The Pits was crowded and the entire place was filled with smoke. Emerging from the men's room, Hutch took refuge in a near corner with a pinball machine. He and his partner had separated earlier in the day because Starsky had a dental appointment. Hutch, meanwhile, had questioned more acquaintances of the most recent murder victim. His partner was supposed to meet him here at eight. Already, it was twenty minutes past.

Hutch inserted coins into the machine and, with little enthusiasm, pulled the lever that released the first silver ball. Unable to drum up any interest in where it traveled, he let his depression, which had lingered ever since returning from Kentucky, consume him. Ed Schneider, it had turned out, was not the Sandstone Park murderer, and he had been released on bond, pending trial. The woman he had attacked in the park was a prior acquaintance whom he held a grudge against for refusing to date him. He'd claimed he was merely trying to frighten her, she claimed he had once threatened to kill her. Who was speaking the truth would be left to a jury to decide.

In the meantime, they were back to square one with the Sandstone murders. The seventh slit throat, a slew of grieving friends and relatives, and no leads.

Hutch sighed. He was out of quarters and turned to the bar. A beer was placed before him, Huggy eyeing him speculatively. "It's bad enough havin' cops hanging around my place. Having a down cop only adds to the reputation, if you know what I mean."

Hutch wasn't in the mood to sympathize. Instead, he asked, "You haven't heard from Starsky, have you? He's late."

"'Fraid not," Huggy replied. "How late is he?"

Hutch shrugged. "Half an hour. He had a cavity and went to see the dentist."

Huggy winced. "In that case, I hope I don't see him. Needles and drillin' don't make our Starsky a very agreeable boy."

Hutch chuckled. 'Boy' was right. He hoped he would be up to the degree of coddling that Starsky was going to expect.

He'd just finished his beer when a waitress walked up behind the counter. "Hey, Hutch."

"Hm?"

"Starsky just called. He said to tell you he 'felt like hell' and was going straight home. Said he'd see you tomorrow."

Hutch tossed some bills on the counter. "Thanks."

It was a relief to leave the smokey bar. Hutch sucked in lungfuls of cool evening air as he headed home. On a whim, he made a left that would take him in another, equally familiar direction.

* * *

The apartment was dark, and Hutch knocked gently before letting himself in. "Starsky?" he whispered as he carefully maneuvered around the furniture.

"What?" came the dejected response from the bedroom.

"You asleep yet?" Hutch asked as he moved in that direction.

"No."

The blond had to restrain a smile as he entered the bedroom, for his partner's voice was full of pout. He felt for the edge of the mattress, and then his hand encountered a clothed body. He gently scooted it to one side, creating enough room to sit. "Hey," he said softly, "how come you're still dressed?"

From the moonlight, he could see that Starsky's hands were folded beneath his cheek, and his knees were drawn up near his chest. "Didn't feel like botherin'," the smaller man mumbled.

"Ah, Starsk." Hutch placed a hand on his back. "Was it that bad?"

"It was worse than bad," the other replied. His words were slurring slightly, as though his jaw were still numb.

Hutch's brows furrowed as he reached to unbutton Starsky's shirt with one hand. "How come?"

"Because the first shot didn't work very well. And he started drillin', and it hurt like hell, so he gave me another shot. And my heart started racing, and I thought I was gonna throw up or faint or something. And then I was real tense 'cause I was afraid it was gonna hurt again." He sighed heavily. "It didn't, but it seemed like forever before he was done."

Hutch squeezed a shoulder. "Sorry, partner." He finished with the buttons. "Come on, sit up so we can get you undressed."

Silently, the smaller man obeyed. But he let Hutch do all the work, causing the blond to scoldingly chuckle, "What would you have done if I'd gone straight home?"

"I would have been all right." the other insisted, though his tone lacked belief. Once he was in his pajamas, Hutch held the covers open for him.

When Starsky was settled, Hutch thought what the hell and started removing his own clothes. They usually didn't sleep together if they didn't intend to have sex, but the blond found himself looking for excuses to stay more and more often.

