The Phoenix and
the Dragon
by M. H. E. Priest
Please note: This story was written
purely for entertainment and is not meant to infringe in any way on the holders
of the rights to Starsky and Hutch. This story takes place during and
after the episode "Sweet Revenge."
Prologue
The California desert heat was stifling, and there
was still a couple of hours of sunlight left to endure. The two men, both
average-looking and in their mid-thirties, didn't speak as they drove on. The
driver had to pay close attention to the task at hand; reality was distorted
due to the heat shimmering off the pavement.
The passenger spotted the small, crooked sign by
the side of the road. He cleared his dry throat. "Two miles, left."
The driver grunted his acknowledgement. Minutes
later, he turned left onto a narrow gravel road. The old Chevy groaned and coughed
up an incline. As it crested the hill, the two men spied the very small town of
six buildings off to their right. They had almost reached their destination,
their hideout. The city they had left in great haste this morning was too
"hot" for them right now. Now they had to cool it in the desert.
The driver parked the car beside one of the
buildings so that it could not be spotted easily from the hilltop or the rest
of the town. Both doors opened simultaneously. The driver walked around to the
back of the vehicle and opened the trunk. The passenger joined him seconds
later. They grabbed the two large duffel bags but left the automatic weapons
behind. One of them would come out later in the dark after the town's residents
- all four of them - had retired for the evening. He would retrieve the guns
then, and clean them properly, for they were the tools of their trade and they
had plied their trade just hours ago.
The passenger glanced at his watch as he entered
the cabin ahead of his partner. The television with an elaborate antenna was
there as promised. He dropped the bag on the floor, strode purposefully to the
set, and turned it on. "News." He eased himself into a nearby
straight-back chair and leaned forward. His partner remained standing,
clutching his bag's handle until his hand was white. Neither man seemed to
breathe.
The reporter, a pretty blonde woman with brown
eyes and red lips, took a deep breath and began the second story of the early
evening news. "This morning," she intoned professionally, "at
the Metropolitan Division of the police department, Detective Sergeant
First-Class David Starsky was wounded in an apparent assassination attempt in
the police station's garage as he and his partner were getting into their car
for the day's patrol." The screen changed to a shot of a red and white
Gran Torino riddled with bullet holes. As she continued to narrate, the shot
pulled away and viewers were treated to a look at a massive red stain on the
concrete. "His partner, Detective Sergeant First-Class Kenneth Hutchinson,
escaped injury. Sergeant Starsky, a highly decorated police officer and a
Vietnam War veteran, is in very critical condition at an undisclosed local
hospital. We will have more on this tragic story as it becomes available. In
other local news…"
They stopped listening. After a few seconds, the
driver flung his duffel hard at the back wall of the cabin. "Shit! How did
we miss one of those damned cops completely? Why didn't the other one
die on the scene? You know what this means - if our current employer even
allows us to survive, this could be our last job. Nobody will hire two boobs
who couldn't pull this job off. Dammit, the set-up was perfect! They
were so close, with nowhere to go but hell! WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?" His
body shook in rage and fury.
His partner sighed. "The contingency plan is
in effect. Our subcontractor will take care of things. If by some fluke he
doesn't pull it off, we try again later. When their guard is down. We have to.
They might be able to identify us. We lay low for now. If necessary, we'll
contact our mole at Metro in a few weeks."
The driver calmed down considerably. His partner
was right. Neither one of them was going to allow two punk cops to sully their
reputations as world-class assassins-for-hire.
#####
The large black woman with a perpetual smile on
her face stirred the pot of stew one last time. She inhaled its seductive aroma
and her mouth watered. "Good batch," she prided herself out loud.
"Junior," she said loudly, "time to eat! You know it's church night
tonight!" She grinned; she was the only person he let call him
"Junior" anymore. Even David, his surrogate father, had to call him
"Jackson."
She ladled some stew into a white bowl, placed it
on the kitchen table. Junior still wasn't there, so she called for him again.
He was just in the living room, watching the news on TV; he must have heard
her.
She got the feeling that something wasn't right.
Something wasn't right with Junior not answering her. But something else wasn't
right, either. She shivered for no apparent reason, then whispered a quick
prayer. She went to the living room in search of her grandson.
There he was, as expected, sitting on the old
ottoman, in the glow of the TV. His head was bent forward, and his shoulders
moved up and down. "Junior?" she said tentatively.
He slowly turned his head toward her. His young
face was streaked with tears.
"Oh, honey, what is it?" The woman's
eyes began to fill with tears out of empathy.
"Gran'ma, they shot him up really bad,"
he said in a voice quivering with agony.
Mrs. Walters' heart leapt to her throat. Only one
human being in the world could make Jackson react so strongly - David.
"Oh, my baby!" Her knees turned to mush. She barely made it to the
sofa. Her tears flowed freely now, and she held her arms out to her grandson.
