Starsky sped the Torino through the busy night street, siren blaring, red light flashing, Hutch buckling his seatbelt and holding onto the dash.

Starsky glanced at his watch. "If we do this real fast I can get home in time to see The Godfather."

"You're just saying that because of who we're going to see."

"It's not every day you get to meet a real-life Godfather."

Hutch laughed. "In our line of work, yes it is."

"Aren't you even a little excited?"

"Why? We meet criminals all the time. That's what we do for a living, remember? Catch them, not protect them."

"Hutch, we are getting ready to save Frank Leone's life. How would you feel tonight goin' home without doin' anything, and then in the morning you read in the paper that Frank is dead?"

Hutch shrugged. "I'd feel happy. One less gangster."

"He's still a human being."

"And since when is it 'Frank', like you're on a first-name basis with the guy? I swear, those Godfather movies have gone to your head. Do you think that Frank Leone would hesitate one second if he wanted to blow you, me, or any other cop away?"

"He's King of the Mafia Crime Lords. Of course he wouldn't hesitate."

"They why do we want to save his life?"

"Because Dobey told us to."

"But he didn't push it. He said if we get around to it."

"Well, we are getting around to it."

Hutch grunted again. "Don't expect me to stick around when they go off on you with their

Brando routine."

"Brando? Pacino's the man, remember?"

Starsky screeched the car to a halt in front of the Bluebird Restaurant, then he and Hutch walked briskly to the front door.

A burly doorman moved in front of them.

Hutch was wordless as he produced his badge.

"Police," Starsky said rather politely. "We have an appointment with--"

The doorman folded his massive arms across his massive chest. "I know who you have an appointment with."

The doorman stepped aside but still eyed Starsky and Hutch closely. Hutch crossed himself before going in.

The detectives scanned the establishment's every detail in practiced but subtle efficiency. It was a cozy restaurant, lit mostly in a low blue, with soft strains of violins in the air around them. Men in expensive suits with cigars and drinks were lined along the marble bar and at the tables, women in diamonds and form-fitting evening dresses draped like silk scarves around their men's arm or shoulders, all enjoying sumptuous Italian meals. It looked more like a Hollywood party than a favorite Mafia hangout.

Several waitresses in skimpy uniforms slithered up to Starsky and Hutch, winking a stroking appreciatively as they passed. Hutch blushed while Starsky appraised.

"I'm impressed," Starsky sighed happily.

When the girls were out of ear-shot, Hutch whispered to his partner, "Put your tongue back in your mouth before Leone steps on it. Here he comes."

The patrons stared and whispered as Frank Leone, a tanned, robust man of fifty with short silver hair and a spark of life and humor in his eyes, approached Starsky and Hutch. His suit was silk, his shoes lizard. His ringed hand gripped Starsky's firmly. "Good evening. Frank Leone."

Hutch didn't offer his hand. Leone winked at him. "Come to my table. Hungry?"

"Sorry," Hutch commented wryly, "but when it comes to breaking bread with a--"

Starsky stepped on Hutch's foot. "We don't have time for--" he tried to explain, but Leone was already ushering them to a corner table with a mirror behind it.

The three sat. Hutch couldn't help but notice that the nearby tables were populated with Coppola extras with bulging dinner jackets. He gave each an even stare.

Leone poured them a glass of wine. "Now then. I know that a policeman's time is very valuable, and I know that most of you don't make impromptu appointments with us, so why not get to the details of why you're here?"

Starsky nodded, his star-struck attitude being replaced with direct professionalism. "I'll be straight with you, Mr. Leone. I know you don't like cops, and my partner has some honest reservations about this meeting. It doesn't matter. If you know who we are, then you know our reputation. This isn't a social call."

Hutch sipped a glass of water that had already been set for him, then set it back down.

Starsky continued: "Our sources are very reliable, and they tell us that there is a contract out on your life and it could happen tonight."

Leone's eyes widened, even watered, his shoulders shaking with chuckles as he reached for his napkin to dab the corners of his eyes.

"Oh dear. Oh I'm sorry. Forgive me. But--" His laughter now spilled out as giant guffaws, his face deepening to a beet red, the Copolla extras laughing just because he was. "My young friends, there are always people wanting to kill me. There are dozens of--"

Hutch put his hand over Antonio's wine glass and looked at him with such sincerity and urgency that Leone's fountain of laughter dried up.

"We're not a rookies trying to impress," Starsky told him. "We're here to tell you, to warn you, to get you out of town ourselves if we have to. Whatever it takes. But you have to act now. You can't--"

Starsky saw her first, in the mirror behind Leone. First her beautiful hate-filled eyes, then the pink pearl-handled Derringer she held under her silver serving tray. She wore the same skimpy outfit that the other waitresses wore.

"Hutch!" he warned, then jumped at her while Hutch pulled Leone to the floor and shielded him with his body.

Patrons screamed and ducked under tables.

Starsky had the girl facedown and was sitting astride her rear in order to cuff her.

"Pig!" she shouted over her shoulder at her arresting officer. She kicked her high heels on the floor and tried to spit at him.

One patron wolf-whistled at them. "Oooooh lah lah!"

Another grabbed his own crotch. "Give it to her!"

A third ground his hips. "Do it! Come on, baby!"

"Hurt her!"

"Wench!"

"Ouch!"

"Look out!"

Starsky dragged the resisting wildcat to her feet. Her hair, auburn and once in a ponytail, now ribboned around her face. Her eyes stabbed into Leone, who was picking himself off the floor with Hutch's help.

"I hate you," she hissed at the crime lord. "I hate you for killing my brother!"

Starsky hustled her toward the front door. "You have the right to remain silent--"

"Fuck you!" she swore at Starsky.

"Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law--"

"I said fuck you!"

"You have the right to an attorney--"

"And I'll say fuck you again!"

The restaurant was alive with boisterous laughter, as if they had just enjoyed a one-act play at their dinner theatre. Their don was safe and all was well.

In a hurry to catch up to Starsky, Hutch handed Leone the Rolex that fell from his wrist during the scene.

He turned to go, but Leone, pale, his lips dry, gripped his arm and moved in close to him, his eyes glistening a sliver of fear. His words are small with emotion. "Thank you, Detective Hutchinson. I sensed you were only here for your partner. You didn't have to push me to the floor. You could have allowed her to eliminate me, but you saved my life. You are a man of true integrity, and I will never forget this."

Hutch had to pry the man's fingers from his arm. "Just doing our job," he said quietly, and turned to leave.

This time Leone let him go.

