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Resonance - Part One
(Post-Bloodbath)

By

SunnyD

~ Genesis
"No Son of Mine"

   Cloudless azure sky, a gentle, pine-scented breeze, and the occasional bird call provided an odd counterpoint to dark flapping robes, barked commands, muttered oaths and slamming doors. Hutch watched a handcuffed young man with long, greasy hair struggle belligerently as a uniformed cop placed a large, rough palm atop his head and shoved him unceremoniously into a squad car. The officer ducked down, face painted with disgust, and spoke to his prisoner for a moment before shutting the door with a flourish.

   "How is he?"

   Dobey's voice, and the unexpected grip on his shoulder, snapped Hutch from his bemused reverie. His eyes darted to the Torino and the figure slumped inside, against its passenger door. Starsky's face was hidden, turned into the glass, his body hunched and still.

   Hutch felt the rage, tucked safely away while he'd dealt with his shivering partner, begin to expand. Cheeks flushed, bright blue eyes turned hard as agate and his fingers unconsciously curled into fists. Dobey dropped his hand and moved back a pace, a reflexive reaction to perceived danger.

   "He's alive." Hutch's voice was tight, flat. "None of his injuries appear life threatening." He shrugged. "Beyond that it will take a doctor to assess all the damage. I can tell you that I don't think you could find a spot on his body that's not cut or bruised. That he's got a nasty burn on the side of his face and probably several cracked ribs. His wrists look like hamburger and I'm pretty sure he has a concussion, but it's hard to tell since it looks like they drugged him and it hasn't completely worn off." His voice rose steadily. "No food, hardly any water, t-terrorizing him by..."

   Dobey's hand returned, solid, strong, but his words were gentle. "He's alive. Dead men don't heal."

   Hutch let his chin drop to his chest, sucking in a long, slow breath of air and then blowing it out. When he raised his face to Dobey again, some of the fire had receded from his eyes.

   "Yeah. I hear you."

   Dobey shuffled his feet, sliding back into captain mode. "I'll take care of things here. You just concentrate on taking your partner to the hospital to get him checked out. Take the rest of the day off, but I want you both in my office bright and early tomorrow morning so Starsky can give his statement."

   Hutch nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. "We'll be there. Thanks, Cap."

   "Don't bother thanking me. Just get Starsky into shape so we can nail these turkeys!" He turned before Hutch could respond, bellowing at one of the lab techs who stood near the entrance to the grotto where Starsky had been held. "Wazinski! I want this place gone over with a fine-toothed comb, fingerprints, pictures, the works! Turn over every rock if you have to, but make sure you've got enough evidence for an airtight case on these punks!"

   Strangely comforted by Dobey's roar, Hutch walked quickly back to the Torino. He paused with one hand on the door, stooping to peer through the window. Starsky hadn't moved. He seemed to be sleeping, his pale bruised face tipped at an angle that concealed the blistered flesh around the right eye. Both arms were laced tightly around his middle, his shoulders curled and his knees pulled toward his chest. Hutch let his own eyes slip shut.

   Bruised.

   Battered.

   But alive.

   He sighed, slipped his fingers under the door handle and tugged, sliding behind the wheel. He was totally unprepared for Starsky's reaction—his partner nearly falling off the seat in an exaggerated startle reflex. He bolted upright, arms flung up to cover his face, breath reduced to short, sharp pants, and a low cry wrenched from his lips. Hutch's heart twisted in sympathy. He stifled the automatic impulse to lay a calming hand on his friend's shoulder, using low, soothing words instead.

   "Easy, easy, you're all right. It's me."

   Starsky's breathing slowed from the harsh gulps for air and he dropped his arms, wincing at the delayed screams of pain from abused ribs. He swiped at the perspiration that beaded his brow and upper lip with the back of a trembling hand. A wide, black sleeve slid down his arm to pool at the elbow, revealing a bracelet of raw, bleeding flesh encircling his wrist. Hutch clamped his teeth together and averted his gaze, fury pounding behind his eyes and reverberating through his skull.

   "'M okay. You just surprised me, is all." Starsky held his body stiffly as he shifted, searching vainly for a comfortable position. "We done here?"

   Hutch turned the key in the ignition and the Torino's engine roared to life. "Dobey said he'd handle things."

   Starsky turned to look out the window, his voice soft. "Good. If I never see this place again, it'll be too soon."

   Hutch stole a quick look at the back of his partner's head, blood matting the dark curls, and threw the gearshift into drive. "Yeah."

   They drove in silence, Starsky drifting back into a partial doze until he realized where Hutch was headed. His brow furrowed, but he could only muster a halfhearted protest.

   "Aw, Hutch, can't you just take me home? Last thing I wanna deal with right now's being poked and prodded by some doctor—'specially wearing this thing." He tugged on the robe, face screwed up in disgust.

   "Dobey's orders, Starsk. He insisted I get you checked out right away." Hutch silently thanked his captain for providing the necessary excuse to prevent an argument neither of them was in any shape to conduct.

   "Since when are you so worried about Dobey's orders?" Starsky muttered under his breath, but he looked so miserable Hutch couldn't take offense.

   "Look, I know you don't want to do this, but try to be sensible. For the last twenty-four hours, you've doubled as a punching bag for Marcus' goons. You've taken more than one severe blow to the head, that burn needs to be treated or you could wind up with a scar, and judging from the way you've been holding your sides, I'd guess you've got some cracked ribs—maybe broken."

   "Not broken."

   "How can you be sure? The doc's going to want to take an X-ray to be..."

   Starsky huffed impatiently. "I'm tellin' you, they aren't! I damn well know what broken ribs feel like, and I'm saying..."

   "You've had broken ribs before? When?" Hutch tore his eyes from the road to look quizzically at his partner.

   Starsky pressed his lips tightly together and hunched down further in the seat. "Forget it. Let's just get this over with."

   Hutch opened his mouth to retort, but something in Starsky's tone—a slight catch or tremor—held his tongue. He concentrated on driving and allowed his partner to compose himself.

   The problem was that the very silence Starsky seemed to crave left Hutch with time for a little reflection of his own. Too much time. For the past twenty-four hours he'd operated at breakneck speed, frantically searching for the pieces to Simon's puzzle in hopes it would lead him to Starsky before it was too late.

   While he'd been running down leads, racking his brain for answers, Hutch had been able to avoid thinking too closely about what his partner might be enduring. His mind was imprinted with Marcus' monstrous acts—snapshot images from crime scene photos that had rattled the armor of even the most seasoned veterans on the Force. But he'd managed to tuck those fears into a dark corner of his brain, far from the light of rational thought, and concentrate on the mechanics of the search. They'd nipped and buzzed at the edges of his consciousness like annoying mosquitoes, but he'd swatted them away without looking too closely.

   Now the undeniable evidence of abuse was written in Starsky's flesh, the stillness in the car a perfect medium for Hutch to speculate on the origin of each and every wound. Dobey was right; he was alive and therefore able to heal. But the shell-shocked glint in Starsky's eyes warned the road might be rocky.

   By the time they pulled up to the hospital most of the fight had gone out of Starsky. Glassy-eyed with delayed shock, pain and fatigue, he seemed to be functioning on autopilot, letting Hutch steer him into the emergency room, park him on an examination table, and talk with the doctor.

   Dr. Reed, who wore a Hawaiian shirt under his white lab coat and red tennis shoes on his feet, took in Hutch's abbreviated tale of Starsky's captivity with raised eyebrows. When he performed a cursory exam on his patient, however, his manner was sympathetic and gentle. Starsky wordlessly submitted as Reed peered into his eyes, listened to heart and lungs, and enlisted a nurse to record his temperature and blood pressure, and draw a vial of blood.

   "You're a bit dehydrated, Detective Starsky. Are you thirsty?"

   Hutch watched his partner's tongue snake out in an unsuccessful attempt to moisten dry lips, mentally kicking himself for not having thought of the obvious.

   "Yeah." Starsky's response was a rough croak, but the eagerness in it only exacerbated Hutch's sense of guilt.

   Reed nodded and turned to the nurse. "Kelly, would you please get the detective a cup of water? We'll also need..."

   "No!"

   Like the sudden crack of a gun, Starsky's ragged protest silenced the doctor and drew three pairs of eyes. He licked his lips again and shifted uneasily, a grimace of discomfort passing quickly across his face before he could conceal it.

   "Not water. I don't want water."

   Hutch studied his partner's white-knuckled grip on the gurney, the dilated eyes and the too-rapid puffs for breath. Starsky was scared, as alarmed as if the doctor had offered him acid instead of water. Why? To his relief, Reed didn't question the odd behavior.

   "Better make that apple juice then, Kelly. And we'll need a pair of scrubs so we can bag his clothes for evidence."

   Starsky's respiration was already slowing, but Hutch moved to his side in silent support. His partner kept his eyes on the doctor, but shifted just enough that his leg brushed Hutch's.

   "Okay, here's where we stand," Reed told Starsky, "though I'll need to get some tests to confirm. You've got a concussion—if not from the initial blow to the head, from the ensuing trauma. Second and third degree burns to the side of your face, though fortunately the right eye appears unaffected. Several cracked ribs on both sides. Some possibly lingering effects of an as yet unknown narcotic substance. And one hell of a lot of bruising and contusions." He finished ticking off the injuries on his fingers and tugged on the ends of the stethoscope slung round his neck.

   "That's the bad news. The good news is that so far there doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding, and your kidneys appear relatively intact." He scratched his head. "And you're breathing. That's the best news of all. I've been following the coverage of Simon Marcus' trial, Detective. All things considered, I'd say you're a very lucky man."