He hesitated. But then he realized his grandmother
needed him. He had left her alone to grieve when his father, her son, had been
shot and killed. He ran over to her and sat as close to her as he could. They
embraced each other and rocked as they wept and prayed.
David Starsky had taught him much over the last
year or so.
Part 1
1.1
San Francisco was dressed in a perfect spring day
costume but Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson hadn't noticed. Every nerve in
his body was on alert for danger as he escorted his newly-handcuffed prisoner
to the waiting SFPD patrol car. If they could get to his partner in their own
police garage, they could certainly get to him here. He wouldn't put anything
past James Marshall Gunther, the man who had turned down the opportunity to run
for the highest office in the United States because it would be a loss in power
and influence.
I'll show him loss, Hutchinson thought in the back of his mind as he
continuously monitored his surroundings. He roughly pushed the old man before
him, down the slope of the massive front yard. The suspect barely maintained
his footing. He hung his head and fought back the tears that clouded his
vision.
Both policemen watched the visiting detective and
his prisoner closely as they came down the hill toward them. Peters, the senior
of the two, whistled quietly through his teeth and said flatly, "How the
mighty hath fallen."
Jablonski, just ending his first year as a cop,
remained silent. He imagined he could see sparks and even flames emanating from
the blond detective. Christ, he sure is…intense.
When Gunther was just a few feet from the car,
Hutchinson let go and shoved him. The old man slammed into the car with
considerable force. He grunted loudly in surprise and pain, and, crying in
fear, he fell to the ground in a twisted fetal position. Hutchinson took a
short, sharp breath in as he realized the suspect's position almost perfectly
mimicked his partner's after the shooting.
"Get up, you piece of shit," Hutchinson
growled. "You're getting better than you deserve." The detective
grabbed Gunther by his white hair and began pulling him to his feet. All three
cops could smell the fear on this man.
Jablonski stepped forward and said, "Hey, you
can't do…" But his partner's hand on his arm and a blue, threatening,
fire-spitting glare from the detective made the rookie stop. "Don't fuck
with me," Hutchinson muttered through clenched teeth. The rookie backed
away. He began trembling slightly.
Peters, a beat cop for twenty years, whispered in
his latest partner's ear, "Don't get in the way. Remember what this
asshole perp tried to do to this cop and his partner."
"But it's not right, the way he's handling
the suspect!" Jablonski said in hushed excitement.
Peters sighed. "It ain't right if he didn't
try to kill your partner. Or you."
Gunther was on his feet. Hutchinson had released
his hold on the man's hair and now had him by the clothes at his throat.
"If you're through chit-chatting, will someone open the goddamned
door!"
Jablonski paled, but quickly responded to the
authority in Hutchinson's voice. The detective practically threw the most
powerful (arguably) man in the country into the back seat of the cruiser. He
slammed the door and faced the two SF police officers..
"I didn't see the butler on my way out. He
should be rounded up. And call the coroner's wagon - seems that Gunther
actually succeeded in killing someone."
Jablonski couldn't or wouldn't move. He was
mesmerized at the emotions flying around the BCPD detective's face - anger,
acceptance, triumph, sadness, guilt, joy - and the fire that smoldered so close
to the surface of his ice-blue eyes encircled by dark rings of worry and
fatigue. He faintly heard Peters say, "I got it."
In less than a minute, the three patrol cars that
had parked just outside the Gunther estate (Hutchinson had wanted to go in
completely alone to serve the warrant on the man, but was not allowed to
operate without this compromise) roared up the long driveway toward the
majestic mansion. As he watched the cars approach, he said with quiet
intensity, "Let's get the hell out of here." He ran both hands
through his longish blonde hair and sighed deeply. The adrenalin was wearing
off. And he needed to get back to his partner.
1.2
Hutchinson had done his best to keep from
strangling Gunther with the chain of the handcuffs that attached the two men
together for the flight back to Bay City. The nausea he felt from being so
close to this creature fortunately hadn't manifested itself in vomiting.
The plane ride was uneventful. Gunther had not
uttered a sound. Hutchinson had spoken only to the first-class stewardess when
necessary. She had looked very familiar to him, and a couple of times it had
seemed that she wanted to speak with him on a more personal level. Hutch was
glad she hadn't; he was in no mood for anything but business.
The district attorney handling the case had
assumed that someone in San Francisco would either see Gunther in chains at the
airport and notify the press, or someone in SFPD would leak the news. Captain
Dobey, the detective's immediate supervisor, had assumed the same and had
arranged for Hutchinson and his prisoner to depart the plane at a hangar away
from the terminal, to avoid the anticipated press. And as expected, the BC
airport was crawling with print and television reporters.
Once in the hangar, the detective and the old man
slowly descended the stairs provided for them. Three squad cars waited for
them. Hutch personally knew all six uniformed officers. At Hutchinson's
request, he and Gunther traveled to Metro in separate cars. The blond detective
sat wordlessly in the back seat of the car following the one Gunther rode in,
and stared unseeing at the city speeding by him. His mind was blank, and his
heart was unexpectedly heavy. He cleared his throat a number of times to
control the tears that sat right at the edge of his soul.
