CHAPTER 22

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“O, ‘tis most sweet

When in one line two crafts directly meet.” - Act III, Scene IV

The next two days found the two detectives pulling weekend duty, as they embarked on an exhaustive search for Richard Caldwell’s whereabouts.

On Saturday, after checking in with Dobey and briefing some of the other detectives who were helping with the hunt, they headed down to the morgue to sift through the contents of Harrison’s pockets and the knapsack he had brought to the theatre Friday night. Starsky found a wallet in the former and flipped it open to find the driver’s license and the young actor’s home address. He examined the information thoughtfully for a moment, then nudged Hutch and handed the wallet to him.

“Check this out.”

Hutch glanced at the license and cocked an eyebrow. “Venice,” he observed. “That’s less than a mile from my place.”

“Yeah...better keep that key inside for a while.”

“Give it a rest, huh?” Hutch requested. “We got more important things to worry about.”

Starsky shrugged and copied the address down in his notebook, and pocketed a ring of keys. “Suppose that should be our first stop.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, only half-listening as he shuffled through the papers from the knapsack. “Script...notes...reviews...”

“Thing looks like the back of your car,” Starsky commented. Hutch flicked him a humorless glare but didn’t respond, merely continuing his search. At last, he straightened with a sigh, shoving the material back into the cloth bag.

“Nothin’ here, as far as I can tell,” he said.

“Feel like a road trip?”

“Let’s hit it.”

****************

In the dim light of the shabby hotel room, the reviewer sank into his wingback chair with a fresh bottle of wine, the fine arts section of the newspaper...and a smugly satisfied smile.

It had taken time. Years of plotting, interrupted by those ridiculous and humiliating institutionalizations, of finding and grooming just the right person to serve as his partner in ambition and revenge. Months of investigation into the company’s plans for its anniversary celebration, of crafting precisely the right time and place for each and every death. And months of seduction and subtle manipulation, binding James to him in so utterly dependent a fashion that he would do anything, even murder, for his demanding mentor and lover.

He poured a glass of the wine and held it delicately under his nose, hoping the first burst of bouquet would clear the frown that puckered his forehead.

Damn Wayne Drake. And damn that detective. Somehow, the director had managed to do the unimaginable and find an officer of the law who could actually pull off the role of Hamlet...and the plans Caldwell had held, to flee the country with his young lover once the final murder was complete, had had to change.

He felt a twinge of sorrow about killing James. The boy had been sweet and talented, a graceful and passionate lover, and an intelligent conversationalist. And he had possessed a burning ambition that reminded Caldwell of himself at that age. But he had also possessed the ultimate weapon...knowledge of every detail of every murder he had committed at Caldwell’s behest. And with the police closing in, there was a chance that he would tell them what he knew, to save his own neck.

Such power in another’s hands was intolerable. And Richard Caldwell had no intention of enduring the intolerable.

Ah, well.

Caldwell raised his glass in a final, silent toast to his dearly departed, then sipped at the wine and sighed contentedly at its rich, woodsy flavor. Setting the glass on the floor beside his chair, he opened the paper. He was ready now...ready to revel in the demise of the Bay Shakespeare’s tenth anniversary performance. Possibly of their entire season, given the personnel they had lost.

Oh, he would savor this moment like the fine Cabernet Sauvignon that rested at his side.

He found the story easily, and hummed a Mozart tune as he folded the paper to a managable size and began to read.

The tune cut off abruptly.

“Though the company mourns the death of many central and beloved members,” said Wayne Drake in a telephone interview today, “we feel the best way to salute them is, as always, to follow the time honored tradition: the show must go on.”

Drake went on to explain that, since the allegedly murdered cast members cannot be replaced, the company plans to present a special series of vignettes from the production of ‘Hamlet,’ including the final, climactic sword fight between Hamlet and Laertes, and the famous “To be or not to be” soliloquy. The performance will be a benefit to raise funds for a special memorial to the slain company members, and will take place Monday night at the theatre.

The paper crumpled in hands that suddenly trembled with rage. Seeking to calm himself, Caldwell lifted the wine glass to his lips...then hurled it across the room.

“No,” he hissed fiercely. “They must not be allowed to think they have won.” His eyes narrowed, and rose from the newly-created wine stain to focus, with a glint of insanity, on the lethal sword, as he began to croon:

“Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing;

Confederate season, else no creature seeing;

Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected,

With Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected,

Thy natural magic and dire property

On wholesome life usurp immediately.”

