Starsky sat cross-legged on the floor, rooting through a large carton of
books.  Since his shelves at home were built-in, he'd bought himself a bookcase
for "his room" in the new house.  The absurdity of keeping two bedrooms still
rankled him, and he was a bit disappointed at the division it caused.  Part of
getting married was merging "yours" and "mine" into "ours".  No matter how
philosophical he tried to be about the whole thing, it still left him with a sense of
segregation that didn't feel right.  

     "You reading or unpacking?"  Hutch's voice startled him from behind.  

     "A little of both, I guess."  Starsky looked over his shoulder to see his
partner standing in the doorway of the room.  He was holding two beers.  

     "You, uh, have a couple minutes?  I think we need to talk."

     "Sure."  Starsky unfolded from his position and stood as Hutch walked in
and sat on the end of the bed.  Starsky occupied the rattan fan back chair they
both determined would be less out of place in a bedroom than it would be in the
living room.  He accepted the beer Hutch handed to him.

     "I thought you should know why I acted like such an ass earlier about
taking the Canfield case."  Hutch was turning the beer bottle in his hands, not
looking up at Starsky.

     "It's okay, babe.  You apologized.  No harm done."

     "Oh, there was harm done."  Hutch nodded.  "I said a couple of really
cruel things, and...I know I said I was sorry, but you have to understand...I was
lashing out about something that had nothing to do with you, and you got hurt in
the process."

     "You wanna start at the beginning?"

     "That'd probably be a good idea."  Hutch smiled slightly, then looked up. 
"You know there's ten years difference between Susan and myself," he said,
referring to his younger sister.

     "Yeah...so?"

     "In between me and Susan...there was another child.  My younger brother,
T.J.--well, Theodore James, after my father's father, but we all called him T.J."

     "I never knew you had a brother."

     "Most people don't.  Outside of the people back home in Duluth, come to
think of it, no one does.  No one I've met since I've been out here."

     "What, uh, happened to T.J.?"

     "I killed him," Hutch stated, his voice matter-of-fact.  In the silence that
followed, he added, "well, not physically, but it's because of me that he's dead."

     "I don't understand.  How?"

     "T.J. and I were two years apart.  We played together a lot growing up--I
was eight when he died."  Hutch swallowed.  "Any time we went outside to play,
my mother--or the housekeeper--would always tell me to 'watch your little
brother'.  Usually I did.  One time I didn't."

     "Eight-year-olds make lousy babysitters.  They're just little ones
themselves.  You can't make 'em responsible for another kid."

     "It wasn't any big deal.  We had a fenced yard near the house, and if we
wanted to go down to the stables, we could, as long as we went together, because
it was out of sight of the main house.  All I really had to do was be sure that T.J.
didn't open the gate and take off on his own."

     "And one day he did?"

     "Yeah, he did.  At least, I think he did.  I don't know.  It was warm outside,
and I wanted some lemonade, so I went inside to the kitchen to get some.  When I
came back out, he was gone.  The gate was open, so I figured he was probably
down at the paddock watching the horses.  He loved to go down there, and he'd
been nagging me to go the whole time we were outside.  So I went down there,
but he wasn't there, and the stable hands who were outside with the horses hadn't
seen any sign of him."  Hutch took a drink of his beer.  "I must've searched every
square inch of that property myself that day.  I ran everywhere I could think of he
might have gone until I was so tired I could hardly make it back to the house.  My
mother was out in the yard, calling to both of us..."  Hutch shrugged.

     "Aw, man."  Starsky let out a long breath and slumped back in his chair. 
"He was kidnapped then?"

     "When I told my mother what happened, she was furious.  She blamed me
for not watching him..."  Hutch let out a laugh that was a bitter, brittle sound.  "I
think she still does.  My father called the cops and organized a search party from
among the stablehands and the people in the neighboring houses.  They were out
all night, combing every square inch of land...every outbuilding...  Nothing."

     "No clues?  No trace at all?"

     "Nothing.  It was like the earth had opened up and swallowed him.  For
days they searched, combed the area with tracking dogs--even dragged the pond
behind our property and a nearby river."

     "How long before you knew anything?"  Starsky asked, leaning forward,
elbows on his knees.  

     "About a week.  I remember hearing the phone ring at about three in the
morning on a Tuesday night."  Hutch took a drink of his beer, and there was a
long silence.  "They found the naked body of a small boy in a stand of trees about
twenty miles from the house."  Hutch's voice was strained now, and another long
silence ensued, then a quiet, "Damn."

     "You don't have to tell me anymore until you're ready, babe," Starsky said,
moving over to sit next to his lover, putting an arm around his shoulders.  "I'm
sorry I pushed you about this case."  

     "It wasn't your fault.  We *should* take this case."  Hutch took in a deep
but slightly shaky breath.  "We all went down to the morgue to see the body."

     "Wait a minute.  You were eight years old.  You mean they let you see
him that way?"

     "My father thought I should face the reality of what had happened.  I guess
he thought that was the way for me to do it.  Maybe he just wanted to impress on
me what I'd done."

     "Oh, God, Hutch."  Starsky felt the tears welling up in his own eyes.  "You
better make sure I'm never alone in a room with your father when I've got my
piece."  Starsky's voice was low and steady, and in his heart, he meant every
word.  He couldn't imagine what seeing his six-year-old brother's corpse on a
morgue slab would do to Hutch's eight-year-old mind.  

     "I don't really remember too much about it, to be honest.  I guess my mind
covered it up, put it away somewhere..."  Hutch swallowed.  "When I saw that
photo of Michael Canfield?  Starsk, that kid could *be* T.J.  Right then, all I
could think of was...was his face when he was lying on that table.  The colors
were wrong.  All I can remember is that the colors were wrong--you know, not
like they should be on a healthy, living person.  He'd been dead a week--killed the
day he disappeared.  It was warm weather," Hutch's head drooped a little, and his
shoulders began to shake.  

     "That's it, babe, let it out.  I've got ya."  Starsky pulled him into a tight
embrace, and Hutch returned it, letting out what must have been years of pent-up
grief.  "You shoulda never seen that, never had t'live with that memory."  Starsky
felt his own tears burning his eyes and then slipping down his cheeks.  "You
didn't do anything wrong, babe.  It wasn't your fault.  You were a little boy out
playing who wanted some lemonade on a hot summer day.  You weren't a killer. 
Just a little boy."  

     "He died because of me.  If I hadn't gone inside--"

     "If someone hadn't taken him, and killed him, he would have still been out
there playing in the yard when you came back outside.  It's *their* fault, Hutch. 
Not yours.  Whoever killed him is to blame, and that wasn't you.  I don't care what
kind of shit your parents tried to dump on you."

     "I know they tried but, Starsk...they hated me.  I knew they hated me for
letting that happen to him," Hutch said through his tears.  "Whenever
they...looked at me, they were seeing what wasn't there anymore...T.J."

     "Then they needed help.  A shrink.  You probably all did.  What happened
was an awful thing to happen to a family.  They were torn up in their own way,
but blamin' you was...unforgivable.  Aw, Hutch, you didn't have anything to do
with what happened to him.  It's not like you left him alone in a dangerous area. 
God, compared to some'a the things I usedta do with Nicky...he'd tag along and
usually I did what I was s'posed to do, lookin' out for him.  But lotsa times I told
him to go home, or I ditched him so I could go with my friends.  He was in a lot
more danger in our neighborhood out runnin' around alone than your little brother
shoulda been in the backyard of a fancy mansion in Minnesota."

     "When I saw that picture today, it was like the whole thing came back
fresh.  I could see T.J. like he was right there, in front of me."

     "And you don't want to find Michael Canfield's body."

     "No.  God, Starsk, I can't...  I can't look at him, I can't stand finding that
child..."

     "Shh.  Hey, maybe the kid's okay.  Maybe he did wander off, or run away. 
We don't know all there is to know about Donna Canfield and her lifestyle either. 
Maybe things weren't so great for him at home.  Sometimes runnin' away looks
real good when home isn't a good place."

     "Did you ever think about it?"  Hutch asked, regaining a little of his
composure and straightening up.  He smiled when Starsky leaned over and found
a box of Kleenex on the floor among the items he was unpacking to put on or in
the night stand.  

     "Once in a while.  Usually when I got in trouble for something...  I'd think
about takin' off, running away so I wouldn't ever get punished again."

     "Like the time you hid in the closet from your dad?"  Hutch probed
carefully.

     "Yeah, like that," Starsky responded quietly.  "He was a good dad,
y'know?  He just...sometimes...I was kind of afraid of him."

     "He hit you."

     "He could get a little heavy-handed.  Literally sometimes," Starsky added,
smiling slightly.  "Usually, it was like he was my best buddy, but sometimes when
I got in trouble...  But hey, nobody's perfect."

     "I used to think about running away.  Just to get away from that look."

     "Look?"

     "The way they looked at me.  It wasn't hate exactly, and it cooled down
from anger.  But it wasn't love either.  The only time I saw love on their faces was
with Susan."

     "What happened to T.J. *was not* your fault.  And you know I'd love ya
till the day I died even if it was, even if you'd done somethin' awful when you
were a kid.  It wouldn't matter.  But you didn't.  Something awful was done to
your whole family, and they blamed you, babe.  They shouldn't have."

     "I'm going to try and handle working this case.  I think it's important, and
maybe if we can solve it, and find Michael Canfield, maybe it'll...*balance*
things somehow."

     "You don't need to balance anything, Hutch.  You didn't do anything."

     "Maybe not, but maybe bringing some closure to this case... maybe it'll
stand in for some kind of closure in T.J.'s."

     "They never found the guy?"

     "They thought they did.  Some mentally retarded handyman who worked
on the neighbor's house and grounds.  They held him for questioning, searched his
room, found some kinky books...but they had no evidence.  A bunch of guys beat
him to a pulp when he was released from jail.  They never managed to find out
who, but word had it it was the guys who worked in our stables.  Poor guy lost the
sight in one eye from that beating, and there was never solid evidence he was the
one.  Looking back, I think they just focused on him because he was slow and
frankly, a little on the creepy side.  Slow and creepy does not a killer make."

     "His action with women was probably pretty limited--could explain the
kinky books."

     "Yeah.  Besides, if they weren't kinky in terms of child pornography, it
wouldn't indicate that he was a pedophile just because he liked to read dirty books
about adult men and women doing the deed."

     "Did you ever want to go back and reopen the case?  Now that you're a
cop?"

     "The trail is so cold, Starsk.  Hell, even then...he vanished from our
property without anyone seeing him go, and then turned up dead twenty miles
away.  We're talking thirty years ago.  1950's.  Chances are the perp's dead or too
damned old to do any more damage--or moved on to another location."  Hutch
shook his head.  "I don't think anything would be accomplished by dredging it all
up again.  And spending a prolonged vacation with my parents isn't going to help
matters."

     "Maybe looking at the old evidence with a fresh eye...maybe if they kept
some of the physical evidence, we could find something out with new
techniques--"

     "Just drop it, Starsk!"  Hutch got up and walked across the room to the
window, looking out at the darkness and the tangled trees behind the house. 
"Damn it, just drop it."

     "Sorry."  Starsky got up and moved up behind his partner, resting his
hands on tense shoulders, rubbing gently.  "Bein' angry is the most natural thing in
the world, babe.  It's okay.  It's gotta come out sometime."

     "He was six years old, Starsk.  God, what does a little six-year-old boy
know about...about the things that son of a bitch did to him?  What he went
through before he died...he must've been so scared, and screaming, and nobody
came..."  As more tears robbed Hutch of his voice, Starsky rested his head against
his lover's back, sliding his arms around him from behind.  "Another person who
loved me and trusted me and called to me and I didn't come," he said through his
tears.  

     Starsky swallowed hard, remembering the terror and pain and violation
he'd felt at the hands of Marcos' henchmen, and how he'd been unable to stop
himself from screaming for Hutch, even though he knew his partner couldn't hear
him.  And telling Hutch that had given him one more demon to live with.

     "Babe, you came when I called you.  Maybe you didn't hear me with your
ears, but you heard me with your heart and you didn't give up, and you rescued
me.  You were an adult then, a cop, and a damn good one.  You never gave up on
me.  When T.J. disappeared, you were just a little boy--and even then, you said
yourself you searched until you dropped.  You did all you could.  If you'd known
where he was, you'd have gone, and you'd have sacrificed yourself for him.  I
know you would have."

     "But I failed him.  He was my responsibility, and I left him and now he's
dead."  

     "You know what?  You don't know that he didn't wander off alone.  Just
like me goin' to the john on some dumb superstition that it would get Marcos a
harder fall.  I had to have rocks in my head to go off alone with all those nutballs
wandering around.  We were the cops on the case, their main targets.  I might as
well have painted a bullseye on my chest.  Maybe T.J. wandered off--he knew he
wasn't supposed to do that without you.  That doesn't make either one of us to
blame for what happened--he shoulda been safe and so should I--but you know,
you're not responsible for keeping everyone you love safe.  Sometimes we do
some bone-headed things that get us in trouble, and you can't control that, babe."

     "But if I'd been out there--"

     "Or if you'd gone with me to the john.  Or if I'd done something different,
maybe you wouldn't've been under your car in that canyon so long, or maybe
Forest's goons wouldn't have gotten to you.  Let's go through our whole lives then
and pick times when one or the other of us could've done somethin' different and
the outcome would've been better.  People do the best they can, livin' their lives,
and sometimes things happen.  Bad, awful things.  That's what happened to T.J. 
And to me.  And to you.  And to lots of other innocent people out there."

