Please note: This story was written purely for entertainment and is not for profit, and is not meant to trespass in any way on the holders of the rights to Starsky and Hutch.
This story takes place in 1982.

The idea first hit Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson months ago during a news story on the controversy surrounding the latest monument to go up in Washington, D.C. He had recognized the need for this monument, and had made several anonymous donations. He had even convinced his aging father to make a sizeable contribution. Without telling his partner on the Bay City police force and best friend, David Starsky, he had made plans for the two of them to attend the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.

Thursday, November 4, 1982

"I can't believe you did this without checkin' with me first, Hutch," said the dark-haired detective with a caustic edge to his tone. "That part of my life was over in '67, for chrissakes!" He ran a hand over his face, in part to try to erase the anger he knew was written all over it. "And you know how I hate to fly!"

Hutchinson huffed. "I just thought it would be nice, you know, since your own welcome home stunk. And this trip could be that for you."

Starsky narrowed his violet eyes. "How do you know what happened to me when I got back to the world?"

"Huggy told me, because you wouldn't," Hutch responded sharply.

The curly-haired man averted his gaze and contemplated the ceiling in his apartment. "Don't believe everything you hear, buddy-boy," he said quietly with a just-perceptible quaver in evidence.

Hutch cleared his throat. "He was there, Starsk. He was there when you left for boot camp, and he was there when you got home."

For an instant, Starsky could feel the hot spittle from the cursing mouth of a protestor smack his cheek and hear the all-too-true taunts of "Baby killer!" thrust at him. He blinked away some excess moisture and the tangible memories. "Huggy talks too damn much."

The blond pressed on. "And you don't talk enough."

This time, Starsky huffed. "Make up your mind, Hutch. You've said for years I talk too much, and now, all of a sudden, I don't talk enough?" The timbre of his voice blackened and his respiratory rate increased.

Hutchinson felt his ire escalate at his partner's attempt to change the subject. He sneaked two rapid calming breaths before saying softly, "About your army service you don't say enough. Hell, Starsk, we knew each other for two months before I even found out you were in the army. Then it wasn't until John Colby enlisted that I discovered you had been in-country." He leaned forward in the fanback chair. There, I said it. Finally. After all these years, I finally said 'in-country' and not 'overseas.'

His friend's choice of words wasn't lost on Starsky. "Dammit, Hutch, if I'd'a wanted you to know more, I woulda told ya." He tried to soften his tone, but it didn't work.

"Why not?"

Starsky stared at him now, lips twitching but unable to form words.

"I'm your best friend, Starsky. You have nothing to be ashamed of and nothing to prove. I know you served eighteen months in Vietnam, I'm pretty sure you were wounded at least once, and I know the CIA tried to recruit you because you can, uh, you are, were, really good, if not the best." He paused, wondering what to say next as he noticed Starsky's Adam's apple start to bob. "And I know you were treated worse than a rabid dog when you came back."

"Stop it, Hutch. Stop it right now or I swear, I'll punch your goddamned lights out."

The low, intimidating hiss of Starsky's promise - and Hutch knew it was a promise, not just a threat - chilled Hutch's soul. He had touched the raw nerve he knew existed in his friend, but had been afraid to even breathe around it. Until now. Here goes nothing.

"No, I won't stop. This Vietnam thing has been rearing its ugly head in your life for the past fifteen years. Every time you got wounded, every time we dealt with Marcus, every time there was a dead kid. Don't you think I knew even when it wasn't obvious? You may think you put up a good front, but I see right through it. It's always with you. It's a big part of you. Way down into your core, buddy."

Starsky bolted up from the sofa without warning. He stormed into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of tap water. The slam of the glass on the countertop obscured his harsh exhalation. Abruptly he turned to face into the living room again and leaned back against the cabinet, trapping his hands behind him. "Just what do you want from me, huh? Ain't I been copin' good enough for you? You want I should, should, uh, slobber all over myself and cry and say how horrible it was over there?" His hands escaped and he began gesturing for emphasis. "Confess to the acts of war I had to commit to keep me and my buddies alive? Do you want me to ask for your forgiveness for doing my fuckin' duty?"

Hutchinson could smell the fury and the agony pouring from his friend. He sat back in the chair and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. Without making eye contact, he said wearily, "I don't think you're at peace with all that, Starsk. And it's important to be at peace with all the terrible things we have to do to protect and serve. You taught me that." Hutch looked to Starsky, but had to fight him to gain and keep their eyes connected. "Now it's your turn. Time to come out of hiding and deal with it."

Starsky's nostrils flared in sync with the bobbling Adam's apple. "You presumptuous sonuvabitch," he said flatly. "Get out."

"Starsk -"

"I said, 'Get out'." Now there was menace in his voice and posture.

The lanky blond rose from the chair in defeat. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself before he said anything. He nodded his head a few times at his caged-lion partner. He trudged to the door and put his hand on the knob. He discovered he couldn't turn it until he said one more thing. Turning his head to the left just enough so none of the words would be missed, he said quietly, "Time to forgive yourself, partner. Time to come home."

Starsky swallowed the grit that had somehow appeared in his mouth. In it, he could taste the veracity of Hutch's words. Several long strides brought him next to Hutch. Bumping him from the door, he opened it himself. "Go 'way," he managed to croak.

Reluctantly, Hutchinson left. He grimaced when Starsky beat him to closing the door. He glanced up at the early evening aqua-and-fuschia sky as he listened to the tumblers fall in place--Starsky locking him out physically as well. Then the other, hidden reason for his involvement in getting Starsky to D.C. bullied its way into his consciousness. His shoulders slumped as he recalled his strident verbal and written war protests that also attacked and berated those who fought the war. I was so stupid. How could I have not separated the two? Why didn't I see the difference? After finding out about Starsky's service in Vietnam, he had felt inexplicable and oppressive shame and had never mentioned his part in the anti-war movement. His chin found its way to his chest. He stood on the small porch for several moments before he turned around to face the door once more. Putting his left hand flat on the door where he imagined his friend's dark head might be, he said in a shaky voice, "If you won't go for yourself, partner, go for me. To forgive me." He gently slapped the door twice before shuffling off in dejection and rejection to his car.

After he had closed and locked the door on Hutchinson, Starsky remained facing it for a heartbeat before he rested his forehead on it. After many heartbeats of silence, he heard some muted speech coming from the other side. Then he felt the vibration made by Hutch's tapping enter his head and radiate to his toes. He shuddered as if the whole of him was the barrier he had constructed long ago to keep under wraps certain experiences that those pats had just weakened. He didn't move until he heard the rough engine of Hutch's latest rescued-from-the-car-graveyard LTD turn over.

