"Monsters"

He wasn't sure what woke him, whether it was a resurgence of the pain he'd been fighting off and on since that afternoon, or the coughing spasm itself. As day progressed into night each had grown significantly worse. Ken Hutchinson tried not to be alarmed at the phlegmy cough that rattled his lungs; the piercing pressure that sliced knife-like across his chest. The ER doctor had said he'd continue to experience some minor discomfort for a few days.

Minor.

Wrapping an arm below his ribs, he sat forward in bed, waiting until the coughing jag subsided. The back of his neck was damp with sweat and his hands were trembling. He cursed softly. Did being wakened from what was admittedly a restless sleep count as "minor?" He cast a glance at the nightstand, noticing the time on the luminous green face of his alarm clock. 2:47 a.m.

In a few more hours he'd be up anyway. Starsky was picking him up at 5:00 for their planned jaunt to northern California and a long weekend in a lakeside cabin. It had been Starsky's idea, a gift actually. For some reason Starsky had gotten it into his head that Hutch needed a break from his recent string of back-to-back ill-fated relationships. Hutch had no sooner buried his guilt and hurt over Abby Crabtree walking out of his life, then he'd become entangled in a passionate affair with Gillian Ingram. Maybe he'd been on the rebound, but he'd thought he'd loved her . . . had even kicked around the notion of a permanent relationship. He'd been devastated by her senseless murder. Discovering she was a prostitute trying to go straight was just another blow in an endless chain of low-points. He'd tried to bounce back as best he could, but it was hard falling back in stride when his life was such a screwed up mess. And that was where Starsky came in.

His partner had sprung the trip on him from out of the blue. The friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend had told Starsky about a cabin in the Lake Monolith area that could be had for "next to nothing." Impulsive as ever, Starsky had booked the trip within the hour.

The gift was even more extraordinary when Hutch considered how much his Brooklyn-bred partner detested the "great outdoors"--fiishing in particular. Yet for the last two weeks Starsky had buried his nose in fishing magazines, reading up on the latest freshwater techniques, determined to make the weekend as enjoyable as possible for Hutch.

It wasn't just any friend who would go the extra mile simply because he thought his buddy was acting a little blue. When he'd found out about the trip, Hutch had been simultaneously shocked and delighted, then simply touched beyond words. Which was why he couldn't back out now, no matter how lousy he felt. It just wasn't an option after all of the trouble Starsky had gone through to arrange the weekend.

For the last week Starsky had been like a kid giddily awaiting Christmas, marking the days off on his calendar, going over his list of supplies and checking it twice. His bouncy enthusiasm was contagious, and Hutch had to admit he'd felt his spirits lifting, the loss of Gillian relegated to the back of his mind.

But that had been before the "Collandra Incident" as he'd come to think of it. The reluctant psychic had come through, helping them locate Joe Haymes' kidnapped daughter in the nick of time. That hard-won break came after Hutch had taken a hit from a high-powered sniper's rifle straight to the chest. Although the bullet-proof vest he'd been wearing beneath his T-shirt protected him, the kick had sent him flying backward through a door fronted by a plate glass window. Most of the cuts to his left arm and his brow had been superficial, despite an alarming amount of blood. The only troubling laceration was located on his upper arm just above the elbow. That one had taken six stitches and even now was stiff and sore.

Given the rattling cough that had haunted him ever since taking the rifle hit earlier that day, he might have bowed out of the weekend if it weren't for fear of disappointing his partner. And in the grand scheme of things nothing meant more to him than his highly energetic friend. Some-times that seemingly endless supply of volatile energy was exhausting, other times it was precisely what Hutch needed.

He'd seen it first hand today when Starsky had nearly spilled his dirt bike in his haste to reach Hutch after Moo-Moo had planted that bullet dead center in his chest. Starsky had barreled through the gathering crowd on the sidewalk, roughly shoving people out of his way until he'd dropped weak with relief at Hutch's side, thankful to find him alive.

Hutch had been on the reverse side of that scenario more times than he wanted to remember. How many times had they cheated death? How many times had he felt a sickly punch to his gut when he wasn't sure if his partner was hurt, dead or alive, after some low-life scum tried to end their careers with a .38 slug?

Heaving a sigh, Hutch dragged a hand over his face. The ER doc had given him some pain medication, told him to expect bruising, soreness and even limited movement. Most of that he hadn't shared with Starsky. Things had gotten a little crazy in the ER when a pair of uniformed cops had brought in four rival gang members. Before Hutch's examination was really complete, a small gang war had erupted in the emergency room of Bay City General and he and Starsky had ended up aiding the uniforms in breaking up the melee.   In the confusion that followed, Hutch had gratefully bowed out the door.

Later, Starsky had dragged him to Collandra's for a burger and fries--a small celebration for all of them, the psychic included--for the successful completion of the Haymes case. Hurting more than he'd wanted to admit, Hutch had gone along, doing his best to put on a show for the evening, joking and making small talk with his friends. He'd eaten a handful of fries (never one of his favorites to begin with) and only half of the burger, preferring to nurse a beer as he listened to Starsky, Huggy and Collandra banter back and forth. Somewhere around 10:30 he'd called it a night, citing the need to get up early for the trip. Starsky's blue eyes had danced at the anticipated excitement of a weekend away and he'd slung a companionable arm around Hutch's shoulders as they walked toward their cars. For David Michael Starsky the night ended on a high note.

Hutch was going to do his damnedest to see it continued that way.

+++++

Hutch downed the last of an early morning breakfast shake. He hadn't bothered going back to bed but shuffled around his apartment for awhile. He popped two pain pills, something he'd normally avoid, but since he wanted to feel his best when Starsky showed up he considered it a fair compromise. A shower helped ease the stiffness from his limbs and the ache in his chest. It was hard keeping his left arm dry while he showered, but he managed by angling the showerhead toward the wall. Afterward he packed a duffel bag with clothes and a few toiletries for their weekend trip, made himself the shake and sat down to wait. It was 4:12 a.m.

To pass the time, Hutch dug out his guitar and fiddled around with a few songs he'd been working on. It was still dark outside and the apartment was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that can only be felt in the dead of night. By the time the clock inched toward 5:00 a.m. he'd lost interest in the guitar and could feel himself getting sleepy. The pain medication hadn't helped, laced as it was with a mild narcotic. Since his involuntary bout with heroin addiction, there was a part of him that instinctively feared anything stronger than aspirin, but if he wanted to convince Starsky he was fine, he knew he needed the assist. Yawning, he shoved the guitar away and stood. Maybe pacing would help.

At five-of-five headlights cut a clean swath through the darkness in front of Venice Place. Hutch stood and bumped aside a shutter to look in the street below. Even in the darkness he could see the gleaming white stripe on his friend's red Torino. If nothing else, the distinctive rumble of the car's customized, beefed-up engine reverberated through the stillness like caged thunder.

Hutch grinned. Odds were some of his neighbors were pulling pillows over their ears, lamenting Starsky's early morning arrival. They'd long since grown used to the deep-throated purr of his muscle car, but having it show up outside the door before dawn wasn't exactly the same as having it roll around at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Starsky killed the engine and silence blanketed the street once again, broken only by the soft hum of an occasional passing vehicle. Hutch laid his guitar in its case then propped it against the piano, standing it upright. He unplugged the blender, switched off the kitchen light, and looked around for his jacket. He'd dressed all in black--maybe a kickback to his mood, he thought grimly--jeans, hiking boots and turtleneck. None of his leather jackets seemed appropriate for the woods, and his favorite flannel was ripped and ruined, stained with his own blood, after yesterday's events. He settled for his dark green collegiate jacket with the white sleeves, wincing slightly as he slid it over his stiff left arm. He was only halfway into the jacket when Starsky gave a one-two knock on the front door, then popped it open without waiting for a reply.

