The Price of a Life

Chapter Four

 

 

Hutch could see that Starsky was wracked with guilt, and all he got was monosyllabic answers to any attempt at conversation.  Captain Dobey refused medical treatment and insisted on being taken home to await further contact.  Sanderson assigned two other agents to stay with him, but the rest of the Feds were ungraciously ushered out of the Dobey home.  Sanderson would rely on the bug implanted in the captain’s phone, and would take up his post at his office, keeping up the ruse that they were following Andrews’ demands.

 

Starsky disappeared from Hutch’s place right after he dropped off his partner and made sure he was comfortable.  The trip to the emergency room had been quick and silent, each man lost in his own thoughts.  Hutch’s wound required fifteen stitches and the promised tetanus shot.

 

Hutch made himself a cup of herbal tea, then tried to get comfortable on the couch with a book.  He finally gave up when he couldn’t concentrate and turned on the TV instead, hoping some inane movie would lull him to sleep until his partner showed up again.

 

˜  ™

 

Hutch realized he must have finally dozed off when the pounding on his front door woke him up from his uncomfortable sprawl on the sofa.  After pulling his gun from its holster, left within easy reach from his position on the couch, Hutch quietly made his way to the door and stood to the side of the frame.

 

“Who is it?”  A quick look at the wall clock indicated it was 4:00 a.m.

 

“’S me...I can’t find...”  Hutch jerked the door open, knowing who the slurred voice belonged to.  “...M’ keys.”

 

It’d had been quite a while since Hutch had seen Starsky this drunk—not the mellow haze they’d get to when they felt like they were fighting a losing battle, despite their best efforts.  When it felt like the world was crumbling around them, the two of them would get blitzed together.  But tonight, Starsky started without him—hadn’t even invited Hutch, but rather holed up like an injured animal licking his wounds.  And now, finally, he was at his partner’s door, smelling like something Hutch couldn’t even put a name to.

 

Hutch reached out and hauled in his partner, steering him toward the couch.  “Sit down before you fall down, you idiot.  You didn’t drive, did you?”

 

Starsky waved him off.  “Pppphhht.  ’Course I didn’t.  Cabbed it.  You think I’m stupid?”  Hutch hiked up one blond eyebrow.  “Never mind, don’ answer that.”

 

Hutch lowered himself onto the arm of his couch.  “So why’d you start the party without me, partner?  You know I would’ve joined you.”

 

“’Cause you...you din’t screw up like I did.  This one’s my doin’.”  Starsky unscrewed the cap off the pint of whiskey he retrieved from his jacket pocket.  After taking a long pull from it, he gestured at the quiet blond.  “You, on the other hand, you...quit moving around on me.  Yer making me dizzy.”

 

“I’m not moving, Starsk.”

 

“Oh, well, there’s three of you.  Which one are you?”

 

“The good-looking one.”  Hutch snagged the bottle out of Starsky’s grasp.  “I think you’ve had enough, Gordo.”  Hutch started to put the bottle on the coffee table, but changed his mind and took a drink from it himself. 

 

Starsky hauled himself off the couch and wove his way to Hutch’s refrigerator, pulling out a long-neck Coors.  “Bar’s open.  You want one?  First round’s on me.”

 

Hutch nodded and waited patiently for him to finish his soliloquy.  Starsky made his way back into the living room, pausing long enough to greet a few of the plants that seemed to snag his coat as he brushed by.  “Friendly roommates you got.  Now, where was I?”

 

“Smashed.  Has it helped at all?”

 

The eyes that met Hutch’s were steady.  Bitterness crept in, surpassing the alcoholic cloud.  “Not one bit.”

 

“Starsky, you’re not¾”

 

The beer bottle was thrown against the wall with so much force it shattered and exploded across the floor.  The inertia caused Starsky to stumble over the coffee table and stagger against the couch.  Hutch lurched to his feet in anticipation of the second act.  But instead of consuming rage, despair set in.  Starsky sunk to the couch and buried his head in his hands.  “My fault, oh, God; it’s my fault.  If anything happens to them, I couldn’t stand it, Hutch.  I couldn’t live with it.”

 

Hutch quickly moved beside his partner and threw an arm around the quaking shoulders, drawing him close.  “Easy, buddy, easy.  We don’t know yet.  We’ll get them back, okay?  Don’t give up yet.”

