Title: RITUALS

Author/pseudonym: Candy Apple

Email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com

Rating: MAO

Pairings: J/B, S/H

Status: NEW, complete

Date: 1/23/04

Archive: YES

Category: Drama, Series, Crossovers

Archive author: Candy Apple

Archive email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com

Series/Sequel: Sequel to "Primary Subject"

Other website: https://www.squidge.org/~candy_a

Disclaimers: Jim, Blair, Starsky and Hutch do not belong to me. No infringement intended. The original characters are mine. Big deal. ;-)

Notes: This story is a sequel to "Primary Subject" in the Outside Influences universe, and is also a crossover with Starsky & Hutch. The story does not take "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg" into account as canon. This is my story for the 2003 Moonridge Auction.

I did not write and do not own the song lyrics that appear in this story

Thank you: To my friend and medical advisor, Lucy. If there are any glaring medical absurdities in this story, they're mine, not hers.

Summary: As Jim and Blair contemplate the kind of commitment ceremony they really want, a chilling murder case brings them together again professionally with Starsky and Hutch, and jeopardizes their future.

Warnings: Love and romance, endearments, assorted mushy family stuff, violence, sex, some language...you can decide which of the above are warnings or incentives. ;-)

************************************

RITUALS

by

Candy Apple

"The longer you put this off, the harder it's going to get," Blair said, putting on his glasses and opening the folder that contained all the fragments of the wedding planning they'd managed to accumulate so far. The old truck lurched and rumbled, taking each pothole in the road as a personal affront. "Jim?"

"What?" Jim snapped back, irritated. Then, looking disgusted with himself, he sighed. "Blair, I'm sorry, but all this...*stuff* with invitations and a reception and a ceremony... Doesn't it ever seem a little...contrived and overdone?"

"Contrived? We're talking about a commitment ceremony, Jim. Ours. I didn't think there was anything contrived about it." Blair slapped the folder shut. "Just forget it."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. The only thing we fight about is all this party planning and invitation mailing. I went through all this with Carolyn, and it doesn't get any more exciting the second time around."

"Thanks, Jim. I tell you what. Fuck this." Blair rolled down the window and tossed the folder through it.

"Oh, that was brilliant. And it was littering."

"Fuck that, too. Arrest me."

"What about the environment and recycling?"

"It was all recycled paper, so I did my part for the environment on the front end. Let someone else do their good deed for the day and pick it up."

"There was a lot of personal information in there."

"No there wasn't. You know what there was, Jim? Quotes on caterers, open dates at the Cascade Towers Hotel--for the banquet hall and the honeymoon suite--the names of printers who can work fast and cheap to do invitations... It was just several hours of work I did on the phone in the last week. By myself. To have personal information in there, we'd need a guest list or some idea of what the hell we were going to say to each other for vows, or maybe even a receipt for something we might pay for ahead of time. Since we haven't done a fucking thing about this that has to be decided as a couple, there wasn't anything in there worthwhile. So what the fuck do *you* care if I threw it out the window?!"

"It was a great gesture, Chief. But I know you. It's all on a spreadsheet on the computer at home."

"No, it's not, Jim. That was it. That was all of it. And that's where it can stay."

"Look, I didn't mean that how it sounded...the remark about Carolyn. I meant the arrangements and the caterers and the fancy banquet hall and the monkey suits... This is just escalating into something that doesn't even feel like us anymore. It feels like something we're doing to make our friends happy. Something for your dad and Hutch to fly up here for."

"I thought we were doing it because we were going to reaffirm our commitment to each other with our friends present."

"Our friends know we're committed, sweetheart. And what I want to say to you, I don't necessarily want to say to fifty or sixty of our closest friends." Jim spared a glance at Blair, knowing the silence spoke more of hurt feelings than anger. When Blair was angry, he threw folders out the window. When he was hurt, he sat there silently. "Hey, you know how much I love you." Jim tugged gently on Blair's ponytail.

"Why did you say that? Why did you bring up Carolyn?"

"Because all this wedding planning is giving me deja vu I don't like, and because it's not us, Blair, and you know it."

"You asked me to marry you. You wanted to tell the world, remember?"

"I still do. Want to marry you and tell the world. Not necessarily all in the same ceremony. Blair, this whole bit with the arrangements...they honestly don't mean anything to me. Making a life commitment to you does. I just don't want the thing that doesn't mean anything overshadowing the thing that does."

"What do you want to do then?"

"Did you really want to dress up in a tux and get married at the Cascade Towers Hotel?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I guess I really didn't," Blair responded, smiling slightly.

"Did you want to fret over the caterer and whether or not he remembered to put two guys on top of the cake instead of a little bride and groom?"

"Okay, Jim, you made your point," Blair conceded, laughing. "All this hassle isn't doing much for my sense of romance, either."

"Then let's do something that does."

"Like what?"

"Let's talk about it tonight--I promise," Jim said, forestalling Blair's impending accusation that he'd been telling him that for weeks and then finding ways to weasel out of it every time. Pulling the truck into a parking spot in the police garage, Jim looked around quickly and then moved across the seat and pounced on Blair, kissing him soundly. "I want to do this."

"So do I," Blair replied, initiating a kiss of his own.

"I was talking about getting married."

"Oh, yeah, that, too," Blair agreed, grinning.

"Jim and Blair, sittin' in a tree..." Brown's sing-song voice carried from where he was walking behind the truck. "Watch it, Jim. One of your old buddies from Vice'll be down here to bust your ass."

Jim merely reached out the truck's window to deliver an obscene hand gesture.

"Ain't love grand?" Brown twitted, going on his way as Jim and Blair both laughed.

********

Father Daniel Blanchard unlocked the church and walked through the vestibule to the room that held the vestments. He did his best to look on the pastor's idea to move morning Mass an hour earlier for the convenience of the business people in the congregation as a good way to draw in more parishioners through the week rather than as a new level of suffering for a man who never was a morning person. To make matters worse, it was going to be one of those days that started at five and ended at ten, since the Simmons' wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner was on his schedule for that evening. And that wasn't even counting the wedding itself, which would take place with all its pomp, circumstance, and last-minute disasters the following day at 2:00. The aging pastor was in his early seventies, and so most of the hard work seemed to "trickle down" to Blanchard, the forty-five-year-old assistant.

The schedule might almost be doable if the sick members of the parish had the good grace not to die or request last rites during the small slot of hours he still had set aside for sleep and frivolous pleasure activities, like bathing and balancing his checkbook.

St. Anthony's Church was a beautiful old building, an architectural masterpiece. The sharp spires, dizzying high ceilings, beautiful stained glass windows, and elegant old woodwork spoke of a bygone era. The Parish Council and the current pastor had headed off any attempts to modernize it. Beyond a bit of necessary moving around when Vatican II put priests behind the altar and facing the congregation, and a bit of new carpeting here and there, the church was the same as it had been when it was built in the late 1800's.

An ear-splitting scream froze him with the long, ivory vestment halfway over his head. He struggled the rest of the way into it and rushed into the church. One of his regular morning attendees was standing in the middle aisle of the church, hand clamped over her mouth, at the foot of the carpeted steps that led to the altar.

Before he could ask he what she'd seen, he froze in horror at the sight himself.

The figure had been removed from the large crucifix that hung behind the altar, and in its place was the bloodied corpse of a man, stripped to his underwear, arms tied in place on the cross, hands affixed to it with large nails driven into the palms. The feet were similarly nailed.

"Dear God..." Father Blanchard muttered, making the Sign of the Cross without even really thinking about it.

"Father, is he...?" Mrs. Whitman, the woman who'd found the body, finally spoke.

"I don't know, Ellen," he said. "I think his eyes are open. I think he is. Can you call 9-1-1 from the telephone in the sacristy, and then turn on all the lights in here?"

"Yes, Father," she said, fleeing down the aisle, seeming relieved for the excuse to leave the morose scene.

Fortunately, Ellen Whitman was the first worshiper to arrive, and the priest had time to rush to the front door of the church and lock it, discouraging anymore parishioners from coming in and being horrified by the awful scene. He offered a quick prayer for the victim's soul, and forced himself to look into the dead man's face as the lights went on full force. In the more vibrant lighting, there was no question the man on the cross was dead, and had been for some hours.

********

Jim led the way into the large, historic, St. Anthony's Church. A tall priest with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a Roman collar and long ivory vestment, was talking to a uniformed officer, while a policewoman did her best to calm a nearly hysterical middle-aged woman standing several feet away.

"Father Blanchard?" Jim asked, and the uniformed cop moved aside as the two men shook hands. "I'm Detective Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"Detectives," the priest greeted, shaking hands with Jim and Blair.

"Actually, he's a detective. I'm a consultant to the department."

"I see. What type of consultant?" Father Blanchard knit his brows together, appearing genuinely interested.

"Blair's an anthropologist. His expertise comes in handy with some of our more unusual cases," Jim said.

"I see. Well, this certainly should qualify. It's hard to believe the depths of some people's perversions."

"I guess after a number of years on the force, it takes quite a bit to surprise me," Jim said, smiling a bit. "Did you recognize the victim at all?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"The rectory is where, exactly?" Jim asked, looking around.

"That white house right across the street," he said, pointing to a large structure visible through the window.

"You didn't happen to see or hear anything unusual last night or this morning?"

"No, nothing. I told the other officer, I was at the hospital until almost ten with a family who is losing a son to cancer, and by the time I got home, I didn't waste much time getting to bed, since I had an early call this morning."

"Mass is at 7:00?" Blair asked.

"It used to be 8:00, but the pastor felt we weren't serving the working parishioners who had to be at their offices by that time, so we moved it back an hour a few months ago. We get a few more people now."

"We're going to have a look at the body. You didn't move it or touch anything?" Jim asked.

"I couldn't reach it without a ladder, and to be quite honest, I didn't want to get much closer."

"Understandable," Jim said. "Who else has keys to the church? Or is it open all the time?"

"Unfortunately, with the crime rate being what it is, we can't leave the church open all the time anymore. We've had break-ins, and we've also had vandalism when we left the church unlocked. So we keep everything locked up at night, and the only door I unlock for morning Mass is the main entrance. Our custodian has a full set of keys--to the church, the rectory and the school. The church secretary has a key to the church, and both Father Hansen and myself have keys."

"Father Hansen?" Blair asked.

"He's the pastor. I'm the assistant. Father Hansen actually isn't here at the moment. He's in Florida visiting his sister."

"Smart man," Jim said, smiling. "Weather's a lot better there than it is here this time of year," he said, commenting on the dreary early autumn day, complete with drizzling rain. "I'd like to talk to your custodian, secretary, and perhaps get a phone number for Father Hansen in Florida. We'll be checking for any signs of forced entry. Perhaps after we've had a chance to look at the body, you could give me a walking tour of the church? I want to be sure we don't miss anything."

"Of course."

"Was anyone using the church last night--for a choir practice or any other sort of function?" Blair asked.

"No, it was closed. Choir practice is on Wednesday night," he said. It was now Friday. "If you don't mind, I'd like to step into the sacristy and take this off," he said, gesturing at the long robe.

"No, that's fine. Just try not to touch anything other than your hanger," Jim instructed.

"Of course." The priest led the way into the church itself, but took a left once they'd entered to go hang up the vestment.

"Chief, why don't you wait outside."

"Because I'm your partner, Jim."

"You can see from here this is a grisly one," he warned.

"I can handle it."

"Okay. If you feel queasy or you change your mind, just head for the door. I'll understand."

"Thanks, man, but I'm fine."

Jim shrugged, walking down the middle aisle of the church toward the altar. When the ghastliness of the desecration and the symbolism faded a bit, Jim focused his sentinel sight on the dead man. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with short dark hair, a mustache and a goatee. He was tall and slender, with a slight dusting of body hair. The wounds in his hands and feet had bled very little. Even the gash in his side, the wound that probably killed him, had only seeped a bit.

"Well, he was killed somewhere else, and displayed here. The wounds have barely bled, and I would guess the gash in his side was the fatal one, unless he has other wounds we can't see from here. Hey, Dan!" Jim called to the medical examiner, who was talking to two of his people, giving them detailed instructions on how to lower the body and disturb a minimum of evidence at the same time.

"You two were the lucky winners of this one, huh?" Dan said as he joined them. "Just when you think you've seen it all..."

"How long before you get him down from there?"

"About a half hour. My people are ready to start work, but we have to try to do a minimal amount of damage to any fiber evidence that might be on his skin, and preserve the ropes, along with the knots. They're going to just take the whole cross down with him on it. I called for the van, so we can just slide it right in the back. I'd rather disturb the evidence back at the lab."

"You think the wound in his side killed him?"

"Only if he died somewhere else. Otherwise, there'd be blood everywhere."

"Why the ropes? Everything else is a perfect mimic of a standard crucifix," Blair said.

"Two reasons. One, he drove the nails through the hands, and there aren't sturdy enough bones in the hands to hold a man's weight--so contrary to popular representations, if someone were nailed to a cross, they'd have to be nailed at the wrists," Dan said, gesturing at his own wrists. "Second, the nails this guy used wouldn't hold a man up on anything, no matter what part of his body you drove them into. They look big but they're not big enough to do that kind of job. He probably just accepted he had to tie him up there."

"Any idea on a time of death?" Jim asked.

"Not a clear one. Just looking at him, and judging by all the rigamarole the killer went through with displaying him, I'd say he died sometime early to mid-evening last night, was transported here, and then the killer took his time setting this up. He even stored the Christ figure he removed in the church basement."

"Not likely one guy could do all that," Blair opined.

"No, I'd say he had help. Everything was very smoothly done, very neat and precise. Even if he had most of the night, he would have needed help."

"Think you'll have anything for us yet today?" Jim asked.

"The prelim, sure," Dan said. "I have a feeling this'll get bumped to the top of the heap." Dan moved away then, noticing that the additional help they'd need to lower the cross had arrived.

********

"Your kid's on TV," Hutch said, turning up the volume on the evening news. Predictably, Starsky was there like a shot, just in time to see the tail end of Jim and Blair walking away from a church in Cascade, Jim issuing his usual 'no comment' to the reporters who dogged their steps. Blair's hair blew loose around his face and was starting to droop a bit as the rain came down on them.

"What's the story?" Starsky asked, sitting next to his partner on the couch.

"Dinner okay?"

"Yeah, it'll be fine. The sauce isn't bubbling yet," Starsky responded, referring to the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove.

"They found a body nailed to a cross in a church. Sounds like a pretty grisly case."

"Seems like they get a little sicker every day, doesn't it?"

"Good justification for retirement. I guess this means we won't be getting a wedding invitation anytime soon. Those two'll be pulling double shifts until this one's solved."

"Yeah..." Starsky seemed deep in thought as he stared a the television, not really watching it.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking this kind of sicko usually kills more than once. I mean, think about the ritual and the symbolism in a killing like that."

"Does make you think serial killer, doesn't it? Maybe I ought to run it through the database while you're finishing up with dinner."

"Maybe you ought to finish up with dinner while I run it through the database."

"That's what I said," Hutch retorted, getting up and heading for the den and the computer.

"Slacker!" Starsky called after him.

"What do you want to do? Dinner or the lawn?"

"I'll go check on the sauce," Starsky responded, knowing enough to quit while he was ahead.

Stirring the sauce, he thought about how hard it always seemed to be to find a good time to visit his son. It wasn't anyone's fault, but between Blair's own academic schedule and Jim's police schedule, they were barely ever home, and even less able to find chunks of time to fly to California. They'd managed a few weekend visits here and there, and Starsky exchanged e-mail with Blair almost every day. Sometimes all they did was forward a stupid joke, but it was rare for more than two days to pass without a message. Starsky figured he'd call Blair later, since he was sure Blair would be ready to talk about what had to be a gruesome scene.

"Looks like we're fresh out of crucifixions," Hutch said, joining him in the kitchen as Starsky began dishing up the pasta. "A couple of other weird, ritual homicides that are unsolved, but nothing like that. The only thing similar was that guy who was putting rosaries on all the bodies--remember that?"

"Yeah, but he's dead."

"No big loss there," Hutch concluded, shaking his head as he thought of the deranged former seminarian who had murdered young women and left rosaries on their corpses. After he'd done a variety of other things that qualified him as one of the more bizarre ritualistic killers they'd tracked as part of the task force. The State had finally executed him a couple years earlier.

"I hope that doesn't mean that this psycho is just getting started up in Cascade," Starsky said, scooping the sauce onto the waiting pasta. "Why don't we give Donnelly a call later?" Starsky referred to one of the few FBI agents either of them had ever enjoyed working with.

"Don't you think Ellison's already checking this with the Feds?" Hutch asked, carrying his plate to the table and sitting down. Starsky picked up the shaker of powdered parmesan cheese and brought it, along with his own dinner, to the table and joined his partner.

"Ellison? Checking with the Feds voluntarily? How many times did we check with the Feds when we could avoid it?"

"We'd have run something like this through their database. Even us," Hutch added, chuckling. "Ritual killers rarely only strike once."

"I'll call Blair tonight and see what's up." Starsky took a couple bites of his spaghetti. "You don't suppose they'd want some help on this?"

"Don't push yourself on the in-law. First rule of parenting adult children."

"And you'd know anything about that exactly how...?"

"I do a lot of reading. Of something other than scary novels and weird trivia books."

"It's not like we're trying to horn in on his jurisdiction. Hell, we're retired, Hutch. How threatened could he feel?"

"We're still part of the serial killer task force. We're only three-fourths retired, remember?"

"So? If we're there, there's less chance of them getting some anonymous stuffed shirt from the FBI there if they get another dead guy on a cross. We have liaisons with the FBI, and specialized training in hunting serial killers. Better us than the Feds, and you know they're going to get in on the act."

"You're probably right. Sound Blair out about it tonight, but make sure he knows we're not pressuring him into it, and that we won't be mad if he says no."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Why don't I just call Ellison at work and ask him?"

"Good idea." Hutch nodded, still eating. Starsky left the table to get the cordless phone, and returned with it, dialing the direct number to Jim's desk.

"Ellison," came the harried-sounding reply.

"It's Starsky. We saw you on the news," he greeted.

"You and half the fucking world. We've had every nutcase in the Pacific Northwest confess to the crime in the last half hour."

"Any pressure to call in the Feds yet?"

"Banks mentioned it, but hopefully we can nail this thing before that becomes necessary. If you're looking for Blair, he's busy throwing up."

"He tried going to the autopsy again?" Starsky asked knowingly. He looked at Hutch, who just pointed down his own throat and made a gagging expression. Starsky nodded, grinning crookedly. "That's my boy."

"I think he views it as some rite of passage he has to make."

"I haven't stayed all the way through one yet, so tell him to give it a rest. The reason I called was to ask if there was anything we could do to help out? I don't want to get in your way, but we might work as a substitute for getting a bunch of suits there from the FBI. It worked in the Slater case."

"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right. I'd certainly prefer working with the two of you than the Feds."

"Then it's settled. We'll check on flights leaving tomorrow."

"You're sure we're not going to be taking you away from something there?"

"Nope. Just Hutch's next home improvement project, which I don't mind delaying for a couple more...years." Starsky smiled at the glare that earned him.

"Great. Let us know when your flight gets in and we'll pick you up at the airport." Jim paused, smiling a little regretfully at his gray-green partner as he sat down in the other chair behind Jim's desk and sipped at some bottled water. "There's somebody here who'll want to talk to you." Jim handed the phone to Blair, who frowned a little in confusion as he took it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo, it's the old man," Starsky greeted, and Blair chuckled.

