Trapped
By Kate (CMT)
This story takes place early Season 2. It involves a wound to a “sensitive area,”
and while I have taken (what I believe are) great pains to keep anything from
being off-color or offensive, some readers may not care for the subject
matter. A very special thanks to
Theresa K. on this one. She dreamed up
the majority of the plot building blocks used in this story then gave me the
green light to write it (and warp it along the way <g>). I’d love hearing what you think! Please send comments and feedback to veniceplace12@verizon.net. Happy reading!
Starsky rolled onto his side,
tucking his arm over the warm pocket of bare flesh spooned against him. The water-filled mattress bobbled with his
movement, lifting his naked body on an upward swell. His groin grazed his companion’s softly rounded bottom, forcing
him to bite back a low moan of pleasure.
It was one thing to be eager, another to be sensually aggressive after
he’d already exhausted his bed-partner.
The room was mostly dark,
wrapped in licorice-black shadows and softly glowing bands of pale
moonlight. Overhead, the mirrored
canopy of his waterbed looked nearly luminescent in the smoky mixture of
pearlized light and dusky gloaming. It gleamed with the kiss of ice and
starfire, his body reflected back at him, leanly muscled, indulgently relaxed
in the hazy afterglow of lovemaking.
Tracing a slow finger down
the spine of his companion, he leaned forward and breathed in her ear. “You’re not sleepin’ on me, are ya?”
It was normally Hutch who
ended up with stewardesses, but Lorraine Stevenson was different. From their first encounter four weeks ago at
a roadside taco stand, they’d clicked like long lost lovers. Slender and petite, Lorraine was blessed
with fawn-colored skin and a thick cascade of light brown hair. She liked black-tie galas, chilled champagne
and art shows, but wasn’t above a cold beer in a frosted mug, a game of street
basketball or a day spent at the bayside chili cook-off and crabfest. A woman of extremes, she sometimes reminded
him of his partner who could go from elite sophistication to farmboy
awkwardness in the blink of an eye.
Starsky doubted his relationship with Lorraine would last - - despite a few common interests they were
diametric opposites - - but vowed to
enjoy every sensual carefree moment while it did. There was no question they were good together in bed.
“Hey.” Brushing the heavy curtain of hair from her
shoulders, he kissed the nape of her neck.
“I wasn’t finished, you know.”
Amazing the stamina a healthy male could achieve when he wanted to
explore his sexuality. Repeat
performances and sizzling encores were nothing after a short breather. “No conkin’ out on me. It’s only 1:00 a.m. I got a reputation to uphold, ya know.”
Lorraine giggled, rolling
onto her back, then shifting onto her side to face him. “For seduction? Or endurance?” Slender
fingers splayed over his chest, sweeping lower to graze the tan line at his
hips. His skin felt sensitized, every
inch of him aware of her touch, the heated brush of her flesh against his, the
soft cocoon of satin sheets, the cooling slip of air from an open window.
Raising a hand, he cupped her
cheek. “What? You haven’t heard - - I’m great at both.”
“Cocky too.”
Aroused, Starsky grinned and
thrust against her. “How’d you
know?” Unable to contain himself, he
dipped his head and claimed her mouth in a shamefully indulgent kiss.
She moaned softly, pliant
flesh and fervently yielding lips, her body supple and warm as he rolled on top
of her. Her scent enveloped him,
carried him to that pinnacle where pleasure and male strength turned his
arousal almost painful. He wanted
release, yet wanted the moment to go on and on, trapped forever in a dance of
hedonistic pleasure. Her legs wrapped
around his hips, locking him in that position of taking and giving, coaxing him
to seal their bodies as tightly and as deeply as possible.
Sensation streaked though
him, wantonly hot, ribbed with carnal desire and sweet romance at the same
time. Shocking, pulsing, he thought he
would explode. His breath grew ragged,
heightened with the searing frenzy of lovemaking. Breathing heavily, he bowed his head to nuzzle her ear, his body
growing slick with sweat. The air felt
cool on his exposed back and buttock, the scrape of her nails across his
sensitized flesh an electric current.
Her hands rose and twined in the midnight-black curls of his thick
hair. He kissed her lips, teasing the
outside of her mouth with his tongue until she whimpered and begged for his
attention. He gave it willingly, as
eager for her pleasure as his own.
The release was shocking, a
staggering rush of golden-tinged ecstasy for both of them. Starsky shuddered, his body tensing beneath
a heightened spike of pure pleasure.
Lorraine cried aloud, trembling beneath him as he carried them over the
peak, flesh-to-flesh, pounding heart to pounding heart. Someday he would share his bed with a wife,
the mother of his children. For now he
cherished the sensual woman in his arms, kissing her tenderly as they both
returned to their senses.
Starsky rolled clear and
tucked her against him, kissing the top of her head. He could still feel heat between his legs, the dying pulse of
enflamed passion gradually slaking into something sated and drowsy.
“Hey,” Lorraine whispered
near his ear. “No conking out. You’ve got a reputation to uphold,
remember?”
Starsky chuckled. “And you’ve got a five o’clock
flight.” Contented, he traced a finger
down her arm, lightly dusting her flesh.
She shivered in response. “I
wouldn’t wanna be accused of makin’ you late for work.”
“I can think of worse things
to be.” Sighing, she nestled against
him, twining one bare leg over his. “Did
I really volunteer for a Saturday flight - - especially when you have the day
off and your partner is communing with nature someplace nice and private?”
“Well . . . not quite
private,” Starsky murmured, thinking of Abigail Crabtree. His fingers continued their leisurely trek,
skimming over Lorraine’s arm. Briefly
he wondered if Hutch and his semi-serious girlfriend were enjoying the same
intimate luxuries as he and his eagerly accommodating stewardess.
Hutch had taken Abby for a
two-night getaway at a secluded mountain cabin. No phones, no TV, no radio - - just lots of wooded seclusion and
Hutchinson-style romance which undoubtedly included candlelight, wine, mellow
guitar-playing and something ridiculously starry-eyed like a sunset picnic.
Hopefully the time away would be good for Hutch, strengthening his deepening
relationship with Abby. With a little
luck, the rest might even cure his increasingly frequent headaches. And
those damn nosebleeds.
Starsky winced. He hadn’t wanted to think about that. Despite his best efforts to push the image
away, he had a vivid recollection of Hutch bent over his kitchen sink, a
handkerchief cupped beneath his nose to catch a steady stream of blood.
