"I don't believe it!  That's Tommy LaBeck over there!"  Sgt. Ken Hutchinson dumped the rest of his coffee out the car window and shoved the big car into gear, slamming his partner — jelly donut and all — back against the seat.

"LaBeck?"  The other man wiped strawberry jam from his chin with a paper napkin, while struggling to right himself.  The napkin and donut followed the coffee cup out the window.  "Vice has been looking for him for the last six months."

"Yeah, and we got him."  Hutch pulled the car around into a tight U-turn, bringing it to a halt in front of a dingy looking bar with the unlikely appellation of The Cosmic Equation. "I got the front."

"I’ll get the back."  He disappeared around the corner, leaving Hutch to enter the front door alone.

Lousy hole in the wall. Hutch thought to himself, peering around the dim interior.  Kind of place even the roaches don't visit.

Several patrons lounged around the long wooden bar, sipping beer and shooting him suspicious glances.  Being the only white in the place did tend to make one a bit conspicuous, he thought wryly.  He felt a bit like a cue ball.  Yeah, a cue ball   Right behind the eight ball.  As usual.

Faint shadows danced in the murky dimness, giving the patrons within a wraith-like aspect.  The dark suited these creatures of the night, concealed that which was not fitting — rarely even spoken of — in the purer light of day.  With the dawn these ones would be gone, vanished like the specters they so resembled.

Slowly, Hutch made his way into the smoke-filled interior, searching for one face among the many.  A largish man with magnificent full beard and a sullen expression stuck a leg out into the aisle, blocking Hutch's progress.  Defiance smoldered in the muddy eyes, a rejection of the authority inherent in the straight, confident figure.

The moment held then faded as the Negro changed his mind.  Experienced black eyes summed the blond up instantly — hard, cold, no one to mess with unless he wanted more trouble than it was worth.  Reluctantly, the bearded man withdrew his leg, rejecting the challenge shining in the crystal blue eyes.

“Another time, pig,” he muttered.

Hutch dismissed him as soon as the man had backed down.  Another time.  Yeah, I believe that.

A flash of movement from the rear of the bar caught Hutch’s attention.  He moved swiftly across the room, only slightly hampered by the unwashed bodies which blocked his path.  He arrived barely in time to see a smallish weasel of a man slipping out the back door.

"Hold it, Pol—"  Hutch halted mid-word as a large, masculine hand reached through the now opened door, snagging LaBeck by the shirt collar and lifting him clear off the floor.

"Now, now, little man."  A smug smile followed the hand into the room.  "You're not going anywhere, are you?"  A stream of invective was the only response until the large hand — attached to a very large cop — gave him a rough shake. "That's enough of that, little man.  You're under arrest,"

Detective Sergeant Sean O'Brian held the prisoner with one hand while cuffing him with the other, all the while reciting the Miranda in an amiable baritone.  Hutch watched quietly, resisting the almost uncontrollable urge to look around for Starsky.

Starsky's in the hospital, he reminded himself for the hundredth time that day.  Reminded himself unnecessarily — the events of those few weeks ago were burned indelibly into the fabric of his mind, a waking/sleeping nightmare that followed him wherever he went.  Starsky was alive, but mending slowly — very slowly.  The wounds 'Massive damage, ' had brought the man to the point of death... and beyond.

He'd survived — barely — and was now on the mend, but it would be a long time before Starsky had regained enough of his health to work with Hutch again... if indeed he ever did.  The doctors were frankly skeptical on that point.

In the meantime, Dobey, in a rare burst of diplomacy, had teamed Hutchinson "temporarily" with Sgt. O' Brian, a large, towheaded Irishman as different from David Starsky as night was from day.  Where Starsky was hot-headed, O' Brian was placid.  Where Starsky was instinctive, O’Brian was reasoned.  Where Starsky would rush in, O'Brian would plan carefully down to the last detail.  No comparisons one to the other; no reminders.

Hutch found himself liking the amiable man despite an initial resentment on Starsky's behalf, and even Starsky, in one of his now frequent moments of lucidity, had pronounced O'Brian a suitable "stand-in" capable of watching his partner's back "for a little while."  High praise indeed for Starsky.

Hutch took one of LaBeck's cuffed arms, helping O'Brian drag the little man back to the Ford.  "Vice'll be glad to see this one,"  the Irishman commented.  "He's -been at the top of their list for awhile."

Hutch grunted assent but could force no more enthusiasm than that.  Yeah, right, they caught Tommy LaBeck.  Big deal.

He was immediately sorry for the reaction.  LaBeck sold dope in the local high schools.  Taking him out of circulation was a big deal, and O'Brian had every right to be proud of the collar. No sense ruining his sense of accomplishment just because Hutch was in a bitchy mood.

"Vice will be very glad to get hold of this one,"  he agreed, dredging up a smile.  He nodded over his shoulder at the loudly cursing man cuffed to an armrest in the back,  "Got quite a mouth on him, doesn't he?"

O' Brian turned suddenly in his seat,   "Quiet!"  he bellowed startling both LaBeck and Hutch into silence.  "Sorry.  He was getting on my nerves.  What did you say?"

"Uh... only that Vice is going to be glad to get him off the street. "   Hutch tried again to lighten his tone but failed miserably when he caught himself wishing for the umpteenth time that it was a curly-haired imp sitting in that seat grinning at him rather than this big Irishman.  He smothered that thought as well.  Sean was a good man and a fine cop.  It wasn't his fault he wasn't Dave Starsky.

O’Brian caught the single glance cast his way and accurately deduced the meaning behind it.  He might be an easy-going man, but was neither insensitive nor stupid, and was well aware of what his "partner" was going through of late.  Dobey had been quite open with him on the subject.

"Hutchinson is not going to accept you as a partner,"  he'd admitted one day.  "But he needs someone level-headed to watch out for him.  With Starsky out of it..."

"Permanently?"  The question was reasonable and polite, but still ignited a flash of anger of Dobey's chocolate brown eyes. So the stories were true -- Dobey did have a soft spot in that steel clad heart of his for this pair of hotshots.

"We don't know if it's permanent or not, O'Brian," the police captain answered stubbornly, "and we won't know for some time.  Until then, Hutchinson is not going to be at his best, and I want someone I can trust keeping an eye on him."
"You're sure..."  Sean stumbled over another reasonable question.  "You're sure he's going to be able to... uh, function on the streets?"  Is he going to get me killed?

Dobey's eyes gleamed stonily in the office light.  "He'll do his job, O' Brian, don't you worry about that.  You just make sure you do yours
"Yes, sir."

And so an unlikely pseudo-partnership was born, with both men learning to work together bit by bit.  O'Brian was constantly reminded, however, not by word nor deed but only by instinct, that he was not Detective Hutchinson's partner, was there temporarily and by sufferance only until Detective Starsky returned.

O' Brian sighed.   The scuttlebutt had it that Starsky would not be returning to the force; would be pensioned out on a medical discharge.  Privately, O'Brian believed that Ken would be going with him.  As close as those two were, as dependent as they had become on each other's support, there was as little chance of Hutch staying with the department without Starsky as there was of Starsky coming back at all.

O'Brian would miss the man, but understood this would be for the best.  After all, it was about time O'Brian hooked up with a permanent partner of his own.  The streets could be very lonely without one — as evidenced by one Detective Sergeant Kenneth C. Hutchinson.  Very lonely indeed,

***

"Starsk?  Hey, Starsk, you awake?"

Hutch crossed quietly to peer down at the pale, thin face on the pillow.  It always cost him a pang these days to catch Starsky asleep like this.  Asleep, the hardened street cop vanished, allowing the new vulnerability of the wounded man to shine through.

Hutch stood regarding his friend for a long time, relishing the sight of the rise and fall of his chest, savoring the signs of a life he’d thought violently extinguished. Starsky looked so peaceful lying there amid the blankets, safe — alive!  God, it felt so good just to know Starsky was going to live!

It had been two weeks now since Starsky had been shot down in the police parking lot, but the terrible injuries he’d suffered in the incident had left him healing slowly and still in considerable pain.  Consequently, the doctors kept him lightly drugged nearly all the time, a regular series of pain-killers, sedatives, antibiotics and more, administered over the course of the day — every day.

Hutch looked around for a chair, prepared to await his partner’s return to awareness, but the long lashes fluttered once and opened.  Blue eyes peered blankly, unfocused. "Hmmph?"  he muttered.

Hardly scintillating conversation, but with all the drugs being pumped through his system, Starsky was fortunate to be able to manage that much most of the time.  Of course. Hutch wasn't at this particular bedside to be amused, any way.

"Hey, buddy,"  he said, giving his friend's shoulder a reassuring pat.  "How’re you feeling?"

He could tell that the painkillers at least were beginning to wear off.  Still, the blue eyes met his own directly enough and the lips curved upward into a thin smile.   "M’kay."  The voice was a hoarse croak, damaged lungs straining to draw breath for speech as well as life. God, Starsk,  Hutch thought sadly.  What they did to you. His mind rejected the thought as too painful to contemplate even now.  He did have to think about it soon, however — it was time to consider options, both his own and Starsky's.  But not now.  He was too tired and Starsky was going to need him to be strong for a while — a long while.  The doctors had made it clear that there was going to be long months of rest and therapy if he ever hoped to regain even a measure of the health he'd once enjoyed.  It would probably not be enough to qualify him with the medical review board; they'd been honest enough about that; he might never be a street cop again.  And a Starsky chained behind a desk would be a very miserable Starsky indeed.

Dobey was already attempting to prepare Hutch for that eventuality by teaming him with Sean O' Brian so soon after the shooting.  It was a good choice. Hutch had to admit.  O’Brian was a good cop, possessing a placid serenity about life that Hutch was beginning to envy more and more.

Yeah, O'Brian was a good cop — even on his way to being a good friend — but the 'Dynamic Duet* required one David M. Starsky in the equation.  Without him, there was no sparkle, no triumph, no balance.  No team. "Hey, Hutch?"

Hutchinson focused on the pale face, aware that he had let his thoughts drift.  So tired….  "Yeah, buddy. Right here."  He pasted on a smile, not fooling his friend one bit.

"You look awful."  Starsky *s lips twitched again.  "How’re you feelin'?"

Hutch sank down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes wearily.  "Just a little tired."  He glanced down into concerned eyes, then reached out to gently enfold his friend's hand in his own, feeling a need for some form of physical contact.  He's alive... "It's the case I'm working on."  The half-lie wouldn't fool Starsky, but Starsky wouldn't push the matter either.  Not yet anyway.

"Yeah?  What is it?"

"Someone's killing wino's on the strip again."

The dark head came up at that, eyes narrowed into slits. "Winos?  Like that case we worked on 'couple years back? You're... not going undercover, are you?"  he asked anxiously.

Hutch squeezed the hand he still gripped; the weak return squeeze provided more comfort than anything else could ever have done.  Alive….

"No, partner, it won't be me going undercover.  You'n me, we're too well-known in that area for me to pull it off.  We borrowed Carter from Vice for the undercover work.  We brought 'em Tommy LaBeck last night and they're returning the favor."

Starsky snorted and dropped his head back to the heavily fluffed pillow.  "LaBeck?  That turkey?  Where 'd you get him?"

"We cornered him in some dive called, believe it or not. The Cosmic Equation."
"Over on McGee Street?"

"That's the one.  We just waltzed in and picked him up." Hutch laughed at the memory of LaBeck dangling from O 'Brian's grip.  "Literally."

"Yeah?  Good."  Starsky relaxed fractionally.  "Can't have you workin' under without proper back-up.  Without me." He shifted slightly in the hospital bed and grimaced as a spasm of pain shot through him.

Hutch bent forward anxiously.  "Starsk?  Hang on, buddy, I’ll get the nurse • "

He made to disengage his hand from the weak grip, but the fingers tightened around his own, giving him pause.

"M 'okay, I said."
"No, you're not, you idiot,"  Hutch said affectionately.  "I can tell you're hurting.  Pretty bad, too, isn't it?  Let me get some help."

But Starsky shook his head, his hold tenacious.  "No, Hutch, I... not yet,  'kay?  I've been drugged up so long... hate it. Just... a little while longer, okay?  Please?"

