For the purpose of this story, I am using the episode order of the Season 1 Box set wherein “The Fix” comes before “Snowstorm” (although I believe the original airing had it reversed). Quite awhile ago, a cyber friend mentioned to me how she’d like to see a story depicting Hutch’s emotional trauma after being forced to shoot a fellow officer (Snowstorm). I thought that sounded like a good idea, so when I sat down to write this story it was the plot thread I had foremost in mind. Somewhere along the way, “The End of Daylight” became something different, I fear. There’s lots of emotional angst in this one, some minor h/c and (hopefully) a bit of mystery. As always thanks to my very good friend Theresa for her exceptional beta work - - you always make my stories shine! And thanks to Kass for such a great S&H website and being kind enough to host my stories. I hope you all enjoy the tale . . .

The End of Daylight

By Kate (CMT)

Hutch rolled over, straining his neck, restlessly kicking aside sweat-dampened blankets and sheets to ogle the alarm clock on his nightstand. The same luminous green display that had been his constant companion for the last eight nights stared back at him, brazenly proclaiming the hour. 4:26 a.m.

Check.

He marked it off on the mental calendar in his head . . . October 27th, 1975, better known as the year and month of screw-ups. Time had inched an amazing four minutes since his last check of the despicable clock. It felt more like four hours, typical for his endless parade of sleepless night after sleepless night, the stoic clock a constant reminder. He’d paid a whopping $2.29 for it at a five-and-dime shortly after moving into the cottage, not expecting it to last more than a few months. But it was still ticking . . . still somersaulting through a string of incandescent green numbers like some kind of mechanical amoebae that had rooted to the nightstand.

He’d grown to hate the wretched thing, timekeeper to his nightly misery. On more than one occasion he’d contemplated tossing it - gleefully battering it against the wall or window, better yet, throwing it cord and all, into the canal . . . watching it sink to the bottom where it might lay for decades before someone plucked it from the muck and barnacle-infested grime.

Exhaling loudly, he shifted again and beat his wilted pillow with a fist, attempting to plump life into it. What exactly had he accomplished in the four minutes since he’d last glanced at the clock? Two hundred and forty seconds. He’d thought about Ben Forest, a diabolical man named Monk, Phil Corman, cocaine, heroin, funerals and jail, but what had he really accomplished?

I convinced myself not to call Starsk.

That had to count for something. Night after sleepless night, he waged the same mental battle. Starsky had stayed with him for awhile after Forest and Monk had almost turned him into a junkie. His friend had slept on the couch even after Hutch had endured that godawful forty-eight hours of withdrawal in the room above Huggy’s bar. He grimaced just thinking about it, the painful memory only a month old. It resurrected mortifying flashbacks of sweating and shivering, of heaving up his stomach, being vindictively short with his partner, hissing and snarling for a fix, then breaking down and begging Starsky to help him. Humiliating memories. They made him feel less than human, less than a man.

Worse than the shame was the lingering fear he hadn’t really mastered his cravings. That sooner or later he’d tumble into the filth-encrusted pit where Forest and Monk had tossed him - - a gluttonous cavity reserved for hypes, willing to sell their bodies and souls for the fleeting ecstasy of a fix.

In his lowest moments - - in his blackest most desperate need - - what wouldn’t he have done to feel the ultimate rapture of drugged oblivion . . . to experience the seductive heat of a needle slipping into his veins? Would he have sold his body? His soul? His partner?

Oh, shit!

Hutch buried his face in the pillow, breathing hard.

It’s behind me . . . in the past. I’d never betray Starsky!

But he’d betrayed Jeannie, and the ugly knowledge of that very human shortcoming terrified him. With enough Horse in his veins, would he do the same to his partner - - sell Starsky out for one more pump of the needle?

On the verge of hyperventilating, Hutch flung back the blankets and bolted from the bed. It was wrong, all wrong. So fucking wrong he didn’t know what to do next. Dragging a hand through his sweaty hair, he stalked toward the kitchen, prowling around the small dining table like a caged animal. He hadn’t slept well in over a week. It was bad enough coming down off the drug, but a measly two-and-a-half weeks later he’d been forced to shoot Phil Corman, a nightmare that refused to leave him alone. A cop just shouldn’t have to kill another cop.

Pile that atrocity on top of involuntary drug addiction, and he was a prime candidate for a mental and emotional breakdown. Hutch knew the dangers, knew he was walking a ridiculously fine line, but there just weren't other options available. If he wanted to keep his badge, the drug addiction had to remain a dirty little secret shuffled away in a dark closet. As for Corman - - he’d gotten his share of cold shoulders and accusing glances, but most of the officers and detectives at Metro seemed to recognize he’d had no choice.

Look, Hutch, the guy was scum. He was gonna kill you, Starsky had told him. Somehow it still didn’t make it right, anymore than betraying Jeannie for the sake of a carnal high was right. And so he tossed and turned, night after night, existing on fumes and coffee during the day, coming closer and closer to total collapse. Corman’s wife had buried her husband eight days ago. Like the rest of the force, Hutch had attended the funeral, but he’d barely reached the gravesite before Carolyn Corman confronted him in a righteous frenzy.

“Get out of here!” she’d shrieked, her voice quivery and high. “You have no place at his funeral- - no right, you bastard, do you hear me? So help me, Ken Hutchinson, I’d kill you myself if I could. I don’t want you here! He doesn’t want you here! No one wants you here, you murdering son-of-a-bitch!”

And then she’d broken down sobbing, leaving Hutch standing white-faced and weak-kneed, feeling like the ground was going to open beneath him. He’d caught a forever-engrained glimpse of Corman’s fifteen-year-old son as he’d rushed to his mother’s side, of Dobey trying to act as intermediary before the volatile situation erupted into something uglier. For one frozen moment he couldn’t move, rooted in the shaded grass of the cemetery like a marble sculpture. Then Starsky had gripped his arm, and sensation returned in a staggering bubble of pure panic. His partner had gotten him away from the crowd, hastily steering him back toward the Torino where he’d crumpled numbly into the front seat and curled against the door, his sweaty forehead pressed to the cooling glass. Starsky had talked to him, but he’d been oblivious to the actual words, lost somewhere in a dense muddle of pain and self-torment. He was vaguely aware of his partner’s hand soothingly rubbing his knee, of Starsky’s voice crooning in his head, but none of it had really penetrated. Not in any way that mattered. Three miles down the road, he’d gasped for Starsky to pull over, flung open the door and vomited.