“ . . . you need to see a doctor.”
“Already did that.”
“Then you need to see another one.”
“It’s no big deal Starsk. Lots of people get nosebleeds.”
But lots of people weren’t
cops who couldn’t afford to be sidelined by an unexplained malady. And lots of people didn’t have Hutch’s
unique background of temporary drug addiction and cruel, street-style
withdrawal.
Disturbed by the thoughts,
Starsky stopped his absent caress of Lorraine’s arm. He’d spent two full days with her, enjoying the sights, sounds
and glittery nightlife of Bay City. The
last thing he wanted to do was turn their remaining hours together into
something dismal and morose.
“Well, as much as I like
Hutch,” Lorraine ventured, cuddling against him. “I’m glad I have you all to myself for a change.” Tipping her lips up to his, she kissed him
lightly on the side of the mouth. “A
partnership is one thing, but you two are like Siamese twins. Sometimes I feel like I’m dating both of
you. Anyone ever tell you that you and your partner are joined at the hip?”
Lots of times.
Starsky’s brow drew into an
aggravated frown. And it’s annoyin’ as hell. I think I just found the issue that’s gonna
come between us.
Unaware she’d said anything
to upset him, Lorraine rested her head on his shoulder and closed her
eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t complain as
long as he doesn’t crawl into bed with us,” she said sleepily. “You two should take separate vacations more
often.”
Starsky tensed. “I suppose you think it’s unhealthy for us
to spend so much time together?” How
often had he heard that one?
Lorraine opened her eyes long
enough to spare him a glance. “Well,
you have to admit it’s not normal. It’s
one thing to have to spend that much
time with someone because of your job.
It’s another to want to.”
“You don’t get it.” Starsky could feel himself growing
defensive. He shifted agitatedly. “Hutch and I - - ”
“Hey.” Lorraine raised herself up on one
elbow. “Could we not talk about your
partner for a change? Come on, Dave. We just made love and all you want to talk
about is Hutch? No woman wants to come
in second, especially after something so intimate.”
“Sorry.” He softened slightly. “You’re right.” Wrapping his arms around her, he nestled her against his chest. She was
right. At least part of her was, but
the comments she’d made about his friend still sat sourly in his stomach. It was easy to tell when a woman was merely
tolerating his partner’s presence and when she genuinely liked him. He’d thought he’d read Lorraine as the
latter, but apparently she wasn’t as accepting of his unique relationship with
Hutch as he’d first thought.
He sighed and kissed the top
of her head. If nothing else, it had
been fun while it lasted.
+++++
Starsky yawned and downed the
last bite of egg. After seeing Lorraine
off to the airport, he’d puttered around in the kitchen scrambling up some eggs
and throwing a few pieces of bacon into the pan for good measure. His parting with Lorraine had been a bit
cooler than their night together should have warranted, but he hadn’t quite
gotten over her remarks about Hutch. He
knew she sensed his reservations and imagined their own relationship would cool
as a result. They’d had some fun
together, but it was time to move on.
Leaning back in his chair he
switched on the radio and stifled a yawn.
Saturday mornings when he didn’t work were normally molasses-slow. It was rare to be up at 6:00 a.m. He supposed he could go for a drive down by
the beach, then maybe give his car a good wash and wax. The interior needed cleaned too, and it had
been far too long since he’d polished the chrome. When he was done he could swing by Hutch’s apartment, pick up
yesterday’s mail for his friend and check on his plants. As fastidious as Hutch was about his
greenhouse occupants, Starsky knew he would have seen to their care before
leaving, but it wouldn’t hurt to give them a spritz of water and some chatty
dialogue anyway. Hutch talked to his
plants, even sang to them. Which was
relatively typical for a California blond, Starsky thought fondly.
Actually, if he was honest,
the long and short of it was he’d been almost three days without seeing his
friend and simply wanted to be surrounded by something of Hutch’s.
Geez, what an idiot!
Starsky dragged a hand over his face. Maybe Lorraine and the two or three dozen other people who
frequently whispered behind his back at the precinct were right - - maybe his relationship with Hutch was a little on the whacked side. Maybe it was unhealthy. After all, he’d only known the man seven
years. How could he grow so attached to
someone in so short a time? It wasn’t
like they’d been lifelong friends, childhood buddies. Hell, if he really thought about it, they didn’t even have a
whole heck of a lot in common.
But I love him like a brother. More than my own flesh-and-blood brother.
He grimaced, shoving the
thought of Nicky aside. Standing, he
carried his plate to the sink. On the
radio, Dobie Gray’s Drift Away drew
to a close, followed immediately by a reporter’s voice breaking through with a
“special announcement.”
Only half listening, Starsky
turned on the water and dumped some dishliquid into the sink. Adding the pan from the stove and the large
blue tumbler he’d used for milk, he tossed in a dishcloth. Nicky wasn’t really a bad kid, he just
wasn’t the most reliable person in the world.
His younger brother frequently diverged from the straight and narrow,
but it wasn’t always Nicky’s fault.
Just like it wasn’t his fault they didn’t really have much of a
relationship. Despite the same blood in
their veins, Nicky didn’t stand a chance of competing with Hutch. Sad really, considering . . .
Starsky stopped in
mid-thought, his attention snagged by the strident edge in the announcer’s
voice as it crackled across the portable radio. Slightly breathless, the man was obviously excited and struggling
to be heard over a commotion of engine noise and what might have been gunfire
in the background. Starsky immediately
shifted gears, his attention riveted on what the man was saying.
“ . . . have blockaded the road
three miles to the east,” the reporter relayed. “We don’t have a clear view of anything. There’s so much smoke and debris, it looks
like World War III out here. It’s hard
to believe this was a sleepy little community just forty minutes ago. I’m getting word of an officer shot,
possibly three gang members down.
Police have barricaded the main road, but there’re so many places for
snipers to hide in the woods. That’s part
of the charm of this forest hamlet. I
don’t think anyone would have ever dreamed of such an upscale community
becoming the site of a grisly bloodbath.”
Alarmed, Starsky stepped to
the side counter and switched on his police-band. Immediately he started picking up radio chatter, the
back-to-back calls of law enforcement personnel and medical teams responding to
an emergency situation in the Shelter Pointe area. Located just outside Bay City, the quiet community nestled in
lushly wooded surroundings was a haven for writers, artists and craftsmen. Just a few miles square, it was composed
mostly of homes with a scattering of eclectic shops catering to the arts crowd,
a book nook and a café.