********************

Both detectives were silent on the drive to Harrison’s apartment. Occasionally, Starsky glanced over at his partner, sensing he had been turning something over in his head for the better part of the day but wasn’t quite ready to share it. Clearly the blond man had been more affected by this case than usual, and Starsky really couldn’t blame him. Especially not when the object of their pursuit was still on the loose.

They pulled up in front of Harrison’s building and exited the car, Hutch still in thoughtful silence. Then, as they entered the building and located the stairs that would take them to the dead man’s home, the blond detective spoke.

“There’s something that’s been buggin’ me, Starsk,” he said.

“I’d be worried about you if there weren’t,” Starsky returned, almost automatically, slipping his notebook from his pocket to doublecheck the apartment number. Hutch shook his head, barely acknowledging the words and only somewhat impatient with the interruption.

“No, I mean it.” They rounded the first landing and started up the second flight of stairs. “I can’t quite figure out how Jim got involved in this. I mean, I can understand why Caldwell killed him...but why the hell would Jim hook up with a guy like that in the first place?”

Starsky shrugged. “Good question,” he said, but he was accustomed to that in their profession; working Homicide typically created a helluva lot more questions than answers, even when the bad guy got caught.

Hutch, as usual, had more trouble letting go. “Too bad he didn’t write us a book and tell us what was going on,” he muttered with a sigh of frustration.

They reached the second floor and found Harrison’s apartment. Drake was waiting inside as they had requested; they acknowledged him with a nod, but first turned their attention to the detectives who had been organizing this arm of the information hunt. One of them extended a slim leather book toward Hutch.

Still absorbed in his internal analysis, Hutch raised an eyebrow, experiencing a brief thought that he had somehow conjured the book of motives and explanations he had mentioned as they entered the apartment. Then, opening the front cover, he indulged in a laugh at himself and his wishful thinking; it was merely a worn and well-used address book.

“Thought this might help,” the other detective said briefly, shrugging into a suit jacket. “We’re about done here. Landlady left the key on the desk; just lock up and give it back to her when you leave. Office is on the first floor, on the right just before you go out.”

“Thanks, Hamilton,” Starsky said, as Hutch flipped through the address book. “Anything interesting?”

“Besides this? Just one,” the other detective said, his face expressionless. He turned back to his partner. “Hey, Peterson. Show these guys the shrine.”

The two detectives’ expressions were puzzled as the somewhat rotund Peterson gestured to them from across the room. They followed him down the short hallway, past a bedroom and a bathroom, to what was probably a second bedroom.

As they crossed the threshold, both detectives’ eyes widened, and Hutch emitted a low whistle of disbelief.

In the center of the room stood a tall floor lamp, currently shedding a bright light over the rest of the room, and a deep, well-stuffed armchair. Along the wall across from the door were three bookshelves, stuffed from top to bottom with nothing but material on William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Several versions of the play. Dozens of hand-labeled notebooks about researching and interpreting the role. Books featuring actors who had played the Danish prince on stage and screen. The walls were covered with playbills and posters following the same theme.

Starsky and Hutch exchanged a glance; Starsky’s said this might offer the missing piece to Hutch’s puzzle. Hutch turned his gaze back to the image of Laurence Olivier that dominated the room, and shook his head. “He said...”

Then he laughed at himself again. Jim had been a murderer, no matter who had called the shots. Expecting him to have told Hutch the truth was ludicrous, and symbolic of a naivete he thought he’d lost years ago.

“Dear lord.”

The two detectives turned, to find Wayne Drake standing in the door, examining the material in the room with a combined expression of sadness and confusion. “What on earth - -?” he murmured. “I’ve known Jim for years...I had no idea...”

Then his gaze fixed on the one item in the room that bore no overt relationship to the melancholy Dane, and his frown deepened. “Good heavens,” he said, picking up the photograph in its silver frame. “This is Jim, with one of our season subscribers - - a most steadfast and generous one. I never knew they were acquainted.” He offered the picture to Starsky, who examined it with a thoughtful expression as his brain clicked through the waves of new facts they had been given in the last few minutes.

Hutch glanced at the photo over Starsky’s shoulder, then raised his eyes to Drake. “Wayne,” he said, his tone reflective. “How long was Jim with the company?”

“A little less than five years, why?”

“And your donor here,” Starsky continued the thought. “How long has he been around?”

“About five years, I guess, though I’d have to check our records to know for certain...”

