By ten o’clock that morning, Dobey was beginning to worry. Not that Starsky was the most conscientious of his men by any means, but since the whole Randolph/Capernicus fiasco began, and certainly since Hutch went into hiding, Starsky had consistently let him know his whereabouts in the event something broke in the case. A call to the detective’s apartment yielded no response, nor had Starsky responded on any frequency to the radio dispatcher’s attempts to locate him. Huggy hadn’t heard from him since the previous evening.

The captain put away his fears while he met briefly with Taylor, reviewing the forensic evidence from the helicopter crash. By eleven, the returning fear was almost tangible. Dobey picked up the phone and punched the first line. "This is Captain Dobey. I want you to put out an APB on a missing officer."

Twelve…thirteen…fourteen…

On the twentieth ring Hutch gave up. The sinking feeling he had in the pit of his stomach turned into a tidal wave with the click of the receiver. Something was definitely, horribly and inexplicably wrong.

Hutch rested his elbows against his knees. A quick glance at the bedside clock confirmed it was 3:15. Don’t read more into it than necessary. It could be that he had a hot lead or that the case finally broke. Just because he’s not there doesn’t necessarily mean trouble.

The nervous energy propelled the detective out of his chair toward the room’s single window. Standing to one side of the closed drapes, Hutch lifted the curtain marginally, taking in the hazy afternoon sun. The nagging feeling that had plagued him grew in its intensity until he didn’t think he could stand another minute in the room. Hutch crossed purposefully to the nightstand and snatched up his gun, and shrugged into his jacket. Three strides brought him to the hotel room door.

Hutch stood for a moment, his hand on the doorknob. Throwing his head back in frustration, he leaned heavily against the door to collect himself. After a moment he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed, snatched up his worn copy of All the President’s Men and returned to the vinyl chair.

Starsky was still unconscious when Kevin flipped his inert body off his shoulder and lay him on the print shop’s cement floor. The detective’s left leg laid out at an unnatural angle, and his forehead bore testimony to the blow of the two-by-four. Kevin checked Starsky’s bonds almost gently, ensuring that the handcuffs were snug, but not damaging. He then rifled through the Starsky’s pockets, relieving him of his wallet, I.D., jackknife, and car and handcuff keys, which he passed on to Eddie.

At Eddie’s nod, Kevin crossed through the room to an area behind some ink drums. He had claimed the area as his own space and arranged his meager belongings there. Kevin retrieved a well-worn chair and the comic book he had been reading earlier, and returned to where Starsky lay, prepared to watch over the detective and ensure he didn’t try and escape.

Capernicus exited the office to watch Kevin with wary interest as Eddie went through Starsky’s things. If recent events had not mandated he go into hiding, Capernicus would have quickly hired more competent help. "Tell me again why you keep him around."

Eddie looked up quickly at his employer, hoping to convince him of Kevin’s value. "Aw, Mr. Capernicus, Kevin won’t be no trouble. He’s a good kid, even if he is a retard. His brother, Michael Franscoli, him and me go way back. I promised Mike that if anything ever happened to him, I’d keep an eye out on Kevin. Besides, he’s as strong as a moose, and he’ll do whatever I tell him to."

Capernicus studied Kevin, unsure if it was his mental retardation that unnerved him, or the unflinching stare that was often focused on him with guileless eyes. "Fine, just keep him quiet and out of my way."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Capernicus."

"And if he makes any slip-ups, it’s you I’m holding responsible, Eddie. Is this…Kevin reliable?"

"Oh, yes, sir. That cop ain’t goin’ nowhere."

"Fine. Have Kevin keep an eye on him. When Starsky comes around, we’ll see what we can find out. In the meantime, you and I need to wrap up some business within the city."

"You got it." Eddie followed Capernicus to the office.

"Eddie, no screw-ups this time. I want Hutchinson dead. Very dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Anything useful in Starsky’s wallet?"

