This follows my story “Aftershock” and takes place early season III. Thanks as always to Theresa for her valuable (and often entertaining!) feedback, and to Kass who gives my stories a beautiful home. Comments, feedback and S&H thoughts in general are all welcome at: veniceplace12@verizon.net

Payback

A semi-sequel to Aftershock

By Kate (CMT)

Being buried in paperwork was not the high point of Ken Hutchinson’s day, particularly after enduring a dreary week of mind-numbing desk duty. Sighing, he shuffled through a stack of manila folders, halfheartedly looking for the Greer file. His partner had wandered away some time ago in search of the nearest vending machine, or maybe it was the cafeteria - - Hutch couldn’t recall which. He’d grown accustomed to tuning out Starsky’s whining, a necessity when mingling one overly energetic partner, four walls, and piles of stagnating paper. Starsky’s attention span was notoriously short when it came to updating folders, filling out reports and cataloging facts . . . all necessary evils that had encompassed their working lives for the last six days.

Hutch had been restricted to desk duty by the departmental doctor after one look at the extensive bruising to his throat. It was almost healed now, the laddering splotches of color fading into an assortment of garish purple and yellow stripes. He’d been careful to stick to turtlenecks or shirts with zipper collars since returning from Playboy Island, effectively concealing the hideous marks from view. Not even Captain Dobey knew the full extent of what had occurred in the tropical paradise. Hutch’s official report said only that Papa Theodore, a local voodoo priest, had kidnapped and restrained him, tying him to an altar-like table then attempting to strangle him. There was no mention of Starsky’s involvement or the fact that while under Papa Theodore’s spell, Starsky had tried to kill him too.

It had been no easy matter working through Starsky’s guilt. For a time, Hutch had thought he’d lost his friend permanently. Now with their relationship back on firm ground, he took every precaution necessary - - including turtlenecks and fudged police reports - - to make sure Starsky didn’t have to be reminded of the assault ever again. Although Hutch doubted little of what had happened was ever truly far from Starsky’s mind.

His partner could have elected to work with another detective for the past week, staying active on the streets. Instead he’d chosen to muck through their backlog of case files, putting up with the same daily drudge as Hutch because even now he felt responsible for his blond friend’s predicament.

“Hutchinson!” Captain Dobey’s broad frame filled the doorway as he stuck his head into the squadroom. “You square things with the D.A. on Greer?”

“Working on it,” Hutch said quickly, locating the elusive file at last. His voice was almost back to normal. As long as he didn’t have to shout or speak above a conversational tone he was fine, but once he tried to raise his voice, it completely cut out on him. Until he got full control and volume back, he’d be stuck chained to a desk - - probably another three to four days at least.

Leaning back in his chair, Hutch thumbed open the folder. He knew the information by heart without looking: Benedict Greer, white male, 24, 6’2”, 208 lbs., arrested on three counts of drug trafficking. What the file didn’t say was that Greer was a promising quarterback with a high profile collegiate team and the potential to turn pro. His father owned one of the largest manufacturing firms in the city and his mother frequently appeared in the society pages touting her pet charity - - an anti-drug campaign aimed at the city’s youth.

Dobey speared a pencil in Hutch’s direction. “You make sure your partner gets his fanny down to the D.A.’s office and works that case ‘till it’s airtight. Trial’s two weeks from now. Nobody wants any slip ups, and I sure don’t want this department ending up with egg on its face ‘cause some slick lawyer found a loophole in your partner’s testimony.”

“It’s already airtight, Captain, but I’ll tell him.” Hutch scratched a note on a piece of paper. He hadn’t been in on the bust himself when it had gone down three months ago. Starsky had soloed while he’d been on quick trip to Minnesota for a cousin’s wedding.

Starsky’s phone rang and Hutch snatched it up. “Detective Hutchinson,” he said into the receiver.

There was a slight pause before a familiar female voice came across the line. “Ken? It’s Nat. Is Dave around?”

Natalie Trent. Hutch conjured a quick mental image of a petite, twenty-eight year old with auburn hair and flashing brown eyes. Starsky’s latest entry in his girl-of-the-month club, she’d lasted longer than most, stretching their on-and-off-again relationship to an amazing three-and-a-half weeks.

“Sorry, Nat, he’s off feeding his face somewhere.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “Not chocolate, I hope. He’s high strung enough.”

Hutch smiled. He liked her but knew Starsky’s heart hadn’t connected to any woman since Terry. The moment things started feeling a little too serious, Starsky panicked and bolted, a normal occurrence around the four-week mark, hence Hutch’s “girl-of-the-month-club” philosophy. “Don’t worry, I’ll peel him off the walls.”

“Just make sure he’s still got enough energy left over for tonight. Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?” Even as he asked the question, Hutch knew what was coming - - yet another night of Starsky and Natalie babysitting him. Ever since they’d returned from Playboy Island, Starsky had been oddly reluctant to leave him alone. If his dark-haired friend wasn’t camped out with cards and pizza himself, then he and Natalie were dragging Hutch along like a third wheel on some nightly adventure. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Hutch had a girlfriend, but he was currently between relationships.

“Dancing!” Natalie said brightly.

Hutch sighed into the phone, pausing to scuff a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, Nat.” A commotion from the hall drew his attention and he looked toward the door in time to see a female officer escort a group of middle school students into the room.

Field trip. He’d forgotten today was the department’s “Awareness Day,” reserved for seventh and eight grade students to tour the police station and get a crash course in everything from police procedure to personal safety and the dangers of drugs.

The officer - - Edith Smithfield - - the department’s official spokesperson and information specialist was in the middle of explaining the requirements to gain the rank of detective as she lead the children further into the room.

Hutch smiled as a group of girls pointed in his direction, blushing and giggling behind their hands. The tallest already looked three years older than she probably was, decked out in blue eye shadow and pale lip gloss. Sidling closer to his desk, she and her friends moved around a sullen boy with straight black hair and an overly angular face. Perturbed, he cast them an annoyed glance, but the girls only had eyes for Hutch. Edith’s dry commentary droned on in the background like the barely heard hiss of white noise.

Feeling like the prize in a fishbowl, Hutch flashed another smile at his admirers then turned his shoulder, tucking the phone closer to his ear. “Nat, I’m not sure about dancing - -”

“Then we’ll do something else. Dave thought it would be fun for the three of us to spend the night out.”

“We’ve spent the night out for the last two nights in a row - -”

“ . . . Detective Sergeant Hutchinson,” he heard Dobey say suddenly and glanced up to find Dobey now speaking to the group of children gathered in the vicinity of Starsky’s desk. “ . . . is one of our veteran detectives despite the fact he and his partner are relatively young for their rank.” He smiled gamely in Hutch’s direction, a smug twinkle in his eye. “Right now, I’m sure the Sergeant is involved in a vital phone call regarding critical issues to one of his many important cases . . .”

“Then how ‘bout Big Belly Behemoth Burgers?” Natalie said into his ear.

“Uh . . .”

“It’s that new place on Sixth, and Dave’s dying to give it a whirl - - ”

Realizing he sounded anything but intelligent, Hutch scratched some make-believe notes on a sheet of tablet paper, trying to look engrossed in the phone call. The girls to his left were still whispering and giggling behind their hands, enough so that he could feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. There were three uniformed officers and another detective in the room, all four apparently conferring over a folder while secretly enjoying the show. From the corner of his eye Hutch could see the detective, Phil Baker, grinning like a guppy. Even Dobey looked amused, smiling good-naturedly at the adolescent twittering. The boys in the room look bored, but the small group of girls had closed ranks behind Hutch.

“I think I’m going to have to get back to you, Nat,” he said into the phone.

To his left the girl with the eye shadow and lip gloss raised her hand. “Captain Dobey, can I ask a question?”

“Of course.” Dobey grinned congenially. Baker and the three officers stopped what they were doing, watching with animated smiles. Hutch heard a preteen giggle and closed his eyes briefly, knowing he’d live to regret the girl’s question.

“My name’s Patty,” the girl said clearly, her voice carrying through the room as if she was used to being the spokesperson for her small clique of friends. “What I’d like to know. What we’d all like to know . . .” She included the girls around her and there was another series of twittering giggles. “Is what we need to do to get arrested by him.” Hutch felt a finger stab in his direction. Behind him he heard Baker guffaw.

He dragged a hand over his face. “Uh, Nat. Something’s come up here. You and Starsky decide what you want to do and I’ll go along for the ride.” He chanced a glance at Edith Smithfield. An older woman with a precise disposition, she wore a pinched expression as her eyes flicked over him in clear distaste. Obviously she didn’t find the same humor in the situation that Baker and Dobey did.

“That’s enough, children. I think it’s time to leave now and let Detective Hutchinson and the rest of the men get back to work. There’s plenty for them to do.”

“Can’t we take pictures?” the girl to Patty’s right spoke up. “I never saw a cop that looked like him before.”

Hutch turned to glance over his shoulder and before he could blink, a flashbulb went off in his face followed quickly by another.

“That’s enough,” Edith said sharply. She shooed the class toward the door. “Next stop is processing and there will be absolutely no pictures in that area. You’ll leave your cameras outside.”

“Talk to Dave, Ken. I’ll call back later to see what the two of you decide. See ya tonight!” The line clicked in his ear echoing the bright refrain of Natalie’s perky voice.

Hutch looked behind him. Baker had his head down on his desk, vigorously laughing into his arms. The three uniforms were trying not to appear obvious about it since he outranked them, but all three had their backs turned, their shoulders shaking silently.

“Too bad you don’t have that effect on perps, Hutchinson,” Dobey cracked before disappearing into his office. The girls and the rest of the class no sooner filed from the room than Starsky bounded in from the hall, munching contentedly on the last piece of a Three Musketeers bar.

“Hey . . .” Slightly bewildered, he looked around the room at the laughing patrolmen and Baker. “What’d I miss?”

“Not much.” Trying to contain himself, Baker raised his head, gleefully wiping tears from his eyes. “But next time you and Hutch hit the street, you might wanna make sure he’s got a stack of 8” x 10” glossies. Probably get him a heck of a lot further than using that Magnum.”

“Yeah, but only if you’re a twelve year old girl,” one of the patrolmen ventured.

Hutch frowned. “Stuff it, Baker. You too, Carlini.” The phone rang again and he snatched it up with a growl. “Hutchinson!”

“Ken . . .” A hesitant voice was followed by a fluttery laugh. “Ken, is that you? It’s Julie. Julie Wallace.”

His brow drew down in a frown, the girls and their silly crush quickly forgotten. “Julie?” His voice carried a clear note of incredulity. “What . . . I mean where . . . where are you?”

“Bay City, silly. I’m here for a convention. I’m in paper products now - - sales, you know - - and there’s that big thing going on at The Plaza. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard about it? All the hotels are booked.”

“I . . .” He hesitated, uncertain what to say. Across from him Starsky sauntered toward his desk, tossing the candy wrapper into an overflowing waste can. Hutch shoved the note about the D.A. under his nose, half concentrating on the voice in his ear . . . a voice from his past, not altogether pleasant. “You’ve got me at a loss, Julie. It’s been what - - ten years?”

“Closer to twelve, but I saw Kell just a few months ago. She told me what you were up to . . . playing cop and all that. She’s awfully proud of you, Ken. You should have heard how she went on and on about her beloved big brother. What kind of friend would I be to your sister if I didn’t drop in on you when I had the chance? I thought as long as I’m in town . . .”

“Sure . . . okay.” He hedged, still uneasy. Across the desk, Starsky picked up the note, gave it a brief glance then tossed it aside. He started to reach for the phone, but his hand stopped halfway, changing direction, lighting on a wooden yo-yo shoved beneath an open folder instead. Playing with toys now, Starsk? “Where are you staying?”

“I got a room at The Plaza but I’m at the airport right now. Don’t suppose you’d like to play knight-in-shining-armor and give a damsel in distress a ride?”

Hutch shot a glance at the wall clock. “My shift doesn’t end for another forty minutes.”

“That’s okay. It’ll take me that long just to find my luggage. You still blond and beautiful?”

“You still too fresh for your own good?”

A throaty chuckle came over the line. “Same old, Kenny. See you in an hour, lover.”

The phone clicked in his ear.

Bewildered, he eased the receiver into its cradle and sat back in his chair. “Dobey wants you to go over things with the D.A. on Greer,” he told Starsky absently, his mind still trying to wrap itself around the phone call. Julie Wallace might have been his sister’s closest friend growing up, and yeah, he’d made that dumb mistake his fourth year in college by sleeping with her, but she wasn’t the kind of person to drop by on a whim. Sales? Paper Products? Would she really do something that mundane - - the girl who’d rode the fast lane through life, who was always looking for an easy score and who’d once said she’d settle for nothing less than the High Life?

“Hey, Hutch.”

Starsky’s voice intruded on his thoughts and he blinked rapidly as if waking from a fog. A glance in his partner’s direction told him Starsky was just as distracted as he was. Still studying the yo-yo, his friend cupped it in the palm of his hand, the string hooked over his index finger.

“You leavin’ me toys now?” Starsky asked. There was a flippant edge to his voice, but it sounded forced. “Where’d this come from?”

Hutch shrugged. “How should I know?” More disturbed by Julie’s phone call than he wanted to admit, he shuffled brusquely through the folders on his desk. He’d been drunk that night when he’d slept with her. She’d taunted and tempted him, no longer a gawky sixteen-year-old with a crush, but a wantonly seductive young woman who knew exactly what she’d been doing.

Still . . . his alcohol-induced lapse had been no excuse. She was Kelly’s closest friend, clearly off limits. He’d tried to fix his blunder by forgetting her but she’d become oddly addictive like a high priced narcotic. Their one night stand grew into a compulsive relationship that hadn’t ended until he’d met Vanessa. Until, in the process of satisfying and pleasing himself, he’d hurt his sister.

Aggravated, Hutch dragged a hand over his face. Damn!

“It’s wooden,” Starsky announced, catching him off guard, that strange hint of abstraction still in his voice.

Hutch frowned. “What is?”

“The yo-yo, dummy.” Starsky stepped toward him, extending his hand to display the tiny toy. “It ain’t one of those cheap plastic things, and it’s not butterflied out. See? They don’t make yo-yos like this anymore. Feel how heavy that is.” Grabbing Hutch’s hand, he plopped the wooden trinket in his palm. “You know what kind of wrist action it takes to work somethin’ like that? I ain’t seen one of these since I was a kid.”

Hutch’s frown dug deeper. “What do you want, Starsky - - a prize?” Irritated, he dumped the yo-yo on the desk. “I’m busy here. I don’t have time to waltz down memory lane with you.”

“Where’d it come from, Hutch?”

“How the hell do I know?” Irked, Hutch threw his hands in the air. The twittering school girls, Julie’s phone call and his exasperation at being stuck behind a desk all caught up with him at once. “There was a group of kids in here. Maybe one of them left the freaking thing behind, figuring anyone as juvenile as you are would have to appreciate it!”

His voice shuddered to a halt, already raspy and strained with force. In the sudden silence, haunted by Starsky’s bewildered expression, he suddenly realized how unnecessarily cruel he’d been. Blowing out a breath, he bowed his face into his hand, wedging an elbow against his desk. “I’m sorry, Starsk. You didn’t deserve that.”

Starsky shoved the yo-yo in his pocket. Across the room, all but one of the uniforms had left and Baker was in the middle of a phone call. If anyone noticed Hutch’s outburst they didn’t comment on it.

“All right Blondie, I’ll let you slide, but you only get one free insult a day.” Moving into Hutch’s space, Starsky sat on the edge of the desk facing him. He butted a blue-sneakered foot against Hutch’s chair. “What’s with the attitude?”

“Since when do I get a free insult?” Hutch shot him a perturbed look from under his lashes. “Quit coddling me, Starsky. If you want to bite my head off, just do it.” He cleared his throat, irked that his voice had lost some of its volume and was turning noticeably hoarse. Self-consciously he fingered the wheat-colored fabric of his turtleneck. When Starsky merely stared, refusing to look away but unspeaking, Hutch rolled a shoulder in defeat. “What’s the big deal about a yo-yo anyway?”

It was Starsky’s turn to shrug. “Isn’t one . . . not really.” With one leg planted firmly on the ground, he let the other dangle free, idly tapping against Hutch’s chair. “Just brought back some memories, that’s all.” He gave a soft snort of laughter. “This kid I used to hang around with - - Frankie Nello - - he was always playin’ with a wooden yo-yo. Used to have one that looked just like this.” Starsky patted his jacket pocket where he’d stashed the toy. “So . . .” He shifted gears, pointedly changing the conversation, smiling a little too sharply for easy humor. “What were all those girls gigglin’ about?”

“Like you don’t know.” Hutch parted with a smirk. Starsky might not have been in the room when the girls were visiting, but he’d gotten a clear picture on his return thanks to Baker and Carlini. Dobey would probably rehash the whole embarrassing scene too, given the chance.

“Is that why you’re so all-fired pleasant?” Starsky plopped a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to grin broadly into his face. “A couple of swoonin’ little girls got you all frazzled, Blond-and-Beautiful?”

“Starsky - -” Hutch warned, but got no further, cut off by his friend’s ringing laughter.

Clearly enjoying himself, Starsky crossed his arms over his chest, smiling brashly. “Now I know it’ll be rough for a sizzlin’ heartthrob like you, but if you can somehow manage to tear yourself away from that throng of admirin’ fans, Nat and I wanna take you out tonight. Burgers and dancin.’ How ‘bout it, pal?”

Hutch suppressed a sigh. Here it came - - another night of Starsky playing babysitter because he thought his partner hadn’t fully recovered from the trauma of Playboy Island . . .that maybe if Hutch was alone, he’d spend the time dwelling on those ugly moments when Papa Theodore had bound him to a table and tried to make him a sacrificial offering. On the other hand, planning something with Natalie and Starsky would mean he could bow out gracefully of any entanglements Julie might present.

“Sure. Okay.” Relaxing slightly, he managed a smile. “Um . . . there’s just one problem, Starsk. A friend of mine called from the airport. She needs a ride to her hotel.”

“She?” Starsky raised a brow. “Someone I know?”

Hutch shook his head. “She’s actually Kelly’s friend. They were really close growing up, then things sort of . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “ . . . uh . . . they had a kind of falling out.” Because of me. He waved the observation off, trying to shake aside his uneasiness. “It was a long time ago. A really long time ago. Anyway - -” He drew a breath that stung his still-healing throat and rattled deep into his lungs. “Things are better now and they keep in touch. Julie’s in town for some kind of convention and needs a ride to The Plaza.”

Starsky gave a low whistle. “Doesn’t stay cheap, does she?”

“Never did,” Hutch muttered, but Starsky didn’t hear. He smiled up at his friend. “Since my car’s back at my apartment, I thought - -”

“ - - you want me to drive you home?”

Hutch hedged. “I . . . I was hoping you’d take me to the airport.”

“You want me to pick up your friend?”

“It’ll just take a few minutes,” Hutch tried to smooth over the odd request. “Then you can drop me back at my apartment and I’m up for whatever you and Nat have planned. Oh - - and don’t forget the D.A.,” he added quickly hoping to deter any further questions about Julie and the airport.

Starsky glanced at the wall clock. “It’s on the way to the airport. I’ve been over that case with Fitzwater until it’s nailed tight. If Dobey wants me to give it another glossin’ over, we can stop on the way to pickin’ up your friend. I don’t know about you buddy, but I’ve had about all I can take lookin’ at these four walls.”

Hutch pushed from his chair, pausing only long enough to snag his denim jacket off the rear. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s get out of here.”

+++++

Starsky found a vending machine inside the airport and added an Almond Joy to the Three Musketeers he’d devoured earlier. He didn’t know why he was so hungry. He’d had a chili dog with a side of fries and a large Coke for lunch but he still felt hollow. Maybe edgy was the better word. Sitting confined behind a desk was tantamount to surviving lock-down. He’d be glad when Hutch was fully healed and they could hit the streets again, though from the way his friend’s voice had cut out back at the precinct, Starsky had a feeling it was going to be awhile.

“Flight 2016 from Denver has been rerouted to Gate 17,” a female voice announced over the loudspeaker. “Baggage claims are lower level Carousel D.”

“Hey, where’s your friend flyin’ in from?” Starsky asked, swallowing the last bit of candy bar as he kept pace at Hutch’s side. His partner looked distracted, his face set in a tight mask as he cut a long-legged path through the milling crowd of people. Overhead the loudspeaker paged Jane Nichols to the security desk.

“She didn’t say. She hung up before we had a chance to talk.” Hutch hedged, oddly unsettled as his gaze tracked to the side. “Starsky, I haven’t seen her in twelve years. I’m not even sure why she called me.

“That’s a no brainer. Big brother to her best friend?” Starsky skirted a group of teens gathered outside a hamburger stand and lobbed his candy wrapper into an open trashcan. He was getting damn good at hook shots, a fact clearly appreciated by one of the teens who gave him a thumbs-up for the effort. With a grin he ducked back to Hutch’s side, hopping onto the down escalator one step behind his partner. “If she’s still friends with Kelly, why wouldn’t she look you up?”

“It’s complicated,” Hutch said. His posture was a little too stiff. If Starsky didn’t know better he’d think his friend was annoyed . . . or maybe apprehensive. Since neither emotion seemed to fit with the circumstance, Starsky chalked his strange irritability up to the clogged congestion of the airport.

They’d reached the lower level now, walking quickly to the baggage claim area along with a hundred other passengers and milling travelers. White arrows lead the way, pointing them down a causeway and into an open area where baggage carousels slowly rotated beneath blinking green lights. Overhead the loudspeaker continued to chirp a series of announcements: “Air Trans Flight 44 to Chicago now departing from Gate 6 . . .American Airlines Flight 1636 to Minneapolis has been delayed. . . Mr. Frank Nello please report to the Delta customer service desk. Mr. Frank Nello - -”

“Hey!” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm as the name connected in his brain. Something cold and unsettled slithered through his stomach. “Didja hear that?”

“Hear what?” Hutch kept walking, forcing Starsky to fall in stride beside him.

Frustrated, the dark-haired man tried to grapple the memory . . . make sure he hadn’t mistaken it for something else. With all the commotion and noise of the airport, it was hard to be certain. He’d only been half-listening, paying more attention to the crowd than the overhead speakers. “Th-that page,” he stammered, strangely shaken. “ . . . . for Frank Nello?”

“Starsky, what are you talking about?”

“That was the name of my friend - - the one with the yo-yo - - Frankie Nello.” Starsky uttered a hollow laugh, the candy bar turning rancid in his stomach. “Don’t’cha think that’s weird?”

Hutch frowned, It was clear he’s wasn’t really paying attention, more so that he wasn’t interested. “There’s probably a couple dozen Frank Nellos in the city, Starsky. Odds are, at least one of them is in this airport.” Coming to a stop, he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his light denim jacket, fidgeting nervously. “Maybe she decided to call a cab.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think - - Julie Wallace, you idiot.”

“Did I hear someone throw my name around?”

Still focused on the disturbing page, Starsky was unprepared when a slender brunette walked up behind Hutch. Almost as tall as his friend, she had a dancer’s build with long, shapely legs, showcased in a short cranberry skirt and heeled sandals. Her hair was heavy and straight, hanging free to the middle of her back. When she flashed a smile, her dark brown eyes turned warm and copper-colored sending a flush of rose across her cheeks. Hooking an overnight bag higher on her shoulder, she angled her head to better study Hutch.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Her smile thinned a little, turning sultry. “You look different, but just as deliciously lean and sexy as ever.” Her eyes raked him from head to toe, clearly enjoying what she saw. “No wonder I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.” Amused by his poorly concealed embarrassment, she pressed a suitcase into his hand. “Carry this for me? It has my lingerie inside. I seem to remember you liked pink and black the best.”

Shocked by her boldness, Starsky sputtered a cough. The sound drew Julie’s eyes in his direction and her smile bloomed another notch. “Well, hello. And just who is this impossibly stunning Adonis?”

Starsky felt his face flame red. “Uh . . .”

“Julie.” Hutch’s voice held a vein of ice. “This is my partner, David Starsky. He’s going to give you a ride to The Plaza.”

“Oh.” A frown line appeared on her brow. “Well, that’s awfully nice of him. Of both of you actually, but it looks like I messed up and made a mistake.” She was suddenly demure, appearing mildly uncertain as she smiled at Hutch. “I booked my room for the wrong night and it turns out my reservation doesn’t kick in until tomorrow. I’m sort of stranded. Silly, huh? I can’t believe I did something so stupid.”

Hutch scowled, looking hard pressed to buy the blunder.

“I’ve spent the last hour on the phone trying to find another hotel,” Julie said with a hint of desperation. “But everything’s booked because of the sales convention. I was hoping maybe - -” One slender hand crept onto the sleeve of Hutch’s stone-washed jacket. “Do you think you could put me up for the night, Kenny? It’s just for one evening and - -”

“No.”

