It was close to the end of their shift -- nine thirty-five to be exact -- when Starsky suddenly stiffened in the passenger seat. "Hutch," he said in a hushed voice.

The blond, who was driving along Oceanside Park, looked to his right. "What is it?"

"We just passed a camper parked next to the park."

Hutch glanced in his rearview mirror. The vehicle that was being left in the distance looked unremarkable. "Not the same truck," he stated reasonably. "Not the same make or same color. Not the same camper. Not even the same park."

Starsky's voice was hushed. "Let's check it out. Besides, after almost being discovered last time, do you think they're gonna come back to the same park with the exact same vehicle?"

Hutch was already making a turn so they could circle back around. "You've got a point." He did as before, killing the lights just before the LTD could be seen. He parked next to the curb, a block and a half from the vehicle. "Any ideas?"

"My guess is there's three of them, like before," Starsky said.

"And probably a double-barreled shotgun."

"Right." The smaller detective lifted the microphone and called in their observation. Then, glancing at his partner, he added, "We're going in to investigate. Have backup units standing by."

"Roger, Zebra Three."

After Starsky hung up the microphone, Hutch thoughtfully said, "let's approach like before. Only, when I open the back of the camper, you go low. And I'll be a split second after you."

Starsky reached for the door handle. "Okay."

Hutch took a flashlight out of the glove compartment, then joined his partner.

They came up to the camper from behind. Hutch felt his heart pound with a sense of deja vu. But they were ready this time. There wouldn't be any taking of his partner.

They pressed themselves up against the back of the camper. Hutch held the flashlight in his left hand, the gun in his right. He met Starsky's eye, and the other nodded as he began to lower himself into a crouch, gun drawn.

Hutch's fingers stretched around the flashlight to press against the door handle. As before, the button pushed in, indicating it wasn't locked. He met Starsky's eye again, then swung the door open.

Starsky, crouched on the ground, aimed his gun up into the darkness. Hutch swung around behind his partner, gun pointed straight ahead, flashlight shining within.

After a moment, the blond asked, "See anything?" He continued to shine the light all about the interior.

"Nah. You?"

"No."

While Starsky straightened, Hutch jumped into the back. He shined the light in a hundred and eighty degree arc inside the camper as he made his way to the front. He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

"Hutch, look."

He turned to Starsky, who was also inside the camper. The latter lifted a double-barreled shotgun.

Hutch met his partner's eye. Paydirt. But . . . "Where the hell are they?"

Just then, a woman was heard screaming in the distance.

"Oh, my God," Starsky said, and he jumped out of the camper and was on the ground, running.

Hutch was a second behind, and instinct sent him back to the LTD. When he reached it, he slapped on the overhead light and summoned the backup units as he gunned the car forward. He knew which direction Starsky had headed, and he moved that way, too, though he couldn't see anything in the dark.

He continued down the street parallel to the park. He caught a glimpse of Starsky running, full speed, toward the park's interior. A glance ahead of his partner revealed a group of three men hovering over something on the ground. They looked up, hearing the sirens. They started to scatter in three different directions, leaving their victim lying on the ground, and Hutch had the sinking feeling they'd never catch all three.

He gunned the LTD over the curb, heading for the fastest runner, and saw through the corner of his eye that Starsky was chasing the assailant nearest him.

The Ford bounced and creaked over the uneven ground, and Hutch rolled down his window and tried to figure a way to maneuver the car so he could use his pistol.

The fleeing man was beginning to tire, and Hutch veered the car until it was perpendicular to the man's direction. "Hold it! Police!" he shouted, pulling his weapon and firing a shot into the air.

The man's stride never hesitated. Hutch took careful aim. And fired.

Instantly, the man collapsed.

Hutch drove close enough the see the downed man clutching at the back of his thigh. He called in for an ambulance while accelerating toward the third fleeing man. He now became aware of other sirens, and he saw a black and white pull up at the street at the far end of the park. The third man wasn't able to stop fast enough, and he somersaulted onto the hood. And didn't move.

Hutch wheeled the LTD back around to Starsky's direction. As he approached, he saw his partner sitting on top of his man while in the process of applying handcuffs.

Hutch took a deep breath, then called into the other units that it looked like all three suspects were in hand. Then he got out of the car and joined his partner, who was now kneeling before the victim.

Her throat had been slashed. Blood was all over the place. Starsky looked up sadly and shook his head.

Hutch put away his weapon. And sighed.

* * *

Hours later the crime scene was secure, the three suspects having been taken away. Starsky had been able to identify two of them as the ones who had kidnapped him, for he'd never seen the third man, who he assumed was the driver.

