They were professional heavies, he acknowledged that. So much for McGregor's ability to get a place checked out as clean. They hadn't been followed there, that was sure.

Cramped into the trunk of the car, hooded blind, wrists tied behind him, Starsky did the only thing he could do--he considered the situation, and came to the conclusion that he was stuck with it. There was too much he didn't know. Like who had snatched him, for starters. And what they planned to do with him. And what--if anything--Primrose would do. Could be Primrose had set him up. Hutch would take Primrose apart. Always supposing Hutch found out what had come down. Always supposing Hutch hadn't been set up as well.

It was a fruitless exercise, but it passed the time. It didn't help in any other way. The position he was in was proving more than uncomfortable, and when the car rocked to a halt and he heard the trunk opened, he was for the moment too relieved to be scared. Until they pulled him out and dragged the hood off.

Wherever it was, it was dark--too dark to see much of his surroundings, even if the nauseous dizziness had left him. There were men closed round him in a tight group--the gorillas who'd taken him out behind Andromeda, and one other, a squat, bulky man whose features were lost in the darkness. Starsky drew a careful breath, feeling the tight twist of pain in his midriff, knowing what it meant. The bullets he'd taken ten months back hadn't done anything cripplingly irreparable, so the doctors had told him--but the damage done had been extensive, and some nerve or other was going to take time healing, along with torn muscles and splintered bone. So, every now and then, for no particular reason, this knot of tension would tangle itself under his ribs. No particular reason, that is, other than him being uptight and physically strained. Like now. A couple of codeine would kill it, or a quiet period of relaxation. But this kind of situation, with the surge of adrenaline pumping into his bloodstream--well, it sure as hell wasn't going to get any better. Shit.

"You better start talkin', punk."

"What about?" Starsky tried to steady himself, and stared down the speaker with an arrogance he didn't feel. Perhaps that was why it didn't work.

"Begin with what you're doing in Andromeda."

"Lookin' around. Thought I might pick up something for my girl--"

"Cut the funnies." The command was accompanied by a blow that made him stagger. Someone laughed. "You were lookin' for somethin', right?"

"Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"What's on him?" The short, thickset man was doing all the talking; "Jones' men," Primrose had said back in the alley--maybe this was Jones?

"Driver's license, credit cards," the heavy said, holding up his billfold. "The name's Starsky, and he's from LA."

"Uh-huh." There was a thoughtful silence. "Know somethin', punk? You remind me of somebody."

"Listen, I was just there on the off-chance I'd find--" Starsky began, aiming to distract him.

"Find what?" the man cut in.

"Stuff I could lift and sell," he said. "I ran out of dough a few days back, an' got me some that way--figured I'd try for some more."

"Yeah?" A sneer of disbelief. "You're Sinclair's family, ain'tcha?"

"No, I don't know any Sinclair--" A fist slammed into his stomach like a pile-driver, exploding the pain into a million searing fragments, stopping his breath. He doubled forward, retching, and someone caught him, hauling him upright.

"Don't play games," he was told. "There's a lot of guys lookin' for Sinclair, an' it's too much of a coincidence for a near lookalike to show up an' not be connected. That mother-fucker sure as hell wouldn't cut anybody in on the deal, so I figure you heard he was on to somethin' an' came sniffin' around. Well, you just lost out, sucker."

"No, you got it wr--" The next punch hit direct on cramped muscles already screaming from abuse, and they were holding him up because his knees had turned to jelly, and the effort it took to breath was almost beyond him.

"Wrong, huh? I don't think so. You're the one that's made the mistake, an' Vegas just ain't healthy for you any more. So you're gonna go back to LA an' forget about Sinclair an' Andromeda. With a little help from us."

Again a fist drove into him, and he choked on the pain. Again, and again, and he could not think nor feel anything but the erupting agony and the need to breathe--

* * * * * * *

One side of his face felt tight, skin stretched taut. Pain was dulled to a steady, unrelenting ache. No sound but a soft, continuous sighing, rustling, barely audible.

Starsky lay quite still, trying to gather numb senses together enough to form a coherent pattern, slowly putting his world together. He was lying belly-down on a hard, uneven surface; sand or gritty dust. Hot. Sweat prickling his skin where clothing protected it, baked dry where it was exposed. Mouth parched, tasting salt and metallic--the aftertaste of blood and bile.