But it wasn't until Hutch glanced back at Leone did he notice that the mirror behind Leone's chair had been shattered by the would-be assassin's bullet.

The precinct buzzed about Angela Sachi, the pretty Italian girl who'd almost killed Frank Leone. As Starsky and Hutch walked through the front lobby, fellow officers ribbed them mercilessly while the girl was being booked.

One officer chuckled. "Why did you stop her?" he asked them.

"Give her a medal for trying," another chimed in.

"Or a badge."

"Suckers"

"Whose side are you on anyway?"

Captain Dobey met them at the front desk. "Good work, you two."

Starsky grinned. "That mean we get a raise?"

"You just got one. If you want another raise, wear a tie."

"Is that the thanks we get?"

"The newspapers will thank you in the morning."

"Yeah, but since we're undercover, nobody'll know it's us."

"But we know," Hutch interjected, "that's all that counts."
 
 

Starsky, still high from the bust, hummed happily with the radio as he drove Hutch home that night.

"We saved Frankie's life and he didn't even deserve it. Risked our necks for that dude. Angela Sachi coulda killed Leone, you, and me."

"I don't feel especially good about her being in police custody. She needs to be in the witness protection program. You know how the wheels of Mafia justice turn. Leone will have her killed. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not next month or next year. But he will. I mean, like you said, a life is a life. If we helped Leone, we can help her, right? I mean, I don't condone an assassination attempt, but I can understand why she'd want to get revenge on him for killing her brother."

"I already got that covered, partner. I talked to Dobey about that while you were typing up the report. He had her moved out."

Hutch smiled. "Really?"

"Really."

"She's not in our jail?"

"On a plane to who knows where by now."

Hutch's smile broadened into a grin. "What a boy scout you are tonight, Starsk."

Starsky pulled the Torino up alongside Hutch's canal-side cottage to let him out.

"Coming in?" Hutch asked as he got out of the car.

Starsky tapped his watch. "The Godfather, remember?"

"You won't make it in time to catch the beginning."

"If I use the light and siren I will."

"Just watch it here. You'll drive a hundred miles an hour, crash the car, and then you'll never get to see it."

"Okay," Starsky agreed as he got out. "That makes good sense."

Starsky joined Hutch on the sidewalk and they started for the cottage door.

That's when they heard the silky sliding sound of a windbreaker behind them.

They turned, but too late. Two men dressed in black clothes and ski masks rushed forward from the shrubbery, one grabbing Starsky from behind in a bearhug, the other swinging a baseball bat hard into Hutch's face.

Blood spurted as far away as Starsky's shirt, the impact of the blow knocking him off his feet and flat onto his back in the yard.

"Hutch!"

Starsky struggled against the man holding him.

"Hu--"

The man crushed Starsky's voice from his lungs with his massive arms.

Hutch lay sprawled on his back, blood smeared on his face and continuously running from his nose and mouth, his eyes rolling sleepily toward the sky.

Starsky's struggling afforded him a small intake of air.

"Hutch!"

Starsky strained against the man, kicking and growling.

"Fucker. Let me go."

The man with the bat stood over hutch, weaving the bat in small circles over his face. To Starsky he said, "This is for you, Detective Starsky. Now you watch this."

"No! Leave him--"

The slugger leaned over Hutch and crooned. "You all right down there?"

Hutch tried to raise his head and struggled to speak.

"Starsk?" he asked in a weak, hoarse voice. "You okay?"

The slugger kicked Hutch in the face, knocking him back down.

"Fucker!" Starsky managed to yell from his compressed lungs.

Amazingly, Hutch tried to roll on his side to get up, trying to see through his bloody eyes. "Starsk?"

"Hutch, no! Stay down!"

Hutch was up on all fours, his arms trembling from shock. "Oh fuck," he groaned as his arms weakened. "Starsk?"

"I'm okay! Don't get up!"

The slugger brought the bat down across Hutch's back and he crumpled like a ragdoll facedown in the grass. Only his fingers moved.

"Starsk?" he mumbled into the grass. "Are you . . . "

Starsky was sweating and kicking and growling, but the man had a firm hold on him.

"Hutch, stay down!"

Slugger pulled Hutch to his feet but his legs gave out and he was going down again.

Slugger grabbed Hutch's head in his hands and brought his knee hard up into his face.

Hutch dropped facedown again but put his hands under his chest to try to raise up a second time.

The man with the bat chuckled and looked at his associate. "They said he'd be hard to do, but this is ridiculous."

Starsky was sobbing now, his head down, weak and broken. "Please stay down, Hutch. Don't get up."

The man holding Starsky grabbed his hair and jerked his head up. "We told you to watch."

Starsky sniffed. "Mother fucker! You're killing him!"

Slugger kicked Hutch's side, stomach, and face over and over but he was too weak and disoriented to fight back. The man may as well have been kicking a lifeless corpse.

Starsky's yelling dwindled down to nothing, and the only sounds were the grunts the man was making as he delivered his ferocious kicks.

There was a whimpering sound and Starsky realized it was coming from his own throat and not Hutch's.

Slugger, panting and out of breath, exhausted from all his exertion, tossed the bat aside, then gripped the back of Hutch's shirt collar and belt, carrying his limp and bloody body over to where Starsky was, and dumped him at his feet in the grass.

Howling with victory, the men raced behind the cottage and through the dark neighborhood.

Starsky, mindless of his aching ribs, dropped to his hands and knees beside Hutch, one hand moving reluctantly toward his unrecognizable partner.

Starsky swallowed and tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Hutch lay facedown, eyes barely open, one arm wedged beneath him, the other hand moving like a broken bird in the grass, finding Starsky's ankle and clinging weakly. He tried to speak but gagged instead.

"Oh God," Starsky groaned, and held Hutch's head while he retched blood onto the ground.

A porch light across the street came on, and the neighbor, an elderly woman in a silk bathrobe, padded barefoot across the street, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Oh my God. Is that Ken?"

"Call an ambulance," Starsky choked to her, and she ran.

Starsky lifted Hutch into the crook of his arm, and he came boneless, his hand falling away from Starsky's ankle.

"It's okay, Hutch. Ambulance is on the way. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Let me up," Hutch mumbled through his mashed mouth, his head lolling to one side. "I'm all right."

Starsky held Hutch' head against his chest to support it. What bothered Starsky the most was that Hutch wasn't trying to move now, that his hands lay open and limp in the grass. "Hutch . . . "

"Sleepy," Hutch murmured faintly. "Just let me . . . "

Starsky closed his eyes. (Stay here, Hutch. Please stay here. I can feel your very life vanishing away like a sigh here in my arms. I know it's bad but I don't want you to go. You have to hang on. If there's any way at all)

But Hutch's eyes were rolling like lazy blue marbles. "You wake me up, Starsky."

