Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 23 March 2003

Alone - Part 2

Day 366 - Jan 12, 1980

"S-s-starsk?" He lay on the bed and looked over at his partner, still seated in his usual corner of the room.

The other man raised his eyebrows but did not speak.

"I'm n-n-not f-f-feeling so g-g-good here, b-b-babe," Hutch whispered brokenly.

Starsky looked concerned and nodded.

"I-I-I, uh, m-m-maybe I-I-I'm s-s-sick." Hutch rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. "Head h-hurts. B-b-back h-hurts. Ache a-all over. 'm w-w-eak." He turned his head to stare back at the corner.

"D-d-don't th-think you're r-r-really here, b-b-but I n-n-need you s-s-so m-much!" A tear rolled down his cheek and he brushed it away without thinking. He cried so easily these days. " 's b-b-been t-too long, S-s-starsk," he whimpered, "t-t-too l-long."

Starsky nodded, but never moved from his spot in the corner.

"I-I-I r-r-really n-need y-you -- t-t-to t-talk to m-me, t-tell m-me 'm g-gonna g-get outta h-h-here." His blue eyes stared beseechingly across the room, then closed in pain when there was no response.

" 's o-o-kay, S-s-starsk," he finally whispered. "If y-you c-c-can't, 's o-o-k-kay."

He pulled his arm up and wiped at his runny nose, wishing for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time for a tissue or handkerchief. He was cold all the time and his nose ran incessantly. His wonderful cloth mattress had been taken away the last time he'd been bathed and he assumed it was because it was harder to keep clean. Well, he assumed that was what he assumed. He really didn't know. There seemed to be no way to determine what was real and what was not. Sometimes he thought maybe he had imagined the mattress, and the apple, and the cinnamon.

Sometimes, he thought he imagined Starsky, sitting in the corner, watching him.

Sometimes, he imagined he was somewhere else entirely, somewhere outside where it was warm and he could see the sun.

He frowned and another tear ran down his face. He hadn't seen the sun in a very long time.

He closed his eyes and decided he would imagine again. This time, he was just going to imagine that Starsky would talk to him. Maybe, just maybe, if he worked at it hard enough, he could make it real.

He fell asleep and dreamed of Starsky holding him, cradling him in his arms like he had when he'd kicked the heroin, like he had when the trunk of the car had exploded and burned his hand.

He dreamed that he was safe, held tight against his partner's chest, and a large, rough hand rubbed his face while words were whispered in his ear.

"Hang in there, babe. Hang in there. I haven't forgotten you."

Starsky looked around his new apartment. It was bigger than anything he'd ever had before, and filled with far too many plants for his normal tastes. But -- they were Hutch's plants, and while he'd given a lot of them away, he'd also kept a lot. Hutch needed to have something familiar to come home to. It was going to be hard enough not having his own place.

This apartment was nice. A ground-floor unit, he'd given up the privacy of his other apartment for a second bedroom in this one. It gave him a place to put some of Hutch's things. He'd had to rent a storage space for the big stuff, but his bed and dresser were in the second bedroom, his guitar, his clothes, were in the closet there, and his plants -- Starsky looked around at the green foliage that surrounded him -- his plants were everywhere.

Dobey hadn't wanted him to be alone today. He'd tried like hell to get him to come over, go to the basketball game with him and Cal, but Starsky had held firm.

He was spending this day with Hutch.

Huggy had wanted him to at least come to the restaurant and eat. Get out for a while. To not sit in the apartment by himself all day. Huggy had tried to entice him with promises of his favorite foods and plenty of beer. But Starsky had held firm.

This day was for Hutch.

Pete had actually been the first. He'd started back before the holidays, not mentioning the date, just wanting him to come over -- how about the second Saturday in January? He'd been slick. Starsky had agreed without thinking, not even realizing what the date was. But when his head cleared and he looked at the calendar, he'd told Pete the next day -- gotta get together another day.

He needed to be with Hutch on that day.

He'd almost wavered when Betsy had called. She was five months along now -- slightly swollen belly and a chubby face and just about the most beautiful thing Starsky had seen in a long time. She and Pete were so excited about the baby, their joy just couldn't help but spill over onto him. And he was willing to do just about anything she asked -- which is why he ended up eating over there almost as much as he ate at Dobey's or Huggy's place. Betsy had such a way of making him feel like he was doing her a favor by agreeing to let her feed him. But he'd had to say no to her this time.

This was time for Hutch.

He sipped his wine and leaned back against the couch. He was on the floor, an assortment of boxes, books, and other papers scattered around him. He was half-snockered at this point, but he was glad he had decided on wine.

Scotch was too fast, and beer was too associated with the fun times, the playful, lighthearted times. Wine was for serious stuff.

Special dinners.

Celebrations.

Anniversaries.

He finished the glass and poured another, then lifted it and breathed deeply. The rich red cab was filled with dark coffee aromas, hints of leather and the mustiness of vegetables. He took a sip, rolling it in his mouth and almost wishing he hadn't drunk quite so much so quickly. This was a good wine, an excellent vintage. The taste was rich berry and plum, almost concentrated in their strength. He swallowed and relaxed. It even had a nice finish. Yes, indeed. A very good wine.

Hutch would've liked it.

He spent the rest of the night going through the boxes. Hutch was a packrat. And when Starsky had cleaned out his apartment, putting the furniture and most of the other stuff in a storage unit he'd rented, he'd taken these boxes of pictures and other mementos.

There were some shots of Hutch as a child and it was fun to see how tall and gangly he'd been as a youth. Starsky could definitely see the vestiges of that too tall, too big child in his klutzy, awkward partner.

There were school photos, too. High school graduation, along with his diploma and the tassel from his cap. Honors.

College graduation. Degree in Sociology. Tassel from his cap. Summa Cum Laude. He snorted affectionately. That figured.

Academy graduation. Serious, young Hutch. Proud in his new uniform. Determined to right wrongs and make a difference in the world.

A Hutch who hadn't been jaded by the realities of just how hard it is to right wrongs. How so many things conspire against you, even when you're working for the cause of good.

He sipped the wine again, then turned to another box. This one was filled with pictures of him and Hutch. He had no idea where his partner had gotten them. Some were taken at crime scenes, some on the streets. Still others were at police functions, picnics, ball games, out on dates together. He could vaguely remember a few times when someone had snapped a photo and Hutch had called out, "Hey, I want a copy of that," but he had no idea the big doof had actually followed up. There were at least a hundred different pictures in the box and Starsky pulled them all out and began to go through them.

Hutch's messy scrawl was on the back of each one, and just seeing it was like balm to his soul. It made Hutch so real to him. There were pictures and here was his scribble and Starsky was sitting on the floor surrounded by his things.

He began to put the pictures in order, sorting them out by the dates on the back of each photo. And when he was done, he had a chronicle of their life together. From a shot of them sitting together at lunch during their Academy days, to the last one -- taken New Year's Day, 1979. Twelve days before Hutch disappeared. That one had been taken at a party they'd attended. He remembered how he'd soundly kissed the girl he'd been with and looked over to see Hutch doing the same. And then as if they each knew what the other was thinking, they'd pulled away, and champagne glasses in hand, had toasted the New Year. He'd stared at Hutch for the longest time, trying to figure out what that little smile on his lips meant, and then a flashbulb had popped and the moment was broken, and Hutch had grinned and called out -- "Hey, I want a copy of that," and the next thing he knew they were laughing and getting ready to leave with the girls. Funny how he could remember everything about that night so clearly -- everything but the girl's name. He shrugged. It didn't matter.

What mattered was finding Hutch.

He finished his glass of wine, then realized the bottle was empty, so he busied himself with opening another. Savoring the full, rich taste in his mouth, he drank deep and ignored the tears on his cheeks as he went through the photos once again. Laughing at some, staring solemnly at others, and at still others, feeling the tears streak his face.

God, he missed Hutch so much!

He closed his eyes, and whispered, "Hang in there, babe. Hang in there. I haven't forgotten you."

Day 438 - March 25, 1980

There was a sore on his butt.

It had started as a boil, but he'd forced himself to pop it and the foul fluid within had gushed forth. He'd used some of his water to wash it out, and had even called out for his keepers that he was ill, but he had been ignored.

He should be used to that by now.

Now it was just an open sore. When he craned his neck around, he could see the angry red lines that radiated outward from the lesion.

It hurt.

And it made him feel bad.

He was sure it was infected.

After feeling nothing but cold for so long, there were long periods where he was hot, and he would sweat. He felt filthy -- the first time in ages that he'd noticed anything about his physical condition.

When he'd realized he was really sick, he'd taken stock of himself.

His head hurt all the time.

His mouth was tender, the gums bleeding at the least pressure.

His joints ached and his back was especially sore. The wrist he'd broken when he'd first been brought here was another sore spot.

He was lethargic. He no longer had the energy to prowl the room. Just getting up and moving to the bedpan required effort and there were times he wasn't sure he would even be able to make that.

He spent most of his time laying on the bunk, either smiling back at Starsky over in his corner, content to just be there with him, or slipping in and out of dreams, never sure which was real and which was imagined. At times, his dreams were so vivid -- images of him and Starsky on the streets, chasing a perp, or at a game, or eating dinner together. It was all so real, and then he would wake up and think that this was the dream. That he was really back in his apartment, sleeping safe and warm in his own bed and dreaming that he'd been locked away in a small tiled room.

It made him wonder if maybe he was insane.

Maybe he'd had a breakdown and he was here to get better.

But then he'd look down at his skeletal frame, see the skin hanging from his bones, count each rib in his chest, and he knew this couldn't be a hospital. It wasn't healthy to eat the same thing day in and day out.

And if he was in a hospital to get better, wouldn't someone be talking to him?

But then he would wonder -- maybe they are talking to me and I'm just imagining this. Maybe I'm so far lost in this fantasy of the tiled room that I don't see them when they come in, I don't hear them when they talk to me.

Maybe I'm just really fucked up.

It made his head hurt to think about it, so he rolled over and went back to sleep.