The two detectives’ eyes met again. Drake frowned.

“What? What are you saying? That Mr. Stern and Jim - -?”

“Stern,” Hutch echoed. “That’s the donor?”

“That’s correct...Lucian Stern,” Drake replied, completely befuddled. “Are you implying that Mr. Stern is somehow implicated in these murders?”

“Lucian Stern,” Hutch murmured, his forehead creasing into a deepening frown. “Lucian S...Lucians...Lucianus.”

Drake was struck dumb.

“Lucianus,” he whispered. “The dumb show...the murderer in The Mousetrap.” He looked back down at the picture in Starsky’s hand. “Mr. Stern is Richard Caldwell?”

“Bingo,” Starsky said. “Looks like he was bankrollin’ Harrison from the start.” His eyes flicked up and found his partner’s. “We gotta find this guy...and fast. If he’s been playin’ the game for this long, he ain’t gonna let go easy. I got a bad feelin’ about what he might do at the benefit.”

“But where...” Hutch muttered, then remembered the address book in his hands.

A quick but thorough study of the book yielded nothing obvious. A page in the back offered the only bit of hope, as the detectives found a number of telephone numbers without names. Drake following, they returned to the station to give Dobey an update of what they had found.

“All right,” Dobey said with some satisfaction. “At least we’ve got an alias. I’ll have the rest of the team check out these numbers.” He turned to Drake. “Is everything set for the benefit?”

“Yes, Captain,” Drake replied. “The phone’s been ringing off the proverbial hook...we’re nearly sold out already.”

“Check and see if this Mr. Stern has made a reservation,” Dobey instructed.

“He has,” Drake said, with a somewhat wry smile. “Believe me, Captain, we keep track of the attendance of our more prominent subscribers. It often helps to give them a little added attention when they appear for performances.”

“Well, he’s gonna get all the attention he can handle if he shows Monday night,” Dobey predicted grimly. “It’s about time we got a break in this thing.” His focus shifted to the two detectives.

“What about you two? Everything in place?”

“Yep,” Starsky confirmed. “The lobby’ll be crawling with cops, including me, all dressed in our evening best...and every exit and entrance will be covered like a baby’s bottom.”

“You know,” Hutch said thoughtfully. “Maybe I shouldn’t be onstage...we don’t even know what this guy looks like, and at least I’ve heard his voice...”

Starsky and Dobey both shook their heads; Dobey started to speak, but Drake interjected.

“I think that would be a mistake, Ken,” he said. “To have a benefit from Hamlet without the main character...well, it seems it would look terribly suspicious.”

He fell silent then, blushing slightly at his own boldness. Starsky smothered an amused smile that was a welcome relief from the unrelenting tension of the last three days; despite himself, Drake clearly was intrigued by the investigation and couldn’t help but offer his opinion.

“I agree,” he said, slapping his partner on the back. “You just get up there and knock ‘em dead, Blondie...we’ll take care of the critics.”

*************************

Hutch stood in the darkness, bathed in sweat, splattered with artificial blood, chest heaving. From his place in the wings, he could hear the enthusiastic response of the audience, but all he could think of was whether Caldwell had shown himself during the any part of the evening...or if all their efforts had been in vain.

In the back of the theatre, Starsky’s stance by the house doors was ostensibly relaxed, but behind his back his palms were sweating. A quick glance to his left revealed that Peterson was in his own position, just as alert to the slightest move and nuance of the patrons. No one had so much as budged during the 75-minute presentation, and there was no hint of which observer...if any...was a cold-blooded killer.

Investigation into the address book had provided frustratingly little new information. Though one of the numbers had been for a cheap hotel not far from the theatre, there was no way to tell which room had been called...and there was no one registered there as L. Stern, R. Caldwell, or any configuration of either.

Tension was high. This was their last shot, and they knew it.

Hidden amongst the members of the crowd, who had risen to their feet, clapping heartily, some cheering, others wiping away the tears that were streaming down their faces, Caldwell clutched the ebony cane in his hand to control his seething fury.

He had failed.

True, there were gaps in the ranks, and the company had lost a brilliant lighting designer and a gifted actress. But there was not an empty seat in the house, and Caldwell had watched how rapidly the plexiglass donation box had filled prior to the show. Far from being brought to its knees, Bay Shakespeare had been embraced by its donors, patrons, and the press...not to mention those who had been drawn to this performance by the media coverage of the murders and the “courage of those who remained.” The company had not only survived, it had triumphed.

