Well, it turns out I lied. In my last author’s note I said I was going to write a post-Partners story or missing scenes story from Survival. Both of those are still kicking around in my head, but in the meantime a few cyber friends threw ideas my way and I decided to combine all of them into a single story.

Eli mentioned she’d like to see an angsty Starsky story related to Pariah. Starsky’s Strut said she’d like to see me write a “how they met” story. And finally, Trish picked up on something I barely addressed in Dance Celestial and suggested expanding that thread with a story of its own. Since that idea became the foundation of Detour, I don’t want to say too much about it, other than it involves one partner being hurt and the other struggling with guilt. So to Eli, Starsky’s Strut and especially Trish, thanks for the ideas. I’m not sure I actually managed to use them in the manner you envisioned, but they were the plot threads I had in mind when I started Detour.

Thanks as always to Theresa for beta work supreme and to Kass for such a comfy fic home. And, yeah, I know it’s not the best place to do this, but thanks to the many readers who voted and made me a winner of the Paula Wilshe award for 2006. WOW! As a new writer, I obviously didn’t know Paula, but it’s an honor to be recognized in memory of someone who was so beloved in the fandom. Congrats to my co-winner, CC as well! Hopefully, I can keep all of you entertained for a long time to come! J

And finally (yeah, I’m almost done *grin*) for the purpose of this story, sections designated “Present” refer to the year 1975. As always, I hope you all enjoy the tale . . .

Detour

By Kate (CMT)

Canyon Road: Present

Starsky was wretched company and had been for some time. The fact he was aware of his mood and even acknowledged some of his misery was being taken out on Hutch didn’t make his desolation any easier to shake. He’d killed a sixteen-year-old kid, then stood by and let some lunatic with a personal vendetta take out two of his fellow officers while trying to get to him. And what had he done when he’d finally had George Prudholm at his mercy, the barrel of his pistol just inches from the vindictive killer’s head?

I let him go. I turned him over to Hutch.

Starsky knew his police career would have gone up in smoke had he pulled the trigger. But more importantly, Hutch would have gone right along with it because his ever-faithful partner would have lied to cover the cold-blooded killing. If Starsky had made that choice, deciding to be judge, jury and executioner, Ken Hutchinson would have swallowed his idealist convictions and done what was necessary to salvage Starsky’s career. Even if Starsky had wanted it to end there, not caring what became of him or his future, Hutch would never have let him. He would have lied, tampered with evidence, written a false report - - whatever was necessary to keep his friend above the law.

And so Starsky hadn’t pulled the trigger.

To this day he wasn’t sure if he’d made that decision because he believed it was the right thing to do or simply because he didn’t want Hutch going down with him. In the midst of all the conflict with Lonnie Craig and Prudholm, he’d almost walked away from the Force. In retrospect, he was beginning to think he should have followed through with that decision. No matter what he did, he couldn’t shake the gloom of Lonnie’s death, or the steadily creeping darkness that whispered innocent men had died because of him.

And so he’d been moody, withdrawn, frequently short with Hutch when his friend didn’t deserve the sharpness. Rather than snap back, his partner had been patient, ridiculously understanding and staunchly supportive.

Which only made Starsky feel worse. The perpetual ball of bleak despair and simmering hostility had been building for three weeks. Coupled with the joyless mentality that came from six straight days of nightshift, he felt like he was sinking in a quagmire. Even his tie to Hutch had been affected, their normally unshakable bond showing signs of strain.

Hutch was tired. He knew that. Endlessly patient, the blond-haired man carried the weight of worry for both of them, attempting to make everything right again when Starsky wasn’t certain it could be. Maybe it was just better to walk away from the mess Prudholm had made of his life . . . the ugly scar Lonnie Craig’s senseless death had carved into his soul.

“Zebra 3 to Control,” he heard Hutch say into the mic. “We are in pursuit of a black Nova, north on Canyon Road, just past city limits. Plate number: nine-kilo-echo-seven-four-tango. Be advised suspects have taken a female cashier as hostage. Notify county sheriff we have crossed city line.”

“Copy that, Zebra 3,” the nasally voice of the control officer responded. “We are dispatching units to assist. Will advise County as directed.”

Starsky shook aside his thoughts and concentrated on the wail of the siren as it shrieked into the pre-dawn darkness, the garish red strobe of the mars light transforming clumps of shadow into splotches of blood. At this hour, Canyon Road was mostly deserted. He watched the dim-and-flash of the Nova’s taillights as the driver recklessly navigated his bulky vehicle through the hairpin turns, barely braking. Starsky kept his foot on the gas, only easing as the Torino fishtailed through a wide curve. The rear tires slid from the shoulder, smoking rubber as he braked hard into the bend. He heard the leaf springs creak and gunned the accelerator, spewing up chunks of gravel as the car bulleted back onto the road.

“Starsky.” Hutch warned in a low voice, one hand planted firmly against the dash.

He knew his partner trusted his judgement when it came to driving. Hutch was fair behind the wheel, but he didn’t come close to the high-speed control Starsky had. He’d always been mechanically inclined. He loved speed and he loved to drive. When they’d put him in a patrol car at the Academy, he’d torn up the track, dusting every previous record for performance and time. The one thing he still had confidence in as a cop was his uncanny and natural ability to drive.

“Relax, partner,” he said. “We’re gonna get ‘em.”

Two more robbery suspects. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He and Hutch had pulled up to an all-night gas station just in time to witness two men in dark clothing dragging a struggling female cashier into their black Chevy Nova. One had dropped a sack with a handful of money on the macadam before hastily snatching it up and jumping into the passenger’s seat. The driver struck the girl across the face with a pistol, then shoved her into the back. Hutch was halfway to the car, gun drawn, ordering them to halt when the vehicle suddenly lurched to life, barreling straight for him. Starsky got off two shots before firing up the Torino. By that time Hutch was diving into the car and the pursuit was on.

God, don’t let ‘em be kids again, Starsky silently prayed. Not this time.

They’d taken a hostage - - or at the very least a woman they’d intended to use, one way or another before disposing of her. Part of him immediately condemned the two men in the car as sick replicas of Prudholm, unjustly preying on the helpless and the innocent. Another part wondered if they were kids like Lonnie, who’d become trapped in the harsh cycle of predatory street life. Either way, the girl was a victim.

