BY

Teri White

Part One

-CHAPTER ONE-

The sound intruded abruptly into his nightmare, working its way stubbornly and insistently into his consciousness. A noise. A shrill, repetitious tintinnabulation. An annoying . . . .

He rolled over, not opening his eyes, groping desperately in an effort to stop the dreadful clanging before the top of his head exploded. One hand collided with the offending instrument and he grabbed the receiver. "'Lo?"

"Hutchinson? Is that you?" Dobey's voice blasted in his ear.

He cringed. "Huh?"

"What's the matter, Hutchinson? You sound like hell."

"Huh?" Hutch finally ventured the courage to open one eye; sunlight collided with his brain and he squeezed the lid shut again quickly. "Uh . . . Captain Dobey?" He managed to say that much finally, even though his mouth felt like dry cotton and tasted like . . . well, he didn't want to think about what his mouth tasted like.

"Yes, it's me. Are you awake?"

Hutch realized that he was fully clothed, down to and including his shoes. "Yeah . . . yeah, I'm awake." He shook his head, hoping to clear it a little, and wished fervently that he hadn't. "Yeah, Cap?"

"I want you to get down here right away."

"Get down there right away?" Hutch repeated slowly and precisely, as if the words were in some only vaguely familiar foreign tongue.

"Yeah, you and your partner. And by the way--where is Starsky? I tried calling his place and there was no answer."

Hutch was untying his left shoe with one hand; bemused, he watched the hand tremble for a moment before realizing that Dobey was waiting for an answer. He had to think briefly in order to remember what the question had been. "Starsky?" The name was definitely familiar. "Oh. Starsky . . . ." A sudden thought emerged from the cobweb that was his mind. "Uh . . . Cap . . . I think Starsky's here."

"You think?" Dobey was beginning to sound like he had one of his headaches.

"Yeah. Hold on." He set the receiver down on the bed and very carefully stood. Putting one foot in front of the other seemed almost too difficult a task; he managed it only by holding on to the wall with one hand as he moved. He made his way to a position from which he would be able to see the couch. Except that he couldn't see anything. He blinked several times, rubbed his eyes with one hand and tried to focus. It wasn't easy, but finally vague shapes and colors emerged from the fog. He concentrated very hard on what he was seeing.

Click on illo to see larger version

An apparently lifeless body was draped across the sofa. Starsky, at least, had managed to remove his shoes and trousers before passing out. "Starsk?" Hutch's voice was a hoarse croak and there was no reply. He leaned against the wall for a moment, staring morosely at the comatose figure of his partner. After a minute, he turned and made his way gingerly back to the bed. He picked up the phone. "Cap?"

"Hutchinson?" Dobey sounded impatient. "Well, did you find your missing partner?"

Hutch ardently wished that Captain Dobey did not feel obligated to yell quite so much. "Yeah . . . he's here."

"I'm delighted. What's going on there, anyway?"

"Oh . . . Starsk and I were at a . . . party last night. At Huggy Bear's."

"I should have known. And so now you're hung over."

"Cap, I'm not even sure that I'm alive." Hutch resisted the temptation to lie back on the bed, knowing that if he did so, he might never get up again. "What's going on?" he asked, not caring, but trying to convince Dobey that he did.

"Something big. You and Starsky get your butts in gear and be in my office in thirty minutes."

"Thirty?" Hutch said plaintively.

But Dobey was no longer on the line.

Hutch carefully and precisely hung up the phone. He sat there a moment longer, trying to gather a little strength. It didn't help much. When he stood, the room seemed to be spinning around him. Somehow, he made it over to the couch and knelt beside the improbably-positioned body sprawled there. He put a hand on Starsky's shoulder and shook him lightly. "Hey, get up. Duty calls."

Starsky mumbled something unintelligible, but unmistakably obscene in tone.

Hutch shook harder. "Dave Starsky," he said sharply, trying to sound like a drill sergeant and at the same time trying to ignore the stab of pain caused by the sound of his own voice.

" . . . uh . . . ?"

"Wake up. Dobey called; he wants us in his office right now."

One dark blue and very bleary eye opened slightly. "Day off " The eye closed again.

"Yeah; well, it looks like our day off has been cancelled. Again."

Starsky groaned. "You're kidding, aren't you? I mean, this is one of your rotten jokes, right? Hutchinson, you have a weird sense of humor. A weird and nasty sense of humor." He said all of that without opening his eyes and almost without moving his lips. He didn't really think that he could move his lips.

Hutch sat back on his heels, glaring. "If you think I'da gotten out of bed just to come in here and play a bad joke on you, you're crazier than I've always thought you were."

With another groan, Starsky rolled over and tried to sit up. He toppled once, tried it again, and this time managed to reach an upright position. "I hate you," he muttered. "I will never forgive you for this."

"Yeah; well, whose idea was it to go to the damned party in the first place?" Hutch demanded. "I wanted to go to the movies, if you remember correctly."

Starsky was opening and closing his eyes experimentally. "Huh. Go watch a bunch of people I can't even understand talking about sleeping with their mother. That's not what I call a movie." He swayed a little and almost slid off the couch.

Hutch pushed him back up, none too gently. "It won an award at the Cannes Film Festival."

Starsky made a rude noise and then repeated it, pleased to discover that his tongue still worked.

Hutch gave him a disgusted look and stood. "I'm going to take a fast shower. Why don't you make some coffee?"

"Coffee?"

As Hutch disappeared into the bathroom, Starsky dragged himself off the couch. "Hope you drown in the shower," he mumbled, having the last word. He stretched, giving a primitive bellow, and scratched his chest. "Damnit."

He went into the kitchen, put a pot of water on to boil, and leaned against the counter, staring at himself in the shiny surface of the toaster. I look just about as bad as I feel, he thought sourly. After a gloomy surveillance of his bloodshot eyes, greenish skin, and woebegone expression, he began to think vaguely about getting dressed.

The clothes he had taken off the night before lay in a disordered heap on the floor. He picked up the slacks and tried to shake out some of the wrinkles, but it was an impossible task. And besides, there was a large stain in the front that bore a strong resemblance to Huggy's special bar-b-que sauce. He frowned, wondering if the stain would come out. The slacks were his favorites and only four years old. In any event, Dobey would not appreciate him showing up looking like he'd eaten dinner in his lap and then slept in the pants.

"Hey, where's those jeans I left here last month?" he yelled in the general direction of the bathroom. The only reply was the sound of running water. Sighing, Starsky began to search through the closet, pushing aside the rather intimidating variety of neatly pressed shirts and trousers. Finally he found his own Levis, washed, pressed, creased, and tidily draped over a hanger. "He irons blue jeans?" he said, awed and dismayed at the same time. He pulled the jeans out. "Can I borrow a shirt?" he asked loudly.

When there was no answer to that question either, he shrugged and flipped through the clothes again. A gaudy red-yellow-green striped T-shirt caught his eye and he took it out of the closet to look at it more closely.

The bathroom door swung open and Hutch stepped out, dripping wet, toweling his hair.

"Can I wear this?" Starsky asked, holding up the shirt.

Hutch eyed it from under the towel. "Be my guest," he said. "And the shower's all yours." He took a pair of navy blue slacks out of the closet, considered the shirts for a moment, and chose a pale blue knit.

Starsky moved past him into the bathroom. "Coffee water's on."

The sensation of the steaming hot water hitting against his weary, aching body felt good; and Starsky stood there for nearly five minutes, until the water began to cool off. He lathered once quickly, rinsed the soap off, and got out of the shower. He squeezed toothpaste onto his index finger and cleaned his teeth. Before getting dressed, he ran Hutch's razor over his face.

He emerged from the bathroom feeling at least slightly more alive. Hutch had made the coffee and there was a cup poured and waiting for him. He put four spoonfuls of sugar into the cup and stirred unhappily. "We should've taken the phone off the hook," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe Dobey would have called some other pair of suckers for a change."

"I doubt it."

"Yeah." Starsky shoved one hand through his tangled wet hair as he sipped the coffee. "I like this shirt."

Hutch, who had graduated from a cup of black coffee to some fresh fruit, glanced at him in amusement. "Do you?"

"Uh-huh. It's so colorful."

"That's true." Hutch smiled faintly. "You gave it to me."

"I did?" Starsky looked down at the shirt, surprised. "You've never worn it."

"I was . . . saving it for a special occasion. I think this qualifies." He finished the fruit and washed his hands. "You want something to eat?"

"Ugh." Starsky made a face; then he brightened a little. "Unless you've got a chocolate bar?"

Hutch looked at him, unbelieving. "A . . . chocolate bar?"