Starsky jerked, startled by his friend’s flat denial. Hutch was usually a lot more accommodating to someone in need, particularly when that “someone” happened to be his sister’s closest friend. Of course she’d made some very pointed, off-color remarks about Hutch too. Odds were Julie Wallace had been more than just a little friendly with Starsky’s partner - - in the basest sense of the word. Still, you didn’t strand a lady at an airport.

Perturbed, Starsky elbowed Hutch in the ribs. “What’re ya doin’?” he demanded from the corner of his mouth. Trying to cover for his abruptly unpredictable partner, he sent Julie a showy grin. “He didn’t really mean that. See his place is a bit messy right now, and - -”

Hutch threw him an acid look. “Starsky, ‘no’ means ‘no.’”

Shaking her head, Julie slipped her arm through Hutch’s. “Now, Kenny, don’t be such a stone. I promise to be a good girl and keep my hands to myself if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Julie - - no games. Do you need a ride to The Plaza or not?”

Huffing out an exasperated breath, Julie snatched her arm back as if stung. “A lot of good that will do me without a room.”

“I guess you should have thought of that before you called.”

“You can stay with me,” Starsky interrupted quickly. Hutch’s gaze swiveled in his direction, hitting him with the heat of a full-fledged Viking glare. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t making points with his irritable partner, but - -

“Starsky - -” A finger jabbed beneath his nose.

Geez, now he’s really pissed. “How many bags you got?” Starsky asked Julie, pointedly ignoring his fuming friend.

“Just my overnight bag and one suitcase.’ Julie pulled the suitcase in question from Hutch’s hands, shifting it to Starsky. “I really appreciate this, David.” She smiled brightly. “Can I call you David?”

“David’s fine. Or Dave.”

She smiled again, tossing her hair over her shoulder. It shimmered and rippled, infused with light even in the mucky butter-churned glow of the airport. He felt like a kid with a first-time crush.

“Gimme that.” Hutch snatched the suitcase from his hand. Seething, the taller man looked to Julie, his teeth gritted in a tight line. “One night.”

“I knew I could count on you, Ken!” Smiling triumphantly, she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t so much a sign of affection, but of victory. “We’ve got to go out tonight to celebrate.”

“Can’t.” Hutch’s voice was still clipped. He started walking, forcing the others to fall in beside him. “I’ve already got plans with Starsky and his girlfriend.” He put extra emphasis on the word “girlfriend” making sure Julie understood the implication.

At his side, Starsky was still trying to adjust to his partner’s rapidly shifting moods . . . uneasiness, frustration, irritability, outright anger. Hutch definitely had a lock on the grimmer stuff. “Hey, no problem,” he said, trying to ease the tension in the air. “Julie could join us. Nat would probably love havin’ another girl along for a change.”

“Starsky - -”

“That settles it!” Julie cried brightly. Moving between the two men, she hooked her arms through each of theirs, presenting a picture of delighted enthusiasm. “This is going to be great - - my friend’s big brother and his partner. You know what I’d love to do?” She turned her head to look between them. “ - - that is if you don’t have anything definite planned.”

“Nothing definite,” Starsky said.

“Just shooting myself,” Hutch muttered. “Him too, for getting me into this mess.”

“What?” Julie asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then I’d like to go to that big amusement park on the pier,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Someone on the plane was talking about it and it sounded like fun. I always loved amusement parks. Remember Kenny? Like that time I got sick at the summer carnival from eating too much cotton candy and you drove me home in that sporty yellow car of yours. I was twelve and you were . . .?” Her voice lilted up on the question.

“Sixteen,” Hutch said flatly.

“You had a sporty car?” Starsky asked incredulously. A yellow car?”

“It was a Ford Thunderbird convertible,” Julie chimed in. “A two-seater, banana yellow with a black roof and chrome wheels. I remember because I always wanted to ride in it, and that day at the carnival, Kenny took me home. He was always taking Suzanne Myrtle up to Lookout Pointe and fogging up the windows. Kelly and I tried to hide a tape recorder in his glove box once so we could hear what they were up to, but Kenny caught us.” Her smile turned calculating, a bit too pointed. “Of course, all the guys took Suzanne Myrtle up to Lookout Pointe so I guess we could’ve taped any of them.” She chuckled. “Personally, I just wanted to get a cassette of Ken moaning.”

“That’s enough, Julie,” Hutch warned tightly.

Starsky was still stuck on the car. “You had a Thunderbird? A Thunderbird? What the hell happened to your taste?”

“My dad bought it for me,” Hutch said, sparing him a brief sideways glance. “A colleague of his was selling it and I needed wheels. At the time I guess I liked flash, but I grew up and grew out of it. That’s what happens when you get older, Starsk.”

“What - - you get dull and borin’?” Starsky reached behind Julie and swatted his arm. “You’re just lucky I’m around, Blintz. If it weren’t for me you’d probably be on Geritol by now. Don’t know what kind of fun you’re gonna be at an amusement park. Maybe I should ring up those twelve-year old girls and put ya on the merry-go-round with ‘em. Probably just your speed.”

“Up yours, pal.”

Starsky laughed. “Sorry. You ain’t pretty enough to rate that kind of action. I’m holdin’ out for someone with a larger fan base.”

Hutch cracked a smile. “You moron.”

It was the first hint of humor Starsky had seen from his friend since they’d arrived at the airport . . . the first in a long time, now that he thought about it. The sight made him grin goofily. Hutch muttered something he didn’t catch and shook his head, but he was still smiling. The banter had done its trick. Starsky felt his partner’s tension slither away like a shed skin. By the time they were driving toward Venice Place, Hutch was actually talkative, pointing out some sights of Bay City for Julie’s benefit.

Starsky left his partner and overly attractive guest at the apartment on Ocean Avenue, then drove home. He needed to give Natalie a call and bump back their get-together with Hutch by an hour. The amusement park was just as good as a night of dancing, and they could always get burgers or pizza at one of the vending stands. Nat would probably enjoy the change, and Hutch, who sometimes tended to be klutzy, would do better off the dance floor.

Starsky grinned fondly at the thought of his long-legged partner. Put him in a tux with chamber music and a ballroom dance floor, and Hutch was sophistication and grace, but take him to a disco and he suddenly had two left feet. The music would probably be too loud anyway, forcing Hutch to strain his still-healing voice just to be heard. Besides, there was something about an amusement park . . .

Starsky closed the door to his apartment and plopped on the couch. Amusement parks, yo-yos, twelve-year-old-girls, even friends from the past . . . they all seemed to fit together. Hutch hadn’t seen Julie in twelve years and he hadn’t thought about Frankie Nello in - -

Grimacing, Starsky dug in his jacket pocket and extracted the yo-yo he’d found at the station. The wood was maple-colored, highly varnished with a navy blue emblem stamped in the center. An eagle with spread wings held a ribbon in its beak proclaiming the manufacturer’s name - -Blue Eagle.

Just like the one Frankie had as a kid.

Frankie, who never went anywhere without his yo-yo in hand, who used to dazzle his friends with complicated tricks and always said he was going to win the Northampton Alley Championship. Frowning, Starsky rubbed his thumb over the surface, distracted by the small ribs of wood beneath his fingertip. He’d played with a yo-yo too, never as good as Frankie, but his friend had managed to teach him a few stunts. Just enough that even now when he flicked his wrist backward, the yo-yo jumped from his hand then quickly climbed back up the string, snapping into his palm with familiar ease.

Memories of a lazy summer spent with Frankie on his grandparents farm crowded into his head. He could still smell the giddy scent of sun-heated grass, taste the sweetness of wild strawberries plucked from the field behind an old watertower, feel the scrape of bark against his palms as he and Frankie climbed higher and higher in a small grove of black walnut trees.

But it was never high enough. Dwarfed in the shadow of the watertower, the trees didn’t give them height enough to soar. To be eagles on their own and fly higher than any yo-yo could ever climb.

Starsky closed his eyes, stopping the memories before they spiraled out of control.

Had he really heard that page over the airport speaker system for Frank Nello? In all likelihood Hutch was right. There were probably a dozen Frank Nellos in the city, at least one of them passing through the airport. In any event, the page couldn’t have been for the Frank Nello he’d grown up with.

That Frank Nello - - his closest childhood friend - - had died a long time ago.

+++++

Hutch showered then changed in the bathroom, giving Julie the privacy of his bedroom. He was uneasy about having her in his apartment for the night but decided they were both mature enough to live with some ground rules. Their breakup hadn’t been on the best of terms - - mostly because of Kelly’s involvement. If he closed his eyes and thought backward, he could still hear his sister’s enraged voice in his head.

“How could you do this to me? You could have any girl you wanted, Kenny. Why did you have to go after Julie? How could you be so irresponsible as to get her pregnant?”

Hutch felt a flash of anger as the scabbed-over wound reopened. Yes, he’d kept up the relationship when it probably would’ve been wiser to let it go, but Julie had been the one to come onto him not vice versa. She’d tried several times prior to seduce him, and he’d rebuffed her each time until the night of Tim Hannerman’s party when he’d had a little too much to drink. As for her pregnancy, the timing was all wrong. He hadn’t been with her in over three months, but rather than admit they were through and she’d been sleeping with Tim, she’d lied to Kelly, insisting he was the father.

It was the only time he could ever recall - - in the midst of a heated shouting match about owning up to responsibility - - that his father had actually struck him. It did nothing for an already strained relationship, and a few months down the road Hutch had made it worse by dropping out of med school. Julie had eventually owned up to the lie - - she’d never been pregnant, but the damage had already been done. His new and tenuous relationship with Vanessa St. Claire was suddenly on fragile ground, his father considered him an irresponsible failure and his sister wasn’t talking to him. The only consolation in the whole ugly mess was that Kelly had actually decked Julie for making such an underhanded accusation when she found out the truth.

Sighing, Hutch shrugged into a black turtleneck. It was all water under the bridge. Kelly and Julie had eventually made up, keeping in touch over the years, though their relationship was never quite the same. He’d never really gotten an apology from his father, probably because the whole untidy mess took place around the same time he decided to leave medical school. Grant Hutchinson might have eventually forgiven him for doing something shameful, but he’d never fully recovered from Hutch’s decision to become a cop.

Hutch pulled on a pair of snug white jeans then added a black belt and a comfortable pair of shoes. He could survive one night with an ex-girlfriend, even one as calculating and manipulative as Julie Wallace. Tomorrow she’d be out of his hair and he could go back to forgetting she ever existed.

Outside the bathroom, he pulled his brown leather jacket from the closet, then snatched his key ring off the coffee table. Thumbing open his wallet, he did a quick count of the bills inside. “Julie, you about ready? I told Starsk we’d meet him and Nat around 7:30.”

“Ready.” Smiling brightly, Julie breezed from the bedroom, smartly dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and a pink crop blouse with jet trim.

Pink and black.

The combination wasn’t lost on Hutch. She hadn’t been kidding earlier about her lingerie and his taste in color. Rather than commenting on something she clearly hoped would get a rise out of him, he shrugged into his jacket. “Let’s go.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me I look nice?” On the pretext of reaching for her purse, Julie stepped around the couch, moving closer to his side. Tilting her head back, she smiled up at him, all sparkling cocoa eyes, rose-flushed skin and parted lips. “You look incredible, Ken. I didn’t think it was possible, but you’re even better looking than when we were dating.” Her hand slid onto his chest and her fingers glided beneath his lapel. “You’ve filled out . . . lean and muscular at the same time. I don’t suppose . . .” Her hand skimmed higher, rounding his shoulder, inching up to his neck.

The moment her fingertips made contact with his throat, Hutch flinched. He caught her arm and pulled it to the side. After what he’d suffered through on Playboy Island, he wasn’t comfortable with anyone touching him there. Well . . . anyone except a certain dark-haired partner who could eradicate even the most hideous memories with a gentling touch and soothing tone of voice. Starsky had earned a level of trust no one else could ever hope to match.

“Don’t mistake a favor for something it isn’t, Julie,” he warned darkly. The mere phantom of remembered strangulation made his voice turn momentarily rasp. “Spending the night’s got nothing to do with going to bed together. You wanna go to the pier - - fine. You wanna sleep here tonight because you don’t have a hotel room - - fine. But that’s where it ends. We gave the other thing a try and it was a mess. You lied - - remember?”

The staged warmth left her eyes, replaced by a hint of frost. “Because you were with that witch, Vanessa. Doesn’t look like that lasted long either. I guess you’re no better at marriage than you are at sleeping around, huh, Kenny?” Snatching her purse from the couch, she brushed past him toward the door. “Let’s go. You aren’t the only game in town, and I plan on having a good time tonight - - one way or the other.”

“All right.” Hutch trailed after her, pausing with his hand on the door knob. He glared down at her, his eyes glacial and bitingly cool. “But let’s get one thing straight up front. I don’t care what you do, but stay away from Starsky. He’s off limits.”

“Afraid he can’t resist my charm?” Julie laughed lightly. “He’s awfully good-looking you know, and he’s got that wonderful swagger. I could watch that man walk away from me all day long.”

“I’m not kidding, Julie.” Irked by her conceit, Hutch gripped her upper arm. “Starsky’s got a girlfriend . . . a healthy relationship. He doesn’t need a poisonous one.”

For a fleeting moment something sad touched her eyes. “Is that what you think I am, Ken - - poison?” The melancholy was gone as quickly as it came. The playful spark returned to her gaze, part siren, part imp. Pulling free of his grip, she sprinted down the steps, a trail of light laughter ringing behind her. “Come on, Kenny! I want to go to the carnival, and this time I promise not to eat too much cotton candy.”

She was out the exterior door, dancing onto the street before Hutch had even set the lock to his apartment. Digging his keys from his pocket, he followed at a slower pace praying the night wouldn’t turn into something disastrous.

+++++

Julie might have been a siren, but she knew how to play off another woman too. Starsky admired the chatty friendliness she displayed to Natalie even as he recognized the occasional lingering glances she sent in his direction. Always when Nat wasn’t looking of course . . . when she was hanging onto Hutch’s arm and giggling over something he had said.

Nat was a good friend to his partner and Starsky appreciated the brotherly-sisterly bond they shared. His own relationship with the perky auburn-haired secretary was uncomplicated. He enjoyed her company immensely and couldn’t deny they were good together in bed. They had fun and great sex, but he just wasn’t ready to let go and actually engage his heart. The loss of Terry was still too fresh, despite the passage of close to ten months. For her part, Natalie seemed to understand his hesitation, never pushing past what he was willing to give. In truth she deserved someone better. Someone who could actually say “I love you,” but she seemed willing to ride out his reluctance, more patient than any girl he’d encountered since Terry.

Which made the restlessness he was feeling all the harder to swallow. He cared about her, but was terrified of caring more. Terrified that if he actually opened his heart and allowed her to get close to him, someone would snatch her away too. She’d become a target like Terry had become a target, her life cut violently short by some low-life scum. It was better to stay isolated and alone, never again having to worry that the person he cared about would meet with an unjust death. Never again responsible for the cost of someone else’s life.

His eyes strayed to Hutch.

Like his friend on Playboy Island. Starsky swallowed hard. Hutch could take care of himself, but he felt a shiver of apprehension all the same. Frankie Nello had died because of him and Hutch had almost died because of him . . . by his own hand, no less. Watching the brilliant flash of his friend’s smile, Starsky found his mind wandering. Had he really wrapped his hands around Hutch’s throat? Spell or no spell, had he really tried to kill his best friend?

Like Frankie. Did I really lead him up onto that damn watertower?

“ . . . good to me. What do you think, Dave?”

Starsky blinked, realizing that Natalie was talking to him and that the two girls, along with Hutch, were watching him expectantly. Jolted from his thoughts, he gave a nervous smile, trying not to appear distracted. Ever since he’d found that damn yo-yo, ever since he’d heard the page at the airport, he’d been digging himself deeper into a hole mired in the past. “Huh?” Brilliant response, but he was out of options.

Releasing her hold on Hutch, Natalie sidled closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “You’re really out of it tonight, you know that, Dave? Julie was just saying it might be fun to go through the haunted house. What do you think?”

Haunted house? Big surprise there. Odds were Julie just wanted a reason to cuddle up to Hutch and a dark house with a coven of hobgoblins and creepy-crawlies was the perfect excuse to do it. Starsky sent a glance to his friend, trying to gauge his expression, but Hutch’s face was composed, betraying little of his thoughts. “Sure, okay,” he said, deciding a mausoleum-like atmosphere went hand-in-hand with his suddenly dour mood.

He tried to shove his gloominess aside as they walked down the pier, threading in between milling crowds of people. Music and laughter floated on the air, tangling with a mesh of voices and the rhythmic crash and pound of the ocean. It rolled to their left, blue and gray, tipped with white where waves curled majestically against the shore. The air smelled of funnel cakes, peanut oil and hot caramel popcorn. Normally he would have stuffed his face with something sticky and sweet, but he’d already had his fill of hamburgers and fries at an oceanside stand. Not Big Belly Behemoth variety, but obscenely-sized enough to satisfy even him.

Afterward, Hutch had talked him into a dizzying spin on the rotor and he’d come to the hasty conclusion his stomach needed a break. The ride should have been labeled a torture machine or at the very least a health hazard. Whoever thought being plastered to the wall by gravitational force, having the floor drop out from under you, then being turned upside down on your head and spun in a circle was amusing, had probably interned with a sadist. It was all Starsky could do to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, when the contraption finally stopped.

His blond friend on the other hand, was being anything but merry-go-round-dull, and Starsky feared if he wasn’t careful, Hutch would try to goad him into something involving heights. He’d already figured out the Rotor was payback for his Geritol crack, but it didn’t matter. Despite the unexpected presence of Julie, Hutch was enjoying himself . . . enjoying having Starsky with him . . . doing something that wasn’t job-related or mired in one of their cases. And he was laughing. A sound that was pure magic to Starsky’s ears.

“Ya know,” he said, wrapping his arm around Nat’s shoulders and doing his best Bogey impersonation. “I might need ya to hold my hand in there.”

“What about you, Ken?” Julie spoke up to Starsky’s left. She smiled coyly up at Hutch. “Do I get to hold your hand too?”

“Sure. Why not?” Rather than take her hand, Hutch wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her tightly against him. The move surprised Starsky who’d gotten the feeling Hutch wasn’t eager to renew any sparks that had once simmered between them. Then again, if Julie was focused on Hutch, she wouldn’t be so eager to send signals in his direction . . . something she’d been doing all night whenever Natalie wasn’t looking.

As attractive as she was, the woman really was a barracuda.

Up ahead, the silhouette of the “Haunted House” jutted from the pier, bulky and black against the heavens. An asymmetrical roofline sloped to empty windows, most boarded over, some with shutters hanging broken and askew. A rear tower soared cold and ominous against the sky, crowned by a pointed witch’s hat. The effect was gothic and brooding, broken only by a series of garish red letters emblazoned over the front door that read “ Haunted Mansion. Enter at Your Own Risk.” A ticket attendant in a long black robe, his face heavily painted with black eye makeup and white powder sat to the side, listening to Warren Zevon on a portable radio. A half-eaten hamburger, watery soda, money tray and spool of bright green tickets littered a small folding table.

Natalie giggled. “Talk about ruining the effect.”

“Don’t worry.” Starsky nuzzled her ear playfully. “I’m sure it’ll be dark and creepy inside. I turn into a vampire at midnight, ya know.”

“Pity the vampires,” Hutch said. He raised a single brow, the hint of a smile playing on his lips. “You’d starve on a diet of blood anyway - - all liquid and no junk.”

“Only if I had to suck blood from a health-conscious sap like you,” Starsky cast back, falling immediately into the spirit of their familiar game. “Probably taste like stagnant wheat germ oil and river kelp. Yech!” He made a face. “Any self-respectin’ vampire would spit it back out.”

“It’s sea kelp, Starsky, and wheat germ oil doesn’t stagnate.”

“In your blood, Blondie, anything would stagnant. Probably be like drinkin’ a multi-vitamin straight.” He gave an overly dramatic shudder.

“Guys - -” Natalie interrupted, sensing a lengthy string of cheap shots.

“Hey, what’s that?” Julie interrupted. Still nestled against Hutch’s side, she raised her arm, pointing into the distance.

Distracted, Starsky followed the direction of her finger. Over a mile down the beach, a spine of black rock jutted into the ocean, marking the entrance to an inlet. Incoming waves broke on the jagged surface, crashing apart, sending white foam spraying high into the air, frothing up sides of cold stone. A light flashed at the end of the rock splinter, guiding incoming ships clear of shoals and sandbars.

“That’s just the old South Jetty,” Starsky said. “I don’t think that inlet’s used too much anymore, not for commercial traffic anyway.”

Julie wrapped her arms around her chest. “Looks dangerous.”

“That depends on your perspective.” Leaning close, Hutch breathed softly into her ear. “Under the right conditions anything . . .” He paused, tugging her closer, letting his lips graze her hair. “ . . . or anyone can be dangerous.”

Her eyes widened in surprise at the intimate attention. Starsky was surprised too, given his friend’s earlier frost when talking to his ex. But then Hutch was a game player when he wanted to be, and Starsky had the feeling the blond-haired man had just initiated the first round.

After purchasing tickets from the cadaver-like attendant, they ventured through a loudly creaking door into the “haunted” house. A short hallway with squeaky wooden floors lead into a drawing room heavily draped with filmy cobwebs. Flickering candle scones topped by low-wattage amber bulbs lined the walls, sending shadows leaping madly across a vaulted ceiling. Organ music thrummed through hidden speakers, the ominous melody broken now and again by a burst of maniacal laughter.

A few steps into the room, a hidden panel abruptly swung free of the wall and the wax figure of a butler popped out. Dressed formally in black, the life-like figure held an ornate silver tray littered with dismembered body parts. A gore-encrusted knife handle protruded from the center of his chest. “Stay for dinner?” a gravelly voice boomed over the speakers and the organ music swelled louder.

“Mmm, looks good,” Starsky cracked, reaching for an eyeball. “Just needs some ketchup.”

Nat squealed in delight, swatting his hand aside. He felt a shove to the center of his back and knew that Hutch was ushering him from the room into the next. This one was darker, cooler too, as if frigid air was pumped through hidden vents. The light was almost non-existent, forcing them to feel their way down a rope lined path. Every so often an unseen door would creak in the distance or a scream would echo through the speakers. Starsky felt Nat’s hand tighten around his. Behind him he heard Hutch whispering something to Julie but couldn’t tell what his friend was saying.

Room after room, wax figures popped unexpectedly into their path, exploding from recessed panels with cackling shrieks, springing up from the floor, or dropping with nerve-shattering suddenness from hidden doors in the ceiling. Vampires, mummies, hatchet murderers and gory victims all populated the shadowy rooms. Now and again a concealed flashpot would erupt, spewing blood-red light over walls and floors, heralding a string of high-pitched screams from hidden speakers.

The girls screamed just as loudly, bursting into giggles immediately afterward. In the kitchen, the wax-figure of a plump chef threatened to cut them up with a blood-drenched meat cleaver. Behind him, a trio of cast iron pots bubbled with an assortment of bat wings, fat black spiders and floating eyeballs. “Looks like your cookin’,” Starsky commented to Hutch.

The last room was a study to the rear of the home, complete with desk, faux fireplace and book-lined walls. Topaz flames danced in the hearth, generated by pulsing electric panels and fragmented light tubes. Speakers inserted the hissing crack and pop of wood, underscored periodically by tortured wails or a keening moan. A large mirror suspended above the mantle reflected the face of a young woman who rapidly aged from bewitching beauty to hideous crone in a matter of seconds. Further to the left, a red “exit” sign glowed brightly over a plain wooden door.

“I guess that’s it,” Hutch said.

Julie snuggled closer, wrapping an arm around his waist. “And I was just getting into the mood of things,” she said silkily, smiling up at him.

“I noticed.” Looping an arm around her shoulders, he bent his head, leaning close to her ear. She smelled of primrose and clover, a perfume he hadn’t forgotten in twelve long years. It was easy, maybe a little too easy, falling into the role of enamored lover. “If you’re done having fun, maybe you’ll let me take you back home now. I forgot what pink and black does to me. Hope whatever you’re wearing underneath matches.”

He felt her stiffen, obviously shocked by his come on. It was hard shifting gears, especially after that speech in his apartment, but he had the upper hand now. She’d always been attracted to him, flirting even when she’d been too young to do it properly. Her infatuation - - if that’s what he could call it - - hadn’t changed. True, she’d been sending signals to Starsky all night, but she’d also been looking in his direction, slyly undressing him with her eyes. He hadn’t missed those appreciative glances, cast when she thought he wasn’t aware.

“Hey.” Starsky’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Didja . . . didja see that?”

His friend’s voice sounded odd, almost shaky. Zeroing in on the strange inflection, Hutch immediately shelved all thought of Julie. “Starsk? What’s the matter?”