He banked the car through another curve and heard Hutch grunt as he was thrown against the door. Up ahead the road narrowed, forking to the left at the same time. The driver of the Nova took the bend without braking, relying on speed to get him through the tight “S.” Almost immediately his tires hit loose gravel, sending his rear end fishtailing beneath the deadly combination of weight and speed. The heavy vehicle twirled like a top, crossing lanes, sliding under massive acceleration back toward the red-and-white Ford.

“Starsky look out!” Hutch yelled.

With only a split second to react, Starsky hit the brake and hastily spun the wheel. For a minute all he saw was the blinding flash of headlights, a deadly hurtling mass of black metal and chrome. The collision slammed him into the seat and sent the Torino spinning out of control. He heard the shriek of torn metal, felt the jarring shock of impact as the right side of the car bounced against a tree, then boomeranged free. The acrid reek of burning brakes and hot rubber filled his head. Somewhere in the confusion, he realized all motion had stopped . . . that the screech and hiss of grating sound had died, leaving a faint echo buzzing in his head.

It took him a minute to suck down a breath. To realize, that yes, he was hunched over the steering wheel, his hands locked in a death grip on the hard molded plastic. His head rang atrociously, and he realized his lip was bleeding - - that he’d bitten down so hard on his tongue, there was blood on the inside of his mouth. His neck throbbed as if he’d wrenched it, sending prickly splinters of pain into his shoulders and back. Through the windshield he could see the Nova lying belly up, fifty-odd feet away across the opposite lane, its lights shooting twin beams into the murky shadows. There appeared to be no movement from inside the car, but it was dark enough that he couldn’t tell for sure.

“Gonna need help on this one, buddy,” Starsky muttered to Hutch as he prodded the inside of his mouth with his tongue, tasting blood. “I’ll call for an ambulance.” He reached for the microphone and froze. “Hutch?”

Stupidly, it hadn’t dawned on him the accident might have been worse for his passenger, than for him. He expected Hutch to be grumbling at him for his shoddy driving - - even though he knew the end result could have been much worse if he hadn’t reacted as quickly as he did.

“Hutch?” Starsky’s heart double-timed into his throat, his breath growing fluttery and short. His friend was crumpled against the passenger door, lifeless looking and still. He sat with his face turned away, his body angled into the door so that Starsky couldn’t really see him.

What he could see left him feeling helpless and alarmed.

The door had accordioned inward, the metal frame warped and collapsed at the top. Though the window had cracked and veined like the web of a mammoth spider, it remained miraculously intact. Leaning into the damaged door, Hutch rested with his brow pressed to the glass.

“Hutch?” Frightened, Starsky tentatively touched the back of his partner’s head, rewarded by a soft groan. “Buddy, can you hear me?”

Hutch stirred listlessly beneath his hand. Blinking, he twisted his head to the side and tried to sit straighter. “Starsky?”

“Yeah, pal, I’m right here.” He breathed a mental sigh of relief. At least Hutch was conscious and talking. In the back of his mind he thought of the Nova, the two perps and the girl. Damn it, where’s my backup? “I’m just gonna radio for help . . . get an ambulance here.”

Hutch gave a weak nod and closed his eyes, still huddled against the door.

Barely there, barely conscious, Starsky thought as he reached for the microphone. His heart gave a small lurch when he realized the cord had been severed in the crash. “Damn it!” Okay, it didn’t matter. They’d already phoned in their position, which meant help would be arriving shortly. He’d just have one of the patrol units call for an ambulance the minute they hit the scene.

Starsky touched his friend’s shoulder. “Hutch, can you turn around and face me? I wanna make sure you’re okay, buddy, before I go secure that Nova . . . check on the girl.” The girl . . . ohgod, what if she’s hurt too? “Hutch. Hutch, come on, I need you to answer me.” I can’t leave that girl with those two hoods.

First priority came down to civilians - - not his partner, no matter how attached they were. And yet he hesitated. He knew Hutch was coherent, and there didn’t appear to be any sign of blood. That alone should be enough to propel him from the car, yet he didn’t like the way his friend sat hunched, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. “Hutch, don’t do this to me. You know I gotta go help the girl.”

“Okay,” Hutch said in a shaky voice. “Y-Y-You go. I’m fine.”

The stammer told him Hutch was anything but fine. “Just sit back for me,” Starsky pleaded. He pulled on Hutch’s forearm, gently forcing it away from his middle. That was when he saw the blood. Even in the semi-dark it stood out as a repulsive black patch, glistening and oily, greedily spreading over Hutch’s stomach and arm, blotting the front of his cream-colored cords.

Starsky choked, blindsided by the alarming glut. How could a man bleed like that and not tell him? “Where are you hurt?” he snapped, fear making his voice unnaturally sharp.

“M-My side,” Hutch said. “S-Something from th-the door, Starsk . . .”

Hutch tilted his head back and for the first time Starsky saw the strain on his face . . . realized that his friend was in agony. His skin was unnaturally white and shocky-looking, a bleached mask against the deeper gold of his hair.

“Okay . . . okay, just take it easy,” Starsky said softly, hoping to calm not only Hutch but himself as well. “I’m gonna get you outta this. Help’s already on the way, so all you gotta do is hang on for a while, okay? I want you to stay awake and keep your eyes open.”

Gripping Hutch by the chin, Starsky forced his head around. Already he could see the taxing burden of misery and fatigue pulling on Hutch’s lids, the allure of blissful unconsciousness weighing heavily on him. “Damn it, Hutch,” he snapped, panicked when his friend’s lashes dipped lower still. “Stay awake, you hear me?”

The heated command brought the golden lashes up again, pain and desperation mingling on the surface of Hutch’s blue eyes. It was torture to witness that conflict. Starsky understood his friend was in agony . . . that Hutch longed to slide into oblivion and escape the misery if only temporarily. But the blond detective also desperately wanted to do what his friend asked . . . if only because Starsky was the one asking it. And that meant remaining in a world of punishing pain, suffering what he could easily escape by surrendering to darkness.

“That’s better,” Starsky said, softly this time. His fingers swept higher, stroking Hutch’s cheek in a fond caress, sharing what limited comfort he could. Shit, buddy, I didn’t mean for this to happen. “I’m just gonna look at your side . . .” Even as he said it, he let his eyes drop toward the dark space between Hutch and the door. He couldn’t really see in the half-gloom, but thought he detected an impaling shaft of metal twisted outward from the damaged door. Gingerly, he reached across his friend, gently prodding Hutch’s ribs on the right side, steadily working lower.