The streets around Metro were crowded with more
media people and various and sundry curiosity seekers. It took the cars more
time to drive the last two blocks than it had the last three miles to the
station. The cars pulled into parking area at the rear of the building. It was
crowded there, too, with cops from Metro and several other precincts and
divisions. When Hutch stepped out, his feet hit blood-stained concrete. Oh,
dear God, Starsky's still here! Gunther, too, stepped onto the stained
pavement, because Starsky's blood had covered a huge area. Once he realized
what it was, he looked up to find Hutchinson aiming an incendiary stare at him.
Gunther shivered and almost wet himself.
Captain Harold Dobey was waiting for them. The
large black man clapped Hutch on the arm a couple of times and said, "Good
job, Hutchinson. Now get him in the station and book the turkey."
Hutch nodded. He rubbed his eyes a few times with
his right fingers. "My pleasure, Captain." In a few steps he was
within smelling distance of Gunther. The two cops escorting him released their
hold on his arms and stepped away. Hutch grabbed the man by his shirt and tie once
more and pulled him into the station.
No one knew who started it, but before the two men
were in the building, every cop was applauding.
1.3
At least I got a chance to see the cherry
blossoms, Detective Joan Meredith thought
as she collapsed on the sofa in her hotel suite. The Washington, D.C., police
department had put her up in luxury for her last few days in town. She had been
"on loan" from BCPD for a deep undercover assignment for months in
the nation's capital. She left only five days after finishing her brief and
successful partnership with David Starsky. She knew he had tried several times
to get in touch with her through some friends, but her tracks were covered.
Earlier this morning, all the arrests in the drug-and-teen prostitution ring
had been made and she came in from the cold. All she had left was a day or two
of paperwork, and she could go home until the depositions and trials, should it
even come to that.
She kicked off her shoes. She swung her feet
around and reclined on the plush couch. Closing her eyes, she began fantasizing
about the exuberant, curly-haired detective, and how they would resume their
personal relationship. She smiled all the way to her toes, reliving their
intimate moments together. They had a lot of catching up to do. I'll call him
tonight. Maybe he wants to see me as much…
The harsh ringing of the blue princess telephone
interrupted her thoughts. "Hello?"
"Meredith, it's MacQueen." Mac had been
her contact in the department during the operation. "Uh, something big has
just happened that I think you, uh, might be interested in. It'll be on all
three national news broadcasts at 6:30. I, uh, want to watch it with you. I'll
be right over." He hung up before she could say anything else.
The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Though
she had no clue what the news might be, she couldn't help but think it would be
bad. Mac had not sounded or spoken like himself.
The petite, beautiful policewoman with the
café-au-lait skin and short-cropped black hair went into a flurry of activity.
She called room service and ordered a shrimp salad for herself, grilled salmon
for Mac, and iced tea for both. She dashed into the shower. She had just
finished dressing in a multi-colored tunic and black tights when there was a
knock on her door.
She spied Mac through the security hole. He looked
like a whipped puppy dog, not the strong, confident, blustery Scotsman she had
come to trust and depend on as her steadying force in the operation. She let
him in.
"Okay, Mac, what's up? Did something go sour
with one of the busts today?"
Mac, avoiding eye contact, motioned for Meredith
to sit. She looked at him with suspicion and started to become worried. She sat
down stiffly on one end of the sofa. Mac reluctantly sat on the other end.
"What is it, Mac? You have to tell me, no
matter how bad it is."
"Oh, Christ, lass," he said, voice
filled with tension. "I've been dreadin' this moment, but hoped I could
wait just a few days more. But I cannot."
Meredith knew the news would be horrible. Mac's
Scottish accent was usually undetectable, unless he was stressed, and right now
he was stressed. "Mac?"
"About a month ago, your Cap'n Dobey called.
He wanted to me give you some news about…about a friend of yours. A fellow
officer." He paused, then took her hand in his. "An officer you had
become quite close to in a short period of time."
The policewoman could feel her heart pounding in
her chest. She knew he was talking about Starsky. Oh, please say he's not
dead, that he's okay!
Mac sighed. "Well, lassie, I couldn' tell you
then, for fear your head wouldn't work right. Now, I can tell you, and no other
way but straight out. David Starsky was mortally wounded. 'Twas quite bad.
There was a contract on him and his partner." Mac saw that Meredith's
expression hadn't changed but he could feel a minute tremble in her hand.
"But he's alive, hangin' on. Don't know more, except his partner broke the
case and arrested the scoundrel yesterday. It'll be on all the news tonight.
The man who ordered your friend and his partner's deaths is quite well known,
he is."