   "Amen," Hutch mumbled as Kelly returned with the promised juice.

   "That may be well and true, Doc, but you'll forgive me if I tell you I'm not feelin' too lucky at the moment. When can I go home?" Starsky's words slurred with weariness, and when he reached for the cup, his hand trembled.

   Reed shook his head. "Not today, I'm afraid. I'm sending you upstairs for a CAT scan and a few other tests. Then I want to admit you at least overnight for observation. If all the tests look good..."

   "Uh-uh. No way."

   Starsky set down the cup with a smack that splattered droplets of juice onto the crisp white sheet before he started to slip off the gurney. His feet touched the ground but didn't halt the downward momentum, knees buckling under his own weight. Hutch caught him before he could hit the floor, slipping an arm around his waist to steady him.

   "Starsky! Will you just..."

   "No, Hutch! I let you drag me in here, but I'm not stayin', and that's all she wrote. I been in worse shape than this and..."

   "You don't know what kind of shape you're in unless you let them finish the tests! Stop acting like a stubborn..."

   "Knock it off! Both of you!" Reed's barked, authoritarian command conflicted with his innocuous appearance. The surprise was enough to shut them both up. He pointed a finger at Starsky, slipping back into his easygoing persona. "Have a seat before you fall on your face. I'm willing to deal."

   Starsky scowled, but allowed Hutch to help him back up on the gurney. He started to fold his arms, flinched, and dropped them to his sides instead. Hutch bit back any further argument, his eyes leapfrogging between his partner and the doctor.

   Reed sighed. "Okay. I'm hearing some serious reservations about spending the night in our lovely establishment. I don't suppose you'd like to share why you find the idea so offensive?"

   "'Cause it's just plain ridiculous, that's why. I may be a little banged up, but I sure don't need to be hospitalized." Starsky's physical appearance did little to back up the passion of his protest. The chalk-white pallor of his skin emphasized the angry, red burn on his cheek and the mottled black-and-blue patches that marred most areas of exposed flesh. His normally sparkling blue eyes were dull and smudged with shadows, his voice thin and strained.

   Hutch couldn't contain a response, but tried to keep it gentle and non-threatening. "Banged up?" He shook his head. "You should take a look in the mirror, buddy. I've seen corpses in better shape."

   "Thank you," Starsky said sarcastically, but the corners of his mouth turned up.

   "Detective Starsky, I need you to understand that a period of observation is not out of line in a case like yours," Reed interjected, drawing their attention back to him. "Even if the CAT scan looks clear, you need a neuro check every couple hours to be sure we haven't missed a slow bleed or some other complication. The fact that you've been drugged just muddies the waters. The first twenty-four hours after a trauma such as you've suffered are critical, and if something does go wrong it's best to have you here, where we can..."

   Starsky held up a hand, cutting him off. "Doc, I'm sure what you're saying makes perfect sense. It's just that I'm not feeling very sensible right now, ya know? If I haven't bled to death so far, odds are it ain't gonna happen. I just want to go home. Can you understand that?"

   Reed ducked his head, cupping the back of his neck with one hand. When he lifted his eyes from contemplating the floor, they were warm with empathy. "Yeah. I guess I can. Here's the deal—my only offer. You be a good little patient and let me run the necessary tests. That includes allowing me to hook you up to an IV so we can rehydrate you and give you something for the pain, provided your blood test results give us the green light."

   Starsky made a face. "I've already been drugged to the gills, Doc. I'd rather pass on the pain medicine."

   "You may think so now. Wait until we have to dress that burn and wrap your ribs. Your body is still in a partial state of shock, Detective. Believe me when I say that you haven't even begun to hurt yet. Take the drugs."

   Starsky chewed on his lip, eyes wary. "What else?"

   "If the test results come back negative you can go home—provided you have someone stay with you to handle the neuro checks. And you come back in a couple of days for a follow-up exam."

   Starsky hunched his shoulders, his eyes sliding to Hutch's in a silent question. Hutch nudged his leg with a little grin.

   "You really think I'd let you off the hook that easy?" To the doctor, he added, "Just give me a list of instructions."

   Reed nodded, satisfied. "Okay, let's get this show on the road. Detective Starsky, you take a minute to trade that outfit for some scrubs. Kelly can help you, if..."

   "That's not necessary, I'm fine." Starsky's cheeks flushed and he peered at the nurse from under his lashes. "No offense, Kelly. I been dressin' myself since I was two, I think I can handle it."

   To Starsky's further embarrassment and Hutch's amusement, the pretty nurse winked. "Sorry to hear that, Detective. You let me know if you change your mind." She collected the empty juice cup and sauntered out of the room.

   Reed chuckled at Starsky's flustered reaction. "You should feel flattered, Detective. Kelly wouldn't make that offer to just anyone. I'll send her back in a few minutes to get that IV started."

   Hutch wandered over to the window as Starsky reached for the scrubs. "Gotta hand it to you, partner. You've got the touch."

   "Yeah. Just my luck. A pretty lady comes on to me when I can't do anything about it," Starsky grumbled, grunting in pain as he bent to slip his legs into the scrubs. He carefully slid off the table, hanging on with one hand as he tugged them up to his waist. That accomplished, he slipped off the hateful black robe with a little sigh of relief.

   Hutch turned around just as he was reaching for the shirt. His eyes widened to saucers and he crossed the room in three quick strides to reach Starsky's side.

   "What in the hell...?"

   Starsky evaded his eyes and tried to slip his arms into the sleeves, but Hutch stopped him by knotting his fist in the material. His blue eyes had gone flat and cold as ice, and he leaned in to take a closer look at several bloody, crescent-shaped wounds on Starsky's left upper arm and shoulder.

   "Starsk, are those... Are those bites?" He couldn't keep the horror and rage from his voice.

   Starsky yanked the shirt from his fingers and finished working it over his head, never meeting his eyes. "Yeah."

   The fury that rose in Hutch felt too big to be contained—he thought the top of his head might just blow off from the pressure. He stalked across the room and back again, wanting to smash, wanting to pound, wanting to destroy. He settled for muttering his rather extensive repertoire of obscenities under his breath.

   "I should've killed him," he growled. "Right there in the interrogation room, when I had him pinned up against that wall. I should've just wrapped my hands around his throat, and..."

   Starsky's clutching hand and haunted, desperate eyes pulled him up short. "Hutch. Let it go. Please."

   Hutch remembered childhood vacations. How clothes never seemed to fit back into the suitcase when it was time to go home. Stuffing them inside and sitting on the lid just to get it shut.

   He looked into his partner's weary, ravaged face, pushed and shoved the rage back into its box, and sat on the lid. Starsky must have been able to see the change in his expression, because his eyes slipped shut and the tension left his body.

   "Thanks, Hutch." The words were wispy, insubstantial.

   Hutch laid a hand on Starsky's shoulder, mindful of the bruised, torn flesh. Careful to add warmth and comfort, not pain. But inside, a chunk of ice lodged in his stomach.

********

   "I don't think that's such a good idea." Hutch kept his voice calm and reasonable, though his own exhaustion left his temper frayed at the edges. He set two amber vials of pills on the counter next to Dr. Reed's instructions.

   Starsky leaned outside the kitchen, one palm pressed against the wall as if to reassure himself of its stability, the other cradling sore ribs wrapped in a Velcro bandage. Even in the rapidly dimming light from the window, Hutch could see pupils abnormally dilated from a dose of Demerol.

   "You're entitled to your opinion. I'm taking a shower, anyway." Starsky's voice and tucked-in chin were mulish, despite his obvious weakness.

   "Starsky, you're not supposed to get that burn wet. And what about the bandages on your ribs and your wrists? Besides, you're dead on your feet. Get some rest and tomorrow..."

   "I can't!" Ragged, broken.

   Hutch's hand froze in the act of reaching for a glass. Starsky shivered and looked away, blinking rapidly. His voice was very soft and meticulously controlled when he finally continued.

   "I can't sleep while I can still smell that place on me. Smell them on me." He began moving carefully toward the bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower."

   Hutch followed him, throat tight with sympathy, but gut churning at the thought of the slippery tile. "You're awfully unsteady on your feet, pal. At least take a bath..."

   "No!" Starsky froze, shoulders stiff and back ramrod straight, his tone identical to the one used when Reed had offered a cup of water. A slight shake of his head, and he started moving again, never looking back. "No bath. I'll be careful."

   Hutch watched him disappear into the bathroom, heard the door shut, the lock engage. He opened his mouth to protest, visions of Starsky sprawled unconscious on the tile flickering through his thoughts, but choked it back. His partner was already on the edge, functioning by sheer willpower. No sense starting another pointless argument. If worse came to worse, he'd break down the door.

   He returned to the kitchen and rummaged around, one ear on the patter of the shower. Dr. Reed's instructions suggested Starsky should eat something before taking the first dose of antibiotic, but Hutch knew his partner's stomach had been bothering him. After a bit of searching, he found a half-empty box of tea and a loaf of bread. By the time his friend emerged from the bathroom wearing sweats, Hutch had pulled together a mug of the hot beverage and a slice of toast. He waited until Starsky had collapsed on the couch before handing him the food, silently taking note of his partner's reddened eyes and subdued manner.

   Starsky viewed the offerings skeptically, but managed to consume half the toast and most of the tea, juggling the food while Hutch carefully rebandaged first one wrist and then the other. He let his head drop onto the back of the couch and gazed at Hutch through heavy lids.

   "Never really said thank you."

