**** Starsky ****

   When we got to Metro we saw Charlie was doin' his best. The stack of files on our desks might not've been five years' worth, but it was a good start. We wound up haulin' 'em into Captain Dobey's office so we could spread out a little and get comfortable. It was pretty hard not to feel discouraged when you looked at all those folders, but each of us took a stack and dug in.

   Charlie brought in the last of the files as we were sittin' there reading. He set 'em on Dobey's desk, but turned to me before he left.

   "Sorry about the static."

   "'S okay." Last thing I wanted was for Charlie to feel guilty. I'd looked at the clock before I could stop myself, and I didn't like what I saw. "Eleven thirty-six."

   Seven and a half hours gone and there we were, sittin' on our tails, buried in paperwork. I was tryin' hard to concentrate, but it wasn't easy.

   "Always did think you were a clock watcher."

   Ha, ha. Excuse me if I didn't exactly appreciate Dobey's sense of humor. I glared at him before looking down at the file in my hands.

   "Now come on, Dave. There must be something you remember about this guy. Eyes? Hair? Build?"

   Oh man. Things really were looking grim if Dobey was callin' me by my first name. I couldn't look at him, had to lighten things up somehow.

   "Ya hear that? He called me Dave," I said to Hutch, who was sitting behind me. Sitting in just the right spot so he could keep an eye on me without me seein' him.

   At least he picked right up on what I was tryin' to do and played along. "What some people won't do to get on a first name basis."

   "Really."

   I glanced up and the captain had that look on his face--the one that said he saw right through my wisecrackin' and still expected an answer.

   Hutch and me had Dobey figured out about a week after he became our captain. See, even though he tries to come across like a tough guy, a real grizzly bear, it's mostly for show. He really cares about each and every cop reportin' to him, and he's stuck his neck out for us more times than I can count.

   Grizzly bear? More like Teddy bear if ya ask me.

   He was still waitin' so I left off readin' the file in my hands and tried to sort through the muddled pictures in my head.

   "All right, let's see. Vaguely, a white male, thirty-five to fifty, medium build...any or all possibly inaccurate." I slammed the folder shut, madder than hell but unable to do much about it.

   Angry at the sick bastard who violated my home, the place I'm supposed to feel safe, and got his jollies outta givin' me a death sentence.

   Angry at Franklin for not bein' able to offer me somethin' more than spendin' the last hours of my life layin' around a place I hate, playin' human guinea pig.

   But most of all, angry at myself for my own helplessness. For not bein' able to do a little thing like give a clear description of the creep.

   For not stoppin' him in the first place.

   "We'll pull the computer cards and run them against that make. That way we can eliminate the, uh, short, fat, black, and female." The captain got up and headed for the door. "Then we'll run them against the in prisons, hospitals, out of towns..." He was out the door but still talking--more to himself than either of us, I think.

   Not a minute later, Cheryl, who works in the lab, opened the door. "Hutch."

   Hutch followed her out of the room, tossin' a "Don't go away" over his shoulder at me.

   Yeah, right. Like there was anyplace for me to go. Maybe I'd up and take that vacation to Tahiti I been plannin', huh? Or find myself a lady and go dancin'.

   Don't know why they bothered to go into the squad room. It's not like I didn't know what I was in for, what to expect. Did they really think they were protectin' me by discussin' it behind a closed door?

   Part of me wanted to be mad at Hutch but I didn't have the heart. I knew he was feelin' just as frustrated and helpless as me--maybe more. It's a terrible thing when a man can't back up his own partner, and this poison was a threat Hutch couldn't fight. Not with fists or a gun, anyway.

   Ah, hell, maybe it was for the best that he hear the gory details from Cheryl. I sure didn't want to be the one to tell him, and pretty soon...

   Pretty soon he was gonna see for himself.

   Hutch gave me that dopey smile again when he came back from the squad room. Nice try, but it didn't exactly hide the fact that he looked shaken by what Cheryl had told him.

   The captain came in right after with three names the computer had picked as most likely to be our guy. Vic Bellamy, Janos Martini, and Al Wedell. Three no-taste bums who'd be just as happy to waste Hutch and me as look at us. Readin' their rap sheets, starin' at their ugly mugs just fueled the anger that had been building inside of me all day. For the first time, I didn't want to catch the creep who poisoned me just to save my life.

   I wanted to get my hands on him and make him pay.

   Bellamy was the only one of the three that we had a current address for. Things were pretty quiet in the car on the way to his apartment. Not much to say, I guess. Both of us hopin' that somehow we'd get lucky, that good old Vic would have a hypodermic or a stocking mask stashed somewhere in his place. Both of us thinkin' about what Cheryl had told Hutch, wonderin' when the first signs of the poison would show up. Both of us knowing there were things to tell each other, but lacking the nerve to say 'em out loud.

   Bellamy lived in an apartment building across town, in a less than reputable neighborhood. Three flights up, and Hutch took 'em at a jog. By the time we got to the top I was pantin'. I swiped at the moisture on my upper lip with the back of my hand and headed for number thirty-one.

   I pulled my weapon and waited for Hutch to get into position. We don't even think about it any more, it's as natural as breathin'. Hutch goes high and I go low, standard operatin' procedure. Somethin' I could count on, even now.

   Hutch wrapped on the door with that cannon he calls a gun. "Open up! Police!"

   A voice--sounded like Bellamy as far as I could remember--called out, "In a minute!"

   Now I was the one feelin' antsy, and just standin' there waitin' for ole Vic to invite us in was gettin' on my already frazzled nerves. Right there, on the other side of that door, could be the answer we were lookin' for. "We'll look awfully stupid if he goes out the back," I told Hutch.

   He must've agreed with me, 'cause he stepped back, givin' me just enough time to flick off my safety before he kicked in the door. We both stuck our heads around the doorjamb, half expectin' to see Bellamy headin' down the fire escape. Or maybe a gun aimed at our heads.

   Definitely not what we found.

   Bellamy was sittin' in a wheelchair, his left leg encased in a cast from foot to hip. He flung his arms up in front of his face.

   "Don't shoot! I told you in a minute!"

   A woman with mousy brown hair dressed in a bathrobe and slippers came burstin' into the room. "Vic! What's going on?" Her voice had all the charm of ground glass.

