Comments about this story can be sent to ilion7a@yahoo.co.uk
Fractured
Discipline - Part One
by
Elizabeth
It definitely qualified as
the proverbial week from hell. Hutch was exhausted, body and soul. But he was
happy. They'd come through it in one piece, again. Euphoria at the miracle of
survival elevated his happiness to something approaching bliss. He didn't want
to move any time soon.
He was flaked out on his
back on Starsky's sofa, toes tucked up against the arm, knees drawn up to ease
his aching spine. Too many hours spent sitting in a car with poorly contoured
seats that offered inadequate support had left their mark. His head was
slightly tipped forward, resting against Starsky's thigh, pale golden hair
spreading across the dark denim. He needed the contact, just to convince his
Doubting Thomas of a brain that Starsky was still here, even if it meant a
stiff neck next day. He'd originally lain down with his head flat on the sofa
but after a few minutes Starsky had reached across and bodily tugged at him
until he'd given in and shuffled gracelessly backwards.
And it offered almost as
good an angle for gazing up furtively at Starsky. At least he hoped furtively.
Probably not though. Starsky usually knew exactly what he was doing. Hutch
tried not to tempt fate by permitting himself too much gazing. Easy enough to
close his eyes for a moment.
It was about ten thirty.
The drapes had long since been pulled across the open windows to keep out the
dark and he could hear the faint susurration of fabric swishing to and fro in
the breeze. No smog for once but still a faint taint of exhaust fumes.
The TV droned on in the
background, old-fashioned voices punctuated by corny music. Starsky was
watching a past-its-sell-by-date monster flick with apparently unwavering
attention. Hutch had lost track long ago in favor of relaxing, consciously
trying to release the tension from each abused muscle, consciously trying to
banish the potential events that never quite happened – this time –
from his overwrought brain.
The urge to gaze up at
Starsky again threatened to overwhelm him and he gave in to it. He needed its
comfort to anchor him in the safe present. The rustle of Starsky's hand digging
through the popcorn, the crunch as he chewed. The sight of his jaws moving,
muscles working in his bare throat. The week was over. They were still safe.
Hutch shifted as
imperceptibly as possible in an attempt to improve his angle of view. Instantly
the hand abandoned the popcorn and brushed over his hair.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." More
seemed to be expected. "Back's aching a little." The almost-lie
sufficed. The hand moved down to rest briefly on his shoulder, then dived back
into the popcorn. Probably Starsky had elected not to pursue the point: time
and experience had taught them both infinite care around each other's
frailties.
The TV droned on,
uninterrupted. And Hutch gazed on, uninterrupted.
Hutch knew intimately how
to deal with fear. Driven by sheer necessity, he had discovered a workable
technique and thoroughly schooled himself in it over the last year and a half.
He'd now had a rest, a few
hours to distance himself from the afternoon's events; and he'd permitted
himself to wallow in a certain amount of indulgence. He needed to examine what
had brought the fear and be certain that he had banished it. His defences
needed constant monitoring for the first indication of weakness.
********
All that made the first
part of the week hell was overwork, pure and simple. Some vile 72-hour stomach
bug had wreaked havoc with Metro's manpower. Everyone able to stay out of the
men's room was putting in all the hours God sent. He and Starsky had been
pulling double shifts for days on end, often with a couple of hours extra
thrown in on top.
Each day (or night)
followed a variation on a similar pattern. Sitting in Hutch's slum of a car on
a supremely boring stakeout. Another shift back at HQ trying to catch up with
the paperwork they had foolhardily shoved to one side the previous week in the
hope of finding a "quiet patch". Trying to sort out which cases
previously allocated to sick detectives couldn't wait. Trying to give
assistance to a couple of outsiders drafted in from a neighboring precinct
– probably more time consuming than it was worth. Trying to field calls
from "concerned members of the public" who feared they would soon
have no police cover at all and trying to reassure them that their neighborhood
was not about to drown in a tsunami of unchecked crime. Trying to get out on
the streets to investigate the cases that couldn't be deferred till more cops
recovered. Trying to keep things running when Dobey too succumbed.
On Thursday evening, a gray
and shaky-looking Dobey staggered in from his sickbed. He was
uncharacteristically subdued in manner and volume. But there was nothing wrong
with his alertness. He observed Hutch struggling not to attract attention as he
bent awkwardly to recapture a sheet of paper that had floated from the
typewriter to the floor. He noticed the paper-white mask concealing Starsky's
naturally dark skin tone and the caution with which he eased his shoulders into
his leather jacket as he prepared to leave for the next dose of stakeout.
Before they could drag
themselves out the door he bellowed, "Starsky, Hutchinson. Hang around a
few minutes. I'm running through some reallocations in my office right now."
At least he intended to bellow. His diaphragm settled for lower energy goals.
His brain was still
functioning well enough to recognise that it wasn't prudent to explain that he
was rejigging jobs solely because his prize combination of detectives looked
ready to drop and sleep on the squadroom floor. Least of all because Starsky
looked ready for another "rest" in hospital. And thankfully his brain
was functioning well enough to offer a plausible excuse.
He re-emerged from his
office. "Agnello, Davisson. I want you taking over the Squires stakeout as
of now. Starsky and Hutchinson will fill you in before they leave." Agnello
and his partner were "on loan" and didn't know the area well. "Starsky,
I want you and Hutch out patrolling tomorrow. It's a waste of our limited
resources to have you snoozing the night away in your limo while we have men
trying to keep a lid on streets where they're tourists. Time for you two to
earn your pay." And time for you both to manage a decent night's sleep.
Was the excuse too transparent? "Clocking
on nine a.m. sharp."
He fixed his detectives
with what he hoped was a reasonable facsimile of his usual intimidating glare.
Then he barrelled – softly – back into the shelter of his office
and slammed the door – not too aggressively. Half-expecting a less
considerate entry by Starsky to complain vociferously that he was as able as
the next cop to put in days and nights for a week, he held his breath. No
explosions. Nothing. He let the breath out quietly. Made the right decision.
And one applauded by Hutch,
though he was careful to keep his approval to himself. He didn't think that so
much as a muscle in his face twitched.
After briefing the other
pair, he drove Starsky home twenty minutes later in complete and unusual
silence. Neither had the energy for anything else. Starsky fell asleep in his
chair while Hutch was fixing them both a sandwich. He hardly woke up even when
Hutch poured him into his bed, put his sandwich in the fridge for the next
morning and wrote a note explaining its presence, then quietly locked the door
on his way out.
********
Friday began promisingly.
No stakeout, so back to the Torino. Starsky turned up more or less on time,
giving every indication that he was positively bouncing with health and joie
de vivre once more. Hutch breathed a
very silent prayer of thanks that his partner had recovered so quickly from the
week's depletion of his resources: these days, post-Gunther, it always took
longer.
When they arrived at the
station, Starsky wandered off to confront the cold drinks machine. Dobey caught
Hutch's attention, raised an eyebrow in minute and silent query, then looked
satisfied at Hutch's slight nod of the head.
Within minutes, they were
back in the Torino and prowling the streets.
The morning slipped by
effortlessly without incident. Before Hutch knew it, it was past midday and
Starsky's turn to buy lunch. To Hutch's disgust, which he vented vociferously
and which met with the usual cavalier treatment from Starsky, he chose a fast
food outlet and emerged with a lethal selection of fats and preservatives in
dyed cardboard, piled high on a plastic tray. With an air of unsuppressed
martyrdom, Hutch chewed on some tasteless variant of a fishburger that had
probably no acquaintance with fish.
He surreptitiously eyed
Starsky's fries and decided they must be healthier. He reached across to help
himself just as Starsky passed him a cup of coffee. The result was predictable.
The plastic lid flew off and a sizeable glob of watery coffee splurged up
before flopping down on Hutch's denimed thigh.
"For Chrissake,
Starsk!" he yelped, his strangled voice shooting up an octave. "Oh
fuck, that was boiling."
"Aw, sorry, Hutch."
Starsky was instantly contrite and in full mother-hen mode. "Is it gonna
blister? I'll race back and get you some ice."
"Don't be stupid. It's
not that bad." His voice still sounded tight, Starsky wasn't sure whether
with annoyance or pain, and he was trying to pry the soaking denim away from
the skin. Doubtless very pink skin. "I'll live – though my
descendants might not if you'd splashed it any further up."
Starsky was still fussing.
He had a sudden brainwave. Running for ice might have been banned, but what was
wrong with the plentiful cubes floating in his Coke? He ripped off the lid,
thrust in his hand and deposited the contents on Hutch's abused thigh.
Hutch in reflex snatched
his leg away from the wet cold. The cubes slid down onto Starsky's seat covers.
Only to be followed by a generous libation of Coke as Starsky, fearing the ice
wasn't adequate first aid, sacrificed a fair percentage of his drink to soothe
the heat away.
Hutch remained unimpressed.
He threw back his head, rolled his eyes dramatically and opened his mouth to
draw breath.
Only to look across at
Starsky and realise that he was beginning to snicker. It was too infectious to
resist and he collapsed back down into his seat.
"Here, let me rub it
better," Starsky snorted helplessly. "Jeez, I don't think the
passenger seat will ever be the same again. I'm gonna charge you for the
valeting."
They were still giggling
hysterically – Hutch thought they must both be more punchy than he'd
realised from all the overtime – when the car radio growled into life.
They both froze.
"All units, all units,
immediate assistance required. . . ." The location given was only a few
blocks away. Starsky tossed the remains of lunch onto the back seat and spun
the car round while still listening to the rest of the message. ". . .
grocery store cash robbery. One officer down, one armed robber down, one robber
believed unarmed fleeing the scene on foot in the direction of Painter's
Factory." The old factory was even closer than the store.
Hutch dealt efficiently
with light and siren and radio response, then hung on grimly as the car slewed
round the corner. He glanced briefly across at Starsky, who was all too clearly
relishing the opportunity to let rip, then began scanning the sidewalks for any
trace of the fugitive.
"Starsk!" He
pointed down a narrow alley on the right. He'd just caught a subliminal glimpse
of a man charging in. He knew it was a dead end and that it gave access only to
the now-derelict office building on the left. Both men left the Torino at a
dead run, organising their tactics with their usual lack of verbal
communication. Hutch drew his Magnum as he dove into the alley, leaving Starsky
to enter the neighboring building by the front door.
The alley held the usual
quota of sour smelling refuse and muck but nowhere much for a man to hide. Even
as he raced to the side door, he heard a splintering of wood that announced
Starsky was smashing his way through the front entrance. The side door was
hanging brokenly off its hinges: probably had been for some time, it didn't
look like new damage. He entered with caution, straining for any tiny sound
that would give away where his quarry had run. Nothing.
"Starsk?"
"Front stairs."
He looked about for
inspiration. At the far end of the corridor, running parallel with the alley,
was another set of stairs. If the thief had turned to the front door, he would
surely have run into Starsky. He hadn't. So he'd probably run for the back
stairs. Pausing briefly to check the empty rooms along the corridor, Hutch
began bounding up the stairs.
He felt a wave of
frustration. He had no idea where the suspect had disappeared. He was out of
contact with Starsky. What should he do? Straight on up the stairs to the roof?
Or check out each floor? Reason couldn't guide him, only his gambling instinct.
After the slightest of pauses, he launched himself up the next flight. By the
time he was pounding up the eighth flight, he was grateful that he was in good
shape these days. Even so, he'd begun to pant. Another landing, then another
floor of offices.
The next flight ended in a
small landing with a fixed ladder of rusty metal leading up to a trapdoor to
the roof. Hutch cursed softly under his breath. The trapdoor was padlocked. The
thief hadn't come this way. He was spinning round to head back down the stairs
when he froze. There were muffled thumps coming from somewhere above. Starsky
and the suspect.
Without hesitation, he shot
off the padlock, swarmed up the ladder, shoved the trapdoor open with a
clatter, then slid out onto the roof, keeping as low as possible. It took only
a heartbeat to locate Starsky: he always seemed to know where he was by a sort
of built-in radar, so reliable he hardly ever even thought about its existence.
He was the full width of
the building away, maybe 200 feet, and he was grappling on the floor with the
suspect. Hutch assessed the situation quickly. Not possible to fire, no way of
being sure of not hitting his partner. But he still yelled out with perfect
assurance, "Halt right there or I'll fire." The suspect either didn't
hear him or was calling his bluff.
He began to sprint across
the roof. He had time to thank God that the building had been empty for only a
couple of months: no gaping holes or weak spots.
He had covered only half
the distance when fear clutched hold. Whether panic had given the suspect extra
strength or whether Starsky was putting in more effort to end it before it
dragged on too long, the fight had suddenly heated up. He saw the pair roll
over a few times away from him.
Towards the edge of the
building. The unguarded edge of the building. No rail, just a small lip about 6
inches high.
He screamed "Starsky"
in warning but it was too late.
Both men plummeted over the
side, eerily silent. For a nanosecond he stood frozen by shock. Then he pelted
towards the edge. He stopped short twenty feet away, suddenly unable to face
whatever was lying several floors below. It took only a few seconds to pull
himself together but time behaves oddly in a crisis. It felt like hours. Then
he stepped forward. He knelt down as he approached the edge because he didn't
entirely trust his sense of balance at the moment, then inched forward on his
knees. Even that was too much. He lowered himself to his belly and crawled.
Hardly breathing at all, he inched forward over the lip.
And stopped breathing
altogether. Starsky was lying no more than six feet beneath him, spreadeagled over
the suspect. They had landed on a narrow secondary-level roof. Hutch called out
softly, "Starsk, speak to me!"
There was some disorganised
movement below, then Starsky replied in a shockingly normal voice, "It's
okay, I was just winded. He broke my fall."
"Don't move. I'm
coming right down."
A quick glance along the
roof edge revealed a ladder connecting the two levels some yards away. Hutch
leapt to his feet, all immobility banished now there was a distinct possibility
that the world hadn't ended. Seconds later he was crouching at Starsky's side.
"Where does it hurt?
Is your back okay?"
"Nowhere. And yeah. I'm
gonna try and get up, I'm just a little shocky, that's all. I think my mattress
is out cold though."
"Just take it gently,
nothing too sudden."
Starsky managed to haul
himself to his feet, with some strategic assistance from Hutch, who watched him
carefully for any sign of pain. He detected no more than the odd wince.
"Go and sit down by
the wall. I'll deal with him, then I'll run back down and call an ambulance."
Hutch first checked that
the suspect still had a pulse and was indeed unconscious, then cuffed him as
quickly as he could before turning back to his partner. Much as he needed to
reassure himself that Starsky was more or less intact, he had been on the
streets too many years to risk turning his back on an unrestrained perp, no
matter how harmless he looked. He knew Starsky would understand.
He could feel his own knees
turning wobbly with delayed reaction. Sitting down next to Starsky and holding
onto him without ever letting go seemed very appealing but he knew he had to
get downstairs again.
"Don't move," he
admonished him again firmly, relieved to hear no wobbles in his voice at least.
Discipline was good for something.
Starsky flashed his
lop-sided grin at him: "You'd better not be too long then."
And that, essentially, was
that. After calling for assistance, Hutch ran up the stairs again, then slid
slowly down the wall to come to rest next to his partner, shoulders touching.
Starsky reached out for his hand, then closed his eyes against the December sun
and tipped his face back.
They said nothing at all.
Two ambulances turned up,
plus a couple of officers to escort the prisoner. The suspect, now woozily
conscious, was loaded into one and driven away. He had fared far less well than
Starsky and had sustained several possible fractures, certainly a broken thigh.
And Starsky was loaded into the other. Hutch hated seeing him carried down from
the roof on a stretcher but the paramedics insisted. Best not to take any
chances, he thought. Then he sighed
as the craziness of the sentiment, given their job, hit home.
He was about to climb up
into the ambulance when Starsky sharply pulled him up short. "Hey, Blintz,
ain't you forgetting something? You ain't abandoning the Torino here. Won't be
a car left to come back to if you do that in this neighborhood."
Hutch paused. He had a
point. And he didn't look as if he was in medical danger. He found it almost
impossible to refuse Starsky anything anyway, so he rooted in his pocket,
extracted his keys, checked with the paramedics where they were taking Starsky,
then went to start up the car. "See you there," he called out.
He watched the ambulance
pull away out of sight, then leaned forward to rest his forehead on the
steering wheel. He took a few deep breaths, trying to maintain a veneer of calm
while the engine thrummed. Panic was scrabbling with sharply filed nails at the
edges of his brain even though the emergency was over. A perfectly normal
reaction, he reassured himself. Nothing
to worry about. Control's still holding.
The radio dragged him back.
It was Dobey, eager for more details from Hutch than the bald report that had
come through to him. He sounded borderline frantic too, as if he couldn't quite
find it in himself to believe that Starsky was more or less unhurt.
Hutch, amazed at how coolly
professional his own voice sounded, reassured him. Getting to be good
concealing things. Dobey promised to meet him at the hospital.
********
Hutch pulled up with a
screech of tyres and whiff of rubber more reminiscent of Starsky's style, then
dashed into ER. He felt a burning need to see Starsky right now. While they had
been together on the roof, leaning against the wall and each other in the
soothing sun, it had been possible to believe that he had suffered nothing
worse than a few bruises. Now that they were separated, he was beginning to
doubt his own memory.
He advanced purposefully on
the receptionist, flashing his badge, only to hear his name being called.
"Hey, Hutch, over
here. I'm fine." Starsky, already in a blue hospital gown, was sitting in
a wheelchair, being propelled along by an orderly. Hutch smirked: just like
Starsky to be so worried about Hutch worrying that he'd hijacked some poor soul
from his duties, all to make things easier for his partner. The orderly was now
allowed to push the chair back to a cubicle and leave.
"Haven't been here
long. Just waiting for the doctor to come out and speak to me."
Hutch nodded absently. He
felt as if he wasn't fully in contact with his surroundings. His knees were
going wobbly again. Just shock symptoms. Perfectly normal. He grasped all his
self-control and twisted it into a stronger rope so Starsky wouldn't notice
anything amiss.
"Sit down on the couch
before you fall down." So much for escaping detection. He sat. It seemed
the easiest thing to do. "I'm fine, really I am. They'll give me a quick
once-over then pack me on my way. Doctors have better things to do than kiss a
few bruises better."
Hutch smiled but he knew it
was sickly at best. "Dobey's on his way."
"Would've thought he
had better things to do too. I take it everyone's over the bug if he has the
time to traipse over here." Beneath the growl, Hutch detected a gleam of
satisfaction at their captain's concern. "If the doctor sees him, she'll
probably hospitalise him instead.
He didn't look too hot yesterday."
Hutch was smiling his
agreement when the doctor arrived, a tall red-haired woman in her early
thirties, neither attractive nor plain. She looked competent.
"Detective Starsky,"
she leaned over to shake his hand, "I'm Doctor Janet McKitterick."
She paused, clearly wanting to know who Hutch was.
"This is my partner,
Detective Ken Hutchinson."
She shook hands with him
too, then continued as he didn't seem about to leave. " Well it sounds
like you've been extremely fortunate. Under normal circumstances, I'd just prod
you about a bit and hopefully send you on your way. But in light of your
surgery and the injuries you sustained eighteen months ago, we're not taking
any chances. I want to test you thoroughly before I'm satisfied." A small
smile touched her lips. "Besides, my colleagues would never forgive me if
I missed a repair needed by the best living advertisement for their skills.
"So it's going to be a
major prod and poke. You'll be fully engaged for the next two or three hours,
then I feel inclined to keep you in overnight for observation."
Hutch saw the beginnings of
a pout hovering around Starsky's lips. But he saw beneath it Starsky's desire
to avoid spending any more time in hospitals that wasn't absolutely necessary.
The sterile, characterless rooms with those indescribable odors underlying the
liberal antiseptic brought back too vivid memories of weeks of pain after
Gunther.
He took up arms on his
friend's behalf. "Is that really necessary? He didn't hit his head at
least he said he didn't. I can stay over at his place tonight to keep an eye on
him. And if it's rest he needs, a good night's sleep's always so much easier in
your own bed." He'd judged that confrontation would get him nowhere but
reason might do the trick.
He willed the doctor to
hear the subtext without him having to reveal more. She looked thoughtful
suddenly.
"Okay. As long as the
tests don't turn anything up, I don't see any reason you shouldn't go home,
Detective Starsky. If you feel up to it, you can even go by the precinct to
deal with your reports when we've finished with you. But I'd like you to have
tomorrow off to recuperate, Detective Starsky." She looked down at him. "You'll
probably feel sore by then anyway."
"Not as sore as last
time. Thanks." He favored her with a blazing smile.
She left with a promise to
send an orderly along shortly to wheel Starsky away for his first battery of
tests. Hutch was thinking about kicking up a fuss until he was invited along
too but stopped when he caught sight of Starsky's almost imperceptible shake of
the head.
Captain Dobey arrived soon
after. Hutch thought he looked improved from the previous night but still far
from full strength. He gave him a brief account of what the doctor had said.
Dobey agreed without demur to Starsky taking the next day off and suggested
that Hutch should stay home too, in view of the hours they'd put in during the
crisis. He agreed it would be good if they could come in later to write up a
preliminary report but stressed only if Starsky felt up to it.
Starsky, predictably,
glowered at the implication of weakness. "I'll be there. I'm just bruised
and shook up. It was just a tumble for Chrissake, it isn't like I dived off
Niagara Falls in a barrel."
Hutch thought better of
pointing out that a small fall like that could break your neck just as easily
as a more spectacular drop. It had happened to a school friend of his back in
Minnesota in a riding accident when he was still in his teens. But further
discussion was prevented by the orderly's arrival.
As Starsky disappeared,
Hutch called out, "I'll be waiting in the relatives' room."
"Yeah, hope you're
going to send the Cap'n back to his office soon. Someone's gotta keep working."
********
Hutch and Dobey stood in
silence for a moment after his departure, looking at one another wryly.
"Let's go find some
coffee and the relatives' room," Dobey suggested finally.
That didn't take long: they
both knew where everything was from intimate and unwanted familiarity with the
department. They sipped in silence until Dobey asked, "What happened,
Hutchinson?"
Hutch thought for a moment.
"I haven't checked it all out yet with Starsky, so some of it's still
guesswork. The suspect had to have gone in the side door, not the front. And he
must have started up the back stairs, or Starsky would have seen him. I think
he must have cut through the building, don't know which floor, to the main
stairs. Probably he thought he'd double back down them. But when he saw Starsky
he headed up to the roof."
He looked at Dobey and read
the unspoken question. "It was just one of those things, Captain. They
couldn't have been wrestling for more than a couple of minutes. The suspect's a
big man, a piece heavier and taller than Starsky. I'm not sure I'd have subdued
him any quicker. It was nothing to do with any weakness from his injuries. You
know he's been on the streets for months now with no trouble. Our success rate's
as good as ever." His voice sharpened on his partner's behalf. "What
gives you the right to doubt he's up to the job?"
"Hutchinson,"
said Dobey warningly. "I'm not doubting, I just need to know how one of my
officers came to fall off a roof." He sighed. "It's the accidents you
can't predict that take men away so quick you never even see it coming."
A pause: "One thing
more. You sure you couldn't have got there quicker, shot the perp maybe? You
didn't hesitate?"
