The bus from Minnesota arrived at six a.m.

Louis, carrying everything he owned in a brown shopping bag, was the first one down the steps. He walked into the depot and stood still for a moment, giving his cramped muscles a chance to loosen. Hunger and curiosity vied with one another for his attention. Attempting to satisfy both urges, he stopped at the newsstand long enough to buy a morning paper and then headed into the coffee shop for breakfast.

The only other customers at the moment were two drunks waiting for their favorite watering hole to open for the day, and a red-eyed patrolman ordering two coffees to go and wishing it were eight o'clock so that he could go home.

Louis sat down at the far end of the counter, away from the drunks; he found such people distasteful and had an almost morbid fear that they would speak to him. But the two men only glanced at him without interest and returned to their conversation.

The waitress strolled over to take his order before he was ready and she stood there tapping the counter with her fingers. Louis did not allow her displeasure to force him into a hurried decision. He studied each item listed on the grease-spotted menu and considered the many choices carefully. Finally he ordered scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. It was the same breakfast he'd had every morning for the past five years.

The waitress, now intent upon pulling off an irritating hangnail, delivered his order in a bored voice to the short-order cook. Louis watched the huge black man crack a couple of eggs onto the grill. Then, afraid that his staring might anger the cook, Louis opened the newspaper.

The headlines were all about people and places and things that meant nothing to him, and by the time he'd reached page three, Louis was bored. He was also a little disappointed. Somehow, he'd thought that the newspapers in Los Angeles would be more exciting than those in Minnesota. He had been expecting stories about movie stars and the beautiful people who were supposed to live in California. Instead, it was the same old stuff about the government and crime and all those other things that he didn't care about at all.

But when he reached page four, he forgot his boredom. The picture was right in the middle of the page, as if to be sure he wouldn't miss it. In fact, the black-and-white photo seemed to leap from the paper at him and the effect upon Louis was the same as it would have been if a savage blow had been delivered to his solar plexus. His stomach muscles tightened in reaction and a cold, sick feeling overwhelmed him.

A cup of coffee appeared on the counter in front of him. His hand trembled as he lifted the mug and gulped the hot liquid desperately. It burned his mouth, but he was hardly aware of the pain.

As the warmth of the coffee spread through him, the cold nausea was slowly dispelled. At the same time, Louis was imbued with a sense of quiet understanding. This, then, was why he'd felt himself being drawn to Los Angeles. This explained the strange aura of missionary zeal that had motivated his journey westward. The knowledge calmed him almost immediately; even the headache that had plagued him for weeks and weeks seemed to ease.

The waitress slammed a plate down on the counter. Louis wanted some ketchup to put on his scrambled eggs, but before he could ask her for it, she was gone again. The only bottle he could see was way down the counter where the drunks were sitting. He decided to skip the ketchup. It didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered now but the picture in the newspaper.

Not lifting his eyes from the page, Louis began to eat, taking forkfuls of egg into his mouth, chewing, swallowing, moving like an automaton, completely oblivious to what he was eating. In the hospital, meals had been an important part of the daily ritual. The dining room, not the treatment complex, was the center of life. Even those persons who could not or would not feed themselves came into the dining room three times a day. Each item on one's plate was significant and subject to much comment.

Already it was different for Louis. Now, having seen that picture, eating had become a mere biological necessity. Stoking the furnace, as his mother used to say. Something done only in order that he might have the required strength to complete his mission.

His mission.

Louis liked the sound of that word. A mission. It was an important word. It made him feel important.

When the waitress, acting out of some heretofore-undisplayed sense of duty, poured him more coffee, Louis roused himself enough to thank her. Sipping carefully, he read the caption beneath the photo:

Louis read slowly, one finger moving beneath the words. Although he wasn't stupid, reading was hard for him and always had been. Not like for Marcie. Everything had come easily to Marcie. She had been the smart one in the family. The blessed one.

He pushed the thought of Marcie away quickly.

After a moment, he returned his attention to the paper. Making an effort, he worked over each word carefully, his lips moving silently.

Local detectives David Starsky and Kenneth Hutchinson are shown here leaving the Federal courthouse after attending a preliminary hearing for accused drug dealer Barney Fields. Fields, thought to be the power behind drug operations in four western states, was arrested by the two officers three days ago, culminating an undercover operation of nearly three months.

Louis took a break from the effort, sipping more coffee before going on.

Charges against Fields include drug trafficking, attempted bribery of public officials, and attempted murder. The last-named charge is a result of the shooting of Det. Starsky at the time of Fields' arrest. Injuries to the officer were described as minor.

That was the end of the story.

Louis expelled his breath in a long sigh and looked at the picture again. Kenny hadn't changed much. He was older, of course, with some lines on his face that hadn't been there before. But his head still had that vaguely arrogant tilt, and he wore a too-familiar smirk on his face. Kenny had always been stuck-up, thinking he was better than anybody else, and it looked like he still thought so.

For just a moment, Louis was tempted to rip the picture from the newspaper and tear it into little pieces. He wanted to wipe out Kenny's stuck-up smile once and for all.

But he didn't do that. Instead, he did what Dr. Goldbaum had taught him. Took a deep breath and counted to twenty. That helped. Then he drained the coffee.

His attention shifted from Kenny to the other man in the picture, the one wearing a sling on his arm. He checked the caption again, looking for the man's name. David Starsky. A cop, too. Kenny had one arm draped across the guy's shoulders. David was smiling, but not at the camera; he was grinning at Kenny. They didn't even seem to know that their picture was being taken. It looked like they thought nobody in the world mattered except the two of them.

Still, he couldn't help feeling a little bit sorry for this guy, David. He wanted to warn the poor dumb bastard not to be friends with Kenny. People who tried to get close to Kenny Hutchinson always got hurt sooner or later. David would get hurt, too.

But most of his sympathy evaporated as he continued to look at the picture. David was probably just like Kenny. Holier than thou, he thought bitterly. Just like when we used to play King-of-the-Mountain back home, and I would be trying really hard to win. But Kenny would never let me. He used to let the little kids win sometimes, but never me. Never me. I really wanted to win, so I could stand on top and be the king. But Kenny . . . he was always trying to make me look bad. Oh, he used to fool people, 'cause of his pretty-boy looks. But he was mean inside. And I knew it. I always knew, even before Marcie.

"You want something else, mister?"

From the tone of her voice, Louis knew that the waitress had asked the question several times before he'd heard her. Struggling to concentrate, he shook his head. "Uh-uh," he mumbled. "Thanks." He pulled a couple of crumpled bills from his pocket and tossed them onto the counter. It was the last of his own money. From now on, he would be living on Dr. Goldbaum's dough. He hadn't even counted that cash yet, but he knew there was a lot of it. A whole lot. "Keep the change," he said.

The waitress only glared at him as she picked up the bills.

Louis carefully folded the newspaper so that he could see the picture. Trying to decide just which way to go and what to do first, he paused on the sidewalk just outside the depot.