The only reason Starsky knew
so much about it was because Hutch had dragged him there a month ago to listen
to a folk guitarist perform in the book nook.
Afterward there had been an hour of poetry readings that left his eyes
glazing over. Hutch on the other hand
had been enthralled and had stopped to chat with one of the poets, donning yet
another facet of his chameleon-like personality. It hadn’t hurt that the girl had been young, slender and
blonde. His friend had been scoring
points by the handful until the girl’s boyfriend showed up and she’d politely
excused herself. To help ease the
sting, Starsky dragged Hutch to an art studio he’d spied when entering the
small hamlet. Moody at first, Hutch had
eventually lightened up and bought three more oil canvases to add to the stack
of artwork cluttering his apartment that he planned to frame “someday.”
The worst that Starsky could
imagine happening in Shelter Pointe was a verbal disagreement, settled
intellectually rather than with fists.
It certainly wasn’t any place for a full scale war, which is what the
radio chatter made it out to be. Too
small to maintain a police force of any kind, Shelter Pointe relied on State
and County support.
“ . . . request assistance
from local law authorities,” Starsky heard a gruff male voice instruct over the
scanner. “Call BCPD and get County out
here. We’ve got a full scale war on our
hands. Main Street is mostly evacuated
but we need reinforcements for the hills.
Too many snipers - -”
“BCPD is enroute,” a female
voice responded. “Memorial Hospital
responding with ambulance crews - -”
“Get a fucking brigade!”
Someone else snapped. “I’ve got two men
down, corner of Main and Oak. County,
do you hear? Two men down! It’s looking like this was a premediated
ambush. Who the hell are these jokers?”
A crackle of static. “Ambulance is enroute,” the same female
voice responded, cool and controlled, a direct counterpoint to the second man’s
strident tone. “BCPD is calling in
off-duty personnel to assist.
Tango-three-nine, do you copy?”
“Copy that,” the male
responded, slightly calmer now. “Advise
approach on the east side.”
Starsky heard a spat of
gunfire in the background, captured and broadcast over the radio.
Shit!
Hutch would be headed
straight toward the disaster area on his way home. Before he had time to think it through the phone rang and he
bounded across the room to snatch it from the cradle. “Yeah?”
“Starsky, this is Dobey - -”
“I already know about it,
Cap,” Starsky said quickly. “Shelter
Pointe. I’m headed there now.”
“When you get there, sit
tight,” Dobey instructed. “Three of our
units were called in at the start to assist State. A Lieutenant Griswold has a command center set up in the café on
Main. He’s coordinating with various law enforcement departments and medical
personnel.”
“How many snipers?” Starsky asked.
“We don’t know at this point,
but they’re fanned out in the hills above the town. Almost impossible to reach in those woods. At least a dozen maybe more.”
Starsky swore. “Any idea what went down?”
“Confusion mostly.” Dobey cleared his throat. “The initial report was vehicular. A three car pileup involving children. State was first on the scene followed almost
immediately by two ambulance crews.
They were fired on the moment they stepped from their vehicles. No accident as reported, just a mock-up of
twisted metal in the middle of the road to look like a fatality. We’ve got one dead paramedic and a critical
officer. Whoever planned this did their
homework.”
Starsky ground his teeth
together, trapped by a feeling of helplessness. “Ideas?”
He could almost imagine
Dobey’s distracted shrug. “At first
there was speculation about rival gangs deciding to use Shelter Pointe for a
turf war rather than blooding up their own area. Now it’s looking like a lot of imported muscle.”
“What the hell for?”
“What else? To target the police. It’s not a good day to be wearing blue. Get your butt out there, Starsky.”
“Yeah.” Starsky almost hung up then caught
himself. “Hey, Cap’n . . . Hutch is
headed back from Little Mountain. He’s
gonna be drivin’ right into that free-for-all.
Think you could get someone to try’n raise him on his radio? He’s probably got it shut off, so it might
take some doin’, but - - ”
“I’ll take care of it,
Starsky.”
“Thanks, Cap. See ya in a few.”
Starsky didn’t think past
that. Just darted to the bedroom for
his pistol and harness, pausing only long enough to snatch his keys from the
dresser and catch his brown leather jacket from the chair by the front
door. Carried by adrenalin, he sprinted
down the steps and popped the Torino into gear. He was halfway down the street before he realized he’d be going
in alone . . . without the man who had backed him up for the last seven years.
Without Hutch.
Just as well, babe.
You stay safe. One of us should
enjoy his last day off.
+++++
Hutch tossed his battered
duffel bag in the trunk, then added Abby’s small suitcase with a bit more
care. His guitar was already carefully
packed away, nestled in its case behind the driver’s seat. Making a bit more room, he shoved aside a
box of tools, the heavy-link chain he used for towing (if and when the old LTD
was up to it), four loose flares, and a banged-up piece of sheet metal he’d
been carting around for two or three months.
Abby’s suitcase butted up
against the spare tire and jack, nestling between the tennis racket he’d been
meaning to have restrung and two salt-water rods that had tangled into
one. Someday he’d have to get around to
cleaning out the car, maybe even dig through that pile of collected trash and
flea-market finds in the back seat.
Closing the trunk, he gave an extra push on the right side so the latch
would hold, then slipped on his aviator sunglasses. “Abby?” Propping a hip
against the trunk, he pivoted to face the small cottage he’d rented for two
nights. “You almost ready?”
He didn’t want to rush
her - - if anything he would have
preferred to go back inside and tumble her into bed again. They’d shared two wonderfully intimate
nights, talking, touching, loving, each cherished soul-to-soul moment better
than the last. Hutch never felt closer
to her than he did now. Their
relationship had been languishing, neither sure if they wanted to go that extra
step toward commitment and being exclusive to one another. He had little doubt now after the last two
days, a major revelation considering how gun-shy he’d been about commitment
since Van.
Abby stepped through the
doorway but hesitated on the threshold.
“Should I lock up? Are we ready
to go?”
“Ready if you are.” Hutch
grinned and walked around the car to join her.
She pulled the door closed, tucking her purse strap higher on her
slender shoulder before sprinting gracefully down the steps. He caught her about the waist, pulling her
close to brush a kiss across her lips.
