"What the hell is wrong with your car now?" Starsky asked peevishly as Hutch ’s car chugged to a stop in the middle of the two-lane country road. "We’ll never get to your aunt Sarah’s at this rate."

"Hold your horses," Hutch told him as he worked to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"A horse would be faster," Starsky muttered as he looked out the window.

Hutch still fought with the jammed seatbelt. "Good grief, Starsky. It’s Sunday and we’ve got all day. I’ll have us back on the road in no time."

"Nothin’ like a leisurely drive in the country." He paused a moment for emphasis. "If you’re in motion that is."

"Okay, smarty pants. One more crack like that and—"

They both saw the pickup truck barreling toward them at the same time.

It was going too fast to stop. It careened wildly out of control.

Starsky snatched at Hutch’s seatbelt.

Hutch shoved him hard toward the passenger door.

"Go!"

But Starsky didn’t. He was back fighting at the latch of the seatbelt.

Hutch shoved him again and tried to unfasten the restraint. "I said go!"

The truck slammed into the driver’s side door with such force that the tan Ford almost toppled onto its side.

The driver of the truck was thrown into the windshield, which shattered like cracked ice across its surface.

The driver held his lumpy but otherwise intact head and moaned.

"Oh man. What the hell?"

He shook his head to clear it and looked through a relatively unmarred section of the windshield, where he saw the tan Ford he’d crashed into.

"Damn," he breathed, as if awestruck.

And he was.

The driver’s side door on the Ford had been smashed inward to a startling depth. No persons were visible from his vantage point.

He climbed creakily from the truck, his legs rubber, but managing to hold onto the beer bottle in his hand.

"Hey man," he slurred as he approached the driver’s side door of the car. "Sorry ‘bout that. But I’s tryin’ to hurry home ‘fore the game start—oh wow."

He saw one person in the car, pinned half under the twisted steering wheel, half under the driver's door that jutted inward and on top of him. He was still fastened into his seatbelt. He saw a shock of blond hair, an unholstered Magnum in the floorboard, and the police radio.

The passenger door was wide open.

"Fuck," the truck driver whispered as he backed away from the car. "It’s a cop."

He tromped back over to his truck "Sorry, buddy. No can do."

He climbed into the cab, then backed the truck away from the wrecked car and left the scene.

A hand lightly smacking his face.

"Can you hear me, young fella?"

An older, gravelly voice above him, and pain in his chest.

Difficulty breathing from cracked ribs.

Hutch opened his eyes and found himself lying on the front seat of his car.

"Ambulance is coming," an elderly farmer in bib overalls and a John Deere cap said. "I called from my house. I live right over yonder."

Hutch tried to move, but found he was wedged too tightly in the wreckage. His legs were crammed under the dash, the car door caved in on his side.

His bloody left hand moved across the seat, his voice a hoarse breath.

"Starsk?"

He sniffed at the blood dripping from his nose.

"Don’t move," the old man said as he placed a gnarled, callused hand on Hutch’s shoulder. "Somebody sure smacked dab into you, didn’t they? But they fled the scene looks like. Big of ‘em."

Hutch tried to call Starsky’s name again, but the intake of air shot a bolt of pain across his chest.

(Starsky, are you okay? Where are you, the fucking back seat?)

A small crowd of rural neighbors had gathered. Heads shook, tongues clucked.

"Biggest gun I ever saw," one farmer said as he bit down on a toothpick. "Betcha he’s a Fed."

Hutch heard the siren of the approaching ambulance and tried to raise his head again.

"How long . . . Starsky. Where’s my partner? He’s . . . "

The old farmer patted his arm. "Whoa there. Ain’t no partner here far’s I can tell. You just take ‘er easy."

A rescue vehicle approached as well, along with a small fire truck.

Hutch’s head fell back onto the seat. "Starsk . . . " He winced and held his ribs. "Oh God," he breathed shakily. "Where is he? God, don’t let him . . .
 
 

He tried to remember exactly what happened, exactly what had happened to Starsky at the moment of impact, but the images-- the seatbelt, the truck, the crash—came back in only a few fragmented mirror pieces.

"A truck. Too fast. I couldn’t . . . Starsky tried to . . . I don’t know. I don’t know where he is."

"We’ll look for him, boy. Just take ‘er easy and let the rescue fellas get you out of here. We’ll find Starchy for you."

Hutch closed his eyes, and fought to stay conscious, listening to the anxious voices of the rescue workers converging on his battered car with their tools and medical supplies, and all he could think about was how (is he under the car? is the car upright? is he over in the ditch somewhere? He’ d call out if he could, come and help if he could, be here by my side if he were able, and he must be hurt, he must be hurt badly if can’t do that) they were spending most of their manpower on him instead of his partner.

The farmer shook Hutch’s shoulder. "Fella? Try to stay awake."

"He’s out," one of the paramedics told him as he pulled Hutch’s ID/shield from his pocket. "Cop from down-state. We’ll have some people search the woods for this so-called partner. But I’ll bet a dollar he’s just talking out of his head." He turned to see an approaching deputy. "Want to organize some kind of a search party? Cop here says he had a partner with him, but we don’t see any signs of one. I’ll notify his precinct."

"Where is he?" Hutch mumbled at the ceiling of the hospital as the paramedics wheeled him inside the emergency entrance. "Did you find him?"

Captain Dobey was at his side. It had taken four hours to cut Hutch out of his car, long enough for Dobey to make the drive in his own vehicle.

