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.  His partner had attempted to rescue another officer but ended up shot and cut off himself.  Crazed with worry, Hutch thought only of getting the details before taking matters into his own hands. 

 

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?”  Someone caught him roughly on the arm and spun him about.  “This location is off limits to civilians.”

 

“I’m a cop.”  Hutch jerked his arm free, shoving his badge beneath the nose of the man who’d dared accost him. “I’m looking for Captain Dobey.”

 

A frown settled between the man’s brows.  An inch or two taller than Hutch, he was about twenty years older with close-cropped graying hair and mud-brown eyes.  Looking past Hutch, he gave a meaningful jerk of his head.  “Who’s she?”

 

Hutch balked.  Focused on Starsky, he’d all but forgotten Abby was with him. Recovering quickly, he realigned his thoughts.  “She’s with me.”  Don’t push it past that, ‘cause I’m not in the mood to play.  He was getting tired of the questioning, the back-to-back, endless delays.  His temper was already on a short fuse.  Any obstacle, no matter how minor, set him precariously on edge.  That included the puffed-up idiot currently blocking his path. “Who the hell are you?”

 

The man bristled, drawing himself to his full height. “Lieutenant Wayne Stone of Cold Harbor PD.  Most of my men make up this command center, including those stationed on the roof and that barricade you came through on the way in.”

 

“Well aren’t you just the fucking head of the class?  Where’s my Captain, Lieutenant?”

 

“Don’t push it, Sergeant” Stone snapped.  He took a moment to look Hutch up and down, his face twisting in a grimace of clear disgust.  After a minute he jerked his thumb over his shoulder.  “Your captain’s back that way.  Good thing too.  If you were one of my men - - ”

 

“Let’s be thankful I’m not.” Hutch brushed past him before he could finish the slur.  He knew Stone didn’t deserve his hostility, but he was a convenient target and Hutch was wired on four hours of steadily mounting frustration.  Behind him, Abby trailed on his heels, following quietly as he strode through a throng of men wearing CHPD uniforms.  Further away, a pocket of plainclothes detectives conferred over a map of the area, a handful of medics standing nearby.   A flow of uniformed and armed personnel moved in and out of the café, more trooping upstairs to the second level.  Wherever Hutch looked, he saw a flurry of activity, but nothing that told him anything about Starsky. 

 

Finally he spied Dobey in the rear, conferring with a short, balding man built like a fireplug.  Dobey held a computer printout in his hand and was sharing the information with the other man.

 

“Captain.”  Hutch stepped between them, not bothering to apologize for interrupting the conversation.  “What’s the word on Starsky?”

 

Dobey frowned as he took in the blond-haired man’s appearance.  Hutch knew he was disheveled, probably more than a little frazzled looking.  The nosebleeds had stopped a good twenty minutes ago but the headache was still thrumming behind his eyes, upping his impatience, undoubtedly etching lines of strain on his face.  When Dobey didn’t immediately answer, his temper flared.  “Starsky?”  he demanded again, limited patience wearing dangerously thin.

 

Dobey scowled.  “Hutchinson, this is Lieutenant Griswold, State Police.  Griswold, one of my detectives, Ken Hutchinson.  His partner is the one who tried to rescue Delressi.”

 

The bald man gave a sober nod.  “Brave but foolish.  Wish there was something we could do to get him out of there, Hutchinson, but there’s just no ground cover.  It’s like a shooting gallery in every direction.”

 

Hutch felt his gut twist.  “What are you saying?”

 

“Your captain can explain it.”  Griswold gave a nod to both men and moved away. 

 

Hutch’s eyes immediately fastened on Dobey.  “You mean no one’s even attempted to pull him out of there?  The word I got said he’s wounded, Captain.  Bleeding!”  When Dobey shifted, clearly uncomfortable, Hutch’s anger exploded.  “Who the fuck decided to sit on their ass and do nothing?  What the hell are you doing out here anyway?”

 

“That’s enough, Hutchinson!”  Dobey took a threatening step forward.  Eyes flashing, he jabbed the computer printout against Hutch’s chest.  “You wanna do your partner some good, you’ll shut up and listen.  He’s wounded yes, bleeding yes, but to send a man out there for recovery is nothing short of suicide.  You haven’t been here.  You don’t know what we’re up against.  Those hills are stacked like World War III.  Now I am not throwing away anyone’s life, and that includes your impetuous partner.  Until we can come up with a solution, no one goes out there.”

 

Hutch’s eyes narrowed.  “I’m going out.”

 

Dobey puffed out his chest, squaring for a fight.  “You listen to me, Hutchinson.  You so much as make a move toward the street and I’ll have you slapped in cuffs so damn fast it’ll make your head spin. Don’t think I won’t have you physically restrained, handcuffed to a chair if I have to.  If that’s what it takes to keep you from getting your fool head blown off, I’ll do it myself. Your partner already pushed the envelope and look where it got him.  Don’t make the same stupid mistake.” 

 

Hutch tensed, his backbone going rigid.  Sensing the weight of raw frustration in him, Dobey softened, lowering his voice.  “Look, Hutch, I know you’re worried about Starsky, but getting yourself killed isn’t the answer.  You wanna do something, grab a radio and talk to your partner.  He’s been asking for you all morning.”

 

Hutch deflated, anger and the ever-present frustration tangling into one wretched knot.  Dobey was right.  Of course he was right, but the thought of Starsky trapped and injured, alone in the hills, snipers ringed around him . . .

 

He felt suddenly sick.

 

With a tight nod for Dobey, he looked back toward Abby.  “I need a few minutes,” he said simply.  Understanding, she wandered away, finding a seat at one of the small café tables.  Most had been cleared to the far right of the room, a few pushed together in the center to create makeshift work areas.  Rows of well-thumbed books still lined the walls just as Hutch remembered, many of the hard-to-find variety, all for resale.  A glass case to the left of the door held a collection of muffins, pastries, breads and strudel, freshly baked only that morning. Overhead, a well-used chalkboard suspended on colored twine listed a variety of flavored coffees, teas, and iced drinks.  He’d had a great iced chai the last time he’d visited, leaving with a dog-eared copy of Don Quixote, a text on shipwrecks, Something Wicked This Way Comes by Bradbury and a collection of poems by Keats. Starsky had started flipping through Wicked on the way back to Bay City and Hutch hadn’t seen it since.  The memory heightened the sad, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Hutchinson.” Dobey pressed a radio into his hand, drawing him back to the present.  “Channel 3.” The captain gave him a brief clap on the arm then moved away to flag down Griswold.

 

Hutch found a quiet spot in the corner where he wouldn’t be distracted by the constant flow of milling officers and other personnel.  Looking down at the radio, he realized his mouth was suddenly dry.  His hands trembled as he fumbled to find the right frequency.  “Starsk?”  Bracing an arm high on the wall, he bowed his head against his wrist and spoke directly into the mouthpiece.  “Starsk, you out there?”

 

It took only a second for the reply to ping back across the open channel.  “ ‘Bout time you showed up.  You go away for a few days of fun and sun, look what happens.”

 

“You get yourself shot,” Hutch said quickly, but there was no sting in the words, only concern.  He hedged, gnawing his lip.  “Buddy . . . did you really get hit?”

 

A soft chuckle trembled over the airwaves.  “You know how it is . . .” Starsky’s voice was hoarse and low.  “ . . . everyone wants to grab a headline.”

 

Hutch heard the grimace behind the words.  Despite the levity Starsky tried to force into his voice, controlled pain bled through.  A cold fist closed over Hutch’s heart.  “How bad?”

 

For a moment there was nothing, just the hiss and spit of static defining an open channel.  Then Starsky’s voice came, tighter this time, the carefully staged control threatening to crack.  “Slow bleed.  Can’t get it stopped.”

 

Hutch swore silently, his heart pushing into his throat.  There was a sliver of panic in his partner’s voice, tightly masked, but clear to anyone who knew him well.  For that tremulous edge to be apparent, Hutch knew the situation had to be grave.  “Where are you hit?”

 

Starsky snorted.  “That one’s kinda delicate.  Near enough the prime area to make me worry I ain’t never gonna get a Father’s Day card.”

 

“Starsk?”

 

“I got hit in the groin, Hutch. Near as I can tell everything’s still intact, but it hurts like hell and it’s bleedin’ like a sieve.  My jeans look like I pissed a gallon of blood and the damn thing won’t stop.”

 

“Shit.”

 

“Wrong area.  Come around to the front.”

 

Shaken, Hutch let his arm buckle, folding against the wall.  “God, Starsk, give it a rest, huh?  How can you be so damn cavalier?”

 

“Takes practice.”  Another soft chuckle.  “Good thing I was up for a marathon last night, ‘cause I gotta feelin’ I ain’t gonna be playin’ for awhile.  Leastways that bullet doesn’t have me singin’ soprano.”

 

“Starsky, you aren’t making this easy.” 

 

“And just what the hell are you whinin’ about, Blondie?  You ain’t the one with a piece of lead wedged where the sun don’t shine. Truth is, I ain’t all that happy out here.”  A moment of silence during which Hutch could hear Starsky breathing, the sound ragged and labored.  After a pause, his voice came again: “Any time I try’n move I got sniper fire pinnin’ me like a duck in a shootin’ gallery.  I’d really rather not die lookin’ like I pissed my weight in blood.”

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch closed his eyes, scrubbed his thumb and forefinger against the lids.  His chest felt unnaturally tight like it wanted to explode.  It was all he could do to keep his voice from quavering. “Buddy, I’m gonna find a way to get you outta there.  You just gotta sit tight awhile longer and work on controlling the bleeding.”

 

“Sure.”  Uncertainty, coupled with a clearly defined edge of worry, haunted the radio.  “How long you think?”

 

Hutch ground his teeth together, hating the fact he didn’t have an answer.  It wasn’t often Starsky let his vulnerability show, but Hutch could sense it now.  Every instinct screamed for him to shoot his way into the hills, snipers be damned and try to reach his injured partner.  Rationally he knew it was out of the question, but logic and sane thought rarely had any impact when it came to the extraordinary bond he shared with Starsky. 

 

Balling his hand into a fist Hutch rested his brow on his forearm, still raised against the wall.  “I don’t know, pal, but I promise I’ll get you out of there.  No matter what happens, Starsk, I’ll get you out.”

 

“Okay.”  A smile now, weak, but Hutch could hear it all the same.  “Let me know when the cavalry’s comin’.”

 

“I’ll leave my radio open.  Hey, Starsk?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“That was a pretty amazing thing you did, trying to reach that officer.”

 

“Didn’t do any good.”

 

“Don’t underestimate yourself.  Delressi died knowing someone cared about him.”  Hutch paused, dragging out the silence.  He lowered his voice and whispered the next thought directly to Starsky.  “Whatever happens, babe, I promise I’ll reach you.”

 

+++++

 

Starsky closed his eyes and leaned against the tree, letting the hand with the radio fold into his lap.  Hutch, don’t do anything stupid.  The scrape of bark against his bare shoulder and back felt rough and abrasive.  He took a moment to shrug back into his jacket, wincing as he slid his arms into the silk-lined leather. The material stuck to his sweat-slicked skin, plastered by perspiration.  Exhausted by the simple movement, he felt hot fire spike through his groin.  What a ridiculous, humiliating place to get shot.  With any luck if he survived the ordeal everything would still function. It might be awhile until he was up for an all-nighter again, but masculinity and sexuality were an integral part of his personality. He couldn’t imagine what losing that edge would do to him . . .hobbled for all intent and purposes, neutered like a damn eunuch.     

 

Not friggin’ likely.

 

Starsky blew out a breath.  He knew he should be worrying more about the slow leak of blood soaking his jeans and underwear, but couldn’t seem to get past the nature of his injury.  Worse was the knowledge that Delressi had died, splayed on the hillside, his guts spilling from a hole in his abdomen. He still had no idea who the guys were who were taking potshots from the trees, but the fact the assault was so well organized and deadly left him thinking along professional lines.  This was no simple gang war as first thought, but a systematic destruction of police personnel. 

 

He shifted, trying to get comfortable.  Every movement no matter how slight sent new agony licking across his groin.  The tee-shirt he’d wadded between his legs was slowly growing soaked with blood.  He couldn’t tell if the bullet had nicked an artery, but the leak from his leg was steady, unyielding to applied pressure.  

 

How long did it take a person to bleed to death, he wondered distractedly?  If there was going to be an assault by S.W.A.T. or anyone else it would probably come before dusk.  Darkness afforded cover but it would also give the snipers in the trees a chance to move closer to town if that was their goal. 

 

Deciding to test the waters Starsky inched around the mammoth oak, carefully scooting from protective cover.  Immediately rifle fire pinged near him, one bullet slicing the sleeve of his jacket, nicking the edge but missing his arm.  He ducked behind the trunk, breathing heavily as the movement renewed the flare of pain in his groin.  Fresh blood sluiced across his crotch, plastering the saturated denim to his raw skin.

 

A moan slipped from his lips and he folded back against the tree, grateful for the coarse support.  He thought about thumbing on the radio, calling for Hutch, but realized he needed to be patient, no matter how aggravating or frightening the wait.  His friend would be doing everything he could to work out a rescue scenario.  That was perhaps as frightening as his injury itself. 

 

He knew Hutch would push the limits and that amounted to unnecessary risks . . . to dicey chances that might easily put his friend in danger.  Hutch wouldn’t care.  He’d do whatever was necessary to reach Starsky.   I need you to fix this, Hutch, but by all that’s sane, don’t do anything stupid. 

 

Dejected, realizing what a mess he’d made of things, Starsky hung his head.  Wearily he massaged the bridge of his nose.  The accumulated blood loss was starting to take a toll.  Coupled with the gummy heat, it sapped his strength, leaving him weak and lightheaded.  If he didn’t move, if he didn’t flinch, the slow leak in the crease of his leg might actually dwindle to nothingness. 

 

Closing his eyes, he let his thoughts wander.  With any luck, his friend and partner had already figured out a way to fix things.

 

+++++

 

Hutch prowled the perimeter of the strategy table, listening as Griswold laid out detailed options to Dobey, Stone, and a handful of other men.  Restless, the blond detective paced back and forth, painfully aware of every skin-crawling hour that had passed since his arrival.  A large clock on the far wall made it impossible not to count each shuddering tick of the second hand.  Irritated, he dragged his fingers through his hair, continuing his agitated pacing.  Behind him, Griswold motioned to a map that had been splayed over three café tables, pushed end to end to form a makeshift planning center. 

 

“Fetterhoff says S.W.A.T. is already in position in this area.”  A squat finger plunked against the map.  “We’ve got heavy fighting here and here - -  ” The finger moved to outline two regions on the south end of town. “ - - with reports of some minor headway along the ridge.  S.W.A.T. managed to get a chopper in there and unload some men.  Word is they’ve taken a handful of snipers into custody, which could provide valuable information about who we’re up against.  The problem is our end. Northwest of Main to Southeast of Krenshaw, the land makes it nearly impossible to move anyone into the hills.”