"Hey'ya!" Starsky's grin was animated and lively, his deep blue eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. For someone who usually groused and grumbled through early-morning wakeups, he looked annoyingly chipper, caught up in a let's-go-play-in-the-great-outdoors high. Hutch suspected a lot of that was show, given Starsky's usual reference for anything remotely nature-related contained a liberal sprinkling of four-letter words.

"Time's a wastin'." Clapping his hands together, Starsky gave them an enthusiastic rub.    "Where's your stuff?"

Hutch was still only half into his jacket when his friend's gaze darted in his direction. Starsky's smile immediately faltered, dimmed by the sight of the holster strapped under his left arm.

"Hey." Starsky nodded to the Magnum. "What's with the hardware?"

Hutch pulled the jacket up over his shoulders. He shrugged, unsure what all the fuss was about. Wasn't this the same friend who routinely joked Hutch wouldn't visit his mother without his gun? It wasn't completely out of character for him to carry the revolver when he was off duty. Old habits died hard, better safe than sorry. "What's the big deal? Don't you have your Beretta?"

"Sure, but it's packed away. I ain't wearin' it." Starsky's grin was almost completely gone now, hovering on the brink of morphing into a frown. "Thought we were on vacation."

"We are." Hutch tried to lighten his tone. Can I help it if I'm a little antsy after getting drilled in the chest with a bullet? He flipped up his collar, forcing a smile as he grabbed his duffel bag from the floor by the couch. "So quit standing around and let's get out of here."

Starsky's lips twitched, threatening to curl at the levity in Hutch's voice. Even so, a touch of uncertainty lingered in his eyes.

Hutch pushed it further. "You know, Starsk, with all those fishing magazines you've been reading, you think you would have taken a moment to check out what those guys were wearing. Blue sneakers don't exactly cut it in the woods."

"What?" Starsky glanced down at his clothing: the usual raggedy blue jeans, his scuffed up, can't-part-with-them sneakers, a maroon tee shirt topped by a blue workshirt with snaps, and his battered brown leather jacket. "You don't think I'm a prime candidate for the fishermen's fashion show?" He feigned affront, pivoting on his heel to model his street-smart attire, a playful spark back in his eyes. "You start takin' potshots at me, Blondie, I'm gonna have'ta call Walt. You might know farmin' and horseback ridin', and all that sea scout bullshit�which, by the way, I'm still not entirely sold on�but I ain't never heard you talk about stringin' worms on a fishin' pole in the great wilds of Minnesota."

Hutch chuckled, pleased to see his partner's innate good humor back in high gear. "Who's Walt?" He bent to switch off the light by the couch, and as he did Starsky stepped forward to snatch the duffel bag from his hand. It was simply a "given" he would carry it down the stairs for his still-healing partner, who both men knew had not fully recovered from yesterday's shooting incident.

"You know . . . Walt Rinsely . . . Rinser . . ." Starsky groped for the appropriate name, snapping his fingers when the memory clicked in place. " . . .Rinsmere!" He headed for the door, his step practically bouncing as he made his way down the interior stairs, Hutch following behind "He's the guy with the cabin, who knows George, who knows Joel, who sorta knows Kingsman over in records, but only through Backus, who's friends with Lisa. See she's married to Kingsman's brother-in-law's friend who works with--"

"Enough already!" Hutch held up his hand, his head spinning with the impossible web of connections Starsky somehow managed to keep straight. His friend couldn't remember to take out the garbage on trash pick-up day but he could rattle off an impossible string of relationships to explain how they'd ended up with the cabin for the weekend. Hutch stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket as they stepped outside into the cool morning air. The crisp edge settled into his lungs and he coughed lightly. "Why would you call Walt anyway?"

"Because genius, he's the one who really knows about fishing. He said everything we need is at the cabin." Starsky quirked a lopsided grin as he popped the trunk. "Bet he wouldn't make fun of my blue sneakers. Hey, is this all you're takin'?"

Hutch nodded. He wanted to get in the car, out of the cool air where his lungs wouldn't be so affected by the crisp edge. Pressing his hand to his mouth, he gave a short cough. "That's it. You said you wanted to stop for breakfast on the way up, and I thought we'd stock up on groceries and whatever else we need in town. You sprang for the cabin, so food and beer are my treat."

"Okay, partner. That works as long as I get to pick some of the meals. I'm not livin' on salads and tofu." He tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Hey, how's that cough doin'?"

"Better," Hutch lied. Anxious to drop the subject, he rounded the car and popped the door on the passenger side. Familiar comfort surrounded him as he folded into the seat. He would never admit it to Starsky, but the Torino felt every bit as much home as Venice Place. Hutch loved his lumbering LTD, but the old car didn't have what the Torino had--namely Starsky. To Hutch the two just went hand-in-hand. And Starsky went hand-in-hand with comfort, security and peace. He'd tossed restlessly throughout the night unable to sleep, but he knew with little coercion he could nod off in the car, contented by Starsky's presence at his side.

Cool air infiltrated the car briefly as Starsky opened the driver's door and slid behind the wheel. He hesitated, his hand on the key as he shot a glance at Hutch. "You sure about this trip, buddy? It's no biggie to back out. I know you still gotta be hurtin' some from that hit. Just say the word and we'll can it."

Hutch warmed at the solicitous concern in his partner's voice. As excited as Starsky was at being able to give his friend a weekend away, he wouldn't think twice about ditching his plans if Hutch asked. In a single heartbeat, he'd willingly switch gears, electing to spend the whole weekend camped on Hutch's couch, all the while doing his best mother-hen impersonation.

"Starsk . . . " Hutch plopped his head back on the seat, admittedly tired and more than a little sore, but no longer chilled. Strangely enough he didn't think that had anything to do with the interior temperature of the car, but rather with the man sitting across from him. "I'm a little sore, but not miserable enough to cancel our plans. The doc said my cough is gonna hang on for awhile, so I can't have you worrying and playing med tech every time I hack a little." Hutch rolled his head on the seat to look at his friend. "Okay?"

Starsky's hand was still on the ignition, his uncannily bright blue eyes relaying a mixture of support and concern. It never failed to amaze Hutch how the rough-around-the-edges, street-savvy cop could so quickly morph into a tender and devoted friend. Not that their friendship was ever in question, just that Starsky routinely shed his street bravado in the blink of an eye when the situation called. One moment they might be squabbling over who was going to get stuck writing some stupid report, and a single weak cough later, his worried partner would be shoving him out the door, ordering him to go home and rest.

Like last night.

"Okay," Starsky relented at last. He cranked the ignition and the engine rumbled to life, announcing the Torino's presence to the world in general, the sleeping residents of Venice Place in particular.

Hutch cast a backward glance at his second floor apartment as the car rolled away from the curb.   He'd watered all his plants, made sure the ones that needed it were fed and had been careful to leave the wooden shutters on his windows open for afternoon light. He knew his beloved plants would survive the weekend intact. With the pain medication he'd packed, some evasiveness as needed to dodge questions about his health, and a little creative planning, he would too.

+++++

Starsky realized he was babbling. While it was normal for him to rattle on about any number of subjects, Hutch tossing in the occasional quip or purposefully trying to trip him up when he went off the deep end, babbling was out of character.   Bantering, rattling, ping-ponging a conversation back and forth were all acceptable forms of behavior, but this endless droning of a single voice was not. Hell, he was even starting to give himself a headache!

Maybe Hutch had heard enough about spinner baits, crank baits, and other assorted fishing lures. They'd been driving for well over an hour now, Starsky's newly found knowledge on freshwater fishing�gleaned mostly from magazines and a few spotty chats with true enthusiasts--the highlight of conversation.

Starsky frowned. A more accurate term would be "lecture." Conversation implied the participation of two people and currently one of them was playing mute. Starsky broke off his latest tirade in mid babble.

Hutch was quiet. Too quiet. In the sudden silence, he coughed weakly, the sound oddly phlegmy and reed-like. Starsky bit his lip, determined not to comment on it, but his eyes slid to the side. He watched as his friend splayed a hand across his ribs, leaning forward slightly as if the shallow spasm was painful.