"Get the fuck away from him!" Starsky shoved through the crowd, throwing people out of the way to reach the young man who lay gasping on the pavement. He knelt quickly, pulling the kid's head up and cradling it in his lap. "You all right, Pete?" he asked, his hand almost frantically stroking the younger man's face.

"Fine. Davey," Pete sputtered, still sucking hard for air. "Just. Got. The wind. Knocked."

"Shhh," Starsky said softly. "Just breathe. Don't try and talk." He looked at the cops milling around and barked, "Get these people back and get the damn paramedics over here!"

"Davey," Pete paused and breathed several times. " 'm okay. Don't need. Medical."

Starsky snorted. "Give it up, little boy. You're getting looked at. 'm not having my partner falling over on me on the way ..." He stopped, his eyes going wide and suddenly he couldn't breathe.

Pete was pulling himself up to sit. The paramedics were there and they were trying to push him back down, but he was fighting now, pushing their hands away because Starsky was backing away, his face pale and sweaty, his breath coming in huge, gulping gasps.

"Davey," he called, "wait!" He pushed at a beefy fireman with a caduceus on his sleeve, and tried to crawl away.

"Hold it," the paramedic said, "you took a pretty good hit. We need to look at you."

Pete waved him away and clambered to his feet. "In a minute," he said, hanging onto the larger man's arm as he got his balance, "I need to check on my -- him." He pointed to Starsky, leaning against a wall and barely able to breathe.

The medic drew a deep breath and said to his partner, "Looks like we've got another one." He began to move toward Starsky but was pulled to a halt by Pete's hand on his arm.

"No," Pete pleaded, "he's all right. Just," the redhead ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, "give me a minute to talk to him. He'll be all right." The fireman looked wary, so Pete added, "Please?"

The medic crossed his hands over his chest and frowned, but nodded and Pete took off.

He reached Starsky and immediately unbuttoned a few more buttons on his shirt. "Breathe," he ordered, his hands cupping Starsky face. "Just breathe, Davey!"

Starsky nodded and sucked in a great draught of air, then blew out heavily and did it again.

"Hutch is your partner, Davey," Pete said fiercely. "You two are like, legends, man! I could never take that away. You've got a partner, Davey. Hutch. Hutch is your partner."

Starsky was nodding, the color slowly coming back to his face. "Need to sit," he gasped out, and he dropped gracelessly onto the ground, letting the younger man control the fall and continue to hold onto him.

"Davey," Pete went on, "you gotta hear me, man. I love working with you -- you're the best. I know how lucky I got, getting to work with you. You're my trainer, my mentor, and you're my friend. But Davey -- you're not my partner, 'cause you can't have two partners. And you already have a partner. We're just working together -- you hear me?" He shook the older man's face slightly, forcing him to focus. "Working together. Remember? That's what the captain said. He said, 'Starsky, you and Ferguson can work together,' and we have."

" 'm sorry, Pete, 'm sorry," Starsky said, his breathing back to normal now, but his heart still racing.

"I'm not," the younger man said lightly. "I've had the best training a new guy can get. And not only have you taught me more about my job than I'd have learned in five years with some other guy -- you've taught me what partner- ship is all about. When Hutch comes back," he pulled Starsky's head around, forcing him to meet his eyes, "and he will come back, I'll go on and get partnered with someone. And it'll be okay, Davey, it will. Because, you see, while we've been working together, you've taught me what being a partner is all about."

Day 468 - April 24, 1980

He had to get strong.

He was letting himself fall apart.

If he kept this up, he wasn't going to be alive when Starsky finally came and got him.

He finished his oatmeal, drank his water, and pushed himself to his feet. He'd start slow. Just a couple of laps around the room.

He wobbled to the wall, one hand bracing himself upright as he began the circuit. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. It was slow and tiring. He forced himself to keep moving, to complete the whole circuit.

When he had circled the whole room, he sank gratefully onto the bunk.

He was exhausted, but he'd made it.

He curled up in a ball and breathed warm air against his chest.

He'd done it.

And when he woke up, he'd do it again.

He almost hated to watch the news. For almost six months now, not a day went by that there wasn't some mention of the missing Americans in Iran. A commentator would appear, an image of a blindfolded or hooded person behind him, and the banner would read Day 30 or Day 42 or Day 56.

And in his mind he would mentally correct it to read Day 320 or Day 332 or Day 346.

He winced as he turned the television on, opening his beer to avoid having to look at the screen.

"The mission began to unravel as soon as the first plane landed," the reporter said, "at what was supposed to be a remote desert location. Reports indicate that a passenger bus appeared and was stopped. As soldiers corralled the people on it, a truck came along. Despite being warned, it wouldn't stop, so it was fired upon."

Starsky watched, enthralled.

"With the airfield secured again, they waited for the rest of the team to arrive. The helicopters were late because they had run into a giant cloud of suspended sand. Three of the eight helicopters had had mechanical failures, so there were not enough helicopters to continue; the mission was scrubbed."

Jesus, what a fuck up! Once again, the American military shows they don't know shit. Shoulda had the Israelis do it. They, at least, know how to get their people out.

The commentator was droning on, a picture of a helicopter crashing into a huge cargo plane filled the screen.

"Then disaster struck: One of the remaining helicopters crashed into a C-130 waiting to take off. Eight men were killed in the resultant explosion."

Starsky tuned out the recitation of the eight names, focusing instead on the sheer level of commitment that was made to those people in Iran. People, equipment, money -- whatever was needed was made available. The best and brightest minds were part of the program to figure out how to get our people back.

And while he knew, on one level, that was as it should be, that those people in Iran had no more asked to be taken hostage than Hutch had wanted to disappear, he couldn't help but resent the national resources that were being expended to find them and bring them home.

And he couldn't even get the brass downtown to agree to reopen Hutch's case. They were still trying to claim that Hutch probably just decided to take off -- start a new life somewhere else.

It enraged him.

He rose and kicked the TV, watching in satisfaction as the screen cracked and then the whole box fell over, crackling and sizzling where it landed. He turned from there and attacked a bookcase next, then dragged pictures from the wall. Cushions on the couch were the next casualty as he methodically worked his way through the room, destroying everything he touched.

Nothing was safe. Records were broken, tapes destroyed. Books ripped apart, pictures shredded. Just about anything that could be lifted and thrown was, and it was a bonus if it shattered on impact.

He was still at it when his door flew open and two uniforms raced in, their weapons at the ready. He froze, a ceramic bowl in his hands, and turned to face them.

"Detective Starsky?" the black one asked.

"Officer Jenkins, isn't it?" He smiled and put the bowl down, keeping his hands in sight. "You think you and your partner could, um, not point your weapons at me?"

"Oh." Jenkins seemed embarrassed as he put the gun away and motioned for his partner to do the same. "Sorry, sir. We got a call about a disturbance ..." His voice trailed away as his eyes raked the devastation of Starsky's living room.

Starsky gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Sorry. That was me." He waved at the surrounding destruction. "I, uh, got a little upset about something on the news."

Jenkins nodded, but didn't say anything.

"I'm, uh, done now," Starsky added.

Jenkins nodded again. "Well, in that case, you won't be needing us." He touched his partner on the arm and nodded at the door. "Good night." When he got to the door, he turned back and said, "Do you want me to call someone for you, Starsky? Maybe Ferguson? Or Dobey?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nah. That's okay, Jenkins, but thanks. Guess this is a case of 'I made my mess, I'll have to lie in it.'"

"All right, then, if you're sure."

"I'm sure," Starsky said with conviction.

The black man nodded again and followed his partner out, closing the door behind him.

The rage gone now, Starsky looked around the room.

It was funny how, even through the rage, he didn't touch any of Hutch's things. Not a single book, or record, or plant went smashing to the floor. Of his own things, the destruction was almost complete. Pages ripped from books, albums smashed, pictures ripped off the walls and torn to shreds.

But everything that spoke of Hutch was intact.

After all, Starsky had lost so much of his partner already; he couldn't afford to lose anything else.

Day 483 - May 9, 1980

His stomach hurt so bad. He was curled up under the bunk, trying to relieve the cramps any way he could, but nothing helped.

Of course, he didn't have many options.

Just lying on his side, holding his stomach. Maybe rubbing his belly when he could stand his own touch.

His bowels had been the same as they'd been for as long as he could remember. No change there. So nothing to indicate why he was suddenly in such excruciating pain.

Another cramp washed over him and he cried out, his voice hoarse and ragged from disuse.

He pulled his legs up tighter to his chest, worked his hand beneath them and rubbed at his aching belly.

God! It hurt so bad!

When was this going to end?

"Zebra-three, Zebra-three. Come in." The voice on the radio crackled with static.

Pete leaned forward and picked up the mike. "This is Zebra-three, over."

"Zebra-three, proceed to Memorial Hospital. See the Admitting desk about a woman in labor, over."

Pete looked at Starsky, confusion in his face. "Woman in labor? Why the hell ..." His voice suddenly went up three octaves as Starsky hit the brakes, slid the Torino into a frantic U-turn, and raced off in the opposite direction.

"It's Betsy," Starsky said, reaching out to cuff the younger man on the head, then take the mike. "Zebra-three. Acknowledged. We are en route. Out." He clipped the mike back on the radio.

"Betsy?" Pete said in wonder. "It can't be Betsy. We've still got two weeks."

Starsky snorted. "Sounds like somebody forgot to tell your kid that."

Pete turned and looked at Starsky, his face a mask of seriousness. "No, really, Dave, it can't be Betsy."

Starsky laughed at the stunned father-to-be, then asked, "And why's that, Petey-boy?"

"We haven't even packed a suitcase yet."

When Starsky arrived that evening, flowers in hand, a stuffed bear under his arm, he was greeted by Betsy's soft, "Shush," and a finger pointing at the new father, asleep in a rocking chair, a tiny scrap of fabric resting on his chest. "He's exhausted."

Starsky held out the flowers with a flourish, smiling when Betsy squealed quietly, then leaned down and kissed her cheek. "And how are you, Mom? Aren't you the one who's supposed to be exhausted?"

She smiled back and said, "I'm too -- up -- to be tired right now. It'll come, I'm sure." Her smile turned to a rueful grin as she rubbed her hand across her deflated abdomen and added, "I know why they call it labor, now."