"Shit," he said to the emptiness around and in him. Intense nausea suddenly surfaced, and he raced for the bathroom to hug the toilet. He broke into a heavy sweat as he prayed for some measure of relief, but none came. After what seemed to be hours, he wearily hauled himself to his feet. He turned on the cold water to splash on his face but halted when he saw those eyes in the mirror. Those eyes that escaped their prison periodically. Those despised, untamed, shadowed eyes that pronounced their owner's aggressions, transgressions, guilt, survival.

Over the rush of the water, he could barely hear himself think, I am coping, right? I'm workin', don't do dope, got a nice place to live . . . Then he remembered what Hutch had said. Somehow his friend knew when that part of his - Starsky's - past intruded, unwelcome, into his present. He would dream - face it, man, call 'em what they are: nightmares - of firefights, of dark, smothering tunnels, of chopper flights where VC prisoners were tossed out as if they were so much breathing garbage, of death erupting from his rifle, his knife, his bare hands.

He couldn't bear to look at those eyes any longer, so he sat cross-legged on the cool floor tiles. He put his head against the vanity and shuttered down his vision. Maybe Hutch is right. If I was really okay with it, maybe I wouldn't be havin' these nightmares every time somethin' bad happened.

He sighed in jerks. Hell, I was so happy just to be alive and back in the world. It was like I got another chance to start all over, to be who I was before . . . Pop died.

That thought and something else Hutch had said now triggered another remembrance from six years past.

Marcus.

That demented flake, with his "Dark Warrior" bullshit. And my memory cuttin' me . . .

"NO! YOU'RE WRONG, YOU SICK FUCK!" he screamed aloud, the words ricocheting around the bathroom like bullets of self-deception that searched for some truth to destroy.

He inhaled back a sob that fled his heart. I will not cry. He drew his knees to his chest and hugged them closely. He rocked until he could no longer stand the bathroom's shrinking dimensions. Hyperventilating and stumbling and crashing into furniture, he found his way outside.

He sucked in the cool night air in huge, terrified gasps as he paced up and down the concrete steps. It took many long minutes for his breathing to return to normal and for him to subdue the sobs that kept insisting on being born.

He knew he couldn't go back into the apartment; it was too small and there wasn't enough air. He settled down on the porch, back against the front door. Goddamn you, Hutch. Why didja have to go and open this can of worms, huh?

He knew he'd have blooddreams, as he thought of them sometimes, tonight, unless he did something about it. He ran to the nearest liquor store and bought a fifth of Glenfiddich. About halfway through the bottle, he cradled it in the crook of his arm so he could smell the soothing earth of Scotland, curled up on the porch, and passed out into dreamless, drunken sleep.

He awoke early the next morning to Rodney, the paperboy, shaking him and asking if he was okay. He knitted his brow when he realized he couldn't truthfully answer in the affirmative.

Monday, November 8, 1982

Despite the sedentary job of a loan officer, Aubrey Sturges maintained a high level of fitness. It had been drilled into him during his Special Forces training that being fit was one of the tools for not just surviving, but winning. And he had made it to a comfortable civilian life after ten years - two of which he served in Vietnam - in the army. Husband to a beautiful woman, father of twin girls, a fast-rising bank officer. His life was perfect.

The tall, trim, muscular white man sat at his desk, reviewing loan applications, when the secretary he shared with two other bank officers, announced, "Aubrey, got a walk-in for you. A man here with his family. Wants to talk with somebody about a small business loan. Afraid it's your turn." She smiled sympathetically; Sturges really hated seeing customers who didn't have appointments.

He blew forcefully threw his thin lips. "Okay, Jane. Get him started on the app, and I'll call for him when I finish this," he said resignedly as he held up the paper he had been analyzing.

"He's already working on it. May take a while for him to complete it, though. Pretty sure English isn't his first language." The short, shapely young woman performed an exaggerated curtsey, hoping it would lighten his darkening mood. She grinned when he smiled and chuckled.

Ten minutes later, Sturges stamped the application APPROVED and instructed Jane to send the waiting customer in.

In moments, Jane was at his office door. "Mr. Sturges, this is Mr. Minh Nguyen, his wife Tam, and son Son." She laughed lightly at the idea of calling a boy "Son." Reminds me of my first dog, Dog, she thought. "I did pronounce your names correctly, I hope, sir?"

Minh bowed and nodded his head numerous times. "Yes," he finally said, "you did good job. Thank you so much."

Sturges stared at the family. At first, his face expressed confusion, then understanding before it went expressionless. "Thanks, Miss Garner. That will be all for now."

The secretary immediately sensed an unfamiliar and nasty tension in her boss. Nervously she pulled at her brunette bangs and returned to her desk, forgetting to close the door to Sturges's office.

The banker felt his vision sharpen, his saliva evaporate, his heart pound, his muscles tighten. The room around him sprouted into thick jungle. The three people standing before him didn't move. Sappers, he thought. Disguised as friendlies. They're here to take out the whole firebase. They can't fool me.

Slowly, so as not to betray his knowledge of their true purpose, Sturges rose to a standing position. "Excuse me for one moment, would you?" Without waiting for a reply, he marched from his office directly to Andy Brown, the bank's security guard. Without preface, he demanded, "Andy, give me your weapon. Now."

The guard, twenty years older and thirty pounds heavier than the loan officer, cowered under the uncharacteristically authoritarian gaze of the latter. Andy placed his hand protectively over the butt of his revolver. "Mmmmister Sturges," he stammered, "I-I-I-I can't do that, sir." He moved away, but Sturges closed the distance immediately.

It suddenly dawned on Sturges that Brown was aiding and abetting this invasion, or the infiltrators had fooled him. Either way, the sentry had failed in his duty and didn't deserve to wear the uniform. "I don't have time to argue, Private," he said calmly as he simultaneously rammed his knee into Brown's groin and stiff-fingered his throat. Sturges had the revolver in hand before the guard, gagging for air and clutching his privates, hit the polished floor.

Jane had watched in puzzled, frightened fascination. Despite her fear, the nineteen-year-old picked up her telephone and dialed 911. "Please, help us," she said in a soft, faltering voice to the dispatcher on the other end. "This is Jane Garner at the Cove Street First Mutual -" She stopped and the tears started running down her cheeks, dragging her mascara with them.

Sturges now stood in front of Jane's desk. "You traitorous slut!" he spat out contemptuously. "You brought them into the command post." He took a deep breath and then shouted, "Die, you VC sympathizer!"

