"Remember your promise, Kira," her husband said as he squeezed her hand at her hospital bed.

Her eyes swimming with tears, she looked down at the dark-haired bundle she'd just given birth to.

"I can't to it, Jim," she whispered, and brushed the newborn's tender downy head.

"It's what we agreed to," he reminded. "I told you how children wouldn't fit into our plans. If he were mine . . . "

"But he's not," she sad with a stubborn lift of her chin.

Jim nodded to the nurse, who reached for the infant.

Kira held the baby close to her bosom and kissed him for the first and last time.

"The longer you hold him," the nurse told Kira, "the harder it is. The more it hurts."

"But . . . "

The nurse was almost prying the baby from her arms.

Kira held on tight. "Wait. Wait. I have to name him."

The nurse tsk-tsked. "Why don't you let the foster home do that?"

Kira was openly weeping now.

"No. His name is . . . " She ran a finger under her runny nose and brushed her cheek against the soft cheek.

"His name is Davis Hutchinson Starsky."

They weren't prepared for this. Not in broad daylight. Not on the sidewalk as they were leaving Huggy's for God's sake. But it was happening.

Starsky had no gun. He wasn't back on active duty yet. Had just been released from the hospital following the Gunther ordeal and was still on medical leave.

The three, THREE, men dressed in black clothes and dark ski masks jumping from the black van with no license plate, first grabbing Hutch because they knew they'd have a better chance at Starsky if they did.

Passers-by either ducked or fled.

"Starsky, go!"

So Starsky ran.

He ran as fast as he could because he knew if he stayed they would both die and it was really HIM they wanted, not Hutch. So he ran to confuse them. He ran to keep Hutch alive.

He would come back later to get Hutch away from Simon Marcos' men, or was it Gunther's, or was it . . . but right now he had to run.

But one of the black-clothed figures chased after him.

Hutch strained against he two men that held him.

"Go!"

And Starsky ran. So fast, so hard, and he was getting away, putting so much distance between the man and himself, even incapacitated by his healing wounds he was faster, and creating such a huge gap that the only way the man could catch him was to stop him.

Hutch saw the flash of silver as the man drew a pistol from under his jacket.

"Starsky!"

The pistol must have had a silencer, because no shot rang out as the bullet slammed into his upper back and drove him facedown to the sidewalk.

"STARSKY!"

And the only way they could stop Hutch from tearing away from them and running to his partner was to shoot him too.

Not once.

Because the first one hit only his shoulder, and although he stumbled forward he managed to stay on his feet.

And not twice.

Because the second one struck his right calf--disabling him, but not enough to keep him down. He limped--lurched along really, toward his partner, his hand reaching down for his bloody back.

It was the third bullet, the one that struck his temple, that finally brought him down.

And kept him down.

But they had to pry his unconscious hand away from Starsky's jacket collar before they could pick the dark-hared detective up.

"Shot him in the back," Hutch mumbled to Huggy from the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. "Cowards. Shot him in the back."

Captain Dobey stood at the foot of Hutch’s hospital bed to make it easy for the detective to see him. Despite the two bullets they’d removed from his body (the third bullet had only grazed his temple), he was in stable condition and getting stronger. And Dobey knew why. He wanted to go after whoever it was that had abducted his partner. And he suspected it was Marcos. Abduction wasn’t Gunther’s style. He wanted Starsky dead, not alive to terrorize before killing him.

"We’ve got every available officer looking for him."

Hutch’s voice was thick and groggy with painkillers. "I need to be there." He moved the sheet aside but could make no further move to get up. "I need to help him."

"The best thing you can do for him is get well. Then you can look for him."

Hutch regarded Dobey’s face through eyes that were dimmed by medication, his voice flat with lethargy. "He’d better be back here before I get well."

But he wasn’t.

Dozens of officers could get no leads.

Hutch making phone calls and contacts from his hospital room could garner no information.

Even Hutch leaving the hospital against doctors’ orders, still in a head bandage and limping, was unproductive.

He looked and searched and inquired, offered a huge reward for any information leading to Starsky’s whereabouts, and finally contacted the FBI for a nationwide search.

He hired private investigators, consulted Joe Collandra, and made hunting for him a full-time job.

So much so that Dobey threatened to throw him off the force.

But Hutch refused to quit. And Dobey didn’t throw him off.

Hutch kept the relentless pace up for three months. The doctors ranted about his "self-destructive behavior"—barely eating, barely sleeping, not allowing his leg to heal properly, walking and pacing on it when they told him not to—driving constantly, seeking, looking, searching, knocking, asking, ignoring the chest pains that kept one hand over his heart most of the time.

They urged him to see a therapist—said he was subconsciously punishing himself for not saving his partner, that he was blaming himself and abusing himself because he felt he deserved it for not protecting him, for letting him down, for not being the best partner or the best friend Starsky believed him to be, for allowing the man Starsky hated and feared the most to grab him in plain sight.

But he saw no therapist. He relished whatever self-imposed black hole, whatever bondage, whatever quicksand he’d sunk himself into, because it felt better than anything else.

Huggy couldn’t talk to the ghost.

Dobey couldn’t talk to the ghost.

That’s what his fellow officers called him.

The ghost.

Because he was pale, spoke to no one unless it was to ask about Starsky, moved around with a vague emptiness on his face, and seemed to look through the eyes of the person he was talking to—as if he were not really listening or seeing—as if he weren’t really attached to the world at all.

"I’m letting you go, Hutch," Dobey said from behind his desk.

He couldn’t look his once-fair detective in the eye, even though this was a last-ditch effort to salvage the (ghost) man sitting before him.

But Hutch took it surprisingly well.

Too well, Dobey knew.

"You can let me go," Hutch said quietly, and with that queer, detached light in his eyes. "But I’ll keep looking for him."

And he would have looked for him for another three months if it hadn’t been for the paralyzing chest pains that seized him while he sat alone at a back booth at Huggy’s.

Huggy saw him leaning over until his forehead was on the table.

Hutch couldn’t refuse medical help this time. He had no choice because he had passed out.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe since Starsky had been gunned down by Gunther’s men, Huggy cried.

It wasn’t the chest pains.

No, he’d seen Hutch suffer worse than this.

Physically.

But emotionally? Mentally? Spiritually? Psychically?

Huggy had seen a flavor of this when Starsky lay dying in the hospital from Gunther’s bullets.

The way Hutch almost tuned out and turned in on himself in the pain and grief of his anticipated loss.

But this was more than a flavor. This was the real thing. He looked as though his soul had been drained. He looked to be disappearing. Not even a ghost anymore. Just an impression. A whisper. An image.

For a man only in his early thirties, for a man who could present at times as a beautiful child, who was so full of life and spirit, he looked like an old man.

He looked like his father.

He woke up in the hospital to find that he was fastened to

(I don’t like tyin’ him up)

(No, you just like shootin’ him up)

the bed by cloth restraints, yet invaded by tubes and wires, and surrounded by hissing, beeping machines.

His eyes sought the room, his voice small and weak.

"Starsk?"

He would never stop asking for him.

Never.

The name was on his tongue and in his head and in his heart.

He could almost see him, hear him.

Almost.

"Ken?"

It was a voice, but not Starsky’s.

It was . . . who?

Jeannie? Gillian? Vanessa?

"Kira?"

She smiled and the memories, not all pretty, flooded back.

"If my being here upsets you . . . I’ll leave."

He didn’t know why the tears started.

Why would they?

Not for her.

What was she to him now?

Why would he cry?

"Ken, when I heard . . . I had to come."

And then he knew.

He knew why he was crying.

Because she wasn’t Starsky.

"I didn’t save him," he whispered, and he knew she understood.

"Sshh," she whispered, and it was like a gentle breeze through a window. "You had a heart attack. Just sleep."

And he did.

She stayed at his bedside, waiting. Off and on the nurses brought her coffee, food, a pillow, and a blanket.

He was awake and alert, but his face registered no emotion as he looked at Kira.

"Why the restraints?" he asked her. "Heart attack patients aren’t normally restrained, are they?"

She stroked his forehead. "Ken, you’re in a psychiatric hospital. They feel . . . they want to monitor your emotional stability as well as your physical."

"How did you . . . who are ‘they’?"

"The hospital. Captain Dobey. Huggy."

"Oh that’s terrific. Dobey and Huggy stick me in a nuthouse and don’t look back. Where are my buddies now? They can’t bear to see me tied to a bed after I’ve had a fucking HEART ATTACK!"

He pulled restlessly on the restraints.

She put a hand to his chest.

"Ken, don’t. You’ll hurt yourself. You need to take it easy so you can get out of here."

He looked into her eyes and she felt as if he were drawing something from her soul.

"They think I’m suicidal, don’t they?"

She licked her lips. "Ken, you aren’t holding a gun to your head, but there are other ways of destroying yourself."

He looked away. "That’s ridiculous."

"Oh, is it? Dobey and Huggy have been telling me things . . . the hospital will evaluate you to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself. That’s why you’re restrained. They don’t want you disturbing anything on you or around your bed."

"I’m not suicidal."

She stroked his hair. "I know. You’re just heartbroken."

He still didn’t look at her. "They don’t think that I should grieve over the loss of my . . . my . . . " His throat closed up and his chest jerked with a sudden silent sob.

She touched his face and turned it toward her.

There were tears on his face but she was glad. At least he was feeling something besides a novocaine nothingness.

"I know you love him and miss him. I know how much."

And he found himself reaching for her, but the restraints stopped his hands and he wept even harder.

She loosened the restraints and let his arms encircle her neck, mindful of the tubes, wires, and machines.

"I can’t even bury him," he sobbed into her neck.

"I know," she said soothingly, and held him as best she could.

The nurses let her cut his hair and shave his mustache. His restraints were gone and he was mending. She coaxed him into drinking a health shake a day, along with vitamins. They walked on the hospital grounds and it made her feel better to see some color coming back into his face. If he didn’t have to have that cane . . . but he did. He limped so without it. A souvenir from hunting for his partner before his body was ready.

"I know I came between you and Dave," she said as they walked near the gazebo.

She was afraid he would let go of her hand at the mention of his name, but he didn’t.

"It was thoughtless," she continued. "I didn’t care."

"And now?"

His question surprised her.

"And now . . . I’m sorry."

He didn’t speak for a long time, just kept his eyes of the daffodils in the grass. "We have a history, Kira. Maybe not a good one, but . . . we had a past, and Starsky was in it."

It surprised even himself when he slipped his arm around her and brushed his lips against her neck.

Why would he hold the woman who’d caused so much heartache (no, Hutchinson, YOU caused the heartache by sleeping with her even after you knew Starsky was in love with her, put the blame where it belongs) for he and his best friend.

(Because she’s a link, Starsk. She’s a link to you. To us. When I see her I see you and that special way you loved her. And maybe if I’m near her, I can feel you. And even if it was a fight, she’s something we shared. And if I can love her like you did, maybe Kira and I can share you too)

"I want to make love to you," he whispered as she slipped into the bed beside him. "But not in the hospital."

"You were married?"

She nodded over the candlelight dinner she’d made just for him.

A celebration of sorts.

Celebrating his release from the hospital. And the pulse that seemed to beat within him again.

"For three months. Jim Fuller."

His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "The actor?"

"The actor. I had the marriage annulled. It was a disaster."

"Why?"

She pierced a bite of steak and wouldn’t raise her eyes. "I wanted children and he didn’t."

"And you two didn’t discuss this before you got married?"

"I don’t expect you to understand, Ken."

"What’s not to understand? It was exciting for you. An actor. Attention. Money. Why not?"

"I met him when I was investigating the death of his agent. Jim thought there was foul play, but it turned out to be just your average Hollywood suicide."

He sipped his wine. "So you married him."

"Yes. I thought I could change his mind. I thought if he loved me . . . "

"He would do anything you wanted."

She smiled bitterly. "But men aren’t puppets."

"You should have learned that from Starsky and me."

"I did. And I learned how quickly the tables can turn. I became his puppet. Did whatever he said. Quit the force because he asked me to. Changed my hair because he asked me to. He promised me a wonderful life, where I could come and go as I pleased as long as there were no children. I was a token wife, Ken. Just something pretty to hang on his arm for all those publicity photos."

She paused to take her own drink. "He’s bisexual, so I was just a cover for his macho image. He’s not comfortable with himself, so how can I be? I have nothing against bisexual men. I just don’t want to be married to one."

He gave a small smile and shrugged. "Doubles your chances for a date on Saturday night."

She laughed. "Ken, please."

"Sorry it didn’t work out, but at least you got out when you did."

"I’m back on the force. But as Victim’s Advocate in the rape division. I want to stay in police work, but I need to do something different."

He put his hand over hers. "Kira, the Angel of Mercy? Hard to picture."

"The victims feel low enough when they come into the precinct. They need to talk to someone frank and objective, not some bleeding heart counselor who will cry along with them."

"Well, I think it takes a little of both."

She pulled off a bite of dinner roll and slipped it into her mouth. "You’re not going back to the force, are you?"

"No, it’s not the same."

"Then what will you do?"

He got up from the table and took her hand, pulling her to her feet. "I don’t want to talk about work," he said as his hands touched her face and roamed down her shoulders and back. "I just want to be with you."

She kissed him. "I won’t object to that."

It was a simple ceremony in front of a Justice of the Peace. They exchanged rings and he gave her a rose, while she gave him the news that they were expecting a baby.

Although Starsky was always foremost in Hutch’s mind, he was able to focus on two more things for the next nine months: The baby and Kira. They lived at Venice Place and he gave private music lessons, both guitar and piano, for pay.

After seeing how much pleasure it gave him, how much more relaxed he was becoming, Kira realized this was the best thing for him for the time being. Even if he went back to police work, his fragile psyche would keep him from doing his best and could even place him at risk of injury. And sadly, she also realized, he would never be the cop he was before. Not without his partner. That Dobey saw this before any of them and discharged him when he did was an example of his insight and concern for Hutch’s personal safety. It had been the hardest decision of his career. Next to closing the kidnapping case on David Starsky, that is.

Kira saw tears in her husband’s eyes as she carefully placed the blanketed baby in his arms.

"Oh," Hutch whispered as he kissed the baby’s fair head. "He’s beautiful."

She smiled. "Are we sticking with the name we picked out?"

"Kent Starsky Hutchinson? I like the sound of that."

Hutch leaned over and kissed her, but he saw tears in her eyes, a look on her face, and although it looked like quiet joy, it looked like something else too. It looked like something sad.

"Kira? What’s wrong?"

She couldn’t tell him.

She couldn’t tell him of Davis Hutchinson Starsky. He was living with another family now. A mother and a father. And how would Ken react? Knowing she had a child by his best friend? Knowing she had given him awa . . . no . . . PLACED . . . him in a foster home?

She could tell him. She could tell him right now. But it would destroy everything. It would scar little Davis’ life, it would scar little Kent’s life. It would scar her husband’s, and her own.

No, she thought the best thing, even though it shredded her heart, was to keep quiet.

"Nothing," she whispered. "I just wish Dave were here to see him, that’s all."

Hutch nodded and kissed the top of his son’s head. "Me too."

Hutch was surprised to see Captain Dobey at his front door holding a beautifully carved white rocking horse in his arms.

A warm smile melted and softened the captain’s usually scowling face as he gazed at the infant Hutch was holding.

"Well, hello there, Papa Hutchinson. How’s fatherhood?"

"Scary," Hutch smiled. "I keep thinking I’m going to do something wrong and ruin him for life. But it’s fun. Thanks for the gift."

Dobey set the rocking horse down. "Kira says you hold and carry him all the time," he said lifting the baby from Hutch’s arms. "You know that spoils them, don’t you?"

Hutch stepped aside to let Dobey in.

Dobey rocked the baby a bit in his arms as he looked around the apartment as if to look for the changes that might have occurred over the past year. He saw more feminine touches to the home, but mostly baby things.

"You look better than the last time I saw you," Dobey offered.

"I always look better outside a hospital."

Dobey gave a half-smile at Hutch’s remark. "At least you’ve got your peculiar sense of humor back."

The baby began to wriggle, and Dobey’s smile broadened when two soft blue eyes gazed up at him.

"Gggaaah," the baby gooed with an open-mouthed smile, and waved his pudgy arms excitedly in the air.

Hutch handed Dobey a bottle, who in turn put the bottle to the baby’s hungry mouth.

Dobey looked at Hutch. "Think you’d want to come back to the force in another capacity?"

"As in . . ?"

"Training coordinator. You’d give special lectures to the rookies in a classroom setting."

Hutch turned a baby rattle over in his hands. "Sure, Cap. First topic: How to protect your partner so he doesn’t get shot down on the sidewalk."

Hutch held his toddler in the crook of his arm while standing with Huggy at the jukebox in the restaurant.

The blond-haired baby with the rosy cheeks watched his father’s face intently while he tapped at the song selections through the glass dome.

"Here’s a good one, Kent. John Denver. Anything by John Denver is good. Don’t forget that. He has a Keats kind of way to his songs. Maybe even an Emily Dickinson way."

"Wordsworth?" Huggy ventured.

"No. Springsteen is Wordsworth. Everyman. Jagger is Byron. Intense and visual. Billy Joel is Thomas. Deep but practical—"

Huggy shook his head and ruffled the boy’s hair. "I pity you, baby Hutch. Just play some Chuck Berry and be done with it."

Kira was on her knees in the living room taking pictures while Hutch held his arms out to little Kent.

"Okay, baby," he coaxed to the toddler. "You can do it. Come on. Come to Daddy."

The baby grinned and cackled as he took a few toddling steps toward his father, then landed promptly on his rear.

At first Kent sat still, not sure if he wanted to laugh or cry, his finger in his mouth and looking from mother to father as if for a prompt.

Hutch clapped his hands and scooped the baby up. "Yay! You took your first steps, honey!"

Kent was prompted to laugh instead of cry.

Hutch looked at Kira. "Did you get that, Kay? Did you get him walking?"

She rose to her feet, working a kink from her knee. "I got it."

Hutch curled Kent’s small hand around the baseball and gently drew his arm back.

They were in the park and Kira watched them from a bench in floppy sun hat and sunglasses.

"Ant then you let it fly," Hutch told him. "Let it fly as hard and as far as you can."

The little boy grinned up at him with angelic eyes and tiny white teeth.

"You catch it, Daddy. Okay?"

"Sure I’ll catch it. Hold on."

Hutch made his way across the park, his limp not as noticeable, Kira thought, as it had been before.

Or maybe she was just used to it now.

Hutch turned and clapped his hands encouragingly. "Okay, Kent! Pitch it here! Hard as you can!"

The little boy brought his arm back and hurled it at his father with every fiber of his body.

Hutch caught the ball and made a big show of it stinging his hand.

"Wow! You better watch that arm of yours! You could really hurt somebody!"

Kent straddled his legs apart and made a muscle of his right bicep. "Look at it, Daddy!"

Hutch’s mouth dropped open in exaggerated awe and put his hands to his face. "Oh my God! Kent Starsky has a muscle! Mommy! Look!"

Kent swiveled to show her too. "See, Mommy?"

Kira spread the patchwork quilt on the ground and waved to them. "Okay, you big strong men! It’s time for our picnic lunch!"

Hutch had just moved on top of Kira in the bed when he heard a small whine in their bedroom doorway. He quickly moved off of her and saw Kent standing in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes and holding Ollie the teddy bear in one arm.

"Daddy, can I sleep with you? I had a bad dream."

Kira raised the sheet up in invitation. "Come on, sleepyhead."

Kent padded over to the bed and Hutch helped him in, letting him lie in the crook of his arm.

Kira settled back onto the pillow to go to sleep.

"Want to tell me about your dream?" Hutch murmured quietly to the boy.

Kent snuggled close to his father’s chest. "It was a big ole tiger after me. Biting my feet."

Hutch smiled. "A big ole tiger, huh? But you know that dreams can't hurt you, don't you?"

The boy nodded. "Like a movie. Scares you but can't hurt you. Like you said."

"That's right."

Hutch stroked Ken't forehead with one finger. "I want you to close your eyes and I'll hum you a little song, okay?"

They had done this a few times before. Kent obediently closed his eyes and held Ollie closer.

For a moment Hutch's eyes fell on Ollie and he remembered (oh God, Starsky holding Ollie to his chest just like this, right outside my door there, the LAST time Marcos grabbed him, no, not really grabbed. He led him away. Led him away like a trusting child. Like Kent. To you I entrust, please love them both. I'm sorry Terry, I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise, I'm sorry I let you down, I didn't live up to the faith you placed in me, I didn't live up to what I should have been, should have done, I'm sorry) when Starsky had hugged Ollie to himself for comfort.

Hutch ran a finger down the bear's white head, then kissed his son goodnight.

"I love you, Kent," he whispered, but his baby was already asleep.

Kent stood at the bus stop between Hutch and Kira, a book satchel in one hand, a lunchbox in the other.

"I'll miss you," Kira said tearfully as she wiped her nose with a tissue for what seemed like the tenth time this morning.

Hutch squeezed her hand.

Kent looked up at his mother, then his father.

"Daddy, why is Mommy crying?"

"First day of school," Hutch told him. "Mothers are supposed to cry on the first day. It's a rule."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "Do daddies?"

Hutch crouched to give him a hug. "Only after the bus leaves."

Hutch pulled a dollar from his pocket and stuck it in Kent's. "Here, baby. Get a snack for yourself."

"Something nutritious."

"That's my boy."

They watched the yellow school bus pull up to the curb.

Kira cried harder when Kent hugged her around the waist.

"Don't cry, Mommy. I'll be all right. I'm a big boy now."

The door to the yellow bus opened, and the driver, a kindly-looking older gentleman with conttony-white hair, winked at Hutch and Kira..

"It'll be easier tomorrow," he told them as Kent climbed onto the bus.

Hutch, Kira, and Kent were in the car and on their way to Kent's Little League game when Hutch's head turned so far around that Kira had to grab the steering wheel for fear they would ram into the car that had braked for a red light in front of them.

"Ken!"

He braked abruptly, threw the car into park, then jumped out.

"Ken?"

"Daddy?"

And then she saw what it was.

The Torino.

Parked along the opposite curb.

The driver, a young man, was seated under the steering wheel and reading a newspaper, perhaps waiting for someone to come out of the bakery.

Hutch walked in a furious limp around the car, eyeing its every detail, drawing attention and increasing agitation from its driver.

The driver glanced in his sideview mirror.

"Hey, pal, can I help you?"

Hutch ignored him. Kept looking, kept limping.

"Where did you get this car?"

The driver got out.

Kira knew the look on Hutch's face.

He was getting mad.

She got out of the car. "Stay here, honey."

Kent leaned forward with interest in the backseat, clutching his father's headrest.

He hadn't seen his father mad before.

Oh, maybe cussing at the old Ford when it broke down, or getting mad at the traffic, or at some salesman on the phone for waking them up so early on a Saturday morning.

But not MAD mad.

Hutch grabbed the driver's shirt. "You stole it from Merl, didn't you? You stole his car."

"But . . . I don't . . . "

Kira grabbed Hutch's arm. "Ken, that's enough."

"I didn't steal nothin'," the driver said, some of his edge returning. "I have papers."

"Show me."

The driver ducked into the car and fished around inside the glove compartment.

Hutch's eyes traveled over the Torino, interior and exterior.

He touched it.

"It's his," he whispered, and Kira didn't know if the whisper was to her or himself.

"Ken, you don't know. There are other Torinos, for God's sake."

Hutch limped around the red car again.

"It's his."

She shook her head. "You don't know that."

"YES I DO KNOW THAT!"

He knelt next to the front bumper and touched two faint, barely noticeable dents.

"Gunther's bullets," he said quietly. "Merle left the dings in."

The driver got out of the car and showed him title, registration, and sales receipt.

Hutch looked at the papers, then simply let them fall from his hands and flutter to the street.

He limped purposefully back to the tan Ford, Kira following.

"Daddy?" Kent asked when Hutch slid under the wheel. "What's wrong?"

Hutch didn't answer. He waited for Kira to get in.

He was blocking traffic, the light was green and horns were blaring all around him. Voices yelling and swearing.

But he didn't put the car into drive for another full minute.

Kent watched, horrified from the back seat, as his father shook the dirty overalls of the mechanic named Merl. He finally had to hide his eyes on the back of the headrest.

"HOW COULD YOU SELL HIS CAR!" Hutch yelled at him.

Merl held his open hands up. "I'm sorry, Hutch. I'm really sorry. But . . ."

Hutch shook him. "But what!"

"But . . . I didn't think you'd care."

Hutch shook him again. "Didn't think I'd care? I'D HAVE BOUGHT IT!"

"Why? Starsky's gone, pal. What good would that car do you?"

Hutch searched his eyes.

"It's been eight years, Hutch."

Hutch's head went down, his grip relaxing on Merl's overalls.

It was Merl's turn to grip Hutch's shirt, but he didn't shake him.

"Eight years, man," Merl whispered thickly. "I didn't think you'd care."

Hutch pulled Kent onto his lap on the sofa. Even though he was eight. Even though his legs were getting long.

Kent sat with his blond head down, absently turning the baseball card over in his hands.

"I'm sorry I missed your game," Hutch told him quietly. "I'm sorry I scared you when I yelled at Merl. But Starsky is . . . was . . . is . . . my best friend, and it hurts because he died, and sometimes I don't know how to handle that."