"Hard work, huh?" Starsky sympathized.

"She was great," said a voice from the chair. "Absolutely the greatest." He rose, carefully cradling the bundle of flannel, a knit cap peeking from the blanket and just covering a shock of bright red hair.

"Well," Starsky drawled, "I've been telling you for months she was the greatest. And if you don't treat her right, I might just steal her away from you."

Betsy reached out and took Starsky's hand. "Remember that, Peter," she said teasingly, "I've got a pretty good alternate offer."

Pete laughed comfortably, then sat on the bed beside his wife. "Ready to meet your namesake?" he asked, holding the baby out and placing him in Starsky's arms.

"Namesake?" Starsky squeaked.

"Yeah," Pete replied. "We want to name him David." He looked at his wife, silently imploring her help.

She reached out and placed her hand on Starsky's arm. "That's not all, Dave," she said. "We have a request to make. We don't just want to name him David -- if it's okay with you, we want to name him David Kenneth."

Starsky's breath caught, and Pete put a hand on his back. "Breathe, Davey," he whispered, rubbing gently.

"Is that all right, Dave?" Betsy asked again.

Starsky's eyes filled with tears as he looked at the tiny scrap of life in his hands. "Why?" he choked out.

"Because we want him to have a name that represents love," Betsy said simply. "We want him to always know that he was created in love, named in love, and will live with love."

Starsky nodded, fighting to hold the tears back.

"David Kenneth," he said at last. "Hutch'll be so proud."

Day 594 - August 28, 1980

Hutch sat on the mattress and shivered. His arms were wrapped around his legs as they usually were, but he was unusually cold today. He couldn't stop shaking. There'd been no food or water the last three times he'd awakened, and he was scared.

No one had responded to his calls. No one had come when he'd pounded on the door.

He'd tried to do the states again, and found he couldn't even remember what came first. He'd known at one time, he was sure of it, but it was like it was all gone now. He just couldn't remember.

So he'd tried to do the multiplication tables, but he couldn't do those either. They were gone just like the states.

It was all slipping away from him.

His stomach rumbled and he cocked his head, listening to the familiar sound. He was so thin now, beyond gaunt.

He had no strength.

He still pushed himself to walk the single circuit of the room that his energy would permit, but that was more because it was a habit than anything else.

He couldn't remember why it was important to do it, but he just knew he needed to. The why had disappeared off to wherever the states and the multiplication tables had gone.

He crawled down off the bed.

He had to do something.

He was going insane.

If he couldn't do the states, and he couldn't do the multiplication tables, maybe he could still count. He crawled slowly to a corner and put a finger on the first tile.

"One, two, three ..."

He had to hang on to his numbers. If everything else was disappearing, at least he could still count.

That was something, wasn't it?

"Where the hell have you been?" Pete said, storming up from the desk and dragging Starsky back out of the squad room. He towed the older man back down the hall and out of the building.

"Shit, Pete!" Starsky said in irritation, finally shaking the other man's hand off. "I had a lead on Hutch. I was following up."

"And they don't have fucking phones where you were?" The younger man shook with rage and relief.

"Petey, man, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," Starsky said in an attempt to calm and placate his friend.

Pete looked at him for a long minute then pulled back his fist and nailed him on the jaw. "Son of a bitch!" he swore. "How dare you?"

Starsky staggered, then rubbed his jaw and swallowed, "What the hell's wrong with you?" he demanded.

"You!" Pete hissed. "You're what's wrong with me! You come to dinner Saturday, play with my kid, flirt with my wife, and then you fucking disappear!" He took a step back and scrubbed at his face. "Do you have any fucking idea how worried I've been?"

Starsky looked at the younger man, noting the dark circles under his eyes, the lines around his lips and furrows in his brow. He was unshaven, and his clothes looked slept in.

"Aw, shit, Petey, I'm sorry." He reached out tentatively, wrapping his arms around the kid, ready to pull back at the first sign of rejection. But Pete just hugged him back, squeezing tightly, then pulled away shaking his head.

"You can't do that to me, man," he whispered. "I'm not strong like you -- I can't take it." Tears glistened in his eyes.

"Pete, man, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. I didn't realize ... Aw, shit. I'm just sorry, Pete. Really, really sorry."

Pete stood stiffly for a moment, then nodded. "You get anything?"

Starsky shook his head. " 'nother dead end." He turned the other man and they began walking back to the station. "So, tell me, how much trouble am I in with Dobey?"

"None," Pete said shortly. "I covered for you."

Starsky froze. "No."

Pete took a couple more steps, then halted as well and looked back. "What?"

"No, Pete."

"No, what, Davey?"

"Don't cover for me." The words were ground out through gritted teeth.

Pete cocked his head and studied the other man. "Why?"

"When I ... When Hutch ... He didn't -- come in that morning," Starsky said, beginning to gasp as his heart began to race.

"It wasn't your fault," Pete said automatically, the words familiar to him after working with Starsky for over a year. "You couldn't have known."

Starsky's eyes were horror-stricken as he looked at the young man before him. "I didn't start looking for him till three in the fucking afternoon. Eight hours after I could have."

"It's still not your fault," Pete said stubbornly. "You didn't know."

"No," Starsky said, surprising Pete with his agreement. "But I covered for him, too." He stared at the redhead, then reached out and wrapped a hand around his arm, anchoring him in place. "I covered for him and he's lost. Don't you ever, ever do the same thing. Your partner doesn't show -- you find out why. You can't find out why -- you turn him in." He gave the arm a little shake. "You hear me, Petey? You understand?"

"Yeah, Dave," Pete said calmly, standing still beneath the other man's grasp. "I hear you."

Starsky clung to him a moment longer, then let him go, breathing out a sigh of relief. "Well. Good then. At least we got that settled." He began to walk again and Pete fell in step beside him.

"Oh, yeah," the younger man said with a laugh, "you pull this shit on me again, and I'm putting an APB out on your ass."

Day 713 - December 25, 1980

There was food on the floor, but it seemed like such a long way down from the bed. He looked at it for a while, trying to decide if he wanted it or not. He was hungry -- he was always hungry, but he just didn't want to move right now.

He reached down with one arm, was just able to snag the water bottle and lifted it up. He tried to open the bottle, but he couldn't turn the top.

He tried again and again and again, but he couldn't get it to move.

It made him cry.

He was really thirsty and he had water right here, and he couldn't get to it. Had his keepers suddenly decided to start torturing him?

He rolled over and fell asleep, and when he woke, there was food on the floor, and more water, but this time the bottle was open.

"Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"Mr. Starsky."

"I, uh, just wanted you to know, uh, what with it being Christmas and all, we, uh, haven't given up."

"We have, Mr. Starsky."

"Excuse me?"

"If Kenneth were capable of coming home, he would have by now."

"No, ma'am. Someone could be holding him, preventing him from coming home, or he could be hurt somewhere, just waiting for us to find him." His voice broke. "We can't give up."

"Yes, Mr. Starsky, we can."

Click.

Starsky sighed and moved to the Christmas tree. He picked up the five presents there for Hutch, one each from Huggy; Dobey; his mother; Pete, Betsy, and the kid -- the name he called both his namesake and his erstwhile partner -- and one from him. Stacking them in his arms, he carried them back to his spare room and added them to a box that contained last year's Christmas presents, two years' worth of birthday gifts, and at least a dozen other things he'd seen and bought for his partner, just because he thought Hutch would like them.

"Merry Christmas, Hutch," he whispered, as he turned off the light and closed the door.

Day 731 - January 12, 1981

He was under the bunk again, crying for darkness. If they'd just turn the lights out, just for a little while.

Then maybe he could sleep.

Then maybe his head wouldn't hurt so much.

He closed his eyes tightly, but even in the relative dark of his position beneath the bunk, and even curled with his arm thrown over his closed eyes, he could still see the light -- relentless, all-seeing, always watching him.

The bulbs that never burned out.

The light that never darkened.

It was making him insane.

He just needed to get out of the light.

Starsky sat with the boxes all around him again, a couple of bottles of wine already open and waiting for him to begin. He'd lit candles tonight, wanting the room to be dark, knowing the darkness was soothing.

He'd spent the last two weeks going through Hutch's things. Clothes had been sorted and boxed, books and records were categorized and inventoried, the framed prints that had hung on the walls of Hutch's place were now stacked neatly with proposed destinations in mind.

He'd pull out two books for Cal Dobey -- Kerouac's On the Road and Richard Wright's Black Boy. Rosie would get a set of three porcelain clown figurines. To Edith Dobey went an afghan she had crocheted for Hutch -- he had one as well. They'd been Christmas gifts the second year they'd worked for her husband. The man himself was getting several of Hutch's albums, a couple of jazz, one R and B, as well as John Denver's first album, which Starsky hadn't even known Hutch had. It would both embarrass and please the Captain -- he didn't like the world to know he was a fan of the singer's balladsy style. Huggy was getting a painting that had hung in Hutch's living room; it was something he'd commented on several times.

As much as it killed him, the really personal stuff he was sending to Hutch's parents -- graduation certificates, a couple of police citations, a small folder with a number of newspaper clippings. Starsky smiled. He had all of those clippings anyway; he'd been sending them to his mom all along.

The last thing that would be passed on was Ollie. The little bear had sat on Hutch's bed for several years now, ever since Hutch had unwrapped him while they sat on the floor playing Monopoly. Just holding him made Starsky tear up.

They were both gone now -- the two loves of his life. First Terry, taken by a man bent on revenge. Now Hutch, vanished with no rhyme or reason. Just -- gone.

Ollie would go to little DK. It was both the hardest gift to make and the easiest.

But the pictures he was keeping. If Hutch's parents asked, and he strongly suspected it would never come up, then he'd have duplicates made. But if they didn't ask, then they were his.

If he was never going to see his partner again, then he was damn well going to cling to every image he had of him.

Starsky pulled out the pictures, stacked neatly in chronological order, and looked at the first one of them in the Academy lunchroom. He poured a glass of wine, still smiling at the regulation haircuts, the spit-shined shoes and crisp-pleated pants, the starched shirts.