   Bellamy must've realized we weren't gonna shoot him, 'cause he went from scared to belligerent in a matter of seconds. "I dunno, ask them!"

   When I could finally drag my eyes away from that shiny white cast, I saw Hutch was just as stunned as me. We just stared at each other for a long minute. My heart was thumpin' double time and the gun felt heavy and useless in my hand.

   Hutch looked over at the woman and holstered his gun. "How long has he been in that cast?"

   She tipped her chin up and her voice was ice cold. "Four weeks. Why?"

   Oh God. Felt like someone sucked all the air outta my lungs and I couldn't seem to fill 'em back up. I guess I didn't realize till that minute how much I was hopin' Bellamy would be the one. Scratchin' him off the list left only two more chances, and the damn clock just kept tickin'.

   Bellamy's lady was too fulla righteous indignation to notice. "Hey, what is this?" she demanded in that same, shrewish voice.

   I looked at Hutch, not even tryin' to keep the pain and disappointment off my face. "How 'bout strike one?"

   I didn't look back to see if he was followin' me out the door. I couldn't. About all I could manage was to put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, to just keep movin' is the best thing you can do. And the hardest.

**** Hutch ****    

   Charlie had done a damn good job of pulling files for us. We took them into Captain Dobey's office, supposedly so we could spread out. I knew the captain well enough to realize he was also doing his best to shield Starsky from the stares--both curious and pitying. I managed to grab a chair behind and to the left of my partner, which provided me with an unobstructed view. I could keep an eye on him without him figuring out what I was up to and getting pissed off.

   He'd made it more than clear that he didn't want any special treatment--no hovering and no coddling. I respected that, I really did. In fact, I knew that if I were in his shoes, I'd feel the same way. Treating him like he was made of glass would only wind up making him feel sicker. The mind is a powerful force on the body, and the longer Starsky could function normally, the better he could fight the poison.

   I knew all that--in my head. My heart was a little slower in catching up. It was torture to watch and wait, wondering when the first symptoms of the poison would start to manifest themselves. Every hitch of breath, every shift of his body put me on the alert. Could he be feeling sick? In any pain?

   Would he tell me if he were?

   It didn't help that I had no idea what the poison would do to him. Doctor Franklin had obviously filled my partner in on the unpleasant details before I joined them. And Starsky wasn't talking.

   So once we'd reached his apartment and he was changing clothes I had put in a discreet call to Cheryl Jennings, who was a chemist in the lab at headquarters. I asked her to call the hospital and talk to Doctor Franklin, see if she could get a handle on just what we were up against. Cheryl's father was a chemistry professor at the university, a brilliant man, but unstable. His son, Cheryl's older brother, had been killed during an attempt to arrest him for dealing drugs on campus, and Professor Jennings had been having a difficult time accepting it. It was a shame, too, because he was alienating his daughter, the only child he had left.

   Even though Starsky was doing an incredible job of holding himself together, I could see cracks appearing. Oh, he pulled his usual smartass routine, gave Dobey grief about using his first name, but his heart wasn't really in it. I know Starsky too well for him to fool me. To tell you the truth, I don't think he fooled Dobey either.

   The captain left to run Starsky's description of his assailant through the computer, so it was just the two of us in the office when Cheryl beckoned me to join her in the squad room.

   "Hutch."

   Starsky's eyes rested briefly on Cheryl before dropping to the file in his hand. I got up quickly, feeling more than a little awkward. I knew he realized why Cheryl wanted to see me, and I knew if he objected, he'd say so, but it still felt a bit like going behind his back. I just couldn't bear the thought of hearing the unpleasant details with him sitting right there.

   I wanted to think our decision to take the conversation into the next room was based on our desire to spare Starsky. I had the nagging feeling that it was actually to spare us.

   "Don't go away," I told him. Never let it be said I'm not a master at coming up with an inane remark.

   I poured Cheryl and I some coffee. I was feeling the effects of the sleepless night, and it was good to be doing something.

   "Whatcha got, Cheryl?"

   She looked at the clipboard in her hand. "The hospital analysis of the chemical traces at the puncture. Chlorohydrine and what might be bromoacetone -- they couldn't get a fix on the rest." Her voice was business-like and her face gave nothing away.

   I handed her the mug of coffee. "Level with me."

   "Normal body functioning depends on the central nervous system transmitting automatic impulses--to see, to breathe, to sweat, to swallow, cough..." Cheryl paused. When I nodded, she dropped her eyes and her teeth sank into her lip. "Oversimplified, certain progressive poisons attack the central system and block the impulses."

   I didn't want to hear the rest, but I had to. If Starsky could face up to the worst, then so could I.

   "What happens?"

   Cheryl obviously didn't enjoy telling me any more than I liked hearing it. "Uncontrolled perspiration, distorted vision, loss of coordination, difficult breathing, coma. When it gets bad I can help the pain some, but..." Despite her words, her face made it obvious that any help she could give would be minimal.

   Dear God. Every word was like a knife in my heart, almost more painful than I could bear. This was the load Starsky was carrying?

   I tried to shake off the nearly crushing sense of hopelessness, to focus on a solution. "Cheryl, he's gonna need the best that the chemistry field can offer, right? How goes it with your father?"

   She turned and set down the clipboard. "Doesn't seem to want to see me--or anybody."

   "Can you ask him to help?" I couldn't help the edge to my voice, even though I knew Cheryl didn't deserve my anger.

   She grimaced. "I've already tried, he hasn't returned my call." My expression must have screamed desperation, because she reached out to place a consoling hand on mine and gave it a little squeeze. "Look, I'll go out to the house if I have to."

   I mustered a smile I didn't really feel, grateful for her support. Before this day ended Starsky was going to need every friend he had. Cheryl's determination to help, in spite of the bad blood between her and her father, meant a lot.

   Starsky looked up as I re-entered the office and our eyes locked for a long moment. I could hear his thoughts.

   When the captain came back with the three most likely choices for Starsky's attacker, I was anxious to hit the streets. Starsky took the wheel, and I didn't bother arguing. To tell you the truth, I was still trying to process what Cheryl had told me. I wanted to talk to Starsk, to be sure he realized...aw, I don't know. That learning the specifics of what he was facing didn't change anything. That I was going to be there, right beside him through it all. And that we were going to find the sick bastard who poisoned him and the antidote.

