“Hutchinson,” Dobey yelled from his office door.
Hutch turned with a start. He had been reading a report on the investigation and was startled by Dobey’s voice.
Dobey watched as the man approached. He wasn’t sure that what he had to say might not make matters worse. Sometimes hope could work against you.
“Yeah, Captain?” Hutch still looked tired. The sleep he had gotten the night before had been punctuated with nightmares. He could hear Starsky calling him but he was unable to reach him, to help.
Hutch looked at Dobey expectantly.
“A rookie took a statement from one of Starsky’s neighbors who said she had seen a van parked nearby the night before Starsky disappeared. I had a unit check it out. They found what looked like a piece of a canvas bag on the spot where the van had been parked. I had the lab run some tests on it. They just called. I thought you might want to go find out what they discovered.”
Hutch’s heart leapt. Dobey saw the change in his expression and placed a hand on his arm, stopping him before he could leave.
“Hutch,” he began softly, “it may be nothing. It’s a long shot at best.”
“Maybe not!” Hutch said as he almost ran from the office.
Dobey shook his head and said a silent prayer for both of his boys.
Kate Wallis looked up as she heard the door to the lab open. “Hutch, how you holding up?”
“I’m O.K. What have you got?”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Hutch. It’s not much.” She reached behind her and picked up a piece of material. “The officer found this piece of canvas. I’m not even sure what possessed him to pick it up.” She handed it to Hutch as she reached for the report.
“I ran a series of tests on it. The material itself is not remarkable, ordinary canvas, probably ten or twelve years old, at least. But I did find some blood stains on it.”
She watched as look of fear crossed Hutch’s face. “No, its not human blood. It’s most probably from a pig.”
“Kate, what could this possibly have to do with Starsky? For all we know it could have been sitting out there for years!”
“Hold up for a sec. It has not been sitting out there long; there are no signs that it has been exposed to the elements. Next, I don’t think that it is the kind of thing you would find in that neighborhood. When I discovered that it was pig’s blood on it, that got me to wondering what in the world it was doing there. If it was from meat someone had bought in a store then why would it be on canvas? Even if they had carried it in a canvas bag, the meet would have been rapped. So I looked a little further and turned up a couple of more things. First, there were traces of salt on the bag. Second, while I had it under the scope, I discovered the faint hint of what I think was probably some kind of logo. All I could make out were the letters SE.
Hutch looked at her blankly.
“If I had to guess, and this is a very way out guess, I would say that the bag may have come from a slaughterhouse. I mean, we don’t exactly have livestock roaming the streets around here. And salt is used as part of a brine solution for curing various cuts of pork. The bag could have held salt and maybe the bloodstain happened at the plant. Of course, it could be a lot of things that I haven’t even thought of.”
Hutch knew that she was reaching but at this stage he was willing to grab onto anything.
“Thanks, Kate, you’re right, it’s a long shot but right now it’s all we’ve got!”
Cold, so cold. He could no longer remember a time when he had felt warm, when he did not hurt. Had there been a time? He tried to think.
He was no longer chained, but the thought of escape no longer occurred to him.
God it hurt. He was alone. No, that wasn’t right. There was the other. He wanted something, something important. What was it? If he could only remember then maybe it would end.
He shivered, his body still fighting for a life his mind no longer cared about. He wished that he could just slip away, but the other would not give him release. Only pain.
Tears flowed down his face, but he did not notice them. He prayed to God for release. None came.
From somewhere a picture formed in his mind. A man. Blond with blue eyes. The other? No, this was someone else. Someone who did not bring pain. He knew this man. Who was he? He concentrated on the face, trying hard to remember. More images: being held, a cool cloth on his face, a gentle touch.
Hope. This man meant hope.
Without volition, his swollen lips and tongue moved, tried to form a name that his mind had latched onto.
Brassard walked over to the broken man who lay on the floor. He saw the tears and smiled. Six days. He was truly amazed that David had been able to persevere this long. But the time was almost upon them now. Soon each would be able to fulfill his destiny.
Brassard bent down and wiped the tears, causing an involuntary shudder from the man.
“David, the end is near. We have little time left together, at least as we are now. Death is drawing close but I’m afraid that it will be painful for you, very painful, but there is no other way.
“I must prepare you soon. You will need to be more alert when the time comes. What nightmares do you have left, I wonder? Some secret fear that you keep hidden.
“Ah, but I think I know. The thing that you fear the most is not your death, no, but that of the blond one. So I have arranged a little surprise for you. It should be arriving any time now. But before it does, you must be ready.”
Starsky felt a sting in his arm but it barely registered.
“This will help you David. I need you more coherent for our final moment together. I can’t have you slipping away without me, now can I?
“The drug will take awhile, be a good boy while I’m gone. But don’t worry, I’ll be back soon with a special guest.” Brassard left Starsky where he lay as he went to finish his preparations.
Hutch drove slowly past a row of deserted factories and warehouses. This would be the third one he had checked out. The other two had turned up no leads and he was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t made a mistake. Each moment wasted on dead ends was just that much longer that Starsky was with Brassard. But he had no other choice. This was the only lead they had gotten and he needed to do something, anything. He didn’t believe that Starsky was dead yet, somehow he felt that he would know if he were. But a rising sense of dread told him that there was little time left.
He parked a short distance away from the third building on his list. “Zebra three to dispatch. Let Dobey know that I’m checking out O’Neill’s Meat Processing Plant. I’ll radio back in twenty. Over”
“Gottcha, Hutch,” came back Millie’s voice. “Be careful, over.”
“Thanks, Millie, I will. Out.” Hutch hung the mike up and got out of his car. He felt a bit foolish radioing in at each stop but it was the only way that Dobey let him go without backup. Hutch had feared that, should he come across Brassard, there was a greater chance of being spotted the more people that were around, and that could spell disaster for Starsky. He prayed that the Reaper’s overly confident ego would not allow him to even consider the possibility of capture.