"Nah." Eddie continued dismantling the case of Starsky’s badge and wallet, searching for hidden compartments that might give a clue as to where Hutch was hiding. Photos were pulled from their casing and tossed onto the desk, along with the detective’s police I.D. and badge. "Nothin’ unusual--photos, a couple of bucks, an organ donor I.D. card…ain’t that too bad."

"What’s that?"

Eddie threw his boss a malicious grin. "When I get through with him, there won’t be enough of him left to donate."

When Starsky regained consciousness, he realized he was not alone. Duct tape was extended across his eyes, virtually blinding him. Devoid of his sight, Starsky’s senses of smell and hearing became more acute. A damp staleness greeted his nose, as well as considerable dust. Faint breathing from nearby was barely detectable. His cheek scraped along the cement floor, as he forced his protesting body to roll from his stomach onto his side. A hiss of breath escaped between clamped teeth when his broken leg twisted during the roll.

Whoever was breathing nearby shifted in his seat. Starsky raised his head toward the sound, sending waves of pain through his head. "Do you realize kidnapping a cop is a federal offense?" The sound of his own voice sounded surprisingly loud. Starsky listened intently for a response. When one wasn’t forthcoming, he tried again. "What’s the matter? You got enough chutzpah to snatch me, but not enough to talk?"

The chair creaked again as it was relieved of its burden, and shuffling footsteps approached him, stopping a few feet from his head. A heartbeat passed before his captor hesitantly spoke.

"My na-name is K-K-Kevin. Wh-who are you?"

Starsky was in no mood for pleasantries. His vulnerability made him nothing short of livid. "What’s my name? You morons kidnap me and you don’t know who I am?" Starsky heard Kevin stand up from where he had evidently been crouching nearby.

"I’m n-n-not a mo-mo-moron; Ed-Eddie was r-right! Y-y-you’re just-t-t like all the o-o-other c-c-cops!"

Dust from Kevin’s retreat made Starsky sneeze, setting off little fireworks in his already throbbing head. From the sounds within the room he could tell Kevin wasn’t too far away, probably still watching over him, but not so close as to initiate another conversation. If this Kevin person really didn’t know who he was, then he just might have a chance of making him an ally. If he hadn’t already blown it.

Kevin waited until Mr. Capernicus, Eddie and the other men who had been called in earlier to leave the office before he snuck in and began rummaging through the desk drawers. He was rapidly growing bored with the inactivity and hoped to find a pencil or marker to draw a cartoon character with. Kevin had come up with an idea for his own comic strip while he was watching over the cop and wanted to get started before he forgot. The discarded skids of paper where like manna, and too great a temptation to let sit by idly.

Buried under a warped pad of paper in the center drawer were the cop’s picture I.D., badge, wallet and a rumpled plastic sleeve of photographs. Kevin looked nervously around the room, as if he were afraid of getting caught looking at something he knew he shouldn’t. Curiosity eventually overrode his fear, and he opened up the badge, his fingers tracing the shape of the shield. The accompanying picture was of the man they’d brought to the print shop. Kevin sounded out the name and title: Detective Sergeant First Class David Michael Starsky. Michael? That was Mikey’s ‘full’ name. In the picture Starsky’s grin showed assurance and determination, his eyes alight with a fierceness Kevin couldn’t name.

Kevin returned the badge to the drawer and picked up the sleeve of photos Eddie had removed from the wallet. The first picture was of a pretty young woman in her mid-twenties, smiling at the camera. His wife? The opposite side of the sleeve revealed the same woman, the detective and several children and teenagers gathered around them. Most of the kids had on t-shirts or gym clothes and one was holding a basketball. Kevin could tell by their faces the kids were like him, and maybe the picture had been taken at a special school, similar to the one he had attended.