It was not yet seven o'clock and already the city was enveloped in heat. The people on the sidewalk constituted an uneasy blend of the night just ending and the day about to begin. A tired hooker made her way toward bed, finally alone. Her red-and-black satin hot pants outfit might have looked exotic and tantalizing the evening before. Now she was wrinkled and sweaty and the effect was only pathetic. A grey-suited junior executive, already damp under the arms, was trying to find a taxi. His attention wandered for a moment as he watched the hooker cross the street, dodging cars. He licked his upper lip thoughtfully.

There was a police car parked by the corner. The cop who had been in the restaurant earlier was leaning against the car, sipping coffee, watching the passing parade listlessly. His partner sat behind the wheel, his head back against the seat, his eyes closed. He had a toothache and felt like hell. He was also afraid to go to the dentist.

Louis walked over to the car. "Excuse me, officer," he said deferentially.

The cop, fleshy and irritable, rubbed a handkerchief across his face. "Yeah?"

"Where would I go to find a detective?"

"A detective?" The officer refolded the handkerchief and wiped his face again. "What you want a detective for? Something happen?" He hoped not. In less than an hour, this shift would be over and he could be on his way home. Home, where a fan and lots of cold beer waited.

Louis shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that." He held up the folded newspaper. "I just want to find him," he said, pointing at Kenny's picture.

"Yeah?"

Louis felt obligated to offer an explanation. "He . . . he's my cousin. I lost his number and I just got into town . . . ."

"Yeah?" the cop said again. He leaned forward to look more closely at the picture. "Oh, him. Hutchinson."

"You know him?"

"Sure." The cop, whose name was Riley, cleared his throat and spit. "A hot dog," he muttered.

"A what?"

Riley remembered suddenly that this guy was a relative. "Nothing," he said quickly. "Yeah, I know Hutchinson. In fact, I was partnered with him for a while when he was still in uniform. Back before he teamed up with Curly there and they formed the famous vaudeville team of Starsky and Hutch." He chuckled at his own joke, then glanced at Louis to see whether he'd taken any offense at the crack that might be passed along to Hutchinson--or worse, to Starsky.

Riley didn't like Starsky and he knew that the feeling was mutual. Their animosity stemmed from an incident nearly four years earlier, something that might have happened to anyone, in Riley's opinion. Hell, anybody could make a mistake, couldn't they? Even a smartass detective could doze off on a 3 A.M. stakeout. Riley's particular misfortune had been to fall asleep when he was supposed to be watching the rear door of a store while Ken Hutchinson was inside. While Riley caught his forty winks, the man they had been waiting for arrived and went in. Caught unawares, Hutchinson had barely avoided being shot. Sure, it had been a close call, but Hutchinson didn't get too upset about it. He wasn't the kind to hold a grudge.

But Starsky . . . well, hell, the way he reacted, his partner might have been lying dead on the floor, instead of suffering only a bruised shoulder from being shoved against the wall. The anger on Starsky's face had scared Edmund Denis Riley more than any encounter he'd ever had with a criminal. Hutchinson was an all right kind of guy, even if he was a hot dog; he hadn't even filed a report on the incident. Starsky, on the other hand, got really hot. "Riley," he said tightly. "Don't ever cross my path again. Or my partner's path." Riley had tried fervently to comply in the past four years. He thought that David Starsky was dangerous, like a bomb waiting to explode, and it was not his wish to be anywhere around when it happened.

But apparently Louis hadn't taken any offense; he just kept looking at Riley, a vague half-smile on his face.

"Yeah," Riley expanded, "I taught that kid a lot about being a cop. So what do they do?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They put him in plainclothes and make him a detective. And what about me? Here I am, still riding a beat. Some things ain't fair, I know that." He shut up then and glanced at his watch. If they left now and drove slowly, they would get back to the precinct house just a few minutes before they were supposed to.

"Where can I find Kenny--Detective Hutchinson?" Louis pressed.

Riley was already halfway into the car. "Uh . . . Parker Center. Uptown," he said over his shoulder. "Catch the bus across the street."

"Thanks," Louis said.

He watched the zone car pull away before bending to carefully tuck the folded newspaper into the shopping bag. What to do now? Clothes, he decided. I need some California clothes. His old brown suit was all wrinkled from the bus trip and it felt much too warm for the weather here. So he would start putting old man Goldbaum's money to some good use and buy himself something to wear.

But first . . . .

He needed a car. There were plenty around, of course, and he would have no trouble getting one. After all, he'd ripped off his first car when he was fourteen. Except . . . except that theft always carried with it the chance, no matter how remote, of getting caught. And if he was arrested for something as stupid as stealing a car, he would not be able to do what had to be done. He wouldn't be able to complete his mission.

So he decided to buy a car. Nothing fancy. Just some used job that ran. Pay cash and be done with it, legally. There was more than enough money. Then, once he had a car and some new clothes, he could set about avenging his sister's murder. He could get back at Kenny.

He walked toward the bus stop, thinking about Kenny. Thinking very hard about the man who had killed his sister. Louis was filled with satisfaction at the thought that soon Marcie's death would be avenged. Once Kenny had been punished, maybe Louis would be able to forget. Maybe then the headaches would go away for good.

He stood on the corner whistling softly as he waited for the bus.

**

It was hot.

Starsky, only half-awake, rolled over with a groan and wondered what had happened to the air conditioner. He sat up, forgetting for the moment about his injured arm, and then remembering as a stabbing pain chastised him. "Shit," he muttered. It was easy enough for doctors and captains and certain unnamed partners to call an injury "minor," but that didn't make it hurt any the less.

After spending a few minutes reflecting on the unfairness of life in general and his own misfortunes in particular, Starsky got up from the bed, struggling to untangle himself from the twisted sheets. Naked, he padded into the kitchen for a can of Dr. Pepper, his bare feet making small slapping noises against the floor.

The cold soda slid easily down his parched throat, giving him an almost indecent sense of pleasure. He carried the drink into the bathroom and took another long swig as he reached in to turn on the shower. Setting the can down, he stepped under the lukewarm water.

Starsky was in no hurry, so he sudsed slowly, wondering how he might be able to get out of going to work for one more day. The rush of water obliterated all other noises, so Starsky didn't hear the front door open or the sound of footsteps crossing the living room. He sang two mournful choruses of "Nobody Knows the Troubles I Seen" and then got out of the shower.

As he shaved and dressed, his sore arm complicated matters just enough to make his mood a little more irritable. The fact that he cut himself twice didn't help much.

He walked into the living room, trousers on, trying to pull a T-shirt over his head. His difficulties with that task prevented him from seeing the figure crouched in the kitchen.

"Don't you have anything to drink except Dr. Pepper?"

Startled, Starsky jumped, jerking the shirt the rest of the way on, twisting his arm in the process. "Damn!" he yelled.