“I wish we had two more days.
And then two more.”
Twining her arms around his
neck, she tilted her head back to gaze up at him. “I’m not sure you could last that long without Starsky.”
“Abby - -”
“I’m kidding, Hutch.” She kissed him, letting her lips linger
against his, opening her mouth when he prodded gently with his tongue.
Hutch pulled her closer,
hands dropping to grip her hips, sealing her in place as he tasted the sweet
inside of her mouth, letting his tongue twine and dance with hers. She smelled of lavender soap and herbal
shampoo. Last night he’d seductively
tasted every satin inch of her, teasing her to a state of frenzied, quaking
desire. She’d always been a little
proper, slightly reserved in lovemaking, but he’d changed that last night.
He’d been the first to cross
the line, something he’d long desired to do with her and last night she’d let
him. She’d granted him an intimacy
she’d never allowed before and that change in their relationship made
everything feel new and wonderfully heightened. The spark was back, but with it
came a closeness they hadn’t shared before.
Growing aroused, Hutch dipped
his head. “Are you sure you locked the
door?”
“Why?” Her eyes were round, guileless innocence and
loving trust.
“Because I’m not so sure I
want to let you go yet.” He nibbled her
ear, groaned low in his throat. “I’ve
got a blanket in the back. We could go
down by the stream - -”
“Hutch.”
No, she wouldn’t make love by
the stream, not Abby. At least not in
broad daylight, even if there wasn’t anyone around for miles. He should have appreciated her reserve and
gentle sophistication, but right now he was thinking with the wrong part of his
anatomy. Amazing what a few open-mouth
kisses and just the right melding of body parts could do to his previously
contained libido.
Bowing his head, he pressed
his brow to hers. “Don’t worry,
sweetheart.” Raising a hand, he stroked
her cheek. “I just can’t get enough of
you, that’s all. These two days have
been special.”
“For me too.” A slight crease appeared in her brow and she
touched the side of his face. “You
haven’t had any more headaches, have you?”
“No headaches,” he
assured. He smiled, but the effort was
forced. “No nosebleeds either.” His hands fell away from her hips. Looping an arm over her shoulders, he steered
her toward the car. “If we get started
now, I can still take you out for dinner tonight. How about that new place on the beach? The one that overlooks Longhorn Jetty?”
“Hutch, that’s so expensive.”
“Nothing’s too good for you,
Abby.” He flashed a smile, charm and
silk combined. It was easy changing the
subject after that, getting Abby to focus on a candlelight dinner in a fancy
restaurant rather than headaches and nosebleeds. For two, almost three days, he’d forgotten they’d even existed.
Helping her into the car, he
closed the door then darted around to the driver’s side. As the old LTD started down the gravel road
leaving the cottage behind, Hutch glanced at the police-band radio tucked under
his dash. He’d been out of touch for
nearly three days, exactly what vacation was all about. But part of him missed being in the loop,
knowing what was happening in his own precinct. He longed to switch on the radio but knew it would upset
Abby. There were times she grew annoyed
with his commitment to the job and this would surely be one of them. It was hard mixing Zebra-threes and
ten-fours after two days of intimate lovemaking.
Maybe when we get closer to Bay City.
Smiling, he reached across
the seat and took her hand. As much as
he loved her, as much as he enjoyed the time he spent with her, part of him
itched to pick up his badge and get back to the business of being a cop.
+++++
Starsky made it through the
barricade by flashing his badge, but that was as far as he got.
“Sorry, Sergeant,” a
ruddy-faced man in a BCPD uniform told him.
“The road’s closed to all traffic.
We haven’t been able to get anyone up Main for over two hours. The crossfire is pinning down anything and
anyone that moves. We’ve got residents
pinned in their homes, officers trapped and out of ammo. The scum even took a shot at our copter with
some kind of rocket-launcher.”
Starsky felt his gut
tighten. This was no gang war moved
from city to suburb. “Where’s Captain
Dobey?”
The patrolman - - J. Tanner,
according to his name badge - - checked a clipboard, sidestepping out of the
way as two paramedics raced by bearing a stretcher. Starsky caught a glimpse of the victim’s face . . . slack and
chalky, a single arm hanging over the side encased in a blue BCPD sleeve. Not a
good day to be wearing blue, Dobey had said.
“Your captain made it
through,” Tanner verified, still looking over his list. “Must have been one of the last, right
before they stopped emergency traffic. Word
is, they’re letting teams in from the other side, coming south. Cold Harbor PD and State forces are gettin’
in that way. There’s a café five miles
up, converted to a command center. Lieutenant Griswold, Captain Dobey and a
Lieutenant Stone are there along with backups and a few paramedic units. Meantime, we’ve been coordinating from
here.” Tanner pointed the way,
directing Starsky’s attention to a makeshift lean-to, hastily thrown together a
short distance down the road.
Military-style tenting was erected on aluminum poles, presenting a
rectangular hub with cheap folding tables and chairs. “You can get a radio there.
You need to see - - ” Another quick glance at the list to verify the
information. “Captain Fetteroff for a radio and placement, but odds are they’ll
just hold you back. Rumor is they’re
callin’ in S.W.A.T.
Quickly digesting the
information, Starsky gave a hasty nod. Pulling the Torino off the side of the
road, he killed the engine. So Dobey
had made it through. The captain must have
phoned him right before reaching Shelter Pointe. If the road was blocked now, that made the situation worse than
it had been this morning. Antsy,
frustrated that he couldn’t do anything, Starsky left his car and jogged toward
the command tent.
A corporal in State uniform
snagged him before he stepped inside.
Again Starsky flashed his badge, this time getting assigned a handheld
radio for the trouble and being directed to a small group of people bent over a
map of the area. Starsky approached, checking
the frequency on the radio to make sure it was operable, then stepped up behind
six others, all wearing BCPD or State Police uniforms. A few spared a glance in his direction but
most simply ignored him, figuring if he’d made it to the tent he had a right to
be there. At the front of the group a
dark-complexioned man with short brown hair was pointing to a map splayed over
a flat folding table. The corporal had
identified him as Captain Fetteroff, the man in charge of this phase of the
joint operation.
“As near as we can
tell,” Fetteroff was saying, “There are
snipers here - - ” A ring was hastily
scrawled on the map in red ink. “Here,
here and here. That’s just one quadrant
we’ve identified. Lieutenant Griswold
at the south end is reporting four, possibly five pockets of shooters. In all cases the problem is placement. Densely wooded slopes, rocky inclines and
the higher ground surrounding Shelter Pointe make it nearly impossible to get a
clean approach. These men are well
fortified and heavily armed.”