     "You wouldn't blame me if I told you I'd committed a series of axe
murders."

     "That might be harder to get around," Starsky said, smiling and squeezing
Hutch a little tighter.  "You were a victim of that bastard who took your little
brother.  He ruined your life, and your folks'.  And they were...they were so, so
wrong to hurt you the way they did.  To blame you."

     "I don't know as I'd make it without you, love."  Hutch took a hold of one
of Starsky's hands where it rested on his stomach.  "Sometimes you're the only
thing that pulls me back...when I feel like I'm on the edge of something...terrible."

     "We pull each other back.  That's part of lovin' somebody."

     "You have plans for the rest of the night?"  Hutch turned around in the
embrace and wrapped his arms around Starsky, still leaning back far enough to
look into his eyes.

     "I was thinkin' about taking my partner to bed and making love until
dawn.  How about you?"

     "Same here."

     "I'll get the lights and check the doors downstairs."

     "Okay.  Your place or mine?"  Hutch joked, gesturing at the bed Starsky
had made.

     "You can stay over if you like," he responded, laughing a little as he
headed downstairs to lock up for the night.

********

     Hutch was sleeping peacefully in his arms, the blond hair fanned out on
Starsky's shoulder, the soft rise and fall of his chest in sleep a gentle motion
against Starsky's own heart.  Staring at the ceiling for the second hour now,
Starsky wished he could follow his lover into the realm of dreams.  For now, he
was tormented by the thoughts of the damage Hutch's parents had inflicted on him
in the wake of his little brother's death, and the terrible guilt he'd lived with all
these years.  

     There were times Starsky knew he'd left Nicky in less than perfect
conditions and taken off with his friends.  He didn't always watch out for his little
brother even when they were living in an area of New York City that was
dangerously close to the wrong side of the tracks.  Nicky had survived...although
now, knowing what he'd become, maybe he hadn't survived.  Maybe in his own
way, Starsky had failed him in ways Hutch would have never failed T.J.  

     Hutch said something then, but it was unintelligible.  The agitation in the
sleeping voice startled Starsky a little, and before he could comfort his partner, he
let out a more voluminous and yet undiscernible exclamation.  

     "Hutch, babe, it's me.  It's Starsk.  You're home, safe.  It's okay."  He kept
his voice low and steady, his fingers lightly stroking Hutch's hair.  "Shhh.  It's
okay."  

     Hutch jerked awake, leaning up on his elbow a bit, moving off his resting
place on Starsky's chest.  His eyes were wild, his breathing erratic.

     "Starsk?"

     "Nightmare?"  Starsky reached up and stroked Hutch's face gently.  The
only response was a nod.  "You wanna talk about it?"

     "I haven't had a nightmare like that since I moved away from home." 
Hutch sat up and pushed his hair back, then shivered a little at the sudden loss of
warmth.  Starsky was there in a moment, sitting next to him, a gentle hand
rubbing back and forth across his back.  "It was...j-just images.  The...the
m-morgue and th-the f-funeral...  Dammit."  

     "Shh.  Just relax, babe.  The stutter's gettin' bad because you're scared. 
You don't have to say anything right now.  Why don't you just let me hold you for
a while?"  Hutch nodded to that suggestion, and let himself be guided back down
in the bed until he was safely in Starsky's arms again.  "Did the stutter start after
what happened to T.J.?"  he asked gently.  Hutch nodded 

     "Right a-after.  Th-there were so m-many qu-questions...the c-cops."  

     "Probably had everybody shootin' questions at you, poor kid.  The cops,
your folks, everybody.  Nobody likin' what you had to say, makin' you feel guilty. 
No wonder you started stutterin'."  Starsky sighed tiredly, wishing he could think
of something to comfort Hutch, to heal that wound that seemed to have only
lurked beneath the surface, festering, since he was a child.  "Your dad scared you
pretty bad, didn't he?  Made you afraid to say what happened.  Probably made you
afraid to say much of anything after a while."

     "I just w-wanted them...to love me again.  But it didn't m-matter what I
did.  They never did."

     "Hey."  Starsky took Hutch's face in both hands, guiding him to move up
until they were eye to eye.  "I can't change what happened with your folks, but
you hear me good.  They were wrong.  And you hear me about somethin' else, too. 
I'm gonna love you forever, babe, and there's nothin' that can come outta that
beautiful mouth'a yours that could change that."  He pulled Hutch in for a long
kiss.  When it ended, there were tears on Hutch's cheeks.  "Rest your head right
here and let the tears out, babe.  You were just a little boy.  You didn't do
anything wrong."

     "He's dead, Starsk," the words were choked, miserable.

     "I know, darlin'.  I know.  But it's not your fault.  It's not your fault,"
Starsky soothed softly, rubbing Hutch's back in long strokes.  "I've seen you ready
to give your life to save mine.  You'd'a done that for your little brother if you
could've."

     "Anything...I'd've done anything...I l-loved him...missed him so m-much."  

     "Shhh.  It's okay.  I've got ya now.  Nobody's gonna hurt you anymore. 
You were a good little boy, Hutch.  You didn't do anything wrong.  Bet you were
a good big brother too."

     "Sure I was," Hutch said, the self-loathing clear in his voice.

     "Bet you taught him to do things.  Took him places.  Played with him."

     "Yeah."

     "Loved him?"
     
     "Always," Hutch said sadly.

     "Yeah, you were a good boy and a good brother.  Don't let anybody tell
you different.  You couldn't'a taken care of me like you did, after Gunther, unless
you were somethin' real special, babe.  You take care of the people you love, and
you give 'em all you can.  I know you gave lots of love to T.J., and somebody took
him.  You didn't send him away and you didn't put him in danger.  Somebody
came and took him."

     "But I--"

     "Did you bring lemonade out for T.J.?"  Starsky asked, and there was a
little pause of silence.

     "Yeah, I guess I did...I kind of forgot...it didn't seem important."

     "You know what that means?"

     "What?"

     "That when you went inside, you were thinkin' of him.  You brought him
out some lemonade too.  It was hot, you were probably both playin' hard like little
kids do, and you went in to get something cold to drink and you took some out for
him because he was your little brother and you loved him and you were thinkin'
about him as much as you were yourself."  

     "God, Starsk...  All these years...I never...could see...any way it wasn't...my
fault."  

     "I know, buddy.  But it wasn't."

     "I know," Hutch said in a strained whisper.  "Oh, God, Starsk, for the first
time in my life, I *know*."

     Starsky couldn't respond in words, his own voice failing him.  Instead, he
just squeezed Hutch tighter, pulling him closer.  Finding his voice, he said, "Time
to let go of all that hurt, babe.  You didn't deserve it."

     "I love you," Hutch managed in a shaky voice.

     "I love you too, darlin'.  Try to rest and get some sleep.  I'm just gonna
hold on good and tight and keep all the bad memories away."

     "Okay," Hutch responded, a little smile in his voice.  "I believe you
probably can."

     Judging by the sound way both men slept, the bad memories were
effectively held at bay.

********
     
     Starsky was just pouring the coffee, and Hutch dishing up cereal at the
kitchen table when there was a knock at the back door.  

     "Sit tight," Starsky said, walking over to the door and opening it.  Connie
stood on the other side.

     "Any word yet?"

     "Come on in, have some coffee."  Starsky let her in, and closed the door
behind her.  "We're headed into the precinct now."  Already dressed for the day
with their holsters on the backs of their chairs, it was obvious this was a quick
breakfast before work.

     "I won't keep you long.  Thanks," she said, accepting the cup.  "Donna's
frantic, you know, now that it's been over 24 hours...and nothing."

     "We spent most of yesterday following up on the list of family and friends
she provided us, and getting Michael's description out there as much as possible,"
Hutch spoke up.  "Today, we're organizing searches of any vacant properties
nearby.  There isn't much around here that a child could reach under his own
power, but there are a few vacant houses, old buildings, vacant lots with trees...I
don't expect that'll turn up anything."

     "Except maybe a body?"  Connie asked grimly.

     "That's always a possibility," Starsky responded, shooting a concerned
look at Hutch.  For his part, the other man simply took a drink of his orange juice
and didn't look up.

     "We're going to stop by Donna's place on the way in this morning.  See if
there's anything else she can tell us."

     "The main reason I came over is...I hate to do this," Connie said, looking
up at the ceiling, then looking back down at her two hosts.  Starsky guided her
over to sit at the table, while he delivered Hutch's and his own coffee.  

     "If you have some information about this case, Connie, please let us have
it.  We'll follow up on whatever it is as fairly, and thoroughly, as we can," Hutch
spoke up, and Connie nodded.

     "Donna has a boyfriend.  He's a...a really...well, I might as well just say it. 
He's a real scummy-looking character.  I don't know if he even has a job.  He
drives some horrible old car with a rotted muffler, and he spends a lot of time
practically *living* with her."

     "Have you met him before?"  Starsky asked.

     "Not exactly.  Tom's talked to him briefly out in the back yard a time or
two.  He said he was pretty surly--kind of uncommunicative."

     "Do you know his name?"

     "Wade something.  I don't know his last name.  But I haven't seen him
around since Michael disappeared."

     "Is that odd?"  Hutch asked.

     "Well, I guess he's not there *every* day.  It seems like longer since
Michael's been gone because you know, every minute a child isn't accounted
for..."  She shrugged and took another drink of her coffee.

     "We'll ask Donna about how to get a hold of Wade," Starsky said.

     "Maybe you shouldn't.  I mean, if he's involved somehow, she might tip
him off unknowingly."

     "Without knowing the license number on his car, for example, we don't
have much way of tracking him without asking her or one of her relatives," Hutch
responded.

     "Ask her mother.  She doesn't like him, so she'll probably sing like a
canary and keep her mouth shut to Donna until you've found Wade."

     "We weren't able to get a hold of her mother yesterday--she was out of
town," Starsky said to Hutch.  "Guess we could ask her when we see her today."

     "We'll follow up on it, Connie.  Thanks for the information."

     "I don't like to blame people just based on appearances, you know.  Well, I
mean, look at Muriel and the rumors she was spreading about the two of you.  I
put a stop to that, let me tell you!"  Connie said, standing up as both men rose
with her.  "Stay and eat your breakfasts.  I'll see myself out."

     "Thanks, Connie," Hutch called after her, and she simply smiled and
headed for the door.  When she was gone, he looked up at Starsky.  After a
moment of shared eye contact, the two of them burst out laughing.

     "Gotta watch those appearances," Starsky said, shaking his head slightly,
still grinning as he took a drink of his coffee.  

********

     Donna Canfield's mother, Betty Richmond, was a stout woman in her
early sixties with gray hair and glasses.  Having just learned that morning of her
grandson's disappearance, she was understandably tense and more than a bit
anxious to go to her daughter's house when Starsky and Hutch intercepted her at
the door.
     
     "Couldn't this wait?  I've been out of town for almost a week, and I just
found out--" She looked more than a bit exasperated when neither man moved out
of her path from where they stood on the front porch of her modern brick
ranch-style home.  

     "We won't detain you long, Mrs. Richmond.  We're trying to speak to all
the family and friends who might have any knowledge of Michael's whereabouts,
or any possible leads for us to follow," Starsky spoke up.  "It *is* less disturbing
to your daughter for us not to have to ask unpleasant questions in front of her, so
we prefer to talk to potential witnesses individually."

     "All right.  But let's try to make this brief," she said, stepping back for
them to enter.  The house was neatly decorated in shades of beige and brown,
with a large vase of fresh flowers on the sofa table.  

     "Nice flowers," Starsky commented, looking at the bouquet which
contained an extensive variety of colors and types.

     "I just picked them from my garden this morning, before Donna called
me.  Please, sit down."  She gestured at the couch, which they occupied at
opposite ends, while she sat in a chair across from it.  

     "I suppose we might as well begin with the standard questions we've been
asking everyone," Hutch said, notepad at the ready.  "Do you know of anyone who
would have reason to want to hurt your family?"

     "Why, no, I can't really think of anyone.  I really don't think I have any
*enemies*.  Like any family, we've had our differences, but none of us are at each
other's throats, and as far as others who would want to get at someone in our
family, I don't know of anyone like that."

     "Is there anyone in your daughter's or grandson's life you've ever
been...uneasy about?  Anyone you weren't comfortable seeing around the boy?" 
Starsky asked.  

     "Well..."  She let out a long sigh.  "Wade Kozinski.  Donna's boyfriend. 
I've never been too fond of him.  And I've said so more than once, not that it does
any good.  He drifts from one two-bit job to another.  Donna doesn't have much,
but he manages to cut a nice piece of what little is there, for himself.  Borrows
money he never pays back, lives there half the time when he's hiding from his
landlord.  I've never felt he was a good influence on Mikey."

     "Do you have any suspicions that he ever mistreated the boy in any way?" 
Hutch asked.

     "I don't have any *proof*, but Mikey doesn't like him.  He won't say
anything against him in so many words, but you know how children can be if
they're frightened of someone."

     "Do you think your daughter would tolerate an abusive situation?"  Starsky
asked.

     "I never used to think so.  But she certainly has enough of an indication
that this guy is no good, and she sure doesn't get rid of him for any other reason."

     "Besides Wade, are there any other people you think we should question?" 


     "I can't think of anyone," she said in response to Hutch's question.  "Well,
except for his school, and the neighborhood children he plays with."

     "We've seen the Harmons, the Welles and the Bakers--anybody else spring
to mind?"  Starsky read off the list of families Donna had indicated had children
her son played with.