"Great for a hang-over."

"I'm sure." He shook his head helplessly and surveyed the contents of a cupboard. "How about a carob bar with granola and raisins?"

Starsky ignored him.

Hutch shrugged and slammed the cupboard door closed. They both cringed a little at the noise. "Sorry," he said apologetically. "Hey, we'd better get going. Dobey sounded serious." As Hutch spoke, he was busy strapping on his holster. He grabbed a navy blue jacket from the closet. "Come on."

Starsky swallowed the last gulp of coffee quickly and followed Hutch down the stairs. He stuck his gun into the waistband of his jeans and pulled the shirt down over it. "Any clue about what's going on?" he asked, catching up with Hutch on the stairs.

"No. Just that it was important."

"It better be," Starsky said darkly.

They paused on the sidewalk, looking from one car to the other. Starsky sighed. "I'll drive," he said finally, a poignant trace of martyrdom evident in his voice.

Hutch seemed unimpressed with the sacrifice. "Fine," he replied, slipping into the passenger seat and leaning his head back gratefully. "I'll just . . . rest."

"Yeah why don't you just do that?" Starsky muttered, taking the wheel of his red-and-white striped Torino. If there was a certain viciousness in the way his partner maneuvered the car away from the curb, Hutch pretended not to notice.

Sunday morning traffic was light; Starsky's only problem was keeping his rather fuzzy mind focused on the act of driving.

"Did I have a good time last night?" Hutch asked a couple of minutes later.

Starsky glanced at him and almost smiled. "Well . . . that depends. Is dancing on top of the bar your idea of a good time?"

Hutch turned his head very slowly and peered at him. "I didn't . . ." he said without much conviction.

"Yep, you did," Starsky replied with a cheeriness that struck Hutch as being vaguely obscene.

Hutch frowned and closed his eyes again. He disdained to even acknowledge the muffled snort of laughter that came from the other side of the car.

They were both silent during the rest of the journey to the station. Starsky parked the car and Hutch, exuding dignity, led the way toward Dobey's office. Starsky paused outside the squad room. "Hey, Hutch, do you have a dime?"

"What?" He stopped and turned around toward Starsky. "What for?"

Starsky stood, jiggling slightly, in front of the candy machine. "I really need some candy and I'm a dime short."

Hutch opened his mouth, prepared to deliver his standard lecture on the importance of good nutrition, but the doleful expression on Starsky's face stopped him. He assumed a look of extreme patience, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some change. Talking softly to himself, he searched through the coins until he found a dime. "Here. You now owe me a grand total of $2.64."

"Put it on my tab," Starsky said, debating silently whether to have a Hershey with almonds or one without.

"Dobey's waiting for us," Hutch reminded him finally.

Starsky pushed a button quickly, choosing the nutless bar, and followed Hutch into the squad room.

The Captain was sitting at his desk, poring over a map. He looked like he'd just come from church--but then Dobey always dressed like a deacon in search of a congregation. He looked up impatiently as they entered. Starsky was totally engaged in the act of unwrapping his candy bar, so Hutch nodded a greeting. "Morning, Cap."

"What took you so long?" Dobey replied irritably, skipping the pleasantries. "I said thirty minutes, not an hour."

They both sat down. "It's Sunday, Cap," Starsky said around the candy bar. "Supposed to be our day off, remember? Day off. As in, we're not supposed to be here at all."

"It's supposed to be my day off, too," Dobey replied sourly. "And I'm sitting here, aren't I? If I can work today, so can you."

"You sound bitter," Starsky mumbled.

Hutch kicked Starsky's leg. "Shut up," he said. He turned to Dobey. "Well, what' s up, anyway?"

"What do you know about a guy named Al Mendala?"

Hutch glanced at Starsky, who shrugged, willing to let his partner handle this. The blond detective looked at Dobey. "He's a syndicate operative. Part of Guardino's operation. A bookkeeper, I think." He paused, apparently searching his mind for more details, then shrugged. "He's been picked up a couple of times for questioning, but nothing ever stuck. Why the interest?"

Dobey sat back, folding his arms. "He wants to sing."

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "Testify against Guardino? Why?"

"Who knows? He's getting old; maybe he just wants out. Or maybe he's crossed somebody in the organization and is scared. I don't care very much why. He could be our break in getting to Guardino." Dobey had wanted Ralph Guardino for a long time, ever since his days as a uniformed officer, when the current head of the crime community had been a fairly insignificant pimp in the city. Dobey had once found the body of a fourteen-year-old hooker that Guardino had killed. His face was grim now as he recalled the sight of that skinny child-woman's body lying on the pavement fifteen stories from where she'd been tossed. "I want to get Guardino," he said firmly.

Starsky finished the candy, rolled the wrapper into a ball, and tossed it toward the wastebasket. It missed. Ignoring Dobey's scowl, he thoughtfully licked chocolate off one finger. "What's all this got to do with us?" he asked, pretty sure that he wasn't going to like the answer.

Dobey tapped the map in front of him with a pencil. "Right now, Mendala is sitting up at his mountain cabin. He's one scared crook. Wants somebody to bring him in safely. The Feds guaranteed him that." He grimaced. "Then they asked us to do it."

"You mean we have to do it? Today?" Starsky protested.

"You. Right now."

Starsky moaned. The thought of making a long drive into the mountains was not his idea of how best to spend this particular day. "Cap--"

"Your route is marked on this map," Dobey interrupted. He glanced at his watch. "If you leave right now, you should be back by nine or so tonight." Starsky and Hutch were both listening glumly now. "When you get back to the city, take Mendala to the Rex Hotel on Third Street. There's a room reserved for him in the name of John Smith."

"Original minds these Feds have," Starsky said to no one in particular.

They both ignored him. "Once you get him to the hotel," Dobey finished, "the federal agents take over."

"Simple as that?" Hutch said.

Dobey looked at him, trying to spot any sarcasm in his expression; but the blue eyes staring back at him were guileless. "Just don't blow it. The guys in Washington want this guy and I want Guardino."

Hutch stood and reached for the map. "Have we ever let you down, Cap?"

Dobey snorted.

Hutch folded the map carefully. "Count on us this time. We'll defend him with our very lives," he said lightly.

"Ha. Speak for yourself, hero," Starsky said, getting up and following him to the door.

"Starsky!" Dobey said urgently.

Starsky wheeled around. "Yes, Cap?"

"Pick up the candy wrapper."

Starsky opened his mouth to say something, closed it without a word, and did as he'd been ordered. He threw the wad of paper at the wastebasket again and this time it went in. Then he stalked back to the door, ignoring Hutch' s grin.

"Cheer up," Hutch said as they exited. "That fresh mountain air will do wonders for your health."

Dobey couldn't hear Starsky's reply to that remark and he was just as glad; after all, it was Sunday and Starsky's attitudes on the great outdoors were well known.

The black man sat there a moment longer, not quite at ease. Guardino worried him. A very smart operator. Had to be to last as long as he had and rise to the position he held.

Of course, there weren't two smarter cops around than those two. If anybody could handle Guardino it would be his two boys Starsky and Hutchinson. But can anybody? Dobey thought.

He sighed heavily and got to his feet. Nothing more he could do here and his family would be waiting for him to grill the steaks for Sunday dinner.

He started for the door, then turned around and came back to the desk and picked up the phone. "Dobey," he said crisply. "I'm going home now, but I want to be called immediately if I get a message from John Smith at the Rex Hotel."

Such a call would let him know that Starsky and Hutchinson were safely back in town. Dobey lifted his grey fedora from the coat stand and left his office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

-CHAPTER TWO-

It took them only a few minutes to get the car gassed up and ready for the trip. Starsky took the wheel and headed cut of town, still grumbling to himself about lost days off, captains who expected their men to work all the time; and for some obscure reason known only to himself, he also mentioned harshly a certain bartender who poured drinks much too freely.

Hutch, practicing what he considered to be a most commendable exercise in self-control, managed to refrain from telling his partner to shut up.

Abruptly the car made a sharp turn and pulled up next to a distinctly disreputable and seedy-looking drive-in. Hutch, who had been lost in his own glum thoughts for the past fifteen minutes, stirred himself. "Why are we stopping here?"

Starsky pulled up expertly next to the gaudy, grinning cowboy figure that housed the microphone. "If I'm going up into the mountains," he said sadly, "I need some food first. You want something?"

Hutch looked at the filthy facade of the place and shuddered involuntarily. "No. Thanks anyway."

Starsky shrugged and leaned out the window toward the speaker, clicking it on. "Order, please," a tinny voice crackled.

