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MONSTERS
  by Kate(CMT)
Starsky howled with laughter.  "She said what?"

Hutch shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and slumped lower in the passenger seat.  The trunk was loaded with groceries and beer, even a fairly good bottle of Merlot to compliment the steaks Hutch had bought. They'd left the town of Monolith behind a few miles back and were headed to the lake.

Hutch felt himself color slightly.  "She wanted to know if I had something long and hard tucked under my clothes."

"Oh, shit, I wish I'd been a fly on the wall."  Laughing, Starsky paused to wipe tears from his eyes. 

Hutch shot him a perturbed glance.  "Don't bust a gut, buddy.  I'm glad you're finding this so amusing and all, but keep an eye on the road, huh?"

Starsky snorted with laughter.  "Aw come on, this is too good to let slide.  It ain't everyday my partner gets saddled with a nymphomaniac teen tryin' to find out whether or not he's a natural blond . . . if you know what I mean."  Starsky waggled his eyebrows suggestively.  "Think I should let her in on the secret?"

"Go to hell."

That brought another loud spurt of laughter. Starsky reached over and patted him on the shoulder.  "Guess you're just a little too Minnesota backwoods for these fast California girls.  Don't worry.  I won't let her drag you off to bed in the middle of the night."

"Starsky--"

"Yeah, I know--go to hell."  He grinned crookedly.

The sight of that lopsided smile drained the last of Hutch's anger.  Chuckling, he leaned his head back against the seat.  "It is pretty comical, I guess."

"It's gonna be even better when I rehash it in the squadroom."

Alarmed, Hutch shot him a worried look.  "You wouldn't?"

"No, dummy.  I wouldn't embarrass you like that."  Starsky bit his lip to check back laughter.  "Well . . . not for long anyway.  A couple 'a days oughta do it."

Hutch jabbed his middle finger into the air.

When Starsky laughed louder, he scrunched back down into the seat, contented by their familiar back-and-forth banter and game of one-upmanship.  Hutch had felt a little unbalanced ever since their discussion at the lakehouse, disturbed that Starsky had tormented himself so unnecessarily, worried further that his friend hadn't even touched the true cause of his distress¾the outright murder of two men he should have apprehended. 

He shifted slightly, cupping a hand underneath the Magnum still strapped at his side in an effort to suppress a sudden twinge of discomfort.  The pain was vague, a barely-there phantom that ghosted across his ribs. 

"So I got the scoop on the monsters," Starsky announced.

That brought Hutch's attention back to his partner.

"While you were busy fending off Aphrodite--" Starsky sent him a wide grin "--I got an earful of local gossip from Big John Littleton."

Hutch tried the name on for size.  "Big John Littleton?  I don't suppose he's got a buddy named Robin?"

"Friar Tuck," Starsky shot back without missing a beat, then continued his tale:  "He owns the local grocery store.  All I had to do was ask a few questions and I couldn't shut him up.  Aside from the scoop on the monsters, I found out your buddy Tina is the daughter of the local bigwig.  Or maybe it's Mrs. Bigwig--Lois Monolith-Sayer."

Intrigued, Hutch tilted his head.  "How's that?"

"Seems this whole area is basically one big playground for the Monolith family.  They got claim to the whole shootin' match--town, lake, even most of the larger businesses.  The daughter, Lois, is the only kid.  Used to be a son, but he died in a car accident somewhere in Europe when he was eighteen.  Tina's father, a guy named Park Sayer, married into the family¾or money, dependin' on how you wanna look at it.  Now he's the go-to guy. Those two kids who came into the café after Tina?  They're her brothers, Cort and Barry.  Cort's the older one, a real player accordin' to Big John.  Barry is kinda brainy and backward.  A friend of his just turned up missin' last night, and there's already talk that the monsters got 'im.  Big John says the Sheriff and his deputies have been scourin' the woods since sun-up but haven't had any luck.  Barry told 'em he thinks his friend was headin' to Vegas to meet some girl, but the parents aren't buyin' it.  It's been four months since someone got chewed up by the monsters, and local opinion is they're gettin' downright hungry."

Hutch coughed weakly, a little too aware that Starsky immediately tensed.  He didn't turn or comment on the sound, but Hutch saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel.  "They seriously believe there's some monster in the woods?"

"Monsters,"  Starsky corrected.  "Plural.  People started comin' here and buildin' lakehouses and cabins, just like Walt, thinkin' about retirin'.  I hear tell Walt's some fancy attorney about ten years away from retirement.  He figured he'd rent the place out until he was ready to move here permanent.  Problem is, the tourist trade's gone belly up thanks to the monsters.  Now he's lucky if he can meet the mortgage on the place. Guess that's why I got it so cheap.  If we go back and tell all the guys what a great time we had, he might drum up some other business."

"What do monsters have to do with anything?"  Hutch felt a little silly asking the question.  Were they really discussing a mythical creature as if it were a thing of flesh-and-bone?

Starsky turned onto the road that would take them toward the lakehouse.  In the distance, Hutch could see a glint of blue-gray flashing through the crowding trees.  Lake Monolith was still, oddly barren. No pleasure boats, no fishermen, just an empty expanse of water gilded to cold radiance beneath the afternoon sun. Birdsong bounced from tree to tree, a lyrical back-and-forth melody heralding the arrival of spring.

"Accordin' to Big John things started goin' sour about a year ago," Starsky explained. 

The Torino hit a dip in the narrow road, jostling Hutch to the side.  He winced at the movement, tightening the arm still sheltered beneath his coat, stealing himself against a sudden paroxysm of pain. Gravel crunched and popped beneath the wide tires, spewing clouds of dust into the air.  The crunch of heated rubber on sun-warmed stone masked Hutch's soft moan.  Thankfully, Starsky didn't hear, and he bit his lip in time to stop another.

"Big John says the first attack was a vacationin' couple," Starsky announced conversationally.  "Some joggers found 'em in the mornin' when they were goin' for a run.  They'd been mauled pretty bad, not a whole lot left of 'em."

"Maybe a bear," Hutch inserted, grateful for any diversion that would take his mind off the steadily escalating pain.  It soured his stomach, butting awake a sweat-sticky finger of nausea.

"Nah. These guys around here, they know bear attacks when they see one.  Big John says half the deputies and even the ambulance crew tossed their breakfast, it was that bad.  They found someone else on the other side of the lake--a backpacker, mauled the same way.  Time of death put 'em within minutes of each other.  That's how come they think there's gotta be more than one monster.  After that there were three other attacks, the last one about four months ago.  When word got out, tourists stopped comin'.  Even in Monolith, most people don't go around the lake, or if they do, they go armed.  The whole bunch of 'em is scared shitless."

The woods can be pretty fun, Ken.

Tina wasn't afraid.  Or was that a game too?  "Anyone see anything . . . hear anything?"

Starsky shook his head.  "Weird, huh?"

Hutch had the feeling Starsky was thinking a little more than "weird" but didn't want to make an issue of it.  It was bad enough his Brooklyn-born partner usually avoided the woods like a plague.  Throw in a local legend about flesh-eating monsters and he knew Starsky would lay awake all night, wide-eyed and tense, flinching at every creak and groan. 

Hutch turned his head to the side and sucked down an unsteady breath. Something hot and sharp stabbed below his ribs.  Muffling another moan, he closed his eyes and dropped his head against the window.  

"Hutch?"

He started abruptly, realizing his posture wasn't sending the best signals to his overly perceptive friend. Raising his head, he licked his lips and found his voice.  "Yeah?"

He felt Starsky's hand creep onto his shoulder.  "You okay over there?"

"Fine."  His voice sounded strained.  He stuffed a hand into his pocket, relieved to feel the outline of the pill container holding his pain medication.  One more wouldn't hurt.  He'd take it as soon as they got back to the lakehouse.  Then maybe he could relax and enjoy the weekend as Starsky intended.

He didn't say anything more but tried not to hunch against the door.  With effort he straightened his long legs, fought back the surge of nausea snaking against his throat.  The last thing he needed was to spew his guts in Starsky's car.  Thankfully in ten more minutes the house came into view.  Another five and he was inside, shoving bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter.

" 'cuse me."  Hutch didn't bother offering an explanation, just turned and headed quickly for the bathroom.  Inside, he flipped on the exhaust fan, hoping the noise would drown out his own.  He barely made it to the toilet before his meager breakfast came up through his throat. On hands and knees, he hung his head and vomited.  Pain ripped across his ribs with each racking contraction of his stomach.  Shaken, he gasped aloud, folding one arm across his middle, the other bracing him above the toilet.  He wilted when the convulsions were through, his muscles cramped and spent. Sagging weakly, he rested his cheek on the toilet rim, the bite of cold porcelain a welcome salve on hot, sweat-streaked skin.

"Hutch?"  Starsky rapped on the door.  "You okay in there?"

"Fine."  Panicked, Hutch bolted upright and flushed the toilet.  "A little privacy, huh, Starsk?"

"Yeah . . . okay."  Uncertainty bled through in Starsky's voice. 

Hutch felt him hesitate, then move reluctantly away.  Trying to pull himself together, he crossed to the sink and turned on the cold water. It gushed into a pink-veined marble bowl, misting the granite counter with tiny beads of moisture.  Hutch shoved his hands beneath the spray, cupping his palms to trap the water.  He doused his face, then rinsed his mouth, spitting out grit and the tart after-tang of bile. Dripping wet, he tumbled a pill into his hand and swallowed it with a mouthful of water.  His eyes rose to the mirror.  Was one enough?

He swallowed hard.  He felt like shit.  Looked like it too, his face drawn with pain, his coloring too damn peaked.  Starsky would notice, and Starsky had jumped through hoops to make this weekend happen.  Grimacing, he tumbled another tablet into his palm and downed it before he could change his mind.  Afterward he toweled off his face and hands, ran shaking fingers through his hair and re-tucked his turtleneck into the waistband of his dark jeans.

By the time he returned to the kitchen, Starsky had put the groceries away and was finishing up piling bottles of beer and soda in the refrigerator.  He eyed Hutch critically.  "Whatsa'matter?  Breakfast go through ya?"

Hutch lowered his eyes.  Better Starsky thought he shit it out than spit it out.  "Something like that."  He pasted on a wavering smile.  "So what d'you wanna do--take a drive around the lake?  Scout out a few fishing sites, maybe chase down a few monsters?" He had hoped to tease Starsky out of his exacting appraisal but suddenly realized what bouncing around in the Torino again would do to his tender ribs.  Inwardly, he grimaced. 

"Sure," Starsky said slowly.  "Maybe we can even help out the local force with that search party in the woods.  Just let me grab my gun."

Hutch nodded mutely.  I should just tell him I'm hurting.  As soon as the thought surfaced, he realized it was no good.  Starsky would want to pack up and head back to Bay City, the painstakingly planned weekend ruined.  Because of me. 

He couldn't do it, not after all the trouble Starsky had gone through to arrange it.  In the end he hunched into the passenger's seat of the Torino, gripping the side door to mute the jostling effects of the car.  After about ten minutes the pain medication kicked in and the death-grip he'd concealed from Starsky on the door handle, slowly unwound.

The drive became a nice diversion.  The lake setting was idyllic, the type of picturesque greenery that always managed to soothe his soul. He knew Starsky was considerably less enthusiastic, but his partner hid it well.  His friend's natural aversion to nature struggled to surface as they drove deeper into the woods, but he only fidgeted slightly.  Towering pines and clusters of fir huddled together in fragrant thickets.  The ground was leaf-strewn, rolling in gentle symmetry toward Lake Monolith's sun-dusted water.  Hutch fished in the glove compartment for his brown-tinted aviators, wordlessly passing Starsky his own dark sunglasses.  Starting to feel a little drowsy, he cranked the window down.  Warm air flooded the car, carrying with it the scent of mud-dark soil, water-smoothed stone and sweet grass.