Kent's eyes were still on the baseball card. "I don't have a best friend."

"Well, honey, that's something you can't arrange. It just happens. And hopefully you'll have a best friend one of these days. You'll know. You'll start out with a handful of friends like you have now, but there'll always be that one that means more to you, that understand more about you, that you care enough about to. . . to die for if you had to."

Kent slid off his father's lap and pulled a photo album from beneath the sofa.

"This is you and Starsky," he said as he sat down next to Hutch and opened the album. "Isn't it?"

Hutch pulled out one of the pictures. Of he and Starsky standing on top of the Torino. It had been terribly hot that day, he remembered. Sweet Alice had insisted upon taking it.

"And that's his car," Kent added as he pointed to the Torino.

"That's his car."

Kent looked up into his father's face, seeing that memories were softening and lightening his features. "And you named me after him, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"And you never got the bad guy that shot him?"

Hutch slowly shook his head no.

Kent looked at the picture again. "What do you think happened to Starsky?"

Hutch looked off into the room. "Honestly?"

Kent watched his father's expression.

"Honestly," Hutch answered softly, "I think they probably just let him bleed to death in their van."

Huggy set a health shake in front of Kent and leaned close to him. "What does a ten-year-old boy have to be down in the dumps about?"

The boy gave a half-hearted shrug. "Don't know."

"You know, you're just like your papa. Have to drag stuff outa you."

Kent sipped his shake through a straw. "He's teaching me to wrestle at the gym. And of course with his leg like it is . . . he used to be real good, didn't he?"

"Sure was."

"A good fighter?"

"Strong as an ox. Doesn't look like it though. That works to his advantage. People don't expect a powerhouse punch from him, but that's what they get."

The boy smiled a little. "I punch pretty hard."

"I'd say you do. Don't prove it to me, all right?"

Kent nodded. "I don't hit my friends."

"Good."

The boy swiveled on the stool a little. "I keep asking dad about his cop days, but he doesn't want to talk about it very much. Everybody says he and Starsky were the best, but he won't tell me any stories. He just says if I can find some other profession to like, I should like it and not cop stuff. But that's hard to do. I want to be a cop like my dad. They help people and put criminals in jail. That's what I want to do."

Huggy smiled wryly and sipped at a coffee. "Stories, huh? I'll tell you some stories about Starsky and Hutch. And then you decide if you still want to be a cop."

Kira kissed her tall son on the forehead and handed him a long-stemmed pink carnation wrapped in green tissue paper.

"Now give this to the girl," she told him as she smoothed down his cream-colored hair. "And be nice to her even if you find you don't like her. And don't give her a REAL kiss on the first date. Just a friendly one on the cheek. And remember to pull out chairs and open doors. Your father still does that for me."

Hutch adjusted the boy's tie. "He's thirteen, Kira. And it's his first dance. Don't overload him with romantic advice. It'll scare him off." He reached behind him for a large gift-wrapped box. "But do use this when you're trying to impress a girl. They just love it."

Kent smiled self-consciously as he opened the gift-wrapping to reveal a beautiful mahogany guitar.

The boy's mouth opened as he looked it over.

"Oh wow," he whispered. "It's beautiful, Dad. Thanks."

The boy put the carnation down and immediately began to strum a Spanish song.

"I tuned it for you," Hutch told him.

Kent smiled up at him. "Of course. It sounds good."

Hutch slipped an arm around his shoulders. "The ladies love a good serenade, Kent. And they like it when you speak French."

Kira poked Hutch's side. "I thought you said no romantic advice, Ken?"

Kent was doing homework at the kitchen table and Hutch was reading the newspaper when the phone rang.

"Probably your mother," Hutch said as he rose to his feet and walked to the telephone. "She said the car's been acting up again. Probably broken down on the freeway."

"Dad, why don't you just shoot the thing and put it out of its misery?"

"Only Starskys say things like that," Hutch admonished as he picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

The male voice on the line sounded courteous and professional.

"Hello? Am I speaking to a . . . Kenneth Hutchinson?"

"Yes, you are. Who's this?"

"Sam Whitman. I'm an attorney with Family Law, and I've been appointed to represent the best interests of a one Davis Hutchinson Starsky. Would his biological mother be there by any chance?"

It had to be a joke. A sick joke. Hell, Marcos calling to taunt after all

these years.

"Mr. Hutchinson?"

But the voice sounded a little too sincere, a little too real, to be a hoax.

"What's going on?" he asked in a deflated voice.

"Mr. Hutchinson, is your wife there? Her name is Kira Hutchinson, isn't it?"

"Uh . . . uh . . . yeah. Kira."

"I don't know how much she told you . . . and I apologize if I'm the one springing it on you . . . it's . . . I have no choice. Time is crucial, and since you're married to the woman . . . we can't leave the boy in limbo . . . he's been through enough . . . "

Understanding was trying to dawn on Hutch, but he struggled to push it far back into the corners of his mind.

He didn't think he wanted to hear this.

But he knew he had to.

"Mr. Hutchinson? My apologies. I thought you knew. I'll call back later and talk to your wife."

Hutch was trying to speak but the words seemed lodged in his mouth.

Kent looked up from his homework.

"No," Hutch said quietly, not noticing that his voice trembled slightly and had dropped to a whisper. "Talk to me."

"But . . . are you sure . . . "

"I need the truth."

(Because I can't trust that my own wife will tell me the truth about whatever the hell this is)

"I need to hear it from you."

"Like I said, I'm the boy's attorney. My job is to do what's best for him. His father . . . David Michael Starsky . . . deceased, correct? No other family besides his mother . . . I think that's where he should be . . . we try relatives first . . . the foster home didn't work out . . . there were problems . . . the state closed them down and took their license away . . . they'll go to jail . . . he's here at my home right now . . . I don't normally do this . . . bring a juvenile to my house . . . but in this case . . . I swear, if my wife would go along with it I'd keep him myself . . . so he's safe with me for the time being . . . until you and your wife talk . . . think it over . . . if you decline . . . or your wife . . . if neither of you . . . I'll have to make other arrangements. . . . but I thought she'd want first chance at it, since he is her son. The foster family never adopted him, so there are no legal complications. It's just a matter of her saying yes. . . "

Hutch stood as still as a wax figure.

Kent got out of his chair.

"Dad?"

Hutch spoke into the receiver in a faraway voice.

"I'm saying yes."

And he said it again, because he wasn't sure he had spoken the words out loud, and he wanted to make certain the attorney heard him.

"I'm saying yes."

Hutch stood with the receiver in his hand, long after Sam Whitman had hung up.

Kent approached his father, taking the receiver from his hand and replacing it. "Dad? What is it?"

Hutch spoke without looking at him. His eyes were on the wall.

"Kent, I want you to go to Huggy's for a while."

Kent frowned. "What?"

"Maybe for the night."

"But . . . "

"I have to talk to your mother."

"Dad, why are you upset? What is it?"

They both looked up to see Kira coming through the door, looking a bit disheveled. She tossed her purse onto the sofa.

"Thank God the car broke down only a couple of blocks from here or I would have . . . "

She stopped and looked at Hutch.

"Ken, what is it?"

Hutch glanced at Kent. "Go where I told you."

Kent shook his head no. "I'm staying here."

Hutch took his arm . . . (God, I've never grabbed his arm in my life) and moved him toward the door.

Kira's eyes flashed anger. "What the hell are you doing? Take your hand off of him."

Hutch opened the door and gently (pushed, shoved) nudged him out the door. "Go to Huggy's."

"But--"

Hutch closed the door in his face.

Kira stood with one hand on her hip. "Kenneth Hutchinson, what is it?"

Hutch stared at her with a flat, snakelike expression and whispered three words: "Davis Hutchinson Starsky."

For a second she looked like a doe caught in the headlights of a car.

But then she composed.

"Oh . . . I . . . " Her finger nervously brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, trying to keep her voice normal but avoiding his eyes. "Who?"

He grabbed the closest thing to him. His guitar. And flung it against the wall.

"YOUR SON!"

Her fingers were trembling toward her mouth now, and tears sprang to her eyes. "I know. I should have told you."

"STARSKY HAS A SON AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?!"

He moved toward her--God knows why--to grab her? Shake her? Slap her? But he punched the wall instead and hid his eyes in his sleeve against the doorframe.

"I didn't want to lose you!" she sobbed. "I lost David! I lost Jim! Ken, I love my son too, but the kindest thing to do really was just to let him go be with a new family where he could be raised in a household with two--"

He spun toward her and gripped her arms, his voice deadly quiet now as he addressed her through clenched teeth.

"It's not that you had his baby. Starsky was first. I understand that. I don't care about that. He loved you and I'm glad he has a son to carry on his name. But Kira . . . " His head worked back and forth, unable to find the right words. "To . . . to . . . " Tears shone in his eyes. "TO GIVE HIM AWAY?! TO ACT LIKE HE NEVER EXISTED?!"

"It's what Jim wanted!"

"It's what YOU wanted! You could have told me!"

"I'm telling you now!"

"No, his ATTORNEY is telling me now!"

"I'm sorry, okay?!"

"Is an apology supposed to make it all OKAY?"

He looked as far into her eyes as he could, trying to understand how she could do it.

"What about after you divorced Jim, Kira? You could have gotten him then. What about a year later? Two years later? Three? Four? Five? It got easier, didn't it? It got easier each year that went by. He would have been just an inconvenience to your little perfect world here, wouldn't he?"

She sobbed uncontrollably but it didn't faze him.

"We could have had a piece of Starsky," he whispered to her. "All these years." He swallowed. "How long, Kira? How long would you have kept him a secret? Would the boy have gone to his grave never knowing his real mother? Or me? Or his own BROTHER?"

She sniffed.

"HE IS KENT'S BROTHER, KIRA!"

She was weakening, falling to her knees.

He went with her. "You weren't a scared sixteen-year-old girl with no options," he told her. "That I could understand. But . . . you had no excuse . . . except for your own selfish . . . misguided . . . confused . . . obviously you don't know me as well as you thought you did. You thought I'd be petty enough to leave you over this? You thought it would come between us?"

She shook her head helplessly but couldn't say anything.

"You thought you'd lose me over Starsky's son?"

He waited for an answer that never came.

"You're right, Kira. To keep your mouth shut. Because whatever you'd say . . . it wouldn't be good enough. It wouldn't explain. It wouldn't justify."

He licked his lips and had to stand up again because of the aching in his right calf. "You know what hurts most of all, Kira?"

She didn't look up at him.

But he looked down at her.

"You thought . . . and I thought . . . you knew how much Starsky meant to me. And you didn't."

She was still silent.

And the words that followed were soft acid: "I'd throw you out on the street right now if it weren't for the fact that you're their mother."

He left her crying on the floor and picked up his jacket.

She held her arms and rocked herself for comfort.

He opened the door and stepped out, but stopped when he saw Kent crouching in the corner of the landing, his head down on folded arms.

Hutch knew he had heard everything.

"Damn," he said weakly, and crouched with his son, placing a hand on the back of his blond head.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that, Kent. But . . . it's real. That's why I told you to leave."

Kent spoke with his head down. "I thought she was a good mother."

Hutch didn't know what to say to that.

Instead he said, "Come with me, honey. We'll go get your brother."

Hutch drove in silence, Kent beside him.

How could he have loved a woman who was capable of doing such a thing? Wouldn't there have been a sign? Wouldn't he have known?

But of course he knew the answer to that.

Any woman.

Any woman who would play games with best friends like she did . . . was surely capable of . . . People . . . both men and women . . . could do horrendous things. Police work had shown him that. Life had shown him that. There was as much ugliness as there was beauty. And everyone had tendencies. Everyone had weakness. Limitations. Faults. Something they would compromise for. Lie for. Steal for. Kill for. Die for.

(You slept with your best friend's girl, remember? Who would have thought?)

(You'd die for him, take three bullets getting to his dying side, but you wouldn't walk away from Kira for him, would you?)

(True)

(You even married her)

(That's true too)

(Married the woman who represented so much pain)

(Yes, he did)

(He did that)

(But)

(But)

(He might sleep with his best friend's girl)

(And he might sleep with her even after he knew how much he loved her)

(But he wouldn't give his son away)

Standing in Sam Whitman's doorway, Hutch couldn't stop staring past him and at the boy who stood looking at the model clippership perched on the mantle in Whitman's living room.

He was beautiful. A young Starsky. The dark skin, the face that could go from pouty to playful in a milisecond, the flashing blue eyes that glimmered many emotions at once, and even the dark, curling hair.

Standing five feet nine already, he wore faded jeans, a white football-style shirt with a red 12 on the front, and red leather high-tops.

Hutch wanted to yank the boy into a crushing hug, but he couldn't. He was a stranger to Davis, and wanted the boy to like him, and trust him, in his own time, on his own terms, if that were possible.

Kent was peering around his father's shoulder for a good look too.

Hutch shook Whitman's hand in the doorway of his modest home.

"Ken Hutchinson."

"Pleased to meet you."

Kent extended his hand. "Kent."

"Pleasure," Whitman said gripping the boy's hand. "You're a carbon copy of your father, aren't you?"

Kent smiled. "Most say I am."

Whitman looked at Hutch. "I've been researching, Mr. Hutchinson. Part of my job as the boy's representative. And I found that you and David Starsky were detectives together."

"Yes."

Hutch wondered why Whitman hadn't even mentioned Kira's name.

Whitman continued.

"I phoned Captain Harold Dobey for a reference, who I respect and admire very much. And he told me to go ahead with the reunification, but to make YOU Davis' primary caregiver. Not the boy's mother."

He glanced at Kent, not wanting to explain further in the boy's presence.

And Hutch understood.

And no longer wondered why Kira's name hadn't been mentioned.

"With a recommendation like that," Whitman told him, "I can't turn you down."

Hutch looked past Whitman again and saw Davis still examining the clippership.

The boy's eyes--so alive and so blue--and so hurt . . . lifted to his briefly, then lowered again.

"Mr. Whitman," Hutch said looking back at the attorney again and bringing his voice down. "He's been in the same foster home?"

"Until today."

"And . . . " Hutch took a breath. "You said the state closed it down . . . that the foster parents are in jail . . . what did they do? Was it drugs or . . . you said he's been through enough already . . . you were talking about losing the only family he's ever known . . ? . . . seeing them arrested . . ?"

Whitman's voice lowered too. "I'm talking about his back. He won't let anyone look at it. A teacher noticed how he was sitting today . . . she'd seen him sitting like that before . . .forward in his chair all day . . . and she saw the back of his shirt . . . she asked him about it but he refused to say anything . . . and then the stains . . . " He swallowed and his eyes were a little misty. " . . . grew bigger as the day wore on . . . and she called the police . . . they found a belt in the home . . . at first Davis denied it . . . but they showed the belt to him . . . where there was blood all over the buckle . . . and he broke down and cried." Whitman cleared his throat. "But he still wouldn't let them see his back."

Kent sat down on a rattan chair on the porch.

Hutch looked toward the dark-haired boy again, who had turned to look at a clippership mounted on the wall, allowing a view of the huge dried bloodstains on the back of his white shirt.

"God," Hutch gasped, and turned full around, his back to Whitman. He leaned over to catch his breath, hands on his knees, suddenly sweating. "Oh dear God."

"He holds no malice," Whitman told him. "But that's the kind of boy he is. And unfortunately characteristic of abused children. He protected them all those years because he was afraid, because he loved them, because he didn't want to be responsible for breaking up the foster home. That's what the teacher said he always called them. The foster home. Not parents."

"You don't have to lecture me on abused children," Hutch whispered. "I know all about it."

"He said all he wants is to meet his real family."

Hutch nodded, then looked over at Kent, who sat brooding down at his white sneakers.

"Real life," he whispered to the boy. "Sometimes sucks."

Kent didn't reply.

Hutch straightened and turned back to Whitman. "I'd like to take him home now."

Davis turned, trying to look nonchalant but only managing to look vulnerable, when Mr.Whitman, Hutch, and Kent stepped into the living room, "Nice clippership," the boy said to Whitman as he nodded toward the one on the mantle.

"Did you hold it?"

"Nah. Didn't wanna break it."

Mr. Whitman took the exquisite and finely-detailed ship down from the mantle and handed it out to him. "Here. I want you to have it. Take it home with you."

Davis didn't touch it. "No, I can't take it. It costs too much."

"It's a gift."

The boy watched Whitman's eyes. "I could just keep it for a while and then give it back."

"That's not what a gift is, Davis."

The boy fondly regarded the ship, then reached out and took it from his hands.

A smile sweetened his face. "Thanks, Mr. Whitman. It's really cool."

Whitman gestured toward Hutch and Kent. "Davis Starsky, this is Ken Hutchinson, and your brother Kent." He smiled at Hutch. "I'll leave the three of you to get acquainted. Let yourselves out whenever you'd like. I'm going down to the kitchen with Stella." He winked at Davis. "Good luck, Davis. I think the court will be pleased with the arrangements."

Whitman excused himself and left the room.

Hutch approached the boy first, careful to stand to the boy's side and not in front of him to avoid invading his personal space.

"You know, your dad loved clipperships. He'd like this one too."

Davis took a small step back anyway. "Oh yeah?"

In respect to the boy's body language, Hutch moved back a little too, not sure of what to say or do next in the awkward moment, but wanting to erase the wary look in his eye.

"Davis, there's one thing in my home . . . in our family . . .that you won't have to worry about. We don't hit."

Davis nodded, but his look said he didn't quite believe it.

Hutch pulled Kent a little closer.

"Davis, this is your younger brother Kent."

The blond youth stepped forward and offered his hand.

"Kent Starsky," he added.

Davis shook his hand. "Davis Hutchinson," he said with a guarded smile. He looked at Hutch. "Nice to meet you, Mister Hutchinson."

"You can call me Hutch," he told him.

"Sit in the front?" Hutch asked Davis as the three of them walked to the car. "Or back?"

"Is the back okay?"

"Sure."

Kent opened the back door for him. "Can I sit back here with you?"

"I guess," Davis shrugged as he slid into the back seat. "Man, you got a lotta trash back here. Want me to clean your car out for you, Mister . . . I mean, Hutch? Or just shoot it and put it out of its misery."

The boy cackled at his own joke and it seemed to lighten the mood.

"You're right, Dad," Kent said as he slid into the back seat with the other boy. "Only a Starsky would say such a horrible thing about this beautiful car." He rolled his eyes.

Davis leaned back in the seat, then gasped and suddenly sat forward again.

Hutch saw him in the rearview mirror.

"Here," Kent said as he took his fleece warm-up jacket off and held it against the back seat. "Lean back on this. It's soft."

Davis looked at Kent, then tried it out, smiling in gratitude that he no longer had to sit so stiffly in the same position.

"Thanks, Kent."

Hutch turned on the radio. "Like music?"

"Stones and Beatles are cool."

"I like a variety," Kent informed him. "But classical's my favorite."

"Gag."

"I play classical guitar."

"Double gag."

"Ever hear that?"

"Nope."

"You want to?"

"Nope."

Hutch looked into the rearview mirror and smiled. "So, Davis, anything special you'd like to do? Go to a movie or go out to eat? You're the guest of honor tonight. You decide."

"Nah. I'd really just like to meet my mom if it's okay with you."

"It is, but first we need to stop at Huggy Bear's. There's something we need to do first."

"Huggy Bear's? What's a Huggy Bear's?"

"What the hell?" Huggy said as his mouth dropped open at the sight of the young version of Starsky and Hutch. "Hey, did somebody spike my Kool-Ade? I think I'm seein' things."

"Upstairs?" Hutch asked as he nodded toward Huggy's upstairs apartment.

"I dig," he said moving from behind the bar.

Once upstairs, Hutch and Huggy huddled at the breakfast bar while watching the boys at the pool table.

"Like this," Kent said as he leaned over the table with the cue and took a shot.

Then he reached for a cue in a rack on the wall and handed it to Davis. "Your turn."

Davis put the cue back on the rack. "That's a dumb game. I'm not playin' it."

"It's not a dumb game. It takes calculation. Like chess."

"Chess is dumb too."

Davis sulked off to watch the colorful fish in Huggy's large aquarium. Kent followed him and looked at them too.

Huggy shook his head. "When Kira do something, she don't do it half-way, do she?"

"He's mine as far as I'm concerned. I don't know how she'll react to him. Hopefully she'll be receptive."

"If she's not . . ?"

"Then she and I have some decisions to make. But whatever her reaction . . . her seeing his shirt like that isn't going to help. She's still his mother. And she did seem a little sorry today. I wouldn't want her to see what he's been through because of her choices . . . I think she even feels bad about it . . . and he wants to see her . . . it's a beginning."

Huggy smiled sympathetically and clapped him on the shoulder. "My man Hutch. Where there's a shred of hope . . . that's where we find him."

"So do you have a shirt he can have? And not anything wild."

"Wild? Hey, you know I don't do wild so much anymore. The ladies enjoy a much mellower shade of The Bear these days. I have a checkered polyester and a striped silk."

Hutch winced. "How about a plain red T-shirt?"

Huggy slid off the stool to his feet. "Can do."

He went over to the dresser and rummaged around in the top drawer.

Hutch motioned for Davis to join him.

Davis came, but stood a good arm's length away from him.

"Buddy," Hutch said quietly, "I think we need to do something about your shirt before you see your mother. It would upset her to see those stains."

Davis looked down at the floor.

"I'm not asking to see your back, okay? I'm just asking you to change your shirt. You can take it into the bathroom and close the door for privacy."

"Yeah," he said in a small voice as Huggy handed him a red T-shirt. "Okay."

Kira was sitting in the rocking chair and squeezing a handful of tissues when Hutch came in with the boys.

Her eyes were red and swollen, and Hutch had never, ever seen her this devastated.

If they were crocodile tears, she was putting on a very good show.

She just stared at her firstborn as if transfixed, a million fleeting memories across her eyes--of Starsky no doubt. Of she and Starsky together, of her without him, of her carrying his child in her body and then handing him over, of her with his partner (a poor substitute? second best?).

The sight of Davis made her burst into fresh tears.

But not because she loved him so. She wasn't sure if she loved him. How could she if she gave him away?

She cried because he came to her chair and hugged her around the neck, because he didn't give her what she deserved--a demand for explanation, a cussing, a slap in the face, his own tears--but giving her what she didn't deserve. What she never gave him: Unconditional love.

"It's okay, Mom," he whispered heavily as he smelled her perfumed neck. "Don't feel bad. Don't cry."

He'd always wondered what his mother would smell like . . . look like . . . feel like . . .

"You're beautiful, Mom. Just beautiful."

Her arms clung to his neck.

"Forgive me, Davis."

"Hey, nothin' to forgive. You're my mom."

"I don't deserve a good son like you." She reached toward Kent. "And you."

But Kent didn't go to her. He just stood where he was.

Davis would have held on to her forever it seemed, but when her hands warmly patted his back, he drew away from her touch. But still crouched on the floor at her feet, still beaming into her face.

"I'm sorry," she said, confused. "Did I say something--"

"Nah," he smiled. "It's nothin'."

His eyes moved as openly over her face and down her form as Hutch's had over his.

"I never knew a mom could be so pretty."

She smiled and stroked his hair.

"Davis, even though I can't make it up to you, I'd like to try to explain . . . "

He took her hand in both of his, looked at it, turned it over, smelling the hand cream, kissing the pink polished nails, pressing it to his cheek.

"Pretty hands," he murmured as he closed his eyes. "Pretty all over. Just like I dreamed you'd be. I prayed for this day."

Hutch thought the boy might sit and ogle at her feet all night.

Overcome with emotion, Kira could only weep into her tissues.

"I wish your father were here to see you," she whispered.

"Me too. Could you . . . you know . . . tell me about him?"

Kent slid the photo album from under the sofa.

"This'll be good for starters."

"Sure," Hutch said as he went to the kitchen. "We can look at it while we eat dinner. We'll get something delivered so your mother won't have to cook tonight. What does everybody want?"

"I could go Chinese," Kent suggested.

"I could go pizza," Davis added.

"How about both?"

"But he got there before Humphries did," Hutch finished with a nervous laugh. "Boy, that was a close call."

Full of Chinese and pizza, they were still sitting at the kitchen table, all eyes on Hutch as he laughed and reminisced about funny camping trips with Starsky, a few humorous criminals, and a lot of close calls.

Kira hadn't seen him this happy in a long time.

The boy was good for him.

He wasn't Starsky but he was a precious keepsake sent from above. A blessing. A bit of comfort to see him through the rest of his years--a bit of balm for his loss.

Kira touched Hutch's hand and whispered, "Ken, look."

Hutch saw that Davis was nodding asleep at the table, the photo album clasped to his chest, his head bobbing lower and lower.

"He's had a long day," Hutch said as he moved out of the chair and touched the boy gently on the shoulder.

"Come on, buddy. Time for bed. Tomorrow's Saturday and you can sleep late."

Davis startled and looked up.

"Sorry, Hutch," he said as he moved out of the chair.

"Sorry about what?"

The boy held the photo album closer. "I didn't mean to fall asleep at the table. Can you . . . can you give me the rules? So I'll know what to do? And know the ones not to brake?"

He looked around a bit fearfully, still a bit disoriented from sleep, this time his eyes settling on his mother. "I'll try my best. Just tell me."