Frustrated at his inability to help or even broach the taboo subject, per his earlier discussion with Hutch, Starsky drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. Think, dufus! Get his mind off it. Obviously your highly riveting speech on grub worms and plastic lures didn't help. "Hey . . . you want some music?" Starsky switched on the radio, jabbing buttons at the first sound of a commercial or an announcer's voice. Hutch didn't answer, but he didn't protest either, so Starsky continued to fiddle with the dial until he found something playing light folksy rock. It wasn't exactly his choice, but he figured it was soothing for Hutch. John Denver gave way to America then to Bread.   "Getting hungry?"

Hutch grunted.

Well, it was a start. At least it constituted a sound. "I'm starved. How 'bout I look for the nearest breakfast barn?"

Hutch cast him a sideways glance, prompted by his choice of slang. Starsky was relieved to see a hint of humor in his friend's blue eyes. "No greasy spoons, huh, Starsky? See if you can find something remotely hospitable."

Starsky raised his brows. "What--you don't want one of those plump fat sausages for breakfast? You know the kind that spray everywhere when you bite into them?" He grinned, delighted to see Hutch's expression of disgust. It was normal whenever they compared tastes in food, a sure sign the world had righted on its axis. "How about some runny eggs or undercooked bacon?"

"Come on, Starsk. Not even you'd eat that."

Starsky grinned, feeling the burden on his heart lift ten-fold. His friend was smiling, his previously strained expression now softened into something endearing and familiar. The black turtleneck against his sun-blond hair made his skin look a little sallow. Ken Hutchinson was normally tanned and irritatingly fit, a regular role model for the fitness set. Starsky was hard-pressed to name a man in better shape than Hutch. For as long as he'd known his friend, Hutch had engaged in daily workouts, watched his diet, popped vitamins, and even went so far as to down disgusting concoctions that included things like wheat germ oil, sea kelp and raw eggs. Then again, Hutch looked textbook WASP and Nordic--blond, blue-eyed, lean and tall, with a dental-white smile. Stack him against Starsky's own dark, curly-haired ethnic Jew and they were a startlingly unusual pair.

Who operated on a single, blended heartbeat.

How the hell did that happen?

It wasn't the first time Starsky had paused to consider their unique and exceptionally close friendship. He knew people who had friendships dating back twenty and thirty years . . . good, solid friends who could count on one another when times got rough. But what he had with Hutch--a scant six years after meeting him for the first time--went well beyond that. When he stopped to think about it, it was exhilarating, extraordinary and ultimately frightening. Something between them had clicked from that first meeting at the academy. Since then their relationship had grown closer than many people would consider healthy. Starsky had had plenty of friends before, even a few partners prior to officially teaming up with Hutch. He'd just never had a friend or partner whose happiness and well-being had become more important than his own. In retrospect, it had been a scary line to cross--that complete surrendering of self rooted in trust that would carry to the grave. He wasn't exactly sure when it had happened.

Some of the older detectives at the precinct had even started rumors hinting that his relationship with Hutch was a little "too close." This was normally spread from gossip to gossip with an elbow to the ribs and a snide wink of the eye.

For the most part, he and Hutch found the rumors amusing, sometimes even goading them on. Hutch had even playfully allowed Starsky to "dip" him, a practice dance move Starsky was working to perfect for an upcoming undercover assignment as a dance instructor. They'd planned the move perfectly having Hutch end up in Starsky's arms right before Stu Felker, the worst of the gossips had walked into the squad room. Finding them in a "compromising position" the older cop had colored furiously and done an abrupt about-face. Both Starsky and his partner had ended up on the floor, howling with laughter.

Yet despite the levity with which they approached most situations, there were other times Starsky didn't give a damn who thought what. If Hutch was hurting, and someone so much as dared look at him sideways, Starsky was ready to take the offender's head off.

And that came back to the line he'd willingly crossed years ago . . . the one that put his partner's welfare before his own. If Hutch was miserable, he was miserable. If Hutch was happy, he was happy. Which was why this weekend away was so damn important.

"Hey, look there." Starsky pointed to a billboard announcing a family diner located three miles up the road. "Lehman's Family Diner. How's that sound?"

His eyes shifted aside to Hutch and he suddenly realized his friend's chin had sagged forward to rest on his chest. Between the smooth rhythm of the Torino's tires, and the mellow sounds of Bread wafting from the speakers, Hutch had dozed. Starsky didn't have the heart to wake him.

He grinned, something warm settling into the pit of his stomach. "That's okay, buddy. You sleep." His hand strayed to his friend's knee and he gave it a light pat. His own stomach rumbled, insisting it wanted fed now! But there would be other diners up the road. Waiting a while longer would just mean a bigger breakfast. Pancakes and eggs, instead of just one. He could almost taste the maple syrup and hickory bacon blending together in one smoky-sweet smorgasbord. His grin widened. The Blond Blintz on the other hand would probably have something disgustingly healthy like granola and fruit.

They finally did stop an hour and a half later at a roadside caf�. The tiny eatery wasn't much more than a breakfast stand tucked off the highway. It consisted of a small bar with five stools, a handful of booths on opposing walls and a scattering of tables down the center aisle.

Hutch had bran cereal and a glass of unsweetened grapefruit juice, while Starsky devoured a "Hungryman Special" consisting of three buttermilk pancakes, two eggs, a side of hashbrowns, two sausage patties and two strips of bacon. He munched contentedly while Hutch nursed a cup of coffee, having finished his cereal long ago. Starsky noted that although he'd looked pale this morning, the color was starting to return to his cheeks. Undoubtedly his short doze in the Torino had helped. Add to that the two girls in an adjacent booth who had been sending them lingering glances since they'd walked through the door, and Hutch was suddenly on the mend. He'd zeroed in on the not-so-discreet observation a short while ago and was obviously enjoying it.

"You're attracting some attention there, Gordo," he said with a grin for Starsky. "I'm guessing those girls can't see past the obscene size of that breakfast."

"Sorry, pal, but I think they're lookin' at you. One of 'em anyway, but then there's no accountin' for taste."

Starsky smiled at the girls who had their heads bowed together and were giggling. They seemed a little young, probably early twenties. Both were attractive and shapely, one with short black hair, the other with long red-gold tresses.

Starsky had once gone out with a girl who'd been twenty-two, but the nine-year difference in their ages had been too big a hurdle. Swallowing a mouthful of dripping pancake, he brandished his fork at Hutch. "Listen, Romeo--ya even think about pickin' up a woman on this trip, and I'll dump your sorry butt along the side of the road. You're officially sworn off women. For the weekend anyway."

Starsky knew his friend had no real intention of inviting further interest from the girls. He was simply enjoying the attention, which wasn't a bad thing, considering his recently despondent frame of mind.

Hutch grinned. "Just 'me and thee,' huh?"

"You got that right." Starsky's delight turned wicked. "Hey, maybe we'll take pictures and send 'em to Felker. Secluded cabin, just the two of us. What d'ya think?"

Hutch laughed out loud. "I think you're evil."

"Hi."

Hutch gave a semi-startled jerk, surprised by the voice at his elbow.   The black-haired girl had decided to take the initiative and invite herself over. From the way she stood more to Hutch's side, her attention focused mostly on him, it was obvious to Starsky who had snagged her interest. The problem was now that he saw her up close, she was far from Hutch's normal type. She was much too young, not yet twenty-years-old if she was a day, and her looks were a little too edgy. Her hair was short and feathered, sleeker than the popular, airy blow-dried styles, her eyes lined heavily with black kohl. Bright coral lipstick painted her mouth, and her lashes were coated with thick layers of black mascara. If it hadn't been for the overly applied make-up Starsky might have considered her pretty. Not beautiful by any means, but pretty enough to turn the heads of a few teenage boys.

"Hello," Hutch returned pleasantly enough. His smile was a little too charming, but that was Hutch. Let him encounter any female, whether twenty or ninety, and he was suddenly genteel grace and charm. It didn't matter if he wasn't interested, it was simply an instinctive reaction. Starsky knew it was part of the reason he had so many snitches on the street, most of them female. It was hard to say "no" when he smiled like that; when he treated you like gold, no matter who you were, or how low you had sunk.