The next photo was black-and-white, minute rips and creases attributing to its signs of aging. The picture was of a curly-headed boy, a well-worn baseball glove clutched in front of him. Crouched next to him could only have been his father, their features a mirror image of one another. The father was smiling a broad, lopsided grin as he held a baseball in one hand, and his patrolman’s cap in the other. The light from the camera glinted off the badge over his chest.

The last picture was of Starsky and another man, standing on the roof of a flashy red car. But it wasn’t the fierce grins on the two men’s faces that caught Kevin’s eye, but rather the face of the blond whose hand rested on Starsky’s shoulder. Mikey? Kevin wished that the picture had been larger so he could make out the features of the blond better. He knew it wasn’t his brother, but the resemblance was enough to make his stomach hurt and tears form with the ever-present ache. With the brother he idolized gone, all he had left was Eddie, and life would never be the same again.

Starsky could discern two sets of footsteps approaching him. The detective carefully schooled his face not to show how uncomfortable he was when his assailants stopped scant inches from him. They had left him on the floor next to a large piece of machinery, his hands cuffed tightly behind his back to a metal pole. Before he realized what was happening, a hand grasped an end of the duct tape from across his eyes and ripped it away in one sudden movement. The adhesive tore at the tender flesh around his swollen right eye, and Starsky had to blink at the sudden light. Rough hands grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Blinding pain ran up Starsky’s left leg when he unintentionally put his weight on the broken limb, so he settled for leaning against the metal guardrail he was handcuffed to.

"Well, Detective Starsky, by now I’m sure you’ve figured out who I am and what it is I want."

Starsky glared at the graying man, then quickly took in his surroundings. He had no assurance they wouldn’t soon replace the tape, and wanted to figure out his best escape route while he was able to see. The room he found himself in housed a small sheet-fed printing press and other pieces of equipment Starsky could only surmise were for a similar process. The equipment looked to be in various levels of disrepair and obviously hadn’t been used in years. Skids containing large sheets of paper sat around the perimeter of the small warehouse, covered with plastic sheets and layers of dust. Similarly, dented ink barrels stood like sentinels throughout the room. A small, glassed-in office sat off to one side. Grimy windows were positioned along one wall, over fourteen feet from the floor--too far to be considered as an escape route without a way to get up to them first

Eddie took note of the detective’s inattention and snapped a kick against Starsky’s broken leg. Starsky threw his head back against the pain shooting through him, his breath escaping through clenched teeth. His gaze turned murderously toward the ex-fighter.

"Mr. Capernicus is talking to you, pig." Eddie’s grin was anything but pleasant.

"Listen, Fraiser," Starsky was quickly interrupted by Capernicus.

"Save your threats, Detective. You’re really not in any position to be making them. You obviously know who we are and what we’re capable of, so let’s cut to the chase."

Starsky glanced around the room a second time, locating the doors and shipping bays, but no telephone. His gaze lingered on the two men before him, then came to rest on the third standing behind Capernicus and Eddie with straw blond hair and a perpetually innocent expression. He identified him as Kevin, and was correct in having assessed him to be categorized as one of the "special needs" students Terry dedicated her life to teaching.

The detective flicked his gaze back to the others, but said nothing.

"Where’s Detective Hutchinson?"

Starsky’s gaze never wavered. "I don’t know."

Eddie’s foot lashed out a second time. "You’re lying!"

The agony burning up his leg left Starsky gasping. When he was able to raise his head again, Starsky met Eddie’s glare, his own promising retaliation.

"Detective, I didn’t get where I am today by not getting what I wanted. You will tell me what I want to know."

"Where you are today, Capernicus, is holed up like a rat in an empty warehouse, hiding from the police, with nothing to show for it. Was it worth it?"

The extortionist’s backhand snapped Starsky’s head to the side. Blood trickled from where Capernicus’ ring cut his lip.

"I am not a patient man, Detective. Where is your partner?"

Starsky returned the man’s stare without saying a word. Capernicus didn’t take his eyes away as he softly spoke to the man next to him. "Eddie, I think he needs to be persuaded to cooperate."