The pleading voice would have been hard to resist even had Hutch had any resistance left.  He settled back down on the bed, tightening his grip on Starsky's hand.  "All right, but just a while, then I'm getting a nurse, understand?"

Starsky nodded.  Even a few minutes of relatively clear thought were precious of late.  "Tell me about this new case," he begged.

Hutch chatted on several minutes, describing the pertinent facts of his newest assignment.  Maybe it would give Starsky something to think about for a while besides the four hospital walls and drugged lethargy that filled his time here.

"... so Sean and I requested Carter to do a bit of snooping for us; see what he turns up."

"Sean... your new partner."  The words were sad, a little wistful, and Hutch felt the now familiar pain flare up inside him.  Very little chance of him returning to the force... very little chance.... The echoed litany replayed itself with monotonous regularity until Hutch brutally extinguished it.

"O’Brian's a good cop, Starsk."  The blond waited until his friend hesitantly met his eyes.  "But he's not my partner.  You are."  Starsky tried to avert his face; Hutch took a handful of curly dark hair, forcing the man's face back up.  "Do you understand me?"

Starsky met the crystalline gaze for several seconds before closing his eyes.  Hutch's hand released his hair, then rested gently against the soft curls.  "Hey, Starsk?  Easy... easy. I'll get the nurse."

"Wait!"  The pain-filled eyes flew open again, meeting his partner's concerned look squarely.  "Hutch, I... I was talkin' to the doctors today." The blond stiffened, bracing himself.  "He said chances are I'll never qualify for the streets again. "

Hutch's expression froze over, his lips a thin line. "'Chances are' doesn't mean a lot, buddy." "

Hutch, we... have to face facts, man.  I.. don't think--. I'll be able to come back to the department."  He sighed dispiritedly-  "I can't face driving a desk the rest of my life and--."  He gasped on a deep, wrenching pain that was as much emotional as physical,  "...and you need someone who isn't gonna let you down out there."  He turned away as a tear slipped down his cheek and then another, the hand still encased in Hutch's beginning to tremble.

Hutch stared, dismayed.  He'd known — how could he not know? — the thin emotional line Starsky had been walking since the shooting-  But to see his tough, street cop of a partner break down like this, stripped of any barriers and all control was disconcerting to say the least. "Hey, buddy, easy. "

Carefully, ever mindful of the terrible injuries on the slowly healing body, Hutch gathered the other man close, wrapping him in a protective embrace.  "Easy... shh." The dark head settled against his shoulder, blindly seeking comfort and refuge. I’m here, Starsk."

He had said those words to his hurting friend before, offered himself then as now, and felt every bit as helpless then as now.

Starsky swallowed a sob, bringing his free hand — the one not hampered with an IV — up to cling to the front of Hutches shirt.  He hung on with a desperate intensity and Hutch held on to him, murmuring little reassurances into the dark reality. "l’m not going to let you go, Starsk.  I' m here." The two men clung together, riding the tidal wave of emotion — love and support waging battle with pain and hopeless despair. Hutch could feel his friend trembling with the effort at regaining control of himself; could sense his shame for breaking down.  With a jolt the blond realized his own face was wet, but refused to relinquish his hold on the other to wipe away the tears.  They didn't matter anyway. Nothing mattered except the fact that Starsky was hurting.

After a long time the tears slowed, the gasping breath of the injured man barely heard over the low hum of the hospital equipment.  The dark head finally lay quiet against Hutch’s shoulder but neither man made a move to separate; they simply sat, needing the touch, drawing warmth and comfort from each other.

Hutch closed his eyes tightly, laying his cheek against the bowed head.  There were no words left — none needed.  The touch was enough.  He raised one hand and gently stroked the soft curls once, twice.  "You all right?"   He got an unconvincing nod, barely felt against his cheek. The blond drew the other man closer against his chest — friend, partner, brother, firm foundation — supporting him gently.  "Don' t hurt so much,  Starsky,"   he whispered, voice full of emotion.  "I can’t stand to see you hurt anymore."
The hand entangled in the front of Hutch’s shirt gently disengaged, slipping around Hutch’s waist and hugging him with more determination than strength.  "Hutch..."
"Quiet."  Hutch returned the hug, then allowed Starsky to draw away, settling him back against the pillows.
"I'm sorry."

Hutch made a shushing noise and Starsky subsided.  He suffered Hutch to untangle the IV lines, then to wipe his face with a cloth, only then noticing the wet streaks on Hutches own face. 

"Hey..-"  He touched the other's cheek gently, “I’m really sorry, It's just that ....”

Hutch sniffed and swiped at his face with a rueful grin. "No need to apologize, partner.  Guess we’re both a little down today. "

"Yeah."  Starsky heaved a deep sigh.  "It* s just finding out.... Oh, man, I feel so... useless."

"Starsky."  There was a new determination in Hutch’s voice that caused the other man to peer at him curiously.  "Things will work out.  I don’t know how yet,"  he raised a hand forestalling the automatic inquiry on the other's lips, "but it will.  I promise. "

A heartbeat passed before that slow, crooked grin lighted the other's thin face.  "Guess that's good enough for me.  When ol' Ken Hutchinson speaks--"

"People listen!"  they finished together with a laugh. It felt good to laugh.  And it would work out.  Somehow.  Because no matter what happened, they'd still be together.  Down whatever path the future would lead them, they'd walk it together... as partners.


Hutch sagged deeper into the chair across from Dobey's desk with a weary sigh.  Three weeks!  So glad that case was over.

The case was finished — successfully.  Why was there no feeling of satisfaction?  Sure, he and O'Brian had captured the wino murderer, but the elation he usually felt at the successful completion of a case was missing and Hutchinson knew why: Starsky wasn't here to share the success with him.

He sighed.  Seven years ago, who would have thought that having someone at his back could make such a difference in his life?  But difference he had made, and without Starsky there was no sparkle left to this job.  Without mulling the possibilities one more second. Hutch raised his head and began to talk.  "Captain?"
"Hmmm?"  came the distracted reply.  "What is it?"
"I'm resigning. Captain, and so is Starsky •"  This took a finite amount of time to register, while Hutch braced himself for the inevitable explosion.  It never came.

Dobey regarded him with eyes uncharacteristically soft. "I've been expecting this, Ken.   Wondered how long it was going to take you to make up your mind."
The surprise, it seemed, was all on Hutchinson's side. "Captain, how could you have known when I didn't?"
Dobey walked around to perch precariously on the edge of his desk-  From this vantage point, he could stare down into the younger man’s face, could see all too clearly the lines etched into the smooth skin, the weariness which marked his soul even deeper.  "I've told you about Elmo Jackson?"

Hutch scrubbed his face wearily, his fingers rasping on the growth of blond beard along his jaw.  "He was your partner back when you were a street cop.  We put his murderer away two years ago. "

"I told you that much but I didn't really tell you about Elmo, did I?"  Hutch shook his head in the negative and, after a moment, Dobey went on,  "Elmo and I went through the Academy together and managed to get assigned as a team when we made plainclothes.  He was a good man, fine cop.  Honest, brave as they come — too brave, maybe.  You know that old saying, where angels fear to tread?  That was Elmo.  If there was action going down, you could be sure Elmo was right in the middle of it.  I remember once.,.." He broke off, oddly introspective.  Hutch had the impression Dobey wasn't so much as aware of his presence at this point; he was elsewhere, elsewhen, back with his best friend.  Dobey shook himself after a bit, returning to the present and to Hutch.  "Anyway, we worked together a lot of years.  And then he was killed."
Mirror-image pain flickered across dissimilar features, each reliving what had been the worst experience of their lives.  Dobey, with the buffer of time gone by, recovered first, focusing on the younger man's face, brown eyes boring into blue with a strange mixture of empathy and a wistful envy.  "If Elmo had lived, I don't know what we would have done, but I don't think I'd have wanted to risk him on the streets again.  He was my best friend and I loved him.  Losing him was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and if it had been me given a second chance, I know what I would have done with it.

"You were given a second chance. Ken,"  he  went on after a pause, "and I know you're not going to waste it, either." Shared knowledge flashed between the two, leaving a rare, sympathetic resonance singing in the air.  Hutch released a pent-up breath, unaware that he had been holding it, and relaxed a bit into the chair.

The relief of the decision being made and the sympathy from his superior officer was a soothing balm to shattered nerve.  He smiled up at Dobey.  "You do understand then."  It was not a question.  "God, I'm tired."  Hutch rubbed bloodshot eyes before meeting that brown gaze again. "You've heard that the chances are he'll never qualify for street work again?"  Dobey nodded. "There was so much damage, he...."  He licked dry lips, tried again.  "He's going to try to qualify with the Review Board.  You know Starsky."  Dobey did. "Stubborn idiot won't give up until he does.  He'll kill himself trying.  Or we'll end up right back on the streets facing the same stuff over and over."

"I don't think you're going to have to worry about that, Ken.  I saw the medical reports, too."
Hutch shot him a startled look but had to grudgingly concede the point.  The damage to his partner's chest and abdomen was extensive — muscles held together by wire, damage to the heart and lungs.  Prognosis was excellent that he would regain his health, but Starsky would never enjoy either the strength or athletic prowess he d once had.  In short, there was very little chance the man would ever pass a medical board review.  He would be condemned to driving a desk for the rest of his career — anathema to an active street cop, slow death for a man like Starsky.

Hutch refocused with a start, only now becoming aware that Dobey was speaking again.  "Huh?  What did you say. Cap?"

"I asked,"  Dobey repeated patiently, "if you’d made any plans yet?  Have any idea what you're going to do?"

Hutch nodded slowly.  "Oddly enough, I do have an idea. I've got a cousin who lives in a small town called Langston, Oregon. Her husband is the Chief of Police. "

"Langston, where?"

"Langston, Oregon."  Hutch laughed shortly. "It's a small town high up in the Cascades.  Touristry mostly.  You know the kind — hunting during the fall, skiing in the winter, quiet all year 'round."

Dobey gaped.  "What do you plan to do in a place like Langston, Oregon?"

Hutch laughed again, a lighter sound as the weights dropped away one by one.  And they were dropping away — decision made, a plan of action taking form and... Starsky was alive!  All at once the world was almost worth living in again.

"My cousin's husband, Neil, is police chief.  Last time I talked with him, he was looking to expand his department, and he asked if I was interested in a position with him.  Suddenly, I think I am."

He smiled a bright, golden smile, and it was as if a shaft of sunlight had lighted the room from within.  "Don't you see, Cap?  A small town with a low crime rate — you keep a few tourists in line, petty thefts, that sort of thing.  A small town like that won't be so strict with their medical requirements — nothing I can't talk Neil around, anyway.  It'll be a place for Starsky to regain his health — fresh air, trees and grass.  He can even be a cop again."  And be safe.  Safe and alive.

Dobey chuckled indulgently at the other's unbridled enthusiasm, but felt compelled to bring up one small, if important, point.  "You're forgetting one thing. Ken."
"What's that?"
 "Starsky.  What if he doesn't want to move to... uh... Oregon?  Starsky's a city boy — always has been.  You're askin' him to make a pretty big change.  You sure he'll do it?"

"He'll do it."  Hutch spoke with an assurance born of seven years as partner, friend, and brother to David Starsky.  "He'll go because l am.  We're partners."

Once again that wistful envy flickered in Dobey's eyes and was gone.  "Yeah, he'll go."  A beat.  "Well, what are you sitting on your butt for?  You've got some arrangements to make, don't you?"

The sunshine smile lit again.  "Yeah.  Biggest one is figuring out how to tell Starsk he just went country!"

*****


As predicted, Starsky was aghast at the thought of leaving warm, sunny LA for the "God-forsaken, barren boondocks!" "Are you crazy, Hutch?!"  he asked, horrified.  "You want to drag me out into the mountains?"

"You make it sound like a dirty word,"  Hutch admonished mildly.  "The Cascades are beautiful, Starsk.  Mountains, woods, wild game, skiing... tourists."

"Tourists?"  Starsky groaned theatrically, his eastern accent growing thicker.  "You mean I got ‘ta babysit tourists?  Come on. Hutch, I don't know nuthin'  'bout the woods or tourists or--"

"Starsky."  Hutch interrupted what was developing into a rather promising monologue on the evils of small towns in general and Langston, Oregon, in particular.  "I've already talked with Neil.  Once you get your strength back, we'll be able to work around any... uh... restrictions you might have."  He finished lamely, shifting uncomfortably under Starsky's jaundiced eye, which was still boring into him.

