Eagle’s Flight

 

Chapter Two

 

 

 

Huggy was at the hospital by the time the doctor finished the examination.  He had stopped at my place, knowing where I kept my spare key, and had picked up something for Starsky to change into.  He had wisely brought sweats—loose and comfortable—that would work whether Starsky was released or admitted.  It was the latter, mainly for observation of his mild concussion and whatever form of drug he’d been given, inducing muscle cramping, mostly in his stomach.  The doctor drew blood and sent it on to the lab for testing, though it would be days before any results came back.  The testing would later reveal only a small percentile of what might have been used.  All they could do at this point was treat the symptoms, which fortunately had abated.  The IV that had been started in the ambulance to re-hydrate Starsky remained in his arm, and antibiotics had been added, as well as an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxant.  He had blood in his urine, and the doctors wanted to ensure that it was due to bruised kidneys and dehydration rather than anything chemical or a more extensive injury.  It surprised me again that Starsky’s protests to being kept overnight at the hospital were minimal.

 

Captain Dobey and a new IA agent took Starsky’s statement while he sat on the examining room table in a loosely draped hospital gown.  His eyes remained on the floor throughout his monotone depiction of everything that had happened over the last twenty-seven hours.

 

Being abducted from the courthouse men’s room, bound and blindfolded, then beaten and kicked into unconsciousness.

 

Gail and the purification ritual.  His escape attempt and the bear, then a fight that earned him a second degree burn on his cheekbone.

 

More beatings and a drug that caused his muscles, particularly his stomach, to cramp violently.

 

And, finally, being hung by his wrists so only the balls of his feet touched the ground, most likely for around an hour to an hour and a half, according to the doctor’s estimates. 

 

Then came the ceremony—how he was to be a sacrifice.  How they told him, word-for-word, what they were going to do to him.

 

Starsky’s voice held little inflection, and he gave every detail in a matter-of-fact, professional manner, withholding nothing.

 

Except how he felt. 

 

When he came to the point of the rescue, both Dobey and I interjected, giving our statements as well.  Huggy sat off in a corner, unconsciously clutching the change of clothes in his fists, his face pinched with anger and disgust.  The captain looked the same, and I’m sure my expression wasn’t much better.

 

With our statements out of the way, Dobey ushered in a police photographer.  Pictures of Starsky’s wounds would be used as evidence in the case against Marcus and his remaining followers.  When asked, Starsky slid off the table and quickly donned the pair of boxers Huggy had brought from my place.  The exam gown was pulled off and I helped Starsky over to the stark white wall, pulling the IV along side him. 

 

I squeezed his shoulder and tried to smile encouragingly before I backed out of the way.  “I’ll bet Minnie would pay me twenty bucks for a picture of you in your underwear.”

 

He managed a hint of a smile before facing forward, his expression becoming stony though, as the photographer moved into position.  The bulb going off made him blink and almost flinch.  The bright flash caused me to close my eyes as well, and the image of my battered partner was instantly replaced with one from a black and white photo—one of the cult’s latest victims, all humanness destroyed.  There was nothing more left of the person than a rubble of decimated flesh.  I forced my eyes open to see Starsky staring back at me, concern on his face.  The bulb went off again and I reflectively shut my eyes again.  Another gruesome image replaced the first—the remains of a body with all of its limbs hacked off…

 

Pressure on my arm brought me back to the present.  Dobey was beside me, his jaw clenched and brow pinched.  Starsky had been asked to turn around so the camera could capture the tapestry of vivid bruises on his back.  My experienced eye could easily determine which had been made by fists. 

 

Which had been made by booted feet. 

 

Which had been made by boards and something round—pipes or broom handles.

 

The photographer stuffed the now unloaded film into his coat pocket and placed his camera back in the bag.  He swallowed and uneasily smiled at Starsky.  “I’m glad you’re okay, Detective Starsky.  I mean, I’m glad you’re…” He awkwardly shrugged his shoulders, at a loss for words, and left the room.  I looked at my partner as he slumped onto the examining table. 