"You're sounding younger than I do at the moment."

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the morgue? There's nothing you're gonna see there that you can't read in the autopsy report."

"Just seems like I should be able to handle it, you know? Jim can."

"So let him go watch then. Hey, we'll be seeing you tomorrow sometime."

"What? That's great! Why?"

"To help out with your new case. We figured it was a matter of time before the Feds were called in, so if we're there, being we have contacts with the FBI, we'll probably keep them off your back."

"Man, that'll be perfect. When're you getting here?"

"We still have to get a flight and hotel reservations and all that straightened out, so we'll let you know."

"You have to stay with us," Blair said, and Jim made a face, as if to ask where Blair expected to put them. Blair just gestured at Jim to be quiet.

"You don't have a guest room."

"We will by the time you get here. Come on, Dad. It's not going to be as much fun if you're at a hotel. We'll never get a chance to visit with everything that's going on."

"Okay, but if we get there and it's not convenient, I want you to be honest, and we'll go to a hotel. No big deal. We're not gonna put you out of your bed, not when you're probably not getting more than a few hours' sleep anyway."

"You won't be. I promise. Please?"

"Okay. We'll call with the flight times in the morning."

"Great. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you, Dad."

"You, too, kiddo. Talk to you in the morning." Starsky hung up, and Blair did as well.

Blair was still beaming, practically bouncing in his chair, despite Jim's skeptical look.

"Where do you suggest we put them up? On the fire escape? We don't have a guest room."

"My old room. All we need's a decent bed. They're not going to be comfortable on the old futon."

"So we just have to buy a bed," Jim repeated, deadpan.

"It's only 6:45. Everything's open until 9. We can get a bed."

"I probably don't want to know what this conversation is about," Simon quipped as he passed the desk.

"Actually, Simon, we solved the problem of dragging the Feds into this. Starsky and Hutchinson offered to come up for a visit and work with us on the case. They're affiliated with the serial killer task force, and they have ties to the FBI."

"Good thinking," Simon agreed, nodding. "So that's what the bed's for, huh?"

"Blair wants to put them up at our place."

"Where? In the bathtub?"

"Precisely my point," Jim said, vindicated.

"We can make this work," Blair protested.

"You know you're not going to win this one, right?" Simon said to Jim as he headed for his office.

"Yes, sir, I know that," Jim said, curling his lip a little and leaning back in his chair.

********

With everything else moved out of the small bedroom Blair used to occupy, the new queen-sized bed fit nicely. After a bit of shifting, moving, swearing, and creativity, the small dresser was also in place. That only left Blair's desk, the computer, and several miscellaneous items in the living room.

"Well, as long as they don't both get up and walk around at the same time, they should be fine," Jim said, leaning against the doorframe. "You have any thoughts for the desk, Chief?"

"How about along the wall by the door? We can move that table and put the key basket on the end of the desk."

"Okay. I guess the boxes can go downstairs in the storage room."

Together, they moved the desk to its new home, and found another spot for the table behind the couch.

"That really doesn't work there," Jim said, frowning, stepping back.

"Why not? It looks fine. I can put a couple things on it and it'll look like it belong there."

"Next time I want to bend you over the couch, I'll have to stop and move the table."

"Don't do this to me when we have furniture to move yet," Blair said, feeling his groin stir at the mental image. "Besides, you can still bend me over that couch." Blair gestured at the love seat.

"Gives 'love seat' a whole new meaning." Jim slid his arms around Blair from behind, nuzzling his neck.

"Come on, Jim. We still have to move the boxes downstairs and make the bed."

"Why don't you go take a shower while I do that?"

"Somebody's getting impatient," Blair observed, feeling a growing hardness nudging him from behind.

"If I'm gonna bend you over the love seat and make you scream, I only have one more night to do it, and I want to get started."

********

Blair showered quickly, but paid special attention to getting all his most intimate places clean. Jim would make short work of moving the accumulated junk they'd taken out of the small bedroom, down to the storage room. Jim had quick showers down to an art, so once he returned, it would take him all of a couple minutes to shower and begin prowling for his mate. That imagery sent a little shiver down Blair's spine as he went through a cursory job of tossing a couple essential products in his hair to tame it before blowing it partially dry. It didn't matter if it was a bit damp, but soaked pillows definitely lost their sex appeal very quickly.

With his hair damp but manageable, he worked on the final phase of his preparations. He had a little surprise planned for Jim, and he was anxious to see how his lover liked it.

He was just emerging from the bathroom when Jim walked back into the apartment.

"Don't take too long in there," Blair teased as Jim passed him going toward the bathroom.

"I'll set a record." Jim stopped long enough for a kiss. "I'll break the record." He disappeared into the bathroom.

Figuring Jim was going to already be hard by the time he was finished in the shower, Blair grinned wickedly as he positioned himself to wait for his lover.

Jim didn't lose any time in the shower. He washed thoroughly but at the speed he used to in the military. He was done in record time, took a second to shave, since it was apparent Blair had done the same, and he didn't want to give Blair whisker burns in any sensitive spots, and added a little aftershave. He picked up the towel, then tossed it aside, figuring he wouldn't have any use for it in a moment anyway. He still wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Blair was already lying over the back of the love seat, hands braced on the cushions, gorgeous ass in the air, legs parted. Without realizing he was even doing it, Jim began stroking his erection.

"Hurry up, lover," Blair goaded. "I'm all ready for you."

As Jim approached him, he could see the exposed opening was already slick with lube and held open by a bright red, medium-sized butt plug. He'd never seen a plug in Blair before...for that matter, Blair had never shown any real interest in toys--if anything, he'd been repelled by the idea of something artificial being stuck in him. There was no denying the sexiness of the sight before him, though, or the thought of Blair getting himself stretched and ready...and yet using a small enough plug that he would still feel tight and Jim would stretch him even more when he slid inside him.

Still stroking himself, Jim grasped the base of the plug and rotated it in Blair's ass, making him groan and thrust in response. Jim kept up a slight rotating motion, then pumped on it a bit, loving the show Blair was putting on, wiggling his ass in time with the movements of the plug. Finally, wordlessly, Blair handed him the tube of gel that was lying on the cushion of the love seat. Jim used it to coat his cock, now at full hardness.

He eased the plug out of Blair, leaving a slick, well-prepared hole waiting for him. Jim lined up the head of his cock with that slippery little hole and pushed. With a little groan from Blair, he breached the tight ring of muscle and slid slowly but steadily in to the hilt. Jim stroked Blair's back with one hand, the other reaching under him to pinch at sensitive nipples. The muscles in Blair's ass flexed around his cock as Blair writhed in pleasure and frustration, obviously ready for more intense sensations.

Jim began thrusting in and out of the tight passage, watching the point where his shaft pistoned in and out of Blair's upraised ass. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he could feel the heat radiating from Blair as he began thrusting back, gasping and crying out as Jim expertly rubbed over his prostate on most every stroke. Then he angled his strokes a bit, wanting to prolong this, not wanting Blair to get too much too fast.

"Harder," Blair gasped, thrusting backward as Jim thrust forward, but not as ardently as before. He was going to stretch this out a bit, delaying the climax until it would be shattering. Jim moaned himself, his body wanting the quick fix. Finally, he took Blair's hips in his hands and picked up the pace, thrusting hard and fast, repeatedly hitting the little nob inside Blair until he was crying out Jim's name, gasping nonsensical obscenities, grabbing the cushions until his knuckles went white.

When Blair came, Jim was only seconds behind him, barely bracing himself on the back of the love seat to avoid falling on top of Blair. Figuring that bending over furniture was only comfortable in the heat of wild sex, Jim straightened, slipping free of Blair's body, and helped his partner stand on shaky legs. He turned him around and lifted him until his slightly tender rear rested on the towel over the back of the love seat. Then Jim claimed his mouth as desperately and completely as he'd claimed his ass moments ago. Blair responded, arms going around Jim, pulling him down until they both almost fell backwards.

Jim grabbed two handfuls of ass and hoisted, and Blair wrapped his legs around Jim's body, never breaking the kiss. When Jim finally did part for air, he whispered in Blair's ear.

"I'm going to take you upstairs now and really give you what you need." Blair arched against him, initiating another deep kiss that lasted them partway up the stairs, until Jim finally let Blair make his own way up the rest of the steps. There was nothing sexy about a strained back, and he had plenty of other activities in mind before the night was over.

Jim lay on top of his lover, pinning him to the bed, licking and kissing already kiss-swollen lips. Blair was arching and groaning, his cock hardening rapidly as Jim licked a path from his jaw to his throat, then down to his chest. His nipples were sucked hard, the pleasure so intense that Blair grabbed the railing behind him, trying to force more of his chest into that hot, powerful suction. Jim released the taut flesh and dragged his tongue lower, swirling it around the hollow of Blair's navel, then moving beneath the rigid cock to the balls beneath it, which he sucked into his mouth one at a time, licking and teasing the sensitive area behind them.

He pushed Blair's thighs up and apart, fully exposing him. He licked and sucked at the soft skin of Blair's inner thighs, then nuzzled the base of his cock, knowing that drove Blair wild. He wasn't disappointed with the surge in the already hard organ and the groan of pleasure that followed it.

Jim groped in the night stand drawer for the lube, and gave himself a quick coating. Blair was still slick and stretched, now holding his knees back, waiting anxiously for Jim to finish what they'd started downstairs.

Knowing Blair had to be sensitive from their first round of lovemaking, Jim slid inside slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort. Blair only seemed to bear down, trying to pull him in even faster, gasping in pleasure as he was filled again.

Jim began pumping, encouraged by Blair's moans, his eyes closed, his head thrown back on the pillow, his face flushed and damp with sweat. His whole body was vibrating with the thrusting, and in this position, he could do little more than lie there and take it. Blair released his knees, and Jim took over holding his thighs wide apart as he continued sliding in and out of Blair's body, angling his strokes now to rub over Blair's already tingling prostate.

Blair was gripping the railing above the bed, shouting and gasping with each thrust, feeling every slide of Jim's large cock inside his passage. He was really feeling it now, and he knew he'd feel it tomorrow, but that just made him savor it that much more. A particularly ardent stroke nailed his prostate, and he screamed Jim's name, his body arching as he came, the climax almost taking him by surprise with its speed and intensity. It felt like he came forever, and Jim's shouts of pleasure as he joined him, filling him for the second time, only increased the heady sensations that were followed by nothing but heavy breathing and sated exhaustion.

Jim pulled out gently, smiling at the little groan and shift from Blair. He'd focused his sense of touch entirely on the delicate tissue inside Blair, the way he always did when they went at it hot and heavy this way. He loved the wantonness of it, and Blair loved the intensity of it, but Jim was only happy doing it when he could be sure the only damage to Blair was an aversion to hard chairs for a day...or two.

He sat back on his heels, taking in the vision before him. Blair, on his back, knees bent, feet flat on the bed, legs still wide apart, face flushed, chest heaving with breath, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin and dampening the dusting of hair on his body, making it glisten to Jim's heightened sense of sight. He moved up for a kiss, then pushed a few sweaty curls away from Blair's face.

"God, you are the most incredible sight, baby."

"I bet," Blair said, grinning.

"I love looking at you. All of you." Jim kissed him again. "I love you, baby."

"I love you, too, love." Blair pulled him down for another kiss, and they rolled together on the bed until they were face to face on their sides, Blair's leg winding around Jim's, pulling them even closer.

"Everything okay?" Jim asked, grinning and patting Blair's butt, then leaving his hand there, stroking gently.

"Mm-hm. It's always okay, and I know you know that." Blair cuddled against Jim, listening to his lover's heartbeat, thumping soothingly beneath his ear.

"I don't ever want to get too rough with you," Jim said, stroking Blair's thigh.

"You wouldn't. You don't."

"Sore?"

"In a good way, yeah." Blair chortled. "I'll only turn about four shades of red now every time anybody comes over and sits on the love seat."

"If furniture could talk, we'd both be arrested by Vice," Jim kissed and licked at Blair's lips. "Where'd that butt plug come from, anyway? That's a new addition."

"Online. You don't think I'm gonna walk into a store and buy something like that in person, do you?"

"People do it every day. Trust me. We raided enough places to know that."

"Yeah, well, if I'm buying something that's going to be stuck up my butt, I'm not doing it in person." Blair grinned. "You liked that, huh?"

"You looked so hot there, with your bare ass up in the air, and that plug between your cheeks. I never saw the appeal of those things until tonight."

"Where is it?" Blair frowned, leaning up on one elbow.

"What?"

"The plug--where is it?"

"Probably downstairs."

"Aw, man, don't let me forget to find it in the morning. I really don't want somebody pulling that out from between the sofa cushions." Blair shook his head, laughing.

"No, because I want to stick it between your cushions the next chance I get," Jim retorted, smothering Blair's laughter with more kisses.

********

Jim maneuvered Simon's car through the airport traffic, finally locating a spot to park near the entrance. He put the "police vehicle" ID on the dashboard and got out of the car, having to laugh at the fact that Blair was already out of the car and nearly vibrating in place on the sidewalk, waiting for him to get moving.

"We're right on time, Chief," Jim said, joining his partner and walking into the airport. "Besides, if we were going to borrow Simon's car, we had to wait for him to get back from his lunch meeting."

"I didn't think we'd ever get through that traffic! The entire city of Cascade is nothing but little old ladies!"

"That'll be good news for the little old men," Jim quipped. He checked the board listing the status of each flight. "Hurry up and wait," he said, gesturing toward it. The flight was marked 'delayed'.

"Terrific." Blair spotted some empty chairs and led the way there, sitting gingerly on the hard chair.

"Hope it's not a long delay," Jim said, barely suppressing a grin.

"Do not laugh at me, man, or it's going to be a long, cold winter."

"I'm not laughing at you, sweetheart," Jim said affectionately. "Just watching you gets me hot," he said, whispering in Blair's ear. "Maybe you should have worn that plug today. Just think how that would feel now, while you wiggle around on that hard chair."

"Jim..." There was as definite note of warning in Blair's voice now. "I do *not* want to greet my dad and Hutch with a raging hard-on."

"Okay, okay," Jim conceded, chuckling. "That was amazing," he said of the previous night's activities.

"Last night was pretty incredible," Blair admitted, smiling and looking up at Jim. "I love you."

"I love you, too, baby." Jim leaned over and kissed Blair's temple, surprising him a little with the public gesture. "I want to put a ring on your finger, sweetheart. It's just that when I do that, there are some things I want to say to you that are for your ears only."

"That's why you didn't want a ceremony?"

"That's why. I want us to have a commitment ceremony, but a private one. And then maybe we can have some kind of big party with all our friends, but the vows...what you mean to me...those are intimate things, and I don't want to change what I say because people are listening. I want to say them to you."

"I want to hear what you have to say to me. I'd never want it to change because others were there." Blair paused. "I have to admit, I thought you were changing your mind about marrying me in front of your friends."

"Listen to me, Chief, I'll marry you on the big screen at half-time during the next Jags game if that's what you want. But I still want to have our own ceremony, just the two of us."

"I threw all the open dates for the Cascade Towers out the window," Blair groaned, his head drooping on Jim's shoulder. "Damn it. That's a great place for the party."

"I'll call them this time. Besides, you tossing that folder out the window was a hell of a gesture," Jim said, laughing. "It's probably what I'll be telling our friends about on our 50^th."

"Our 50^th. Wow." Blair grinned, savoring that thought. Jim tucked a little loose hair behind Blair's ear. Then he pulled Blair into his arms and kissed him, passionately, with tongue, right there in the airport waiting room.

"I want to show you off to the world, sweetheart. I'm so proud to be with you. Don't ever think I don't want to make it public. I just don't want it to turn into the superficial event that weddings can turn into when all they are is a giant 'to do' list." Blair smiled brightly at that and kissed Jim again, then hugged him tightly.

"Hey," a man's voice startled them. "That's my son you're makin' out with," Starsky said, tapping on Jim's shoulder.

"Dad!" Blair was up like a shot, hugging his visiting father excitedly. "Where's Hutch?"

"Getting the bags. I saw you two over here, so I thought I should break it up before the Vice squad showed up." Starsky extended a hand to Jim, and they exchanged a quick, one-armed handshake-hug. "I'd ask how things are going, but it looks like they're going pretty well."

"We were talking about wedding plans," Jim said. "Blair'll fill you in on everything later, I'm sure."

"The wedding's back on?" Starsky asked, smiling.

"I see he filled you in already," Jim said, laughing. "It was never off. We were just having a little trouble figuring out what form it was going to take."

"We're still getting rings and having a party. We just might do the wedding ceremony part on our own." Blair was standing close to Jim, and Jim took the opportunity to put his arm around Blair's shoulders.

"Truthfully, those are the best kind," Starsky said, catching sight of his partner, gesturing at him from where he was claiming the luggage. "I'm being paged."

"We'll give you a hand," Jim volunteered, and the three men walked over to the baggage area, exchanged a quick flurry of greetings all around, and headed for the car with the luggage.

"Nice wheels," Hutch commented as they loaded the trunk of Simon's new black Chrysler LHS.

"It's Simon's car," Blair said. "We don't have seating for four in Jim's truck and the Volvo would be a little cramped in the back seat."

"I thought you drove a sedan of some sort on duty," Starsky said, sliding into the back passenger seat as Hutch got in next to him. Jim and Blair were in front, and Jim started up the engine. "The truck's what, a '69?"

"Yeah, it's been a pretty good vehicle. The V-8 engine really moves when it has to, and the insurance isn't all that bad on it."

"I pretty much retired the Torino from being a pursuit vehicle except for the time we got caught short while you were visiting."

"I don't ride with him on pursuits without airbags," Hutch joked.

"In twenty years on the streets, I had what, one accident?"

"That you walked away from with a little scratch while I suffered for weeks."

"Oh, kiss my ass. You were ornery as hell the same night and up running around in a couple of days. You even faked the fucking amnesia."

"Something had to get through to you about your lunatic driving methods. Not that it changed anything," Hutch added.

"We were much better off in your car, which was liable to *not start* when we needed to take off after the bad guys."

"My cars might have been old, but they were always reliable," Hutch asserted. At Starsky's sideways glance, he added, "Almost always."

"Are either of you two interested in the case?" Jim asked, smiling at the incessant bickering. He wondered how those two had survived all these years chewing on each other and still wanting to jump each other every chance they got.

"What don't we know from the news?" Hutch asked.

"Well, we're assuming there was more than one guy involved, because everything was so neatly executed at the church. The figure that belongs on the cross was removed--very carefully, I might add--and stored in the church basement. According to the priest, there was no damage to the Christ figure, and judging by Dan's examination of the cross in the lab, there was very little damage to that, either, outside of a couple new holes and an impression or two from the ropes. Whoever did it managed to put the cross back up with the original wires and hooks it has always been suspended from. There was no damage to the altar, no statues knocked over or broken, no excess debris from the actual placement of the body--no scraps of rope, spare nails, victim's clothing, nothing. The victim was both tied and nailed to the cross, which Dan said was necessary because the nails wouldn't hold, the way they were driven through the palms. The victim was dead when he was hung, and all the wounds except the one in his side were post-mortem. As we suspected, the gash down his side killed him."

"There wasn't much blood at the scene, so we figure he was killed somewhere else and brought to the church for the ritual," Blair said.

"Any ID on the victim yet?" Starsky asked.

