**** Hutch ****

   Starsky didn't even argue when I held out my hand for the keys. I watched him slide stiffly into the passenger seat, wishing he'd whine and complain. The silent acceptance was unnerving, and told me more clearly than words how much he was hurting.

   Getting behind the wheel felt...wrong. I'd driven his car before, but only when Starsky was laid up in the hospital or needed me to bring it to him. Never with him riding shotgun beside me.

   I watched him out of the corner of my eye as I drove. He'd been quiet since the breakdown in the alley--a little embarrassed, I think. Much as I didn't want him to feel uneasy about letting go in front of me, I knew I'd've been just as uncomfortable if the tables were turned. Starsky and I are more open with each other than most guys I know, but even we have our limits. We're still macho cop types, after all.

   Embarrassment was only a small part of what was going on behind those blue eyes, though. Starsky looked terrible. His face had the strained, pinched look of suffering, and his normally bronzed skin was unnaturally pale. One hand gripped the armrest and the other curled tightly around his stomach. Every so often I'd see him flinch, as if an unusually sharp pain had slipped past his defenses.

   "Stop it."

   I blinked and looked over at him, startled from my thoughts. "Huh?"

   Starsky turned a patient but weary gaze on me. "Stop watchin' me outta the corner of your eye."

   I put on my most outraged expression. "Watching you? Why the hell would I want to do that? Hate to break the news to you, pal, but you're not that fascinating a specimen."

   His lips quirked in what might've been a smile if he'd had more energy. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna spend next week..."

   Silence stretched long and heavy between us. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know what we were both thinking. There might not be a next week for Starsky.

   There might not be a tomorrow.

   "Just stop it," he finally muttered, slouching down further into the seat.

   He must have zoned out for a while, because we were almost to my apartment before he pushed himself up, scowling.

   "Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the way to Metro."

   I flashed him a bright smile. "And they said you were just a pretty face."

   My partner was not amused. His eyebrows drew together and his jaw clenched. "What are you up to, Hutch?"

   Okay, so humor wasn't going to work. I gripped the steering wheel a little more tightly and opted for the direct approach.

   "Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you some food and a little nap."

   Starsky glowered at me. "Are you outta your mind? The clock's tickin' and you want me to take a nap? But hey, why stop there? Let's take a few days off and go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 'Course it's a long drive. Be a shame if I was dead before we got there."

   "Are you finished?" I kept my voice calm and even, but it wasn't easy. Starsky just glared at me.

   "Look, Huggy has an ear to the ground and an eye on every street corner. Dobey's got half the force out, turning over rocks to look for Wedell. There's not much either of us can do at this point but wait for something to turn. You barely slept last night, you've eaten next to nothing, and you look like hell. It only makes sense for you to take a break while you can."

   I pulled to the curb in front of Venice Place, switched off the engine, and turned to stab a finger at him. "And you damn well better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this side of the fence either." My voice shook with fury.

   I got out of the car without waiting for him to answer, slamming the door because I know it irritates him. The anger felt good, cleansing. It was so much easier than the complicated cocktail of other emotions I'd been experiencing all day. I stalked around the back of car, feeling vindicated, until I saw Starsky awkwardly dragging himself out of his seat. The discomfort evident in such a simple movement doused the flame of my anger like a bucket of cold water.

   I caught hold of his arm as he slowly unfolded his body from the seat. Once I saw he was steady, I turned toward the building. Starsky's fingers knotted in my jacket pulled me up short. I looked back into a face filled with remorse.

   "Hutch...I...I didn't..." He closed his mouth and gave a little shake of his head. "I was outta line. I'm sorry."

   I placed one of my hands over his and gave it a squeeze, then cocked an eyebrow. "Prove it."

   It was obviously the last reply Starsky expected. He released my jacket and stared blankly at me. "Huh?"

   I turned him toward the door with an arm slung around his shoulders--figured it was the most inconspicuous way of helping him up the stairs without pissing him off. "You said you're sorry. So prove it. Stop fighting me on this and cooperate."

   Starsky's expression was wary. "By doing what exactly?"

   "Eating whatever I put in front of you and then trying to get some sleep."

   He looked honestly horrified. "Hutch, I seen what's in that kitchen of yours. My stomach already hurts, ain't no way I'm gonna be able to keep down desiccated liver mixed with wheat germ and tofu."

   We'd reached the door to my apartment and Starsky was puffing like a freight train. I left one hand on his shoulder while I reached up for the key. "Starsk, your body needs reinforcements if it's gonna keep fighting this thing." I swung the door open and motioned him through. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

   "I hate it when you do that," Starsky muttered as he shuffled past me. "It's impossible to argue when you put it that way."

   "Just go take a load off," I told him aloud. "I'll bring it to you when it's ready."

   Starsky muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "don't rush" but did as I suggested. I went into the kitchen, and after checking in with Dobey so that he knew where we were, started raiding the refrigerator and cupboards, wracking my brain. He needed something simple and easy to digest that would supply calories and fluids. I finally wound up dumping some crushed ice, bananas, strawberries, juice, vitamin extracts, and milk into the blender until I had a kind of fruit shake concoction. I poured it into a tall glass, added a straw, and served it with a flourish.

   "Voila! A Hutchinson special."

   Starsky eyed it like it was radioactive. "Special what?"

   "Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

   His nose wrinkled but he cautiously put the straw to his lips. His eyebrows shot up until they were practically hidden by that mop of curly hair and he pulled the glass back to stare at it.

   "Hey! This stuff's good!"

   I sat down on the other end of the couch, propped up my feet, and folded my arms. "Told you to trust me."

   I clicked on the television and handed him the remote. Starsky flipped through channels until he found a cop show, then settled down to watch and sip the shake. By the time the show was ending, he'd polished off three-quarters of the drink and was looking pretty glassy-eyed.

   "Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" He set the glass on the coffee table and let his head drop onto the back of the couch.

   I frowned a little, baffled. "'Fraid you lost me, partner."

   "This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who did it." Starsky gestured vaguely with his right hand, the left still clamped around his stomach. "If this was a TV show, we'd be sure to find the bad guy in time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep things exciting. But eventually everything would work out right for a happy ending."

   An invisible hand clamped steel fingers around my throat. "Don't sell us short, buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy ending."

   He let his head loll in my direction, eyes at half-mast and shadowed with dark circles. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. But you gotta face the facts. Odds are..."

   "I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. It's only a matter of time." I didn't want to take my rage out on him, but I couldn't stand to hear the resignation in his voice.

   Starsky looked at me with such intensity I squirmed a little. The corners of his mouth turned up just a bit but his eyes looked weary and sad. "That's the point, pal. But I ain't gonna argue with ya."

   We sat in silence for a while. When I finally looked over at him again, Starsky's eyes were closed and his breathing was slow and even. Mission accomplished. I grabbed a blanket from the bedroom and spread it over him, surprised when he spoke.

   "Why'd we come here, Hutch?" The words were slurred with sleep.

   "What?"

   "Why'd we come to your place? How come you didn't just take me home?"

   I shrugged even though his eyes were still closed and he couldn't see me. "No special reason."

   One eye cracked open. "How'd you know?"

   "Know what?" I really didn't want to get into this, and I kept hoping if I played dumb Starsky would give up. I should've known better.

   He grimaced as he shifted position so that he was lying on his side with the blanket tucked up to his chin. "You knew I'd never be able to sleep at my place."

   I hadn't known, of course. But I'd suspected. We learned all about the psychology of victims back at the Academy, including how tough it can be for them to return to the scene of the crime. Starsky had experienced a severe trauma in his own home, and it wasn't over yet. I'd figured it would be tough under any circumstances to get him to relax and rest. Trying to make it happen with last night's memories lurking around every corner would make it impossible.

