Out of the Mists

 

Chapter Ten

 

Hutch was exhausted.  Spending the night in the crowded holding cell afforded him no sleep, between the typical prison barrage and the occasional and often venomous visits from his fellow officers.  Many of the uniformed patrolmen who checked in on him, mostly out of morbid curiosity, left without too much of a confrontation.  The plain-clothes detectives, however, were scalding with their acid remarks.  There were few things cops hated more than another going bad, and they reminded Hutch of that fact.

 

Late in the morning, Hutch “made bail” and after his release, touched base with Vic Monte.  Monte was enraged over the sting operation that brought down many of his “best” men and accused Hutch of slipping up—leaving a trail that led the Feds straight to him, or worse, that Hutch had set him up.  Hutch viciously reminded the hood that he, too, had not only been arrested and charged, but had also lost his career.  The tenuous relationship got a little dicey when Monte suggested that Hutch was no longer useful, now that he was off the force.  Hutch convinced him that he still had connections, and that his training and experience could still be of benefit to the organization.  Monte finally and cautiously conceded. 

 

Hutch returned home and immediately hit the shower, trying to wash away the stench of the holding cell from his skin and memory.  Revived, but still exhausted, he opted to silence his growling stomach by warming up some left-over stew. 

 

The talk radio station filling the small kitchen was enough to drown out the federal agents’ entrance.  Hutch stirred the bubbling pot and turned away from the stove, jumping a bit when he realized he wasn’t alone.  McMillian and Endicott stood by the table, their expressions urgent.

 

“Didn’t your mothers ever teach you to knock?” Hutch quipped, mild anger overriding his embarrassment from the surprise they had given him.

 

“We’ve got a problem.  Your cover’s been blown, and Monte’s got a price on your head.”  McMillian’s voice was hostile.

 

Endicott agreed.  “We need to take you into protective custody—now.”

 

Hutch held up his hands.  “Wait.  Wait a minute, here.  I just spoke to Monte a couple hours ago.  Everything’s fine.  I’m still in and he’s¾”

 

McMillian shook his head.  “No, it’s blown.  We got word twenty minutes ago; someone snitched to Monte that you’re a plant.  We don’t know when or how they found out.  It could have even been last night when you were brought in, for all we know.  Maybe the only reason he agreed to keep you around was so he could take you out without arousing as much suspicion to himself—pin it on some vigilantes that don’t like it when cops go bad.  It’s hard to say.  What we do know is that there’s a quarter-million price tag on your head.”

 

Hutch whistled as he turned back to the stove and lowered the flame.  Pulling a dishtowel from where it had been tucked in his back pocket, he wiped his hands and laid it down on the counter.  “A quarter-of-a-million bucks, just for me.  Imagine that.”

 

Endicott shifted from one foot to the other, impatient.  “Look, Hutchinson, we need to get you to a safe house now.”  The agent reached past Hutch, intending to turn off the burner.  “So go pack a bag and we’ll¾ ”

 

Hutch’s grip on the agent’s wrist stopped him.  “I don’t think so.  My partner and I can take care of ourselves until the trial.  We’ll be more use to you tying up loose ends and giving you the airtight case you need than being stuck in some hotel somewhere, sitting on our butts.”

 

Endicott snatched his hand back.  “Not Starsky—just you, Hutchinson.  And don’t be a fool!  You’ll be wasted out on the streets for sure and screw up our case against Monte.  We need your testimony.”

 

Hutch cocked an eyebrow.  “Well, I’ve got to say that your concern for my safety is comforting, Endicott, but I’m not going underground.”

 

“But Monte wants you dead!”

 

“I understand that, but listen—remember what I told you about Dixon?  He was the guy I initially thought performed the hit on Theresa DeFusto’s brother.  Well, he wasn’t, but he’d done more than a few hits for the famiglia.  More importantly, he’s pretty fed up with good old Mr. Monte, and I’m sure if I can just get another minute alone with him, I can get him to spill what he knows.  That kind of evidence will make your case even stronger.  He’s skittish and I don’t think it’s likely he’d talk to anybody else but me.”

 

McMillian mopped his upper lip with his sleeve.  “Hutchinson, we don’t have that kind of time.  I don’t think you realize the urgency, here.  You need to disappear, now.  Alone.  We’ve got an idea that will keep you alive until the trial.”

 

Hutch grew more exasperated.  “Look, I’m not going anywhere without talking to my partner and my captain first.” 

 

Hutch turned away from the two agents toward the phone mounted on the kitchen wall.  Endicott grabbed the blond by the arm and jerked him back.  The contact was all the provocation Hutch needed to retaliate, and a solid right cross laid the agent flat.  As he was recovering his balance, a strong arm looped around Hutch’s throat, and McMillian’s handkerchief was clamped over his nose and mouth.  Hutch’s hands instinctively went up to the arm crushing his windpipe, clawing to pull it away, while what oxygen he could get was tainted by a sickly-sweet smell. 