     "I don't know them by their last names.  Timmy, Randy, Jessica and Ron
are the little ones I've met at Donna's."

     "Yeah, that's covered with these folks," Starsky said, checking his notes. 
"Do you happen to know where we could find Kozinski?"

     "Just a minute.  I know I have his address around here somewhere.  Donna
wanted him contacted in case there was ever an emergency with her."  Mrs.
Richmond rolled her eyes, getting up to go look in a small roll-top desk that sat at
one end of the living room.  After flipping a few pages of her address book, she
read it aloud.  "Westdale Apartments, 2C.  Phone number is 555-4345."

     "Great.  Thank you very much for your time this morning."  Hutch rose
first, and Starsky followed suit.  

     "It certainly seems like you're doing all you can," she said.

     "We are, ma'am.  Actually, we live on the street right behind your
daughter and grandson, so aside from wanting to find a missing little boy, we also
want to help out a neighbor.  We'll do everything we can," Starsky added.

     "Ironic, isn't it?"  she said as she picked up her purse and walked with
them to the door.  "Two policemen move in, and then all of a sudden..."  She
shrugged.  "I guess it just proves you're not safe anywhere."

********

     "Well, Wade sounds like a real prince, doesn't he?"  Hutch pulled away
from the curb.  Starsky hadn't minded relinquishing the driving duties for the day,
enjoying the slightly crisp breeze that was blowing in through the windows on a
sunny December morning.  

     "Tonight's the last night of Hanukkah," Starsky said, waiting for the
response.  Hutch always got him something for Hanukkah, even when he resisted
the "euphoric sentimentalism" of Christmas.  After lighting the Menorah each
night--starting at Starsky's place before they moved--he knew his partner couldn't
have forgotten.

     "That so?"  Hutch said calmly, driving toward the Westdale Apartments. 
"Time does fly, doesn't it?"

     "Aw, come on, Hutch, usually you give me somethin' the first couple
nights.  What'd you get me this year?  And if it's a piece'a paper in a box, so help
me God, I'm gonna kill ya."

     "It's not a piece of paper in a box," Hutch responded, laughing.  "Might not
be anything.  I mean, after all, the house is a big financial strain.  We said it was
going to be our holiday gift to each other if we could swing it, remember?"

     "You weren't serious about that?  I mean, maybe nothin' big, but
*something*.  It's our first Hanukkah and Christmas together.  You're gonna sit
there and tell me you didn't get me even one lousy present?"

     "You know, there's more to these holidays than presents."

     "Yeah, sure.  That's what somebody says who didn't buy any," Starsky
pouted.  

     "Good things come to those who wait, Starsk."

     "So you *did* get me something?"  Starsky brightened immediately.

     "I meant perhaps you'll just have to wait until next year, when we aren't so
overextended."  Hutch pulled into a parking spot in front of the rather
seedy-looking two-floor apartment complex.  "We're here."

     "I can see that," Starsky snapped back, getting out of the car and slamming
the door a bit harder than necessary.  

     "Bad little boys who throw temper tantrums get coal in their stockings."

     "Then I'm a damn sight better off that I was before.  Anything's better'n
nothin'."  Starsky led the way to the outdoor stairway that led to a balcony that ran
the full length of the front of the building.  When they reached 2C, he rapped on
the door.  Finally, as they were about to knock again, a disheveled-looking man in
his thirties opened the door a crack, squinting at the light.  In a tank shirt and
boxers, unshaven with brown hair in disarray, it was obvious he'd just crawled out
of bed.

     "Yeah?"

     "Wade Kozinski?"  Starsky asked.

     "Yeah, who're you?"  

     "Police.  We'd like to speak to you regarding Michael and Donna
Canfield."
     
     "What about 'em?"

     "Are you aware, sir, that Michael has been missing since yesterday
morning?"  Hutch asked.

     "Nah, I've had my ringer turned off.  Workin' nights.  Come on in."  He
wandered into the apartment, still seeming a bit disoriented.  Hutch pushed the
door shut behind him.  "I was asleep--just got in an hour ago.  You want a beer? 
Oh, wait, I suppose you don't."  He grabbed one for himself.

     "Thanks anyway," Starsky spoke up.  "You know Donna and the boy
pretty well, right?  Any thoughts on who might have a reason to want to hurt
them, or take the boy?"

     "Her ex.  But he never comes and visits the kid, so I can't see why he'd
want to kidnap him."  He downed a few gulps of the beer.  

     "Ryan Canfield?"

     "Yeah, that's him.  You talk to him yet?"

     "Yes we did," Hutch responded.

     "Him and his fancy-ass suits.  Sells shoes for living and dresses like a
goddamned banker.  No good shit.  Never pays his child support on time, like
Donna's made'a money or something."

     "We've been asking many of the people we've talked to if they'd object to
our taking a look around," Hutch said.  "Might save a lot of needless paperwork
down the road, and folks who have nothing to hide generally don't mind."

     "They don't, huh?"  Kozinski took another swig of his beer and pinned
Hutch with a disbelieving look.  Then he snorted an ugly little laugh.  "Well, have
at it.  There's the living room, which you saw, the kitchen, which we're in--since
I've had the refrigerator open, you know I don't have him in there.  Feel free to
check the freezer.  The bedroom and the john are through that door.  Knock
yourselves out.  My car keys are on the table by the door if you want to make sure
he's not in the trunk."
     
     "We're not trying to imply anything, Mr. K--" Starsky was cut off by a
wave of the other man's hand. 

     "No sweat.  Kid comes up missing, check out Ma's boyfriend."  He
shrugged.  "Don't know what I'd want with a kid though."

     "You get along with Michael?"  Hutch asked.

     "So-so.  He's a good little kid.  I'm just not much good with kids."
     
     "Thanks for your cooperation," Starsky said as they began a walk-through
of the apartment.  

     Nothing was out of the ordinary, and there were no immediate signs of the
presence of a child, nothing that wasn't standard contents for the various closets
or cupboards they opened.  

     "Are you sure about the car?"  Hutch verified, picking up the keys.

     "Sure.  Go for it.  Hope old take-out bags and dirty gym clothes don't
bother you."

     The 1976 Grand Prix yielded nothing by way of evidence, and an
abundance by way of junk.  Finally vindicated that his car really wasn't all that
sloppy, Hutch felt somewhat smug as he returned the keys to their owner.

     "Again, Mr. Kozinski, we appreciate your openness.  Sorry to have
disturbed you."

     "Hey, no problem.  I hope you find him soon.  I probably better head over
to Donna's anyhow."

     "Right.  Thanks," Hutch repeated, then headed out to the car where
Starsky was already in the passenger seat.

     "Doesn't exactly seem like a kidnapper, does he?"  Starsky made a few
notes in his notepad.

     "No, but then a lot of serial killers seem like nice guys, too.  Maybe he just
knew there was nothing we'd find."

     "Or maybe he's in the clear."  

     "Could be.  Guess we better head back in and check on the searches."  

     "You still okay with all this?"  Starsky asked.

     "I'm fine, babe."  Hutch pulled out of the parking place and headed back
out into traffic.  Feeling more than a little guilty for yanking Starsky's chain so
badly earlier, he relented a little.  "Look, Starsk, about the present thing--"

     "Just forget it, Hutch.  It's no big deal."

     "I wanted to make it special.  Wait 'til the last night."

     "You don't have to get somethin' now if you weren't going to.  It doesn't
matter."

     "Starsky, will you please quit pouting?  I said I had a gift."
     
     "That's not what you said before."

     "You ever heard of a joke?  Geez, you're touchy this morning."

     "This year's real important to me, that's all," Starsky said quietly.  

     Feeling more chastised by the quiet statement than all the patented Starsky
tirades in the world, Hutch reached over and took a hold of Starsky's hand,
managing to lace their fingers even though the hand he was grasping was a bit on
the stiff and tense side.  

     "To me to, babe.  I wanted it to be extra special, so I was saving it for the
last night.  And that's the truth."

     "Really?"

     "Really."

     "It's not some kinda gag gift or somethin'?"

     "Nope.  Scout's honor."

     "I got somethin' for Hanukkah for you, too.  But your Christmas presents
are better."  Starsky was maintaining their tradition of buying each other the best
gift for his native holiday.

     "What am I gonna do with you?"  Hutch shook his head, laughing.

     "Love me 'til you croak?"  Starsky suggested, grinning and squeezing
Hutch's hand.

     "I can do that."  

********

     Starsky was picking at a beef burrito, reading through a case file, when the
phone rang.  He picked it up, hoping there would be some worthwhile news on
the other end.  

     "Starsky."

     "Dave, this is Connie.  I just stopped over to your place to leave a package
that was delivered to our house by mistake, and...I thought you should know.  I
think something's happened to your car.  You didn't have any damage to the hood
before today, did you?"

     "No, it was fine.  What's wrong with it?"

     "Maybe you should come and take a look at it if you can.  It's pretty bad,
Dave.  It looks like someone...dropped a sledgehammer in the middle of it, and
it's...scratched up."
     
     "Terrific."  Starsky paused.  "Thanks for calling me, Connie.  We'll head
over there as soon as we can."
     
     "I'm really sorry to call with such bad news."

     "Yeah.  Thanks."  He hung up the phone, and as soon as Hutch walked in
the door, he rose and intercepted him.  "Connie just called.  Somebody did a
number on the Torino--smashed up the hood."

     "What?  In the *driveway*?"

     "Apparently."  

     "Nothing like the milk of human kindness that flows at the holidays,"
Hutch said sarcastically, following his partner out of the squad room.

     A short time later, they pulled into their driveway behind the Torino.  The
garage was still clogged with junk, and when it was cleared out, it would only
accommodate one car.  Hutch had conceded the garage to Starsky's baby, since
his own car was much less precious to him.  

     Starsky was out of the car before Hutch had time to cut the engine, racing
up to inspect the damage for himself.  Hutch joined him, and had to share in the
speechlessness of the moment.  The hood of the car had been caved in in the
middle--as Connie said, much like the damage that would be done by dropping a
large sledgehammer there.  More disturbing than that was the message carved
into the paint:  

FAGGOTS NOT WELCOME

     "Damn," Starsky said quietly, as he tried to pop the hood.  "It's jammed."

     "You think it damaged the engine?"  Hutch asked about the caving in, both
of them artfully dodging the message for the moment.  

     "It's a pretty deep dent," Starsky said, swallowing once.  

     "Why don't you try starting it up?"  Hutch suggested, resting a hand on his
partner's back.  Starsky nodded and walked around to the driver's side and opened
the door.  

     "Aw, shit."

     "What's wrong?"  Hutch walked around to join him, and saw the slashed
seats for himself.  "Did you lock it?"

     "Yes, I locked it," Starsky snapped.  "Window's all scratched up from
somebody workin' the lock over," he added.  He happened to glance behind him at
Muriel's house just as one of the sheer curtains covering the closest window,
dropped closed again, as if someone had been looking out.

     "If she was home when this happened, she couldn't have missed it," Hutch
said.

     "Aw, Hutch, get real.  The whole fucking neighborhood couldn't've missed
it!"  Starsky shouted back.  "You know what kinda noise that dent had to make? 
How long all this took?"

     "They probably did the noisy damage last, Starsk."

     "She knows somethin'.  Otherwise she'd be out here hoverin' over us like a
UFO."  

     "Ken, Dave, you're home," Connie said, walking across the front lawn
toward the driveway.  "Do you think you can fix it?"

     "My hood's shot to hell.  I don't even think Merle can put that back in
shape," Starsky stated flatly, leaning on the open door of the car and staring sadly
at the mangled hood.  "He can probably fix the seats.  I guess I better try startin' it
up."  Starsky sat on one of the mauled seats and put the key in the ignition.  The
engine made a few sputtering attempts, but didn't catch.

     "You want me to give Merle a call, have him send someone over to tow
it?"  Hutch asked, resting his hand on Starsky's shoulder, rubbing a little.  

     "I need some photos of the damage and we need to make note of all of it
for the police report.  I'll call Merle later."

     "Who would do such a nasty thing?  This is a nice neighborhood--we don't
even get vandalism at Halloween except for a little toilet paper here and there." 
Connie was wandering around the front of the car, looking at the hood.  "Looks
like Muriel spread the word to someone who wasn't happy with what they heard."

     "I think I'm gonna pop next door and have a chat with our friendly busy
body," Starsky said, getting out of the car and heading over toward Muriel's. 
Figuring he better be along for the ride in case things got tense, Hutch followed
him.  In response to Starsky's loud staccato knocking, the neighbor finally opened
her door.

     "Well, this is a surprise," she said, forcing a little smile.

     "Why don't you save the effort of playing you don't know what this is
about.  We just saw you at the window," Starsky said.

     "I saw you were out in the driveway.  Is something wrong?"  she asked,
frowning.

     "Follow me, please," Starsky said simply, walking down her back steps
and over to the damaged car.  "I would like you to tell me how this was done right
under your windows, and you didn't hear a thing," Starsky challenged.

     "Oh, my goodness!"  She covered her mouth with one hand.  "I heard
some commotion, but I figured it was the two of you moving around.  I don't
check on every sound of coming and going from your house, you know."

     "Every sound?  Lady, take a look at that hood!  That's not just a little
sound--"

     "Starsk," Hutch cut in, holding up a forestalling hand.  "You'll have to
understand, Muriel, that as close to your house as our driveway is, the fact you
didn't hear anything *unusual* is surprising.  Are you certain you didn't hear or
see anything out of the ordinary?"