"You ever fish for bass, Starsky?" 

"Sure, dummy.  We had lakes on every corner in Brooklyn.  You step outside 'a Jonesy's Subs on Ninth and Warrington, you're liable to end up neck deep."

Hutch chuckled, letting his head fall back against the seat.  "Ask a stupid question . . ."

"Hey."  Starsky pointed off to the right.  "I think I see a cruiser up there.  You wanna stop an' offer to help?  See what those guys found?"

Hutch suppressed a yawn.  "Sure."  If I can get my body to move.  Two pain pills definitely took care of that niggling little ache below his ribs.  Unfortunately it also took care of about every other sensation in his body, including simple movement.

Starsky pulled off the road, and Hutch somehow made his fingers latch onto the door handle.

"Hey, buddy."  Starsky stopped him with a hand to his arm. 

Hutch blinked away his stupor and glanced over his shoulder.  "Whass wrong?"

"What's wrong?"  Starsky's lips tipped up in an affectionate grin.  "Well, you're actin' a little foggy there, babe, and you're startin' to slur your words.  You didn't down some Merlot back in town without me, didja?"

Hutch yawned.  "Sorry."  He made a concentrated effort to push away the haze.  " 'm a little tired.  Gettin' up too early, I guess."

Starsky's grin widened.  "You know you drop your gs when you're windin' down?"

"Do not."

"Do too.  Pretty soon you'll be soundin' like me."

"That's a scary thought."  Hutch pushed out of the car, then stood staring up into the trees.  One of the officers from the cruiser had spied them and was already walking toward them.  Anticipating questions, Hutch reached in his back pocket for his badge.  Carrying the Magnum meant he automatically had to carry the shield. Starsky beat him to the punch, however, displaying his own badge for the plump, red-haired officer to see.

"Sergeants Starsky and Hutchinson from Bay City," he announced.  "Need some help?"

"Won't refuse," came the ready reply.  "Woods are too broad for all of us."

The red-haired officer was Fred Moody.  He and his partner Dwayne Stoner were one of three teams scouring the area.  The lake was a good six miles long with a scattering of small coves cut into stands of trees and rocks, making the search area exhaustive.  No one expected to find a body quickly, but after two hours of helping the locals look, a call came across the radio that Henner's remains had been found.

Hutch was sweating, caught up in a strange pill-induced lethargy that made every step a colossal effort.  Still he'd trudged through the woods, snagging his jacket on grasping tree limbs, tripping twice over exposed roots.  His heart worked double time in an effort to propel him up hills and down rock-strewn inclines, all the while threatening to jackhammer through his chest.  His left side fluctuated between numbness and attention-grabbing spikes of pain. He was thankful when he could finally slide into the car and follow Moody's black-and-white to the location where Henner was found.

The body was not a pretty sight.  Hutch had seen his share of mutilated corpses, but nothing that prepared him for something so nightmarishly grisly.  He dragged one hand across his face then shot a glance at his partner.  Behind him, Stoner was on his knees, loudly coughing up his lunch. 

The stench of congealed blood was overpowering.  Hutch tried not to imagine how it could have been splattered so high in the trees; how buckets and buckets of it had soaked into the spongy ground.  And flesh . . . there were pieces of it everywhere; sticking to pine needles, clinging in bloody clumps to bunches of ferns.  One half of the boy's face was untouched, oddly serene, the other side sheered clean to the bone. 

Starsky swore softly and paced a short distance away.  Hutch had always been accused of being the sensitive one, but he knew when it came to untimely death, to life cut violently short, Starsky was the one who hurt the most.  Some part of his Brooklyn-bred partner instinctively relieved a hot summer day when a ten-year-old boy lost his beloved father.  Worse, Starsky would take the grief of that ten-year-old and magnify it by the inconsolable anguish Henner's parents and loved ones would now feel.  Don't shut down on me, babe.  I need you to be the guy I can lean on.

Their eyes met across the distance and held for a brief moment.  Starsky gave a barely imperceptible nod.  The message was clear:  Don't worry.  I'm okay.

Hutch's eyes went back to the body, to the desecration.  No bear had done this, no animal for that matter. A wild beast would attack and maul, but not savage.  Not rip and shred flesh, scattering soft organs like pulp; viciously shearing away tendon and muscle to expose blood-soaked, splintered bone.  Little was recognizable . . . just one half of the face, left almost wholly intact.  As if whoever--whatever did this--wanted to make sure we knew for certain it was Henner.

The wind gusted at his feet, kicking up the sour stench of lacerated flesh and sun-heated blood.  Stoner was still heaving, making tortured garbled sounds low in his throat.  Moody stepped aside to help his partner and Hutch moved closer to Starsky.  The wind lashed through his hair, growing fiercer with each passing moment.  He glanced at the sky, noting the arrival of a string of bloated clouds.

"Probably rain," Starsky said simply.

Hutch nodded.  Fatigue was seeping in again, now that the shock of discovery was wearing off.  They hung around long enough to see the county coroner arrive and the surrounding area--a good mile in each direction--sectioned off with police tape.  No one said the word "monster" but it was clearly on everyone's mind.

Hutch was thankful when he and Starsky could finally return to the lakehouse.  It was almost six o'clock in the evening, and he had to struggle to keep his eyes open.  Against his better judgement he hunched down into the seat and allowed himself to drift.  The next thing he knew, Starsky had a hand on his shoulder and was shaking him gently awake.

"Hutch.  Come on, babe, we're home."

He blinked, unfocused, and realized Starsky was not in the driver's seat, but was standing beside him, leaning into the car, the passenger door open behind him.  Hutch felt strong hands close on both arms and allowed himself to be pulled up and out.  Swaying slightly, he braced himself against the door.  " . . . need a minute," he mumbled.

"Don't worry about it." 

Hutch felt his arm raised, followed by the solid strength of Starsky's back butting beneath his shoulder.  An arm wrapped tightly around his waist and he felt their hips press together.  Then he was walking, guided step by careful step toward the front porch.

"Why are you so tired anyway?"  Starsky asked.

"Dunno."  A blatant lie.  Two pain pills swallowed in succession were apparently a no-no if he wanted to maintain a believable façade of functionality.  He yawned widely.  "I'll be okay once I eat."  That was it, he needed food.

"Okay."  Starsky pretended to buy it.  "Why don't you rest while I throw the steaks on the grill?"

" 'm salad."

"Yes, Hutch," Starsky said patiently as if talking to a sulky child.  "I won't forget your precious rabbit food."  They were inside now and Starsky led him to the bedroom, depositing him on the bed.  He stripped off Hutch's jacket, then freed him of the shoulder holster.  He started to turn away to place the Magnum out of sight in a dresser when Hutch caught his hand.

"Gun," the blond detective said simply.

Starsky looked from the holstered weapon to Hutch, his expression blank.  Before he could move, Hutch pulled the revolver free and set it within reach on the nightstand. Starsky decided not to make an issue of it.  They had just seen something hideous, a corpse so mutilated he got chills even thinking about it.  What would it hurt to have the weapon handy in case there really was something sinister lurking in the woods?  It had absolutely nothing to do with Moo-Moo or getting shot.  Hutch was just being careful.  Sensible.

"Good thinkin'" he said, then tossed the empty holster aside.  Squatting on the floor, he worked at unlacing Hutch's hiking boots.

"I'm not comatose, Starsk."  A slightly perturbed voice.  "I can untie my own shoes."

"Sure ya can, but then you wouldn't have me fawnin' all over ya."  Starsky pulled one boot free, then the next.  He didn't have to tell Hutch to lie back.  With a soft groan his friend folded into the bed, curling onto his side.  Since he was lying on top of the covers, Starsky went to the closet for a blanket.  Returning, he draped it over his friend, noting that Hutch was already slipping into an exhausted sleep.

Moo-Moo could have killed you.  I shouldna had you hiking through the woods today.

Against his will, Starsky recalled the painful image of Hutch flying backward, his body slammed through a plate-glass window.  Something cold and suffocating wrapped around his gut.  I thought you were dead.  I killed those two scumbags.  My god, mygodmygod, I killed them!

He reached out a trembling hand, needing to feel the brush of soft sun-gold hair beneath his fingertips.  His touch lingered, traced the endearingly familiar lines of cheekbone and jaw.  Outside, a sudden gust of wind rattled the windows drawing his attention to the trees.  He felt firm fingers close over his, sweaty, much too hot.

"Thanks," Hutch mumbled.

Starsky looked down on the sleeping form of his friend.  Hutch hadn't bothered to open his eyes, but kept his hand wrapped around Starsky's.

"For what?" he asked.

"Takin' care of me . . ." The drowsy voice faded to an indistinct mumble.  " . . . could've . . . untied my own shoes."

Starsky grinned.  Freeing his hand, he tucked the blanket around Hutch's shoulders then left to start dinner.

+++++

Starsky prided himself on his steak.  His baked potatoes weren't bad either, rolled in some olive oil and wrapped in aluminum foil to heighten the grilled flavor.  Hutch's salad on the other hand was merely tolerable with its overabundance of green leafy things and sprouts.  Starsky set the table, poured Hutch a glass of Merlot, then got himself a beer.  He was about to wake his drowsy friend when Hutch shuffled out of the bedroom on his own.

"Smells good."

Starsky's face lit with a grin.  His blond friend wasn't going to win any marathons, but at least he looked rested, if a little sleep tousled.  With a flourish, Starsky pulled out a chair.  "Over here, Sleepin' Beauty.  Your banquet awaits."

Hutch cracked a smile.  "You're an idiot."  He hadn't bothered with shoes.  In stocking feet, he wasn't that much taller than Starsky. 

The shorter man took advantage of the missing height differential and tried to look down on him. "That's Chef idiot to you, Blondie."  With a firm hand he steered Hutch to the chair, then rounded the table to take his own seat.  He was stuffing a napkin under his collar, his eyes all over his plate trying to decide what to devour first, when the wind buffeted up against the house rattling windows and doors.

Hutch hadn't moved, his hands resting limply in his lap.  He glanced to the side, out the nearest window.  "Still hasn't rained."

"When'd you figure that out, genius?"  There was no sting in the words, just the usual good-natured ragging that comprised their normal banter.  Starsky picked up his knife and fork, slicing into the juicy steak.  It would have tasted better on the beach instead of the woods, but he could live with the compromise if it meant pleasing his partner.  "Ya know . . ." He shot a pointed glance at Hutch's plate.  "Your food ain't gonna wash away in a flashflood, but it might get cold you keep sittin' there like a statue."

Hutch gave an abashed start.  "Sorry."  He reached for his glass then hesitated, realizing it was filled with wine. 

Starsky smiled.  "Figured you'd want that."  He raised his beer in a toast.  "Here's to a long weekend with nothin' but rest and relaxation.  Maybe even a couple'a fresh trout."

"Bass," Hutch corrected.  He hesitated, his hand resting on the base of the wineglass.

"Whassa matter?" 

"Nothing."  Hutch raised the glass and clicked it against Starsky's. With a glance for his friend over the rim, he took a careful sip of the dark liquid. 

Starsky waited a few minutes, enjoying the sirloin.  It melted like butter, flavored with charcoal and the sweet tang of hickory.  "You ain't eatin' your steak," he pointed out, watching Hutch toy with a ruffed piece of lettuce.  "I killed that steer myself, ya know."