Hutch straightened from his perusal of the refrigerator and looked at him curiously. "What's wrong?"

Starsky fairly bristled with righteous indignation. "Wrong? What's wrong? You almost scared me to death, that's what's wrong! Don't ever do that again."

"I yelled when I came in," Hutch said, genuinely bewildered as to why he should be the recipient of Starsky's wrath.

"I was in the shower, damnit."

"All right, all right. Take it easy, huh, Starsk? Don't start with me; it's too hot."

Starsky rubbed his arm. "I didn't start anything. You're the one who broke and entered and scared me out of a year's growth."

"I didn't break anything," Hutch protested. "I used the key."

"Yeah, well . . . "

Hutch turned back to the refrigerator. "Don't you have anything to drink except Dr. Pepper?" he repeated.

Starsky was struggling to get his arm sling on. "Some chocolate milk."

Hutch took the carton out, sniffed the contents suspiciously, and quickly put it back. "Thanks anyway."

Starsky shrugged.

Giving in to the inevitable, Hutch finally took out a Dr. Pepper and popped the can open. "You need some help with that thing?" he asked, after watching his partner's battle with the sling for several more minutes.

"No," Starsky answered through clenched teeth.

Hutch watched a little longer; then, when his own nerves couldn't stand it anymore, he walked over, efficiently straightened the sling, and held it so that Starsky could get his arm in properly.

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"Thanks," Starsky muttered.

"You've got blood on your chin," Hutch said.

Starsky disappeared into the bedroom to get his shoes and socks. Hutch sat on a bar stool, morosely drinking Dr. Pepper. The blond detective was suffering from a by-now-familiar sense of ennui. It happened like that frequently and he had come to see it as just one more occupational hazard. But that didn't make it any easier to live with.

The weeks of balancing on the tightrope of an undercover investigation--always nerve-wracking--had been made even harder this time by the fact that he was the outside man, hovering on the fringes of the real action. He had spent day after day operating tape recorders and monitoring listening devices, while his partner moved among some dangerous people. There was no respite for Starsky, forced to live the role of petty crook twenty-four hours a day for weeks on end. And that meant there had been no respite for Hutch, either. All he could do was listen and wait. Even during those times when he'd been officially off-duty and the job of listening had been delegated to someone else, even then he couldn't relax. Sometimes he went home and tried to sleep. Or he went over to the Pits and had a couple of beers. But mostly he would end up back in the temporary communications center, listening and waiting.

And then it was all over, quickly and suddenly. Not the way it was scheduled to happen at all. The weeks of waiting exploded in violence, in the sudden release of pent-up adrenalin.

He twisted the soda pop can in his hands. All too clearly, he could remember his feelings of utter impotence as he sat in a car two blocks away from where Starsky was, hearing the words that were being exchanged in the warehouse, words that meant only one thing: Starsky' s cover had been blown. The car roared into action, racing toward the warehouse, as Hutch listened to the voices with a growing sense of horror, knowing what was going to happen and knowing that he could never get there in time to prevent it.

He heard the sound of gunshots clearly. And then there was only an even more frightening silence. A moment later, he and the others burst through the warehouse door, breaking up the escape attempt.

For three frantic minutes that seemed more like three years, he ran between the high pyramids of packing cases, searching for Starsky. He found him, finally, half-conscious and huddled in a corner. It all ended with the ambulance ride and the hot, sickening smell of blood on a summer afternoon.

Now Hutch felt tired, empty. Even the soda pop tasted flat and bitter. He set the can down on the counter with a sigh. Wondered if he wasn't too young to feel so old. And it was too damned hot in the room. "What's wrong with the air conditioner?" he asked as Starsky came back into the room.

"Don't know. It was working okay when I went to bed." Starsky picked up his gun and, electing not to bother with the holster, stuck the weapon into his waistband, covering it with the shirt. "Can I drive today?"

"With one arm? No way."

Starsky scowled. "Well, can we take my car, at least? A whole day in your jalopy and my kidneys won't be worth having."

Hutch was in no mood to drive the Torino, but he was also not in any mood to argue the matter. It was easier to humor his partner. "All right, but I'm going to be behind the wheel," he cautioned, "so let me drive and keep your opinions to yourself. Understand?"

Fleetingly, Starsky grinned at him.

Hutch felt his own mood lighten just a little and he smiled faintly in return. This was a new day, he decided. A new job to do. The Fields business was finished. The bad guys were in jail--at least that bunch of bad guys. Starsky was all right. Hell, things weren't so bad.

Almost jauntily, he led the way out of Starsky's apartment.

For nearly three hours they patrolled without incident. To the casual observer, such activity might have looked boring, but neither Starsky nor Hutch ever really found it so. Cruising up one street and down the other, watching, anticipating . . . and knowing that at any given moment, the world could explode around them. Such duty was an important part of the job. Maybe it was the air of constant anticipation, or the underlying aura of unknown danger; maybe it was the reassurance of routine or, simply, the quiet sense of companionship that was encapsulated within the car, but the two of them never minded patrolling.

Of course, some days were better than others. When it was pushing ninety degrees, and the whole city felt like one big oven, with their car as the hottest spot in that oven, then street duty was not quite so great. Especially when David Michael Starsky was in a bad mood.

He was swilling down his third can of soda now as he leaned forward to check another license on the hot sheet. It didn't match. His arm gave a twinge as he sat back and he rubbed it.

"Hurt?" Hutch asked.

"Of course it hurts," Starsky said, his voice increasingly grouchy.

Hutch decided to head for the office. For once, the prospect of paperwork didn't seem quite so bad. At least there was a fan in the office. "Maybe you shouldn't be back on duty," he commented, turning the car toward headquarters.

Starsky was seriously considering hanging his head out of the car window in an effort to cool off. "Yeah, well, try telling that to Dobey. The whole damned department is on vacation." He crushed the empty soda can with his good hand. "Besides, the Captain doesn't like to send you out alone. Everybody knows I'm the brains behind this team."

Hutch pulled into the parking garage. "You're the brains, huh? How many brains does it take to catch a bullet in the arm?"

They got out of the car and started across the garage. Starsky pushed the door open with his shoulder. "You're right. That was a dumb thing to do." He stopped abruptly, blocking the entrance. "Of course, I thought I had a partner right outside who was gonna help me," he said. "In fact, this partner's last words to me before I went into that warehouse were 'Don't worry, Starsk, I'm right with you.' Anyway, I thought that's what he said."

"Yeah, well . . . ." Hutch's voice dwindled off and he shrugged. "Yeah, you're right. I said that."

Starsky nodded and let the door swing shut on Hutch.

"Talking about vacations," Hutch said a moment later, hurrying to catch up, "what you'd have in mind for this year?"

Starsky shrugged. "Don't know. Just hang around, I guess. Hadn't thought much about it."

They turned into the squad room. "What about going to Europe?" Hutch suggested.