With difficulty, he restrained himself from shoving past the idiots in his row to the lobby. Obviously, Sgt. Hutchinson was still on the case - - though occupied for most of the evening with his duties onstage - - and he also had spotted the dark-haired detective whom he assumed was Hutchinson’s partner. Careful perusal of other patrons suggested there were at least half a dozen police officers in the theatre, all looking for him.

Perhaps they would find him, but not before he had dealt a final blow.

The applause began to diminish, and was replaced by the hubbub that accompanied a sizable audience as it mad its way out of the theatre. Waiting for the actors to appear in the lobby, the patrons sampled champagne and delicacies, and discussion of the evening and the events that had preceded it rose to a pleasant din. Drake observed the festivities from a landing several feet above the main level. Starsky joined him there after a few moments, juggling a plate of canapes in one hand and champagne he had no intention of drinking in the other.

There was a stir from the crowd as the actors emerged from the stage doors, still in full costume. Many, like Hutch, were vivid with stage blood and glistening with perspiration. Half attending to the compliments on his performance, Hutch smiled and made appropriately modest noises, while the other half of his brain wondered why anyone in their right mind would want to associate with a group of sweaty actors before they’d had a chance to shower and change to something less pungent. His eyes darted around the room and then up, to find Drake and his partner on the landing.

He raised an eyebrow. Starsky shook his head ever so slightly. Message received: Nothing had happened.

Hutch frowned, and his gaze swept the crowd once again, trying to find something or someone amiss, some clue...

Just then, his peripheral vision caught Drake’s movement, as the director touched Starsky’s arm and leaned close to murmur into his ear. To the casual observer, the dark-haired detective’s expression did not change, but Hutch knew his partner had spotted their prey.

Again, his eyes flicked around the room, trying to follow the direction of Starsky’s gaze. He glanced past a clump of patrons who had dressed to the teeth for the occasion...then hesitated. His brows drew in slightly as he noticed two older gentlemen who were slightly removed from the rest of the group. Both were resplendent; one in a black tuxedo and a blindingly white shirt, the other no less elegant in a black silk suit. The latter had actually crowned his sartorial splendor with a silver-headed ebony cane.

Something about the cane had drawn his attention. Hutch glanced up, and saw that Starsky, too, was riveted on the man in black silk.

Subtly, silently cursing Internal Affairs for the fact that he had a sword at his side instead of a gun, Hutch wove his way through the crowd.

As he drew closer to the two men, he noticed the man in black shifting his position with respect to his companion.

Then the hair rose on the back of his neck as the man emitted a low, rich chuckle, one that Hutch had heard above him as a razor-sharp sword glittered at his throat...

Sword.

“Caldwell, hold it! Police!”

The lobby exploded into chaos.

Starsky leapt down the stairs and plunged into the crowd.

The reviewer spun at the sound of Hutch’s voice, then whirled again and ran, losing his direction momentarily as the people around him shouted and cried out in surprise. The doors into the theatre crashed open and shut.

Seconds later, Starsky and Hutch hit the doors simultaneously, racing down the aisle. Without a word, they split up, Hutch leaping onto the stage to search the wings and the backstage area, including the stage door that exited to the parking lot, while Starsky dashed downstairs.

Finding nothing, Hutch ran back into the house, then stopped short as he spotted something in the aisle. He picked up the “cane” sheath that had hidden Caldwell’s sword, then hurled it back to the floor and followed his partner’s path at top speed.

Starsky had eliminated the dressing rooms and the green room in short order. The lighting room was empty, as were the bathrooms.

Only the combat room was left.

He stood at the door for a moment, envisioning the room in his mind and preparing himself for a full-bore entry that would throw Caldwell off-guard. He cocked the Beretta and held it ready in his hand, ears tuned for any noise. When some internal sense gave him the signal, he kicked the door open and burst into the room, gun at the ready, spinning around the room to locate the reviewer.

What the - - ?

What he hadn’t anticipated was that, as he had with Hutch, Caldwell would douse the lights. Starsky plunged into darkness, and before he could breathe, a hand had chopped across his wrist, sending his gun flying. An arm encircled his midsection with incredible strength, the lights flipped on and he was being dragged backward, watching a glistening blade move closer and closer to his throat.

Seconds later, Hutch entered, and drew up short at the sight of his partner in the reviewer’s deadly embrace.

“Let him go,” Hutch ordered.