Hutch chuckled.  "You're too good to me."

"Got that.  It ain't like you deserve it or anythin'."  He smiled, but the humor faded quickly.  Out of nowhere came the ugly image of Hutch flying backward, his body catapulted by the impact of Moo-Moo's bullet.  Starsky fiddled with his fork, jabbing a little too violently at his potato.  He'd killed two people.  Sited down on the gas tank of their fleeing vehicle, knowing full well what he was doing.  Not thinking about them . . . not thinking about the kidnapped girl . . . not thinking about anyone except Hutch, and how horrifically it hurt to lose his partner and best friend. 

Rogue cop, that's what he was.  IA had been all over him, but somehow he'd held it together, played his cards in such a way that everyone was happy.  Necessary force in the line of duty was the official finding.  IA backed off and everyone else forgot about it, content in their paperwork-driven, black-and-white, structured worlds.  But Starsky wasn't content.  If he stopped to think about the inconceivable heinous thing he'd done, he was downright miserable. And yet he knew he'd commit that same vile act again without the slightest hesitation.  What did that say about him . . . about the morals he was sworn to uphold as an officer of the law?  Where did he draw the line?  Where would he ever draw the line when it came to Hutch?   

"You know," he heard a gentle voice say.  "That potato is supposed to be baked, not mashed."

"Huh?"  Starsky glanced up, mortified to realize he had been mashing the potato into his plate, systematically crushing it beneath his fork.  He offered up a tentative laugh.  "Stupid, huh?"

Hutch still wasn't eating.  "Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really."  Starsky latched onto his beer glass, wanting to put the troubling thoughts out of his head.  He took a long swallow, his eyes skimming across the table.  Time to refocus, to shake off his growing depression before it slipped too deeply into his soul.  "Drink up, buddy.  We're supposed to be celebratin'.  The way you're nursin' that wine and ignorin' your food, I'm startin' to think there's sumthin' wrong."  Won't tell me though, will you?

Hutch forced a smile.  "Still waking up."  He took another sip of the wine, then concentrated on the steak.  By the time dinner was over, he'd finished the Merlot, eaten most of his salad, and nearly half of the beef and potato. 

Starsky's eyes narrowed.  After all the hiking they'd done, Hutch should have been ravenous. You really are holding back on me, aren't you buddy?  He went to the counter and carted back the Merlot, but Hutch waved it aside.  "One's enough."

"Then how 'bout dessert?  I got some kind of double chocolate cake at the store, drizzled with caramel and pecans.  I even bought a tub of whipped toppin'."  Starsky's forced a spark of animation into his eyes. "Sound good?"

"Sounds sickening."  Hutch pushed from the chair and picked up his plate.  "You made dinner.  I'll clean up."

Any other time Starsky would have taken him up on it, but Hutch's color was off and his face looked strained.  And then it happened--Hutch coughed weakly.  It was a soft sound but it went through Starsky like a knife.  He watched his friend fold an arm across his middle, stiffly twisting his head to the side.  A flicker of pain flashed over his face, gone before Starsky could gauge the damage.

"Tryin' to play on my sympathy, huh?" He took the dish away from Hutch.  "You still ain't up to par, babe.  Go sit down and let me take care of this."

"I'm not an invalid, Starsk."

Hutchinson perfection.  Mister-I-Can-Take-Of-It was exerting the usual bullheaded Hutchinson control.  Starsky sighed.  They'd been down this road before, a well-traveled path that often put Hutch on the defensive.  "No one's sayin' you are.  Look, I'll make a deal with you."  Starsky paused at the flat determination in his partner's pale blue eyes.  One of these days he was going to have to have a heart-to-heart with Hutch's parents and straighten a few things out.  Whatever philosophies they'd instilled in their son, it had made him damnably unwilling to bend.  "I take care of this and tomorrow's your turn, cookin' and cleanin' up.  Shift one and shift two."

Hutch debated silently.  The fact that he caved so readily told Starsky just how badly he was hurting.  "Is that like Thing One and Thing Two?"

Starsky snorted.  "You see a cat-in-the-hat around here?  Now get outta my way.  I wanna get this cleaned up so we can watch TV with some dessert."

Hutch conceded and moved away, dropping into a seat on the sofa. Starsky stacked dishes on the counter, all the while gnawing his bottom lip.  A string of weak coughs drifted from the couch, turning his low-level fret into full-blown worry.  Idiot.  His dad's a damn doctor.  He should know better than to ignore whatever's got him so freakin' messed up. Maybe this weekend was a mistake.

He hurried through the dishes, cut himself a huge slice of chocolate cake then joined Hutch on the couch.  His friend had flicked on the TV, but the picture was snowy, probably a direct result of the wind whipping around outside. The sound droned softly in the background, barely distinguishable over the creaks and groans of wind-battered windows, roof and doors.

Starsky sank into the cushions with a contented sigh.  "Sure you don't want any?"  He waved a fork over the chocolate mass hoping to provoke mild interest.  Hutch might be all about health food, but Starsky had known him to indulge now and then in a tasty treat.

Hutch shook his head.  He looked tired again, but at least he wasn't coughing. His eyes were starting to droop, his shoulders sagging into the plump cushions at his back.  Shifting sideways into the corner of the couch, he raised his legs and stretched them across Starsky's lap.  Starsky accepted the invasion of space without complaint, raising his plate into the air so he could accommodate his friend while juggling dessert at the same time.

Hutch yawned.  "So what do you think got that kid in the woods?  What was his name--Henner?"

A mouthful of cake stuck in Starsky's throat.  He really didn't want to think about gory remains while trying to enjoy decadent chocolate.  Suddenly the shrieking wind seemed ominous, the protesting creaks and groans of the house spine-tingling.  "Definitely not a bear."

"I don't think it was any kind of wild animal," Hutch said thoughtfully.  "The largest predator in the area would be a grizzly."  He rubbed his eyes, blinked as if trying to concentrate.  Another yawn and he rested his head on the back of the couch.  "Did you take a look at that kid's face, Starsky?"

Losing his appetite completely, Starsky slid his plate onto the coffee table.  He was about to point out that the kid didn't have much of a face left, when he was struck by an odd thought.  Part of Henner's face had been left untouched, the skin sprinkled with drops of splattered blood, but otherwise unmarred.  The single remaining eye had been open, staring straight ahead as if strangely surprised, the mouth slack.

"He wasn't terrified," Starsky said abruptly.  He looked excitedly at Hutch, immediately snagging his friend's thought process.  "He should have been scared shitless--horrified.  Damn it, Hutch, his face should have been contorted in terror, judging by the way he died."

"If that's really how he died."  Hutch winced.  He shifted, trying to get comfortable.  A soft moan slipped from his lips.

Starsky tensed.  "What's wrong?"

"N-Nothing."  The word stuck on a stammer.  Hutch shifted again, this time trying to sit up straight. One white-socked foot pressed into Starsky's thigh.  He coughed deeply, all pretext gone.  With a low groan, he turned his face into the couch.

Starsky shot to his feet.  "You're hurtin' aren't you?"

It was too obvious to deny.  "A little."  Hutch folded an arm over his left side, kept his face turned away.  "I'm sore St-Starsk.  Like after a hard workout.  N-N-Nothing major." 

Starsky zeroed in on the stutter.  He would have pointed it out, but they both knew Hutch only tripped over his words when he was upset or hurting. And like an idiot, I let him hike around in the woods all afternoon.  "Hey!"  He had a sudden idea."  "Walt's got a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, great for all kinds of aches and pains.  I bet you soak in there for awhile, and you'll feel almost good as new."

Hutch turned to look at him, considering.  A thin sheen of sweat clung to his cheek and something too bright to be healthy burned in his eyes.  He'd drawn his long legs back to the middle cushion, knees bent, right arm folded over his ribs.  "That's not a bad idea."

"I get 'em now and then."  Starsky pressed a hand to his friend's forehead, clearly feeling for fever.  He was thankful that while Hutch felt a little flushed, he was not abnormally hot.

The fair-haired man smiled wanly.  "Do I pass, Mom?"

Starsky scowled.  "Smart ass."  He cupped a hand under his friend's bicep.  "Come on, I'll help you up."

"I can do it."  Hutch made the expected protest, but didn't resist when Starsky tugged gently, helping him to stand.  He swayed again as if his equilibrium was off, then steadied himself by gripping Starsky's arm.  "Finish your cake," he mumbled.

Starsky watched him shuffle away, moving tiredly in the direction of his bedroom. Minutes later his door closed and Starsky slumped into the couch, dropping his head into his hands.  The cake stayed on the table, forgotten.

+++++

Hutch winced when he stepped naked into the bathroom and saw the damage to his side reflected in a floor-to-ceiling wall of mirrors.  He'd been hit before when wearing a bulletproof vest, and while he'd had bruising, it'd never been anything like this.  His entire left side was discolored, his skin a mottled combination of angry red, black and purple. The bruising looked ghastly against his pale flesh, stretching from beneath his arm all the way to his abdomen, seeping further in jagged bursts across his ribs and chest. 

He might have been alarmed if he could think logically, but he'd lost most of his reasoning ability hours ago.  Waking with more pain than when he'd fallen asleep, Hutch had popped another pill after his late-day nap.  Throw in a glass of Merlot with dinner and it was miracle he was even standing.  He hadn't wanted to drink the wine, had even tried to avoid it, but knew Starsky would have noticed the lapse.  Not that it mattered now.  He'd pretty much admitted to his friend he wasn't in the best of shape.

Hutch slid his Magnum onto the marble tiles surrounding the Jacuzzi.  Criminals be warned:  Weak, naked cop with gun. It didn't matter.  He wasn't going to stand still and take another bullet to the chest.  So maybe he was over reacting, always keeping the damn thing so close at hand, but if it gave him a little peace of mind, so-fucking-what?  If he could protect himself, Starsky wouldn't have to turn vigilante and blow away the next two guys who tried to kill him.  Wish you'd talk to me about that, babe.

He grimaced as he slid into the water.  The shock of heated liquid against his battered skin was at first staggering, then comforting.  With a sigh, he slid below the water, his long body conforming to the deep bowl shape of the oversized tub.  Relaxing, he stretched his arms on either side, propping them on the rim and tilted his head back.  Water soaked the hair at the nape of his neck, and rising steam made curls from the sweat-dampened bangs clinging to his brow.  His eyes drifted shut.

Not a bad toy, a Jacuzzi.  If he'd been feeling healthy and sensual and had a woman willing to share that passion . . .

Abby.  Gillian.

He shoved the thoughts aside.  Wasn't this weekend all about forgetting his tortured love life?  About moving ahead and starting over?  Exhausted, he felt himself drifting, slowly pulled deeper into a narcotic-laced and wine-heavy fog.  What did he really need to start fresh?  He already had a job he was devoted to, and his partner--

Teetering on the cusp of sleep, Hutch moaned softly.  What if their roles had been reversed?  What if Starsky had been the one to run with the money . . . what if Starsky had been shot?  Would he have remained cool and rational or would he have flown off the handle and done the exact same thing Starsky had done?  Would he have exacted his own brand of street justice?  Would he have killed for his partner, polluting his own soul, or would he have stayed the staunchly incorruptible White Knight?

Hutch twisted, shivering now, despite the heated warmth of the water.  He saw Starsky standing in front of the glass door; saw him lifted into the air by the brutal impact of a high-velocity bullet.  Only this time there was no vest to protect him. 

