When they emerged into the hall, no one else was in sight.  Apparently,
Crenshaw had located other facilities, and the remote location of the restroom
had kept them from any further interruptions.  As they started down the hall
toward the elevator, Ryan Canfield intercepted them.  

     "You wanted to talk to me before I left?"  he asked, and both detectives
looked at each other a little guiltily.  Neither had handled witnesses or a tragic
case quite this haphazardly before.

     "I'm very sorry about walking out on you during...while you were with
T.--uh...M-Michael," Hutch managed, squinting and shaking his head a little at
the names obviously crossed in his mind.  

     "Case probably brings up too many memories, huh?"

     "A few," Hutch admitted.  "We would like to talk with you if you have a
few minutes.  We could use one of the interrogation rooms upstairs, if you don't
mind."

     "That's fine.  I just wanna get to the bottom of this."

     When the three men were seated in an interrogation room, cups of coffee
in front of each of them, Starsky turned on a tape recorder and made the
obligatory disclaimer that the witness was not under arrest and had agreed to
answer questions of his own free will.  

     "Mr. Canfield, how would you describe your divorce?"

     "As difficult as my marriage," he responded, shaking his head.  "Donna
and I were totally incompatible--we were butting heads over everything.  I met
someone--I'm not proud of that, but I met someone that was...*the one*.  So I
asked Donna for a divorce."

     "That would be Ellen Whitfield?"  Hutch clarified.

     "Yes.  I asked her to wait at home for me...I figured I could be a while
here."

     "You're living together now?"  Starsky asked.

     "We're going to get married in a couple of months."

     "How did Donna take that?"  Hutch leaned back in his chair.

     "Oh, just great," he said sarcastically.  "She called Ellen every name in the
book--blamed her for the break-up, even though Donna and I couldn't stand each
other long before I met Ellen.  The divorce was a damn nightmare.  We fought
out every point of it--the house, custody, cars, personal effects, you name it.  She
was making a big deal out of the fact that I met someone else--I guess the fact I
didn't sleep with Ellen until after the divorce was in progress didn't count for a
whole hell of a lot.  Finally, I just let her have it all and walked away."

     "Including Michael?"  Hutch asked.

     "Well, no, not including him.  I got visitation rights--pretty decent ones.  I
was real happy about that.  I knew I couldn't afford to support him in any sort of
decent style with her basically getting everything but the clothes on my back, so
fighting for custody would have been foolish.  Ellen's in graduate school, so she's
worse off financially than I am, if that's humanly possible.  And if I'd won, it
wouldn't have been the right thing for Mikey--well, at least I didn't think so at the
time."  He swallowed, and then took a drink of his coffee.  Clearing his throat, he
continued.  "She made visitation a real hell for both of us--both Mikey and
myself.  She was trying to use him to make me feel guilty for leaving, coaching
him to be rude to Ellen, making him feel like he'd betrayed her if he had fun with
us."  He paused.  "All in all, Mikey had a more peaceful, normal life without that
disruption.  So I didn't show up for probably 75% of my visitation.  But I did tell
Mikey I loved him, and I did take him on some holidays--I wanted him to know it
wasn't him..."  His voice trailed off a little as he fought to maintain his
composure.  "I always loved him...but...this was best for him, not to be in the
middle."

     "Mrs. Canfield alleges that you don't meet your child support
commitments in a timely manner," Starsky said, jotting down a few notes.
     
     "She's right, I don't.  I can't.  The judge won't cut me a break and I don't
make enough money to pay that much and even pay rent and food bills.  God
knows it's nothing fancy, but I do need an apartment and a car to get back and
forth to work.  Some months, the money's just not there.  I send as much as I can. 
Plus, Donna's mother bankrolls her plenty, so she's not hurting."

     "That isn't how she tells it," Hutch said.

     "I'm sure it isn't, but that's how it is.  She's sucking me dry for my last
fucking cent."

     "You won't be paying child support anymore, Mr. Canfield," Starsky
observed somewhat flatly, staring at the tabletop.

     "You son of a--" Just as he lunged across the table, Hutch made the
necessary intercept before his hands made it to Starsky's throat.  

     "Are violent outbursts of temper a pattern with you, Mr. Canfield?" 
Starsky asked calmly as Hutch managed to assuage the man into sitting back
down in his chair.  

     "Only when I want to get my hands around the throat of some asshole
who's intentionally provoking me," he shot back.

     "You put your hands around the throats of people who provoke you?" 
Starsky asked, raising his eyebrows a bit.

     "I thought you wanted some answers--not to play some sort of sick game."

     "We do want answers, Mr. Canfield.  Like where you were on the night
your son was murdered."

     "You're really trying to hang this on me, aren't you?"  he accused Starsky.

     "Depends on whether or not you did it.  Did you?"  Starsky asked directly.

     "I'm not even going to answer that.  You bastard.  You sick bastard.  I just
identified my son's dead body," he stated in a shaky voice.

     "You wouldn't be the first, and unfortunately will not be the last, grieving
parent to turn out to be your child's killer."  Starsky stood up.  "You see, Mr.
Canfield, my interest is with Michael.  Someone ended his life violently, and way
too soon.  And nobody's speaking for him.  But that's our job.  Working a
homicide case, we're the people who work for the victim.  And that means that
I'm gonna ask every ugly, nasty, unpleasant question I have to until I find the son
of a bitch who put that beautiful little boy on that slab downstairs.  Now, if you
want to cooperate, I'd appreciate an answer to my question."

     "I did NOT kill my son."
     
     "I'm glad to hear that."  Starsky returned to his seat and made a couple
more notes.  

     "Was there ever an instance of violence in your household against
Michael?  Was your wife abusive to the boy at all?"

     "Donna had a temper on her.  If I'd thought she was abusing him, I'd have
never left."