   I snorted. "Nah. I just figured coming here was the only way to avoid having to eat cold pizza and root beer."

   "Ah, so that's it." Starsky's eye slid shut and he sighed. I was halfway to the kitchen with his glass when I heard him call my name. "Hutch?"

   I paused and turned back. "Yeah, buddy?"

   "You're a terrible liar."

   I grinned to myself.

**** Starsky ****

   Lettin' Hutch drive felt like givin' in, but even I was smart enough to know I'd be crazy to get behind the wheel. I'd pulled myself together enough to stop bawlin' like a baby, but my gut was killin' me and every once in a while things'd look like they were underwater—all blurry and wavy 'round the edges. Shape I was in, I wasn't fit to be drivin' a bike, let alone the Torino, and I knew it.

   Didn't make it hurt any less, though. I have a real tough time bein' dependent on anybody for anything. I suppose most men have that streak in 'em to some extent, but mine runs pretty deep. If I had to play shrink on myself, I'd guess it goes back to my pop dyin' the way he did. Not havin' your old man around teaches a kid to depend on himself for a lot of things. I learned that lesson young, and I learned it good.

   Too good, sometimes.

   Even though we aren't real brothers, Hutch is blood of my blood, a piece of me. I know in my head that I can tell him anything, show him any part of me, and it won't make a damn bit of difference in how he feels. I mean, I've seen him at rock bottom, arms full of track marks, sweatin' and puking one minute, ready to tear my head off the next and it didn't change a thing for me. I don't know what I'd've done back in that alley if he hadn't been there for me. I needed a shoulder to cry on and he'd been there with no holds barred, just like always.

   But I couldn't help feeling a little uncomfortable afterwards.

   The past twelve hours felt like twelve years. I wanted my life back. I wanted my gut to stop feelin' like I'd eaten ground glass. I wanted to drive the Torino like a bat outta hell and have Hutch yellin' at me to slow down before I get us both killed. I wanted to look at a clock without countin' how many hours I had left.

   I wanted my partner to stop lookin' at me outta the corner of his eye.

   "Stop it."

   Hutch looked over with this dopey, blank look on his face, as if he didn't know exactly what I was talkin' about. "Huh?"

   Man, I was way too tired, and way too miserable to get into this with him. "Stop watchin' me outta the corner of your eye."

   I think I've mentioned that my partner missed a career in acting. He put on his indignant, wounded expression, like I was way off base accusin' him of such a thing.

   "Watching you? Why the hell would I want to do that? Hate to break the news to you, pal, but you're not that fascinating a specimen."

   I did my best not to dignify that with a smile, but I wasn't entirely successful. "My point exactly. Besides, you keep eyeballin' me and you're gonna wreck my car. And there's no way in hell I'm gonna spend next week..."

   Next week was as far out of reach as next century for me unless things started turnin' around. I wondered what Hutch would do with the Torino if I didn't make it. I pictured him selling it to some smart mouthed punk with a lot of cash and no brains. Then I pictured him with another partner, cruisin' the streets in that trashcan on wheels he calls a car. Pullin' pranks on Dobey and drivin' him crazy. Goin' to Huggy's for a beer after work.

   "Just stop it."

   I scooted down further in the seat and tried not to think about someone else fillin' the holes in Hutch's life after I was gone. I knew I was just feelin' sorry for myself, but I figured I was entitled.

   I was so deep into my own pity party I didn't even notice Hutch was taking us to Venice until we were almost there. I pushed myself up in the seat and used the snidest tone of voice I could manage. "Hate to break the news to you, buddy, but this ain't the way to Metro."

   He tried to get cute with me but I was in no frame of mind for humor. I demanded to know what he was up to, and I guess I sounded pretty angry, 'cause he told me.

   "Thought we could stop off at my place for a while. Maybe get you some food and a little nap."

   It was too much. Between kickin' myself for breaking down in the alley, wallowin' in self-pity over dying, and the constant stabbing pain in my stomach, I had reached the end of what microscopic amount of patience I own.

   "Are you outta your mind? The clock's tickin' and you want me to take a nap? But hey, why stop there? Let's take a few days off and go to Dobey's cabin for some fishing. 'Course it's a long drive. Be a shame if I was dead before we got there."

   Hutch shoulda just pulled the car over and decked me. I sure deserved it. I knew what he was goin' through, knew his comment about it being hardest on the ones left behind was only half a joke. There was just so much bad feeling in me--anger, and sadness, and fear, and frustration--that it all erupted like a volcano and came spillin' out. Poor Hutch was just unlucky enough to be in the way.

   When I get pissed off I blow my top. But Hutch...sometimes when he's the most angry he goes quiet. He told me exactly why we were goin' to his place, and everything he said made perfect sense. Not only that, he was doin' it to look out for me. To try and keep me at his side, on the streets and not stuck at the hospital with the doc and his needles.

   He didn't let me see his anger until he'd parked the car. "And you damn well better not joke about dying again. It's no fun from this side of the fence either."

   I didn't even care that he shut his door hard enough to chip the paint. I tried to get outta the car so that I could talk to him, could apologize and tell him I was a jerk. Problem was, every move I made hurt like hell. I got halfway unfolded from the seat and couldn't go any further. Then Hutch's hand was on my arm, pullin' me up and steadying me. Mad as he was, he coulda dumped me on my ass--I had it comin' to me. But he just turned and started walkin' toward the building.

   I gaped at him for a minute before I found my voice. "Hutch...I...I didn't..." I'm no good at apologies, never have been. I shook my head, hopin' it would jump-start my mouth. "I was outta line. I'm sorry."

   Hutch coulda told me to forget it, or he coulda suggested I go to hell. Neither response would've surprised me. Askin' me to prove it, though...that curve ball came outta left field.

   Gettin' some rest is one thing. But eatin' whatever Blondie decides is good for me? Do you have any idea how much he was askin' from me? Hutch's got stuff in his kitchen that no self-respectin' human being would touch with a ten foot pole, let alone put in their mouth.

   Trust me, he said.

   And that's just plain dirty pool. Hutch always says that when he's tryin' to get me to do something unpleasant. 'Cause he knows I do. Ain't no defense against him when he plays that particular trump card. And it really pisses me off, too.

   I gotta admit, Hutch's couch felt like a little piece of heaven. I sat there with my feet up on the coffee table and listened to him rattlin' around in the kitchen, tryin' not to think about what he might be throwin' into the blender. Hutch tricked me into drinkin' one of his power shakes once, and that was more than enough for me. The inside of my running shoes'd taste better than that stuff--not that I've got any basis for comparison.

   After a few minutes Hutch came walkin' up to me with a big smile on his face and a glass full of pink stuff in his hand.

   "Voila! A Hutchinson special."

   Oh God. He was so pleased with himself, and I still felt guilty for the way I'd acted earlier. But my stomach was doin' flip-flops and I really didn't want to ruin Hutch's carpet.

   "Special what?"

   "Got one word for you, Starsk. Co-op-er-a-tion."

   Like I said, Hutch fights dirty. I tried to prepare myself for the worst and put the straw to my lips. The first swallow was...

   Delicious.

   I couldn't believe it. Had to take another sip just to be sure I wasn't delirious or somethin'. It tasted kinda like fruit and ice cream, and I think maybe it was the only thing I coulda kept down at that moment.

   "Hey! This stuff's good!" I admitted.

   Hutch sat down next to me, lookin' awfully smug. "Told you to trust me."

   He must've been feelin' pretty sorry for me, because he not only turned on the TV, he let me have the remote. Usually he won't let me anywhere near it 'cause he says I flip through the channels so fast it makes him nauseous. Personally, I think he's got somethin' against horror movies.