"We’re looking for him, Hutch. You just hang in there."

Hutch’s eyes blinked lazily at him. "Find him fast, Cap. He’s no Daniel Boone. If he gets hungry . . . he doesn’t know what’s safe to eat."

Dobey smiled sadly. "You just worry as much about yourself as you do him and you’ll be fine. We’ll find him."

Hutch shook his head no and tried to raise up on the gurney.

"No, Cap. I have to find him."

"Hutch—"

Dobey tried to push him back down. Hutch knocked his hand away and rolled over, and would have fallen off the gurney if the paramedic hadn’t grabbed him back.

"Combative!" the paramedic shouted to the hectic ER, and a doctor hustled over to help with the cloth restraints.

"Is that necessary?" Dobey snapped.

"It’s that," the doctor said preparing an injection. "Or this."

Hutch saw the needle and fell instantly quiet.

"Okay, okay," he resigned weakly, and was unable to stop the chill from rippling through his body. "Okay."

He looked helplessly at Dobey. "What are you doing here? Why aren’t you out looking for him?"

Dobey answered gruffly. "Do you think I’ve been sitting on my thumbs? I’ve got three county Sheriff’s offices in the search. That’s fifty men. We can spare one to make sure your head doesn’t fall apart."

Hours later Hutch awakened in his hospital room to find his head, chest, left hand, and left ankle bandaged. They had stripped him of his bloody clothes, bathed him, and left him in his white boxers. Dark bruising ran down his entire left side where the door and steering wheel had crushed him.

He looked to his right and saw Dobey asleep in a chair.

He looked to his left hoping to see Starsky lying in the bed next to him, but it was empty.

The clock on the wall read 3:00 pm, but he didn’t understand how that could be, since it was about 3:00 pm that the truck—

(oh hell, it hasn’t been twenty-four hours, tell me it hasn’t been twenty-fucking-four hours that I’ve been lying warm, safe, dry, and mending here in this hospital while Starsky is out there wandering around in the woods alone, probably wounded and disoriented, or worse, not wandering at all, but on the cold ground, unable to call for help, unable to get up, unable to move or breath or . . . no, not that, don’t even think about that)

Hutch held his bandaged left hand against his chest and struggled to get out of bed, trying to contain the gasping and grunting his cracked ribs produced so as not to wake Dobey and have him attacking like a rabid dog.

But it didn’t work. Police work having accustomed him to sleeping with one ear open, Dobey was attuned to the smallest sounds, and definitely heard the ones Hutch was trying to muffle into the back of his bandaged hand. He opened his eyes to see Hutch making his painfully laborious way across the floor, doubled over and holding his chest, limping on his twisted ankle.

"Hold it, Hutch," Dobey said as he moved from his chair and rounded the foot of the bed.

Hutch held his good hand up to ward him off. "Don’t. I have to go."

Hutch’s left ankle gave out and he started to go down, but Dobey caught him under the arms and sat him back on the bed.

"You’re not going anywhere."

Hutch raised his head. "He needs me. I can’t just sit here."

"I know you’re frustrated, but there’s nothing we can do but wait."

Hutch tried to remain sitting up, but a dark wave edged him down onto his side in the bed.

"Help him," Hutch whispered into the pillow as he succumbed to the endless waves rolling over him. "Lord, help him. I can’t."

The hippie driving the psychedelic van would have driven right past the hitchhiker if it hadn’t been for his friend who was pulling on his fringed leather jacket sleeve. "Hey, dude. I know that guy. Go back."

The driver looked in his rearview mirror. "Who the hell is it?"

The hippie pulled a pistol from beneath his seat. "He’s a cop I just happen to hate. Busted me for a monster load of horse last year."

"Gonna waste him?"

The passenger grinned. "Thinkin’ about it."

The driver made a U-turn on the two-lane country road and started back. "What the hell’s he doing out here, man?"

The passenger watched the dark-haired man trudging exhaustedly and unsteadily alongside the road.

"What’s the deal?" the driver asked. "He’s not tryin’ to flag anybody down."

"Dude’s out of his gourd. Where’s his fuckin’ car?"

The driver chuckled and put a joint to his lips. "Maybe he’s high."

"He’s got a gun. And a partner. Somewhere."

The driver pulled over to the side of the road. The passenger, dressed in a tie-dye T-shirt and sandals, cocked his gun and got out of the van, walking toward Starsky with his gun raised and leveled at his head.

"Remember me, pig?" the hippie sneered.

Starsky looked at him dazedly, then walked on past as if he hadn’t heard.

The hippie grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "I’m talkin’ to you."

Starsky blinked at him. "What?"

The hippie chuckled. "Give me your gun."

"My . . . what?"

The hippie opened Starsky’s jacket but saw that his holster was empty.

"Where’d it go?"

"I don’t . . . "

The hippie looked into the van at the driver. "He doesn’t know who the fuck I am."

The driver laughed. "I don’t think he even knows who the fuck he is."

Starsky stood quietly as the hippie searched his pockets for a wallet and came up empty-handed. "Zero."

The driver lit a joint and took a hit. "What’s your name, dude?"

Starsky looked around, disoriented, and it was then that the hippies saw the blood smeared on his right temple.

"You wreck your car, man?"

"Uh . . . "

The hippie took Starsky’s arm. "Come on, dude," he said offering a serpentine smile. "We’ll give you a ride."

Huggy stepped into Hutch’s hospital room and looked at his lunch tray. "Bet you didn’t expect to see me in this neck of the woods, did you?"

