Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 23 March 2003

Alone - Part 1

Day 1 - Jan 12, 1979 - Disappearance

"Starsky!"

The dark-haired man sighed, looked around the room again quickly as if what was missing would suddenly appear, then hauled himself to his feet and moved. Opening the door behind him, he stuck his head in, strove for nonchalance, and said, "You wanted to see me, Cap?"

"Get in here, Starsky, and shut the door," the big man ordered.

Starsky complied and when Dobey waved at a chair, he settled into it.

"Where's that partner of yours? Did I give him a personal day and forget to write it down?"

Starsky shrugged, aiming for unconcerned but just coming across as nervous. "Must have, Cap," he replied, hoisting one leg up to rest it on his knee. "I, uh, haven't heard from him today."

Dobey cocked his head. "You covering for him, Starsky?"

Starsky shook his head, then slowly began to nod. "Maybe a little, at first." He glanced at his watch. "But, Cap, it's nearly three in the afternoon. You know Hutch isn't going to just disappear for a whole day without calling, or something."

The older man nodded, then busied himself with papers on his desk. After a few moments, he looked up, surprised to see his detective still seated. "Well? What are you waiting for? Go find him and get his sorry ass to work."

Hutch woke slowly. He'd been drugged -- he could feel the lingering aftereffects. He opened his eyes carefully, wincing at the harsh light from the overheads. His head hurt, he felt slightly nauseous, and his mouth was dry. He lay on a small iron bunk, a thin mattress the only thing between him and the solid bottom of the low bunk. He had been stripped while he was unconscious and now he lay on the cold plastic of the mattress and shivered. Grimacing at the effort, he swung his feet over the side and pulled himself up to sit.

It was a small room, maybe ten by eight. It was slightly deeper than it was wide and as Hutch studied each wall in turn, he noted their identical lack of anything to differentiate one from the other. Smooth, white tile covered each, and only the fourth was different. A metal door stood lone sentry there, the gun-metal gray the only contrast to the unending white of the room. White walls, white floor, white ceiling, white lights. Even the bed was white enamel and the plastic mattress was white, as well.

What was lacking? No pillow, no sheets or blankets. And it was chilly, Hutch noted, as he shivered again and looked at goose bumps on his arms. No windows. No toilet facilities, no sink or other water source. No door handle on the door -- it obviously only opened from the outside.

The ceiling was high, at least twelve feet. Even standing on the bed, he'd never be able to reach it, and the lights were recessed, untouchable behind a clear screen of some kind. He moved to the door and tested it, just to be sure, but of course, it didn't move.

With nothing else to examine, he returned to the bed and studied it. It stood in the corner of the room, head and one side hugging the walls. It was maybe 18 inches off the floor and was bolted down, the pieces welded together. That fact killed any possibility of dismantling it and finding usable parts. He couldn't even turn it on end and use it to climb to the ceiling. The bunk itself was only about five feet long, far too short for his rangy frame. When he'd awoken, he'd been curled on his side, but sleeping fully stretched out would be impossible on it. He knelt and looked beneath it. Tucked neatly against the corner underneath was a bedpan. Hutch wrinkled his nose as he caught sight of it, but lay down on the floor and pulled it within easier reach.

His examination of the place complete, he turned and sat on the bed, frowning. With no immediate way to get out, he turned his thoughts to how he'd gotten here in the first place. He'd gotten up that morning -- or at least he thought it was that morning. He really didn't have any way of knowing how long he'd been here. But he didn't feel unusually hungry and other than a dry mouth, he didn't seem particularly dehydrated. His bladder was making itself known, but he decided to delay that for a while, in the hopes that there might be an option other than the bedpan.

So -- he'd gotten up that morning and gone for a run. Nothing unusual there. He'd come home, eaten a light breakfast, then gone to brush his teeth, and ... Hutch frowned again. That was all he remembered. He'd eaten breakfast, brushed his teeth, and that was all. After that? Nada. Zip. Zilch. There just wasn't anything else there.

Until he woke up. Who knows how many hours? days? later.

So here he was, in his quiet, white cell, with absolutely no idea of where he was, how he got here, or maybe most importantly, why he was here. Maybe it was time to tackle that one.

He stood and moved to the center of the room, then called, "Hello? I'm awake, and I think you should know, you've got a Bay City cop here. Who are you, and what do you want?"

There was only silence.

"I'm not someone who can just disappear. They'll be looking for me. I'm sure the search is already on. It's not very smart, kidnapping a cop."

Still silence.

"Is anyone there?" he tried again. "Can you hear me?"

When there was still no answer, no response, Hutch went and sat on the bunk. "Hello?" he called again, not nearly as loudly or as forcefully, and again there was no reply.

And as the silence continued, he began to feel the first inklings of fear.

Starsky pulled up outside his apartment for the third time. It was nearly 8:30 and only just beginning to get dark now, due to daylight savings time. He'd been hunting for Hutch for almost six hours. First he'd gone over to Hutch's. The beat-up LTD had been parked out front but there'd been no answer to his knock. He'd used his key and let himself in, but there had been no sign of Hutch. His coffeepot had still been on, the coffee a dark mass of mud-like consistency after brewing all day. The remains of a hasty breakfast had still sat on the table, and Hutch's gun had been in his holster which hung in the closet. None of it was a good sign. He'd called Dobey immediately and they'd put out an alert for the blond, but then Starsky had continued his search, just in case.

He'd gone to his own place next, but Hutch hadn't been there and a quick look around had made it apparent he hadn't been by. He'd checked in with Huggy, just in case, then he'd started hitting the places he knew Hutch liked -- the park, the marina, the beach.

Still no sign of his partner.

Another trip to Hutch's house, this time to wait for the forensics team to come and take the place apart. The breakfast leftovers were bagged and tagged and taken downtown for analysis. The juice glass with its dregs of OJ got the same treatment, as did the coffee and the canister the grounds had come from. They dusted the place for prints and did a door to door to see if anyone had seen anything out of the ordinary, but no one had anything to report.

It was as if Hutch had simply vanished.

Starsky had gone back by his place, then made his rounds a second time -- park, marina, beach. A stop by The Pits had only yielded a concerned Huggy who encouraged Starsky to at least eat while he was there, and so with sandwich in hand, he'd taken off again for his place, and again, come up empty.

One more trip to Hutch's, one more pass through the park. Another run by the marina, a solitary walk on the beach, and here he was, pulling up outside his own apartment as the late summer sun sank slowly below the horizon. If there'd been any doubt this morning, it was gone now.

Hutch was officially missing.

Day 3 - Jan 15, 1979

He was cold. Not freezing to death, teeth chattering, shivering cold, but just -- not warm. Not comfortable. He felt awkward with his nudity, convinced he was being observed though repeated searches of his small room had revealed nothing that even vaguely resembled a camera. Still, that nagging feeling of being watched persisted. And what he wouldn't have given for a pair of pants or even a sheet to wrap up in.

He'd tried to stay awake -- had no idea how long he had lasted until he gave in. It was more boredom than exhaustion that defeated him. There was nothing to do, no one to talk to, nothing to read or think about. No windows to look out, not even a spot of color to break up the monotony of the white walls, white floor and white ceiling. He'd tried talking to the door, talking to the ceiling, anything to get a response but his every word rang hollow in the small room and was met by silence in answer.

He'd lost all track of time.

Somewhere between when he'd first awakened and when he'd finally lost his battle with sleep, he'd lost another battle and been forced to use the bedpan. Too far to the floor to stand and aim with any accuracy, he'd been forced to kneel awkwardly and that had made him even more self-conscious of his situation. It had been all he could do to relax enough to pee. He didn't want to think about what he'd have to do when he had to have a bowel movement.

His helplessness over his situation had infuriated him. It had been all he could do not to pick up the metal pan and hurl it at the wall, but since this was his living area for the time being, he had refrained himself.

He'd ranted at the walls and ceiling after that until his voice grew hoarse, and his thirst became uncomfortable. It had made no difference. There was no response, whether he asked quiet, polite questions or whether he screamed liked a lunatic. It didn't matter if he sat quietly on the bunk or beat the walls with his fists. If he was unmoving, no one paid him any attention, and if he paced frantically around the small, confined space, the result was the same.

He'd fought through the first vestiges of sleepiness, forcing himself to move until he got his second wind. He'd walked uncounted numbers of circuits of the room, run his hands over every inch of wall and floor and door he could reach. He'd minutely examined each leg of the bunk, each rail that supported the mattress. And when, finally, with nothing else he could think to do, and still no response to his repeated pleas for answers, he'd plopped onto the mattress and curled up, trying to generate a little heat to ease the cold that had seeped into his bones. The last thing he remembered thinking, as he lay with his arms wrapped around himself, was that Starsky would have been going nuts by then.

Now he was awake again, any hope of maintaining a sense of time passing was shot as he realized he had no idea how long he'd slept. There was a Styrofoam bowl on the floor filled with oatmeal and a bottle of water. The bedpan had been emptied. Other than that, everything was exactly the same.

He reached out and lifted the bowl -- the oatmeal was still warm and he ate the tasteless gruel greedily, mindless of the lack of utensils. Once done, he licked his fingers and sighed. Opening the water, he drank, savoring the slick slide of liquid down his parched throat. Both the food and the water were gone too quickly.

He amused himself for a while by tearing the bowl into little pieces. It was a game to see how many small pieces he could make, and he counted them over and over again just to have something to do. Bored at last with that, he lifted the bottle and its lid and spent a long time just screwing the lid on and off, counting how many turns it took to tighten it just right, watching the way the bottle changed size minutely, depending on how tight the lid was.

He would periodically get up and circle the room, speaking to the walls and asking his perpetual questions, "Who are you? Why am I here? What do you want? Why won't you speak to me?" but the lack of response was becoming familiar by now.

He grew tired again, and this time he didn't fight it. At least the time passed when he was asleep. He lay down on the bunk, curling up as best he could and again, his last thought was of his partner.