   That he would be walking around tomorrow.

   I wanted to tell him all those things, but I ended up staring out the window instead. Staring, and praying to God that Vic Bellamy would turn out to be our man.

   Looking back now, I could kick myself. I was so focused on Bellamy that I temporarily forgot my partner. I took the stairs at a brisk pace, Starsky with me all the way. I was on automatic pilot, operating the way we always had. It felt right.

   It was when we reached the top floor and I turned toward him that it hit me. Starsky, who could normally have jogged up all three flights without breaking a sweat, was perspiring heavily, his face pale. He used the back of his hand to brush beads of moisture from his upper lip and headed down the hallway, either oblivious to my stare or ignoring it.

   Cheryl's voice echoed in my head. Much as I wanted to brush it off, to tell myself that what I'd seen was the result of physical exertion, I knew differently. The inevitable was happening. It could only get worse.

   We positioned ourselves outside the apartment door and I gave the standard police warning. I recognized Bellamy's voice, telling us to wait a minute. Part of me was surprised I could remember it, after all the punks we've busted since. Part of me was horrified at the ice-cold fury it provoked in me.

   Starsky looked over at me, his expression rueful. "We'll look awfully stupid if he goes out the back."

   Kicking in the door was satisfying--just a little too easy. The way I was feeling, I could've kept on kicking until it was nothing but a pile of sawdust. Any gratification I got disappeared when I saw Bellamy, seated in a wheelchair with an extremely broken leg. In fact, you couldn't get much more broken and still have a leg.

   I looked over at Starsky and ached at the lost expression on his face. Vic and his lady were both yammering at us, demanding an explanation. All I cared about was that my partner looked like a little boy watching his shiny new balloon float away.

   Anger bubbled up to replace my sorrow. "How long has he been in that cast?" I asked the woman, putting away my gun.

   If possible, she managed to look even more indignant, folding her arms across her chest. "Four weeks. Why?"

   "Hey, what is this?" she snarled, her lip curled like a cornered stray.

   Starsky looked at me, eyes weary and resigned. A sheen of perspiration coated his face and the curls brushing his forehead were damp.

   "How 'bout strike one."

   He turned and left before I could answer, but that was all right. There really was nothing more to say.

**** Starsky ****

   Going back down the stairs, I managed to shake off some of the disappointment. Most of it was still there, of course. But insteada feelin' like an elephant sittin' in the middle of my chest, it sat on my shoulders, like a really heavy backpack that I had no choice but to haul along with me.

   Part of what kept me goin' was the anger. That poison had become my enemy as much as the flake who gave it to me, and as long as I could still suck in a breath of air I was gonna keep fightin'. There was no way in hell I'd let Hutch do this alone, without me backin' him up. And if the worst happened, if we couldn't find the antidote in time, then by God I was gonna go out kickin' and screamin'.

   Hutch caught up with me as we stepped outta the building into fresh air that smelled great after Bellamy's stuffy apartment. It was a nice day, sunny and warm, and I couldn't help wishin' I was just about any place else--even trailing Hutch through the woods. Wild animals, bug bites, and poison ivy all seemed like pretty silly things to complain about now that I might never have the chance to spend a vacation with my best friend again.

   Hutch turned to me as we started down the cement steps to the sidewalk. "Got a feel on him?"

   "Same as always, a crook..."

   One minute my leg was there, the next it was just...gone. I stumbled on the last step and pitched forward. Would've wound up kissin' the concrete if not for Hutch. In the blink of an eye one of his hands had snagged the collar of my leather jacket and the other was braced against my shoulder, draggin' me upright. He held onto me for a minute, steadying me until he was sure I wasn't gonna lose it again.

   My heart was poundin' and I could hear the blood rushin' in my head. Took me a few seconds to process what had happened, and why. When I got hold of myself enough to look up at Hutch, the look on his face nearly killed me. So much tenderness and concern, so much heartache--over me.

   Was I being too damn selfish, makin' him watch me slowly fall to pieces? If I'd done like the doc asked, stayed in the hospital, at least I might've spared him some grief.

   Hutch kept his hand on my back, but I'm not sure if it was more for me or him. "Want me to drive?"

   I had to stop this, to wipe that look off his face. I put on my best wiseguy act. "What, and get us both killed?" I sauntered around to the driver's side of the Torino, relieved that both legs were workin'. "Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

   Hutch's smile, even though it was pretty weak, was worth the effort. "You know something, Starsk?" His voice was steady and strong, not that overly gentle tone he'd used a minute ago.

   "What?"

   "It's always toughest on the ones left behind."

   See? That's why he's my best friend. A lot of people I know can't figure out how Hutch and me got to be so tight. I mean, just look at us. We're the opposite sides of the coin! Me, I'm your classic city rat, complete with Brooklyn accent. Hutch grew up in Minnesota on some kind of farm or somethin', a country boy through and through. I got most of my education knockin' around the streets; Hutch went to college. I'm beer, pizza, and Bela Lugosi movies; Hutch is fine wine, pheasant under glass, and the ballet.

   So how is it that someone so completely opposite from me could turn out to be not only my best friend, but the most important person in my life?

   Beats the hell outta me.

   No, really. I don't think I could put it into words if I tried. I just know that when Hutch and me met--once we stopped hatin' each other long enough to get to know each other--somethin' clicked. Maybe it's as simple as the fact that despite all the outside differences, our insides are a lot alike.

   I know I trust him enough to let him see all of me, even the parts I wouldn't show my own mother. And the deeper he's let me in and the more I've come to understand the person he is, the more I respect him and value our friendship. Hutch is the only person I've ever known I could say that about. In my experience, it don't pay to let anyone own too big a piece of you--you'll only wind up disappointed. But Hutch...he's never let me down.

   "I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first," I answered sarcastically, getting' back in behind the wheel.

   While Hutch got on the radio with Dobey, I unzipped my jacket and tried to wipe away some of the sweat on my face. It kept gettin' in my eyes, making 'em sting, and I could feel it trickling down my back. It was a nice warm day, but not that warm. A chunk of ice somehow found its way into my stomach. I caught myself before I could look at my watch.

   The captain's voice crackled over the line. "Yeah, Hutch?"

   "Scratch Bellamy." Hutch's reply was matter-of-fact.

