They continued to re-interview friends, relatives, and co-workers of all the Sandstone victims. Nothing new was uncovered, but they took all the information to Luke.

The older man shook his head in disbelief as the two detectives once again sat in his living room. "It does sound an awfully lot like DeSantiago; the whole feel of the case does. The mystery, the total lack of evidence. The fact that nothing fits in and of itself is sort of an M.O. just like DeSantiago."

"How did you finally nail DeSantiago?" Starsky asked.

Luke considered, then shrugged. "A knife found in the park. It was old and came from a certain pawn shop, and through that we eventually traced a series of purchasers."

"What was DeSantiago's motive?" Starsky asked. "I don't remember the rap sheet saying he was simply psycho."

"Something religious," Huntley replied. "I would call it a form of devil worship, but peaceful satanists would accuse me of slander. DeSantiago believed that it was his destiny to make human sacrifices to his gods."

Hutch shook his head. "It's amazing he killed only two people before you caught him."

"He was convicted of killing only two," Huntley corrected. "He was suspected of two other Little Ridge murders and a number of other slayings in Arizona, but they were never able to prove anything."

The blond rubbed at his mustache. "Is it possible," he asked doubtfully, "that the Sandstone Park murders are entirely motivated by religion?"

Huntley shrugged. "Religion has been the motivation for more deaths in our world's history than any other single reason."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed grimly. "If that's the case, though, the guy doing the killing has to be purely psycho."

"And it still doesn't answer the question," Hutch pointed out, "of what the current killer has to do with DeSantiago. If anything."

Doubtfully, Starsky asked, "Is it possible it could be the same religion, but not otherwise have anything to do with DeSantiago?"

The three men looked at each other. None had an answer.

* * *

"Hutch, look." Morning paper in hand, Starsky walked over to where his robed partner was sitting at the kitchen table, stirring a glass of Carnation Instant Breakfast.

"What is it?"

Starsky flipped the folded sports page to the bottom half. He tapped at a small article near the edge of the page. "They think Partner for Life is gonna pull through." He sighed heavily with relief. "Isn't that terrific?"

"Ah, that's good," Hutch said gently. He'd been worried about how badly his partner would take it if the horse had to be destroyed. But things were looking up.

Eyes still on the paper, Starsky pushed a chair back from the table and sat. "He'll never race again, but it says: The owners, Mr. and Mrs. Parsons, say that once he has recovered, he will be turned out to pasture at their farm outside of San Luis Obispo. 'He's been good to us,' Mrs. Parsons said. 'It's our turn to be good to him.'"

"That's nice," Hutch smiled at his partner.

"Yeah. That's great."

* * *

"Hutch."

The battered LTD turned from Fifth Avenue onto Tempo Street. It was almost three in the morning, and Sandstone Park was deathly quiet. The blond glanced at the man beside him, who had spoken so softly. "What?"

Starsky's eyes were on the passenger mirror. "Did you see that camper we just passed, parked across from Garden?"

Hutch's brows furrowed at his partner's contemplative tone. "Yeah?"

"Somebody we talked to mentioned something about a camper." A heavy sigh. "Only, I can't remember who it was."

Hutch's heart pounded. Could it truly be a lead that would eventually end this nightmare? He turned down Waverly Street. "I'll circle back around, cut the lights." A camper, a camper. They had interviewed literally hundreds of family and friends of the various victims. And then the answer came to him. Hutch snapped his fingers. "The kid -- the waiter -- in the seafood shop."

Starsky clicked his fingers, too, straightening excitedly. "Yeah. He went out on a date with one of the victims two nights before she was murdered. He mentioned something about a camper, but I don't quite remember...."

"They went to a movie together," Hutch recalled, hoping that talking out loud would jog both their memories. The next block, and they would turn back onto Fifth. He cut the headlights.

"They saw it after the movie," Starsky put in. "He was laughing at how there had been a camper in the movie... and they happened to see one just like it on the street."

Hutch sighed with both relief and fear. He didn't understand how the pieces could possibly fit, but instinct -- and hope -- indicated that this might truly be it.

He saw it parked on the curb, next to the park, a few hundred feet in the distance. He pulled onto the opposite curb, cut the motor. "From here, it doesn't look like there's anyone in it."

"Yeah, but it's really dark, Hutch."

The blond looked over at his partner. "What do you want to do?"

"We should get out, approach it slowly."

Hutch let out a breath. "Okay."

Starsky picked up the microphone. "Control One, this is Zebra Three."

"Go ahead, Zebra Three."

"We have a suspicious looking truck with a camper parked next to Sandstone Park. It appears to be unoccupied, but we're going in for a closer look on foot."

"What's the make and model, Zebra Three?"

"The truck is a Ford, maybe '67 or '68. Dark blue. The camper is white. We can't see the plates from where we're at."

"Ten-four."

They both felt for their holsters, released the safety catches on their guns. But they didn't draw their weapons as they left the car.

"Think this might be it?" Starsky whispered.

"Let's hope so." And, yet, as always, a part of Hutch hoped that it wasn't, as the danger made it a dichotomy that they always faced.

They kept their eyes on the front windshield. There were no street lamps near, but as they approached, they could see that the truck's cab was, indeed, empty.

They both looked at each other, then nodded. They parted to move to each side of the camper, both hunched low enough so that it would be difficult to see them from a window. They met at the rear, where a closed door faced them.

Hutch curled a fist as he flattened himself against the back of the door, near the hinge. He caught his partner's eye, who was flattened against the opposite side, and received a nod. The fist pounded on the door. "Police. Open up."

Silence greeted them.

Hutch strained his ears, trying to listen for any possible movement within. He heard nothing, and raised his voice. "Police! Open up."