Hutch hissed in a pained breath.

“Easy, easy,” Starsky crooned. His hand touched jagged metal, felt blood and butchered flesh. His heart spiked higher in alarm, beating fast enough to make him breathe hard. In the closed confines of the car, the sound was harsh and ragged. From what he could tell in the faulty light, the ragged piece of metal had ripped through Hutch’s side, impaling him at the moment of impact with the tree, wrenching free when the vehicle lurched to a stop.

Damn it, what the hell is taking back-up so friggin’ long?

Jerking from his jacket, Starsky pressed it over Hutch’s side. “Hold that there, buddy, okay?” He was distressed to realize he was shaking as he gripped Hutch’s hand and slid it over the light canvas material. “You gotta press hard, babe.” Deliberately, he added the weight of his hand, mashing the jacket against the gushing wound. Hutch grimaced and twisted his face away, the tendons in his neck popping beneath the grim strain.

He ain’t makin’ a sound.

Starsky found his friend’s silence unnerving - - not a whimper or a moan, just the clack of his teeth as he bit down to keep from crying out. It wasn’t like Hutch. There’d never been a need to hide what they were feeling from each other, no compulsion to put on a front when they were hurting. Worried, Starsky raised his free hand and kneaded his friend’s shoulder. “I know it hurts, Hutch . . .”

Hutch shook his head, keeping his eyes averted, one hand clamped in a death-grip over the jacket. “I-I’m okay,” he said in that same shaky voice. “Y-You don’t have t-to st-stay.”

The girl. The perps.

Hutch’s stuttering bothered him. In the gray effulgence of predawn, his friend’s face looked gaunt, sunken with shadow, his lips a pale bloodless line. Starsky thought about trying the dome light, deciding he’d feel better if he could see Hutch properly. “Hang on a minute, buddy,” he said, reaching for the switch.

A woman’s shrill scream abruptly knifed through the car like the resounding clap of thunder. Starsky jerked, one hand still pressed to the jacket and Hutch’s wound. Ohgod, the girl! He knew he couldn’t delay any longer. He’d made sure Hutch was out of immediate danger, had done everything he could for his injuries, yet the pull of leaving his wounded partner cut him to the bone.

Hutch shoved his hand away. “Go!”

Starsky lurched from the vehicle, driven by the instinctive responsibility of his job. There was no longer any choice. He sent one quick, desperate glance over his shoulder then drew his gun and darted across the road.

The girl continued to scream. Starsky guessed she’d probably been knocked unconscious by the initial collision and was now awakening to the nightmare of being kidnapped, trapped in a car that was belly-up in the middle of a deserted road. As he neared, Starsky saw that she had kicked out the rear window and was in the process of shakily crawling from the vehicle.

“Police,” he called, racing forward to help her. Through the windshield, he could see the driver slumped over the steering wheel, the top of his head split open in a gory, bloody mass. He didn’t have to investigate to know the man was dead. Of the passenger there was no sign. The door hung open, yawning drunkenly on its hinges. A few handfuls of money lay strewn over the seat, fluttering in the sporadic currents of early morning air.

Starsky bent to help the girl, pulling her to her feet. Trembling violently, she latched onto him in petrified desperation and burst out sobbing. “Th-Th-th-they-they-they - - ” Her voice lurched up in octave as she struggled to get the word out, her eyes darting wildly to his face. “C-C-C-C-Came and . . .”

“Ssh,” Starsky tried to calm her. “It’s okay, now. It’s all over, you’re safe.” Cupping her face, he tilted her head back trying to look into her eyes. Odds were she flirted with shock, but he didn’t see any blood on her. “Are you hurt? Are you injured?”

“I-I don’t t-think s-so . . .” she managed to eke out between chattering teeth. It wasn’t that cold outside, but clearly the shock of what she’d been through was settling into her bones. If Starsky hadn’t already parted with his jacket, he would have wrapped it around her for warmth.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“B-B-Betty. Betty K-Klinger.” Calming a bit, she forced the name with deliberate concentration. She’d been banged up a bit, either in the collision or from being manhandled into the car, Starsky wasn’t sure. The shoulder of her blouse was torn and a large bruise darkened one cheek. Young, somewhere in her early twenties, she had long blond hair, green eyes and a smattering of freckles bridged across a slim nose. Her mascara had run, streaked down her cheeks, mingled liberally with tears. Sniffling, she scrubbed a hand over her face.

“Are you really a cop?”

“Really,” Starsky returned, guiding her away from the car to the side of the road. He glanced around anxiously, worried about the missing passenger. There weren’t any homes in the immediate vicinity, but an armed suspect on the loose was a potential catastrophe waiting to explode. Between the half-dark of ebbing night and a few random stands of timber lining either side of the road, it would be difficult to spy anyone who didn’t wish to be seen. “Betty, do you know what happened to the other guy? The guy who was in the passenger’s seat?”

She was still shaking but didn’t look so wild-eyed now. Confused, she stared up at him. “I . . . I don’t know. I just remember them robbing the st-station, for-forcing me into the car. There was a wreck, and-and . . .” Hysteria crept back into her voice and she clutched at his arm. “I don’t remember anything. I j-j-just woke up in the dark and s-s-started screaming.”

“Okay, just take it easy.” Starsky steered her to a seat beneath a clump of trees. He cast a worried glance at the Torino, a good fifty feet away, and thought of Hutch huddled inside. A sharp pang ripped through his stomach at the thought of his friend bleeding and alone. God, buddy, I wanna be with you. Just as soon as that damn patrol gets here, I promise.

As if on cue, he heard the wail of approaching sirens. Relieved, Starsky bent over the girl speaking softly, assuring her everything was going to be all right . . . that she was safe and help was on the way. He was starting to believe the litany of repeated words himself, when the harsh explosion of a gunshot abruptly shattered the predawn stillness.