He remembered little of anything after that until he woke hours later on his couch, a cool washcloth on his forehead, Starsky sitting nearby. That was eight days ago. He hadn’t slept well since.

For the umpteenth time that night and every night previous since the whole wretched mess had begun, Hutch thought about calling Starsky. His friend had a way of keeping the demons at bay even when they were chortling for blood. All it would take was a phone call to bring Starsky rushing to his side, but hadn’t his partner already done enough . . . suffered enough?

Starsky was exhausted too. He deserved a break. Hutch was a grown man - - thirty years old, well past the point when he should have been cowering from things that went bump-in-the-night. If he couldn’t sleep because of a guilty conscience or outright fear, those were his hurdles to work through, not Starsky’s.

Agitated, he padded back to the bedroom and rummaged around until he found a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt. There would be no more sleep tonight. He was used to the pattern, knew that the demons would plague him well past dawn. As he often did, Hutch dressed, grabbed a jacket and headed for the beach.

He was still walking along the shoreline when the sun crept from the horizon two hours later.

+++++

At 8:06 a.m. Starsky ambled into Metro feeling more like himself than he had in the last few weeks. He’d spent an enjoyable evening with the female clerk from the corner drug store, his first night out in well over a month. Initially he’d been reluctant to make the date, but Hutch had pushed him into it, insisting he wanted time to himself. Starsky had been his partner’s constant companion ever since the incident with Forest and Monk. When he wasn’t crashing on Hutch’s couch, he was spending the bulk of the night with him, only going home after Hutch had fallen asleep.

Starsky knew his partner hadn’t completely accepted what had happened. While Hutch appeared to have mastered any latent drug cravings, his emotional state remained fragile. Even with a month of distance stretching between himself and Forest, he hadn’t come to terms with the ugly reality of being a victim. When he’d been forced to shoot Phil Corman in self-defense, Starsky had feared Hutch would slip into deeper depression. Yet despite his delayed reaction at the cemetery, the blond-haired man appeared to be holding his own.

For the last week Hutch had been ushering him home early. Last night - - for the first time since Monk had shoved a needle into his vein - - Starsky’s partner had insisted he would be fine alone - - all night.

“Time for me to grow up, Starsk,” Hutch had said with a tight grin. “You can’t hold my hand forever.” Afterward, he’d coerced Starsky into making a date with the female clerk from the White Cross drug store.

Carrie Sutton was pretty, in her mid-twenties, with a vivacious smile. They’d had a good time catching a movie and bowling afterward, but somehow it hadn’t felt right. Starsky had been too preoccupied worrying about Hutch in the solitary cottage on the canal. He’d resisted the urge to call on three separate occasions during the night, even fought down a greater impulse to drive by and pop in unannounced.

The evening out had done him good, revitalized some of the energy he’d been lacking, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t anxious to see his friend. Killing time, he poured himself a cup of coffee then meandered to his desk. It wasn’t like Hutch to be late, and as the clock inched to 8:12, Starsky began to worry.

It was then he noticed Hutch’s black leather jacket looped over the back of his chair, a case file spread open on the desk. A half-empty cup of coffee stood to the left of the phone, butted against a plate containing a bran muffin. The muffin had been picked at, a few chunks broken off to lie crumbled on the plate, but it didn’t look like any substantial amount had been eaten.

Probably tastes like sawdust, Starsky thought with a grimace. He snatched up a chunk and popped it into his mouth, testing the theory. It tasted of oats and moldy things, sweetened with a hint of brown sugar. He made a face and gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee. As usual, his early-to-rise partner had beaten him to the precinct.

Curious what Hutch was working on so early, he glanced across the desk.

“Hey, Starsk.” Hutch chose that moment to enter the squadroom, several more folders tucked under his arm. He gave his friend a soft smile, moving past him to the desk. “How’d your date go?”

“It was good,” Starsky said automatically. One glance at Hutch and Carrie was suddenly the furthest thing from his mind. He was more hung up on the gauntness of Hutch’s face and the fact his lean friend looked leaner still. “So, um . . .” Trying not to stare openly, Starsky took a swig of coffee, watching his partner over the top of the mug. “What’cha workin’ on?”

“Nothing much.” Hutch looked abruptly self-conscious. Fumbling for the folder on his desk, he flipped it shut and butted it out of the way, dropping the files he carried on top. He angled his body to block the entire stack and snatched his jacket from the back of his chair. “Ready to hit the street?”

Starsky frowned. Not only did Hutch look pale and unrested, his eyes a little too blue against the sallow cast of his skin, but he was uncharacteristically jittery. Deliberately reaching past him, Starsky confiscated the top folder and flipped it open. “Hey!” he said surprised. “This is that John Doe who OD’d on the waterfront three nights ago.”

“So?” Hutch made an aborted grab for the file. When Starsky jerked it free, he gave a disgusted grunt and pivoted away.

Starsky took one look at the tension in his shoulders, then leaned forward to study the index tabs on the remaining folders. “Hutch, these are the string of heroin ODs Baker and Sullivan have been investigatin’ over the last six weeks.” His frown deepened. “This ain’t our case, Hutch.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Within the span of a millisecond, Hutch’s hostility fled, vanquished as quickly as it came. Sighing, he dragged a hand over his face.

Starsky gave him a moment to compose himself. Lately Hutch’s emotions were on a rollercoaster, up as quickly as they were down. Starsky couldn’t really fault him - - not after Monk, Forest and Corman. The humiliation and pain of being victimized by Forest was bad enough without having to carry the guilt over a fellow officer’s death. Even if he was scum. Even if he was tryin’ to kill Hutch.