 

Hutch’s stomach lurched at the scent of the chloroform, and he desperately tried to shake his head away from the grip that clamped the drug to his face.  Survival instincts kicked in, and Hutch stomped his heel on McMillian’s instep, causing the larger man to stumble.  Hutch broke out of the agent’s stronghold, but the chloroform was already pushing him to the brink of unconsciousness.  Hutch staggered forward into the stove, colliding with the saucepot, and bringing it down on top of him as he fell to the floor. 

 

Hutch cried out as the stew scalded the side of his face.  McMillian was over him in an instant, snatching up the discarded hand towel and wiping the mixture off his face.  Before Hutch was able to try to get away, though, the handkerchief was again roughly pressed over his nose and mouth.

 

The last thing Hutch thought before blacking out was that he didn’t have to worry about the bad guys killing him off.  The good guys were doing a fine job on their own. 

 

˜  ™

 

Hutch groaned as he began to wake, his head and stomach spinning from the effects of the chloroform.  Nausea rolled over him like a wave, and he turned on his side to retch.  The instant his face came in contact with the surface beneath him, pain lanced through him and he racked his memory, trying to recall what had caused the injury.  Fire?  Was there a fire?

 

Unconsciousness tugged at him again and he fought it, trying to focus his eyes on the unfamiliar surroundings.  He lay on an examining room table, covered only by a hospital gown.  The room was white and chrome, devoid of any color or warmth.  Hutch pushed himself up by one arm and twisted his legs up under him.  When he did, a new pain ripped through his leg from behind his knee.  Questing hands touched the back of his knee and felt something hard under the skin.  He twisted to get a better view, but then had to spend a moment blinking rapidly to clear his sight.  When he could finally focus, he was shocked to find a medical port imbedded in the back of his leg.  He had seen such an apparatus before, but only on patients needing constant medications and fluids, allowing easier access by needle. 

 

A cold finger of fear raced down his spine, and he shuddered.  In an instant, he was sliding off the table to escape, but his legs were unable to hold him, and he fell to the floor.

 

˜  ™

 

The unmistakable feel of latex-gloved hands rolled him onto his back.  He was again on the examination table and a petite blonde nurse held an empty hypodermic needle in one hand as she disappeared from his view.  The world grew dim.

 

˜  ™

 

 “He should have listened to us to begin with!”  The voice was heated and familiar.  “If he had cooperated, we wouldn’t have had to take these extreme measures.”

 

It took Hutch a minute to recognize the voice as Endicott’s.  He turned his head toward the conversation, and while he tried to concentrate on what was being said, it felt as if he were swimming against a current.  Endicott stood nervously next to McMillian, along with a man Hutch hadn’t seen before.  The third was dressed similarly to the agents and held a metal briefcase.  The new man spoke.  “Are you sure you want to proceed with this?  Because once we start, we’re committed, and there’s no turning back.  When Dennison gets wind of this¾”

 

“By the time Dennison hears about it, it’ll be too late.”  McMillian was speaking now, and fading in and out of Hutch’s focus.  “Besides, by then we’ll have put away Vic Monte and handed Dennison the tightest conviction the West Coast Bureau’s ever had.  How we got there will be a minor consequence.  You let me worry about Dennison.”

 

The third man shrugged his shoulders and set the case on the exam table next to Hutch’s feet.  Miraculously, the agents hadn’t noticed Hutch was semi-alert and watching them through hooded eyes.

 

Endicott nervously hugged his jacket tighter and crossed his arms in the chilling room.  Hutch realized the temperature had dropped significantly and was getting colder by the minute.  “So what exactly is that stuff, anyway?” 

 

The unnamed man opened the case and withdrew a blood-pressure cuff.  The briefcase was made up of a single compartment surrounded by protective foam.  Within the padding lay a series of pre-measured hypodermics.  The man moved up beside Hutch, noticing the half-veiled eyes watching him.  “He’s awake.”

 

The man expertly placed the cuff on Hutch’s forearm and pumped it.  He released the ball and withdrew a stethoscope from his suit coat and placed the ends in his ears.  Hutch ineffectively tried to remove the cuff and push the man’s hands away as he slowly released the cuff’s air.  Anger coursed through Hutch at his inability to protect himself.

 

It only took him a moment to check Hutch’s blood pressure and heart rate.  “Ninety over sixty.  Good.”  A small penlight was flashed into Hutch’s eyes as the man peeled back one eyelid then the other.  Apparently, he was satisfied with the results and returned the light, cuff, and stethoscope to the case, then focused his attention on Endicott who shifted nervously, waiting for an answer to his question.

 

A single hypodermic was withdrawn from the case and held to the light.  The unfamiliar man peered into the glass and tapped a finger against it to dispel any air.  “What this is, Endicott, is an opiate derivative.”

