Starsky looked away from the file regarding the newest victim of the Sandstone Park murderer and rubbed at his eyes. The body had been discovered at 4:00 a.m., and he and Hutch had been summoned by a grumpy Captain Dobey within the hour. It was the fifth victim. The case was full of frustration because every lead came to a dead end. Starsky was starting to wonder if a ghost were committing the crimes.

Ceramic warmth nudged his hand, and Starsky looked up and smiled gratefully, accepting the freshly-filled coffee cup from his partner. "Thanks," he acknowledged tiredly. It was now ten in the morning, and he felt as though they had already put in a full day.

Hutch leaned back against the table full of files. "Wonder what would happen if they simply closed down the park? Think the murders would stop?"

Starsky snorted. "Nah. He'd just move to another park."

Dobey emerged from his office. "Hutchinson, I want to see you."

Both detectives looked at each other, then started forward.

"Hutchinson, alone."

Starsky's mouth dropped open as he looked up at his partner, the other's quizzical expression meeting his.

Dobey's voice softened. "You can tell Starsky all about it in a minute. But I want to see you alone first."

Hutch moved toward the big black man, and Starsky instinctively followed, then stopped when the door closed behind Dobey's office, separating him from Hutch. Heart pounding -- for he couldn't imagine what the reason would be for keeping them apart -- he tried to turn back to the file folders stacked on the table.

Thirty seconds later, he knew it was useless exercise, for he kept glancing at the closed door. He listened over the rustling of papers from others in the squadroom, but couldn't detect any voices beyond the barrier.

It was perhaps another two minutes when the door to the captain's office crashed open, and Hutch's tall, hulking form stormed out, hands stuffed in his pockets, expression a twisted mixture of grief and rage.

"Hutch -- "

The blond marched past Starsky toward the door, as though not even seeing him.

Starsky rushed to him, grabbing an arm from behind. "Whatthehellhappened?"

Pained eyes met his, the jaw hardening. "Doris Huntley killed herself." Hutch jerked away and continued out the door.

Killed herself? Starsky silently muttered as he stood frozen. Shock, disbelief, concern, relief, a myriad of questions -- all competed for attention in his mind. But Hutch's powerful strides had already carried him down the hall, and Starsky shook himself and raced after him. "HUTCH?"

The blond turned, a few yards in front of Starsky. The smaller man stopped, too, and they stood staring at each other.

The haunted expression told Starsky that there was nothing that could be said, nothing that could ease this pain. "Where are you going?" he asked in a trembling voice.

"I don't KNOW," Hutch replied hotly.

Starsky swallowed. Weakly, he pleaded, "Just be somewhere where I can find you. All right?"

There was the barest hint of a nod, and Hutch abruptly turned and continued down the hall.

Feeling sick in his stomach, Starsky went back to the squadroom. He saw Dobey watching him as he passed through the glass door.

"He'll be all right, Starsky," the captain said in a fatherly tone.

The detective felt a flair of annoyance that anyone thought they had the right to tell him how Hutch was. But he was more interested in details than venting his anger. "What happened?" he whispered.

Dobey moved back into his office, and Starsky followed. "Her body was found by the paper boy this morning. He saw her through the front window. She'd shot herself in the head. The preliminary indication is that she did it sometime last night."

God, the poor, pathetic woman. "Does Luke know?"

The captain sighed heavily as he sat behind his desk. "Yes. I hear he's taking it pretty rough."

It occurred to Starsky that that was probably where Hutch was headed -- to see Luke. He sat, with a heavy sigh of his own, on the edge of Dobey's desk. "Did she leave a note?"

"Yes. It said something about all the money she'd lost gambling, and how her husband deserved something better than her to come home to when he got out of prison."

Starsky rubbed at his eyes. "Dear God," he whispered.

"If she truly loved Luke," Dobey muttered, "I can't imagine how she could justify something like this." Then, morosely, "How is he ever supposed to recover from it?"

"She was a sick woman, Cap'n," Starsky offered quietly. "She needed help in more ways than one." He buried his face in his hands. "Ah, Hutch."