Hutch didn’t answer. He lay like a mannequin against the pillows, still and expressionless, his eyes fixed out the window toward the sky.

"How’s my favorite patient?"

Again Hutch was silent.

Huggy began to re-arrange the food on the tray. "Body’s got to have food, Hutch."

An answer finally passed his lips, his voice small because his bandaged chest would only allow him to inhale a tiny bit of air. "Not hungry."

Huggy fingered the flower arrangements on the bedside table. "If you keep ignorin’ your visitors, pretty soon they’ll get tired of the rejection and won’t want to come at all."

"There’s only one visitor I want to see."

Huggy eyed him a long moment, then nodded. "He’s all over the news. A missing police officer is pretty big stuff."

"He’s hurt," Hutch said quietly. "And each day that goes by without finding him . . ."

"I know. The chances of finding him alive are slim to none."

The hippie in the passenger seat passed his joint back to Starsky when he saw him rousing from his deep sleep in the rear of the van.

"Here, dude. This’ll take the edge off."

Starsky sat up on the carpeted floor and held his thudding head. "No thanks," he mumbled with a wave of his hand.

The driver handed back a bottle of whiskey. "This more your speed?"

Starsky took a drink of the whiskey. Anything to make the pounding in his head go away. "Thanks for stoppin’ back there. I don’t know how long I was walkin’."

"Don’t know who you are or where you’re from?"

"I told you I don’t." He took his jacket off and removed his empty shoulder holster. "And I’d like to know why I’m wearin’ this."

"Let’s just say you ain’t no boy scout. Me and Barnes’ll fill you in."

He looked back at the passenger hippie, swigging the whiskey again. "How well do we know each other?"

"We go way back. I’m Eddie. Worked a few jobs together. Don’t you remember?"

"What the hell do you think?"

"Man, you must’ve wrecked your car or got yourself mugged. Hit your head pretty hard if you don’t remember us."

"What’s my name?"

"Dalton. At least that’s what you go by."

"Where do I live?"

"How the hell should I know? I ain’t seen you in almost a year."

Starsky looked out the window at the unfamiliar rural scenery passing by. "Where we headed?"

"We’re on our way into Falmouth do a job."

"What kind of job?"

Eddie toked his joint. "Wastin’ the cop who put me away last year for sellin’ the H. He came up here on vacation and landed himself in the hospital after a fender bender. Be like takin’ candy from a baby. And as fate would have it, this might be your chance to get your hands on him yourself."

"Why would I want to do that?"

Eddie smiled. "He killed your lady."

Starsky’s eyes clouded. "My . . ."

"Terry. Remember?"

Starsky put a hand to his forehead. "I don’t . . . " A flash across his mind. Of an angelic face. A sweet smile. "I don’t think I remember that."

He suddenly felt flushed and woozy.

"Shot her in the head when he arrested you. He said he was aimin’ for you and got her instead, but everybody says he’s a good shot, so you add it up."

Loving eyes. A tender touch.

A big slide.

(I love you that much)

(She’s gone. It’s over)

"She didn’t die instantly, though. She lasted a little while."

The hospital. The graveside.

Starsky slumped against the door of the van and shaded his eyes with one hand, unable to understand the crushing weight on his heart or the tears welling up inside.

When he was sure he could speak without his voice breaking, he took his hand down.

"A cop killed her?"

Eddie nodded gravely.

"The one you're goin' after?"

He nodded again.

"Who is he?"

Eddie watched his face, especially his eyes, for a reaction.

"Ken Hutchinson."

Starsky was silent.

Eddie fingered the pistol in his lap.

"Remember him?"

But Starsky gave no indication that he did. He merely shook his head no.

"Found ‘em out in the woods when me and my dog was huntin’," the old farmer in the John Deere cap said as he handed Starsky’s ID/shield and gun to Hutch. "Thought you’d want ‘em."

Hutch lay pale and subdued against the pillows. He looked away from Starsky’s (personal effects) belongings.

"No sign of anything else," the old man continued. "I’m a pretty good tracker. If he’da been out there, me and old Blue would’ve found him." He looked down, a bit uncomfortable. "I’ll just lay ‘em down here," he said as he placed the items on the bedside table. "Sorry."

The old farmer started to leave, but stopped when he reached the door and looked back. "The missus and I want you to drop by the house for home-made soup when you get on your feet . . . "

The farmer waited for a response.

" . . . if you feel up to it, that is . . . "

But he got nothing in return.

Hutch was still gazing out the window.

The old man opened the door.

"Thank you," Hutch managed weakly, but still kept his eyes averted. "For bringing his things."

"Welcome, young fella," he replied a touch sadly as he went on out. "Quite welcome."

Starsky finished his soup and sandwich before Eddie and Barnes did. He squirmed restlessly at the diner's table. "Hurry up."

"What's your problem?" Barnes asked around a mouthful of cheeseburger.

"No sense waitin' around."

Eddie grinned at Barnes. "Chompin' at the bit, ain't he?"

"Look," Starsky said hotly. "I don't remember a hell of a lot, but I do recall that I loved a lady named Terry very much and that I had to bury her because some prick killed her. So he's dead. Cop or no cop."

Eddie looked back at Starsky, impressed if not taken back by his intensity. "Just remember. I owe him too."

Hutch lay in the shadowed hospital room, his eyes on the clock. He couldn't sleep. He hadn't since the accident.

