-CHAPTER SEVEN-

Finally Mendala regained consciousness.

Starsky set the travois down and walked back to crouch next to him. For a moment, Mendala looked at him blankly; slowly recognition dawned. "What's . . . where are we?" he asked.

Starsky, who had been walking for nearly three hours through an increasingly heavy snowfall, bent his head wearily. "We're going down the mountain," he said. His voice was hoarse.

"I guess you saved my life."

Starsky blew on his fingers, trying to warm them. "Yeah, I guess so."

"Thanks."

"All in the line of duty." His eyes burned as if he had a fever.

Mendala was silent, watching him. "Hutchinson . . . he died?"

Starsky's head jerked up. "No. Why'd you say that?"

"'Cause you're here with me. This thing was to get him down the mountain, not me."

Starsky nodded. "I know. But . . . Hutch is waiting back at the car." He glanced over his shoulder in the direction they had come from, back toward the dark trees. "He's waiting."

"You left him?"

"Yes." Starsky's tone turned savage. "I'm a cop, goddamnit." He got to his feet again. "We have to keep going."

Mendala was quiet for a while as Starsky pulled him along, always heading downhill, always trying to walk in as straight a line as possible. "Starsky?"

"Huh?"

"If I don't make it, there's something I want you to do for me."

"You're gonna make it, Mendala."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Starsky jerked the travois over a branch it had tangled in. "You're gonna make it because I left Hutch up there so you could get down the mountain. So you could make it. That can't be wasted."

"But if I don't," Mendala insisted.

"Yeah, all right, if you don't make it," Starsky said, too tired to argue anymore.

"I've got a family. A wife, my daughter. Maybe you saw her picture back at the cabin?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"I'd like them to know why . . . ."

"They'll know."

"Thanks." Mendala seemed unable to stop talking. "You have a family?"

"Yeah. My mother, mostly."

"And a lot of friends, probably."

"Hundreds," Starsky said bitterly. "I'm a very popular guy, Mendala. Haven't you noticed my winning personality? Hell, I've got so many friends, I can't count them all. I've got friends to spare."

"I'm . . . sorry about Hutchinson," Mendala said after a moment. "You and he have been partners for a long time, I guess?"

"Yes." Why don't you just shut up? It doesn't help to talk about it. Just shut up, please? "Yes, we've been partners a long time." He bent his head against the blowing snow and just kept putting one foot in front of the other.

What would it be like without Hutch? He tried to imagine going into the squad room by himself or with a new partner. A new partner? God, no. He couldn't do it. This kind of life was hard enough . . . dealing day in hand day out with death and violence and the filth of humanity until you could nearly go crazy . . . but to try and do it without Hutch--without someone at your side that you knew could be counted on, always--that would be unbearable. There was no doubt about Hutch. They could laugh or be mad or scared or sickened by what they saw, but they were always together. Hell, they could even fight with one another, but it was all right, because even when they fought, the love was still there. They just loved each other. That fact made everything all right. And without that central fact to keep him going, Starsky knew that he wouldn't be able to make it. Just couldn't swing it. He'd have to quit. Yeah, that was it. Quit the damned department. Go someplace else. Do something else. Just live the rest of his life knowing that once he'd had a friend and now that friend was dead.

Suddenly he shook his head fiercely. No. No, damnit, Hutch won't die. He can't. It wouldn't be fair. Hutch is . . . Hutch is my best friend; he's a part of me and if I lose him, I lose a part of myself. I can't let that happen. I won't let it happen.

"Hutch is going to be all right," he said aloud. "You hear me, Mendala? Hutch is going to make it."

"If you say so, Starsky," Mendala replied.

"I say so. Damned right I say so." He moved forward with a new surge of energy. No time to be dragging ass now. Had to get Mendala to a safe place and then get back to Hutch.

When he first saw the cabin ahead, Starsky didn't quite believe that it was real. He stopped in his tracks, stared, blinked a couple of times, then nearly fell to his knees in a confused blend of exhaustion and relief.

"Mendala," he said finally.

"Huh?"

"There's a cabin up here, Mendala, a cabin."

"Thank god . . . thank god."

Starsk walked the last few yards to the cabin. The place was dark and looked empty, but he pounded on the door just to be sure. When there was no answer, he took the knife from his pocket and with fingers that were numb and clumsy, managed to jimmy the lock open. The door swung open silently and he dragged the travois across the threshold.

At first he could only stand there, grateful beyond words to be out of that chilling wind for the first time in hours. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve, almost sobbing. "Made it," he said.

"Yes . . . made it . . . thank god."

The sound of Mendala's voice galvanized Starsky into action. He aimed the flashlight around the room, found a switch and clicked it on. The room was suddenly filled with a soft yellow glow. It was a small cabin, only the one room and a bathroom. But it was neat and obviously well kept.

There was a fireplace and a fully-stocked wood bin. He quickly piled wood into the fireplace and managed to ignite it after only three tries. Hutch would be proud of me . . . thinks he's the only one who knows all that boy scout stuff. He hauled the travois over to the cot in one corner; there was also a bed against the opposite wall. "Think you could make it up and onto the cot?" he asked, not knowing if he had the strength left to lift the heavy man.

Mendala nodded and with Starsky holding him by one arm, he managed to stand and reached the cot. He stretched out with a sigh. "Is there a phone?" he asked, breathing heavily from the exertion of moving.

"No. No phone." Starsky found that he wasn't even upset by the lack of a phone. He had reached the emotional state where he would have been surprised if there had been one. Nothing else had gone right, so why should things have started to get easy at this point? It was going to be a hard fight all the way down to the end. Whatever that end might be. Didn't matter. Whatever had to be done, he'd do it. No choice.

He prowled the cabin, finding instant coffee, crackers, a few other staples. He didn't waste any time making conversation with Mendala about what he was doing; he just went ahead and did it, efficiently and single-mindedly. Made coffee. Removed Mendala's coat and shoes. Checked his vital signs. Moved everything that the sick man might need within reach of the cot. As he did all of that, he gulped steaming coffee and downed several crackers.

When he found a thermos and began filling it with coffee, Mendala seemed to notice what he was doing. He struggled to sit up. "What are you doing?"

"Getting ready to go back." There was a faint hint of surprise in Starsky's voice. Of course he was getting ready to go back. What else? He found a knapsack shoved under the bed and pulled it out.

"To go . . . back?" Mendala's voice squeaked. "Man, I always thought cops were dumb, but you top them all."

Starsky pulled a blanket off the bed and folded it to fit inside the knapsack. "What?" he murmured, hardly paying attention to Mendala's words.

"Don't you know it's suicide to go back? There's a blizzard out there, Starsky. Besides, you'd never be able to find the car again."

"I'll find it."

"And what about me?"

Starsky found some old gloves in a drawer. They were a little small, but better than nothing. "You'll be all right. I couldn't do any more for you even if I stayed. I'll be back."

"And in the meantime? What if . . . what if I have another attack?"

"Don't." Starsky gave an abstracted grin when he found a shabby down-filled coat hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

"Starsky, you can't just leave me here and go--"

"Mendala," Starsky interrupted. "I am going back for Hutch. I've done all I can for you right now and he's still out there in the storm." His voice faltered a little and he shoved the thermos fiercely into the knapsack. "I'm going."

Mendala looked desperate. "What if Guardino's men show up?"

"They won't."

"But if they do?"

Starsky sighed. He took his gun out and put it on the cot next to Mendala. "There. Defend yourself."

"He's dead by now, you fool!" Mendala said, nearly shouting. "You're going out there to get a dead man!"