Hutch opened his mouth to
reply furiously, then stopped himself when he heard the real question. His
voice soft, he almost whispered. "No, Captain, I'm not blaming myself. Not
this time. It really was just an accident."
Dobey frowned to maintain
his gruff image. "Glad to hear you've made some progress, son."
"Ohhh yes, I've learnt
a lot since Gunther," he said quietly, eyes fixed on the scratched top of
the coffee table.
"And you've done well."
A moment's hesitation. "Wasn't at all sure you could do it, you know
– let Starsky go out on the streets again. And still keep letting him go
out on the streets after days like today as if nothing had happened."
Dobey seemed faintly embarrassed at putting something so personal into words
and unsure of what reaction he would provoke.
Hutch surprised him by
looking up from the table and meeting his eye. "And I'll keep on doing it,"
he said firmly before dropping his gaze back down to the table. "But I
wouldn't claim it was 'as if nothing had happened' . . . ." He trailed
off.
Dobey cleared his throat
and struggled to his feet from the sagging chair, which groaned alarmingly. "If
I don't get back soon, Metro'll fall apart without me. Call by later if you can
for the reports but only if Starsky's not too worn out. If he is, they'll keep.
I trust you to maintain some control over your partner."
********
Hutch was left alone. The
problem with being alone is that it offers an unparalleled opportunity for
self-analysis. He leaned his head wearily back against the scuffed fake-leather
chesterfield, eyes closed. He knew the captain had a right to the answers he'd
asked for. And he knew that he'd answered honestly. He had learnt a great deal
in the months since Gunther's hit. And he would let Starsky go out and do his job in the same way
tomorrow – well, the day after tomorrow.
However, eighteen months
ago he had no conception of how painful the learning and readjustment would
prove. Some of the pain he'd fully expected: the pain of not knowing initially
whether Starsky would even live; the pain of seeing Starsky suffering as he
clawed his way slowly back to health.
When Starsky began the
lengthy process of physiotherapy to regain lost mobility and fitness, Hutch's
support had been unwavering. He was always there. He knew instinctively whether
Starsky needed bullying when pain and discouragement were overwhelming him or
whether he needed sympathy and comfort. He never made an error in reading the
right response and he never gave too little or too much. Starsky was adamant
that he would return to the streets. It was just that sometimes in the dark
hours his belief wobbled. Hutch's belief in him might have been carved in granite
on Mount Sinai.
He walked every step along
the winding mountains and valleys of Starsky's progress. His own fitness level
improved dramatically as he worked out with Starsky, as he ran further in the
mornings, cut out the unhealthy foods that had slipped quietly into his diet.
He threw out from his closet the pants he'd bought to accommodate his increased
weight and resurrected old ones. Thank God I didn't throw them away! He took
indefinite leave of absence from work, with the exception of doing whatever was
required on the Gunther case, and lived on family money so that he could push
Starsky like a personal trainer towards a goal that seemed ever more
attainable.
Gradually they began to
resurrect their old social life, first just short evening visits to The Pits,
then meals out, then meals followed by a beer or two stretching into the night.
Finally Starsky pronounced himself ready to begin dating again. Hutch dug
through his address book and found suitable women to start him off. Nothing too
strenuous to begin with: joint dates in restaurants, trips to the movies,
evenings spent bowling.
Hutch could see the shadows
of pain and fear being driven away. The times when Starsky erupted with
frustration at the slowness of his recovery or feared he would never fully
recover grew few and far between, then petered out altogether. After six and a
half months the hospital team expressed the opinion that he was ready to be
assessed for a desk-job as preparation for returning to his old job. Hutch
fixed the appointment with a huge sense of achievement.
********
One sunny Monday afternoon
in early winter they strolled to the park to celebrate. They tossed a frisbee
around for a while. Hutch carefully observed how much better Starsky was able
to stretch out to the side for a catch. He never ceased watching Starsky's
every move: partly to monitor how well his physical recovery was progressing
and identify any problems that might indicate a relapse or that they were
overdoing things; partly to try and figure out if he could do anything
different to hasten the healing process.
Watching a little terrier
triumphantly race off with it in its mouth caused a few minutes' hilarity
– and also the opportunity for Starsky to flirt with its good-looking
lady-owner. Hutch rolled his eyes when he saw her give her telephone number.
Everything seemed delightfully normal. And when they both returned to work in
the near future, things would be more normal still.
After playing on for
another ten minutes, Starsky called a halt and expressed a desire for ice
cream. Hutch walked off smartly to track down a vendor. He returned with two
cones and a newspaper, then sat on a bench to read. Starsky flopped down on the
grass opposite. Hutch noted automatically the ease with his partner
accomplished the maneuver and felt that life was good.
With the sudden violence of
an earthquake, Hutch's world shattered into jagged shards like knives. If the
sun had vanished and fiery clouds had rained down blood, he wouldn't have
noticed. Oblivious, he was transported away to his own circle of hell and was
lost to the Monday afternoon he'd been innocently enjoying as if no monsters
lurked under the bed. Fear made his breathing shallow, sweat beaded his face.
He hadn't felt such terror since he raced back to the hospital when Starsky was
dying.
He didn't have to search
deeply to find the source of the panic that was throttling him so furiously. He
was petrified at the prospect of Starsky returning to work. He couldn't
identify why it had struck now rather than when he made the appointment. He
had, however, a good notion as to why it had left him untroubled up till this
point.
In the previous few months
he had focused utterly on ensuring by any means he could muster that Starsky
achieved what he so ardently desired: a full return to his job. Hutch hadn't
thought much about what that would mean: all that mattered was ploughing on
like a tank towards achieving that goal, summoning all his strength to shove
aside any obstacles that threatened Starsky's success. He had permitted nothing
to distract him. And in a sense, he hadn't missed their partnership on the
streets. Starsky's recovery was just as much of a partnership; Hutch hadn't
needed anything more.
But Starsky's imminent
return to Metro had rudely shifted the beam of Hutch's tight focus. He knew
that the desk-job would be only temporary. Sometime soon, weeks or months,
Starsky would fly through his next assessment and be out on the streets once
more. And Hutch didn't think he could handle it. He didn't think he had the
strength to tolerate the risk of losing his partner again.
He sat there frozen, as if
his brain had shut down. He hadn't a clue what to do. He couldn't step into the
future. Equally, he couldn't blurt out to Starsky that he wanted him to abandon
his dream – his future.
Eventually, he was dragged
back to the park because he was aware of something shaking his knees. He was
surprised to find his eyes screwed tight shut. He decided he'd have to open
them and face the world. People were still playing happily in the park, walking
their dogs, eating sandwiches, kissing, a hundred and one normal activities,
regardless of his pain.
He looked down. Starsky was
kneeling in front of him, a hand grasping each of Hutch's knees. He'd stopped
jiggling them and was staring intently into Hutch's eyes. He looked worried. "Hey,
Hutch, come back to me."
Hutch suspected that he'd
been calling his name for some time. Well he certainly couldn't pretend that
nothing had happened. The newspaper had dropped unheeded to his lap and there
was a revolting gooey mess in the centre where his ice cream had disintegrated.
Did I eat any of it? Oh god, what am I going to say to Starsky? He's not
going to let this go.
"So where'd you go,
Blondie? You gonna tell me about it?"
A long pause ensued. Hutch
struggled to gather his wits. A straightforward refusal would not go down well.
"Hutch?"
"There's nothing to
tell." Starsky looked unconvinced. Can't say I blame you, buddy. "I was just thinking . . . how far we've come,
stuff like that." Hutch aimed at a smile. "No big deal." Keep
it vague. Don't give him anything to latch onto.
"Yeah, right."
Starsky sat down on his heels and rested his chin on top of his hands, which
still covered Hutch's knees.
"Look, Hutch, we're
going to make it you know. Stop worrying about the assessment. All these months
you've been glued to my side, never a break. Why don't you take some time off
for yourself? I don't need babysitting no more, pal. The Independent's showing
one of those god-awful trendy French films – all long silences and
meaningful glances in black-and-white artistry. Go and see it. You know it's
not my kind of thing." He watched for Hutch's reaction but he was holding
himself still as stone, as unreadable as unreflecting dark water. "Go on,
it'll do you good for a change."
Of course, Starsky was
right and Hutch knew it. He had to go and find some place quiet to think. He
needed to discover how he was going to deal with his paralysing fear and he
couldn't put off the attempt. Maybe not the cinema, but Starsky was offering
him just what he needed, time alone.
He sighed. He folded up the
newspaper carefully so that the mess wouldn't leak. "Yeah, sounds like a
good idea. It's just hitting me that the assessment's really just a few days
away. It seems so strange . . . Come on, let's walk back and I'll pick up my
car."
He was hugely relieved that
Starsky said not a word on the way home but he did drape an arm round Hutch's
shoulders and keep it there. Hutch felt as if it was the only thing anchoring
him to the world.
********
In the end he drove to the
ocean. By the time he arrived, it was early evening and there were few people
about. He stretched over to the glove compartment, rooted around through the
junk and finally extracted a few sheets of paper. More excavation produced a
biro. He tucked them into his jacket pocket. He walked slowly down onto the
sand, bent to remove his shoes and socks and began walking steadily.
It was not difficult to
identify what he was afraid of. Any cop knows the streets are dangerous.
Eventually luck runs out, even for those who appear to lead charmed lives.
Hutch was getting older and that made it so much harder to retain his belief in
immortality. He knew now with complete certainty that Starsky wasn't immortal
at all.
He asked himself if he was
afraid of his own death. No, he would deeply regret the pain it would cause
Starsky but he wasn't afraid of dying. Equally, he knew that he wasn't eager to
die. Life around Starsky was way too enjoyable even if it involved a certain
cost: he wanted it to continue.
He drifted to a halt.
Forcefully he expelled a breath to clear his lungs, if not his head. He drew
out the biro and slim wad of paper. He needed to set out all his options
clearly. That would reveal to him how to deal with the fear. He took a
death-grip on his belief that he would find a way and held it closely enough to
his chest to throttle it.
He divided the first sheet
into three columns with neat freehand lines. Above the left one he wrote
carefully "Actions", above the middle he wrote "Potential
Consequences", above the right he wrote "Outcome". Pausing, pen
hovering above the paper, he elected to start with the worst-case scenario. As
he finished each new point, he neatly drew a horizontal line to divide them.
ACTIONS |
POTENTIAL CONSEQUENCES |
OUTCOME |
|
|
|
I leave the force. |
I lose Starsky. |
Unacceptable |
|
S. has a new partner. I daren't trust anyone else but me
to be his partner. |
Unacceptable: even more frightening |
|
S. resigns too. |
Unacceptable |
|
|
|
I stay but take a desk-job. |
S. has a new partner and stays on the streets. |
Unacceptable: see 1.1 and 1.2 |
|
S. settles for a desk-job too. |
Unacceptable |
|
|
|
I stay on the streets and live with the fear. |
I'm S.'s partner. I'm the only one I dare trust to be
his partner. |
Acceptable |
|
I endanger him because my fear paralyses me. |
Unacceptable |
|
I'm too overprotective: S. can't do the job properly. |
Unacceptable |
|
|
|
I stay on the streets and conquer the fear. |
I'm S.'s partner. I'm the only one I dare trust to be
his partner. |
Acceptable |
|
Our partnership remains the way it should. |
Acceptable: the only acceptable outcome. |
Hutch sighed morosely. He
knew he'd left out some important things. If he refused to go back on the
streets with his partner, Starsky might imagine that he didn't believe Starsky
was good enough any more. He couldn't allow that.
No, it was really very
simple. Scribbling on his sheet of paper had only been a delaying tactic.
Starsky needed to return to
his old job. Hutch had fought so fiercely over the past months to help bring it
about – he couldn't do anything now to jeopardise it. Neither of them
wanted another partner. Part of the joy of the job was doing it together, no
one else could provide that feeling of rightness.
And deep down, Hutch knew
that neither of them would be as safe with another partner. Both were used to
automatic backup from the other, being able to read each other's intentions
without words. In another partnership, each would still instinctively expect
that sort of backup in a fast-moving crisis – they'd relied on it for so
many years so that it was now part of them. But if didn't materialise when they
expected it, that could all too easily be lethal.
So it came down to
conquering the fear. Writing anally neat lists wasn't going to give him the
key.
He didn't dare seek
professional help. If he saw a police shrink, that would be the quickest way of
ensuring that he didn't work with Starsky until the problem was resolved
– if ever again. He didn't want that and he knew for a certainty that Starsky
wouldn't want it. Besides, as long as Starsk was desk bound, Hutch wouldn't be
endangering him.
Nor would seeking help
privately be easy. He didn't want to worry his partner by explaining his
problem. Not unless it became unavoidable in order to protect Starsky. And
there was no way he could visit a therapist privately without him knowing
something was up – they were never really apart.
So . . . he had to find a
way by himself. If he failed, he promised himself that, for Starsky's safety,
he would go for professional help. But only as a last resort.
He folded the paper neatly
and put it in his jacket pocket. He stood up, found he was stiff, stretched and
walked down to the water's edge. It was calm near the shore but when he raised
his head, he could see foaming white horses further out. He kept going until
the wavelets lapped his bare toes. Eyes closed, he stood immobile.
His mind was quite blank.
It was an uncomfortable feeling, creating a sensation akin to panic.
He wasn't sure why it
should unnerve him so badly until he remembered a Spanish exam he'd sat, eons
ago. He hadn't thought about it in years. When he'd turned over the paper and
scanned it eagerly, he'd been shocked silly to find that he couldn't make sense
of any of the words. He hadn't been nervous about the exam; he'd confidently
expected to find it easy. The letters metamorphosed into black random patterns
in serried lines on white paper. It might as well have been Mandarin. He sat
there stunned, on the verge of panic and running from the room to throw up.
Then he'd taken control of himself, asserted enough discipline to stop himself
from bolting, taken a deep breath and turned the paper back over so that it was
face down again. He'd looked at the clock. He'd forced himself to sit calmly
for five whole minutes, doing nothing but remind himself that he was good at
Spanish. Then he'd flipped the paper over and looked a second time at the
Spanish text. It now made perfect sense. He'd done extremely well, just as he'd
anticipated.
Cautiously, Hutch looked
inside the cupboard where he'd stuffed his panic over Starsky. If he hadn't
imprisoned it effectively, he wouldn't have been able to function in the
traffic while driving. It now tried to come storming out. He slammed the door
shut and bolted it for the moment.
Another door creaked open
unexpectedly and a long-buried memory emerged. His first time at the movies,
accompanied by his mother and grandmother. He couldn't remember how old he was
– pre-school? It had been a disaster, at least in his mother's eyes, and
for him an emotional experience of searing intensity. He had been promised
something pleasurable and had been appalled when it nearly broke his heart.
In those days moviegoers
expected two films for their money. Hutch couldn't recall what the main feature
was. The supporting movie had told a simple story about a young male seal,
found by some children on a beach. He was badly injured so they took him home,
tended him, bonded with him, grew to love him. A kindly adult let in on their
secret explained that he must have been attacked by a larger, older male as
they established their territorial boundaries.
The summer passed by and
eventually they realised, with adult guidance, that they could keep their seal
as a pet no longer. He was fully restored to health and needed more than the
safe bathtub they could offer. After much soul-searching, they took him back to
the beach where they had found him so that he could return to his real life.
They pushed him down onto the sands in a pram. Who uses a pram anymore? They
lifted him out and watched him lumber into the waves, where he swam gracefully
away into the sunset. The movie ended in a cloud of happy, emotional music.
Hutch watched for a
horrified moment then screamed at the top of his lungs. He sobbed and sobbed
inconsolably. First his mother attempted to soothe him. Then she became angry.
Hutch knew that he was embarrassing her by making a scene. Lots of heads were
turning.
His grandmother suggested
quietly that they should leave the auditorium. His mother seized him by the
elbow and half-dragged him out, hissing "Be quiet, Kenneth. I don't know
why you're making such a noise but stop it right now. Whatever will people say?
You wouldn't want Mrs Wingate" (a neighbour from their road watching
curiously with her daughter) "to think you're a cry-baby, now would you?"
Hutch didn't care. He
carried on screaming. His mother fell into tight-lipped silence, trying to
subdue him with a basilisk stare. He ignored her.
Then, in the red velvet
foyer, his grandmother knelt down in front of him. "I'm sorry, Kenneth,
but we don't understand. It was a beautiful, happy movie. We thought you'd
enjoy it. Please tell me, what made you cry?"
Hutch looked at her in
astonishment. How could people be so dumb? He was so taken aback by his
relatives' stupidity that he forgot to cry. The sobs subsided to painful
hiccups. "Don't you see?"
"No, Kenneth, I don't.
See what? You're going to have to tell me. I don't understand what's wrong."
Kenneth loved his
grandmother so he tried to explain: it wasn't her fault she didn't understand.
"He went back to the
sea . . ." He faltered, unsure how to put his pain into words and feeling
more sobs ready to explode as he thought about what he had seen.
"Yes, darling, but
that was good. He was a seal, a wild animal. He couldn't live in captivity, it
wouldn't have been fair on him. The children were going to miss him terribly
but they did the right thing."
"The right thing!"
His voice rose alarmingly and he caught his mother's furious stare. A deep
breath: "Yes, of course they were going to miss him. That's not the point.
He was going to get killed." The adults looked completely mystified and
exchanged baffled glances. He realised that they still didn't understand. "The
other seal. . . ."
"What other seal?"
his mother broke in crossly.
He sighed in exasperation
at her slowness. "The big seal, the one that hurt him before the movie
began. He's waiting out there somewhere. The ocean isn't safe. He'll find the
young seal and fight him again and this time he'll kill him. The children won't
be able to help him." He lost control completely, imagining the gaping,
bloody wounds as the seal gasped his last, pain-filled breaths. His sobs were
as piercing as ever.
His mother was about to
reprimand him when his grandmother quelled her with a glance. She folded him in
her arms, comforted him, tried to convince him that the young seal was now
older and stronger, he'd be able to beat the other one if it attacked him.
Hutch listened politely,
because he loved her. He calmed down sufficiently to eat the ice cream she
bought him (his mother disapproved); he returned to his seat and dutifully
watched the main feature.
But he didn't believe her.
The fear he felt for the seal was like a stone on his chest. He knew what the outcome must be.
It was a long time before
his mother took him to the movies again.
********
Hutch stared into the
distance, while the wavelets sucked at the sand beneath his toes. He was glad
the seal had swum into view again. Even though it was years since he had last
remembered the film, the surge of terrible emotion that had overwhelmed him as
a young boy was perfectly preserved.
It seemed ironic that now,
thirty years later, he should be equally tormented by a similar scene in his
own life. Sure, Gunther might be behind bars but there were plenty of other
big, powerful men who would want to hurt Starsky. And Hutch recognised quite
clearly that try as he might, he couldn't always stop them.
So, he was back to the
fear. Oh fuck, my jeans are wet!
He needed to come up with a plan. And it had to be a good plan.
All those years ago at the
movies, he hadn't really driven out the fear. But he had managed to force it
out of sight and sit through the feature as if nothing earth shattering had
happened. He'd done it because he loved his grandmother, pure and simple. She
was upset because he was upset and he couldn't bear that.
And when he'd panicked in
the exam, he'd recovered. He'd made the fear go away. He'd done it by
self-control and discipline.
Hutch sighed, knowing that
the future was going to cost him. He'd found his answers. His plan had to work
because he loved Starsky. He had to provide whatever Starsky needed. He had to
forge his discipline together in layers like steel for a sword. In the months
before Gunther, feeling tired, old and stale, he'd allowed his discipline and
self-control to grow slack. Never again, he swore. The punishing routine of
Starsky's recovery had helped him recover those lost strengths. His task now
was to hone them and hone them and hone them again, until they were a seamless
part of his soul. He would succeed, because there was no alternative.
Purposefully he turned
round and strode back to his car.
********
Starsky sailed through his
assessment for a desk-job. LAPD was generous. (And Dobey fought like a tiger
and schemed like a politician.) Hutch was assigned the same duties. They tended
to be mechanical and left him time to construct with precision and love the
shields he would need when their street life resumed. He never wasted an
opportunity to work on them.
He believed that Starsky
was unaware he had a problem. Of course he knew that Hutch was a little
nervous. That was, after all, normal. Starsky still had to pass his final
assessment. Even though the doctors were thrilled with the completeness of his
recovery and were predicting that he wouldn't have to wait much longer,
something might still go wrong.
And when all was said and
done, Starsky had nearly died. So Hutch thought he was entitled to exhibit some
concern, provided he ensured that his overriding emotion on view was keen
anticipation. He was surprised that Starsky was being so patient at putting in
desk-time. He guessed that age and experience had matured some of the "Want
it now, have it now!" attitude. He told Hutch he wanted to be sure he had
to take the assessment only once, twice would look bad on his records, and he
wouldn't push the hospital to recommend it too soon against the doctors' better
judgement.
One day Hutch was surprised
when Starsky handed him a well-thumbed paperback. "Take it. You know Pete
Fawley in Records? He gave me this when I was in the hospital. Didn't want it
back – said he'd bought himself a new copy."
Hutch looked non-committal.
It was some lurid-covered science-fiction novel. Not something he would choose
to read. On the other hand, he could tell Starsky was keen and wasn't going to
be put off easily.
"Go on, it's really
well written. It won't hurt you. You'll enjoy it, despite the cover. Just try
it out, you won't be able to put it down, promise." Starsky's pleading
indigo eyes burned the surface of his skin.
If he could make Starsky
happy by so small a sacrifice, he would. Perhaps not so small – it's
door-stop fat and really small print. He took it.
Starsky had a date lined up
with a secretary from another department that evening, so Hutch settled down
with a beer on the couch. He expected to be bored. He wasn't. Only a few pages
in he experienced a sinking feeling. The young hero was stricken by acute fear
and had to control it in potentially lethal circumstances. Coincidence, it
has to be.
He shut the book and
thought hard, feeling slightly panicked. He longed to dismiss his suspicion but
couldn't. He knew that Starsky could be extraordinarily perceptive, especially
where his partner was concerned. And he could be unexpectedly subtle: people
tended to misjudge this quality, seeing only the brash surface. Hutch knew far
better.
The book was fat. He idly
fanned the pages. Had Starsky given any hints previously? Had Starsky known
what had hit Hutch in the park when the panic first struck? He tried to recall
exactly what his partner had said.
While thinking, he absently
noticed that there were three or four slivers of paper marking various pages.
He investigated them, starting at the back. He couldn't find anything in the
text to show why Starsky (or Fawley?) had inserted them.
The final one, nearest the
front, made him feel light-headed. A section in italics drew his eye. He knew
then that his secret wasn't a secret at all.
I must not fear. Fear is
the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I
will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it
has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has
gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.1
The book dropped to his
lap.
After a while he began
reading again. Starsk was sure to ask if he'd read it. He'd probably test him
just to check Hutch wasn't lying. To his surprise, he found it as enjoyable as
his partner had promised.
********
Next morning he sat tensely
waiting for Starsky to pick him up. He'd been awake for hours, trapped in a
kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. He couldn't face explaining what he'd
been going through. But at the same time he detected an unmistakable glow of
pleasure in being so thoroughly understood. He recognised that his inability to
hide his emotions sprang from the depth of Starsky's love for him. He was also
scared: what if he could conceal nothing from his partner's acute vision? He
needed to keep some secrets, even
from Starsky.