“Didn’t ‘cha see that?” Starsky’s tone was edgier now, a thread shy of irritated. Walking closer to the mirror, he stared at it intently. “I could’ve sworn . . . just for a minute . . .” Frowning, he looked over his shoulder trying to catch anything the mirror might have reflected. “There . . . there was a kid with black hair. Kinda pale and sickly lookin’. Didn’t ‘cha see him?”

Nat gave a nervous laugh. “Dave, quit trying to scare me.”

“I’m not tryin’ to scare you. I’m serious.” He shook his head, clearly worked up now. “I saw a kid in the mirror. A kid with black hair and chalky skin. He looked . . . I don’t know . . . ill or sumethin’.”

“Well, maybe that’s part of the whole set-up,” Julie ventured, drawing away from Hutch slightly. She kept her arm around his waist, but turned to look at Starsky. “Like the woman who ages.” She motioned to the mirror where the comely young woman was again turning into a hideous crone. “Maybe there’s a kid too.”

“No. Not this kid.” Starsky sounded almost panicked. He took a step toward his friend. “Come on, Hutch, quit clownin’ around. You saw him, right?”

“Starsk . . .” Hutch hedged. His friend was clearly upset, but he couldn’t understand why. Like Nat, he would have thought Starsky was putting on a show to rattle their nerves, but he knew his partner too well for that. He could tell when Starsky was playing, and the dark-haired detective was nothing short of serious now. “Maybe there’s a group behind us with a kid and he poked his head into the room. Probably the lighting in here made him look ill - -”

“No.”

“Well, maybe there’s a kid who works here, takes care of the mechanicals and stuff - - ”

“No.”

“All right. Well, how about - -”

“Hutch, I saw him!”

“Okay, so you saw him.” Bewildered, Hutch raked a hand through his hair. Pulling away from Julie, he stepped to Starsky’s side and lowered his voice. “I’m not sure what the problem is, buddy. What do you wanna do about it?”

“Nuthin’.” Starsky clamped his mouth shut. In the blink of an eye he seemed to come to his senses, realizing how unbalanced he sounded.

Hutch frowned. So he’d seen some kid in the mirror. It could have been a trick of the light, or someone poking their head into the room for a quick glance. Why grow unhinged about it? Concerned, he gripped his friend’s arm. “Starsk?”

Starsky gave a soft snort. “Spooked you didn’t I?” His lips curved in a wicked smile.

Beside him, Hutch heard Natalie wheeze out a pent up breath. “David, you idiot!” she cried, punching him on the arm.

“Ow!” Starsky rubbed his shoulder, still grinning theatrically. Too theatrically.

Hutch wasn’t buying it, but decided not to make an issue of it. Starsky clearly wanted the matter dropped or he wouldn’t have tried to backpedal into a joke. Playing along, Hutch shook his head. “Doofus,” he groused.

“Hey, let’s get outta here, huh?” Starsky pulled Natalie toward the exit.

Hutch started to follow but Julie stepped into his path, sliding her hands, palm-down onto his chest. “What about us, Kenny?” Her voice was low, suddenly husky, as if she’d downed a fifth of bourbon. “Do you still want to take me back to your apartment?”

Smiling benignly, he raised a hand and cupped her chin. “Didn’t I say that?”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

They parted company with Starsky and Natalie shortly afterward. Hutch was reluctant to leave his friend without the issue of the boy in the house resolved, but Starsky had clearly decided to pretend the whole incident had been a joke. Unconvinced, Hutch walked Julie back to his car, holding the door on the old LTD as she climbed inside. She snuggled close against him on the drive back to Venice Place, talking about how good they had been together and wasn’t it great her job had brought her into Bay City so they could get reacquainted?

Hutch let her ramble, nodding where appropriate or parting with an occasional grunt for lack of anything truly worthwhile to say. Her right hand was wrapped around the crook of his arm, her left resting a bit too intimately on his thigh. He had to admit he still felt a glimmer of attraction despite the hurt, despite the lies. She was a life-draining habit, something addictive he clearly knew was destructive but had never been able to fully shake.

At Venice Place, he unlocked the door to his apartment, holding it open while she stepped inside. Smiling enticingly, she sashayed past with a provocative swish of shapely hips. The moment he was inside, she spun around, all too eager to lock her arms behind his neck. “I thought we’d never get back here.” He felt the press of her lips against his and opened his mouth to invite the sensual probe of her tongue.

Bending slightly to better accommodate the intimate fit of their bodies, Hutch took control of the kiss. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he dragged her against him, melding hard muscle to soft curves. She gave a small whimper, moved by his aggression, shocked at the sizzling heat of his mouth over hers. Her body arced willingly into his embrace until he felt the firm swell of her breasts jut against his chest. She squirmed in his arms, the rapid beat of her pulse like liquid heat in her throat.

“Julie . . .” Raising both hands, Hutch cupped her face and deepened the kiss, the caress of his lips erotically sensual, indulgently slow. “There’s . . . something . . . you . . . should . . . know.” Each word was broken by another tease of his tongue, the deliciously languorous heat of his mouth against hers. One hand left her face, tracked over her hip and contoured her side, skimming the tight flesh of her ribs. She wilted against him, sensitized flesh pliant and eager for another exquisite stroke of his fingers.

“Tell me, Kenny,” she breathed against his mouth.

“Since I saw you . . .” His thumb traced the curve of her breast, barely touching, so feather-light she moaned and willingly pressed into his hand. . “All I’ve been able to think about - -” His fingers grazed the erect peak of her nipple, lingering just enough to elicit a shiver.

“Yes,” she panted, silk and sun-drenched heat rolled into one.

“ - - is how badly I’ve wanted to put you in your place,” he spat abruptly. Gripping her shoulders, he thrust her away from him.

Confused, she staggered as though doused with frigid water. It took her a moment to realize what he’d been doing . . . that the game hadn’t started here in his apartment, but back on the pier. That he’d outthought her, outplayed her, pointedly rubbing her face in the remnants of something twelve years old. From the moment she’d called him at the police station, his only intent had been to bring her crashing down.

Payback.

Her expression ran a thunderous gamut from lust, to shock, to fury.

“You bastard!” Incensed, she tried to strike him.

“Bastard, huh? He caught her arm before it could connect with his face. “A minute ago you were ready to crawl into bed with me.”

“I should have known.” With a violent snarl, Julie wrenched free of his grasp. “I should have realized what a selfish son-of-a-bitch you are. I don’t even know why you agreed to see me.”

“Because I thought maybe you’d changed.” Hutch stepped away from the door, towering over her. “That maybe we could actually talk like mature adults without stabbing each other in the back. Whatever happened - - whatever you did, Julie, you’re still my sister’s friend. I was willing to make it work - -”

“Bullshit! You are such a damn liar, Ken.” A long red fingernail jabbed into his shoulder. “All you wanted to do was get back at me. You never cared - - not then, not now.”

Hutch felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Yes, he’d wanted to get even. His own sister had thought he’d gotten her closest friend pregnant. In a fit of rage his father had physically struck him, and the love of his life at the time - - Vanessa - - hadn’t been sure if she ever wanted to see him again. But his actions now had absolutely nothing to do with paybacks.

With effort, he fought to control his temper. “Julie, you were two-timing me with Tim Hannerman. It’s kinda hard to love someone who stabs you in the back. And tonight?” A single brow crept into the golden fringe of his hair. “Oh yeah, you’ve changed,” he spat sarcastically. “You spent the whole night coming onto Starsky, after I told you not to.”

“Is that what this is about?’ Julie’s venom turned into a fluttery laugh. The biting amusement never reached her eyes, cold and smoldering with witch-fire. Throwing her hands into the air, she spun away and stalked into the bedroom. “You never could stand competition from your friends, could you Kenny? First Tim, now Dave.”

“I told you Starsky was off limits,” Hutch snapped, trailing on her heels. “Certain people you just don’t mess with, and my partner’s one of them. At least as long as I’ve got anything to do with it.”

“So that’s what all the cuddling tonight was about - - all that touching and stroking at the haunted house?” Julie snatched her suitcase from the floor and heaved it onto the bed. Pausing only long enough to spring the snaps, she grabbed a handful of items from the dresser - - toiletries she’d unpacked earlier - - and threw them inside. “You weren’t interested in me. You just didn’t want me playing up to your friend.”

“And why did you?” Stoic, Hutch pressed his lips together. “Julie, I’m not even gonna tell you what kind of a woman hits on a man when his girlfriend is around.”

Her face grew strained and white. Trying to recover some of her dignity, she snatched the suitcase off the bed then plucked her overnight bag from a chair. “If I’m a whore, Ken, what does that make you? You slept with me.”

“And paid for it just like every other john, just not in cash.”

This time her open hand connected solidly with his face. He let it go unchallenged and she hurtled past him, spitting a curse vulgar enough to make a sailor blush. Seconds later the front door slammed, rattling the walls, echoing like thunder through the small apartment.

Wincing, Hutch rubbed his cheek. He walked slowly into the living room. The encounter had gone pretty much as he’d foreseen once he’d formulated it on the pier. He hadn’t planned on doing anything so underhanded initially. Despite what she’d done to him in the past, he really had hoped they could work out their differences. Once she’d started coming on to Starsky though, he’d had a complete change of heart. By nature he wasn’t a vindictive person, but had to admit a certain satisfaction in gaining the upper hand after all these years.

Most importantly he hadn’t planned on letting her do to Starsky what she’d done to him. His partner deserved a fair shot at a healthy lasting relationship with Natalie. He didn’t need a manipulative harpie wrecking his life just when the pieces were starting to fit together again.

Dragging the phone book and phone onto the coffee table, Hutch sagged into the couch and looked up the number for The Plaza. The front desk clerk was polite and helpful, telling him that yes, Julie Wallace did have a reservation with them and was due to check in at any time. Her room had been ready since two o’clock. Yes, there was a sales convention taking place . . . yes, it had something to do with paper products . . . no, there was certainly no shortage of rooms for guests who were already booked, such as Miss Wallace.

Hutch thanked the nasal-voiced clerk and hung up the phone. Easing back against the couch, he absently rubbed his neck. While he hadn’t been shouting during his confrontation with Julie, he’d clearly overdone it, a fact supported by the niggling ache in his throat. He still had some of the salve given to him by a hospital nurse on Playboy Island but hadn’t used it in a number of days. Maybe tonight he’d dig out the bandage again and wrap his neck.

Julie was clearly game-playing, having schemed a way to spend the night at his apartment. But would she really go to all that trouble . . . make up a lie about the hotels being booked, just for a chance at sex? No doubt they’d been good together in that respect, pure magic in bed. He’d even felt a glimmer of that ancient, unhealthy heat when he’d been kissing her. But it didn’t make sense that she’d stage such an elaborate lie just for a night between the sheets with an old flame. Not after twelve years.

So if she hadn’t been after a one-night stand, what had she wanted? And why, if she was in town for the next few days and could see him whenever she desired, had it been necessary for her to stay at his apartment? What had she been after that she couldn’t get from seeing him during the day?

Too tired to work it out, Hutch yawned. Their relationship had always been exhausting. He thought about calling Kelly, but the bond he had with his sister was precious, something he valued dearly. Throwing Julie into the mix was just liable to screw it up again.

Briefly he wondered what Starsky was doing. He considered calling his friend, still disturbed by Starsky’s odd behavior at the haunted house, but didn’t want to intrude if Natalie was spending the night. He settled for popping a beer and digging out his guitar. By the time he went to bed, the ache in his throat had receded and he didn’t even bother with the salve.

+++++

Sweating profusely, Starsky sat on a chair beside his waterbed, the yo-yo cupped tightly in his hand. It was dark in the bedroom, but his eyes had long ago adjusted to the lack of light. The luminous face of his mechanical clock read 3:47 a.m. He and Hutch had an early shift coming up, which meant he needed to be in the shower in another two-and-a-half hours.

For all the sleep he’d gotten tonight he might as well shower now. He and Natalie had stayed at the pier for a few hours after Hutch and Julie left, simply strolling through the crowds, enjoying the glitter of bright lights and the salt-scented breeze from the ocean. He’d tried to concentrate on the activity around him - - the giddy laughter of children, the call of a barker at the shooting gallery - - “Four tries for a dollar. Get your lovely lady a prize, young sir!” - - the whimsical brightness of Natalie’s smile when he’d nailed the whole line of balloons and handed her a plush stuffed frog as his reward. She’d smiled and kissed him, declaring him a prince. Afterward, he taken her for a ride on the merry-go-round, realizing there was something romantic about painted horses and a musical calliope after all.

He’d done everything he could not to think about the boy at the haunted house . . . the boy who looked remarkably like the Frankie Nello he remembered from childhood. The only difference was this boy had been oddly unsettling, almost spooky. Starsky hadn’t said much to Hutch or the girls, but it had been more than just the fact that the child looked ill. His skin had been dishwater gray with a cadaver-like cast, his eyes sunken into an overly gaunt face. Starsky had caught only a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror, but the lifelessness of the boy’s eyes had sent a chill scampering down his spine.

He didn’t believe in ghosts or hobgoblins, but he didn’t believe in coincidence upon coincidence either. Plagued with strange dreams of his childhood, Starsky had been unable to sleep.

Now hunched in the chair, dressed only in a pair of red briefs, the yo-yo clasped in his hand, he tried to make sense of the strange occurrences. He could almost write off the yo-yo and the page at the airport, but the boy had been too unsettling . . . a ghost image of the childhood friend he remembered. That image had infused his dreams, turning random memories into nightmares, until he woke in a cold sweat

I ain’t gonna remember. Starsky tightened his hand on the yo-yo. Not after all this time. I don’t wanna think about that damn water tower.

Sometimes he wished he’d never met Frankie Nello . . . never taken the summer trip to Frankie’s grandparents’ farm in upper state New York. For a city kid, raised on congested streets, urban smog and skyscrapers, the wide open spaces of that rural farm had seemed like heaven. Even the wind was different there. Wild and uncaged, it had gusted over open fields with a force so dizzyingly fierce he swore he could fly. He and Frankie had raced with their arms outstretched, soaring through meadows of tall grass and sun-sweetened wheat, daring the wind to lift them up and carry them aloft. It was Frankie’s passion - - to soar, to fly, and like his fascination with the yo-yo, it was contagious. Giddy with exhilaration, they’d tumbled onto their backs, blinking up at the cloud-streaked sky while the earth held them captive.

It had been Frankie’s idea to climb the walnut trees. “Come on, Davey, we’ll go higher . . . like the eagles on our yo-yos. Way up in the trees, we can almost reach the sky.”

But they hadn’t been able to reach. The sky just seemed further away, a dazzling unattainable prize. At least the wind was stronger up there, nearly tangible with the thrum of frolicking energy. They’d stretched against the branches, holding their arms out to catch the thrilling sensation. It was a rush unlike any Starsky had ever felt before.

And then he saw the water tower.

Damn it.

Standing, he paced to the other side of the room. I ain’t gonna remember this. I ain’t gonna remember. It became a chant over and over, a lifeline to smother the memory of something he’d buried ages ago. That was another lifetime. A different friend. I can’t bring him back.

He’d brought Hutch back. Somehow, someway, his friend had survived on Playboy Island when Starsky had tried to strangle him. I love you, Hutch had said, and that simple declaration had been enough to wrench Starsky from Papa Theodore’s insidious spell. If Frankie Nello had lived, would he share the same kind of bond with Frankie he shared with Hutch? Could he possibly have that same intrinsic connection - - the same selfless, sacrificial kind of love he harbored for his compassionate blond friend?

He’d never know. Frankie was dead and he was responsible.

Irritated, he tossed the yo-yo aside and padded barefoot into the kitchen. He rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a bottle of root beer, then carried it to the couch. It had been a strange day, an even stranger night. Nothing had really felt right since he and Hutch returned from Playboy Island. Maybe that was part of the problem. Their connection had been fractured there, and although it was fully repaired, it felt cluttered with distractions - - Frankie, Julie, the Greer case, desk duty, even the mounds of paperwork they were forced to wade through daily. He wanted things back the way they were. He wanted to be on the streets again, Hutch fully healed and primed for action at his side.

He wanted to be able to fly.

Tired, Starsky rubbed his eyes. He thought about calling his friend, but the late hour kept him from following through. Hutch needed his rest - - if he’d even gotten any after taking Julie home. Starsky had thought her charming at the airport, but once they’d reached the pier, he’d recognized her for a skilled game player. He hadn’t missed the inviting glances she’d sent in his direction when Natalie wasn’t looking or Hutch’s frowning irritation at her flirting. It wasn’t jealousy his flaxen-haired friend had been feeling, but anger.

And then Hutch had shifted gears, turning on the charm, obviously initiating his own agenda. He might have come from an upper society background, but the blond detective wasn’t above playing it down and dirty when he wanted to make a case of something. Starsky had a gut feeling Julie’s coy flirting had run into a brick wall with her old boyfriend. Which meant - - depending on his mood - - she and Hutch had either ended up fighting or falling into bed together. Either way, a quietly volatile Hutch would have scored his point.

Starsky took a swig of his root beer then shoved the bottle aside on an end table. Four o’clock in the morning and he was sitting near naked in a dark apartment with only a bottle of soda for company. If he’d ever wanted to fly, he was grounded now. There were no towers to climb . . . no rotted wood to send him crashing down into a cold, watery grave but the fear was there, as it hadn’t been since that hot summer day so long ago. Was it any wonder he disliked heights now . . . that he hated water? Once, all he’d wanted to do was climb higher and higher until he could touch the sky.

With a disgusted snort, Starsky folded sideways, stretching out over the sofa. Dumb ass kid.

Tucking a hand under his cheek, he closed his eyes and tried to catch a few hours sleep. The brittle ringing of the phone jarred him awake a short time later. Tired and groggy, he fumbled for the receiver, nearly dropping it as he tugged it toward his ear. “Hu . . .hullo?”

There was only silence on the other end, the kind of eerie open-lined hiss that made the hair immediately stand up on the back of his neck. Abruptly lucid, he sat up straight. “Hello.” Sharper this time, demanding. And then he heard something. A rhythmic thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack, repeated over and over until a cold knot formed in the pit of his stomach and his flesh crawled.

Starsky wet his lips, afraid to move, afraid to speak. Thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack. The sound hummed through the receiver, strangely chilling in the dense black of night. He knew it as surely as he’d known it all those years ago when Frankie had practiced over and over - - the vibrating release and catch of a yo-yo. “Who is this?” he managed at last.

The line stayed open, hissing ominously in the darkness, the same steady sound ringing in his ear. Thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack, over and over, until the very monotony threatened to push him over the edge, propelling him into a past veined with terror and guilt. Slamming the phone down, Starsky sprang to his feet, chest heaving as he stared down on the innocuous instrument.

It’s just someone’s sick idea of a joke or some smart-assed kid makin’ a crank call. Another coincidence in a string of mounting impossibilities, nothing more.

Frankie Nello was dead. Starsky had attended the funeral himself. Trying to calm his racing heart, he switched on the nearest light, thankful when the darkness receded and his apartment settled into familiar, mundane lines. Nuthin’ in the dark that ain’t there in the light, he reminded himself. Wrong number or a crank phone call. Damn kids playin’ around when they should be in bed. I’m just lettin’ my imagination get ahead of me.

Who could really blame him after finding the yo-yo? It had been a trigger, setting the stage for everything that followed. It was only natural his mind would stray and start digging up dark associations. Even Hutch would give him that one.

Abruptly anxious to put the night behind him and hookup with his rationally calming friend, Starsky headed for the shower - - turning on every light he passed in the process.

+++++

By eleven o’clock Starsky was yawning. He’d spent the morning wading through more paperwork and visiting with Fitzwater at the D.A.’s office, reviewing the Greer case yet again. With the trial nearing, the press took every opportunity it could to interview Simon Greer, President and CEO of Greer Manufacturing and his wife, Lillian. Both protested their son’s innocence and the police department’s heavy hand in rigging busts to suit their own “personal and highly corrupt agenda.” The biased newsprint had Dobey in a black mood, forcing officers to tip-toe around him for fear of inciting his notorious temper. When the captain found the coffee pot empty for the second time that morning, he launched into a blistering tirade about laziness and ineptitude among detectives, staff and officers. Most scuttled from the room, but Starsky merely flicked an amused glance across his desk to Hutch.

“Sounds like someone didn’t get his beauty sleep this mornin’,” he commented.

Dobey slammed the empty pot onto its metal burner, glaring in his direction. “Stow it, Starsky, unless you wanna be walking a beat for the next week.”

“Can’t be any worse than wadin’ through this shit.” Starsky tossed a folder aside, sending yet another glance to his partner. “You got the updates on Dickinson? I’ll run ‘em through R&I.”

“Yeah, sure.” A little better organized, Hutch slid a handful of papers across the desk to Starsky. At the same time he cast a casual glance at Dobey. The captain had abandoned the coffee pot and was fishing in his pocket for change to feed the drink machine in the hall.

“Caffeine’s no good for you anyway, Captain.” Hutch slid a pencil behind his ear, letting the eraser tip jut between loose strands of sun-gold hair. He flashed a congenial smile, clearly staged, clearly meant to provoke a reaction. “I’m no doctor, but you probably wouldn’t get upset so easily if you cut out the caffeine.”

“That’s right - - you’re not a doctor.” Dobey jabbed a squat finger in his direction, glowering from beneath heavy black brows. “And as long as it’s taking the two of you to muck through that paperwork, you aren’t much of a cop either. Get your tail in gear, Hutchinson. Better yet, get your voice back, so I can kick you and that smart-assed partner of yours onto the street.”

Wrenching the hallway door open, Dobey stomped from the room.

Starsky chuckled. “Good bedside manner, Doc. No wonder you dropped med school.” He leafed through a few of the papers Hutch had passed him earlier. “So how is your voice these days anyway?” he asked casually.

“Can’t you tell? Almost back to normal.” Hutch tugged the pencil free to scribble something on a tablet. “I don’t get it. A cop with a sore throat’s got about as much lung power as I do and they don’t chain him to a desk.”

“You’re still wearing high collars,” Starsky pointed out.

Hutch shrugged, self-consciously fingering the stand-up zipper collar of his rust-colored shirt. “No sense advertising what happened,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat then plowed ahead before Starsky could tumble into any lingering remorse. “I’ve got an appointment with the departmental doctor tomorrow at 3:00. I’m hoping he clears me for active duty. If not, I’ll strangle him.”

Starsky cracked a thin smile. “Better work on those social skills, Blondie.” The fact they could joke about something that had brought them both so much pain was testament to the unshakable strength of their relationship.

The remainder of the morning inched by slowly. At lunchtime they gratefully left the building, walking to a nearby hotdog stand, enjoying the sights and sounds of a busy street at noon.

“So what happened with Julie last night?” Starsky prompted, sliding into a seat at a small picnic table. As Hutch sat across from him, he bit into a hot dog laden with beef chili, cheese, onions and mustard. Some of the excess toppings dribbled off the edge, splattering onto his thin paper plate. He dipped a French fry into the greasy mess and popped it into his mouth before returning his attention to the soggy dog. “You were a little, uh . . . attentive . . . weren’t you? Turnin’ on all that blond Hutchinson charm?”

“Only because she was carrying on like an idiot.” Hutch frowned, wiping his hands on a napkin. Unlike Starsky, he had a plain hotdog, dressed only with cheese and mustard. Instead of fries, he’d gotten a side salad but the lettuce looked wilted, already browning at the edges. A single grape tomato decorated the center, more pink than red, so wholly unappetizing, Hutch had left the leafy concoction untouched. “Starsky, you had to know she was flirting with you. Behind Natalie’s back, no less. The woman’s a harpie.”

“Is that experience talkin’?”

“You’ve no clue, pal.” Hutch shook his head and bit into his dog. Behind him, over his shoulder, a taxi cut lanes inciting a blaring chorus of horns. The sound melted into the background, blending with the whine of stop-and-go traffic, the hissing brakes on a city bus, and the occasional shout from a passing pedestrian. Around them, the small handful of picnic tables ringing the hot dog stand were filled with city workers on lunch break.

Starsky recognized a shapely red-head from Research and a dour-looking clerk from payroll. Chewing around a mouthful of hotdog, he slurped a drink of iced soda through a straw. “So you gonna tell me about you and Julie?” he prodded. “You were gonna strand her at the airport, Hutch. That ain’t like you.”

“I had my reasons.” Hutch scowled, poking the salad with a plastic fork. Starsky had the feeling the look of distaste on his face had nothing to do with the limp lettuce.

“You already know she was Kelly’s friend,” Hutch explained. “We got heavily involved about twelve years ago . . . right before I met Vanessa, and we shouldn’t have.”