'Find me soon, Starsk, find me soon.'

Starsky's head was drooping and he jerked himself erect. Around him, the squad room teamed with people, all working on finding his missing partner. Unfortunately, while there were plenty of people, there was very little work because it was as if Hutch had vanished into thin air. There was no clue as to what had happened to the big blond.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly, then glanced over at the sounds of the swinging doors opening. Huggy was marching in, looking like a man on a mission. He had a cardboard box in one hand and a drink in the other. He moved straight for Starsky and plopped the box and the drink onto the desk.

"You eat," he ordered, folding his arms over his chest. "I know you. Bet you haven't eaten since Hutch disappeared. Now -- that's a roast beef sandwich. You like that. So, you eat."

"How can I eat when I don't know what's happening to Hutch?" Starsky protested.

"How can you not eat?" Huggy countered. "How you gonna find him if you fall over in a faint? You think about that?"

Starsky's stomach rumbled and he looked down, abashed. He picked up the sandwich and unwrapped it, then took a bite. "Thanks, Hug," he said around the food in his mouth. "Just feel guilty, that's all. Don't know if Hutch is eating ..." He dropped the sandwich back into the box and slammed his fist on the desk. "Don't know what the hell is going on with Hutch!"

"No, you don't," Huggy said soothingly, picking up the sandwich and pressing it back into Starsky's hands. "And you're never going to find out if you're in the hospital from exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition. So," the slight man took a deep breath, "you eat, and drink, then I'm taking you home and you're going to sleep." At Starsky's sound of protest, Huggy shook one finger before his face. "Nuh-uh-uh -- you will sleep."

Starsky looked up to see Dobey looming over his desk as well. "Listen to the man, Starsky. You can go with Huggy, get a few hours sleep, and come back. Or I can put you out for a mandatory 24 hour period. It's your choice."

Starsky took another bite of the sandwich, washing it down with several long gulps from his drink. "Four hours," he said softly, his eyes never leaving Huggy's. "You promise to wake me in four hours, or I'm not leaving." He jerked his glance to Dobey and added, "And nothing you can say will make me."

The two dark men exchanged a look and Dobey nodded slightly. "Four hours it is, my man," Huggy agreed, and when Starsky rose and headed out, he followed him.

Day 8 - Jan 20, 1979

Hutch rolled over and looked at the floor. Sure enough, the expected oatmeal and water was there and he slid off the mattress to squat before his meal. Eating didn't take long, and even though the oatmeal was cold this time, he forced himself to finish it. It was all he got. It was all he ever got. He drank the water a bit more slowly, taking the bottle with him as he walked a circuit of the room. Why he thought it would change, he didn't know, but he couldn't stop the need to check for anything new. When he had finished his water, and confirmed for himself that there was still no way out, he went to the door.

He pounded on it several times, then called, "Hey! Is a-a-anyone there?" He waited, hating himself for the frisson of anticipation that rose without his consent, and which was soon crushed when his cry went unanswered.

He went to his corner latrine and used the bedpan, no longer self-conscious of the awkwardness. It was clean, as it always was when he awoke, just as there was usually water and oatmeal waiting for him after he'd slept.

Shivering in the cool air -- still not cool enough to make him cold, but never warm enough to be comfortable, he went back to the bed and sat. Inching backwards, he leaned against the wall, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Dropping his head to breathe warm air into the small cavity he'd created over his chest, he let himself get lost in thoughts of summer days outside in the bright sunshine. Days when he was warm and happy. He dreamed of pizza and steak and fresh green salads -- so fresh the lettuce crackled when you bit into it. He dreamed of his guitar and music and singing with friends. And he dreamed of Starsky -- and the day when his partner would find him.

"It's been a week, Cap," Starsky said in frustration. He wore the same clothes he'd worn two days ago, which coincided with the last time Dobey had been able to get him to leave the station and go home and rest. Dark circles ringed his eyes and his normally tight jeans actually had a little slack in them now. Starsky couldn't take time to eat.

He had a list in front of him and began to read it out loud in a monotone. "Harris is still in prison. Chaco was killed in a knife fight in prison three years ago. Roger Burke is still locked up in the protected wing of the pen. Stryker's dead -- heart attack. Ben Forrest is in solitary, and has been for four years." He scrubbed at his face as he stared at the list.

"What are you doing?" Dobey asked. "Did you pull every case you've ever worked on?"

Starsky nodded grimly. "Just about. It's taking some time, but I'm tracking down everyone who might have any reason to hurt Hutch," he lifted pain-filled eyes to look at his Captain, "and it's a pretty big damn list." He pointed to several stacks of manila folders balanced precariously on the corner of his desk. He reached for the next folder and one pile began to slide, but Dobey caught it before it could shift too far.

"You getting help with this?" he asked gruffly, and Starsky nodded.

"I passed them out to the rest of the task force; we did a preliminary run-through on anyone who was loose but came up empty. Now I just need," he interrupted himself with a huge yawn, then went on, "to go through everything else. I'm the only one who will know what went down that didn't make it into the official report."

Dobey nodded. "All right. Sounds like a good plan." He looked at his watch. "Huggy should be here soon."

Starsky just nodded.

"What? No argument this time?" Dobey asked in astonishment.

"Not this time, Cap," Starsky replied wearily. "I'm tired. I need a shave and a shower and to sleep in my bed. I'm not gonna do Hutch any good if I can't function."

"Good man," Dobey agreed, his hand coming out to rest on the detective's shoulder for a moment. "What can I do while you're gone?"

Starsky held out a list with a few more names. "Get someone on this, will you? These are a few people I think have left the state, but I want to make an attempt to track them." He shrugged as he said, "They're long shots, but that's all I've got now."

Dobey nodded, accepting the paper. "Why don't you go on, get outta here? You can meet Huggy downstairs."

Starsky shook his head sadly. "In a minute, Cap." He took a deep breath. "I gotta call his folks first."

Day 14 - Jan 26, 1979

He was feeling pretty proud. He'd figured out a way to cover himself. He was sitting cross-legged on the bare metal bottom of the bunk, with the thin mattress draped across his lap. Aside from the fact that his butt was freezing, he was almost warm. It was wonderful!

He smiled to himself as he realized this was a good day. The oatmeal had actually been hot when he woke up, and at some point during the time he slept, he'd been bathed. He knew he had been drugged again, but he didn't care. It just felt so damned good to be clean again, and he'd even been shaved. He reached up and touched his smooth cheek, delighting in the sensation.

He didn't know what was going on, but it was apparently turning into a waiting game. And while he didn't particularly enjoy waiting, he could do it. He was much better at waiting than Starsky. Starsky was just too impatient, too quick to need to make something happen. But he could wait. He knew that right now, somewhere out there, his partner was looking for him and he would find him. He'd track down whoever had done this and then he'd walk through that door, those dark curls all wild, his eyes blazing, and he'd grin a goofy grin and say, "Hiya, Hutch. Ya ready to go?" And then he would say, "What took you so long, dummy?" and Starsky would laugh and he would laugh and Starsky would probably even have a sweater or a coat or something he could put on, and then he would be really warm. Hutch smiled again as he began to drift back off to sleep. It was gonna be great. Just as soon as Starsky got here ...

When he woke up, there was no oatmeal, no water, and the mattress was gone.

He began to cry.

"What do you mean you're pulling everyone but the six of us?" Starsky exploded. "How the hell can you do that? We haven't found Hutch! You can't break down the team already! We don't even have a single good lead!"

Dobey shook his head. "Sit down, Starsky, and listen to me." He waited while the dark-haired man stood there, obviously trying to decide if he should sit as he'd been ordered. When Starsky did sit, Dobey breathed a silent sigh of relief. The detective was getting more and more belligerent, harder to control every day, and he knew there was a serious confrontation coming. At least it had been forestalled for today. "It's because we don't have any leads that the Commissioner is pulling people from the team."

"I need people, Cap. I need people out there looking. We can't give up on him!"

"No one's giving up on Hutchinson, Starsky," the Captain said as he walked around his desk to lean against it and face the seated man. "You're still head of the task force. His disappearance is still listed as suspicious. You've still got Franklin, Colton, Vieweg, Pfeiffer, and Day on the case with you full-time."

As the storm clouds crossed Starsky's face again, Dobey sighed heavily. "Look, Starsky, I don't like it either. But I don't have any choice. Like it or not, all crime in the city did not stop when your partner disappeared and we do need some manpower to deal with it." He reached out to touch the other man, but Starsky flinched, still scowling, and Dobey pulled back. "Work with what you've got, Starsky, and be glad of it. If it was anyone but Hutchinson, you'd probably be on your own by now."

Starsky glared at Dobey, then rose and addressed the other men in the room. "Let's get back to it. You know what to do."

There was a brief pause as the other detectives looked from Dobey to Starsky and back again, not sure if they had been dismissed or not. Dobey nodded once and the room cleared. "Starsky," he said softly, gratified that the furious man at least stopped at the door, even if he didn't turn to look at him, "Edith wants you to come for dinner Saturday."

Starsky shook his head. "I can't," he said, his voice choked. He turned at last and looked at the Captain. "Tell her -- tell her thanks anyway."

"I tried, Starsky," Dobey said. "I went to anyone and everyone I could, including the Commissioner. I really tried."

Starsky ran his hand through his hair and nodded. "I know, Cap, I know." He dropped his eyes and stared at the floor, hands hanging uselessly at his side. "I just don't know what to do, where else to look. It's -- it's killing me!" His voice broke and his breathing grew ragged. "I don't know what to do!"

Dobey moved forward then and placed a large hand on the other man's shoulder. "You're doing all you can, son. You're doing more than anyone could expect. I know you're not eating, not sleeping -- finding Hutch has become your whole life. You're the best, Starsky. If he can be found, you'll find him."

Starsky shuddered then nodded. "Thanks, Cap," he said under his breath. "I -- I better get out there."

"You get something -- anything -- you let me know and I'll be on City Hall's doorstep so fast they won't know what hit 'em."