Finally, they were back on the street. Hutch felt worn out and depressed, but when he looked to his right, he noticed that Starsky looked pale, and the prominent jaw was firm. "Hey," Hutch asked softly, "you okay?"

Starsky leaned his forehead against the side window. With a held-in breath, he admitted, "All that activity... it's hurtin' a little."

Hutch frowned, then picked up the microphone and logged them out. He wasn't surprised when Dobey called a couple of minutes later, even though it was past time for their shift to end.

"You aren't even coming in for a proper congratulations?" Dobey asked.

Hutch shook his head in disbelief, and Starsky grunted likewise. The last thing they felt like, after yet another victim, was being congratulated. "No, Captain," he said wearily, "Starsky's knife wound is acting up, and I'm taking him home."

The other's tone softened. "Oh. In that case, make sure you take good care of him. And I don't want him back on the streets again until he's really ready."

"Right. Zebra Three out." Hutch hung up, feeling he should smile at the captain's rarely-expressed concern, but another glance to his right only made him press down more on the accelerator. Starsky was now hunched against the door.

Hutch laid on hand on the leather-covered back. "Think you tore something open?" he asked gently.

"No, it's deeper. Inside. Like somethin' crampin'. I just need my pills."

Hutch thought a moment, remembering that some of the pills, which Starsky now only took occasionally, should still be in the medicine cabinet at his apartment. And, after all, it was closer. "How about we go to my place? Besides, I need to collect my mail and pay my bills."

"Sure, whatever."

They arrived a few minutes later.

* * *

Starsky yielded to the temptation to press his hand against his back, trying to still the discomfort, as he made slow progress up the staircase. Hutch had tried to put his arm around him, but having someone gripping his body just made it hurt worse.

Finally, they were on the landing; and once the door was open they were greeted with a slight smell of mustiness. Hutch went to open a window while Starsky moved to the bed, removed his jacket and shoulder harness, then lay face down upon it. Hutch appeared with a glass of water and two pills, which Starsky swallowed gratefully.

After a moment, Starsky felt his shirt tail being pulled up. "You don't see anything, do you?" he asked.

Gentle fingers pressed along the fresh scar, for the stitches had been removed weeks ago. The pressing against his outer skin didn't really hurt.

"No," Hutch finally replied.

"I told ya," Starsky said, "it hurts inside, real deep. Must be a bad cramp. Always get 'im when I've been wounded."

Hutch straightened on the mattress, sighing. "Yeah, well, I'm with Dobey. You're sitting at a desk until you're completely one hundred percent."

Starsky wasn't in the mood for arguing. Hutch's hand stroked slowly up and down his shoulders and upper back, and he closed his eyes, willing the medication to work quickly.

After a few moments, Hutch said, "I'm going to go down and get the mail." His weight left the mattress.

Starsky listened with half an ear as Hutch returned. He heard the distant sound of paper being separated with a letter opener, the crinkling of unfolding pages, the quiet sigh as bills were studied.

Eventually, Starsky felt the pain diminish, and he relaxed further as relief took over. After many minutes, he realized the apartment was strangely silent.

He got up on an elbow and looked out toward the living room. Hutch was sitting hunched forward on the sofa, a paper raised in front of his face, his bright eyes visible over the top of it.

"Hutch?"

Startled, the blond looked up. And his eyes grew brighter.

Starsky got up. "What is it?" he asked gently, moving to the sofa.

"A letter from Luke," the other replied with strained softness. "A suicide note."

Starsky knelt on the cushion next to his partner.

Hutch lowered the paper with a quivering hand. "He mailed it right before he did it."

Starsky reached to take the letter. With a delicate whisper, he asked, "Can I see it?"

Hutch relinquished the paper. Then his shoulders slumped, the blond head bowing, hands clasping between his knees.

Starsky placed his hand on Hutch's back as he read.

Ken,

I'm sorry to say goodbye like this but, for me, it is the only way.

I can understand if, by now, you feel you hate me for what I've done. But I feel I must at least try to make you understand. I wanted to notify you this way, as I didn't want to leave a note lying around for strangers to find when you're the only one I have anything to say to; as, after all, you're the only person in the world who would have any reason to care.

You see, Kenny, I'm not doing this because of Doris, or because of getting kicked off the force -- though I suppose those things have added to everything else -- but the truth is I've been unhappy for a long time.

I won't go into all my various mental aches and pains. Some call it depression. I don't particularly care what label one wants to put on it. What I do want you to know is how proud you've always made me. If I've done one good thing in my life, it was being responsible for you being a cop. You're a good one, Ken, and I hope that, whatever else happens, you'll always be able to hang onto that.