“Or what?” Caldwell challenged, the sword not budging an inch from Starsky’s neck. “You’re in even less of a position to give orders than your partner, Detective Hutchinson, since you are virtually unarmed.”

“You know the place is crawling with cops,” Hutch said harshly. “You won’t get ten feet outside that door before they’re all over you.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Caldwell retorted in an amused tone. “You see, Detective, this blade is also spiced with my personal concoction...perhaps you remember it from our encounter a few days ago? It certainly laid you low...and that was a diluted form, approximately ten percent strength if I recall correctly.” His voice became abruptly hard and level, in that insane switch that set off alarm bells in Hutch’s mind. “Today...two hundred proof.” He moved the sword closer to Starsky’s skin; Hutch forced himself to not even twitch, silently imploring his partner to do the same. “A flick of my wrist, Detective, and your partner dies within minutes.”

Hutch’s gaze never left Caldwell’s face. His brain considered and discarded a dozen approaches to the problem, lit on one, and paused. His eyes narrowed.

“So you plan to just duck out of here again?” he said nonchalantly. “Go ahead, then...but I guess you’ll never know.”

Caldwell’s eyes also narrowed; wary for a trick, he examined the blond detective closely, but couldn’t resist asking, “Know what?”

“Whether you really were better than me,” Hutch said. He drew his sword from its sheath with a sing of steel. “You stacked the deck before...do you really think you can beat me when I’m not half-drugged?”

Caldwell laughed derisively. “It’s not worth asking.”

“Really?” Hutch cocked an eyebrow, and his tone, too, became deadly and mocking. “I beg to differ.”

“Please, Detective,” Caldwell scoffed. “Do you sincerely think you can put me off with such a transparent trick?”

Hutch flourished the sword in his hand and made a few experimental thrusts. As if the reviewer had not spoken, he recited softly, “If Hamlet from himself be ta’en away, and when he’s not himself does wrong Laertes, then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies it. Who does it, then? His madness.” He relaxed and slowly, purposefully, lowered himself into en garde stance.

Caldwell remained stock still. Hutch saw him waver, watched as Starsky tensed, waiting for the man’s grip to loosen so he could strike.

Before either detective could move, the sword flashed in Caldwell’s hand. Despite himself, Hutch took a step forward, the breath whooshing from his chest.

But Caldwell had only glanced the hilt across Starsky’s head, rendering him - - for the moment - - unconscious but not in imminent danger.

The reviewer flung the dark-haired detective aside as if he were weightless. Eyes glittering, he faced Hutch, sword raised, his body coiled and at the ready.

This better work, Hutch let the thought blink across his mind. Or you’re wakin’ up to a new partner, pal. Taking a deep breath, and never letting his eyes leave the lethal blade, he sent along another verbal jab: “Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o’ the weaker side.”

“And Claudius says,” Caldwell intoned, taking on a distant, dissociated air that sent shivers up Hutch’s spine, “I do not fear it, I have seen you both; but since he is bettered, we have therefore odds.”

“Come on, sir,” Hutch prodded, then left the script for a moment to taunt, “Or are you afraid?”

Rage bloomed in Caldwell’s eyes.

“Have at you now!”

Caldwell lunged forward; Hutch stopped him cleanly, without an iota of wasted energy or strength. Again, the reviewer attacked; again, Hutch deflected. Again, and again, the older man moved in for the kill; each time, Hutch only lifted his sword with lightning swiftness, parrying the move with a clang of steel and a deadly efficiency of movement. He dared not let Caldwell anywhere near him; if the man had spoken the truth, a single laceration would prove fatal.

Initially, his strategy had been to stall for time until the other cops figured out where he and Starsky had gone. But as the battle went on, he realized that his solely defensive stance had an unexpected effect: Caldwell became increasingly enraged as the blond detective refused to actively engage him. He expended more and more energy while Hutch used very little; unbelievably, the man actually began to tire, and his thrusts slowly, steadily, grew more desperate and more random.

Abruptly, Hutch switched tacts. He went on the offensive, advancing forward with a series of tightly controlled moves. As Caldwell retreated and blocked with increasing weakness, Hutch tightened his grip on his weapon and swept it up and around with all his strength.

The room rang with Caldwell’s cry of outrage. The poisoned sword was yanked out of his hands and spun across the room. Both men raced after it, but Hutch was fresher and reached the weapon first. Caldwell tripped and sprawled across the mat, then scrambled to his feet.