The girl brightened a little under his smile. "I'm Tina Sayer and that's my friend Shellie Dunmar." She motioned to the booth where the red-haired girl sat. At the attention, Shellie smiled warmly and waved directly at Starsky.

Okay, so they've already divvied up the spoils. Starsky offered a return wave. Attention was nice but it was time for Hutch to turn up the wattage on that high-society charm of his and bow out gracefully before somebody got the wrong impression.

"I'm Ken Hutchinson and that's Dave Starsky," Hutch introduced them. "We're just passing through, heading up to Lake Monolith."

"Really? That's where Shellie and I are from." In a calculated move, Tina bit her bottom lip, looking him up and down, her glance boldly appreciative. There was something almost hungry in her gaze, a dark kind of sensuality blatantly out of place on someone so young. A second later the sultry edge melted away replaced by casual nonchalance. "So you're not afraid of the monsters?"

Hutch chuckled, the sound a little unsettled. Starsky knew it wasn't the word "monsters" that caused his sudden ripple of unease, but rather the unmistakable boldness of the girl's glance. She should be giving lessons on the street, he thought sourly. Not even hookers could get Hutch to blush and lower his eyes like that.

He cleared his throat to save his friend the embarrassment. "Monsters?"

Tina's eyes swiveled to him. For the briefest moment he thought he saw a sharp flare of resentment in her gaze, but it was gone before he could pinpoint it. She smiled. "Oh, come on. How can you go to Lake Monolith and not know about the monsters? People used to rent out their cabins on the lake, but everyone stopped coming after the monsters showed up. Now everyone just stays away." Her gaze swung back to Hutch, the smile blooming into something far too suggestive for her young years. "You know, I don't usually go for blonds."

"Uh . . ." Taken aback, Hutch coughed. The reflex gave way to the deeper rattle rooted in his lungs. "Look, Tina, I'm flattered, but--" Another spasm followed. He shot a glance across the table to Starsky, mutely asking for help.

"Hey . . ." Starsky's smile was Brooklyn silk, all smooth edges over street-steel. "I think what my pal's tryin' to say is that maybe he and I are just a little too old for you and your friend." He continued in his best Bogey voice to ease the sting. " 'Course a couple of foxes like you can probably have your pick of the litter, huh, kid?"

"Maybe." She didn't seem convinced. Or mollified.   Her attention shifted to Hutch.

He'd stopped coughing, but sat with his head bowed, one hand pressed to his temple. Starsky noted the color had left his face again as if the brief coughing spell had completely drained him. Tina pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her jacket.

"Either of you two got a light?" Her eyes stayed on Hutch.

"Sorry, no," Starsky spoke for both of them.

"It was nice meeting you, Tina," Hutch said without lifting his head.

Behind them the front door scraped open, admitting two men to the caf�. Starsky noted both immediately zeroed in on Tina. She frowned, perturbed. "Same here," she said to Hutch. "Take care of that cough." She placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning slightly forward and lowering her voice to a conspiring whisper. "And whatever else you do . . . watch out for the monsters, Ken."

Irritated, Starsky watched her walk away. "Watch out for the monsters, Ken," he mimicked in a low voice. "Talk about a ghoul! What the hell just happened here?"

"I don't know." It was clear the odd encounter left Hutch a little bewildered. "Let's just pay the bill and get out of here, huh?"

Starsky looked down at his plate. "But I'm not finished."

"Starsky you've eaten enough food for a family of four. Somehow I don't think you're gonna starve if you don't get to polish off that last pancake." He pushed out of the booth, grabbing their bill from the table. "Come on. Let's get outta here."

Without waiting for a reply Hutch headed for the cash register, fishing his wallet from his back pocket. Muttering to himself, Starsky grabbed his jacket and stood. Hutch hadn't even bothered removing his, as if he'd been impatient to leave from the moment they'd walked in the door. Maybe he'd been taking lessons from Collandra, knowing what was going to happen before it occurred.

Starsky shot a glance across the room. The two newcomers had joined Tina and Shellie. Both were dark-haired, similar in appearance, but one was much younger than the other, clearly just a teenager. For some reason he seemed nervous and jittery, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to look out the window. He had the wide-eyed, wired look of someone who hadn't slept for a while.

Starsky stepped outside, glad to forget about the group of young people. All he wanted to do now was get to the cabin and get their weekend started. Hutch's reoccurring cough continued to trouble him, but surely the ER doctor would have said if there'd been anything seriously wrong. Tina had obviously rattled him, setting off another jag. Hutch could smooth-talk any elegant, sophisticated woman, but let a forward-barely-past-her-teens-girl put the moves on him and he fell apart.

Starsky grinned. If the whole thing hadn't been so creepy he might have enjoyed his friend's uncharacteristic fumbling. Except for that damn cough.

As if on cue, he heard it behind him. Hutch walked from the caf�, striding purposefully for the car. He coughed twice, the sound shallower now, before being able to shake it off. "Time's wasting, buddy. I don't know about you, but I'm all for putting a few hours between this caf� and the lake." He popped the door on the passenger side, a measure of levity back in his voice.

Starsky grinned. "What's the matter? That little girl get under your skin?"

"That 'little girl' would give some back-alley perps a run for their money. Come on, partner. I'd rather go face the monsters."

Monsters.

He'd forgotten about those. Slightly uneasy, Starsky suddenly wondered if that small bit of myth might have anything to do with why he'd gotten the cabin so cheap. Dirt cheap. Walt hadn't mentioned anything about monsters, but then again, Walt had seemed extraordinarily happy just to be able to rent the thing for the weekend.

Starsky slid behind the wheel, silently praying the deal he got was just that�a really great deal.
The last thing he needed was a weekend headed for disaster.

+++++

Tina Sayer chewed on a piece of peppermint gum, annoyed by the conversation circulating around her. Shellie didn't care, but then Shellie had always just been "along for the ride"�a gullible friend she could coerce into almost anything. Her brothers were different, especially now, after last night. Barry was petrified, worrying over the body, while Cort had slid into control mode, wanting to manage everything she said and did. Maybe playing monsters wasn't the smartest thing to do, but it beat ending up in the joint and right now those seemed the only two options.

She'd been pissed at Cort's bossy attitude and had taken off for the nearest town with Shellie. Let Barry and Cort get rid of the evidence, dumping the little twerp somewhere in the woods. It didn't matter to her where the body ended up, so long as someone else took care of it. Barry should have known better than to bring his weasely friend anyway. As for Shellie . . . she'd do anything Cort told her to do if there was a chance he might actually notice her.

Her brother was an idiot. Shellie was gorgeous even if she wasn't too bright. And she was willing, just like she'd been ready to snuggle up to that dark-haired guy with the New York accent, if it meant giving Tina a chance with his blond friend.

Intrigued, she propped her chin in her hand. Like she'd told him, she didn't normally go for blonds, but she definitely had a thing for older men and he was gorgeous. Tall and lean with long legs, a deliciously flat stomach and trim waist (yes, she'd noticed those) and features that were far too handsome for his own good. His friend wasn't bad either, downright sexy in fact. Any other day she might have flipped a coin, but there was just something about that combination of sunwashed hair and striking blue eyes that had gotten under her skin. Just thinking about the man sent her pulse racing.

Best of all he and his friend were headed to Lake Monolith.

" . . . shouldn't have taken off like that," she heard Cort saying. She stopped her daydreaming long enough to realize he was talking to her, his face set in the same stony mask he wore whenever he was really pissed.

"What's the big deal? It's not like Shellie and I were gonna help you get rid of the body anyway."

"Sssh!" Barry cringed, ducking his head like a turtle in a shell. He sent a quick skittering glance around the otherwise deserted caf�. "Keep your voice down."