That eye softened somewhat at his friend's obvious discomfort.  Romantic soul though he might possess, Starsky had survived on the streets for far too long to be anything but a realist, and he knew the score as well as Hutch did.  "You don't think I'm going to pass the medical board either, do you?"  he asked.

The blond shook his head miserably. "No, buddy,"  he answered just as softly, "I don't."

"They'll put me behind a desk."

"And we won't be partners anymore."  Hutch finished the thought which hung between them.

Starsky nodded and closed his eyes, acutely conscious of his friend's presence.  He heard a rustle as Hutch leaned closer, and opened them again.  "About time for your pill, isn't it?"  the blond asked, glaring at his watch.  "I'll get the nurse."

He made to move off but was brought up short as Starsky's steely fingers left his hand to lock around his wrist. "No... I...."  The grip tightened for a moment, the only outward sign of pain Starsky now permitted to show.  It was suddenly, vitally important that Hutch not leave him, not yet, not until the conversation was done.  "Hutch, wait.  Just a minute, okay?  I-- I want to talk about this without being doped up.  I hate that.  Can't think, can't...."  He realized that he was rambling; even now the drugs were still acting on his system, clouding his thoughts.  He gave a tug on Hutch's wrist, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the hospital bed.

"Hutch, you don't have to do this."  He felt a desire to verbalize this and was grateful that Hutch let him go on even though both were aware that these words were never — had never been-necessary between them.  "You'll be giving up everything.  you have a career here, a... new... partner.  You don’t have to do this. Hutch.  Not for me."

Hutchinson waited patiently until the stumbling if earnest words were out.  "You finished now?"  he asked.  Starsky nodded. "Good.  Now that you have that out of your system you can listen to me."  He leaned forward until he could rest his chin in his palm.  “I’m not doing this for you, Starsk.  Not really.  I'm doing this for me, too — for both of us."

"I don't know, buddy."  Hutch ran one hand through his shaggy blond hair, turning his other hand to recapture Starsky 's fingers.  "I guess I'm just getting old — and tired.  I'm tired of hurting and I'm even more tired of watching you hurt.  I'm tired of fighting the filth and the poison and the never-ending stink of this city.  I'm just... tired."

He raised his head, meeting the sympathy Starsky telegraphed in his eyes.  "I want out, Starsk, and I want you out.  Can't you understand that?"  Hutch tightened his grip as his plea became more impassioned, more desperate.  "We've been given a second chance.  When you... died... I prayed, Starsky.  I prayed to a God I'm not even sure I believe in that if we were given a second chance I... no, we wouldn't waste it.  I don't want to waste it, buddy.

"Besides,"  he tousled Starsky's dark cuts affectionately, “you're my partner whether we're cops or not.  I don't need another one."  Echoed shadows of another declaration made a lifetime ago. I've got a partner.  I don't need another one.  Azure touched sapphire in a celebration of life.  "Give it a try, Starsk,"  Hutch prodded though he must have been fully aware that it was no longer necessary.  "If you really hate it, we'll try something else."

We will... we...  "Guess I don't have much choice,"  Starsky grumbled with mock reluctance.  "Ain't no way I can watch out for you from here."

They both smiled, drinking in the warmth of the moment — of the new beginning.  Then Starsky snapped his fingers in sudden recall.  "Hey, I nearly forgot.  They're gonna let me out’a here tomorrow!"  His eyes shone like a little boy's with a new toy and Hutch grinned in response.

"All right!  What time do you get sprung?"

"High noon, partner,"  Starsky answered in his best John-Wayne-by-way-of-Brooklyn accent.  "And you'd better have a pizza standing by, too, 'cause one more day of this hospital food...."  He made a gauging sound.  "I'm gonna have to stock up if I'm gonna be living in the freaking mountains."

"Starsky, they've got pizza in Oregon, you know."

"They do?"  He brightened with mock surprise.  "Hey, maybe this won't be so bad after all!  They...."

Starsky's new-born enthusiasm was cut short when a very large nurse entered, bearing a tray.  "Time for your pill, Mr. Starsky."

Starsky regarded the woman with obvious distaste.   "l’m fine.  I don’t need it."

The nurse — Mrs. Wiggins according to the name tag pinned to one ample breast — sighed deeply.  "We go through this every four hours,"  she explained to Hutch.  "Okay, you, for the last time, you either take the pill or I call an orderly in here and we'll give you a shot."  She glared.  "Your choice, mister."

Hutch giggled at the expression on his friend's face.  "Go on, Starsk, take the pill.   It won’t be for much longer."

"Yeah, right.  But you just watch out, sister,"  he growled menacingly, "won't be much longer before I can take you."  He eyed the woman dubiously.  "Well, in two out of three, anyway."

"Dream on, buster."  Nurse Wiggins waited until Starsky had swallowed the pill.  "Good boy."  She picked up a chart clipped to the bedpost.  "Hmmm, I see you're getting out of here tomorrow."  Starsky nodded enthusiastically, good humor restored. "Finally.  And if you're ever back in here...."

"Ain't no way, baby.  Hutch 'n me are goin' ta Oregon.  Gonna become mountain men."

Nurse Wiggins drew the sheet up over the bandaged chest, the smallest hint of amusement tugging one stern lip when his eyelids drooped  "Sleepy?  I'm not surprised.  It's way past time for your nap."

"Nap?"  Starsky snorted.  "I'm old enough to decide for myself when I wanna sleep.  'Kin even go to the john by myself."

"Fine."  Nurse Wiggins threw up her hands in exasperation, muttering,  "One more day.  Just one more day."  But she winked conspiratorially at Hutch as she left.

"Hutch?"  faintly, more of an invocation than a question.

The blond stepped near the bed again and patted one shoulder comfortingly.  Then he slipped his hand down the lax arm and picked up his friend's hand, massaging it lightly.  "Right here, buddy."

"Stay?  Please?"  One bleary eye fixed itself appealingly on spot where he estimated Hutch's face should be.

"I'll be here, Starsk." "Promise?" "I promise."

That was enough.  Starsky closed his eyes, satisfied. "Good-  Talk to you later, then."

"Sure, partner." Starsky smiled at him and, within minutes, was fast asleep.

Hutch stood watching his partner a long time after that, his fingers still unconsciously locked around the now slack hand. "Later is a really good word, Starsk,"  he murmured quietly.  "I didn't think we'd have another 'later' ever again."  He laid one hand gently against the soft curls.  "We don't get any more second chances, Starsk, and thanks for not making us waste this one."

Starsky turned slightly, nestling against Hutch's hand trustingly In his sleep.  Tears blurred Hutch's vision, rolling unchecked down his cheeks.  In a sudden, impulsive act. Hutch bowed his head,  "Thank you, God,"  he whispered into the still room.  "And God?  I... believe,"
***

The old Ford wheezed to a halt in front of a trim little two story house nestled amid a stand of pines.  The late summer air was cool and moist this high in the mountains, refreshing after the blistering furnace Los Angeles became this time of year.

Hutch heaved a sigh of relief.  It had been a grueling drive up here — nearly two days cooped up with a convalescent who'd spent his time either bitching about having to leave his own car behind, thanking God Hutch had "seen the light" and sold Belle, his little sports car, or dozing uncomfortably against the armrest.  Hutch took a moment to enjoy the silence of the area, the peace which permeated the pleasant woods.

Home.  The word didn't seem to fit somehow.  Home was the city, concrete instead of wood, the smell of burning fossil fuels rather than the gentle fragrances of moss and flowers. Pleasant but... home?  Maybe not yet, but it would be.  Would have to be. Second chances came once in a lifetime if at all, and this was theirs.

Hutch savored the serenity of the area another moment before turning to look at his partner.  Starsky had fallen into an exhausted slumber nearly two hours ago and hadn't so much as stirred since; he was going to have quite a stiff neck when he awoke.  Hutch gave a long-suffering sigh and gave his friend a shake.  "Come on.  Wake up."

"Hmphgh?"  One eye opened to glare at him blearily.

"We're here, Starsk."

"Hmmm."  Starsky deigned open the other eye and peered around curiously.  "This is... ouch!"  One hand clasped his neck. "Son of a-- That hurts!"  He glared at Hutch as if somehow this was all his fault.

Hutch shrugged sympathetically.  "Maybe Kathy has some aspirin or something."

"Nah, I'm okay."  Starsky dismissed the subject shortly as he'd been dismissing everything else associated with his health of late.  "So this is your cousin's house, huh?"
"Yup."

Starsky turned his head — carefully — the better to examine his surroundings.  "Looks kind'a... barren, don't it?"

"It looks perfect."  Hutch forced his cramped legs from the car and stood tall, stretching his muscles back into some semblance of workable order.  "Peaceful... quiet..."

Starsky followed more slowly, finally succeeding in extricating himself from a car seat determined, it seemed, to swallow him whole.  "Doesn't seem to be anyone around." "Let's find out."  Hutch led the way up onto the porch. Before he'd quite reached it, a whirlwind of arms, legs and hair had streaked through the door and thrown itself into his arms.

"Kenny"  Kathy Conner greeted him warmly.  She was a trim blonde in her mid-thirties, a pleasant looking woman possessed of a pair of large blue eyes and a winning smile.

"Hi, Kathy!"  Hutch returned the hug enthusiastically. Kathy had always been his favorite cousin.  When they were growing up, they had been as close as brother and sister until Kathy’s family had moved to Oregon in the early '70's,  They had kept in touch, however, and Hutch had been present to give the bride away when she’d wed Neil Connor a few years ago.

"Hutch, you look so different!"  She pulled back to study him critically.  "Your hair — it’s  so long.  And that mustache….  My lord, you went hippie on me, didn't you?!" Hutch had to laugh at the familiar joke.  Hippies had always been at the bottom of Kathy 's list of "in" folk.

"Not exactly.  Cop's gotta be inconspicuous when he’s working plainclothes, Kath."

"Plain is right,"  she chided.  Her attention shifted to take in Starsky, who'd been quietly standing behind Hutch, waiting to be noticed.  "You must be Davey."  The megawatt smile flashed on again.  "Kenny's told me all about you."

"Uh, yeah?  Believe me, I' m not half that bad."  Starsky smiled a bit shyly, obviously taken aback by the woman's friendly enthusiasm.  "Gladtameetcha."

"Come on, coffee's on the stove."  Kathy hooked a hand through both men's arm and ushered them into a neat living room done in a comfortable rustic style.  "We've just finished redecorating the place; the previous owners were soooo city."

"How long've you lived here, Kathy?"  Starsky asked politely.

"Only about a year.  We bought this house from some people who couldn't hack the outdoorsie life...."

Starsky sent a smug I-told-you-so glare Hutch's way but mercifully allowed the subject to pass.  For once.

"... so we just snapped it right up.  It's got two bedrooms, two bathrooms — perfect for when we decide to have children." She gestured toward a comfortable, overstuffed sofa.  "Why don't you two sit down and relax while I get the coffee.  Unless you'd prefer something stronger?"

"No, coffee's fine."  Hutch settled onto the sofa with a sigh.  "I can use a little caffeine about now."

"Poor dear."  Kathy was instantly sympathetic.  "It must have been a tiring drive for you both.  Tell you what, you'll stay here tonight and get some rest.  Time enough to get settled in your new house tomorrow.  Unh-uh."  She waved aside the automatic protest,  "I won't take no for an answer.  Besides..." she switched abruptly to cajolery, "...we haven't seen each other in years!  We've a lot to catch up on."

Neither man was in shape to argue.  "Sounds good, Kath.  I am bushed,"  Hutch agreed.

"Good!"  She bounced — that was the only word for it -- after the coffee, leaving the two men alone in the sunlit living room.

"How you doing, buddy?"  Hutch asked the suspiciously quiet Starsky.

"’M  fine-  Well,"  he relented a bit before the skeptical look on Hutches face, "a little tired maybe •"  He lowered himself slowly onto the couch.

"Do you still have those pain pills the doctor gave you?"

Exasperation warred with tolerant affection on Starsky's drawn face before the affection won out.  "l’m fine, Hutch. Really.  Besides, they're packed away somewhere."

