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“Arm you, I pray you, to this speedy voyage;
For we will fetters put upon this fear,
Which now goes too free-footed.” - Act III, Scene III
Starsky drove the Torino as fast as he dared, siren wailing, horn blaring, tires squealing as he sped around corners...and all the time, the noise matching the cacophony in his gut. Running red lights and dodging inattentive motorists and lumbering buses, he reached the theatre parking lot in record time and left rubber on the pavement as he skidded to a stop at the stage door. Yanking the keys from the ignition, he hurtled out the door and over the car’s hood, to race inside the theatre and down the steps to the dressing room area. Heart pounding, feet nearly going out from under him as his shoes slipped in some water on the floor, he scanned the names posted outside each room, searching for Hutch’s. When he finally located the room, he nearly took the door from its hinges as he slammed it open.
Empty.
He swore softly under his breath and whirled to look elsewhere...then again, nearly fell as his feet encountered another puddle of water on the floor. Regaining his footing, he took a step toward the door - - then paused, frowning.
Water on the floor?
Probably not uncommon once the show was over, when all three actors would clean up after leaving the stage and before going out to post-show festivities. But Starsky knew a shower was not part of his partner’s pre-show routine, and a quick examination of the makeup tables revealed that Hutch was the only actor who had arrived so far.
Willing himself to stay calm and think, he looked more carefully around the dressing room, then moved toward the bathroom area. He noticed that the pools of water became larger and closer together...then he turned the corner and stopped dead.
Roz’ limp, drenched figure was slumped against the wall of the shower stall.
Starsky’s heart sank as the chaos in his stomach kicked up another notch. He was certain she was dead; nevertheless he pulled her carefully but quickly from the stall and laid her gently on the floor. Fingers pressed against her neck felt no pulse; an ear to her chest found no breath.
Starsky sat back on his heels and studied the still form. Her eyes were open and unresponsive. Clearly she had been dead for some time.
He smacked a fist against his thigh and expelled an exasperated breath, feeling that mixture of sadness and anger that always hit him at times like this...times when they were getting close to catching a killer, but not close enough to save one last victim. It always seemed to work this way, too; they would move in just when the killer struck nearest home. He didn’t know Roz very well, but he knew how Drake felt about her, and he had heard Hutch speak fondly of her more than once - -
Hutch.
Starsky leapt to his feet. Roz’ body was in Hutch’s dressing room, which meant the killer was still bent on making Hutch look responsible for the previous murders. And if Starsky’s protesting, snarling gut was right, the next step would be to eliminate his partner, to tie everything up in one tidy little package.
He charged out of the dressing room, hollering Hutch’s name.
**********************
Slowly, groggily, Hutch swam to the surface of consciousness, the stark white walls of the combat room coming gradually into focus around him. Wincing at the throbbing ache in his head, he groaned and rubbed his eyes with one hand, then began to push himself up on the opposite elbow.
“Ah, ah.”
Something blunt but hard pressed firmly against his shoulder, shoving him unceremoniously back onto the floor. He flinched as he hit, another bolt of pain flashing through his head, and did not attempt the move again. ‘All right,’ he thought, gathering his scattered wits. ‘If that’s the way you want it, I’ll stay put. For now.’ He rubbed his eyes again in an effort to clear the lingering disorientation, then squinted up at the figure hovering over him.
The person was clad from head to toe in white fencing clothes, face covered by the traditional protective head gear. He held swords in both hands; Hutch recognized one as his stage weapon... probably what the man had used to push him down...and the other as the genuine article. The hair on the back of his neck rose. Unobtrusively his entire body tensed and readied itself for the inevitable altercation.
The man rocked back onto his heels and lowered the stage sword, but kept the point of the other in its original position.
Aimed straight at Hutch’s neck.
“Greetings, Mr. Hyde,” a cultured male voice said smoothly from behind the mask. “Or should I say...Detective Hutchinson?”
Everything now in acute mental and visual focus, Hutch never took his eyes from the sword poised near his throat. “Who’re you?” he asked, his voice calm and level.
The question was purely rhetorical; he knew exactly to whom he was speaking. He merely wanted some time to evaluate the situation.
The man chuckled indulgently. “Oh, I think you know _just_ who I am,” he said mockingly; then his voice abruptly became low and deadly. “But I am glad to find you a man who enjoys games, Detective...for I have one for you.” He took two quick steps forward. The sword grazed Hutch’s skin and the blond man scooted back a few paces, still closely watching the shining, razor sharp metal.