"We just got it in this morning," Jim responded. "Ethan Nichols, 29, originally from Tacoma. He was just hired by the Cascade Herald, referred there by a good friend of his who is the Metro editor there. He used to be a reporter for the Tacoma Announcer. You can only picture how much haranguing we're getting from the press on this one."

"Maybe we've got a psycho who hates reporters," Starsky said.

"Guess that puts me on the suspect list," Jim retorted.

"That puts just about every cop on your suspect list," Starsky agreed, laughing. "How'd he end up dead if he was visiting a friend? Did he take off on his own?"

"We're meeting with his friend from the Herald this afternoon, so we thought you guys could come with us," Blair explained.

"That might also head off the press clamoring for bringing in the Feds, if they think the Cascade PD's already called in outside consultants," Hutch said. "Of course, it'll also get them going if they know we're on a serial killer task force."

"I think we might go from the standpoint that you both have training in criminal profiling and twenty-plus years' experience in a larger department," Jim stated. "I don't want the term 'serial killer' to come up in conversation with reporters if I can help it."

"Were there any other unusual wounds or marks on the body?" Hutch asked.

"There was a blow to the back of the head that probably knocked him out, made it possible to abduct him in the first place," Jim replied. "A few assorted scrapes and a couple bruises, but Dan seemed to feel they were more incidental to the kidnaping than anything meaningful."

"We'll have to get everything we can on Nichols, including his religious affiliations and whether he's written anything that could trigger some kind of hate crime or retaliation from fanatics," Starsky suggested, making a couple notes on a pad he'd pulled from the pocket of the leather jacket he wore. "You know, unless this reporter really has his head up his ass, he's going to remember the Slater case and the fact that we were consultants on that as part of a task force in serial killers."

"He's right," Blair agreed, nodding. "I hadn't thought of that, but the reporters were all over that one, too, and they knew about Dad and Hutch being in on it."

"Okay. Maybe we better handle meeting the press ourselves, then," Jim said.

"We've got some data on a couple of unsolved ritualistic homicides in the area," Hutch said. "One was in LA, and the other was in Seattle."

"Wasn't that the one where the guy was gutted?" Jim asked.

"Drawn and quartered, to be exact. Blair, trust me on this, don't look at the autopsy report," Starsky said. "I lost my lunch on that one."

"No problems here. I'll take your word for it. I remember that case. Wasn't that about six months or so ago?"

"Yeah, it's still open, but apparently they never had a decent lead on it," Jim said, sighing. "How was the guy in LA killed?"

"Satanic ritual mutilation, probably part of a Black Mass," Hutch responded.

"That doesn't fit as well as the Seattle killing--crucifixion and drawing and quartering are both archaic forms of execution," Jim concluded.

"That's what our thought was, too," Starsky agreed.

"The one in Seattle was very well-executed, too, if you'll forgive the pun," Hutch added. "The body was very carefully displayed to show all the grisly detail of the killing, but there was a singular absence of blood and mess at the scene."

"So he was killed somewhere else and they sort of bagged everything and took it to the drop point?" Jim asked.

"More or less. Like this murder, it was very visual, as if the killer wanted to leave a shocking visual image."

"Maybe that's more important to him than the killing itself," Blair suggested. "The visuals. Could we be looking for a warped photographer, or an artist of some sort?"

"This guy probably fancies himself an artist," Hutch agreed, "but I don't think he is one. It's extremely rare for ritualistic serial killers to have accomplices, so that's throwing us a little.Could one person have carried out the Cascade killing?"

"The murder, definitely, but the display of the body would be something else again," Jim said. "Even if one person fastened the guy on the cross, he had to get about fifteen feet up on a ladder, unhook a 200-pound wooden cross from metal hooks and cables, lower it to the floor without damaging the plaster figure that was attached to it, remove that figure and haul it down the steps to the church basement, again, with no damage, then return to the church, nail a 175-pound man to the cross, and then lift the whole apparatus up again and re-hook it to the cables."

"Sounds like a whole crew of killers would have to make that happen," Starsky said, sighing.

"Maybe he put the guy on the cross without taking it down," Blair suggested.

"And he would be standing...where exactly while he did this?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. "There's no balcony behind the cross. Dan had a hell of a time figuring how to get the whole thing *down* without a disaster."

"The cross fit in the back of the large coroner's van, right?" Hutch asked.

"Barely, with the doors tied partially open," Jim replied.

"Well, what if the killer put the victim on an identical cross, transported him to the church in some sort of extended length van, and then made it look as if he'd used the church's cross?"

"But that still wouldn't explain how he got the first one down and the second one up," Blair said.

"No, but it would be quicker and easier to switch one for the other, pausing long enough to move the Christ figure to make everyone think it was the same cross," Hutch argued. "We only then have to worry about the actual mechanics of raising and lowering the crosses. Maybe our boy has some kind of mechanical or engineering know-how, and brought equipment. We're talking about a big old church that's locked up all night, every night, from about mid-evening until morning Mass. There are several dark hours when someone could get in there, make this happen, and get out unnoticed. Are there any large service entrances that would lead into the main body of the church?"

"There's a service entrance at the back that leads into a storage and receiving area," Jim said. "We can drop you guys off at the loft if you want, and then pick you up after our appointment with the reporter."

"Sounds good," Starsky agreed. "You sure we're not putting you out? It's no big deal for us to stay at a hotel."

"We've got a room all set, Dad. We just shuffled a few things around. This'll be great."

"Okay, we'll take your word for it, then."

********

Hutch hoisted the suitcase onto the bed and started unpacking. Starsky eased behind him through the narrow space between the bed and the dresser and went to look out the door that led to the fire escape.

"I feel pretty guilty about them going out and buying a bed to put us up here," Starsky said, looking back at the new queen-size bed with its dark metal headboard and Southwest-influenced print quilt, bright green and bright orange accent pillows on top to pick up those colors in the quilt.

"How much you want to bet that Blair picked out the quilt and the pillows?" Hutch kidded, smiling.

"The pillows, without a doubt. Ellison's not a bright orange kinda guy."

"Blair wanted you here and not in a hotel. I don't think they did anything they didn't want to do--well, anything *Blair* didn't want to do, and I have a feeling your son gets his way most of the time."

"From the sound of this case, we'll probably be here a while. Might as well load up the dresser." Starsky started helping with the unpacking, filling the three empty drawers on the left-hand side of the dresser that Blair had cleared for them. Hutch neatly arranged their shaving gear and other effects on the dresser, and in short order, the little room felt like home.

There were a couple of bright hangings on the walls, a small lamp on a bedside table and another on the dresser. Blair had arranged a few framed photos from their last visit to California on one end of the dresser, the smiling faces of all four men in various combinations making the room seem even more welcoming. There were two sets of fresh towels on the foot of the bed.

"Well, Jim left the case file on the kitchen table. You want to make a pot of coffee and start reading?" Hutch asked.

"Sure. Let me use the john real fast and I'll be right there."

While Starsky heeded nature's call, Hutch started some coffee and checked the refrigerator for ingredients to make sandwiches. They'd eaten a good breakfast, but it was wearing off fast, and their hosts didn't have time to stop for lunch before heading out to the office of the Cascade Herald.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"We need to get some of this," Starsky said, walking out with a small tube in his hand.

"Mad Mango? Flavored lube? Are you snooping in the bathroom cabinets, Starsk?"

"If looking for a roll of toilet paper qualifies as snooping, then I guess I was. The roll was empty, so I got another roll out, and I noticed a few of these under there. Didn't we have something like this a long time ago?"

"Last time we raided Uncle Elmo, you picked up a bunch of them, remember?" Hutch handed the tube back to Starsky. "Will you please put that back before they get home?"

"You know, it's true what they say about getting old."

"What do they say?" Hutch asked, exasperated, cutting the two turkey sandwiches in half.

"You revert to childhood and your kids start calling the shots. You're afraid of my kid catching you looking at lube."

"Just put it back, Starsk. And if you ask Blair where they got it, I swear to God, I'll kill you."

"Keep your shorts on, Blondie--or not," Starsky added, grinning. "I'll e-mail him about it after we get home, so your delicate psyche won't be damaged." Starsky went back into the bathroom and stashed the tube back in its original spot. "I won't tell you about the butt plug," Starsky said, sitting down as Hutch served their lunch of sandwiches and coffee.

"Thanks for not telling me," Hutch retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Okay, we've got this guy in Cascade, and the one in Seattle. Any links besides the way they died being archaic execution methods?"

"Both were males," Hutch said, shrugging. "That's about all I see on the surface. Tony Stewart, our Seattle victim, was 56 years old."

"Okay," Starsky started a list, taking a bite out of his sandwich. "What'd Stewart do again?"

"History professor," Hutch said.

"Okay, that pretty much blows any link in the occupation department. Physical characteristics?"

"Nothing there. Stewart was a stocky man with gray hair and a beard, and Nichols was an average size guy with brown hair, a mustache and goatee. Unless this guy has an obsession with killing horribly all men with facial hair, we're drawing a blank."

"You better watch out with that little goatee of yours," Starsky said, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"You told me to grow it back because you like how it tickles when I have my tongue up your--"

"And you were blushing about the flavored lube?"

"Okay, okay, what about religious affiliations?" Stewart was a Presbyterian. Attended church every Sunday."

"Don't know yet on Nichols. Quite a few things we don't know about him."

"Well, I guess we do the usual digging to see if they ever crossed paths. Because where those paths intersect would be our killer, if they're connected."

"Trouble is, most of Nichols' professional contacts are going to be reporters, and the minute we ask a question about another homicide victim, you know what they'll do with that."

"Maybe we ought to take a drive to Seattle and talk to Stewart's colleagues."

"Good thinking," Starsky agreed.

"I always told you I was the brains of this partnership."

"That's okay. I can handle being the looks," Starsky retorted, grinning.

"Your good looks are equaled only by your humility," Hutch concluded, poring over the file again.

********

Jim parked the truck at the curb in front of the office building that housed the Cascade Herald. Before he had turned off the engine, there was a squeal of tires followed by screams and commotion a few yards behind them in the street. A late model, jet black Camaro careened past the parked truck, barely avoiding side-swiping it. Jim put the flashers on and hit the siren, pulling out of the parking place enough to see that a young woman lay in the street, blood pooling beneath her head as a group of horrified bystanders gathered around, one calling in the emergency on a cell phone. Deciding the victim of the apparent hit-and-run was getting help, Jim took off after the black Camaro.

"Call it in, Chief," he said to Blair, who tried to ignore the speed they were traveling down one of Cascade's busiest streets as he dialed the number he knew better than their home number on his cell phone. Fortunately, most of the cars were getting out of Jim's way as he relentlessly pursued the black Camaro around corner after screeching corner, through intersections of wisely inert motorists who simply froze in place to let the two speeding vehicles blast by them.

"You think she's dead?" Blair asked after completing the call for an ambulance for the victim and back-up for them in their chase.

"I didn't have time to zero in on her very long, but it didn't look good, and he's got front end and windshield damage. Substantial windshield damage." The Camaro took another squealing turn around a busy corner, and Jim muttered under his breath as he fought to keep up. The pick-up's engine was fast enough, but a pick-up just didn't handle like a Camaro. "Son of a bitch. When I catch this bastard, I'm gonna wrap the plastic cord around his throat instead of cuffing him with it."

"Jim--!" Blair closed his eyes as they sped through an intersection and a car barely came to a halt inches from colliding with them.

"I saw him, Chief," Jim said calmly.

He didn't see the SUV with the booming bass speakers whose driver didn't hear the siren, and pulled into the intersection directly in front of him. Blair had a fleeting moment of terror for Jim's fate, fearing more in that heartbeat that he would lose his lover than he feared losing his own life.

********

"Must be one hell of an interview they're doing with that guy," Starsky groused, pacing. They'd had lunch, reviewed the case files, and were getting antsy to get out on the street and work the case. "I'm gonna call Blair," Starsky said, picking up the phone. He hadn't had time to turn it on and dial when it rang in his hand, startling him. "Speak of the devil," he said, then answered, "Hello."

"Starsky?" Simon Banks' voice came over the line.

"Hey, Simon, good to hear your voice. Any ideas where my son and his partner are?"

"Yes, I know where they are. Is Hutchinson there with you?" Simon asked.

"Yeah, we're both here--why? What's going on, Simon?"

"There's been an accident. It's a bad one. Jim was in pursuit of a hit-and-run driver, and some guy didn't hear the siren and pulled right out in front of him. The driver of the second vehicle only sustained minor injuries--it was a Ford Excursion, it could take the blow, and Jim hit the passenger side."

"That's fine but what about Blair and Jim?"

"They're both at Cascade General, both unconscious. I'm there right now. You need to know, Starsky...Blair has what looks like a very severe head injury. His head hit the dashboard at a tremendous force, and the EMT thought his skull was fractured. He's in X-ray right now."

"Oh my God." Starsky leaned on the counter, hoping his legs would hold him up long enough to finish the call. "We're on the way."

"You have a car there?"

"Shit, no we don't."

"I'll send a black and white for you ASAP."

"Thank you, Simon." Starsky hung up the phone and turned to Hutch. "Jim hit an SUV during a pursuit. They're in the hospital...they think Blair's...they think his skull's fractured, Hutch."

"Do they know that for sure?" Hutch asked, taking a hold of his partner's shoulders. He couldn't remember ever seeing Starsky this pale since the last time he was shot and hovered near death.

"No, but his head hit the dashboard... How did his head hit the dashboard, Hutch? Where was the goddamned seatbelt?!"

"In a '69 pickup? Probably over his lap. Most vehicle that old don't have shoulder restraints."

"My son's head is cracked open because Ellison's driving that goddamned heap of shit with nothing but lap belts in it? I'll kill him with my bare fucking hands!"

"Starsky, calm down. Going off on a tirade about Jim isn't going to help Blair, and you know if Blair were standing right here, he wouldn't want you to do that."

"Calm down? They're talking severe head injuries here, Hutch! What if he's a vegetable? What if he's crippled for life? What if he's blind or...or...has amnesia... Or can't finish his Ph.D. because he can't add two and two together anymore?"

"Starsk, listen to me. Blair's healthy and he's strong. He's made of incredibly good stock, and his father has more lives than any respectable alley cat should. You have to focus on hope here, buddy. We don't know anything about Blair's condition yet. People have recovered from major blows to the head and led very healthy, normal lives. Is Simon sending a car?"

"Yeah, a black and white."

"Okay. Let's get downstairs then, because they're probably due here any second. One thing at a time," Hutch reasoned, and Starsky nodded, not really assuaged, but focused on getting to the hospital to see his son.

********

Simon Banks paced the emergency room waiting area, not surprised to see Bill Ellison running down the hall, cashmere topcoat flying, only minutes after he'd called him. He wondered how many traffic laws the elder Ellison's Cadillac had defied to get him there so quickly.

"Where's Jimmy?" he asked, breathless.

"You better sit down, Bill. You won't do Jim much good if you drop over yourself." Simon directed him to a couple of empty chairs, which they occupied. "Jim is still in X-ray. The EMTs thought he probably had a concussion, some cracked or broken ribs from the steering wheel. They didn't think it looked too bad at first glance, but we need the X-rays to be sure."

"What about Blair?"

"His head hit the dashboard. He's in pretty bad shape, Bill."

"My God. You say some guy just pulled out in front of them?"

"He's a young guy, had his speakers up on high blow--those big bass jobs--and he didn't hear the siren. He just had minor scrapes and bruises."

"You'll be filing charges."

"You bet your life we will. God forbid, if Blair doesn't make it, he's looking at a vehicular homicide rap. Jim had the siren and flashers, and that intersection was clear except for this guy, who just pulled out. There was no way Jim could even slow down. He hit at full speed."

"Simon?" Starsky was rushing into the waiting room now, Hutch close behind him. "Where's my son?"

"He's in X-ray as far as we know. The doctor hasn't come out yet."

"Which exam room did they take him to? I want to see him."

"If he's in X-ray, we'll just have to wait, Starsk," Hutch said, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Bill, any word on Jim?" Hutch asked.

"Simon told me he was in X-ray, too. They don't think he's too badly hurt, but he was unconscious when he was brought in. A concussion, maybe."

"He's better off than my son, by a long shot," Starsky snapped, pacing away from the group, running his hand through his hair.

"This isn't Jim's fault, Starsky," Simon spoke up.

"Where were the shoulder straps in that truck? Why wasn't he driving a vehicle with airbags? My son would be up walking around if he'd had airbags in that piece of shit he's driving!"

"Blair consented to ride with him in the truck, Starsky. He knew the risks riding with a cop, and--"

"Oh, Simon, give it a rest. Blair'd follow Jim straight into hell and look forward to the trip, and you know it. He's a civilian, for God's sake. For that matter, what the hell's the matter with you for letting one of your cops out on the road in pursuits with a vehicle without one goddamned safety device in it?!"

"We don't control what our detectives drive, Starsky."

"No, but you cut off his vehicle allowance after the second truck was totaled," Bill said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You pressured him into a situation where he had to cover the whole expense out of his own pocket, so he bought something cheap with affordable insurance."

"Don't try to tell me Jim couldn't afford a better truck, Bill," Simon challenged.

"My son doesn't take money and financial support from me, no matter how much I might want to give it to him. You better hope my son and Blair both come out of this in good shape, or your department is going to be facing a lawsuit the likes of which you've never seen before. I think I'll go put in a call to my attorney." Bill stormed down the hall, pulling out his cell phone in preparation to use it outside.

"Typical Bill Ellison response. Call a lawyer and throw some cash at the problem. That won't change Jim's injuries. Or Blair's," Simon stated.

"Is that true? You cut off some vehicle allowance?" Starsky asked.

"The department was paying Jim's auto insurance. After the last truck was totaled--a late model Ford Expedition--the rates went through the roof, and so did the commissioner. I had no choice. I had to cut off the insurance benefit. We have wording in the contract regarding reckless or excessive damage to covered vehicles, and Jim totaling two trucks in as many years qualified."

"Good for you. I hope your budget balances," Starsky shot back.

Before Simon could respond, a harried-looking older man in blue scrubs approached them.

"Blair Sandburg's party?" the doctor asked, and they immediately gathered around him.

"I'm his father," Starsky spoke up immediately.

"I'm Dr. Farraday. Blair has a linear skull fracture. At this time, we're treating the swelling with medication. I don't see an immediate threat of substantial blood or fluid on the brain--the CT scan was normal--but I'm ordering an MRI and we'll be monitoring him very closely in ICU. He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but given the trauma to his head and the swelling of the brain at this stage, that's not uncommon."

"Is he going to be brain damaged from this?" Starsky asked.

"It's too soon to tell. There's definitely brain activity, and he was breathing on his own when he was brought in, though we have intubated him--it's merely a precaution to ensure that adequate oxygen is supplied to the brain. He isn't reacting to external stimuli right now. At this point, we can't eliminate the possibility of damage."

"How much danger is he in, Doctor?" Hutch asked.

"If develops significant blood or fluid on the brain, we may have to operate to relieve the pressure, but as I said, there's no indication of that yet. He's not out of the woods, by any means, but I'm hopeful medication will relieve the swelling of the brain itself. The fracture, as I said, was linear, which is good news, because that means a crack, rather than a break and opening of the skull. His skull is not open, the brain was not exposed in any way. Our best case scenario is that he'll wake up, better sooner than later, with a bad headache. His other injuries are fairly minor. He has two cracked ribs on his left side, a couple of superficial cuts on his face, and a sprained wrist on the right side, most likely from bracing himself on something at the time of the impact."