"Who'd a thought, Hutch?" he whispered. "Who'd a thought those two squared away guys would turn out to be me and thee?"

He sipped the wine slowly this time, no longer in any hurry for the drunk he sought to find him.

"Two years, babe," he murmured. "Two years, and I miss you like it was yesterday."

Day 739 - January 20, 1981

There'd been something in his oatmeal this morning. It had looked familiar and he'd stared at it for a long time trying to remember what it was. The name finally came to him -- spoon. It was a spoon. He knew it had something to do with eating, but he wasn't sure what it was. He pulled it out of his food and set it aside, then went ahead and ate as he always did, licking his fingers clean afterwards.

When he was done, he looked at the spoon on the mattress. It had oatmeal on it, too. He picked it up, licking it clean, the sticking it in his mouth and sucking.

Only then did it occur to him that he'd actually had an eating utensil to use, and he'd still chosen to eat with his fingers.

He shivered in disgust at himself, ashamed of how far away from his humanity he'd fallen.

With a groan he rolled onto the bed, curled up, and tried to go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he was still someone. He could talk and read and remember things, and people talked to him.

In his dreams he even laughed.

But most importantly, Starsky was there in his dreams, and he talked to him. In his dreams he slept at Starsky's place, ate at Starsky's table, rode in Starsky's car.

In his dreams, he had a lifeline, someone to cling to and believe in.

He looked over at the empty corner, the corner where his partner used to sit.

But there was nothing there now.

He was gone.

Hutch groaned again as he shifted on the mattress. With no padding over his bones, there was no position he could lie in that was comfortable, and it made it hard to fall asleep sometimes. His skin was dry and cracked and it split easily. The slightest bump caused bruising.

But he was determined to sleep.

Because, you see, in his dreams, he wasn't alone anymore.

Someone had brought a TV into the squad room and shortly before noon everyone gathered to watch Reagan take the oath of office.

Soon after the actual event, a commentator broke in and announced, "It has been confirmed. With President Reagan's assumption of power, eight billion dollars in frozen Iranian assets have been released, and in exchange, the 52 remaining hostages have been set free. They are, even at this very moment, on board an airplane headed for Algiers."

Starsky heard the words in silence, then stared around the room as spontaneous cheering burst out. He watched mutely for a long moment as the detectives clapped each other on the back and generally celebrated the captives' freedom.

Eight billion dollars. That was all it had taken to get these other men back. Just eight billion dollars.

He tried to control it, he really did. He clamped down hard on the rage, but at last it bubbled over, having grown too large for him to contain. Reaching out with both hands, he gripped the underside of his desk, and with a mighty roar, tipped it on its side.

The room fell quiet, except for a muttered, "What the fuck?"

Starsky glared at them all, then turned and stormed through the doors and down the hall.

"What the hell just happened?" Dobey asked, coming out of his office.

"444 days for the hostages," Pete said softly. "739 days for Hutch."

"How do you know that?" someone asked.

"Why do you know that?" chimed in someone else.

"Because," Pete answered, moving to lift the desk back onto its feet. "I need to know." His eyes drifted to the door Starsky had disappeared through. "It's important to my partner."

Day 780 - March 4, 1981

Alone.

That was what he was.

No one was coming for him.

He'd been forgotten.

No one even thought about him anymore.

The food came.

The water came.

He still woke up bathed and clean on occasion.

But other than that, there was nothing to indicate that there was anything outside the four walls of the small tiled room.

And Hutch was still alone.

"Whadaya got for me, Mickey?" Starsky asked, sliding into the booth next to the little man.

"It's good, Starsky -- real good." He licked his lips and gazed longingly up at the bar.

"Let me hear it."

When Mickey still only looked at the bar, Starsky sighed and nodded to the bartender. A drink was produced.

"Now, Mickey," Starsky said.

"This guy I know, his cousin, see? He just got outta the joint and he's looking for work." Mickey paused and took a sip of the drink.

"And?"

"So he hears about this gig going around -- ex-cons only. Three months, easy duty. Big money. Only catch is, you can't talk about it."

"What kinda money we talking, Mick?" Starsky asked.

"Three thousand a month, free and clear."

Starsky whistled low and shook his head. "And what do these guys have to do for that kinda bread?"

"That's the thing, Starsky. They're keeping some guy ..."

Starsky's eyes widened and he straightened in the seat. "Hutch," he breathed.

Mickey held up both hands, palms outward and shook his head. "I didn't say that, man. I just said they were keeping some guy."

"What are they doing to him?"

Mickey just stared at him. "That's what's so weird. They ain't doing nothing. They feed him, clean him up every now and then, but they don't do anything to him. They just -- keep -- him."

"Where?" Starsky demanded

Mickey shrugged.

Starsky rose and dragged the smaller man from the booth, throwing him up against a wall with his arm against his throat. "Where?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"I don't know! I don't know!" Mickey squirmed in Starsky's iron grip. "I've told you all I know."

"Who's the guy?"

"Ernie. Ernie Boyd."

Starsky dropped Mickey, straightening his tie, then reaching back to grab his drink and pass it to the shaking man. "Finish it quick, Mickey," he said. "You got work to do."

Day 795 - March 19, 1981

He'd been here for two weeks.

This time, he'd told both Dobey and Pete, and he'd taken some leave time to cover his absence. He called Pete daily, checking in so the younger man wouldn't worry, but he knew in his heart he wasn't leaving this bar until he'd found what he was looking for.

This time, he either came back with Hutch or he wasn't coming back at all.

He sat slouched in a booth, sipping the club soda he'd ordered, and watched the gathering crowds. He'd waited patiently every day, all day, and then all night as well, constantly scanning the faces for the one he was looking for.

Every night the bar had closed and he'd driven back to the ratty motel up the road to sleep until ten, then come back to be here when the bar opened again at eleven. He was getting tired. Tired of living on takeout food. Tired of running on five or less hours of sleep a night. Tired of the anticipation and the anxiety and the fear that this would turn into another wild goose chase, as all the others had.

He sipped his drink, then sat up, suddenly alert. His quarry was here.

Starsky watched the man carefully all night, noting that he threw back whiskey like most people drank water. He danced with a few of the women, copped a couple of feels, but made no move toward leaving with someone. When the bar closed at two, Starsky rose and left with the others, watching closely as the man climbed into a beat-up truck and pulled out, heading north. Climbing into the Torino, Starsky left the parking lot, turned left, and followed.

They drove for almost two hours. The road was deserted and rambled first through bare flatlands, then through a densely wooded area. Starsky was straining to keep the truck in sight and not wreck himself. He'd foregone his headlights, instead fixing his vision on the taillights of the pickup and praying that nothing unexpected popped up in his path.

When the truck's brake lights lit, Starsky began to decelerate. The man turned left onto a dirt road and drove slowly up, the bouncing of the truck as it hit potholes and small gullies obvious even in the dark.

Again, Starsky gave him a short lead, then turned in and followed.

They went two and three-tenths miles down the road, then the truck stopped at an old barn. Starsky quickly killed his engine and wished for the first time in his life that the car didn't have a 460 CID 4V Police Interceptor engine, fully bored. Instead, it would have been nice to have something that was stealthily quiet.

As it was, he watched as the man parked under a light, then walked around the truck and unlocked a door. Giving it a shove, he disappeared inside.

Starsky climbed out of the Torino and began to push it backward, looking for a place to get it off the road and concealed. He pushed for over an hour before he found what he was looking for -- a wide patch of road that led off to a small clearing. He pushed backward past his chosen spot, then yanked the wheel hard to the left and pushed the car forward. He rolled it as far into the clearing as he could, angling it to the right as close to the trees as possible. Once parked, he collected branches and other deadfall and covered the back of the Torino.

Once he was done, he checked from the road and was pleased that he couldn't see the car. He turned back toward the barn and began to jog.

The sun was just coming up as he made it back, and he hid in the trees and waited. Another hour or so later, the man from the bar came out, locked the barn, climbed into the truck and drove away.

Starsky waited until he could no longer hear the truck, then crept forward and examined the lock on the barn. He scouted around the building looking for another way in, but found nothing. Returning to the lock, he stared at it while he chewed on his lip.

He had no warrant.

He had no probable cause.

He had nothing but a gut feeling that his partner was behind this door.

Shit! He'd take a gut feeling over probable cause and a piece of paper any day.

He pulled his weapon and fired, smiling wolfishly when the lock exploded. Picking the remains apart, he opened the door and entered, weapon still drawn.

The barn was empty with two exceptions. To one side sat a large horse trough, with a pump at one end, ostensibly to fill it. A shelf over it held bath soap, shaving gear, and scissors.

That was remarkable by itself, but it was the other object in the room that drew his attention.

A free standing room, roughly eight by ten and maybe twelve or fifteen feet high. Heavily soundproofed, it was closed by a metal door, which was locked only with three bolts that were slid closed. He moved to it quickly and slid the bolts back, then threw the door open -- and gaped.

There, lying asleep on an uncovered mattress, was Hutch.

Tears filled his eyes as he holstered his gun and moved across the room. He gazed down at his sleeping partner and gasped.

The man was skeletal. His dry, cracked skin was split and oozing in several places. It hung from his frame. Small bruises peppered his arms and legs and he shivered in his sleep. His golden hair was heavily threaded with silver now, and even in repose his face was furrowed in pain.

Starsky lifted a hand and wiped his eyes, then briefly covered his mouth before reaching out to carefully touch the sleeping man's shoulder.

"Hutch," he whispered, "c'mon, babe. Time to wake up."

Hutch rolled over almost immediately and looked up at him with no surprise. "S-starsk," he said in a cracked and broken voice, "y-y-you came b-b-back."

Starsky frowned, but simply nodded. "Can you sit up?"

Hutch nodded but made no effort to move. "I-I-I thought y-you w-w-were m-mad at m-me."

Starsky's heart fell and he moved to sit on the bed and gather the broken man into his arms. Hutch was cold. His skin held no warmth at all, and there was no residual heat on the mattress where he'd lain. "Aw, no, babe," he whispered, his voice threatening to desert him entirely, "I was never mad at you. I been looking for you, Hutch, looking for you all the time."