He walked slowly over to the building, keeping as out of sight as possible. He checked the door and his heart jumped. It was not locked. He eased it open slightly and peered in. From his vantage point it looked empty, there was no sign that anyone had been there recently. He slipped in and stood for a moment, listening.
Hearing nothing, he carefully made his way deeper into the building. He shuddered involuntarily at the possibility of Starsky being trapped in this place. It had a cold, dead feeling to it.
As he moved farther into the building the sense of dread he had had earlier grew. He rounded a corner which lead into another area of the building. He paused, peering into the dimness ahead.
He froze and that one moment of hesitation cost him. At the instant that his mind registered a still form on the floor in front of him something hard came down on the back of his head. He slumped forward, his last conscious thought a silent apology to the one he had failed.
“Come,” Dobey yelled at the knock on the door.
“Captain, sorry to bother you, it’s probably nothing but…”
Dobey looked at Millie with something less than patience. Hutch was not the only one feeling the effects of Starsky’s disappearance. Dobey’s nerves were frayed and it was all he could do to keep from taking out those feelings on his people.
“Well?”
“Hutch hasn’t checked back in,” Millie blurted out. “It’s been half an hour since his last call, ten minutes longer then it should be.”
“Damn! What was his last location?”
“O’Neill’s Meat Processing Plant over near Boyton.”
Dobey was on the phone calling for backup before Millie made it to the door.
A hard slap brought Hutch abruptly back to reality. His first realization was that he was suspended painfully by his arms, his feet barely touching the ground. The next realization broke his heart.
Starsky, slumped over in a chair, unrestrained but unmoving. He was naked from the waste up and the sight of his damaged body was more than Hutch could bear. If there was an inch of flesh not touched Hutch could not see it. The once healthy skin was now mottled purple, the bruising extensive. Cuts, some still oozing blood, were interspersed across his torso along with what looked like blackened burn marks.
Hutch’s eyes fell upon Starsky’s right arm, which rested at an odd angle on the arm of the chair. He thought he saw a glint of white protruding through the skin. He could see blood staining the legs of his pants and could only wonder at the damage that was hidden from sight.
A sob caught in his throat as he called out to Starsky. There was a slight stirring and he watched in horror as his partner raised his head. The lips were swollen and cracked and the face was as bruised as the rest of his body. One eye was almost completely swollen shut, the other stared blankly ahead, not acknowledging that Hutch was even there. Then the head slowly sagged back to his chest.
Hutch felt sick and could not stop the bile that rose in his throat. He threw up, sending painful waves to his already strained arms as his body spasmed. He tried to hang his head forward but only partially succeeded.
“Messy, Detective Hutchinson, very messy. No matter, it will shortly not make a difference.”
Hutch turned his head to the side and saw Brassard standing there, eyeing him.
“Son of a bitch…”
“Witty and original, detective.
“I see that you got the little clue I left. I wasn’t sure that it might not be too subtle but you are clever, aren’t you? And you arrived just in time. I’m not sure how much longer poor David could hold out.”
Brassard walked over to stand next to Starsky. Hutch’s skin crawled as the man laid a proprietary hand on Starsky’s shoulder. He bent over and whispered something and Hutch watched as his friend began to shake.
“Don’t touch him!” Hutch screamed. Hutch watched as Starsky fought to raise his head again. Brassard ignored Hutch, still speaking softly into Starsky’s ear. Slowly, with an agonizing effort, Starsky brought his head back up and looked at Hutch.
“H…hut…?” The word would not form through the abused mouth.
For a moment nothing existed for Hutch other than the man in front of him.
“Yeah Starsk, it’s me. I’m sorry, buddy.” The words could never express the depth of emotion Hutch was feeling.
“Sokay.” Hutch felt his vision blur at the simple release from blame that his partner offered.
“Touching,” Brassard said. “And now David, it is time.”
Brassard chose a knife from the table and turned back to Starsky. He slowly ran the blade across Starsky’s chest, not hard enough to break skin but enough to elicit a moan.
Starsky felt the blade run down his chest but he ignored it. The pain became secondary to the blurred image in front of him. He heard Hutch yelling. He wanted to tell it was okay, that he was tired and just wanted it to end, but he couldn’t seem to speak.
Then the knife was gone, replaced by a cold touch. Brassard was talking to him, he tried to focus on the words but it was too hard. He started to close his eyes again.
“No, no David. Not yet. There is one more thing that you must see before I let you go. You must watch as I take away the one thing that you have left.”
Brassard turned away from Starsky to face Hutch.
“You see, detective. I learned from my last encounter with David that he did not fear his own death enough to aid me in my purpose. But he did fear yours. Without knowing it will be instumental in my success.”
Starsky heard the words and understood. From somewhere deep within himself the last of his reserves snapped. He screamed and lunged forward as he watched the knife plunge into Hutch.
Dobey sat in the waiting room. He was tired and drained. Maybe it was time to retire. He just didn’t seem to have the stomach for this anymore. He sighed. The first rule of being a captain is not to get too personally involved. But what he had seen that night had shaken him to his very core. He had witnessed many gruesome things over his years on the force but he knew that he would never shake the image of what he had seen this day.
When the officers had stormed the processing plant, they had come upon a scene out of a nightmare. The images continued to haunt him.
Hutch, hanging from his arms, the hilt of a knife protruding from his abdomen. His eyes, oh god Dobey didn’t ever think that he would forget that look. How Hutch had even remained conscious was a mystery, but the naked terror and total helplessness that showed on his face as he struggled weakly against the ropes, trying desperately against all hope to help the man who lay on the floor, would stay with him the rest of his life.