Suddenly, somehow, a gate inside Hutch fell and his fury escaped. All his frustration over the unsolved case, his anger at Roz’ death, his fear for his career, for his own and his partner’s lives, rushed into him. Though Caldwell raised his hands in surrender and began babbling, pleading for his life, Hutch advanced on him, eyes blazing, every other feature of his face composed in unrelenting and terrifying neutrality.

Eventually the reviewer ran out of room. Flattened against the wall, the man broke into sobs, as the blond detective poised the tip of the poisoned sword at his hitching throat.

For a moment they stood there, frozen in time.

Then, Hutch’s hand relaxed and fell...as, simultaneously, his partner’s arm came around his shoulders and pulled him gently but firmly back.

“You don’t have to do that, pal,” Starsky said softly. “He’ll get what’s comin’ to him.”

Hutch remained still for a moment, then nodded his head, once, and dropped both swords to the floor. Chest heaving, he swiped his arm across his forehead to clear away the sweat, then nodded again. “Okay,” he whispered through the breath whistling in and out of his lungs. “I’m okay.”

Starsky turned, spun the still-bleating reviewer against the wall, and slapped cuffs on him before he could regain his senses.

The door burst open as the cavalry arrived, and suddenly the room swarmed with cops in varying types of evening wear. Starsky directed Peterson toward the sword, and watched as four uniforms hustled the incoherent Caldwell away. As quickly as it had filled, the room emptied, leaving only the two emotionally and physically drained detectives.

“You okay?” Hutch asked Starsky with concern, as they met in the middle of the room and turned toward the door.

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky said lightly. “Helluva headache, but it beats the alternative.”

As they reached the door, they nearly collided with Wayne Drake. They steered him out of the room, explaining what had happened, and assuring him the ordeal was over, Caldwell was in custody and this time, no one had been seriously hurt.

“Thank heavens we spotted him,” Drake said, after they had accompanied Hutch to his dressing room so he could shower and change his clothes. “I think he had plans to murder Mr. Meloy.”

“Who?” Hutch said from the back of the room, where he was combing his damp hair and feeling considerably better.

“Meloy,” Drake repeated. “Another one of the company’s founders...but not a performer or technician. Mr. Meloy has always provided our greatest financial support - he’s an incredibly astute businessman. But he’s also somewhat eccentric, and his family has been trying to gain control of his money for years. If Caldwell had succeeded in killing him, the estate probably would have been frozen and argued in the courts for years.” He smiled somewhat grimly. “In essence, Mr. Caldwell most likely would have succeeded in kicking our last remaining leg from underneath us.”

Hutch emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his street clothes. Raising an eyebrow, he tossed his damp and stained costume onto the dressing room counter. “Well, Wayne, I’m glad to leave that thing behind...no offense meant, but I think I’ll stick to one undercover role at a time from now on.”

“Pity,” Drake said with a sigh. “The underworld’s gain is our loss.”

“Hey, what about me?” Starsky interjected indignantly. “I thought I was pretty good at swingin’ that spotlight around.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s real difficult,” Hutch teased, shrugging into a black leather jacket and shouldering his duffle bag. “Turn it on, point, and move. Try sweatin’ under the damn thing for a change.”

“‘Under it?’” Starsky echoed on a high note. “Try sweatin’ _behind_ it...trust me, that’s no picnic. Actors! Always puttin’ yourselves above the crew.”

“Hey, no one was above you, buddy,” Hutch retorted, elbowing his partner with a laugh. “Good thing you had your super-strength Spiderman strap to make sure you didn’t fall off the catwalk. Tell me, Starsk, exactly how high up was that thing?”

“High,” Starsky said with mock sullenness. “Very, very high. One slip, and you would have been ridin’ around alone for the next six months.”

Smiling, Drake followed as the two detectives moved out of the dressing room and down the hall. He noticed their walks became more confident and assured as they left this unaccustomed world behind, and ushered themselves back into their own universe with the banter that was second nature. Their voices became fainter, though a shared laugh drifted back down the stairs, and then the stage door slammed behind them.

Drake doused the lights and followed the two detectives out into the night. He locked the stage door and zipped up his jacket, pulling his car keys from his pocket. Then he turned to gaze up at his theatre, felt the sadness for those who had been lost, and murmured to himself:

“To die - to sleep.

To sleep - perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause.”

He climbed into his car and pulled away.

Behind him, the theatre became surrounded by the night, and by peace at last.

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