+++++

Hutch kept his hand plastered against the jacket, doing what his partner had asked him to do, desperately trying to staunch the sticky flow of blood. He was tired, exhausted from a steady influx of escalating pain. It was something he had tried to hide from Starsky, worried how his friend would react. Lately, Starsky’s emotions had been entirely too turbulent and fragile. He’d never quite recovered from shooting Lonnie Craig. Coupled with the death of two innocent patrolmen and the taunting hell George Prudholm had put him through, Starsky existed on a hair trigger. He’d become reactionary, lashing out or crashing heavily, depending on the ups-and-downs of his volatile mood swings. Anger, guilt, frustration, depression - - Hutch had been at the receiving end of all those emotions and more. The last thing he wanted to do was add to his friend’s misery by admitting he was in agony. In his present frame of mind, Starsky would blame himself for the accident, adding to his ever-growing bent for self-condemnation.

And so Hutch bit his lip and kept mute, crushing the jacket to his side, hoping it would stop his pain along with the blood. He kept his head tilted back, resting against the seat, his eyes turned skyward. He was afraid to look at his hands. He could feel the heavy tackiness of blood eagerly seeping between his fingers, spreading across his stomach. It left his shirt sodden, sticking wetly to his skin.

In the close confines of the car he could smell heated rubber and hot metal, the sickly combination leaving him queasy and lightheaded. He wanted fresh air, but the door was jammed, and he didn’t think he had the strength to force it open. With Starsky gone, he shifted a little and moaned, no longer worried about putting on a false front. Pain erupted from the ragged tear below his ribs, ricocheting straight to his head. Panting, he twisted his face to the side.

“Starsk - -” His friend’s name came automatically, a tortured groan of desperation and need in his moment of distress. Want you here . . .

Just as quickly, he killed the instinctive yearning.

Can’t . . . his logical mind warned. Don’t let him know how badly you’re hurt. Yet the reactionary part - - the whole of him that had twined itself around Starsky - - was caught up in the very real need for his friend. Starsky had been short with him lately, but Hutch knew that anger and frustration wasn’t really directed at him. It was simply Starsky’s defense mechanism, pushing Hutch away because he wasn’t yet ready to concede his own vulnerability. Ohgod, buddy, it hurts . . . I’m hurt . . .

Yet even as the thought demanded attention, another followed: . . . can’t tell him . . . don’t let him know . . .

The pain came again, harder this time. Hutch clutched his side, breathing rapidly through his mouth. Raising his head, he blinked and tried to make sense of the upturned Nova in the distance. It was growing harder to think, his mind alarmingly sluggish, fogged by a prickling haze of misery. How long since Starsky had left . . . since they’d called for backup? What had become of the two suspects they were chasing . . . what of the girl?

Caught up in a befuddling muddle of random thoughts, Hutch was unprepared when someone abruptly yanked open the passenger door. The mangled metal screeched in protest, grating shrilly against the damaged frame. He half turned, jarred to a halt by the presence of a .38 caliber pistol just inches from his face. Rapidly, he looked from the weapon to the man who held it.

In the half-light he had a brief impression of an angular face, red-veined eyes and mud brown hair. A startling flicker of recognition streaked through him, gone as quickly as it came. In the background, a siren wailed to life, howling its imminent approach.

Shock washed over the gunman’s face. “I know you,” he said, snapping the pistol backward.

Just as quickly, he pulled the trigger.

+++++

Starsky recoiled as the resounding crack of a gunshot echoed on the still morning air - - once, then again. Horrified, he realized that dangerously lethal sound had come from the direction of the Torino. It pumped dread into his veins, made his heart quake with fear. In his present condition, there was no way Hutch could have drawn his gun. And the higher pitched echo didn’t have the Magnum’s telltale boom. Starsky had heard that sound enough times to know it anywhere. Whatever weapon had fired, it didn’t belong to Hutch.

“Stay here!” he ordered the girl, bolting for the damaged car.

Listing to the right side, it sat heavily slanted onto the shoulder of the road. As Starsky approached, he saw the passenger’s door hung open, the cracked glass of the window still miraculously in one piece. Hutch had been sitting up when he’d left, but now he couldn’t see his friend through the windshield. The car looked abandoned - - a broken shell on a deserted stretch of road. If there had been someone nearby . . . someone with a gun . . . that person was gone now, sent running by the loud wail of multiple sirens.

“Hutch!” Pistol drawn, Starsky recklessly vaulted across the hood of the car, sliding on his rear to land on the passenger’s side. A double jolt of relief and alarm boomeranged through him when he spied Hutch sprawled across the front seat. “Hey . . .” His voice came out a strangled squawk. He’d been a cop long enough to know when something was dreadfully wrong. He was distantly aware of the shriek of approaching sirens, a faint scuff of cool air across his face. It carried the scent of dew-damp earth, blistered asphalt and blood. His friend wasn’t moving.

Swearing under his breath, Starsky jammed the Beretta into his waistband. He ducked into the car, bracing one knee against the seat as he leaned over Hutch. “Buddy?” The extreme stillness of his partner made him speak softly. There was something unnatural in the way Hutch was lying, left shoulder tucked under his body, his face turned into the seat. His right arm dangled limply over the edge, the wrist folded backward against the floorboard.

Gingerly, Starsky touched the back of his head. When there was no response, he lightly skimmed his hand down Hutch’s neck and over his back. With the door hanging open, the dome light had engaged, splattering the inside of the car in a cone of yellow illumination. It drew his attention to a growing splotch of blood on Hutch’s lower back.

“Oh, shit.” Starsky inched nearer, drawn by the grisly discoloration. The jacket he’d left as a makeshift compress was crumpled, half wedged beneath the blond detective’s stomach. Starsky knew the wet splotch on Hutch’s back had nothing to do with the wound he’d sustained in the accident. This was different . . . newer . . . an exit wound from a pistol, if he had his guess. A growing deluge of blood soaked Hutch’s pants, splaying further over his hip and outer thigh.

Someone shot ‘im. The cowardly bastard shot ‘im!

Roused to half-consciousness, Hutch stirred, feebly attempting to draw his right leg forward. The lethargic effort at movement made him hiss in a shocked breath. He groaned against the pain, pulling his arm onto the seat, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. “Starsk . . .”

Though he moaned the name aloud, Starsky had the distinct impression Hutch didn’t even know he was there. Disoriented and dazed by pain, he called for his friend from sheer reflex.