The secretary squeaked out a whimper when Sturges raised the handgun and aimed it at her chest. She was unable to move, paralyzed by what she knew was going to happen.

He fired the weapon at point-blank range. The bullet entered her body between her breasts and exited out her back, severing the spinal cord. The chair in which she was sitting pitched backward. Her skull fractured when her head struck the floor. She felt no pain from that because she was dead already.

The sound of the gunshot, so close to the telephone and amplified by it, assaulted the eardrums of Bobbie Sue, the 911 dispatcher. She screamed in agony as she ripped her headset off.

On her way to Bobbie Sue, the supervising sergeant called out, "Tom!"

"Already on it, Sarge," the wheelchair-bound officer said as he punched a few buttons to pick up his colleague's call.

The sergeant grabbed the dispatcher by her shoulders. "What is it?" she asked.

Bobbie Sue, twisting in pain and covering her ears, didn't respond to what she couldn't hear. Nevertheless, she shouted so she and everyone else could hear over the sharp, aching noise in her head, "Gunshot, First Mutual on Cove!"

"Hello? This is the 911 operator. Anyone there?" Tom paused, and heard in the background screams, a male voice yelling for them to shut up and not give away their positions to the VC, then fewer screams. "Hey, Sarge, I think we got us a 'Nam vet over the edge at the bank."

Before she could reply, a third dispatcher said distinctly, "Got a silent alarm at First Mutual Cove."

The sergeant plugged her headset into the nearest police radio transceiver. "Any car in the vicinity of Cove Street."

****

Since Thursday evening, the two detectives had not spoken to each other except when necessary for work. The missing verbal communication wasn't uneasy, but neither was it entirely companionable. Now into their third tour since Hutchinson had told Starsky about the trip he wanted them to take, the silence continued.

Starsky was making a left onto Cove Street when Sergeant Seabrook's call came over the radio. He exchanged glances with his partner and slowed the Gran Torino.

Hutchinson put the mars light on the car roof while he said into the mike, "Zebra 3. We are on Cove, cross street Monroe."

Seabrook's calm voice covered her relief that these two would be on site. "10-4. Zebra 3, 10-25 First Mutual Bank, Cove and Bayley. Shots fired and silent alarm, traffic unknown. Do you copy, Zebra 3?"

"Copy that, dispatch. Uh, ETA -" The pause made Starsky look at Hutch again. He held up his right index finger. "Two minutes," finished the blond man, keeping a straight face.

Starsky frowned at him, lowered the index finger, and raised the middle digit. "One. Not two. One." He waited impatiently for a break in the oncoming traffic.

Hutch grinned impishly and chortled. "The bank's on the other end of Cove. You'll never make iiiiiiiitt-" Hutch found himself forced into the car door as Starsky cut the wheel all the way to the left and accelerated as fast as he could into the turn. When the car jumped the curb, Hutch uttered several curse words when his head banged against the ceiling. After Starsky had straightened out the powerful car, he accelerated at an even faster rate. The G-force now pressed Hutch into the back of his seat. "Damn, Starsk!"

The devilish smile leapt to Starsky's mouth.

Meanwhile, Seabrook continued. "Any car that can back up, respond?"

"Charlie -7," intoned Officer Sam Greene.

"You copy traffic Charlie 7?"

"10-4. ETA is two minutes."

"10-4, Charlie 7. Proceed. Both units be advised we have an open land line, but no RP is responding."

"Charlie 7. 10-4."

Almost breathless, Hutchinson keyed his mike. "Zebra 3 to Charlie 7. We're coming in from Monroe Street. We'll take the front."

"10-4, Zebra 3," answered Greene. "We're coming in from Hammonds and we'll take Bayley."

Starsky was true to his word, though there were numerous drivers and pedestrians along the way who had new white in their hair. One minute after receiving the call, he parked the red-and-white car in front of First Mutual Bank in such a way as to provide cover and partially block traffic. They were the first on scene, but they wouldn't be alone for long.

Both looked questioningly and open-mouthed at what appeared to be bank personnel and customers milling about on the opposite side of the street.

"What the hell. . ." Hutch breathed as he tried to make sense of what he saw. This is not going to turn out to be your average, run-of-the-mill robbery.

A petite, silver-haired woman hurried over to the detectives as fast as her sensible brown oxfords and stick legs would take her. "Are you policemen?" she asked in a surprisingly strong and self-assured voice.

Starsky had his badge case out already and flipped it open for the woman to see. "Yes, ma'am. Do you know anything about what's going on here?" he queried, his dark blue eyes never straying from the bank entrance for more than a brief moment. He hooked the open wallet in his belt so the shield showed and discreetly pulled his Smith & Wesson from its shoulder harness.

"Thank heaven you're here." She patted her upper chest several times. She reached for Hutchinson who in turn offered his arm. She took a large gulp of air and began speaking at 90 miles per hour. "I'm Mrs. Amelia Appleton. I'm head teller at the bank. Oh my, this is terrible. Mr. Sturges, one of the loan officers, took the security guard's gun and then shot little Janie! For no reason! Oh my - this is worse than any robbery I've been through."

"Who's Janie, Mrs. Appleton?" asked Hutchinson with some urgency when she finally stopped for a breath and before she could start speedtalking again. He could see Starsky tiny-dancing in place and knew he was close to taking off for the bank with or without him. A few years ago, before Gunther, he would've been gone already. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks? he thought in one part of his brain while he listened to the old woman with another.

"Mr. Sturges's secretary. Oh my, he just shot her dead. And I think Andy the guard may be dead, too. He looked awfully blue when I ran out past him. Oh-my-oh-my-oh-my! Janie's like a granddaughter to me!" The tears she had held back now flowed freely, making tracks on her peach-rouged cheeks.

"Have you heard any more gunshots since then, ma'am?"

Mrs. Appleton swept away a few tears with a finger. "No, I don't think so."

"Did he say anything else?" Hutchinson urged.

Through her sniffles, the old woman said, "He called Janie a VC sympathizer, whatever that means." She pulled a white handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her nose.

Hutchinson could feel the tautness rocket in his partner and the breeze he created when he whirled to face the woman. He glanced sideways at him. Despite the fact he knew Starsky would be upset, he was taken aback by what he saw.

Starsky had blanched to an almost pure white except for the faint, pink scar on his left cheek. He had stopped waltzing and his ears had moved backwards a few millimeters. His breath came in short stabs. Sweat beads appeared on his forehead and upper lip. "Is this Sturges a Vietnam vet?" he demanded in a guttural croak.