 

“What about here?”  Dobey pointed beyond Shelter Pointe, close to where the barricade Hutch had encountered was constructed.  “If we move further out, lay a course southwest through this stretch of road - - ”

 

“That’s no good,” Stone cut him off.  “That section of highway butts up against Axe Canyon.  Sheer drop-offs with no way around.  It would take days - -”

 

“We haven’t got days,” Hutch snapped a little too sharply, pacing tensely in the background.  “We’ve haven’t even got hours.”  He wasn’t supposed to be there, hadn’t been invited to the session, but no one had bothered to shoo him away.  Dobey tolerated him, Griswold ignored him, but Stone -  - 

 

The Cold Harbor Lieutenant shot him a dark glance from under his brows before refocusing on the map.  “I have a few men specially trained for wilderness situations.  They’ve worked forest detail, helped CHFD in containing wildfires.  If we can get a chopper to land here - -”  He tapped the map to indicate a spot further west.  “We might get a handful of them through the canyon in eighteen to twenty hours.”

 

“Starsky doesn’t have eighteen hours,” Hutch spat, rounding on the table.  “For all I know he doesn’t have eighteen minutes.”

 

“Hutchinson!”  Dobey’s enraged bark stopped him mid-pace.

 

Stone thrust in front, beating him to the punch.  “You’re out of line, Sergeant.  And you’ve got no place at this meeting.  If we want your opinion, we’ll send for you.”

 

Hutch’s brows rose, a tell-tale sign his simmering anger stirred restlessly near the surface.    “You’ve got no authority over me, Stone.”

 

“But I do.”  Dobey pointed past him, toward the door.  “Give it a rest.  Now!”

 

Their eyes locked.  Every instinct inside of Hutch urged him to snap back, but this was Dobey, a man he respected and admired.  As angry as he was, as torn by concern for Starsky, he wouldn’t challenge his captain in front of others.  He looked away, eyes dropping to the floor, hands curling helplessly into fists.  Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode brusquely away. 

 

Stone’s comment followed, barely audible, but heard all the same.  “ . . . loose cannon.  I don’t trust him.”

 

And Dobey’s reply, louder, backed by steel.  “You don’t have to.  I do.” 

 

Hutch burst through the door, thrusting into the sticky heat.  It was already after three o’clock in the afternoon, the stand-off playing out like something from a classroom history book.   Updates and news bulletins would be interrupting regular television programming, cycled through most every channel.  At least the barricades had effectively barred the media, one less headache for them to worry about.  He knew that Fetteroff and his crew had been saddled with that problem, along with securing residents at the opposite end of town.

 

Starsky hadn’t radioed him since their earlier discussion, but Hutch knew he wouldn’t.  His friend wouldn’t admit to needing help, to hurting, to feeling alone and trapped, no matter how intense those feelings grew. 

 

Slumping back against the building, Hutch pulled the radio from his pocket.  “Starsk?”  There was no immediate answer and his heart gave a small jump.  Desperate, he held the mike closer to his mouth, fear slipping through in his voice.  “Starsky?”

 

A second, then two.  “Yeah?”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, releasing a sigh of relief.  “How you doing, buddy?”

 

“Been better.”  Starsky sounded tired, haggard.  No forced levity this time, no gallows humor.  Somewhere in the distance, gunfire rattled through the trees, marking an exchange between snipers and officers.  Starsky grunted.  “Hear that?  Natives are gettin’ restless.”

 

Hutch’s fingers tightened over the radio.  “What about the bleeding?” 

 

“Still there.”  It was easy to visualize Starsky shrugging off the answer.  “Last I looked, my butt was swimmin’ in blood.  Don’t suppose you got a spare pair of jeans?”

 

Hutch’s voice came a little strangled.  “Those tight-assed things you wear?”

 

Starsky chuckled.  “You ain’t exactly lackin’ in the vanity department, Blondie.  Never did understand how a man who drives around in a regurgitated garbage can could spend so much money on clothes.  You know Phillips over in records calls you a walkin’ fashion plate?”

 

“Phillips, huh?”  Thankful for the diversion, Hutch tried to keep the conversation going.  He was grateful for anything that might take his partner’s mind off the pain, however briefly.  He lowered his voice, trying to keep it light.  “Is she the redhead with the long legs?”

 

“That’s Peterson.  Phillips is the kinda dumpy one with the big, uh . . . you know, and the rear-end to match.  I think she’s kinda sweet on ya.  Must be that toothy smile ya got.”

 

Hutch leaned against the wall, moving clear as three state troopers rounded the corner and entered the café.  He squinted against the sun, focusing on the wreck in the center of town, trying to gauge the distance and the likelihood of fire from the hills.  “Couldn’t be I’m just naturally good-looking, sensitive and charming?”

 

“Nah.”  Starsky waited a beat.  “You’re right  - - it couldn’t be.” 

 

Hutch heard a low moan through the radio and guessed his friend had shifted.  The sound went through him, sending a river of cold gushing pell-mell to his stomach. “Starsk?”

 

“ ‘m’okay.”  The voice that answered him didn’t sound so sure.  “You ain’t had any luck roundin’ up that cavalry have you?”

 

Hutch bowed his head, scrubbed tiredly at his eyes.  “No,” he admitted, hating the single syllable for its ugly finality.  “S.W.A.T.’s having luck on the other end of town.  They’ve even got some suspects in custody.  Starsk, something’s gotta break soon.  You know it’s gotta break.”

 

“Yeah, sure.  I was just hopin’ it wouldn’t be me.”

 

Hutch couldn’t stop himself.  “Ah, shit.  Starsk, you gotta level with me.  How bad is it?”

 

A long pause followed during which the radio spit through a lengthy cycle of static.  Hutch waited, wired and tense, holding his breath, the drilling thrum of a headache starting behind his eyes.  The silence scared him more than anything Starsky might have said.  “Starsky?”  His breath trembled across the airwave, whisper-soft, barely substantial.  “Babe?  Please.  You gotta level with me, buddy.”

 

Starsky coughed, sucking down a weak breath.  “It ain’t good,” he admitted.  “I’m gettin’ kinda tired out here, Hutch.  And weak.  I feel like everythin’s foggy, you know?  Like I’m lookin’ through a glass.  I just wanna close my eyes . . . go to sleep . . .”

 

“No!”  Hutch’s voice lurched up an octave.  He took an involuntary step forward, the radio clasped so tightly in his hand, his knuckles whitened under the pressure.  “Listen to me, buddy - - whatever you do, you gotta stay awake.  You hear me, Starsk?”

 

“How am I supposed to do that?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Hutch blew out a breath in worried exasperation.  “Sing a song, recite the Gettysburg Address, compose a fucking speech for all I care, but don’t you dare go to sleep.  I know you’re losing blood, but you gotta fight it.  You gotta stay awake.”

 

A soft chuckle laced with fond affection preceded Starsky’s reply.  “I’m beautiful when you’re angry, you know that?”

 

“Starsk - - ”

 

“I promise.  But just so you know . . .”  The radio coughed back a whispered sliver of air that might have been a pain-filled gasp.  “I ain’t gonna sit still out here at night.  All bets are off once the sun goes down.” 

 

“Don’t be an idiot.”  Hutch’s voice was quiet but determined.  “If these clowns don’t pull it together before then, all bets are off on my end too.  If you move around, you’re just going to bleed even worse.  Sit tight and give me a chance to get to you.”

 

“So I can end up like Delressi?”

 

“Starsky.”  Hutch practically groaned the name into the radio.  A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his nose and he wiped it hastily aside.  “Babe, I won’t let that happen.  You gotta believe me.”  More blood, faster now, prompting him to dig in his pocket for his handkerchief.  He sniffled, making a feeble attempt to catch the blood in his hand.  It seeped into his mouth, coating his tongue with the metallic tang of copper.  Stumbling away from the building, he cupped the handkerchief under his nose.

 

“Hutch?”  What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”  He sniffled again, spoke through a muffled veil of cotton.  “I gotta go, buddy . . . see what they’re doing inside.”

 

“You got another one of those shitty nosebleeds, don’tcha?  I can tell.”

 

Hutch closed his eyes, sagged against the building.  “Starsky . . .”  He couldn’t reason through the logic right now, didn’t want to argue about the nosebleeds or the fact that dark came quickly this high in the hills.  “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid.  Stay where you are and stay awake.  Wait for me, babe.”

 

A long pause answered the statement, then finally a resigned sigh rattled through the radio.  “Okay.  Buzz me when you know something.”

 

Hutch breathed an audible sigh of relief.  Letting his head drop back against the building, he pressed the handkerchief over his nostrils.  His skull felt like it wanted to explode, ballooning with pressure from the inside out.

 

“Hutchinson.”  Dobey appeared at his shoulder, his face set in a stern mask.  The captain took one look at the blood-soaked handkerchief cupped over his nose and frowned.  “What’s going on?”

 

“Nosebleed.”  Hutch shrugged, offering a casual smile.  “Must be the elevation.”

 

Dobey didn’t look entirely convinced, but he relented with a clipped nod.  “There’s a bathroom in the back.  Get cleaned up then meet me around the side.  I think I’ve got something to interest you.”

 

Intrigued, Hutch stood upright.  “Captain?”

 

“Get cleaned up first then we’ll talk.”  Dobey indicated the door, pointing the way. 

 

Anxious for news, Hutch wasted no time in finding the bathroom.  It took him a few minutes to get the bleeding stopped, a few more to clean off his face.  The collar of his jacket and shirt were spotted, but both were fairly dark in hue to begin with, making the blotchy stains harder to see.  Wadding up a handful of paper towels, he lobbed them in the trashcan then headed out the door, nearly knocking Abby over in the process. 

 

“Abby.”  Caught off guard by her sudden presence, Hutch gripped her shoulders.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you - - ”

 

“Where have you been?”  she asked before he could blunder through an explanation.  Her eyes searched his face, noting the freshly scrubbed skin below his nose.  “You’re having problems again, aren’t you? Hutch, do you realize you’ve barely acknowledged me for the last two hours?  I know you’re worried about Starsky.  I know you’re not feeling well, but - - ”

 

“I’m fine.”  His voice was sharp, clipped.  Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been all that attentive, but there was a full-scale war going on outside.  She had to understand this wasn’t some simple, run-of-the-mill bust.  Half the police force was pinned in Shelter Pointe.  If anything happened in Bay City or Cold Harbor  - -

 

The color drained from his face as the impact hit him all at once.  “Shit!” 

 

Abby blinked, bewildered.  “Hutch, what’s wrong?”

 

But he didn’t have time to explain.  “Sorry, Abby, I gotta run.”  He was past her in a flash, bolting for the door at top speed.  Outside he could hear the distant hail of gunfire, signaling yet another exchange underway further south.  Skirting a haphazard throng of police and medics, he sprinted around the side of the building, trying to spot Dobey among the cluster of personnel. 

 

“Captain!”  Hutch waved to draw the big man’s attention, weaving through a gap in the crowd.  Too many people.  Too many cops.  Dobey stood by the back of an open ambulance, conferring with Stone and four other men wearing CHPD uniforms. 

 

“Hutchinson.”  The captain acknowledged his approach, then turned his attention back to Stone.  From all appearances the Lieutenant had just finished giving orders to the small group of uniformed officers.  As Hutch approached, the men split and scattered in different directions.

 

Jogging to a stop at Dobey’s side, Hutch spoke rapidly.  “Captain, listen to me.” He didn’t bother with an apology for the interruption.  If he was right, they had a hell of a lot more to worry about than a case of missing manners.  “You need to radio Metro and have dispatch contact the other precincts, set up an alert.  Stone, you need to do the same with Cold Harbor.”

 

Irritated by the directive, the older man frowned in his direction.  “What are you talking about?”

 

“I’m talking about our cities, stripped of police.  This whole thing was staged.  Think about it - - whoever orchestrated this has effectively cleared Bay City and Cold Harbor of at least seventy percent of their manpower.  If something major were to go down now, there’s only a skeleton task force as opposition.”

 

Dobey frowned.  “You’re saying this was just a way to clear the streets?”

 

“Damn effective, isn’t it?”  Hutch could see he’d struck a nerve with both men.  “Those idiots in the hills aren’t pressing the advantage.  They’ve got the high ground but they’re not using it the way they should.  The way they would if they wanted to wipe us out.  That would be too quick, end things too soon.  The way it stands they’ve got us trapped and occupied.  The only gunfire bouncing back and forth is a token display every few hours just to let us know they’re still there.  I could be wrong.  I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m not, then something ugly, something big, is about to go down in both cities.”

 

Dobey and Stone exchanged a glance.  “I think you’re right,” Dobey said with grim conviction.   “Trayner,” he barked at a passing cop.  “Get me a channel to Metro then tie it back to State.  I want someone on the horn ASAP.  And round up the Commissioner while you’re at it.”

 

Stone scowled, openly studying Hutch, but he spoke quietly into his radio, transmitting Hutch’s fears to his own superiors.  Satisfied, he’d been taken seriously, Hutch moved to the rear of the open ambulance.  Someone had inventoried the supplies on hand, spreading them out on a gurney at the rear of the vehicle.  Hutch grabbed a medic bag from the open bay and helped himself to what he needed. 

 

Within seconds, Dobey was at his shoulder.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

 

Hutch kept his attention on the items he dropped one by one into the soft black duffle bag.  “I’m going after Starsky.  No more waiting.”

 

Dobey sucked in air, ready to explode.  “We’ve been through this.”

 

“That was before.  Before I knew those guys planned to sit in the hills and wait us out.”  Hutch piled gauze, medical tape and a few blankets into the bag.  Turning, he shot Dobey a piercing glare over his shoulder.  “He’s getting weaker, Captain, and he can’t stop the bleeding.  I don’t care if it is a long shot.  I don’t fucking care if you suspend me, or even if you try to cuff me.  He’s my partner and I’m not going to let him die out there.”  Hutch’s gaze went cold and flat, the frost in his eyes matching the icy fist in his stomach.  “I’m not asking for help, just the courtesy to stay out of my way.”

 

Dobey glowered as only a 300-plus pound short-tempered police captain can glower. “You’re an ass, Hutchinson, you think I’m gonna let you walk out there on your own.  And you’re gonna need a hell of a lot more firepower than that miniature cannon you carry.  Get some long range ammo and toss it in that bag.  Griswold will fit you with a rifle and scope.  No heroics.  You get out there, get your partner patched up, and sit on your sorry can until I tell you to move.  You got that, Detective Sergeant?”

 

Startled, Hutch felt the fight draining out of him.  He’d been prepared for a hostile argument, maybe even a physical confrontation, but this - -  “Why the change?” he asked quietly.

 

Dobey hooked his thumbs into his ample belt.  “Because I’ve been trying to come up with a plan to save Starsky too.  Why do you think I called you out here in the first place - - to discuss the weather?”

 

Hutch flushed.  “Sorry, Cap’n.”

 

“Damn right you should be sorry.”  Dobey gave a brusque nod, tugging up his pants before continuing.  “Now I’ve got Stone convinced his boys can set up enough of a diversion to get you to that wreck in the center of town.  The trick is, you’ve gotta get there without anyone seeing you.  Make yourself invisible.  Rather than just set up a volley from the rooftop, Stone is gonna move some of his best shooters into the trees.  It’s dense enough for cover northeast toward the barricade.  When his men move, you’ve got about thirty seconds clear.  Once you reach that wreck, they’re gonna know you’re there.  Anything after that’s a risk, but Griswold’s got some stuff that should buy you extra time.”

 

Hutch wet his lips.  “Think Stone’s men can pull it off?”