   "Okay." From the slight pause and a sigh, I could sense that the captain was almost as disappointed as us. "Listen, Cheryl's located four supply houses that handle the chlorohydrine. I'm getting teams out to them."

   I saw Hutch glance over at me from the corner of my eye, but I couldn't look at him. I'd gotten myself back under control, but it was shaky around the edges.

   "What about Wedell and Martini?" he asked Dobey.

   "No, nothing yet."

   "Well, what the HELL are you guys doing down there?"

   Hutch's roar took me completely by surprise. Where had that come from? A second ago he'd been cool enough to frost the car windows; now he sounded like...

   Like when we had the run-in with Vic Monte's hitmen and I was bleedin' from a gunshot to the back.

   Maybe dying.

   "What do you mean, what the hell am I doing?" Dobey bellowed. "Listen, Hutchinson, I...

   "Now you listen to me, Captain..."

   How in the hell did I end up being the cool-headed one? I reached out and took the mic before my fire-breathin' partner could dig his own grave, not to mention alienate a man we both consider a friend.

   Hutch turned on me. "Wait a minute, I'm not through yet."

   "C'mon."

   His anger actually warmed me a little, at least enough to melt that hunk of ice in my gut. It's a good feelin' to know there's someone who'd do anything to protect you--even take on a 250 pound, seriously pissed off cop. And havin' to be strong for Hutch took my mind off the fact that I was startin' to feel kinda achy.

   I raised the mic to my mouth. "Cap, you'll have to forgive Hutch. He's feelin' a bit skittish."

   It did the trick. Hutch ran his hand through his hair and ducked his head, something that was almost but not quite a smile on his lips.

   Dobey sighed and all the anger left his voice. "Yeah, well...tell him I am too."

   Okay, it was progress. But never let it be said that I quit while I was ahead. Hutch's sheepish expression was just too good to let slide.

   "Hey. Didya hear that?" Hutch made a face and stretched out a hand for the mic, but I pulled it back out of his reach. "Cap, I think Hutch wants to apologize."

   "Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" Hutch growled and snatched it from me.

   I couldn't help grinnin' to myself. Sometimes my partner is just way too fun to play with--and too easy to distract. Gettin' him irritated with me was the quickest way to sidetrack him from worrying about me.

   "What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice?" Dobey asked. "You got a current address on her?"

   Hutch and I just looked at each other, feelin' like a couple of idiots. Dobey had just suggested something one of us should've come up with right away. I started up the car, glad to be movin' again.

   "Yeah, I've got an address," Hutch said into the mic. "Why didn't I think of that?" The second half was for me, not Dobey. "That's a good idea, Captain."

   Sweet Alice is a tough one to figure out. She's what you could call a "high class" hooker--if there is such a thing. And her name ain't just a name, she really is one of the nicest people you'd want to meet. Which brings me to the tough part--why's she in the business in the first place? I mean, if she'd been a junkie with a habit to support, I'd've understood. We see a lot of those, they're a dime a dozen. Broken-down, washed-up ladies whose beauty's just a memory, if it ever existed at all. They live from fix to fix, makin' a buck anyway they can, usually on their backs.

   But Sweet Alice wasn't like that. Oh, she'd seen plenty of hard times, but the streets hadn't hardened her. She'd helped us out more than once, and I'm pretty sure she had a soft spot for my partner. I know he had one for her.

   Alice welcomed us like we were old friends, 'steada cops who'd just chased off her latest trick. Hutch, who'd gone in through the back door, let me in.

   "Well, howdy Starsky. Y'all come on in and have a drink." With that little drawl she sounded more like a Southern belle than a hooker.

   "Hiya, Sweet Alice."

   "Hey, did you stop by to bust me, or just for a little friendly conversation." Her eyes lit up. "I know. You're lookin' for someone."

   I smiled and nodded at her, ignoring the fact that I was startin' to feel pretty lousy. I sure didn't want Sweet Alice to know what was goin' down, and if my partner thought I was hurtin' he might make me go back to the hospital.

   "How do you feel about Janos?" Hutch asked her.

   Sweet Alice huffed a little and rolled those big, blue eyes. "Oh my. Time heals. I just mildly hate his guts now." She chuckled a little.

   "Well then you wouldn't mind telling us where he is?" I was lettin' Hutch do the talking since I knew Alice would be more likely to confide in him.

   A little bit of fear crept onto her face, and from what I'd heard about the way Janos treated her, I could understand why. "Um...knowin' he wouldn't find out it was me that told ya about it?"

   Hutch darted a quick look at me. His lips turned up a little bit but he looked sad. "Nope."

   "Okay. Well, he's got a little business ingeniously called 'Sexsational Films.' He bought himself a grocery store and he's callin' it a sound stage. Somewhere on Chanon Avenue, I think. Hey! What's the matter?"

   Typical. Obviously ol' Janos hadn't changed a bit. Nothin' would make me happier than to go over there and bust his little operation wide open.

   "Thanks, Alice." Hutch headed for the door and after a quick nod at Alice I was right behind him. Already my hopes were raisin' again, thinkin' Janos might be our boy.

   "Hey, wait, what's the beef?" Alice persisted. "Nothin' trivial, I hope."

   Hutch opened the door for me. "No, I'm afraid not."

   "You all right, Starsk?"

   Her question surprised me--surprised us both, I guess. I'd started out into the hallway, but I turned back. "Hmm?" I could feel Hutch starin' at me.

   "Weeell, you just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

   I brushed my fingers across my forehead, a little unnerved when they came away dripping. One look at Hutch's face told me he wasn't gonna be any help.

   "Uh, yeah."

   I ducked out the door before I had to face Alice or Hutch another minute.

**** Hutch ****

   I caught up with Starsky just as he was leaving the building. I really wanted to say something about what had just happened, preferably something encouraging. But anything I thought of sounded incredibly lame or insensitive.

   I couldn't stop seeing Starsky's face when he realized that Bellamy couldn't have attacked him. Starsky can be a little kid at times, and as such, he can pout with the best of them. If I had a dime for every puppy dog face I've seen on his mug I could quit the Force and retire to the Bahamas. But this wasn't anything like that. He was trying so hard not to give in to the disappointment, to keep going in spite of such a crushing blow.

   I'd do anything to take that look off his face.

   Anything.

   I searched harder for something to say. "Got a feel on him?"