Still, there was silence. The blond watched his partner sigh... with a mixture of relief and disappointment that he well understood. Because it was himself on the near side of the door, Hutch reached for the handle. He expected it to be locked and let his surprise show when a "click" indicated it wasn't. He paused, thumb on the handle's knob, waiting for Starsky's nod once again. When he got it, Hutch suddenly pulled the door open.

His partner, both hands on his pistol, spun to face the darkened interior. Long arms reached from within, just as Starsky was stretching his own arms outward in preparation to shoot. The smaller detective was grabbed with such force and surprise that his gun was knocked away before he could fire a shot. Then he was pulled inside.

With the camper's door between him and the action, there was nothing Hutch could do in that split second to help without risking his partner's safety. Instead, he whirled around as he heard the motor suddenly start, and he fired toward the driver's seat, knowing that Starsky was safely out of his line of fire, in the back.

Tires squealing, the truck leapt forward. Hutch steadied his arms to take careful aim at a rear tire, when glass suddenly smashed from one of the camper's windows, and he saw a double-barreled shot gun aimed at him. Instinctively, he dived to the pavement, rolling out of the way as bullets ricocheted off the street. He came up to his knees, ready to fire again, but the vehicle was already moving with remarkable speed. Heart sinking, he raced back to the LTD. He had no doubt the man or men in the camper were connected with the murders. What they might want with Starsky, he didn't dare spare time to think about.

Hutch shouted his report into the microphone as he spun the LTD around to chase after the camper. He gave the vehicle's description again, cautioning over and over that Starsky was in it, and that it should be approached with care. After putting the microphone up, he snapped the mars light onto the roof. Within moments, he found himself tearing down nearly-deserted city streets.

The camper was nowhere in sight.

Hutch refused to be discouraged. Other police cars had been alerted; the vehicle should be easy to spot on the barren streets. He was certain it was still in the downtown area somewhere.

He cruised up and down, street after street, eyes strained for the slightest indication of the camper's presence. Once, he did spot a blue truck with a camper in an alley, but closer inspection revealed the words Lace Dry Cleaning on its side. For a while, the radio was alive with the action of other patrol cars trying to assist. But then it quieted, for they hadn't found the vehicle, either.

* * *

The sun was just beginning to peak over the horizon when Hutch pulled to a halt in front of an apartment complex at the north end of town and trotted up the stairs. He did not care that he shattered the quiet of the early morning as he pounded on the door of apartment 212.

Finally, an irritable, "Who is it?" came from within.

"Ken."

He heard the sliding of the chain. Then the door was pulled open. Luke stood there in his robe, hair disheveled. "Ken, what is it?"

Hutch pushed past him. "You've gotta help me," he said, hearing the quiver in his voice. "They've got Starsky."

Luke was still holding the door open. "Who has?"

"The people responsible for the killings," Hutch replied hotly, wondering why he had to explain. Then he realized Luke didn't have ESP. "We found a camper, similar to a description a boyfriend had given us, sitting by the park. Starsk and I approached it... they grabbed him before he could fire. They drove off with him. And we lost them." His chest heaved. "You gotta help me find him."

Calmly, Huntley said, "I'm not sure what I can -- "

"You know them," Hutch reminded earnestly. "You've studied how they work. You can find them the way you found DeSantiago."

Luke sighed, as though still not convinced he would be of any help.

"Do you want me on my knees?" Hutch demanded. "They've got Starsky!" There was a horrible sinking sensation in his chest, for he'd known, all along, that Luke blamed him for Doris. But the man couldn't hold that against this -- a life that still lived. When Luke continued looking at him dumbly, Hutch threatened, "I'll beg, if that's what you want."

Luke seemed to shake himself. Then he turned away. "Just let me throw on some clothes."

Hutch closed his eyes, trying to summon a feeling of relief. He whirled around when he heard footsteps behind him.

A boy, about eleven or twelve, stood in the doorway, looking at him oddly. He held out his hand. "Here's your paper, Mister."

Hutch accepted the L.A. Times numbly. "Thanks," he managed, quietly shutting the door.

He realized his hands were shaking when he undid the plastic band. The paper slipped from his grip, landing on the floor, its various sections coming apart. With nothing better to do at the moment, he knelt and began scooping it together, then tried to neaten it by laying the sections on top of each other.

The sports page landed on top. Hutch was rising when his eyes fell on a small headline at the bottom of the first page. He stared at the accompanying article in horror and disbelief.

Partner for Life had suffered a setback and had to be humanely destroyed.

* * *

Starsky decided there was nothing in this world he hated more than handcuffs. They were extremely effective at their intended use: restraint. Already, his wrists, arms and shoulders ached from having his hands bound behind him by the cold metal. Of course, he kept reminding himself, the cuffs might very well be the least of his problems.

Other than cuffing him almost immediately -- after a frantic struggle in which his jacket was torn away -- his two captors hadn't caused him much harm. They did, however, keep a knee on his back, forcing him to remain in a prone position, his face pressed against the camper's floorboard. He'd tried talking, and had been belted in the ribs every time, so had finally decided that silence was in his best interest. But he never stopped listening. The two gruff-looking men didn't say much to each other, but Starsky did note that the vehicle had slowed to a more reasonable speed within fifteen minutes of his capture. That had bothered him, for it showed their confidence that they weren't being followed.

He wasn't sure why they held him captive. It may be to use him as a hostage, in which case his relative safety was assured... for the time being. Or -- and this was his stronger impression -- in the heat of the moment, it had simply been easier for them to grab him, rather than pushing him away. The double-barrelled shotgun had been lying on the floor, so they hadn't been able to use it in time. But once speeding away, he knew that same deadly gun had been aimed at his partner. Since there was no indication of success, and the vehicle had continued speeding for a while, he hoped it meant Hutch hadn't been hit.