"Ahh . . . two jumbo dogs with chili, kraut, onions, and hot sauce. And a chocolate milk shake."

Hutch was trying very hard not to gag. "You're not really going to eat that?"

"Every bite," Starsky said, fumbling for his wallet. "I have to keep my strength up if you want me to play hero. And they make great hot dogs here."

"Probably use real dogs," Hutch said, just softly enough so that Starsky couldn't hear.

His partner shot him a suspicious glance, then decided to let it pass. "You're going to get pretty hungry before we get back to town," he said amiably.

"I'll survive. Which is more than can be said for you, if you keep eating at places like this."

Before Starsky could retort, the food arrived. He paid for it, set the greasy bag down on the seat between his legs, and drove out of the parking lot. He pulled one hot dog out of the bag. Its not-unpowerful redolence filled the car and Hutch ostentatiously rolled down the window. "You know, Starsk," he began, "someday--"

"Yeah, I know," Starsky broke in. "Someday, my stomach is going to fall out, and my bones will crumble, and I'll lose my virility. You've told me all that before."

"Well, someday it'll all happen and then you'll wish you'da listened to me," Hutch predicted darkly.

Starsky took a big bite of the hot dog. "Then you can say 'I told you so,'" he said, chewing vigorously. "That'll make you happy." As was his habit, he ate with one hand and drove with the other. His well-practiced deftness at that maneuver reassured Hutch not at all and he watched the road carefully.

Just as they reached the outskirts of the city, Starsky downed the last of the milkshake, washing down the final bite of hot dog, and gave a satisfied sigh. "I feel much better," he said, reaching over to dump the trash into a backseat litter bag.

"I'm glad," Hutch said, relaxing his vigilance and settling back in the seat. "Now we can just relax and enjoy our Sunday drive."

"One of us can, anyway," Starsky said.

"I could have brought my car if it would have made you feel better."

Starsky didn't even consider that remark worthy of an answer. Hutch smiled to himself and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was asleep. Starsky glanced over at him once, scowling affectionately, then concentrated on the road.

Hutch slept for nearly two hours.

When he woke up, it was with a guilty start. He glanced quickly at Starsky bent over the wheel. Sometime while he'd slept, Starsky had retrieved his ratty-looking leather jacket from the back seat and pulled it on. Hutch sat up straighter and pulled his own jacket closed. "Cold up here in the mountains," he commented.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah. Wish the heater worked." He looked tired. "Ran into some snow a few minutes ago."

Hutch leaned forward, peering skyward. "Kinda looks like it might blow into something."

"Great. That's all I need," Starsky mumbled, rubbing his eyes with the heel of one hand.

Hutch glanced at him, concerned. "Want me to drive for a while?"

Starsky shook his head. "No, I'm all right." He smiled ruefully. "Just look at the map, willya, and tell me which way to go when we hit the crossroad? I forget."

Hutch took the map from the glove compartment and unfolded it. He studied Dobey's carefully marked route. "North," he said finally. "We've still got a long way to go."

Starsky grunted.

"This guy sure built his cabin off the beaten track."

"Just your kind of place, right?"

Hutch grinned. "Sure is. Someday I'd like to have a cabin way up here. Far away from the city and all of its problems."

"Well, send me a postcard once in a while, willya?"

"You mean that you wouldn't ever come up?" Hutch asked, as he carefully folded and replaced the map.

"Not unless I had to," Starsky replied.

Hutch was indignant. "Some best friend you are."

"You can just come down to the city and see me."

"And take a chance on getting mugged or murdered?"

"Hah," Starsky said. "Better than me coming up to see you and getting eaten by a bear."

"Statistically," Hutch answered, "my chances of being mugged are much greater than your chances of getting eaten by a bear."

Starsky glanced at him. "Yeah. You know the statistics; I know the statistics; maybe even the mugger knows the statistics--but does the bear know the damned statistics?"

Hutch laughed, knowing when he was beaten, and shook his head. "You really should try to develop a little taste for the finer things in life, Starsk."

"You've got enough class for the both of us," Starsky replied, frowning a little as more snowflakes appeared. "Besides . . . I do like the finer things in life. Give me a pepperoni-sausage-mushroom-green pepper pizza and a beer and I'm a happy man."

Hutch made no reply to that. He was watching the snow, a faint worry line creasing his forehead. '"Hope the road doesn't get too slippery."

"My car can handle a little snow," Starsky said confidently.

Nearly twenty minutes later they reached the fork in the road and Starsky turned the car north. The paved surface ended shortly thereafter and they were left with a dirt road that was scarcely more than a path through the wilderness, a path that was increasingly difficult to drive because of the snow that kept falling.

"Why can't the boys from Washington pick up their own stool pigeons?" Starsky inquired plaintively after hitting a particularly slippery patch of road and skidding a little. He slowed down slightly. At least, he thought, no one else was on the road. In fact, it had been several hours since they had seen another car and at least an hour since they had spotted a light from a cabin.

Hutch bent over the dashboard, acting as navigator. The snowfall had become so heavy that he could barely see three feet in front of the car. Neither man spoke very much; both were concentrating entirely on the job at hand and a lot of conversation between them at such a time would have been superfluous. So closely attuned were their minds to one another that a single word or often simply a gesture could communicate a thought completely. This rapport between them had existed for so long that they sometimes took it for granted.

"That clearing up ahead," Hutch said finally. "The cabin should be just beyond there. Or else we're lost," he added helpfully.

"Thanks." Starsky guided the car to where Hutch had indicated. "He could have a light showing," he complained.

"Probably too scared."

"Yeah; well, it would serve him right if we missed him altogether."

"Dobey wouldn't like that much."

Starsky squinted through the snow. "Damn . . . can you see anything?"

Hutch wiped the front windshield with his sleeve. "Yeah! Right there," he pointed. "Stop here."

Starsky pulled the car to a stop and sat still for a moment, letting the tension flow from his cramped muscles. He looked at Hutch with some obvious bitterness. "It shouldn't be snowing like this, should it, Nature Boy? It's only October."

"It is a little early," Hutch admitted. "But relax. In just a few hours, you'll be back down in the smoggy city where you belong."

"I can hardly wait." Starsky sighed, gathering the jacket around himself more tightly. "Might as well get this over with." At Hutch's nod, they both jumped from the car and ran to the door of the cabin. Starsky pounded. "Hey! Let us in!"

The door opened a crack and a rifle barrel was shoved into his face. "Who's there?" a low, tight voice said.

"Detectives Starsky and Hutchinson," Starsky answered. "LAPD. Let us in, Mendala. It's cold out here."

"Show me some identification first," the voice replied.

Hutch, swearing a little, grabbed his wallet and slid it through the crack in the door. After a moment, the door closed again; there was the sound of a chain being removed and the door swung open. They both tumbled in out of the wind and wet snow.

Al Mendala stood there, a rifle cradled in one arm, and watched them shiver. "You jerks aren't dressed for this weather," he commented pleasantly.

"And a good afternoon to you, too," Hutch said, mentally sizing up Mendala: early to mid-fifties, slightly overweight, hair gone gray, wearing a dark brown three-piece suit, white shirt, narrow tie. Thick glasses. And obviously very scared.

Mendala tossed the wallet to Starsky. "Here, Hutchinson."

Starsky handed it to Hutch. "I'm Starsky; he's Hutchinson. Why can't anybody ever get that straight?" he complained to his partner.

"Maybe we should just change our names," Hutch suggested.

"Probably they'd still get it wrong."

Mendala set the gun down on the table and wet his lips. "You sure nobody followed you?"

Starsky was offended. "Do we look like rookies?" he asked.

"I can't be too careful."

"Yeah, we know; you're a V.I.P." Starsky walked around the room, taking note of the chintz curtains, the folk art hanging on the walls, the handmade rag rugs scattered on the polished wooden floor. Not exactly the setting one imagined for a top man in the mob. He paused for a moment in front of a photograph of a young girl on horseback. She was smiling brightly into the camera.

"Can we go now?" Mendala asked.

"In a minute." Starsky opened a door, found what he'd been looking for, and disappeared into the john.

Hutch smiled faintly and perched on the oak dining table, arms crossed over his chest. Mendala, impatient at the delay, glared at him and paced the room like an expectant father. In the silence, the sounds coming from the bathroom seemed abnormally loud. Hutch bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Mendala only scowled.

A moment later, Starsky came back into the room. Hutch eyed him speculatively. "You know, Starsk, that shirt really does something for you," he said, being deliberately ambiguous.

"You think so?" Starsky said, obviously pleased.

"Definitely. I think you should keep it."

Mendala glared at them.