Hutch nodded gravely, then let his head rest on Starsky's shoulder. " 'm g-g-lad y-you're not m-mad at m-me."

"Never," Starsky promised. He clutched Hutch to his chest, forcing himself not to squeeze too tightly because the man he held felt so fragile, the slightest bit of pressure could make his skin split or bones break. "We gotta get you outta here," he said. "You think you can walk?"

Hutch nodded. "I w-walk around the r-room. E-e-very time I w-wake up."

"Around the room?" Starsky took in his surrounding. The room was maybe twelve paces around. "How many times?"

"One. Th-then I g-get t-tired."

" 's okay, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "That's real good, babe. You kept trying, didn't ya?" He pushed away from his partner, reluctant to let him go for even a minute, but wanting to cover him, to get him warm. He shed his shirt and passed it over. "Why don't you put that on, Hutch?" he suggested.

Hutch stared at the garment for a long time, then a slight smile crossed his face. "Sh-shirt," he said, his fingers rubbing the fabric back and forth.

"Yeah, Hutch, it's a shirt. Put it on."

"B-b-but I-I-I don't w-w-wear clothes," Hutch said in confusion. "I-I-I d-don't have any."

"You can wear mine," Starsky said, taking the shirt back and pulling it gently over Hutch's head. He helped him lift his arms and get them in the sleeves then smoothed the cotton down, covering Hutch's abdomen and genitals. "Let's go," he said, standing. "I want us long gone before anyone gets back.

Hutch nodded and dropped onto the floor, then crawled to the wall and pulled himself up while Starsky watched, appalled. Regaining his wits, he moved forward and gently wrapped an arm around Hutch's waist, supporting the other man. He turned him and steered him toward the door.

When they reached the threshold, Hutch stopped, suddenly frozen in place. "S-s-starsk?" he said, whimpering. "Is th-this another d-dream? Are y-y-ou g-g-going to d-disa-p-pear a-g-gain?"

Starsky looked up into exhausted, confused blue eyes and shook his head. "No, babe," he promised, "this is not a dream. I'm real. You're real. We're getting outta here. And I ain't never gonna disappear again."

Hutch nodded feebly and stepped out of the room.

It had been 795 days.

He made it to the barn door before he collapsed. Starsky debated for all of two seconds on whether to leave him and go for the car, or carry him. And then he realized he could never leave him, never again. "Hutch," he said, leaning over to speak to the man who sat panting on the ground. "We need to move a little faster than you can go right now. I'm gonna have to carry you."

"C-c-carry me?" Hutch looked up in confusion. "Y-you can d-do that?"

Starsky looked at the emaciated form and nodded. "Yeah, babe, I think I can do that." He leaned over and pulled Hutch up again, warning, "This may not be very comfortable but it won't be far.

Hutch just nodded.

Starsky hoisted him into a fireman's carry and set off.

He was barely through the barn door when Hutch croaked, "S-stop! P-p-please."

Starsky halted immediately. He lowered Hutch to the ground, his hands running over him as he said, "I'm sorry, Hutch, I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

Hutch shook his head, then pointed up, his head lifted upward, eyes closed and smile of utter bliss on his face. "S-s-sun" he whispered reverently. "S-s-sun."

The tears fell then as Starsky gripped his partner and pulled him close. "Yeah, Hutch," he murmured, "it's the sun. And you can see it all you want."

Hutch snuggled closer to Starsky, leaning against the other man for support as he soaked up his impromptu sunbath. "I-I-I d-dreamed, S-starsk," he said, his voice still hoarse from disuse. "D-dreamed. Y-you." He held up one finger. "S-s-sun." He held up a second finger. "H-h-home." He held up a third.

"You got the first two, babe," Starsky said, rising again and pulling Hutch up. "Let's go get number three."

He hoisted the frail man again and, ever alert, headed back down the road toward the Torino. It took nearly an hour to get back to the car.

Hutch never complained, but Starsky would stop regularly, not so much to rest himself as to give the man he carried a break. When Starsky would lower him to the ground, Hutch would simply smile and lift his head to the sun. Nearly translucent from being confined for so long, his skin didn't take long to begin to redden from exposure. Starsky noticed immediately and at the next rest break, insisted Hutch sit in the shade.

There were a thousand questions running through Starsky's head. Who was responsible for this? Why had Hutch been taken? Had he been held here all the time? What had been done to him? Why did he seem so disconnected from everything?

Hutch was drowsing again, leaning against a tree with a small smile on his face. He seemed exhausted already and Starsky threw caution to the wind and let him sleep a while. As isolated as this place was, he would hear a vehicle long before it could be seen and would have plenty of time to lose himself and his partner in the woods if need be. As anxious as he was to get back to Bay City, to get Hutch to a hospital and to put the ball in action to get this place locked down and under surveillance, it all faded to the need to keep that simple smile on Hutch's face.

Hutch began to list to the left, and Starsky caught him, pulling him down until the blond head rested in his lap. His fingers carded through the golden hair, now fraught with so much silver, then he let his hand drop. Hutch mewed, and shifted as if seeking out the comfort of Starsky's touch again, so he went back to rubbing Hutch's head, stroking his face and arms, fingering the soft blond hairs.

Little details he hadn't noticed at first were becoming apparent. Hutch needed both a haircut and a shave. And -- he smelled. Some of the scent was just unwashed body, but beneath it there was a lingering odor of ill health and untreated infection. Starsky lifted the tail of his shirt, examining Hutch's rear, and noting the open sore there. Red lines streaked angrily around it and it looked very tender. He was surprised Hutch had been able to sit at all. The many bruises he noted did not seem to come from a beating -- they were too small and there was no pattern. Sighing, he had to admit that Hutch probably just bruised really easily and something as simple as bumping the wall would injure him.

He smiled down at the sleeping man, amazed that he was actually here and rested a hand on Hutch's head. "Hey," he said softly, "Sleeping Beauty."

Hutch's eyes opened and he smiled.

"Time to get going."

"Starsk." Hutch breathed the name reverently. "Thought I d-dreamed it."

"No dream, babe," Starsky whispered. "You're stuck with this ugly mug for the duration."

"N-not ug-ugly," Hutch insisted, his hand coming up to rest gently against his partner's face, before sliding back down, weary from the effort. "Dreamed of y-you."

"Yeah -- me and the sun and a thousand pretty girls," Starsky laughed, shifting Hutch up to sit again, wincing as he thought of the wound on his buttock. He climbed to his feet, then helped Hutch up.

"N-no," Hutch insisted. "Y-you and the s-sun, and home, and, and -- you."

Starsky studied the fragile man beside him, his lip stuck out determinedly even as he swayed on his feet from the effort to remain erect. "Okay, Blintz," he said, smiling. "I missed you, too. Now -- let's get outta here."

"T-to the c-car?"

"Yeah," Starsky said, once more lifting Hutch over his shoulder and once more appalled at the lack of weight on the man.

He didn't stop again until he was at the clearing. He sat Hutch by a tree while he cleared the deadfall and backed the Torino out, cringing at the engine's roar in the silence of the woods. Nervous now, that their position was so easily marked, he jumped out and raced around to pull Hutch up and practically shove him into the car.

Pausing only a moment to look at the weakened man in the front seat, he leaned back down and did something he'd never done before. He dug between the seats and found the never-used seat belt and belted his partner in, wishing the single belt was a harness; Hutch looked about to fall over.

"You ready?" he asked, as he slid behind the wheel.

"H-home," Hutch said simply, his eyes already sliding shut.

"Yeah, babe," Starsky murmured as he shifted into gear and began the ride back to the main road, back to Bay City, back to their lives. "Let's go home."

It was a four hour drive back to Bay City and it looked like Hutch was going to sleep most of the way. But when they drove down a stretch of road that was lined with woods on each side, casting the car in shadow, he shivered and woke up.

"You cold?" Starsky asked and Hutch shrugged. Stopping the car briefly, Starsky popped the trunk and pulled out the blanket he kept back there. He got back in and passed it to Hutch. "Here you go."

Hutch just looked at it.

"It's a blanket, Hutch," Starsky said quietly, growing more concerned with his partner's overall condition. Aside from the obvious physical weakness and lack of care, he was confused, disoriented, slow to process and respond. It all brought back Starsky's original question: what had been done to Hutch?

Hutch frowned and said, "Kn-now that," but still didn't move to wrap up in the blanket, even when he shivered again.

Starsky leaned over and took it back, then gently wrapped it around the weakened form, saying "Shift up," as he tucked the edges under Hutch's behind. Once sure that Hutch was covered as well as he could be, Starsky started the car and got them on the road again. When his eyes darted right, Hutch was asleep again.

The miles passed too slowly. He forced himself to follow the speed limit and not press too hard, but as he drew closer and closer to his destination, it grew harder and harder to hold back. He wanted to floor it and fly and just get the still and silent man beside him to the hospital where he could begin to receive the care he needed and deserved.

Getting within half an hour of the city, he turned the scanner back on. The radio crackled to life and Hutch cried out and jumped, banging his head on the door.

"Hey, hey," Starsky said quickly, his hand reaching out to touch Hutch's arm. "It's just the radio. Didn't mean to scare you."

Hutch shook his head, his eyes watering and pulled out of the blanket, lifting his hands to cover his ears.

"Is it too loud?" Starsky asked, turning the volume down.

Hutch nodded. "E-e-everyth-thing too l-loud."

"It'll be better soon," Starsky promised, running his hand up and down Hutch's arm. "Just hang in there." He touched Hutch's cheek, waiting for the blue eyes to seek him out. "Can you do that for me, Hutch?"

Hutch nodded, then closed his eyes again, and Starsky did his one-handed best to tuck the blanket back around him.

He lifted the radio mike, held it to his mouth and said, "Dispatch -- this is Zebra-Three. Come in."

"Zebra-Three, acknowledged."

"Dispatch, I am en route to Memorial Hospital, ETA twenty minutes. I am transporting an injured police officer. Have Emergency meet me at the door, over."

"Zebra-Three, acknowledged." There was a pause and then the same voice, in much less formal language said, "Holy shit, Starsky! Did you find him? Is he okay? Where's he been? What's going on?"