   Hutch's mouth curved. "Never really had to. But you're welcome."

   The long silence that stretched between them was comfortable, unburdened by the need to be filled. Hutch thought Starsky had dropped off to sleep, was perilously close to doing the same. His partner needed a bed, not a couch, and unless he set an alarm, Dr. Reed's neuro checks weren't going to happen. He was just summoning the energy to move when Starsky's soft words stopped him.

   "Didn't think I was gonna make it this time, Hutch. Buyin' it on the street, that's one thing. But winding up one of Simon's sacrifices..." He swallowed thickly, tried to smile. "Kept tellin' myself to hang on, that you'd find me. And you did."

   Hutch closed his eyes, breathed slowly and evenly. "'Course I did. Always will. Count on it."

   Another stretch of silence, drawn out like taffy. Then,

   "They liked to talk—when they weren't chanting Simon's name. Kept telling me you weren't coming. Even said they'd set a trap for you, wasted you with a bomb in the Torino." A beat. "I was a little bit worried, ya know?"

   Iron fingers around his throat, but Hutch kept his voice light. "Yeah?"

   "Well...you know. I love that car."

   Hutch opened his eyes to meet his partner's quizzical gaze, hearing the words behind words. He pursed his lips to hide a smile and nodded.

   "Sorry you had to go through that, buddy." The smile evaporated. "I was a little worried myself. Marcus' goons left an awful lot of blood in that bathroom at the courthouse. Thought at first it might be yours."

   Starsky's mouth twisted into a self-deprecating grimace. "Guess they were hiding in the stalls. I never saw 'em coming until it was too late. Felt like they took my head off." He blinked and a huge yawn slipped out.

   "Go on and lay down, Starsk. Might as well try to catch a few winks before I have to wake you up again." Hutch kept it light, a suggestion. Knowing how much his stubborn partner hated to be told what to do. Understanding that now, more than ever, he needed to feel in control.

   Starsky didn't even try to argue—a telling indicator of his pain and exhaustion. He stifled another yawn and started to haul himself to his feet. He'd barely managed to slide to the edge of the cushion when he froze, sucking in a sharp gulp of air. His own fatigue forgotten, Hutch sprang to his feet and crossed to stand in front of his partner, extending both hands.

   "Easy, Starsk. Grab my wrists and just keep your arms locked; let me do the work."

   Starsky growled something unintelligible under his breath, but complied, clenching his teeth when Hutch tugged him upright. He wobbled for a moment, reflexively releasing Hutch's hands to clutch at his shirt. The gesture was so familiar, and so fraught with memories, Hutch had to draw in a steadying breath of his own.

   "You okay? Need help getting settled?"

   Starsky released the fabric and gave Hutch's stomach an affectionate pat, one corner of his mouth turning up in a lopsided grin. "Nah, I'm fine. I'd race ya, but I wouldn't wanna show you up." He started toward the bedroom, feet shuffling across the carpet.

   The words, paired with the gait of a ninety-year-old man, turned Hutch's concern to a snicker—as he was sure his partner had intended. "You're too good to me, buddy. I can only try to deserve it."

   His last glimpse of Starsky was an upraised middle finger.

********

   Hutch jerked fully awake, heart thumping. His wide eyes struggled to make sense of deep shadows and broken shafts of moonlight, his ears attuned to catch the slightest sound. He swung his legs over the side of the couch and stood, drinking in the silence, then tipped his watch toward the light from the window. 10:34. Almost four hours since he'd shaken his groggy partner awake for the last check.

   He'd never intended to doze off—slumber had ambushed him like a cat pouncing on a mouse. Thirty-six hours of running on nothing but coffee, determination and fear had resulted in a deep and dreamless sleep.

   So what had awakened him?

   A sound from the next room, a soft whimper, like the cry of a wounded animal, was his answer. Hutch moved unerringly through the apartment, familiar terrain even in the dark. He paused just inside the doorway to the bedroom, hand hovering uncertainly over the light switch. Moonlight spilled through the uncovered window, illuminating the thrashing figure on the bed. The sheets had tangled around Starsky's ankles, and Hutch couldn't help wincing at the bruises that stood out in stark relief to his pale skin. Another low moan and a mumbled string of vowels prodded him to action. Forgoing the light switch, he flipped on a small lamp in the corner and walked over to sit on the edge of the bed.

   "Starsky."

   More unintelligible muttering and Starsky's fingers scrabbled at the mattress. Hutch was able to catch a word here and there—"no," "please," and "out" being the clearest. Sweat glued the thin tee-shirt to Starsky's torso and plastered his hair to his brow. His eyes moved rapidly behind the closed lids.

   Hutch hesitantly laid a hand on his partner's shoulder, keeping both his touch and his voice feather light. "Starsky, wake up."

   Starsky's response was as violent as if he'd been slapped. He shot up, eyes wide with terror and arms flailing.

   "No! No more!"

   Hutch flinched back from the buffeting fists, nearly falling off the bed. He ducked and grabbed one arm, forgetting the abused wrist until Starsky hissed in pain. Letting go as if he'd been scalded, Hutch settled for catching Starsky's face between his palms.

   "Starsky, stop! It's a dream, buddy! It's just a bad dream."

   Starsky's vivid blue eyes stopped rolling in panic and locked onto Hutch's. His breath came in short, harsh pants and powerful tremors wracked his body.

   "You're safe," Hutch repeated. Slow. Calm. "It was a dream, Starsk. A dream."

   His partner stared into his face for a long moment, as if deliberating the truth of Hutch's words. Then he clasped his legs to his chest and dropped his forehead onto his knees—a position that Hutch was certain would be causing him a great deal of pain if he were coherent enough to register it. He ventured to place a hand on Starsky's back, rubbing it in soothing circles when the touch was not rebuffed. Gradually, the trembling under his fingers ceased, the jagged, uneven respiration smoothed.

   Hutch knew his partner had come all the way back when his shoulders tensed in the first recognition of cracked ribs. Starsky lifted his head, face twisted with discomfort as he tried to uncurl.

   "Hang on."

   Hutch grabbed pillows and stacked them against the headboard, then helped his partner ease back until he was propped against them. Starsky shivered, this time in pain, and tried to stifle a groan.

   "Feel like I just went ten rounds with Muhammad Ali."

   "Just a minute." Hutch made a trip to the kitchen for water and the bottle of pain medication. He handed the glass to Starsky and shook one of the small white pills into his palm. "You were really thrashing around. Must've been one helluva nightmare."

   A veil came down over Starsky's eyes, shuttering them from Hutch's probing stare. He reached for the pill with unsteady fingers and the water sloshed wildly in the glass.

   "Yeah."

   "You want to talk about it?"

   A barely perceptible shiver, and Starsky plucked absently at his tee-shirt, eyes skating around the room. "It wouldn't be my first choice."

   Hutch stood and walked over to a chest of drawers, deliberately keeping his movements loose and casual. "Might help, Starsk." He dug a fresh tee-shirt out of a drawer and tossed it to his partner before returning to the bed. He met Starsky's wary gaze as his partner gingerly swapped shirts. "You know, you have every right to be rattled after what Simon's people did to you. It's not surprising you'd have a nightmare or..."

   "It wasn't about..." Sharp words cut off just as sharply. Starsky shifted, one hand unconsciously rubbing a bandaged wrist. "What do you want me to say, Hutch? That I was scared? That I thought I was gonna die, hacked apart piece by piece? That the...the craziness in their eyes was more frightening than the knives and chains in their hands?"

   Hutch dropped his chin to his chest, sighing. His reply was very soft. "What do I want? I want it to never have happened, Starsk. I want to walk into that bathroom and stop those punks from grabbing you, putting you through hell the way they did." He lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. "But since that's not possible, I want to be here for you now. To do whatever I can to help you get past this."

   When he ventured to lift his eyes, Starsky was staring into space, his throat working furiously. The voice that finally emerged was tight and choked with emotion.

   "I've always been a little scared of the dark—I ever tell you that? Used to be a big baby about it when I was a kid; had to have a nightlight on 'til I was ten."

   Hutch didn't answer. Didn't move. Didn't breathe.

   "They...uh...blindfolded me." Starsky licked his lips. "When I woke up...the first time... I...uh...thought something was wrong with my eyes." He tried to chuff a weak little laugh. "Guess I was so outta it at first, I couldn't feel the cloth."

   "They hit you pretty hard." The words were quiet and unobtrusive. More to let his partner know he was listening than to add to his story.

   Starsky's lips twitched just a little. "Yeah. My head hurt like a hangover without benefit of the booze." His mouth settled back into a grim line. "Hands tied behind my back so I practically had to eat dirt to sit up. Everything pitch black. But I could..."

   He swallowed and Hutch handed him the glass of water, mystified at Starsky's slight grimace. His partner took a small sip and continued. "I could hear 'em, all around me. Chanting. I...um...didn't want 'em to know how shook up I was. So I got mad instead."

   "What happened?"

   Starsky pasted on a crooked grin. "Never insult a buncha religious fanatics. They ain't got a sense of humor."

   Hutch's stomach twisted. "No?"

   The grin, which had never reached Starsky's eyes, dried up. His voice turned distant, detached. "Didja know it's possible to hear your own ribs crack?" He yawned, sinking lower on the pillows.

   Hutch drew in a long, shaky breath; forced his fingers to uncurl from clenched fists. He watched Starsky lose the battle with heavy eyelids, his respiration slowing, deepening.

   "Get some sleep, buddy. Dobey'll be looking for us bright and early tomorrow."