Steely gray eyes lifted,
touching on each man in turn. “Make no
mistake, gentlemen - - this assault was carefully planned and meticulously
detailed. The enemy has clear communication
with one another, is probably monitoring our channels, and appears to have
enough ammunition to last indefinitely.
It’s possible they have supply channels into the hills and a potential
round of reinforcements.”
“You mean there’s more of
them up there that we don’t know about?”
The man on Starsky’s right asked.
Fetteroff spared a
glance. “Very likely. Based upon the activity we’ve seen, this
isn’t just a handful of lunatics with rifles.”
He frowned, his gaze settling on Starsky. “You . . . where’s your uniform?”
Caught off guard by the
suddenly direct question, Starsky took a moment to recover. “Don’t wear one.” He flipped open his shield case.
“Detective Sergeant David Starsky, BCPD, Sir. It was my day off.”
“Not anymore.” Fetteroff looked him up and down. “It’s a good thing we’re not sending anyone
up into the hills right now, Starsky.
I’d be afraid of my troops mistaking you for the enemy dressed like
that. Make sure you ID yourself
wherever you go.”
Starsky nodded. He knew State Police was more highly
regimented than local law-enforcement.
Most likely Fetteroff was used to dealing in military-type strategy with
a rigidly structured chain of command.
Having someone show up in faded jeans, scuffed Adidas sneakers, a white
tee-shirt and battered brown leather jacket probably raised more than a few
eyebrows.
The crack of gunfire bounced
in the canyon, making Starsky jerk involuntarily. The state trooper beside him swore softy, grinding his teeth
together. Starsky understood the feeling. It wasn’t like him to stand idly by when
brother officers were in the line of fire, likely pinned down, possibly
outnumbered. Fidgeting, he bounced from
foot to foot before bringing himself under control. “Ah, Cap’n - - ”
Fetteroff’s steely gaze swung back to him. “If we’re not fannin’ out and tryin’ to net some of these
turkeys, exactly what are we doin’?”
“Waiting for S.W.A.T.”
Fetteroff returned crisply. He tossed
his pen on the map. It rolled a short
distance, butting against a deep crease before coming to rest. “We need crowd control and help for the
residents who did manage to get out of town before the shooting spree grew too
intense. We’ve got every major news
network in the area sniffing around, pushing our borders for the next
sensationalized story. Somebody needs
to round those idiots up before they end up being their own fucking six o’clock
headline. If that’s not enough,we’ve
got medical personnel from six hospitals and two counties who need briefed and
factored into any cooperative effort that’s undertaken. And to top everything off, I’ve got some
sick bastard with a rocket launcher who’s taking potshots at my
helicopter!” Fetteroff sucked down a
breath and straightened to his full 6’2” intimidating height. “You got a radio, Detective Sergeant
Starsky?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then I suggest you get your
scraggly, jean-sloppy butt outside and be useful. The same with the rest of you.
Whatever you do, no heroics and no slipping into town. I’ve got enough dead and wounded officers
for one day.”
A round of “yes sirs” greeted
the brusque command and the small group quickly dispersed. Starsky trailed them from the tent, slipping
the handheld radio into the back pocket of his jeans. No heroics Fetteroff had said, but there were more than enough
officers to contain the small crowd of displaced residents, curiosity seekers
and news-hungry media. He hated to think of Dobey cut off at the other end of
town and Hutch driving straight into a lethal shooting match. Walking back to the Torino, Starsky tried a
private frequency he knew Dobey would monitor.
“Cap’n, you out there? It’s Starsky.”
“Starsky!” Dobey’s gruff bark sounded sharper than
usual. “Where are you?”
“Stuck south of you at the
command center and blockade. Fetteroff
says they’re calling in S.W.A.T. He
wants the rest of us to sit tight.”
“Makes sense. It’s a war-zone at this end.”
“Cap,” Starsky paused, drew
an uneasy breath. “Did you get Hutch?”
A crackle of static preceded
Dobey’s voice. “Dispatch is still
trying. He’s got his radio switched
off.”
“Shit.” Starsky took a moment to assimilate the
news. “Cap, he and Abby are drivin’
straight toward you and the mess at that end.”
“We’ve got traffic detoured
six miles down the road with a checkpoint blockade. He won’t get through.”
“He’ll get through - - especially
when he hears what’s goin’ on. I just
don’t want him drivin’ into it blind.”
“If we don’t get him by
radio, Starsky, we’ll get him at the blockade.
Do what Fetteroff tells you and stay put.”
“Sure thing, Cap.” Starsky switched off the radio. Do what
Fetteroff tells you and stay put.
“Sorry, Cap’n,” he whispered.
“It’s just not in my nature.”
Tucking the radio back into
his pocket, Starsky jogged in the direction of Shelter Pointe.
+++++
Abby awoke to the biting hiss
of static on the police-band radio.
Through the sleep-fogged haze in her mind, she heard the strident edge
in Hutch’s voice.
“ . . . about twenty miles
away,” he was saying. “Alert the
blockade. I want access through to
Dobey and the command center. Try to locate
Detective Starsky and have him contact me on channel three.”
“Ten-four,” a voice said and
then the radio went silent.
Abby sat straighter in the
seat. She hadn’t meant to drift off,
but the drive was long and relaxing, and her sensual blond boyfriend had kept
her up most of the night with attentive romance and deliciously indulgent
lovemaking. She’d never been so free as
she’d been last night, abandoning herself completely to Hutch’s touch and the
heated caress of his lips. She was
still a little surprised and abashed to realize she’d moaned and begged for his
attention. As a rule, she was normally
more reserved. Perhaps that came from
entertaining lovers who were more concerned with pleasing themselves. Last night, Hutch had been all about
pleasing her.
“What’s going on?” she asked,
brushing a curtain of heavy hair from her eyes.
Hutch shot her a glance. “Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to wake you.” His smile was a little too weak, faltering. “Looks like we’re headed into a mess around
Shelter Pointe. The town’s shut down.”
