Title: RITUALS

Author/pseudonym: Candy Apple

Email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com

Rating: MAO

Pairings: J/B, S/H

Status: NEW, complete

Date: 1/23/04

Archive: YES

Category: Drama, Series, Crossovers

Archive author: Candy Apple

Archive email address: blair_lady@yahoo.com

Series/Sequel: Sequel to "Primary Subject"

Other website: http://www.squidge.org/~candy_a

Disclaimers: Jim, Blair, Starsky and Hutch do not belong to me. No infringement intended. The original characters are mine. Big deal. ;-)

Notes: This story is a sequel to "Primary Subject" in the Outside Influences universe, and is also a crossover with Starsky & Hutch. The story does not take "The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg" into account as canon. This is my story for the 2003 Moonridge Auction.

I did not write and do not own the song lyrics that appear in this story.

Thank you: To my friend and medical advisor, Lucy. If there are any glaring medical absurdities in this story, they're mine, not hers.

Summary: As Jim and Blair contemplate the kind of commitment ceremony they really want, a chilling murder case brings them together again professionally with Starsky and Hutch, and jeopardizes their future.

Warnings: Love and romance, endearments, assorted mushy family stuff, violence, sex, some language...you can decide which of the above are warnings or incentives. ;-)

************************************

RITUALS

by

Candy Apple

"The longer you put this off, the harder it's going to get," Blair said, putting on his glasses and opening the folder that contained all the fragments of the wedding planning they'd managed to accumulate so far. The old truck lurched and rumbled, taking each pothole in the road as a personal affront. "Jim?"

"What?" Jim snapped back, irritated. Then, looking disgusted with himself, he sighed. "Blair, I'm sorry, but all this...*stuff* with invitations and a reception and a ceremony... Doesn't it ever seem a little...contrived and overdone?"

"Contrived? We're talking about a commitment ceremony, Jim. Ours. I didn't think there was anything contrived about it." Blair slapped the folder shut. "Just forget it."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it. The only thing we fight about is all this party planning and invitation mailing. I went through all this with Carolyn, and it doesn't get any more exciting the second time around."

"Thanks, Jim. I tell you what. Fuck this." Blair rolled down the window and tossed the folder through it.

"Oh, that was brilliant. And it was littering."

"Fuck that, too. Arrest me."

"What about the environment and recycling?"

"It was all recycled paper, so I did my part for the environment on the front end. Let someone else do their good deed for the day and pick it up."

"There was a lot of personal information in there."

"No there wasn't. You know what there was, Jim? Quotes on caterers, open dates at the Cascade Towers Hotel–for the banquet hall and the honeymoon suite–the names of printers who can work fast and cheap to do invitations... It was just several hours of work I did on the phone in the last week. By myself. To have personal information in there, we'd need a guest list or some idea of what the hell we were going to say to each other for vows, or maybe even a receipt for something we might pay for ahead of time. Since we haven't done a fucking thing about this that has to be decided as a couple, there wasn't anything in there worthwhile. So what the fuck do *you* care if I threw it out the window?!"

"It was a great gesture, Chief. But I know you. It's all on a spreadsheet on the computer at home."

"No, it's not, Jim. That was it. That was all of it. And that's where it can stay."

"Look, I didn't mean that how it sounded...the remark about Carolyn. I meant the arrangements and the caterers and the fancy banquet hall and the monkey suits... This is just escalating into something that doesn't even feel like us anymore. It feels like something we're doing to make our friends happy. Something for your dad and Hutch to fly up here for."

"I thought we were doing it because we were going to reaffirm our commitment to each other with our friends present."

"Our friends know we're committed, sweetheart. And what I want to say to you, I don't necessarily want to say to fifty or sixty of our closest friends." Jim spared a glance at Blair, knowing the silence spoke more of hurt feelings than anger. When Blair was angry, he threw folders out the window. When he was hurt, he sat there silently. "Hey, you know how much I love you." Jim tugged gently on Blair's ponytail.

"Why did you say that? Why did you bring up Carolyn?"

"Because all this wedding planning is giving me deja vu I don't like, and because it's not us, Blair, and you know it."

"You asked me to marry you. You wanted to tell the world, remember?"

"I still do. Want to marry you and tell the world. Not necessarily all in the same ceremony. Blair, this whole bit with the arrangements...they honestly don't mean anything to me. Making a life commitment to you does. I just don't want the thing that doesn't mean anything overshadowing the thing that does."

"What do you want to do then?"

"Did you really want to dress up in a tux and get married at the Cascade Towers Hotel?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows.

"No, I guess I really didn't," Blair responded, smiling slightly.

"Did you want to fret over the caterer and whether or not he remembered to put two guys on top of the cake instead of a little bride and groom?"

"Okay, Jim, you made your point," Blair conceded, laughing. "All this hassle isn't doing much for my sense of romance, either."

"Then let's do something that does."

"Like what?"

"Let's talk about it tonight--I promise," Jim said, forestalling Blair's impending accusation that he'd been telling him that for weeks and then finding ways to weasel out of it every time. Pulling the truck into a parking spot in the police garage, Jim looked around quickly and then moved across the seat and pounced on Blair, kissing him soundly. "I want to do this."

"So do I," Blair replied, initiating a kiss of his own.

"I was talking about getting married."

"Oh, yeah, that, too," Blair agreed, grinning.

"Jim and Blair, sittin' in a tree..." Brown's sing-song voice carried from where he was walking behind the truck. "Watch it, Jim. One of your old buddies from Vice'll be down here to bust your ass."

Jim merely reached out the truck's window to deliver an obscene hand gesture.

"Ain't love grand?" Brown twitted, going on his way as Jim and Blair both laughed.

********

Father Daniel Blanchard unlocked the church and walked through the vestibule to the room that held the vestments. He did his best to look on the pastor's idea to move morning Mass an hour earlier for the convenience of the business people in the congregation as a good way to draw in more parishioners through the week rather than as a new level of suffering for a man who never was a morning person. To make matters worse, it was going to be one of those days that started at five and ended at ten, since the Simmons' wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner was on his schedule for that evening. And that wasn't even counting the wedding itself, which would take place with all its pomp, circumstance, and last-minute disasters the following day at 2:00. The aging pastor was in his early seventies, and so most of the hard work seemed to "trickle down" to Blanchard, the forty-five-year-old assistant.

The schedule might almost be doable if the sick members of the parish had the good grace not to die or request last rites during the small slot of hours he still had set aside for sleep and frivolous pleasure activities, like bathing and balancing his checkbook.

St. Anthony's Church was a beautiful old building, an architectural masterpiece. The sharp spires, dizzying high ceilings, beautiful stained glass windows, and elegant old woodwork spoke of a bygone era. The Parish Council and the current pastor had headed off any attempts to modernize it. Beyond a bit of necessary moving around when Vatican II put priests behind the altar and facing the congregation, and a bit of new carpeting here and there, the church was the same as it had been when it was built in the late 1800's.

An ear-splitting scream froze him with the long, ivory vestment halfway over his head. He struggled the rest of the way into it and rushed into the church. One of his regular morning attendees was standing in the middle aisle of the church, hand clamped over her mouth, at the foot of the carpeted steps that led to the altar.

Before he could ask he what she'd seen, he froze in horror at the sight himself.

The figure had been removed from the large crucifix that hung behind the altar, and in its place was the bloodied corpse of a man, stripped to his underwear, arms tied in place on the cross, hands affixed to it with large nails driven into the palms. The feet were similarly nailed.

"Dear God..." Father Blanchard muttered, making the Sign of the Cross without even really thinking about it.

"Father, is he...?" Mrs. Whitman, the woman who'd found the body, finally spoke.

"I don't know, Ellen," he said. "I think his eyes are open. I think he is. Can you call 9-1-1 from the telephone in the sacristy, and then turn on all the lights in here?"

"Yes, Father," she said, fleeing down the aisle, seeming relieved for the excuse to leave the morose scene.

Fortunately, Ellen Whitman was the first worshiper to arrive, and the priest had time to rush to the front door of the church and lock it, discouraging anymore parishioners from coming in and being horrified by the awful scene. He offered a quick prayer for the victim's soul, and forced himself to look into the dead man's face as the lights went on full force. In the more vibrant lighting, there was no question the man on the cross was dead, and had been for some hours.

********

Jim led the way into the large, historic, St. Anthony's Church. A tall priest with a head of thick salt-and-pepper hair, wearing a Roman collar and long ivory vestment, was talking to a uniformed officer, while a policewoman did her best to calm a nearly hysterical middle-aged woman standing several feet away.

"Father Blanchard?" Jim asked, and the uniformed cop moved aside as the two men shook hands. "I'm Detective Ellison. This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"Detectives," the priest greeted, shaking hands with Jim and Blair.

"Actually, he's a detective. I'm a consultant to the department."

"I see. What type of consultant?" Father Blanchard knit his brows together, appearing genuinely interested.

"Blair's an anthropologist. His expertise comes in handy with some of our more unusual cases," Jim said.

"I see. Well, this certainly should qualify. It's hard to believe the depths of some people's perversions."

"I guess after a number of years on the force, it takes quite a bit to surprise me," Jim said, smiling a bit. "Did you recognize the victim at all?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"The rectory is where, exactly?" Jim asked, looking around.

"That white house right across the street," he said, pointing to a large structure visible through the window.

"You didn't happen to see or hear anything unusual last night or this morning?"

"No, nothing. I told the other officer, I was at the hospital until almost ten with a family who is losing a son to cancer, and by the time I got home, I didn't waste much time getting to bed, since I had an early call this morning."

"Mass is at 7:00?" Blair asked.

"It used to be 8:00, but the pastor felt we weren't serving the working parishioners who had to be at their offices by that time, so we moved it back an hour a few months ago. We get a few more people now."

"We're going to have a look at the body. You didn't move it or touch anything?" Jim asked.

"I couldn't reach it without a ladder, and to be quite honest, I didn't want to get much closer."

"Understandable," Jim said. "Who else has keys to the church? Or is it open all the time?"

"Unfortunately, with the crime rate being what it is, we can't leave the church open all the time anymore. We've had break-ins, and we've also had vandalism when we left the church unlocked. So we keep everything locked up at night, and the only door I unlock for morning Mass is the main entrance. Our custodian has a full set of keys--to the church, the rectory and the school. The church secretary has a key to the church, and both Father Hansen and myself have keys."

"Father Hansen?" Blair asked.

"He's the pastor. I'm the assistant. Father Hansen actually isn't here at the moment. He's in Florida visiting his sister."

"Smart man," Jim said, smiling. "Weather's a lot better there than it is here this time of year," he said, commenting on the dreary early autumn day, complete with drizzling rain. "I'd like to talk to your custodian, secretary, and perhaps get a phone number for Father Hansen in Florida. We'll be checking for any signs of forced entry. Perhaps after we've had a chance to look at the body, you could give me a walking tour of the church? I want to be sure we don't miss anything."

"Of course."

"Was anyone using the church last night--for a choir practice or any other sort of function?" Blair asked.

"No, it was closed. Choir practice is on Wednesday night," he said. It was now Friday. "If you don't mind, I'd like to step into the sacristy and take this off," he said, gesturing at the long robe.

"No, that's fine. Just try not to touch anything other than your hanger," Jim instructed.

"Of course." The priest led the way into the church itself, but took a left once they'd entered to go hang up the vestment.

"Chief, why don't you wait outside."

"Because I'm your partner, Jim."

"You can see from here this is a grisly one," he warned.

"I can handle it."

"Okay. If you feel queasy or you change your mind, just head for the door. I'll understand."

"Thanks, man, but I'm fine."

Jim shrugged, walking down the middle aisle of the church toward the altar. When the ghastliness of the desecration and the symbolism faded a bit, Jim focused his sentinel sight on the dead man. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, with short dark hair, a mustache and a goatee. He was tall and slender, with a slight dusting of body hair. The wounds in his hands and feet had bled very little. Even the gash in his side, the wound that probably killed him, had only seeped a bit.

"Well, he was killed somewhere else, and displayed here. The wounds have barely bled, and I would guess the gash in his side was the fatal one, unless he has other wounds we can't see from here. Hey, Dan!" Jim called to the medical examiner, who was talking to two of his people, giving them detailed instructions on how to lower the body and disturb a minimum of evidence at the same time.

"You two were the lucky winners of this one, huh?" Dan said as he joined them. "Just when you think you've seen it all..."

"How long before you get him down from there?"

"About a half hour. My people are ready to start work, but we have to try to do a minimal amount of damage to any fiber evidence that might be on his skin, and preserve the ropes, along with the knots. They're going to just take the whole cross down with him on it. I called for the van, so we can just slide it right in the back. I'd rather disturb the evidence back at the lab."

"You think the wound in his side killed him?"

"Only if he died somewhere else. Otherwise, there'd be blood everywhere."

"Why the ropes? Everything else is a perfect mimic of a standard crucifix," Blair said.

"Two reasons. One, he drove the nails through the hands, and there aren't sturdy enough bones in the hands to hold a man's weight--so contrary to popular representations, if someone were nailed to a cross, they'd have to be nailed at the wrists," Dan said, gesturing at his own wrists. "Second, the nails this guy used wouldn't hold a man up on anything, no matter what part of his body you drove them into. They look big but they're not big enough to do that kind of job. He probably just accepted he had to tie him up there."

"Any idea on a time of death?" Jim asked.

"Not a clear one. Just looking at him, and judging by all the rigamarole the killer went through with displaying him, I'd say he died sometime early to mid-evening last night, was transported here, and then the killer took his time setting this up. He even stored the Christ figure he removed in the church basement."

"Not likely one guy could do all that," Blair opined.

"No, I'd say he had help. Everything was very smoothly done, very neat and precise. Even if he had most of the night, he would have needed help."

"Think you'll have anything for us yet today?" Jim asked.

"The prelim, sure," Dan said. "I have a feeling this'll get bumped to the top of the heap." Dan moved away then, noticing that the additional help they'd need to lower the cross had arrived.

********

"Your kid's on TV," Hutch said, turning up the volume on the evening news. Predictably, Starsky was there like a shot, just in time to see the tail end of Jim and Blair walking away from a church in Cascade, Jim issuing his usual 'no comment' to the reporters who dogged their steps. Blair's hair blew loose around his face and was starting to droop a bit as the rain came down on them.

"What's the story?" Starsky asked, sitting next to his partner on the couch.

"Dinner okay?"

"Yeah, it'll be fine. The sauce isn't bubbling yet," Starsky responded, referring to the pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove.

"They found a body nailed to a cross in a church. Sounds like a pretty grisly case."

"Seems like they get a little sicker every day, doesn't it?"

"Good justification for retirement. I guess this means we won't be getting a wedding invitation anytime soon. Those two'll be pulling double shifts until this one's solved."

"Yeah..." Starsky seemed deep in thought as he stared a the television, not really watching it.

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking this kind of sicko usually kills more than once. I mean, think about the ritual and the symbolism in a killing like that."

"Does make you think serial killer, doesn't it? Maybe I ought to run it through the database while you're finishing up with dinner."

"Maybe you ought to finish up with dinner while I run it through the database."

"That's what I said," Hutch retorted, getting up and heading for the den and the computer.

"Slacker!" Starsky called after him.

"What do you want to do? Dinner or the lawn?"

"I'll go check on the sauce," Starsky responded, knowing enough to quit while he was ahead.

Stirring the sauce, he thought about how hard it always seemed to be to find a good time to visit his son. It wasn't anyone's fault, but between Blair's own academic schedule and Jim's police schedule, they were barely ever home, and even less able to find chunks of time to fly to California. They'd managed a few weekend visits here and there, and Starsky exchanged e-mail with Blair almost every day. Sometimes all they did was forward a stupid joke, but it was rare for more than two days to pass without a message. Starsky figured he'd call Blair later, since he was sure Blair would be ready to talk about what had to be a gruesome scene.

"Looks like we're fresh out of crucifixions," Hutch said, joining him in the kitchen as Starsky began dishing up the pasta. "A couple of other weird, ritual homicides that are unsolved, but nothing like that. The only thing similar was that guy who was putting rosaries on all the bodies--remember that?"

"Yeah, but he's dead."

"No big loss there," Hutch concluded, shaking his head as he thought of the deranged former seminarian who had murdered young women and left rosaries on their corpses. After he'd done a variety of other things that qualified him as one of the more bizarre ritualistic killers they'd tracked as part of the task force. The State had finally executed him a couple years earlier.

"I hope that doesn't mean that this psycho is just getting started up in Cascade," Starsky said, scooping the sauce onto the waiting pasta. "Why don't we give Donnelly a call later?" Starsky referred to one of the few FBI agents either of them had ever enjoyed working with.

"Don't you think Ellison's already checking this with the Feds?" Hutch asked, carrying his plate to the table and sitting down. Starsky picked up the shaker of powdered parmesan cheese and brought it, along with his own dinner, to the table and joined his partner.

"Ellison? Checking with the Feds voluntarily? How many times did we check with the Feds when we could avoid it?"

"We'd have run something like this through their database. Even us," Hutch added, chuckling. "Ritual killers rarely only strike once."

"I'll call Blair tonight and see what's up." Starsky took a couple bites of his spaghetti. "You don't suppose they'd want some help on this?"

"Don't push yourself on the in-law. First rule of parenting adult children."

"And you'd know anything about that exactly how...?"

"I do a lot of reading. Of something other than scary novels and weird trivia books."

"It's not like we're trying to horn in on his jurisdiction. Hell, we're retired, Hutch. How threatened could he feel?"

"We're still part of the serial killer task force. We're only three-fourths retired, remember?"

"So? If we're there, there's less chance of them getting some anonymous stuffed shirt from the FBI there if they get another dead guy on a cross. We have liaisons with the FBI, and specialized training in hunting serial killers. Better us than the Feds, and you know they're going to get in on the act."

"You're probably right. Sound Blair out about it tonight, but make sure he knows we're not pressuring him into it, and that we won't be mad if he says no."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Why don't I just call Ellison at work and ask him?"

"Good idea." Hutch nodded, still eating. Starsky left the table to get the cordless phone, and returned with it, dialing the direct number to Jim's desk.

"Ellison," came the harried-sounding reply.

"It's Starsky. We saw you on the news," he greeted.

"You and half the fucking world. We've had every nutcase in the Pacific Northwest confess to the crime in the last half hour."

"Any pressure to call in the Feds yet?"

"Banks mentioned it, but hopefully we can nail this thing before that becomes necessary. If you're looking for Blair, he's busy throwing up."

"He tried going to the autopsy again?" Starsky asked knowingly. He looked at Hutch, who just pointed down his own throat and made a gagging expression. Starsky nodded, grinning crookedly. "That's my boy."

"I think he views it as some rite of passage he has to make."

"I haven't stayed all the way through one yet, so tell him to give it a rest. The reason I called was to ask if there was anything we could do to help out? I don't want to get in your way, but we might work as a substitute for getting a bunch of suits there from the FBI. It worked in the Slater case."

"I hadn't thought of that, but you're right. I'd certainly prefer working with the two of you than the Feds."

"Then it's settled. We'll check on flights leaving tomorrow."

"You're sure we're not going to be taking you away from something there?"

"Nope. Just Hutch's next home improvement project, which I don't mind delaying for a couple more...years." Starsky smiled at the glare that earned him.

"Great. Let us know when your flight gets in and we'll pick you up at the airport." Jim paused, smiling a little regretfully at his gray-green partner as he sat down in the other chair behind Jim's desk and sipped at some bottled water. "There's somebody here who'll want to talk to you." Jim handed the phone to Blair, who frowned a little in confusion as he took it.

"Hello?"

"Hey, kiddo, it's the old man," Starsky greeted, and Blair chuckled.

"You're sounding younger than I do at the moment."

"How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of the morgue? There's nothing you're gonna see there that you can't read in the autopsy report."

"Just seems like I should be able to handle it, you know? Jim can."

"So let him go watch then. Hey, we'll be seeing you tomorrow sometime."

"What? That's great! Why?"

"To help out with your new case. We figured it was a matter of time before the Feds were called in, so if we're there, being we have contacts with the FBI, we'll probably keep them off your back."

"Man, that'll be perfect. When're you getting here?"

"We still have to get a flight and hotel reservations and all that straightened out, so we'll let you know."

"You have to stay with us," Blair said, and Jim made a face, as if to ask where Blair expected to put them. Blair just gestured at Jim to be quiet.

"You don't have a guest room."

"We will by the time you get here. Come on, Dad. It's not going to be as much fun if you're at a hotel. We'll never get a chance to visit with everything that's going on."

"Okay, but if we get there and it's not convenient, I want you to be honest, and we'll go to a hotel. No big deal. We're not gonna put you out of your bed, not when you're probably not getting more than a few hours' sleep anyway."

"You won't be. I promise. Please?"

"Okay. We'll call with the flight times in the morning."

"Great. Talk to you tomorrow. Love you, Dad."

"You, too, kiddo. Talk to you in the morning." Starsky hung up, and Blair did as well.

Blair was still beaming, practically bouncing in his chair, despite Jim's skeptical look.

"Where do you suggest we put them up? On the fire escape? We don't have a guest room."

"My old room. All we need's a decent bed. They're not going to be comfortable on the old futon."

"So we just have to buy a bed," Jim repeated, deadpan.

"It's only 6:45. Everything's open until 9. We can get a bed."

"I probably don't want to know what this conversation is about," Simon quipped as he passed the desk.

"Actually, Simon, we solved the problem of dragging the Feds into this. Starsky and Hutchinson offered to come up for a visit and work with us on the case. They're affiliated with the serial killer task force, and they have ties to the FBI."

"Good thinking," Simon agreed, nodding. "So that's what the bed's for, huh?"

"Blair wants to put them up at our place."

"Where? In the bathtub?"

"Precisely my point," Jim said, vindicated.

"We can make this work," Blair protested.

"You know you're not going to win this one, right?" Simon said to Jim as he headed for his office.

"Yes, sir, I know that," Jim said, curling his lip a little and leaning back in his chair.

********

With everything else moved out of the small bedroom Blair used to occupy, the new queen-sized bed fit nicely. After a bit of shifting, moving, swearing, and creativity, the small dresser was also in place. That only left Blair's desk, the computer, and several miscellaneous items in the living room.

"Well, as long as they don't both get up and walk around at the same time, they should be fine," Jim said, leaning against the doorframe. "You have any thoughts for the desk, Chief?"

"How about along the wall by the door? We can move that table and put the key basket on the end of the desk."

"Okay. I guess the boxes can go downstairs in the storage room."

Together, they moved the desk to its new home, and found another spot for the table behind the couch.

"That really doesn't work there," Jim said, frowning, stepping back.

"Why not? It looks fine. I can put a couple things on it and it'll look like it belong there."

"Next time I want to bend you over the couch, I'll have to stop and move the table."

"Don't do this to me when we have furniture to move yet," Blair said, feeling his groin stir at the mental image. "Besides, you can still bend me over that couch." Blair gestured at the love seat.

"Gives 'love seat' a whole new meaning." Jim slid his arms around Blair from behind, nuzzling his neck.

"Come on, Jim. We still have to move the boxes downstairs and make the bed."

"Why don't you go take a shower while I do that?"

"Somebody's getting impatient," Blair observed, feeling a growing hardness nudging him from behind.

"If I'm gonna bend you over the love seat and make you scream, I only have one more night to do it, and I want to get started."

********

Blair showered quickly, but paid special attention to getting all his most intimate places clean. Jim would make short work of moving the accumulated junk they'd taken out of the small bedroom, down to the storage room. Jim had quick showers down to an art, so once he returned, it would take him all of a couple minutes to shower and begin prowling for his mate. That imagery sent a little shiver down Blair's spine as he went through a cursory job of tossing a couple essential products in his hair to tame it before blowing it partially dry. It didn't matter if it was a bit damp, but soaked pillows definitely lost their sex appeal very quickly.

With his hair damp but manageable, he worked on the final phase of his preparations. He had a little surprise planned for Jim, and he was anxious to see how his lover liked it.

He was just emerging from the bathroom when Jim walked back into the apartment.

"Don't take too long in there," Blair teased as Jim passed him going toward the bathroom.

"I'll set a record." Jim stopped long enough for a kiss. "I'll break the record." He disappeared into the bathroom.

Figuring Jim was going to already be hard by the time he was finished in the shower, Blair grinned wickedly as he positioned himself to wait for his lover.

Jim didn't lose any time in the shower. He washed thoroughly but at the speed he used to in the military. He was done in record time, took a second to shave, since it was apparent Blair had done the same, and he didn't want to give Blair whisker burns in any sensitive spots, and added a little aftershave. He picked up the towel, then tossed it aside, figuring he wouldn't have any use for it in a moment anyway. He still wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Blair was already lying over the back of the love seat, hands braced on the cushions, gorgeous ass in the air, legs parted. Without realizing he was even doing it, Jim began stroking his erection.

"Hurry up, lover," Blair goaded. "I'm all ready for you."

As Jim approached him, he could see the exposed opening was already slick with lube and held open by a bright red, medium-sized butt plug. He'd never seen a plug in Blair before...for that matter, Blair had never shown any real interest in toys--if anything, he'd been repelled by the idea of something artificial being stuck in him. There was no denying the sexiness of the sight before him, though, or the thought of Blair getting himself stretched and ready...and yet using a small enough plug that he would still feel tight and Jim would stretch him even more when he slid inside him.

Still stroking himself, Jim grasped the base of the plug and rotated it in Blair's ass, making him groan and thrust in response. Jim kept up a slight rotating motion, then pumped on it a bit, loving the show Blair was putting on, wiggling his ass in time with the movements of the plug. Finally, wordlessly, Blair handed him the tube of gel that was lying on the cushion of the love seat. Jim used it to coat his cock, now at full hardness.

He eased the plug out of Blair, leaving a slick, well-prepared hole waiting for him. Jim lined up the head of his cock with that slippery little hole and pushed. With a little groan from Blair, he breached the tight ring of muscle and slid slowly but steadily in to the hilt. Jim stroked Blair's back with one hand, the other reaching under him to pinch at sensitive nipples. The muscles in Blair's ass flexed around his cock as Blair writhed in pleasure and frustration, obviously ready for more intense sensations.

Jim began thrusting in and out of the tight passage, watching the point where his shaft pistoned in and out of Blair's upraised ass. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he could feel the heat radiating from Blair as he began thrusting back, gasping and crying out as Jim expertly rubbed over his prostate on most every stroke. Then he angled his strokes a bit, wanting to prolong this, not wanting Blair to get too much too fast.

"Harder," Blair gasped, thrusting backward as Jim thrust forward, but not as ardently as before. He was going to stretch this out a bit, delaying the climax until it would be shattering. Jim moaned himself, his body wanting the quick fix. Finally, he took Blair's hips in his hands and picked up the pace, thrusting hard and fast, repeatedly hitting the little nob inside Blair until he was crying out Jim's name, gasping nonsensical obscenities, grabbing the cushions until his knuckles went white.

When Blair came, Jim was only seconds behind him, barely bracing himself on the back of the love seat to avoid falling on top of Blair. Figuring that bending over furniture was only comfortable in the heat of wild sex, Jim straightened, slipping free of Blair's body, and helped his partner stand on shaky legs. He turned him around and lifted him until his slightly tender rear rested on the towel over the back of the love seat. Then Jim claimed his mouth as desperately and completely as he'd claimed his ass moments ago. Blair responded, arms going around Jim, pulling him down until they both almost fell backwards.

Jim grabbed two handfuls of ass and hoisted, and Blair wrapped his legs around Jim's body, never breaking the kiss. When Jim finally did part for air, he whispered in Blair's ear.

"I'm going to take you upstairs now and really give you what you need." Blair arched against him, initiating another deep kiss that lasted them partway up the stairs, until Jim finally let Blair make his own way up the rest of the steps. There was nothing sexy about a strained back, and he had plenty of other activities in mind before the night was over.

Jim lay on top of his lover, pinning him to the bed, licking and kissing already kiss-swollen lips. Blair was arching and groaning, his cock hardening rapidly as Jim licked a path from his jaw to his throat, then down to his chest. His nipples were sucked hard, the pleasure so intense that Blair grabbed the railing behind him, trying to force more of his chest into that hot, powerful suction. Jim released the taut flesh and dragged his tongue lower, swirling it around the hollow of Blair's navel, then moving beneath the rigid cock to the balls beneath it, which he sucked into his mouth one at a time, licking and teasing the sensitive area behind them.

He pushed Blair's thighs up and apart, fully exposing him. He licked and sucked at the soft skin of Blair's inner thighs, then nuzzled the base of his cock, knowing that drove Blair wild. He wasn't disappointed with the surge in the already hard organ and the groan of pleasure that followed it.

Jim groped in the night stand drawer for the lube, and gave himself a quick coating. Blair was still slick and stretched, now holding his knees back, waiting anxiously for Jim to finish what they'd started downstairs.

Knowing Blair had to be sensitive from their first round of lovemaking, Jim slid inside slowly, watching for any sign of discomfort. Blair only seemed to bear down, trying to pull him in even faster, gasping in pleasure as he was filled again.

Jim began pumping, encouraged by Blair's moans, his eyes closed, his head thrown back on the pillow, his face flushed and damp with sweat. His whole body was vibrating with the thrusting, and in this position, he could do little more than lie there and take it. Blair released his knees, and Jim took over holding his thighs wide apart as he continued sliding in and out of Blair's body, angling his strokes now to rub over Blair's already tingling prostate.

Blair was gripping the railing above the bed, shouting and gasping with each thrust, feeling every slide of Jim's large cock inside his passage. He was really feeling it now, and he knew he'd feel it tomorrow, but that just made him savor it that much more. A particularly ardent stroke nailed his prostate, and he screamed Jim's name, his body arching as he came, the climax almost taking him by surprise with its speed and intensity. It felt like he came forever, and Jim's shouts of pleasure as he joined him, filling him for the second time, only increased the heady sensations that were followed by nothing but heavy breathing and sated exhaustion.

Jim pulled out gently, smiling at the little groan and shift from Blair. He'd focused his sense of touch entirely on the delicate tissue inside Blair, the way he always did when they went at it hot and heavy this way. He loved the wantonness of it, and Blair loved the intensity of it, but Jim was only happy doing it when he could be sure the only damage to Blair was an aversion to hard chairs for a day...or two.

He sat back on his heels, taking in the vision before him. Blair, on his back, knees bent, feet flat on the bed, legs still wide apart, face flushed, chest heaving with breath, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin and dampening the dusting of hair on his body, making it glisten to Jim's heightened sense of sight. He moved up for a kiss, then pushed a few sweaty curls away from Blair's face.

"God, you are the most incredible sight, baby."

"I bet," Blair said, grinning.

"I love looking at you. All of you." Jim kissed him again. "I love you, baby."

"I love you, too, love." Blair pulled him down for another kiss, and they rolled together on the bed until they were face to face on their sides, Blair's leg winding around Jim's, pulling them even closer.

"Everything okay?" Jim asked, grinning and patting Blair's butt, then leaving his hand there, stroking gently.

"Mm-hm. It's always okay, and I know you know that." Blair cuddled against Jim, listening to his lover's heartbeat, thumping soothingly beneath his ear.

"I don't ever want to get too rough with you," Jim said, stroking Blair's thigh.

"You wouldn't. You don't."

"Sore?"

"In a good way, yeah." Blair chortled. "I'll only turn about four shades of red now every time anybody comes over and sits on the love seat."

"If furniture could talk, we'd both be arrested by Vice," Jim kissed and licked at Blair's lips. "Where'd that butt plug come from, anyway? That's a new addition."

"Online. You don't think I'm gonna walk into a store and buy something like that in person, do you?"

"People do it every day. Trust me. We raided enough places to know that."

"Yeah, well, if I'm buying something that's going to be stuck up my butt, I'm not doing it in person." Blair grinned. "You liked that, huh?"

"You looked so hot there, with your bare ass up in the air, and that plug between your cheeks. I never saw the appeal of those things until tonight."

"Where is it?" Blair frowned, leaning up on one elbow.

"What?"

"The plug--where is it?"

"Probably downstairs."

"Aw, man, don't let me forget to find it in the morning. I really don't want somebody pulling that out from between the sofa cushions." Blair shook his head, laughing.

"No, because I want to stick it between your cushions the next chance I get," Jim retorted, smothering Blair's laughter with more kisses.

********

Jim maneuvered Simon's car through the airport traffic, finally locating a spot to park near the entrance. He put the "police vehicle" ID on the dashboard and got out of the car, having to laugh at the fact that Blair was already out of the car and nearly vibrating in place on the sidewalk, waiting for him to get moving.

"We're right on time, Chief," Jim said, joining his partner and walking into the airport. "Besides, if we were going to borrow Simon's car, we had to wait for him to get back from his lunch meeting."

"I didn't think we'd ever get through that traffic! The entire city of Cascade is nothing but little old ladies!"

"That'll be good news for the little old men," Jim quipped. He checked the board listing the status of each flight. "Hurry up and wait," he said, gesturing toward it. The flight was marked 'delayed'.

"Terrific." Blair spotted some empty chairs and led the way there, sitting gingerly on the hard chair.

"Hope it's not a long delay," Jim said, barely suppressing a grin.

"Do not laugh at me, man, or it's going to be a long, cold winter."

"I'm not laughing at you, sweetheart," Jim said affectionately. "Just watching you gets me hot," he said, whispering in Blair's ear. "Maybe you should have worn that plug today. Just think how that would feel now, while you wiggle around on that hard chair."

"Jim..." There was as definite note of warning in Blair's voice now. "I do *not* want to greet my dad and Hutch with a raging hard-on."

"Okay, okay," Jim conceded, chuckling. "That was amazing," he said of the previous night's activities.

"Last night was pretty incredible," Blair admitted, smiling and looking up at Jim. "I love you."

"I love you, too, baby." Jim leaned over and kissed Blair's temple, surprising him a little with the public gesture. "I want to put a ring on your finger, sweetheart. It's just that when I do that, there are some things I want to say to you that are for your ears only."

"That's why you didn't want a ceremony?"

"That's why. I want us to have a commitment ceremony, but a private one. And then maybe we can have some kind of big party with all our friends, but the vows...what you mean to me...those are intimate things, and I don't want to change what I say because people are listening. I want to say them to you."

"I want to hear what you have to say to me. I'd never want it to change because others were there." Blair paused. "I have to admit, I thought you were changing your mind about marrying me in front of your friends."

"Listen to me, Chief, I'll marry you on the big screen at half-time during the next Jags game if that's what you want. But I still want to have our own ceremony, just the two of us."

"I threw all the open dates for the Cascade Towers out the window," Blair groaned, his head drooping on Jim's shoulder. "Damn it. That's a great place for the party."

"I'll call them this time. Besides, you tossing that folder out the window was a hell of a gesture," Jim said, laughing. "It's probably what I'll be telling our friends about on our 50^th."

"Our 50^th. Wow." Blair grinned, savoring that thought. Jim tucked a little loose hair behind Blair's ear. Then he pulled Blair into his arms and kissed him, passionately, with tongue, right there in the airport waiting room.

"I want to show you off to the world, sweetheart. I'm so proud to be with you. Don't ever think I don't want to make it public. I just don't want it to turn into the superficial event that weddings can turn into when all they are is a giant 'to do' list." Blair smiled brightly at that and kissed Jim again, then hugged him tightly.

"Hey," a man's voice startled them. "That's my son you're makin' out with," Starsky said, tapping on Jim's shoulder.