"When can I see him?" Starsky asked. It was as if he'd forgotten anyone else was present, and focused only on the doctor and the prospect of seeing his son.

"As soon as he's settled in ICU, you can go in for a few minutes. You should be prepared for the bruising. It extends from below his eyes back into his hairline," the doctor said, gesturing to that area on his own head. He hit the dashboard very hard, which is what caused the fracture and the bruising."

"Which could have been prevented with a shoulder strap on the seatbelt," Starsky said, closing his eyes, feeling the horror wash over him at the thought that Blair probably would be standing there with them right now with a pain pill prescription and able to go home if his head had hit an airbag, or if he'd been held back in the seat by a belt.

"Yes, I imagine he wouldn't have been injured this badly, possibly not at all, with the proper restraint." The doctor shook his head. "A lot of people just don't think about that until they've been involved in something like this. I'll be at the hospital another several hours yet, so I'll be checking on Blair periodically, and he'll be evaluated hourly by the ICU nursing staff."

"Did you examine Jim Ellison, or only Blair?" Simon asked.

"I saw Detective Ellison, but another doctor was examining him. I'm not sure what stage they're to, but I'll check on him when I go back there."

"Thank you, Doctor," Starsky said. "Where do we wait?"

"The nurse will come and get you when he's settled." As the doctor walked away, Bill Ellison returned, this time accompanied by Steven.

"Was that about Jim?" Steven asked.

"No, that was Blair's doctor, but he said he'd check on what was happening with Jim," Hutch explained.

"How is Blair?" Bill asked, visibly concerned.

Starsky started to speak, and then swallowed and walked away.

"His skull is cracked, and he's unconscious," Simon explained. "The other injuries are minor. The doctor's trying to reduce the brain swelling with medication. They don't know yet if he'll require surgery or not."

"Poor kid. Jim'll blame himself for this," Bill said, and Simon rolled his eyes a little.

"He'll have company."

"Starsky's upset, Simon. You know how close he is to Blair. I'm going to go have a talk with him," Hutch said, leaving to go find his partner.

"Starsky thinks this is Jim's fault?" Steven asked, raising his eyebrows. "I thought the guy he hit pulled out in front of him."

"He did, and it gets better. Jim had the right of way. We think our friend in the SUV ran a stop sign. He won't admit it, but we have a witness who says he only slowed down a little for the stop sign and then proceeded into the intersection."

"So how is Starsky blaming Jim? I don't understand," Steven persisted.

"Because the truck has no safety devices except for lap belts. He feels Jim shouldn't have been driving something like that as a pursuit vehicle."

"He shouldn't have," Bill agreed, shooting a pointed look at Simon.

"Okay, I've missed something here," Steven said, noticing the icy look from his father he knew only too well.

"The Department cut off Jimmy's auto insurance allowance after the Expedition was totaled."

"Oh, yeah, I remember Jim mentioning that. He was pretty pissed off about it at the time."

Simon was relieved to see another doctor emerge from the exam rooms and enter the waiting room. He was even more relieved when the doctor asked for James Ellison's family. All three men responded, and the middle-aged woman who was treating Jim smiled pleasantly.

"Well, James is a very lucky man. He has some badly bruised ribs on his left side, but they are not fractured and there doesn't appear to be any injury to the internal organs. His left arm has a fracture that we've set. He has a concussion, but he's already regained consciousness and is insisting on seeing his partner, so we know his cognitive functions are fine. It's a good thing for both of them he put his arm across his partner at the time of the collision. I understand Mr. Sandburg has a very serious head injury as it is."

"Jim was holding Blair back at the time of the impact?" Simon asked.

"I asked him how he managed to get so banged up on just the left side, when I assumed he would have been looking straight ahead, sitting straight in the seat while he was driving. He said he 'leaned over to hold Blair back,' and braced himself with his left arm against the steering wheel. It was an odd position to be in for the impact, but it seems to have gotten him somewhat out of harm's way, so I'd say he was pretty lucky."

"Are you admitting him?" Bill asked, visibly relieved.

"Yes, for observation, for 24 hours. There's no indication of anything more serious, but he took quite an impact, and I want to be sure he doesn't develop any complications. If all goes well, he should be released tomorrow afternoon with prescriptions for pain medication. Captain...Banks?" the doctor asked, obviously having been told by Jim who to look for in the waiting room.

"Yes, that's me," Simon responded.

"You should expect him to be off active duty for at least a week due to the concussion. Obviously, his arm will be in the cast for four to six weeks, so what type of duty you assign him during that time depends on what he can do with one arm."

"I'm just glad he came through it in one piece, more or less," Simon said, chuckling. "When can he have visitors?"

"As soon as he's settled in his room, which should be any time now. The nurse will come and get you."

"I know Jim, and he literally won't rest until he sees Blair, so I hope that won't be a problem," Steven stated. "Blair and Jim are...partners off duty, too," Steven added. "For Jim, this is more than a work partner being hurt--it's his life partner."

"I didn't realize that. I figured they were good friends from the way he reacted, and the number of times he's asked about Mr. Sandburg. After we get him settled in his room, I'll see if we can take him down to ICU later for a quick visit."

"Thanks, Doctor. He may not wait that long, but thanks," Bill said, smiling.

********

Starsky was sitting on a bench outside the hospital, not far from the main entrance. Hutch approached him and sat down, not saying anything for a moment.

"This isn't Jim's fault, Starsk."

"Don't start with me, Hutch. My son's head is bashed in because Ellison was too cheap to buy a decent truck. Or because Banks needs to balance his budget. Shit, how do you put a price on Blair's head?! Literally?!" Starsky demanded. "If money was that big of a fucking issue, I'd have liquidated my retirement assets and bought Ellison a Hummer!"

"That's not a bad idea," Hutch said, leaning back on the bench. "Bill and Steven would probably go in on one with us. You know that truck's got to be history after that crash. You wouldn't have to worry about Blair riding around in one of those."

"Are you nuts? Who cares about the truck? What difference does it make now?"

"You're acting like Blair's dead or in a vegetative state. The doctor said his CT scan was normal and he was capable of breathing on his own."

"And he could still die, or still wake up without half his marbles!"

"Starsk, you and Jim have butted heads since day one, and you really started butting heads after you found out Blair was your son. You love Blair so much you want to protect him from everything bad in the world, and that's the way it should be. You're his dad. But Jim isn't one of those bad things. He adores Blair. He'd die for him in a second, without even blinking, and you know it. Blair's crazy about Jim, feels like his life depends on having Jim in it. You know damn well that Blair would have a fit if he thought you were going to take this out on Jim."

"If Jim loves Blair so much, why in the hell would he take a chance like that with his life?"

"Why did you take chances with my life for over twenty years? Does that mean you didn't love me because you risked *both* our lives driving like a bat outta hell after the bad guys?"

"Even the Torino had shoulder belts."

"Which we didn't fasten half the time."

"That's a choice, Hutch. Putting on your seatbelt or not. But when it's not there, you can't put it on, can you? How many high speed chases did I take you on without airbags after they were finally put on the driver and passenger side?"

"I really don't know, buddy. I didn't count."

"One! When Jim and Blair were visiting after Naomi died and we got involved in that chase in the Torino. The first decent car I could buy with dual airbags, I bought. We didn't have the options in the '70's and '80's that cops have now. As soon as those options were there, I took advantage of them."

"When you were Ellison's age, how much time did you spend wringing your hands and worrying about accidents? I can answer that--none! I couldn't get you to slow down no matter what I said. When you crashed the Torino, how worried were you about my welfare?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Hutch, how long are you gonna dredge that up?! You're still walkin' around, aren't ya?!" Starsky challenged, getting up and pacing.

"Well, that was just a lucky break for me, wasn't it? Because you sure as hell weren't about to slow down!" Hutch took in a deep breath, resolving he was not going to fight with his partner about a 25-year-old incident. "Starsky, the only reason I'm bringing it up now is that I want you to put yourself in Jim's place. You *were* in Jim's place. You were a little younger than he is now, but not by much, and you loved me the way he loves Blair. But you still put the pedal to the metal and risked both our lives for a car chase. For multiple car chases. Hell, I did it, too. We both did. I've loved you with every breath I took for the last thirty years, and I still risked your life to make a bust or catch a fleeing perp more than once. It's part of the territory."

"You weren't a civilian," Starsky said flatly.

"No, I wasn't. Blair is in name only. His father's a cop, he rides with a cop, he sleeps with a cop, most of his friends are cops. He's chosen that life, and whether or not you think Jim should have driven a better truck, the fact remains that Blair is not a little boy, as much as you might want him to be sometimes because I know how it hurts you that you didn't have that time with him. He's a man, Starsk. He's 35 years old. He's not a little boy anymore. He makes the conscious decision to ride with Jim, and he knows that means being involved in chases. He knows what kind of belts are--or aren't--in that old truck."

"He's my little boy, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "It doesn't matter how old he is."

Moved by the sadness in his partner's voice, Hutch got up and walked over to Starsky, sliding an arm around him.

"Maybe we should go in and see if he's settled in ICU yet."

"What am I gonna do if he dies, Hutch?"

"Feel like someone just ripped your guts out. We both will. I know he's not my son biologically, but it feels like he's mine, too, because he's yours. Do you know why Blair is so precious to me? Because he's part of you. If I ever have to lose you, Blair would be the part of you that survived. The blue eyes, the curls, the energy, the innate...goodness. He's so much your son, Starsk. So much of you is in him. So if he dies, I'm not real sure what either one of us are gonna do, but whatever it is, we'll do it together. Me and thee, remember?"

"Like I'd forget," Starsky said, smiling in spite of wet eyes, turning to hug his partner. "I love you, babe."

"I love you, too, and I think Blair will pull through this because he knows how many people are depending on him to do it." Hutch stepped back releasing his hold on Starsky. "Let's go check on him, and find out how Jim's doing."

"Okay, good idea." They started back inside the hospital.

"You still mad at Jim?"

"Yup. But I'm gonna do what Blair wants and keep my mouth shut."

"Sure you will," Hutch mumbled under his breath.

********

"Detective Ellison, the doctor said you could see your partner later, after you rest a while," the nurse said, exasperated. The young woman had taken a verbal workout from the irate cop in the hospital bed since she'd had the misfortune to stop in and give him a painkiller.

"You can either get me a wheelchair, or I'll get out of the bed and walk down there myself. I'm not waiting any longer."

"Dr. Sinclair will be back to check on you--"

"Good for her." Jim tossed back the covers and ignored the pain in his side. He was awkward at getting up with only one arm functional, but it was fast becoming obvious that wasn't going to slow him down either.

"All right, all right. Stay put a second. I'll be right back." Deciding there was no point in arguing with a patient who would do exactly what he threatened to do, and who was, with some pain, capable of doing it, she located a wheelchair and returned to Jim's room.

//It's true what they say. All of the good ones are gay or taken,// she thought, assessing the tall, handsome, well-built man who was already out of bed and waiting for the chair. //Figures. One this good would have to be both,// she thought glumly as she put a blanket over the patient's legs and made sure he had slipper socks his feet before starting out. She hoped the poor guy in ICU with the skull fracture would come to and enjoy how lucky he really was.

As they made their way out of the room and down the hall, two men paused just a short distance away.

"Jimmy! You're looking good!" Bill said, his tone almost jubilant. Except for a bandaged cut and some nasty bruising on the left side of Jim's forehead and the splint on his left arm, he looked pretty much like his old self.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm going to see Blair." Jim extended his right hand, which his father took in a handshake but covered with his other hand as well, squeezing Jim's hand. "Steven, what did I get you in the middle of?" Jim asked, and Steven looked down at his business suit, expensive topcoat over his arm.

"Board meeting. Believe me, there are no hard feelings about missing the rest of that meeting. How you feeling, bro?"

"I'm all right. I need to see Blair. How bad is it, really?" Jim asked as the nurse started moving with the chair again, and Steven and Bill walked alongside it.

"We weren't there when Blair's doctor talked to Starsky, but I assume we got the same story you did," Bill said.

"Skull fracture. God, there was just no way. When that SOB pulled out in front of me, I knew we were goners."

"You held Blair back in the seat. You probably saved his life," Steven said.

"Blair was so scared. I could see it, in the last few seconds before the accident. We were really moving, barely missing some cars..." Jim sighed, then held onto his side. "I don't suppose the back-up managed to catch the headcase in the Camaro?"

"Is that who you were chasing?" Steven asked.

"A hit-and-run driver. Does anybody know what happened to the woman he hit?"

"We don't know anything about that, Jimmy. We didn't know who you were chasing or why you were doing it."

"We were just pulling up in front of the Cascade Herald building, and we heard this commotion--squealing tires, screaming--and this black Camaro flew by us. He must've been doing about sixty even then. He'd hit a woman in the street, and it looked like enough bystanders were there, a couple of them with cell phones, so we took off after the perp. Blair called it in. I just hope the back-up nailed that bastard. I'd like to know what happened to the victim."

"We had a woman brought in earlier, just before you and your partner," the nurse said, pushing the button for the elevator. "If it's the same one, she was DOA," she said regretfully.

"Young, blonde, hit by a car?"

"I think so, yes," she said, nodding.

"Damn."

"Someone must have gotten a license number, something," Bill said. "If Blair called for back-up..."

"We've got a lot fewer cars on the street after the budget cuts last year. Response time isn't as good as it used to be." Jim paused. "Did somebody get a hold of Starsky and Hutch? They're staying at our place."

"They're downstairs," Steven said. "You might as well know--Starsky's blaming you for the accident."

"I was driving, so I'll take that heat, but if that jerk hadn't run the stop sign, I wouldn't have hit anything. Remind me to jam those fucking bass speakers so far down his throat that he shits hip hop for the rest of his life." Jim realized belatedly that he'd said that in front of the nurse, who chuckled from her spot behind him, wheeling the chair. "Sorry," he added.

"Don't be. It's the first laugh I've had all week," she said, still smiling.

As the elevator opened onto the floor where the ICU was located, the second elevator opened and Starsky and Hutch exited.

"If you would, just bring him back down to his room when he's finished visiting," the nurse said to Steven, who readily took over the job of pushing the wheelchair.

"How are you, Jim?" Hutch asked immediately. Starsky left them to approach the nurses' station immediately about seeing Blair.

"Except for the arm, just banged up a little. What's the real story on Blair? They told me he had a skull fracture and was unconscious, but is there anything they're not telling me?"

"I don't think so," Hutch said. "They're medicating him for the brain swelling, and it's a wait-and-see process for now. If they detect either fluid or blood accumulating on the brain, they may have to operate. The doctor said it was too soon to tell if there was any brain damage."

"That's what they told me."

Starsky had the room number and the clearance from the nurse, being he was Blair's father. He paused, considering what Blair would want if he were able to speak for himself. Blair would want to see Jim. Resisting the urge to be the first one down the hall to see Blair, Starsky returned to the group.

"The room's down this way," he said, gesturing down the hall. "The nurse said only a few minutes. I'd like a chance to see him when you're done," Starsky said to Jim.

"Thanks," Jim said, putting a great deal of meaning into that one word. Whatever Starsky's feelings were about the accident, he was obviously going to handle them tactfully, and he was going to respect what he felt would be Blair's wishes.

Steven wheeled the chair down to the room, but Jim held up a hand for him to stop at the door.

"I can make it that far. There's nothing wrong with my legs." Jim was out of the chair before Steven could object, and though he swayed a bit from the pain in his head, he regained his equilibrium quickly, and tightened his robe around himself.

"The cab's waiting," Steven said, smiling a little. Jim returned it before going into the room.

Blair was attached to IV's and various monitors, but most striking was the horrible bruising that looked like a bizarre purple-red cap extending from his eyes to his hair. Though it had not broken the skin, the dashboard had left a vividly colored lump in the middle of Blair's forehead. Jim swallowed hard, wanting his voice to come out strong and sure, to comfort Blair on the outside chance Blair could hear him.

"Hey, Chief, it's me. I'm okay. You're going to be okay, too. You just need to wake up for us," Jim said, pulling up a chair and sitting by Blair's bed. He took one limp hand in both of his. "I love you, sweetheart. You've got to wake up for me. I need to see those beautiful blue eyes. I need to make those vows with you, baby. You have to wake up to hear me. I'm going to find a good date at the Cascade Towers for the party." Jim kissed the back of Blair's hand. "I'm so sorry, Chief. I tried to hold you back but I guess I couldn't do it. If that damn truck isn't totaled, I'll blow it up myself. All the times you've bumped your head on the passenger window on a fast corner..." Jim reached up and gingerly touched Blair's hair. "You hate those chases. I see it in your eyes. Who in hell was I kidding thinking I could hold you back? I wish it had been me. It should have been me. Instead I'm walking around with my arm in a sling and you're unconscious. It's not fair."

Jim sat there, doing his best to tune into Blair's vital signs on a level beyond what the monitors would tell him, but all he could discern was the reassuring beat of Blair's heart, the steadiness of his breathing, and the usual workings of his bodily systems. He took comfort in that, in the fact that Blair was capable of breathing unassisted. Remembering that Starsky had given up the chance to see Blair first to let him go in, Jim made the difficult move to leave Blair's side.

"I'm right here in the hospital, sweetheart. I'll be back later, whether they okay it or not." Jim leaned down and kissed Blair's still lips, then brushed his cheek gently against Blair's. For the barest instant, he thought he felt a slight pressure, as if Blair had turned his head toward him. He moved back and looked at Blair, who didn't appear to have moved. "Chief, can you hear me?" Jim asked, squeezing Blair's hand. There was no response, and Blair's eyes remained closed.

There was a tap at the door. Starsky walked in a ways, and Jim turned toward him.

"I thought he moved," he said, looking back down at Blair. Starsky paused, trying not to be horrified by the bruising that discolored Blair's forehead and the area around his eyes. He tried even harder not to bring up the accident. If he had words with Jim, it would not be within earshot of Blair--even if he was, to all appearances--unable to hear it.

"What happened?"

"I kissed him and put my cheek against his, and it felt like he pressed against my face, just slightly."

"Maybe the way you feel movement, he did, but it's not visible," Starsky suggested.

"Maybe."

"Look, Jim, why don't you get some rest? I'll spend as much time with him as they'll let me, and whenever you want to take over, you can."

"Starsky, I...I'm sorry about this. I think you know I wouldn't hurt Blair for the world."

"This isn't the place to talk about this. I need to see my son," Starsky responded, moving past him to approach Blair's bed. He was doing his best not to explode, to grab Jim by the front of his hospital robe and demand why he'd risked Blair's life in a truck with no worthwhile safety gear. For Blair, he kept it under control.

"I'll head back upstairs," Jim said, leaving Starsky to his visit.

Starsky sat in the chair Jim had occupied and took Blair's hand in both of his.

"Hey, there, kiddo, it's Dad." Starsky swallowed, pushing his emotions back. The severity of the blow to Blair's head was so painfully evident in the bruising. Blair didn't deserve to hurt as much as he had in his relatively short life. For someone so gentle, he didn't deserve to be the victim of so much violence. "Jim thought he felt you move. I know you're in there, Blair. The doctor said your CT scan looked good, you just have a big bump on your head that probably hurts like hell." Starsky reached up and caressed Blair's cheek. "Don't worry about anything, son. Just rest. Jim's fine, and Hutch and I are gonna be here as long as you need us. We'll keep an eye on Jim for you until you're up and around to do it yourself."