"Hutch, please."

"Okay?"

"Hutch, don't . . . "

But Hutch's eyes closed just as the sirens sounded in the distance, and all Starsky could do was keep his hand on Hutch's throat, feeling a bit of hope in each slow pulse, somehow believing that if he took his hand away, the pulse would stop.

Captain Dobey, Huggy, and Starsky were in the waiting room when Dr. Langdon came in. Starsky stood at the window looking out. The physician was normally a busy, impatient man, but he took time to tread gently on this rice paper. He knew both detectives. They had defused a hostage situation between a domestic violence couple in the emergency room. He remembered Starsky as the show of force, a volcano on the verge of exploding, and Hutchinson as the negotiator, the voice of reason who was as calm as a blue sea. The scene had lasted eight hours, Starsky pushing, Hutch pulling, until it ended peacefully and without injury to anyone in the hospital.

Dr. Langdon, to the room in general: "He may not live the night."

Dobey pressed a fist to his mustache. Starsky kept looking out the window.

Dr. Langdon continued. "If he has parents, they need to be notified immediately."

Huggy was looking down at his shoes. "I already called his father."

Dr. Langdon went on. "He hasn't regained consciousness yet. He has serious head trauma. We went in to try to relieve some of the pressure but . . . probable brain damage, internal injuries, not to mention the broken bones. I know this is blunt, but I believe in straight talk, don't you?"

A nurse came with a tray of coffee, tea, and ice water, but no one seemed to notice as she set the tray on a magazine stand.

"Can we see him?" Dobey asked the doctor.

Softly: "I suppose you'll want to."

Dobey looked at Starsky's back. "Starsky? We should go see him now."

But he didn't move.

Huggy joined Starsky at the window. "It'll be tough, my man, but we'll go with you."

Starsky shook his head no. "I can't."

Huggy looked over at Dobey for help, got none, then looked back at Starsky. "You got to say a goodbye."

Starsky looked down to hide his tears. "I didn't help him."

Huggy took his arm. "Come on, man. Don't do this."

Starsky moved away from him and put his head against the wall. He was almost in the corner. "I should have done something. He'd have done it for me. They were beatin' his brains out and I didn't do anything to help him."

Dobey groaned (I'm supposed to protect him, not hurt him) into his hand. "Starsky, come on. We know it's not easy."

Starsky butted his head against the wall one time. "Leave me alone."

"Come with us," Dobey told him.

Starsky butted his head again. He was in the corner now, his voice muffled. "I said no."

Dobey cleared his throat. "Starsky, you have to face--"

Starsky spun on him. "I faced it! I faced it pretty damn good when I watched them bash his head in! I want this to hurt! It feels good! 'cause I deserve it! If I'da helped him like I was supposed to, he wouldn't be in this hospital, now would he, huh?"

Dr. Langdon looked at Dobey and Huggy. "You two can go ahead."

Dobey and Huggy reluctantly left the waiting room. When they were gone, Langdon took Starsky's arm. "We have spiritual guidance here if it would help you in--"

Starsky jerked away and left too, storming past the nurses station, the gurneys, the orderlies.

The ceiling lights, the floor tiles, everything was a disjointed Picasso as he walked toward the elevator, not realizing he wasn't breathing because he was holding his breath.

If he could just go outside, get some air, create some distance, get some coffee, get a drink, , take a nap, take a drive and ram his car head-on into a brick wall, he'd be okay.

Starsky got into the elevator. He was panting and someone was in the elevator with him.

"You can save the life of Frank Leone, a godforsaken criminal, but not my son."

The voice. The face. The eyes. A lot like Hutch's, but not Hutch's.

(You've saved MY life before. Why couldn't you save my son's?)

Starsky was leaning against the wall inside the elevator, face hidden in his sleeve.

Mr. Hutchinson seethed down the back of his neck like a dragon. "You've always been irresponsible, David. Full of mistakes. For Christ's sake, you shot that one little boy down in the street. Remember that? And the girl you blinded with your bullet? Want me to go on? Because I have a long list, and my son is on that list now. What the hell were you doing while they were . . . "

The older man couldn't finish. He covered his eyes with one hand and wept openly and bitterly. He was not a man to let emotions out, so each sob fell out like a heavy brick.

"White trash!" Mr. Hutchinson roared at him. "Nothing but a product of the streets! Reckless! Impulsive! Selfish! Are you sufficiently sorrowful now? That (he's dead and you're sorry. That's fair) makes it all even now, doesn't it?"

Starsky couldn't look at him.

Th elevator doors slid open and Mr. Hutchinson shoved him out, Starsky sliding belly-first across the highly-polished lobby floor.

Mr. Hutchinson pointed a finger at him.

"BASTARD!" he cried, and then the elevator doors slid closed.

Starsky could hear the older man banging on the inside of the elevator, along with his open howling.

And he wanted to get up off the floor, because people were stepping around him and staring, but he couldn't, because the boogeyman, the movie reel, the bat, the blood, (his blood is on my shirt, on my hands, why couldn't you help him? what kind of a friend are you? how do you feel knowing your inaction played a part in your partner's death, that all you had to do was pull your gun and blow them away, how hard is that, you do it all the time) (Hutch on his back, sleepy, you wake me up, Starsky. okay?) (please Hutch, I wish it'd been me, I want it to be me, let it be me) the relentless black images beat around inside his head like frantic crows in a birdcage.

Mr. Hutchinson, Captain Dobey, and Huggy all stood at Hutch's bedside behind a pulled curtain in the emergency room, trying to see Hutch past the tubes, machines, and broken, bloody face.

But he wasn't there. Not the Hutch they knew. Even his hair was so matted with blood that it was impossible to tell what color it was. His features were misshapen and his eyes were closed, and the light that had been Hutch was gone.

Mr. Hutchinson's arm hung heavily at his side, and his hand inched to the bloody one that hung lifeless off the edge of the bed.

Mr. Hutchinson absently adjusted and smoothed Hutch's blood-stiff shirt. He appeared to be in mild shock. "Why didn't they put him in a hospital gown?" he whispered.

Dobey (because they knew he wouldn't need it?) only gripped the man's shoulder in return. He had tried to explain to the man that his son was slipping away, but Mr. Hutchinson had seemed not to hear.

Dobey turned when he heard the door opening behind him.