 

Dobey’s expression sobered.  “They’re sick of sitting around doing nothing, trapped by snipers.  All three of those men who died out there beyond that wreck are Cold Harbor PD.  Starsky tried to save Delressi and got himself shot up in the process.  Every one of those officers going into the trees is doing it to save your partner.  To give him back what he tried to do for one of their own.”

 

Hutch nodded, understanding loyalty.  It suddenly made him uneasy, realizing how he’d been ready to break those same ties with his own captain.   Awkward, he cleared his throat.  “Uh . . . about what I said earlier.”

 

Dobey’s expression didn’t soften.  “You meant every word of it.”

 

“Yeah, I did.  I just wish it didn’t have to be directed at you.”

 

“It comes with the territory.  Now get outta here.  I’ll watch over Abby till you get back.”

 

Abby.  Hutch nodded and darted away, slinging the medical bag over his shoulder.  He knew he should take the time to explain things to her but he still had to see Griswold, pick up some extra ammo and a rifle.  In the café he tossed some plastic-wrapped muffins and bread into his sack, scrounged up a canteen from a trooper on State and filled it with water.  A medic gave him directions on what to do for Starsky’s wound, promising to stand by on radio.  From Griswold he got a rifle with a high powered scope, plus a handful of metal canisters. 

 

Surprised, Hutch looked from the canisters to the squat lieutenant.  “Tear gas?”

 

“Smokers,” Griswold corrected.  “The range is too great for tear gas, but these should buy you some cover.  The moment you set one off, we’ll give you every bit of fire we can.  All I can say, son, is you better run like hell.”

 

Hutch nodded.  He shoved the last of the canisters into the bag and slung the rifle over his shoulder.  He was halfway to the door when Abby caught him.

 

“Hutch.  This is crazy.  They told me what you’re going to do.”  Face upturned to his, her eyes pleaded with him, all earnestness and blind trust. 

 

He’d forgotten how lovely she looked, how tender their lovemaking had been last night.  Taking her hand, he pulled her from the center of the room off to the side.  “Abby, I have to do this.”

 

She shook her head, frustrated with the answer.  Frustrated with him for doing what he planned to do, with herself for being unable to stop him.  Tears welled in her eyes, as much from anger as fear.  “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

 

“Starsky’s bleeding.  Abby . . .”  The truth sank in his stomach like a stone.  “Abby, he could be dying.”  He gripped her arm, tried to make her understand.  But as impassioned as his voice was, as fervent his gaze, he knew she’d never truly appreciate what he felt.  It was impossible for her - - for anyone - - to perceive the strength of his bond to Starsky.  That was something they’d forged alone, never fully understanding its power themselves.  He didn’t want to analyze it, rethink it, or even explain it.  All he knew was what he felt in his gut and his heart.  In his soul - - a strength of emotion that whispered things like sacrifice, devotion and love. 

 

He loved Abby.  He did.  He’d die for her, the same as he’d die for Starsky or his parents, his sister.  But this went beyond that.  Beyond devotion and compassion.  This was love that was generally content to rest untouched, mostly unvoiced, except in subtle ways . . . a glance between friends, a supportive touch, companionable silence that brought comfort and strength.  Yet when needed, this strange indefinable love outshone everything else, leaving him blind to logic and responsibility.  It simply was, and that was enough for him. 

 

Raising a hand, Hutch stroked Abby’s cheek.  “I’ll be back, sweetheart.  We still have a vacation to finish.”  Bending forward, he slanted his mouth over hers, tasting the remembered heat of the previous night, the silk of her flesh, the honeyed allure of her lips.  And then he was headed for the door, pulling the radio from his pocket, everything forgotten except the man he hoped to rescue.  “Starsky?”

 

Nothing.

 

“Starsky?”  Hutch pressed down on the call button, raising the radio directly to his lips.  “Starsk, can you hear me?”

 

Finally the sliver of a voice, wafer-thin and halting bounced back at him. “ . . . ‘m ‘ere . . .tired . . ”

 

“I know.”  Hutch breathed the thought into the radio.  He didn’t have to be told the loss of blood was taking its toll, or that his friend was gradually sinking deeper into pained fatigue and growing weakness.  He heard the truth in the flagging thread of Starsky’s voice. “I’m coming after you, pal.  Don’t be surprised if you see some smoke and hear a lot of gunfire.  Just stay where you are and don’t try to help. “

 

“Couldn’t move if I wanted to.”  Starsky sucked down a tremulous breath that wavered through the open channel.  “Hutch?”

 

“Yeah, buddy?”

 

“I need ya to come get me, but I need ya to be careful.  Ain’t worth it, if you get shot.”

 

It is to me.

 

The thought bounced inside Hutch’s head, but he merely smiled.  “See you soon, babe.” Switching off the frequency he tucked the radio into the duffel bag and waited for Dobey’s signal.

 

It came five minutes later as Stone’s men moved into the trees.  The moment they headed for position, gunfire erupted from the hills.  Hutch wasted no time darting for the wreck at the center of town.  It was harder for him to move unobtrusively, the sun turning his fair hair to a blaze of white-gold.  Throwing himself on his stomach, he crawled beneath the ambulance, feeling the cooling touch of shade wash over him.  His breathing sounded harsh and rasp in his own ears, overly loud in the confined space.  He could see the oak clearly now, one blue sneakered foot poking out from behind the tree. 

 

Stone’s men were doing their job, keeping the rapid volley of fire and attention diverted elsewhere.  But there was no chance of reaching the oak without someone spying him. There was just too much ground to cover, too much open area that would leave him exposed and vulnerable. 

 

The stench from the medic’s corpse hit him and he ducked his head, breathing heavily through his mouth.  After hours lying in the sun, innards, blood and ruptured flesh strewn over the ground, the reek from the mangled body was almost unbearable.  The sight sickened him, made his stomach crawl up into his throat.  Further away he could see the sprawled bodies of three CHPD officers, Delressi among them.  

 

Starsky, what the hell were you thinking?  It’s like fucking Kansas out here, flat and open.

 

Scrubbing a hand over his face, Hutch wiped sweat from his eyes.   The weight of the rifle hung over his back, the strap loose on his shoulder.  Maneuvering it aside, he dug two canisters from the medic pack.  “Okay, Griswold.  Hope your boys are watching.”

 

Hutch pulled the pin on the first canister and lobbed it clear of the wreck.  It rolled a short distance, spewing a cloud of black smoke into the air.  He sent another immediately after it, creating a heavy fog to shield him from unwelcome eyes.  Griswold’s men released a barrage of steady fire before the second canister even struck.  Rolling clear of the ambulance, Hutch raced for the oak.  Heat, noise, and a whirlwind of chaos struck him all at once, but the ploy worked.  He made it to the oak unscathed, snipers unable to zero in on him between the smoke and Griswold’s line of fire.

 

“Starsk.”  Hutch skidded to his knees at his friend’s side, hands immediately reaching out to grasp a jacket, rising tentatively to touch an ashen face.

 

Starsky sat slumped against the tree, head lolling listlessly to the side, legs sprawled out before him.  One hand held a crumpled blood-stained tee-shirt wadded against his crotch.  His fingers were just as red and wet as the material, and his jeans  - - Hutch swallowed hard.  Starsky hadn’t been exaggerating.  His groin was drenched, the left leg of his trousers heavily soiled on the thigh.  Reedier trails sluiced past his knee, dribbling to the ground, already soaked and red.  Deflating slightly, Hutch sat back on his haunches.  “Ah, buddy . . .”

 

Starsky managed a thread-thin smile.  “Cavalry’s here.”

 

“Yeah,” Hutch said quietly.  He let his hand drop, tightening his fingers over Starsky’s shoulder.  “Promised, didn’t I?  Brought the goods to patch you up too.”

 

“You always did wanna play doctor with me.”  Starsky chuckled, coughing into his hand.  He grimaced as a barrage of pain washed over him.  Pretense was gone now.  With Hutch at his side, it was easier to show weakness, to lean on someone else.  He moaned slightly, twisting his head to the side.

 

“Easy, babe.”  Hutch fished the radio from his pack, quickly cycling through the channels for Dobey.  “Captain?  It’s Hutch.  Everything worked and I’m here with Starsky.  Tell Stone and Griswold thanks for the assist.”

 

“Starsky okay?”

 

Hutch tilted his head, measuring the gray cast to his friend’s skin, the semi-glazed look in his eyes.  Gingerly he reached out and stroked two fingers down his partner’s cheek.  “He will be.  Have that medic standing by in case I need him.  Hutch out.”

 

Starsky watched him with a hint of amusement in his gaze.  “Short on words, ain’t ya, Blondie?”

 

Hutch tugged open the duffel bag.  He’d known Starsky was in bad shape, but seeing him made it that much worse.  “Never did worry well,” he said tightly.  It was odd, but now that he’d finally reached his friend, that he saw the damage firsthand and understood the mess Starsky had gotten himself into, he felt an irrational surge of anger.  Starsky should have known he was setting himself up for disaster.  He should have waited, not tried anything so foolhardy on his own.  Okay, it was heroic, stupidly heroic, but it was also as impulsive as sin.  And that was Starsky - - shoot-from-the-hip, hair-trigger reactions, act first, worry later - - as wildly and exasperatingly impulsive as he was loyal.

 

Like that stunt with Vic Bellamy.

 

“Damn it.”  Hutch hung his head, unaware his hands were trembling.  With just a bit of prodding, his mind spun backward in time, recalling the night when Starsky had pumped Bellamy full of lead.  It hadn’t been that long ago, was still painfully fresh in his mind.  He remembered the rush of dazed horror and mind-numbing shock he’d felt when he first realized his friend had chosen to sacrifice his own life. 

 

Weak from the poison destroying his system, his vision unstable and blurred, Starsky had fired blindly at Bellamy, emptying his clip into the only man who could save him.  And all because Bellamy had been firing on Hutch . . . because Starsky, ever impulsive and loyal, had reacted instinctively, thinking not of himself, but of his partner and Hutch’s safety.

 

Rattled by the memory, Hutch bit his lip. 

 

“Hey . . .”  Starsky touched him lightly on the arm.  “You’re upset.”

 

“No.”  He shook his head, tried to deny it.  He pulled a blanket from the bag and spread it close on the ground.  A stack of gauze, medical tape and packing followed.  He looked anywhere but at Starsky as he worked.  “Brewer - - one of the medics - - gave me some prescription strength Tylenol for you.  It might help with the pain.”

 

“No.”

 

“Damn it, Starsky, why not?”  The tide burst unexpectedly and he found himself glaring at his partner, undisguised anger in his eyes.

 

“You think I wanna be looped out of my skull if those guys decide to stroll down from the hills?”  Wincing, he shifted, pressing the drenched tee-shirt tighter between his legs.  “Don’t know why you hoofed it all the way out here if you’re so friggin’ pissed anyway.”

 

Hutch blanched.  You’re an idiot, Hutchinson.  Okay, so he was miffed, but only because he was worried.  Because the knot in his stomach was slowly creeping up to his chest and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.  The thought of losing Starsky terrified him.  It wasn’t actually anger he felt, but twisted, possessive fear - - at himself for not being in Shelter Pointe when Starsky arrived, at the scum snipers in the hills who’d tried to take his partner from him, and at Starsky himself for getting shot in the first place.

 

“I’m not pissed,” he said quickly.  The last thing he needed was to pile more distress on his already hurting partner.  His fingers crawled across the blanket, closing over a lax wrist.  “I didn’t mean to snap, buddy.  I just didn’t expect so much blood.  Truth is you’ve got me scared.”

 

“I ain’t exactly doin’ cartwheels myself,” Starsky forced a lopsided grin.  Within seconds, the smile wilted, melting into weary fatigue.  “I’m tired, Hutch.  I wanna lay down and forget things for awhile.”

 

“I know.”  Anger completely gone now, Hutch raised a hand and stroked it through his friend’s hair.  His long fingers came to rest in the thick curls, holding tight.  “A few more hours and it’ll be dark.  This thing’s gotta end before then, pal.  Just hang in there with me.”

 

Starsky gave a tired nod and Hutch bent to unlace his friend’s sneakers.

 

“What’re ya doin’?”

 

“Your jeans gotta come off,” Hutch said simply.  “Underwear too.  Brewer says the wound’s gotta be packed to stop the bleeding.”

 

Too tired to show much effort, Starsky raised a single brow.  “You want me to sit out here with my privates hangin’ out for Gizmo, Gerta and all of creation to see?  What kind of friend are you?”

 

Hutch crouched on one knee, reaching for Starsky’s belt.  “Gizmo and Gerta took a hike.  Creation too.  I’m the only one around, dummy, and I’ve already seen all there is to see - - bunch of times.  Might surprise you to know I got the same set-up.  I’m not interested in yours.”

 

“You’re a prince, you know that?”  Starsky brushed his hands away when Hutch fumbled with the buckle.  He undid the belt himself then popped the snap on his jeans.  Suddenly nervous, he looked aside at the blanket.  “It hurts when I move, Hutch, but I don’t wanna be sittin’ bare-assed on the ground.  Think you could  - - ”

 

“All you gotta do is lift up and I’ll slide it under you,” Hutch assured.  He pushed the duffel bag out of the way then squatted at his friend’s side, ready to shift the blanket. 

 

Starsky licked his lips, growing paler.  “You don’t understand . . . it’s gonna gush if I try’n move.  All that blood  . . .”  His gaze lifted, slivered with fear and a near-tangible edge of vulnerability.  He needed both hands to move, but couldn’t keep the pressure on the wound at the same time.

 

“Okay, easy, babe.” Hutch laid a hand on his chest, feeling his own stomach contract.  Starsky had spent enough hours hurting and alone to become acutely acquainted with the sickening sluice  of artery-pumped blood.  Suddenly his friend’s nervousness made sense.  “Here’s what we’re gonna do . . .”  Hutch kept the hand on his chest, lightly touching, speaking quietly and evenly.  “You get both arms under you, push up and scoot to the side, onto the blanket.”  He dropped his hand, closing it over the blood-drenched tee-shirt and pressed down hard between Starsky’s legs.  “I’ll keep the pressure on.  All you gotta do is slide over.  Got it?”

 

Releasing his grip, Starsky nodded.  The press of Hutch’s hand was stronger than his own, making him wince, but it staunched the leaking blood.  “Always knew you wanted to grope me.”

 

“Starsky.”  Wired and tense, Hutch hung his head, his hair brushing his friend’s cheek.  “Please, babe, you’re killing me.”

 

Bracing himself with his arms, Starsky shifted to the side.  Hutch moved with him, never easing the pressure.  With a low moan, Starsky folded back on the blanket, sweat running from his face. Legs raised, bent at the knees, he instinctively gripped the soaked material wadded against his groin.

 

“Okay . . . “  Hutch’s breath came labored and fast like he’d run a marathon.  “Hold it there.”  Slipping his fingers free, he closed his hand over Starsky’s, leaning forward to gaze down at his friend.  He could feel a quiver in the lean body beneath him and knew the other man was tiring fast. “How’re doing, buddy?”

 

“Depends.”  Breathing hard, Starsky looked up at him.  “Ain’t everyday you ask your partner to hold your balls in place.  Wanna know how I’m doin’?”  His voice rose with the lilt of inquiry.  “Past embarrassed.”