"Ill find them later," Hutch promised.  He touched the other uncertainly on the arm.  "Starsk, tell me what you think."

"About?"

Hutch gestured expansively.  "This.  The town, the job — the new life."

The dark-haired man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  "We've talked this all out before we... before you quit the department, dummy."

"Yeah.  Guess I just needed to hear it again."

Starsky turned to face his friend directly.  "There wasn't anything left there for me, Hutch.  No job, nothing.  And with Ma living with Nicky now.... "  He ran a hand through his dark curls.  "There's nothing for me in New York, either.  You're all I got, Hutch.  I'd've moved to the South Pole if I'd had to."

A surge of warmth filled the blond man at such openly expressed unguardedness.  There was no one else in the world that Starsky could let his barriers down with like this and no one else Hutch trusted with his own unshielded spirit.  "Me, too, buddy.  It's going to take some getting used to, though. "

Starsky laughed shortly. "That's for sher."  He gawked openly at a deer head mounted majestically over the fireplace and shuddered.  "A lot of getting used to.  Hey, Hutch, we're not gonna have dead animals on the wall, too, are we?"

"God, I hope not I"

"That 'dead animal' took my husband three days to track." Kathy entered carrying a tray of coffee cups, milk, and sugar. "And he's pretty darn proud of it, too."

"No offense, Mrs. Conner."  Starsky took another look.  "It does look kind of... uh..."

"Morbid?"  Hutch supplied.

"That's not what I was gonna say."  Starsky glared at him.  "I mean, it's... uh..."

Kathy had by this time, dissolved into giggles.  "It's okay, Davey,"  she managed.  "I think it's morbid, too!  And the name's Kathy,"  she admonished, shaking a finger at him. "Karlene, if you want to be formal, but my friends call me Kathy."  She smiled that warm smile again and Starsky visibly relaxed.  She had a lot of Hutch's quick friendliness about her, and a talent for making one feel at ease in her presence.

"Neil's working late tonight,"  Kathy went on.  "Said he had to check out a report that Old Man Lesnick was stealing chickens again. "

"Stealing chickens?"  Starsky and Hutchinson echoed in unison exchanging a look.

"Oh, that's terrific-"  Starsky roiled his eyes theatrically.  "Just think, Hutch, pretty soon we’ll be chasing chicken snatchers, too!"

Hutch laughed despite himself.  "You're a real bastard sometimes, you know that, Starsk?"  He turned back to the woman. "That reminds me, Kath, I heard from Susan Henry and she said to tell you..."

The two cousins chatted on, reliving good times past and exchanging bits of news and gossip on mutual acquaintances during dinner and well into the evening.  Through it all, Starsky sat quietly, joining in with a joke or remark, but generally just absorbing the cheerful atmosphere and relishing the peaceful serenity which radiated from Hutch like sunbeams.

For his part. Hutch was feeling as if a new lease on life had just been handed to him, bound in silk and embossed in gold. This was a good place to bring Starsky — a healing place for them both.  Even the aura of the town was different — cleaner, purer.  I mean, Neil is out chasing a chicken thief, for crissakes! he told himself genially.  He listened to Kathy chat on about the town.

"It isn't always this quiet,"  she was saying.  "The fishermen are usually a tame bunch, but the hunters can be quite boisterous and the skiers come with their own package of aggravations.  Nothing too rough, though,"  she finished.  "Not like what you are probably used to in LA."

"Believe me, Kathy, we're both ready to make a change." Hutch started to say more but caught a glimpse of Starsky out of the corner of his eye.  The darker man was blinking sleepily while at the same time manfully stifling a yawn.  Hutch realized how tired he was himself.  "Man, but I'm tired.  Think it's time I turned in.  What about you, Starsk?"

Starsky nodded gratefully.  "Shower first,"  he said longingly.  "A hot shower."

"You're in luck — you've even got your own bathroom!" Kathy bounced to her feet.  "Come on, I'll show you up.  "Oooh, you're going to love your new house,"  she went on, leading the way upstairs.  "It's got two huge bedrooms and a fireplace and... Ooops, here we are!"  She opened the door on a pleasant little bedroom vaguely reminiscent of an Indian lodge. "Don't you love what Neil did with this room?"

Hutch plastered on a smile.  "It's just great, Kath. Real... homey. "

The woman smiled, pleased.  "Hmmmm.  Well, good night."  She stood on tiptoes to bestow a kiss on Hutch's cheek.  "Good night, Davey,"  she waved across the room.  "Bathroom's through there. If you need anything else, just call."  Then she was gone to leave the two men to stand gazing sheepishly at each other.

"Wow!"  Starsky whistled appreciatively.  "That's one lady I'd hate to have to keep up with."

"Quite a handful,"  Hutch agreed.  "Why don't you go ahead and shower?  I think I’ll wait until morning."

"Kay."  He disappeared into the bathroom and soon the sound of running water and an extremely off-key version of Figaro drifted through the closed door.

Hutch undressed wearily while Starsky was bathing, and sat down on one of the beds.  He really was tired, but it was a more relaxed, unstressed tired than he’d felt in months.  Tomorrow they'd start to set the new house in order.  It was only a temporary arrangement.  He might love Starsky like a brother, but living with him for too long was out of the question.  They had different tastes and lifestyles and would drive each other quite mad post haste.

For now, though, sharing a house would help them both adjust to the move.  It would also. Hutch was honest enough to admit — but only to himself — allow him to indulge in a little overprotective coddling of his partner until Starsky’s health had returned a bit.  His musings were interrupted by a soft knock.

"Ken?"  Neil Conner poked his head around the door, grinning, then came all the way in when he saw Hutch still awake. "Hey, Ken!"

"Neil!"  Hutch returned the warm handshake with great pleasure.  "You're even bigger than the last time I saw you, you old bull moose!"

Conner laughed and patted his stomach with a flourish. "It's Kathy's cooking. Ken, my boy!  Good wife'll do it every time. "

Towering over Hutch's own 6'1" and tipping the scales at 230, Conner was an impressive looking man, handsome in a rugged outdoors way.  He'd been Chief of Police of Langston for nearly ten years now.  As warm and friendly as his wife, he was a well-liked and popular official who carried the support of the entire town.

Neil had taken to Hutch immediately and had urged him repeatedly to leave the fast — if short — life of the LAPD, and join him in keeping Langston a safe, friendly place to live and work.  Hutch had thought the offer over often — every time the stresses of LA got to be too much, in fact — but had never seriously considered accepting it until late.  Conner had been sympathetic when Hutch had first approached him on the matter of the shooting.

"Sure, I can still use you up here, Kenny,"  he had agreed readily.  "You know Kathy and me've been wanting you to move up here for some time now."

"Neil, what about Starsky?  He's the reason I want to get out of here in the first place."  Hutch had held his breath anxiously.

"Tell you what, Kenny,"  Conner had replied after some thought, "Blake Gordon — you remember him? — he's retiring in about six months.  Then I'll be needing another man anyway.  You said it was going to take awhile for your partner to recover, right?  He can help out Blake for awhile, then ease his way back into normal duty.  That is, if you're sure he can?"

"He can."  Hutch had closed his eyes, overwhelmed by sheer relief.  "Thanks, Neil.  You don’t know how much I appreciate it."

"Don’t thank me, buddy boy.   Glad to have you." That had settled it all and here they were, two and a half months later, with the Langston Police Department.

"Kathy told me you d come up to bed,"  Neil was saying, "but I wanted to say hi.  Have a hard trip in?"

Hutch drew a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in little spikes.  "A long trip.  Glad it’s over."  He paused, unaccustomedly diffident.  "Listen, Neil, I just wanted to thank you again for setting this up.  I owe you for this, man."

Conner waved away the gratitude.  "I told you not to thank me, pal.  Getting two famous LA hotshots on my squad is quite a feather in my cap, anyway."

Hutch squinted.  "Two...?  What are you talking about?"

Conner laughed lightly at his confusion.  "You boys are pretty well known, especially after single-handedly taking out an institution like Gunther Industries."  Hutch frowned at the reference and Conner moved quickly to apologize.  "Hey, I' m sorry if I touched a sore spot, Kenny.  All I'm saying is that I didn't have to take any flak from the town council over this."

Hutch nodded absently, but before he could speak the door to the bathroom flew open and Starsky came out, a towel draped around his waist.

"Hutch, I can’t find my...."  He faltered, then trailed off before the expression on Conner's face.  Conner's eyes were wide with shock, his gaze locked firmly on the bullet scars scattered across the smaller man's torso.

"Oh, my...."  Conner gulped once, then tore his gaze forcefully away from the scarred chest.  "I'm sorry...I... never realized...."

"S'okay.  They have that effect on people."  Starsky self-consciously drew on a robe, clutching it closed in such an oddly defensive gesture that Hutch took an involuntary step in his direction.

Realizing at last how he must have looked, Conner rushed to apologize.  "Oh, man. I'm sorry.  Kenny ll tell you I'm not usually such a rude s.o.b."  He stuck out a hand.  "Neil Conner. "

"Dave Starsky."  Starsky accepted the gesture and found his hand engulfed in a grip only a little smaller than a polar bear’s paw.

"Good to meet you, Dave.  Hey, sorry about the reaction. I haven't seen holes like that since 'Nam."

"Sometimes they bring the war to you,"  Hutch commented soberly, then pointedly changed the subject.  "Kathy said you were checking out a theft tonight?"

"A theft?"  Conner looked blank, then burst into a loud chuckle.  "You mean Old Man Lesnick?  He's been stealing chickens from the Diamond family for almost twenty-five years. The Diamonds always report it, I always check it out, and Old Man
Lesnick always eats the evidence before I get there."  Ail three laughed at that.  Conner's eyes sparkled mischievously.  "At least now I’ll have two assistants to handle the more... ‘interesting’ little chores like that."

"Oh, god,"  Starsky groaned out loud.   "I can see it on my resume.  Last big case solved?  Caught chicken snatcher egg handed."  He snickered.  "Get it?  Egg..."

He barely ducked the pillow Hutch tossed.  "And I can see it on my resume,"  the blond retorted.  "Last case solved?  Murder of David Starsky."

"So Johnny Carson I'm not."  Starsky grinned, all self-consciousness gone.  "So tell me. Chief, when do we start chasing chicken snatchers?"

"Not for awhile, actually."  Conner turned serious. “I plan to keep you both assigned to the town for awhile — at least until you've learned to handle yourself in the woods.  We work closely with the Forestry Service,"  he explained. "Sometimes it’s  necessary to mount rescue missions for lost hunters or skiers.  And there's been a couple of times we’ve had to organize a manhunt for criminals trying to hide out back in the backwoods.  Sometimes all you can do is root’em out, weed by weed. "

This pleasant homily did nothing to salve Starsky *s obvious unease.  "Back in the woods, eh?"  he croaked nervously.  "With the bears and snakes and...."

Conner guff awed outright at that.  "Don’tt you worry too much about them. Kid.  Just remember that they're as scared of you as you are of them."

"Don’t count on it,"  Starsky muttered darkly.  "Skiers, hub?"  he brightened.  "I haven't skied in a couple of years.  We get to patrol the slopes?"  He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and described curves vaguely reminiscent of an exceptionally well endowed ski bunny.

"Well now, I never said there weren't no 'fringe benefits* to the job, did I?"  Conner wiggled his own eyebrows making Hutch begin to feel as if he were in a particularly bad Groucho Marx movie.  He sighed.  Loudly.
"What’s’a matter, boy, don’t like snow bunnies?" Hutch ignored his partner's bad accent and turned back to Conner.  "Listen, Neil, when do we start?  Kathy said she had a house for us and….."

Conner held up a hand.  "No rush, Kenny.  How about Monday? That'll give you three days to get settled."
"Fine."

"What about me?"  Starsky asked, the faintest hint of worry in his voice.  "I know your man isn’t retiring for six months but...."

"Tell you what,"  Neil began after a pause during which he was obviously recalling the scars, "you come in the end of the month and start acquainting yourself with the office, jail, paperwork, that sort of thing.  I figure by the time Blake
retires, you should be ready to take over without any training overlaps "
 
"Okaaay!"  Starsky cheered, pleased.  Back to work at last!