Occasionally, the truck stopped, and one of the men would stick his body halfway out a front window and speak to the driver; then they would move forward again.

Starsky had outright asked, "What are you going to do with me?" but that had earned him the first assault on his ribs. He'd concluded quickly that these men had no intention of sharing anything with him.

All he could do was wait to see what they had in store.

* * *

The threats that bellowed through the microphone's grid were almost amusing... or would have been under any other circumstances.

Did Dobey, Hutch thought, really think he would drive all the way back to the station "so they could put their heads together and think this through" when Starsky was out there... somewhere... needing him? Adrenaline and tension fueling his voice, Hutch replied, "Get everyone there to put their heads together and let me know what you come up with. Until then, Luke and I are checking out every possibility."

"Hutchinson, think," Dobey finally said, "that's an order. You're no good to Starsky, driving around in circles."

Hutch shouted, "Well, I sure as hell won't be any good to him at the station!" He took a deep breath. "I've got to find him, Captain. That's all there is to it. And the only way to find him is to look."

"We've got units looking," Dobey countered. "We've got an APB out and roadblocks on all the major highways leading out of the city."

"I damn well know that," Hutch replied hotly, then demanded, "What if they didn't take a major highway? Someone needs to be looking in the less obvious places."

There was a long pause, then a defeated sigh at the other end. "Keep in contact."

"Will do. Zebra Three out." Hutch tossed the microphone aside. He was grateful that Luke remained quiet during the exchange.

They drove to a fast-food restaurant and ordered a small breakfast from the drive-up window. While they sat in the car and ate, they ran down possibilities.

"If these people are connected to DeSantiago," Luke said, "my guess is that they have some sort of place out in a canyon, where they operate. That's where DeSantiago had his base."

"Which canyon?" Hutch demanded.

"We never found his home base. My guess is that they moved periodically, so they wouldn't be discovered." Huntley gestured with a hand. "They could be anywhere out there, Kenny. Anywhere at all."

Hutch started the motor and hissed, "Then we'll look everywhere."

* * *

Spring had finally sprung. Starsky wished he could appreciate it, as the warm sun shining through the window beat down on his back and the side of his face. He guessed it was about mid-morning, and he supposed there was little chance of being given any food. They'd been traveling, other than the occasional stops, ever since his capture. He assumed they had to be a long way from L.A. by now. He wondered how Hutch would ever find him, then abandoned the thought. He simply had to believe that his big blond would.

They stopped again. From where he was still pressed against the floorboard, Starsky strained his eyes to see through a window, but all he could make out were the tops of trees.

One of the men was talking to the driver. When he pulled himself back inside the camper's window, they were moving yet again.

"He's pulling onto a side road," the man told his companion in a steady voice. "Then it's up to us -- whenever we're ready."

The knee on Starsky's back pushed harder against his spine as its owner said, "I don't like it. I think we should keep him as a hostage, just in case we need a negotiating tool."

The other countered, "No one's been following us. We're running a bigger risk by keeping him. It'll be too much trouble. Besides, no one will be able to find him for a long time."

Starsky found his heart pounding against his ribs, wondering desperately how he could get out of this. He wanted to believe "no one being able to find him" meant simply leaving him on a side road somewhere. But these men were killers. There was no reason to believe they intended to let him live.

He took small comfort in the fact that the double-barrel shotgun was out of ammunition, which he knew because they'd only fired once at Hutch. But maybe being blown away would be a better end. His best guess was that they would use a knife... just as they had on all their victims. In fact, a jewel-handled dagger rested in a sheath attached to the belt of the man keeping him pinned.

Bastards. He hated with a boiling passion people who would kill a restrained man. It was the ultimate in cowardice, and was the reason he believed in the death penalty. You just don't kill someone without, at the very least, giving them a fighting chance.

The truck was creaking and bucking now, as though they were off the main road... perhaps on a dirt road.

Starsky wondered if he would literally be stabbed in the back. He wasn't going to take it lying down, that was for damn sure. But neither was he sure when would be the most opportune time to move. Yet, he had to believe, there was always a chance. For, if not, who knows how long it would be before his rotted body was found. Dear God, he didn't want Hutch to have to go through that.

Hutch. He wanted, so much, for his partner to be okay without him. Live, Hutch, live!

They continued traveling over the crude road, neither of his captors speaking further; and as time dragged on, Starsky's trepidation increased.

Though the camper was still moving, albeit slowly, the man who wasn't restraining him finally said, "This ought to be good enough."

The knee left Starsky's back and rough hands grabbed his shoulders from behind, pulling him up in such a way that his legs were still tucked beneath him, reducing the possibility of them being used as weapons. Then he was turned around and Starsky found himself facing a heavily bearded man with dark, sinister eyes. The man's fingers brushed along the handle of the knife at his belt. "You don't deserve the sacrificial ritual, pig." He reached far behind him and produced another knife.

It was rather ordinary-looking, Starsky thought, but the blade was thick. And dirty. It looked like it would hurt.

He resorted to the one line that he and Hutch always used when all else seemed lost, in the slim hope that it would matter. "Come on," Starsky said, eyes meeting the other's, "surely you aren't stupid enough to kill a cop."

As he feared, the man only grinned, as though this was a particular delight. He held the knife up....

Using all his might, Starsky propelled his body to one side, toward the rear door of the camper, and felt the lower left side of his back flare with an incredible pain as something sharp and thick penetrated his flesh. An instant later, the door to the camper was pushed open and he realized the two men were trying to throw him out. He didn't object, for it was his only chance, and he tried to curl into a ball as he felt himself sail through the air.