“Shut down?” Her mind tried to wrap around the words but
kept coming up blank. Hutch wasn’t
helping, obviously trying to keep something from her. Although his eyes were hidden behind the gradient lenses of his
aviator sunglasses, she could tell from his body posture he was
uncomfortable. He’d tensed
involuntarily, the lean body she’d enjoyed so much last night growing taunt
beneath black cords, a zippered sage-green turtleneck, and a green and white
plaid shirt-jacket. If she hadn’t fallen asleep maybe he wouldn’t have turned
on the radio. “Hutch, what’s
happening?”
Briefly he told her about the
situation in Shelter Pointe. “I want to
check in with Dobey,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “Starsky’s out there somewhere, but they
haven’t been able to locate him since he left the command center. I think he shut off his radio.”
Starsky. She genuinely liked Hutch’s partner, but
sometimes felt uncomfortable with the strength of their exceptionally close
relationship. Hutch told Starsky things
he’d never tell her, which was only natural, but it went beyond that. Their intimacy was a little too close for
her comfort, almost as if they were true blood brothers or even twins. She’d read that twins sometimes knew and felt
what the other was experiencing and had seen that same scenario played out with
the two partners. It disturbed her to
think that men who had only known one another a scant seven years could have
such an intense emotionally-charged relationship. Her beautiful blond cop was idealistic and highly moral but when
it came to his partner, nothing else mattered, including his lofty
standards. Sadly she feared that meant
her as well.
“Ken, maybe you should just
leave things alone.” The use of his
first name signaled she was worried but he overlooked her concern, fiddling
with the radio as he tried to find news of his partner. From experience she knew Starsky was all
that mattered to him now. He wouldn’t
rest until he knew his partner was safe.
Until he heard Starsky’s voice and could effectively silence the knot of
anxiety that had surely formed in his stomach.
“I’m a cop,” he said a little
too tightly.
Abby flinched. She’d known where his loyalties lay from the
start . . . with his partner, with his
job. She’d just figured that somewhere
in that closely defined mix she would have a place too. A few girlfriends had warned her about
becoming involved with a cop. Long
hours coupled with daily exposure to the seedier side of human nature often
left law enforcement officers unable to maintain a healthy relationship. Or so her friends said. She would always come in second after the
job, or in Hutch’s case, third. She
knew the pecking order: Starsky first,
his job second, with her bringing up the rear.
Saddened by the thought, she
turned her gaze out the window. As
close as they’d been last night she felt excluded from his world today. He was
kind and attentive . . . compassionate, loving . . . all the things she could
possibly want in a man. But the cop in
him was different. It was the part that
lived for Starsky, the adrenalin kick of their job and a quirky street-style
partnership. That was a side she didn’t
and couldn’t understand. She’d once
overheard another officer refer to Hutch as the “White Knight” of the force, and had even romanticized the notion
in her head. She liked the thought that
other officers saw him as idealistic and moral, someone concerned with righting
the wrongs of the world. According to
legend Arthur Pendragon had thought that way too. The Knights of the Round Table were born from the visionary
philosophy that “might does not always equal right.” That someone should
protect the weak and downtrodden. What she had seen in Hutch was an ancient
code of chivalry reborn in a modern era.
Her gallant, highly principled White Knight.
Opening her purse, Abby drew
out a tissue and dabbed it delicately against her nose. How long had it been since she’d actually
romanticized Hutch that way? The closer
they grew, the more she began to realize there was an edgier side to him. She loved the poet and the musician, the
Renaissance man who tended to plants and loved to commune with nature, but the
cop . . . sometimes the cop in him scared her.
He took too many chances, pushed too many boundaries, always testing the
limits, always flaunting bravado in the face of crooks and crazies. One day, if he wasn’t careful, it would get
him killed. Frightened, she swallowed
hard.
“Abby?” Hutch reached over and squeezed her
hand. He offered a faltering smile,
clearly forced. “I’m sorry,
sweetheart. I know this isn’t the way
we planned to end our vacation, but short of taking a major detour, there’s no
way around Shelter Pointe. As long as
we’re headed there anyway . . . ” He
let the thought hang unfinished.
So that was his logic? She offered a token smile in return. Weak as it was, it seemed to placate
him. He withdrew his hand and she realized
his mind was already elsewhere, flashing ahead to the situation that awaited
them twenty minutes up the road, to the whereabouts of his missing
partner. From the corner of her eye she
saw him swipe a finger beneath his nose and heard him swear softly, the curse
so whisper-thin she might have missed it.
He shifted, palming the wheel with one hand as he dug in the front
pocket of his black cords with the other.
Withdrawing a white handkerchief, he folded it beneath his nose, turning
his head aside. Abby felt a needle-sharp
spike of alarm. As inconspicuous as he
tried to be, she knew what the action signaled.
“Hutch?” Leaning forward, she tried to catch his
attention. “Hutch, is your nose
bleeding?”
He coughed once, mopping the
soft material beneath his nose. He’d
grown adept at being unobtrusive about the whole situation, effectively camouflaging
the increasingly frequent nosebleeds with little effort. This time she saw a glimmer of red against
white before he managed to whisk the tell-tale trickle of blood aside. “I’m fine, Abby.”
Keeping the handkerchief
balled in his hand he reached forward and fiddled with the radio. Abby sighed. He wasn’t fine, and she knew it.
For three days there had been no glimmer of police business in their
life and he hadn’t experienced a single nosebleed or headache. Now, within minutes of learning about the
situation in Shelter Pointe he was falling back into the same unhealthy
patterns. A headache would follow. One always shadowed the other like
clockwork. He’d been to see a doctor,
but shrugged the matter off when tests failed to turn up anything
concrete. Lots of people get nosebleeds, he’d told her when she’d worried the
cause could be serious. It might just be a deficiency in my diet or
some unlucky gene my parents gave me.
No big deal.
‘No big deal’ because it
might interfere with his job . . . with the crazy, risk-a-minute lifestyle he
continually craved. The man was a
paradox, part sensitive artist and part rough-and-tumble street cop. She knew if she pushed the envelope and told
Dobey about the nosebleeds and headaches he’d be assigned desk duty, but Hutch
would never forgive her the interference.
His own partner was keeping the matter secret, letting Hutch be the one
to decide if he needed more extensive medical attention.
She heard him sniffle and saw
him wipe at his nose again, the handkerchief catching a heavier flow of
blood.
“Damn.” This time his curse was tight and muttered.
“Do you want me to drive?”
she asked.
