Eagle’s Flight

 

Chapter Three

 

 

Starsky was released the next day, with the typical warning to be careful, and for me to watch for complications from his concussion and monitor his progress.  Fortunately, the blood in his urine didn’t reappear during the night, but we were again charged with “keeping an eye on it.”  In response, Starsky growled that he’d be in charge of monitoring that progress.  I didn’t disagree.

 

The drive to Starsky’s apartment was a quiet one, and getting him up the stairs was a slow process.  By the time I got him inside, he was sweating and pale.  The painkillers and muscle relaxants they’d given him worked well, but he still ached and was going to be incredibly stiff for the next several days.  

 

We were surprised to find a bouquet of flowers adorning his coffee table, the accompanying card signed by Terry.  She’s the schoolteacher Starsky’s been dating the last few months.  I hadn’t realized things had gotten serious enough that he’d given her a key.  When I commented as much, Starsky just shrugged stiffly.  “Did you talk to her?”

 

I shook my head and got his next dosage of medication out.  “I asked Huggy to call her last night after we’d gotten you to the hospital.  He said she’d been pretty worried.”

 

Someone—probably Terry or Huggy—had also dropped off quite a few groceries, mainly quick-fix meals and Starsky’s favorite junk food.  When Starsky didn’t pursue discussing Terry, I changed topics.  “You up for some dinner?” 

 

Unsurprisingly, he shook his head and sat staring morosely at nothing in particular, so I poured him a glass of juice and crossed back to him.  “Here.” 

 

Starsky glanced up at me and accepted the glass and pills without a complaint—another unusual response for him.  Typically, I have to all but sit on him to make him take medication, especially ones that knock him out.  He quickly popped them into his mouth so he could use both hands to hold the glass—a slight tremor still lingered in his arms.  The abused muscles must have hurt like blazes, but he never complained.

 

I flicked on the TV and found a ball game, then joined him on the couch.  Every now and then, I’d glance over and see that he was focused on anything but baseball.  When he finally began dosing off, I roused him enough so I could help him to the bedroom and get him settled for the night.  I was leaving the room when Starsky called my name. 

 

“Yeah?  What is it, buddy?”

 

The silence was long before he finally responded.  “Nothing.  G’night, Hutch.”

 

“I’m right outside here if you need anything.”  I hoped he’d change his mind and tell me whatever it was he was about to say.  When he didn’t, I nodded and left, then waited outside his room for a few minutes, listening.  It wasn’t long before Starsky’s breathing became deep and even, and I knew he was asleep.

 

The ball game was only in the fifth inning, but I turned down the volume in case he woke and called out during the night.  The sun had set, but the lingering light was still strong enough to cast a shadow throughout the apartment. 

 

Looking back toward Starsky’s bedroom, I wondered what kind of shadows had been cast across my partner’s heart.

 

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I half expected to be wakened by nightmares—either his or mine—but I hadn’t expected it to be by the sound of retching.  Scrambling off the couch, my legs got tangled in the blanket, and I almost fell on my face before rushing to the bathroom. 

 

Starsky was on his knees before the toilet, dry-heaving.  Apparently, this wasn’t the first round, either, because of…well…let’s just call it “evidence,” and leave it at that.  There was also a new knot over his right eye that stood out angrily among the older bruises. 

 

“Easy, Starsk, easy.”  I knelt beside him and placed a hand on his back.  After a moment, he slumped to his butt, one arm shakily supporting him.  His face was pale and his sweatshirt had damp spots at his armpits and down the center of his back.  “You okay?  You need me to call the doctor?” 

 

After he shook his head, I brushed the hair away from his face to get a better look at the new knot above his eye.  “Well, I know it wasn’t my cooking that made you throw up.”

 

“Not this time.” 

 

It was encouraging to hear him grouse.  “You still feel sick?”

 

He grimaced.  “I’m okay now.”

 

“So, what happened to your head?”

 

Starsky reached up to push my hand away and gingerly touched the wound himself.  “Slipped.”

 

“Coming in here?”  He nodded.  “You must’ve been in a hurry.” 

 

“Beats doing it in the bed.” 

 

“Good point.”  I stood and offered him my hand.  “You ready to get up, or you just want to sit there hugging the john?” 

 

He gave me a dirty look and locked his hand around my wrist.  I used both of mine to slowly pull him up, and while he brushed his teeth, I cleaned up the mess.  When I finished, I found him huddled on the couch, a blanket draped around him.  He declined my offer of a 7-Up, but I pulled one out of the fridge anyway and popped it open.  After I took a drink, I set it down on the coffee table closer to him and sat on the other side of the couch. 

 

“You want to tell me about it?”

 

“About what?  I already told you I feel fine now.”