"That's why I wanted to talk to him alone first," the other explained. "Him being so close to the Huntleys an' all."

Starsky nodded that he understood. Then another sigh emerged. "This is going to be a tough one to swallow." He wished so much he could have gone with his partner. But he also understood the need the other had to get away... to lick his wounds... to have some space of his own in which to try to make sense of it.

Both men were silent a moment, then Dobey cautioned, "Starsky, I have no choice but to let Hutch have a day to grieve. But we've got a murder case to solve, and I've got one less detective on it...."

Starsky forced himself to his feet. "I'll give it my full attention."

* * *

Since he couldn't be with Hutch, Starsky was grateful to have the case as a distraction. He spent the day interviewing the available friends and family of the latest victim. Thankfully, most were in one place grieving together, so Starsky had done all he could by four p.m. He called Hutch's place from the nearest pay phone.

"Yeah?" came the tired greeting on the second ring.

That meant Hutch was probably in lying in bed. "I'm coming over," Starsky said, fighting to contain his relief that he hadn't needed to hunt the entire city.

The reply was subdued. "Yeah, okay." Then the line went dead.

When Starsky let himself in ten minutes later, he found the apartment deathly quiet. No lights were on, but the sun was still streaming in from one open window in the living room. He walked quietly toward the sleeping area and found the curtain there slightly closed. But Hutch was turned away from it, lying on his side on top of the covers, staring at the bookcase that served as a wall between the bedroom and the rest of the house. He was dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing that morning, boots still covering his feet.

Starsky sat carefully on the end of the bed, next to the feet. "You been here all day?"

"I went to see Luke after I left the station," came the gruff reply. Hutch was still staring at the bookcase.

"How is Luke?" Starsky asked quietly.

"How do you think?" the other snapped, hoisting onto an elbow. "He gave up everything, for her, spent the past year in prison so she could....." Hutch trailed off, a shaky hand pushing at his hair, the giveaway gesture that his emotions were close to the surface. Then he settled back against the bed, returned to staring.

Anger was heavy in every word Hutch spoke. And Starsky knew the last thing the other wanted was sympathetic pampering. He imagined Hutch had been lying here a good part of the day, letting the anger build. He kept his voice neutral. "Is he blaming himself?"

Hutch closed his eyes tightly and swallowed.

Suddenly, Starsky knew the answer to his own question. He slid nearer to his partner, placing a hand on a knee. "Hutch," he whispered harshly, "is he blaming you?"

The large hand came up again, pushing at the hair, as the eyes remained shut.

Goddamn him. "Hutch," Starsky's hand moved to take a shoulder, and he scooted further onto the mattress, "there's no way in hell you're responsible. You hear me? No way in goddamn hell."

"He asked me to take care of her," Hutch said simply. "And I didn't." He slowly shook his head. "I even only checked on her once or twice the whole --"

"He had no right!" Starsky bellowed, then angrily, "Doris wasn't your responsibility. What goddamn right did he have to ask that of you? She wasn't your problem. You didn't marry her."

Instantly, Hutch was again on an elbow, craning his neck so Starsky could see his furious glare. "Is that all she was to you -- a problem? Whatever happened to your compassion, buddy? Doesn't she deserve any of that?"

"Not when you're being used as a pawn in their marriage!"

"A pawn?" Hutch looked away with a bitter snort, before looking back. "What the hell do you know about what I was to them?" He jabbed at his own chest. "Luke was more a father to me than my own father ever was."

"That doesn't make him a godforsaken saint!" the smaller man countered. "And if he was so terrific to you, what the hell is he doing blaming you for his wife's death? Huh? Doris is the one who pulled the trigger. Neither you nor Luke is responsible for that. Any more than either of you is responsible for her gambling. Understand what I'm saying?" He shook the shoulder for emphasis. "Nobody made Doris gamble away that fifty grand twice over. She did it all by herself."