Starsky just nodded again and left the room, his head still down, dejection in every line of his body.

Day 30 - Feb 11, 1979

"Alabama - Montgomery"

"Arkansas - Little Rock"

"Alaska - No, wait. Alaska comes before Arkansas. I need to start again."

Hutch closed his eyes and shivered. The metal of the bunk was cold without the mattress. He wished he'd never tried to use it as a blanket. It hadn't been worth the punishment. Now the oatmeal only came every other time he slept and he could swear it was colder in the room than it had been.

He pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them and breathed into the cavity the position created. It was the only warmth he could get.

"I - I'm sorry," he whispered to himself.

"I'm s-s-sorry!" he cried to the empty room. "P-please -- I'm s-sorry!"

There was, of course, no answer.

He lowered his head again, and focused on creating his small space of warmth.

"Alabama - Montgomery"

"Alaska - Juneau"

"Arkansas - Little Rock"

"Arizona ... "

Starsky awoke and rolled over, slightly disoriented by his surroundings. He blinked and looked around. Oh, yeah. He'd slept at Hutch's place last night. He'd come over to water the plants and check on things, and just hadn't been able to leave. He'd dusted, and then stripped Hutch's bed and taken the linens and the other dirty clothes in the hamper down to the basement and done laundry. He'd cleaned out the fridge, kicking himself for not having thought to do this weeks sooner.

He'd gone through Hutch's mail, then written out checks for the bills that needed to be paid, including the rent. He'd paid for the late fee himself -- after all, he was the one who'd forgotten to pay it by the fifth. He'd balanced Hutch's checkbook, and made out a deposit slip to get his last two paychecks into the bank so that the checks he'd just written would be good, despite the forged signature. It was a good thing Dobey knew them; the older man had not once balked at handing Hutch's paycheck over to Starsky. He'd just trusted that the one partner would be taking care of the other's needs.

Starsky had taken out the trash and mopped the kitchen floor and cleaned the bathroom. He moved the furniture and unearthed a plate with a petrified sandwich from beneath the sofa and 5 socks, 2 pairs of briefs, and a belt from beneath the bed. He had refused to count the dust bunnies.

He'd opened the windows and aired the place out, changed the filter in the air conditioner. He'd even taken the throw rugs out and shaken them.

When the apartment was as clean as he could make it, he'd gone to the store and picked up a couple of six-packs, come back and then gotten quietly drunk. He'd called his mother and actually cried when he talked to her, and she'd just made soothing sounds over the line and offered to come and stay with him a while. He'd declined, but it was nice to know the offer was there.

And now he needed to get over to his place, take a shower and a couple of aspirin, and get to work.

When he walked into the squad room, it was empty. Oh, the usual desks were there, a few detectives working who studiously avoided meeting his eyes, but all the extra tables, the extra phones, the extra people, were gone.

Starsky took one look and stormed into Dobey's office. "What the hell's going on here, Cap?" he demanded. " 'cause I gotta tell you, it ain't looking real good from my view."

Dobey looked at the younger man, then sighed and spoke into the phone in his hand. "I'll have to call you back, Commissioner," he said as he hung up. "Starsky ..." he began, but the other man interrupted.

"Tell me we ain't been cut off, Cap. Tell me!"

Dobey nodded. "I'm afraid so, Starsky. Everyone goes back to their assigned duties except ..."

"Not me!" Starsky protested. "I'm not giving up!"

"Except you," Dobey continued gently. "You can keep working on Hutch's disappearance."

"It's no good, Cap," Starsky said, the rage fading to disgust. "Everyone's giving up on him."

"It's been a month."

"I know it's been a fucking month! You think I don't know how long it's been? It's been one month. Thirty days -- six hundred and ninety hours -- do you want the minutes? I know exactly how long it's been!"

"Don't do this, Starsky. It's not my fault, it's not the other guys' faults, it's not even the Commissioner's fault. He's gotta put the resources where he's got a chance of getting results. We've poured everything we have into hunting for Hutch, but we're getting nowhere."

"I'm not giving up," Starsky said stubbornly.

"Of course you're not. Nobody's asking you to." He rose and came to stand by Starsky. "I'm not giving up either. "You keep working. You need anything, you tell me. If I can get it, I will. And a bunch of the guys, we've all agreed to help on our off hours." He passed over a list to Starsky. "You organize it. Tell us what you want us to do. Nobody's giving up on Hutch."

Starsky took the list, then looked up at Dobey and nodded. "Thanks, Cap," he said, "I appreciate this. Tell these guys -- tell them I'll be in touch." He cleared his throat, then looked at the floor. "I, uh, may not come in to the station much for a while," he said softly.

"Whatever it takes," Dobey said in acknowledgement.

"I've got some people I need to talk to -- they're kinda hard to catch and I may have to spend some time waiting at different places for 'em."

"Just call me, let me know you're okay."

Starsky nodded and turned to the door. "I can't give up."

Day 42 - Feb 23, 1979

Hutch woke, cold and stiff, and still lying on the tile floor where he'd drifted off. His back hurt all the time now, and the cold seemed to have seeped into his bones. His joints ached and his head hurt almost constantly. The lights were so bright and they never went out. He had no way to judge if it was night or day, no way to know how much time had elapsed, no way to know how long or how frequently he slept.

He'd lost weight, quite a bit, and he'd lost muscle tone as well. Walking his circuit of the room required much more energy now and he knew that the monotonous diet of bland oatmeal couldn't be healthy. But -- he had no choice. God, how he longed for a baked potato or a piece of apple pie. Or scrambled eggs, an orange, a chocolate bar. Anything that had some taste to it. Anything besides oatmeal and water.

He looked up at the thought of his meal and sure enough, it sat waiting for him on the floor by the bunk. He didn't bother to get to his feet, but just crawled the few feet over there and began to eat. The oatmeal was at least warm this time -- it was so hard to choke it down when it was cold. He finished it all, licked his fingers clean, and then drank the water. He halfway hoped it was drugged; he wouldn't mind waking up next time and being clean again.

He sat up and crossed his legs, then glanced over at the bunk. He'd avoided it since they took the mattress, but now, the mattress was back. It was enough to make him jump to his feet. He stumbled over to the bunk and touched the thin pad almost reverently. It was such a little thing, but in his greatly reduced world view, it was huge. He felt tears prick his eyes and that made him feel even worse.

What had he been reduced to that a ratty old mattress, less than two inches thick, could make him cry?

Starsky leaned back against the couch, a framed photo in his lap. It was their class picture, taken a few weeks after they'd started at the Academy. He smiled as he looked at Hutch. He looked so proud, so strong, so young in the picture. This was a Hutch who didn't really understand how evil people could be. A Hutch who believed being a cop was something you did to make the world a better place.

He looked at himself as well. He was younger, yeah, but his eyes weren't nearly as innocent as Hutch's. When he went into the Academy, he'd already done two years in Nam, and he knew intimately how evil people could be. There was a world-weariness about him even then, and much of the happiness and playfulness he'd developed in the ensuing years, was directly related to Hutch and his ability to convince Starsky to see the good in people, not just the evil.

He lifted the beer in his hand and saluted the photo. "It was ten years ago today, partner," he said softly, fingering the small pins he'd been given that morning by Dobey. "Ten years ago today -- we started at the Academy."

He swallowed hard and looked around at Hutch's place. He spent as much time here now as he did at his own apartment, but then, hadn't he always? He took another swallow of the beer, then lifted the photo and clutched it to his chest.

"I miss you, Hutch," he said softly, tears in his eyes. "When're you coming home, babe?"

Day 58 - March 15, 1979

He'd awakened furious this time. He picked up the disgusting bowl of oatmeal and hurled it at the wall, then he'd peed in the bedpan and thrown that at the walls too. He'd torn the mattress from the bed, not even thinking of the last time he'd moved it and lost it for who knows how long. He only knew blind rage and the need for destruction.

Overwhelmed by anger at his own helplessness, he'd stormed the door, screaming, "I am a fucking cop! You can't do this to me! You hear me? Answer me, you son of a bitch! Answer me!"

When that hadn't elicited a response, he'd pounded the door, first with his fists, then he'd kicked it repeatedly until his feet ached and then he'd gone back to using his fists. He'd thrown himself bodily against the strong metal, charging forward over and over again, hands beating futilely upon the uncaring door.

He'd raged repeatedly, "Let me out! Let me out! You can't keep me here like this! Just answer me -- talk to me! Tell me what you want!" He beat the door over and over again, pounding furiously against its unresponsive surface, alternating left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot.

And all the time he screamed, "They'll find me, you assholes! I won't be forgotten! They'll come for me! You won't get away with this! I'm a cop -- a cop! You can't do this to me!"

His fist hit the door, over and over again, harder and harder until -- it happened. He heard it even before he felt it. The crack of the bone sounded loud to his ears, then the pain flooded over him, and he collapsed to the floor, cradling the broken wrist against his chest. He was crying again -- he seemed to do that a lot now -- but he didn't care. At first he was terrified -- if the wrist was left untended, it could heal wrong and he'd be damaged for life. But then he realized, they were taking care of him. He was fed and watered and while he wasn't kept warm, he wasn't freezing either. He wasn't being abused -- surely they would have to come and fix his wrist, right?

He crawled over to the wall and leaned against it, the damaged arm still clutched tightly to his chest. He was going to wait because they would have to come now, right?

"I-it's broken," he called out. "I br-broke my arm."

No response.

"You h-have to t-take me t-t-t-o a h-hospital; I-I need h-help."

Nothing.

"Please?" he tried again. "P-lease?"

He pulled his legs up and lowered his head and began to breathe hard to make the warm space over his chest. It was the only warmth he had.

"They have to come," he whispered to himself. "They have to."

And some small, distant part of his brain wondered when he had begun to rely on "them" coming, instead of Starsky.

"All right, Cap," Starsky said, taking a seat and sipping from the cup of coffee that he held, "what did you want to see me about?"

Dobey took a deep breath and held out a file.