   Yeah, I know. Brilliant. You try coming up with a profound remark when your guts are being ripped apart.

   Starsky got that look on his face, the one that says, "What do you think I think?"

   "Same as always, a crook..."

   The word "crook" cut off midstream as Starsky took a nosedive toward the pavement. I reacted purely on instinct, one hand grabbing hold of his collar and the other pushing back against his chest. He wobbled for a minute, then seemed to regain his balance. He blinked, his expression stunned.

   I kept my hand on his back, more for me than for him since he didn't appear to be in danger of falling. Thoughts were chasing each other through my brain like a dog after a cat.

   His near tumble down the steps.

   The poison wasn't just theoretical anymore--it was proving itself to be very, very real. I couldn't help wondering what it was going to feel like to watch my partner, my best friend, gradually come apart at the seams. I'd give anything to be able to make things easier for him.

   Anything.

   "Want me to drive?" It was pitifully inadequate, but the best I could come up with.

   Starsky shrugged off my hand and ambled over to the car. "What, and get us both killed?" He circled around to the driver's side. "Why am I tryin' to make you feel better?"

   Even with darkness closing in from all sides, he was worried about me. We've both been known to use a little black humor when emotions start running too strong. Hell, I'd just done it myself on the way in to the station. It's like an intricate dance, with steps we both know by heart. We talk without talking. And the damnedest thing is, we always know what's really being said.

   I mustered a little grin. "You know something, Starsk?"

   "What?"

   "It's always toughest on the ones left behind."

   "I'll believe that when I hear it from someone who went first."

   Dance completed.

   I got into the Torino and picked up the mic to radio headquarters.

   "This is Zebra 3 to control. Detective Hutchinson. Put me through to Dobey."

   I could see Starsky--watching him out of the corner of my eye was getting to be a habit--trying to blot the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. It was a given that he'd be feeling uncomfortable by now, I just wasn't sure how much. And I sure as hell wasn't stupid enough to ask.

   "Yeah, Hutch." Dobey sounded almost hopeful. I hated to burst his bubble.

   "Scratch Bellamy."

   He heaved a sigh and began telling me about the effort to get teams out to some pharmaceutical supply houses. That was all well and good, but not what I was hoping to hear.

   "What about Wedell and Martini?"

   "No, nothing yet."

   I'd heard people use the expression "seeing red" before, but I'd never experienced it. At Dobey's words something inside me just snapped, and all the pent up rage and frustration came spilling out. I was sitting in a car, watching the damn poison slowly but surely choke the life out of my best friend, and Dobey couldn't even come up with a couple lousy addresses for the scum that might be responsible. I wanted to put my fist through the dashboard. I wanted to pull my gun and shoot the radio. I settled for screaming at Dobey.

   I was just getting up a good head of steam when Starsky's hand covered mine and took away the mic. "Wait a minute, I'm not through yet!"

   "C'mon." Soft. Reproachful.

   He brought the mic to his mouth. "Cap, you'll have to excuse Hutch. He's feelin' a bit skittish." His voice was calm, almost gentle, with just a hint of amusement.

   It was such a sharp contrast to the bellowing I'd just done, it affected me like a slap. I hung my head, feeling a bit bemused by the way Starsky had so efficiently taken control.

   "Yeah, well...tell him I am too."

   That was about the closest thing to an apology I'd ever heard from Dobey. He wasn't exactly your "touchy feely" type of guy.

   Starsky seemed to be enjoying his role as peacemaker a little too much. "Hey. Didya hear that?"

   I ignored him and held out my hand for the mic. Starsky pulled it away before I could get it. "Cap, I think Hutch wants to apologize."

   "Oh, now let's not get sickening about this, huh?" I plucked the mic out of his hand. Now he really was starting to piss me off.

   Dobey either didn't notice Starsky's antics or he'd chosen to overlook them. "What about Martini's old girlfriend, Sweet Alice. You got a current address on her?"

   My jaw dropped and I turned to find Starsky looking at me with the same blank expression.

   "Yeah, I've got an address," I told Dobey when I found my voice. "Why didn't I think of that?" I asked Starsky. To finish making peace, I added, "That's a good idea, Captain."

   I like Sweet Alice. I mean I genuinely like her. I know she's a hooker, but she's also a sweet, vulnerable, and very pretty lady. I know a little of her history--she confided in me once over a little beer and a lot of tears after a customer had worked her over. Her childhood was normal and happy until her father died and her mother remarried. The way her stepfather chose to enforce his 'parental responsibilities' is a crime that changed a bright, popular young girl from a small Texas town into a runaway on the L.A. streets. In another life Alice might've been a high-class fashion model. Instead she wound up a hooker.

   I never stop hoping she'll find something better, but I know in my heart she never will. In Alice's mind, she's where she belongs.

   I've given up trying to change it.

   Rather than bursting in on her when she'd be likely to have a...friend, I had Starsky give her fair warning at the front door while I circled around back. The look of sheer terror on the John's face when he saw my badge would've been funny, if it hadn't been so sad.

   Alice greeted me warmly, as always. "Hi, handsome Hutch."

   I let Starsky in and Alice welcomed him with just as much enthusiasm, even offering us something to drink, which we politely refused. When I brought up Martini's name she tried to make light of it, but I could see the edge of fear in her eyes. Janos, a slimy little twirp who picked on anyone weaker than himself, had beaten Alice repeatedly until she'd finally gotten enough courage to leave him.

   I had to promise her the slimeball would never know she was the one who told us where to find him. What I really wanted to do was promise he'd be missing a few teeth.

   "Hey, wait a minute, what's the beef?" she asked as we tried to make a quick exit. "Nothin' trivial, I hope?"

   "No, I'm afraid not." I got as far as pulling open the door and Starsky was halfway into the hallway when Alice stopped us cold.

   "You all right, Starsk?" Warmth and real concern colored her words.

   Starsky turned back, his face expressionless. "Hmm?"

   "Weeeell, you're just sweatin' all over the place. You got a fever?"

   Starsky touched his forehead and stared at the droplets on his fingers, then looked at me as if I could provide some kind of answer. Unfortunately the giant boulder in my throat made breathing difficult and speaking impossible.

   He looked back at Alice and nodded, trying hard to offer her a little smile. "Yeah."