He sat there a few minutes, just watching Blair's even breathing, offering up a prayer of thanks that his son had escaped any major internal injuries, and that all the horrible things that *could* happen, hadn't. He grudgingly admitted that Jim's efforts to put himself in front of Blair accounted for much of that.

Blair had been so ill when he'd shown up at their house with pneumonia, and when the fever raged and the cough wracked Blair's body, Starsky had feared losing him. But at least he could do something. He could sponge away some of the fever or hold Blair when he coughed so hard and it hurt... There was nothing he could do for him now. It was in the hands of God and Blair himself what happened next.

********

Jim was like a cat on a hot tin roof. He would stay in his bed for a few minutes, and then be up again, headache or not, pacing around his hospital room like a caged panther. Blair was unconscious, there was a murderer loose in a black Camaro, and a deranged serial killer was finding inventive ways to execute people for no apparent reason. And he was supposed to lie on his ass in a hospital.

"You might as well sit down and relax, Jimmy. You just saw Blair an hour ago, and you're stuck here for tonight," Bill reasoned, putting down the newspaper he was reading. Jim had refused any overtures of conversation, so his father had resorted to catching up on the day's news. He didn't want to leave Jim alone, but it was apparent that Jim wasn't about to put himself out to chat, either.

Finally, Simon, who had left the hospital shortly after hearing the diagnoses on the two men, came through the door. Bill hoped he'd have some news that would at least settle Jim in one spot for a few minutes.

"Well, we didn't apprehend the hit-and-run perp, but we have the car description out all over the Pacific Northwest. We have a partial license number, which I ran through the computer. That gave us fifteen possibles in the region. Rafe and Megan are checking those out."

"How could everyone miss him? What did the back-up come in? Scooters?"

"By the time you and Blair crashed, the suspect had to be doing nearly eighty in thirty-five speed limit zones. A lot of the cars were cautious because of the risk to other motorists."

"That jerk with the bass speakers pulled out in front of *me*, Simon. That was *not* my fault."

"Hey, take it easy, Jim. No one said it was. Well, no one at the department. The driver of that vehicle is going to be charged."

"With what?"

"The DA wants to wait until Blair regains consciousness. What we charge him with may be more or less serious depending on that outcome."

"What difference does it make? He pulled the same bird-brained, illegal move no matter how the injuries turn out--and those speakers were booming so loud I could feel it in my gut when we were a mile away from the intersection."

"All that's in the witness reports, Jim, but we'll need your formal statement about the chase and the crash tomorrow. The truck's totaled. I don't imagine that's any surprise."

"If it weren't, I'd take an axe to it myself."

"I'm buying you a new truck and covering the insurance, and I don't want to hear any more about it," Bill said firmly.

"Dad, I'm not sixteen years old anymore. I'll do what I can with the insurance money. I have some savings I can use for a better vehicle."

"Oh, Jimmy, for God's sake, what has your age got to do with anything? I'm not going to start running your life because I liquidate a couple stocks and buy you a truck."

"Was the woman hit by the Camaro the DOA that was brought in here earlier?" Jim asked Simon.

"Yes. Marianne Phillips, 26 years old. Her husband was at the scene. They'd had lunch in the restaurant across from the Herald. Marianne was assistant editor for the Lifestyles section. Very bright young woman. She was crossing the street to return to work when she was hit. Mr. Phillips is understandably devastated, but he wanted me to thank you for trying to catch the driver, and to tell you he hoped you and Blair were all right."

"That stinks. Any kids?"

"She was four months pregnant. Unfortunately, she wasn't far enough along for multiple homicide charges. The perp was speeding, and swerved around the side of another car that was stopped, waiting to turn at the cross street. He's got no excuses."

"In one joyride, he destroys the lives of several innocent people. That son of a bitch needs to go down for a long time."

"You're off active duty, Jim, so don't get any ideas. You need to take it easy for a while--"

"Oh, come on, Simon! That guy caused all this and you expect me to sit on my ass on the sidelines?"

"That's exactly what I expect. The doctor said you were off active duty for at least a week. You have a concussion, Jim."

"I have a bump on the head. Go downstairs and look at Blair! Now *he's* got a head injury!"

"You need to calm down, son," Bill said, standing up and approaching Jim.

"I need to go see Blair." Jim headed for the door, and by now, Bill had given up on trying to contain him.

"Any change with Blair?" Simon asked Bill.

"Jim thinks he moved when he was with him, but I'm not sure. Besides, what Jim could feel might be a muscle spasm or a reflex action rather than a conscious movement."

"True. I hope he's right, though. Should he be up walking around like that?" Simon said, gesturing toward the door where Jim had just exited.

"No, but he won't rest, and the hospital isn't adequately staffed to keep a team of nurses here to make sure he does. Besides, he gets less upset if I don't try to argue with him. I guess it's better that he stays calm."

"It would have been ideal if they'd put Blair in the same room, but I guess they can't do that."

"Not with all the monitors Blair's hooked up to. He has to be in ICU, and they don't have spare room down there--plus, they wouldn't use it for someone as healthy as Jim even if they did. I already checked."

"No pull with the hospital administration, huh?" Simon teased.

"Actually, I just resigned from the Board of Directors about six months ago. But some rules are just rules. Don't think I didn't mention that."

"I'm confident you did," Simon responded.

"Look, Simon, about this situation with Jim's insurance allowance. I am seriously upset about that, and I haven't ruled out the idea of legal action."

"You're forgetting one key issue here--Jim's not a child anymore, so you'll need his cooperation to sue the department on his behalf."

"If Blair is seriously brain-damaged from this and requires some kind of long-term care, how long do you think it would take Jim to make that decision? He might be able to drive used trucks on principle, but you can't pay long-term care facilities with principles. They want cash. And if the department deprived him a necessary benefit like auto insurance for a vehicle he uses on the job, I frankly think there's some liability there."

"If Blair requires long-term care that is not covered by his insurance, we'll be discussing the situation within the department, and with Jim and Starsky, and Blair himself, of course, if he's able to participate in the process. We have no plans to leave him without care."

"He wouldn't be without care anyway, as long as I'm alive or there's anything left in my estate, but that's not the point. The point is who *should* pick up the tab here. More so than that, the point, to me, is that my son was pressured into a cost-cutting measure that could have killed them both. The money is pretty irrelevant to me. Blair would always be cared for because he's part of my family now."

"You'd have to get in line behind his father."

"His father doesn't have my resources, which is why I would prefer to foot excessive bills rather than sap his father's retirement income." Bill paused. "Did you agree with the decision to terminate Jim's insurance?"

"I thought he was being pretty reckless with his vehicles. We don't ordinarily have two expensive trucks totaled in as many years."

"You don't give Jim ordinary cases, though, do you? I believe his last truck was totaled when he stopped a fleeing murderer by using a crossbow while attempting to protect Peruvian Indians running through the streets of Cascade? How do you judge whether or not something like that is reckless? It's not even believable. I don't see how you can judge Jim's insurability by the same standards you use department-wide. That's absurd. Then start channeling some of the lunatic cases to your other detectives."

"I don't try to channel all the 'lunatic cases' to Jim."

"Oh, come on. You're telling me you divide the difficult ones up equally? You know that's not true."

"Jim has a different background than most of my detectives, so he's better suited to handling some of the more...challenging cases. I am not going to stand here and justify my case assignments to my detective's father. If Jim has a problem with his caseload, or the nature of the cases he's getting, that's up to him to decide."

"I'm merely making a point, Simon. You know you assign Jim all the worst cases that come across your desk, and then you penalize him by denying him insurance on his vehicle, so he winds up driving a piece of junk that nearly gets them both killed."

"Actually, the cab of the truck withstood the collision much better than a lot of newer vehicles I've seen at crash sites. Neither Jim nor Blair suffered any serious injuries to their lower extremities because the cab didn't buckle all that much on impact."

"I always used to tell my people not to try to take credit for a disaster," Bill said, rising and slipping into his coat. "This was a disaster brought on by an unjust and irresponsible budget decision. It's absurd to attempt to put a positive spin on it because the cab of the truck didn't happen to buckle and break their legs." Bill strode out the door of the room with Simon right behind him.

"You know, all I'm seeing here are a couple of frustrated, angry fathers looking for someone to blame."

"I'm not frustrated," Bill said calmly, and the older man pinned Simon with the same icy gaze he'd been using across board room tables for decades, "and I'm not displacing my hostility or looking for someone to blame. There are multiple points of blame in this situation. Whoever made that budget decision is one of them. It's that simple. I intend to discuss the matter with legal counsel, and with Jim, when he's feeling a bit better and Blair is out of danger."

"You think lawyers and lawsuits and money are some kind of magic answer, is that it? If there's a problem, just throw some money at it."

"Some people have a contempt for affluence, and it's not an attractive attitude. I'm not going to start making apologies for the assets I've worked all my life to build. And yes, there are a good many problems you can 'throw money at' as you say, and they do have a tendency to be solved that way. What concerns me is that my son could have been killed, and my son's partner may die or be brain damaged because you and your department saved a few hundred dollars on auto insurance. So do not presume to talk to me about valuing money over people. Cutting your budget meant more to you and your superiors than my son's life. That's what makes me angry, Simon. And it would feel like justice if saving a meager amount of money like that ended up costing the city a few million, to make up for Jim's and Blair's pain and suffering." With that, Bill turned on his heel and continued his brisk walk down the hall to the elevator.

Though still bristling from the encounter, Simon had some uneasy feelings about his own enjoyment of delivering the news to Jim that he was no longer going to receive insurance coverage on his vehicles from the department. He'd felt like he was pulling reckless Jim Ellison in line. Now he wondered how truly reckless Jim was and how really unlucky he may have been the last few years when it came to his vehicles. And whether or not the few hundred dollars the city saved was really worth it.

********

When Jim arrived on the ICU floor, he received a few strange looks from the nurses who realized that the man in the gown, robe, and slipper socks was obviously an escapee from another floor. Starsky and Hutch were in the waiting area not far from Blair's room when Jim arrived upstairs.

"Any change?" Jim asked, approaching them.

"You've only been gone a couple hours, Jim," Starsky said. "I thought you were gonna get some rest."

"I need to see Blair."

"He hasn't rallied. I've been back in twice."

"Jim, you've got a concussion. You should be taking it easy if you want to heal up," Hutch said. "Trust me, I've been down that road. If you just take it easy at the outset, you'll get better a lot sooner."

"I have a tap on the head compared to Blair. You have to believe me, if I could trade places with him, I would." Jim sat on a couch across from the one Starsky and Hutch occupied.

"Look, I'm not thrilled that you took Blair on high-speed chases in an old truck with no shoulder restraints and no airbags. I didn't know you were driving that on duty. I guess I just didn't realize it. I also know how you feel about Blair, and how he feels about you, so I know that nobody here needs to make you feel guilty for his injuries--you're doing that nicely on your own." Starsky leaned forward, elbows on knees. "What I want to know is, God willing that Blair recovers wholly from this and you both hit the road again, what you're going to be driving and what steps you're going to take to protect him."

"We didn't obsess over accident statistics at your age, either, Jim," Hutch spoke up. "We took all kinds of chances with ourselves and with each other in all kinds of situations, in and out of the car. Now that you've had a close call, we just want you to know that we're here to help if the insurance is an issue, or the cost of the vehicle--" Hutch held up a forestalling hand as Jim was about to protest. "We love Blair, and we don't want him hurt. We care what happens to both of you, and we're family now. If saving money is an issue with driving an old, unsafe truck, then we'll do whatever we can to help you with the costs."

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, because I do. My dad tried the same thing a few minutes ago. I did what I thought was a smart, sensible move financially when the department cut off my auto insurance--get a truck that wouldn't cost me much out of pocket if it got smashed up. I didn't really think about what would happen if Blair and I hit something that was as big or bigger. In a sense, I'm not so sure it was such a bad truck, since we're both at least alive. I have no idea why I'm not broken up into a couple dozen spare parts right now, but the truck must have withstood the impact pretty well."

"You have a lot of strength in your arms, so when you braced yourself against the wheel, even though it broke your arm, it probably also held you back from hitting the dashboard with the kind of force Blair did," Starsky said.

"I did all I could to hold him back. I was practically lying across him. That much I remember. I remember grabbing the wheel with my left hand and pushing back while I pushed back against Blair with my right arm and as much of my right side as I could get on him."

"You broke the impact, there's no question about that," Hutch said.

"Getting back to your offer about the money, I appreciate it, but I'll just buy a better truck and pay the big bucks for it. It's not that I can't make ends meet and do that. I just thought I was doing something sensible this way. It was a dumb-ass idea, and Blair's paying for it, and you're never going to know how awful that makes me feel."

"I think we've got a pretty good idea," Hutch said. "Just keep the offer in mind, and don't hesitate to ask us if you need help."

"Thanks." Jim rose a little awkwardly. "I'm going to look in on Blair."

Jim made his way into Blair's room, and approached the bed. Despite the horrible bruising, Jim was still captivated by watching Blair sleep. He leaned down and kissed Blair as close to his lips as the breathing tube allowed. He chided himself for having the foolish fantasy that he would do that, and Blair would miraculously open his eyes like Sleeping Beauty.

"It's me again, sweetheart." Jim ignored the pounding in his head and the protest of his bruised body as he continued to lean over Blair, keeping their faces just inches apart. "I tease you about the way you're talking all the time, but the silence now is deafening, Chief. I need to hear your voice. I need you. I'm so sorry, Blair. I'd die before I hurt you, and I let this happen." Jim kissed Blair's bruised forehead with infinite gentleness, and hated feeling the heat of injured flesh beneath his lips. He'd have given anything at that moment to take that pain away. "Blair, I know you're in there. You told me when my eyesight was all fried from the Golden that I had to consciously try to re-make the connections. That's what you have to do now, sweetheart. I know you can."

"So this is where you are," a woman's voice startled Jim from the door. Dr. Sinclair stood there, arms crossed over her chest, smiling slightly. "I thought I told you to get some rest and you could visit your partner later."

"It's later," Jim stated flatly.

"You've been here twice already, and you haven't spent more than a few minutes in bed. The nurses may not be able to stop you, but they can report on you."

"If he'd just open his eyes..."

"Give him some time. He got a pretty nasty knock on the head." The doctor put on a small pair of reading glasses that had been hung around her neck by a fine gold chain. She opened Blair's chart. "He's on some heavy medication for both swelling and to prevent seizures, which actually may keep him under a bit longer, too. According to his chart, he's showing some slight response to painful stimuli as of an hour ago."

"How do they test that?" Jim asked, wondering just how much pain would have to be inflicted to draw a response out of his dormant partner.

"I can assure you, we don't torture our patients," she said, smiling. "It's nothing more deadly than a needle poke."

"Why is he on a ventilator if he could breathe on his own?"

"To be sure he gets enough oxygen to his brain and protect his airway. When he regains consciousness, we'll take the tube out. I'll mention to Dr. Farraday to stop by your room before he leaves tonight, just to give you the official update."

"He's almost got his Ph.D.," Jim said, looking at Blair. "He's...he's probably the smartest person I ever met."

"I wish I could give you some kind of guarantees from his chart, but I can't. What I can tell you is that it could be much worse. His CT scan was normal, and it appears that his MRI didn't indicate any excessive or dangerous bleeding or fluid accumulation, or any spinal fractures from the violent motion to his neck and back from the impact. He wasn't responding to any external stimuli when he was brought in, but in the last hour or so, he's responded to a painful stimulus. But when he does come to, he's going to need a recovery period, and he's going to need someone to take care of him for a while at home, and I have a feeling that'll be you. So if you want to do him a favor, go to bed for a few hours and get some sleep and follow your doctor's orders. I'm sure his father will let you know if there's a change."

"Yeah, he will. But you still don't know if he'll be okay."

"No, I don't."

Jim leaned down and kissed Blair's forehead again. "I'll be back later, Chief," he said close to Blair's ear. "I love you."

The doctor walked with Jim toward the elevator and pressed the button.

"I understand you were chasing the driver who hit the young woman we treated here earlier."

"That's right. I was hoping the back-up we called would pick him up, but apparently they didn't. I was too busy watching the road to get his license number, and I couldn't get close enough for Blair to see it. He didn't have his glasses on, and he wouldn't have been able to see the plate number clearly without them. But we'll get him."

"Are you involved in a lot of chases like that?" she asked as they stepped into the elevator, heading up for Jim's room. It was getting later, and the elevator was empty of visitors at the moment.

"Quite a few. I work in Major Crime, so the perps we're chasing are usually high-risk. I don't chase people for overdue parking tickets, let's put it that way."

"That's a difficult decision to make. Which risk is greater."

"Yeah, and apparently I made the wrong one this time."

"You were chasing a killer. I don't know as you made the wrong choice so much as you had an accident."

"Those speakers should be outlawed."

"We treated that young man earlier, also. Just a few minor cuts and bruises. He was very upset about the damage to his SUV," she said, disgust obvious in her voice. "I'm afraid I may have painted your partner's prognosis a bit more grimly for his benefit."

"I like the way you think, Doc."

"A sleepless night or two will do him good. I think your captain picked up where I left off."

********

Starsky took every opportunity to visit Blair over the course of the night, even when it meant sneaking into his room. On at least two occasions, he ran into Jim doing the same thing. Blair remained motionless, and Jim began to despair that the movement he'd felt so sure of on his first visit was merely wishful thinking or a muscle spasm on Blair's part.

Hutch spent the majority of the long night studying every detail of the two homicide cases they believed might be linked, looking for any connection between the victims, or any similarity in the M.O. that would give them something solid to hang their hats on. Jim was to be released from the hospital the following day, and would no doubt spend the balance of it at Blair's bedside. Hutch hoped to lure his partner away from the hospital for a few hours at that time to visit the friends and colleagues of Professor Tony Stewart in Seattle. Meanwhile, Hutch would make his own visit to Banks to pitch the idea of allowing them to keep the homicide case while Jim was officially off active duty. He also hoped they might pick up the hit-and-run case, as well. Both men had a long history of handling cases in which they were personally involved, turning the perps in to the authorities without vigilante justice. Dobey would vouch for that. At the same time, he wondered if he was up to the task, without Blair's input, of keeping both Jim and Starsky from exploding if they got their hands on the man ultimately responsible for Blair's injuries.

"You must be able to recite that thing by now," Starsky said, sitting on the couch.

"Just about." Hutch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Don't suppose you'd like to go to the loft and grab a couple hours' sleep?"

"You can go ahead if you want, babe. This is a long night for you to put in, too."

"I don't mind putting in a long night, Starsk. But we're both exhausted and Blair doesn't show any signs of waking up yet tonight. They've got him on some pretty heavy meds, aside from the blow to his head. He probably won't come to this quickly. You know he'd tell you to go home and get some sleep. Besides, you and Jim have to wait in line to sneak into his room as it is."

"The only reason he's napping in between visits is because I said I'd be here. I'm not leaving."

"Okay, then we stay." Hutch set the files aside, leaning back on the not-too-comfortable couch.

"What if he's brain damaged, Hutch?" Starsky asked quietly. "He's so...brilliant. And he's used to being so brilliant. What if he wakes up, and he's..."

"Not so brilliant anymore?" Hutch supplied, and Starsky nodded. "Well, he'll have an awfully hard adjustment to make. But Jim isn't going to love him any less if he's a little slower on the uptake or if he's semi-disabled. He'll still have his partner. He'll still have us. And anything we can't do for him, I'm sure Bill Ellison and his checkbook will be on hand to help with. He'll have the best anyone could have, Starsk--lots of love and the best care and therapy money can buy."