Accepting it, Starsky opened it, skimmed it briefly and frowned. "What's this?"

"Your case."

Starsky closed the file quickly, shaking his head. "Oh, no," he said, pushing the manila folder back toward the Captain. "I'm working on Hutch's case, remember?"

Dobey nodded in understanding, but his words belied his action. "And you can keep working on it, Starsky," he said, choosing his words carefully, "you just need to work on this, too."

Starsky rose angrily. "I don't have time for this," he snarled.

Dobey moved to stand in front of him, blocking the door. "You don't have a choice. You want to keep drawing a paycheck, you take the case."

"Then I quit," Starsky said defiantly, reaching around Dobey for the door.

The larger man stopped him with a touch on the arm. "You quit, Starsky," he said quietly, "and I take your badge, your gun, and you lose your pay. And you lose access to any resources we have here that may help you find Hutch."

Starsky lowered his head and rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Fuck," he said softly. "I fucking hate this."

"I know, son," Dobey said, his voice gentling. "But you don't have a choice. Everyone's still willing to work off the clock with you; I've even gotten some more volunteers."

Starsky nodded his head, then reached out a hand to brace himself against the wall. "It's like nobody cares anymore, like everyone's giving up."

"Nobody's giving up," Dobey said firmly. "A lot of us care. We want him found."

Starsky nodded, then looked away. "When I was in Nam, Cap, the unit I was with -- we didn't leave anyone behind. No matter what, no matter where we were, we brought 'em all back." His voice broke and he choked on a sob, then lifted his dark-ringed eyes to stare at his Captain. "I feel like I'm leaving him behind, Cap. I'm just moving on and leaving him behind.

Day 68 - March 25, 1979

The white cast on his wrist was no longer completely white. It had taken on a rather grubby gray appearance and his arm itched horribly. If he'd been home, he knew he'd have had a coat hanger stuck down there, scratching away, despite the fact that it wasn't a smart thing to do. He didn't care. He just wanted the itching to stop.

It was harder to eat now too. He had trouble holding the bowl in his left hand, and rather than risk spilling the precious little food he was given, he held the bowl in his lap. But that meant that he would drip on himself as he brought the gruel to his lips using only his fingers. Still, he could always scrape it off his chest and belly -- it was messy but he managed.

He was hungry all the time now -- He figured he'd lost at least twenty pounds. Any padding he'd had on his body was gone and it made it that much harder to stay warm. He had no idea how long he'd been here. No one would talk to him. No one would tell him why he was here or what was the purpose behind his kidnapping. At first, he'd thought he was being observed, but now he wasn't so sure. It was almost as if he had been brought here and then completely abandoned. Only the oatmeal and water that still showed up when he slept and the periodic baths gave him any clue that he hadn't been completely forgotten.

And his memories of Starsky.

Whatever happened here, he knew that Starsky would never forget him. He'd never give up. It had probably been a few weeks now -- his time sense was all shot to shit -- but he knew he was sleeping a lot, so that made it seem like more time had passed than probably really had. Or something.

He rubbed his head. It always started to hurt when he tried to figure things out. It was like thinking was too hard now -- it was just easier to sleep and dream.

He went to the corner and used the bedpan, then drank his allotment of water and settled back on the bed. It was not only easier to sleep, it was more pleasant. When he slept, he could go anywhere, do anything. He watched movies on the TV. Tossed a football in the park. Ran on the beach, the sun hot on his face, his hair blowing free. He ate Edith Dobey's lasagna, and Huggy's chili.

And he wasn't alone.

There with him always, talking to him, touching him, just being with him -- was Starsky.

He closed his eyes and dreamed.

"Happy Birthday, dear Davey, Happy Birthday to you!" Starsky warbled the last words off-key, then saluted himself with his beer and collapsed on the couch.

" 'm thirty-nine, partner," he mumbled drunkenly. "Only one more year till I'm hitting the big four-o."

He drained the bottle and opened another, drinking deeply of the amber brew. "God, Hutch," he said under his breath, "I don't know what else to do, don't know where else to look." Raising his chin defiantly, he spoke to the darkened room, "But I ain't giving up. I ain't ever going to give up!" He drew another deep draught of the beer, then scrubbed at his face. "But it's so damned hard, babe. I'm just -- lost -- here. You're the one that figures things out. You're the one that can see what I always miss. How the hell am I supposed to find you, when you ain't here to tell me what to do next?" He finished the beer, swallowing a sob with the liquid and staggered to the bathroom. "You gotta come back, Hutch. I need you," he said as he started the shower and slowly undressed. "I need you."

Day 86 - April 12, 1979

He woke and felt -- lighter. It took longer and longer each time he woke for the fog to clear from his brain. When he finally uncurled from his fetal position, he realized the cast on his wrist was gone. He smiled and sat up, waving the hand in the air. It felt good. Then he indulged in a nice long scratch, just for GP.

And he was clean. Sometime while he'd slept, he'd been bathed and shaved again. It felt wonderful! He stroked his cheeks, then reached up and smiled again when he realized his hair had been cut. It was back to just about the length it had been when he'd been brought here. That was good. It had gotten so long it had tickled his back. He furrowed his brow as he thought about that. For some reason, it felt like he should be able to use the length of his hair to figure out something, but it was just too hard to think about it.

And besides, his oatmeal was here and it was hot this morning. The cast was off, he was clean, and his oatmeal was hot. He started eating happily, thinking, 'what more could I want?'

It was three months today. He hadn't slept more than two or three hours a night in the last week. He just had this feeling, deep in his gut, that something bad was going to happen. Every instinct he had was screaming that it was about Hutch, but he was refusing to believe that there could be anything bad about Hutch.

He was alive.

Starsky refused to consider any other possibility.

He was being blackmailed and had had to leave.

He'd been in an accident and had amnesia or he was lying in a hospital somewhere and didn't know who he was.

Or maybe he'd even been kidnapped and was being held captive, though that made no sense as there'd been no ransom demand.

Oh, yeah. Starsky was willing to consider a lot of possibilities when it came to where Hutch was. But there was one he would not consider. Wouldn't say out loud. Wouldn't even think about.

Hutch was not dead.

So this damned feeling he had in his gut had to be about something else -- something related to Hutch, but not that.

He pulled up to his apartment and just sat, waiting for the sun to come up. He'd been doing this more and more lately, driving around all night long, just looking as if he might suddenly turn a corner and there he'd be, tall and blond and maybe a little raggedy looking, stumbling up the street. Every corner he turned, every door he walked through, he felt his heart catch as he thought, 'He could be here. Just around this corner, just through this door -- he could be here.'

But, of course, he never was.

The sun rose and Starsky watched as the darkness was chased away by the light of day. His watch ticked on, still counting the minutes since Hutch had disappeared. It was six o'clock now. Hutch always got up at six. He got up, he ran, and then he came home and had some sort of weird shit for breakfast before he showered and came into the station. Starsky usually picked him up. It was amazing how he was always early to work now. He still left home when he always did, but he no longer had to make the trip to Hutch's place.

He wasn't sure when he'd gone back to leaving work every night, to sleeping some at night, to eating. He hadn't regained the weight he'd originally lost in those first frantic weeks after Hutch disappeared. His pants were no longer skin-tight, but he wasn't losing weight anymore either. That was a testament to Dobey and his wife, who insisted he join them at least once a week for a meal. And to Huggy, who was always bringing over food from the restaurant, special things Starsky knew he'd made just to tempt him. And a dozen other guys at the station whose wives or mothers were all taking turns cooking for him and making sure he ate. With all the food he was being given, there was no way he could continue to lose weight.

He pried himself out of the Torino and went into his place. A quick shower, shave, breakfast of a couple of muffins somebody had made -- Pete Ferguson's wife, maybe -- and he was almost ready to go. He brushed his teeth, ran a comb through his hair, grabbed his jacket and headed out the door.

Something was going to happen today.

He got to the station and he knew something was going on by the way everyone avoided looking him in the eye. People spoke, they smiled, and called his name and made jokes, but no one met his eyes. His heart was racing by the time he got to the squad room. He didn't even reach his desk before Dobey opened his door and called, "Starsky -- my office."

Nodding bleakly, he rose and trailed the older man back into his inner sanctum.

"I'm sorry, Starsky, I hate to be the one to tell you ..."

"He's not dead," Starsky interrupted. "I'd know it if he was dead."

Dobey looked at him, confused for a moment, and then he smiled sadly. "No, Dave," he said gently, pushing the younger man into a chair. He waited until Starsky was settled then leaned against his desk and went on. "I don't have any news on Hutchinson's whereabouts. I need to talk to you about the department's official action."

He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not dead. The words were ringing loudly in his head and it took a few seconds for Dobey's message to get through. "Official action, Cap?" he asked in confusion.

Dobey nodded grimly. "It's been three months, Starsky," he said bluntly, "and we're not any closer to finding Hutch than we were the day he disappeared. Word came down from the Commissioner that the case moves to inactive."

Starsky scrubbed his face. He's not dead. They're not saying he's dead. That's all that matters. He's not dead. He shrugged. "Sure, Cap, whatever." Rising, he moved toward the door. "We can still work on our own time, right?"

Dobey nodded. "Of course, and everyone's more than willing to continue doing just that. You keep feeding us what you want followed up on, we'll follow it up."

Starsky nodded and went to leave, but Dobey cleared his throat, so he turned back to see what was wanted.

"Sit," the older man said softly. "Please?"

Starsky frowned in puzzlement, but returned to the chair he'd just vacated. "What?"

"Look, Starsky, I want you to know, I fought this tooth and nail, but I lost."

"What, Cap? Just spit it out."

"Hutch is being placed on indefinite unpaid leave. His next paycheck will be his last."

Starsky's head fell and he scrubbed at his face again. "Aw -- fuck!" he said softly. He ran his hands through his hair, then looked up and sighed. "I can't afford to keep his place and mine. What am I gonna do?"