"Dad!" Blair was up like a shot, hugging his visiting father excitedly. "Where's Hutch?"

"Getting the bags. I saw you two over here, so I thought I should break it up before the Vice squad showed up." Starsky extended a hand to Jim, and they exchanged a quick, one-armed handshake-hug. "I'd ask how things are going, but it looks like they're going pretty well."

"We were talking about wedding plans," Jim said. "Blair'll fill you in on everything later, I'm sure."

"The wedding's back on?" Starsky asked, smiling.

"I see he filled you in already," Jim said, laughing. "It was never off. We were just having a little trouble figuring out what form it was going to take."

"We're still getting rings and having a party. We just might do the wedding ceremony part on our own." Blair was standing close to Jim, and Jim took the opportunity to put his arm around Blair's shoulders.

"Truthfully, those are the best kind," Starsky said, catching sight of his partner, gesturing at him from where he was claiming the luggage. "I'm being paged."

"We'll give you a hand," Jim volunteered, and the three men walked over to the baggage area, exchanged a quick flurry of greetings all around, and headed for the car with the luggage.

"Nice wheels," Hutch commented as they loaded the trunk of Simon's new black Chrysler LHS.

"It's Simon's car," Blair said. "We don't have seating for four in Jim's truck and the Volvo would be a little cramped in the back seat."

"I thought you drove a sedan of some sort on duty," Starsky said, sliding into the back passenger seat as Hutch got in next to him. Jim and Blair were in front, and Jim started up the engine. "The truck's what, a '69?"

"Yeah, it's been a pretty good vehicle. The V-8 engine really moves when it has to, and the insurance isn't all that bad on it."

"I pretty much retired the Torino from being a pursuit vehicle except for the time we got caught short while you were visiting."

"I don't ride with him on pursuits without airbags," Hutch joked.

"In twenty years on the streets, I had what, one accident?"

"That you walked away from with a little scratch while I suffered for weeks."

"Oh, kiss my ass. You were ornery as hell the same night and up running around in a couple of days. You even faked the fucking amnesia."

"Something had to get through to you about your lunatic driving methods. Not that it changed anything," Hutch added.

"We were much better off in your car, which was liable to *not start* when we needed to take off after the bad guys."

"My cars might have been old, but they were always reliable," Hutch asserted. At Starsky's sideways glance, he added, "Almost always."

"Are either of you two interested in the case?" Jim asked, smiling at the incessant bickering. He wondered how those two had survived all these years chewing on each other and still wanting to jump each other every chance they got.

"What don't we know from the news?" Hutch asked.

"Well, we're assuming there was more than one guy involved, because everything was so neatly executed at the church. The figure that belongs on the cross was removed--very carefully, I might add--and stored in the church basement. According to the priest, there was no damage to the Christ figure, and judging by Dan's examination of the cross in the lab, there was very little damage to that, either, outside of a couple new holes and an impression or two from the ropes. Whoever did it managed to put the cross back up with the original wires and hooks it has always been suspended from. There was no damage to the altar, no statues knocked over or broken, no excess debris from the actual placement of the body--no scraps of rope, spare nails, victim's clothing, nothing. The victim was both tied and nailed to the cross, which Dan said was necessary because the nails wouldn't hold, the way they were driven through the palms. The victim was dead when he was hung, and all the wounds except the one in his side were post-mortem. As we suspected, the gash down his side killed him."

"There wasn't much blood at the scene, so we figure he was killed somewhere else and brought to the church for the ritual," Blair said.

"Any ID on the victim yet?" Starsky asked.

"We just got it in this morning," Jim responded. "Ethan Nichols, 29, originally from Tacoma. He was just hired by the Cascade Herald, referred there by a good friend of his who is the Metro editor there. He used to be a reporter for the Tacoma Announcer. You can only picture how much haranguing we're getting from the press on this one."

"Maybe we've got a psycho who hates reporters," Starsky said.

"Guess that puts me on the suspect list," Jim retorted.

"That puts just about every cop on your suspect list," Starsky agreed, laughing. "How'd he end up dead if he was visiting a friend? Did he take off on his own?"

"We're meeting with his friend from the Herald this afternoon, so we thought you guys could come with us," Blair explained.

"That might also head off the press clamoring for bringing in the Feds, if they think the Cascade PD's already called in outside consultants," Hutch said. "Of course, it'll also get them going if they know we're on a serial killer task force."

"I think we might go from the standpoint that you both have training in criminal profiling and twenty-plus years' experience in a larger department," Jim stated. "I don't want the term 'serial killer' to come up in conversation with reporters if I can help it."

"Were there any other unusual wounds or marks on the body?" Hutch asked.

"There was a blow to the back of the head that probably knocked him out, made it possible to abduct him in the first place," Jim replied. "A few assorted scrapes and a couple bruises, but Dan seemed to feel they were more incidental to the kidnaping than anything meaningful."

"We'll have to get everything we can on Nichols, including his religious affiliations and whether he's written anything that could trigger some kind of hate crime or retaliation from fanatics," Starsky suggested, making a couple notes on a pad he'd pulled from the pocket of the leather jacket he wore. "You know, unless this reporter really has his head up his ass, he's going to remember the Slater case and the fact that we were consultants on that as part of a task force in serial killers."

"He's right," Blair agreed, nodding. "I hadn't thought of that, but the reporters were all over that one, too, and they knew about Dad and Hutch being in on it."

"Okay. Maybe we better handle meeting the press ourselves, then," Jim said.

"We've got some data on a couple of unsolved ritualistic homicides in the area," Hutch said. "One was in LA, and the other was in Seattle."

"Wasn't that the one where the guy was gutted?" Jim asked.

"Drawn and quartered, to be exact. Blair, trust me on this, don't look at the autopsy report," Starsky said. "I lost my lunch on that one."

"No problems here. I'll take your word for it. I remember that case. Wasn't that about six months or so ago?"

"Yeah, it's still open, but apparently they never had a decent lead on it," Jim said, sighing. "How was the guy in LA killed?"

"Satanic ritual mutilation, probably part of a Black Mass," Hutch responded.

"That doesn't fit as well as the Seattle killing--crucifixion and drawing and quartering are both archaic forms of execution," Jim concluded.

"That's what our thought was, too," Starsky agreed.

"The one in Seattle was very well-executed, too, if you'll forgive the pun," Hutch added. "The body was very carefully displayed to show all the grisly detail of the killing, but there was a singular absence of blood and mess at the scene."

"So he was killed somewhere else and they sort of bagged everything and took it to the drop point?" Jim asked.

"More or less. Like this murder, it was very visual, as if the killer wanted to leave a shocking visual image."

"Maybe that's more important to him than the killing itself," Blair suggested. "The visuals. Could we be looking for a warped photographer, or an artist of some sort?"

"This guy probably fancies himself an artist," Hutch agreed, "but I don't think he is one. It's extremely rare for ritualistic serial killers to have accomplices, so that's throwing us a little. Could one person have carried out the Cascade killing?"

"The murder, definitely, but the display of the body would be something else again," Jim said. "Even if one person fastened the guy on the cross, he had to get about fifteen feet up on a ladder, unhook a 200-pound wooden cross from metal hooks and cables, lower it to the floor without damaging the plaster figure that was attached to it, remove that figure and haul it down the steps to the church basement, again, with no damage, then return to the church, nail a 175-pound man to the cross, and then lift the whole apparatus up again and re-hook it to the cables."

"Sounds like a whole crew of killers would have to make that happen," Starsky said, sighing.

"Maybe he put the guy on the cross without taking it down," Blair suggested.

"And he would be standing...where exactly while he did this?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. "There's no balcony behind the cross. Dan had a hell of a time figuring how to get the whole thing *down* without a disaster."

"The cross fit in the back of the large coroner's van, right?" Hutch asked.

"Barely, with the doors tied partially open," Jim replied.

"Well, what if the killer put the victim on an identical cross, transported him to the church in some sort of extended length van, and then made it look as if he'd used the church's cross?"

"But that still wouldn't explain how he got the first one down and the second one up," Blair said.

"No, but it would be quicker and easier to switch one for the other, pausing long enough to move the Christ figure to make everyone think it was the same cross," Hutch argued. "We only then have to worry about the actual mechanics of raising and lowering the crosses. Maybe our boy has some kind of mechanical or engineering know-how, and brought equipment. We're talking about a big old church that's locked up all night, every night, from about mid-evening until morning Mass. There are several dark hours when someone could get in there, make this happen, and get out unnoticed. Are there any large service entrances that would lead into the main body of the church?"

"There's a service entrance at the back that leads into a storage and receiving area," Jim said. "We can drop you guys off at the loft if you want, and then pick you up after our appointment with the reporter."

"Sounds good," Starsky agreed. "You sure we're not putting you out? It's no big deal for us to stay at a hotel."

"We've got a room all set, Dad. We just shuffled a few things around. This'll be great."

"Okay, we'll take your word for it, then."

********

Hutch hoisted the suitcase onto the bed and started unpacking. Starsky eased behind him through the narrow space between the bed and the dresser and went to look out the door that led to the fire escape.

"I feel pretty guilty about them going out and buying a bed to put us up here," Starsky said, looking back at the new queen-size bed with its dark metal headboard and Southwest-influenced print quilt, bright green and bright orange accent pillows on top to pick up those colors in the quilt.

"How much you want to bet that Blair picked out the quilt and the pillows?" Hutch kidded, smiling.

"The pillows, without a doubt. Ellison's not a bright orange kinda guy."

"Blair wanted you here and not in a hotel. I don't think they did anything they didn't want to do--well, anything *Blair* didn't want to do, and I have a feeling your son gets his way most of the time."

"From the sound of this case, we'll probably be here a while. Might as well load up the dresser." Starsky started helping with the unpacking, filling the three empty drawers on the left-hand side of the dresser that Blair had cleared for them. Hutch neatly arranged their shaving gear and other effects on the dresser, and in short order, the little room felt like home.

There were a couple of bright hangings on the walls, a small lamp on a bedside table and another on the dresser. Blair had arranged a few framed photos from their last visit to California on one end of the dresser, the smiling faces of all four men in various combinations making the room seem even more welcoming. There were two sets of fresh towels on the foot of the bed.

"Well, Jim left the case file on the kitchen table. You want to make a pot of coffee and start reading?" Hutch asked.

"Sure. Let me use the john real fast and I'll be right there."

While Starsky heeded nature's call, Hutch started some coffee and checked the refrigerator for ingredients to make sandwiches. They'd eaten a good breakfast, but it was wearing off fast, and their hosts didn't have time to stop for lunch before heading out to the office of the Cascade Herald.

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"We need to get some of this," Starsky said, walking out with a small tube in his hand.

"Mad Mango? Flavored lube? Are you snooping in the bathroom cabinets, Starsk?"

"If looking for a roll of toilet paper qualifies as snooping, then I guess I was. The roll was empty, so I got another roll out, and I noticed a few of these under there. Didn't we have something like this a long time ago?"

"Last time we raided Uncle Elmo, you picked up a bunch of them, remember?" Hutch handed the tube back to Starsky. "Will you please put that back before they get home?"

"You know, it's true what they say about getting old."

"What do they say?" Hutch asked, exasperated, cutting the two turkey sandwiches in half.

"You revert to childhood and your kids start calling the shots. You're afraid of my kid catching you looking at lube."

"Just put it back, Starsk. And if you ask Blair where they got it, I swear to God, I'll kill you."

"Keep your shorts on, Blondie--or not," Starsky added, grinning. "I'll e-mail him about it after we get home, so your delicate psyche won't be damaged." Starsky went back into the bathroom and stashed the tube back in its original spot. "I won't tell you about the butt plug," Starsky said, sitting down as Hutch served their lunch of sandwiches and coffee.

"Thanks for not telling me," Hutch retorted, rolling his eyes.

"Okay, we've got this guy in Cascade, and the one in Seattle. Any links besides the way they died being archaic execution methods?"

"Both were males," Hutch said, shrugging. "That's about all I see on the surface. Tony Stewart, our Seattle victim, was 56 years old."

"Okay," Starsky started a list, taking a bite out of his sandwich. "What'd Stewart do again?"

"History professor," Hutch said.

"Okay, that pretty much blows any link in the occupation department. Physical characteristics?"

"Nothing there. Stewart was a stocky man with gray hair and a beard, and Nichols was an average size guy with brown hair, a mustache and goatee. Unless this guy has an obsession with killing horribly all men with facial hair, we're drawing a blank."

"You better watch out with that little goatee of yours," Starsky said, taking another bite of his sandwich.

"You told me to grow it back because you like how it tickles when I have my tongue up your--"

"And you were blushing about the flavored lube?"

"Okay, okay, what about religious affiliations?" Stewart was a Presbyterian. Attended church every Sunday."

"Don't know yet on Nichols. Quite a few things we don't know about him."

"Well, I guess we do the usual digging to see if they ever crossed paths. Because where those paths intersect would be our killer, if they're connected."

"Trouble is, most of Nichols' professional contacts are going to be reporters, and the minute we ask a question about another homicide victim, you know what they'll do with that."

"Maybe we ought to take a drive to Seattle and talk to Stewart's colleagues."

"Good thinking," Starsky agreed.

"I always told you I was the brains of this partnership."

"That's okay. I can handle being the looks," Starsky retorted, grinning.

"Your good looks are equaled only by your humility," Hutch concluded, poring over the file again.

********

Jim parked the truck at the curb in front of the office building that housed the Cascade Herald. Before he had turned off the engine, there was a squeal of tires followed by screams and commotion a few yards behind them in the street. A late model, jet black Camaro careened past the parked truck, barely avoiding side-swiping it. Jim put the flashers on and hit the siren, pulling out of the parking place enough to see that a young woman lay in the street, blood pooling beneath her head as a group of horrified bystanders gathered around, one calling in the emergency on a cell phone. Deciding the victim of the apparent hit-and-run was getting help, Jim took off after the black Camaro.

"Call it in, Chief," he said to Blair, who tried to ignore the speed they were traveling down one of Cascade's busiest streets as he dialed the number he knew better than their home number on his cell phone. Fortunately, most of the cars were getting out of Jim's way as he relentlessly pursued the black Camaro around corner after screeching corner, through intersections of wisely inert motorists who simply froze in place to let the two speeding vehicles blast by them.

"You think she's dead?" Blair asked after completing the call for an ambulance for the victim and back-up for them in their chase.

"I didn't have time to zero in on her very long, but it didn't look good, and he's got front end and windshield damage. Substantial windshield damage." The Camaro took another squealing turn around a busy corner, and Jim muttered under his breath as he fought to keep up. The pick-up's engine was fast enough, but a pick-up just didn't handle like a Camaro. "Son of a bitch. When I catch this bastard, I'm gonna wrap the plastic cord around his throat instead of cuffing him with it."

"Jim--!" Blair closed his eyes as they sped through an intersection and a car barely came to a halt inches from colliding with them.

"I saw him, Chief," Jim said calmly.

He didn't see the SUV with the booming bass speakers whose driver didn't hear the siren, and pulled into the intersection directly in front of him. Blair had a fleeting moment of terror for Jim's fate, fearing more in that heartbeat that he would lose his lover than he feared losing his own life.

********

"Must be one hell of an interview they're doing with that guy," Starsky groused, pacing. They'd had lunch, reviewed the case files, and were getting antsy to get out on the street and work the case. "I'm gonna call Blair," Starsky said, picking up the phone. He hadn't had time to turn it on and dial when it rang in his hand, startling him. "Speak of the devil," he said, then answered, "Hello."

"Starsky?" Simon Banks' voice came over the line.

"Hey, Simon, good to hear your voice. Any ideas where my son and his partner are?"

"Yes, I know where they are. Is Hutchinson there with you?" Simon asked.

"Yeah, we're both here--why? What's going on, Simon?"

"There's been an accident. It's a bad one. Jim was in pursuit of a hit-and-run driver, and some guy didn't hear the siren and pulled right out in front of him. The driver of the second vehicle only sustained minor injuries--it was a Ford Excursion, it could take the blow, and Jim hit the passenger side."

"That's fine but what about Blair and Jim?"

"They're both at Cascade General, both unconscious. I'm there right now. You need to know, Starsky...Blair has what looks like a very severe head injury. His head hit the dashboard at a tremendous force, and the EMT thought his skull was fractured. He's in X-ray right now."

"Oh my God." Starsky leaned on the counter, hoping his legs would hold him up long enough to finish the call. "We're on the way."

"You have a car there?"

"Shit, no we don't."

"I'll send a black and white for you ASAP."

"Thank you, Simon." Starsky hung up the phone and turned to Hutch. "Jim hit an SUV during a pursuit. They're in the hospital...they think Blair's...they think his skull's fractured, Hutch."

"Do they know that for sure?" Hutch asked, taking a hold of his partner's shoulders. He couldn't remember ever seeing Starsky this pale since the last time he was shot and hovered near death.

"No, but his head hit the dashboard... How did his head hit the dashboard, Hutch? Where was the goddamned seatbelt?!"

"In a '69 pickup? Probably over his lap. Most vehicle that old don't have shoulder restraints."

"My son's head is cracked open because Ellison's driving that goddamned heap of shit with nothing but lap belts in it? I'll kill him with my bare fucking hands!"

"Starsky, calm down. Going off on a tirade about Jim isn't going to help Blair, and you know if Blair were standing right here, he wouldn't want you to do that."

"Calm down? They're talking severe head injuries here, Hutch! What if he's a vegetable? What if he's crippled for life? What if he's blind or...or...has amnesia... Or can't finish his Ph.D. because he can't add two and two together anymore?"

"Starsk, listen to me. Blair's healthy and he's strong. He's made of incredibly good stock, and his father has more lives than any respectable alley cat should. You have to focus on hope here, buddy. We don't know anything about Blair's condition yet. People have recovered from major blows to the head and led very healthy, normal lives. Is Simon sending a car?"

"Yeah, a black and white."

"Okay. Let's get downstairs then, because they're probably due here any second. One thing at a time," Hutch reasoned, and Starsky nodded, not really assuaged, but focused on getting to the hospital to see his son.

********

Simon Banks paced the emergency room waiting area, not surprised to see Bill Ellison running down the hall, cashmere topcoat flying, only minutes after he'd called him. He wondered how many traffic laws the elder Ellison's Cadillac had defied to get him there so quickly.

"Where's Jimmy?" he asked, breathless.

"You better sit down, Bill. You won't do Jim much good if you drop over yourself." Simon directed him to a couple of empty chairs, which they occupied. "Jim is still in X-ray. The EMTs thought he probably had a concussion, some cracked or broken ribs from the steering wheel. They didn't think it looked too bad at first glance, but we need the X-rays to be sure."

"What about Blair?"

"His head hit the dashboard. He's in pretty bad shape, Bill."

"My God. You say some guy just pulled out in front of them?"

"He's a young guy, had his speakers up on high blow--those big bass jobs--and he didn't hear the siren. He just had minor scrapes and bruises."

"You'll be filing charges."

"You bet your life we will. God forbid, if Blair doesn't make it, he's looking at a vehicular homicide rap. Jim had the siren and flashers, and that intersection was clear except for this guy, who just pulled out. There was no way Jim could even slow down. He hit at full speed."

"Simon?" Starsky was rushing into the waiting room now, Hutch close behind him. "Where's my son?"

"He's in X-ray as far as we know. The doctor hasn't come out yet."

"Which exam room did they take him to? I want to see him."

"If he's in X-ray, we'll just have to wait, Starsk," Hutch said, putting a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Bill, any word on Jim?" Hutch asked.

"Simon told me he was in X-ray, too. They don't think he's too badly hurt, but he was unconscious when he was brought in. A concussion, maybe."

"He's better off than my son, by a long shot," Starsky snapped, pacing away from the group, running his hand through his hair.

"This isn't Jim's fault, Starsky," Simon spoke up.

"Where were the shoulder straps in that truck? Why wasn't he driving a vehicle with airbags? My son would be up walking around if he'd had airbags in that piece of shit he's driving!"

"Blair consented to ride with him in the truck, Starsky. He knew the risks riding with a cop, and--"

"Oh, Simon, give it a rest. Blair'd follow Jim straight into hell and look forward to the trip, and you know it. He's a civilian, for God's sake. For that matter, what the hell's the matter with you for letting one of your cops out on the road in pursuits with a vehicle without one goddamned safety device in it?!"

"We don't control what our detectives drive, Starsky."

"No, but you cut off his vehicle allowance after the second truck was totaled," Bill said, crossing his arms over his chest. "You pressured him into a situation where he had to cover the whole expense out of his own pocket, so he bought something cheap with affordable insurance."

"Don't try to tell me Jim couldn't afford a better truck, Bill," Simon challenged.

"My son doesn't take money and financial support from me, no matter how much I might want to give it to him. You better hope my son and Blair both come out of this in good shape, or your department is going to be facing a lawsuit the likes of which you've never seen before. I think I'll go put in a call to my attorney." Bill stormed down the hall, pulling out his cell phone in preparation to use it outside.

"Typical Bill Ellison response. Call a lawyer and throw some cash at the problem. That won't change Jim's injuries. Or Blair's," Simon stated.

"Is that true? You cut off some vehicle allowance?" Starsky asked.

"The department was paying Jim's auto insurance. After the last truck was totaled--a late model Ford Expedition--the rates went through the roof, and so did the commissioner. I had no choice. I had to cut off the insurance benefit. We have wording in the contract regarding reckless or excessive damage to covered vehicles, and Jim totaling two trucks in as many years qualified."

"Good for you. I hope your budget balances," Starsky shot back.

Before Simon could respond, a harried-looking older man in blue scrubs approached them.

"Blair Sandburg's party?" the doctor asked, and they immediately gathered around him.

"I'm his father," Starsky spoke up immediately.

"I'm Dr. Farraday. Blair has a linear skull fracture. At this time, we're treating the swelling with medication. I don't see an immediate threat of substantial blood or fluid on the brain--the CT scan was normal--but I'm ordering an MRI and we'll be monitoring him very closely in ICU. He hasn't regained consciousness yet, but given the trauma to his head and the swelling of the brain at this stage, that's not uncommon."

"Is he going to be brain damaged from this?" Starsky asked.

"It's too soon to tell. There's definitely brain activity, and he was breathing on his own when he was brought in, though we have intubated him--it's merely a precaution to ensure that adequate oxygen is supplied to the brain. He isn't reacting to external stimuli right now. At this point, we can't eliminate the possibility of damage."

"How much danger is he in, Doctor?" Hutch asked.

"If develops significant blood or fluid on the brain, we may have to operate to relieve the pressure, but as I said, there's no indication of that yet. He's not out of the woods, by any means, but I'm hopeful medication will relieve the swelling of the brain itself. The fracture, as I said, was linear, which is good news, because that means a crack, rather than a break and opening of the skull. His skull is not open, the brain was not exposed in any way. Our best case scenario is that he'll wake up, better sooner than later, with a bad headache. His other injuries are fairly minor. He has two cracked ribs on his left side, a couple of superficial cuts on his face, and a sprained wrist on the right side, most likely from bracing himself on something at the time of the impact."

"When can I see him?" Starsky asked. It was as if he'd forgotten anyone else was present, and focused only on the doctor and the prospect of seeing his son.

"As soon as he's settled in ICU, you can go in for a few minutes. You should be prepared for the bruising. It extends from below his eyes back into his hairline," the doctor said, gesturing to that area on his own head. He hit the dashboard very hard, which is what caused the fracture and the bruising."

"Which could have been prevented with a shoulder strap on the seatbelt," Starsky said, closing his eyes, feeling the horror wash over him at the thought that Blair probably would be standing there with them right now with a pain pill prescription and able to go home if his head had hit an airbag, or if he'd been held back in the seat by a belt.

"Yes, I imagine he wouldn't have been injured this badly, possibly not at all, with the proper restraint." The doctor shook his head. "A lot of people just don't think about that until they've been involved in something like this. I'll be at the hospital another several hours yet, so I'll be checking on Blair periodically, and he'll be evaluated hourly by the ICU nursing staff."

"Did you examine Jim Ellison, or only Blair?" Simon asked.

"I saw Detective Ellison, but another doctor was examining him. I'm not sure what stage they're to, but I'll check on him when I go back there."

"Thank you, Doctor," Starsky said. "Where do we wait?"

"The nurse will come and get you when he's settled." As the doctor walked away, Bill Ellison returned, this time accompanied by Steven.

"Was that about Jim?" Steven asked.

"No, that was Blair's doctor, but he said he'd check on what was happening with Jim," Hutch explained.

"How is Blair?" Bill asked, visibly concerned.

Starsky started to speak, and then swallowed and walked away.

"His skull is cracked, and he's unconscious," Simon explained. "The other injuries are minor. The doctor's trying to reduce the brain swelling with medication. They don't know yet if he'll require surgery or not."

"Poor kid. Jim'll blame himself for this," Bill said, and Simon rolled his eyes a little.

"He'll have company."

"Starsky's upset, Simon. You know how close he is to Blair. I'm going to go have a talk with him," Hutch said, leaving to go find his partner.

"Starsky thinks this is Jim's fault?" Steven asked, raising his eyebrows. "I thought the guy he hit pulled out in front of him."

"He did, and it gets better. Jim had the right of way. We think our friend in the SUV ran a stop sign. He won't admit it, but we have a witness who says he only slowed down a little for the stop sign and then proceeded into the intersection."

"So how is Starsky blaming Jim? I don't understand," Steven persisted.

"Because the truck has no safety devices except for lap belts. He feels Jim shouldn't have been driving something like that as a pursuit vehicle."

"He shouldn't have," Bill agreed, shooting a pointed look at Simon.

"Okay, I've missed something here," Steven said, noticing the icy look from his father he knew only too well.

"The Department cut off Jimmy's auto insurance allowance after the Expedition was totaled."

"Oh, yeah, I remember Jim mentioning that. He was pretty pissed off about it at the time."

Simon was relieved to see another doctor emerge from the exam rooms and enter the waiting room. He was even more relieved when the doctor asked for James Ellison's family. All three men responded, and the middle-aged woman who was treating Jim smiled pleasantly.

"Well, James is a very lucky man. He has some badly bruised ribs on his left side, but they are not fractured and there doesn't appear to be any injury to the internal organs. His left arm has a fracture that we've set. He has a concussion, but he's already regained consciousness and is insisting on seeing his partner, so we know his cognitive functions are fine. It's a good thing for both of them he put his arm across his partner at the time of the collision. I understand Mr. Sandburg has a very serious head injury as it is."

"Jim was holding Blair back at the time of the impact?" Simon asked.

"I asked him how he managed to get so banged up on just the left side, when I assumed he would have been looking straight ahead, sitting straight in the seat while he was driving. He said he 'leaned over to hold Blair back,' and braced himself with his left arm against the steering wheel. It was an odd position to be in for the impact, but it seems to have gotten him somewhat out of harm's way, so I'd say he was pretty lucky."

"Are you admitting him?" Bill asked, visibly relieved.

"Yes, for observation, for 24 hours. There's no indication of anything more serious, but he took quite an impact, and I want to be sure he doesn't develop any complications. If all goes well, he should be released tomorrow afternoon with prescriptions for pain medication. Captain...Banks?" the doctor asked, obviously having been told by Jim who to look for in the waiting room.

"Yes, that's me," Simon responded.

"You should expect him to be off active duty for at least a week due to the concussion. Obviously, his arm will be in the cast for four to six weeks, so what type of duty you assign him during that time depends on what he can do with one arm."

"I'm just glad he came through it in one piece, more or less," Simon said, chuckling. "When can he have visitors?"

"As soon as he's settled in his room, which should be any time now. The nurse will come and get you."

"I know Jim, and he literally won't rest until he sees Blair, so I hope that won't be a problem," Steven stated. "Blair and Jim are...partners off duty, too," Steven added. "For Jim, this is more than a work partner being hurt--it's his life partner."

"I didn't realize that. I figured they were good friends from the way he reacted, and the number of times he's asked about Mr. Sandburg. After we get him settled in his room, I'll see if we can take him down to ICU later for a quick visit."

"Thanks, Doctor. He may not wait that long, but thanks," Bill said, smiling.

********

Starsky was sitting on a bench outside the hospital, not far from the main entrance. Hutch approached him and sat down, not saying anything for a moment.

"This isn't Jim's fault, Starsk."

"Don't start with me, Hutch. My son's head is bashed in because Ellison was too cheap to buy a decent truck. Or because Banks needs to balance his budget. Shit, how do you put a price on Blair's head?! Literally?!" Starsky demanded. "If money was that big of a fucking issue, I'd have liquidated my retirement assets and bought Ellison a Hummer!"

"That's not a bad idea," Hutch said, leaning back on the bench. "Bill and Steven would probably go in on one with us. You know that truck's got to be history after that crash. You wouldn't have to worry about Blair riding around in one of those."

"Are you nuts? Who cares about the truck? What difference does it make now?"

"You're acting like Blair's dead or in a vegetative state. The doctor said his CT scan was normal and he was capable of breathing on his own."

"And he could still die, or still wake up without half his marbles!"

"Starsk, you and Jim have butted heads since day one, and you really started butting heads after you found out Blair was your son. You love Blair so much you want to protect him from everything bad in the world, and that's the way it should be. You're his dad. But Jim isn't one of those bad things. He adores Blair. He'd die for him in a second, without even blinking, and you know it. Blair's crazy about Jim, feels like his life depends on having Jim in it. You know damn well that Blair would have a fit if he thought you were going to take this out on Jim."

"If Jim loves Blair so much, why in the hell would he take a chance like that with his life?"

"Why did you take chances with my life for over twenty years? Does that mean you didn't love me because you risked *both* our lives driving like a bat outta hell after the bad guys?"

"Even the Torino had shoulder belts."

"Which we didn't fasten half the time."

"That's a choice, Hutch. Putting on your seatbelt or not. But when it's not there, you can't put it on, can you? How many high speed chases did I take you on without airbags after they were finally put on the driver and passenger side?"

"I really don't know, buddy. I didn't count."

"One! When Jim and Blair were visiting after Naomi died and we got involved in that chase in the Torino. The first decent car I could buy with dual airbags, I bought. We didn't have the options in the '70's and '80's that cops have now. As soon as those options were there, I took advantage of them."

"When you were Ellison's age, how much time did you spend wringing your hands and worrying about accidents? I can answer that--none! I couldn't get you to slow down no matter what I said. When you crashed the Torino, how worried were you about my welfare?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Hutch, how long are you gonna dredge that up?! You're still walkin' around, aren't ya?!" Starsky challenged, getting up and pacing.

"Well, that was just a lucky break for me, wasn't it? Because you sure as hell weren't about to slow down!" Hutch took in a deep breath, resolving he was not going to fight with his partner about a 25-year-old incident. "Starsky, the only reason I'm bringing it up now is that I want you to put yourself in Jim's place. You *were* in Jim's place. You were a little younger than he is now, but not by much, and you loved me the way he loves Blair. But you still put the pedal to the metal and risked both our lives for a car chase. For multiple car chases. Hell, I did it, too. We both did. I've loved you with every breath I took for the last thirty years, and I still risked your life to make a bust or catch a fleeing perp more than once. It's part of the territory."

"You weren't a civilian," Starsky said flatly.

"No, I wasn't. Blair is in name only. His father's a cop, he rides with a cop, he sleeps with a cop, most of his friends are cops. He's chosen that life, and whether or not you think Jim should have driven a better truck, the fact remains that Blair is not a little boy, as much as you might want him to be sometimes because I know how it hurts you that you didn't have that time with him. He's a man, Starsk. He's 35 years old. He's not a little boy anymore. He makes the conscious decision to ride with Jim, and he knows that means being involved in chases. He knows what kind of belts are--or aren't--in that old truck."

"He's my little boy, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "It doesn't matter how old he is."

Moved by the sadness in his partner's voice, Hutch got up and walked over to Starsky, sliding an arm around him.

"Maybe we should go in and see if he's settled in ICU yet."

"What am I gonna do if he dies, Hutch?"

"Feel like someone just ripped your guts out. We both will. I know he's not my son biologically, but it feels like he's mine, too, because he's yours. Do you know why Blair is so precious to me? Because he's part of you. If I ever have to lose you, Blair would be the part of you that survived. The blue eyes, the curls, the energy, the innate...goodness. He's so much your son, Starsk. So much of you is in him. So if he dies, I'm not real sure what either one of us are gonna do, but whatever it is, we'll do it together. Me and thee, remember?"

"Like I'd forget," Starsky said, smiling in spite of wet eyes, turning to hug his partner. "I love you, babe."

"I love you, too, and I think Blair will pull through this because he knows how many people are depending on him to do it." Hutch stepped back releasing his hold on Starsky. "Let's go check on him, and find out how Jim's doing."

"Okay, good idea." They started back inside the hospital.

"You still mad at Jim?"

"Yup. But I'm gonna do what Blair wants and keep my mouth shut."

"Sure you will," Hutch mumbled under his breath.

********

"Detective Ellison, the doctor said you could see your partner later, after you rest a while," the nurse said, exasperated. The young woman had taken a verbal workout from the irate cop in the hospital bed since she'd had the misfortune to stop in and give him a painkiller.

"You can either get me a wheelchair, or I'll get out of the bed and walk down there myself. I'm not waiting any longer."

"Dr. Sinclair will be back to check on you--"

"Good for her." Jim tossed back the covers and ignored the pain in his side. He was awkward at getting up with only one arm functional, but it was fast becoming obvious that wasn't going to slow him down either.

"All right, all right. Stay put a second. I'll be right back." Deciding there was no point in arguing with a patient who would do exactly what he threatened to do, and who was, with some pain, capable of doing it, she located a wheelchair and returned to Jim's room.

//It's true what they say. All of the good ones are gay or taken,// she thought, assessing the tall, handsome, well-built man who was already out of bed and waiting for the chair. //Figures. One this good would have to be both,// she thought glumly as she put a blanket over the patient's legs and made sure he had slipper socks his feet before starting out. She hoped the poor guy in ICU with the skull fracture would come to and enjoy how lucky he really was.

As they made their way out of the room and down the hall, two men paused just a short distance away.

"Jimmy! You're looking good!" Bill said, his tone almost jubilant. Except for a bandaged cut and some nasty bruising on the left side of Jim's forehead and the splint on his left arm, he looked pretty much like his old self.

"Thanks, Dad. I'm going to see Blair." Jim extended his right hand, which his father took in a handshake but covered with his other hand as well, squeezing Jim's hand. "Steven, what did I get you in the middle of?" Jim asked, and Steven looked down at his business suit, expensive topcoat over his arm.

"Board meeting. Believe me, there are no hard feelings about missing the rest of that meeting. How you feeling, bro?"

"I'm all right. I need to see Blair. How bad is it, really?" Jim asked as the nurse started moving with the chair again, and Steven and Bill walked alongside it.

"We weren't there when Blair's doctor talked to Starsky, but I assume we got the same story you did," Bill said.

"Skull fracture. God, there was just no way. When that SOB pulled out in front of me, I knew we were goners."

"You held Blair back in the seat. You probably saved his life," Steven said.

"Blair was so scared. I could see it, in the last few seconds before the accident. We were really moving, barely missing some cars..." Jim sighed, then held onto his side. "I don't suppose the back-up managed to catch the headcase in the Camaro?"

"Is that who you were chasing?" Steven asked.

"A hit-and-run driver. Does anybody know what happened to the woman he hit?"