Another chuckle bubbled from his amused captor, who was apparently capable of switching moods on a dime. “You’re right to be cautious of my rapier, Detective,” he declared. “But our time is growing short, and I have a final act to play before I leave this particular stage for good.”
With a flick of his wrist, he turned the sword onto its side so the flat edge was uppermost, then pressed the cold steel up under Hutch’s chin. His tone again lost all its humor and charm, growing venomous once more. “On your feet, my dear prince.”
Hutch didn’t move. His gaze darted now to the man above him, eyes searching for any weakness, any chance to knock the weapon aside before it could slit his throat.
“I said, on your feet.” The sword’s edge pressed more firmly under the blond man’s chin, and the point moved forward to gently, with barely a hint of the imminent danger, dent the skin at Hutch’s throat. “His Majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the matter...”
He paused.
Hutch neither moved nor spoke.
“Detective,” the man chided, nudging Hutch’s chin up ever so slightly with the flat of the sword. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your cue.”
“What do you want, Caldwell?” Deliberately, Hutch made his own voice harsh and impatient; perhaps he could goad the man into an impulsive move that he could counter and thus gain the upper hand.
“There, you see?” In yet another insane shift, the other man’s demeanor became one of almost childish delight. “You _do_ know who I am.” Caldwell pulled the weapon back a fraction of an inch and twisted his wrist slightly, turning the blade vertical once more.
He held it there, motionless. Hutch kept his eyes fixed on the blank screen of the fencing mask, and willed himself to remain still and calm.
At length, as if several seconds had not ticked by between him and his silent prey, Caldwell spoke, his tone once more soft and menacing. “And as for what I want, it’s very simple...I want _you_ to play your part.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Again, the blade whipped sideways.
Again, the point depressed his skin.
Again, he ordered himself not to move.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Detective,” Caldwell ordered. “I daresay you are in no position to ask questions.”
Toying with his prisoner, he leaned forward ever so slightly.
Despite his resolve, Hutch was forced to scuttle back a few more inches, lest he swallow the weapon via a shortcut no circus act had ever envisioned.
Caldwell laughed. “Now. Here is what I require.” The sword withdrew minutely, as Caldwell reversed the stage weapon and tossed it to Hutch’s side. “The final duel between Hamlet and Laertes. I know it well...and so, my friend, do you.” Caldwell gave an exaggerated sigh. “Pity you’ll never get to play the role again...you actually weren’t half bad, for an amateur.” He became serious once more. “On your feet, sweet prince. I believe your cue is, ‘But till that time I do receive your offered love like love, and will not wrong it.’”
Sweat was pouring down Hutch’s back. Every muscle in his body screamed to be allowed to move. Nevertheless, he remained still, his face stonily expressionless.
Quick as a snake, the sword lashed out. Hutch felt the icy breeze of metal against the left side of his neck, followed quickly by the sting of sliced flesh...and the warm trickle of his own blood.
All pretense at control and culture fled. Above him, the voice hissed. “Say it! Say it and I’ll let you live to fight. Otherwise, I cut you right now...and I warn you, Detective, I know precisely how to use this.”
Of that, Hutch had no doubt.
He nodded, deciding that playing along for now gave him the better odds of overpowering Caldwell or distracting him and slipping out the door. “All right,” he agreed. “All right.”
Caldwell stepped back. The sword’s aim at Hutch’s throat never wavered, but at least the detective was able to get to his feet, eyes never leaving his opponent, and take the stage weapon into his hand. He dropped back into the “en garde” stance and raised the sword to its ready position. Then, again willing himself to remain focused and calm, he licked his lips, took a deep breath, and began,
“I embrace it freely, and will this brother’s wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on.”
“Come, one for me,” Caldwell said, advancing immediately.
Instantly, almost as if on its own, Hutch’s weapon whistled up, parrying the move with an impressive clang of steel. Without hesitating, Caldwell again attacked and Hutch deflected, retreating back a step to put some distance between himself and the other’s lethal weapon. Incredibly, part of him continued automatically to mouth the words of the scene, while another methodically but rapidly ticked through possible strategies, which changed with every move the two of them made. “I’ll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance your skill shall, like a star i’ the darkest night, stick fiery off indeed.”