And Starsky. Dobey fought back the tears at the memory. Brassard, supporting the man in a vile parody of an embrace, holding him so that he could see Hutch even as he clutched his hands to the young man’s throat, strangling out whatever life there was left in the abused body.
The shot. Dobey hadn’t even realized that he had fired his gun. Brassard had turned and smiled at him even as the bullet struck.
It was bedlam after that. Police and paramedics everywhere. Shouted orders, desperate pleas for assistance.
And now the waiting. But for what? How could anyone survive what he had seen? Even if somehow the physical self recovered, what of the mind?
It was quiet now. Blissfully quiet. The darkness was soothing really, not at all what he had expected. Why had he fought against this for so long?
From faraway he felt hands, but it didn’t matter anymore. The fight was over, there was nothing left.
He had always thought that there would be a light, a tunnel of some sorts. Isn’t that what everyone said? Maybe that came later. Maybe for now he would be allowed to enjoy the nothingness.
Images came and went. Good. At least part of the scenario was playing out as he had expected. Visions from his life: his childhood, his time on the force. The visions weren’t quite right though, were they? Something was missing. What was it? He thought for a moment. No, not something, someone.
He tried to recall the person but the blackness called, tantalizing in its plea to let go. He started to give in again, to drift. That was better, really. It was easier.
But there was a tug, he sensed it rather than felt it. It was tenuous, but there. Please, he begged, let me go. No more. I can’t.
He hated the silent thing that tried to keep him from the resting, from knowing nothing.
Shit, he thought as he felt a jolt to his body.
“Captain?” He felt a hand on his shoulder.
Dobey turned to look into the eyes of Huggy.
“Been here before, haven’t we?” Huggy said as he seated himself next to Dobey.
The captain nodded wearily. “Too many times. It’s not good.”
The thin man nodded. He had talked to one of the uniforms on his up and knew the situation.
“He was clinically dead when they brought him in. I don’t know what’s going on now.”
“They’ll get him back.”
Dobey shook his head. “You didn’t see, Huggy. You can’t imagine…” Dobey tried to get himself under control. “We could lose both of them.”
This struck Huggy hard. He had seen Dobey before when things were bad, but never had he witnessed the despair that he was seeing now.
They sat together, keeping a silent vigil. It was all either of them could do.
Damn it hurt. I must not be dead. It’s not suppose to hurt when you’re dead. For some reason that thought tickled him. Then he remembered why he was hurt and amusement turned to anguish. He had failed. I tried. But it wasn’t enough. The pain of failure far outweighed any physical sensation. What’s the point now? I promised to protect him and what good did I do? He remembered the simple word that his partner had spoken to him, the last word he would ever speak. Even after all he had been through he could still forgive. But I can’t forgive myself. You were so afraid and I let him take you. What had those days been like? No, he screamed. It wasn’t fair! I can’t live while he…
Someone was calling him. He wanted badly to ignore it, to sink into the torment that was to be his hell. He deserved it. But the voice was insistent. He had no choice but to listen.
“Hutch? Kenneth, can you hear me?”
Hutch stirred, opening his eyes slowly, reluctantly. For a moment he was disoriented, unsure of where he was. Then his eyes fell upon the man standing over him.
“Starsk?”
“Kenneth, it’s Captain Dobey. You’re going to be all right.”
He wanted to yell, to tell him that nothing would ever be ‘all right’ again but the words would not come. Instead, he repeated his request.
“They’re still working on him. I haven’t heard anything yet. You need to rest, I’ll…”
But the rest of the words were lost. He latched onto the hope that Starsky was still alive. How was that possible? He had seen what Brassard had done. Nobody could live through that. But Dobey had said that he wasn’t gone. Hutch let his eyes close again and prayed to anyone who would listen to give him one more chance to keep his promise. He would not waste that precious gift again.
Dobey watched as Hutch’s eyes closed, the tears on his cheeks mirroring the ones he was watching.
The doctor approached the two men who sat in the waiting area, removing his mask as he walked. He had never seen the damage, the sheer destruction of a human body that he had just witnessed. And he hoped never to again. No person should ever have to go through what that man had. They had worked on him for hours, trying to fix what by all rights was not repairable. He didn’t know what to say to the men who now stood in front of him.
“Doctor?” It was Huggy who asked.
The truth would have to do. “He’s alive, but just barely. The damage…extensive doesn’t really describe it.” He knew that words hurt but false hope would hurt more. “He’s not stable yet. As soon as we can, we’ll move him up to ICU. Beyond that…”
Dobey nodded. It was no more than he had feared but still more than he had hoped for.
The doctor saw the look. He had seen it many times before.
“Listen, please, even though he pulled through the initial surgery I don’t hold out much hope. I’m sorry, I know that hurts, but you need to be prepared that for the fact that he probably won’t make it.” He wiped his eyes tiredly with his arm. “I’m truly amazed that he made it this far. He must be quite a man. He deserved better.”
It was Huggy’s turn to nod. “The best. Can we see him?”
“Once he’s moved to ICU you can go in briefly. I need to warn you that he does not look good. The injuries are,” he searched for a word, “graphic and he’ll be hooked up to a variety of machines.”
The two men watched as the doctor turned and left. Dobey knew that he should thank the man but right now he had little thanks in his heart.
The night had been a long one. Hutch had remained unconscious but his vital signs had improved. The doctors expected a full recovery. He had been lucky they said. Had the knife been pulled out before he had gotten to the emergency room he most likely would have bled to death.
Dobey shifted uncomfortably in the chair that he had pulled up next to the blond man’s bed. What the doctors didn’t understand was that the physical healing was only a small part of what lay ahead.
He sighed and thought of the man who lay two floors above him. Things looked no better now than they had yesterday. Dobey had been up several times throughout the night but each time was the same. Starsky remained comatose, machines taking over most of what constituted physical life. The nurses moved in and out of the room, checking monitors, taking vital signs, but Dobey noticed a detachment. There was no point in getting involved with a man who almost certainly would not pull through.