He shook his head, mopping up
more blood. The radio sputtered,
bouncing back some on-air chatter between two units on the east side of Shelter
Pointe . . . reports of more gunfire and another officer down. Abby saw Hutch tense, his foot dropping on
the gas pedal, urging the heavy car to greater speed.
“I’m sure it wasn’t Starsky,”
she offered, seeing the flicker of concern in his eyes.
He didn’t answer, just
tightened his hands on the steering wheel, the blood-soaked handkerchief balled
in his right fist. With his face turned
in profile, she could see behind the lenses of his sunglasses. His eyes had narrowed, a solid indication a
headache had started at the back of his skull and was pressing forward,
wrapping around his temples. Such an impossibly stubborn man!
Was this the future they
would have together? Day-to-day
worrying on her part, greeted by silence or false assurances on his? He already had one failed marriage under his
belt. Didn’t that tell her
something? That Vanessa wised up and got out while she could. That a life married to a cop, especially this cop is no life at all.
Abby flinched guiltily,
realizing she was being unfair. She
didn’t think it had been Hutch’s fault his marriage had failed. Besides, she
loved him. After last night, there was
no doubt how strongly she felt about him, regardless of past or present. If he felt he was needed at Shelter Pointe,
then she would support that decision and support him.
Sliding a hand onto his
thigh, she smiled warmly. “We’ll be
there soon, Ken. It’s not that far.”
He nodded, but she knew his
mind had already slipped away. To
Shelter Pointe.
And his partner.
+++++
Starsky pulled his gun,
keeping as close to cover as he could.
Shelter Pointe looked like a ghost town, the broken remains of the
traffic “accident” that had originally summoned police and medical personnel onto
the scene still standing in the center of Main Street. The last time he’d been here - - protesting,
whining, and dragged by Hutch - - the little artist community had been bustling
with visitors and residents alike.
Shops had stood open and inviting, people loitering on sidewalks,
sitting on blankets in the small central park and meandering lazily down the
streets while sipping iced lemonade or flavored coffees.
Now the shops were closed,
blinds and shutters drawn, doors shut and locked, many of the windows shattered
by gunfire. The streets were empty,
eerily so. Even the hills, high and
thickly wooded sat brooding and quiet.
Starsky knew danger lingered among the dense thickets of trees and
staggered outcroppings of rock. He
couldn’t see the enemy, but he knew they were there, skillfully hidden, waiting
for the opportunity to unleash another barrage of gunfire.
Across the street, halfway up
in the hills, an officer sprawled face down, apparently dead. Two more were nearby, their bodies splayed
at awkward angles. No attempt had been
made to remove the fallen due to lack of cover. Anyone trying to give aid would find himself a quick target, but
the thought of fellow officers abandoned made his gut clench. He saw the one on the right move weakly and
realized the man was still alive.
“Shit.”
It wasn’t that far. He could line up a string of cover between
the buildings, the derelict “wreck” in the center of the street, some trees,
and . . . well, he’d wing it from there.
If he got low enough, ran fast enough, he could at least pull the
wounded officer to safety. Starsky had
no illusions about the men who’d set up this bloody scenario. The moment they saw the downed officer
moving, he’d be as good as dead.
Making up his mind, Starsky
darted from the protection of a hobby store to the nearest car, then zigzagged
his way down the street until he could reach the wreck. Bloody stains streaked the asphalt in jagged
spears, turning gunmetal gray to rusted plum.
He saw an arm sticking out from behind a county ambulance and slithered
under the vehicle on his belly to reach a white-shirted medic. The man had been shot through the chest
three times with a large caliber weapon.
Most of his ribcage had been blown away by the impact, his head twisted
to the side in a time-frozen gasp.
Starsky looked away, fighting
down the instinctive urge to gag. This
close he could smell the stench of sun-heated blood, mutilated flesh and
leaking organs. Fat flies buzzed around
the corpse emitting a sickening drone, their bloated bodies heavy and
slow.
Using his elbows to inch
forward, Starsky crawled free of the vehicle and plastered his back against a
tire. He could clearly see the three
fallen officers in the hills now. Two
were definitely dead. The skull of the
officer who was lying face down had been blown away with the same large-caliber
weapon that had killed the medic. His
partner had died of a blast to the face and chest. But the third . . . the third was still moving.
Starsky dug the radio from
his back pocket, switching to Dobey’s frequency. “Cap’n . . . Cap’n Dobey, you there? It’s Starsky. Come in
Cap’n.”
He waited through an
answering crackle of static before Dobey’s tight voice snapped back at
him. “Starsky, where the hell are you?”
“Center of town, at the
wreck. The medic out here is gone . . .
three blasts to the chest.”
“You’re where?” Dobey’s
voice thundered through the small radio, as incensed as Starsky had ever heard
him.
“Cap, the three officers in the
hills - - one of ‘em’s still alive. I
think I can reach him.” He’s probably in agony, scared out of his
mind. Can’t leave him there, Cap. Don’t ask me to.
“Negative! Do you hear me, Starsky? Do you have any idea how many men we’ve lost
today? You take one step toward those
hills, you’ll be cut down in a heartbeat.
You are not authorized to do anything.
Is that clear, Sergeant?”
“Cap, I can see him movin’.”
Silence from the radio. Thumping his head back against the
ambulance, Starsky huffed out a breath.
For all Dobey’s legendary bluster, he knew the captain had a
compassionate heart and was even now wrestling with the hopelessness of the
impossible situation. Dobey bled for
his men as surely as Starsky bled for the man lying wounded and alone in the
hills. That’s probably his partner with him.
What if that was me and Hutch out there? I’d go out of my head crazy if my partner was lyin’ a few feet
away, his skull blown out like that. He swiped a hand across his brow, mopping sticky sweat from his
bangs.
God, what kind of sick SOB could do this?
Determined, Starsky ground
his teeth together and raised the radio.
“Cap?”
An exhausted sigh rumbled
across the airwaves. “I’m here,
Starsky.”
“You hear from Hutch yet?”
“Not yet.”
He digested that, a mere
flicker of time to absorb the fact his friend was still safe somewhere further
north. Calculating the distance to the
wounded man, Starsky tried to decipher how quickly he could get him to cover. There was a large oak a short distance up
the incline. Wounded, the downed
officer would never make it, but Starsky was fairly certain he could drag him
there.
Thumbing on the radio, he
spoke quietly. “Do we know who those
three are?”