 

“Like horse?”

 

The man briefly looked at the other with something akin to disdain before stepping closer to Hutch’s knee.  “Something like that.  Roll him for me.”

 

Hutch’s heart began to race, and he put every ounce of willpower he had in trying to get his limbs to cooperate.  If his desperation and fear had been able to overcome the effects of the previous injections, he would have been far from the cold, sterile room in an instant.  But all he was able to accomplish was an uncontrolled kick at McMillian that had no effect, and a wild slap at Endicott that he easily avoided.  Hutch was roughly rolled onto one side, his burned face buried against the side of Endicott’s coat.  He didn’t feel the hypodermic needle plunging into the port behind his knee, but the warm rush that immediately followed swallowed him whole. 

 

Caught somewhere between euphoria and terror, Hutch tried to beg them to stop, but what came out of his mouth were incoherent groans.  McMillian and Endicott let him fall over onto his back.  The suspended examination lights above him fragmented and blurred, and he futilely tried to shield his eyes.  McMillian roughly grabbed either side of Hutch’s face and drew himself close; his voice became the malicious hiss of a serpent.  “This is your doing, Hutchinson.  If you had listened to us earlier, we wouldn’t have to do this.  Just remember that later, Hutchinson—this is your fault!”

 

Hutch could barely discern the three leaving as he slid deeper into a stupor, the dropping temperature of the room chilling him to the bone.  His thoughts began to muddle, but it still couldn’t keep him from crying out, if only in his mind.

 

“STARSKY!”

 

˜  ™

 

Darkness and rough hands.  Movement.  Exhaust.  Traveling?  To where?  Deep voices, but the words were jumbled.  Cold, so cold.  Help me. 

 

Fresh air.  Grass.  Still so cold.  Tossed.  Tumbling.  Rough hands checking his pressure and pulse.  Another injection behind the knee.  Cold.  Breathe...help me breathe. 

 

Alone.

 

˜  ™

 

He was in a different room now, but still colder than he could ever remember being.  He couldn’t have moved if he’d wanted to, and he felt suspended somehow, frozen in a moment of time.  He couldn’t open his eyes farther than slits, but it was enough. 

 

Hutch couldn’t turn his head to see his surroundings, but even with his hazy vision, the room looked somehow familiar.  Were those drawers on the wall above him? 

 

Another unfamiliar face stood over him, and Hutch saw rather than felt the man’s hand come up to his face and lift each eyelid in turn, checking the dilation of his pupils.  The man then moved to the edge of Hutch’s wavering vision, down by his legs. 

 

The warm rush from the injection began to course through him, but did nothing to dispel the chill that permeated his body.  He felt his eyelids drift shut against the tide of the drug, but not before he saw a sheet pulled up over his head.

 

˜  ™

 

If he had felt like he was trying desperately to swim to the surface of consciousness before, now it was as if weights had been added, strapped to each of his limbs, pulling him farther into the black depths.

 

His eyes slit open, but refused to focus.  All Hutch could discern was that he was lying on his back, unable to move.  He felt restrained, like a band was tightened across his chest and thighs, tying him to the earth.  The room was white, like before, but a small barred window sat high on the wall opposite him, letting in a meager amount of sunlight.

 

His mouth was parched and his lips cracked to the point of bleeding.  The slightest sound to his left broke through the buzzing in his ears, and he turned toward it.  A man he hadn’t seen before sat reading a newspaper in a plastic chair similar to those found in waiting rooms.  The stranger was dressed in a hospital attendant’s jacket, his tie pulled away from his collar as if it had been strangling him. 

 

When the stranger noticed Hutch was awake—if only marginally—he glanced at his watch and mumbled, “Close enough.”

 

The paper was folded and laid aside.  A hypodermic was withdrawn from a stand and injected into the port attached to a bottle of saline hanging at Hutch’s bedside.  Hutch tried desperately to speak, but only succeeded in marginally opening and closing his mouth.  The last thing he remembered was the metallic taste of blood from his cracked and bleeding lips.

 

˜  ™

 

When he woke again, he was trembling violently and sweating, and instantly recognized it as the onset of withdrawal from the heroin injections.  He dimly realized that, at least, he was no longer quite as cold.  Although he felt as if at any moment he would begin heaving, he tried to sit up.  The pressure across his chest, thighs, ankles, and wrists prevented him, and he forced his eyes open, only to see the room spin.  He took several deep breaths to settle his stomach before trying a second time.  Everything around him was still out of focus, but gradually becoming clearer.  The unfamiliar man was still in the nearby chair, but sat in a sprawl, apparently drowsing.  Trying to focus, Hutch determined that the man wasn’t asleep, but rather in a stupor.  The attendant’s coat was hanging on the doorknob, and his left shirtsleeve was rolled up above his elbow.  Lying on the floor was a rubber tube, which apparently had been used as a tourniquet.  Next to it was an empty hypodermic. 