"Don't tell me what to do, turd. This is all your fault anyway. If you and your creepy little friend hadn't wanted to play with the big kids--"

"�you're the one who got him drunk, gave him pills, then talked him into skinny dipping."

"How was I to know he was going to cramp up like that and friggin' drown?"

"Shut up!" Cort snapped. "Both of you. It's done and over with. Now we just sit tight and wait 'til someone finds him."

"I still don't understand why we didn't just tell somebody," Shellie spoke up. "I mean it was an accident, right?" She looked to Cort for support, but his gaze remained set. Still trying, she shifted her attention to Tina and Barry. "Yeah we were drinking, and okay there were some drugs, but it's not like . . ." her voice trailed into a thin whisper. " . . . it's not like we killed him. He went swimming and drowned."

"And if anyone did an autopsy they'd find out he was stoned out of his mind. A goodie two-shoes kid like Calvin Henner and the cops would be sniffin' around, wantin' to find out where he got the stuff. I dunno about you, Shellie, but I ain't going to jail. Supplyin' him with all that junk would probably land me a murder charge. And the rest of you--" he eyed them each with an icy glare. "--you're all accessories now, so you better keep your mouths shut unless you wanna spend the rest of your lives in the joint."

Tina blew off the warning. "You don't see me worrying, do you, big brother? That's for little twerps like Barry here." She gave her younger sibling a kick under the table. "You guys do what you want, but Shellie and I are heading back. There's some new guy at the lake I wanna get acquainted with."

Cort frowned. "That blond-haired guy you were talking to when I came in?"

"That's the one."

"And he's staying at the lake? Tina, he and his pal go tramping around the woods and they could stumble over Henner's body."

"I thought that's what you wanted�someone to find the pansy-faced weasel, so everyone would think he got offed by the monsters?"

"Yeah, but not outsiders. That'd raise too many questions." Cort pushed out of the booth. "We gotta find out where those two guys are staying and make sure it ain't nowhere near where we dumped Henner."

"Whatever." Tina stood too. She really didn't care about Henner or what happened to his body. Cort could worry about that. All she wanted to do was bump into her blond-haired obsession again.

Odds were if she took him skinny dipping, he wouldn't cramp up and drown.

+++++

Hutch stood beside the Torino, passenger door open, arms folded on the roof of the car as he stared at the "cabin" Starsky had rented for the weekend. When his friend had first told him about the surprise gift, Hutch had expected something a bit on the rustic side, a one-room affair with some bunk beds, maybe a pull-out sleeper sofa and a small kitchen and bath. What he did not expect was a lakehouse.

"Uh, Starsk . . ." He cleared his throat, uncertain what the sight of the sprawling home signified. Surrounded by trees, the house looked more contemporary retreat than fishing cabin. A high-pitched roof, row upon row of soaring windows and a full-sized porch set the mood for a lavish getaway. The corner of a rear deck was just visible around the side of the house where lush grounds sloped gently to Lake Monolith's eastern shore in the distance. Staring at the obviously pricey home, Hutch felt like he was looking at a brochure for some resort hideaway. "Uh, Starsky," he tried again. "Just how much did you pay for this weekend?"

For his part, Starsky seemed as dumbfounded as Hutch. "It was just supposed to be a cabin," he muttered. Rounding on Hutch from the other side of the vehicle, he spread his arms and shook his head. "Look, buddy, I love you and all, but there ain't no way I could afford somethin' like this even if I wanted. Maybe I took a wrong turn."

"What do the directions say?"

Starsky dug a crumpled sheet of paper from the front pocket of his jeans. Still muttering about a mistake, he tried to roll the sheet flat. Hutch wandered to his side and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder. "Left on Rural Route 2, then right on Lake Road. Go six miles to the bend, bear right to the second house on the right, three miles up the road." Starsky lifted his head to stare at the sprawling home amid its dense cluster of trees. "Number 8."

Hutch followed his gaze. Even from this distance he could see the black numeral "8" to the left of the front door. "I thought you said this place was affordable?"

"More like cheap. Dirt cheap." Starsky gave him a sheepish look. "It's not like I didn't wan' you to have the best, buddy, but I can only afford so much."

"Hey, I'm just thankful for what you did." Hutch smiled and slid a hand onto his shoulder. He paused a beat, taking a moment to appreciate all the trouble and expense Starsky had gone to on his behalf. He nodded toward the house. "You got the key, right?"

Starsky nodded.

"Well, there's one way to find out if we've got the right place."

"Yeah." Starsky was back to looking excited again as he abandoned the paper and dug a key from his pocket. "Walt did say somethin' about tellin' all our friends if we liked the place," he said conversationally over his shoulder as Hutch followed him toward the door. "Maybe he just wants some word-of-mouth business, you know? I mean if he's havin' problems rentin' the place 'cause of mons--" Starsky broke off abruptly, realizing how silly he sounded, but Hutch knew where he'd been headed.

Monsters.

For all his street savvy and steel, Hutch's child-like partner had a strange bent toward superstition. Starsky wouldn't think twice about boldly swaggering into the middle of a drug deal gone sour, but let him think there was anything remotely supernatural involved and he was suddenly looking for silver bullets and potions to ward off hexes. An affectionate smile tugged the corners of Hutch's lips. Exactly what was the protection of choice to ward off monsters these days? If there was a gizmo to be had, Starsky would ferret it out in a heartbeat. He had visions of garlic hanging above their heads as they slept.

Unable to resist a little fun at his friend's expense, Hutch stepped onto the front porch. "So what kind of monsters hang out at a lake? Maybe Monolith's got it's own 'Nessie or a garden-variety Bigfoot. I hear space creatures from Mars are popular too."

Starsky wasn't amused. "Knock it off, Hutchinson."

"What?" Hutch laughed, his expression schooled to pure innocence. "Ah, don't worry, Starsky." He slung an arm around his friend's shoulders and gave a tight squeeze. "I won't let anything gobble you up in the middle of night. Any self-respecting monster would just spit you out anyway. All that garbage you eat is bound to leave a bad taste."

"Get offa me!" Starsky shook off Hutch's arm, but he was careful, not nearly as rough as usual.
Hutch suspected he was still too concerned about recently applied stitches and a lingering cough. Laughing, he waited while Starsky unlocked the door then followed him inside.

The house smelled stale as if it had been closed up too long, but it easily ran the gamut from overwhelming to downright impressive. A high beamed ceiling, recessed lighting and gold shag carpet offset rows of light-beckoning windows and a dramatic mountainstone fireplace. The furnishings were lush, artfully chosen in contrasting shades of moss, copper, gold and sand. An enormous ceiling fan with brass-trimmed wooden blades overlooked a seating area where plump sofas and chairs were bordered by an abundance of artificial greenery. The large room opened onto a kitchen, complete with breakfast bar, state-of-the-art appliances and row upon row of glass-fronted oak cabinetry. To the rear of the room, a series of side-by-side doors led to what Hutch guessed must be bedrooms and a bath.

Starsky gave a low whistle. "Maybe Walt's just hard up for cash."

"Not by the looks of this place." Hutch walked to the rear and poked his head in each doorway--two generously-sized bedrooms, each with rust-colored carpeting, king beds and sliders to a shared deck. Both bedrooms connected to a center bath, lavishly appointed with a raised Jacuzzi tub, oversized corner shower, double vanity and dual skylights. Hutch suddenly felt like he'd stepped into a honeymoon resort. Something just didn't add up. Why would Walt rent a top-dollar property for pocket change? Frowning, he returned to the main living area.

Starsky had already checked out the other bedroom and its connecting door to the shared bath. "This is really somethin', huh?"

Thoughtful, Hutch nodded. He paced a short distance away, left hand lodged on his hip, head bowed, right index finger resting against his lips as he kicked around the inconsistencies. His upper-crust father would have called the main living area a "Great Room" --sprawling and open with no walls to separate it from the kitchen or dining areas. Fishing cabins just didn't have Great Rooms. Resorts and summer homes did. Someone had obviously sunk a lot of money into building a lavish getaway at Lake Monolith. Was Walt really just being a pal, renting his home below cost for the sake of a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend, or was there really something to this monster stuff after all?