"Ha. You must be getting more on the pad than I am, buddy. What's your secret source of funds? Don't you think it'd be nice if you shared it with your partner?"

Hutch sat at his desk. "Hey, I mean it. We could go on one of those economy flights and then when we get there, rent a car or something. It's not that much; I've been checking it out."

Starsky bent over so that his face was directly in front of the fan. "Yeah?"

"Sure." Hutch began pulling unfinished reports from the drawer. There were a lot of them. "We could go see the Coliseum in Rome."

"Italian girls," Starsky said, letting the air move through his sweaty curls.

"The Eiffel Tower."

"French girls."

"Greek ruins."

"Greek girls." He straightened and looked at Hutch. "You know, that sounds pretty good."

"I want to see the museums," Hutch said firmly.

"Sure, sure. A great place to pick up girls."

Hutch gave up and reached for the first report on the depressingly high pile. Starsky stood in front of the fan a moment longer, a dreamy expression on his face. Hutch kicked him once, sharply, and Starsky settled down to work as well.

They spent nearly two hours trying to get caught up on the backlog of their paperwork. Reports are the bane of most police officers' existence and they were no exception. And since Captain Dobey was a stickler for perfection, the work was accomplished only with a great deal of erasing, swearing, and crumpled paper.

Finally Hutch straightened, rubbing the small of his back. "I'm hungry," he said.

Starsky gestured for a moment of silence so that he could finish the page he was typing. Luckily, his typing skills were such that it was no great disadvantage for him to be working one-handed. One hand or two, he was a rotten typist.

Finally he pulled the sheet from the typewriter and reread his closing aloud. "And so Detective Hutchinson and me climbed back into the fiery red Torino, satisfied that justice has been served once again. We have faced death and danger and have won."

"I," Hutch said.

"What?"

"Detective Hutchinson and I. You said me."

"Oh." Starsky stared at the report for a minute, then shrugged and tossed it onto the "done" pile. "Maybe he won't notice."

"Sure."

"Sounds good, though, huh?"

Hutch slammed the desk drawer shut. "He'll be thrilled."

"How about pizza?" Starsky asked hopefully.

"I guess." Hutch riffled through another pile of papers on his desk. "We can make another stab at getting Wally Graham on the way."

Starsky snorted. "Fat chance. I still say he's gone to Mexico and he's not coming back."

Graham, a thrice-convicted housebreaker, was now being sought on a parole violation; they had been hunting him off and on for months. Hutch was convinced that sooner or later, he'd show up at his mother's house. Starsky figured that nobody would be that dumb.

As they rose to go, Dobey stepped out of his office. Even in the August heat, he still wore his suit jacket and tie. "You two going somewhere?" he asked suspiciously, eying the still unfinished paperwork.

Hutch waved the warrant. "Got a tip that Wally Graham might be at home," he said, fibbing just a little.

"All right," Dobey said, mollified.

"And we want to grab a pizza," Starsky added as they hurried out the door. They could hear Dobey yelling behind them and they both grinned.

Hutch's smile faded slowly as he took the wheel of the Torino. "Hey, Starsk," he said, pulling out of the garage.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

Starsky was already preoccupied with watching the passing scene on his side of the street. "Huh?" he said absently.

"For not getting there in time. I'm sorry."

''Oh."

"I . . . tried."

There was a moment of silence. Starsky shifted in the seat. "Yeah, well, so how about you buy the pizza," he said, "and then we'll be even."

"Deal." Hutch knew that his apology had been unnecessary and, between the two of them, absurd. Starsky already knew that he'd tried his damnedest to get there in time. Hell, of course he had. Propelled by anger or fear or both, he'd charged into that warehouse prepared to take on Fields and all of his goons single-handedly.

But still, there was the guilt. Another occupational hazard, he figured. His partner had almost died because he was late. There was no getting around that simple fact. It was the stuff nightmares were made of. So Hutch apologized and felt stupid about doing so.

It didn't really matter, though. He knew that Starsky understood all of that just as well as he did. Understood about the fear and the guilt and the need to say "I'm sorry." Starsky understood, so it was okay. And all nightmares went away sooner or later, didn't they?

**

CHAPTER THREE

Louis was very pleased with himself.

It was still only his first day in Los Angeles and already he had accomplished so much. Now, clad in a striped sport shirt and new, too-stiff blue jeans, he sat behind the wheel of his 1968 dark green Volkswagen and waited for Kenny to come out of the police building. He'd been waiting for just over an hour, but it didn't bother him. He didn't mind waiting.

It was pure luck that he spotted Kenny at the wheel of the Torino as it left the parking garage. The car didn't look like something Kenny would be driving, but there was no mistaking the blond hair and that arrogant profile. Louis thought that such a stroke of luck must be a sign. His mission was surely blessed.

He had no difficulty handling the small car, although he was more used to driving the huge, lumbering hospital station wagon. However, there was considerably more traffic than he was accustomed to. The hardest part was keeping track of the red-and-white Torino as it moved easily through the busy streets. Kenny naturally knew the city well, while Louis was a stranger to it. Once he even lost them in the traffic, but after some hasty sidestreet maneuvers, he found them again, coming out just half a block behind them. He grinned to himself, imagining Kenny's chagrin if he knew about the tail. He's about half as smart as he thinks he is, Louis decided.