Starsky laughed and said, "Yeah, Mildred, I found him. He's looking pretty rough, but he's gonna be okay. Can you patch me through to Cap'n Dobey?"

"Yeah, yeah, hang on a minute, Starsky, the radio's going nuts. Every cop in town wants to know where you are -- I think you're gonna have an escort."

Starsky heard sirens then, coming from two different directions and keyed the mike again, saying, "Tell 'em to kill the sirens, Mildred. It hurts Hutch's ears. Lights only."

"Acknowledged."

Almost immediately the sirens died, but within a minute flashing lights pulled in front of him. Mere seconds later, another set of lights was behind him.

"Zebra-Three -- this is Baker-Six, over."

"Jenkins? That you?"

"You got it, bro."

Starsky could see a hand wave in the patrol car in front of him.

"How fast you wanna go?"

"Fast as we can, Jenk, fast as we can."

"Acknowledged. Out." The patrol car accelerated and Starsky followed, one eye on the road, one eye on his partner. Amazingly, Hutch seemed to have fallen back to sleep.

"Zebra-Three, Zebra-Three, hold for patch to Captain Dobey."

"Starsky?"

"Yeah, Cap."

"Am I hearing the truth?"

"Yeah, Cap," Starsky sighed in relief. "I got him."

"I'll meet you at Memorial."

"Cap?"

"Yeah, Starsky?"

"Ferguson there?"

"You know he's been on desk duty while you were gone."

"Ask the kid if he wants to come."

The radio crackled and then Pete Ferguson's voice came through. "As if I'd be anywhere else."

Starsky smiled. "Right. Look in my locker, will you, kid? Bring me a shirt."

"A shirt?"

"Yeah. Hutch is wearing mine. See you at the hospital, out."

He clipped the mike back on the radio and noted several more patrol cars had fallen in line behind him, and there were three more to his left, pacing him and the others. As he watched, a couple of motorcycles joined the procession, and he fought back a wave of emotion as he realized that it was beginning to look like every cop in the city was headed his way.

"Hutch," he said softly, gently nudging the other man awake. "Look." He pointed at the cars beside them, the ones behind and in front, still others falling in line.

Hutch looked blearily around, then looked again, his mouth moving slowly. "F-f-fourteen," he whispered.

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, and more are coming, Hutch. They're all coming to see you."

Hutch's eyes filled with tears and he murmured, "This band of brothers, this band of brothers ..." before his eyes slid shut again.

The hospital looked like a police convention. Patrol cars and unmarked units, motorcycles, SWAT and Bomb Disposal vans, and even the Police Chaplain's car were all parked haphazardly around the ER entrance. He watched as his escorts peeled off, leaving him a clear path to the door, where a team of people waited with a gurney.

He pulled up and before he could speak to Hutch, the passenger door was opened. A man knelt down and pulled the blanket off, then began to run his hands over Hutch. "Severe malnutrition, I'd say he's underweight by thirty, thirty-five percent. Dehydrated. No obvious signs of trauma."

"He's got a sore on his butt," Starsky said, concerned at the doctor's seeming lack of compassion. He jumped out of the car and ran around to the other side, leaning over the kneeling doctor to lay his hand on Hutch's shoulder.

The doctor nodded and reached up, lifting Hutch's eyelids to study his eyes. Passive up to that point, Hutch reacted and lifted his hands to bat feebly at the doctor. "N-no," he whimpered, his head whipping around, his eyes unfocused. "S-s-starsk?" he cried urgently.

"Here, buddy, I'm here." Starsky pulled Hutch from the doctor's hands and shoved the man aside as he moved forward to gather his partner to his chest. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere."

"You need to let me see him," the doctor said insistently. "Move aside."

"Th-thought y-y-you'd d-d-disappeared," Hutch said as tears began to fall.

"Shhhh, Hutch," Starsky said. "Don't cry, please. It's gonna be all right. I'm right here." He turned and glared at the doctor. "You're scaring him."

"I need to examine him."

Starsky nodded. "Yeah, I know. But he ain't been examined in over two years, and he can walk and talk and he knows his name and he knows who I am, so I think you can back off a little and work with him -- instead of scaring him to death." Starsky shook his head. "Sheesh. You'd think you guys would get training on how to handle trauma victims before we would," he added in disgust.

"S-s-starsk?"

"Yeah, babe," Starsky responded instantly. "I'm right here."

"A-arizona, Starsk. Wh-what's Ariz-zona?"

Starsky looked around in confusion, then tightened his hold on his partner when the doctor smiled a 'See? I told you,' smile. "What about Arizona, Hutch? Were you there? Did they take you there first?"

Hutch listened, finally shaking his head. "A-alabama -- M-Montgomery," he said. "Alas-ska -- J-j-juneau."

"Has he always stuttered?" the doctor interrupted.

Starsky shrugged and patted Hutch's hair, smoothing the strands gently as he rocked back and forth on the concrete. "A little. Not like this." He turned his attention back to his partner. "You wanna know the capital of Arizona?"

Hutch nodded, his eyes closed as he curled between Starsky's legs and leaned into him.

"Phoenix, Hutch. It's Phoenix."

"A-a-arizona -- Phoenix." Hutch sighed in contentment. "Kn-new you'd kn-now."

"Starsky?" the doctor interrupted. "It is Starsky, isn't it?"

Starsky nodded.

"You need to let us treat him. I know it's not going to be pleasant for him, but I really do need to do an in-depth assessment." He paused and Starsky saw real concern flit across the man's face. "We really shouldn't wait any longer."

Starsky nodded. "Let me get him up. I'll get him on the gurney for you."

"While you're doing that, tell me what happened. I remember reading about a cop who went missing a few years ago and when they notified us you were coming, they said it was him."

"Hutch," Starsky said, half to his partner and half to the doctor. "Let's get you up and on the gurney, okay?"

He rose and pulled Hutch up, supporting him while they walked the few feet to the gurney. A nurse immediately began to strap a blood pressure cuff on his arm and Hutch began to cry and pull away again."

Starsky gathered him up, murmuring, "Shhhh -- it's okay, Hutch. We're at the hospital, remember? Lots of people, lots of gadgets. They need to check you out."

"W-w-wanna g-go h-h-h-home," Hutch said.

"Let 'em check you out, buddy, then we'll go home, okay?"

Hutch nodded and Starsky laid him back down on the stretcher. His eyes closed immediately and the nurse placed the cuff on his arm with no further problem.

They got through the doors and Dobey was there, halting the procession with an upraised hand. He looked at Hutch, then lifted horror-filled eyes to Starsky. "Wha ...?"

Starsky just shook his head and whispered, "Not now."

Dobey nodded then leaned over and touched Hutch's hand, "Hutch?" he said quietly, waiting until the blue eyes opened and focused on him. "How are you, son?"

"Th-that you, C-Cap?" Hutch said huskily.

"Yeah, son, it's me." He held the frail hand then leaned over and lifted the man into a hug. "It's so good to see you again, Hutch!" he said fiercely.

Hutch lifted a hand feebly, patting at the Captain's shoulder, then sagged back onto the gurney.

"C-cloth," he said, patting the sheet as his eyes slid shut once more.

"Excuse us, gentlemen," the doctor said, indicating the orderlies should get the stretcher moving. "I'm going to do a preliminary exam and I'll get back to you as soon as I can." He stopped a moment and said, "I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impression earlier, but believe me, your friend's in good hands."

The gurney pulled away, finally disappearing behind double doors and Pete and Dobey had to physically restrain Starsky from following. "You can't go back there right now," Dobey said gently, pulling the distraught man over to a chair.

Pete passed over a shirt wordlessly and as Starsky pulled it on, he sank into the chair next to him.

"Tell me what happened," Dobey requested.

The room was filled with cops, all of whom gathered around to hear Starsky's report of events. He started with his two week stake-out and ended with finding Hutch, naked, starved, and alone in the free-standing room in the barn.

"But he knew who I was," Starsky said softly. "He knew it was me, right away."

Pete's hand was on Starsky's back, rubbing small circles there. "Of course he did, Davey," he said quietly. "You're his partner."

"All right, Starsky -- I'll get in touch with the locals up there, see if they can't get this guy when he returns to the barn."

There was a moment of silence and then Dobey looked up and seemed to suddenly be aware that there were more than fifty cops in the ER waiting room. "All right, you guys," he announced, "we appreciate you being here, but time to hit the road. Remember, we're here to protect and serve everyone, not just our own."

"Yeah, yeah ..."

"All right, Cap."

"Got it."

"Call me, Starsky ..."

"...back when shift's over."

The words swirled around Starsky without really sinking in and he hardly noticed as the room emptied. An hour passed and Pete's hand never left his back and Dobey left his side only briefly and returned to push a cup of coffee into his hands.

He had finished half the cup when a distinctive howl shattered the quiet of the room. Starsky was up and moving before either of the other men could restrain him. He hit the doors running, skidding around a corner as he zeroed in on the soft crying that had replaced the one single scream.

Hutch had been restrained and a nurse was trying to draw blood as he fought feebly against the ties that held him down.

"Get away from him," Starsky snarled, pushing the woman aside as he began to undo the restraints. "Shhh, shhhh, shhhh, Hutch," he murmured as he freed his partner's hands and moved to undo the ties on his ankles. "I'm here, babe." He turned and glared at the nurse. "Get that doctor in here immediately.

"S-s-starsk," Hutch whimpered. "Y-y-you l-left m-m-me."

"No, babe, never," Starsky said fiercely as he freed the last restraint. "Never leaving you." He gathered Hutch up, holding him tight and the other man seemed to want to melt into his hold.

"W-w-wanna g-go h-h-home," he begged as Dobey and Ferguson entered the room. "P-p-please -- t-take me h-h-home." His hands clutched at Starsky's shirt, clawing at the material as he sought to get closer and closer to the one person he associated with home and safety. Starsky leaned further and further over the bed, until he was practically lying on Hutch, and then he shook his head and pulled back.

"Just a sec, Hutch," he said, one hand still holding onto his partner as he toed off his shoes and let the bed rail down. He climbed into the bed with Hutch, settling behind the still distraught man, cradling him between his legs with his head pillowed on his shoulder. "I got you, babe," he whispered into the ear by his lips. "I ain't letting you go."