 

Even in his haze, Hutch’s thoughts began racing.  Here, finally, was perhaps hope, if he could only get his thoughts straightened out. 

 

Unconsciously, he cried out when his stomach cramped in the pain of withdrawal.  Blinking back the tears forming in his eyes, he curled in on himself as much as he could and looked down.  What frightened him more than the hospital gown were the leather restraints strapped across his chest and thighs and securing his wrists and ankles. 

 

Hutch threw his weight against the straps, grimacing from the pain it caused and the hateful feel of anything touching him—a side effect from the heroin leaving his system.  Desperation ran through him, and he pulled at the leather restraints over and over, only managing to rub his skin raw where they bit into him.

 

His actions were enough to rouse the other man, who blearily peered at him.  The stranger again checked his watch, and his face displayed a flash of concern that his imbibing had apparently caused dereliction of his duties.  Surging to his feet, the stranger unsteadily withdrew another hypodermic from the stand and staggered over to Hutch’s bedside, injecting the drug into the saline solution.

 

“No, please!  God...please, don’t!” Hutch begged, his voice little more than a delirious whisper.  “My...partner, please—get my partner.”  He repeated the plea like a litany, falling back into unconsciousness well before there was a subtle change in the stranger’s expression.

 

˜  ™

 

He woke in a cold sweat, the hospital gown clinging to him like a second skin.  The nausea and dizziness immediately assailed him, as well as the cramping of his stomach muscles and an urgent need to retch. 

 

Hutch’s eyes darted about the room fearfully, willing his muscles to stop trembling and betray the fact that he was awake.  The stranger stood leaning against the opposite wall, staring out the small barred window level with his chin.  He glanced at Hutch.  “You’re awake.”

 

Hutch swallowed hard and tried to lick his lips.  “Please...”

 

The stranger turned away from the window, placing his back against the wall as he studied Hutch.  “You want some water?”

 

Speaking was a supreme effort, so Hutch merely nodded.  The man crossed the room and retrieved a cup, then placed its straw to Hutch’s mouth.  Hutch drew what he could, but then began coughing violently, sending waves of pain through his stomach and the rest of his body.  He swallowed convulsively, willing the meager fluid to stay down.

 

The stranger set the cup aside and withdrew a hypodermic out of the drawer.  Hutch quickly drew a breath and tugged as best he could against his restraints.  “Please, don’t...shoot me up...anymore.  I’m obviously...not...going anywhere.”

 

Whether it was something in Hutch’s voice or something else, the man paused, though he didn’t set the syringe down.  He glanced at his watch, considering.  “I guess a few more minutes won’t kill you, though I’ll bet you’re hurting about now.”

 

The face that met the stranger’s gaze contained thin, dark circles accenting sunken eyes and cheekbones.  Hutch’s blond hair was plastered to his skull with sweat.  A healing second-degree burn marred one side of his face. 

 

Hutch shook his head.  “I don’t care...I...I can do it again.” 

 

“Again?”  The stranger’s expression was quizzical, but he was obviously interested.  When Hutch didn’t respond, he simply continued to stare at the detective. 

 

“Where...am I, anyway?” Hutch panted through clenched teeth as another wave of pain tore through him.

 

The stranger chuckled without humor.  “You’re currently a guest at the Cabrillo State facility for the terminally insane.  So, if you get it in your head to start hollering for help because you’re being held against your will, forget it.  The staff hears that several times a day.”

 

Hutch nodded once, thinking furiously through the pain, desperate for a plan of action.  The man stepping to his bedside and reaching for the saline bottle interrupted his thoughts.

 

“God—no!  Please, you don’t...you don’t...have to do that!”  The stranger’s hand didn’t hesitate as he pressed the plunger, sending the drugs into the tube leading to Hutch’s arm.  “Look, I...I don’t know...who you are, or who...you work for, but my name...”  The room began to spin in and out of focus.  “My name is Detective...Ken Hutchinson.  Call Starsky at Metro...  Oh, God...please.  The number...the number is...  Starsky...I need... Starsky...”

 

The stranger continued to stare at Hutch long after he passed out.

 

˜  ™

 

The man was preparing to slide the syringe into his own arm when Hutch woke for the fourth time.  He didn’t feel as horrible as he had during the earlier moments of consciousness, but the tremors and pain were not long in coming.  He watched through half-closed eyes as the stranger injected himself, then released the rubber tubing from around his own bicep. 

 

The man looked at Hutch blandly as the rush of the drugs coursed through him.  “Who’s Starsky?”

 

Hutch looked at him blankly, struggling to moisten his lips. 

 

“You called out for him a few times.  And earlier, you said to call him.”

 

Hutch’s voice was raspy.  “My partner.”

 

The man nodded, as if understanding some great truth.  “Your partner.”