"Better let you two hot shots get a little shut-eye."  The big man rose and stretched.  "Bit tired myself tonight.  Old Man Lesnick led me quite a chase this time."  He bade them good night, leaving the two men alone once again.

Starsky stood, plucking at the front of his robe pensively. "Well?"  Hutch asked after a moment. You gonna tell me what’s on your mind?"

"Nothing  much."  Starsky pulled his robe tighter. "It was just the way he looked at me.  I wasn't sure he was going to let me on the Force at all for a minute there."

"But he did."

"Yeah."  He reached across the bed to lay a hand warmly along Hutch's arm.  "I think it really is gonna be all right, don't you?"

Hutch looked up into the face of his friend, and a sense of peace and contentment wrapped itself around two weary and battered men.  "I think so, too.  I wasn't sure at first, though."

"Me, neither,"  Starsky answered unnecessarily.  "But, Hutch..."  He settled onto the side of the bed still maintaining a grip on Hutch's shoulder.  "It's starting to feel right again/  Really right.  I think I might even learn to like it here."

Hutch smiled, his contentment increasing exponentially. "Me, too.  I think chasing 'chicken snatchers' instead of junkies might make for a nice change."

"Don't forget the snow bunnies."  Starsky leered.

"Fringe benefits!"

"All riiightl"

"As soon as you're back in shape,"  Hutch added piously, fluffing his pillows.

Starsky, who was busy routing in his suitcase, looked up suspiciously.  "In shape?"

"Can't have you hurting yourself chasing chicken snatchers and snow bunnies."

They both laughed and knew — really knew — that Langston was a good place — a healing pace — where two damaged souls could recuperate and start to live again. 

Genesis.

***

A chill wind stirred his hair, flapping the jacket around his body.  He tugged it tighter, closing it across his chest, and peered around into the dark.  Where was he?  No moon, no light, no point of reference to orient himself by.  Just a lonely road cloaked in a Stygian blanket.  He didn't find it strange to be walking this isolated path in the middle of the night, he only knew that he was expected... somewhere.  Somewhere ahead.

He walked faster, then broke into a loping run as a sensation of purest dread grasped his heart and squeezed.  Fear— no, terror — such as he'd never known before lent wings to his feet-  Faster.  Faster!  But the road only stretched longer, his goal farther and farther away.

What was he afraid of?  What was pushing him to his limits and beyond?  Why...? ("I'm pushing the odds, Starsk.") Starsky!  That was it!  Starsky needed him.  He was in mortal danger, perhaps dying, and he was counting on Hutch for help — to protect him.

"Hang on, buddy. I'm coming,"  Hutch panted, fighting a stitch in his side.  "Please, God, please let me be in time." In the distance a high-pieced, wavering scream shattered the night, raising the hackles on the back on his neck.  Oh, God, Starsk!

The scream died away to a low, animal moan, and then the silence fell again more terrible than before.  The road — endless.  A despairing cry escaped his parched lips and was lost to the night.

Wait, was that...?  Yes, a light!  Amorphous, restless — close.  He was there — Starsky was there.  Close.

The road narrowed, leading him through a stone archway, moss-covered, crumbling.  There was a plaque against one supporting curve, a name carved into the stone.  He couldn't make it out.  It was worn nearly smooth by the wind and weather of uncounted ages.  He turned away uncaring.  It didn't matter anyway.

A sound off to his left brought him around into a crouch, hand reaching automatically for the gun which was not there.  He listened intently for the sound to repeat itself, but the utter stillness of the place was unbroken.  "Starsk?"  he called low, quietly, tensed for action.  But there was nothing save that same unnerving silence.

Cautiously, ever cautiously, he moved into the direction of that first sound, a great golden cat stalking prey.  There was danger here — every instinct screamed its warning, but they were all disregarded.  Danger there might be, but Starsky was there, too, and he was all that was important now.

Wait... A twig snapped... There!  Just beyond that ring of stones... that ring of... graves...

Graves?  Is that where he was?  A cemetery?

The circle of headstones had expanded, hedging him in on all sides, choking in their proximity.  Trapped.  He was... No!  He couldn't stay here.  His friend was out there, hurt, dying, needing help.

"Starsky!"

The echoed cry was carried off on a wind pounding at him now at a hurricane force.  He hunched his shoulders — no escape from the stones.  No help for his friend.  No....

The faintest whisper of sound reached him over the harsh roar of the wind.  A small, inarticulate whisper.  Casting his eyes about in all directions, he finally noticed the huddled
shadow against one side of the circle.  He could make out the slender form of a man gleaming dully in the moonlight. (Moonlight?  But there was no moonlight before.) Huddled on its side, the head resting crookedly against the nearest headstone (Familiar. So familiar.) and lying in a pool of….

"No."  A guttural croak.  "No, please, no." Then he was on his knees, his pants soaking up the blood. The figure, so still — deathly still — hung limp when he pulled it up into his arms, remained limp when his trembling fingers checked pulse, heartbeat, breathing.... Nothing.

"No!"  He shouted denial into the heavens, screamed heartache and grief to the uncaring moon.

"No!  I lost him... again.  Oh, God, I lost him again!" Tears, hot and acrid, welled over, falling down cheeks gone numb.  He bugged his friend close, crying openly into the dark hair and pouring out thirty-five years worth of anguish and loss and sorrow.

A long time later the tears ceased, well-springs emptied.  A numbness descended like a warm cocoon, drawing light, gentle bands around his mind, shutting off pain, soothing away hurt.

Starsky would have to be... taken care of.  Buried.  And Hutch’s heart would lie in the cold earth beside him until his body mingled with that of his friend in the dust.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Hutch raised his head, then levered one arm under the other's knees prepared to life a weight which was suddenly far too insubstantial to have ever housed the living, breathing spirit of David Starsky.

He braced himself — and froze. The eyes were open — and looking at him. "Starsky?"

Blue lips curved upward into a ghostly parody of a smile which had once been golden sunshine.  "Huuutch."  A sibilant hiss.

"Starsk, I... I don't understand.  I thought you were..."

"Dead?"  The voice was a little stronger, becoming almost conversational.  "I am dead, buddy.  Dead and about-to-be-buried."

A knot appeared in the pit of Hutch's stomach, his lips frozen numb.  "N-no.  You're not..."
"'Course I am."  The glazed eyes continued to stare at him, unblinking.  "You killed me, remember?"

"No... I... I wouldn't..."  His mind reeled, insanity only a hairsbreadth away.  "I...."

Starsky sat up, cold fingers reaching for his face.  "You must remember. Hutch.  I needed you and you killed me.  It's your fault I'm dead."

Hutch noticed abstractedly that the lips remained locked in that grim rictus, not moving even when speaking.  The eyes, black holes in a grey-white face, remained on his.  Sanity slipped again,  "I'm sorry... I wouldn't hurt you... I love you..  I'm sorry... I’m sorry... I'm..."

A shadow was bending over him, shaking his shoulder frantically, calling his name in a frightened tone.  The shadow — it was after Starsky!

 Training took over then.  Without a word. Hutch buried himself from the bed, knocking the intruder to the flour.  The shadow made a whooshing noise as the air was forced from its lungs — then clawed helplessly at the steely fingers slowly choking the life away.

 "Hutch?!" 

The shadow's voice was familiar.  The same sibilant hiss he'd heard from....

"Starsky?"

With an effort. Hutch pried his fingers from the other man's neck and reached up to snap on the beside lamp.  In the harsh glare he found himself sitting astride Starsky, who was blinking owlishly up at him while drawing in great gulps of air.

 "Whazzamattawhidya?"  he gasped painfully, massaging his throat.  "You tryin' ta kill me or sumptin'?"  His anger faltered before the undisguised fear written across the ashen face above him.  "Hutch?"

 "Starsky?"  An unbelieving, untrusting plea offered to the dreamscape.  A shaking hand descended, touching Starsky's unshaven cheek gently before the night exploded and reality dawned.  "Oh, God, Starsk."

 Hutch scrambled off Starsky 'd body, then extended a hand to pull his friend up.  "I'm sorry.... God, I could have.... Are you all right?"  The words emerged in a rush, tumbling over themselves in an effort to escape.

 Starsky raised a hand to stem the flow.  "Whoa!  I'm fine. Really."  He grimaced slightly coming to his knees, but deliberately restrained himself from reaching for his chest. Hutch, however, was fooled not one bit. "You are hurt.  Easy, buddy, I—"

 "Hey I  am  fine."  Starsky turned on his most convincing, heartwarming smile.  "No harm done.  You just startled me, that's all."  He sobered.  "Bad one, eh?"

The blond sank down onto the edge of the bed and lowered his face into his hands.  "You don't know."

"No, but I can guess."

 Hutch looked up into the sympathetic eyes and concluded that maybe Starsky could guess; he'd probably had his share of nightmares since the shooting.  Besides, it'd be pretty hard not to be able to guess after this little incident.

 They had shared Starsky's house for almost two months after Starsky had been released from the hospital, but generally the dark-haired man had rested in a drug-induced slumber night after night; thus, he was unaware of the ghosts his partner entertained whenever he closed his eyes.  Until now.

Sharp eyes scrutinized Hutch with new found knowledge, connecting isolated pieces of data into a collective whole.  "I knew..."  He cleared his throat.  "I knew you were tired. Hutch, all the time-  But I didn't know..,."  He stumbled,  "This is every night, isn't it?"

The guilty look in the other man's eyes was answer enough, Anger flared,  "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Hutchinson drew a shaky hand across his face.  He sensed rather than saw Starsky pull himself up to sit next to him on the bed, felt a warm hand on his shoulder transmitting a calming strength which eventually soothed away the shaking and the terror.

Long moments later he raised his head,  "Are you sure I didn't hurt you, Starsk?"

Starsky blinked,  "Of course not, dummy.  And you didn't answer my question.  This has been going on a long time, hasn't it?"

The blond head nodded reluctantly.  "Every night... I think."

"You think?"

"I don't always remember."  He dropped his head into his palms, massaging his aching temples furiously.  "Sometimes I wake up and everything is gone like smoke.  Other times I open my eyes and I can see it all so clearly."

Starsky's hand tightened, as much support as comfort.  "What do you dream about?"

Hutch raised his head to regard his friend steadily for a moment.  "You.  The shooting.  Your... death.  Each night is different — unique... I... think.  But each night you die because I'm not there for you.  Or because I... failed you somehow. "

"That's stupid."  Starsky shook him gently.  "You never failed me.  Not ever."

Hutch chuckled sourly.  "My head might know that, buddy, but tell that to my gut."

Silence fell again during which the only sound was the baying of a dog, distant and mournful.  It was Starsky who spoke next, his voice sympathetic.  "Did you tell that police psychiatrist about them?"

Hutch nodded.  "Dr. Marsden?  I told her."

"What did she say?"

A shrug.  "Usual crap.  Delayed stress syndrome caused by the tensions of our living on the edge for so long, triggered by the trauma of watching you get shot down."

"Oh."  Starsky digested this for a minute.  "Did she say when they would stop?"

"Yeah."

"Well?"

A hesitant pause during which the blond ceased massaging his temples and fixed the far wall with a frown.  "She... uh... said they would probably stop when...."

"What?"  Starsky prompted.

Another pause.  "When I finally realize that I'm not going to lose you again."  He sank his head back into the concealing
cover of his hands, only a slight quiver betraying the incredible strain in his body.

Starsky sighed, his gentle tones conveying a curious combination of affection and dismay.  "Hey, I'm sorry.”

Hutch raised his head again.  "Sorry?”

The dark head bobbed.  "I didn't mean to put you through all this.  If I' had been faster in that parking lot, Gunther’s mechanics would have never got me, and you wouldn't be going through all this now."

It was Hutch's turn to stare.  "Starsk, I never thought you intended to get shot."

Cool street wisdom glittering in hard eyes, Starsky shook his head.  "I didn't mean it that way.  I only meant that what happened was due to a lack in my own training -- my own responsibility... and Gunther's."  Impulsively, he threw his arms around Hutch, pulling him into a hug.  "And I won't die on you now, either.  I promise."

Laughing, Hutch returned the hug.  "You promise, do you? Then I guess I'll have to promise you the same thing.  It's about time we both backed off a bit from the edge, anyway.  Let's face it, neither one of us is as young as we used to be,"

Starsky pulled his own thirty-five-year-old body out of his partner's embrace in mock indignation.  "Whadda'ya mean by that, pop?  I'll have you know one of us is doing just fine."