Though he knew the distance to the ground was brief, it seemed to take a long time until he hit the dirt, scraping the side of his face along it, then rolling over and over down an incline. He heard himself scream as the protruding end of the knife hit the hard ground, shoving it in even further.

Finally, as the rolling motion ended, he realized the camper had driven off, apparently not concerned if he lived a while first.

He had come to rest on his stomach, but Starsky immediately scrambled to his knees, feeling the blade in his back cut even further as his muscles flexed. The pressure was immense, and he bent to rest his forehead against the ground, desperately fighting back the pain that flared through him in one huge, continuous wave. He wanted nothing more than to remove that knife, relieve that awful pressure of steel against flesh, but with his hands cuffed, he couldn't even quite touch the knife's handle, let alone pull on it.

Overcome by claustrophobia, he frantically pulled at the cuffs, trying to break them apart, but the attempt only increased the pain to a searing degree. He vomited, runny bile spitting up from him, then splattering to the ground just beneath his face, for he was still hunched over, and its odor brought forth a series of gastric spasms.

Finally, his stomach seemed finished with its rebellion. Starsky was sweating heavily, and with concentrated effort he rotated on his knees, so that when he again rested his forehead against the ground, he was away from the offensive puddle.

At least the purging had minimized the nausea, and he was feeling some measure of control returning. He held completely still, and the wound burned like nothing he'd ever felt before. He convinced himself that he would have to live with it, for there was no choice. He took a moment to gather himself, then slowly tried to straighten. The pain flared, for he felt the blade cut yet more of his flesh.

But he had to move, he told himself. At least enough to get back to the main road. Maybe then, someone would find him.

It would be faster, he knew, if he tried to get to his feet and walk. But the pain simply would not allow it and, in his condition, he feared passing out if he tried to stand. And then he might never wake up.

He resigned himself to crawling.

* * *

"It's dark, Ken. We aren't going to be able to find anything now."

Hutch closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The idea of stopping now was ridiculous. There would be no point. He would be unable to rest, unable to wait until another sunrise was available to assist their efforts.

They were in the right direction. That, he knew, for someone at a gas station had seen the camper come through. They were miles outside of L.A., in a less populated area. There were trees. He'd driven and driven and driven, turned down every road that presented itself, stopped and turned back when any residents they met said they hadn't seen any such camper.

He straightened. "We've missed something."

Luke sighed. "Kenny, for all we know they may have taken him out of state... to Arizona or somewhere like that."

"No, they would be afraid of being spotted. If they're traveling, they have to be off the highways." He turned to look at Luke. "But why would they keep Starsky?" he whispered. "Since we haven't been able to follow, what would they want him for?"

Huntley shrugged. "Could be another one of their rituals, for all I know."

Hutch shook his head. "No. They didn't know we'd be coming that night. They took him in with them only because they were trying to knock the gun out of his hand."

Silence fell about the car, then Luke said, "So, if they don't need Starsky for anything specific....?"

Hutch swallowed, wishing Luke hadn't spoken. They both knew the likelihood was strong that Starsky had been killed... maybe buried somewhere where they'd never find him.

But Hutch refused to believe that while there was still hope. "The obvious possibility," he said after a moment, "has to be the canyons. That's where they like to live. If they were running from the law, that's where it would be easiest to hide. If they wanted to get rid of someone... that would be the best place to do it."

"We don't know where to look," Huntley pointed out in frustration.

Hutch started the car forward. "Think," he insisted quietly. "Put yourself in their position. What would you do?"

Luke shook his head wearily. He'd been thinking for over eighteen straight hours. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Finally, apologetically, he said, "There's just too many possibilities, Kenny."

Hutch slowly shook his head as it rested once again on the steering wheel. It all seemed so impossible.

Needing to move, he started the car forward again, slowly, having no idea where to go next. The headlights shone along the lonely road, and he stared at the pavement, willing any possible clue to emerge.

"He's been kidnapped by fanatics before," Hutch said for no reason. He felt it necessary to say something, for the quiet surrounding them was unbearable, as though a portent of how things would be....

"Yeah, I remember hearing about that," Luke acknowledged quietly. "Simon Marcus. But that was nothing like this, right? That was all carefully planned by his followers."

"Got to him just in time," Hutch noted distantly, his voice feeling dry and cracked.

"Kenny, you've got to hope for the best. Until we know otherwise, there's always a chance."

Hutch closed his eyes again, quickly nodded his head. Sometime later, when he had the strength, he would have to thank Luke for putting up with his insanity. But he couldn't do it now, for it would be like closing a door....

"Ken?"

Hutch forced his eyes open, for Huntley's voice had been hushed, suspicious.

"Ken, what's that?"

Desperately, Hutch tried to focus where Luke was pointing out the passenger window. He slowed the car to a crawl. "What do you see?" he whispered, not able to see anything except darkness and rustling trees.

"Something... I'm not sure. Like something moved. Look, turn at this little road here."

Hutch refused to let himself hope, for he knew he would not be able to bear the disappointment. The wind was blowing, so lots of things were moving, he reasoned. But he obeyed, carefully turning onto a crude dirt road. They'd driven past it numerous times without even noticing it.

As they turned, the headlights illuminated dry vegetation, trees, then straightened down the road... then captured a form struggling along it.

Hutch braked, put the car in park. "Oh, my God," he whispered. For the briefest of moments, he feared getting out of the car, for he could not imagine what would be making the hunched figure move pitifully slow -- on its knees -- in such a twisted fashion, its arms thrust behind its back.

And then Hutch jumped out the door, racing toward the man who did not seem to even notice the intrusion of the headlights.

"Starsk, Starsk," the blond called desperately, dropping to his knees beside the other, reaching out.