     "Even after meeting Ms. Whitfield?"  Starsky asked.

     "If I thought for one minute that Mikey was in any kind of danger from
Donna, I'd have done whatever I had to to keep him safe.  Sometimes she was a
little rougher with him than what I liked, but a couple slaps on the butt and a little
scolding weren't that big a deal.  He was a happy kid, and I really thought he was
okay there."

     "So she did hit the boy?"  Starsky clarified.

     "Nothing major.  Like I said--she spanked him once in a while--just her
hand, she never used anything that I saw.  She never hit him anywhere else.  She
used to grab him by the arm and hustle him into his room when he was acting up
and she was angry.  She was physically rougher than I was, but then I wasn't hit as
a child, and she was, so I guess she tended to be more physical with
punishments."

     "When was your last visit with Michael?"  Hutch asked.

     "About a month ago.  It was his birthday, and I went through the whole
episode with Donna and her melodrama over how penniless she was because I
was a week late with my support payment and here I was with a big expensive
present.  Like I should have not bought my son a birthday present because the
child support was due.  I wanted *Mikey* to see some of that money for a change. 
I think that unemployed, drunken asshole she's sleeping with gets most of it."

     "Was Kozinski abusive with your son?"  Starsky asked.

     "Not that I know of.  If I'd gotten wind of that, I'd have taken care of it in
one hell of a big hurry."  He paused.  "Donna and I had a big blowout when I
brought Mikey home.  We were a couple hours late, and she went off on how
irresponsible I was dragging the kid around past his bedtime.  Then she yelled at
Mikey because he'd spilled some ketchup on his t-shirt...God, it's crazy.  The last
time I saw my kid alive, the biggest issue we were all worried about was ketchup
on a $5.00 t-shirt," he concluded, catching a couple of tears before they got far
down his cheeks.  

     "Do you know Donna's brother, Adam Gregory, at all?"  

     "Oh, sure," he said in response to Hutch's question.  "Why?  Is he a
suspect?"

     "We're exploring every option at this point.  I think it's only fair to tell you
that Donna herself is our prime suspect," Starsky said.

     "I gathered as much."  He took in a deep breath and expelled it slowly. 
"I'm having a hard time believing that.  Michael died from..."  He closed his eyes
and swallowed.  "...from two stab wounds.  She's his mother, for God's sake. 
How...?"  He gestured a little helplessly with both hands and then leaned back in
the chair, letting them slap down in his lap.  "She's probably the worst ex-wife
you could ask for, but I never doubted she loved Mikey.  Maybe *I'm* the idiot
here."

     "Do you have anything else?"  Hutch asked Starsky, who just shook his
head and mouthed a silent "no".  "Mr. Canfield, I think we're finished here for
now.  Would you like a ride somewhere?  Do you feel all right to drive?"

     "I'll call Ellen.  When can I make arrangements for Mikey?  Or...is Donna
going to be allowed to do that?  If there's any danger she did this...I don't want her
doing anything about his arrangements."

     "I'm sure the medical examiner will move as swiftly as possible to release
him to you," Starsky spoke up.  "We have already arrested your ex-wife, so unless
we're ordered to release her, which I consider unlikely, you'll be the one to make
the arrangements."

     "You arrested her?"

     "Given the evidence we had, we feel it's a solid arrest.  We can be
overruled by the DA, or a judge could dismiss the charges at her arraignment, but
I don't envision that happening," Hutch said.

     "The lady in the morgue...she asked about the funeral home, and I told
her, so I guess I'll know when it's time to do something."  He stood up, and so did
Starsky and Hutch.  "I keep thinking this is some kind of nightmare...it doesn't
seem *real*.  How did your family... *handle* this?"  he asked Hutch.

     "Truthfully?  Not well," Hutch responded softly.  "But when it's a reality,
there's not much more you can do but to just live every day, and...cope with it
somehow.  It fades a little, but it never goes away."

     "I think that's probably true.  Thank you," he said, extending a hand to
Hutch, who shook it with a slight smile.  "I know you're just doing your jobs," he
said as he shook hands with Starsky."

     "Sorry about some of the questions, Mr. Canfield.  We can't afford to
*not* take the gloves off in a case like this."  

     "Do what you have to do to nail whoever did this.  If it's Donna...God
forbid...then I hope she hangs for it."
     
********

     Starsky sat in his desk chair, his feet on the desk, reading Ginny's
preliminary report on Michael Canfield's autopsy.  Two stab wounds, both
piercing the heart, were the cause of death.  The time of death was estimated
sometime during the night he was reported missing, which fit with the blood
evidence found in the bedroom.  Based on the way the child normally slept in the
bed, the killer was assumed to be left-handed, which Donna Canfield was.  Given
the neatness of the wounds and the lack of any sign of struggle or motion on the
part of the victim, Ginny theorized that the child had been killed in his sleep.  

     "Ginny's report?"  Hutch asked, walking in with a tray of food from the
cafeteria.

     "Yeah.  Think I just lost my appetite."  Starsky tossed it aside and rubbed
his eyes.  "There's no good motive here.  That's the missing piece.  Murder? 
That's a pretty big step--what could a six-year-old possibly do to make killing him
a feasible alternative, even to a nutcase?"

     "And Donna Canfield doesn't appear the least bit unbalanced," Hutch said,
taking a drink out of one of the small cartons of milk on the tray.  Both men
ignored the sandwiches.  

     "You doin' okay?"  Starsky asked.

     "My stomach still feels like shit, but I'm all right."

     "How long you wanna hang out here tonight?"

     "I feel like we should have something else.  Something else to send in
there with the DA to the arraignment tomorrow."  Hutch rubbed his forehead.

     "He already reviewed the evidence and gave it his blessing.  I don't know
what else there is we *can* give him."

     "A motive.  Means and opportunity are fine, but without a motive, it
doesn't fly with a jury."