Mrs. Appleton, a woman not easily intimidated, found herself to be just that by this man. Her hand on Hutch's arm tightened slightly and the other went to her throat, as if to protect it from an animal prepared to attack. "I…I don't know," she whispered.

The uniformed officers from the Charlie 7 unit were now at the scene. Greene, a heavyset white man with graying sandy hair, had taken a position behind the Torino to cover the main entrance to the bank while his partner jogged over to the two detectives in time to hear the last three exchanges. The athletic, copper-colored man adjusted his hat and thought, Just great. Another vet flashing back. When he paid closer attention to the dark-haired detective, he found himself wishing he were anywhere but here.

Hutchinson was the first to acknowledge the uniform. Keeping his eyes indirectly on his partner who had turned his focus back to the bank, he addressed the officer. "Davies, right?" He didn't wait for an answer, but saw a nod of the black hair in his peripheral vision. "You get these civilians out of harm's way, and then manage traffic. Got your vest on?"

"Yes, sir." Davies nodded once more for emphasis before he began herding the crowd to a safer area.

Hutchinson turned to his partner. He dared not touch him, afraid of what that might do to the tightly coiled, unstable spring named Starsky. And whose fault is that, you big dummy? He wouldn't be like this if you hadn't stirred things up a few days ago. He wanted to kick himself when the next thought popped into his head. Would he?

Starsky could feel Hutch's eyes on him, could hear the unspoken doubts about him. Determined to show Hutch he was fine and professional, he forced himself into a superficial calmness. "We gotta go in now." He started for the bank.

Hutchinson's strong hand on Starsky's upper arm held him back. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Protocol says -"

"Screw protocol, Hutch. If that old lady is right, he's not gonna stop with two dead. He thinks he's back in the 'Nam. He doesn't want anything but to kill the enemy and stay alive. He ain't interested in talkin'."

"But there's only been one shot. I think we have time," Hutch said with a sureness he didn't totally feel.

"We, uh, he doesn't need a gun to kill."

Hutchinson unconsciously loosened his grip when he heard the quickly corrected "we" and felt a flush of cold vibrate through his partner. "Let's at least try -"

The muffled but unmistakable sound of a gunshot came from the bank, stopping Hutchinson from finishing his sentence. Starsky raised his weapon. Hutchinson extracted his Colt from its holster and aimed it at the bank door along with Starsky and Greene, who was on one knee behind the Torino and steadying his arms on its hood. Less than two seconds later, there was another shot. The partners exchanged rapid looks and wordlessly agreed to a course of action.

With Hutchinson and Greene covering him, Starsky immediately sprinted the short distance to the bank and pulled up in front of the rough concrete block next to the wide glass door of the entrance. Holding his gun with both hands, he did a deep-knee bend until he was only three feet tall. He darted his head far enough to peer through the door for a quick inspection of the lobby. Satisfied that all appeared clear, he nodded curtly at Hutch to follow and inched his way up the wall to resume standing. He shot to the far side of the door so his partner could take his old position. Then he heard wailing cries that sounded as if a cat were being tortured. He knew it couldn't possibly be a cat. It was a human child. "God, no, please no," he whispered. With each shriek, his chest tightened and his stomach churned. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to slow his crescendo-ing breathing, but to no avail. Grow up, he lectured himself.

While the two officers watched Starsky, Hutchinson said, "Call for more backup and tell 'em to relay the land line to our radio so you'll know what's going on."

Greene paled a little. "Don't take long. We got touch football practice tonight."

The blond man flashed him a half-grin. "Drinks on you, Sam." Hutch raced forward in a stooped run. He didn't slow down until his left upper arm slammed into the concrete block just vacated by Starsky. Over his light panting, he heard the shrieking cries. A moment later, he felt and almost shriveled from the pulses of anguish emanating from his friend. Dammit all to hell! Why does there have to be a kid involved? "Hey, buddy?" Hutch asked in an empathetic murmur.

Even before Hutch spoke, Starsky had found his partner's strength and used it to quell the hot ice of his pain. His eyes snapped open at the sound of Hutch's stabilizing voice and he made eye contact. Lips clenched into minute lines, he nodded several times. I'm with ya, partner.

Hutchinson swiftly checked the lobby again. Still clear of any obvious danger, he looked at Starsky, raised eyebrows asking if he was ready.

Starsky signaled "yes" with a tilt of his curly-haired head a millimeter to the right. Hutch backed away from the building, took in a huge lungful of air, and pulled open the door all in one motion.

Starsky entered the building a half step ahead of Hutchinson, going low and crossing in front of him. He scanned his side quickly, and found nothing amiss except for the quiescent body of the security guard. He bent over to feel for the carotid pulse. A frown told Hutchinson old lady Appleton was right in her assumption.

Hutchinson had found nothing out of the ordinary in his survey. He tipped his head toward the back of the building, toward the feline-like screams that overshadowed at least one other voice. His long strides had him at Jane Garner's desk in moments. All he could see from his vantage point were her lower legs and the top of her head; she was still sitting in the overturned chair. He closed his eyes for an instant to center himself, to maintain control over the adrenaline that peaked every time he saw death and craved vengeance. At the same moment he sensed Starsky standing in back of him and to the left, he heard a slap coming from one of the offices and jumped at the sound.

California-accented words filled with hateful wrath were finally discernable over the child's cries. "Talk to me, maggot! Your Cong whore is dead, and your little Ho Chi Minh-in-training's gonna get it next if you don't talk!"

"No, please! GI numba one, VC numba ten!"

Hutchinson felt the staccato heat of Starsky's breath on the back of his neck. He hurriedly jerked his head to look at his partner. A quick shrug asked a question.

The sound of a Vietnamese accent saying those words he had heard so often schemed to bring on Starsky's own flashback. But he refused to go back there and drew on the now of his partner and best friend to keep him in the present. He edged closer to Hutch, so the now's shadow encompassed him. "Definite Viet."

"You gotta talk to him." Adamant. Incontestable.

Starsky bristled at the command in his partner's tone. "You negotiate with this guy." He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking his sarcastic thought: You seem to think you can talk to troubled vets so good. Then he cursed the man inside the office. Cursed him for adding fuel to the myth that all Vietnam vets were a heartbeat away from violent lunacy. Cursed him for taking lives in a war that existed only in his head, in his memory. Cursed him for breaking the faith. Cursed himself for what he had to do so many years ago and for what he might have to do to a brother today. Aw, fuck it. Don't mean nothin'. Except he didn't believe that.

Hutchinson glared at his unbudging partner. "Fine. I'll do the talking." He moved quickly but stealthily to the edge of the office door. He licked his parched lips and listened to the beating one man was giving to the other and to the crying child.