 

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, dummy.”  Hutch thought briefly of a time when he’d been as vulnerable, twice as mortified, and wholly dependent on Starsky.  Going through heroin withdrawal involved more than just pain and skin-ripping agony.  It involved the loss of bodily functions, not to mention pride.

 

The memory flickered away as quickly as it came, chased by the remembered warmth of a partner who stayed glued to his side through the whole degrading ordeal.  “Like I said before Starsk. . . you don’t have anything I haven’t already seen.” 

 

“Maybe, but not like this.”  Starsky sucked down a breath that ripped through his lungs and left him gasping for more.  “Feels like I could piss fire, Hutch.  Everything’s swollen.  Jeans are killin’ me, tight as shit.  They ain’t gonna come off easy.”

 

“Always told you they were too tight.”  The ghost-shadow of a smile flickered over Hutch’s lips.  Bracing an elbow against the ground, he tracked his thumb across Starsky’s brow.  “Don’t worry, babe.  Just relax and let me do the rest.”  His tone was soft, soothing, laced with warm affection.  “You thirsty?  I got some water in that pack.  Food too . . . a few muffins and some gourmet bread.  Want to rest for a while?”

 

Starsky closed his eyes and gave a short shake of his head.  “Didn’t think I’d say it, but I want these damn jeans off.  Feels like I’m gonna bust - - ”

 

“Okay.”  Straightening, Hutch looked down at the wadded tee-shirt.  It had done its job, collecting and sopping up blood, but was basically useless now.  And Starsky’s grip had grown lax with fatigue, held in place more from habit than any true effectiveness. 

 

Moving his partner’s hands out of the way, Hutch pulled the soiled tee-shirt free, tossing it aside.  Gingerly he tugged at the zipper on Starsky’s jeans.  Blood and swelling made it stick in place, forcing him to manipulate the stiff metal with both hands before it slid free.  His friend moaned aloud, rolling his head on the blanket, doing his best to keep his hips still.  God help them if one of the snipers decided to stroll down from the hills now. A quick glance aside assured the rifle was within easy reach, the familiar weight of the Magnum resting snuggly beneath his shoulder. 

 

Starsky was right - - his groin was much too swollen for the jeans to come off easily.  Brewer had supplied a few coldpaks, foreseeing such a possibility.  He’d also provided a pair of paramedic scissors in case Hutch had to do any cutting.  Bending over Starsky to reach past him, Hutch dug them from the bag.

 

“Whoa!”  Starsky’s eyes went wide at the sight of the lethal looking shears.  “What do you think you’re gonna do with those?”

 

Hutch gripped a fairly loose wad of stained denim just below Starsky’s knee, cleanly sinking the scissors through the fabric.  “I don’t think you want me trying to pull these jeans off, Starsk.  Just sit still so I don’t nick you.”

 

“Huh?”

 

The shears sliced through with relative ease, ripping up the length of Starsky’s thigh.   Hutch looked up quickly to make sure he wasn’t causing undo pain with the handling.  “Think you can pull off your belt, babe?”

 

“Ain’t enough you’re strippin’ me,” Starsky mumbled.  Growing wearier, he fumbled sluggishly for the open belt.  “Now you want my help to do it right . . .”  His words slurred into a fading whisper.  Managing to pull the belt free, he let his arms slump at his sides. 

 

Still working on the jeans, Hutch shot a worried glance at his face.  Starsky’s eyes were closed, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier.  Resting, thank God.  Hutch worked silently and efficiently, slicing through the soaked denim on both legs until the jeans fell away, exposing, blood-stained skin beneath.  Starsky’s entire left thigh was soaked, along with the upper portion of his right. The root cause seemed to be just off the crease in his leg.  The black briefs he wore made it difficult to tell, but it looked like a powder burn ringed a hole blown through his underwear. 

 

Damn, he wasn’t kidding.  Hutch didn’t want to think about how close the bullet had come to permanently altering his friend’s sexuality.  A fraction more to the right and . . . 

 

Hutch used the scissors to cut through the sopping briefs before pulling them free.  Grabbing the canteen from the duffel bag, he soaked a cloth and gingerly tried to clean the area of blood. 

 

Starsky stirred groggily, raising his head.  He seemed to realize what was happening and let his skull thump back against the ground.  “Aw, shit.  Tell me you ain’t doin’ what I think you’re doin’.”

 

“Ssh, Starsk, just take it easy.  You know I was gonna be a doctor, right?”  Hutch tossed a handful of soiled gauze pads aside and reached for more.  “How many times you think I’ve seen you stripped?”

 

“Doesn’t matter.  You ain’t usually pawin’ me at the same time.”  Starsky sat up on his elbows, grimacing with the movement.  “Gimme me that.  I’ll do it.”  He pulled the gauze from Hutch’s hands, looking down on his spread legs as he dabbed at the tender area. 

 

It took a few minutes but he managed to clean himself of most of the blood. Hutch packed the wound tightly, taping it off carefully.  He grabbed a cold pak from the duffel bag, eyeing Starsky as he weighed it in his hand.  “You wanna place this?  It’s gonna be cold.”

 

“Gimme.”  Struggling to keep his eyes open, Starsky took the rectangular pak, carefully maneuvering it over his crotch.  He folded back on the blanket with an exhausted sigh. 

 

Hutch pulled another from the bag, fanning it over his friend’s legs, completely covering him from the waist down.  Shrugging from his jacket, he folded it in a square and pillowed it under Starsky’s head. “Comfortable?”

 

“I’ll feel a hell of a lot better when that bullet’s gone.”  Starsky’s eyes dipped.  “ . . . least I got some fraction of modesty now.”  He turned his head to the side, unconsciously inching closer to Hutch.  “ ‘m tired,” he mumbled.  His voice thinned, grew thready and soft.  “ . . . be kinda nice to have someone else keep watch for awhile.”

 

“Go to sleep, babe.”  Hutch stroked a hand across his partner’s forehead.  “I’m not going anywhere.”  Settling beside Starsky, his back to the tree, Hutch pulled the rifle beside him.  One hand rested on the stock but the other lingered on Starsky’s shoulder, rubbing soothing circles.  Closing his eyes briefly, he sucked down a deep breath.

 

Within seconds the first alarming trickle of blood seeped from his nose.

 

+++++      

 

Starsky stirred, vaguely aware something was wrong.  He’d barely closed his eyes when he sensed an unusual tension in his friend.  The entire situation - - trapped in the hills, surrounded by snipers - -  warranted tightly controlled anxiety but this was atypical.  Hutch had been operating on adrenalin when he first arrived, followed by that strange spate of frustrated anger, then finally concern.  This felt different, like a well-worn flux between exasperation and alarm.

 

He didn’t want to drag his eyes open.  It felt good to be able to fold into a realm of half-sleep and trust someone else to watch over him.  With Hutch at his side, he knew he’d be safe.  The wound was still throbbing, but with the heavy packing Hutch had applied, the bleeding had all but stopped.  He could still feel the slightest trickle and ooze every few seconds, but the lapse was greater, the amount seeping from the wound, considerably less.  Hutch had fixed it.  Hutch would take care of him.

 

Except Hutch seemed irritated. 

 

“Whass’ wrong?” he slurred, blearily forcing his eyes open.

 

“Nothing.”  He felt Hutch shift, twisting his head to the side.  The word sounded clipped, impatient. 

 

Starsky felt his shoulder jarred as Hutch reached for something in the medic bag.  Through the slit in his lashes he saw a glimmer of white - - more gauze. He was about to protest the wound was already packed, he was comfortable and there was no way he was going to be prodded again, when he realized his friend had cupped the white square beneath his nose and tilted his head back.

 

Starsky blew out a breath.  “Nosebleed, huh?”

 

An aggravated sigh was his answer, followed by a single muffled word:  “Yeah.”

 

Shifting, Starsky tried to gaze up at his friend.  “When are you gonna do somethin’ about those and find out what’s causin’ ‘em?”

 

Hutch’s free hand immediately returned to his shoulder, rubbing gently, quietly soothing.  “Lie still, babe.  And I already know what’s causing them.”            

 

Starsky blinked.  He hadn’t expected that.  Hutch hadn’t told him anything about the nosebleeds except that he’d gone to see a doctor and the end result was “no big deal.”  Starsky was never quite sure what “no big deal” amounted to, and Hutch had been vague enough with the information that he hadn’t pushed it.  He figured his partner wasn’t ready to discuss it and simply needed some breathing room.  Which was fine, as long as the problem didn’t sideline his health. 

 

Secretly Starsky entertained the notion Hutch might have been pushing the envelope too far with his increasingly difficult fitness routines.  It wasn’t unheard of for athletes to suffer nosebleeds, but the headaches were another matter.  Thinking back on it, Starsky realized Hutch’s problems had started shortly after Starsky’s encounter with near-death at the hands of Vic Bellamy.  He’d been laid up for a time afterward and while Hutch had been attentive, stopping by daily, he’d also started running longer distances and spending more time at the gym.

 

Working out frustrations, Starsky realized suddenly.  As close as they were, sometimes Hutch could be annoyingly tight-lipped.  Sighing, he tried to get comfortable, sparing his partner a pointed glance at the same time.  “So you gonna part with the information or make me play twenty questions?”

 

Hutch wiped the soiled gauze under his nose, tossing it away, then reaching for another pad.  “Nothing to tell.”

 

“Nothin’ to tell,” Starsky parroted in a falsetto voice.  Pressing down firmly on the coldpak between his legs, he sat forward with a grimace of effort.

 

“Hey!”  Alarmed, Hutch caught his arm, holding him upright.  Stained bright red, the square of gauze he’d been using in place of a handkerchief fluttered to his lap.  “That packing isn’t going to hold you keep moving around, Starsk.  I thought you were tired?”

 

“And I thought you knew what was causin’ those damn nosebleeds.”  Picking up the soiled gauze, Starsky wiped it beneath his friend’s nose, mopping up a fresh stream of blood.

 

Self-conscious, Hutch caught the gauze and turned his head aside, finishing the job himself.   “Not now, Starsk,” he said softly.  A strained moment of silence followed, during which he visibly tensed.  “Please, babe, just let it rest.”

 

Something cold and fish-scaled slithered through Starsky’s stomach.  He had the sudden inclination that “no big deal” had just become something monumental.  Something Hutch wanted to avoid discussing at all costs.  Okay, so maybe sitting bare-assed on a blanket with a coldpak shriveling his swollen goods wasn’t the ideal time and place to discuss his friend’s problem, but - -  “It ain’t serious, is it?” he asked worriedly.  

 

“No.”  Hutch bowed his head, his shoulders slumping in a posture of defeat.  “Just something I’ve got to learn to deal with.” Sniffling, he wiped the last of the blood away, then straightened, forcing a gloating smile.  “If I had my choice, I’d rather bleed from the nose than the crotch. You really know how to pick them, buddy.”

 

Clever, Goldilocks.  Turning the tables from you to me.

 

Starsky recognized the ploy but decided to play along.  “Don’t go gettin’ jealous, just cause I got a large enough target - - ”

 

Hutch snorted, tossing the soiled gauze onto the grass.  “I leave you alone for a few days and you turn delusional.”  The humor in his voice thinned to a slight smile.  Still wet with blood, Hutch’s fingers slid onto Starsky’s arm.  “A few more hours and I’ll get you out of here, buddy.  As soon as it’s dark we’ll have some cover.”

 

“I’m gonna need some.”  Starsky grinned crookedly.  “Since you didn’t bring me no pants.”

 

Hutch winced.

 

Surprised by the obviously pained reaction to his teasing, Starsky balked.  “Hey, what’sa matter?”

 

“Nothing.”  Hutch smiled, but once again it was clearly forced.  He pulled the rifle closer, raising the sleek weapon to check the chamber.  “Why don’t you rest?  Who knows what we’ll be up against once the sun goes down.”

 

Starsky frowned.  Secretive and close-mouthed.  Nobody did it better than Hutch when he was putting up walls.  Too weak to stay sitting much longer, Starsky folded back against the blanket with a grimace.  His leg strayed a little too close to the safety margin and a bullet pinged nearby, clear reminder of the ever-present snipers. 

 

“Damn hoodlums,” Starsky muttered, tucking closer to Hutch.

 

His friend draped an arm around his shoulders but said nothing.  Hutch laid the rifle across his lap, narrowing his eyes as he pressed down on his temple

 

T’rrific. First the nosebleed, now the headache.  Ain’t we a pair?

 

“Starsk?”

 

“Yeah, Blintz?”

 

“How was your vacation?”

 

Starsky snorted.  “Damn sensual.  How was yours?”

 

“Too short.”  Hutch paused.  Starsky noted his hand never left the rifle, his eyes alert on the hills and the sprawling thickets of trees slanting around them.  “I . . . I think I might be in love with Abby.  You know . . . the real thing.”

 

“No kiddin’?”  Starsky angled a glance up at his friend.  A man with a divorce under his belt was less likely to take the plunge a second time - - especially this man.  But then again, Hutch was a romantic at heart - - poet, musician, sensitive soul.  “I’m glad for you,” he decided aloud.  No easy feat considering marriage would change their own relationship.  Not that Hutch had mentioned marriage, but it couldn’t be that far down the road if he was talking love.  “You gonna let me be a surrogate uncle to your kids?”

 

Hutch chuckled.  “Uncle, big brother and substitute dad all rolled into one.”  His hand tightened on Starsky’s shoulder.  “I’m just not sure Abby can adjust to being with a cop . . . you know . . . permanently.”  A frown slipped through in his words.  His eyes were still narrowed beneath the force of the headache but he seemed to be managing it better now.  “I think she loves me, but she’s scared - - ”

 

“ - - of commitin’?”  Starsky guessed.

 

“Yeah.  She’s got a point though.”  Pushing his pensiveness aside, Hutch thrust a hand through his hair.  “She’s down with Dobey at the command center.  I basically blew her off these last few hours.  Not much of an attentive boyfriend, huh?”

 

“Hey, your mind was on other things,” Starsky offered, trying to be helpful.

 

Hutch closed his eyes, a pained expression on his face.  “Yeah,” he said softly, his voice suddenly whisper-thin. Slumping back against the tree, he rested his head on the rough bark.  “Go to sleep, Starsk,” he mumbled, “I’ll keep watch.”

 

Starsky frowned.  His friend had gone from nosebleed to headache to a discussion about commitment and love, ultimately ending in what seemed like depression.  Just what the hell was going on with Hutch anyway?

 

Too exhausted to dwell on it any longer, Starsky let his eyes slip closed.  A few hours ago Hutch had been adamant that he stay awake.  Now with his guard-dog friend watching over him, he’d been given Hutch’s personal blessing to fall asleep.  If he didn’t take it now, he wouldn’t get it once the sun went down.

 

Deciding nosebleeds, commitment discussions and even his own sluggish pain could wait, Starsky opted to take his friend’s advice.  With the oak providing shade, his partner close beside him, he fell asleep, lulled by the high heat of afternoon.

