The telephone rang persistently, rousing Hutch from his deep slumber. He fumbled to reach the phone located on the bedside stand. “Hutchinson,” he mumbled.
“Hutch? How’re you doin’ man?”
“Okay, I guess, Hug. But to tell you the truth, I just woke up and I feel like I’ve got cotton in my head,” Hutch answered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and coming to an upright position.
“I expected Starsky to answer. Where is he? Said he’d be at your place.”
“Good question. When he didn’t answer the phone, I grabbed the one here by the bed.”
“Man, he left here a long time ago. Said you weren’t doing so hot, so I was just checking in,” Huggy said. He paused for a second, then changed the subject. “Listen, Hutch, I been thinking. You guys planning to make Sam a permanent player?”
“Gee, don’t know, Hug. When we bailed him out of Animal Control, the plan was to keep him just long enough to find a good home. But he’s adjusted so well here, I’m a little reluctant to uproot him. I haven’t discussed it with Starsky, though. Why do you ask?”
“Well, it’s just…you know…I think he’s all right. He even gives Huggy’s place a little class. Not to mention, when he’s full-grown any turkey who thinks The Pits would be an easy mark might think twice, you dig? Just think about it, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll talk it over with Starsky and let you know.”
After they hung up, Hutch went to the kitchen to scare up something to eat. He really was surprised that Sam and Starsky weren’t home yet. It was already dark out, so their exercise run should have ended an hour or so ago. Upon entering the kitchen, he spotted the note from Starsky propped up against the telephone. Hutch read it hurriedly and was more than a little concerned that Starsky had gone off by himself to meet in such a secluded place. The odd feeling that something was wrong—that he was missing the obvious—came back again, this time more intense. He’d had this same feeling earlier, but couldn’t lay his finger on the source. Hutch read the note again.
“Hutch—gone to meet Timothy Parker in Model Car Club building at 2260
Clayburn. Has info about Carol’s
murder. Didn’t want to wake you. Be back soon—Starsk. P.S.
Sam’s with me.”
The root of the nagging anxiety
began to surface. Something Gina had
said on the telephone. What were her
exact words when he’d asked her to speculate on the type of the person
responsible for setting the explosives?
“Maybe someone with a background
in electronics, perhaps a computer technician,” There was more. Something
about the incendiary devices the arsonist was using. “…on the level with those
remote-control airplanes and boats that adult men seem to enjoy playing with so
much…he would have to know how to build
one, not just how to operate it.”
Of course! The radio-control car on the floor at the Parker home. His subconscious had been trying to alert him—help him recognize that Tim had the means and the motive to start those fires! And now his partner was involved in a clandestine meeting with this man—with no back-up.
No doubt, Starsky had tried to wake him, but the pain pills had done their job so well, he’d slept right through it. Hutch felt a hot wave of fear course through him, knowing that Starsky and Sam were meeting this madman without him being there to back them up. He had to get there fast.
Hutch threw on his jeans and a jacket, grabbed his keys and Starsky’s note, then rushed out the door. He yanked his left arm out of the sling in order to steer the car, and grabbed the mic with his right hand as he was backing out of the drive. Slapping the red bubble on the roof of the beat-up Ford, Hutch slammed the gas pedal to the floor. It was at least a fifteen minute drive to the address Starsky had left him.
“Control, this is Hutchinson. Patch me through to Zebra Three right now! And send a couple of black-and-whites to 2260 Clayburn. Starsky may be in trouble—I think he’s walking into a trap.”
“Patching you through, Hutch. And it’s a ten-four on the black-and-whites. Standby, please.” Interminable minutes passed before the dispatcher came back on-line. “Sorry, Hutch, Starsky’s not answering my call. But I have the back-up en route.”
“Thanks, Maggie. I’ll meet them there.”
Ten minutes later, the dispatcher came on-line again.
“Zebra Three, Zebra Three. Detective Hutchinson, please respond.”
“This is Zebra Three. Go ahead, Dispatch.”
“Hutch a call was just picked up on the Fire Department side band. A report came in that the structure located at 2260 Clayburn is engulfed in flames—a three alarm fire. Witness reported hearing multiple explosions. Two fire engines were dispatched, but you’ve got a head start on them.”
Hutch felt his heart lurch in his chest. Damn! Why didn’t you wake me, Starsk? Why did you take off on your own like this?” Hutch pressed the gas pedal to the floor, with little effect on the old junker. For once in his life, Hutch felt a keen appreciation for the striped tomato.
The explosion Starsky had heard rattled the foundation of the warehouse, igniting a ferocious blaze near the front entrance. Another smaller one followed, strategically placed to assure the flames would spread from different directions. Parker had escaped through the back entrance, padlocking the door behind him to guarantee the two homicide detectives couldn’t follow.