 

He was anything but okay. 

 

Huggy rose and crossed over to him, offering him the sweats.  Starsky thanked him and accepted them, but made no move to put them on.  I imagine the effort of bending over to slip his feet into the pants would have been daunting in the condition he was in.  Maybe the shorts alone would do for now. 

 

A nurse pushing a wheelchair rolled in, announcing that Starsky’s room was ready.  I helped him into the chair, again dismayed at his lack of protest.  The nurse chatted away as she transferred the saline drip to the rod attached to the wheelchair, hardly pausing to take a breath.  “…to your room, then we can get you settled in.”

 

Starsky surprised us all by trying to push himself up out of the chair.  “I need a shower.”

 

The nurse never missed a beat as she firmly pressed him back and continued to roll out of the room to the hallway.  Dobey, Huggy, and I followed.  “From the looks of things, we can’t let you take a shower just yet, Mr. Starsky.  Plus, with that IV, it’s not possible.  If you’d like, I’d be happy to give you a bath, though, before we¾“

 

The medication to ease his bruised and aching muscles must have been working because Starsky’s arms shot out and gripped the tires of the wheelchair, stopping it suddenly enough to cause the nurse to stumble into his back.  “Mr. Starsky, what are you¾?”

 

“No bath!”  Starsky managed to lurch out of the wheelchair.  With one swift motion, the IV needle was ripped out and left to dangle.  A small trickle of blood trailed down his arm as he looked past the nurse to me.  “Hutch?”

 

To others, Starsky might have looked angry, almost crazed.  But I saw what lay under it—disgust, desperation.  Fear.  “I want a shower—now.” 

 

I moved up next to him, as much for moral support as physical, not sure how much longer he could remain on his feet.  The details of the “purification bath” he’d been forced to take and the failed escape attempt were fresh in my memory as well.  I was angry, too, but forced myself not to take it out on the unsuspecting nurse.  She was, after all, just doing her job and hadn’t been around for the gruesome narrative of what Starsky had been through. 

 

“Look…uh…Susan, is it?”  Great detective that I am, I read her nametag as I edged up beside her.  “Look, sweetheart, I understand you’re just following procedures¾”

 

“That’s right, Mr. Hutchinson, and procedure for someone in your friend’s current condition is that¾”

 

“¾and normally, my friend here would love to have someone as beautiful as you give him a sponge bath, but, well…” I looked at Starsky with mock disdain, and he made a sour face at me, immediately knowing where I was going with my rapid-fire speech.  I lowered my voice.  “My friend is rather…rank at the moment and really needs a good hosing down, if you know what I mean.”

 

She looked at me knowingly.  “Well, I didn’t want to say anything…”

 

“Hey!” Starsky objected, some of his earlier panic dissipating.  Still, his need to be rid of whatever ghosts lingered on his skin was evident by the tautness around his eyes and the hard set of his jaw.

 

“Yes, well, Susan, I know for a fact that you have here in the hospital those shower seats.  You know, the kind with the handles on them?  Like for the elderly?”  I heard Starsky grumble under his breath, but Susan nodded. 

 

“Well, yes, we do have those, but I’m not so sure it would be a good idea for somebody with Mr. Starsky’s wounds to¾”

 

I took Susan’s hand in mine and gently stroked the top of it with my thumb, lowering my voice.  “Now, I know that you’re a very conscientious nurse and wouldn’t ever, ever let anything happen to one of your patients.”

 

“Oh, no!  Never.  But his stitches¾”

 

“Will be fine.  You can check them when he gets out.”

 

“I really need to get that IV back in¾”

 

“We only need twenty minutes.  Thirty, tops.”

 

“A shower will wash away the salve on his burn¾”

 

“Then you can reapply it later, right, Susan?  Now, how about if I promise to…be with Detective Starsky as he takes his shower and¾”

 

“Oh, no you won’t!”