He got one eye open a slit and heard himself groan as brightness flooded in like acid. Searing blue sky above. Featureless expanse of white around him, blurring as his eye teared over. Desert. He closed the eye, blinking away the moisture that ran out between his lashes.

Musta dumped me out here while I was unconscious...didn't kill me, anyhow. Why bother. The desert could do the job for them. Can't stay here--

It took several centuries to gather enough coordination to push himself to his knees, and once there, head down, teeth locked, it took several more to gain enough strength to climb to his feet. It was a very precarious world, swaying and swimming, but so long as he didn't risk his balance it began to steady down.

Walking proved another problem--every stride jarred clear up to his skull, his legs wouldn't answer properly--but it was progress of a kind, and he got better at it. He had no trouble locating the highway; they hadn't dropped him more than half a mile from it, and he could see the moving glint of traffic to guide him.

But that half-mile took well over an hour--and by the time he managed to hitch a ride with a sympathetic driver, he was very close to the end of his resources. He shrugged off the curious questions, had the man drop him near the Dorado, walked the last few yards and let himself into the room.

As the door clicked shut he sagged against it for a moment, eyes closed. Made it... The sheer relief took almost the last strength from his legs--it had been will-power alone that had got him there, and with the impetus gone, so were his reserves.

No. Not yet. Gotta clean up.

He set his sights on the bathroom door, aiming himself at it, and pushed off. Once inside he got rid of his ruined clothes and staggered into the shower stall. Too tired to soap up, he simply stood there and let the cleansing rain beat onto him, resolutely blanking his mind as he had shut his eyes. It even worked for a while--until the images slipped under his defenses. The camera focused on the big bed. The carton with its kinky contents. Freight of make-up on the dressing table. The wispy, exotic nightgowns...

"Nicky..." he groaned. "Oh, kiddo, why?"

The bathroom did a sickening dip and roll, and he clung to the grab bar, leaning against the water-slick tiles, his face pressed to the coolness, shuddering. The memories he had hidden from himself emerged in ugly detail. Three times in the years since he'd left New York, he had gone to his brother's aid. Hutch had thought them family visits, and Starsky hadn't disillusioned him--the third time his partner didn't even know he'd gone east, being out of state himself on a long weekend vacation with a lady. What Starsky had found out that time had made him too ashamed, branded him too deeply.

He had known the score, even at fourteen--innocence dies young in the backstreets. He had steered clear of it. Nicky--had not been able to. With his father dead, and his brother gone away, Nicky had been forced to look elsewhere for protection--and had gravitated to the strongest protectors. The kid had only one way to buy their help, and even at that age, had had no compunction about the price. He had been a pretty child, more so than his older brother. There was no shortage of takers for his offer.

It is not easy to discover that your kid brother is hustling, if only to keep his skin intact. Three times... That last time, you promised me--there's just no need, kiddo--and now this--

His stomach heaved, and he had to let go to lurch out of the shower and fall on his knees beside the toilet bowl, retching. Sour fluid flooded his throat, burning, and his eyes were scorched with bitter tears.

Nicky. Why?

The spasms faded--the bathroom dissolved in a nauseous swirl of thickening gray...

* * * * * * *

He came to curled limply on the cork tiling, nose to nose with his faint reflection in the pale blue porcelain pedestal of the washbasin. He didn't feel like he could move, but he made the effort, and after three tries managed to drag himself to his feet, fumbling for a towel and wrapping it around himself with one hand while holding on to the washstand with the other. He ran the cold water, washed his face, rinsed out his mouth. Thank God Hutch didn't find me like that. He'd've raised hell...

Fresh shirt and jeans came out of the bag, and he stuffed the discarded clothes under everything else. Deal with them later. Sitting down on the bed, he started to pull on his socks, grunting as the stiffened bruises tautened his abdomen when he tried to bend.

So now what? He knew what kind of action Nick was into, and what the set-up was. Blackmail. The only question was where did Lazero and Henderson fit in? Did they want Nick and his bargaining stock for deals of their own, or were they the victims for once in their lives.

"I can't fix this for you, kiddo," he said aloud. "This is one thing I can't make right."