He didn’t like killing cops, too risky—but he decided it wasn’t much different than killing that night watchman at the jewelry store. Why couldn’t those nosey bastards have left well enough alone! Why had they reopened Carol’s case? Somehow they’d connected Carol’s murder to the fires and the death of the watchman. But how? Things were becoming too complicated. All he wanted was to make Bradley pay for killing Carol. Was that asking too much?
Parker was certain that Bradley would never be convicted, even if he was arrested. Money talked—everyone knew that. Poor Carol...poor sweet, gullible Carol. Mother must never find out she was pregnant when she died. Or else she’d remind him that all those bad things she said about Carol were true. But they weren’t. Carol wasn’t like that at all; it wasn’t her fault she’d been seduced by a millionaire.
Right up until the end, Tim hadn’t given up trying to convince his sister to go away for a while. She could have blackmailed Bradley into paying for everything, then adopted out the kid and gotten on with her life. With an almost debilitating sense of guilt, he remembered that their last words had been spoken in anger. Carol had told him to butt out! It was her life, she’d said. She knew Frank would marry her, she’d said. But instead, he’d had her murdered. The day of the funeral, Tim had made a solemn oath to his dead sister that he’d make Frank Bradley pay. And he would pay—dearly!
What a shame, he thought, irrationally, his deranged mind flitting back and forth between rage and remorse. All those beautiful, classic model cars and trucks—all those many hours of hard work with my friends. Up in flames...just like my sister’s life. Nothing left but ashes. I had no choice. I had to get rid of those cops before they spoiled everything! If they’d kept digging, they would have found out it was me before I could kill Bradley. That was the plan...had always been the plan. He would have the satisfaction of watching the man die.
Another small device exploded, igniting a cloud of cinders and sparks that lit up the sky. The roof in the northeast corner of the building began to collapse, the metal girders screeching and groaning as the heat rendered them shapeless. Far off in the darkness, Parker thought he heard sirens. He had stayed as long as he dared, to be certain the two detectives did not escape. It was time to leave.
Parker saw the bright red car still parked in front of the building and heard the frantic dog barking inside. The dog sensed it...he sensed the two men were not coming out, and he was panic stricken by the knowledge.
Starsky’s eyes fluttered open, instantly irritated by the dark, caustic smoke accumulating in the ceiling above him. It took a few seconds for his mind to clear enough to realize where he was and what had happened.
Trapped beneath a huge oak,
beveled-glass trophy case, Starsky could hear the popping and crackling noises
of the fire at the back of the building.
As the heavy cloud of smoke grew, it became more difficult to breathe
the murky air. It didn’t take long for
Starsky to figure out he was in serious trouble. In the distance, he heard Sam’s
frenzied barking, and hoped the dog’s
natural instincts would keep him from coming any closer to the burning
building.
Starsky raised his head and tried to assess the situation. From his perspective, it didn’t look good. His lower body was trapped beneath the heavy trophy case. Large shards of broken glass and dozens of radio-control cars lay scattered around him like colorful Christmas ornaments. Since the case covered him from the mid-point of his chest down, he had no way of telling if he was injured. Oddly enough, there was no pain, other than the stinging from minor cuts inflicted by the flying glass. He could feel his legs fine, but was pinned down so tightly, he could do little more than move them slightly, back and forth, from left to right. Don’t panic, he kept telling himself. Giving over to the fear will just make matters worse.
Despite his resolve to stay calm, he could feel the anxiety building. Starsky realized that he’d been foolish, not calling for back-up when he arrived. By the time Hutch figured out where he was, the building would be burned to the ground, leaving him dead, and Hutch on a major guilt trip for not being there when his partner needed him. Yep, he’d screwed up big time.
Another small explosion rattled the building, the northeast, back corner this time. It was enough to convince Starsky he couldn’t wait for Hutch—or anyone else—to show up. He’d just have to help himself. Taking a deep breath, he braced both palms against the underside of the trophy case and pushed up, straining and grunting with every ounce of strength he possessed; but it was no good. It weighed too much for one man to lift.
Smoke billowed forth, filling the rooms and corridors, as the advancing fire roared through the building. So far, he’d counted one major explosion, and two smaller ones, each coming from a different direction. Starsky silently prayed there wasn’t an explosive device set somewhere in the room with him.
Concentrating hard on the task at hand, he tried again to lift the cabinet, exerting the muscles in his upper body to the limit. It refused to budge an inch. He lay there quietly for a moment, racking his brain for a solution. Nothing.
His desperation mounting, Starsky finally resorted to yelling for help. It only stood to reason that people in the nearby buildings had heard the explosions and called the fire department. If someone didn’t find him soon, he’d be beyond reach...maybe he already was. But with typical Starsky optimism, he refused to accept that possibility without a fight. Each effort to call for help ended in spasms of coughing and gagging when the smoke filled his lungs. His throat burned and ached with the effort, and the overpowering smell of the smoke mingled with gasoline fumes was nauseating. After several minutes, he grew tired; and with the ever increasing smoke, found he was too short-winded to continue. The heat from the rapidly growing flames was a constant reminder that the fire would soon engulf this room, too. With every passing minute, his hope ebbed, until there was none left.