Just before he touched him, Hutch became aware of the painfully dry, heaving breaths, the stench of sweat and vomit, the glazed look of non-recognition that denoted shock. And then his hands grabbed Starsky's upper arms, stilling the inch-by-inch progress. "Starsk?" He tilted his head down, trying to catch the other's eye from beneath the drooping head. "Starsky?"

Deep, searing breaths were the only reply.

Hutch pushed away his own shock and horror. Voice deliberately gentle, he said, "Starsky, it's me. I'm right here."

There was a moment's pause. Then Starsky pitched forward.

The blond caught him, one arm wrapping around the upper chest. And then he saw the knife.

"God, that's ugly looking," Luke said. He was kneeling on the opposite side.

Hutch reached out with his free hand, but stopped short of touching it. The knife had gone in from the left side, and was angled toward the spine. Hutch swallowed, hoping the blade wasn't long enough to reach the spine. Surely not, for Starsky was obviously able to move. From the headlights, he could see that the wound and surrounding material of Starsky's shirt were covered with blood, though very little of it looked fresh.

The blond's arm tightened across the chest he held. "Starsk?" he whispered. He received no answer, then realized his partner's hands were cuffed. He delved into his pocket, and the slight shifting of his body caused Starsky to groan.

"Hang on, hang on," Hutch soothed. When he drew out his key, Luke reached to pull the cuffs taut.

As soon as the restraints were free, Starsky's hands parted, and when the left one flopped to one side it hit the knife's handle.

Starsky cried out -- a deep, pain-filled animal sound -- and trembled and twisted within Hutch's grip.

The blond's eyes watered as he tightened his hold and, with extreme gentleness, placed Starsky's left hand -- the wrist of which was raw and bleeding -- away from the knife, against the ground. "Starsky, easy," he pleaded.

There was a horrible dry noise from deep within the other's body. Starsky hunched further over the supporting arm, a strangled groan emerging from him, and Hutch felt a warmth on his jeans that slowly spread, the smell of fresh bile registering with his nostrils.

"Easy, easy. I'm right here." Hutch squeezed his own eyes shut, for he knew the words did not help. He couldn't breathe again until the other's feeble struggle ceased.

"I'll call it in," Luke said, getting to his feet. "What's your code name?"

"Zebra Three," Hutch replied gratefully, then added, "There's a blanket in the trunk."

"Right."

As Huntley moved to the car, Hutch took a half second to order himself to project a calmness and firmness that he knew his partner needed. He placed his free hand in Starsky's hair, squeezed gently, then bent and softly said, "Starsk, I'm right here, buddy. Right here. It's going to be all right. I'm going to try to shift you a little so you're more comfortable." He wanted very much to keep Starsky in his lap, to maintain the closeness that he knew the other also needed. But he could take care of him better if he had free use of his body, and thought the other might be able to breathe easier if he could at least get him onto his side.

"Starsk," his hand now moved down to a shoulder, "I'm going to turn you just a little." The only response was the same labored breaths, and Hutch was unsure of how much his partner understood. He was concerned by the heat radiating from the other's body, but took refuge in the fact that his partner was conscious to some degree. As long as he could keep him like that, Starsky couldn't slip away.

With Luke's voice on the radio in the background, Hutch lifted with the arm that was around Starsky's chest. By adding a slight pushing motion, he was able to encourage the other to the ground on his right side. Starsky closed his eyes and the next few painful breaths were more acute, but he otherwise didn't protest.

With his legs free, Hutch straightened and took off his jacket. He bundled it up, then slipped it beneath his partner's head. He noticed then the scrapes that ran down one side of Starsky's face. He wondered how long the other had been like this. Then, glancing at the knees and seeing the ripped denim mixed with blood, he felt he was beginning to get an idea.

"Hutch?"

Tenderness swelled in the blond's chest at the strained, whispered word. He leaned close, squeezing the nearest arm. "Right here, pal."

The next words were raw, trembling and weak, but peculiarly coherent. "'M a mess."

Something contracted around the blond's heart. "Hey," he finally managed to whisper, "you look awfully good to me."

There was the barest hint of a giggle, and the cracked lips threatened to smile. But, suddenly, the attempt fell apart and moisture pooled at the corner of the eyelids as the smile turned upside down. A soft, strangled sound emerged.

The blond's hand tightened on the hair as his heart threatened to burst. "Easy does it, pal." He continued to pet the curly hair, damp with sweat. "It's all right, partner. Try to relax and lie still. I'm right here." He searched for Starsky's hand, squeezed it firmly.

When Starsky spoke again, his gruff voice was trembling... and pleading. "Take it out."

Hutch straightened with dread. Keeping one hand in Starsky's hair, he gently pulled at the shirt around the knife. Blood, mostly dry, ran from the incision point. He could tell little else. "Hang on, partner." He reached into his pocket again, producing his own small knife. Careful not to pull at the imbedded weapon, he slowly cut the material around the incision until he could push the clothing away.

"Take it out," Starsky repeated in a strained whisper.

The flesh around the wound was badly swollen. Carefully, Hutch pressed at an area a couple of inches away with gentle fingers, and Starsky gasped in protest. Then, more loudly, "'Ake i' out."

Hutch let out a breath. The knife was so tightly wedged that the wound hadn't bled much, considering its severity. He did not think he could bear the pain Starsky would suffer if he tried to pull it free.

Luke knelt in the dirt at Starsky's other side, carrying a blanket, a pillow, and bottled water. Hutch recognized the items as being for "survival" for all-night stakeouts. Quietly, Huntley said, "They're sending a helicopter. How is he?"

Hutch straightened a little, meeting Luke's eye. "He's burning up. His shirt is soaked."