"We don't know anything about that, Jimmy. We didn't know who you were chasing or why you were doing it."

"We were just pulling up in front of the Cascade Herald building, and we heard this commotion--squealing tires, screaming--and this black Camaro flew by us. He must've been doing about sixty even then. He'd hit a woman in the street, and it looked like enough bystanders were there, a couple of them with cell phones, so we took off after the perp. Blair called it in. I just hope the back-up nailed that bastard. I'd like to know what happened to the victim."

"We had a woman brought in earlier, just before you and your partner," the nurse said, pushing the button for the elevator. "If it's the same one, she was DOA," she said regretfully.

"Young, blonde, hit by a car?"

"I think so, yes," she said, nodding.

"Damn."

"Someone must have gotten a license number, something," Bill said. "If Blair called for back-up..."

"We've got a lot fewer cars on the street after the budget cuts last year. Response time isn't as good as it used to be." Jim paused. "Did somebody get a hold of Starsky and Hutch? They're staying at our place."

"They're downstairs," Steven said. "You might as well know--Starsky's blaming you for the accident."

"I was driving, so I'll take that heat, but if that jerk hadn't run the stop sign, I wouldn't have hit anything. Remind me to jam those fucking bass speakers so far down his throat that he shits hip hop for the rest of his life." Jim realized belatedly that he'd said that in front of the nurse, who chuckled from her spot behind him, wheeling the chair. "Sorry," he added.

"Don't be. It's the first laugh I've had all week," she said, still smiling.

As the elevator opened onto the floor where the ICU was located, the second elevator opened and Starsky and Hutch exited.

"If you would, just bring him back down to his room when he's finished visiting," the nurse said to Steven, who readily took over the job of pushing the wheelchair.

"How are you, Jim?" Hutch asked immediately. Starsky left them to approach the nurses' station immediately about seeing Blair.

"Except for the arm, just banged up a little. What's the real story on Blair? They told me he had a skull fracture and was unconscious, but is there anything they're not telling me?"

"I don't think so," Hutch said. "They're medicating him for the brain swelling, and it's a wait-and-see process for now. If they detect either fluid or blood accumulating on the brain, they may have to operate. The doctor said it was too soon to tell if there was any brain damage."

"That's what they told me."

Starsky had the room number and the clearance from the nurse, being he was Blair's father. He paused, considering what Blair would want if he were able to speak for himself. Blair would want to see Jim. Resisting the urge to be the first one down the hall to see Blair, Starsky returned to the group.

"The room's down this way," he said, gesturing down the hall. "The nurse said only a few minutes. I'd like a chance to see him when you're done," Starsky said to Jim.

"Thanks," Jim said, putting a great deal of meaning into that one word. Whatever Starsky's feelings were about the accident, he was obviously going to handle them tactfully, and he was going to respect what he felt would be Blair's wishes.

Steven wheeled the chair down to the room, but Jim held up a hand for him to stop at the door.

"I can make it that far. There's nothing wrong with my legs." Jim was out of the chair before Steven could object, and though he swayed a bit from the pain in his head, he regained his equilibrium quickly, and tightened his robe around himself.

"The cab's waiting," Steven said, smiling a little. Jim returned it before going into the room.

Blair was attached to IV's and various monitors, but most striking was the horrible bruising that looked like a bizarre purple-red cap extending from his eyes to his hair. Though it had not broken the skin, the dashboard had left a vividly colored lump in the middle of Blair's forehead. Jim swallowed hard, wanting his voice to come out strong and sure, to comfort Blair on the outside chance Blair could hear him.

"Hey, Chief, it's me. I'm okay. You're going to be okay, too. You just need to wake up for us," Jim said, pulling up a chair and sitting by Blair's bed. He took one limp hand in both of his. "I love you, sweetheart. You've got to wake up for me. I need to see those beautiful blue eyes. I need to make those vows with you, baby. You have to wake up to hear me. I'm going to find a good date at the Cascade Towers for the party." Jim kissed the back of Blair's hand. "I'm so sorry, Chief. I tried to hold you back but I guess I couldn't do it. If that damn truck isn't totaled, I'll blow it up myself. All the times you've bumped your head on the passenger window on a fast corner..." Jim reached up and gingerly touched Blair's hair. "You hate those chases. I see it in your eyes. Who in hell was I kidding thinking I could hold you back? I wish it had been me. It should have been me. Instead I'm walking around with my arm in a sling and you're unconscious. It's not fair."

Jim sat there, doing his best to tune into Blair's vital signs on a level beyond what the monitors would tell him, but all he could discern was the reassuring beat of Blair's heart, the steadiness of his breathing, and the usual workings of his bodily systems. He took comfort in that, in the fact that Blair was capable of breathing unassisted. Remembering that Starsky had given up the chance to see Blair first to let him go in, Jim made the difficult move to leave Blair's side.

"I'm right here in the hospital, sweetheart. I'll be back later, whether they okay it or not." Jim leaned down and kissed Blair's still lips, then brushed his cheek gently against Blair's. For the barest instant, he thought he felt a slight pressure, as if Blair had turned his head toward him. He moved back and looked at Blair, who didn't appear to have moved. "Chief, can you hear me?" Jim asked, squeezing Blair's hand. There was no response, and Blair's eyes remained closed.

There was a tap at the door. Starsky walked in a ways, and Jim turned toward him.

"I thought he moved," he said, looking back down at Blair. Starsky paused, trying not to be horrified by the bruising that discolored Blair's forehead and the area around his eyes. He tried even harder not to bring up the accident. If he had words with Jim, it would not be within earshot of Blair--even if he was, to all appearances--unable to hear it.

"What happened?"

"I kissed him and put my cheek against his, and it felt like he pressed against my face, just slightly."

"Maybe the way you feel movement, he did, but it's not visible," Starsky suggested.

"Maybe."

"Look, Jim, why don't you get some rest? I'll spend as much time with him as they'll let me, and whenever you want to take over, you can."

"Starsky, I...I'm sorry about this. I think you know I wouldn't hurt Blair for the world."

"This isn't the place to talk about this. I need to see my son," Starsky responded, moving past him to approach Blair's bed. He was doing his best not to explode, to grab Jim by the front of his hospital robe and demand why he'd risked Blair's life in a truck with no worthwhile safety gear. For Blair, he kept it under control.

"I'll head back upstairs," Jim said, leaving Starsky to his visit.

Starsky sat in the chair Jim had occupied and took Blair's hand in both of his.

"Hey, there, kiddo, it's Dad." Starsky swallowed, pushing his emotions back. The severity of the blow to Blair's head was so painfully evident in the bruising. Blair didn't deserve to hurt as much as he had in his relatively short life. For someone so gentle, he didn't deserve to be the victim of so much violence. "Jim thought he felt you move. I know you're in there, Blair. The doctor said your CT scan looked good, you just have a big bump on your head that probably hurts like hell." Starsky reached up and caressed Blair's cheek. "Don't worry about anything, son. Just rest. Jim's fine, and Hutch and I are gonna be here as long as you need us. We'll keep an eye on Jim for you until you're up and around to do it yourself."

He sat there a few minutes, just watching Blair's even breathing, offering up a prayer of thanks that his son had escaped any major internal injuries, and that all the horrible things that *could* happen, hadn't. He grudgingly admitted that Jim's efforts to put himself in front of Blair accounted for much of that.

Blair had been so ill when he'd shown up at their house with pneumonia, and when the fever raged and the cough wracked Blair's body, Starsky had feared losing him. But at least he could do something. He could sponge away some of the fever or hold Blair when he coughed so hard and it hurt... There was nothing he could do for him now. It was in the hands of God and Blair himself what happened next.

********

Jim was like a cat on a hot tin roof. He would stay in his bed for a few minutes, and then be up again, headache or not, pacing around his hospital room like a caged panther. Blair was unconscious, there was a murderer loose in a black Camaro, and a deranged serial killer was finding inventive ways to execute people for no apparent reason. And he was supposed to lie on his ass in a hospital.

"You might as well sit down and relax, Jimmy. You just saw Blair an hour ago, and you're stuck here for tonight," Bill reasoned, putting down the newspaper he was reading. Jim had refused any overtures of conversation, so his father had resorted to catching up on the day's news. He didn't want to leave Jim alone, but it was apparent that Jim wasn't about to put himself out to chat, either.

Finally, Simon, who had left the hospital shortly after hearing the diagnoses on the two men, came through the door. Bill hoped he'd have some news that would at least settle Jim in one spot for a few minutes.

"Well, we didn't apprehend the hit-and-run perp, but we have the car description out all over the Pacific Northwest. We have a partial license number, which I ran through the computer. That gave us fifteen possibles in the region. Rafe and Megan are checking those out."

"How could everyone miss him? What did the back-up come in? Scooters?"

"By the time you and Blair crashed, the suspect had to be doing nearly eighty in thirty-five speed limit zones. A lot of the cars were cautious because of the risk to other motorists."

"That jerk with the bass speakers pulled out in front of *me*, Simon. That was *not* my fault."

"Hey, take it easy, Jim. No one said it was. Well, no one at the department. The driver of that vehicle is going to be charged."

"With what?"

"The DA wants to wait until Blair regains consciousness. What we charge him with may be more or less serious depending on that outcome."

"What difference does it make? He pulled the same bird-brained, illegal move no matter how the injuries turn out--and those speakers were booming so loud I could feel it in my gut when we were a mile away from the intersection."

"All that's in the witness reports, Jim, but we'll need your formal statement about the chase and the crash tomorrow. The truck's totaled. I don't imagine that's any surprise."

"If it weren't, I'd take an axe to it myself."

"I'm buying you a new truck and covering the insurance, and I don't want to hear any more about it," Bill said firmly.

"Dad, I'm not sixteen years old anymore. I'll do what I can with the insurance money. I have some savings I can use for a better vehicle."

"Oh, Jimmy, for God's sake, what has your age got to do with anything? I'm not going to start running your life because I liquidate a couple stocks and buy you a truck."

"Was the woman hit by the Camaro the DOA that was brought in here earlier?" Jim asked Simon.

"Yes. Marianne Phillips, 26 years old. Her husband was at the scene. They'd had lunch in the restaurant across from the Herald. Marianne was assistant editor for the Lifestyles section. Very bright young woman. She was crossing the street to return to work when she was hit. Mr. Phillips is understandably devastated, but he wanted me to thank you for trying to catch the driver, and to tell you he hoped you and Blair were all right."

"That stinks. Any kids?"

"She was four months pregnant. Unfortunately, she wasn't far enough along for multiple homicide charges. The perp was speeding, and swerved around the side of another car that was stopped, waiting to turn at the cross street. He's got no excuses."

"In one joyride, he destroys the lives of several innocent people. That son of a bitch needs to go down for a long time."

"You're off active duty, Jim, so don't get any ideas. You need to take it easy for a while--"

"Oh, come on, Simon! That guy caused all this and you expect me to sit on my ass on the sidelines?"

"That's exactly what I expect. The doctor said you were off active duty for at least a week. You have a concussion, Jim."

"I have a bump on the head. Go downstairs and look at Blair! Now *he's* got a head injury!"

"You need to calm down, son," Bill said, standing up and approaching Jim.

"I need to go see Blair." Jim headed for the door, and by now, Bill had given up on trying to contain him.

"Any change with Blair?" Simon asked Bill.

"Jim thinks he moved when he was with him, but I'm not sure. Besides, what Jim could feel might be a muscle spasm or a reflex action rather than a conscious movement."

"True. I hope he's right, though. Should he be up walking around like that?" Simon said, gesturing toward the door where Jim had just exited.

"No, but he won't rest, and the hospital isn't adequately staffed to keep a team of nurses here to make sure he does. Besides, he gets less upset if I don't try to argue with him. I guess it's better that he stays calm."

"It would have been ideal if they'd put Blair in the same room, but I guess they can't do that."

"Not with all the monitors Blair's hooked up to. He has to be in ICU, and they don't have spare room down there--plus, they wouldn't use it for someone as healthy as Jim even if they did. I already checked."

"No pull with the hospital administration, huh?" Simon teased.

"Actually, I just resigned from the Board of Directors about six months ago. But some rules are just rules. Don't think I didn't mention that."

"I'm confident you did," Simon responded.

"Look, Simon, about this situation with Jim's insurance allowance. I am seriously upset about that, and I haven't ruled out the idea of legal action."

"You're forgetting one key issue here--Jim's not a child anymore, so you'll need his cooperation to sue the department on his behalf."

"If Blair is seriously brain-damaged from this and requires some kind of long-term care, how long do you think it would take Jim to make that decision? He might be able to drive used trucks on principle, but you can't pay long-term care facilities with principles. They want cash. And if the department deprived him a necessary benefit like auto insurance for a vehicle he uses on the job, I frankly think there's some liability there."

"If Blair requires long-term care that is not covered by his insurance, we'll be discussing the situation within the department, and with Jim and Starsky, and Blair himself, of course, if he's able to participate in the process. We have no plans to leave him without care."

"He wouldn't be without care anyway, as long as I'm alive or there's anything left in my estate, but that's not the point. The point is who *should* pick up the tab here. More so than that, the point, to me, is that my son was pressured into a cost-cutting measure that could have killed them both. The money is pretty irrelevant to me. Blair would always be cared for because he's part of my family now."

"You'd have to get in line behind his father."

"His father doesn't have my resources, which is why I would prefer to foot excessive bills rather than sap his father's retirement income." Bill paused. "Did you agree with the decision to terminate Jim's insurance?"

"I thought he was being pretty reckless with his vehicles. We don't ordinarily have two expensive trucks totaled in as many years."

"You don't give Jim ordinary cases, though, do you? I believe his last truck was totaled when he stopped a fleeing murderer by using a crossbow while attempting to protect Peruvian Indians running through the streets of Cascade? How do you judge whether or not something like that is reckless? It's not even believable. I don't see how you can judge Jim's insurability by the same standards you use department-wide. That's absurd. Then start channeling some of the lunatic cases to your other detectives."

"I don't try to channel all the 'lunatic cases' to Jim."

"Oh, come on. You're telling me you divide the difficult ones up equally? You know that's not true."

"Jim has a different background than most of my detectives, so he's better suited to handling some of the more...challenging cases. I am not going to stand here and justify my case assignments to my detective's father. If Jim has a problem with his caseload, or the nature of the cases he's getting, that's up to him to decide."

"I'm merely making a point, Simon. You know you assign Jim all the worst cases that come across your desk, and then you penalize him by denying him insurance on his vehicle, so he winds up driving a piece of junk that nearly gets them both killed."

"Actually, the cab of the truck withstood the collision much better than a lot of newer vehicles I've seen at crash sites. Neither Jim nor Blair suffered any serious injuries to their lower extremities because the cab didn't buckle all that much on impact."

"I always used to tell my people not to try to take credit for a disaster," Bill said, rising and slipping into his coat. "This was a disaster brought on by an unjust and irresponsible budget decision. It's absurd to attempt to put a positive spin on it because the cab of the truck didn't happen to buckle and break their legs." Bill strode out the door of the room with Simon right behind him.

"You know, all I'm seeing here are a couple of frustrated, angry fathers looking for someone to blame."

"I'm not frustrated," Bill said calmly, and the older man pinned Simon with the same icy gaze he'd been using across board room tables for decades, "and I'm not displacing my hostility or looking for someone to blame. There are multiple points of blame in this situation. Whoever made that budget decision is one of them. It's that simple. I intend to discuss the matter with legal counsel, and with Jim, when he's feeling a bit better and Blair is out of danger."

"You think lawyers and lawsuits and money are some kind of magic answer, is that it? If there's a problem, just throw some money at it."

"Some people have a contempt for affluence, and it's not an attractive attitude. I'm not going to start making apologies for the assets I've worked all my life to build. And yes, there are a good many problems you can 'throw money at' as you say, and they do have a tendency to be solved that way. What concerns me is that my son could have been killed, and my son's partner may die or be brain damaged because you and your department saved a few hundred dollars on auto insurance. So do not presume to talk to me about valuing money over people. Cutting your budget meant more to you and your superiors than my son's life. That's what makes me angry, Simon. And it would feel like justice if saving a meager amount of money like that ended up costing the city a few million, to make up for Jim's and Blair's pain and suffering." With that, Bill turned on his heel and continued his brisk walk down the hall to the elevator.

Though still bristling from the encounter, Simon had some uneasy feelings about his own enjoyment of delivering the news to Jim that he was no longer going to receive insurance coverage on his vehicles from the department. He'd felt like he was pulling reckless Jim Ellison in line. Now he wondered how truly reckless Jim was and how really unlucky he may have been the last few years when it came to his vehicles. And whether or not the few hundred dollars the city saved was really worth it.

********

When Jim arrived on the ICU floor, he received a few strange looks from the nurses who realized that the man in the gown, robe, and slipper socks was obviously an escapee from another floor. Starsky and Hutch were in the waiting area not far from Blair's room when Jim arrived upstairs.

"Any change?" Jim asked, approaching them.

"You've only been gone a couple hours, Jim," Starsky said. "I thought you were gonna get some rest."

"I need to see Blair."

"He hasn't rallied. I've been back in twice."

"Jim, you've got a concussion. You should be taking it easy if you want to heal up," Hutch said. "Trust me, I've been down that road. If you just take it easy at the outset, you'll get better a lot sooner."

"I have a tap on the head compared to Blair. You have to believe me, if I could trade places with him, I would." Jim sat on a couch across from the one Starsky and Hutch occupied.

"Look, I'm not thrilled that you took Blair on high-speed chases in an old truck with no shoulder restraints and no airbags. I didn't know you were driving that on duty. I guess I just didn't realize it. I also know how you feel about Blair, and how he feels about you, so I know that nobody here needs to make you feel guilty for his injuries--you're doing that nicely on your own." Starsky leaned forward, elbows on knees. "What I want to know is, God willing that Blair recovers wholly from this and you both hit the road again, what you're going to be driving and what steps you're going to take to protect him."

"We didn't obsess over accident statistics at your age, either, Jim," Hutch spoke up. "We took all kinds of chances with ourselves and with each other in all kinds of situations, in and out of the car. Now that you've had a close call, we just want you to know that we're here to help if the insurance is an issue, or the cost of the vehicle--" Hutch held up a forestalling hand as Jim was about to protest. "We love Blair, and we don't want him hurt. We care what happens to both of you, and we're family now. If saving money is an issue with driving an old, unsafe truck, then we'll do whatever we can to help you with the costs."

"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer, because I do. My dad tried the same thing a few minutes ago. I did what I thought was a smart, sensible move financially when the department cut off my auto insurance--get a truck that wouldn't cost me much out of pocket if it got smashed up. I didn't really think about what would happen if Blair and I hit something that was as big or bigger. In a sense, I'm not so sure it was such a bad truck, since we're both at least alive. I have no idea why I'm not broken up into a couple dozen spare parts right now, but the truck must have withstood the impact pretty well."

"You have a lot of strength in your arms, so when you braced yourself against the wheel, even though it broke your arm, it probably also held you back from hitting the dashboard with the kind of force Blair did," Starsky said.

"I did all I could to hold him back. I was practically lying across him. That much I remember. I remember grabbing the wheel with my left hand and pushing back while I pushed back against Blair with my right arm and as much of my right side as I could get on him."

"You broke the impact, there's no question about that," Hutch said.

"Getting back to your offer about the money, I appreciate it, but I'll just buy a better truck and pay the big bucks for it. It's not that I can't make ends meet and do that. I just thought I was doing something sensible this way. It was a dumb-ass idea, and Blair's paying for it, and you're never going to know how awful that makes me feel."

"I think we've got a pretty good idea," Hutch said. "Just keep the offer in mind, and don't hesitate to ask us if you need help."

"Thanks." Jim rose a little awkwardly. "I'm going to look in on Blair."

Jim made his way into Blair's room, and approached the bed. Despite the horrible bruising, Jim was still captivated by watching Blair sleep. He leaned down and kissed Blair as close to his lips as the breathing tube allowed. He chided himself for having the foolish fantasy that he would do that, and Blair would miraculously open his eyes like Sleeping Beauty.

"It's me again, sweetheart." Jim ignored the pounding in his head and the protest of his bruised body as he continued to lean over Blair, keeping their faces just inches apart. "I tease you about the way you're talking all the time, but the silence now is deafening, Chief. I need to hear your voice. I need you. I'm so sorry, Blair. I'd die before I hurt you, and I let this happen." Jim kissed Blair's bruised forehead with infinite gentleness, and hated feeling the heat of injured flesh beneath his lips. He'd have given anything at that moment to take that pain away. "Blair, I know you're in there. You told me when my eyesight was all fried from the Golden that I had to consciously try to re-make the connections. That's what you have to do now, sweetheart. I know you can."

"So this is where you are," a woman's voice startled Jim from the door. Dr. Sinclair stood there, arms crossed over her chest, smiling slightly. "I thought I told you to get some rest and you could visit your partner later."

"It's later," Jim stated flatly.

"You've been here twice already, and you haven't spent more than a few minutes in bed. The nurses may not be able to stop you, but they can report on you."

"If he'd just open his eyes..."

"Give him some time. He got a pretty nasty knock on the head." The doctor put on a small pair of reading glasses that had been hung around her neck by a fine gold chain. She opened Blair's chart. "He's on some heavy medication for both swelling and to prevent seizures, which actually may keep him under a bit longer, too. According to his chart, he's showing some slight response to painful stimuli as of an hour ago."

"How do they test that?" Jim asked, wondering just how much pain would have to be inflicted to draw a response out of his dormant partner.

"I can assure you, we don't torture our patients," she said, smiling. "It's nothing more deadly than a needle poke."

"Why is he on a ventilator if he could breathe on his own?"

"To be sure he gets enough oxygen to his brain and protect his airway. When he regains consciousness, we'll take the tube out. I'll mention to Dr. Farraday to stop by your room before he leaves tonight, just to give you the official update."

"He's almost got his Ph.D.," Jim said, looking at Blair. "He's...he's probably the smartest person I ever met."

"I wish I could give you some kind of guarantees from his chart, but I can't. What I can tell you is that it could be much worse. His CT scan was normal, and it appears that his MRI didn't indicate any excessive or dangerous bleeding or fluid accumulation, or any spinal fractures from the violent motion to his neck and back from the impact. He wasn't responding to any external stimuli when he was brought in, but in the last hour or so, he's responded to a painful stimulus. But when he does come to, he's going to need a recovery period, and he's going to need someone to take care of him for a while at home, and I have a feeling that'll be you. So if you want to do him a favor, go to bed for a few hours and get some sleep and follow your doctor's orders. I'm sure his father will let you know if there's a change."

"Yeah, he will. But you still don't know if he'll be okay."

"No, I don't."

Jim leaned down and kissed Blair's forehead again. "I'll be back later, Chief," he said close to Blair's ear. "I love you."

The doctor walked with Jim toward the elevator and pressed the button.

"I understand you were chasing the driver who hit the young woman we treated here earlier."

"That's right. I was hoping the back-up we called would pick him up, but apparently they didn't. I was too busy watching the road to get his license number, and I couldn't get close enough for Blair to see it. He didn't have his glasses on, and he wouldn't have been able to see the plate number clearly without them. But we'll get him."

"Are you involved in a lot of chases like that?" she asked as they stepped into the elevator, heading up for Jim's room. It was getting later, and the elevator was empty of visitors at the moment.

"Quite a few. I work in Major Crime, so the perps we're chasing are usually high-risk. I don't chase people for overdue parking tickets, let's put it that way."

"That's a difficult decision to make. Which risk is greater."

"Yeah, and apparently I made the wrong one this time."

"You were chasing a killer. I don't know as you made the wrong choice so much as you had an accident."

"Those speakers should be outlawed."

"We treated that young man earlier, also. Just a few minor cuts and bruises. He was very upset about the damage to his SUV," she said, disgust obvious in her voice. "I'm afraid I may have painted your partner's prognosis a bit more grimly for his benefit."

"I like the way you think, Doc."

"A sleepless night or two will do him good. I think your captain picked up where I left off."

********

Starsky took every opportunity to visit Blair over the course of the night, even when it meant sneaking into his room. On at least two occasions, he ran into Jim doing the same thing. Blair remained motionless, and Jim began to despair that the movement he'd felt so sure of on his first visit was merely wishful thinking or a muscle spasm on Blair's part.

Hutch spent the majority of the long night studying every detail of the two homicide cases they believed might be linked, looking for any connection between the victims, or any similarity in the M.O. that would give them something solid to hang their hats on. Jim was to be released from the hospital the following day, and would no doubt spend the balance of it at Blair's bedside. Hutch hoped to lure his partner away from the hospital for a few hours at that time to visit the friends and colleagues of Professor Tony Stewart in Seattle. Meanwhile, Hutch would make his own visit to Banks to pitch the idea of allowing them to keep the homicide case while Jim was officially off active duty. He also hoped they might pick up the hit-and-run case, as well. Both men had a long history of handling cases in which they were personally involved, turning the perps in to the authorities without vigilante justice. Dobey would vouch for that. At the same time, he wondered if he was up to the task, without Blair's input, of keeping both Jim and Starsky from exploding if they got their hands on the man ultimately responsible for Blair's injuries.

"You must be able to recite that thing by now," Starsky said, sitting on the couch.

"Just about." Hutch took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Don't suppose you'd like to go to the loft and grab a couple hours' sleep?"

"You can go ahead if you want, babe. This is a long night for you to put in, too."

"I don't mind putting in a long night, Starsk. But we're both exhausted and Blair doesn't show any signs of waking up yet tonight. They've got him on some pretty heavy meds, aside from the blow to his head. He probably won't come to this quickly. You know he'd tell you to go home and get some sleep. Besides, you and Jim have to wait in line to sneak into his room as it is."

"The only reason he's napping in between visits is because I said I'd be here. I'm not leaving."

"Okay, then we stay." Hutch set the files aside, leaning back on the not-too-comfortable couch.

"What if he's brain damaged, Hutch?" Starsky asked quietly. "He's so...brilliant. And he's used to being so brilliant. What if he wakes up, and he's..."

"Not so brilliant anymore?" Hutch supplied, and Starsky nodded. "Well, he'll have an awfully hard adjustment to make. But Jim isn't going to love him any less if he's a little slower on the uptake or if he's semi-disabled. He'll still have his partner. He'll still have us. And anything we can't do for him, I'm sure Bill Ellison and his checkbook will be on hand to help with. He'll have the best anyone could have, Starsk--lots of love and the best care and therapy money can buy."

"It doesn't matter to me that way. I'd gladly take Blair home with us and take care of him. We're retired, we have the time. What I don't want to see is him stuck in some...*facility*. Even if it *is* the best money can buy."

"I think you're jumping the gun here, babe. Give him some time."

"But we have to think about this. Even if Jim stands by him, he won't be able to quit working and care for him day in and day out if he needs that kind of care."

"And you think Blair would be happy being taken away from Jim, even if he wasn't able to care for himself? That doesn't make him incapable of feeling or wanting or having his own wishes about where he lives." Hutch paused. "If Blair needs long-term, in-home care that family can do, we'll move up here, throw in with them financially, and buy a house that's big enough for all of us, and we'll take care of Blair while Jim works. Provided he agreed to that, which I think he would to make Blair happy. That way, Blair would be cared for by family and not hired healthcare workers."

"I don't believe you sometimes," Starsky said quietly, moving over to sit close to Hutch, resting his head on his partner's shoulder. It was late, and that wing of the hospital was nearly deserted. Besides, they'd long ago passed the point of worrying obsessively what other people thought of their relationship. And now that they were retired, they were even less concerned. Hutch moved enough to slide his arm behind Starsky, resting his hand on his lover's shoulder, squeezing gently. "You really do love him like your own, don't you?"

"He's our son, Starsk. It's not possible through biology, but biology doesn't have a lot to do with love. If he needs care, I'd rather he got it from family, too."

********

Hutch wasn't sure what woke him, but he responded to it, opening his eyes and blinking at the sunlight that was streaming in the window of the waiting area. Starsky was snoring on his shoulder, and Simon Banks was standing a few feet away.

"Morning, Simon," Hutch said, chuckling a little as he managed to dislodge the zombie on his shoulder, who merely snorted a time or two and resumed snoring as he was lowered onto the couch. Hutch hoisted Starsky's legs to join the rest of him, and left him there to his well-earned nap.

"Jim's asleep, so I didn't want to disturb him. I hated to bother you, but I wanted to know how Blair was doing." Simon waited while Hutch looked at his watch as they walked down the hall toward a coffee machine. It was six-thirty in the morning.

"Starsky was in there about three hours ago, and there was no change. The biggest development last night was that he showed a response to a pain stimulus, but that was several hours ago."

"That's a good sign, though, isn't it?"

"Sure. The nurses are pretty noncommittal, and the doctor hasn't exactly given us any guarantees, either. There are a lot of things that 'could be worse' according to them."

"We narrowed our list of possibles on the hit-and-run driver to four. Two are local, two are from other cities nearby. The DA is going to proceed with filing charges against the driver of the SUV. Thank God, I don't think we're going to be dealing with a homicide charge, so he's proceeding with reckless endangerment and as many other violations as we can come up with."

"You think the little puke'll really do any time?"

"Probably not. But he could lose his license. He's got a few other infractions on his record, and this is a big one. I wouldn't expect him to do jail time, but I'd be surprised if he didn't lose the license."

"Good. That ought to put a cramp or two in his lifestyle." Hutch dug into his pocket for change for the machine, but Simon motioned to him to stop.

"I'll buy the coffee," he said, smiling.

"Thanks."

"Your partner still holding the department responsible for this?" Simon asked as he handed a cup of coffee to Hutch and waited for his own to fill.

"We haven't talked much about that. I've been studying the case file on the Nichols murder, and another file from a case that could be related. A guy up in Seattle was killed rather exotically last year--he was drawn and quartered."

"Glad we're just having coffee for breakfast," Simon responded, and Hutch smiled.

"Wait'll you see the autopsy photos."

"Thanks. I can hardly wait."

"The point is, they were both archaic, historic forms of execution--drawing and quartering, and crucifixion. Both were carried out very neatly, ritualistically. In the Seattle killing, the victim was killed in one spot and displayed in another."

"So the killer..."

"Yeah, he did. Bagged everything up and transported it. The display is vital to him. It's like a work of art. That is a major link, and I would be surprised if the two cases weren't related."

"As soon as Nichols' buddies at the Herald catch wind of a related case--"

"Which is why we want to talk to the other victims' friends and colleagues in Seattle before stirring the pot with a bunch of reporters." Hutch paused. "We'd like to take this case, Simon. We've worked with your department before with good results, and this is right down our alley. Besides, if you don't deal with us, you know the Feds'll be all over it anyway, as soon as there's a hint that it's a serial killing."

"You don't have to sell me, Hutch. I'd be thrilled to have you guys take the case. What's bothering me is Ellison. He's supposed to be taking it easy, and I know he won't do that, especially if he has the kind of access to the case he'll have with you and Starsky working it."

"Well, you're going to love my next idea, then. We want to at least be involved in the hit-and-run investigation."

"No way. Jim'd rip that guy's head off for what happened to Blair, and the only one I'd figure would push him out of the way for the first shot at it would be Starsky."

"How about the victim's husband? He's probably a bit pissed off, too."

"Rafe and Megan can handle that one."

"I'm just asking that we be informed, and allowed to help out if there's something we can do." Hutch took a drink of his coffee. "There was a case a long time ago--over twenty-five years ago, now. It involved a serial killer, a nut who murdered women and wrapped them in television antenna wire."

"Hey, I think I remember hearing about that case. Didn't he fall off a radio tower or something?"

"Yeah, he did. Starsky and I were on that tower with him when he went down. Starsky was trying to save his life. He'd gone one on one with him on a rooftop--no fighting, just trying to talk him down, calm him down. Damn fool even walked out in front of the guy with no weapon drawn, right into the line of fire of a rifle aimed at him. He knew the suspect was sick, horribly mentally ill. So he didn't want to end up killing him. He felt sorry for him." Hutch looked Simon in the eyes. "That mentally ill man murdered a woman Starsky was in love with. They had talked marriage and kids, the whole bit. She broke it off with Starsky, and he never quite got over her for a long time. He definitely wasn't over her when she was killed. And yet he risked his life to give the man who killed her every chance to be brought in a live, and he saw him as a victim of the system. Now I'm not saying this asshole in the black car is a victim of anything but his own bad driving and disregard for human life, but what I am saying is that Starsky and I have worked cases that had personal meaning before, and we don't go out with guns blazing and mow down the perps, hell bent for revenge."

"You make it hard to say no."

"Then don't. You can still leave Megan and Rafe as the lead investigators. Just tell them to work with us. Let us help. I know they're good cops, but we've got a lot of years on them. Just let us do what we can. And we can serve as a buffer between Ellison and the case. You know he won't rest until he's involved. Wouldn't you rather there were four cops between him and that perp than just two he can probably hoodwink with his eyes closed and one arm in a sling?"

"Good point," Simon agreed, chuckling. "All right, but I'm giving you guys the same warning I'd give Jim--if there are any problems with this, I will pull you off the case."

"Understood."

"I've done a lot of thinking about this overnight, and maybe Bill and Starsky have a point."

"About the insurance allowance?" Hutch raised his eyebrows a bit. "Well, you do send Jim on the tough cases, and he wasn't driving either time those trucks were totaled, so it looks a bit unjust from where I sit, but usually decisions like that come from an accountant somewhere and not the captain."

"It was a directive from HR. But I didn't fight it very hard. Jim's always been a little wild behind the wheel, but he's never seriously hurt anyone, including himself or Blair."

"Well, maybe the threat of legal action will loosen HR's purse strings a bit."

"Not to mention what would happen if Blair sued us. Which he wouldn't, but if he did..."

"If Blair's not capable of making those decisions when he wakes up, the Department could be in trouble if the decision ends up with Starsky. I don't know yet what he'd do about that."

"I'll do what I can to change that decision. This was a justifiable chase as far as I'm concerned. IA will pick it apart, but Jim and Sheila Irwin finally came to a sort of truce, so I doubt she'll work at crucifying him." Simon cringed a bit at his own choice of words. "Well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I get the picture," Hutch said, smiling as he finished his coffee.

********

Jim was released from the hospital with orders to take it easy, and a follow up appointment in one week to clear him for the head injury, and another in four weeks for an x-ray of his arm and a determination of whether or not to remove the cast or leave it for the full six weeks. Once he was in fresh clothes, which Hutch brought him from the loft, he was back on the ICU floor where Blair's room was, sharing pacing and waiting duties with Starsky.

Meanwhile, Hutch went about more mundane tasks, like arranging transportation. Simon provided an unmarked blue sedan for their use, and Hutch made the trip to the evidence lot where Jim's truck and the other driver's SUV were housed. The old Ford pick-up had withstood the collision quite well, and though there was no question it was totaled with its buckled hood, shattered windshield, and general twisted appearance, it was obvious the old vehicle was made of pretty good stuff to have protected the occupants of the cab even as well as it had.

The truck had left an ungodly dent in the SUV it hit broadside, and Hutch would have given good odds that even that overpriced land yacht would be totaled, since it was a good bet the frame was bent.

"Nasty looking things, aren't they?" Megan's voice surprised him from behind.

"Very. Looking at this, I know Blair's not in good shape, but he's lucky to be alive. So is Jim."

"How is he? Any change? I was planning on getting up to the hospital this morning, but when I called, they said only family could visit."

