CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Friday, early evening (Starsky’s apartment)

“Tell me again.” Hutch said, sitting on the edge of his partner’s too soft couch, his head held in his hands, as he listened to the weary voice of the psychic from Atlantic City.

It had been a long and frustrating day for the blond as he waited for the lab team to do their thing, recognizing that he was racing against the clock, intuitively knowing that the brunet was suffering as every second ticked slowly by. The blond shuddered as he thought of what was being done to Starsky.

“Okay . . . for the last time . . .” Joe said, irritation making his voice rise, “I was sleepin’ . . . and I . . . I get this dream, only it wasn’t a dream . . . and ah . . . it was d-dark and the shadows came alive . . . and I saw your partner . . . he was ah . . . he was all sweating and scared.” Collandra looked at the blond, who lifted his head from his hands, the muscle in his jaw tightening at that last word.

“And then?” Hutch asked abruptly, fear and anxiety for his partner rolling off of him in waves.

“And then . . . he gets shot with a tranquilizer gun and they take him.” Collandra said softly.

“Who takes him?” Hutch said desperately, “Who were “they” Joe?”

“I told you . . . I don’t know . . . the shadows . . . they just came alive . . .”the psychic panted, eyes wild as they looked all around.

“Damn!” Hutch said angrily, rising up from the couch, “Time is running out Joe . . . and I need some answers now!” the blond said, pacing back and forth in agitation.

“Okay . . . okay . . .”Collandra whispered softly, “Just . . . just gimme something of his . . . something he always wears . . . or touches all the time . . .”

“Okay . . . wait here.” Hutch quickly got up and went to get Starsky’s old, brown leather jacket, which he had seen crumpled on the floor. Apparently the brunet had thrown it next to his hamper in the corner of his bedroom, when he had come home to bathe the other night.

Hutch lifted the leather article, which was still damp from the downpour they had been caught in. His mind flashed back to the image of his partner cradling the dying girl in his arms, ‘How could I have left him here alone?’ Hutch grilled himself again, mentally pummeling himself for the poor decision he had made. Perhaps if he were here last night, Collandra’s “they,” would have thought twice before breaking and entering into a cop’s residence.

Hutch lifted the jacket by the shoulders and shook it out. The blond frowned when he saw the dried blood of the girl against the white fleece that lined the inside of the worn leather. His partner had covered the young dying girl with his own jacket, attempting to shield her from the cold.

Hutch sighed. This jacket had been such a part of his friend’s life. He turned the leather jacket around and saw the four bullet holes in the back that had never been patched . . . a gift from Gunther that had nearly stolen Starsky’s life. Hutch clutched the jacket, scrunching the leather in his hands, lifting it near his mustache as he smelled the moldy dampness and metallic odor of dried blood from their harrowing experience the night before, and yet, above those strong scents, the blond could still smell the faint essence of sandalwood that made him miss his partner even more. “Hang on buddy . . .” Hutch said softly, “I’m coming . . . just hang on . . .”

Hutch quickly walked out of the bedroom and tossed Collandra the jacket. “It’s Starsky’s . . . he always wears it,” the blond said softly.

“Yeah, I know. He had it on last night remember?” Joe said, rubbing his hands against the worn leather, scrunching it as Hutch had just done. The psychic closed his eyes, his breathing growing rapid and shallow as he opened his mind, while his fingers played with the old, brown leather.

The psychic’s breathing increased as the visions came. Collandra could see images of Starsky’s life as they flashed across the screen in his mind. Pictures of the brunet laughing, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously as he played some practical joke on the blond. An image suddenly flashed of the brunet on the ground, gasping, as his hands clenched his mid-section, hanging onto Hutch for dear life, as the blond crouched over him in an alley. Still another picture of the brunet crying over a woman lying in a hospital bed entered his mind. Joe instinctively knew these were not the images he needed, but there was such a feeling of profound sadness and loss to that last vision of the woman, that he let the jacket go, breaking the “connection”. He opened his eyes and looked to Hutch, seeing the blond detective’s intense stare; his pale blue eyes were almost the color of ice.

“Well?” Hutch said, a permanent frown creased the space between his brows, “D-Did you see anything?”

Joe took a deep breath to steady himself, his head already pounding, “Yeah . . . I saw a lot of things. . . but nothing about last night.”

“Please Joe,” Hutch whispered, “Please try again. It’ll take some time before the lab can tell us anything and I don’t think my partner has much time left. If anyone can help Starsky, it’s you! I believe in you Joe, I always have,” the blond detective said earnestly.

Joe sighed wearily, massaging his aching forehead. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers into his temples. “Sometimes I see stuff about the person’s life.” Collandra said softly, “Stuff that left some kind of an impact on the person you know?”

Hutch nodded silently waiting for the psychic to continue, “I ah . . . I just “saw” your partner crying over a lady in the hospital . . . I think she had just died or somethin’ . . . felt his sadness, his loss.”

Hutch closed his eyes, pale lashes pressed against his cheeks. “Yeah, that was his girl. Her name was Terry . . . she was a teacher of special children and she was killed by one of the scums we had put away before.”

Joe nodded, still feeling the residual effects from that last image, as he sighed and reached again for the worn leather jacket, “You know what?” Collandra said seriously, “It sucks being a cop!”

Hutch snorted softly as he watched the older man close his eyes again, feeling grateful that Joe was there to help him.

Collandra took a few deep breaths, opening himself again, feeling the soft, broken leather between his fingers as the images started coming in. A picture came to the forefront of his mind’s eye; Starsky stood turning, reaching for his gun, as an automatic raked bullets across his torso, pinning him against the red and white Torino that he so loved.

Hutch watched intently as Collandra started moaning, one hand grabbing onto his head, as the other choked the leather. “Oh God . . . oh God!” the psychic gasped. Hutch stopped himself from reaching out to touch the psychic, not wanting to disturb him, watching as the older man calmed down a bit, though his breathing still remained shallow and fast.

The horrible vision of the shooting passed and Joe could now “see” Starsky holding the dying girl in the rain, feeling the shroud of guilt that hung over the despairing detective. Then, another image rose before his closed lids, an image of a man with long, greasy hair, dressed in a black hooded robe with an upside down red crucifix upon it, holding a wooden bowl filled with dark liquid. And still another picture of the brunet flashed before the psychic . . .

Hutch watched as Collandra dropped the jacket from of his hands, as he raised both of them to his head, his fingers digging into his scalp, groaning as if in pain, the leather jacket falling limply into his lap, “Joe?” the blond whispered softly, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder lightly, feeling the fine hairs rising on the back of his neck, “Joe . . . Joe, what do you ‘see’?”

“Ungh,” Collandra groaned, feeling each blow of the chain as it fell upon the brunet’s sweat covered back, seeing the agony of the dark haired detective behind his closed lids,
”Ungh . . . oh god . . . they’re t-toturing him . . .” the psychic moaned, gasping in pain, “It hurts so bad . . . so bad . . . tearing him up . . .”

“Starsky?” Hutch said, his voice rising to match the anxiety and dread that filled his heart, “What are they doing to him?” the blond snarled in helpless frustration, listening to the painful pants from the older man who continued to clutch his head in agony, almost wailing as he said, “They’re whipping him with something . . . it’s ah . . . oh god, it’s a metal chain . . . a thick metal chain!” The psychic gasped loudly, grabbing his throat with one hand, making soft gurgling sounds before he abruptly opened his eyes, staring dazedly at the blond, his rapid, labored breathing already beginning to slow down.

Hutch stood up, red-hot anger boiling up in him as he thought of his partner suffering. “Shit!” the blond swore in helpless rage, as he paced to keep himself from tearing up the room. He breathed through the blood red anger that he felt, willing his heart to slow down it’s rapid beat. Turning on his heel, he knelt before Collandra, who sat slumped on the couch, exhaustion evident on the older man’s sweat drenched face.

“Joe,” Hutch said softly, taking one of Collandra’s hands in his, “Joe please . . . you gotta tell me what you saw . . . t-tell me everything you remember . . .” the tall blond begged. Hutch watched as the psychic wearily opened his eyes to stare vacantly at him. “Joe.” Hutch said more urgently, gently shaking the wasted man, “Please Joe . . . my partner needs help . . .y-you gotta help me!”

Joe shook his head groggily, and then focused his gaze on the anxious blond. “He’s being hurt . . . I saw it . . . whipped by a chain, his hands are bound behind him . . .oh God . . . the lashes . . . the chain keeps cutting into him . . .he has bruises and welts all over his body . . .”

It killed Hutch to hear those graphic descriptions of what his partner was enduring; his heart ached for the brunet, as once again, he seethed in helpless frustration and rage. Hutch stood abruptly, clenching his fists to his sides, “Okay . . . okay . . .” the blond snarled, taking in deep breaths to get a handle on the anger that filled his being, willing himself to calm down for his partner’s sake, “Okay . . . Joe . . . please . . . what else did you see . . . huh? Did you . . . did you see any faces? Tell me something Joe, something I can work with, so that I can find Starsky!”