Starsky was late and
sounded his horn for Hutch to come straight down. He summoned his discipline,
determined not to show how nervous he felt, and skipped lightly down the steps.
Starsky leaned over to pull
up the door catch. Hutch observed with detached approval the smoothness of his
stretch. He sat down and slammed the door shut.
"Morning,"
Starsky greeted him as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
"Yeah, morning. You're
ten minutes late, you know. I take it you had a good, long evening." Hutch
reasoned that if he could deflect his partner long enough, it would be too
public back at Metro to discuss the book and its implications.
Starsky grinned, "Yeah,
terrific!" The grin faded a little and took on some frown qualities. "Well,
not so terrific."
"So just okay?"
"Yeah, just okay. Probably
won't bother to look her up again."
"Pity. She's a real
stunner."
"Yeah, just not such
stunning company."
Hutch ground to a halt. He
couldn't think of anything else to ask without prying. If he didn't get a grip,
he'd embarrass himself by demanding a blow-by-blow account of the evening's
sexual marathon, just to fill the time.
Mercifully Starsky let the
silence accumulate for a while, then he began to chatter about work, which
required little more than grunts and monosyllables from Hutch in response.
When Starsky parked the
Torino at Metro and switched off the ignition, he thought he'd been let off the
hook. He was reaching for the door handle when his partner stopped him dead.
"So, did you read the
book?" The tone was casual but the accompanying gaze was keenly
speculative. Starsky had wriggled round sideways in his seat so that he faced
Hutch.
"Jesus, in one
evening?" Hutch relented: "Yeah, I made a good start. You were right,
it's good. Wasn't easy to put it down." He paused for a beat and felt
brave. "He's good on psychology."
He saw Starsky's gaze
soften and the ghost of a smile.
Silence fell. Hutch found
he didn't want to move. Starsky put one hand on his shoulder, one on his knee.
Hutch could see he was working through how to say something. He sat mesmerised,
both scared and eager to hear what it was.
"Hutch, I'm gonna fix
up that appointment today. It's time for us to get out from behind those desks
before we get glued to the furniture permanently. We're both ready to go back."
"Starsk, what makes
you so certain?" Hutch breathed.
"I just know, Blondie."
He began rubbing the nape of Hutch's neck. He leaned his head back into it and
Starsky responded by rubbing harder. "You trust me, don't you?" He
didn't wait for an answer. "I'll be fine, you'll be fine. It won't be
perfect, nothing ever is. You and me are both old to know that. But it will be 'me and thee'. I can't promise you it'll be just
the same as before. We're both old enough to know that nothing's ever the same.
But it'll be even better. We've both learnt a lot since my accident. We know
what's important, we know what we want. All that stuff before Gunther –
Kira, whatever – it's gone, Hutch. You're not that person any more. We've
been through the fire and we've come out purified . . ."
He broke off, looking
flushed. The fingers at Hutch's neck stopped tangling in his hair. "Fuck,
I've been eating too many of your books while I've been laid up."
"It's a disease you
can catch from ingesting too many turgid SF sagas as well. Herbert would be
proud of you," Hutch teased gently.
"Well, you ready to
make the appointment?" His face was quite still but Hutch detected the
yearning in those deep blue eyes.
"Yes, as soon as we
get in." There, he'd said it.
Starsky's smile blazed
brilliantly. "You'll see, things will be fine."
It was only when he was
safely behind his desk that Hutch realised that the word "fear" had
never been mentioned.
Part Two
Starsky was right. Things were fine. When their first dangerous situation on the
streets tested out Hutch's defenses against the fear, they held. He tinkered
with them constantly to strengthen them and each time they held back the fear,
he grew more confident in his own ability to function. Not just to function
adequately but at his peak.
The months slipped
seamlessly past, until the stomach bug hit the precinct, and now here he was
once more stuck in a relatives' room in a hospital, waiting. And waiting. With
plenty of time for self-analysis.
He sighed and wished he
could consult Starsky's watch. The clinically austere and comfortless clock on
the wall informed him his partner had been gone about two hours. He was tired;
he still hadn't recovered from all the overtime, let alone this afternoon's
tension. But he was too wired to sleep. He compromised by lying down on the
battered sofa, feet hanging off over the arm. It could be a lot worse, he
really is all right. He kept on
repeating his mantra.
The clock ticked on. When
Starsky had been gone for almost three hours, Hutch began to worry in earnest.
Did it mean the doctors had turned up something with their tests? If all
registered normal, wouldn't they have finished with him by now? Eventually he
lurched to his feet and started pacing back and forth.
When the door opened
without any warning knock, he spun round, ready to take out his frustration on
whoever had disturbed him. But it was a smiling Starsky.
"Stop worrying, Hutch.
Everything's all right." Just as Hutch was about to interrupt and give him
a real grilling to be sure that he wasn't hiding anything, Starsky leapt in
again. "I knew you wouldn't believe me, so I brought along Dr McKitterick
to convince you." He stepped out of the doorway to let her into the room.
She looked amused that
Starsky had predicted his partner's reaction so accurately. "Detective
Hutchinson, your partner is doing very well. None of the test results gave any
cause for concern at all, and we tested him exhaustively. Work seems to agree
with him." She smiled. "As for this afternoon's tumble, it's lucky he
landed on top. Your suspect is quite badly injured. Several broken ribs, among
other things, and a fair degree of internal injuries."
She saw the shadow cross
Hutch's face as he contemplated what would have happened had Starsky been
pinned underneath, given that his insides had been so thoroughly mangled by
Gunther's bullets.
"Detective Starsky has
sustained some bruising and, as I said earlier, he'll probably feel stiff
later. So take him home, keep an eye on him and make him take it easy tomorrow.
I recommended that he take aspirin if he's too uncomfortable."
"And Craddock's okay
too," Starsky added cheerfully. Hutch felt a twinge of guilt. He had never
enquired who the officer down was, let alone how he had fared. Clearly Starsky
had. "Off duty, wrong place, wrong time," he supplied in answer to
Hutch's unspoken question. "I dropped by his room on our way here."
"So, what do you
think?" Hutch asked, scuffing the carpet with his toe.
"Yeah, let's get 'em
done tonight." Neither noticed the doctor's bafflement at their broken
train of thought and verbal shorthand.
They thanked her for her
care, then left. She stood at the relatives' room door and watched them go. She
was surprised to see Detective Hutchinson lean over on the way out and grab his
partner's wrist. Then she realised he was consulting his watch. Belatedly she
understood their cryptic conversation: they'd been discussing whether to return
to the station and write up their reports. She wondered how long they'd been
partners.
********
Dobey was still at the
precinct, eager to hear Dr McKitterick's report and grateful for the update on
Craddock, who had still been in surgery when Dobey was at the hospital. The two
detectives settled down to type up the paperwork as quickly as possible.
On the way home, Hutch
insisted on calling at a foodstore to buy something decent for dinner. Shortly
before eight, Starsky turned the key in the lock of his front door. To say that
it had been a long day didn't even begin to cover it.
Now that he was away from
the precinct, Hutch felt punch-drunk with euphoria. He catalogued the onset of
the jitters with clinical detachment and watched his hands begin to shake. His
mind informed him calmly that he was about to come down with a bad case of
delayed reaction. He knew from experience that he had to act quickly before he
fell apart completely.
He commenced mothering
Starsky mercilessly. He guided him to the couch and settled him down. He brought
him fruit juice – no alcohol in case he needed painkillers later. He drew
him a warm bath to relieve the ache of his bruises. He threw in some soothing
oil he'd once picked up at a street market in the hope that it would ease the
pull of tight scar tissue. He set out clean fluffy towels to warm, he retrieved
Starsky from the sofa. He managed to let him walk to the bathroom on his own
two feet and restricted himself to holding onto one of his arms. (He hoped he
kept it toned down to "hold" rather than "clutch".) He
forced himself to leave his partner to undress and bathe himself while he
prepared the steak and salad he'd purchased. And he forced himself not to stand
like a servant at Starsky's elbow to wait on him at table.
At about nine, he shepherded
Starsky back to the sofa and made him lie down while he took care of the
dishes. A quick scan of the TV listings threw up the ancient monster movie,
which Starsky said he wanted to watch. Hutch protested that it finished too
late but Starsky wouldn't budge. Besides, he was probably right: they both
needed to unwind before they would sleep. So Hutch disappeared to make popcorn.
He returned to find Starsky sitting upright.
"You missed the first
five minutes."
"You don't need to
fill me in, thanks. I don't suppose it will be so complicated I can't catch up."
He couldn't resist the sarcastic dig at his partner's viewing habits.
Starsky patted the sofa and
Hutch lay down in the space beside him, cautiously because his back was
hurting. He gazed up at his partner. They had survived, he was happy. He didn't
want to move any time soon. Just contemplate how he had found this safe haven.
He drifted blissfully.
********
The movie was still droning
on but Starsky had finished the popcorn. Hutch tried to reach back for the
bowl, intending to make a refill. Starsky's hand on his chest stopped him.
"No, I've enjoyed
enough sin for one night. The movie's nearly over anyway." Hutch drank in
the sleepy smile and stayed put.
He had learnt today that
his defenses against the fear held out on the streets even when pushed to the
limit. He could afford to congratulate himself. He'd won. He had wrapped
discipline and self-control around his weakness like armor plate and they were
sufficient. Okay, Dobey knew he was worried today. But that was no different
than before. His boss and fellow officers knew that he watched out for Starsky,
Starsky watched out for him.
Months ago now, when
Starsky survived without injury his first exposure to gunfire post-Gunther,
Hutch had exposed a serious flaw in his system. Discipline could be wound only
so tight. He realised that evening that there was a point at which it would
explode catastrophically and he was perilously close to a stress fracture.
Thinking quickly, he worked out that he needed to avoid this testing to
destruction at all costs. Maybe if he eased the tension on the rope and let it
out a few notches . . . .
He was desperate after that
first firefight. As soon as Hutch shut the door of Starsky's place behind him, he
gave free rein to the terrible urge to be over-protective. He switched into
full mother-hen mode, even though Starsky was completely uninjured. It worked.
He could feel the fractures in his armor healing themselves, closing over. He
no longer sensed that he was going to fly apart into destructive shards ready
to slash through anything in their path.
And to his amazement,
Starsky permitted him to mother him. He made no complaint, nor did he try and
wrest control back from Hutch. Hutch guessed that his partner had figured out
what was going on. But just as the fear had never been mentioned, Hutch's
safety valve was left in silence and shadows. He was grateful.
And he worked hard to
ensure that he didn't abuse the privilege. Never once did he slip up at work
where their fellow-officers could see. Never once did he indulge himself
unnecessarily when there was no imminent danger of a blow-out. And when he felt
that he had to invoke his emergency procedure, he sensed Starsky's wordless
support enfolding him like a blanket.
He knew that without
evenings like tonight, lying quietly on the sofa, resting his head against
Starsky, no amount of discipline would enable him to return to work as if
nothing had happened.
********
He stretched luxuriously,
pushing his head against Starsky's thigh and his toes against the sofa arm
while arching up his back like a cat. He felt his partner's attention drop to
him instantly. "You want to go to bed now, babe?" A hand massaged his
shoulder.
"No, don't be silly.
The movie's not finished yet. I'd hate to be responsible for the tension of not
knowing what happened keeping you awake," he teased.
Starsky's lazy lop-sided
smile bathed him in its glow. He closed his eyes. Then he opened them again
quickly. He needed to locate one of Starsky's cushions. Now. He hugged it to
his stomach, ensuring unobtrusively that it lay across his groin. Starsky
noticed.
"I can pull the afghan
down if you're cold?" He didn't wait for an answer but twisted round to
snag it down from the back of the sofa without disturbing Hutch's head from his
thigh. Then he threw it out to the side, over Hutch's legs, and carefully
tucked it round his partner as far as he could reach.
Hutch formed a mental
grimace. Much as he appreciated seeing that Starsky had managed the awkward
turn without any discomfort, he wished he'd left well alone. He was going to
roast now. But he didn't dare make a fuss and draw attention.
The truth was that Hutch
was nursing another problem.
As a cop, he knew that the
best place to hide a secret is often beneath another secret. Not beneath any
old secret, but beneath the kind of secret that isn't really a secret any
longer. If people think they have unearthed something and solved the puzzle,
they often won't bother to dig any deeper to see if something else is lurking.
So Hutch was relying on his
two secrets that weren't really secrets to hide the remaining secret. He and
Starsky had never openly discussed how close he had come to being so
overwhelmed by fear for his partner that he couldn't return to his job. They
had skirted it indirectly and dealt with it. He felt Starsky's unstinting
support as he struggled to thwart the problem. But nothing had been said
overtly.
Starsky understood
perfectly that the only way Hutch could maintain the discipline that kept the
fear locked away was by periodically letting go of his control and indulging in
over-protective behaviour. Once upon a time Starsky would have refused to put
up with this occasionally smothering blanket. But like Hutch, he had learnt
much over the last eighteen months. And like Hutch, he was prepared to pay the
price of maintaining their partnership. But nothing had been said directly.
Sometimes, for long periods
at a stretch, Hutch thought that his final secret was safe. But at other times
he doubted. Most people might not suspect the existence of the secret beneath
the layers of secrets. But Starsky wasn't most people. He was an exceptionally
good intuitive cop who rarely missed emotional clues. But if he had detected
anything strange, he gave no hint that Hutch could pick up.
Not knowing whether Starsky
knew was unsettling, to say the least. But all Hutch could do was act as if
Starsky didn't know and hope that his camouflage was good enough. Even the most
delicate probing would only serve to alert Starsky's instincts to the fact that
there was something hidden. The
concealment was a form of deception, which didn't feel good. But it was like
conquering the fear: there was no other way. He had to do it.
Hutch had fallen in love
with his partner. It hadn't been revealed to him in a blinding flash of light,
there had been no road to Damascus revelation. "Fallen" was the wrong
word altogether. He couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. It had been an imperceptible
shift.
Being in love had crept
through his defenses by stealth. He thought that if it had been something
sudden, he might have resisted it. He would have seen the attack coming and
might have fought it off successfully. The truth dawned on him gradually in the
months after Gunther's hit.
Not when Starsky was first
shot: he doubted then that he could live without his partner but physical
desire had no part in his unbearable cocktail of grief, anger, guilt and loss.
But when Starsky was
beginning to recover and Hutch began to trust that his own life could start up
again, he started experiencing the strangest sensations. Thoughts and emotions
flitted at the edge of consciousness. It was like seeing someone out of the
corner of your eye, then finding they'd disappeared when you turned to look at
them directly. Or like watching a badly tuned TV where you could almost make
out the images and interpret the soundtrack but not quite.
Hutch had been puzzled,
intrigued even, but not worried. The almost-thoughts didn't seem threatening:
far removed from the gut-wrenching nightmares he'd experienced after the hit.
He waited in the belief that when he was good and ready to understand, his
brain would show him the complete thought. And it did.
He became aware in the
hospital that he was spending hours staring at Starsky, especially when he was
asleep. He might have read a book – several books – but watching
the slow rise and fall of his breathing was more engrossing and never failed to
hold his attention. It filled him with a sense of peace he couldn't find
anywhere else. Even when his partner was awake, he could barely drag his eyes
away from him to acknowledge any other presence in the room.
But when he examined this
tendency, it didn't seem strange. Even when they were both healthy, he was
aware that both he and Starsky concentrated their attention on each other to an
unusual degree. It didn't matter where they were, at work, relaxing together or
out on a double date. It had been part of their relationship for years. It was
how they were able to predict each other's thoughts and actions with so little
verbal communication. And he knew that he loved Starsky more than anyone else
in his life. So it wasn't inexplicable that he should be unable to take his
eyes off him. He'd come so close to losing him that he needed the constant
reassurance of his existence.
It was just a little
strange that the curve of his eyelashes, the line of his throat, the junction
of neck and shoulder, the sweep of his collarbone, had become so hypnotic.
He had also become vaguely
aware that something was different about his response to being in physical
contact with Starsky. But again, it hadn't been a disturbing realisation. They
had always had a very physical relationship and he'd always enjoyed its warmth.
There had been a lot of touching in the hospital, more than usual even for
them. Starsky had needed a lot of comfort to help with the pain of his injuries
and the psychological trauma of what had happened. Hutch had needed a lot of
comfort for the loss he'd so nearly suffered. Hutch had noted curiously that
being in contact with Starsky produced a heightened sense of pleasure, a
deepened sense of peace. The world outside was more effectively blocked from
his consciousness. But when he examined this phenomenon, it seemed completely
comprehensible as a reaction to the hit.
Hutch sighed. Perhaps he'd
known all along what was going on but had refused to acknowledge it. He'd
enjoyed a few remarkably kinky wet dreams involving his partner – he
would certainly never have told them to Starsky under any circumstances. With
hindsight he had been extraordinarily obtuse in ignoring their blatant message.
But at the time he'd succeeded in dismissing them: he'd gone without sex for
months because of concentrating on Starsky's recovery; he hadn't been in
contact with any women who could provide the body for his dream sex life. As if
his brain couldn't have supplied some image from one of his long string of
girlfriends – the nurses even – as a more convincing template than
Starsky!
What had finally forced him
into reading the message his brain had been sending was Starsky's resumption of
dating. He hadn't had any inkling of trouble when he set up that first double
date. He still didn't understand when out on it. He was just vaguely surprised
that he didn't enjoy it more. He'd been looking forward to resuming his own sex
life: in the abstract at least – perhaps it was peculiar that he hadn't
any particular woman's face in mind when he visualised it. He came away from
the evening haunted by a sense of unease. He'd hoped that Starsky hadn't
noticed: he didn't want to spoil his partner's well-deserved treat.
It was during their second
evening out with a couple of women that all the little signals and clues
finally coalesced into a pattern he could interpret.
They were sitting in the
trattoria waiting for dessert, chatting about this and that. He'd watched
Starsky intently all evening to be certain that he was enjoying himself. He had
a vague feeling that his own girl was just slightly uncomfortable for some
reason: maybe he'd been neglecting her a little. But he needed to look into
Starsky's eyes to read that he was happy. Then, before the waiter showed up
with their orders, Starsky placed his hand over his girl's where it lay on the
white damask cloth.
Hutch was transfixed. His
head swam, his throat tightened, clammy sweat beaded on his back and soaked his
shirt. He recognised the emotion. He was consumed by jealousy. His brain had
finally found a way to make him take notice. All the changes he'd catalogued
and dismissed so readily flew into place. They were joined by a cohort of clues
he'd managed to ignore completely. How could he have failed to notice that
there was a correlation between his erections and Starsky's presence? Easy, the ostrich part of himself snapped in a last-ditch
attempt at self-justification, Starsky was never absent. What was I supposed
to do? Never have an erection at all?
Thinking of erections was
fatal. His face flushed from bone-white to bright red as he realised that his
penis was extracting vengeance for his previous refusal to act on its
suggestions. His first instinct was to flee to the bathroom to calm down,
splash his face with water, anything that might help him regain his balance.
But that was out of the question. His figure-hugging slacks weren't going to
conceal anything. He had to stay put and brazen it out.
Starsky was speaking to
him. "Hey, Hutch, you look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong? You
can't get food poisoning that
quick, can you?"
For Chrissake, can't you
give me some space for once? "Um
. . . I just came over hot for a minute. The ice cream'll cool me down . . ."
He couldn't think of
anything more convincing to add. Shit, the women were looking worried. He must
look really strange.
"Do you want to go
outside for some air? I can come with you if you want – you're not going
to faint, are you?"
"No! Quit fussing."
Hutch knew he sounded annoyed. "It'll pass, just give me a minute or two's
peace and quiet."
He felt Starsky's eyes
boring into him for a moment as he assessed how bad he was.
"I'll hurry up the
waiter." This Starsky accomplished with a huge song and dance, which made
Hutch more uncomfortable than ever. He could feel heads turning all over the
room. The only good thing was that the embarrassment had taken care of his
erection. It was safe to make a swift exit to the men's room to pull himself
together.
He stood at the sink,
splashing water onto his face and peering into the mirror. He looked spooked.
Wild-eyed, white round the lips, definitely not healthy. He took hold of the
porcelain, lowered his head and tried to breathe normally. Much as he would
have liked to hide here, lock himself in a cubicle, climb out the back window,
anything to avoid going back to his table, he knew that he couldn't. And if he
didn't resurface soon, Starsky would come to check on him.
Having willed himself to
relative calm, he studied himself in the mirror again. He didn't look too bad.
Time to walk back to his group as if nothing had happened.
He judged afterwards that
he'd carried it off very well. He'd deflected a few more concerned comments
from Starsky, managed to join in the conversation and laugh at Starsky's jokes
without hysteria making him sound like a berserk hyena. He managed to drive
Susan back to her apartment but wasn't surprised when she seemed reluctant to
invite him in.
********
Life carried on. He coped.
For the first week or so he tried to hide his secret as far from the light as
possible in the hope that it would remain undetected. Maybe if he subjected it
to pitch darkness for long enough, it would wither like one of his plants? Of
course it didn't.
Then, while pounding the
streets on his morning runs, he started letting it out from its prison cell to
examine it. It surprised him. He suspected that the seeds had germinated in the
months before Gunther: his impatience, bad temper, tiredness and general
restlessness had been symptoms of his refusal to acknowledge what his body was
desperately trying to communicate.
It was also while running
that he began to work out a plan. Stuffing it in a cupboard and hoping it would
go away wasn't enough.
Telling Starsky about the
problem was an option so obviously impossible that he didn't waste time
analysing why it was a bad move.
But he was surprised that
he so readily rejected "terminal decline from unrequited love, crash and
burn". He didn't actually feel morose: worried that Starsky might find
out, yes. And deeply regretful that there wasn't a hope in hell of trying out
for real what his dream self had enjoyed so spectacularly. But he wasn't
miserable. Seeing his partner lying so close to death, hearing that his heart
had stopped, had granted Hutch a terrifying view of the mud churning at the
bottom of the pit of despair. This wasn't the same at all. In the hospital, he
would have made a pact with the devil himself to save Starsky. If unrequited
sexual love was the price, so be it. It certainly didn't negate the joy of
being at Starsky's side day after day.
And he knew beyond any
doubt that no one was more important to Starsky than he was. His partner might
date but the women weren't close to him the way he was. They weren't really that
much different from going to the movies – entertainment, an enjoyable
evening out, a break from routine and the hard work of recovery. Realistically
Starsky was a bachelor well on his way to forty, old enough to be set in his
ways: Hutch thought it unlikely he'd find another Terri. He might have to
revise this sometime in the future, but not yet.
There was, of course,
another convincing reason not to pine to death. Starsky couldn't fail to notice
and he'd demand to know what was going on.
So Hutch opted for
concealment and enjoying what he had. As time passed, he tried hard to fool
himself as well as Starsky. His musings on his discovery that he could harness
self-control and discipline to drive down his fear were of course not
completely honest. A long-forgotten seal and an exam paper weren't his only
models. There was also the matter of living successfully with concealed
passion.
And after more than a year
of coping with his problem, he knew he'd been right. The regret was there,
turning the knife in quiet moments, usually when Starsky wasn't with him. But
it was always tempered by the joy of his friendship. He was happy, very happy,
despite the flaws.