Ahead, he saw the car pull to a stop in front of a ramshackle brown house. He parked the innocuous Volkswagen next to the curb a short distance away and settled back to watch.

~~~

"Must be ninety degrees out here," Starsky complained, following Hutch up the sidewalk.

"Probably," Hutch agreed equably.

"'Course, you don't have a sling on your arm."

"Right."

Starsky gave up trying to pick a fight for the moment and they split up, Hutch going around to cover the back of the house. In the unlikely event that Graham was inside, and if he decided to make a break for it, logic dictated that he would head out the back.

Of course, it has never been proved that logic is necessarily a strong element in the criminal psyche.

Starsky went up the steps to the front door and raised his good hand to knock.

He never made it.

The door was abruptly jerked open and Wally Graham came barreling out. The analogy was apt. Or perhaps it might have been even more apt to say that Graham steam-rollered out of the house. Wallace Eugene Graham stood 6'8" in his stocking feet (he was now wearing something that closely resembled Marine combat boots) and weighed in at somewhere around the three-hundred pound mark.

Starsky, who had been at least sure that Graham's mother, a petite, kindly woman nearing seventy, would open the door, never had a chance. Even with two good arms, he would have been at an overwhelming disadvantage. As it was, with one arm in the sling, it was hopeless. He simply toppled over like a rag doll when Graham hit him. "HUT--" was all he managed to squeeze out before the situation got even worse.

Graham, if he'd been halfway smart, would have simply dropped Starsky and run. He might even have gotten away in the confusion. However, like many crooks--at least the unsuccessful ones--Graham was stupid. His stupidity in this particular instance was reflected in the fact that he did not let go of Starsky and make a run for it. Instead, he grabbed a handful of dark curly hair and proceeded to beat Starsky's head against the porch, while at the same time attempting to strangle him.

Starsky lost consciousness almost immediately.

A split second later, Hutch came around the corner at a dead run, his gun out. He went into the crouch position, aiming directly at Graham's head. "Freeze, you son of a bitch, or I'll blow your damned brains out!" he yelled.

The big man looked at him in vague surprise; then, almost sheepishly, he opened his ham-sized paws and Starsky fell heavily to the porch. "I guess you got me," Graham said cheerfully, assuming the frisk position.

Without wasting any time on words, Hutch managed to slap the cuffs around the man's massive wrists--pinching some skin in the process and not giving a damn--and then secured him to the porch railing. He actually had very little confidence that the porch or even the house itself could remain standing against the force of Graham's anger. The big man seemed calm enough now, though.

Hutch forgot Graham as he crossed the porch and knelt beside Starsky. His partner was still and very white. A patch of red stickiness was slowly forming beneath his head.

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Mrs. Graham appeared in the doorway. "I called an ambulance," she murmured. "And some more cops."

"Thank you," Hutch replied in a whisper. He just sat there for a moment, feeling helpless. Then, very carefully, he lifted Starsky's arm and replaced it in the sling. Probably it was a dumb thing to do, because it couldn't possibly help Starsky at all right now, but it made him feel better to have done something.

"Wallace don't realize . . . he forgets how big he is sometimes," the old lady said, trying to explain. "He don't mean to . . . is he hurt bad?"

Hutch shrugged. "I don't know . . . there' s some blood."

"I could get a towel. You want a towel?"

"Probably I shouldn't touch him," Hutch said, much as he wanted to. Then: "Hell, I can't just let him lie here like this." He pulled off his jacket and carefully eased it under Starsky's head. Some blood got on his fingers and he tried to wipe it on his jeans. "Damnit, Starsk," he said.

The woman stepped out onto the porch, toying with one corner of her apron. "Poor Detective Starsky. He's always been such a nice boy. I recall the time when you was both here looking for Wallace and Detective Starsky climbed up on the roof to get my cat down."

"I remember that," Hutch said.

"He died, you know."

"What?" Hutch was staring at his partner.

"The cat. Jesse, my cat, died. Got hit by a car."

"I'm sorry." Hutch could hear the sound of approaching sirens and he bent over until his lips were next to Starsky's ear. "Here comes help, buddy," he breathed. "Hang on, Starsk."

"What's gonna happen to Wallace?"

Hutch looked up at the frail old lady and he felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Then his gaze returned to Starsky's pale face, which was already starting to swell and discolor from the beating he'd taken. If she had only called them when her son first arrived, as she'd so often promised to do, then everything could have gone down easily. They could have come in prepared. Starsky wouldn't be lying on this broken-down porch, bleeding and hurting, and maybe dying. Hutch felt the hard knot of bitterness inside him grow a little bigger. There was no sympathy left for anybody else at times like this. They had to worry about themselves. They had to take care of each other because there was nobody else they could count on. Nobody else cared; that was damned clear.

At that moment, he hated the old lady almost as much as he hated her son. He hated all the people in this neighborhood, who had probably all known that Graham was at home and had not told the police. The people stood on the sidewalk now, gawking. What had happened was nothing more than a nice break in the routine of their summer afternoon. They didn't care that a good cop, a good, kind man, might be dying as they stood watching.

He shook his head. "Wallace is going to jail," he said heavily. ''For a very long time."

A black-and-white pulled up in front of the house, with an Emergency Medical Van right behind. Hutch got to his feet, unhooked Graham from the porch railing, fastened both hands behind him, and shoved the now-placid man toward the uniformed officers as they came up the steps. "Book him," he said bitterly. "Assault with intent to kill. Resisting arrest. And I'll think of a few more later."

With some obvious trepidation, the cops fell in on either side of Graham and guided him toward their car.

Meanwhile, the medics had reached the porch and were beginning to slide Starsky onto a stretcher. Hutch wiped his sweaty face with one hand, watching them anxiously. "Is he okay?"

One of the medics, a raw-boned redhead, cast him a scornful glance. "How the hell do we know yet? All I can tell you is that he took a terrific blow to the head. Who hit him, you or Goliath?"

"Why the hell would I hit him? He's my partner."

"Oh, yeah? Can't tell the cops from the robbers anymore."

"The big guy beat his head against the porch."

"Shee-it," the medic said.

Hutch picked his bloody jacket up from the porch and twisted it in his hands as he followed the stretcher down the sidewalk. "I'll follow you in," he said.

The redhead nodded and popped his bubblegum. "Suit yourself."

He got one last glimpse of Starsky's face as the emergency van slid past. An IV was being adjusted into his partner's arm. Hutch rolled his jacket into a ball and tossed it into the back seat of the car. Then he got behind the wheel and left the scene in a manner more like Starsky's driving style than his own.

He didn't notice the dark green VW that pulled out just behind him.

~~~

The hospital waiting room seemed tiresomely familiar to Kenneth Hutchinson. He sat slumped in the same ripped leatherette chair and drank the same terrible coffee. The magazines never changed and the grouchy head nurse (interchangeable with every other grouchy head nurse) wouldn't tell him anything about Starsky's condition.

Nearly three hours passed. He paced sometimes, gulping cup after cup of coffee, until he had indigestion on top of a headache. Two children whined and fussed over one bedraggled doll until Hutch could cheerfully have thrown both kids and the damned doll out the window. The mother seemed oblivious to it all, engrossed as she was in the pages of MODERN TV AND SCREEN magazine.

An old man, who sounded like he was in the last throes of pneumonia, was apparently just waiting for his wife; Hutch didn't dare to think what she might be suffering from. One man sat patiently behind his newspaper, seemingly unperturbed by all that was happening around him. Either the guy had nerves of steel, Hutch thought glumly, or he just didn't give a damn about whoever it was he was waiting for.

Hutch was just about to storm the desk and threaten to take hostages unless somebody told him something about Starsky, when the doctor came strolling into the room, looking as if he were walking into a tea party. It was the same man who had treated Starsky's gunshot wound three days earlier.

Hutch tossed the Styrofoam cup, still half-full, into the wastebasket and pounced on the doctor. "Well?" he said. "What the hell took so long? How's Starsky?"

The doctor had a face that looked like old leather, full of creases and deeply tanned. His benign expression didn't change as he took Hutch by the arm and led him aside. "You know . . . ah, Detective Hutchinson, isn't it?"

Hutch nodded.

"Well, Hutchinson, your partner is either one of the luckiest men I've ever seen or one of the unluckiest."

"What do you mean?"

"For the second time this week, he's had a very close call and managed to come out of it with very little damage."

Hutch felt his whole body untense and he leaned against the wall. "You mean he's okay?"