And Starsky responded in kind, an emotionally thick lump wedged in his throat. “I’m right here, babe.” He slid a little nearer, his knee bumping higher between Hutch’s thighs. Fumbling for the jacket, he tried to reposition it to sop up the fresher blood but couldn’t be sure where the bullet had entered. At least it went clean through. Biting his lip, he pressed the stained fabric over the exit wound on Hutch’s back. Another, grimmer thought immediately surfaced: I did this to him. I’m responsible. I shouldn’t have left him. He was damn defenseless, and I waltzed away to help the girl.

A heated surge of guilt knifed through him, plundering his fragile composure. What a fuck up! Lately he couldn’t do anything right - - shooting a kid, getting two fellow officers killed - -and now for the ultimate betrayal, he’d left his injured partner alone and defenseless in a situation he’d known was potentially dangerous. It’s like I painted a friggin’ target on his chest. He’s damn lucky I didn’t get him killed too.

Ashamed, Starsky hung his head. He choked out a breath, a tremor of recrimination racing through his arms. He kept his elbows locked, his hands pressed tightly against the jacket. Earlier Hutch had suffered in silence, but pain was clearly taking its toll now, heightened by the blunt trauma of the gunshot wound. Or had there been two? Starsky had heard dual shots in rapid succession, but there was far too much blood to tell how badly Hutch was injured.

His friend parted with a pathetic whine, trying to scrunch onto his left side. He blinked groggily, never fully cognizant of his surroundings. Fumbling for the steering wheel, he locked his hand over the rim in an ineffectual bid to leverage himself upright.

“No, Hutch.” Starsky pulled his hand free with minimal effort. “Stay there. Help’s comin’, I promise.” Outside, the din of multiple sirens droned to an abrupt stop as a trio of patrol cars arrived on the scene. Starsky twisted his head, looking through the rear windshield. Behind him, the strobing flash of emergency lights turned the terrain into a surreal blend of crimson-stained macadam and jet shadows. He saw two officers race for the Nova, another sprint to Betty Klinger’s side where she sat huddled beneath a sheltering copse of trees.

“Over here!” he yelled. Within seconds, a junior patrolman jogged toward the disabled Torino. “Get an ambulance,” Starsky ordered, shooting a hasty glance at the fresh-faced rookie officer who appeared by the passenger’s door. “My partner’s been shot. There’s one dead in the Nova, another armed, on the loose. You got that?”

“Yeah,” came the quick reply.

Starsky didn’t wait to see him sprint away. His attention immediately shifted back to Hutch. He was beginning to feel a crimp of pain in his neck from the jar he’d gotten when the car lurched to a halt. He wanted to ease onto the seat, bend his arms a little to relax the pressure, but none of that was an option with Hutch bleeding the way he was. His friend stirred again, parting with a muffled moan. Starsky felt something cold and accusatory worm into his gut. I did this to him.

“Ssh,” he crooned. “You’re gonna be okay, Hutch.”

This time something resembling awareness flickered through Hutch’s eyes. He moved restlessly, his face turned in profile against the seat. The chalky white of his skin gleamed like alabaster, dew-damp with a light sheen of cold sweat. “Starsky?” It wasn’t simply a plea this time, but a relieved query of awareness.

“Yeah, it’s me, babe - - I’m here.” Starsky raised one hand, scuffing his knuckles across Hutch’s cheek. “Ambulance is on the way. I’m gonna get you outta this - - you know that, right?”

His friend gave a tired nod, turning his face back into the crook of his elbow. Starsky heard him groan, the anguished sound muffled by the intervening bulk of Hutch’s jacket. The faint cry was strangely ephemeral, almost like an after-thought. Like he didn’t mean for it to happen.

Once again Hutch tried to drag his right leg forward. He tensed involuntarily, his breath catching on a wheezed hiss of air. Shuddering, he buried his face against the seat and moaned.

Starsky blanched.

“Ssh, ssh, it’s okay,” he said hurriedly, his voice quavering at the thought of his friend suffering. It should be me. If anyone deserved to writhe in pain, it was him for all the senseless torment and death he’d caused others recently - - Lonnie Craig, the two innocent patrol officers, their families and loved ones - - all had suffered and died because of one David Michael Starsky. And now he was responsible for deserting his partner and soulmate . . . leaving him to the mercy of a psychotic gunman. Between the girl and Hutch, his friend was the one who’d been more grievously injured. The girl had been shaken up, nothing more. She would have survived, crawled out of the car without his intervention. Hutch was the one who’d been hurt, who’d needed protection, yet he was the one who’d suffered traumatic injury.

In the line of duty.

Starsky ground his teeth together.

Fuck the line of duty.

Being a cop hadn’t prepared him for abandoning his partner. Yeah, he’d sworn an oath, pledged his life, but at the time he’d never taken into account his fierce attachment to one platinum-haired Midwesterner. He’d long ago come to terms with sacrificing himself, but he’d never considered the possibility he might have to sacrifice Hutch too. That simply wasn’t an option . . . had never been from nearly the moment they’d met at the Academy.

Starsky had done what was expected of him, what he’d been sworn to do - - he’d saved the girl and in the process had nearly sacrificed his partner. Shaken, he swallowed hard.

He’d seen enough bullet wounds to know the perp had likely used a .38 caliber, but what if he’d used a .44 or a shotgun instead? What if the cowardly scum had used a knife, slitting Hutch’s throat ear to ear? There’d be no need for an ambulance then. Abruptly cold, Starsky touched his friend’s cheek.

Hutch breathed heavily, his eyes closed.

“It’s gonna be okay, buddy,” Starsky whispered, his voice barely audible. In the distance he heard the shrill pitch of an approaching siren and guessed an ambulance was only seconds away. He no longer felt the soiled taint of blood on his fingers, the gore-soaked jacket wadded beneath his hands. There was only the beat of his heart, pulsing in time to Hutch’s painfully labored breath.

Stretching forward, Starsky dipped his lips close to his friend’s ear. He felt the satiny brush of white-gold hair against his cheek, the familiar sensation inducing a string of reactionary goosebumps on his arms. Beneath the stench of blood and clammy perspiration, he could smell Hutch.

Literally.

He sometimes thought it strange how he’d come to recognize the characteristic scent of his partner, a combination of fresh soap, wind-laced skies, and aquatic-based aftershave. That odor clung to Hutch’s clothing, permeated his apartment and car. It was an essential part of who he was, as effortlessly natural as the sun-streaked highlights in his fair hair. Greedily latching onto the comforting scent, Starsky used it to displace the harsher reek of butchered flesh and clotted blood.