   There's not a lot to chose from at five o'clock on a weekday, but I found a cop show and drank most of Hutch's shake while we watched it. Usually Hutch and me would be crackin' jokes, laughin' ourselves sick over Hollywood's version of the police. But neither of us felt much like laughing. And all I could think about was how nice and neat the ending turned out to be. The good guys won. The bad guys got put away. Justice was served. Simple.

   No punks committin' a crime and skippin' town without being caught. No crooked lawyers findin' loopholes to set guilty men free. No cops dyin' from a stray bullet, or a knife to the gut, or...

   "Too bad this ain't a TV show, huh, Hutch?" I leaned back into the cushions a little more, so tired I hurt all over.

   Not bein' in my head with me the last few minutes, Hutch couldn't figure out what the heck I was talkin' about. "'Fraid you lost me, Partner."

   "This whole mess, with me poisoned and us tryin' to find out who did it. If this was a TV show, we'd be sure to catch the bad guy in time. It'd be a close call, of course, to keep things exciting. But eventually everything would work out right for a happy ending."

   I didn't mean to upset him, I was just puttin' my thoughts into words. But Hutch's voice got tight and soft. "Don't sell us short, buddy. Personally, I haven't given up on that happy ending."

   I looked over at him, too tired to bother liftin' my head off the couch. "Hutch, I want that as much as you do. But you gotta face the facts. Odds are..."

   "I don't give a rat's ass what the odds are! We're gonna find the turkey who did this to you, and we're gonna get you that antidote. It's only a matter of time."

   I knew he believed it. Still, it felt damn good to hear him say it. Even if he was blindin' himself to the real truth in his own words, I wasn't about to argue. When Hutch's crusadin' for a cause, you'd better go along or get the hell outta the way. It eased the pain in my gut just a little.

   I must've been even more tired than I realized, 'cause in spite of the ache in my belly I started slidin' down into sleep. The hum of the TV, the sound of Hutch breathin', and the softness of the cushions all conspired against me.

   I was pretty far gone when I felt something warm and soft settle on top of me. I'd spent enough nights on Hutch's couch to recognize the blanket he always let me use. And it hit me then, draggin' me back from the edge of sleep, how lucky I was.

   "Why'd we come here, Hutch?" I knew the answer; I just wanted to hear him admit it.

   "What?"

   "Why'd we come to your place? Why didn't you just take me home?"

   "No special reason." Hutch's voice was matter of fact--too matter of fact. It wasn't comin' natural; he was workin' at it.

   I tried to look at his face, but I could only muster up enough energy to drag one eye open. "How'd you know?"

   "Know what?"

   Hutch is smart, I mean really smart. I hate it when he plays dumb with me, 'cause I know it's to keep from bein' honest. He knew exactly what I was askin' him, but I guess he figured if he made me work for it, I'd give up.

   You'd think by now he'd know better.

   I squirmed around until I could lay down on my side, hopin' to find a more comfortable position. Just that little bit of movin' woke up the cramps in my gut and I was almost sorry I'd bothered. I pulled the blanket all the way up to my chin and the warmth seemed to drive back the pain a little.

   "You knew I'd never be able to sleep at my place."

   I was irritated that Hutch was usin' psychology on me like I was made of glass while still grateful that he was lookin' out for me. I didn't wanna be a victim. I'm a cop, I'm supposed to be the one standin' up for the victim. Pretty hard to feel that way now, though, layin' huddled under a blanket on Hutch's couch.

   Hutch gave a little snort and shook his head. "Nah. I just figured coming here was the only way to avoid having to eat cold pizza and root beer."

   "Ah, so that's it." Layin' on my side seemed to ease the knife in my belly, and sleep was tuggin' me under again. Much as I hated givin' in, I was too tired to fight.

   I heard Hutch gather up the glass I'd been drinkin' from and head for the kitchen, walkin' cat-footed to keep from disturbin' me. I didn't want a soapy scene, but I had to let him know I appreciated what he'd done.

   "Hutch?"

   "Yeah, buddy?"

   I smiled to myself. "You're a terrible liar."

   He'd know what I meant.

**** Hutch ****

   I guess I must've dozed off myself. I didn't intend to--I was determined to watch over Starsky while he slept, uneasy about the way the poison was relentlessly taking its toll. Even though Dr. Franklin had pretty much confirmed the twenty-four hour timeline, I couldn't seem to shake a few stray irrational fears. Like Starsky quietly dying in his sleep while I napped in the chair across the room.

   For a while I crouched over the phone like a vulture, willing it to ring with some kind of news on Wedell's whereabouts. Then something my mother used to say when I was a kid occurred to me: a watched pot never boils. I don't think of myself as particularly superstitious; I leave that to my curly-haired partner. But my own lack of sleep was starting to catch up with me, and the chair near the couch where Starsky was sleeping looked a little too tempting to pass up.

   I sat there and watched him sleep for a long time. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight, between stakeouts and the occasional vacation together--not to mention the times one of us is just too exhausted to drive home. Starsky normally sleeps like a little kid, sprawled out, all legs and arms, dead to the world. From the way he was curled up, knees drawn toward his chest and arms curled over his stomach, I knew he was hurting even if he was temporarily oblivious to it. I struggled against a tight, choking sensation of helpless rage and concentrated on his face.

   I thought about the first time we met, back in the Academy, both of us as green as the grass but full of determination to save the world and tie it all up in a shiny gold bow. I remember how I looked at him then--the worn clothing, the streetwise flavor of his speech, the slight swagger that was a subtle thumbing of his nose to authority--and I dismissed him. Just another punk looking to be a cop for the glory and the gun, lacking the brains and the heart to ever make it through training.

   To my shame, I couldn't have been more wrong. To my credit, I didn't take very long to realize it.

   What I learned, once I got past the holes in his jeans and the Bronx in his speech, was that David Michael Starsky epitomized everything a good cop should be. Beneath the wiseguy exterior was a heart larger, more generous, and uncompromisingly loyal than any I'd ever known. I was privileged to be his classmate and eventually his partner.

   I was blessed to be his friend.

   I'd never lacked friends when I was growing up.

   Wait. Strike that.

   I always had plenty of kids to pal around with through grade school, high school, college. I called them my friends. Looking back now, though, I don't think I truly understood what the word meant. What I have with Starsky... It's like the difference between a swimming pool and the ocean. And like the ocean, the farther we go, the deeper it gets. I've been very close to a lot of people, my parents, my sister--even Vanessa once upon a time. But my friendship with Starsky is hands down the most significant relationship I've ever had.

   I couldn't face the idea of losing that. But then, I wasn't being given much choice.

   Anyway, at some point during all those profound thoughts I guess my brain just shut down and I dozed off. I awoke to an empty couch and the unmistakable sounds of Starsky getting sick in the bathroom. I could only imagine how painful the process must have been for him, because every heave was followed by a moan.

   I hovered outside the doorway for a minute, not sure which he would value more, my support or his privacy. Starsky hates having anyone witness him puke, as I learned during a particularly bad case of the stomach flu. He was weak as a kitten, barely able to stagger into the john, but he wouldn't let me help him. Told me he didn't want to offend my delicate sensibilities. Hell, even after he was shot by Vic Monte's hitmen, he was less concerned about the fact that he was bleeding like a stuck pig than that he might be about to lose his lunch.

   More retching, followed by a whimper, made up my mind. I put on my game face and opened the door.

   Starsky was on his knees in front of the toilet, hands clutching the sides and forehead pressed to the bowl, his eyes tightly shut. His skin was as white as the porcelain, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face and plastering dark curls to his brow, and he was shivering violently. One eye cracked open to focus blearily on me.

   I expected he'd tell me to take a hike, that he didn't need an audience. What he said instead tore my heart.

   "Sorry...'bout the...shake."