When he was down to his underwear, Hutch pushed all the outer clothes into a pile on the floor. "Hey, mind if I listen to the news a bit?"

"Nah." Starsky reached for the clock radio and switched it on, turning the dial until finding a news channel, though at the moment the sports were on.

When Hutch was settled, he was lying on his back, his arm resting against his partner's turned backside. He closed his eyes as he listened to the seemingly endless rundown of basketball scores. He was just about to drift into a doze when the sportscaster's tone changed.

Starsky shot up in bed as soon as the horse's name was mentioned. Now, as another newscaster came on to begin with the headline stories, Starsky remained still, as though straining to hear any other bit of additional information that might filter through.

After a moment, Hutch, who had rolled toward his partner, reached to lay a hand on Starsky's arm. "Ah, gee, Starsk, I'm sorry," he whispered, fingers lightly stroking. "Poor horse."

The other abruptly reached to turn off the radio. The he lay back stiffly on the mattress, staring at the ceiling.

Hutch squeezed his arm. "Hey, he still has a chance. Maybe he'll pull through okay."

The only reply was a thick swallow.

The blond waited. But after a few more moments of silence passed, he prompted, "Hey, come on, talk to me."

"What do you want me to say?" Starsky asked sadly. "He was our horse."

Hutch blinked, feeling, as he usually did when on this subject, that he was missing something of importance that his partner saw so clearly. After a moment, he pointed out, "He's still our horse. The vets haven't given up on him, and neither have his owner and trainer. They're trying to save him. Some geldings aren't that fortunate. But they know he's special, too."

Finally, Starsky rolled toward Hutch, curling himself against the long frame. In a small voice, he said, "What if they have to kill him?"

"Maybe they won't," Hutch reminded, knowing the words were horribly inadequate. His arms had gone around his partner, and now he squeezed tightly. "Hey, we've still got each other. We'll always carry on his name."

"I don't want him to die."

"I don't either."

The night was long, for neither man slept.

* * *

"Will you knock if off," Hutch said hotly, not caring that other heads turned in their direction. It was two days later, and the table before them was cluttered with files of Sandstone Park victims, and Starsky's constant tapping of a pencil against the table's edge grated on nerves that seemed to know nothing except frustration.

"Fine," Starsky scowled, throwing the pencil across the room. It bounced off the wall, fell to the floor, then flipped over once before coming to rest.

"That's a good way to cause somebody to lose an eye," another detective said from across the room.

"Up yours, Brettman," Starsky replied.

"Same to you, dickhead."

Hutch closed his eyes and tried to take a breath. Teasing in the squadroom was one thing, but this was on a more serious level. Everyone who could be spared was on the case of the Sandstone Park murders. But the trail of leads was ice cold. Which did nothing but make the mayor, the citizens, and the entire police department very edgy.

The blond adjusted his collar, feeling suffocated as if it were the middle of summer. Starsky had been fairly uncommunicative since "their" horse had been injured, and all they'd been able to find out since the newscast was that Partner for Life's condition was "serious". Between them, Hutch knew himself to be the moody one, and he didn't appreciate having the tables turned; for, while Starsky was an expert at dealing with his moods, he had a lot less experience with being the emotional comforter. Nor did he have the patience. And the frustrations of the case quadrupled the tension.

Sometimes he wondered why he just didn't walk away from it all... if even for a few minutes.

"Will you knock it off?"

Hutch looked up and found Starsky's scowl directed at him. "Knock what off?"

"All that goddamnned sighing." The darker man imitated Hutch, exaggerating a heavy sigh. "I'm sick of listening to it. Plus, it's distracting as hell." He tore open another file and began staring at it.

The blond could take no more. He stood, lifting his jacket from the back of his chair, and headed for the door. But he paused just behind his partner and whispered, "Go fuck yourself," before proceeding out of the squadroom. He didn't look back.

"Same to ya," he heard called after him.