(Accident? No, I'll go ahead and call it what it really was. A hit and run. And the driver better find a one-way ticket to the outer limits, because if I EVER find out who it was, who was coward enough and low enough to ram head-on into somebody and then just drive away like they didn't see me jammed up in that twisted metal, like they didn't see whatever happened to Starsky either, like they didn't see that he needed help too, like they weren't responsible for his . . . for his dea . . . for his disappearance . . . )

He tried to rest. God knew he needed it. But whenever his eyes closed, that mental movie would start to play again, and again, and again, and (Go!) (Starsky fighting with the seatbelt as if it were his own) (No!) (He came right back) sleep would steal away from him again.

(You know what the problem is, Hutchinson. You're not out there looking for him. That's what it is. You're letting everyone else do what you should be doing. And you know very good and well that if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. So the old man found his shield and his gun. So what? What does that mean? He didn't find a bod . . . he didn't find Starsky, did he? And until they do, until YOU do, you can't give up, you can't quit. He wouldn't lay back and let precious time slip away)

Hutch flung the cover aside and held his chest as he pushed himself up onto one elbow.

That's when he saw the shadowy figure coming into his darkened room.

The silhouette was unmistakable.

Hutch felt a surge of joy in spite of his achy ribs as he looked up at his partner, who was alive and well.

"Starsk?"

Hutch was unprepared for the fist that landed an efficient blow to his face and knocked him onto his back, and for the knee in his stomach, and the pillow that was slammed over his face.

Hutch struggled, trying to punch or kick, but had no stamina. He wanted to call Starsky's name but could not draw a breath. (it's not Starsky, it just looks like him, it's dark and you haven't slept in days, so your mind's a little, oh well, fuzzy, and since you really WANTED it to be Starsky, your mind just played a nice little trick on you, Starsky wouldn't do this, he's never hit you for real in his life, never even wanted to, and he sure as hell wouldn't hold me down and smother me with a pillow, and . . . )

He stiffened, his lungs screaming for air, his brain exploding in white light. He wasn't aware of his physical body anymore, couldn't tell if he were moving or lying still, his thoughts jumbled like several radio stations playing at once.

Hutch's hands pawed madly at Starsky's jacket.

"Fucker," Starsky growled at the struggling figure he sat astride. "Die."

But the struggling waned bit by bit (Starsky, help, it's not good here, I can feel my . . . I can't feel my . . . you wouldn't do this . . . you couldn't do this . . . where . . . Starsky, please . . . I can't breathe . . . blacking out . . . not here anymore . . . where are you?) and his body relaxed beneath him, his hands slipping from Starsky's jacket and falling away to the bed.

The first thing Hutch was aware of was his cold body. He came to in the back of the van as Barnes drove through the dark countryside, wishing he had on more than just his white boxers and his bandages.

He was sitting on the floor, slumped sideways against the panel, his wrists tied above him to a bar. His chest was throbbing and he tried to move a little to relieve some of the pressure on his injured left wrist. He could feel his left ankle swelling tight against the bandage.

Even moving his head was painful. Struggling against Starsky and the pillow had left his neck sprained or strained, he didn't know which. But he raised his head to look at his partner, who was seated on a crate and observing him with glittering, hate-filled eyes. Hutch had seen his partner use those eyes on other people, but never him.

Hutch wanted to believe that it was an imposter who had attacked him, some twin, some fake. He didn't want to believe it was Starsky.

"He's comin' to," Eddie said, who was lounging on a beanbag chair.

But if Hutch had any doubts, they were extinguished when Starsky opened his mouth and spoke.

"I'm gonna kill you like you killed Terry."

"Kill . . . " Hutch looked at Eddie, who was coming at him with a wide strip of white tape. "Eddie, you mother--Starsk, don't listen--"

Eddie clamped the tape over Hutch's mouth. "Shut the hell up."

Hutch shook his head no and looked at Starsky, trying to communicate something, anything with his eyes that he would understand. Even if he had amnesia he could still listen to the truth and believe it. Eddie had taken advantage of Starsky's condition and was now amusing himself. He had convinced Starsky that he'd killed Terry.

What else had Eddie convinced him of?

It wouldn't have been hard to do. Starsky obviously didn't remember much of anything. He certainly didn't remember his partner. Only Terry. So Eddie could have put anything in his head.

Hutch kicked out at Eddie, surprising even himself when his foot connected with Eddie's chest. Eddie toppled backward, then came up fuming like an enraged bull.

"You know," he seethed as he pulled a small cedar box from a toolbox, "I really don't want to waste my good horse on you, but we're gonna have to do somethin' to settle you down." He tossed the box to Starsky. "You do the honors."

Hutch watched Starsky raise the lid to the cedar box, then shook his head again when he saw Starsky taking out a vial and a syringe.

"Somebody said you like to ride horses," Eddie smiled to Hutch. "Or is that a rumor?"

Hutch tried to protest, but of course only muffled sounds could escape around the tape.

Starsky came toward him with the syringe and Hutch kicked at him too.

But Starsky just laughed and kicked him in the face, knocking all the protest from him.

Hutch tried to hold his head up, tried to shake his head no again, blood dripping from his nose and the corner of his left eye.

"You'll learn to like it," Starsky told him as he crouched with the needle.

Hutch groaned into the tape and looked at his friend. (God, no, Starsky, anything but this. Kill me, but don't shoot me up. You know I can't take this again)

"You won't be givin' us any trouble for a while."