Starsky returned the folder to his partner’s desk. “Hey, buddy.” Gently, he gripped Hutch’s arm, his voice intimate and quiet. There were only two other officers in the squadroom, both engaged in phone conversations. Even so, he kept his voice low, pitched so only Hutch could hear. Beneath his fingertips, he felt his partner quiver. “You wanna tell me what this is all about?”

The string of heroin ODs had been going on since before Hutch’s own unwilling encounter with the drug. Peripherally, they’d been aware of the case even though they weren’t assigned to it. Most of the deceased were homeless or known hypes who’d taken the quest for a high a little too far. Because of the unusual number of deaths- - several within a handful of weeks - - there’d been initial concern someone was peddling bad junk. Toxicology reports proved the theory, determining the heroin involved had been laced with fentanyl, a powerful anesthetic. “It’s a prescription painkiller normally reserved to combat pain in cancer patients,” the M.E. had explained.

Hutch turned closer, angling his body toward Starsky. His voice was just as quiet when he spoke. “People who use aren’t this stupid, Starsk. Not this many of them. Not this close together.”

“Yeah, I know.” Starsky shoved his coffee onto the desk. “But it ain’t our case, Hutch, and even if it were - -” He flushed guiltily, unable to finish the thought. Hutch’s eyes flashed to his face, daring him to state the obvious.

“You don’t think I should be involved?” Hutch challenged. “Because of what happened to me?” There was a distinctive strain to his voice now. He glanced away quickly, heatedly, making sure the other two officers were still engaged. “Maybe that’s why I should be involved. Did you ever think - -”

“ - - what I think,” Starsky said firmly, bluntly interrupting him. “Is that you ain’t exactly firin’ on all cylinders right now. Get pissed if you want to, but you know it’s the truth. How do you think Baker and Sullivan are gonna feel if you go stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong?” He tightened his grip on Hutch’s arm, forcibly wrenching him closer until he was speaking directly into his friend’s ear. “And don’t you think they’re gonna wonder why, babe? The waterfront belongs to Baker and Sullivan.”

Starsky rarely used any intimate form of address with Hutch in the presence of others. That he chose to now said more than any lecture could hope to accomplish. Beside him, he felt the tension gradually fade from his partner’s body. Hutch relented with a sheepish nod, his expression softening. The rollercoaster was back in play again, displacing agitation with acceptance.

“Okay,” he agreed softly. “Let’s just head out, okay?”

Starsky smiled. Part of his mind cautioned Hutch had given in far too easily, but another countered it was only natural. In any event, his moody friend seemed more like himself, and that was all Starsky could really hope for.

Minutes later, they were on the street, cruising their regular beat in his Torino. In another few days it would be Halloween. He could see evidence of that wherever he looked - - bright orange pumpkins and towering cornstalks tucked into doorways, faded cardboard ghosts and jaunty skeletons plastered in storefront windows.

Initially, Starsky had hoped to convince Hutch to have a dress-up bash at his cottage with both of them sharing expenses - - his place was just too small - - but now that seemed an unlikely event. In one respect a party would be good for Hutch, but he just didn’t think his still-healing friend was up for the commotion. Which was too bad since they usually got stuck working “Devil’s Night” - - a shift that almost always kept them going from arrest to arrest, often into overtime. If crime made waves the rest of the year, it set new records on Halloween night.

Starsky was actually looking forward to the break and had hoped for some fun. The kid in him still liked the idea of make-believe and costumes. He’d even bought a few decorations already, hoping to string fake cobwebs from the ceiling in Hutch’s cottage. For the artificial tree his friend loved so much and had boldly erected in the middle of his living room, Starsky had bought a dozen rubber bats to dangle from the overhead branches. It would have been a great bash - - complete with fake eyeballs floating in the punch, plastic spiders in the dip and a severed head in the beer cooler. That one even gave him goosebumps, it looked so real!

But you didn’t take a man who was only a few weeks outside of heroin withdrawal and who was beating himself up over killing a fellow officer and dump him into the middle of a party where no one could relate to his pain. It was a prime recipe for disaster, making Starsky realize he’d have to come up with another plan. Maybe he’d make dinner and he and Hutch could camp out, watching scary movies on TV. There was bound to be a creepfest or two, stretching well into the early morning hours.

“Hey, you thought about what you wanna do for Halloween this year?” he asked, braking for a red light. “We actually got off for a change. You wanna take in some movies or something?”

“What? No party?” Hutch kept his eyes straight ahead, his right forearm braced against the passenger’s door. He had the window partially down, the late October temperatures still pleasantly warm. Against the black leather of his jacket, his sun-whitened hair looked lighter still, his Nordic coloring a little too pale to be considered healthy. He wore a tomato-red tee-shirt beneath a navy pullover and bleached out jeans.

Starsky recognized the jeans as a pair Hutch had once complained were too snug - - “Sorry, Starsk, but I don’t like to walk around sprayed into my pants like you do.” If anything, they looked loose on him now, accentuating his still somewhat fragile health. It was amazing Hutch had been able to work the Stryker cocaine bust so soon after the incident with Forest and Monk. But to maintain face and keep his badge, Hutch had to go on as if nothing had happened. He’d done his part, fooled Burke and Corman and even had a hand in bringing down Stryker, the man responsible for killing Captain Dobey’s partner, Elmo Jackson, so many years ago.

Dobey had been grateful no doubt about it, but his gratitude was tangled up in the remorse of having to watch Hutch suffer. In bringing down Stryker, they’d also apprehended two fellow cops who’d confiscated a million in cocaine from the bust. Starsky had wounded Burke, but Hutch had been forced to kill Phil Corman, both veteran detectives. It didn’t make it any easier knowing Corman left behind a widow and a teenage son.

Shuffling aside the bleak thoughts, Starsky focused on Halloween again. “Who wants to party?” he groused, half-realistically.

“You do,” Hutch shot back without missing a beat. “You’ve only been talking about it since summer. What happened to the big bash you wanted to have? Didn’t you already volunteer my cottage?”

“Nuthin’ definite,” Starsky countered, squirming uncomfortably. “I was just talkin’ out loud.” It was true. In his usual exuberant fashion, he’d run off at the mouth for months about a possible party, telling everyone it was going to happen at Hutch’s place. “I say we just lay low this Halloween. Take it easy - -” Before he could go any further, the radio blared to life, interrupting his musings.