   No response, but he didn't expect any. Hutch padded quietly over to the small lamp but paused, hand on the switch, to look over at the peaceful face of his partner.

   Leaving it lit, he crept quietly out of the room.

********

   "Starsky, I can't tell you how good it is to see your gorgeous butt parked in that chair, safe and sound." Minnie tousled Starsky's hair and gave his shoulder a squeeze, oblivious to the pain she'd just provoked.

   Hutch watched the discomfort flicker across his partner's face and disappear. Starsky tipped his head back to look up at Minnie, and if his patented grin was a bit forced, only Hutch knew him well enough to recognize it.

   "Thanks, schweetheart. My butt's happy to be here—and so am I."

   She snorted, grabbing a stack of file folders and disappearing into the hallway. Starsky dropped his eyes back down to the typed report in his hands, absently rolling the shoulder Minnie had manhandled.

   "You okay?" Hutch pitched the question for Starsky's ears alone.

   Starsky picked up a pen and signed the report. "I'm fine. Ain't you got nothin' better to do than worry about me?" Raised eyebrow and quirking lips took the sting out of his words.

   Hutch looked at him, deadpan. "Why, no, Starsk, I don't. I just wouldn't have a reason to get out of bed in the morning if I didn't have you to fret about."

   Starsky's muttered obscenity was punctuated with a snicker. He leaned cautiously back in his chair with a soft grunt. "The doc was sure right about one thing—pain's worse today than it was yesterday. I hurt in places I'd've never thought possible."

   Hutch shook his head. "I told you to take the damn pill." The words carried more bite than he'd intended.

   Starsky sighed, adopting the exaggeratedly patient tone a teacher might use with an exceptionally dense child. "And I told you, the pills make me fuzzy. No way am I takin' the third degree from Dobey while I'm three sheets to the wind. I'll take one later."

   Dobey swung open the door to his office and glared at his two detectives. "Well? What are you two waiting for, an engraved invitation?"

   Starsky gingerly got to his feet with tightly controlled movements designed to spare aching muscles and scooped up the signed report. "Ain't it great to be loved?"

   They filed into Dobey's office, Starsky dropping the report on his desk before easing himself into a chair. Dobey eyed them both from under furrowed brows, then bent his head and began to read. After several minutes of silence, he tossed the paper on the blotter and pinned Starsky with an assessing stare.

   "This is some report you've got here. I've seen more details on Edith's grocery list!"

   Starsky's lips thinned, but his voice remained deceptively light. "Just told it like it was."

   Hutch's eyes darted between the captain and his partner. "What's the problem, Captain?"

   "What's the problem?" Dobey huffed. "Have you read your partner's report?"

   A quick glance at Starsky yielded no information. "No. What about it?"

   "It reads like a piece of Swiss cheese, that's what! I've never seen so many holes."

   "Gimme a break! The basic facts are all there," Starsky snapped. "Sorry if I failed to go into all the gory details."

   Hutch leaned over and plucked the paper from the blotter, rapidly scanning it. Dobey braced his forearms on the desktop and leaned forward, his face and his voice softening. "Come on, Dave. You know as well as I do that we can't have too much dirt on these punks. The DA's going to need to show the kind of brutality they're capable of so no bleeding hearts on the jury let them off the hook. Some of those kids are from well-to-do families with the money to hire a good lawyer."

   Starsky's face went blank and still. "What about Gail? What happened to her?"

   "Her parents bailed her out and took her home. They've got a high-paid psychiatrist evaluating her, no doubt for a not guilty by reason of insanity plea."

   Starsky picked at the bandages on his wrist, his voice low and wooden. "She didn't want to hurt me. They messed with her head, had her all confused."

   Dobey eyed him shrewdly. "All the more reason to nail the ringleaders."

   Hutch shifted his gaze from the report to Starsky. "This is pretty bare bones, Starsk. You don't mention anything about..."

   Starsky sprang to his feet much faster than his battered body would allow. Grimacing, he waved off Hutch's hand. "Look, they kidnapped and assaulted a cop. I did what you asked; it's all in the report. If that ain't enough, you're gonna have to dig for dirt somewhere else." He stormed across the room and flung open the door.

   "Starsky! Get back here!"

   Dobey's bellow was punctuated by a slam. Lacking its original target, he turned his glower onto Hutch. "What in the hell is wrong with your partner?"

   Hutch covered his own unease. "Captain, twenty-four hours ago he was strung up by his wrists, all set to be another of Simon's trophies. Maybe we could just cut him a little slack."

   Dobey's frown gradually smoothed and he ran one large hand over his face. "Yeah. Guess we could." He sighed. "Get him out of here. You, too. You both look like something the cat dragged in."

   Hutch raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Well, then, I guess I'll round up my partner and take him home."

   "Do that. And make sure you're both in here on time tomorrow!" Dobey's bluster was back. "With Starsky off the streets, you can use this time to catch up on that backlog of paperwork that's always cluttering your desks."

   "You're all heart, Cap."

   Hutch didn't really expect to find his partner at his desk. A Starsky in a snit was a solitary creature. He'd find an out-of-the-way spot to cool off and lick his wounds. Hutch cruised the hallways, eventually winding up at the men's room in the basement—about as far off the beaten path as you could get in Metro.

   Starsky was hunched over a sink, wrestling with the childproof cap on the amber bottle of pain pills. And losing—if the muttered curses were any indication. Hutch silently took the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and shook a tablet into his partner's outstretched palm. Starsky swallowed it dry, following with several handfuls of water from the tap. He braced his hands on the porcelain and stared dully into the mirror.

   "Don't worry. I'm sure that ugly mug of yours will be back to normal in no time," Hutch gibed, regretting the words the instant they'd left his mouth.

   "Yeah. Couple weeks and you won't be able to tell it ever happened." Like unsweetened chocolate, the words carried an unexpected bitterness.

   Hutch tipped his head toward the door. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

   Starsky's eyes narrowed. "Uh-uh. I'm not goin' back for another pep talk from Dobey. If he wants..."

   "He wants us to get out of his hair, go home, and get some rest. Seems he's got big plans for us while you're stuck flying a desk—something about catching up on paperwork."

   Starsky rolled his eyes. "Terrific."

   Hutch held the door open for him. "Tell you what. How about we stop by Huggy's for an early lunch? My treat."

   Starsky looked him up and down. "I think I saw this in a movie. These space creatures were invading the Earth by killing people and replacing 'em with aliens that looked just like 'em."

   "Very funny. Just for that you can buy your own lunch," Hutch retorted, secretly relieved to be back on familiar ground.

********

   Huggy welcomed Starsky with the enthusiasm of a long lost brother. He seated them at his best table, returning moments later with two beers that he insisted were on the house.

   "Looks like your aliens have claimed another victim," Hutch said to his partner with a smirk.

   Huggy remained unruffled. "I don't know nothin' about aliens. Just glad to see m' man Starsky here alive and intact—relatively speaking."

   "I'll drink to that," Starsky agreed, slapping Hutch's hand away from his glass.

   "You can't drink that, Starsk. You're not supposed to mix booze and pain pills—says so right on the bottle."

   "One beer and one pill," Starsky argued, his voice reasonable. "I've even got a designated driver. Lighten up, Blondie."

   Hutch grumbled under his breath, but he moved his hand. "At least eat something."

   Starsky shot Huggy a long-suffering look. "You heard Mom, Hug."

   Huggy gave a mock bow. "No need to fuss, leave the cookin' to us. Two burgers with the works, comin' right up."

   Hutch waited, sipping his own beer, until Huggy had disappeared into the kitchen. Setting the glass down on the table, he cleared his throat.

   "Starsky. Back in Dobey's office..." Outwardly, Starsky appeared not to react, but Hutch sensed the subtle stiffening of his shoulders, the tense set to his mouth. "What was that about?"

   His partner busied himself tracing obscure patterns on the tabletop. "What do you mean?"

   "Oh, cut the bull! That report wasn't complete and you know it." He stopped himself, backed off from the anger.

   "Look, I can understand you not wanting to talk about it, but..."

   "Very perceptive, Detective Hutchinson," Starsky said sarcastically. "I don't want to discuss it, so how about we end the conversation right here."

   "You're going to have to deal with it, Starsk. It won't just go away."

   "What—suddenly you're an expert? You been takin' classes to become a shrink when I wasn't lookin'?" Starsky sneered.

   Hutch bit his lip, his eyes sliding away to the bar. "You're not the only one who's been kidnapped and had the hell beat out of him."

   Warmth on his forearm and he looked down to see Starsky's hand covering it. When he raised his eyes, his partner wore a stricken expression.

   "Hutch, I...I didn't mean...didn't think..." He swallowed convulsively. "I haven't forgotten what you went through. I couldn't."

   Hutch sighed and shook his head. "Look, I didn't bring it up to make you feel guilty. We both know I'd've never made it without you. All I'm asking is that you let me return the favor. That's what being partners is all about, right?"

   Conflicting emotions chased each other across Starsky's expressive features. Wanting the relief, the catharsis that would come from sharing whatever burden he'd been carrying. Needing the safety of silence, of control. Of terrible secrets hidden away in a locked box while he held the only key.

   "It's not that simple, Hutch."

   Hutch smiled. "Sure it is, buddy. You talk, I listen. Can't get any simpler than that."

   Starsky refused to be coaxed. "No, you really don't understand. There's so much you don't know, it's not just—"

   "Here you go, two slices of heaven on a bun. Prepare your taste buds to be tantalized."