Please don't worry about me. Having made this decision -- after having considered it for a long time -- I am finally at peace. There is nothing anyone can do for me. I feel I know how Doris felt, and I forgive her. If there is forgiveness for me in the afterlife, I am sure I will find her there.

I love you, Kenny. And I wish you and your special Starsky the peace and happiness that all men seek. And I hope the world in which you live will forgive you for seeking it in a manner different from most.

Love,

Luke

Starsky carefully placed the letter on the coffee table, and moved his hand from Hutch's back to the blond's neck. "Oh, babe." He pressed his face against the nearest arm.

Hutch slowly shook his head, staring at the coffee table. "If that was supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't," he insisted in a soft, strained tone. "Nothing does. Not even finishing the Sandstone case. I don't even care. I know I should, but I don't."

Starsky understood the words, but also felt that too much had happened in too short a time. He hoped that once the shock wore off, things could begin to return to normal.

Voice still small, Hutch whispered, "I just care about you."

Starsky closed his eyes, then yielded to temptation and wrapped his arm around Hutch's back, pulling tight. "I love you. 'M sorry it hurts so much."

The tall frame straightened, and Starsky did as well. Next thing he knew, Hutch was turning to lie back on the sofa, Starsky being brought down on top of him.

Hutch's arms wrapped firmly around Starsky, not demonstrating affection as much as fulfilling their need to have something to hold on to. Starsky returned the embrace, his cheek pressed against Hutch's chest.

"All this time," Hutch said in a hushed tone, "Luke's been giving off clues. I thought - I thought that he seemed to be disinterested in everything because of me -- that he was blaming me for Doris. But it really wasn't that at all. He was just giving up... on life. And I was too busy feeling sorry for myself to understand."

"Hutch, don't," Starsky pleaded, mouth buried against the other's shirt. "He said right in his note that his depression had been going on for a long time. There's nothing anyone coulda done." He raised his head to meet his partner's eyes, which had watered more. His own emotions felt unsteady. "I can understand that you hurt a whole lot, and there's nothin' anyone can do about it." He vehemently shook his head. "But blamin' yourself is all wrong, partner. That's the whole reason Luke sent you that letter. You blamin' yourself is like defying his last request."

The blond's voice broke. "Why, Starsk? Why did he have to do it? There's other cures for unhappiness." He clutched Starsky tighter.

Starsky felt his own throat tremble. He wriggled out of the embrace to get up on an elbow, then brushed a thumb along the pale mustache. "I don't know," he replied honestly. "I've never known what it's like to be perpetually unhappy." His heart started to twist as he continued to look into those pain-filled eyes. With gruff softness, he added, "I can't stand to see you unhappy, either." His eyes closed briefly. "That's all I want, Hutch: to make you happy. That's what's most important to me." He swallowed heavily. "It's been the most important thing for a long, long time. And sometimes I'm not sure I do a very good job." Starsky didn't know where the last had come from. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced a very big lump past his throat.

He felt fingertips against his cheek. A soft voice whispered, "Oh, Starsk." A thumb brushed at his eyelid. Then an affectionate, scolding, "Of course, you do a good job." Starsky felt himself lowered, and his cheek was again pressed against the other's warmth, a strong arm wrapping around his shoulders, squeezing with firm gentleness. "I'm sorry if I scare you at times. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in myself that I forget you have needs, too."

Starsky felt the tumult of emotion start to calm as he absorbed his partner's warmth.

Hutch's hands had loosened their hold and were now petting up and down the smaller man's shoulders. "How does your back feel?" he asked tenderly.

"It's fine," Starsky said. "Those pills really work."

The large hands moved from Starsky's shoulders to his upper arms, and the curly-haired man allowed them to raised him up until he was resting his weight on his elbows.

Hutch's eyes were still moist, but otherwise he seemed back in control. He reached out and brushed a finger along Starsky's upper lip. "You okay about it?" His tone was still tender, expression soft.

The other blinked. "Okay about what?"

"About what they did to you? Leaving you to die like that?" After a pause, for Starsky was thrown by the change in subject, Hutch noted, "We've never really talked about it." His Adam's apple bobbed. "I've been too afraid to think about it; I came so close to losing you." In a soft whisper, he added, "Again."

Starsky smiled compassionately. At least that was a fear he understood completely, for he shared it. "We made it, partner. That's all that's important. Once you found me, those creeps didn't matter anymore."

Hutch stroked back through his hair. "Sorry we didn't find you sooner."

"You found me, Hutch," Starsky reminded firmly in an "that's all that matters" tone.

The blond's eyes moved to the ceiling. Distantly, he whispered, "Me and Luke."

Starsky waited to see what would happen now that they were back to the biggest hurt. He wished Hutch would just yell or cry or something and get the worst of it out of his system.