 

+++++ 

 

Inside of fifteen minutes Hutch heard Starsky’s breathing even into a rhythmic flow.  While his friend might not be enjoying a deep, restful slumber, at least he’d drifted to sleep, a considerable plus when weighed against the hole blasted just off the crease of his leg.  The thick packing Hutch applied seemed to be helping with the bleeding, but it was difficult to tell.  And Starsky had lost an inordinate amount of blood.  When the time came for them to move, Hutch knew his friend would be weak, his stamina seriously depleted.  With any luck, the cover of darkness would help.  Maybe by then Dobey would be able to send some men after them.  Either way, he didn’t regret his decision to plow recklessly ahead, bulldogging a path to his partner’s side. 

 

He still hadn’t quite recovered from what Cheryl’s father had done to Starsky through Bellamy.  That frightfully lethal near-death experience often haunted him at night, twisting his dreams into gruesome nightmares where he couldn’t find the compound in time.  In every heart-pounding, sweat-sticky instance of those horrific dreams, Starsky died. 

 

Because of him.  Because he was too slow, didn’t think fast enough, react fast enough, or hold up his end of the bargain.  Because  - - Hutch grimaced, closing his eyes against the remembered pain  - - Starsky had killed Bellamy to save his life. 

 

Damn. .

 

Shaking, he scrubbed a hand over his face.  No matter how many times he played the scenario over in his head, the end result was always the same . . . Starsky had selflessly condemned himself to certain death by blowing Bellamy away. 

 

To save me.

 

The truth, as always when he examined it, left him white-faced and nauseous.  If he hadn’t realized Bellamy wasn’t smart enough to come up with the compound on his own . . . if he hadn’t gotten Bellamy’s girl to admit he’d been talking to someone at the university . . . if he hadn’t put two and two together, placing the grudge Cheryl’s father held against him and Starsky in context . . . if he hadn’t been able to convince the grieving man to turn over the syringe with the compound  . . .

 

Hutch groaned aloud.  Too many “ifs” had factored into that fateful night.  A night that had nearly claimed his partner’s life.  It hadn’t been the first time he’d come close to losing Starsky, but it was the incident that pushed him over the edge.  Two hours after delivering the compound to the hospital, ensuring Starsky would be fine, Hutch had experienced the first of a series of nosebleeds.

 

“Stress induced,” a doctor had told him a week later after three or four more.  “It’s understandable given your job, Detective Hutchinson.”

 

But it wasn’t understandable to him.  He’d been dealing with the stress of being a police officer for a good seven years.  It was what he did, who he was.  He thrived on the pressure of risk and impossible odds, of putting crooks and criminals behind bars, walking the thin line between duty and danger. 

 

The doctor had been nonchalant.  “Something’s obviously changed in your life,” he’d said.  “Until you pinpoint what it is and find a way to manage it, the nosebleeds and headaches will continue.  Whatever’s causing it, Sergeant, it’s evidently a focal point for considerable stress.  If it’s not your job, perhaps it’s something related to your job.”

 

Distracted by the memory, Hutch rubbed his temple.  It wasn’t just anything causing him stress  - - plain and simply put, it was Starsky.

 

He’d realized that when he’d mentally examined the string of nosebleeds.  In each case the incidents were attached to a situation that involved Starsky in more than just passing danger.  Ever since the incident with Bellamy, coming dramatically close to losing his partner and best friend, Hutch found his anxiety level ratcheting through the roof whenever Starsky was in trouble.  Each circumstance rekindled the gut-wrenching dread he’d felt when he wasn’t sure if Starsky would live or die. Even now his friend’s crack about forgetting to bring him pants had resurrected a similar discussion at Memorial General.  With the painful memory, came all the maddening fear and helplessness he’d been forced to hide for his friend’s sake.

 

“You forgot my pants?  You mean you want me to hit the streets with no pants, no badge, no gun, no dignity?”

 

“You know, you’re right, Starsk.  I should’ve left you lying on the floor while I decided which pair of your equally crummy bluejeans I should pack.”

 

Defeated, Hutch hung his head.  “What am I gonna do, buddy?” His eyes dropped to Starsky.  Unconsciously he gripped his friend’s wrist, tracking his thumb over the inside of the sleeping man’s arm.  The motion helped soothe him, quieting his jangled nerves.  Realistically he knew he couldn’t keep going the way he’d been.  Their jobs put them in constant danger.  Sooner or later the nosebleeds would take their toll, make him trip up in a situation when he needed his wits about him, when he couldn’t afford distraction.  Eventually that handicap might even cost Starsky.

 

But he was unwilling to let go of his fear, of the thing that kept his stomach lumped in a tight-fisted knot.  As long as he hung onto that silent terror, he could hang onto Starsky.  Somewhere in the twisted logic that comprised his world since Bellamy, Hutch believed his fear was the thing keeping Starsky alive when danger prowled too near. Like today.

 

“Hutchinson.”  He jerked abruptly when Dobey’s voice crackled from the radio.  He hadn’t been aware of how much time had passed, the sun sinking low on the rim of the wooded hillside.   Apparently he’d been wallowing in self-imposed misery for several hours, unaware of the quickly slipping minutes. 

 

“Hutchinson,” Dobey’s voice came again, shattering his bleak mood.

 

Hutch groped for the radio, raising it quickly to his mouth, before the hiss and spit could wake his sleeping friend. Sometime during the intervening hours, Starsky had nestled closer, his head bumping up against Hutch’s thigh.  A single hand curled over Hutch’s knee, the fingers lax in relaxed sleep.

 

“What is it, Captain?”   Something felt different in the hillside, the silence now ominously strained.    Aware of the change, Hutch sat straighter.  “What’s happened?” he demanded.

 

“Progress,” Dobey said into the radio.  “A couple of those boys S.W.A.T. picked up spilled their guts.  Looks like you were right about Bay City and Cold Harbor.  There was a major offensive planned in each by an east coast syndicate.”

 

Hutch frowned.  “A takeover?”

 

“That was the plan.  Divert the police elsewhere, then move in and strong arm the local action.  It could have been a real bloodbath, but with the tip-off it looks like most of it will fizzle.  Never thought I’d say it, but - - rather the mob action we know than a new syndicate setting up shop.  We’ve already got National Guard replacing the forces on the south end of Shelter Pointe, freeing our guys to get back to Bay City.  Same with Cold Harbor and State.” Dobey paused, clearing his throat.  “Shelter Pointe’s going to be cleanup detail now, and that could get a little ugly.  I’m not sure those boys in the hills are gonna lay down their guns and run.  A few might want to fight it out.  From what I hear they’ve been paid well. Crime syndicates aren’t usually forgiving.”

 

Hutch gave a soft snort.  “Wait ‘till the guys who spilled their guts figure that one out.”  He looked down at Starsky, still asleep against his thigh.  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance they could have just left?”

 

“No sign of it.”  Dobey was silent a moment, the static bouncing between them.  “How’s Starsky?”

 

“Sleeping now.  He’s lost a lot of blood, Captain.  I’m not so sure he’s going to function.”

 

“Think you can get him to that wreck?”

 

Hutch looked down the incline to the wreck still sprawled in the center of town.  Delressi’s body had become an indistinguishable lump in the pewter veil of descending twilight. Just off the hillside, the area was flat and open, rolling toward Main Street like an unfurling carpet of green.  Hutch remembered visitors to Shelter Pointe using the grassy area as a place to picnic and relax.  He’d once brought his guitar, serenading his girl-of-the-moment over a basket lunch of cold fried chicken, broccoli salad and lemonade pie.   Her name had been Judith, an art-history major from Berkley.  She’d lasted all of two weeks with a cop for a boyfriend before deciding his looks weren’t worth the effort of his job and telling him to take a hike.  Strange how that grassy area had once been an escape for him, but now represented something sinister and deadly. 

 

An open firing range.

 

Hutch swallowed, raising the radio to his lips.  “I’ll get him there, Captain.”  He eyed the sky, gauging the time.  “Once it’s dark enough, I’ll break cover.  If I reach the ambulance, are we home free?”

 

“Close enough.  You reach the ambulance, I’ll get you help. Sit tight for now.”

 

“Got it.”  Hutch flicked off the radio.  He regretted having to wake his friend, but knew it would soon be dark enough to move.   Dusk was settling rapidly, plaiting the ground with a soft silver haze.  Overhead stars had begun to appear in the sky as the ghost-shell of a setting sun bloodied the horizon with crimson.  Hutch gripped his friend’s shoulder.  “Starsk?”  He gave a gentle shake.  “Starsky?”

 

Dragged from sleep, Starsky grunted, batting at the hand on his shoulder.  “G’way.”

 

Hutch clung tight.  “Come on, buddy.  I need you to wake up now.”  He gave another shake, assuring Starsky wouldn’t drift off, then reached past him for the duffle bag.  “We gotta move soon.  I want you to try to eat something.”

 

“Don’t feel like it.”  With a tired groan, Starsky rolled onto his back. 

 

Ignoring the protest, Hutch pulled a muffin from the bag, unwrapped it quickly and pushed it into Starsky’s hand.  “Eat that.”  Not bothering to pause, he peeled the blanket back, lifting the coldpak from Starsky’s groin.

 

“Hey!”  That at least brought a reaction.  Starsky struggled upright on his elbows.  “A little privacy, huh?  What d’ya think you’re doin’?”

 

“Swelling’s gone down,” Hutch commented.  He eyed the area in question, then reached out to gingerly inspect the padding and bandage he’d placed.  “I think the bleeding’s stopped too.”

 

“Hey, Dr. Hutchinson, you wanna quit proddin’ me?  Blond and pretty you might be, but you ain’t my type.  How ‘bout some modesty, dummy?”

 

Hutch flushed.  Flicking the blanket back in place, he sat back on his heels.  “Judging by the sky, we’ve got about twenty minutes before things start happening, Starsk.  See that ambulance?”  He pointed to the wreck.  When Starsky followed his direction, acknowledging with a nod, Hutch continued.  “We gotta make a break for it.  Once the shooting starts, those guys are going to fan out from the hills, stroll down and take out whoever they can.”

 

“Yeah, okay.”  Starsky shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant, but Hutch saw a grimace of fear cross his face. 

 

It wasn’t just the loss of blood and swelling.  Hutch was asking him to get on his feet and run for cover with a bullet lodged between his legs.  Hopefully their friends in the hills would be too occupied with fire from Griswold and Stone’s men to pay much attention to two hobbling shadows making a break for an inoperable ambulance. “You should eat something,” he said again.

 

Looking slightly nauseous, Starsky tossed the muffin behind him.  “Got anything to drink?” he asked thickly.

 

Hutch fished the canteen from the bag and passed it to his friend.  His eyes never left Starsky’s face. 

 

“Quit starin’ at me like that.”  Starsky took a swig of water, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.   Even in the semi-dark Hutch could see his fingers trembled. 

 

Starsky noted the tremor at the same time, swearing softly when he realized how obvious his weakness appeared.  “I’m just a little woozy,” he admitted.  “My head might spin when you get me on my feet, but I ain’t gonna pass out.”

 

Hutch wasn’t so sure, but kept the thought to himself.  “How are you fixed for ammo?”

 

“Plenty.  You gonna shoot that fancy rifle?”

 

The question was asked lightly in an effort to ease the tension, but Hutch refused to let it go.  “I’m going to do whatever’s necessary to get you to safety, pal.  I promised, remember?”

 

“Yeah . . . I remember.”  Starsky’s tone dropped.  He muttered something Hutch didn’t catch and looked away.  It was obvious from the slump of his shoulders he was feeling guilty.  Hutch didn’t have to hear the words to realize Starsky was rethinking every moment they’d shared on the radio.  If his friend had it to do over again, he knew Starsky would never have asked him to play cavalry.

 

He gave his partner’s wrist a quick squeeze then sat beside him, stretching his legs across the blanket.  “Looks like this whole scenario was a set up.”  Briefly he told Starsky about his discussion with Dobey and the planned syndicate warfare in Bay City and Cold Harbor.  At the back of both their minds was the quickly fading hour, the creeping advance of twilight.  Starsky listened as Hutch talked, nodding or questioning where appropriate.  When the minutes ticked away they were left with quiet and dusk.

 

“Lorraine doesn’t get our relationship,” Starsky said into the sticky silence. 

 

Caught off guard, Hutch sent him a confused glance.  “Huh?”

 

Experimentally, Starsky tugged one leg closer to his body, bending it at the knee.  “I’m lying in bed with the woman after a marathon of, well . . . you know, and she tells me I’m not normal because I spend so much time with you.  Can you believe that?”  He winced, struggling to sit up.  The simple movement exhausted him and he sagged against his friend’s shoulder.  “I’m not sure I get our relationship, Hutch, but I know I screwed up.  I . . . shouldna dragged you up here with me.”

 

“Think I was gonna let you solo?”  Hutch scowled.  “Not likely, buddy.  I - - ”

 

A sudden torrent of gunfire cut off his words.  Red starbursts danced rapidly across the hillside, followed by a second and third volley.  Retaliating fire came from the direction of Shelter Pointe, turning the night into a suddenly lethal battleground. 

 

“That’s our cue, pal.”  Hutch stood, abandoning the duffle bag, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.  Quickly he reached down to help Starsky.  “Tie the blanket around your waist,” he instructed, slipping a hand under his partner’s bicep.

 

Starsky fumbled with the soft material, wrapping it in place.  Sweat dripped from his hair, splattering like heated raindrops on the backs of his hands.  He tried to get his legs under him, laboring to help when Hutch pulled him to his feet.  As careful as his friend was, a barbed edge of pain sliced through him, eliciting a low moan.

 

He swayed into Hutch’s grip, one hand clutching the knotted blanket at his waist, Beretta in hand, the other locked on his friend’s arm.  He could feel Hutch straining, hear the heightened flicker of his breath.  “Easy, ” his friend breathed.  “Just take it easy.” 

 

Hutch’s arm shifted, sliding behind his back, anchoring him while he struggled to get his bearings.  His ears were ringing, the sluggish rush of pumped blood loud and clamoring.  The pulse in his leg throbbed painfully, sending more dribbling across his crotch.  Everything felt distant, fed to him through an elongated bubble.  Even Hutch’s voice, soft and soothing next to his ear, seemed to come from a great distance. 

 

“Okay, babe, just hang onto me.”  Hutch caught his arm and dragged it over his shoulder, locking Starsky’s wrist in place.  His other arm stayed wrapped around his friend’s waist. 

 

Supported in his partner’s strong grip, Starsky sagged against him.  Hutch took a few steps, testing Starsky’s endurance before releasing his wrist to pull up the rifle.  “It’s not that far . . .” he whispered.

 

It’s a freaking football field, Starsky thought.

 

“You’re doing good, Starsk . . .”

 

I’m holdin’ you back.  Gonna get you shot.

 

The rat-a-tat barrage of fire continued to volley back and forth between hills and towns, but so far the bullets pinged beyond them. 

 

Cover of darkness, Starsky thought, sweat streaming from his face.  Just hold up awhile longer . . . don’t let them see us . . . God, Hutch, I don’t wanna get you killed . . . shoulda never asked you to come get me . . . freakin’ White Knight and all that other idealistic bullshit . . .  got your head on wrong, that’s your problem . . .

 

“That’s it, buddy, you’re doing great.”  Hutch kept up a steady drone in his ear, reassuring, encouraging, cajoling. 