   Hutch nearly groaned aloud. Starsky's mouth snapped shut, then curved in a cut-and-pasted grin. He tilted back in his chair and offered it to Huggy, who didn't appear to notice it was counterfeit.

   "Thanks, Hug. Looks good enough to eat."

   Huggy sniffed. "Is the pope Catholic? That's no mere burger, my friend. It is a culinary triumph."

   "Well, now, let's not get carried away," Hutch muttered. He knew it was unreasonable to be angry at Huggy, but couldn't shake his irritation at the lost opportunity.

   Starsky looked at him shrewdly. "Don't mind him, Hug. He thinks desiccated liver is part of the meat food group."

   "Just give it twenty years, partner. Your body'll be falling apart and I'll still be fighting off beautiful women."

   Starsky snorted, "Still?," snickering when Hutch flashed him a graphic gesture. He picked up his beer, unsuccessfully smothering a jaw-cracking yawn.

   By the time Hutch polished off his burger, his partner had folded his arms into a makeshift pillow on the tabletop and dozed off. Huggy poked at Starsky's barely consumed lunch and raised an eyebrow.

   "What's with your partner? Not like him to let a masterpiece like this go to waste."

   Hutch rolled his eyes. "I told him not to mix alcohol and those pills." He winced. "I can't believe he fell asleep like that. If he weren't stoned, he'd be in a world of hurt from those ribs."

   Huggy stood and collected their plates. "Well, Prince Charming, I suggest you get Sleeping Beauty home before he turns into a pumpkin."

   "You're mixing fairy tales, Hug."

   "I just call 'em as I see 'em, my man. Now get him outta here before he ruins this establishment's reputation as a hot spot for fun and excitement."

   It took Hutch practically yelling in his ear and the still cold beer bottle pressed to the nape of his neck before Starsky roused enough to groggily follow him out to the car. Hutch poured his partner into the passenger seat before slipping behind the wheel. Starsky let his head loll to the left, already more asleep than awake.

   "Sorry, Hutch."

   "Next time maybe you'll remember that they put those warning labels on for a reason," Hutch replied, more amused than irritated.

   Starsky's face screwed up. "Huh? Whadda're ya talkin' 'bout?"

   "The beer, Starsk. You never should've had that beer." Hutch spoke slowly and patiently.

   Starsky started to shake his head, then seemed to think better of it. "Nah, don't mean that. Sorry for gettin' so mad."

   Hutch grinned and started the car. "Forget it. Just don't shut me out, okay?"

   "'Kay."

   Hutch thought he'd slipped back into a doze, was reaching for the gearshift when Starsky's mumbled words froze his hand.

   "Thought it was over...buried. Didn' ever want ya to know..."

   Hutch stared at his partner's sleeping face for a long time before shifting the car into drive. He had the strangest feeling Starsky hadn't been talking about Simon.

********

   Hutch thought about leaning on the horn, then decided to spare Starsky's neighbors the irritation. Not even a week back on active duty and Starsky was going to get them chewed out by Dobey. Grumbling under his breath, he got out of the car and jogged up the steps, letting himself inside.

   "We're gonna be late," he called to the rustling sounds in the bedroom.

   "I'm comin', I'm comin'. Have some coffee."

   Hutch wandered into the kitchen, trying to tamp down his impatience. Three weeks had passed since Starsky's kidnapping by Simon's followers. His ribs were healing well, the burn and bruises fading. But though the physical injuries from his ordeal were disappearing, Hutch sensed a deeper wound festered just beneath the surface. Something was wrong. And Starsky wasn't talking.

   Hutch searched vainly for a clean mug before giving up. He fished one out of the precarious pile of dishes in the sink, rinsed and filled it with some of Starsky's industrial strength brew. He leaned against the counter as he sipped, eyes roaming. Not liking what he saw.

   Normally, his partner was a neat freak. Unlike Hutch's rather "lived-in" apartment, Starsky's was always scrupulously clean and tidy. Hutch took in the dirty dishes, scattered items of clothing, and old newspapers. The garbage can overflowed with too many beer bottles and a peek in the refrigerator revealed too little food.

   "I'm ready, let's go."

   Starsky came out of the bedroom, voice muffled by the shirt he was gingerly tugging over his head. Hutch caught a brief flash of prominent ribs and loose jeans slung low on his hips before the fabric dropped into place. Starsky plucked the mug out of his hands, took a swig, and set it on the counter before propelling him toward the door.

   "Good morning to you, too." Hutch schooled his features into a smile, inwardly reeling. He'd had suspicions that Starsky had dropped a few pounds, but from what he'd just witnessed it looked to be more like ten.

   "You can grab some breakfast to eat in the car, if you want. We're not that late," he offered as Starsky followed him out the door.

   "Nah, I'm not hungry. Let's just get to work before Dobey blows a gasket."

   Not hungry? What's going on inside that head of yours, partner?

   Hutch stole furtive glances at Starsky throughout the drive to Metro, unease fluttering in his gut. Dark shadows rimmed bloodshot eyes, and his face looked thin and gaunt. The weather was picture perfect, and Starsky was back on active duty—plenty of reasons for his high-spirited friend to be talking Hutch's ear off about any number of off-the-wall topics. Instead, he slumped silent and uncommunicative in the passenger seat, staring out the window.

   Hutch could stand it no longer. Bracing himself for an explosion, he gripped the steering wheel more tightly and took the plunge.

   "Starsky, what's going on?"

   Wherever his partner had been, the question blindsided him.

   "Huh?"

   Hutch sucked in a deep breath. "Something's been eating at you ever since the trouble with Simon. What is it?"

   Arms folded and chin tucked to his chest, Starsky frowned at him. "You worry too much, Hutch. I'm fine."

   Hutch snorted and rolled his eyes before staring back at the road.

   "What?" Starsky's tone was testy.

   "Have you looked in a mirror lately, buddy?" When Starsky pressed his lips together and glared sullenly out the window, Hutch softened his voice. "Starsky, you look like hell. You may as well spill it, 'cause you're not fooling anyone—least of all me."

   The same expression he'd seen at Huggy's place three weeks earlier—both wistful and apprehensive—flickered across Starsky's face. Hutch cursed himself for letting an interruption end that conversation. He'd never pushed Starsky to revisit it, and now he wished he had.

   Starsky seemed to reach a decision. His uncertainty vanished, replaced by a smile too carefully guarded to be real. "You're makin' a big deal out of nothing. I'm just having a little trouble sleeping, that's all."

   Hutch refused to back down. "A lot of trouble, from the looks of you."

   Starsky adopted a hurt expression. "Aw, Hutch. You're bruisin' my fragile ego."

   Hutch tried unsuccessfully not to snicker at that. He shook his head, the smile fading. "You're having nightmares, aren't you? Level with me, Starsk."

   Starsky's eyes cut away to the passing cars. "Maybe." A long pause. "How'd you know?"

   "You had one that first night, remember? I just put two and two together." He waited for Starsky's reply. When none came, he added, "Must be bad."

   "Bad enough."

   "I know you don't want to hear this. But there's no shame in needing to talk to someone about what happened."

   The scowl was back, full force. "What—like a shrink? No thanks."

   Hutch's temper sparked, fueled by frustration and helplessness. "So you'd rather suffer through the nightmares, put up with not sleeping, just to preserve your damn pride?"

   Starsky's voice rose. "Pride's got nothin' to do with it! I don't need to see a shrink! The nightmares'll go away."

   "They aren't going away, Starsky! You look exhausted all the time. And while we're on the subject, just how much weight have you lost?" Even as the words spilled from his gut, Hutch's head knew he was making a mistake. Starsky needed to be cajoled, not pushed. Shove too hard and he'd just dig in his heels.

   "If I say they'll go away, they'll go away, damn it! I know what I'm talking about, it's not like this is the first time..." He clamped his jaws together and refused to meet Hutch's probing gaze.

   Hutch had the maddening sensation he was grasping something just out of reach, fingertips brushing but unable to gain purchase. Once again, he had the distinct impression Starsky was referring to something far bigger than his ordeal with Simon's followers.

   "Starsk, what is this really about?"

   "All units, we have a report of a 211 in progress at Saveway Liquors, corner of Crescent and Adams. Shots fired. Over."

   Less than a mile from their current location. Hutch concentrated on not screaming as Starsky leaned over to snag the mic.

   "This is Zebra Three, we are responding. Over." He pointedly ignored Hutch as he pulled out the mars light and slapped it onto the roof.

********

   They were first on the scene, greeted at the curb by the frantic owner who clutched a gun in his hands. "They went that way, down the alley!" He gestured wildly with the pistol until Starsky grabbed his wrist and pointed it toward the ground. "Punks got over two hundred bucks!"

   "How many?" Hutch demanded, drawing his own weapon.

   "Two, and they're both packing guns! Wouldja hurry up, you're gonna lose 'em!"

   Starsky was already dodging traffic, one hand outstretched in a vain attempt to stop the cars. A black-and-white pulled to the curb behind Hutch's car.

   "Get his statement!" he called to the two uniformed cops, then dashed after his partner.

   Twenty feet into the alley, Hutch spied the two fleeing figures wearing ski masks, Starsky hot on their heels.

   "Police! Freeze!" His partner fired a warning shot.

   As they reached the far end of the alley, the lead figure spun and fired wildly over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner. His companion attempted the same maneuver but was apparently hampered by his covered face. He stumbled and fell to one knee, tugging at the mask and nearly losing his hold on the gun. Starsky, who had ducked behind some crates when the first shots were fired, popped out and trained his weapon on the fallen robber.

   "Don't move, turkey."