Hutch, who seemed to have deflated during the tirade, started to speak, but Starsky cut him off. "And don't start in with that 'she was lonely' shit. Understand me? Lots of people are lonely, but they don't go blowing their and their spouse's life savings. She had a problem, Hutch. She was an addict, big-time. And she didn't want to face it, and you know better than anyone that there's nothing you can do to help someone who doesn't want to be helped."

The blond settled back on the bed, still on his side, a hand on his forehead. He seemed to have no fight left and calmly said, "I just don't understand it, Starsk. How could she have gambled so much away in such a short time?"

Starsky released a heavy sigh. It was time to face his own demons. He pushed off his shoes, pulled his legs up, and sat cross-legged at Hutch's back. Quietly, he replied, "Probably at the ponies, Hutch."

He could see the pale brows narrow as the hand dropped away. "There's no way she --"

"Yes, there is," Starsky stated with quiet firmness. "When you're betting at least a hundred bucks a race and goin' to the races nearly every day...." He trailed off pointedly.

Hutch's upper body lifted slightly, and his head turned, but not enough for their eyes to meet. "What?" he asked in a whisper.

Starsky yielded yet another sigh and rested his cheek in his hand, the elbow of which was perched on a knee. "Hutch, if anyone's to blame, it's me."

"What are you talking about?"

Starsky took a moment to gather himself, then he began, "You know that day we ran into her at the track?"

"Yeah?"

"Well," the dark-haired man bowed his head, "you know when you offered to make her bet for her, and she said it was a superstition she had... that she always got her own bets?"

The brows pulled together even more, and now Hutch turned enough so that he could watch his partner as the confession unfolded.

"Well, the reason she didn't want you to make the bet for her was because she didn't want you to see how much she was betting." Starsky paused. "She went to the hundred dollar window."

Hutch blinked a few times, demanding more.

"So," the other shrugged, "she bet at least a hundred bucks on the race that we won all that money on." His voice softened. "It was probably everything she had." He drew another breath, this time letting it out in a long sigh. "And, at the restaurant, when she left her purse at the table, and you went and got it?"

Hutch nodded slowly, his expression showing that understanding was settling in.

"She left her purse on purpose, Hutch. Because she wanted to be alone with me, so she could ask me to loan her some money."

"Did you?" the blond asked distantly.

Starsky shrugged again. "I couldn't. I didn't have anything, since you were the one who collected our winnings. I told her she was going to have to get it from you." Quietly, he added, "And she couldn't do that. Because she knew it would destroy the fairy tale you seemed to believe about her... and Luke." He waited a moment, and when Hutch didn't say anything, Starsky admitted, "So, you see, I knew all along how bad it was. And I tried not to say anything. Because I knew you wanted to hang on to that fairy tale, too."

It was a moment before Hutch replied. The blond was again staring at the bookcase, but he finally whispered, "It's not your fault, Starsk."'

Starsky briefly closed his eyes. Truly, he didn't blame himself, for he did believe what he'd told Hutch earlier... about how people were responsible for their own actions. "It's not yours either, Hutch. Or Luke's."

The sun was setting, drawing shadows through the curtains. Between the dark blotches, Starsky could see his partner's moist eyes.

"Luke is in that prison," the blond noted with gruff sadness, "and he's all alone. He doesn't even have anyone to hold him."

The smaller detective thought it was safe now to let the tenderness he felt show in his voice. "I'm sure it helped him this morning to have you there."

Hutch closed his eyes, made a small shake of his head. "He wasn't ready for that kind of help. He hurts too much inside."

Starsky knew the feeling... like when he thought he'd blinded an innocent bystander for life. Gently, he offered, "But when he's ready, you can go back."

Hutch drew a deep, painful breath. "Yeah, I suppose."

Starsky unfolded his legs, settled on his knees, leaned over his partner. He whispered, "There's lots of people in this world who don't have anyone to hold them. But you have someone, Hutch."

After a moment, Hutch replied, "I know." But he didn't move.

The smaller man turned to Hutch's boots, slipped them off the still feet. Then he reached to a shoulder, shook it gently. "Hey, come on." His voice softened with each word. "Turn over. 'M right 'ere."

