole freakin’ casino is under a skydome.”  He pointed toward the ceiling. “Think what it must look like from the roof.”

 

“Color and light,” Grant said, making the same connection. He swore viciously.  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.  “If he’s hurt my son, I’ll make certain he rots in darkness for the rest of his miserable life.”

 

+++++

 

PART FOUR:  BLACK

 

Excerpt from the journal of Dr. Raymond Mogue:

I no longer know my own name.  I embrace sensation, willingly bowing to the throne of visceral awareness.  I feed on the entity that resides within me.  I shall call it Black for lack of anything better, its presence so strong, I fear light will never breach it.  It makes me what I am - - avenger, punisher, killer.  It is a role I have assumed before, driven to that end by unjust circumstance, the punishing demands of a callous society. I make no excuses, only accusations.

 

She understands.  She has come back on several occasions to assure that I am forgiven, my actions pure, my motives justified.  She visits when the night is at its darkest.  There are times I feel she never left and I wonder if they are only dreams.  She knows I did it for her as much as for me. 

 

And for both of us . . . for our sanity and our love, our endless Nirvana, I will kill again.

 

 I will kill Ken Hagen.

 

+++++

 

Hutch groaned, waking to a brutal crush of awareness.  He lay curled on his side, his cheek pressed to the cold concrete of the roof.  It throbbed where Mogue had hit him, the skin split apart, sticky and clotted with dried blood.  His head ached, throbbing with searing needles behind his eyelids, a lick of hot fire in his temples. Nausea speared deep into his gut, resurrecting the sickening memory of a drug-soaked cloth clamped over his nose and mouth.  His legs felt useless, weighted with lead, his arms equally unresponsive.  He shifted, attempting to move, and was rewarded by an immediate flare of pain in his forearms.  With a start, he realized his wrists had been lashed together with a bright red scarf. 

 

The hated color.  Despised and evil, according to Mogue.    

 

The psychiatrist had stripped him of his tuxedo jacket, his starched white shirt open and gaping at the throat.  Easier for choking.  Had Mogue moved past the game into the violence-crazed realm of actual killing?  The two hustlers they’d found face down in an alley had both been sadistically strangled, the marks on their necks indicating they’d been killed by a knotted strip of fabric. From the fibers found embedded in their flesh, the medical examiner had concluded the murderer used silk on both occasions. 

 

A chill wind blew across the rooftop.  Hutch shivered in the grip of cold air, distracted by the strobe and flash of the casino below.  A kaleidoscope of color danced on the windows of the skyscraper directly across from him, trapped and reflected in night-blackened glass.  

 

“Dr. Mogue?”  His voice felt rusty and unused, his mind muddled and molasses-slow. From the corner of his eye he spied the man’s pant leg, the gleam of starlight reflecting off his polished leather shoes.

 

“He’s left,” a high pitched voice replied. Mogue strode into Hutch’s view, his movement fluid, strangely effeminate for a man. He walked as if he wore a woman’s high heels, his posture precise, the set of his mouth markedly prim. A long red scarf dangled from his fingers, knotted every few inches to form balls the size of nickels. 

 

Hutch could already imagine those knots digging into his neck, choking the air from his lungs. There would be no stopping this time.  No letting the blood rush back into his head until he crumbled, wheezing and gasping.  He wasn’t ready to die.  By comparison, the game of domination and power they’d played seemed trivial.  He wet his lips, feeling the first frigid lick of terror.  “Doctor - -”

 

“Carolyn,” the psychiatrist corrected in that same shrilly womanish voice.  “My name is Carolyn Mogue.”

 

The doctor’s wife. 

 

Hutch’s mind raced as he struggled to sort through a muck of confusion.  He tugged on the scarf binding his wrists, nausea riding over him like a wave.  His breath quickened, and he swallowed hard. 

 

Had Mogue actually degenerated into a state of twisted psychosis, so acute he’d assumed the identity of his wife?  Hutch knew about split personalities, but he’d never encountered anyone suffering from the disorder.  It was eerily disturbing watching Mogue move, everything about him so unlike the icily commanding man Hutch had come to know.   

 

“I’m a cop,” he said huskily.  “Don’t do this, Dr. Mogue.  I can get you help.”

 

“I told you, Raymond isn’t here.”  There was clipped irritation in the voice now.  Mogue wrapped the scarf around one hand, letting the tail dangle against his leg.  With a perturbed hiss, he grabbed Hutch by the shirt, wrenching him upright, forcing his chest over the half wall.  Three stories below the skydome reeled dizzily, pulsing and flashing like the spinning top of a carnival merry-go-round. 

 

“Do you see it?”  The psychiatrist crouched beside him.  Despite the feminine lilt of his voice, his grip was strong, rigid as iron. “A rainbow of color . . . a constantly turning wheel of emotion. I hate red . . . always the red.  She killed herself with it,” He sounded like Mogue now, his voice normal but strained with a vicious edge.

 

Unable to support himself, Hutch slumped heavily against the wall.  The drug was still affecting him, turning the flash of light and color into a spray of shooting stars.  He narrowed his eyes against the glare, trying to block the painful stab. It splintered into his head, made the ground tilt madly off balance, his stomach pitching and rolling like the deck of a sea-tossed ship.  “I-I don’t understand.”

 

“She was sick,” Mogue hissed.  “Suffering.  I couldn’t watch any longer, day after day of listening to her whimper and moan.  Always complaining, always crying, never grateful for what comfort I could give.  One night when she slept, I grabbed her red scarf from the closet, wrapped it around her neck and ended her misery.”  He twisted the fabric in his hand, knotting it like he was preparing to wrap it around Hutch’s throat.  “Nirvana.  Bliss.  I made sure she felt it before she died.”

 

Hutch shivered in the chill air.  Thirty stories above the strip, he felt exposed to the heavens, the open lash of wind as cruel as it was cold.  Mogue’s hand was hooked around his neck, the thumb lightly riding the pulse point in his throat.  “You killed your wife?  She’s dead?”  He couldn’t keep the shock from his voice, his mind reeling at the revelation.

 

Unfazed, Mogue stared straight ahead, his eyes vacant. “Raymond doesn’t understand.”  It was the woman speaking again - - Carolyn. “I had to kill them.  A man of his stature can’t be caught playing such repulsive games, especially not with men and women who sell themselves so cheaply.”

 

“You killed them?”  Hutch’s heart beat faster.  “The others who played the game with  . . . with your husband?”

 

“Of course I did.”

 

“What about Helen Yardley?”  He was shivering now, trembling with cold and the punishing effects of the drug as it slaked from his system.  Unable to hold himself upright, he sagged against the wall, the color-splashed dome of the casino spooling below.

 

Mogue tightened his hand around Hutch’s neck, deliberately rubbing his thumb into the recessed hollow.  It was a display of force, of power.  “She’s still alive . . . in the attic of our house.  I’d kill her, but Raymond won’t let me.  Not yet.  You distracted him . . . so young and perfect, blessed by light.”  His eyes glittered fiercely, fired by madness.  “You wound so very easily, Kenneth, even if you don’t know it.”