A knock on the door interrupted Mac. He breathed a
sigh of relief to himself, patted her hand, and answered the door. He waved the
waiter into the room.
"Where would you like me to set up your meal,
sir?" asked the eager, young Hispanic man.
"Jus' leave it here, tha's a good laddie.
Here, I'll sign for it." He fished a five-dollar bill out of one of his
pants pockets. "Thank you, young man."
"No, thank you, sir. Enjoy your meal
and have a pleasant evening." He smiled and bowed at the waist as he
gladly backed out of the room. The tension in the room had disturbed him.
Mac drummed his fingers a few times on the cover
of one of the entrees. "It twould be my guess you don't want to eat just
now, hey?" Meredith, who hadn't moved since Mac left her side, slowly
shook her head a few times. "I thought so. Well, lassie, why don't we
watch the news?"
The big man turned on the television before
rejoining Meredith. He gingerly took her hand again as they sat silently
watching some commercials. Mac stole quick glances to reassure himself that she
was still breathing. But he could see her large brown eyes continued to lack
expression.
They listened and watched as Walter Cronkite told
the story of the arrest and arraignment of James Marshall Gunther. On the
screen flashed a formal still photograph of the influential man, followed by a
video of him in chains being led out of court. Cronkite recited the most
serious of the numerous charges against him, and a file photo of a handsome,
blond, blue-eyed man arrived on the screen. His image finally jarred Meredith
back to life on the inside. Hutch! Without his mustache! she thought.
The avuncular reporter talked about how Sergeant
Kenneth Hutchinson of the Bay City PD broke the case. And how he and his
partner Sergeant David Starsky had become targets because of their relentless
pursuit of corruption and murder among the local FBI, district attorneys, and
judges. And how Starsky - now a file photo of the dark-haired, violet-eyed
detective was on screen - had been gunned down in the police parking lot but
had miraculously survived…
Meredith turned away from the set and stared
straight into Mac's green eyes. "I'm leaving on the next available flight,
Mac," she said softly and evenly. "I'll do the paperwork during the
flight, after it, whatever, but I will not do it here. I'll come back as I need
for depositions and trials. But I have to go home." Funny, she
thought, when I think of home, I see Starsky's face.
Mac nodded with understanding. "Aye, I
thought you'd say that, lass. I got ya a late flight outta Dulles. It leaves at
11:30. You can pick up your ticket at the airport."
The woman withdrew her hand from his. She leaned
toward him, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and hugged him briefly.
"Thank you for everything, Mac. For the plane ticket, and for being there
for me when things got…rough on the job."
"No, thank you, Meredith. You did an
outstanding job. We couldn'a done it without you. Now, go home and take care of
your friend." He kissed her on the forehead. "Well, I'm hungry. Care
to join me, lassie?"
She had decided to hold her tears until she was
alone, so she smiled and nodded. As he ate and she moved her food around the
plate, they discussed the logistics of how to handle her part in the
arraignment and trial aspects of the successful operation..
1.4
Hutchinson would not leave James Marshall Gunther
until he had been arraigned on multiple counts, including two counts of
conspiracy to commit murder and two counts of attempted murder of law
enforcement officers. Being so close to Gunther for that long, Hutch felt truly
and deeply contaminated. He wondered it this was akin to what rape victims
felt. He showered and scrubbed for a half-hour. He wanted to be sure Starsky
couldn't smell that son of a bitch on him.
By the time he finally got back to the hospital to
be with his partner, it had been more than 24 hours since they had been
together, their longest separation since the shooting. He ran from his car in
the hospital parking garage and took the stairs because the elevator was too
slow. He burst onto the floor where Starsky's room was. He finally skidded to a
breathless stop at the nurses' station. "How is he? Can I go in?
Thanks." He didn't wait for an answer from the frustrated ward clerk.
Hutch stopped to catch his breath at the big
window looking into Starsky's room in the step-down unit of the floor. He was
grateful that his friend no longer needed intensive care, and hoped it wouldn't
be too much longer before he could be moved to a regular bed on the ward. Right
now, the dark-haired man's eyes were closed and he was curled up on his right
side, one pillow behind his back and another between his knees. Hutch thought
he recognized Maxine, an older nurse with a head of incredible silvery-white
hair, who worked only with patients in the step-down unit. He and Starsky would
both miss her when the latter no longer required special care. She was a very
special woman.
The big blond quietly walked in. The nurse was Maxine,
who smiled a warm welcome at Hutch. Before he could speak, she said quietly,
"Go ahead, Kenny," (she was one of the few people in the world who
could call him that, and he loved it coming from her) "wake him up. He
wants and needs to see you. I'll step out for a few minutes and then we'll
talk."
Hutch smiled widely and gave her a big hug.
"Thanks, Maxie. You're the greatest. Oh, if I were only a few years
older…"
She laughed her easy laugh. "Age doesn't mean
a thing, Kenny. And if age did matter, well, even the two of you
couldn't handle me." She patted him gently on his arm before she left.