Kira's eyes lifted to Hutch's, and then she looked at her son again. "Davis, there's nothing wrong with falling asleep. People do that once in a while."

"I know. But if it's a rule . . . "

Her eyes darkened like storm clouds.

"Davis," she asked carefully. "What did your foster family--"

"Home!" he corrected with agitation in his voice. "Foster HOME! Not parents. Not family."

The boy was brewing. She could just see Starsky getting ready to start shuffling from foot to foot or start pacing the room. But Davis was too vigilant with his personal space and safety to do that right now, so he just continued to brew like a steaming tea kettle.

"What did the foster home say when you fell asleep at the table?" she asked.

He looked around.

Hutch didn't think he was going to answer, but realized he would because it was his mother asking him the question.

"They make me sit still in a chair in the middle of the kitchen. And then . . . then they pour a pitcher of ice water over my head. And if I move . . . if I breathe . . ."

Kira stared at him.

Hutch ran a hand through his hair, trying to maintain composure.

Hutch knew the boy didn't trust him yet, so a big encouraging pep talk about how safe the home was would be a waste of breath.

(Actions speak louder than words, so he'll just have to see. It'll take time, but he'll have to see it and feel it for himself. The boy had learned that words were lies, that "love" hurts, that pain was a natural consequence for being yourself)

Davis wanted rules. He was used to them. And if that's what would put him somewhat at ease, then that's what Hutch would give him.

"No lip, no swearing, no smoking, no drinking, curfew at eleven through the week, midnight on weekends, homework done by bedtime. But this isn't a boot camp, Davis."

Davis took a careful breath. "And if I break a rule . . ?"

"No physical discipline," Hutch told him. "Ask Kent."

Kent nodded.

"Grounding. Denial of privileges. That's it."

Davis didn't comment.

"No ice water," Kira murmured numbly, and Hutch could see that her countenance had taken on a distant light.

He saw the question--"What else did the foster home do to you?"--in her eyes but knew she would never ask it out loud, because she didn't want to hear the answer--because her son would never have been abused if he'd been with her.

"I think it's time we all went to bed," she said quietly. "It's after midnight."

Kira rose from the table and went to the living room.

Davis followed her.

"I'll take the couch," he told her. "Or the floor. Or the car. It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, car?" Kent asked him.

"Well, you know what I mean. Like if company comes over and there's not any room."

Biting her lip to keep from crying again, Kira locked the front door and pulled one of Kent's extra bathrobes, along with a pillow and blanket from the top of the closet.

"We'll make room," she whispered. "You'll never sleep in a car again."

He smiled at her. "Unless I'm on stakeout?"

Kent nudged his arm. "You want to be a cop too?"

He shrugged. "Why wouldn't I wanna? That's what my dad was."

"Here you go," she said handing the robe, blanket, and pillow to him. "Kent has extra pajamas if you like. We'll go shopping tomorrow and buy you some clothes."

"Thanks," Davis said taking the items.

"No," Kent said as he took the pillow and blanket from him.

"No what?"

"You can have my room. I'll sleep on the couch."

"No way. I ain't takin' your bed."

"It's your bed tonight."

"We'll get another twin bed tomorrow," Hutch told them. "And put it in Kent's room. Then the room will belong to both of you."

"Fine," Davis said stubbornly. "But I still ain't takin' his bed."

"Sorry," Kent said just as stubbornly as he dropped onto the sofa with the pillow and blanket. He settled into the cushions. And closed his eyes. "You'll have to."

Hutch thought that Kira would want to talk when they went to bed, but she didn't. She just turned onto her side away from him and went to sleep.

(God help me, why are you still with her? Why did you let her stay? Can you still love her after this? Or will it fade? You've lost respect for her. Can you love someone you can't respect? Do you want to stay in a marriage just for the boys? Just to keep the family "together"? Is that healthy? Is kicking her out healthy? Will you ever be able to forgive her?)

(I don't know. I don't know if I can. Or even if I should. I'll probably just let this thing take it's natural course, until I can't stand the sight of her anymore, until I can't touch her anymore, feel sorry for her anymore, and then it'll be easier to turn her out. But I can't do it right now. It's too raw. Too delicate. And contrary to popular belief, she is a human being, and I am not a bastard)

(tumbling down a deep well of dreams, where Starsky was running down the sidewalk and Marcos' man pursuing, where he was shot down, only this time things were different. This time Hutch broke free of Marcos' men much faster, ran faster and harder, and shoved Starsky down just as the bullets whizzed harmlessly over their heads . . . . . . . . . that's the way it should have happened, and that's the way he dreamed it time and time again-----)

It wasn't Starsky's voice--a muffled sob into a pillow--"Hutch?"--that he heard from Kent's room.

It was Davis'.

Quietly, trying not to wake Kira and Kent, Hutch slipped into the other bedroom to find him lying in bed on his stomach, still holding the photo album to his chest.

Not sure if the boy were dreaming or awake, Hutch tiptoed to the bed and found the boy to be awake and weeping into the pillow.

"Davis?"

The boy squeezed the album closer to his body but didn't answer.

"What is it, buddy?"

Davis sniffed in the darkness. "My back hurts."

Hutch turned on the mellow bedside lamp.

"Can I take a look?"

The boy nodded into his pillow.

Even without raising the boy's shirt (he hadn't changed into the pajamas after all----probably didn't want to stain his brother's clothes---) even though his shirt was red, Hutch could see that his back was bleeding again, that the red material was stained even darker in some spots.

But Hutch took the material gingerly in his fingers and raised it up, wincing when it pulled away with a stubborn stickiness, and tried not to gasp at the sight of the boy's back--the countless bloody gashes that the belt buckle had made as it bit into his flesh. The edges of the wounds were red and swollen, as if approaching infection, or already so. He needed stitches.

"Uh . . . " Hutch's voice shook, and he couldn't hide that. He had no idea it was this bad. No idea. "It's not good, honey. I'm taking you to the emergency room. We won't tell your mom. We'll just leave her a note and say we went out for a drive."

He helped Davis out of bed, and Hutch was surprised he allowed it. The boy moved slowly, his shoulders in a slight frozen hunch against the pain.

But leaving a note for Kira wasn't necessary, because she was standing in the doorway and the look on her face told them she had seen his back.

And the look in her eyes told Hutch that whatever last thread she was hanging on to had just snapped.

"We'll be back later," Hutch whispered to her as he and Davis moved past her.

Davis leaned forward in the passenger seat while Hutch drove him to the hospital. And Hutch found himself doing what he wouldn't do earlier: He was giving an encouraging pep talk.

"I know these are only words, Davis. But I have to say them. Because I mean them."

Davis was looking at a page of photos in the album.

Hutch knew he was pretending to be noncommittal.

"I know your trust in people has been shattered. The people you depended on for protection . . . hurt you. And you took it for a long time, hoping he'd quit, hoping he'd change, thinking you must have done something to bring it on. And no matter how hard you tried . . . nothing worked. Because it wasn't you, Davis. It was him. You could have obeyed every rule in the book and he'd have found a reason to hit you. You could have given him a million dollars and it wouldn't have stopped him. It was his problem. Not yours. But I promise you. . . I give you my word. . . No one will hurt you like that again. Not while I'm around. And if anyone . . . ANYONE . . . touches you again . . . you tell me."

Hutch was silent. He didn't expect the boy to say anything in return. And he didn't. Hutch just felt better saying what he had to say. But Hutch saw a sliver of blue as Davis' eyes slid from the photographs and in his direction.

"Mr. Hutchinson, I'd like to ask you about your son's back."

Hutch looked at the uniformed officer.

The doctors were finished with Davis in ER and he was now getting dressed and using the restroom. Hutch was in a small waiting area around the corner.

The rookie pulled out a writing pad and pen.

"He won't tell us what happened, Mr. Hutchinson, so that says a whole hell of a lot to me. Most of them at least try to make up some cockamamie story like falling down the stairs or having a bicycle wreck or getting into a fight at school."

Hutch limped over to the officer and grabbed the notepad away.

"Take this," he said ripping up the pages. "And shove it."

A rip.

"Stick it."

A rip.

"Or eat it."

The officer stared dumbly at Hutch as he made his way to a magazine stand.

Hutch reached for a newspaper, thrusting it at the rookie. "Case closed."

The uniformed officer looked down at the front page, scanning the headlines until his eyes settled on one in particular that he read aloud: "Foster Parents Arrested for Child Abuse."

Davis was groggy from exhaustion, medication, and painkillers by the time Hutch got him back into the car to go home.

The boy was still leaning forward, even as fatigued and woozy as he was, and Hutch knew it was out of habit, not pain, because there was no way his back could be hurting with the painkillers they gave him.

"Here," Hutch said gently as he moved Davis back against the seat. "It's okay."

The boy leaned back, the photo album ever to his chest, and rested his head against Hutch's shoulder.

"Thanks, Hutch," he mumbled sleepily.

Hutch put his arm around Davis' shoulder and the boy didn't move away.

Hutch helped a half-asleep Davis up the steps to Venice Place, through the living room, and then into the bed, where he tucked the photo album under his arm, covered him, then turned out the light.

Walking past the sofa he saw that Kent was still asleep, and reached down to brush a blond strand from his forehead.

Still shaken by the day's events and feeling wide awake now, Hutch went to the bedroom to talk to Kira, to tell her that yes, the boy was badly hurt, but it was for the last time. That he was okay now and his back would never look like that again.

But Kira was gone.

And he really was surprised.

Hutch let the boys sleep while he looked for their mother.

He drove around town looking for her car.

It wasn’t like her to take off when she was upset. Usually she just went into the bathroom and cried.

She would come back tonight on her own, he knew, but he had to search. He couldn’t help it.

He drove for hours, checking the precinct, thinking she might be in her office, then checking at Huggy’s, and then with a few of her closest friends.

He came up empty.

And didn’t want to go home without her, although he had no choice, because even though he’d left a note for the boys and they were both teenagers who could be left alone, it was Davis’ first night there and Hutch wanted to be there if he woke up frightened or needed a pain pill.

But seeing Captain Dobey’s car parked outside Venice Place at four in the morning was not a good sign.

Hutch hurriedly parked behind Dobey and took the stairs two at a time, something he hadn’t done on his bad leg until now.

(God help him, he wanted this news to be about Starsky, not Kira. God help him, he did. Good, bad, it didn’t matter. If they found his remains . . . it would be bad . . . but at least he’d know . . . and if he were alive . . . then his own soul would be resurrected. Either way, he wanted it to be about Starsky)

But it wasn’t about Starsky.

Dobey stood in the middle of the living room floor with his hat in his hands, grim, uncomfortable, his eyes on his shoes.

Kent was sitting numb and ashen on the sofa and staring at the coffee table.

Davis was pacing the floor.

"What is it?" Hutch asked in an odd voice that sounded detached from his body.

"Hutch, you better sit down."

Hutch slowly shook his head no.

"I don’t want to sit down."

Dobey cleared his throat. "Kira’s dead, son."

But he sat down just the same, looking around as if to find her here.

Dobey’s voice was low and rough from sleep. "Her car struck a concrete pillar at the bridge over at—"

"No," Hutch interrupted in a quavering whisper. "I don’t want to know where it happened."

"Apparently she lost control at high speed. No . . . uh . . . " (no skid marks? Do her sons need to know that? Just tell Hutch. But tell him later, outside the boys’ presence, and then let him decide if they need to know) . . ."No seatbelt," he finished.

But Hutch didn’t need to be told later about the skid marks.

He already knew.

And maybe the boys did too.

He knew the guilt had crushed her and (you’re not holding a gun to your head, but there are other ways of destroying yourself) she could not find a way to live with it.

Dobey squeezed Hutch’s shoulder on his way out.

Kent leaned forward and covered his face with both hands.

Davis paced like a penned tiger.

"It’s my fault," he said, his voice rising in anguish.

Hutch rose to his feet.

"That’s not true, Davis."

Davis put his hands over his ears and paced—stomped—harder.

"It is! She saw my back and it upset her!"

Hutch moved toward him but the boy moved away.

"No! Don’t touch me!"

"Davis, listen to me—"

"She wouldn’t have been driving all upset like that."

Hutch shook his head no. ‘Davis, your mother—"

"One day!" he cried with tears streaming down his red face. "I had her one day! If I hadn’t come! If I hadn’t come here, she’d be alive!"

"No," Hutch said firmly. "Your mother felt guilty about giving you away. That’s why she left. It wasn’t you. It—"

Davis squealed in anger—"DON’T YOU SAY THAT ABOUT MY MOTHER!"--- and ran at Hutch, grabbing his shirt and puling his fist back to strike.

But his fist froze in the air.

Hutch’s hands were raised, palms out

Davis’ face was a mask of agony, his chest heaving for breath, his beautiful, electric eyes full of pain and disillusion.

"You can hit me," Hutch whispered to him. "But hitting doesn’t solve anything."

Davis’ fist trembled.

"Oh yes it does, Hutch. It solves a lot of stuff sometimes. It takes care of business. It can pound somebody right down into the ground and make ‘em stay there."

For long moments they stared at each other.

Kent’s eyes were on them now, but only in a vague awareness. He made no move to intervene.

"Davis," Hutch said with a swallow "Your mom loved you in her own way. Her way. Maybe not the best way. But her way. And your dad . . . would love you to pieces if he were here . . . and his would be the best way . . . but he’s not here, so I’m going to do that for him. And if he were here, he’d tell you to use your anger for something good. Yeah, he had a temper, and he lost that temper a few times, but he never . . . ever . . . hit me. Or anyone he loved. He was a giver. He had a lot to be angry about too, Davis. Like you. But he took it to the army, he took it to the police academy, he took it to the street, he used it to help people that couldn’t help themselves."

Davis continued to look at him.

"They’re big shoes," Hutch told him. "But you’re the only one who could come close to filling them."

The boy slowly, visibly uncoiled, ad his fist lowered, and he took a step back.

"She didn’t want me," came his flat whisper. "Not like you want me."

At her burial, Hutch stood between the two boys at the graveside, his right arm around Kent, his left around Davis, both boys leaning their heads on his shoulders like five-year-olds seeking comfort and refuge from a bad dream.

Kent stared at his brother.

They sat on twin beds across from each other in their rooms, Kent tossing a baseball into the air and catching it in his glove.

"What do you mean you don’t want to play baseball? That’s un-American."

"It’s a dumb game."

"And that’s blasphemy. You can say that about pool—which you did. And you can say that about chess—which you did. But you can’t say that about baseball."

Davis got off of his bed and left the room.

"I CAN say that about baseball. I just did."

Kent followed him into the living room, carrying the ball, bat, and glove.

"Come on, Davis. Summer vacation’s almost over. We’ll have to go back to school and then we won’t have time."

Davis turned to face him. "Look, if you want to play baseball, go to the park and play it by yourself."

"It’s impossible to play baseball by your . . . " He trailed off. "You don’t know how to play baseball, do you?"

Davis turned away and walked toward the door.

Kent followed him.

"Davis, answer me. I said you don’t know how to play baseball, do you?’

Davis went to the door. "Is that a crime?"

Kent followed him out the door. "Nobody showed you how, did they? Did they keep you a fucking prisoner?"

Davis stopped halfway down the steps and looked up at Kent, who was two or three steps above him. "You just used a swear, Kent. I thought you were a good boy?"

Kent glared at him. "Davis, I’m mad because that foster bastard of yours never taught you how to play baseball."

Davis shrugged. "So what? No big deal."

"It IS a big deal. Don’t you want to know how to play?"

"I watch it on TV."

Kent looked around, exasperated, amazed. "But that’s not PLAYING it. Do you want to live the rest of your life not knowing how to play baseball?"

Davis looked at him.

Kent gently tossed the ball to him, but he made no effort to catch it.

The ball tumbled down the stairs and Kent stared at him.

"My God. It’s worse than I thought."

Davis hooted with laughter and chased the ball downstairs.

"Had you goin’, didn’t I, Kent?"

Kent whipped his baseball cap off and threw it at him.

"Dirtball! I was almost cryin’ over that!"

Davis rubbed his knuckles into his eyes and made exaggerated sobbing noises.

"Boo hoo! Poor kid don’t know how to play baseball! Woe is me!"

Kent chased him down the stairs and they headed for the park.

The boys came home from the park, tired but laughing. But their jovial mood was dampened somewhat by the sight of Hutch sitting at the piano with a photograph of Kira in his hands.

They stopped abruptly, unable to see if were crying, but thinking that he probably was.

Davis started toward him but Kent caught his arm, motioning for them to leave.

"Sometimes he does that with your dad’s picture," Kent said as he sat down on the top step outside the door. "They were like brothers."

"Like us, huh?"

"Excuse me," Hutch told his music student, a frail elderly woman who was learning to play the piano for her church.

"Hello?" he said picking up the receiver on the second ring.

"Mr. Hutchinson, this is Principal Madden. Your foster son is here in my office. He hit a student for no reason."

Davis was sitting in the principal’s office along with Kent when he saw Hutch limping in with his cane.

Sometimes his leg hurt more when he stayed in one place for long periods, like when he was standing with a music student for a some time without taking a break, or on a late night when he was very tired.

"And," the principal added with a nod to Kent when he saw Hutch coming through the door, "This one here is going to get the same punishment your foster son gets, three-day suspension, because he refuses to go back to class."

Both Davis and Kent sat with their confident heads up.

"First of all," Hutch said speaking to Mr. Madden as he placed a hand on top of Davis’ curly head. "Davis is my son. Don’t call him my foster son again. Second of all, I want to hear what Davis has to say about it. And third of all, Kent’s only looking out for his brother."

"Rick was kickin’ a dog outside at lunch. Said he was gonna take it home and skin it, and I said ‘No you’re not," so he kicked it again, and that’s why I hit him."

Hutch looked at Madden. "The kid kicked a dog and he’s not even in here?"

"That’s still no excuse for violence. Your . . . SON . . . hit someone."

Hutch whacked his cane on the principal’s desk and leaned over it, bristling beneath his calm exterior. "You can suspend them for three days. I understand your rules. And I don’t approve of violence either. But is that the kind of message you want to send to your student body? That if you try to defend the helpless, even if it’s a dog, you get punished for it?"

Hutch didn’t wait for an answer. He motioned with his head for both boys to follow him, and they did.

"In trouble for doing the right thing," Hutch mused. "How familiar."

Later that evening Davis and Kent ran into Rick the dog-kicker on their way to the park, only this time he had three friends with him.

"Well," Rick sneered as he jabbed a friend in the ribs. "If it ain't The Hardy Boys."

"Actually," Davis glowered at him, "I like Columbo. And he likes McCloud."

"Gonna enjoy your friggin' three-day vacation?"

"Sure," Kent said happily. "Want to come to the Bahamas with us?"

Rick squinted in the sun. "It just ain't fair," he said in an aside to his friends, "I get a tooth knocked out, the dog gets away from me, and Frank and Joe get a vacation."

"You're right," one of the friends agreed. "I think we should even it up a little."

Rick grinned to show the new space in his teeth, then took a swing at Davis, who ducked and side-stepped out of the way.

Growling, Rick grabbed Davis' shirt.

But that's as far as he got, because Kent stepped in and landed one solid punch to the boy's face.

Out cold, Rick dropped to the ground.

Rick's three friends scattered.

"Cool," Davis said as he held his hand up for a high five. "Just don't ever hit me with your sledgehammer, Joe."

Kent gave him a high five. "Wouldn't dream of it, Frank."

"So what are we gonna do on our vacation?"

"Let's go to the police station and hang out. Then we'll go to Huggy Bear's."

"You know you want us," Davis said as he sat on the edge of Dobey’s desk and drew a pencil from his cup. "We’ll be the best cops you ever had."

Kent, helping himself to a cup of Dobey’s coffee, cleared his throat loudly.

"Okay," Davis clarified. "Next to our dads, that is."

Dobey snatched the pencil away from Davis and stuck it behind his ear. "You’re only sixteen years old. Now get out of my office."

Davis grinned. "But I’m shaving. Doesn’t that count for something?"

"Only with girls."

"Speaking of . . . " Kent said. "Tasha says she has a couple of older girlfriends of hers we could meet."

Davis jumped off the desk. "Huggy’s daughter the matchmaker."

"You’ll need all the help you can get," Dobey griped. "Now get out of here."

"We’ll leave," Kent assured him. "But we’ll be back."

Davis ran out of the courthouse with a shout of joy and a grin on his face, waving his new driver’s license in the air.

"I got it! I got it!"

"Yes!" Kent shouted back. "Look out, women! Here we come!"

"Oh my God," Davis said as he and Kent jogged near the park. "I don’t freakin’ believe it."

Kent stopped running because Davis had. "What is it?"

"It’s mine," Davis said firmly as he pointed across the park. "I own that."

Kent followed Davis across the park and into a yard and saw what he was referring to:

The Torino with a For Sale sign on the windshield.

"It’s mine," Davis repeated. "That’s my dad’s car."

"You don’t know that."

"Yeah I do too know that. I looked at those pictures enough to know."

"You don’t know for sure. We have to check something first."

"Check what?"

Kent crouched at the front bumper. "Check for the dings."

"Listen to this, Kent."

Davis sat under the steering wheel of the Torino with a romance novel in his hands, Kent lying with his head back and sunglasses on in the passenger seat.

"’She moaned in ecstasy as her hands slid down his hot, ready shaft. Up and down. Up and down. Until his desire fairly burst forth in bloom.’"

Davis gasped and held the book out away from him, closing his eyes. "Here. I can’t read anymore."

Kent took the book without disturbing his nonchalant posture and held it up to read: "’He growled in pleasure as she took him into his mouth and delighted him until he thought his brain would explode.’"

Kent gave the book back. "Your turn."

Davis took it and picked up where Kent left off. "’And then his tongue explored the forbidden places she had, until now, only fantasized about.’"

Davis squirmed restlessly in his seat and tossed the book over his shoulder and into the back floorboard. "We have to get us a girlfriend, Joe," he said starting the car. "Let’s get out of here."

This wasn't the first time Kent and Davis had breezed their way into Captain Dobey's office. Except that he was Commissioner Dobey now. But just as annoyed as ever to see a Starsky perched on the edge of his desk, and a Hutch helping himself to a cup of coffee without permission.

"You know you want us," Davis said as he leaned over and tugged playfully at Dobey's tie. "We'll be the best cops you've ever had."

Kent cleared his throat loudly.

"Except for our dads," Davis corrected.

Dobey rolled a pencil between his fingers. He already had one behind his ear and didn't know it.

"You boys want me to guarantee you a position on my force," he said gruffly. "Well, you know I can't do that. You have to get here on your own merit, just like your fathers did."

"All we're sayin'," Davis reasoned as he drew a pencil from Dobey's cup, "is that you keep us in mind."

"That's all," Kent finished. "No favors. We want to get here on our own too."

Dobey looked at Kent. "You're only seventeen," he reminded. "A year too young for the academy." And he looked at Davis. "But you're eighteen. What's holding you back?"

Davis pointed his pencil at Kent. "I don't go till my little brother goes."

"Little? I'm two inches taller than you. And a much better fighter."

"Says who?"

"Says Rick the dog-kicker. And Jerry the nut-cracked. And Salvio the partial plate."

"Hey," Davis interrupted, "don't forget I knocked Rick's tooth out first."

"Yeah, but I knocked the rest of them out."

Dobey snatched the pencil away from Davis and put it behind his free ear. "Don't you boys have something better to do than come down here and drive me crazy?"

Kent shrugged innocently. "No."

"WELL I DO!"

Davis drew another pencil from Dobey's cup. "Can you help us get a job here?"

"You just said you wanted to get in on your own merit."

"That's the academy. I'm talkin' about a job here at the station."

"Like . . . " Kent searched the air. "Janitorial work. Errand-boys. Filing. Word processing. Anything. We just want to soak up the atmosphere and learn at the master’s feet. You name it, we'll do--"

"Filing?" Dobey asked with a raised eyebrow. "Word processing? Now there's an idea. My secretary is on maternity leave." He looked at Kent. "How long will it be before you turn eighteen?"

"Two months."

Dobey took the pencil from Davis, but discovered he had a pencil behind both ears, so he put it in his breast pocket. "Who does filing and who does word processing?"

"I'm filing," Davis said. "He's word processing."

Kent, dressed in a white shirt, black jeans, and a thin black tie, stepped up to the pretty blonde at the water cooler just outside Dobey's office.

"Pardon moi, madame?" he said politely as he drew a cup of water for her and handed it to her. "Si vou plait?"

The young lady blushed and batted her lashes at him. "Why, merci."

"Oui."

Davis stepped up beside them, trying to move in between Kent and the girl.

"Pardon moi, mon ami," he said in a French accent to Kent, and then, to the girl: "Es cargo? Ponce De Leon? French fries? French harp? French cuffs? French franc? French toast? French doors? French lace? French kiss? French tickler?"

The girl smacked Davis' face. "That's for you."

And she slapped Kent too. "And that's for being his friend."

She turned and pranced away.

Kent glowered at his brother. "You really have a way with women, Frank."

Huggy nodded a greeting to Davis and Kent as they approached the bar.

Hutch was already waiting with a smile on his face.

Davis raised his hands. "Oh no, Huggy," he said in his best macho voice. "No drinks for us. We’re on duty."

