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...

 

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Part 1 completed 7 November 2000

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