"I'm sure Jim or Starsky would slip you in for a few minutes. There hasn't been a lot of change. It's a waiting game. His CT scan was normal, and the MRI came back all right--no neck or spinal injuries. But he's still out like a light."

"Jim must be going mad."

"I don't think he slept more than a couple hours last night. Every time we turned around, he was sneaking back in to see Blair."

"He'll blame himself for this."

"I blame that jerk," Hutch said, tapping the SUV with his knuckle."

"He'll be in a bit of trouble. He ran a stop street, so it's way beyond not yielding for a police officer. Simon said you'd be working on the hit-and-run case with us."

"I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not. We just want to nail him. Oh, that poor woman's husband...I felt just awful talking to him. She was pregnant with their first baby, and they were so in love. You could just tell."

"You're going out to visit the owners of the four possibles?"

"Yes. There are two in Cascade, one in Pinecrest, and one in Seattle."

"Why don't you let us take the one in Seattle? We're heading over there to do some work on the homicide case anyway."

"You sure that's all right with Simon?" she asked, frowning a bit as she led the way into the building. "Oh, Simon asked me to get you your temporary ID's. I think they'll have them ready in HR by now."

"Great. I don't think Simon'll have a problem with it. Neither Starsky nor I are interested in turning this into a vigilante witch hunt. Police procedure will do nicely."

"That's good to hear. I don't know if Jim will agree."

"He's outnumbered. He has to," Hutch quipped, and Megan laughed.

********

Jim tossed down another pair of Tylenol and gulped a bit of water from a paper cup. Blair remained silent, lying deathly still in the bed. Jim's whole body ached from the impact of the accident, his neck and back feeling stiff and exhausted, protesting the miserable plastic chair. His arm throbbed dully, and he didn't bother to dial it back. It was as if he felt he deserved to sit there and ache because Blair was still unconscious.

"You look wiped out, Jim," Starsky said, walking into Blair's room. The older man didn't look any better than Jim did, except he didn't have a bandage on the side of his head. Starsky looked pale and haggard, and nothing could erase the pain that seemed permanently lodged in his eyes. "I'm not leaving, so you could go home and get a few hours' sleep in a real bed. I'll call you if he so much as farts audibly."

Jim had to laugh at that, even if the motion did hurt.

"I said something really awful to him. I didn't mean it. Not how it came out."

"The remark about the wedding when you said you'd been through all of it with Carolyn and it wasn't any more fun the second time around?" Starsky asked.

"How'd you... Nevermind. I know how you knew what I said, but how did you know that was what I was thinking about?"

"Because I thought of smacking you upside the head the next time I saw you, but seeing as the truck already did that, I won't. Judging by the little display in the airport waiting area yesterday, I'd say he forgave you."

"God, was that just yesterday?" Jim looked back at Blair, feeling the anguish wash over him anew. He could feel Blair's warm body against his, those eager, responsive lips kissing him, and he could see the joy in Blair's face at the public display they were putting on at Jim's urging.

"Look, Blair confides a lot of things to me, Jim. That's no big secret. It's something I really treasure. He misses his mother, so I think that makes us even closer. The things he would tell her, the hurts he would take to her, he takes to me instead. But one thing I know, though there are times it really pains me to admit it, you make him happy. He loves you. So whatever you did to make up with him for saying that, it worked and he was happy as a clam yesterday. Don't tear yourself up about that. He didn't act like a man who was carrying around any major hurts."

"Thanks. It just seemed like all the arrangements...I hated all that before. All the phony glitzy stuff of weddings and receptions. What Blair and I have...it's so...*real* that I don't feel as if I want to get up in front of everyone we know and say things to Blair that are...so...intimate."

"Once Hutch and I got over feeling sorry for ourselves that we couldn't have a wedding and a reception and all that, we asked ourselves if we really wanted one. We didn't really regret it too much after that. We made our vows, and we've kept them for over twenty years. And there was nobody there but us."

"I'm gonna find the asshole we were chasing."

"Hutch talked Simon into letting us work that case with Rafe and Megan, and into taking the homicide case. So if you're a good little boy and go home and get some sleep, we'll let you ride along later."

"I can't leave him. I want to be here when he comes to."

"Okay." Starsky sighed. "I'll go with Hutch to Seattle. We're going to talk to the friends and colleagues of the other murder victim, see if we can make any connections between him and Nichols. You know my cell phone number--do you remember it?"

"Yeah, I know it."

"Call me if there's any change at all. And we'll check in with you."

"Okay."

"There's a halfway decent couch down the hall."

"I'll try it out later."

"Right."

"I think I'll go get a cup of coffee, while you visit a few minutes." Jim got up with a little grunt and made his way slowly out of the room.

"Okay, kiddo, you've got to cut the Sleeping Beauty routine," Starsky said gently. "Jim's a walking zombie, and he's getting over a concussion. Come on, Blair, open your eyes and give him a little thrill so he can go home and get some sleep." Starsky took Blair's hand in his and squeezed. "We all need to see you open your eyes, son. Come on. I know you're in there."

Blair continued to lie there, motionless, eyes closed, showing no signs of having heard anything Starsky said.

"Blair, I have to leave for a little while. Hutch and I are gonna work the case, and Jim's going to stay with you. I'll be calling him regularly to check up on you, and I'll be back to see you tonight."

Blair opened his eyes to slits, and regarded Starsky with a pained, confused expression.

"Blair? You've got a breathing tube in, that's why it's hard to talk. Come on, son, open your eyes just a little more. Do you know who I am? If you know who I am, squeeze my hand once." Blair's eyes drifted shut again, and there was no movement of his hand.

"What happened?" Jim hurried back into the room, and Starsky swore softly.

"I thought he was coming around. He opened his eyes just a little. I asked him to squeeze my hand if he knew who I was. He closed his eyes again and his hand never moved. Sit with him. I'll go get the nurse." Starsky fled the room, and Jim took over the seat near Blair's bed, taking the limp hand in his again.

"Blair, baby, come on. Open your beautiful eyes for me. Come on, sweetheart. Just let me see you open those eyes. I know it hurts, Chief, but I really need you back with me." Jim kissed the hand he was holding and waited. His heart pounded with joy as the hand in his squeezed very weakly. "You hear me, don't you, Chief?" Another weak squeeze came in response.

Starsky returned with the nurse, who asked Jim to step out of the way while she checked Blair's reflexes.

"Mr. Sandburg? Are you trying to wake up?" she asked, and Jim looked at Starsky and rolled his eyes upward.

"He was squeezing my hand."

"Mr. Sandburg, can you squeeze my hand to let me know if you can hear me?" She waited, and apparently was not getting a response.

"Is Dr. Farraday here? Shouldn't you call him?" Starsky asked. "He opened his eyes."

"The doctor will be here in a couple of hours, and I'll make sure he checks on Blair as soon as he arrives. I'm not seeing any signs that he's regaining consciousness, and he's not responding now."

"He was responding a minute ago." Jim moved back close to Blair's bed and took his hand. "Come on Chief, give me a squeeze. Let me know you can hear me." Jim felt the slight squeeze again. "He did it again."

"His hand didn't move," the nurse insisted. "Maybe you just thought he--"

"We didn't both hallucinate," Starsky said. "I know he opened his eyes, and if Jim says he feels a squeeze, he does."

"Well, I hope you're both right. I'll let the doctor know as soon as he arrives." With that, she left.

"I know he squeezed my hand." Jim sat down and took Blair's hand again. "You said he opened his eyes?"

"Just a little, but he didn't squeeze my hand. Is it possible you're feeling squeezes I can't feel?"

"Sure, I guess that's possible."

"What's going on?" Hutch's voice surprised them from the door. Megan was with him.

"He opened his eyes a little, and he squeezed Jim's hand," Starsky said, smiling. "The nurse didn't think there was any change, but I saw his eyes open, and Jim knows what he felt."

"That's wonderful!" Megan said, smiling. "When I saw Hutch downtown, I asked if it would be all right if I stopped by to see Sandy. I know it's supposed to just be family, but he said you'd sneak me in."

"Sure. Come in," Jim said, motioning to her.

"He must have really hit his head hard, poor thing. That has to hurt," she said quietly.

"He's on a lot of medication. I hope that helps the pain," Jim said, still holding Blair's hand. He finally released it and moved away from the bed.

"Shouldn't you be home getting a bit of rest?" Megan asked.

"I can rest on the couch in the waiting area. I know he's responding to me, and I don't care what the nurses or the monitors say. I'm not leaving."

"It's a lost cause, Megan. He's not going anywhere until Blair sends him home," Starsky said, smiling.

Megan took Blair's hand and leaned forward to plant a light kiss on his forehead.

"It's just me, Megan," she said with a smile in her voice. "We miss you down at the station, Sandy. You get lots of rest and feel better soon. Jim needs you, you know, and your father's putting down roots in the waiting room," she concluded, and that drew a little chuckle out of the others. "I won't tire you out. You have lots of other visitors." She patted his hand as she released it. "I would like to stop up and see him again if that's all right?"

"We'll tell them at the nurses' station to put you on the visitor list. If we ever get Jim out of here for a little rest, and we do some work on the cases, it would be good to have a friend to spend some time with him," Hutch said.

"I would be happy to do that. Just let me know."

"Thanks for coming, Megan," Jim said.

"I'm sure you'll be seeing more of the gang from the Department, as soon as they get a chance to get up here. Everyone's worried sick about Sandy."

"Thanks," Jim said, accepting a careful hug from Megan as she did her best not to put too much pressure on his bruised body.

After Megan left, all three men were startled by a sound from the bed. Blair's eyes were still closed, but his expression was agitated. He was trying to say something, but the breathing tube made it come out unintelligible.

"Chief, it's okay. It's a breathing tube. Just relax, baby. Can you open your eyes for me?" Jim stroked Blair's hair gently, taking his hand again. Starsky hovered over his other side, resting a hand on his shoulder.

"Blair, it's Dad. You're okay, kiddo. Don't be afraid of that stupid tube. They'll take it out as soon as you wake up."

Blair's eyes opened, and he looked from Starsky to Jim, a panicked look on his face.

"You're safe, sweetheart. Everything's okay," Jim soothed, stroking Blair's cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"I'll get the nurse," Hutch said, hurrying out of the room, finally tearing himself away from the surprise of Blair waking up to make himself useful. When he reached the nurses' station, he was overjoyed to see Dr. Farraday there, reading a patient chart. "Blair's waking up, Doctor," he said, and the doctor laid down the chart and followed him. "I'm not sure if he knows where he is or what's going on, but he seems pretty distressed."

"The breathing tube's probably bothering him. We'll clear everybody out and have a look at him."

When they returned to the room, Blair seemed to have calmed down a bit, but he was still watching Jim with a less than happy expression.

"Good afternoon, Blair," the doctor said, his voice cheerful. "We're going to have a look at you, and see if we can get this annoying tube out of your throat, and get you on a little nasal oxygen, which ought to be more comfortable." He pressed the buzzer for the nurses' station and asked for assistance. "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave. I'm hoping we can get Blair's breathing tube out, and I need to examine him."

"We'll be right outside, Chief," Jim said, kissing Blair's hand before reluctantly releasing it, not at all happy to be leaving him when he seemed to be so focused on Jim's presence.

"I wish he didn't have that damned tube in his mouth," Jim said as they gathered in the hall. "I'd feel a lot better if he could have said something. Anything. Just to let us know he knows what's going on."

"At least he's awake," Hutch said, smiling. "That's a lot farther ahead than we were an hour ago."

"He looked terrified when he came to." Starsky ran a hand back through his hair.

"I doubt he remembers the accident." Jim started pacing. "I wonder if he even remembers the chase?"

"Hard to say," Hutch responded, shrugging. "As hard a blow as he took, I kind of doubt he'll remember the accident clearly, too, but he might remember starting the chase. We're assuming he's really got everything straight in his head yet. He's liable to be a little foggy and confused at first."

After an agonizing half hour of watching medical personnel coming and going in and out of Blair's room, the doctor finally emerged.

"He's breathing on his own. We removed the tube but we still have him on oxygen--only this time it's a little nose tube, so he's a lot more comfortable. We're going to have to limit the amount of visiting. I don't want him overtired."

"Is he coherent, Doctor?" Jim asked.

"Somewhat. He doesn't remember how he got here, or why he's here. He asked if you were all right," he said, gesturing at Jim. "He didn't really put the whole sentence together very well, but he mentioned your arm. The sling was worrying him. And then he asked for his mother. Has she been notified?"

"Oh, God," Starsky said, sighing. "His mother died about three years ago."

"I see," the doctor said, making a note on the chart. "Let's not upset him right now. If he gets insistent about his mother, just tell him you can't reach her, and try to distract him."

"She used to travel a lot. He'll accept that without being too upset," Jim said.

"Good. This isn't necessarily a dire sign. He's had a major trauma to his brain, and even if he comes through this without any lasting damage, it's not unusual for him to be confused at first. Imagine taking a computer hard drive and dropping it on the floor. It might ultimately work, but it wouldn't be unusual for some of the processes to be a little off. Blair's taken a bad jolt, but he's not babbling--he's very definite in what he wants to say, even if he isn't putting it together very smoothly yet."

"Could that be a sign of damage to his speech?" Starsky asked.

"It could be, but I think it's a sign that he's tired, confused, and on a lot of medication. We'll adjust his meds as appropriate, and we'll monitor him closely. I'm going to have a neurologist take a look at him and evaluate his speech and response patterns. I wouldn't assume anything as dire as permanent brain damage at this stage. Only Sleeping Beauty is likely to wake up suddenly with all her faculties in place. People with head trauma usually need a little time to get their act together."

"Can we see him?"

"One at a time, for a few minutes, then I want him to rest."

"He'll rest better if one of us is there," Jim protested.

"I'm not going to carve exact visiting hours in stone, but if you spend more than a few minutes at a time with him, just sit there quietly and let him sleep if he wants. He needs a lot of rest, and I don't want him overstimulated and trying to entertain his company."

"We get the picture, Doc," Starsky said. "If it looks like we're keeping him up, we'll get out. I just want to know one of us can stay with him if he wants us to."

"I want him calm and resting. Whatever it takes to achieve that is fine with me. Encourage him to rest, and keep him calm. We'll be evaluating his responses, and it's good for him to try to make the connections, but a little at a time."

After the doctor left, Starsky motioned at the room.

"You go ahead. We'll wait."

"You could come in with me," Jim offered. Starsky just shook his head, trying to put himself in Jim's place if Hutch were in the hospital bed. He would want those first moments alone with his lover.

Jim went back into the room and approached the bed. Blair's eyes opened, and he frowned.

"Arm," he said, squinting at Jim's injured arm.

"It's no big deal, Chief. Just a busted flipper. I'll be fine in a few weeks." Jim moved closer, watching for any sign of distress in Blair, but he only saw a sort of longing in the troubled blue eyes watching him. He leaned down and very lightly brushed his lips over Blair's. Blair tried to reciprocate, his lips meeting Jim's and clinging briefly. "I love you," he said, kissing Blair's cheek.

"Love," Blair muttered, smiling. "Feels...foggy."

"Foggy? Confused?"

"Hurts," Blair added.

"I know, baby. You got a nasty bang on the head, but you're doing fine. The fog'll clear after you get some rest. You need to relax, sweetheart."

"You...rest...head?" Blair looked troubled at the garbled message.

"I got a bump on the head, too, but they already let me out of the hospital, so I'm fine."

"Rest."

"You rest, Chief. That's the idea."

"You rest," Blair repeated, and it took Jim a moment to pick up on the subtle emphasis that meant he should rest. "Home," Blair added.

"You want me to go home and rest?"

"Rest," Blair said firmly.

"Okay. You're the boss, sweetheart." Jim leaned down for another kiss.

"Mom."

"Don't worry, Chief, we'll get word to her." That made Blair smile, and his eyes drifted shut. Then they opened again.

"Dad...here?"

"He's right outside. I'll send him in." Jim kissed Blair's hand and tore himself away, going out to the hall to summon Starsky. "He asked for you. He's still asking about Naomi. I told him we'd try to get word to her."

"I hope he remembers on his own. I'd hate like hell for him to have to go through that again."

"I hope the doctor's right--that things get less fuzzy for him after a while. It bothers me he's not speaking in complete sentences."

"He might just be too tired to string all the words together. I'll go see him."

Starsky entered the room, and smiled when he saw Blair's eyes open and follow him as he moved closer to the bed.

"Hey, kiddo, welcome back," he said, pulling up the chair and taking Blair's hand.

"Dad...called you?"

"I was here, Blair. Remember? We were working a case together, with you and Jim." Starsky waited to see if that registered. Blair looked confused. "It doesn't matter, son. I'm here, that's what counts."

"The guy...the cross?"

"That's the one," Starsky said proudly, grinning like an idiot, as if the simple proof of Blair's memory was the most amazing thing in the world.

"Ugly."

"Yeah, it's an ugly one."

"Why...?"

"Why are you in the hospital?" Starsky guessed. Blair gave an affirmative expression, though he avoided nodding his head. "You and Jim were in an accident yesterday. A guy pulled out in front of Jim--ran a stop street. He couldn't stop or miss him."

"Jim...hurt?"

"You saw his arm in the sling. He's got a broken arm, a bump on the head, and a lot of bruises. But he's gonna be fine."

"Rest."

"I'll make sure he does." That made Blair smile.

"You, rest."

"Hutch and I are gonna do a little casework, but we'll get around to catching a nap sooner or later. You just worry about getting better. Don't worry about us. I'll be back to see you later," Starsky said, getting up and kissing Blair's forehead. "You rest and get lots of good sleep, huh?"

"Tired."

"I bet you are," Starsky said, smiling. "Go to sleep. If you're a good boy and the doctor okays it, I'll bring you a treat later." Starsky smiled, and Blair's little grin actually widened to a toothy smile at Starsky clicking into full "Dad" mode.

"Throat hurts," Blair said. Then he smiled again. "Slurpee."

"Okay, you got it," Starsky said, laughing. "I love you, you know that, right?" Starsky said, stroking Blair's hair gently.

"Love you," Blair managed, his eyes drooping little.

"Shh. Sleep. Come on. Close 'em all the way," Starsky teased, and finally, Blair's eyes did drift shut, and the little grin on his face faded as he drifted off to sleep.

********

After much protesting, Jim agreed to be dropped off at the loft to catch a few hours' sleep while Starsky and Hutch went to visit the colleagues of the Cascade murder victim at the Herald. To avoid raising the press's suspicion of a serial killer investigation, the story was that due to the accident, Jim would be unable to immediately assume responsibility for the case, and in the interim, the visiting detectives were helping out as a favor to the Cascade PD, and offering the benefit of their twenty-plus years in Homicide.

Ethan Nichols' immediate superior, and good friend, the editor of the Metro section, had gathered a large group in a conference room to meet with the detectives. At Starsky and Hutch's request, they had also gathered people who worked directly with Marianne Phillips, the victim of the hit-and-run. Megan and Rafe accompanied Starsky and Hutch, as they were the primary team on the Phillips case.

"Before we get started, I just want to express, on behalf of the Cascade PD, our sympathies to all of you," Hutch began. "It's a difficult, tragic situation to lose a co-worker, and in many cases, a friend, but we realize you've suffered two difficult losses in as many days, so we want you to be aware that we don't take that lightly, and that any questions we ask that may seem insensitive are only intended to get to the bottom of both of these cases as quickly as possible. We're also available to meet with any of you individually. We've provided our business cards to everyone here, so please don't hesitate to call one of us if you think of anything we don't cover today, no matter how minor or irrelevant it might seem. If it nags at you enough to think you should report it, you probably should."

"We'd like to start with the Phillips case," Megan said. "At this stage, it is being treated as a random hit-and-run case, but in any homicide, it's essential to look at all the possible angles. We don't have the driver in custody at this time, but we are pursuing leads on all owners of similar cars in the region."

"What we'd like to know from all of you is if Marianne was upset about anything, if she'd received any threats, if there was anything any of you knew of that we should investigate as part of the homicide case," Rafe explained.

"Everybody liked Marianne," one woman spoke up. "I'm Clarice Marshall. We worked on the Lifestyles section together. She was excited about the baby..." She swallowed, then continued, her eyes brimming. "She was really looking forward to having lunch with her husband right before it happened, because they were so busy, and it was unusual for him to have time to do that. She never mentioned anything bothering her, and I honestly don't believe she had enemies."

"I have to second that. Marianne was a pretty upbeat person, and I don't recall her saying anything about anyone bothering her or threatening her or anything like that," a young man said, then added, "I'm Mike Kerman. I'm a photographer. I worked with her on a few stories recently."

"Did anyone here see what happened? I know we interviewed a lot of people yesterday, but this building has windows overlooking the street at that point, so we may have missed talking to people who saw what was happening," Megan said.

"I didn't see it happen, but I heard the squealing tires," Clarice said. "By the time I went to look, the crowd had gathered around Marianne and the car was long gone."

After several more of Marianne Phillips' co-workers confirmed they'd heard or seen nothing out of the ordinary either from the victim herself or at the time of the hit-and-run, a number of them were dismissed prior to discussion of the Nichols case, as many of them were not at all acquainted with him. Ethan Nichols was employed by the paper, but he did a great deal of field work, some of his writing from home, and didn't socialize all that much when he was at the newspaper office.

"The details the PD's providing the press are pretty sketchy. I mean, we know he was found on a cross in St. Anthony's. We got a few details from the woman who found the body, but she was pretty unhinged by the whole thing. What can you tell us?" Fred Strickland, Nichols' friend and editor, asked.

"The details are by necessity sketchy, and I'm sure you know that, Mr. Strickland," Starsky said. "In a killing of this nature, we have to keep a number of details close to the vest so we can sort out who really knows something about the case and who's yanking our chain. This type of case will bring out every psycho and Jesus freak in the Pacific Northwest, ready to confess."

"I understand there's a theory that more than one person was involved. Isn't that a little unusual in ritualistic homicides?" Strickland asked.

"It's been done before. It depends on the meaning of the ritual. Or if it's a ritual at all. Sometimes it's the display of the body the killer is going for, not the ritual necessary to display it," Hutch explained.

"Our goal here is to get any information about Ethan Nichols, what he was working on, enemies he has, etcetera," Megan said. "I'm sure Captain Banks will issue another statement to the press as soon as we are able to release any additional information."

"We ought to rate a little better than what's being tossed out the masses in press conferences," another older man spoke up. "Devon Rogers. I'm the publisher of this paper." There were only six Herald employees left in the meeting now, and the other four were fellow reporters.

"If there's a substantial development in the case, we've been instructed to grant exclusives to the Herald," Rafe explained. "Those exclusives will involve our releasing information to your paper earlier than it is released to the rest of the press, but all relevant information will be shared with the public via press conferences, and any information necessary to insure public safety will be released to the general media with no lead-time to the Herald."

"What we're concerned with here is finding out what Ethan was working on that might have inspired someone to murder him," Starsky said.

"I have a list of the stories he was currently working on. The ones in bold, at the top of the list, he'd already turned in drafts. I've provided those, as well," Strickland said, handing Starsky the folder. "The rest of the stories he was still working on."

"Do you have a detailed listing of his past stories--say for the last couple of years?" Hutch asked.

"No, but I can pull that, and if I think about it hard enough, I can probably give you some information on stories he did when he ws in Tacoma. You think some nutcase would hold a grudge for two years about a story he wrote?"

"This was an extremely bizarre homicide," Hutch said. "Someone planned it for a long time, and executed it smoothly and precisely. If you hate someone enough to crucify them, you definitely would still hate them two years after the time of the initial 'offense' that angered you. Did you say he handled a number of 'cutting edge' stories?"

"He wasn't afraid to dig deep, dig up dirt. There were times we refused one of his pieces because it was a bit too...sordid. He didn't have a problem airing dirty laundry," Rogers said, nodding. "I would say he's destroyed a couple lives since he started working for us, with exposes he's written."

"Then we need those stories," Hutch said.

"An index or the actual stories?" Strickland asked.

"The actual stories. If this guy managed to ruin a few people's lives, we need to know who they were so we can follow up on them," Starsky responded.

"That could take a while. He was a pretty prolific writer, but I'll put my staff on it right away."

"How about the rest of you? Did Ethan ever mention anything about a story he was working on, someone who threatened him?" Megan prodded. The other staffers looked from one to the other, and finally, one woman spoke up.

"Marie Halligan, I'm a staff writer for Metro. Ethan and I had coffee a few weeks ago, and he said he'd been getting some weird phone calls."

"Weird, how?" Hutch asked.

"Well, he said most of them were hang-ups. He got a caller ID, and they'd always come up as pay phones or 'unavailable' or 'unknown caller'. One time, he heard breathing on the other end of the phone, but the last one he got was really creepy. The guy told him 'your time is near'."

"He never reported any of this to the police?" Megan asked.

"You'd have to know Ethan. He wasn't afraid of much of anything, and he didn't take things like that seriously. I guess he'd gotten threats before, people telling him they'd make him pay for something he wrote, and he was pretty hardened to it," Marie said. "I asked him if he was worried about them, and he said that he'd had guys grab him by the shirtfront and threaten to kill him before and not follow through, so he wasn't going to let some nutball making vague calls from pay phones keep him up nights. That's an almost exact quote."

"Did he mention anything about the caller's voice?" Starsky asked.

"He said it was deep, kind of husky, but he thought that might have been put on--like the guy was trying to sound ominous."

The rest of the meeting was fairly uneventful, but the detectives left with the commitment from Ethan's editor to provide them with text of all his stories since he'd worked at the Herald and anything he could remember regarding Ethan's work in Tacoma. They planned to make a thorough search of the victim's apartment, and to contact his former colleagues in Tacoma. All four of them preferred to have Jim in on the search, so Starsky and Hutch headed back to the loft in the borrowed Cascade PD sedan to see if Jim was up and around or still sleeping. Of course, they knew perfectly well their arrival at the apartment, possibly even in the hallway, would wake him anyway.

"I'm gonna call the hospital," Starsky said, dialing it on his cell phone. "ICU, please... The Neuro ward," he added. "This is David Starsky, I'm Blair Sandburg's father. I wanted to check on how he's doing." There was a long pause. "You have my cell number, why didn't someone call me?" Another pause. "Did you call Jim Ellison?" Starsky took a deep breath, obviously trying to control himself. "I'm on my way." He broke the connection.

"What's wrong?" Hutch said, not deviating from his course toward the loft. Jim would want to be picked up if there was anything wrong with Blair.

"He remembered about Naomi. They've got a call into the doctor to see if they can sedate him because he's crying and trying to sit up. His time line's all messed up and he's confused about when she died, like he thinks he should go somewhere or do something about it."

"Shit. They didn't call Jim?"

"Of course not," Starsky said, dialing the number for the loft. "The fucking line's busy."

"He's probably calling the hospital."

"We should have never left. I thought he was peaceful, that he'd sleep for a few hours."

"We're trying to work two cases, Starsk. Mainly because those guys will want in on both of them. We can't be everywhere at once."

When they pulled up in front of the building at 852 Prospect, Jim was standing in front of the bakery, and hurried to the car, getting in the back seat with a couple of grunts of pain. Hutch moved his seat as far forward as his own long legs would permit to give Jim a bit more room.

"You talked to the hospital, obviously," Starsky said, still fuming.

"Those assholes. I can't believe they didn't call anyone. They said his condition hadn't changed and he was in no danger, so they didn't call. He's just 'agitated', according to the nurse. He might not be in danger, but that nurse is," Jim added.

"They should have called, but I'm not surprised they didn't. You remember, Starsk, on the rare occasions I'd go home from the hospital after the Gunther shooting, there were a few times something like that happened with you--something where you were just having a pain problem or a setback of some sort that they resolved without some horrible outcome--and I found out about it when I called in or went back in. They don't view crises in an ICU quite the way we do. Blair crying or having a bad memory probably isn't reason for them to notify all his relatives."

"I should have stayed," Jim said, shaking his head. "I can't believe I left him."

"You were dead on your feet, Jim. You're getting over a concussion. You should have gone home. He wanted you to go home," Starsky added.

"That was before he remembered what happened to Naomi."

"We're almost there. Starsk, why don't you pull up at the main entrance, and go in with Jim? I'll park the car and meet you up there."

"Okay. Thanks, babe." Starsky squeezed Hutch's hand before turning into the hospital parking lot and pulling up to the main door.

As soon as the two men made it up to the floor, they rushed to Blair's room, only to find a nurse patiently trying to explain to him where he was and what day of the week it was. They both entered the room and approached the bed, the young woman gratefully stepping aside to let them work on calming Blair down.

"Blair, baby, it's okay," Jim said gently, leaning down and kissing Blair lightly.

"She's dead," Blair said in a broken voice. "Why didn't you tell me?" The complete question took both men by surprise, and it was all they could do not to smile in relief to hear Blair saying something more than single words.

"The doctor thought it was better not to upset you, that you'd remember things on your own as the meds wore off a little and you got better," Jim explained.

"You lied to me," Blair said, anger in his voice now.

"We didn't want to upset you until you were well enough to handle it, kiddo," Starsky interjected.

"When did she die?" Blair asked.

"Almost three years ago, Chief," Jim responded honestly.

"How long have I been in here?"

"Just since yesterday. About thirty hours or so," Jim said, his hand still lingering in Blair's hair, stroking gently.

"What's wrong with me? Why does it feel like it just happened?"

"Because you just remembered it, son," Starsky said, taking Blair's hand. "You're unscrambling things, and you're doing great. This morning, you weren't asking us whole questions, or saying more than a word or two."

"What's wrong with me?" Blair repeated.

"Your dad told you about the accident."

"Yeah, I know, but why am I all...messed up?"

"You hit your head on the dashboard of the truck, Chief." Jim looked almost sick at the words, but he pressed on. "You have a skull fracture, but it was a crack, not a break. The doctor said you might be a little foggy for a while, because along with the head injury, they put you on some heavy meds."

"Is my memory gonna come back?"

"What else don't you remember, kiddo? You know who we are, who you are, and now you remember about your mom..."

"I can't remember the accident."

"You don't have to, and it's not odd that you don't."

"Blair, I hear you're having a rough day," Dr. Farraday said as he came in, chart in hand.

"He--"

"Let him tell me," the doctor said to Jim, holding up a hand. "What's wrong, Blair?"

"I remembered my mom was dead. Nobody told me. They kept letting me think she was alive."

"We wanted you to relax and get some rest, and we wanted you to remember things on your own. Do you know what day it is?"

"The last day I remember was Tuesday..." Blair frowned, as if it was a hard process to figure out which day it was from there. "Wednesday?"

"Good. How about your last name?"

"Sandburg."

"How old are you, Blair?"

"Thirty-five."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a consultant to the Cascade PD and I'm working on my Ph.D."

"Perfect score so far. Can you tell me the year?"

"2003."

"Where are you now?"

"Cascade General."

"How do you feel? There's no right or wrong answer to that one," the doctor added, smiling.

"My head hurts, and...my body hurts. All over."

"Well, let me put your mind at ease. You don't have any broken bones besides the linear fracture in your skull. You have a sprained wrist, which is why it's wrapped with elastic. We did an MRI on you, and you have no neck or spinal injuries, even though you probably feel like you do from the impact. You're going to be sore for a while, but you're doing very well, so there's no reason not to think you'll make a full recovery."

"Is it medication that's making me so foggy?"

"Somewhat. And like I told your family, you had a substantial trauma to your brain. You were extremely lucky, but that doesn't change the fact it was a head trauma, and that takes a while to recover from." The doctor smiled. "You don't look like you need sedation now, Blair. How do you feel?"

"I don't want to be knocked out again. Something for pain would be good."

"We'll see what we can do about that," the doctor said, smiling. "You're doing great, Blair. Just take it easy and don't tire yourself out too much talking."

"We'll make sure he rests, Doc," Starsky said, patting Blair's shoulder.

"Thank you, Doctor," Jim said as the doctor left the room. "Blair, I didn't mean to lie to you before. I didn't want to upset you."

"If there's anything else I don't...get right, promise me you'll tell me?"

"I promise."

"Everything okay?" Hutch asked as he hurried into the room. "It was murder finding a parking spot down there."

"Things are better now," Jim said, finally sitting down in a chair next to Blair's bed.

"Hi, Hutch," Blair said, smiling and waving a little.

"You look more like your old self, Blair," Hutch said, relieved.

"I'm putting the pieces together better, I guess."

"Sure sounds like it," Hutch responded, smiling and heaving a sigh of relief.

"Tell me about the case," Blair said, blinking, as if he were fighting to keep his eyes open.

"You should get some rest, Chief."

"If I'm tired, I can nod off. Come on."

"Well," Starsky began, "we met with people from the Herald today, where the victim, Ethan Nichols, worked. We also talked to them about Marianne Phillips, the woman killed by the hit-and-run driver. Nobody could come up with any enemies for her, or any reason why anyone would be out to get her."

"Nichols was a different story. Apparently a lot of his writing involved exposes, and he'd gotten threats before. The publisher went so far as to state that he'd 'ruined a couple of lives' with his stories. We're getting a list of the stories he'd done since he worked for the Herald, along with the stories themselves," Hutch explained. "The editor at the Herald was a friend of Ethan's, so he remembers some of the key stories Ethan did in Tacoma, but we'll still need to talk to those folks."

"We should highlight all the names in the stories and then do background checks on them to find out if any of them have a background in ancient or historical forms of punishment," Blair said. All of them stared at him, and Jim leaned down and kissed him square on the mouth. "What was that for?" Blair asked with a little grin.

"Being so smart. Still being so smart," Jim admitted, resting his hand very lightly on top of Blair's head.

"I think our next stop oughtta be Nichols' apartment. Jim, are you up to coming with us long enough to do that?" Starsky asked.

"Sure. Will you be okay for a little while, Chief?"

"I'm pretty tired, and my head hurts. I'll probably just sleep as much as they'll let me," he said, referring to the nurses who were still checking his responses regularly.

"Okay. I'll be back later, sweetheart." Jim leaned in for another kiss. "You're okay about...your mom?"

"It seems more real now. I remember it...it was just hard, thinking she was alive for a few hours, and then waking up and realizing...I was kind of confused until I got it clear that it wasn't a bad dream that she died." Blair looked at Starsky. "Make sure he doesn't overdo it?"

"We'll keep an eye on him, kiddo." Starsky kissed Blair's forehead. "You get some sleep. Every time you do, you wake up smarter," Starsky teased. Blair laughed a little and then winced.

"Ow." He raised his hand a little feebly to his head.

"Time for us to leave," Jim said, rising and catching Blair's hand on its downward arc, kissing the back of it. "If you need me, just tell the nurse. I'm going to make sure she has the loft and cell numbers handy."

"I will. Don't overdo it, Jim."

"I won't." Jim smiled at Blair's continued worry over him, and reluctantly left with Starsky and Hutch to go check out Nichols' apartment.

********

Nichols occupied one half of a duplex on a quiet residential street with a number of duplex and rental units. His car was missing from the garage, so that somewhat reduced the suspicion that his residence had been the scene of his abduction. There was always the possibility the killer used the victim's car to transport him, but given the tools he would have needed for his project with the cross, that was unlikely.

Starsky and Hutch did most of the physical work of the thorough search, with Jim primarily on hand to "Sentinel-scan" the apartment for anything ordinary eyes might miss. Hutch took up residence at Nichols' computer, searching the files there.