   Hutch doubled his speed, intending to continue pursuit of the other man. He watched, stomach plunging, as the robber's head came up and the mask dropped to the asphalt.

   It was a kid.

   Fair-haired, blue-eyed and baby-faced, he didn't look to be more than sixteen or seventeen years old. Hutch saw Starsky flinch, his eyes going wide and his gun wavering, a one or two second hesitation that was one second too long. Time slowed to a crawl as the blue eyes went flat and calculating, the baby face twisted into a sneer.

   "Starsky, look out!"

   The kid's gun swung up and Starsky's came down, but the crack of Hutch's weapon beat them both. The bullet caught the kid in the shoulder flipping him onto his back, weapon flying out of a limp hand to skitter harmlessly across the pavement.

   Hutch waited for Starsky to move; finally taking over when his partner remained as motionless as the kid on the ground. Crouching down, he placed his fingertips on the kid's throat, then glared up at the gathering crowd.

   "Someone call an ambulance."

   His words seemed to jar Starsky into action. His partner walked over to the discarded weapon and gathered it with shaking fingers, the other hand braced across still sore ribs.

   "How is he?" His voice was low, toneless.

   "He'll live. How 'bout you?"

   Starsky gave him a sharp look and stuck the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. "I'm fine."

   The wail of a siren punctuated his words. Hutch stood and invaded his partner's personal space, laying one hand on his arm. He felt muscles tightly coiled, thrumming with all the emotion his voice lacked. "Starsky..."

   "He's just a kid, for cryin' out loud!" Starsky snapped, throwing off the hand and stepping away. "Looks about twelve. Took me by surprise, that's all."

   Hutch crowded him, relentless, speaking to his back. "You froze up, Starsk."

   "Nothin' happened."

   "He almost killed you. You were at point blank range; if he'd gotten a round off..."

   "He was just a kid!" Starsky spun, advancing so Hutch backpedaled. He knotted his fingers in Hutch's jacket, shaking him. "It was my job to make sure nothing happened, that he came through okay!"

   Hutch stared into his partner's wild, unfocused eyes, the color draining from his face. "Starsk..."

   Starsky released him as if stung, just as the two uniformed cops came up the alley. In the flurry of activity that followed, Starsky evaded Hutch's questioning gaze and gradually regained his equilibrium. He helped brief the other officers on the events in the alley, calmly turned over the weapon, and saw to it that one of them accompanied the kid in the ambulance. By the time they were back in Hutch's car, it was very apparent that Starsky intended to proceed as if the outburst in the alley had never occurred.

   Hutch had other ideas.

   He took his hand off the ignition and turned toward his partner, one arm stretched across the back of the seat. Before he could even open his mouth, however, Starsky held up a warning hand.

   "Don't."

   "Excuse me?"

   Starsky gave an angry shake of his head, but his eyes looked weary. "Don't even start. I was outta line back in the alley. It won't happen again."

   "Out of line?" Hutch growled. "You damn near slammed me up against the wall, buddy. I think I deserve an explanation."

   "I already told you. Seein' how young he was just shook me up for a minute. After what happened with Lonnie Craig, well, I guess I freaked."

   Hutch considered the explanation and promptly rejected it. It made perfect sense, except for the things Starsky had shouted at him while trying to shake his teeth from his head. He hadn't been talking about Lonnie Craig. And he hadn't been talking about the kid in the alley, either.

   Hutch chased his partner's shifting gaze and held it. "That's a load of bull, and we both know it." He pressed thumb and forefinger against his temples, then ran his hand along his jaw. "Me and thee, Starsk. We've always been there for each other. For God's sake, why won't you talk to me about this?

   He watched a battle rage behind his partner's intense blue eyes, nearly groaning in frustration when Starsky finally looked away.

   "I can't, Hutch. Not this time. If you really wanna help me, you'll just leave it alone."

   Worry and disappointment sharpened his tongue. "For how long, huh, partner? 'Til you get one of us killed?"

   Starsky recoiled, his face ashen. When he spoke his words were tightly controlled—a sure sign he was furious. "That ain't gonna happen. But if you're worried, you could always ask Dobey for a new partner."

   The retort sucked all the wind out of Hutch's sails. He let his head drop back so that he was staring at the roof. "You know that's not what I meant." When Starsky maintained a stony silence, he sighed. "I give, Starsk. Just forget I said anything."

   He turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtered to life. He was checking over his shoulder for oncoming traffic when Starsky's hand touched his arm.

   "Hutch, I...I appreciate what you're tryin' to do. But you gotta trust me on this one. Some things are better left buried."

   Hutch suddenly felt as tired as his partner looked. "'Fraid that only works if they're really dead, buddy. Otherwise they got a nasty habit of digging their way out."

   Starsky's hand left his arm and he headed the car back toward Metro.

********

   His gut twists with a mixture of pity for the kid and his own barely controlled fear. Placing a steadying hand on the thin shoulder, he pitches his voice much tougher than he feels.

   There's just enough time to register the furious glint in the soldier's eye before the rifle butt rams into his belly, sucking all the air from his lungs. He instinctively doubles over, only to receive a second blow to the jaw that sends him crashing to the floor. Steel arms grab him and he has a split-second glimpse of the horror and gratitude on the kid's face before he's hauled out of the room, spitting dirt and blood.

   In the interrogation room his wrists are enclosed in iron shackles attached to a pulley, and he's pulled up until his toes just barely brush the floor. The one in charge—a captain, he thinks—picks up a heavy metal rod and walks slowly over to smile at him.

   Once he starts screaming, he can't seem to stop...

   "Noooooo! Oh, God, no! Stop! Stop!"

   Starsky bolted upright, sheets clenched in his fists, sweat dripping down his face and plastering his shirt to his back. He gulped frantically for air, fighting against the crushing pain in his chest. His heart pounded wildly and he had a split second to register his churning stomach before dashing to the bathroom, where he lost what meager dinner he'd managed to consume.

   He pressed his burning cheek against the cool porcelain for several minutes before gathering the energy to stagger to the sink and rinse his mouth. A gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger stared at him from the medicine chest mirror, and he had to turn away.

   As he had for so many nights now, he exchanged the sweat-soaked tee shirt for a clean one and returned to perch on the side of the bed, staring at the phone on the nightstand. He wrestled with the nearly overwhelming desire to call Hutch. To let him hear the pain and weariness and desperation. To ask for the help he knew he badly needed. And, as on previous nights, he eventually turned away and shuffled out to the kitchen.

   He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, amused and annoyed to see that Hutch had smuggled in a container of lasagna and some beef stew. His partner had been needling him about his lack of appetite, and it had been all he could do to choke down food while in Hutch's presence. With a little shake of his head, he shut the door and went to sit at the table with his beer.

   Yet another thing Hutch had been nagging him about, he thought as he pulled the tab and took a swallow.

   He mimicked Hutch's voice in his head, unable to muster any real anger. Ironically, he missed his partner's relentless prodding about his health. Since the incident in the alley the day before, Hutch had scrupulously avoided such comments, though Starsky had caught more than one worried glance.

   He considered the idea, poked at it gingerly the way one's tongue explores the bloody socket from a lost tooth. Found it just as raw and unsettling.

   He knew a lot of people didn't understand his friendship with Hutch. He couldn't really blame them—he and his partner were about as different as the North Pole and the Sahara Desert. Heck, sometimes he didn't even understand it himself.

   He'd grown up in the heart of New York, a city rat through and through. Though his father had tried hard not to bring the dirt and grime of the streets home, Starsky had seen and heard enough to know the world could be a harsh, unforgiving place—a truth made all the more real by the men who took his pop's life. His grief and bitterness had launched him down a path that might have ended in disaster had his mother not sent him to live with his aunt and uncle.

   It was both the best and worst thing she could have done.

   He took another long swallow and thought about Hutch. Hutch, with his Minnesota farm boy upbringing—wholesome and squeaky clean. No gangs. No violence. No drugs. Sure, he had problems at home, a father too free with his money and too stingy with his love. People telling him what he should be, instead of listening to who he was. But he'd managed to rise above it all, make his own way, his way. And he'd never lost his class in the process.

   Hutch was caviar and champagne. Starsky was beer and pizza.

   And most of the time, it didn't really make a damn bit of difference. Hutch was his best friend, the kind you find maybe once in a lifetime, if you're very lucky. He'd die for Hutch, and he knew unequivocally that his partner would do the same.

   But sometimes... Sometimes...

   He felt outclassed.

   Inadequate.

   Less.

   Seeing Hutch with his buddy, Jack Mitchell, had brought it all home, given him a new perspective on his partner. In some ways he and Hutch just weren't in the same league, and never would be. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but one he could accept and live with. It didn't change the bond, the friendship—if anything, it made it all the more extraordinary.

   What he couldn't accept, what would kill him, would be to let Hutch down. To do something that might disappoint, or worse, disgust him.

   Starsky let his eyes slip shut, pressing the cold metal of the beer can to his aching head. He'd told Hutch that he couldn't talk about the nightmares because some things needed to stay buried, and that was the truth. The contents of those tiny coffins terrified him. Shrouded by the shadows in his memory, the occasional, hazy glimpse was frightening enough. To drag them out of hiding and inspect them in the full light of day was unthinkable.

   But it was a half-truth. The fear had a larger, more horrifying twin that cemented Starsky's resolve to remain mute. That if Hutch knew the truth, understood that piece of David Starsky, he'd walk away and never look back.