Busy shoving things into the knapsack, Starsky didn't bother to look up. "If you say that one more time," he said idly, "I'm going to come over there and stuff that damned handkerchief into your mouth."

Mendala picked up the gun and pointed it at Starsky. "I could stop you with this."

"Only if you kill me."

"I wouldn't have to do that," he replied. "It would be much simpler. I could just . . . smash your right kneecap, for example."

Starsky pulled the jacket on. "Mendala, you can smash both my kneecaps if you like and I'll still go. I'll crawl if I have to."

Mendala was quiet for a moment; when he spoke again, his voice was calmer, more reasonable in tone. "Starsky, I know how you must feel."

"Do you?"

"You asked me before if I never had a good friend. Well, I did once, a long time ago. We . . . we were real close, like you and Hutchinson." Mendala paused, staring at the wall. "He bought it at Anzio. A bullet in the chest, like your partner. I could only hold him and watch him die. So I do know how you feel. But why kill yourself by going back out in that storm?"

Now, shrugging into the knapsack, Starsky looked at him. "Mendala, let me ask you something. If you could have saved your friend, if there had been a chance, wouldn't you have done whatever you had to do?"

They stared at one another. Mendala lowered his gaze first. "If I could have, sure . . . but it would've been stupid to take a chance on dying myself, because there wasn't any way to save him. Just like there's no way for you to save Hutchinson."

Starsky was ready to go. He was wearing the down-filled jacket, the too-small gloves, and had a wool scarf tied around his face. He walked to the door and turned around to look at Mendala once more. All that Mendala could see were two dark blue eyes; the gaze was filled with emotions that he could-not even begin to understand. "Well, I guess that's the difference between you and me, isn't it?" Starsky said, his voice muffled by the scarf. "I'd rather go back up the mountain and take a chance on dying with Hutch than go on living wondering if maybe, just maybe, I could have saved him."

He lifted the travois and went out into the night, very carefully closing the door behind him.

It was suddenly very quiet in the cabin. Mendala looked at the closed door for a long moment, an anguished expression on his face. Finally, his expression hardened and he shrugged. "Damn fool," he muttered. "Damn dumb cop."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER EIGHT-

He remembered:

A birthday party. His ninth. Dozens of kids. Balloons. Cake. And best of all, a shiny new bicycle. When the party was over and the day had ended, he couldn't sleep. Instead, he crept down the stairs and sat next to the bicycle, rubbing its vivid red metallic surface, wanting to jump on to the fantastic machine and race the wind. Wanting to do something. Wanting most of all to be grown-up so that he could begin to really live . . . 

. . . begin to live.

Time flowed and he remembered:

Nam. The dying. Being so scared that he threw up. Hating it. Starsky, making it all a little easier to bear somehow, just by being there. Sitting around the barracks with Starsky talking about going home so that real life could begin . . .

. . . real life.

Pain was a constant companion and he remembered:

Gillian. Loving. Being loved. Thinking that now life could begin. Knowing that whole secret was loving and being loved . . .

. . . love.

Darkness was everywhere and he remembered:

Starsky. Dave Starsky, shot down by some hired gun in that restaurant. Starsky's blood on his hands. Starsky was dying. And wishing, wishing, it would all go away. Wishing it was himself lying there dying instead of his partner. Lying there dying. Wishing--starlight, star bright, please don't let Starsky die tonight. Wondering: why does everybody I love go away? Everybody I love . . .

. . . they go away.

Alone again naturally . . . he remembered:

The snow. The cold. And Starsky going away. He was going away . . . .

"Starsky . . . Starsk . . . please . . . come back." They took away the new bike because he left it out in the rain all night. He hadn't meant to forget. And he begged to have it back.

"I'll be good, I promise, please give me back the bike."

No, that wasn't right.

Click illo to see larger version

"Please, come back, Starsk . . . I'll be good, I promise . . . don't leave me all alone out here . . . I'm scared, buddy . . . please, I'll be good . . . just come back . . . Starsk . . . ohgodstarskplease . . . please come back."

He'll be back . . . he said he'd come back . . . I have to wait.

Or maybe, Hutch thought fuzzily, maybe I should go look for him. Maybe he's lost. Hell, Starsk couldn't find his way through the woods if his life depended on it. Except . . . except it's my life that depends on it.

Or maybe . . . maybe something happened to him.

That was a new thought and Hutch considered it for awhile. There were any number of things that could have gone wrong. Starsky might be lying out in the snow somewhere. Lying there dying.

Hutch was wide awake, shaking both with cold and with fear. Maybe I should go look for him.

He edged off the seat a little, intending to open the door and then . . . well, he wasn't sure just what he intended to do then. Something. Find Starsk. That was all. Just find Starsk and then everything would be okay again.

The pain that accompanied the movement was like having a knife thrust into his body. He groaned once. The door handle suddenly seemed a million miles away. He realized that he couldn't make it and the realization hurt as badly as the bullet in his chest.

Hutch managed to get back onto the seat. He huddled underneath the blanket, trying not to be cold, trying not to hurt, trying not to be scared . . . trying not to die.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER NINE-

He stopped to catch his breath. The snow was getting deep enough to make walking--especially in tennis shoes--difficult. And he was so damned tired. He adjusted the scarf more tightly around his face, flexing his fingers, which even in the gloves felt stiff.

How long? Feels like I've been walking for days . . . forever. He lifted the end of the travois and walked again.

When this is all over, he thought, I'm going to eat the biggest pizza. Or maybe a steak. Or maybe both. A party, that's it. We'll have a party. With a whole table full of food. Music. Hutch can be the official bartender.

And we'll even have some of that healthy garbage Hutch likes to eat. That'll make him happy and he won't bitch at me for eating junk. And dancing, we'll have dancing, too. Maybe I can get that redhead from the radio room to come.

There was another time Hutch almost died. When he had the plague.

Pulled him through that time. Yeah, I did. Super Hero Dave Starsky single-handedly brings Kenneth Hutchinson back from the jaws of death.

Well, so what?

He wiped snow out of his eyes and kept walking. But his vision blurred for a moment--snow, he told himself, although he knew that it was tears--and he tripped over a partially-concealed branch. His ankle gave an ominous cracking sound as he sprawled flat on his face in the snow.

He simply stayed down for a long moment, not knowing whether he could get up again, even if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. Just wanted to lie there forever--how ever long that turned out to be.

"Damnit, Hutch," he muttered finally, pushing himself to his knees. "You better not have died after all of this . . . you better be alive. You just better be alive or . . . or I'm going to be pretty pissed at you. I might never speak to you again, if you've gone and died on me . . . after all this trouble I've had." He got shakily to his feet. "And then I'd have to find a new partner . . . too much bother."

He took one step and nearly collapsed again. The ankle was obviously broken. Mendala should've shot my kneecaps out, he thought bitterly. At least I wouldn't have tripped. Despite the bitterness, he couldn't seem to care very much about this new set-back. Just one more hurdle.

He sat down again and began to unwrap the scarf from his face. Using the scarf as a bandage, he wrapped the ankle as tightly as he could. Standing, he tested it tentatively. Whaddaya know . . . it works.

He could walk in the improvised bandage, although his progress was even slower.

After nearly an hour of limping through the trees, Starsky reached the top of a small rise. Below him was the car. He stopped, staring. "Jesus," he whispered. "Jesus, please . . . ."

He began to run clumsily down the hill, slipping, sliding, and tripping as he went. The travois bounced wildly behind. "Hutch!" he yelled. "Hutch!?"