"Don’t worry," the pretty black teenager said as she polished glasses next to Huggy, "Daddy doesn’t serve children."

Kent put his hand over his heart. "Low blow, Tasha."

Huggy kissed his daughter’s temple. "Keep up the good work, baby."

Davis shook his head sadly. "You won’t be sayin’ stuff like that when you see me and Joe in our uniforms." He winked at Kent. "Girls like a man in uniform." A grin to Tasha. "Don’t you, sweetheart?"

"Oh sure," she quipped. "The exterminator wears one. And so does the garbage man. And so does the mechanic. So does the postal worker. And so does the dog catcher."

"But," Davis said confidentially as he put his elbow on the bar and leaned across to Tasha, "none of ‘em carry a badge."

"Touche," Kent declared.

She rolled her eyes. "You’re impossible."

"No," Davis leered in an exaggerated come-on, "I’m very, very possible."

"And I’m under age."

"I can wait two years," Davis told her.

"You?" Kent asked. "I think she prefers blonds. Don’t you, Tasha?"

"Whoa, whoa," Huggy interrupted as he held up a hand. "It’s gettin’ too steamy for my little girl in here. You two studlies tone down before I muzzle you."

Hutch raised his glass to Kent and Davis. "That’s right. We’re here to celebrate your acceptance into the academy."

"Good luck," Huggy said raising his glass to them as well. "You’re gonna need it."

It was a bittersweet night for Hutch as the three of them sat in the living room at Venice Place and pored over old photo albums.

The apartment—so small for the family—but Hutch couldn’t bear to move out of it-- had seen so many good times, so many bad, so many seasons turned through the years—Starsky, Vanessa, Kira, the boys . . .

And all of them gone.

Or would be after tonight.

Davis and Kent were off to the academy tomorrow. Off to a new life of their own.

(Scary . . . beautiful . . . idealistic . . . fresh . . . eager . . . sincere . . . to right the wrongs . . . serve the people . . . protect the innocent . . . make a difference . . . uphold the law . . . he and Starsky . . . partners . . . best friends . . . Davis and Kent . . . tender years . . . still innocent in a lot of ways . . . precious . . . brothers . . . God, the twists and turns of life . . . the beauty . . . the cruelty . . .)

And where did it leave him?

Proud of his young men.

Alone in his life?

Except for Huggy.

But Huggy had an ex-wife and a daughter and a life all his own now too.

A little afraid?

The scheme was altering.

The song had new words.

New words he didn’t understand and wasn’t sure he wanted to learn.

He was loosening the last tether that held them to him as children. He had loosened tethers all along, for both boys—first day of school, driver’s license, girlfriends, high school graduation . . .

Davis and Kent saw Hutch’s eyes mist over, even though he was smiling.

"Hutch?" Davis asked as he reached across the coffee table and patted his arm. "You okay?"

Hutch quickly wiped at his eyes. "Oh yeah."

Kent smiled. "I thought daddies were supposed to wait until after the bus leaves?"

Hutch reached for both of them and pulled them to him.

"Be careful," he whispered to them. "So much can happen out there."

"We will," Kent promised.

"I almost don’t want you to go," Hutch told them. "But I won’t hold you back. Just . . . make sure you want it more than anything else."

"I’d do if for free," Davis said. "But I wouldn’t do it without Kent."

Hutch smiled.

"I’m proud of both of you. For doing what you think is right. And taking your best shot. Wanting to do a job that asks everything from you but gives little in return."

Hutch rose to his feet and walked into the kitchen, lifting the lid off the cookie jar and pulling out two small gift-wrapped boxes, then handed one to Davis, and one to Kent.

"A keepsake," he said as they started removing the gift wrap.

Davis and Kent each held up a braided leather necklace from which hung half a copper medallion bearing an inscription.

"I can’t read it," Kent complained as he held his half of the disk up to the light.

"It doesn’t make any sense," Davis added.

Hutch smiled. "Put the halves together."

They did, and the young men smiled.

"’The Lord watch between me and thee while we are apart one from another,’" Kent read.

Davis smiled at Hutch. "Thanks, Hutch. I like it."

Hutch expected them to put the necklaces back in the box like they did most of the other gifts of jewelry they’d received over the years.

But they didn’t.

They grinned and slipped them over their heads, tucked them under their shirts, then went to Hutch and gave him a hug.

"You guys better hit the sack. Big day tomorrow."

"Yeah," Davis agreed. "Gotta feel fresh on our first day at the academy."

Hutch poured the remains of their iced tea into the kitchen while Davis and Kent stored the photo albums into a sturdy wicker trunk.

"Night, Hutch," Davis said as he walked toward the bathroom.

"Night, Dad," Kent said as he headed for the bedroom.

Hutch turned the light out and started for his own bed, and wasn’t even sure that the noise he thought he heard was even a noise until he stopped in the middle of the floor to listen again.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

But the boys hadn’t heard. Davis was in the bathroom behind the closed door, and Kent was in the bedroom with his door closed as well.

Hutch listened more closely, trying not to breathe or make a sound.

And he heard it again.

A faint, muffled scratching at the front door.

Out of habit, not real fear, Hutch reached for a pistol under the sofa and went to the door.

"Anybody there?" he asked as he stood to one side of the door with the gun in his hand.

There was no answer.

But the scratching came again.

Hutch gripped the doorknob. "I said is anybody there?"

Davis and Kent were opening their doors now and looking out curiously.

Hutch motioned for Davis to turn on the light, and he did.

Carefully and quietly Hutch opened the door and leveled his gun at the wasted figure—his partner—who was trying to hang onto the doorframe—trying to scratch again--but only managing to sink lower and lower to his knees.

"Oh my God," Hutch whispered. The gun fell from his hand and he caught Starsky under the arms before his knees could hit the floor.

Both boys stared trancelike at the man before them.

Hutch burst into tears and kissed the top of the dark curly head over and over. "Oh my God!" he shouted joyfully. "It’s you! Starsk, it’s you! Oh my God!"

But his joy was short-lived, because the shock of seeing him alive after all these years was disappearing and being replaced with bits of reality—Starsky pawing for his shirtsleeves, scars and fresh rope-burns, along with the frayed ropes, still around his wrists. His lean, trembling muscles, his near-gray pallor, the numerous scars on his face.

His eyes, though, hadn’t changed. Although bruised black, they were still very blue and intensely alive.

Hutch felt his stomach sink.

"Oh no," he groaned as he moved Starsky, who was bent over and clinging to him, to the sofa.

Davis and Kent were still staring.

Hutch sat him down, then crouched in front of him.

"Not here," Starsky mumbled weakly. "With Marcos. Gotta go get him."

Seeing Starsky in such a pitiful state was painful. But hearing his words was chilling.

Starsky’s head wanted to fall to his chest. Hutch held it up to see into his eyes.

"What? What did you say? Starsky, you’re here. It’s Hutch. Whatever happened, you’re here."

Davis and Kent came slowly to the sofa, their eyes as big as saucers, and knelt beside Hutch.

"Hutch," Davis asked in a quivering voice, "is this my dad?"

Hutch could only nod.

Davis lowered his head.

Starsky had a constant tremor in his body that wouldn’t go away. It looked like the chills, or at worst, DTs, but Hutch knew it was fear. A constant fear that appeared to be very old, that a reassuring hug alone would never touch.

"Starsk?"

His dark-haired partner sat huddled into himself like a frightened animal, too scared to move, stealing only fleeting glances at Hutch through squinted eyes, and even when they were brave enough to look at him, Hutch wasn’t sure if Starsky was really seeing him.

Hutch knew he needed to check him over to see if he needed immediate medical

attention.

And when he started the cursory exam, he was sorry he did.

Scars, old and new, around his wrists and ankles, and knots where broken bones had healed without medical treatment. Rope burns around his neck. He looked to be malnourished, close to starving, and could only imagine how he’d made it up the stairs------probably on all fours.

Starsky winced and hid his eyes into the sleeve of a dirty, raggedy warm-up jacket that hung haphazardly and unzipped on his torso.

"The light," Hutch said to Davis. "Turn off the light. I think it hurts his eyes."

But Davis didn't move. He was rooted to the spot and still staring--at what his eyes told him appeared to be his father--but what his mind was refusing to accept.

Kent hurried to turn off the living room light, then closed the bathroom door all but an inch, leaving a little light for his father to see by.

"Got away," Starsky murmured with his eyes still buried in his sleeve, his voice a little stronger. "Can't believe it. Finally got out."

Davis rose to his feet. "I'm calling Dobey."

"No. He's not strong enough for an interrogation right now."

Davis touched his father's head, for the first time, hesitantly, as if to make sure he were real. "Dad? I'm your son. I'm Davis Hutchinson . . . Starsky.""

Starsky did not seem to see or hear him.

Davis pressed. "Dad, was it Marcos? Where are they? How'd you get here? Where were they keeping you?"

Hutch grabbed the front of Davis' shirt in one hand--if too roughly Davis didn't notice or care--and kept one hand on Starsky's shoulder. But Davis saw that he meant it. The young Starsky felt rather than saw that deadly love emanating from Hutch--that looked so deceptively innocent in the photos of Hutch with his arm across his father's shoulders.

"I said no. There's time for that later. We have to take care of him right now. We'll save everything for evidence. The ropes, his clothes, whatever may be under his fingernails. Brush his hair. Save the brush."

"Hutch," Davis said hotly, "you're gonna lose a lot of evidence if you don't get some cops over here tonight."

Hutch turned icy eyes to him. "Don't lecture me on evidence, young man. Your father is the best evidence we have, and he's alive. The rest can be compromised. Right now his emotional state is more important. Listen to him."

"He needs a hospital."

"They're mostly old wounds, Davis. He'll mend."

"I'm talkin' about a psychiatric hospital."

Hutch could envision how it would be for Starsky in a psych hospital. They would restrain him, medicate him, ask him a million questions, have the police come down and THEY would ask him a million questions. And it all just might send him over the precarious edge he was trying to cling to. Aside from black eyes and rope burns, he did not appear to have any fresh injuries, so immediate medical attention was not necessary.

So this is where he would stay, until he recuperated, for however long it would take.

"Look at his neck," Davis said, then covered his eyes with one hand. "Some . . . " His voice was squeaky, like a little boy's "Somebody tried to hang him."

Hutch gently touched his raw, bruised throat. "We'll keep an eye on that. If he has trouble breathing we'll get a doctor over here."

And then Starsky's voice came muffled from where he spoke into his tattered sleeve. He began to rock in a small, self-comforting motion. "Hutch, it's over, right? Marcos isn't here, is he?"

Hutch didn't try to stop his sad rocking or the sad hiding of his eyes from the faint bathroom light. "Starsky, you got away. You're here with me now. It's going to be all right."

Kent squeezed Davis' shoulder. "Dad, what can we do?"

"Honestly?"

Davis nodded.

"Take a walk for about an hour. Let us talk. Then come back and we'll see how things look. But whatever happens, you and your brother will go to the academy tomorrow."

"No way," Davis said shaking his head. "I'm stayin' here with my dad. We've been apart for eighteen years, and nothin's gonna stop us now."

Hutch ran a hand through the boy's hair. "Listen to me, Davis. I'll take care of your dad. Now that he's here . . . do what you were going to do. He'll be so proud. He wouldn't want you to quit before you even get started."

"I can't do that. I can't leave him here."

"He's with me, all right?"

Davis stubbornly shook his head no. "I'm stayin'. The academy can go take a flyin' leap. My dad's more important than a badge."

"Davis, if you give this up for him . . . honey, it's the sweetest thing you could ever do . . . and I know you'd do it in a second. But he would want you to go. Do it for him."

Davis looked down.

Kent squeezed his brother's arm. "Davis, do it for him. We'll help get that motherfucker Marcos once and for all."

That made Davis' head come up. He touched his father's trembling arm (and when he did, Starsky did not acknowledge it), then he looked at Hutch.

"Okay, Hutch. I'll go."

Davis put his arms around Starsky's neck and hugged him, not wanting to let go. The man that was supposed to be his father . . . came so passively, as if he weren't aware that he was being hugged by anyone at all--let alone his son.

Davis then released his father and stood up with Kent.

"Let's go," Kent said leading him toward the door. "We'll be back in about an hour, Dad."

After the two left, Starsky recoiled far into the corner of the sofa, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging his trembling arms. "Hutch, bad things happened . . . You don't know what they did . . . "

"You're here, okay? You're here with me. You don't have to worry anymore. You won't die. I'll help you."

Hutch swallowed. How he wished he could have gone to get him. How he wished he could have saved Starsky from the obvious (eighteen years, Starsky. People don't survive eighteen years of abuse. There's no way. There must be some mistake. Don't tell me he's held you for eighteen years. I can't comprehend that) torture Marcos had put him through.

For the first time Starsky moved voluntarily. His hand went to his flimsy pocket and pulled out a videotape. "Here. David says you'll need this for evidence. He's seen it before. Lots of times. But there's part of it . . . the second part . . . I won't let him see. It's way too much."

Hutch took the tape, but couldn't take his eyes off of Starsky, whose entire demeanor was changing before his very eyes.

He sat a little straighter, put his feet back on the floor, his head a little higher, he wasn't squinting or trembling. In fact, beneath the bruises, his eyes were direct and clear. There was even a small smile beginning to come to his face as he reached for Hutch's hand. "Good to see you again, Hutch. David sure missed you." He put his hand out.

Hutch, staring, gripped his hand. He didn't understand how Starsky had the strength to sit up. He didn't understand how he'd gotten up the stairs. He didn't understand why Starsky was referring to himself as if he were another person.

Suddenly it felt like the world was tilting.

Starsky pulled at the frayed ropes on his wrists. "These ropes were so old. David worked on 'em quite a while . . . then when the time was right . . . you got a knife or somethin' to cut 'em off?"

A wormlike fear turned in Hutch’s stomach. "Starsky . . . "

"Well, if you don’t want to help him," he said pushing himself off the sofa. "I guess I will. I remember where the fuckin’ kitchen is. But what the hell you got all the lights out for, tryin’ to conserve electricity or somethin’?"

Hutch could barely think coherently, let alone pay attention to what Starsky was actually saying. He moved forward a little to get up. "Uh . . . no, Starsk. It’s not that . . . "

Ignoring his physical condition, his weakness and light-headedness, Starsky took a step forward and collapsed to the floor, striking the corner of his right eye on the way down. Although blood poured and it must have hurt, he made no reaction.

Hutch jumped to his side, but found him covering his eyes again. "Starsk . . . what the hell did they do to you? What is it?"

"Too bright," he mumbled into the floor. "Too much. Turn it off, Hutch."

Understanding hit Hutch. He realized Marcos must have kept him in a dark place that afforded little light or stimulation. And now, after all these years, even the slightest stimuli was too much for him. (But apparently it hadn’t been too much a moment ago for whoever it was that shook his hand) "I’m sorry, Starsk. I should have thought about that before. Let me help you, okay? I’m going to take care of you."

Hutch touched his arm, and when he did, Starsky startled violently and whined.

"Hey . . . " Hutch was torn, between crying and running out the door. "Hey, it’s me."

Hutch pulled the shuddering body to him, but Starsky was only a bundle of limp muscle it seemed. Starsky covered his head with both arms and burrowed against Hutch’s chest. "What time is it?" he murmured, and Hutch doubted he was aware that he had even asked the question at all. "I heard Hutch," he whimpered. "Is he . . . is he here?"

"Starsky, I’m right here."

Starsky sobbed while still covering his head. "Don’t hurt Hutch. I didn’t mean to run. I didn’t mean it. Don’t hurt him because of me. I won’t do it again. I swear. I promise. I won’t run."

Starsky burrowed deeper against him but Hutch was more than able to hold him.

"Sweet Jesus," Hutch whispered to the ceiling. "Please let this be a dream. I can’t take this. Please, God."

"I can hide," Starsky moaned. "I can hide right here in the dark until they see me."

Hutch sat with his back against the sofa for resistance while Starsky tunneled desperately into his chest. "Okay," he finally said in a shaking voice. "You can hide here. I’ll hide you." He didn’t know what else to say. He felt utterly helpless to say or do anything meaningful to him. "They won’t get me here."

This had never been a problem before. He’d always—even in Starsky’s worst condition (the shooting in the restaurant, Bellamy, Gunther) known what to say and do. Always. But this . . . this seemed beyond his capability. Words were not able to penetrate the membrane encasing his friend.

Tears were working their way to the surface, but Hutch bit them back and reached for the telephone with one hand, while keeping his other arm around Starsky.

"Don’t worry," he whispered as he dialed, not caring that his own words could very well mean nothing to his partner. "You’ll be okay."

Hutch just wished his words could mean something to himself.

His partner.

(We haven’t been partners in eighteen years. We haven’t been anything in eighteen years. Except apart. Except fractured. Split. Splintered. So how can I still think of you as my partner? I haven’t been a cop in eighteen years, and you haven’t either. What are we partners in? Not police work. But so help me, Starsk. I still think of us in those terms. Even when you were gone. But all we are now are partners in life. Always best friends. Soulmates. But partners too. Us against whatever. And I will always think of us that way. Even if you never come out of this. Even if they tormented you until . . . until THIS . . . we’re still partners)

Hutch spoke into the telephone receiver.

"Hello? This is Detec . . . I mean . . . Ken Hutchinson. Doctor Lair? Max Lair?"

Hutch felt Starsky’s body winding down now, from exhaustion he was sure.

"You knew me as Detective. I have an emergency. You have to come right away."

Hutch listened to the man on the other end of the line, then said, "I know you don’t make house calls, but this is urgent."

He listened a while longer, then said, "No, I can’t talk about it on the phone. Just get here."

Hutch hung up the phone and gave his full attention to Starsky, who was pressing against him as if wanting to somehow dig inside, never to return.

"My hands," Starsky panted into his shirt. "Let go of my hands."

Hutch felt how hot Starsky’s face was against him, and wondered if a fever wasn’t behind most of his ramblings.

Hutch hugged him close. "Nobody has your hands, Starsk."

"He broke ‘em," Starsky wept weakly. "He stomped on ‘em."

Hutch closed his eyes. Starsky’s hands, or more likely, wrists, may have been broken at one time, but they certainly weren’t now. He was very able to grasp and cling and handle.

"Sshh," Hutch tried to soothe. "Your hands are okay."

"Hurt. They hurt."

"Hutch, don’t let ‘em . . . " He pushed harder against Hutch, his voice rising in fear and anxiety. "Hutch! They’re comin’! Please stop! Please!"

Hutch had seen Starsky have nightmares before. But in the middle of the night while he was asleep. Not while he was wide awake.

"HUTCH!"

And then Hutch realized it was more than a nightmare. It was a flashback. Similar to what some Vietnam veterans experienced: Combat Post Traumatic Stress Disorder—living a terrible experience all over again. And there was something else. Something more going on. Something he didn’t want to think about.

Suddenly Starsky was scrambling away from him on all fours like a spider, making his clumsy way to his feet, whining and crying and running from something that only he could see.

"Starsky!"

With a twinge in his leg, Hutch held onto the sofa for support and pulled himself up.

Starsky was already in the bedroom, slamming and locking the door.

"Out!" came his fearful voice, and he laughed a little in what sounded like relief. "Stay out!"

Hutch reached the door and threw his body against it, making it slam back against the wall.

"Starsk?"

But he was nowhere to be seen.

Hutch looked around.

"Starsk?"

He looked in the closet and found he wasn’t there.

"Starsk? It’s okay. What’s the matter, buddy? Come out here and talk to me. Nobody’s going to hurt you. A doctor’s on the way, okay? He’ll help you."

No answer. And no sign of him.

"Starsk? Where are you?"

Still no answer.

And then Hutch heard the mewling sound of pain and fear coming from under the bed.

Hutch’s breath seemed to come ten degrees cooler through his throat.

"Starsk?"

Hutch dropped flat on his stomach and looked under the bed.

Starsky lay on his stomach too, under the bed, squealing in pain because he was digging his fingernails into his eyes, cheeks, and neck. Drawing blood. Hurting himself.

"STARSKY, STOP IT!"

Hutch reached under the bed for him and Starsky pawed at his hand to keep it away.

Hutch kept his hand under the bed. Because as long as Starsky was pawing at him, he wasn’t clawing at himself.

But it was too late. The damage had been done. He was bleeding from dozens of scratches on his face.

"Starsky, please let me help you. Don’t. You don’t have to do this. It’ll be okay. Do you see me? Look at me. Take a good look at me. See where you are? You’re not with Marcos anymore. You’re here with me."

Starsky began to calm down, his chest rising and falling heavily with each frantic breath.

"I like it here," came his small pant.

"I know you do."

Starsky looked at him, his breathing slowing, his countenance relaxing, his eyes blinking sleepily. "Tired."

"I know you’re tired. You can sleep in this nice warm bed for a change. And you can have a good long bath. And some food. And the doctor will take a look at you . . . and . . . and you’ll get used to things again. You’ll get used to me again. And you’ll be safe."

Starsky blinked tiredly. He was very calm, almost smiling. "I’m safe here."

Hutch felt like crying. "Why don’t you come out of there and we’ll cut those fucking ropes off your hands."

Starsky smiled wearily. "Fuckin’ ropes."

"And we’ll clean you up before the doctor comes. You want to scare him to death?"

Starsky only regarded Hutch with the simple, easy gaze of a child. "Don’t worry, Hutch. I stopped David before he hurt himself too bad. He does that . . . hurts himself . . . when he remembers what they did. Sometimes he’ll use a rock or a stick. Whatever’s handy. It makes him feel good." He smiled a little. "Silly, huh? He feels really, really calm after the blood comes out. He does things you wouldn’t understand. But I don’t let him take it too far."

Hutch didn’t know if his voice would come. It felt obscene . . . wrong . . . crazy . . . to be talking to Starsky, but somehow a different Starsky. Or a part of Starsky. Or whoever he was. But Hutch realized with a sinking feeling that it may be the only way to help his suffering partner. To get inside his world might be the only way to get him out.

"Who . . . are you?"

"Michael."

"Muh . . . " He couldn’t finish.

Starsky kept talking.

"There are things you need to know, Hutch. Things that David isn’t strong enough to tell you. But you need to know, ‘cause I know you want to help him. And believe me . . . " He laughed a little. "He needs the help."

Hutch nodded, feeling at once foolish, but relieved, that some sort of communication was going on. He was beginning to believe that HE was the one losing touch.

But it didn’t matter. He would do this for Starsky. He would do whatever it took to make him whole again, no matter how crazy it seemed. They might end up putting HIM in a psychiatric hospital, but it would be worth it helped his best friend.

"I’m listening, Starsk."

"Michael," Starsky corrected.

"Colors and sounds. And smells. And images. They’re too much for David right now."

"I know." Hutch took a breath. "But not for you?"

"No. And . . . don’t ask him to sleep in a bed yet. The floor’s just fine."

"No, the floor is not just fine. He . . . I mean . . . you . . . can have the bed."

"He won’t sleep in it."

A pause.

"Please sleep in it. For me?"

"Nah, David can't. But I will."

"How about a bath?"

Another pause. "A bath?"

"Will he take a bath?"

"No."

"Will you?"

"Guess I should. You said a doctor was comin’, right?"

Hutch nodded. "And . . . would you eat something?"

"Well . . . I don't know about that."

"Will you eat something for David?"

"Yeah. I can do that."

Starsky showed Hutch his hands. "Guess I’ll come out now and get these ropes off."

"Yeah," Hutch nodded. "You do that." He extended his hand to Starsky. "Need any help?"

"Nah," he answered as he tried to move out from under the bed. But he wasn't as stout as he believed himself to be, as he wanted to be--just like earlier when he'd gotten off the sofa. And he had to stop to rest and catch his breath.

Hutch put his hand out again. "Come on, tough guy."

Starsky gripped his hand and Hutch carefully pulled him out.

"Watch your head."

Hutch helped him to his feet. "Okay?"

Starsky stood very still, to steady his head and his legs.

Hutch put an arm around his shoulders and helped him from the bedroom and into the kitchen, easing him into a kitchen chair.

Starsky looked around as if he were in a museum of fine art.

"This would scare David," he said softly. "He was used to that dark cellar. He's not used to everyday things."

Hutch found himself touching the back of Starsky's head, battling tears again. He wet a paper towel and dabbed at the scratches on his face, and the cut in the corner of his eye.

"I know," Hutch said. "That's . . . that's why you do these things for him, isn't it? That's how you got away. How you got up the stairs. Isn't it?"

Starsky looked up at him. "Yeah. Because he can't."

Hutch went to the refrigerator and sorted through the food with a trembling hand. "I'm going to feed you so you'll feel better when you take your bath, okay? Then after the doctor leaves you can get a good night's sleep."

"Sure."

"And would you . . . stay here? Michael, I mean? So the doctor can talk to you?"

"Sure."

"Is there . . . anything special . . . you want to eat?"

"Nah. Whatever you have'll be fine."

Hutch pulled out a carton of milk, then poured Starsky a glass while he heated up a pan of chicken soup on the stove. He thought something mild would be best.

Starsky waited patiently, his eyes traveling around in the semi-dark room.

"You can turn the light on," he told Hutch. "It doesn't hurt my eyes."

Hutch poured the soup into a bowl and handed him a spoon.