 

“Right, which leads me to believe it wasn’t anything physical that made you lose your lunch.”  I wished he’d get it through his thick skull that things would get better quicker if he’d just open up and talk about it.  Patience, Hutchinson, patience.  “Nightmare?”

 

He glanced at me, debating whether or not to deny he’d had one.  He knew I’d know anyway, so he simply nodded and picked up the 7-Up can.  At least that small admission was a step.

 

“I had one, too.”  That got his attention, and he looked back at me.  “Hearing you tossing your cookies in there woke me up out of it.”

 

“Tossing my cookies?”

 

I grinned at him—I don’t mind playing the fool sometimes.  Starsky just rolled his eyes and shook his head a little.  “What happened in yours?” 

 

It had scared the hell out of me.  “I didn’t get there in time.”

 

It was a long minute before he turned his eyes away.  “Mine, too.”  I gave him a couple of seconds before I swung my legs up onto the space between us to get more comfortable, and I nudged him with my foot.  “Tell me.”

 

Starsky sighed and turned back toward me.  “I don’t know, it was all jumbled up.  The thing I was strung up from, what’d you call it?”

 

“An aviary.  A cage for birds.”

 

“Yeah, well, in my dream, it wasn’t just the framework, it was all caged in with some kind of wire fence or something.  No door or opening, but I keep trying to find a way out.  The dream changes all of a sudden, and I’m tied up like before, swinging by my wrists.  No matter what I do or how hard I try, I just can’t get free.  Then Gail…” Starsky trailed off when his voice got husky at the mention her name.  “Gail’s there with the knife, but instead of cutting me, she slits her own throat, and she…her blood…”

 

He sighed heavily and paused, pushing away the image.  “The next thing I know, the rest of Marcus’s whack-jobs start stabbing me.  It hurt worse than anything I’ve ever felt before—worse than getting shot.”  Starsky’s voice became low.  “They kept cutting me, and I’m bleeding all over the place, and there wasn’t a stupid thing I could do but watch…watch them kill me.”

 

I whistled a bit as I exhaled.  “That’s some nightmare, pal.” 

 

“Gail died because of me, Hutch.”

 

I shook my head.  “She died because of Simon Marcus.”

 

“But if she hadn’t tried to help me¾”

 

“Starsk, we don’t know what would’ve happened.  If she had…killed you, I would’ve blown her and the rest of them away, right then and there.  Then…” I hadn’t given what I was saying much thought, but it didn’t surprise me, and we both knew it was true.  “I would’ve gone to Simon Marcus’s cell…”

 

Our eyes locked for a minute, the weight of what I’d said seemed to penetrate something within him.  Starsky nodded.  “What was your nightmare?”

 

Somehow, it made it easier to poke that wound with him sitting beside me.  “It was exactly how it all really happened—who said what, the clues, the dead-ends, Huggy finally figuring out where you were¾it was all the same.  Except that after we got to the zoo, and I broke into the clearing…” 

 

He looked knowingly at me, understanding what was left unspoken—my fear, what it would have done to me to find him…find his body.  I felt the familiar nausea begin to churn in my gut. 

 

Starsky’s eyes bore into mine.  “I want…”

 

“What, Starsk?”  Finally! 

 

“Popcorn.”

 

“What?”  I have to admit, he never ceases to amaze me. 

 

“I want popcorn.  And while you’re up, turn on the TV to channel fourteen.  I think there’s a John Wayne double feature still be going on.”

 

“And is there anything else I can do for you while I’m up?  Do a load of laundry?  Wax your car?”

 

“Bring a root beer with the popcorn.”

 

I was careful when I cuffed him on the side of head.  Then, I headed for the kitchen. 

 

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The healing came slowly.  For his body, anyway.  Those nuts really did a number on him, beating him the way they had.  I’m surprised they didn’t break any bones or dislocate his shoulders.  The burn on his cheek became a fading pink welt, and the ones on his wrists from the leather bonds gradually began to fade.  More than once, though, I caught him looking at his wrists or absently rubbing them, as if they ached, or more likely, to unconsciously try to scrub away the memory of being bound, being defenseless. 

 

Being caged.

 

I was getting out the steaks I planned to throw on the grill for dinner, when I saw him staring off into space again, one hand locked around the other wrist.  I knew Starsky’s body was still stiff, but after five days, his inactivity and quietness were beginning to concern me. 

 

The meat went back into the fridge, and I grabbed my jacket and his hooded sweatshirt, which I threw over the top of his head.  “C’mon, let’s go.”

 

The look he gave me as he pulled it off was less than pleasant.  “What are you talking about?  Go where?” 

 

“Out.  I’m getting tired of seeing you hobbling around here like my grandmother.  Let’s go get some dinner at Huggy’s.” 

 

“What about the steaks?” 