It was Starsky, and he was approaching the bed with glassy, faraway eyes.

And Mr. Hutchinson must have known on some level that his son was leaving this world, because he didn't make a sound of protest when Starsky came toward the bed. He took Starsky's arm and brought him closer.

Sobs tore at the older man's throat. "He's dying, David."

Starsky dropped to one knee beside the bed, placing a trembling hand across Hutch's forehead, his voice a heavy whisper. "We're here with you, Hutch. Whatever happens, we'll be with you. If you're gonna stay, then stay. If you gotta go . . . "

Mr. Hutchinson knelt with him, squeezing the back of Starsky's neck.

Starsky leaned close to Hutch's ear. "I'll see you on the other side, buddy. I love you and I'll carry you in my heart forever. You made my life a better place. I don't think I told you how much I respect you and look up to you. For that heart that always looked out for me, and that head that kept me steady. Nobody can ever take that away from me. 'cause it's inside of me. And I swear to you, Hutch, I swear to you, it it's the last thing I do in this life, if they have to kill me to or put me away forever, I'm gonna get whoever hurt you."

The room was quiet for a very long time.

Dr. Langdon stepped into the room unnoticed.

"I'm sorry," he said as gently as he could. "It's time to go. We'll be turning the machines off soon to see if he can make it on his own. If he can't . . . "

Mr. Hutchinson and Starsky both nodded.

Starsky was grateful that he and Hutch's father agreed on this one point. Both knew that Hutch would not want to be sustained unnaturally and indefinitely by a machine.

The doctor held the door open for the four men as they exited silently and numbly from the room.

"I think you should stay at my house for a while," Dobey told Starsky when they were in the hallway. "Or with Huggy."

Starsky only shook his head no and walked away from them.

Huggy started to go after him but Dobey gripped his arm.

"Let him go," the captain said quietly. "He needs time alone. He'll need us later, but right now he needs time alone."

Huggy looked toward the closed door of Hutch's hospital room.

"It can't be that easy. Here one day, gone the next?"

"It's that easy," Dobey sighed heavily as he pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket.

Huggy ran a hand across his eyes. "I'm getting' out of here. Catch up with you later."

Dobey nodded. He watched Huggy go down the hall toward the elevator, looked around to see Mr. Hutchinson slumped in a chair, hand covering his eyes, his body silent, his face a pale gray. His other hand held a plastic baggie containing Hutch's ID/shield, watch, and ring. "Mr. Hutchinson," he said as he approached the older man, "I'd like to open my home to you for a few days. There's no need for you to stay at a hotel."

Mr. Hutchinson answered in a weak voice without looking up. "I don't think he knew, Captain Dobey."

"Knew what, Mr. Hutchinson?"

The older man sighed heavily, his voice unraveling to a thready whisper. "I don't think he knew I loved him. I didn't tell him often enough. I didn't show it often enough."

Dobey sat in a chair next to him. "He knew. He told me many times he wished you could say how you really felt about him. So he must have known."

"And I don't . . . " Mr. Hutchinson clasped the bag of belongings to his chest. "I don't know if he loved me."

Dobey looked at the floor for a moment, thinking of how to place his next words.

"Mr. Hutchinson, I don't think you know everything that went on with that anti-German group that abducted your son. He didn't want you to know everything because he didn't want to upset you. But I will tell you this: He wanted to die for you. For you and Starsky. That's how much he loved you. You raised a fine young man. I wish I could say he were mine. He was loyal, upstanding, resourceful, single-minded, a strong sense of right and wrong. All the things you wanted him to be. And he used those qualities for the benefit of others. On the job and in his personal life. Yes, you have high standards, but he certainly lived up to them in every way."

The older man smiled through his pain and extended his hand to the captain. "Thank you for telling me this. And I will stay with you for a few days. You can tell me more stories about my good son."

The two men helped each other to their feet, then made their weary way down the hall to the elevator.

"Mr. Hutchinson!"

Dobey and the elder Hutchinson were crossing the lobby of the hospital when Dr. Langdon raced up to them, his white coat flapping behind him like large wings.

"Captain Dobey!"

The older men turned to the doctor with inquisitive eyes.

"Where's Starsky?" Dr. Langdon asked.

"I'm not sure," Dobey answered with confusion in his voice. "Why?"

Langdon looked at Mr. Hutchinson with an expression of carefully controlled glee. "Sir, your son is still alive." He sounded more like an enthusiastic researcher who'd just found the cure for cancer. "We turned the machines off, and by God he was breathing on his own."

Captain Dobey looked at Mr. Hutchinson, whose hand was over his heart. "Oh my God. I've got to see him."

"You can't. I mean, you can see him, but he's not out of the woods yet. He's off the machines, yes, and breathing on his own, but he hasn't regained consciousness yet. The next forty-eight hours will tell us a lot. We'll know a lot more then."

Mr. Hutchinson started for the elevator, then, flustered, came back to Dobey. "I'm going up to be with him. You find David."

"I will," Dobey said as he walked toward the front exit, his gait picking up speed, urgency, and spirit. "I'll do just that."

After no success in finding Starsky at his place, nor Huggy's, Dobey decided to drive to Hutch's cottage, and that's where he found Huggy sitting in his parked car behind the Torino.

"Starsky in there?" Dobey asked almost out of breath as he got out of his sedan.

"I guess, man. You told me to keep my distance, so I didn't check. What's up?"

"I think Hutch is going to make it. He has a fighting chance. They turned the machines off and he could function on his own. Only problem is, he hasn't regained consciousness yet. But in a couple of days he'll be as right as rain."

Huggy got out of the car, a smirky smile on his face. "I knew if there was a way, my man Timex would do it."

Dobey and Huggy hurried to the front door of the cottage.

"Hey, Starsk!" Huggy called out as he pounded. "Open sesame! Good news! Hutch is gonna make it!"

The door suddenly flung open and Starsky gaped at them with wild hope and joy in his eyes.

"What?"

Over the course of the critical forty-eight hours, the doctors and nurses tended to Hutch's various injuries while the four visitors paced and waited, taking turns at Hutch's bedside, Mr. Hutchinson praying and reading to him, Huggy lining up a dozen dates or so, Dobey telling him about the work he'd have waiting on his desk, and Starsky apologizing for not doing more to fight for him.

And all four bleary-eyed visitors had been without rest and food when Dr. Langdon met with them in the waiting room.

"Well?" Starsky asked. "What's the story?"