"She…right." A small, raspy voice came
from the bed. A pair of bright violet-blue eyes gazed up at him.
"Starsk! You said words! When did this
start?" Hutch was ecstatic. Up until then, Starsky had merely grunted and
croaked out incomprehensible sounds. As a bonus, the wounded man appeared
stronger and definitely had better color.
"Don' know. Glad you…firs'…hear."
Starsky cleared his dry, scratchy, sore throat gently. "Hurts talk.
Ice?"
"Of course," mumbled Hutch as he
stumbled to the bedside table for the ice bucket and spoon. Starsky laughed at
his friend's stumbling, but the pain in his chest and abdomen grew with that normally
healing activity. Hutch overturned the ice bucket when he heard Starsky groan.
This made Starsky laugh even more, so he laughed and groaned for about a
minute. But by that time, Starsky's laugh, always infectious, caused Hutch to
start laughing.
When Maxine returned five minutes later, she was
greeted with the sight of Starsky holding his chest and abdomen tightly,
alternately laughing and groaning, and Hutchinson holding his stomach, pounding
his knee with his hand, laughing as well.
"This joke I gotta hear, fellas. You doing
okay, Davey?" she asked as she gently stroked his curly hair. They both
quieted down.
"Yeah. Better." He was a little
surprised that he was feeling better. Guess it's 'cause Hutch is back,
he thought.
Hutch noticed that Maxine didn't seem surprised
that Starsky was finally saying words. Something must have happened since he
was here yesterday.
"Uh, buddy, I'll get you some clean
ice." When he bent down to stroke Starsky's hair himself, he saw that part
of the dressing was saturated with blood. He tried not to show his alarm.
"Be right back, partner." As he straightened to leave, he caught
Maxine's eyes. She nodded. "I need to talk with Kenny, sweetpea. He needs
to know."
Hutch didn't see Starsky sadly nod his head in
agreement.
Once outside the room, out of Starsky's hearing
and line of sight, Hutch's anxiety skyrocketed and he crowded Maxine.
"What is it, Maxie? What's wrong?"
"We've been expecting David to start having
nightmares, Ken. He had one last night. Shelley was with him. He thrashed
around in bed so much that he tore open a few stitches. It took Shelley and two
orderlies to keep him from hurting himself further."
"What?" Hutch asked disbelievingly.
"How could someone in his weakened condition need to be held down?
To tear open stitched wounds?"
"Ken," she replied patiently, "I
can't readily explain it. I think it might be related to the superhuman
strength some people exhibit in life-threatening emergencies. But I don't know
for sure why or how. The important thing is, he had a bad nightmare and he was
alone."
"But I thought you said Shelley…"
"Yes, she was with him," Maxine
interrupted. "But he was alone. He's alone, Ken, when you're not with him,
no matter how many other people are in the same room with him. I think that's
why this nightmare was so…violent."
Hutch's shoulders drooped and his expression
changed from worry to guilt. "This happened because I chose to stay with
that scum that put him here. How could I have done that?"
Maxine took Hutch in her arms and said nothing as
he allowed himself a few sobs. Finally, he asked, "Was it the
shooting?"
"Well, it wasn't that shooting. Best
as Shelley could tell, it seemed to be about Vietnam. Did he serve a tour
there?" She felt Hutch nod on her shoulder.
"Yeah, eighteen months. I think he was
wounded. But he never talks about it. What did he say?"
"Just a few words, like 'VC' and 'sniper. And
it seemed to Shelley that he was dreaming about you being shot as well."
He pulled away, but Maxine continued to hold his
hands. "I got shot a few months ago." The image of that teenaged girl
pointing a gun at him flashed before his eyes and he gasped.
"Ken, you have nothing to feel guilty about.
You didn't desert him, or cause the nightmares. Now that they've started, he
will have more, even when you are there. But they probably won't be as bad when
you are with him. And with time and help, all the nightmares will get fewer and
less disturbing."
Hutch smiled wanly at the nurse. "Will you
marry me, Maxie?"
She laughed cheerily, squeezed his hands, then
stroked his cheek. "Get Davey some ice. Enjoy your visit." She went
back into Starsky's room.
Her patient was awake and watching her. "He
know?" he said hoarsely.
"Yes, sweetheart, he does know." Maxine
sat in the chair next to his bed and took his hand in hers. "I hope I
didn't make him feel worse, telling him you are alone without him. But it's
true. I think he knows it, anyway."
"Almos' not alone…you." He tried to give
her a full smile.
"Davey honey, no wonder so many people love you
so much!" She laughed with delight when he finally achieved full,
asymmetrical smile.
"I…lucky."
"Aren't we all!" She kissed him soundly
on his forehead.
"Aren't we all what?" Hutch asked as he
returned with a bucket of fresh ice chips.
"Lucky!" Starsky and Maxine said in
unison.