     "As I said, I heard some commotion, but I didn't go look.  I was on the
phone at the time.  Really, I resent being questioned as if you think I had
something to do with this."

     "We aren't implying that," Hutch said before Starsky could get his mouth
open again.  "You're just our best hope for information on how this happened, and
who *is* responsible, and we're very disappointed that you didn't see or hear
anything--or at least, if you did, didn't check up on it.  It's reasonably obvious this
is not only an act of vandalism, but a hate crime, given the message on the hood
of the car.  I think anyone in this neighborhood should be concerned when
something like this happens."

     "I don't know what you two expected, moving into a respectable
neighborhood like this one and then...*carrying on*."

     "Carrying on?"  Starsky asked, his eyebrows raised.

     "Using this house for your...ugh, I can't even say it."  She shook her head
disgustedly.

     "Maybe you should try, Muriel, because apparently we're not following
you.  Using this house for our *what*?"  Hutch prodded.

     "For some kind of...of...*honeymoon cottage*.  If you people actually do
things like get married, that is."

     "Look, lady, what we do in the privacy of our own home is none of your
business," Starsky said angrily.  "Of course, when you barge in on people at 7:30
in the morning unannounced, I guess you want to make it your business."

     "And what did you really see?  You know we slept on an air mattress
when we had no other beds in the house and lit a couple of candles.  Based on
that, you've made it your business to spread the word that we were undesirable
neighbors.  Well, keep this in mind.  With any crime, individuals who withhold
evidence may very likely be brought up on criminal charges in connection with
that crime.  So it doesn't matter that you didn't swing the sledgehammer.  What's
going to matter is if you know who did and you didn't tell us, and we find that out. 
And trust me, we *will* find it out."

     "Muriel, I'm really surprised at you," Connie said, shaking her head.  "I
know you're active in your Church, and I know you were always strict with your
girls when they were growing up about things like boys and dating, but I never
thought I'd hear you sound so...*hateful* against people who haven't done
anything to you.  The first day they moved in, Dave spent the whole day over at
our place helping Tom set heavy fence posts in cement.  They personally took on
the case when Donna's little boy turned up missing--even though they're usually
not assigned missing child cases.  They've done nothing but try to be good
neighbors and fit in to this neighborhood, and you've done nothing but
spout...*hate* since they arrived."  Connie turned to Starsky, who was standing
closest to her.  "I left that package by your back door.  Why don't you and Ken
come over for dinner tonight?  I'm making goulash."

     "Thanks, Connie.  Sounds great."  Starsky paused.  "We appreciate it," he
said, putting a great deal more significance in the words than was relevant to the
dinner invitation.       

     Muriel turned away and stormed back toward her house as Connie started
across the lawn toward her own home.  

     "Obstruction of justice and complicity can lead to jail time, Muriel.  You'd
do well to keep that in mind," Hutch called after her.

     "Gee, I'm glad you stopped me from sayin' anything accusatory," Starsky
said, shaking his head.  "Y'know, my grandmother used to say that the worst evil
was in the tongue of the town gossip."  

     "Wise lady, your grandmother," Hutch agreed.

     "She'd'a thought of somethin' more dire to say to Muriel, that's for sure." 
Starsky smiled fondly and shook his head a little.  "As little old ladies went, she
was only sweet and quiet on the surface."   

     "Kept you in line, didn't she?"

     "She didn't have to try too hard.  I thought she was pretty special."  Starsky
sighed as he looked back at the car.  "Guess I better get the camera."

     "I'm really sorry about this, babe," Hutch said, realizing that while the
Torino had more battle scars beneath the surface of Merle's numerous remarkable
repair jobs than both of them put together, Starsky still got bent out of shape if
there was a single scratch on it.

     "Not like it hasn't been through worse," Starsky said, voicing some of
Hutch's own thoughts.  "Outside'a havin' the tires slashed a time or two, nobody
ever...*went after it* just to get to me."

     "Or when we were trying to help Alison out and they stole the engine."

     "Yeah, there was that," Starsky admitted, actually chuckling a little.  "But
even that--it wasn't so...personal."

     "I know what you mean, buddy.  You get the camera and I'll start making
some notes."

     "Okay.  I'll give Merle a call."

     After the Torino had been towed away by Merle's cousin's tow truck,
Starsky wandered into the kitchen and found himself a beer in the refrigerator.

     "Don't you think we ought to talk to the neighbors?"  Hutch asked before
Starsky could take the first drink.

     "What for?  One'a them did it."

     "They didn't all do it together.  Somebody might've seen something."

     "Sure, and they're going to fink on their next door neighbor to help out the
faggots?"  Starsky took a drink of his beer.  "Get real, Hutch.  This is our life. 
And it's my fault.  You didn't want to live together--you thought it was too risky. 
But no.  I had to push it."

     "Do you regret that?"

     "Living together?  No.  Me pushin' you into this...mess?  Yeah, I regret
that.  I wanted so bad for us to have a place of our own, someplace that was home
for both of us.  When're you gonna stop listening to my stupid ideas?"

     "Probably never," Hutch said, smiling a little.  "Starsk, this was an ugly
thing to have happen, but so far, we only know of a couple people for sure who
feel that way--Muriel and whoever did the actual damage to the car.  Tom and
Connie--"

     "Would drop us in a second if they thought we were lovers.  She's standin'
by us because she thinks were 'normal'," Starsky said, making a couple angry
quote marks in the air with his fingers.

     "We knew this wasn't always going to be smooth sailing, babe."

     "I should'a known better.  John Blaine was one hell of a smart man.  If
there'd been a safe way for him to live his life the way he wanted to live it, he'd'a
figured it out.  His solution was to hide in the St. Francis Hotel and keep a wife
and family just for show."

     "I don't think either one of us is up to living that lie.  Besides, it's too much
of a crash for the people who love you in your phony life.  What Maggie went
through, feeling so bad, and having so many questions about what went wrong
with their life together...I wouldn't want to do that to someone.  Let alone the fact
I couldn't fake it with someone else."  Hutch moved over to his partner and slid
his arms around Starsky's middle.  "Could you fake it?"  he asked against a
curl-covered ear, and the tickle of his breath made Starsky duck a little and laugh,
something in the involuntary gesture very attractive to Hutch.  

     "Never.  Nothin' but the real thing," Starsky said, looking back into
Hutch's eyes.  

     "We might be a little late getting over to Tom and Connie's," Hutch
warned, kissing his way down the side of Starsky's cheek, down to the warmth of
his neck, nudging the collar aside.

     "She's making goulash," Starsky protested weakly, one hand sliding into
Hutch's hair, while the other held onto his shoulder.

     "That she is," Hutch responded, pulling Starsky's shirt out of his jeans,
running his hands up the smooth skin of his back, feeling it arch a little at the
caresses.  

     "Hutch," Starsky breathed against his ear, his voice husky with desire, his
body pliant with surrender to the hands that were playing him with more skill
than C.W. Jackson played his guitar.  

     "Can't get enough of you," Hutch growled, fastening his mouth onto the
side of Starsky's neck, sucking hard.

     "Oh God," Starsky gasped, and, unable to be passive any longer, struggled
to claim Hutch's mouth with his own, pulling it away from the large passion mark
on his neck.  

     "Back bedroom?"  Hutch suggested, their lips still touching as he spoke.  

     "Kitchen floor?"  Starsky countered.

     "No shade in the back door window."

     "Back bedroom," Starsky agreed, and the two of them moved, clumsily,
toward the bedroom that had been made up as a guest room.  Clothing was
dropping along the way, until the two men, down to underwear and socks, fell on
the mattress together, wrestling passionately.  

     "Gonna eat you alive," Hutch promised, tugging Starsky's briefs over his
hips and down strong thighs until Starsky moved to cooperate with getting rid of
them altogether.  His cock stiff and needy, he eagerly urged Hutch toward it,
though he needed little encouragement to swallow it in one smooth downward
move.  

     Starsky let out a little shout of surprised delight, spreading his legs wide to
accommodate Hutch between them.  He fleetingly thought of how ridiculous he
must look, still wearing his socks while he was putting everything else he had on
open display, but rational thought didn't linger long when one of Hutch's skilled
hands began rolling and massaging his balls, the other sneaking under him to
probe and finger the valley between his cheeks.  

     It was over too soon, Starsky's cry of pleasure signaling his climax as
Hutch drank him down, sucking intently until he'd drained all Starsky had to give. 
Releasing the spent cock from his mouth, Hutch nuzzled and licked the sensitive
balls, then let his tongue trail farther back.  Knowing how crazy this made
Starsky, he grinned a bit evilly and teased the little pucker with the tip of his
tongue.  

     "Hutch...hey..."  Starsky made the move to push him away, and Hutch took
the cue, looking up, confused.

     "Thought you liked that, lover," Hutch questioned, stroking a raised thigh.  

     "Love it.  Love anything with you," Starsky said, smiling softly.  "After we
get cleaned up later, huh?"

     "Nothing about you turns me off, babe."  Hutch was moving up his chest
now, the wicked tongue seeking out his right nipple now.  

     "How about stickin' somethin' bigger than your tongue in there?"

     "I need some stuff."

     "Spit'll work."

     "Not on you."  Hutch planted an incredibly light kiss on Starsky's cheek. 
"With you, I don't take any chances.  Hang on."  

     Starsky waited, a bit frustrated at the break in the action, and yet moved
that Hutch would rather stop when they were both that hot and ready than to risk
causing him any discomfort.  When the blond reappeared carrying the lube,
Starsky figured he must have set some sort of land speed record making it up to
the bedroom and back down again.  He'd also taken a moment to shed his own
underwear, the long, impressive cock jutting out straight from its nest of golden
curls.  

     "You put the stuff on already," Starsky said, a little disappointed to see
that Hutch was already coated with a shiny layer of the gel.

     "If you did it, babe, the party'd be over before it got started."  Hutch leaned
down for a long kiss.  "I love you, you know."

     "Yeah, I know.  I love ya so much it hurts."

     "Like there isn't enough room in just one heart, huh?"  Hutch said, easing
one slippery finger inside Starsky.  

     "Good thing we got two between us."

     "Two halves of a whole, babe," Hutch countered, kissing his way down
Starsky's throat while he carefully slipped a second finger inside the snug passage,
gently stretching.  

     "C'mon, babe, I'm ready," Starsky urged.

     "Shhh.  I know when you're ready for me, beautiful," Hutch smiled,
working the third finger inside.  "It's not in anything I feel down here.  It's in those
beautiful eyes of yours."  Hutch smiled.  "Yeah, that's it, babe.  Relax for me."  

     Finally, the waiting was over, and as Starsky pulled his knees back, Hutch
entered him in a slow, gradual stroke that finally resulted in their full joining. 
Starsky's legs gripped Hutch's body, pulling him in tighter.  Braced on his
forearms on either side of Starsky, Hutch leaned down while Starsky rose up a bit
to share a long kiss.

     Then the motion began, slow and easy, both men wanting to draw out the
closeness and intimacy of the act as long as possible.  The love felt as if it could
spread to all corners of their souls and warm what had been chilled by the hate
that was being directed their way.  

     Hutch angled his strokes to begin massaging Starsky's prostate, smiling
and moaning himself at Starsky's unrestrained shouts of pleasure as his most
sensitive spot was rubbed and probed by Hutch's pumping cock.  Strong hands left
Hutch's shoulders and grabbed the bedding, the white knuckled squeeze that
seized the fabric being more than capable of leaving bruises on fair skin.  Hutch
gripped Starsky's hardening cock and began pumping it in motion with his thrusts,
intent on dragging a second climax out of his lover, hoping they could tumble
together into the sated afterglow.  

     Just as Hutch felt his own climax rippling to the surface, no longer willing
to be denied, Starsky's body stiffened a bit, and his internal muscles began
contracting.  The shared orgasm was delicious, and almost unbearably intense,
both men shouting each other's names in the rare instances when they were able
to do more than simply moan and cry out in pleasure.    

     "C'mere," Starsky said a little breathlessly, encouraging Hutch to move out
of his hunched position.

     "Don't want to leave you just yet," Hutch responded, stroking the smooth
skin of Starsky's hip.  

     "Feel like you're in my soul, babe.  You couldn't leave me if you tried.  But
your back's not gonna last long unless you stretch out."

     Reluctantly, Hutch carefully eased out of his lover and moved into the
open arms that waited for him.  Rolling on their sides, they shared lazy kisses,
relishing the sweet lethargy of total satisfaction.  

     "I really don't wanna leave here tonight," Starsky said against Hutch's
neck, settling in to be cuddled.  

     "I'll give Connie a call and tell her something."  Hutch groped behind him
and finally snagged the telephone off the night stand.  With the buttons in the
receiver, he was able to dial without dislodging Starsky--which was fortunate, as
Starsky didn't appear to have any plans to relinquish his hold any time soon.

     "Connie?  Hi, it's Ken next door.  I'm sorry to have to do this, but we're
going to have to take a rain check on dinner."  There was a pause.  "I've got a
really bad headache and I feel a little nauseous."  Another pause.  "Well, yeah, I'm
thinking that might be it.  Anyhow, I think I'm just going spend the evening in
bed."  Longer pause.  "Uh, Dave said he'd stick around with me--in case I needed
anything."  On cue, Starsky started working on a passion mark of his own on the
side of Hutch's neck.  "Thanks, Connie.  I just want you to know how much we
appreciated the invitation tonight.  You and Tom have been great neighbors to us,
and that means a lot right now with what's going on."  Pause.  "Right.  I will. 
Thanks again."  Hutch hung up the phone.  