 

Hutch ignored the taunt.  Alive.  Everything he’d put himself through, every wretched horror he’d embraced for the last several days had been worth something after all.  Helen Yardley was still alive.  His stomach tightened in a cold fist as a new and brutal realization washed over him - - Raymond Mogue wasn’t the killer.  The psychiatrist was sick and twisted, playing head games, enjoying torture, but after killing his wife, he’d grown incapable of committing the same crime over again.  Something inside him had snapped. 

 

It was why he despised the color red - - a hated reminder of his sin. In order to kill, he had to assume the identity of the woman he’d murdered.  It was how he justified his actions.  There was no question he’d slipped into insanity, probably years in the past, but in the persona of Dr. Raymond Mogue, he wasn’t a killer.

 

“Carolyn?”  Hutch spoke softly, trying to reason. He fought to keep a tremor from his voice, the lash of the wind making his teeth chatter with cold. “I need to speak to your husband, Carolyn.  Please . . . will you call him for me?”

 

Mogue looked at him with disturbingly blank eyes.  He tilted his head, his thumb never stopping its steady caress against Hutch’s throat.  “All I have to do is press,” he whispered.  “Amazing, that a single touch could bring you so much agony.”  Little by little, the pressure increased - - harder, faster.  Still Hutch didn’t move, afraid to speak, terrified of breaking the spell.  He kept his gaze locked on Mogue, the savage pressure bringing tears to his eyes.  

 

“No.”  At last, Mogue gave a clipped shake of his head.  “You don’t want Raymond.  You just want me to go away.  You don’t care about my husband.  You want me to stop hurting you.  To think Raymond thought you were the one  - - the one who could chase the pain from his head and talk him into the safety of silence where the voices didn’t scream and accuse.  Always accusing.  He so wanted to see light in you, but you corrupted yourself with that man - - Grant Hutchinson.”  The thumb dug into his neck, grinding against the pulse point.  “You took money from him.”

 

Hutch gasped, choking for breath.  “My father,” he wheezed.

 

The hand fell away and he pitched forward, folding against the roof.  His stomach convulsed with a sticky wave of sickness and hastily gulped air.  It pushed a hot crest of blood into his head, dragging him one step closer to passing out. 

 

Steely fingers clamped onto his arms, forcing him onto his back. Looming above him, Mogue straddled his hips and drove a fist across his cheek.  With what limited strength he had remaining, Hutch fought to twist free.  He heard the hollow din of distant laughter, felt fingers in his hair. The psychiatrist was babbling now, talking nonsensically about light, death and pain. Dazed, Hutch tried to strike back, but a second, fiercer blow clipped his jaw. Before he could recover, the red scarf was twisted around his neck.  Mogue tightened his grip, savagely forcing the knotted fabric into his throat.

 

Light exploded in his head.  He choked for air, twin forks of agony splintering down his neck.  Desperate, he linked his hands together, still bound at the wrists, and drove the double-fisted blow into the side of Mogue’s head.  Unseated, the psychiatrist toppled backward.

 

Hutch kicked free, lurching halfway to his feet.  A sharp draft of air ripped into his lungs, bending him double at the waist.  He staggered, dropping to his hands and knees before collapsing face down on the concrete.  Greedily, he gasped for air, the passage of fresh oxygen a spike of raw fire in his throat.

 

Mogue grappled him from behind, wedging a knee in the small of his back, brutally pinning him in place.  In a heartbeat, the scarf was garroted around his neck, wrenched tight in a single powerful twist.  He clawed at the fabric, fighting for leverage even as the psychiatrist applied greater pressure, leaning forward to breathe heavily into his ear. 

 

“I’m going to kill you now, Hagen.”

 

He felt his life slipping away, the pain a blaze of black starlight in his head.  Rage surged through him that it would end like this, his body abused and discarded on a cold rooftop.  Never to speak to Starsky again, never to tell his father how sorry he was for shaming him, never to feel the exquisite silk of Janet’s body beneath him as they made love. 

 

Color and light. 

 

Mogue had chased it all of his life while Hutch had experienced its lavish touch firsthand . . . through the eternal gifts of love, passion and friendship.  How could he surrender so easily when he had so much to live for?  And yet he felt himself slipping, despair and grief crashing over him in a tidal wave of bleak depression.  The pain left him dazed, his body limp and unresponsive.  Sound grew muddy and distant, light a waning splinter that stabbed deep into his brain. 

 

Just when he thought he couldn’t cling to consciousness another second something slammed into his back, jostling the scarf free.  He pitched face forward, gasping and choking, the fabric loose and puddled like a bright stream of blood over his hands.  Pain ripped tears from his eyes, the sweet rush of air in his throat akin to the corrosive burn of acid.  Mogue’s weight was bludgeoned from his back, the psychiatrist’s angry howl echoing in his ears like the enraged shriek of a banshee.  A quick scuffle of feet followed . . . an angry grunt, a dull thud.  Someone bent over him whispering repetitive assurances, but the words blended into a single nonsensical string.  A hand touched his cheek and he shivered at the staggering familiarity of the gentle touch. 

 

Starsky.  Warmth flooded him, chasing away the bitter edge of darkness.  For one incomprehensible moment he felt safe and protected, anchored where madness couldn’t touch him, shielded by the engulfing love of his partner.  

 

 “Hutch?”  Starsky crouched beside him, lifting his shoulders off the night-blackened concrete.  “Damn it, Hutch, breathe!  The bastard’s out cold now.”  Comforting fingers brushed over his face and hair before dropping to his bruised neck, searching for injury.  

 

Hutch’s breath hitched from his lungs in wheezing gasps, the pain nearly as overwhelming as the realization he’d almost died.  Murdered.  His head spun, the light of a thousand stars lassoed into one fiercely glittering diamond.  “Helen . . . Yardley . . .”  He could barely get the words past his lips, his voice whisper-thin, frayed and broken by pain.  “ . . . alive.  Mogue’s attic.”

 

“I’ll get someone on it.”  Starsky kept a tight arm around his shoulder.  Gently, he skimmed a finger under the gilded fringe of Hutch’s lashes, flecking away a tear.  “You stupid ass.  You coulda got yourself killed.”

It wasn’t what he had planned, but rather than point out the obvious, Hutch simply closed his eyes, too exhausted to protest.  He shivered uncontrollably, cold and adrenalin plundering his body in a witch-wave of icy sensation.  “ . . .c-cold . . .” he complained, barely able to form the word.  He sucked down an unsteady breath and immediately winced, the sting of night air against his enflamed throat pure agony. 

 

“We’re gonna get you outta here, buddy.”  Starsky unknotted the scarf binding his hands, flinging the repulsive material aside.

 

“Ken.”  His father’s worried voice intruded on his misery.  He felt a hand stroke over the back of his head, tenderly feathering his hair. He’d been too muddled earlier to realize Grant was on the rooftop and immediately felt his distress level catapult higher. Instinctively, he tensed, confused emotion making his stomach churn faster.  He felt warm affection in his father’s touch - - craved it like a dying man does water - - but was terrified to embrace it, fearing he’d only be rejected. 