 

Through it all Starsky could feel the frenzied pump of his friend’s heart, hear the accelerated rush of his breath.  Their bodies were glued together, plastered with sweat.  He could feel it trickling down his side, cold and hot at the same time.  His vision was getting whacky, funneling into black blobs at the corners.  His legs felt numb, weighted with heavy stone.  A needle of fire blazed from the crease in his leg to his crotch, dragging a low moan from his throat. His head lolled to the side.  Hutch said something that fizzled into floaty nothingness. 

 

Unable to stop himself, Starsky sagged forward.

 

“Starsk.”  Hutch’s breath warmed his cheek.  Strong arms wrapped around his waist, front and back, holding him upright when he would have fallen forward.  Boneless and limp, he hung in his friend’s arms, only half-conscious of his surroundings.

 

“Starsk.”  Hutch’s voice again, shot through with strain and fear.  He roused, fighting back the gray paste of fading consciousness.  He was suddenly aware of the tremor in Hutch’s arms, enforced strain as his friend struggled to support his sagging weight.     

 

Rallying, he shifted onto his legs, removing the pressure from Hutch.  At the same time he locked his arm around Hutch’s neck, holding fast.  “I got it,” Starsky mumbled, not really sure what “it” was but knowing his partner would understand all the same.  Hutch started forward in a jerky-halting fashion, moving as quickly as their melded bodies would allow.  Starsky kept up under his own power, studiously gritting his teeth against pummeling waves of pain.

 

Each step was agony, a rifle shot of fire straight through his leg to his groin.  Hutch was still talking to him, telling him what a good job he was doing, but he’d lost conscious track of the words.  Every so often his left leg would go numb and he’d drag it a step, panting with the exertion.  Around them the exchange of gunfire grew louder, raging more intense.  It rattled the ground a few feet away, signaling they were rapidly running out of luck. 

 

The ambulance loomed like a broken shell in the darkness, beckoning, promising a slim margin of safety.  They were within a few feet when Starsky stumbled to his knees, the world going dark and muddy again.  

 

“Come on, buddy.”  Hutch gripped him under the arms, hauling him upright, dragging him forward. 

 

Starsky made his feet move, trusting Hutch to guide him, blind to all but the raging pain in his groin, the hot sluice of fresh blood down his thigh, and the clamoring wail of confusion in his head.  The ground felt like it waffled beneath him, as unsteady and dramatically shaken as he felt.  Just a few more feet . . .

 

Something was wrong.  The night felt alive, bristling with activity . . . the thrum of nameless danger, the harsh crack of automatic weaponry.  Too close . . . wrong direction . . . trajectory’s outta sync.  Hutch . . . Hutch, they’re gettin’ closer . . .

 

He couldn’t make his tongue move, couldn’t get the words past his suddenly constricted throat.  Firm hands gripped him and shoved him beneath the ambulance.  He rolled onto his belly, crawling forward, tasting dirt, the salty tang of cold sweat dripping onto his lips and into his eyes.   His fingers curled around the Beretta, claw-like and rigid, unwilling to let go.  “Hutch . . .”

 

A shadow darted past him.  From his vantage beneath the vehicle he saw only a scuff of feet, the dust-covered hem of black pants.  Then Hutch dropped to a single knee and Starsky caught his profile, rifle raised against his cheek, blond hair a halo of pure silver in the moonlight.  Like a damn beacon.

 

Hutch fired, the crack bouncing and echoing through the ringed hills.  Starsky heard a grunt not far away.  A body tumbled from shadow into moonlight, sprawling face down.  His eyes tracked from the silent figure, picking out shifting shadows among the trees.  The snipers were descending, systematically drawing closer, moving with the stealth and cover of darkness. 

 

Hutch pivoted, pumping the rifle repeatedly. Shot after shot belched into the filmy darkness.  Spent casings dropped to the ground, rolling empty and used at his feet.  The air stank of sulfur.

 

“Hutch!”  Starsky steadied his elbows against the hard earth and unloaded his clip.  The roar of the pistol was deafening in the enclosed space.  “Get under here, you idiot!” 

 

All that blond hair, blazing white-silver in the moonlight, drew attention as surely as if Hutch had painted a target on his chest.  “Hutch!”  Elbow-crawling forward, Starsky reached out and snagged a fistful of green-plaid jacket.   “Damn it, Hutch!” 

 

Starsky pulled for all he was worth, dragging his friend to the side.  Unseated, Hutch banged into the ambulance, completely losing his balance.  Only then did he seem to realize what Starsky wanted.  Dropping to his stomach, he shimmied under the vehicle.  In the limited space, the harsh rattle of his breath sounded overly loud.

 

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Starsky snapped. 

 

Hutch opened his mouth to spit something just as pointed when the loud whupp-whupp of helicopter blades suddenly broke over the besieged town.  Not one, but three military-looking choppers rose above the blackened treeline.  Searchlights cut through the darkness, sweeping the hills, turning nesting shadows to stark daylight.   Starsky knew from experience the Hueys would be armed with machine guns, possibly rockets, and packed with troops.  The snipers holding Shelter Pointe hostage had just run out of luck. 

 

“This is the National Guard,” a megaphone-enhanced voice boomed at the scattering snipers. “You are instructed to lay down your weapons, place your hands on your head and move quickly to the center of town.”

 

Starsky exhaled in relief, letting his gun slump barrel-tip to the ground. “Ain’t that beautiful?”

 

“Music,” Hutch agreed.  He rolled onto his back, his shoulder butting up against Starsky’s. They’d come close this time, and they both knew it.  He took a moment to orient, to simply breathe, letting the adrenalin surge slake from his body.  “How much you wanna bet Dobey’s out here inside of five minutes?”

 

“Three,” Starsky countered.  “Still got that radio?”

 

Hutch shifted, reaching in his pocket.  “Must have dropped it.”

 

“Brilliant move, dummy.  What were you gonna do if the cavalry hadn’t shown up?”

 

“I thought I was the cavalry,” Hutch said with feigned affront.  It felt good to banter, if only for a minute.  He heard the rush of footsteps and realized Griswold and Stone had sent their men into the field.  Dobey too.  He could hear the bark of commands, the pounding stamp of feet, the continued thump of chopper blades.  There was only an occasional burst of gunfire as the snipers laid down their weapons and surrendered. 

 

“Almost home free, Starsk.” Hutch rolled onto his stomach and started to slide from beneath the ambulance.  “Let’s see about getting you some real help this time.”

 

“Wait a minute.”  Starsky clamped a hand over his wrist.  In the darkness their eyes locked. “Look, um . .  .” He gave a nervous chuckle. “ We don’t gotta make a production out of this, okay?  The whole world doesn’t have to know where I got shot.”

 

Hutch softened.  “Sure.  Okay.”  Given a reverse of circumstance he wouldn’t have been too eager to spread the news either.  As it stood, he was just thankful another nightmare was drawing to a close.  Yet one more time when he’d hung onto his fear, strangled it tight around his heart and used it to keep Starsky alive.

 

Pushing from beneath the ambulance, Hutch climbed to his feet. 

 

Like clockwork, a frazzled looking Captain Dobey rounded the vehicle, his face a familiar mixture of gruffness and underlying concern.  “Hutchinson!  Where’s Starsky?”

 

“Safe.”  Hutch breathed a little easier.  It was all that really mattered in the long run.  “Safe,” he said again and made it a mantra to banish the last of his fear.

 

+++++

 

Starsky hated being poked, especially in an area as sensitive as the one where he’d been shot. Grumbling and complaining, however, didn’t stop or even slow his own personal taskforce of medics.  From the moment an operative ambulance was able to move into Shelter Pointe, he found himself the recipient of concentrated attention - - blood pressure cuffs, syringes, IV bags, needles, surgical packing, pulse checks, pupil dilation checks - - the damn list went on and on.  Fingers kept nudging, prodding, touching.  Suddenly Hutch’s gentle ministrations when they’d been alone didn’t seem that horrible any longer or even that embarrassing.  When it came right down to it, he’d rather have his partner attending him instead of a series of skilled EMTs, especially when one of them turned out to be female.

 

“Does that hurt, Sergeant?”  The blonde-haired paramedic was perky and petite.  Her name tag read “W. Coyle” in plain block letters.  He’d already gathered from circulating chatter that the “W” stood for “Wendy.”  In any other circumstance he would have been enchanted enough to hit on her, but not when she was so near to fingering his - -

 

Starsky flushed and groaned.

 

“I’m sorry if I’m hurting you,” she said quickly, still finagling the packing Hutch had applied so carefully.  “Do you remember when you were hit?  Morning . . . afternoon?”

 

“Morning.”  Starsky tried to raise his head.   They’d placed him on a gurney just outside of the ambulance, medical bags, emergency paraphernalia, rigged lighting and radio call box scattered around him like abandoned toys.  The blanket he’d held wrapped around his hips had been tossed aside in favor of something newer and cleaner with considerably less coverage.  Modesty clearly wasn’t an issue for the EMTs.  They treated his semi-nakedness as routine, something commonly encountered.

 

“Look, could you get somebody else to do that?”  Starsky asked.  There were two other paramedics working on him - - one relaying his vitals via radio, another hooking him up to a field IV.

 

Wendy shot him a quick glance from the corner of her eyes.  “I can assure you Sergeant Starsky, I’m fully trained and licensed - - ”

 

“It’s not your trainin’ that bothers me.”  Groggy from the pain shot they’d given him, Starsky slumped back on the gurney.  Behind him the town was a hive of activity.  The original “wreck” still sheltered him from most eyes and the ensuing cleanup happening around him.  He could hear disjointed pieces of conversation, the squawk of radios and scuttle of feet as someone rushed by, a shouted order, followed by another flurry of activity.   In the small illuminated circle where the medics fussed over him, he was mostly isolated and alone.  He knew that Hutch and Dobey were somewhere on the fringe of light, along with Abby, allowing him privacy.  He hadn’t wanted his friend to leave, but the medics had been insistent they needed room to work.  Enough was enough in Starsky’s book.

 

“Hutch.”  He turned his head on the gurney.  “Hutch!”

 

In a heartbeat he felt his friend’s familiar presence at his side, the touch of a warm hand sliding onto his shoulder.  “What’s the matter, Starsk?”

 

He breathed easier, felt the sluggish fear he’d entertained just seconds ago slake from his body.  Even then his mind stayed muddled and groggy, hazed by ebbing pain and the blissful buzz of strong narcotics. The clash of jet shadows and cold-white lighting made everything feel disjointed, carnival-surreal.  His hand rose, tangled over Hutch’s long fingers.  “All these medics and I get a girl.  You planned this . . . didn’t cha?”

 

Wendy chuckled, pulling the blanket up over his hips.  “Don’t worry, Sergeant, I’m all done. That should hold you until we get you to Cold Harbor General.”  Standing, she gave his hand a pat, nodding to another medic.  The two raised the gurney into a locked standing position and Hutch rose with it.

 

“Cold Harbor?”  Starsky blinked, trying to make sense of the words.  His mind refused to cooperate and he tripped over the logic.  “Hutch?”

 

“It’s okay, pal.  Cold Harbor’s closest. They’ll get you patched up there.”

 

The gurney moved, and the abrupt upsurge left him feeling disembodied, like he was riding the crest of a wave.  His mind groped for the familiar but came up shockingly empty.  A strange floaty sensation enveloped him, offset by the sharp prick of panic slumbering underneath.  Then he was sliding into the tube of the ambulance, the metal gurney locking into place with a shrill clack.  For a moment utter panic bubbled up, threatening to block his last remaining string of cohesive thought.  Hutch.

 

He heard the muffled timbre of his friend’s voice, too low to make out words, but rigidly insistent judging by the tone.  It came from the rear of the ambulance, rising into angry steel as the muted words grew more forceful.  “ . . . don’t care about your frigging policies.  He’s my partner and I’m going with him.”

 

A softer voice  - - Wendy maybe - -  trying to be reasonable.  Then everything upended and telescoped into blackness.  Starsky gasped, fighting down a lizard-sleek swell of pain.  Returning consciousness came in rolling waves, taking his stomach with it.  He groaned, sickened by a curdled lump of nausea in the back of his throat. 

 

The ambulance gave slightly beneath increased weight as someone stepped swiftly inside.  175 pounds of single-minded weight, Starsky thought distractedly, trying to force his gummed eyes open.  One hand floundered aimlessly in the air. “Hutch?”

 

“Ssh, babe, I’m right here.” The voice was beside him now, gently soothing, spoken in a tone he knew was reserved solely for him.  A hand clasped his, holding tight.  He heard the ambulance doors bang shut, was vaguely aware of the bouncing strobe of emergency lights and the wail of the siren lurching to life.  A palm smoothed over his brow, pushing heavy, sweat-slick hair from his forehead.  The touch was affectionately gentle, sending the nausea back a notch, making the leeching pain easier to bear. 

 

“Still hurting?”  the soft voice asked. 

 

His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth.  “ . . . little,”  he managed to eke out.  He turned his head on the gurney, shut out the medic crouching further down at his side, monitoring his vitals.  The cramped space felt surreal despite the fact he’d done this before, Hutch glued to his side, his partner’s face the color of chalk.   

 

Starsky locked onto Hutch’s gaze, needing the assurance of those calming blue eyes, the renewed confirmation that he wasn’t alone, that even when they’d been separated, their unique connection never failed.  He’d been injured before, but this was different.  This affected not only his physical condition, but his emotional and sexual well-being. 

 

What would happen if he couldn’t function again?  Not just as a police officer, but a man in general? There was nothing remotely sexual between him and Hutch, but they played off each other competitively, driven by base testosterone and the natural male-goaded need for occasional one-upmanship.  He couldn’t explain it, didn’t know how all the highly unique and interconnecting pieces fit . . . just knew the reason they clicked so well was the mesh of their personalities and the way those personalities seamlessly jelled.  If he suddenly couldn’t function in any capacity, what would that do to his perspective on life in general . . . most especially to his relationship with Hutch?

 

The nausea flared again, stronger this time, and he knew it was hinged around the worrisome thoughts in his head.  “What if . . . what if . . .”  The words stuck on his tongue, emotion and fear conveyed in his eyes.  He knew his thoughts were plain on his face, that Hutch, with his ever perceptive insight would understand what terrified him the most.  Please God, don’t let me be maimed.  Not like that.  Not there. 

 

“You’re gonna be okay, Starsk.”  One placating thumb massaged the worry line between his brows, stroking away the kink.  Strands of light-infused blond hair meshed with inkier black as Hutch bent forward. “Just like before, buddy.  Nothing’s going to change.  A little surgery and you’ll be as good as new.”

 

“Hutch.”  Starsky swallowed audibly.  “It all feels different down there . . . pain . . . then nothin’ . . .  like I’ve lost feelin’.  What if .  . . if . . .”

 

“Stop it.”  The words were soft, but there was authority behind them too.  The thumb left his brow.  His restlessness vanished beneath the comforting stroke of soothing fingers across his cheek.   

 

“Just put that out of your head, babe,” Hutch whispered.  “It’s nonsense.  I want you to quit worrying and try to rest.  Once we get to the hospital, they’re going to take you straight into surgery.”

 

Starsky felt panic grip him.  “You’re not gonna be there?”

 

Hutch smiled gently.  “No, dummy, not in the O.R.  I took a detour from med school, remember?”