“Yeah,” Collandra whispered softly, “I saw a man . . . ah . . . he had long, brown stringy hair and a beard and ah . . . he was holdin’ a bowl . . . a wooden bowl filled with some dark liquid . . .” the psychic said, his hand going to this throat, “Oh God, I remember . . . they were forcing him to drink it . . . he was tryin’ to fight ‘em . . . too weak . . . hurt . . . it was warm and thick . . . and he couldn’t breathe . . . oh God, he couldn’t breathe . . . gagging him . . .”

Hutch gently shook the older man, snapping him out of that trancelike state, “What else Joe huh?” the blond pleaded desperately, “What else did you see?” It sickened the blond detective to think that they were forcing Starsky to drink something foreign and unknown. What if it was poison? His mind drifted back to his partner doubled over in pain from the Jennings unknown compound. Hutch forced that thought from his mind, “What else Joe?”

“The man . . . he was wearing somethin’ funny . . . weird.” Joe said, closing his eyes wearily, “Something long like a . . . like a robe . . . a black robe with a red cross on it . . . only . . . only the cross was upside down . . .”

Hutch’s eyes widened in horror as the dawning realization entered into his mind, “Oh God . . . it’s Marcus!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Saturday, mid morning (Old Canyon Road)

“We think he might be at that church up in the hills on Old Canyon Road,” Hutch said speaking loudly into the mic, as he pushed his battered car as fast as it would go. It was times like these, that Hutch wished he had a vehicle like Starsky’s, with the exception of the outlandish paint job, of course. “It’s that old Catholic Church that was damaged and abandoned from that fire a few years back, remember?” Hutch asked.

“What makes you think he’s there?” Dobey’s gruff voice came over the mic.

“Joe and I listened to the tape . . . it’s just a hunch we have, but it’s the only lead we got Cap.” Hutch said, “I should be there in a half an hour or so.”

“You think I should call for backup?” Dobey asked. “I don’t want you there alone Hutch, who knows how many of Simon’s goons will be there.”

“Yeah, I’d need some help and an ambulance too. Collandra said Starsky was beaten pretty badly.” Hutch said softly, unconsciously flooring the gas pedal as he said this. “I don’t want to get you in trouble though Captain, you know how the department feels about sending a team out just based on hunches.”

“Well Joe Collandra is a very reliable source in my book,” Dobey snapped, “And if he sees it the way you do, then to hell with the department and their stipulations!” Hutch smiled, feeling thankful that he and Starsky had the trust and support of their captain.

“In any case, you’ll be there for some time alone, since you’ve had a jumpstart. Be careful Hutch. The backup and ambulance should arrive about a half hour or so after you get there.” Dobey cautioned, “I’ll call them as soon as we end here . . . just don’t do anything stupid. Wait for the backup to arrive.”

“Yeah . . .thanks Captain,” Hutch said, “I’ll be careful . . . I just hope we aren’t . . .” The tall blond refused to vocalize the two words he was thinking of. ‘You’re too late’ Starsky told him those were the exact words the dead little girl on the bus had said to him. Hutch felt the cold finger of fear run up his spine, leaving in its wake large goose bumps.

There was a long pause and a heavy sigh from Dobey, “Just keep the faith son . . . Starsky’s been in worse situations before and has pulled through . . . that boy must have an angel watching out for him or something.”

Hutch shuddered once, and then sighed softly, “Yeah, thanks Cap, I’ll keep you posted.” The blond cop replaced the mic and began rolling up his windows as billowing dust clouds arose, churned up from the spinning tires of his LTD. The old gravel road had now become nothing but dirt. ‘Hang on buddy, hang on, I’m almost there’ Hutch said silently in his mind, ‘Almost there . . .’

-.-.-.-oo0oo.-.-.-.-

She watched as the dark haired detective moaned softly, every now and then whispering the name of her master, his bruised and glistening body twitched, as his long dark lashes rolled back and forth, dreaming a nightmare that he couldn’t escape from. She gently stroked the damp curls that lay on her lap, wishing she could see those deep blue eyes of his, eyes that comforted and grieved for her sister, eyes that she knew would reassure her if he could.

She watched as his sweat drenched face contorted in anguish, holding him down as he suddenly twisted in her arms; and her heart filled with despair, knowing that her master was working on his mind, slowly taking over the detective’s courageous and compassionate spirit. She listened to his erratic breathing and heard him softly moan, “No . . . no . . .” The light that shone from him was growing ever dimmer and Sara knew she had to do something before it was too late . . .

‘You will belong to me, you are almost mine,’ Simone’s voice filled his mind, ‘Let go of self Polaris and shine only for your creator, let my flame and your light become one.’ The calm voiced enticed, beckoning seductively to the weary man.

Starsky felt so weak, like his life force was being sucked out of him. He tried to escape the forceful intrusion into his mind, tried to run from the horror of Marcus, pillaging and raping his soul. He tried to focus on the one thing that would keep him grounded, that would hold him back from floating away with the voice that continuously intruded and coerced, and he tried to ‘see’ Hutch’s face, tried to call out to him; but he felt cold and frozen, unable to think, unable to fight, unable to care. He could “hear” Simone laughing in his mind.

‘Do not turn to him for comfort, turn to me . . . be warmed by the flame of my love. Your White Knight is now tarnished and useless. He has forsaken you Polaris, left you here among the ruins of a once devoted love. He used you, took advantage of your kindness and friendship, took from you that which was yours alone, and in the process, he ruined himself, defiled the pureness of something so worthy. Fear not, for retribution shall be ours Polaris . . . join with me and become ever powerful . . . lead my flock with your light and pay homage to only me. You need nothing, but the faithful.”

Sara became alarmed, as the hurting man grew restless in her arms. He continued to twist in agitation, his breathing rapid and shallow, moaning softly now and then, his mumbled words were distorted and inaudible, but she knew that he was being bombarded by the relentless call of her master. She knew they were wearing him down, eroding his resolve and determination to wake up and run from the dream.

Sara knew firsthand the sweet surrender of giving up, of losing self to the will of her master, of floating in the illusion of the peaceful nothingness that was Simone. She couldn’t allow this to happen to the dark haired detective who held her sister so gently in the rain, who shielded Sienna and comforted her in the last moments of her life. It was time that she stepped up to the plate and did something to help this man, did something to shield him like he shielded her dying sister.

Sara gently shook the man who groaned in response. “Wake up Polaris, you need to wake up now!” she said urgently, watching as his head lolled listlessly in her lap, his dark, heavy lashes rolling back and forth, struggling to escape from the clutches of Simone’s dream. “Wake up, you must fight it, we have to get out of here. Please wake up!”

Starsky groaned, feeling his aching body protesting the jarring movements. His weary mind began to vaguely discern another voice, a sweet change to the hypnotically overpowering voice of Marcus, and he struggled to make a conscious effort to focus on that new sound. He sensed the urgency in the musical lilt and he doubled the effort it took to raise his lashes and open his eyes. He could hear the angry shouts from Marcus in the depths of his mind, as he swam away from the murky confusion to the light of awareness, the gentle shakes and the sweet, musical voice guiding his way to consciousness.

Sara shook the detective again, sensing that he was on the verge of waking, trying desperately to be gentle, but knowing the others might come back at any moment. They had to get out now, while the others were detained in the back room. She could feel her heart racing, fear made her hand tremble as she gently stroked the side of the detective’s face, mesmerized by the sapphire blue that peeked out beneath the long, dark lashes.

She could tell he was confused by the bewildered look in his eyes, watching as they tracked the ceiling of the church, his mind trying to piece together clues to tell him of his whereabouts. Those blue orbs finally made contact with her own eyes, and she could feel herself being drawn into their ocean blue depths.

She was amazed when she saw his lips curl slightly into a lopsided grin, as he focused on her face. This man was so unlike any other she had ever met, and she could feel herself being drawn to him, like a moth to a flame, to the charismatic aura of this dark haired detective. It was no wonder her master coveted this man, watching and waiting, pursuing him over the years unbeknownst to the detective, wanting the power, the light that shone so evidently in David Starsky. Sara could feel herself smiling in response to the man’s grin; he was so damn cute!

“Hi,” the brunet rasped out weakly, “Y-you . . . live here . . .huh?” he joked lamely, feeling the worry emanating from the young girl who held him gently in her arms, the trembling in her slight body, alerting him to the fact that they were still in danger. He gazed at her, once again feeling that sense of familiarity . . . knowing he had seen her face somewhere before.