There was a moment of stillness, then the long body shifted, and in one smooth motion turned to face Starsky. The dark-haired man stretched out on the bed, reaching to the other, taking an upper arm in each hand. He knew right then that there wouldn't be any tears, for the muscles beneath his fingers had a lethargy about them that did not demand purging.

Hutch said as much. "I've been lying here," he whispered, "feeling hardly anything." He vaguely indicated his torso. "I just feel all dead inside."

"That's just the shock," Starsky assured quietly. One hand reached to brush back through the fragile hair. "Do you think Luke really blames you, or was he just lettin' off steam?"

Hutch pressed a cheek against the mattress. "I don't know." A pause, then, "I never thought he was perfect, Starsk. I just -- he was just so important to me."

Starsky's stroked the hair more firmly. "Hey, I know something about mentors and father figures, and how disillusioning they can be." The shock of learning about John Blaine had eased, but not the memory of it.

Hutch made the barest hint of a laugh. "Yeah, I guess you do." Then, after a moment, "With such men guiding us in our lives, how did we turn out to be so perfect?"

The chuckle that replied held more love than humor. "Good question." Starsky edged closer and put an arm around his partner's back. "Ah, Hutch."

They lay in silence for over a minute, as the final ray of light disappeared from outside the curtain. Then, painfully, Hutch said, "It just all seems so pointless sometimes, doesn't it? Why do we even bother trying so hard to pursue love?" Before Starsky had a chance to reply to the sudden change in subject, the blond whispered, "With everything Vanessa and I went through, I never truly believed she was going to leave me until she walked out that door. And, even then, I didn't believe it was over until the divorce papers were served."

Starsky swallowed, wondering why Hutch was talking about this now. Doris' death was painful enough without dragging all this out of the closet. He had never in his life seen a person hurt the way Hutch had hurt after the divorce. And he was incapable of even the smallest forgiving thought about Vanessa, even after her demise, which he couldn't help but feel she deserved.

When things got silent again, Starsky realized he hadn't responded to what Hutch had said. He had to think about what the point had been, then wanted to offer something more positive. "But we've still got each other. That's no small thing, you know." He continued to stroke back through the pale hair.

Hutch reached to return the gesture. "Yeah, I know." Then, sadly, "Why have we been able to find it in each other, but we can't find it in women? And people like Luke and Doris can't find it, even after having all the best intentions and tryin' so hard?"

Starsky let his hand drop to a shoulder. "I don't know. I just know that, when you have a love like we have, you take care of it. And we've always done that. We've never belittled our partnership, never took it for granted, or made less of it than it is." He thought back to what Hutch said a moment ago -- why can't we find it in women -- and offered, "Men and women always seem to expect different things from relationships; I guess we've both always wanted the same things."

Hutch nodded in the darkness, as though appreciating the explanations Starsky suggested, if not necessarily being convinced by them.

Nothing more was said, and Starsky put his arm back around the larger man, beckoning him to move closer. "Ah, Hutch. I'm so sorry about Doris." He squeezed hard, and Hutch yielded, resting his forehead against the other's shirt. "For you and for Luke. She didn't deserve that. She deserved help. If only she would have tried to get it."

Hutch swallowed thickly. "She probably didn't know where to turn."

"She coulda turned to lots of people, Hutch. Luke or you. Even me. I tried to point it out to her in the restaurant that night. But she just said things like I didn't understand."

The blond drew a shaky breath. "Poor Luke. What's he gonna do?"

Starsky pulled Hutch even closer, while at the same time relaxing his hold. He swallowed, then asked, "Wasn't he supposed to get out the week after next?"

"Yes," came the flat reply, "be home in time for Christmas."

"You gonna pick him up when they release him?"

"Yes. If he wants me there."

"Want me to come along?"

Hutch patted Starsky's arm. "No. That's okay." A long, heavy sigh, then, "I don't suppose you got any new leads on the case today."

The other rested his cheek against the soft hair. Grimly, he said, "Not a one."

"It's so hard sometimes, wondering what the point is."

"I know, Hutch," Starsky soothed. "But we'll find him. Eventually, something has to break, and we'll get him."