"I think we could get most of what we asked the paper for here, but it would take forever to search and print everything," he said, scanning the stories. Nichols had a folder for each of his articles that included everything from scans of his notes and transcriptions of those notes to interview transcripts to drafts to the finished-for-publication story. "He was organized as hell, I have to hand him that," Hutch said, scrolling through the files. "I ought to do something like this with the rat's nest I call a hard drive at home."

"Yeah, he files like he keeps house. Stuff everywhere," Starsky grumbled as he searched a nearby file cabinet.

"I'm fine until Mr. Neat Freak starts making folders for me and moving my files."

"If I don't, I can't find my stuff. You just hit 'save' and I'm supposed to navigate through ten thousand little files you've got in there for whatever your latest speaking engagement is."

"You can always find your stuff. You're anal-retentive with your folders, Starsk. Anything that isn't filed isn't yours, so what's the problem?"

"Do you two always go at it like this?" Jim asked, smiling.

"Only when he brings up the computer," Starsky responded.

"Or the cars," Hutch added.

"Or the grocery list."

"The grocery list?" Jim asked, raising his eyebrows. He and Blair had a lot of wildly divergent tastes, but all that meant was a longer grocery list and a little preaching from Blair about cholesterol and preservatives.

"He eats like a five-year-old," Hutch said of his partner.

"He's been eating like a hippie for the last thirty years. You'd get sick'a that, too," Starsky retorted.

"Blair always gets on me for at least three or four things in the grocery cart, but I can usually cajole my way around him," Jim said, as he continued walking around the living room, scanning it for anything out of the ordinary. So far, the trip to Nichols' apartment was turning up next to nothing.

"Hey, this is interesting." Hutch motioned to the other two to join him. "Two years ago, Nichols did an article on this professor in Tacoma who wrote a book advocating the reinstatement of archaic forms of punishment in the modern penal system. You know, I remember that guy. Very out there."

"That sure links with the M.O.," Starsky said.

"I think I'll print this one off," Hutch said.

"He was serious?" Jim asked, smiling in disbelief.

"Oh, very. He was on a few PBS talk shows--he wasn't a 'first string nut', the kind that show up on the national news network talk shows. But in academic circles, he caused quite a stir--mainly a ripple of laughter. But he was dead serious. He thought that if we had public executions, it would deter crime."

"That's not a new idea. I've read that theory from a few different people over the years," Jim said.

"No, that's not new, but were they advocating disemboweling, crucifixion, decapitation, or burning at the stake?"

"No, I can't say I recall that."

"Well, this guy was. He said the pure horror of the act would put the criminal community in such terror that they wouldn't commit many felonies--such as rape, aggravated assault, or murder. He also advocated corporal punishment for lesser crimes--whippings, minor mutilations, etc."

"Sounds like a Grade-A headcase," Jim said.

"He was very academic, very professional, did years' worth of research."

"*And* he was a grade-A headcase," Starsky added.

"Looks like we found our star suspect," Jim said, skimming the text of the article. "He really lambastes this nut in his article," Jim assessed of Nichols' feature article on the bizarre criminologist. "He's a perfect candidate for both killings."

"We just have to link him to the dead professor in Seattle," Starsky said. "But if there's a link, it shouldn't be too hard to find."

********

Blair opened his eyes, feeling a bit refreshed from what seemed like a long nap. In reality, he figured it had only been a few minutes, since it seemed there was always a nurse on hand to check his reflexes or responses. He almost expected to see one of the two nurses on duty for that shift, but instead, his eyes settled on Bill Ellison sitting in a chair a few feet away from the bed.

"I hope I didn't wake you. I wanted to see how you were, but I didn't want to disturb you."

"I'm glad you stopped by," Blair said, smiling.

"Jimmy called me, said you woke up. I'm really relieved about that."

"Me, too," Blair said, his smile widening a little. "Jim went with my dad and Hutch to work on the case a little. I wish he'd rest more, but you know Jim."

"Only too well," Bill said, chuckling. "He never was good about staying put, even when he was sick." Bill paused. "How do you feel?"

"My head hurts, and it feels like they had a garden hose down my throat. I'm just glad to have that tube out of me. And I feel like I got hit by a truck."

"In a way, you did."

"I guess so," Blair agreed, smiling faintly.

"Jim feels terrible about the accident."

"I know. He shouldn't. It wasn't his fault."

"Do you remember it?"

"No, but I know what happened. And I trust Jim. I mean, he scares the hell out of me when he drives like that, but I know he knows what he's doing."

"He did his best to hold you back in the seat. He put his arm across you, tried to lean over your way to hold you back. The force was just too strong."

"He always does that when we take a bad corner," Blair said, smiling. "I'm not mad at Jim, if that's what you're worried about."

"I'm glad. I didn't figure you would be. It's the Cascade Police Department who have some answering to do."

"I don't get it."

"They cut off Jim's insurance allowance, so he ended up buying that old heap with no airbags and no shoulder straps. You could have both been killed," Bill said, getting up and pacing.

"You know bureaucrats and accountants. It's all the bottom line with them."

"Yeah, well, they may have more on their bottom line than they bargained for."

"What do you mean?"

"I think Jimmy should sue the department."

"Don't hold your breath," Blair said. "He won't do that, Bill. Not when it would mean naming Simon in a lawsuit."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I was going to talk to a friend of mine on the City Commission, but I know that probably would just make Jim mad as hell at me for interfering."

"Probably."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't. You and Jim are a lot alike. You get angry when you're freaked out about something."

"I'm not just freaked out. I think we have a valid complaint here."

"Maybe, but Jim won't do it, and I'm not in favor of it, either. There were two people responsible for this--the jerk who pulled out in front of us and the killer we were chasing."

"You do remember--"

"No. One of the nurses read me the newspaper article after I nagged her mercilessly for two hours solid."

"You and Jimmy are both very important to me," Bill said, stopping his pacing to stare out the window.

"I know that. Bill, you've been like a second dad to me. If the situation were reversed, I know I'd be all freaked out, too."

"You would, huh?" There was a little touch of disbelief, and a little touch of hope in Bill's voice.

"Yeah, I would. That's part of being family. Being protective."

"I won't pressure Jimmy about suing the Department. But I am going to mention it to him."

"No harm in that, I guess."

"They treating you all right in here?"

"Fine."

"The room's okay?"

"As hospital rooms go, sure," Blair said, confused.

"The nurses are responsive, they come when you call?"

"Probably, but I don't have to since they're checking on me all the time."

"Good, good." Bill nodded, returning to the chair.

"Don't tell me. You're on the Board here."

"I used to be, but I still know plenty of people, including the chief of staff. I just want to be sure you're getting good care. If there's anything I can do--"

"You did it by coming by to see me. And if the nurses screw up, I promise I'll tell you."

"Okay," Bill said, smiling.

"Tell me about your day."

"What?"

"What you're doing. You're all decked out in one of the expensive suits."

"Cascade National Bank Board of Directors, quarterly meeting. It's one of the few boards I've stayed on, mainly because the CEO is a friend of mine, and the Chairman isn't a friend of his."

"Sounds like fun."

"Nothing like two hours of pie charts and a slide presentation to numb the mind."

"I thought you corporate types liked that stuff."

"No one likes that stuff, and if they say they do, they're liars. Which, of course, a lot of my esteemed colleagues always have been."

"How'd you survive all those years in the corporate world if you disliked it so much?"

"I didn't dislike the work itself--well, not all of it--the side issues are what drove me nuts. The back-stabbing, cheating, game-playing... I'm not sad to be 75% retired."

"You think you'll ever be 100% retired?"

"Sure. When I'm dead," he added, smiling. "I should let you get some rest," Bill said, picking up his coat from where he'd tossed it on a spare chair.

"Thanks for coming. I enjoyed the visit," Blair responded, smiling.

"Tell Jimmy I hope he feels better. I haven't been able to catch him at home."

"Fat chance. He should take it easy for a couple days, but he's out working a homicide case with my dad and Hutch--even though he's off active duty."

"Jimmy's never off active duty."

"Like father, like son, huh?"

"I guess so," Bill said, chuckling a little.

********

Coverage of the hit-and-run accident was understandably extensive in the Cascade Herald. A photo of Marianne Phillips was on the front page, along with a detailed story about the two-headed disaster involving not only the hit-and-run homicide, but the accident that occurred during the chase. Detective James Ellison, Cascade Police Major Crimes Division, was listed in good condition with minor injuries sustained in the crash. Blair Sandburg, an anthropologist and consultant to the Cascade Police Department, was riding with Detective Ellison and sustained a more serious head injury. No further details were available on his condition. A third driver was facing charges for running a stop sign into the path of the detective's vehicle.

The hit-and-run driver escaped.

The last line made him smile, though the whole unfortunate incident should have never happened. He knew that sleek sports car and all that fast driving wasn't going to lead anywhere good. The young woman, Marianne...that was just sad. She had no role in any of this, and her death was an utter waste.

He skimmed the article again, and focused on the name of the anthropologist. He'd seen that name...in fact, he'd seen Ellison's name before. They'd been in the news before. A social scientist working in the law enforcement community. That had potential. He needed someone with an open mind, and someone the cops as well as other academics would take seriously.

He needed Blair Sandburg.

********

"It's a little late to strike out for Tacoma. What do you want to do?" Hutch asked as they all got into the blue sedan, finished with the search of the victim's apartment.

"Go back to the hospital."

"Go see Blair."

The answers came simultaneously from Jim and Starsky respectively, and Hutch just chuckled.

"How did I know the answer to that? We'll go up there for a while, but then we're going back to the loft to get a good night's sleep. Blair's feeling better, and I'm tired of playing hearse driver to two walking corpses," Hutch said as he started the engine.

"Your ass is draggin', too, old man," Starsky needled, giving Hutch a little grin.

"That, too," Hutch admitted with a laugh.

"Hey, don't forget to stop by 7-Eleven," Starsky said. "I promised my kid a Slurpee, remember?"

When the three of them arrived back at the hospital, Blair had just finished a small meal, his first since the accident. He was sitting up in bed, looking even more alert than he had earlier.

"You remembered the Slurpee," Blair said, grinning broadly.

"Good to see you, too, son," Starsky responded, laughing as he handed the drink over to Blair, who took a long pull on the straw.

"Sorry. Dinner really sucked, man, and my throat still hurts from that dryer hose they ran down it. I've been looking forward to this."

"Feeling better, Chief?" Jim asked, smiling at seeing so much of the old Blair coming back to life before his eyes.

"A lot. You must be feeling lousy, though. Will you guys please take him home and make him rest?"

"We're heading back to the loft to get some sleep tonight," Hutch said.

"I've been thinking about stayin' here," Starsky said, pacing the room a bit.

"I'm gonna be okay, Dad. You need to get a night's sleep, too."

"I can sleep on the couch out there."

"Starsk, come on, what's this about?" Hutch asked.

"In case Blair wakes up, and he's confused or something...someone should be here."

"I'm not confused."

"You were earlier when we weren't here and you woke up," Jim said.

"Yeah, because I was still fighting heavier meds and I was just coming out of it. I'll be okay. Go back to the loft and try out the new bed," Blair said calmly, taking another draw on his Slurpee before noticing Jim's grin, and the slightly uneasy chuckles from his father and Hutch. "I meant to get some sleep...but whatever," he added, grinning. "What did you find out from Nichols' apartment?"

"We got a line on a possible suspect," Jim said, sitting on the side of Blair's bed. He'd done his best not to hog visiting time with Blair, but he wanted to spend some time close to his lover. Blair set the Slurpee on his bed table, offering Jim a clammy, slightly wet hand to hold. Starsky and Hutch pulled up chairs.

"Somebody he did an expose on?"

"Well, I don't know as he exposed him, exactly," Jim explained. "He already didn't have a lot of credibility with other academics. Nichols wrote a pretty scathing article about him."

"Academics? Who was he?"

"A guy by the name of Eldon Garrison," Hutch said. "He was a professor at Maddison College in Tacoma who came up with a pretty off-the-wall theory about revising the penal system."

"Garrison...Garrison..." Blair frowned. "Name sounds familiar, but I can't place him."

"He advocated bringing back ancient forms of punishment for felonies--crucifixions, drawing and quartering, burning at the stake...that kind of thing," Jim said.

"I remember that. Well, I remember a couple guys in the CJ Department at Rainier talking about it--or laughing about it, actually."

"Anyway, Nichols did an article on him that ended up carried on the AP wire. He interviewed a lot of other academics and experts in the law enforcement field, and basically they all said it was a crock of shit--well, they said it a little more academically than that," Starsky added, chuckling.

"The guys at Rainier didn't," Blair countered, smiling. "Where is this guy now?"

"We're going to run a check on him first thing in the morning," Jim said. "Last anyone heard of him, he'd retired from Maddison."

"Retired, huh? I bet he did," Blair responded.

"You sound like you don't think he should have been...*encouraged* to retire?" Hutch said.

"You know, a lot of people would say studying Sentinels was a flaky field, too."

"But you're not doing your dissertation on that anymore," Jim said.

"No, I'm not, but that's not my point. Having 'out there' ideas is a vital part of academia. I think his ideas are bizarre, barbaric, and should never be pursued seriously, but should he be driven out of his field for it? I'm not sure I agree with that."

"People like Garrison are dangerously 'out there', Chief."

"So were the guys who said the Earth wasn't flat. So is a researcher who claims to have a subject who can identify a suspect in the dark from three football fields away. I agree Garrison's ideas were twisted, but ideas aren't dangerous by themselves. People are dangerous. Having a dangerous idea doesn't make you a dangerous person. Keep that in mind when you talk to this guy. Just because he's weird doesn't mean he's a psycho serial killer."

"He just thinks we ought to publicly disembowel criminals," Starsky responded. "Nah, he's not dangerous."

********

Starsky fell on the bed, relishing the comfort beneath him. Hutch was stripped down to his shorts, and grabbed his robe and fresh underwear before heading to the bathroom. They'd both let Jim go first, since neither of them were recuperating from a car accident, and Jim had to be exhausted and sore beyond description with so little rest since the crash. Somehow he'd managed to bag his casted arm, after waving off any offers of help, and had taken a quick shower that didn't keep his guests waiting too long. Starsky had won the toss for second place, and Hutch was now bringing up the rear, none too optimistic about his chances for any hot water.

"Don't be long, Blondie," Starsky said, rolling on his side. "Bed's pretty comfortable."

"The hot water probably won't hold out long enough for me to linger," Hutch responded, heading for the bathroom.

Undaunted by his partner's slight crabbiness, Starsky yawned widely and tossed his robe aside, slipping naked between the sheets. They were both tired, but not *that* tired. He figured he could talk Hutch into at least a little fooling around before calling it a night. He briefly wondered how much Ellison could really hear from upstairs, but then questioned himself if, in Jim's place, he'd *want* to listen to his in-laws having sex. Chuckling at that, he remembered Blair saying Jim could "dial down," and he figured that would definitely fall into the "dial down" category.

Part of him wasn't relaxed anyway. They had a great lead on the case, and they still hadn't had the chance to travel to Seattle to talk to the first victim's colleagues. Sometimes you just ran out of energy and hours in the day to keep rolling. And then there was Blair. Even though he was out of danger and recovering, and would probably be released from the hospital soon, Starsky couldn't shake the overpowering unease that he should be with his son, just in case he needed anything through the night. Still, he knew Blair wanted them all to get a good night's sleep, and there was no denying they all needed that badly.

"Hot water hold out?" Starsky asked as Hutch returned to the bedroom, clad in his robe, carrying his fresh underwear. Starsky grinned at that. He'd already scored a few points and the game hadn't even started.

"Close enough." Hutch tossed the underwear and then his robe on a small chair near the foot of the bed, and slipped under the covers Starsky was holding up for him. He didn't lose any time scooting into Starsky's waiting arms. "It's been a long couple of days," he sighed, leaning in for a kiss.

"You smell good," Starsky said, nuzzling Hutch's neck. "Using the good stuff tonight?" he teased, referring to one of Hutch's more expensive colognes, which was usually reserved for special occasions--or sex. And he wondered why Starsky got horny every time he got dressed up.

"I'm trying to get lucky with this little brunet I picked up in LA," he responded, nibbling at Starsky's earlobe while a hand strayed down to squeeze a butt cheek. "How're my chances?"

"Gettin' better by the minute." Starsky rolled them so he was on top of Hutch, kissing him deeply and thrusting against him. Hutch took him by surprise by rolling them back on their sides and finally breaking the kiss to move down Starsky's chest, sucking hard on a nipple that lurked beneath the dark chest hair. Starsky slid his hands into Hutch's hair and tried to encourage his head toward the other nipple to give it equal time. Hutch wasn't being rushed, though, and only moved when he was satisfied the little nub was a pebble-hard, sensitized peak.

Starsky always marveled at the miracle of biology that allowed his nipples to be directly connected to his cock. It filled and rose to hardness as he moaned softly, savoring the sweet torture of lips, tongue, and the occasional nip of teeth on the sensitive flesh.

"Want you," he gasped before he even realized he'd said it. The thought of plunging into the hot tightness of his partner's body was making him crazy, and he slid both hands down to squeeze the smooth buttocks firmly.

"I don't know, ask me again," Hutch teased, moving up for a kiss. He had little shame when it came to encouraging Starsky to play with his butt. And Starsky was only too happy to oblige. Massaging the globes with both hands, Starsky thrust his tongue deep into his partner's mouth. When he pulled back, he asked again.

"Want to be inside you, Blondie."

"It's all yours, babe," Hutch replied, kissing Starsky again before turning over, his back to Starsky. They were both a little tired for more gymnastic positions, and Hutch knew his back would never tolerate him putting his legs up behind his head or in some equally ridiculous position he'd have to get into on his back. This was perfect for some slow, lazy lovemaking before sleep.

"Oops." Starsky seemed to freeze momentarily, and Hutch just chuckled.

"It's in the shaving kit, and if you want it, you're getting up to get it."

"You realize there's a whole lot of double meaning in what you just said?"

"Take it any way you want it...oh, shit, you know what I mean." Hutch laughed, knowing he was tired enough that he was destined to stick his foot in his mouth no matter what he said.

"I plan to, gorgeous." Starsky swatted him playfully on the butt as he climbed over him and out of bed to get the lube out of the shaving kit. "You know, I could sneak out and get some of that flavored stuff--"

"The standard stuff's just fine for now."

"Blair wouldn't care."

"Tell me that you don't talk to him about what kind of lube we use."

"It didn't exactly come up in one of our online chats, no," Starsky responded with a chortle. "Come on, Hutch, you expect me to be one of those uptight parents who can't talk to their kids about sex?"

"If I did, I know I'd be sunk."

"We've been at this for all these years, and Blair was brand new to it when we found each other. I never wanted him to feel uneasy to ask me something or run something by me."

"Get back in bed and run something by me, will you?" Hutch countered, and Starsky was only too happy to obey that command.

Resuming his place behind his partner, Starsky nibbled at Hutch's neck while he slipped a lubed finger into the tight passage, massaging and lubricating it.

"Don't go to sleep on me, darlin'," Starsky teased as Hutch shifted his ass a bit and yawned.

"Feels good, babe. Keep it going," Hutch said, flexing his internal muscles around Starsky's finger.

Convinced his partner was ready for something more aggressive, he withdrew that finger, added more lube, and returned with two. He didn't waste much time, as he was convinced Hutch would fall asleep if he got any more relaxed. He soon withdrew both fingers and coated his own straining erection, then slowly by steadily pushed his way inside the slick channel that fit him like a glove. He smiled at the thought that somehow, Hutch was made to order just to fit him that perfectly.

Feeling Hutch was just a little too mellow and complacent, even penetrated, Starsky angled his strokes and nailed his lover's prostate. That definitely elicited an electric response as Hutch let out a strangled cry of pleasure that, despite their passion, gave Starsky a few giggles, knowing his partner's face was probably crimson at having shouted in passion in someone's guest room. Blair had said Jim could sleep like a stone once he went to sleep, and Starsky was further convinced Jim wasn't interested in what they were doing, even if he could hear it.

"Oh, God, babe, do that again," Hutch gasped, and Starsky began pumping steadily, managing to rub over the sensitive little nob more often than not, muffling his own potentially loud gasps and moans of pleasure against Hutch's neck. He reached around front and pumped Hutch's cock in time with his thrusts, relishing the wanton way Hutch's body jerked from one sensation to the other, loving all of it but not sure what he wanted more, the hand squeezing his cock or the cock sliding in and out of him in firm thrusts.

They rocked together a long time, both enjoying prolonging the union as much as they could, until Hutch couldn't hold out any longer and came, his climax the final impetus for Starsky's own orgasm. Still joined, they rested that way a while, letting heartbeats slow and breathing return to normal.

"Did I mention to you today that I love you a whole lot?" Starsky asked, winding his arms firmly around Hutch, not withdrawing from his body just yet.

"Not in the last few hours, so I was starting to doubt you."

"I love you, you sarcastic asshole," Starsky responded, laughing and kissing Hutch's shoulder.

"At least you still sweet talk me after sex, Starsk. And they say the romance doesn't last."

"They're wrong about that, aren't they?" Starsky asked, completely rhetorically as he rested his head against Hutch's, snuggling tight against his back.

"Dead wrong. I love you, too, babe."

Starsky carefully withdrew and then snuggled against Hutch again, ready for sleep.

********

"Excuse me?" There was a long pause. "What the hell do you mean, he's not *there*?"

The sound of Jim's angry, elevated voice disturbed Hutch as it carried through the closed French doors from the kitchen where Jim was presumably on the telephone. It was still dark, and when Hutch looked at the digital clock--God love Blair for getting the kind with the soft-blue glowing two-inch numbers that didn't require glasses to see--it was only 5:00 AM.

"He's got a skull fracture and he was on an IV for God's sake! Where the hell would he go?"

"Starsk," Hutch said gently, nudging his softly snoring partner. "Starsk, come on, babe, wake up. Something's wrong."

"Huh? Where?"

"Jim's on the phone with the hospital. It sounds like there's a problem." Hutch was already getting up, and Starsky nearly flattened him where he stood in his rush to get to the doors. When the two men emerged, tying their robes and pushing disheveled hair off their foreheads, Jim was pacing the room like a caged panther, still arguing with the person on the other end of the phone.

"I thought you people were checking him every hour, testing his reflexes or something."

"What happened?" Starsky asked, and Jim just held up his forefinger for them to wait a moment.

"We're on our way," he concluded, hanging up the phone. "Blair's gone."

"What?" Starsky blanched at the statement.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry, Starsky. I mean, he's not there. Not in his room. The nurse went in to check on him and the bed was empty. There's no sign of him anywhere. Hospital security is searching the hospital, along with as many nurses and nurses' aides as they can round up. I'm gonna call Simon and then get dressed so we can meet him over there."

"We better grab some clothes and get rolling," Hutch said, steering his partner back into the guest room. "Maybe we better step in the shower quickly," Hutch said, gathering up their things.

"Hutch...where in the hell could he be? He was supposed to be taking it easy. They didn't even take him out of ICU yet. If something's happened to him--"

"That's what we have to find out, Starsk. But we can't find it out standing here. Jim was already heading upstairs to get dressed, and we're naked and smelly in our bathrobes yet. We need to get a move on."

"Yeah, I know, you're right..."

"I'm worried, too, babe, but worrying never solves anything."

********

Blair didn't feel like opening his eyes just yet. He was too comfortable. //Funny, the hospital bed didn't feel this good before. I must be on some good meds,// he thought, secretly relishing what he figured was a legitimate good drug trip. His sprained wrist still ached dully, but he found his hand free of the invasive IV needle. He'd been told that would be removed soon, but he hadn't expected to be liberated this fast.

Finally, he opened his eyes, wondering what time it was, and whether or not Jim or his father might be there visiting.

He was not in the hospital room, but he did have a visitor.

"Mr. Sandburg, you're awake," the man in the chair near the bed said congenially, laying aside the magazine he'd been reading. It looked as if it might be either pre-dawn, or a very cloudy day. Blair wasn't exactly sure. The man was tall and slender, with long legs that were crossed as he sat. His thinning brown hair was parted low on the left side, and combed creatively across his balding head. His mustache and neatly trimmed gray and brown beared nearly matched the tweed sweater he wore. He took off his gold, wire-framed glasses and set them aside on the magazine, near the foot of what appeared to be a king-size bed, adorned with expensive, and very comfortable, linens.

"I don't understand...where am I? Are you a doctor?" He thought maybe he'd had a setback of some kind. For a horrible moment, he wondered if he'd slipped into a coma and this was like a twisted version of "The Dead Zone" where he'd wake up eight or ten years later in some fancy rehab facility Bill Ellison paid for, totally oblivious that his life had been destroyed while he slept...

"I am, but not an M.D.," he said, smiling. "My name is Eldon Garrison. I'm a Ph.D. in Philosophy and Criminology. You might say I'm a doctor twice."

"You're the one...you wrote the book about going back to archaic forms of punishment."

"That is I, yes," Dr. Garrison responded, still smiling faintly. "Now, Blair--may I call you Blair?"

"What am I doing here? Where is this place?"

"Please, try to stay calm. I don't know a great deal about head injuries, but I imagine that tranquility and rest are encouraged. You're perfectly safe here. If you're worried I brought you here to torture you or put you to some horrific death, I can assure you, you're quite wrong. I don't have any desire to hurt you. On the contrary. I'll do all I can to provide you plenty of rest and anything you might need for your recovery. I do need your help, however."

"Well, kidnaping me out of the hospital is a weird way to go about it, man. I'm not helping you. Why should I? You drag me out of the hospital against my will in the middle of the night and lock me up in some well-decorated prison and then ask for my help? You *are* nuts."

"You know better than that, Blair. That's why I brought you here. You're broad-minded enough to listen to what I have to say without pre-judging. You're an academic. A researcher. You deal in facts, statistics, trends... Not emotion and preconceived notions." He paused. "I'm not unfamiliar with your work. I've read some of your journal articles on primitive civilizations in the course of my research. And, I must say, the research you began on the subject of...what did you call them...sentinels? Tribal watchmen? That was utterly fascinating. Did you pursue that?"

"No, it was a bit of a dead end. I kept finding people with one or two heightened senses, even one I thought was the real thing, but after rigorous clinical testing, none of them really proved to be the type of person Burton seemed to be describing."

"Pity. You seemed to be onto something very groundbreaking there."

"Yeah, well, groundbreaking isn't always synonymous with worthwhile."

"I see. Well, if that's intended as a summation of your opinion on my theories, I hope you will at least do me the courtesy of fully reviewing my work before dismissing it."

"My head hurts, and I can't sit and pore over stacks of tiny print journal articles. Besides, I'd be lucky to find the journal itself without my glasses."

"I don't expect you to read it. I've made tapes. You see, I've been planning this for a while."

"Kidnaping me?"

"No, not you personally. When I read about you being involved in that car-chase accident in the paper, it just clicked how ideal you would be. I was hoping to work closely with another academic who would have some...credibility with law enforcement, as well as academia."

"What do I have to do to get out of here alive?" Blair asked directly.

"Just listen to the tapes as you feel able. That's all I ask. I think you'll find my research is solid, and there is some worth to my theories. But if you honestly don't believe that, even after listening to the tapes, I'll release you...well, after I've made arrangements to get out of the country, that is. I don't relish rotting in federal prison."

"You murdered that reporter. Horribly."

"I executed him. There's a difference."

"Only in semantics. What gave you the right?"

"What gave him the right to ridicule my life's work and make me a laughing stock among my peers? That little twerp wasn't even born yet when I earned my first Ph.D. I was a tenured professor at an Ivy League college while he was still picking his nose and filling his diapers. And yet he presumed to debunk everything I'd worked so carefully to present."

"He had a lot of support from the academic world."

"You should know by now how narrow-minded some of those moth-eaten old professors and administrators are."

"No arguments there."

"See? Blair, all I ask of you is some of your time. You've got to lie around and rest for the next couple of weeks anyway. I'm only asking that during that time, you listen to my tapes with an open mind. I'll see to it you have plenty of food, painkillers, anything you need."

"I want to go home to recover. You're keeping me here against my will. Do you really expect me to judge your work fairly?"

"Yes, because I believe in your intellect, Blair. I've read your work. You are a fine scholar, with an open mind and a hunger for knowledge. You could dismiss all my work simply because of who I am or the circumstances, but you won't do that. You'll want to get to the bottom of the academic puzzle." Garrison smiled, and Blair hated him for having assessed him so accurately. He was already curious what Garrison could have possibly put on those tapes, or discovered in his research that would lead to such outlandish conclusions. Inasmuch as he despised the man's perverted twist on that knowledge, and resented bitterly his captive situation, he was plagued by that cursed curiosity that certainly hadn't done the cat any good.

"I need to contact Jim Ellison, my partner, and let him know I'm all right, or I swear to you, I won't listen to one word of one tape."

"I can't let you make a phone call, Blair. I think you know that. With all the tracing devices, and simple home Caller ID's, there's no way for me to safely allow you to do that."

"Let me write him a letter, and you can mail it for me."

"All right, that's fair enough, although you do realize I won't be naive enough to mail it from a nearby post office, right?"

"I just want him to know I'm alive. I want to be able to send him letters periodically until you let me out of here."

"Once per week."

"Three per week, or I do nothing with your lousy tapes."

"Two. That's my final word on the subject. I'll bring you some writing paper and a lap table." With that, Garrison rose and left the room.

Blair looked around the room, trying to assess his chances for an escape. Ignoring the ominous pounding in his head, and the dizziness as he changed positions, he forced himself to sit on the side of the bed, with his feet touching the floor. There was a window, and he had to check that out. If there was any way out of here, he wanted to at least know about it for when the opportunity to escape might arise.

Forcing his stiff, battered body to its feet, he steadied himself on the night stand and moved carefully toward the window. Sunlight was beginning to filter through the partially open Venetian blinds that were framed by a pair of blue brocaded drapes. He parted the slats of the blinds to see the sun, but also to see a sort of chain-link caging over the glass.

"You can have some fresh air if you like," Garrison's voice startled him from behind. "The window's not locked. The security screen is quite secure. You really should be in bed, Blair."

"Let me out of here. I'm not going to be able to convince the world about your theory, and you know it."

"I didn't ask anything that grandiose of you. I only asked for your time and your attention, and your open mind. Now, to save you a lot of time and effort you probably aren't up to, the window is secure, the door to your room will be locked from the outside with both the knob lock and two sliding locks that only work from the outside. It's solid oak, so if you were thinking if beating your way through it, I'd abandon that idea. You're welcome to scream if you like, though I'd certainly appreciate it if you didn't. We are in a remote rural area, far back from the road. No one will hear you. And if you should happen to get out somehow, you'd have a very long walk through the woods to make it to the road. There is a pack of wild dogs in the woods, so long nature walks aren't a very wise idea. If we don't bother them, they probably won't bother us. I admit, I'm not pleased about that, but the location was otherwise perfect, and it was rent-free. Now, if you include any of that in your letter to Ellison, I promise you, it won't be mailed. You may tell him you are well, and that your life is not in immediate danger, and that you will be gone for a few weeks. That's all."

Blair sat on the side of the bed, raising his hand involuntarily up to his forehead.

"They had me on some kind of meds at the hospital," he said, willing the pounding to lessen.

"I checked your chart. Take two of these, and you'll feel better." He handed Blair two white tablets and a glass of water.

"What are these?"

"They're just Tylenol 3 with codeine. I borrowed a small supply from the hospital pharmacy."

"How do I know that's what they are?"

"If I poisoned you, it would be a little difficult to elicit your help. Furthermore, why would I bring you all the way out here so I could kill you? I could have slit your throat in the hospital and left, no hassle, no strings."

Shrugging, Blair took the two pills and chased them with the water before getting back into bed.

"Take a nap until your head feels better. I brought a few tapes for you to get started with, and there's a lap board in here, too, for when you want to write your letter," he explained, setting a large cardboard box on the floor near the bed with a cassette player, the board, and a pile of tapes inside. "I'll let you rest a while, and then I'll bring you lunch, and perhaps you can get started on the tapes."

His perversely cordial host left then, and Blair looked around the large bedroom. Besides the comfortable big bed with the carved wood headboard, there was an antique dresser with a mirror above it, another tall bureau for clothing--which was kind of a cruel joke since he seemed to only have a hospital gown to wear--a blue overstuffed chair with a beige accent pillow in it, matching oak night stands bearing ornate antique lamps, and an overhead light fixture that appeared to be original hardware in what seemed like quite an old house. The woodwork had been painted white to better blend with the blue and white wallpaper, which featured a small floral print. It struck Blair as a woman's room, rather than a man's, though all the overtly feminine objects were missing--no perfume, jewelry boxes, or other signs of female occupancy.

The pills were making him drowsy, and as he succumbed, he hoped they were only what Garrison had said they were. And he hoped that by some longshot, Jim would find him.

********

Cascade Memorial Hospital was crawling with uniformed and plainclothes police officers. The Cascade PD seemed to have as many people at the hospital as they did at downtown headquarters. Every inch of the building had been searched, every coherent patient questioned, all personnel questioned either individually or in groups, and those who had gone home were called back in for questioning.

Despite the fact he was allegedly on sick leave, Jim worked side-by-side with his colleagues, questioning doctors, nurses and visitors alike. He was most ruthless with the ICU staff, who had allowed a patient to be moved by an unauthorized person without even checking the story. Only one nurse had seen the "doctor" and his two "nurses" who had supposedly "come up from three" to retrieve Blair, who was being moved out of ICU. The orders were signed by Dr. Farraday, or rather his signature had been forged there, so she didn't question it.

The empty hospital bed was found in the elevator, which the guilty party had sent to the basement upon his departure.

The "doctor" was a tall, slender man with a thick head of dark brown hair and a full beard. He wore thick glasses and was dressed in scrubs and a lab coat. He was accompanied by a male nurse, about 5'10" tall and a bit on the stocky side, with blond hair and a mustache, and a young woman the nurse estimated to be in her late twenties, with black hair in a pony tail, blue eyes, about 5'6". The "nurses" were dressed in typical nursing garb--colorful smocks with white slacks and white shoes.

"You heard anything yet from Megan about the Emergency entrance?" Jim asked Simon as they reconvened in the ICU waiting room.

"She's still down there interviewing patients and Rafe is working his way through the staff. They haven't reported in yet, so they probably don't have anything for us."

"This is incredible. How do you just walk in and *take* someone out of an ICU?" Jim threw his one good hand in the air, his broken arm moving a bit like a flipper to join in the gesture.

"I seem to recall you being on sick leave," Simon said.

"You've gotta be kidding."

"I was, for the most part. Just be sure you don't overdo it."

"I'm fine, Simon. It's Blair I'm worried about."

Just then, Megan appeared at the end of the hall, hurrying toward them, her heels clicking on the shiny linoleum floor.

"We have a couple of witnesses downstairs. Rafe is taking down all the details. They saw a doctor and two nurses wheel what they thought was an unconscious woman with long, curly brown hair, slumped in a wheelchair, to a dark blue van. They said it appeared the doctor and the male nurse lifted this person out of the wheelchair and into the back of the van."

"They didn't find that odd at all?" Jim asked, his eyes widening. "Who were these people?"

"They're an older couple--they were waiting to be seen because the woman had complained of chest pains, but she seemed to be feeling quite a lot better. She was kept for observation for a period of hours, and I guess they told her it appeared to be just gas pain or something non-threatening. Anyway, they were just preparing to leave when we arrived. The man said he figured somebody was either taking someone home who'd been sedated, or that they might be taking the person to a rehab or nursing care facility."