   It was an unacceptable risk—a chance he couldn't afford to take. To see what he feared most in Hutch's eyes—the contempt, the loathing—would kill him far more efficiently than Marcus' knives and chains.

   Starsky set the empty beer can on the table and ground the heels of his hands into his burning eyes, vainly trying to stave off the tears. He was tired, the kind of exhaustion that sank into every bone and muscle in his body and throbbed relentlessly in his head. Yet the mere thought of sleep was enough to start his heart thudding and his stomach rolling. Thirty years old, and he was still scared of the dark.

   Except these days, the light no longer reassured him.

   He dragged himself out of the chair and walked over to a cupboard, reaching in back behind some boxes of sugary cereals. Back where Hutch wouldn't snoop and give him hell.

   The whiskey bottle was less than a third full—alarming, considering the date of purchase. He grabbed a dirty glass from the sink and wandered into the living room, flicking on the TV before slouching down on the couch. He filled the tumbler halfway with the amber liquid and flipped channels until he found an old horror film. Bela Lugosi, sporting a long, black cape, proceeded to bite the neck of a terrified young lady.

   Starsky took a gulp from the tumbler before raising it to the screen, lips twisted in a bitter grimace. "Here's to the undead, huh, Hutch?"

   It was a long time and most of the bottle before he slept.

********

   "You're not his mother, Hutch."

   His own muttered words echoed in the silent car, and Hutch made a face. Nine o'clock on a Saturday morning, the whole weekend spread out before him, and what was he doing? Checking on Starsky.

   Starsky, who didn't seem to want his concern—in fact, rebuffed it. He'd certainly made it more than clear to Hutch that he was capable of dealing with this problem—whatever it was—alone. The thing was, Hutch didn't believe him.

   "All right, I'm not his mother. But I am his best friend, and I won't just stand by and watch him fall to pieces."

   Saying it was the easy part. Figuring out what to do was something else altogether.

   A traffic light blinked yellow, then red, and Hutch slowed to a stop. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel and glanced sightlessly out the window, his thoughts wandering back to the incident in the alley. He'd replayed that scene over and over on the movie screen in his head, trying to understand what had happened. Starsky's hesitation at such a critical moment was troubling enough, but his reaction during the aftermath...

   "He was just a kid! It was my job to make sure nothing happened, that he came through okay!"

   Where had that come from—the anger, the pain, the...guilt? For a few terrible moments, Hutch had the eerie feeling that despite the body in front of him, Starsky was missing. That he was someplace a world away from that alley.

   Someplace infinitely darker and more dangerous.

   An impatient honk startled Hutch from his reverie and he hit the gas with a sheepish wave. All he had were a few disjointed pieces of a complicated puzzle, too many holes to make out the big picture. And he got the uneasy feeling he was running out of time. Despite his insistence to the contrary, Starsky was getting worse. Dobey hadn't said anything yet, but Hutch had caught him studying his partner with a furrowed brow. He wouldn't be able to cover for Starsky much longer. He wasn't even sure he should.

   Hutch parked on the street and walked to Starsky's door, barely feeling the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. His fingers reached for the key, hesitated, then curled to a fist and knocked.

   No answer.

   Hutch's brow furrowed. The Torino was in the driveway, and Starsky had begged off grabbing a beer at Huggy's the evening before, saying he intended to turn in early. Not wanting to wake his partner if he was getting some badly needed sleep, Hutch slipped the key into the lock and let himself in.

   He squinted as his eyes adjusted from the sun's brassy outdoor brilliance to the softer, muted tones filtered through drawn curtains. The softly droning television cast flickering blue light on Starsky, sprawled on the couch in sweat pants and a ratty tee shirt, dead to the world. The smile that spread across Hutch's face faltered when his gaze lit on the empty whiskey bottle.

   He crossed the room to stand beside one upturned palm. His eyes noted the ashen skin beneath stubble and dried tear tracks, even as his nose registered the sour smell of liquor. Caught between pity and anger, Hutch moved stealthily through the rest of the apartment, cataloguing each piece of evidence with the eyes of a trained investigator. The rumpled sheets and discarded shirt in the bedroom. The lingering smell of vomit in the bathroom. The untouched food and empty beer can in the kitchen.

   Hutch braced one hand on the table, stared out the window, and told himself the cold, hard truth. Then, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the ache in his gut, he calmly brewed a pot of coffee and started washing dishes.

   By the time the coffee was done and he was halfway through the dishes, Starsky had shuffled in and sat down at the table. He cradled his head in his hands, flinching each time Hutch added another glass to the drainer.

   "What is this, maid service?"

   Hutch took a clean mug, filled it with coffee, and set it beside one elbow, followed by two aspirin from a bottle he'd found in the bathroom. "More like first aid."

   Starsky scowled at him through a lattice of fingers but remained silent. The aspirin went down with a gulp of coffee and a grimace, and Hutch returned to the sink. He could feel Starsky's eyes on his back, knew he was waiting for Hutch to voice his disapproval. Pressing his lips into a thin line, Hutch rinsed another glass and let him stew.

   Eventually, Starsky cracked.

   "Go ahead. I can tell you've got plenty to say. Wouldn't want you to bust a gut tryin' to hold it in."

   Hutch braced his palms on the sink and stared at the wall, fighting to hold onto his temper. "I think we've both said just about all there is to say."

   "What's that supposed to mean?"

   Hutch dried his hands on a towel and turned slowly to face his partner, his words clipped. "Just how far down do you plan on sinking before you'll admit you need help, Starsky?"

   "Oh, c'mon! You tryin' to tell me you haven't tied one on now and then? Since when did it become a federal offense?" His bluster was forced, fueled more by fear than anger.

   "This is different, and you know it! You're drinking alone, and you're drinking the hard stuff! What if we'd been on duty today?"

   "We aren't on duty!" Starsky lunged to his feet, furious enough to ignore his aching head. "What I do on my time is my business!"

   Hutch ran a hand down his face, mentally taking a step back. "Why?" he asked quietly.

   Starsky squinted at him, his anger short-circuited. "Why what?"

   "I've never known you to touch the hard stuff, Starsk. Why now?"

   "Oh, for Pete's sake!" Starsky threw up his hands and stalked out of the kitchen.

   Tossing the dishtowel onto the counter, Hutch followed. His partner stomped into the bedroom and began hunting for his shoes, snagging one from under the end of the bed and another from beneath a pile of dirty clothes.

   "Could it be that you're having more than just a little trouble sleeping? Huh, partner? That getting plastered is the only way to stop the nightmares?"

   Starsky's fingers faltered, then continued tying his laces. "Back off, Hutch." He ground the words out through clenched teeth.

   Hutch let his eyes drop shut for a moment. Gripping the doorframe, he played his last card. "Starsky, you're my best friend, and I'd do anything for you." Starsky opened his mouth, but Hutch held up a hand. "Anything but sit by and watch you self-destruct. I can't make you talk to me, but I can see that you talk to someone. I'm going to Dobey first thing Monday morning."

   Starsky gaped at him, swaying slightly. "Hutch, you can't mean that! You know what Dobey'll do! He'll take me off active duty; he...he'll suspend me until I'm cleared by a department shrink!"

   Suddenly the rage was gone, and Hutch saw a scared, bewildered little boy in blue Adidas tennis shoes. He swallowed, his throat like sandpaper.

   "I don't have a choice. You're not fit to be on the streets right now, Starsk, and you know it." He struggled against the tremor in his voice. "You can't do this alone. I'm going to make sure you don't have to."

   Starsky paced to the window and back, running his fingers through his hair. "You don't understand, Hutch! You think I can talk to some stranger when I can't even talk to you? Please, if you're my friend, don't do this!" His words were thick with tears.

   Hutch shook his head, unable to manage more than a weak croak. "That's why I have to."

   Starsky's head snapped up and he stared at Hutch for what seemed an eternity, eyes shiny with unshed tears. He abruptly dropped his gaze and shouldered past, grabbing jacket and keys on his way to the front door.

   "Starsky..." It was a reflex—Hutch had no words left.

   Starsky pulled open the door and turned, his face twisted with anger and grief. "You got no idea what you're doin', Hutch. You think you know me, but you haven't got a clue. You do this and we're both gonna be sorry." His voice broke and he ducked out the door.

   Hutch listened to the fading roar of the Torino's engine and wondered if he'd just handed his friend a life preserver or a very large rock.

********

   "Rachel? This is Ken Hutchinson."

   "Well, hello, Ken! What a nice surprise! Let me guess—you need another of David's favorite recipes."

   Hutch tipped his head onto the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. He'd argued with himself all night over whether to call Starsky's mom, barely getting any sleep. Though he'd eventually come to the conclusion that he was doing the right thing, hearing her cheerful, blissfully ignorant voice left him tongue-tied.

   "Uh, n-no, not this time."

   Abrupt silence, and he could feel her fear. "Ken? Is something wrong? Has David been hurt?"

   "No! I'm sorry, Rachel, I didn't mean to scare you. Star...David is fine."

   Another beat of silence. "Ken, what's going on?" Her voice took on an overly patient tone that was very familiar. "You wouldn't be calling me, sounding like that, if everything was fine."

   Hutch nearly voiced the question aloud before forcing himself back to the real reason for his call. He'd grown accustomed to Starsky picking up on his moods, but Starsky's mother? From the opposite end of the country? He gave his head a little shake.

   "Rachel, I... This is hard. Did David tell you about the...uh...kidnapping a few weeks ago?" Hutch winced at his own words.

   Rachel's voice was confused. "Kidnapping?"

   Hutch swiped at a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his face. "You've heard of Simon Marcus?"