It was hard to read Langdon's eyes. The unprofessional excitement he'd gushed in the hospital lobby with Dobey and Mr. Hutchinson had been replaced by a cool exterior. "It's hard to say, folks. I'd like to tell you that he's going to wake up today or tomorrow, or next week, but I don't give time-tables. And I don't give false hope."

Starsky, who'd been pacing circles in the room, stopped abruptly. "Just say it."

Langdon looked from face to face, then settled on Starsky's again. "It looks like he's in a coma."

Starsky sat down hard on the couch, looking up at the doctor. "What did you say?"

Langdon looked at Mr. Hutchinson. "Coma."

Starsky jumped to his feet and grabbed the Langdon's white coat. "No way! Hutch didn't fight all the way back here just for you to come in here and tell us that!"

Mr. Hutchinson was so quick at intervening that Dobey could swear it was Hutch taking Starsky's shoulders and moving him away from the doctor.

"David," the older man said in the rational, reasonable Hutchinson tone, "he could wake up any day now. We just have to keep hoping and praying. Ken's strong. And he knows we're here."

The hope and joy in Starsky's eyes was gone. "You don't get it, Mr. Hutchinson. They hurt him because of me. That's what they said. They said 'Now you watch this, Starsky. This is for you.' Like that. And you're right. I didn't fucking HELP HIM!"

"That doesn't matter, David. What matters is you holding yourself together for him. He wouldn't want you to--"

Starsky tore away from him. "HE WOULDN'T JUST STAND THERE AND LET THEM BEAT ME TO DEATH!"

This time Dobey grabbed him and shook him. "Starsky, stop it! You weren't just standing there! Come here!"

Dobey pulled him toward the restroom across the room and stood him in front of the full-length mirror inside. "Your chest and back is black and blue from where somebody held you back! What the hell could you do!"

Starsky lunged at the mirror, punching and kicking and sobbing at the image of himself, until Dobey, Huggy, and Mr. Hutchinson had him pinned facedown on the floor while Dr. Langdon hurried for a tranquilizer.

"Don't!" Starsky protested when he saw Langdon preparing a syringe. "I'll calm down! I'm calm! Just don't put me out!"

Langdon knelt with the sedative. "It's just to--"

Starsky, lying on his back now, held his hands up, pleading. "No. Please. I need to be awake for Hutch. I'm calm. See?"

Langdon assessed him, hearing the detective's panting lessening to normal breathing, seeing the panic in his eyes dissolving into composure, feeling his tense muscles relaxing under his hand. Dobey, Huggy, and Mr. Hutchinson hovered over him like worried hens.

"Very well," Langdon told him. "I suggest you take a walk and collect yourself. Your partner's alive and he has a chance of regaining consciousness. That's more than we could say earlier."

Starsky nodded, still looking at the doctor. "Okay. I'll take a walk. I'll collect myself. But I want to see Hutch first."

Starsky leaned over the hospital bed and looked at his partner's disfigured, sleeping face.

"Hutch," he said softly, "you told me to wake you up, so I'm gonna. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'm gonna wake you up like you told me to. I'm gonna come here every day to the hospital to see you. I'm gonna talk to you, and read to you, and play music for you, and tell you the worst jokes you ever heard. And if you wake up and find me gone, don't worry about it. Just know I'll be back. This ain't a goodbye, okay? It's just see you later."
 
 

Th sun was just coming up as Starsky crossed the hospital parking lot to the Torino. He slid his key into the lock, and that's when he saw the hand-written note tucked beneath the windshield wiper.

Starsky opened the note which simply read: Ray Sachi. Delacorte Hotel, Room 212.

Suddenly Starsky understood. Someone wanted him to know that Ray Sachi, Angela's father, was responsible for the baseball bat.
 
 

He crushed the note, tossed it aside, and ran toward the Delecorte Hotel down the street, not wanting to attract attention with the Torino, but making sure his gun was under his jacket.
 
 

"Oh yeah," he panted as he ran. "Oh yeah. This is it. Come on, baby. You are dead. You are one dead son of a bitch."

He raced down the sidewalk past the shops, pedestrians, bicyclists, skaters, reaching the door of the elegant hotel and bursting inside, sprinting across the lobby as people stared and gasped, up the beautiful winding staircase, out of breath and hand under his jacket.

"Oh yeah. Way to go. Showtime."

He pulled his gun out as he broke through the door to 212, but what he saw made him skid to a halt: Ray Sachi seated in a white velvet wingback chair, flanked by Frank Leone and two of his Brahma bull assistants who were digging the barrels of their guns into Sachi's temples.

Starsky stared as he tried to catch his breath, his face shiny and his hair damp with perspiration, his shirt clinging to his aching chest and back.

Leone slid a thin dinner mint between his lips and winked at Starsky while he spoke to Sachi. "Sachi, you're quite the popular fellow today."

Ray Sachi sat stiff and defiant, but he couldn't hide the trace of fear in his eyes.

Starsky raised his gun up and aimed it at Sachi's face, walking toward him, holding the crushing pain in his chest, his arm stiff. He blinked sweat from his eyes, his gun trembling slightly.

"You're dead."

Sachi grinned, showing perfect white teeth. The perfect white teeth that had grinned through the ski mask the night before.

"So's your partner. Except nobody'll give him a decent burial."

Starsky sprang for him and they toppled backward over the chair, Starsky pouncing on his back and smashing his face into the floor over and over.

"You like that, Sachi? Huh?"

Leone's men stepped gingerly out of the way.

Sachi's snakeskin boots kicked the floor as he grunted and cursed in pain.

"You like it, don't you? You get off on it, don't you? So get off. Come on. You like it. You know you do."

Leone's Brahma bulls exchanged a look of amusement and appreciation.

"We could use him," one said.

"He's good."

By now Sachi was flapping his arms and legs like a dying fish. His gurgling voice bubbled through his smashed nose as he wailed into the carpet.

"Okay, okay, cop. I got a wife and three kids. It was business, y'know? Like when you busted my Angie. You do your job, I do mine. I'm beggin' ya to let me go."

Starsky smashed his face into the floor again. "I begged for Hutch's life, remember?"

There was a soft crunching sound as Sachi's nose collapsed, and then Sachi's legs stopped. And the wailing stopped. And the flapping stopped.

Starsky stood up in the sudden silence, chest heaving for breath, aiming his gun down at the back of Sachi's head with one hand, swiping across his sweaty upper lip with the other.

(Come on, Detective Starsky, what's the matter, can't you do it? Are you chicken? Can't do it, can you? Can't do what you promised Hutch you'd do. Can't kill this motherfucker for what he did. You gutless wonder. Couldn't help Hutch. Couldn't do this. Couldn't do that. Can't pull the trigger)

Leone put a hand on the back of Starsky's neck and walked him a few feet away.