 

Hutch tried to focus past the pain raging through him and the desperate craving that snaked up from deep inside, demanding the release offered by the drugs.  “Who...who are you?” 

 

The stranger’s eyes were glazing over.  “Name’s Emery.  Nate Emery.” 

 

“You...work here?”

 

The other man snorted and shook his head.  “Hell, no, I don’t work here.  I probably belong here, but I don’t work here.”

 

“You’re with...Endicott...and McMillian?”

 

Emery’s eyes narrowed with distaste.  “Yeah, I’m an agent.  Your tax dollars at work, Detective.”

 

Another lightning strike of pain ripped through Hutch’s guts, drawing him in on himself as much as the leather bonds would allow.  The agony left him gasping and pale.  Emery staggered to his feet, inadvertently crushing the empty hypodermic’s glass tubing.  He continued to the bedside stand and clumsily jerked open the drawer.   

 

Hutch thought frantically.  “Wait, Emery—look.  I’m not...I’m not...going to give you... any trouble, okay?  And...there’s no way I...can get out...of this bed, right?  So you don’t need...to do that.  All right?  Please...don’t.”

 

The agent peered at Hutch’s pale and shaking face.  “You’ve got to be hurting, man.  Don’t worry about this crap—it’s not H, it’s methadone.  Bringing you down nice and easy.” 

 

Emery reached up to the saline drip, fumbling with the hypodermic.  Hutch struggled against his bonds.  “I don’t...care!  Come on...cut me some slack!  I don’t...want it!”

 

The passion in Hutch’s voices stopped the agent.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hutchinson.  In a few minutes, you’re going to be begging me for this.”

 

Hutch stared at the other defiantly.  “No.  Never.”

 

Emery looked at the detective for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and put the syringe aside.  “Sure.  Whatever.” 

 

After the agent slumped down into his chair, Hutch threw his head back against the pillow in relief and concentrated on breathing through the pain that continued to wrack his body.  He tried to imagine himself again in Huggy’s upper room, Starsky at his side every second...

 

“You haven’t asked why.”

 

Hutch cracked his eyes open for a moment.  “Why, what?”

 

“Why you’re being held here.  Why the FBI did this to you.”

 

“Oh, I’ve got...a pretty...a pretty good...idea.”

 

“So, why don’t you share it with us, Hutchinson?”  Hutch’s heart beat faster at the sound of McMillian’s despised voice.  Trailing behind McMillian was Endicott as they entered the room, their expressions smug. 

 

McMillian was livid when he turned to Emery.  “Why is he awake?  He’s not supposed to be brought out of it so soon!”

 

Emery’s dislike for the other agents was barely concealed in his nonchalance.  “It happened.”

 

“That’s not your decision to make, Emery.  What the¾?”  McMillian looked at Emery’s rolled-up shirtsleeve and the broken hypodermic on the floor.  His expression changed instantly from fury to a cool disdain.  “Never mind.  Just load him up and keep him quiet.”

 

Endicott’s jaw dropped as his focus snapped from his partner to Emery’s rolled-up shirtsleeve and the broken hypodermic on the floor.  “Don’t you see what’s going on here?  He took the¾”

 

“Shut up, En.”  McMillian shook his head.

 

“But, he¾”

 

“Leave it!”  McMillian glared at his partner, shutting him up.  Hutch tried to follow the sudden changes and why McMillian didn’t throw out the third agent for shooting up.  He was pulled from his thoughts when McMillian turned his attention toward him.  “So, Hutchinson, you were just about to share your theory about how you got here and why.”

 

“Oh, there’s something...I’d...like to share with you, McMillian, but I...don’t have...my gun with me.”

 

“Cute.”  McMillian picked up the full hypodermic and reached for the saline bottle. “Time for a nap.  You look dead.” 

 

McMilllian’s comment drew a hearty laugh from his partner.  Endicott looked at Hutch and shook his head.  “Your partner looks almost as wasted as you do.”

 

“What are you...talking about?”  The waves of pain and craving continued to roll over Hutch.  “When he...finds out what you’ve pulled...when he finds me...”

 

“Oh, he’s already found you.”  McMillian’s voice held no small measure of malice.  “Identified your body at the morgue and buried you.”

 

“What?!”  Hutch strained to sit up.  “What are you...what are you talking about?”

 

“What’s the matter?  You don’t remember your trip to the morgue?  Or how about when we rolled you down the embankment off Topanga Canyon Road?”  McMillian leaned over Hutch’s prone body.  “No, you probably wouldn’t remember any of that because you were too busy being ‘dead’ at the time.”

 

Hutch’s glare was murderous.  “You’re crazy.”

 

“No, just smarter than you gave me credit for.  I told you before, Hutchinson, you don’t mess with us.  So, what do you remember?”

 

McMillian stood with one hand on the saline drip and the other casually toying with the syringe.  Almost against his wishes, Hutch’s mind picked up a thread of memory.  “The...the two of you came to...my house.  Said my...my cover was blown.”