Luke's gaze dropped to the exposed wound. "No wonder. Looks all infected. Must hurt like a son of a bitch."

"Hutch." Starsky had tilted his head so he was looking toward him. Eyes barely open, he whispered, "Please. Take it out."

The taller man looked sadly at Luke, beckoning him to come up with a painless solution.

"We can't take it out," Huntley replied. "It'll bleed like hell. We can't risk it. We'll have to let the doctors do it."

Hutch blinked, telling himself he'd known that.

"Having it wedged in there like that," Luke went on, "is what's kept him alive. Otherwise, he would have bled to death."

Hutch took a deep breath. He knew all about knife wounds and bleeding, thanks to Diana Harmon. Even now, he recalled the feel of his flesh being parted by the powerful blade; the feel of gushing blood as it was removed; the stinging pain; the confusion, fear, shock, and panic; Starsky's tender, loving ministrations until the ambulance came....

He leaned down to Starsky, stroked through his hair. Voice again very gentle, he whispered, "Starsk? We can't take it out until you're at the hospital. A helicopter is on the way. Just hang in there a little longer, pal. We're gonna make you as comfortable as we can."

A look of dejection came over the other's sweating face, and then Starsky weakly raised an arm, then let it flop down in the vicinity of Hutch's knee.

The blond took the hand in his, squeezed it. "Starsk, I know it hurts, buddy. You don't have to hold it in. I'm right here, right here. Go ahead and let me know how much it hurts." He squeezed again, noticed that, if not having comprehended the words, Starsky at least seemed to be listening to his voice, for the pinched face held an expression of concentration.

If soft-spoken words were what would soothe most, Hutch had no qualms about providing them. He looked up at Luke. "I'll raise his head and you put the pillow under it." The other nodded, and Hutch said, "Take the pillow case off first."

Luke did, and when Hutch lifted Starsky's head, the naked pillow was placed beneath it, the folded jacket pushed out of the way.

Hutch placed Starsky's hand on his knee, patted it, then reached for his pocket knife again. "Let's get the rest of his shirt off, then see if we can get my sweater over him." The night's breeze was an enemy against his partner's shocked and chilled body.

Hutch made cuts in the shirt, then he and Luke carefully tugged at it until it was torn away. The blond felt a grip on his knee, and he squeezed his partner's arm. Voice again very gentle, he whispered, "That's it, pal. Let me know how much it hurts. I'm right here."

Hutch unsnapped his holster, removed the straps that bound it to his body. He hugged his yellow sweater against himself for a brief moment to warm it as much as possible, then pulled it over his head, the night's chill hitting his own naked chest.

Luke watched him. "It'll hurt like hell if we try to get him all the way into it."

Hutch nodded, worked with the pocket knife again. "Let's at least get it over his head and get his outer arm into it." He stretched the neck wide, then bent to the nearest ear. "Buddy, bear with me. We're going to put a sweater on you, warm you up a bit."

While Luke raised Starsky's head, Hutch placed the sweater over him, pulled it down.

"You really love him, don't you?"

Hutch paused for a brief second, then continued to work, lifting the left arm. He blinked once, snorting softly. "Of course, I love him."

Still assisting, Luke quietly pressed, "But not just as a partner, or as a friend. You know what I mean."

Hutch pulled the arm through the sleeve, then hesitated and met Huntley's eye. "What are you getting at?" He made a point of keeping his voice gentle, not wanting to alarm his partner.

Huntley presented a small, warm smile. "It's okay, Kenny. I'm on your side." A glance at the injured man. "When someone finds what they want from life, I'm going to be the last person in the world to try and take it away from them."

Hutch blinked again, then worked at pulling the torn sweater around the part of Starsky's body that was nearest the ground. He couldn't imagine that he was treating his partner any differently than he would have if their relationship had never extended into the bedroom, so he couldn't fathom how Huntley could have guessed.

He reached across Starsky to pull at the blanket, and Huntley helped him spread it over the still form, curving it in such away that it didn't touch the sensitive area where the knife protruded. Cautiously, Hutch said, "I didn't know you were so liberal minded." He placed a hand on Starsky's forehead. "Is there enough water to soak the pillow case?"

Luke picked up the pillow case, tore it at the seam. "There'll be plenty if we use a small enough strip."

Hutch's knee was squeezed again, and he rubbed at Starsky's cheek with a pair of fingers. "Hey, how you doin'?"

"Hutch?" It was more a breath than a word.

The blond picked up the hand, squeezed it. "I'm right here. Help's on the way."

The other's Adam's apple dipped and bobbed. "Really... hurts."

Hutch massaged the back of the hand with a thumb. "I know. Just a little longer, and it'll all be over. Help's on the way. You're doin' fine."

"Here."

Hutch took the soaked piece of cloth that Luke handed to him. He began patting it along Starsky's face, watching with satisfaction as his partner breathed a little stronger, as though the relief brought by the coolness was causing him to rally. It was while dabbing it along the dry, cracked lips that Hutch felt bad again, for Starsky's jaw dropped open, his tongue lazily darting out, as though trying to capture the wetness.

"Give me the water."

"You shouldn't let him have any," Luke said as he handed it over. "They're going to want to do surgery right away."

Hutch poured a little into his cupped hand. "Just enough to wet his throat. He's been throwing up." He didn't like thinking what Starsky's throat must feel like, and pressed the water to the dry lips, tipping his hand so that the little puddle poured inside. Starsky licked at his hand, and Hutch repeated the process several times.

"I don't see it as a matter of liberalism," Luke noted quietly.

Hutch put the lid on the bottle and laid it aside. Thinking of how long Starsky may have been cuffed, he placed his hands under the blanket and began to rub firmly at the left arm, just behind the bloody wrist. He didn't look up.

