Chapter VI

Hutch sat wearily on the edge of the bed and knuckled sleep from his eyes, feeling in need of at least six hours solid with his head on the pillow. Starsky, thankfully, was still asleep, his face pale and bruised with exhaustion.

Anger put vitality back into Hutch, a bitter, vindictive rage that was in part fear. What damage had been done internally? Could Starsky cope with the after-effects of the beating, because if he couldn't--too many questions and doubts for a morning when he needed a clear head and total concentration.

Resolutely he put them all to one side, took a brisk shower and dressed, making as little sound as possible. By the look of him, it would take an earthquake way up the Richter Scale to wake Starsky, but he was not about to take the chance. This was one deal he did not want Nick's brother in on. Besides, he intended to be at the Ponderosa earlier than planned--he had a few words to say to McGregor.

The opportunity to say all he would have wished was not given to Hutch. He had time enough to pin McGregor into a corner, to discover and take from him Starsky's gun. Then he demanded an explanation of his sins of omission; failing to stick with Starsky, failing to follow and get him out of the mess, and failing to inform Hutch at any time of what was coming down.

McGregor's only response was a shrug and a flat statement that he figured Starsky was a big boy now, and just for a second, death looked out of blue eyes and the tall black held his breath. Then Jolie appeared at Hutch's elbow.

"Hey, man--Lazero's just arrived--he's early, ain't he?" She gazed from one to the other. "Hey," she said again.

"Okay." Hutch stood back, and McGregor emptied his lungs in an unobtrusive sigh. "Check out the street, back and front."

"'Kay."

* * * * * * *

Lazero settled himself much as Henderson had done, in isolation at the far end of the bar-room, his privacy maintained by three hired hands. Hutch made no move to approach him until he got the nod from McGregor.

He stepped between two heavies, and their initial move to grab him was halted by a short nod from Lazero.

"Come and join me, Mr.--uh--?"

"Brandt."

"Ah, yes. You are Mr. Sinclair's representative, I take it?"

Hutch looked down at the smooth, smiling face, and decided he'd sooner be dealing with Henderson.

"No," he said shortly. "I don't represent anyone. Were you told what the deal is?"

"I was informed," said Lazero, studying manicured nails, "that you had taken over Nicky's negotiations. Therefore I assume the price has risen. What is it now? And I advise you not to be too greedy."

"Keep your advice to yourself, mister," Hutch snapped. "Sinclair is no longer involved with this show. The deal is simply this; I give you the film, and to ensure that Sinclair's skin stays whole, I keep the still-photo. It will not be used in any way unless you make a move against him: Is that clear?"

"On the face of it, yes. But hardly predictable."

"Well?"

"Do you have the film?"

"Yes."

"And the photo is, of course, hidden?"

"Of course."

"What guarantee do you give me that it will stay hidden?"

"Nick Sinclair," Hutch said coolly. "If it shows up, waste him. But it won't, because I don't intend for him to become a hit target. But if he should, and the print is still undercover, then it'll be handed around to any interested party I can dig up. Regardless of whether it's you or Henderson who makes the hit.".

"He must mean a lot to you," Lazero smiled, watching his face with cold, blank eyes.

"Not so that you'd notice," Hutch answered, contempt clear in his voice.

"But he does have a relative. Whose name is not Sinclair."

"That's right. He also has a mother, several aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, and a girlfriend. You have a wife, two sons, three daughters. You're the president of the PTA, sit on the boards of several Catholic charities, and, so I hear, are anxious to have some political standing. Do I need to go on?"

"Perhaps not." Lazero's smile did not waver, but there was a malicious hatred behind it, and his eyes were no longer blank.

"Do we have a deal?"

"The film for Nicky's hide?" he chuckled, the sound reminiscent and lascivious. "Yes, we have a deal. It'll be an--interesting--addition to my library. Have you seen it through?"

"No," said Hutch. "I haven't looked at it. The still was more than enough for my stomach."

"Not your scene?" Lazero drawled. "What will you accept for the second film? Henderson's."

"It's not for sale. Unless you want to make him an offer for it. You two might get along together real well." He tossed the film onto the table. "Remember. Leave Sinclair alone."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked away. No one made a move to stop him, but he could feel Lazero's eyes on him every step of the way until the street-door closed behind him.

Neither McGregor nor Jolie were in sight, the former probably not wishing a continuation of their earlier conversation, so Hutch went back to the motel. He was not tailed, as far as he could tell, and in any case, took a convoluted route as a matter of course.