At the same time, Starsky took the few steps needed to get to the telephone receiver. He uttered an apology to the open and blank brown eyes while he pried the stiffening, well-manicured fingers off the handset. "Dispatch, Zebra 3," he whispered into the mouthpiece. "Inside the bank. Two casualties, possibly two more. Starting negotiation with suspect. First office on left." After resting the phone on the floor, he stood. He criticized himself for taking the easy road all because he feared he might, could, would get caught up in the then. He winced when he heard the American say in poorly contained fury, "Now tell me who and where the other infiltrators are, or your kid buys it now."

Hutchinson, still debating whether to go along with the man's delusion or play it real, knew that he didn't have one more second to ponder such details and had wasted too much time already. "Mr. St-Sturges," he began, hoping his nervous tongue wouldn't stick to the roof of his mouth, "I'm Detective Sergeant Hutchinson, Bay City Police. I'm here to help. What can -"

"It's about time you got here, Sergeant. But I haven't finished questioning the prisoner, so you can't have him yet. But come in and clear out his whore's body."

The blond cop shivered at the frigid flatness of Sturges's voice. Damn - hope I'm not in over my head. A speedy, pleading look at Starsky to ask him to take over simply resulted in a stubborn, mouthed "No." Gun still in hand, he entered the room at a pace slightly faster than a snail.

Within the first second, Hutchinson had the lay of the land. In the farthest corner of the room, an Asian woman with a bullet hole in her forehead leaned bonelessly against the red stucco planter holding a ficus tree. A little boy, about two or three years old, toddled back and forth in a semi-circle in front of her as he cried. An Asian man with a bloodied and swollen face sat on the floor between the two hunter green-and-brown plaid easy chairs a few feet back from the desk. He held a knee in his hand and Hutchinson could see blood running out through the thin fingers. Crouched between the desk and the wounded man was the man with the gun. And he was pointing it right at Hutch's chest.

Starsky had moved into his partner's previous position outside the door. He could smell the spilled blood wafting from the room. Then the smell morphed to the taste of incredibly spicy-hot food and formaldehyde-laced tepid beer. Then a thousand shades of green, some of which cut through skin like a sharp knife through soft butter. A thousand howls from frightened monkeys and frightened men, wounded and dying. He was slipping into then - now was too far away.

The voice, both powerful and mellifluous, caught him and brought him back. It said, "Sir, put your weapon down. I can handle it from here."

"I captured them, Sergeant, and I'm not sharing." The bank officer's voice rose on the last word and his leg shot out in a sweeping motion.

Hutch's feet left the ground and he toppled backwards, unconsciously tightening his abdominal muscles to keep his head from contacting the floor first. Before he hit the ground, Sturges was on him, driving his elbow deep into the cop's solar plexus.

Hutchinson grunted painfully through the whoosh of air forced from his lungs. His head swirled and his eyes teared and his attacker became a blur. Though effectively disabled, he maintained the grip on his weapon. Sturges pinned the gun arm to the floor with his knee and somehow, seemingly faster than the speed of light, wedged his own gun arm firmly against Hutch's throat. "With anybody," Sturges said disdainfully to complete his last sentence.

Starsky had moved into the office as soon as he heard the thump of his partner landing on the floor. But by the time he had rounded the corner and assessed the scene, Hutch was already trapped and struggling for air. Starsky rapidly acquired the banker's head as his target. "Let him go, Sturges." Starsky was relieved to hear that his panic and worry didn't come through in the words.

Suddenly, Sturges had the business end of a letter opener at the side of Hutch's neck. "You chicken-shit MPs always come in pairs. And it's 'Captain' to you. If you don't back off, your pal here gets it. And drop your damn weapon."

Starsky could see Hutch's struggle growing weaker and the life fading from his glistening eyes. Yet he found himself unable to pull the trigger. Waste him, idiot, it's justifiable - he's killin' Hutch! But a part of him - deeply entombed, instinctual - coerced him to delay, to offer a second chance. "I'm a cop, I can't do that. If you don't release my partner right now, I'll have to shoot you, and I don't want to do that."

For some reason, the little boy chose that moment to leave his mother and run for his father. Sturges remained sitting on Hutchinson while he swung his gun around to center on the child. That motion caused the letter opener to pierce Hutch's neck and draw blood. The bank officer and Starsky fired at the same time, with Starsky's "NOOOO!" floundering unheard in the noise.

The bullet from Sturges's gun clipped Minh's ear before it entered Son's upper chest. The boy dropped dead at his father's side. Starsky's bullet went clean through the Special Forces veteran's right shoulder. He fell back and in the process of rolling off Hutchinson's legs he dropped the letter opener and switched the revolver from his right to his left hand.

Hutchinson slurped up enormous amounts of air and turned onto his left side. He wanted to curl into a ball to ease the throbbing pain in his abdomen, but one of the chairs stopped his legs from flexing. Without meaning to, he released the Python to paw at his neck when he felt something warm tickle his skin. His vision was clear enough to see the Vietnamese man crying over the still body of his son. Oh God, no! he moaned in his sickened heart. Starsky, keep it together, buddy, please.

Greene had taken off for the bank as soon as he heard Starsky tell Sturges to release his partner. It was several seconds past the gunshots before he reached the office and nearly ran into Starsky's back.

The darker detective found himself flashing from then to now and back. The small dead body of Son pulled him hardest to the then, to the time when he had to kill a boy loaded down with explosives. Hutch's fair hair proved to be the major push into the now. He went with the push to end his confusion.

Starsky kept his gun aimed unwaveringly at Sturges who in turn had his weapon trained on Starsky. "Stay outta this, Sammy," he warned. Time for you to handle this, putz, he said to himself. Like you shoulda done from the start.

The detective cleared his throat. "Okay, Cap'n, I want you to take a good look around." The brown eyes didn't move. "Does this really look like a bunker, or a CP? Huh?" He swallowed so he could think about what to say next. "You're back in the world, sir. Remember when the Freedom Bird brought you back? You're safe here. No wire strung around our hootches. No hootches, even. Uh, no observation posts, or patrols, or mortar attacks, or ambushes. You made it back. We made it back, and we're okay." Starsky sensed the banker's taut muscles relax slightly and took it as a sign of the journey back to reality. "Now, Cap'n, put your gun down. It's safe. I swear."

The revolver did not deviate from its position. "Okay," Starsky continued, "I'll put mine down. To show you how safe it is." He felt Greene tense up more, and knew the uniformed officer was ready to back him up. He heard Hutch emit a long, trembling groan, and it cut his soul.