By the time he'd made it out of the building and was walking down the street, the winter breeze billowing his jacket, Hutch felt consumed by a wave of depression. He found an empty bus bench and sat on it, hunching forward, his forehead resting in his hands.

What were they doing wrong? There were a total of seven victims in the space of four months. None of the victims were loners. All had a circle of loved ones who mourned for them, who gave the police every bit of information they knew concerning the victim; information that, it turned out, hadn't done the police a damn bit of good.

"Hutch!"

Hutch looked up at the squeal of delight. He blinked in disbelief, seeing Kathy Marshall trotting toward him.

"Kathy?" he questioned, standing as she reached him and threw her arms around him. He returned the embrace, puzzled by her sudden appearance, but the feel of her petite body lifted his spirits in a way that nothing else could. When she finally pulled back, while still keeping an arm around him, he asked, "Wha-what are you doing here?"

"Had a two-day layover," she replied cheerfully. "Actually, it's sort of a mini-vacation. Me and a girlfriend are seeing the town. She's having her hair done, and I thought I'd just take a little walk up to Parker Center to see if perhaps I might run into two gentlemen I happen to know."

"Oh, well," Hutch stuttered, "that's great."

She glanced around. "I wasn't expecting to find you out here." Then, with puzzlement, "Are you waiting for a bus?"

"Oh, no," Hutch laughed self-consciously. "I was just getting some air."

"Oh," she laughed with him. Then, looking around, "Where's David?"

"Still in the squadroom."

She squeezed his arm. "Shall we go up?"

"Uh," Hutch carefully dislodged her hand, "uh, things are pretty busy up there. The Sandstone Park murder case split wide open again."

She frowned. "Oh, I'd heard he was caught."

"We thought he was. But there's been another murder since."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah." Hutch wasn't sure what else to say, and then he gestured, "Here, sit down. Tell me what you've been up to."

She sat, crossing one leg over another. She was wearing a skirt, and Hutch felt himself twitch at the shapely legs revealed. "Oh, it's pretty much the usual for me, I'm afraid. My biggest news is that I'm thinking about going back to school, maybe try to become a nurse."

"You'd be good at that," Hutch said enthusiastically, wondering if he sounded phony.

"Yeah," she nodded. "I think so, too. And there's more of a future in it than being an airline stewardess."

"Better pay, too, I imagine."

Kathy nodded. "I'm counting on it."

Suddenly, they both were silent, and Hutch felt the depression begin to return. Then Kathy, voice quieter, said, "So, how are things with you both?"

Hutch hesitated, unsure of what to say. Then he shrugged. "Other than this case, things are good."

"Yeah?" she prompted pointedly.

It took the blond a moment to realize what she was getting at. He had to think quickly, trying to remember exactly what he'd told her that last night she'd called. It had been two months ago. He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "Starsk and I... well, we're still 'attached'."

She nodded, but he suspected she knew he wasn't giving the full story. She asked, "Are either of you serious enough to be thinking about marriage?"

"Oh, I dunno," Hutch snorted with exaggeration. "Once burned, twice shy, and all that."

"What about Starsky?"

"I think he's just afraid to take that first step." Hutch shifted uncomfortably, knowing he was outright lying and wishing he didn't have to respond to her questions.

She seemed to realize that she was causing discomfort. Abruptly, she was on her feet. "Hey, honest, Hutch, no hard feelings. In fact, I'd really like to meet the lucky ladies sometime. You know, just to go out dancing or something for old times' sake. There's no reason either of them should feel threatened by me. I believe in marriage and lifetime commitment and happiness and all of that."

Hutch felt touched. He reached to clasp her hand and softly said, "I know you do."

Her smiled brightened. With playful self-deprecation, she said, "Now, I've just got to find the one for me."

"He's out there," Hutch said lamely.

She placed her hands on his chest. "Cheer up." She kissed him on the cheek. "I know you'll find your murderer. I'd better go." Abruptly, she turned away, walking briskly.