“All units in the vicinity: shots fired east side, ground floor, abandoned warehouse 2-0-0-1-8 Kensington. Proceed with caution.”

“That’s right around the corner,” Starsky said, hastily spinning the steering wheel to cut across lanes. Hutch swayed to the side but managed to activate the siren in time to alert surrounding motorists, more than a handful already cursing Starsky’s abrupt maneuver. Straightening, he slid the mars light onto the roof and grabbed the mic.

“Dispatch, this is Zebra 3. We are in the vicinity and are responding.”

“Roger, Zebra 3,” came the staticky response.

Starsky felt a familiar rush of adrenalin, prompted by the wail of the siren and the lingering threat of danger just around the corner. They reached the lot in a matter of seconds, both lurching from the car, weapons drawn at the ready the moment the Torino came to a stop. Working seamlessly, Starsky flanked right while Hutch crept left, skirting the perimeter before tightening the net between them. Even after everything Hutch had been through, there was never a point when Starsky didn’t trust his friend to back him up 100%. As they’d always done, they worked flawlessly together, completely trusting each other’s abilities.

When a quick check of the perimeter revealed nothing, Starsky focused on a roll-up industrial door partially raised on the east side of the building. He inched along the brick, easing closer to the opening, gun barrel tipped to the sky. He sensed Hutch long before he caught a glint of white-gold hair and a reflective flash of sunlight bouncing off the barrel of his partner’s Magnum. Hutch stopped on the opposite side of the door, the steel barrier a good sixteen feet across. It had been raised approximately two-and-a-half feet off the ground - - just enough for someone to scrunch underneath.

“Well?” Starsky mouthed silently across the distance.

Hutch waited a heartbeat. “Police!” he called loudly.

There was no sound of any kind in reaction, just a dead stillness made oddly surreal by the mundane din of the city behind them. They were close enough to the waterfront that Starsky could sense a difference in the air, almost taste the tang of marine salt on his tongue. The breeze felt rawer than it did caged between the snarl of congested city streets. It smelled of fish and brine, underscored by a whiff of sour garbage and motor oil.

Without the benefit of verbal communication or even hand signals, Starsky rolled beneath the door, fully confident his partner did the same. Heavier, cooler air hit him as soon as he lurched to his feet. He dropped to a ready crouch, gun arm sweeping left to right as he made certain the area was clear. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. A large block-paned window a full story up sent slabs of diffused sun slanting into the murky hole, randomly defining scattered debris, dilapidated crates and decomposing boxes. He felt Hutch’s shoulder butt against his.

“There,” his friend said, pointing the way.

Starsky followed the direction of his finger where a body lay sprawled on the grimy concrete. The man was familiar, somewhere in his late twenties with a greasy thatch of straw-colored hair and a drooping mustache. He and Hutch had busted him a number of times, knew he was commonly called “Big Block” on the street, though the official name on his birth certificate was Leo Blockard. Illiterate and slow but deadly in a fight, he acted as hired muscle for a restaurateur who dabbled in prostitution and numbers, earning his money by busting up anyone foolish enough to cross his boss.

“Hey.” Starsky crouched beside him, vaguely aware Hutch had moved further into the shadowed warehouse. A large caliber slug had been blown into Blockard’s gut, leaving pulped and bloody flesh in its wake. There was no doubt he’d suffered massive internal injuries, but somehow he clung tenaciously to life.

“ . . .son,” he gasped, grasping at Starsky’s hand.

“Take it easy,” Starsky said. He knew by the time he made it back to the Torino to radio for help the man would be dead. Blockard’s eyes were glazed and unfocused, his mouth contorted in a whitewash of shocked agony. His skin was pallid and doughy-looking, blanched like the pale underbelly of a dead fish. “I’ll get you help,” Starsky promised, even though he knew it was a lost cause.

Blockard shook his head. “ . . . son,” he gasped again. Sweaty fingers tightened on Starsky’s hand. “ . . . arrow . . . son . . .”

Confused, Starsky wet his lips. He was aware of Hutch behind him, having completed his brief sweep of the warehouse. “Blockard, just take it easy,” Starsky repeated. “We’re gonna radio for help.”

“No good.” A thin wheeze of air slipped from the big man’s colorless lips, small bubbles of blood gathering in the corner of his mouth. “ . . . arrow . . . son . . .” Even as the last syllable left his lips, he gave a strangled gasp, his body going abruptly rigid before slumping in the grasp of sudden death.

Exhaling, Starsky untangled his hand. “Art Peller’s number one thug,” he muttered. “Looks like someone wanted to make sure he wasn’t gonna walk out of here. My guess is that’s a .44 slug in his gut.” He cast a glance up at his partner. “More cannon than you carry, buddy, and incredibly messy.”

“Yeah.” Hutch grimaced. He looked pale, but Starsky had the feeling his sudden lack of color had nothing to do with Blockard’s bloody corpse. “So what’s arrow son?”

Starsky shrugged. “Maybe a name - - Arrowson? One thing’s for sure - -” He looked back at Blockard’s grisly corpse. “ - - this guy ain’t gonna tell us.”

“I’ve got another body,” Hutch said flatly as if he’d hadn’t been listening . . . as if his question had been automatic, but his mind had disengaged before assimilating Starsky’s answer. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Behind those crates by the door. Looks like an OD.”

“T’rrific.” Abruptly understanding the reason for his partner’s ashen complexion, Starsky sprinted across the floor, quickly rounding the crates Hutch had indicated. A dirty mattress lay butted against the wall, a waif-like young girl curled on her side as if asleep. No more than 15 or 16, she looked undernourished and frail, her face the bleak gray of dirty dishwater, her lips thinned into a bloodless line, still sticky with the clinging residue of vomit. A thin strip of rubber tubing was tied around her left arm, an empty syringe discarded nearby. Both the mattress and her clothing were soaked in a foul combination of sweat, urine and vomit. Clearly, she had not died easily.

“Shit.” Starsky dragged a hand over his face. Dealing with death was tragic enough, but seeing someone cut down so early in life was devastating. Concerned, he looked around for his overly sensitive partner.