Starsky lowered his gun to his side and moved several inches to his left to give Greene a better shot if he needed to take one. Sturges's gun followed him. "See? Now it's your turn, sir." Hang on, Hutch. Almost there.

In amazement and relief, Starsky and Greene watched the transformation from delusion to reality in the banker's eyes. However, Starsky's relief was short-lived, because he saw those eyes again, those feral, shadowy eyes, only this time they weren't staring back at him from a mirror. He realized why he had hesitated earlier.

Sturges's voice tremored as he said quietly, "We shouldn't have had to do all that, you know? What I did, it all comes back in my dreams. I'm so sorry. I really am."

Starsky exhaled then inhaled forcefully to arrest a sob that had welled inside him. "I know. So am I."

"But we shouldn't live because of what we did."

Starsky only had time to start a step toward the banker and draw a breath, the "No" he wanted to cry out just forming, before Sturges put the revolver's barrel in his own mouth and squeezed the trigger.

The veteran-detective felt his insides begin to melt. Only with Herculean effort did he remain standing and keep the tears at bay. Another brother dead. That goddamned war keeps killin' us. It'll never be over. When Greene brushed by him on the way to the bank officer, he snapped out of his thoughts, holstered his gun, and waved away from his partner a member of the SWAT team that had just arrived.

He knelt at Hutch's golden head and cradled it in his hand. For a blink, he was in the then, seeing himself holding his downed and dying "hip-pocket buddy." A stroke of the soft hair returned him to the now. They were oblivious to the semi-bedlam going on around them. "Hey, Blintz, you're bleedin'." He dug into the right back pocket of Hutch's charcoal gray corduroys. He pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief. "Hope this doesn't have any snot on it," he deadpanned as he pressed it against the stab wound.

Hutchinson couldn't help but laugh, despite the fact he knew it would make his belly hurt more. And he knew how hard this all was for his partner, especially the kid's death, and that he was responsible for making it worse for Starsky than it had to be. "Sorry," he whispered.

"Yeah." Starsky knew Hutch was apologizing for Thursday evening, for not saving the toddler, for the suicide of the disturbed banker, and for something he couldn't put his finger on. He diligently avoided observing the Vietnamese man openly grieve for his son and caress his lifeless body. Goddamn me - I killed another kid. He wouldn't be dead if I'd shot Sturges sooner. And I almost let him kill Hutch, too. How dare he make choose between brothers - between my brother and me. . .

Hutchinson's gut pain had waned to the point he could finally say more than a word or two. He knew the boy's death - and more - was eating away at his partner, and now he was able to draw him away from it. "What did I get stabbed with, Starsk?"

"You don't wanna know. Trust me."

"I've got an inquiring mind. I do wanna know. What did Sturges stab me with?"

One side of Starsky's mouth curved up. "Okay, but I want it on record that I'm tellin' you under duress."

A muscle spasm took Hutch by surprise and he whistled through his teeth. "Consider yourself on the record."

"A letter opener," Starsky said almost shyly.

"A letter opener?" The blond squirmed involuntarily and his right arm seemed to ache from wounds long healed. "God, I absolutely loath letter openers."

"Yeah, I know."

Two squads of paramedics had entered the office during the detectives' conversation. Being readily apparent that the woman and the white man were dead, they had turned their attention to the four people between and in front of the chairs. Now, one of them tapped Starsky on his shoulder. "Officer, we need to check him out, okay?"

Hutchinson felt Starsky burrow deeper into his place beside him. He smiled warmly at his partner. "I'm fine, Starsk. Go on, talk with Dobey. He must be here by now. I'll join you soon."

Reluctantly, Starsky stood, taking the bloody handkerchief with him. He folded it and stuffed it into a back pocket. He began to leave the room, but stopped. He circled around the back of the desk until he was on the far side, close to the mutilated head of Aubrey Sturges. He stared at the dead man, and saw in him too many others. I hate you, dammit, and I love you. He sniffed back and rubbed his jacket sleeve over his sore and teary eyes. And I know you, all too well. He gave the bank officer a small salute before he walked away.

Hutchinson, once he realized that Starsky hadn't left, had forced the paramedic on his right to move so he could scrutinize his friend. He read regret and sorrow and fear on Starsky's face. When he saw the salute, he thought he would choke on his heart. "Hurry it up," he prodded the paramedics. "I got other places to be."

Five minutes later, Hutchinson walked stiffly, bent slightly at the waist, into the refreshingly cool afternoon. He chuckled when he saw that Captain Dobey was just reaching the scene. Then his fretful sky blue eyes found his partner.

Starsky squatted next to the Torino, his back resting on the body just past the left rear wheel, his head on his knees, his fingers in his thick, curly hair.

Hutchinson had his own flashback: Starsky on his right side, his head in the wheel well, his body on the police garage surface, his blood painting the concrete. . . Good lord, Starsk, of all places, why did you pick there to sit? It hit him hard - he had gone beyond empathy with his partner; he had the seeds of a true, personal understanding of the army part of Starsky's life because of his own near-loss in his own tiny war three and a half years ago. The wretchedness of that time and the trying months that followed abruptly became precious.

Gingerly, Hutch approached Starsky. Before he could speak, he heard Starsky ask without moving his head, "You okay, Hutch?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." He fingered the gauze-and-tape bandage on his neck. "The paramedics say I need a few stitches and maybe antibiotics and should see a doc about possible internal injury. But I told 'em you'd take me to the hospital."

A full thirty seconds ticked by before Starsky moved. His red-rimmed eyes looked up at the tall, lean man, into those eyes that spoke of their owner's unconditional acceptance of him. He smiled a close-lipped smile and knitted his brow. "When do we leave?"

Hutchinson beamed from ear to ear. He offered his hand to Starsky, who grasped it and together got him standing. Hutch oomphed at the increased discomfort the activity brought on but that didn't stop him from bear-hugging his friend for a few seconds.

Thursday, November 11, 1982

Starsky had not taken the Valium his physician had prescribed for him to use on the plane. Instead, every fifteen minutes, the white-knuckle flyer had asked his partner, "Are we there yet?" or some variation on that theme. After two hours of this, Hutchinson, at the end of his rope, had regretted not getting his own prescription and begged Starsky for one of his pills. Starsky had caved, Hutch had slept, and the stewardesses had taken turns responding to Starsky's call light. They had been less than friendly in their good-byes to both detectives when they deplaned at Washington International Airport.