Dobey shook his head. "I don't know, son, I just don't know. They were gonna drop him from the rolls entirely, but I got them to do this instead. I know it doesn't solve the money issues, but at least he's still a cop."

Starsky nodded miserably. "I'm gonna have to call his parents again -- see what they want me to do with his stuff." He sighed again. "God, I hate that! Those people are as cold as a -- well, they're just cold. I can't believe Hutch is related to them."

"If it helps any, you can put anything that will fit in my garage. Some of the other guys might be able to make some space available too."

Starsky nodded as he rose. "Thanks, Cap. I should've seen this coming. I can cover the next month's rent, but I'm gonna have to figure something out after that. Shit! Hutch loves that place! What am I gonna do with all those freaking plants?"

"We'll find homes for them, Starsky." The big man laid a hand on Starsky's drooping shoulder. "I'll help you."

"Yeah, I guess so." Starsky stood unmoving for a long moment and Dobey squeezed gently. "I'm gonna go call his folks now," he said softly. "See what they want me to do."

Dobey nodded and let him go, and he made his way slowly out to the squad room. Taking a seat, he stared at the empty desk across from him and bit back the urge to start throwing things. With great care, he dug out a piece of paper from his desk, looked at the number and dialed.

"Hutchinson residence," a formal voice answered.

"Uh, can I, that is, I'd like to speak to Mrs. Hutchinson." He hated the way talking to these people always made him feel so tongue-tied.

"Who's calling, please?"

"Dave, David Starsky. I'm Hutch's, uh, Ken's partner."

"Just a moment, please."

There was silence for several minutes and he had begun to wonder if he'd been disconnected when a cultured voice said, "Hello?"

"Uh, yeah. Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"This is Mrs. Hutchinson."

"This is Dave, Dave Starsky."

"Yes?"

"From Bay City. I work with your son."

"Yes, Mr. Starsky," the voice said formally. "I know who you are."

"Well, ma'am, the thing is, I'm calling about Hutch." He swallowed hard to clear his throat. "About Ken."

"Has he been found?" The question was asked with an air of polite interest, as if the answer were of no importance.

"Uh, well, no, ma'am," Starsky stammered, "I'm sorry to say that he hasn't."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Well, you see, the uh, department has taken him off the active roster."

"A sensible decision, I'm sure, considering he hasn't come to work in three months."

Starsky bit his lip to keep from screaming. "Well, uh, that means he won't be getting paid."

"Yes?" Polite disinterest this time.

Starsky took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I've, uh, been paying his rent and stuff from his checks, but I can't cover it anymore after this month. I just wanted, to, uh, know what you want me to, uh, do with his stuff."

He could almost see the elegant white hand wave dismissively in the air. "It's of no importance to us, Mr. Starsky. Sell it, give it away, throw it away."

Starsky closed his eyes. He could never throw Hutch's stuff away. "I'd keep his place for him if I could, Mrs. Hutchinson." His voice broke and it took him a minute to go on. "I just can't."

There was a long pause, and then Hutch's mother asked, in a slightly warmer tone, "How much is the rent on his apartment?"

Starsky told her.

"I'll send you a check," she said softly, her voice almost human.

"Thank you, ma'am," he replied, totally astonished at the offer.

When she spoke again, her voice was once again distant and cold. "Please be sure and speak to me if you have reason to call again. My husband doesn't need to be bothered with these trivialities. He's a very busy man."

Starsky grit his teeth, but said politely. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you again. I'll call you when I have news on Hutch, uh, Ken."

"Kenneth," she said curtly. "Good-bye."

He hung up the phone, his hand shaking. How the hell had Hutch survived to get out of that frigid house? He shook his head. It didn't matter. Hutch had made his own life now, and it was a good one. And now, with help from his mother of all people, it would be waiting for him when he came home.

Day 89 - April 15, 1979

He woke. There was no oatmeal this time. Just water. He drank, then curled back up on the bed.

It was a good dream this time. He was in a boat, fishing. He'd talked Starsky into going camping with him, and his friend was actually enjoying himself, despite his reservations about being in the 'wild.' The sun was high in the sky and it felt so good, so warm on his skin. It was beyond warm, really, almost hot. He could feel himself sweating. He took his shirt off, then stood up, and Starsky swore.

"Christ, Hutch! Sit the fuck down! You're gonna tip the boat!"

He just shook his head and skinned out of his pants.

"What the hell are you doing?" Starsky said, a laugh in his voice.

"Going swimming," he replied, diving over the side and into the clear lake water. It felt wonderful. Warm and wet and he could feel it spreading over his skin.

Starsky was laughing at him now, taking his own shirt off and preparing to join him, but something was happening. The laughter was fading, the sun disappearing to be replaced with a pervading sense of cold, and as he watched, Starsky slowly vanished, almost winking out as he jerked awake and looked around.

Warm and wet and spreading.

He'd peed on himself.

He rose from the mattress and moved to sit on the floor.

He didn't even have the energy to cry this time.

It was almost midnight and he'd been sitting in his car at the Post Office for hours now. It was silly, really. The forms were complete, the envelope sealed. The stamp was on it and it was ready to go. All he had to do was pass it to the man standing there, waiting to take all the last minute filer's tax forms. But he was still holding onto it, as if by some miracle, Hutch would appear, and they could quickly open the envelope and Hutch would scrawl his name where Starsky had faked it and then Hutch could pass the envelope over.

Because, after all, they were Hutch's taxes.

But time was running short, and Hutch hadn't shown up yet. He stared at his watch, monitoring each click of the minute hand as it crept toward midnight.

At one minute till, he shoved himself out of the car and strode over to the man with the bag, the man collecting the last minute forms.

"Thought you were gonna sit there all night, man," he said, accepting the envelope.

Starsky shrugged. "I was waiting for someone."

"Ah -- sorry, man. Musta stood you up." The man turned to take an envelope from someone else and Starsky headed back to the car.

"You stood me up all right, Hutch," he whispered as he started the car and pulled away. "When you gonna stop standing me up, babe? It's getting pretty old."

Day 105 - May 2, 1979

When he woke, he was on the floor again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately -- falling asleep on the floor instead of in the bunk. He brushed his hair back from his face and then scratched at the beard on his face. He was about due for another bath and a shave and he was ready. He hoped they'd cut his hair this time; it was starting to bother him again.

He looked around, saw his oatmeal and water waiting by the bed and crawled over. The oatmeal was warm this time, and it didn't take long to finish it all. When he was done, he licked the bowl and once again wondered why he hadn't done that in the beginning. It wasn't as if anyone cared about how he conducted himself. He licked his fingers clean, then finished his water and crawled back to the corner by the door. He settled down again to finish what he'd fallen asleep in the middle of. Looking at the room, he smiled when he again realized how many of those white tiles made up the walls. This was a good project; it would fill many hours.

He turned his attention back to the corner and began to count.

"Starsky, you know Pete Ferguson," Dobey said, as the young cop scrambled to his feet, hand extended.

Starsky smiled and shook, saying to Dobey, "I know Pete. His wife has taken to feeding me on a regular basis." He nodded at Pete. "Tell her that last casserole was great, and I really appreciate it."

Pete nodded, "I'll tell her. We're, uh, I'm glad you liked it." He glanced awkwardly at Dobey, then dropped his eyes to the floor.

Starsky noted the action, then looked over to see Dobey had turned and was staring out the window. "Something going on here, Cap?" he asked slowly, noticing that the young uniform cop was decidedly out of uniform, wearing jeans and a green, long-sleeved shirt. The shirt was tucked in, and he wore no tie, but it was still a change of pace for Ferguson.

Or maybe for how Starsky saw Ferguson.

"You get promoted, Pete?" he asked, holding out his hand again. "Congratulations! That's wonderful! Betsy must be real proud."

Pete shook his hand again, mumbled, "Thanks, man, she is," and then dropped his eyes once more to stare at the rug.

"Cap?" Starsky asked, feeling a sudden sense of foreboding.

Dobey turned around with a sigh and came around his desk.

"You went after the Farinellis by yourself last week, Starsky," Dobey said. "I've told you -- you have to wait for backup."

Starsky shrugged. "They would have gotten away."

"Doesn't matter," Dobey said firmly. "You were shot." He pointed to the bandage just visible below the sleeve of Starsky's short-sleeved shirt.

Starsky shrugged again. "It grazed me. No big deal. Only took a couple of stitches." He cocked his head and nailed the Captain in place with his eyes. "What's going on here, Cap?"

"Ferguson made detective. Everybody in the unit is paired up except you. I want you to work with him."

Starsky looked over at the young cop. His face was bright red and he looked completely miserable. He'd just gotten promoted, was starting his new assignment, and he'd been put right in the middle of a hornet's nest. It wasn't fair.

But it also wasn't fair that Hutch had been gone for three and a half months and it was like people had forgotten him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had asked him if he had anything new. He still had his list of volunteers for off duty investigation, but there just wasn't anything to investigate. He was still going through old files, but it was a fruitless effort. None of that mattered though. Hutch was his partner, and he wasn't going to work with anyone else!

He stuck out his chin defiantly and said, "No."

"No?" Dobey responded.

"Yeah. No." Starsky looked over at Ferguson and added, "No offense to you, kid, but," he turned his gaze back the Captain, "no."

"Why?"

"I have a partner," Starsky said stubbornly. "Hutch is my partner."

"I didn't ask you to partner Ferguson," Dobey reminded him gently, "just to work with him. He's new and he needs someone to show him the ropes."

"Find someone else," Starsky said, turning to leave. "Until Hutch comes back, I work alone."

Dobey nodded. "If you're sure that's what you want ..."

"I'm sure."

Dobey took a deep breath. "I'm not going to force you to do this, Starsky," he said. "I know that would never work. But if you want to work alone, then -- you work a desk."

"What?!"

"You heard me. You want to work alone, you work a desk. I'm not having you out in the field without backup." Dobey sighed and walked around his desk to sit in his chair. "It's your choice, Starsky -- Ferguson, or the desk."