But it wasn't to be, at least not now, for the blond's expression grew tender again as his eyes returned to the man perched over him. His hand made another pass back through the dark curls. "Surely, after tonight, Dobey will be more than willing to give us some time off. We need to get away somewhere." His eyes darted about the room. "This place doesn't even feel like home anymore." The blue orbs returned to his partner. "We need to talk."

Starsky felt a lightning bolt rip through his heart, igniting it. He had to close his eyes and take a deep breath, before he was sure he could speak. "We need to get away somewhere," he agreed, eyes opening again. "Somewhere like before, where there's absolutely nothing to do except make love to each other all day and all night long." His voice ached with wanting. "Oh, Hutch, I've been thinking of so many things I want to do to you. Special little surprises to make you feel good." Though the strain had left the blond's face, Starsky could also see the hint of a protest developing, and he quickly added, "And we can find some time for talking, too."

His cheeks were taken in hand, and Starsky thought Hutch was going to pull him down for a kiss. But while they did pull, he found his head back against the blond's shoulder, cuddled close. And then he realized that Hutch was too drained for any kind of stimulating contact.

After a moment, Starsky said, "I really am sorry about Luke. I'll always love him, for loving you."

He felt the harsh, silent vibration of the throat next to his forehead. And then a painful, indrawn breath.

And then Hutch cried.

* * *

The three suspects confessed to the slayings, indicating that their actions were all in deference to a god they subscribed to, of which DeSantiago was the first disciple. Their god had vowed to return, and that was why it had been necessary to start killing the past months, as an ongoing ceremony to prepare for his appearance.

Starsky shook his head as they sat in the squadroom, browsing through transcripts of the questioning of the suspects . "Sometimes," he told his partner, who was the only other occupant in the room, for it was near midnight, "I think this world would be much better off if there was no such thing as religion."

Hutch managed a weak smile. "It would just be replaced with something else," he reminded. "It's a proven sociological theory that, regardless of what laws a society has, there'll always be those who exist outside of it." The smile broadened. "That's what keeps us employed, pal."

"Don't remind me," Starsky said, putting the documents to one side. This was their last shift before being granted a week off, though they hadn't decided yet where they were going. They both just knew that they wanted -- needed -- to get away.

"Of course," Hutch continued in a softer tone, meeting his partner's eye, "there's always that question of whether or not something is 'wrong' just because it exists outside the norm."

Starsky was glad the other was able to make the statement without a hint of depression. But he knew that Hutch was worn out and still trying to work through how much their lives had changed the past year or so. He wasn't in the mood for philosophy, but Starsky didn't want to stifle the blond from talking through whatever the other felt was necessary. So, he settled on the table top, feet in his chair, facing his partner, and said, "Drawing the line is simple. If what someone does doesn't hurt anybody else, then it's okay. When it hurts somebody else, then it's wrong."

Hutch presented another tired smile, this one carrying a hint of admiration. "If only everything really were as simple as you make it sound."

"It could be," Starsky insisted, "if people would stop tryin' to complicate things." He tilted his head, realizing he had something genuinely important to add to the conversation. "You know," he said quietly, "it's like the... you know, confusion... that I was feelin' before."

Hutch batted his eyelids, straightening with eagerness, his smile gone. "Yeah?"

"Well," Starsky shrugged, "I think Luke Huntley put it in perspective for me."

"In what way?" the blond asked in a hushed tone.

"Just by the fact of what he told you -- you know, about tryin' to live by society's rules. That's what was goin' on with me. I knew that I was supposed to do all these things -- find a nice girl and all that -- but it was in conflict with how I truly felt. And even after I was able to admit to myself how I felt," Starsky darted his eyes about to make sure they were still alone, "about you, I kept thinkin' I shouldn't feel that way." He shrugged, his tone growing lighter. "So, now I know it's not me that the problem is with; it's society in general that's fucked up."

Hutch snorted with amusement at the vulgarity. Then he grew thoughtful. "I wish Luke could have seen it that way. Maybe it would have been enough to get him by."

"I think he did see it that way," Starsky noted. "But knowing it doesn't make livin' it any easier." He thought a moment. "I guess if life doesn't allow you to have the life you want, then life loses its importance."

Hutch looked him in the eye a moment, as though deciphering the statement, then whispered, "How do we know if that'll ever happen to us? Losing interest in life, because we can't have the life we want?"

"We don't know," Starsky answered firmly. "But we'll both always be most important to each other. And that'll always be worth livin' for."

Hutch's smile was still sad, but now it held a warmth about it. He looked away. "Yeah," he agreed softly.

CHAPTER 13