 

Endicott crossed his arms in front of his chest.  “That’s right.  And you refused to come with us.  Obviously, that was a big mistake.”

 

Hutch strained to remember more, the pain and desire for the release promised by the methadone distracting him.  “We fought.  And I...I was burned somehow.  And...a fire...there was a fire.”

 

The agent nodded.  “Your kitchen burned.”

 

A new memory struck Hutch.  “Chloroform!  That’s...that’s how you...got me.”

 

A snicker from Emery turned the attention on him for a moment.  “What’s the matter, McMillian, you and Endicott can’t take down one guy by yourselves, so you have to gas him?” 

 

Hutch’s limbs began to tremble violently against the restraints as they cramped in withdrawal, although his mind began to clear.  “You said I...was dead.” 

 

McMillian’s smile was brittle.  “Which is why you’re shaking like a broke junkie.  There’s a special department in the Bureau that specializes in drug research, Hutchinson.  They’ve come up with a combination of stuff that can slow down a man’s heart rate and respiration so low, it would take an ultrasound to detect it.”

 

The memory of the first injection crept back into Hutch’s mind.  “An opiate derivative.” 

 

Endicott nodded, mildly surprised.  “You remembered.  It worked, and fooled a lot of people, including Vic Monte, which saved your sorry¾”

 

Hutch exploded, straining against the bonds hard enough to cause the raw spots on his wrists and ankles to begin bleeding again. 

 

McMillian viciously pushed him down and pinned him to the bed.  The weight of the agent’s body crushing against his chest caused Hutch to writhe in pain as he gasped for breath.  McMillian leaned in closer to the struggling detective.  “Not just Vic Monte.  Your partner, your captain, and your family.  They all believe that you got wasted, Hutchinson.  But it’s for your own good.  By making it look like you’re dead, we’re keeping you alive.  Don’t you forget that.  And don’t forget that this never would have happened if you’d just gone into protective custody when we told you to.”

 

McMillian slowly straightened, taking the pressure off Hutch, and plunged the needle into the saline drip. 

 

Hutch lay still on the bed, the mental anguish of what had happened warring with the physical pain.  “Starsky...”

 

McMillian tossed aside the syringe.  “Yeah, I won’t lie and say it wasn’t rough on him.  He and Dobey ID’d your corpse at the morgue after we tipped off a couple of patrolmen where they could find you.  Made this whole setup a lot more believable.”

 

Guiltily, Hutch was almost grateful as the methadone coursed through him, relieving the horrible yearning caused by the withdrawal and stripping away his anguish.  “So, the coroner...was...in on this, too?”

 

Endicott nodded.  “He had to be.  Faked your autopsy.  He also dropped your body temperature from ninety-eight to ninety-one degrees.  It may not sound like much, but when you raise somebody’s temperature by seven degrees, it would boil their brains.  Lowering your body temp that much made your respiration and heart rate drop even lower than the drugs alone could.  Hell, your partner bawled all over you and never once guessed you were still in there.  You were a cold and stiff ‘stiff,’ Hutchinson.”  Endicott chortled at his own joke. 

 

McMillian grinned as well.  “The cold stiffened your muscles, too, so Starsky really believed you were dead.  Autopsy stated the cause of death was suffocation.”

 

Hutch swore again, his words beginning to slur, as he realized Starsky would have had to read the grim details of the coroner’s report.

 

“Don’t take it too hard, Hutchinson,” McMillian smirked.  “You had a great funeral.  Very touching.  Let me tell you about it...”

 

Hutch did everything he could to block out McMillian’s recitation detailing his funeral.  The monologue took on a nightmarish quality as it filtered through Hutch’s drug-hazed mind.  He threw his head back into the pillow in agony, both physical and mental, trying to shut out the agent’s voice.  As he shook his head in denial, he caught a glimpse of Emery seated nearby, his eyes smoldering with fury as he looked at the spectacle before him.

 

˜  ™

 

When Hutch regained consciousness, the room was completely dark except for the dim light over his bed.  He had long since lost track of how much time had lapsed since his abduction.  As he became more alert, he could make out Emery’s still body lying on a cot in front of the door. 

 

Hutch coughed once and tried to clear his throat, not caring if it woke the agent across the room.  Emery rolled over, facing Hutch’s direction.  “How are you feeling?”

 

When Hutch didn’t answer, the agent sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  “If you’re in pain, I can give you something.”

 

“No.”  Hutch’s answer was curt. 

 

“Thirsty?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Emery got up and crossed the floor, then offered Hutch a sip of water.  The agent stood silently for a moment, then sat in the chair next to the bed rather than returning to his cot.  Hutch noticed he didn’t get the next dosage out either. 

 

“What...day is it?” Hutch asked.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“I suppose not.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Emery sighed.  “They’ll have you off this crap in time to testify at the Monte trial.  Probably in a week or so.”