And Hutch abhorred that familiar warm pleasance that slid through his veins and settled into his brain. He thought he'd never have to tangle with this demon again. But here it was showing up again like a dreaded pet on his doorstep, invading his body again like a parasite. Only this time it wasn't a mob boss forcing it on him. It was his own partner.

Hutch hated the soft whimper that sounded behind the tape. He wanted to be strong. He didn't want to give in to the mellow heaven that had invaded his cells. He wanted Starsky. And that's really why the whimper came. He wanted Starsky and he was already here.

The perky nurse carried a breakfast tray of juice and toast into Hutch's hospital room. Her patient hadn't been very talkative or friendly so far, and she hoped her own happy mood would rub off on him.

But she stopped short when she entered the room, because the bed was empty, and she knew he couldn't get around on his own yet. And if that wasn't enough to upset her, then the drops of blood on the crisp white sheet was.

Captain Dobey led the prim blonde woman down the hospital corridor toward Hutch's room.

"I want to prepare you, Mrs.Bradner. He's pretty banged up, but in time he'll be as good as new."

The older woman smiled. "Call me Sarah." She stirred the contents of her purse until she came up with a school photo of a young blond boy. "This is Kenny at ten. Isn't he adorable? He spent a few summers out here with me. When my brother didn't have him enrolled in some foreign language course or some fine arts seminar. He loved to play outside. Very good at climbing trees. He'd pick buckets of apples for me."

Dobey smiled at the photo. "I'd know that mug anywhere."

"Would you like to have this? I have more at home."

Dobey grunted and slipped the photo into his breast pocket.

They stopped at Hutch's room and Dobey opened the door. "Ladies before gentlemen."

"Why, thank you, Captain. I--"

"Captain! Excuse me!"

Dobey turned to see a young doctor in a goatee approaching him.

The young doctor looked a little frazzled. "I tried to call you, sir."

Dobey didn't like the look on his face nor the tone of his voice. "I was picking up my detective's aunt. This is Sarah Bradner."

He quickly shook her hand. "Doctor Poston." Then turned to Dobey. "Detective Hutchinson isn't here."

Dobey frowned. "What do you mean he isn't here?"

"He's gone. Taken forcibly. There were drops of blood on the sheets, the bedding was in disarray. I called the authorities."

Sarah's elegant fingers went to her lips. "Oh no. First David, now Ken."

Dobey took Sarah's arm. "Come with me, Mrs. Bradner. We'll talk to the sheriff."

(We'd like to try out for your football team)

(No, we're not playing football for anybody right now)

(We're cops. But we're tough)

(And we're gonna quit. Give it up)

(Here you go, Bronco. Terry said two weeks after she--you were supposed to open it)

Terry said.

Starsky startled awake and looked at his captive, who now hung limp and unmoving from his wrists, his head lolling backward as if his neck were broken, gazing dreamily into space. A soft moaning, almost a hum, sounded behind the tape.

Terry said.

The dream had been vague, dim, pale. Hollow voices. Water-color images. All familiar. All leaving a confusion in his heavy heart.

The blond man stirred, his eyes roaming about the van now.

His body suddenly wrenched with its effort to retch, and Starsky stripped the tape off. "Before I let you choke to death, I want you to tell me why you killed her."

But Hutch's empty stomach could only dry heave. He saw that the driver of the van was toking on a joint while Eddie was asleep in the passenger seat.

Hutch's voice was a faint whisper. "I didn't kill her, Starsk. Please try to remember. Eddie . . . he's been messing with your head."

"No, you're the one messin' with my head."

(I feel strange)

(Hey, it's midnight)

(To you I entrust)

"We . . . me and you . . . we were in my car and somebody rammed their truck into us. I don't know what he told you, but I didn't kill Terry."

"Shut up."

"She's gone, yes, but it was Prudhom. Not me."

"I said shut up."

"You're my partner, for God's sake."

(Please love them both and don't let either one of them change)

"I know what Eddie said."

"Eddie . . . God, can you hold my fucking head up so I can talk to you?"

"No, but I can give you another hit to shut your mouth."

"Starsk . . . "

Starsky reached for the small cedar box.

Hutch's eyes moved from the syringe to Starsky's face. "Starsky, please. Don't give me anymore of that. I can't take this again . . . you know I can't . . . " He tried to move away from Starsky but there was nowhere to go. He could only cringe against the side of the van as the needle sank into his arm.

"Sweet dreams," Starsky told him as he closed the box.

Hutch's body grew limber again, his resistance fading to nothing as he felt himself sliding out into that soothing blue sea.

"Fuck," he groaned lazily as his head dropped backward again.

When the loud bang sounded, Starsky thought Eddie had fired his gun, but when he felt the van swerving beneath him he understood it was just a blowout.

"Damn it," Barnes growled as he tried to control the vehicle.

"Fuckin' blowout," Eddie complained as he woke up and fished around in his pocket for a joint.

Barnes pulled the van safely to the side of the country road.

Eddie looked around. "Where the hell are we?"

"Beats me. I've been trying to find the road that leads to the Interstate."

"Well this ain't it, Holmes. You been smokin' too much grass. Do we have a spare?"

"No."

Eddie toked on his joint. "That's just great. What are we supposed to do, put our flashers on with golden boy tripping out in the back of the van?"

"I'll stay here while you go for a spare. Maybe somebody around here's still awake."

"It's after midnight. Country people don't stay up late, do they? Don't they have chores and stuff?"

"Beats me."

"Okay, Barnes, I'll stay here while you go for a spare."

"Or could send . . . Dalton."

"Hell no. His face is all over the TV news."