"It doesn't matter to me that way. I'd gladly take Blair home with us and take care of him. We're retired, we have the time. What I don't want to see is him stuck in some...*facility*. Even if it *is* the best money can buy."

"I think you're jumping the gun here, babe. Give him some time."

"But we have to think about this. Even if Jim stands by him, he won't be able to quit working and care for him day in and day out if he needs that kind of care."

"And you think Blair would be happy being taken away from Jim, even if he wasn't able to care for himself? That doesn't make him incapable of feeling or wanting or having his own wishes about where he lives." Hutch paused. "If Blair needs long-term, in-home care that family can do, we'll move up here, throw in with them financially, and buy a house that's big enough for all of us, and we'll take care of Blair while Jim works. Provided he agreed to that, which I think he would to make Blair happy. That way, Blair would be cared for by family and not hired healthcare workers."

"I don't believe you sometimes," Starsky said quietly, moving over to sit close to Hutch, resting his head on his partner's shoulder. It was late, and that wing of the hospital was nearly deserted. Besides, they'd long ago passed the point of worrying obsessively what other people thought of their relationship. And now that they were retired, they were even less concerned. Hutch moved enough to slide his arm behind Starsky, resting his hand on his lover's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You really do love him like your own, don't you?"

"He's our son, Starsk. It's not possible through biology, but biology doesn't have a lot to do with love. If he needs care, I'd rather he got it from family, too."

********

Hutch wasn't sure what woke him, but he responded to it, opening his eyes and blinking at the sunlight that was streaming in the window of the waiting area. Starsky was snoring on his shoulder, and Simon Banks was standing a few feet away.

"Morning, Simon," Hutch said, chuckling a little as he managed to dislodge the zombie on his shoulder, who merely snorted a time or two and resumed snoring as he was lowered onto the couch. Hutch hoisted Starsky's legs to join the rest of him, and left him there to his well-earned nap.

"Jim's asleep, so I didn't want to disturb him. I hated to bother you, but I wanted to know how Blair was doing." Simon waited while Hutch looked at his watch as they walked down the hall toward a coffee machine. It was six-thirty in the morning.

"Starsky was in there about three hours ago, and there was no change. The biggest development last night was that he showed a response to a pain stimulus, but that was several hours ago."

"That's a good sign, though, isn't it?"

"Sure. The nurses are pretty noncommittal, and the doctor hasn't exactly given us any guarantees, either. There are a lot of things that 'could be worse' according to them."

"We narrowed our list of possibles on the hit-and-run driver to four. Two are local, two are from other cities nearby. The DA is going to proceed with filing charges against the driver of the SUV. Thank God, I don't think we're going to be dealing with a homicide charge, so he's proceeding with reckless endangerment and as many other violations as we can come up with."

"You think the little puke'll really do any time?"

"Probably not. But he could lose his license. He's got a few other infractions on his record, and this is a big one. I wouldn't expect him to do jail time, but I'd be surprised if he didn't lose the license."

"Good. That ought to put a cramp or two in his lifestyle." Hutch dug into his pocket for change for the machine, but Simon motioned to him to stop.

"I'll buy the coffee," he said, smiling.

"Thanks."

"Your partner still holding the department responsible for this?" Simon asked as he handed a cup of coffee to Hutch and waited for his own to fill.

"We haven't talked much about that. I've been studying the case file on the Nichols murder, and another file from a case that could be related. A guy up in Seattle was killed rather exotically last year--he was drawn and quartered."

"Glad we're just having coffee for breakfast," Simon responded, and Hutch smiled.

"Wait'll you see the autopsy photos."

"Thanks. I can hardly wait."

"The point is, they were both archaic, historic forms of execution--drawing and quartering, and crucifixion. Both were carried out very neatly, ritualistically. In the Seattle killing, the victim was killed in one spot and displayed in another."

"So the killer..."

"Yeah, he did. Bagged everything up and transported it. The display is vital to him. It's like a work of art. That is a major link, and I would be surprised if the two cases weren't related."

"As soon as Nichols' buddies at the Herald catch wind of a related case--"

"Which is why we want to talk to the other victims' friends and colleagues in Seattle before stirring the pot with a bunch of reporters." Hutch paused. "We'd like to take this case, Simon. We've worked with your department before with good results, and this is right down our alley. Besides, if you don't deal with us, you know the Feds'll be all over it anyway, as soon as there's a hint that it's a serial killing."

"You don't have to sell me, Hutch. I'd be thrilled to have you guys take the case. What's bothering me is Ellison. He's supposed to be taking it easy, and I know he won't do that, especially if he has the kind of access to the case he'll have with you and Starsky working it."

"Well, you're going to love my next idea, then. We want to at least be involved in the hit-and-run investigation."

"No way. Jim'd rip that guy's head off for what happened to Blair, and the only one I'd figure would push him out of the way for the first shot at it would be Starsky."

"How about the victim's husband? He's probably a bit pissed off, too."

"Rafe and Megan can handle that one."

"I'm just asking that we be informed, and allowed to help out if there's something we can do." Hutch took a drink of his coffee. "There was a case a long time ago--over twenty-five years ago, now. It involved a serial killer, a nut who murdered women and wrapped them in television antenna wire."

"Hey, I think I remember hearing about that case. Didn't he fall off a radio tower or something?"

"Yeah, he did. Starsky and I were on that tower with him when he went down. Starsky was trying to save his life. He'd gone one on one with him on a rooftop--no fighting, just trying to talk him down, calm him down. Damn fool even walked out in front of the guy with no weapon drawn, right into the line of fire of a rifle aimed at him. He knew the suspect was sick, horribly mentally ill. So he didn't want to end up killing him. He felt sorry for him." Hutch looked Simon in the eyes. "That mentally ill man murdered a woman Starsky was in love with. They had talked marriage and kids, the whole bit. She broke it off with Starsky, and he never quite got over her for a long time. He definitely wasn't over her when she was killed. And yet he risked his life to give the man who killed her every chance to be brought in a live, and he saw him as a victim of the system. Now I'm not saying this asshole in the black car is a victim of anything but his own bad driving and disregard for human life, but what I am saying is that Starsky and I have worked cases that had personal meaning before, and we don't go out with guns blazing and mow down the perps, hell bent for revenge."

"You make it hard to say no."

"Then don't. You can still leave Megan and Rafe as the lead investigators. Just tell them to work with us. Let us help. I know they're good cops, but we've got a lot of years on them. Just let us do what we can. And we can serve as a buffer between Ellison and the case. You know he won't rest until he's involved. Wouldn't you rather there were four cops between him and that perp than just two he can probably hoodwink with his eyes closed and one arm in a sling?"

"Good point," Simon agreed, chuckling. "All right, but I'm giving you guys the same warning I'd give Jim--if there are any problems with this, I will pull you off the case."

"Understood."

"I've done a lot of thinking about this overnight, and maybe Bill and Starsky have a point."

"About the insurance allowance?" Hutch raised his eyebrows a bit. "Well, you do send Jim on the tough cases, and he wasn't driving either time those trucks were totaled, so it looks a bit unjust from where I sit, but usually decisions like that come from an accountant somewhere and not the captain."

"It was a directive from HR. But I didn't fight it very hard. Jim's always been a little wild behind the wheel, but he's never seriously hurt anyone, including himself or Blair."

"Well, maybe the threat of legal action will loosen HR's purse strings a bit."

"Not to mention what would happen if Blair sued us. Which he wouldn't, but if he did..."

"If Blair's not capable of making those decisions when he wakes up, the Department could be in trouble if the decision ends up with Starsky. I don't know yet what he'd do about that."

"I'll do what I can to change that decision. This was a justifiable chase as far as I'm concerned. IA will pick it apart, but Jim and Sheila Irwin finally came to a sort of truce, so I doubt she'll work at crucifying him." Simon cringed a bit at his own choice of words. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I get the picture," Hutch said, smiling as he finished his coffee.

********

Jim was released from the hospital with orders to take it easy, and a follow up appointment in one week to clear him for the head injury, and another in four weeks for an x-ray of his arm and a determination of whether or not to remove the cast or leave it for the full six weeks. Once he was in fresh clothes, which Hutch brought him from the loft, he was back on the ICU floor where Blair's room was, sharing pacing and waiting duties with Starsky.

Meanwhile, Hutch went about more mundane tasks, like arranging transportation. Simon provided an unmarked blue sedan for their use, and Hutch made the trip to the evidence lot where Jim's truck and the other driver's SUV were housed. The old Ford pick-up had withstood the collision quite well, and though there was no question it was totaled with its buckled hood, shattered windshield, and general twisted appearance, it was obvious the old vehicle was made of pretty good stuff to have protected the occupants of the cab even as well as it had.

The truck had left an ungodly dent in the SUV it hit broadside, and Hutch would have given good odds that even that overpriced land yacht would be totaled, since it was a good bet the frame was bent.

"Nasty looking things, aren't they?" Megan's voice surprised him from behind.

"Very. Looking at this, I know Blair's not in good shape, but he's lucky to be alive. So is Jim."

"How is he? Any change? I was planning on getting up to the hospital this morning, but when I called, they said only family could visit."

"I'm sure Jim or Starsky would slip you in for a few minutes. There hasn't been a lot of change. It's a waiting game. His CT scan was normal, and the MRI came back all right--no neck or spinal injuries. But he's still out like a light."

"Jim must be going mad."

"I don't think he slept more than a couple hours last night. Every time we turned around, he was sneaking back in to see Blair."

"He'll blame himself for this."

"I blame that jerk," Hutch said, tapping the SUV with his knuckle."

"He'll be in a bit of trouble. He ran a stop street, so it's way beyond not yielding for a police officer. Simon said you'd be working on the hit-and-run case with us."

"I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not. We just want to nail him. Oh, that poor woman's husband...I felt just awful talking to him. She was pregnant with their first baby, and they were so in love. You could just tell."

"You're going out to visit the owners of the four possibles?"

"Yes. There are two in Cascade, one in Pinecrest, and one in Seattle."

"Why don't you let us take the one in Seattle? We're heading over there to do some work on the homicide case anyway."

"You sure that's all right with Simon?" she asked, frowning a bit as she led the way into the building. "Oh, Simon asked me to get you your temporary ID's. I think they'll have them ready in HR by now."

"Great. I don't think Simon'll have a problem with it. Neither Starsky nor I are interested in turning this into a vigilante witch hunt. Police procedure will do nicely."

"That's good to hear. I don't know if Jim will agree."

"He's outnumbered. He has to," Hutch quipped, and Megan laughed.

********

Jim tossed down another pair of Tylenol and gulped a bit of water from a paper cup. Blair remained silent, lying deathly still in the bed. Jim's whole body ached from the impact of the accident, his neck and back feeling stiff and exhausted, protesting the miserable plastic chair. His arm throbbed dully, and he didn't bother to dial it back. It was as if he felt he deserved to sit there and ache because Blair was still unconscious.

"You look wiped out, Jim," Starsky said, walking into Blair's room. The older man didn't look any better than Jim did, except he didn't have a bandage on the side of his head. Starsky looked pale and haggard, and nothing could erase the pain that seemed permanently lodged in his eyes. "I'm not leaving, so you could go home and get a few hours' sleep in a real bed. I'll call you if he so much as farts audibly."

Jim had to laugh at that, even if the motion did hurt.

"I said something really awful to him. I didn't mean it. Not how it came out."

"The remark about the wedding when you said you'd been through all of it with Carolyn and it wasn't any more fun the second time around?" Starsky asked.

"How'd you... Nevermind. I know how you knew what I said, but how did you know that was what I was thinking about?"

"Because I thought of smacking you upside the head the next time I saw you, but seeing as the truck already did that, I won't. Judging by the little display in the airport waiting area yesterday, I'd say he forgave you."

"God, was that just yesterday?" Jim looked back at Blair, feeling the anguish wash over him anew. He could feel Blair's warm body against his, those eager, responsive lips kissing him, and he could see the joy in Blair's face at the public display they were putting on at Jim's urging.

"Look, Blair confides a lot of things to me, Jim. That's no big secret. It's something I really treasure. He misses his mother, so I think that makes us even closer. The things he would tell her, the hurts he would take to her, he takes to me instead. But one thing I know, though there are times it really pains me to admit it, you make him happy. He loves you. So whatever you did to make up with him for saying that, it worked and he was happy as a clam yesterday. Don't tear yourself up about that. He didn't act like a man who was carrying around any major hurts."

"Thanks. It just seemed like all the arrangements...I hated all that before. All the phony glitzy stuff of weddings and receptions. What Blair and I have...it's so...*real* that I don't feel as if I want to get up in front of everyone we know and say things to Blair that are...so...intimate."

"Once Hutch and I got over feeling sorry for ourselves that we couldn't have a wedding and a reception and all that, we asked ourselves if we really wanted one. We didn't really regret it too much after that. We made our vows, and we've kept them for over twenty years. And there was nobody there but us."

"I'm gonna find the asshole we were chasing."

"Hutch talked Simon into letting us work that case with Rafe and Megan, and into taking the homicide case. So if you're a good little boy and go home and get some sleep, we'll let you ride along later."

"I can't leave him. I want to be here when he comes to."

"Okay." Starsky sighed. "I'll go with Hutch to Seattle. We're going to talk to the friends and colleagues of the other murder victim, see if we can make any connections between him and Nichols. You know my cell phone number--do you remember it?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"Call me if there's any change at all. And we'll check in with you."

"Okay."

"There's a halfway decent couch down the hall."

"I'll try it out later."

"Right."

"I think I'll go get a cup of coffee, while you visit a few minutes." Jim got up with a little grunt and made his way slowly out of the room.

"Okay, kiddo, you've got to cut the Sleeping Beauty routine," Starsky said gently. "Jim's a walking zombie, and he's getting over a concussion. Come on, Blair, open your eyes and give him a little thrill so he can go home and get some sleep." Starsky took Blair's hand in his and squeezed. "We all need to see you open your eyes, son. Come on. I know you're in there."

Blair continued to lie there, motionless, eyes closed, showing no signs of having heard anything Starsky said.

"Blair, I have to leave for a little while. Hutch and I are gonna work the case, and Jim's going to stay with you. I'll be calling him regularly to check up on you, and I'll be back to see you tonight."

Blair opened his eyes to slits, and regarded Starsky with a pained, confused expression.

"Blair? You've got a breathing tube in, that's why it's hard to talk. Come on, son, open your eyes just a little more. Do you know who I am? If you know who I am, squeeze my hand once." Blair's eyes drifted shut again, and there was no movement of his hand.

"What happened?" Jim hurried back into the room, and Starsky swore softly.

"I thought he was coming around. He opened his eyes just a little. I asked him to squeeze my hand if he knew who I was. He closed his eyes again and his hand never moved. Sit with him. I'll go get the nurse." Starsky fled the room, and Jim took over the seat near Blair's bed, taking the limp hand in his again.

"Blair, baby, come on. Open your beautiful eyes for me. Come on, sweetheart. Just let me see you open those eyes. I know it hurts, Chief, but I really need you back with me." Jim kissed the hand he was holding and waited. His heart pounded with joy as the hand in his squeezed very weakly. "You hear me, don't you, Chief?" Another weak squeeze came in response.

Starsky returned with the nurse, who asked Jim to step out of the way while she checked Blair's reflexes.

"Mr. Sandburg? Are you trying to wake up?" she asked, and Jim looked at Starsky and rolled his eyes upward.

"He was squeezing my hand."

"Mr. Sandburg, can you squeeze my hand to let me know if you can hear me?" She waited, and apparently was not getting a response.

"Is Dr. Farraday here? Shouldn't you call him?" Starsky asked. "He opened his eyes."

"The doctor will be here in a couple of hours, and I'll make sure he checks on Blair as soon as he arrives. I'm not seeing any signs that he's regaining consciousness, and he's not responding now."

"He was responding a minute ago." Jim moved back close to Blair's bed and took his hand. "Come on Chief, give me a squeeze. Let me know you can hear me." Jim felt the slight squeeze again. "He did it again."

"His hand didn't move," the nurse insisted. "Maybe you just thought he--"

"We didn't both hallucinate," Starsky said. "I know he opened his eyes, and if Jim says he feels a squeeze, he does."

"Well, I hope you're both right. I'll let the doctor know as soon as he arrives." With that, she left.

"I know he squeezed my hand." Jim sat down and took Blair's hand again. "You said he opened his eyes?"

"Just a little, but he didn't squeeze my hand. Is it possible you're feeling squeezes I can't feel?"

"Sure, I guess that's possible."

"What's going on?" Hutch's voice surprised them from the door. Megan was with him.

"He opened his eyes a little, and he squeezed Jim's hand," Starsky said, smiling. "The nurse didn't think there was any change, but I saw his eyes open, and Jim knows what he felt."

"That's wonderful!" Megan said, smiling. "When I saw Hutch downtown, I asked if it would be all right if I stopped by to see Sandy. I know it's supposed to just be family, but he said you'd sneak me in."

"Sure. Come in," Jim said, motioning to her.

"He must have really hit his head hard, poor thing. That has to hurt," she said quietly.

"He's on a lot of medication. I hope that helps the pain," Jim said, still holding Blair's hand. He finally released it and moved away from the bed.

"Shouldn't you be home getting a bit of rest?" Megan asked.

"I can rest on the couch in the waiting area. I know he's responding to me, and I don't care what the nurses or the monitors say. I'm not leaving."

"It's a lost cause, Megan. He's not going anywhere until Blair sends him home," Starsky said, smiling.

Megan took Blair's hand and leaned forward to plant a light kiss on his forehead.

"It's just me, Megan," she said with a smile in her voice. "We miss you down at the station, Sandy. You get lots of rest and feel better soon. Jim needs you, you know, and your father's putting down roots in the waiting room," she concluded, and that drew a little chuckle out of the others. "I won't tire you out. You have lots of other visitors." She patted his hand as she released it. "I would like to stop up and see him again if that's all right?"

"We'll tell them at the nurses' station to put you on the visitor list. If we ever get Jim out of here for a little rest, and we do some work on the cases, it would be good to have a friend to spend some time with him," Hutch said.

"I would be happy to do that. Just let me know."

"Thanks for coming, Megan," Jim said.

"I'm sure you'll be seeing more of the gang from the Department, as soon as they get a chance to get up here. Everyone's worried sick about Sandy."

"Thanks," Jim said, accepting a careful hug from Megan as she did her best not to put too much pressure on his bruised body.

After Megan left, all three men were startled by a sound from the bed. Blair's eyes were still closed, but his expression was agitated. He was trying to say something, but the breathing tube made it come out unintelligible.

"Chief, it's okay. It's a breathing tube. Just relax, baby. Can you open your eyes for me?" Jim stroked Blair's hair gently, taking his hand again. Starsky hovered over his other side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Blair, it's Dad. You're okay, kiddo. Don't be afraid of that stupid tube. They'll take it out as soon as you wake up."

Blair's eyes opened, and he looked from Starsky to Jim, a panicked look on his face.

"You're safe, sweetheart. Everything's okay," Jim soothed, stroking Blair's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"I'll get the nurse," Hutch said, hurrying out of the room, finally tearing himself away from the surprise of Blair waking up to make himself useful. When he reached the nurses' station, he was overjoyed to see Dr. Farraday there, reading a patient chart. "Blair's waking up, Doctor," he said, and the doctor laid down the chart and followed him. "I'm not sure if he knows where he is or what's going on, but he seems pretty distressed."