As he neared the car, however, he dropped the travois and slowed down, suddenly afraid. "Hutch?" he said once more.

He aimed the beam from the flashlight into the car and he could see Hutch. His partner was slumped back against the seat, but Starsky couldn't tell if he was alive or dead. He walked very slowly the rest of the way to the car, whispering Hutch's name like some kind of an invocation against death.

He opened the door and crawled into the back seat. "Hutch?" he said quietly. One hand trailed down Hutch's frighteningly pale cheek. "Hutch? Oh, please, Hutch?"

Finally Hutch stirred and his eyes opened a little. There was no hint of recognition in the blue depths. ". . . uh . . . ?"

Starsky gripped Hutch's hand. "Hutch, it's me . . . Starsk," he said urgently. "It's Dave. Hutch?"

"Starsk?" Hutch knew then and with the knowledge tears began to roll down his face. "Starsk . . . you came . . . promise . . . I'll be good."

"Shh," Starsky said. "It's okay now." Then it all came down on him--the exhaustion, the cold, the pain from his ankle, the worry, and the desperate, sickening fear that Hutch would be dead--it all hit Starsky at once and he, too, began to cry, clinging to Hutch.

Absurdly, it was Hutch who became the comforter. One hand rose to feebly pat Starsky's shoulder, to rub his shuddering back reassuringly. "Starsk . . . hey, buddy . . . I'm still here," he said hoarsely.

Starsky sat up finally, in at least tenuous control of himself, one hand still clutching Hutch. He rubbed the remaining tears away with the back of his free hand and wiped his nose. "God . . . Hutch, I thought . . . ." He tried a smile and surprised himself by managing a rather shaky version of his usual twisted grin. "Told you I'd be back," he said.

"Yeah . . . you told me . . . and I waited. Told you I'd wait."

"I was scared," Starsky said suddenly. He sniffled.

"Me, too."

"Great couple of heroes, aren't we?" Starsky said, reaching around to pull off the knapsack. He fumbled through the contents. "Hard to be a hero when you're all alone," he said, not looking up.

"Heroes . . . are over-rated," Hutch murmured.

"Uh-huh." He pulled out the thermos. "I have some coffee. You want just a little?"

"Yes."

With hands that still shook, Starsky poured two sips of the steaming liquid into the cup and held it to Hutch's lips. Hutch took just a little, then leaned back again. "Did . . . did I ever tell you . . ."

"What?" Starsky asked.

" . . . you make rotten coffee."

Starsky laughed a little. "Yeah, you've mentioned that." He poured more coffee and gulped it down, scalding his mouth and not caring. "Actually," he said, "this is better than average for me."

"How' s Mendala?"

Starsky shrugged. "Okay, I guess. We found a cabin and I left him back there."

"I'll bet he loved that."

"Not much." Starsky was slowly screwing the top back on the thermos; as he did that, he was staring at Hutch. He realized with a sharp stab of anguish how bad Hutch really looked. So pale. So gaunt that the bone structure of his face was painfully defined beneath the nearly transparent skin. Starsky swallowed down his fear. No more losing control; had to keep the situation in hand.

He pulled a clean towel from the knapsack. "Think you can stand a little of my rotten doctoring?" he asked lightly, starting to take off Hutch's jacket slowly.

"Yeah . . . can't be any worse than your . . . coffee," Hutch mumbled. He sounded vague suddenly; his eyes were glazed and he seemed unaware of Starsky's presence.

Starsky finished taking off the jacket and ripped the shirt away. Rather than risk getting the bleeding started again, he left the bloodied vest in place. He folded the towel into a triangle and made a chest bandage, looping it over Hutch's shoulder and tying all three corners in the back.

All the time Starsky worked, Hutch was silent, his body limply complaisant to Starsky's gentle urgings. As Starsky bent him forward a little to slip the jacket back on, however, Hutch gave a low moan. Starsky settled him back quickly. "Hutch?" he said. "You okay?"

Hutch opened his eyes and looked at him, but Starsky knew that his partner was not really seeing him, but some private vision of hell. The gaze was blank; then, briefly, horror flickered there. "Starsk " he said breathlessly.

"Yeah, buddy, I'm here."

"Shot . . . ."

"It's going to be all right, Hutch."

Hutch shook his head angrily. "No . . . not all right . . . never all right . . . they shot him . . . they shot Starsk . . . never all right . . . Starsk is hurt . . . bleeding . . . ohjesusstarskisdying."

Starsky was confused until he realized that Hutch was delirious. Dreaming. Or remembering. Remembering a time when it had been Starsky who was shot, Starsky who was hurting and dying. And it had been Hutch taking care that time. Starsky ran his hands down Hutch's face. "Hey, babe, it's all right. I'm here; I'm okay."

"They shot Starsk . . . damn them." The last words were said with a bitterness that frightened Starsky a little by its intensity. That Hutch--easy-going, sweet, too-gentle Hutch--could hate so much scared Starsky and angered him as well. This is what our life does to us . . . makes us hate so much . . . makes us so afraid that we have to hate . . . is it worth it? "Shh, Hutch," he said helplessly. "I'm here." Hutch only shook his head and then his eyes closed again.

Starsky sat there a moment, gnawing on his knuckles. Finally he climbed out of the car and went back the short distance to where he'd let go of the travois. At least the snow seemed to be letting up a little. Starsky wondered for the first time what he would do when they reached the cabin. No phone. No help. Might have to just leave both of them there and go on looking for help. But at least Hutch would be warm and dry and . . . .

He glanced into the car and something about the way Hutch looked caused a sudden panic to hit Starsky. He left the travois and scrambled into the back seat. Hutch had stopped breathing. "No," Starsky said aloud. "No, goddamnit!"

He lifted Hutch's head so that his chin was pointing straight up. Then he pulled the jaw upwards and pinched the nostrils closed. He pressed his mouth firmly over Hutch's and blew. He pulled away and listened for an outward rush of air. When it came, he put his mouth to Hutch's again and continued blowing. Twelve times a minute. All of this was done without conscious thought. Instinct. Training. Fear. Those things ruled him.

He did not know, then or ever, how long he kept it up; existence had coalesced into Hutch and himself and the unspeakable desperation he felt. . . . pleasegodpleasehutch . . .

And when Hutch started breathing again, that first shaky, rasping gulp of air he took was the most beautiful sound that Starsky had ever heard. He sat back, patting Hutch's face gently. "Yeah, buddy, that's it . . . breathe, babe . . . you're gonna make it . . . I won't let you die . . . I won't lose you . . . that's the way." He kept whispering--soft words of encouragement, praise, nonsense--until he was sure that Hutch would continue to breathe on his own.

It seemed another eternity before Hutch opened his eyes. " . . . hurts."

Starsky forced himself to speak cheerfully. "Yes, I know it hurts, Hutch, but don't worry about it. We're all set to go. I'm going to put you on the travois now and before you know it, you'll be warm again. Everything will be all right when we get to the cabin."

Hutch only mumbled incoherently, tossing his head from side to side restlessly. Starsky eased him out of the car and onto the travois, settling him gently. Hutch seemed oblivious to everything.

Starsky pulled the blanket out of the knapsack and tucked it tightly around Hutch. "All set, buddy?" he asked. "Won't be long now."

He stared at Hutch's face, touched his cheek fleetingly, and sighed. Then he got to his feet, lifted the end of the travois once again and moved forward.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

-CHAPTER TEN-

"Starsk . . . ?"

"Yeah, buddy?" Starsky slowed and half-turned, easing the travois over a bump carefully. He rested the travois and crouched down to check the blanket that covered Hutch, and also to give his throbbing, swollen ankle a rest.