Like an echo, he heard Nick's angry voice from two years ago--"You were never there for me." And the hurt he had felt then, twisting in his gut now, undiminished by time. I'm sorry, Nick. I'm really sorry. I've tried. Poppa said to look after you... I tried...

He was sitting there, eyes screwed shut on painful memories, when the door opened, the sound jolting him so that he looked up to see Hutch enter. And the relief that Hutch was all right, unhurt, was alloyed with apprehension. Because his partner was mad. It hung around him like an aura; it was in the way he moved, in the stony expression, controlled--in the ice-blue of his eyes, the set of his mouth.

Oh, God. He knows.

"So what did you get?" he forced his voice to remain even, schooling his face to a mask of non-emotion. "You saw Sophie?"

"Yeah. I talked to her. You know what your brother's into, Starsky?" It came out in a rush, as if he hadn't intended to say it and it was out before he could bite it back. "Blackmail. Sophie is part of it. A new life, didn't he tell you? Playing it straight? Jesus!"

Starsky wouldn't look at him.

"Yeah," he said slowly, concentrating on his feet. "I picked up the same idea."

"And he had the nerve to come to you for help! Dear God--doesn't he have any brains? Did he think you'd just barrel in and smear the bad guys? What did he expect you to do, go in blind? Not give a damn about how he got himself into this mess?"

"I don't know."

"He's no good, Starsk," Hutch said intensely. "God knows you bent over backwards to defend him with the Stryker case, but this time you have got to admit it. He's no good. You can't help him."

"He's my brother." Softly, desperately.

"We wouldn't be here if he wasn't, dammit!" Hutch exploded. He slammed one fist down on the dresser, hard. "It's about time he grew up, stood on his own two feet, and take all the consequences."

"He's tried to go it alone," Starsky cut in, flinching inwardly as a cramp hit. He took a shallow breath, waiting until it passed. "You don't know how hard he tried, Hutch!"

"Will you quit defending him?" Hutch snapped. "He's not worth your worry and pain, or our time and effort. He's into a blackmail racket that makes me want to puke, he's a liar and a weakling and the kid he's shacked up with--this precious Sophie--is a high-priced hooker who looks like a--"

Starsky was in no mood to deal with the raw bitterness in Hutch. He was exhausted, and hurting, and having his partner throw those kind of hard words at him, truth though they were, was more than he could take. In sick anger he reacted to pain by inflicting pain, hitting out because he had to hit out at somebody.

"Well, she's somethin' you got no cause to be so bloody high-minded about! For God's sake, leave Nicky alone, willya?"

"No." Hutch's face had that carven, set look of fury barely held in check. "No, dammit, I won't let him alone. He's using you, Starsky, just like he uses everybody else he comes across. He's only got time for you when he's in trouble--the rest of the time, you don't exist for him! And don't give me that crap about blood being thicker than water, either--what's he ever done for you?"

"He's family." Starsky bit the words out. "He's just about all the family I got. Like I'm all he's got. But you can't understand. You never had a brother, so what can you know about it, huh?"

He had aimed to wound, and he succeeded. The naked hurt in Hutch's eyes made him flinch, but he couldn't unsay what had been said.

"He's my brother, Hutch." He repeated it, almost in a plea for understanding--and Hutch turned on his heel and slammed out of the room.

Starsky let out a long, shaken breath, catching it as the cramp stabbed again. He massaged his stomach gingerly, wincing. The tension of the last few minutes hadn't helped. He got up, awkward and clumsy, and made for the bathroom. He found the codeine and swallowed three with a mouthful of water, stubbornly attempting to concentrate on the small unimportant actions instead of the ache of lacerated feelings. It made no difference.

Nick is my brother. Nothing changes that. What he was--what he's become--oh, Nicky, Nicky...

He stretched out on his bed, one arm shielding his eyes, trying to block out the memories. The visit Hutch knew nothing about--seeing his brother's good-looks distorted by cosmetics, the slim body clothed in the height of gay fashion...

"Why, Nicky? You're not gay."

"Hell, no, Davey. But this is the way to rack up the loot, babe--"

And now, blackmail.

So what do I do? What can I do? No easy answers. He's my brother, Hutch. Oh, Christ, I'm sorry I said that to you. You're more then a brother, partner. But Nick--flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood, bone of my bone--Nick.