His thoughts were interrupted by a low moan from the man next to him. He gently reached out and took his hand, watching as the eyelids opened.
“Welcome back, son,” Dobey said quietly.
Hutch turned his head and let his eyes wander around the room before returning them to Dobey.
“Starsky?” His voice sounded scratchy.
“Let me get you a drink.”
Hutch clutched his hand. “Tell me.” A command.
“He’s upstairs in ICU.” Hutch searched Dobey’s face, looking for the truth.
“Bad?”
“Yes, Kenneth, it’s bad.” Dobey could not lie. He would know.
“I need…” Hutch tried to rise but his body failed him.
“No, you need to stay here, to rest.” Dobey gently placed a restraining hand on his shoulder even as Hutch’s body sank back down.
Hutch wanted to argue but could not find the strength. He felt the room begin to spin, his vision cloud. He fought it, needing desperately to get through.
“Please…go…tell him…”
“I will,” he said to the now unconscious man. “I will.”
The blackness still surrounded him, but it had changed. It was not the warm darkness that had embraced him with such gentleness, this was a blackness filled with pain. Pain of the body and of the mind. The memories bombarded him. Torture, helplessness, desolation. He wanted to flee but did not know how. Something kept him here, would not allow him the release he so desperately needed.
Why? he pleaded. He had been through so much. Wasn’t it enough? What more could be asked of him?
Then suddenly the answer came, the thing he could not remember before. The one who needed him. A name. Hutch. For a moment he felt warm, almost whole, but then the despair returned. Please, don’t do this, he begged. You are asking too much. If you love me…
But he knew his pleas would go unanswered. And he hated him for it, even as he loved him still.
The nurse checked the I.V. tubes leading into the man who lay still in the bed. She paused, staring at his battered face. She wondered what he had looked like before. She knew little of the circumstances that had caused the injuries, although she was sure that as the day wore on the hospital rumor mill would swing into full force. She was not sure that she wanted to know.
She took a cloth and gently wiped his forehead then glanced up at the monitors. She shook her head. They told he as much about the man’s condition as did his appearance. She looked at the nametag above the bed.
“David,” she said softly to no one in particular.
Adjusting his covers, she silently turned and left.
Hutch moaned. He saw Starsky, broken, defeated. He wanted to hold him, to comfort him but something was keeping him away. He tried to reach him, to tell him that he was there, but his friend was drifting further out of reach. He called to him, pleaded with him to stay. He felt a mixture of emotions wash over him. But one stood out. There was love, he had expected that, but the other was foreign.
“No,” he groaned out loud.
The doctor looked up from the chart he had been reading. He watched as the man’s head began to move back and forth on the pillow. He checked the chart again and then prepared an injection.
As he inserted the needle into the i.v. tube he heard the man mumble something. It sounded like ‘don’t hate me’. He wondered briefly about the words as he waited to make sure that the sedative took affect. Then he noted it on the chart and went to check on his other patients.
From somewhere else in the hospital a monitor droned on. Beep, beep, beep, counting out the beats of a heart that had died long ago. Doctors came and went but that concerned him little.
He let his mind go, almost able to feel what had nearly been his. He had been so close. But at the very instant that he felt success it had been ripped from him. At first he had rejected the defeat, desperately reaching out even as it slipped from him. Then, for a while, there was nothing.
When awareness returned he allowed himself a moment of regret. But then he had sensed something. He concentrated, opening himself up to the vibrations. No, it was not possible, was it?
But there it was, unmistakable.
He needed to heal. There was still time.
The nurses started to speak with him as they went about their routine. It had been a week and somehow he had managed not to die. He was still unconscious, in a coma, and his vitals remained low, but he was alive. They talked of the weather, trivial matters that they needed to attend to, anything that came to mind. And they worked around the blond man who, for the last three days, sat at the bedside almost constantly.
The doctors marveled at the fact that the man was alive. The nurses did as well. So did the blond and the other two men who came regularly to visit the detective. The only one who seemed unimpressed was the one who was the focus of the attention.
The week had not been without its low points. They had nearly lost Starsky more than once. Even now the doctors discouraged too much hope. Hutch didn’t care. The only thing that mattered at the moment was that Starsky was still with them.
Dobey had tried to speak with Hutch. He knew that the man carried guilt over what had happened. But Hutch deaf to what Dobey said. He spoke only to Starsky; reading to him, telling him of the vacation he had planned for the two of them when Starsky was better, anything other than the events that had brought them there. He had an overwhelming fear that if he didn’t stay with his friend, remain in contact, that Starsky would just slip away. Although Starsky had shown no signs of coming around, Hutch sensed that there was an internal struggle being waged, one that Starsky’s heart may not be on the right side of. He could not explain it to Dobey, or even Huggy, but he knew it was true.
He remembered a faint impression, a dream, of Starsky turning away, leaving, begging him to just let it be. It was ephemeral but nonetheless unsettling. Never in the all too many times that Starsky had been close to death had Hutch felt his partner’s resolve to keep going slip. He felt it now. Brassard had taken even that from him.
But Hutch couldn’t just let go. He had to somehow make Starsky see that there was still hope, still a reason to go on. But was there? Starsky had suffered so much, even if he recovered he may not do so totally. The doctors had warned him about that. The trauma to him, both physically and mentally could leave permanent damage even if he survived. Hutch had dismissed the warnings, he had to. Right now he needed to simply help Starsky to want to try.
So he sat there until the nurses made him return to his bed at the end of the day. He went, reluctantly, and returned early. They said he would be released soon. He then planned on spending the evenings with Starsky as well.