 

Starsky’s voice remained muffled behind his hands.  “He’ll never forgive me, Hutch, and I sure as hell don’t blame him for hating me, but...”  The spent detective pushed himself away from his partner and looked at him soberly, a solitary tear rolling down his face.  “But it’ll never be as much as I hate myself right now.” 

 

“Aw, Starsk, you know that the only one to blame is Andrews and¾”  Hutch reached out to pull his distraught partner back into an embrace, when Starsky’s grieving face took on the knowing look that he was about to lose the contents of his stomach.  As Starsky hurtled into the bathroom, Hutch crossed into his kitchen and began making coffee. 

 

˜  ™

 

Edith was frightened, but it was nothing compared to her burning rage.  She had followed Fitzwallace’s gruff and demeaning instructions almost meekly, biding her time and praying for an opportunity to escape.  The first fifteen minutes of flight from their home had been tense, but the two agents sitting in the back of the unmarked federal van with them had been friendly, almost apologetic for the inconvenience.  When the vehicle suddenly swerved into a deserted parking lot, the two agents knew something was wrong and drew their weapons.  By then, the “agent” from the front passenger seat already had a pistol with a silencer pressed against Edith’s temple.  She and kids were unceremoniously ushered out of the van and into a camper attached to the bed of a pickup truck and locked inside.  The van driver left the vehicle and climbed into the pickup, starting it.  After a moment, the second man hurled himself into the passenger seat.  Edith clutched her children to her, sending up a silent prayer for the two real agents she now feared were left for dead in the back of the van.

 

The long drive out of the city was ended after a slow trek over a cratered road.  Edith guessed they were hidden in a secluded country or wooded area.  The remainder of the night was passed locked in the back of the truck.  No food was offered, but a gallon of distilled water had been left there for them.  When Edith pounded on the wall of the camper, demanding answers to her questions, she was simply told to shut up with no further explanation or contact from the bogus agents.  

 

According to Edith’s watch, it was just after 4:00 a.m. when the pickup truck started back down the rocky road.  Several hours passed before the camper door finally opened, the smell of salt water immediately assailing them, and they were pushed through an area of shipping containers and crates.  A few sloops and schooners gently rocked beside a large pier, and several cargo freighters were moored nearby or anchored farther in the harbor.  O’Neill and Fitzwallace steered the group to a small fueling station off one of the smaller docks.  The single-room building was filled only with an old metal desk and several empty filing cabinets.  A small closet stood off to one side.  The sole window had once faced the exterior fuel pumps, but was now boarded over. 

 

As soon as they were shoved inside, Edith rushed to the door and laid her ear against it, straining to hear any useful information from their captors.  All she was able to discern was that O’Neill was going back to Andrews, and Fitzwallace alone was enough to watch over the “pickaninnies.”  The two men laughed over a comment Edith couldn’t make out, then the sound of the truck driving off signaled O’Neill’s exit.

 

Edith gave each of her children a hug and kiss, and told them to be brave.  She then began prowling the room, searching for anything that would work as a weapon against Fitzwallace.  The metal desk and filing cabinets were falling apart, the drawers broken out.  Opening the closet door revealed a wooden dowel once used to support coat hangers, and a flimsy wooden shelf set above it.  The closet was longer than the width of the doorframe on one side, but was solid, offering no escape route to the outside.  The dowel refused to budge from its frame and couldn’t be used as a weapon. 

 

Frustrated, but not defeated, Edith continued to scan the room.  She would do anything to protect her children, and there was no way she was going down without a fight.

 

˜  ™

 

The two detectives were in Sanderson’s office by 11:00 a.m.  Both men were pale: Hutch from his wound, and Starsky from his self-incriminating binge and rapid sobriety.  Still, there was a hunger in both of their eyes that encouraged the older agent.  The two had already made their rounds, checking out the word on the street, but their sources didn’t yield anything important.  Even Huggy had come up dry. 

 

Hutch finally broke the silence in the room.  “So, what’s next?”

 

Sanderson shook his head.  “I’m afraid we wait.  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got men scouring the city.  Offices from all over the state have a least one unit in motion.  But unless something turns up beforehand, we wait for them to make their move.  Harold’s cooled off a little from last night.  He’s at least agreed to wear a wire.”

 

It was easy for Hutch to feel Starsky’s tension as he sat studying his hands, desperate to do anything.  “What if¾?”