Starsky listened as Hutch told him about his relationship with Julie. How it had hurt his sister, how Julie had lied about being pregnant only to admit the truth later once the damage was done. Once Kelly had shriveled up inside with hurt, and Grant Hutchinson had struck his son in a fit of moral outrage. After Vanessa had put their new and tenuous relationship on hold, uncertain if he was the kind of man she could ever let into her heart.

Starsky didn’t comment that years down the road, Vanessa would crush Hutch’s own heart, making him question his worth as a police officer and a man. Swallowing the last bite of his hot dog, Starsky licked his fingers. “Julie actually told your folks and Kelly you got her pregnant?”

“She told anyone who’d listen,” Hutch said sourly. “The whole thing was a lie that eventually backfired in her face, but by then the damage had been done.”

“So why d’ya think she called you?”

Hutch shrugged. “I don’t know. She always liked jerking my chain. Maybe she just wanted to see if she’s still got what it takes.”

Starsky took another slurp from his soda then tilted the cup, pointing the straw at Hutch. “So you do a little seduction number on her, then turn the tables. Presto - - payback.”

“That’s what she said too, but that’s not what it was about.” Frowning, Hutch rested his hands on the table. In the bright afternoon light, his fair hair gleamed with the gilded kiss of fine gold. “I just didn’t want . . .” He hesitated, growing uncomfortable. Sky blue eyes flashed to Starsky’s face. “Look, Starsk . . . you’ve got a real shot with Natalie. I know you probably didn’t give Julie more than a passing thought, but take it from me - - she’s not so easily shrugged aside. I just didn’t want her going after you.”

Starsky grinned. “So you offered to go to bed with her?” He parted with a low whistle. “I really appreciate such a noble sacrifice, buddy.”

“Damn it, Starsky, I’m being serious. She’s a witch. And that’s being kind.”

“If she’s that horrible, why’d you agree to meet her at the airport?”

“Because she’s Kelly’s friend and because I thought maybe she’d changed.” Frustrated, Hutch dragged a hand through his hair. “The thing is, she’s still lying. That whole thing about The Plaza and booking her room on the wrong night? She lied about that too. I checked with the desk clerk last night and her room was available yesterday.”

“So maybe she just wanted to, you know . . .” Starsky gave a suggestive shrug. “A woman who lies about a pregnancy probably doesn’t get over a man real quick.” Grinning, he sent Hutch a playful wink. “You’re awfully cute, Blondie. Maybe she’s still hung up on you.”

“Stuff it, Starsky.” Standing, Hutch carried his empty plate and full salad to the trashcan, dumping them both inside.

Watching him, Starsky felt his grin fade. What kind of kid had Hutch been? Would he have climbed a water tower at the suggestion of a friend, eager and anxious to touch the sky . . . to soar on dizzying heights, arms outstretched, giddily laughing until the sickening snap of rotted wood turned laughter into screams of terror?

“Hey.” Hutch nudged his shoulder.

Starsky jerked, realizing he’d stopped seeing his surroundings long ago. That his head had been filled with images of blue skies, rolling fields, and a stark brown water tower. How long he’d sat motionless staring into space, his empty plate weighted down with wadded up napkins, he was uncertain. Embarrassed, he blinked up at Hutch. “I, uh . . . I . . .”

Hutch sat down beside him, wedging his back against the picnic table so he faced Starsky. Bracing his elbows on the surface, he studied his friend. “A little distracted there, aren’t you pal?” he asked softly.

It was his tone that did it. Starsky lowered his head, staring at his hands. It was hard not to respond to Hutch when he used that quietly inquiring tone of voice. Not coddling, but gentle enough to indicate he knew something was wrong.

Another shrug, this one coupled with a frustrated breath. How did he tell his closest friend that he had his head stuck in the past . . .that a single summer after his father had died, he’d gotten Frankie Nello killed? That maybe, just maybe, the dead didn’t rest and it was time for him to face his own ugly payback.

“Thinkin’ stupid stuff,” he finally managed. He’d known Hutch hadn’t bought his joke routine at the haunted house after he’d made such an issue about that kid, but his partner hadn’t brought it up since. That would be just like Hutch . . . wait it out, eye up the problem, force a confrontation only after he’d exhausted other channels.

Starsky had done a little of that himself. While his partner was reviewing something in Records that morning, he’d contacted the employment center for Pier Amusements. He’d learned a staff of five ran the haunted house, all of them over eighteen. None had children, and if someone had brought a friend matching the description of an eleven-year-old boy with straight black hair and pale, sunken skin, there was no way to track it.

“Normal stupid or heavy stupid?” Hutch asked, trying to lighten the mood.

The shadow of a smile flickered over Starsky’s lips. “Thinkin’ about Frankie Nello,” he explained.

Hutch nodded thoughtfully. “The kid you grew up with? The one who liked yo-yos?”

“Yeah. And flyin’.” Starsky wet his lips, deciding to get his feet wet. He wasn’t ready to part with everything that was bothering him, but if he couldn’t confide in Hutch, he couldn’t confide in anyone. Besides, his partner had a habit of putting things in perspective for him, making him see cold facts when he was off chasing dragon tails. “See, the thing is . . .”

Why the hell was it so hard talking about it, admitting the truth? That grainy summer day was over twenty years old. “I really didn’t grow up with Frankie. We were friends for about two summers. He, uh . . . he died when I was eleven. The summer after my Dad got shot.”

“Geez, Starsk, I’m sorry.” Hutch seemed genuinely surprised. He slid a hand onto Starsky’s forearm, tightening his fingers in companionship and silent support. “No wonder the yo-yo bothered you. Like I said - - one of those kids probably left it at the station and didn’t even realize. I’m sorry I was short about it, buddy.”

“It’s no big deal. It was a long time ago.” Deciding he’d been morbid enough for one day, Starsky sucked down a breath and patted his stomach. “Don’t know about you, Blintz, but I’m stuffed.” His change in posture and tone signaled his desire to drop the conversation. Swinging a leg over the picnic bench, he stood and gathered up his plate.

Hutch looked up at him a little uncertain, accepting the closure for what it was. “Ready to get back to the grind?”

Starsky parted with a dramatic groan. “If that doctor don’t clear you tomorrow, I ain’t gonna be held accountable for what I do to ‘im.”

Back inside, among four walls and mounds of paper, Starsky felt his lack of sleep catch up with him. Standing behind his desk, he shook his head, grimacing at the messy stack of folders, printouts and handwritten notes strewn across the surface. “What’d this stuff do - - breed while we were out? I swear it’s multiplyin’, Hutch. Either that or some nasty paper demon’s got it in for me.”

“Probably some nasty captain who doesn’t like the way we fill out reports.” Hutch started in the direction of the coffee pot, now dutifully refilled since Dobey’s earlier tirade. “Want some coffee?” he called over his shoulder.

Starsky nodded. “Lots of sugar.”

“I know, Starsk.”

The phone rang, forcing Starsky to go on a short hunt before he located it under a mound of departmental bulletins. Pressing down on the flashing line, he lifted the receiver. “Sergeant Starsky.”

Thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack . . .

The sound vibrated in his ear, underscored by the same eerie hiss of an open line. “Who is this?”

“Davey?” A child’s voice quavered from the receiver.

Shaken, Starsky dropped into his chair. Something river-cold and fish-scaled curled into his gut. Around him the activity in the squad room continued unabated. Baker and his partner Gibson were haggling over whose turn it was to buy lunch, egged on by a female officer. Hutch was talking to Carlini at the coffee pot. Someone else brought a stack of mail into the room and dumped it in a central tray. Thrum-hiss-smack.

“Davey?” the voice he couldn’t possibly be hearing said again. “Davey, it’s Frankie. I’m scared, Davey. It’s cold and wet, and I can’t breathe. Why’d you leave me, Davey? Why’d you let me drown?”

Starsky slammed the phone down.

“Starsk?”

He heard Hutch’s voice somewhere in the distance, but couldn’t turn his head. The ice in his stomach had knotted into a fist, pushing into his lungs until he thought he couldn’t breathe. Until his chest wanted to explode and the greasy hotdog he’d had for lunch churned backward into his throat. Panicked, he bolted into the hall, racing for the bathroom.

The blood pounded in his head, echoing like the cold lap of water in that vast, churning tower. He could still feel the kiss of moisture on his face . . .hear the vacuum-like rush of enclosed sound when he’d stuck his head through the gaping hole, desperately trying to spy Frankie below.

Why’d you leave me, Davey? Why’d you let me drown?

Choking back bile, Starsky clamped a hand over his mouth, barreling into the men’s room. He banged open the door of the nearest stall, dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, too sick to be concerned when a patrolman at the urinal shot him a startled glance.

A second later his stomach heaved into his throat and he retched loudly, closing his eyes against the brutal force of having his guts turned inside-out. Somewhere in the background he thought he heard Hutch’s voice telling the patrolman to leave, but knew only the misery of a violently churning stomach, the guilt-memory of a friend’s cruel death.

The heaving started over again. He nearly choked on the stench of regurgitated food. His body trembled under the force, his throat blistered and raw from stomach acid. Another heave, bile only, followed by hitching, painful gasps for air.

A steadying hand slid onto his back. “Take it easy, Starsk.” The voice was soft, wonderfully familiar, a voice he didn’t deserve.

He tried to flinch away but the hand moved onto his shoulder, rising to gently touch the back of his head. Someone bent over him and he heard the rumble of the toilet paper holder. A moment later a wad of tissue was held in front of his face. He snatched it away, wiping it over his mouth, trying to dislodge the sour taste of vomit. The hand left his head, rubbing soothingly over his back.

“Bad hot dog?” Hutch asked. With his free hand he flushed the toilet.

Unable to look his friend in the eye, Starsky hung his head over the bowl. “Somethin’ like that.” He drew an uneven breath. “I’ve been sick before, Hutch. Go back to the squadroom, huh?”

His friend hesitated. “Came on you awfully quick, didn’t it?”

“Like I said before . . . bad hot dog.” Starsky sank onto the floor, letting his head thunk back against the obnoxiously-painted orange stall. “You know . . .” Staring up at his friend, he forced a grim smile for Hutch’s benefit. “There are some things a guy does in private and spewin’ his guts is one of ‘em. I promise I ain’t gonna shrivel up and die if you leave me alone.”

“Starsky - -”

“I’m serious, Hutch. How many other guys you see turnin’ into Florence Nightingale ‘cuz their partner got a bad hot dog? I’ll be okay, pal. Just back off.”

It wasn’t so much the sentiment behind the words but the way he said it that kindled a stab of wounded light in Hutch’s eyes. Just back off. He could have been a bit more considerate, but Starsky was feeling too miserable and shaken for tact.

“How ‘bout if I wait outside?” Hutch asked.

“How ‘bout if you wait in the squadroom?”

Hutch frowned. “Maybe you should go home. You could’ve picked up a stomach flu. Two of the guys in Research are out with it.”

“Hutch.” Biting back a groan, Starsky rubbed his temple. “Just give me some breathin’ room, huh? If I ain’t feelin’ better in a couple of minutes, I’ll think about callin’ it a day. Deal?”

Hutch was clearly unconvinced - - Starsky could see that in his eyes - - but he nodded and left the bathroom. Alone, Starsky dropped his head into his hands. Some brilliant cop he was. He never should have ended the phone call. Every ounce of training in his career told him he should have been trying to coax a number and I.D. from the caller.

‘Cept he don’t got one, ‘cuz he’s dead.

If he dwelled on the phone call, he’d just get sick all over again. Why’d you leave me, Davey? Why’d you let me drown?

‘Cuz I’m a selfish sonofabitch and I was scared out of my skull.

Was someone playing games with him? How . . . why? And how could anyone possibly know about something buried so deeply in his childhood? Unable to face the thought of more paperwork or even his partner’s measuring glances, Starsky decided to call it a day.

He checked out with Dobey, mumbled something about not feeling well to Hutch then headed home. Maybe if he got some sleep his mind wouldn’t feel so fried and he could put things back into perspective.

But his apartment only heightened his sense of anxiety. It was as if someone had been inside. He’d been a cop too long not to notice when something was different. The door was locked and all the windows secure with no signs of forced entry. Yet something felt strangely out of place, as if someone or something had wandered from room to room disturbing small items: a magazine turned face-down instead of face-up, the string on the kitchen blind dangling off the sill instead of puddling on top of it, a bottle of aftershave moved a fraction of an inch to the left on the bathroom vanity. All things most people would overlook, but he picked up in an instant. How was it possible someone could have gotten into his apartment? And why? Nothing had been taken, nothing missing. There was just that strange sense of violation, of having his security breached.

Wanting to empty his mind of everything, Starsky sat in front of the TV until he drifted off sometime after three o’clock. Hutch showed up when his shift ended, but thankfully took Starsky’s assurances that he was feeling better and left shortly afterward. By 7:00, Starsky was hungry enough to eat a can of noodle soup and half a turkey sandwich. He went to bed early but tossed all night with dreams, plagued by the gut-twisting assurance that he had let Frankie Nello die.

Sometime after 2:00 he woke in a cold sweat, convinced his one-time friend had transformed into a vengeful spirit. He sat bolt upright, certain he’d seen Frankie’s face floating above him, his friend’s features hideously bloated and distorted from prolonged immersion in water.

How long was I under, Davey? How long until they found me? You could have saved me.

The voice echoed in his head, the foggy half-memory of a nightmare he’d been having. Or was it real? Was Frankie talking to him from beyond the grave?

I’m going to kill you, Davey. Make you drown.

“Damn it!” Grinding his teeth together, Starsky gripped his head in both hands, trying to silence the voice. The phone rang and he snatched it from the receiver, too keyed up to consider the unlikelihood of a call at such an ungodly hour. “Yeah?”

Thrum-hiss-smack, thrum-hiss-smack.

“Who the hell is this?”

“Davey?” A child’s voice quavered across the phone, clearly frightened, clearly real . . . not some ghost-figment of his tortured imagination. “Davey, I’m scared.”

Moved by the blatant terror in the boy’s voice, Starsky shook aside his own confusion. “Tell me who you are.”

“It’s Frankie.” A pause, as if the caller couldn’t believe he didn’t know. “Frankie Nello.”

“You’re not Frankie Nello,” Starsky said calmly, though every muscle in his body was bow-string taut. If this was a game, it was a disturbingly sick one. “Frankie Nello died over twenty years ago.”

“Don’t play tricks, Davey. I wanna go home. It’s cold and dark here. Please come find me.”

“Where are you?”

“I don’t know . . . there’s a bunch of rocks and lots of water and a green light at the end. Davey, please - -”

The line went dead as if the caller had been cut violently short. Whether he was really Frankie Nello or some misguided fool playing a game, the boy sounded in real trouble. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Starsky fumbled for a light switch. He dressed quickly, grabbing the first pair of jeans and discarded tee-shirt he could lay his hands on. He grabbed his gun then rummaged in the front closet, snagging his navy blue windbreaker. He was almost out the door when some inner sense made him stop and dial Hutch.

“Hullo?” His friend answered on the third ring, his voice groggy and sleep-fogged.

“Hutch. I don’t got time to explain, but I’m headed to the old South Jetty. Meet me there, huh?”

“Starsk?” Hutch blearily connected the voice with his partner. “What time is it?”

“After 2:00. No time to explain, pal, just meet me at the jetty.”

Hanging up the phone, Starsky bolted out the front door.

+++++

Starsky drove as far as he could, parking his Torino in a public lot then hoofing over the nearest dune break to the beach. The problem with owning a low-ride sports car was its lack of all-terrain accessibility. It did great on city streets, but that’s where the practicality ended. In a Jeep or 4-wheel drive, he could have easily buzzed one of the off road cut-throughs, barreling across the sand to the South Jetty. As it was, he was forced to park a good two miles away and run the rest of the way on foot.

Sand sluiced into his sneakers with every adrenalin-packed lunge he took. The further he raced up the beach away from the pier and cluster of city lights, the darker his surroundings grew. To his right, the ocean was a black abyss, greedily swallowing even the weakest flicker of illumination. Lights spiked above the dune line to the left, but the glow was fractured, thinned to an insubstantial haze by distance. Overhead, stars gleamed ice-white and diamond-cold, strewn like cut glass in the cavernous black bowl of the sky.

Starsky ran, heart pumping wildly in his chest. Frankie Nello was dead. There was no question of that in his mind, but someone or something was playing games, and they were using a frightened child to do it. He wanted answers. More than that he wanted rest for his tormented conscience and help for the terrified boy who’d been coerced into making phone calls. Digging his sneakers into the sand, Starsky ground his teeth together and quickened his pace.

In the distance the south jetty jutted into the ocean, a slender spine of rock crowned by the steady on-and-off wink of a revolving bottle-green light. Waves pounded the stone quay relentlessly, spraying beads of white foam high into the air. To either side the water was torrential and deep, gouged through natural erosion and months of mechanical dredging. Rarely used any longer because of its narrow mouth, the inlet was barren and poorly lit.

The surf, however, was violent, wailing loudly in Starsky’s ears. The sound it made was not unlike the vast roar of water in that cursed tower. He wouldn’t have dreamed still water could make a noise - - any noise - - yet he’d never forgotten that eerie rake of sound.

It was dead, soulless and empty, like the diseased hiss of air at the bottom of an abandoned well. Sometimes at night he could still hear the echo in his head, see Frankie’s limp body when they pulled him from the tower, his skin chalk-white and wrinkled like aging cabbage. His yo-yo had been wedged in his pocket, only the tip protruding from his water-logged jeans. Yet as they lifted him onto the stretcher behind the coroner’s wagon, the wooden toy had spilled loose, rolling unchecked across the grass. Rolling and rolling, like it had a life of its own.

Like the damn thing could fly.

Running harder, Starsky sucked down a sharp breath. I’m so sorry, Frankie. So friggin’ sorry! I never should have said a damn thing about that water tower. Never should have suggested we climb that stupid ladder. I know it ain’t you on that jetty. Can’t be you. Just can’t be . . .

But the thought stayed unsettled in the back of his mind, whispering of ghosts, phantoms, and vengeful childhood spirits. Of dark nights and soulless friends who wandered from the Netherworld, intent on retribution.

Payback.

With a grim bark of laughter, he shook the thought aside. He was a grown man, thirty-three - - a street cop as renowned for his cockiness as his down-and-gritty approach to law enforcement. He didn’t believe in hobgoblins or things-that-went-bump-in-the-night. The boy who had made the phone calls was flesh and blood, likely in need of his help.

He slowed slightly as he reached the jetty and sand gave way to rock. Hutch was nowhere to be seen, but he had a sizeable head start on his sleepy friend. Stepping cautiously, Starsky moved onto the jetty, left hand tucked inside his jacket, resting on the butt of his gun. The roar of surf was louder here, lapping and crashing against the rocks in a frenzied dance of black water and glittering foam. He felt the sting of cold air and water against his face, the whip and hiss of unfettered wind. If felt like it had on the Nello farm those many summers past - - wild, savagely fierce, bristling with the natural energy of sky and earth fused together.

“Frankie!” Cupping his right hand around his mouth, Starsky pitched his voice above the raging tide. The jetty looked empty, boulders upon rocks and larger boulders all wedged together in a ragged makeshift spine. Racing across the top, he ran for the green shore-marker in the distance. The stone glistened wet and slick beneath his feet, pummeled by the incoming lash of waves. He felt the kiss of water against his face, the beading touch of dampness in his curling black hair. Water sluiced over his sneakers and soaked his ankles. “Frankie!”

Halfway to the end he saw someone. A figure detached itself from the shore-marker, moving a step closer on the ocean-slicked jetty. Starsky felt the prickle of goosebumps on the back of his neck. The boy couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve with straight black hair and skin the unhealthy gray of fossilized bones. By contrast his eyes were black, sunken into a face that was expressionless and gaunt. It was his stare that made Starsky’s wildly-beating heart plummet to his stomach - - a stare that was lifeless and dull, so devoid of warmth and human compassion it was like looking at a statue. No one else was around that he could see, making the boy’s presence on the treacherous jetty all the odder.

Uncertain, Starsky took another step forward, squinting through the misting water and darkness. “Frankie?” Whoever this boy was, he bore a striking resemblance to the Frankie Nello Starsky had known as a child. A resemblance so uncanny, Starsky felt his rationality waver. Who was he to discount phantoms and ghosts?

“Who are you?” he demanded. A beam of garish green light cut across the boy’s impassive face, winking into darkness as the shore-marker revolved. A second later the sickly illumination was back, enhancing the spectral cast of abnormally pallid skin.

“Why’d you leave me alone, Davey?” the boy asked in a thin voice.

A voice that might have been Frankie’s if he could only make his mind work and muck through the guilt-strewn clutter of twenty long years. Unhinged, Starsky walked forward, barely noticing when the ocean rolled across the rock and drenched his legs, spraying halfway up his calves. “Stop it!” he commanded. “You’re not Frankie Nello!”

The boy never moved, never flinched. “You left me in all that water to drown. I was scared, Davey . . . cold. I hated you. I promised myself I’d get even. I’m going to kill you, Davey. It’s the only way to even the score.”

The ocean surged again, violently this time, spraying up into Starsky’s face, obliterating his view of the shore-marker and the boy who was/was not Frankie Nello. Salt stung his eyes, blurring his vision until he saw only shadows and ghostly half-shapes in the darkness. Disoriented, he lifted an arm to wipe his dripping face. Somewhere in the distance, someone called his name. The ocean swelled yet again, battering his legs, stinging his cheeks and eyes with icy claws. Drenched and shivering, he staggered off-balance. “Frankie!”

The gleeful laughter of a child playing a cruel trick rang hollowly in his ears. He heard a rush of pounding feet and groped blindly as the sound came nearer. Teetering precariously, he slipped, his foot whisking from beneath him on the slippery stone. He thudded to one knee, his teeth clacking together at the jarring impact of bone against rock. Hanging his head, he opened his mouth to suck in a lungful of cold air and was struck in the back by a buffeting surge of water.

Starsky only had time to gasp aloud before the fiercely rolling wave shoved him over the jetty. Frantically he grappled for a hold, but his wet fingers slipped on the edges, unable to find purchase on the water-slicked rocks. Sharp ridges of stone bit into his back, gouging his shoulder and side. His skull connected with the edge, sending him senselessly reeling into black oblivion. The ocean tumbled him over and under like a ragdoll, until consciousness fading, he was dragged into the cold depths of waiting water where Frankie Nello slept.

+++++

“Starsky!”

Hutch pitched his still-healing voice as loudly as he could. He barely deciphered the form of his friend in the distance, racing hell-bent to the end of the treacherous jetty. Though the man was too far away to distinguish features, he moved like Starsky. Hutch had stumbled over his friend’s Torino in the public lot two miles down the beach when he’d parked his battered LTD. What Starsky was doing on a desolate quay in the middle of the night, he had no idea, but the black foreboding in his gut didn’t sit well. He’d been half asleep when he’d gotten his partner’s phone call, too disoriented to form even a basic question before the line had clicked dead in his ear.

“Starsky!” Worried, he tried again, louder this time, feeling the inevitable strain to his vocal chords. For a crazy moment he thought he saw someone else at the end of the jetty. Someone considerably shorter and slighter of build. A child?

But the darkness was too thick to tell, made murkier still by whorls of serpent-thin mist conjured from the pounding surf. “Starsky!” Hutch ran as fast as he could, inhaling draught after draught of stinging air. The man on the jetty staggered off balance, slipping and dropping to one knee. Before Hutch could draw a breath to yell again, a wave engulfed the rock, carrying the bent figure over the edge.

“Starsky!” Panicked, Hutch sprinted onto the quay, heedless of the slick rock beneath his feet. He slipped once, nearly losing his balance, managing to right himself at the last moment. Water crashed against his legs but didn’t stop his mad dash for the spot where he’d seen his friend disappear. Never slowing, never breaking stride, Hutch dove off the rock, plunging into the black depths of the inlet.

The force of his dive carried him beneath the violently churning waves. Submerged in jet-black water, it was nearly impossible to see. Holding his breath, he searched frantically for any sign of a body, staying under as long as he possibly could. In direct mockery of his frantic efforts, he saw only blackness, cold and endless, eternally engulfing as the grave. His clothes and shoes bogged him down, the weight of his light flannel jacket abruptly cumbersome and restrictive. Eventually his lungs contracted, starved and screaming for oxygen.

Gasping, Hutch burst to the surface, greedily gulping a lungful of air. He dove immediately, using the power of his legs to propel him deeper this time. Effectively blind, he groped in front of him, feeling for resistance in the lightless depths. His lungs had reached their limit when his questing fingers finally collided with fabric, then flesh. He felt the outline of an elbow, the rounded bulk of a shoulder. Grabbing hold, Hutch kicked back to the surface, lungs ready to burst by the time he thrust through into the air.