The doctor smiled, deepening the creases on his face. "Near as I can tell. He's got a very mild concussion. And a great big headache. Also, he doesn't look too pretty at the moment, but I've assured him that his dashing good looks will return in a couple of days. We're going to keep him overnight, just to be on the safe side, but I don't anticipate any complications."

"Can I see him?"

"Well . . . just for a moment. He needs to rest." His sharp brown eyes raked over Hutch. "And from the way you look, some sleep wouldn't hurt you, either. He's right down the hall, room 211."

Hutch started away, then stopped. "Thanks, doctor. For the second time this week."

"Anytime," the doctor replied. "That's why I'm here. However, Detective Hutchinson, may I suggest that you start taking better care of your partner? The third time in his case may not be a charm, you know. Might turn out to be three strikes."

The doctor was joking, of course, and Hutch knew it. Still, the crack cut a little too close to the bone, and Hutch felt a wrench of guilt. He knew himself well enough to recognize that his nerves were shot to hell. This, coming right on top of the weeks of tension and the shooting, was just about too much for one Kenneth Hutchinson.

He stopped for a drink of water just outside Starsky's room. Bending over the too-low fountain, he took several gulps of the icy water, trying to wash the taste of bitterness from his mouth. As he straightened, he caught sight of himself in the shiny metal surface above the fountain. For a moment, he didn't recognize the gaunt, pale face that stared back at him. There was a streak of dried blood across one cheek. He took out his handkerchief, dampened it in the cold water, and scrubbed the blood away fiercely. Then he carefully placed a smile on his face. It looked phony as hell. A smile like that wouldn't fool a perfect stranger, never mind someone who knew him as well as he knew himself. But it was the best he could do. Starsky would just have to settle.

Hutch pushed the door open and stepped into the semi-darkness of the room. Starsky, a gleaming white bandage on the left side of his head, turned to look at him. "Hi, hot shot," he said, his voice sounding strangely gravelly.

His face looked terrible. Hutch stepped closer to the bed and saw the reason why Starsky's voice sounded funny. Apparently, Graham had gripped him by the neck at one point in the attack, because it was a mass of purple and red bruises. Both eyes were black and blue. Hutch averted his eyes quickly. "Hi, yourself. How are you?"

"Hungry. We never got our pizza."

Hutch tried to laugh, but his weary soul couldn't manage it.

"Hey, Hutch," Starsky croaked.

"Yeah?"

Starsky's bruised and battered face seemed to form a smile. "You ever think that just maybe we're in the wrong business?"

Frequently, Hutch thought. Aloud, he only said, "It's just been a rough week."

"For sure."

Hutch was awkwardly trying to straighten the sheet over Starsky. "Better keep covered," he muttered. "I don't think you're in any condition to fight off hordes of aroused nurses."

"I'll be the judge of that," Starsky said, imitating Alan Alda imitating Groucho Marx. He pushed Hutch's fussing hands away. "Knock it off, willya? You're making me nervous."

Hutch stopped. "Oh. Yeah."

"Look, buddy, why don't you go home and grab some Z's? I want you back here first thing in the morning to spring me from this place."

"Okay, sure." But Hutch stood there a moment longer, not saying anything. Then he sighed. "Well, 'night," he said finally.

"Yeah . . . sleep tight," Starsky mumbled, snuggling down wearily. The drugs were beginning to work and he wanted to sleep. "Hey," he said, not opening his eyes.

"Huh?"

"Take . . . care of my . . . car."

"Count on me." Hutch lifted one hand in a half-wave, but Starsky was already asleep. Hutch paused, watching him for a moment, checking to be sure that his partner's breathing was steady. It was.

He finally stepped out into the hallway. Ignoring the other people, he stopped, resting his forehead against the cool tiled wall. Damn, he thought. Damn all the stupid bastards like Wally Graham and damn all the slick bastards like Barney Fields, and damn everybody. We're nothing but targets in some fucking shooting gallery. Knock over a pig and win a prize.

He blinked away the hot dampness that threatened. Where is it written, he wondered through a fog, that we have to do all the suffering?