     "I was thinkin' maybe Kozinski had something to do with it, but I don't
think he's involved."

     "Letting us search his place could have been a smokescreen," Hutch
stated.  "If you were guilty, but you knew the evidence wasn't at your place,
wouldn't you do the same thing?"

     "Sure, but what's *his* motive?  If what Ryan Canfield says is true,
Kozinski's not going to want to cut out Donna's child support income.  No child,
no payments."

     "How about Adam Gregory?  The helpful brother who smuggles rugs out
in the middle of the night?"
     
     "Why would he kill his nephew?"  Starsky asked, venturing to eat a potato
chip off the plate containing his sandwich.  Deciding it tasted pretty good after
missing lunch, he ate another, and then looked up at Hutch, who was staring
fixedly at the desk.  "Hutch?"

     "Yeah?"  He looked up with a quick jerk of his head.

     "What's wrong?"

     "Nothing.  Nothing new.  Just this case."  He shrugged it off.  

     "You wanna bring in Gregory and play a little hardball?"

     "Sure."

     "Think you're up to being in on the questioning?"

     "I'll be fine, Starsk."

********

     Adam Gregory, a field supervisor for a local utility company, didn't plead
the Fifth and demand an attorney, but he remained fairly reticent, only offering
monosyllabic, minimal answers to any questions posed to him as Hutch worked
his way methodically up to the rug incident--through Gregory's observations of his
sister with her son, the divorce, Donna's temperament and a host of other related
but less directly pressing issues.  He was less than pleased with being approached
at his job during his second shift work schedule.

     "You said Donna was very jittery while she waited for word on Michael,
which is understandable,"  Hutch began, "and that's why you decided to start
cleaning the basement that night--to give her a distraction?"  The question was
laid out in a sincere tone of voice, and Gregory seemed to be assuaged by that
approach.

     "We were up all the time anyway.  Time didn't feel the same.  I took a
couple days off work to stay around with her, so when we were both goin' a little
nuts just staring at the phone, I suggested we clean some stuff out."

     "Were you aware there was blood on that rug?"  Starsky asked.

     "I just knew it was an old one she wanted to get rid of, along with a bunch
of other old junk."

     "See, I'm curious about that."  Starsky, who had been pacing, pulled up a
chair, maintaining a look of intense concentration.  "We searched the basement
before that night, and we searched it immediately after, and neither time did we
see much of anything in terms of 'junk' or a lot of items that had been pulled out
to be discarded.  Were you going to drive to a dump somewhere with just that one
rug?"

     "I thought it'd be a good idea for her to get away from the damn telephone
for a couple hours.  We were gonna dump the rug and maybe stop someplace for
a couple beers.  She didn't like the idea, but I thought it'd do her good."

     "Who was covering the phone?"  Hutch asked simply, writing down a
couple notes.

     "We weren't going to be gone very long," he retorted.

     "No friends or relatives around to cover the telephone in case there was
any work on Michael?"  Starsky pressed.

     "We didn't figure it would hurt anything to be gone a little while.  At least
I didn't."

     "Donna did?"

     "We didn't think about it that much, I guess--I mean, we hadn't gotten any
calls since he disappeared--at least, not calls about him.  Just people calling and
asking about him, but no calls about where he was."

     "Do you have a key to your sister's house?"  Hutch asked.

     "Yeah.  Why?"

     "Where were you the night your nephew disappeared?"  Starsky asked.

     "Working."

     "You can verify that?"  

     "If I have to."

     "I would recommend lining up that documentation," Hutch said calmly as
he made another note on his pad.

     "Mr. Gregory, are you aware that by helping your sister destroy evidence,
you become an accessory after the fact?  In a homicide case, that equates to some
hard time."  Starsky leaned back in his chair.  "If you have anything you want to
get off your chest about this case, this would be the time to do it."

     "You might also be interested to know that conspiracy is considered
special circumstances under California law.  That makes this a death penalty
case.   Unless, of course, you manage to work some sort of deal with the DA for
your testimony," Hutch stated.

     "I still can't believe you arrested my sister for killing her own kid, and now
you want me to admit to helping her cover it up."

     "Only if you did," Starsky responded.

     "If that's all--"

     A knock on the door interrupted them, and Starsky got up to answer it. 
Dobey poked his head in and conferred with him in hushed tones, then left. 
When Starsky turned away from the door, he had a folded document in his hand.  

     "Actually, Mr. Gregory, that's not all.  Your house and car keys, please,"
Starsky held out his hand.  

     "I beg your pardon."

     "This is a search warrant for your home and your vehicle."

     The man looked from one to the other, then straight ahead for a moment.  

     "What if I refuse?"

     "We break into your car and kick down your front door.  This just saves
you the cost of repairs later," Hutch replied.

     "Is there something you want to tell us, Mr. Gregory?"  Starsky asked, still
holding the warrant in one hand, the other extended, palm up, waiting for the
keys.  

     "I'm not talking without some sort of guarantee."

     "Of what?  Until we know what you have to say, we can't guarantee you
anything."

     "You just got done saying I could cut a deal," he said.

     "What I said was that you might avert the maximum penalty in this case
*if* you managed to cut a deal with the DA."

     "Then there's nothing in it for me to tell you shit."

     "Technically, that's not true.  If you cooperate with us now, we'll approach
the DA with a proposal of a plea bargain in return for your testimony.  Hutch and
me, we're not known for negotiating plea bargains, so when we do, we have a
pretty good track record for getting them through.  Now that's not a guarantee of
anything, but it's a damn sight better than where you're gonna be when we find
whatever it is you don't want us to find in your house or your car and you haven't
got an ace in the hole to save your ass."  Starsky leaned toward the center of the
table and started the tape rolling.  "You realize you have a right to have an
attorney present?"