Sara was stunned by the man’s charm. She knew he was trying to calm her frayed nerves and she smiled once again, “We have to get out of here, you need to help me get you up okay?” She smiled again when the handsome man gave a slight nod and she gently moved out from under him to support him into a semi-sitting position. She could hear his soft grunts of pain and knew the effort it took for him to move. Her heart reached out in pity and she gently maneuvered him until his back rested against the front side of the wooden altar, as she listened to his labored breathing. “You okay?” she whispered.

Starsky slumped against the altar, grateful for the support. The muscles in his stomach and sides screamed out in protest as he tried to sit up. If not for the help of the girl, he wouldn’t have been able to bring himself to move at all. The room spun crazily and he closed his eyes once again to get a handle on the queasiness and sudden cramping in his gut. He breathed through the pain, feeling his head beginning to pound, hearing Simon’s voice whispering in the depths of his mind, drawing him back down to the murky confusion he floated in, hearing the eerily soothing drone of Simone’s name over and over in his head.

“Hey,” Sara said anxiously, shaking the brunet hard, “You got to fight it you hear? We’ve got to get out of here and you need to help me! I can’t carry you, you’re too heavy!” she begged desperately, “Please . . . if they know I’m trying to help you, they’ll kill me for sure.”

Starsky opened his brilliant blue eyes to stare directly into the orbs of the startled girl, “Run,” he gasped weakly, “Run away . . . they’re comin’ now, Marcus . . . told Luke ‘bout you . . . leave me . . . and go . . . now!”

“No! Not without you.” Sara said determinedly, “You tried to save Sienna. I saw you holding her in the rain while she lay dying. They killed her because they were punishing me for trying to escape.”

Starsky stared at the girl, his mind drifting back to the night of the rain, the night he had failed to save the girl, the beautiful young woman with the face of an angel, the same face that hovered anxiously now above his own. “You,” he gasped, gently cupping his hands around the sweet heart shaped face of the girl from his dreams, “You died that night . . .” He sat up straighter looking into her eyes, asking silently for forgiveness.

“No . . . not me,” Sara said softly, her heart melting as she saw the anguish in the shining blue eyes of the brunet. She gently touched the side of his face, “That wasn’t me . . . it was my sister . . . my twin sister. You were . . . you were so kind to her . . . it wasn’t your fault that she was killed; it was mine! They killed her to get to me; the blame is on my shoulders, not yours. Right now we have to get going and you need to help me okay? We’ll talk about everything once we’re safe.” She smiled as he solemnly nodded.

He could still hear Simon’s voice in his head and he shook it, trying to clear his mind, as Sara attempted to lift the detective under his shoulder, throwing her small frame under his arm in an attempt to get him into a standing position.

The jarring movement caused excruciating pain to flare and burn in the bowels of his gut, and his ribs, and the dark haired detective gritted his teeth to keep from crying out, trying desperately to get his legs under him, when Luke and the others came into the room and saw what was happening.

“Run!” Starsky said quickly, shoving her towards the exit door of the church, as one of the hooded men grabbed him and roughly pushed him down again, the brunet’s back brutally scraping against the wooden altar.

Starsky watched in dismay as Luke grabbed the young blonde just before she reached the door. He watched as the bearded man dragged her back to the raised platform where he sat slumped against the altar, dragged her back by her long blond hair, hearing her frightened sobs as they drew nearer.

The look of anger on Luke’s face, twisted his features into a mask of hate and jealousy.

Starsky could hear the disciple’s heavy breathing as he yanked on the roots of Sara’s beautiful golden hair. The young girl moaned, desperately hanging onto the disciple’s hand to alleviate some of the pressure on her scalp.

“Leave her alone!” Starsky snarled, struggling against the men who held him down, pressing him back against the altar.

“Simone knew of your treachery, warned me of your betrayal,” Luke hissed at the Sara, “And yet, I defended you, wanting to belief in your golden innocence, wanting you to turn to me . . . and here I find you turning to him, helping him to escape from our master! I loved you Sara, and you betrayed my love, when I have been ever faithful to you. You would have ruled beside me, helped me to lead the faithful flock, who even now look to us for leadership. Your beauty has blinded me. You harlot!” Luke suddenly released the handful of golden hair, only to strike his open palm hard against her pale and frightened face. Sara cried out as she fell from the force of the blow, striking her head, as she landed near the struggling detective.

“You fuckin’ bastard.” Starsky shouted; anger and adrenalin making him struggle even more, “Leave her alone!” One of the hooded men came over with the wooden bowl and stood in front of the detective. Another follower swiftly kicked the dark haired detective near his ribcage, while the others held him down.

Starsky felt the air leave his lungs, and he gasped as pain flared once again in his side. He scrunched his eyes shut and opened his mouth in an attempt to suck more air into his empty lungs.

The brunet winced, as he felt someone yank his head back by the roots of his hair, opening his eyes to see the distorted face of Luke who hissed into his ear, the inverted cross on his forehead blurring in and out of focus, “And you pig, you will know the pain of losing someone you love, like I have. Hate runs deep in my veins for you, yet I cannot change my master’s mind, he has chosen you to be the Shepard of our flock. I am, but a servant to my master’s will, and you will pledge yourself to Simone as he has dreamed this . . . for Simone never lies.” Luke nodded to the man who held the bowl, “Make sure you give him more than you did the last time, our master wills it!”

Without another word, Luke turned and grabbed Sara by the arm, dragging her limp body across the cold concrete as the rest of the worshippers gathered around the pinned detective, swaying and chanting slowly and hypnotically, already obeying Luke’s command, as they once again, brutally forced the cop to partake of the vile liquid.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Saturday afternoon (an old abandoned Church)

“Wake up . . .” He vaguely registered that it was the voice again, so calm, so removed . . . so distant, “Wake up pilgrim . . . the journey is at end . . .”

He was so weary, so cold, unable to fight off the voice that wandered freely inside of his head, speaking vile things, planting horrific images in his mind’s eye, showing him things of the future that he wanted no part of. The spinning vortex of colors and sounds and images confused his cloudy mind and meshed reality with lucid dreams. Dreams of the innocent dying . . . dreams of Hutch’s death . . .

He struggled to open his heavy lids, knowing that he had to warn him; knowing that he needed to be aware, but his mind and body were so heavy; feeling somehow like it did not belong to him anymore. Every muscle, every joint screamed in pain at the slightest intake of breath and he was so exhausted . . . so incredibly weary. His stomach muscles clenched in agony, as the psychedelic enhanced, then distorted his vision, making him see things, only to have them suddenly disappear. Reality and illusion became so enmeshed that it was difficult to know what was substantial and what was imaginary.

But Hutch was here . . . he was sure of it . . . somewhere in the darkness . . . he could “feel” it . . . he could feel the incredible, intrinsic bond they had always shared, the healing energy of love and friendship that never failed to comfort and reassure, as it pressed protectively against his aching soul. It wrapped its nurturing warmth around his cold, frozen heart, melting the frigid iciness that had ensnared it, and held it captive for so long. He was here . . . somewhere . . . hiding in this parody of all that was hallowed and revered. He ‘knew’ it; as sure as he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow, and it caused him to raise his weary head, feeling the frozen talons that pierced into his soul beginning to dissolve under the golden light of love.

His dark, heavy lashes lifted, as sweat stung his eyes, burning and blurring his vision for a moment, before he blinked away the salty moisture as he tried to focus. It was so dark, the candles casting eerie shadows all around. He closed his eyes again; his breathing shallow and rapid, as he tried to ride out the wave of pain that suddenly engulfed his battered body. The cramping spasms in his gut were painful reminders of the violation he had endured. He could hear the soft chanting in his head and the voice of the master as it rose above the droning.

“Wake up,” the voice hissed once more, urgently bidding him to do what was asked, “Wake up and behold the tarnished knight . . .”

-.-.-.-oo0oo.-.-.-.-

Hutch crouched behind one of the wooden pews, rechecking the chamber of his fully loaded gun, while he quickly glanced around the darkened room. The room was illuminated with only a few sparsely lit candles, which made it difficult to see. He glanced up at the darkened balcony area; his pale blue eyes tracking the charred remains of a once ornately decorated church.

He had debated if he should wait for back up like Dobey had ordered, but knowing his partner was only a few yards away drove the blond crazy. He couldn’t wait for back up, not when his partner was hurt and needed help. Hutch had parked the car about a half a mile from the church, for he did not want to alert the cult and take away his element of surprise.

Getting into the structure was simple, as there was no one around. As far as he could tell, the place seemed deserted, and for a minute, Hutch thought that he had made a dreadful mistake, wasting precious time as he searched an area that was obviously barren, while his partner remained a victim to their sadistic rituals elsewhere. Yet, his “Starsky sense” was strong here. He could almost “feel” his partner’s need and pain . . . could almost “feel” their special bond growing stronger as the proximity between them increased.

Hutch dragged his eyes downward to the lower pews, noting several gilded portraits of saints that hung on the walls. He turned his head to the wall closest to him and shuddered to see that all the pictures were hung upside down. The peaceful visage of the painted saint, closest him, had a red inverted cross smeared upon her forehead, a mark that defiled the sanctity and holiness of this once revered house of the Lord.