Very occasionally, when he
judged it was safe, he let his mute love out to play cautiously where the
shadows were thickest. Amongst the swirling emotions brought on by today's
near-miss, Starsky wouldn't decipher the true reason for the gazes that
lingered longer than usual or understand why his partner craved the warmth of
physical contact so much more urgently tonight.
And so Hutch lay there,
eyes shut, waiting for the movie to finish, sleepy but too adrenaline loaded to
doze off, over-warm but too aroused to throw off the afghan and camouflaging
cushion. Tinny music signalled the rolling of the credits. Soon he would have
to move. Time to concentrate on not thinking about his erection and fool it
into quiescence.
Starsky turned the set off
by remote. Silence. Hutch couldn't bring himself to shift. Just another few
minutes, no work tomorrow.
Then Starsky's voice, much
closer than he expected, surprised him. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to
wake up . . ." The soft, low tone conspired with the gentlest brush of
fingers (lips?) across his forehead to undo any progress he had made.
Either the shock of the
proximity of the voice or the unexpectedness of the caress, he couldn't say
which, caused his eyes to fly open. He found himself staring straight into
Starsky's violet eyes only inches away. Starsky sat up abruptly, equally
surprised. Hutch reflected that he'd probably thought he was asleep. Instead of
the bleary, endearingly unfocussed gaze he'd expected, he'd been confronted by
complete alertness.
The phone rang. And rang.
It sat on the coffee table at Starsky's end of the sofa. He made no move to
pick it up. It continued to ring.
"Pick it up, Starsk.
It's probably the office."
"Your turn."
Starsky's tone was completely blank.
Hutch sighed audibly and
moved to comply. His legs were trapped by the afghan, so he caterpillar-humped
backwards until he was lying across Starsky's lap, then he stretched out his
arm. He couldn't quite reach, so wriggled his legs vigorously to loosen the
afghan and gain more maneuvering space.
Starsky leaned over and
gave the cover a firm yank. It came away, trapping the cushion in its folds.
Hutch's fingertips made contact with the handset and he pulled it towards his
ear, trying to get a firmer grip. He was suddenly horribly aware of Starsky's
hand grasping the upper reaches of his inner thigh to balance him as he
stretched. Totally unprepared for the contact, he felt his trousers tighten.
For a split second, he suffered a nightmare premonition of imminent disaster
and cursed his self-indulgence in not moving off the sofa sooner. He could hear
Captain Dobey's puzzled voice coming from the receiver.
He closed his eyes again
and halted with the handset somewhere in limbo. Was there going to be a
volcanic eruption to dwarf Krakatoa? Or would Starsky decide to reject any
knowledge of the third secret?
Somewhere in the
background, he could still hear Dobey's disembodied voice, now sounding higher
volume and worried. Fuck, if I don't answer he'll assume we're unable to
respond and send a squad car to investigate.
He pried his eyes open
again. He came no nearer to dealing with Dobey. The fingers had stopped
grasping his thigh and had begun a sensuous circling movement inches from the
crotch of his jeans. He held himself quite still. Over the background of
Dobey's voice, he heard his own breathing quicken and roughen, felt his jeans
become painfully constricting.
Starsky's face loomed above
him, pupils huge in the lamplight. His own eyes fastened in fascination on
Starsky's glistening lips and catalogued their measured descent. A burgeoning
lump against his shoulder blade filled him with wonder.
He stopped breathing. He
let the handset fall to the floor. He heard it go dead. He felt the kiss.
Gentle, tentative, but overwhelming.
He was so frozen by
surprise that he couldn't respond, not until he sensed the first hint of
withdrawal. He moaned in disappointment and instinctively pursued the
retreating mouth, desperate for more contact, desperate not to reject what was
being freely offered, desperate that the chance might not be given a second time.
His hand, freed from the phone, buried itself in thick, dark curls to anchor
his partner's head.
Starsky's lips parted
slightly above his. His tongue swiftly probed between them, drawn as
irresistibly as if summoned by a magical piper. He tasted a faint aftertaste of
salty popcorn while the scent of sandalwood soap and faint aftershave tickled
his nostrils.
Now it was Starsky who
seemed stunned into immobility. But Hutch could sense tiny noises coming from
his partner's throat, vibrations transmitted through the closeness of their
bones rather than heard, which plainly indicated pleasure. Careful not to spook
him, he ran his tongue sensuously along the line of Starsky's teeth. Obediently
they parted and his tongue slid beyond to curl round his partner's like a cat
brushing against its owner's legs.
He wasn't prepared for the
effect on himself. He had believed that his attempts to keep his passion for
Starsky under control had been effective. Now he learned the truth. The
passion and lust that swept through him bore as much resemblance to his dreams
as a woodsman's campfire to a forest conflagration. He knew he couldn't douse
it again down to a controlled, domesticated flame.
Nor was he prepared for the
effect on his partner. For half-a-dozen heartbeats he gently brushed back.
Without any warning, he attacked, demanding entry fiercely to Hutch's mouth.
Each man pushed furiously, nipping at lips, duelling wetly. Hutch tasted salt
and knew dimly that Starsky had bitten his lip too hard.
Without conscious volition,
his hips struggled to maneuver Starsky's hand from inner thigh to groin. He
refused to cooperate and Hutch moaned in frustration. His skin beneath the old
denim soared to such a pitch of sensitivity that each circling motion must be
searing a scorched trail into his flesh.
But his complaint bore some
fruit. His partner's free hand seized hold of the front of Hutch's shirt and
began to pull it with sharp, urgent tugs from his waistband. When the fingers
began massaging his bare stomach, Hutch thought he would disintegrate and blast
apart like a dry branch in the path of an explosive cloud surging down the
slopes of Vesuvius.
At the point of
disintegration, he was distracted by a nagging sense that he'd forgotten
something crucial. His cock, given delicious, unlooked for freedom after so
many months of denial, frantically tried to quash any rational thought. It
nearly succeeded.
Oh my god! Dobey! He withdrew his hand from Starsky's hair and
immobilised the hand at his stomach before it tackled his belt buckle. He
struggled to disengage his lips. "Starsk?"
There was no response, no
indication at all that Starsky had heard him. He spoke more firmly. "Starsk,
listen to me." At the same time, he gently pushed against his partner's
chest in an effort to make him sit up. He daren't use too much force as he
calculated that it would only produce a tussle for mastery. The last thing he
needed right now was to start off a wrestling competition.
This time there was some
response at least. Starsky followed the guiding hand on his chest without
resistance and looked into his eyes. Hutch shivered at what he saw. He had seen
that expression on Starsky's face before but had never expected that he would
be its cause. He remembered nights after difficult cases when a soaring
adrenaline high had been the only thing keeping them on their feet. They would
phone up a couple of girls and go out, excitement burning in their veins like a
drug, nothing on their minds but sexual conquest. He had seen that look on
Starsky's face, focussed, utterly confident in his own irresistibility, eyes
blazing into his own private world, as he slow-danced with whichever girl he
had mesmerised. His breath caught in his throat. Had he been so sensitive to
Starsky's sexual magnetism, even then?
He couldn't afford to be
mesmerised. He swivelled round so that he sat on the sofa next to Starsky,
facing towards him, one leg hooked underneath himself. Avoiding moving
suddenly, he placed his hands on Starsky's shoulders and shook them gently. He
felt afraid to risk eye contact in case cobalt-blue witchery drained away his
wits, but equally he knew that Starsky was more likely to be swayed by his own
pale blue eyes if he put enough resolution into them.
He tried again, keeping his
voice low. "Starsk, you have to listen to me right now."
He listened to his
partner's breathing. It remained unchanged, rapid and shallow, and when he
glanced down his lips were slightly parted. And swollen with kissing. He
quickly looked away, not trusting himself. "Starsky, that was Dobey on the
phone. You remember the phone ringing? He'll send a squad car along to
investigate if we don't let him know everything's all right. We have to phone
the precinct right now." He emphasised his urgency by another gentle
shake.
As he looked into his
partner's eyes, he saw the furious intensity leach away, then he watched
Starsky's gaze fall on the table and register the fact that the cradle was
minus its handset.
"Shit," he said
succinctly. He drew a deep breath and held it, clearly searching for some
control. "Can you make the call, Hutch? Don't think I can manage it."
A smile twitched the corner
of Hutch's mouth. "I don't know what makes you think I'm any better off."
"Well, let's see, you don't
sound like you ought to be admitted to hospital for breathing problems and
palpitations. How's that for a good reason?"
"Okay, anything to
keep you happy." Hutch bent down and retrieved the handset, then pressed
the cradle and dialed.
The call was intercepted by
switchboard and patched through to the captain's car. It didn't surprise him
that he picked up immediately and bellowed at full volume, "Dobey!"
He sat on the edge of the
sofa and leaned forward, trying to block his awareness of Starsky's proximity. "Captain,
it's Hutch. . ."
He was rudely interrupted. "Hutch!
What the hell's going on there? Another minute and I was dispatching a couple
of officers to check on you both. I hope your explanation's damn good!"
Hutch was horribly aware
that occupying only the edge of his seat was a bad idea. Starsky had wriggled
around behind him, ostensibly to get nearer to the phone at Hutch's ear. Hutch
felt his blush deepening as his overwrought brain – no, not his brain – registered the delicious sensation
of Starsky's thigh pressing erotically against his own. And Starsky's crotch
brushing against his lower back. He swallowed.
"Uh, Captain . . .
there's nothing to worry about just ignore me if I moan with ecstasy , we were really tired. We'd fallen asleep watching
TV and the phone woke me. I was just disorientated I guess and dropped it."
"Hutchinson, I'm
amazed sometimes you've never managed to shoot yourself with your own Magnum .
. ."
Oh my god! Hutch helplessly caught his breath as Starsky's teeth
nipped his ear lobe. "Just give it time, Captain." Starsky's tongue
tentatively probed the depths of his ear, then began to swipe the soft skin
behind it, investigating the little pit formed between his jawbone and skull.
He wasn't going to survive this conversation. He covered the mouthpiece and
hissed, "Cut it out!"
Mouthpieces are sensitive. "What's
going on back there? Hutchinson, are you paying any attention to what I'm
saying?"
"Sorry, sir." He
improvised. "Starsky's tickling my feet." Oh god, I should have
kept quiet. At least Starsky had
desisted from nibbling and licking and his brain might function better for the
rest of the conversation.
"Well get him to stop.
Listen, Hutchinson, I'm sorry to drag you out again after this afternoon but we
have a major situation. I need you both here."
Hutch's heart sank. They
were both too tired for this. Starsky was now fully focussed on listening in.
"How major?"
"Multiple hostages."
"And why us?"
"The gunman's asking
for Starsky."
"Not me?"
"No, just your
partner. His name's Tony Weeks. We don't know how he knows Starsky – he
has a conviction record for mugging but he wasn't the arresting officer. See if
Starsky knows the name."
Starsky twisted the
mouthpiece round. "No, Cap'n, don't meaning anything to me."
"Okay. I'm almost at
the crime scene. I want you to get down here as soon as you can. I still need
to liaise with the officers handling the situation before it thumped down on
our doorstep to get all the details. We'll hold off till you're both here. No
sense having to repeat it."
"Here being?"
"You know the offices
of the law firm Bridges and Sutterman?"
"Yeah," put in
Starsky. "Swish."
Dobey grunted in agreement.
"We're trying to find out if there's any connection with the hostage
taker. Haven't found one yet. Okay, I'm just parking the car. I'll see you
here."
The connection went dead.
Hutch put the phone back down and stared at it for a minute. Starsky had
already slipped out from behind him and was standing by the sofa. He squatted
down by Hutch and put a hand on his knee. "Come on, partner. Go wash your
face and we'll hit the road."
Hutch obeyed. He was
shocked by what he saw in the mirror. Dobey's news might have taken care of his
erection, but he looked like a man who'd just enjoyed a night of wild passion.
He was flushed pink, his hair was an unruly mess, his lips were swollen. Where
Starsky had bitten too hard had blood crusted over it. His eyes burned too
brightly.
The only good news was that
he couldn't spot any obvious love bites.
Quickly he washed and
combed, then emerged to strap on his Magnum. His partner was looking at him
with some amusement.
"What?" he
demanded.
"I think Dobey would
prefer that you tucked your shirt in for the briefing. Wouldn't want to add any
more to our reputation for scruffy dressing, would you?"
Hutch blushed even pinker
and complied. Starsky had clearly run a comb through his curls and found his
gun and jacket while Hutch was in the bathroom. Hutch envied him his dark
coloring: he didn't look half as ravished as his fair-skinned, fair-haired
victim.
********
Starsky drove in silence
for some minutes. Hutch was grateful. The lawyers' building wasn't too far and
he desperately wanted to avoid starting a conversation that couldn't be brought
to a proper conclusion.
"So, Blintz, why d'you
tell Dobey I was tickling your feet?"
Hutch blushed again. It's
going to be a really embarrassing night if this happens every time my partner
speaks to me. "Could it have
something to do with the fact that you were licking my brains out through my
ear? I had to come up with something.
It felt like an innocent enough excuse till I actually said it out loud."
Starsky laughed softly in
his throat. The sound was so erotic and suggestive that Hutch's blush deepened.
He cursed silently. Maybe he could make Starsky blush too? "Amazing how
sensitive phones are these days, don't you think? I wonder if Dobey could hear
you licking and drilling my ear right next to the ear-piece? I guess he was
just too polite to say anything about all the slurping."
He noted smugly that he had
rattled his partner's composure. Starsky shot him a panicked glance. "Oh
shit, you don't think he could hear that, do you?"
Hutch looked away and
shrugged noncommittally. Silence fell once more.
It was Starsky who broke
it. "Hutch, we need to talk about tonight."
"Oh no we don't,"
Hutch shot back sharply. A pang of guilt stabbed him when he caught a hint of
vulnerability in his partner's expression. He could see he was casting about
for something to follow up with but not finding it, so he stepped in hastily. "I
didn't mean 'we're not going to talk about it, period', just 'we're not going
to talk about it right now'."
"But it's important .
. ."
"Yeah, it's important.
Too important to start on just minutes before we arrive at a crime scene. Too
important to talk about when we're both so exhausted the only thing keeping us
upright is adrenaline. We still have tomorrow off, it'll keep till then."
"I'm not gonna stand
for you putting it off forever."
"I won't, I promise.
Just not now, okay? We need to come up with a plan . . ."
"Yeah, I already came
up with a plan." Starsky caught sight of Hutch's questioning gaze. "I
wanted you, so I decided to kiss you."
Hutch snorted with
laughter. "That was your plan?"
"It worked, didn't it?"
said Starsky defensively. "You kissed me back. Enthusiastically, as I
recall." Poor Hutch blushed again and felt himself twitching hopefully.
"Okay, it worked. It
had a few flaws, though."
"Poor timing?"
Both men collapsed in hysterical giggles.
"Yeah, that for
starters. Seriously, we need a broader plan, something more long term." He
watched the effect on Starsky. His face had turned suitably grave.
"How about we keep on
kissing and see what happens?"
"Starsk!" His
voice rose up through the scale in reprimand.
His partner looked
chastened. "Yeah, you're right, Blondie. It's too important to start and
then have to leave hanging. And too distracting. We'll talk it through
tomorrow, 'kay?"
Hutch thought he had
finished, but no. "You meant the long-term thing, didn't you?"
"Starsky," he
began in exasperation. "You agreed we're going to drop it." A
heartbeat's pause: it wasn't fair to deny Starsky that little security. "Yeah,
I meant it."
His partner smiled
lop-sidedly. "So," he began again. Hutch felt incipient annoyance. "This
Weeks guy." Hutch felt guilty. "Remembered anything about him yet?"
He shook his head. "Fuck
all. You?"
"Nope. Maybe you never
even met him – that'd explain why he hadn't asked for you as well."
"Could be, but we're
not often separate on the job. Maybe he doesn't know you from the job — maybe
it's social or something?"
"Yeah, possible I
guess. We'd better hope Records turned up a decent mug-shot."
There was nothing else left
to say. The rest of the journey passed in silence. Hutch tried to keep his mind
blank.
********
The whole area outside the
offices of Bridges and Sutterman was seething with men and women. Barriers had
been erected to keep the curious public at bay out of harm's way: not that
there was much evidence of a curious public at this hour in an office district,
although there was a fair smattering of journalists, including a bored-looking
television crew. They were greatly outnumbered by armies of cops in uniform and
plain-clothes, many of whom Hutch didn't recognise. A few members of a SWAT
team, kitted out in full body-armor, were visible and were doubtless accompanied
by colleagues out of sight on surrounding rooftops.
Looking incongruous among
the sizeable collection of police cars and vans sat an ordinary city bus,
parked with its wheels on the exit side right up on the sidewalk in front of
the lawyers' impressive doors. Looking ominous was a trio of ambulances on
standby.
Starsky parked the Torino
as close to the barrier as possible. They flashed their badges for entry and
scanned the crowd for Dobey. A uniformed cop so youthful looking that Hutch
felt he should still be in high school spotted them and came across. Starsky
clearly recognised him.
"Hi, Shepherd. Seen
Dobey around?"
"Yeah, I'm supposed to
be taking you to him. We're using the boardroom as a temporary HQ. If you'll
follow me?"
More pass flashing to gain
admittance through the revolving glass doors. Hutch glanced round the expansive
lobby: it certainly warranted Starsky's epithet "swish". All tasteful
black marble, jungle-like foliage plants of statuesque proportions, and
expensive modern art. He doubted that they were copies.
"We're using the
stairs rather than the lifts. We don't want to spook him with the sound of
moving machinery," Shepherd explained as he led the way up to the second
floor. He came to a halt in front of a set of impressive double doors in some
exotic dark hardwood. "Here we are." He knocked and opened up one
leaf, then moved aside to let the detectives through. "Seems like a real
psycho, don't envy you. Good luck!" He turned back towards the stairs.
The partners looked at each
other, then sauntered in. It was a room calculated to impress. Underfoot was a
deep-piled cream carpet. Starsky judged that it must be very new or they had
exceptionally good cleaning staff. Hutch noted the fashionable artists' work
lining the walls. Dominating the room was a substantial rectangular table in a
wood so dark it was almost black. Heavy drapes in a self-patterned black
brocade reeked of money. These clearly weren't the sort of lawyers to come to
if you had a petty argument with your neighbour over an overhanging tree. Hutch
knew that his father would feel right at home.
Several people sat
scattered around the table. In addition to Dobey, he thought he recognised one
man as a captain from another precinct. The others were all strangers. A
telephone sat in front of a middle-aged man near the far end of one side.
Dobey started things
rolling. "Come on in and take a seat. People, the fair hair belongs to
Detective Ken Hutchinson, his partner is Detective David Starsky."
None of those watching saw
any signals, but they settled on two chairs down at the end of the table
nearest the window, apparently by mutual consent. Starsky decided that the
chairs were too far apart. He picked his up and moved it right next to Hutch's,
close enough to touch thighs.
"I'll make the
introductions," Dobey carried on. He was sitting at the top of the table
nearest the doors. "Clockwise from my seat, on my left is Mr Edward
Bridges, the managing partner of this firm." He looked the image of a
successful lawyer, late middle-aged, a well cut sober suit, conservative but
not outmoded, thick grey hair perfectly barbered. He nodded at the detectives,
distant but not unfriendly.
"Next to Mr Bridges is
Mrs Marsha Nichols, the firm's office manager." She smiled warmly at the
two new arrivals. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties, dressed
very much in the same style as her employer – conservative dark suit,
expensively cut, with the addition of a piece of conservative and expensive
jewelry; conservative hair style, expensively cut.
"Moving on, we have
James Buchanan." This was the man with the telephone sitting in front of
him. He was in his mid-fifties, ordinary looking, stocky without being
overweight, calm. "He's our expert negotiator and a civilian. He's
successfully handled a lot of hostage situations."
"Then on your side of
the table is Captain Giacomo Leoncini of Fourth Precinct. You may already be
acquainted?" All three men nodded. "The situation started on his
turf."
Leoncini was tall, thin,
dark complexioned, smartly (but not expensively) dressed, and about forty-five.
From what Hutch had heard, his reputation was excellent.
"Perhaps you'd like to
fill my men in on the story so far. Wouldn't say no to knowing more details myself,
for that matter."
Leoncini nodded and was
about to begin when Starsky interrupted him. "Sorry, but I want to hear
background about Weeks first. It's really bugging me that I don't remember who
the hell he is. Did Records fish out a mug-shot yet?"
Dobey considered his
request and then agreed. "Okay, Starsky. We'll do it your way. Here's the
file." He extricated one from a pile in front of him and signalled
Leoncini to pass it along. "The picture's recent – he was arrested
about a year ago and served a short spell inside for mugging a young woman.
There was nothing about the crime to indicate he might turn to hijacking and
hostage taking. No undue threats or violence, he just snatched her bag in a
crowded mall and ran. And he was a model prisoner. He's twenty now."
Starsky fairly snatched the
file from the table as Leoncini slid it over the polished surface towards him.
He opened it and Hutch leaned in even closer until their heads were virtually
touching. The photo showed a good-looking young man, slim but well muscled,
with a heavy curtain of straight fair hair falling to his shoulders. The notes
underneath described him as 5 foot 11 inches, about 155 pounds.
Dobey added more
information. "Although it's recent, his hair's different now. Much
shorter. He didn't grow it back so long when he came out of prison. We've taken
a few shots with a long-distance lens today but with the poor lighting after
dark they aren't any real help." He shoved an envelope across to Leoncini
to pass along again. Hutch captured it, rifled through the contents and put
them down without bothering to hand them to his partner.
Starsky was still peering
intently at the mug-shot. Finally he looked up into Hutch's eyes. Hutch shook
his head very slightly. "Yes, you do," insisted Starsky. "About
six years ago, maybe even a little more. He was a small kid for his age, must
have had a growing spurt later. But he had that same mane of dark golden hair.
No matter how scruffy he looked, the hair was always immaculate. He tagged along
with a gang of kids who were just getting into minor crime. One day we came out
of Wally's Diner to find him breaking into your rust-heap of a car. I told him
he should've had more taste and waited till I had my machine parked."
Hutch frowned. "Yeah,
you wouldn't book him, just gave him a severe talking to. He hung around you
for a while."
"Yeah, just for a few
weeks. I really thought he was going to keep his nose clean. He used to wash my
car, things like that. But he didn't like you much. Think you scared him."
Starsky smirked.
"That's right. Don't
you remember overhearing him one day talking to his friends? He had some
god-awful nickname for me that had us in stitches. What was it now?"
Starsky's smirk broadened
to a grin. "The Golden Ice Queen." Both men laughed. No one else
joined in, though a hint of a smile crossed Dobey's face. "I'll swear he
thought you were going to blow him away when we walked round the corner."
"So what happened to
him?" asked Hutch.
Starsky frowned. "He just
kind of disappeared. His ma moved away, out of the city. She was Italian, with
relatives out somewhere in the sticks. Never heard no more about him."
Dobey nodded. "That
fits with the report in the file. His folks moved back to LA just before the mugging."
"So," said Hutch,
"that doesn't advance us very far. Knowing how he knows Starsky doesn't
give us a clue about why he's holding the hostages or even why he wants
Starsky."
Buchanan spoke for the
first time. "His behavior today is strongly suggestive of mental
disturbance, probably quite severe. Witness statements indicate paranoid
delusions."