Huntley made a brief snort. "You know, it's amazing. All your life, you have people telling you how it's supposed to be. You're supposed to go to school, get a nice job, marry a beautiful woman, raise a beautiful family, grow old, retire, travel." Through the corner of his eye, Hutch watched Luke shake his head. "We're all -- however millions of human beings there are in the world -- supposed to want the same thing."

Hutch now moved to Starsky's right arm and hand, gently massaging along them. His eyes narrowed, thinking it odd that his partner had pointed out almost the exact same thing a few months ago, before....

"So, what do you two do?" Luke wondered in the same quiet tone. "Play the game? Keep the cover? Do you both bring the 'appropriate' female dates to the policemen's barbecues?"

Hutch looked up, his puzzlement increasing. "What are you trying to say?"

Another congenial smile. "Nothing, Kenny. Except...," Luke's voice softened, "except, I hope whatever games you have to play to keep from being ostracized from society, I hope it's been worth it." A glance at Starsky. "I imagine it has, or you wouldn't have been together this long."

Hutch bit his lower lip.

Luke shook his head. "Don't worry, Ken. I'm certainly not going to tell anybody. I suppose, anyway, that if they don't know by now....." He shrugged.

Hutch bowed his head, guilt overtaking him, and he didn't understand why.

"Not my business," Luke acknowledged after a moment, misinterpreting. "It's just... I was just trying to make the point that I wish society didn't demand that all of us fall into nice, neat little generic categories. That's what was wrong with Doris and me."

Hutch looked up quickly, having the horrible feeling that he was just about to learn how Starsky had felt when they found out the truth about John Blaine. He stuttered, "You mean... you...."

An uncomprehending pause, then Luke chuckled softly. "My God, Kenny, no. That's not what I meant. I've never wanted to make it with a guy. No, no." He drew a breath. "No, I think I fall in a different category altogether." Now a thoughtful pause. "You see, sex never really meant much to me. Neither did the kids and the proper house in the proper neighborhood. I was never interested in any of that, in keeping up with the Joneses. I've always been more of a loner, except I enjoyed the brotherhood of the force, loved my job, loved being a cop, loved working the streets. I did love Doris, but not in the passionate way that a man is supposed to love his wife." Another breath, this one weary. "But I followed the rules, married her because that was what I was 'supposed' to do. And when I turned out to be a rotten husband, she still stuck by me because that's what a good wife is 'supposed' to do." He frowned. "We both would have been so much better off if we'd just admitted we made a mistake and split years ago. Then she could have married someone who made her happy."

Hutch found himself not wanting to believe it. Luke and Doris... always the perfect couple.

"You got guts." Luke looked at Starsky. "You've taken what you wanted, even when it went against all of society's rules. I hope it keeps working out, Kenny. I really do."

Hutch had to speak, couldn't hold back his guilt and curiosity any longer. Softly, he asked, "How long do you think it's been going on?"

Luke shrugged. "I don't know. You two have been together a long time." His eyes squinted, as though realizing the reason for asking. "Why?"

Truly, it was a relief to talk about it with someone else. Someone he could trust. Hutch felt a bashful smile come across his face as he replied, "We're still pretty new to each other... as far as that goes." He looked at the object of their conversation

Luke slowly sat back on his haunches, mouth dropping open. "Oh." Then, "I'm sorry. I had no idea. I can't imagine the kind of pressure....."

"It's okay," Hutch whispered, then shrugged. "Feels good to talk about it." He hesitated, then admitted, "We haven't told anyone else."

Starsky groaned. Hutch bent closer, watched liquid emerge from beneath closed eyelids. He found a hand, applied pressure to it, brushed at the other's face with the moist cloth. "Easy, buddy."

A thick swallow, then a choked, strained, "Hurts."

Hutch stole a moment to gather the strength to keep his voice gentle and soothing. In that moment, he heard the sound of a helicopter. "Starsk," he whispered, "help's on the way. They're almost here. Hang on just a few more minutes. I'm right here, pal. I'm right here."

Huntley gestured to Starsky's bloody knees, and with admiration noted, "He's one hell of a fighter, isn't he?"

Hutch's eyes closed gratefully. Voice trembling, he replied, "Always has been."

The surrounding trees and bushes swayed as the helicopter landed.

* * *

Two hours later, Hutch sat in a yellow, plastic chair, legs stretched out before him. It wasn't until the moment his buttocks hit the seat that he realized how utterly, utterly exhausted he was. And his thirty-six hour day still wasn't over.

The paramedics had given Starsky morphine almost immediately, sending him into a painless netherworld where Hutch was no longer needed. So, Hutch had zipped up his jacket over his naked upper body and taken residence in a lonely seat, out of the paramedics' way. Luke had volunteered to drive the car back to the hospital and had arrived shortly after Starsky was taken into surgery. Both men now sat silently, side by side.

At the sound of footsteps, Hutch glanced up and saw Captain Dobey approaching from the far end of the hall. His superior still managed to sport a suit and tie, though Hutch was certain Dobey had been in bed when word reached him that Starsky had been found.

Hutch didn't bother trying to straighten, for he didn't have the energy. He waited until Dobey spoke first.

"How is he?" the black man asked brusquely.

Wearily, Hutch replied, "He had a knife wedged in his back. Lord only knows for how long. They have him in surgery now."

Dobey took the chair on the other side of Hutch. "Were the doctors able to tell you anything?"

The blond managed a small shrug. "They say he's dehydrated, and the wound is all infected. But," he tried to lighten his tone but couldn't summon the energy, "as long as they get the knife out, get the infection under control, get fluids into him, they think he'll be all right."

Dobey let out a heavy breath. "That's good." A pause. "How did you find him?" His glance now took in Luke, and the two men nodded politely at each other.