 

An intercom interrupted them.  Sanderson quickly depressed the microphone button.  “Yes?”

 

“Line three is the patch from the captain’s line, sir.  This is it.”

 

Sanderson punched the third button, now lit, allowing the tap to be played through the phone’s speaker. 

 

“...you do to her, Andrews?”  The rage in the captain’s voice crackled over the phone line. 

 

“Use your imagination.  It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out.” 

 

Dobey began to curse, but was quickly interrupted.  “Listen up, nigger, and remember—if I see one Fed, one cop, or anybody who even looks like a pig, I’ll blow your family away, got it?” 

 

“The ransom—where?  When?”

 

“You think I’m stupid?  I know this line’s bugged.  Get in your car and drive to the phone booth over on the corner of Wilmot and Hammond.  You’ve got three minutes.”

 

The line went dead from Andrews’ connection, but Dobey simply dropped the phone.  The men in Sanderson’s office could hear the captain’s rushed footsteps and him barking at the two agents not to follow him, or he’d shoot them himself.

 

Hutch looked anxiously at Sanderson.  “Now what?”

 

“We’re tailing Harold, of course, and monitoring Andrews’ instructions.  As long as he keeps the wire on, we’ll know his every move.  But Harold was adamant—we don’t move until we’re sure of the drop.  Then¾”

 

“Then?”  Hutch raised his eyebrows.

 

“Then we pray we’re not too late.”

 

˜  ™

 

Dobey was breathless when he snatched up the receiver from the phone booth.  “Yes?”

 

“Well, you’re smarter than I thought—I don’t see a single cop or Fed with you.”

 

The captain anxiously scanned the streets and buildings on either side of him, desperately trying to spot Andrews or any of his men watching him.  “So, where’s my family?  I want proof that they’re still...that they’re all right.”

 

“You’re in no place to make demands with me, Dobey.  Oh, they’re still alive—a little worse for wear, but they’re still breathing.  At least for the moment.”

 

“I want to talk to my wife!”

 

“Like I said, you’re in no position to be demanding anything.  You’ll just have to take your chances.”

 

“Where’s the drop?”

 

“No way.  You might not have any back-up with you, but I’ll just bet you’re wearing a wire.  Go to Santa Clarita Street.  There’s a bar there on the corner of Third.  In the back, there’s a bunch of trashcans.  Taped to the bottom of one is your instructions.”

 

“Santa Clarita and Third...”

 

“Now look across the street at that little grocery store.  See that blue Mustang?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The keys are under the floor mat.  That’s your ride for the rest of our little trip.”

 

“What are you¾?”

 

“I told you, I’m not stupid—I know you’re in tight with the Feds.  I don’t doubt for a second your car’s been rigged up with a homing device.”

 

Sanderson cursed, confirming to Starsky and Hutch that’s exactly what they’d done. 

 

Andrews continued.  “Oh, and, Dobey—hear what I’m saying.  I’ve got people all over this city, and they’ll be watching you.  Get the instructions and take them with you.  Put them on the dashboard of your car and keep them there.  We’ll be watching to make sure you don’t leave them for any of your cop buddies to find.  We’ll also make sure you don’t read the instructions out loud—into your wire—so they’ll know where you’re going.  Now, maybe we can’t be everywhere at once, but do you really want to risk your precious little family’s lives on the off chance that the moment you whisper where you’re going won’t be one of the times we’re watching?  Think about that.  Think about the risk, then think about how many different ways I could kill your little girl and where I could leave her body.”

 

“All right!” Dobey roared.  “I got it, okay?  I got it.”

 

“Good,” Andrews’ voice gloated.  “Then get a move on.  You’ve got one hour to get where you’re going, fatman.” 

 

The next sounds over the wire were the captain slamming down the receiver and charging out of the phone booth and across the street, recklessly dodging traffic.  The Mustang’s engine was gunned and the squealing tires marked his pulling onto the street.  Then, if one listened very carefully, they could make out murmured prayers of an anguished husband and father.

 

˜  ™

 

They were ready when the opportunity for escape came.  Fitzwallace entered the small enclosure, the sunlight streaming in from behind him.  He was prepared for the darkness in the small office and clicked on his flashlight, scanning the room.  Edith and Rosie sat huddled in the corner, the mother’s sweater draped across them like a blanket. 