     "Yeah, I know that."  He paused.  "I'm, uh, ready to make a deal."

     "We'll do what we can," Hutch said.

     "Our father had a pretty fair-sized estate.  He was our mother's first
husband, but she was his second wife.  She was a lot younger than he was when
they got married, and I don't know if he thought she was in it for his money, or if
it was some sort of warped way to force us into 'making our own way'...but he left
the whole damn thing to Michael, in a trust fund that would be his when he turned
25 provided he had finished college and had a full-time job.  Michael was only
about two years old when the old man died, but I guess he thought it was a good
way to be sure none of *us* got any of his precious money.  He didn't have any
kids from the first marriage, and his first wife was dead, so there was nobody
there to leave money to."

     "How large was the estate?"  Starsky asked.

     "About five million dollars' worth.  Maybe a little more depending on the
stock market.  This guy at the bank handles the investments."  He paused.  "If
Michael died before reaching his 25th birthday, the money was to be split
between Donna and myself.  Neither one of us has much to do with right now. 
That's an awful lot of money."

     "So you killed Michael to get the money?"  Starsky clarified.

     "Donna killed him.  I...she said something about it once a few months ago,
but we were pretty smashed--we were out with a bunch of mutual friends at
Gordy's Bar, and we'd knocked back quite a few when she started spouting off
how she guessed she'd just have to kill Mikey and inherit his money.  I didn't
think she was serious."

     "When did you figure out she was?"  Hutch asked.

     "After she did it.  Honest to God, and this is the truth, I didn't know she
was really gonna kill him, and I didn't *touch* that kid...not while he was alive,
anyway."  He briefly widened his eyes and took in a deep breath.  "I thought she
was making some sort of sick joke when she called me that night and said she
needed help getting rid of the body.  I figured she was drinking or maybe taking a
few pills.  Donna isn't a drunk or a dopehead, but she drinks a little, takes a few...
recreational pills, I guess you'd call 'em.  Nothing heavy.  I thought she was just
running off at the mouth."

     "Did you go over there?"  Starsky prodded, sitting back down again,
tucking the warrant in his jacket pocket.  

     "She was talking crazy, and I figured I better go see what was going on. 
So I drive over there and go inside, and she's in the living room in her underwear
with this trashbag--turns out her clothes were in there because they had blood on
them."
     
     "What became of the clothes?"  Hutch asked.

     "I burned 'em in a barrel out behind my house."

     "I see," Hutch responded, noting that in his pad as well.  "Are the ashes
still out there?"

     "Not anymore.  They're scattered in the woods behind my house."

     "Thorough," Starsky commented.

     "Anyhow, she was a little spaced out--I think she'd been mixing booze and
pills, more than she usually does, because her speech was sort of screwed up, and
she was pretty out of it.  I went into Mikey's room...goddammit, I was...I wasn't
prepared for that.  There was a pretty fair amount of blood on the bedding, and
some on the little rug by the bed--the one we were trying to get rid of.  So I used
the sheet to wrap...to wrap Mikey up in, and then I rolled up the rest of the
bedding and stuffed it in the trashbag with her clothes.  It all got burned up at the
same time.  It was kind of...like it was some kind of...dream or something.  It
didn't seem real."
     
     "You buried the boy in the crawlspace?"

     "Donna was pretty freaked out by the idea, but I figured that it'd be the last
place anybody'd look, and by the time they did, we'd have gotten rid of the body. 
I told her if she could deal with it for a couple weeks, when the heat was off, and
the case was sort of old hat with the cops, I'd move him somewhere else.  Like
maybe my woods.  I've got five acres outside town...but I figured the cops might
look there, or even send tracking dogs out there, so it would be a good idea to
wait."

     "You put a lot of thought into this.  Did it ever occur to you at any time to
report any of this to the police?"  Hutch asked.

     "She's my sister.  I didn't want to see her on death row."

     "But you have no problem seeing her there now," Starsky added.

     "Well...better her than me.  She did it, I didn't."

     "So much for sibling loyalty," Starsky retorted.  "How do we know you're
not just saving your own ass and hanging your sister out to dry to take your fall?"

     "I don't know.  Guess you have to trust me."

     "What was Donna doing while you were burying Michael in the
crawlspace?"  Starsky asked.

     "She took a shower, got changed into some clean clothes.  I guess she
ended up scrubbing the rug and those spots on the mattress.  We thought she'd
gotten the stains out until the cops sprayed it with that stuff.  I told her to put new
linens on the bed and then I rolled around on them a time or two, to make it look
like it'd been slept in.  I opened the window and then we started drinking coffee. 
I wanted her to get sobered up."

     "So let me get this straight.  You disposed of your nephew's body, made it
look like he'd gotten out of his bed and possibly exited through the window, and
then you had coffee?"  Starsky summarized.

     "Donna was going to have to report him missing.  She needed to be
steadier than she was.  Some hysterics were okay, but she had to be in some kind
of control of herself.  By the time I left, it was dawn, and she was.  She was going
to run to the neighbor behind her and say Mikey disappeared."

     "Why did you try to get rid of the rug?"  Hutch asked.

     "Because I noticed a spot on it that we hadn't gotten out.  It was a larger
one, so we figured getting rid of it would be best.  I was going to burn it."

     "What about the murder weapon?"  Starsky asked.

     "It's in the knife holder on the kitchen cupboard."

     "You mean she used that knife to kill her son and then put it back in the
kitchen?"  Hutch clarified, his face blanching a bit at the horror of the revelation.

     "She wasn't crazy about the idea, but I figured hiding it in plain sight was
the best idea.  I guess I was right.  Your lab guys walked right past it."

     "You and your sister became the heirs to the estate then."

     "That's right," he said in response to Hutch's question.  "But I never
would've killed Mikey to get the money.  That was crazy.  The only reason I
helped her when it was over is because it was too late to help Mikey so I figured I
could at least help get her out of the mess she was in."