Hutch alternated between periods of unconsciousness and moments of vague, disconnected conversation. "Let's go home, Starsk," he said for the hundredth time.

"We are going home," Starsky replied patiently, standing again.

"I'm cold . . . it hurts . . . please, Starsk . . . take me home."

"Sure thing, Hutch. Pretty soon, okay?"

Hutch sighed, seemed to doze momentarily, then spoke again. "Starsk?"

"Hmmm?" Starsky was glad for the conversation. It helped him to stay awake, to keep his numbed mind focused, to feel still connected to Hutch.

"I'm sorry . . . ."

"For what, buddy?"

"You know what for . . . I'm sorry . . . I'll be good . . . please, don't leave me out here all alone . . . I'll be good."

"Shut up, Hutch," Starsky said gently. "You're talking crazy."

There was a pause and when Hutch spoke again, his voice sounded almost normal. "You know, Starsk . . . your bedside manner . . . stinks."

Starsky laughed a little; it felt good. "Yeah; well, sorry about that, Detective Hutchinson. But I think three toes just fell off my left foot. That kind of thing makes me irritable."

"Guess so . . ." Hutch drifted away again.

Starsky loosened his grip on the branches for a minute to wriggle his fingers and then held on again. He hoped that Hutch didn't realize how scared he was getting. He had decided that they were lost. They'd been walking for so long and should have reached the cabin by now. Or maybe he was just screwed up, time-wise. Maybe they hadn't been walking as long as he thought.

I'm lost . . . .damnit, no, I can't be . . . we've been walking in a straight line the whole time . . . couldn't have gotten turned around . . . I know this is the way.

But he didn't know for sure. He wasn't sure of anything by this time. Except that he was tired beyond words, and scared and wet and so damned cold that he couldn't even feel the cold anymore. He had come to the conclusion that they were never going to get out of these woods.

Hutch moaned a little and Starsky stopped to check him. Abruptly, his own legs refused to support him any more and he fell down next to the travois. He tried to push himself up, but there was not enough strength left in his body.

He half-rested on the travois next to Hutch. "Hutch? Hutch, can you hear me?"

"Huh?" Hutch woke with a start. "Yeah . . . yeah, Starsk."

Starsky's voice was dulled by fatigue and despair. "I can't do it, Hutch," he said. "I can't go on anymore." There weren't even any tears left in him to shed. Too tired. He draped one arm around Hutch. "Sorry."

Hutch nodded. "S' okay."

For a long time, they were both quiet. The only sound was the raspy tone of Hutch's breathing. Starsky felt his eyes closing, knowing that he mustn't sleep, mustn't allow the blackness to creep over him. He raised his head and stared down at Hutch, who was watching him. "Big man Dave Starsky . . . gonna save the whole fucking world," he said bitterly. "Didn't do it, did I? I lost, Hutch. Mendala might make it. They'll probably find him. But I lost for you and me."

"S'okay," Hutch said again. "It really is okay, Starsk."

Starsky shifted slightly, moving closer to Hutch. "Guess if we gotta go out, it might as well be together."

"Sure . . . we're partners."

"Uh-huh." There was a lot that Starsky thought should be said. Before the end, he thought fuzzily, shouldn't a man have some profound words to say? Some kind of summing up? Otherwise, wasn't it all kind of a waste? But his mind felt too used up, too wasted. Then he realized what had to be said; there were only a few words that mattered and they weren't at all profound. "I love you," he said.

"Yes," Hutch replied. "I know." He let his fingers trail through Starsky's hair. "I love you, too."

"I know," Starsky said. The words hadn't been necessary. Still . . . "I'm glad we said it."

Hutch seemed to laugh, softly, hoarsely. "Hell, man, we've been saying it . . . for a long time." He shivered suddenly. "Oh, Starsk." His head slumped.

Starsky straightened. "Hutch?" He found that thready pulse again and sighed. Damn . . . Hutch is a lot tougher than he looks . . . .

Starsky knew that as long as Hutch was alive, he couldn't give up. For himself, he found it hard to care anymore. But he had to try and save Hutch. If Hutch died . . . well, then he'd quit. Just lie down in the snow and sleep. But he couldn't just sit here and watch Hutch die.

He got to his feet and lifted the travois again.

It couldn't have been more than a hundred yards when he saw the cabin. He didn't even pause at the sight; there was no strength in him left to react. He only kept trudging forward until he reached the door. Not letting go of the travois, he kicked the door open and staggered in.

A gun was pointed at his chest.

"It's me, Mendala," Starsky said hoarsely. "For Christ's sake, don't shoot."

The gun lowered. "You . . . but I thought . . . ."

"Yeah." Starsky finally managed to uncurl his fingers from around the travois and lower Hutch. He slammed the door shut. "I know what you thought," he said flatly.

"What about Hutchinson?"

"He's alive." Starsky knelt on the floor. "Hey, buddy," he said softly, "we made it."

Some mumbled words were the only reply.

Starsky managed to lift Hutch onto the bed. He carefully removed the bloody jacket, took off his shoes, and pushed wet hair back from his so-pale face. He straightened. "He's asleep," he said, still staring at Hutch. "Or passed out. I can't tell which."

Mendala watched as Starsky took off the coat and gloves and dropped them to the floor. "So what now? Any more bright ideas?"

Starsky ignored him for a moment. He took some more logs from the box and piled them onto the almost-extinguished fire, then stood in front of the flames rubbing his bands together. "I can't do anything else right now," he said finally. "If I mess around with his wound, I'd probably just get it to bleeding again. That would finish him, I think." His mind wandered for a moment and he struggled to concentrate. "And it wouldn't do either one of you any good if I passed out." He limped back to the bed and sat down gingerly. "My ankle is broken," he said, bending to examine it. He slipped the shoe off, but didn't dare unwrap the scarf. "Hurts like hell. So I'm going to wait until it's light out and then go for help." He stretched, massaging the back of his neck, trying to relieve some of the tension. It didn't help much. "I think Hutch can hold on that long . . . yeah, Hutch can hold on." He glanced at Mendala. "What about you?"

Mendala shrugged. "I'm all right. A little pain, but nothing I can't handle."

"Good." He carefully lifted Hutch's wrist. The pulse was still thready, but it was there. He checked the bandage. Still no sign that the bleeding had started again. As long as Hutch wasn't bleeding--well, that was a good sign, wasn't it? That one thought, that one bit of hope could keep him going long enough to do what had to be done.

He reached down with one hand and untied the other tennis shoe. The socks were sopping wet and cold, so he took them off as well and draped them in front of the fireplace. Standing there, he ate some crackers and drank a little more coffee.

"Starsk?" Hutch's voice was a painful croak.

Starsky went back to the bed quickly and sat down. "We're at the cabin, Hutch," he said quietly, taking Hutch's hand. "How do you feel?"

"Don't know . . . hurts . . . hot and . . . then cold. I feel . . . pretty bad."

"As soon as it's morning, I'll go get help."

Hutch seemed to rouse a little and his eyes sharpened just slightly as he looked at Starsky. "You look . . . terrible."

Starsky smiled. "Yeah; well, so much for the fresh mountain air and how healthy it all is. Always knew that was a crock."

"You okay?"

He nodded. "Sure. Fine. Just tired. Very tired."

Hutch shook his head. "You were limping."

"Hey, don't worry about it, willya? I just need some rest."

"Lie down," Hutch said.

Starsky stretched himself carefully along the edge of the bed. "I'll bet the Captain is looking for us," he murmured. "What do you think?"