Starsky glanced down at the shirt, smoothing the fabric appreciatively. "But I gave it to you," he said hesitantly.

Hutch nodded solemnly. "Yes, and I hate to part with it. But it really looks better on you than it does on me. Keep it."

"Okay," Starsky said cheerfully, pulling his jacket on again.

Mendala was still pacing. "Are you two about ready to go?"

"Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on," Starsky said, going to the window. He pushed aside the cheery yellow curtain and peered out. "Snow seems to have let up a little. Maybe the trip down will be easier."

Hutch studied Starsky's face. "You want me to drive?"

Boy, you always know how I'm feeling, don't you? Starsky thought. Aloud, he only said incredulously, "You drive my car down a snowy mountain road? Look, if you ever got a decent car of your own and practiced a little, then, maybe, I would let you drive my car on a road like this. Until then, forget it."

Hutch opened his mouth to reply in kind, prepared to enjoy another of their endless arguments on the merits of their respective cars. But he caught a glimpse of Mendala's impatient face and shrugged instead. "Okay. Just trying to help."

Starsky's teasing grin softened a little. Shit, I didn't mean to hurt his feelings . . . I gotta learn when to stop kidding. "Sure, I know. Thanks. But I'm all right."

Mendala picked up a heavy brown overcoat. "Hey, you jerks."

"Yeah, yeah." Starsky opened the door, looked around quickly, and dashed to the car. He turned around and saw Mendala still cowering in the doorway. "Come on," he yelled indignantly. "It's cold out here!"

Mendala gathered his overcoat about him and ran to the car, jumping into the back seat. Hutch followed more slowly, huddling in his jacket, his eyes watching the trees. Starsky got in behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He waited until Hutch was settled in the seat next to him and then started the engine with a roar. "Just sit back and enjoy the ride," he said over his shoulder to Mendala.

Mendala muttered something unintelligible and began to wipe the wet spots off his glasses with a large silk handkerchief. Starsky edged the car back out onto the unpaved road. Hutch, wide-awake after his earlier nap, slumped in the seat, his brow creased. After a couple of minutes, Starsky glanced at him. "Something wrong?"

Hutch smiled at him faintly. Sometimes it almost seemed as if Starsk could read his mind; maybe that was why they made such a good team. "Don't know . . . probably it's nothing . . . only . . . " He lowered his voice. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

Starsky was quiet as he maneuvered the car across a particularly icy patch. Snow was falling again. "Like it's too easy, right?" he said.

Hutch nodded.

"Mendala," Starsky said more loudly, "are you sure nobody knows you were at the cabin?"

"As sure as I can be," the other man replied. A thin line of sweat had appeared on his upper lip and he dabbed at it fastidiously with the silk handkerchief. "Why?"

Neither detective answered him. They glanced at one another for a moment. Then Starsky concentrated all of his energies on safely guiding the car down the increasingly icy road. Hutch, frowning, sat back and tried to relax.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER THREE-

Mendala was chain-smoking and Hutch kept the window open a crack for some fresh air as the car crept snail-like down the mountain road. Starsky whistled softly to himself as he drove, repeating the same unrecognizable tune over and over. The noise was about to drive Hutch crazy; but he glanced at Starsky's face, read the tension there, and kept his mouth shut. Jesus, the poor guy must be about ready to keel over . . . wish he'd let me drive, damnit . . . too stubborn . . . but he probably really thinks he can do it better than I could. And maybe he's right . . . his car, after all . . . he understands it. He gritted his teeth together and tried to guess just what the hell it was that Starsk was whistling.

It was getting dark, and Hutch had narrowed the list of possible tunes to two--it was either Beethoven's "Ode to Joy" or the Dr. Pepper advertising song--when he first saw the car behind them. He watched for a moment. "Starsk," he said quietly.

Starsky looked into the rear view mirror and saw the dim glare of headlights through the snow. His gaze flickered to Hutch's. "Where'd that come from?"

Hutch shrugged. "Could be legit. Just somebody coming down from another cabin."

"Yeah," Starsky said doubtfully.

Mendala heard their conversation and turned around in the seat to look out the rear windshield. He gasped, then leaned over the front seat. "I thought you guys said nobody followed you."

"Nobody did," Starsky muttered. "But somebody might have had an idea where you were going, even if they didn't know exactly where the cabin was. All they had to do was wait for us to come back down."

"They probably know your car, Starsk."

Starsky shrugged.

"If they get their hands on me, they'll kill me!" Mendala said, his voice going up about two octaves.

"Sit back, Mendala," Starsky said sharply. "And keep your head down," he added.

The man slid out of sight behind the seat, whispering desperate prayers. Hutch was swiveled around staring out the rear window. "They're not being very careful. That might mean they're straight . . . ."

" . . . or it might mean that they just don't care about being seen," Starsky finished. "That would mean that they have help. One way to find out."

He pressed the accelerator and the car jumped ahead, skidding a little. He controlled it with a sure hand. "Hold on tight."

Hutch leaned forward and slid the rack out from under the seat. He surveyed the contents for a moment. Then he pulled the shotgun out and readied it for possible use.

Mendala was whimpering softly, wiping his sweaty face on the already damp handkerchief. "You promised me safety," he said over and over again. "You promised me safety."

The car behind picked up just enough speed to keep them in sight. Starsky grunted, feeling a peculiar sense of vindication. "They're tailing us."

"Uh-huh," Hutch replied. "We knew this was going down too easy, right?"

"Right." Starsky was maintaining the increased speed.

The Torino moved down the steep incline steadily. On one side was the forest, dark and forbidding; on the other there was nothing but a sheer drop to the valley miles below. With anybody else at the wheel, Hutch would have been quite frankly terrified. However, he had complete confidence in Starsky's driving skills. Still . . . ."How is this striped tomato in the snow?" he couldn't help asking.

Starsky only shrugged, a reply that did not entirely reassure his partner.

"Can we outrun them?" Mendala asked.

"No problem," Starsky replied. There was a pause. "Except . . . ."

The tone of Starsky's voice made Hutch whip around in his seat. What he saw through the front windshield brought a whispered curse to his lips. In the road just ahead sat two cars, side by side, quite effectively blocking their way. No wonder the car trailing them hadn't been uptight about being seen, Hutch thought. Didn't matter one damn bit. Now the Torino couldn't go up or down the mountain.

"Then we'll go across," Starsky said, as if in reply to Hutch's thoughts. He set his jaw. "Hold on, Hutch," he said grimly.

Mendala gave a low moan and disappeared behind the seat.

"What--" Hutch didn't bother to ask any questions; he braced himself against the seat and waited.

The car slowed almost to a stop. Then they made a sudden sharp right hand turn toward the forest, picked up speed instantly, and careened over a ledge. There was a drop of about four feet and the car hit bottom.

Starsky's teeth clattered in his head. For a moment, he sat still; then he glanced toward Hutch, who gave him a rather shaky thumbs-up gesture. Starsky took a deep breath, shifted gears gratingly, and took off into the forest.

"Hail Mary, full of Grace . . . ." Mendala's voice droned on behind them.

Hutch was trying to see out of the rear window, but the blowing snow hampered his vision. He thought he could see some headlights back there, but he couldn't be sure.

"Well?" Starsky said finally.

"I think we're being followed," Hutch replied. "But--"

His words were cut off abruptly. That they were indeed being followed became painfully clear when two bullets crashed through the back window and smashed with more luck than skill right into the radio.

"Damn, that was too close," Starsky said. "They must be right on our ass." He was trying desperately to pilot the car through the trees.

"I'll see if I can discourage them," Hutch said, rolling down the window. He leaned out, raised the shotgun, and fired into the snow and blackness.

The sound of the blast reverberated in the car.

There was no way of telling if he had hit anything. The only reply was the crashing impact of two more bullets hitting the car. "Damn." Starsky doused the headlights and tried to maneuver through the almost total darkness. Hutch fired again. "Can you see anything?" Starsky shouted.

Hutch, readying for another shot, only shook his head. More bullets smashed against the dash and Starsky pressed the accelerator down. Hutch hung out the window again, trying to aim between the two dim points of light he could see back there.

"Oh."

The word was a soft whisper, barely more than a gasp, but somehow Starsky heard it over the sound of the car, the wind, the shots; he heard it and it scared him. "Hutch?" he said.

Hutch slipped in from the window, sat still for a moment, and then fell forward against the dashboard.

"Hutch?" Starsky said again, pleadingly. Answer me . . . ohchristhutch . . . please, say something . . . .

There was no answer.

Mendala leaned over the seat. "Do something, you son of a bitch'" he yelled into Starsky's ear.