Glass shattered and Hutch's world collapsed with it.  Black grief bubbled up from his throat.  He choked, reduced to a coughing fit as pain raced needle-hot across his ribs.  Not Starsky.  Please, not Starsky.  He could withstand any loss, but the loss of his partner was insurmountable, a full half of his soul.  How had one street-savvy New Yorker bonded so intimately with an idealistic farm boy?  He could withstand the loss of Abby and Gillian, painful as they were, but he would never, ever survive the loss of his friend.

Glass popped, shattered.

Not real.  Can't be.  Starsk.  Please, I need you . . .

He moaned aloud, wrapping his arms close to trap warmth.  He was so wretchedly cold and yet his body felt like it was burning from the inside out.  It was just as well he suffered if Starsky died.  He tried to open his eyes but only succeeded in moaning again.  His chin slumped forward onto his chest.  He felt cold, disassociated, miserably alone.  One arm tumbled off the edge of the tub, plopping into the water, spraying his face with lukewarm droplets.  Ripples of pain raced up and down his side, stitching his ribs with forge-hot fire.  He couldn't think, couldn't function, couldn't move.  For a moment he forgot where he was, couldn't separate reality from the tortured nightmare-spawned images of his mind. 

Starsky . . .

He dragged his eyes open.  The bathroom teetered drunkenly, see-sawing in a distorted scope of bleary-eyed vision.  The pain grew hotter, fiercer, ripped a fire-blanched sword through his guts.

Groaning, he slumped over the side of the tub and retched.

+++++

Starsky paced, then finally gave up.  Hutch had been in the bathroom too long, prompting his worrisome nature to get the best of him.  The wind was still howling up a storm, screaming like a banshee, the heavy shroud of night hanging pitch black against the windows.  Starsky had gone through the house, checking each to make sure they were locked, doors too.  Maybe he was acting like a kid afraid of the dark, but he wasn't going to take any chances after what he'd seen in the woods today.  Throw in flickering lights and a steadily declining partner and his already raw nerves stood rigidly on end.

Needing a distraction, he poked his head into Hutch's bedroom.  As he'd suspected, his friend was still in the bathroom, his clothes strewn haphazardly over the floor, the bed rumpled and unmade.  Starsky picked up jeans, socks, shorts and turtleneck, adding them to a chair where he'd earlier deposited Hutch's jacket.  His friend had never been a great housekeeper but it wasn't like him to throw his clothes around.  The one thing Hutch had always been fastidious about was his appearance. 

Starsky folded the items neatly, then picked up the jacket to fluff it out.  Something spilled from the pocket and butted up against his shoe.  Frowning, he bent to retrieve a plastic pill bottle.  The name Kenneth Hutchinson jumped out at him from a neatly printed label.  "Prescribed by Dr. Clayton," he read aloud.

The ER doc.  Pain meds.

Starsky's mouth tightened. Growing perturbed, he twisted the cap off, quickly gauging how many pills were missing from the bottle.  So this is how you're honest with me?  You've been popping these damn things all day.  No wonder you're so out of it!  Irked, he slammed the container on the dresser, wrenched open the adjoining door and stalked into the bathroom.  He'd worked himself into a royal snit and was ready to launch into his partner, gloves off.  "Hutch--"  The name caught in his throat and the bottom fell out of his world.  His emotions did a complete 180, shifting gears in mid-snit.  Hostility and anger bled into gut-twisting concern.

Starsky was across the room in a heartbeat. 

The bath smelled sour.  He tried not to look at the puddle of vomit on the floor . . . tried not to factor in the stark reality of the Magnum just a hand's-stretch from Hutch.  Like a security blanket.  He's got himself scared shitless over that fucking hit.

"Hutch."  Starsky dropped to his knees, reached out a tentative hand.  The flesh beneath his fingertips felt heated and clammy.  His partner was unresponsive, slumped against the marble apron of the tub. His left side looked ghastly, a hideous roadmap of bruising and garish color.  Starsky was shocked by the damage to his flesh and was abruptly thankful to be kneeling.  His legs grew weak.  "Come on, babe."  He leaned forward, threaded a hand through sweaty flaxen hair.  "You're scarin' me here."

Hutch stirred, whether from voice or touch, Starsky wasn't certain.

" . . . sick . . ." he croaked.

"I know.  Don't worry about it, I'll take care of it."  He snagged the nearest towel, wiped it over Hutch's mouth and chin.  His friend's head felt top-heavy, wobbling at Starsky's touch as if he had no strength to support himself.  The blond detective shivered despite the beads of sweat clinging to his brow and neck.  Starsky grabbed a second bath towel, so thick and fluffy it might have been taken from a five-star resort.  "Think you can stand?"

He knew a too-long duration in the heated water had probably turned Hutch's muscles to jelly.  Factor in too many doses of pain medication and a glass of wine, and Starsky knew he was going to be dealing with 175 pounds of limp Hutchinson.  Gingerly he helped his friend upright, then guided him out of the Jacuzzi. 

Hutch was shivering, his teeth practically chattering together.  "Y-Y-You're not d-dead."

"Course not, dummy."  Starsky wedged a shoulder under his arm to keep him from falling, then toweled him off as best he could.  He was careful of the bruised area splayed over Hutch's ribs, but even his gentle handling elicited a soft moan.  Hutch sagged against him, a little too much weight for a single shoulder to be supporting. 

"Hang on," Starsky encouraged.  "Almost done."  He wasn't sure whose benefit the words were for¾Hutch or himself.  He could feel heat pouring from his friend's body, each spiking wave a punch to his own gut.  Shoulda never come.  Shoulda known you weren't feelin' up to this.

Too late now, the voice of his conscience mocked and the lights flickered again. 

T'rrific!  All I need to make this lovely weekend complete is a freakin' power failure.

Hutch started to cough.  His knees buckled and his long body folded in a slow, foggy slide toward the ground. 

"No you don't."  Starsky caught him around the waist, flinching violently when he heard Hutch groan.  "I'm sorry, buddy.  I know it hurts."  His voice came in a rush, words tumbling over words, his stomach pumping sour bile into his throat.  "Just help me out here and walk to the bedroom, huh?  Think you can do that?  It's not that far pal, then you can lie down, I promise."  Please, Hutch.  I don't wanna hurt you, but if you don't help me out, I'm going have'ta drag you or carry you, and that ain't gonna be pleasant.

Maybe it was the silently spoken plea, but somehow Hutch got his limp muscles to respond.  With Starsky's coaching and physical support, he made his way back to the bedroom.  Breathing a silent prayer of gratitude, Starsky fished clean shorts from the dresser, tugged them up Hutch's long legs and over his hips, then let him fold back onto the bed.  His friend immediately started to cough.  Not the feather-weak spasms of before, but a deep-throated hacking that twisted Hutch's face with pain.

"Oh god, Starsk!"  He rolled onto his side, arms wrapped protectively around his aching ribs.  "I . . . I . . . it hurts, Starsk!  Not like before.  It-it¾"

"Easy."  Starsky shifted onto the bed.  "I'm right here, babe.  Just take it easy, try to take slow breaths.  You're gonna hyperventilate you keep suckin' air like that."

"Can't."  Hutch was practically gasping now.  "Can't  . . . breathe."

Alarmed, Starsky pulled him forward, immediately regretting the rash move when Hutch groaned in pain. He felt a sweaty hand clutch his leg, a hot cheek press against his chest.  The body in his arms trembled, muscles pulled taut in violent constraint.  "Take it easy."  He lowered his head, wrapping his arms around Hutch's bare shoulders, holding him close.  "I'm right here, babe."  His voice was gentle, a warm breath against Hutch's ear.  "We'll ride it out together, just like we always do.  Me and thee, remember?"  His hands moved up and down Hutch's clammy arms and back, stroking, cajoling, soothing pain-knotted tension from cramping muscles.  "You shoulda told me you were hurtin' like this."

Hutch buried his face against Starsky's chest.  "  . . . sorry . . ."

"Ssh, it's okay.  Just forget it an' try'n rest.  I'll stay here, how's that?"  Starsky shifted gingerly, easing himself back against the headboard, drawing Hutch with him, creating a raised pillow of his chest.  It seemed to help with Hutch's breathing.  The spurts of coughing died too, leaving only shivering in their wake.  Starsky snagged the blankets, pulling them up around Hutch's shoulders. 

" . . .  wan' gun . . ."  Hutch mumbled after a minute.

Starsky stroked his hair.  "Don't worry 'bout it.  I'm here.  Isn't that enough?"

" 'S nuff."  The word came muffled, already drowsy with sleep.

Starsky bit his lip, feeling the growing flush of fever from his friend's bare skin.  The pain meds, coupled with the wine he never should have had, were still working to keep Hutch drowsy.  Even so, Starsky knew it wouldn't be long before he grew restless again.  He thought about putting together some cold compresses, but the feel of his partner nestled against him, breathing evenly, sent thoughts of disturbing him to a permanent grave.     

Whatever was wrong with him, it damn well wasn't just a minor bruise left over from Moo-Moo's bullet.  The damage went deeper, and that aggravating bit of knowledge started a slow burn at the back of Starsky's neck.  His friend should have never been allowed to leave the hospital.

"  . . . dumbass quack in ER," he muttered, not realizing he'd spoken aloud or that his voice carried such venom. 

Hutch shifted restlessly.  " . . .huh?"

"Nothin', buddy." Starsky instantly regretted his mumbled thoughts.  He feathered a hand through Hutch's sweat-dampened bangs and hugged him a little closer.  "It's not important.  Not now.  I'm just mouthin' off about that dumb quack you saw in the ER, misreadin' your x-rays."

"No x-rays."

It was Starsky's turn to respond blankly.  "What d'ya mean no x-rays?"

Hutch shifted again, grimacing with the stiff movement.  "Didn't have any.  I . . . I left after that fight . . . before they could take any."

"You did what?"  Starsky tried to keep a surge of knee-jerk hostility from his voice.  Now wasn't the time to be angry, not when Hutch was in such obvious pain.  Briefly he recalled the fight that had erupted in the ER between rival gang members and how he and Hutch had stepped in to help break it up.  They'd left immediately afterwards.  He'd just assumed his partner had been thoroughly checked out and was free to go. 

Foolishly assumed.  Guess I know what that makes me.

Starsky frowned.  Had his friend skipped out on purpose, fully aware he hadn't been given a clean bill of health, or had it simply been a lapse in all the confusion?  Babe, I'd sure hate to think you were being difficult, lettin' that stiff upper lip, I'm-a-Hutchinson-I-can-take-anything attitude kick in.  In case you ain't heard, there's no law says you gotta be perfect all the time.

Frustrated, Starsky sighed.  For all he knew his friend could be walking around with anything from a bruised or lacerated lung to broken ribs.

"Starsky?"  Hutch's soft voice jarred him from his thoughts.  "You mad?"

"Course not."  Starsky let his head drop, pressing his brow to the crown of Hutch's gold hair.  "Just worried.  We never shoulda come."

" . . . pain pills . . . are workin'," Hutch murmured, sounding even drowsier.  "I'll be okay."

"Sure you will."  Worried, Starsky dragged the blanket closer.  "You still cold?"

Hutch made a negative sound.  "You're keepin' me warm."

Starsky chuckled.  He leaned back against the headboard, feeling the trapped heat of Hutch's body seep into his.  His friend had stopped shivering, a positive step in the right direction.  He attempted to lighten the mood.  "You know, it ain't every day I get to crawl inta bed with a leggy blond.  Too bad Felker's not here.  Wanna send him an 8 x 10 glossy?"

Hutch gave a soft snort.  Starsky saw his eyes droop shut, velvety gold-tipped lashes cresting his cheeks.  Within a few minutes his breathing evened into a smooth rhythm as exhaustion took its toll. 