 

On a night Grant was to be honored for his achievements, he’d made a mess of the whole affair, spoiling a once-in-a-lifetime evening.  His job, his career.  It always came back to him making the wrong choices, continually failing in the eyes of his father. Mortified, he burrowed closer to Starsky, shutting the older man out.

 

“Babe.” He heard shocked distress in his friend’s voice. “Your dad’s here.  Don’t you wanna - -”

 

“No.”  He couldn’t make sense of what he was feeling, just knew he couldn’t face his father now.  Not when he felt humiliated and vulnerable, knowing he was responsible for ruining Grant’s moment in the spotlight.   His throat was raw and on fire, his stomach a bitter knot.

 

Grant slid a hand onto his shoulder, trying to urge him around.  “Ken, let me look at your neck.”

 

It was the last thing he wanted, the grisly marks splayed over his skin a blatant testament to his failings. “Starsk . . .”  His friend’s name came out a rasp.  He tightened his fingers on Starsky’s shirt, hoping his friend would pick up on the innate communication they’d always shared.  It was hard enough to think, his head fogged by the lingering residue of the drug Mogue had forced on him. Emotionally, he’d hit rock bottom, unable to face Grant.  “ . . . can’t do this.”

 

“Okay, I hear you.”  Starsky brushed a hand down his cheek, gently grazing his battered skin.  The ghost-contact silently conveyed thought through fleeting touch - - Don’t worry about it.   I’m gonna take care of you.  You don’t wanna deal with your old man right now, no one’s gonna make you.  “Doc,” Starsky said aloud.  “It’s probably best I just get him to a hospital . . . have him checked out.  Maybe you could go find a phone . . . get me a cop to take care of Mogue.”

 

Hutch didn’t have to see his father to feel his agitation. 

 

“David,” Grant snapped tersely.  “If you think I’m going to leave my son’s care to another doctor, you need to have your head examined.”  He knelt closer to Hutch, lowering his voice to speak softly.  “Ken, let me help you.”  

 

“Not  . . . now.”  It was all he could manage, unable to summon the courage to explain further.  Exhausted, he closed his mind to everything but the steady assurance of his partner’s presence.  In a night ruled by cold and madness, his friend’s comfort was an infusion of pure bliss.

 

“Grant!” 

 

He felt Starsky jerk suddenly and lifted his head in time to see Mogue launch himself toward the half wall.  It happened in slow motion - - the psychiatrist diving forward, his body suspended in a freeze-frame flash of airborne momentum.  For a second he simply hung, his eyes radiating the giddy glow of sheer ecstasy.  Then just as quickly his face crumbled and his body plummeted to the skydome below, sucked downward by the punishing crush of gravity.  Hutch heard a sickening thud, the gruesome splat of something wet.  From far away he thought he heard several voices scream.

 

“Damn,” his father muttered.

 

Starsky curved a hand behind his neck, holding him in place.  “It’s not worth a glance, babe.  That sick bastard got what he deserved.”

 

“His wife,” Hutch tried to explain, but his misfiring brain couldn’t string the thoughts together.  Had Mogue committed suicide, or in his own twisted reality, had he somehow believed he was embracing an ultimate form of release?

 

Pure Nirvana.

 

Sickened, Hutch closed his eyes and surrendered to fatigue.

 

+++++

 

PART FIVE:  LIGHT

 

An excerpt from the diary of Dr. Grant Hutchinson:

As I sit in a strange hospital, waiting for the results of my son’s x-rays, I find my mind straying back over the evening, wondering what I could have done differently.  It’s not the first time Ken and I have misunderstood each other, and it certainly won’t be the last. He’s such a difficult man - - willful and proud, so easily hurt.  Rather than show that pain, he’s always been defensive with me, belligerent to a fault.  We’ve grown so close these last few years, yet his emotions continue to spike and plummet with maddening alacrity.  David says our relationship is destined to stay high maintenance, and I’m beginning to believe him.  It seems Ken and I spend as much time standing at a crossroads as we do walking side by side. 

 

I have no doubt that he loves me, and I pray he feels the eternal intensity of my love for him.  As a son, I suppose it is his role to constantly challenge me and mine to question.  Once again, I have almost lost him, the career he values so highly threatening to steal him away.  The thought of that potential loss is too painful to bear.  Even now, knowing he suffers, I find myself sickened and angry.  I feel no sympathy for Raymond Mogue and wonder if that makes me a horrible man.  There are those who would point out he was sick in the head, that he didn’t know what he was doing, yet I feel not the slightest twinge of compassion.  How can I, when it is MY son who is the victim, when it is Ken who almost died?

 

He does not want to see me, I know this.  Yet despite that anger and hurt, he remains what he has always been from the day he was born.  He may never realize it in this lifetime, but I love him with the special bond that only exists between a father and a son.

 

Mogue searched for light, but I’ve been blessed by it all along.  I have Ken.

 

+++++

 

“You want the TV on, buddy?”

 

Starsky’s earnest voice brought the trace of a smile to Hutch’s lips.  He sat propped up in bed, wearing a navy blue sweat suit.  The shirt, extra soft after several washings, had POLICE emblazoned in white on the back and a BCPD emblem imprinted over the left breast in the same snowy color. Rather than burrow under the blankets, he had them turned back to the foot of the bed, the warmth of the hotel room more than enough to chase away the night’s earlier chill.  The plush softness of the pillows lumped behind him and the drugs they’d given him at the hospital, had him feeling pleasantly drowsy.  

 

He remembered little of the hospital, mostly disjointed bits and pieces as he’d floated in and out of consciousness.  His mother and Kelly had been there, both weepy, hovering over him, constantly squeezing his hand or touching his face, telling him how much he was loved and that he wasn’t to worry about anything.  He remembered Starsky, glued to his side, a vigilant sentry who wouldn’t let a doctor or nurse within spitting distance of him without a detailed explanation of what they planned to do.

 

He’d had x-rays to assure his larynx wasn’t crushed, injections to offset his nausea and pain, necessities since he was incapable of swallowing pills.  He’d fought that one until Starsky assured him it was for the best, and that if he’d only stop being such a stubborn cuss and cooperate, he’d be out of the hospital a lot sooner.  Through it all, he was vaguely aware of Grant in the background, directing, giving orders, quizzing and grilling anyone remotely involved in his son’s care.  The surgeon had kept his distance, but it was only because of his position that Hutch had eventually been discharged.

 

“The ER doc agreed to release you to your dad,” Starsky had explained once he’d been coherent enough to follow the reasoning. 

 

His partner had gotten him back into their hotel room, helped him strip off the tightly-fitted tuxedo in exchange for the more comfortable sweats, and get settled into bed.  He had a cold pack of ice looped around his neck to help reduce swelling and numb the pain, though an edge of discomfort was beginning to creep back.  Every once in awhile the nausea that had been plaguing him all night reared its ugly head and he swallowed convulsively to force it silent.  His mother and Kelly had both been to see him, but he hadn’t glimpsed Grant since the hospital. 