 

“Emery, look.  Let me...just kick it, okay?  No more...junk...no more methadone.  Just...let me sweat it out.”  Even as he said it, a cramp struck Hutch’s stomach, and the now-familiar ache began to run through his limbs. 

 

“Why?  Why would you put yourself through that kind of hell?”

 

“I...have my reasons.”

 

“You don’t know what you’re asking, Hutchinson.”

 

Hutch’s vision was clear as he peered through the darkness and met the agent’s questioning eyes.  “Yeah, I do.  Not that long ago I...was kidnapped by a local dealer...Ben Forest.”

 

“Heard of him.  You take him down?”

 

Hutch nodded.  “Me and my partner.”

 

“Starsky.”

 

“Yeah.  I’d been...protecting Forest’s girlfriend...he wanted her back.  They jumped me, and...when I wouldn’t tell them where I...I was hiding her, they strung me out.”

 

Emery swore, and Hutch was surprised by the agent’s show of compassion.  “That’s a helluva bad wrap.  Did that go on your record?”

 

Hutch shook his head and felt his body tremble.  “No, nobody...in the Department knew about it besides my captain...a uniformed officer who swore he’d...never mention it, and my partner.  Starsky...found me after I managed to get away from them, and he...took me somewhere safe and...and we got through it.”

 

“Must’ve been rough.”

 

Hutch clenched his teeth against another wave.  “Yeah.  I wouldn’t...have been able to kick it without him.  He’s the best...friend I got in the world.” 

 

A stabbing pain caused Hutch to retch, but there was little in his stomach to get rid of.  He lay in the dark panting, trying to remember the last time he had fought the addiction, what Starsky had done, what he had said to ease the pain.

 

Emery stood and crossed to the drawer.

 

“No!” Hutch shouted.  “Please!  I can do this.”

 

Emery stood with the hypodermic in his hand, undecided as he watched Hutch’s agony.  After a moment, a decision was made and the agent sat, then rolled up his own sleeve. 

 

A few minutes passed while the drug took its effect on him.  Hutch rocked against the mattress as much as he could within the restraints, trying to dredge up what memories he could, his partner’s arms wrapped tightly around him, the steady stream of encouragement whispered from a tear-choked voice...

 

“This is what you’d call irony.”  Emery’s voice cut through the increasing fuzziness of Hutch’s thoughts. 

 

“What?”

 

“Irony.  I’m supposed to be keeping you strung out and you want to kick it cold, and all I want to be is...” Emery trailed off, not able to find a word that could possibly encompass what he was feeling.

 

Hutch focused on the older man slumped nearby.  The agent was most likely only in his early fifties, but the lines and creases at his eyes and along his forehead spoke of things that aged a man.  A few scars also marred the firm features, and the once brown hair was more gray than brunet.  Even in the dim light, Hutch could see the haunted depths of the agent’s eyes.

 

“So how’d you...get the babysitting assignment, Emery?”  Hutch disciplined his voice to remain as steady as he could.

 

The question garnered a barking laugh from the agent.  “Babysitting?  Yeah, that’s about right.  That’s about all the Bureau thinks I’m good for.  Yeah.  See, they’re just keeping me busy until they can ease me into retirement.  Keep me around until I can collect my pension, then they’ll show me the door.”

 

Hutch shook his head, trying to follow the other’s train of thought.  He wasn’t sure if it was the agent’s drug-induced rambling, or the effects of his own withdrawal that was muddying the waters.  “Why...why would they do that?”

“Guilt, maybe.  Cover their proverbial backsides.  Probably both.” 

 

Hutch shook against the withdrawal, but pushed himself to focus.  “You’ve...lost me.”

 

Emery seemed to sober for a moment.  “You said you and your partner—this Starsky—you’re close?”

 

Hutch nodded.  “I can’t even imagine what...all of this has done to him.”

 

Emery’s eyes took on a light of their own.  “I’ll tell ya what it did to him.  It ripped his heart right out of his chest.  It’ll burn away at his guts until he’ll do anything to make the pain go away...make the guilt go away.”

 

“Guilt?”

 

“For not being there to stop it.  Not being there to keep you from getting shot.  Knowing he shoulda taken the bullet, not you.”

 

Hutch shook his head, confused.  “I wasn’t¾”

 

“And there won’t be a day that he won’t remember, won’t see the blood on his hands.”

 

“Emery, who...who are you talking about?”

 

The agent jerked back to the present.  “My partner, Dan.  Dan Phillips.  He was my best friend, Hutchinson.  Closer to me than my family or wife.  Ex-wife, now.  Dan and me worked covert ops.  Do you know what that means?”

 

Hutch shook his head, causing the sweat from his brow to sting his eyes.