"Yeah . . . sounds like Dobey. Wish he'd find us."

"Me, too." Starsky glanced at Mendala. "I'm just gonna rest a little. So tired . . . ." He was still holding onto Hutch's hand when he fell asleep.

Hutch stared at the ceiling for a long time; he hurt. Starsk is taking care, he thought fuzzily. Good old Starsk. He let the waves of pain and darkness sweep him away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER ELEVEN-

"Starsky? Wake up, Starsky."

Mendala's voice sounded very faint, very far away. Starsky groaned a reply and covered his face with one arm. He needed more sleep.

"Damnit, Starsky, wake up," Mendala insisted. "I think Hutchinson is worse."

That brought him awake sharply. He tottered for a moment on the edge of complete consciousness, not wanting to face what had to be faced, then he sat up. "What?"

"He's breathing funny," Mendala explained.

Starsky rubbed his eyes and stared down at Hutch, lying curled up next to him. "Jesus," he said, shaken by the sight of Hutch's sweat-drenched face. He pressed one hand against Hutch's cheek. The feel of the burning flesh jolted him and he jerked away, staring, bewildered and frightened, at his partner.

"What's the matter with him?" Mendala asked.

Every breath Hutch took was accompanied by a hoarse, rattling sound, and even asleep, he grimaced, as if each breath brought him pain. Starsky listened and watched for a moment before answering Mendala. "Pneumonia," he said finally. Then he cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. "I think Hutch has pneumonia." . . . no . . . why? It's been enough already . . . please, not more.

Hutch's eyes opened then. His gaze, wild and scared, darted erratically around the room. "Hey," he said hoarsely. "Hey, what's going on? I gotta go . . . time to hit the streets . . . where's Starsk? We need to . . . time for duty . . . hey, come on, where's Starsk?"

"Shh, Hutch," Starsky said almost absently, his mind racing desperately. He patted Hutch on the shoulder. "Shh."

"Starsk? Starsk?" Hutch began to thrash wildly on the bed, his arms flailing.

Starsky gathered him close, trying not to disturb the bandage, and held on tight. "Hutch, hey Hutch, I'm here, come on, it's all right . . . please, it's all right . . . don't, buddy, you'll hurt yourself . . . shh."

Hutch was oblivious to the efforts to calm him. He was lost in the fiery images of his fevered mind. He kept talking, rambling on aimlessly--nonsense words, names and memories that meant nothing to Starsky, memories that were all too clear for them both--Nam, cases they'd handled, Gillian. "Lemme go," he said, his voice a pathetic shadow of his usual strength. "Gotta go . . . duty . . . gotta hit the streets."

Starsky rocked back and forth, as if soothing a child. "No, you don't have to do that anymore, Hutch," he said. "No more. No more. We're going to quit this crazy life." He meant it as he said it. "Why should we go on wasting our lives? Nobody cares . . . nobody cares." He didn't even know that tears were coursing down his face as he spoke. "We gotta quit, buddy, before it kills us . . . oh, shit, Hutch. Damn." He cradled his partner, protecting him. "I'm sorry . . . I shouldn't have left you . . . I'm sorry . . . it's my fault . . . please don't die . . . ."

Hutch looked up at him, not seeing him. "Please," he whispered urgently, "I have to go . . . my partner needs me . . . let me go, please . . . where's Starsk?"

"I'm here; I'm right here with you," Starsky said over and over until finally Hutch settled back into a restless sleep. Starsky gently lowered him back onto the bed. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. "Shit," he said finally. He bent down and picked up one of Hutch's shoes, and threw it across the room. It hit the far wall and fell with a dull thud to the floor. The sound echoed in the room. "Shit."

"You won't quit, you know," Mendala said.

"Won't I?" Starsky muttered.

"No. Your kind never does. Too dedicated. You'll keep right on doing what you do, because you think it's necessary."

Starsky shook his head. "Nobody cares."

"You care, Starsky."

"If Hutch dies," Starsky said tonelessly, "I will quit."

"Maybe, but I doubt it. You'll have one job left to finish."

"What?"

"Revenge."

After a moment, Starsky shrugged and got to his feet, infinitely weary. As he put weight on his broken ankle, the room turned dark and spun around him. He clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and hung on. When he could move without dizziness, he began to put on his shoes and socks.

"I don't think he's going to make it," Mendala said.

Starsky started to object; instead, he only shrugged. "You keep an eye on him," he said. "If . . . ." He finished tying the tennis shoe on his good foot; the other foot was so swollen that he couldn't lace it. "Just keep an eye on him." He pulled on the jacket, gulping down a mouthful of cold coffee as he did.

He returned to the bed and knelt beside Hutch. "Hutch?"

Hutch stirred, but didn't answer.

"Hutch, I've got to go again, but I'll be back. Wait for me, understand?" His voice quavered. "Don't die," he said. "Please, don't die. You promised Terri that you'd look out for me . . . you can't die." He leaned closer and pressed his lips to Hutch's burning forehead. The kiss was a plea, a benediction . . . a farewell? "Hang on, babe," he whispered.

Click illo to see larger version

He got up and left the cabin without another word.

Mendala settled back, his eyes on Hutchinson. "You better not die now, you bastard," he muttered. "I don't want to be the one to tell him. Your partner is a crazy man, you know? I mean, he's crazy. I've seen plenty of guys like him--they usually work on my side of the law, though. They all have a kind of crazy look in their eyes. Too damned . . . dedicated. I don't know what he'd do if he came back and found you dead. Hell, he might even kill me. So you just keep on breathing, cop; just keep it up a while longer."

Hutch tossed restlessly.

It was a perfect morning for a walk--blue sky, bright sun sparkling off the snow in crystal colors, crisp, clean air. Starsky noticed none of it. He found the road and trudged along it, each step an agony as his leg throbbed with pain and his thoughts remained back at the cabin.

Will we really quit? he thought. Or is Mendala right? Do we care too much? He shook his head in answer to his own question. No. I care, but not that much. You care, though . . . probably more than me. Oh, hell, I'm just tired of it all. You can understand that, can't you, Hutch? Always choices to make. Too many choices.

Once the pain became so bad that his stomach heaved and he knelt in the snow, retching. He managed to struggle back up and walk again, but he knew that unless he found some help soon, it would be too late. Too late for him. Too late for Hutch. Just too late.

And every time I make a choice, it seems to turn out wrong. Like this time. I shouldn't have left you. You were in worse shape than Mendala. It was stupid to leave you.

He didn't even hear the car approaching until it was right on top of him. He looked up, shading his eyes against the glare. A black-and-white? Wonder what they're doing way up here? he thought, mildly curious. His curiosity was not great enough to cause him to stop, however.

The car's horn sounded as it pulled to a stop next to him. Starsky halted and watched with a strangely detached interest. Someone was getting out of the car and there was something vaguely familiar about the stocky figure coming toward him.

"Starsky?" Dobey's voice was anxious. "Starsky?"

Cap seems upset . . . hope it's nothing he wants Hutch and me to handle . . . we've got our hands full already, I think. Starsky smiled sweetly. "Hi, Cap. What are you doing way up here?"

"What am I--?" Dobey began irritably, knowing Starsky's penchant for ill-timed and inappropriate jokes. However, something in Starsky's face and the faraway tone of his voice made the black man pause. He studied Starsky for a moment. "We've been looking for you," he said gently.

"Have you?"

"We got worried when you didn't reach the city last night and came up here to find you." Dobey spoke slowly, enunciating each word carefully; the blankness of Starsky's expression worried him. "The storm messed everything up."