Apparently unconcerned and delighted by the unexpected windfall, Starsky was whistling cheerfully. Hutch watched as he traipsed outside to haul their gear from the car. The proper thing to do would be to lend a hand, but his mind was still in overdrive, and--damn--a cough was building in the back of his throat.

He felt a sharp ache pierce his side. Twisting away, he coughed into his hand. Almost immediately pain flared savage and hot, streaking across his ribs like lightning. Unprepared for the brutal assault, he staggered a step, unable to muffle a shocked gasp. He caught himself on the edge of the nearest chair, sucking down an unsteady breath, hurriedly trying to recover before Starsky came back inside.

"Hey, why don't we go into town next . . . pick up some food and drinks? We can scope out the area and--" Starsky stopped abruptly, his eyes sweeping across the room to catch Hutch.

Leaning forward, Hutch gripped the rails of a slat-backed wooden chair, shoulders hunched, face pale. Both hands were clenched tightly around the top slat, his long fingers bleached white with applied pressure. Alarmed, Starsky abandoned the duffel bags he'd been carrying, sprinting across the room in three quick strides. "Hey, buddy . . . ." His voice dropped in volume, hesitant and worried as he reached out to clasp Hutch on the arm. "What's the matter? You don't look good."

"I'm okay." Hutch grimaced, irritated to find his voice weaker than usual. Clearing his throat, he tried again. " . . . just . . . cough . . ."

"You were coughing?" Starsky guessed.

Hutch nodded. He hadn't let go of the chair yet, his arms locked, his knuckles standing out like chalky blanched knobs against the wooden rails. The pain was still snicking around his ribs, nasty as hell, the cough tickling the back of his throat. It came again, harder and deeper this time, putting down roots. He ducked his head, chin to chest as the racking sound bubbled up from his lungs.

"Come on�" Starsky tightened his grip, applying pressure. "You're gonna sit down a minute. I'll get you something to drink."

Hutch tried to wave him away, but another spasm cut his protest short. He felt Starsky's free hand settle on his back, moving in gentle circles over his hunched shoulders. "Come on, babe, just relax. You're as tense as dried rope. Quit fightin' and get it out. If you're tryin' to tamp it down 'cause of me, you ain't makin' points." As he spoke, Starsky guided his friend to the sofa, easing him down into the plump cushions. His hand never stopped its soothing path over the constricted muscles in Hutch's back, but rather broadened its scope. Slipping his fingers beneath the tousled strands of blond hair butting against Hutch's collar, Starsky worked at kneading tension from his neck. Eventually the cough subsided and the constriction eased from Hutch's body. He wilted into the cushions at his back.

"Better?" Starsky asked, hovering at his side.

Hutch nodded, closing his eyes.

Starsky gave his shoulder a pat. "Wait here." The soles of his sneakers whispered across the carpet as he made his way to the kitchen.

Hutch heard him opening cupboards and doors, fumbling with who-knew-what. Too tired to open his eyes, he sat in the darkness, head resting on the back of the couch as he waited for the horrible tightness in his chest to recede. There was a loud sputtering sound like air traveling through pipes, followed by what might have been water splashing into a stainless steel sink. A moment later the cushion at his side gave way under new weight and he felt Starsky's hand slide behind his neck.

"Come on. Drink this. It'll ease your throat."

The idea didn't sound half bad. His throat was raw, but more than anything it was his ribs that hurt. Maybe a drink of something cooling would ease that monstrous sting too. Monsters. He almost chuckled, but it would have hurt too badly. With an audible groan Hutch forced his eyes open and allowed Starsky to guide him to a sitting position. He was dismayed to find his hand unsteady when he raised the glass to his lips. The water felt good sliding down his throat, even if it was on the tepid side.

"I turned the refrigerator up," Starsky explained as Hutch passed him the glass. "Walt had it dialed back to the lowest setting. It's bare as a bone, so all we got right now is well water. How 'bout you take a snooze in the back and I'll drive into town and stock up on supplies?"

"No." Hutch shook his head just in case the weakly spoken word didn't quite reach Starsky's ears. Leave it to his overly protective partner to want to tuck him into bed while undertaking the task of supplies on his own. "I'm going with you. Just give me a minute." He thought about the pain pills tucked in his duffel bag and wondered if he should pop another one. The thought of becoming dependent on anything remotely narcotic made his stomach tighten up. He knew the dose was low and had surely been prescribed to countless people. But most people hadn't been hooked on heroin, if however briefly. No matter it had been against his will. The fear of becoming addicted again was always there, regardless of drug type.

"Hutch?" Starsky touched him tentatively on the arm.

"I'm okay." He smiled weakly in return. "Stupid cough, huh?"

Starsky wet his lips. "Yeah, well look what it's attached to. Stupid partner."

"You're forgetting I'm the brains of the outfit."

"So what's that make me--Sundance?" Starsky grinned. He brushed scattered bangs from his friend's forehead. "If you're so smart, Blondie, how come you didn't duck that bullet?" He sobered abruptly, something tortured and restless flitting through his eyes.

The whole axis of Hutch's world shifted when Starsky suddenly plummeted off the deep end. "You've got no idea . . ." He heard Starsky sputter. The words came choked and tight, each ripped from a hideously dark place Hutch hadn't known existed. " . . . when I saw Moo-Moo with that rifle . . . saw you flyin' backward through that door . . . God, Hutch--I thought you were dead."

There it was . . . raw pain and anger twisted up into a wretched gut punch that hurt more than Moo-Moo's bullet ever had. Starsky had thought he was dead. For a string of next-to-nothing minutes that had dragged an eternity, Starsky had lived with the death of his closest friend. He'd recklessly blown away the two people he'd thought responsible for that cold-blooded murder, effectively committing murder himself. A street-style execution. No judge, no jury. Just a rifle and one pissed-off, vindictive cop.

Hutch felt his throat tighten. Starsky had killed the only two people who'd known the whereabouts of Haymes' daughter. He hadn't stopped to think about what he was doing at the time. Savaged by rage, consumed by grief, he'd reacted on instinct--and blind hatred.

They hadn't talked about what he'd done, hadn't even examined it. Hutch knew it was easier to shy away from the ugly scenario than to confront it head on. Even now he could feel his gut twisting, crawling up into his throat at the thought of Starsky's reaction. Brutal and swift, the kind of justice that turned good cops into vigilantes. He wouldn't have done it for any other reason. It was only because he thought I was dead. Retribution and punishment. God, Starsk--

He tried to find his tongue, realized his mouth was suddenly bone dry.   "Starsky, I-I-I didn't th-think about--"

Starsky smiled gently. "Forget it. You're here. That's all that matters."

Hutch felt warm fingers fold over his own, prompted by that damnable stutter. Distress just naturally brought it out, and Starsky as always, responded with protective concern whenever he heard it. Hutch had been too busy dwelling on his own physical misery to consider any residual emotional trauma Starsky might have been experiencing. His friend had been nothing but upbeat lately, but then again if Starsky was worrying over something, he wasn't likely to just spit it out.

"Something's bothering you," Hutch prodded. I can't say it for you, buddy.

Starsky shrugged.

"Give."

"Give?" The corner of Starsky's mouth curled up in an endearingly familiar, lopsided grin. "What are you now--a bill collector?" When Hutch didn't answer, didn't even bat an eye at the ineffectual humor, Starsky relented with a sigh. "Yeah . . . so something's been eatin' at me." He tugged his hand free a little reluctantly and rumpled it back through his thick hair.

Hutch was tempted to reach out and smooth the disheveled curls into place but sat still. Inwardly irked--royally pissed, if he was honest--he berated himself for not having realized something was bugging Starsky. Normally he could zero in on his partner's moods like a homing pigeon, but he'd dropped the ball on this one. Big time. He'd been too wrapped up in his own misery. No excuse. You screwed up, Hutchinson. He needed something and you were too worried about wiping your own nose. He fucking killed somebody because of you!