Hutchinson was still drowsy when the cab dropped them off about ten blocks from the National Mall, and hadn't noticed how much Starsky had withdrawn. He paid the fare, tipped the driver handsomely, and stepped out. He turned up the collar of his lined leather blazer to keep out the cold, drippy, gray day. He waited a few moments for Starsky to get out. When he didn't, Hutch stuck his head into the taxi and asked, "You coming or what?"

Starsky exhaled audibly and waited longer still before exiting the car. He thrust his hands as far as they would go in the breast pockets of his navy pea coat, and pulled it tighter around him. He shot Hutch a let's-get-this-over look. He took off at a brisk pace, weaving his way through the growing number of people, many of them wearing pieces of ragged military garb.

Hutch gave the cabby even more money and a feeble smile. "Sorry about that."

The older, bearded man rubbed the ten-spot between his fingers. "Any time, man. No need to apologize. Been deliverin' a lot like him to this area for the past couple of days. Expect I'll have a lot more, too." He tipped his cap and took off.

The blond man began to wonder if this had been a wise idea. He suspected that his friend had probably slept no more than a few hours a night since the Sturges case. And he could smell the alcohol coming from his pores. He had watched him consume large amounts of food, but he had eaten without his customary gusto. The previous night, he was awakened twice in their shared room when Starsky had screamed out and had refused the offer to talk. If he hadn't been experiencing the sedating effects of the Valium, he was sure he would have been awakened more often. He himself had dreamed of that May morning in the police garage. Of a competitive but friendly Ping-Pong game and country song title trivia that ended in a lake of blood and pain.

Hutchinson ran through the crowd after his friend and quickly closed the physical distance between them. Falling into step beside him, Hutch inwardly railed at the emotional canyon separating them. They had had their differences and tough times in the past, but Starsky had never been this far away, this locked up. What have I done?

The closer they got to the Memorial, the more crowded it became. For the dedication ceremony, they had to stand almost two blocks away. Hutchinson was astounded that so many grown, war-tested men would cry in public. But they did. Starsky didn't. His eyes, indigo for the moment, with dark, smudgy shadows around them, remained desert-dry.

It was mid-afternoon before the two men got the chance to see the Memorial up close. It was a shiny, black, angled gash in American earth. Hutchinson fell into a reverent, breathless wonderment.

On the other hand, Starsky began his hyperventilation routine. He ordered himself to stop it, and had it under control before his friend turned to him to ask, "Do you want to walk it with me, or would you prefer to do it alone?"

Starsky snickered at Hutch's word choice. Do it alone. Like I've lived with this war since I got back. Why stop now? "Neither. I'll wait for you here."

Hutchinson perceived the cynicism and doubt and dread that shrouded his friend. "Okay. I won't be long." We'll play it your way, Starsk. At least you're here. Maybe that's enough. He proceeded to walk down the slanting sidewalk next to the black wall.

There were so many names. So many lives gone, so many more affected, including himself. He found himself mentally asking for their forgiveness and expressing his remorse at his thinking they were just as vile and stupid as the war they had fought. Unexpectedly, he was moved to tears before he got to the elbow of the wall.

When he was through, Hutch took another path to return to Starsky. His heart plummeted when he saw the fathomless, arctic emptiness of Starsky's expression, his closed-off body, his extended personal space. He had never seen anything quite like this in his partner, even during his lowest times. Shut off completely, aren't you. Please, please forgive me for pushing you, but I truly thought you were ready. The blond now couldn't stop his quiet weeping.

Bitingly, Starsky asked, "What are you cryin' for? Oh, never mind. I've seen enough. I'm outta here." He pushed back very damp curls that had plastered themselves to his forehead, turned his back on Hutch, and left.

Hutchinson, too stunned and crushed to move, much less follow Starsky, stayed at the "The Wall," which the Memorial had already been dubbed, for another hour. He simply watched the ever-changing throng of people and tried to figure out how he could break down that seemingly impenetrable barrier Starsky had thrown up to keep in the world of measureless, unceasing hurt.

****

Starsky hadn't returned to the motel by eleven p.m. Hutchinson, having just woken from a restless four-hour nap, admitted he was at a loss of where to look for him. All he knew was that he had to look for him, and not stop until he found him. By 11:15, he was in a cab. The driver merely hunched his shoulders at the command to drive around the city for a while.

The taxi was passing the Mall when Hutchinson suddenly sprang forward in his seat. "Stop here!"

The cabby, startled, slammed on the brakes. Hutchinson narrowly missed joining him in the front seat before he flew back into his. He tossed two twenties at the driver and fled the car too fast to hear his enthusiastic thanks.

It took less than a minute to find and get to him, even in the large number of people still at the Memorial. He stood on the grass across from one of the panels of names, his hands still rammed into his coat pockets.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked. Tentative, cautious.

"Hutch."

The blond sensed that the darker man was softer now, receptive, vulnerable, approachable. He didn't know or care what had happened to bring about this change; it didn't make him any less ecstatic. "Uh, find a name?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna touch it, don't you?"

Starsky's anguish caught in his throat. "Yeah?"

Hutch squared his shoulders as a way to give himself the strength to say, "You made it back. You're safe here. I'll touch it, to show you how safe it is." He crossed the sidewalk and touched a name at random. He imagined he could feel something stir beneath his fingertips for a fleeting second. Then he felt his friend at his side.

"Anthony Vincent Balducci," Starsky stated, his even tone belying his frantic uneasiness and anxiety about remembering out loud, about being pulled into the then. "His folks called him 'Tony' but we called him 'Dooch.' He was my best buddy. Hip-pocket. From Hell's Kitchen. Everybody thought we were twins." Shaking like a falling leaf, Starsky tentatively reached up to the name etched in the black marble. As he touched it, he experienced a constant, tiny positive charge that chased the chill out of his heart, warmed the whole of him. In the reflective surface, he saw himself and Dooch. He blinked several times, not believing his eyes, and when he looked again, Hutch was in Dooch's place.

"Feels right, doesn't it?"

Starsky had always admired and appreciated his best friend as he had no other human being. Now he stood in awe of Hutch's ability to read him, to know what he needed, to know when to push and when to back off, to say what he needed to hear, even if he didn't want to listen, to say what he couldn't or wouldn't, to give without expectation of receiving. I musta done somethin' right in a past life. "Yeah, it does."

With confidence, without hesitation, Hutch put his hand on Starsky's shoulder. They - Starsky, Hutch, and the almost corporeal memory of Dooch - stood there for a few minutes.

Starsky broke the electric, pensive silence. "There's another one."

"Thought there might be. Have you found that one yet?"