Hutch settled almost immediately, no longer crying, no longer struggling to get free. He raised a hand and covered his eyes, then turned so that he could bury his face against Starsky's chest. "Does the light hurt?" Starsky asked gently.

"N-no d-d-dark," Hutch said.

The doctor arrived with Dobey and paused a moment to take in the scene before saying, "You have to let us treat him, Mr. Starsky."

"Why was he restrained?" Starsky demanded.

"Restrained?" Dobey echoed.

"He kept getting out of the bed and trying to crawl under it," the doctor said wearily.

"Did you ask him why?" Starsky asked.

"He's unresponsive."

Starsky looked puzzled. "No, he's not. He was talking to me fine, except for the stutter." He looked down at the man in his arms, asleep again now that he felt safe. "Hutch. Hutch," he said softly. "Wake up a minute."

Hutch opened his eyes, blinking sleepily. "B-b-bright," he said, closing his eyes again.

"Why'd you get under the bed, Hutch, hmmm? Can you tell me why?"

"D-d-dark," Hutch muttered, eyes still closed.

"Can you turn these lights down?" Starsky asked, looking up at the ceiling light as well as the light over the bed.

The doctor sighed. "I'll see what I can do. There's only one other patient on this side of the ER. Maybe I can move him and then hit the lights over here." He stepped forward and looked Starsky in the eye. "But you have to get out of the bed and let us treat him."

Starsky shook his head. "Isn't gonna happen. I gave you your shot -- you blew it. I ain't leaving him again."

"I need to be able to work," the doctor said shortly. "You're in the way."

"Work around me," Starsky replied. "I ain't moving."

Hutch began to shiver and Starsky looked at Dobey, pointedly ignoring the doctor. "Pass me that blanket, will you, Cap?" he asked, waving at the foot of the bed. Dobey handed it over and Starsky wrapped it carefully around his partner.

He looked up to see the doctor had disappeared and then the ceiling lights went off. Hutch sighed contentedly. "D-dark, S-s-starsk," he mumbled. "Y-you m-made it d-dark."

"Whatever you want, Hutch, you tell me. It's gonna be all right."

When the doctor returned, Dobey said to him, "This man is a kidnap victim and we consider him to still be at risk. He is in protective custody. Detective Starsky has been assigned to him and he is not to leave his side. Is that understood?"

"Look," the doctor said in exasperation, "I'm not trying to hurt the man. I just need to make an assessment. The nurses haven't even been able to get the IV in, and if nothing else, I know he needs fluids."

"They can put it in now," Starsky said. "I'll explain it and he'll be still for 'em." He leaned forward and began whispering in Hutch's ear. The doctor watched a moment longer, sighed, and left.

"I'm taking off, Starsky," Dobey said quietly. "I want to get back downtown and get Hutch reactivated -- make sure his insurance is in place and some other paperwork that needs to be done. I'm leaving Ferguson. If you need anything, he can get it for you, and if you need me, just call."

"Sure thing, Cap," Starsky said as the older man left, "and thanks."

"Don't thank me. You're the one who wouldn't give up." Dobey patted Starsky's shoulder. "Just take care of your partner. I'll be back tonight."

When the nurse came back a few minutes later, Starsky uncurled Hutch's arm, and laid it on the bed. "Time for that stick, Hutch," he said softly. "Just a little one, okay?"

Hutch nodded and never moved as the needle was inserted and the IV established.

They spent several more hours in the ER, made a trip to Radiology for x-rays, and Hutch endured placidly as blood was drawn. He was even able to provide a urine specimen when requested, a sign which encouraged the doctor as he obviously was not completely dehydrated if he could produce waste. He was also weighed. Starsky stood on the scale, holding Hutch up and together they weighed 300. Starsky quickly subtracted his own 180 and gasped. Hutch was down to a mere 120 pounds.

"Do you know his normal weight?" the doctor asked.

It took Starsky a moment to respond. The number had shocked him as much if not more than anything else that he'd seen since he found Hutch. "Uh, yeah. He usually ranges between 190 and 195. No fat. He's, uh, muscular. Works out and runs."

"And he's what, six feet tall?"

"Six one."

"And how long has he been missing?"

"Seven hundred and ninety five days."

"Try and get him to drink, Mr. Starsky," the young woman said as she passed over a cup of water. "The IV is putting fluids in him, but it will be better if he can drink, too."

They'd finally moved Hutch from the ER, admitting him to a medical floor. He was the only one in his room, as Dobey had not only managed to convince the hospital that he needed a full-time guard, he had convinced them he needed a private room as well.

Starsky nodded and gently shook his partner. He'd finally been able to get out of the bed once all the tests were completed. Hutch had been settled for a while now, sleeping fitfully, occasionally waking to be soothed back to sleep by Starsky. "Here, Hutch," the dark-haired man said, holding the straw to Hutch's lips, "can you drink some water?"

Hutch looked around dazedly, ignoring the straw, then leaned over to look at the floor. "N-no w-water," he said, his voice still hoarse. "M-maybe next t-time."

"The water's right here, Hutch," Starsky said, holding the cup up. "Take a sip."

"B-bottle," Hutch said. "W-w-water in b-b-bottle."

Starsky put the cup down and looked at the nurse. "Can you get him a bottle of water?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. We don't have any bottled water."

Starsky rose and patted Hutch's shoulder. "I'm stepping to the door for a minute, Hutch, but I'm not leaving, okay?"

Hutch nodded, his eyes already closed again.

Starsky opened the door and looked down. Pete was sitting in a chair just outside the door, a paperback in his hand. When he saw Starsky, he jumped to his feet. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Starsky nodded. "Look, I said you could come sit with us."

Pete shook his head. "Not now. Not yet. It's too soon. You guys need some private time together."

"You can't stay all night," Starsky said gently, one hand on the younger man's arm.

"I know," Pete replied. "Betsy got Chrissy to come over to watch DK tonight and she's gonna bring dinner. I figured we could all eat together, if that's okay with Hutch's docs."

Starsky shrugged. "They haven't really talked to me yet."

"Well, if he can't eat yet, or if he's on a restricted diet or something, you still need to eat. Betsy insisted."

"She's gonna make me fat," Starsky said, patting his stomach.

"No fear of that," the redhead said lightly, looking at Starsky's trim waist. "Now, I, on the other hand ..." He rubbed his own flat belly and managed to pinch up a miniscule roll of flesh.

Starsky laughed quickly then sobered. "We need to turn her loose on Hutch. My ma and Betsy and Huggy -- if they can't fatten him up, it can't be done." A shadow crossed his face as he thought about what he'd said.

Pete's hand was on his arm immediately. "It can be done, Davey. He's gonna be fine." He waited until the tension left the other man's form, then cocked his head and asked, "Hey -- what did you want?"

"Oh." Starsky looked back at Hutch, then at Ferguson. "Bottled water. Can you rustle up some?" He pulled his wallet to hand over some money, but Pete stopped him. He reached into his own pocket and produced an enormous wad of bills.

"Where'd that come from?" Starsky asked in disbelief. "You haven't been knocking over liquor stores again, have you?"

Pete laughed and shook his head. "Nah -- had to give that little hobby up when I started working with you." He cleared his throat and looked slightly uncomfortable. "Guys have been coming by all afternoon. Everybody's leaving money -- just in case Hutch needs something. Clothes, books, music, whatever. You just let me know what you want, I'll make sure you get it."

Starsky's throat was tight as he nodded. "I'm gonna have to take back everything I said about people forgetting about him."

"It's all right, Davey," Pete said softly. "They understand." He waited a moment, then said, "Okay, then. Bottled water it is. What about clothes? Does he have to stay in that gown, or can he wear clothes?"

Starsky shrugged again. "I don't know yet. Can you get him something just in case? Maybe a sweatsuit? Something soft 'cause his skin's so sensitive, but warm, too? He seems to stay cold."

"I can do that," Pete said firmly. "I'll be back in an hour or so."

"Thanks, man," Starsky said softly, patting Pete's shoulder. "I owe you."

"Nah, man -- it's me who owes you." He stared into Starsky's blue eyes for a moment, then pushed him gently. "Now get in there -- your partner's waiting."

Starsky went back in Hutch's room and settled himself in the chair again. Hutch was sleeping. The nurse said that it was normal for him to sleep like this -- in his weakened state, it was the best way for his body to conserve energy.

A new doctor appeared a few minutes later and pulled up a chair to sit next to Starsky.

"I'm Doctor Patel," he said quietly, with a faint Indian accent. He extended his hand. "I'll be taking care of Mr. Hutchinson from here on."

Starsky shook hands, then asked, "What happened to, uh -- I don't even think I got his name. The guy in the ER?"

"He's an emergency physician," Patel explained. "I'm an internist. Of course, if Mr. Hutchinson already has a physician ..."

"Nah, that's okay, Doc," Starsky replied. "He only went to the doctor when he had to -- police physicals done by the police doctor."

"Well, in that case, I was told that Mr. Hutchinson has an advance directive?"

"Yeah. He and I both got one a few years ago after that mess with that girl -- Karen Ann Quinlan? He's not real close to his family and my mother is in New York, so we just wrote out what we wanted and designated each other to make sure it happened. Got a lawyer to make it legal."

"A wise precaution," the doctor said, "and it certainly helps us now. I'll need to get a copy of the directive for our files, but knowing that you have it, I'm going to consider you his next of kin. You'll have to make some decisions for him."

"Hutch ain't so out of it that he can't make his own decisions," Starsky protested.

Dr. Patel shook his head. "I don't agree with you, Mr. Starsky. While Mr. Hutchinson is amazingly cognizant and coherent at times, given his physical condition, he is also confused, disoriented and out of touch with reality. He frightens easily and doesn't seem able to relate for any period of time to anyone but you. You are his constant, his touchstone, if you will."

"So what decisions do we need to make?"

"Let me tell you what we've determined so far. From what you've told us, and until Mr. Hutchinson is able to provide us with more information, we are going on the assumption that he was held in isolation in the room from which you rescued him. Given his overall condition, physical and mental, I'd say it's likely he was kept there, alone, for the majority of the time he was missing. Deterioration of this magnitude does not happen overnight.