The first punch the boxer landed snapped Starsky’s head back with a crack. The next series of blows were delivered to his midriff, already tender from his tumble down the apartment stairwell. Starsky found he could no longer remain standing balanced on one leg against the guardrail, and slumped to the ground. Eddie hauled the detective to the guardrail again, holding him upright.

"Where is Detective Hutchinson?"

Starsky shook his head to clear his vision, but remained silent. The next blow sent him back to the floor.

The phone ringing sent Hutch shooting out of the chair he’d been dozing in like a rocket. The receiver was snatched up before the second ring ended. "Yes?"

Starsky would only contact him at the hotel if Capernicus were arrested or something went horribly wrong. Hope and tension warred across Hutch’s face as the voice at the other end of the line finally spoke.

Hutch’s shoulders gradually sagged as he gave a curt reply. "No, you’ve got the wrong number."

The detective walked tensely across the room and sat down at the edge of the bed. Worried blue eyes bore into the telephone, willing his partner to call.

The sound of shuffling feet identified the person entering the room as Kevin. Blindfolded a second time, Starsky listened intently to the activity around him. Several people came and went from the warehouse, obviously attending to Capernicus’ business. As time went on, he had determined that Capernicus had a more solid heel and Eddie’s steps were quicker, more energized.

"Kevin?" Starsky asked hopefully. The split and bleeding lip made his speech a bit slurred. "I was wondering when you were coming back. I wanted to say that I’m sorry." Starsky tried to lift his head toward where the footsteps had stopped. The silence lasted so long he began to wonder if he’d mistaken the young man’s entry.

"Why?" The voice that answered sounded like a little child’s, rather than the twenty-year-old man that responded.

"Maybe I hurt your feelings earlier. I don’t really think you’re a moron. I would never call you that."

The crate squeaked in protest as Kevin sat down. "Y-y-you’re just say-saying that."

Starsky shook his head rapidly, ignoring the pain that made it feel as if his brain had detached and was sloshing around in his skull. "No! I mean it. You just seem different from the other two."

Kevin’s voice dropped to a whisper. "I am di-di-different."

"Yeah, but it’s a good different. You haven’t punched me, have you, Kevin?"

"No. Th-th-that’s not my job."

"What is your job?"

"Eddie t-t-told me to wa-watch you and make sure you d-d-don’t try and esc-c-cape."

"Now, how could I do that? I’m trussed up like some kinda Thanksgiving turkey." Starsky pretended to test his bonds. "As a matter of fact, they’ve got me cuffed up so tight, it’s kinda hurting. You wouldn’t mind loosening these up, would you?"

"Eddie w-w-would get really m-mad if I I I did that. He said I c-c-couldn’t t-t-touch them."

Starsky sighed, accepting the resolve in Kevin’s voice. At least for the moment. "I understand. Do you think it’d be all right if you gave me a drink of water or somethin’? I’m really thirsty."

"Well, I su-suppose th-that’d be okay." Starsky listened to the retreating footsteps and what sounded like a plastic cooler opening up. The coke Kevin offered after sitting him up was flat and warm, but it was wet.

It was a start.

The day passed with an incredible slowness, made unbearable by the worry plaguing him well before the first missed phone call. The twenty-four hours that followed were as unnerving as those spent trapped beneath his car in the canyon years ago.

Hutch held his breath as he dialed the first number, the one used on the very first day of his exile. Blue eyes darted nervously as he listened to the unanswered ringing. Twelve…thirteen… fourteen… Hutch punched the cradle to disconnect, then dialed the next number, also from memory. The furrow between his brow deepened as the phone rang endlessly. The receiver was all but knocked off the nightstand with the ferocity of Hutch’s disconnecting the line and dialing the third number. The litany continued on with the fourth attempt, which yielded the same results.