"We certainly are, Gordo, especially me. I
got you as my best friend and partner," Hutch said to Starsky. "And I
got you in my fantasy life," he directed to Maxine, with a wink.
Maxine's laugh lit up the room. She left again, after
cleaning up the mess Hutch had made, to give them more time alone. She trusted
Hutch to come flying for her if anything, no matter how insignificant, changed
in his partner's condition.
Hutch jumped right in as he shoveled a spoonful of
ice into Starsky's parched mouth. "So, buddy, Maxie told me about the
nightmare and the stitches. And she said you're alone without me. Well, she's a
perceptive woman, but she's only half right. I'm alone without you,
too, Starsk." He smiled affectionately at the heavily bandaged man.
"And I think you're nuts if you think you're lucky. Just look at
you!"
That got Starsky laughing again. Once he quieted
down, Hutch continued. "So, you dreamed about 'Nam."
Starsky nodded and averted his eyes. He hoped
staring at the mostly blank wall would rid him of the horrific memories that
came tumbling back with the mention of the nightmare's subject. And of the
image of Hutch slumped and bleeding in the hallway of that home being burgled.
It didn't work.
"It's been a while since you dreamed about
that, right?"
Starsky took it that he meant Vietnam, nodded
again, and said, "Marcos."
Hutch sighed sadly and shook his head. He gave his
friend another spoonful of ice. "That crazy son of a bitch. At least we
never have to go to a parole hearing to convince the prison board to keep him
locked away."
The bedridden detective spied the cut on his
partner's left wrist. "Whuz dat?" he questioned, looking with alarm
at the wound.
"Oh, that?" Hutch tried to sound
nonchalant as he pulled his shirt cuff over the wound, wincing in the process.
"Cut myself shaving."
Starsky flashed him his don't-tell-me-no-lies
look. Hutch silently cursed the man for being so observant and nearly
impossible to lie to.
"They tried to get me, too, in the garage
here, soon after your…" He let the rest of the sentence drop.
"Hutch?"
"Yeah, partner?"
"Slee' wi'…me…'night?" Starsky's eyes
began to fill with tears and fear.
"Of course, buddy, I'll be right here in my
chair."
"No!" Starsky was close to panic.
"What? Do you want me to sleep here or not? I
don't understand, buddy."
When will this hurtin' to talk stop!?! When
will I be able to make the words right?
"Slee' here." The curly-haired man patted his bed. His midnight eyes
pleaded with his partner.
"Uh, Starsk, there's barely enough room for
you, much less me, too. I don't think they'll let me do it, anyway." But
Starsky's eyes increased their plea. Hutch quickly melted. Starsky needs me
to do this. Hell, I need this. "Okay, okay, but no funny
business, you understand?"
Starsky relaxed and he felt the fear fade away. He
gave Hutch a mischievous grin and said, "No prom'ses." He chuckled
when the blond man blushed. "So tell…guh…guh." He stopped and
shuddered. He couldn't bring himself to say "Gunther," not yet.
"Arrest?"
Hutch had sensed the shudder and knew exactly what
provoked it. "Oh, yeah, Starsk, it was great. I wish you could have been
with me, but I couldn't wait a couple of weeks. Dobey booked me first-class,
both ways…"
Starsky heard no more as he rapidly fell into a peaceful
sleep, reassured that his partner would be here with him, where they could keep
each other safe.
1.5
Joan Meredith was exhausted. Between the two-hour
layover in Chicago and the unexpected landing in Denver for mechanical problems,
it was 9 a.m. local time before she finally arrived at Bay City's airport. She
dashed for the nearest public telephone. It took her a few seconds to remember
Metro's number. Once dialed, it seemed that the connection took forever.
"Bay City Metropolitan Division. How may I
help you?" The nasal female voice irritated Meredith.
"Captain Dobey, please, and right away."
"If this is an emergency, I can direct you
to…"
"NO, it's not an emergency," she
interrupted. "Listen, this is Detective Joan Meredith. I must speak with
him or Detective…uh…Ken Hutchinson."
"Detective Meredith! Yes, we've been
expecting your call. Lieutenant MacQueen called this morning to see if you had
reported in yet. Both Captain Dobey and Detective Hutchinson are at the
hospital. Wait a sec while I transfer you…it's a bit complicated…"
Meredith was treated to a few seconds of silence,
followed by ringing. On the seventh ring, a gruff voice intoned,
"Dobey."
"Captain, it's Meredith."
"Guess MacQueen finally told you about
Starsky, huh? Or did you catch the news last night?"
"Captain," she said, barely controlling
the urgency she felt, "I'm at BC airport. How is he?"
"Getting better every day, Detective.
Everybody says it's a miracle he's even alive. But he has a very long
way to go." How can I possibly prepare this young woman for what's she
about to see and hear? he thought.
"May I see him?"