"I remember right before you went on that run with the money," he heard Starsky announce softly. "You told me to be careful."

That's bad?

Starsky swallowed hard. Hutch could almost see his throat tightening up, his Adam's apple bobbing with the concentrated effort to get the words out. "I didn't say a damn thing in return. You know that, Hutch? I just watched you sprint away, knowin' what you were walkin' into. Hell, I was trailing you with a rifle of my own. I knew how dangerous it was." Starsky's expression grew impassioned, his eyes tangled with a lethal dose of horror, self-loathing and despair. "I let you go without a word of concern."

Starting to feel a little panicky because he couldn't place the root cause of Starsky's distress, Hutch shook his head. This was not what he'd expected. That Starsky would be upset for killing Moo-Moo and Earl, yes. But this . . .   "Starsk, we face danger on the job every day--"

"Don't you get it?" Starsky practically yelled the words. "If you'd died, and I hadn't said . . . hadn't told you--"

And suddenly Hutch understood. "Oh, hell, Starsk." Hooking an arm around his friend's neck, he pulled him forward, hugging him close to his chest. Hutch lowered his chin, blond hair scraping softly against dark curls, his lips nearly brushing the lobe of his friend's ear. "Don't be an idiot, pal," he whispered. "You think I don't know? You think you actually have to say words for me to know what's in your heart? I see it in your eyes, Starsk, and on your face. Cool and aloof you ain't, babe."

Starsky was trembling. "I should have told you to be careful."

"You think that would have stopped Moo-Moo from taking a shot at me?"

Dropping his brow to rest on Hutch's chest, Starsky rolled his head. "No . . . maybe . . . hell, I don't know." He coiled both hands into Hutch's jacket, the fingers constricting as if grappling a lifeline. "All I know is I close my eyes and I see it. It won't freakin' go away, Hutch. It's there at night when I go to bed, even in the damn daylight when I think I've forgotten all about it. I see that fat pig holding the rifle, sightin' down on you, and you standin' there oblivious. I try to warn you but the words won't come fast enough and no matter how loud I scream I can't get your attention. Then I hear the boom and I see you flyin' backward, glass and blood everywhere--"

"--Starsky--"

"I see it every time you cough, Hutch."

Shit.

He dropped his head forward, resting his brow on Starsky's shoulder. Yeah, let Stu Felker walk in now and see them clinging to one another. He didn't care. All he wanted to do was hold onto Starsky and feel him hugging back in return, wholly alive, the shadow of death vanquished. If he could somehow banish the darkness in Starsky's heart it would be worth all the petty gossip in the world. His friend hadn't said anything about his actions on the street, how he'd taken justice into his own hands, but Hutch knew it had to be eating at him. Starsky might not admit it, maybe hadn't even acknowledged it, but Hutch knew it was there buried beneath layers of denial. Gnawing, brooding, waiting to morph into something damning and ugly.

Without even thinking about it, he found himself rubbing Starsky's arms and back, lowering his voice to a soothing whisper. "It's okay, buddy. I knew you were with me when I made that run. I didn't need to hear you say it. I never need to hear you say it. It's enough to just know. Me and thee, remember?"

Starsky nodded against his chest. His trembling had eased slightly, but Hutch could still feel bunched muscles beneath his fingertips. He'd had no idea Starsky had ripped himself up inside over something he'd had no control over. He let his hands work at coaxing the stiffness away, rubbing and silently cajoling the rigid tendons in his friend's back with each soothing stroke of his fingers.

"Some friend I am," Starsky muttered. "You're the one with the cough. You're the one who got shot. I'm supposed to be takin' care'a you."

"Nah." The fist in Hutch's stomach eased slightly. "You ain't pretty enough to be my nursemaid. Besides--" He knew the crisis was at an end. Any moment now Starsky would pull away, awkwardly self-conscious that he'd allowed himself to be held and comforted. "You weigh a little too much for me to be carrying across the threshold."

Starsky snorted, the sound caught between a muffled sniffle and a laugh. Without raising his head he gripped the back of Hutch's neck and simply held on for a moment. The touch was all the assurance Hutch needed to know that Starsky had made momentary peace with his demons. A second later the dark-haired man drew away, turning his face to the side, swiping a hand over his eyes. "So how about it, Blondie--you wanna take a ride into town?"

"Gee, I don't know." Hutch feigned farm-boy awkwardness and grinned. "Sounds like a proposition to me. Mom warned me about slick brunettes in fast cars."

"Yeah, well," Starsky swatted him on the thigh. "I hope she warned ya 'bout crotchety partners too. Get your butt outside. This train's leavin' now."

Starsky pushed off the couch, then reached back to help Hutch. Firm fingers clamped over a strong wrist and Hutch was on his feet. It was instinctive, a move both performed without thinking. One offering assistance, the other blindly accepting. As Hutch followed his partner to the door he realized their whole relationship was like that. With each daily step they took, they operated on a single heartbeat. He'd dropped the ball this time, never realizing Starsky had felt guilt over something so unnecessary.

I let you go without a word of concern.

What an idiot.

As Hutch followed his friend out the door he wasn't sure if he was referring to himself or Starsky. In the long run it really didn't matter, because the axis of their world had righted once again.

+++++

Starsky added a bag of nachos to the pile of junk food already stacked by the cash register. Hutch had thrown in some granola, carrot sticks and a bunch of fresh fruit, but for the most part the checkout was littered with items the blintz wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole: barbecued chips, Ding Dongs, red licorice whips, marshmallows, candy bars and his latest addiction�Screaming Yellow Zonkers. How could anyone--even Mister-Fit-and-Healthy-Hutch himself--not like candied popcorn with a name like that? At least a little.

Starsky knew it was overkill. There was no way he'd ever polish off that much junk in a handful of days but he liked the variety. Variety was a good thing.

His eyes slewed to the side, latching onto his fair-haired partner across the small store. Hutch was in the refrigerated section of the local grocer, studying fresh cuts of meat, a head of lettuce, some tomatoes and cucumbers already tucked in the crook of his arm.

Salad. Rabbit food.

Starsky couldn't really complain as long as his friend picked out something edible to satisfy the carnivore in him. Steak or burgers they could agree on, even chicken or fish. Throw anything on the grill during a weekend off and it had an unmistakably vacation-style taste. Add some cold beer and an obnoxiously gooey something-or-other for dessert and he could almost overlook the good-for-you-stuff Hutch tried to pass off as a side dish.

A fond smile curled Starsky's lips as he watched his partner study the cellophane wrapped packages in the meat case. Standing in profile, long legs clad in dark denim, Hutch looked unusually lean and angular. A slight crinkle worked into Starsky's brow. Had his friend lost weight since the shooting, dropping pounds in a mere matter of days? No, he decided, it was just the lighting and the way Hutch was standing. The blond detective was lean to begin with and now he looked a little worn, that was all.

Niggling doubt wormed into his stomach. Just a short time ago he'd clung to his partner, wrapped in his arms, battling his own demons. Fears and terrors he'd successfully kept hidden until they'd tumbled into the glaring light of day when he'd least expected. Had there been more bone than muscle beneath his fingertips?

Annoyed, he paced a short distance away. He'd never been shy about touching Hutch. He'd curled up against his partner on more than one occasion when in need of comfort. Hutch had done the same with him, dependency and trust, bonds they only exposed to each other. He would have noticed if there'd been a change in Hutch's body, a dropping of weight or withering of muscle. Though he couldn't recall any, his friend looked oddly frail, sungold hair framing a too-pale face.