Starsky breathed a momentary sigh of relief.  But it was short lived, jarringly banished when the wind ratcheted up another notch, battering windows, tenaciously trying to creep indoors.  The lights flickered again, sending a prickle of unease dancing up his spine.  In the strange night-time stillness he thought abruptly of monsters and Henner's gory remains.  Suddenly he regretted leaving Hutch's Magnum lying in the bathroom.  He'd removed his own gun earlier, plopping it in his luggage, not feeling the same possessive need as Hutch to be armed.  Then again, I didn't get blasted by a sniper's bullet. 

He tried not to fret.  Tried not to let his imagination run wild at every creak and groan coaxed from the silent house.  The night felt suddenly sinister, oddly suffocating.  He felt the hair bead his arms, jerking to goose-bump attention.  It was easy to envision all manner of ghastly creatures lurking outside in the darkness, quietly slinking toward the house, intent on a horrific flesh-and-blood feast. 

Unconsciously, he hugged Hutch closer.  Anything that wanted to gnaw on his partner was going to have to go through him first.   And he didn't intend to fold easily, ghouls and monsters be warned. 

Starsky snickered a little at his own thoughts, realizing how ridiculous they sounded.  Next he'd be imagining werewolves and creatures from the Black Lagoon. It was just a little wind banging around outside.  Okay, so maybe some sicko had carved up that poor kid in the woods, but he'd seen unspeakable violence before.  Shocking human depravity was nothing new, just a sad if gruesome fact of life.  Once Hutch rested a bit they could--

His rambling thoughts came to a sudden, wrenching halt when the power died unexpectedly.  Shit!  Oh shit, shit, shit! 

Starsky jerked, plunged into a pitch black tomb.  It's just a power failure, he thought frantically, trying to assure himself.  The wind knocked something out. No big deal.

Nervously he licked his lips.  His heart thrummed against his chest, battering his ribs with jackhammer force.  He sucked down an unsteady breath, alert for any out-of-place noise.  In the stillness, his breathing was harsh and magnified.  Hutch stirred a little in sleep, moaning softly as he moved against Starsky's chest.  He coughed weakly.

"Ssh. Ssh."  Starsky immediately tried to calm him.  "Rest easy, babe.  I'm right here."

Who was he trying to kid?  Hutch wasn't going to get better.  He was only going to get worse.  He needed a hospital more than he needed rest.  A remote lakehouse in the middle of the woods during a power failure was no place for his partner.  As loathe as he was to disturb Hutch, he knew they couldn't stay where they were. 

"Buddy."  Starsky tried to ease out from under him.  "Buddy, I'm sorry, but I've gotta get up.  We've gotta get outta here."  Gingerly, he laid Hutch back on the bed, propping up his shoulders with pillows.  Still drowsy, his friend made a plaintive sound and curled onto his side.  Hovering over him, Starsky laid a gentle hand on his cheek, allowing his touch to linger in a feather-light caress.  "I'm gonna get you to a hospital where you can get some real rest."

When Hutch didn't respond, didn't even open his eyes, Starsky moved across the room to the closet.  He felt in the darkness, guided by touch and a pale splash of moonlight through the windows.  He found Hutch's black jeans on the chair where he'd left them, but decided against the turtleneck.  The form-fitting shirt would be far too snug to pull over his friend's bruised ribs.  He fumbled in the closet until he found a beige button shirt and snagged it off the hanger.  A distant rumble of thunder rolled over the roof peaks, followed seconds later by a jagged flash of lighting. 

Just a storm.  Starsky tried to calm his racing heart.

"Come on, Hutch."  Somehow he managed to sit his friend up, maintaining a steady hand on his shoulder for support.  "I need you to help me out here."  The jeans were the hardest part, but he maneuvered a groggy Hutch through the process of dressing.  Once the jeans and shirt were in place, the latter hanging unbuttoned, tails untucked, Starsky let him flop back on the bed.  Kneeling, he tugged on Hutch's socks then laced up the hiking boots.  When he was through, Starsky groped around on the nightstand for the phone.  "I'm gonna call and find out where the nearest hospital is," he announced to Hutch, uncertain whether or not his sleepy friend even heard him.  He held the receiver against his ear but the line was dead.

A cold draft scampered up Starsky's spine.  Power and phone.  Was that just a little too coincidental?  No longer able to ignore the growing alarm nipping at his mind, Starsky headed to the bathroom, snagged the Magnum, then darted through the adjoining door to his own bedroom and the Beretta.  He was back before Hutch stirred.

His friend was lying horizontally across half the mattress, his long legs dangling over the side.  Starsky clambered onto the king-sized bed and knelt beside him.  "Hutch?" 

Nothing.  Not even the flicker of an eyelash.  The pain meds had definitely kicked into high gear. 

Starsky lingered a moment, listening to the flow of Hutch's breathing, making certain it remained unobstructed.  His eyes had adjusted to the darkness now.  In the onion-pale moonlight his friend looked oddly spectral, an insubstantial phantom of alabaster skin and gilded hair.  Worried, Starsky pressed the back of one hand against his friend's cheek.  A pink-tinged flush left Hutch's skin burning with the trapped heat of fever.  Starsky sobered.

"Hutch?" he tried again.  "Listen, babe, the phone's dead.  I'm gonna go out and try'n raise one of the local cops on the radio . . . find out where that hospital is.  You stay here, and I'll be back in a flash."  He hesitated, shooting an indecisive glance to the nightstand where he'd left the Magnum. "Your gun's by the bed, buddy.  Okay?"

Once again his friend gave no indication that he'd heard.  Starsky touched his cheek a final time, oddly reluctant to leave.  A sudden gust of wind made the house groan, its stout timbers protesting the continual battering.  Thunder chased lightning across the sky, but the rain stayed a distant ghost. 

Starsky made his way through the dark house, moving by limited sight and touch.  He knew there was a flashlight in the Torino's glovebox  . . . or maybe it was the trunk.  Working batteries were another matter, however.  It had been awhile since he'd bothered to check, let alone use the thing. 

Intermittent flashes of lightning illuminated his path as he sprinted off the porch and down the short walkway to the red car.  He couldn't move fast enough, limited sight or not. 

There be monsters here. 

The wind buffeted him, shockingly cold off the lake.  He hadn't bothered grabbing his jacket and now regretted it.  The outside temperature felt like it had dropped a good ten degrees since sunset.  Thunder rumbled again and he sent a worried glance to the sky.  Tattered clouds blew across the face of a bone-white moon, glimpsed in patches through the rattling black branches of an elm.  Stray leaves and loose bits of dirt swirled in the air, kicked alive by the frantic wind before tumbling silent to the ground.  The night felt bloated, alive . . . thrumming with an undercurrent of raw energy.  Starsky thought fleetingly of long-ago Halloween nights, dark winged creatures and nameless evils.  Of childhood horrors he had never really outgrown, only repressed. 

There be monsters here.

Imagination kicking into overdrive, he wrenched open the door of the Torino and reached for the mike.  That was when he saw the blown out tire on the rear of his car.  He knew without looking someone had taken a knife to it.  A tire just didn't go flat like that.  Lightning flared overhead, giving him a clearer view of the damage, and he was sure of it.

"Sonuva-"  Starsky dropped the mike and stepped toward the back of the car, bending to examine the tire.  The clouds scuttled free of the face of the moon, blanching the ground with an icy glow.  In the sudden stark brightness, the shadow of something grotesquely misshapen leaped alive behind him.  He only had time to register the hulking apparition before pain exploded across the back of his neck and he tumbled face forward into a world of waiting darkness. 

+++++

Hutch felt hands on his face, touching his cheek, smoothing the hair from his brow.  "Starsk?"  He tried to open his eyes but his lashes felt weighted, agonizingly heavy.  His mind was oddly muddled, distorted by the numbing effects of drugs and wine.  All he wanted to do was sleep, but the touch was persistent, slowly tracing the line of his cheek, trailing silkily to his shoulders.

"Ssh," he was told. 

Fingers smoothed over his upper chest and shoulders, caressing, massaging.  The touch felt all wrong, strangely intimate.  His partner might help him out now and then, easing deep kinks from corded muscles with a soothing massage, but Hutch knew his touch as readily as his own.  Like Starsky it was a little calloused, a little gentle, but never sensual.  "Starsky?" he tried again.  The mattress gave beside him and the length of a soft body pressed against his. 

"What happened to you?" A voice that did not belong to his partner slithered into his cluttered mind. 

His brain was on overload, unable to make sense of the lingering touch and unfamiliar voice. Fingers ghosted across his abused side and he hissed in a startled breath.  He tried to pull away, but the hands held fast to his shoulders, restraining him.  Then suddenly someone was bending over him, a knee wedged between his legs, warm lips tasting his own.

Jarred abruptly awake, Hutch thrust an arm against the body hovering above him and shoved to the side.  At the same time he rolled in the opposite direction, groping on the nightstand for the Magnum.  He came to rest against the headboard panting heavily, the weapon clutched in one sweat-slick palm.  Pain slammed into his brain, protesting the violent movement with an equally savage response.  He bit down on an instinctive groan and blinked against the darkness.  The room upended, floor and ceiling folding together before somersaulting back into waffling focus.  At first all he could see was the mirror across the room, his own medallion-bright hair reflected like a lighthouse beacon.  And then he became aware of a face inches from his own, realized the gun had sagged into his lap and that peppermint-laced breath tickled his cheek.

"You don't need a gun," Tina Sayer said.  She fingered his collar and licked her lips.  "I didn't know you were messed up, hurtin' like that.  I can make you feel better, you know."  Her hand trailed lower on his chest, avoiding the bruised area on his left side.  She touched his stomach.

His eyelids were drooping.  He hated that he couldn't stay awake, blinked with effort.  "Where's Starsky?"

She made a noncommittal sound, reached for the snap on his jeans.  It struck him suddenly what she was trying to do and his mind boggled with the absurdity of it.  "You're fucking nuts."

She eased closer on her knees and popped the snap.  Leaning forward, she dipped her head close to his ear, brushing his hair with her lips.  "You don't know what you're missing.  I can make you forget all about that pain."

"You can't make me forget Starsky."  The thought of his missing partner brought everything crashing down around him in startling clarity.  Thunder boomed outside and lightning forked across the sky in a splintered green-white tongue.  Starsky wouldn't have left him alone, and he sure wouldn't have let Tina slip into the bedroom set on initiating a night of sex.  Hutch grabbed the girl by the shoulders and roughly shoved backward, holding her at arm's length.  "I'm not gonna ask you again--where's my partner?"

Sulking, she fell back onto her haunches.  "Who knows?  He went outside after I cut the power and the phone.  I slashed his tires too, the rear ones anyway, so it's not like he was gonna get far."  She sent him a calculating look from under her lashes.  "I couldn't have him cartin' you off before I got a chance to crawl into your bed.  Rex was gonna babysit him."

Hutch was losing patience.  "Who?"  The word came out sharp, punctuated by a jerk of the gun.  His eyes were narrowed, an instinctive reaction from spiking pain, but at least it added to the impression he'd reached the end of his rope.  He gripped the headboard with one hand and climbed to his feet.

Tina deflated, realizing the game was up.  "Out in the woods . . . my uncle.  Look, he's basically harmless.  Just messed up in the head, you know?  Plus he's got some weird kind of disease that makes him pretty hideous to look at.  He only gets crazed when Cort lights into him, but I got to him before Cort did."

Hutch shook his head, unable to follow the conversation.  He felt like he was only getting bits and pieces, his brain on short-circuit.  Starsky was missing he reminded himself, that was all the mattered. 