"Then what are we gonna do?"

Eddie considered, looking into the rearview mirror at Starsky, who was putting the tape across Hutch's mouth. "I think we waste 'em both and get the hell out of here."

Starsky moved up to sit in the seat behind Eddie. "Want me to go for help?"

"No. One of us will go. You stay here and keep your eye on blondie."

"Why? He ain't goin' anywhere."

"Just do it."

Starsky moved to go to the rear of the van again, and that's when the back doors flung open.

All three turned to look down the twin barrels of a shotgun belonging to an old farmer in a John Deere's cap.

The old man cocked his gun.

"You fellas put your hands up before I blow you into the next county."

Barnes, Eddie, and Starsky raised their hands.

The farmer didn't take his eyes off of Starsky. "Detective Starchy, get your hide over here."

Starsky looked over his shoulder, then back at the farmer. "Are you talkin' to me?"

"Who the hell do you think I'm talkin' to? Get out of this dope-mobile before I blast you."

"I'm not a detect--"

"Don't tell me you're not. I found your gun and your badge thing with your picture on it in the woods. You and blondie here are partners. Some truck blind-sided your car. You musta hit your head and wandered off. But this one here . . . " He glanced at Hutch, and his old wrinkled Adam's apple bobbed with emotion. "I was first one at the wreck and it took 'em four hours to cut him out of there, and all he kept sayin' was 'Where's Starchy? Is Starchy okay?'"

Starsky looked back at Eddie as he made his way out of the van. "This cop was tellin' me the truth, wasn't he? He didn't kill Terry, did he?"

"Sucker," he smiled as he grabbed for the pistol on the dash.

The old farmer pulled both triggers of the shotgun, blasting Barnes and Eddie back into the windshield. Blood and brain splashed across all three windows.

"Figured that would happen," the old man said, then he looked at Starsky, who stood behind him with his hands still raised. "You can put your hands down now. I'm not gonna shoot you."

Starsky put his hands down and watched as the old man climbed into the back of the van and carefully peeled the tape from Hutch's mouth. "Here, boy," he said as he lifted the back of Hutch's head in one hand.

Hutch groaned, his eyes blinking groggily. "Starsk?"

"Easy, boy."

"Starsk, are you okay? Did they . . ?"

"Hush up now. I'll get you down," the farmer said as he used his hunting knife to cut the rope on his bound hands, catching him in the crook of his arm as he fell.

"No dope," Hutch murmured sleepily. "Don't give me anymore, okay, Starsk?"

"Dope?" the old man questioned with confusion. Then he saw puncture marks on te inside of Hutch's arm, and the contents in the opened cedar box, and turned bitter eyes to Starsky. "You're the one who dragged him from the hospital and put him on this here dope?"

Starsky said nothing.

"Answer me, Starchy."

"They said he killed my girlfriend."

"They said? And you believed 'em?"

"I didn't know what to believe."

"I don't know much about your partner here, but I do know he thinks way too much of you to ever kill your girlfriend."

"No hospital," Hutch mumbled. "Please. No hospital."

The farmer patted Hutch's face. "Nonsense. You got to go back. You're too banged up to--"

Hutch's bandaged hand grasped at the old man's wrist. "Please."

"Oh, I get it. Gotta save your reputation, huh? The police force'd kick you out if they thought you had a problem with dope."

Hutch shook his head no. "It's . . . no. Not for me. Starsky."

The farmer looked over at Starsky. "Savin' your reputation. 'cause he don't want people knowin' what his own partner did to him. Wouldn't want 'em talkin' about you. Savin' your feelin's."

Starsky looked off toward the woods.

The old man dabbed Hutch's bloody nose with a handkerchief. "Against my better judgement I'll take you to my house and let you mend there. The missus is real good with nursin'. She took care of her mama and my mama too when they took sick at the end. But I will get ahold of your captain and tell him you're both alive. He's worryin' his head off about the both of you."

The farmer sat Hutch up and looked at Starsky. "Help me get him to my house over yonder, will you? I'll have to call the sheriff and tell him about these hoodlums without givin' the whole story away."

Starsky shook his head no. "I think I'll be movin' on."

The old man glared at him as Hutch lay slumped against his chest. "The hell you will. This boy wouldn't be in the shape he's in if it weren't for you. Now you act like a decent human bein' and help me take him to the house. Then if you still want to go, you just get the hell out of here and go."

Starsky looked at the blond man who (in the alley, in the alley, running down the alley toward his partner, toward Hutch, his name is Hutch, and he's lying on the ground, unable to go any farther, glassy-eyed, stoned out of his mind, good God, he's a junkie, don't tell anybody, huh? this didn't happen, Bernie, this didn't happen)

(it wasn't me, it was Prudhom)

(fighting with the seatbelt, Hutch shoving him toward the door, Go!)

and his memory came flooding back like swollen river water.

"Oh my God. Hutch."

Starsky climbed into the van (I can't take this again, kill me but don't shoot me up), nearly knocking the old man down to get to Hutch's side.

(you'll learn to like it)

"Hutch?"

(don't give me anymore dope, Starsky)

(sweet dreams)

Starsky's shame and self-hatred was only overshadowed by his urge to help his partner.

"Oh my God," he choked as he took Hutch's head in his hands. "Did I do this? Hutch, did I do this to you?"

But Hutch's eyes were rolling around and he was groping the air as if for purchase. "Starsk?"

"Right here," he said as he and the old man helped Hutch to his feet.