"Any chance they noticed the plates on the van?"

"Not a number, but he said they were Oregon plates."

"That's something right there," Simon said.

"Megan, did you get something?" Hutch asked as he and Hutch approached the group. They'd been questioning the security staff, including the parking lot security personnel.

"A dark blue van with Oregon plates. A couple in the Emergency room saw our phony medical staff loading Blair into the back of it. At least, it sounds like it's Blair," Megan responded. "Their description of the doctor and nurses matches what we've gotten from the other staff people who saw them."

Simon had wandered away from the group, barking orders into his walkie-talkie for an APB on a dark-colored van, possibly dark blue, with Oregon plates. The Washington State Police would also be notified.

"This doesn't make sense. Any of it," Starsky said, pacing. "Blair didn't witness anything, he's not the lead cop on the cases Jim's working on. He's not slated to testify in court anytime soon. Why would someone do this?"

"We're not going to know that until they surface with their demands," Hutch said, his voice exuding false calmness. "This could be aimed at either one of you, or at Blair himself. The best way to get at Jim would be through Blair. Anyone who knows him well enough to hate him knows that. Similarly, if someone wanted to get at you, they'd target either Blair or me."

"Or Ma." Starsky stopped in his tracks.

"You better call Sophia and let her know what's going on. I doubt this is anything that far-reaching, but there's no point in risking it." As Starsky moved down the hall, taking out his cell phone, Jim looked at Hutch, puzzled.

"Who's Sophia?"

"Starsky's cousin. His mother lives with her and her family."

"You don't seriously think this is some vast conspiracy with tentacles in New York, do you?"

"No," Hutch said, sighing. "But it'll give him something productive to do so he doesn't bounce off the wall. We haven't been involved in anything that far-reaching in years. If one of the old crime bosses we messed with was going to do us in, we'd be dead by now."

"What about our psycho professor?" Jim asked.

"I'm not sure what his point would be. We haven't even approached him to question him. We haven't gotten to question his former colleagues or students, so no one could have tipped him off."

"Unless that's what's bothering him--that we haven't come for him. Maybe he wants to be sure we find the right guy," Jim suggested.

"Could be."

"I don't want to think about that possibility, really," Jim said, his jaw twitching a bit. "Not the way his victims die."

"Why would he kill Blair? It doesn't make sense. He killed Nichols because of the article. If we can tie him to the dead professor in Seattle, I'll give you odds that he did something to Garrison as well. Blair's never done anything to this guy. He doesn't even know him."

"Who knows? He's a headcase. Maybe because Blair's my partner, and I'm the cop on the case."

"I think we need to track down Garrison, but I wouldn't assume the worst just yet."

"Thinking about Garrison?" Starsky asked as he rejoined them. "Too late. I already thought the worst," he added, running his hand back through his hair. "Ma's fine. I told Sophia to just keep an eye on her, make sure she wasn't outside alone. She loves going for walks in the Fall. Sophia has to just about chase her down the sidewalks to make sure she doesn't go too far," Starsky added, smiling. "The legs still work pretty good, but the memory isn't always as sharp. She's liable to end up on the wrong side of the tracks of they don't keep an eye on her."

"I'm gonna call Stan Parsons and see what he can bring up on his database about Garrison. The Feds are bound to have a dossier on somebody like that," Hutch said, taking out his cell phone and heading for the exit.

"Who's Stan Parsons?" Jim asked Starsky.

"Former cop-turned-fed. He's a good guy. Total computer geek. Anything you want to find in the FBI's database, just call Stan. Even if you're not supposed to find it, he can usually track it down," Starsky added, smiling a little.

*********

Blair pushed himself into a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bladder was protesting the prolonged rest with no relief, so he pushed himself up and made his way slowly around the bed to a closed door he hoped led to a bathroom. Having to get permission from Garrison to take a leak would be a little demeaning. He was relieved to find a small bathroom, nicely decorated in the same blue and cream color scheme, a ruffled valance accenting the window that was covered with the same security grate as the window in the bedroom.

He took care of business, washed his hands, and took a moment to look at himself in the mirror. The bruise on his forehead looked no less ominous than it had the first time he'd shuffled to the bathroom on his own in the hospital. His hair felt positively grimy and itchy, and he didn't feel much better. Assessing that he had no open wounds to be hurt by soap and water, he located soap and shampoo on a small shelf in the corner of the bath tub alcove. Closing the door, he was pleased to find a thick, white terrycloth bathrobe on the back of the door.

Steadying himself on the counter a moment to ride out a wave of dizziness, he took off the hospital gown and wrinkled his nose. The nurses hadn't really been able to jostle him around a lot for bathing, so what they had done was pretty cursory and not all that effective. He was glad there was a grab bar on the wall of the bath tub alcove, and he used it to keep his equilibrium while he got the water started.

His head ached fiercely from the exertion, but the shampoo felt marvelous on his scalp, and getting thoroughly cleaned was refreshing him quite a bit. Still, he couldn't shake that feeling of foreboding, much like Hansel and Gretel must have felt as they feasted on the foods provided by the old witch, knowing the evil crone had an ulterior motive for her hospitality.

He was stunned to find conditioner in the medicine cabinet, and a blow dryer in the drawer next to the sink. The conditioner was some kind of fruit and flower blend Blair wouldn't have chosen for himself, but then he figured it must have belonged to the woman who used to occupy this room. He was chilled by the question of what her fate was.

Clean, dry, and exhausted from the effort, Blair opened the bathroom door and was surprised to find clothing on the foot of the bed. Jeans, socks, a t-shirt, and a blue sweater...the clothes he'd been wearing the last...the last *normal* day he could remember. He picked them up and smelled the detergent and fabric softener in them, and realized they must have been stained or soiled in some way from the accident, and Garrison must have taken them, along with him, from the hospital. There were also six pairs of new boxer shorts in various colors, including the pair he'd been wearing the day of the accident, a pair of tan dockers with the tickets still attached, a brown sweater similar in style to his own blue one, and a package of new t-shirts. There were also several pairs of socks and a blue suit of sweats.

"I hope everything fits," Garrison's voice startled him from behind. He hadn't even heard the man open the door of the bedroom. "I could hardly expect you to spend the next several days in a hospital gown."

"Thanks for the clothes. They're nice," Blair said, hoping maybe if he tried the tactic of making friends with Garrison, the other man would let down his guard. Of course, Garrison didn't get his Ph.D. by being stupid, so Blair questioned the real hope of so simple a ploy working on him.

"I'll leave you to get dressed. Would you like something to eat?" he asked. It was already getting dark outside, and Blair's stomach was rumbling with hunger.

"I'm pretty hungry."

"I'll get your dinner ready while you get dressed."

"Should I just come out to the kitchen when I'm done?" Blair asked casually.

"You know the rules, Blair. This is your room, and you'll have to stay in it while you're here. I'll bring you a tray." With that, Garrison left, pulling the door shut behind him, the lock clicking decisively into place. Followed by two more clicks as the sliding bar locks on the outside of the door were secured.

A bit discouraged, Blair picked out some of the clean underwear and the sweats, and a pair of socks. He felt cold, even though he knew the temperature in the room was comfortable. He set the box of supplies with the tapes, the lap desk and the writing materials on the empty side of the bed before getting back into it and stuffing pillows behind his back. He raised a hand to his forehead and scrunched his face in pain. He needed something else for pain, but more than anything else, he needed Jim. Having Jim climb into the bed with him and hold him for a while would have done more than a thousand pills could.

Discouraged, he picked up the lap desk and did his best to think of something profound to say in a letter to Jim that would get past Garrison but give some clue to his whereabouts. Opening the spiral notebook he'd been given, he began.

"Dear Jim,

I'm alive, and I'm being treated well. No one's forcing me to say that. It's true. I don't want to be here, but I'm not hurt and I'm not being abused or anything. My captor has agreed to let me write you letters. I hope I'll be home soon. I miss you...I'm really feeling blue without you here.

Please call Dr. Van Buren and ask him if there's a remote chance I can have an extension on my deadline. I feel secure he'll say no, but please ask. He's got a lot on his plate with the upcoming trip to South America, so don't push it. He has to drag twenty freshmen through the rainforest. I don't envy him. You were right about him all along--he's obsessed with his work.

I'm getting tired now and my head hurts, so I'll end this here. I've been told I can write you again, so when I feel better, it'll be longer.

Love,

Blair"

There were no envelopes among the supplies, but that didn't surprise him. He fully expected Garrison would read it before he sent it. He only hoped he didn't find it too suspicious, or if he did, that he simply wouldn't send it and wouldn't take it out on his captive.

"Dinner is served," Garrison announced, coming in with a tray bearing delicious-smelling lasagna and garlic bread, along with a tall glass of grape juice and a dessert that looked like a cannoli.

"You must be quite a cook," Blair said as he moved the lap desk aside to make room for the tray.

"It's one of my hobbies. I find it very relaxing. I see you wrote a letter."

"Yes. Would you mail it for me, please?"

"Of course," Garrison said, taking the sheet of paper and reading through it. "Oh, dear, I'm causing you to miss an important deadline."

"I was working on an article with Dr. Van Buren, but I won't be back in time to turn in my part of it. I wanted Jim to see if he could finagle me an extension."

"You're very affectionate with your partner. You're personal partners, too, then?"

"Yes," Blair answered honestly, not sure if that was wise or not, but realizing it would be fairly pointless to hide it. And the more open he was, the less suspicious Garrison would be. Or so he hoped.

"I'll take this tomorrow and mail it for you. I'll be gone most of the day."

"You're going to leave me locked up in this room in the middle of nowhere with no way to call for help?"

"I'm sure you'll be quite safe, Blair. Provided you don't go out walking in the woods, which I doubt you will unless I've inadvertently left an axe lying around in here you could use to chop the door down. I'm sorry, but I have some business to attend to. I'll be back shortly after dark, maybe sooner."

"What if the house caught on fire? I won't run away--where would I go? But at least leave the door unlocked so I could get out if I had to."

"This house has stood for a hundred years without a fire. I doubt it will burn to the ground tomorrow while I'm gone. I'm afraid we'll have to take that risk. I won't be disturbing you again tonight, Blair. Get some sleep. You'll see on the tray I've left you a cup with several pills in it. Use them prudently. They have to last you until tomorrow night, but they should if you take them at regular intervals." Garrison opened the door to the bedroom, and Blair thought about what his chances might be to overpower the professor at some point. The very fact Garrison wasn't concerned that he would try--or at least didn't appear inordinately worried--made Blair think all he'd said about the location and the wild dogs was probably true.

Or it could all be part of a well-orchestrated act.

********

Simon soon gave up on enforcing Jim's sick leave. Ellison, Starsky, and Hutch had turned Jim's desk into a command post, reviewing DMV results on dark vans in Oregon and the material on Eldon Garrison faxed to them from Starsky and Hutchinson's contact at the FBI. They had shown up at dawn, not having given up work on the case until late the previous night.

Professor Eldon Garrison, Ph.D., "retired" from the Criminology Department at Maddison College in Tacoma almost two years earlier. The small, private college catered to a wealthy segment of the population with inflated tuition prices, posh dormitories, historic buildings, a picturesque tree-shaded campus, and a number of highly distinguished, oft-published academics among their faculty. Garrison's highly controversial and frankly unsettling theories had attracted the type of attention Maddison's administration didn't want. Rumors abounded that his retirement was not entirely voluntary. The only people who appeared upset by this turn of events was a small group of graduate students who worked directly with Garrison either as teaching assistants or consulted with him on their master's theses. Apparently the administration had received letters of protest to the way the professor was being treated, and two students even left the graduate program over it.

The last known address for Garrison was an apartment in Tacoma. He did not own a dark-colored van, or any sort of van at all, but rather an aging BMW sedan. He had no criminal record. He had no living family. His elderly mother passed away two years earlier.

"I'd like to know more about the two students who were so upset about his 'retirement' that they left," Jim said. "That kind of devotion...maybe those are his accomplices."

"I think we need to make a trip up to Tacoma to check some of this out," Hutch said. "You feel up to that, Jim?"

"I'm fine. I just want to find Blair."

"Let's go then. I'll go tell Simon," Starsky said, heading for the captain's office. As he was leaving, a young officer from the reception desk downstairs approached Jim.

"A messenger left this for you, Detective," he said, handing Jim the envelope.

"Hold it," he said, stopping the young man from leaving. "How long ago was this?"

"About an hour ago," he admitted, looking a bit uneasy.

"Terrific. That's how you handle urgent items delivered by messenger services?" Jim snapped.

"I'm sorry, sir. I was the only one on duty, and we had quite a few people coming in."

"Which messenger service?" Hutch asked.

"She had on a pair of jeans and a green shirt, and a green cap. I didn't see a company name on her clothes."

"What did this woman look like?" Jim asked.

"She had yellow blonde hair in a pony tail. That's what I noticed first--it was really blonde, and it looked like she had a lot of it. The pony tail went halfway down her back. She was average height, average weight. Pretty face. Blue eyes. I guess she was about twenty-five or so if I had to guess."

"What's going on?" Starsky joined them.

"Letter from an unknown messenger service," Jim said, putting on a pair of latex gloves before slitting the envelope with a letter opener and carefully removing the piece of lined paper inside. It had been torn out of a spiral notebook. "It's Blair's handwriting," Jim said, sinking into his chair. Starsky was behind his chair in an instant, Hutch on the other side, both men reading over his shoulder.

"What's your name?" Hutch asked the nervous-looking young officer.

"Murphy. Paul Murphy," he responded.

"Paul, we need you to call all the messenger services in town and describe the woman who delivered this, and find out if they have any such courier. Also, find out what color their uniforms are, and ask if they know of any company that sends their couriers out in green clothing without logos on it. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. But what about the front desk?"

"This is a kidnaping case that is possibly tied in to a double homicide. Go sit at that empty desk and get to work. We'll call downstairs," Hutch added.

"Yes, sir," Murphy replied, hurrying to the empty desk to begin his assigned work.

"You know Blair is trying to say something with all this mumbo-jumbo about deadlines?" Starsky said, sitting next to Jim at the desk.

"There's no Dr. Van Buren, and he never mentioned any deadlines to me before this." Jim rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Maybe the 'van' is what we're supposed to pick up on."

"Blair never says he's feeling blue, either," Jim said, and Starsky wrote that down as well.

"Now we have 'blue van'. Sound familiar?"

"What's all this other stuff about South America and the rainforests mean?" Hutch asked, pulling up a chair himself now, intrigued with the puzzle.

"The van had Oregon plates," Jim said. "That's south of here."

"So far, he's told us what we already knew," Starsky said, leaning back, frustrated.

"He couldn't know that," Jim retorted.

"I'm not blaming Blair, Jim. I just mean we're not getting anywhere with this."

"He went to a lot of trouble to concoct this Van Buren thing," Hutch said. "Look at that last line--'You were right about him. He's obsessed with his work.' Who else do we know who's obsessed with his work, that we just talked to Blair about?"

"Shit. Garrison," Starsky said, looking horrified. "If he's with him..." Starsky swallowed, "and he's still alive, he'd probably be better off if--"

"Don't even say that. Blair says here that he's all right, and that his captor hasn't hurt him. Why would he let Blair write a letter if he were going to kill him and use him as another one of his sick displays?"

"He's a psycho. Who knows?" Starsky put his glasses back on and focused on the note. "Let's take this whole Van Buren thing one word at a time. "I doubt the 'please call' means much. Obviously we know he needs help. How about the 'remote chance' phrase?"

"You don't suppose the extension on his deadline has something to do with some time frame when Garrison plans to execute him?" Jim asked, his face seeming to lose all its color.

"I'm sorry to say that's a good interpretation, in my opinion," Hutch said. "But it's by no means the only one."

"Then give me another one, because I really want to hear one right now," Jim said, taking in a deep breath. His mind insanely fixated on Blair throwing the folder of wedding plans out the window of the truck, and of his profile as he sat silently in the truck, and of the hurt in his voice...

"Jim? Stay with us," Starsky said, touching his shoulder.

"Yeah, right, I'm fine."

"Sure you are. You look great," Hutch said, chuckling. "Well, maybe we're focusing on the wrong words. Blair may not have had a lot of time to craft this, and he probably isn't feeling all that well. Besides, he had to say it in such a way that it wouldn't raise any flags with his captor. If it's Garrison, we know he's dealing with a smart nut, even if he is a psycho. How about the word 'remote'--so far, Blair's told us about the van and that he's south of here. Maybe it's somewhere remote, which could tie into this nonsense about the rainforest. There's a lot of woods in Oregon and Washington State."

"Good thought, partner," Starsky said, nodding. "Or he could be just rambling so you'll know he's not talking about anything real, and that you'll pick up on the Garrison clue."

"Blair's pretty precise. I think he's probably trying to tell us something. I just don't want to think the deadline has something to do with Garrison," Jim said.

"We'll fax a copy of this note over to Mike French. He might have some ideas," Starsky said.

"Another Fed?"

"They're not all bad, though I can't believe I'm saying that," Hutch said.

"Wait, I wanna get Dobey on the speaker phone so he can hear this, too."

"Smart ass," Hutch shot back, smiling. "We also better get this down to the lab before we spend much more time breathing on it," he added. Other than the desk officer, only Jim had touched it, and he'd done so with gloves.

********

Two of the pills in the supply Garrison had left him gave Blair a peaceful night's sleep. Despite his bizarre circumstances, he was exhausted, and his head pounded when he exerted himself much, so curling up in the comfortable bed and slipping into a drug-induced sleep was all that refreshed him. The last time he'd looked at the antique clock on the wall of the bedroom, it was ten o'clock at night. Now, the sun streamed in the window and the clock was almost around to the ten o'clock mark again.

"Maybe I was only supposed to take one of those pills," Blair said aloud, his own voice sounding loud in the silence of what he figured was an empty house. Still, he couldn't trust that Garrison was truly gone. Relinquishing the comfort of the bed and disturbing the ever-present pain in his head, Blair got up, swayed a little, then made his way to the door of the bedroom. He knocked.

"Professor Garrison? Uh, I'm really getting hungry in here," he called out. No reply. Then he glanced at the dresser and saw a tray there with an array of non-perishable foods. It wasn't exactly a feast, but it would keep him from discomfort during the day. There was a bag of tuna, a jar of peanut butter, four slices of bread, three bottles of spring water, a large granola bar, and a package of oatmeal raisin cookies. Also on the tray was a note.

"Blair,

I'll deliver your letter. My errands will take most of the day. I should be back before dark. I hope the food is adequate.

Eldon"

"Swell. I always wanted to be on a first-name basis with a serial killer," Blair grumbled, tossing the note aside. "Asshole. I hope the dogs get you. If there even are any fucking dogs, you lying headcase."

Feeling this was his only chance to work on an escape attempt, Blair assessed his options. The window grating was secure. There was no moving it, and he had nothing in the room, or the bathroom, strong enough to cut it. The door lock was a lost cause, because he'd heard the sliding locks moving into place. Garrison wasn't lying about those. He had nothing forceful enough to chop through the door, and the pain in his head would probably stop him from doing anything that strenuous.

But there was always the possibility of removing the hinges. With those types of locks, he might not be able to get the door open enough to get out, but it was worth a try. He went into the bathroom and looked through the drawers next to the sink. Finally, he found an old metal comb, and upon testing it, found it very resistant to bending.

Returning to the bedroom, he dressed in his own jeans, two pairs of socks, two t-shirts, and his blue sweater. If he ended up truly hiking through the woods, he would need something to keep him warm. He would try to steal a coat from somewhere else in the house, but there was every possibility that Garrison wouldn't leave anything worthwhile--like a coat or shoes--out where Blair could find them. Still, Garrison didn't expect him to make a break for it, either.

He looked through the dresser, delighted to find a well-worn ladies handbag in one of the bottom drawers. It had a shoulder strap, which looked long enough to put over his head and shoulder and carry like a supply bag. Finding the inside empty, he packed the bread, tuna, and a bottle of spring water inside, barely zipping the top over the contents. If he ended up stuck out in the woods for a while, he didn't want to get too weak from hunger, or be unable to take any pain pills, which he quickly added to the purse, in the front zipper compartment. It fleetingly crossed his mind that women had it made, able to walk around with one of these things all the time just to go out for the day. You could pack for a nature hike in the purses most women took to the mall.

Dressed and with supplies packed, he began working on easing the pins out of the hinges. They didn't move easily; it was a good bet they'd been in place for quite a few years. Still, after several minutes of diligent work, the bottom pin moved up a bit, and he used the metal comb to force it up the rest of the way until he could remove it. He stopped and rested his head against the cool wood, cursing the pain throughout his body from the impact of the accident, and the ever-present throbbing in his head. Maybe this attempt was insane anyway. If any part of what Garrison said was true, he probably couldn't make it to the road. Of course, even if there were mad dogs somewhere in the woods, maybe God would have mercy on him and send them barking in another direction than the path to the road. In any event, he couldn't reconcile himself to *not* making at least an attempt to get away.

After nearly thirty minutes of patient prodding, he had both hinges ready to separate. He forced his fingers under the bottom of the door, curling them around the wood, having the absurd but disconcerting notion that Garrison would be standing on the other side of the door when he was finished, laughing at his attempt. Still, he gave the door a yank, and it dislodged from its hinges. The gap between door and doorframe was very narrow, and Blair wasn't sure either he or his supply bag would make it through. Well, the bag he could do without in a pinch.

He grabbed it, and started easing himself through the small space. It was tight, and nearly impossible, but after a couple minutes of rocking back and forth, he found himself on the other side. Only the strap of his bag would fit, so he reached into the room and took the supplies out of it, bringing them out one by one, then pulled the soft purse through the gap. He refilled the bag and looked around him.

The house was very homey and nicely decorated and furnished. It was not some run-down hideout in the woods. It was obvious this was a nice home that had been well-kept through most of its history. That made him doubt the wild dog story even more. Why would any respectable people, including a woman, obviously, based on what he'd found in the bedroom and bathroom, live in such a dangerous place?

He was on the first floor, and the room where he'd been kept opened into a short hallway that led to the living room. In the living room was an open staircase leading to a second floor, and at the foot of that was a closet. Hoping that would contain coats, Blair hurried to it and opened the door. Inside was a man's dress topcoat, and thankfully, a short jacket. The topcoat would be warmer, but totally impractical if he had to do any climbing. He pulled on the jacket, which was obviously cut for a man Garrison's height. The too-long sleeves and slightly longer length would give him extra warmth.

He opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. There was a weedy, overgrown lawn before him, and beyond that, lots of trees. He went back into the house and searched for a telephone on the first floor. He was not surprised to find the one on the wall in the kitchen was dead. He did procure a small butcher knife to add to his survival pack, as well as a flashlight that he found in one of the drawers. It was casting a strong beam now, so he had to assume it would continue to do so. He had no time to search for extra batteries. He found matches and candles, which he jammed in what little space was left in the shoulder bag, which he didn't bother to zip anymore. The flashlight was too large, but he felt it was vital in case he was stranded in the dark. His hope was to walk closely parallel to the access used by cars, but he had to be far enough off the road not to be immediately spotted when Garrison returned. And he had to be able to run into the woods and find cover if the irate professor began searching for him.

Before leaving the house, he remembered an article he'd read once about a young woman who was kidnaped and ultimately murdered. She left a barrette at the house where her attacker took her, and even though she didn't survive, that piece of evidence cinched the case for the police.

He had no barrettes, not even a hair tie, but he knew one thing that would trigger Jim's senses--something with his scent on it, and something bearing his DNA that could be tested in a lab. He took the handkerchief out of his pocket, and feeling a little ridiculous, thrust it into his pants, rubbing it over his cock and balls before pulling it back out. Then he spit into it twice and blended the saliva into the fabric. He took the handkerchief and tucked it between the refrigerator and the cupboard beside it. Jim would pick up his scent and find it, and the DNA would link it. If he didn't survive this, the cops would damn well know he'd been here.

Resigned he'd done all he could at the house and feeling loitering was pushing his luck, he hurried through the house and out the front door, pulling it shut behind him.

********

The apartment complex in Tacoma where Eldon Garrison lived was a neat, tidy, but unpretentious three-story brick building with a black roof and black shutters on the windows. A single long carport sheltered the residents' cars, and an aging black BMW sedan was among them. The plate matched Garrison's, provided by the DMV.

"Let's go have a talk with the good doctor," Starsky said, putting their car in park and cutting the engine. They'd spoken to the Tacoma PD, and had their blessing on the investigation as well as their offer to help if back-up was needed.

They walked up to the door, and with no sign of a way to ring the apartments, tried the knob. It was unlocked.

"Good to know your apartment complex is secure," Hutch said, smiling and shaking his head.

"Garrison's in 2C," Jim said as they began climbing the stairs. It was a nice enough building, with reasonably new carpeting on the floors and an attractive modern hanging light fixture near the stairs. It was quiet, with only the occasional sound of someone opening or closing a door, and a slight sound of television or radio coming from a couple of apartments. When they arrived at the professor's door, Jim knocked assertively. He didn't announce they were with the police. No need to panic the guy and make him bolt. Surprisingly, as he was about to knock the second time, the door opened, and a tall man with graying brown hair, a mustache and a goatee stood before them.

"May I help you?" he asked, looking a bit confused at the group of three men outside his door.

"We're with the Cascade Police, Dr. Garrison," Jim said, flashing his ID. "I'm Detective Ellison, this is Agent Hutchinson and Agent Starsky, on loan to us from a Federal task force. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Sounds very official. Of course, please come in." Garrison backed away, motioning them inside before closing the door.

It was all a professor's apartment should be: the living room lined with bookshelves that ran from the floor to the ceiling, overflowing, scholarly periodicals in stacks everywhere they turned, well-worn but comfortable brown leather furniture, and a myriad of newspapers surrounding a single aging recliner. A small, twenty-year-old television sat on a stand opposite the chair.

"Sorry about the mess. I get involved in my research and I don't have much of an eye for housekeeping. Have a seat, please, gentlemen. I have a pot of coffee on in the kitchen if you'd like some."

"No, thank you," Jim responded, and Starsky and Hutch also made dismissive gestures. As all the men found seats, the professor in what was obviously his favorite chair, Jim continued. "I'm sure you've probably read about the murder of Ethan Nichols in Cascade last week."

"Yes, of course. It would be a bit hard to avoid the news of that killing. I wondered how long it would be before the police would come calling."

"Why would you wonder that, sir?" Hutch asked.

"Given my field of research, and my history with Mr. Nichols. The man destroyed what little credibility my colleagues hadn't already assailed. I wasn't fond of him, everyone who knows me, knows that, and I advocate the reinstatement of ancient forms of execution. Frankly, I'm surprised it took you this long to come calling."

"Is there anything you'd like to tell us about the murder?" Starsky prodded.

"Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, but if you mean a confession, no, I'm not giving you one of those. Despising someone isn't proof of killing them. Furthermore, while I'm flattered by the superhuman strength you obviously attribute to me, how would I get him up there? I understand it was a heavy cross, a large Christ figure, and, obviously, a fully grown man. I do try to visit the gym a couple times per week, but I couldn't move all that alone."

"Not alone, no," Jim said. "With help, perhaps."

"Do you recall your whereabouts the night of the murder?" Starsky asked.

"I was tutoring a graduate student. I can provide you her name and number if you like."

"That would be helpful," Starsky responded, making a note in his notebook. "I thought you were retired, Professor?"

"Not voluntarily. Besides, some of my former students still come to me for tutoring or advice on their graduate research. I enjoy working with them very much."

"Were any of these students advocates of your more controversial theories?" Hutch asked.

"A few of them. You see, Agent...Starsky, was it?"

"He's Starsky, I'm Hutchinson," Hutch said, gesturing at his partner.

"I'm sorry. Agent Hutchinson, what I suggested was politically incorrect, and abhorrent to those criminologists who believe that criminals have the same rights the rest of us do, and should be treated gently. There are some scholars who regarded my work with interest, and some students who believed in my theories regarding corporal punishment of offenders, minor mutilation, and public execution by horrifying methods. What good is lining people up to watch someone receive an injection and fall asleep? How does that shock them out of criminal behavior? What purpose does it serve at all? None. If capital punishment is to yield any sort of reward to the penal system, and to the society, it has to horrify potential offenders enough to be deterrent. Our current methods aren't producing that result."

"We'd like to talk to your students, and also to any of your colleagues who might be favorable to your theories. We have a very dangerous person out there who is killing people who are not criminals, and any assistance you can give us will be appreciated," Jim said. The professor seemed to evaluate his honesty a moment, and apparently his poker-face passed muster, because the man nodded.

"I'll be happy to provide you the names of my students who either worked on the research with me, or have expressed a serious interest in it. Most of my colleagues won't talk to you about this, and if they do, they'll deny they ever supported it. Nichols' article took care of that." Garrison stood and went to a small roll-top desk against the far wall of the room. "I can't quite get computerized. I have one in my spare room, but I still keep most of my student records on paper."

"There *is* one more thing we need to ask you," Starsky said as the other man sat at his desk and began copying down names and contact information.

"Yes?" He paused, looking back at them.

"Your whereabouts for the past 48 hours," Starsky said.

"Has there been another killing?"

"No, but there's been a kidnaping. My son, and Detective Ellison's partner, Blair Sandburg, is missing."

"Your son is Detective Ellison's partner? Well, that explains how he managed to get the FBI involved in this case so quickly."

"You didn't answer my question," Starsky persisted.

"I'm sorry to hear he's missing. Let me think, now." Garrison frowned, crinkling his brow. "I was home, mostly. I did go out for take-outs, but I doubt the fast food restaurant girl at the drive thru window is going to remember me."

"Did anyone else see you during that time?" Jim asked.

"Mrs. Henessey in 2E. I do her grocery shopping for her. She's over ninety years old, no family living locally. Very nice woman."

"Do you mind if we take a look around the apartment?" Jim asked.

"I'd prefer you have a warrant for that, Detective."

"Why? If you have nothing to hide, why would it matter?"

"Because I value my privacy, and I've seen how police leave homes after they search them. No thank you. If you have a warrant, you may be assured of my full cooperation."

"Fair enough," Hutch concluded. "Starsk, you want to go talk to Mrs. Henessey? You have a way with little old ladies," Hutch added.

"2E, you said?"

"Yes, that's right," Garrison replied, not looking up from his writing. Starsky left the apartment.

Ruth Henessey was a tiny, fragile-looking little woman in a flowered house dress and a heavy white sweater. She eyed Starsky with some suspicion at first, but then carefully examined his identification and nodded her approval.

"Mrs. Henessey, I wonder if you could tell me when the last time you saw Professor Garrison was?"

"Yesterday. He brought my groceries. He's such a nice man."

"What time was that?"

"Before noon. I was watching 'The Price Is Right.'"

"That's a great show, isn't it?" Starsky said, smiling.

"I can't even tell you how many times I've almost guessed the exact amount!" she said, beaming. "You like game shows?"

"Sure. I have more time to watch them now that I'm semi-retired."

"A young man like you, retired?"

"I'm not so young anymore, ma'am," Starsky said, chuckling. "But thanks."

"You look pretty young to me. My son's older than you are--he sure looks older." She leaned forward, as if she were sharing a deep confidence. "He's all bald on top, and he combs his hair over it from the side. It looks terrible. I told him to shave it all off and be done with it," she concluded, making a dismissive gesture with her hand.

"Kind of like the professor, huh?" Starsky said, referring to Garrison's own low side part.

"Somewhat, yes," she said, looking down the hall to be sure they weren't going to be overheard by her neighbor.

"Did you talk with him yesterday, when he dropped off the groceries?"

"Yes. Well, he called to me from the other side of the door. He left the bags there and said he was late for an appointment."

"Did you actually see him at all?"

"No, no I guess I didn't, now that you mention it."

"Are you positive it was his voice?"

"Oh, Heavens, who else would it be, bringing me groceries?"

"Assuming for a minute someone else might have brought them. Did you recognize his voice for sure?"

"Well, the TV was on, and I'm a bit hard of hearing... No, I don't suppose I could be positive."

"Thank you, Mrs. Henessey."

"Is he in some kind of trouble?" she asked, looking worried.

"We're still just doing some routine investigating." Starsky paused, considering the old lady's solitary situation. "For now, I'll just tell him you remembered him stopping by. That sound okay?" She smiled, relieved.

"Thank you, officer. I'd feel better if you said that."

"Then it's settled. Thank you, Mrs. Henessey. You've been a big help. Tell me, if we did need you to testify sometime, would you be willing to do that?"

"I'll do my duty as a citizen," she said, nodding.

"That's all we can ask. You have a good day now."

********

Once they were in the car, Starsky immediately asked Jim if he thought the professor was lying.

"Like a rug," Jim responded.

"He was lying about the old lady. At least, I think he was. She never actually saw him. He left the stuff outside her door and called to her. That could have been anybody--any male. She had the TV on and her hearing's not too great."

"We all agree he's lying, but now we have to prove it," Hutch said, sighing. "You didn't detect any traces of Blair's presence in there, did you? No scent or anything?"

"If I had, I would have torn that place--and him--apart, procedure be damned. But I didn't."

"Okay, let's try tracking down any property this guy owns, see if any of it's rural. Then we need to hunt down these students," Starsky said.

"He probably hasn't given us the key names--you know, the ones who were with him when he took Blair out of the hospital," Hutch retorted.

"Maybe one of these kids would know them, or know of them," Jim suggested.

"Well, it's all we've got. But let's check out that property ownership thing. If we feel confident this guy's the one, we need to know if he owns any property where he could be holding Blair."

********

One thing Garrison hadn't lied about was the fact it that it was a long walk from the house to the road. Blair had walked for close to an hour now, parallel to the two tire tracks that led back to the house from the main road. He was close enough to see the path, but hidden enough to completely disappear should he encounter a car. His body ached, and his head pounded ominously. It was too much to hope that anyone would find him out here. He had to get back to civilization...at least to the road.

He heard barking in the distance, and he froze. There was no sign of another house nearby, and he'd seen no evidence Garrison owned a dog. That left one explanation: the pack of wild dogs Garrison had mentioned were not a scare tactic, but a reality. He fought the threat of tears, knowing it was the pain from the massive headache and the fear and the achiness of his body that were making him feel as if he would lose his grip. But wild dogs? How could he fight that?

His introspection was cut short when he saw a shadowy, dark form appear at the crest of a hill in the distance. Before long, two more similar shapes joined it. Knowing his time to act was short, he spotted a tree with a couple of low branches, and quickly began climbing, going high enough into the big old tree that the dogs, even if they were motivated, couldn't reach him. He clutched at the trunk, wrapping an arm around it as he sat on a high branch, resting his aching head against the rough bark. He felt dizzy now, and the expanse of green beneath him and all around him seemed to spin and tilt. The barking grew louder as a group of five sturdily built black dogs bounded over the hill and clustered around the base of the tree. One by one, they would leap up, frustrated, as they discovered their prey was out of reach.

Blair hugged the trunk of the old tree the way a child would cling to his mother in complete, cold terror. He wasn't sure what he feared more--the dogs at the base of the tree with their bared white teeth, saliva snapping off their jowls as they barked furiously, or the car that was now making its way down the narrow path, its occupant bound to hear the commotion of the hungry hounds.