“Stay with me, partner,” he pleaded. Crouched over his friend, he bowed his head. “I ain’t gonna leave you again, buddy.” The vow died on his lips, as impassioned and shaky as the first feeble rays of dawn. When the ambulance finally arrived, the attendant had to pry him free.

Starsky lingered anxiously in the background as two EMTs worked over Hutch. He’d been short with his friend lately, not the most companionable of partners. But now every protective instinct he possessed was in overdrive. He fidgeted and hovered close, hyperactive to the nth degree, all the while fighting down the compelling urge to touch, comfort and soothe. It often amazed him they had grown so inseparably dependant on each other . . . that shared touch and physical contact had become critical to their wellbeing. Ironically, there had been a time when he’d existed comfortably without Hutch. When he’d waltzed through life, perfectly capable and wholly satisfied with his own devices. He hadn’t needed anyone and hadn’t felt the overwhelming compulsion to be needed in turn.

But that was before Kenneth Richard Hutchinson. Before he’d formed an unexpected and extraordinary friendship with a man who was the antithesis of every fair-weather friend he’d ever made.

As Starsky watched Hutch being loaded into the ambulance, he thought back to the first time he’d seen his partner hurt.

+++++

Bay City Police Academy: The Past

“Jackass,” Starsky muttered.

Beside him, John Colby snickered. Starsky wasn’t sure if his new friend’s laughter was a result of his off-the-cuff comment or the humiliating dressing down their instructor had just given the perpetual golden boy of the Police Academy. One thing was certain - - Sergeant Ozkeller didn’t like the tall blond recruit with the pretty boy looks. Then again, Oz didn’t really like anyone, Hutching-something-or-other included. The unlucky jerk just had the terrible misfortunate of becoming Oz’s dog for the day.

Starsky couldn’t remember the guy’s name - - Hutchinger . . . Hutchington . . . something WASPy and stuck-up sounding, he was sure. Mentally, he’d just taken to calling the lean cadet “Hutch,”or more often than not, something snide and unflattering related to his looks. Starsky knew the type - - overachiever, always played by the rules, a born leader who’d probably shit himself if he so much as cracked a smile or consented to mingle with the other lowly recruits.

Okay, so maybe that was too harsh. Blond Boy seemed easygoing enough with several cadets, but he was annoyingly flawless in Starsky’s book . . . icy and superior. It wasn’t really anything he’d said or done, so much as the way he looked and acted. He had an almost fanatical bent to excel at everything he did. Precisely the reason Oz liked to rattle his cage.

The smug bastard’s got you pegged, pretty boy. Me too.

The rumor mill said Hutch came from a wealthy family . . . that his father was a renowned surgeon, and he had more money than he knew what to do with. Being a cop seemed an odd career choice for a man like that, but it was entirely possible Mr. All American had something to prove . . . something related to his masculinity. Maybe under those movie-star looks, he lacked in other fundamental ways. Certainly, he wouldn’t be the first man to take on a macho job just to prove he was virile. Then again, Starsky had heard Hutch’s wife was a knockout. A woman like that wouldn’t stay with a man who couldn’t keep her satisfied.

He frowned, realizing he was being too judgmental, and that wasn’t like him. There was just something about Hutch that grated on his nerves, rubbed him the wrong way. He knew Colby had talked to the guy a few times, even sort of liked him. But, Starsky was beginning to realize, John Colby went whichever way the wind blew best.

“And that, ladies, is an example of what you don’t do when confronted by an armed felon.” Oz made a point of jabbing his nightstick into Hutch’s midsection before letting him up. Even from a distance, Starsky could see the red flush of embarrassment seep over the tall Midwesterner’s pale cheeks.

Oz was a jackass, selecting Hutch for the training exercise because he knew the blond-haired man was still recovering from a particularly aggressive strain of stomach flu. “Crime don’t give a shit if you gotta hurl,” the balding sergeant had said with a scornful leer as he flagged Hutch to participate in a drill simulating the arrest of violent offenders. He’d gotten in a cheap shot at the very start, then taken Hutch down with a jabbing blow to his midsection courtesy of the nightstick he’d confiscated from the ill recruit. A scathing commentary on everything Hutch had done wrong immediately followed.

From what Starsky could tell, the only thing Hutch had done wrong was to become a personal target for Oz. He frowned, watching as the fair-haired cadet climbed unsteadily to his feet. It was plain from a single glance, Hutch was still suffering the aftereffects of the flu - - weak, light-headed, probably even nauseous. His skin looked strained and chalky. Perspiration soaked his plain white tee-shirt at the neck, under the arms, and left a thin vee streaked down the middle of his back. His bangs were tipped with sweat, as was the neatly trimmed hair resting against the back of his neck. In short, he looked like he was ready to puke. The idiot shouldn’t have even been at training, but that would have been admitting weakness, and such common fragility didn’t fit with his regimentally driven character.

Maybe the jerk deserves everything he gets, Starsky thought sourly. No one’s forcin’ him to be here.

No one except Hutch, diehard overachiever and perfectionist. Even Starsky had to admit a grudging admiration for that kind of bullheaded determination. Hutch had scored high in physical combat and tactical, surprising most of his instructors, especially Oz. In fact, he’d scored high in damn near every training session the Academy had, which was probably why Oz decided to make an example of him.

“It’s too early for this shit,” Starsky muttered aside to Colby. He shifted impatiently, fighting back a yawn. The Academy gym smelled of sweat and new vinyl, the latter all but oozing from the massive blue contact mat they used to toss each other around in combat drills - - or more correctly, get tossed around by Oz. The stench was starting to give him a headache, much like fresh paint did after a few initial whiffs. The other recruits all seemed attentive despite the early morning hour, hanging on Oz’s every word. A few smiled slyly, enjoying the fact the class’s ace student had screwed up royally. Oz let them snicker as Hutch painfully pulled himself to his feet.