"I knew you couldn't long before you did," Leone said kindly. "That's why I'm here. I owe you a favor."

Leone fit a silencer onto the end of his gun and pumped round after round into Sachi's head.

At the airport Starsky opened the trunk to the Torino and lifted out Mr. Hutchinson's travel bag.

"You'll call me if there's any change," the older man said.

Starsky nodded, then handed the bag to Mr. Hutchinson.

The elder Hutchinson studied Starsky, whose eyes were on something unimportant in the trunk.

"David, I flew out here for my son's funeral. I was in a terrible frame of mind. I . . . " He looked away, then back. "I'm not good at . . . I hate you and love you at the same time." He cleared his throat and shifted his suitcase from his left hand to his right. "Hate you because you're such a big part of my son's life. You're everything I ever turned my nose up at." He ran a hand through his hair and looked down at his eel-skin shoes. "But I love you because you have character. And you didn't get yours from a prep school, or a social club, or a cultural center."

"Would you believe a Cracker Jack box?"

Mr. Hutchinson laughed gently and put his arm around Starsky's shoulders. "And you make me laugh."

Starsky smiled a little.

"David, we haven't been on the best of terms, and I said some cruel things . . . "

"It's okay. Don't worry about it."

"Well, that's very gracious of you, but I will worry about it. I called you family once, and I meant it."

Starsky shrugged. "Families say stuff they don't mean. Me and Hutch say stuff we don't mean all the time."

"I ask that you forgive me."

Starsky looked down. "Sir, you don't ever have to ask me to forgive you for any--"

"Oh, but I do. I couldn't live with myself if you didn't accept my apology. Of course I'll understand if you don't . . . "

Starsky extended his hand. "Okay. I accept your apology."

Genuine relief registered in the older man's face as he started inside the airport. "And David?"

"Yeah?"

"Get some sleep, will you? You've been up for three days."

Starsky nodded. "I'll try," he told him, then took an uncertain step forward. "Mr. Hutchinson?"

The man with graying blond hair and wise blue eyes stopped and gave him an equally uncertain look. "Yes?"

"The man who put Hutch in the hospital? We don't have to worry about him anymore. I just want you to know that."

Mr. Hutchinson frowned. "I don't understand. Did you catch him already? Who was he?"

"He's Mafia. Ray Sachi. Somebody got him."

Mr. Hutchinson's brow creased with concern. "You didn't. And you wouldn't. I know you better than that. What are you trying to say?"

Starsky gave a shrug. "All I'm sayin' is that Leone was pretty grateful that Hutch saved his life."

Understanding dawned on the older man, and he smiled bitterly. "I see."

Starsky started for the driver's side of the car. "We'll be in touch, okay?"

Mr. Hutchinson raised a hand in farewell. "Certainly. Keep an eye on Kenneth for me."

"You know I will."

Mr. Hutchinson started inside again. "Oh, and David?"

Starsky looked at him. "Yeah?"

"Did you ever think about painting your car blue? It seems like such a . . . serene color."

Starsky grinned at the older man's attempt at humor. "Sure. And I'll send you a father's day card this summer."

He climbed into the Torino, started it, then pulled away from the curb, seeing in his rearview mirror that Mr. Hutchinson was keeping a watchful eye on him until the Torino turned the corner.

Captain Dobey came into Hutch's hospital room to find Starsky sitting Indian-fashion on the floor, surrounded by stacks and stacks of books and magazines. He held one book in his hands, completely engrossed in the reading.

"Reading to Hutch?" Dobey asked.

"Not this stuff," Starsky replied.

Dobey stooped to inspect the piles of books. They were all on the subject of coma.

"Starsky, where did you get all these?"

"Library. Dr. Langdon."

Dobey took the book from Starsky's hand and saw his bloodshot, haunted eyes, and pale face. "Son, you've been up for five days. You can't go on like this. Your body has to have rest and nourishment. Why don't you come with me and let me buy you a good meal? Or better, come to my house and Edith and I will--"

Starsky shook his head no and took the book back. "It says here that if people don't wake up within the first few weeks of a coma, you may as well forget it. They don't wake up, or they wake up with brain damage. But that won't happen to Hutch. He'll probably wake up in a few days, and he'll be fine."

Dobey sighed heavily. "Dr. Langdon already explained to us that Hutch will more than likely have some brain damage. If not from the coma, then the beating itself."

Starsky shook his head no. "Langdon said eighty percent chance that he would. That means there's a twenty percent chance he'll be fine. And if there's a chance, then that's good enough for me."

"Okay. I know you won't give up hope. And I don't want you to. But you still need sleep and food."

Starsky laughed a little, giddy with exhaustion. "So? Hutch can't wake up and I can't sleep. Fair deal, right?"

"Punishing yourself isn't going to wake Hutch up."

"I'm not punishing myself."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not. But I wish I could. I wish somebody would."

And then Starsky was putting an arm across his eyes and lowering his head to one of the stacks of books, weeping, his voice muffled. "I wish somebody would beat the hell out of me with a baseball bat."

Dobey looked at him without knowing what to say. He squeezed Starsky's shoulder and left him alone with his pain.

But an hour later when Dobey returned with a milkshake and a slice of pizza, he found that Starsky had fallen asleep with his head resting atop the stack

of books.

Figuring that moving him to the floor would only wake him up and deprive him of much-needed rest, Dobey quietly set the food on one of the nearby stacks of books, took his overcoat off and placed it around Starsky's shoulders, then tiptoed from the room.

"Hey, I'm Clay Crawford, your new partner."

Starsky ignored the hand extended toward him and glowered at the hippie biker cop before him.

Dobey sat forward in his chair, watching Starsky closely. "It's just temporary."

Crawford, clearly uncomfortable, cleared his throat. "Look, dude, I know I can't replace your partner but--"

"You're right," Starsky said walking out the door.

Starsky paced in front of the window in Hutch's sun-washed room while he read aloud the poem scrawled on a piece of hospital stationary.

"Okay, Hutch, I wrote this just for you. Are you listening? Here we go. The title is Pleasant Lore."

Starsky cleared his throat. "The mystical retreat, of honey dripping sweet, and lush green leaves, to the hush mossy cleaves, cool damp air, no faint of despair, no cumbersome snare, to bend us from care, a place of yesteryore, of dreams gone before, of hope and evermore, in the land of pleasant lore."

He closed the book and looked at Hutch. "You like that?"