"Just David's, huh?"

Starsky sipped the milk. "Yeah."

He spooned up some soup.

"Hutch, I don’t think you can help David if you don’t watch the tape."

"The . . . "

He had almost forgotten the tape.

Starsky shook his head sadly. "It’s not easy to watch."

Hutch sat down at the table with him. "Why would you bring it to me? Didn't you think I'd believe you?"

Starsky shook his head no. "Wasn't that. David just . . . he didn't know if anybody else would. And he wasn't sure if you were still alive. Not after they shot you three times."

Hutch's eyes clouded with concern. "How . . . how did you know they shot me three times? You were lying facedown . . . unconscious . . .on the sidewalk."

"'Cause I saw it."

He put the spoon down and tugged at the frayed ropes around his wrists.

"Could you uh . . . "

Hutch took out his pocketknife, carefully, so as not to frighten Starsky.

But Starsky didn't seem bothered by it.

(And why would he? It was probably nothing compared to what they put him through)

Hutch slowly cut the ropes around both of his wrists, then laid them aside.

"Evidence, okay? And we'll keep your clothes, and scrape your fingernails into a little cup. So when you take your bath, just leave everything in the bathroom. I'll get it later."

Starsky nodded and sipped his milk again. Quietly he said, "David choked Marcos' man, Hutch. He choked him with his bare hands. He never choked anybody to death before."

Starsky became emotional, wiping at his eyes.

Hutch watched him hang his head in shame, still able to feel remorse and a human emotion after all the inhuman treatment he'd endured.

"Self-defense, buddy. Don't worry about it. At least you got away, and you're here. That's the important thing. You're the important thing."

Starsky's eyes fell on Hutch's cane propped in the corner of the living room.

"Whose is that?"

At first he didn't want to tell Starsky, but then he decided that if he expected Starsky to tell him what happened, he needed to be forthcoming as well, even if it hurt a little. He didn't want any secrets between them.

"It's mine. From where I was shot in the leg. I walked on it too soon. Drove with it too soon. Ran on it too soon."

Starsky looked at him. "Your leg got messed up because you were lookin' for David. You wouldn't stay in the hospital, would you?"

"I couldn't. I know you understand that. You'd do the same for me."

Starsky held his stomach and put the spoon down.

"I don't feel so good, Hutch."

Hutch saw him paling right before his eyes.

"Starsk? What is it?"

And Starsky doubled over in his chair, retching the milk and soup onto the floor.

"Oh man," he spit, trying to catch his breath. "I'm sorry, Hutch. I messed up your floor."

Hutch got up for some paper towels, hand a few wet ones to Starsky. The mess was small because he had only consumed a little.

"Don't worry about it," Hutch told his as he rubbed the back of Starsky's neck. "It's okay."

Starsky raised his head and rubbed his mouth with the wet paper towels. "Thanks." He wiped his eyes and tried to catch his breath. "Guess my stomach's not ready for fancy food like that. I'll take what David eats."

Hutch threw the paper towels away. "What's that?"

Starsky was still holding his stomach. "Bread and water."

"Bread and water?" Hutch repeated. "That’s all they gave you?"

"That’s all they gave DAVID. But he ate it. I told him to pretend like it was his favorites. If they chained his ankle to that stake outside, sometimes he found a mushroom or two in the grass—the safe ones that you told him about one time. And . . . " He looked down. "There was honeysuckle. They threw dead mice and table scraps down in the cellar for me to eat . . . but I wouldn’t. The beat me for it. For almost everything. But I wouldn’t eat that. And when mushrooms started growin’ through the floor . . . that was even better. I hid ‘em so Marcos wouldn’t see ‘em."

Hutch was trembling with rage. He held onto the back of the chair and pushed it hard into the floor to keep from heaving it across the room.

"Hutch, they made me watch that tape of you getting shot. They made me watch it over and over. I didn’t want to. The first time I got sick, because I thought you were dead. Killed just because you were comin’ to help me. But they showed it to me over and over again, on a portable TV with a video player built in. And I guess there was a camera in the cellar too. Somewhere in the wall. Couldn’t tell where. I never knew when they turned it on. I never saw them do that. They must’ve turned it on from somewhere else. And they showed me tapes of what they did to David. That’s the part I won’t let David see."

Hutch crouched next to the chair. "Starsky, you’re going to have to tell me, if you can, what happened to you, because I honestly don’t think I can watch them hurting you."

"Well . . . " His eyes filled with tears. "I had to watch them hurt you, didn’t I?" He looked away and took a little breath to compose himself.

Hutch’s heart melted in his chest and he suddenly felt small and selfish.

"Okay," Hutch said softly. "I’ll try." He looked at his watch. "Doctor Lair should be here any minute. You want to try some bread and water?"

Starsky nodded.

"I’ll have a loaf of fresh-baked bread delivered to this very door. The best you’ve ever had. And a big, clear glass of ice water. With some vitamins and iron on the side. How does that sound to you?"

Starsky smiled. "Sure. Sounds good."

"Okay. You get into that shower while I order up your bread from the bakery. I’ve got some extra clothes here you can wear."

Starsky nodded, then with Hutch’s help, pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey," Starsky laughed a little as he held onto Hutch’s arm for support. "I think I’m the one who needs a cane."

Hutch slowed his pace to match Starsky’s and escorted him to the bathroom. "You’ll get stronger, Starsk."

Starsky smiled again, and Hutch knew they were as close as they’d always been.

Time had not changed their friendship. Just his friend.

And for a moment Hutch could believe that nothing terrible had happened. He could believe that it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.

Until Starsky said with a little scolding, "You’re gonna keep callin’ me that, aren’t you?"

Starsky waited patiently outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall for support, while Hutch set about getting things ready for Starsky to take his shower, laying out towels, shampoo, soap. But the razor (Marcos shaved me, Starsky had told him. He said I couldn’t have a beard like him. He shaved my face every day with a straight razor. And sometimes he would rake the safe end across my neck like he’d slit my throat, and I’d panic, but he told me not to move or he'd do it for real. He thought that was funny) he kept safely in his top dresser drawer.

Hutch handed Starsky some clothes and Starsky stepped inside the bathroom.

The closed door worried him. Anything could happen behind a closed door. He could find something to hurt himself with if he became lost in a flashback.

"Hey, Starsk? Give a yell if you need anything. I’m right out here. Anything at all."

"Yeah," Starsky’s voice returned, and then came the sound of the shower.

Hutch wondered if the water frightened him, and realized he would soon find out if it did.

He heard the usual bathroom sounds. The hollow clonking of the shampoo bottle against the tiles, the thud of a bar of soap as it slipped and hit the porcelain tub.

Everything sounded normal.

Except for the small sound beneath the spray of the shower.

Faint, but there.

The sound of Starsky’s quiet sobbing.

Strangely, though, not a sound of pain or fear.

Hutch started to knock on the door and ask if everything was okay.

But he didn’t.

He decided that Starsky was entitled to a private cry over the simple awe of taking a shower again.

Hutch thought it was Dr. Lair when a knock came at the door, but it turned out to be Davis and Kent.

(Bless their hearts. They have the sensitivity and compassion to restrain themselves from the one person they had longed to—but knew they never would—meet, when what they really wanted to do was break the door down, hug and kiss him for about an hour and ask him a lot of questions)

Hutch opened the door a crack.

"Hutch?" Davis asked. "How is he?"

"A little better. He ate a few bites."

(but threw it up because his poor stomach can only tolerate bread and FUCKING WATER!)

"And I talked him into taking a bath." (No, you mean you talked MICHAEL into taking a bath for Starsky, who is too terrified to eat or take a bath or do anything. He’s been in a . . . no, please don’t let you mind play on that thought . . . a . . . dark place . . . a . . . a cellar, damn it . . . for . . . please, not for this long. Not eighteen years. That’s not human. That’s not thinkable. He hasn’t seen a decent human being in . . . in that span of time. Kept from the outside world. Kept a prisoner. Deprived of good food, proper sleep, normal stimuli, medical attention, proper hygiene, fresh air, and sunshine)

"I’ve got Doctor Lair on the way. Psychiatrist. A traumatologist. He’s worked with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Vietnam vets, disaster victims, Prisoners of War, Holocaust survivors . . . "

(And me, after . . . the Judge Meyers affair . . . the boys don’t know about that either. So much you kept from them. To protect their sensibilities. To keep them "unspotted" as Dr. Feldman had said when explaining that he’d kept his concentration camp experiences from his wife)

(No, you can’t tell them. You can’t say the rest, can you? You can’t say it because you don’t want to believe it yourself, you don’t want to admit that it’s this bad, that a few days of food, rest, and TLC can’t fix it. That Starsky may be over the edge. He may be here, but lost for good. You don’t need to know right now. It couldn’t be of any use to you. What purpose would it serve? I’m shielding you, right or wrong, just like I did when you were younger, from the harshest of the world. And especially you, Davis. With what you’ve experienced in your early childhood, you don’t need to see your father like this. You’ve endured enough of that yourself without seeing the effects on your father. You don’t need to see him hiding under a bed or digging his fingernails into his flesh. Good thing I’m cutting those nails. For evidence. That’s one weapon he won’t be able to use against himself. But there could be others he’d have to watch out for. He’d have to watch Starsky very closely for the triggers. If only he knew what all of the triggers were . . . )

(The tape)

(The tape would tell him)

(Hutch, I don’t think you can help David if you don’t watch the tape)

(The tape would show it all)

(Not eighteen years worth, but it would show him enough)

(Oh Starsky, you don’t know it, but you are trying so hard to help me help you)

(Lair will need to see the tape too)

(If he’s going to help Starsky, he’ll need to know everything)

"After Max leaves, your dad can get a good night’s sleep."

Davis saw something in Hutch’s eyes.

Not a threat. Not anger. Not a challenge or power struggle. Just something like a protective angel standing guard.

Davis gently pushed on the door, testing it. Testing Hutch. And decided to leave this blond German shepard alone.

"When can we come back, Hutch?"

"First leave you get from the academy."

Davis’ eyes filled with tears. "That’s too long."

"Trust me. Your stuff’s all packed, right?"

"In the trunk," Kent said behind Davis.

Hutch pulled his wallet out and handed them some money.

"Get a hotel room for the night. And a good night’s sleep. Go to the academy and do your best. You can call from time to time."

Davis searched his eyes.

"It’s better this way," Hutch’s eyes said.

And Davis trusted him enough to turn and walk away.

After Davis and Kent left, Hutch knocked on the bathroom door.

"Starsk?"

The shower had stopped and Starsky had had more than enough time to get dressed.

He knocked again.

"Hey, Starsk? You okay? You need any help?"

But only silence returned.

Hutch tried to keep his voice calm.

"Starsky, I'm going to open the door and check on you, okay? Is that okay?"

Still, no answer came.

Hutch gently turned the knob so as not to startle him, and carefully opened the door.

Starsky's dirty clothes were folded onto a stool, the bathroom, smelled pleasantly of soap, shampoo, and deodorant, and the small Dixie cup contained clipped fingernails.

Starsky himself, dressed in Hutch's clothes--a white t-shirt and tan corduroys (which would have been slightly too large on him without the weight loss but now simply made him look like a refugee) had fallen asleep while putting on his second sock, seated on the floor against the wall, his head lounging on his own shoulder.

"Hey," Hutch whispered as he crouched and finished pulling Starsky's sock onto his foot. "You're really tired, huh?"

It was then that Hutch stopped, his eyes catching on Starsky's ankle.

He gently moved the cuff of his pants to see the ankle more clearly.

Hutch winced at the sight.

There were deep scars, some old, some not so old, and newer red marks, encircling the ankle.

It looked to have been bound by steel teeth at one time. Maybe many times.

Hutch looked at the other ankle and saw a peppering of scars there too, and could only guess as to what had created them.

No wonder a simple cut from the coffee table hadn't fazed him. His body had grown used to--or more immuned to--worse pain than that.

"Come here, buddy," Hutch said gently as he pulled Starsky halfway to his feet, then lifted him up and carried him to the bedroom and settled him into the bed, where he covered him with a sheet.

Then he went to the phone to order bread from the bakery.

Hutch handed the traumatologist a cup of coffee and sat down with him at the kitchen table.

Dr. Max Lair was a lumberjack of a man with a beard, round wire glasses, and gentle demeanor that put most people at ease. Not a requirement for a psychiatrist, but something helpful to trauma patients.

Max pushed his glasses up on his nose and noted that Hutch's coffee cup was trembling in his hand.

Hutch saw him looking and steadied it with both hands.

"Ken, you don't look well. You said it was an emergency. Are you having a problem with the Meyers ordeal?"

"No, um . . . "

(I wish I were, Max. I wish this was all about me and not my partner. I would rather go through the Meyers thing again than see Starsky like this. That was easy compared to this)

"It's not me," Hutch said quietly. "It's Starsky."

"But he's . . . Isn't he missing? Presumed dead? Ken, are you sure you're all right?"

"Max, he's here."

Max looked a little skeptical until Hutch pushed the frayed, blood-stained ropes across the table toward him.

"He's been held by Simon Marcos' cult for eighteen years."

Being as quiet as possible, Hutch led Max into the bedroom where his partner was sleeping.

Even asleep, there was a slight tension in Starsky's body. Before, he had always had such a confident ease about his body, could sleep anywhere, get comfortable anywhere, could be found sprawled asleep in the backseat of a car or in a strange bed, and never slept with "one eye open". And certainly not with this newfound hypervigilance. Although comfortable and in a deep sleep on his side, he did not look rested or at peace like he once did.

Max began a visual examination of Starsky while he slept, assessing the black eyes, the scratches he'd put on his face and neck, and the old scars.

"Self-abusing?" Max asked Hutch mildly.

Hutch didn't want to nod his head in answer to that question.

(Don't let your damn pride cover up the problem, Hutchinson. Max needs your honesty. He needs the facts to evaluate)

But he nodded anyway.

Max kept examining. The scars around his wrists and ankles.

"Bound with something . . . " the doctor murmured to himself. "I don't know what the hell with."

The ones on his arms. Slash marks mostly on the outside of his arms.

"Defense wounds," Max said as he demonstrated covering his head with his arms.

Hutch nodded, and could only imagine what he had covered up from.

"They look like tear wounds," Max finished.

Hutch closed his eyes, not quite sure what that meant but having a pretty good idea and feeling sicker by the moment.

Max raised the white T-shirt to examine his stomach, side, and back.

"Bite marks? Surely to God . . . I don't think they're human bites, though."

Hutch looked at the scarring on Starsky's side and stomach until the tears worked their way to the surface. Then he looked away.

"An old bullet wound," Max noted as he nodded toward his shoulder.

Hutch nodded. No need to look at that one. "That's how they got him."

"Thank God that's the only one," the doctor said, but a bit more gently.

He remembered the Meyers affair, and how helpful--if not essential-- Starsky had been to Hutch's healing. How he would gingerly pull Hutch into the areas he really didn't want to go in. He had been Hutch's compass, keeping him on path whenever he felt overwhelmed with the difficulty of therapy.

Max didn't think Hutch would have engaged in, or would have benefited from, therapy, if hadn't been for Starsky's constant but gentle reminders that it had to be done.

Several times, Max remembered, Hutch would close down and want to run away, literally and figuratively, but Starsky, seeming to know exactly what to say and do, pulled him back each time.

Now, seeing Starsky as the patient, Max knew he would get the flip side of the same coin. Hutch's presence and assistance would be critical to Starsky's therapy. In fact, he predicted failure without it.

"No knife wounds," Max added quietly. He touched the bright red bruising and rope burns on Starsky's throat. "This just happened tonight. Looks like they tried to hang him." He was very surprised to hear the slight tremble in his own voice. "More than once."

A pause.

"Malnutrition. Dehydration."

The psychiatrist removed his glasses and cleaned them on his sweater.

(A moment to compose? Hutch thought. With all the trauma patients you must have seen throughout your long career, you haven't seen anything this bad, have you? Because all of your POW and Holocaust survivors come way, way after the fact. Starsky is fresh from captivity)

"I would suspect, Ken, that his psychological torture was worse."

Hutch carefully pulled Starsky's shirt back down and covered him again with the sheet. "I'm not sure exactly how he got away," he whispered. "Butt he got out of the ropes and choked one of them to death. He had the presence of mind . . . at least . . . Michael had the presence of mind . . . to bring along a videotape that shows . . . where they recorded him. . . Max, he calls himself Michael. And then he talks about David as if David is someone else. And . . . I don't understand it all. Who is who . . . who is real . . . who is Starsky . . . it's like . . . what? A split personality?"

Starsky was beginning to stir a bit in the bed, as if he could hear Hutch's whisper. He turned onto his stomach and resumed sleeping.

Max led hutch from the bedroom and into the living room.

"Ken, there are no "split personalities" anymore. We call that schizophrenia, and that's not what this is. Schizophrenia is organic and not the result of trauma."

Max went to the kitchen and brought back both coffees.

"Sit down please," Max directed.

And Hutch didn't mind the directive. He sat in his rocking chair while Max took the sofa.

"Ken, I think you already know what the diagnosis is."

Hutch looked into his coffee cup. "I don't want it to be a multiple personality disorder."

"Isn't that why you called me?"

Hutch's eyes moved--(but they didn't want to move)--to the videotape on the coffee table.

"And if he's that broken up," Max said as he reached for the tape, "he needs to be fixed."

The doctor looked around until he spotted the TV and VCR.

"I can watch it first if you like," Max told him. "And then tell you about it, if it will be easier. And then later, when you feel like you're ready, you can watch it."

Hutch raised his eyes to the psychiatrist.

"No," he said without a sting as he took the tape from Max's hands. "I'll watch it first. And alone."

Even though Max was the only person besides Starsky who had full, intimate knowledge of the Meyers ordeal, and had seen him in his lowest moments--crying until his throat was raw, pacing until his legs gave out, so exhausted he fell asleep during a session, so frightened when he spoke of the incidents that he could only sit stiffly in his chair as if paralyzed again, so vulnerable at times the doctor thought he would shatter into a million fragments that couldn't be reassembled--(please, doctor, you don't understand. I don't want to talk about the Meyers thing. I don't want to relive that mess again, what good would it do? It's too painful, I just want to stop the therapy and go home. I can handle this myself. I've always been able to handle things myself. Me and Starsky--Hutch was still too proud to let Max invade this privacy--Starsky's privacy, first.

"I understand," Max said as he walked to the door. "I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'm going to have my secretary reschedule the day's appointments."

The first scene Hutch watched could easily have been a memory or a nightmare he had of that day.

"Starsky, go!"

Starsky running down the street as hard and as fast as he could go.

Hutch struggling against the men.

The shot ringing out and Starsky going down.

"Starsky!"

Hutch tearing away from them and running after him.

The first shot.

High in the back. His left shoulder.

Not too bad.

Well, bad but okay. A ball of fire in his shoulder but he could keep going. They couldn't stop him as long as his legs were moving.

Then the second shot.

In his calf.

Almost knocking his leg out from under him. Going down. He was going down but struggling to stay on his feet--his leg was numb from thigh to foot and he couldn't feel it--limping and lurching toward his fallen partner.

Blood on Starsky's shoulder. Oh God, it's bad. Blood all over. Too much blood. He'll bleed to death. Have to help him. Starsky, come here. I've got you. Come here.

And the third shot.

A graze. Searing like a hot brand to his temple. Immobilizing. Dark. Nothing.

Starsky, come here.

Going down.

Starsky, I'm sorry

And staying down.

But I've got you, Starsk.

I'm not letting go.

And I didn't, Hutch thought. I wimped out but I didn't let go. They had to pull you out of my hand.

Hutch watched with a hand half-hiding his eyes, inching lower and lower into the rocking chair while Marcos' men picked the unconscious, bleeding Starsky up and brought him to the van, closer to the camera which angled to capture Starsky as he was tossed inside.

And then the scene ended there.

Hutch sat pressing his fingers into his eyes and realized he wasn't breathing, and when he did it came in with a gasping sound.

As bad as it was, Hutch had known what to expect. He had seen it live and in person, up close and personal, had lived it, eighteen years ago, so there were really no surprises in this scene. The degree of pain he felt while watching it was no surprise either. He knew it would hurt.

But he was not, in any way, prepared for the scenes that followed.

For the scenes that "Michael" would not let "David" see.

At first the scenes were bearable.

Bizarre--but bearable.

In the dark cellar. The only light from torches and candles. The camera obviously hand-held by one of the cultists from the jerky movements of the images. Panning across the cellar, scanning the cultists, chanting low now--unintelligible words--faces half-obscured by the hoods on their long robes.

One of their rituals--who knew the significance.

The door at the top of some stone steps creaking open, Starsky being tossed down onto the half-stone, half-dirt floor as if he were a bag of trash, landing in a heap, groaning but not moving, the back of his blood-soaked shirt glistening wetly in the dim light.

(this is after they first captured him, Hutch thought. The blood on his back is fresh and he's wearing the same clothes he had on that day)

"Get up," one of the cultists said as he nudged Starsky's side with his shoe.

But Starsky wasn't able to do anything except moan.

A second cultist kicked him in the side.

"Get up! Marcos is coming! You have to be up for the induction!"

But it made Starsky do nothing at all except moan again.

In the back of the cellar a handful of cultists were filling a large wooden tub from buckets, evidently preparing a bath.

More cultists brought buckets down the stone steps and emptied them into the wooden tub.

(Fucking bastard, Hutch thought as he watched the TV screen, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. He can't get up. He's out of it. Don't you see that?)

The door creaked open and the cultists all bowed on one knee in reverence as Simon Marcos came down the stone steps.

More chanting. Terms of adoration.

Whispers of allegiance and worship.

Two cultists pulled Starsky to his feet and held him between them because he couldn't stand.

"Bow," one of them commanded, but Starsky didn't, or couldn't.

They started to push him to his knees, but Simon held a hand up.

"He will," he said calmly and assuredly. "But I want it to be his own choosing. Even God doesn't force his children to bow to him."

Starsky's head was lolling to his chest and he seemed not to hear.

Until Marcos calmly stepped up to him and began to unbutton his shirt, lingering on each one and trailing his finger down Starsky's chest and stomach.

"The bath always comes first," Marcos murmured.

At the sound of Marcos' voice, and at the touch of his hand, Starsky cringed and tried to shrink away, mumbling something . . . to himself or Marcos, Hutch wasn't sure.

Hutch shaded his eyes as he found a nail in the floor to look at.

"Oh God," he whispered to himself. "Starsk . . . "

"Sshh," Simon soothed as he gripped the front of Starsky's belt and pulled him a little closer. "It has to be, Starsky. You're my eternal sacrifice. Alive forever. And mine forever."

Starsky groaned and tried to step away but Marcos pulled him back, laughing gently.

"Come here, Starsky."

Starsky raised his head and tried to focus on Marcos with glazed eyes that rolled helplessly around.

"Hutch . . . "

At first Hutch raised his head to the sound of Starsky saying his name on the TV screen.

(Oh God, Starsk. You called for me. You needed me and I wasn't there)

"No," Marcos said kindly as he tugged on Starsky's belt. "I'm not Hutch. And he's not here. He will never, never be here. You're all alone, and there's nothing at all you can do to stop me."

Starsky kept trying to step back away from Marcos' hand, but the cult leader held him securely.

A small whimper escaped Starsky as Marcos slipped his blood-stained shirt off, then unbuckled his belt.

"Don't be afraid," Marcos purred, then dipped his head and kissed him gently on the mouth.

Hutch's hands squeezed into fists on the arms of the rocking chair and he looked down again. "Stop it," he whispered. "Leave him alone."

Starsky made a small, feeble attempt to move away, a groan of fear and revulsion passing his throat, but Marcos held his head carefully between both hands and gazed into his eyes.

"It's all right, Starsky. Everything will be all right. The baptism will wash your sinful nature away, and then you'll be mine."

Marcos continued to hold his head up while the other two cultists supported his body, while yet two more came to slip off his shoes, socks, and pants.

"Hands," Starsky mumbled to no one really, and was too weak to see or know how many hands were pawing and stroking and handling his body.

He gazed through Marcos, past Marcos, but not at Marcos, as he was stripped and left standing--being held upright really--without clothes.

The cultists gathered around, murmuring, chanting softly, their hands reaching, soothing, caressing, until four of them picked him up, each by an arm or leg, and carried him over to the wooden tub.

He was yielded and silent until he felt himself being lifted into the air and held over the tub.

Then he looked down at the tub and began a pitifully useless struggle to get down.

"No," he moaned, managing only small twists and turns in their hands. "Let me go."

Hutch knew Starsky was struggling for a reason.

He had seen something. Smelled something. Sensed something.

"What is it?" Hutch whispered to the Starsky on the TV screen, unaware he had even spoken. "What is it, Starsk?"

Marcos disrobed, and climbed the few steps that led up to the wooden tub, then settled into the deepness.

"I'm ready for him," Marcos said as he held his arms out as if to receive a baby.

Starsky felt his body being lowered closer to the tub. To Marcos.

"No! Don't!"

"You must be baptized," Marcos said as he took the struggling Starsky into his arms.

But Starsky couldn't have heard that, because he was protesting and pleading too much.

And it was after Marcos pushed him under the surface, held him under for a few moments, then pulled him back up again that Hutch saw why Starsky had fought so hard.