Starsky nodded. "Yes . . . that was a bad storm. Hutch said it was too early for such a heavy snow." He seemed lost in thought again.

"Well, we've found you now, so I guess everything is okay, isn't it?" Dobey said.

Starsky mulled that over briefly. "I guess. Well, I have to go now . . . ."

"Where are you going, Starsky?"

Starsky was staring off into the distance. "I've got . . . to get help. Hutch is hurt." His eyes moved to Dobey. "Hutch is dying, Captain, and I've got to go get some help." He turned and started to walk away.

Dobey reached out and very carefully took Starsky's arm. "Get into the car, Starsky. We'll go help Hutch."

"Will you?" Starsky stared at him for a moment, evaluating. He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, okay . . . that sounds like a good idea. You'll really help?"

"Sure." Dobey helped him into the back seat of the squad oar. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"Broken ankle," Starsky replied carelessly. He seemed unable to relax, perching on the edge of the seat as if he might take flight at any moment. "Let's go, huh?"

"We are; we are," Dobey said, settling into the front seat, signaling the uniformed officer who was driving to start the car. Dobey shifted in the seat so that he could look at Starsky. "What happened, Detective Starsky?" he said, hoping the official tone would snap Starsky out of his vague state.

Starsky was rubbing the back of the seat with one hand. "Uh . . . what happened? Guardino's men came after us . . . must have been waiting for us. Chased us. They shot Hutch." His hand squeezed into a fist. "They shot Hutch."

Dobey cringed. "Bad?"

"Yeah, bad." Starsky was silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "They shot him in the chest. It's bad. Then . . . uh, what's his name?"

"Mendala?"

Starsky nodded. "Yeah. Mendala had a heart attack and I had to leave Hutch . . . ." His voice wavered and he looked pleadingly at Dobey. "That's what I had to do, right? It was my damned duty."

"Yes, Starsky," Dobey said very kindly.

". . . yeah. That's what Hutch said. So I left him in the car and took Mendala to the cabin." Starsky paused, biting his lip in an effort to remember. "Then I went back for Hutch and now he has pneumonia and . . . ." His voice dwindled off and Dobey didn't press him for anymore details. "The cabin is right up here," Starsky said a moment later.

Dobey had already radioed for an ambulance. The car pulled to a stop in front of the cabin and they all got out. Starsky, dragging his injured leg, was the first one to reach the door. His hand on the knob, he hesitated for just one second; afraid to open the door and find . . . what?

He shoved the door open.

Mendala was sitting up in the cot, watching Hutch, who was lying half off the bed, tossing in the frenzy of a feverish nightmare. Mendala looked up as they entered, relief clear on his face. "Thank God! He's been out of his head, yelling and--"

Starsky was at the bed in an instant. He sat down and pulled Hutch onto his lap. "Hutch?" he said softly. "Hutch, I'm back . . . shh, buddy, it's going to be all right now." Whether it was his words, or the firm grip of his arms, something got through to Hutch and he calmed.

Starsky looked up at Dobey; his face was pale, twisted with anguish, almost unrecognizable in its suffering. "He's dying." It was a strangely objective statement, coming from someone who looked like a madman. "Hutch is dying."

Dobey didn't hesitate. He turned to the uniformed officer. "He can't wait for the ambulance, Richards. You get him down to the hospital in the squad car. I'll wait here with Mendala for the ambulance."

"Yes, sir," Richards replied.

Starsky was still holding Hutch, whispering desperate words of comfort into his ear. He looked up sharply at Dobey's words, however. "I'm going with Hutch," he said quickly. "I have to stay with him."

Dobey stared at the two younger men for a moment, feeling an all-too-familiar surge of guilt. These were his men; he had ordered them into this. Would it ever end, he thought. Would these feelings ever stop? He, like they, was only doing his duty. My damned duty, he thought, echoing Starsky's words. He remembered when his own partner died, murdered by hoodlums. I survived . . . but I had Edith, a family . . . who does Dave have, except Ken?

He pulled himself out of the reverie and nodded. "Yes, Starsky, I know that. You go with Hutch."

Starsky got to his feet, resting Hutch back on the bed. He pulled the blanket around Hutch, tucking him in with care. "It's going to be okay, buddy," he said softly so that no one heard but Hutch. "I'm going to take care of you."

"Let Richards carry him to the car," Dobey ordered.

"No." Starsky lifted Hutch, wavered a moment as the pain roared over him, and then straightened. "I'll take him."

Dobey wanted to object, but he didn't. He only gestured in resignation. Starsky headed toward the door.

"Starsky--"

He almost paused. "Yes, Captain?"

"Good luck."

"Yeah."

"Are you all right?"

Starsky nodded. "I'm fine," he said; he was gone out the door before Dobey could speak again.

He did relent enough to let Richards hold Hutch while he climbed into the back seat. As the officer settled Hutch in with him, Hutch stirred and opened his eyes. "Starsk?"

"We're going home, Hutch. It's okay now."

"Starsk?" Hutch tried to talk, but he was wracked by a sudden spasm of coughing that left him drained and trembling, able to only cling weakly to Starsky.

Starsky tightened his hold and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. He willed the car to go faster, wanting them to get to the damned hospital so that Hutch could be taken care of. At the same time, he was afraid of what would happen when they did get there. . . . sorry, detective starsky, it was too late . . . nothing we could do . . . he's dead . . . he's dead . . . you were too late . . . sorrysorrytoolatehe'sdead. Starsky squeezed his eyes closed more tightly, trying to shut out the thoughts.

Hutch watched him. Poor Starsk . . . he looks so tired . . . he must be hurting . . . . He lifted one hand toward Starsky's face, wanting to touch him, to reassure him, maybe to make him smile. But before his fingers reached Starsky's cheek, the blackness and the pain enveloped him again. His hand dropped as he was pulled down, down, down, into the maelstrom.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER TWELVE-

The hospital waiting room was exactly thirty-seven steps from one end to the other and he had made the journey nearly fifty times. It hurt to walk, even with the cane that someone had brought for him after he refused to go and let them treat his ankle. He welcomed the pain, almost reveled in it, willfully kept moving so that the ankle would keep hurting. He sent away the nurse who came to check on him, wanting to be alone with his pain and his fear.

Why don't I hear something? he thought fretfully. The ride to the hospital had seemed endless and the moment when the orderlies took Hutch from him almost unbearable. And now nothing. No word. Hutch could even be dead and maybe they just forgot to come tell me. He spun around, prepared to charge through the door.

He almost collided with Dobey, who was coming in. "Starsky? How are you?"

"Oh . . . I'm all right, Cap," he said vaguely. "Have you heard anything? Nobody will tell me about Hutch." He crumpled the empty paper cup that someone had handed him earlier; he was supposed to have gotten a drink from the water fountain and swallowed the pain pill in the cup. The pill rolled, unnoticed, under a chair. "Nobody will tell me anything."

Dobey shrugged. "There's not much they can say yet, Starsky. The bullet has been removed. Everything that can be done is being done."

"What the hell does that mean?" Starsky burst out. "Is Hutch going to make it or not?"

Dobey led Starsky to the couch and gently pushed him down. He sat next to him. "If he doesn't--I said if," he added quickly at the look that appeared in Starsky's eyes, "it won't be because of anything you did or failed to do. You did everything . . . more than one man should have to do for another. Starsky, you did your best."

Starsky didn't answer for a moment. His hands slid restlessly up and down the cane. "I left him," he whispered softly.