     "And of course, there was that $2.5 million," Hutch added.

     "I would have gotten that either way--I had no reason to help her cover it
up for the money.  I'd've been better off to do nothing--she'd get sent up and I'd get
it all.  I wanted to help my sister.  Maybe that should mean I wanna die with her
on death row, too, but it doesn't."

********

     Starsky accompanied a technician from the Forensics lab to the Canfield
house to take possession of the set of kitchen knives.  An innocent looking
grouping of eight standard kitchen knives of various sizes held in a butcher block
wood square contained the murder weapon that had been used to kill a child.  

     "I think it's the middle one, right there," Starsky said, pointing at the knife. 
Based on Adam Gregory's description of it, that size and position best fit the
profile.

     "Looks about the right size."  Tony, a middle-aged man with receding gray
hair, was one of the top men in their lab.  Though he usually didn't go out on calls
to collect evidence, this case was an exception.  "We'll just package up the whole
thing and examine it at the lab."  

     "Have you ever worked a case this...bizarre before?"  Starsky asked the
older man, watching as he methodically and carefully wrapped the knife set for
transport to the lab.  

     "One of the first cases I worked was a multiple homicide in an apartment
complex downtown.  Now that was bizarre.  This is...*neat*.  Tidy."

     "I'm not talking about *gore*.  I've been at murder scenes where I had to
watch where I stepped so I didn't slip in the blood on the floor.  That's messy, but
it's...expected, I guess.  This is...unsettling."  Starsky shuddered a little.

     "I'll give you that," Tony responded.  "Parents murdering their children is a
pretty unsettling thought."

     "I guess I thought I was a tough cop until this case," Starsky admitted,
looking around the kitchen, catching sight of the child's drawing on the
refrigerator.  "This one turns my guts inside out."

     "Some cases'll do that to ya," Tony said matter-of-factly, heading for the
door.  "Was there anything else you wanted me to look at?"

     "No, the lab boys took care of everything else on the first pass through." 
Starsky followed him out the door, pulling it shut behind them.  "Give me a call at
home when you've got the information."

     "Hutch told me to call him."

     "Same phone number.  We live right back there," Starsky gestured toward
their house.

     "Finally suckered Hutch into one of those investment deals, huh?"  Tony
said, laughing as he went to his car and carefully loaded the parcel in the back
seat.

     "Somethin' like that," Starsky responded with a faint smile. 

     "I'll be in touch."  Tony got into his car and started the engine, pulling
away from the curb as Starsky stood there, watching him disappear into distance. 
He looked back at the darkened Canfield house, and felt chilled to his soul by the
contrast between it and the bright Christmas lights twinkling in most of the other
windows.  He idly wondered what little Mikey Canfield wanted for Christmas.

     "Probably not a headstone," Starsky whispered to himself, trying to shake
off the grief he seemed to feel for a child he'd never met.  Or maybe it was a
by-product of the grief Hutch still carried for the similar brutal death of his
younger brother.  Suddenly wanting nothing more than to get close to his partner,
Starsky thrust his hands into his pockets and trudged across the yards to the back
door of their house and let himself in.  

     "Tony get what he needed?"  Hutch was in the kitchen, cooking something
that smelled good despite the heavy sadness that seemed to lie like lead in
Starsky's gut.  

     "Yeah, he took the whole thing back to the lab.  I told him to call us."

     "Good."  

     "You okay with all this?"  Starsky asked.  Hutch didn't turn away from the
pot he was stirring on the stove.  

     "I've decided to be okay with it.  It's not T.J., so there's no reason for me to
relive all that with each thing that happens."

     "Distancing yourself, huh?"  

     "Something like that."

     "It's not working so great for me," Starsky admitted, swallowing hard.  "I
keep thinking about that little boy...wondering if he knew what was happening,
wondering how she could do it, wondering what he wanted for Christmas,"
Starsky's voice choked on the last words, and Hutch left his cooking project to go
to him.  

     "I'm sorry, babe.  I didn't even think about what this case was doing to
you."  Hutch pulled his partner into his arms, holding him close.  "I've dumped it
all on you and let you take responsibility for all the ugly parts we ought to be
doing together."

     "I tried all that detachment, and it's not working," Starsky managed, his
voice coming out shakily. 

     "For what it's worth, it's not working all that well for me either.  It's
just...you've gotta understand, Starsk...I've been through this with my own family. 
This case is bringing up all sorts of old wounds, but the case itself doesn't horrify
me as much as what I had to live through once already."

     "Guess that makes sense," Starsky mumbled, still holding onto Hutch like
a life preserver.  "I needed this.  Needed you."

     "I love you, babe," Hutch whispered against Starsky's ear.  "Hang in there,
we're almost through with this case.  I'm gonna try to be more help to you.  I've let
you take the pressure off me through this whole thing."

     "I wanted t'do that," Starsky said, pulling back to look Hutch in the eyes. 
"It's not that.  I don't think it woulda mattered how much you were doing.  It's
just...*what happened*.  Maybe I'm just surprised there's something out there that
can still...horrify me."

     "I know what you mean," Hutch said, stroking a hand back through the
dark curls.  "You okay now?  You want something to eat?"

     "Yeah, I'm getting hungry, I guess."

     "Good."  Hutch smiled slightly and went to the stove to rescue the
bubbling pot of stew from the burner.  "It's canned."

     "Not anymore," Starsky retorted, noticing a slip of paper on the counter
near the phone.  "Merle called?"  he asked.

     "About ten minutes before you came in.  Said he'd be around a couple
hours yet before he closes up for the night."

     "I better give him a call."  Starsky dialed the number and Hutch continued
putting dinner on, dishing the stew up into two bowls and putting out a loaf of
bread and a couple beers.  It wasn't fancy, but it would fill them up.  