 

A glance at the bedside clock told him the time crept close to midnight.  Disappointed, he tried not to let his insecurity show.  He wasn’t ready to face his father but had expected Grant would at least make an effort to see him, if only as a token gesture.  He’d been adamant, even affectionate on the roof, and now - -

 

Maybe he really doesn’t care.

 

“TV?”  Starsky prompted again when he didn’t immediately answer.

 

Hutch nodded.  “Leave the sound off,” he suggested, something he knew would make Starsky happy.  His friend wanted him to sleep, but drowsy as he was, he wasn’t ready to surrender to dreams.  He glanced aside, watching the olive green curtains at the window sway slightly in a draft from the heater. The only light in the room came from the TV and a small lamp on a brown wooden dresser.

 

Four stories above, the casino had been shut down for the night as the Las Vegas police sorted through Mogue’s apparent suicide.  Hutch had told Starsky everything he could in the hospital, relaying Mogue’s schizophrenia and personality disorder as he drifted in and out of consciousness.  Several phone calls later, Starsky had learned Helen Yardley had been found dehydrated and terrified in the attic of the psychiatrist’s home, otherwise whole.  A more extensive search of the house had unearthed the decomposed body of Carolyn Mogue, stuffed in a trunk in the wine cellar. The initial estimate placed her death approximately six to eight weeks in the past.

 

It was a disturbing case, as much mentally as physically.  Despite the rescue of Helen Yardley, Hutch felt like he’d been sucked dry of everything that made him who he was.

 

“How’re you feelin’?” Starsky asked, easing a hip onto the bed, facing him.  His own bed was still made, not a pillow out of place, the jacket of his tuxedo folded neatly over the top.  He’d discarded his bow tie somewhere, popped open the first few buttons of his shirt and kicked off his leather shoes, but he was still dressed in the tux.

 

Hutch nodded.  “I’m okay.”  He wasn’t, but it didn’t bear repeating.  “You look uncomfortable.  Why don’t you change?”

 

“I will eventually.  I guess I’m just feelin’ a little . . .” Starsky groped for the word.  “ . . .edgy.”  Eyes downcast, he plucked at the sheets, absently pulling up a tiny peak of taupe linen.  “I mean, I’m glad about Helen and all, but I think you played this one too close to the mark, buddy.”  His gaze flashed to Hutch’s face.  “That sicko was inside your head.  He had you seriously fucked up, Hutch.  It’s like your dad told me - - sooner or later there’s gotta be a line you won’t cross.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “Don’t bring him into it.”

 

“Okay, I know he said some stupid things, but it’s only because he cares about you.  And you know what?  This time he’s right!  I can’t believe I’m takin’ his side, but the old goat made sense.”  Agitated, Starsky stood and began to pace.  At the foot of the bed, he spun, stabbing a finger in Hutch’s direction.  “You and I both know things never shoulda gone as far as they did with Mogue.  You shoulda gotten your ass outta there long before it reached this point.”

 

It was true.  He knew it, but didn’t understand why he hadn’t been able to.  He could have said it was because of Helen Yardley, but the truth was Mogue had wormed under his skin, invading his mind like a disease.  Somewhere along the line he’d stopped resisting, merely accepting what happened to him, both the mental and the physical.  He’d let himself become a victim, crossing that imaginary line in the sand.  The realization terrified him, made him sick to the stomach.

 

“I don’t want to talk about this,” he mumbled, glancing away.  Protectively, he touched the ice pack wrapped around his throat, swallowing back the growing prickle of pain in his neck.  What had he been trying to prove?

 

“I know you don’t.  It sucks.”  Starsky was at his side in an instant, sitting closer on the bed, reaching a hand to his shoulder.  He felt the comforting squeeze of fingers through his navy sweatshirt.  “It’s just . . . hell, Hutchinson . . . you scared the shit out of me.”   

 

Hutch smiled wanly, attempting to inject levity into the conversation.  “It wasn’t exactly a joy ride for me either.”  He’d meant the quip to be light, but the flare of distress in Starsky’s eyes told him it was anything but amusing.  Repentant, he slid his hand onto his friend’s knee, realizing he should have known better.  Their lives and souls were intertwined too intricately for one not to hurt when the other suffered. “Sorry.  I didn’t mean to sound flippant.  The truth is . . .”  His fingers constricted, digging into the black wool of Starsky’s slacks as he faced the slumbering fear he’d held collared for so long.  “I, uh . . . I got caught up in something I couldn’t shake.  Everything you said . . . about Mogue getting into my head, things going too far, that I should have gotten out long before . . . you’re absolutely right.  I should have put a stop to what he was doing to me, but instead I let it continue.  I can’t even tell you why and that’s the frightening part.”

 

Starsky cupped a hand over his where it rested on his knee. Rather than accuse and condemn, the touch cemented the positives between them, quietly reaffirming nothing would ever shatter that extraordinary bond. “It’s easy to get trapped, Hutch, ‘specially when you filter in all the shit we gotta deal with on a daily basis.  Most cops woulda folded under the pressure or just snapped altogether.  You think just anyone coulda taken the load of mental and physical crap Mogue dumped on you?” Starsky tracked his thumb over Hutch’s knuckles, the slow sweeping graze telegraphing affection and warmth.  “You hung in there and kept sight of who you were, what you were doin’.  I got every faith you woulda ended it on your own if Mogue hadn’t taken a mental nose dive.  Judgin’ by what happened tonight, I’d say the guy was seriously whacked in the head for a long time.  Hell, he offed his own wife then paraded around killin’ people, thinkin’ he was her.  You can’t apply rationality to a situation like that.  You did what you had to do.  It’s over.”

 

Hutch felt a twinge of uneasiness.  “What about the next time?  The next line in the sand?  How do I know when I reach that point of no return?”

 

“You’re not goin’ there.”  Leaning forward, Starsky gripped him behind the neck, looking earnestly into his eyes. “I’m not gonna let that happen to you, buddy.  You got a fianceé.  A year from now you’ll be married and startin’ on a family, if you got any sense.  Beginning tonight, we give nutcases like this to the young punks who just made grade and wanna rack up merits in the department.  You already earned yours, Hutch.  We both did.  You mean too much to me to let you take stupid risks like this again.”

 

Warmed by the fondness in Starsky’s voice, Hutch dropped his eyes.  After everything they’d been through over the years - - the filth and grime of their impossible caseload, the political red tape of the department, daily exposure to callous, hateful and violent crimes - - nothing had ever jaded the intensity of their staunch loyalty to each other. “Thanks, buddy,” he whispered, secretly pleased when Starsky lightly rifled a hand through his hair.  Before he could say anything further, there was a soft knock on the door connecting their hotel room to his parents’ suite. A second later, it shoved inward and Grant Hutchinson stepped into the room.