"Don't," Hutch muttered as he flinched away from Starsky and moved closer to the old man.

The old farmer put his arm around Hutch and supported most of his weight. "Easy there. Starchy's not gonna give you anymore of that dope. I won't let him."

Dobey answered the phone in his hotel room on the first ring. He and Huggy had been waiting the entire night for word from the sheriff or one of his detectives.

"This is who?" he said into the receiver.

Huggy froze with his toothbrush in his mouth to listen.

Dobey looked so relieved, but at the same time so distraught, that Huggy didn't know if it were good news or bad news.

"They're where?"

Huggy started to say something but Dobey held his hand up.

"Okay, Mr. Denton. I hear you. Yes, I understand. Yes, I appreciate your phone call."

Dobey listened a little while longer, then hung up the phone.

"Well?" Huggy asked him. What the hell's goin' on?"

Dobey picked up his jacket. "Remember the old man who found Hutch at the wreck?"

"The dude that brought Starsky's stuff to the hospital?"

"Yeah. He found both Starsky and Hutch. They're alive but . . . "

Huggy moved forward. "But what?"

Dobey moved toward the door. "It's a long drive, but we need to get out there."

Starsky watched helplessly as Hutch, doubled up on his side, rocked himself restlessly in the bed at the farmhouse, hugging the pillow to his chest while bouts of chills, fever, and severe muscle cramps seized his body.

Mr. Denton observed from the corner while his wife emptied a tray of ice cubes into a pan of water for cold compresses.

Starsky moved toward the bed. "Here, Hutch. Let me help."

But Hutch drew back and knocked his hand away. "No. Get away from me."

Starsky reached for him again. "Hutch, I'm sorry."

Hutch's voice shook through chattering teeth and his eyes were pleading. "I don't want anymore, okay?"

"Hutch, I won't give you--"

Hutch buried his face in the pillow and released a growl of pain. "Oh God," he groaned. "Oh fuck it hurts. It hurts so bad. It has to stop. I can't . . . " A miserable whine escaped him.

Starsky turned away and started pacing in tight circles near the bed, hand clutching his hair, trying to shut out the sound of Hutch's misery, trying to shut out the memory of (so cold, I'm cold, help me, you'll learn to like it, Starsky please, I can't take this again, no more, all right? Please?) what he had done to his partner.

Mr. Denton took Starsky's arm and steered him toward the bedroom door. "Maybe you should wait downstairs."

"No!" Hutch called weakly. "Starsky, come here."

Starsky went to where Hutch was still clutching the pillow, planting a knee on the bed and squeezing his shoulders. "Hutch, it's okay."

But it wasn't okay, and the words felt wooden and false in his mouth as he spoke them. It wasn't okay because he had betrayed Hutch in the worst possible way. Had assaulted Hutch with the thing he feared and hated most in this world.

Hutch let go of the pillow long enough to cling to the front of Starsky's jacket, his muscles still trembling with fever and chills, hair plastered with sweat, his face shining with tears and perspiration. "Starsk?"

A desperate whisper, his eyes begging. "Go get me some."

"Hutch--"

"Please? It's in the van."

"I can't."

"Go get it."

"Hutch, come on."

"No, you come on!"

"Hutch, I hate seein' you like this but you know I can't give--"

"YOU DID THIS TO ME!"

Hutch almost pulled him down on top of him.

Starsky couldn't stop the tears burning in his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. But I can't--"

"YOU SHOT ME UP SO THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS GO GET ME SOME!"

"Hutch, please."

Hutch's voice quieted to a whisper again. "Help me, Starsky. You'll help me, won't you?"

Starsky shook his head no.

Hutch pushed his face into Starsky's sleeve. "Please help me."

"Hutch, you know I can't."

"I NEED SOME RIGHT NOW, DAMN IT!!!"

An agonizing cry and Hutch bit down on Starsky's arm against the pain. When Starsky jerked his arm back, Hutch took the opportunity to scramble for the edge of the bed.

"I'll go," he panted. "I'll get it, damn it. I'll go get it myself. I know where it is."

Hutch stumbled to his hands and knees on the floor.

"Fucker," he sniffed as he made his wobbly way to the bedroom door. "Shoot me up and then won't get me any."

"Hutch, come back here."

"Fuck you."

Starsky grabbed him from behind and held him firmly, pinning Hutch's arms to his sides but trying not to squeeze his bandaged chest too tightly. "No," he whispered tearfully as he tried to hold Hutch still. They were both on their knees. "You're not goin' anywhere."

Hutch threw his head back against Starsky's shoulder and let out a wrenching cry. "Let me go!"

Starsky felt Hutch straining against him, but he was too weak to get away. He was determined enough, but not strong enough.

"Stop it," Starsky choked into Hutch's shoulder. "Stop fighting me."

"Make me," Hutch sobbed weakly. "You just fucking make me."

That's when Mr. Denton stepped over to them and punched Hutch in the face, knocking him out.

Hutch's body went lax in Starsky's arms, his head falling to his chest.

"Sorry 'bout that," Mr. Denton said as he massaged his gnarly knuckles. "With my arthritis actin' up I wasn't sure I could still do it."

Starsky looked up at the old man from the floor. "Withdrawal lasts a while."

"And you can't hold him still for that long."

Mr. Denton helped Starsky lift Hutch onto the bed. "Sally, give me your apron."

Mrs. Denton untied her apron and handed it to her husband.

Mr. Denton tore the apron down the middle. "It's soft," he said as he gently tied Hutch's right wrist to a bedpost.