Hutch scurried behind the back of the long pew until he was next to the middle aisle. He quickly peeked around the side of the bench, noting the raised platform and the wooden altar that stood at the front of the church.

He took a deep breath, holding his cannon out to the side of him, as he balanced on the balls of his feet. Although it was too dark to tell, it seemed like there was something or someone sitting slumped at the foot of the wooden altar. Hutch slid his long body under several rows of pews to bring him closer to the front of the church so that he could get a better look.

The tall blonde crept once again to the middle aisle of the second row to peek around the side of pew. From this distance, he could hear the labored breathing of the dark haired man who sat slumped against the altar. It was Starsky. He could see the dark bruises that littered his partner’s upper chest and sides and he suppressed the urge to run over to his friend, whose curls lay plastered by sweat against the crown of his head.

Hutch quickly looked around the darkened room. The stillness of the chamber gave him a feeling of disquietude, his detective sense screaming out a warning, but he could see absolutely nothing. A soft moan from the front of the room quickly drew his attention back to his partner, “Starsk?” the blond whispered softly.

“Starsk?” That voice, so soft with concern, echoing in the hollow cathedrals . . . made the brunet struggle to open his eyes again, as he slowly lifted his heavy head. He labored to draw more air into his lungs, seeing the darkened room spinning in and out of focus. There! He could see it floating in the darkness . . . a golden halo of light, crouched down behind one of the wooden pews of the desecrated church. He blinked again, trying to clear his vision . . . squinting until the pale formless blob became a familiar and welcomed face . . . it was him . . . it was Hutch!

“The northern star begins to fade . . . it is too late to shine your light Polaris . . . too late for you and for your brave, but foolish knight . . .” the voice echoed eerily in his head.

“No . . .” Starsky thought, as he tried to move, seeing his partner cautiously rising to his feet, his gun stretched out before him as he made his way cautiously to the front of the altar. ‘No’ the brunet screamed silently in his head unable to vocalize his thoughts, watching as his partner drew nearer as if in a dream, knowing it was a mistake . . . a fatal mistake . . . Starsky’s weary head dropped once again to his chest, unable to move, unable to call out a warning, unable to watch as Simon’s horrific dream became a reality

. . . he was surprised by the gentle touch to the side of his face, a familiar touch that filled him with warmth and slowly began to melt the ice cold fear that had ensnared his heart for so long.

“Oh God, Starsk,” Hutch whispered gently, as he crouched beside his wounded partner, reaching out a hand to gently lift his partner’s bowed head. He watched as the long, dark lashes slowly lifted to reveal dark blue eyes, which looked almost black, as the large, dilated pupils overshadowed the familiar blue of his partner’s eyes. ‘Drugged, but with what?’ Hutch thought silently, barely controlling the anger that wanted to burst out. The blond watched as the brunet’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, “Hey buddy,” Hutch whispered urgently, gently slapping the sides of his partner’s face, “C’mon pal, stay with me huh?” The blond looked around to make sure they were still alone.

Starsky could feel the warmth of his partner’s touch, as it drew him further from the frozen, dreamlike quality of his existence. The brunet raised his eyes once more to the face he loved so very much, his deep blue eyes silently conveying the depths of his feelings for the blond man who held him. Hutch. It was so hard to believe that he was here, that somehow, his partner had found him. He knew he had to warn Hutch about his dream and his throat worked convulsively to form his frantic thoughts into words.

Hutch could feel a lump forming in his throat as he read the profound love and relief in his partner’s eyes, as the brunet grasped weakly onto the sleeve of his jacket. He could feel Starsky trembling, could see his friend wanting to say something, struggling, as he worked the muscles in his throat.

“Hey . . . hey, babe it’s okay,” Hutch said gently, soothingly, maneuvering himself in front of his curly haired friend to help lift him up, “We gotta get you out of here buddy . . . you can tell me all about it later okay?” The blond knew it would hurt the brunet to move him, but there really was no choice in the matter and he steeled himself against stopping, when he heard the soft groan that came from this partner’s lips.

Starsky gritted his teeth, refusing to make any more unwanted sounds. He felt the slight hesitation from the blond, as he began to gently lift him, grasping the wounded man under his cut and bruised arms.

As if in a dream, Starsky looked over his partner’s shoulder, his blue eyes widening in horror as he saw a dark figure rising from the balcony, aiming the bow and letting fly the arrow . . . the arrow that would pierce Hutch through his back . . . the same scenario he had witnessed in his nightmare. Fear and the sudden rush of adrenalin made him a silent witness no longer.

To Hutch, everything happened in a blur of action. He heard Starsky, as he cried out his name, “Huuuutch!” He felt the sudden shove from his partner, as Hutch grabbed his gun and turned his shoulder into a roll, firing towards the dark silhouette that stood on the balcony, barely discerning the displacement of air, as something whizzed by his ear.

Hutch watched as the man fell, as if in slow motion, to the pews below. “Stay here Starsk,” the blond called over his shoulder as he cautiously made his way to the back of the room to check on the fallen man. It was Luke; a bullet hole lay between his opened eyes . . . dark, glaring eyes that seemed to hauntingly accuse the blond of taking his life. Hutch could feel the suppressed anger and anxiety for his partner rise to the top, “Fuck you!” Hutch said softly, as a last rite over the still and broken body of Simon’s disciple.

He turned and hurried back to his partner’s side only to stop in mid-stride, his pale, blue eyes opened wide in horror, “No,” he whispered, breaking into a run, sliding to kneel next to his partner’s side, “Oh God . . . easy buddy,” the blond detective panted, “Just . . . just stay still, d-don’t move okay?” Hutch lifted his hands in helpless despair, his eyes locked on the protruding shaft of an arrow that stuck obscenely out of his partner’s right shoulder, the metal arrowhead gouged into the wood, pinning the brunet firmly to the altar behind him.

Starsky nod was barely perceptible, his breathing was erratic and shallow, his dark long lashes twitched against his pale coloring, as he fought to control the trembling in his body, trying to get a handle on the pain that ripped through his shoulder and radiated down his arm and through his chest. And yet, despite the pain that ravaged his body, he realized that his mind felt clearer, the dull pressure in his temple that had been with him since he emerged from his coma, was suddenly gone.

It sickened Hutch to see his partner sitting propped up so still, knowing that the arrow had been meant for him. He shouldn’t have turned his back to that balcony; it should have been him sitting here with the arrow in his shoulder. Hutch looked quickly at his watch, the back up and the ambulance would be here in another ten minutes or so.

He listened to this partner’s labored breathing and laid his large hand gently on Starsky’s knee, “You didn’t have to do that buddy,” the blond said softly. He felt the heavy hand of guilt and despair, as it ravaged his soul. “You didn’t have to take that arrow for me . . .”

For a minute, there was only the sound of Starsky’s ragged breathing and then his voice softly rasped out, “Thought . . . it was a good idea . . . at the time,” he gasped, trying to still the trembling in his body. Both men silently thought back to that night, so long ago, on a rooftop, where Starsky shot Bellamy full of lead, knowingly killing himself in the process, to save his partner.

They worked that way, each of them willing to give up their own life, for the life of the other. Hutch knew that Starsky didn’t think twice about shoving him out of the way of the arrow’s path, knowing in his weakened condition that he might take the hit, and Hutch would have done the same, if their places had been reversed. God, he loved this man . . . and the love they shared, their special bond had saved their lives countless of times in the past. To Hutch, nothing in life truly mattered except having his best friend by his side. Their relationship from day one had been about love. It was their greatest gift to each other.

“Yet . . . cupid’s arrow may still fly and pierce the heart of those we cherish . . . proving once again that love exists and is the supreme power over all.” The words of Simon Marcus suddenly popped into Hutch’s mind and he stared in awe at his dark haired partner who suddenly tensed as a spasm of pain shook his weary body.

“Easy buddy,” Hutch soothed, wincing along with his partner, knowing the excruciating pain his friend was in, “Hang in there Starsk, the Calvary’s on its way.”

The brunet scrunched his eyes and jolted against the searing pain, as it lanced through his shoulder. Starsky groaned softly with the sudden movement, his body rigid and tense, gasping as he reached for the protruding arrow shaft with his left hand.

“No Starsk, I can’t let you do that buddy,” Hutch said, grabbing onto the roving hand, “You can’t pull it out, you’ll bleed to death.” The tenseness of the brunet’s body made the blond feel ill, he felt so useless sitting there, unable to hold and comfort his partner like he wanted to. “We’ll just sit tight until the paramedics come okay? Just take it easy buddy.”