Starsky was trying to drive with one hand and reach for Hutch with the other. He managed to get one arm around Hutch and pulled him close. He could feel a spreading hot dampness across Hutch's chest. "Hutch?" he whispered. "Oh, Hutch."

Click on illo to see a larger version

"Do something!" Mendala said again, beating the back of the seat.

"Shut up," Starsky yelled. "My partner's been shot!" A bullet hit the front windshield. "Keep your goddamned head down!"

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the ground beneath them suddenly tilted. The car, completely out of control now, careened downward into a black void. Starsky gave up any attempt to guide their path and just held onto Hutch with both arms, trying to protect him from the impact of the steering wheel or the windshield. He wouldn't allow himself to think that it was a wasted effort. Hutch might already be dead . . . . But that thought was too painful, too frightening.

He closed his eyes and just held on.

After an eternity spent crashing through the dark , the nightmare journey ended when the car came to a grinding halt against a growth of trees. Starsky felt one stab of pain through his head and then there was nothingness.

All was silent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

-CHAPTER FOUR-

Starsky stirred first. His head had collided with the steering wheel and now throbbed with thick, unrelenting pain. Groggily he opened his eyes and tried to remember what the hell had happened.

Blackness surrounded him and there was an uncomfortably heavy weight lying pressed against his right side. He blinked once and wiped a small trickle of blood away from his nose.

. . . my partner's been shot . . . !

The four words echoed suddenly with terrifying clarity in his mind. For a split second he squeezed his eyes shut against the terrible reality that he knew was waiting to be faced. "Hutch?" he whispered, shifting slightly under the other's weight against him. "Hey, buddy?"

There was no response from Hutch.

He eased Hutch's body off his own and rested him back against the seat carefully. "Mendala!" he said sharply. "You all right?"

Mendala crawled up from the floor. "Yeah, Hutchinson."

Starsky felt an urge to laugh; he fought down the bitter taste that rose in his throat, not bothering to correct Mendala. "Get me the flashlight. Hurry."

He rested both hands on Hutch's shoulders and held on for dear life. . . . don't be dead . . . please, Hutch . . . please . . . . He could hear Mendala searching and the flashlight was shoved over the seat toward him.

"Here."

Starsky grabbed it with one hand and switched it on.

He almost wished he hadn't.

Blood covered the front of Hutch's jacket. His head lolled to one side; and though he was still breathing, the breaths came in harsh, tortured gasps. Starsky lifted his hand and pressed it against Hutch's frighteningly white face; the skin felt clammy. "Mygod," Starsky whispered brokenly. "Mygod, Hutch . . . ?"

Mendala was hanging over the seat. "Hutchinson, we have to get out of here. They'll be looking for us. Come on, you and me have to cut and run."

"I'm Starsky," he said softly. "He's Hutchinson."

"Does it matter? Come on, we have to go."

Starsky didn't hear him. "Have to stop the bleeding," he mumbled to himself. "Have to stop the damned bleeding or . . . ." . . . or Hutch will die . . . he'll die. He shook his head in angry self-recrimination. Hold on, he told himself. Hold on, damnit. Don't go to pieces now. Hutch is counting on you. Can't let Hutch down.

He reached down for the knob and tried to open the door, but it was jammed shut. "Damn." He kicked at it viciously until, with a grinding metallic creak, it swung reluctantly open. "Mendala, help me. We need to lay Hutch down where I can get at him better. Have to be outside."

"Damnit, Starsky," Mendala said, climbing out, "we don't have time for this." He peered in at Hutch and shrugged. "He's a goner, anyway."

"Don't say that," Starsky replied fiercely.

Mendala grabbed Starsky by the arm, trying to pull him away from the car. "Come on."

Starsky jerked free. "I think there's a blanket in the trunk," he said, thinking aloud. "Used it when we went fishing . . . ." He walked around the car, unlocked and jerked open the trunk. After some quick rummaging around, he pulled out a rather tattered brown blanket.

Wet snow completely covered the ground by this time. Starsky tried rather hopelessly to clear it away. He gave that up and crawled into the car to pull out the rubber floor mats. "Hold the damned flashlight, willya?" he said to Mendala, who was just standing there. Grumbling under his breath, Mendala did so.

Starsky spread the floor mats onto the ground and went back to the car. Moving carefully, he took Hutch into his arms and lifted him out. "Easy, buddy," he whispered. "Hang in there, please." He held Hutch for a moment, pressing him against his chest with desperate tenderness, before resting him on the floor mats. He knelt next to him, not even noticing the wet snow that seeped through his jeans, and covered Hutch with the blanket. "I need something," he murmured. "Something . . . ." After a few seconds thought, he pulled off his jacket, jerked the gaudy T-shirt over his head, and quickly donned the jacket again, zipping it against the cold wind.

"Keep the light down close," he said. "That way, the door blocks it from the road, just in case." As he talked, he was quickly folding the T-shirt into a makeshift bandage. He pulled Hutch's shirt up and out of the way and put the cloth against the wound, pressing firmly.

. . . so much blood . . . how much blood can a person lose and still . . . ? but at least it's not gushing . . . if it were spurting that would be worse, wouldn't it?

"Oh, Hutch," he whispered, not even knowing that he spoke.

As he continued to apply steady pressure to the wound, the T-shirt quickly became soaked with blood. He glanced around at Mendala in his heavy overcoat. "Take off your vest," he ordered.

"What?"

"Take off your damned vest," he repeated. "I need it to stop the bleeding."

Mendala set the flashlight down on the ground. He removed his coat, jacket, and vest. He handed the vest to Starsky, who folded it quickly and replaced the blood-soaked T-shirt. Starsky held on to the shirt for a moment, lost in thought, before throwing the bloody garment aside angrily.

His hands were covered with Hutch's blood, the warm red stickiness contrasting bitterly with the chilling wind. He grabbed a handful of snow and rubbed savagely, trying to wash the blood away.

Hutch's head moved slightly. A moment later, his eyes opened and he struggled to focus on Starsky's face bent close over him. The blue eyes were pale and bewildered. "Starsk?" he said hoarsely.

"I'm here, Hutch, I'm--" Starsky's voice broke. He took a deep breath, fighting for steadiness. "Take it easy, buddy. I've got everything under control."

"Sure . . . like always . . . ." Hutch stirred. "It hurts, Starsk."

"I know, I know," Starsky crooned, patting his shoulder. "But it's going to be okay."

Hutch nodded and his eyes slowly closed again.

The bleeding seemed to be slowing. Starsky could taste blood in his own mouth and he realized that he'd been biting his lip and had cut it. He licked the blood away absently, watching Hutch's face.

Mendala crouched next to him. "What do you think they're doing?" he asked.

"What?" Starsky turned to stare at him stupidly. "Who?"

"Guardino's men, of course!"

"Oh." Starsky struggled to bring his mind back to that problem. After a moment, he shrugged. "Don't know. Probably they think we're dead from the crash. If we're lucky, they'll keep right on thinking that. That's why I can't risk using a flare to get help. Don't know who it would attract and . . . ." His voice dwindled off as a tremor wracked Hutch' s body. "Damn. Hold this in place," he said abruptly. "I want to see if the car can be moved."

With obvious distaste, Mendala placed his hand over the bloody vest.

It took only a minute for Starsky to realize that, even beyond whatever mechanical damage had been done to the vehicle, his car was hopelessly wedged in the trees. It would take a tow truck to pull it out. He even tried the bullet-shattered radio, knowing that it was an exercise in futility, but needing to try everything.

He climbed out of the car and walked back over to Hutch and Mendala, realizing suddenly how cold he was. And Hutch . . . lying on the ground . . . .even with that blanket over him, he had to be cold . . . injured people should be kept warm . . . if Hutch went into shock . . . . He stood there, watching Hutch shiver. Then he had a thought. "Mendala, take off your suit jacket."

"Why?"

"Why? Because he needs it and you don't, that's why."

Mendala started to argue, but something in Starsky's face apparently warned him against it. He silently took off the jacket and handed it to Starsky, then quickly put the overcoat back on.

Starsky sat beside Hutch again and carefully tucked the jacket around him. Hutch's eyes opened. "Thanks, buddy," he whispered.

"Sure." Starsky reached out and pushed snow-wet hair out of Hutch's eyes. "Hold on," he said. "I'm going to get you out of this mess. I promise."

"Yeah . . . after all . . . what's a . . . partner for?" Hutch tried to smile and almost succeeded.

Starsky smiled down at him. "Right. You just rest, okay?"