The body in his arms hung limp and lifeless, a tinge of blue already forming around slack lips. “Starsky . . .” His voice caught as he banded an arm over his friend’s chest, desperately swimming for the rocks. Water swelled around him, spewing into his face with every push and surge of outgoing tide. Fighting to keep his friend’s head above water, Hutch struck in the direction of the jetty. Something dark streamed down the side of Starsky’s face but he didn’t want to think about what that sticky wetness might mean. “Hang on, buddy . . . just hang on a while longer. I got you, Starsk.”

At the side of the jetty, Hutch hung on with one hand, trying to use his other arm to drag Starsky up onto the rock. The tide battered him relentlessly, making him expend most of his energy just to keep from going under. The current raged against him, thrusting him back into the water every time he managed to get Starsky partially free of the inlet. Once . . .then again . . . each exhaustive pummeling worse than the last. Strength waning, throat blistered, his lungs screaming from exertion, Hutch grabbed the back of his friend’s belt and thrust him belly-first onto the rock.

Somehow he managed to haul himself up and out of the water . . . to get his hands under Starsky and drag him clear of the raging surf. Away from the jetty, Hutch lowered his friend onto the sand. It was the first good look he got at Starsky’s face. His friend’s skin was disturbingly gray, his lips tinged with a bluish cast. An ugly cut gaped above his right eye, trailing blood down the side of his face. Kneeling beside him, Hutch felt quickly for a pulse in his neck. He lowered his head, studiously blocking the roar of the ocean as he listened for a tell-tale inhalation of air.

Please, buddy, please.

Starsky’s pulse was thread-thin, barely existent, his lungs still and deflated.

“Don’t do this to me, Starsk.” God help me, help him! Hutch’s heart was in his throat, wedged like an obscenely swollen balloon. Sliding his right hand under Starsky’s neck, he tilted the other man’s head back, forcing his airway open. In some abstract part of his mind, he registered the cold kiss of a waterlogged curl wrapped around his knuckle, the gritty touch of sand through his once-white jeans. With his left hand, he cupped Starsky’s chin, tugging his mouth open. His friend’s lashes were clumped together, tipped with droplets of water and small particles of sand. The bleached cast of his skin was frightening, something dredged from a Hitchcockian nightmare.

Closing his eyes, Hutch sealed his mouth over Starsky’s, breathing the gift of life-affirming air into his lungs, clinging for all he was worth. With his right hand, he pinched Starsky’s nostrils shut. Please, babe . . . don’t go. Don’t leave.

Breathing . . . counting mechanically . . . breathing again . . . counting, praying . . . breathing . . . lips sealed together in a pulsing kiss of life - - the heart-wrenching struggle never ended. The lips beneath Hutch’s were shockingly cold, utterly barren of warmth, devoid of life. Behind him, the ocean raged unabated, immune to the battle on the beach. Hutch shivered, but it wasn’t with cold so much as dread. He breathed again, mouth-to-mouth, pouring his soul into every desperate breath. Starsky, please! Do you hear me, babe? I won’t let you go!

Suddenly Starsky’s body bucked upward, the unexpected jolt of movement catching Hutch completely off guard. His friend’s mouth moved beneath his own then erupted in a fit of violent coughing. Hutch drew back just in time to roll him onto his side. “Take it easy, Starsk.”

Hutch knew his friend was completely disoriented, likely to panic. Starsky’s hacking was the deep rattling cough of someone who had survived near-drowning. Water streamed from the corner of his mouth, puddling onto the sand. He wheezed and hacked, curling his legs up toward his abdomen as the coughing grew more intense and his stomach convulsed.

“Ughnngod . . .” Water and bile gushed from his throat, making him tuck into a tighter ball.

Hutch bent over him, rubbing his back then pounding lightly to dislodge the worst of it. “Don’t fight it, Starsk. Get it out.”

“Hutch?”

“I’m right here, babe.” Scared shitless, but I’m here. He could feel Starsky trembling, feel each painful contraction of his friend’s stomach as it forced salty water up through his throat. Another violent fit of coughing followed. Stricken by the sound, Hutch wrapped an arm around his friend’s waist, tugging him back against his chest. He wanted only to comfort, to hold, to feel the flow of precious oxygen through his partner’s body.

Starsky shuddered and Hutch held him tighter, wrapping both arms around him, melding them together in a warming tangle of arms and legs. “Easy, buddy. It’ll get better in a minute . . . I promise.” His voice was soft, spoken directly into Starsky’s ear. His friend shivered uncontrollably, soaked through. They were both drenched, their clothing saturated and clumped with sand. Hutch could feel it inside his shirt and jeans, irritating his skin. Even the back of Starsky’s hair was riddled with tiny particles. Raising a hand, he gingerly threaded it through the heavy black mass. “How’s your head feel? You’ve got a bad cut over your eye.”

Starsky’s teeth chattered together. He made a sound that might have been an attempt at a reply, but it melted into a low moan. His head rolled to the side and he tucked his face into the crook of Hutch’s neck. Shuddering, he splayed a hand over his lungs, pressing down hard as if trying to curtail a rising surge of pain.

Watching, Hutch grew tense. “I’m sorry, buddy, I know it hurts. Just sit here a minute, okay? Then I’ll get you to a hospital.”

He didn’t want to think about forcing Starsky up the beach. Vaguely he wondered if his car could make it through the harder packed sand by the dune break. Frightened by his partner’s all-too-close brush with death, Hutch pressed his cheek to the crown of Starsky’s hair and held fast. “Ah, buddy, I wish you wouldn’t do stupid stuff like this. Whatever you were up to, why didn’t you wait for me?”

Another painful rattle of air as Starsky tried to speak.

“Shh,” Hutch soothed. “You don’t have to say anything. You just scared me, that’s all.” He closed his eyes, savoring the press of his friend’s lean body against his own, desperately trying to blot out the panic he’d felt only moments before. Starsky was alive. Whatever idiot-for-brains thing he’d been doing on the jetty could wait until his friend was functioning properly. Until the simple act of breathing didn’t make his chest constrict in pain and his lips tighten in a grimace.

Then I’ll give him the chewing out he deserves.

But not now. Not when he was too shaken, too grateful to be angry.

Hutch freed his hand long enough to dig into his pocket for a handkerchief. When he’d tossed his jeans over a chair earlier that night while undressing for bed, he hadn’t even bothered to remove the belt, yet alone the loose change and other stray items in the pockets. The folded white square was waterlogged and limp, but at least it was clean, free of sand. Gingerly, Hutch wadded it against the cut above Starsky’s eye. He felt his friend flinch.

“Easy, Starsk.” He drew back a little, allowing his partner freedom to move.

Rather than draw away, Starsky nestled closer, his head dipping to rest on Hutch’s chest. “No hospital,” he wheezed. “Get me home, huh?”

Hutch frowned. “Starsk - -”

“No hospital.” Firmer this time. Growing agitated, Starsky shifted in his partner’s arms, trying to pull away. He seemed only vaguely aware of what he was doing, what he was saying. The color had yet to return to his face though his lips had gone from blue to bloodless white. His arm was pinned beneath Hutch’s, and he fumbled to pull it free.

Eventually conceding his weakened state, Starsky parted with a low groan, half sigh, half acceptance of defeat. “Lemme go.”

He sounded like a petulant child, annoyed because he was unable to get his way. A fond smile lifted the corner of Hutch’s mouth. “Where you gonna go, babe?” He hugged his partner closer.

The question seemed to perplex Starsky, and his brows dipped in a bewildered frown. He muttered something that got lost in the rolling crash of the surf. Something about a tower and flying.

Deciding his friend’s mind was as muddled as his body was bruised, Hutch ignored the senseless mumbling. Raising his head, he did a quick check of the shoreline, gauging their distance to the water. The tide was going out rather than coming in, but the change was powerful, turning rolling waves to white thunder.

Protective of his injured partner, Hutch slid a hand down his arm, quietly checking for damage. Nothing was broken as far as he could tell and the only blood he could see was on Starsky’s face, but he knew the tumble off the jetty had been violent. Odds were Starsky’s skin would sport a number of bruises before morning.

“Still doing okay?” he asked gently. Shifting his hand, Hutch felt along his friend’s side. His touch was light, but Starsky immediately hissed and tried to wrench away.

“Easy . . . easy.” Hutch’s heart lurched to his throat. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Starsk.” I’d never hurt you, buddy. Unless it’s to wring your stubborn neck for pulling a stupid stunt like this. Do you have any idea how freaking terrified I am right now?

He shoved the frustration down, struggling to get his panicky nerves back in line. Shifting to the right, he eased Starsky onto the sand, flat onto his back. Disentangling himself from his partner, Hutch bent over his friend and tugged his tee-shirt clear of his belt. The soiled garment was torn and ripped in a few spots, bearing thin diagonal slashes up the side. Gently, Hutch pushed the butchered fabric higher on Starsky’s stomach.

His friend groaned, lashes fluttering in a daze of half-consciousness. “It’s all right, babe,” Hutch soothed. “I just wanna look at your side.” It was difficult seeing much of anything in the darkness, but it looked like Starsky’s skin had been badly scraped from the rock. The abrasions were red and raised, angling over his flat stomach, wrapping higher around his ribs. Hutch winced in sympathy, knowing the welts had to sting hideously.

“Listen, buddy.” Bending forward, Hutch rubbed his thumb over Starsky’s brow. At first there was no response, just a sort of lethargic consciousness that waned between clarity and half-sleep. “Buddy, come on . . . focus now.” Hutch kept his voice soft but firm, the stroke of his thumb gentle and caring. “I know you’re hurting, but I need you to wake up. Come on, babe . . . open your eyes. Pay attention.”

It wasn’t his voice or even the calming stroke of his hand that breached Starsky’s gray-limbo world, but the fact that Hutch needed him. The fact that his steadily compassionate partner was asking him to do something. His chest hurt, his head throbbed and his side burned with fire, but no pain was too great if Hutch needed him. Struggling through the disorientation and agony, Starsky dragged himself back into a pain-racked world. The daze had been nicer, a pillowy softness wherein pain was practically non-existent. But that stupor, blissful as it was, didn’t include Hutch, and a world without Hutch, however peaceful, wasn’t any world at all.

His lashes fluttered. Suddenly he was back in the miserable shivering reality of a lonely beach and violently-churning ocean. Of roaring surf and the pinching tightness of overtaxed lungs. A hand touched his face, curving tenderly to cup his cheek.

“Buddy?” Hutch’s voice was gentle, laced with a distinctive note of worry underneath.

Starsky made his eyes focus, concentrated on the touch of that comforting hand against his flesh. He swallowed, parting with a groan that turned into a sputtering cough.

“Easy.” Hutch’s hand dropped to his chest, rubbing gently until the spasm abated. He felt the sickening glug of salt water in his stomach and thought he was going to be sick again. Had he really nearly drowned? A spark of terror whispered in the back of his mind, clamoring for a foothold but he shoved it silent. If he thought about what had nearly happened, he’d go insane . . . the suffocating darkness, the violent press of water forcing him down into a murky world without light and sound. An isolation so great the memory of it tore a whimpering moan from his cold-stiffened lips even now.

“Ssh, buddy, I’m right here.” The hand anchored him again, tracking down his cheek then curling behind his neck. Hutch was bending over him, all white-gold hair and glowing skin like an angelic vision in the midst of swaddling darkness. “Starsk, listen to me. I want you to stay here . . .back from the water.”

Well, okay, that made sense. He really wasn’t into taking another nosedive off the jetty or getting tangled up in the viciously destructive undertow. With effort he managed a weak nod, but the movement kindled the queasy feeling in his gut and he grimaced. Hutch pressed a square of white fabric into his hand, raising his arm until Starsky’s fingers encountered his own brow.

“I want you to hold that against your head,” Hutch said carefully. “I don’t want you to move, Starsk. I just want you to stay here until I get back. You understand me?”

His mouth tasted of sand and seaweed. “Ain’t dumb,” he managed.

Hutch’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “No, babe, you’re not.” He laced a hand into Starsky’s hair, shoving a dripping row of curls from his brow. “I’m gonna go get my car . . . try to get it down here.”

“That thing?” Starsky tried to make sense of the absurd suggestion. Either his mind was connecting slower than he thought, or Hutch had kicked sanity to the wind. “You’ll burn out the clutch.”

“It’s an automatic, dummy.”

The jibe was light, somehow blessedly comforting after what they’d been through. It put the world back into perspective for Starsky, made him realize his partner was about to do something ridiculously foolish because his protective nature had kicked into high gear. “I can walk,” he said. Intent on proving his point, he struggled to a sitting position. “Help me up.”

“Starsk.” Hutch’s hand went to his shoulder, pinning him in place. “It’s two miles back to that lot. You’re not gonna make it.”

Starsky snorted. So he was drenched and shivering, his clothing weighted with wet sand. His lungs hurt, his side hurt, he was half nauseous, and his head teetered between reeling and throbbing. “ . . . had worse,” he mumbled. Besides he just wanted to get home - - away from the roar of water and the scene of his own near-death. Away from the jetty where the ghost of Frankie Nello still haunted the black-ribbed waves. Raising his head, he looked up at Hutch, his expression earnest. “Hutch, I just wanna go home - -”

“You’re going to a hospital.”

“No!” The thought panicked him. Questions would be asked . . . what he was doing on the jetty at such an ungodly hour . . . what or who he’d been looking for when he’d slipped and fallen off the side. He knew those questions must eventually come from Hutch too, but facing his kindhearted partner was a lot less terrifying than opening himself up to the clinical scrutiny of dispassionate doctors.

“Starsky, that cut on your head is probably going to need stitches.”

He pulled the handkerchief away, seeing a dark splotch in the center. So it was bleeding a little. It didn’t feel that bad, if he didn’t count the waffling sensation he felt every time he shifted or the dull ache banding across his brow. “Just needs cleaned up,” he muttered.

In the near-dark Hutch’s face was a spectral combination of shadow and light. He pressed his lips into a tight line. “You nearly drowned, you idiot!”

Starsky heard the love in his friend’s words more than the anger. It was the only reason he could flaunt common sense and still maintain the upper hand. “No hospitals, Hutch.” He clamped a hand on his friend’s arm and used the steadying leverage to push to his feet. “And I can walk.”

He took a step to prove himself and immediately swayed off balance. His knees started to sag, gravity acting against him. A firm arm caught him around the waist, holding him upright when the world wanted to upend. He felt the press of Hutch’s body beside him. In the next instant, his arm was caught and dragged over Hutch’s shoulders, the arm around his waist anchoring them hip to hip. “I can still get my car,” Hutch said near his ear, his voice strained and oddly breathless.

“And have that heap buried to its nose in the sand?” Starsky sighed, resting against him. “A tow company would probably pay you to leave it there.” He laughed slightly letting his brow drop against Hutch’s neck. It felt good to lean into that solid strength, to know Hutch would hold onto him when the rest of the world waffled and sagged. He shivered.

Hutch scuffed a hand up and down his good side, trying to warm him. “You cold, buddy?” The irritation was gone from his voice replaced by bare concern. He dipped his head, leaning closer.

Starsky felt the heavenly caress of warming breath against his chilled cheek. He wanted to burrow closer, to wrap himself in the heat and security that was Hutch. Instead he steeled himself for the two mile trek, forcing one sluggish leg to move in front of the other. Hutch hung onto him, helping him trudge through the loose sand.

They angled further from the shoreline as they walked, keeping close to the dune break where the beach was firmer, the sand tightly packed. The strain felt like torture to Starsky, each gasping breath a fiery spike in his aching lungs. The effort left him trembling and sweating, until he wasn’t sure if he was hot or freezing. Twice he stumbled and Hutch pulled him back up, his hand knotted in the soft leather of Starsky’s belt.

Starsky felt a quaking tremor in his friend’s arm and knew that Hutch’s own strength was waning. Fighting the tide had left him nearly exhausted. Now he was doing the majority of the work for both of them, driving them forward on the grueling trek.

Far in the distance Starsky could see a myriad of twinkling lights from the amusement pier. It seemed an eternity ago he’d won that silly stuffed frog for Nat. Dripping with sweat, shivering with cold, he hung his head and groaned. “Hutch, ‘m gonna be sick.”

He stumbled. This time Hutch went down with him, either too exhausted or too concerned to force him further. Grateful, Starsky bent forward on hands and knees and panted for air. The sick feeling in his gut made him convulse and heave, but there was nothing left in his hollow stomach. He felt Hutch beside him.

His friend’s hand locked onto his shoulder. “Easy pal. We’ll take a break,” the blond-haired man said. His voice sounded strange, quivery and thin.

It was then Starsky realized Hutch was panting too. “You’re ready to keel over,” Starsky gasped.

Hutch laughed hollowly. “Ain’t even close, babe. I just wanna get you home . . .” He sucked down a ragged gulp of air. “ . . . tuck you into bed.”

“I’m spoken for, you jerk,” Starsky managed around the throbbing in his head. He wilted against his friend’s shoulder, grateful for the support even though he knew Hutch was fading too. They stayed like that for close to five minutes, leaning into each other, wheezing for oxygen, thankful just to be alive and lucid.

After a time, Hutch dragged himself to his feet. “Ready?” he asked hoarsely.

Starsky gazed up at him, wondering how he managed to function at all when it was obvious he was one step shy of collapsing. He wanted to curl into a ball, lie down in the sand and forget the wretched night existed. He wanted to close his eyes and surrender to the punishing torment in his body, the sheer exhaustion that said he couldn’t go another step. But Hutch was looking at him expectantly, clear affection shimmering in his gaze.

Wearin’ his heart on his sleeve.

What made it all the worse was that Hutch didn’t show that emotion to anyone but him. To the world in general his partner was compassionate but cool, maintaining a discreet distance no matter the circumstance. Clinical and aloof, he’d once heard another officer describe his friend.

Hutch was anything but reserved in his book. How could he possibly ignore a request from a man who displayed deep-rooted emotion to him alone? Cracking a smile, he got one leg under him and forced himself upright. “Okay, Blondie.” Starsky wavered a little, slumping into his friend’s waiting embrace. It felt natural and welcoming to lean into the taller man. “Take me home and tuck me in.”

He heard Hutch chuckle affectionately. Then they were walking, trudging up the beach, beckoned by lights from the pier and the muted haze of Bay City. Starsky was never sure when he folded into the comfort of his car. He merely recognized the smell of the Torino, a combination of leather, Windex, pine air freshener and lingering Mexican food.

He curled into the front seat, sagging to the side. A second later he heard the release of the driver’s door. The car gave slightly as Hutch slid behind the wheel. Unconsciously, he butted closer to his friend, his head coming to rest against a firm, denim-encased thigh. An arm dropped over his shoulders. He was given a brief hug before the hand left to palm the wheel.

His body jerked, rolling with the movement of the vehicle as Hutch backed it out of the lot. He decided he’d been smart in giving Hutch not only his apartment key, but the key to his Torino as well. Tomorrow he’d fuss over what their sandy, wet clothing had done to his immaculate seats. Right now all he wanted to do was close his eyes and forget the world existed.

Starsky sighed, contented by the lulling hum of motion as the car purred down near-vacant streets . . . by the press of his cheek against Hutch’s thigh. His friend’s arm returned to his shoulders, rubbing slightly, comforting enough to produce a niggling whisper of sleep. He yawned widely and heard a warm chuckle in response.

“That’s it, babe - - go to sleep. I’ll wake you when we reach your place.”

He grunted something in reply, never really certain if it was heard. The next thing he knew, Hutch was rousing him from the vehicle, helping him into his own darkened apartment. Just inside the door Hutch paused long enough to switch on a light and Starsky’s eyes narrowed against the sting. Hutch lead him to the bathroom, sitting him on the lid of the closed toilet before turning away and opening the water in the tub. Seconds later he felt an insistent tug at his sneakers.

Still groggy, Starsky cracked an eyelid. “What’re ya doin’?”

He addressed his question to a drying crown of brass-colored hair. Hutch’s head jerked up, the startling blue flash of his eyes replacing a disheveled mop of ash and gold. The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Stripping you, dummy. Thought I’d save Nat the trouble.”

Starsky tried to wrap his mind around the logic of the statement and failed. “Hutch - -”

“You’re filthy, Starsk,” Hutch said, ignoring him. One sneaker came free followed by the other. Socks were next, disgorging trails of sand over the clean ceramic tile. “Your side’s cut up and it’s caked with sand.” He raised his head, scowling deeply as he met his partner’s eyes. “Not to mention you’ve got blood plastered to the side of your face. You’re going in the tub before you’re going to bed. You might’ve wormed your way free of a hospital, but you’re not getting out of this.”

He turned away, testing the water while Starsky weighed his options. He had to admit a warm bath was appealing, though all he really wanted to do was sleep and sleep some more. He thought about whining how tired he was, but figured Hutch had conceded all he was going to concede for the night. Deciding to get it over with, Starsky shrugged out of his jacket, then tugged his grimy tee-shirt over his head. The wet clothes joined his socks and sneakers on the floor, creating a filth-encrusted pile. “I can do it myself,” he mumbled, referring to the bath. He wasn’t that far gone that he needed to be treated like an invalid or a toddler.

Hutch hesitated, unconvinced. “Let me get you into the tub so you don’t fall,” he offered. “You can do the rest. Deal?”

Arguing would take too much energy and his modesty had pretty much gone out the window years ago where his partner was concerned. Unbuckling his belt, he gave a weary nod. He planted a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, using it as a brace to leverage himself upright. Hutch helped steady him, tugging down his jeans and briefs, then guiding him into the tub.

Starsky sank with a sigh, grateful for the immersion of warm water. His lacerated side flared briefly with pain before settling into prickly submission. Hutch grabbed a washcloth from the sink, passing it to him with a half-used cake of soap. “Scrub your face,” he instructed, “But watch that cut. I’ll see if you’ve got anything to patch it up.”

“Yes, mom.” A tired smile danced over Starsky’s lips. “You want I should wash behind my ears too?”

Hutch waved his middle finger in the air before turning to root through the medicine cabinet.

Starsky gave a snort of laughter. “Charmin’ as always, ain’t ya, Blondie? You could use a bath too, ya know. You look like something the cat regurgitated.”

Hutch didn’t bother raising his head as he pulled boxes and bottles from the medicine cabinet, pausing to study labels or occasionally open lids and peer inside. He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you settled before we worry about me, huh, Starsk?” His tone was light, but his voice was hoarse, obviously strained past its limited range for the night.

T’rrific. Just when he’s about to get sprung from desk duty, he spends the night yellin’ and suckin’ down lungfuls of cold air. That departmental doc ain’t never gonna release him now.

Disgusted, Starsky leaned back against the tub, resting his head on the rim. Within seconds his eyes had drifted shut. He gave a start when he felt something swab the corner of his face. His eyes flashed open, his heart lurching to his throat, before he realized it was only Hutch tending the cut on his brow. The tension left his body and he gave a low groan. “ . . . think I drifted off,” he mumbled.

“Yeah.” Kneeling at his side, Hutch lowered his hand, the damp washcloth hanging limply from his fingers. His face looked haggard, but his eyes were river-bright. “Think you can finish up, pal? I’ll get you something clean to wear.”

Starsky nodded, disturbed by the brittleness of his friend’s voice. Hutch braced his hands on the side of the tub and pushed upright with obvious effort. He passed the washcloth to Starsky, nodding slightly to convey what words couldn’t.

When Hutch left the room he finished washing, gingerly bathing the sandy grit from his damaged side. The water was brown by the time Starsky finished. Rather than waiting for Hutch’s assistance, he pulled himself upright by gripping the towel bar and stepped out of the tub.

It felt good to be clean. He dried himself off carefully, again favoring his abraded side. His lungs still ached but his stomach had settled. It wasn’t so bad if he didn’t think about it. The thought of drowning terrified him, but if he removed that from the equation, his discomfort amounted to nothing more than aches and bruises. Throbbing aches and bruises, but aches and bruises all the same.

Hutch returned with his favorite terry robe and a pair of dark green briefs. Starsky stepped into the underwear but didn’t bother with the robe. He sat obediently on the closed toilet, fighting back a series of yawns as Hutch fiddled with a bottle of iodine.

“This is going to hurt a bit,” Hutch cautioned him after soaking a cotton ball in the red antiseptic. Raising his hand, he gently dabbed the cut on Starsky’s brow.

“Ow!” Shocked from his lethargic stupor, Starsky jerked backward. “Hurt a little? How ‘bout a freakin’ lot, Hutch!” He tried to rub away the offending liquid, but Hutch slapped his hand aside.

“Don’t touch it,” his partner warned. “The last thing you need is an infection on top of everything else. Give it a minute . . . it’ll get better.”

Starsky grimaced, but reluctantly did as he was told. He knew Hutch wanted him in a hospital and had only backed off from the request against his will. Given he’d conceded to such a major point, Starsky decided he could afford to consent to a minor one. Biting down on his bottom lip, he waited for the sting to subside. Wordlessly, Hutch dressed the cut, taping it over with a small white patch of gauze.