The car stopped, and the door opened and closed. Through the foliage, Blair couldn't see what kind of car it was, or who the occupant was. If it was help, he prayed they'd know enough to steer clear of the dogs. His heart plummeted as he saw the thinly-haired head of Garrison from an aerial view, tossing large hunks of raw meat a good distance from the tree. The dogs took off merrily, having forgotten their prey in the tree. The raw meat was on the ground, and the eating was easy and good.

"You'd best come down from there right away. The meat won't last forever." Garrison stood at the base of the tree now, and it was a draw whether Blair would have preferred to see him there or the dogs. "Come on, Blair. I'm not coming up after you, but I will leave you here to deal with the dogs if you don't come down now. And if you did manage to come down safely later," he pulled a gun out of his jacket pocket, "I'd kill you. This is your last chance to make it out of that tree alive. Move."

Blair thought briefly of claiming he was too dizzy and unsteady to make the downward trip safely, which wasn't a complete lie, but there was no good ending for his situation. Staying in the tree was not an option. He started down, clutching at the tree, the woods seeming to spin around him. His head pounded so hard that he finally paused and rested his forehead against the tree. Tears burned at the backs of his closed eyelids.

"Come on, Blair. What goes up must come down. One way or another."

//Jim, please, find me,// Blair thought miserably, muffling a sob that tried to escape. He wasn't going to give Garrison the satisfaction of sniveling and crying in front of him. He eased himself down the rest of the way, and when his feet were on the ground, Garrison grabbed the back of his collar and hauled him along at a pace quicker than he felt he could really walk, but with the gun in Garrison's other hand, he didn't raise any objections. He merely stumbled and struggled to keep up.

"Get in the car." Garrison waited until he was in the passenger seat and then slammed the door, keeping the gun aimed on Blair as he walked around the car and got in himself. "You know, Blair, I had hoped you would know enough not to do something this hare-brained. You're a scholar, not a survivalist."

"My not making it has nothing to do with survival skills. It has to do with wild dogs," Blair shot back, angry.

"I told you they were out there, didn't I? Part of good survival skills is knowing when you don't stand a chance. I gave you good accommodations, pain pills, clothes, food, allowed you to write a letter--and this is how you repay me. Well, Blair, unfortunately, since you won't work with me in the manner I'd hoped, you're going to have to learn my theory the hard way."

"I figured it was only a matter of time before you killed me anyway," Blair said, resigned.

"Killed you? What possible purpose would that serve? I'm not going to kill you, Blair. But I *am* going to punish you. And when I'm finished, I think you'll be sorry for your crime, and I also think you'll see how effective my methods would be in deterring future criminal behavior."

"My *crime*? All I did was try to get away from you, because you kidnaped me. That doesn't make me the criminal here."

"Save your breath, Blair. I asked one thing of you--that you stay put and not try to escape. You failed to obey that single request. You must be corrected, and in such a way that it makes an impression on you not to repeat your behavior."

********

Jeannie Blumenau was a petite woman with short, curly dark hair and small, wire-framed glasses. Her makeup and jewelry leaned heavily toward Goth, her lipstick and nail polish nearly as dark as her hair. She wore a black, long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans, and sported piercings in her nose and eyebrow. She was an honor student at Maddison, an undergraduate completing an honors thesis on crime and punishment in ancient Rome. Needless to say, one of her key advisors, though unofficial due to his exiled status, was Eldon Garrison. She was more than happy to talk to the three detectives in her cramped student apartment a short walk from the campus.

"I figured the police would be focusing on someone like Professor Garrison--especially when I saw who the victim was."

"You think that's a mistake? Focusing on the professor?" Starsky asked.

"There's a big difference between theory and practice," she said, setting a plate of nut bread on the coffee table between them. "I just baked that this morning, and I won't eat it all, so please, dig in. You want coffee?" she offered. Since they hadn't eaten in a while, and the little apartment was rich with the scent of baked goods and coffee, all three men accepted. She soon set the pot of coffee on the table next to the bread and handed them each a cup. When they all had coffee and were sampling the bread, she continued. "I mean, I support capital punishment, but I wouldn't want to take a job as the state's executioner or anything. I like Marilyn Manson, but I never had the urge to go kill my parents or wear one blue contact lens. Professor Garrison has some weird ideas, but he's a nice guy. I don't think he'd ever kill anybody."

"Do you know any of the other students who work with the professor?" Jim asked. In addition to being a good cook, Jeanine didn't strike any of them as being particularly psychotic, or obsessively devoted to Garrison.

"Not very well, but I've met a few of them. Now a couple of them are little weird."

"Weird how?" Hutch asked.

"Weird...creepy. The one guy asked me out once. He was just...I don't know. He gave me the creeps, that's all. I can't explain it. Like he was a little too into the gory details of the executions, more so than the whole theory behind them."

"Is that how you define the difference among Garrison's students?" Starsky asked.

"Sort of. The details are really disgusting if you get into them, but when you think about it, if execution was a really horrible, unimaginable, disgusting thing, I think it might deter people from certain crimes. But I don't want to read over and over again the 'how to' methods of disemboweling someone."

"And this guy does?" Jim prodded.

"I could picture him practicing on stray animals or something," she said. "He's just...weird. It's in his eyes, and the only thing that lights him up is talking about that stuff. I guess he thought because I wore black lipstick and listened to Goth that I had some kind of death obsession and we'd make a cute couple." She rolled her eyes.

"What's his name?" Hutch asked.

"Wes. Wes...something." She frowned. "Wes DuPont. I knew it was something French. He lives around here in one of the houses that have student apartments. He looks really normal, but thinks really weird. He's about average for height and build, and he's got brown hair and brown eyes, and he's not bad looking. Kind of cute, until he opens his mouth and you realize he's a sick puppy."

"You could picture Wes putting some of the good doctor's theories into action?" Jim asked.

"Oh, yeah. Big time. Just...if you talk to him, please don't tell him you heard it from me. I meant it when I said he gave me the creeps. He was mad enough when I turned him down."

"We shouldn't need to bring your name into it at this point, Jeanine. We might need you to testify down the road, if it came to that," Starsky said.

"I'm a CJ major. Of course I'll testify. The system only works if you use it, right?"

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Hutch responded, smiling.

********

A trip to the Maddison College Registrar got them Wes DuPont's local address, as well as the address of his parents in Oregon. The connection to that state had Jim back on the phone to the Cascade PD to run a check on Wes DuPont to find out what kind of vehicle he drove. The DMV responded that it was a dark blue 1992 Chevrolet Econoline van, with Oregon plates.

"Let me talk to Megan Connor in Major Crime," Jim said, nodding toward Starsky and Hutch as they waited to hear what he'd found out. "Megan? Jim. How'd the footage from the hospital security camera turn out?" He paused, listening. "Could you get Serena to do a screen capture of that and e-mail it to me? I can web-access it from the Tacoma PD. Yeah. That'd be great. Thanks, Megan." Jim hung up, smiling. "The tapes from the hospital security camera have a really good face-on shot of Garrison's male accomplice."

"Think we ought to take Wes to the Tacoma PD for a little one-on-one?" Starsky said as they drove toward his local address in the student housing district immediately surrounding the campus.

"Absolutely. I'll call down there and let them know we're coming," Jim said, taking his cell phone back out to make the call.

Wesley DuPont was a second-year graduate student, nearly finished with his master's degree in Criminal Justice. He'd gone straight from his bachelor's to his master's program, and intended to seek his Ph.D. from there. It occurred to Starsky that this would be one more professor trying to teach future cops how to do a job he'd never even *seen* done, let alone done himself.

When they knocked on his door and he opened it, he looked more than a little uneasy at the group of three men on the other side of the threshold.

"Wesley DuPont?" Jim asked, and he nodded. "I'm Detective Ellison, Cascade Police, and this is Agent Starsky and Agent Hutchinson, on special assignment from a federal task force. We need you to come downtown with us to answer a few questions about the murder of Ethan Nichols in Cascade, and the abduction of Blair Sandburg from the Cascade Memorial Hospital."

"What?" he asked, stunned, smiling uneasily. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then we won't have to take up much of your time," Starsky responded, returning the smile. "Come on," he said, motioning to the other man to come out of the apartment.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet. At this point we're asking for your cooperation. If you don't want to give it, we can make it official. It'll look a whole lot better if you cooperate. Besides, if you have nothing to hide and no knowledge of these crimes, what harm can it do?" Hutch asked.

"All right," he said, pulling his door shut behind him as he joined them outside. "But I'm not gonna sit there for some marathon interrogation session."

"How long you sit there is entirely up to you, Mr. DuPont," Jim said, letting their suspect ponder the double meaning of the comment.

"Is that your van?" Starsky asked, spotting the blue van parked among the other tenants' vehicles.

"Yeah, why?"

"You know driving a van around without plates on it is illegal, right?" Hutch asked, noting the absence of the anticipated Oregon plates.

"I haven't been driving it that way. My plates were stolen on campus a couple days ago, so I've been catching a ride with a friend or walking to campus until I have time to get new plates."

Not buying the smoothly delivered lie, they loaded DuPont into the back of the police sedan and headed for the Tacoma PD.

********

Garrison stopped the car in front of a small barn behind the house. He cut the engine and opened the driver's door. Sliding out carefully, he kept the gun on Blair.

"Get out of the car, and don't make any sudden moves. You already know there's no point in trying to escape, and if you run into the woods, you'll be a tasty dessert for the dogs."

Blair got out of the car as ordered, and moved slowly around the front of it.

"Now, keep walking, to the barn." Garrison followed Blair with the gun, and when Blair paused at the closed door, he ordered, "Lift that wood bar and open the door." He waited while Blair followed his orders. Once the door was open, he gave Blair a little shove to get him moving inside. Very little light filtered in through the boards, and a dusting of hay covered the floor. "There's a battery-powered lantern on the wall there. Take it down and turn it on, please. And do it all slowly."

Blair took down the lantern as directed and turned it on, casting an eerie glow in the shadowy corners of the barn. Garrison closed the door, blocking out the daylight.

"Now, strip down to your shorts."

"What?"

"I thought that was fairly straightforward. Strip down to your shorts."

"What are you going to do to me?"

"I told you I was going to punish you. If you're worried that I'm going to rape you, relax. Men don't do a thing a for me. Now do it."

"You're making a very big mistake here, man."

"Really? I'm not the one on the wrong end of the gun. I think I'm doing just fine."

Blair stripped off all the clothing until he was down to his boxers and his socks. Garrison raised an eyebrow.

"It's freezing in here. What's it going to hurt to leave my socks on?"

"Take them off, Blair. This is getting tiresome."

Blair removed the socks, and felt the cold, scratchiness of the hay beneath his bare feet.

"Okay, now go to that post, and fasten your wrists into those manacles," he said, gesturing at a wood post in the middle of the barn that had been outfitted with two manacles that hung from sturdy dark chains. "It's amazing what you can order off the Internet," Garrison said, smiling. "Do it, Blair."

Blair approached the post, and after a moment of hesitation and another look at Garrison and the gun, fastened the manacles in place. Garrison insisted he wasn't going to kill him, and if he could live through whatever was going to be done to him, he still stood a chance of being rescued.

********

Jim opened his e-mail account on a borrowed computer at an empty desk at the Tacoma PD. All three of them nearly held their collective breath until he opened the attached photo file from Serena. They'd left DuPont cooling his heels in an interrogation room, guarded by a uniformed officer.

As the photo loaded, all three men smiled.

"Except for that hokey mustache, that's our boy," Hutch said, pointing at the screen.

"I'm going to talk to the captain about getting us warrants for the van and DuPont's apartment," Jim got up and somewhat laboriously hurried toward the captain's office. Though his injuries were mostly superficial, he felt the after-effects of the accident. He still had a residual headache and all the bruised parts of his body were protesting the lack of rest. His arm hurt, and all he wanted was to get Blair back in one piece so they could both crawl into the loft and heal for a while.

"Excuse me?" Hutch flagged down a young detective hurrying past their borrowed work station. "Is there a good color printer networked to this computer?"

"The big one right over there," she responded, smiling. "It's the default printer for all these computers, so just hit 'print'."

"Thanks," Hutch said, giving her his most charming smile, which didn't seem lost on the young woman, who returned it in kind.

"Settle down, old man," Starsky chided quietly as she went to her own desk, still sparing the occasional glance back at the visiting cop.

"You're just jealous."

"She's half your age, Romeo."

"Some women appreciate a more mature gentleman," Hutch responded, a bit pretentiously.

"Then she ain't gonna go anyplace with you, so keep your eyes to yourself."

"Don't let me interrupt you," Jim said sarcastically as he returned from the printer with the picture in hand. He knew his tone came out harsher than he intended, but even though he understood the banter was keeping the two older men relaxed through the crisis, it still grated on his raw nerves.

"We're as worried about Blair as you are, Jim," Starsky said. "He's my son, the only kid I've got. But if I let myself dwell on that, I'd go in there and beat the shit out of that guy and then ask him where Blair is."

"Yeah, I know. Blair's usually the one who keeps me lightened up a little. I guess we'll all be better off when he's back," Jim said, handing Starsky the photo. "I heard you talking about the printer so I grabbed the photo off it," he said, leading the way to the interrogation room.

Starsky barged into the room first and slapped the photo on the table and grabbed DuPont's shirtfront, pulling him forward until his nose was nearly on it.

"We're going to cut right to the chase here. Kidnaping is a federal offense and carries up to a life prison sentence. That's not even addressing murder, which can land you on death row, especially if a little conspiracy is thrown in for good measure. Now, any ideas where he might be?"

"I'll sue this police department for police brutality if you don't take your hands off me," DuPont said, though his voice had a slight waver to it.

"Save your time, asshole. I'm retired, so knock yourself out. The only thing I am right now is Blair Sandburg's father, and you're going to tell me where my son is, or I'm gonna do things to you that even your twisted college professor pal hasn't heard of yet." Starsky let go and shoved at the same time, causing DuPont to struggle to keep his chair upright, barely succeeding. "That photo is from the hospital security camera. It shows you, and it shows the back end of your van, and we have eyewitnesses who can confirm what's on the tape. So you've got one worthwhile option here, and that's to start talking."

"I didn't kill anyone," DuPont said. "It was all over by the time I got involved. The killings, I mean. I just...I helped...set things up afterwards."

"What about Blair Sandburg? Where is he?" Jim insisted.

"Look, that was *not* my idea. Garrison read about him in the newspaper, and he thought he'd be able to help him get credibility with the cops, because he was an academic who rode with cops. He's not planning on killing him. I swear. I never would have helped if he was."

"You just set up disembowelings and crucifixions," Hutch said, taking notes in his usual calm manner.

"Do you know where my son is?" Starsky leaned on the table, encroaching on DuPont's personal space again.

"He's at my grandmother's farm just outside of town."

"He's not in Oregon?" Hutch asked.

"No, the Oregon plates have nothing to do with anything, except that my permanent address is still in Oregon."

"Give us directions, and make 'em good ones," Starsky said, shoving a pad and pencil in front of the suspect.

"I could refuse to do anything for you, you know."

"You could," Jim responded. "But the only shot you've got at not spending your entire life behind bars is if Sandburg lives through this and you help make that happen, and you give us the information you have on the Nichols killing, and the murder of the professor up in Seattle."

DuPont sighed. Reluctantly, he started writing out directions.

********

"Now, this is a basket of hot coals, Blair," Garrison explained as he moved a slatted metal container, shaped more like a giant urn, into Blair's line of vision. "Well, it's just a basket of coals right now, but they'll heat up as soon as I light them." He took a can of lighter fluid from the shelf on the wall and squirted it liberally on the coals before striking a match and lighting them. Soon, many of them were glowing nearly red with the heat, sparks flying as he stoked them with an ominous-looking metal object. "And this, Blair, is a branding iron," he said, holding it up a moment. It was smoldering a bit now from the heat. "Now that the coals are burning, I'll put this down into the heat for a while, let it get literally red hot."

"You're sick," Blair spat out angrily.

"If you continue to insult me, you're going to earn yourself a second branding, so you better keep still. I think one will be more than enough." He strolled around behind Blair, and Blair could feel his heart thundering in his chest, sweat breaking out all over his body despite the fact he was shivering from the cold temperature. His whole body jerked when Garrison's finger traced an area of flesh over his left shoulder blade. "You need to calm down a bit, Blair. That was just my finger. Imagine how you'll jump when I press that hot iron into your flesh?"

"I didn't do anything to you, Garrison. Maybe you can tell yourself that what you did to Tony Edwards and Ethan Nichols was justice for them doing you wrong, but I never did anything to you. This is just torture for torture's sake. I can't get away from you, and you can tie me up to keep me from trying another escape attempt. This is just cruelty for the sake of it, and that's why no one's listening to your theories. Because they're unnecessarily cruel."

"Ah, but you see, if you experience one of these punishments first hand, I think you'll be my greatest proponent. What criminal would engage in petty theft if he had to endure a branding for it? Would the $25 out of the cash register of a convenience store be worth losing a finger? Would raping a woman be worth losing both testicles?"

"You're talking about criminals, Garrison. I'm not a criminal. You can't justify torturing me. Not to me, not to anyone else, and not to the academic community. You're going to end up discrediting yourself by doing this."

"I'll take that chance. You know, maybe I should just brand your behind, what do you think?" he asked, swatting Blair's bottom. "Then every time you stick it up in the air for Ellison, he'll think of me, too."

********

"Son of a bitch, can't this thing move any faster," Starsky cursed, the accelerator rammed to the floor in the borrowed police sedan.

"We're already traveling at death speed, Starsk. Short of flying, I think you're doing all that can be done."

"We've gotta get there," Starsky said, determined.

"That was the stand of trees!" Jim shouted, and Starsky jammed on the brakes. Fortunately, they were alone on the country road, so when the car stopped, skidded, then spun around in the opposite direction, no other motorists were nearby. Starsky raced back toward the stand of trees and barely kept the car within the narrow confines of the path that led back to the small dairy farm, now deserted, that had belonged to DuPont's grandparents, before his grandmother's death earlier that year. Tied up in an estate and contested by bickering relatives, the house had stood empty, and probably would for some time.

"You think we should walk in the final stretch?" Hutch asked.

"I think I'll pass on the wild dogs, if you don't mind. DuPont said they were a problem," Starsky responded. "Besides, I don't wanna lose that much time."

"I was worried about tipping him off with the sound of a car approaching. It's pretty quiet out here," Hutch said.

"I think we better take a chance on it. The sooner we get to Blair, the better," Jim concurred.

********

"Almost ready," Garrison said, using a towel around his hand to grasp the handle of the iron. Blair pressed his face against the wood of the post, angry that tears were coming despite his best efforts to control them.

"Don't do this to me. You're making a mistake, Garrison," he managed.

"You made the mistake, Blair, and now you have to pay for it. Now picture all the terror you feel right now, being felt by a criminal being punished for a crime. Do you think he'll go out and do it again? I don't." Garrison raised the iron out of the basket of coals, and admired the glowing orange-red end of it. "Don't try to fight the pain. Give in to it. Hold onto the chains, that may help a bit."

"No!!!" Blair shouted at the top of his lungs. "Help me! God, somebody, help me!!" he screamed, tears running down his cheeks now as he dissolved into sobs. No one would hear him out here. It was no use. And Garrison was walking around behind him, out of view, with that cursed iron glowing...

********

Starsky brought the car to a stop at the edge of the woods. The three cops got out of the car and froze when there was a faint scream for help from somewhere on the property. To Jim's hearing, Blair's voice was crystal clear, as was the direction it came from.

"The barn!" Jim shouted, starting out on a dead run, drawing his gun, Starsky and Hutch right behind him.

********

"We don't want your hair to catch on fire, now do we?" Garrison said, pushing Blair's long hair off his back, over his shoulders, making him shiver at the touch and at the utter exposure of his back to the horrors of the iron. "This is for trying to escape when you were told not to. Do you think you'll try to escape again?"

Blair was crying too hard to answer, and it didn't matter what he said anyway. He was going to be tortured and disfigured no matter what his answer.

"Answer me, or you'll be branded twice."

"No," Blair sobbed.

"You won't answer or you won't try to escape?"

"I won't...escape," he conceded miserably, his whole body shaking with his sobs. "Please..."

"Move away from him, Garrison!" Jim's voice came from behind. "Put the iron in the coals and then get your hands where we can see 'em."

"Do it now!" Starsky's voice came from a slightly different angle.

Garrison made the mistake of moving the iron toward Blair.

Blair clutched the post and cringed as several shots rang out in the barn. A momentary silence was followed by a scramble to get the hot poker off the hay-covered floor of the barn, someone's coat smothering a few newborn flames as Hutch put the poker back in the basket, towel still wrapped around its handle.

"I'm here, sweetheart," Jim said, his body pressed against Blair's from behind. "Starsky, can you get these damn things off him? I can't do it with one hand."

"Hey, there, kiddo, you're okay. The cavalry's here," Starsky said, unfastening the manacles. "They just work with a latch. No key," Starsky said.

"Where's Garrison?" Blair managed.

"He's dead, Chief. It's over." Jim caught Blair and knelt on the ground, turning him around and pulling him close. Starsky covered Blair with his jacket and knelt beside them, his hand on Blair's hair.

"Did he hurt you, son?" he asked gently.

"Not yet," Blair said against Jim's shoulder. "I want to go home."

"We will, baby. As soon as we stop at the hospital--"

"I don't want to go there. I'm okay. I just wanna go home."

"There are no wounds we need to document," Starsky said, moved by the anguish in Blair's plea. "Blair, did he feed you, give you water?"

"Yes. Everything was fine until I tried to get away. He was keeping me in a nice room with all the comforts."

"You weren't released from the hospital when you were taken out of there. We need to let the doctor check you over. If nothing's seriously wrong, we'll go home, I promise," Jim said, kissing Blair's forehead. Then he kissed his cheek and his mouth. "God, I love you," he whispered against Blair's hair.

"I've got your clothes here, Blair," Hutch said, approaching the huddled group. "My cell's out of range, so I'm going back to the car to radio the Tacoma and Cascade PD's. I'm not positive whose jurisdiction we're in here," he explained to Starsky, who had accepted Blair's clothes.

"Cascade," Jim said. "Get Simon on the line if you can."

"Will do." Hutch hurried outside to the car while Starsky began putting Blair's socks on him.

"Come on, kiddo. Time to get you dressed before you freeze to death in here." Starsky picked up the jeans next, and Jim helped Blair to stand.

"I'm okay. I'll do it," Blair insisted, and took over the task of dressing himself, with his father and Jim close by. "Which one of you shot him?" he asked, looking over at the corpse, blood oozing out into the straw beneath it.

"We both shot him. Which one of us killed him'll be a ballistics puzzle for the lab to figure out," Jim said.

"Did you have to kill him?" Blair asked, looking up at his father.

"Yeah, we had to kill him, Blair. He wasn't going to put down the poker, and we weren't chancing him burning you."

"He thought if he did that to me, I would understand what he was trying to accomplish with his theories."

"He was sick, Chief. He's not going to do this to anyone else."

"How'd you find me?"

"Your dad brutalized a suspect into talking," Jim said, and Starsky shot him a look. One corner of Jim's mouth lifted in a slight grin.

"I just forcefully questioned him, that's all," Starsky responded, grinning wickedly. "We do owe Serena a night out on the town. She really got us that photo in record time. The jerk we nabbed for questioning was on the hospital security camera from the night they grabbed you at the hospital."

"What is this place?" Blair asked, happy to lean into Jim, under a sheltering arm, as they walked out of the barn.

"Wesley DuPont's grandparents' farm. It's in an estate. Wes DuPont was a grad student, and general nutcase, who helped Garrison with his activities. He swears he didn't do any killing, just some of the follow up work." Jim squeezed Blair's shoulders. "You're sure he didn't do anything else to you?"

"No. I might've scratched myself up a little climbing the tree."

"You were out climbing trees?" Starsky asked, his eyes widening.

"I tried to get away. I pried the hinges open and got out of the locked room he had me in, and I made a run for it. Trouble is, he was telling the truth about there being wild dogs in the woods. I had to climb this old tree...and then Garrison showed up." He paused. "Did you get my letter?"

"We sure did, Chief. You gave us some good clues, confirmed our suspicions that it was Garrison, and let us know about the blue van and about being somewhere wooded."

"Wow, it did work."

"Yeah, it worked all right," Jim said, his voice a little strained as he pulled Blair tighter against him.

********

Hutch gave his statement at the scene, then took Blair to the hospital while Jim and Starsky answered the necessary questions about the shooting to get IA started on their routine investigation. Simon paused at the basket of coals to look at the branding iron, still sticking out of the cooling embers.

"I don't think IA's going to make much trouble over this one. Well, aside from the fact you were supposed to be on sick leave and were tagging along with two semi-retired federal agents on loan to us from a serial killer task force to investigate a case that hadn't even officially been classified as a serial homicide."

"DuPont's a good witness, and he seems inclined to sing like a canary to save his own ass," Starsky said, visibly restless.

"Simon, we'd really like to head to the hospital," Jim said.

"I don't suppose we need to drag this out any longer. Thank God you got here when you did. I can't believe he was actually going to use that thing on Sandburg."

"He was a real psycho, Simon. Really bought into this whole idea of torture and maiming and killing as a good thing for the justice system," Jim stated, sighing.

"In other words, let's just do an about-face and go back a thousand years or so."

"More or less. What's really frightening is that he had accomplices," Starsky said. "And I really want to round up the blonde who delivered Blair's letter, and the 'nurse' he had with him at the hospital."

"Hopefully DuPont'll give her up when we get a chance to question him more thoroughly," Simon said as they walked back to his car.

********

"Well, Blair, your recovery hasn't exactly been taking place under ideal conditions, but you're doing very well," Dr. Farraday said, making a couple of notes on his chart. "I would like to keep you overnight for observation--"

"No way. I want to go home."

"There'll be three of us with him, and Ellison's had some medical training in the Army. Do you think there's any serious danger in him not staying here?" Hutch asked.

"Everything checks out all right. It's not unusual he's having pain. That's normal even in a restful recovery situation. The main thing he needs is rest and something for pain. He can do that at home. My principal reason for suggesting overnight observation was just because of the extreme stress he's been under so soon after the injury."

"I'm not staying," Blair stated, leaving no room for further discussion. "Are Jim and my dad coming here or are we meeting them back at the loft?"

"They're coming here," Hutch said. "Thanks, Doctor. We'll get these meds on the way home and make sure he goes to bed and stays there for a while."

"Just take it easy, Blair. I want to see you for a follow up appointment in a week. Don't worry about that right now. I'll have my office get a hold of you at the home phone number."

"Thanks, Dr. Farraday."

"Let's go get some food into you. We'll ask the nurse at the desk to send Jim and Starsky to the cafeteria when they get here."

"Take my advice," the doctor said, heading for the door of the room. "Avoid the tuna surprise. A group of internists couldn't determine what was in it at lunch."

********

Blair sat at a table in the cafeteria while Hutch made them both salads from the hospital's salad bar and filled two bowls with a hearty-looking chicken noodle soup. After adding two bottles of spring water to the order, he checked out and returned to the table.

"I don't know if I can eat," Blair said, taking a drink of the water right away. His hand shook slightly as he raised the bottle to his mouth.

"Just relax and take your time, Blair. If something looks good, eat a little of it. Part of your headache is probably from hunger, in addition to your injury."

"I just want to go home." Blair pressed his lips together tightly and swallowed. He blinked a couple times. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm just shakier than I thought."

"No apologies necessary." Hutch squeezed Blair's arm. "You're doing just fine. If I had a dime for every time I felt shaky or not quite on top of things after a bad experience, I could have retired a lot sooner."

"My dad wouldn't have let you anyway," Blair said, smiling.

"No, you're right about that. He's never going to be content to be totally retired. I guess that's a good thing."

"You'd like to be?"

"I want to be with Starsky. We're partners for life, in whatever ways that means. If he's working, I'm going to be there with him. I've been with the old fart too long now to trust someone else to cover his ass." Hutch paused, poking at the salad. "I guess I've thought about just being normal retired people who work in their garden and take a lot of trips. Maybe buy a Winnebago or something," he added, chuckling.

"Do you really want Dad driving a Winnebago down the expressway?"

"Dear God, no," Hutch responded, laughing out loud. "Thanks, Blair. I think you just cured my retirement wanderlust." Becoming serious again, he added, "I was hoping for a few years where we didn't have to spend all our time wallowing in the depravities of society. But inasmuch as Starsky could go around and lecture the way I do, he doesn't have much interest in it. To him, it's like talking about what you love instead of doing what you love--and why talk about it when you can do it? Sometimes I think he's still trying to prove that Gunther didn't slow him down. Even though Gunther's been six feet under for decades now."

"I just hope he doesn't stay at it too long. That you both don't." Blair paused. "I really wouldn't be able to handle losing you guys to something stupid that didn't have to happen." Blair sighed. "After my mom died, I really spent a long time trying to come to terms with how pointless her death was, and all the years she was robbed of, and all the time I was robbed of with her. You and my dad..." Blair let the sentence trail off.

"We're careful, Blair. We've been at this a lot of years. We're not out chasing down street punks like we did in the old days."

"Good. Just don't let yourselves get shot for something stupid, okay?"

"Okay," Hutch agreed, smiling and patting Blair's shoulder.

"Hey, Chief," Jim's voice surprised Blair as his partner pulled up a chair close to him and leaned over for a kiss. Right there in the cafeteria. Jim took Blair's hand in his, and Blair held onto it like a lifeline. Starsky took a seat next to his partner.

"Hey, don't I get one'a those?" Starsky said to Hutch, gesturing at Jim and Blair, referring to the kiss.

"I don't know. Ask Jim," Hutch retorted, deadpan.

"Asshole." Starsky leaned over and planted a big, sloppy, noisy kiss on Hutch's cheek.

"God, just like being nailed by a giant carp," he said in mock disgust, wiping his cheek with a napkin. "I think one or two people behind the counter didn't hear that, Starsk."

"Then we better do it again to make sure."

"Let's save that for later. Blair, you ready to head for home?"

"Anybody else hungry?" Blair asked, noticing that Jim was already stealing tomatoes out of his salad.

"We can drive through and get a bucket of chicken or something," Jim said, stealing a cucumber this time.

"Good. Health food again," Blair said, curling his lip.

"I tell you what. I'll go out and pull some weeds for your lunch tomorrow." Jim kissed Blair's temple and slid his good arm around him. "You need to get rested up, because we have a wedding to plan, remember?"

"I thought you said all that was contrived and it wasn't us."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong."

"I didn't die, Jim. You don't have to do this out of some kind of guilt."

"It's not guilt, sweetheart. It's love. And I want us to have a special day so we have an anniversary to celebrate every year. That's always a great excuse to unplug all the phones and stay in bed all day."

"Like we need an excuse to do that. We did that on your last day off anyway."

"Too much information," Hutch said, laughing.

"Don't be such a prude, Hutch. It's not like our sex life has exactly waned since we don't have work schedules to keep up."

"Tell me about it. I've started carrying a tranquilizer gun around the house with me," Hutch responded, elbowing Starsky.

********

Blair was never so glad to see anything in his life as he was to see their bed turned back and waiting for him. He nearly stumbled toward it, and despite his arm being in a sling, Jim was hovering over him, tucking him in and making sure his pillows were just so. Finally, the light was out and Jim was sliding into bed next to him. Blair lost no time in abandoning the pillows and his side of the bed and snuggling against Jim's good side, careful not to put any pressure on the cracked ribs on the other side.

"It's okay, baby. I've got you now," Jim said gently, wishing he had both arms to wrap around Blair, but doing his best to cuddle him with his good arm, his hand stroking the soft curls.

"I missed you. It seems like forever since we were together like this."

"Blair, I know you said it was all right, but I'm so sorry you got hurt. That truck was a stupid idea. I never thought about a crash, or what would happen if we had one. I guess since I haven't had one where I was actually in the truck at the time, it didn't even occur to me when I picked that one out. And it did hold up pretty well when we were getting slammed by that truck chasing Sweet Roy's promoter--"

"Jim, just stop." Blair raised up on one elbow. "I know how you feel about me. I know you didn't mean for me to get hurt, and I know that you did your best to put your body in front of me to hold me back. Do you have any clue how hard I would have hit the dashboard, or maybe the windshield, if you hadn't done that? You saved my life, Jim."

"But if you'd been in a vehicle with airbags, or at least shoulder straps, you probably wouldn't have hit your head at all."

"It was a violent accident. We're just lucky we both lived through it."

"Your skull is fractured, Blair," Jim said, reaching up to push a couple of stray curls off Blair's still-bruised forehead.

"People live through skull fractures just fine as long as they aren't really awful ones that expose the brain or damage it. Athletes get skull fractures and once they've recovered, go back and do it all again. Why, I have no idea, but they seem to live through it, usually. The point is, I'm getting better, and by the time you get that cast off, I'll probably feel pretty good again." Blair smiled. "Besides, if you were really guilty of anything too bad, my dad would have killed you by now." Jim had to laugh at that, and truthfully, had to agree with it. He'd have a lot less problem finding forgiveness from Blair than he would from Starsky, who made the most overprotective mother hen look harmless and laid back by comparison when something threatened his son.

"Lie down, Chief." When Blair had returned to his spot on Jim's shoulder, Jim kissed the top of his head. "Try to relax. You need some sleep," Jim said softly, pulling Blair close.

"I knew you'd find me somehow," Blair whispered, his voice sounding a little strained. "I'm glad you got there when you did."

Jim shuddered inwardly at the thought of that horrible branding iron, and the painful, scarring wound it would have seared into Blair's soft flesh. Jim's hand slid under the tank shirt Blair wore and rubbed over the unmarred skin of his back and shoulder, more to reassure himself than Blair. As Blair cried a few quiet tears on his shoulder, letting out some of the fear and stress and pain of the last couple days, Jim relished the chance to kiss and cuddle and caress him the way he'd wanted to since the accident. Blair had gone through too much hurt with too little of this, and now, he was going to get more than enough to make up for it.

Smiling at that thought, Jim let himself drift off to sleep.

********

Wesley DuPont proved to be a good witness, willingly providing names and addresses for two other "disciples" of Garrison's bizarre doctrine. A second man was located and arrested, but the blonde woman whose description matched that of the of the woman who delivered Blair's letter to the Cascade PD remained at large. Garrison's apartment, as well as DuPont's family farmhouse contained a wealth of concrete evidence that Garrison was, indeed, the killer. DuPont's role in the killings was somewhat more difficult to prove, and the information he was providing was causing the DA to lean heavily toward accessory-after-the-fact charges instead of conspiracy to murder.

Sitting around the dinner table at the loft, the four men enjoyed the first really peaceful evening they'd shared in a long time. Jim offered to do some one-armed cooking, and Blair was regaining enough strength to help out a bit, but Starsky overruled both of them and went to a nearby Chinese restaurant and returned with a veritable buffet of goodies. With the table strewn with delicious food, the four of them relaxed and gorged themselves.

"I've been thinking," Starsky said.

"God help us," Hutch retorted, grinning as he got the expected kick under the table.

"You've both got some time off, even if you didn't exactly plan for it. What would you think of making that trip out to New York to meet your grandmother, Blair?"

"I think it's a great idea. Jim, how about you?"

"I don't see why not. It wouldn't break my heart not to go on desk duty right away."

"Then it's settled. I'll call Sophia tonight and we'll set it up."