"So let's talk about the physical issues first. He has a generalized low-grade infection, probably originating from the wound on his buttock. It appears he has had other lesions such as this -- I'd say they were bedsores. I've got him on an IV antibiotic and I expect that to clear up in time.

"Our biggest concern is the severe malnutrition he is suffering from. The body has the remarkable ability to adjust to nutritional limitations by decreasing metabolism and energy requirements. As the malnutrition continues, however, the body is not able to maintain all its usual functions. Weight loss is generally the first sign of malnutrition and when there is loss of 10% of body weight, we consider a person to be malnourished. In Mr. Hutchinson's case, the loss is more along the lines of 35 - 38%.

"Poor nutrition will eventually affect every organ in the body: the heart becomes weaker, the immune system is less able to protect against infection, and even the intestines are less able to absorb the nutrients that are ingested. Dehydration and electrolyte abnormalities, which we have confirmed in Mr. Hutchinson's tests, can lead to erratic heart rhythms, which can be fatal.

"Now, before you panic, most people can recover even after severe and prolonged starvation, as long as they haven't lost too much of their body mass."

"How much is too much?" Starsky asked.

The doctor looked uncomfortable and looked away for a moment, then met Starsky's eyes. "Loss of 40% or more of the body's mass is almost always fatal."

"But, Hutch -- he's not there, right? He's not that low?"

"We don't think so, Mr. Starsky. He weighs 120 pounds, down seventy pounds from the 190 you estimated as his normal weight. That's 37%."

Starsky raised his hand to his mouth, pinching his nose and then slowly dragging the hand down over his lips and chin. "He's close," he murmured, his eyes closed in pain.

"Yes," the doctor said, reaching out to touch Starsky briefly, "but he's not critical yet. His tests show a decrease in certain proteins in the blood, mild anemia, decreased numbers of certain white blood cells -- lymphocytes -- which will result in a decreased reaction to infections.

"What do we do?" Starsky asked. "Just feed him up good?"

"It's not quite that easy. Treatment for malnutrition needs to be directed at the cause of the condition. In severe cases of malnutrition, the first step is to insure adequate fluid and electrolyte -- mineral salt -- intake and correct other medical complications such as infections. The IVs will take care of that. Most malnourished people are severely dehydrated and have electrolyte abnormalities, such as low levels of potassium, calcium, phosphate, and magnesium. These imbalances can lead to irregular heart rhythms, which can be fatal, so it is essential that the imbalances be corrected before any other steps are taken."

"Fatal," Starsky repeated.

"Can be fatal," the doctor corrected, "but we will work very hard to prevent reaching that eventuality."

"The next step is to replenish calories. This must be done slowly and carefully. In the severely malnourished, and Mr. Hutchinson meets that criteria, rapid replacement of protein and calories can lead to 're-feeding syndrome,' which refers to very low levels of phosphate and can be life-threatening. The serum phosphorous level falls precipitously with re-feeding, due to a shift of phosphate from the extracellular to the intracellular compartment. This shift occurs because of the huge demands for this ion for synthesis of phosphorylated compounds. The result of this sudden massive reduction in phosphorous levels is a multitude of life-threatening complications involving multiple organs: respiratory failure, cardiac failure, cardiac arrhythmias, rhabdomyolysis, seizures, coma, red cell and leukocyte dysfunction." He smiled wryly as he looked at Starsky. "Obviously, we want to avoid these complications. There are guidelines specifying how many calories and grams of protein can be given in a day to re-feed a malnourished person safely, and we will follow them scrupulously."

"Okay -- I'm a little lost here. Can he eat or not?"

The doctor nodded and went on smoothly, "Now, because Mr. Hutchinson is fairly awake and lucid, and appears to have a functioning intestinal tract, food can be eaten normally. He'll still receive supplements intravenously, but it will be important that he eat as well.

"He's really weak, Doc. Weak as a kitten. And he's got no stamina."

"Once we have him stabilized and have begun re-feeding successfully, another important aspect of treatment is going to be physical therapy to help him regain strength. Muscle wasting is a key feature of malnutrition. The lost muscle mass needs special attention to restore itself to functional levels.

"I won't lie to you, Mr. Starsky: his physical condition is serious. We're going to have to watch him carefully and monitor both his intake and output levels, but I want to encourage him to be as self-sufficient in the process as possible. He can feed himself, choose from a variety of approved foods and liquids, take care of his own toileting and bathing, though he may need some assistance initially, and I want him to be as active as his decreased stamina will allow.

Starsky was nodding now, feeling encouraged by the doctor's words.

"I've taken the liberty of presenting Mr. Hutchinson's case to several of my colleagues in the psychiatric service as well."

"Psychiatric?"

"Mr. Starsky -- Mr. Hutchinson is going to have some long- lasting effects from his confinement of the last two years plus. He's going to need to talk about it."

"He can talk to me," Starsky said. "There's lots of people he can talk to."

"Let me tell you a little about some of the symptoms that can be attributed to conditions of confinement. They include perceptual distortions, illusions, vivid fantasies, sometimes along with vivid hallucinations ..."

"He said I'd been in the room with him, then I was gone." Starsky ran a hand through his hair. "He thought I was mad at him."

"Exactly. Visual hallucinations. You can also expect him to have hypersensitivity to external stimuli. Along with these, some people develop observable syndromes which include cognitive impairment ..."

"He couldn't remember the capital of Arizona."

"Well, that's pretty minor in the whole scheme of things, but it could be indicative of greater problems. He could also experience massive free-floating anxiety, extreme motor restlessness, emergence of primitive aggressive fantasies, sometimes along with fearful hallucinations, and possibly, delirium-like behaviors."

"Once he's stronger, we're going to want to do an EEG to see if there are organic changes in the brain similar to stupor and delirium."

"All right," Starsky said, nodding. "He needs a good shrink. Who do you recommend?"

"Well, as I was saying, several of the people I spoke with recommended an indefinite confinement for Mr. Hutchinson ..."

"No way in hell!" Starsky swore. "He's had enough of 'indefinite confinement' to last three lifetimes."

Dr. Patel nodded. "I agree wholeheartedly. Which is why I would recommend a friend of mine, a man I knew in India. I spoke with him and he agrees, that while Mr. Hutchinson will require intensive therapy, it would not be in his best interest to seek an inpatient placement unless he were to become violent or a danger to himself or others."

Starsky snorted. "As weak as he is, Hutch couldn't hurt a fly."

"Now -- that is true. But he will grow stronger. Things could change."

"So who is this guy you want to see Hutch?"

"Dr. Zuban Barot. I feel that not only are his medical skills excellent, but his personal beliefs will support a more understanding and patient course of treatment for your friend."

Starsky narrowed his eyes. "What are his 'personal beliefs?'"

"He practices Jainism, as do I, and amongst our most sacred teachings is this: 'A man should treat all creatures in the world as he himself would like to be treated.' Very similar to your Christian 'Golden Rule,' don't you agree?"

"I'm not Christian," Starsky said absently, "I'm Jewish."

"Ah, then you would be familiar with this version: 'What is hateful to yourself, do not do to your fellow man. That is the whole of the Torah.'"

Starsky nodded. "So since you wouldn't want to be locked up, you're not gonna recommend it for Hutch."

"And since I would not want to suffer the indignity and pain that Mr. Hutchinson has suffered, I will do everything I can to avoid anymore of that for him.

"I will arrange for a consult with Dr. Barot in a few days. I want Mr. Hutchinson to have a few days to acclimate to his new environment. In addition to eating and drinking, I want him to shower and clean himself, to use the toilet, to begin to adjust his sleep cycles."

"Can he wear his own clothes?"

"I don't see why not."

"He said the lights were always on in that room. He wanted it to be dark."

"Constant light deprives an individual of healthy sleep, disturbing the normal sleep-wake cycles and increases the vulnerability to developing delirium. While I want him to become reacquainted with the light and dark cycles of a day and night, I believe we can do that just using the natural light provided through the window. If he wants the lights out, I do not object." He tilted his head as he studied Starsky. "He is very -- attached -- to you."

"We're partners."

"Do you plan to stay with him?"

Starsky stuck out his chin stubbornly. "I'm not just his partner and his friend, I'm his guard. He's in protective custody."

"Good," said Dr. Patel, smiling. "I think it will be very good for Mr. Hutchinson to have a familiar face around at all times. But let me warn you, you will probably be dealing with some of the psychological fallout from his ordeal."

Starsky sighed. "I already know he hallucinates and he can't always follow a conversation. He sleeps all the time and never seems rested when he wakes up. He's scared I'm gonna leave him alone -- but I'm not! Not ever again! What else could there be?"

"You'd be surprised. The first thing you need to be aware of is that he's probably going to deny there's a problem. In past studies of inmates who were kept in isolation for a prolonged period, and that is our only population group available for comparison, many tended to rationalize away their symptoms, they avoided mentioning them, or denied their existence all in what seemed to be efforts to minimize the significance of their reactions to conditions of confinement."

"Amongst prisoners isolated for prolonged periods, they reported an increasing inability to tolerate ordinary stimuli, even simple things such as noise -- the ordinary, everyday noises of plumbing and heating systems working. They reported hearing voices, even whispers; panic attacks; difficulty in concentration and with memory; for example, inmates stated they could not concentrate to read, which can lead to disorientation; their mind wanders; they report aggressive fantasies of revenge, torture and/or mutilation of the guards; paranoia and other fears; they claim that authority figures are trying to 'break them down.' They doubt themselves and have trouble determining what is real, and have problems controlling impulses, sometimes resulting in random violence."

"Hutch ain't violent."

"He's a police officer -- there is violence inherent in that."

"It doesn't mean he'd just up and hurt someone."

"No, it doesn't. Or at least it didn't. But that man in there is not the same man he was two years ago." The doctor reached out and laid a hand on Starsky's arm. "Your friend is not in for an easy journey. That you have chosen to walk this path with him speaks highly of you, but you must be prepared -- the way will be long and difficult."

End Part 2

On to Part 3

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