Hutch frowned. "Wouldn't
that sort of illness have shown up when he was in the pen?"
"He might well not
have been ill then, or the symptoms might have been so mild as not to be
noticeable. He did a good job of keeping a low profile. There's been more than
enough time since for the illness to develop."
"Why isn't his mother
here? Has anyone asked her if he's had symptoms like these?"
Leoncini stepped in. "We
can't. She died in a car wreck three months ago. It seems like she was close to
her son – she visited him in jail regular as clockwork and the warders
say he always looked forward to seeing her. Exchanged letters regularly too.
We've had men visit her neighbors. They all tell the same story as the warders.
Kept a low profile, no obvious signs of anything odd. A good boy who put out
the trash for his ma and didn't play noisy records or have antisocial friends
round at ungodly hours. In fact he didn't have friends round, period. They
mostly described him as a loner."
Buchanan frowned. "It
all ties in to a fairly classic profile."
"Okay," said
Starsky. "I can picture the man now. Let's hear the story."
Part
Three
Leoncini nodded. "Have
any of you heard of Lascelles Animal Farm? It's a few minutes drive from Fourth
Precinct's offices." Blank looks and shakes of heads all round. "It's
a real neat place to take the kids. It's not a working farm, more like a zoo,
only with domestic animals. You know the sort of thing, pigs, goats, sheep,
cows, small pets. You can take a short ride in a pony and trap, help with the
milking, stroke the rabbits and guinea pigs. It's been there several years now
– started by a group of hippies who decided to settle down – and
they do a great job. They take in school parties to teach them about life
outside the smog, that sort of community thing. It began on derelict land
opposite Friary Park, but eventually they were granted permission to use some
of the parkland as well. The council gave some money towards building a little
cafeteria."
Hutch looked impressed.
"Just before five o'
clock this afternoon several people were waiting in line to board the 390 bus.
We're lucky enough to have several witness statements from a few of them about
what happened next."
"How?" demanded
Starsky. "I thought he was holding hostages."
"Oh yes, he still has
about fifteen men, women and children. But he's also released quite a few in
the course of the evening. Course, he's also killed a few and wounded some
others.
"The clearest and most
comprehensive statement is that provided by Mrs Elena Christodoulos, a widow of
about sixty, who had spent the afternoon visiting the farm with her
four-year-old granddaughter, Leni. I'll read bits of it out to you, seems the
easiest way." He paused while he flicked through a sheaf of papers in
front of him.
"Mr Bridges, can we
have some of these statements photocopied?"
"Sure. Marsha?"
Marsha was already rising
from her chair and walking round to Leoncini. "Just tell me how many you
want. There's a machine next door."
"Thanks. Four sets,
please. No, make it five. We might need a spare." She took them and
silently let herself out the door.
"Okay," Leoncini
resumed his briefing. "This is what Mrs Christodoulos had to say:
"There had been a long
gap in the bus service and the line was longer than usual. Leni was bored with
waiting and grizzly. Harry Silberman was standing in front of me. He lives in
the next street from me but I don't know him well – just to say hello,
how are you doing, that kind of thing. He turned round and asked if he could
give Leni a sweet as it might quiet her. I said yes, and it worked. It was then
that I noticed the young man standing in front of Mr Silberman. He was glaring
hard at Leni and I was glad she'd piped down.
I kept an eye on him after
that because I wanted to avoid any trouble. I noticed that it wasn't just Leni
he was glaring at – he looked real fierce at Mr Silberman. I couldn't work
out why. It wasn't like he was creating any nuisance. I decided I didn't want
to sit too near him on the bus. He didn't seem quite right, somehow. You know
what I mean?
The bus finally arrived a
few minutes after five. A few of us cheered or muttered, 'About time too!' You
know how pally people get when they're all suffering one of the little
inconveniences of modern life together? But the young man didn't join in.
The young man – it
turned out his name was Weeks but I didn't know that then – sat at the
front of the bus on the right-hand side. The pair of seats behind him was free
too and Harry sat there. I carried on down the bus with Leni and sat in the row
behind Harry.
Because the service had
been so poor earlier, the bus wasn't far off full, especially towards the rear.
I was just thinking about
what I would give Leni for her tea, when everything went wrong. The young man
leapt to his feet. It caught my attention because we had just passed a stop and
I thought maybe he'd missed it. But then he began shouting and he pulled out a
gun.
I was terrified and pushed
Leni down towards the floor, then threw myself on top of her. I thought we were
all going to die. I can't remember exactly what he was yelling, but it was
things like, 'Stop following me, stop spying on me!' That sort of thing. I was
lying with my head facing into the gangway, so I could still see some of what
was going on.
It all happened so fast. He
screamed louder, I think something like 'You ain't ever going to spy on me again!'
And he shot Mr Silberman, in the throat I found out later. I was so horrified I
couldn't make a sound. There were a few screams behind me, but not many. I
think most folk were petrified of drawing attention to themselves. He was
obviously deranged. And most people had dived for cover, like me.
I heard the bus driver
swear and saw him look round at Weeks, but he waved his gun at him and told him
to keep going. So he turned eyes front and did what he was told.
Then he yelled at us all to
be quiet. Most folk did just that, he was so scary. But poor Raffaella Gattoni
didn't. She just kept on screaming louder and louder. So hysterical she
couldn't stop, I guess. She's always been – I mean always was –
highly strung. So he marched back towards her and shot her in the face point
blank. A few of us got spattered with the mess. I knew then that we were all
going to die. It was really quiet.
We drove on past a couple
of stops. The driver just kept driving so we didn't pick up anyone else. There
was still no sign of the police.
Then the driver tried to
strike up a conversation with Weeks. He was a braver man than me. He asked, 'So
why d'you shoot that poor old man?'
What was really bizarre was
that he got a civil answer, no threats. It was something along the lines that
Mr Silberman was following him. He thought he was spying on him while he walked
round the farm. Mid-afternoon, he went to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.
When Mr Silberman came and sat down at the same table, he knew for certain he was
a spy. And then of course the poor man had to go and stand behind Weeks in the
line for the bus, and choose the
seat behind his."
Leoncini stopped and
cleared his throat. Marsha, who had just returned with the photocopies,
entering the room as silently as she left, supplied him with a glass of water.
"Thanks, Mrs Nichols.
Would you mind handing round the xeroxes to the other detectives and Mr
Buchanan? Then I'd like the same number done of this statement, please."
He took a couple of sips before continuing.
"Mrs Christodoulos's
statement goes on at length until she was released. She's one observant lady.
But that's the most important part."
Hutch asked a question. "How
long did it take for us to realise something was wrong?"
"Not long after the
events I've just read out. Mr Silberman must be one of the luckiest men alive.
We actually have his statement – it's in with those I've just asked Mrs
Nichols to photocopy. What he says backs up what Mrs Christodoulos heard
– he remembers sharing the table. It was busy and there weren't any free."
"But I thought you
said he was shot in the throat?" Starsky frowned.
"Yeah, he was. But the
bullet went through without hitting anything major. Missed his veins, arteries,
windpipe, the lot. Can you believe it? For that matter Mrs Christodoulos is
also damn lucky. The bullet came out the back of his neck in a downward
trajectory and wedged high in the seat behind. If she hadn't been crouching to
protect her granddaughter, it would have hit her somewhere in the upper chest."
Hutch whistled in
acknowledgement.
"And Mr Silberman's
lucky escape explains how we found out about the hijacking. Seems that Weeks
decided he wanted Mrs Gattoni's body dragged to the front. That turned out to
be really messy and one of the passengers's threw up, which didn't help the
atmosphere in the bus. He had a couple of the men throw her out the front
doors.
"When they came to do
the same to Mr Silberman, they realised he was alive. They were brave men. They
managed to convince Weeks that it wasn't necessary to throw him off at speed.
They feared he wouldn't survive the impact. So they volunteered to carry him
off while the bus was stationary and set him down on the sidewalk. He stood
over them all the time waving his gun. They went back inside and the bus pulled
away again."
Leoncini sighed. "That's
when we were brought in. There were pedestrians who saw Mr Silberman being
lifted out, and saw Weeks' gun. They called the police, who also found Mrs
Gattoni's body."
"That must have been
hours ago," remarked Hutch. "What's happened since?"
"Nothing very
constructive. He began by shooting another hostage, in the arm this time, to
prove he meant business when my squad cars came too close."
"Still alive?"
asked Dobey.
"Yeah, he almost bled
to death, but he was eventually among a group released. Weeks drove around for
an hour or so, apparently at random. He made the driver pull into a gas station
when they were running short of diesel."
"I take it you let him
have more?" said Dobey.
Leoncini grimaced crossly. "We
didn't have much choice. We managed to start up negotiations while he was on
the forecourt. He insisted on a field telephone."
"Any demands?"
put in Starsky.
"Oh yes, he wanted
safe passage to the airport, a private jet to Mexico, and 4.25 million dollars
in cash. Would you believe he asked for nothing bigger than a ten dollar bill
and wanted a million in singles?"
"Four and a quarter,
not five million?" Dobey sounded mystified.
"Yeah, he was very
specific. By this stage Mr Buchanan had been called in to handle the
negotiating."
"And sadly I achieved
less than I'd like. He wouldn't negotiate himself. He selected one of the
passengers. It was the same passenger who'd pulled in the field phone through
the window. Weeks had too much sense to get close to the glass himself."
"So it's important
that he wouldn't speak with you himself?" queried Starsky.
"Definitely. If
everything's passing through an intermediary I don't have the chance to develop
any rapport with him and it makes it much harder for me to judge his mental
state."
"Loony toon seems like
a reasonable guess," muttered Starsky under his breath.
Buchanan ignored him. "The
other problem is that it lets him shift the responsibility onto the go-between
if things aren't going to his satisfaction. That makes it much easier for him
to take retaliatory measures if he doesn't like what we're doing. I think Mr
Tait chose to pick up the field phone because he figured it would make him
valuable to Weeks. That worked up to a point but it was a two-edged weapon.
Weeks shot him later on."
"Shoot the messenger?"
guessed Hutch.
"Yeah, least he's
still alive though. He'll probably make it."
"Was that how he
forced you to hand over the diesel?" Dobey wanted to know.
Leoncini stepped back in. "No,
but same sort of scenario. We said no, he said yes, finished up by shooting two
hostages and having them tossed out of the door. One dead, the other's okay. He
wasn't much short of a full busload to start off with, so plenty more victims
to hand. We gave him the diesel."
"What you need to do
in these cases is to try and wear the hostage taker out", explained
Buchanan. "Going in to attack clearly wasn't going to work, at least not
without catastrophic casualties. Having hostages shot at intervals is hard to
take but it's preferable to a whole busload of dead passengers in a premature
botched rescue mission."
Hutch frowned. "You
didn't know for sure how much ammo he had."
"No," agreed
Buchanan. "And would you have been willing to gamble on him being almost
out?" Hutch stayed silent. "Besides, we were almost certain because
of what we learnt from the hostage injured at the gas station that he had an
excellent supply. He'd been boasting to the passengers and rattling the boxes
in his pockets."
"What the hell was he
doing going to Lascelles Farm with an arsenal stuffed up his shirt?"
wondered Starsky.
Buchanan shrugged. "Who
knows? It's probably a reaction to paranoid symptoms he's been experiencing for
some time. For all we know he's been shopping at the local supermarket armed to
the teeth for weeks. It's just the bus passengers' misfortune that today was
the day he finally acted on his delusions."
"How about a marksman?"
asked Dobey.
"He was clever. He was
real good at not exposing himself. He also had hostages on their feet
positioned around the bus reporting to him any movements they could see –
and forming a good human shield at the same time."
"So you opted to try
and wear him out," Dobey prompted.
"Yeah, let nature take
its course. Tiredness, calls of nature, lack of food and drink, all those
things work in our favor over time. But you need to be very patient and not
rattle his cage too much."
Leoncini broke in again. "And
we managed to get him to release five hostages in return for the fuel. This
group included Mrs Christodoulos and her granddaughter."
"But once he had the
fuel, he broke off negotiations," Buchanan took up the thread again. "He
had Mr Tait toss the phone out of the window and had the driver set off. Again,
as far as we could tell, the direction of travel was random. I was very
disturbed when he stopped talking to us. Not a healthy sign. And we've heard
precious little about his demands after he first came up with them."
"And I take it he's
still not talking as the phone in front of you's not exactly busy?"
Starsky commented.
"If I might interrupt
a moment?" Mr Bridges enquired politely. "I think it would be a good
idea if Marsha made coffee for us all. You wouldn't mind, would you, Marsha?"
She shook her head. "You don't have to worry about her running all over
the building. There's a kitchenette right next door."
Everyone seconded the idea
and off she went again.
Buchanan sucked in his
breath and looked dismal. "It didn't go particularly well after the gas
station. He stopped once and re-established communication via the field phone,
which he demanded back. But he didn't care for what we had to say. That's when
he shot Mr Tait and had another passenger toss out the phone again. More random
driving. Then around nine thirty he decided he wanted food. This time he
demanded a walkie-talkie, not a field phone." He fell silent.
Leoncini carried on for
him. "It followed much the same pattern as the gas deal. He did some
shooting, he took on board some food, he released more hostages. Ten this time.
James here tried to persuade him to let off all the children. He insisted on
keeping one."
"Did he shoot to kill?"
Starsky asked.
"No, this time he
tried out kneecapping."
"Couldn't you have
targeted him when he tossed out the wounded?" Hutch wanted to know.
Leoncini looked glum. "He
stayed well back in the bus and forced the other passengers to do it."
"This was when we came
up against his new development," continued Buchanan. "He'd retained
the walkie-talkie. Suddenly he informs us he's ordering the bus driver to head
for these offices. It made no sense. He's not on the list of employees. He's
not related to any of the employees as far as we can make out."
"And we certainly had
no involvement with his trial," put in Bridges.
"I didn't imagine you
did," said Hutch dryly.
"But there must be a connection somewhere," Starsky insisted. "It
just doesn't make sense otherwise. How about a connection through his
cell-mates?"
"We've already tried
that," admitted Leoncini. "Zilch."
"He's been here since
about ten thirty," Buchanan continued. "He was very smooth entering
the building. Obviously we had it cleared in advance. We had high hopes that a
marksman would be able to take him out as he exited the bus. Much too canny. He
had the bus pull right onto the sidewalk so it was only a few yards to the
doors and the vehicle made a good barrier between him and us. He surrounded
himself with the remaining hostages, about twenty-five individuals, arranging
the tallest men closest to himself. And you remember he wouldn't release that
final child?" Everyone nodded. "He gave her a piggy back, so we
couldn't get a sighting. He made her kind of crouch over his head, so we didn't
have a hope in hell."
"So where is he now,
and how did Starsky get dragged into it all?" Hutch wanted to know.
"He released another
ten hostages – not the little girl – then he pressed right on up to
the fourth floor," Leoncini explained. "It's open plan office space.
We know he's settled down somewhere in the middle. He feels safe, I think,
because it's not like being trapped in a little room with only a single way
out. But we can't see him because it's all little partitions between people's
work areas. We know he hasn't shifted from the fourth floor. The lifts are
locked off and we have members of the SWAT team guarding the stairwells above
and below that level. And SWAT team individuals outside are keeping a keen
watch through the windows, both to check for movement and to take a chance for
targeting him if it presents itself."
"We need to back up a
bit," Buchanan interrupted. "He threw the walkie-talkie down in the
lobby. He's now using the internal phone system. Probably a hopeful sign,"
he remarked thoughtfully. "When he arrived, he demanded an extension
number where he could reach us. And when he settled down on the fourth floor,
he called us to give us his extension number. But he wouldn't talk at that stage."
"And Starsky?"
Hutch prompted.
"Yeah, that was a
complete surprise. He picked up the phone and announced out of the blue that he
would negotiate in future only with some cop named Starsky. We managed to keep
him talking for long enough to find out that he was with Metro. So we contacted
Dobey. The rest you know."
Hutch thought it prudent to
remain silent as to why they had been so slow to contact Dobey about something
of this magnitude on his patch. Now wasn't the time to play politics and Dobey
didn't seem inclined to pursue it.
"And there was no hint
about why he wanted me?" Starsky asked for clarification.
"None at all,"
Leoncini assured him.
"I can make a fair
guess though," added Buchanan. "From what you say, it sounds as if he
liked you."
"But that was years
ago," Hutch protested.
Buchanan spread his hands. "People
have long memories sometimes for kindnesses received. Starsky might well be the
only cop for whom he's ever felt any affection or trust. It's probably
important that he asked now. It suggests that he's aware that time's running
out for him and he desperately needs someone who might be on his side, however
remotely."
Marsha arrived with the
coffee at this point. By unspoken agreement, the men used the opportunity to
take a break and review what they had heard in silence for a few moments.
Hutch could tell that
Starsky was gearing up for another question. "Marsha, has anyone shown you the photo of Weeks?"
"No, the head of
personnel came in earlier and went through our files. She would know everyone
employed here."
Hutch didn't feel fully
confident that the assurances that Weeks had no hidden connection with the firm
meant very much. He suspected that the evidence on which they rested was shaky
in the extreme.
"And what about you,
Mr Bridges?" Starsky was still pursuing his point. "Have you seen the
photo?"
"I don't think anyone
thought it was worth showing to me. I have virtually no contact with people in
the sort of posts he'd fill. He wouldn't be qualified for anything much more
than a messenger."
"Take a look, both of
you." Starsky slid the file across the table.
Mr Bridges looked first. He
frowned. "He does look kind of familiar but I can't place him. How about
you, Marsha? You have a better eye for that sort of detail than I."
She took the proffered file
and removed some sleekly fashionable spectacles from her purse. She took her
time and looked carefully, clearly considering her answer. "I'm sure you do recognise him, Edward." She glanced down the
table towards Starsky. "We have underground parking beneath the building
for senior employees. I've seen this man working there as the attendant. For
some months, I'd say, but I'm not sure when he started. And not every day. It's
the sort of thing you don't pay attention to."
The detectives could see
the dawning light in Bridges' eyes. "You're right. So why didn't Anne
recognise him?"
"There might be
several reasons," Hutch suggested. "Changed name to hide his criminal
past – I don't imagine your firm would be eager to employ someone with a
record. Or possibly one of your employees has been doing some subcontracting on
the side."
"If you'll excuse me,"
Marsha said, "I'll use the other extension in the corner over there to
phone Anne Morgan. That's head of personnel. She might be able to help now we
have a lead."
"Please, go ahead,"
Dobey waved her politely over to the little side table with the phone.
Dobey folded his hands
across his stomach. "Back to the Weeks and Starsky connection. How did he
react to hearing that Starsky was here?"
Leoncini and Buchanan
exchanged glances. Buchanan spoke. "He doesn't know yet. We didn't want
him to demand Detective Starsky go in immediately he arrived. We needed time to
fill him and his partner in properly." He looked across at the two
detectives. "There was some risk he'd see you arrive but we judged it
remote. The SWAT team out on the roofs can't see our man, but they can see
whether there's any movement on his floor. They had orders to inform us if he
sent anyone to look out the windows. And we were certain he wouldn't risk
exposure himself. If he had, you wouldn't be needed here now."
"You gonna tell him
then?" asked Starsky softly.
Buchanan thought about it
for a minute. "Generally I would do a great deal to prevent an untrained
negotiator from meddling in one of my cases. But I think I have to adapt here."
He pulled in a deep breath and then expelled it. "I think you should be
the one to do the phoning."
Starsky was already on his
feet. "Hold on a minute," Hutch said sharply. "Do you have any
advice for my partner on how to handle it?"
Buchanan shrugged. "Sorry,
not really. Weeks is too unpredictable. Until I have some material to make
deductions from, I've no idea."
"Basically your
position is 'Go ahead and I'll tell you afterwards if it was a stupid thing to
say'." Hutch's voice had acquired an aggressive edge. He didn't like the
sound of this at all.
Buchanan refused to be
intimidated. "Yeah, I guess so."
Starsky tried to catch
Hutch's eye. He could see Dobey was preparing to restrain his partner before he
blew up. Hutch was still glaring at the negotiator. "Hutch," he said
softly, a breath above a whisper. Hutch looked across instantly. Whatever he
read in Starsky's eyes made him back down. Dobey relaxed. Leoncini looked
impressed.
"Well, Cap'n, you
ready for me to make the call?"
"Go ahead," he
nodded. "The only advice I can offer is use your instincts. They're
usually good."
Buchanan pushed back the
vacant chair next to him for Starsky to sit down, then thrust a slip of paper
at him with Weeks' extension number scrawled on it.
Starsky sat down, drew a
deep breath, then looked across at his partner. "Hutch?"
He came round the table to
occupy the chair Marsha had vacated and pulled it close to Starsky's. He leaned
in so that he could listen.
Starsky had raised his
finger to dial when Marsha cut in unexpectedly from the side of the room. "You
do realise you can put the phone on loudspeaker, don't you?"
"Um . . . no,"
said Hutch. "How?"
"Will it pick up
everything from this room if I do?" asked Starsky.
"Yes, it's very
sensitive." Hutch experienced a horribly ill-timed flashback to his
earlier conversation in the Torino with his partner. He quickly stuffed it back
where it came from. "Everything said in the room would be picked up, so
we'd all have to be really quiet. But the rest of you would be able to hear
what Weeks was saying," she explained, looking at the officers and
Buchanan.
"Okay, put it on
loudspeaker," advised Buchanan.
She walked over to make the
necessary adjustments and told Starsky that he should speak normally in the
general direction of the microphone.
Starsky dialled. The phone
rang for a long time and he began to think Weeks wasn't going to pick up. But
he was wrong.
"Yes?" came a
very insecure man's voice.
Starsky guessed it wasn't
Weeks: too shaky and probably too old. He introduced himself and asked to speak
to Weeks. Everyone listened tensely to the rustlings and mutterings at the
other end.
Then another voice: "This
is Tony Weeks. Starsky?"
"Yeah, how ya doing,
kid? I didn't know you'd moved back to your old neighborhood. I'm sorry to find
out you've been inside – I thought I'd dissuaded you from a life of crime
when you were a kid."
"Might have worked too
if my ma hadn't moved me away. So why didn't you hear when I was picked up, it
being your precinct and all?"
"I got shot about
eighteen months ago. It was bad. I couldn't work for months."
"Jeez, sorry to hear
that. You're doing okay now though?"
"Yeah, good as new."
Hutch listened. The
conversation sounded so normal it was surreal. This man was worrying about
Starsky being shot in the line of duty when he'd left a trail of death and
mutilation halfway across the city?
Starsky pressed on. "So
what can I do for you, Tony?"
Silence filled the room.
Hutch thought that maybe he'd refuse to reply. But no. "I'm in deep shit
here."
"I know, Tony. So what
can I do to help?"
"You still got that
negotiator there? Buchanan?"
"Yeah, he's here in
the room with me."
"I don't trust him. I
want to talk to you instead."
"I'm here. They
tracked me down for you and hauled me in, just like you asked. Go ahead."
Whatever reply Weeks might
have been preparing to make was lost in the cacophony that burst over the open
line. There was the sound of screaming. Weeks' voice cut through the racket
bellowing "Shut up". A chair (chairs?) fell over noisily. Then a
gunshot rang out. Someone – Weeks? – slammed the phone down at the
other end.