"Of course. Seeing you would probably boost
his morale. He's at Memorial…"
"Thanks, Captain. I'll be right there."
Two hours later, having been delayed once again,
this time due to a jack-knifed truck, Meredith walked briskly into the busy
Memorial Hospital lobby. When she asked for David Starsky's room number, the
receptionist signaled discretely to someone behind Meredith, then picked up the
phone and dialed. "Someone is asking about David Starsky."
"Excuse me, miss." Meredith jumped when
she heard the deep voice coming from behind her. She turned to see a policeman
in uniform, his right hand on his weapon. "May I see some identification,
please?"
"Of course, Officer." Meredith rummaged
around in her bulging briefcase that also doubled as her purse. She hadn't
needed her BCPD badge for so long, that it had gotten buried under the piles of
paperwork she brought with her to do on the plane. Her fingers finally found
the soft leather. As she pulled it out, she saw a second uniformed cop off to
her right, his gun already unholstered but pointed to the ground. What has
happened here to call for such security? she wondered. It must not be
over, even with Gunther's arrest.
The first policeman carefully studied the
proffered ID. "Sorry, Sergeant, we can't be too careful, you know."
"Meredith! About time you got here,"
bellowed Dobey as he approached the group in front of the reception desk.
"I told Starsky over an hour ago that you were on your way. Now you've got
him worried sick. Been asking me to put out APBs on you." He looked at the
men in blue. "You two, back to work. Good job, too. Don't let your guard
down."
He turned back to the small woman in front of him.
She looked tired, worried, hungry, and puzzled. "I've been running the
division pretty much from here since the shooting. Let's go to my office and
I'll fill you in." When she started to protest, he cut her off with a wave
of his hand. "Starsky has waited this long, he can wait a few more
minutes. Maybe it'll teach him some patience."
Some things never change, she thought. Knowing that did bring her a measure of
reassurance.
Twenty minutes after her arrival at the hospital, Dobey
escorted Meredith to Starsky's room. She had been horrified at what Dobey had
told her about the whole ordeal, but had insisted on seeing Starsky as soon as
Dobey was through. She was as prepared as she would ever be.
As Dobey held the door open for her, she heard a
man within say, "…minor damage. No doubt the insertion of the breathing
tube at the scene was traumatic. And just keeping it in for a while can cause
damage. It's rarely permanent. From what I can tell, I believe he'll have a
complete recovery from this particular injury. However, I do suspect he will be
hoarse for a few months. I'll check on him periodically. Mr. Hutchinson."
The man, dressed in a white lab coat, shook hands with Hutch. The two men
blocked her view of the bed.
"Thanks, Dr. Becker."
"Beth, I'll be back in my office. See you
there." As the physician left the room, he smiled at Meredith and Dobey.
Right behind him was a nurse carrying a large tray covered with opened towels.
Meredith turned her attention back into the room.
She ignored the large blond man with outstretched hands coming toward her. She
tiptoed to the bed and watched the nurse check Starsky's blood pressure. Hutch
looked at Dobey for some sort of explanation of Meredith's rude behavior. Maybe
she blames me for this. I didn't cover my partner the way I should have, he
thought. The black man simply shrugged. Hutch fought back the guilt feelings.
It was obvious Starsky was asleep. She longed to
see those eyes of his that always seemed to penetrate her soul in a very loving
and respectful way. He was not as pale as she thought he would be, and he
looked a bit thinner through the face. His curly, dark hair seemed more unruly
than usual. The covers were tucked under his neck, exposing nothing but his
right arm as the nurse continued to check his vital signs. She reached out to
touch his hair but stopped short.
"It's okay, miss," said the nurse.
"You can touch him, but tell him first. He was given some sedation for an
exam he just had, so he'll probably sleep for a while."
Meredith smiled her thanks. "Starsky, it's
Meredith. I'm here, partner." She touched his cheek with the back of her
hand, then placed her fingers in his hair, just like she had when they made
love.
Starsky's eyes opened no wider than slits. "Mer…?
Par'ner?" He smiled and fell back to sleep.
Meredith cried silently, from pain and joy and
relief. Hutch and Dobey left the room. Sarah, the nurse, faded into the
background.
1.6
Later that afternoon in Dobey's command post in
the hospital, he, District Attorney Marc Clements, and Sergeant Hutchinson
began the first of many sessions devoted to the Gunther case after a sumptuous
lunch provided by Huggy Bear. (Hutch had laughed to himself when he saw that
Dobey's appetite had been restored with a vengeance.) The DA's intern, Malcolm
Wright, sat in to take notes.
"First off, gentlemen," began Clements,
"let's determine what our loose ends are. For example, what comes
immediately to mind is, who and where are the shooters? Getting them would be a
lock on convicting Gunther on the attempted murder charges. Second…"
The telephone rang, stopping the DA. Dobey
answered, "What!?!" obviously irritated that his calls had not been
held as instructed. "Oh, sorry, Mrs. Walters." Hutch's ears perked up
at the name. "Things have been a bit hectic around here lately….Yes, he's
right here." Dobey thrust the receiver at Hutch, his expression making it
clear that the detective better hurry this call along.