"You had to do that," Dobey said firmly.

But Starsky shook his head. "No. I shouldn't have left him. If he dies . . . if he dies, I'll be to blame."

"That's a lot of bull," Dobey said sharply. "Snap out of it, Detective Starsky. Everybody knows the risk when they join the force." His voice turned brisk. "Now, I want you to go and let them fix that ankle of yours. They told me you wouldn't let anybody even look at it. I don't need a crippled cop in my office."

Starsky shook his head, studying the cane intently. "I can't . . . ." he murmured.

"You can't what?"

"Be a cop anymore." He raised his eyes and met Dobey's gaze. "I'm tired. Too tired. I can't do this anymore."

"We're all tired, David," Dobey said. It was the first time he'd ever called him that. "But we all keep going on. Somehow."

"I can't." Starsky looked away again. "I don't want a new partner, Cap . . . I don't want any partner except Hutch. Without him as my partner, I don't want to be a cop. It's too damned tough."

Dobey sat back, folding his arms. "So you've given up on Hutch, have you?"

"What?" Starsky sounded surprised.

"You sound like you've got him dead, buried, and forgotten. You think that he'd ever give up on you like that?"

After a moment, Starsky shook his head. "No . . . I guess not."

"Damned right. I can remember pacing these corridors with him a couple of times, too, you know. And he never gave up hope. Everybody else, maybe, but not Ken. Don't you owe him that much? Your hope?"

Starsky was silent and finally he nodded.

"All right then, can all that talk about quitting or having a new partner. And get that ankle taken care of."

Starsky got up. "Can I see him first?"

Dobey sighed. "I'll check it out."

"Thanks, Cap."

A few minutes later, Starsky was standing outside the intensive care unit, staring at the oxygen tent over Hutch. Between the tent, the IV's and other medical equipment, and people crowded around, he could hardly see Hutch at all.

"See, Starsky," Dobey said. "I told you he was being well-taken care of."

Starsky didn't answer. He stood with his forehead pressed against the glass and watched. Once, a nurse moved and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Hutch's face through the tent.

"Starsky?"

He turned around. Dobey and a nurse lowered him into a waiting wheelchair. Too tired to argue anymore, he just closed his eyes and let them take him away.

He didn't look back.

Other people took control of his life then and he let them. First he was taken to x-ray, where a cheerful technician photographed his ankle and chatted endlessly about something. Starsky didn't listen.

Before he knew what was happening, someone had stuck a needle in his arm and everything began to grow blurry. He tried to protest, but the words were lost in sleep.

He woke up much later. His foot, sporting a fresh cast, was suspended from a pulley over the bed. He lay still for a moment, watching Dobey sleep in a chair across the room. What's he doing here? Should be with Hutch. Unless . . . unless there isn't any need for him to be with Hutch . . . .

It would be like Dobey, Starsky thought, to stay here so that he could tell me himself.

Moving carefully, he sat up and managed after a few moments' effort to pull his foot free from the pulley. There was a robe lying across the end of the bed and he pulled it on over the skimpy hospital gown.

He slid out of the bed, gingerly resting his foot on the floor, and looked around for the cane. Apparently no one had expected him to be walking around, because the cane was nowhere in sight. He shrugged and went without it. Dobey didn't stir as Starsky crossed the room, eased the door open and slipped into the hall.

Apart from a few visitors, who did no more than look at him curiously, there was no one in the corridor as Starsky retraced his steps to the intensive care unit. He stood outside the room and stared in through the glass. The oxygen tent was gone and Hutch was lying in the bed, hooked up to what looked like a dozen different machines. Starsky felt a lessening of the tightness in his chest. Still holding on, Hutch . . . good boy.

The doctor glanced up and saw Starsky leaning against the window. He spoke a few words to the nurse. She nodded and came to the door. "Detective Starsky?" she said pleasantly.

"Don't send me back to the room," he said. "I won't get in the way, I promise . . . please." He tried to smile.

"The doctor says you may come in for just a moment, if you like. Detective Hutchinson has been asking for you."

Starsky hung back a little. After all he'd been through--the pain, the fear, the waiting--it was hard for him to realize that he could just walk through the door and see Hutch.

"Come on," the nurse urged gently. "He's all right."

She held the door open and he followed her inside. The other nurse stood aside and Starsky took her place by the bed. He took a deep breath and raised his eyes.

Hutch was awake and recognition flickered in his pale blue eyes when he saw Starsky. "Starsk . . . ." he said, his lips barely moving.

"Hi," Starsky said softly. "How you doing?"

"Okay . . . you?"

"Never better." He hesitated; then, tentatively, as if holding a fragile object, took Hutch's hand. For a moment, he couldn't speak. "Damn," he said finally.

"Yeah," Hutch agreed. On the other side of the bed someone was adjusting an IV in Hutch's arm. "Rough," he said. "Thought I'd bought it."

"Me, too. Thought we both had. But we pulled it off." He got the courage finally to look closely at Hutch's pale face. His partner looked tired, but beyond that okay. Better than okay; he looked wonderful. Alive.

Hutch tried to turn his head and see Starsky's foot, but the effort was too much. "They said you broke your ankle."

"Yeah. But it's all right." Starsky realized that the nurse was hovering just behind him. She tapped him on the shoulder. "Guess I have to go," he said reluctantly. "You need to rest. But I'll come back later."

"Okay . . . Starsk?"

"Hmmm?"

Hutch seemed to falter for a moment. ". . . thanks . . ."

Starsky shrugged. "What for?"

"Idiot. You know what for."

He smiled a little. "So? What's a partner for anyway?" He clung to Hutch's hand a moment longer and then allowed the nurse to lead him out of the room. With a frown, she settled him in a wheel chair again.

"You shouldn't be walking on that cast," she scolded him. "They might have to re-set it now."

Starsky grinned at her. "Doesn't matter, honey."

"Well, it should matter. Would you like to limp for the rest of your life?"

Starsky considered that for a moment. "No," he agreed, as she pushed him toward his room. "But I had to check on my partner."

"You should have asked someone. They would have told you that he was doing fine."

As they reached the room, Starsky shook his head. "No. I had to see him. Just to be sure."

Dobey was awake when they entered. He waited until the nurse settled Starsky on the bed and left the room. "Where the devil did you go?" he growled in his fiercest mock-angry voice.

Starsky was sitting up in the bed. "To see Hutch. They let me talk to him."

"How is he?"

Starsky nodded. "Okay." He tried to keep smiling, but sudden tears welled in his eyes. He turned away from Dobey quickly. "I think he's going to make it," he said after a moment, his voice choked.

"Thank god," Dobey said. He stood, straightening his tie and giving Starsky a minute to recover. "I better go check on Mendala."

Starsky cleared his throat. "Will he live to testify?"

"Yes. It was a mild attack. But if you hadn't given him the treatment right away, he probably would have died. We'll get Guardino. That should make you feel good."

"Yeah, I guess." Starsky realized that his ankle was hurting.

"You guess?" Dobey sounded indignant. "After what he did to you?"

Starsky tried to explain. "I'll be glad to get Guardino," he said quietly. "But it doesn't even things up. Nothing could do that. What we went through . . . hell, maybe I'm just too tired to care right now."

Dobey frowned at him. "You lie down, Detective Starsky," he ordered. "And this time you stay there until they tell you to get up."

"Sure, Cap," Starsky said, lying down. He gave a grateful sigh, then lifted his head again. "Hey, see what can be done about my car, willya? I don't want to leave it out there any longer than I have to."

"I'll take care of it."