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the gun clutched in his shaky grip.  Starsky alone in the woods on a wind-blasted night, thunder and lightning ripping apart the sky.  Somehow Tina was responsible.  Tina and her ring of cohorts. 

"Stay outta my way," he snarled and lurched from the room.  He was almost to the front door when a brutally animalistic scream shattered the storm-tossed night.

+++++

Hutch stumbled outside, blinded by a quicksilver flash of lightning.  Wind and rain struck him in the face even before he was off the porch.  Breathing raggedly, he lurched down the walkway staggering unsteadily in the direction of Starsky's car.  The driver's side door hung open, yawning drunkenly into the night. 

"Starsk?"  Hutch pitched his voice above the gusting wind, raising an arm to shield his eyes. His open shirt flapped behind him, blowing back from his chest, snapping on the moisture-bloated air.  The rain was cold and raw against his fever-riddled skin, bringing slow clarity to his drug-hazed thoughts.  His foot butted up against something on the ground, jarring a grunt from his lips.  In the weak flicker of lightning that followed, he saw it was Starsky's gun. 

Alarm rocketed through him.  "Starsky!"

The only way Starsky would have dropped the Beretta was if he'd been harmed, caught unaware or knocked unconscious.  Hastily retrieving the weapon, Hutch tucked it into his waistband. "Starsky!" he tried again, but his voice was swallowed by thunder.  Spurred by growing panic, he staggered toward the car.  He was almost to the door when he sensed someone behind him.  Someone who did not move with the same sure-footed ease as his partner.  A twig snapped in the darkness and Hutch whirled instinctively, the Magnum pivoting to align with his unknown assailant.

"Hey!"  A thin dark-haired man let out a startled squawk.  Thrusting both hands into the air, he took a quick step backward.  "Hey . . . I didn't mean nuthin'.  Point that somewhere else, wouldja?"

Hutch's eyes narrowed.  The guy looked familiar.  It took a moment for his sluggish mind to make the connection.  "You're Tina's brother.  From the cafe."  

"Yeah."  The dark head bobbed up and down on a too-thin neck.  "Cort Sayer.  Didn't know anyone else was out here.  My car broke down back there."  He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. 

"You're lying."

"Huh?"

"I said you're lying."  Hutch grabbed his arm and propelled him in the direction of the house.  He had no idea what Sayer was doing in the middle of the woods during a storm, but was willing to bet it had something to do with Starsky's glaring absence.  The thought of his nature-skittish partner alone in the dark with some borderline psychotic "monster" had him dangerously on edge.  His patience wore thin, already stretched taut by Tina's attempt to seduce him and the resurgence of ugly pain below his ribs.  Gritting his teeth, he shoved Cort in the center of the back, sending him sprawling face first onto the porch. 

"Hey, man take it easy!"  Cort whirled, landing on his butt and scrambling backward.

Before he could inch away, Hutch caught his collar and violently yanked him forward.  "Listen, you little shit¾I wanna know where Starsky is and I wanna know now!"

"Don't know what you're talking about.  I told you, my car--"

"Fuck your car!  Where's my partner?"

"Man, I already told you--"

Anything else he might have said was drowned by a sudden feral scream.  The wail broke over the treetops, rising above the tumult of rain and thunder, a sound more animal than human.  Hutch stilled, his heart thumping in his chest.  Oh, God, Starsky!  "What the hell was that?"

A sudden flurry of noise exploded behind him.  Barry Sayer raced around the corner of the house, head craned over his shoulder, eyes boggling with fright.  He ran recklessly, heedless of where he was going, nearly tripping on the rain-slick grass.  Hutch snagged him before he could bolt, catapulting him roughly onto the porch beside his brother.  The move sent hot pain streaking through his battered left side.  Shaken, he snagged the nearest post to hold himself upright and stifled a groan.  Wide-eyed and wary, Barry scuttled backward.

"Man, you don't look good," Cort said to Hutch.

"Shut up!"  Zeroing in on the weaker of the two, Hutch shoved the Magnum into Barry's face.  "Where's Starsky?"

"Oh, shit!"  The teenager's eyes dropped to the gun, barrel-tip hovering a scant inch from his nose.  What little color remained in his cheeks fled like running water.  His lips started to tremble.  "It wasn't my idea--"

"Shut up!" Cort hissed.

"I didn't do anything.  It was all Cort and Tina.  Shelia too."

"Shut up, you stupid shit," Cort spat.  "Can't you see that pig's ready to keel over?"

"Think so?"  Hutch's lips stretched in a sadistic smile.  There was a buzzing in his head and his ribs felt like they were on fire.  Even his vision was muddy.  Hell, yes, he was ready to keel over!  It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure that out.  He swayed, and for one horrific moment he thought he might actually pass out.  Gritting his teeth, he glared at Barry.  "Look kid, I'm running out of patience.  I'm cold, irritable and damn sick of screwing around.  You've got five seconds to start talking and tell me where my partner is."

"Keep your trap shut," Cort ordered his brother.  "He ain't gonna do nuthin'.  He's a cop.  He's just bluffin'."

But Barry was either too terrified or too naïve to realize the difference.  "Rex was just supposed to scare him," he whined to Hutch.  "We wanted you guys to leave.  No one really meant for your partner to get hurt."

"Shut up!" Cort screamed.

At the end of his rope, Hutch snapped.  Before he could think it through, he raised the gun and cracked it across Cort's face.  The older brother folded like a sack, a bloody gash splayed across his cheek.  Police brutality.  There was going to be a hell of lot more of it unless someone fessed up and told him where Starsky was. 

Terrified, Barry let out a whimper and tried to inch backward. 

Hutch snagged his leg and held tight.   "Now," he said, his tone deadly and chill.  "I want the truth."

Barry swallowed loudly.  "Rex's got your partner . . . my Uncle Rex . . . he's messed up in the head . . . doesn't know what he's doing most of the time¾"

"I know about him.  Where's Starsky?"

"Dunno."  Barry cringed when Hutch made a sudden threatening move forward.  "Oh, shit, please don't hit me!"  Raising his arms, he poked his eyes through the makeshift shield.  "Like I said, he was just supposed to scare you guys away.  Tina messed things up, cutting the power and the phone, slashing the tires on your car.  She had her own ideas.  Cort was pissed and probably pushed Rex too far.  He gets uncontrollable, you know?  He dragged your partner off somewhere in the woods."

Hutch felt the bottom drop out of his world.  "Where?"

"I don't know."

"Where!"  Hutch jammed the gun against his shoulder.

"I dunno!  I swear I dunno!  He just dragged him off somewhere in the woods.  I think he might have been unconscious.  It wasn't my fault.  I was just doing what Cort said.  I--"

"Shut up!" Hutch snarled.  He felt sick, light-headed.  Starsky at the mercy of some sadistic psychotic.  "Get up!"  Grabbing Barry by the collar he hauled him to his feet, nearly stumbling himself in the process.  Pain pinged inside his head, spurring him to abnormal roughness.  He shoved the boy through the front door, knowing he was fast reaching the limits of his own strength.  A fit of coughing overtook him, but he kept the gun wedged tightly in Barry's back.  Thankfully the timid teen was too terrified to do anything and remained motionless throughout the hacking spell.  Hutch shoved him into the laundry room and locked the door.

"Is that my brother?"

Caught off guard, Hutch whirled.  He kept his back and shoulders pressed to the wall, using it for support.  No need to advertise he was ready to topple at any moment.  Tina Sayer stood a few feet away, looking entirely too comfortable and confident for a girl not yet twenty. "Come over here," Hutch ordered hoarsely.

Her smile bloomed like white silk in the darkness.  "I thought you'd never ask."

The moment she was within reach, he snagged her wrist and wrenched her forward.  A tiny thrill raced through her body, physically transmitted to him.

"Oooh!  I didn't know you wanted to play rough. I like that too."

God, what a sicko!  He felt her free hand slide between his legs.  Pivoting quickly, he spun her around and jammed her hand behind her back.  She let out a startled yelp, clearly caught by surprise. Good!  Bracing a forearm over her stomach, he wedged her back against him, bottom to groin.  Dipping his head, he pressed his lips close to her ear. "I'll tell you how I like it," he said, his voice low and controlled, a little husky.  "I like it best when I can throw out the trash."

Yanking open the door, he thrust her inside.  She tripped over the threshold, stumbling clumsily. Before she could recover, he slammed the door and twisted the lock into place.  "Bastard!" he heard her scream.  She battered the door with her feet and fists, spewing obscenities that would have done a mobster proud.

"Now Tina, what kind of love talk is that?" he goaded. 

As expected the taunt brought a new, more colorful string of profanity.  Hutch tuned it out and headed outside where he'd left Cort sprawled on the porch.  Yeah, he'd been out of line resorting to violence, cracking the guy like that, but he'd do it again if he had to.  He swallowed hard, knowing full well, he'd cross any line to find Starsky.  Cort was going to have one hell of a nasty scar when the wound healed.

So sue me, he thought as he bent over the unconscious man.  He knew he didn't have the strength to move him, worse he really didn't want to take chances opening the door on Tina again. Yet every second he wasted was a second longer his partner faced danger alone.  Kneeling, Hutch freed Cort's belt, his fingers clumsy and numbed by rain.  Forcing his stiff hands to move, he used the leather band to secure Cort's wrists around a porch post.  It wasn't the best restraint, but it would have to do.

Finished, he made his way to the Torino, bowed under by another coughing fit.  Razor-tipped pain wedged into his side, hotter this time, a molten poker in his ribs.  Stumbling, coughing, he butted up against the car.  His knees buckled and he started a slow slide to the ground, the wretched coughing bringing tears to his eyes.

Fumbling inside, Hutch groped for the mic.  "Officer needs assistance." 

Earlier when helping to flush the woods for Henner's body, Starsky had set his radio to Monolith's frequency, allowing them to monitor police-band calls. Thankfully, those settings were still in place.  "Officer needs assistance," he said again, his voice raw and craggy.  His legs folded unexpectedly, dropping him the remaining distance to the wet grass.  He coughed weakly, strength spent then stubbornly clawed back to his knees.  Rain trickled across his face and dribbled into his eyes.  He heard a crackle of static, followed by a clear voice bursting from the speaker:

"Officer in need of assistance, please identify."

Instant relief surged through him.  When he spoke his voice was stronger, more assertive.  "This is Detective Kenneth Hutchinson, Bay City P.D.  Send units to Lakehouse Road, Number 8.  Three suspects in custody."  He lost concentration after that, not bothering to wait for a response.  The radio crackled again accompanied by a garbled voice, but Hutch was already lurching away into the darkness, his mind on Starsky.

Please, Starsk. Just hang on, buddy.  Wherever you are, I'm coming.

He tripped, stumbled, crashed painfully to his knees and was back on his feet again.  His own pain was inconsequential.  All that mattered now was Starsky. 

Oblivious to the agony in his side, Hutch blundered recklessly into the darkness. 

+++++ 

Starsky groaned and rolled onto his side.  It felt like his head kept going, spooling into a gummy puddle of mud.  Or was it blood?  He got his hands under him, palms awakening to the sting of small stones and twigs in his flesh.  With a groan of effort he pushed unsteadily to his knees.  Something wet and sticky ribboned down the side of his face.  Okay, definitely blood. 

He blinked, wobbling slightly when the wind pummeled him.  His head clogged with the pungent smell of wet leaves and mud.  Belatedly he realized it was raining, each artic-driven pelt slicing through his thin clothing, wrenching delayed tremors from his body.  His teeth chattered. 

Something moved behind him.