 

Fitzwallace kept his pistol trained on his captives as he quickly shone the light around the room, then charged to the desk and peered under it.  “Where’s the boy?” 

 

“Gone.”  Edith lifted her chin defiantly.  “He snuck out and went for help, so you’d better get out of here before my husband has half of California come raining down on you.”

 

“Stand up!”  Fitzwallace gestured with his pistol.  Edith and Rosie stood, the child clinging to her mother.  “Now step away from the corner.”

 

The two obeyed, proving that Cal hadn’t somehow been hiding behind their huddled mass.  Fitzwallace flashed the light around the room again.  The beam eventually reflected off the dull brass knob of the closet.  The felon grinned wickedly.  “You think ol’ Fitz is stupid, don’t you?”

 

Fitzwallace stomped across the room.  With some effort, he was able to open the closet door with his hand still grasping the flashlight.  Once he jerked the door open, he thrust both light and pistol into the small enclosure. 

 

No one stood waiting inside to meet his wrath. 

 

“What the¾?”  Fitzwallace bent under the wooden dowel and turned to shine his light into the closet’s alcove. 

 

The empty closet was the last thing he saw before hitting the floor and losing consciousness.

 

˜  ™

 

Sanderson and Hutch poured over a city map, trying to determine the most probable location for the ransom drop, considering Dobey would have left Santa Clarita and Third and given approximately one hour to reach his destination. 

 

The FBI, at least, had not been idle.  Undercover agents had been placed throughout the city, attempting to sight the navy Mustang Dobey now drove.  A visual was made of him getting on Highway 1, heading north. 

 

Starsky sat frozen by the desk, concentrating on the audio from the wire, hoping to hear some clue from his captain.  Hutch glanced worriedly at his partner, concern for both Dobey and Starsky marring his features.  Sanderson asked him a question, and he returned his focus to the map—comfort would have to come later.

 

An odd intermittent tapping sound accompanied the vehicle and street noises over the wire.  Starsky’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the speaker.  A familiar ghost touched his memory—but what?  Starsky strained to hear the tapping again, but all that came through were the constant sounds of the freeway. 

 

“C’mon, Cap’n, help me out here,” he whispered.  As if bidden, the tapping began again. 

 

“That’s it!”  Starsky jumped and beckoned the other two men.  “Listen!”

 

Hutch and Sanderson rushed back to the desk and waited silently.  A faint click could be heard over the speaker. 

 

“What is it, Starsk?”  Hutch shook his head.  “What’s that sound from?”

 

“I don’t know—his hand, probably, his wedding ring against the steering wheel...”  Starsky’s eyes shone with excitement.  “It’s code!  Morse code!  I didn’t realize what the rhythm was at first.  I only remember a little bit of it from the service...listen, there he goes again.” 

 

The three men held their breaths, straining to recognize the pattern. 

 

“F...I...something...something...”  Starsky racked his memory for the next letters, then cursed when no recollection came.  “R...M...A...something...S...P...I...something, something, 3...8.”  His fist slammed against the desktop, causing its contents to jump.  “I can’t remember!”

 

Sanderson raced out the door, calling back, “I’ve got a man who’s a communications expert!”

 

Hutch, in turn, rushed back to the city map, placing his finger on Dobey’s starting point.  His other finger traveled to the additional pins marking approximately an hour’s travel.  “Starsky, look at this!”

 

Hutch excitedly jabbed his finger at the northern most pin.  “F-I¾Fisherman’s Warf!”

 

Starsky smiled a predator’s grin.  “What do you wanna bet that they have a Pier 38?”

 

Hutch scooped up a pair of two-way radios from Sanderson’s desk as the partners rushed out of the office.  When they met Sanderson and another agent coming back down the hall, they paused only long enough to tell them what they’d deduced, and Sanderson promised he’d call them on the radio if the complete code revealed some other location.  Either way, the FBI would be en route and ready to strike when the ransom drop was made.

 

A call from the LTD’s radio patched Hutch through to Huggy, and he briefly updated their friend.  Within minutes, they reached their next stop: a small restaurant where Huggy was waiting to exchange Hutch’s car for a nondescript sedan he had rented in case Andrews and his men recognized the familiar vehicle.  They were taking no chances on being spotted and, after the quick detour, tore off down a less traveled route toward their final destination. 

 

And they knew once they got there, they’d move heaven and earth to see that Andrews paid for what he’d done.

 

˜  ™