     "Just gonna spend the evening in bed, huh?"

     "You wanna get up so we can get *into* the bed?"  Hutch asked, smiling
before his mouth was claimed for another kiss.  

     "Yeah, my butt's a little chilly."

     "We can't have that, now can we?"  Hutch addressed that problem by
placing both large hands over Starsky's buttocks, rubbing gently.  

     "Mmm," Starsky purred against his ear.  "Your hands are always nice and
warm."

     "Come on.  Let's get more comfortable."

     With a little grumbling at the disturbance, both men got up, tossed back
the covers and lost little time sliding between the fresh sheets.

     "We've slept in three beds in the last three nights," Starsky observed.

     "And we still have a myriad of floors, couches, chairs and other assorted
surfaces to test."  Hutch chuckled a little as he rubbed Starsky's back in long
strokes.  The little groan and shift made him pause.  "You okay, babe?"

     "I think it's gonna rain again tomorrow.  My incision's driving me nuts," he
said quietly.  

     "Hurts?"

     "Yeah, sort of.  I just don't feel so good."

     "Was it something we did?"

     "No!  That was perfect."  Starsky smiled.  "You were perfect."

     "And that comes as some kind of surprise to you?"  Hutch teased.

     "Not in the least," Starsky said, smiling but more serious than Hutch's light
comment had been.  

     "So what happened?  You went to Pancho Villa's for take-outs again?"

     "How'd you know that?"  Starsky looked up at his lover with disbelief.

     "Well, first off, you were only too happy to get rid of me for lunch when I
mentioned those errands to the bank and a couple other stops I needed to make,
you looked guilty as hell when I got back, you had onions and Mexican seasoning
on your breath when we made out in the men's room--"

     "One kiss isn't makin' out."

     "One kiss that I thought would result in your tongue having to be
surgically removed from my throat."

     "So?  I'm an enthusiastic kisser."  

     "No arguments there.  But aside from all that, ever since the shooting,
whenever you eat five-alarm seasoning, you don't feel good by evening, and that
whole mess with the car didn't help settle your stomach too much."

     "Sometimes I feel like a washed up old man.  I usedta have a cast iron
stomach."

     "It's still pretty tough, babe.  It's just got a few weak spots.  A lot of people
notice a change in their digestion after they've had extensive abdominal surgery. 
You just need to cool it on the super hot stuff."

     "I just wish I was back the way I was sometimes," Starsky said a little
sadly, and Hutch's heart twisted at the statement.

     "I know, babe.  I'm just so damn glad you're alive, and healthy, and we can
be together and have a life together...but that's easy for me to say.  I wasn't shot."

     "I love you, y'know," Starsky said, nuzzling Hutch's neck.

     "I love you too, my love.  You want something for your stomach?"

     "Yeah.  One of those patented Hutchinson belly rubs."

     "Honestly, Starsk, you're worse than an old hound."  Hutch kissed his
lover one more time before Starsky turned over, and Hutch spooned up behind
him.  He settled one large hand over the troubled stomach and began to rub
gently.  "Try to relax and go to sleep, babe.  It'll feel better later."

     "Feels better now," Starsky sighed, smiling and letting himself relax.  "I'm
so lucky to have you," he added quietly.  

     "I think we're both pretty damn lucky," Hutch said, kissing his shoulder.

     "Yeah, I think you're right," Starsky agreed, grinning as he drifted off to
sleep.

********

     When Starsky rallied from his nap, it was dark in the house and Hutch was
still sleeping soundly behind him.  Forcing his eyes to focus on the digital clock
on the night stand, he saw it was almost 11:00.  One thing he knew was that
Hutch was right--he did feel better, and his appetite was returning with a
vengeance.  He carefully slid out from under the heavy arm that was wound
around him, and when putting on his rumpled clothes seemed like more trouble
than it was worth, he bypassed them altogether and wandered naked out to the
kitchen in the dark.  

     After finding some leftover pizza in the refrigerator, he stood at the sink,
looking out the window into the expanse of yards he could see behind him. Tom's
fence was just about complete now, but he still had a decent view of the back of
the Canfield house.  He took a bite of pizza that bore two pieces of pepperoni,
and wondered what his stomach would make of that, after having been so
discontented earlier.

     "Fuck you," he mumbled, and took another, larger bite.  

     There was a light on in the Canfield house, and someone emerged from
the side door and walked to a car parked out there.  Figuring it was probably
Kozinski leaving, he didn't think much of it until he saw a second person exit the
house--carrying a long, obviously heavy object in a trash bag.  

     "Dear God," he muttered, acknowledging to himself just how much like a
child's body the parcel looked.  Not wanting to leave the window and lose sight of
the activity going on outside, he let out a bellow for his partner.  "Hutch!"  he
shouted.  One more shout, and the naked, disheveled blond came running into
view.  "Somethin's goin' on at Canfield's.  Get our clothes."

     "What?"

     "Just go!"  At the urgency of Starsky's voice, Hutch retreated to the
bedroom and returned moments later with the clothing.  The two men hastily
pulled it on while Starsky kept an eye on the two people moving around in the
dark behind the neighboring house.  

     "What did you see?"

     "Damn it, Hutch, I think they just put the kid's body in the trunk."

     "What?!"  Hutch gaped at him, stunned.

     "Where's my piece?"  

     "Right here.  You ready?"

     "Yeah, let's go.  Hey, wait--driveway door--real quietly."  Starsky caught
Hutch's arm, suggesting they exit from the side of the house that couldn't be seen
from the Canfield house.

     "Good idea."  

     Reluctantly leaving their post at the window, they raced through the house
and out the side door, and in a moment, were slithering stealthily around the
corner of the house to the back of it.  The car hadn't left yet, so they sprinted
across the lawn, Hutch's longer gait bringing him to the Canfield property first.  

     They approached the driveway together, and once their presence became
apparent to the people in the car--there was one in the passenger seat and one
about to get in on the driver's side--both froze and watched the approaching cops. 
Hutch directed the beam of the flashlight they'd been carrying toward the
would-be driver.  It was not Kozinski, as they had initially suspected.  It was a
man who appeared to be approximately in his early forties with graying black hair
and a mustache.  

     "Would you please step out of the car, Mrs. Canfield?"  Starsky said,
moving closer to the passenger side of the car.  Somewhat reluctantly, Donna
Canfield got out of the car.  "You wanna tell me what's in the trunk?"  he asked
firmly.

     "Am I under some obligation to?  Am I breaking any laws?" she asked
sharply.

     "A child is missing from this house, and I just saw you load a suspicious
looking parcel in the back of your car at 11:15 at night, without bothering to use
any sort of lighting to see what you're doing.  It's heavy enough that you got a
male companion to move it for you.  Sounds like probable cause to me, so
whether you like it or not, I'm gonna look in the trunk."

     "This is my brother, Adam Gregory," she said tersely.  "He was just
helping me move some old things out of the basement.  You searched the house
already.  What exactly do you expect to find in the trunk?"

     "Is this your car, Mr. Gregory?"  Hutch asked the man, who up to now had
remained mute, looking a bit like a deer caught in oncoming headlights.  

     "Yes, it's my car," he responded finally.

     "Open the trunk, please."  

     Hutch followed Gregory to the trunk of the car while he unlocked it,
raised the trunk and then stepped back.  

     "I hope you two are prepared for a lawsuit," Donna threatened angrily.

     "Y'know, lady, if my kid had been snatched right outta his bed in the
middle of the night, I'd be real glad that the cops were workin' this hard on the
case.  A little inconvenience wouldn't seem like such a big deal.  But then I don't
know if I'd be cleanin' out the basement, either."

     "And what's that supposed to mean?"  she challenged.

     "Starsk," Hutch's voice caught his attention from where he stood at the
trunk with Donna's brother.  

     "What is it?"  Starsky joined them, and Hutch pulled back the plastic to
reveal a rather beleaguered-looking area rug, decorated with colorful toy
trains--as if it might match the similar motif they'd seen in Michael's room.  "Bag
it and tag it?"  Starsky asked, and Hutch nodded.  

     "You got gloves?"  he asked Starsky.

     "Not with me."

     "There's a tarp in the laundry room at home.  Go get that and we'll wrap
this in that."

     "You two are seriously going to take my rug now?"  Donna asked, looking
incredulous.  "It's an old rug that's wearing out that I don't use in Michael's room
anymore.  I wanted to get rid of it.  What's the big deal?"

     "Probably nothing.  But we can't take the risk of ignoring a potential lead
in a missing child case," Hutch replied.  Starsky started out across the lawns to
retrieve the tarpaulin.  

     "You really think I could have something to do with what happened to
Michael?  That's so horrible!"  she shouted, tears springing to her eyes.

     "You've got a hell of a lot of nerve, putting my sister through this,"
Gregory spoke up now.  "I've been telling her I was going to help her do some
cleaning up for months now.  I came over because I knew she was going nuts
waiting for word on Michael, and this might distract her for a few hours.  I had no
idea you had *her* under surveillance."

     "If there's nothing to hide here, then this is just an inconvenience.  A child
is missing, Mr. Gregory.  The chance of finding a missing child alive decreases
with every minute that child is not accounted for.  Your sister wanted us on this
case, and now that we are, there isn't one damn thing that's going to stand in the
way of us looking under every rock and exploring every possible lead to find
Michael before it's too late."

     "And I suppose you don't think I *want* you to find Michael?" Donna cut
in.  "How could you think I'd have anything to do with this?!"

     "Ma'am, I don't *think* anything one way or the other at this point.  I just
want to find your boy before it's too late."

     "Okay, let's wrap it up," Starsky announced, arriving with the tarp folded
up under one arm.  He spread it on the driveway beneath the trunk, and together,
he and Hutch carefully lifted the bundle from both ends, laying it on the tarp and
wrapping it carefully.  When it was finished, Hutch picked up the strange bundle.

     "I'm calling my lawyer," Donna announced, storming angrily into the
house.  

     "You two are really something.  My sister's going through the worst kind
of hell and you're over here confiscating her junk."

     "So where's the rest of the stuff?"  Starsky asked, craning his neck to look
around the driveway as if he expected a stack of junkyard-bound items to be
stacked somewhere.

     "What stuff?"  Gregory snapped back, annoyed.

     "The stuff you were helpin' her clean out of the basement.  You mean you
were makin' a special trip out at this time'a night to drive one rug to the dump?"

     "Look, pal, I don't have to answer any more of your questions.  You better
be prepared for a hell of a lawsuit when this is over."

     "Are either one of you even a little concerned about finding that child?" 
Hutch asked.  "All you've done tonight is threaten us with lawsuits and worry
about covering your own asses.  There's a little boy out there somewhere, and I
can promise you things aren't going well for him at this point, if he's even still
alive.  Do you have any idea how many missing and murdered children there are
in this state alone?  I would think that your nephew becoming another statistic
would mean more to you than calling your lawyer and pleading the fifth."

     "Hutch, let it go.  Come on.  We've gotta get this downtown."

     "Listen to your partner.  It's high time you both went home and minded
your own fucking business.  Most 'cops on the case' wouldn't be spying on the
victim's mother out a window in the middle of the night.  You're just a couple of
goddamned nosy neighbors."

     "You listen to me, Gregory, and you listen good.  This isn't fun and games
here," Starsky said.  "This is a felony no matter how it turns out now.  At the best
it's kidnapping, at worst, murder.  And coverin' up either one'a those can earn you
some hard time."  He looked over at Hutch.  "Let's get this downtown," he
suggested again.  

********

     "How long do you wanna hang around here?"  Starsky asked, rubbing at
his eyes.  It had been a long, son-of-a-bitch of a day, and he was more than ready
to go home, crawl into bed with Hutch and lose consciousness for a few blessed
hours.  

     "I was thinking until we heard something back from the lab."

     "That could be hours."  As Starsky said this, the phone on Hutch's desk
rang.

     "Maybe not."  He picked up the phone.  "Hutchinson."

     Starsky took another drink of coffee while Hutch talked to the caller, but
watched his partner with interest as the other's face registered shock, and his hand
shook slowly as he put the phone down again.  

     "What is it?"

     "They found blood on the rug, Starsk.  They...uh...don't know if it's
M-Michael's or not, but it's...human."

     "Hey, we can't jump to conclusions even if it is Michael's blood.  Little
boys are gettin' cut and scraped all the time.  He might'a gotten some on it himself
sometime."

     "Oh, come on, Starsky.  Donna Canfield and her brother strike out after
11:00 at night to dump a single rug--which used to be in Michael's room and just
happens to have blood on it--and then throw all sorts of legal threats at us--hardly
the picture of a grieving family.  You want me to not jump to a conclusion?"

     "I'm jumpin' the same direction, buddy.  What I mean is, legally, we gotta
have evidence.  You know the DA's gonna bust our chops anyway for how we
obtained this."

     "It was legal.  We had probable cause to search the trunk."

     "Probable cause ain't a warrant, and a lot of shit can go down between
gettin' the evidence and gettin' the conviction."
     "Roger's running an analysis on the blood, and he said he'd have a couple
other folks go over the whole thing again tomorrow for any trace evidence."

     "Let's go home, babe.  It's been a rotten day, and we gotta be right back at
it tomorrow."

     "Yeah, okay."  Hutch pushed himself out of his chair with some effort and
a little grunt.

     "You been doin' somethin' with that back you shouldn't'a been doin', boy?" 
Starsky asked in a leering whisper.