"Are you sure you both feel up to making that trip right now?" Hutch asked.

"I think we ought to take it easy for a few days," Jim responded, reaching over to lightly caress the back of Blair's head. "You're still having some pretty nasty headaches, Chief."

"I guess you're right. But I want to go soon. We keep putting it off."

"I'll set things up with Sophia for about a week from now. If something happens and it doesn't work out, we'll just reschedule. She's very flexible, and she loves company, so she won't mind."

"How's your mother doing, Starsky?" Jim asked.

"She's slowing down a little bit, but she still loves to be with the family and have big gatherings. She's having fun being great-grandmother now to another whole generation of Starskys. She'll be really excited to meet you, Blair. She's been bragging to all her old lady friends that her grandson is a college professor."

"That's a little premature," Blair said, laughing. "I still have to finish my Ph.D."

"You teach classes at Rainier, right?" Starsky asked.

"Sure, but--"

"Then to her, you're a college professor. Besides, you'll get the Ph.D. as soon as you find time to finish it. No point in splitting hairs."

********

Jim resisted the pull on his consciousness at first. He was enjoying a peaceful night's sleep, and whatever was disturbing him wasn't welcome...at least not until he realized what it was. A determined hand was inside his shorts, fondling his balls and teasing his rapidly responding cock. It had been way too long.

"You must be feeling better," Jim said, grinning as he looked over his shoulder at Blair, whose head was close to his own as he'd raised up on one elbow to reach his goal in Jim's shorts. He could see Blair's answering smile in the dark.

"I missed you. We've had to be careful for so long, or one of us didn't feel like it. I feel like it. How about you?"

In response, Jim rolled over and pounced on Blair, pulling him into his arms and kissing him intensely, not releasing him until they were both breathless. Blair felt some protest in his head to the excitement, but nothing powerful enough to slow him down. He wrapped his legs around Jim and thrust upward, bringing their hardening cocks into electric contact. Jim reluctantly surrendered that friction to lick a path down Blair's chest to his nipple, pausing only to rapidly divest Blair of his tank shirt, tossing it to the floor. He spent a long time making love to Blair's chest, licking and sucking at the little pink nubs until they were hard and sensitized, and Blair was moaning and thrusting up against him in response.

He licked his way down to Blair's navel, probing the little valley with his tongue, then nipped and teased the sensitive skin beneath it. The scent and sight of Blair's arousal was hard to ignore, but Jim was determined to spend some time on this. He wanted to immerse himself in Blair's body in every sense of the word, and he wanted Blair to writhe with ecstasy so mind-blowing that it would eliminate all the pain and stress and fear of the last few weeks.

He ignored Blair's little whine of protest when he worked his way around the rigid cock and moved lower, pushing Blair's thighs up and apart. His casted arm protested a bit of the weight, but he ignored it, and Blair was soon eagerly holding his knees up, freeing Jim's mobile hand for more worthwhile uses. He licked and sucked Blair's balls, then, sticking his finger in his mouth quickly to wet it a bit, he began rubbing and teasing the entrance to Blair's body. His own cock throbbed at the thought of sliding into that tight heat, and if Blair's moaning and flexing of the muscles in his center were any indication, Blair was more than ready for something more exciting than his finger.

Jim released the oval he'd been sucking with an audible pop, and dragged his tongue over Blair's perineum before poking it into the tight little hole he'd been teasing with his finger.

"Oh, God, Jim...yeah, that's so good," Blair gasped, pulling his legs back impossibly further, bearing down on Jim's invading tongue. Jim withdrew his tongue and reached into the night stand for the lube. He began stretching Blair with a slippery finger, and then two. He pushed in just the right direction to hit Blair's prostate, eliciting an unstifled cry of pleasure. Hoping their guests were sound sleepers, he rubbed the little button again, but this time Blair managed muffle the shout with a pillow. "Now, Jim...please."

"Well, since you said 'please'," Jim teased, leaning down to kiss Blair's slick, loosened center before coating himself with a fine sheen of the lube. He eased his way into the tight channel, giving Blair time to adjust to his presence. The process didn't take long, because Blair was as excited to be filled as Jim was to fill him.

Jim rocked back and forth, setting a steady rhythm Blair was matching eagerly. Momentarily forgetting he only had one arm to lean on, Jim leaned forward over Blair to kiss him, and instead, lost his balance and fell on top of Blair, aggravating his bruised ribs, bringing a smothered "oomph" out of Blair, and slipping out of Blair's body in the process.

"Shit," Jim grumbled eloquently. He was at first aggravated when he felt Blair's whole body shaking beneath him and the first stifled giggles bubbled forth, but once he recovered from the jolt to his bruised body, and his much more seriously bruised ego, he couldn't resist laughing himself. "Are you okay, Chief?" he asked, regaining his composure for a moment or two until he raised up and looked at Blair, and they both started laughing again. Blair held onto his forehead.

"I'm okay," he managed. "Just hurts when I laugh," he said, before laughing even harder.

"That was satisfying," Jim added, still laughing a bit. "God, that hurt," he complained, which made Blair laugh harder. "You unsympathetic little shit," he accused, laughing again.

"Can you laugh and keep an erection at the same time?" Blair asked, looking down at himself, seeing that his had faltered a bit. Jim's was a bit the worse for wear, but it still had some life left in it.

"Stop laughing and you'll get your dick back," Jim chided, trying very hard to be stern and failing miserably.

"You wanna try another position?"

"How about you straddle me, Mr. Giggles?" Jim teased, rolling onto his back and stuffing some pillows behind himself so he was in a more upright position. "Come on. Just stay off my ribs."

"My aim might not be perfect, but I don't usually sit on your ribs when I'm looking for your cock." Blair snorted inelegantly a time or two. "I need to blow my nose." Blair went for a kleenex on the night stand, giving Jim a titillating view of his bare butt.

"Take your time there, Chief. Don't let me rush you," Jim needled, having worked his somewhat confused and frustrated cock back to life again with a determined hand. "Bring your ass over here before I come and get it."

"Ooh, I'm scared. You had it once and it got away, remember?" Blair teased. Jim smacked the ass in question once, sharply. "Ow! Hey, that hurt," Blair protested.

"Yeah, sure it did. You can file a domestic violence report with Simon in the morning. Now come on."

"Careful of the arm, there, Jim," Blair teased, straddling Jim.

"You just worry about watching your mouth, Chief," Jim retorted, sliding a hand behind Blair's neck and pulling him in for a kiss. "And what a mouth it is," he added, smiling and bumping noses with Blair.

Blair smiled brightly at that, squatting over Jim so his hard cock slipped between Blair's cheeks and enjoyed some friction there, but didn't achieve the full satisfaction of penetration. They kissed again, slower and deeper this time, regaining some of the mood they'd essentially destroyed a few minutes ago.

Then Blair lifted up a bit and guided Jim's cock to his center and sank slowly down on it until he was fully impaled. He leaned forward carefully and put his weight on Jim's good side, loving the closeness of being in each other's arms while they made love. The wild, acrobatic stuff was fun, but this was something special. Their rhythm was a little sluggish and uneven at times, but they were as absorbed in kissing and caressing each other as they were in their union. Eventually, their bodies demanded something bolder, and Blair picked up the pace of his rocking and Jim increased the power of his thrusts until they rode the tides of each other's climaxes, stifling their shouts in sloppy, lingering kisses. When Jim slipped free of Blair's body, they snuggled together, drawing the comforter up over their cooling bodies.

"Why'd you change your mind about the wedding?" Blair asked, kissing Jim's chest as he rested his head there.

"Because I decided that us being together for life was too important to let pass with just a bottle of wine and a nice hotel room or something. It deserves an occasion...a ritual of some kind."

"That's a nice way to look at it," Blair said, smiling.

"I didn't mean to hurt you before, when I resisted the idea of all the plans."

"Some of them were getting a little out of hand. We can have a nice party with our friends, exchange some vows, maybe get the honeymoon suite at the Towers--"

"Or maybe go on a slightly better honeymoon than that. I think we should have a real honeymoon. I'll get some time off from Simon. Maybe we could do it over the semester break, when you aren't teaching anything."

"We could stay at the Towers for our wedding night, but we could plan the trip for later this year."

"Exactly. Maybe you better make it a couple of nights at the Towers. I'm not letting you out of the sack for at least twenty four hours after we tie the knot." Jim kissed Blair's forehead. "How's your head, baby?"

"It's kind of pounding right now. I think I overdid it a little. I'll be okay."

"Yeah, you'll be fine after you take something for it." Jim kissed him again and started dislodging him so he could go get Blair a painkiller. "My ribs could use a little something to take the sharp edge off, too," he added, throwing down a couple Tylenol and swallowing them with part of the nearly full glass of water they'd left on the dresser in case either of them needed a pill during the night.

"I'll sleep 'til noon if I take that now." Blair accepted the pills anyway.

"So will I, but I'm sure your dad and Hutch can figure out a way to entertain themselves until we get up."

Blair took the pills and then handed the water back to Jim, who set it on the dresser again, then got back into bed and helped Blair arrange the pillows so they'd both be comfortable. They nestled in the bed together, close enough to share a pillow.

"Have I told you today that I love you?" Jim asked, and Blair grinned.

"I don't know if you said the words, but you say it to me all the time."

"Just in case I missed the words. I love you." He kissed Blair gently. "You're all there is, sweetheart. You know that, right?"

"I know it," Blair said, his voice a little husky. "I couldn't make it without you, either. I love you, Jim."

"I'm sorry it took us so long to track down that damn farmhouse."

"You got there at the perfect time, man. No complaints."

"You should have been resting and recovering," Jim said, kissing Blair's forehead again. "Not outrunning mad dogs and maniacs. And I should have been at the hospital. None of this would have happened--"

"Hey, stop it. I told you to go home. Don't blame yourself for everything bad that happens, Jim. It wasn't your fault."

"If I'd been at the hospital, Garrison couldn't have gotten at you."

"Maybe not, but there was no reason to think I was in danger, and no reason for you not to go home and get some sleep. You were hurt, too. You needed some rest."

"I caused you to get hurt like this and then I turn around and leave you at the hospital--"

"And there are people starving, wars starting, and corruption in politics. Damn it, Jim, you should be ashamed of yourself." Blair smiled and Jim had to chuckle a little even though he didn't want to. "Not every bad thing that happens is your fault. It all just *happened*."

"You hate chases. You're always scared to death. Sometimes you hit your head on the side window in that old truck..."

"I don't remember you ever pulling your gun on me and pushing me into the passenger seat. I'm smart enough to know what risks I'm taking."

"You do it for me. And I should have known better than to risk your life to save a few bucks on my insurance."

"You didn't put me at any worse risk than you put yourself."

"I shouldn't have put either one of us at that kind of risk. But least of all you. You're not a cop, and whether or not you're my life partner, it's still my responsibility to protect you when you're out on the job with me."

"Would it make you feel better if I sued you?" Blair asked, frustrated.

"Probably would be fair."

"Look, we were chasing a hit-and-run driver--someone who's going to face homicide charges as soon as they're caught. It was a worthwhile chase. And if that airhead in the SUV hadn't pulled in front of us, none of this shit would have happened. Now that jerk I'd like to have a little talk with."

"You and me both."

"You know, Jim, we could have both been killed. There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not grateful for how things turned out. Nothing would have been worse, for me, than you not making it. I'm so glad to have you, so grateful you're alive and okay, none of the rest of it matters. Not even Garrison really mattered compared to that." Blair slid closer, wrapping his arms around Jim, careful not to put pressure on his ribs. "I can't think about what could have happened. In that instant, I could have lost you. Lost everything that mattered to me. Do you know how little it would have mattered to me what happened to me if you hadn't made it?"

"I feel the same way, sweetheart. I never would have made it through losing you. While you were unconscious...when the doctor wasn't sure if you'd wake up okay..." Jim closed his eyes and buried his nose in Blair's hair, taking in the healthy, living scent of his lover. "I would have loved you no matter how you woke up, but I was so afraid you wouldn't be able to have the life you want, the life you deserve..."

"We're both okay. That's what matters."

"Starsky thinks we ought to buy a Hummer. I think he's right. I want the biggest, safest, bad-ass truck on the road. The safest place for you," Jim added, pulling back to kiss Blair.

"How about a yellow one?" Blair asked, enthused.

"Yellow? You're kidding, right?" Jim asked, smiling in disbelief.

"Well, I wasn't, but I guess it wouldn't be a great subtle stakeout vehicle, would it?"

"Must be genetic. Starsky with the red and white muscle car and you with a yellow Hummer. It's a wonder you don't both get yourselves killed undercover." Jim laughed, hugging Blair closer. "If you want neon lime green with purple polka dots, that's what we'll get."

"How about black?"

"Black is good," Jim agreed, nodding.

"Let's go test drive one tomorrow."

"I'm a little disabled in that department, and you need to take it easy and let your head rest. When I get this plaster thing off my arm, we'll do it."

"Okay." Blair yawned widely, then settled against Jim. "Love you."

"Love you, too, baby. Always." Jim smiled, dozing off to sleep, feeling all was right in his world.

********

Simon was more than agreeable to giving his star detective some vacation time to go along with his sick leave. Jim was no good stuck behind a desk, and even less effective when he was distracted by Blair's absence, and Blair wasn't ready to take on the pace of Rainier and the Cascade PD just yet. The University was equally understanding, and located another grad student to cover the classes Blair was teaching until he was able to resume his duties during the winter semester.

The four men embarked on a flight to New York on an uncharacteristically sunny October morning. They were expected at the home of Sophia and Daniel Meyer, Starsky's cousin and her husband, by dinner time. Starsky wasn't sure where Sophia planned to put all of them, but she had emphatically insisted they would stay there at the house, and not in a hotel. After all, they were family.

The flight was smooth and uneventful, and they arrived at the airport close their scheduled arrival time. It wasn't long before Starsky spotted his cousin, bobbing up and down and waving in their direction. She was every bit a Starsky, with long, dark curls and striking blue eyes. Dressed in a blue sweater and jeans, she carried a chubby, apple-cheeked toddler with the same dark curls with her as she hurried over to greet her guests.

"David!" Hugging Starsky with her free arm, she lost little time in stepping back from him to greet Hutch.

"Hey, let me look at this guy," Starsky said, taking his tiny young cousin from Sophia. "Hey there, Davey," he said jovially, delighting in the giggle from the little boy who had obviously been named for him. "I can't believe he's a year old already."

"You ought to come visit more often, dummy, then you'd see him. Your mother loves having another little 'David' with dark curls to play with," Sophia said, smiling.

"Sophia, this is your cousin, Blair," he said, pulling Blair over toward him.

"He's got the hair," she said, laughing and hugging Blair.

"It's great to meet you, Sophia. Hey, Dad, quit hogging the baby. He's my cousin, too," Blair protested, taking the good-natured baby from his father. "He's really beautiful," he said to Sophia.

"Thanks. We think so," she said, smiling proudly.

"Sophia, this is Jim, my partner," Blair said, finishing the round of introductions.

"Hello, Jim." She shook hands with Jim, then pulled him into a little hug. "You're sort of a Starsky now, and we do a lot of hugging," she said. "Besides, he's gorgeous. I'd have to be nuts not to hug him," she said, elbowing Blair and winking.

"Thanks, I think so," he said, and Jim laughed at that.

"Where's Dan?" Starsky asked.

"He's out front with the car. I wanted to come in and get you." She accepted the baby back from Blair as two pudgy arms started reaching for her insistently.

Dan Meyer was a tall, stocky man with a full head of brown hair, brown eyes, and a ready smile. He greeted their guests warmly and helped load the luggage in the back of the Chevy Suburban while Sophia got little Davey situated in his car seat. Once they were on the road, Sophia spoke up.

"We have a guest bedroom and a den with a sofa bed upstairs. Our room and Aunt Rachel's room is on the first floor," Sophia explained. "David tells us you're a cop, too, Jim."

"That's right. Blair is my partner in that, too. He's a consultant to the department, but he rides with me," Jim said, a little note of possessiveness coming through in his voice.

"Our family seems destined to marry cops. Guess what Dan does for a living."

"Gee, accountant, maybe?" Blair guessed jokingly.

"Homicide detective, NYPD, five years," Dan said, laughing. "I got into a nasty pile-up during a pursuit a couple years ago. Similar to what happened to you guys. Some half-wit ignored the siren and broadsided me going through an intersection. My partner got really smashed up. It was on his side."

"Is he okay now?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, he's fine. Still has some problems with his right arm, but not enough to keep him on desk duty. I felt real bad about it at the time, but when you're doin' 90, you can't stop on a dime."

"Unfortunately, that's true. Did they catch the guy you were chasing?" Jim asked.

"A black and white nailed him a few blocks on. I hear your guy got away. That really sucks."

"The investigation's ongoing," Jim responded. "We were chasing the jerk because he hit and killed a pedestrian practically in front of us. Turned out it was a pregnant woman trying to cross the street to go back to work from her lunch hour."

"That's horrible," Sophia said, shaking her head. "Blair, your grandmother is just on cloud nine waiting to meet you. She's so excited. I'm afraid you're going to get quite a family history lesson. She's called every relative in New York State to round up photo albums."

"Oh, that's fine. I'm looking forward to it. I'm an anthropologist, so studying people and putting my family tree together sounds like fun. I like all those old anecdotes about people."

"Well, we'll just say goodbye at the door, because Ma's gonna love you and probably not let you out of her clutches until we leave," Starsky said, laughing.

"I figured we'd just have a quiet dinner tonight and let you guys have time to relax and get settled and visit with Aunt Rachel. Tomorrow night, we're having some family over," Sophia said.

"That means the entire East Coast branch of the Starsky family will be crammed into Sophia's living room, gorging themselves on home-cooked food, hugging everything that moves, laughing like idiots, and drinking too much wine until about three in the morning," Hutch explained to Blair. "At least, that's what I hope it means. Last time we were here, you had a great party for Starsky's birthday," Hutch said to Sophia.

"We've got a small group coming." She paused, smiling. "I'm figuring on about twenty for dinner."

"Gee, just twenty, huh?" Blair responded, laughing.

"They're as excited as they were when little Davey here was born. It's another new cousin to check out. There's Aunt Marie and Uncle Stan, Grandpa Nick--Blair, that's not your uncle, but your great-uncle, your grandfather's brother, Nick. My grandfather."

"How's he doing?" Starsky asked.

"He's okay. He's a little scrambled upstairs, but he's in pretty good health, and he can still take care of himself. He's too stubborn to move into an apartment. It gives Mom fits. My mom and dad will be there, and your cousins Jeff and Diane from Albany... Well, you'll meet everybody tomorrow. And you let us know if we run you ragged. I know you're still getting over the accident."

"I'm doing a lot better, thanks. But I'll let you know. Besides, Jim'll look out for me."

"Jim, you gotta tell me about that Garrison character. After we get settled at the house, maybe you and I and Hutch can grab a few beers and talk shop while the Starskys congregate and talk themselves to death."

"Sounds great," Jim responded genuinely. Truthfully, the thought of hanging out with a couple other cops and talking about cases held more appeal than hearing the entire history of the Starsky family tree, complete with photos.

"Dad, I meant to ask you, what are Grandma's favorite flowers?"

"White roses," Starsky said, smiling. "She carried them at her wedding, and my dad used to get them for her for every anniversary. I always send them to her on her birthday."

"I was thinking maybe if it's not too far out of the way, we could stop by a florist. I'd like to take her something."

"We can manage that," Dan said from the driver's seat. "She'll be ticked pink. She loves getting flowers."

The Meyer family home was a well-kept two story house in a middle class suburb of New York City. The van was kept company in the family garage by a small blue Pontiac Sunfire, and a growing collection of plastic outdoor toddler toys.

"Davey's kind of small for those yet, but come Spring, we'll be fixing up the backyard for him to do some serious playing," Dan said, stopping the van outside the open garage to give them more room to unload both people and luggage. "Aunt Rachel probably heard the car, so why don't you take Blair inside?" Dan handed the house keys to Starsky. "Leave the door open and we'll bring in the luggage."

"Sounds good. I can't wait to see Ma. It's been way too long." Starsky got out of the van, followed by Blair, Jim, and Hutch.

"See you later," Jim said to Blair, kissing his mouth quickly, earning him an ear to ear grin from his lover.

"Newlyweds are so cute," Sophia said, smiling.

"Not yet. We're getting married when we get back to Cascade. We haven't had the official ceremony yet."

"How wonderful! Are you going up to Canada or doing an exchange of vows kind of ceremony?"

"Exchanging vows. When it's legalized here, we'll do all the paperwork, but it's legal enough for us. We already have a joint checking account," Jim said, smiling. "That's about as married as you can get."

"Tell me about it," Dan grumbled as he pulled the first of the luggage out of the truck.

"I'm not the one who forgets to enter things," Sophia reminded him, hoisting little Davey into her arms out of the car seat.

"I'm not the one on a first name basis with the sales girls in Bloomingdale's." Dan winked at his wife to take the sting out of the words.

"Beauty doesn't come cheap, Dan," Blair said, nodding sagely.

"Oh, wow. I love this guy. I'm glad we're related," Sophia responded, laughing.

Starsky led Blair into the house, and as soon as they'd made it to the foyer, a small, elderly woman with wavy white hair tamed into an upswept style on her head came into view. Dressed in a blue dress with a white sweater, the blue in the fabric picked up the blue in her eyes. Despite her age, she still wore a light amount of red lipstick and her nails were done perfectly in matching red nail polish.

"Ma!" Starsky embraced her right away, and it was returned enthusiastically. She laughed when Starsky carefully lifted her off the floor briefly, then set her back on her feet. "Ma, you look beautiful."

"Then you're the one with the failing eyes," she chided, tapping Starsky on the end of the nose with a slightly arthritic finger. "Oh, my goodness," she said, moving past Starsky to Blair. "You sent me pictures, but he's just beautiful," she said, her voice a little shaky as she framed Blair's face with both hands.

"I'm so glad to meet you, Grandma," Blair said, smiling, presenting her with a single white rose. She hugged him and he returned it. She held on a long moment before moving back.

"And look at this," she said, taking some of the hair that hung loose on Blair's shoulders in both hands. "Look at these curls!"

"Yeah, we really didn't need any paternity tests when we saw those," Starsky said, smiling proudly.

"And those eyes. He has your eyes."

"In case you haven't looked, Ma, he's got *your* eyes. That's where I got mine."

"You're all right from that awful accident?" she said, touching lightly the very faint trace of bruising on Blair's forehead.

"I'm fine, Grandma. The worst I get is a headache once in a while if I overdo it. I'm doing great."

"You need to get lots of rest. Don't let Sophia tire you out with all her dinner parties," she said, linking her arm through Blair's and leading him into the house. Starsky had to chortle as he brought up the rear, essentially forgotten now that his mother had her hooks in a new grandchild. Even if he was in his thirties, he was still a new grandchild to her. "Now you sit here beside me and I want to hear all about you." She sat on the couch, and Blair sat next to her as instructed. "We've never had a college professor in the family before!"

"Actually, I'm just adjunct faculty right now," Blair said, then saw the confusion on the elderly woman's face. "It means I'm teaching there part time. I'm still working on my dissertation, to get my Ph.D., and I work with Jim at the Cascade PD."

"When do you sleep?" she asked, her eyes widening. Blair and Starsky both had to laugh at that.

"It's a challenge making it all work, but it's worth it." Blair's smile positively glowed as he saw Jim walking into the room. "Grandma, this is Jim, my partner," Blair said, infinitely grateful that his father had already pioneered bringing a man home to his family. He already felt close to the kind, warm-hearted little lady that was his grandmother, and it would have been a painful blow if she wasn't able to accept the man he loved.

"Mrs. Starsky, it's a real pleasure to finally meet you," Jim said, taking her extended hand and kissing the back of it instead of shaking it.

"Oh, he's a smooth one, Blair. And so handsome. Pull that chair right up here, dear," she said to Jim, gesturing at a small chair near the couch. Jim followed the directions and was soon sitting close to the side Blair didn't occupy. Starsky was sitting a slight distance away, amused by watching his mother "hold court" in Sophia's living room as she sniffed at her rose. "David tells me you're a police officer, too," she said.

"That's right. I'm a detective with Major Crime."

"How is that different from Homicide? That's where David's father was, and where David and Ken always were."

"We handle homicides, but also larger scale drug operations, theft rings, and so on. It's rare that homicide *isn't* involved in those cases somehow, but it's not always the central focus of the investigation. We work with other departments within the PD, like Narcotics, Missing Persons, Sex Crimes, and so on."

"Must be very dangerous work. They let Blair go with you on those cases without being a cop himself?"

"Blair's very capable in a tight spot. He's a great partner." Jim caught Blair's gaze and held it. "I wouldn't want anyone else watching my back."

"You just watch out for him," she said, patting Blair's cheek. Then she added, sadly, "We've suffered enough loss in this family from police work."

"Dad said you had photo albums to show me," Blair said, hoping to cheer her up a bit. It worked, and she smiled brightly.

"Why don't you two get settled, and I'll help Sophia make some snacks, and we'll have a look at them in a little while?"

"Sounds great," Blair responded, returning her smile. "It's so good to meet you, Grandma. I never...I never had a chance to spend time with grandparents before," Blair added, swallowing a lump in his throat. His thoughts touched briefly on the coldness and rejection he'd felt from Naomi's parents, and how much he'd always wished he could just experience a little of what was supposed to be so great about grandparents. It was obvious Grandma Starsky had enough love to pile on him to do for all four grandparents.

"Well, you do now," she said decisively. "You know," she said, taking a hold of Blair's hands. "You have your great-grandfather's hands." She smiled. "I remember watching him hold a cup of coffee, or gesture at the dinner table...and they were just like your hands. Slender, strong, long fingers. And you have Starsky eyes," she added. That dark blue...just like your father and your grandfather. Your features might come from your mother's side, but I would know you were a Starsky and a Goldman without being told. That was my maiden name," she added. "I have photographs of my father, and some of my brothers. I think you'll see a bit of resemblance there."

********

"Your grandmother seems like a pretty special lady," Jim said, hoisting their suitcase onto the sofa bed that had been made up nicely by Sophia before their arrival. Jim had offered for them to take this room, instead of the room with the real bed, in deference to Hutch's back problems, but the older men had insisted on flipping for it. Hutch had won the toss, and seemed to feel perfectly justified in claiming the better bed on that basis, rather than his age or his bad back.

"It's weird. I only met her a little while ago, but it feels like she's always been my grandma."

"She has. You just didn't meet her before now," Jim said, pulling Blair into his arms, cursing at the awkward flipper in its sling. "Damn, I'll be glad to get this thing off me."

"You've only got a few weeks left." Blair nestled into the embrace. "You broke it saving my life, you know."

"Saving both our lives. Without you, I wouldn't have wanted to live through the accident. Or anything else."

"You think they'd hear us if we...?"

"Not if we were really quiet," Jim said, grinning, then becoming more serious as he moved in for a long kiss, sliding his hand into Blair's hair, claiming his mouth completely. "Love you," he muttered against Blair's lips before kissing him again. Blair's response was eager and hungry, hands grasping at the back of Jim's shirt as he returned the kisses with all his energy.

Blair unbuttoned Jim's shirt, parting the fabric and growling in frustration when he was met with a t-shirt. Jim laughed quietly and cooperated with removing it, both of them cursing as they eased Jim's arm out of the sling and got the t-shirt over the cast. Even limited to one hand, Jim was amazingly skillful at disrobing his lover, that one hand seeming to reach everywhere at once, making short shrift of Blair's sweater and the henley shirt under it. Once jeans, underwear and socks were tossed in the pile with the rest of the clothes, they slipped between the sheets and wrapped arms and legs around each other, kissing and caressing, forgetting for a moment their impending social obligations downstairs. After all, if they were really unpacking, it would take them a little while to do that, and Starsky surely wouldn't mind a little time to spend with his mother without them present.

Being in each other's arms seemed too wonderful to sacrifice, even for more acrobatic lovemaking. Humping together was deliciously exciting and frustrating at the same time, the friction enough to arouse but not quite enough to bring them to a quick finish. That was fine with Jim, as he buried his nose between Blair's neck and shoulder, taking in his lover's scent, relishing the silky brush of curls against his face. Most of all, he relished the warm, living body that moved in his arms. Since the accident, Jim had become acutely aware of how fragile and uncertain life was, and how quickly the one thing that you lived for could be taken away.

He ran his hand up and down Blair's back, finally sliding down to rub and cup a cheek of the perfect ass he loved so much. But more than that, he loved Blair, and everything about him, and the unhurried rubbing of their cocks against each other, and the warmth of holding each other close was more exciting than the most creative position he could imagine.

Blair was planting hot little kisses all over his neck and chest, those warm hands moving over his back and sliding down to massage his ass as they rocked together. Jim moved up to run his tongue along the shell of Blair's ear, blowing into it hotly. He smiled as Blair giggled a little, though Blair would vehemently deny that he ever giggled. He knew the light motion of his tongue tickled Blair a bit, and he loved hearing his lover's laughter. Blair's laugh was always soothing to his soul, and made him smile.

Pulling Jim even tighter into his arms, Blair peppered his face with kisses, making Jim laugh this time. He licked at Jim's lips until he claimed them in a kiss, his tongue slipping inside to dance with Jim's, the kiss deepening until it seemed as if the whole world had narrowed to that one wet union of flesh. When Blair tore his mouth away, he let out a little gasp of pleasure as he came, stifling the sound against Jim's chest.

The broken little moans and the warm, slippery moisture between them brought Jim to his own climax, and a moment later, they were lying there together, their come mingling as they stayed entwined, just soaking up the closeness.

"You think we could just stay here for the rest of the day?" Jim asked, smiling at one of his favorite sights in the world--a mellow, post-sex Blair, lids heavy, curls a bit tousled, and smiling with all the love in the world.

"That would be kind of rude, wouldn't it?" Blair asked, nestling against Jim's chest.

"Probably. Besides, I could make love to you 24/7 for the rest of our lives, and I'd never be ready to let you go."

"Wow." Blair was quiet a minute. "I feel the same way."

"Then why the 'wow'?" Jim asked, smiling and kissing Blair's forehead.

"Because it still kind of...awes me that we could have so much love, and be so happy."

"Well, we can, and we do, and we are." Jim held him close and ran his hand up and down Blair's back in long strokes. "Anytime I'm with you, it's all I can do to keep my hands off you."

"Don't try," Blair said seriously, kissing Jim's chest. "I love it whenever you touch me. I know it's probably selfish, but I really love it when you touch me in front of people. I guess it just makes me feel...special. Like you're proud of me. Of us."

"I'm always proud of you, sweetheart." Jim thought he knew the origin of the comment, thinking back to his initial reluctance to exchange vows in front of their friends. "What we have is so special, and so...intimate...it's just hard to put it into words sometimes, but when I didn't want us to have the ceremony, it was never about not being proud of you, or of us. When we touch in public and someone stares, I know they're thinking what a lucky guy I am." Jim smiled as Blair's face split into a huge smile. "And you know what? I don't really give a shit what they're thinking. As a matter of fact, I usually don't even notice anyone else is there when I'm looking at you."

"It's funny, but I always feel like people are wondering what a gorgeous, tall, built guy like you is doing with me when he could be with just about any woman he wanted."

"That's what they think I should want, Blair. Not what I want. I have what I want right here."

"Me, too. Aren't we lucky?" Blair asked, snuggling against Jim.

"The luckiest guys in the world, I'd say."

********

"I'm glad Ma's room's on the first floor," Starsky said, shaking his head and smiling.

"Why?" Hutch was busily unpacking their clothes.

"Listen a minute. Do you hear a very rhythmic squeaking coming from the next room?"

"They're worse than we are, and I didn't think that was possible," Hutch said, chuckling.

"So how come we're unpacking clothes while they're breaking in the bed?"

"Because we're older and wiser and you haven't made a pass at me yet."

"Me? How about you?"

"We're in *your* family's house."

"Now that's a new rule. So next time we visit your mother, I have to wait for *you* to make a pass at *me*?"

"It's that whole 'home team/visitor' thing." Hutch was grinning, his back still to Starsky as he closed the dresser drawer. He wasn't even surprised when Starsky moved up close behind him and nuzzled his neck, a hand sliding down to squeeze the bulge in his pants.

"Consider yourself passed at," Starsky said, pulling him back toward the bed. "You just can't scream."

"I don't scream."

"You do when I give you one of my special Starsky prostate exams."

"I do *not* scream. I may get a little loud..."

"Yeah, well, I don't want Ma runnin' up here thinking we're being murdered or something and walking in on us."

"Lock the door, and I'll stuff the sheet in my mouth."

"It's a deal."

"There's just one stipulation," Hutch said as Starsky locked the door. "Since I'm liable to scream, as you put it, when you hit my prostate, the only solution to that is to leave my prostate alone. Which means only one thing..." Hutch flexed his eyebrows and grinned.

"You don't have to ask twice, Blondie," Starsky responded, and soon they were both eagerly undressing, tossing their clothes in a pile on the floor. "Let me get you ready, babe." Starsky knelt in front of his partner and took the slightly hardened cock into his mouth, one hand fondling the lightly hair-dusted balls, the other squeezing a smooth ass cheek.

"Oh, God..." Hutch gasped, leaning back against the dresser, bracing himself there, never truly prepared for the rush of sensation, or for the sight of that dark head hovering over his groin, bringing him such pleasure. It was as hot and amazing now as it had been twenty years ago. He only hoped they had twenty more years to look forward to. But then, ten lifetimes wouldn't be enough.

Just when he thought he was approaching his climax, Starsky pulled back, releasing his cock with a wet slurp. Starsky got up, and moved over to the bed, Hutch close behind him, though reeling a little from the loss of sensation. Having snagged the tube from his shaving kit, Starsky tossed him the lube as he got up on the mattress on all fours. Hutch used the gel to lubricate and stretch his lover's center, though it didn't take long to get Starsky ready. After coating his cock with the gel, he stood behind Starsky, who had thoughtfully positioned himself near the side of the bed, and pressed inside, smiling as Starsky worked hard to stifle his own groans of pleasure.

Gripping Starsky's hips, Hutch thrust in and out of the slick channel, watching Starsky stuff the blanket into his mouth to stifle his reactions as his prostate got the kind of workout that usually had him yelling, swearing, and, yes, screaming, when they had more privacy. Starsky dropped from his hands to his elbows, thrusting his ass up higher and back against Hutch, his signal that the pace was not only good, but could stand to be a bit stronger.

Hutch was happy to oblige, working hard to control his own moans and gasps as Starsky's muscles clamped around him, squeezing and milking him even as he pumped hard and fast into the perfect ass before him. Starsky let out a long, guttural groan as his muscles flexed and he came, the sound and movement bringing Hutch closer to his own completion as he pumped a bit harder and faster, biting his lip to quiet his own instinctive shout as he filled his lover.

Spent, Hutch slipped free of Starsky's body and flopped on his back on the bed. With a little chuckle, Starsky stretched out next to him, moving into his arms.

"Wore you out, eh, babe?" Starsky leaned up on one elbow, carding his fingers through Hutch's hair.

"Don't be so smug, buddy. You're the one who'll be shifting in your chair at dinner."

"And every time I do, you'll be doing the ninety-degree salute under the table." He leaned down and kissed Hutch. "That was great, darlin'."

"Yeah, it was, wasn't it?" Hutch agreed, grinning. "We better get downstairs."