When he realized that he was actually beginning to fall asleep leaning there against the wall, Hutch pushed himself up, shoved both hands into his pockets, and headed for the elevator.

~~~

Louis lowered the newspaper, nearly smirking with delight as he watched Kenny hurry by. For all those hours, he'd been sitting not five feet away and Kenny had never even noticed him. Kenny was so uptight, Louis gloated, that I probably could've walked through here bare-assed naked and he wouldn't have noticed.

The good news about David had pleased Louis. While sitting in the waiting room, pretending to read the newspaper, he had watched Kenny worry and he had started to formulate a plan. It was a beautiful plan, a wonderful idea. But David was the key to the whole thing and if he'd died or been badly hurt, it all would have gone down the drain.

Louis was shrewd. No matter what problems he might have had, no one ever said he was dumb. After only a few hours of careful observation, he knew the best way to punish Kenny. Kenny thought that David was his friend. Well, someone as evil as Kenny didn't deserve to have any friends.

As he walked out to the parking lot, Louis could not forget the violent scene he'd witnessed on the porch that afternoon. David never had a chance against that big guy. Well, of course, Kenny could have prevented it. Should have prevented it. The fact that he hadn't kept David from getting hurt only proved that he didn't really care.

Maybe, just maybe, David might prove to be an ally, rather than an enemy. After Louis had a chance to talk to him and tell him the truth about Kenny--the truth about the evil cruelty that lingered just below the surface, masked by that choir-boy face and the false claims of friendship.

Louis climbed into his car, feeling very much at peace with himself. He felt happy. Tonight he would go to a motel. Tomorrow he would find a better place to live. Somewhere he could be alone. He figured that it would take him three or four days to get everything ready. Then he would look for a victim. No, victim wasn't the right word. A sacrificial lamb. That was better. The imagery pleased him. The blood that would be spilled by the innocent lamb was going to serve a higher cause. Louis would be creating a martyr. That made him almost like God. Or God's instrument, he amended quickly, not wanting to offend the heavens. I will be doing God's work. I can't fail, no way, not with Him on my side.

He laughed aloud.

**

Hutch rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully before swiveling his chair around to glare at the man sitting opposite him. "Jimmy, I'll tell you something," he said. "Want me to tell you something?"

Jimmy the Creep grinned and nodded eagerly. "Sure thing, Mr. Hutch. Sure thing."

Hutch leaned across the desk and spit the words out. "I think you're lying. You haven't said one single damned word of truth since you came in here."

The Creep's smile wavered a little and his feet began to shuffle back and forth on the floor. "Now, Mr. Hutch, that ain't so. You know me."

"Yeah, I know a lot of you street scum."

Jimmy managed to look indignant. "I ain't like that; I ain't like the rest. I never onct lied to youse guys. Just ask Mr. Starsky. He knows me from way back. I was Mr. Starsky's very first bust, didja know that?"

"Yes, Jimmy, I knew that. I've heard that same old story about a dozen times from you and at least two dozen times from him. I think it's a heartwarming tale and I'm so glad that the two of you have such a terrific relationship going."

Jimmy nodded cheerfully.

Hutch sighed and leaned back, picking at his teeth with a matchstick. His voice turned hard. "Look around, Jimmy. Do you see Mr. Starsky anywhere in this room?"

Slowly, Jimmy's gaze swept the squad room. No one else seemed to be paying any attention to them at all. His watery eyes focused on Hutch again. "No, I guess he ain't here."

"That's right, Jimmy, he's not here. Do you want to know why?" He waited for the man's nod. "Mr. Starsky isn't here because he's home recuperating from a beating he got from another piece of street scum. That makes me mad, Jimmy. Do you know why?"

Jimmy began to sense that things weren't going to fall his way this time around. He realized that Hutch was waiting for some response. He nodded. "Yeah, sure, Mr. Hutch, I know why that makes you mad."

"Why?"

"'Cause Mr. Starsky is your partner."

Hutch shook his head. "Nope. Wrong, Jimmy. That makes me mad because when he's not here, I have to do my work and his work. That's too much work. It makes me tired and when I get tired, I get grouchy."

"Yeah, I heard that," Jimmy agreed solemnly.

Hutch shot him a glance. "You heard what?"

"That you get grouchy real easy."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"From Mr. Starsky."

"Really?" Hutch thought about that for a moment. "Well, in this particular case, Mr. Starsky knew what he was talking about. I am grouchy and I don't feel like sitting here shooting the breeze with you about the good old days when Mr. Starsky was in uniform and he used to run you in for being drunk and disorderly every Friday night."

Jimmy, wisely, didn't say anything. He just sat there wondering if there was some kind of law against scratching your personals in a cophouse. He decided not to risk it and just scooted around on the chair a little.

Hutch snapped the matchstick in two suddenly. "Let's cut the crap, huh? Now. I know that somebody is dealing reds and yellows in Lucy's Bar and Grille. And I know you know it, too. So talk to me."

The Creep studied a wad of bubble gum that was stuck to the bottom of his shoe and considered his alternatives. It didn't take him long to decide that he would rather count on the scruples of a cop--even a grouchy cop like this one--than on the goodwill of his own associates. He shook his head and a trickle of saliva dribbled from his lower lip. "I already done told you everything I know, Mr. Hutch, I swear."

"You got a job, Jimmy?"

"You know I ain't worked in years. 'Cause of my back that was shot up in the war."

"Want me to book you as a vagrant?"

But Jimmy only shook his head again.

Hutch gave up. It was hot and he was tired; he should have gone off duty an hour ago. One detective trying to do the work of two (both of whom were already overworked) got worn out fast. "Get out of here, Jimmy," he said mildly. "I'm sick of smelling you."

Jimmy the Creep scurried away without a backwards glance.

Hutch watched him go and shook his head. Sometimes it was hard to remember that there were any other kind of people in the world. Not everyone, he reminded himself yet again, is a piece of street garbage like the Creep or a violent dummy like Wally Graham. It was sometimes frighteningly easy to lose sight of the decent people.

Maybe there ought to be a time limit on how long a man can be a cop, he thought idly. Maybe we should have to get out before it's too late and we can't see the forest for the trees.

The thought of Wally Graham made Hutch reach for the phone and dial Starsky's number. His partner, home from the hospital for three days now, was beginning to get itchy.

The phone was answered on the third ring. "'Lo?"

"It's me," Hutch said, slumping in his chair and morosely studying a crack in the ceiling plaster.

"Hi, me. How's tricks?" Starsky's voice was almost back to normal.

"You sound cheerful," Hutch said glumly.

"Why shouldn't I? The police surgeon has okayed me to get out of the house as of tomorrow. And Lola came by to give me a backrub."

Hutch let his mind move languorously over the mental image of one Lola, Starsky's Stewardess of the Month. Her red hair. Her firm, slender body. He sighed, realizing that Starsky was undoubtedly going to be tied up for the rest of the evening. He decided to just go on home, eat some yogurt, and crawl into bed. "Hey, that's great," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "Well, I was going to come over, but if you've got company--"

"She's gone. Flying to Miami."

"Too bad."

"Well," Starsky said, "actually, it's probably for the best. I mean, I'm feeling much better, but I'm not sure that I'm quite up to Lola yet."

Hutch smiled into the telephone.

"Come on over," Starsky said. "I could use a little totally unexciting company."

"Thanks a lot."

"Anyway, you still owe me a pizza."

"I'll stop and get one on my way."

"Great," Starsky said enthusiastically. "Hurry it up."

"Sure."

But he didn't hurry. For one thing, the muggy heat made all movement unpleasant. Even more, his own sense of deep weariness slowed him down. He was so tired, so shaky, that at one point he even felt as if someone was following him. When he looked, of course, no one was there. Paranoia? Great, just what I need.

He had an icy cold beer while waiting for the pizza and exchanged several absent-minded double entendres with the waitress, who inquired after Starsky and promised to serve up a double deluxe pizza to help him recover his strength.

The beer helped a little. At least enough so that by the time he reached Starsky's, he was able to greet his partner with a reasonable facsimile of a grin.

Starsky was looking more like himself. Most of the bruises and swelling had subsided, and he no longer wore the arm sling. Dressed in his favorite and most absurd robe and moving a little more slowly than usual, he got some more beer from the refrigerator and joined Hutch on the couch. Lifting the lid of the pizza box, Starsky inhaled and gave an exquisitely pleased sigh, then glanced sideways at Hutch. "Beats having yogurt for dinner, right?"