"Yeah?"  Hutch yawned dramatically, then politely excused himself.  "Maybe so, but the other of us is worn out, so get your juvenile delinquent ass back to you own bed and let me get some sleep.  I've got a feeling tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day."
***

Hutch spent the next two months working closely with the other two plainclothes detectives on the Langston police force.  Jake Summerall and Lou Cranmer were about as mismatched a pair as Hutch had ever seen.  Jake was a rough-hewn, ebony-skinned hulk, who wore a perpetually sullen expression disguising not at all a perpetually sullen personality.  Closed-mouthed to the point of taciturnity, he was known throughout the county for being quick to settle an argument with his fists, and for caring about no one and nothing but himself, his country and his job — In that order.   Personally, Hutch considered him a bully and itched to take him down, but restrained himself.  He was going to have to work with this man for a long time to come.

Summerall’s partner was as much unlike him as two men could be.   Lou Cranmer was a short man, slender to the point of emaciation but tough as whipcord when need be.  As garrulous as Summerall was reticent, he filled the air with nonstop chatter consisting of stories, anecdotes, words of wisdom and once, to Hutches unbridled amusement, an endless array of bird calls designed to send any self-respecting ornithologist into hysterics.

He was the perfect counterpoint for the somber Summerall. They also seemed to be the only two people in Langston who could put up with each other for more than ten minutes at a time.

"Talk about the original odd couple,"  Hutch had privately commented to Starsky after being introduced to them.

"Odd couple, maybe.  But are they good cops?"  Leave it to Starsky to cut right to the root of the matter. Hutch could only shrug.

That question had remained unanswered for several weeks until one bright morning when Hutch had accompanied them on an unusual call.

Roger Banyon was a local recluse, widely rumored to have hidden a stash of money and jewels somewhere on the isolated property he and his family had inhabited for almost four generations.  No one ever visited the house — Banyon was a self-professed misanthrope who was given to shooting at trespassers with an old shotgun loaded with a half-pound of rock salt.  No one who had ever confronted that formidable deterrent went back for seconds.  Most people just didn't go at all.

Today, however, was to be an exception to that common practice.  A young boy from a neighboring farm had been taking a short cut across one corner of the Banyon property — very discreetly indeed — when he had heard what he took to be screaming coming from the direction of the house.  Not being fool enough to investigate for himself, he’d returned home and informed his mother.  She had immediately telephoned the police.

"I don’t know why I’m going through all this trouble at all, mind you,"  she pointed out for what seemed like the dozenth time.  "But being a God fearing woman, I just felt it my duty to notify the proper authorities.  I mean it is my Christian duty, don't you think?  Even if it is an old bas-- er, I mean heathen like Roger Banyon"

"Yes, ma'am."  Hutch cut her off smoothly as she drew breath for another chorus of 'good citizen.’  "We'll take care of it. Thank you for calling."  He dropped the phone back into its cradle even as the outraged sputtering began.  "Whew!  Neil?  Report of a disturbance at the home of Roger Banyon. Neighbor boy heard screams coming from inside the house."

"Oh, no."  Neil cursed with real feeling.  "That' old reprobate sits up there just waiting for someone to cross his property line so he can use that shotgun of his.  Caught me once when I was twelve."  At Hutch's raised eyebrow, he chuckled reminiscently.  "Just rock salt, but darned if I didn't eat standing up for weeks."

He raised his voice.  "Jake!  Lou!  I want you to go with Kenny out to the Banyon farm.  Neighbor reported a disturbance."

"The Banyon farm?!"  Cranmer squeaked, horrified.  "For the luv'a Pete, Neil!  You know what that guy is like."

"We don't need him along."  Summerall jerked a thumb Hutch's way.  "Lou and I can handle it without the city boy."

"You'll ail go, Jake
Conner's voice was mild enough but there was an element of steel in it that even Summerall reacted to.   "If you're going all the way out to Banyon's I want you to have adequate back-up going in.  There won't be much I can do for you after the fact.

Summerall sniffed loudly, eloquently describing his opinion of the kind of "back up" Hutch was going to be.

Hutch recognized the implied insult for what it was and reached for his jacket with a wry smile.  "Don't worry, Jake," he said, double-checking his Magnum, "I'll try not to slow you down too much."

An angry glare was the only reply to that, and a sullen pall reigned all the way to the dirt road turnoff heading to the Banyon estate.  Cranmer broke the unusually long — for him — silence.  "Pull over here, Jake,"  he directed.  "We'll go the rest of the way in on foot.  No sense advertising our presence until we have to."

It was only another quarter mile to the rambling old house, which was set in a clearing bounded by a running stream on one side and a neatly tended garden on the other.  Cleared land surrounded the house on all four sides.  The only approach that offered even minimum concealment was a roundabout route by the north corner of the field.  There, a couple of sheds and some rusting farm equipment could conceivably serve as cover.

The three men moved by unspoken agreement from shadow to shadow, each keeping on eye on the house and the other on the progress of his fellows.  Hutch watched his companions measuringly; they handled themselves well enough.  Trained if unpracticed.  The tense lines of his jaw relaxed fractionally even as his eyes began to glow.

Hutch, who was in the lead, reached the house and flattened himself against one paint-peeled wall.  While he waited for the others to finish traversing the yard, he took the opportunity to move near the window listening intently.

"Hear anything?"  Cranmer's tight whisper came from the vicinity of his shoulder.

"No."  Hutch stretched up on his toes to risk a cautious peek in the window.  "Nothing.  Lou, you and I'll take the front. Jake — cover that back door.  Count of twenty."

Summerall's muddy eyes narrowed stubbornly, his lips parted as though for a refusal.  Then he nodded once and moved off, his feet making little crunching noises in the dirt.

Hutch crossed the wide porch and flattened himself to the right of the door.  Cranmer mirrored his actions on the left.  On the count of twenty. Hutch rapped loudly with the barrel of his Magnum.  "Mr. Banyon?  This is the police.  Open up." He cocked his head, listening once again, then exchanged a swift look with Cranmer at the faint scuffling barely heard from inside.  The blond held up three fingers and counted again quietly.


"One … two….” On three he gave the door a tremendous kick, shattering the lock and throwing it wide.  Almost simultaneously, Lou Cranmer dived into the room, gun at ready. Cautiously, both men quartered the wide living room, covering each other until they'd reached the kitchen, and Cranmer had admitted Jake.

"Let's start with--"  Hutch’s muted whisper was interrupted by a low groan coming from the direction of what appeared to be a study off to their left.  Warily, expecting an ambush, the three moved down the short hall to the study door.  An unspoken command, a sudden rush and three men aiming three large guns controlled the study.  The room's only inhabitant, however, provided very little threat indeed.

"Mr. Banyon?"  Cranmer turned the battered and bloody figure over gently, laying a hand along the throat.  "I got a pulse. He's in pretty bad shape though.  He--"

Again that faint scuffling sound, this time from the room directly overhead.

"Stay with him, Lou."  Hutch gestured towards the stairs with his gun.  "Come on, Jake.  Let's go hunting." Summerall grinned wolfishly and took the point, the stairs creaking ominously under his not-inconsiderable weight.  A quick calculation brought both men to the wide-open door of an exceptionally sparsely furnished bedroom.  The bed was without linen, and only an old highboy standing against the wall told of this room's ever having been inhabited.  It did, however, boast one tightly-closed closet door.

Crossing the hard wood floor, Summerall pressed himself against the wall to the right of the door.  Hutch took up a firing position across the room and gave an all-ready sign. Jake nodded shortly, then tapped -- quite politely -- on the door.  "Police," he bellowed.  "Come on out."

No answer.  Hutch smiled grimly.  "Stand back, Jake.  I think I'll put a few rounds through the door.  Leave my signature, so to speak."

The words were barely out of his mouth before muffled shouts rang out.  "No!  Wait!" "Don't shoot!" Two distinct voices. "We're comin' out!"

"Make sure your hands are in the clear,"  Hutch commanded curtly.

Very slowly, the closet door opened and two frightened looking men emerged.  They wore fatigue jackets, fishing caps and held their hands very high indeed.  "We're comin' out.  Don't shoot,"

Summerall glanced inside the closet swiftly before slamming both men against the wall.  "You alone?"  A nod.  "Good.  Assume the position, you mothers, or I'll tear your heads off."

The men obeyed, ail the while babbling some far-fetched story of hidden money and treasures,  "The old fart should've told us where he hid the loot,"  one sobbed.  "We only wanted the money."

Jake cuffed them to the bed, then he and Hutch searched the rest of the house for good measure before herding the men downstairs to the study.

"You got 'cm.  Good,"  Cranmer nodded approvingly,  "I’m afraid Mr. Banyon here is going to need an ambulance."

"Right.  Lou, you and Jake stay with Banyon and the Bobbsey Twins.  Ill go get the car and call for an ambulance."  Hutch turned to leave, but the older man halted him mid-step.  "Hey, Blondie?"  At Hutch’s inquiring look, Lou smiled warmly.  "Me'n Jake weren't so sure about you before.  'Big heroes.' 'LA hotshots.'  That's all we kept hearing.  We was expecting a couple 'a hot dogs.  But ya done good, kid.  Real good." Hutch returned the smile, his face warming at the older man's praise.  "Thanks, Lou.  I have to admit that I wasn't too sure about you, either."

And he was gone, his step lighter than before.  Backup he could count on.  One more worry out of the way.  Yep, things were starting to work out pretty good here in the friendly little town of Langston, Oregon.
***

When he wasn't on patrol or dealing with the inevitable paperwork which was the bane of every policeman's existence, Hutch assigned himself as Starsky's chief trainer, therapist and general mother hen.  The police department had access to a gymnasium early mornings and, it was there that he dragged a grumbling, protesting, half-asleep Starsky every day, putting him through a slowly increasing discipline of exercise specially designed by a doctor to build up his physical endurance safely.

Isometrics were becoming easier for the man — the tone in his arms and legs was excellent and his stomach was flat and hard.  There were several muscles, however, which had sustained too much damage from the bullets to take a great deal of strain. His upper body strength, in both chest and back muscles, was severely limited, causing severe pain whenever he pushed the limits imposed on him.  This he found out the hard way. "Okay, Starsk, next is the routine on the nautilus."

Starsky groaned, wiping sweat from his forehead.  "Some routine.  All I do in yank on a couple 'a pulleys with a few pounds on each one.  A ten-year-old could do that."

"Maybe one could, Starsk,"  Hutch returned reasonably, "but the ten-year-old wouldn't have taken three slugs to the chest either. "

Starsky shot him a dirty look.  "I'm bored," he replied crossly.  "And this is taking too long.  I'll never get back on the Force at this rate."  He peered around the gym.  "Hey, look! Somebody put up the rings!  I used to work out on them in high school!"

Hutch regarded them dubiously.  "I don't think you should try it, Starsk.  That's going to put a strain on...."

"Strain-schmain,"  the other interrupted impatiently,  "l’m fine."

 Before Hutch could stop him, he had taken two running steps and a jump, grasped the rings and hauled himself up.   "See... that's..."  With an agonized gasp he dropped like a stone, to lie limp at Hutch's feet.

 "Had to be a smart ass, didn't you?"  Hutch admonished. "Never listen, do you?"  He went to one knee and helped the stricken man to sit up.  "Bet that hurts, huh?"

A stream of invective that would have done a marine proud was the only reply to that.  He broke off moments later with another gasp.  "Oh, my God."

 "It hurts,"  Hutch nodded wisely.  Deftly he probed the already stiffening muscles, ignoring the winces and howls this elicited.  "I don't think anything's torn, but you really should be checked over by a doctor.  Come on, I'll take you over to see Dr. Sullivan.  He should be open pretty soon.  Think you can make it?"

Starsky nodded miserably and endured the well-earned chastisement all the way across town.  The muscles had not been torn, only badly strained, but he'd learned his lesson and never again tried to rush the pace of his training schedule.  It made for a healthier — if grumpier — Starsky all the way around.