Hutch had wandered closer to the door as if needing the infusion of air, however sour. He stood bent over, hands on knees, attempting to steady himself. Stumbling over an OD was a little too close to what he’d been through himself, and clearly the girl’s age didn’t help. Starsky knew his partner bled far too easily for most victims of the street, but he had a special affinity for the young and innocent. A man who could be remarkably aloof in his personal and professional life, Hutch was shockingly empathic with those less fortunate - - a surprisingly odd trait, given he’d been raised by a prominent physician, his childhood a revolving door of society gatherings, scholastic achievements and status.

Hearing the wail of sirens in the distance, Starsky holstered his gun and eased up behind his partner. “Okay, pal?” he asked, sliding a hand onto Hutch’s back. He didn’t like the waxen look of his friend’s face or the thin stipple of perspiration clinging to his upper lip and brow. The truth was Hutch just wasn’t ready to handle ODs and probably wouldn’t be for a long time to come. He was still a victim himself, however much he wanted to pretend and protest otherwise. Until he came to terms with that ugly reality, the street and all its cruel casualties would continue to haunt him.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Straightening, Hutch holstered his Magnum and combed trembling fingers through his hair. He looked shaky, even a little shocky, but within seconds the anxiety withered from his pale eyes, replaced by grim resolve. “Pellar’s sending his goons a little far from home, don’t you think? Blockard was fishing out of his turf.”

Not mentionin’ the girl, Starsky noted, even though she’s the one on his mind.

“He picked the wrong day to get sidetracked, that’s for sure,” Starsky agreed. Moving to the right of the massive roll-up door, he fumbled with the control panel until the mammoth barrier retracted upward, sliding on exposed tracks into the ceiling. Cool air flooded the interior of the warehouse, momentarily displacing the stench of blood and death with the grimier reek of salt brine and sun-heated garbage.

Starsky gave Hutch a shove, propelling him outside. “Take a breather, buddy. We’re gonna be here for awhile. Looks like we need to radio Baker and Sullivan too. That girl might be a little far on the fringe location-wise, but if she OD’d on Horse laced with fentanyl - -”

“I know.” Hutch gave a resigned nod, his mouth tightening in a grim line. “Our supplier is back in business, whoever the bastard is.”

It was almost 10:00 by the time the crime scene was secured and scoured, the bodies bagged and relocated to the morgue. Baker and Sullivan showed up while Hutch and Starsky canvassed the area with the aid of three patrolmen looking for potential witnesses. They came away empty, the only one who remembered anything, a vagrant sleeping off an overnight drunk in the adjacent lot. Unfortunately, all he could do was mutter something about seeing a green Ford pull behind the warehouse but couldn’t recall the time. He hadn’t even heard the shots. He did little more than fumble out a cigarette and heave up last night’s fifth of Jack Daniels.

The Ford, a light green Mustang, belonged to Blockard. Starsky knew the car by sight as well as plate number, he and Hutch had busted the knuckle-bruiser so often. Finishing with the vagrant, they drove directly to Art Pellar’s establishment - - a pricey steak and seafood house called Blackjack’s Bistro. Closed, and in the middle of prepping for the lunch crowd, the shift manager grew irritated at having to stop and answer questions. A short interview turned up nothing, and with Pellar nowhere around, they eventually made a call to his home, tucked in an elite neighborhood overlooking the city. Shrugging off the news of Blockard’s death as “tough luck,” the restaurateur denied having any knowledge of what his “associate” had been doing in the warehouse area.

“Now if that’s all, gentlemen.” Pellar straightened his imported silk tie, looking much like a juvenile playing dress-up. At a mere 4’11” with a floppy mass of curly orange hair, a smattering of freckles, and doughy complexion, he appeared ridiculously younger than his forty-six years. On the street he was commonly called “Clownface” though no one dared venturing the nickname within earshot for fear of having one of Pellar’s numerous henchmen give them a brutal lesson in respect.

“No, that’s not all.” Starsky countered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Standing just inside Pellar’s lavish living room with its massive cathedral ceiling, expansive hilltop view and excessively ornate furnishings, he found himself annoyed the shorter man wanted to dismiss the matter so quickly. He’d never liked Pellar, a man he viewed as a preening midget with a titanic ego. Unfortunately, what the diminutive bottom-feeder lacked in size, he balanced with razor-edged street smarts.

When it came right down to it, Clownface was a pro at using others. In his book Blockard was simply a disposable cog. He normally kept three or four thugs in reserve plus a handful of overeager no-names, all ready to take Blockard’s place. There was a second string as well - - Lucas Santoro, Eddie Fish, Hank Motter, George Buchter - - all leg-busters who’d been through Metro at one time or another and who were well acquainted with both Starsky and Hutch. While Starsky had no sympathy for the goons on Pellar’s payroll, he had even less for the sleazy restaurateur himself. “How ‘bout Arrowson?” he prompted. “You know anyone named Arrowson?”

Pellar scrunched his eyes, making his pinched face narrower still. “Arrowson?”

“Arrowson,” Starsky clarified, an edge in his voice. “Blockard mentioned someone named Arrowson right before he died. He an associate of yours? Maybe someone who likes your private parties a bit more than your divey bistro?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective Starsky,” Pellar snapped, his face flushing an unhealthy shade of red. The contrast against his orange hair was comical, even clownish, his freckles standing out in livid contrast. “And I don’t know anyone named Arrowson. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got better things to do than stand here and listen to your insults.”

“No kiddin’?” Starsky feigned rapt interest. “Like what?”

Beside him Hutch gave a soft snort of laughter and tugged on his sleeve. “Come on, let’s hit Metro. We’ve got all we need from Pellar.”

“That’s a wise decision, Detective Hutchinson,” the small man agreed, adopting an air of smug superiority. He straightened his tie again, exposing a milky, excessively freckled hand. “Your partner is beginning to try my patience. I don’t normally permit uncouth simpletons in my home.”

“Don’t push it, Clownface.” Scowling, Hutch leaned forward, his 6’1” frame towering over the diminutive man. “Keep making cracks like that and I’ll try a hell of a lot more than your patience.”