“Okay,” he announced when he was through. Lifting the trashcan, he whisked pieces of medical tape and a few leftover snippets of bandage off the side of the sink. His mouth tightened in a firm line. “So now are you gonna tell me what you were doing on the South Jetty in the middle of the night?”

Here it comes.

Starsky yawned widely, playing on his exhaustion. “Not now, Hutch. I just wanna go to bed.”

His friend looked away, almost guiltily for having conspired to keep him awake. “Sure, okay.”

Starsky wasn’t sure exactly what was keeping Hutch on his feet other than sheer determination. He looked just as tired, rumpled and dirty, his voice shriveled into a rasp thread. Concerned, Starsky tugged on his sleeve. “You need to get some sleep too.”

Hutch nodded. “I’ll use your shower then crash on the couch. Mind if I borrow some sweatpants?”

Starsky managed a thin smile. “What - - you don’t want my jeans?”

“Not those tight-assed things. Come on, Gordo - - I’ll help you to bed.” Bending forward, Hutch slipped an arm under Starsky’s shoulders and helped him to his feet. Together they walked to the bedroom where Starsky sprawled gratefully on the water-filled mattress.

“Always wanted to be tucked in by a gorgeous blond,” he mumbled into his pillow.

Hutch pulled the blankets up over his waist. “When you find one let me know.” He hesitated. A moment later his hand settled gently on the back of Starsky’s damp hair. His voice was still hoarse, but when he spoke his tone had changed from teasing to earnest. “Call if you need me, okay, babe? I’ll just be in the other room.”

Starsky grunted into the pillow. He wanted to assure his friend he was fine, but he was asleep before the words left his mouth.

+++++

Hutch showered and changed, abandoning his wet clothes for a pair of Starsky’s sweat pants and a black tee-shirt. Dawn lingered just around the corner when he finally sprawled on the couch with a well-deserved yawn. He’d no sooner closed his eyes than he heard a series of fitful moans coming from the dark bedroom.

“Starsky?” Worried, Hutch padded barefoot to his friend’s side. Although asleep, the dark-haired detective had thrust all of the blankets to the foot of the bed as if he couldn’t stand anything touching his skin. Perspiration glistened on his chest, the sheets beneath him damp to the touch. Restless and agitated, he appeared to be caught in a nightmare. Twice he mumbled something about being sorry before his ramblings deteriorated into senseless muttering about a water tower and flying.

Again with the tower.

Bending over the bed, Hutch shook him gently awake. “Come on, pal - - wake up. You’re dreaming.”

It took two tries before Starsky eventually grunted, sputtering awake. Dazed, he rolled onto his good side and was asleep again within a matter of seconds. Hutch straightened the blankets at the foot of the bed, plumped a stray pillow for him then retreated to the comfort of the couch. An hour later he was awakened by the same restless moaning and muttering all over again.

Wearily Hutch crawled from the sofa. The first weak rays of dawn were already streaming through the kitchen window, turning jet shadows into lighter veils of charcoal gray. By the time he reached the bedroom, Starsky had subsided into sleep, one arm tossed carelessly over his eyes to block the pallid light. Hutch hovered a moment, testing his cheek for fever, but the skin beneath his fingertips felt cool and dry. The scrapes on Starsky’s side had grown darker with the night, now more purple than red, the flesh puckered and drawn. Knowing his friend was likely to be sore when he woke, Hutch switched off the alarm clock. Starsky would have set it for 6:30 a.m. from habit, but there was no way his friend was going to the precinct today - - at least not as long as he had anything to say about it.

Trudging back to the couch, he plopped wearily onto the cushions. He could try to eke out another hour’s sleep but the effort felt senseless at this point. Yawning, he glanced half-heartedly at the collection of magazines and books on the coffee table. Starsky’s October issues of Car and Driver and Street Rod mingled with Natalie’s latest romance novel and a book on the Bermuda Triangle.

Picking up the latter, Hutch carried it to the kitchen. He knew Natalie had an interest in the strange and the unexplained and had even gone to a hypnotist to quit smoking right before she’d met Starsky. She’d been nine weeks without a cigarette now and going strong. He’d once caught her reading a magazine about hypnosis and she’d reluctantly confessed to the nicotine addiction. After that they’d discussed everything from UFOs and Stonehenge, to Easter Island, The Flying Dutchman and the afterlife. Starsky had been riveted by the speculative side of one such conversation, going off on a tangent about blue lights in an old Civil War cemetery somewhere in Virginia, and sightings of Bigfoot in the northwest. The night turned into a talkfest complete with beer, chips, pizza, lighted candles and a stereo that pumped out spindle after spindle of Starsky’s 33s.

Hutch smiled at the memory, rooting through Starsky’s cabinets until he found a can of coffee. He set the book aside just long enough to start the pot going, then carried it to the table where he switched on the light. For the next hour and a half he read about missing ships and planes, disappearance theories and a slew of scientific research that amounted to nothing conclusive. He’d gone through three cups of coffee by the time Starsky wandered from the bedroom.

“Hey,” his friend called foggily. He’d thrown on a pair of gray sweatpants and his terry robe, shuffling barefoot into the room. His hair was a mass of disheveled curls, poking up erratically until he dragged a hand through it, taming them into place. The robe gaped open on his chest, the belt dangling loose on either side, leaving a clear view of bruising and scrapes.

Hutch winced. “Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee.”

Rather than protest - - something he would have done normally - - Starsky merely nodded and sank into the nearest chair. Dragging a hand over his face, he stifled a yawn. “My alarm clock says 7:30.”

Hutch shoved a cup of heavily sugared coffee with a whisk of cream under his nose. “Probably because it is 7:30.” Returning to his chair, he pushed Natalie’s paperback aside and studied his groggy friend. Heavy circles creased the flesh beneath Starsky’s eyes and gouged shadows in his cheeks, leaving his angular features haunted and gaunt. The vibrancy was missing from his gaze, normally the bright blue of a rolling sea. In short, he looked exhausted.

Hutch cast a glance at the wall clock. “In a half an hour you’ll be able to reach your doctor. I want you to call for an appointment. Make sure you get in today. I’ll cover things with Dobey.”

Starsky buried his nose in the coffee mug. “Shouldna shut off my alarm, Hutch. I’ll be fine after a shower. I can pull my own shift.”

“Forget it, Starsky.” Hutch felt an irrational swell of anger. He’d just spent an ungodly part of the night fishing his unconscious friend from the bottom of the ocean, only managing to revive him through the use of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And now Starsky was talking about bouncing back after a shower? If he weren’t operating on less than three hours sleep, Hutch might have laughed over the absurdity of the whole situation. Instead he grew fiercely determined.

“Now look! You’re not going anywhere except to see a doctor.” He leveled an index finger between them, bluntly emphasizing the point. Starsky’s eyes widened in surprise, but Hutch plowed ahead before a protest could be formed. “ You weaseled your way out of the hospital last night and I let you get away with it, despite my better judgment. You are not - - I repeat not - - getting out of this one. You will go to see a doctor, I don’t care if I have to freaking drag you there myself. You’re gonna get checked out to make sure your lungs are clear of water. Then you’re gonna come back here and do nothing for the rest of the day except take care of that banged up side. Are we clear, partner?”

Completely caught off guard, Starsky looked ready to snap a refusal. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut, eventually realizing how pointless a protest was. Changing tactics, he smiled and motioned toward Hutch’s throat, visible in the low-necked tee-shirt for the first time in days. “I think your neck’s all cleared up, Blondie. No bruises.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I was worried you were losin’ your voice last night,” Starsky continued as though he hadn’t heard. “But you sound okay today. Pretty pissy in fact. Probably get sprung by that doc after all, ‘less you irk the hell out of him.”

“We were talking about your doctor,” Hutch said tightly then sighed. “Starsky . . .” Expelling a breath, he rubbed his eyes, frustration melting into something less volatile. The long night caught up with him, making him realize how ridiculous anger was when stacked against what he’d nearly lost. “Buddy, you almost drowned last night. Don’t argue with me. Just do like I asked and call the doctor.”

“Well, if you’re gonna put it like that . . .” Starsky shrugged, trying to fluff off his partner’s obvious distress. He coughed lightly. “Sure, okay . . .I’ll call. I could use a day lyin’ around doin’ nuthin’ anyway.”

Pacified, Hutch leaned back in his chair. Starsky’s grudging consent was a step in the right direction, but it still didn’t answer the questions he’d harbored most of the night. He nodded, smiling softly. “Thanks.” Standing and detouring to the coffee pot, he poured himself another cup. A glance over his shoulder revealed a sleepy Starsky parting with a huge yawn.

“You gonna tell me what you were doing on the South Jetty in the middle of the night?” Hutch asked.

Starsky blinked. “Huh?”

Well aware his evasive partner was stalling for time, Hutch frowned. “Starsk, ‘huh’ is not an answer.” Walking back to the table, he eased into his chair and openly studied his friend. The directness of his gaze made Starsky flush and lower his eyes. That alone didn’t sit well with Hutch. Starsky might dance around a question occasionally, but they’d never kept outright secrets from each other. Something about his behavior felt wrong this morning. More than wrong, it felt unnatural.

“When I first got to the beach,” Hutch said carefully, deciding to force the issue, “There was someone else on the jetty with you . . . way out at the end. I couldn’t tell who, but it looked like a kid. That makes absolutely no sense to me, but nothing about last night makes sense. Who was there, Starsk . . .what happened to them, and what the hell were you doing out there at 2:30 in the morning in the first place?”

Um . . .” Clearly uncomfortable, Starsky cleared his throat. A string of weak coughs followed. He grew fidgety, shifting in his chair, briefly palming his coffee cup between his hands. His eyes flickered to the floor before raising again, unmistakable reluctance in his gaze. “You ain’t gonna believe me.”

Thankful his friend hadn’t retreated completely, Hutch kept his voice level. “Try me.”

+++++

Starsky gnawed on his bottom lip. He’d never kept secrets from Hutch before, but then he’d never been confronted with a situation like this one. Admitting the truth would make him sound like he had a screw loose, but keeping it to himself would probably drive him crazy. Besides, maybe Hutch wouldn’t be so closed-minded about it after all. Hadn’t he and Nat spent a recent evening with Hutch discussing everything from ESP to the Loch Ness Monster and all that weird-mummy-Egyptian-tomb stuff? Hutch had believed in Collandra, the psychic, when he himself had been skeptical. And hadn’t they just been through some very weird, very deep voodoo shit on Playboy Island?

“Okay.” Starsky parted with the word as though coming to a monumental decision. In a way he was. How Hutch reacted in the next few minutes would determine his partner’s level of faith in him. “Remember I told you about Frankie Nello?” He saw Hutch nod and rushed forward before he could lose his nerve. “Well, what I didn’t tell you was how he died. See . . .” Starsky sucked down a steadying breath. It wasn’t easy remembering. He’d buried the tragedy so deeply, so long ago, resurrecting it now felt like opening a grave. The kiss of wind and sun came back to him, as raw and invigorating as it had been on that hot summer afternoon. He could almost hear the whispering rustle of leaves from the walnut trees, smell the sweet candied scent of wild strawberries. Somewhat reluctantly, he parted with the tale:

Starsky clung to the highest branch of the ancient walnut tree. He’d picked the largest and the thickest to climb, giddy with the thought of reaching the uppermost branches. He loved heights, loved the feel of textured bark beneath his hands and sneakers, the whip of wind tugging at his unruly hair. The wind was strong here, almost maniacal in force, gusting and warm, dancing across the open fields of the Nello farm like some mystical beastie from a kid’s fairytale.

He was only eleven but he’d stopped being a kid last summer when they’d gunned his father down on the streets. He’d grown up fast after that. His Ma said he was too cynical for his age, but that was just part of being a kid in Brooklyn. He didn’t have a dad to play ball with, to discuss things like cars, sports and even girls. All he had was his Ma, his little brother Nicky and his friends.

Like Frankie Nello.

He grinned across at Frankie, waving from his perch in the branches.

Leaning into the tree, Frankie stretched his arms out, pretending to fly. “Look, Davey - - I’m flying!”

Frankie loved to fly. Starsky knew he believed that some day the wind would swoop down and catch him up into the sky. They’d talked about it, imagined what it would be like. Starsky wanted to fly too. He wanted to soar away from the violent streets of Brooklyn, the gangs that scared his Ma and the spaced-out teens who tried to push dope on his six-year-old brother. He wanted to take both of them and fly someplace where it was safe . . . where Nicky could have fields to play in and his Ma could pick wild strawberries whenever she wanted. Where thugs didn’t shoot down cops and fathers, leaving broken-hearted families behind.

People didn’t fly in Brooklyn where busy streets and tall buildings hemmed them in. But out here it was different. The cynic in him knew he’d never be able to soar, but the innocent dreamer wanted to believe in Frankie’s whimsical vision. Or, at the very least, in Frankie himself.

Grinning, Starsky waved at his friend. He raised one hand to blot the afternoon sun from his eyes. With the glare gone, the old water tower that serviced the surrounding farms came into view. Tilting his head, he stared up at it, mesmerized by its soaring height and the way it jutted majestically into the sky. A wooden ladder snaked from the ground to the base of the bowl, connecting to a circular catwalk suspended far overhead. From there a service ladder extended to the very top of the tower.

Starsky parted with a low whistle. “Wow! Frankie, look at that.” Excitedly, he pointed to the tower. “Do you see those ladders? Imagine what it would be like up on top. I bet . . . I bet it’d feel like we were flyin’ up there.”

All he had to see was the spark of starry-eyed fancy in Frankie’s gaze to know that his friend wanted to fly too. Together they shimmied down from the walnut tree and raced across the field to the tower. It was higher than Starsky originally thought, but the climb was exhilarating. He went first, scrabbling up the ladder to the catwalk. The view below was dizzying, but thrilling all the same. It gave him a rush like he’d never felt before. Holding his arms out to either side, he threw his head back and yelled at the top of his lungs. The echo was immediately caught, whisked away on playful gusts of wind. Dwarfed beneath the enormous bulk of the water tank, he felt small by comparison.

“Davey . . . Davey, this is so cool.” Frankie was breathless, his face flushed with excitement by the time he reached the catwalk. “Come on - - we gotta go higher.”

Starsky grinned. He tilted his head back to look up at the tower and felt his enthusiasm dim. Something unsettling pinged through his stomach. The tank blotted the sun, sealing them in a cooling cloak of blue shadow. Suddenly apprehensive, he wasn’t so sure climbing to the top was the best idea. “I don’t know, Frankie. Maybe we shouldn’t go any higher.”

“I wanna fly, Davey. Come on.” Frankie waved the way, eagerly clambering up the service ladder.

Considerably less enthusiastic, Starsky turned his head to look over his shoulder. The ground spun beneath him, a dizzying drop below. He’d never been afraid of heights before but suddenly it felt all wrong - - the wind, the old tower, the staggering heights. “Frankie, come on.” He stopped halfway up the ladder, clinging to the rungs. “Let’s go back down. It’s safer on the catwalk.”

But Frankie wasn’t listening. He just kept climbing until he disappeared over the top. Forced into following, Starsky hurried up the ladder. It was like stepping onto the edge of the world, when he reached the top and vaulted onto the wooden surface of the tower. He’d never dreamed he could see so far, feel the dance and skip of the wind on a level that transcended everything he’d ever imagined. For one sheer blissful moment he actually thought he could fly. And then he heard a crack, the sickening snap of rotted, aged wood giving way.

“Frankie!” Starsky lunged forward but wasn’t fast enough to catch his friend. The wood buckled beneath Frankie’s feet, dropping him through a hole in the tower to the death-grip of dark water below. He heard the echo of Frankie’s terrified scream, plummeting down into the depths of cold and utter silence.

“Ohgod, Frankie!” Starsky sprawled on his belly, shoving his head through the ragged hole. At first he saw nothing, just blackness, endless and devouring. A strange rush of sound engulfed him - - a heart-pounding swell of nothingness, thunderous all the same, like the roar of a contained vacuum. Or maybe it was just his blood, thrumming and pulsing to the bone-cold beat of that impossibly still water below.

“Frankie! Frankie, please, where are you? Frankie, answer me!” His voice bounced around the inside of the tower, mocking him with his own raw terror. He could see ribs of wood and metal now, hammered along the curving walls, the dark drape of jet-black water staring back like an unblinking eye. He imagined his friend at the bottom of that abysmal tank, lungs bursting with a glut of cold water, fiercely laboring to inhale air he’d never breathe again. “Ohgod, Frankie, please! I don’t know what to do! Please, Frankie.”

Starsky dragged a hand through his hair. His voice quivered to silence in the kitchen. He didn’t know how long it had taken him to relay the ugly tale but it was brighter in the room, the weak infusion of light now filtered with bands of gold. Hutch was watching him intently, leaning forward across the table. He felt his friend’s hand close over his, but didn’t have the nerve to lift his eyes. He knew Hutch’s gaze would hold only compassion, something he didn’t deserve . . . didn’t want.

“I left him,” he said, his voice whispery and thick. “I couldn’t see him, Hutch, not in all that water. If I’d gone in after him we’d have both died, so I ran to get help. I . . .” His voice faltered and cracked. He coughed. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the only thing you could,” Hutch told him firmly.

Starsky shook his head. “I shoulda never talked him into climbin’ that freakin’ tower in the first place. It took ‘em over an hour to fish him out.” Irritated, he shoved to his feet and paced away from the table.

“It was an accident, Starsky,” Hutch said patiently.

“Yeah, I know - - that’s what they all said. But it don’t change the fact the whole thing was my fault. If I hadn’t suggested it in the first place - -”

“Starsky, don’t do this to yourself.

“I can’t help it. Not after last night. Not after everything that’s been happenin’ lately.”

Sudden silence filled the room. In the glaring hush that followed, Starsky mentally cursed. He hadn’t meant to part with so much so soon. Rolling his hand into a fist, he pressed it against his mouth and coughed, wincing when a stab of pain spread across his chest.

“What do you mean ‘everything that’s been happening lately?’” Hutch asked carefully.

Starsky shrugged. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robe and wandered to the kitchen counter. Increasingly nervous, he fiddled with the spoon for the sugar bowl before dropping it onto the counter. He knew everything he was going to say would sound like the ravings of a madman, but he told Hutch about the phone calls from Frankie anyway. Afterward he brought up the discovery of the yo-yo on his desk, the page at the airport, the image of his dead friend in the mirror at the haunted house. Far too many coincidences to add up to chance.

Just admit it, Starsky - - you’re gonzo. A nutcase haunted by the ghost of childhood past.

Hutch expelled a breath and dragged a hand through his hair. He shook his head slowly, glancing away, the set of his features conveying what he thought without words.

Starsky felt heat creep over his face. “You think I’m whacked, don’tcha?” he snapped. “Believin’ in ghosts and things that-go-bump-in-the-night?”

“I never said that.” Hutch pushed his chair back, butting it against the wall. Leaning forward, he braced his arms on his knees, his expression calm despite Starsky’s throbbing anxiety. “I’m just trying to understand your point, babe.” His voice was a little too placating, purposefully unruffled. “So you got a few calls from some kid. Obviously someone’s yanking your chain. The question is who and why? What exactly are you trying to say here?”

“I don’t know!” Incensed, Starsky threw his hands in the air. “Ain’t it obvious?” he yelled. “It’s payback time. I’m responsible for gettin’ Frankie Nello killed and now it’s time to even the score.”

Hutch choked on a bark of appalled laugher. “Starsky, you’re not talking about ghosts?”

Hell, yes, he was talking about ghosts! He was talking about vindictive ghosts - - let-me-drag-you-kickin’-and-screamin’-onto-the-jetty-and-fuckin’-drown-your-sorry-ass-in-shitty-cold-water-for-getting’-me-killed ghosts! Weren’t they the best kind? What the hell good was a restless phantom without a healthy need for revenge?

Unnerved, he trounced into the living room. “I don’t wanna talk about this.” Shaking, he crumbled onto the sofa, distressed to realize his whole body was trembling. Some tough cop. Another cough bubbled up from his lungs, rattling his ribs like the bars on a cage. Latching onto a throw pillow, he hugged it to his chest, angling his body into the corner of the couch, his back to the kitchen.

Ever the bulldog, Hutch followed behind him. “Starsky - -”

Wrapping his arms around the pillow, Starsky hugged tight. So he was cracked - - crazy - - ready for the frigging loony bin, believing in chain-rattling ghouls. What the hell else could he do? “You think I’m nuts.”

Hutch sat behind him. He felt a hand slide onto his shoulder, the simple act of contact reducing his quivering. Still he wanted to curl up, to pull away, too confused and defiled to appreciate the generosity of friendship. He’d destroyed that with Frankie Nello. What if one day he made the same deadly mistake with Hutch? He’d had good friends before, even dear ones like Frankie, but never one to equal the idealistic, compassionate Midwesterner sitting behind him. He’d already destroyed one friend. What if he did something just as stupid with Hutch? What if someday he was responsible for getting Hutch killed?

“Starsk . . .” Hutch’s voice was soft, carefully reasoning. “Ghosts don’t make phone calls.” Long fingers flexed on Starsky’s shoulder, kneading away knots of tension. “Some kid left that yo-yo on your desk, nothing paranormal or mystical about it. The page at the airport was coincidence, and the thing at the haunted house - -”

Starsky half glanced over his shoulder, curious how his friend would explain away the image in the mirror.

Hutch smiled softly. “Your mind was already on Frankie, so of course you’d think you saw him. Just a trick of the subconscious, Starsk.”

He wasn’t buying it. “And the phone calls?”

Hutch frowned. “Like I said before - - ghosts don’t make phone calls - - someone’s messing with your head.”

Starsky pivoted on the sofa cushion, thrusting the pillow aside. “That won’t work, Hutch. No one knows about, Frankie. I never told anyone. How can - -” Agitated, Starsky succumbed to a violent fit of coughing. The sound was reedy and hollow, rattling up from his lungs with a clinging tail of phlegm.

“That’s it.” Reaching behind him, Hutch snatched the phone from the end table and plopped it onto the couch. He thrust the receiver at Starsky. “I don’t wanna hear anymore about ghosts. Call your doctor now, or I will.”

Starsky balked. He hated doctors, didn’t want to think about the too-personal questions that would be asked. There would be poking and prodding, probably x-rays . . . waiting in sterile rooms wearing nothing but modesty-sapping paper gowns. That would be followed by more waiting, a round or two of needles, cold stethoscopes and a glut of foul-tasting medicine to wash the whole revolting experience down.

On the other hand, calling the doctor freed him from discussing Frankie. At least temporarily. Scowling, so it didn’t appear he’d conceded too easily, Starsky dialed his doctor’s office. He spent a few minutes on hold during which Hutch plumped the pillows at his back and straightened the collar on his robe. A proverbial mother hen, he thought, not without affection. Eventually a disinterested nurse returned to the line and grudgingly gave him an appointment for 12:30 that afternoon.

“Okay,” Hutch said, taking the receiver from him and nestling it back into its cradle. “In the meantime you’re going back to bed and getting a few more hours sleep.” He slipped a hand under Starsky’s arm, pulling him to his feet before he could protest. “I’m going to go back to my place, then I’ll head to Metro. I’ll be by to pick you up in plenty of time to take you to the doctor.”

“I can drive myself,” Starsky said a bit petulantly.

“Not if I take your car.” Hutch’s grin was pointed. “My wheels are at the beach, Starsk. I’ve gotta take yours for now.”

Somehow, despite all that had happened, that seemed like poetic justice. “You drivin’ around in a striped tomato?”

Hutch steered him toward the bedroom. “Yeah, I know . . . mortifying, huh?” He chuckled softly, but the laughter quickly faded into concern. He guided his friend to the bed, easing him onto the water-filled mattress. “You gonna be okay here by yourself? Want me to call Nat to come sit with you?”

Starsky blew out an exasperated breath. “Shit, Hutch, I’m not a freakin’ invalid. Give it a rest, will ya?” Despite his agitation, the hand that tracked across his brow brought a soothing sense of peace. He might never admit it, but his friend’s very presence calmed his jangled nerves. Yawning, he relaxed into the pillows. His partner’s face hovered above him creased with concern, all coin-bright hair and gold-lashed eyes.

Starsky cracked a smile and rolled onto his side. He tucked an arm under his pillow. “Don’t be late, huh? If you’re gonna drag my ass to see some brainiac in white, I wanna get there on time.”

Hutch tucked the blankets up around his shoulders. “I think I can handle that one, pal.” A hand settled on Starsky’s shoulder, rose briefly to touch his hair before falling away. “Call if you need me.”

Starsky grunted, already falling asleep. He never heard the door close as Hutch left the apartment, abandoning him to dreams and the inevitable resurrection of a childhood ghost.