   I followed him out the door. Fortunately, by the time we reached the car I'd managed to swallow the boulder and I could breathe again.

**** Starsky ****

   Hutch didn't say a word when we got in the car, but I could hear those little wheels spinnin' in that thick skull of his. He drummed his fingers on his knee and pretended to look out the window, but I'd've bet he wasn't seein' a darn thing.

   I just concentrated on driving and hoped like hell he'd keep his mouth shut. I knew how worried he must be, and that he was probably dyin' to ask how I was feeling--no pun intended. But that wasn't what I needed from him right then. I needed to keep movin', keep swimmin' against the current, 'cause if I stopped I was goin' under and it didn't seem likely I'd be comin' back up.

   Eventually I guess he couldn't stand it any longer. His eyes left off perusin' the street and locked onto me instead. "Alice was right, partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

   "DON'T." I didn't expect for it to come out soundin' like that. Like when I warn a punk not to pull his gun.

   Hutch kinda faltered, as surprised as me. "Starsk..."

   "I mean it, Hutch."

   Sometimes the most important quality for bein' a friend is knowin' when to push and when to back off. Hutch looked at me for a long time. Just when I was convinced he was gonna take me to Metro, or worse yet, the hospital, he pressed his lips together and went back to lookin' out the window.

   "Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have a couple of goons standing guard out front." He didn't sound angry, just tired.

   I nodded to let Hutch know I heard, but it took me a few minutes before I could speak. "Hutch?"

   "Hmm?"

   "Thanks."

   We pulled up to the curb, and sure enough, a couple of two-bit losers were loungin' around on the sidewalk. Hutch walked past them to the door, then turned around.

   "Oops. We gotta go around back."

   We headed for the alley that would take us to the back door, but Mutt and Jeff stepped in front of us. Hutch smiled at 'em like they were boy scouts and not lowlife scum.

   "Would you mind moving?"

   Mutt and Jeff just stared at us with smug expressions plastered on their ugly faces.

   I held out my badge. "Does that handle it?" I didn't really expect that to work, but we gotta go through the usual dance.

   "Got a warrant?" Mutt asked after taking a close look.

   I was feelin' pretty lousy by now and in no mood to take crap. "No I don't got a warrant," I said, lookin' at him like he was an idiot--which he was. I looked at Hutch. "You got a warrant?"

   Hutch pinched his nose and ducked his head to keep from grinnin' at me. "Nope."

   "Well, that about covers it, huh?" Mutt said, pleased with his own razor sharp wit.

   "Yeah." Hutch looked at me, all sincere. "You know something, Starsk, he's right. We can't go on in there without probable cause. Like stupid here taking a swing at us."

   Mutt's smile did an amazin' disappearing act, and I had to work hard to keep it from poppin' up on my face. I frowned a little.

   "Wait a second. Which one of these flakes you callin' stupid?"

   Hutch looked 'em both over, playin' it to the hilt. I swear, sometimes I think my partner should've been an actor. Mutt was smilin' again but Jeff looked catatonic.

   "The creepy looking one."

   They looked at each other, and I could tell Mutt was gettin' steamed. I shrugged.

   "Gotta be more specific."

   "Oh, it's the guy that never picks on anyone his own size and gets his kicks intimidating young girls and old women."

   Works every time. It was all over in a couple minutes and a few good punches; Mutt and Jeff dumped with the rest of the trash, right where they belonged. You'd think anyone with half a brain wouldn't be dumb enough to fall for that old trick--but that explains everything, don't it? I warned 'em both they'd better be history by the time we came out.

   "Can you believe they bought that?" I asked Hutch as we walked toward the back door.

   The cramps came out of nowhere, knocked me right off my feet. I'd had kind of a naggin' ache in my gut since leaving Bellamy's place, but this was a whole different ballgame. I'd never felt pain like that before, not even when I was shot and bleedin' on the floor of that Italian restaurant. It blotted out everything else, I couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't breathe... I locked my arms across my body real tight to keep my stomach from creeping up my throat and spillin' outta my mouth.

   Through the haze of agony I felt two arms, strong but gentle. I'd folded myself up like some sorta human pretzel without even realizin' it, as if I could crawl inside myself to get away from the pain. Hutch pulled me into his lap, and the warmth felt so good after the cold pavement I could've cried. I couldn't stop myself from grabbin' onto him--his hand, his leg--like a drowning man. I heard the hum of his voice as he talked to me, but at first the words didn't mean nothin'.

   Didn't matter though, my heart knew what he was sayin'.

   Finally the cramps eased up a little bit, though my belly still hurt like hell. I realized I was gulping air, so I concentrated on slowing down, trying to relax and surf the pain. I had both of my hands wrapped around one of Hutch's, squeezin' as hard as I could. His other hand was curled around my arm, and I think he was grabbing onto me just as tight.

   "You gonna make it, huh?" Hutch's voice was calm, steady. Exactly what I needed to hear.

   It felt like someone was plunging red-hot knives into my gut. Hurt so damn bad a part me wanted to die then and there, just to make it stop. But Hutch was there, holdin' me, encouraging me, and worryin' about me. I had to be strong for him. I had to say something to convince him I was okay.

   "My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her special chicken soup."

   "Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" Still calm but I could hear a ragged edge underneath, and the hand on my shoulder trembled.

   "She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, though." I tried to look up at him, to smile, but another cramp tore through my gut and I couldn't help wincing.

   "Think you can make it? Huh?"

   I clamped my teeth together and nodded. "'Kay."

   Hutch started to pull me up and the world tilted and spun. I reached back and grabbed hold of his jacket and didn't let go, not even when he got me on my feet. Every few seconds another spasm would twist my stomach into knots, and his firm grip on my arm and my chokehold on his jacket was all that stood between me and another dive to the pavement.

   "Gimme a minute...Hutch." I was hunched over like an old man so I slowly straightened up. The cramps had pretty much stopped except for a twinge now and then, but there was a steady, gnawin' pain like a tiger tryin' to chew its way outta my belly.

   Hutch didn't rush me, just held onto my arm and watched me with those blue eyes that can see right through me. His face looked tense and stiff, and I could tell in his own way he was hurtin' as bad as me. I forced my hands to open and let go of his jacket, and an old standby for lightening the mood popped into my head.

   "How do I look?" I snickered a little at my own joke. Sometimes it's either laugh or cry, and the first choice definitely beats the second.