 

“Permanent, I hope.”  Keep talkin’, buddy.  You should bottle and sell that gentle tone of voice.  Makes the world roll into place.   Starsky felt himself focusing, settling

 

“Well . . .”  Hutch drew out the thought, let it hang a moment.  “I kind of got attached to my partner on the police force.  This quirky, off-beat character who drives around in a striped tomato on wheels.  The guy would be lost without me to look after him.”

 

Starsky managed a thread of indignation. “Character?  You think I’m a character?”

 

Hutch chuckled affectionately, stroking his cheek again.  “I think you’re one-of-a-kind, Starsk.  And nothing about you, buddy - - nothing - - is going to change because of what happened today.”   

 

Starsky felt his body sigh into the gurney.  He didn’t know if it was the pain medication kicking into high gear, Hutch’s empathic promise or the soothing tone of his friend’s voice, he just knew that suddenly the fear had grown very small indeed.

 

+++++

 

Hutch paced the confines of the waiting room, his entire nervous system wired and on edge.  He shot an acid glance over his shoulder, but the fat hands on the wall clock had advanced no further than eight minutes from the last time he’d looked.  Disgusted, he rolled one hand into a fist and cracked it against the palm of the other, click-snapping his fingers.  Once, twice, three times. 

 

A plump woman, seated on a green and chrome sectional, sent him a frowning glance before returning to a worn copy of Good Housekeeping.   At her side, a young boy of probably eight or nine years, had fallen asleep sprawled over the remaining seats, one chubby hand wrapped around a toy police cruiser. 

 

Strange, Hutch thought distractedly, returning to his pacing - - he had never played with police cars, badges or guns when he was a kid.  He bet Starsky had though.  As a child, Starsky probably had a closet full of toy cars with sirens, fake badges, plastic guns - -  everything that would appeal to the flagrantly outgoing, rough-and-tumble son of a Brooklyn street cop.

 

His own childhood had been built around the things his surgeon father had bought him - - microscopes, logic puzzles and chemistry sets.  Playtimes were geared toward athletics - - his own selfish indulgence - - and sciences, his father’s.  He’d read constantly, always had his nose buried in some kind of book, whether it was about dinosaurs, shipwrecks, lost worlds, or larger-than-life detectives. 

 

Fiction had been his introduction to crime-fighting . . . a sensationalized skewed viewpoint that eventually settled into reality as he got older.  Strangely, his fascination with law enforcement didn’t fade, even after the rosy gloss of fiction wore off.  There were no toy police cars in his childhood, but there were plenty of well-thumbed Hardy Boys paperbacks, Sherlock Holmes novels and cheap detective serials.  Joe and Frank Hardy were a long way from Baker Street, but somehow one had led to the other as childhood interest morphed into late teen intrigue.  He might have even started out in the police force if it hadn’t been for his father’s pushing and meddling, steering him toward med school.

 

Always pushing.

 

Grimacing, Hutch closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  No sense dwelling on that particular thorn right now.  Dr. Grant Hutchinson came complete with his own bundle of unaddressed demons. Worrying about Starsky was enough to keep him occupied at present, especially with that damn clock inching along like a bloated slug.

 

Hutch clacked his hands together again and got another frowning look from the plump woman with the magazine.  Exhaling loudly, he scrubbed a hand over his face, then stalked out of the room.  The last word he’d received on Starsky indicated he was in Recovery and would be moved to a room as soon as he was alert enough.  Thankfully, surgery had been successful. The doctor who spoke with Hutch felt confident Starsky would mend completely with no impediment to his current quality of life. 

 

Which is just a polite way of saying you haven’t lost the ability to fuck, buddy. 

 

Hutch winced.  He was crude at times, but he was rarely ever downright crass.  Being separated from his partner for over four hours wasn’t helping, nor was the fact it was already half-past midnight and he’d been operating on little but adrenalin since six a.m.  No wonder his thoughts had grown so vulgar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten or even if he’d bothered today.  He knew he’d had a cup of acid-tasting coffee with Dobey, procured from a vending machine around the corner when the captain had waited with him to hear how Starsky’s surgery turned out. 

 

With all the upheaval in Shelter Pointe and Bay City, Dobey had been unable to stay, leaving as soon as word came through.  He’d made arrangements to see Abby home, something Hutch knew he should have done himself. 

 

He’d left her standing outside the ambulance when he’d clambered inside to ride to the hospital with Starsky.  He and Abby had been so close, so intimate on their weekend together, and now it felt like barriers were rising between them.  As much as he loved her, he couldn’t change who or what he was to soften the blow.  She’d gotten the unvarnished truth today:  This is what I am - - a cop.  This is what I do.  And God help me, THIS is how I react when my partner’s in danger. 

 

“Sergeant Hutchinson.” 

 

He turned at the vaguely familiar voice, feeling an irrational flare of defensiveness, followed by weary defeat when he realized who hailed him.  Lieutenant Stone of the Cold Harbor Police force strode crisply down the hall toward him. It had been a long day, and the hours showed clearly on Stone’s face.  The older man looked haggard, his eyes blood-veined and glassy.

 

Too tired to maintain his antagonistic streak, Hutch leaned into the wall. “Lieutenant,” he said neutrally. 

 

Halting a few steps away, the other man gave a brief nod.  “How’s your partner?” he asked.

 

Hutch eased up a bit.  He couldn’t tell if the question was sincere, but at least Stone had made an attempt to clear the air.  Asking about Starsky bumped him up a notch on the humanity ladder. 

“I think he’s going to be okay.” Hutch waited a beat, trying not to appear distrustful.  “Thanks for asking.”

 

Stone nodded again, a little stiffly.  Something about the man reminded Hutch of his father. . . stance, mannerisms, the touch of refined gray in his hair.  He was shocked to realize that similarity may have been the catalyst to set him off initially.  No question he’d gotten off on the wrong foot with Stone, but he normally wasn’t so quick to go for the jugular.  Could it really be the man’s passing resemblance to Grant Hutchinson that had made him immediately defensive?

 

“Glad to hear he’s going to be okay.”  Stone exhaled wearily, a sound that made him seem more human.  “We lost a lot of good men today.  It could have been worse, but even that can’t erase the stain . . . the needless loss of life.  Sometimes I grow old seeing it.”  He shook his head, the hint of a tired smile creasing his lips.  “I guess your captain told you, you were right about our cities being stripped of police - - a takeover bid by an East Coast syndicate.”

 

Hutch nodded.

“You had us on alert before it was even pieced together.”  Stone eyed him openly. “Do you always think that fast, Hutchinson?”

 

Hutch swallowed, his mouth oddly dry.  “Only when my partner’s life is in danger.”

 

“Yeah, Dobey told me about the two of you.  Also said you were a good cop and not normally so mouthy.”

 

Hutch shifted, glancing away briefly.  When his eyes returned to Stone’s face he was frowning.  Lodging his hands on his hips, he raised a single eyebrow.  “Is there a point to this, Lieutenant?”

 

“Two.”  Stone smiled toothily.  “One:  to tell you if you ever transfer to Cold Harbor, I will personally ride your cocky, arrogant, uptight ass into the ground, and take immense pleasure in doing it.  And two:  to ask you to thank your partner for me.  Delressi was a good cop.”  He paused, all pretense fading from his face.  “And a damn good friend.  He deserved better.  Your partner tried to give him that.”

 

The defensiveness withered from Hutch’s posture.  Straightening, he lowered his arms at his side.  He was suddenly at a dreadful loss for words, feeling little more than two feet tall.  “I - -”   

 

“I was just checking on a few of my men who were brought in for injuries,” Stone continued, giving no indication that he noted Hutch’s sudden bewilderment.  “I asked about your partner but the nurse on duty didn’t know anything.  I was headed out when I saw you here in the hallway and thought I’d try to get a few words out of you, without having my head bit off in return.”

 

Properly chagrined, Hutch looked away.

 

Stone chuckled, his expression softening slightly.  “You’re young, Hutchinson, little more than a kid.  Still full of yourself . . . full of life for you and your partner.  I guess if I were Dobey, and you and Starsky were really as good as he says, I’d make allowances too.  I know I’m not the easiest man to get along with, and you’ve clearly got a knack for pushing buttons.  What do you say we settle it with a handshake?”

 

Surprised, Hutch let his gaze swivel back.  Stone stood with his hand extended, a patient tangle of amusement and tolerance in his eyes.  “I . . .”  Hutch cleared his throat.  “I’m surprised you want to - -”

 

“ - - shake hands?”  Stone laughed.   “Let’s just say it wipes the slate clean.  At least until the next time we lock horns.”

 

Hutch grinned.  “I’ll do my best to stay out of Cold Harbor,” he promised and clasped the older man’s hand. 

 

Ten minutes later a nurse found him pacing the hall alone and informed him that Starsky had been moved to a room.

 

+++++

 

Hospitals were strangely quiet at night.  There were the expectant beeps, clacks and hissing whizzes of machinery, the soft sigh of an exhaled breath or the muted scritch of rubber-soled shoes against waxed linoleum, but for the most part, a near-tangible hush lay on the hallways, ebbing into dark rooms like a slowly-creeping fog.  In another frame of mind Hutch might have found the silence ominous or depressing.  But his talk with Starsky’s doctor and even his encounter with Stone, left him mellow and optimistic.  The quiet was comforting, meditative.

 

He paused in the doorway of room 303, looking at the silhouetted lump in the nearest bed.  The curtain was drawn halfway between Starsky’s section of the room, and the man closest to the window.  Hutch could hear soft snores coming from that direction, indicating the other man slept soundly.  By contrast, Starsky moved restlessly, a soft moan slipping from his lips. 

 

Hutch was at his side in an instant, heart tugged by bottle-rocket force into his suddenly constricted throat.  “Ssh, babe.  Everything’s okay.  I’m right here.”    He smoothed a hand over Starsky’s brow, instantly warmed and gratified by the touch of cool flesh.  Hutch traced the upward sweep of one dark brow, let his fingers track lower, curving a single cheek before feathering down to the stubble-riddled jaw.  He leaned forward across the bed.  “Starsk?”

 

Even in the darkness, Starsky’s long lashes stood out like curling spools of jet thread.  A vibrant glimmer of blue appeared underneath.  “Where?”  The word slipped from Starsky’s throat, hoarse and painfully raw.

 

Taking his hand, Hutch sat on the edge of the bed.  “You’re in the hospital, Starsk.  Surgery’s all over and you’re in a room.  All you gotta do now is rest and get better.”  His own voice caught, wavered a moment.  The long day and excruciating hours of worrying over his partner were slowly catching up with him.  Without even realizing what he was doing, he stroked his fingers up and down the inside of Starsky’s arm.  Emotions raw and exposed, the action was as soothing for him as his groggy friend.  Just the fact Starsky was semi-alert, his eyes cracked and open made Hutch feel better. 

 

Relieved, he drew a deep breath.  “Go to sleep, babe.  They already told me I could stay with you tonight, so I’m just gonna nod off in that chair - - ” He motioned to a vinyl chair drawn close to the bedside.  Stiff, probably uncomfortable as hell, it looked as inviting as a plush goose-down mattress at the moment.  Anything that allowed him to stay with Starsky equaled unparalleled comfort in his book.  “You need anything, you call me.”  He raised his hand, fingering a stray black curl.  “They got you on a morphine pump.  You’re not hurting are you?”

 

Starsky wet his lips.  “Some.”  His fingers tightened on Hutch’s arm.  “ . .uter?”

 

Not catching the whole word, Hutch leaned closer.  “What was that, babe?”

 

“Wat . . . ter.”  Starsky forced the syllables over a thick tongue.

 

“How about some ice chips instead?”  Hutch located a full cup on the bedside table, obviously left by a nurse, and found a cellophane wrapped plastic spoon in the drawer.  Tearing the wrapper off, he smiled affectionately.  “Just like a five-star hotel, huh?  All the accommodations.”

 

Starsky rolled his eyes, a flash of returning humor in his gaze.  Hutch fished a smattering of chips from the styrofoam cup, dipping the spoon between Starsky’s parched lips.  “Just a few,” he cautioned, knowing his partner didn’t recover well from anesthesia, even with medication to help combat the usual nausea.  Starsky often flirted with an upset stomach after surgery, occasionally succumbing to post-op vomiting.

 

“More,” Starsky prodded, when he’d swallowed the chips.

 

Undecided, Hutch frowned.

 

“S’okay,” the tired voice slurred.  “Stomach’s settled . . . throat feels like the Sahara.”

 

A ghost smile touched Hutch’s lips.  “Okay, but just a few.”

 

When Starsky had swallowed another mouthful, Hutch set the cup aside.  He hadn’t moved from the edge of the bed, one leg bent at the knee and drawn onto the mattress, the other hanging over the side.  As soon as his hand was free, he wrapped it around Starsky’s forearm just below the elbow.  There was a flush of color in his friend’s face now, a hint of attentiveness in his midnight-blue eyes. 

 

“Better?”  Hutch asked.

 

Starsky nodded.  He angled his head, tucking his chin to his chest, gazing down on his legs.  Hutch didn’t have to lift the blankets to know Starsky’s groin was heavily packed, swaddled with bandages.  The bulging outline beneath the white hospital blankets was clear indication of that.  Any other time he might have made a crack about the size of that protruding lump, but he lacked the energy to spar.  Besides . . . Starsky was clearly worried and Hutch was feeling far too protective for jokes. 

 

“Feels sore,” Starsky mumbled.  He scowled, bewildered.  “Is that good or bad?”  His eyes latched onto Hutch’s face, latent awareness steam-rolling over him.  His hand rose, clasping Hutch’s elbow in a desperate grip, locking them arm to arm. “What’d the doctor say?” he rasped.  A look of sheer panic crossed his face.  Grimacing, he tried to inch up on his elbows.  “Do I still got all my plumbin’, Hutch?”

 

“Ssh.”  Hutch placed a hand on his chest, palm down, and gently pushed him back into the pillows.  “Everything’s fine, Starsk - - ”

 

“- -  you mean?”

 

“Yes.”  Hutch smiled openly, feeling a rush of near-silly affection for his overly worried partner.    “You’re 100% operable, just like I told you you’d be.  I wouldn’t try any marathons right now, or even matinees, but after a bit of rest and some time to heal, the doctor says you’ll be as good as new.  You’re gonna have to be satisfied looking at your own reflection in that mirrored bed canopy for awhile, but eventually you can turn into a shiftless playboy again.”

 

Starsky blew out a loud breath of relief.  A second later Hutch’s words caught up with him and he managed a weak show of affront.  “I am not shiftless,” he protested. 

 

Hutch didn’t bother to point out he hadn’t objected to, or denied, the ‘playboy’ reference.

 

“No, babe, you’re not.”  Abruptly serious, Hutch tracked a thumb over his cheek, his smile fading.  He made no attempt to disguise the tangle of bare emotion in his eyes.  His voice dropped, growing thread-thin and earnest, threatening to crack like petal-thin glass.  “You’re pretty damn special.”  Hutch swallowed.  “ . . . just don’t ever say I told you so.”

 

Starsky’s lips curled crookedly.  “You ain’t so bad yourself, Blondie.”  Scrunching comfortably into the pillows, he let out a contented sigh and allowed his eyes to drift shut. “ . . . better’n morphine, even if you do worry too much.  Coulda toldja I’d be okay.”