Starsky muttered angrily under his breath, then studied the young cop for a long moment. The kid was still bright red, totally miserable, and completely at a loss as to what to do about any of this. He sighed, glared at Dobey who glared back, then reached out and tapped Ferguson on the arm. "C'mon, kid," he said, "you're with me."

Day 157 - June 22, 1979

Hutch stood in the middle of the room, one arm raised in the classic position for recitation.

"Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings of fate than arrows ..."

"Er ..."

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings of fate and arrows ..."

"Shit!"

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of ... uh, of ..."

"Damn!"

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of ... fortune ... outrageous fortune, or ..."

"Or ..."

"Or to take ..."

He furrowed his brow in concentration. "Damn! I know this one."

"Whether tis nobler to suffer in the mind the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of opposing troubles ..."

He smiled, pleased with his accomplishment. "Got it -- finally. Now, what's next?"

He looked down at himself, noting a dot of oatmeal that had fallen from his last meal. He'd missed it in his usual after-dinner clean-up.

"Out, damned spot!" he roared as he swiped it up with a long finger and sucked the digit into his mouth. It made him laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and before he knew it he had collapsed on the floor, laughing and saying it over and over and over again.

"Out, damned spot! Out, damned spot! Out, damned spot!"

It was hysterically funny and he couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this.

He laughed till his side hurt.

He laughed till his cheeks ached.

He laughed till tears ran down his cheeks.

And then, he realized, he wasn't laughing.

He was crying.

"Out," he murmured through his tears. "I just want out."

"C'mon, Dave," Ferguson said again, "It'll be fun." He stopped, dropped his hand from Starsky's arm and went on, "Okay, so you don't do fun. But what could it hurt? We worked on this case for over two weeks. It's my first big bust as detective. Come have a drink with me. Please?"

Starsky shook his head, then scrubbed at his face. The kid was right. It was his first big bust. He deserved to celebrate. "You sure you want to go out with a morose old bastard like me, Pete?"

"Does that mean you'll come?"

Damn! The kid was like an eager puppy dog. How the hell could you say 'no' to that? "Yeah, I'll come. I'll even buy. But I ain't staying long, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure, man. That's cool. I'm just really glad you'll come. Just let me call Betsy, tell her what we're doing." He stepped away, moving over to one of the other guy's desks to use the phone.

It was as if Starsky were seeing it for the first time. Ferguson had been working with him for six, seven weeks now. He'd never once sat at Hutch's desk, never used a pen or a piece of paper, or even the phone that sat there. He'd existed as an extension of Starsky, always at his desk, using his phone when it was available, even pulling up a chair to work on the corner of the desk. He'd worked under some extremely awkward and uncomfortable conditions, but he'd never complained and never once mentioned using Hutch's desk.

Starsky smiled. The kid was all right.

He looked over at his partner's desk and sighed. Tonight, after the celebratory beer, he'd come back and pack it up. Ferguson deserved a place to put his own shit.

He closed his eyes tight against the wave of pain the decision brought.

It didn't mean he was giving up. It didn't.

Day 222 - August 28, 1979

His hair was going gray. When it got long enough for him to see it, he could see the silver strands mixed in with the gold. At first, he'd thought he would pluck them out, but they were so numerous now, he figured he'd never be able to get them all.

"And even the very hairs of your head are numbered."

He did that a lot now, spouting off quotes. He couldn't remember where that one came from, but he was sure he hadn't made it up. Pretty sure.

At first, he'd cited sources when he quoted things, but now he couldn't remember the sources. Hell, half the time, he couldn't remember the quotes. There was a long one he used to know about battles and success and pride and honor, but he'd lost it all now. All that was left was a single line. "This band of brothers."

That's what he was waiting for -- to go back to his band of brothers.

It had been a long time. So long, he'd lost count of how many times they'd cut his hair. His silver-gold hair. But he was still here. He was still alive. He was still waiting.

And Starsky would come.

He had to believe that.

Starsky would come.

He sighed and tried to focus. He'd do countries this time. They were harder and he needed to work his mind. He took a deep breath and said, "A -- Asia."

He shook his head. "No, that's not right. That's a -- the other thing. Not a country." He scratched his head. "What is it?" He couldn't remember, but it wasn't a country, so he tried again.

"A -- "

Nothing came.

"A -- "

He shook his head again. Maybe he'd just do states. He could still do those.

"Alabama -- Montgomery"

"Alaska -- Juneau"

"Arkansas -- Little Rock"

"Arizona -- Phoenix"

Was that right? He'd always had trouble with Arizona. Starsky would know. He knew all this arcane shit, like how tall the tallest man had been, and where the largest omelet in the world had been made. Surely he'd know the fucking capital of Arizona, right?

He looked over and Starsky was squatting in the corner watching him with a smile on his face.

"Arizona, Starsk!" he cried out. "I need Arizona."

The other man never moved, just smiled at him, waiting.

Starsk?" Hutch asked. "You there, man?"

He rubbed his eyes and when he looked again, he was alone.

So he closed his eyes and went to sleep.

It took two trips to get all the food into the apartment. There'd been cookies from a couple of the girls in records, a casserole and a cake from Edith Dobey, a pie from Betsy Ferguson, homemade bread from both John Day and Alex Viehweg's wives, and a lasagna from Amanda Patterson.

When he'd finally gotten it all in and opened his fridge, he'd seen Huggy had been by as well. In addition to several unfamiliar containers in the refrigerator, the freezer was full of frozen individual meals, enough to last weeks.

It was Hutch's birthday.

He was thirty-nine.

And he'd been missing seven months, fourteen days, and, he looked at his watch, four hours. Well, four hours if you count when Starsky first started looking for him as the first hour. He had probably gone missing long before that.

The dark-haired man gave up on rummaging through the stockpiled food, any thought of eating chased away as he thought of all the hours he had wasted, stupidly thinking he was protecting his partner when in reality, he'd been letting him slip through his fingers.

He should have started looking that morning. He should have gone over there and gotten him. Hell, he almost always drove. Why hadn't he been driving that morning? Why had they agreed to ride in separately?

Because he'd been with a fucking girl.

He'd been fucking a girl.

Susan something.

The night before, he'd figured he'd get lucky so he'd called Hutch and told him, "You're on your own tomorrow, bud."

Just like that.

"You're on your own."

"Fuck!" he said out loud, opening the refrigerator again and grabbing a beer. One look and he put it back, slamming the door shut. He opened the cabinet over the sink, pulled out the scotch and took a swallow. It burned going down, then ignited his belly like fire in the dark. He gasped, then did it again. "Fuck!"

He put the bottle aside, dug a piece of paper out of his pocket and moved to the phone. It was seven here on the west coast -- that would make it, what? Nine in Duluth?

The phone rang twice and then was answered. "Hutchinson residence."

He went through the whole rigmarole of who he was and that he wanted to speak to Mrs. Hutchinson and then he waited the interminable period it took for Hutch's mother to get to the phone.

"This is Mrs. Hutchinson."

"It's Dave, Miz Hutchinson, Dave Starsky. I work with Ken, uh Kenneth."

There was an icy silence, then she said, "Do you have news, Mr. Starsky?"

"Uh, no, ma'am. Nothing's changed." He waited awkwardly.

"Then why are you calling?"

"Uh, it's Hutch's birthday -- you know. Ken's. Kenneth's."

"I know what day it is, Mr. Starsky. My son would have been thirty-nine today."

Starsky frowned. "Is thirty-nine, you mean."

The silence was even longer this time, and then she said, "Yes. Is." Another long pause and, "Why did you call me?"

"It's his birthday," Starsky said again, not sure now why he had called. "I, uh, just didn't want you to, uh, think he was forgotten."

"Ah ... Well, thank you for calling. Good night." And the phone went dead in his hand.

Fuck! How the hell had Hutch survived with that woman? He thought of his own mother, screaming at him and Nicky, always ready to smack him upside the head if they did something wrong, or said something wrong or just looked at her wrong, but for every scream, every smack, there'd been a thousand kisses and hugs and cuddles, and never, not once, had his mother ever spoken to him in that icy, distant voice that seemed to be the only one Mrs. Hutchinson used.

He took two more quick swallows of scotch, welcoming the heat in his belly, then jumped when the phone rang.

He picked it up and growled, "Yeah?"

"Since when do you answer the phone like that, Davey?"

"Ma! I was just thinking about you! I'm glad you called."

"I was worried about you," his mother said softly.

Worried? About me? Why?"

"It's Ken's birthday," she said. "He's thirty-nine now, right?"

"Oh, God, Ma," he choked out, his voice breaking, "you remembered."

"Of course I remembered," she said sharply. "It's important."

"I called his mother tonight. Just hung up, as a matter of fact."

"That was nice of you, Davey. I'm sure she appreciated it."

He snorted. "I don't think so, Ma. She said he 'would have been' thirty-nine. Would have been."

There was silence for a moment, then his mother said, "I'm sure this is all very hard on her."

"Yeah," he muttered. "That's probably it."

"Davey, what's wrong with you? What is it? I can hear something in your voice."

He drew a deep, ragged breath. "You know what was the last thing I said to him, Ma? The last words he heard from me? 'You're on your own.' I said that to him. 'You're on your own.'"

"Davey, you're taking it out of context, I know you are. I know you. You'd never leave him alone for something like this to happen. He knows that. He knows that."

"God, Ma -- it hurts so bad. I don't know what to do, I don't know where to look. He's out there, I don't know where, living I don't know how, and I'm here, safe and secure and my life just goes merrily on. Do you know what they did, Ma? The guys at the station? Do you know what they did? They brought me food. Cookies, and cakes and pies and casseroles. It's Hutch's birthday and they brought me food."

He broke down and began to cry. "God, Ma -- is he even eating?"

"Shhh, Davey, shhh," she whispered. "You'll find him. If anyone can do it, it will be you."

Starsky sat on the sofa and rocked himself while he cried, and let his mother soothe him as if he were a six-year-old child.