Huggy entered the room, seeing exactly what he had expected to see. Starsky, still and hooked up to machinery, and Hutch, sitting there reading the newspaper out loud. He pulled a chair up next to him and sat for a moment, not saying anything.
Hutch finally turned and acknowledged him with a nod.
“Nice to see you too,” Huggy replied with mock hurt. He grew more serious. “Any change?”
Hutch shook his head. They both sat staring at the man in the bed, each lost to his own thoughts.
“Brassard?” Huggy finally asked.
Hutch shot him a look and rose, pulling Huggy out of the room. “Don’t even mention that name in front of him,” Hutch hissed.
“Hutch…”
For a moment the blonde’s eyes blazed and Huggy almost took a step back.
“The son of a bitch is still alive. Fucking bullet didn’t do its job.” Huggy did step back this time. He had never seen such pure hatred in Hutch before.
“Hey man, I know how you feel…”
“You do? Sure you do! Did you let your closest friend fall into the hands of a man who could do…who did that to him?” He gestured back to the room. “Did you have to hang there and watch as the last breathes were strangled out of him? Did you see the fear? Tell me again that you know how I feel!” Hutch moved away from Huggy and sank down to the floor.
Huggy leaned down next to Hutch, putting an arm around his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Hutch. Brassard wasn’t gonna stop until he got to Starsky. Once Starsk left…”
“He left to protect me,” Hutch whispered.
“Yeah, he did, and he wouldn’t want you sitting out here on the floor blaming yourself.”
“He doesn’t want to live.” The words came out before he could stop them.
“What?”
“Starsk, he’s given up. He doesn’t want to go on.”
“Man that ain’t no way to talk. He’s one of the strongest people I’ve ever met. Ain’t no way he’s gonna quit.”
Hutch shook his head sadly. “Brassard’s won.”
Huggy was angry. This was foolishness and he had to make Hutch see that. “Listen to me Hutch cause I’m only going to say this once. He loves you. Damn, I’ve never seen two friends closer, it’s almost scary. As long as you need him, he’ll fight. How do you think he made it through all of the shit he’s gone through? You. That’s how. Now get off your ass and let him know that he matters. That you need him.”
“It’s not enough this time.”
Huggy rose, a look of disgust and worry on his face. “You givin’ up on him, Hutch? Well I ain’t.” He turned and walked back into the room.
Hutch just sat there. Huggy’s words had hurt but he was also afraid that they held just a bit of truth as well. Maybe just a little part of him had given up. It hurt so much to him like that and the thought of what lay ahead…
Hutch’s shoulders shook. No, he hadn’t given up, at least not the way Huggy had meant. He wanted Starsky to live but at what cost? The nagging doubt that Starsky wanted to live struck him again. No, buddy, it’s the one thing that I can’t give you. I need you too much. Hutch rose and followed Huggy into the room.
Starsky struggled upwards. Damn you Hutch. You should have let me go. Slowly he became aware of sensations. First there was the pain. It washed over him, threatening to drag him back down. Then, slowly, he became aware of sounds. They were jumbled together like ‘white noise’ from a television set on a channel that had gone off the air. Gradually they took on individual identities. Some were mechanical, beeps and hisses. Some were human. People talking. He focused on those. He couldn’t make out the words, the effort that took was too great, but the tones were soft, and he sensed that, for the moment, he was safe.
He rose a little more. Now he felt tubes, in his arms and down his throat. He panicked for a moment, unsure of what it all meant. There was a hand touching his cheek and the panic increased. He remembered a hand that touched him like that but it had brought pain along with the touch. He wanted to flee, started to withdraw, but then the voices broke through again. He pushed the fear down, concentrated instead on the voices, the voice.
His eyelids fluttered, his eyes watered at the onslaught of light that assaulted him. He closed them, waited, tried again. This time he could make out the blurry image of someone leaning over him.
Hutch was speaking quietly with Huggy, gently touching Starsky as he did. He glanced over at his partner and felt his heart stop when he saw the eyes open. He leaned in close, afraid that he had imagined it. He tried to speak but found that he could only stare at the sight before him. Finally he found his voice.
“Starsk,” he said unsteadily. “Hey buddy, it’s good to have you back.” The words felt stiff. No words could convey the emotions he was feeling.
The eyes cleared for a moment, held his gaze, and then slowly closed.
Hutch remained where he was, not caring who saw him crying.
Brassard opened his eyes and looked around him. He was alone. Good. Slowly he flexed his muscles, feeling the stiffness of inactivity. His chest ached, no doubt the result of his earlier carelessness. But pain could be ignored. He had more important concerns.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for the answer to his question. He had sensed him earlier, just a brief flicker, but undeniably him. Now he needed to know if there was still a chance. A bombardment of sensations washed over him and he sifted through them with a skill born of years of practice. In this place there was so much anguish from so many that he became light-headed, not with shared empathy but with a giddiness that would disgust most.
There it was. A bit stronger than before but still weak. He opened himself to it and almost shouted with joy. It was better than he could have wished for. Yes, he was still alive, but so close to the edge.
Brassard probed deeper and a slight smile crossed his face. Ah, David, he thought, you have tasted death again but this time you have allowed it to gain a hold. You doubt and that can be used. Slowly Brassard pulled his mind back.
He would have to move quickly while David was still vulnerable. Tonight.
From somewhere else in the hospital, a man moaned.
“What the hell do you mean he’s gone?” Hutch yelled. Dobey had just returned and insisted that Hutch come out into the hall with him.
“Calm down! We’ve sealed off the hospital. We’ll find him!”
“How could you let that lunatic go? Wasn’t there a guard at his door?”
Dobey nodded. “When a nurse went in to check on Brassard she found the guard dead inside of the room. Brassard was missing.”
“This can’t be happening!” Hutch paced up and down the hall, the rage he felt barely controlled. He absently held a hand to his stomach, wincing slightly as he did so.