Starsky glowered at the old man. "I don't like tyin' him up."

The farmer gingerly tied Hutch's bandaged left wrist to the other bedpost. "No, you just like shootin' him up."

"Come downstairs with me," Mrs. Denton told Starsky as she took his arm. "You need a break."

(Why should I get a break? Hutch doesn't get one. I can go get a drink of cold water or take a walk or get some fresh air, but Hutch is stuck here with this FUCKING MONSTER until it's through with him)

Starsky shook his head no. "You go ahead. I'm gonna sit here and make sure he's okay."

The old farmer chewed on his toothpick as he gave his statement to the sheriff standing on his front porch.

"So I hear this blow-out and I take my double-barrel down to the van because I want to help 'em see, but you never know who you're gonna run across these days. And lo an behold, when I open the back doors I see all their drugs and paraphernalia, and those hippies see that I see all their drugs and paraphernalia, and the one in that wild T-shirt, he just reaches for his gun to do me in, so I have no choice but to blow 'em to kingdom come."

And Starsky was still watching him when he stirred drowsily awake some time later.

Hutch looked over at his partner, who now was the one hugging the pillow as he sat in a chair near the bed.

Hutch's eyes blinked lazily. "First you shoot me up, then you tie me up. Wake me up when this is all over, will you?"

Starsky leaned toward him. "I didn't tie you up. The old man did."

Hutch moved his right hand a little. "Did he hit me too?"

"Yes, he did."

Hutch kicked his good foot on the bed. "Starsky, I need it."

"Hutch, we've been through this."

"You don't under . . . " Hutch's chest hitched with a sob, tears filling his dark-circled eyes. "It won't hurt anymore. Please get it for me."

"Hutch, if I give you some, we'll just have to do this again."

"We?"

Hutch's hands pulled at his restraints. "We?"

Starsky closed his eyes.

Hutch raised his head an inch or two off the pillow to look at him. "You mean I'LL have to do this again! Don't you, Starsky? Because it's not you! It's not we! It's me! And you did it to me!"

"Just ride it out."

Hutch thrashed in frustration, kicking his good foot and pulling at his good wrist. "YOU RIDE IT OUT! I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE! I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU BUT YOU WOULDN'T LISTEN TO ME! YOU KEPT--YOU KEPT--OH GOD JUST KILL ME! KILL ME NOW, DAMN IT!"

Starsky gripped his shoulders. "Hutch, please don't. Calm down."

"YOU CALM DOWN!"

"Sshh."

"YOU SSHH!"

Hutch clenched his teeth against the twisting pain in his stomach and joints. "I need to go."

"You're not goin' anywhere."

"I need to leave."

"No way."

"Starsk . . . "

"I know you want to."

"Just untie me."

"Can't do it, Hutch."

"Please?"

"Not right now."

"Starsky . . . "

"I will later."

"I just . . . " Hutch's voice faded down to a weak mumble, his struggling ceasing, his eyes closing with exhaustion. "I just . . . tired . . . hurt . ."

Starsky dipped a sponge into the pan of cold water, squeezed it out, then dabbed Hutch's face with it. "I know, buddy. Just sleep if you can. I'll be right here."

Mrs. Denton handed Dobey and Huggy both a cup of coffee as they sat on a flowered sofa in the living room of the farmhouse.

"They're both doin' fine," the old farmer told them as his wife settled down next to him on the loveseat. "I wouldn't go up and disturb 'em just yet, though. That one youngun's not over his sick spell just yet."

Huggy rose from his chair anyway. "I don't care what you say, old turkey. I'm goin' up there if I have to--"

Dobey gripped his arm. "Sit down, Huggy. We're right here if they need us."

Huggy gave the captain a sidelong glance, but did as he was told.

+++++++++++++++

Hutch opened his eyes to find Starsky still watching him sleep.

"Feelin' better, Hutch?"

Hutch rolled his head no on the pillow, his face pale.

"I want to go home," he said as softly and simply as a child. He still looked tired.

"We'll go home soon. Don't you worry."

Starsky leaned toward the bed. "Hutch, I don't know how to apologize to you. There's nothin' I can say and I can't take it back."

With his eyes closed, on the verge of sleep again, Hutch's right hand moved toward Starsky but was stopped by the apron restraint.

"Uh oh," he whispered faintly.

Starsky untied the apron cloth on his right wrist. "You hearin' me, Hutch? I want you to listen."

"Not your fault, Starsk," Hutch half-smiled in his sleep. "Had amnesia for real. I was faking mine but yours was the real thing. I don't hold it against you, no matter what I said."

Starsky looked down. "Will you forgive me?"

"For . . . buddy, you don't have to ask me to forgive you."

"Yeah, I do."

"You won't be satisfied until I say it, will you?"

Starsky shook his head no.

"Okay, Starsk, I'll make you a deal."

Starsky looked back up.

"I'll forgive you if you forgive yourself."

Starsky found a half-smile for his drowsy partner too as he untied his bandaged left wrist and carefully placed it on the mattress. "It's a deal."

"Good. Because you weren't yourself. You'd never have done that if you'd remembered me."

"I'll tell you what I do remember, though. I remember you shovin' me at the door when that truck was comin' at us."

Hutch's right hand moved toward Starsky on the bed. "And I remember you helping me with my seatbelt."

Starsky gripped his hand. "You gotta get that fixed, you know."

And on a second thought added: "Hell, you gotta get the whole damn car fixed."
 
 

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