"How many more will be dead by then?" Hutch asked in a haunted voice.

Starsky squeezed him closer. "I don't know. I just don't know."

They fell silent after that. After a time, Hutch pulled off his outer clothes and got beneath the covers. After more silence, the blond finally said, "You don't need to stay. I'm okay."

"I know," Starsky replied quietly. "But I think I'll stick around anyway. Only, I'll sleep on top of the covers in case the Man in the Moon peeks in and starts spreading funny rumors about us."

That brought the barest snort of amusement. And no protest.

Starsky straightened to take off his jacket. Then he removed his shoulder harness and shirt, and reached behind him to take the edge of the spread and pull it over himself. Between the spread and snuggling next to Hutch's covered form, he was plenty warm. And almost felt guilty about the sense of contentment that washed through him. It was much earlier than he or Hutch were used to going to bed, but since they had gotten up so much earlier this morning, he felt like he was tired enough to sleep. And he hoped Hutch could, too.

And hoped that, someday, the confusion would be gone, and they wouldn't have to fear the Man in the Moon.

* * *

It was a bit of an awakening to see the "For Sale" sign up, but Starsky realized he shouldn't have been surprised. With all his money gone, and nothing but his pension, Luke Huntley would hardly be able to afford to live in the same house he and Doris had occupied. And probably wouldn't want to.

There was a car in the driveway -- a pathetic looking beat-up Ford that Starsky had the sneaking suspicion Hutch had helped purchase. But his only interest in the car was that it indicated Huntley was home. Starsky hesitated a moment, then knocked.

"Who is it?" came the delayed response from within.

"Dave Starsky." He paused, not sure if it were necessary to add, "Ken's partner."

Slowly, the door opened, and there stood an older, sadder version of the man Starsky hadn't seen in nearly a year. Irritably, Huntley asked, "What do you want? Where's Kenny?"

The smaller man met the ex-detective's eye. "I wanted to talk to you alone."

An exaggerated sigh ran through the now-frail body, then Huntley stood back. "All right."

Starsky entered, noting that the interior of the house looked much less clean and cared for than it had on his previous visits. Awkwardly, Huntley gestured to an easy chair, while plopping down tiredly on the sofa.

The older man ran a hand through his thinning hair. "I suppose if you're here, it must have something to do with Ken."

"First of all," Starsky began, stealing a breath, "I've never had a chance to express my sympathies." His voice dropped an octave. "I'm very sorry, Luke, about Doris."

"Yeah, well," Huntley began after a moment, "her troubles are over now."

"I guess it must be like starting all over," Starsky noted, "for you.".

"Yeah," the other replied impatiently. Then, "Come on, Starsky, get to it. I know you've never liked me much. Why are you here?"

The curly-haired man presented a small smile, cocked his head to one side. "It's not that I've disliked you, Huntley. It's just that I tend to get a bit protective where Hutch is concerned."

"I've noticed," the other grumbled, and Starsky knew that he was thinking of the day they busted Reuben.

"Look, " the younger man said, "this is the way it is: I know that when something like this happens, it's natural for everyone who knew the person to feel some degree of responsibility. But I also know that my partner tends to be a bit more sensitive than most when it comes to guilt. I just want to make sure -- since he's making himself so 'available' to you now that you're released -- that you aren't feeding him any garbage, however subtly, that he somehow could have stopped Doris from doing what she did."

Huntley was suddenly on his feet, his back to Starsky. "I don't blame him," he said firmly. "Doris was my problem. I should have taken care of her." His voice trembled on the last.

Starsky felt himself deflate, while questioning -- as he always had -- whether Huntley possessed something less than full stability. "Well, I can sit here all day and try to talk you out of that, but I know you aren't interested in my opinions of your private life." His voice firmed. "Bottom line, Huntley: Maybe you don't blame Hutch, but does he know that?"

The older man sighed. "I know I blew up at him initially. I think he knows it was just the shock of the moment."

Starsky stood, went up to Huntley. From behind, he whispered, "Make sure that he knows. Got that?"

Huntley stared at the carpet... and didn't reply.