* * * * * * *

Starsky was still asleep. Hutch hauled out their cases and packed, leaving Starsky's open to put away any last-minute items, then gently shook him awake.

"C'mon, buddy, rise and shine," he said, and clouded blue eyes blinked open.

"Wha'?"

"It's time to pull out. Go get a shower, we'll grab a late breakfast and head for home."

"Uh," Starsky grunted. "Christ, I'm stiff!"

"A hot shower'll help, and a massage after," and he extended a hand.

"Yeah." Starsky grabbed hold and let himself be heaved upright. "Did I ever tell you you got these sadistic tendencies?"

Hutch felt his facial muscles lock on the half-begun smile.

"Frequently," he said. "Aka the Marquis de Sade. Go get that shower."

"Okay, okay." But in the doorway of the bathroom, Starsky stopped abruptly. "Going home?" he demanded. "Pulling out? No dice, Hutch."

"Yes," he insisted. "There's nothing left to do here."

"Like hell there isn't! Okay, so you can't understand the way I feel about Nicky, so maybe you can't understand why I ain't gonna run out on him--"

"Quit it, Starsk! You didn't hear what I said!" Hutch cut in.

"I'm not expectin' you to stick it out. Go on back to LA. I'll catch a plane out when I've cleared up--"

"Starsky--"

"And don't argue. It's not your problem."

"Yes, it is," Hutch said numbly. "You're my partner. That makes it mine as well as yours."

"No! He's not your brother!"

"Thank God. But--"

"No buts. Just haul ass. Look, I appreciate what you're tryin' to say, but this is somethin' I have to tackle on my own. Okay?"

Hutch's pain was coming back, insidious doubt along with it. He took a deep breath, trying to find words that would bridge the gap that was slowly widening between them.

"Starsky," he said. "Will you listen to me? It's finished. All tied up. Primrose and me, we sorted it out last night and this morning. Nick is off the hook."

Starsky stared at him, uncomprehending.

"You. And Primrose? You can't have--"

"Why not? We did, and its over with. Now for God'ssake, let's get out of this dump, huh?"

"How?" Starsky yelled. "Damn it, Hutch! You got no right--"

"Okay!" Hutch shouted back, cut to the quick. "So I'm not your brother, and I'm not any kind of family. I happen to be your friend and once I was your partner, and in my book that gives me the right to do what I can when you're flat on your back and in no state to argue the time of day! As for how--it was no sweat. Sophie had a key to a locker that had two films in it. So I bargained. They agreed. So now we go home."

"--Films," Starsky whispered. "Yes, of course. Oh, God. Nicky--"

Hutch bit back the comment that burned on his tongue.

"Now will you get that shower so we can eat and go?"

Starsky did not appear to have heard him."

"You gave those creeps the films?" rage twisting his face. "They don't need him if they got them-- What the hell are you tryin' to do? Get Nicky wasted?" he exploded, reaching out for Hutch's shirt-front.

Hutch knocked his hands away. "That's one hell of a tempting thought!" he snarled. "Listen, buddy. I do have a little more sense than that. There were stills with the films--I'm keeping them as insurance for your brother's hide. Does that ease your bleeding heart?"

The implications of that didn't seem to sink in.

"You can't play games with his life! Why in hell's name couldn't you have left it for me, without pullin' the White Knight stunt all over the place--"

"Okay!" Hutch spun on his heel, wrenched open the door onto the interior corridor, bent and ripped up a carpet tile, snatched up the envelopes. He slammed back into the room and shook out their contents, thrusting them under Starsky's nose. "Okay. There's the insurance. Do what you want with it," he snapped. "Give 'em to Henderson, Lazero, Nick, who the hell you like. But whether you like it or not, the case is closed."

Starsky did not move, nor show any sign of hearing him. Face drained white, he stared at the upper photo--Nick and Henderson-- Then with a curiously blind, fumbling gesture, pushed them back towards Hutch, shaking his head, and lurched into the bathroom. The door shut behind him, and the lock snicked.

Hutch put the photos back into their envelopes and buried them in the bottom of his suitcase. He felt lousy, and knew that Starsky had to be feeling worse. Those pictures were not the sort of thing anybody should have to see on an empty stomach, especially when their brother was featured in the action. But it was done. It could have been better done.

He finished the packing, loaded the car, and waited until Starsky came out of the bathroom. If anything, he looked worse than when he went in.