   I grabbed a washcloth and wet it with cold water from the sink before crouching down beside him. "You finished?"

   His mouth twisted into a wry little grin but his voice was hardly more than a croak. "Funny you should put it that way." The effect was spoiled by a particularly strong tremor and the smile evaporated. "Yeah."

   "C'mere." I pulled him against me so that his back was braced by my front and gently wiped his face and mouth. "What do you say we get you off the floor and back to the couch?"

   I slipped my arms under his and started to lift, but his hand clutched my sleeve. "Hutch."

   Something in his tone stopped me cold and I sank back against the tile. "Yeah, buddy?"

   His head dropped back onto my shoulder and I could see him blinking as he fought back tears. "I can't... I don't know if I..." His voice broke as his throat worked furiously to form words. When they finally came, they were a breathy whisper. "It hurts, Hutch."

   I tried hard to keep my own voice steady, but it trembled almost as badly as Starsky. "Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

   He managed to walk back to the couch on his own power, with just my steadying hand on his arm, but I could see how much effort it cost him. I brought him a glass of water and left him sipping it while I called Metro and located Cheryl. She was sympathetic but not surprised by Starsky's level of pain, and promised she could concoct something to help. I glanced at the clock as I helped him into his jacket and out the door--8:30 p.m. Four more hours gone and no word on Wedell.

   Starsky let me help him out of the car when we got to Metro, but shook my hand off as soon as we walked through the doors. I knew rumors must be flying about what had happened to him, and heads turned as we passed despite his attempt to appear normal. Truth was, whether he accepted my help or not he looked terrible, like a good stiff breeze could blow him over. He walked with a careful economy of movement that was completely at odds with his normal, bouncy stride, and the stiff set to his features screamed pain.

   I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally closed the door to Cheryl's lab and Starsky slumped onto a stool. I turned around just in time to catch Cheryl looking at him, a fleeting expression of pity crossing her features before she replaced it with a professional mask. She sensed me watching and bent over a test tube.

   "It'll be ready in just a minute."

   I laid my hand on her shoulder and she looked up, eyes wide and startled behind her glasses. I tried to smile reassuringly, but it felt wooden.

   "Cheryl." I glanced at Starsky, sitting so quietly with his head pressed against the side of a small refrigerator, and lowered my voice. "It's bad."

   Her gaze darted to Starsky and then back, and her expression softened. "I'll hurry."

   I paced back and forth for a few minutes while Cheryl measured and poured, her brow furrowed in concentration. While I paced I would sneak glances at Starsky, but he didn't move, he didn't look up, and he didn't read me the riot act. Finally I couldn't stand it any longer, and wandered over to him.

   "How ya doing, huh?"

   "I'm scared."

   My stomach plunged to my toes. Starsky and I have been in more life and death situations than I'd want to count, and I'd never, NEVER heard him admit fear. I leaned in close so that he could feel me at his back and searched for words--to reassure, to encourage, to comfort--but I came up dry.

   And suddenly, more than anything, I just wanted to hear him laugh.

   "I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got seven hours."

   Starsky turned his head to look at me, his incredulous expression testifying that he wasn't certain whether I'd lost my mind. I gave a little nod and a grin as if to stand behind my words. Inside my head a voice was chanting loudly, drowning out the sounds of Cheryl's lab equipment.

   And my partner, as always, didn't let me down.

   "Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'."

   I chuckled. I knew it couldn't be easy for him to crack a joke, but the slight curve of his lips felt like a glimmer of sunshine after a cloudy day.

   "Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not Janos. All we've got to do is to find Wedell." I wanted to believe that badly, but it was no good unless Starsky believed too.

   "Only he ain't turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in this city and he ain't showin'." Starsky answered me with just a slight turn of his head, and from the occasional twitch of his body I could tell that the muscle cramps were only getting worse. Those reassuring words were getting harder to find.

   And I still needed that laugh.

   "That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets," I told him and he made a sound as if I'd enlightened him to a profound truth, egging me on. I patted his leg. "As soon as we get back on the streets we'll turn that turkey."

   "Probably find him in a trash can."

   I had his attention now; he'd shed that blank look and a trace of amusement was back on his lips. "Sure," I agreed.

   "Hit the streets, run down a few alleys." He was smiling now.

   "Bust down a few doors." My spirits lifted just hearing the sarcasm in his voice. Had this nightmare really only been going on for seventeen hours? It felt like seventeen days.

   "Get a few snitches workin'."

   "The guy won't have a chance."

   The laugh I'd been hoping for erupted from Starsky in a little snort. I was still snickering, relishing the moment, when his chuckle contorted into a grimace of pain.

   I was hit by such an overwhelming wave of helplessness, grief, and fury that I had to turn my face away. I didn't want to expose Starsky to my anguish, to give him a reason to worry about me. My partner, however, had retreated back into his shell as he struggled just to hold himself together.

   "Cheryl, will you hurry up with that stuff!"

   I heard the bite in my words and sucked in a deep breath, rubbing Starsky's back in what I hoped was a soothing manner. Poor Cheryl scrambled to finish preparing the syringe and hurried over to us.

   "Here, this'll help."

   I got Starsky's sleeve rolled up so she could swab his arm with alcohol and inject the painkiller, then rolled it back down. He submitted to our manhandling, too miserable to offer more than a slight protest at the needle.

   "Boy. That arm's been really gettin' it."

   I put his jacket back around his shoulders, watching him anxiously for some sign of improvement. In my head, I knew better than to expect some kind of miraculous revival, but my heart kept hoping for it just the same.

   "You okay?"

   Starsky tried hard to oblige me. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' just fine."

   Cheryl held out her hands, regret darkening her face. "I can't give you anything stronger without knocking you out."

   "Please, that's all I need." The usually dry Starsky wit was forced, strained.

   Cheryl turned back to dispose of the used hypodermic and I barely contained the urge to begin smashing all the tubes, flasks and beakers, not stopping until they reflected the rapidly splintering pieces of my heart.

   "What's the good of all your books, all your junk, all your toys, your stuff here, wha...if it doesn't DO anything!" I heard myself stammer, something that only happens when I lose control of my emotions, and it just made me angrier. "What's happening here, Cheryl?"

   Rather than snapping back, Cheryl looked distressed. "Nothing very good."

   "You're doin' all you can, Cheryl."

   Leave it to Starsky, as sick as he was, to try and ease her regret. Cheryl sighed and removed her glasses, massaging the bridge of her nose. For the first time it occurred to me that she looked almost as tired as we did.

   "I did go out to campus. Dad was in a faculty meeting and couldn't come out--wouldn't, I guess."

   The thought of the professor deliberately refusing to offer help just stoked my anger. I wanted a fight, and so far no one was cooperating. "What's the matter with him? How come you have to keep making excuses for him?" I growled.

   And yet again Starsky's quiet response, the voice of reason. His eyes fastened onto mine and wouldn't let go. "Softly. Don't antagonize the people I need." The barest trace of a smile accompanied the rebuke, quenching my rage.

   Cheryl went on about spectrograph analysis and a lot of other mumbo jumbo that simply meant a dead end as far as a cure for Starsky. I'd heard it all from Dr. Franklin already, and it didn't play any better the second time around.

   "Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah."

   "Well. That brings us back to finding Wedell."

   Starsky looked at me and I could read his thoughts through his eyes.

**** Starsky ****

   I woke up knowin' I had to puke. I'm not talkin' about the queasy, seasick kind of feeling tellin' you your stomach might have its own ideas 'bout what to do with lunch. I'm talkin' the "Oh boy, I better get to the john right now or I'm gonna make a big mess" kind of feeling. I must've still been half asleep, 'cause I was on my knees, worshippin' the porcelain god before I'd even gotten my eyes all the way open.

   Hutch is just damn lucky I know his apartment as well as my own.