 

Hutch immediately tensed.  The hand still resting on Starsky’s knee dug into his slacks, prompted by reflex.  He started to say something but decided better of it, looking away, his mind working overtime. The drowsiness and warmth he’d been feeling before were instantly crushed beneath an icy wave of defensiveness.  It was an old, instinctive reaction whenever he was around his father.  The fact he could recognize it made it no less easy to manage.  A bitter knot of hurt balled in his gut, reinforcing his belligerence.  “Don’t go,” he said to Starsky, his fingers tightening further, twisting in black wool. 

 

“Hey, Doc.”  Though Starsky tossed the casual greeting over his shoulder at the physician, he kneaded Hutch’s hand in an attempt to make him relax.  Ideally, he wanted his partner to rest, but knew how important it was for father and son to resolve their differences.  Hutch had been looking forward to spending time with Grant.  He’d wanted to see his father accept that Achievement Award.  Feeling shut out of the moment, unwelcome, then considering himself responsible for ruining the event, had to be eating at him every bit as much as Mogue’s mental poison had.  It wasn’t uncommon for Starsky’s overly sensitive partner to be at odds with his father, but he knew the longer the split lasted, the more damage it would cause. 

 

His natural instinct was to lump all of the blame on Grant, but despite his devotion to Hutch, he was forced to grudgingly concede his friend was equally at fault.  And that failing boomeranged right back to Hutch’s moodily uncharacteristic behavior of the last week, since encountering Mogue.   As much as Starsky hated to admit it - - had avoided addressing his fear and disappointment earlier - - he’d been unsettled by how easily Hutch had allowed himself to be manipulated and abused by the psychiatrist.  The friend he’d known for the last eight years was strong-willed and could adapt like a chameleon. Yes, he had the sensitive soul of an artist, and yes, he was vulnerable in certain areas, but not in succumbing to the violence and grime of the street, however highbrow and white-collar those atrocities might be disguised.

 

“Kinda late for a house call, don’tcha think?”  Starsky asked the surgeon as he stepped closer to the bed.  He watched as Grant placed a black medical bag  - - standard paraphernalia for a physician - - on the nightstand.  At his side, Hutch spared it an edgy glance before turning his attention elsewhere, purposefully refusing to look at his father.  Typical.  If Starsky weren’t so worried about him, he might have lectured him about his predictably shoddy attitude.

 

“I just thought you might want some news.”  Grant’s gaze flicked from his flaxen-haired son to Starsky, his mouth tightening in a telltale grimace when Hutch kept his eyes averted.  “ Dr. Rudiman called from the hospital with the results of Ken’s blood work.”  He paused a beat clearly hoping Hutch would inject something, but the younger man had fixated on a spot just off the foot of the bed. “Mogue used a quick-acting form of a chloroform derivative tonight.  Among other things, it’s designed to break down muscle coordination, affect speech and inhibit reasoning ability.”

 

“I could have told you that,” Hutch muttered.

 

This time Grant deliberately ignored him, speaking directly to Starsky.  “He also found traces of a narcotic with mild hallucinogenic effects - - low dose, slow release - - administered over a period of several days.”

 

“What?”  Caught off guard, Hutch shot his father a purely reactionary look.  “That’s not possible.”

 

“I’m afraid it is, Kenneth.”  Grant softened his voice, his expression mellowing at the strident outrage and shock in his son’s tone. “Mogue has been systematically drugging you from practically the moment you met - -”

 

“No.”  Frazzled, Hutch sat straighter.  Hooking his fingers under the ice pack, he dragged it from his neck, letting it plop onto the bed beside him.  “Only once.  He drugged me once . . . at the beginning.  I-I w-would have known if h-he’d done it again.  I - -”

 

“Easy, babe.”  Hearing the telltale stutter in his voice, Starsky gripped his shoulder, squeezing in support.  He could see a thin vein of horror bloom in Hutch’s eyes - - the same suffocating fear that threatened to choke him whenever the ghoul of drug addiction surfaced.  As much as Starsky hated the thought of his friend being doped, another part breathed a guilty sigh of relief.  The discovery, however jarring, more than accounted for Hutch’s compliant behavior with Mogue.  “He musta been doin’ it without you bein’ aware of it.  I know you told me the first time you were completely zonked out, but he musta backed off . . . gave you just enough to keep you passive.”

 

Hutch grimaced.  “You mean lead me around by a nose ring?”

 

“You can’t fault yourself,” Grant told him. “The chemical breakdown indicates it was a low dosage, probably administered in a drink or through some type of topical application. You wouldn’t have noticed a change, Ken, or even been aware it was happening, but over time, it would have affected your reasoning ability and your personality.  Mogue needed you submissive.  It’s the only leverage he had over you.”

 

“See, buddy?”  Starsky dusted his hand down Hutch’s sleeve, curling his finger around his partner’s limp wrist.  “Now you know why you crossed that line in the sand.”

 

“And I do too,” Grant inserted.

 

Hutch looked from one to the other before looking away, his expression morose.  Starsky watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard, clearly uncertain if he should feel relief or revulsion.  He wished he could make it easier, but as always, Hutch struggled with demons of self-doubt.

 

“David.”  Grant spoke softly.  “I think Kelley went to the cocktail lounge for a drink.  Her mother’s sleeping, but she’s restless after everything that’s happened tonight. Maybe you could check up on her . . . keep her company for awhile?”

 

Clever, Doc.  Why not just tell me to hit the road, that you want some time alone with your kid?

 

“Sure.” 

 

“Starsky?”  There was a strident edge in Hutch’s voice.

 

“I won’t be long.”  Starsky gave his arm a final pat, praying he imparted more than simple touch. He saw his friend ready to object again, and stood, planting one hand against the headboard as he leaned forward to whisper near Hutch’s ear. “Don’t do this, Hutch.  Your old man came here to apologize.  Let him get it said.”

 

To Grant he flashed a warning glare:  You upset him and you’re dogmeat.  Aloud, he spoke more civilly.  “Don’t keep him up long.  He needs his rest.”

 

The older man raised a single brow much like his son often did.  “I’m a doctor, David.  I think I know what’s best for Ken.”

 

“Apparently not or you wouldn’t be in here walkin’ a tightrope with him pissed and feelin’

 betrayed.”

 

“Starsky,” Hutch said quickly.

 

“Fine.  I’ll keep out of it.”  Raising both hands, he stepped away from the bed. “You two talk.  I got every faith you’re smarter than a pair of squabblin’ four-year-olds.”  He turned quickly, heading for the door, not wanting to see his partner’s expression.  Although he blamed Grant for the bulk of the misunderstanding, it was time Hutch owned up to his instinctive and stubborn defensiveness. Under all that hurt and anger, Starsky knew his fair-haired friend craved his father’s acceptance every bit as much as he had when he was a child. And maybe that was why it cut twice as deeply - - because the adult Hutch carried the same vulnerable edge as the child he’d once been.

 

Closing the door behind him, Starsky stepped into the hallway and prayed they’d find the strength to sort it out.