"You ready?" Hutch asked, keeping his voice neutral, and got a brief nod. Breakfast was not on the cards--he didn't think he could face food right then, and was sure Starsky couldn't. They'd stop to eat on the road home--all he wanted was to be out of Vegas, to be free of the invisible miasma of filth that seemed to film everything, that even the brilliant desert sunshine couldn't burn away.

* * * * * * *

The Torino headed west, for LA and home, Hutch at the wheel, and Starsky slumped unspeaking in the passenger seat. He looked like hell in the pitiless morning light. Hutch had already decided that the first thing he was going to do when they reached Los Angeles, was get his partner to a doctor for a check-over.

"You okay?" he said, as the city receded behind them. Starsky gave him a glance.

"Sure."

"Thought we'd stop to eat along the way."

"Not hungry."

"Don't be stupid. You haven't eaten in thirty-six hours, Starsk. And if you flake out on me, so help me you'll be back in the hospital before you can say 'Ben Casey.'"

"Nag, nag, nag."

"I mean it," Hutch told him--got another look, then a nod of acknowledgement, and had to be satisfied with that. He sighed. He felt dog-tired, but there was no hope of Starsky being able to spell him on the driving. The whole three hundred odd miles would be his. "Why don't you try to get some sleep?" he suggested.

No response. Hutch sighed again. Well, it was all sewn up, anyway. Nick's hide was safe, no one would dare lay a finger on him now, not with the security he, Hutch, held. Which was a pity. In his mind; the best thing that could happen to Nick was for him to disappear quietly off the face of the earth, somewhere he couldn't bother his brother again. Trouble, that was Nick's middle name. Trouble for whoever he came across. Sophie was a case in point. And, as always, Starsky. You deserve better, Starsk. You deserve the kind of brother you are. The kind who'd do what you do, without question or even thought, willing to lay down life, liberty, and sacred honor for you. Because you're worth it, babe. Not because of a blood-link that's pure accident, but because you are what you are. And I wish I could say that to you.

Starsky was hurt. He knew that, could feel the pain in himself. Not a physical thing, but a raw, gnawing ache that was soul-deep, and Hutch knew he should have broken that unpalatable truth more gently. But he had been hurting, too, had the subconscious need to hit out--and Starsky was the nearest available target--unforgivable--but when he had Nick within reach, there were quite a few things he intended to say--out of Starsky's hearing.

After an hour and a half of silence, Hutch couldn't stand it any longer.

"Starsk," he said, "I'm sorry. I had to show you. I wish I hadn't done it quite that way, but--you had to know--"

"I knew," Starsky cut in. His voice was flat, expressionless. "I've known for years, Hutch."

Startled, Hutch took his eyes from the road long enough to glance at his partner. The profile was set into a stony mask, eyes front.

"When I left New York," Starsky went on, "I was fourteen. Nick an' me--we were close, Hutch. Really close. He depended on me a lot when we were kids." There was a pause, and Hutch did not dare to prompt him. "'Look after Nicky,' Poppa'd say--and I'd grouch about havin' a punk kid along all the time--but we had good times, Hutch. Real good times." He paused again, eyes blank with reminiscence, something that almost might be a smile on his mouth. "One summer--God, it was so hot... Useta open up the sprinkler on the street corner, and there'd be a whole bunch of kids under it, horsin' around. But Nick an' me--we went skinny-dippin' down in the East River after school. Mom would have had our hides if she'd known. Mine especially, me bein' the one who was supposed to have more sense. So we never told. Never told on each other, ever. No matter what happened. Even when he snatched a bag of apples from a sidewalk stall and I got caught an' belted for it--I never told on him. I remember him cryin' that night as if he was the one with the sore ass. Cryin' for me..." They were the sons of a cop. They had to be close--wasn't anybody else for either of them in the tough street-jungle. A lot of the other kids would have taken it out on them, if they dared. With him they didn't dare--with Nicky, not when he was around. "But when Poppa died--when I wasn't around any more--he needed protection. He was used to havin' someone fight his battles for him." He swallowed, harshly, throat working.

"Starsk," Hutch said, but Starsky was either not hearing or ignoring interruptions.

"Before I went out to Nam was the first time I found out what he was doin'. What he'd become. Hutch, I beat the shit out of him, I was that mad. He promised he'd go straight, and I believed him. When I came back--I found out I was wrong. He'd got himself taken up by a big oilman--a pretty regular arrangement. But Nick always wanted to have his cake an' eat it--he was makin' it with the guy's wife, too. When the oilman got wise, he threw Nick out--" He drew a deep breath, trying to keep his emotion out of his voice, and not quite succeeding. "So I hauled him out of the gutter again. You don't want the details. And again. The last time was two years before the Stryker affair. I never told you about that time, Hutch. I couldn't tell anybody. Even now, when I think about it, it makes me feel sick. He'd started cruisin' for trade--the whole scene."