"Yeah. I'll show you." Starsky brought his hand down from the wall, kissed his fingers, then touched them momentarily to the name. He led Hutch to another panel. "2T is close to the bottom of this one." He squatted.

Hutchinson followed suit. "2T? What kind of name is that?" Hutch's hand returned to its place on his friend's shoulder.

Starsky laughed quietly and easily. "When he joined my platoon, he introduced himself as 'Emmett with two Ts Jefferson.' So we had ta call him '2T' - said it drove him nuts, but we could tell he liked it. Me and this sharecropper's son from Mississippi got real attached." His fingers made contact with the name. Again, he felt something akin to electrical current penetrate him. And for a brief, shining moment, Starsky saw 2T, all in one piece. A few minutes later, he transferred a kiss to 2T's name. He stood, as did Hutch.

"Sturges's name should be on this wall, too," ventured Hutch carefully, unsure if Starsky had reached his limit for the day. "I think it's reasonable to say he died from wounds he received in the war."

The veteran army sergeant shuddered. What if I'd'a been in his situation. So much alike. . .Stop it with the what-ifs, already. "Yeah. His and a lot of others."

Hutch began to believe that Starsky had no limits. "The cost of war is so damn high."

Starsky considered this briefly. "I prefer to think of it as the cost of freedom, so it ain't all that high when ya think about it."

His partner once again amazed Hutchinson. His strength and resiliency were boundless. His sense of honor and duty was of the highest order. His ability to reason, to go beyond the obvious, defied description. His selfless and giving nature was humbling. "Thanks."

Starsky gave him a puzzled look.

"For paying the price for our freedom."

****

The two friends walked around the city, undeterred by the continued cold and drizzle. Stories of his eighteen-month tour tumbled from Starsky's unbarred memory, stories he had confided in no one since his Freedom Bird carried him back to the world. Even if Hutch had wanted him to shut up, he couldn't have stopped him. At first, the stories were mostly all about death and destruction. A darkness descended on him, and he frequently had to halt his tales to surrender to the cries he'd held back for fifteen years. When he did, Hutch would hold him tight. His already high regard and respect for his partner soared to dizzying heights as he began to appreciate what Starsky and other combat veterans endured and survived. Starsky easily sensed nonjudgmental, unqualified acceptance. However, by the time they stood at the entrance to the Jefferson Memorial, most of them were humorous and fond tales - even of the dead - and his disposition had lightened.

The park security guard informed them that the Memorial was closed at four a.m. A closer examination of Starsky provoked him to ask, "You a vet?"

"Yep, and a detective out of Bay City." He flicked his head toward Hutch. "This is my partner."

The guard showed irregular white teeth. "Well, now, since you came all the way from the west coast and from the 'Nam, go right on in," he said as he opened the gate.

They chose a slab of concrete on which to sit. They sat hip to hip. And Starsky talked more. Every time Hutch moved a little, Starsky's hand would flick out to Hutch's thigh, signaling him not to break contact. I wouldn't be here without you.

After an hour or so, Hutchinson felt yet another shift toward the dark in Starsky's mood. He waited for the proverbial shoe to drop.

Starsky cleared his throat and moved his butt away from Hutch but put his knee against the blond man's. "There are lots more things to say, Hutch, but I can't hold this back any longer." He began to talk with his hands - something Hutch knew Starsky did whenever he was trying to get out of a tight spot or make a point. "2T and Dooch were my best pals. I never thought I'd ever have friends as good and close as they were. And it wasn't just 'cuz of the war, Hutch. I'd'a been real tight with 'em no matter what." He paused, not sure how to say what he needed Hutch to know. "When 2T died in my arms after he got blown in half, and then Dooch in a tunnel collapse when he was right in front of me, I swore I'd never get that close to anybody again." He took a deep breath to settle his memories and stay in the now, to wallow in the relief that he finally told someone a little bit about how his bosom buddies had died. "But you came along and ruined my plans." He smirked before turning somber once more. "What I'm tryin' to tell you is, maybe now you can understand why I wudn't always with you when you were real sick or hurt bad. I couldn't stand it. Guess I wudn't strong enough. And I was thinkin' only about myself, I know. Can you for-"

"Stop right there, Starsk," Hutch interrupted. "Don't even think about completing that question!" He ran his hand through his rain-darkened hair to buy time while he assimilated the sudden realization of why Starsky was usually the first to move up in a hot situation and would get tense and testy when Hutch went undercover alone; it was to protect him. Guess the Dark Warrior has a bit of White Knight under that armor he wears. He snorted lightly, shamed by how much more serious his "sin" was in light of what he now knew. Time to 'fess up - and hope he at least understands. "I wanted you to come here in part -"

"Drop it, Hutch. Nothin' to forgive."

"But, but, do you know what I did?"

"Well, yeah, I kinda figured it out while we were still in the academy. Hell, you're entitled to your opinion."

The lead weight that had hung on his conscience turned into a feather. He wanted to sing and fly and even dance. Until he realized that Starsky had had plenty of opportunity to bring this up years ago. "You're telling me you knew all along, and never thought to discuss it? To let me off the hook?"

"I figured you felt pretty bad about it. I thought you'd say somethin' eventually. How was I supposed ta know it'd take you this long, huh?" Starsky was all innocence.

Hutch rose dramatically to his feet. Hands on his hips, he loomed over Starsky. "And you let me go on feeling rotten about my anti-war and anti-military activism for over a decade?"

"But, Hutch, I know how you are. You really like to wear those hair shirts. And who am I to deny you that, um, pleasure, hmmm?" The devilish grin from several days ago reappeared.

Hutch turned away, not wanting Starsky to see his eyes mist with tears. He had gotten more out of this trip than he had ever dreamed of. That Wall is something else. Not only had he received absolution, but Starsky - his best friend in the whole world - had taught him more about love and trust and the strength and frailties of character and of the human heart than he had learned to date. I must have done something right in a past life. "You know what, Starsk?" he said sternly.

He's not really mad at me - I hope? "What?"

Hutch returned to his position beside his partner. "Your glass is invariably half-full, buddy. And you just keep on working to fill it up."

"That reminds me. I sure could use somethin' to drink."

"Well, if you hadn't hogged the conversation, you wouldn't be so thirsty."

"Hogged the conversation? Hogged the conversation?"

"Where's that echo coming from?" he asked as he searched the pre-dawn sky. "Yeah, so you heard me right. When we get back home, I'm taking that . . ."

Starsky tuned out Hutch's next few words. He grinned abiding, heartfelt gratitude at Hutch and thought, I'm already there. Finally. All of me's home. And I thought hittin' the streets with Hutch again after Gunther felt good . . .