Hutch watched her go, appreciating her shape as it moved along the street. He wondered why he and Starsky were denying themselves that, when it was so natural for them both.

He turned away in the opposite direction, ashamed of himself for even having the thought. Despite their current, mutual surliness, Starsky was giving him everything he asked for.

And even that realization seemed to deepen his depression; yet, he couldn't fathom why.

Though he dreaded delving once again into the files, Hutch turned back toward Parker Center.

This time, when Starsky grumbled about Hutch not fixing a new pot of coffee after taking the last cup, the blond didn't bother responding.

* * *

Four hours later the squadroom was deathly quiet, and Hutch was certain a human being could not feel worse than he did at that moment. He had not made one bit of progress -- not that he had expected to -- and the idea of working late, just so he could come back here tomorrow and start all over again, was almost unbearable.

Suddenly, he heard his partner whisper something with an intense, in-drawn breath.

"What?" Hutch snapped, wishing Starsky would either speak clearly or not speak at all.

The smaller man was staring at an open file. He whispered again, but this time the words were clear. "Luke Huntley."

Hutch scrambled out of his chair to look over Starsky's shoulder. "What?"

Suddenly, his partner was animated. "Hutch, look," he indicated the file, and then a group of others spread out on the desk. "R&I pulled everything that had a similar M.O. to the Sandstone Park murders. Turns out, there's almost an exact M.O., fifteen years ago. There were two murders -- throat slashings -- in Little Ridge Park, and a certain Jose DeSantiago was convicted of both."

Exasperated, Hutch demanded, "What's that got to do with Luke?"

Starsky pointed to a report in the file. "He was the arresting officer. He was the one in charge of the investigation." He glanced back at his partner. "He can help us. It may be the same guy."

Hutch's brows furrowed. "You mean DeSantiago has been released from prison?"

"I don't know." Starsky reached for the phone, dialing quickly. "We gotta see what R&I has to say about 'im."

Hutch felt himself almost smile. Starsky had said "we".

* * *

The apartment building Luke Huntley now lived in was middle-class, old but clean, located on the north edge of town. They had called him at work to tell him there was something important they needed to discuss with him, and he had said he would be home that evening.

Starsky stood back while Hutch knocked. After a moment, the door opened, and Huntley greeted them in a robe. "Hey, guys, come on in. I just got out of the shower."

When Hutch entered he put his arms around the older man, and Luke returned the embrace, thumping the taller man's back. Then he reached around the blond and squeezed Starsky's arm. "Sit down," he addressed them both. "How about a beer?"

Hutch glanced back at Starsky, then said, "Sure."

"Starsky?" Luke asked from the kitchen.

"Thanks."

They were tossed the beers and both seated themselves on the sofa. Huntley had a cold one, too, and as he sat in the easy chair across from them, he asked, "So, what's up? It sounded important."

Hutch glanced at Starsky, and the curly-haired man remained silent, preferring to let his partner do most of the talking.

The blond began, "Do you remember, about fifteen years ago, arresting a man named Jose DeSantiago for a couple of murders in Little Ridge Park?"

The older man's brow furrowed. "Sure, I remember. It was my biggest bust up to that point. What about it?"

Hutch shifted. "While investigating the Sandstone Park murders, we've discovered that the M.O. was very similar to that of DeSantiago. At first, we thought it might be the same guy, but --"

"DeSantiago is dead," Luke cut in firmly. "He had a heart attack in prison about three years ago."

"Yeah, we found that out from R & I. Still, we think there could be some kind of connection. And since you were so involved in the DeSantiago case, we thought you might be able to help us on this one."

Huntley raised his hands. "Hey, guys, I'm no longer with the police force."

"I know that," Hutch replied with forced patience. "But we thought you still might be able to help us. If there's anything... unique, or particular, about that case that could tie it in to this one, it could be the clue we're looking for." The blond lifted his hands, then let them drop to his thighs. "As is, the trail is cold, cold, cold. And innocent people keep on getting killed. We're stuck, Luke. We need your help."