Hutch closed his eyes. Starsky sat there a moment longer, his hand resting in the blond hair. Then he sighed. At least the bleeding had stopped . . . but for how long? Got to get you out of here, Hutch . . . got to. He stood. "We've got to rig up some way of getting him down the mountain . . . find a cabin . . . ."

Mendala was sitting huddled in the front seat. "It's hopeless, you fool. He's a dead man, and if we try to take him with us, we'll be dead, too. Our only hope is to get out ourselves, and then worry about sending somebody back for him."

Starsky leaned into the car. His face was red from the wind and his dark blue eyes glinted dangerously. "We're not leaving Hutch," he said very quietly.

"But--"

"Shut up, Mendala. We're not leaving him."

"You're supposed to get me in safely; they promised me that. It's your duty--"

"Screw my duty." Starsky took a deep shuddering breath and consciously unclenched his fists. His voice was a low monotone. "I'll do my duty and get you to the Feds. That was the deal, Mendala, and I'll do it." He paused, his gaze shifting over to Hutch for a moment, then returning, stony, to Mendala. "But not by killing Hutch. Understand? Whatever testimony you have to give, it's not worth his life."

"Not to you, maybe, but to them--"

"But they're not here now, are they? It's just Hutch and me to get you in there, so you'd better go along with what I say."

"They won't like it when I tell them."

"Shut up," Starsky said again. "I'm tired of hearing you talk."

"What kind of a cop are you, anyway?" Mendala said sullenly.

Starsky smiled bitterly, with no trace of humor. "A tired one, man. I'm a real tired cop." Sick and tired of hurting . . . of seeing the people I love hurting . . . . He rested his head against the top of the car and tried to forget how cold and wet he was. What can I do . . . what? He closed his eyes, trying to think clearly.

Something was nagging at him, some memory trying to get through. A movie . . . the previous weekend Hutch and he had watched a late movie on TV at his place. For a time, he let his mind wander over the memory, indulging himself in its warmth. Take-out Chinese food for dinner. A game of Monopoly that ended with them both going broke, and then some beer and the cowboy movie on TV. It had been a great evening. Sometimes it seemed like they had too little opportunity to be together, just the two of them, outside of work. Other friends, dates . . . all those other important things in life frequently seemed to crowd out their togetherness. Can't let that happen anymore, he thought firmly. Got to remember to save time for us. If there was any more time for them . . . what if . . . what if there weren't any more evenings like that? Ever.

He shivered, not from the cold, and forced the thought away. There was something about the movie . . . . He squeezed his eyes shut again and saw a picture of the Indians in the film traveling across the plains, all of their belongings tied to some sort of a sled-like thing. Hutch had known what it was called . . . a French word. He thought: Travois . . . that's it . . . travois . . . going to build one of those things and pull Hutch down the mountain.

Now he had a plan and immediately he felt better. He blinked twice and straightened. "I've got a plan," he said aloud.

Mendala ignored him.

"I've got a plan, Hutch!" he yelled, filled with a sudden surge of adrenalin.

Hutch lifted one hand just a little, to show that he'd heard.

Starsky took a deep breath and got to work.

Hutch tried to watch him through half-opened eyes, wondering what had gotten his partner so excited all of a sudden. But it was too hard to concentrate. The pain came in constant hot waves, washing over him, almost drowning him, so that he had to clutch at the frayed edge of the blanket, holding on so as not to get swept away.

"It hurts, Starsk," he whimpered. "It hurts."

But the wind whipped his words away and Starsky was too busy to even notice that he'd spoken.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER FIVE-

There were a great many broken branches lying around the car and Starsky searched through them until he found two that seemed to be what he figured would be necessary to do the job. They were both nearly eight feet long, almost as big around as his arms, and fairly straight. He broke off all the smaller branches, then hoisted the two and walked back to the car, whistling softly into the wind.

Mendala leaned out curiously. "What the hell are you doing?"

Instead of answering, Starsky propped the branches against the car and then leaned in to open the glove compartment. He fumbled around, trying to find his pocket knife, and finally his fingers closed around the ivory handle. He pulled the knife out and tossed it to Mendala, who just managed to catch it. "Cut the upholstery off the back seat," he ordered brusquely. "In one big piece."

Mendala glared at him, then gave a snort and climbed into the back seat. He began hacking away at the upholstery with the air of a man indulging a willful child or a fool.

Starsk got out of the car again. He rested the branches on the ground near Hutch, then crawled over to check on him. For one terrifying moment he thought that Hutch had stopped breathing. . . . no! He pressed one ear against his partner's chest and searched desperately with a trembling hand for the neck pulse.

He gave a sigh of relief. There was a pulse--too fast, too faint, but there. He raised his head and saw Hutch watching him. He cleared his throat. "How you feeling, buddy?"

"Not . . . so great," Hutch whispered.

Starsky tried to smile; what came out was a quickly stifled half-sob. "S'okay. I had this idea, see . . . ."

"What's your idea?"

Starsky carefully tucked the coat more closely around Hutch's neck. "Remember that movie we saw the other night at my place? The one with the Indians when we had the Chinese food?"

If Hutch was having any trouble following Starsky's train of thought, he didn't say so; he only nodded a little.

"Well, I'm rigging up one of those travois things they were using. Then I'm going to pull you down the mountain to find help." He looked up anxiously. "Does that sound okay?"

"Damned . . . good idea, Starsk."

Starsky grinned at him. "Didn't think I had it in me, didya?"

Hutch struggled to move his fingers until he could grab the edge of Starsky's sleeve. "Starsk . . . ."

Starsky was checking the wound. "Hmm?"

Hutch's fingers closed around his wrist with surprising strength. "Hey, Starsk . . . am I gonna die?"

Starsky stopped what he was doing. "No." He shook his head fiercely. "No, Hutch. I'm going to take care of you." He clasped Hutch's hand between both of his. "You trust me, don't you?"

"With my life," Hutch whispered as his eyes closed again.

Starsky gave a quick squeeze to Hutch's hand and stood. He walked over to the car, chewing on the inside of his lip nervously. "You about done, Mendala?"

The other man tossed the piece of vinyl out to him. "Here. For all the good it'll do you."

Starsky spread the vinyl between the two branches and paused, considering. Then he unfastened his belt, and with one tug, pulled it off. "Give me the knife," he snapped. Mendala handed it to him. "And your belt."

Mendala only looked at him blankly, before shoving both hands into his coat pockets and walking a few steps away.

Starsky bent on one knee and lashed the vinyl to one end of a branch, using his belt. He pulled the belt through the buckle as far as it would go, then used the knife point to poke another hole to fasten it in. He tested the improvisation and granted in satisfaction. That'd hold. He glanced up, holding out his hand. "Your belt."

"Damnit, Starsky--"

"Your belt." There was no emotion in his voice.

Mendala ripped the ornate leather belt off and threw it onto the ground next to Starsky. "There."

"Thank you," Starsky said politely.

"If I'da said 'no', you probably would have taken it anyway," Mendala said.

Starsky nodded. "Yes."

"You're crazy, you know that?"

Starsky stared at him for a moment, his eyes genuinely curious. "Didn't you ever have a best friend?" he asked. "Somebody you really . . . cared about? Somebody you'd do anything for?" Not waiting for an answer, he bent to the task of attaching the second corner of the travois. This belt was a little harder to poke a hole in than his own cheap one had been, but he had it finally. Again he tested it; again it held.

"That isn't going to work," Mendala said scornfully.

Starsky didn't look at him. "It'll work." He moved over next to Hutch once again. "Hutch?"

"Huh?" he replied, not opening his eyes.

"I need to use your belt."

"My what?"

"Your belt. For the travois."

Hutch twisted restlessly and shook his head. "I don't know . . . what you're talking about," he said fretfully.

"That's okay," Starsky soothed, "doesn't matter, I'm going to take your belt off as carefully as I can. You give a shout if it hurts, okay?"

"I'll . . . do that."

Very carefully Starsky unhooked Hutch's belt; it was hard to manipulate his fingers because of the cold and he felt clumsy. As he started to pull the end of the belt through the loops, Hutch stiffened and gave a soft gasp. Starsky stopped instantly. "Hutch?" he said.

Hutch shook his head. "I'm . . . okay. Go ahead."

Starsky pressed his lips together tightly as he cautiously eased the belt off. Hutch didn't say any more; it was only by the way that his finger clutched at Starsky's knee that his pain was revealed at all.

When the belt finally came free, Starsky sat back on his heels, the strip of leather dangling from one hand. It was a moment before he raised his eyes to meet Hutch's gaze. Although Hutch managed a small smile, his eyes were confused and burning with fever--in startling contest to the pale clamminess of his face.