Starsky chuckled, watching Pellar’s face run the gamut from white to purple to scarlet. “Hey!” Grinning, he snapped his fingers. “You know . . . with a big red nose and a pair of floppy shoes, I bet you could make a buck or two blowin’ up balloon animals for kids. Uh, wait a minute - - short as you are, they’d probably think you were a kid.” As soon as he tossed off the insult, his face turned abruptly serious. “You suddenly remember anything relatin’ to what Blockard mighta been doin’ at that warehouse, your first call better be to Metro. You got that, Clownface?”

Fuming, Pellar ground his teeth together. “Got it,” he snapped.

A short time later, headed back to the precinct, Starsky glanced aside at his partner. Hutch had been mostly quiet since leaving Pellar’s home, content to stare silently through the windshield, watching traffic, people and buildings funnel by. Although his attention was on the passing streets, Starsky had the distinct feeling he wasn’t seeing anything . . . that the blur beyond the glass was simply that - - an inconsequential hodgepodge of shape and color. That the only thing Hutch was really seeing was the broken body of a teenage girl who OD’d and died alone, curled up on a dirty mattress soaked with her own sweat and vomit.

“You wanna grab some lunch?” Starsky asked.

“Huh?” Hutch blinked, coming back to the present. Recovering quickly, he gave a distracted shake of his head. “Not right now. Grab something if you want to. I think I’ll pass.”

“Okay, later then,” Starsky decided for both of them. Had Hutch even eaten anything that morning, other than a few crumbs off an unappetizing bran muffin? He debated about commenting on how thin his friend was looking but reluctantly decided against it. Pointing out Hutch had lost weight would probably only make his stubborn partner defensive. If worst came to worst, he’d simply show up at Hutch’s cottage that evening with a feast of burgers and fries - - maybe not the healthiest dinner, but at least it had more substance and calories than a bran muffin. Besides, it was early yet. With a little luck he could still coerce Hutch into lunch in another hour or two.

Metro was bustling by the time they made it back to the precinct. The squadroom was packed with detectives and uniformed officers going about routine duties, the clamor of noise louder than usual. Starsky tuned out the sound of file drawers banging shut, phones ringing, voices talking over one another, and zeroed in on Phil Baker and his partner, Eric Sullivan. The two detectives were talking to Dobey just outside the doorway to the captain’s office.

With a glance for Hutch, he wove between a file clerk and his own desk, approaching the group from the side. “Hey, guys. Any news yet?”

Baker shook his head. “Toxicology is still working on it.” A few years older than Starsky with straight brown hair and cocoa-colored eyes, Baker was the perpetual optimist of the Department. Fun-loving and quick-witted, he was partnered with a man who was as taciturn as he was upbeat. A career detective, Eric Sullivan was approaching his mid forties. He had a track record for solid busts but had already been through two marriages, four partners and a long bout with alcoholism. At the moment, both detectives looked frustrated and dismal.

“Damn, Starsky.” Exhaling, Baker gave a disgusted shake of his head. “She was just a kid. I got a niece only a few years younger, and Sully has a daughter in college. Makes me sick when I think about it.”

Hutch shifted. He never said a word, but Starsky felt sudden tension creep into his partner’s frame. Instinctively he leaned a little closer, letting his arm brush Hutch’s sleeve. “We didn’t get anything from Pellar on Blockard either.”

“Well, we might not know about the fentanyl,” Dobey inserted, but we got an ID on the girl. He looked down at a small tablet in his hand, reading from a handful of notes he’d scratched earlier. “Peggy Ann Fleetwood, sixteen. Came out here from Arkansas two months ago, living in some dirty one-room dive over on Ninth. Roommate reported her missing three nights ago . . . admitted Peggy was turning tricks to feed her arm. Said she had a bad home life - - abusive father - - so she came out here in hopes of making something of herself. Roommate says she had a real talent for singing and playing guitar. Fell in with a boyfriend who was bad news - - repetitive pattern - - smacked her around. It was downhill from there.”

Exploding, Hutch swiveled away. “That just sucks, Captain!”

Sullivan glared at his back. “No one is disagreeing, Hutchinson. We’ve been working these ODs for the last six weeks. How the hell do you think we feel, knowing we might have stopped this one if we’d cracked it in time?”

Caught off guard, Hutch half turned, his face draining of color.

“Wait a minute.” Starsky moved between them. He understood his partner’s aggravation better than anyone in the room. He also knew Sullivan and Baker, who weren’t privy to what Hutch had endured, couldn’t understand the blond-haired detective’s precarious mental state. Hutch’s extreme sensitivity and compassion often caused him heartache, but this case was closer than most. A young Midwestern girl, a gifted musician, a senseless drug overdose - - could there be any clearer definition of tragedy?

“We don’t even know this girl OD’d on bad junk,” Starsky said evenly, trying to disperse the tension he felt brewing between his partner and the other two detectives. "Besides . . . we’re all on the same team, right? You guys got the Waterfront and the drug case, but Blockard is ours. The question is how does Pellar’s top goon tie into a sixteen-year-old girl OD’ing on Horse - - if that’s what happened?”

“Maybe you wanna ask your partner that,” Sullivan countered, refusing to back down. “Seeing how most of our casefiles were on his desk this morning.”

Trapped, Hutch flushed. A flicker of doubt ghosted through his eyes before he grew abruptly defensive. “So sue me. You haven’t turned up shit anyway.”

“And I suppose you could do better?” Sullivan snapped.

Starsky opened his mouth to interrupt, saw Dobey about to do the same when he realized the room had plunged into unexpected silence. So we’re puttin’ on a show. He was about to make a crack when he took another look at Dobey’s face and saw stark incredulity reflected there . . . realized that both Baker and Sullivan were staring toward the door, literally transfixed. The room was abominably silent, so unnaturally still he could almost hear the flow of blood through his veins.

And then he saw Hutch.

His friend’s flesh was completely bloodless, the cold white of cemetery marble. There was panic in his eyes, ballooned further still by a thin vein of terror. Starsky could feel tension and outright fear rolling off him in waves. Hutch stood rooted to the spot, sidelined by the unforgiving blow of traumatic shock. His pale eyes looked eerily colorless and overly large against his bleached skin, his mouth pressed into an anemic white line.