   I hate to puke. I mean I really hate to puke, almost as much as I hate hospitals. I hate the way your stomach tries to crawl up your throat. I hate the taste in your mouth that no amount of water seems to wash away. And I hate the smell that hangs around your house for days afterward. Once a couple years ago I came down with a vicious case of the flu and Hutch, pal that he is, decided he was gonna help nurse me through it. Practically had to lock the bathroom door to keep him from followin' me inside.

   Not that I wasn't grateful and all, but some things a guy just doesn't want to share with anyone, even his best buddy. For me, pukin' is definitely top of the list.

   I'd barely begun to bid farewell to Hutch's strawberry shake when I realized that all the muscles you use to puke were the same ones that'd been twisted in knots from the poison. Every time I heaved it felt like someone was stabbin' me in the gut with a knife. I panicked a little, tried to will my stomach to settle down, but there was no reasoning with it. All I could do was hang onto the toilet, shakin' and moanin' like a baby. I think if Hutch'd handed me my gun at that moment, I'd've cheerfully pulled the trigger.

   The heaving tapered off, and I suddenly realized Hutch was standin' in the doorway. Just to show how far gone I was--I didn't even care that he'd just had a ringside seat while I puked my guts up. I just felt bad he'd gone to all that trouble to fix me a drink that wound up in the can.

   "Sorry...'bout the...shake."

   I was shiverin' pretty hard but my face felt hot. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of water, wishin' I could rinse the rotten taste outta my mouth. I opened them when I felt Hutch's hand on my back. He was crouched beside me on the tile, that expression on his face that's somewhere between sadness and affection.

   "You finished?"

   Hard not to be struck by the double meaning in that question. I felt finished all right, as if I'd used up every shred of persistence and hope I had left. Dying was startin' to be less frightening than what life I had left, and that scared me.

   That scared me a lot.

   I dredged up a grin. "Funny you should put it that way." It was supposed to sound sarcastic but my raspy voice couldn't pull it off. Then a particularly bad shiver set my stomach into spasms and it was all I could do to keep from bawlin' like a baby.

   "C'mere." Hutch tugged me until I was leanin' back against him and he wiped my face and mouth with a washcloth.

   It felt... I can't even describe how it felt. He was warm and solid at my back when it seemed like everything around me was crumblin' into little pieces. The cloth, cooling the burning in my cheeks and wiping away the sweat and grime, felt like heaven. But what really did me in, what gave me a lump the size of a watermelon in my throat and stung my eyes, was the way he did it--gentle but matter-of-fact, like it was no big deal to be takin' care of me that way.

   Hutch ain't much for talkin' about his feelings--hell, neither am I. But like the old saying goes, actions speak louder than words. And sometimes, like right then, Hutch let me know how he felt loud and clear. It didn't stop the machete in my gut, but it did make me a little less afraid.

   "What do you say we get you off the floor and back on the couch?"

   He didn't really expect me to answer, I guess, 'cause he just started to haul me up on my feet. The pain in my belly, which had settled down to a low roar, woke right up again. Felt like I was rippin' into two pieces, like if Hutch kept lifting my bottom half would just drop off and land on the floor. I grabbed his arm as hard as I could, which at that point wasn't all that hard.

   "Hutch."

   He stopped. Thank God, he stopped lifting and leaned back against the wall, though he kept ahold of me. "Yeah, buddy?"

   Suddenly I felt like a wimp, like the biggest baby around. He was right; we couldn't just keep sittin' there on the bathroom floor all night. The clock was tickin'; we had to call Dobey, check in with Huggy, get the word on Wedell.

   Problem was, that meant movin'. And I had a pretty good idea how that was gonna feel. It was gonna hurt. Bad. And I was so damn tired of hurtin'.

   I leaned my head back on his shoulder and blinked back tears. Jeez I was sick of blubberin' but I couldn't help myself. "I can't... I don't know if I..." My voice just up and quit on me and it took me a minute to get it workin'. "It hurts, Hutch."

   "Let's get you to the couch. I'll call Cheryl."

   I wasn't prepared to hear tears in Hutch's voice. It flipped some kind of switch inside of me, gave me the guts to get up and walk to the couch even though the pain was just as bad as I'd figured. I could take care of myself, deal with my own sufferin', but I couldn't stand seein' Hutch hurt too. I'd do just about anything to make this easier for him.

   He got me a glass of water and went to call Cheryl. I sat there, sipping real slow in case my stomach decided to go for an encore performance, and tried not to listen. Concentrated on how good the water felt slidin' down my throat and not the hushed, desperate sound of Hutch's voice.

   I don't want to do this I thought for about the millionth time. It was never supposed to end this way. It shoulda been a bullet, quick and clean.

   The ride to Metro was just another part of the nightmare. I swear I could feel every bump in the road go straight through my belly, and Hutch was jumpy and tense tryin' to avoid 'em. I let him pull me outta the car but once we were inside I shrugged off his hand and did my best to look normal. Lookin' back now, I can see that I wasn't foolin' anybody, but at the time it was real important that I not let anyone know how bad off I was.

   Everything around me faded--a uniformed cop bookin' a drunk, two hookers arguin' with each other over who dropped a twenty, somebody bangin' on the candy machine for eatin' a quarter--until all I could see was the hallway in front of me, the path to Cheryl's lab. In the back of my head I heard a voice that sounded an awful lot like "The Little Engine That Could" whisperin' "keep goingkeepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing...."

   When I finally got inside I barely made it over to a stool before my legs gave out on me. I could hear the hum of voices as Hutch and Cheryl talked, the tap of his feet as he paced back and forth, but I couldn't move. Maybe if I held real still, hardly even breathed, the fire in my belly would simmer down a bit.

   Then Hutch was at my side. "How ya doing, huh?"

   For a college boy, my partner can sure ask some dumb questions. I hurt, I was tired, and I didn't feel like beatin' around the bush.

   "I'm scared."

   Sorry, Hutch. I just can't pretend any more.

   I heard him suck in his breath. You see, we been in a lot of tight spots, Hutch and me. Even come close to dyin' a few times. But neither one of us has ever said the "S" word. Guess I was kinda breakin' the rules to say it then, but I didn't give a damn.

   Hutch leaned in close. Like I said before, we do that more than most guys I know. What we can't bring ourselves to say with words we say with touch. A hand on the arm. A pat on the back. The nudge of a shoulder. It all means the same thing.

   So it didn't surprise me when he stepped close and bent over me. What he said, though... Well, I wasn't prepared for that.

   "I don't know what there is to be scared about. We've still got seven hours."

   Was he crazy? Did he think this was some kind of joke? 'Cause from my neck of the woods things weren't lookin' too funny right now. Why in the world would he...

   I remembered his face when I cracked wise about dyin'. The trembling of his voice when he promised to call Cheryl.

   Did he realize how much he was askin' from me? Then again, could he ever ask too much?

   "Oh that's right. Just enough time to catch the double bill at the Rivoli and still finish that book I been readin'." I rolled my eyes.

   He chuckled and the sound was worth the effort it took for me to play along. "Well we know it's not Bellamy, and we know it's not Janos. All we've got to do is to find Wedell."

   I couldn't stop from pointin' out the painful truth. "Only he ain't turnin' up. We got a whole police force lookin' in this city and he ain't showin'."

   Hutch ducked his head, but he didn't let my doom and gloom stop him for long. "That's 'cause you and me aren't on the streets. As soon as we get back on the streets we'll turn that turkey."

   "Probably find him in a trash can," I suggested.

   His smile got bigger. "Sure."

   "Hit the streets, run down a few alleys."

   "Bust down a few doors."

   "Get a few snitches workin'."

   Hutch looked like a little kid with a brand new ball. "The guy won't have a chance."