+++++

The first thing Hutch did when he left Starsky’s apartment was to take the Torino to a self-service car wash. Knowing how fussy his partner was about the flashy vehicle, Hutch loaded the automatic vacuum with change then spent the next twenty minutes sucking sand from the front seat. Afterward he gave the car a good washing and even took the time to polish up the chrome. Maybe having his prized Torino back in pristine shape would get Starsky’s mind off Frankie Nello, at least temporarily.

Hutch frowned, disturbed by his friend’s clinging insistence about hauntings and ghosts. It was true Starsky tended to be superstitious, but believing in vengeful spirits was pushing the envelope even for his impressionable partner. No, Starsky wasn’t behaving like Starsky at all and that oddity was strangely unsettling.

Mulling the situation over, Hutch took the Torino back to Venice Place. He grabbed the morning paper from his doorstep, tossing it on the coffee table as he stepped inside. Jeweled ribbons of sunlight streamed through the greenhouse windows, brightening his bedroom and the terrace-kept plants in a marigold haze. The combination of greenery and light felt inordinately soothing after too-little sleep and a frantic night of worrying. Heading straight for the bathroom, Hutch took a quick shower, letting the water stream cold in an effort to revitalize his flagging stamina. If nothing else, he needed to get through the afternoon and convince the departmental doctor he was fit for street duty.

Back in the bedroom he studied his neck in the mirror and realized Starsky was right - - the bruising had faded completely. At least something was headed in the right direction. For the first time in over a week, he slipped on a tailored, button shirt, allowing the collar of the sky blue material to gape open on his throat. That simple act felt unusually liberating as though he’d crossed an invisible line in the sand. Re-energized, Hutch tugged on a pair of black jeans, snagging his black leather jacket from the closet on the way to the door. He was halfway there when the newspaper he’d carelessly tossed aside drew his attention.

A small article tucked in the bottom corner of the front page caught his eye. The headline above the short piece read simply Convention off to a Great Start. Thinking of Julie and her odd behavior, Hutch snatched the paper from the coffee table, hastily skimming the brief article. It mentioned the Plaza Hotel and a host of different vendors arriving from fifteen states. He’d pretty much decided the article was worthless, when a few lines into the second paragraph something unsettling caught his eye: A representative from Greer Manufacturing will be holding open interviews for regional sales positions during the convention. Although Greer is mainly known for producing industrial equipment, a smaller portion of the company is devoted to high-quality paper products including . . .

Hutch stopped reading. In any other light it wouldn’t matter that Greer Manufacturing had its hand in paper products, but throw in Julie’s oddly-timed arrival and suddenly the connection felt a little too coincidental. Tucking the newspaper under his arm, he sprinted down the steps, reaching for the mike as soon as he was in the Torino. “This is Zebra Three. Patch me through to R&I.” The moment he had a connection, Hutch requested a profile on Julia K. Wallace, last known address Duluth, Minnesota, “ . . . with specific attention to present and past employers. Also any activity connecting Greer Manufacturing to points in Minnesota.”

He was over an hour late arriving for work, but Dobey backed off on his usual grousing once he learned Starsky wasn’t feeling well. Hutch didn’t go into detail about what had transpired during the night, but since Starsky had gone home sick the previous day it was easy to build on that scenario and turn it into something worse. “I’ve got his car, Captain. I need to swing by and take him to the doctor around noon.”

Dobey glowered beneath his brows and harrumphed a few times for good measure but didn’t push it further. He didn’t bother to ask why it was necessary for Hutch to drive his partner to the doctor’s office or even why he had the Torino instead of his own battered LTD. Over the years he’d grown accustomed to granting certain allowances to his star detective team, and Hutch and Starsky had grown accustomed to receiving them. The fact that Hutch didn’t volunteer more information was a signal to Dobey he needed to take the rest of the matter on faith. The lack of explanation, coupled with Hutch’s haggard appearance, went a long way in painting the picture of a grueling, sleepless night.

Scowling, Dobey read between the lines. “Just make sure you get your butt to the departmental doctor by 3:00,” he ordered, hovering in the doorway to his office. “I want a clearance for you on my desk by 3:30 and I want both of you back on the street tomorrow, no excuses.”

Hutch relaxed. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Don’t thank me. Get out of here and get some sleep. You look like shit, Hutchinson, and I’m guessing your other half doesn’t look any better. Tomorrow - - both of you - - back on the street.” The door closed with a resounding bang.

Hutch suppressed a smile. He hadn’t planned on getting a leave of absence, but he wasn’t going to argue about it either. If he headed home now he could probably squeeze in two hours of sleep, enough to keep him functioning for the rest of the day.

“Hey, Hutch.” Detective Phil Baker caught his attention just as he was shrugging into his leather jacket. “I just saw Henderson from R&I. He asked me to give this to you.” Baker passed him a printout with an easy grin. “Still fishing around about Greer, huh? I thought you and Starsky had that one locked up?”

“We do.” Hutch scanned the brief report frowning as the connection clicked into place. Julie Wallace was indeed involved in the sale of paper products. For the last year she’d worked a peanuts-and-beans route for a small offshoot of Greer Manufacturing in Duluth. Two months ago she’d made a high profile jump to the position of Regional Sales Director. “Damn,” he said softly.

Baker chuckled. “Kinda like David going up against Goliath, huh?” he prodded, referring to the manufacturing giant. “My kid brother’s got a friend who works for Greer. You know they got a running track in the basement of their administrative offices? That socialite wife - - what’s-her-name - - Lillian? - - she’s all about keeping their employees fit. Some new age psycho babble about creating more productive workers. They even got a day care center for staff with kids . . . hypnotists for employees who wanna lose weight or quit smoking, even a freaking executive sauna for the bigwigs. You believe that shit?”

Hutch tucked the paper under his arm. “Yeah, well . . . all I can say is look how it ended for Goliath.”

Baker guffawed. “Nice attitude, Hutchinson. If nothing else, you’ll piss the hell out of Greer’s attorneys. All eight of ‘em.”

Hutch gave him a backhanded grin as he headed through the door. So conniving, manipulative Julie Wallace just happened to be the Regional Sales Director for Greer Manufacturing? And she just happened to show up in Bay City a few weeks prior to Starsky’s testimony against Benedict Greer for drug trafficking. Is that why she’d been trying to coddle up to Starsky at the amusement pier, Hutch wondered? Find out exactly what information the opposition had, then decide best how to counteract it?

Distracted, he headed for the garage, only vaguely aware of an occasional nod or greeting from passing personnel. He gnawed on his bottom lip. Greer’s well-paid parcel of attorneys already knew what they were up against, so why toss Julie into the mix? And why had she pretended to be stranded at the airport just to spend a night in his apartment - - which in turn had only amounted to a few hours? It was starting to look like that tactic had absolutely nothing to do with seduction.

So she could plant something?

Hutch’s mind kicked into overdrive. Had that been her motive - - to plant an electronic bug or maybe some kind of damaging evidence to be used against him later? But why him? Starsky was the one Greer’s camp had to worry about. Hutch wasn’t even involved in the case, having been away in Duluth when the whole thing had gone down. Irritated, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Nothing fit together the way it should. All the pieces were there, but the connector was lacking. As much as he wanted to force them together something was still missing. Something vital. Maybe if his head was a little clearer, if his mind wasn’t fogged with the glaring need for sleep and blatant concern for his strangely behaving friend, he’d be able to sort it out.

The thought led him right back to Starsky and the worry he’d been nursing since last night.

His friend had been doing a lot of coughing that morning. What if Starsky’s water-taxed lungs were already headed toward bronchitis or worse yet, pneumonia? And all because Hutch hadn’t taken him to the hospital when he’d most needed the care. His closeness to Starsky often left him thinking with his heart instead of his head, granting allowances that amounted to foolish mistakes. I indulge him too much. I should have made him go - - forced him, if I had to.

There was little he could do about it now. Back at his apartment, he paced off his irritation, focusing his energy on discovering the motive for Julie’s visit. She hadn’t been alone that long, just while he’d been showering. If she’d planted something, odds were it had to be in the bedroom or living room.

Starting with the sofa, Hutch pulled back the cushions, rummaging beneath the pillows, feeling along the ridges of exposed seams. He checked lampshades and plants, hanging baskets, the undersides of tables and chairs, netting nothing in the effort. Moving to the bedroom, he pulled back the blankets and pillows and shoved his mattress aside. Something small and black jarred loose in the handling and tumbled haphazardly to the floor.

Stooping, Hutch retrieved the tiny object, frowning when he realized it was a compact tape player, already loaded with a cassette. Depressing the play button resulted in a soft hiss, producing a mellow noise like the patter of rain or gentle lap of a distant surf. The noise was barely audible, strangely soothing. The question was how did the cassette tie into Greer’s upcoming case and Starsky’s testimony?

Knowing he wouldn’t get any rest until he sorted out the mess, Hutch headed back to Metro.

+++++

Starsky woke up coughing, not sure what hurt worse, his lungs or his head. The sheets beneath him were damp with sweat, and a fine sheen of perspiration clung to his skin. He felt warm and sticky, his face flushed with the growing heat of fever.

“T’rrifc,’ he muttered, immediately reduced to another violent fit of hacking. Pain spread across his chest, rattling his ribs, turning the coughing spasm into deep, retching convulsions. Shoving from the bed, he lurched blindly for the bathroom, folding over the sink and spitting up globs of phlegm. The attack left him weak and light-headed, fighting down a vicious spike of vertigo. With a groan, he dropped onto the toilet seat and pressed his head against the sink, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

The phone rang, rattling his already raw nerves. He considered ignoring it until he realized it might be Hutch calling to check on him. Dragging himself back into the bedroom, Starsky sprawled onto the disheveled waterbed, pressing the receiver against his sweaty ear. Even his fingers were trembling, he realized with a vague sense of disgust. Maybe the doctor wasn’t such a bad idea after all. “Hullo?”

“You were supposed to drown, Davey. Why didn’t you drown?”

The childish voice sent a cold-bladed knife slicing through him. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. The steel bands already grinding his ribs into pulp dug deeper, lacerating the tissue of his overly-taxed lungs. He tried to suck down a gulp of air but only ended up coughing, the sheer agony of the spasm bringing tears to his eyes. “Stop it,” he gasped. “Whoever you are - -” But the words were choked off in another grisly bout of hacking. He shuddered, his whole body pummeled beneath the violent force. For one terrifying moment it felt like his lungs would rupture through his throat. “Ughngod,” he groaned, unaware he moaned into the phone line.

A soft chuckle tickled his ear. “I’ve come back for you, Davey. You know that don’t you?”

Starsky curled into a ball. He deserved to die, he deserved to drown. He’d left Frankie alone, all alone in that cursed tower, choking on water This was payback, pure and simple. His turn.

“Stop,” he managed. “Just . . . leave me alone . . .”

Savoring laughter rumbled against his ear. “But I wanna fly, Davey. We gotta fly together.” The voice deepened, lost its child-like levity. “After I kill you.”

The line clicked in his ear, the connection replaced by the dull hum of a dial tone. The receiver slipped from his sweaty fingers, sliding down his neck. He tried to uncurl from the tight ball he’d made of himself, but his lungs screamed in protest. Hacking, he turned his face into the pillow, his whole body shuddering as the violent convulsion rolled over him.

He could barely breathe when he was through, the mere act of inhaling sending hot streaks of pain dancing across his chest. He kept his face turned into the pillow, feeling the blistering flush of heat from his own sweat-streaked skin. In some part of his mind he knew Frankie was coming back for him even as another part told him he was being irrational.

There’s no such thing as ghosts. There’s no such thing as ghosts.

It became a chant. A mental sing-song timed to each agonizing breath he dragged through his swollen throat. Frankie’s pissed ‘cuz he drowned . . . Frankie’s pissed ‘cuz he drowned, now he’s gonna . . . He broke off coughing, trying to rhyme the inane verse in his head. Frankie’s pissed ‘cuz he drowned, now he’s gonna put me in the ground.

Yeah, that’s a good one. He groaned, too miserable to care he was sinking into gallows silliness when he should have been doing something for his own flagging health. Like callin’ Hutch.

Maybe his friend could sort through the knives plundering his chest, ease the torturous fire in his lungs. At the very least, maybe Hutch could divert his phone calls and put Frankie Nello on hold. He could almost hear the blond detective now, talking matter-of-factly into the receiver: “Sorry, but you’re gonna have to take a rain check. No vindictive ghouls for at least twenty-four hours. Get in line and wait your turn.”

Starsky chuckled.

Shit, I’m really losin’ it.

He wiped a hand across his brow, noticed his fingers were white and trembling. His body raged with heat. Probably gonna get one hell of a chewin’ out from Blondie for not goin’ to the hospital last night.

Rolling onto his side, Starsky reached for the phone. He stretched as far as he could, feeling an answering burst of pain in his lungs. His fingers fumbled over the base but only succeeded in knocking the instrument to the floor.

Winded, Starsky folded back into the bed and curled into a tight pocket of mounting misery.

+++++

“Subliminal messaging.”

Hutch raised his head, studying the lab technician across the clipboard in his hand. Ben Newark was thin and gangly with a narrow neck and close-set eyes. He had the stick-thin angular look of someone who was all elbows and knees. Curling blond hair and a spade beard offset a pinched face and rose-tinted glasses. “Say again?” Hutch asked.

Newark pushed his glasses a little higher on his nose. “It’s basically a relaxation tape - - rainforest, surf, even a few desert sounds, but the entire thing’s been laced with subliminal messages. The recorder is time-rigged to play a continuous loop between the hours of one and four in the morning, prime time for influencing the subconscious mind. On a continual basis, a listener effectively becomes brainwashed, believing the recorded messages on the tape without question.” He motioned to the clipboard. “I wrote a few of the better ones down for you.”

Hutch’s eyes fell to the clipboard with its mostly incomprehensible series of scribbles. Halfway down, a few lines of text stood out clearly:

Starsky is behaving erratically.

Your partner has crossed the line.

He is no longer functioning as a rational human being or a competent detective.

He cannot be taken seriously.

Your partner believes in ghosts. His very sanity is in question.

Shocked, Hutch looked up at Newark. “This was all on the tape?”

“Along with a few other gems. The point being, whoever planted this in your apartment obviously intended for you to question Detective Starsky’s mental stability.” Newark frowned, tapping the eraser tip of a pencil against his chin. “Which drags up one inherently vital question.”

Hutch raised a single brow. “And that is?”

Newark met his eyes. “How would they know Starsky’s behavior had changed - -”

“ - - unless they were responsible for the change themselves?” Hutch finished quickly, the missing connector beginning to click into place. He’d just stumbled over the “who” in the troubling question he’d proposed to Starsky only that morning. Ghosts didn’t exist, but someone was clearly messing with Starsky’s head. There was little doubt any longer that person was Greer or one of his excessively paid henchmen.

Which begged the question “why?” This wasn’t an outright attempt to kill or kidnap Starsky or even to halt his testimony. What it felt like was a drawn-out attempt to discredit him. Far less violent in nature, but effective all the same. The trial was still over a week away. How much damage could Greer inflict on Starsky’s mental stability with phone calls and coincidences during that time? A yo-yo here, a page there, a few well-placed phone calls from a seemingly dead friend. Who would believe a detective who suffered a mental breakdown and rambled nonsensically about vengeful spirits from the grave? And if he happened to die in the process, tumbling off an ocean-slicked jetty, so much the better. Without Starsky’s testimony, Greer would walk.

Nice, neat package.

Although none of that answered how Greer knew about Frankie Nello in the first place. Starsky said he hadn’t told anyone about the incident, so how had Benedict Greer, his father, or one of his well-paid underlings dug up the traumatic event?

Hutch shoved the clipboard back into Newark’s thin hands. “Thanks for your help.” If nothing else, he had a head start in the right direction. “You might have just supplied the catalyst for everything else to fall into place.”

Sprinting toward the door, he thought only of reaching his ailing partner.

+++++

Hutch knew something was wrong the moment he stepped inside Starsky’s apartment. From almost the start, he and Starsky had shared a connection that existed on a subconscious level. Not telepathy exactly but a type of mental empathy that far exceeded basic intuition. He felt it kick in now, warning him something was wrong . . . that the thick silence in the apartment was not the healthy quiet of rest but the ominous hush of sickness.

Alarmed, Hutch sprinted for the bedroom. “Starsky?”

Two steps inside the door he spied his friend sprawled on the floor near the bed. Starsky’s legs were tangled in the sheets, the blue and gold striped fabric hanging half on, half off the water-filled mattress. His bare chest and thighs gleamed with the sticky sheen of perspiration. Sweat pooled in the hollow of his throat and glinted in the curling tips of his black hair. Nearby, the phone had been knocked off the nightstand, the receiver detached and stretched from the base.

“Starsk!” Even as Hutch lurched forward, his friend twisted to the side and groaned. The red abrasions beneath his ribs stood out in harsh contrast against his pale skin. Hutch dropped to his knees, one hand immediately curling around his friend’s arm, the other smoothing over his brow in sheer reflex. Despite the perspiration drenching Starsky’s body, he shivered.

“Buddy, can you hear me?” Hutch spoke softly, his voice instinctively falling into the gentle tone of affection reserved solely for his partner.

Starsky shifted beneath his touch, groaning with the sluggish movement. Hutch scraped a knuckle down his cheek, watching the hesitant flutter of his overly long lashes. It had always amazed him that someone as rough around the edges as his Brooklyn-bred partner had such lush, curling eyelashes. The image just didn’t fit until he factored in the natural innocence of Starsky’s soul - - that part of him which still believed in childhood dreams, what-ifs and might-have-beens. That naïveté was an odd combination when mixed with Starsky’s unique blend of off-the-cuff flippancy and gritty street-savvy. The man was a paradox, vulnerability and steel rolled into one. Right now it was the vulnerability Hutch sensed and responded to. Bending forward, he cupped his friend’s cheek. “Buddy, come on,” he coaxed. “Focus on my voice, Starsk. I need you to wake up.”

Starsky’s eyes slowly opened, fever-bright and startlingly blue, a shocking contrast against his jet lashes.

“That’s it.” Hutch smiled, touching his cheek. “Looks like you took a tumble, pal. Let me get you back in bed.” Carefully, he disentangled the sheets from Starsky’s legs, doing his best not to show his concern over the flush of heat radiating from his friend’s body.

Starsky coughed abruptly, his face contorting as the punishing congestion bubbled up from his lungs. Hutch slipped an arm behind his shoulders, raising his back off the floor. “Take it easy,” he soothed. His friend continued to sputter and cough, the sound loose and laced with phlegm. In the passing of a single heartbeat Hutch knew he’d made a dreadful mistake by not insisting Starsky go to a hospital the previous night. It was only a little over an hour away from his friend’s appointment with the doctor but Hutch didn’t intend to wait.

He helped Starsky into bed, immediately pulling the blankets up over his shoulders. His friend rolled into a ball, curling onto his side away from Hutch, tucking his knees close to his chest. Grabbing a handful of sheets, he hitched them under his chin. “Cold,” he mumbled.

“I know.” Hutch slid into bed behind him, lifting the blankets and wrapping an arm around Starsky’s waist. Spooning against him, he pulled his friend’s quaking body tightly against his own. “Starsk.” Hutch’s voice caught in his throat, swelled by anxiety and fear. Cold-induced tremors continued to riddle Starsky’s body despite his hunched posture. A series of racking coughs gurgled from his chest.

“Buddy, I want you to relax.” Hutch kept his arm over his friend’s stomach but slid his hand upward until his fingers splayed over Starsky’s chest, pressing slightly to help mute the jarring spasm. Beneath the blankets, the heat from Starsky’s body was sweltering.

“ . . .’m okay,” Starsky managed, refusing to unwind.

“Sure you are.” Hutch tugged him closer. Starsky might complain and carry on, attempting to garner sympathy when he had a minor ailment, but let him get seriously sick and he suffered in silence. Even now, he clamped his teeth together, biting back a groan, his body rigid and unresponsive. Hutch’s regret over not taking his friend to the hospital spiked higher. If he’d only done the sensible thing last night, Starsky wouldn’t be suffering so miserably now.

“Starsk, I’m sorry.” The words came without thought. Concerned, Hutch feathered his hand through his friend’s hair, feeling the cold slick of clinging sweat beneath his fingers. “I should have made you go to the hospital. I’ll get you to the doctor . . . get you feeling better before you know it.”

Starsky grunted. He didn’t think he’d ever feel better again. His lungs felt bloated and hot, swelling with liquid bands of pressure while his side flared with cold fire. In some detached part of his mind he attributed his misery to Frankie Nello. If he hadn’t been responsible for killing his friend, he wouldn’t be suffering so wretchedly now. Hadn’t Frankie’s ghost told him as much, warning him that his own death waited around the corner?

Payback time. Don’t piss off a spook.

Agitated, he tried to pull away from Hutch. “Frankie’s comin’,” he mumbled. Comin’ to get me so we can fly . . . so I can pull him outta that godawful watery muck of a grave. “I left him there, Hutch.” He groaned and tried to twist away, vaguely aware he was talking aloud. It didn’t matter though. His blond friend was too educated to believe in vindictive spirits and restless phantoms. ‘Cept he got caught up in some very weird voodoo shit on Playboy Island. Hang around me long enough, Blondie, I’ll probably do you in too. Shoulda learned your lesson when I tried to choke ya.

The ugly memory made him groan and curl tighter, jerking away from Hutch. He felt dirty, defiled. As much as he longed for the soothing comfort of his friend, he knew he couldn’t accept that generous compassion. Depending on Hutch would just drag him down too, snarling the blond-haired man in Frankie’s vindictive web. And nothing - - not even the looming ghost of Frankie Nello, would ever make Starsky jeopardize his partner.

“I’ll . . . be fine,” he mumbled into his pillow, wishing he could stop his teeth from chattering. He felt Hutch’s hand leave his waist and slide onto his shoulder, gently rubbing, trying to ease the chill from his cramping muscles. He felt hot and cold at the same time, his body shivering yet blazing with trapped heat.

“Starsk, I’m gonna get you some clothes. Get you to the doctor.”

He shook his head. Doctors couldn’t fix curses and paybacks. He felt Hutch ease from behind him, taking the blissful warmth of shared body heat away. Unconsciously he moaned, loathed to have his partner leave. A second later the blankets were tucked snugly around him. He felt the mattress roll with movement as Hutch resettled on the bed, right side in, his hip butting against the back of Starsky’s thighs. A hand settled on the crown of his hair.

“Just rest a minute while I get your stuff together,” Hutch instructed softly. He paused as if reluctant to leave, long fingers buried in a tumultuous mass of jet-colored curls.

Still tense, Starsky scrunched his eyes closed. He wanted Hutch to stay and he wanted him to leave. What good was his partner against the supernatural? “I’ll be okay,” he insisted, but the mere act of talking reduced him to another violent fit of coughing. Hot, forge-tipped nails erupted in his chest. The pain dragged a groan from his throat, grown raw and swollen with fever. Wincing, he rolled onto his back. The spasm grew worse, lifting him up out of the bed.

Hutch caught his shoulders, shifting to ease behind him and hold him upright. “Hang on, buddy.”

Starsky heard the words through a muddy wall of sound. For a moment there was only the fire in his chest, tipped with steel and the white heat of spreading poison. He choked on phlegm and mucous, the noxious mixture drenching him in the cold sweat of nausea. Groaning, he folded over his friend’s lap, hanging his head off the side of the bed.

Hutch grabbed the wastebasket from beneath the nightstand at the last minute, thrusting it under his chin. Starsky heaved, digging his fingers into Hutch’s thigh, his whole body racked with punishing convulsions. He felt Hutch tense, felt his friend’s hand slide onto his back, trying to stroke knots of tension from his constricting muscles. Starsky gagged, spitting up globs of phlegm. Sweat trickled down his face, turning his lips cold with the tang of salt. He felt it drip into his eyes, cling to the tips of his lashes.

“Easy, buddy.” Hutch curled an arm around his side, holding him up as the last of the convulsions pummeled his body.

When it was finally over, Starsky sagged across his friend’s lap, too exhausted to move. He shivered, one sweat-dampened cheek pressed to Hutch’s thigh. His chest felt like someone had reached down his throat and ripped out his lungs. He heard Hutch set the wastebasket aside, felt the shift in his friend’s body as he leaned slightly to the right to set the can on the floor.

“Starsk?” That blissfully comforting hand was back in his hair again, long fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to make him moan softly in appreciation. He knew he should move. He’d never been shy or awkward with Hutch, but being sprawled face down across his lap wasn’t the most dignified position even for a shivering, cough-addled, sweat-drenched, near-invalid.

Groaning, he tried to push himself upright.

“Ssh, buddy. I got you.” Hutch caught him and pulled him back against his chest. Starsky folded without complaint, realizing he’d exchanged one denim-encased thigh for the soft fabric of Hutch’s shirt as a resting place for his cheek. He felt Hutch’s palm scrape across his brow.

“You’re burning up, Starsk.”