"Mrs. Walters, this is Ken."
"Ken honey, I know this is a bad time, but I
need your help. Ever since David was shot, Junior hadn't been actin' right.
We've wanted to visit, but we couldn't find out where he is. Anyway, Junior's
not eatin' and he's gone for hours, but nobody knows where. And today, his
teacher calls me to ask if he's plannin' on droppin' outta school since he's
lost some much time. This thing with David has really, well, messed him up.
He's so lost without him. Find my baby grandson for me. He trusts you, Ken,
'cause you're David's friend."
Hutch was impressed with the woman's composure
under such stressful conditions. And Hutch sympathized with Jackson; I'm
lost without him at my side, too. "Don't worry, Mrs. Walters, I'll
find him. And once I get the go-ahead to tell you where Starsky, uh David is,
I'll come pick you two up."
"Thank you, child. Give my love to David,
would you? And Sammi sends her love, too."
"I will." He gave the receiver back to
Dobey to hang up, who snatched it out of his hand. "Trouble with
Junior?"
"Not sure, Cap'n."
"Can we get back to business here?" The
DA had no problem expressing his anger at the interruption.
"Uh, sorry, Clements," apologized Hutch.
"Where were we?"
1.7
The meeting went longer than expected, and it was
almost 7 p.m. before Hutch began the short trek back to his partner's room. As
he rounded the corner, he stopped short when he saw a tall, slender, most
likely male figure in hospital whites peeping cautiously into Starsky's room.
He felt the fiery rage in his belly ignite at the thought that this person
might do some harm to Starsky. He ran up to the voyeur silently. Using his left
hand to grab the figure by the arm, his right hand automatically made its way
to the butt of the Magnum resting under his armpit.
"What are you…" He stopped as he swung
the peeper around and recognized him. "Jackson! What the hell are you
doing here?"
"Watching after Starsky." The black
teenaged boy said it so simply and matter-of-factly that Hutch laughed with
relief.
"I just spoke with your grandmother, and
she's very worried about you. And how did you find Starsky?"
"Didn't take much to figure it out. Even
though St. Peter's is closer to Metro, Memorial has the best trauma team in the
county. This is where I would have taken him."
Hutch had placed his right hand on the back of
Jackson's neck. "Where did you learn to think like that?"
"Sammi. And Starsky."
"Oh Lord, help us if there's someone else who
thinks like Starsky!" Hutch looked proudly in the dark brown eyes that
were level with his. Geez, he thought, Jackson's taller than Starsk!
He'll tower over me soon. "Come on, fill me in on what's been going on
with you. Then we'll call your grandmother, and I'll take you in to see
Starsky. Deal?"
Jackson quickly filled Hutch in while they stood
outside Starsky's room. Jackson had gotten employment as an orderly at Memorial
just two days after the shooting. He couldn't keep up with both school and a
full-time job, so he had let school slide: "I figured Starsky needed me
more than my school or Gran'ma did" was his reasoning. He had even
volunteered for overtime so he could legitimately stay longer, and frequently
didn't leave once his shift was over.
"How could I not have noticed you before
this?" This disturbed Hutch; it made him question his own observational
abilities. Being preoccupied with Starsky's status was no excuse; if anything,
he should have been more aware of his surroundings. After all, he had barely
prevented the second attempt on his partner's life. Despite that, he still
hadn't noticed Jackson. He wondered what else he had missed.
"I'm pretty good at making myself invisible,
Hutch. Besides, black people are often overlooked."
Hutch shook his head in sadness because he knew
what the boy said was too true. "You're a good man, Jackson. And a good
friend. Starsky is very fortunate to have you as a friend."
"He'd do the same for me. He's my brother,
man."
Hutch embraced Jackson for a few moments.
"Let's call your grandmother."
That night was the first official slumber party in
Starsky's room. The doctors and nurses were thwarted at every turn when they
tried to empty the room of everyone but Starsky and Hutch. Eventually, Harold
and Edith Dobey (Rosie and Cal were left at home with a babysitter) left around
midnight. Huggy Bear scored a pillow and blanket and stretched his long,
slender frame in one corner of the large room. Jackson, armed with his own
pillow and blanket, claimed another corner. Meredith took the chair next to the
bed that Hutch and Starsky shared.
Starsky had no bad dreams that night.
#####
A few minutes after nine the next morning, a white
man with average looks and build, appearing to be in his mid-thirties, walked
up to the reception desk in Memorial Hospital's lobby. "Could you direct
me to the employment office, please?"
End of Part 1
© 2000
To be continued...
Comments?
I'd like to hear from you. Please email me at mhepriest@yahoo.com.
Part 1
completed 7 November 2000