Day 269 - October 14, 1979

He was walking. The sun was high in the sky, casting shadows through the trees as he moved up toward the meadow at the top of the hill. A warm breeze rose over the ridge and added to his warmth. His cock twitched in anticipation.

He spread the blanket on the soft grass and slowly undid his pants. Hiking with no underwear had kept his cock hard inside the tight jeans. It felt wonderful, warm and sensuous, to slowly unbutton the waist, unzip the fly, and slide the denim down to expose his long legs to the warm breeze.

His cock stood proudly upon its release, the head shiny and slick. Moving quickly, his hand made its way to his crotch and he kneaded the firm head with his palm, moaning softly as his hand caressed the length of the shaft. His balls pulled up tightly as he was filled with the excitement of masturbating in the open like this.

Anyone could appear and see him.

The thought made him shiver and more moisture appeared on the tip of his cock. He continued to rub firmly as he sat down on the blanket, the thrill of being caught raising the intensity of the experience. His cock was standing at attention, the shaft red and shiny in the fractured sunlight that broke through the trees. He rubbed his nuts gently and got up on his knees to show off his erection.

Looking out over the meadow, he imagined he was being watched. Wrapping his hand firmly around the shaft of his cock, he began to slowly stroke up and down, barely brushing against the swelling head that was becoming more sensitive with each stroke. With his other hand, he continued to gently squeeze his balls and he rubbed a ring around his anus. He was so hot! The sun was hot -- his skin was hot. The scene was hot, and he was so fucking hot, he was about to blow his load right then.

He pinched the base of the shaft tightly, deciding he'd better slow down if he wanted this to last. Sliding down from his knees, he laid back, enjoying the feeling of lying in the sun, naked and exposed. The wind blew gently and made his cock quiver. His erection stood firmly, the dark reddish-purple a stark contrast to his fair skin. Relaxing, he stroked himself idly as he watched a plane pass overhead, and wondered briefly if they could see him.

He spread his legs further to let his balls feel the caress of the breeze as he watched the trees dance to the music of the wind. They had a strange rhythm to their movements, capricious yet steady. Their movements bent their shadows into various patterns. Unconsciously, he swayed with them, the sunlight dancing with the shadows across his naked flesh.

The constant warmth, the feel of the sun on his skin, continued to relax him. He caressed his belly, his hand darting upward to flirt with taut nipples before wandering down again to card through the thatch of hair at his groin.

Someone was watching.

He closed his eyes.

"Do it, Hutch."

The words were whispered and they both embarrassed and excited him.

He rolled on the blanket, then sucked his finger, wetting it well. His cock cried out to be touched again. With just the one finger, he rubbed on the edge of the glans, where it met the shaft. His back arched at the sensation. Grabbing the shaft with his other hand, he held it still while his finger made little circles over the newly created hot spot. He moved his finger slowly, savoring the feeling as his balls grew tighter and tighter.

His body was bathed in the grip of desire, sweat dripped from every pore as he hung on the brink of orgasm. He fought the urge to go faster and faster, knowing the release would come too soon, shortening the agonizing ecstasy. He was writhing on the ground now, moaning out loud. His balls pulled up, his body shivered on the edge, ready to go over but clinging tightly to control as he tried to stretch it out.

His breath was coming in gasps as the tension in his body grew. He rubbed even slower -- almost not moving at all -- until he couldn't take it anymore. He sucked in a deep breath, arched his hips, lifting his ass off the ground as a thick stream of cum gushed from his cock. He panted loudly as the orgasm stretched, then grabbed his balls and squeezed them over and over again. The sticky fluid sprayed over his belly, splashing against his skin and dripping down his sides. It seemed to go on forever.

When he was done, the warm glow of the orgasm filled him while he milked his shrinking cock dry. The cum was warm and he rubbed it into his skin, the odor to be a constant reminder of his day in the sun.

With a groan, he opened his eyes, returning to the small white room.

Starsky was squatting in the corner again, watching him with sad eyes, but he still wouldn't speak. He'd never speak.

Hutch looked down at his belly, the few drops of cum he'd managed to produce lost in blood. He frowned at the blood, then looked at his cock, rubbed raw from his constant masturbation. He touched it and flinched.

It hurt!

Then he shrugged and touched it again.

At least the pain was something.

At least with the pain, he could feel something.

He looked over at Starsky, still watching him, and growled, "You got a problem with this?" but of course, the other man didn't answer him. He never did.

Hutch sighed and closed his eyes, his fist closing over his abused cock, and began again.

"Look, Dave, can you just do it as a favor to me, please?"

"I don't date," Starsky said again.

"It's not a freaking date!" Ferguson slammed his hand down in frustration. "It's just my wife's sister. Betsy and I will be there."

Starsky cocked his head and studied the red-headed man who sat at Hutch's desk. "How old are you, Pete?"

"Huh?" Pete blinked. "Twenty-nine. Why?"

"And how old is Betsy?"

"Twenty-five. And again I say, why?"

"And this is Betsy's younger sister, right?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"So she's what? Twenty-three?"

"Twenty-two, actually."

"Shit, Ferguson! I'm nearly forty!" Starsky rose and went to the coffeepot, pouring a cup. "And I don't date."

"It's not a fucking date, Davey! How many times do I have to tell you that? It's my anniversary. I want to take my wife out. Her sister is here. Betsy won't go out without Chrissy and Chrissy won't come and be a third wheel. C'mon, man," Pete whined, "be a pal. She's a nice girl."

"She's a kid."

"I'm not asking you to marry her, for Christ's sake. Just come to dinner with us. Then, maybe, take her for a ride or something -- no, scratch that. Just take her for a walk. Give me a little time to give this," he produced a box and passed it over, "to Betsy. Alone. Please? That's all I'm asking."

Starsky opened the box and smiled at the ring. Three small diamonds in a silver setting. "It's nice," he said, passing the box back. "Betsy'll love it."

"Yeah," Pete said proudly. "It's perfect, too. You know why?"

Starsky shook his head. "Three diamonds. One for me, one for Betsy, and ..." He trailed off, watching to see if Starsky could finish the thought. At the grin that spread over the other man's face, Pete finished, "Yep. That's right. We're gonna have a baby!"

When he got home that night, he scratched another day off the calendar. He wasn't sure when he'd had to start using a calendar to track the time, but somewhere in the past months, he'd begun to lose track, and it had made him ashamed that he couldn't remember. How many days had it been? How many months?

He marked off the day, then quickly counted. Nine months and two days. Nine months. Hutch had been gone nine months, and in nine months Pete would be a father. Well, probably not nine months, probably six or seven, but the whole thing still took nine months. He shook his head and grabbed a beer, settling in on the couch to catch the news.

It hadn't been a late evening, and he'd actually had a good time. Betsy was fun and she always made him feel like he was doing her a favor by coming around. And Chrissy was a sweet kid. She'd laughed at his jokes, and told him about what she was studying in college and never once made him feel like he was almost old enough to be her father. When he'd offered to drive her home, to give Pete and Betsy some time alone, she'd nodded shyly and accepted, and he'd smiled at the warning glare he'd been given by big brother.

They'd driven around for a while, then parked and talked some more. And then he'd taken her home. When he'd walked her to the door, she'd surprised him by kissing him on the cheek and thanking him. She'd said she'd enjoyed the evening.

It had shocked the shit out of him.

How the hell could anyone enjoy anything with him? He'd lost all of his joy and playfulness nine months ago. Now there was nothing left but the job and the search for Hutch.

And yet, for just a few minutes tonight, he'd been happy.

He took a couple of swallows of the beer, then turned off the television and the lamp, leaving the room in darkness.

"I was happy tonight, Hutch," he whispered into the dark. "She was a cute girl. Too young for me by a long shot, but it was a nice night."

He grabbed a pillow and crushed it to his chest, hugging hard.

"God, Hutch, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to be happy!"

Day 290 - Nov 4, 1979

He touched himself carefully as he peed, then looked at his cock. The swelling was almost gone, but it still looked red and raw. God! What had he been thinking?

He still had no sense of time, so he had no idea how long his frantic masturbating had gone on. At this point, he supposed he was just lucky he hadn't caused himself permanent damage. He'd been kinda surprised when he finally realized how much he'd hurt himself, that his keepers hadn't done something about it. Apparently a broken wrist warranted treatment -- self-abuse did not.

He looked over at Starsky, still squatting in the corner where he always was. "I-I-I didn't m-m-mean to d-do it," he whispered. "P-p-please don't be m-mad at m-me."

Starsky just smiled, but he didn't speak.

Hutch wanted to go over there, to sit next to his partner, his friend, but he'd already found out that when he got too close, Starsky disappeared. He wasn't sure how, or even when, his partner had gotten in, but he no longer questioned it. He was just grateful Starsky was there and he wasn't always alone anymore.

He rose to his feet and moved slowly back to the bunk, settling in to sleep some more. "G'night, Starsk," he whispered softly. "N-n-next time you g-go, how 'b-bout you t-t-take me t-too?"

It was late. He and Pete had been out on a case until nearly eight and then had gone back to the station and done paperwork for a couple more hours. He was home now, but he was exhausted.

He raided the fridge, digging out a several leftovers and set everything in the oven to heat. While the food warmed, he took a shower, luxuriating in the hot water as it soaked the kinks out of his fatigued muscles. He left the water reluctantly, dressed in soft, oft-washed sweats and then fixed himself a plate. Grabbing a beer on his way out of the kitchen, he kicked the fridge door shut, then turned on the TV as he sat on the couch and began to eat.

"And again," the commentator said, "we report that over 3,000 religious militants have overrun the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and captured 54 embassy staff members. Religious extremist and Iranian leader Ayatollah Khomeini praised their actions. The militants demand that: the Shah, who has ruled Iran for decades and is now seeking medical treatment in the West, be turned over to them for trial; the United States apologize for crimes against the Iranian people; and the Shah's assets be paid to them."