“Hutchinson, calm down!” Dobey said for the second time. “You’re not doing yourself or Starsky any good this way. I’ve already ordered an extra guards for Starsky’s floor. There is no way that Brassard will get to him.”
“Just like before, huh? We did a real good job of keeping him safe the last time. So good that he’s lying in there just hanging on.” Hutch knew that he was being unfair but he didn’t care. “Even if he doesn’t make a move now, he’ll be out there waiting. Do you think that Starsky can go through that again?”
“Hutch…”
The blond waved him off angrily. “Just find him,” he said as he re-entered Starsky’s room.
Hutch sat down and tried to compose himself. Although Starsky was not alert enough to realize what was happening, Hutch didn’t want to take any chances. If Starsky somehow realized that Brassard was free Hutch wasn’t sure if his tenuous hold on life would last.
He took a deep breath and picked up Starsky’s hand. “Hey, you know what,” he said to the silent figure before him, “I’m going to spend the night here. What do you think? We need to work on those vacation plans. I promise, no woods this time. Maybe some tropical island. Lot’s of beautiful women and those drinks with the umbrellas in them. Sound good?”
The only response was the hiss of the respirator.
“Listen, I’ll be right back. I just have to go and grab a couple of things from my room.” He squeezed the hand once and then quickly left.
Brassard sat quietly, allowing himself time to work out his plan. This would truly test his abilities. But he had no doubts that he was up to the challenge. By now they would have realized that he was gone, most likely the building was sealed off. But that did not matter, he had no intention of leaving. What he wanted was inside, not out.
There would be guards and of course the other detective. The guards he did not worry about. They would be easily taken care of. It was the other that would prove the most difficult. He would be there, watching, prepared.
He would need to be careful. Rising, he left to set his plans in motion.
Dobey looked at the discarded gown that the officer held.
“How long ago did you find it?” Dobey asked.
“About five minutes,” Wyand responded. “I had just relieved Johnson and thought that I would check the alley and I saw this by the dumpster. The armband was next to it.”
Dobey nodded. Somehow Brassard had gotten out before they had secured the hospital. He would still maintain the security, just in case, but he doubted that Brassard would be back, at least not soon.
He sighed as he spoke into the walkie talkie he carried. “All units, this is Captain Dobey. It looks like Brassard made it out of the building. Maintain security, keeping an eye out for people entering. Out.”
Dobey re-entered the building. He was in a section of the hospital reserved for staff only. There were a few offices, maintenance rooms and, of course, the morgue. He wasn’t surprised that Brassard had escaped using this exit. He could have easily gone unnoticed here. Even at its busiest, there was never that much activity in this wing. And at this time of day, it was almost deserted.
This is a logistical nightmare, he thought as he continued to walk. There was really no way to keep track of everyone coming in and out; between shift changes, visitors and the emergency room patients, it was virtually impossible. He had doubled security on Starsky’s floor, that being at least more manageable. He hoped that Brassard would give up on his fixation with the detective but he suspected that the man would go somewhere to lick his wounds and recover, coming after Starsky at some other time.
And then there was Hutch. He was not going to handle this news well at all. Although generally calmer than his somewhat hot-headed partner, Hutch was a force to contend with when he was angry. And Dobey didn’t think that angry would even begin to describe how the man would be when he learned of Brassard’s escape.
He reached the elevator, pushed the button, and waited for the car. Then, like out of some bad horror movie, he suddenly felt as if he was being watched. He turned, looking down the corridor behind him. It was empty. He laughed softly at his own nervousness and then turned back to the closed doors. Next you’ll be expecting the boogey man to jump out of the elevator as the doors open, he thought. He drew his gun. Never can be too safe, he added to himself.
The bell signaled the arrival of the car. Without realizing it, he held his breath and as the doors slid open, he tensed, raising his weapon. He found himself aiming at nothing. Like the hallway, the elevator was empty.
Dobey holstered his gun and ruefully thought that he badly needed some rest. He was just stepping through the open doors when a sound from behind caused him to turn. Officer Wyand stood at the end of the corridor, leaning on the edge of the corner wall. Dobey called to him, taking a step closer as he did. He watched in horror as the man slid to the floor.
Moving quickly towards the fallen man, he again drew his gun. He scanned the area and, seeing no immediate danger, bent down next to the officer. He was checking for a pulse when he suddenly felt something hard hit his right side. He fell, already somewhat off balance from kneeling, and landed on Wyand in the process. Before he had time to recover he watched in horror as a knife was plunged into his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of Brassard, smiling, before a blow to his head brought unconsciousness.
Brassard looked at the large man sprawled over the now dead uniformed officer. He checked the shoulder wound, nasty but not fatal. Perfect, he thought, I need you alive for just awhile. He dragged the man down the hall and through the swinging doors of the morgue.
“Shit!” Hutch said as the guard on Starsky’s door told him the news of Brassard’s escape. “This is never gonna end!”
He returned to Starsky’s room, checking his gun for the third time. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He knew that Brassard would be back. It wasn’t a question of if but of when. The man wouldn’t give up until he either killed Starsky or died trying.
Why the hell was he so fixated on Starsky, Hutch thought. He had not been able to figure it out. And Starsky, if he knew, had not told him. What would the killing of this one man accomplish? Why Starsky?
Hutch looked at the sleeping figure on the bed. What secrets have you kept, Starsk?
The man in the bed stirred, as if hearing the unspoken question.
Then the lights went out.
Before Hutch had a chance to react, back-up generators kicked in almost immediately, restoring partial power to the building. The dim lighting cast a brownish glow throughout the room. Two nurses came rushing in to check the equipment that helped to keep Starsky alive, ensuring that all was still working. Satisfied, they left to check on other patients.