"The breathing tube's probably bothering him. We'll clear everybody out and have a look at him."

When they returned to the room, Blair seemed to have calmed down a bit, but he was still watching Jim with a less than happy expression.

"Good afternoon, Blair," the doctor said, his voice cheerful. "We're going to have a look at you, and see if we can get this annoying tube out of your throat, and get you on a little nasal oxygen, which ought to be more comfortable." He pressed the buzzer for the nurses' station and asked for assistance. "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave. I'm hoping we can get Blair's breathing tube out, and I need to examine him."

"We'll be right outside, Chief," Jim said, kissing Blair's hand before reluctantly releasing it, not at all happy to be leaving him when he seemed to be so focused on Jim's presence.

"I wish he didn't have that damned tube in his mouth," Jim said as they gathered in the hall. "I'd feel a lot better if he could have said something. Anything. Just to let us know he knows what's going on."

"At least he's awake," Hutch said, smiling. "That's a lot farther ahead than we were an hour ago."

"He looked terrified when he came to." Starsky ran a hand back through his hair.

"I doubt he remembers the accident." Jim started pacing. "I wonder if he even remembers the chase?"

"Hard to say," Hutch responded, shrugging. "As hard a blow as he took, I kind of doubt he'll remember the accident clearly, too, but he might remember starting the chase. We're assuming he's really got everything straight in his head yet. He's liable to be a little foggy and confused at first."

After an agonizing half hour of watching medical personnel coming and going in and out of Blair's room, the doctor finally emerged.

"He's breathing on his own. We removed the tube but we still have him on oxygen--only this time it's a little nose tube, so he's a lot more comfortable. We're going to have to limit the amount of visiting. I don't want him overtired."

"Is he coherent, Doctor?" Jim asked.

"Somewhat. He doesn't remember how he got here, or why he's here. He asked if you were all right," he said, gesturing at Jim. "He didn't really put the whole sentence together very well, but he mentioned your arm. The sling was worrying him. And then he asked for his mother. Has she been notified?"

"Oh, God," Starsky said, sighing. "His mother died about three years ago."

"I see," the doctor said, making a note on the chart. "Let's not upset him right now. If he gets insistent about his mother, just tell him you can't reach her, and try to distract him."

"She used to travel a lot. He'll accept that without being too upset," Jim said.

"Good. This isn't necessarily a dire sign. He's had a major trauma to his brain, and even if he comes through this without any lasting damage, it's not unusual for him to be confused at first. Imagine taking a computer hard drive and dropping it on the floor. It might ultimately work, but it wouldn't be unusual for some of the processes to be a little off. Blair's taken a bad jolt, but he's not babbling--he's very definite in what he wants to say, even if he isn't putting it together very smoothly yet."

"Could that be a sign of damage to his speech?" Starsky asked.

"It could be, but I think it's a sign that he's tired, confused, and on a lot of medication. We'll adjust his meds as appropriate, and we'll monitor him closely. I'm going to have a neurologist take a look at him and evaluate his speech and response patterns. I wouldn't assume anything as dire as permanent brain damage at this stage. Only Sleeping Beauty is likely to wake up suddenly with all her faculties in place. People with head trauma usually need a little time to get their act together."

"Can we see him?"

"One at a time, for a few minutes, then I want him to rest."

"He'll rest better if one of us is there," Jim protested.

"I'm not going to carve exact visiting hours in stone, but if you spend more than a few minutes at a time with him, just sit there quietly and let him sleep if he wants. He needs a lot of rest, and I don't want him overstimulated and trying to entertain his company."

"We get the picture, Doc," Starsky said. "If it looks like we're keeping him up, we'll get out. I just want to know one of us can stay with him if he wants us to."

"I want him calm and resting. Whatever it takes to achieve that is fine with me. Encourage him to rest, and keep him calm. We'll be evaluating his responses, and it's good for him to try to make the connections, but a little at a time."

After the doctor left, Starsky motioned at the room.

"You go ahead. We'll wait."

"You could come in with me," Jim offered. Starsky just shook his head, trying to put himself in Jim's place if Hutch were in the hospital bed. He would want those first moments alone with his lover.

Jim went back into the room and approached the bed. Blair's eyes opened, and he frowned.

"Arm," he said, squinting at Jim's injured arm.

"It's no big deal, Chief. Just a busted flipper. I'll be fine in a few weeks." Jim moved closer, watching for any sign of distress in Blair, but he only saw a sort of longing in the troubled blue eyes watching him. He leaned down and very lightly brushed his lips over Blair's. Blair tried to reciprocate, his lips meeting Jim's and clinging briefly. "I love you," he said, kissing Blair's cheek.

"Love," Blair muttered, smiling. "Feels...foggy."

"Foggy? Confused?"

"Hurts," Blair added.

"I know, baby. You got a nasty bang on the head, but you're doing fine. The fog'll clear after you get some rest. You need to relax, sweetheart."

"You...rest...head?" Blair looked troubled at the garbled message.

"I got a bump on the head, too, but they already let me out of the hospital, so I'm fine."

"Rest."

"You rest, Chief. That's the idea."

"You rest," Blair repeated, and it took Jim a moment to pick up on the subtle emphasis that meant he should rest. "Home," Blair added.

"You want me to go home and rest?"

"Rest," Blair said firmly.

"Okay. You're the boss, sweetheart." Jim leaned down for another kiss.

"Mom."

"Don't worry, Chief, we'll get word to her." That made Blair smile, and his eyes drifted shut. Then they opened again.

"Dad...here?"

"He's right outside. I'll send him in." Jim kissed Blair's hand and tore himself away, going out to the hall to summon Starsky. "He asked for you. He's still asking about Naomi. I told him we'd try to get word to her."

"I hope he remembers on his own. I'd hate like hell for him to have to go through that again."

"I hope the doctor's right--that things get less fuzzy for him after a while. It bothers me he's not speaking in complete sentences."

"He might just be too tired to string all the words together. I'll go see him."

Starsky entered the room, and smiled when he saw Blair's eyes open and follow him as he moved closer to the bed.

"Hey, kiddo, welcome back," he said, pulling up the chair and taking Blair's hand.

"Dad...called you?"

"I was here, Blair. Remember? We were working a case together, with you and Jim." Starsky waited to see if that registered. Blair looked confused. "It doesn't matter, son. I'm here, that's what counts."

"The guy...the cross?"

"That's the one," Starsky said proudly, grinning like an idiot, as if the simple proof of Blair's memory was the most amazing thing in the world.

"Ugly."

"Yeah, it's an ugly one."

"Why...?"

"Why are you in the hospital?" Starsky guessed. Blair gave an affirmative expression, though he avoided nodding his head. "You and Jim were in an accident yesterday. A guy pulled out in front of Jim--ran a stop street. He couldn't stop or miss him."

"Jim...hurt?"

"You saw his arm in the sling. He's got a broken arm, a bump on the head, and a lot of bruises. But he's gonna be fine."

"Rest."

"I'll make sure he does." That made Blair smile.

"You, rest."

"Hutch and I are gonna do a little casework, but we'll get around to catching a nap sooner or later. You just worry about getting better. Don't worry about us. I'll be back to see you later," Starsky said, getting up and kissing Blair's forehead. "You rest and get lots of good sleep, huh?"

"Tired."

"I bet you are," Starsky said, smiling. "Go to sleep. If you're a good boy and the doctor okays it, I'll bring you a treat later." Starsky smiled, and Blair's little grin actually widened to a toothy smile at Starsky clicking into full "Dad" mode.

"Throat hurts," Blair said. Then he smiled again. "Slurpee."

"Okay, you got it," Starsky said, laughing. "I love you, you know that, right?" Starsky said, stroking Blair's hair gently.

"Love you," Blair managed, his eyes drooping little.

"Shh. Sleep. Come on. Close 'em all the way," Starsky teased, and finally, Blair's eyes did drift shut, and the little grin on his face faded as he drifted off to sleep.

********

After much protesting, Jim agreed to be dropped off at the loft to catch a few hours' sleep while Starsky and Hutch went to visit the colleagues of the Cascade murder victim at the Herald. To avoid raising the press's suspicion of a serial killer investigation, the story was that due to the accident, Jim would be unable to immediately assume responsibility for the case, and in the interim, the visiting detectives were helping out as a favor to the Cascade PD, and offering the benefit of their twenty-plus years in Homicide.

Ethan Nichols' immediate superior, and good friend, the editor of the Metro section, had gathered a large group in a conference room to meet with the detectives. At Starsky and Hutch's request, they had also gathered people who worked directly with Marianne Phillips, the victim of the hit-and-run. Megan and Rafe accompanied Starsky and Hutch, as they were the primary team on the Phillips case.

"Before we get started, I just want to express, on behalf of the Cascade PD, our sympathies to all of you," Hutch began. "It's a difficult, tragic situation to lose a co-worker, and in many cases, a friend, but we realize you've suffered two difficult losses in as many days, so we want you to be aware that we don't take that lightly, and that any questions we ask that may seem insensitive are only intended to get to the bottom of both of these cases as quickly as possible. We're also available to meet with any of you individually. We've provided our business cards to everyone here, so please don't hesitate to call one of us if you think of anything we don't cover today, no matter how minor or irrelevant it might seem. If it nags at you enough to think you should report it, you probably should."

"We'd like to start with the Phillips case," Megan said. "At this stage, it is being treated as a random hit-and-run case, but in any homicide, it's essential to look at all the possible angles. We don't have the driver in custody at this time, but we are pursuing leads on all owners of similar cars in the region."

"What we'd like to know from all of you is if Marianne was upset about anything, if she'd received any threats, if there was anything any of you knew of that we should investigate as part of the homicide case," Rafe explained.

"Everybody liked Marianne," one woman spoke up. "I'm Clarice Marshall. We worked on the Lifestyles section together. She was excited about the baby..." She swallowed, then continued, her eyes brimming. "She was really looking forward to having lunch with her husband right before it happened, because they were so busy, and it was unusual for him to have time to do that. She never mentioned anything bothering her, and I honestly don't believe she had enemies."

"I have to second that. Marianne was a pretty upbeat person, and I don't recall her saying anything about anyone bothering her or threatening her or anything like that," a young man said, then added, "I'm Mike Kerman. I'm a photographer. I worked with her on a few stories recently."

"Did anyone here see what happened? I know we interviewed a lot of people yesterday, but this building has windows overlooking the street at that point, so we may have missed talking to people who saw what was happening," Megan said.

"I didn't see it happen, but I heard the squealing tires," Clarice said. "By the time I went to look, the crowd had gathered around Marianne and the car was long gone."

After several more of Marianne Phillips' co-workers confirmed they'd heard or seen nothing out of the ordinary either from the victim herself or at the time of the hit-and-run, a number of them were dismissed prior to discussion of the Nichols case, as many of them were not at all acquainted with him. Ethan Nichols was employed by the paper, but he did a great deal of field work, some of his writing from home, and didn't socialize all that much when he was at the newspaper office.

"The details the PD's providing the press are pretty sketchy. I mean, we know he was found on a cross in St. Anthony's. We got a few details from the woman who found the body, but she was pretty unhinged by the whole thing. What can you tell us?" Fred Strickland, Nichols' friend and editor, asked.

"The details are by necessity sketchy, and I'm sure you know that, Mr. Strickland," Starsky said. "In a killing of this nature, we have to keep a number of details close to the vest so we can sort out who really knows something about the case and who's yanking our chain. This type of case will bring out every psycho and Jesus freak in the Pacific Northwest, ready to confess."

"I understand there's a theory that more than one person was involved. Isn't that a little unusual in ritualistic homicides?" Strickland asked.

"It's been done before. It depends on the meaning of the ritual. Or if it's a ritual at all. Sometimes it's the display of the body the killer is going for, not the ritual necessary to display it," Hutch explained.

"Our goal here is to get any information about Ethan Nichols, what he was working on, enemies he has, etcetera," Megan said. "I'm sure Captain Banks will issue another statement to the press as soon as we are able to release any additional information."

"We ought to rate a little better than what's being tossed out the masses in press conferences," another older man spoke up. "Devon Rogers. I'm the publisher of this paper." There were only six Herald employees left in the meeting now, and the other four were fellow reporters.

"If there's a substantial development in the case, we've been instructed to grant exclusives to the Herald," Rafe explained. "Those exclusives will involve our releasing information to your paper earlier than it is released to the rest of the press, but all relevant information will be shared with the public via press conferences, and any information necessary to insure public safety will be released to the general media with no lead-time to the Herald."

"What we're concerned with here is finding out what Ethan was working on that might have inspired someone to murder him," Starsky said.

"I have a list of the stories he was currently working on. The ones in bold, at the top of the list, he'd already turned in drafts. I've provided those, as well," Strickland said, handing Starsky the folder. "The rest of the stories he was still working on."

"Do you have a detailed listing of his past stories--say for the last couple of years?" Hutch asked.

"No, but I can pull that, and if I think about it hard enough, I can probably give you some information on stories he did when he ws in Tacoma. You think some nutcase would hold a grudge for two years about a story he wrote?"

"This was an extremely bizarre homicide," Hutch said. "Someone planned it for a long time, and executed it smoothly and precisely. If you hate someone enough to crucify them, you definitely would still hate them two years after the time of the initial 'offense' that angered you. Did you say he handled a number of 'cutting edge' stories?"

"He wasn't afraid to dig deep, dig up dirt. There were times we refused one of his pieces because it was a bit too...sordid. He didn't have a problem airing dirty laundry," Rogers said, nodding. "I would say he's destroyed a couple lives since he started working for us, with exposes he's written."

"Then we need those stories," Hutch said.

"An index or the actual stories?" Strickland asked.

"The actual stories. If this guy managed to ruin a few people's lives, we need to know who they were so we can follow up on them," Starsky responded.

"That could take a while. He was a pretty prolific writer, but I'll put my staff on it right away."

"How about the rest of you? Did Ethan ever mention anything about a story he was working on, someone who threatened him?" Megan prodded. The other staffers looked from one to the other, and finally, one woman spoke up.

"Marie Halligan, I'm a staff writer for Metro. Ethan and I had coffee a few weeks ago, and he said he'd been getting some weird phone calls."

"Weird, how?" Hutch asked.

"Well, he said most of them were hang-ups. He got a caller ID, and they'd always come up as pay phones or 'unavailable' or 'unknown caller'. One time, he heard breathing on the other end of the phone, but the last one he got was really creepy. The guy told him 'your time is near'."

"He never reported any of this to the police?" Megan asked.

"You'd have to know Ethan. He wasn't afraid of much of anything, and he didn't take things like that seriously. I guess he'd gotten threats before, people telling him they'd make him pay for something he wrote, and he was pretty hardened to it," Marie said. "I asked him if he was worried about them, and he said that he'd had guys grab him by the shirtfront and threaten to kill him before and not follow through, so he wasn't going to let some nutball making vague calls from pay phones keep him up nights. That's an almost exact quote."

"Did he mention anything about the caller's voice?" Starsky asked.

"He said it was deep, kind of husky, but he thought that might have been put on--like the guy was trying to sound ominous."

The rest of the meeting was fairly uneventful, but the detectives left with the commitment from Ethan's editor to provide them with text of all his stories since he'd worked at the Herald and anything he could remember regarding Ethan's work in Tacoma. They planned to make a thorough search of the victim's apartment, and to contact his former colleagues in Tacoma. All four of them preferred to have Jim in on the search, so Starsky and Hutch headed back to the loft in the borrowed Cascade PD sedan to see if Jim was up and around or still sleeping. Of course, they knew perfectly well their arrival at the apartment, possibly even in the hallway, would wake him anyway.

"I'm gonna call the hospital," Starsky said, dialing it on his cell phone. "ICU, please... The Neuro ward," he added. "This is David Starsky, I'm Blair Sandburg's father. I wanted to check on how he's doing." There was a long pause. "You have my cell number, why didn't someone call me?" Another pause. "Did you call Jim Ellison?" Starsky took a deep breath, obviously trying to control himself. "I'm on my way." He broke the connection.

"What's wrong?" Hutch said, not deviating from his course toward the loft. Jim would want to be picked up if there was anything wrong with Blair.

"He remembered about Naomi. They've got a call into the doctor to see if they can sedate him because he's crying and trying to sit up. His time line's all messed up and he's confused about when she died, like he thinks he should go somewhere or do something about it."

"Shit. They didn't call Jim?"

"Of course not," Starsky said, dialing the number for the loft. "The fucking line's busy."

"He's probably calling the hospital."

"We should have never left. I thought he was peaceful, that he'd sleep for a few hours."

"We're trying to work two cases, Starsk. Mainly because those guys will want in on both of them. We can't be everywhere at once."

When they pulled up in front of the building at 852 Prospect, Jim was standing in front of the bakery, and hurried to the car, getting in the back seat with a couple of grunts of pain. Hutch moved his seat as far forward as his own long legs would permit to give Jim a bit more room.

"You talked to the hospital, obviously," Starsky said, still fuming.

"Those assholes. I can't believe they didn't call anyone. They said his condition hadn't changed and he was in no danger, so they didn't call. He's just 'agitated', according to the nurse. He might not be in danger, but that nurse is," Jim added.

"They should have called, but I'm not surprised they didn't. You remember, Starsk, on the rare occasions I'd go home from the hospital after the Gunther shooting, there were a few times something like that happened with you--something where you were just having a pain problem or a setback of some sort that they resolved without some horrible outcome--and I found out about it when I called in or went back in. They don't view crises in an ICU quite the way we do. Blair crying or having a bad memory probably isn't reason for them to notify all his relatives."

"I should have stayed," Jim said, shaking his head. "I can't believe I left him."

"You were dead on your feet, Jim. You're getting over a concussion. You should have gone home. He wanted you to go home," Starsky added.

"That was before he remembered what happened to Naomi."

"We're almost there. Starsk, why don't you pull up at the main entrance, and go in with Jim? I'll park the car and meet you up there."

"Okay. Thanks, babe." Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand before turning into the hospital parking lot and pulling up to the main door.

As soon as the two men made it up to the floor, they rushed to Blair's room, only to find a nurse patiently trying to explain to him where he was and what day of the week it was. They both entered the room and approached the bed, the young woman gratefully stepping aside to let them work on calming Blair down.

"Blair, baby, it's okay," Jim said gently, leaning down and kissing Blair lightly.

"She's dead," Blair said in a broken voice. "Why didn't you tell me?" The complete question took both men by surprise, and it was all they could do not to smile in relief to hear Blair saying something more than single words.

"The doctor thought it was better not to upset you, that you'd remember things on your own as the meds wore off a little and you got better," Jim explained.

"You lied to me," Blair said, anger in his voice now.

"We didn't want to upset you until you were well enough to handle it, kiddo," Starsky interjected.

"When did she die?" Blair asked.

"Almost three years ago, Chief," Jim responded honestly.

"How long have I been in here?"

"Just since yesterday. About thirty hours or so," Jim said, his hand still lingering in Blair's hair, stroking gently.

"What's wrong with me? Why does it feel like it just happened?"

"Because you just remembered it, son," Starsky said, taking Blair's hand. "You're unscrambling things, and you're doing great. This morning, you weren't asking us whole questions, or saying more than a word or two."

"What's wrong with me?" Blair repeated.

"Your dad told you about the accident."