     "I got this horny partner, can't get enough of my giant cock.  Keeps me
going 24 hours a day," Hutch whispered back, grinning as Starsky turned the color
of his red shirt and chuckled.

********

     Starsky stirred as he was dislodged from his comfortable sleeping spot
against Hutch.  Though they'd sought their own sleeping space through the night,
Starsky had ended up with his back resting against Hutch's--his way of managing
to touch his partner even when they were ostensibly...*not touching*.  

     Hutch was on the move now, tossing and turning, mumbling miserably in
his sleep.  Starsky rolled over and started stroking the pained face with the backs
of his fingers.

     "It's a bad dream, darlin'.  Come on, wake up," he coaxed gently, not
wanting to startle Hutch out of such a deep sleep.  "Hutch, it's me, babe. 
Everything's okay.  Wake up for me now."  He captured one hand that had been
flopping restlessly, like a beached fish.  Kissing the knuckles, he held it against
his face, and felt the fingers contract around his.  "That's it, babe, hold onto me. 
It's okay.  Wake up for me now."  He stroked the fine blond hair back from
Hutch's forehead.  Finally, two wet blue eyes opened and fixed on him, their
depths haunted and filled with pain.

     "Oh, God, Starsk," was all he managed before the tears came, and Starsky
pulled him into his arms, pressing the fair head against his shoulder with one
gentle hand, the other running up and down Hutch's back soothingly.  

     "That's it, babe.  Get it out.  It's okay now.  I've got you."  Lying there on
their sides, he started a little rocking motion.  "Shhh.  You're safe, sweetheart.  It's
okay.  I'm right here."  Hutch's grip on his body tightened to an almost painful
intensity.  

     "It was T.J.," he managed in a tearful moan.  "He was...it was..."

     "Shhh.  Don't try to talk just yet.  Calm down, babe.  Shhh.  That's it.  Take
some deep breaths when you can.  It's gonna be okay."  

     "T.J. ...was in the...the...that b-bundle," he managed, another wracking sob
tearing loose from his throat.  "Instead of...that rug...I was carrying him...like he
looked...I can't say it."

     "You don't have to."  Starsky felt the tears burning his own eyes now as he
held and rocked his partner.  "It was a bad dream, darlin'.  It wasn't real."

     "Just...don't let go, okay?"  Hutch asked in a shaky voice.

     "Try and make me."  Starsky kissed his hair and rubbed his back.  "Love
you too much to ever let go.  Just hang onto me and don't be afraid.  I won't let the
bad dreams come back."  

     "I feel like I'm losing my mind.  I was...*over* this.  I coped with it.  I
went on with my life...and now...it's just...right there like it just happened."

     "It's the case.  I'm real upset about it too, babe.  I just don't have somethin'
awful like this in my past to be reminded of all the time."

     "I'm gonna fail Michael too."

     "You never failed T.J., Hutch.  You know damn well you didn't.  You
were a little boy, not a cop.  And as for Michael, I got this sick feelin' that we
came into things too late to make a difference."

     "I know, me too.  I just...I had that awful sick feeling that morning,
looking around the room..."

     "I know.  I know you can't *not* think about it, but try to put it aside for
tonight and get some rest, babe.  Think about somethin' pleasant."  Starsky was
quiet a minute.  "Like you and me, lounging around on a tropical island, with
nothin' to do but make love and drink outta coconuts all day."

     "Honestly, Starsk," Hutch said, chuckling wetly.  Starsky smiled.  

     "Best I could do on short notice."

     "You make me smile when it's impossible," Hutch whispered, settling in
against Starsky's chest.

     "Just havin' you in my arms makes me smile.  I gotta return the favor."

********

     Hutch was standing in front of the kitchen sink, drinking coffee, when
Starsky wandered into the kitchen, still yawning. 

     "What time is it?"
     
     "Seven," Hutch answered flatly.

     "Shit."  Starsky sat at the table and blindly reached for the cup of coffee he
knew would be heading for his hand right about then.  "God, I'm tired."  He took a
couple swallows and forced his eyes to acknowledge the bright sunlight in the
kitchen.  "Roger call or somethin'?  I thought we were gonna sleep in a couple
hours and go in later."

     "Roger didn't call.  I just couldn't sleep.  I probably shouldn't have made
the coffee.  The smell usually wakes you up."

     "It's okay.  If you couldn't sleep you shoulda poked me so we could
talk...or somethin'," Starsky added, grinning a little lecherously.  Hutch had to
smile at that, but it was a sad smile.  "Hey, we're gonna figure this case out,
babe."

     "There's no other logical reason for them to move that rug at that time of
night.  It was the only thing they were moving, and they're in the middle of a
family trauma with a missing child--a time when you live by the phone..."  Hutch
sat at the table and held his coffee cup in both hands as if to warm them.  When
his hair actually looked yellow in contrast with his skin, Starsky knew something
was wrong.

     "You don't look so good, blondie," he said, putting a hand on Hutch's
forehead.  It was a normal temperature.  "You feelin' okay?"

     "There's something I can't put my finger on, something I need to
remember."

     "About T.J.?"

     "Yeah," Hutch answered softly, nodding.  

     "You did all you could at the time, babe.  You have to let it go."  Starsky
took one of the large hands in both of his.  "You're tearin' yourself apart."

     "When he first came up missing?  My parents *lived* by the phone.  The
first 48 hours, my mother wouldn't go to bed.  Not until she collapsed and the
doctor sedated her.  I don't know if my father ever actually got into bed and slept,
or if he just dozed by the phone in his study.  These people back here...they're
moving *rugs*.  Damn it, Starsk, they're trying to destroy evidence."

     "And we stopped 'em."

     "That means they had something to do with it.  That woman knows what
happened to her boy.  And she's helping cover it up."

     "Or she did it," Starsky said, feeling a little shiver run down his spine at
the thought.  It wouldn't be the first case he'd ever heard of where a parent killed a
child, but that didn't take the horror out of the concept.  

     "What kind of a nightmare did we move into here, Starsk?"

     "I don't know, but when this case is over, maybe we oughtta think about
movin' back out of it."

     "You want to leave?"

     "I'm not sure yet, but I guess I don't feel real welcome here right now,"
Starsky said, sighing.  "We've been nothin' but miserable since we got here--with
that dingbat next door, somebody trashin' the car, and now this case.  The rest'a
the neighbors aren't goin' anywhere, so maybe we ought to."

     "We'll lose our ass on the house."  

     "Not necessarily.  We cleaned it up a lot before we moved in.  We can get
rid of the junk in the garage and fix up the yard and there won't be so much for
new folks to do movin' in.  We might even make a couple bucks."

     "Starsk, I don't know what's wrong with me.  I feel like I'm falling apart. 
Like there's something trying to fall into place in my mind and yet it
won't...something to do with the Canfield case...and something to do with T.J. at
the same time.  The nightmare last night, there was more to it.  I just didn't
remember anything but the part I told you."

     "You were a pretty young kid when your brother disappeared--"

     "Was murdered.  When my brother was *murdered*.  My father wanted it
to be real clear to me the gravity of what had happened."

     "I know, babe."  Starsky brought the hand he was holding up to his lips
and kissed the back of it, resting his cheek against it.  "You were a little boy, and
you were all shaken up...there's bound to be stuff you don't remember."

     "Seeing what we did out there last night, it reminded me of something. 
But...I don't know what."

     "Hutch...you want me to get a hold of the Duluth P.D. and request the case
file on T.J.?"

     "No.  God, no," Hutch said, shaking his head slowly.  

     "You wouldn't have to look at it, darlin'.  I'd handle everything.  Look it
over, see if there was anything in it you hadn't told me.  I'll even go out there and
look into it on my own, so you don't have to."

     "I know you would...but you'd get stonewalled by my family, and without
my cooperation or presence, I don't know what the Duluth PD would really do--if
they'd be overly helpful.  It's an old case, the leads are cold..."

     "Come on.  You're goin' back to bed for a while."  

     "Starsk--"

     "No arguments.  You're exhausted and all tied up in knots.  I'm gonna give
you one of my famous Starsky massages, and then you're goin' to sleep.  And I'm
gonna be lyin' right there next to you, keepin' you safe from the boogeymen that
are getting into your head."  Starsky stood up and pulled Hutch to his feet, and
was quickly enveloped in a tight embrace.  

     Hutch stretched out on his stomach on the bed, clad only in boxers. 
Starsky straddled his lover's hips while he warmed in his hands some
almond-scented lotion Hutch liked.  Then he began to gently work at loosening
the muscles that felt tighter than bowstrings.  Hutch's skin was soft and smooth
under his hands, the creamy complexion never ceasing to be a turn on to Starsky. 
He tamped down any thoughts of acting on that little spark of desire and instead
concentrated on a completely innocent but thorough body massage.  Moving from
shoulders to back to buttocks to legs until he finally was gently rubbing each foot.

     "Roll on your side, babe--it's a better way to sleep for your back," Starsky
said softly, realizing Hutch was very near sleep, and not wanting to jar him out of
that delicious fatigue.  Hutch followed the directive a little sluggishly, and
Starsky spooned up behind him, covering them both.  "Sleep, darlin'.  I'm right
here."  

********

     The phone sliced into their sleep the next time, and Starsky jerked awake
first, rolling back to grab it off the night stand.  

     "Starsky."

     "It's Roger in the lab.  I've got something interesting for you.  The blood
on the rug?  There are two spots...both the same type as Michael Canfield's--and
both have been scrubbed with some sort of soap or detergent."

     "Is it recent?"

     "Between the scrubbing and the detergent that was used, we were lucky to
get a type out of it--it was definitely scrubbed as soon as it happened--within
minutes.  My guess would be that the stains themselves are only a couple days
old, but I'm sending the whole thing to the FBI crime lab for their analysis.  Being
it's a missing child case, they said they'd move it to the top of their list."

     "But you think it's recent?"

     "I'm close to positive, but that wouldn't hold up in court."

     "No, but it's good enough to get a warrant to go back into the Canfield
house.  Thanks, Roger."  Starsky hung up the phone and was surprised that Hutch
was still sleeping.  Reluctantly, he went about waking his lover with a few light
kisses to his cheek.  "Time to wake up, babe.  Duty calls."  Starsky smiled. 
"Actually, Roger calls, but it's the same difference."

     "Roger?  What'd he find out?"  Hutch rolled over, working hard at coming
to fully.  Starsky summarized the technician's findings, and his plans to send the
sample for further analysis.  "We need a warrant."

     "That's what I figured.  Come on.  We better get rollin'."

     "Thanks for this morning, babe.  It really helped," Hutch said, smiling and
sliding a hand behind Starsky's head, pulling him down for a long kiss.  

********

     A number of neighbors gathered on their porches and lawns to watch the
commotion of activity around the Canfield house.  With the crime lab van there,
Hutch's car, and a black and white unit, it was obvious something serious was
happening.  

     Inside the house, lab personnel combed every square inch for any
additional trace evidence.  With Donna Canfield on the phone to her attorney,
angrily decrying the unthinkable invasion of her home by hordes of people who
were dismantling the rooms with their thorough searching, the crime lab team
calmly retreated to the little boy's bedroom and sprayed every surface with
luminol, a chemical which would make blood stains no longer visible to the
naked eye, luminescent in a darkened room.  

     "Hutch?  They're doin' the luminol in Michael's room," Starsky called to
his partner, who left his place with a uniformed officer, going through the
contents of a small desk in the kitchen.  

     After Starsky and Hutch entered the room, the door was closed behind
them to close out the sunlight from the window at the end of the downstairs hall,
and the blinds were closed to shut out the daylight in the bedroom itself.  

     Hutch took one look around him, and bolted out the door of the bedroom. 
For his part, Starsky stood there frozen to the spot on the floor, feeling his
stomach turn over at the sight of the three large, luminescent blue areas--one on
the bare mattress, two on the floor--and two smaller visible spots--a couple
fingerprints on the doorknob of the room.

     "Oh my God," Starsky muttered, feeling the chills running up and down
his spine.  Swallowing hard, he left the room, closing the door behind him, and
went to the living room where Donna Canfield was sitting in a chair, arms
crossed over her chest, one foot tapping angrily on the ground.  "Mrs. Canfield,
there's something I think you should see," he stated grimly.  In the instant he said
that, her unnerved expression chilled him. //Dear God, she really knows what
happened to that kid...or she did it...//

     "What?"  she asked, rising and finally following him through the house to
the closed door of her son's bedroom.  

     "Please step inside."  Starsky opened the door and guided her through,
then shut it again.  She let out an audible gasp of horror at the glowing blue
stains.  She didn't ask what they were.  "Is there anything about
Michael's...*disappearance* that you would like to tell me at this point?"  Starsky
asked.  

     "My lawyer advised me not to answer questions," she mumbled, still
gawking at the stains.  From an innocent mother, Starsky would have expected
screaming, fainting, tears or some manner of hysterics at seeing her child's blood
on the mattress and floor of his room.  Again, Donna Canfield was talking about
her lawyer.

     "Mrs. Canfield, you do realize what you're looking at?"  Starsky prodded.

     "Yes, I do," she stated simply.  

     "Apparently it comes as no surprise," Starsky responded.

     "I didn't say that."

     Starsky opened the door of the room and guided Mrs. Canfield back to the
living room, where he motioned to one of the uniformed officers.  When the older
man had joined them, he directed him to take Donna Canfield downtown for
questioning.

     "I don't plan to answer any questions," she stated flatly.