This is it, Hutch thought. A cold, hard stillness overtook him as he placed a chair between Starsky’s bed and the door. He didn’t need to ask what had happened. He knew. And he waited.
Brassard stood back and admired his handiwork. The morgue, he thought, how fitting, if a bit cliché.
Deep inside the room, but in partial view of the small windows on the swinging doors, sat a chair. On the chair, Dobey slumped forward, the ropes that secured him keeping him from falling off. Blood still seeped through the wound in his shoulder, staining his shirt. Brassard had removed the man’s jacket so that the injury would be more apparent. Tape across his mouth completed the image.
Leaving Dobey momentarily, Brassard went and checked the doors. He had securely fastened them from the inside. It would be difficult and time consuming for anyone to get through them.
Next, Brassard walked over to the dead body on the floor. He casually bent over, pulling the walkie talkie from the officer’s belt. He then went and checked on Dobey one last time before leaving through the only other exit in the room, a door leading into the next office. Once out, he sprayed epoxy into the lock as an added precaution against unwanted guests.
He made his way down the hall to where the main breakers which supplied power to the hospital were kept. Now for some mood lighting, he thought. Sparks flew as he smashed several of the boxes. He smiled as the emergency generators kicked on, the lights only at partial power. Much better.
Now for the final touch.
“Hello,” he said into the walkie talkie he had retrieved earlier. “I do so hate to disturb you fine officers but it seems that there is a bit of a situation down in the morgue. Your captain Dobey has been foolish enough to get himself captured. And poor Officer Wyand, well let’s just say that he won’t be collecting his pension. Now, I have a few demands, so, if you wish to see your fine captain live to collect his, you’ll consider responding positively. I’ll be in touch.”
Brassard then made his way upstairs.
“We’ve got him, Hutch, he’s locked himself down in morgue. He killed Wyand and is holding Dobey hostage.”
Hutch listened as Donaldson related what was happening. “Dobey’s hurt and that crazy shit has a list of demands he plans to make.”
“How bad is Dobey?”
Donaldson shook his head. “Can’t tell. He’s tied to a chair. He’s got a shoulder wound that’s bleeding and it looks like he’s out cold. Can’t tell much more than that. Brassard’s barricaded the room. We can’t get in yet without risking Dobey.”
Hutch glanced back into Starsky’s room. He was torn. He wanted badly to go and try to help Dobey but he was not comfortable leaving Starsky. What is something happened and Brassard managed to get free? Hutch had no doubt that the first place he would head for would be Starsky. Still, if they could capture him now, while he was trapped, it might put an end to this nightmare. He finally came to an uneasy decision.
“Listen Donaldson. I’m going to go down and check out the situation. Don’t let anyone in this room unless they have a hospital I.D. No one. You got it?”
“Sure, Hutch, no problem,” he replied, a bit taken aback by the Hutch’s tone.
With one more glance at his partner, Hutch quickly turned and headed for the stairs.
The man watched from the shadows, his anticipation growing. He marveled at how easily deceived people were. They saw what they wanted to see, believed what they chose. That fact generally made things much easier for him.
He saw the blond man hesitate and look back into the room. He could sense the moment of indecision, then the resolve as he left.
Brassard chuckled softly. So predictable. He waited for the man to enter the stairway and for the guard to return to his chair, then he silently made his way down the hall.
Hutch took in the scene before. A dozen policemen stood at various points throughout the hall, the dim light highlighting their grim expressions. He eased himself as close to the doors as he dared and peered through the windows. Dobey was just within sight, still unconscious. Brassard could not be seen.
“Has Brassard made contact again?” he asked.
“Not since his initial communication,” the officer closest to him answered.
Hutch leaned against the wall. What the hell could he want? Why hole up in the morgue when he could have easily escaped? He obviously had overpowered both Wyand and Dobey so there had been nothing stopping him. Even if he wanted to get at Starsky again right away, why choose this method? Brassard was smart, why would he back himself into a corner like this?
Suddenly Hutch stood up straight and looked through the window again. Nothing had changed.
“Has anyone actually seen Brassard this whole time?” he asked, a sense of urgency taking hold of him.
“No, he’s staying out of sight, not giving us a clear shot.”
“Or,” Hutch said as a picture began to form in his mind, “he’s not even in there. Is there another way out of that room?”
“Yeah, but he must of put somethin’ in the lock cause we can’t get through that way.”
“From the inside or out?”
“What?”
“The lock, was it jammed from the outside?” Hutch was practically yelling now.
“From the outside.”
“Fuck!” Hutch yelled as he raced towards the stairwell.
“Excuse me, young man, is this Detective Starsky’s room?”
The officer turned, startled, he had not heard the man walk up. He started to draw his gun and rise as he said, “Who wants to…”
He never finished. Brassard had grabbed him before he had gotten halfway up. The last thing he saw before his neck snapped was the man next to him smiling. Brassard unhurriedly dragged the body out of sight before turning his attention to the man who held the key to his destiny.
Brassard entered the room, absently taking in all of the machinery. He moved over to the bed and stood for a moment, staring down at Starsky. He noted the man’s pallor, the dark circles which rimmed the eyes. Reaching out, he touched the face, running his hand down the cheek, pausing for a moment, then letting his hand continue down to the chest. He closed his eyes and felt the heart beating beneath his hand. Squeezing slightly, he was rewarded with a slight moan.
“Yes David,” he said softly, “I’ve come back for you. But you always knew that I would, didn’t you?” He turned from bed, again looking at the machines. Finding what he was looking for, he flipped a switch before returning his attention to Starsky.
He leaned over, his face just inches from Starsky’s. “It is time, David,” he said before roughly pulling the tube from Starsky’s throat.