   "You look terrible." Hutch's voice quivered with...something. I think maybe he was stuck between those same two choices.

   He kept hold of my arm the whole way to the door, lettin' me lean on him. When we got there he turned me to face him, but still didn't let go.

   "You okay?"

   Okay? I was about as far from okay as The Big Apple is from L.A. My insides felt like they were bein' run through Hutch's blender. I was about to face the slimeball who might be responsible. And even though he was puttin' up a pretty good front, Hutch was startin' to look desperate.

   But there was no way I was gonna tell Hutch any of that.

   I twisted my mouth into grin and patted his chest. "Yeah."

   Rousting Janos was a nightmare. Hutch likes to ride me about my tendency toward stubborn pig-headedness, but I used every single drop of it to keep from showing how much I was hurtin'. Walkin' without a hand braced on Hutch; standin' straight, not hunched over holding my belly; a steady voice and a poker face--climbin' Mt. Everest couldn'ta been any harder.

   I let Hutch do all the hard work, knocking over equipment and roughin' up our boy so that he was nice and rattled before we started askin' questions. I felt a little guilty, but not much. I figured with the way I was feelin', I'd better concentrate on stayin' vertical. And I told myself it was a good chance for my partner to blow off a little of the steam I'd seen buildin' up.

   Janos, of course, was all full of righteous indignation. Claimed he'd been at the studio since 4:30. Hutch bullyin' him just made him angry, not ready to break down and confess. Hearin' him and Hutch go at it made my gut hurt worse--if that was possible.

   I wanted the nightmare to be over. I wanted Janos to admit he'd drugged me. I wanted to go home, climb into my own bed, and sleep for a week.

   I wanted it to stop hurtin'. Oh God, I'd've done just about anything to make it stop.

   "Tell him a funny story," I said to Hutch, then walked over to where I could inconspicuously lean against some of the wreckage my partner had created.

   Hutch picked right up on my plan. Janos, who'd been actin' pretty tough while Hutch was shovin' him around, turned to jelly at the thought of us smashin' an expensive camera lens. Suddenly he was babbling like an idiot, beggin' and pleadin' for us to put it down. Thought he might burst into tears when we started tossin' it back and forth. It would've been funny under any other circumstances.

   Right then I didn't feel much like laughin'.

   The minute Janos really cut loose, I knew he wasn't our guy. I'd been pretty foggy when Stocking Mask injected me, but his laughter still echoed in my head. Cold, cruel--the spiteful sound made it clear he was really gettin' his jollies from hurtin' me. Janos sounded more like a donkey brayin'.

   "Unfortunately, that's not it."

   I lobbed the lens at Janos and walked away without lookin' too hard at Hutch's face. I didn't have to see his expression to know that it looked just like mine. I needed to get out, get away from Janos and his flunkies before I lost what little grasp I had on my emotions.

   No runs, no hits, and two outs. In baseball those numbers put you damn close to losing the game.

   I walked over to a set of wooden stairs that led up to the second floor and just kinda let my legs fold under me. The pain in my belly had been bad enough; the ache in my heart was almost more than I could take.

   Hutch walked over, not even tryin' to hide his disappointment. "That's twelve hours gone."

   "Yeah. Pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist says it's half full.

   Twelve hours. Of pain even worse than the knife that was slicing my stomach into shreds. No longer able to see. To walk. To breathe.

   Screw it, I was tired of being strong.

   "Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

   He sat on the step beside me, one arm curled around my shoulders and the other pressed to my stomach. I leaned toward him, needin' to feel his warmth and his solidity when everything else around me was fallin' apart. Guess my coordination was already off, 'cause I wound up slidin' off the step instead.

   Like always, Hutch was there.

   "I know, I know. Buddy, I'm here. I'm here."

   He pulled me into his arms and held me. Anchored me. And for the first time since the nightmare began, I let go.

**** Hutch ****

   I stewed for a while after we left Sweet Alice. Seemed silly that her casual observation would bother me so much, but it did. I could shrug off my concern over Starsky's appearance, chalk it up to a heightened sense of worry because I knew about the poison. But Alice was essentially an innocent bystander, completely unaware of Starsky's predicament. Like the child who pointed out that the emperor's new clothes were really his birthday suit, Alice had dispelled any illusions I might have held about what was really going on with Starsky.

   He was sick. And it was starting to show.

   For about the millionth time I thought about Doctor Franklin. If Starsky had followed his advice would we have an antidote by now? In letting him be a part of this investigation, had I signed his death warrant? Sure, it was Starsky's decision, but I'm not foolish enough to think I didn't influence him. If I'd encouraged him to stay put in the hospital, to let Franklin do this thing, he'd have bitched and moaned but he'd have done it.

   At the time I told myself that I needed to support my partner's choice because it was what he wanted. But that's only part of the reason. Truth is, I couldn't bear the idea that we might spend Starsky's final hours apart. If the end was going to come, I wanted to be Butch and Sundance, going out in a blaze of glory.

   Except the only one going out was Starsky. And I was feeling a little selfish. And a lot scared.

   I turned toward him, unable to keep it to myself any longer. "Alice was right, Partner, you don't look so good. Maybe it's time we..."

   "DON'T."

   I expected a token protest, but not the icy cold warning. The voice that said, "I have a gun and I know how to use it." I stammered a little as I struggled to regain my balance.

   "Starsk..."

   "I mean it, Hutch."

   Partner. Best friend. Brother. I know Starsky, when to push and when to get the hell out of Dodge. There was so much hidden within those few simple words. Hidden to others, but not to me. He was hurting, he was scared, and he was determined not to let me know. I had to respect that.

   "Chanon's up ahead on the left. If I know our boy Janos, he'll have a couple of goons standing guard out front."

   Starsky just nodded, but I could see his fingers tighten on the steering wheel and he swallowed hard. When he finally did speak, his voice was low and husky with emotion.

   "Hutch?"

   "Hmm?"

   "Thanks."

   I was worried sick about him the entire time we were disposing of Janos' hired muscle. Two of the "all brawn and no brain" types would normally be a recreational sport for Starsky and me--we both love to mess with their heads.