“Cannon, Lawrence and
Delressi,” Dobey told him. “Cold
Harbor, PD. Delressi and Lawrence are
partners. Delressi’s the injured one.”
“Think I can get some cover?”
“Starsky, what you’re
planning is suicide.”
“I ain’t gonna let him die
out there,” Starsky snapped. He shot a
glance down the street to what he knew constituted the “command center” of the
operation. The Book Knook Café had been barricaded behind a wall of emergency
vehicles. Dobey was there along with
Lieutenant Griswold of State and Lieutenant Stone of Cold Harbor, plus a
phalanx of backup and a few paramedic units.
Even at this distance, Starsky could see police lined on the rooftops,
tucked behind long range rifles. “All I
need is some fire from those boys on the roof,” he said into the radio. “Set up a diversion, draw attention away
from me so I can get to Delressi.”
“And then what?” Dobey snapped. “You’ll never get him back here.”
“All I wanna do is get him
out of the line of fire, behind one of those trees. He deserves that chance, Cap.”
A moment of silence, then a resigned
sigh. “All right. We’ll coordinate with you. Give me five, then we’ll time it for three
more.”
A wan smile touched Starsky’s
lips. “Thanks, Cap’n.”
Time inched slowly for
Starsky as he crouched against the ambulance, raw sun beating down on his neck,
sweat trickle-dripping into his eyes. A
lifetime ago the Book Knook had
hosted the poetry readings and folk guitarists Hutch had dragged him to
hear. That idyllic Sunday afternoon
seemed an implausibility stacked against the grisly bloodstains soaking into
the street, the mangled and desecrated bodies sprawled just a few yards
away. Every once in a while Delressi
would shift slightly, groaning with the movement. Though Starsky was close enough to hear him moan, he couldn’t
tell the extent of the man’s injuries.
The wounded cop faced away from him, lying half on his side, folded in
on himself as though huddled in pain.
Second slipped into second,
minute into minute, each ripple of time passing with agonizing awareness.
Grinding his teeth together, Starsky tensed, ready to spring into motion. The second hand on his watch ticked down to
the zero mark and a barrage of gunfire exploded from the rooftops. Starsky ran for the injured officer, hearing
an answering torrent of fire burst from the tree line.
He was halfway to Delressi
before the snipers on the hill spotted him.
A spray of bullets ripped through the ground at his feet, kicking clods
of dirt into the air. He tucked and
rolled, coming to his knees at Delressi’s side, shooting rapidly into the
trees. Rolling again, he gripped the
injured officer by the collar, readying to pull. One look at the man’s eyes told Starsky he was already dead. This close, there was no mistaking the
extent of his injuries. A string of
pulpy pink flesh leaked from a gaping hole in his gut. It took Starsky only a second to recognize
the ghastly stench of perforated bowel, to realize the ropy blood-soaked tissue
spilling from his abdomen was part of the man’s intestines.
“Shit.” Gagging, he lurched away. The ambulance was too far. In desperation, he sprinted for the
oak. Renewed gunfire pockmarked the
ground like lethal earth-borne hail. He
felt the patter of displaced stones and sod zing against his jacket, heard the
roar of simultaneous fire in his ears.
Blinded, deafened to all but the pop and crack of automatic weaponry,
Starsky fired into the hills.
He felt a sudden explosion of
pain near his groin and his left leg buckled unexpectedly. The shock, lurching
and astonishingly abrupt, was more staggering than the awareness he’d been
hit. Shaken, he elbow-crawled forward,
dragging his injured leg behind him.
Just a few inches . . . a few more inches to cover. The rapid firing continued, pelting the
ground so close he felt the sting of ruptured earth against his face and hands.
He was shuddering by the time he reached the tree, his heart thumping in
cadence with the engorged pulse in his leg.
Blood leaked down the inside of his thigh and spread outward across his
crotch, leaving his jeans sticky and wet.
The saturated denim clung to him, aggravating the enflamed area between
his legs.
Sagging against the tree, he
sucked down a choppy breath, afraid to look, terrified what a bullet in that
vicinity might have cost him. At least
the firing had stopped. Tentatively he
moved his leg to the side, frightened when he realized blood continued to leak
across his groin, pooling into the crease of his leg. Quickly shrugging from his jacket and shoulder holster, Starsky
pulled off his tee-shirt and rolled it into a ball, plugging it in the corner
of his leg. The radio sputtered to life
and he groped to reach it.
“Starsky?” Dobey’s voice barked from the handheld unit,
biting, unmistakably sharp.
He tried to get his wits
about him. “Here, Cap’n.” Starsky gasped for air. Took another second to silence the
disorienting tremor that left him feeling lightheaded and winded. “Delressi’s dead, I couldn’t save ‘im. He was gone by the time I reached ‘im.”
“It’s all right, son.” Dobey’s voice dropped a notch in
concern. For the briefest moment the
unspoken thought hung between them: You shouldn’t have tried. “Starsky, are you all right?”
He closed his eyes, fighting
down the sting of pain in his crotch.
“Got hit,” he said simply. “Not
bad, but I’m not goin’ anywhere. They
got me pinned behind a big oak, fifty yards northwest of that wreck.”
“I see you through the field
glasses.” Dobey waited a beat, before
laying it on the line for both of them.
“I can’t get anyone to you. Not
now.”
“S’okay, Cap. Be kinda crowded up here anyway.” He winced, pressing harder on the shirt he
held wadded between his legs. Tired, he
rested his head against the tree, his voice thinning with the effort of
speech. “Hutch?” he asked simply.
Dobey’s pause dragged on much
too long as if he hated to part with the truth. “Nothing yet. You hang in
there, Starsky. I’ll let you know as
soon as we’ve got something worked out.”
“Sure.” He silenced the radio, knowing there was
nothing they could do, nothing to “work out.”
He’d boxed himself into this corner, hoping to save Delressi. Instead he’d put himself in the other cop’s
place - - stranded and wounded, Delressi dead anyway. If he’d had his partner to back him up, it might have happened
differently. But he’d soloed on this
one and that mistake had cost him.
Popping the magazine on his
gun, Starsky reloaded and tried not to think of the blood slowly leaking from
his leg.
+++++
Hutch bulldogged his way into the command center, flashing his badge at anyone who even thought about challenging him. He’d still been a few miles north of Shelter Pointe when he’d gotten word Starsky was trapped in the hills.