He saw the shadow again in a flash of lightning, a grotesquely contorted shape lumbering closer.  Larger than a man, it moved like a wounded animal, walking upright, but dragging one misshapen leg behind it.  Panicked, Starsky whirled, instantly regretting the violent movement.  A hot wave of nausea rushed up from his stomach, poking coarse fingers into the back of his throat.  He gagged, choking on reflex, sucking down the acid tang of bile.  Half standing, half falling he stumbled forward, his head spinning under a fierce rush of vertigo.  He blinked in the lightning-branded darkness.  Something hideous loomed over him.  Something alarmingly tall, easily topping seven feet.

He caught a glimpse of a twisted face, not animal but not wholly human, the features so bloated and shockingly distorted they bore little resemblance to flesh.  One eye bulged to the side, milky white and fish-dead, the other fired with something bordering on insanity.  Oversized yellow teeth jutted from a mouth that was only partially intact.  The chin and bottom jaw were missing, punched back into a kind of lumpy puckered pouch.  What teeth remained had been filed into points, feral and fang-like in appearance.  Long shaggy hair hung over a nightmarishly contorted torso, and thick three-inch fingernails sprouted from each hand.  The man-creature clutched what might have once been a sword, but the blade was broken, ending in a craggy shard a few inches from the hilt.  The medieval weapon looked no larger than a long knife in the gigantic hand that brandished it. 

Strasky stumbled backward in his haste to escape, tripping over an exposed root, crashing painfully to his butt.  The car and lakehouse were nowhere in sight and he suddenly realized he'd been carried deeper into the woods.  Carried by some pseudo man-monster that even now threw its head back and screamed at the sky.  Needing no further cajoling, Starsky clambered to his feet and ran blindly into the woods.   

He could hear crashing behind him as the thing pursued him, feel the imagined hiss of hot breath on the back of his neck.  Rain pelted his face and dripped into his eyes.  He felt the cold sluice of water under his collar, icy streams of liquid trickling down his back.  His head thrummed on the verge of exploding, the blow that knocked him unconscious morphing into sickly white bursts of pain.  Hutch!  Hutch where are you?

He had to get back to the house.  His gun was probably lying somewhere near the Torino.  With the weapon he could protect his friend, make sure no one ever tried to take Hutch from him again.  Not Moo-Moo, not Earl, and for damn sure not some lumbering lake creature. 

He stumbled, bumped up against a tree.  Took a moment to suck down a lungful of rain-drenched air.  The shock was startling, knifing into his head with cold-bladed agony.  The world telescoped down into a dizzying sphere, and he felt himself sliding, knees folding beneath him.  Desperate, he clutched at the tree to stay upright.   The blow to his head finally caught up with him, forcing the inevitable.  He bent double and threw up.

My turn, he thought grimly.

More crashing behind him, the rain cold as ice on his chilled skin.  Starsky shoved away from the tree, pitched forward and banged his knees on a rock.  His palms scraped over loose stones as he struggled back to his feet.  The thing was still behind him, the sound of its pursuit tangled with the booming roar of thunder.  A sudden thought leapt into his mind-was there more than one monster?  Could something be at the house even now, zeroing in on Hutch?

"Damn you, no."  He spat the words to the storm, unsure who he was talking to, knowing only that nothing--nothing--was going to take his partner away from him.  He hadn't blown away two lowlifes just to have Hutch gobbled up by some small-town Bigfoot.   He'd do it again-rifle, gun, it didn't matter.  Dead was dead.

"That's right," he said, running now, his voice hoarse and raw.  "I killed 'em.  Killed, killed, killed!."  The rain stung, burned with the kiss of coldfire against his skin.  Trees and blackness blurred together, ruptured momentarily by an eerie blue-white streak of lightning.  Didn't know I could do that, didja, Hutch?  Pull a trigger and boom--nuthin' left.  Just fire, burnin' rubber and charred flesh.  I did those guys good. 

He choked on a breath.  Oh God, Hutch, what did I do?  Babe, babe, I love you.  I'd do it again if I had to, you know I would, but it hurts like sin.  Like part of me ain't never gonna be the same. 

He stumbled, choked back a sob, realizing the rain had turned to tears on his face. He'd lost all sense of time, of place.  He shivered uncontrollably, rain, adrenalin and fear ripping through his body in a brutal triple punch.  He had no idea how far he'd run, knew only that his chest felt close to bursting, his lungs spiking with fire.  The "thing" was somewhere behind him and Hutch was up ahead.  No matter how badly he hurt, no matter how exhausted he felt, he knew he had to move.  Not for him, but for Hutch.

He took one step and tumbled. 

Strong arms caught him, warm with life, breaking his fall.  Someone groaned near his ear then folded with him, easing his body to the ground.  "Starsky." 

Questing fingers touched his face, found the dark trail of blood leaking from his temple.  Not from the blow he knew, but likely the result of his fall.   

"God, Starsk, what happened to you?"

"Hutch."  The name stuck on his tongue.  He tried to pull himself together but the tremors only intensified as release and exhaustion grabbed hold.  In the wind-tossed darkness, Starsky zeroed in on his partner's face.  Hutch's skin was frighteningly pale, his features drawn in tight lines of pain.  Wind lashed his bright, rain-soaked hair in all directions and his blue eyes had deepened to near black.  "How--?"  The word came out croaked and distressingly low.  He tried again, stringing one sluggish thought into the next.  "Gun?"

"I got it, buddy." 

Hutch was obviously in pain, yet he refused to release Starsky.  He lifted a hand, thumbing tears from Starsky's face.  "You had me worried, partner."

"Hey . . ."  Starsky forced a crooked grin, a bit embarrassed by the tears but knowing there was nothing between them that couldn't be shared.  When they were out of this mess he'd sit down and have a heart-to-heart with Hutch about the gnawing darkness that had caused those tears . . . about what he'd done, blowing up Moo-Moo's car and killing the two thugs he'd thought responsible for Hutch's death.   Together they'd get through it.  That alone gave him the strength to grin.  "You're talkin' in complete sentences again." 

Hutch smiled, but his amusement faltered beneath a ragged cough. 

The sound put everything back into perspective for Starsky.  "We gotta get outta here," he insisted, reluctantly withdrawing from the warmth of his partner's embrace.  Dizziness washed over him, but he tamped it down.  "There's some . . . thing . . . out there-"  He jabbed a thumb behind him.  "I don't know what it is, but it clobbered me and dragged me out here."

"It's Tina's uncle."

"What?"

Hutch grimaced, shivering himself as wind, rain and cold soaked through his thin shirt.  He ducked his head, clinging to Starsky as a prickling surge of pain shot through him. 

Starsky felt him tense and immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders.  "Easy, partner.  I'm right here."

Hutch kept his head bowed, wet hair pressed to Starsky's shoulder.  "Tina cut the power and the phones," he said quietly.  Starsky had to strain to hear him above the drumming pelt of rain.  "She, uh . . . she came into the house  . . . the um, bedroom  . . . after you left."

If Starsky had carried any doubts about what Tina had in mind, they were banished by Hutch's uncharacteristic fumbling.  Starsky tried to put his friend at ease.  "What--she dunno I had dibs on you first?"

Hutch gave a strangled laugh against his shirt.  Starsky felt him tense again as if the action had caused pain.  His own head was throbbing, shooting fiery needles down his neck, but he knew Hutch had to be hurting far worse. 

"She told me that thing in the woods--it's her uncle," Hutch explained.  "The one that supposedly died in Europe when he was a teenager.  Rex Monolith. She slit your tires because she didn't want us going anywhere.  Not until . . . you know . . ."  Hutch grew momentarily awkward, the smalltown Minnesota boy temporarily misplacing the seasoned street cop.  He cleared his throat and continued.  "Her brother Cort had other ideas.  I caught him outside when I went looking for you.  Stupid kid."  Hutch burrowed a little closer to Starsky.  "He wasn't gonna fold, but his brother was with him and he pretty much spilled his guts when I jammed my gun in his face."

"What're you sayin'?"

Hutch raised his head.  "I just wanna get outta here, Starsk.  Local cops are already on the way.  We'll sort it out tomorrow, huh?"  He shuddered, bowed under by a sudden racking cough.  Starsky held him through the bout, whispering reassurances until the violent spasm passed.  When it was over Hutch sagged weakly against him. 

There was a sudden clatter in the woods and the thing that had so recently composed Starsky's nightmares crashed from the trees.  Like a predator seeking a singular prey, it zeroed in on Starsky.  He felt himself ripped from Hutch's arms, pinned abruptly in a bone-crushing hold.  Caught off guard, he let out a startled yelp, his arms trapped uselessly at his side.  Something long and sharp blundered into his hip, sending a spray of blood into the air.  He groaned aloud, felt the heated splash of sticky wetness on his jeans, a staggering contrast to the icy lash of rain.  One brutal hand clutched his face, forcing his head to the side, baring his neck to fanged yellow teeth.  He felt the hot lick of breath on his throat and instinctively knew he was going to die like Henner, savaged and mauled.  He thrashed wildly, but the colossal thing holding him only tightened its grip.  Pinpricks of light exploded in his head and blackness danced before his eyes.  Merciful God, let me pass out first.

And then he heard the roar of the Magnum-once, twice.  His captor jerked, body bucking beneath the brute force of a lethal weapon.  The restraints fell away and Starsky slid bonelessly to the ground.  He blacked out completely, roused a moment later when Hutch knelt over him. 

"Buddy?"  There was a light tap on his cheek, coaxing him back to a night-drenched world of wind, rain and the reassuring sight of his partner's face. Hutch gave a ragged sigh and hung his head.  "Don't scare me like that, Starsk."

Starsky groaned and tried to sit up, Hutch immediately lending a hand.  The hole in his hip throbbed painfully.  He could smell blood, feel his jeans sticking to his torn skin, the faded denim wet and sticky.  Not gonna be pleasant.

Hutch pressed a palm to the wound trying to staunch the bleeding.  "You okay, pal?" 

Dazed, Starsky nodded.  His eyes slewed to the side latching onto the sprawled body of Tina's uncle.  Two bloody holes sprouted dead center in his forehead.  Hutch was nothing if not deadly when he aimed his cannon of a handgun.

Exhausted, Starsky wilted against him.  "Thanks, buddy."  He drew an uneven breath.  He wanted to curl up, burrow against Hutch and soak in their shared warmth, but logic said they needed to get back to the lakehouse.  At least the rain was letting up, tapering to a faint drizzle.  Starsky tried to move his leg, wincing when the tentative motion sent pain spiking through his damaged hip.  Instinctively he curled his fingers into Hutch's arm.  "Shit, that hurt!  You as cold and sore as I am?"

"Got you beat.  Wanna share my pain meds?"

Starsky laughed.  He felt unbalanced, sapped physically and emotionally.  His head throbbed abominably, and the pain in his hip sent the world spinning close to whiteout.  But through it all, Hutch remained his unshakable anchor.  Turning suddenly, he hugged his partner close. 

Hutch flinched, surprised by the unexpected display of affection, then sagged wearily into the embrace.  Starsky clung to him, careful not to put undo pressure on his friend's damaged side.  It suddenly occurred to him that Hutch had dragged himself through the woods, fighting certain pain every step of the way, likely enflaming whatever ailment had dug under his skin.  There was nothing like a little adrenalin and a lot of worry to make someone forget his own misery.  It was probably the only thing keeping Hutch vertical at the moment.

Time to fix that.

Starsky shifted, pulling Hutch against him and angling his body so his friend's weight sagged into his chest.  He was not wholly surprised when Hutch folded with minimal protest. 

"Your hip." His friend attempted to keep pressure on the laceration.  Starsky's jeans were rapidly growing soaked with blood.