 

+++++

 

Uncomfortable, Hutch looked away, restlessly smoothing one hand over the sheet.  He was thirty-four years old, almost thirty-five, a detective sergeant in one of the worst sections of Bay City, yet he grew maddeningly insecure whenever he was at odds with his father.  His normal pattern of defense was to use every four-letter word in the book, but Grant had caught onto that game long ago, limiting its effectiveness.  Worse, he was tired - - exhausted mentally and physically.  The pain medication they’d given him at the hospital had started to wear off, reawakening fiery splinters in his throat.  It hurt to swallow, much less talk and argue.  He thought about feigning sleep, saying he was tired, but Grant knew that maneuver too.

 

“You shaved off your mustache,” his father commented evenly.

 

Taken aback by the odd opening, Hutch spared a sideways glance.  “I wanted a change.” 

 

Grant had worn a mustache for years and still did.  Somehow he couldn’t imagine his black-haired father without it. And he certainly couldn’t imagine anyone as intelligent and exceedingly confident as Grant shaving simply because a mentally disturbed psychotic had ordered him to. 

 

“What did Janet say?”  his father asked.

 

“She hasn’t seen me yet.  She’s still in Arizona.”  Small talk.  All of it trivial and safe while they danced around the issues lingering underneath, waiting to see who would take the initial plunge.

 

Grant drew a chair close to the bed, settling on the edge.  “Your mother keeps asking if the two of you have set a date for the wedding.”

 

“Not yet.”  He folded his hands in his lap, shifting uncomfortably.  “Maybe late summer.”

 

The older man heaved out a sigh.  “Ken, stop this.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

“Short answers, not communicating.  I want to talk about tonight.”

 

It wasn’t the right button to push.  His expression stony, Hutch fell silent. 

 

“Fine.  I’ll talk, you listen,” Grant decided for both of them. Plowing ahead, he faced his son, his expression stern.  “You have to realize my reaction tonight had nothing - - and everything­  - - to do with how I feel about you as a son.  I thought that would be obvious.”

 

“No.  What’s obvious is that I screwed up your evening,” Hutch contradicted swiftly.  The ugliness of encountering Mogue tumbled back over him like the churning push-and-shove of an angry tide.  He’d looked forward to seeing his father recognized at the ceremony, had been inordinately proud to know Grant was held in such high esteem by his peers. Yet rather than applaud those accomplishments as a son should, he’d been responsible for the whole black-tie affair going belly up. When the guests who’d attended thought back on the evening, they wouldn’t remember Grant’s numerous achievements, but a hastily disrupted event crowned by attempted murder and a grisly suicide. “The Awards Ceremony - -” He tried to explain, but Grant cut him off with a curt shake of his head.

 

“You really think I care about some award knowing the trouble you were in?  Damn it, Ken, why do we keep having the same conversation over and over again every time we hit a crossroads?”  Frazzled, he heaved in a breath, striving for mutual ground.  “I wanted you there.  I wanted you with me.  I know I reacted badly and for that I apologize, but damn it - - you’re my son!  How would you feel if our situations were reversed, and I was the one with marks all over my neck because some sick bastard put them there?”

 

Hutch flushed, trapped between embarrassment and understanding.  “Dad - - ”

 

“I know I was a rotten father when you were a kid . . . okay, for most of your life - -”

 

“You weren’t rotten,” Hutch said quickly, immediately repentant Grant would demean himself.  It wasn’t what he wanted.  Hell, what do I want from him?  “We just . . . had problems communicating.”

 

“I wasn’t affectionate or even attentive.  We both know that.” Ill-at-ease, the older man folded his hands together. “Don’t make excuses for me, Kenneth.  I don’t want them.  All I ask is that you stop basing your emotional response today on issues we had in the past.  I want you to understand why I reacted the way I did.  It had nothing to do with not believing in you, caring about you, or loving you.  You know how much I care.”

 

Hutch dropped his eyes, his sense of guilt overpowering.  “I know.”  Of course, he did.  He was an idiot - - certified, stamped and bronzed.  For some inexplicable reason, no matter how hard he tried to shut out the insecurities of his past, they always seemed to reassert themselves whenever he was at odds with his father. Asinine.  He simply had to start trusting instead of instinctively doubting. “So basically, I should stop being a jerk and quit looking for hidden meanings in everything you say.”  Testing the waters, he smiled slightly.

 

Grant’s lips twitched.  “I didn’t expect that.”

 

Hutch shrugged, lightly rubbing a hand over his bruised throat.  The pain was steadily creeping back, making him restless and uncomfortable.  “I’m not as stubborn as everyone seems to think I am.  I know I screwed up too.”

 

“Mogue drugged you.” Sensing a chink in his armor, Grant conceded what he could. “That explains most of your behavior.”

 

Wary, Hutch raised a brow.  “Only most?”

 

 On the TV, a woman in a flowered apron was holding a can of condensed cream soup, silently mouthing praise for how the popular product made casserole preparations a snap.  A silvered shell of blue-white light flickered over the foot of the bed as the commercial ended and a grainy black-and-white movie took its place.  

 

“It still doesn’t explain why you didn’t confide in me.”  Standing, Grant switched off the TV. He paced restlessly, hands in his pockets.  “I thought we’d reached that point, Ken. Over the last two years, you’ve trusted me with other issues.”

 

“I know.”  He grimaced, equally affected by the mounting pain in his throat and the knowledge he’d fallen into old, unhealthy habits.  Gingerly, he massaged his neck.

 

Noticing his discomfort, Grant strode back to the nightstand and flicked on the lamp, quickly fishing through his medical bag.

 

Hutch felt his pupils contract in the sudden brightness.  “I wanted to . . . confide in you,” he admitted haltingly, remembering those initial feelings when he’d arrived in Vegas.  “When we first came . . . before Mogue showed up . . . I really wanted to talk to you about what was happening.  I don’t know that I would have told you everything, but I know I wanted your help.  Then it all got screwed up.  You had to go and pull that shit in the reception room, making it seem like you were my john.” The faintest trace of heat wormed back into his voice as he remembered his father’s interference. It wasn’t so much that he faulted him  - - Grant had probably saved his cover from being blown - - just that he didn’t like how casually and confidently Grant had placed himself in danger.  He’d had no right sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.  As unbalanced as Mogue had been, he could have just as easily gone after Grant as Hutch. His father was a doctor, not a cop.

 

“Do you have any idea how mortifying it is to be pimped to your own father?” he challenged.  “Well, guess what, Dad?  Your little ploy worked.  Mogue bought it hook, line and sinker.  He thought you were paying for my services.”

 

Halting abruptly, Grant tensed.  His hands stilled in the bag as he turned toward Hutch, shock blanching the color from his face. “You mean I’m the reason he tried to kill you tonight?  Ken, I never meant - -”  The horror of what he’d done stopped the words cold in his throat as the staggering realization crashed over him.  “I-I was trying to keep your cover from being blown.  My God, I almost got you killed!”

