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
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.