"Starsk," Hutch tried again. "You don't have to tell me this."

"Yes, I do." He rubbed a hand over his eyes brusquely. "Damn him. I don't think I'd have cared if he was gay. Except he wasn't." He took another shaking breath. "It was just for the money. He didn't care what he did--what they did to him--as long as he got his bread." The pain in his voice was cutting into Hutch like many small knives. "My brother, Hutch. My little brother. Hustling. He said 'it's the weird stuff that really brings in the loot'--I knew it'd kill Momma if she found out. I--well, I figured I'd finally got him straightened out for good that time. And when he came out to LA, I was sure of it. Until he told me who he was runnin' with. Guess he thought I'd lost track of who's who on the wrong side of the street out on the East Coast. But I hadn't. Names that wouldn't mean a thing to you, but I knew 'em--what they were. Joe Durniak knew them, too--"

And Hutch remembered Starsky's face when Durniak had delivered the warning in the hotel room. "Tell you somethin', little Davey. Some of the names I'm gonna mention--dates, places, some nasty little facts--you're not gonna wanna hear 'em."

Starsky was silent for a moment. "How long can you go on?" he asked softly, rhetorically. "How many chances can you give somebody you love? Are there any limits, Hutch?"

"I don't know, Starsk," Hutch said, voice quiet, even. "I don't know, buddy." With us, there aren't any...

"There shouldn't be limits. Not with--not with a brother." He choked on the last word. "An' I believed that. Believed him, too, when he said he was straight, that it was no fault of his Henderson and Lazero were huntin' him. Until I started lookin' round Andromeda. I found--oh, Christ, Hutch--"

His voice cracked completely then, and Hutch risked another glance at him. Starsky was three-quarters turned from him, looking out of the car window, so his face was unreadable. But his knuckles showed ivory-white on his clenched fists.

Hutch's instinct was to pull over, reach out, touch him--hold him. But a deeper instinct, his knowledge of Starsky, told him no. Not this time. Starsky did not want to be touched--at this moment could not bear contact, even with him. Setting his teeth on the rising anger, Hutch concentrated on his driving, letting Starsky gain a measure of composure without interference.

* * * * * * *

Apart from a brief half-hour stop at a roadside diner, where Hutch had bullied both himself and the unwilling Starsky into eating, the journey was unbroken. However, the food made him feel better, and Starsky's condition seemed improved by it. He was still very quiet, but he had managed to sleep some of the way. It was just as well; they would both need their wits about them when it came to dealing with Nicky, Hutch knew.

"We could stop by your place, grab a shower and a change of clothes," he said as they approached the sprawl of LA. That should complete the repair-job started by the food and rest, he thought. "Then we can call on Hug, find out where he's got Nick hidden."

"'Kay." It was a mutter of reluctant agreement, and Hutch guessed that Starsky was going to relish the forthcoming encounter even less than he was. He wasn't sure yet what he was going to say to Nick--or, more to the point, what he was going to do to him. But he did not intend that Nick should enjoy either of it.

The late afternoon sun was bright on the redwood siding that sheathed the apartment-block as Hutch parked the Torino.

"We're here," he said unnecessarily. Starsky, making a visible effort, climbed out of the passenger seat, fishing in his pocket for the door-key. The way he was moving, Hutch had serious doubts that he'd make the stairs, so he followed close on his partner's heels as he made for the door.

Neither man expected the sight that met their eyes as the door swung open. Hutch had said it himself, to Huggy, just over a week ago--"his brother's pad is the first place they'd look." He had been right. But it didn't cushion the jolt any.

Starsky sagged against the doorjamb, leaning against it as if his legs had given out on him, his face slack and sallow gray with shock.

"Nicky?" he whispered. "Oh, Jesus, kiddo--"

Hutch moved first, walking past him into the ravaged apartment. It was empty of life.

"He's not here, Starsk," he said. The place was a mess. Total devastation. There was no doubt in his mind who was responsible for the destruction--the big wheels in Vegas had long arms. And in reaching for Nick had torn apart whatever had gotten in their way. "He'll be with Hug, in the safe house, if he's got an atom of the sense he was born with." He searched for the phone, without much hope, and found it ripped from its moorings under the debris of the kitchen. "Come on, buddy--we'll lock this up, and get it straightened out later."