"And, Captain--"

Dobey, halfway out the door, stopped. "What?"

"You'll let me know--"

"Sure, Starsky. Any change in Hutch's condition, you'll know right away."

"Thanks." Starsky settled back and closed his eyes. Hutch was going to be all right. The nightmare was over. This time, one part of his mind said. You made it this time . . . but just barely. What about the next time? And there will be a next time. Count on it. Another choice; another chance to win a bitter victory or to lose it all. He pulled the blanket up, suddenly cold.

He was lost in thought and never even felt the needle going into his arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~< /p>

-CHAPTER THIRTEEN-

Starsky turned the volume up another notch on the stereo and the sound of the Moody Blues reverberated off the walls. He gave a satisfied sigh. This party was more than living up to the daydreams he'd had a month ago. Huggy was pouring drinks with a very free hand at the kitchen table. All of the over two dozen people crammed into his apartment seemed to be having a good time. Velma, the redhead from the radio room, was dancing energetically--alone, but with eye-boggling enthusiasm. Starsky watched her for a moment, before his gaze moved on. Even Dobey looked like he was enjoying himself as he surveyed the contents of the heavily-laden buffet table.

It was a perfect party.

Starsky took in the whole scene again in a glance; he frowned slightly. One flaw in all of this perfection: the guest of honor was missing. Starsky felt that same vague unease he'd been feeling ever since Hutch had been released from the hospital. Something wasn't quite right between them; Hutch seemed to find his partner's perfectly logical concern annoying.

Starsky picked up two beers at the makeshift bar and went into the hallway. The window to the fire escape was open and, on a hunch, he climbed out.

Hutch was out there, leaning against the railing. He glanced around as Starsky joined him. "Hi."

"Hiya." Starsky held out one beer. "Everything okay?"

"Sure." Hutch took the beer and sipped it.

"You feeling all right?"

"I'm fine, Starsk. Quit making like a mother hen, will you?" Hutch turned away and looked out over the neon lights of the city again.

"Okay. Sorry." Can't seem to say the right thing anymore. He stared at Hutch for a moment. His partner was still too thin and still pale, but otherwise he seemed all right. He was even wearing the shirt that Starsky had given him to replace the ruined T-shirt. "That's some shirt," Starsky said finally.

Hutch glanced down at the purple and green and yellow Hawaiian print. "Sure is," he agreed ambiguously.

Starsky turned and started back in through the window.

"Wait," Hutch said. "Don't go in yet."

Starsky hesitated, then sat on the steps. "Thought maybe you wanted to be by yourself," he muttered.

"Not necessarily." They were both quiet, listening to the muffled sound of the music coming from Starsky's apartment.

"I just came out here for some fresh air," Hutch said. "Even city air feels pretty good right now."

"Pretty good?" Starsky echoed. He took a deep breath. "It's great. I've had enough fresh mountain air to last me a lifetime."

Hutch smiled faintly. Again they were silent, until Hutch said hesitantly, "Starsk . . . ."

"Hmm?"

"I haven't had a chance yet to . . . thank you." Hutch didn't bother to add that the reason he hadn't yet had that opportunity was because Starsky seemed to deliberately avoid being alone with him or, when they were alone, stoutly refused to let the talk turn serious.

Now he squirmed, gulping beer. "Ah, you did that already. At the hospital. Don't you remember?"

"I remember." Hutch came over and sat down next to him. "I remember almost everything that happened. It's kinda funny. I was out of my head most of the time, but I can still remember so much. What I said. What you said." He took a sip of the beer and swallowed slowly. "But that time at the hospital doesn't really count. I want to say it again." Their gazes met and locked. "Thanks, Starsk."

Starsky looked away first, staring broodily into the night. "I . . . shouldn't have left you behind."

"You didn't have any choice."

Starsky shook his head. "I had a choice."

Hutch sighed. So . . . this explains it . . . a good dose of guilt . . . the idiot . . . that's why he's been treating me with kid gloves . . . should have figured. "Starsk, I would have done the same thing, if it had been the other way around."

"Would you?" Starsky said doubtfully.

Hutch nodded. "Yes." He set the beer down and leaned back against the stairs. "Hell, it would've been the hardest thing I'd ever had to do. To just walk away and leave you. It must have been rough on you."

Starsky shivered a little. "It was. God, it was. I knew it had to be done, but . . . ." He twisted the beer can around in his hands. "I felt like I was betraying you. Letting you down. And for what? For a piece of garbage like Mendala."

Hutch was quiet for a moment. "It wasn't just for Mendala, Starsk. It was for a lot more than that."

"I know." Starsky paused and when he continued his voice was so soft that Hutch had to lean forward in order to hear. "I thought maybe . . . you wouldn't be able to trust me anymore."

Hutch stared at Starsky's face. "I trust you. Hell, Starsk, I do trust you. What you did up there on the mountain, you had to do. No alternative. But that doesn't affect how I feel about you. Besides, you're forgetting the most important thing."

Starsky looked at him curiously. "What's that?"

"You came back." Hutch picked up his beer and took a drink. "You did come back. I knew you would. I almost wanted to die, you know?"

"Why?"

"Because it seemed so . . . hopeless. It was so cold and I hurt so much. I just wanted to let go. But I didn't. Couldn't. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

Hutch waited until Starsky looked at him again; he made his voice firm. "Because I knew that you would be back for me."

"Thank you," Starsky said in a whisper.

Hutch draped one arm around Starsky's shoulders and gave him a firm hug. After a moment, he withdrew his arm and got to his feet. "For a couple of tough cops," he said grinning, "we sure can get soapy."

Starsky leaned back and looked up at him. "Psychologists say that it's much healthier to express honest emotions than to keep them all bottled up inside."

"S'at so? Where'd you hear that?"

"From a book I was reading yesterday. In the check-out line at the grocery store."

Hutch hid his smile by bending to crush the beer can. "So what was the title of that fascinating book?" he asked.

"Thirty Days to a Healthier Psyche."

Hutch shook his head, laughing. "Oh, Starsk. Sometimes I wonder why you're my best friend."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Starsky said indignantly.

"Nothing, nothing." He changed the subject quickly. "Did Dobey tell you I'll be back on duty Monday?"

Starsky frowned a little. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"The doctors say I am. Unless you think you know better? Or maybe you're just used to working with Whitman? Maybe you'd like having him for your partner permanently."

"Hah," Starsky said. "Whitman has not been my partner. He's been a passenger in the car with me. And speaking of cars, mine is ready."

"Great," Hutch said glumly. "Guess everything will be back to normal come Monday, then."

"I guess." Starsky bit his lip. "Are we doing the right thing, Hutch? I mean, for a while, I really thought about quitting."

"I know. So did I." Hutch shook his head. "But we can't, Starsk. This is all too much a part of what we are. We're cops. And partners. And friends. It all goes together."

"I guess."

"Risks and all." Hutch shrugged. "No way out. Anyway," he finished briskly, "don't you think we'd better get back to the party? Somebody might miss us."

"Yeah." Starsky smiled. "Velma promised me a dance."

Hutch grinned lecherously and climbed in through the window.

Starsky sat still for a moment. He took a deep breath of the night air, held it briefly, and expelled slowly. He realized then that Hutch had not yet returned to the party, but was hovering just inside the dim hallway, waiting for him.

He gulped down the last of his beer, crumpled the can cheerfully, and followed his partner.

If you need a reason to begin again
I am
I am
you will find an answer at your journey's end
I am
waiting there, my friend . . .
I'm the one you call your friend . . . .< br>                                    HAYWARD & LODGE

-end-