     Starsky hung up the phone and stood there a moment, staring at it.  Hutch
had been pretty much preoccupied with his own thoughts, and hadn't paid much
attention to the side of the conversation he could hear.  Judging from Starsky's
grim expression, it wasn't good news.

     "What's the verdict?"  Hutch asked.

     "My insurance guy totaled it out," he said quietly.  

     "What?  I didn't think the damage was that bad," Hutch responded,
genuinely surprised.

     "Between the damage to the engine, the body damage, and the interior
damage, it'd cost more to fix it than it's worth according to him, based on the
miles I've got on it."

     "Aw, Starsk...damn."  Hutch sat down at the table, feeling almost as if he'd
been told of the death of a friend.  The Torino had been their home away from
home for way too many years now for its passing to come so swiftly and under
such...*wrong* circumstances.
     
     "Hey, it's just a car, right?"  Starsky offered weakly, shrugging.  He finally
moved away from the phone and sat in the other chair, staring at the food in front
of him.  

     "I know I keep giving you hell about that car, babe, but if it makes you
feel any better, I feel lousy about this too."  Hutch reached over and took Starsky's
hand were it rested on the table.  

     "I wanna leave here, Hutch.  I don't want to live in this neighborhood
anymore.  They can have it back."

     "Babe, if it's the car--"

     "No, actually, it's not the car."  Starsky took in a deep breath.  "They
*started* with the car.  With somethin' it was obvious I cared about."  He
squeezed Hutch's hand.  "And that car don't mean nothin' to me compared to you. 
Nothin'--not a house, not an investment, not a principle--nothin' would mean
anything to me if somebody hurt you because of it.  I don't want you to get hurt,
babe.  I'm scared if we push this, they're gonna raise the stakes.  Normally, I'd just
fight it, you know, not let 'em win.  But when they get done with my car and my
belongings, the next thing for 'em to look at is what I love most in the world.  If
they were aimin' for that with the Torino, they missed the target.  I'm not stickin'
around till they figure it out."

     "I'm fine, Starsk.  Besides, this was a property crime.  That's a different
story than a personal injury crime."

     "It's the violence in it, Hutch.  You saw what they did to that car.  That
kind of hate...they hate *us* that way.  There's no guarantees they're not gonna try
somethin' else if that doesn't work.  It's not a fight worth fightin'.  Not so we can
live someplace where half the people would rather see us dead than lovin' each
other."

     "Unfortunately, you just described about half the world.  If we're looking
for acceptance, it's not going to come on a wide scale.  If we're lucky, a few of the
people close to us that we confide in will understand and support us.  Beyond
that, we knew going into this that we weren't going to have a smooth ride."

     "So you're sayin' you think we're gonna get this everywhere we go?  Get
harassed and run out of the neighborhood?"

     "Hopefully not that severe, but I think the only hope we have of being
welcome in a neighborhood is if the neighbors don't think there's anything going
on between us beyond friendship.  Maybe if we got an apartment in some big
complex where nobody knows anyone else, we'd be better off.  But then we're
basically advertising to the department that we're sleeping together.  At least with
the house, it's an investment."

     "Yeah.  Another one of my great ideas," Starsky said dismally.

     "Maybe we ought to table this discussion until we get the case wrapped
up, get things squared away with the Torino...then we can figure out what we
want to do."

     "Okay."  Starsky smiled a little when he realized they were still holding
hands.  "Nothin' I'm complainin' about changes how glad I am things happened
between us like they did."  He pulled Hutch's hand up to his mouth and kissed the
back of it, then rested his cheek against it.  "I love ya more than anything, darlin'." 


     "I know you do.  For what it's worth, I'm still as scared as you are about
what that's gonna mean for us in the long haul.  But I don't want to change
anything."

     "Me either."

     "Think we could eat?"  Hutch inclined his head toward the steaming bowls
of stew.

     "I think my appetite's comin' back."  Starsky released Hutch's hand and
started in on his stew.  "For lots of things," he added, flexing his eyebrows.  

********

     Hutch relaxed against the pillows and enjoyed the hot, wet tongue that
was teasing his left nipple.  Starsky was taking his time tonight, mapping every
inch of his lover's body with lips and tongue.  Before long, he was engulfing the
right nipple, his thumb still flicking over its wet, sensitive mate.  He was sucking
harder now, and Hutch couldn't stop the moan that escaped from between slightly
parted lips.  He felt himself arching up toward that mouth, and he could almost
feel Starsky smile just a little.  

     The talented mouth finally broke away, moving down now, leaving a trail
of wet, sucking kisses in a path to the hollow of his navel.  There it paused, and
nipped at the edges.  Those thumbs were back on his nipples now, rolling and
stroking them.  

     "Starsk...come on, babe, do it," Hutch panted, not sure if he wanted that
mouth to swallow him whole or if he wanted to feel his partner's cock slide inside
him again.  They'd only done it once, but despite a little initial pain, it had felt
incredible.  

     Unable to reason through the question, he left the actions up to Starsky.  

     "Do what, babe?  What do you want?"  he asked in a throaty whisper.  

     //Damn you,// Hutch thought with affectionate exasperation. //You know
me too well.//

     "In me," he managed, trying to ignore the sensation of Starsky's
madness-inducing rubbing of his nipples in unison with the movement of his
tongue in the hollow of navel.  

     "I want that too, darlin'," Starsky said softly, all sign of teasing gone from
his eyes, replaced with only love as he looked up at his partner.  "You're really
somethin', babe.  Perfect."  His hands moved away from Hutch's chest and
skimmed down his sides, just firmly enough not to tickle.  "How come you settled
for me, huh?"