Starsky did not seem to hear him. He had taken three steps inside when his foot had scrunched on a broken shard of something--he was crouched now looking at the shattered fragments of a white ceramic horse. As Hutch watched, he picked up a piece, holding it cradled in his two hands as if it were an injured bird. When Hutch spoke his name, it was a space of seconds before he raised his head, blindly.

"Terry gave me this," he said, his voice cracking on the last word. "Hutch--"

And bent his head over it again as he sat there heedlessly on the floor.

Hutch would have preferred anything--anger, hysteria, tears--to this silent grief, stunned shock. Get him out of here. Fast.

He knelt beside Starsky, touched him.

"Starsk. Come on. Let's go." Nothing, no response at all, either agreement or denial. "Leave it, babe. C'mon." He had to use sheer strength to get Starsky to his feet--he was not resisting, but neither was he cooperating, and it was a 150 pound zombie Hutch was manhandling, apparently without will or awareness of its own. Hutch locked the door, got Starsky into the car, and headed for Venice Place.

* * * * * * *

It was a drive he later found it impossible to remember. The next thing he was clear about was the terrible shuttered look on Starsky's face, the emptiness of the dark blue eyes. He couldn't seem to get through the shell; knew that Starsky had withdrawn into himself, deep down somewhere inside where no further pain could reach him.

"Starsk?" he said gently, sitting beside him on the couch. "Come on, babe, talk to me, huh?" The long fingers were clamped around the shard he had picked up from the floor, and his knuckles showed almost as white. Hutch took the clenched hand and carefully opened it, flinching as he saw how the jagged edge had cut into the palm. Blood leaked cut as he eased the sharp anonymous chunk away, leaving wounds like slow-oozing stigmata. "Take it easy." Hutch kept his own pain out of the words, fetched antiseptic and cleaned the cuts thoroughly, and Starsky didn't move or even wince. The last straw, Hutch realized bleakly. Finally reached your limits, babe...

He left Starsky sitting there, made coffee, and collected the tablets he'd salvaged from the wrecked bathroom. There had been no need for them for weeks now--until this situation had blown up. He did not want to speculate on how far Starsky's recovery had been set back by the events of the last few days.

"You better drink this." He closed the uninjured hand around the mug. "Drink it," he commanded. "You'll feel better." It took a long time for it to sink in, but at last there was a response in the blank gaze, questioning, vague. "Coffee," Hutch said. "Drink it, okay? And take these." According to the hospital, the standard dose was two, but Hutch upped that to three and watched as Starsky swallowed them, drank some more of the coffee, and finally began to register again.

"How did they know--?"

"Easy enough. When they snatched you outside Andromeda, they only had to check out your wallet."

"Oh, yeah.... Nick?"

"With Huggy, I guess. We'll get in touch with him in the morning, when you've had some sleep."

"No." Flat refusal. "I--can't, Hutch. --I don't trust myself." He shuddered. "God help me, if he walked in here right now, I think I might kill him." He sucked in a lungful of air, shivering. "Hutch--I can't see him. Go talk to him for me, willya? I can't...." He dropped his head into his hands, his last words a defeated whisper. "God, I'm tired, Hutch..."

He was asleep almost before Hutch finished stripping him--a limp, comatose body that made no resistance when Hutch rolled it into bed and pulled the covers up.

"Yeah, I'll go talk to him," Hutch said quietly. The face on his pillow, marked with stress, was almost as white as the linen, the crescent fan of long lashes sooty black against the pallor. "You sleep easy, partner. I'll go talk to him."

* * * * * * *

The Pits might have been deserted for all the notice Hutch took. He went straight to the bar, and people moved out of his way as if an invisible force-field preceded him.

"Am I glad to see you," Huggy said grimly. "I think," he added, with a classic double-take.

"Where's Nick?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about--"

"He's skipped?" White-hot fury rasped in the quiet voice, and Huggy's eyes widened. He had rarely seen Hutch this angry, and did not want to guess what had triggered it.

"No, he's safe enough. Just kinda uncooperative at first. Stayed on in Starsk's pad until yesterday--"

"He did what?" Hutch cut in.

"Uh, stayed in Starsk's place?" Huggy said cautiously. "Was doin' some liv'n'-it-up until yesterday, then turned up on my doorstep demandin' a hideout, like I was deprivin' him of his due rights."

"Did he say why he'd changed his mind?"