 

Hutch gave a soft snort.  Within seconds Starsky fell asleep, but it was long moments before Hutch moved to the chair.  He was content to simply sit and watch his friend sleep, eternally grateful everything had worked out in the end, that the snipers, like Bellamy, hadn’t been able to take Starsky from him.  God, babe, do you have any idea what you put me through today?  How close I came to short-circuiting?  You’re so damn impulsive, it pushes me to the end sometimes. He frowned, brought up short by the rambling thought. But I wouldn’t have you any other way. 

 

The man in the opposite bed gave a sharp, sputtering snore and Hutch jerked from his thoughts.  Almost immediately he became aware of something metallic-tasting on his lips.  Frowning, he thumbed a trickle of blood from beneath his nose.  Just a trickle this time.  It could have been worse, usually was.  Maybe that meant he was learning to put Starsky’s recklessness into perspective. 

 

Or maybe he was just tired and there was nothing left in him to bleed.

 

Exhausted, Hutch crawled into the chair and curled up beside his friend, one hand stretched between them, resting lightly on Starsky’s arm.

 

+++++

 

Starsky had his nose buried in Salem’s Lot when Hutch knocked on the front door and swiftly stepped inside. 

 

“How you doing, buddy?”  His blond friend smiled, forcing Hutchinson levity and optimism into the dreary apartment.  A stuffed-to-the-gills grocery bag was wedged in the crook of one arm, a six pack of root beer suspended by the plastic loops in his long fingers.

 

Starsky frowned.  Although he’d been home from the hospital for a few days, assured by doctors he was recovering nicely and that everything was in fully functioning order, he was definitely having a glass-half-empty kind of day.  It would be awhile until he was up to testing the sexual waters again, but since he and Lorraine had parted company through a recent phone call, that wasn’t even an issue.  Hobbling around like a recovering invalid, however, left him grumpy and annoyingly out-of-sorts.

 

The steady thrum of a day-long rain pattering against the windows didn’t help.  Plus, he’d stupidly left most of the blinds drawn, turning the normally colorful interior of his apartment a dull and dismal gray. Being home was better than lying in the hospital, he supposed, but an active man could only take so much sitting around.  “I’m bored,” he told Hutch. 

 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  He’d finished reading Something Wicked This Way Comes for the second time a few days ago (he really was going to have to break down and give that back to Hutch), and had immediately moved on to the next gooseflesh-inducing story.  He generally liked King’s Carrie when he’d read it last year, but Salem’s Lot promised to be even better.  The creepiness factor was over the top and the book was populated with interesting characters.  He liked Susan and Bill Norton, Matt Burke, Constable Gillespie, even Weasel Craig - - as much as one can like the town drunk.  Ben Mears, obviously meant to be the central character, was okay for one of those introspective kind of guys, but for some reason Starsky kept picturing him as blond instead of dark-haired.  Maybe it was because Hutch had picked the book up for him.  With a little imagination he could almost picture his friend, with longer hair, in the role of Mears.  They both had that sensitive-quiet thing going on.  

 

“See if this helps.”  Hutch pulled a plastic bag from the grocery sack and tossed it at him. 

 

Cheese Doodles.  Starsky’s face lit considerably.  Hutch buying him any kind of junk food pushed the limits of believability.  Okay, so maybe there were some things in life that could brighten a dreary day.  He grasped the bag on both sides, popping it apart to inhale the cheesy aroma.  “That soda cold?” he called as Hutch walked past him into the kitchen.

 

“Would I bring you warm root beer?”  Hutch shot back.  He moved around the apartment, opening blinds, flooding the bleak interior with rain-washed light.

 

Starsky munched contentedly, dropping a few orange crumbs onto his book.  “Surprised you’re bringin’ me this stuff at all.  Thought I’d get alfalfa sprouts and wheat germ oil.”  Another handful of cheddary curls made their way into his mouth as he listened to Hutch puttering in the kitchen.  “What time is it anyway?”

 

“Lunchtime,” Hutch called. 

 

Starsky heard the refrigerator open, followed by the cupboard.  Dishes banged around and a few boxes were put away.  “Did you get me that chocolaty cereal I like?”   

 

“Yeah, Starsk.  I couldn’t find it, so I had to ask a clerk.  I told him I was getting it for my six-year-old kid.”  A pause, followed by a clang of silverware.  “If I make you a sandwich and some soup, will you eat it?”

 

Starsky shrugged off the six-year-old remark.  “Just a sandwich.  Can you stay and have one with me?”

 

“I’m off the rest of the afternoon.”

 

Starsky grinned.  So maybe the glass was half-full after all.  He didn’t want to admit how much he’d missed Hutch’s company, but once his friend had gone back to work it started to feel lonely in the apartment.  In the beginning, when he’d first been released from the hospital, Hutch had taken some time off and spent the days camped on Starsky’s sofa, until he was sure Starsky was mobile enough not to warrant constant attention.  Since then he’d been popping in afternoons and evenings, sometimes mornings too, running whatever errands were necessary, tidying the place up, fixing meals and being welcome company.

 

At first Starsky had been surprised Hutch wasn’t spending more time with Abby.  Two days into his convalescence he’d asked about her, and Hutch had grown evasive.  Eventually his friend admitted things had cooled slightly between them.  While Hutch was obviously still in love, Abby’s experience in Shelter Pointe had apparently made her question a long term relationship with a police officer.  They were gradually trying to work through the obstacles but it was mostly touch-and-go at this stage.  Starsky only hoped Hutch wouldn’t get his heart broken again.  Abby was his friend’s first long-term relationship since his divorce from Vanessa.

 

Shoving his paperback aside, Starsky dug into the cheese doodles.  Shelter Pointe had changed all of their lives.  Aside from the fluctuation in his relationship with Abby, Starsky didn’t think Hutch would ever look at the small artist community the same way again.  The cleanup, already underway, would likely be long.  The syndicate ties were intricate and not easily unraveled, especially since the majority of them lead out of state. Even so, the investigation was in high gear with a number of warrants issued.  For his own part, he’d tried to put the ugliness behind him, but his dreams still held the remembered flotsam of fear.   If it hadn’t been for a persistent and devoted partner - -

 

“Ham and cheese,” Hutch announced, shattering his thoughts.  His friend slid a plate containing an angle-cut sandwich and a dill pickle wedge onto the coffee table.  A tall glass of iced root beer followed, carefully placed on a square coaster with rounded edges.  One thing Starsky had learned over the years - -  Hutch was strangely fanatical about using coasters on wood.  Probably that highbrow upbringing of his.  Item number 3 or 4 in the Hutchinson Book of Required Etiquette.

 

Hutch snatched the bag of cheese doodles from his hands, plopping it beside the plate.  “Main course.  Accent,” he said pointing from the sandwich to the bag.  “Not to be confused.  Think you can handle that, Starsk?”

 

Starsky scowled.  “You ain’t rackin’ up points, Blondie.”  Shifting carefully so as not to put undue pressure on his still-healing wound, he sat forward and claimed half the sandwich.  A suspicious sniff identified the pale brown bread as some whole-wheat variety.  Stifling a sigh, he watched Hutch move back to the kitchen.  He should have known.  The fact Hutch had bought cheese doodles, chocolate-coated cereal and root beer meant there had to be something semi good-for-you in that grocery bag.  Hopefully desert wasn’t a bean sprout strudel.

 

Starsky bit into the sandwich, mollified when he realized it actually tasted pretty good.  Hutch returned with his own plate and a glass of water, folding into an adjacent easy chair.  He set the glass on the floor at his side, resting the plate in his lap.  For the first time since he’d entered, Starsky got a good look at him.

 

“You’re lookin’ tired, pal.  Not workin’ out too hard at the gym, are you?”

 

Hutch shook his head, taking a bite of his sandwich. 

 

“How ‘bout nosebleeds?”  Starsky couldn’t stop the question, wasn’t exactly sure where it came from.  Suddenly he wasn’t hungry any longer.  He shoved his plate aside, watched a quiet tightness work its way across Hutch’s face. Bingo!  He’d struck the jackpot with that one.

 

Hutch swallowed with difficulty.  “I think I’ve got that under control,” he muttered.  He studied the sandwich morosely, decided he wasn’t hungry either and set his plate on the table beside Starsky’s.  His hand strayed to his knee, long fingers idly fiddling with a thread that poked from the seam of his tan pants. His eyes stayed downcast, looking anywhere but at his friend.

 

“Gonna tell me what that was all about?”  Starsky prodded when he stayed silent too long.  “You know  - - the nosebleeds?”

 

Hutch’s eyes flashed to his face, probing, clearly unsure.  His gaze skittered sideways.  “No big deal.”

 

No big deal.  Those same damn words again, same shuffle-dance of avoidance.  “Yeah, well,” Starsky said tightly.  “I’d like to decide that one myself.  How ‘bout you quit skirtin’ the issue and tell me what’s goin’ on.  Don’t clam up on me, Hutch.  Just spill it.”

 

Hutch’s eyes returned, laced with a thread of gratitude this time.  “It’s not like you think, babe.  Just some things I’ve got to learn to deal with . . . letting go . . . stress management . . .”

 

“Stress management?”  Caught off guard, Starsky chuckled.  “I thought that was for 50ish executives with big guts and fatter wallets.  What d’you got to be stressed about?”

 

“Um . . .”  Hutch sat forward, lacing his hands between his knees.  He cleared his throat, suddenly awkward and uncomfortable.  A guilty shrug made the next words roll self-consciously from his tongue.  “I was  . . . sort of . . .  g-getting hung up on what was happening . . . to you.”

 

Starsky balked.  “Huh?  Run that by me again.  I don’t get it.”

 

“There’s nothing to get.”  Hutch blew out an exasperated breath and stood.  Clearly agitated, he started to pace.  “Look, Starsk, like I said, it’s no big deal, all right?   So I got a little freaky after that thing with Cheryl’s father.  I mean, for crying out loud, you’ve got one foot in the grave and you go and blow away Bellamy - - the only guy who can save you!  So I got a little panicky - -”

 

“ - - you never acted panicky.”  Jaw slack, Starsky watched his friend’s frantic pacing with a staggering sense of amazement.

 

“And I never acted scared out of my skull but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t one step short of terror.  Sonofabitch, Starsky, you almost died!”  Hutch came to a wrenching halt, his voice shuddering to sudden silence.  In the abrupt emptiness, the room felt charged with long-restrained anger.  Something deeper and darker crackled at the edges - - the ugly specter of fear. 

 

“Don’t you get it?”  Hutch said, the fight draining out of him abruptly, his voice dropping to a battle-weary level.  “If something were to happen to you - -”

 

“Hutch - -”  Starsky groped for words, unable to get past the strange knot in his gut.  His world felt turned upside down, horribly out of skew.  “Are you tryin’ to tell me you’re actually gettin’ nosebleeds and headaches ‘cause you think I’m gonna screw up and get myself killed?”  Yes, damn it, you are!  Thinking back on it, he realized each instance came on the heels of something he’d done to place himself in danger.  “Of all the idiotic, overly sensitive - - I can’t believe as long as we’ve worked together you don’t know the risks.”

 

“Bellamy wasn’t a risk,” Hutch snapped, his face going closed and hard. “Bellamy was a decision.  A fucking conscious decision!  You chose my life over yours!”                             

 

“So sue me for carin’!” Starsky shouted.  “What the hell would you have done?”

 

Thundering silence this time.  The kind that made his ears ring and the hair stand up on his arms.  His partner was glaring at him, those sky blue eyes turned to flinty chips of ice. Starsky had him.  He knew he had him.  What would you have done?  They both knew the answer before the question had even been voiced - - the same damn thing.  So if they cared for each other with such self-sacrificing love, why the hell were they arguing about it?

 

Hutch seemed to come to the conclusion at the same time he did.  Sighing despondently he dropped on the couch next to Starsky, bowing his head into his hands.  “I’m an idiot.”

 

“King of ‘em,” Starsky agreed grumpily. “Get you a crown and a robe, you could hold court right here, never miss a beat.”

 

“You’re all heart, Starsk.”

 

“Maybe ‘cause I ain’t used to gettin’ trounced on for carin’.”  When Hutch kept his head bowed, staring forlornly at the floor, Starsky relented, abandoning his sulky tone of voice.  “Look, Hutch - -”  He leaned a little closer, reaching out to tentatively touch one shirt-sleeved arm.  “I didn’t even think about what I was doin’ when Bellamy was shootin’ at you.  I didn’t take time to weigh the consequences - - not that it woulda mattered anyway.  Bottom line is you were in danger.  I wasn’t gonna stand by and let some two-bit hood take lethal potshots at you.”

 

“He was the only one who knew how to save you,” Hutch said quietly, still refusing to raise his head.

 

“This is stupid.  It’s all water under the bridge.”  Starsky scowled when Hutch kept his eyes glued to the carpet.  Typical Hutch, tearing himself up over something that should never have been an issue between them.  “Okay,” he said, grasping the final straw.  “So tell me this - - why didn’t you shoot Bellamy?”

 

Bewildered by the question, clearly caught off guard, Hutch raised his head. 

 

“Why didn’t you?”  Starsky prodded again when he stayed silent, confusion clouding his gaze.  “The guy was shootin’ to kill.  Why didn’t you shoot back?”

 

“Be-because he was the only one who k-knew how to save you,” Hutch stammered.

 

“So you chose my life over yours.”  Starsky grinned like he’d won a contest.  “Same damn thing, Blondie.  You can’t have it both ways.”

 

The light dawned slowly in Hutch’s eyes - - cornered, trapped, defeated.  “Shit!”  Huffing out a breath, he slumped back against the couch.

 

Still enjoying the victory, Starsky clapped him on the shoulder.  “Don’t strain yourself tryin’ to outthink me. Just admit you ain’t gettin’ one over on me this time - -”

 

“ - -Starsk - - ”

 

“ - - and tell me you’re done with those damn nosebleeds.”

 

Hutch rolled his head on the back of the couch, turning to gaze at Starsky.  The hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth.  “Under control.  I’ve got a single-minded partner who’d never forgive me otherwise.”

 

“Smart man.”  Reclaiming the bag of cheese doodles, Starsky reclined in the corner of the couch, stretching his legs across Hutch’s lap.  Digging into the bag, he popped a cheddar curl into his mouth and crunched loudly.  “You bring me anythin’ good for dessert?”

“How’s almond tofu sound?”

 

“Like something Stephen King should put in his next horror novel.”

 

Hutch grinned.  “I brought you chocolate cake with peanut butter icing.”  He rubbed a hand over Starsky’s knee, his smile turning slightly pensive.  “Mind if I hang out here tonight?  Sleep on the couch?  Thought maybe I’d give you another chance to beat me at Monopoly.”

 

Starsky snorted.  Raising his leg, he jammed a red-socked foot against Hutch’s thigh.  “Hey, you’re talkin’ to the Utility King.  Think you stand a chance, pal, you’re welcome to try.”  There was nothing he welcomed more than Hutch spending the night, especially after such a ridiculous disagreement.

 

When Hutch grinned, the flash of his teeth dazzling and white, Starsky knew the rift between them had already healed.  Suddenly cheese doodles, Monopoly, Salem’s Lot, and even chocolate cake took a backseat to one fair-haired, sometimes foolish, but always devoted partner.

 

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

+++++

 

 - - end Trapped - -