The brunet shook with a sudden spasm of pain, “Oh Hu-Hutch . . . oh jeez,” he gasped, his left hand dug into his partner’s palm, “Pull it out . . . please . . .” Starsky begged, wanting to twist his body, as it arched in pain, but the arrow remained firmly embedded in the wooden altar, barely allowing the dark haired detective to move at all. The brunet gasped, his breathing harsh and ragged.

It killed Hutch to see his partner in so much pain, but the sudden pinging of bullets drew his immediate attention away. Several cult members had wormed their way silently between the pews, firing randomly at the detectives who had no cover.

Starsky panted, moaning as he grabbed onto the shaft of the arrow, “R-run Hutch . . . get behind this thing!” He knew Hutch was in the line of open fire and the last thing he wanted to see was his partner being blown away on account of him being pinned where he was.

“Fuck!” Hutch swore, his eyes wild with desperation, knowing they were sitting ducks. He fired his magnum; the roar of his cannon was the voice of his anger. One of the followers peeping over the pew screamed in pain, surprise and agony written on his face as the bullet ripped into the hooded man’s shoulder.

Starsky groaned out loud, as he struggled to break the shaft of the arrow with his left hand, while Hutch fired another shot. The pain tore through brunet, just the slightest vibration in the shaft wanted to make him pass out. He fought against the nausea that roiled in his gut, the unbearable agony wanting to make him puke. Try as he might, he was unable to break the shaft with only one hand. He heard Hutch fire two more shots, the sound was as comforting as it was familiar, and suddenly, Hutch was by his side.

“Okay Starsky, you hang onto my shoulder okay? I gotta dislodge you from this shaft . . . it’s gonna hurt like hell, but we gotta find cover for ourselves,” Hutch said, ducking as a bullet pinged near his head, “Okay I gotta break this shaft in two,” he panted desperately.

“’Kay,” Starsky gasped, fighting to stay conscious, “Gimme . . . your gun.” Starsky grasped the gun with this left hand, feeling its comforting weight, keeping his eyes trained on the stealthy shadows that hid behind the wooden pews. “Jus’ break . . . the fuckin’ . . . thing!”

Starsky fired another round, taking down another follower, while Hutch took the shaft in both of his hands, feeling his partner’s body tensing with pain, “Uungh,” Starsky grunted in pain, feeling the blond hesitate, “Jus’ . . . do it!”

Hutch quickly snapped the shaft in two, breaking the wooden rod as close to his partner’s body as possible; his stomach clenched as he heard his partner suddenly cry out in pain. Hutch quickly glanced over at his curly haired friend, who sat with his eyes scrunched, taking in rapid, shallow breaths to get a handle on the fiery pain that tore right through him. “You okay?” Hutch asked anxiously.

Starsky eyes remained tightly shut, as he spoke through gritted teeth, “Yeah . . . jus’. . . gimme a minute.” Hutch watched with anxiety filled eyes as his partner surfed through the pain, breathing rapidly as he tried to get a handle on it.

Starsky trembled as he opened his blue eyes, eyes that were filled with pain, “Now . . . what?” he gasped. They both ducked as another bullet came close and Starsky fired back immediately, hitting the dark hooded shape squarely in the chest. The brunet groaned softly, the magnum’s powerful kick caused his body to jolt around the arrow shaft each time he fired. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer. Already his vision was growing dark around the edges. He looked to his partner, his pain filled, cobalt eyes speaking volumes.

“Okay, hang on buddy,” Hutch said calmly, although he wanted to scream and shout with the anxiety he felt, he purposely made his voice as soothing as possible, “We’re going to have to slide your shoulder off of this shaft okay? So on the count of three, you need to help me by leaning towards me, alright Starsk?”

“’Kay, jus’ . . . jus’ hurry,” Starsky gasped, raising the heavy gun to fire randomly into the pews. As far as he knew, they had hit or wounded several of Simon’s goons and the hooded men were reluctant to stick their heads over the benches that shielded them. The deadly precision of the brunet’s shots, were taking them rapidly down.

“Alright, stay with me,” Hutch whispered, looking his partner in the eye, dreading what he was about to do, “One . . . two . . . three,” As gently as he could, Hutch pulled his partner’s rigid body towards him, feeling the wooden shaft sliding through Starsky’s shoulder, the rough wood scraping his partner’s insides, as his body pulled free from the arrow. He could see Starsky’s sweat drenched face, scrunched in pain, heard his painful cry as he slid free and collapsed unconscious into Hutch’s arms. Suddenly a shot went off and Hutch turned in time to see a young blond girl shoot another one of Simon’s men.

“Hurry,” she snapped, “Get him behind this altar!” She fired once again, splintering the bench that one of the worshippers hid behind.

Hutch quickly dragged his unconscious partner behind the wooden altar and propped him up as gently as possible, making sure his body was in line with the object so that no stray bullet could hit him. He could hear the intermittent sound of gunshots and knew by its proximity, that the woman who was helping them was firing the shots.

The tall blond cop was shocked and concerned by the amount of blood that flowed freely from both the entrance, and exit wounds in his partner’s shoulder. Hutch quickly removed his jacket, holster and shirt, stripping the latter into pieces so that he could stem the flow of blood. The way Starsky was bleeding out, he would be dead before the ambulance got here.

“How is he?” Sara gasped, handing Hutch his gun. “Will he make it?” She crouched near the wounded man, and Hutch could clearly see the concern she had for his dark haired partner. He watched as she gently stroked back the damp curls from his face, raising distress filled eyes up at the blond.

“We gotta stop the bleeding. Here, you need to help me,” the blond detective said, handing her some of the makeshift bandages, “Direct pressure will stem the flow of blood and hopefully keep him from bleeding out.” He watched as she put her weapon down and was surprised to see that it was Starsky’s missing gun.

At his silent question, Sara smiled hesitantly, “I-I took it from his place,” she said shrugging, looking at Starsky, “Thought I might need it when I made my escape from Luke.” she said softly, “I’m really sorry for stealing it.” That last statement surprised Hutch, who was busy wadding the material into thick layers; he stopped and stared at her. There was a gentle sweetness to this young girl and a familiarity about her that Hutch couldn’t place.

“Uungh,” Starsky groaned softly, drawing the attention of the two helping him. They watched as he slowly came to, the sharp pain from his wound dredging him up from the dark refuge he had momentarily escaped to.

“Hey buddy,” Hutch said soothingly, his voice soft and mellow, “How you doing huh?” He watched as his partner opened his weary eyes, the drug that coursed through his friend’s system still evident by the show of dilated pupils that swallowed the usual blue.

“Been . . .better,” the curly haired detective rasped. He looked at his tall blond partner, seeing the stress lines of worry and fear etched upon his face. “Y-you okay? You l-look . . . terrible!” His dark blue eyes softened as he looked fondly at his blond friend, and he grinned slightly when he heard Hutch’s soft snort.

“Hang on buddy, I’m gonna get you out of here,” Hutch said softly, his partner’s rapid and shallow breathing were beginning to worry him, as did his pale and clammy skin. He needed to prevent his partner from going into shock. The tall blond gently used his leather jacket to cover his partner and keep him warm, and then he leaned Starsky slightly forward and pressed the wadded cloth against the wound in the back of his shoulder. Hutch winced when he felt Starsky jolt and gasp, “Easy buddy, I know it hurts, but we gotta stop the bleeding.” He looked up and nodded to the girl who came closer to apply pressure to Starsky’s front.

The soothing warmth of Hutch’s jacket made the dark haired detective want to slip into unconsciousness, but he smiled weakly when he caught sight of Sara, “Hey . . .” he said softly, reaching his left hand to finger her long golden tresses, as she pressed the wadded cloth firmly to the wound in his chest, “Was w-worried . . . about you . . . you okay?” he winced, feeling sick as they continued to push against his ravaged openings to impede the flow of his blood.

There was a moment’s hesitation and a deep sadness to her voice that Starsky could only speculate about, but she bravely smiled, tears shimmering in her eyes as she softly said, “Yeah . . .I’m okay . . . been better.” She laughed quietly when Starsky’s eyes widened at the use of his own words, then smiled as the detective grinned and winked up at her, his blue eyes, though weary and pain filled, were beautiful, almost sparkling as it caught the dim reflection of light from the glowing candles.

Hutch was just about to say something when the wails of police sirens could be heard in the near distance, feeling suddenly weak with relief that help was finally on the way. He applied more pressure on the wound to the back of Starsky’s shoulder, feeling his partner tensing in pain. “Easy buddy . . . we got help on the way, you stay with me you hear?”

“They’re running,” Sara whispered, as she peeked around the side of the altar. “The sirens are scaring them off . . .”

She had no sooner said this, when Hutch caught sight of a movement from the corner of his eye. One of Marcus’ followers had crept unbeknownst to any of them, to the side of the raised platform, his gun pointed straight at Starsky. “Die Polaris,” he snarled, firing his gun at the same time that Hutch fired his magnum. The hooded man fell, the bullet from Hutch’s gun piercing his neck.