"No, not exactly. Just that he'd seen somebody who'd know him. I guess from Vegas."

"So he didn't tell you Starsky's pad has been tossed like a demolition gang went through it?"

"What--? No, he sure as shit didn't!" Huggy's face settled into an expressionless mask. "The bastard," he muttered. "That creep is plain bad news, Hutch."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"Starsk okay?"

"More or less." But Huggy hadn't missed the slight pause. "No thanks to his brother. Christ, Hug--d'you know what he was into in Vegas?"

"Well, maybe I could guess. Blackmail?"

"The real dirty kind. Primrose told you?"

"No. He don't say nothin', that one. Unless he gets paid." Huggy put a beer in front of him. "I just guessed. Seems the kind of deal he would be into. And you an' Starsk dropped right into the middle of all that shit?"

"Yeah. It's sorted out, now, and he's in the clear. But--" He broke off, looking down at the gold and white liquid in the glass. "But he's going back to Vegas on the first flight out," he went on, and Huggy had the feeling that wasn't what he had started to say.

Hutch drained the glass, took change from his pocket, and disappeared in the direction of the pay-phone, leaving the black man free to speculate on events in Vegas. Cousin Primrose had also been remarkably reticent, even for him, and Huggy's curiosity was working at his self-control, no holds barred. The blond man returned to the bar.

"How did you--uh--sort it out?" Huggy asked casually enough, and the cold blue gaze lifted to his face. He gave a disarming shrug. "Okay, I didn't ask that."

"Where is Nick?"

"Over in Honey Mercedes' top room," he said. "Haveta take you over there myself--I done told her ain't no one allowed in there but us brothers, an' you're kinda Nordic, good buddy."

"Sure," Hutch said indifferently. "Let's go, huh? I don't want to waste any more time on him than I have to." He put coins on the bar and turned for the door, leaving Huggy to follow in his wake.

* * * * * * *

"Hey, said Huggy, getting into the Torino, "you're sending him back to Vegas?"

"Yes." Hutch glanced in the mirror and pulled out into the traffic.

"Takin' a risk, ain't you?"

"Not so you'd notice. Told you, Hug, he's in the clear. No one's going to move against him."

"So how the hell did you an' Starsk manage that?" Huggy asked, his curiosity over-riding caution. He did not get an answer, only the bleak-eyed stare again.

"What's been goin' down with Nick since we left?"

"Like I said, the high-life has kept him kinda busy. You wouldn't believe the ladies that have been passin' through that place. Then again, maybe you would. Obviously reckoned he was home free with you two trouble-shootin' for him. Until he saw those guys, whoever they were."

"Yes," said Hutch. "Obviously."

"Then he came high-tailin' it round to me," Huggy finished lamely. "I tried to tell you 'n' Starsk he was playin' around--"

"I know. It wouldn't have made any difference to the end result. Starsky's pad would still have been ripped off. Some of Lazero's goons jumped him, worked him over. Found his address in his billfold, I guess. At least he wasn't carrying his police ID, for which we can be thankful."

"Worked over? You sure he's okay?"

"Could be a hell of a lot worse."

"The Whizz-Kid sure as shit got a lot to answer for," Huggy growled. "You gonna let him get away with it, Hutch?"

"No." And for the rest of the journey, he did not speak.

* * * * * * *

Hutch had no clear idea of his own intentions. Having booked a seat for Nick on the first available flight, all that remained to be done was get the punk to the plane. But first he was going to tell him exactly what he thought of him, warn him to keep his nose clean--especially with regard to Henderson and Lazero--and to keep out of his brother's life. Nick was getting off scot-free from an unsavory and highly unpleasant episode, and that burned like gall in the light of the actions he, Hutch, had been obliged to take. But there didn't seem to be much he could do about that.

* * * * * * *

Nick Starsky's expression of nervous apprehension changed to relief as Huggy led the way into the room.

"Hutch!" he grinned, coming forward with a bounce, "they're off my back?"

"Yes."

"That's fantastic!" Nick laughed. "Whatcha do, pal? Flash your badges an' break a few bones?"

"No."

The younger man's brash cockiness wavered a fraction.

"Hey, lighten up, Hutch! Say, why don't we all go out an' celebrate?"

"No."

"What's with you, huh? Why--?"

"Aren't you going to ask about your brother?"

"Uh," Nick's eyes slid away. "Yeah--he's okay, ain't he?--Where is he? Why didn't he come up here with you?" A querulous note of complaint had crept into his voice.