"Hey . . . Starsk?"

"Yeah?"

"How's the car?"

Starsky blinked. "What?"

"If anything happens to that car . . . you'll never get . . . over it . . . ." Hutch began to struggle, as if trying to sit up and get a look at the car.

Starsky pushed him back down gently but firmly. "Shh . . . take it easy, Hutch. Come on, lie down, willya? The car is fine."

Hutch gave in and rested again. "Okay." His sigh reflected infinite weariness. "I'm tired, Starsk."

Starsky patted his arm reassuringly, but he had no more words to say then. The bleeding had stopped; that was a good sign, he guessed. But the snow was beginning to fall more heavily. He wiped the wetness from his face with one sleeve and went back to the half-finished travois.

He used Hutch's belt to fasten the third corner. That done, he went back to the car, pulled out the equipment rack from under the passenger seat, and removed the strap that belonged to the shotgun. The gun itself had gone out the window when Hutch had been hit.

He glanced around and saw Mendala in the back, his head resting against the seat. The man looked pale. Probably scared . . . hell, who isn't? Hutch is scared . . . I'm scared . . . I'm so damned scared . . . Hutch might die. Hutch is dying . . . . He tried the words in his mind: Hutch is dead. Hutch is . . . no, damnit, no.

He stopped thinking and devoted his attention entirely to finishing the travois. As long as he could do anything on God's earth to prevent it, Hutch wouldn't die.

When the job was completed to his satisfaction, he raised his head. "Mendala."

It took a minute for Mendala to ease himself out of the car and get over to Starsky. "What?"

"It's ready; we have to lift Hutch on now."

Mendala wiped his face. "I don't feel very good, Starsky."

Starsky's gaze was cerulean ice. "Yeah." He pushed strands of wet hair out of his eyes. "I guess Hutch doesn't feel too good right now, either. He's got a bullet in his chest, remember? A bullet he got protecting you."

"Yeah, yeah, big hero cop, I know."

You slob bastard . . . Hutch might die because of someone like you? It's not fair . . . it's just not fair . . . all your life you've been the bad guy, the enemy, and all of a sudden you want to go straight and we're supposed to die to make sure you get that chance. It's just not fair. I'm a tired cop . . . so goddamned tired . . . . Starsky's hands felt frozen and he rubbed them together briskly as he went to Hutch. "Okay, buddy, we're ready to go now."

Hutch stirred, mumbling to himself, then looked at Starsky. "Going? In the car?"

"Nope, 'fraid not. This is strictly a foot trip. Except for you. You get to ride. First-class deluxe service."

"That's good . . . I don't think I could walk . . . very far. I'm so tired . . . ."

Mendala came closer and glazed down at Hutch. "We're all going to die, don't you know that?" he said loudly. "Because of you. We can't all make it down this damned mountain and so we're all going to die because he won't leave you behind. Why don't you just die now and save everybody a lot of trouble?"

Starsky started toward him. "Shut up, Mendala. Shut your damned mouth."

Hutch's eyes were suddenly wide open. "Starsk? Starsk, is that true, what he said?"

"No, of course not," Starsky said firmly.

Mendala pushed Starsky's restraining hand aside. "Maybe it makes you feel good, Hutchinson, to know that when you die, you'll take two others with you, me and your partner. Maybe that's what you want!"

Starsky grabbed Mendala by the arm and shoved him back against the car. "Shut up," he said, his voice low and tight. "If you say one more word, I'll break your jaw."

Click illo to see a larger version

Mendala leaned against the car, rubbing his arm where Starsky had grabbed him. Starsky knelt beside Hutch. "Starsk . . . what he said . . . maybe you better leave me . . . ."

"No, Hutch." Starsky shook his head, speaking with a rather unconvincing show of bravado. "That's got to rank as one of the stupidest ideas you've ever had, buddy. I mean--" He laughed a little."--I already have to turn in enough requisitions for lost or damaged equipment. What would Dobey say if I turned in one for a lost partner? No way."

Hutch stared at him until Starsky was forced to meet his gaze. "Starsk . . . please . . . no jokes . . . it's no good . . . I don't want you to die because of me . . . I don't want that . . . ."

"Nobody's gonna die," Starsky said sharply. "Damnit, Hutch, I'm in charge here, okay?"

Hutch sighed. "All right, but--"

"No buts. Hutch, we're in this together, just like always. Would you go and leave me?"

After a moment, Hutch shook his head. "No," he whispered.

"Okay, then be quiet, willya?" Starsky turned toward Mendala. "Come on, creep."

Reluctantly, Mendala came.

"Do this carefully," Starsky said, his azure gaze piercing Mendala' s face, warning him. "We don't want to get the bleeding started again."

"All right, all right; let's get it over with," Mendala said impatiently.

Starsky bent over Hutch. "If this hurts, you tell me. Don't try to be a hero, understand?"

"Who, me, a hero?" Hutch said. "No way . . . I leave all that stuff to you."

"Sure you do." They hoisted him and moved toward the travois. Starsky could see Hutch's jaw clench tightly. "Hutch?"

"S'okay," Hutch muttered. As they lowered him, however, his eyes flew open. "It hurts," he gasped. "Ohjesus, it hurts . . . Starsk . . . ." They rested him on the travois and he grabbed for Starsky's arm, holding on desperately.

Starsky sat very still, just letting Hutch cling to him. Mendala, panting from the apparently unaccustomed exercise, walked a few steps away. Finally Starsky eased Hutch back down. "You okay?" he asked, reaching for Hutch's wrist. The pulse was fluttery. "Hutch?"

"Yeah . . . yeah, Starsk."

"You take it easy for a minute and then we'll go."

Hutch seemed only half-conscious, almost as if he'd been drugged. "Where . . . where we going, Starsk?"

The jacket draped around Hutch had slipped a little during the move to the travois. Starsky straightened it, covering him more tightly. "We're going to find help, buddy. A doctor."

"Oh . . . good. I need a doctor, Starsk . . . it hurts."

"I know it does, Hutch." Starsky picked up the knife and shoved it into his pocket. Then he walked back over to the car and sank down behind the wheel. God . . . I'm tired and so cold. He could not remember ever having felt as cold as he did at that moment.

He leaned against the steering wheel, his face in the sleeve of his jacket, seeking warmth and also seeking some escape from the way things were. Oh Hutch. Unbidden, memories filled him. Hutch standing on the stage in that dammed country-western bar, singing. Or trying to sing. Scared to death. And himself sitting there laughing. It had been funny. Poor Hutch. Scared . . . to death.

And now Hutch was dying for real and Starsky had an icy lump in the pit of his stomach.

He remembered: When Gillian died, Hutch, torn to pieces with grief and anger, struck out at the closest person. "Come on, what are you gonna do? You want to hit me again, huh? Is that what you want?" Starsky had said. It was so easy that time. Just hold Hutch tightly and let the caring wash over him. If only that would work now. If only he could wrap his arms around Hutch and let him know how much he was loved. If only that would save Hutch, keep him from dying.

"Oh, Hutch."

He raised his head and rubbed the back of one hand across his eyes. No more time for that now. Later. Later. A time to live . . . a time to die . . . a time to love . . . and plenty of time later to mourn. A whole life to mourn.

He slid out of the car. "Mendala?"

The stocky man turned and walked toward him. "The snow's getting worse," he said. "We don't stand a chance in hell of getting out of this alive."

Starsky absently massaged his fingers, trying to warm them. "Well, then, we'll all die trying, won't we?" he replied bitterly. "Nobody lives forever anyway. Come on."

Mendala took one more step toward Starsky, then stopped, clutching at his chest. "Sweet Jesus," he gasped.

Starsky, already bending over Hutch, didn't turn. "'What?"

"Starsky . . . I can't . . . pain . . . oh, no!"

Starsky spun around just in time to see Mendala fall face down into the snow. For a long moment Starsky was too stunned to move. Then he plunged forward and dropped beside Mendala, pulling him over onto his back. "Hey!"

Mendala's face was twisted with pain and his hands clutched weakly at his chest. He gave one convulsive shudder and was abruptly limp.

No heartbeat. Starsky's training asserted itself immediately and like an automaton, he went into the emergency procedures for heart attack victims. He pulled open Mendala's overcoat so that he could give closed heart massage. You bastard . . . I don't have time for this . . . not now. I have to get Hutch down this damned mountain.

He put both hands, one on top of the other, at the bottom of Mendala's breastbone. Counting softly to himself, he applied pressure through the heel of his bottom hand, pressing firmly. . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . Sixty times a minute. Press, release. . . . twenty-two . . . twenty-three . . . He glanced toward Hutch, who was apparently unaware of what was happening. . . . forty-two . . . forty-three . . . .