The tub was filled with blood, and now Starsky was drenched in it from head to foot and squealing uncontrollably.

And there the scene ended.

Bizarre--(the candles, the torches, the chanting)

But bearable.

Horrible--(the ritual, the blood, Marcos)

But bearable.

Heart-wrenching--(the hands, the helplessness, the squealing)

But bearable.

Hutch leaned forward and covered his face.

(Why didn't the bathroom scare you? The water? The shower?)

And then he knew.

Because Starsky hadn't taken the shower..

Michael had.

But another scene followed, allowing no time for his brain to recover, or his tense body to uncoil, or his breathing to return to normal--

Obviously a little later the same night.

The cultists all gone.

Marcos gone.

Starsky, drenched in blood, red and sticky all over, crawling on the floor to his small pile of clothes, sniffing, sobbing as he, clearly still in pain from the bullet in his shoulder, but managing to pull on his underwear and jeans with weak, uncooperative hands, then, panting, stumbling on hands and knees, making his way up the stone steps to collapse against the heavy door.

(You know it's locked, don't you, Starsky? You know it's locked but you try anyway. Because you don't give up. It's your nature. You're stubborn, willful. "No" is just another word for "not right now" to you. It means "later." It means hope when there is no hope. A way when there is no way. And you made a way to endure, didn't you?)

Another scene.

So sudden and violent Hutch jerked back in his chair. Rose to his feet. Backed up. Looked away. Covered his ears. Not so bearable.

A later time.

The blood all gone from Starsky's body. Still wearing jeans and no shirt.

Still in the cellar.

A dogfight.

Three dogs.

Three Dobermans.

Some of the cultists standing with their torches. Chanting. Cheering. Laughing.

The dogs, vicious, wild, snarling, snapping, biting, but not at each other.

Not fighting at each other.

But fighting at Starsky.

Starsky cowering in a corner, trying to kick at the dogs, arms covering his head.

"Get 'em off me!"

Screaming in fear.

"Marcos! Help me! Get 'em off!"

Screaming in pain.

Screaming for Marcos.

They snapped their jaws into his arms, wrists, jerking, pulling, shaking him.

They had him on the floor, attacking, fangs in his side, ribs, thighs.

He tried to fight. They bit his hands.

Bleeding.

Going into shock.

Screams diminishing.

Whimpering.

Unable to cover up.

The dogs tugging at him as if tearing a cat apart.

A long, unending whine like a mantra, self-medicating, blocking out, self-hypnotizing, self-anesthetizing. Eyes staring overhead.

Marcos giving a verbal signal to the dogs, which obeyed, backing off and settling down on their haunches to wait for their next command.

The scene ending.

And into another.

Hutch shaking his head no but not realizing he was shaking his head no.

Much later. After his wounds had healed.

Two cultists standing Starsky in the middle of the floor, the others standing around with torches and candles, chanting, murmuring, whispering.

"Punishment."

"Trying to escape."

"Must be punished."

"Mustn't escape."

Starsky, eyes dazed, barely able to stand. The cultists slipping a thick noose around his neck and throwing the loose end over a ceiling rafter.

Trying to step away.

Unable to.

The rope pulled taut. Pulled hard. Pulling him off his feet.

Starsky grabbing at the noose around his throat.

Gasping. Choking.

"Punishment."

Coughing. Gagging.

"Must be punished."

Kicking. Struggling.

"Punished."

Rasping.

"Marcos! Please! Help me!"

(No longer calling for Hutch. Calling for Marcos)

Chanting. Murmuring.

"Mustn't escape."

Unable to breathe. Blacking out. No longer kicking. No longer moving.

Marcos signaling for them to stop.

The cultists lowering him to the floor.

(How many times, Starsk? How many times did they do that to you? How many times did you try to escape? How many times did you call Marcos' name because I wasn't around?)

The scene ending.

Hutch still shaking his head no. Not bearable.

Shorter scenes running together.

Starsky refusing to bow to Marcos and being beaten for it.

Starsky being kicked awake while he slept on the floor.

Bread scraps thrown down to him. Blowing the dirt off of them before eating.

Crawling under a table when the cultists came down to the cellar.

Catching water from a ceiling drip into his cupped hands and then sipping it.

The next scene was outdoors.

Night. In the woods.

The camera jerky because the cameraman is running.

"Punishment!" they were all shouting, sometimes one at a time, sometimes all together.

"Escape!"

"Punishment!"

"Escape!"

Hutch felt an absurd surge of joy and hope.

Starsky had escaped.

Somehow.

Some way.

And he was running.

They were chasing him.

The camera was following Starsky as he ran up ahead of them through the woods.

"Go," Hutch found himself whispering. "Run, Starsk."

And then the sound of the dogs barking.

A sob of fear and desperation from Starsky.

Hutch's joy and hope turned to fear and dread.

The dogs barking and snarling and growling in their frenzied chase.

Hutch jerked his head away from the TV, panting, squeezing his eyes shut when the sound of the attack came.

A wicked sound. Of snapping, snarling jaws.

A pitiful sound. Of Starsky screaming in pain as they caught him, mauling and ripping at him. And screaming Marcos' name.

The camera abruptly cutting off.

Sudden silence.

Hutch forced himself to look back at the TV.

(Not bearable at all)

(Well . . . I had to watch them hurt you, didn't I?)

And the last scene.

Quieter.

Quieter chanting.

Later the same night, from the look of Starsky's fresh wounds as he lay bleeding and facedown on the ground. Motionless.

The cultists with shovels.

Digging.

And when they finished the shallow grave, they picked Starsky up and dumped him facedown into it.

(Buried alive)

(Still gasping for breath from the dog attack)

(And they knew it)

(The fuckers knew it)

(Not bearable)

(Not bearable)

(Not bearable)

The tape ended just as the cultists were shoveling dirt onto his partner's back.

----------------"Ken?"

Numb.

He felt numb and empty.

So alone.

So nothing.

--------------"Ken? I watched the tape."

A voice. Familiar.

"Ken?"

Hutch blinked and looked around.

He was sitting on the bottom step in his stairway and had no idea how or when or if he'd gotten there.

Max's hand on his shoulder. His voice calm. As calm as Marcos'.

"Ken? Come back up. We'll talk now that we've both seen it. The bakery delivered some bread while you were sitting here. Did you know that?"

+++++++++++++++++

(He got out of that grave)

(Somehow he did)

(Pawed and dug his way)

(Only to be caught again)

Max poured Hutch a Scotch and sat down with him at the kitchen table, but Hutch only looked into the drink while the psychiatrist talked.

"When one experiences trauma . . . lives it . . . and for as long as Starsky did . . . the brain . . . something organic happens there . . . the chemistry of the brain actually changes . . . adjusts . . . it can do a number of amazing things. . . it can shut down completely as in catatonia . . . which Starsky did not do. He chose to deal with it . . .it can produce its own opiates, a numbing effect to physical pain. Which I suspect he did do. And it can develop survival skills. And one way he dealt with it, his survival skill . . . which only few trauma survivors do, because this is very, very rare . . . is to believe--"

"That it didn't happen? Like extreme denial?"

(Like when he suppressed Tony Vice?)

Max smiled.

"No. This isn't denial. Everyone uses denial once in a while. It's a normal self-defense mechanism. And there are varying degrees of denial--from "No, I wasn't hurt by the divorce at all" to blocking out traumatic events and losing large chunks of time. But this is different. Starsky isn't saying that it didn't happen. That would be easy."

The doctor paused and watched Hutch's face, then continued.

"He's saying it happened to someone else. He receded so far into himself that 'someone else' had to take that pain for him because he just couldn't do it anymore."

Hutch didn't want to lose control in front of the doctor. But he couldn't bear to think that Starsky had endured all that torture . . . without any relief. Without any Hutch coming to his rescue.

The doctor could say all he wanted to about survival skills, but Hutch knew that he was partly to blame for Starsky turning to another personality: Because Starsky had needed help from his partner. And the help never came.

Not after five years.

Not after ten.

Not after fifteen.

"It's a coping skill, Ken. He had to do something to survive. Fight or flight. He tried to fight and it didn't work. He tried . . . how many times . . . to run away. He couldn't run away for real . . . "

"But he could in his mind."

"Exactly."

Hutch drained his Scotch without blinking an eye.

Max continued: "I have respect for survivors and what they do to stay alive and functioning from day to day. He's not crazy, Ken. Not psychotic. He's traumatized. It's not a bad thing. He's not possessed. That's something entirely different. What I'm describing is purely psychological. Dissociating was a healthy, logical option for him. It was easier letting all that happen to Michael. It's how he got by. He wouldn't have survived without it."

"I've read that some victims of incest do that . . . develop one or more personalities."

"It happens. But it's extremely rare in any case, Ken. Most 'multiple personality' cases are misdiagnosed at best, fraudulent at worst. Most MPD cases turn out to be your average personality disorder. Sybil may have been the product of an overly suggestive therapist and an eager-to-please patient."

"But I thought . . . "

"Let me just say it's an intriguing, lucrative concept. Yes, it's real. And I've treated a multiple. But it's rarer than mainstream psychiatry would lead you to believe."

"Why is that?"

"Because few people experience and endure the level of trauma that causes MPD. Most victims . . . of extreme torture, murder . . . don't live to tell the story. And they certainly don't live long enough to develop MPD."

"So he thinks . . . he's someone he's not?"

"No. Nothing at all like that. He's still David Starsky. It's . . . a detaching . . . autopilot . . . have you ever driven somewhere and not remember driving the car? Or put your groceries away, or taken a shower, and not be conscious of the act but accomplishing it all the same? Getting so caught up in a book or movie your lose track of time or lose yourself in what you're doing? Those are normal, mild forms of dissociation. The next level would be what we see in some rape victims and certain Post Traumatic Stress Disorder patients. Like you were when you came to me from the Meyers ordeal. But the most severe level of dissociation . . . from long-term, sadistic abuse . . . is multiple personality disorder . . . is Michael. And you can think of him as part of Starsky if you want to. The "toughest" part, if you will. The part of him that could endure. The part that said 'this is real, this is happening to me, but I'm not a quitter, I'm a survivor.' Multiples are smart, perceptive, and sensitive. I know Starsky well enough to say that about him. He has the character traits that would lend to this."

Hutch nodded. "Michael is his middle name."

"He sees part of himself as strong enough to endure. The survivor inside. David Michael took that pain for him."

"So what do we do about it?"

"Bring both parts--David and Michael--together."

"Don't they call that fusing? Or merging?"

Max smiled. "They do. Some call it, and I prefer to call it, integration."

Hutch rubbed his arms as if cold. "Can we do this without medication? I don't want him to be a zombie."

"Usually therapy and drugs go hand in hand. But like you, I'd rather work with a drug-free, un-medicated Starsky. Drugs don't cure MPD anyway. Only control--if not cover up--the symptoms. And some of the drugs we use for dissociation have a side effect--a sense of well-being--that we want to avoid with MPD. Sounds cruel, doesn't it? To keep a drug like that away from a traumatized patient? But we want, and you want, David to feel the real thing. Not a side effect."

"So . . how do you get him better? Or . . . integrated?"

Max took his glasses off and massaged the bridge of his nose. "First stage is called returning to the pain. We do this carefully, so as not to re-traumatize him. It's very relaxed. Very controlled. Michael will do most of the remembering. Until David is able. And I need to see the switch. From David to Michael. From Michael to David. Why he switches. When he switches. But we can't be in such a hurry for the first stage. I know it's distressing to see him in this state, but we cannot overwhelm him. He has enough stimuli to deal with without us putting more on him. He has suffered tremendous deprivation. Before we do anything else, and above all else, we must gradually re-orient him to human life."

Hutch nodded.

"Tell me," Max said putting his glasses back on. "Does he have violent urges?" "I don't know. This is only his first night here. Not so far anyway."

"Watch for that. Be careful. He may confuse you with his captors."

Hutch smiled sadly. "He's too weak to hurt me. I can handle myself.""

Max noted the sadness in his eyes.

"Ken, he is treatable. His refuge is not permanent. The only choice he had was this." He paused, and then added, "Or death."

Hutch looked down.

"Self-abuse and death can be very seductive to a multiple, Ken. It's a way of releasing the pain. Focusing on an exterior pain to distract himself from an interior one. A way to get those opiates into his bloodstream so he'll feel better. Numb. And he'll do it to re-enact the abuse. He'll become his own abuser because he feels he deserves it. It feels right to him. It feels like it's supposed to be that way. Be aware of that. He doesn't want to really injure himself, though, or die. He just wants it all to go away. That's why he gave it to Michael."

"Will it go away?" Hutch asked quietly.

"In time. With therapy."

Max looked at his watch. "It's almost morning. If you don't mind, I'll fix another cup of coffee and get started on some notes I'll be taking. Multiples don't believe half the stuff you tell tem they say and do. I find journaling shows them their patterns in a very concrete way. And I also want to encourage you to help Starsky keep a journal. He can write as Michael, David, it doesn't matter. And then he can see the differences between the two."

"All right."

Hutch rose from the table and went to the coffeepot for two more cups of

coffee.

"You know," he said pouring, "the worst part is, Max, we only saw thirty

minutes of what he lived through. We don't know the rest."

The impact of his own statement made him set his coffee cup down, and he

simply leaned over the sink and cried onto folded arms.

Max was silent, not surprised by the breakdown. He was just surprised it

hadn't happened earlier.

+++++++++++++++

The living room was quiet. Max writing notes in a large datebook. Hutch

rocking quietly and purposefully, as though the motion could somehow soothe

himself or the situation away. A poor substitute for pacing--something his

leg would not allow him to do much of anymore while under duress.

A sudden noise from the bedroom brought both men to their feet.

Starsky yelping out. A thud on the floor.

They hurried to the room, Hutch getting there first, Max watching from the doorway.

As they expected, Starsky had fallen or climbed out of the bed and was having a nightmare or a flashback, sitting with his back against the wall, hugging his knees, rocking a little, bumping his head back against it in a slow rhythmic motion.

Hutch didn't turn the light on. There was a little light filtering from the living room.

Hutch crouched beside him.

"Starsk?"

"I dreamed . . . " Starsky panted a little and didn't try to hide the fear in his eyes. His face glistened with sweat, the white T-shirt damp. "The woods."

He bumped his head again.

"Starsky, stop. You'll hurt yourself."

He bumped it again. "I'm practicing."

"Prac . . ."

Hutch could see that he was wide awake, but didn't know if Starsky was aware of his presence.

"Practicing being dead."

Hutch swallowed his tears and started to stroke his hair, then thought better of it, but did put his hand on the wall behind Starsky's head to cushion the next bump. "Are you awake now? Look at me."

"I'm not real."

"Starsk, you're real."

Starsky looked at him. "I'm not here."

"You're right here."

Starsky's eyes glittered wetly.

"I want to die."

Hutch did touch his hair, and Starsky flinched but did not draw away.

"Oh, Starsk. You don't want to die. You just feel dead inside. You're trying to take care of yourself. I've got a doctor here. You remember Max? He'll help you. If you wanted to die . . . then there wouldn't be a Michael. He's here because you want to live. You're going to heal, Starsky. Do you believe me?"

Hutch didn't know if Starsky had even heard him.

Hutch looked at Max for reassurance that he was saying words that wouldn't hurt his partner.

Max nodded.

"A dream," Starsky said with real worry in his voice. "I couldn't help it."

Starsky bumped his head backward again, but this time it met Hutch's hand.

He didn't seem to notice this either.

"Hutch?" Starsky asked quietly.

"What?"

Starsky turned worried eyes to him. "You want to hit me, don't you?"

Hutch barely found his voice, and when he did, it was a hushed sound. "Starsky, no. Why would I want--"

"Because I had a nightmare and woke you up. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It was an accident."

"Starsky, my God, buddy. Please. I'm not mad at you. Not for any reason. I wasn't even sleeping. But if I were, it wouldn't matter. If you need me . . . ('I'm here?' Are you going to fucking say that to him after you weren't there for eighteen years?) . . . if you need me . . . I couldn't be mad about that."

Starsky stopped bumping his head, and held his arms. He was trembling and trying hard to stop. "You could just do it and get it over with. Then I'd feel better. I wouldn't have to worry about when. It'd be over."

Hutch felt Starsky's arm tense under his hand, and he removed it.

"Starsk, I'm not going to hit you, or hurt you. There's nothing you could do (except tell me the truth) that would make me (liar) want to hit you."

Starsky held his hands out to him, as if about to be handcuffed. "Here. Tie me up." He swallowed hard, a gasping sob catching in his throat. "Go ahead. As tight

as you want to. I can take it. I don't care."

Hutch was only able to shake his head no. He didn't know what to say or do.

"Hutch, I don't care."

Starsky put his left hand into the palm of his right and pushed hard, bending his fingers back at a painful angle.

"See? I can take a lot of pain. I don't care. I just--I DON'T CARE!"

"Stop it," Hutch whispered sternly as he snatched Starsky's wrists in his hands. He wanted to yell it, scream it, but he couldn't. He had to remain calm. "Your hands won't ever have to be tied or hurt again."

(Like that's going to make a difference to him. Like that's going to stop him)

(Maybe it won't. But I have to say what I feel. And what I mean)

(Starsky needs to hear that)

(He needs to hear Hutch saying his Hutch words)

(Until they sound believable in his ears)

(Until they sound real)

(Until they sound better than the chanting, the murmuring, the laughing, the cheering)

"I can take a lot of pain, Hutch," he said, a lot quieter now.

Starsky continued to rock a little. A self-soothing motion.

"Come here," Hutch said rising to his feet and putting his hand down to him. "I've got something that might help you."

Starsky looked up at him, at his hand, and decided he could get to his feet by holding onto the bedside table.

But at least he got up, Hutch thought. With or without my help, he got up.

Starsky stood tenuously at the wall, both hands on it as if afraid of falling, getting grounded on legs that trembled with weakness.

"What is it?" he asked cautiously.

Hutch smiled a little. "It won't hurt you. Come on."

Hutch flipped the overhead light off, then turned a small lamp on, covering the shade with his handkerchief to dim the light even further.

Starsky took a tentative step forward, and then another, and Max moved aside to let them pass through the doorway.

"Hi," Starsky said quietly to Max without looking at him, arching his back straight when passing by so as not to have any physical contact whatsoever. "Hi yourself."

Max watched as Hutch went to the rocking chair and placed his hand on the back of it, making it rock in a gentle motion.

"Try this, Starsk."

Starsky gave him a wary look.

"It might soothe you," Hutch explained. "Want to try? If you don't like it, you don't have to sit in it."

"Well . . . " Starsky looked from Max to Hutch. "Can I have a drink of water first?"

"Of course you can," Hutch said as he moved instantly to the kitchen. "I promised you a big glass of ice water, didn't I? And the bakery delivered your bread. If you're hungry, that is."

"Come on, Max," Starsky said over his shoulder as he followed him into the kitchen. "You can eat with us."

Max smiled and joined them in the dimly-lit kitchen.

Hutch set the table as if preparing for a special feast, bringing out fine china, good silverware, crystal glasses, and cloth napkins.

It was four o'clock in the morning.

He helped Starsky into a kitchen chair, poured three glasses of ice water, then took the cloth off the loaf of fresh-baked bread.

"Well, Starsk?" Hutch asked when they were all seated. "What do you think?"

Starsky's eyes roamed over the table, then he picked up a butter knife and turned it between his fingers.

At first Hutch wanted to hold his breath--Starsky was so still-- was the knife somehow a trigger for a memory?--but he saw the tears in his friend's eyes and realized he was becoming emotional.

"Gee, Hutch," he whispered. "You didn't have to do all this for me."

Starsky was able--but it was really Michael who was able--to keep the bread and water down this time. It was only a few bites and a few sips, along with a vitamin and iron pill that Hutch had promised. But he was able to keep it down.

And it seemed to fill him and tire him at the same time.

But instead of going to the bedroom to sleep, or the sofa, he went to the rocking chair and settled into it, hesitantly, running his hands slowly over the smooth varnished wood.

Hutch crouched next to the chair. "It won't hurt you," he assured gently.

"I know," Starsky nodded.

"And when David feels like hurting himself, you make him come in here and rock in the chair instead, okay?"

Hutch began rocking the chair in a small motion. "See? It'll help you. Just close your eyes."

He shook his head no. "David can't do that yet."

"Can't what, rock in the chair?"

"No. Can't close his eyes."

Hutch nodded.

"Can you do it for him?"

Starsky blinked sleepily. "Sure," he said closing his eyes, allowing Hutch to rock the chair back and forth as it lulled him to sleep.

Max sat on the sofa with his notes. "Get some rest, Michael. You and I will be talking later on today."

"Turn it off!"

Starsky's shout from the rocking chair roused Hutch and Max from where they dozed--Max in an easy chair, Hutch on the sofa.

It was daylight and Starsky leaned forward in the rocking chair, one arm across his eyes.

"Turn it off!"

Max got out of the chair and stepped closer.

"Dave, what is it? Turn what off?"

But Hutch knew what it was.

He came off the sofa and knelt in front of Starsky, touching his arm but not taking it down from his eyes.

"I can't turn it off, Starsk," Hutch said with kindness. "It's just the sunshine. It's okay. It's just daylight."

Starsky spoke in obvious pain, still leaning forward with his eyes hidden against his arm.

"Hurts my eyes."

(You break my heart, Starsky. You're like a poor vampire, aren't you?)

"I know. Just relax. Keep your eyes closed. I think I can help you with that until you get used to it again."

"I don't want to get used to it. It's too much. I gotta go back."

Hutch reached for a pair of sunglasses on the coffee table.

"Hey," he said softly as he stroked the back of Starsky's head. "I know it's bright and scary, but it'll get better. One day at a time, okay?"

"No. I want to go back to the dark." He started rocking the chair but he was not relaxed. Distress was building. "It's okay there, Hutch. Not so bad. I'll get along. Take me back, okay?"

"No, Starsky. It's not okay there. It's terrible there, and you're not going back. Yes, it was a dark, and you lived there, but it's not a home, and it's not your home. Your home . . ." He swallowed and couldn't squelch the small sob that sounded in his throat. "Is with me. For as long as you need it to be. Not in the dark. Not where there's pain. Right here."

Starsky said nothing, just continued to rock.

"Buddy," Hutch said as he patted Starsky's arm. "I've got sunglasses here. You think Michael would wear them? It'll keep the light out until you get used to it. We'll get you some other glasses. Lighter with each pair, okay? Until you don't need them anymore."

With his eyes still buried, Starsky groped for Hutch and found his shoulder, then jerked his hand back as if it had been burned.

(People have touched you, handled you, pawed you, pushed you, hit you, whenever they wanted, for as long as they wanted, and however they wanted. The only human contact you had for years. You wouldn't, couldn't touch anyone, nor had any nurturing or meaningful physical contact. You closed into yourself, away from human contact, human hands, and now you're afraid to touch. The first human being you've put your hand on, reached out for, when it isn't clutching someone's wrist or ankle while begging for relief, is me)

"It's okay," Hutch whispered. "I understand."

Starsky slowly took his arm down.

"David can wear the sunglasses if he wants to," he said as he took them in hands that still trembled, closed them, and slipped them onto the collar of his T-shirt. "But I don't need them."

Davis and Kent called while Starsky was in the shower. Hutch was as brief and vague as possible while telling them that Starsky was under a doctor's care but would get better with therapy.

Both young men said that their first day at the academy was exciting, and reinforced their commitment to finishing it.

It took time.

Days.

For Starsky to adjust to his surroundings: To sunlight. Food. Sounds. The TV. Radio. Movement. Colors. The shapes of things. The feel of things in his hands.

It happened slowly (with David), but surely (thanks to Michael).

Hutch showed him pictures in catalogues and magazines, to re-orient him to the world, and watched a lot of TV.

Max advised mild food until his digestive system adjusted, so Hutch made sure the cabinets and refrigerator contained mild or natural foods only. Mashed potatoes, macaroni, oatmeal, juice, milk. No sugar or caffeine to make his already tremulous system more excitable.

And it didn't seem to bother Starsky.

What did seem to bother him were the little things: Not knowing how to twist the lid off a bottle of Tylenol, nearly jumping out of his skin when a telephone rang or a knock came at the front door.

But even so, Hutch could see Starsky getting stronger, physically and emotionally, every day. The nightmares were becoming less frequent, his body was not as tense, and he asked questions about the past. Hutch told him that Dobey was now commissioner, and that Huggy was divorced and had a sixteen-year-old daughter named Tasha. Dobey and Huggy came to visit briefly, and it was mostly small talk, about how they were glad to have him back, about how different everything must seem to him.

Neither questioned him about Marcos.

Hutch resisted the urge to tell Starsky about Kira, Davis, and Kent. And Starsky seemed not to remember seeing them in the apartment the night he arrived. Hutch hid the photos that night while Starsky slept, feeling like a common criminal. But he knew it was best to wait until his partner was stronger before disclosing the history.

When it was time for Starsky to take his first walk outdoors, accompanied by Hutch and Max, he walked safely between the doctor and his partner as they passed by chatting people and noisy cars on the sidewalk.

But it was the Doberman on a leash that made Starsky clutch his partner's arm in terror.