Growing dizzy from the smoke and fumes, Starsky realized he was going to die. He’d always been realistic about the risks in police work, but somehow, as partners, he and Hutch had invariably been able to beat the odds. They’d been through a lot together, and as long as they could count on one another, it wasn’t so scary. Starsky hated to admit it, but he was scared now; he knew this time, he was on his own.
When a fourth minor explosion ignited in the front part of the building, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on other things: people he loved, things he had accomplished in his life, things he would never have the opportunity to do…
Then he felt it. Not the heat of the flames, but the wet coldness of Sam’s nose, as the dog nuzzled against his cheek, then licked him across the lips.
“Sam! Oh, God, Sam, what are you doin’ here boy? You shouldn’t be here.” In spite of his protest, Starsky’s arm encircled the trembling animal and drew him closer. He could see how terrified the puppy was. Sam moved even closer, pressing his body against Starsky, each comforting the other.
The dog whined pitifully, obviously frightened, but unwilling to abandon his human. Instead, Sam licked Starsky’s face, as if trying to console him. Starsky held Sam tightly, drawing solace from his presence, but knowing that he wouldn’t keep the dog there to die with him. He’d have to convince Sam to leave before it was too late. He just hoped the frightened dog could find his way back out.
“Sam.” Holding the dog’s head gently, Starsky drew his face close to make sure he was paying attention. “Sam, go get the ball. You remember your ball? Huh? You wanna play ball?”
Sam squirmed and tried to pull his head back. He couldn’t understand what Starsky wanted. All he wanted was to take Starsky and get the heck out of this terrible place.
Starsky smiled encouragingly at the puppy, hoping to distract him from the noise and smoke around them. “Sam, pay attention. Go get the ball! Go find the ball! Where’s the ball, huh? Sam, go find the ball!” The wide-set, dark eyes reflected the animal’s fear and confusion. Maybe he didn’t recognize the word ball. Starsky decided to try a different approach.
“Sam, where’s Hutch? Huh? Go find Hutch.” Sam’s ears perked up momentarily. “That’s right Sam, go find Hutch.” Sam didn’t know Hutch was miles away. Hopefully he would run out of the building to find Hutch and be too frightened to return.
Sam still wasn’t clear on what was expected, but he did recognize two words—’Hutch’ and ‘ball.’ He cocked his head to one side and listened, trying desperately to understand. Maybe he was supposed to find Hutch. Maybe this was a game. He’d liked the game with the ball earlier tonight. And he always loved the games he played with his two humans. But he didn’t think he should leave Starsky here all alone.
As he neared the warehouse, Hutch could see the bright glow of the flames leaping into the air. He pulled into the parking lot and was disappointed to see the fire engines still hadn’t arrived. The only vehicles were the red Torino and the two black-and-white units. Hutch barely brought the car to a halt before he jumped out and ran toward the four police officers standing next to their cars.
“Where’s my partner? Where’s Starsky?”
“We don’t know, Hutch,” Murphy answered. “We just got here, and there’s no sign of him anywhere.”
“Then he must be inside.” Hutch started toward the building, but Murphy grabbed his arm and stopped him.
“Wait, Hutch. You can’t go in there. The firefighters will be here soon; they’ll handle this.”
Hutch tried to pull his good arm out of Murphy’s grasp, but was unable to break free. He whirled around and glared at the man. “Let go of my arm right now, or so help me, I’ll make you sorry you were ever born.” The deadly calm in his voice left no doubt in the police officer’s mind that Hutch meant exactly what he said. Still, he didn’t release his hold. It was obvious to all four policemen that Hutch was in no condition to attempt a suicide run through the burning building.
“Just calm down, Hutch. Starsky can take care of himself. He wouldn’t want you to try and come after him in this condition.” The last part of his entreaty was drowned out, as another section of the roof collapsed, sending up a cloud of fiery cinders into the sky. Hutch felt the blood drain from his face, as he watched the structure collapsing around Starsky.
“I’m going in. If the tables were turned, he’d come after me,” Hutch answered resolutely. He pulled Starsky’s note from his pocket and pressed it into Murphy’s hand. “Just in case we don’t make it out, this tells you who’s responsible.”
“Listen, I can’t let you go into that building—”
Hutch stared past the man, no longer listening. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Standing in the doorway of the burning warehouse was Sam. He looked at Hutch and barked excitedly.
“Sam!” With a powerful jerk, Hutch broke away from Murphy’s tenuous hold and ran toward the rottweiler. Once he was certain he had Hutch’s attention, the dog turned and ran back into the building, disappearing in the smoke-filled corridor. Without hesitation, Hutch followed.