"He's at my place."

"Oh," said Nick. "--Uh--how come?" But something in the way his gaze flickered across Hutch's face made it very difficult for the blond man to hold down the rising tide of anger.

"You know how come, Nick. Don't play games with me--I'm a cop, remember? I can smell a lie at twenty paces. You knew his place had been done over, didn't you?"

"No way! Hey, Hutch, what kinda brother d'you think I am, huh? I--"

"I know exactly what kind of brother you are." Hutch's left fist bunched on Nick's shirt-front--the garment was Starsky's, part of his mind discovered, as were the pants and jacket. "You're a twisted up, yellow-bellied sneak-thief and third-rate blackmailer. You have the moral compunction of an alley-cat, and the intelligence of a practicing moron; the kind of punk I deal with every day of my working life. You are scum, Nick Starsky. Gutter-sweepings. And you're going right back where you belong--"

"You can't talk to me like that!" Nick yelled, struggling to free himself, to strike out--Hutch dealt him an open-handed blow across the face that rocked him back.

"Shut up!" he snarled. "I'll talk to you any way I want, and you'll listen. And when I ask you a question, you'll answer it with the truth. First of all, Starsky's pad. You walked in on it?"

"I--yeah--after they'd split. I didn't see 'em. Hutch, have you gone crazy? Let up on me, for Chrissakes!"

Hutch's hand cracked across his face again, and he yelped.

"Answer the questions and spare me the dramatics. Why didn't you tell Huggy, get word through to us?"

"I--I was scared--" Nick's tongue darted over his lips. "Guess I wasn't thinkin' straight--"

"That figures. So why were you still at Starsky's, and not here?"

"Hey, c'mon. I knew you 'n' Davey could handle it. Figured I'd be just as safe there--don' hit me!"

Hutch's mouth stretched in a mirthless smile.

"We handled it," he said. "It's all wrapped up, Nick, and so are you. You're going back to Vegas, and you stay clear of California from now on. You hear me? Furthermore, you go to hell on your own ticket. You do not yell for Big Brother to haul you out of any more holes. That is finished with. Understand?"

"You're crazy! I can't go back to Vegas! They'll waste me!" His voice rose to a shrill edge of terror, and his hands locked on Hutch's forearm. "They'll--"

"No, they won't." Distaste curled Hutch's lip. "Your precious hide is safe from them."

"Yeah?" Hutch watched a little of Nick's confidence return. "That's okay, then," trying to pry loose the fist knotted in his shirt. "Guess it's business as usual, then, huh?" his smile ingratiating, and nervous.

"Sure. If you mean Andromeda." Hutch's smile did not waver. "But not the blackmail. You can hustle your ass all you want, but don't put the moves on Lazero or Henderson again. Or you are dead meat."

"B-blackmail? Don't know what you mean," Nick stuttered. "I ain't into nothin' like that--let me go, Hutch--"

"Blackmail," he repeated. "They've got their films back--"

"What?" A screech of outrage, and Nick's face altered miraculously.

"--and I've got the photos, for security," Hutch continued, ignoring him. "They are what's preserving your skin. But if you start stirring up the shit again, the agreement is void. It'll be open season on Nick Starsky, or Sinclair, or any other name you hide behind."

"You blew the whole fuckin' deal?" Nick howled. "Goddamnit, I was set to rake in a cool million--"

"Tough luck," Hutch said. "It's all gone down the tubes. Which is the best place for it--and you."

"You are crazy! You have to be!"

"No, Nick. You're the one with the kink in his head. Have you any idea what you've done to your brother? Do you care?"

"I don't have to answer to you!"

"Wrong again. Did you honestly imagine we could go to Vegas and clean up behind you without finding out about your wheeling and dealing? Seems like you keep your brains in that high-priced ass of yours. Starsky got worked over because of you." Without conscious volition, his palm lashed across Nick's cheek. "Had his apartment wrecked." Back of his hand across the other cheek.

"Hutch!" a scream of fear and pain.

"Some things got busted that were beyond any price to him." A forehand. "Because of you." Backhand!

Too stunned to put up coordinated resistance, Nick hung from Hutch's grip, clawing at him, ineffectual protests bubbling from bleeding lips. "He also got reminded, once again, just what kind of bastard you are. And all you can say is 'Fantastic, let's go celebrate."' He slapped aside Nick's flailing arms. "I got news for you. You are not going anywhere except the airport, and then not until I've finished with you. Because you are not going to get off scot-free. You are not going to hide behind Starsky this time, letting him take all the kicks aimed at you."