Dobey looked worried. "What
in hell's name was that?"
"Don't sound hopeful,"
Starsky muttered. "You got all your men under control?" he demanded
of Buchanan. "Is the SWAT team still sitting on the stairs or did they get
tired of waiting and decide on finishing up quick and going home before
midnight?"
Buchanan leapt for the
other extension and made a call. Then he turned back to the others. "Nothing
to do with us. It was sparked off by something happening in the room. Call his
number again, Detective Starsky."
To everyone's surprise, the
phone was picked up almost immediately.
"Tony, hi, it's
Starsky again. That sounded really scary. Want to tell me what happened?"
Tony sounded jittery when
he spoke. "Dunno. Some of the hostages started shouting. They panicked, I
guess. I had them all sitting down on chairs. Don't like them standing above
me. I yelled 'Shut up' at them and then the Chinese man jumped up. I figured he
was going to attack me." His voice wobbled.
Buchanan wrote on a piece
of paper, "Getting tired," and put it in front of Starsky.
He nodded and carried on. "Tony,
shooting the hostages isn't such a great idea. We all want to get them and you
safely out of here. Shooting makes people panic. We all need to keep calm."
"I know." Weeks
sounded bizarrely contrite. Hutch heard the young teenager he had been six
years ago. "I have an idea, Starsky . . ." He stopped as if waiting
for permission to speak.
Buchanan raised his thumb
in the air.
"Tell me, Tony."
"I'm getting really
tired here and I'm sick of all these hostages. The kid's getting whiny too."
"It's way past her
bed-time."
"Yeah, I guess so. And
the man I shot – he's bleeding bad all over the floor. It's really upsetting
everyone."
"Tony, have someone
apply pressure to the wound, hard, it'll help. Can me and my partner come in
and bring him out?"
"Yeah, that was my
idea. If you would come up here and be with me, I'd let all the hostages go."
"What about my partner?
Can he come with me?"
"You still with Hutch?"
"Yeah, haven't managed
to get rid of him yet."
"Er . . . I'm not
sure." The hesitation came across strongly.
Buchanan looked at Starsky
significantly and mouthed, "Push!" Hutch unconsciously moved still
closer to his partner's side.
"Tony, I need Hutch to
help me carry the wounded man outside. I can have paramedics waiting in the
stairwell, but you wouldn't want them to come in, would you?"
"No, that sounds okay
then. It's just I don't feel comfortable around him. Too much ice. What was it
I would call him? The Ice Queen. You wouldn't think gold could be that cold and
fierce. He wasn't very friendly to me, you know. I could tell he disapproved of
you helping me and being my friend. Let me think a minute . . . . Okay, he can
help you shift the man and take the other hostages away, but he's not staying
here."
"Okay, Tony. I need a
few minutes to organise the paramedics. We'll give you a call when we're on our
way up."
"That's fine. Oh, I
forgot. No weapons."
"Okay, no weapons. But
you don't mind flak jackets, do you?"
Silence. "Okay,
Starsky. The jackets are all right. Just no weapons. I'll be waiting for your
call." The phone went dead.
Starsky could sense the
impending explosion from his partner. It wasn't long coming. "Starsk, you
need to renegotiate that right now. Sending you in alone is not an option.
There won't be anyone to cover your back and he sounds a complete nutcase."
Starsky shook his head. "It's
the best deal we're going to get. All the remaining hostages go free and he
trusts me. I can probably talk him down, no problem."
"NO!" Hutch's
shout was uncomfortably loud, even in so large a room.
Starsky glanced at Dobey,
willing him to stay out of it for now. Across the table, Leoncini looked on in
obvious fascination. "Hutch," he said quietly. He laid a hand gently
on his partner's arm where it lay on the table and squeezed. Hutch subsided
visibly. "It really is the best deal going. Better than Buchanan managed.
And we need to act fast, not give him time to regret freeing his hostages."
Buchanan nodded in support.
"Another factor to consider is Week's clear dislike for you, Detective
Hutchinson. Your presence is more likely to cause things to go wrong than help
your partner. Weeks is jealous of you. By all means go and help bring down the
wounded man and the hostages. That should give you the chance to observe the
layout of the floor, which might come in useful later."
"You mean if Starsky's
injured," Hutch muttered.
"No, I mean in all
sorts of possible outcomes. But I promise you that if you remain with Weeks,
there's a much higher chance of disaster. He doesn't trust you. You annoy him.
You scare him. That's the last thing we want. And Starsky's right. The less
chance we give him to reconsider, the better. My vote is we move now."
Dobey nodded. "I don't
like the sound of Starsky being alone up there any more than you do, Hutch. But
I don't think we're going to get a better offer. Giacomo?"
"Yeah, I agree."
"Okay, so we're
agreed." Starsky was already stripping off his leather jacket and removing
his gun. "Order the flak jackets. I want a word in private with Hutch.
We'll be in the kitchenette. Marsha?"
"Next door on the left
as you leave the room."
Starsky put his hand on the
small of Hutch's back and gently propelled him outside. As he shut the door
behind them, he heard Buchanan on the phone chasing the flak jackets and Dobey
quizzing Marsha about whether her talk to the personnel manager had revealed
anything further.
********
Hutch thought that the
kitchenette was definitely large enough to merit the full title of kitchen
rather than the diminutive. He turned round to shut the door, then rested his
forehead against it. He felt embarrassed by his outburst.
"I'm sorry, Starsk. It
was unforgivable to leap in like that."
Starsky tugged him round
and placed a finger on his lips. "Shush. No, I'm not mad at you. It's no
different than the way you've always acted. You would always have kicked up a
stink about me going in alone like this."
Hutch frowned as he
considered. "Yeah, you're right. Okay, I'm not sorry. I think you cut a lousy deal with Tony. And I
wouldn't trust him an inch. Half the time he sounds like the teenager we knew, half
the time he sounds like a psycho. Don't turn your back on him."
"No, I wasn't planning
to. Stop worrying, I'll be all right."
"Don't make promises
you can't keep," Hutch said wistfully.
"Okay, just stop
worrying! And if I need the cavalry, don't be late."
Hutch didn't bother to
reply. He knew there was no more to be said. He briefly felt a fierce urge to
kiss his partner. He dismissed it: it was not the time to start mixing work and
private life. He knew without a doubt that their partnership would not survive
that sort of confusion.
So he opened the door. As
he walked back to the boardroom, he shrugged out of his jacket and began
removing his gun holster.
Dobey nodded in greeting
when the pair reappeared. Hutch felt he was being silently assessed to see if
he was ready to go along with the plan. Presumably he satisfied his captain's
scrutiny as nothing was said.
Buchanan looked up from the
file he was studying. "The flak jackets should be here any minute."
"Did your personnel manager
turn up anything?" Hutch wanted to know from Marsha.
"Nothing concrete. But
it seems highly probable that there's some private subcontracting going on. I
can recall the faces of four attendants. But there are only three in our
records. However, we have no idea who Weeks' contact is. We'd need to pull time
sheets for the real attendants and try to work out who was theoretically on
duty on the days I saw Weeks. The trouble is that I don't recall exactly when
he was on duty."
"Thanks for trying, anyway.
It's probably not relevant at present." Hutch frowned slightly. He hated
to be without information that might have potential value.
The arrival and fitting of
the flak jackets kept them all busy. The paramedics appeared just as the last
loops were being fastened. Hutch hated wearing them. They were too heavy. He
felt restricted and clumsy.
Starsky made the phone call
to announce their imminent arrival. Tony sounded eager. At least he picked up
the phone after only a couple of rings. Hutch noted that he no longer forced a
hostage to act as a go-between.
He, Starsky and the two
paramedics began their march up the stairs to the fourth floor. Hutch was very
aware of the unaccustomed jacket dragging on his shoulders.
Starsky told the paramedics
to wait on the landing below, which was where the two SWAT men were stationed.
Then he and Hutch went on alone.
Double doors, again in a
dark wood, separated the stairwell from the work area. A porthole window in
each gave them a limited view of the interior. Starsky motioned to Hutch to
stand back. He knocked on the glass.
He heard Weeks' voice
inviting him in. He'd been assured that the security system that would normally
require a code to be punched into a pad at the side of the doors was turned off.
But it was still a relief when the door yielded to his pressure and swung
inwards.
"Is it okay if I come
in, Tony?" He didn't want to run any unnecessary risks.
"Yeah. Is Hutch with
you?"
"Sure, you said it
would be all right for him to help me with the wounded man. Can we both come
in?"
"Okay, just don't make
any sudden moves."
Starsky and his partner
stepped into the room. It was large, running right through the building. A long
row of broad and high windows ran down each side. But they couldn't see Weeks
or the hostages, who were concealed in the forest of partitions around the
desks in the central space.
"We can't see where
you are, Tony. Too many partitions."
"Just keep on walking
forwards."
They did so, making sure
that Starsky took the lead.
Weeks was holed up in a
large open area right in the centre of the floor, completely protected by
partitions. He smiled in delight to see Starsky and frowned uncertainly at
Hutch.
The hostages were behind
him, sitting on the floor or chairs. They looked either petrified or blank. A
man lying on the floor, heavily stained with blood, was clearly the casualty. A
middle-aged woman was applying pressure to a thigh wound. The little girl was
sitting on a man's knee dozing. Hutch was grateful that she felt secure enough
to do so.
Starsky asked permission to
go and deal with the injured man. "I think he's okay," Weeks said,
sounding nervous.
"Um, Starsky, I've
been thinking. . . ." Hutch's heart sank, then started beating overtime. "I
know I said you could help Hutch carry him down to the paramedics, but I really
made a mistake there. If I let you go down the stairs, you might not come back
to help me. So I've decided that Mr Brotzen over there can help Hutch carry him
and you can stay here."
Hutch bit his tongue.
Nothing he said would convince Weeks to do what he wanted. He had to leave it
to Starsky. "We did agree Tony. And I'd rather help Hutch myself. Mr
Brotzen's too old to be lugging dead-weight down the stairs."
Hutch saw a wintry look
close down Weeks' face. The teenager had disappeared. Starsky saw it too and
decided this wasn't the moment to push. He shrugged as if he didn't care. "If
it's okay with Mr Brotzen, it's okay with me. What do you think, sir?"
Mr Brotzen looked
astonished to be drawn into the discussion but played his role coolly. "I'll
manage."
Weeks looked relieved and
the cold faded away. "Okay, that's good. Off you all go. I'm sorry you've
all been kept out so late. And I'm sorry the bus driver got lost. Maybe the
police will organise rides home for you."
Hutch was relieved that
none of the hostages opted to dispute his version of events. They all gathered
together in a herd and looked to him for a lead. He and Mr Brotzen managed to
haul the Southeast Asian man to his feet and stabilise him between them. He
moaned alarmingly but was still conscious.
"It's going to be
okay, sir. We have paramedics waiting just down the stairs. You'll soon be
feeling a lot more comfortable."
He began heading out of the
partition jungle. Any hope that Weeks would follow to ensure he left and thus
expose himself to the SWAT sharpshooters on the surrounding roofs proved vain.
As he looked back, he saw him sit down on one of the chairs.
He made eye contact with Starsky
and then kept going towards the door. It seemed a very long way and he
half-expected a bullet in the back. He had never realised that Weeks disliked
him so intensely. Perhaps he hadn't at the time; maybe it was all a later
interpretation of how he had felt as a teenager.
He successfully transferred
the wounded man into the care of the paramedics, who strapped him efficiently
onto their stretcher. When they were finished, he set off down the stairs,
sending everyone else in front of him. He could hear that some of the hostages
had begun to weep. The little girl was still asleep.
********
He was met at the boardroom
level by Dobey.
"Well done,
Hutchinson," he nodded his approval quietly before addressing the group of
former hostages.
"Now, if all you
people would come this way, we will supply you with food and hot drinks,
restrooms, blankets, and any extra clothing you may need. You are welcome to
phone relatives to reassure them you're safe.
"We've summoned a
doctor who will give each of you a preliminary examination to check that
there's no damage done and he's already on his way. We're lucky the hijacker
selected offices equipped with every convenience – there's a first-aid
room one floor down from here which we can use for the examinations. We'll send
each of you down with a police escort who will remain outside the door. There's
no possibility of Weeks showing up uninvited but we want you to feel safe.
Should the doctor recommend that anyone ought to go to a hospital, there are
ambulances outside. And if anyone wishes to go to a hospital anyway, just let
us know.
"One other thing:
we're going to have to ask you to remain here until we can debrief you.
I know you must all be
anxious to go home, but anything you can tell us about tonight might help our
colleague. The man who exchanged himself for your safety is Detective David
Starsky. I think you owe him all the help you can provide."
There were muted murmurs of
agreement. Hutch admired his captain's ability to project an air of calm
assurance. Dobey led the rescued hostages through into the boardroom.
Hutch turned back to the
wounded man. The paramedics were occupied in some emergency measures to
stabilise his condition before carrying him the rest of the way down to the
ambulance. "May I have a moment with him?" he asked.
The paramedics nodded. "Not
too long, we want him in hospital as soon as possible."
Hutch leaned over the
stretcher. "What's your name, sir?"
"Mr Lee. Sorry, no
speak good English. Refugee."
"I understand. Can you
tell me, do you have any idea why Weeks shot you?"
The man closed his eyes for
a moment. "I not understand. He tell me ‘Stand up'. I stand quick. He
shoot."
Hutch thought back. Then he
realised that it had been a language problem. "I'm sorry, sir. I believe
that what he actually said was ‘Shut up.' When you stood, he thought you were
going to attack him."
"Need to improve my
English." Despite his pain, Hutch detected a glimmer of a smile on the
refugee's face.
"Yeah, I guess so. I
won't detain you any longer, sir. Someone will be in contact with you for a
statement when you are more comfortable in the hospital. Do you understand or
should I go through that again."
"No, I understand.
Thank you."
The paramedics finally
moved off towards the stairs. Hutch went into the boardroom again, conscious
that this time there was no Starsky at his side. And also conscious that he had
no idea of what was going on two floors up. He wouldn't hear anything, not even
a gunshot.
The boardroom looked quite
different from when he had left it. It seemed much smaller, purely because it
was now full of people. Enough officers had been called in to take the
witnesses' statements so that they wouldn't have to wait in line. Men were
bringing in chairs from surrounding rooms to accommodate everyone.
Marsha was on her feet
liaising with a man and woman in uniform. Hutch caught the word "coffee"
and guessed she was explaining where they could go to start producing drinks.
Leoncini was occupied on
the phone in the corner ordering blankets to be brought up and making
arrangements to procure some hot food. All modern conveniences indeed, Hutch
thought. It seemed they had decided to heat up soup in the kitchenette next
door.
A knock at the door heralded
the arrival of four SWAT men. Hutch heard Dobey delegating them to escort the
ex-hostages, a few at a time, to the nearest washrooms so that they could
freshen up. Again, Marsha was there to give information.
It was a hive of activity
and Hutch felt left out. No one had allocated him a job. He seemed to be the
only person in the room at a loose end. Even Bridges was busy. He'd taken on
the task of looking after the little girl while the man who had been holding
her gave his statement. She'd woken up now and appeared to be chatting
animatedly with her new friend. Hutch guessed that the formal lawyer might also
be a doting grandfather – he seemed very at ease in his role.
Buchanan was sitting in
with one of the witnesses while her statement was being taken. Hutch guessed
that he was eager to sift through the new information in the hope of building
up a better picture of what made Weeks tick. Not that it was going to help
Starsky. Whatever Buchanan deduced now, they had no way of letting his partner
know.
His eyes were drawn
irresistibly to the boardroom table. Starsky's jacket lay draped carelessly
across it, his holster and gun sitting forlornly in their nest of leather.
Hutch found the reminder that Starsky was unarmed deeply disturbing.
And the phone they'd used
to contact Weeks sat there balefully as if in quarantine. Obviously people were
using the phone in the corner to make any calls to ensure that Weeks always had
access.
He willed it to ring. He
already felt desperate to have some confirmation that Starsky wasn't in
trouble. But of course it remained silent. He knew it was going to be a long,
painful night. Now that he wasn't busy, his tiredness was making itself felt.
He yawned and rubbed at his face. He struggled out of his flak jacket and eased
his holster back on.
The seat in front of the
phone was vacant so he took it.
Before long Dobey turned up
at his elbow. "Hutch, we have cans of soup on the way to heat up for
everyone. Should be here any minute now. Will you go and help Marsha organise
that? She says there are bowls and spoons in the kitchenette cupboards, so we
don't have to stoop to plastic cups."
He got to his feet,
collected Marsha and went to investigate the kitchenette. A vivid memory of
Starsky's finger resting on his lips plucked fiercely at Hutch as he opened the
door. He dismissed it firmly.
The cans were already piled
on one of the counters, alongside several loaves of sliced bread. Hutch
wondered who had known where to find an all-night supermarket. Marsha found an
apron in one of the drawers – Hutch thought with amusement that nothing
seemed to shake her adrift from her unflappable efficiency – and swiftly
had four pans sitting on the rings. Soon she had him carrying through bread and
steaming bowls on a tray she conjured from somewhere. The ex-hostages and
hungry police were kept happy and Hutch was kept busy.
He noted as he came and
went that the atmosphere in the boardroom was subtly changing. The survivors
had begun to accept – for now at least – that they were truly free
and were beginning to relax. A couple were becoming quite boisterous with
euphoria.
Eventually he was able to
tell Marsha that they were the only two left without food. She poured out two
final bowls and made Hutch sit down with her at the little kitchen table. He
realised that she had a knack for making people do what she wanted without
seeming to push. He would far rather have been sitting by the phone in case
Starsky or Weeks rang. Instead he found himself sitting down dipping bread in
soup.
They ate in silence for a
while, then Hutch remarked, "You know that you and Mr Bridges don't have
to hang around any longer, don't you? You've been a huge help, but if you
wanted to go home and get some sleep that would be okay."
She smiled. "Yes, I
know. Captain Dobey made it clear while you were bringing down the hostages. We
don't want to leave. I've worked for Edward for years – most of my
working life, in fact. This firm means a great deal to me. I've invested a lot
of myself in it over the years. Neither he nor I feel it would be right to
abandon the offices till everything's resolved. I know this is only a building,
not human lives. But it's still important to us."
Hutch nodded his
understanding. "We certainly wouldn't want to force you to go. And you're
quite safe here."
She looked up from her
bowl. "But your partner isn't, is he?" Worry replaced her usual mask
of cool competence. "It must be difficult" – she paused as if
assessing whether she had chosen the right word – "agonising for
you, knowing he's up there somewhere and there's nothing you can do. Those poor
people are so relieved to have escaped with their lives that I think they've
almost forgotten it isn't over for you."
He shrugged, feeling
uncomfortable. "I'm used to it." He too assessed what he had said. "No,
not used to it. But I accept it, we both do, it's part of the job."
She looked thoughtful but
said nothing more.
Shortly afterwards, they
returned to the boardroom. It remained crowded but the chair by the phone was
still unoccupied. He sank down wearily.
It wasn't long before Dobey
came to join him. "Hutch, you look like the walking dead. I want you to
take a break."
"I'll be fine. I just
need to be doing something. Maybe I could help take statements or something."
"Hutchinson, it wasn't
a request. You have a choice. You can rest your head on the table here and take
a nap. Or you can go lie on the floor in a corner out of everyone's way. But
you're closing your eyes and keeping them closed."
He shifted restlessly. "It
won't make any difference. I'm not going to get any sleep while Starsky's up
there visiting with the neighborhood psycho. I might just as well be gainfully
occupied."
"I said it's an order.
You need a break. No arguments. The way you look at present you won't be fit to
help your partner when he needs it." He scanned the room. "Marsha,
can you bring some blankets over here for Hutch, please?"
Hutch knew he'd been
manipulated but felt too weary to fight back. He let Marsha wrap the blanket
round his back and shoulders, leaned his head forward and rested it on his
arms. He felt Marsha place a hand on his back. "I'll see if I can find a
cushion for padding," she promised.
She seemed able to produce
anything. The cushion arrived. He readjusted himself. Despite his insistence to
Dobey that he wouldn't sleep, he drifted off, lulled by the quiet murmuring of
voices around him.
********
He came to with that
horrible sense of disorientation that strikes when you wake up somewhere
unfamiliar. He realised when he raised his head off the cushion that his neck
was stiff. He circled it slowly to work out the kinks.
The room was restored to
something more nearly approaching its previous state. The freed hostages had
all disappeared, presumably to their homes or the hospital. The cops taking
statements had all gone. So, he
thought, back to the original group.
Leoncini was stretched out
on the floor, covered by a blanket. Buchanan was sitting within arm's reach of
the phone, a couple of yards from Hutch. Dobey was at the head of the table
again, sifting through statements and making notes. Edward Bridges and Marsha
Nichols were sitting close together at the opposite end of the table, talking
quietly.
What made the room seem so
different from when he first saw it was its sheer untidiness. Chairs were
scattered everywhere in little clumps. Footprints marred the pristine cream of
the carpet. Someone had had an accident with tomato soup. Blankets were piled
higgledy-piggledy in a couple of corners. Surprisingly, there was none of the
expected debris of cups and bowls underfoot. On reflection, perhaps it wasn't
so surprising: Marsha had presumably taken at least some clearing up in hand.
He had no idea of the time:
three thirty-five, according to the expensively austere boardroom clock on the
wall above the door.
Dobey had heard him
stirring and was looking at him down the table.
"Any news from
Starsky, Captain?"
"No, Hutch, you know
I'd have woken you if anything started up. Feeling more rested?"
Hutch thought about it. "Yeah.
Wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee."
"I'll rustle one up.
Need to stretch my legs anyway." He hoisted himself heavily out of the
chair and waddled stiffly out of the door. Hutch followed his example,
stretched comprehensively, and began pacing slowly round the room to start his
circulation moving again.
When Dobey returned with
coffee for those still awake, he wordlessly handed Hutch a sheaf of statements
to wade through. He sat down again near the phone and started reading. Nothing
gave him any deeper insight into Weeks' state of mind. He kept going in the
fragile hope that there was some gem hidden somewhere amongst all the words for
him to find.
The phone rang. Hutch's
hand snaked out and captured the receiver before Buchanan had a chance to
react. He registered the annoyance on the other man's face as he pressed the
handset to his ear. He ignored Buchanan's silent demand for possession.
Would Weeks recognise his
voice? He opted for a neutral, "Hello."
"Captain Dobey, hi."
It was Starsky's voice. Hutch realised that he wished to conceal Hutch's
potentially unsettling and threatening presence from Weeks.
"Are you okay? Christ,
it's been hours!"
"I'm fine, Captain.
We're both a little tired. I thought you would be worrying by now so I asked
Tony if I could call. He agreed it was a sensible idea."
"Have you made any
progress?" Hutch asked urgently.
"No, we're fine."
"So you think you'll
be up there for much longer?"
"Yeah, sure hope so."
"Can you persuade
Weeks to let you call in progress reports on the hour?"
"I'll ask."
Hutch heard muffled voices
at the far end.
"Perhaps, he's not too
sure. Don't worry if you don't hear from me, Captain. Speak to you later."
The line went dead.
Buchanan was not pleased. "If
that had been Weeks, it could have seriously undermined Starsky's position."