Hutch could hear the black and whites pulling up outside and he quickly looked back at his partner to make sure that he was fine, only to find Starsky’s wide blue eyes riveted on his own pale blue ones. The dark haired detective slowly shook his head, his eyes filling with tears, as he stroked the pale head and slender body that lay sprawled over his lap.

“Sh-she’s dead Hutch,” Starsky whispered brokenly, “She threw . . . herself in front . . . of me!” Starsky looked down at the diminutive body, lying so still . . . so peaceful. “It should’a been me Hutch . . .it should’a been me . . .”

The tall blond detective made his way back to his wounded friend, feeling saddened and yet eternally grateful for the young girl’s sacrifice. He checked for a pulse on her slim pale neck, finding none, noticing quickly that the bullet had penetrated her back and had probably pierced her heart, killing her on the spot.

He sat next to his partner and pulled him close, hugging him to his chest, while applying pressure to his wounds once more. Silent tears spilled down the brunet’s face, as Hutch listened to his partner softly repeating over and over, “It should’a been me . . .”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Sunday evening (Two months later- Starsky’s apartment)

“You want me to play something for you buddy?” Hutch asked, sitting on a stool, as he deftly tuned his guitar.

His soft voice was a soothing balm to the brunet who lay on his bed, his back pressed against stacked pillows, with one hand tucked under his head, staring moodily at his bedroom ceiling. Starsky had just taken a hot shower and was cooling off, shirtless, wearing his ragged denim cutoffs; the window to his bedroom was open, allowing a soft summer breeze to blow gently into the room.

Hutch snorted softly as he waited for his partner’s reply. This singing ritual had become a nightly habit since before he had brought his dark haired partner home, just about a week ago. Hutch always knew that Starsky enjoyed listening to him sing and play, but since his abduction, this nightly serenading had become almost a need for his curly haired partner. There were times in the hospital that the brunet couldn’t fall asleep until he heard the gentle strumming and soothing voice of the blond, and eventually, Hutch’s guitar had become a permanent fixture to Starsky’s hospital room, soothing the dark haired man to sleep, even when sedatives failed.

The psychologist had warned Hutch about the nightmares his friend was undoubtedly going to have, and Hutch had witnessed them countless times himself, reaching out to hold his trembling, sweat drenched friend in the middle of the night, whenever he bolted awake, gasping, from the horrible visions that still haunted his dreams. It troubled the blond, when his partner would eventually pull away and quietly evade the questions that Hutch asked, as he tried to coax his partner into talking about his fears.

Hutch gave his partner the once over, his pale, blue eyes running over his friend’s muscled chest. The cuts and bruises on his upper torso from the beating he took with the chain had faded long ago. The fractured ribs had knitted nicely; the only physical evidence of the ordeal he had suffered at the hands of Marcus and his goons, were the scars he had on the front and the back of his upper right shoulder. Scars that still looked red and abraded, as compared to the old faded scars across his abdomen and chest, the scars he’d gotten from Gunther’s failed assassination attempt. Hutch looked back to his guitar and picked a few chords, his agile fingers gliding across the strings.

Starsky had come a long way in his rehabilitation, the biweekly therapy sessions, though painful and grueling, helped keep the mobility of his healing shoulder. Although the physical wounds were nearly healed, the blond detective knew the emotional wounds were still very much there . . . raw and festering. Sometimes, those types of scars were the hardest to heal.

Hutch strummed a soothing melody, as he waited for his partner to answer. Nothing. The blond lifted his eyes from the strings and stopped playing. He waited for a while, hoping the brunet would notice the quiet stillness of the room.

Hutch frowned knowing that Starsky wasn’t even aware that he had stopped playing. His curly haired friend had that far away, absent look again in his eyes that unnerved the tall blond; he hated that sad, haunted expression that would creep out every now and then, when Starsky thought no one was looking, and he wanted to erase it permanently from his partner’s visage. The only thing was, he didn’t know how.

At the hospital, when his wounds were well on the way to mending nicely and he could sit up with visitors, Starsky seemed his usual rambunctious self, animatedly chattering and bantering with people like Joe Collandra, Dobey and Huggy when they came by to visit the dark haired detective. No one except Hutch knew how the brunet suffered from the memories and nightmares of the trauma he lived through, although once in a while, the blond would catch Joe staring at Starsky intently, as if knowing the brunet’s hidden pain, but to his credit, Collandra said nothing.

Although Hutch constantly tried to get his partner to talk about his feelings and share about the ordeal he underwent, Starsky remained stubbornly quiet, hoarding his feelings and only revealing a bit at a time. With Starsky holding everything in, it was hard for Hutch to help him through all of this. Hutch glanced at his friend over the top of the guitar, which he held pressed against his chest on his lap, wondering again, where it was that his partner mentally wandered to.

“Hey pal . . . you okay?” Hutch asked gently.

“Hmm?” Starsky said absently, turning his bright blue gaze to his friend. “What?”

Hutch snorted softly, light blue eyes softening with affection, when he saw his friend grin, his cheeks turning red, as he sat up a little straighter.

“Did it again, didn’t I?” Starsky said sheepishly, “’M sorry Hutch,” the brunet sighed, “Don’ know why I keep phasing out like that.” Starsky nervously bit on the bottom of his lip and shifted his eyes away from the compassion he saw in his friend’s face.

Starsky had been going to see the department psychologist for about three weeks now, much to his displeasure, and though the doctor felt the detective had made vast improvements in so short a time, Hutch knew that his partner had just snowballed the shrink like he did everyone else. There was no way, however, that Starsky could do the same to his partner. They knew each other too well, and it was only a matter of time before the brunet would have to come clean with his blond friend.

Hutch got off the stool and slowly leaned the neck of the guitar against the wall. The blond ambled over to the bed and sat at its edge. “Hey buddy,” Hutch said softly, feeling his partner tense up as he placed his warm hand on his shoulder, “It’s okay . . . we all space out from time to time, sometimes . . .”

“No! It’s not okay . . . I’m not . . . o-kay . . .” Starsky said suddenly, to the surprise of the blond. Hutch gently squeezed his partner’s left shoulder reassuringly. He could feel his heart accelerating, hoping that this might be the moment where Starsky was ready to let him in.

Hutch knew he had to be careful about what he said next; like a wild animal, it was easier for his dark haired partner to retreat and hide when he was hurting and wounded, rather than deal with something when he was not ready to. If backed into a corner, Hutch knew his partner would come out fighting tooth and nail, and this was not the time or place for something like that. Hutch wanted to comfort and soothe, not aggravate the ire of his friend by putting the brunet on the defensive. In no way, did the blond want to exacerbate the problem when it might appear that Starsky was finally ready to discuss it.

“You know Starsk, whenever you’re ready to talk about . . . about anything, I’m here for you . . . I’m right here . . .” Hutch said softly, keeping the tone of his voice gentle and calm. He could feel the rigidity leaving his partner’s body and he smiled to himself, knowing he had said the right thing.

Hutch watched as Starsky heaved a heavy sigh and turned pain filled eyes to him. It physically hurt the blond to see his best friend distressed this way, and he gently squeezed his partner’s shoulder again, using touch to express his loving support.

“Sometimes . . .” Starsky began so softly that the blond had to lean in just to hear him, “Sometimes at night . . . I can still hear ‘im . . . in my head.” There was such apprehension and despair in the brunet’s soft voice that it tugged on the blond’s heart, “I um . . . I guess that’s why I like you singin’ t’me . . . your voice makes the other voices stay away.”

Hutch could see his friend’s blue eyes peeking out from under his dark lashes, knowing the brunet was feeling uncomfortable disclosing that bit of information, wondering if his friend would think he was falling apart. He looked so lost and unsure, like a little boy who was afraid of monsters under his bed. And Hutch knew for a fact now, that monsters truly existed.

“He wanted me Hutch . . .for some strange reason.” Starsky continued softly, “Luke said that Simon had honed his abilities enough to reach out with his mind and force his dreams on others . . .that freak Luke said that Marcus was with me the whole time I was in a coma . . . studying me, like I was some piece of meat or somethin’. I guess that’s how he was able to “connect” with me so easily . . . like he knew how my brain worked or somethin’.” The brunet couldn’t suppress the shudder that quaked his body at that thought.

“He instigated the whole thing from the start,” Hutch said gently, “That kid who shot you in the alley was part of Simon’s cult.”

“Yeah . . . Dobey told me somethin’ like that on one of his visits to the hospital.” Starsky said, closing his eyes, his long lashes looked like dark crescents against his cheeks, as he continued hesitantly, his voice growing even softer, “I mean . . . I know he’s gone . . . my head feels lighter . . . the pressure in here . . .” the brunet said tapping his temple, “Is gone. When he was in my head, it hurt . . . and it doesn’t anymore . . . and yet, sometimes those nightmares I get seem so real . . .like he’s still with me . . . ”

The blond sat quietly for a moment, waiting to see if his partner would continue. When nothing else was said, Hutch softly spoke, “Well, we know Simon Marcus can never hurt us again buddy . . . he’s dead . . . they found him the very next day, lying in his bunk, with a bullet hole between his eyes. They still haven’t figured out who snuffed him . . . and the strange thing is, they couldn’t even locate a bullet when they autopsied him.”