"You'll look after your little brother, David. You hear me?"

"Yes, Poppa. I hear you."

* * * * * * *

Henderson was in a pool of isolation amid the crescendo of bustle that filled the bar. It was as if an invisible line had been drawn on the floor, and no one crossed it.

Hutch paused just inside the door, and McGregor joined him briefly.

"He's got one guy watchin' the back, one the front," he said. "That's all. He ain't huntin' trouble."

"Didn't think he would," Hutch said, and headed for the man sitting alone at the small table. Two hoods appeared at his side as he left the crowd, hands on his shoulders to detain him.

"Back off," he spat.

"That depends," said one, "on what merchandise you got."

"Back off," Hutch repeated. "Or I walk right out that door, and Lazero gets the lot."

"Let him through," said Henderson quietly. "A drink, Mr.--"

"Brandt. No." Hutch pulled out the only other chair at the table and sat down. "You're quite clear on the terms, Henderson?"

"Yes, if they haven't changed over the last few hours."

"They haven't. Leave Nick Sinclair alone, and you'll hear no more from me."

"And that is all? You surprise me, Mr. Brandt. Nicky wanted a whole lot more."

"I don't doubt it," Hutch said. "But he is no longer involved in this, and won't be. Well?"

Henderson spread his hands and shrugged, a mirthless smile on his hard face. "It would seem that I don't have much of a choice. Did you bring the other film?"

"No."

"Pity. Would fifty thousand change your mind?"

"No."

"More? Or do you really expect me to believe you're an honest blackmailer?"

"I don't give a shit what you believe. And fifty million wouldn't buy it."

"All right. I'll agree to your terms. If you have the film you claim to have."

"I haven't checked it. Your name's on the package. That was enough for me once I'd seen the still," Hutch snapped, and took the wrapped film out of his jacket-front. "Check it all you want."

Henderson carefully removed the paper, eased out a short length of film and held it up to the light. His expression showed nothing.

"It appears to be the correct one," he said, voice even. "I keep my bargains, Mr. Brandt. I hope, for your sake, you keep yours."

"I keep 'em." Hutch stood up. "Don't forget about the still-print, will you?"

"No. You're free to go."

"Thanks a bunch. Don't try to get hold of the Lazero film, either, or it'll have the same result as a hit on Nick."

"Naturally. It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Brandt."

Hutch did not answer. His mind's eye was not seeing the dangerous granite mask of the gang-boss, but the grotesquely made-up face from Henderson's-fantasies-made-reality by courtesy of Nick Starsky's camera. He turned and walked away.

McGregor fell into step beside him as he left the bar.

"The Lazero meet is on," the black man said. "Here, at ten in th' mornin'. That's a hell of a time, Blondie."

"Yeah," said Hutch. "Could make it earlier if it'll suit you better."

"Sarcasm don't become you none. Your buddy showed up okay?"

"Yes." And didn't notice the flicker of relief that passed over the gaunt death's-head. It was not relief for Starsky's return as such, rather that he, McGregor, would not have a yellow-haired Nemesis on his tail, Obviously, Starsky had come to no harm, and hadn't seen him cutout, which was probably just as well. There was also the matter of Starsky's gun, picked up in the alley and now weighing down his coat pocket. A neat piece, the 59 9mm, but he'd find a way to get it back to its owner without the WASP knowing the whys and wherefores. It would maybe be safer to be circumspect.

"By the way, Cousin Hug is kind of anxious to get hold of you," McGregor said abruptly. "Had an agitated phone call from him--"

"I'll get back to him. Is Sophie still in the room above the Hidalgo Grande?"

"Yeah. You aimin' to go a-callin'?" McGregor grinned. "She's one sweet chick. Give you a real good time."

"She's not my type, McGregor," Hutch snapped. "I prefer my ladies to at least look as if they're over the age of consent."

"'Kay." He shrugged. "No skin off my nose. See you. t'morrow."

"Yeah. Thanks, Primrose," surprising himself as well as the black.

"No sweat."

* * * * * * *

Hutch didn't stay long with Sophie, just took enough time to assure himself that the girl was only too eager to have her Nicky back, and was willing to go with him to any place he decided they should go. Her devotion did not stop her putting the moves on Hutch, however, and he extricated himself from her arms and her room with firmness and speed. But he did not go back to the motel straight away, feeling unable to face Starsky and his bitterness.