"Hutch--" Nick croaked, clutching at him. "I-I didn't mean--t-take it easy, huh? Huggy! Gethimoffame!"

"Man, I think I'm getting' hard of hearin' in my old age," Huggy drawled, inspecting his fingernails.

"Davey'll make you sorry--"

The last vestige of Hutch's control snapped. He let Nick go, and slammed his fist into Nick's mouth, the impact hurling the smaller man back against the wall. His legs folded and he slid to a huddle on the carpet; the look of disbelief on his face would have been comical if Hutch had felt like laughing.

"No--Hutch, no more, please--I--"

"Don't speak to me." A low-voiced command, sibilant and deadly. "I'm not listening. Christ, I thought I'd seen it all--met up with every kind of filth--but you are something else. You really are." He pounced on him, got a two-handed hold on the shirt and lifted him easily.

No longer struggling in his grasp, Nick was staring at him as if he'd never seen him before, the tip of his tongue moved over his split lips, and a shudder ran through him.

"Hutch?" he whispered, and his voice had changed. "Please..." The wide eyes--brown, not blue like his brother's, Hutch noticed distantly--were luminous, liquid with an emotion Hutch did not want to put a name to. He almost dropped Nick then, overcome by a revulsion as strong as his anger--but the rage was too great to be set aside. His palm cracked across Nick's face again, forehand and backhand. You get off on pain, you bastard--so bite on this--

* * * * * * *

"Ease up, man." Huggy's voice broke in on his awareness, quiet but commanding. "You gonna kill him, you go on like that."

Hutch sucked in a deep breath, his gaze clearing--wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, and blinked at the skinned knuckles. Nick was a heaving tangle of limbs on the floor, making ugly retching sounds.

"Killing that isn't on my agenda, Hug," he heard himself say. He was, he realized dimly, shaking--the aftermath of the adrenaline surge that went with the primeval enjoyment he had got from hurting Nick; wanting to punish, wanting him to feel something of what Starsky had suffered--and then simply wanting to smash, to destroy. Nick had become the scapegoat for all the crud and evil they had been forced to wallow in--for Henderson, and Lazero--for Sophie, and Primrose McGregor, for the whole sordid scene--even, in some deep and carefully hidden recess of his mind, for Starsky himself. But that final fact he would not face, could not acknowledge.

"Get him down to the car," he ordered brusquely. "I'll take him along to the Emergency Room, get him patched up, and put him on the plane. Vegas can have him."

* * * * * * *

It was nearing midnight when Hutch let himself into the apartment in Venice Place. The bathroom was his first objective--he leaned on the washbasin, running the cold water and splashing it into his face. His reflection gazed grimly back at him when he raised his head, pale, drawn and weary. Check on Starsk, then hit the sack--long day tomorrow--

But he was too wound up to rest. He sat for a while at the bedside, watching the troubled sleep that even the drugs had not calmed completely. Half-audible mutters, a word, a name, "--Nicky--" More than anything he found he wanted to grab hold, to comfort and reassure, to banish the nightmare, whatever it was. To banish all nightmares, past, present, future...

Christ, Hutchinson, you're punchy. Get your head down--don't risk disturbing him. If there's one thing you can't handle right now, it's another emotional crisis.

Eventually he collected a spare pillow and blanket and stretched out on the couch to wait for morning. His thoughts, before he at last slipped into a drowse, were bleak.

* * * * * * *

Starsky surfaced out of the drugged sleep shivering, a tight band of pain constricting his ribs. Before he was properly awake, a whimper escaped. The sound was faint, little more than a breath, but it must have penetrated Hutch's doze, for the figure on the couch stirred and sat up.

"Starsk?"

He couldn't find the breath to answer. But Hutch was there, steadying and competent and reassuring, fingers on his pulse, a hand on his brow.

"--No arguments, Starsk. You can have this the easy way or the tough way--but you're seeing a doctor, and soon."

There was no strength in him to argue. He didn't want to argue. It felt good to have somebody else take charge, run his life. Just for a little while.

The End

*Archivist's Note: One More Mountain, which can be read and enjoyed entirely on its own, became the first part of what the author's called "The Red Light Trilogy." The remaining two parts of the trilogy, One More River and No Easy nswers, are slash novels and will eventually be posted on the Starsky & Hutch Slash Archive. The second novel has been posted and can be found here. Anyone who needs information about these novels, or the slash premise, can contact Flamingo.