     "I can arrest you or take you in for questioning.  Up to you."  Starsky
pulled out his cuffs, and she paused a moment.  

     "My attorney will be notified, and he'll be present," she said.

     "That's certainly your right, ma'am.  Stanton, take Mrs. Canfield
downtown and we'll be there in a little while."

     "Right this way, ma'am," the officer directed, leading her out to the squad
car.  

     With the suspected perpetrator on the way downtown, Starsky  went about
looking for his partner.  He found Hutch sitting on the bottom step of the back
porch, his face a ghastly ashen gray, his eyes bloodshot, his skin covered in a
sheen of cold sweat.

     "I told Stanton to toss the Canfield woman in the back of a squad car. 
We'll put her through the paces downtown."  

     "What do you think she used?"  Hutch asked, his voice raspy.

     "I don't want to think about it at all."  Starsky rested his elbows on his
knees and dropped his face in his hands for a moment.  Then straightening up, he
looked at his haggard partner.  "I'd guess a knife.  A gun's too loud, and she's not
well-connected enough to have a silencer."

     "Wh-why was there b-blood in so many p-places?"  Hutch rubbed a hand
over his mouth.  "Dammit."

     "Hey, it's okay, babe.  I'm pretty shaken up too."  Starsky slid his arm
around Hutch's shoulders.  "You and I both know that a serious wound can bleed
a lot.  He may have never felt anything."

     "What kind of animal...?"  Hutch swallowed hard, his skin taking on an
almost greenish tinge.  "When I saw T.J., he had bruises... right here," he said in a
strained voice, gesturing toward the side of his neck.  "Awful-looking
bruises...they said it...uh...crushed something.  I-I can't remember exactly what it
was...  I just didn't understand all the terms back then, you know?"  Hutch ran a
shaky hand over his face.  "But when I saw him, there wasn't...there was no,
uh...blood--just those big black-purple marks..."

     "You wanna go home, babe?  I'll handle putting Mother of the Year
through the paces downtown."  Starsky slowly rubbed Hutch's upper back, hoping
to calm some of the shaking he felt in his lover's body.  He longed to pull Hutch
into his arms and make it better, but this wasn't the time nor the place, and there
was a suspected child killer waiting to be questioned.  

     "I should be there."

     "Not if it's tearin' you up like this."

     "I...I don't think...I can handle...uh, going home...on my own right now,"
Hutch said quietly, not looking up.

     "The lab boys bagged and tagged a lot of picky little crap.  Why don't we
go downtown, and you look over the stash of stuff while I talk with her?"

     "Okay," Hutch responded, nodding.  Both knew Starsky was finding busy
work for him to do, but he was immensely grateful for the more dignified excuse
of doing something else for the case while Starsky took off the gloves with Donna
Canfield.  

     "Sergeant Starsky!  We got something!"  Brennan, Stanton's younger
partner, stuck his head out the back door.  

     "What is it?"  Starsky rose from his seat next to Hutch on the steps. 
Somewhat more slowly, Hutch did the same.  

     "Pete from the lab told me to get you.  He's in the crawlspace."

     "What crawlspace?"

     "The basement's only partial.  There's a crawlspace you get to through an
opening in the wall--it was behind an old wardrobe that was sitting against that
wall."  The younger man paused.  "Looks like it was just moved there--there're
some scratches on the floor, dust disturbed on it and stuff."

     "Oh, God," Starsky muttered, rushing into the house, Hutch close behind
him.  

     When they arrived in the basement laundry room, Pete Baker's head and
shoulders emerged from the square opening in the wall.  

     "It's a child," Pete said grimly, looking almost as pale and shaken as
Hutch.

     "Aw, no."  Starsky turned away momentarily.  "Damn it."  

     "Is this him?"  Hutch asked, producing a photo of Michael.

     "Yeah," Pete nodded.  "He's wrapped in a bloody bedsheet--was barely
buried in here--only about eight inches of dirt over him."

     "I'll get the coroner's wagon," Hutch said simply, turning and walking
away.  

     "Show me," Starsky said, dreading the vision, and yet knowing that one of
the lead homicide detectives on the case should see the body in its original
location.  

********

     Hutch took his time calling for the coroner's wagon.  He felt indescribably
guilty for walking away and leaving Starsky with the gruesome task of viewing
the location of the body--and the body itself--but he had honestly felt his grip on
his composure, and possibly his sanity--slipping quickly.  Hanging up the phone,
he took out his wallet and pulled out the lone photo he had of his dead brother, a
tiny wallet-sized kindergarten picture.  Comparing it to the small photo of
Michael Canfield, he felt sick inside.  The children could easily have been
brothers--they were almost similar enough to be mistaken for one another.  

     Just then, Starsky emerged from the back of the house, pale, his face damp
with perspiration.  He wiped past his eyes with a hand that shook badly.  
     
     "Go arrest that bitch in the squad car," he said evenly, and Hutch nodded
tightly, once, pausing to squeeze Starsky's shoulder briefly before going outdoors,
handcuffs at the ready.  

     Hutch swung open the door of the car and motioned to her to get out of it. 
She did so, looking relieved, as if they had somehow decided not to take her into
custody. 

     "Donna Canfield, you're under arrest for the murder of Michael Canfield. 
You have the right--"
     
     "Are you insane?"  she demanded.

     "--to remain silent, anything you say--"

     "Remain silent?  I didn't kill my son!"  

     "--can and will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right
to have an attorney present--"

     "Oh, he'll be present, all right!"

     Just as she made her last protest, the coroner's wagon arrived, and two
white-clothed attendants got out of it, followed by the coroner himself.  The two
uniformed men pulled a stretcher and body bag out of the back of the station
wagon.  

     "For your son's corpse," Starsky stated coldly as he passed his partner and
the suspected murderess.   

     "You can't think I did this!"  she protested as Hutch fastened the cuffs on
her wrists.  It was the first sign of passionate emotion they'd witnessed since
arriving at the house.

     "What I think doesn't much matter, lady.  It's what the evidence shows that
you need to worry about.  Get in the back of the car, please."  He guided her into
the squad car and closed the door.  The two uniformed officers were on their way
over to their vehicle.  "Take her downtown, book her, and we'll be there as soon
as we get cleared away here."

     "You got it, Sergeant," Brennan said, getting behind the wheel of the
squad car.  

     Hutch left the spot on the curb where the car had been parked and walked
over to the Torino, slipping into the passenger seat.  

     "How're you doin'?"  he asked Starsky, who was sitting behind the wheel,
staring straight ahead, not seeming to notice there was still a tear on his cheek.  

     "Not so great.  Don't know what's wrong with me."  

     "Pretty nasty scene?"

     "No, not moreso than usual."  Starsky swallowed once.  "Just a body in a
shallow grave in a blanket.  Just a dead little boy murdered by his mother in his
own bed!"  He slammed his fist against the driver's door, choking on a sob that
seemed to surprise him.  "Some tough cop, huh?"  he tried joking weakly, wiping
at his eyes.  "God, what a fucking pansy."

     "Don't be so hard on yourself for having a heart, babe."  Hutch reached
over and took a hold of Starsky's hand where it was resting on his thigh.  "I
should've been there too."

     "I didn't want you t'have to see it.  Damn it, Hutch, your father should have
been strung up by his balls for makin' you go to the morgue."

     "It was a long time ago, Starsk.  I'm more worried about you."

     "I'm worried about both of us," Starsky wiped at his eyes again and
actually let out a sick sounding laugh.  "We're a real stable pair to be working this
case, aren't we?"

     "If Dobey could see us now," Hutch concurred, smiling and shaking his
head.  Laughing in the face of death. //Wouldn't be the first time,// Hutch thought
grimly.  Even when Starsky had been slowly dying from Bellamy's poison, they'd
taken refuge in a shared laugh or two--even when it hurt too much and Starsky
had almost no strength left, he still clung to that little ray of light from a good
line.

     "Well, one of us has got to get his shit together about dealin' with the
crime scene and the evidence."  Starsky blinked a couple times.  "You've got a
reason not to.  Me, I'm just letting it get to me.  Maybe mostly because *I'm*
thinkin' about your brother now."

     "The resemblance is really striking."

     "You got a picture of T.J.?"

     "You sure you want to see it?"

     "Yeah, I do."  Starsky waited while Hutch handed him the tiny black and
white photo.  "Cute little guy.  Looks more like you than he does the Canfield
kid," Starsky commented.  

     "We looked quite a bit alike.  Can't help but wonder what he'd look like
now."  

     "Probably be a big blond beauty like his big brother."  Starsky smiled and
handed the picture back to Hutch.

     "You okay now?"  Hutch asked, tucking the photo back in his wallet.

     "I'll be okay."  Starsky started up the car.  "I wanna nail that woman for
what she did."  
     
********

     Starsky had taken up residence in the interrogation room with Donna
Canfield, and Hutch was about to launch the tedious task of nitpicking his way
through the evidence collected at the house.  The squad room doors burst open
and a man about Hutch's own age, wearing a dark suit, pale blue shirt and tie,
with blond hair and a neatly-trimmed beard rushed toward him.  He recognized
the man as Ryan Canfield.

     "I just got a call at work--you have word on Mikey?"  he asked,
desperation and hope warring for supremacy in his voice.  

     "Let's step in here," Hutch said, directing the man toward Dobey's office. 
The Captain was downstairs, observing the interrogation of Mrs. Canfield.  

     "Did you find him?"

     "I'll explain everything.  Please, Mr. Canfield, if you'd step into the
office."

     "Oh no."  The other man dropped heavily into the chair Starsky ordinarily
occupied.  "God, no."  

     "Mr. Canfield--"

     "He's dead, isn't he?"

     "Why would you assume that?"

     "Because if he were alive, you wouldn't be ushering me into some office
to drop the bomb on me!"  he shouted back, the threat of tears in his voice.  "You
wouldn't drag it out like this."

     "No, sir, you're right."  Hutch took in a long breath, finding his own
composure less than reliable.  His own parents' reactions to the finding of T.J.'s
body were only too vivid in his memory--not to mention his own shock and
confusion.  He pulled up a chair on the same side of the desk, sitting so he was
facing the other man as he sat sideways next to it.  "We searched your ex-wife's
home, and we found Michael's body in the crawlspace."

     "You're not saying...you found him in the *house*?  Some sick son of a
bitch buried him under his own house?"  he demanded through the beginnings of
tears.

     "Mr. Canfield, why don't we talk in the office?  I'll get us some coffee."

     "Yeah, yeah, okay," he agreed absently as Hutch rose and led him into
Dobey's office.  Retrieving two cups of coffee, Hutch closed the door behind him. 
They occupied the chairs across from Dobey's desk.  The man accepted the coffee
with a shaky hand.  
     "We have Mrs. Canfield downstairs for questioning," Hutch said.  

     "Donna?  You don't think she...but..."

     "We have some disturbing evidence that indicates she may have been
involved."

     "She's his mother!"

     "That's true.  Still, we can't ignore what we found.  My partner is
questioning her right now."

     "What did you find?"

     "Your ex-wife and brother-in-law transporting a blood-stained rug out of
the house last night.  That was the basis for our search warrant."

     "How...how did he die?"  he asked in a strained voice.

     "I'm not entirely sure yet," Hutch answered honestly.  "My partner, uh, was
there when they...he saw him, I didn't."  Hutch hesitated.  "I lost a brother much
the same way when I was a child.  So believe me, I know what you're going
through.  I didn't feel...up to seeing your son."

     "He was in the crawl space, and we know there was blood..."  Canfield got
up and started pacing.  "It's real hard to believe there's a God up there who would
let that happen to a child."  He braced his arms on the windowsill, staring down at
the world below.  "He was such a beautiful little boy," he concluded brokenly
before breaking down entirely.  

     "Is there anyone I can call for you?"  Hutch asked, standing behind the
man and resting a hand on his shoulder. 

     "My fiancee...I...she's...her name is Ellen Whitfield...she's in the book--on
Pressmore Street."

     "I'll call her for you."  Hutch paused before picking up the phone.  "Mr.
Canfield, I hope you understand, we will have to question you as well.  It's
procedure in a case like this."

     "If you didn't, I'd think you were a piss-poor excuse for a detective," he
responded, regaining a little of his composure.  "Do whatever you have to do to
find the son of a bitch who killed my son.  Because if you don't, I will."  He
turned away from the window.  "I'm ready whenever you are."  He seemed to
square his shoulders then and pulled out a handkerchief, wiping over his face.  

     "All right.  This is my captain's office--I think we should go downstairs to
one of the interrogation rooms, if that's agreeable to you."

     "I'd like to see my son."

     "We do need an official identification of the body," Hutch said grimly,
inwardly hoping he would not have to be the one to accompany the grieving
father to the morgue.  Unfortunately, it seemed to be shaping up that way. //Ironic
how hard Starsky worked to protect me from this and here I am calling the
morgue...oh, well, buck up, Hutchinson.  It's not the first corpse you've seen and
unfortunately it won't be the last.// 

     He picked up the phone on Dobey's desk and called down to the morgue. 
Ginny answered on the seventh ring, sounding a little harried.

     "Ryan Canfield, Michael's father, is here.  Can I bring him down for an
ID?"

     "Mrs. Canfield already identified the body a few minutes ago."  There was
a pause.  "In all my years in this job, I've never seen anyone identify a child's body
with such...detachment.  My God, I think I felt worse that she did."  

     "Was Starsky with her?"

     "He brought her down.  I guess he was thinking she might be shaken up by
it.  I understand she's a suspect?"