 

“What am I now, your personal chef?  You heard me, Gordo, get your gludias maximus off the couch and get shaking.”

 

With a martyred sigh, he rose carefully, knowing exactly what I was doing, and humoring my need to care for him.  When he went into the bedroom, I thought he was ducking out on me, but he was back in a minute, zipping up his sweatshirt.  I followed him out the front door, glad for the distraction dinner might offer him, but it didn’t erase my concern.

 

The familiar bulge of his Beretta and shoulder holster was evident, even under the sweatshirt.

 

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He was cleared for active duty a week and a half later, and, while he seemed like the same old Starsky he’d always been to others, I knew there was still something wrong, like an undercurrent running just below the surface.  Mostly, I saw the difference in him in little things—how sudden noises or movements would make him flinch.  It was almost imperceptible, but it was there.  Or how he wasn’t sleeping well at night, evidenced by the doubling of his already enormous caffeine intake each morning and the dark circles that remained under his eyes well after his other bruises faded.  Once, I even caught him checking out all the stalls in the locker room to make sure no one was lurking there before he got into the shower.  He was very casual about it, simply nudging each door open as he walked by, but I saw him do it, and I knew why. 

 

I thought it was all going to come to a boiling point one day while we were interviewing witnesses at a two-eleven that went down in a convenience store.  The robbers had gotten away through the back door and escaped down the alley.  We stood out there, retracing their steps, while the store personnel relayed the series of events. 

 

The narrow lane was noisy, being right off a heavily trafficked street.  Low-rent apartments flanked either side of the alley, and kids were playing stickball there.  A garbage truck had also just pulled in to empty a trash bin, adding to the racket. 

 

A couple of black-and-white units were at the scene ahead of us, and the officers had spent their time inside, checking out the damage.  The store manager was outside, rambling on to me about his escalating insurance rates, when the uniforms came out, and I gave them a cursory glance.  One warranted a smile and quick wave: MacGreggor, an old friend from our “days in blue.”  Catching up with him would have to wait until I finished up with the manager.     

 

Mac smiled and waved back, then instinctively looked around for my partner.  Starsky had flagged down the garbage truck driver and was trying to yell over the noise of the engine, instructing him to wait until we’d had a chance to check out the dumpster and the area around it—a wonderful part of police work, but necessary.  From there, the uniformed officers would make their way through the apartment complexes, asking the tenants if they’d seen or heard anything that might be useful in tracking down the robbers.

 

Mac spied Starsky standing alongside the garbage truck, trying unsuccessfully to communicate with the driver, who didn’t know enough to turn off his engine.  I glanced up again to see Mac dogtrot over to my partner, who had his back toward the approach.  One thing I hadn’t taken into account was Mac’s effusiveness.  Starsky never heard Mac come up from behind, and I watched as Mac wrapped his arms around him in a bear hug that lifted my partner up off his feet. 

 

Starsky’s reaction was swift and violent.  He threw his head backward, directly into Mac’s nose.  As expected, Mac’s arms loosened and Starsky was dropped.  Starsky continued his fall into a crouch and spun, his gun instantly out of its holster as he threw himself against Mac.  Mac slammed into the side of the garbage truck, Starsky’s arm pressed against his throat and the Beretta under his chin.

 

“Starsky!”  I was beside Mac now, in Starsky’s line of vision.  Recognition dawned on his face and he slowly withdrew, stunned by his own violence. 

 

Starsky holstered his gun, shaken.  “Mac, I…I didn’t…”

 

Mac nodded, realizing the mistake he’d made, as he fished a handkerchief out of his pocket to stem the flow of blood from his nose.  “Jeez, kiddo, if you weren’t a hugger, ya should have told me before!”

 

Even though the older officer smiled apologetically in the way of understanding, Starsky was still contrite and looked lost.  “Mac, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

 

“Hey, don’t worry about it; no damage done.”  Mac dabbed at his nose, the bleeding already beginning to slow. 

 

“Detectives?”  One of the other uniformed officers leaned out of the back door of the store and was calling to us.  “There’s a witness in here I think one of you should talk with.”

 

Starsky immediately turned from us toward the store.  He paused before walking away and clapped Mac on the arm.  Mac smiled and patted Starsky’s hand, forgiving him.  When Starsky was out of earshot, Mac sighed.  “Boy, I’m sorry, Hutch.  I was just so darn glad to see him after I heard what he went through with those weirdoes.  I guess I just wasn’t thinkin’ that he might still be gun shy.”

 

I smiled and gripped his arm.  “It’s all right, Mac.  You sure you’re okay?”

 

“Me?  Heck, yes.  You always said your partner had a hard head.  Guess mine’s harder.”  Mac smiled before he went back to his squad car.  “You’ll get him through this, Hutch.”

 

I nodded and waved, wishing I knew how.

 

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