"Yeah, I know, but why am I all...messed up?"

"You hit your head on the dashboard of the truck, Chief." Jim looked almost sick at the words, but he pressed on. "You have a skull fracture, but it was a crack, not a break. The doctor said you might be a little foggy for a while, because along with the head injury, they put you on some heavy meds."

"Is my memory gonna come back?"

"What else don't you remember, kiddo? You know who we are, who you are, and now you remember about your mom..."

"I can't remember the accident."

"You don't have to, and it's not odd that you don't."

"Blair, I hear you're having a rough day," Dr. Farraday said as he came in, chart in hand.

"He--"

"Let him tell me," the doctor said to Jim, holding up a hand. "What's wrong, Blair?"

"I remembered my mom was dead. Nobody told me. They kept letting me think she was alive."

"We wanted you to relax and get some rest, and we wanted you to remember things on your own. Do you know what day it is?"

"The last day I remember was Tuesday..." Blair frowned, as if it was a hard process to figure out which day it was from there. "Wednesday?"

"Good. How about your last name?"

"Sandburg."

"How old are you, Blair?"

"Thirty-five."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a consultant to the Cascade PD and I'm working on my Ph.D."

"Perfect score so far. Can you tell me the year?"

"2003."

"Where are you now?"

"Cascade General."

"How do you feel? There's no right or wrong answer to that one," the doctor added, smiling.

"My head hurts, and...my body hurts. All over."

"Well, let me put your mind at ease. You don't have any broken bones besides the linear fracture in your skull. You have a sprained wrist, which is why it's wrapped with elastic. We did an MRI on you, and you have no neck or spinal injuries, even though you probably feel like you do from the impact. You're going to be sore for a while, but you're doing very well, so there's no reason not to think you'll make a full recovery."

"Is it medication that's making me so foggy?"

"Somewhat. And like I told your family, you had a substantial trauma to your brain. You were extremely lucky, but that doesn't change the fact it was a head trauma, and that takes a while to recover from." The doctor smiled. "You don't look like you need sedation now, Blair. How do you feel?"

"I don't want to be knocked out again. Something for pain would be good."

"We'll see what we can do about that," the doctor said, smiling. "You're doing great, Blair. Just take it easy and don't tire yourself out too much talking."

"We'll make sure he rests, Doc," Starsky said, patting Blair's shoulder.

"Thank you, Doctor," Jim said as the doctor left the room. "Blair, I didn't mean to lie to you before. I didn't want to upset you."

"If there's anything else I don't...get right, promise me you'll tell me?"

"I promise."

"Everything okay?" Hutch asked as he hurried into the room. "It was murder finding a parking spot down there."

"Things are better now," Jim said, finally sitting down in a chair next to Blair's bed.

"Hi, Hutch," Blair said, smiling and waving a little.

"You look more like your old self, Blair," Hutch said, relieved.

"I'm putting the pieces together better, I guess."

"Sure sounds like it," Hutch responded, smiling and heaving a sigh of relief.

"Tell me about the case," Blair said, blinking, as if he were fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You should get some rest, Chief."

"If I'm tired, I can nod off. Come on."

"Well," Starsky began, "we met with people from the Herald today, where the victim, Ethan Nichols, worked. We also talked to them about Marianne Phillips, the woman killed by the hit-and-run driver. Nobody could come up with any enemies for her, or any reason why anyone would be out to get her."

"Nichols was a different story. Apparently a lot of his writing involved exposes, and he'd gotten threats before. The publisher went so far as to state that he'd 'ruined a couple of lives' with his stories. We're getting a list of the stories he'd done since he worked for the Herald, along with the stories themselves," Hutch explained. "The editor at the Herald was a friend of Ethan's, so he remembers some of the key stories Ethan did in Tacoma, but we'll still need to talk to those folks."

"We should highlight all the names in the stories and then do background checks on them to find out if any of them have a background in ancient or historical forms of punishment," Blair said. All of them stared at him, and Jim leaned down and kissed him square on the mouth. "What was that for?" Blair asked with a little grin.

"Being so smart. Still being so smart," Jim admitted, resting his hand very lightly on top of Blair's head.

"I think our next stop oughtta be Nichols' apartment. Jim, are you up to coming with us long enough to do that?" Starsky asked.

"Sure. Will you be okay for a little while, Chief?"

"I'm pretty tired, and my head hurts. I'll probably just sleep as much as they'll let me," he said, referring to the nurses who were still checking his responses regularly.

"Okay. I'll be back later, sweetheart." Jim leaned in for another kiss. "You're okay about...your mom?"

"It seems more real now. I remember it...it was just hard, thinking she was alive for a few hours, and then waking up and realizing...I was kind of confused until I got it clear that it wasn't a bad dream that she died." Blair looked at Starsky. "Make sure he doesn't overdo it?"

"We'll keep an eye on him, kiddo." Starsky kissed Blair's forehead. "You get some sleep. Every time you do, you wake up smarter," Starsky teased. Blair laughed a little and then winced.

"Ow." He raised his hand a little feebly to his head.

"Time for us to leave," Jim said, rising and catching Blair's hand on its downward arc, kissing the back of it. "If you need me, just tell the nurse. I'm going to make sure she has the loft and cell numbers handy."

"I will. Don't overdo it, Jim."

"I won't." Jim smiled at Blair's continued worry over him, and reluctantly left with Starsky and Hutch to go check out Nichols' apartment.

********

Nichols occupied one half of a duplex on a quiet residential street with a number of duplex and rental units. His car was missing from the garage, so that somewhat reduced the suspicion that his residence had been the scene of his abduction. There was always the possibility the killer used the victim's car to transport him, but given the tools he would have needed for his project with the cross, that was unlikely.

Starsky and Hutch did most of the physical work of the thorough search, with Jim primarily on hand to "Sentinel-scan" the apartment for anything ordinary eyes might miss. Hutch took up residence at Nichols' computer, searching the files there.

"I think we could get most of what we asked the paper for here, but it would take forever to search and print everything," he said, scanning the stories. Nichols had a folder for each of his articles that included everything from scans of his notes and transcriptions of those notes to interview transcripts to drafts to the finished-for-publication story. "He was organized as hell, I have to hand him that," Hutch said, scrolling through the files. "I ought to do something like this with the rat's nest I call a hard drive at home."

"Yeah, he files like he keeps house. Stuff everywhere," Starsky grumbled as he searched a nearby file cabinet.

"I'm fine until Mr. Neat Freak starts making folders for me and moving my files."

"If I don't, I can't find my stuff. You just hit 'save' and I'm supposed to navigate through ten thousand little files you've got in there for whatever your latest speaking engagement is."

"You can always find your stuff. You're anal-retentive with your folders, Starsk. Anything that isn't filed isn't yours, so what's the problem?"

"Do you two always go at it like this?" Jim asked, smiling.

"Only when he brings up the computer," Starsky responded.

"Or the cars," Hutch added.

"Or the grocery list."

"The grocery list?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. He and Blair had a lot of wildly divergent tastes, but all that meant was a longer grocery list and a little preaching from Blair about cholesterol and preservatives.

"He eats like a five-year-old," Hutch said of his partner.

"He's been eating like a hippie for the last thirty years. You'd get sick'a that, too," Starsky retorted.

"Blair always gets on me for at least three or four things in the grocery cart, but I can usually cajole my way around him," Jim said, as he continued walking around the living room, scanning it for anything out of the ordinary. So far, the trip to Nichols' apartment was turning up next to nothing.

"Hey, this is interesting." Hutch motioned to the other two to join him. "Two years ago, Nichols did an article on this professor in Tacoma who wrote a book advocating the reinstatement of archaic forms of punishment in the modern penal system. You know, I remember that guy. Very out there."

"That sure links with the M.O.," Starsky said.

"I think I'll print this one off," Hutch said.

"He was serious?" Jim asked, smiling in disbelief.

"Oh, very. He was on a few PBS talk shows--he wasn't a 'first string nut', the kind that show up on the national news network talk shows. But in academic circles, he caused quite a stir--mainly a ripple of laughter. But he was dead serious. He thought that if we had public executions, it would deter crime."

"That's not a new idea. I've read that theory from a few different people over the years," Jim said.

"No, that's not new, but were they advocating disemboweling, crucifixion, decapitation, or burning at the stake?"

"No, I can't say I recall that."

"Well, this guy was. He said the pure horror of the act would put the criminal community in such terror that they wouldn't commit many felonies--such as rape, aggravated assault, or murder. He also advocated corporal punishment for lesser crimes--whippings, minor mutilations, etc."

"Sounds like a Grade-A headcase," Jim said.

"He was very academic, very professional, did years' worth of research."

"*And* he was a grade-A headcase," Starsky added.

"Looks like we found our star suspect," Jim said, skimming the text of the article. "He really lambastes this nut in his article," Jim assessed of Nichols' feature article on the bizarre criminologist. "He's a perfect candidate for both killings."

"We just have to link him to the dead professor in Seattle," Starsky said. "But if there's a link, it shouldn't be too hard to find."

********

Blair opened his eyes, feeling a bit refreshed from what seemed like a long nap. In reality, he figured it had only been a few minutes, since it seemed there was always a nurse on hand to check his reflexes or responses. He almost expected to see one of the two nurses on duty for that shift, but instead, his eyes settled on Bill Ellison sitting in a chair a few feet away from the bed.

"I hope I didn't wake you. I wanted to see how you were, but I didn't want to disturb you."

"I'm glad you stopped by," Blair said, smiling.

"Jimmy called me, said you woke up. I'm really relieved about that."

"Me, too," Blair said, his smile widening a little. "Jim went with my dad and Hutch to work on the case a little. I wish he'd rest more, but you know Jim."

"Only too well," Bill said, chuckling. "He never was good about staying put, even when he was sick." Bill paused. "How do you feel?"

"My head hurts, and it feels like they had a garden hose down my throat. I'm just glad to have that tube out of me. And I feel like I got hit by a truck."

"In a way, you did."

"I guess so," Blair agreed, smiling faintly.

"Jim feels terrible about the accident."

"I know. He shouldn't. It wasn't his fault."

"Do you remember it?"

"No, but I know what happened. And I trust Jim. I mean, he scares the hell out of me when he drives like that, but I know he knows what he's doing."

"He did his best to hold you back in the seat. He put his arm across you, tried to lean over your way to hold you back. The force was just too strong."

"He always does that when we take a bad corner," Blair said, smiling. "I'm not mad at Jim, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm glad. I didn't figure you would be. It's the Cascade Police Department who have some answering to do."

"I don't get it."

"They cut off Jim's insurance allowance, so he ended up buying that old heap with no airbags and no shoulder straps. You could have both been killed," Bill said, getting up and pacing.

"You know bureaucrats and accountants. It's all the bottom line with them."

"Yeah, well, they may have more on their bottom line than they bargained for."

"What do you mean?"

"I think Jimmy should sue the department."

"Don't hold your breath," Blair said. "He won't do that, Bill. Not when it would mean naming Simon in a lawsuit."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I was going to talk to a friend of mine on the City Commission, but I know that probably would just make Jim mad as hell at me for interfering."

"Probably."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't. You and Jim are a lot alike. You get angry when you're freaked out about something."

"I'm not just freaked out. I think we have a valid complaint here."

"Maybe, but Jim won't do it, and I'm not in favor of it, either. There were two people responsible for this--the jerk who pulled out in front of us and the killer we were chasing."

"You do remember--"

"No. One of the nurses read me the newspaper article after I nagged her mercilessly for two hours solid."

"You and Jimmy are both very important to me," Bill said, stopping his pacing to stare out the window.

"I know that. Bill, you've been like a second dad to me. If the situation were reversed, I know I'd be all freaked out, too."

"You would, huh?" There was a little touch of disbelief, and a little touch of hope in Bill's voice.

"Yeah, I would. That's part of being family. Being protective."

"I won't pressure Jimmy about suing the Department. But I am going to mention it to him."

"No harm in that, I guess."

"They treating you all right in here?"

"Fine."

"The room's okay?"

"As hospital rooms go, sure," Blair said, confused.

"The nurses are responsive, they come when you call?"

"Probably, but I don't have to since they're checking on me all the time."

"Good, good." Bill nodded, returning to the chair.

"Don't tell me. You're on the Board here."

"I used to be, but I still know plenty of people, including the chief of staff. I just want to be sure you're getting good care. If there's anything I can do--"

"You did it by coming by to see me. And if the nurses screw up, I promise I'll tell you."

"Okay," Bill said, smiling.

"Tell me about your day."

"What?"

"What you're doing. You're all decked out in one of the expensive suits."

"Cascade National Bank Board of Directors, quarterly meeting. It's one of the few boards I've stayed on, mainly because the CEO is a friend of mine, and the Chairman isn't a friend of his."

"Sounds like fun."

"Nothing like two hours of pie charts and a slide presentation to numb the mind."

"I thought you corporate types liked that stuff."

"No one likes that stuff, and if they say they do, they're liars. Which, of course, a lot of my esteemed colleagues always have been."

"How'd you survive all those years in the corporate world if you disliked it so much?"

"I didn't dislike the work itself--well, not all of it--the side issues are what drove me nuts. The back-stabbing, cheating, game-playing... I'm not sad to be 75% retired."

"You think you'll ever be 100% retired?"

"Sure. When I'm dead," he added, smiling. "I should let you get some rest," Bill said, picking up his coat from where he'd tossed it on a spare chair.

"Thanks for coming. I enjoyed the visit," Blair responded, smiling.

"Tell Jimmy I hope he feels better. I haven't been able to catch him at home."

"Fat chance. He should take it easy for a couple days, but he's out working a homicide case with my dad and Hutch--even though he's off active duty."

"Jimmy's never off active duty."

"Like father, like son, huh?"

"I guess so," Bill said, chuckling a little.

********

Coverage of the hit-and-run accident was understandably extensive in the Cascade Herald. A photo of Marianne Phillips was on the front page, along with a detailed story about the two-headed disaster involving not only the hit-and-run homicide, but the accident that occurred during the chase. Detective James Ellison, Cascade Police Major Crimes Division, was listed in good condition with minor injuries sustained in the crash. Blair Sandburg, an anthropologist and consultant to the Cascade Police Department, was riding with Detective Ellison and sustained a more serious head injury. No further details were available on his condition. A third driver was facing charges for running a stop sign into the path of the detective's vehicle.

The hit-and-run driver escaped.

The last line made him smile, though the whole unfortunate incident should have never happened. He knew that sleek sports car and all that fast driving wasn't going to lead anywhere good. The young woman, Marianne...that was just sad. She had no role in any of this, and her death was an utter waste.

He skimmed the article again, and focused on the name of the anthropologist. He'd seen that name...in fact, he'd seen Ellison's name before. They'd been in the news before. A social scientist working in the law enforcement community. That had potential. He needed someone with an open mind, and someone the cops as well as other academics would take seriously.

He needed Blair Sandburg.

********

"It's a little late to strike out for Tacoma. What do you want to do?" Hutch asked as they all got into the blue sedan, finished with the search of the victim's apartment.

"Go back to the hospital."

"Go see Blair."

The answers came simultaneously from Jim and Starsky respectively, and Hutch just chuckled.

"How did I know the answer to that? We'll go up there for a while, but then we're going back to the loft to get a good night's sleep. Blair's feeling better, and I'm tired of playing hearse driver to two walking corpses," Hutch said as he started the engine.

"Your ass is draggin', too, old man," Starsky needled, giving Hutch a little grin.

"That, too," Hutch admitted with a laugh.

"Hey, don't forget to stop by 7-Eleven," Starsky said. "I promised my kid a Slurpee, remember?"

When the three of them arrived back at the hospital, Blair had just finished a small meal, his first since the accident. He was sitting up in bed, looking even more alert than he had earlier.

"You remembered the Slurpee," Blair said, grinning broadly.

"Good to see you, too, son," Starsky responded, laughing as he handed the drink over to Blair, who took a long pull on the straw.

"Sorry. Dinner really sucked, man, and my throat still hurts from that dryer hose they ran down it. I've been looking forward to this."

"Feeling better, Chief?" Jim asked, smiling at seeing so much of the old Blair coming back to life before his eyes.

"A lot. You must be feeling lousy, though. Will you guys please take him home and make him rest?"

"We're heading back to the loft to get some sleep tonight," Hutch said.

"I've been thinking about stayin' here," Starsky said, pacing the room a bit.

"I'm gonna be okay, Dad. You need to get a night's sleep, too."

"I can sleep on the couch out there."

"Starsk, come on, what's this about?" Hutch asked.

"In case Blair wakes up, and he's confused or something...someone should be here."

"I'm not confused."

"You were earlier when we weren't here and you woke up," Jim said.

"Yeah, because I was still fighting heavier meds and I was just coming out of it. I'll be okay. Go back to the loft and try out the new bed," Blair said calmly, taking another draw on his Slurpee before noticing Jim's grin, and the slightly uneasy chuckles from his father and Hutch. "I meant to get some sleep...but whatever," he added, grinning. "What did you find out from Nichols' apartment?"

"We got a line on a possible suspect," Jim said, sitting on the side of Blair's bed. He'd done his best not to hog visiting time with Blair, but he wanted to spend some time close to his lover. Blair set the Slurpee on his bed table, offering Jim a clammy, slightly wet hand to hold. Starsky and Hutch pulled up chairs.

"Somebody he did an expose on?"

"Well, I don't know as he exposed him, exactly," Jim explained. "He already didn't have a lot of credibility with other academics. Nichols wrote a pretty scathing article about him."

"Academics? Who was he?"

"A guy by the name of Eldon Garrison," Hutch said. "He was a professor at Maddison College in Tacoma who came up with a pretty off-the-wall theory about revising the penal system."

"Garrison...Garrison..." Blair frowned. "Name sounds familiar, but I can't place him."

"He advocated bringing back ancient forms of punishment for felonies--crucifixions, drawing and quartering, burning at the stake...that kind of thing," Jim said.

"I remember that. Well, I remember a couple guys in the CJ Department at Rainier talking about it--or laughing about it, actually."

"Anyway, Nichols did an article on him that ended up carried on the AP wire. He interviewed a lot of other academics and experts in the law enforcement field, and basically they all said it was a crock of shit--well, they said it a little more academically than that," Starsky added, chuckling.

"The guys at Rainier didn't," Blair countered, smiling. "Where is this guy now?"

"We're going to run a check on him first thing in the morning," Jim said. "Last anyone heard of him, he'd retired from Maddison."

"Retired, huh? I bet he did," Blair responded.

"You sound like you don't think he should have been...*encouraged* to retire?" Hutch said.

"You know, a lot of people would say studying Sentinels was a flaky field, too."

"But you're not doing your dissertation on that anymore," Jim said.

"No, I'm not, but that's not my point. Having 'out there' ideas is a vital part of academia. I think his ideas are bizarre, barbaric, and should never be pursued seriously, but should he be driven out of his field for it? I'm not sure I agree with that."

"People like Garrison are dangerously 'out there', Chief."

"So were the guys who said the Earth wasn't flat. So is a researcher who claims to have a subject who can identify a suspect in the dark from three football fields away. I agree Garrison's ideas were twisted, but ideas aren't dangerous by themselves. People are dangerous. Having a dangerous idea doesn't make you a dangerous person. Keep that in mind when you talk to this guy. Just because he's weird doesn't mean he's a psycho serial killer."

"He just thinks we ought to publicly disembowel criminals," Starsky responded. "Nah, he's not dangerous."

********

On to Part Two