Unconsciously Starsky tensed. The sickening sensation he'd felt just a half hour before when spilling his guts to Hutch returned. He hadn't told him to be careful before that run with the money . . . he hadn't been able to stop Moo-Moo from shooting him. What the hell good was he? Realistically he knew he couldn't protect his partner every minute of every day, but ohgod, to lose Hutch--

His hands curled into fists.   All the pain and turmoil he'd unloaded at the lakehouse had been bottled up inside from the moment Moo-Moo had pulled the trigger. He'd tried to ignore it, even denied it, but it had refused to go away. He should have told Hutch to be careful. It could have made all the difference in the world. Yeah, maybe it was superstitious hogwash, but if it worked, so freakin' what? He should have shoved a rabbit's foot into his partner's pocket, hung a penny around his neck--anything to protect him! At the very least he should have taken the time to say a few bloody words. Maybe then he wouldn't have flown off the handle and blown those two sickos away.

Starsky winced. The thought was too painful. He stuffed it back down where it couldn't be touched, where he didn't have to think about what he'd done. Killer. Murderer. Vigilante. His breath came a little faster, a little harder. He'd made his choice and he'd do it again. Life without Hutch just wasn't an option, street scum be warned.

Refocusing on the present, Starsky looked for his partner. Hutch had moved past the meat and was eyeing up the fish now. Starsky knew it wouldn't be fresh enough for him. He was too used to getting his seafood right off the docks. As he watched his friend idly inspect the offerings, he became aware of someone else in the store.

Tina Sayer walked up the far aisle toward Hutch. Starsky hadn't seen her enter and took a quick look around to see if anyone else had come with her. The same dark-haired teen he'd seen at the caf� stood with Shellie outside near his Torino. For some reason the sight made Starsky uncomfortable. He started toward the front door, intent on seeing what they were up to, when the man at the cash register drew his attention.

"Hey, bud, you can't just leave all this stuff here. You and your friend done yet?"

"Huh?" Starsky whirled around. When he caught the man staring at him, he tossed off a sheepish smile. "Sorry. Kinda forgot what I was doin'."

"Tourist," the man groused as if that said it all.

Starsky strolled nearer to the register, sensing an opportunity for information. "Yup. A few days worth anyway," he confirmed. "Not many people around here by the looks of things."

The man sent him a sidelong glance. "Guess you don't know about the monsters."

Starsky chuckled. He wanted to act casual but the need to know had been eating at him ever since Tina had first cockily spouted off "monsters." It was bad enough being in the woods--something he'd told himself he could do, would do for Hutch--but the thought of some sinister, flesh-eating beast lingering behind every tree and shadow was too much to ignore. Maybe it was all the late night creature features he watched, but his skin crawled even thinking about it. Trying to appear casual, he shrugged. "Heard some rumors," he told the grocer. "How 'bout you shed some light on 'em?"

"Sure. Why not?" The man cast a glance across the store to where Tina had just cornered Hutch. "Looks like your friend is going to be awhile anyway."

+++++
Hutch offered Tina a polite smile when she sauntered up beside him. If there had been any mistaking her intentions at the caf�, he couldn't misinterpret them now. From the calculated silk of her smile to the brazenly appraising glint in her eyes, she was clearly on the prowl.

"Hope you're not eating by yourself," she said with a nod for the items in his hands.

Hutch shook his head. He wasn't certain why she managed to get under his skin so easily but something about her set him on edge. Maybe it was simply he liked to be the one who did the chasing. And when he chased he liked to chase women, not predatory teenagers. The thought of someone so young wanting to get him into a position where--

He broke off abruptly, irked by the direction of his thoughts. She wasn't going to push him down a road, much less into a bed, where he didn't want to go. "Dinner for me and my partner," he explained.

"Partner?" Tina's face darkened, her black brows drawing into a tight line.

"Starsky. You met him at the caf�." Hutch paused a beat then realized she didn't understand. "We're cops."

"Wow." Her glance was suddenly innocence personified. "So I bet you've got something long and hard tucked under your clothes?"

Hutch nearly dropped his armful of produce. "Excuse me?"

"A gun, silly." The temptress smile slid into something playful and she took a step forward, crowding his space. "What did you think I meant?"

His mouth thinned in a hard white line. Oh yeah, she was good. Too damn good, which told him she'd been playing grownup for far too long. Irritated, he held his ground. "Tina--"

"So I guess it must be pretty exciting handing out traffic tickets, huh?"

"We're in homicide. Detective sergeants." He didn't know why he spit it out, just that suddenly he felt like he had to prove himself. She smiled as soon as he snapped the words off and he realized she had scored another point. She knew exactly which buttons to push and she did it with ease. He could almost hear the thought in her head: If I can't have you, then I'll fun with you instead.

Hutch ground his teeth together. He was a thirty-year-old street cop being bested by an underage seductress. Laughable if he thought about it.

"I hear Walt Rinsmere rented his place out for the weekend," she continued as if immune to his annoyance. One hand rose to toy with the edge of his jacket. "If that's where you're staying, maybe I'll see you around in the woods. My dad's got a place not too far away from there. The woods can be pretty fun, Ken. We could be pretty fun."

Deliberately he set her hand aside. "Sorry. I'm sworn off fun for the weekend." He heard her chuckle as he walked away and felt a flush creep up his neck. He wasn't sure if it was from anger or embarrassment.   Either way, she'd won the round.

+++++

Tina folded her arms across her chest and silently fumed. While she'd been inside the grocery store toying with her sexy blond, Shelia and Barry had been busy snooping around the dark-haired guy's car. Starsky, that was his name. The muscle machine was city-slick, candy apple red and white, high-polished gloss and chrome. Shelia and Barry had practically been salivating over it. Unfortunately an up-close-and-personal look had netted them the sight of a police radio and bubble-light tucked under the dash.

"Cops," Shelia had mouthed to Barry. Before Tina could stop them, they'd raced off to spill their guts to Cort. Now Cort was in a snit and Tina and Barry were approaching new plateaus of panic.

Tina fished in her pocket for a smoke, ignoring the other three. They were clustered together behind the store, trying to decide what to do. She hadn't planned on telling any of them what she'd learned�that tall-and-blond and dark-and-sexy were cops. Big fucking deal. They were on vacation. Okay, so they were staying at Rinsmere's and that could get a little hairy, but it wasn't like they'd found the junk. In her opinion Shelia and Barry were overreacting and Cort was just looking for an excuse to play dictator.

"We ain't got a choice now," Cort said pacing. "We gotta take care of those two. Get 'em outta there . . . scare the shit outta 'em . . . make 'em leave. Monolith's Finest are gonna find what's left of Henner anytime now. That should send those big city pigs packin.'"

"I thought you didn't want them to find Henner," Tina pointed out. That small piece of logic earned her a nasty glare from Cort and a mumbled curse that sounded suspiciously like "bitch."

"What'dcha call me?" she snapped.

"Witch!" he'd yelled heatedly. "I called you a witch, you stupid whore. You think I'm blind? You think I don't see you eyein' up that big blond pig, wantin' to crawl in his bed?" He stalked in front of her and jabbed a finger against her shoulder. "Use your fucking head! All our junk is stashed near Rinsmere's place. If those two find it, if they connect us to Henner--"

Tina blew smoke into his face. "Get a life, asshole."

For a minute she thought he'd crack her, but she held it together and didn't flinch. Hell, no. It was too much fun testing the limits. They both knew if he so much as laid a finger on her, their father would gut him and hang him out to dry. Go 'head, her eyes challenged. Smack me and see what it gets you. She could almost see the steam coming off the top of his head. He bunched his hands into fists, his face turning mottled purple, then beet-red. Incensed, he swung away. "I want 'em gone," she heard him mutter.

Too bad. She didn't want them to leave. At least not blond-and-criminally-handsome. Yeah, there should be laws about looking that good. Damn right she had her eyes on the "big blond pig." The man needed to be cuffed and locked away, preferably someplace that involved a bed and her wearing something skimpy, black and kinky.

Tina took a long drag from her cigarette. Cort didn't matter. Let him unleash his monsters, but he wasn't going to chase Blue-eyes and New York out of the area. Not until she'd had some fun. Lowering her eyes, she glanced at the cigarette in her hand. A slow smile spread across her lips at the sight of a dark red lipstick stain on the filter. Nice, she thought.

If all went according to plan, she'd be sucking on more than just nicotine before the night was over.

+++++