Instead he wandered along the main thoroughfare, in and out of bars, but drinking little, watching the people in their frenetic hunger for enjoyment; a kaleidoscope of faces, gestures, strident voices and brilliant lights, music of many kinds blending with traffic noises to produce almost a unified whole. The Strip in a higher key, a faster pace, that was all. Nothing new under the neon sun.

Feeling cold and oddly isolated, Hutch went back to the motel.

Starsky was asleep, and he did not wake him. Nor did he phone Huggy. There seemed no point. They'd be back in LA by nightfall tomorrow

* * * * * * *

Starsky wasn't aware that he had slept until he woke to pain. Woozy from the codeine and sleep, he could not at first figure out where he was--the one sure thing was that he hurt. Slowly other things registered--the motel room, dark. Night. He was fully dressed, and lying on top of the covers, shivering--the air-conditioning must have freaked out, he was drenched with sweat but he was cold. And hurting.

Twice, during his stay in the hospital, it had got this bad before they'd given him his shot. And they had prescribed a supply of powerful painkillers to supplement the codeine when he was discharged, but he hadn't really needed them after the first couple of weeks. Twice--no, three times--he'd been in enough agony to resort to them, but the last time was months ago, and he hadn't bothered to pack them. He hated popping pills anyway, and the codeine was all he usually needed.

It wasn't going to get any better by him lying thinking about it, he knew that. The cramps didn't ease, tightening around his body like an iron belt. Pain that had been a dull ache was grown now to a gnawing fire. He tried to control his breathing, short shallow breaths that barely lifted the ribcage--but that didn't work either. Maybe a couple more codeine--

But his attempt to sit up forced an involuntary grunt of pain from him, and he fell back, eyes screwed shut.

"Starsk?" a quiet voice said.

It hurts, Hutch--Christ, it hurts--

"Didn't mean to wake you." He got the words out with difficulty, between set teeth.

"I wasn't asleep." Sound of movement. "What's the trouble?" And the bedside lamp clicked on. "Starsk--?"

"S'okay. Don't fuss."

Fingers on his wrist, a hand on his brow.

"Take it easy," Hutch was saying. "How bad is it? I'll call the local hospital, drive you downtown--"

"Uh-uh. No hospital." He made it as emphatic as he could. "Please, Hutch. Listen. I know how it is. It'll go pretty soon. Look kinda stupid draggin' me down to the doc with nothin' wrong, huh?"

Hesitation. He looked up into concerned blue eyes and tried a smile that didn't quite come off.

"Sure?"

"Yeah. Just give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay. Can I get you anything?"

"Coupla codeine is all."

Hutch brought the tablets, and an arm was slipped behind his shoulders to help him up. He knew his sweat-soaked shirt and spasmodic shivers would not exactly ease his partner's concern, but there was nothing he could do about it.

"Take that shirt off and get under the quilt," Hutch advised, after Starsky had swallowed the pills. "It'll be warmer." As he spoke he unfastened the buttons, began to peel off the shirt--and then saw the bruises under the sweat-matted pelt of dark body-hair. "Christ--Starsk, what--?"

"Lazero's goons." Starsky was lying flat, head turned away, his voice unutterably weary. "Picked me up outside Andromeda. They didn't make me for Nick's brother, exactly. S'okay, Hutch, nothin's broken. But I lost my gun."

"I'll get it back." A quiet promise.

Lazero's goons. Hutch swore under his breath. That reckoning would have to wait.

"You should see a doctor," he said.

"S'only bruises. Nothin' t'worry about." Starsky's voice was beginning to slur, and Hutch decided it might be better to let him rest until morning, re-evaluate the situation then. The beating-up looked to have been administered for pain rather than damage, and things always seemed worse at night. And Starsky had enough commonsense to opt for the hospital if he knew he needed it. "Be okay...inna minute..." underlining Hutch's own thoughts. So he dropped the wet shirt to the floor, pulled back the covers and helped him into bed.