Startled by his reaction, Starsky spun toward the door, the reason for the abrupt silence growing instantly clear. For a minute he simply stared dumbfounded, certain someone was playing a sick joke. Phil Corman stood just inside the squadroom, everything about him exactly as Starsky remembered. From his rumpled suit and wavy brown hair to the cocky hint of arrogance in his blue eyes, he looked every inch the corrupt cop Hutch had shot and killed eleven days ago.

The silence dragged for another second before the man broke it himself. “Which one of you is Hutchinson?”

“I am,” Hutch answered in a surprisingly firm voice.

Starsky blinked, shunted from an impossible world to one that made only marginal sense. He watched the man approach with an abstract feel of stupefaction, certain the whole situation would dissolve - - had to dissolve - - into a bizarre waking dream. But it didn’t happen as much as he wanted, even prayed that it would. As the man drew nearer, Starsky shifted his weight, easing in front of his friend. The move, protective and equally aggressive, brought a thinly amused smile to the man’s lips.

“Let me guess,” he said with a smirk, drawing abreast. “You’re the other one - - Starsky, right?”

“Who are you?” Starsky demanded.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” the man taunted mildly. “That’s probably more than Phil got, don’t you think?”

Starsky felt an explosion of irritation behind him. Before he could react, Hutch shouldered past, his shock replaced by tightly controlled rage. “I’m Hutchinson. Who the hell are you and what do you want?”

“So you’re the guy who did it?” Amusement faded from the other man’s face, replaced by a deadly kind of scrutiny. The light in his eyes turned flat and apathetic, that strange impassiveness somehow more unsettling than anger would have been. “I’m Darryl Corman, Phillip’s twin brother. I had to see for myself - - look into the eyes of the man who killed him. We weren’t close, but a man doesn’t lose a brother - - especially his twin - - without feeling something, you understand.”

“Well you can damn well feel it somewhere else,” Dobey snapped. “You’re disrupting my squadroom and my men. Unless you’ve got a legitimate reason for being here - -”

“I already told you, Captain.” Cool blue eyes snapped to his face. “I wanted to see the man who pulled the trigger.” He looked back to Hutch, his gaze steady and challenging. Then it dropped, abruptly disdainful, sweeping from head to toe. The corner of his mouth curled in a contemptuous smile. “How shoddy of Phillip letting himself be killed by something so young and sickly. Are you sure you didn’t shoot him in the back, Hutchinson?”

“Out!” Dobey exploded.

Starsky shoved in front of his partner. “I’ll take him out, Cap’n,” he spat. “ . . . make sure the asshole finds the exit.”

“No need.” Holding up both hands, Corman backed off demurely. “I’ve had my say, gotten my look. I’ll leave you gentlemen to deal with the fallout.” Turning crisply, he strode from the room, leaving a crowd of shocked personnel staring after him. One by one, curious gazes swiveled back to openly ogle Hutch.

“What? No one has any work to do around here?” Dobey thundered. Within seconds sporadic activity resumed, officers and detectives going back to their duties as if they’d never been interrupted. Occasional furtive glances were cast in Hutch’s direction, but most of the workers in the room had gotten Dobey’s message loud and clear: Back off!

Concerned, Starsky chanced a glance at his friend.

With Corman gone, Hutch’s fragile composure threatened to crack. Ducking his head, he walked swiftly from the room.

“Get him,” Dobey ordered.

Starsky didn’t need any prompting from his captain. He was already halfway across the room by the time Dobey’s words left his mouth. In the hallway, he sprinted into a quick jog, catching up with his long-legged friend just as Hutch ducked into the stairwell leading to the garage.

“Where ya goin’, buddy?” Sticking to his heels, Starsky trotted beside him as Hutch fast-walked down the steps. The blond-haired man’s face was alarmingly severe, drawn tight in an implacable mask. Starsky wasn’t sure exactly what emotions churned in his eyes but he knew the combination was toxic. As rigid and tightly wound as his sensitive friend was, Starsky had the feeling he’d simply shatter into a thousand pieces if he so much as touched him. That was frightening enough in itself, because Hutch had always welcomed contact in the past, responding favorably to every minute brush of Starsky’s fingertips.

“Hutch . . . come on . . .” Sprinting ahead of him, Starsky reached the door first, blocking the exit to the garage. “Just slow down and think a minute. What’re you doin’? Where are you goin’?”

“Get out of my way, Starsky.”

“Why, so you can run off half-cocked? You’re white as sheet, pal. I’d lay money a few more steps’n you’re gonna fall flat on your face. You wanna take a dive in the garage? Is that what you want?”

Agitated, Hutch swung away in a tight circle, thrusting both hands into his hair. He paced restlessly, breathing heavily now, far too rapidly for a man who was already existing on fumes. Starsky could see sweat on the side of his face, seeping in fat ribbons from clumps of his disheveled hair. He could also see Hutch was trembling, crashing violently from a brutally sadistic shock. Nuthin’ like being confronted by a man you buried eight days ago.

“Babe.” Lowering his voice, Starsky stretched out his hand, lightly touching his friend’s sleeve.

Hutch stopped pacing immediately, his head snapping up, pure panic in his eyes. For a minute it looked like he would bolt, then slowly clarity returned to his gaze. Anguish crushed the hysteria and he slumped against the wall with a dejected groan. “Who . . . why did he . . ?”

“Forget about it.” Starsky hooked him under the elbow, taking the brunt of his weight. “Just lean on me. I’m gonna drive you home, okay?”

The fight went out of Hutch. He nodded dumbly, allowing himself to be steered toward Starsky’s Torino. He stumbled a little, still trembling as Starsky helped him into the car. Perspiration soaked the edges of his hair with cold sweat, turning wayward strands of white-gold to darker brass. Uncommunicative and sullen, he curled against the door and closed his eyes, making Starsky’s heart catch in his throat.