 

I didn’t even glance in Starsky’s direction.  “¾make sure that he doesn’t slip or fall.  Hmm?  Then, once I get him settled in bed, you can finish what you need to do, and no one will be the wiser?  Hmm?  What do you say?”  I smiled charmingly, raising my brows a little.

 

Works every time.

 

She looked up and down the hall, as if someone might have been eavesdropping, then finally nodded.  I thanked her and turned to step away, only to find that she had latched onto my hand and wasn’t letting go.  I smiled again and, with a jerk, withdrew my hand.  Moving the wheelchair into position, Starsky looked at me with disgust before gingerly lowering himself onto the seat. 

 

By the time we reached his room, the shower chair was in place. 

 

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As promised, I stayed in the bathroom while Starsky took his shower.  I really was worried he wouldn’t have the strength to stand long, but the murderous look he gave me convinced me to remain on the opposite side of the small room.  I set up camp on a chair I dragged in, because I refused to utilize the only other place to sit in the room while I waited.  Huggy had dropped off a newspaper before he and Dobey left, but I couldn’t concentrate on the print and found my mind running in circles, much as it had for the past day and a half.

 

Starsky paused before he stepped into the shower, and I forced myself to calmly meet his gaze rather than again take in the mass of bruises covering his body.  Knowing they were there without focusing on them still brought bile to my throat. 

 

His expression changed, and I know he was trying to find a way to tell me something.  I unconsciously held my breath, waiting.  He finally gave up and looked away, nodding once then entering the steaming shower. 

 

My feelings of rage had to be suppressed—again—as I anxiously waited for him.  If I dwelt on what Simon Marcus had put us through, both physically and psychologically, I would have torn the room apart.  But right now, Starsky needed me to be calm, in control.  He needed me to take care of him.  I knew that down to my core, even though he never asked me, never did anything more than simply say my name.  That was enough.  Always was.

 

He’d been in the shower quite a while, and I was trying my best not to worry.  Finally, it got to the point that I knew I wasn’t overreacting.  “Starsk?”

 

When I got no response, I moved quickly, the newspaper falling to the floor.  The water still pounded down and steam billowed out when I opened the glass shower door.  Starsky sat on the hospital chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands, the water bouncing off his abused body.

 

“Starsky?”  I reached out to touch his shoulder, and his head slowly came up.  His eyes were out of focus for a moment before they met mine, and he nodded.  I turned off the water, then offered him a towel from the rack.  He’d already pushed himself up off the chair and was flushed, and I knew it was from more than just the heat of the water.  I was ready to talk, but wouldn’t push him—he would when he was ready, knowing I’d be there.

 

He hadn’t shaved, probably wasn’t ready to attempt it yet, though it looked like he managed to wash his hair.  I’m sure it helped to feel like he’d washed off some of their filth, but I knew it was going to take a lot more than a shower before he’d feel clean again. 

 

I steadied him while he dressed, then followed slowly behind as he made his way out of the bathroom.  He got as far as the doorway before pausing, one hand unsteadily grabbing the wall before his knees began to buckle. 

 

He gasped when I encircled his torso, my head tucked under his arm to hold him up.  His knees gave way again and, ignoring his protests, I crouched and scooped him up, carrying him to the hospital bed.  He swore under his breath and mumbled something I didn’t quite catch.  It didn’t matter if he was swearing at me, the situation, or at life in general, I was grateful to get some reaction out of him rather than the carefully controlled placidity I’d seen earlier.  I sat him on the edge of the bed, knowing he’d prefer that to my laying him in it like a child.  He didn’t meet my eyes as he struggled farther onto the bed, finally stretching out with a groan.    

 

I gave him a moment to get settled before reaching for the call button that would summon the nurse.  “You ready for that pretty blonde nurse?”

 

“When have I not been ready for a pretty blonde nurse?”

 

The call button made a muffled buzzing when I depressed it.  “Put your stethoscope away, Dr. Kildare, you’re in no shape to¾”

 

I didn’t finish my sentence.  Starsky was already asleep. 

 

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