     "Because I only accept the best," Hutch said firmly, pulling Starsky up to
him for a long kiss.  "The best heart," kiss, "the best soul," kiss, "the best friend,"
kiss, "and an ass that has been known to cause traffic jams."  He smiled as Starsky
laughed at that, and blushed a little at the same time.  

     Without further hesitation, Starsky leaned over him to the night stand and
found the tube.  

     "Hey, you mind trying it a different way this time?"  Hutch asked.

     "However you want it, babe," Starsky said, leaning down and kissing the
end of Hutch's nose.  

     "From the back--hands and knees.  I'd like to try it like that," Hutch
managed, feeling a little embarrassed at spelling it out.  

     "I don't know...when we do it the other way...I don't think I can return the
favor, babe," Starsky said uneasily, breaking eye contact.  

     "Hey."  Hutch took the troubled face in both hands.  "Just because we do it
this way now doesn't mean we have to do anything differently when things are
reversed."

     "You've gotta be gettin' bored with that by now.  I know I don't ever let
you do it from the back like that."

     "Sure you do.  I hold you from behind a lot of times when we make love."

     "Yeah, but not...it's not the same, and there are ways we don't do it and I
know it's gotta be frustrating sometimes--"

     "Starsk.  Shut up."  Hutch pulled him down for a long kiss.  "Our sex life
is great, babe.  No need to worry about one or two things we don't do when we've
got so many good things we *do*.  You don't have to do it this way with me
tonight if you're not comfortable with it."

     "It's been over four years now.  I just wanna be normal."  Starsky slumped
into his partner's arms and soaked up the cuddling and kisses that earned him.  

     "You weren't normal when I met you," Hutch quipped, nipping at Starsky's
ear.  He had to laugh then, and Hutch smiled, relieved to feel the release of
tension in the taut body in his arms.  His desire had cooled a little, but as soon as
Starsky started gently pumping his cock, those soft lips kissing and nipping at his
neck, the fire was rekindled.  
     
     Starsky was as slow and careful preparing his partner now as he had been
their first time.  Hutch was still new to this, and it didn't surprise him that his
lover was taking every precaution to be sure the experience was good.  When one
of those skilled fingers found his prostate, Hutch let out a shout and arched his
back, thrusting wildly into the air.  

     "You wanna get on your knees now, babe?"

     "I'm ready," Hutch breathed, turning over and moving up on all fours,
finding the position erotic all by itself before Starsky actually moved up behind
him.  Something about presenting himself this way was making him that much
hotter to feel his lover taking the invitation.

     Then the blunt pressure was there, gentle but persistent, until it breached
the opening and slipped past the tight ring of muscle.  The first stretching still
hurt, and he couldn't stifle a little moan of discomfort as his muscles struggled to
accommodate the shaft that was slipping inside him.

     "Relax babe.  Take a deep breath and then bear down a little, remember?" 
Starsky coached in a gentle but strained voice.  One hand wrapped around Hutch's
cock and pumped in a slow, steady rhythm.  Between Starsky's suggestion and the
delicious stimulation of his cock, Hutch relaxed and accepted the rest of Starsky's
length in a couple of slow, gentle pushes.  Warm lips kissed his back, and then he
felt soft curls against his skin as Starsky rested his head there a moment, just
beneath Hutch's shoulder blade.  

     Without being told, Starsky seemed to know instinctively when to try
moving.  He was gentle and tentative, just barely pulling back and moving
forward.  Before long, Hutch was squirming beneath him, struggling to increase
the tempo.  Starsky adjusted to the new rhythm, and before long, they were
moving in a steady pattern of thrust and counter-thrust, the creaking of the
bedsprings strangely erotic as it underscored the force and vibration of their sex.  

     "Come on, babe, faster," Hutch goaded, and with a groan of pleasure and
need, Starsky accommodated him, picking up the pace and force of his thrusts,
nailing Hutch's prostate with each vigorous movement until their cries and shouts
of pleasure mingled into a single chorus.  With a loud cry, Hutch came first, his
seed bathing Starsky's hand and spattering the sheets beneath them.  

     With a few more rapid thrusts, Starsky was following his lover into the
abyss, crying out Hutch's name as he filled him, and was finally rendered
motionless on Hutch's back.  Still inside his lover, Starsky fastened his mouth on
the soft skin of a nearby shoulder and languidly sucked, leaving a bright passion
mark there.  

     "I love you, blintz," he said softly, kissing the mark.  Hutch chortled a
little at the endearment.  "You know what a blintz is, babe.  It's golden and sweet
and creamy," he whispered against Hutch's skin.  Hair like gold and skin like
sweet cream," he added, kissing Hutch's shoulder again.  "Too beautiful to be
real."  

     Hutch felt the lump in his throat at the words.  He'd always taken the
nickname in the teasing affection in which Starsky said it.  Now, it seemed like
the most meaningful and erotic thing on earth.  Only Starsky...

     With a little sigh of regret, Starsky carefully eased out of him, and they
spooned together on their sides, resting and letting their breathing calm down to
normal again.  Then a thought crossed Hutch's mind. 

     "I never gave you your last Hanukkah present," he said.

     "Hm?"  

     Starsky had to be spent if he wasn't reacting more energetically to the
word "present".

     "Your last Hanukkah present, Gordo."

     "Oh."  He was quiet a minute.  "Can I have it now?"

     "That means I have to get up."  

     "Then forget it.  I'd rather have you in my arms than all the presents in the
world.  Tomorrow?"

     "Yeah, tomorrow."  

     "You wanna wash up?"  Starsky asked, though his voice was almost
slurred with impending sleep.  Hutch smiled and angled his head back for a long,
though awkward, kiss.  

     "Go to sleep, love.  We're both wiped out."

     "Did you like it that way?"  Starsky asked, his voice a little hesitant.

