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.