As always, Starsky waited patiently for a response, unable, to see in Hutch what the other visitors saw: That the bruising and swelling were gone from his face, that his casts and bandages had been removed long ago, that his skin was milky pale, void of even the hint of a tan, and that his muscles and joints--even though exercised daily by the nurses and therapists--were beginning to soften, deteriorate, and shorten from disuse.

All Starsky saw was his partner sleeping peacefully away like an overgrown cherub.

Starsky stood before Dobey's desk with his hands clasped behind his back.

Dobey rubbed his face. "You don't have to like Clay Crawford, but you do have to work with him."

Starsky pulled his ID/shield from his hip pocket, his gun from beneath his jacket, and placed both on Dobey's desk.

"No I don't," he said quietly, and walked toward the door.

Dobey banged his hand hard on his desk.

"Starsky!"

Starsky stopped but didn't turn around. He spoke without bitterness or malice.

"I quit, Cap. I got another job."

"You what!"

Starsky turned and looked at him. "Security guard at the hospital."

"Oh for God's sake."

"Langdon helped."

"He's about as objective as you are."

"Thanks, Cap. You're all heart."

Starsky turned for the door again.

Dobey rose to his feet behind his desk, pointing his pencil at him. "You may as well face the facts, Starsky. Hutch isn't going to wake up. And even if he does . . . " But as badly as he wanted to say it, he couldn't finish.

Huggy set two beers in a corner booth and sat down across from Starsky.

"You need to move on, man. Dobey'll let you come back. You don't need to be at that hospital day in an day out."

Starsky sipped his beer. "Hutch is."

"Yeah, I know, but do you think he'd want you to put your life on hold like this?"

Starsky put his beer down. "How can you give up on him?"

Huggy ran a hand over his face in frustration. "It's not that way. I'm not givin' up. I'm dealin' with reality. Somethin' you should consider takin' up sometime. Hope is one thing. That river denial is somethin' else."

"I don't care if I look crazy. Hutch is gonna wake up. He told me to wake him up, so I'm gonna wake him up. It may be a fuckin' week from now, but I'm gonna wake him up. The more I talk to him, the more he hears, the more stimulation--"

Huggy grabbed Starsky's security guard uniform and jerked him halfway across the table, startling Starsky so badly he sloshed his beer all over the floor.

"I read those books too, man," Huggy seethed through clenched teeth. "And I recall them sayin' that there comes a point when you have to accept that the patient--that Hutch--will never be the same again. He's gone, Starsky, and there's nothin' we can do. You can work at the hospital until you're sixty years old and he ain't gonna wake up. You can pace his floor all you want to and it's not gonna work. You can read every book in the friggin' universe and it won't bring him back."

Starsky swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "I can't do it, Hug. I can't forget about him."

"Nobody's askin' you to."

"I can't give up."

"Nobody's askin' you to do that either."

"Then what?"

Huggy looked away and shook his head. "Man, it . . . let's go. I'm gonna show you somethin'."

Starsky stood between Huggy and Dr. Langdon in the coma patient's hospital room.

"Describe him," Huggy told Starsky.

Starsky observed the coma patient's doughy skin, plus the shape of the drawn, bent limbs beneath the white sheet.

"He's about fifty, and he has fair skin, and his arms and legs are bent ."

"Why?"

"From layin' all the time. Not usin' 'em."

"Right. And . . ?"

"And what?"

"And Hutch looks like that."

Starsky stared at him. "No, he doesn't."

"Yeah, he does."

Starsky pointed to the coma patient, his chest swelling with anger. "Hutch does not look like that!"

Dr. Langdon took Starsky's left arm, Huggy his right, and they escorted him from the room.

"You're too close to see it," Langdon told him.

"You don't want to see it," Huggy added.

Starsky shook his head no. "No way does Hutch look like that. He's just asleep, that's all."

Langdon squeezed his arm. "It's been a long time, Detective Starsky. And he can only deteriorate with each passing day, week, month . . . you want to see him as he was. You don't see the way he is. That's not uncommon. It will take time for you to adjust to a world without him, and you must do this, for your own state of--"

"No!"

Starsky pried himself away from them and fled down the hall.

Starsky leaned down to Hutch's ear and stroked his hair. "Hutch, I don't care what they say. I don't care how many coma patients they show me. I'm not quittin'. I'm here every day with you, just like I promised. And I'm tryin' real hard to . . . " His throat constricted and he struggled to whisper. "I'm tryin' real hard to hang on here. But I need you, buddy. You told me to wake you up, so you must have believed I could . . . "

He reached for a tissue.

"I remember what you wrote me in your note when you were so sick with the plague, Hutch. You couldn't raise your head off the pillow, you couldn't talk, but somehow you held a pencil and wrote me a note 'cause you thought you'd never see me again. And I (I trust you with my life, Starsky. I find myself in a bad situation, and you're the one with a plan, a way, an answer, sometimes you're the only one, who else would I trust in this job, in this world, with my very life? Knowing that if I hurt, you hurt. If I'm up, you're up. If I go down, you're standing in my way, between me and whatever it is, to catch me, to break my fall, to hold me up, God it's scary how much you love me, so I know if there's any way to beat this thing, you'll do it for me, you'll do for me what I can't do for myself, but Starsk, if, if, IF there's no way to win, if I have to leave this world, then I don't want you to feel bad, I want you to be SURE you know that you tried your hardest, you did your best, you gave me your all) remember what you said. I kept it in my desk for a long time, but since you went to sleep I carry it in my pocket, and when I get scared, like now, I take it out and read it, and it helps me."

Starsky reached into his hip pocket and slid the note out. "I pretty much got it memorized by now, but I still like to look at it because I can see how bad your handwriting was, how sick you were, how weak your hand was . . . "

He opened the note and saw the faint penciled handwriting, the words getting sloppier and harder to read with each line. He'd only had the strength to sign it with an H.

Starsky looked at his watch. It was time for the nurses and therapists to come and turn him and exercise his limbs, and he didn't want to be here to see it. It was just a reminder of . . . of . . .

A small muffled sound came from across the room just as Starsky reached the door.

Starsky halted, thinking it could have been, and probably was, a trick of his imagination. But always the curious and hopeful one, he couldn't resist looking back.

It was a small sound, but such a distinct sound in the sterile white silence of the room.

"You wake me up, Starsk. Okay?"

Less than a whisper. Only a breath.

Starsky stared in freeze-frame awe.