   We went through the motions, but my heart wasn't really in it and I don't think Starsky's was either, though he put up a good front. Getting Stupid to lose his temper was child's play, but Ugly did me the favor of throwing the first punch. In the blink of an eye it was all over, and Starsky was actually crowing a little about how easy it had been. Felt good to hear the smug tone in his voice.

   Next thing I knew, he was on the ground.

   I could see right away that he must be in excruciating pain. He'd curled into a fetal position, oblivious to the fact that he was on the pavement, and was grunting in pain. Sounded like someone was working him over, punching him repeatedly in the gut. I dropped down on one knee and pulled him into my arms.

   "Starsky. Hey, hey, hey. Easy, easy, easy."

   I operated on automatic pilot, terrified by what was happening to Starsky and offering blind comfort the only way I knew how. He burrowed into my hold as if he could escape the pain by sheer physical contact. I held on tightly, stealing a quick glance toward the street to be sure that Martini's two goons hadn't decided to come back. Last thing I needed was to be taken out by that scum while Starsky was incapacitated.

   Starsky stopped squirming and lay in my arms, every muscle in his body tense, gulping air like a drowning man. His hands were locked onto me with so much desperation, I knew I was going to have finger-shaped bruises on my arm and leg.

   "You gonna make it, huh?" I asked him.

   "My stomach hasn't hurt this bad since my Aunt Rosie sent me her special chicken soup."

   "Easy, easy now, come on. Just try to relax, okay?" I fought to keep my voice steady, but it broke a little anyway.

   Starsky was on the ground, wracked with cramps I could still feel spasming periodically through his body, and he was trying to make me laugh. I knew what he was doing, and why. And even as I admired him, I hurt like hell.

   I'd never felt so helpless. In the darkest of times, I'd always had a plan of action, something I could do. When Starsky was shot, I'd bandaged him up and concocted a plan to get us out safely. I was worried I might bungle the whole thing and get someone else hurt. I was terrified he was going to bleed to death. But at least I was doing something.

   So far, it seemed like all I'd done was spin my wheels and watch Starsky get sicker.

   "She never could get the hang of it. She made great wonton, though."

   "Think you can make it, huh?" I asked, still uneasy about our location.

   He let me haul him to his feet, but he was as shaky as a toddler taking his first steps. I steadied him--held him up, really--while he struggled to get control of himself and the pain. He briefly pressed one hand to his stomach, but removed it and clutched my jacket instead. After a long moment he loosened his fists and tried to straighten up.

   "How do I look?" He even managed a weak chuckle at his own joke.

   I don't think I'd ever seen him look worse. Voices of reason were screaming in my head: This is crazy. He'll never make it. He belongs in a hospital.

   And I pushed them all aside. Starsky was willing to endure agonizing pain to have a stake in his own salvation. Who was I to take that away from him?

   "You look terrible." The words sent one message, but I put the real meaning in my voice.

   I kept hold of his arm all the way to the back door, letting him lean on me and taking it slow. As soon as we stepped inside, though, he let go and put on that cocky swagger that I know and love. The transformation was pretty amazing, but I knew he was hanging on by his fingernails.

   There was no joy, no amusement from him as I snagged Janos and shook him around. Normally Starsky gets a kick out of harassing a weasel like Martini, but today he was distant and detached. He let me do the talking and just watched.

   "Where were you at four o'clock this morning?"

   "What are you guys, crazy?" Janos was furious, too mad to be afraid at first. "What's the beef?"

   I shook him by the collar of his cheap sportcoat. "Don't answer a question with a question."

   "At my apartment! We started shooting at five, I was here at four-thirty--ask the crew!" He shoved my hands away.

   Starsky, who'd been staring at him as if he were an interesting bug, stepped in. "Come on, Janos. You expect us to take the word of these flakes on anything?" To Martini I'm sure he sounded same as always. To me, he sounded like he'd just run a marathon. "Tell him a funny story."

   I drew a blank for a moment, then understood. Starsky's words in the hospital played through my head.

   "I don't feel too funny this morning, Janos. So I want you to pretend that I told you a real knee-slapper."

   "What do you guys want?" Still way too calm. Well, I could change that.

   It was a pleasure making him squirm over that expensive camera lens. Suddenly Mr. Cool was running off at the mouth and pleading with us both, terrified his little investment was going to wind up in a million pieces on the floor. My frustration level was skyrocketing, and what I really wanted to be doing to Janos involved my fists in a close encounter with his face. Instead, I had to be content just to poke him with a stick--so to speak.

   It would've been completely understandable if Starsky had fumbled a catch and dropped that lens. But I knew he wouldn't.

   When Janos started laughing I saw immediately that we had the wrong guy. Starsky's face tightened and he sucked in a sharp breath of air.

   "Unfortunately, that's not it." He tossed the lens to Janos and walked out.

   When we hit fresh air, Starsky's steps got slower and slower. I thought we'd go back to the car, but he wandered over to a flight of wooden steps and dropped down onto them.

   I just...couldn't seem to find any words. Nearly four o'clock in the afternoon. Half of the ridiculously short time my partner had been given was gone, and we had nothing. I was tired, frustrated, and aching inside, yet I knew it was just a drop in the bucket compared to what Starsky was feeling. I walked over to stand beside him.

   "Well, that's twelve hours gone." I wished I could snatch back the words the moment they left my mouth.

   Starsky, God bless him, took it in stride, the way he had during every lousy set back so far.

   "Yeah. The pessimist says the bottle's half empty. And the optimist says it's half full."

   I looked at him. Despite his detour into philosophy, I could hear the pain in his voice.

   Time in a bottle. I've never really understood that analogy, even though Jim Croce has made good money singing about it. Me, I've always thought we hold our time in a glass. Some people just let it sit there, looking pretty, and never drink from it. Some people guzzle it down like beer at a frat party, consuming it without really tasting it. And some people just pour it out on the ground, wasted and useless. Then there's the rare few who sip it slowly, enjoying every single mouthful for the pleasure it brings them.

   Starsky's one of the few. He approaches life with an enthusiasm that I envy but can't quite duplicate. I'll tell you something, though. Since he came into my life, I've started sipping too. I try, anyway.

   "Oh it hurts, Hutch. Oh God, it hurts."

   He practically fell into my embrace, too miserable to keep up the illusion any longer. I held him as tightly as I could while he finally allowed himself to fall apart.

   And I tried my damnedest not to think of that half-empty glass.

PART THREE