The older man inhaled deeply, then let out a long sigh. "Of course, I'll help you -- if I can." He shrugged. "I just can't imagine what the DeSantiago murders would have to do with this. Obviously, it's not DeSantiago committing them."

Starsky said, "What about a copy cat? Could there be someone who, for some twisted reason, wanted to carry on DeSantiago's legacy?"

Another shrug from across the room. "I remember that he had an ex-wife who hated his guts because he beat her." Luke shook his head. "Other than that, I'm sure there's no one. He didn't have any friends. He was a loner, all the way." Huntley suddenly looked up. "Besides, if it were a copy cat, why would he start killing now? DeSantiago was convicted fifteen years, died three years ago. Why would someone wanting revenge in his name start killing now?"

Starsky had to concede the point, but he let Hutch voice it.

"I know it doesn't make sense, Luke. Nothing about this case does. That's why we're grasping at straws. We just thought...," Hutch trailed off, then tried again. "We just thought that even if it's just someone with a similar psyche, you still might be able to help. After all, according to the old reports, you practically stalked DeSantiago and tracked him down. You put yourself in his place and learned to think like he thought. You were able to catch him because you learned to anticipate his next move. That's exactly the kind of mind we need on this case."

"Maybe so," Luke relented, "but I'm way out of practice. Plus, the LAPD isn't about to rehire me to help them."

"No," Hutch agreed softly. He tilted his head down, then looked back up at the man who had once been so important to him. "But that doesn't stop you from being able to help Starsk and me. We can feed you everything we know. If you can churn it around, spit out something we haven't considered before...."

Huntley nodded quickly, as though not wanting Hutch to have to plead any further. "All right. All right. Tell me what you know." A soft snort. "My evenings aren't exactly full, anyway. This will give me something to focus on."

* * *

It had started with affectionate holding. They were on the floor at Starsky's apartment where Hutch had knelt to browse through his partner's collection of records. He had lost interest and laid back with a weary sigh. Starsky had joined him, talking about his phone call earlier in the day to his mother. And then, because Starsky wanted to give his friend something pleasurable, he had reached for the fly of Hutch's blue jeans, unzipped it; then, getting to his knees, had parted the snap.

It was fairly small, but he would take care of that. Starsky lowered his mouth on it, and sucked firmly. When it was sufficiently hard, he decided, he would slow down and take his time.

He had been working on the still-soft flesh perhaps a couple of minutes when fingers pulled firmly at his jaw. Puzzled, he looked up.

"Come on, Starsk," his partner said with a hint of annoyance, "I'm not in the mood." Already, Hutch was tucking himself away.

Starsky swallowed, feeling an unfamiliar sense of inadequacy.

Hutch reached to entwine fingers in his hair. "Hey, come on," the blond said gently, "it's not you. I'm just not in the mood right now." The fingers tugged lightly.

Starsky followed their lead and lay against Hutch with his head on the other's shoulder. The simple words had helped, and he was able to focus on his partner instead of himself. "What are you thinkin' about?"

Hutch's hand stroked up and down his back. "Nothin'."

Starsky frowned but didn't state the obvious.

After a moment, the blond said, "Just things." Then, "Luke."

Starsky propped his chin in his hand, resting his other hand on his partner's stomach.

"What about him?"

Hutch shrugged. "Just about how much his life has changed, after being so consistent for so many years. How much he's changed."

Carefully, the smaller man said, "I'm not sure what you mean. But then, I never really knew him very well."

Hutch shook his head, as though marveling at a puzzle. "He was always such a dedicated cop. But, today," Hutch took a deep breath, "it just seems like I had to insist that he help us. Even though he no longer has a shield, I thought helping find the bad guy would mean something to him."

Starsky thought about it a moment, then picked out what he thought his partner was trying to say. And responded likewise. "He still loves you, Hutch. That hasn't changed."

Hutch looked at him. And didn't answer.