 

“That means you do whatever you’re told, and you don’t ask questions.  Dan was a sharpshooter.  He could pick the wing off a fly in mid-flight.  The last assignment we got, Dan and I were supposed to take out a military general.  One of ours, Hutchinson.  One of our own.  This general had some dirt he was going to make public, and the government didn’t want it out.  Besides the embarrassment, it might have jeopardized national security.  Might have.  So, the only way to shut him up was to shut him down.”

 

Emery looked over at Hutch’s stricken face.  “Does that surprise you?  It happens more than you know.  Well, it was all set up and everything was going just as planned, but at the last minute, something went wrong.  We had a leak in the Department, and the general got tipped off.  His people set up an ambush for us.  Dan got caught in the middle of it—trapped.  When the shooting started, I got nailed in the leg, shattered it in four places.  I couldn’t help him, though God knows I tried, including dragging myself as far as I could.  I knew he was gonna be dead unless we got a miracle.  I broke the cardinal rule and called the Bureau to bail us out, get Dan out.  But they said—are you ready for this?  They couldn’t do it, because it would expose the operation and the Bureau.  Make them look bad.  They told me we were on our own.  Dan took two bullets, here and here...”  Emery laid a hand on his forehead and the other over his heart.  “And it was covered up.  The official report said Agent Dan Phillips never existed.  The papers said Dan was some anti-government whack-job named Frederico Mendoza, who freaked out and tried to kill the general and was taken out when he wouldn’t give up his weapon.”

 

The agent ignored the tear that ran down the length of his face as the methadone took over.  “Dan had served the Bureau for almost twenty-five years, and instead of burying him with honors in Arlington where he belonged—purple heart in Korea, three service medals—he gets labeled as some nut and is buried by the county with all the other unclaimed bodies.”

 

Hutch’s voice was soft.  He now understood the agent’s need for the escape the drugs provided.  “What about his family?”

 

“Dan didn’t have any family.  I was his family.”

 

“Why...why’d you stay with the Bureau?  Why didn’t you speak up...tell the truth?”

 

Emery’s laugh was damp.  “I could’ve spoken up, but I knew what I was getting into when I took the assignment.  Right or wrong, I serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States.  But I hated them, Hutchinson.  God, how I hate them.  And what better revenge for me than to stick around and remind them every chance I can of how they screwed up?” 

 

“Why didn’t they...get rid of you?”

 

“Guilt, I suppose.  My boss has a soft spot that he doesn’t want anybody to know about.  Plus, they knew I could blow the lid off the botched assassination attempt.  Then again, they could just kill me, too.  Sometimes, I wish they would.”

 

The two men lapsed into silence, both struggling through agony of their own.

 

˜  ™

 

The next morning, Hutch knew he was over the worst of the withdrawal.  He had hardly slept the night before, and the times he did doze, he woke up with his heart pounding in fear.  The old memories of his abduction by Ben Forest and his men were now intermingled with the faces of McMillian and Endicott. 

 

A groan from Emery brought his attention to the other man waking.  The agent scrubbed his face with his hands and stretched, obviously uncomfortable from the position he had passed out in. 

 

“Rough night?” Hutch quipped. 

 

The agent rolled his eyes, then groaned again as he stood and stretched out his back. 

 

“Look, Emery.  I don’t suppose you’d consider letting me get up for a minute.  You’ve had me strapped down in this bed for I don’t know how many days now, and among other things, I’ve got to use the john.” 

 

The agent’s expression was somewhere between mild amusement and suspicion.  Hutch almost managed a smile.  “I don’t even want to think about how that was dealt with while I was drugged out of my head.”

 

Emery’s expression told Hutch he’d rather not revisit those memories either.  The agent reached for the restraint at Hutch’s right ankle and paused, obviously torn. 

 

“What do you think I’m going to do?  Overpower you and make a run for it?” Hutch quipped. 

 

The agent rolled his eyes and released Hutch’s restraints, then even offered a hand to steady him when he stood for the first time.  Hutch thanked Emery and took a tottering step toward the small bathroom adjacent to the room’s single outgoing door. 

 

When Hutch took a second step, he listed to his left and grabbed the back of the room’s sole chair to steady himself.  As soon as Emery moved forward to help him, Hutch suddenly gripped the chair with both hands and swung it up in a wide arc, striking the unsuspecting agent across his back and head.  Emery went down in a pile and remained motionless. 

 

Hutch put his arms out to balance himself when the room began to spin.  When he felt stable enough, he tore off his hospital gown and quickly stripped the agent of his pants, shirt, attendant’s coat, and shoes.  It took him longer than he would have liked with his hands trembling violently.

 

After he was dressed, Hutch made his way to the door and peered out.  Deciding it was clear, he paused only long enough to nod his thanks to the unconscious agent before he slipped out the door. 

 

If Hutch had taken a moment to look closer, he would have seen the slightest smile gracing Emery’s mouth.

 

˜  ™