“They were joined . . .” Starsky whispered, his voice barely audible, his eyes dropping to the folded hands he held in his lap.

“Joined?” Hutch said, titling his head slightly as he tried to make sense of what was just said, “What does that mean buddy?” he asked gently, careful not to push too much, too fast.

“Simon and Luke had . . . had some kind of . . . some kind of mental connection.” Starsky began slowly, “They were joined somehow . . . Luke kept tellin’ me that the flame of Marcus lived inside of ‘im . . . that they wanted the flame to live in me too . . . and when Luke died, so did Marcus . . . they were one.”

Hutch looked down at Starsky’s hands that were twisting the bed sheets, and he gently covered his hand over the brunet’s, knowing his touch would reassure and encourage his partner to go on. Hutch closed his eyes, remembering the angry, accusing glare of Luke as he lay dead; the blood oozing slowly from the bullet wound between his eyes . . . the same location as the wound they found on Marcus in his cell. He shuddered to think what they had planned for his friend and was thankful that the visions plaguing Starsky had stopped, since he found him in the church. He quickly opened his eyes as his partner’s hesitant voice began again.

“They forced me to drink that thing I thought was blood,” the brunet whispered softly, recalling the horror of swallowing that gore. Starsky shuddered, remembering the nauseating feeling as that thick, warm substance went down his throat, making him want to gag even now.

They had later learned from the lab that the wooden bowl found in the adjoining chamber of the church contained a water-based mixture of red food coloring and cornstarch, which was then heated and mixed together to resemble blood. A tasteless, odorless, psychedelic drug was then added into that mixture to induce hallucinations and abdominal cramping.

“That drug opened me up to Marcus somehow . . . I could . . . I could clearly hear him in my head, Hutch . . .” Starsky said softly, a tremor in his usually strong voice made the blond bleed inside for the trauma his friend had endured.

Hutch pushed down the rising anger he felt at Marcus and his flakes, knowing how they had broken his partner down bit by bit, wishing that he could have been the one to pull the trigger as Marcus lay helpless in his bed; a fitting retribution for hurting his partner the way they did.

It suddenly dawned on Hutch, that if what Starsky had said was true, and Luke and Marcus was somehow “joined,” then he did actually pull the trigger, ending both of their lives with one well aimed bullet. Hutch struggled to get a hold of his emotions, intuitively knowing that if he showed any signs of being upset by all of this, his partner would withdraw back into his silent cave. Tonight was not about anger or retribution or hate; tonight was reserved solely for healing, for Starsky’s restoration.

Starsky looked up at his blond counterpart then, stormy cobalt locked onto soft sky blue, “I tried to fight ‘im Hutch, I tried to push ‘im outta my head, but I . . . I was givin’ in at the end . . . I was so tired . . . and I . . . and I gave into them . . .” The brunet turned away in shame, from the love and acceptance that shone so freely in the blond’s eyes. “I gave up Hutch,” the dark haired man continued softly, remembering the hazy peacefulness of chanting that madman’s name, “I let that bastard have his way with me.” he finished abruptly, angry with himself for surrendering his resolve to Marcus.

“Starsky . . . hey,” Hutch said gently, waiting until he had eye contact once more with this partner, but the brunet shifted his gaze away at the last minute, “They beat you, drugged you, played their sick mind games with you . . . I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did. They wore you down, a bit at a time, stripping away your hope and your self esteem until there was nothing left . . . there’s no reason to be ashamed of anything . . . and you didn’t give in to them Starsky.” At that last statement, Starsky turned to look his partner in his eye.

“You didn’t give in to them,” Hutch firmly reiterated, “I know this for a fact buddy, because if you did, you wouldn’t be here talking with me . . . you would be dead like Marcus and Luke.” Starsky’s eyes widened, his mind digesting everything his partner had just said.

For a minute they sat in silence, both men deeply lost in their own thoughts until Starsky softly said, “All those kids on the bus . . . and Sara and her sister . . . all those innocents lives were taken ‘cause of me . . .”

“Hey buddy,” Hutch said, reaching out to tug his partner into his embrace, feeling the overwhelming guilt and remorse that radiated out from the brunet, as he slumped wearily into the warmth and safety of his chest, “That wasn’t your fault Starsk . . . you were as much a victim as they were.”

Hutch gently pulled Starsky closer, feeling his partner’s soft curls tickling his nose, the clean smell of sandalwood, soap and shampoo, mixing together with his partner’s unique scent that he would know anywhere. “You took care of Sara’s funeral expenses and had her buried next to her sister. You did all that you could buddy.”

“She had nobody,” Starsky said sadly, “I couldn’t even be at her funeral because I was laid up in the hospital . . .”

“I know pal . . . but I went for the both of us, and the eulogy and flowers were beautiful. She would have liked that Starsk.” Hutch said softly, unable to keep himself from stroking his partner’s curls, “Tell you what . . . you and I can bring some flowers to her grave whenever you’re ready to visit her okay?”

Hutch loosened his hold on his partner when he felt the brunet slightly pull away, looking down into the deep blue depths of Starsky’s upturned eyes that shimmered with unshed tears, “She took that bullet for me Hutch . . . she was just a kid . . . she didn’t have to do it . . . she had her whole life ahead of her . . .it should’a been me.”

“She did that because she cared about you buddy. I could see that in her eyes. You were probably the first person who ever showed any sort of kindness to her and maybe in a way, she loved you for it.” Hutch said, his voice velvety soft and soothing, his heart aching for the pain and guilt his friend had been carrying around all this time. If anyone understood the burden of guilt, it was Hutch. “I know how much you’re hurting, how you feel ridden with guilt . . . I know exactly how you feel Starsky, because you see . . . you took that arrow for me and you didn’t have to.”

Starsky pulled back to look his partner in the eye, the look of shocked surprise on his face, “You would have done the same for me Hutch . . . we always watch each other’s backs on the streets . . .”

Hutch snorted softly, looking away from the intense blue gaze of the brunet, stopping his partner’s flow of thoughts with that soft sound.

“What?” Starsky questioned, his dark brows drawing together as he frowned, trying to read the changing expressions that crossed his partner’s features. “What’s going on in that mind of yours Blondie . . . huh?”

Hutch sighed heavily, “What we have . . . it’s more than that Starsk . . . more than just some cop’s code of ethics about watching your partner’s back . . . what I feel for you, and what you did for me, means so much more . . . I would die for you Starsky and I know you would do the same for me! You’re the best friend I’ve got in the whole world and if something happened to you . . . if you died . . . I would die inside too, because we’re two pieces that make a whole. You make me a better person because you’re in my life. I-I guess I’ve always known that, but in the past, I took that for granted. I did, and said things to you, that I’m rather not proud of buddy, and when I almost lost you to Gunther . . . it shook me up . . . it made me see how empty and meaningless my life would be, if you weren’t in it . . .”

The anguish on the blond’s face and his heartfelt outpouring brought a lump to Starsky’s throat, and for a moment, all he could do was stare at his partner with wide blue eyes in the palpable silence that ensued.

“Hutch,” Starsky said softly, reaching out to squeeze the blond’s shoulder, wanting to say something that would convey what it meant to hear those words from his friend, but he stopped when Hutch held up a hand, silently indicating that he was not done.

The blond took a deep breath and looked his friend in the eye. “When I went to see Marcus in prison, he said some things to me that really made me think.”

“Yeah? Like what?” Starsky asked softly. He knew Hutch went to talk to Simon Marcus, but they had never discussed it; although Hutch had promised to one day let Starsky hear the tape he made of their conversation.

“He said something that I remembered right after you took that arrow for me,” Hutch said, his eyes softened as he remembered the pain his partner suffered, “He said . . . ‘Yet . . . cupid’s arrow may still fly and pierce the heart of those we cherish . . . proving once again that love exists and is the supreme power over all.’” It amazed Hutch even now, that he remembered Simon’s strange words and he knew that somewhere along the line, he had committed that strange sentence to memory.

Hutch smiled at the blank look on Starsky’s face, “It’s okay buddy,” he chuckled, squeezing his partner’s knee, “I had no clue as to what he was talking about either. Nothing made sense until you got hit, then it was like this light went on and something clicked and I finally understood.”

“Yeah? Well, ya mind clueing me in?” Starsky grinned, “’Cause I’m still in the dark over here . . . the light bulb’s dead on this end.”