Starsky thought the whole thing sucked. He wanted to be a cop, but he had little patience for puffed up A-holes like Oz who harbored superiority complexes. His instinctive irreverence in the face of authority hadn’t gone over well with his instructors. If they viewed Hutch as a pampered pretty boy, they viewed him as a wisecracking troublemaker. Between the two of them, Starsky wasn’t sure which Oz disliked more. If the jerk wasn’t ragging on Hutch, he was snarling at Starsky, doing his best foam-at-the-mouth impersonation.

Man’s just got a piss-poor attitude.

Then again, at least he wasn’t as bad as Pike who taught law and was boring as hell. The thin-faced man had an uncanny gift for turning penal code and federal laws into a monumental snooze-fest. One hundred and five hours of search and seizure, laws of arrest and evidence handling - - just to name a few riveting highlights - - wasn’t the easiest thing in the world to wade through. Put in Pike’s tedious hands, the curriculum was almost intolerable. Starsky was barely treading water in his class, something he knew he’d need to change if he wanted to make it through the Academy. At least recruits pulled down a salary while enduring training.

They’d already been told they’d be working in pairs soon, operating the same way real police partners did on the street. Starsky had already decided to team with Colby. John was edgy, a bit of a bad ass, and Starsky liked that. He’d never been much for straight-laced friends. Most of the other recruits were too hung up on rules and following procedure. Starsky preferred to exist on the fringe, pushing the envelope as far as he could, always testing the line. There were a few loose cannons in the group, like MacEvoy and Reddox, who did the same thing, but both had overly inflated opinions of themselves. MacEvoy was King of the Mat in hands-on-combat, a cocky goon with a 6’4” frame, all of it toned muscle. Even Oz avoided tangling with him if he could. By contrast, Reddox was lean and agile with a sharp tongue and a condescending attitude. He was damn good with a pistol too, scoring high points for marksmanship right behind Starsky and Mister Over-achiever himself, Hutch.

Starsky puffed out his cheeks, exhaling noisily. Impatient, he toed the edge of the vinyl mat, annoyed that Oz hadn’t finished gloating yet. In the center of the gym, Hutch turned away, ready to resume his place in the line of waiting recruits.

“Not so fast, Hutchinson.” Oz stopped him with a pointed glance. “Get your ass back here. We’re not done yet.”

Starsky scowled. Maybe Hutch had Viking blood in his veins with all that blond hair and pale Nordic features, but at the moment he didn’t look remotely like a conqueror. He looked ready to keel over, a little green like he was going to get sick - - all over the mat.

Oz would love that. Toss Pretty Boy around enough until he puked in front of everyone. That would be the ultimate humiliation, the supreme stroke of dictatorial one upmanship. Problem was Oz held all the power and there wasn’t a damn thing Hutch could do about it. Starsky watched him suck down an unsteady breath, squaring his shoulders before he turned to confront Oz. The mule-headed determination was back on his face, a frost of ice in his chilly blue eyes.

Screwed and he knows it.

Pissed with the power play Oz initiated, Starsky cleared his throat - - loudly. “So I think we all get how not to do things when you’re sick. How ‘bout lettin’ someone who’s healthy take a whack at it? I ain’t gonna learn anything watchin’ you bounce a sick guy all over the mat.” Stickin’ my neck out for you, Mister-High-Society-Pretty-Boy and I ain’t really sure why.

“Starsky.” Oz spat the name like it left a bad taste in his mouth. Enraged at first, he soon relaxed, his lips splitting with a predatory grin. “You think you can do better, get your New York ass over here and show me what you got, punk.”

Starsky shrugged. Insolent as always, he sauntered to the center of the mat. He felt Hutch’s coolly appraising gaze on him, silently measuring his worth. I just saved your pasty butt, Blondie. The least you could do is stop lookin’ so damn arrogant.

On second glance he realized there was curiosity in Hutch’s gaze, even a flicker of gratitude. Up close he saw the fair-haired man was sicker than he’d originally thought, his skin waxen and streaked with sweat. Stepping to his side, Starsky turned to face Oz, one hip dipping low in a perfected street stance. He knew his posture reeked attitude but didn’t give a shit. Only a few weeks into training and he was already tired of the head games and power trips. How the hell was he ever going to last eight months?

Bottom line - - he just wanted to make it through the Academy and get on with his career. He wanted to be on the street, putting a stop to the kind of crime that had taken his father’s life. His dad had been a good cop - - a career cop. He would have wiped the floor with a slug like Oz. Given the chance, it was exactly what Starsky wanted to do.

“So . . .” Oz stepped forward, bluntly crowding his space. With a thin sneer, he tapped the nightstick he’d wrestled from Hutch against his open palm. “You wanna take Hutchinson’s place, is that it?”

Hutchinson. Knew it was some stuck-up, ritzy name.

“Just wanna get on with what I’m supposed to be learnin’,” he said smoothly. Mentally, he grinned. See that, Hutchinson - - I can do that cool, aloof stuff too. He felt the man beside him shift uncomfortably. He obviously needed to go crash somewhere, probably spew his churning guts into a toilet. Sure hope whatever you got ain’t contagious. Less of course, you gave it to Oz.

Starsky had no doubt of his ability to take down the drill sergeant - - he’d watched him long enough in training exercises to know his weaknesses. His own stint in the Army and subsequently Vietnam had given him an edge in hand-to-hand combat. Between his street knowledge and the time he’d spent in the jungle, he’d dealt with far worse than Oz. He was a survivor and the drill sergeant knew it. As he saw it, Oz had a dilemma on his hands. If he took Starsky’s challenge and lost, he’d lose face in front of the recruits, something he couldn’t afford. If he took the challenge and won, he didn’t really gain anything. He was already considered a tyrannical bad ass. His position as instructor meant he had the authority to hide behind whatever role suited him best.

Oz grinned toothily. “Tell you what, Starsky. Since you’re so anxious to learn, we’ll just let you pair up with your partner and the two of you can get to work. From here out, you’re teamed up for the duration - - combat, driving, firing range, classroom study, the whole ball of wax. You got that, smart ass?”

“Yeah?” Caught off guard, Starsky couldn’t help but fumble over the unexpected twist. “Okay.” Not so bad after all. He’d thought he was going to have to prove himself with Oz, but the hardhead was letting him off the hook easier than expected. Maybe the guy wasn’t such a dickwad after all. He looked over his shoulder to where John stood on the edge of the mat. “I’m pairin’ with Colby.”