He kept it up for three minutes before he was sure that Mendala's heart was beating regularly again. Some of the color returned to the unconscious man's face and his breathing appeared to stabilize.

Starsky sat back wearily. He drew both knees to his chest and rested his head. Maybe . . . maybe if I just sit here awhile and pretend that everything is all right, it'll all go away. Maybe I'm dreaming. I'm probably still sacked out at Hutch's hung over from Huggy's party, and this is all just some nightmare. Hutch is all right . . . any minute, he's going to start shaking my arm to wake me up . . . wake me up, Hutch, please, I don't like this dream anymore . . . .

But the bite of the wind, the feel of the cold snow soaking through his jeans, and the raspy sound of Mendala's breathing let him know that it was all too real. He felt like crying. The sense of helplessness that filled him was more bitter than any feeling he'd ever known before.

Finally he took a deep breath and checked on Mendala, who seemed to be all right, for the moment, at least. He crawled back over to Hutch and leaned down close. "Hutch?" he whispered.

"We . . . ready to go, Starsk? I'm cold."

"Yeah, buddy, I know." He took Hutch's face between his hands and rubbed gently. "Hutch, can you listen to me for a minute? Open your eyes," he said.

Hutch turned his head and tried to focus on Starsky's face. Starsky got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach when he saw Hutch's face. He looked like he'd been on the losing end of a fistfight. Both eyes were circled by black rings and his lips were swollen and trembling. "What?"

"We've . . . got a problem, partner. Mendala just had a heart attack."

Hutch was silent, absorbing that information. "Is . . . is he dead?"

"No. Not yet. But he's in bad shape, I think."

Hutch's lips seemed to turn upward slightly. He fumbled for Starsky's hand, found it, and held on. "Poor Starsky," he murmured.

"What am I going to do, Hutch? I can't get both of you down this mountain at the same time." His voice cracked. "Christ, I don't know what I'm going to do."

"Yeah, you do . . . Starsky. Men . . . Mendala is in . . . protective custody . . . our responsibility . . . can't leave him."

"I know," Starsky whispered, rubbing his eyes. But the tears that he had been fighting back would no longer be denied. They spilled out and coursed down his face, seeming to scald his cold skin. He wiped them away angrily.

"Hey," Hutch said. "Don't. It's okay."

"But . . . I don't want to leave you," Starsky said, anguished.

"You have to, Starsk . . . it's okay, really . . . I understand."

"Do you?" Starsky stared at him. "Then maybe you can explain it to me, buddy. 'Cause I don't understand it at all."

Hutch made no reply. He only tightened his hold on Starsky's hand.

Starsky shook his head. "Hutch . . . ." His shoulders straightened and he spoke firmly. "I'm going to put you back into the car, Hutch. At least you'll be out of the snow and wind."

"Okay."

"Then I'll load Mendala onto this damned thing." He sat there a moment longer, unaware that one hand still gently caressed Hutch's face. He raised his eyes finally, the dark gaze steady and determined. "I'll be back as soon as I can, Hutch; you know that, don't you?"

"Sure. You just . . . you're just too lazy to . . . break in a new . . . partner. You'll be . . . back." Hutch's eyes were closing, but his grip on Starsky's hand was still firm. "I don't want to die, Starsk."

"You can't die, Hutch," Starsky said, trying to keep his voice level, finding it impossible to believe that they could be sitting there calmly discussing Hutch's death. Hutch. "'Cause I'm coming back for you. You have to wait for me."

"I will."

Starsky pulled his hand free from Hutch's and stood. "Hold tight for a minute, buddy."

It took him only a minute to open the car door and clear out the back. The hard part was going to be lifting Hutch and getting him in there without causing the bleeding to start again. He went back to Hutch. "Ready?" he asked, trying to sound a lot more confident than he felt.

"Uh-huh."

Starsky gritted his teeth and lifted Hutch into his arms. He could feel the other's body go tense, but Hutch didn't make a sound. Starsky knew that Hutch wouldn't let him know how much pain he was feeling; his partner knew how much Starsky was hurting inside already and wouldn't want to make it worse.

Walking as if he were balancing eggs, he reached the car and eased Hutch onto the back seat. He stayed bent over him for a moment while they both caught their breath. He managed a small grin. "Feels almost warm in here now, doesn't it?"

"Right . . . cozy, even . . . great car, buddy . . . I'll be fine . . . ."

"Yeah, sure." Starsky tucked the suit jacket around him again and then spread the blanket over that. Hutch rested against the seat, watching him carefully, almost as if trying to memorize his features and gestures.

Starsky dragged the travois over to Mendala, who was breathing a little easier; his face, however, was a peculiar shade of gray. Starsky rolled the unconscious man onto the travois. Lot heavier than Hutch . . . hope this thing will bear the weight. He checked Mendala's pulse and respiration.

Hutch raised his head when Starsky crouched in front of him again. "Going now?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Be careful."

"Sure, aren't I always?"

"No."

Starsky didn't know what to say next. "I wish it was me lying here," was what finally emerged.

Hutch shook his head slowly. "No . . . don't say that, Starsk. Besides," he went on, making the effort, "you'd just rather lie here while I had to go walking down the mountain . . . dragging Mendala . . . you're always looking for . . . the easy way . . . ."

"Right."

"Starsk . . . thanks."

"For what?" Starsky said bitterly. "Going off and leaving you?"

"For being a pretty good partner all these years." Hutch was trying to smile.

There was a long pause. Starsky leaned forward and pressed his cheek against Hutch's hair. "I'll be back just as soon as I can, Hutch. You're my partner; I'll be back."

"Yeah, I know." Hutch patted his shoulder weakly. "Get going."

"I am. See you." The last two words were a muffled sob, but Hutch pretended not to notice.

Starsky edged out of the car, picked up the flashlight, and then lifted the travois. He hesitated just a second, almost turning around to take another look at Hutch. But he didn't. Couldn't. Afraid if he did that, he wouldn't be able to go at all. And he had to go.

He ducked his head and trudged into the trees, dragging the travois that carried Mendala, leaving his partner behind. He could taste the salty tears that still slid down his face and there was an aching in his chest that threatened to break him. But he went.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-CHAPTER SIX-

He shifted his position a little and immediately regretted it.

The pain in his chest intensified. Damn, it's quiet. And dark. He'd never realized before just how dark the woods could be.

Cautious of movement now, he slowly raised one hand and wiped off the rear window. The snow was falling so hard that he couldn't even see the trees into which Starsky had vanished so long ago.

How long ago? Two hours? Four?

No way of knowing. He had slept a little. The pain in his chest was constant, unrelenting, but he didn't think that the bleeding had started again. If it did, he was a goner anyway, so there was no sense in worrying about it.

He rested his head against the seat and tried to remember being warm. Couldn't do it. Tried to remember being without this hurting in his chest. Couldn't do that either. Then he tried to remember why he couldn't just lie back and give up.

The snow kept falling. He was so cold. Be easier to die . . . no more cold or pain . . . easier just to give up. Easier for sure . . . hell, I've had it anyway . . . what are the odds, for instance, that Starsky will find help? Well, pretty good, I guess. Hell, better than that, probably. Once he sets his mind to something, he's like a bulldog . . . .

He felt himself smiling a little at the thought of his stubborn partner. That son of a bitch won't give up. He'll keep going if it takes forever . . . yeah, forever. Unfortunately, I don't have forever.

He closed his eyes. But Starsk is coming back . . . he promised . . . I have to wait for Starsk. He had a sudden vision of his own dead body sitting in the car and Starsky coming back to find him like that. Can't do that to Starsk . . . not to my partner . . . he was crying . . . tough guy Dave Starsky, the scourge of our district, was crying. First time I ever saw him cry was in Nam. When we found the body of that little kid in the alley. Cut to pieces by some drugged-up freako. Starsk broke down and cried. And when Terri died, he cried then, too. And he was crying tonight because he didn't want to leave me . . . .

Ken Hutchinson put the thought of dying aside. He couldn't do that to Starsky. Not as long as he could help it, anyway. He opened his eyes. Got to stay awake . . . he's probably on his way back now . . . I've got to wait for him. If I die . . . if I die . . . what will happen to Starsk? I think . . . I think he needs me. Just like I need him. Oh Starsk . . . what's going to happen to us?

He huddled beneath the blanket and tried to keep his eyes open. The wind whipped around the car. Hutch gritted his teeth, determined to stick it out. Determined to live. Determined not to let his partner down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~< /p>

Part Two

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