Conner ran his police department far less formally than did Los Angeles.  With fewer than twenty men to coordinate, he could afford to be less rigid in structure and schedule.  This allowed him to juggle work arrangements so that each man could be used to his fullest potential.  Conner exercised this prerogative in assigning Hutch a wide variety of tasks, from answering reports of theft and disturbance to walking a beat when Neil needed a fill in.

At such times, Starsky would hunt his friend up and join him on the routine patrols, waiting patiently while Hutch checked out security at the various establishments around town, his own eyes missing nothing.  Then they would walk together through the darkened streets, ever vigilant for trouble.  Sometimes they would talk softly, but more often they would go for long stretches saying nothing, content in each other's company and comfortable with the opportunity to guard each other again.

Though this violated regulations, Conner made no objection to this routine; he gave his newest men their heads in this, allowing them the freedom to work matters out between them, reweaving old patterns and ties, and formulating new ones more conducive to their work in this alien environment.  A shrewd man, Conner knew he couldn't go wrong by allowing these men the latitude they needed.  After all, he was starting with the two best cops on the LAPD.  Let them adjust a bit and he'd match his new acquisitions against any police team in the country.

About a month after Hutch had officially joined the Langston Police Department, Starsky began to show up as well, busying himself around the office, familiarizing himself with the files and generally making himself out a useful commodity.  Hutch had to laugh at this change in his partner from a man who swore he hated paperwork only a little less than the lowest form of vermin, to the helpful, dedicated perfectionist, typing and sorting with all the diligence of Perry Mason’s own Delia Street.  Hutch found this no end amusing.

"Hey, Starsk,"  he'd called one morning after an exceptionally large stack of files had neatly disappeared into a cabinet.  "Would you like to take a little shorthand, too?"  He patted his knee while making little kissy noises.

Starsky flushed and uttered something profane, causing two uniformed patrolmen lounging nearby to burst out laughing.

"He shore do look real purty bendin' over them files, don't he?"  one drawled, looking Starsky up and down.  "Wonder if he has good legs, too?"

"Stuff it, Murphy,"  Starsky growled good-naturedly.  "And you, partner, if you intend for any of those reports you're working so hard on to ever see the light of day again…."

"Okay, okay,"  Hutch held up a placating hand,  "Man, but you’re so touchy these days!"

Starsky slammed the file drawer shut, rattling the baskets stacked neatly on top.  "I'm bored... as usual. If I don't get back on the street soon...."

"I know how you feel."  The other uniform, Schmidt, nodded sympathetically.  "Broke my leg a couple years ago and had to ride a desk for four months.  Went out 'a my mind."

Hutch ruffled his friend's hair playfully.  "Hang on, ya old fire horse.  The time's coming."

So Starsky hung on.  Under Hutch's tutelage he exercised and walked — then ran, his health and strength gradually returning in good measure.  Even Hutch benefited from working out with him, dropping the extra weight he'd been carrying and regaining the trim physique he'd always been so proud of.

Finally the day arrived for which Starsky had waited seemingly a lifetime.

"All right, David, I'm through.  You can put your shirt back on."

Starsky waited, but Dr. Jack Sullivan, a handsome, silver-haired gentleman in his early 50's, remained impervious to the air of expectant tension in the room and simply continued to scribble in a scuffed old notebook.

"Well?"  Starsky prodded, patience wearing out.

Sullivan's pen crossed one more "t" before he looked up, frowning.  "Hmmm?  'Well' what?"

In an unconvincing show of nonchalance, Starsky slipped his shirt across his shoulders before asking the question that just contemplating caused his heart to beat a rapid tattoo.  "How am I?"

Sullivan's brow cleared.  "How are you?  Oh, you mean did I qualify you for active duty yet?"

"Yes,"  Starsky gritted through clenched teeth, "did you qualify me for active duty yet?"

Sullivan chuckled, fully enjoying his moment.  "Well, as a matter of fact..."
"Doc!"
"Yes."
"Y-yes?"
"Yes."

"YES!"  Eyes shining, Starsky grabbed the older man, enthusiastically dancing him around the room.  "Wha-HOO!" Releasing the doctor to collapse into a conveniently placed chair, Starsky bounded from the room, buttoning his shirt as he went.  "I love ya. Doc!"  he called over his shoulder, leaving the stunned man still gaping at him from the corner.

Starsky literally ran — full out, arms pumping, feet slapping ran — the three blocks to the police station.  He skidded to a halt just inside the door and peered around wildly, panting from the exertion. "HUTCH!"

Hutchinson dashed from Conner's office, eyes wide with alarm. "Starsky!  What happened?"  Four strides brought him across the room before Starsky even had opportunity to draw a breath.  He grasped the shorter man by the shoulders, giving him a shake. "What’s wrong?"

Whatever Hutch must have expected, it certainly wasn't for Starsky to throw himself into his arms in a wild hug.  "I made it!"

"You made what?"

"Whadda ya mean 'what'?"  Starsky’s smile widened to include the several other officers gazing curiously at the strange — to say the least — tableau.  "The doc cleared me.  I’m a street cop again! "

It took a moment for this to sink in, then the room exploded into spontaneous cheers and backslapping.  Hutch grabbed his friend in a huge bear hug, lifting him clear off the floor.  "You made it!"

Starsky returned the hug enthusiastically, then pulled back, face flushed and eyes aglow, to lock gazes with the joy-filled ones of his friend.  "You mean we made it,"  he whispered for Hutch's ears alone.  "We."  We ...we... we...

Heart singing. Hutch raised his voice to the office, but included the entire world.  "Yo, everybody, party tonight at Mario's.  Drinks are on me."

"Whoa."  Starsky raised his own voice even louder.  "Drinks are on his partner.  You're going to have to get used to the fact that, after all this time, the 'Dynamic Duet' rides again!"

***

Langston, Oregon had started life over a century ago as a bustling mining town nestled amid the breathtaking panorama of the Cascades.  After the mines dried up, most of the town's populace had moved on to other towns, other mines, but several hardy pioneers, enchanted by the sheer majesty of their surroundings, had chosen to stay on and carve a civilized niche in the wilderness.

Up until twenty years ago, Langston had been a quaint, quiet little place.  Most of the townspeople had worked either in Boyd's Sawmill, located just outside of town, or ran the little stores and shops dotting the main thoroughfare.  Everyone knew everyone else.  It was peaceful, serene and practically crime free.

Then Ben Cage arrived.  Cage was a developer with a sharp eye for real estate — not as it was, but as it would be with a little long-range effort and a lot of money sunk into it.  Cage had looked at quiet little Langston in the future tense, and envisioned vacation homes, ski slopes and multi-million dollar acreage ripe for the plucking.


Twenty years later Cage's effort and money had been rewarded a thousand times over.  The slopes of Mt. Carahdras were ideal for skiing; the new lodge catered to the tastes of skiers and nonskiers alike.  Bars, pubs, and nightclubs sprang up seemingly overnight, and only vigorous and immediate zoning legislation had prevented Langston from resembling downtown Las Vegas in very short order.

Control was still possible, however, because Langston had not yet been "discovered" by the mainstream tourists.  The people who trekked here year after year for the fishing, hunting and skiing tended, for the most part, to be the same ones come back repeatedly.  Their ranks were swelling slowly, though, and one day Langston would take its place among such legends and Tahoe and Sun Valley.  Not yet though.  There was a long way to go before that happened.

Although it was customary procedure for the uniformed officers to handle routine patrols and for the detectives to be assigned the actual investigative work, there were often assignments involving patrol work for the detectives as well.

Both Starsky and Hutchinson relished the chance, as it gave them the opportunity to get to know the town on a deeper, more intimate level, much as they had their beat in Los Angeles. Conner agreed, and even thought it a good idea to increase responsibilities in that direction for Summerall and Cranmer, who appreciated the gesture not at all.

"I worked fifteen years in San Fran to get out of uniform," Summerall had complained bitterly.  "How long did it take these kids?  Three years?  Four?  And here I am right back where I started, gold shield or no."

Patrols took them to all sections of the town, from the expensive chateaux clinging precariously to the side of the mountains to the shabby bars and shacks servicing the town's poorer populace in the section commonly known as "the Bowery." Here, the saloons usually consisted of dirty, unpainted interiors housing the trouble-makers and misfits that seemed to inhabit every town no matter how small.  Rough lumberjacks mingled with those who made their living by less-than-honorable methods in these small establishments, all able to purchase liquor, sex and even drugs under one convenient roof. Occasionally the tourists would "slum" here, innocent lambs to the slaughter.  They usually left quickly, poorer if wiser.  And, of course, there was the ski resort itself.  Not a large concern, but comfortable and prosperous.

These extremes made up the new "beat" for Detective Sergeants David M. Starsky and Kenneth C. Hutchinson.  Smaller, but perhaps not quite as different a beat as they had expected.

Working as partners again took a great deal of re-adjustment for the two detectives.  At first there was an unusual shyness and even a lack of confidence in themselves, although not in each other.  Slowly, that same old empathy began to re-establish
itself, and the trust, which had never wavered, blossomed forth, and instead of two separate individuals, the team of Starsky and Hutchinson was a unit — whole once again.

For Hutch, who had been paired with several of the other officers both in Langston and before, in L.A., it was as if a part of himself which had been lost was back, leaving him complete,  Starsky confided a similar feeling.

"When I was sitting there knowing you were out on the streets with some stranger, someone you didn't know and couldn't trust, it was as if part of me was stuck out there too.  Kind of naked, you know?"

"Do I ever,"  Hutch agreed with feeling,  "It’s not as if Neil doesn't have some good men working for him, but...."

"Me 'n thee, hub?"  Starsky asked, eyes shining.

"You got it, partner."

In a growing tourist town, there was rarely a dearth of cases for the detectives to work on.  Everything from muggings and domestic disputes to cats up a tree; they handled them all with the same dedication and intensity which had made them the best team the L.A.P.D. had ever had.

Conner broached the subject with them one evening after dinner.  "I hear you boys busted Jerry Stevens this morning. What was he doing, getting loud with his wife again?"

"Drunk and disorderly,"  Starsky answered him.  "Took a swing at some guy named... um...."  He cocked an inquiring eye at his partner.
"Ed Frieberg,"  Hutch replied, sugaring his coffee.
Starsky nodded.  "Frieberg.  Right.  The victim wants to press charges. "
Conner groaned.  "Again?"   The bigger man leaned forward, idly shifting some files spread across the coffee table.  "Those two go at it tooth and nail an average of twice a week.  Jerry always picks a fight and Ed has him arrested.  No big deal."
"No, it's not, is it?"  Starsky murmured, introspective.

Conner caught the same look mirrored on Hutch's face and groaned softly to himself.  "Oh, boy,"  he sighed.  "Dave, Ken." He waited until he had their attention returned from the not-so-long ago days when these two were breaking cases most cops— himself included — only dreamed about getting.

"I got your evaluations in this morning from the L.A.P.D. and from those qualifying trials you went through last week."  He flipped open a folder.  "As of now, you're the two best shots on the L.C.P.D.  Matter of fact, you beat out last year's 'winner' by a good five percent."
"Oh, yeah?"  Starsky asked, interested.   "Who was that?"
"Me."
"Ooops."  Starsky shrugged sheepishly.  "Sorry."

Conner grinned lopsidedly.  "Don't worry about it, kid. There's still next year."  He returned to the file.  "It says you two have been partners for seven years... joined the Academy at the same time.  That where you met?"

"Yeah."  Hutch set his cup carefully on the coffee table, then rose and stretched, catlike.  "Ran into this fuzzy-headed idiot in the gym one morning before classes.  He was going a couple of rounds with the bag.  It was really pathetic."  Hutch shook his head pityingly, ignoring his partner's offended yelp. "After a while I offered to show him a couple of moves.  Taught him everything he knows."

Starsky, who had been listening in wide-eyed indignation, sputtered a bit at this last.  "You taught who?!"  He sneered. "You tell a pretty good fairy tale, partner, but you don’t really expect--?"

"Tut, tut."  Hutch held up a hand.  "No sense denying it, Starsk.  Without me, you'd've never made it through hand-to-hand."

 "I'll  mano-a-mano  you!"
With  a  graceful  pounce,  Starsky snagged his partner in a headlock and began to slowly force him to the floor.

"Wanna play rough, eh?"  Hutch grunted.