 

“No.”  Great!  Now he had his father ready to nosedive into a guilt trip.  It was the last thing he wanted when they were actually communicating.  He couldn’t seem to explain anything correctly, and wondered if his mind was still operating in low gear from the drugs.  “You and Starsky saved my life, Dad.  Mogue had been building up to what happened tonight from the moment he first put his hands on me.  If it weren’t for the drugs and the chloroform, I would have been better prepared.” He grimaced, his throat becoming rawer with each word he spoke.  He could feel himself growing fatigued, the steadily ballooning pain wearing him down. His voice was fainter and threadier when he spoke, the long night exacting its toll. “You were right about one thing - - it’s time I stopped taking so many risks.  I want a chance to have a family . . . to be a husband and a father.  I’m not going to stop being a cop, but I am going to be more cautious about how I do my job.”

 

“That’s all I ask.”  Breathing easier, Grant pulled a liquid-filled syringe from the bag.  “I know you’re a good cop, Ken, but even good cops make mistakes.”  He paused to slip the plastic cap off the needle, holding it up to the light to gauge the dosage.  “I count my blessings tonight didn’t end with you in a body bag.”  He shook his head, his hands trembling at the terrifying idea.  “It may all seem commonplace to you, but when I think about the risks you take on a daily basis - -”  He grimaced, unable to finish the dismal thought.  “I can’t help wishing you’d finished medical school and become a doctor instead.”

 

“That was your dream, not mine.”

 

“I know that.”  Grant lowered the needle.  “I am proud of you . . . what you do, who you are . . .” A sad, fatalistic smile touched his lips.  “Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.”

 

Hutch felt the bittersweet echo of his father’s pride wash over him.  Rather than address it, he glanced to the needle, a flicker of apprehension beetling through his stomach. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

 

Grant’s attention shifted to the syringe.  The time for melancholy and remorse was over.  “Exactly what I promised Dr. Rudiman I would do when he discharged you from the ER - - see that you get another shot of pain medication at the appropriate time.”  His eyes flicked sideways to Hutch. “The first one is wearing off, Ken.  I see it in your face and hear it in your voice.”

 

He swallowed uneasily.  It’s just for pain, he tried to assure himself, looking at the needle.  Nothing illegal, nothing addicting.  Still, it brought back the glint of another needle, another drug, one he’d willingly begged for.  “I . . . don’t need it,” he lied.

 

“I say you do.”  Softening, Grant slid a hand onto his shoulder, imparting an encouraging squeeze. His fingers edged higher, slipping beneath the underside of Hutch’s white-gold hair. “Trust me on this.  You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

 

There it was again - - truth staring him in the face, however much he wanted to say ‘the hell with it’ and bolt in the opposite direction. His aversion to needles and drugs had become instinctive, buried so deep he couldn’t untangle the knot.  Still, he nodded reluctantly, faith in his father far stronger than the depth of his reoccurring phobias.  “Just do it quick, huh?”  He started to roll up his sleeve.

 

“Uh . . .” Grant stopped him, folding a hand over his.  “You’re going to have to lie down, Ken.  It goes in your hip, not your arm.”

 

“Shit.”

 

His father laughed.  “Only if you do something stupid.” 

 

Hutch shot him a baleful glare.  “You’re having too much fun with this.”  Muttering under his breath, he scrunched down on the bed, Grant lending a hand to adjust the pillows.  He could sense his father grinning ear to ear, the atmosphere in the room far lighter than it had been only moments ago.  Rolling onto his side, he bit away a grin, surprised to find his own spirits lifted despite his discomfort.  Hooking his thumb in the waistband of his sweatpants, he tugged the edge below his hip for Grant to administer the shot.  The sharp sting of medication burrowed through flesh and muscle into bone. “Ow!”

 

Grant withdrew the needle.  “It’ll help with your throat.”

 

“It’s not doing much for my ass.”  Letting his waistband spring into place, Hutch rolled onto his back.  His eyes caught Grant’s and the irritability eased from his face.  “I remember you giving me shots when I was a kid.”  Just that quick, his mood shifted.  There’d never been any heartfelt assurances or softly spoken words, just a cool “Roll onto your side, Kenneth.

 

As if reading his thoughts, Grant hooked a finger under his bangs, gently sweeping the bright fringe of platinum from his forehead.  “I remember too.”  He swallowed hard.  “Even doctors worry when their children get sick.  I just never knew how to tell you.”

 

“You just did.”  He felt secure, safe, Mogue and the rooftop a distant memory.  Shifting on to his side to face his father, he tucked his arm under a plump pillow, snagging it close beneath his head. His eyes grew heavy as the warmth of the room and the fond attentiveness of the older man swept over him.  “Mom’s probably wondering where you are,” he whispered drowsily, the narcotic components of the shot quickly pushing him toward oblivion. 

 

His eyelids dipped lower, closing out the lamp’s topaz-gold halo.  He felt the bed jostle, heard Grant rustling around with the sheets.  He had a vague sense of the ice pack he’d dropped earlier being removed to the nightstand, the sheets drawn over him like a cloud of air.  His father’s hand settled on his forehead again, tenderly smoothing over his brow, lacing aside his sun-streaked hair. 

 

Like a gentle whisper of air, Grant’s voice seeped into his sleep-fogged thoughts:  “Did I ever tell you how much I admire the color of your hair, Ken?  Your mother was such a stunning blonde - - all light and whiteness, her hair crowned by starlight even at night.  You have that same pallor and radiance.  I know you hated being the odd one out as a child . . .”

 

He grunted, too tired to speak, the steady stroke of fingers through his bangs carrying him into the velvety realm of sleep.  He remembered those confusing childhood days - - the only blond in a raven-haired family, the whispered innuendo of strangers making him uncomfortable, cementing a feeling he didn’t belong.  More than once, he’d thought it was the reason his father didn’t love him, the foolish night-time imaginings of a lonely child.  As a teen, he’d considered the possibility he wasn’t Grant’s son, but a single glance in the mirror had destroyed that ludicrous fantasy every time it surfaced.   Odd that his father should talk about light and whiteness when Mogue had said the same thing.  Did he really have an aura as strikingly ethereal as the psychiatrist had indicated?

 

It didn’t seem possible when he often felt jaded, mired in the clinging grime of violence and blood.  The squalid streets of Bay City had become his world - - dark alleys, seedy nightclubs, filth-infused gutters.  He wanted to tell his father he was wrong . . . that the color of his hair had nothing to do with the state of his soul, but sleep dragged him into a plush cocoon where thought had no value.  He felt wonderfully safe, content for the first time in days.

 

“ . . . stay . . .”  It was the only word he could manage.

 

Warm fingertips grazed over his battered cheek then settled onto his shoulder.  “Promise,” Grant assured, the quietly-spoken vow more than enough to tumble him into deep slumber.

 

The pain medication kept him dozing until dawn split the sky with melting brushstrokes of tangerine and buttered gold.