Hutch knew he had a point
but was unwilling to admit it. "It wasn't Weeks," he snapped.
Dobey stepped in to defuse any
argument before it started. "So what did he have to say, Hutch?"
Hutch related Starsky's end
of the conversation for the others to analyse. Leoncini had been woken by the
ringing and had come back to sit at the table.
"So," Buchanan
summed up their predicament. "He might be able to call us in an hour's
time but he might not. That's not helpful. It doesn't give us any firm basis
for a decision to send in a SWAT team if he doesn't contact us."
Dobey intercepted Hutch's
attack. "Mr Buchanan, sending in a SWAT team on that sort of evidence
would be premature. I won't sanction any attack without more definite evidence
that all other options are exhausted. I value Detective Starsky highly and will
not risk him in order to resolve the situation more speedily when a longer-term
approach seems likely to result in a more desirable outcome."
Leoncini nodded his
support. "I agree. No SWAT team until we know it's a workable option."
Part
Four
They returned to waiting.
Hutch finished his pile of statements. It was now almost an hour since
Starsky's phone call. He could feel the tension building furiously inside until
he could sit still no longer. He began pacing round the room.
Four fifty-five a.m. came
and went without a call. No one said anything. Hutch knew that there was
nothing that could usefully be said. The silence became more claustrophobic and
oppressive. Dobey and Leoncini gave up shuffling the files in front of them.
Buchanan was engrossed in examining every detail of his hands resting on the
table.
At seven minutes past five
the phone rang. Marsha jumped visibly. Buchanan held himself very still. Hutch
nodded at him to take charge of the phone, which had been set to loudspeaker
mode in preparation for the anticipated call.
Starsky's voice came
through calmly. "Hi, Mr Buchanan, can I speak with Captain Dobey, please?"
Buchanan interpreted this
as a request for Hutch and made space for him to come and speak into the
microphone.
"I'm here, Starsk.
We're on loudspeaker this end. What's with the delay?"
"Dunno. Things are
still fine."
Hutch interpreted this to
mean that Starsky didn't want to go into details. How close was Weeks to the
phone? Could he pick up anything of what was being said? Hutch tried to be as
circumspect as possible. "So no change?"
"Yeah, think so."
"You don't want us to
change our approach?"
"That's right, same
thing." A raised voice came through but the listeners couldn't decipher
the words. Hutch didn't like the tone: sharp and querulous. "I'll try and
talk again later. Tony wants to say something to me now." He rang off.
Hutch felt as if he was
being tortured. He had no way of knowing just how trigger-happy Weeks was.
Starsky didn't sound tense. But Hutch knew that he was a good actor when the job
demanded it. And if Weeks was a complete loony, how much help would Starsky's
instincts be in assessing his own danger?
He had to move. He had to
leave the boardroom before he exploded with worry.
As he neared the door,
Buchanan shouted behind him: "Detective Hutchinson!"
"Let him go. He won't
wander far." It was Dobey, confident that Hutch would not mount a one-man
rescue mission to save his partner under the present circumstances.
The heavy doors cut off
Buchanan's reply.
Hutch stalked round the
second floor for ten minutes for so. When he felt a little calmer, he found the
washroom and freshened up. His over-bright eyes stared back at him wildly from
the mirror. He no longer felt tired but recognised that was deceptive. He
hadn't dozed for long enough or deeply enough to make up his sleep deficit. It
was the mounting agitation ripping him apart that had temporarily thrust the
exhaustion aside and it would crash in on him again later. He saw that he was
unnaturally pale. The unflattering fluorescent light strip threw into relief
the deep lines round his eyes and carved gullies in his cheeks. He didn't blame
Buchanan for believing that he had lost it.
He returned to the
boardroom to endure more waiting. By comparison, the time he had spent at the
hospital that afternoon – or rather the previous afternoon – seemed
positively benign. Time was playing more tricks. Dr McKitterick and her
reassurances seemed months rather than hours ago. And he didn't think tonight's
events would qualify in her view as "taking it easy".
He sat back down in his
chair and concentrated hard on gathering together all the control and
discipline he could dig up. He had called all his reserves into action. There
was nothing left.
Six o' clock passed without
any call. By this time everyone had given up all pretence of being occupied.
The edgy atmosphere crackled with tension. Marsha and Bridges had abandoned
their quiet conversation hours ago.
Around ten past six,
Leoncini began to tap his fingers in an irregular beat on the table. A furious
glare from Hutch failed to penetrate his private world. Dobey shifted his bulk
uncomfortably. After five minutes or so of this new torture, Hutch had to act
or explode with fury. "Captain Leoncini? Cut it out, will you?" By a
supreme effort of will he kept his voice tightly controlled.
Leoncini stopped his
fingers in mid-beat and stared at them as if they belonged to someone else. "Sorry,
didn't realise I was doing it. Bad habit."
Hutch grunted his thanks.
Shortly after six thirty,
Hutch was driven to pacing again. Buchanan jumped when he stood up as if awoken
from a trance. He too rose and commenced some stretching exercises. Marsha
disappeared and returned with more coffee. Hutch noted that even her calm
self-possession was beginning to fray.
Hutch stood by the window
to drink and looked out. He knew that it would be dawn in another ten minutes
or so. The first glow that precedes sunrise proper was already visible. He was
aware that Leoncini had joined him.
After a few minutes,
Leoncini turned back to the table. "Buchanan, do you think we should phone
and try to find out what the hell's happening?"
He answered without
hesitation. "No, I strongly recommend not. Sure, Detective Starsky might
not have been able to phone because things are bad. But if they are bad, I don't think a phone ringing will help him any.
And sometimes no news is good news. Patience – we still need to wait it
out."
Leoncini nodded his
understanding and returned to the table. The silence resumed and stretched on
interminably.
It was now quite light.
Hutch could see the squad cars and men still outside on the street clearly. He
sighed and sat down once more.
He was checking the clock
again – now six fifty-eight – when the phone rang. Everyone jumped.
Hutch leapt out of his chair and seized the receiver before he remembered it
was still set to loudspeaker. He toggled the switch and put back the handset.
"Hutch? That you?"
Starsky sounded jubilant. Hutch let his breath out and leaned his weight
against the edge of the desk.
"Yeah, we're on
loudspeaker." Hutch realised as the words left his mouth how events
earlier this evening had changed things. Before today he wouldn't have worried
that Starsky in a fit of enthusiasm might say something inappropriate for all
to hear. Something else for him to get used to.
"Yeah, I know. My
brain's still functioning." Hutch felt a twinge of guilt at the impatient
tone in his partner's voice. "Come on up, will you? It's all over."
"You're not hurt?"
Hutch couldn't help himself.
"No, I'm fine."
More impatience. "Come on, what you waiting for?"
He needed no more
encouragement. He spun round and left the room running, vaguely aware of the
two captains and Buchanan following in his wake.
He tore up the stairs two
at time, the combination of anxiety and relief lending his legs gazelle-like
power. He remembered to call out so as not to surprise the SWAT team on the
landing below the fourth floor, then skidded across to the double doors. He quickly
peered through the porthole. No Starsky, no Weeks in sight. He banged one leaf
open and charged through, gun in hand just in case. The door slammed violently
behind him.
"Starsky?"
"We're still in the
middle of the forest. Just keep coming, you can't miss us."
He discovered Weeks sitting
handcuffed securely through the metal arm of a chair. Starsky stood behind him.
Looking at him gave no hint that this was the morning after the night before.
His face and body language looked positively exultant. He was bouncing on his
toes out of sheer excitement. He seemed as undamaged as he had claimed when
Hutch raked his eyes swiftly over him, just to check for himself.
"I read him his
rights, he's all ready to ship downstairs."
By this time Captains Dobey
and Leoncini had arrived, flanked by the SWAT men, who were training their
impressive weaponry firmly on Weeks. Behind them stood Buchanan, eager to be in
on the end of the siege.
Weeks looked far too cowed
and innocuous ever to have caused such carnage and fear. He was sitting hunched
forward, bending over his knees so that his face was invisible. He hadn't even
raised his head when Hutch burst in so forcefully.
Dobey took charge of the
situation. Starsky unfastened the prisoner just long enough to free him from
the chair, then snapped the cuffs on again. At Dobey's direction, Leoncini and
the two SWAT men guided him towards the stairs. As he passed by Hutch, he
glanced up briefly with a look of virulent hatred that surprised him. Then he was
gone, head drooping dejectedly once more.
Just before he went through
the doors, he twisted back with one more surprise. "Bye, Starsky. I'm real
sorry to have put you to so much trouble. Maybe you'll come visit me in jail."
Starsky said nothing and then
he was gone.
"Not if I have
anything to do with it!" muttered Hutch.
"I wasn't planning to
take him up on it. He's ill. He needs psychiatric treatment, friendship from me
ain't going to cure him."
"So, are you going to
let us know what happened or are you going to make me wait till I read your
report?" Hutch was desperate to know details.
Starsky smiled blindingly. "How
much is it worth to you?"
"Come on! I'd like to
get to bed before mid-day." The mention of bed brought forth a blazing flush
of red from somewhere below Hutch's shirt collar that raced up to his hairline.
Starsky noticed it and grinned. Dobey also noticed it and looked baffled.
The captain ignored the
blush and decided to push things along. "If you can manage the Readers'
Digest version, we'll all be grateful I'm sure. The quicker you give it, the
sooner you can go home. Otherwise I'll let Dr McKitterick know that you can't
be trusted to rest outside a hospital and ask her to haul your ass in for a few
days' forcible recuperation!"
"Have a heart,
Captain. There's no way we'll be finished with the paperwork till this
afternoon."
Dobey's expression softened
slightly. "It won't even be started before this afternoon. Soon as I hear
a resume, you're off home. Both of you. I don't want to see you at Metro until
late tomorrow morning. Otherwise I'll be in need of hospitalisation when
Starsky's doctors are through with me."
"Here or downstairs,
Starsk?" Hutch wondered if the scene of Starsky's undoubted ordeal might
make him feel less than comfortable when reliving the last few hours.
"Downstairs."
"Good idea, maybe
Marsha and Mr Bridges will get to hear the end of the story?"
"They still here?
Thought they'd have packed up long ago."
Hutch smiled fleetingly. "I
don't think they could bear to abandon their baby until they knew we'd taken
care of the wolf." Starsky looked puzzled. Hutch sighed and tried again. "They
couldn't bear to leave the offices until we'd thrown out the intruder."
Light dawned.
********
Marsha Nichols and Edward
Bridges were indeed still waiting in the boardroom. She warmly congratulated
Starsky on his success and moved off to make yet more coffee.
Personally Hutch thought
that his partner looked wired enough without caffeine on top of the adrenaline.
But trying to veto it would be the mother-hen act to end all mother-hen acts.
He said nothing and mournfully watched Starsky gulp down a cupful, then ask
Marsha for a refill.
Starsky had waited until
Marsha sat down before beginning his account. He was prowling round the room,
nursing his second cup of coffee. Clearly he was too fidgety to settle. Hutch
sighed. He knew that when the high ebbed away, Starsky was going to feel like
death.
A further delay was caused
by the reappearance of Leoncini, who had entrusted Weeks to his subordinates
and rejoined the group.
"Ain't much to tell
really," Starsky began. Some of the elation in his eyes was overshadowed
by a moment of introspection. "We talked and talked and talked. Couldn't
really tell you what about, half the time. I just kept going with anything that
calmed him down. Football, baseball, vacation spots, movies, his childhood, my
childhood. Almost anything 'cept police work. That made him think too much
about you, Hutch, and that wound him up."
Hutch frowned, baffled. "But
I don't remember it being like that when he was a kid. Sure, he liked you a lot
more than he liked me, but I never felt he hated me."
Starsky considered
carefully. "No, I think you're right. I don't think it was how he remembers it. But memory don't always tell you
the truth. You edit things. Tony's into editing big-time."
Hutch nodded in acceptance.
"Anyway, I just kept
talking or tried to keep him
talking. Whenever I hit on a topic of conversation that seemed to relax him, I
babbled round it for as long as I could. If he started to tighten, I tried
something else. The important thing seemed to be to fill the silence. He told
me silence really scared him."
This time it was Buchanan
who nodded.
"I knew it would be
hard on you all if I didn't let you know I was doing okay." Starsky might
have said "all" but Hutch sensed his partner's eyes boring into him
as he spoke. "But it just wouldn't have been sensible to broach the
subject with Tony at first. He was really volatile emotionally."
"How volatile?"
Hutch had to know the worst. "Gun-waving volatile?"
Starsky thought for a
moment or two, clearly torn between upsetting his partner and telling the
truth. "Yeah, there was a certain amount of gun waving, specially for the
first hour or so. I got to be good at seeing when it was coming so I could
sidetrack him before it happened most times." He kept his gaze
unwaveringly on Hutch's face to gauge his reactions. Hutch kept a tight hold
and managed to look neutral.
Satisfied that no explosion
was forthcoming, Starsky carried on. "Gradually his mood swings pinged
back and forth less often. About three thirty, I flew the idea of phoning you
to check in. I was really cautious and took it slow. He was a piece calmer than
he had been but I wasn't too sure he wouldn't swing right back to being
threatening. It took a good twenty minutes for me to feel it was the right
moment to make the call. And I'm sure you all worked out for yourselves it
wasn't such a great idea for him to know I was talking to Hutch."
"So what went wrong
with calling on the hour?" Hutch wanted to know.
Starsky's pacing happened
to have brought him directly behind Hutch's chair. He came to a halt for the
first time and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"I guess it wound up
the tension no end when you didn't hear from me." He sounded apologetic.
Absently he placed his other hand on Hutch's neck and began to massage it. "It
just wasn't a good moment. Tony's mood swings were happening further apart, but
they were still there. He was having a bad one. I just hung on until he sounded
happier."
He carried on massaging
Hutch's neck and fell silent. "Better?" Hutch nodded. His tense neck
muscles were feeling better. The
only problem was that a demanding, seductive warmth had begun to spread
outwards from his lower stomach. He willed it to die back down.
Starsky had begun roaming
again.
"The second time I
missed my call was different. I could feel he was winding down, step by step.
You know how it is, he'd relax, then he'd go tense again, relax again, then
something would set him off. But each time, the relaxation seemed that bit
deeper. He was getting sleepy – yawning more and more. When six o' clock
came, I just didn't want to break the rhythm."
Buchanan stepped in. "That
was the right decision. And we were happy to play the waiting game this end."
Hutch refrained from
pointing out that there had been moments when that had been in some doubt.
"The sleepier he
sounded, the more sure I felt I shouldn't touch the phone." He was still
pacing energetically round the room.
Hutch felt he could trace
the surplus energy dissipating from his partner's body as electric charges. He
wondered if he was up to hearing how Starsky had finally wrested the gun from
Weeks.
Starsky had stopped again,
this time opposite Hutch. "Anyway, I didn't need to play the hero in the
end. Course, I'd been looking out all along for an opportunity to get his gun
away. It just didn't come. He was too sharp and unpredictable. Then would you
believe it, in the end he fell asleep. I didn't trust my own judgement at
first. Till he began snoring like a freight train." He shrugged
self-deprecatingly. "So I crept to my feet, then pounced. He was so out of
it he didn't even struggle. He looked just like some kid who can't wake up in
the morning." He shrugged again. "And that was it, I guess."
Hutch closed his eyes and
let the relief wash over him. All his terrifying visions of Starsky and Weeks
wrestling dramatically on the floor with the gun trapped between them were
completely inaccurate.
There was a moment's
silence while everyone contemplated Starsky's account.
Then Buchanan offered his
congratulations. "We don't like heroics in my job. The quieter the resolution,
the better." He smiled. "If Captain Dobey ever decides to get rid of
you, look me up. I'm sure I could give you a reference for a new profession."
"I don't think that
will happen just yet," commented Dobey dryly. "Ask me in a few
months' time. The pair of them will probably have rubbed me up the wrong way
enough times by then for me to want some well-earned peace."
Leoncini smiled. "Are
you saying your officers here are too much of a handful?" Clearly he
sympathised from personal experience of similar difficulties.
Dobey snorted an impressive
"Harrumph" of disgust in pained response, sounding uncommonly like a
furious bull.
Hutch desperately wanted to
spirit Starsky away before the adrenaline burned off and his partner collapsed
on the floor with exhaustion. "Is there anything else, Captain? It's been
a long day."
Dobey regarded him keenly. "I
don't know why you're both still here. I ordered you to disappear once we'd had
the resume. I take it you're done?" he growled in Starsky's direction.
"Think so, Cap'n."
Hutch was on his feet as
soon as he heard "disappear". He moved smoothly round the table while
the captain was still speaking and began to steer his partner towards the door.
"Just stop right
there! Not so fast!" bellowed Dobey. "Did I say you could go yet?"
"Well yes," said
Starsky innocently. "I think you did." He looked for confirmation at
Hutch, who nodded.
"I hadn't finished,"
he blustered. "I feel responsible for ensuring there are no accidents
caused by an out-of-control Torino . . . ."
"I'll let Hutch drive
as a special treat," Starsky offered.
Dobey was not to be
placated. "No way. You're both unfit to be behind a steering wheel. I'll
give you a ride home myself in my own car. I can't trust the pair of you not to
bully anyone else to let you go your own sweet way. And I'll get someone to
follow in the Torino, so you won't be parted from your baby for too long. Meet
me downstairs in five minutes while I wrap up things here before I go back to
the office."
The detectives managed to
take no more than a single step towards the door.
"No, hold it right
there. If I let you out of my sight, you'll sneak off. You're sticking with me."
********
Dobey was as good as his
word. He kept the pair at his heels as if on leashes whilst he dealt with the
immediate aftermath of the hostage situation. Bridges and Marsha Nichols had
finally been persuaded to leave their office building and bade goodbye to their
companions through the stressful night. The cool and collected Marsha surprised
them both by emphasising her thanks with a hug for each of them and a firm
handshake for Captain Dobey and the others.
Finally Hutch was able to
slide into the back seat of his captain's car. He was rather hoping that
Starsky might sit up front but his partner threw himself inside next to Hutch.
"Starsky's place?"
queried Dobey.
"Yeah, it's closer,"
Hutch agreed. In the rear-view mirror he could see the Torino pulling away. He
hoped that the officer landed with the heavy responsibility of driving it
suffered no mishaps en route.
He leaned his weight
against the door and window and looked over to check on his partner. There was
still no sign of Starsky coming down.
Starsky caught his eye and
smiled. A lazy, dangerous, bedroom smile, both beguiling and threatening. Not
appropriate for the back seat of their captain's car. Then he stretched his
foot across so that his ankle brushed sensuously across Hutch's calf. He
withdrew it before Hutch began to purr audibly with pleasure.
While Hutch's brain was
busy hoping that Dobey was too occupied keeping his eyes on the road to notice,
Hutch's body had quite different ideas. He felt the tiredness that had been
slowly creeping over him flash burn like dry autumn leaves on a bonfire. Heat
flooded his groin until he feared Dobey would feel its warmth in the front
seat. He flushed with a complex mixture of sexual desire and embarrassment.
Starsky's body across the
seat acted on him like a powerful magnet. He firmly clasped his hands together
in case one strayed to rest on Starsky's thigh. Or worse. At the same time he
yearned for Starsky to reach over and touch him once more, consequences be
damned. He tried desperately to block memories of the evening at Starsky's
place, only to find that the sensation of his recent neck massage was equally
arousing.
He was painfully aware that
he was fighting a losing battle for control. He refused to look at his partner
but could feel his eyes burning on his naked skin. He longed for the ride to be
safely over.
Eventually his wish was
granted. Hutch barely waited for Dobey to bring his car to a halt before he
thrust the door open and leapt out. His hearing didn't seem to be working
properly. Dobey had wound down his window and was saying something or other. It
could be Greek for all Hutch understood. He tried to form the right sort of
expression and make the right sort of noises but nothing coherent would emerge.
He prayed that the captain would blame exhaustion for his problems. And also
for the unusual silence between his normally voluble men: they hadn't spoken a
word to each other since stepping into the car.
Starsky was making a much
better job of acting normally. But maybe he was feeling more normal than Hutch?
Hutch watched him uncoil with cat-like grace from the back seat, exchange a few
words with the captain, and then saunter round the front of the car to the
sidewalk. The sway of his hips was mesmerising. Hutch was breathing in short,
painful-sounding gasps through parted lips. His feet seemed sunk in concrete.
He watched Starsky advance
purposefully towards the Torino, now parked behind the captain. He was
fascinated by the rhythmic play of muscles in his butt, beautifully revealed by
the tight jeans and short bomber jacket. Starsky stalked all the way round his
baby, scrupulously checking that the officer hadn't marked the paintwork.
Finally he nodded his satisfaction and retrieved the keys.
Starsky put a hand on his
partner's arm to turn him in the direction of the building, then propelled him
forward with a hand at the small of his back. The contact was so light that it
should have felt like thistledown. For Hutch, it represented an irresistible
force. He shuddered convulsively even though his shirt and jacket protected his
skin from the heat of his partner's palm. He never saw Dobey pull away from the
kerb, once the officer who had transported the Torino was on board.
He halted at the door as if
unable to move of his own volition, while Starsky struggled briefly to fit his
key in the lock. He could hear nothing but his blood pounding in his ears and
his breath rough in his throat. He stood motionless outside until Starsky's
fingers closed gently on his arm with the merest suggestion of a tug. Hutch
stepped obediently over the threshold.
Starsky bounced round to
push his front door shut, before methodically locking it. Hutch stood frozen to
the spot where his partner had deposited him.
The catalyst was Starsky
reaching to pull off his own jacket. Hutch was never able to explain why this
small movement shattered so calamitously the control he had successfully
wrapped around himself over the last months. But the collapse was absolute,
like a tidal wave crashing over a delta.
Before Starsky had shrugged
so much as a shoulder free, Hutch flung himself at this partner. The impact
shoved his back heavily against the door, which rattled furiously. Starsky's
huff of surprise turned into a grunt of discomfort as the back of his head
thumped the wood.
Some part of Hutch noted
smugly that Starsky's eyes registered shock and uncertainty. It felt good to
rip away his partner's sense of being in control. It was some recompense for
the smugness he had detected when Starsky was so much more functional than he.
His hands swiftly pinioned
Starsky's against the door before they could fight back, then forced them
outwards and upwards. His brain didn't register that only token resistance was
offered. If he could no longer exert control over himself, he needed to exert
control over someone else.
He leant down to kiss
Starsky fiercely on the lips. The small cut Hutch had suffered earlier opened
up again. He was no longer able to distinguish whether the moans were his or
his partner's. He was aware of nothing beyond the taste of Starsky's mouth, the
scent of his skin, tainted with sweat from the night's exertions, and the
roughness of his morning growth of beard. Each scrape along his cheek set his
nerve endings alight and danced in his groin.
The hot fullness in his
jeans screamed for relief. He thrust his hips forward and pushed a leg between
Starsky's knees. For a few seconds the rubbing satisfied him. He pulled away
from Starsky's lips to gasp in oxygen. He was being driven berserk by the sound
of his partner's quickened breathing, by the unconcealed lust he identified in
his dark eyes.