“Think so?” Ozkeller left the mat long enough to walk to a folding table pushed against the far wall. Taking his time, he retrieved a clipboard and a ballpoint pen, tossing the nightstick among a stack of papers. “Let’s see here,” he mused aloud, using the pen to trace down a list attached to the plastic backing. “I got a rude awakening for you, Starsky. In the real world, you don’t get to pick and choose who you’re gonna work with.” Striding back to the two men standing in the center of the mat, he pursed his lips theatrically, making a show of scanning his list. “Says here, we got you paired up with Matthews, Todd.”

Okay, so that wasn’t the end of civilization as Starsky knew it. Matthews wouldn’t have been his first choice, but he seemed like a fairly decent guy.

“You probably would have worked well together,” Oz commented. “Same temperament, similar backgrounds. That’s too bad.”

“What’s too bad?”

“Your reassignment.” Deliberately, Oz scratched a line through the name on his paper. The lightness left his voice and his eyes grew hard. “As of now, you’re partnered with Hutchinson, Ken. You wanna open your mouth and be a smart-ass, deal with the fallout. You got it, Starsky?”

What the fuck?

He clamped down on his tongue before he snapped a heated reply. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He had it all planned. He and John had already figured their strengths and weaknesses to compliment one another. Between the two of them, they’d make it through the Academy no problem . . . even have some laughs along the way. Pairing him with an arrogant, stick-up-his-ass ice king would shoot everything all to hell. Seething, he bit down on his bottom lip. Oz hated his guts - - had from practically the moment he’d walked through the door. He hated Hutch too, that much was obvious. Putting them together was Ozkeller’s way of ensuring they’d both fail.

“Got it, Sir,” he said tightly.

“Good.” Another grin, this one savoring and snide. Turning away, Oz waved the clipboard in the air. “All right, the rest of you ladies - - I’m gonna post these assignments. You got ten minutes to shit, piss, check your status or do whatever the hell you want. I expect you paired up and back on the mat at 9:20. Break!”

“That’s just damn t’rrfic,” Starsky muttered as his fellow recruits broke formation and hustled across the gym to study Ozkeller’s list. Beside him, Hutch clutched his stomach, parting with a soft moan. A second later he gasped and sprinted for the exit. Headed for the john, Starsky thought with a scowl. Shooting Colby a disgusted wave, he waited a minute before slowly following in his new partner’s wake.

Hutch was in the first stall of the john, still spewing his guts when Starsky sauntered into the bathroom. Frowning, he propped his shoulder against the stall door, gazing down on a neatly trimmed crown of white-gold hair and a sweat-stained tee-shirt. Disgusted with the unexpected turn of events, he folded his arms across his chest. “Sure hope pukin’ ain’t all you know how to do, Hutchinson, Ken.”

“Screw you,” came the snarled reply.

Starsky laughed, surprised by the violent retort. He would have pegged Hutch as entirely too proper to swear. Then again, the guy was plainly miserable, coming down from a marathon puke. He didn’t need a cocky New York street punk humiliating him any further.

“Talk trash if you wanna, Blondie, but you and I are stuck with each other. Get used to it. I ain’t exactly jumpin’ through hoops myself, you know, but I figure it could be worse. The bastard coulda stuck me with MacEvoy. At least you don’t talk Cro-magnum.”

Still hunched over the toilet, Hutch turned his head.

Starsky felt that pale blue gaze rake over him, divining and cool, quietly assessing. A second later Hutch flushed the toilet and pushed from the stall. “Why’d you stick up for me?” At the sink he turned, glancing over his shoulder. “ - - Starsky, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s Starsky. And I wasn’t exactly stickin’ up for you, so much as I was sick of watchin’ Oz gloat.” He frowned, realizing that wasn’t entirely true. He had stuck up for Hutch - - a man he didn’t even know . . . who he’d already formed a less than favorable opinion about. Oz had already stomped on a few of the other recruits, and Starsky hadn’t bothered to interfere. So why had he suddenly gotten a streak of conscience about a pretty rich guy, born with a silver spoon in his mouth? ‘Cuz I didn’t wanna see him hurl. I didn’t wanna see him humiliated like that, attitude or no attitude. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “Oz knew exactly what he was doin’. Maybe I just didn’t wanna see him get away with it.”

Hutch bent over the sink, cupping his hand to catch a spray of cold water. He stayed hunched, splattering the chill liquid against his face. After a few seconds, he cranked off the faucet and reached for a handful of paper towels. “So now we’re stuck with each other, hero,” he commented, his voice muffled by a wad of c-folds. “You’re not exactly my first choice of partner either.” Straightening, he shot the sodden mass into the nearest trashcan. His skin still looked chalky but the greenish cast had faded.

Arrogant as shit.

Starsky fought back a rise of hostility. If they were going to work together they needed to get past reactionary antagonism and pre-conceived ideas about what the other was like. Knowing he was screwed either way, Starsky made an effort and went for broke.

“Look, Hutchinson, they only paired us together because they wan’ us to bottom out. I’m the loudmouthed troublemaker, and you’re the snotty rich kid. I say we stick it to ‘em where it hurts and show ‘em what a crack team we can be. Personally I don’t give a shit if you wanna stand around and look decorative, but it wouldn’t hurt to crack a smile once in awhile.” He was surprised when that line actually earned him a grin in return. “Yeah - - like that.”

It was amazing really. Hutchinson’s face changed when he grinned, morphing from that coolly impassive mask into something approachable, even friendly. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t a lost cause after all. The guy had backbone, no question about that, and from his reaction just a minute ago, he wasn’t as prim and proper as Starsky originally thought.

Extending his hand, he offered his own lopsided grin. “What d’ya say, Hutch? You wanna give it a shot?”

“Hutch?” A single eyebrow arched into a fringe of pale hair.

Starsky shrugged. “Hutchinson’s too much of a mouthful, and it don’t exactly roll off my tongue.”

“Okay, I can live with that.” Hutch hesitated only a moment before clasping his hand in a firm shake. “I’ve been called worse.” Tilting his head to the side, he eyed Starsky suspiciously. “Should I be worried about what does roll off your tongue?”

“Nah.” Starsky relaxed, strangely at ease with his new partner. “If I decide to mouth off at Oz or one of the other jerks, I’ll make sure I don’t include you. The way I see it, you only got one thing to worry about and that’s me tossin’ you around on that co