Hutch's blanched, dead-wood limbs were trying to strain against his frozen joints under the sheet, and it wasn't until this moment that Starsky saw the full effect of the coma, his eyes traveling over the angular contours his shrunken joints had created, saw his wasted muscles, his colorless face.

Starsky's heart leaped like a deer.

"Oh my God. Hutch."

Hutch whimpered faintly and moved in the bed like a weak blond larva, his eyes glassy and fearful, his chest hitching with each sniffing breath he took. His head moved slightly on the pillow, stiffly, his range of motion made terribly small by his drawn neck muscles.

"No," came his raspy whisper. "Suh . . . stop it."

Hutch's eyes searched the room, but he had to force them to stay open, as if his lids were too heavy. "Suh . . . Starsk. Get him off me."

Starsky went to the bed and took Hutch by the shoulders, realizing that Hutch had no way of knowing how much time had passed, that all he knew was that he'd just been pulverized with a baseball bat in his own front yard.

"Hutch, it's okay. That fucker with the bat is dead, so don't you worry about him, okay? Leone got him for us. Don't be afraid "

Hutch's arms were folded against his chest like broken wings, his hands curved inward, his head bent down at a painful angle, and he looked at Starsky with a sideways glance because he couldn't turn his neck.

He wanted Hutch back, but not quite this way.

Why hadn't he noticed Hutch before?

(You want to see him the way he was, not the way he is)

"Starsk, please. Help me."

"Easy, Hutch."

Hutch's stiff hands tried to move toward him but they were frozen three inches from his chest, his posture resembling a boxer with his gloves up ready to fight.

"Uh . . . I cuh . . . I can't move. I'm . . . par . . . para . . . "

Starsky knelt beside him to make it easier for Hutch to see him. "No, Hutch. You're not paralyzed."

"Uh--I'm scared. What . . . I don't under . . . what's wrong with me? Why can't I move? What--"

"Sshh. Listen to me. Let me tell you."

"I don't . . . "

"What do you remember?"

"I don't . . . tell me, Starsky. Please tell me."

"Just look at me, Hutch, and listen to me, and everything will be okay. I want you to hear it from me first."

Hutch's body began to quiet a little. He blinked at Starsky, the tears sliding freely down his face, but he was unable to wipe them away.

"You're in the hospital, okay? The reason you can't move . . . you're not paralyzed, see? Your muscles and joints are all jammed up because you've been . . . you've been out so long. And I know--"

"How long?"

"It might seem like it happened just tonight, but Hutch, it didn't. And not last week, and not last month . . . "

Hutch's eyes welled up again. He seemed to have no control over his emotions.

"Hutch, you've been through a lot. Your body has, I mean. And it's not over yet. You got a long way to go, a lot of physical therapy that will hurt like hell. But you'll make it. You'll get better and you'll make it."

Hutch's voice was still a whisper. "But why? What's the . . . "

Starsky squeezed Hutch's wrist. "Nobody thought you'd ever wake up. Everybody said . . ." He swallowed and tried to control the tremor in his voice. "Everybody said you'd be . . . for the rest of your life."

"Cuh . . . " Hutch struggled to keep his drooping eyelids open. "Coma? I've been asleep?"

"Yeah, buddy. For six months."

Hutch tried vainly to raise his head from his chest. He wanted to run, hide, but his body was a dead, stiff prison, each constricted joint as immobilizing as a leather strap. The only thing he could do was whine in utter hopelessness and frustration, his voice coming out in a shocked squeak.

"Six . . ?"

Starsky pulled a tissue from a box on the bedside table and dabbed at Hutch's face. "Sshh. I know. Six months is a long time, but you're awake now, and that's all that matters."

Hutch began to tremble all over, his weak limbs quivering like bow strings, and at first Starsky thought it was because he was scared or cold, but then Hutch's red face and perspiring brow told him that he was trembling from the effort of trying to reach for his partner.

"Come here, buddy," Starsky said as he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled Hutch's bent and palsied form against his shoulder, noticing how thin he was. "It'll be okay. I know you're scared. Don't try to move. Save your strength, okay?"

Hutch was weeping helplessly, but he managed a bare nod against Starsky's shoulder.

Starsky gently eased him back to the pillow, then knelt on one knee again so that when he took Hutch's lowered head in his hands he could see his eyes. "Don't cry, Hutch. You'll get me started. You won't be bent up like this forever. It'll take time, but you'll straighten out. I've been readin' all those coma books, so I know what I'm talkin' about. Can't raise your head, can't turn your neck, can't open your hands. Maybe you forgot how to do some stuff. But that's okay. I'll be here with you every minute. If you need somethin' done, just give a yell and I'll get it done."

Hutch sniffed, his eyes swimming with tears as they looked fearfully but hopefully into Starsky's. "Will I walk?"

"You'll walk. You want me to get the doctor so he can explain it to you?"

Starsky felt the slight yes movement of Hutch's head in his hands.

"Okay. I'll go get him. He's Doctor Langdon. Pretty cool for a doctor."

There was a faint but sudden forward movement of Hutch's torso. "No."

"No? You don't want the doctor?"

"Not yet. Just . . . stay here."

"I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Starsky reached for another tissue, swiping at Hutch's face and runny nose. "See? Whatever you need. I don't care."

"Did they . . . "

Hutch tried to raise his head again, and trembled from the effort, but Starsky stroked his hair and held his head still. "No moving, remember? Did they what?"

Hutch relaxed again. It was frustrating not being able to move, but he was grateful he could see Starsky crouching on the floor next to his bed.

"Did they hurt you?"

Starsky swallowed back a sob. "The condition you're in, and you're askin' me?"

Hutch's eyes darkened with sudden worry. "Did they?"

"Not on the outside."

Hutch's eyelids fluttered sleepily. "Sorry I wimped out on you."

"You're allowed to wimp out when there's a baseball bat involved."

Hutch couldn't help but laugh a little.

Starsky patted his head. "Look at you. They beat the stuffin' out of you, you were in a six-month coma, and the worst part, you had to listen to all my jokes and impressions while you were asleep. Who else could survive all that?"

Hutch blinked tiredly, as if keeping his eyes open was suddenly too taxing.

"Hutch, you're the strongest person I know. But if you want to call it wimping out, you call it wimping out."

Starsky waited for a reply, but got none.

"Hutch?"

Hutch didn't answer.

Starsky gently jostled his head. "Hutch? You awake?"

And then Starsky realized that he'd fallen heavily and naturally asleep.

Gently and carefully Starsky moved Hutch back to the pillows on his side, covered him, then turned the thermostat up another notch before leaving to tell the doctor the good news.
 
 

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