   "Yes, of course. David told me how you two managed to catch that monster. It's been all over the news, his trial and the way those crazy followers of his..." Her words cut off in a sharp gasp. "David? David was the police officer they kidnapped?"

   "Yeah, but..."

   "I don't... How can that be? I talk to him every week, Ken, every Friday!" The words tumbled out, the pitch climbing an octave. "I've read the papers, I know what those sadists were capable of. He never once let on to me that anything was wrong, that something so terrible..."

   When her voice broke, Hutch hastened to calm her.

   "He's all right, Rachel. Really. They roughed him up pretty badly, but his injuries are healing well." When she didn't reply, he awkwardly added, "I'm sure he just didn't want to worry you."

   She sighed heavily. "My son tends to forget I was a cop's wife for many years. I'm not nearly as fragile as he thinks." Her voice sharpened. "Why are you telling me this, Ken? It must be important for you to risk going behind David's back."

   "Rachel, I said he was healing physically, and he is. But something else is bothering him, eating him up inside. Whatever it is, he won't talk to me about it."

   "Sweetheart, I'm sure you want to help him, but maybe David needs to work this out on his own. Maybe he just needs time."

   Hutch shook his head, oblivious to the fact that she couldn't see him. "It's been three weeks, Rachel. He's getting worse, not better."

   "I'm not sure how you think I can help," she replied, clearly bewildered. "I could call him, but if he won't talk to you, I'm pretty certain he won't talk to me. He'll be so furious you told me there'll be no reasoning with him." She huffed. "He's got his father's temper, that one."

   Hutch found his lips curving in spite of his anxiety. "Don't I know it." He sighed. "Rachel, I called you because I get the feeling that whatever is bothering him is much bigger than just his ordeal with Marcus' followers. That maybe that experience triggered memories of some older trauma. The insomnia, the nightmares, the drinking—they all seem to point to..."

   "Ken, wait!"

   The sharpness of her command startled him to silence.

   Her voice was distant, distracted. "Did you say nightmares?"

   Something in her voice made the little hairs at the nape of his neck stand up. "Yeah. Bad ones."

   He chewed his lip to avoid speaking during the long silence that followed. Eventually Rachel sucked in a long draught of air. "Ken... How much has David confided in you about Vietnam?"

   His jaw dropped as he fumbled awkwardly for an answer. "I... Not much. Every once in a while he'll make a wisecrack about what it was like being a soldier, but never anything specific. And I...I got the idea he didn't want to be asked."

   She chuffed a humorless little laugh. "I'm sure your instincts were right." A hesitation. "I don't suppose it was possible to leave that war without scars, but David... There were times I thought they'd sent home a stranger. It was over a year before I really felt as if I had my boy back." A very long pause. Hutch was opening his mouth to speak when she softly added, "Did you know David was a POW, Ken?"

   Hutch's fingers tightened on the receiver in a white-knuckled grip. "Excuse me?"

   A soft puff of air. "I didn't think he'd told you. He and several other members of his company were captured during what was supposed to be a routine patrol. It was better than three weeks before they were rescued, more dead than alive." Her voice quavered and he heard her breathing speed up. "He nearly lost a kidney. Half-starved, a concussion, two of his fingers and most of his ribs broken. It's a miracle he..."

   Her voice faded, drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears.

   Starsky had been talking about his beating at the hands of the cultists.

   Hadn't he?

   "...was discharged as soon as he was well enough to travel. I might never have known about any of this, if it weren't for his commanding officer. Whenever I tried to get David to talk about it, he'd just get upset. Told me some things were better off buried." Her voice broke. "He wouldn't let me in, Ken. He'd wake up screaming, drenched in sweat and shaking like a leaf. He lost weight, wouldn't eat enough to keep a bird alive. He'd stay out 'til all hours of the night, come home reeking of alcohol. But he wouldn't let me in."

   Hutch closed his eyes, swallowing against the boulder in his throat. Ten years gone, but Rachel could have been describing yesterday.

   "He was just a kid! It was my job to make sure nothing happened, that he came through okay!"

   A jolt like pure electricity, and his eyes flew open. "Rachel, you said several others were captured along with Starsky. Do you know...were they able to save all of them?"

   Rachel's voice was dull, weary. "Five of them were taken. I was told one boy didn't make it, was dead before the rescuers ever got there." She sighed. "Ken, it was a long time ago. Do you really think it has anything to do with whatever is bothering David now?"

   "I think it's possible those memories weren't buried quite as deeply as David thought," he said carefully. "I think maybe Simon Marcus helped dig them up."

   "You'll let me know if there's anything I can do, won't you? I feel so helpless, all the way across the country."

   Hutch tried hard to sound reassuring. "Of course I will. But like you said, right now he'd only be upset if he knew we'd talked. Let me handle this one, Rachel."

   "Take care of him, Kenny. He loves you very much. Don't let him push you away."

   "Don't worry. He could never shove hard enough."

   Hutch dropped the phone onto its cradle and stared blankly into space. He'd called Rachel without any expectations, hoping she might be able to shed a glimmer of light on Starsky's behavior. He never imagined she'd hand him the key to unlock the fortress his partner had constructed. Suddenly all the pieces were snapping into place to reveal a picture he'd never envisioned.

   Starsky was a survivor. Hutch had seen the courage and determination, not to mention plain stubborn pigheadedness, more times than he could count. Vic Monty's hitmen. Prudholm. Bellamy. Situations that could've killed his partner—would've killed a lesser man—but he'd come through stronger than ever. Ironic that two seemingly unrelated incidents, almost ten years apart, would conspire together to succeed where men like Prudholm had failed.

   Somehow Starsky's treatment at the hands of Simon's goons had triggered memories of those three weeks at the mercy of the Viet Cong. Hutch was no psychology expert, but it didn't take one to see that both groups had employed similar methods to terrorize and brutalize his partner. Somewhere along the way, Starsky's personal Pandora's box of memories had been opened, the lines between past and present blurred, entwined.

   And tangled up in the middle was one dead soldier who never made it home.

   Hutch dry-washed his face before dropping his head in his hands. He had hunches, suspicions, but nothing concrete. The fact remained that he couldn't help Starsky as long as his friend hid behind a wall of denial. But maybe, just maybe, Rachel had given him the means to make a chink in that wall.

   A shrill ring from the phone beside his elbow jerked Hutch from his thoughts. He leaned over to scoop up the receiver, hoping to hear his partner's voice.

   "Hello?"

   "Hutch? It's Captain Dobey."

   Hutch automatically straightened his posture, flushing when he realized Dobey couldn't see him. "Yeah, Cap. What can I do for you?"

   "I just got off the phone with Ed Randall. He's the..."

   "Legal council for the Department. Yeah, I know." Hutch rubbed the taut muscles at the back of his neck, sure he wasn't going to like what was coming. As usual, his instincts were correct.

   "They've scheduled the deposition for you and your partner on Thursday. Ed wants to meet with us first thing tomorrow morning to go over both your testimonies—especially Starsky's. I need you two in my office by 7:30 sharp, got it?"

   Hutch barely bit back a groan. So much for his plans to talk to Dobey. At least this gave him an excuse to call Starsky. "Yeah, I got it, Cap. I'll let Starsky know and..."

   "Not necessary. I just spoke to him." A loaded silence. "What's going on with your partner, Hutch?"

   It caught him by surprise, as if Dobey had peeked inside his head. "Uh...going on?"

   "That's what I said! I'm not blind, you know. From what I've seen, he's a time bomb just waiting to go off." Dobey's voice dropped, softened. "Hutch, I can't help him if I don't know what's wrong."

   Hutch hesitated, still struggling to assimilate his conversation with Rachel and unwilling to confide in Dobey over the phone. "I hear you, Cap. Just give me a little more time."

   "From the look of Starsky, time is something you don't have," Dobey growled. He blew out a gust of air. "All right. But I'm warning you, Hutch. I get wind that he's a danger to himself or to you, and I won't hesitate to pull him off the streets."

   Hutch grimaced. "I understand."

   "Good." Hutch thought Dobey was about to hang up, surprised yet again when he awkwardly cleared his throat. "Randall's already talked to me about the holes in Starsky's report. He's gonna push Starsky to fill them in, Hutch."

   The flick of a switch, and everything—the sleepless night, his frustration and worry over Starsky—boiled to the surface. Like a man caught in the path of an erupting volcano, Dobey just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

   "What do you want from me, Captain? Why are you telling me and not Starsky? You know, contrary to popular opinion, I am not his keeper and I'm for damn sure not his mother!"

   "That's right, you're his partner! And you and I both know that if he won't listen to you, he won't listen to anyone! You wanna know what I want? I want to get Starsky through this mess without having to ask him to turn in his gun and his badge! If that takes making you his keeper, or even his mother, then so be it!"

   Short, sharp pants for air filled the silence as both struggled to regain their tempers. Hutch was the first to speak, his voice contrite.

   "I'll see what I can do. But not even I can get Starsky to talk if he's made up his mind not to."

   Dobey's reply was dry. "Yeah. Don't I know it." He sighed. "I'll try to keep Randall on a leash, Hutch. But I'm warning you, he's going for broke on this one, determined to nail those kids."

   "And I'm warning you, Captain. He pushes Starsky too hard, and it's gonna blow up in his face."

   Dobey grunted, then growled, "I've had nothing but trouble ever since the commissioner handed me the file on Simon Marcus. I wish to God I'd never heard the name."

   Hutch swallowed. "Yeah." There wasn't really anything more to add.

PART TWO\