Starsky subsided onto the pillows, shivering, and as Hutch straightened the blankets he found his wrist caught in a hard, sweaty grip, and knew what it meant. He sat down, took his partner's hand, and let him hold on, feeling the almost imperceptible tremor of muscles locked rigid in an attempt to fight the pain, seeing the snail-trails of sweat glistening on Starsky's face, pale against the darkness of his hair. No two ways about it, he looked terrible. The pressure of the thin fingers increased a fraction as the suffering man bit down on a shuddering gasp.

"Try to relax..." Hutch whispered lamely.

Relax--when he's racked by chills and cramp--big laugh. But if this goes on for much longer, I'm getting a doctor to him whether he likes it or not. Damn Nick to hell.

"...cold..." Starsky muttered, huddling under the covers. He didn't seem quite so aware, maybe the codeine was finally helping. "Hutch...?"

"I'm here." Shifting, he lifted the blankets and slid in beside him, pulling the shaking body close. "S'okay, I'm here, partner."

God, if I could just take some of it for you--

Only half-conscious now, mercifully, Starsky nestled against Hutch's warmth, guided more by instinct and need than any awareness, and his breath caught as movement wrenched at stiffened muscles. Hutch grabbed hold by reflex.

"Don't fight it, Starsk. No need to play hero--no one here to see but me... Go with it, babe--ride it out. I'm here, I got you, it's all right--" His murmured litany cracked on his own distress, but the ragged breathing deepened, steadied, and the taut body relaxed little by little as pain and tension ebbed. The shivers were less frequent now. The unshaven cheek resting on his chest rasped his bare skin as Starsky moved slightly. "Better?" Hutch asked softly, got an inaudible mutter he took for assent, and:

"Don' go..."

"I'm here, buddy, I'm here..."

His mind flew back over years--to a dirty back alley behind Janos Martines porn-studio--saying these same words in a helpless attempt to comfort Starsky's anguish...holding him, then as now, and the tormented body slackening against him as the onslaught of pain won momentarily over the fight to stay conscious. Echoes of pain, roused in his memory, paraded before his inner eye.

Too many times--Starsky hurting; either physically, like this, or mentally. Emotionally. Helen's death. Terry's. Why? One simple, inescapable reason. Because he's a cop.

He glanced down at the tousled head cradled on his shoulder.

Put it all down to that. All the pain and the hassles and the kicks life deals out--it's because you're what you are. This last time, you nearly died. Did die. Dear God, I don't want to remember that. I got you back. But for how long, Starsk?

He realized Starsky had become a dead weight, half-curled against him, no longer shivering, the chills gone. Hutch eased his left arm free, gritting his teeth as the numbness thawed into excruciating tingles, and slid from the bed, tucking the blankets in place before heading for the bathroom. Feeling like he'd been through a mangle, he started automatically on his morning routine, failing to remember that he hadn't got any sleep yet. Then discovered the time--nearly three--and swore. He went beck to his own bed, but sleep would not come. Instead he lay there and thought about the future. In specific terms, Starsky's future. The question of his career--of his fitness to return to police work, colored by the events of the last few days.

Suppose the Board passed him fit. Suppose he did get back on the street. Could he cut it the way they had? Take all that stress? Or would the tension building up inside him trigger the kind of attack he'd suffered tonight? Could he, Hutch, even let him try?

The wave of emotion that had ambushed him gave him a moment's pause. The sight of the still-gaunt body, bruised and scarred and exhausted to the point of collapse, had reawakened all his latent instincts to protect and shield the friend he loved from any further pain or threat of it. From Nick, from anybody.

Well, come the morning, he'd have the meet with Lazero, and the other side of the filthy bargain would be settled. Nicholas Marvin Starsky's precious hide would be safe. It didn't help any. He felt vaguely unclean, as if some of the dirt had rubbed off on him. If there was another way-- But there wasn't. He had done, and would do, what had to be done. But he felt soiled, his very involvement tainting him.

Oh, come on, Hutchinson. That White Knight image just isn't it anymore. It never was, if you're honest with yourself. You tried to pretend it was, that you could change the world--the shining knight, the paladin, righting wrongs--story-book stuff. Most kids grow out of that idea before they leave kindergarten. The world doesn't want to be changed, so thanks for nothing, sucker. Tilting at windmills is no occupation for a grown man.

"That's it," he said aloud. "No more bullshit. Tomorrow, we go home. Nick can sort out the rest of the crap himself."

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