   We laughed together, and for just a moment I almost felt as normal as I'd tried to act on the way in. It felt so good.

   Then my insides twisted up into a knot and stole the breath right outta my chest. I faintly heard Hutch yell at Cheryl over the buzzing in my ears and I felt someone pull the jacket off my shoulder and push up my sleeve. Something sharp jabbed my arm and the sleeve and jacket were carefully replaced.

   I rubbed at the sore spot, though the sting had already faded. "Boy. That arm's been really gettin' it."

   Warmth spread up my arm and down through the rest of my body. It didn't take away the broken glass in my gut, but it did soften the edges a little bit. Unfortunately, that's not all it softened. Everything around me looked a little blurry and out of focus. I blinked but it didn't make a difference. Damn. I was stoned and my stomach still hurt.

   Hutch was starin' at me. "You okay?"

   I knew what he wanted. He wanted to hear everything was fine, that Cheryl had fixed me up and I was feelin' no pain. And I wanted to be able to give him that, but there was one problem--Hutch and me don't lie to each other. So I did my best to set his mind at ease.

   "Oh yeah, I'm fine. The room's in pretty bad shape, but I'm doin' just fine."

   "I can't give you anything stronger without knocking you out."

   Cheryl looked so guilty--I couldn't have that. "Please, that's all I need."

   Remember I said that sometimes when Hutch gets real mad he goes quiet? Well the rest of the time it's more like a volcano eruptin'. He was furious: 'bout what was happenin' to me, the fact that he couldn't do nothin' about it, and that the guy who did it was still walkin' around free as a bird. I could see what he really wanted to do, and it was a darn good thing for Cheryl and the department that he still had enough common sense not to go with it. So instead he started ridin' poor Cheryl, an innocent bystander but an easy target.

   I tried to reassure her. I knew she was doin' everything she could to help me, and she was showin' the long hours bent over a lab bench just as much as Hutch and me were lookin' wacked out from the sleepless night and runnin' all over the streets.

   I also knew the situation with her father wasn't good. The old man had thought the sun rose and set on that no good son of his, couldn't see how messed up he'd gotten. He was too busy grievin' over a kid who wasn't worth spit to pay attention to the one who was.

   So when Hutch started hasslin' her about her father, I had to stop him. "Softly. Don't antagonize the people I need." I managed a smile, even though it was pretty scrawny, and hoped he'd get the unspoken message.

   The lines across his forehead smoothed out and his mouth quirked just a little, lettin' me know he understood.

   I listened to Cheryl ramble on, only half-hearing the words but reading the meaning loud and clear. It really all boiled down to one thing. There was still only a snowball's chance in hell of findin' a cure for what ailed me.

   And that snowball's name was Al Wedell.

**** Hutch ****

   I got Starsky settled at his desk and picked up the phone to check in with Huggy. My partner had been pretty quiet since we left Cheryl and I didn't push him to talk. I knew he was still in pain and feeling a little off-kilter from whatever she'd given him. He propped his head on one fist and doodled on a pad of paper while I dialed, but I wasn't fooled by his apparent indifference. He was listening hard to every word I spoke, hoping against hope for good news.

   Huggy picked up on the second ring. "Talk to me."

   "It's Hutch. What's the word?"

   He hesitated, and I could hear the grimace in his voice. "The word is, there ain't no word. I been bustin' my hump puttin' out word to every pimp, junkie, and snitch on the street. If anyone out there knows who hit your partner, they ain't talkin'."

   "Nothing?" Starsky's head snapped up and he stared at me for a long moment before flipping open the file on Wedell and studying it with what was supposed to look like deep concentration.

   "Nada. Zip. The big goose egg." His voice softened. "How is he?"

   I swiveled my chair so that my back faced my partner and matched his tone. "Been better."

   "Tell him I said to hang in there. I got my best people on this, somethin's bound to turn."

   I looked up at the wall clock. 9:34. "Thanks, Hug."

   "De nada, my man."

   When I turned back to hang up the phone two intense blue eyes skewered me. "Don't do that." Starsky's voice vibrated with anger.

   I opened my mouth, intending to play dumb, but he held up his hand to cut me off. He braced his forearms on the desk and leaned toward me, brows drawn together in a scowl.

   "I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

   I stared at him--the way his hands clenched into fists, the hunch of his shoulders, the lines of pain around his mouth--and for a split second I put myself in his shoes. Enduring excruciating pain. Betrayed by the very body I'd relied on for years to keep me safe. Slowly but surely losing the ability to fight for my own life.

   And then my well-meaning but thickheaded partner decides he's gonna "protect" me, taking away the small scrap of dignity I've got left.

   "I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

   Not what he expected, I guess. His eyes widened with such a look of surprise that I actually chuckled at little.

   "I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong," I growled.

   ""S the only reason I keep ya around," he muttered, but there was a distinct grin in the words.

   I put on a wounded expression. "And all this time I thought it was my charm and boyish good looks."

   Starsky snorted, then all too predictably winced, his arms leaving the desktop to wrap around his stomach and his face losing the small amount of color that still remained.

   "Sorry." I went to put my hand on his arm, just a simple touch to let him know I was there, but I couldn't reach him across the chasm of the desk.

   He gave a sharp little shake of his head, panting a little. "'M okay. Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..." He broke off with another short jerk of his head.

   Dobey's door swung open and he stood there with the scowl on his face that he uses to mask deep emotion. "Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office."

   Starsky braced his hands on the desk and pushed upright, swaying a little, Wedell's file still clutched in his hand. I automatically reached over to steady him, but pulled back when he shot me a warning glare. When we got into Dobey's office I expected he'd fold himself into a chair. Instead he stood, shoulders slightly curled from the pain it provoked in his gut.

   "You two haven't phoned in a report in over three hours," Dobey barked, folding his arms across his chest. "I know nature of this case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but that doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

   I watched him, a sick feeling uncoiling in my chest. He was trying too hard to be angry--something lurked under the surface that I just knew I wasn't going to like. I glanced at Starsky out of the corner of my eye, but he didn't seem to notice. Too absorbed with just staying upright, I think.

   He gestured weakly with the folder in his hands. "Sorry, Cap. Truth is, we ain't had much to report. We got Huggy shakin' down his best informants, but nothin's turned. We ruled out Bellamy and Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

   "You can stop looking. We just located your third possible." Dobey unfolded his arms and stood with hands on hips, suddenly unable to meet our eyes.

   "Wedell?" I asked. The sick feeling had turned into a fist, squeezing the breath from my lungs.

   Dobey nodded. "He's been dead four days. Heart attack." He bit his lip, dropping his eyes for a moment, then peering up at Starsky.

   I turned to my partner, reeling with the shock of Dobey's news. Starsky just stood there, pale and sweaty, with blank, lifeless eyes. After a moment he turned and walked slowly from the office, never looking at me.

   I knew I should acknowledge Dobey somehow. I could feel his frustration, his regret, like an additional presence in the room. I knew how much he must have hated to be the one to break such terrible news. I understood--perhaps better than either he or my partner--that the noisy, sometimes intense squabbling between them masked a deeper affection. Though you'd never catch us admitting it, both Starsky and I have a void in our lives when it comes to father figures. In his own way, Dobey's been all that, and more.

   I wanted to dig up the words to let him know we understood he was doing everything he could. That we didn't blame the messenger for the message. But in the end, I was too numb to do anything but follow my partner. And just as surely as I knew all the rest, I knew Dobey understood.

   I had to do something. If I'd thought I felt helpless before, it was nothing compared to the crushing weight of powerlessness that smothered me now. I stopped at the water cooler outside Dobey's office and filled one of the little paper cups. Starsky's words and my own musings filled my head, mocking me.