Even though the dog was non-threatening. Even though the dog and his master passed by them with disinterest and went on down the street without incident, Starsky paled and was unable to speak or breathe, his voice and breath frozen in his throat.

Hutch put an arm around him, sure his partner would pass out, and moved him into the privacy of an alley.

"Starsky, it's okay."

Starsky shook his head no and leaned over with his hands on his knees.

Max touched his back. "Relax, Dave. It went on by, remember? Nothing happened."

Starsky's breath finally came in a quick gasp of air, his hand groping upward.

"Hutch . . . "

Hutch clutched his hand. "It's okay. It's not here. It didn't hurt you."

Starsky looked at his arms and hands as if to make sure.

"I'm tryin'," Starsky gasped "I'm tryin'."

"I know you are," Hutch told him. "You're doing a good job."

"It didn't get me, did it?"

"No, Starsk. It didn't get you. You're okay."

Starsky raised up and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh Hutch."

"It's time we do some work at my office, " Max told them.

Hutch waited outside Max's office door in the waiting area while Starsky talked to the psychiatrist inside. Max wanted this session to be with Starsky alone. He felt that Starsky would not be as forward with the painful facts if Hutch was in the room. And he was right, Hutch knew. Starsky would try to spare his feelings.

Max sat in a comfortable chair behind his desk while Starsky sat across from him.

"You know, Dave, I haven't asked you to tell me what happened to you during those years. I was waiting for you to get stronger, and now I think you're ready."

Starsky fingered the watch on his wrist. It felt odd against his skin. He had not worn a watch or had known time in Marcos' cellar.

At first he kept count of the days by finding tiny pebbles to save in one corner of the room. And the pile grew. And then he ran out of pebbles and decided that it had been so long it didn't matter. That it was always night to him. One long night.

"I don't remember much," he said quietly. "You can watch the tape."

"I've already seen it. I want you to tell me what happened."

"I can't remember."

"Why not? Too painful?"

He shrugged a little. "I don't know."

"Well, it's too bad you can't remember. Because it would help you in your healing process." A pause. "Are you sure you can't?"

Starsky rose to his feet and Max didn't have to be told that it was Michael he was talking to now. He knew by the easier gait, the straighter posture, the relaxed, friendly, almost boyish demeanor.

"He said he couldn't remember."

"I know. I heard that."

"Bu I can."

Max nodded and held back a smile. "Very good, David," he said, and waited for Starsky to correct him.

And he did.

"I'm not him," he said.

"What happened to David?"

"What do you think? You scared the hell out of him with wanting him to tell about what they did to him, so he left. He doesn't like thinkin' about it, so he keeps from remembering."

"He lets you do that, right?

"You catch on fast. That why you got all those diplomas and awards on the wall?"

Max smiled this time. "You're pretty funny."

"David's not, though."

"And why is that?"

He shrugged. "Not much to joke about anymore I guess."

"You sound a little sad about that."

Another shrug. "I guess."

"And why would you be sad about that?"

"Because I like David. He needs to be funny again. But he's in a bad way right now. Hutch knows."

"Yes, he and I both know. We saw the tape. But we don't know it all. And if we're going to work on this, one thing you need to be able to do is tell me about it, when you can. Hutch wants that too."

"Yeah, I know."

Max took his glasses off and cleaned them on a tissue he pulled from a box on his desk. "How do you feel about Hutch?"

"He's a good guy."

"He thinks a lot of you."

Starsky smiled. "He thinks a lot of both of us."

"You have a lot of control over yourself, don't you?"

An easy shrug. "Guess I do."

"And I'm glad you do. Because it will help David. We can't do it without you."

"Oh, I know. That's why I'm here. I can remember all that stuff."

"So . . . will you help?"

He put his hands in his pockets. "What do you want me to do?"

"Cooperate."

"Hey, I can do that."

"Good. One thing I'll want you to do is let David talk to me more often. If you want to help David, you and he must come together as one. Do you find anything wrong with that?"

"No."

"Upsetting?"

"No. But I have to do the remembering. Not him."

Max pulled a micro-recorder from his pocket. "May I? This way you'll only have to tell it once."

"Sure."

Max turned the mini-recorder on.

Starsky paced in an easy manner, his tone conversational.

"First of all, they just left him locked in the van for two or three days after they shot him. Not tied up or anything. They didn't have to do that. He couldn't move much anyway." He looked at a seascape on the wall, but didn't seem perturbed. "Man, it was hot, and he needed a hospital. He bled a lot, but he hung on, because he thought Hutch was comin'."

"And . . . Hutch didn't come, did he?"

"Nope. Couldn't. They shot him down. Three times. I didn't know it till they showed me the tape."

Starsky shook his head. "God, that was bad. Seein' that tape. Seein' Hutch get shot over and over and he didn't get up. They picked David up to take him to the van . . . "

Starsky smiled. "Hutch wouldn't let go. He was out cold but he wouldn't let go."

A pause. "And then they threw David in the cellar. And it kept on going and going. Marcos came. His men came. I don't know how many. A lot. And they would beat him for things. Little things, big things, it didn't matter. It could be over not getting up fast enough to running away."

Another pause.

"They came and threw bread scraps down. He didn't eat for a long time. He wanted to give up at first, but then he said no, if there was a chance Hutch was alive, he had to get out of there. He had to stay alive. So he . . . " He made a face. "He ate that nasty stuff. And it was hard to do, because a lot of times, his hands were tied, so the only thing he could do was . . . you know . . . eat the bread off the ground, and drink the water from that bowl like a . . . " He laughed a little, and almost cried. "Like a puppy or somethin'."

The only tell-tale sign of Starsky's discomfort was the way his left hand rubbed his right wrist, as if he could still feel the ropes, or the marks they left.

"And he lost track of the days. The times, and the seasons. It all ran together. And then they came back to show him the tape. Again and again. And they had to beat him up to make him watch it, 'cause he couldn't stand seein' them shoot Hutch over and over. And the only way he could watch it was knowin' that at the end of it, Hutch would be holdin' onto his jacket. That was the best part. That was the only way David could stand to watch it. Knowin' that it had a happy ending."

Max said nothing. He simply let him talk.

"And they kept doin that. Kept comin' back to beat him up, show him the tape, and then they'd leave him alone. They did that so much, so often, he doesn't know how long that part went on."

"And then one night . . . man, he should have known . . . one night they came and said they were lettin' him go . . . that he could go free . . . and they just opened the door. And he . . . he believed them. So he took the chance and he ran. Or tried. Couldn't run too well al busted up. But he was running through the woods, and it felt great, 'cause he was getting away, and he didn't care where he was, where he was goin' or how he was gonna get there. He was out. And he ran quite a way."

"Don't know how long, but it was far enough to feel like he'd made it."

He looked down and bumped the toe of his sneaker on the floor. Subdued.

"But he didn't make it. They had steel traps set for him. So his foot landed in one and he couldn't get up. Ankle hurt like hell. He couldn't get the trap off. They just laughed and carried him back to the cellar and beat him up again and told him he was crazy for believin' 'em. And maybe he was. But what they didn't know . . . he'd do anything to get to Hutch."

He was still looking down.

Max was afraid he would close down into David and not say anything else today.

But he said quietly, "They waited till his ankle--I guess it was broken--healed up, which took a long time because he didn't have any medicine and wasn't eatin' right . . . and they came back and told him again that he could go, that they were tired of him and he wasn't fun anymore, and that there wouldn't be any traps this time . . . they gave their word. They swore on their bible. So David . . . he wanted out real bad . . . and he almost didn't care if it was a joke or not. He just wanted the chance to try again . . . and maybe he'd fool them and make it this time. So they let him go. And he ran. Not real fast, but he ran. Through the woods again. And you know, they didn't lie. There weren't any traps set in the woods. They kept their word about that Marcos sent the dogs after him and they-------------"

He jerked from the memory and stumbled back.

"------------------they attacked him."

He shook violently, reaching for something to hold onto and knocking the seascape off the wall.

Max jumped to his feet and grabbed Starsky's arm.

"Dave, it's okay. You can stop for today. Here. Lie down."

Starsky looked around the room as if to orient himself, and allowed Max to lead him to a sofa, where he helped him lie down.

"Rest a while. Do you want a drink of water?"

Starsky didn't answer at first. He lay with his arm across his eyes.

"Dave?"

Starsky's voice came small and weary. "No water, okay? I don't like it much anymore."

"How about some juice?"

"No, I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I just want to go home, if you'll let me."

"Dave, take your arm down."

He did so, obediently, and looked up at him with worry and confusion in his eyes.

"Dave, there's no 'letting' here. If you want to go home, go home. We'll pick this up next time."

Starsky looked around the room.

"Is Hutch here?"

"Right outside the door."

"Really?"

"In the waiting room."

Starsky looked relieved. "How long did I sleep?"

"You weren't asleep, Dave. We had a session. You're beginning to remember what happened, and you're able to talk about it."

"I don't . . . how come I don't remember that?"

"It's too painful. Another part of your personality is doing it for you. The part you call Michael."

"Michael? Why would I . . ?"

"To help you survive, Dave. It may seem like there are two parts inside of you, but it's really just you." Max smiled a little. "Why do you think you named him Michael?"

Hutch stared at Starsky when he walked out of Max's office.

His partner was pale and glassy-eyed, as if he'd just tangled with . . . with a vicious dog.

"Okay, Starsk?" Hutch asked taking his arm.

He nodded, but Hutch looked over his head at Max for confirmation, who gave a nod.

"It gets harder before it gets easier," Max told them. "See you next time, Dave. Don't forget to bring your journal."

"Yeah, okay."

Max walked over to the secretary to check on his next appointment.

Hutch looked at Starsky. "Need to sit down for a minute?"

"Nah, I'm okay."

Hutch looked at Starsky, just watched as his partner stood passively waiting for whatever Hutch had to say, whatever suggestion he might make, whatever he wanted to do. Like a puppet. Move here, move there, go to the session, then go back to the apartment. Take a walk. Check out the new stuff. Whatever you say, Hutch. It's all right with me.

"Hey, Starsk, why don't we do something fun instead of going back to the apartment?"

Starsky brightened a little. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Come on. Let's talk about it in the elevator."

Starsky followed him down the hall and pressed the down button.

"What do you have in mind, Hutch?"

"I have no idea. You decide. What would be fun to you?"

"Well, I'm not sure. We could just watch TV or something."

"Do you really want to watch TV?"

"Oh . . . well, not really."

"Then what?"

Starsky looked around, as if to find the answer in the hall.

"You want to drive, Starsk?"

Starsky looked at him in quiet disbelief. "What?"

Hutch reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his car keys. "Want to drive my car?"

The elevator door slid open and they stepped inside.

Starsky looked at the keys. "It's been a long time."

The door closed and Hutch pushed the ground-floor button.

"Yeah, well, it's been a long time for a lot of things. But if you're not ready, it's okay."

Starsky looked at him. "You think I'm ready?"

"Sure I do. You think I'd let you drive if you weren't ready?"

Starsky looked back at the keys, then finally took them from his hand. "We could go to Huggy's?"

"Sure."

"And . . . maybe to Cap's house?"

"Why not?"

"But if I . . . " He looked down at the keys. "If somethin' should happen while I'm drivin' . . . "

"I'll be there. But I think it'll be fine."

Starsky sat in the driver's seat of Hutch's car in the parking lot, hands on the steering wheel, the keys in his hand.

Hutch sat in the passenger seat.

"Scared?" Hutch asked him.

Starsky grinned a little. "I should be askin' you that question."

Hutch put his seatbelt on, then reached over and buckled Starsky's. "I'm ready if you are."

Starsky slid the key into the ignition. "Sure you don't have a couple of safety helmets back there?"

Hutch smiled. "We'll make it."

Hand still on the key, Starsky gave him a lingering look.

The eye contact felt good. It was something he hadn't been able to do in a long time.

"I want to make it, Hutch. I don't feel so numb anymore."

"I'm glad you want to make it, Starsk. I don't know what I'd do if . . . well, yes, I do know what I'd do if anything happened to you. I know exactly what that feels like. And believe me, it's no picnic."

Starsky smiled and winked at him. "Missed me, didn't you?"

"Yeah, but I just wish I could have been there to---"

"Don't," Starsky cut him off. "Don't say it. You were there, buddy. You took three bullets tryin' to help me. If that ain't bein' there, I don't know what is."

For the first time since Starsky came home, Hutch felt like he was really talking to his old friend.

Huggy's restaurant bar had changed over the years. The atmosphere was still casual, but Starsky noticed it had evolved into a more family-like environment--reflecting the change in the proprietor himself.

Hutch watched Starsky to see how he handled the changes, as well as the bustling stimuli around him.

Hutch could see his body stiffen a little, and saw the way his hand moved toward the stool first before sitting down on it, as if to make sure it was solid before he did so.

It wasn't the first time Hutch saw him doing that----touching things to make sure they were real, to remind himself what they were and what they felt like.

Simple things he had not touched, tasted, seen, in so many years.

It had been most noticeable at the park. How he had stooped to run his hands through the grass-----"Look at it, Hutch," he'd said close to awe. "This is the greenest, greenest grass I've ever seen."

Of course it wasn't any greener than it had been all those years ago. The flowers weren't brighter or more colorful than he'd remembered them, and milk wasn't any sweeter . . .

It just was to Starsky.

The sights and smells seemed to at once overwhelm him emotionally, yet replenish at the same time.

It was not unusual, and quite understandable, to see him crying while holding something as simple as a daisy in his hand, or while looking at a blossoming tree, or swans gliding peacefully on a lake.

Hutch took him on these long drives in the country whenever he saw Starsky becoming over-stimulated by the city, and it seemed to relax him.

At first Hutch didn't understand why the pastoral scenery didn't act as a trigger for a memory, since he had obviously been held in a wooded area. But Max reminded him that he had only been in the outdoors a few times, and any triggers would more than likely be related to dark rooms, not the outside.

Hutch had even caught him listening to soothing classical music on the radio.

And at one time Hutch would have teased him about it----"Be careful, Starsk, a little culture might get into your bloodstream."----but he merely sat down on the bed beside him and listened too, slipping an arm around him when Starsky leaned against his shoulder and cried over the lost time, lost years, and lost life.

But not lost friendship. That Starsky had kept safely away in his heart, where time, years, and even Marcos, could not touch.

Starsky sat patiently while Max read his journal.

Hutch was invited to sit in on this session. He was seated in a chair next to Starsky.

Max pushed his glasses up on his nose. He saw differences in the handwritings of "David" and "Michael". "David's" was smaller, sloppier, with incomplete sentences and misspellings due to transposing letters--(from lack of concentration, no doubt)----

<Tired today. To muhc noise. To much to see. Mostly sletp>

<Hutch ttok me for a dirve>

<Hutch watned me to drive but I said no>

----while "Michael's" was bolder, neater, and more concise----

<I went to Huggy's today and met his daughter Tasha. She's a sweet girl but I think she has a crush on me already. I told her to find a boy her own age. She didn't get mad. She just had a certain mischievous twinkle in her eye. A lot like her dad>

<I helped David out today. He was afraid to go to the door when somebody knocked, so I went for him. Poor guy. It was only a delivery man. I told him next time I'd go with him, but HE had to answer the door. It's the only way he's going to get better>

"Do I get an A?" Starsky joked.

Max handed the journal back and smiled too. "When all your entries are written by David Michael Starsky in first-person. When you refer to yourself, always, as me, myself, or I, and not he or him or we or us."

Starsky looked at the journal. His mouth opened as if to speak, but then it closed.

"What is it?" Max asked.

"Some of the stuff I wrote in here that I did . . . I don't remember doing it."

"That's okay, though. Michael will help you remember. And he won't let anything bad happen to you when he's around."

Hutch looked at the journal. "Can I see that, Starsk?"

Starsky handed it to him.

Max took a notepad from his center desk drawer. "David, all we're going to do today is talk about some therapy tools we're going to use, and some safety nets you can use when the remembering becomes too painful or if you feel unsafe in any way. Remembering can be traumatizing too, so we're going to talk about what we can do if that happens. We have hypno--"

"No," Starsky said so firmly that Hutch's head came up from the journal.

"Why?" Max asked. "Have you ever been hypnotized before?"

"No."

"Did Marcos or--"

"No. I just don't like----and David doesn't like----giving up that much control. We're trying to get back what Marcos took away. And now you want to take it too? No way."

Max was astonished, but pleased, at Starsky's statement.

"Michael, you're more protective of David than I realized. I'm sorry. You're right. If you don't feel that you can trust me yet, then I accept that. There's nothing wrong with asserting yourself."

"I told you I won't let anything happen to him."

"I understand. I admire you for that. That's what you're all about. And we don't have to do hypnosis. We'll do different things. Some art therapy, music therapy, some role-play, some guided imagery."

Starsky seemed to relax in the chair. "Oh yeah. Guided imagery. Hutch taught me about that one. Relaxation technique, right?"

"Right."

"A safe place to go to when things feel . . . bad."

"Right. So when we get into those memories, and it becomes painful, I want you to remember that you can use guided imagery to relax yourself, with or without my presence, regardless of where you are."

Starsky nodded. "I used that one in the cellar sometimes."

His bare statement surprised Hutch.

But not Max.

Starsky was becoming more comfortable in talking about his captivity and trauma. It was getting easier, and Max knew it really had little to do with therapy sessions or journaling. It was Starsky wanting to heal. He was feeling safe enough to do that.

"Do you feel comfortable telling me about it? I wasn't planning a session for today, but since you're talking . . . "

Starsky looked at his partner. "Well . . . "

"It's okay, Starsk. Go ahead. You're doing fine."

Starsky looked back at Max.

"Some of 'em would chant while the others would beat me up. And when they hit me or kicked me, I'd find somethin' to look at, like a rock or a stick . . . and I'd keep lookin' at it until I wasn't there anymore. Until I was that rock or stick. I could take the beating without a sound that way. 'cause when they first started doing it . . . when I first came? I'd cry and yell for Hutch . . . you know how you do . . . but they said they'd kill him if I kept doin' that--makin' noises I mean--I didn't know if he was dead or alive, because first they said he was dead, then they said alive. I didn't know. But I kept hopin'. And I didn't want them to kill him, so I kept my mouth shut. And I found a way to do that. With the guided imagery Hutch told me about. I kept my eyes on somethin', and my mind on somethin', and pretended I was it. They'd beat me and tell me I could leave. Beat me and tell me I could leave. For a long, long time."

Starsky paused for a long moment, then continued.

"So yeah, I know all about guided imagery now. Some use it to stay calm. I used it to stay alive. And keep Hutch alive." He looked down at his hands folded in his lap. "The place I imagined was always outside, in pretty green grass under a big tree, in the nice yellow sunshine, with all the bright flowers around and the big blue sky overhead."

Max looked at Hutch, who was sitting quietly in his chair and doing a poor job of hiding his wet eyes with one hand.

"It was a good session," Max told Hutch as the two of them waited for Starsky to get a softdrink from the vending machine in the waiting area. "Hard. But we're approaching a breakthrough."

Hutch looked at him.

"Really?"

"Didn't you notice, Ken?"

Hutch looked toward Starsky, who was scanning the selections on the machine.

"Notice what?"

"This is the first time he used first-person when recounting the trauma. Before, it was always Michael telling for David."

Max smiled and took his glasses off, holding them up to the light to inspect for smudges. "He's owning it, Ken."

Hutch watched Starsky trying to slide a dollar bill into the vending machine.

"But this is where it gets harder," Max said. "When it gets all out in the open. Watch him closely. He may want to quit therapy. And there's not a thing I can do about it if he does. He may appear to have a setback or two, may seem to be resistant to treatment. His agitation may peak. But that's all normal. And it's good. He's dealing with it. It'll be a struggle, but he has to work through it. And we have a few cushions in place----things he's used all along----Michael, guided imagery, and you."

Starsky kicked the soda machine in exasperation.

"Damn machine won't take my dollar!"

Hutch shook his head and walked over to him.

"Here," he said taking the dollar and smoothing the edges. "You have to keep the corners straight."

Starsky sat in the passenger seat of the tan Ford while Hutch drove.

"I missed a lot of things, Hutch," he said quietly, and out of the blue.

Hutch nodded, and was surprised, but not very, that Starsky was in a thoughtful mood. He usually was after a therapy session.

For a moment Hutch wanted Starsky to say, "I missed my car. I missed pizza. I missed going to movies."

But Hutch knew that Starsky was beyond those things now, more than those things now, and that something serious was going to come out of his mouth.

Hutch wondered if he'd ever be playful and spontaneous again.

"I didn't have the chance to get married," he said softly. "Or have a little one. A family. Now I feel like I won't ever have that. And with all these scars on me . . . outside, inside . . . " He held his hands up in resignation. "Who would want me?"

(Please, Starsky. Stop talking like that or I'm going to bawl right here in front of you)

(You couldn't hold a woman or take her out or make love to her. You couldn't establish a long-term relationship and wake up in the same bed with her. Find her stuff along with yours in the medicine cabinet. Go grocery shopping together. Pick out baby names. Help her hang curtains, pound nails for her, fix her car. Hold your baby in your arms. Hurry for the camera when he did something cute but never getting to it fast enough. So you keep a little photo of that moment in your head, and you go back to it. You couldn't rock him, feed him, play with him, wonder what he'll be like when he grows up . . . )

(That monster brutalized your manhood too, Starsky. Your self-esteem. Your confidence. Your identity)

(And when I get my hands on him)

(When I do)

Hutch swallowed hard.

(To tell or not to tell, that is the question. God, he needs to know. He deserves to know. He needs something sweet in his life. Davis would be a ray of sunshine after all those years of gray skies)

(But how would he feel knowing he'd married Kira and had a son with her? And how would he react when he found out Kira had given his son away?)

Hutch didn't want to do anything to jeopardize Starsky's healing.

If telling him caused even a minor setback in he treatment . . . God, would it be too much for him?

He needed to talk to Max. He would know whether he needed to know now or later.

But it was too late.

Starsky was rummaging through the glovebox for a classical music cassette and picked up a photo of two smiling teenagers, one blond, the other dark, as they sat double, Davis up front, Kent on the back, on Davis' motorcycle, a birthday present from Hutch on his sixteenth birthday.

Starsky looked at the picture closely, then turned uncertain eyes to his partner.

"Hutch? Who are these kids?"

Hutch didn't know what to say, how to answer.

"Hutch?"

Hutch looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Starsky. For everything that happened. If I could go back and change it. . . any of it . . . "

Starsky looked at the photo again.

Hutch licked his lips. "Starsky, after you . . . after we were shot . . . I thought you were dead. I looked and looked for you. I had everybody searching. And . . . I had a heart attack and they . . . " He swiped proudly at his teary eyes. "Dobey and Huggy put me in a psych hospital for a while . . . "

The picture dropped from Starsky's fingers and he laid his hand on Hutch's arm--the first time he'd offered comfort to Hutch since he'd been home. The first time he'd needed to. He could reach out to ease a pain that wasn't his own.

"Hutch, all of this has been about me. Ever since I've been home. You helpin' me. You doin' things for me. You're the best friend I ever had. Why didn't you tell me you had a heart attack? And that you were in the hospital?"

Hutch gently shook his head no and brushed at his eyes again. "I was going to tell you. When you were stronger."

The car swerved a little but he righted it again.

"Want me to drive?" Starsky asked him.

"No, I'm okay."

Starsky picked up the photo again. "But you didn't tell me who these boys are."

Hutch slowed the car. "I think we should go back to Max's office and talk."

"Why?"

"Because . . . "

"Hutch, don't go back to the office. You said we could drive out here in the country. I don't want to go back to Max's office to talk."

Hutch didn't turn the car around.

"Kira came to see me while I was in the hospital, Starsk."

He looked at Starsky for a reaction, but there really wasn't any. He just looked at him.

"Sh . . . she was there, Starsk, and at that time . . . she was all I had." His tears started again and he hit the steering wheel, making Starsky flinch. "Damn it!"

Starsky watched Hutch's face. He had always been able to read people's expressions, almost their thoughts, before. Especially Hutch's. But his time with Marcos had helped hone that sensitivity to a near psychic level.

The pursing of lips, the change in pupils, of voice, breath, expression.

It all meant something.

Escalation.

His hand gripping the door handle, Starsky sat perfectly still and waited.

And Hutch saw that he was sitting perfectly still and waiting.

For the other shoe to drop.

Fist to fall.

Kick to come.

"Don't," Hutch whispered. "Don't be afraid of me."

(But why wouldn't he be? You punched him over Gillian, didn't you? You've given him a reason to be guarded. It was no problem before Marcos. He trusted you then. No matter how mad you got at him, he didn't mind if you blew up, even at him, even if it came to a blow, because he could forgive you of it. He could forgive you of anything. He forgave you of Kira, didn't he? But he doesn't find it so easy to trust anyone now. Even you)

(So just tell him now. Tell him all of it so he'll have a nice big setback)

"Kira and I got married, Starsk. That's our son . . . Kent . . . in the picture. He's eighteen. But . . . she died four years ago in a car crash. Before she and I married . . . she already had a son that I didn't know about until he was fourteen. She gave . . . placed . . . him in a foster home . . . because she was married to a man who didn't want kids, and she thought I'd leave her over it, that the baby . . . the boy . . . would cause trouble for us . . . and . . . that boy is your son, Starsk. Davis. And that's him in the picture with Kent. Man, if I'd know about him before that . . . "

Starsky was still looking at him. But not so much in fear. It was something akin to adoration.