     "The prime one, yes."

     "She's cold.  Very, very cold."  Ginny seemed chilled at the thought.  "If he
wants to see Michael, I'll hold off on doing anything until you bring him down."

     "Thanks, Ginny.  We'll be down in a few minutes."  Hutch hung up the
phone.  "Come with me, please."  They paused by another detective's desk, and
Hutch gave him the contact information for Ellen Whitfield.  "Make that call for
Mr. Canfield, huh?"  The other man nodded and picked up the phone as Hutch
guided Ryan Canfield toward the door.

     The walk to the morgue felt like the last mile to Hutch.  His insides
twisted and threatened to expel their meager contents at the thought of pushing
open those final swinging doors and entering the sterile, chemically-scented room
that housed the wall of drawers.  

     "How did your brother die?"  Canfield asked, and the question startled
Hutch, both the sound of the voice and the content.

     "He was abducted and murdered when he was six.  I was eight at the
time."

     "I'm sorry."

     "Thanks.  It was a long time ago."

     "I don't think it'll ever be long enough," Canfield stated sadly, most likely
in regard to his own situation.  Hutch felt the impact of the words himself, and
acknowledged how true they were.  

     "It never is," he agreed.  

     Ginny was waiting for them when they arrived in the morgue.  Her eyes
seemed a bit cloudy, and her hands shook just slightly as she opened the drawer. 
Murdered children seemed to make even the most clinical of the department's
personnel a bit shaky.  The small form on the slab was covered by a white sheet. 
At Hutch's single, taut nod, she lifted the sheet.  

     "Oh, Mikey," Mr. Canfield sobbed, dropping to his knees next to the
small, lifeless body, touching the pale face lightly with his fingertips.  

     Hutch bolted out the doors of the morgue.

********

     "It appears that all your evidence is circumstantial, gentlemen," Ethan
Morrison summarized, speaking to Dobey and Starsky outside the interrogation
room where Donna Canfield sat following her questioning.

     "More than one conviction has been based on circumstantial evidence,
Morrison.  And this is solid stuff," Dobey added.  

     "Well, I'll be interested to see what the District Attorney has to say.  Your
men didn't have a warrant for her arrest when they showed up at the house.  Only
a search warrant."

     "Which turned up a corpse and significant blood evidence," Starsky
countered.  "And your client doesn't give a damn about that because she already
knows what happened to that kid because she did it herself!"  Starsky shouted
back angrily.

     "Starsky!"  Dobey admonished.

     "If your men are too emotionally involved in this case, perhaps you should
assign detectives with a bit more self-control."

     "You want emotional involvement?"  Starsky challenged the older man. 
In a gray business suit, with his salt and pepper hair perfectly styled, he gave of an
air of total disinterest that the body of his client's six-year-old son had just been
found.  "Maybe you wanna go down to the morgue and take a look at that dead
little boy down there!"

     "That's very unfortunate, and certainly tragic, but it does not make my
client a murderess.  I'll be in touch with the DA," he concluded, heading for the
door into the hallway.  "I have advised my client to exercise her right to remain
silent unless I'm present.  I trust you and your men *are* familiar with a
defendant's Constitutional rights?"

     "Get outta here," Dobey growled, dismissing him with an angry gesture of
his hand.

     "Guys like him make me sick," Starsky stated flatly.  "Nobody seems to
care that there's a dead kid downstairs.  Including his mother!"

     "I don't like this any better than you do.  But she's got rights, and she's not
talking.  We need something more."

     "Something more?  What else besides a confession?"

     "A murder weapon.  Direct physical evidence linking her to the killing. 
Just because it happened in the same house, and the child was still in the house,
and the mother doesn't react the way she ought to doesn't prove our case."

     "Now you sound like the DA."

     "You might as well hear it from me because it's what you're gonna hear
from the DA," Dobey snapped back.  "So you two better get your tails in gear and
find that missing link!"  Dobey frowned even more deeply.  "Where the hell is
Hutch?"

     "In the squad room, going through some evidence."  Starsky looked back
through the two way glass at Donna Canfield and the cop who was guarding her.  

     "Starsky."

     "Hm?"  Starsky looked back at Dobey.

     "You want to level with me about what's up with your partner and this
case?"  

     "It's personal, Cap'n.  I can't--"

     "It's not personal when it's affecting his job.  You should've both been in
on questioning that woman.  What's he doing downstairs digging through an
evidence box?"  Dobey held up a manilla folder.  "And while we're at it, why
didn't I hear about this from you?"

     "What is it?"  Starsky took the folder and opened it, confronted with his
own typed report and photos of the damaged Torino.

     "And that's not all.  I got a phone call just before you got here from your
next door neighbor making all sorts of charges and complaints."

     "She's an old busybody who needs to find a hobby other than minding
other people's business."  Starsky closed the folder.  "With the Canfield case goin'
on, the car just...didn't seem to take precedence."

     "An allegation that two of my men are homosexuals and the victims of a
hate crime," he tapped the folder, "are things I ought to be hearing about from
them."

     "Like I said, Cap'n, it didn't seem that important in comparison with a
dead child."

     "In comparison to that, no, but I still need to know what's going on in my
own department.  Does the rule 'no private parties' sound familiar?"

     "It's not a private party.  We haven't done anything about it either." 
Starsky's defeated tone caught Dobey's attention.

     "Never thought I'd see the day when somebody could mess with your car
and not be missin' a couple of limbs."

     "It's not a nice feeling, movin' in someplace and knowing people want you
out so bad that they'll do somethin' like that.  Sometimes I just wanna...move
again.  Get outta there.  Let 'em have their neighborhood back."

     "You can't think that way, Starsky."  Dobey let out a long breath.  "You
know, when Edith and I first moved into our house, we were the only black
family in the neighborhood.  There were some folks who weren't too happy to see
us either.  But it was a good house, with a nice yard in a good school system--and
I'll be damned if I let a couple of bigots deny me or my family the right to live
where we choose.  Luckily, there were some good folks in that neighborhood,
too--people who became our friends over the years."

     "We've got some decent neighbors on the one side.  They've been great. 
But you know, even with them, if they thought for a minute the rumors were true,
they'd dump us."

     "Well, then you've got nothing to worry about, since they're just a bunch of
damn sick stories put together by some old lady with too much time on her hands. 
The other neighbors'll come around."  Dobey smiled, tapping Starsky on the
shoulder with the file as he walked toward the door.  "You hang tough, now, you
hear?"  As he walked out and closed the door, Starsky shook his head tiredly.

     "Yeah, hang tough and stay in the closet," he mumbled to himself.  

     Starsky was a bit baffled when he returned to the squad room and Hutch
was nowhere in sight.  

     "If you're looking for Hutch, he took the Canfield boy's father downstairs,"
Minnie said as she walked through the office, carrying a cup of coffee.  "That
poor man."

     "He went to the morgue?"  Starsky asked.
     
     "Far as I know," she replied, looking a little baffled as Starsky rushed out
of the room as if someone had yelled "fire".  

     When Starsky burst through the elevator doors onto the floor where the
morgue was located, he saw Ginny sitting in the hall with Mr. Canfield and a
pretty blonde woman who appeared to be about ten years younger.  She was
attentively soothing and patting the grieving father while Ginny talked with them
in hushed tones.  

     "Excuse me.  Ginny, have you seen Hutch?"

     "He brought Mr. Canfield down to see his son, and he left."

     "He went in?"

     "Well, yes, of course..."  Ginny looked up at him, confused.  "He ran out
of here very quickly...I think we've all been hit pretty hard by this case."

     "Yeah.  Thanks, Ginny."  Starsky started patrolling the halls, looking for
his partner.  He ducked into a nearby men's room and scanned the area, and as he
was about to leave, a familiar voice caught his attention.

     "Starsk?"

     "Hutch?  Where are ya, buddy?"  Starsky rounded the corner again and
finally located the butt and feet visible beneath the door of the last stall.  Hutch
was sitting on the floor there.  

     "In here."  Hutch momentarily flattened out his bent knees to open the
door.  He was ghastly white, sweaty, and his hair was hanging partially in his
eyes.  

     "Why'd you go downstairs, babe?  You know I woulda handled that."

     "You can't do everything yourself, Starsk.  You were questioning Donna
Canfield.  Somebody had to take him downstairs," Hutch's voice was raspy and
hoarse.  

     "Come on, let's get you up off the floor."  Starsky reached down and
pulled as Hutch made the effort to stand.  Once he had, he pulled Starsky into his
arms and held on tightly.  "It's okay.  I'm right here, babe."  Starsky knew what
those words had meant to him more than once when he was scared and hurting. 
He hoped they could do even half that much for Hutch.  
     
     "Sorry," Hutch mumbled against his shoulder.

     "Nothin' to be sorry for."  They stood there in silence a few moments, until
the opening door startled them.  Crenshaw, a detective from Narcotics, looked a
little startled at finding the other two detectives locked in an embrace in the john. 

     "Uh...sorry, guys," he mumbled, backing out again.  By now, the two had
stepped back from each other, and stared mutely after their associate, not just sure
how to respond.  

     "Great."  Hutch walked over and leaned on the sink, looking at himself in
the mirror.  "Guess I fucked that up royally."

     "Hey, we weren't doin' anything we wouldn't have been doin' whether we
were lovers or not, and you know that."  Starsky laid a hand in the middle of
Hutch's back.  "If us huggin' each other is gonna shock anybody, they haven't
known us too long."

     "We didn't hug in the john before."

     "Maybe because neither one of us happened to *need* a hug in the john
before now."  Starsky leaned against the wall.  "I'm not gonna stop bein' there for
you, or touchin' you, because of something somebody might think.  I never let that
stop me before and I'm not gonna start now."

     "I know.  Me either."  Hutch let out an exhausted sigh.

     "You might as well know.  Muriel started her shit with Dobey."

     "Oh, great."

     "He knows about the Torino.  He was pissed off we didn't tell him."

     "We should have, but with the Canfield case..."

     "That's what I told him.  You can predict what he said."

     "No private parties."

     "Give that man a prize," Starsky responded, chuckling a little.  "You want
to talk about it?"

     "What?"

     "The morgue...what you saw...T.J. ...anything?"

     "I'm not handling this well, Starsk."

     "You were a child when it happened, and back then, you weren't allowed
to handle it at all.  Your parents guilt-tripped you, for God's sake.  What you went
through...no eight-year-old could *handle*."

     "I'm not eight years old anymore.  Why can't I get a handle on this and
move on?"
     
     "You told me there was something else you needed to remember but
couldn't.  Maybe that's what you need to move on."

     "I don't know."  Hutch turned away from the mirror and sat against the
sink, looking at Starsky.  "When we saw Donna Canfield and her brother moving
that rug out of the Canfield house, it triggered something in my brain.  Something
that's deep in the darkest part of it...hidden.  I can't get at it."

     "Did you see someone destroy evidence when you were a kid?  Did you
see somebody carrying something--"

     "Starsky, if I knew that, it wouldn't be a repressed memory, now would
it?"  Hutch snapped back.  Then, with a self-deprecating look, he shook his head. 
"I'm sorry."

     "I know this is hard, babe.  It's okay if you're a little edgy.  Look, instead'a
me askin' a lot of dumb questions, maybe you oughtta see a shrink.  Sometimes
hypnosis can take you back and you can remember--"

     "I'd rather die than go back and remember that," Hutch stated flatly.  "I
never want to relive that time again--even under hypnosis."

     "Okay."  Starsky reached over and pushed the disheveled hair back, but
withdrew his hand quickly when Hutch stiffened at the touch.  
     
     "We've already gotten caught in here once."  At those words, Starsky made
a few purposeful strides to the door and locked it.  "That's going to look worse."

     "Fuck 'em all!"  Starsky shouted.  "I don't fucking care what it looks like! 
I love you and you're gettin' torn up inside and you need me and I don't fucking
care if Dobey, Reasoner, the DA and the goddamned mayor are waiting to get in
here and all take a piss at once!  They can throw me off the fucking Force if lovin'
you and carin' about how you feel is some kinda crime!  And let me tell you
something else, partner: just because we're fucking each other doesn't change the
fact I love you, and that I've been lovin' you since a few days after I met you, and I
ain't ever gonna stop lovin' you and showin' it to whoever wants to see it!" 
Starsky was out of breath when he finished his passionate speech, and
dumbfounded to see Hutch actually smiling.

     "I love you too, Gordo."  Hutch grabbed him by the waist and pulled him
close, kissing his mouth thoroughly until Starsky's stiff stance mellowed and he
relaxed into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Hutch and returning the kiss
with all the passion he possessed.  "What am I gonna do with you?"  Hutch asked
rhetorically, bumping noses affectionately with Starsky, who just smiled in
response.  

     "I got some ideas."

     "Thanks."

     "For what?"  Starsky frowned a little.

     "For taking on the world just to love me."

     "Lovin' you is everything, dummy."  Starsky smiled, resting his forehead
against Hutch's.  "And you're the whole world, nobody else counts."

     "That's how you make me feel," Hutch said, his voice soft and a little
strained.  

     "Good."  Starsky pulled him into a tight hug then, which he returned. 
Stepping back, Starsky took his time primping Hutch's hair just so for him. 
"There.  Good as new.  Ready to face the world, blondie?"

     "I've got you, don't I?"

     "Always and forever," Starsky said, grinning.

     "There's a song by that name, isn't there?"

     "Probably.  Maybe you oughtta sing me a few bars."

     "Tonight.  I'm not serenading you in the john."

     "Party pooper."