Hutch shot him a glance, wondering how the hell he'd known. "I think that broad put everything in the kitchen on here," he complained.

"Edie? Yeah, she really knows how to put a pizza together."

For several minutes they ate in silence. After a day of too many words, Hutch was not uncomfortable with the silence. It was, in fact, restful and reassuring. Comforting. The room became a refuge and he could almost forget that there was anything outside in the world to mar the peace of this place. He could feel himself beginning to relax; the guards so carefully erected during the day began to slip a little.

Starsky, having put away five wedges of pizza to Hutch's three, finally sat back and took a long swallow of beer. "So what's wrong," he asked suddenly.

"Wrong?" Hutch was carefully studying the blotch of grease on the bottom of the pizza box, glumly figuring that the same thing was undoubtedly happening to his stomach.

"You're down about something," Starsky said, pretending not to study Hutch.

"'S nothing, I guess." Hutch realized in amazement that his voice had trembled a little. He tried to draw back within himself, to reconstruct the barriers that had slipped so dangerously. But it was too late. His emotions were too close to the surface. He knew that Starsky was waiting for him to say something; that stubborn son of a bitch would wait all night if he had to. Hutch took a swallow of beer; he could understand at that moment, perhaps better than ever before, why so many cops became alcoholics. They used liquor to dull the edges of the pain caused by the job.

Hutch fiddled with the beer bottle for a moment, then set it down with precision. But he was luckier than most cops. He didn't need to drink away his pain. Not as long as he could share it with Starsky. Having somebody to understand, to listen . . . that made the difference. "Christ, Starsk . . . I'm just tired, that's all." He took a shuddering breath. "I'm just so damned worn out." He was staring at the floor.

Starsky leaned forward and put his beer bottle down. Very carefully, he put an arm around Hutch's shoulders. "It's okay, you know," he said. "Everybody gets tired. I get worn out sometimes."

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Hutch gave a short laugh. "Even you?" he asked sardonically.

"Yeah, even me." Starsky's smile was self-mocking. "Sure. Sometimes the job stinks. But hell, man, don't kill yourself over it."

"Does it matter? I'm going to get killed someday anyway." Hutch glanced sideways at Starsky's face and saw nothing judgmental there, only concern. "You've almost died twice this week." He looked away again.

"Like you said, it's been a bad week." Starsky shifted slightly, not relinquishing his hold on Hutch. He stared at his partner's profile for a moment, wondering with half his mind when they had stopped being young. The anger and anguish of too many years showed plain on Hutch's face. It hurt Starsky a little to see. He sighed. "Hell, buddy. You're probably right. We'll get blown away one of these days. But it sure as hell won't help to get an ulcer worrying about it."

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut for a minute. Damnit, he thought. He stood quickly and began to gather the debris from their dinner. He said . . . we'll get blown away . . . is he that sure? Does he always think about it in the plural? He walked into the kitchen and dumped the remains of the pizza into the trash. At least, Starsky wouldn't be eating cold pizza for breakfast. "Well, look, you just be more careful, huh?" He shoved the pizza box down fiercely. "Don't go getting blown away without me." The words were said lightly, but there was a strange intensity just beneath the surface.

"Hell, no," Starsky said. He wadded a paper napkin and tossed it at Hutch. It missed. "That's not on the itinerary."

"The itinerary?" Hutch picked up the napkin and threw it away, then took two more beers out of the refrigerator and walked back to the couch. "I know I'm going to regret asking, but what the hell are you talking about?" He sat down, handing one bottle to Starsky. They both leaned back, relaxing, feet propped on the table.

"Our life itinerary."

"I repeat, partner--what the hell are you talking about?"

"It's this book I read. Talked about every person having a life itinerary. Like it's all plotted out, even before you're born."

"I see." Hutch rested his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes.

"See . . . it's like . . . everything is written down in a book, except that it's not a real book, of course."

Hutch sipped the beer. "Sort of a cosmic record?"

"Sure, you've got it."

"And you've got our itinerary all figured out?"

"Well, no," Starsky demurred modestly. "Not all of it. But I figure we'll go out in a blaze of glory."

"That's reassuring," Hutch said dryly.

Starsky missed the sarcasm. "Uh-huh. The way I see it . . . well, you remember BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID?"

Hutch opened one eye and peered at him. "Yeah?"

Starsky gave a satisfied nod. "That's it. Out in a blaze of glory. That's the way we'll go."

"Butch and Sundance were the bad guys, Starsk. I don't think the good guys ever end up that way. We either get old and fat and bald and end up getting wasted by some punk kid holding up a candy store, or we drink ourselves to death. Where's the glory? The good guys just don't make it."

Starsky thought for a moment, then his face brightened. "I got it. Davy Crockett. He was a good guy and he went out in glory. At the Alamo."

"Uh-huh." Hutch closed his eye again. "Why don't you go back to reading MAD magazine, Starsk, and leave the cosmic tinkering to somebody else?"

"Well," Starsky said defensively, "you can make fun of it if you want. Go right ahead." The tone of his voice changed slightly. "I think it is kind of . . . well, reassuring, no matter what you say."

Hutch opened both eyes this time and stared at Starsky. He nodded slowly. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

There was a short silence and then Starsky's expression lit up. "Hey, how about a game of Monopoly?" he suggested. "We haven't played in a long time."

"Well. . . ." Hutch pretended to deliberate. "Okay. Though I hate to trounce a man just out of his sick bed."

"Hah! Famous last words." Starsky jumped up to get the game, grimacing as his sore body rebelled against the sudden movement.

They finally managed to get the game set up, after some rather heated discussion centering around whose turn it was to be the banker. Starsky finally prevailed, by employing the unfair tactic of rubbing his injured arm as if it still hurt. It didn't.

Hutch rolled the dice for his first turn and, at that instant, the telephone rang.

"Damn," Starsky said, just having gotten himself comfortably arranged on the floor.

"Sit still; I'll get it." Hutch got up and went to the phone. "Hello?"

"Hutchinson? Is that you?"

"Yes, Cap. What's up?" Hutch hoped it was nothing, or at any rate, nothing that couldn't wait until morning. Hell. The tension in his neck was just starting to ease a little. He only wanted to finish his beer and play Monopoly with Starsk.

Dobey was quiet for such a long time that Hutch thought they'd been disconnected. "Cap?" he said. Starsky gave him a questioning look; Hutch could only shrug.

Finally Dobey spoke, his voice leaden. "We've got a dead cop. Murdered. No, damnit, not just murdered. This was an execution."

Now it was Hutch's turn to fall silent.

"What's going on?" Starsky asked, getting up from the floor.

"Who was it?" Hutch asked Dobey.

"Patrolman Richard McGowan."

Hutch didn't know him.

"What the hell is going on?" Starsky asked again, standing close to the phone.

"Somebody iced a cop," Hutch replied shortly. "Dobey says it looks like an execution."

Starsky's lips tightened and he moved away, rubbing his arm absently.

"Hutchinson, get out here right now. Corner of Adams and Pierce. In the park," Dobey said.

"Yeah, Cap, on my way." He hung up and went for his shoes and socks. "Gotta go, Starsk."

"Not without me," Starsky said, already headed into the bedroom to shed his robe and get dressed.

"You're in no condition--" Hutch began.

"The doc said I'm okay. And Dobey will need everybody he can get." As he talked, he pulled on blue jeans and jerked a T-shirt over his head. Then, carrying tennis shoes and socks, he came back into the living room. "Besides, if somebody is running around wasting cops, you think I'm going to send you out after him alone? You couldn't handle it, buddy." He pulled his holster on.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Hutch muttered, waiting by the open door.

Starsky went past him. "Don't mention it. What's a partner for?"

Hutch closed the door firmly and then stood in the hallway, watching Starsky go down the steps. He could tell from the way his partner moved that he was still hurting, despite his flippant words. Still, Hutch was damned glad he was coming along.

"Hey, you waiting for a bus?"

Starsky' s voice brought him out of his brief reverie. "Right behind you, buddy," Hutch said, taking the stairs two at a time. As he moved, he could feel the comforting/frightening familiarity of the gun pressed against his side.

**

Part Two

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