"Stroke of luck," Hutch replied. He looked to his right and managed a bare smile as he softly replied, "Luke happened to spot him on an old side road off Highway 17." Then his voice grew distant. "He was crawling along it... on his knees."

"Were you able to get anything out of him?"

Hutch shook his head. "He was conscious enough to understand that he'd been found, but he was hurting too much to think of anything else."

Dobey folded his hands over his middle. "So, we're back to square one in terms of the perpetrators."

Hutch blinked. He supposed they had a little more information -- a description of the camper, whatever Starsky may be able to tell them -- but he found that, at the moment, he was too tired and too concerned about Starsky to care much about the case.

They all sat silently for nearly a minute, then Dobey said, "Excuse me," and took the few steps to the men's room.

Huntley shifted in his seat. "You know he's going to be all right, Kenny," he said gently. "We got to him in time."

"Yeah," Hutch agreed. He knew it was true, and yet there was always that lingering fear....

"You look like hell," Luke went on. "Maybe you ought to try to at least stretch out and catch a few winks." He indicated the nearly vacant waiting room.

"Maybe," Hutch replied automatically. His tired brain suddenly realized he hadn't been alone in this. He looked at his old friend. "I still want to be here when he wakes up, but there's no use in you sticking around. Why don't you go on home?"

Slowly, Luke got to his feet. "Think I will." He pulled at the waistband of his slacks, looking down at Hutch. "You'll let me know in the morning, right, how he's doing?"

"Yeah," Hutch nodded. Huntley made a small gesture of departure, then turned away. And Hutch realized it had been a very improper goodbye. He pushed out of his chair, fighting the weariness that besieged him. "Luke."

The other, having taken only a few steps, turned.

Hutch moved closer, opened his arms, then circled them around the older man. They seemed to pull desperately tight of their own volition. "Thank you," Hutch heard his trembling voice choke as he hooked his chin over the other's shoulder. "Thank you for helping me find him."

Luke returned the embrace, and Hutch felt the temptation to yield to the other man's strength, to collapse from the weight of all the frustration, helplessness, exhaustion and fear of the last thirty-six hours. But he was afraid that opening the gates would bring about a flood and, after all Luke had done, such a burden was the last thing his friend deserved.

Somewhere, Hutch found the strength to pull back. He met Luke's eye, and the older man gave him a weary smile, then a quick nod. Then he was gone.

When Hutch turned around, he found Dobey standing outside the rest room. The captain noted, "Huntley's always been a good man."

* * *

Two hours later, Hutch pushed at the partially-open door to room 356. The room was dark, but he could make out the curtain that separated the two beds. He entered a few steps, and when he saw the occupant of the nearest bed lying on his right side, he knew it was Starsky.

When he stepped closer, he could see that Starsky was only partially on his side, for pillows were propped behind him so he could rest some of his weight back against them. His upper body was dressed in a hospital smock, his lower body covered with a sheet and blanket, the edge of which came to rest near a thick bandage wrapped around his waist.

It was well past visiting hours, but the surgeon had told Hutch he could look in for a few minutes. The knife hadn't penetrated anything vital, but the blade had been dirty, and the resulting infection was being treated with antibiotics. Their biggest concern, the doctor had said, was getting Starsky's fever down. Once that was accomplished, he would be able to go home in a few days, though the soreness in his back and side would probably last weeks, if not months.

Hutch was well familiar with the grogginess following surgery, especially with the assistance of drugs. He did not expect to speak with his partner, but he had to have the reassurance of seeing him.

When he was beside the bed, the light from the door showed that Starsky was lying completely still, though his eyes were cracked open. His breathing was heavy, slightly labored, and even with the lights out Hutch could detect the sheen of sweat on his forehead.

Hutch found Starsky's hand and squeezed it. His other hand reached inside the covers, found the smock-covered stomach, and rested there.

It wasn't until he gave the stomach the gentlest of pats that there was the hint of an answering squeeze to his other hand. Hutch smiled tenderly. They both had their special ways of touching each other that was unique from all other touches. Whenever Hutch was seriously injured, or otherwise incoherent, he knew that Starsky was near when he felt a hand rubbing one or both shoulders. That was Starsky's special touch, and it always told him, "It's all right." Over time, his special touch in return had been placing a hand on Starsky's middle.

Tonight, he felt compelled to add his voice to the silent communication. "It's going to be all right," he whispered, leaning closer to the bed. As his hand squeezed the other's more firmly, he heard Starsky swallow. "Don't try to talk," he continued, gentling his voice even further. "Just rest, pal." Then he explained, "I'm going to rest, too. Gonna go home and get some shut-eye. You're going to be all right." He squeezed the hand again, waited for the feeble pressure that answered. "I'll be back by tomorrow. Love you."

Slowly, Hutch straightened, uncurled Starsky's hand from his grip. Then he turned and left the room.

* * *

Dobey was still in the waiting area when Hutch passed by on his way out. "How is he?" the black man asked as he fell into step beside the blond.

"Too weak to talk."

"Maybe tomorrow?"

"Maybe."

"You heading home?"

"Yep."

They had emerged into the dark, early morning air. "Good. I don't want to see your tail back in the squadroom until ten o'clock tonight."

"No problem, Captain."

They parted toward separate parking lots, then Dobey called, "Hutchinson."

The blond turned.

The older man sighed, then softly said, "Thank God we found him."

"Luke found him, Captain." Hutch was grateful that that fact could replace his earlier fear that Luke wouldn't help because he blamed him for Doris.

There was hesitation, as though Dobey didn't understand the semantics. Then a congenial nod. "Right."

Hutch turned away. And drove home. To Starsky's place.