Starsky snorted. "Yeah, right." He did feel sorry for the hostages. Had to be scary, thinking you were safe in the Embassy and then having it invaded like that.

He finished eating and leaned back, slowly sipping his beer. "Was that what it was like for you, Hutch? Did you think you were safe and then find out it was all an illusion?" He shook his head and finished the beer, then turned the TV off and went to wash up his few dishes.

"Where the hell did you go, buddy?" he murmured out loud as he started the water running.

Day 313 - Nov 23, 1979 - Thanksgiving

He'd finally been able to find a place out of the light. He would lie under the bunk. It was cold to lay on the tile floor -- much colder than the mattress on the bunk, but it was a place he could go to avoid the lights.

The lights never went off.

He'd been here a long time, a really long time, and the bulbs never burned out. He shrugged. They must change the bulbs when he was asleep. It was like all the other things that went on here -- he no longer had the energy or the inclination to worry about it.

When he got really dirty and smelly, he was bathed. When his hair got too long, it was cut. When he slept, food and water was brought to him and the bedpan was emptied. These things happened no matter what he did.

If he cried, they still happened.

If he raged against his captivity, they still happened.

If he did nothing, they still happened.

Basically, it didn't matter what he did, because nothing ever changed.

He curled up under the bunk, ignoring the pain in his back and legs, trying to forget the cold that seeped into his body, and just looked at the dark.

Starsky kissed Edith again, thanking her for the many containers that filled his hands and made his slow and stuffed way out to the Torino. The food had been excellent, the company warm and loving, and he'd more than enjoyed playing with Rosie and chatting with teenager Cal. The Dobey kids were great kids.

He hadn't been allowed to help with clean-up, but instead he and the Captain had been banished to the family room to watch the game. It had been a close one, and he hadn't even noticed the way trays with snacks had kept appearing all through it, but as he rubbed his still-full stomach, Dobey's size began to make sense.

He loaded the leftovers onto the front seat from the passenger side, then walked around and climbed in. It was a short drive home and then it was back around the car to try and balance all the containers and foil wrapped packages before he headed upstairs to restock his fridge.

He settled in and turned on the TV, quickly switching the channel as yet another reporter mourned the hostages in Iran, gone all of nineteen days now and missing Thanksgiving. He tried to hold back the snort of disgust, but didn't make it and while he really felt for the people being held in Iran, he had no doubt they would not be forgotten -- not the way Hutch had been.

He rose and went to the calendar -- quickly doing the math to realize that Hutch had been gone 313 days. A little over ten months now. Coming up on a year. He'd not only missed Thanksgiving, he'd missed his birthday, and Starsky's birthday, and Mother's Day and Father's Day, and Easter, and Valentine's Day and the Fourth of July. He'd missed Memorial Day and Labor Day and Columbus Day and spring and summer and now most of fall. And soon it would be winter and if he didn't find Hutch soon, then his partner would miss that, too.

Starsky went back to the refrigerator, looking at the wonderful array of leftovers Edith had foisted off on him. He reached in and began to unload everything he'd just packed away so carefully. Each container was opened and the contents spooned out into the trash. Every foil packet, tossed away. He washed all the containers and put them in a bag to take in to Dobey on Monday.

He felt guilty about wasting the food, but he wouldn't be able to eat it now.

He had nothing to be thankful for.

Day 346 - Dec 25, 1979 - Christmas

When he woke up this time, he was clean and his hair had been cut. It made him frown, because he didn't think he'd been that dirty, and he didn't think his hair had been that long.

His mattress was different too. Instead of the plastic cover, this one was cloth. He sat, lost for a long time, just stroking the new texture, luxuriating in the feel of something new.

He looked up, eyes darting around the room. Starsky still sat in the corner, his knees drawn up and his arms hanging loosely over them. He smiled, as he always did and his eyes seemed to track Hutch's every movement.

"S-s-ee this, S-s-starsk," he said slowly, his voice raspy from disuse. "N-n-new." He ran his hands over the mattress again, fingers tracing every detail of the stitching, the warp and weft of the fabric, the soft feel of the cotton ticking. It made him want to lie back down immediately, to feel it against all of his body and to sleep with this new sensation.

It was wonderful.

But he needed to eat first.

He picked up his bowl and had started to eat, the oatmeal still warm, when he suddenly stopped, fingers frozen in his mouth. There was something in the cereal. He swallowed, then sucked a finger into his mouth. It was something familiar, something he knew, but he couldn't place it. He sucked another finger, struggling to identify the unusual taste. And that's what it was -- a taste. Not the bland papery taste of the oatmeal, nor the non-taste of water -- this was a real, full-fledged taste.

He pulled another finger into his mouth, sucking greedily on the exotic taste. His mouth watered and his taste buds felt as if they had suddenly come alive. He wanted it to never end.

He dipped his finger in the oatmeal again, scooping the thick, warm gruel upward and into his mouth.

Cinnamon!

It was cinnamon!

He knew that taste!

That was something from before -- a wonderful something from before. He closed his eyes and savored every bite, stretching the meal out, not even caring when the cereal cooled and grew thick. He could still taste the cinnamon. He ate every bit, licking his fingers repeatedly, licking the bowl, and then sat back, not even wanting a drink that might wash the taste of the spice from his mouth. If he could, he would keep it there forever.

Finished at last, unable to draw the experience out any longer, he leaned over and found yet another surprise. There on the floor, next to his water was something else. He furrowed his brow as he tried to place this thing as well.

Color.

It was a color.

Red.

Bright red.

And you could eat it.

He looked up and grinned at Starsky, holding the fruit up for inspection. "A-a-a-ple!" he said triumphantly. "F-f-f-or m-me." He dug in happily, ignoring the pain in his mouth as his teeth, loosened from inadequate nutrition and lack of care, protested the work they were made to do to bite into the crisp, fleshy apple. He tasted blood in his mouth, his sensitive gums also protesting at their suddenly brutal usage.

But mostly he tasted apple -- an explosion of sensory delight rampaging through his mouth. God, it was so good! He couldn't go slow this time -- he bit and chewed and swallowed and bit and chewed and swallowed, going as fast as he could as if someone would come and take his prize from him. When he was finished, when he'd pried off every morsel of flesh he could, he sat there, sucking on the core. If they let him, he was going to keep it.

It was the best thing he'd ever had, and he wasn't going to let it go.

It was the first time in a long time he hadn't done Christmas. It was so weird -- he was Jewish but he'd always loved Christmas. And Hutch was Christian, and hated it. Go figure.

For years he'd teased Hutch relentlessly, pushing mercilessly to buy the tree, string the lights, go the whole route with presents and cider and candy canes and carols. And Hutch had always gone along.

Oh, he grumbled and he groaned and he bitched and he complained, but he'd taken to putting up a tree for Starsky, and hanging lights and there'd even been a couple of years where the two of them had sat on the couch together and strung popcorn garlands.

He'd gotten more invitations for today than he could count. His mother had wanted him to fly home, come back to the old neighborhood. His aunt and uncle had called as well, asking him to spend the day with them. And Dobey, and Huggy, and Pete -- all had tried to talk him into coming over, at least for a little while.

But he begged off each time.

Here was where he belonged.

He looked around Hutch's apartment.

The lights twinkled in the windows.

The small tree stood proudly in a corner, hung with ornaments and tinsel.

Packages even hid beneath its branches, peeking out from the green bower.

There were two packages for Hutch from him under there. He hadn't known what to get him and had finally settled on several cassettes of music popular during the year -- Barbra Streisand, Neil Diamond, Rod Stewart, The Commodores. It was stuff Starsky had chosen more because he thought Hutch would like it, and might even be tempted to try to play it, than because it represented any particular genre. He'd also gotten him that special holster he'd been talking about for years -- the one that had to be special ordered and custom-made. And Starsky admitted, that was as much for himself as it was for Hutch because it was a tangible, concrete expression of his belief that Hutch was coming back.

There was a package from Dobey and Edith, and a second, smaller one from Cal and Rosie. Huggy had dropped something off, and Pete had self-consciously passed two packages and a tin of Betsy's cookies to him yesterday, as they said good-bye in the parking lot. He hadn't even realized until this morning that one gift was for Hutch. And while Starsky's mom had sent something for Hutch, there had been nothing at all from his own parents.

Starsky snorted. Big surprise there.

He looked down at the bowl of popcorn in his lap, the threaded needle in his hand. He was going through the motions, but it just wasn't the same.

Of all the things he missed on this night, it was the singing he missed the most. Hutch, his talented, long fingers flying smoothly over the strings of his guitar, head held up as he sang in that beautiful voice of his. He'd give anything to have a tape recording of Hutch singing -- wouldn't even care what he sang -- he just wanted to hear him again.

Wanted to see him again.

Wanted to touch him again, and know that he was safe.

He drew a deep shuddery breath and put the bowl of popcorn beside him, then rose and went to the phone. A quick fumble in his wallet revealed the number and he dialed and identified himself to the servant who answered.

When Hutch's mother came to the phone, he forced himself to be cheerful and said, "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hutchinson."

There was silence and then she replied, "Mr. Starsky. Are you calling about Kenneth?"

Starsky swallowed hard. "There's, uh, still no news, ma'am."

"I see." There was another long pause and then she said, "My husband has instructed me to discontinue the payments for Kenneth's apartment. Please terminate his lease at the end of this month."

"This month?" Starsky repeated in dismay. "That's just a week."

"I apologize for the short notice. Good night."

The phone clicked and Starsky was left holding a dead receiver in this hand. "Son of a bitch!" he swore, slamming the phone down into the cradle. "Fucking son of a bitch!"

He looked around the small, neat apartment that he knew Hutch loved. He counted the many, many plants that he'd managed to keep alive he knew not how. He catalogued pictures and knickknacks and books and records and a thousand other things that Hutch had accumulated in his life and it was all just so overwhelming.

He sank back on the sofa and buried his face in his hands.

God, Hutch," he breathed, "I can't keep this up, partner. You gotta come back."

End Part 1

On to Part 2

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