Again, Caldwell charged forward, the deadly tip of his sword leveled at the blond detective, as he snarled, “You mock me, sir!”
Hutch blocked the move again, then, with the power of surging adrenalin swept his own sword up and over, spinning Caldwell halfway around. He heard a surprised grunt from the other man and allowed himself a smile of tense and grim satisfaction. The blunt end of his sword may have rendered it useless for attack or injury, but he had served notice to the reviewer: his quarry was neither helpless nor afraid to take the offensive.
Somehow, he found the aplomb to serenely offer his next line: “No, by this hand.”
Enraged, the other man lunged forward. “My lord, I’ll hit him now!”
Before Hutch could deflect it, the blade had slashed through his shirt and laid open a long gash on his left bicep. Pain lanced through him and blood began to pulse down his arm.
In the split second it took Caldwell to rock back and gloat on the damage he had inflicted, Hutch faced the full extent of the danger he was in. Caldwell’s prior statement had been no idle boast: he was fast, and both his weapon and his skill were honed to razor sharpness. Hutch, on the other hand, hadn’t fenced competitively in years. The moves he had learned for this show had been specifically designed to prevent rather than inflict injury...and so had his sword.
He was unarmed, his gun miles away in some IA locker.
No one was in the theatre other than Roz, and neither she nor the others who would arrive soon would even think of looking for him for at least another thirty minutes.
He had no idea where Starsky was.
And he was beginning to feel distinctly strange.
He gritted his teeth. Telling himself to ignore the throbbing wound in his arm and the woozy feeling in his head, he brought his blade back up with a snap, eyes narrowed and blazing.
This might be it, but he was damned if he would go down without the hardest possible fight.
“Come for the third, Laertes!” he said mockingly. “You but dally; I pray you pass with your best violence; I am afeard you make a wanton of me.”
“Say you so?” Caldwell retorted, whipping his weapon up as well. “Come on.”
He advanced again with a blinding series of lunges and thrusts, and it was only through characteristic cussedness that Hutch managed to parry the moves and protect himself from further injury. Eventually, Caldwell paused, to catch his breath or contemplate a new strategy...and Hutch immediately launched his own attack.
The blades gleamed in the dim light as Caldwell blocked Hutch’s advances. The clang and screech of metal against metal exploded, ringing in the men’s ears but then soaking into the padding that enveloped the room. Though his sword tip was dulled, Hutch managed to drive the other man back several steps by the sheer, ferocious force of his determination and desperation. For the first time since he had awoken, the blond detective began to think that he had gained the upper hand.
Then the strange feeling abruptly grew worse.
His arms and legs began to pause for a split second before they responded to his commands. When they did obey, their movements were feeble and somehow off-kilter. His vision began to blur, even after he furiously swiped away the perspiration that was suddenly pouring into his eyes.
Caldwell advanced again. Flashing steel filled Hutch’s view as he fought desperately to focus and knock the deadly tip from his chest and throat.
But it was no use. Eventually, Caldwell got close enough, his blows got hard enough, and Hutch’s traitorous limbs got weak enough. He stumbled. The stage sword flew from his hand, and he was flat on his back on the mat.
The sword was at his throat before he could draw breath.
Hutch looked past the blade, stained with crimson from the previous hits, beyond the bellguard, and registered the heaving of Caldwell’s chest. Over the roaring of blood in his own ears, he could hear the other man’s rasping breath, even as the tip of the sword moved steadily, inexorably forward...
Think, Hutchinson!
But his brain had joined his limbs; it too limped along in sluggish ponderance.
“I must say, Detective, that was rather well done.”
Caldwell’s grudging admiration and bitter smile penetrated the haze that veiled Hutch’s hearing and vision. “Were I a man in full possession of his faculties, I might just render you unconscious and take my leave, as any noble duelist would.” He laughed harshly. “However, I am neither noble nor in my right mind...and thus, we must end this as I had originally planned.”
He took another step forward.
The sword pressed against Hutch’s throat and pierced his skin; again, he felt blood sidle down his neck.
His head forced back, his body leaden and unresponsive, he was completely and utterly at the man’s mercy.
“Good night, sweet prince,” Caldwell crooned, almost tenderly, but with an undertone of wicked glee. “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest...”
“Drop the sword, Caldwell.”