   Time wasn't in a glass. It was in a crappy little paper cup--incapable of ever holding enough to satisfy, easily crushed and broken under someone's careless heel.

   And Starsky's was leaking like a sieve.

   I walked over, trying not to notice the way he gripped his desk to keep from wobbling, the other arm pressed to his stomach. He lowered himself carefully into his chair and I did the same, setting the little cup of water on the blotter.

   "Here's some water."

   Truth was, I had absolutely no idea what to say. All my previous cheerleading speeches had revolved around finding Wedell. Without him we were dead in the water, nowhere to turn.

   Starsky was going to die. And the best I could do was offer him a lousy little paper cup of water.

   "Detective Hutchinson?"

   I could barely pry my eyes from Starsky, sitting mutely in that chair with his hand pressed to his gut, to take in the dark-haired older woman who stood hesitantly in the doorway to the squad room.

   "Yeah." I scrubbed at my temples, trying to relieve the pounding headache that had started in Cheryl's lab and intensified in Dobey's office.

   "Oh, excuse me, but I'm supposed to look at some pictures."

   "Ah, Ted, would you help this lady out please?" I gestured vaguely in the direction of Ted Colton, knowing he and his partner were assisting on Starsky's case.

   "But they said I should speak to you. You see I work at Crowley Pharmaceuticals. I was at the doctor when you folks came around--bad cold."

   I stared at her, glasses on a chain around her neck and sensible shoes, the type who probably got off on the excitement of being involved in a real live police investigation. Not even trying to hide my irritation, I got up and started digging through a stack of papers on the end of Colton's desk.

   "Ted, you still have those pictures around here?"

   He sifted through another pile and handed them to me--the mug shots for Bellamy, Martini, and Wedell, for all the good they were gonna do us now. Still, the woman had driven all the way down to the station and would probably squawk if we sent her home without doing her civic duty. I snagged a chair and pulled it up to the desk for her.

   "Here, lady, have a chair."

   I recognized the fact that I was being unforgivably rude, but I just didn't care. I didn't have time for the ramblings of some wannabe detective; my partner needed me.

   Starsky was digging through the drawer of his desk. He pulled out some crazy little blue dog--God only knows where he got the silly thing. Starsky has a way of picking up strays, even inanimate, stuffed ones.

   I couldn't take the silence any longer. "Here, you want this water?"

   "Nah." He didn't even look at me. I swallowed the water myself, in one gulp. And it wasn't enough.

   "You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots." His breathing was heavy, labored, like he'd just run up a bunch of stairs, but when I looked at him he smiled. A genuine smile, not the Starsky 1000 watt grin I'd come to know and love, but maybe even better. I knew what that smile was telling me, as clearly as if he'd just shouted it out loud.

   He dropped his eyes, and his hand crept slowly across the desktop, palm up. Something deep inside me ripped in half, from the tip of my toes to the top of my head. I grasped the hand and his fingers closed tightly around mine.

   "You're my pal, Hutch."

   I tightened my own grip, as if I could somehow keep him from slipping away. I needed to speak, needed to say something but the words weren't coming. I wished, not for the first time, that I'd come from a family like Starsky's, where love was expressed daily in words and actions. Don't get me wrong-- love was always there at the Hutchinson house. You just didn't talk about it, especially if you were a male over the age of ten. I took a deep breath...

   "Officer?"

   "Offic..."

   "Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm busy!" I raised a hand to try and shut her up. "Ted, will you..."

   "But the pictures! I mean the man. I do recognize this man!"

   I was up on my feet in a flash, grabbing the picture. "This man?"

   "Yes!"

   "Vic Bellamy," I said for Starsky's benefit, though he didn't act as if he cared. I looked at the lady, trying not to scare her, though I felt like shaking the answers from her. "Y...You mean this man c...came into your place and bought some chemicals?"

   "No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I remember." Her voice was proud, triumphant. Take that you stupid policeman, you did need me! "He wanted to buy all the materials to make a leg cast."

   The meaning of her statement only took a split second to sink in, hitting me like a bolt of electricity so that I actually felt light-headed. Bellamy made himself a cast so we'd think his leg was broken. As far as I could tell, there was only one reason why he'd want to do something like that.

   Starsky, struggling to his feet, obviously reached the same conclusion. At that moment I could've kissed that annoying biddy, sensible shoes and all.

   "Thank you! Thank you, lady, very, very much."

   I left the squad room with Starsky on my heels and a renewed sense of something almost as precious--hope.

**** Starsky ****

   I'm not sure what was worse, the pain, or the fuzzy, disconnected feeling from Cheryl's drug. I guess you could say I'm a control freak. I like to be the one in charge of my actions at all times. Which is probably why, even during my more rebellious teenage years, drugs never tempted me. No way I wanted to be doin' anything I wouldn't remember come the next morning. Or that I might regret.

   Seein' Hutch strung out was a nightmare I hope I never have to relive. I was holdin' my partner right there in my arms, only it wasn't my partner. Desperate, angry, spiteful--he'd've done anything for a hit, even if it meant hurtin' me. And that just ain't Hutch. It's about as far from my gentle, considerate, caring friend as you could get. Still hurts to think about it.

   So I kept quiet when Hutch and me headed to the squadroom, too miserable and loopy to try and make conversation. Hutch was kinda stumbling all over himself, not sure when to help and when to back off. He waited until I was sittin' down at my desk, then picked up the phone. I didn't have to ask what he was doin'. We hadn't checked in with Huggy since leavin' Hutch's place, and I could see from the tension in his shoulders that he was hopin' hard for good news.

   I gotta admit, my fingers and toes were crossed too.

   But I didn't want Hutch to see me hangin' on his every word, so I picked up a pen and started doodling on a pad of paper. Dogs, cats, people... When me and Nicky were little and would get antsy waitin' for Pop to get home, Ma'd sit us down at the kitchen table with big pads of paper and tell us to draw him a picture. Neither of us was exactly New York's answer to Rembrandt, but Pop would make a big deal of 'em when he finally walked through the door.

   Sometimes when I doodle I can still hear Ma cookin' dinner, humming under her breath and bangin' the pots and pans.

   "It's Hutch. What's the word?" I heard the faint buzz of Huggy's voice through the receiver and then Hutch's sharp reply. "Nothing?"

   I automatically looked up, drawn by the tone of his voice. I studied his face--the tight, guarded expression, the lines of unhappiness around those blue eyes--and then glanced away. Wedell's file was next to my elbow, so I scooped it up and tried hard to look like I was readin' it.

   My mind, however, was on what that one little word meant for me, and for Hutch. Any way you shook the bird, it still laid the same egg.

   Movement across the desk caught my eye and I looked up again, just in time to see Hutch turn his back to me. His voice dropped, but I could hear the words. "Been better."

   Anger blindsided me; I could feel the blood poundin' in my head. How DARE he? Where did he get off actin' like I was made of glass? Like he needed to protect me from the cold, cruel truth? Did he think I didn't know what rotten shape I was in? Recognize how bad the odds were?

   He was my partner, damn it, not my father!

   "Thanks, Hug."

   When he turned around to hang up the phone I was so mad that at first I could only glare at him. Finally I found my voice.

   "Don't do that."

   Hutch got this wide-eyed innocent look he puts on whenever he doesn't want to own up to something, but I stopped him before he could even open his mouth. I leaned in, ignoring the way it doubled the ache in my belly, and scowled at him.

   "I mean it, Hutch. This is my life we're talkin' about, my fight. I need you to help me, not treat me like some dumb little kid."

   "I'm sorry, Starsk. Won't happen again."

   You know, I've been friends with Hutch for more than five years, but the Blond Blintz never stops surprisin' me. It's been that way from day one.