 

+++++

 

“How you doin’, huh?”  Starsky knew he was hovering but couldn’t seem to turn off his instinctive penchant for worry.  The bruises on Hutch’s neck had morphed into a ghastly rainbow of red, purple and black by morning.  Self-conscious, and not without a bubbling level of pain, Hutch wore a rust-colored shirt with a zippered collar, hiding most of the grisly marks.

 

The blond-haired man gave a noncommittal nod as he pulled a v-necked, black sweatshirt over his head. The ebony color matched the inky hue of his jeans, making the sun-streaked highlights in his pale hair lighter by comparison.  There were circles under his eyes, the dull hint of gray shadow intensifying the river blue glint of his irises.

 

Anxious, Starsky fidgeted with their suitcases, double checking the latches as he watched Hutch sag bonelessly onto the bed.  The simple act of showering and dressing had exhausted his friend.  He’d feel a lot better when they were on the plane and Hutch could rest on the trip back to Bay City, shutting out the rest of the world if he chose.  Eventually, they would have to come back to Vegas to wrap things up with the local police regarding Mogue, but for now they had a clear pass home.

 

“We still got a while ‘fore we gotta leave for the airport,” Starsky said conversationally, sitting down beside him.  The split skin over Hutch’s left cheek looked ghastly, mottled with the gruesome plum and crimson of deep bruising.  It made a shocking contrast against his naturally fair skin, the richer bronze of his summer tan long faded.  “I wish you’d eat something, but I know you can’t swallow.  How ‘bout we go down to the lounge and get you some tea?”

 

Initially, they hadn’t planned to check out until the following day, but Mogue’s presence in Vegas had changed that.  He’d returned to the room last night to find Hutch sleeping soundly, Grant slouched in a chair, intent on sitting vigil.  After a brief conversation with the surgeon, he’d learned the older man and his temperamental friend had worked out their differences.  The knowledge magnified his already upbeat mood, spurred by a surprisingly pleasant time with Kelly.  Only later did he realize he was more than a little attracted to her, an insight that had left him feeling unbalanced and edgy.  She’s Hutch’s kid sister.     

 

Disturbed, he’d tossed through the night while Hutch slept soundly and Grant kept vigil.  In the morning, the surgeon gave Hutch another shot of pain medication then departed for his own room and a shower.  Starsky had watched with a trace of amusement as his blond friend griped about having to take the shot in his hip.  Hutch’s throat had swelled during the night, his voice thready and thin with the dawn, as if he suffered from acute laryngitis. Once his father had left, he’d been eager to strip and crawl into the shower. By the time he was finished, Starsky had accomplished most of the packing, taking his own quick shower while Hutch dressed.

 

“Think you can handle something hot . . . or maybe some juice,” Starsky prompted when Hutch shook his head and raked a hand through his long hair.  “You know your folks and Kelly are gonna wanna see you.  They’re not gonna let you go anywhere until they get a chance to say goodbye.”

 

“I know.” Wincing, Hutch rubbed his throat.  He was silent a moment before continuing, his voice at half strength. “My dad and I worked things out.  I always feel better when we talk.  Thanks for giving us space last night, even if I didn’t want you to at the time.”

 

Starsky grinned.  “Just goes to show I know your mind better than you do, Blondie.” The humor felt good after a week of having Mogue hang over their heads, an even bleaker night of terror, Hutch nearly killed by a madman. Vegas hadn’t been much of a diversion.  If anything, it had deteriorated into a grimmer reality than the one they’d left behind.  He’d be glad to get back to Bay City where, hopefully, life would eventually spin back to its normal patterns. 

 

“Thanks for looking after Kelly,” Hutch said in that same thready voice.

 

Starsky shifted, ill-at-ease.  Looking after Hutch’s sister had been a pleasure, not a task.  “No problem,” he mumbled, plagued by a sliver of guilt.  Had he been a little too attentive last night, folding his hand over Kelly’s when she’d talked about the vulnerability she felt after finalizing her divorce?  Why hadn’t he ever noticed how extremely attractive she was before . . . how warm and interesting as a person?  “Um . . .”  Purposefully changing the conversation, he raked a hand through his rumpled curls.  “Is the pain shot workin’?”

 

“Well enough.”  A faint smile touched Hutch’s lips.  Haloed in a bright wash of lemon-laced light streaming through the window, he looked relaxed, even casual. “I didn’t want to meet Mogue here, Starsk, but, uh . . .”  His voice trailed away.  “ . . . I’m glad it’s over.”

 

Starsky slid a hand onto his knee, squeezing gently.  The case had been far darker than anything they’d faced in a long time.  Mogue had clearly infiltrated Hutch’s mind, twisting and debilitating his psyche with complex mental games and hallucinogenic drugs.  He wanted to believe their connection, their innate bond, was stronger than any darkness the psychiatrist could conjure, but it frightened him to know Hutch had succumbed to outside manipulation.

 

“I shoulda been better prepared,” Starsky said.  “I shoulda caught on to what he was doin’ to you.”  Eating your soul, eroding your confidence.  It was amazing what drugs could do, especially when combined with hidden insecurities.  “Your dad told me you’re gonna make some changes . . . quit bein’ the cop on the edge.”

 

Hutch looked at him steadily, his eyes crystalline blue.  “That depends.  We’re a team.  We’ve always been a team, and I don’t plan on changing that.”

 

It was exactly what he needed to hear.  Eight years of friendship and a partnership that crossed all boundaries made everything else inconsequential.  They could overcome the Mogues and Forrests of the world, even the coolly dispassionate evil of men like Simon Marcus as long as they remained focused on each other.  When Marcus had sent Starsky into a violence-soaked tailspin, it was Hutch who’d pulled him out.  They’d survived George Prudholm, Vic Bellamy, Al Grossman, James Gunther and a host of others.  They’d even overcome their own petty jealousy, walking away from Kira, instead of destroying an irreplaceable friendship.

 

“I don’t either.”  Starsky gave his knee a pat and stood.  He felt abruptly light-hearted.  Despite the terrifying ugliness of the previous evening, the day had dawned with the gilded brush of optimism.  Hutch had survived the grip of a psychotic killer . . . he’d patched things up with his father . . . in a few hours they’d be home, relaxing in Bay City, able to shuffle aside the darkness of the last week.  If he were a man given to color, he might find the day pulsing with sunny yellows and calming strokes of blue.

 

Turning his head, he shot a sideways glance at his partner. 

 

Seated on the bed, Hutch looked peaceful, even tranquil, his long hair a blinding blaze of platinum in the early morning sunlight.  Studying him, Starsky felt nothing remotely related to color or even the indulgent glow of radiance, natural or otherwise.  Raymond Mogue could postulate and theorize all he wanted, but when it came right down to it, there was only one word to describe Ken Hutchinson  - - friend.

 

It was the only word Starsky would ever need.  And no one - - Mogue included - - would ever take that away from him.

 

+++++

 

- - End Color and Light - -

 

I hope you enjoyed the story.  Feel free to drop me a line at veniceplace12@verizon.net and share your thoughts.

 

Several readers have asked for a list of my stories in chronological order.  If you’re interested in a copy, drop me an email and I’ll be glad to send you one.