Starsky slowly became aware of a change. Initially he ignored it, tried to go back to the oblivion where nothing mattered. But whatever had roused him was persistent. It demanded his attention and he had no choice but to comply. The touch registered first. Gentle. But then he felt the pressure, the pain sharpening his senses, a feeling of anxiety growing. Next the voice. Without being able to make out the words he still knew, without question, who it was. His eyelids fluttered and then opened, the panic only increasing his awareness of what was happening. He felt something being ripped from his throat. Gagging, he gasped for breath, his lungs working hard to continue to fuel the body.
He tried to focus on the dimly lit surroundings. As his lungs adjusted, his vision cleared slightly. He wished it hadn’t. His head moved sluggishly from side to side, his mind rebelling at what was happening.
Brassard watched the feeble struggles of the man before him. “So David, this is to be our last meeting. It is almost a pity really, you have proved quite worthy of my attentions. However, there is a greater need that must be attended to and there is no point in waiting any longer.
“You have touched the blackness, I even know that you yearned for it. Now I will show you the way.”
Starsky weakly tried to push Brassard away, to yell, but his body refused to obey. He could do nothing as Brassard almost delicately touched his mouth.
“No David, the time for fighting is over. You are alone. I have removed all the obstacles that have intruded on us in the past. Yes, your white knight is gone. His final moments were difficult and I am afraid somewhat painful. But that was your doing, no? Had you been more willing, more respective, this all could have ended much sooner.”
Brassard watched as meaning of his words sang in. The body before him registered its understanding by slowly stopping its struggles, merely staring in mute horror.
“That’s right David. There is no reason for you to resist. The thing that meant the most to you is gone. While you may not have directly killed him, no, that pleasure was mine, your role in his death was instrumental. Now it is your turn.”
Starsky moaned again. No, Hutch couldn’t be dead, but he couldn’t help but register the truth in the words. He was alone with Brassard, that could only mean that…
An overwhelming sense of grief flooded, blocking out all else. Brassard was right, it was his fault. In his confusion and weakness he gave in to the inevitable. He felt Brassard’s hands tighten around his throat as they had done before. But this time he felt no remorse, no need to fight. He had killed Hutch and nothing less than his own death should be expected.
The blackness came quickly this time, hungrily. Brassard was there with him; he could feel the sense of triumph in the other.
Then, suddenly, there was another sensation. Surprise? It registered briefly before everything faded.
Hutch stood in the doorway and fired a second shot. He watched as the body collapsed, first falling over his partner and then sliding to floor, blood seeping from wounds in both his back and his head.
The room was suddenly inundated with hospital personnel, some frantically checking the man on the bed, others bending over the fallen body. Hutch just stood there in the middle of the confusion, the gun he had held laying on the floor beside him. Someone pushed him aside and he nearly fell. He sank to the floor, head in his hands, and wept.
The two men sat together, silently. Hutch glanced at the man next to him. It had been five months since it had all ended. But it really hadn’t, had it, he thought. The physical injuries had healed, or were well on their way, but the silence had only grown. His partner ate, although not enough, and slowly regained the ability to care for himself physically but he rarely spoke beyond yes/no answers to questions. He had withdrawn into himself and Hutch had been unable to break through.
He had moved in with Starsky, afraid that if his friend were alone for too long that he would simply stop. Stop trying, stop going on, give in to the depression that shrouded him. Even the assurances that Brassard was dead offered not consolation. Starsky would merely look at him with eyes that said it would never end, death was no guarantee.
Hutch tried not to become impatience, to let his own worry and fatigue show. Dobey, once he had recovered, had given them both extended leave, so time was not really an issue. But Hutch feared that with its passage, Starsky was fading away.
Huggy had been with them, helping in whatever way he could, and Hutch was grateful for the support. They often spoke quietly, while Starsky was sleeping, which was far too often. Huggy would even occasionally join them in therapy sessions. But neither man knew how to help Starsky, make him see that there was still a reason to go on.
Hutch rose and walked over to the window, looking out at the people strolling by. People who were blissfully unaware of the turmoil that was going on only a few feet away. He turned as the doctor walked in.
“I’m sorry to keep you both waiting,” he said as he made his way to an empty chair. “So, what would you like to cover today?” He looked at Starsky but the question was really directed to Hutch. Starsky rarely participated in the sessions.
“Starsk?” Hutch asked quietly. His partner shrugged slightly.
“Damn-it Starsky, we can’t keep on like this! You’re killing me! I can’t stand watching you just give up.” The words were out before Hutch even realized it.
Then, more quietly, “Please, tell me what to do.”
Starsky’s response was equally as quiet and filled with a pain that was almost physical. “Just let me go.”
For a moment Hutch sat there, too hurt and shocked to reply. Then all of the anguish he had felt over the last several months came out. He grabbed Starsky, drawing him in close. “Fuck you, Starsky. How dare you say that to me! How dare you think it! I never gave up on you, I could never do that. Why the hell are you giving up on yourself? He’s dead. He can’t touch you anymore. It can be over if you want it to be!
“How do you think I feel everyday, watching you move farther away from me?” He pushed Starsky away, turning his back for a minute. “You’re finishing what Brassard couldn’t. If he beats you, he beats us both.”
Starsky hadn’t moved since Hutch had grabbed him. He stared silently at the blonde’s back. Something in him stirred then. Something he hadn’t felt in a long time.
His voice shaking, he spoke almost too softly to hear. “I’m scared. I…I see him everywhere. I feel him. I don…don’t know how, Hutch, how to make it stop. I’m sorry.”
Hutch turned then, sat next to his partner, his friend, and held him. Starsky tried to pull away but Hutch held tight.
“He took so much, Hutch, maybe too much. I…I…” the words were cut off by sobs that began to wrack his body. Hutch held him, would not let go as his partner broke down, held him as he retched from the force of emotions which had finally surfaced.
The doctor sat back, a silent observer to process of healing which had finally begun.