   I remember when I first met him, back at the Academy. Those WASP, Mr. America good looks. Dressed for success, every crease in place--a wrinkle wouldn't've dared spoil those high priced threads. I looked at Mr. Kenneth, pretty boy Hutchinson and I wrote him off. Probably out for a badge because it was the one thing Daddy couldn't buy for him. Or, even more likely, because it would be just the thing to piss Daddy off. I made a private little bet with myself that he'd be gone within a week.

   Shoulda known better, of course. How many times had Ma told me you can't judge a book by its cover? By the end of the week I'd thought would send him packin', I came to realize that under the spit and polish and fancy manners beat the heart of a true cop, and the soul of a true friend. He got me through exams--quizzin' me when I didn't think I could possibly remember the difference between a 211 and a 187; makin' me laugh when I started to doubt whether I even cared. Showin' me something new about himself just when I'd think I had him pegged.

   Like now.

   He snickered a little at the expression on my face. "I'm not a complete idiot, you know. I can admit when I'm wrong."

   I hate the way he makes me laugh when I'm trying to be pissed at him. It's like cheatin' somehow. I tried really hard not to smile, but I could feel one tuggin' at the corners of my mouth.

   "'S the only reason I keep ya around."

   Hutch did a damn good job of lookin' like I'd just hurt his feelings. "And all this time I thought it was my charm and boyish good looks."

   Oh man, if that ain't the truth! Hutch could charm the spots off a leopard--don't know how many ladies I've seen fall under his spell. That's how he gets away with stuff. Dobey's always ready to blame me over Hutch, which is a real laugh because Blondie don't need my help to get in trouble.

   The laugh squeaked out before I could stop it, and my stomach was right there to make me pay. Felt like my guts were about to spill right out on the floor, which'd really give 'em all something to talk about. I wrapped my arms around my middle and tried to take a few deep breaths.

   Hutch's face crumpled and he tried to reach across the desk. "Sorry."

   "'M okay. Don't ever apologize...for makin' me laugh. I need..."

   How could I explain to him that he was the only thing that stopped me from just layin' down? The poison was slowly takin' me over, makin' it harder and harder to remember David Starsky was still alive underneath. Hutch by my side, givin' me comfort and laughter, wouldn't let me forget.

   "Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office."

   Dobey's bellow was so familiar, so normal, it took away a little of the agony when I pushed myself onto my feet. Hutch tried to give me a hand but I sent him a look that told him to back off. I could feel eyes on me as I walked into Dobey's office, knew I was today's hot topic at the water cooler. Last thing I wanted was to give 'em anything extra to discuss.

   When we got inside I didn't flop into my usual chair and prop my feet on the Cap's desk. Took everything I had just to get where I was, and I was afraid if I sat down again I might not make it back up.

   Dobey lambasted us as soon as he'd shut the door. "You two haven't phoned in a report in over three hours! I know nature of this case is unusual, that you've both got a personal stake in it, but that doesn't justify abandoning procedure!"

   Dobey likes to ride me--sometimes pretty hard. It's the nature of our relationship; the dance we dance. I push the limits of policy and procedure and Dobey gives me hell for it. I know the yelling and bluster is mostly just for show. Under it all, he cares about Hutch and me and would do just about anything for us. And I respect him--not something I'd say about just anyone. His honest, straightforward, "take no crap" attitude reminds me of my Pop. Can't give a higher compliment than that.

   This time, though, I could sense he was tryin' too hard. Yeah, Hutch and me had kinda taken the investigation into our own hands, but Dobey woulda expected as much. All his grumblin' about procedure was just a smoke screen for something else. I didn't really want to think about what it might be.

   "Sorry, Cap. Truth is, we ain't had much to report." I suddenly realized I'd carried Wedell's folder with me and I waved it. "We got Huggy shakin' down his best informants, but nothin's turned. We ruled out Bellamy and Janos, if we could just get a line on..."

   "You can stop looking. We just located your third possible."

   I stared at him, my mouth bone dry. No way this was good news, Dobey's face was too grim.

   Next to me, Hutch caught his breath. "Wedell?"

   "He's been dead four days. Heart attack."

   It was over. Just like that. Three strikes you're out. I turned around and walked out, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket of shock. Dobey, Hutch, bright lights on empty desks, the shuffling sound of Ted Colton diggin' through a filing cabinet--it all seemed muffled and far away.

   I stood in front of my desk and looked down. All the files and notes spread across the top, wasted time and effort. Suddenly the blanket was gone, ripped away, and every muscle and bone in my body hurt more than I'd ever've thought possible. Wedell had been my beacon, the light in the darkness I'd been sure would bring me home safe. 'Cept the light burned out four days ago, and we were just too dumb to know it.

   Time to face facts, I told myself, brushing away Hutch's offer of water. I was gonna die. Hutch and me had gambled and lost, and nothing he could do--not anger, or tears, or a little paper cup of water was gonna make a difference.

   But there was something I could do.

   I could make sure I let this man--my partner, my friend--know what he meant to me.

   I remember readin' about something Martin Luther King, Jr. said.

   He said your life ain't worth livin' unless you've found something worth dyin' for.

   Hutch did that for me. He gave me more than just partnership, or even friendship. He gave me a wall I could put my back against when everything around me was shaky and outta control. A rock when I was sinkin' in quicksand.

   An anchor in the middle of a hurricane.

   Ah, hell, I was soundin' like a Hallmark card, but I didn't really care anymore. I couldn't die without just once sayin' the words Hutch deserved to hear.

   Hutch had been dealin' with some lady from Crowley Pharmaceuticals who'd come in to look at the pictures of Bellamy, Janos, and Wedell. If I'd been less preoccupied with my own thoughts, I'd've laughed at the rude way he shoved her off on Ted Colton. Hutch is normally the Emily Post half of this partnership; I'm the one who tends to piss people off.

   I dug through the top drawer of my desk and pulled out a silly blue stuffed poodle. Helen gave it to me, once upon a time when we were in love and thought that was enough. She made some joke about the similarities between a poodle and the curly mop of hair genetics stuck me with. I'd boxed up most of the memories from our time together, but I just couldn't seem to bring myself to get rid of that ugly little dog.

   Hutch finished gettin' the lady set up with the pictures and sat back down. He looked tired and sad.

   "Here, you want this water?"

   "Nah." I fiddled with the poodle, trying to come up with the words to tell him what was in my heart. Then I remembered an old John Wayne movie we once watched on the late show.

   "You know...if this was a cowboy movie...I'd give you my boots."

   He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since Dobey broke the bad news. I studied his face, knowin' it better than I do my own, and the last thing I wanted to do was leave him. It hurt me so much more than the fire in my gut. I smiled until I had to look away or let him see it. And I stretched out my hand, not caring anymore about Ted or the woman, just needing to know Hutch understood. The warmth of his fingers in mine told me he did.

   "You're my pal, Hutch."

   His hand tightened and he took a shaky little breath like he was about to say something, but our star witness interrupted.

   "Officer!"

   I felt the connection between us break like someone had cut it with a pair of scissors.

   Hutch sounded like he'd blown a fuse. "Lady, lady, PLEASE. I'm busy! Ted, will you..."

   I tuned out the conversation, too tired and miserable to be bothered. So close, I was so close to sayin' the things I needed to say, and now...

   "Vic Bellamy." Hutch's voice yanked my attention back to the woman. I knew he was excited by the way he started to stutter. "Y...You mean this man c...came into your place and bought some chemicals?"

   Hope fluttered in my chest, like the wings of a small, weak bird.

   "No, not chemicals! That's what's so strange. I mean, that's why I remember. He wanted to buy all the materials to make a leg cast."

   I hauled myself to my feet, my body figurin' out the answer before my brain, and stumbled after Hutch. It might be the last time, but Hutch wasn't goin' nowhere without me to watch his back.

PART FOUR