He plunged once more deep
into Starsky's mouth. It was no longer enough. He pulled back in momentary
confusion. Then he knew that he needed to explore more flesh. He released one
of his partner's hands. Clumsily he began to tug at the buttons of Starsky's
shirt. He couldn't quite decipher how they worked. Snarling deep in his throat
with frustration he grabbed the shirt placket and yanked hard. Buttons
skittered across the floor in all directions. Starsky yelped with excitement.
Hutch recaptured Starsky's free hand and pinned it down again.
The column of his partner's
neck had exercised a potent fascination over him for months. He loved to
contemplate it, running his eye along the curves and hollows, imagining nipping
the soft skin where it joined his shoulder. He didn't find women's necks so
magically erotic: try as he might, the difference remained inexplicable.
Finally he had unrestricted access. He worshipped the olive skin for a long
moment, then bent and attacked. He licked, bit and sucked frantically. The wet
sounds of his attack aroused him as much as the velvet softness beneath his
lips. Briefly he released the neck to run his lips across Starsky's
stubble-roughened cheek. The contrast in texture was electrifying.
He lunged again for the
neck, feeling Starsky jerk beneath him as he clamped down on the skin. His
partner's breath was now coming in noisy shallow pants. At some point, unable
to bear any more stimulation, he started throwing his head about to escape from
Hutch's lips.
Hutch felt an electric bolt
hit his groin. His hands flew from immobilising his partner's arms to
immobilising his head. He buried his fingers in the dark curls and massaged the
scalp beneath without conscious intent. Starsky had begun to whimper. Hutch
could hear his fingernails scratching on the door behind him like a cat
sharpening its claws on a tree.
Without warning, Starsky's
hands clamped on Hutch's back. The contact wasn't gentle. He pulled Hutch
forward powerfully. As Hutch lost his balance slightly and tipped forward, he
fell against Starsky's hips, which had surged away from the supporting door.
The sensation of their
engorged cocks meeting, still divided by layers of denim, lifted him to
ecstasy. It became impossible to feast on his partner's inviting neck –
concentration failed him. He threw back his head. Somewhere in his head he
could hear himself muttering "Oh my god," but his vocal cords were
long past co-operating.
His head had lolled back so
far that he was finding it difficult to breathe. So he looked into Starsky's
face. The transformation was astonishing. He knew every line and plane of it,
he had examined its nuances of expression in a million different situations.
But he had never seen such raw sexual hunger and pleasure. It fed the fever in
his groin like throwing gasoline on a fire.
Whatever Starsky read in
Hutch's face, it pushed him to action. When his teeth nipped an ear, Hutch's
body shrieked a warning. If he didn't find some distance right now, his jeans
were going to be very wet. Desperation gave him the strength to shove Starsky
back up against the door and hold him there by the shoulders.
Starsky's vocal cords were still working. "Hutch?" The breathless, choked
question conveyed protest for the loss of contact, a plea for its restoration,
a demand for an explanation.
Hutch was beyond a reply.
He dropped a hand to his partner's chest and contemplatively raked through the
curling hair. Starsky moaned again but made no move. He seemed to have resigned
himself to filling whatever role it was that Hutch needed from him. Hutch's
fingers skimmed tenderly over the scars from Gunther's bullets, before homing
in on a nipple. It grew firm and he exerted more pressure, rolling it between
his fingertips. Starsky's rough breathing switched to gasps punctuated by
pauses as he struggled to hold himself still.
Hutch itched to run his
lips over the chest and learn what it felt like to follow the lines of the
muscles with his lips instead of his eyes. But he knew that it would be too
awkward as they stood by the door. He stood quietly in the middle of the
roaring blaze and contemplated his partner's body.
Starsky's gasps for breath
drew Hutch's eye down to his stomach, half-revealed through the gaping shirt.
He was mesmerised by the heaving muscles. He dropped to his knees and pulled
Starsky's shirt out fully from his jeans. He ran his hands in wonder over his
stomach. It stilled beneath his touch. Starsky appeared to have stopped
breathing altogether. The door was taking all his weight. He looked completely
passive, almost asleep, but Hutch could feel the tension cording his muscles
and sensed that although the cobalt eyes were nearly closed, they were fixed on
Hutch with absolute attention.
Suddenly Hutch's hesitancy
evaporated, blasted away by the heat of desire. He seized hold of Starsky's
belt and unfastened it. Part of him was surprised at how easily it came undone.
Not like the wretched buttons. It whipped out of its loops like a snake. Hutch
dropped it carelessly. The button and zipper yielded without a struggle. Hutch
dragged the tight jeans down to his partner's ankles, then ran his hand back up
to his thigh, wondering at the feel of the coarse, curling hair. With infinite
care, he inserted a hand upward beneath Starsky's briefs to lightly grasp one
rounded buttock. He saw the stomach muscles quiver with excitement at his touch
and heard Starsky begin breathing again, a deep explosive gulp followed by
swift pants. He kneaded the muscles cupped beneath his hand. Fingernails began
to scratch the door again.
Signals from his nose began
to filter through from Starsky's crotch, inches from his face. Musk and
pheromones enticed him to lean in until his nose was buried in the briefs. It
was exotic, overpowering, hypnotic. He began to rub his nose and mouth into the
junction of thigh and body, along the border of the briefs. The warm dampness
of sweat acted like a siren lure.
Starsky's moans increased
in volume. His hips began to move, wordlessly begging Hutch to shift his
attentions a little further sideways. Hutch removed his hand from his partner's
buttock – more protests – and slid the briefs downwards, dropping
them to fall on top of the jeans.
He was transfixed by the
sight of Starsky's balls. The skin roiled and swirled in a never repeating
pattern, like molten lava in a pool. He reached out a finger to touch and
watched in fascination as the rippling effect increased where he pressed. His
attention was only diverted when Starsky's penis brushed against his cheek. A
bolt of arousal shook him. His final inhibitions were scorched away.
Anchoring Starsky with one
hand round his buttocks, he plunged his tongue into the dark curling hair at
the base of the penis, then traced a rippling, sensuous path upwards to the
tip. Starsky's entire body jerked in response and his hands leapt away from the
door to bury themselves in Hutch's fine golden hair.
The urge to suck and
swallow overwhelmed him and he slid his lips over the head. The sensations
assaulting him took him by surprise. He had never really understood the erotic
thrill of the act. Now he was intoxicated. He was driven senseless by the
smell, by Starsky's increasingly frantic responses. When he realised that he
couldn't fit everything in his mouth, he curled his free hand round the base,
now slick with saliva, and created a counterpoint to the movements of his
tongue and lips. He abandoned himself to sensation.
The closer he brought his
partner to orgasm, the higher his own arousal blazed. When he heard Starsky
scream his name and felt warm fluid gush into his mouth, he wanted to scream
with exaltation.
Reluctantly, he released
the softening penis. He felt Starsky sliding slowly down the door towards the
floor. He carefully supported him as best he could, until his partner was
sitting on the floor, feet together, trapped inelegantly by his jeans and
briefs.
"Oh my god."
Starsky's eyes drifted open and searched for Hutch. He was still kneeling in front
of him, gasping with exertion, tense as a bowstring. He was flushed pink,
droplets of sweat had collected in the hollow of his throat. He whimpered in
his throat as Starsky leaned forward. As soon as Starsky's fingertips touched
his groin, he threw his head back and screamed in bliss. Wetness spread across
the front of his jeans and Starsky trailed his hand across it in fascination.
********
Hutch awoke for the second
time that day unable to work out immediately where he was. The ceiling was all
wrong. The texture beneath his body was strange. Then something told him that
he was at Starsky's place. But it wasn't the ceiling above the sofa – he
knew that particular patch intimately. For that matter he was a surprisingly
long way from the ceiling. He certainly wasn't in or on the bed. And he was too
warm.
He struggled to sit up and
found that he was trapped. A line of cushions ran down his back and he had been
thoroughly encased in a blanket like a mummy.
"Starsk? What's going
on? Where are you?"
No reply. He grumbled to
himself as he fought free enough to sit up. Now this was really strange. He was
still in his jacket. He still had his holster strapped on, though no gun. And
he had been lying on the floor facing the door. The outer door to the
apartment. It had fresh scratch marks at about eye level.
He shut his eyes abruptly.
"Oh – my – god."
His face blazed red with embarrassment. He was on the verge of hauling himself
to his feet and letting himself quietly out, when Starsky appeared from the
kitchen, carrying a tray.
He was wearing his blue
towelling bathrobe. His hair wasn't completely dry. He must have showered.
"Afternoon, Blondie!"
He sounded shockingly normal and cheerful and was wearing a smile of fearsome
intensity. Hutch couldn't think what to say so kept silent. "I began to
think you'd never wake up without assistance, so I went to make coffee. You
gonna get up for it or do you want it there to kick-start you?"
The implications of "there"
shot through Hutch's brain like fireworks. He decided he had to get to his feet
at all cost. He grimaced. His jeans were as stiff as a board at the front.
Finally he was upright and staggered to the sofa, still without saying a word.
Starsky bounced along in his wake.
He drank the coffee in a
couple of gulps. It was strong enough to blast a rocket into orbit. His brain
was refusing to operate, befuddled in a panicked haze.
Starsky was still prattling
away as if nothing had happened and was waving a slice of toast in front of him.
"You really look rough, Hutch. Have something to eat then take a shower.
That'll perk you up in no time."
Hutch thought that he had
been altogether too perky earlier. All he wanted now was to hide in a dreamless
sleep, preferably till judgement day. But Starsky refused to be deflected.
Hutch managed to swallow the toast, then left for the bathroom under his own
steam. He didn't want to be dragged there by Starsky.
He stayed under the shower
until the water ran cold. He was in a dilemma. He didn't want to pull his jeans
back on, bearing as they did the stigma of this morning's madness. On the other
hand he couldn't wander round wrapped in a towel, not under the present
circumstances, and he didn't want to have to ask Starsky if he had any of Hutch's
clothes in his closet.
He was still sitting on the
side of the tub debating the issue when Starsky called out, "I've left you
some clean clothes outside the door."
He snaked a hand out to
capture them and dressed slowly. Finally he emerged into the living room,
wearing them like armor.
His heart sank. Starsky was
sitting on the sofa and he looked deadly serious. The earlier "everything's
a normal day" attitude had disappeared completely. Hutch sighed but still
said nothing. He sat down at the opposite end and waited for whatever was
coming.
"Hutch, we agreed to
talk today. About us," he clarified needlessly.
"I'm sorry,"
Hutch began. "I just can't believe I did that. I'm really sorry."
Starsky looked baffled. "What?
Why the hell are you sorry for agreeing to talk? We need to discuss things. I'm
not about to let you put it off."
"No, I mean I'm sorry
for what I did this morning."
"Oh."
Hutch looked up from the
floor to see why his partner had stopped talking. His heart missed a beat when
he saw his lascivious smile. His groin twitched hopefully. He ignored it. "It
was really unforgivable."
Starsky was still smiling. "Well
sure, it was a little undignified. I usually take my clothes off for sex, right
off, I mean. And I expect to see more of my partner. In fact, I expect to see all of my partner. I guess I'm flattered you couldn't
wait." The smile turned into a fully fledged grin. "Tell me, Hutch,
when was the last time you ended up with wet jeans. High school?"
"I guess so." Hutch
saw the funny side and laughed despite himself. "Maybe it becomes a
problem again as you grow older?"
Starsky's grin turned
predatory. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. I know a sure-fire cure."
"I don't think I want
to know."
Hutch turned serious again
and found fascinating insights somewhere down near his shoes.
"But it still doesn't
change things. I shouldn't have done it."
"Done what?"
"For Chrissake stop
being so obtuse, will you?" Hutch snapped. "I shouldn't have slammed
you up against the door and assaulted you."
"Oh, so that's what
you're driving at." Starsky's bedroom smirk had returned. "Hutch,
just use your head for a minute. After all, you're supposed to be a detective,
right? Just think about it. I'm five foot eleven. I'm strong, fit and a street
cop – even if I did fall off a roof yesterday. And my Ma taught me how to
say no. If I hadn't . . ." he paused for a moment, then adopted an
old-fashioned voice to suit old-fashioned words " . . . if I hadn't
'welcomed your advances', don't you think I'd have done something about it? I'd
have decked you, you idiot, if you wouldn't have listened." He saw dawning
belief on Hutch's face. "I was enjoying it – the whole novelty
thing. When was the last time you dated someone strong enough to pin you to the
door and hold you there?" He thought for a moment. "It was a real
rush, letting go like that. Letting you use your strength like that."
Hutch still wasn't ready to
admit defeat. "But weren't you worried? I mean, your partner suddenly
turns into this ravening monster?"
"I think the words
you're looking for are 'passionate lover'," Starsky suggested helpfully.
"Lover? Yeah, I kind
of like the sound of that," Hutch murmured.
"So, lover. When you
going to stop sitting in splendid isolation over there and act like one?"
Starsky demanded with a well-practised pout, patting his knee at the same time.
Hutch considered the
proposition. Then he swung his legs up and shuffled until his head was lying on
Starsky's knee and his feet were wedged against the sofa arm. Just like the
previous evening: except that Starsky had been wearing more then than just his
bathrobe. Hutch blushed at the implications. Starsky smiled knowingly and began
playing with the fine golden hair.
Hutch had one final attempt
at claiming guilt. "But I lost control," he whispered. "It
shattered like glass. I couldn't . . . " he spread his hands as he
searched for the words, " . . . I couldn't keep myself within bounds. I
didn't have any discipline. I could have done anything."
"No," Starsky
reassured him, "Not anything. You wouldn't have hurt me. And I told you,
if I hadn't liked what you were doing I'd have stopped you." He captured
one of Hutch's hands and kissed it. "Anyway, it's not like it was any big surprise.
We both know what you're like after a bad day. You always have to cut your
control some slack, before everything goes haywire. Yesterday – last
night, it was really ferocious, not just bad. 'Course you needed to let go. And
I ain't complaining. I had a terrific time."
He smiled and scattered a
few more kisses on Hutch's hand. "Besides," he went on, "I love
it when you take my advice – you usually kick up such a god-awful fuss
before you can bring yourself to follow it." Hutch looked baffled. "You
remember, my long-term plan: 'keep on kissing and see what happens.' I assumed
you'd decided it was a good one."
Hutch snorted. "Okay,
I'll admit it was good as far as it went. But we really have to think about the
future."
"Just halt right
there, Blondie. Stop being so cerebral!" Hutch refrained from commenting
on the dictionary word. "I have another plan to tide us over the next few
hours."
Hutch sighed forlornly. "Which
is?"
"I'm going to call out
for a pizza. Then we're going to bed."
Hutch looked uncomfortable.
"Starsk, I don't want to dampen your enthusiasm. But I'm still whacked. If
I go to bed I'm going to fall asleep, period. For hours."
Starsky smiled gently. "I
know that, Blintz. That's I want you to do. Sleep. We're supposed to be showing
up at work tomorrow bright eyed and bushy tailed. If we devote the rest of our
break to passionate sex, Dobey's going to complain we look like shit. I ain't
prepared to compromise my record for that," he teased. "Not now I'm
an ageing semi-invalid."
Hutch looked relieved. "Okay
then, order the pizza. With healthy toppings," he added, knowing well
enough that healthy toppings were about as likely to show up as snow in June in
LA.
While Starsky was busy on
the phone, he quickly slipped into the bedroom and stripped down to his briefs
before climbing into bed. He suspected that if he gave his partner a free show
and undressed in front of him, both their late lunch and any idea of sleeping
would vanish into nothingness.
By the time his partner
came in to check out what he was up to, he was already tucked up in bed, the
sheet drawn demurely up to his chin. Starsky put on his best deprived
little-boy look: "Hutch, I'm disappointed. I was really looking forward to
finally getting to see you strip. I could have helped with the difficult things
like buttons and such."
"I'm sure. But I want
my pizza and I want my sleep. You'd better go back and wait for the delivery
man."
********
They picnicked in bed,
propped up against pillows and ignoring the inevitable crumbs and accidents
with topping. When they were finished, Starsky got up again to draw the drapes
to block out some of the bright afternoon sun. He climbed back in and lay down
on his back without speaking.
It wasn't quite what Hutch
wanted. "Turn onto your side," he ordered. "I want to cuddle
your back."
He obeyed without demur.
Hutch snuggled up against the warm, desirable flesh. It was hard to believe
that it was really happening. He felt wonderfully relaxed but not quite ready
to sleep.
"Starsk?"
"I thought we were
going to sleep now."
"Not just yet. There's
still a few things I want to know."
"Okay, just make sure
it doesn't take all afternoon, will you?"
He planted a few kisses
across Starsky's back while he thought what he was going to say. "What the
hell was I doing trussed up like a mummy by the door?"
"You were too heavy to
carry and I thought you'd get cold if I didn't cover you up."
"You mean I passed
out? I've never done that after sex before."
"No, you didn't faint
or anything. I checked to make sure. You were just sleeping. But you collapsed
like a falling tree. Toppled right over. It was really dramatic. I didn't
expect it. And I wasn't sure whether it was a tribute to my skills or whether
you were just bored." He twisted his head round to peer at Hutch. "For
all I knew you always fall asleep like that. Don't women complain that men do
it all the time – after sex, I mean?"
Hutch frowned, feeling
vaguely that his sexual technique was being impugned. "Well not me, pal. I
usually aim at a little post-coital conversation to keep my partner happy."
He blushed suddenly.
"I wouldn't worry
about it. It probably won't happen again. It was some sort of reaction to being
under pressure and then having it all released. Bet you if we have sex often
enough, the tension won't be able to build to the point where you end up
snoring like a train soon as it's let out of the bottle."
Hutch could hear the smile
in his partner's voice. "Okay, I believe you, Dr Starsky."
"You ready to go to
sleep yet, Hutch?"
"No, a bit longer."
"So, I want to know
something too."
"Go ahead."
"Why didn't you tell
me you were in love with me?"
Hutch's head jerked up off
the pillow. "You knew?"
"Sure I knew. I worked
it out months ago."
"Christ! You didn't
guess when we went to that trattoria, what was it called? With Susan and
whoever you were with?"
"Valentino's? No,
least not right away I didn't. But you acted real strange that night. It wasn't
long after that that I put the pieces together."
"I don't believe this,
Starsk. Why didn't you say anything?"
There was silence for a
moment. "I thought about saying something. I felt the same way."
"So why didn't you?"
Hutch demanded. "And why the hell were you dating women like crazy again?"
"You were happy to
date too, as I recall," Starsky pointed out. "I guess I just wanted
to be sure. We'd been together so much after the hit. I wanted to be certain
that it wasn't the comrades-in-arms syndrome. There weren't so many women,
either. And I didn't do that much with them." He stopped, unwilling to go
further along that path.
"Starsk, how long did
it take you to decide?" Hutch's voice had taken on a steely edge.
He felt the shrug. "A
few weeks I guess."
"And?"
"And what?
"Why didn't you say
anything then?" Hutch sounded
pissed off.
"I was waiting for you to say something. I thought maybe you weren't
comfortable with the idea and if I gave you time to work your way through it,
you'd get round to talking about it eventually. "
"So why last night?
What was so special about last night?"
Starsky shrugged again. "I
guess I finally ran out of patience. I knew you were gazing at me all evening.
I just couldn't stand it any longer and went ahead. Otherwise I might have been
drawing my pension before you
acted."
Hutch wasn't mollified. "You
let me go through months of agony for nothing!" His voice rose sharply.
"Agony? You sure about
that? You wouldn't be telling little porkies here?" Starsky didn't sound
convinced.
Hutch couldn't lie to him. "Okay,
not agony. Not exactly. Some pain though." He sensed Starsky waiting for
the truth. He kissed a shoulder blade. "Okay, I admit it, this has been
the happiest eighteen months of my life."
Starsky's hand reached back
and petted his thigh as a reward. "So, Blondie, what were you waiting for?"
He kissed the other
shoulder blade to give himself time. "I was afraid," he confessed. "You
might have read me like a book but I hadn't read you. I had too much to lose if
I said something and drove you away."
Starsky let out his breath.
"Okay, you're forgiven. So I really would have been drawing my pension?"
Hutch smiled and blew on
his neck. "Yeah, I guess so."
"You ready to go to
sleep now?" asked Starsky again, sounding sleepy himself.
"Not quite. Closer
though."
"Those plans you're so
keen to make . . . . It's all a waste of time, you know. We can manage without
them, providing we sort a couple of things out."
"I don't think so,"
Hutch protested, yawning. "What about Dobey? What about our jobs? Where
are we going to live?"
"Hutch, we've known
Dobey for years. He ain't going to say nothing to no one, least of all the IA,
unless we do something really stupid, like having rabid sex in front of other
cops on the bed during a stakeout in a hotel room."
"Do you think he
suspects?"
"It don't matter. But
it might help our cover if you try not to blush quite as red as you did in the
boardroom and the car this morning."
Hutch blushed like a beacon
at the mere recollection. This is going to be fun if I keep on doing that, he grumbled to himself. "What about our
colleagues?"
"We've always been a
law unto ourselves. We've always pawed each other in public. No one will notice
the difference, promise."
"Okay, maybe you're
right," Hutch granted. He thought some more. "Okay, you are right. I think we can carry it off."
"Living together won't
be a problem either," Starsky assured him. "We're together most of
the time anyway these days. Dobey never bats an eye if you pick up my phone or
I pick up yours. No one would bat an eye if we bought a place somewhere to save
money on keeping up two places." After a pause he added, "And if it
all blows up in our faces, well – we'll have to deal. No good trying to
guess how until it happens."
"Okay, I believe you,"
Hutch said. He found the idea of sharing a house with Starsky intensely
exciting, a future so dream-like it didn't seem real. He realised that if he
contemplated the prospect too minutely, he wouldn't sleep after all. So he
stuffed it in a corner to retrieve later and examine at leisure.
Starsky still had more to
say, punctuated by a yawn or two. "I can only <yawn> think of two other things yawn we need to discuss <yawn.>"
Hutch yawned in sympathy. "Which
are?"
"We need to buy a
manual."
Hutch yawned even more
widely. "A manual? I don't follow."
"I'm looking forward
<yawn> to a very active <yawn> sex life. Hope you are too. <Yawn> This scenario <yawn> wasn't covered in the book Ma gave me <yawn> when I hit puberty."
Hutch blushed furiously in
sudden understanding. "'Kay. We'll take a long drive soon and look for
something." He yawned and closed his eyes. "That all?"
"Nope. <Yawn> One final thing to sort out." Suddenly Starsky
sounded more alert. "I was hoping to hear some words . . . ."
"Hmmm? Thought that
was what we'd been doing all this time." Hutch felt himself teetering
perilously on the brink of a chasm of sleep to rival the Grand Canyon.
An elbow jabbed him sharply
in the ribs and yanked him back for the moment. "No, Blondie."
Starsky was insistent. "Some special words. You ain't going to sleep till
I hear them."
Suddenly Hutch understood,
despite the fog wrapping around him more thickly by the second. "Thought
it might be too soapy for you."
"No, I'm waiting . . .
."
"'Kay, Starsk. I love
you," he breathed softly in not quite a snore. He nuzzled his face into
the neck in front of him.
"Love you too."
The reply floated to him as
he finally fell off the edge and drifted through the clouds below into sleep.
He dreamt of a hand raising his to his lover's lips and feather-down kiss.
Then the mists rolled in to
clasp his body protectively. All sensation was lost in loving darkness.
THE END