He dropped limply, throwing Starsky momentarily off balance. Before he had time to recover, Hutch had slipped one arm around his waist and twisted, while simultaneously sweeping his partner's feet out from under him.  Starsky hit the floor, lightly rolling back to his feet in one smooth movement and readying for another attack.

"I got five bucks on the cutie with the curls!"  Kathy Connor stepped daintily between them and deposited a fresh pot of coffee on the table before turning back to the combatants.  "Oh, do go on with what you were doing."

"Sorry, Kath,"  Hutch apologized.  "Got to keep a tighter leash on my partner, here."

"You know what they say about paybacks, partner."  Starsky brushed a curl back from his eyes.  "Five bucks, hub?"  He shot Hutch a smug look.  "You see, even Kathy knows I could take you out any day."

"Oh, yes.  Besides, I always bet on the underdog."  Kathy smiled sweetly as Hutch burst out laughing.  "I'll get some cake to wash down that coffee."  She disappeared back into the kitchen.

Conner went back to his file, reading silently for some while.  The other two waited uncomfortably for him to finish. Conner finally looked up, studying them one by one with unfeigned respect.  "I have to admit.  I'm impressed."  He tapped the folder with one finger.  "According to this, you two heroes had more felony arrests on your record before you were thirty than most cops get in their entire careers."

Hutch, fair skin flushed, shrugged deprecatingly.  "Had a talent for stepping into situations, Neil."

"And tearing the guts outta them,"  Starsky added with a grin.
"I'll say."  Conner caught the triumphant look which passed between the two men.  "Felt good, didn't it?"

"I'll say,"  Starsky echoed, including him in his smile.

"And then there was Langston." The grins faded, replaced by puzzled frowns.

"What are you talking about, Neil?"  Hutch asked, lowering himself into the arm chair.

"Look, fellas, I'm going be blunt about this."  Conner leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees.  "This evaluation makes you two look like a combination of Superman, Sam Spade and Wonder Woman all rolled into one."

"Wonder Woman?"  Starsky mouthed to Hutch.  Hutch ignored him.

"Let’s face it,” Neil went on,  "you two have spent the last seven — eight years of your lives handling cases that most of us country boys only read about in the newspapers. I can even count the number of times I've had to pull my piece.  Almost never been shot at — not since 'Nam, anyway."

"Sounds pretty good to us right about now. Chief,"  Hutch commented softly, looking at his partner.

"Yeah.  A good deal."  Conner shifted, sitting back against the cushions.  "No danger, no big busts, no.... Well, you get the idea."

"I’m not sure I do,"  Hutch said.  "What are you getting at?"

Conner studied them again before answering.  "You two lived a fast, exciting life back in L.A.  You pushed hard and you came through with the heavy collars.  Lot of prestige to go with it, wasn't there?"
"We weren't in it for the prestige."  Starsky paced before the fireplace, then turned to Conner, eyes sharp and angry.  "We worked hard to keep the scum out of our beat.  We put away those who deserved it.  We were needed there." "And you don't think you are here?"

The anger drained away and Starsky dropped his eyes. "It's not that we're not needed, Neil,"  Hutch spoke up.  "We just need to... adjust.  It's different here."

Conner jerked his head toward the folder in his lap.  "Do you know what your psychological profiles say?"
Hutch blinked at the seeming non sequitur.  "What?" "Psychological profile." 
Neil removed a sheet of paper from the folder.  "This report is signed by Dr. Elsa Marsden, police psychiatrist, L.A.P.D.  Know her?"
Starsky grimaced.  "You know we do.  What about it?"
Conner held the paper up.  "Says here that.... Well, let me hit the highlights here.  Ambitious... completely dedicated to their beliefs and their jobs... mavericks, no respect for rank... totally independent, except...."
"Except?"  Hutch prodded.

Conner paused, again referring to the sheet.  "Except when it comes to each other.  Then it's a whole different ball game." He made a little throw-away motion with his left hand.  "Anyway, the point I’m making is that I'm wondering if you two are going to be able to adjust to this kind of life.  We don’t get many major busts, and there's very little excitement."

"What about that deal out at the... where was it?... the Banyon place?"  Starsky asked, affecting a casual pose with one elbow on the mantle.  "I'd call that 'exciting,’ wouldn't you?"

Conner laughed softly.  "What do you think, that's an everyday thing?"

"Summerall and Cranmer handled themselves well enough," Hutch pointed out.  "Didn't seem like their first time."

"No, not the first time, but there haven't been all that many."  The big man replaced the papers into the file and closed it firmly.  "They're good cops, Kenny, but think back — you'll remember it was you who called the shots in that situation." Hutch faltered before the other's steady gaze. Conner plowed on, not waiting for a reply.  "I heard it all from Lou.  He said he and Jake moved in well enough — they were both in the Army, you know — but that you.... How did Lou put it? ... • It was as if you were in your element.  He said you seemed to be almost enjoying yourself."

"It's not... that, exactly,"  Hutch replied slowly.  "It's a rush, sure.  The adrenaline, the... danger.  But enjoy it?  No.  I can't say I enjoy risking my life."  He caught Starsky's eye and the look which passed between them flashed bright.  "I sure don't enjoy risking my partner's."

Conner settled back, indefinably satisfied with the answer. "Fair enough.  But you're used to that 'rush,' as you put it. Are you going to be able to give that up?  Settle down into routine peacekeeping?  As I said, Langston's pretty mundane."

"And boring.  Yes, I know.  But we've got to try, Neil." Hutch sighed, a ghost of the weldschmerz that had plagued him in L.A. touching his face.  "The 'prestige' and 'excitement' got to be a little costly for my tastes."

"My, such somber faces!"  Kathy re-entered the room, carrying a tray laden with dessert.  "What happened to the happy smiles I left just five minutes ago?"

"They followed you around, Kathy,"  Starsky bowed gallantly, "and returned with you."

"Oh, Lord, it's shovel time,"  Kathy groaned, then smiled. "But, boy, do I ever love it!  Dig in, boys — tomorrow we diet, tonight we party!"
***

Patrol in Langston consisted of a variety of tasks.  As in any town, there were the usual domestic disputes, disturbances and generally minor infractions of the law.  Most involved either the tourists in town for the expressed purpose of "having a good time," or the habitual troublemakers of the Bowery, with whom the police were often on a first name basis.

Starsky and Hutchinson regularly pulled patrol duty on the weekends, particularly now as the hunting season brought in the roughest of the transient crowd.  There was the usual assortment of drunk and disorderly arrests now spiced with the added stimulant of having to deal with a group that was nearly 100 percent armed to the teeth.  At least, when they entered town they were.
All hunters were required to check their guns with the L.C.P.D. upon crossing the city limits, but this law was difficult to enforce with total certainty.  Especially here on the outskirts, trunks and back seats often concealed heavy rifles loaded for large game.  Thus, extra caution was displayed when making arrests, and even routine traffic stops rated additional back-up whenever possible.  But on the whole, it was the same men who flocked to Langston County year after year.  Some of these men, however, Langston could have done without.

"Looks like a washout here,"  Starsky grumbled, climbing wearily back into the car.  It had been a long day.  "Unless we can shake Brighton's alibi, we aren't going to be able to pin this burglary on him."

"That wife of his is pretty convincing,"  Hutch agreed. "But if we can--"

"Sierra-Bravo, Sierra-Bravo, come in please."

Hutch picked up the microphone attached to his dash. "Sierra-Bravo.  What is it, Emily?"

Emily Church's dulcet tones caressed both men even through the imperfect medium of the police radio.  No matter how often they were heard, they never failed to give either man a very warm rush.  The warm contralto seemed to almost physically reach out and stroke — a more beautiful voice neither man had ever heard. Odd that it should belong to a grey-haired, over-weight grandmother of five, who always looked as if she'd slept in her clothes.

"Trouble coming your way, Hutch.  Green Chevy, license plate MLU-375, headed south on Route 27.  Got two cowboys in there taking potshots at bystanders, and you boys are closest.  Subjects are armed, approach with extreme caution.  Backup is en route, ETA ten minutes."

"Sierra-Bravo, we are responding."  Hutch clapped the mars light to the roof of the Ford and hit the siren.

Starsky shoved it into a tight U-turn, headed at top speed down the dirt road they'd been following to reach Brighton's little shack.  Route 27 was two miles farther on, a two-lane highway which cut a torturous path through the mountains before merging with busy Route 5 some thirty miles away.  Route 27 was miraculously clear of traffic.  Starsky braked to a halt at the edge of the road.  "Which way d'ya think they are?"

"That way."  Hutch pointed towards town.  "They couldn't have made it this far since we got the--"

The sound of an approaching car cut him short.  Starsky pulled out onto the highway, effectively blocking the road. "Here we go."

Then they saw it -- an older model green Chevy bearing down on them at high speed.  Both detectives dove from the Ford, Hutch praying loudly that the drunken driver would stop before ramming his car.  His prayer was answered -- barely.  With a screech of tires, the Chevy skidded to a halt mere inches from the battered Ford.

Hutch breathed a sigh of relief before racing to the passenger's side. Magnum drawn.  "Get out of the car with your hands up," he commanded tersely.

The Chevy contained two hunters, obviously having lifted more than their fair share of brew, but not so intoxicated as to want to risk spooking two grim men carrying guns.  They obeyed slowly, hands in the clear.

"This way-"  Hutch threw open the passenger door, stepping back several feet   Starsky covered the men from the driver's side while they exited, then rounded the car to join his partner.

"Come on, come on … Morrie."  Starsky read the name emblazoned on the filthy cap.  "You know the routine. "  He yanked Morrie, a bearded bruiser weighing in at least 240 in his stocking feet, around roughly and shoved him across the hood of the car.  He holstered his Beretta, giving the man a rapid, thorough search.  "This one's clean." Hutch nodded, watchful eyes never leaving the prisoners.

"Hey, now, you ain't got nuthin’ on us,"  Morrie blustered, alcoholic courage adding volume to his already too-loud voice • "And you ain't takin' me in, neither."

He turned unexpectedly and swung at Starsky, using his backhand as a club.  The smaller man nimbly stepped back out of the way and slipped into a defensive kata ready for the next blow.

It never came.  Quick as a flash. Hutch had holstered his weapon and closed the distance between them.  "No," he muttered, almost a plea.

As Morrie turned to face this new opponent. Hutch swung into action.  A quick right to the stomach doubled the big man up; Hutch brought his knee up and his clasped fists down, catching Morrie's face and neck simultaneously.  Morrie dropped like the proverbial rock.

Starsky hesitated, stunned into immobility by his partner's actions.  He unfroze when he noticed the smaller prisoner trying to slip away from the battling duo.  The man broke suddenly, heading for the woods at a respectable clip.  He didn't make it twenty yards.

"Uh-uhn-UH!"  Starsky snagged the man by the collar, yanking him around and to the ground by the simple expedient of sweeping his feet from under him.  Within seconds the man had been cuffed, searched and hauled back to the car.

Meanwhile, Hutch finished cuffing his own prisoner, then dragged him roughly to his feet.  Seconds later a black-and-white screeched to a halt and two men leaped out.  Hutch shoved Morrie towards one of the uniformed men, who expertly fielded him into the patrol car; his partner took the other prisoner from Starsky.

"Schmidt, Murphy, take care of these two, will you?"  Hutch asked, brushing back a strand of blond hair.  "These are the two Buffalo Bills who tried to shoot up the town."

"Come on, pal, watch your head."  The smaller prisoner joined Morrie in the back seat, cursing loudly and in at least two languages.  Murphy shook his head and turned back to Hutch. "Got quite a mouth on him, don't he?"  he remarked with something approaching admiration.  "I used to know this Marine recruiter who could cuss like that.  She was a pretty little thing, too."  He chuckled.  "We're heading in anyway; we'll book 'cm for you and you can finish the paperwork when you come in."

"Thanks, Murph.  We'll be in later to file the report."  Hutch waited until the patrol car had disappeared around a bend before turning to his partner-  "We still ought to see Mrs..."  He trailed off at the expression on his friend's face.  "What is it, Starsky?"
The expression — Anger?  Surprise? — faded into a neutral mask.  "Nothing.  Let’s go see Mrs. Brighton long as we're out here."  He climbed into the driver's seat of the Ford and refused to say another word on the subject the rest of the afternoon.

***