Tense muscles went lax with futility, as Hutch dropped the receiver in the cradle and laced his fingers together, supporting his chin with elbows resting on his knees. Sky blue eyes darkened with concern as he sat staring at the phone, again willing it to ring.

Starsky had already begun to lose track of time, but figured that almost an entire day had passed since he was taken from the abandoned apartment building. They had removed the duct tape blindfold and though he could see windows, they showed very little in the passage of the time through the filth and decay. The next blow to his face brought him to a more alert state rather than deeper into the unconsciousness he had been blissfully sinking into. The distinct metallic taste of blood rolled across his tongue.

"Where’s your partner?"

"What time is it?" Starsky lifted his head back up and attempted to crack one swollen eye at Eddie. They had cuffed him to Kevin’s wooden chair since his broken leg obviously wouldn’t support him to stand under the blows. Capernicus sat on a skid of paper nearby, glaring. Still, he glanced down at his watch at Starsky’s question.

"What does that matter?" Eddie snarled.

"What time it is will make a difference as to where he is."

"Four o’clock," Capernicus growled from his perch.

"AM or PM?"

"Afternoon."

"Ah. ‘Cause if it were four AM, then he woulda been in his kitchen mixing up one of his god-awful breakfast drinks. Do you have any idea how disgusting desiccated liver tastes?"

Eddie delivered another rapid-fire blow that cracked across Starsky’s face, breaking his nose. Blood immediately began to flood down his face. "He ain’t at his apartment! Tell us something we don’t know!"

Capernicus leapt to his feet and pushed past Eddie, grabbing Starsky by his shirt.

"Listen, funnyman, you can make this harder on yourself or you can make it easier. Either way, you will tell us where your partner is."

"You know, I interrogate people for a living. You two really need to work on your techniques." Starsky paused to cough and spit out some of the blood that had pooled in his mouth. Somehow he managed a cocky smile, even with his face beginning to throb. "Look, why don’t you uncuff me and one of you sit in the chair, then I’ll show you how it’s done?"

The snap of Capernicus’ backhand reverberated throughout the small warehouse. Starsky felt the world growing fuzzy again.

"I don’t know."

"You’re trying my patience!"

"Really? Try mine."

Eddie’s large hands snaked out and delivered a second blow to the detective’s already broken nose. Starsky couldn’t help but cry out against the wave of pain.

"Still find this amusing, Detective?"

Starsky couldn’t find the energy for another witty retort, but did manage a bloody sneer at the extortionist. Glancing down at the mess on his hand, Capernicus retrieved a handkerchief from his suit pocket and began to clean off the gore.

"Fine. If you want to take your secret to the grave with you, we can arrange it." Capernicus threw the cloth on top of one of the paper skids. "We’re both determined men, Detective Starsky. Stubborn, even. We know what we have to do and we do it, no matter what."

"I’m nothing like you, Capernicus." Starsky’s voice was full of disgust. "You sacrificed your partner."

Capernicus crossed his arms in front of his thin chest and smirked at his captive. "Isn’t that what you’re allowing your partner to do to you?"

Starsky opened his mouth with another retort, but swallowed it back instead. Goading Capernicus wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He tried lying instead. "If I knew where he was, I’d tell you. Nobody’s worth this."

"I’d agree with that, but I’ve seen you two together. I’ve had you two observed from the minute we left that parking garage. I know all about you and your partner." Capernicus sneered as he watched Starsky shake his head against the pain in his broken nose. "Quite a reputation you two have developed. You think I don’t know how you’ve risked your life for him before? I was there at the station when my sniper tried to take him out and you pushed him out of the way." Capernicus placed his grip onto Starsky’s collarbone, adding pressure to the healing wound caused by the gunman’s bullet. "No, I think you’re holding out, Detective. The question is, for how long? Where’s Hutchinson?"

"Go to hell, Capernicus," Starsky ground out.

"Oh, I will. But I’m taking you with me if you don’t tell me what I want to know."

Chapter Six