Ironic if he thought about it. Fire was the opposite of water, so maybe burning up was the opposite of drowning. Frankie wouldn’t like that. Getting sick and going belly up from pneumonia wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying for a vengeance-minded ghoul as having him drown in a vat of dark water. He grimaced at the thought, unconsciously burrowing closer to Hutch. “ . . . don’t wanna drown,” he muttered, his mind still wavering between past and present.

“Don’t worry, babe. I won’t let you.” Hutch hugged him a little closer, and he allowed it without protest.

He felt safe huddled against his friend, as if Frankie couldn’t touch him there. As if Hutch’s affection for him was a shield against all that was dark and vindictive. He was protected as long as Hutch remained nearby - - his White Knight friend staunchly defending him against the malevolent ghost from his past.

Except he didn’t want Hutch involved.

Reluctantly, he tried to pull away, but Hutch held fast. Starsky felt a soft brush of white-gold hair against his cheek as Hutch lowered his head, dipping his lips close to speak.

“Listen to me, buddy - - nobody’s going to drown. Nobody’s going to get hurt. Your friend Frankie is dead. There’re no such thing as ghosts.”

Agitated, Starsky shifted, a half-moan slipping from his lips. Of course Hutch didn’t believe in ghosts. He had no reason to. No horror from his past clawing its way back from the grave intent on retribution. How could he - - raised in a sheltered, upper crust family, possibly know anything about the ugliness of betrayal and failure?

“No.” He shook his head, forcing the vile truth. “You don’t understand. Frankie . . . Frankie’s come back.” Even as he said the words they rang false, as if part of him didn’t believe his own crazy conviction. Was he crazy? When had he ever believed in ghosts?

“Starsk, you’re just mixed up right now. I want you to forget about it - -”

“But he called. Again. He said . . . he said . . .” Starsky hesitated, unable to remember exactly what Frankie had said. It was all running together now - - death, dying, drowning, vengeance. Maybe he really was crazy, imagining things, hearing things. Shuddering, he tucked his face against Hutch’s chest, wanting the piece meal memories to go away, wanting the confusion to end. He wanted to be able to sleep and forget, to dream without nightmares or guilt.

“You’re gonna be okay, Starsk.” Hutch eased out from beneath him, guiding him back into a plump mound of pillows. It wasn’t the same as being cradled by his friend, and he immediately shifted onto his side, tracking Hutch’s movements with his eyes.

“Just stay there a minute, buddy,” Hutch coaxed gently. He carried the trashcan into the bathroom. Starsky heard water running, the door to the vanity opening and closing. A few minutes later his friend returned, holding the now clean wastebasket. Shoving it by the nightstand, he turned away to rummage through the dresser.

Starsky hunkered deeper into the heated waterbed, not wanting to move, knowing he was expected to get up and dress. Hutch appeared at his side with a pair of jeans and a white button shirt, easier to maneuver over his battered ribs than a tee-shirt or pull-on. He shot a glance at his alarm clock, deciding to push it as far as he could. “Early yet.”

Hutch stood frowning down on him. “I don’t care how early it is. If they don’t end up seeing you at the doctor’s office, I’ll just take you to the hospital. They’re gonna end up sending you there anyway for x-rays.”

“Know it all,” Starsky griped. Still he didn’t move, preferring his sweaty cocoon to the rake of chill air that awaited him outside of the blankets. Just the thought of getting into his clothes . . . of having anything touch his overly heated flesh made his stomach tighten in grim anticipation. He coughed lightly, producing a loose rattle in his lungs.

Hutch held out his jeans. “Come on, pal. I’ll help you.”

Just what he needed - - help getting dressed like he was a two-year old. Sighing in exasperation, he thrust the blankets back, immediately gritting his teeth at the lick of cold air. Hutch helped him stand and step into his jeans, all the while worrying aloud about how hot his skin felt.

Starsky wasn’t sure exactly how long it took to get dressed and into the car, or even how long it took them to reach the doctor’s office. He just knew eventually he followed a nurse into one of the examination rooms while Hutch paced in the waiting area. After a brief wait for the doctor, followed by a general exam, he was sent to the hospital for x-rays and stitches (the cut above his eye took three). After a considerably longer wait, during which time he was given something for his fever and cough, he was eventually released with a diagnosis of acute bronchitis. Not serious enough to be hospitalized but dangerous enough to develop into pneumonia if he wasn’t careful. His lungs, while congested were at least clear of fluid, a conclusion that made his worry-prone partner breathe easier.

Hutch took him back to his apartment, got him settled on the couch, then left for the drugstore to fill three prescriptions. Comfortable for the first time since the incident on the jetty, Starsky settled into the mound of plump pillows at his back. The doctor had given him cough syrup with codeine to help ease his hacking and he was beginning to feel drowsy as a result. He’d changed into sweatpants, thick socks and a tee-shirt upon returning home, wrapping himself in blankets on the couch. Actually Hutch had been the one to dig out the blankets and pillows when he said he didn’t want to stay in the bedroom. Now, with his eyes growing heavy and the TV droning softly in the background, Starsky was vaguely aware something didn’t seem right in the room.

It took him a moment. He spied the yo-yo on the end table at the foot of the couch, and his stomach abruptly slammed into his throat. Sitting bolt upright, he ripped the blankets aside. At the same time the front door knob turned and Hutch stepped into the room, a brown paper bag tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Starsky?” Hutch immediately registered the alarm on his face. Shoving the bag onto the nearest chair, he was across the room in four quick strides. “Starsk, what’s wrong?”

Unable to explain his fear, knowing he’d sound foolish no matter what he said, Starsky picked up the yo-yo. His fingers trembled, bleached white with the clinging taint of sickness. “I left this in the bedroom. On the nightstand.”

Hutch reached to take it from him. “I’ll put it back.”

“No!” Starsky’s outburst was harsher than he intended. He drew his hand back, reduced to a short bout of coughing. “You don’t understand.” Agitated, he shook his head, holding the yo-yo close to his chest. “I didn’t move it.” His eyes bore into Hutch. “Did you move it?”

“Starsky, why would I move it?”

“Exactly!” His voice came out shrill, wildly unbalanced. He didn’t care any more, too caught up in his own convictions to consider they might sound crazy. “If you didn’t move it, and I didn’t move it, who did?”

“I don’t know, Starsk.” Hutch frowned, clearly unconcerned. Bending, he began to fuss with the pillows and blankets. “Why don’t you lie back, and I’ll get you some water so you can start on the pills I picked up?”

“Hutch, you’re not listening.” Growing aggravated, Starsky tugged on his friend’s arm. “It was Frankie . . .I told you he’s back. It’s not the first time things have been moved around in my apartment. He was in here. I don’t care if you don’t believe me - -”

“Knock it off!” Hutch said sharply. Exasperated, he blew out a breath and sat on the edge of the coffee table. He seemed to realize his voice had been short, because he took a moment to collect himself. When he spoke again, his tone was calm, rational. “Listen to me, Starsky . . . I want you to think about what you’re saying. This isn’t like you, babe - - all this ghost bullshit. It doesn’t make sense and you know it.”

Starsky had to admit just looking into his friend’s level blue eyes dimmed the reactive panic in his gut. There was something naturally reassuring about Hutch, even when he didn’t hold all the answers. Maybe that had to do with their relationship and the extraordinary level of trust they had in each other.

Uncertain, he hedged. Surely Hutch would never deliberately mislead him or deceive him.

“There’s nothing supernatural going on here,” the blond-haired man said evenly. “If your friend were really a ghost, why would he wait all these years to haunt you?”

Confused, Starsky bit down on his lip. Hutch had a valid point, yet something in his gut still warred with his logical mind. Yo-yos didn’t get up and walk by themselves. Someone or something had to move it. Was it possible he’d moved it himself and merely forgotten? That seemed the most plausible answer, yet he was sure he’d left it on the nightstand.

Feeling abruptly foolish, he flopped back against the pillows, dragging a hand over his face. “I dunno,” he mumbled into his palm. He felt his feet gathered off the floor and swung up onto the couch. A second later the blankets were rearranged over him, snugly tucked against the sofa.

“Listen, buddy.” Hutch bent over him, one arm braced against the rear of the couch. “Everything that’s happening has a logical reason behind it. I’ve got some ideas of my own about what’s going on, but before I tell you about them, I want to check out a few more things.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Hutch smiled warmly, dusting a stray curl from the fresh bandage over his brow. “I’ve still gotta do time with the departmental doc. I’ll only be . . .” He shrugged, the smile growing. “ . . . about a half hour late. After that I’ve got a few things to check out, then I’ll be back to see how you’re doing. In the meantime, I called Nat and she’s going to stay with you while I’m out.”

“You did what?”

Hutch grinned. “Don’t look so shocked, Gordo. She’s getting off work a little early and will probably be here in about ten minutes. I told her you had a bad case of bronchitis. She doesn’t know anything about the jetty or what happened last night.”

“Hutch, I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

“ ‘Course you don’t, but what’s the harm of having a pretty girl fuss over you?”

Another brush of fingertips across his brow, this time lingering longer, tolerated less. Starsky might have wanted to huddle against his friend earlier in the bedroom, but right now pride and irritation soured his mood. Gruffly, he swatted Hutch’s hand away. “You’re doin’ this cause you think I’m nuts,” he accused.

Hutch shot him a pointed blue glare. “I’m doing this because I don’t want you disturbed by unnecessary phone calls. If your ghoul from the grave calls, Nat can get it.”

“That stinks, Hutchinson.”

Hutch smiled. “You think that’s bad, wait’ll you take the pills I got you.”

+++++

Natalie arrived within ten minutes, a look of worry on her face when Hutch opened the door. He’d been vague on the phone and could see a host of questions forming in her eyes before he even steered her into the room.

She shot an anxious glance behind him, craning her neck for a view of the sofa. “Ken, I don’t understand - - what’s wrong with Dave?”

He smiled to reassure her, warmed by the concern in her voice. He hated leaving Starsky, but if he had to entrust his friend’s care to someone else, Natalie was his first choice. Heavily sedated with codeine, Starsky wasn’t likely to do much more than sleep, but Hutch wasn’t taking any chances given his friend’s odd mental state. “It’s nothing serious, Nat. Just a bad case of bronchitis. He’s got a fairly high fever so I didn’t want to leave him alone. I’ve got a few things to take care of regarding one of Starsky’s cases, and I’ve gotta see my own doctor or Dobey’s gonna lynch me. Think you can hang out here until I get back?”

“Of course. You should have called me sooner.” Pushing past him, she headed straight for the couch, bending to fuss over the man who was half-asleep even now. “Dave?” She smoothed a hand over his brow then leaned forward to lightly press her lips against his.

Starsky’s eyes fluttered open, a craggy smile lifting the corner of his mouth when he saw her. “Hey, Nat.” he said softly. “So what happened - - Blondie give you a big time sob story about how sick I am?”

“You should be glad he called me.” Setting her purse aside on the coffee table, she straightened the blankets, pulling them higher beneath his chin, smoothing them across his chest. Biting down on her lip, she pressed a hand to his cheek. “You feel so warm. Can I get you anything? Some water? Something to eat?”

Starsky shook his head, turning his face toward the rear of the sofa as a sudden coughing spasm bubbled up from his lungs. Disturbed by the sound, Hutch motioned Natalie aside, drawing her toward the door.

“He sounds awful,” she whispered, clearly worried.

Hutch nodded solemnly. “Look - - if anything comes up . . . if he gets worse or you need me for any reason, call the station and they’ll track me down. Between the fever and the codeine I think all he’s gonna do is sleep, but that cough’s a real problem.”

“How’d he get so sick?”

Hutch stared down on her, moved by the sincerity in her eyes. As much as he liked her, he still couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the jetty or Starsky’s strange fixation concerning hauntings and ghosts. His friend would have to do that, if and when he was ready. Avoiding the issue, he shrugged. “I guess it was building for a while,” he said lamely. Shifting gears, he redirected the conversation. “I don’t think anyone’s going to call while I’m out, but if the phone rings, could you make sure you answer it? Don’t bother Starsky with any calls. Whatever it is can wait until I get back.”

She tilted her head, looking at him a little strangely, but nodded nonetheless. “You really do care about him, don’t you?” she asked.

Hutch flashed a smile. “Yeah . . . he’s an acquired taste, but he’s grown on me.” Bending, he kissed her temple, letting his lips linger against her hair. Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he hugged her against him. “Thanks, Nat.”

“Get your hands off my woman, Hutchinson,” Starsky called sleepily from the sofa.

Chuckling, Hutch disentangled himself. “She’s all yours, Gordo. Try not to run any marathons while I’m out.” He moved toward the door, Natalie following behind, one hand resting on his back.

“Don’t worry,” she said reassuringly. “I’ll take care of him.”

Hutch nodded, hearing a weak cough from the direction of the couch. Trying to get comfortable, Starsky rolled onto his side and closed his eyes, clearly drained from the combination of medication and fever. Hutch guessed he’d be asleep inside of five minutes.

“Oh, um . . . his prescriptions are on the kitchen counter but he should be good until I get back,” he said pausing in the open doorway. “And don’t forget - - call the station if you need me.”

“Got it,” she said with a grin. She shoved him out the door. “Don’t be such a mother hen, Ken. I’m perfectly capable of handling things while you’re gone. See you soon.” The door closed politely in his face.

Hutch sighed. Exhausted, he scrubbed both hands over his eyes. The sooner he took care of matters, the sooner he could get back. Maybe then he could get some sleep too - - even a few hours would feel like heaven at this point. Maybe he could ask Nat to hang around a little longer then he could go back to his apartment and crash for the evening. Starsky wouldn’t mind having his warm-hearted girlfriend fuss over him for the rest of the night. Would probably even enjoy her attention and certain cuddling.

Stifling a yawn, he headed for the Torino.

Sounds like a plan, he thought and slid behind the wheel.

+++++

As promised, Hutch showed for his appointment with the departmental doctor long enough to get a clean bill of health. There was some general grumbling when he arrived forty minutes late, but he eventually walked out with a ticket back to the street. The thought of dumping desk duty would have been cause for celebration if he hadn’t been hung up on Starsky and his spotty health. Not only was his friend battling bronchitis but he continued to act alarmingly out of character by insisting Frankie Nello had returned from the grave.

Starsky is behaving erratically.

Your partner has crossed the line.

He is no longer functioning as a rational human being or a competent detective.

The subliminal messages from the tape Julie had planted in his apartment ran through Hutch’s mind. A few nights of listening to them and he might have actually believed the lies. That resurrected the question of how someone knew Starsky was behaving bizarrely . . . unless they were responsible for causing the behavior themselves.

Disturbed, he mentally picked at the problem.

Who could possibly know about Frankie Nello? Starsky said he’d never told anyone, but there were always newspaper clippings and archival records. Surely someone as wealthy as Greer, who had access to unlimited resources, could dig up dirt from Starsky’s past. Yet would the accidental death of a child on a rural farm in upstate New York have made headlines? And even if it did, wouldn’t Starsky have been protected? He’d been a juvenile when the incident took place. His name wouldn’t have been mentioned in any media reports, just the official documents. Then again, Greer probably had the contacts to unearth those too.

Still driving Starsky’s Torino, Hutch headed for The Plaza hotel. The sales convention was starting to wind down by the time he got there, but a flash of his badge at the registration desk revealed Julie was participating in a class on marketing techniques. Hutch hung around outside the doors where the session was taking place, waiting ten minutes until it ended and attendees began filing out. He spotted Julie among the group, looking the picture of perfection in a short-skirted business suit, open silk blouse and heels. She was busy chatting with a slim redhead and a dark-complexioned man with a mustache, the three of them conferring over some papers. He had to admit she outshone every other woman around her, the ultimate picture of sophistication and professionalism. Too bad her heart was so appallingly one-sided underneath.

“Julie.” Hutch threaded his way through the streams of people exiting the room, sprinting to her side. He smiled for the benefit of her friends, though she looked anything but pleased to see him. The glare she cast in his direction would have turned water to ice. “Julie, I need to talk to you.”

With a toss of her head, she shook her long hair over her shoulder, clearly dismissing him. “I’m busy, Ken. We’re headed to another session.” Turning her back, she started saying something to the redhead who was eyeing him with mild interest. The man merely frowned, immediately returning to studying the notes in his hands.

Hutch tried to keep his voice polite. “It’ll only take a minute, Julie.”

“Sorry.”

She started to walk away, but he caught her arm, tugging her to a halt. Leaning close, he lowered his voice so her friends wouldn’t overhear. “We can keep this friendly, or I can make it official police business. You decide. Either way we’re gonna talk about your connection to Greer and that wonderful little trinket you left under my pillow.”

She froze suddenly, her eyes widening in shock. The confidence fled her face, replaced by a look of pure horror. Within seconds she’d smothered it silent, the familiar iciness returning to her gaze. “Very well, Ken.” Her voice was crisp, efficient. The voice of someone who knew they’d been trapped, but hung onto pride anyway. “Pardon me a moment,” she said to her two business associates. “There’s a matter I need to address with this man - -” She tilted her head to indicate Hutch. “I’ll catch up with both of you in the next session.”

The man nodded, already moving away, but the redhead hung back a moment, her gaze roaming over Hutch before a sly smile touched her lips. “Take your time, Julie. I would.” Then she was gone too, swinging her hips in a form-fitting pantsuit as she paraded down the hall.

Dismissing her immediately, Hutch kept his hand locked on Julie’s arm and steered her toward the first vacant spot he could find - - an empty meeting room parallel to the one that had just been vacated. Dragging her inside, he pulled the door closed, wheeling her around until her back was against the wall. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do.”

She feigned affront, rubbing her arm. “So I work for Greer - - big deal! Since when is it a crime to be employed by a leading manufacturer?”

“Since you went from a route sales person to Regional Director in a matter of days. . . since my partner is two weeks away from testifying against Greer’s son in a high profile drug case . . . and since you left a subliminal message recorder tucked under my pillow. The tooth fairy you ain’t, Julie.” He gave a rough shake to her arm. “Start talking before I drag you down to the station and run you through booking.”

“For what?” she spat. Infuriated, she wrenched her arm free. “You are so full of shit, Kenny. You don’t have anything on me. There’s no sin in getting a promotion, and as far as that stupid recorder, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s not my fault some jerk wants to make you think your partner’s whacko.”

Hutch let her go. “I never said anything about the messages, Julie.” Voice flat, he tilted his head, eying her pointedly. “Maybe you want to rethink exactly what you know and what you’re willing to part with. If anything happens to Starsky, I’m going to draw a line straight back to you. Five-to-one Greer will let you take the fall. That cushy job you whored your way into isn’t going to mean shit when the hammer drops.”

“You are such a disgusting pig! I never understood how a man could be virtuous and crude at the same time, but you’ve got it in spades, Hutchinson. I don’t know what I ever saw in you.”

He smirked. “Guess you liked unzipping my jeans better than I liked pink and black.”

“Go to hell.” Folding her arms over her chest, she looked away.

Hutch sighed. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. “All right, Julie.” Reaching behind him, he removed his cuffs from the back of his belt. In reality he was overstepping his bounds, but gambled she wouldn’t know where his authority ended. The Julie Wallace he remembered would be mortified to be cuffed and forcefully removed from a convention in front of her peers. In truth, he had no viable reason to arrest her, but he counted on her vanity outweighing his bluff. “You have the right to remain silent - -”

“You can’t!” Her voice screeched shrilly in the empty room, bouncing off the walls in abject horror. “I didn’t do anything!”

“You planted the recorder - -”

“Only because they told me to.” Her words came fast and furious now, her eyes rounding in desperation. “Kenny, you have to believe me.” She clutched his arm, eyes pleading, rapidly filling with theatrical tears. Her lips quivered. “I . . . I did what they told me to do. Greer gave me the job as Regional Sales Director and agreed to pay me an additional ten thousand as a bonus. All I had to do was make sure I got you and Dave to the haunted house on the pier and plant that tape recorder. I . . . I didn’t even know what it was all about until a few days ago. I swear, Kenny.”

He lowered his arm, the cuffs dangling against his leg. “Why the haunted house?”

“Something about some kid. They wanted Dave to see the kid in the mirror. It . . . it was just part of the plan.” Latching onto his arm, she leaned forward, looking up into his face, her whole demeanor changed from ice to supplication. “That’s why I asked you to go there. Greer told me he wanted to make Dave believe someone was haunting him. Some kid from his past. He . . . he found out about it from a hypnotist.”

Hutch balked. “Hypnotist?”

She nodded, eager now to share the information. “Greer said he had someone hypnotize Dave. That’s how he learned about the incident in his past . . . some kid drowning a long time ago. This hypnotist was going to plant ideas in Dave’s head . . . make him believe he was being haunted . . . that this kid’s ghost was out to kill him. I think his name was Frankie. The whole idea was to discredit Dave so no one would believe his testimony about Benedict and his involvement with drugs.”

Hutch felt the floor reel beneath him. “Hypnotist?” he repeated softly. Suddenly Phil Baker’s words spooled through his mind: “That socialite wife - - what’s-her-name - - Lillian? - - she’s all about keeping their employees fit. Some new age psycho babble about creating more productive workers. They even got a day care center for staff with kids . . . hypnotists for employees who wanna lose weight or quit smoking . . .”

Natalie had supposedly just quit smoking through hypnosis. He’d even caught her reading magazines about the technique. She worked as a secretary for the local school district but was it possible she was also affiliated with Greer? One of his workers, or - - ?

“Who, Julie? What’s the name of the hypnotist?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head emphatically. “Greer never mentioned a name. He just said it was someone who was already close to Dave. Someone he wouldn’t suspect.”

The admission twisted his gut into cold knots. “Don’t leave town,” he snapped, turning and bolting from the room. In the back of his mind loomed the dread realization he’d left Starsky alone with Natalie. The whole idea was preposterous and yet - -

Who could get close enough to Starsky to hypnotize him, uncovering a traumatic incident from his past? Who had access to his apartment keys, could get a copy made, then move things around to add to the illusion of haunting? Starsky was superstitious, but he wasn’t crazy enough to believe in ghosts and vengeful spirits, yet he’d been adamantly fixated on the idea. Why - - because it had been planted in his head by a professional hypnotist.

Hutch ground his teeth together. If he was right, it meant Natalie had never cared for Starsky . . . that she’d been playing a role all along, bought and paid for by Greer. The first woman his friend had connected with since Terry, and she turned out to be the key player in his destruction.

He cursed silently. Maybe he was overreacting, thinking the worst when the coincidence was merely that - - a coincidence.

Except he was too pragmatic to believe in random flukes of fate. Gut instinct, coupled with years of a cop’s intuition, told him he was right on the money. He’d been buffaloed by her too, never guessing a calculating operative lay beneath her perky charm. He’d been blind enough to think Starsky was falling for her. He’d even encouraged it, glad to see his friend finally becoming involved in a serious relationship again.

“I know, Terry - - ” he said aloud to the girl he’d loved like a sister. “I screwed up. Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

In the Torino, he radioed R&I. “Collins, I need you to track down anyone who does hypnosis-induced self-improvement sessions for Greer Manufacturing. Weight loss, smoking . . . that sort of thing. It’s urgent. Get back to me as soon as you can.”

He barely gave the man a moment to breathe before switching to dispatch and asking them to dial Starsky’s apartment. The phone rang four times, five times, cycling to six without an answer. Nat had been there when he’d left, so it made no sense she wasn’t picking up. If she was involved, how could she possibly know he’d stumbled onto her association? No . . . something else was wrong. Maybe Greer had run out of patience with the haunting scheme and had decided to up the stakes, removing Starsky from the picture permanently. Maybe they weren’t satisfied driving him nuts . . . maybe they’d wanted him to die in the fall from the jetty, and when that hadn’t happened they’d moved onto Plan B.

“Shit!” Still clutching the mike, Hutch thumped his hand against the steering wheel. Wedging his foot onto the gas pedal, he jammed it to the floor. With a flip of a switch he activated the siren and threw the mars light onto the roof. Maybe he was overacting, but the pulsing thump of his heart and the raw acid souring his stomach told him his intuition was on the right track.

He was still ten minutes from Starsky’s apartment when Collins buzzed him back. “No guarantee on this, Hutch,” the older officer told him, “But there are only a handful of hypnotists in the city qualified to handle corporate candidates. We’ve got a “New Age Center” on Wharf Road that advertises it’s held sessions for Greer Manufacturing among other business accounts. They’ve got six licensed hypnotists who freelance.”

“Give me the names,” Hutch said into the mike.

Collins rifled through some papers, the crackle transmitted over the air. “Okay . . . we got Brian Lucas, Constantine Oman, Daphne St. Clarke, Natalie Trent, Sylvia - -”

Hutch never heard the last name. Something cold, heavy and clawed ripped through his stomach. “Thanks, Collins,” he said woodenly into the microphone. Natalie Trent. He’d never been so wretchedly wrong about a person in his life.

And he’d called her. To stay with Starsky. Alone.