"You took care of my son?"

It was not the reaction Hutch expected.

(But then again, you've always underestimated how much he loves you, how much he would do for you)

(It has always surprised you)

(He has already forgiven you)

(There isn't a flicker of anger or hurt in his eyes)

"Sure I took care of your son, Starsk. He's a beauty, isn't he?"

Starsky looked down at the photo and smiled. "They both are."

Hutch was becoming tearful again. He pulled the car onto the side of the two-lane highway and lowered his head.

"Hutch . . . " Starsky held the photo in one hand and pulled Hutch to him, tentatively, with his other arm.

"Sshh. It's okay, Hutch. I'm glad you had a life, buddy. You didn't have to hide that from me, and you don't have to apologize. If she made you happy . . . if she helped get you through . . . I'm glad you were there for Davis. Bein' his dad. You did that for me. Just like I'd do it for you."

(No bitterness. No malice)

(I was living a happy life while you were being tortured senseless)

(You can still find the grace to be happy for me)

(God, why do I deserve a friend like this? Would somebody please tell me?)

Starsky moved his partner back to arms' length and looked at him.

"Hutch, all those years with Marcos. . . sometimes it doesn't seem like it really happened. Or like it happened to someone else. Even though I know it happened to me. But what you've got to know now is . . . what I know now is . . . that at one time I'd have been mad over somethin' like this. But all that time I lived there . . . in that dark cellar . . . no light, no Hutch . . . I know what's important now. I know what means the most. And it's not what's for dinner, or what's on TV, or who's sleepin' with who. It's people. And it's life. They're precious. You can't replace 'em. You have to love 'em while you got 'em."

Starsky smiled at him. "Woe is me. Getting' philosophical in my old age. I grew a little more like you and grew a little more like me. Don't take offense, though."

"Offense? Starsk, if I were half the person you are . . . "

Starsky's smile turned into a grin. "Hutch, you've always been half the person I am. My better half."

Hutch leaned back in the seat, suddenly drained and exhausted.

(How cheap I am to think he would go off over . . . over Kira . . . again. That's just like you, Hutchinson, you smug son of a bitch. You think everything is about you, what you do and say)

(You thought you had broken his heart again. You also thought you had, although not intentionally, betrayed him again)

(And he showed you, didn't he? Your beautiful best friend shoed you just how cheap you really are)

(He showed you, and told you, what really matters)

(Thanks, Marcos. Thanks for putting my friend on a fucking higher plain)

"But Hutch . . " His smile faded as he looked at the photo again. "As bad as I want to meet my boy . . . I want to wait until I'm better. He doesn't need to see me just yet."

Hutch found the strength to look at him. "He already has, Starsk. Both he and Kent were home the night you came back."

Hutch wasn't prepared for the hurt in Starsky's eyes.

(I can tell him I married Kira and he's not hurt. I can tell him Kira and I had a son and he's not hurt. But knowing his son has already seen him--in his miserable state--had met him--and he was aware of none of it, could remember none of it . . . not even his son's face . . . puts all the hurt and vulnerability and innocence of a five-year-old boy into his eyes)

"He doesn't want to see me anymore?"

"God, no. Nothing like that, Starsk. It was me. He wanted to stay. Both of them. But I sent them on to the academy."

Starsky stared at him.

"Police academy?"

Hutch nodded. "And he calls to check on you. I just . . . I didn't mean to keep it all from you. I knew you needed time. I knew you wouldn't want him seeing you just yet . . . "

"It's okay, Hutch. I'm not mad. You did the right thing. God, how you handle all that . . . making those decisions . . . what's best for me, what's best for them . . . but I still want to wait. I just hope he understands. I want . . . I want to be the best father I can be."

"Starsky, it doesn't matter to him. You should have seen the look on his face . . . it was better than Christmas."

"I know it doesn't matter to him. But it does to me. So we'll just leave things like you have them."

Hutch started the car again. "Starsk, I haven't brought this up until now, because I wanted to wait until a better time. And hell, there may never be a better time. And I've laid a lot of stuff on you today. But we need to start thinking about Marcos and how the police are going to find him. We've got the tape, and we can get your statement. But I'm worried one of them will come back and try something. You're getting out more . . . if they're watching . . . we have to get him as soon as possible. Nest time he grabs you . . . well, I just want him caught."

Hutch looked at Starsky and tried to read his eyes, his face . . .

"There won't be a next time," Starsky said quietly.

Even though Hutch wasn't sure what Starsky meant by it, the statement chilled him.

He wanted, badly, to ask him what he meant, but thought he would wait, because he didn't think he really wanted to know right now.

Max took Starsky a tour of the art therapy room, which hosted a myriad of art supplies--from clay, to markers, charcoal, and paint, to large sketchpads and easels.

Starsky stopped at an easel with a canvas already set up. A multitude of colors in tubes and jars of paint filled an entire table, along with brushes and water.

"This for me?" Starsky asked as his eyes looked over the paints.

Max shrugged. "It's for whoever wants to use it."

"What does a patient usually do with it?"

"Well, usually I ask a patient to paint how he feels, and I ask him or her to talk about it. Or they can just paint or do art while they talk to me. Another relaxation technique."

Starsky nodded, then reached for a jar of red paint and a jar of black paint. "A lot of times," he said quietly as he twisted the lid off the red paint, "Marcos and his men made him . . . me . . . sleep outside on the ground in the rain. Chained his ankle to that stake so he couldn't get away."

Max watched him carefully.

Starsky took the lid off the black paint. "And I . . . he . . . was sick a lot because of that. Coughing and fevers. They thought that was funny. They laughed at him and threw him a bar of soap and thought he was too ashamed to wash in the rain. . . but he wasn't. He never liked being dirty, y'know? And he might've worn the same clothes for a long time, but he washed 'em in the rain whenever he could."

Starsky put his left hand down into the jar of red paint, and his right into the jar of black, submerging them up to his wrists.

Max watched as Starsky pulled his hands, one black, the other red, from the jars, and began to smear the paint onto the canvas, streaks of red beneath, streaks of black on top, more paint, more streaks, more smears, more smudges, swirls and circles, until the canvas was completely covered, until the jars of red and black were empty, until the canvas looked like a red and black nightmare.

"This is how I feel," he said.

"And they would kill stuff in front of me," he continued later in the same session, in the same room, after he'd cleaned the paint from his hands.

Starsky sat in a chair in front of Max's desk and stared across the room at his painting.

Max knew the painting was digging up another buried memory.

"They said they were killin' a puppy, but it was really a bay . . . a bay . . . "

Max saw his stare starting to fix, his pupils constricting. The doctor leaned forward

at his desk. "Dave?"

Starsky straightened upright in his chair, his chest hitching for breath, his hands rigid and trembling.

"Marcos put the knife in David's hand. David didn't want to do it, but Marcos . . . Marcos made him. Held the knife in his hand. And--------"

Starsky stiffened and clutched the arms of the chair as if afraid of falling out. "Oh hell. Oh hell."

"Dave, it's not happening. You're-----"

"I DIDN'T MEAN TO KILL THE BABY! I DIDN'T MEAN TO KILL IT! OH GOD! HELP ME! SOMEBODY! SOMEBODY!"

Max came from around his desk but Hutch had bolted through the door and was already there, grabbing Starsky in a tight hug and pulling him to his feet.

Starsky clung to him in a ferocious hug.

"HUTCH, PLEASE!"

Hutch held him so tightly he thought he would crush him if he weren't careful. He felt--almost heard--Starsky's heart thumping so hard and fast against his own chest that he thought it would burst. He felt Starsky's whole body--especially his legs, trembling against him, and realized his friend was unable to stand on his own.

"Here, buddy," Hutch whispered as he moved Starsky to the sofa. "Oh God. I'm right here. It's okay. You're okay."

Starsky put his fist to his mouth and, rocking back and forth and whining, bit it.

"Starsky!"

Hutch snatched his wrist away from his mouth and held it. "Starsky, please. Don't."

Starsky struggled to move away from him, but Hutch kept one arm firmly around him.

Starsky curled into a tight curve and bore against Hutch's side. "No," he whimpered. "Starsky's not here. You have to go get him, Hutch. He's with Marcos. You have to help him."

Hutch felt the room turning. It was the first night all over again. Starsky had come so far. Only to . . . to what? Start all over again?

Max knelt in front of the two of them and wrapped his handkerchief around Starsky's bloody hand.

"Dave, you're safe. You're here in my office."

But Starsky kept pressing, pushing into Hutch's side.

Max looked at Hutch. "Don't worry. It's not really a setback. Just a new memory."

Hutch swallowed. "This is too much, Max," he said as he maneuvered to hold onto Starsky's fidgeting body.

"I told you integration isn't easy," Max told him. "But he's doing it. The lines aren't so clear anymore on who David is and who Michael is. And that's what we want."

Hutch looked skeptical, especially since the agitated bundle under his arm seemed to have regressed completely.

Max gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. "And you're doing fine too, Ken."

But it took a good hour before Starsky was settled and oriented again. And the anxiety had drained him so completely that he slept all the way back home.

Starsky was still affected by the flashback even on into the evening. Pale, no appetite, and all he wanted to do was pace the floor or rock in the chair while holding his bandaged hand.

"It wasn't you," Hutch finally said when he saw Starsky gazing at his hands as if they belonged to someone else.

Starsky rose from the rocking chair and went into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Hutch followed him, hoping to God he wouldn't find him in a closet or under the bed.

And he wasn't.

He was simply lying on the bed, one arm flung across his forehead.

"I wish I could cut my fuckin' hands off, Hutch."

Hutch sat on a chair that had been in the room since Starsky's first night back.

"Starsky, he made you. It wasn't you."

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut and stiffened against the memory. "Too much blood. Too much dark."

"Relax, Starsky. Think about it. He took your hand, put a knife in it, and he killed the baby. Not you."

Starsky swallowed hard. "He didn't like it."

Hutch licked his lips. "Who didn't like what?"

Starsky took a breath. "Marcos, damn it! He didn't like it when he had to make me!"

"Easy, Starsk."

"There were . . . " He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hard. "Consequences."

Hutch gently took his hands down. "Don't do that to your eyes, Starsk. Do something else instead. You want to go sit in the rocking chair?"

"No, I don't want to go sit in the rocking chair."

"Do you want to use your guided imagery? It might help you to--"

"No. I just want to go to sleep."

"You've been asleep."

"Well, I want to sleep some more."

Hutch nodded. "Okay, Starsk. You want to tell me what the consequences were for not killing a baby on your own?"

Starsky took his arm down and lunged toward Hutch, almost falling out of the bed in his effort to grab his shirtsleeves.

"No," he said through clenched teeth. "I don't."

But he found out later that night while he was talking to Dobey on the telephone about Starsky's revelation of human sacrifice.

"And I want you to watch the tape," he told Dobey. "We have to get the psycho this time."

Hutch heard Starsky panting and whining and quickly told Dobey he had to get off the phone to check on Starsky.

Who was gasping and clutching his throat, and kicking in the bed.

"Starsky!"

The nightmare, or flashback, was so real that Starsky's face was red and he was not breathing. He was choking.

Hutch grabbed his arms. "Starsk!"

Starsky's terrified eyes were rolled back and he thrashed in the bed as if being attacked, struggling for air.

Hutch yanked him to a sitting position and Starsky gripped the front of his shirt.

"Breathe, Starsky. Come on. Breathe. You're okay. Look at me."

Starsky's eyes finally found his, and Hutch saw relief.

"Hutch?" Starsky gasped in a squeaky voice. He continued to catch his breath.

Hutch stroked his hair. "I'm right here."

Starsky looked around the room.

"They hung me," he whispered. "Lots of times."

Hutch closed his eyes against the tears that suddenly surfaced.

"That's what I thought," he whispered back.

"They were hangin' me just now."

"No, Starsk. It was a dream. A flashback. Nobody's here."

Starsky felt his throat. "I feel the rope."

"No, buddy. No rope there. Just your hands."

Starsky looked at his hands as if they were alien things. "I hurt myself, didn't I? In my sleep?"

Hutch nodded.

"But I stopped myself too."

"Yes, you did."

Starsky put a hand to his own throat. "God." He closed his eyes and jerked violently. "Oh God."

"Starsk . . . "

"I couldn't . . . I tried . . . kickin' . . . you can't get down . . . you can't climb the air, Hutch. They just . . . they just had me . . . and they laugh . . and you can't fight anymore . . . can't move anymore . . . it all goes black and you can't hear or see . . . and just as you're passin' out . . . Marcos . . . " He jerked again. "When I couldn't move or fight . . . he comes over and he touches . . . and I don't know what happens after that, 'cause I'm out. But the last time. I kicked Marcos' man in the face. And . . . the rope broke. And I fell to the floor and ran. He came after me. Up the stairs. Outside. He caught me. It was just him. And the ropes on my hands . . . so old . . . I broke 'em. And I choked him." He broke down and cried hard. "I've never choked anybody to death before. I never killed a baby before."

Hutch put a hand on Starsky's shoulder, to steady both of them, then pulled him into a hug. "Self-defense, Starsk. And Marcos killed the baby. Not you. Keep telling yourself that over and over."

"It was all bad, Hutch."

"I know, Starsk."

"Nothing good."

"I know. But you're getting better. It may not seem like it . . . and sometimes it may feel like to you it's getting worse . . . but it's not. This hard stuff has to come out. You're getting better."

Max noted that Starsky was a little quiet today. He had talked about the nightmares, about the journal entries, about how he was feeling good and bad at the same time.

"You know why that is, don't you, Dave?"

Starsky just looked at him. "No, I don't."

"You're approaching closure. Integration. And as good as that feels to you, you're not sure how to let go of Michael."

Starsky nodded agreement. "I don't know if I want him to leave."

"Of course you don't. He helped you. And we won't "get rid" of him. We couldn't. He's David Michael Starsky. You're one person. You always have been. But trauma brought "Michael" forward. He helped keep you going."

"Sort of the Hutch I didn't have."

Max nodded. "A good comparison, I should say."

Starsky and Hutch walked into Dobey's office, Starsky carrying the videotape.

Dobey rose to his feet when he saw them, smiling broadly, about to burst with pleasure.

"A sight for sore eyes," he said as he extended his hand to Starsky. "Hello, Dave."

Starsky shook it and looked around the office. "We're on a first-name basis again?"

Dobey pulled him into a quick, crushing hug.

Hutch half expected Starsky to back away, but he didn't. In spite of the rough therapy sessions, flashbacks, and self-abusing gestures, he was looking brighter and healthier, seemed more energetic, and smiled and joked more.

"You're going to need this," Starsky told him as he handed the tape to Dobey. "I'll give a statement to a cop if you got one."

Dobey smiled. "Will I do?"

Max watched Starsky pace back and forth in front of his desk.

His dark-haired patient seemed a little nervous today. A little pre-occupied. But bouncy.

Max saw improvement in Starsky with every session. He seemed stronger and more at ease, had talked about the tape with him, had watched the tape with him (even the parts that "Michael" had not wanted "David" to see until he was stronger). He could answer any question about his captivity without an anxiety attack, and was writing his journal entries in first-person. He referred to himself as "myself", "I", or "me". He understood and could explain to the doctor that "Michael" and "David" were becoming one, and that's why he felt so good. He didn't have to ask anymore if he were real, or which part of him had answered the phone, or how he had walked down the street to the store.

"Okay, Dave. We're going to do a little role-play today. I put this off until last because it can get intense. You weren't ready before, but I believe you are now."

"Role-play, huh?"

"I'm going to be you, and you're going to be Simon Marcos."

"No way."

"Why not? It's not hypnosis. You have complete control."

"I said no way."

"What's the problem?"

"Well, it's just dumb. I'm not him and I don't want to be him."

"It will help you. I want to show you how you should respond to the shame and self-hatred you feel."

Starsky laughed a little. "I don't feel shame. And I don't hate myself."

"Really? A capable cop like yourself held prisoner for eighteen years? What you had to do to survive? What you did to endure? Before, there was always something you could do. Or Hutch could do. But Hutch wasn't there, and you couldn't do anything. Except develop survival skills. You wondered how in the hell you would hold on. Shame in what they reduced you to. Self-hatred for not being "tough enough" to stop them. Shame in depending on them for sustenance. Self-hatred at calling out to your captor when you needed someone."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

Starsky's manner was still easygoing. "Hey, I'll do your dumb therapy game, but only because I want to work through this stuff and talk to my son. So if it helps me, I'll do it. I'll show you how cooperative I am."

"Good. Show me. I'm you. You're Marcos. Where do you want me?"

Starsky gripped the doctor's sweater, pulled him out of his chair, then shoved him to the floor and planted a foot on his chest.

"I want you at my feet," he said calmly, in a voice not unlike Simon Marcos'. "Because you are nothing. You are a fucking, worthless dog, baby-killer, slave, and you will be my property until the day you die."

Dobey found Hutch sitting in the waiting area outside Max's office.

"What's up?" Hutch asked as he looked up and put down a magazine.

"I wanted to tell you personally. Someone fitting Marcos' description was seen cruising by your place. Cop went in pursuit but lost him. So tell Starsky. And be careful."

"I think I want a gun," Starsky said as he and Hutch walked down the hall of the medical complex toward the elevator.

Hutch looked at him. Starsky didn't seem scared or nervous. Just cautious. Which made Hutch feel good. It wasn't over-reacting and it wasn't under-reacting. Just the right amount of dis-ease.

"How about a badge to go with it?"

Starsky gave a half-smile. "Come on. You with your bum leg and me with my bum psyche."

"Hey, your psyche is in better shape than my leg. We could do something in police work. Don't have to be detectives, right?"

Starsky grinned. "Damn. I thought I was gonna help you give singing lessons."

"Seriously, Starsky, Dobey mentioned something to me the other day. I put off asking you about it, but now seems like a good time."

Starsky eyed him suspiciously. "Do I want to hear this?"

They stopped at the elevator.

"Internal Affairs needs a couple of people."

Starsky stared at him with his mouth open. "Internal Affairs? Are you crazy?"

"It's a living. No shoot-em-ups. No car chases. We'd get to bust a dirty cop now and then."

"What's the matter, music lessons aren't exciting enough for you anymore?"

"That was before you came back. Now we're partners again. And we have to be partners at something besides housework."

Starsky had to admit that it was good seeing Hutch excited about something besides getting the new Psychology Today magazine in the mail.

"Internal Affairs," he said warily as he pushed the elevator button. "Let me chew on that one for a while."

It was the last person they expected to see in the park, and for a moment Hutch wasn't sure it was really him. It had been so long. The hair was still long, but grayer. The beard was still there. He had put on a little weight (yeah, you ate all you fucking wanted and gave Starsky your bread scraps).

And his demeanor was still that of an unhurried philosophy teacher.

He was dressed in a loose shirt, khaki trousers, and sandals, sitting on the center of the park bench, his head tilted back to catch the sun, meditating, his arms resting leisurely across the back of the bench.

If his followers were nearby, Hutch didn't know or care.

(Thank you, God. What a gift)

"Hutch--"

Starsky was pointing in Marcos' direction but was rooted to the ground, unable to move or speak except to say Hutch's name.

Hutch shot across the park like an arrow, grabbing the man off the bench before he knew what had hit him and slamming him onto the ground, pounding his face with his fist.

"I DON'T NEED A FUCKING GUN TO KILL YOU!"

Marcos, bleeding from the nose and mouth, growling and struggling to get up, groped in his pants pocket.

"He's mine, Hutchinson," Simon managed through bloody lips and bloody beard. "He'll always be mine."

Hutch continued to pound. Even when--------

"Hutch!" Starsky finally yelled. "His knife!"

-----------Marcos' knife went into his side up to the handle.

He still pounded.

Even when the blood poured.

"Hutch!"

A warning.

He still pounded.

Sirens blaring. Someone called the cops. People ran over to pull the bleeding madman off of the peaceful-looking hippie.

Marcos was helped to his feet.

"No!" Starsky shouted as he ran across the park toward Marcos, who was staggering away. "Stop him!"

He reached for a badge that wasn't there. A gun that wasn't there.

But Marcos was gone, disappearing between two parked cars, and across the street.

Starsky returned to his partner, who was lying on the ground and clutching the knife handle sticking from his side. His hand and shirt were covered in blood and he wheezed for breath.

Starsky dropped to his knees and stroked the side of Hutch's head. "He's gone," he panted. "Hang in there, Hutch."

And louder, to the crowd that had gathered:

"YOU THINK ONE OF YOU WONDERFUL CITIZENS COULD CALL AN AMBULANCE?!"

"Not so bad," Hutch whispered to Starsky from the stretcher in the back of the ambulance. "Kind of numb. Don't you worry about me, Starsk. You keep going to your follow-ups with Max. . . "

Starsky thought he wanted to say more, but he was too weak, and he noticed the grip from Hutch's hand growing lighter. He was having trouble breathing.

"I wanted to finish it," Hutch gasped faintly. "I wanted to kill him."

"I know, Hutch. We'll get him someday. Don't talk. Just rest. We're on our way to the hospital. I won't leave you. I'll stay there with you. Just don't worry about anything."

"The boys . . . "

"I'll get word to them. They'll be fine. Just take it easy."

The dormitory at the police academy was loud and boisterous with young men in the hallway clamoring to shower, change, and get to the cafeteria for lunch.

Davis, who stood with the cordless phone to his ear in his dorm room, motioned at Kent.

"Shut that door. I'm tryin' to call Hutch and I can't hear a damn thing."

Kent, munching on an apple, closed the door against the noise in the hall.

Davis held the phone to his ear while he paced.

"Not answering," he said glumly.

"Try later. Let's go eat."

But Davis kept his ear to the phone. "Maybe they're at Huggy's. Hutch said he's been getting Dad out more."

Kent sat down on the bed. "We get first leave next week. We'll see them then."

"I know. I can't wait."

"You nervous?"

"Hell no. I've been waitin' for this ever since we got here."

Davis kept waiting.

The noise in the hall died down enough for Davis to open the door, and when he did, phone in hand, he saw his father standing there.

The phone fell from his hand and he stared openly.

"Dad?"

Starsky grinned. "Now which one would you be, a Starsky or a Hutch?"

Davis' face radiated a joy it had never known. Kent could swear he was glowing and his eyes looked twice as blue and bright.

Davis pulled him into a hug and they both laughed and cried on each other's shoulders.

"Oh my God," Davis sobbed. "You're finally here. You're okay."

Starsky rubbed the boy's back softly and tenderly, as if to soothe away the scars and the pain. "Hutch told me about the foster home, Davis. I'm sorry. If I could have raised you . . . there wouldn't be a mark on your back. I love you. When I was away . . . I always dreamed of having a son. Wondered what kind of boy I'd have if I ever got the chance. And look at you. Here you are, a dream come true, a wish fulfilled, a prayer answered."

Kent stood politely with his hands behind his back, head bowed.

Starsky broke the hug with his son long enough to hold his left arm out to include Kent.

"Hey, you. You look like a Hutch to me. Come here."

Kent smiled and stepped into the embrace.

They hugged like they didn't want to let go, but finally Starsky broke it by saying, "I've signed both of you out on emergency medical leave."

The young men stared at him.

Starsky brushed Kent's blond hair affectionately. "It's your dad, Kent. He's gonna be okay, but he's in the hospital. We need to go see him. He wants you there. Both of you."

"Whah---" The young face turned as white as milk.

"Easy. He'll be okay. We saw Marcos in the park and Hutch went after him."

Davis' hand gripped hard on Starsky's forearm.

"Marcos knifed him in the side and got away."

Kent's white face suddenly reddened as he stepped away and kicked the dresser. "Fucker! I'm going to get that motherfucker, Starsky! For what he did to Dad! And what he did to you!"

Starsky took the boy's arm. "Hey, look. I know you're mad. I'm mad too. And they'll get Marcos one day."

"No," Davis corrected. "WE'LL get him one day. Me and Kent." He squeezed Kent's shoulder. "Right, Kent?"

Kent was too angry to speak.

"Right, Kent?"

But he finally said, "If it's the last thing we do."

"Hutch?"

Voices somewhere above him. Familiar. Soft. Concerned.

Hutch blinked groggily and forced his eyes open, seeing Davis and Kent standing at his hospital bed, one on each side.

They both leaned down at the same time to give him a hug. He was able to give both of them a small squeeze around the neck.

"Hi, boys. Vacationing, huh?"

Kent held his father's hand. "Don't worry, Dad. We'll get Marcos for you. For Starsky too."

"Yeah," Davis added. "You and Dad just take it easy and get well."

Hutch managed a weak smile. "Talked to your dad, I guess?"

Davis grinned from ear to ear. "Oh yeah. He's the best Dad in the whole world."

Kent cleared his throat.

"Well," Davis corrected. "It's a tie."

Kent smiled. "You're just saying that because he's gonna smuggle in pizza when he wakes up."

Hutch tried to raise his head. "Wakes up?"

Kent put a finger to his lips. "Sshh Sleeping Beauty."

The blond boy stepped aside to allow Hutch a view of his partner, who was sprawled carelessly in a leather chair, one shoe off, one shoe on, sound asleep.

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