"I can take care of myself, Blintz." Starsky repositioned them both, supporting Hutch with one arm, applying pressure to his own wound with the other.  Just a few minutes . . . that's all they needed to pull themselves together.  He didn't want to think about the grueling hike back to the lakehouse.  Not now.  Not when he could barely see straight and every bone in his body felt like it had suffered some form of trauma.  All he wanted to do was sleep¾preferably for a week.  He ducked his head close to Hutch.  His friend was already slipping into a light doze. "Ready for that hospital now?  Maybe even some x-rays this time?"

Hutch grunted.  He nodded wearily.  "Yeah, Starsk, but only if you get checked out too."  His voice was slurred, heavy with fatigue.  "Then let's go home.  I appreciate the weekend, buddy, but I just wanna go home."

Starsky ruffled his hair.  "Don't sweat it.  Me too."

+++++ 

Six days later Starsky parked in front of Venice Place and killed the engine on his Torino.  The afternoon was bright and sunny and he envisioned it soaking through the front shutters of Hutch's apartment like liquid brass.  It would be cozy inside, warmed by an overabundance of plants, the inviting glow of woodtones and a harmonic fusing of Aztec and beach decor.  Maybe Hutch hadn't been able to relax at Walt Rinsmere's lakehouse, but he was getting the chance to unwind now. 

Not that the Blond Blintz was happy about it, Starsky thought with an affectionate grin.  His partner was already chafing to be back at work, growing increasingly restless and bored.  Another four to five days of recuperation and he'd be released for desk duty.  Starsky too. 

Rex Monolith had done a number on him, ripping open his hip with the broken remnants of an antique sword.  He was only just now starting to get around without the use of a cane.  In four or five more days, he'd be ready to ride a desk too.  If nothing else it would give them both a chance to catch up on a bottomless pile of paperwork.  He hated reports, but he'd take the good with the bad if it meant having Hutch relatively whole again.

The doctors at Lake Monolith Hospital had found splinters of bone lodged in his partner's left lung.  Apparently the impact of Moo-Moo's bullet was more severe than anyone originally thought.  Left undetected several fragments had worked deeper into torn lung tissue, resulting in multiple complications.  Infection was caught and stopped before it could rage out of control and the fragments were surgically removed.  Hutch had needed the aide of a breathing apparatus the first night after surgery, but had been on the mend ever since.

Starsky walked up the interior stairs, his step lacking its usual spring and rapped his knuckles on the door.  After a few minutes when Hutch didn't appear, he used his own key to let himself inside.  "Hutch?"

The melodic sound of guitar strings drifted from the greenhouse terrace.  Starsky smiled at the sound of his friend's breezy voice working through the catchy refrain of a song.  Closing the door, he leaned against the frame, taking a moment to simply appreciate Hutch's gift for music.  He sometimes wondered how someone as obviously sensitive and artistic as Hutch had ended up a street cop in one of the sleazier parts of Bay City.  Duluth, college and an aborted attempt at med school must have seemed an eternity ago.

Walking a little stiffly, Starsky strolled onto the terrace. His stitches had been removed but his hip was still sore.  "Hey, partner.  You didn't answer the door so I let myself in."

"Sorry.  Didn't hear you."  Hutch smiled, his teeth a near perfect flash of white.  Unlike the previous week, he looked relaxed and healthy, the tanned tone of his skin offsetting the sunwashed brightness of his hair.  Seated at the small ornamental table he sometimes used for sunset dinners when trying to impress a date, he stretched his legs and set the guitar aside.  Dressed in faded jeans and a blue knit turtleneck, he looked almost serene.  He took a sip from a tall beer glass stationed at his elbow.  "What are you doing here, buddy?"

"What d'ya think?"  Starsky wandered toward the kitchen to snag his own beer from the refrigerator.  "Checking up on you," he called over his shoulder.  "I swung by Metro to say hello to the gang and everyone wanted to know how you were." 

Beer in hand, Starsky sauntered back to the terrace, plopping down across from Hutch.  He popped the tab on the aluminum can and tossed it on the table.  "After all--it's only been, what--twenty-four hours since you were there and got that update on the Sayer situation."

He took a swig of beer, mulling over the situation himself.  Barry Sayer had been the talkative one, spilling his guts as soon as it became apparent he was buried nose deep in an ugly web of drugs and murder.  Cort, Shelia and Tina had orchestrated their own private fiefdom in the woods of Lake Monolith, turning it into party central.  Cort dealt to buyers on the side, stashing his loot near Rinsmere's house, making a small fortune in drug money.  The monster legend was created to keep tourists away.  When visitors got a little too nosey, Cort released Rex like a trained beast and let him do what he wanted to do naturally.  Bodies were moved as necessary to feed the illusion of more than one creature.

The family's dirty secret, Rex Monolith was kept locked away, the once proverbial golden boy struck with a rare bone disease in his youth.  The untreatable malady resulted in horrific deformity, massive growth and madness. 

For his part, Walt Rinsmere had long suspected something illegal in the vicinity of his uppercrust home, but had been afraid to approach the local cops.  One didn't point fingers at the town's ruling aristocracy without concrete proof.  When the opportunity arose to rent his house to Starsky, he'd jumped at the chance, hoping the two detectives would stumble across a conspiracy in the process.  In the end, the only real monsters in Monolith's woods had been Cort and his cohorts.  Starsky had even learned Henner's death was directly tied to their hedonistic lifestyle.  An autopsy revealed the boy had actually drowned in the lake, moved and savaged later to feed the monster myth.  

Stupid kids. 

He hadn't given his friend the relaxing weekend he'd wanted to, but Hutch appeared to have bounced back from the melancholy of losing Abby and Gillian.  Even better, he'd recovered from the physical complications of Moo-Moo's bullet.  And he'd become a little less possessive of the Magnum, not needing to have it within reach every second of the day. Starsky was pleased to note it was missing.  He guessed it hung in Hutch's bedroom closet, exactly where it belonged when his friend was at home and at ease.

"You're drifting, Starsk," Hutch said lightly.

"Huh?"  Starsky gave a guilty start, only then realizing how far his thoughts had wandered.  He smiled sheepishly and took another swig of the beer.  "Just thinkin', buddy.  I've had a lot of time to reflect lately with all these hours off."

"How are you feeling?"  Hutch asked.

"Fine."  Unconsciously Starsky rubbed a hand over his damaged hip.  "Tired of sittin' around and ready to get back to work, even if it is a pile of paper."  He sobered abruptly, shooting his partner a hesitant look from under his lashes.  "Guess maybe I could do with some assurance the next time you're hurtin' that badly you'll fess up and be honest with me."

Hutch looked away. "You went to a lot of trouble to pull off that weekend.  I didn't want to disappoint you."

"You're a lunkhead, you know that?"  Starsky reached across the table and swatted the side of his head.  "Next time you decide to be a jerk, I'm gonna dump you along the side'a the road and let someone else worry about your blond butt for a change.  And I'll tell you somethin' else."  Grinning now, he leveled a finger across the table.  "You ever come across a sex-crazed teen who wants to crawl into bed with you again, I'm gonna take a hike and let her do her thing."

"You did take a hike," Hutch pointed out.

"Oh.  Yeah."  Starsky spun the beer can around.  He waited a moment.  "You wanna tell me what happened with her?"

"Not especially."

"Coward."

"Thought I was a lunkhead?"

"That too."

"Worried about me, babe?"  Hutch asked mildly.

Starsky shrugged, batted the can back and forth between his hands.  "What d'ya think?"

Hutch waited a long moment.  "I worry about you too," he said softly.  He paused, letting the gentle tone of his voice wash over the terrace. 

Starsky felt it seep into his bones.  It was amazing how quietly his partner could talk when he wanted to, his voice as soothing as the melody he'd sung early.  Starsky shifted, instinctively knowing where the conversation was headed, aware the moment of light sparring had passed.  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to face the situation head on.  After six years together, their relationship closer than any he'd ever had, it was easy to read Hutch's thoughts.  "Okay," he said carefully.  "Let's talk about it.  I killed those two guys.  I ain't proud of it, but I'd do it again."

Hutch reached across the table, touched his sleeve.  "And you're hurting over it.  I know you are, Starsk.  You're not an evil person and you're not vindictive.  You just had a moment of-"

"--what?"  Starsky jumped on the unspoken word.  "Chaos?  Hate?  Insanity?  Does that make me a monster?  Rex Monolith didn't even know what he was doin' when he killed those people in the woods.  I knew damn well what I was doin' when I blasted Moo-Moo and Earl to the next dimension."  He looked steadily across the table, his gaze direct.  "I can live with that Hutch.  I made that choice and I'd do it again.  What I gotta know is if you can live with it too."

Hutch shook his head, bewildered.  "What are you saying?  Look, Starsk--when you were out there alone in the woods and I had Cort and Barry Sayer at my mercy, you think I wouldn't have done anything to find out where you were?  You think I stopped to think about ethics before I lit into those two?  I didn't know if you were alive or dead.  All I wanted to do was strike back, hurt something, make somebody pay.  I blew Rex Monolith away."

"If you hadn't, I wouldn't be here,"  Starsky muttered.  It wasn't the same.  He sucked down an uneven breath, wishing he'd downed one or two more beers before blundering into the conversation.  After all the emotional turmoil he'd put himself through, only one obstacle remained in the end.  He'd had a lot of time to think things over while Hutch lay unconscious after surgery.  A lot of time to put things into perspective. In the end he knew he could forgive himself, or at the very least come to terms with what he'd done, but he'd never survive if Hutch looked at him differently.  If his partner suddenly relegated him to the same corrupt pool he reserved for sleazebags and scum. 

Feeling like he stood on a precipice, Starsky ran his tongue over his lips.  "I can deal with a little tarnish," he managed.  "What I can't deal with is you alterin' your opinion of me."  He closed his eyes.  "Even if I deserve it."

Afraid to move, afraid to look, Starsky sat with his eyes closed, the breath trapped tight in his lungs.  When there was no immediate response from his partner, his heart sank like a stone.  Something twisted inside of him, knotting into despair so bleak and painful it felt like the bottom dropped out of his world.  God, Hutch, I couldn't bear it if you--

"Starsky."  Hutch dragged a chair beside him, startling him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.  A strong arm wrapped around his shoulders and yanked him close.  "You're an idiot," Hutch said near his ear.  "Which by the way, is pretty much how I felt about you when they partnered us at the academy.  Newsflash, babe--nothing's changed.  Get used to it."

Starsky snorted and pulled away.  He should have known.  They'd been through too much together, meant too much to one another.  In spite of monsters real or imagined, the one thing that would never change was their affection and devotion for each other.  He grinned a bit stupidly and nodded in the direction of the guitar. "Does that mean you're gonna serenade me now?"

Hutch chuckled.  "Dunno."  Eyeing Starsky, he reached for the instrument.  "You're hairier than most of my dates, but I guess I could do worse.  At least I know you'll stay on your side of the bed."

Feeling abruptly light-hearted, Starsky waggled his eyebrows and grinned.  "Don't be so sure.  It's been awhile since I've had any action.  You're startin' to look good to me, Blondie."

Hutch bent his head to tune the strings.  "In that case, I think I'll go look up Tina Sayer.   The last I heard she needs a new hobby.  We already did the monster thing.  How about Beauty and the Beast?"

Starsky rocked back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head.  His lips curled in a wide, frolicking grin.  "You know you're looking at Beauty, right?"

"Think I'd waste my time serenading a beast?" Hutch asked and began to sing.

+++++

-End Monsters-







  

MONSTERS
  by Kate(CMT)