He’d been utterly clueless about Phil Corman having a brother, much less a twin. To the best of his knowledge, the man hadn’t been at Corman’s funeral. Even if he’d shown up after Starsky had left with Hutch, word about an identical twin would have leaked back to the police force. The man had clearly intended his presence to be a crushing blow to Hutch, staging the whole event for maximum effect. Waited for a crowded patrol room . . . waited until he knew Hutch would be there . . .

Worried, Starsky glanced across the seat at his partner, hating the way Hutch had curled in on himself. He’d been fragile to begin with, still recovering from what Forest had done to him and the ugliness of having to shoot a fellow officer. How much could he take in one day - - stumbling over a young girl who’d OD’d, then having the mirror image of the man he’d killed confront him face-to-face?

Reaching across the seat, Starsky rubbed his knee soothingly, frowning when his friend failed to react. “It sucks, Hutch, I know.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hutch mumbled and tucked closer to the door. By the time they reached his cottage, he was shivering, his face streaked with cold sweat. Starsky got him inside then paced restlessly, frustrated when Hutch barricaded himself in the bathroom. Minutes later he could be heard getting violently sick. When he emerged a short time later, he looked shocky and pale, his blue eyes dark and overly large in the drawn shell of his face. Dismissing Starsky, he crumbled to a seat on the sofa, hugging a throw pillow against his stomach. “I’ll be fine, Gordo. Go back to Metro.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.” Determined, Starsky sat beside him. “Hutch, the guy was pure scum for what he did - -”

“He lost his brother,” Hutch returned quietly. His arms tightened around the pillow, the lush, gold-tipped veil of his lashes dipping self-consciously. “He deserved a shot at making me squirm.” Exhausted, he folded into the corner of the couch. “I’m tired, Starsk. Call Dobey for me, huh? I think I’ll just stay put for the afternoon.”

Worried, Starsky pressed his lips together. He made the call as requested, then camped out with a magazine while Hutch tossed restlessly, drifting in and out of sleep. Eventually gut instinct got the better of him and he placed a call to R&I, requesting a detailed check on Darryl Corman. Somewhere after 2:00 P.M., Hutch woke up and Starsky got him to down some canned soup with crackers. They went for a drive after that, contouring the beach because Hutch said he wanted fresh air. Darryl Corman wasn’t mentioned again, nor was Peggy Ann Fleetwood. At 6:30 Starsky bought burgers and fries, and they ate on Hutch’s front porch, watching the ducks on the canal. Hutch picked at his food, downing two glasses of iced water, leaving most of the burger untouched. Reluctantly, at nine o’clock, Starsky drove home, his friend adamant that he wanted to spend the night alone.

When twelve o’clock rolled around, Starsky stared at the ceiling, still wide awake.

+++++

Hutch stared at the alarm clock. 1:58 a.m. He really did hate the wretched thing, its glowing green face once again reminding him of each slowly creeping minute. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but his mind stubbornly refused to surrender to fatigue. Each time he closed his eyes, he grew trapped in a suffocating web of horror, guilt and fear. Encountering Darryl Corman had only made his deep-rooted insecurities worse. For one deranged moment, standing in the squadroom, staring at the impossible apparition in the doorway, he’d been certain Phil had returned from the grave - - or that in some strange, complex twist of fate, the corrupt cop hadn’t really died.

He’d teetered on the threshold of sanity, wondering if his guilt over Corman and ever-present fear of heroin addiction had finally shattered his fragile grip on reality. Somehow he’d managed to keep his composure throughout the surreal encounter, but once Corman was gone, he’d known it was only a matter of time before he fell apart. If Starsky hadn’t gotten him to the garage and into the Torino when he did . . .

Exhaling loudly, Hutch tossed back a fistful of blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He braced his elbows on his knees, resignedly bowing his face into his hands. At least he’d managed a little sleep earlier that afternoon - - those few blissful hours on his couch when Starsky had kept silent guard. He hadn’t even thanked his friend, yet it had meant the world to him. Demons and nightmares left him alone when his partner was around, their power to terrify annihilated by Starsky’s calming presence. Hutch felt safe and protected when his friend was nearby, comfortable enough to abandon himself to sleep. But alone in the darkness with only the quiet of the cottage for company, his mind conjured phantoms of guilt and fear until there was no escaping what Forest had done to him, what he’d done to Corman.

Halfheartedly, he glanced at the phone on the nightstand. Talking to Starsky would help, but it was late and his friend deserved the rest. Starsky had suffered right along with him, exhausting himself while trying to help Hutch through the worst of his withdrawal, then nightly afterward. He’d practically burnt himself out, existing on coffee, adrenaline and nerves. The last thing he needed was a phone call at 1:58 in the morning from a thirty-year-old street cop who was afraid to be alone.

That’s it. I’m afraid.

It was a grim reality to face. He’d become a heroin addict and killed a cop, all within a matter of weeks. Hardly the way he’d envisioned his career going when he’d first entered the Academy. To make it worse there was some psychotic running around on the street, doping up sixteen-year-old girls with heroin laced with fentanyl, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

It wasn’t his case. Baker and Sullivan had no leads, and neither Dobey nor even Starsky would let him anywhere near a case involving heroin. So at 1:58 he entertained his nightly demons instead, afraid to go to sleep, desperate for the comforting presence of his partner, knowing he didn’t have the right or courage to ask.

I’ve got a key to his place.

The thought popped into Hutch’s mind like a quicksilver flash of lightning. He didn’t have to call Starsky . . . he didn’t even have to admit how lonely and terrified he was. All he had to do was dress, drive across town and creep into his friend’s apartment for the night. He could catch a few hours of sleep on Starsky’s couch and be gone before the dark-haired detective woke in the morning. Starsky would never even know he’d been there.

It was an insane plan, a ridiculous, flighty scheme, but Hutch was desperate enough and tired enough to think it might actually work. In Starsky’s apartment, with his partner sleeping just a few feet away he’d feel safe again, a luxury he hadn’t experienced in a long time. The mere thought of his partner’s scent surrounding him, the familiar lumpiness of Starsky’s worn sofa pressed against his back made him groan aloud in appreciation. Just to sleep - - protected and secure, knowing Starsky was in the other room - - made the lunacy of the scheme worthwhile.