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.