Hutch snorted softly, clearly seeing the love and affection in the bright blue eyes of the brunet, “Well, it was like Marcus ‘knew’ we had had some challenges in the past, he said that although I once was white, I was now tarnished, and that love was not as pure as it used to be. It didn’t make any sense to me, but now I know he was talking about us . . . about you and me!” Starsky just stared, trying to make heads or tales of his friend’s rambling.

“Don’t you get it Starsk? When we first worked together, it was always “me and thee” all the way, the love and care we had for each other was “pure,” but as the years went on and I became disgruntled about being on the force, well, I-I guess I took it all out on you Starsk, and I hurt you so badly with that whole Kira mess . . .” Hutch said sadly, feeling ashamed all over again for the way he took advantage of his partner’s trusting, innocent nature.

“Hutch,” Starsky said, knowing his sensitive partner was hurting, understanding how difficult this was for him to disclose, wanting to comfort his friend and reassure him that all of that was water under the bridge, “Hey . . . that’s over . . . it happened a long time ago . . .”

“No . . . let me finish,” Hutch said, gently laying his hand on his partner’s shoulder, “Marcus spoke of cupid’s arrow and of supreme love. Cupid was a Roman god equated with love. That arrow you took for me proved your willingness to die for me . . . that you would love me enough to give up your own life, that the love we had for each other still was there, would always be there . . . and love is the greatest power over all things. That girl taking the bullet for you was also a demonstration of this unfailing love . . . it’s like that scripture in the bible . . .”

“Yeah . . . wait a minute . . . I have a bible,” Starsky said, leaning over to the drawer in his nightstand.

“You keep your gun on your bible?” Hutch chuckled, as Starsky flipped through the sheer golden leafed pages. “I thought Jewish people usually don’t read the bible?”

“Hey . . . don’t knock it Blondie . . .they both can save lives ya know.” Starsky grinned, “Here it is . . .John 15:13 . . . Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends . . .” Starsky raised dark blue eyes to his friend.

Hutch’s sky blue eyes softened with the fondness and affection he felt for his partner. The tall blond swallowed and gently said, “That’s what defeated Marcus . . . it was love buddy . . . pure love. You see Starsk, there will never be a “me” without a “thee”. The blond gently squeezed his partner’s shoulder, his pale eyes focused on the red scar on his friend’s shoulder from the arrow wound. When Hutch looked back to the brunet, his sky blue eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Starsky tried to swallow the lump in his throat, seeing the soft glow in his partner’s shimmering eyes. It choked Starsky up, to see the undisguised love shining in those gentle blue depths, the unconditional love, that he too, felt for his blonde soulmate. They may have had their ups and downs in the past, but Starsky always knew that what they had between them was special, and at that moment he felt so blessed and fortunate to have Hutch in his life.

The brunet snorted, and then gave his friend one of his best lopsided grins, feeling suddenly self-conscious by their sentimental outpouring, making a show of clearing his throat to change the subject to a topic less emotive, something like food.

“Yeah . . . well, I’m hungry . . . wanna go get a bite to eat huh?” Starsky said, already rolling off the edge of the bed, “C’mon Hutch . . . you can treat this time . . . and if you really loved me like you say you do, then you’ll shave off that hairy caterpillar you got growing on your lip!” the brunet said playfully, tugging off his cutoffs to replace them with one of his old, worn jeans.

Hutch snorted softly, knowing how his friend hated soapy scenes. It made the blond happy to see the old exuberance and bounce back in his partner’s stride and though it would take some time, he intuitively knew that everything was going to be all right. Marcus hadn’t won after all. “Okay buddy, since you hate my mustache that much, I’ll shave it off tomorrow . . . I promise, but you’re buying tonight! C’mon, let’s go . . . maybe we can stop off at Joe’s . . . I think he just might be expecting us!” The blond wagged his eyebrows eerily at his partner.

Starsky threw his partner a weird look, as Hutch walked out and clicked off the light to the bedroom, leaving Starsky standing alone in the dark. The brunet quickly tossed on a shirt feeling suddenly alarmed, as he heard Hutch chuckling evilly from the other room.

“Hey Hutch . . . wait up . . .” Starsky pleaded, rapidly zipping up his jeans, pinching his finger in the process, startling when he heard the front door slam loudly, “Hutch? Hey . . . Hutch? HUUUTCH!”

EPILOGUE

Maple Gardens Cemetery (four days later)

A strong breeze disturbed the pile of foliage that was raked together and left by the hedge. The dry leaves, playfully racing and tagging each other, whirled along as they skittered across the feet of the two men who stood beside the gravestones, floating joyfully and rejoicing in their newfound freedom.

For a moment, the brunet watched the blowing leaves, as they suddenly dropped still to the ground, left bereft by the whimsical gust of wind that even now, sought new playmates. ‘Thank God, Hutch wasn’t like the wind,’ the dark haired man silently thought, turning to glance up at his clean-shaven blond companion.

Unlike the wind, Hutch had stood next to him through thick and thin, had taken care of him when he was unable to care for himself, had comforted and listened to him when he thought he was losing it, and had guided him back from the edge of a dark abyss with the light and warmth of his friendship and love.

With his golden hair cut short once again, and minus that hairy bug from his upper lip, Hutch looked younger, happier . . . like the years of dismay and disillusionment that had hardened his features had somehow faded . . . since the night of their talk. There was a peace now to the blond’s visage that Starsky hadn’t seen in a long time and that filled the brunet’s heart with such joy.

Starsky thought back to that talk they had three nights ago in his bedroom. Only his partner could have gotten him to spill his guts that way, allowing him to shed the guilt he had been carrying around for a long time. Yet, it seemed that the talk did his blond partner some good too. Hutch seemed lighter somehow, like figuring out Simon Marcus’s riddle had helped him figure something out about himself. Marcus had called Hutch tarnished, but now it seemed that the luster was back, the radiant white knight of yore had once again returned.

Good to his word, Hutch had shaved off his mustache the very next morning, after a night filled with good food and good company at Huggy’s, and before they went to bed that night, they had made plans to come and visit Sara’s grave.

They had laughed and bantered the whole way over, as they drove across town, stopping only to get some flowers, and now that they stood in front of her grave, they were quiet and introspective, each lost in their own thoughts.

Starsky knelt on one knee, as he carefully split the bunch of daisies in two, one for Sienna’s grave and the other for Sara’s. He said a quiet prayer over them, silently apologizing to both girls for not being able to save them. He closed his eyes, remembering Sienna’s face as she lay in his arms dying, and Sara’s kind musical voice, as she stroked back his hair while he lay hurting in her arms. Two beautiful, young girls with the same face, the same gentle heart; and the same horrible fate; the brunet sighed heavily as he rose to his feet, dusting the knee of his jeans.

“You okay?” Hutch asked gently, laying his large warm hand on his partner’s shoulder, knowing the pain his friend was feeling.

“Yeah . . .” Starsky replied softly, “Sara said she saw me holdin’ her sister in the rain. She said they killed Sienna because they wanted to punish her for tryin’ to run away. She said it wasn’t my fault.” The brunet said sadly.

“It’s not your fault. They’re sick bastards, every one of them.” Hutch said, anger fueling the harshness in his words, as its red heat flared up in the blond again. Hearing the soft snort from his dark haired partner immediately extinguished the fire raging in his blood.

“Yeah,” the brunet said simply, “I wonder though . . . how many kids like Sara are out there, needin’ help and love, after what they’ve been through, livin’ everyday with the stench of Simon’s cult branded on their souls.” There was another moment of silence, as each man gave thought to what was just said.

Hutch watched as another gust of wind picked up the forgotten leaves and raced them along to continue their journey. “C’mon buddy . . . let’s get some lunch huh?” Hutch said gently, smiling as his partner’s arm reached across his shoulders.

“Yeah . . . it’s your turn to treat.” Starsky said smiling, hearing the blond chuckling softly, as they made their way to the Torino parked on the curb.

The two men, one light and one dark, laughed together and walked back to the red car with the flashy white stripe that shone brightly in the afternoon sun, never knowing that they were being watched the whole time that they stood by the gravestones.

The hand that held the hedges slightly apart gently withdrew, the parted leaves that allowed clear visual access to the two detectives, closed up without a sound, as the roar of the Torino’s engine came to life, and pulled away from the curb.

The wind blew gently, rustling the leaves from the trees above as the figure walked around the thick hedges and stood silently before the graves, gently tracing the names of the twins that were etched into the stone. “One day . . . we shall return . . . I promise!” the vow, whispered quietly, was taken away with the wind, as the leaves skittered across the peaceful cemetery, the resting place for the dead.

-.-.-.-. finis .-.-.-.-

Author’s note: Although this story appears to be left open for a sequel, there is none in the making, as it was never my intention to even write an epilogue. So why was the epilogue written this way you are wondering? My answer to you dear reader is: I have no idea . . . I guess because Simone just dreamed it would end this way . . .