     "It was incredible, babe.  Mind-blowing."  Hutch knew he was grinning
like a sap, and the euphoria of the moment was detracting from the fact he felt
stretched and bit sore.  Still, the act took getting used to, and the sensations he'd
experienced during the sex itself were incredible.  

     "Was I too rough?"

     //Damn mind reader,// Hutch thought to himself, smiling. 

     "I'm fine, babe.  I asked for it harder."

     "Maybe that wasn't such a hot idea, huh?"  Starsky stroked his thigh and
hip with a gentle hand.  "I'm sorry, darlin'.  Didn't mean to be rough on you."  
     
     "You weren't.  I'm just kind of new at this.  I'll get the hang of it."

     "You're hung pretty well right now, blondie," Starsky teased, nuzzling
Hutch's neck.  

     "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"  Hutch asked, laughing softly.

     "Head first," Starsky confirmed, smiling and cuddling Hutch close as he
let himself drift off to sleep.

     Hutch's last coherent thought was that no matter what the outside world
might throw at them, this was worth whatever it caused.

********

     When Hutch opened his eyes, all he saw was candlelight.  He rose up on
one elbow and looked around the bedroom and saw at least a dozen candles in
various holders or containers all over the room.  The soft lighting made the brass
headboard almost appear to glow in the pre-dawn shadows.  

     Easing up into a sitting position, and regretting that choice momentarily,
he got out of bed and pulled on his robe, following what became a path of candles
that led from the dresser in the bedroom to the floor in the hallway.  He tried to
tamp down the screaming practicality of his brain telling him what a fire hazard
all this was in an old house, and focus on the soft golden glow the little flames
cast on the old walls, turning the hallway into something almost other-worldly.  


     At the end of the trail was the bathroom, dancing candlelight visible
through the small space the door was ajar from its frame.  Hutch pushed it open,
and smiled at what he saw.  

     Candles flickered everywhere--on the sink, the back of the toilet, and on
the floor near the tub, which was filled with water topped off with some sort of
foam that suspiciously resembled bubble bath.  By far, the feature of the room
that captivated his attention most was his lover, dressed in nothing but a pair of
red silk boxer shorts, a large, fluffy white towel over his arm.  

     "Your bath is ready," he said, gesturing somewhat elaborately toward the
tub.  

     "Starsk...this must've taken forever to set up.  Have you slept at all?"

     "Not much."  Starsky grinned in spite of that fact.  "I was watchin' you
sleep, just enjoying holdin' you and bein' close, and then I got this idea."  He
shrugged.  "I thought the warm bath might, uh, make things a little less..."  He
shrugged again a bit uneasily.  

     "I'm sure it'll feel great, babe.   You gonna join me?"

     "We'll see.  First I'm gonna give you a bath, and you're just gonna lie there
and enjoy it."

     "I am, huh?"

     "Yes you am."  He held out his hand.  "Hand over the robe, blondie," he
said, grinning lasciviously.

     "You say the sweetest things, babe," he teased, complying and then
stepping into the tub, sliding down into the comforting warmth of the water. 
"What is this stuff?  It smells good."

     "I got it the other day--I was waiting for the right time to try it out.  'Night
Passion Foaming Bath Oil for Lovers'."  Starsky chuckled a little.  "Cheesy, I
know, but it smells nice.  It was the only one I could find that didn't smell like
somethin' a woman would use."

     "Where'd you get it?"  Hutch smiled, reading the label on the rather ornate
little bottle.  

     "Well, I kinda made a detour that day I had lunch from Pancho Villa's.  I
went to, uh, visit Uncle Elmo again."

     "You seriously went to his *adult* toy store?"  Hutch had to laugh,
handing the bottle back to Starsky.  Only Starsky would seriously go back to the
shop where he used to see singing goldfish as a child to buy adult toys to use with
his male lover.  

     "Uh-huh.  You wouldn't believe some'a the stuff he's got in there."  Starsky
shook his head, and Hutch thought he caught a hint of flush in his partner's
cheeks.  It didn't seem to matter how experienced he was, or how street-wise,
Starsky still had that endearing quality of blushing or getting a little shy and
awkward at something so blatantly carnal.  

     "Rubber dicks and whips and chains, huh?"  Hutch teased, and was
rewarded with the full-fledged flush of the face he was after.  

     "Somethin' like that," Starsky responded, smiling.

     "So where's your washcloth?"  Hutch asked.

     "Don't need one."  Starsky knelt by the tub and flexed his fingers.  "Now
lie back and close your eyes."  He patted the bathtub pillow he'd put there for
Hutch's head.  

     "I'll probably go back to sleep."

     "Not if I'm doin' my job right."  

     Hutch closed his eyes and relaxed, enjoying the soothing qualities in the
water, and relishing the sensations caused by the water-slick hands that were
moving over his body in ways that resembled both caresses and massage.  Not
one inch of his body--from his fingertips to his toes--was missed by those
thorough but gentle hands.  Just when he thought things couldn't get any better, he
was roused by the soft instruction.

     "Pull your knees up for me, babe.  I need to wash you."  

     Hutch followed the direction, and soon felt slick fingers carefully washing
the crevice between his cheeks, one of them finally slipping into the tender
opening.  Whether it was the intensity of the sensation of that moving finger or
the sheer intimacy of the act, he wasn't sure, but his cock surged to life eagerly. 
By the time he was thoroughly cleaned, he was also painfully hard.  

     "I was thinkin' maybe I'd join ya now," Starsky said, leaning down for a
kiss.  Hutch responded to it enthusiastically, though he wasn't sure he could
handle being penetrated again this soon.  Starsky's slick finger had eased the
residual discomfort--as well as made him horny as hell--but he was still a little
tender.  

     Starsky slipped off the silk boxers and stepped into the tub near Hutch's
feet.  But instead of facing him, he leaned forward on all fours.  

     "Thought maybe you could show me what was so great about doin' it this
way," he said, his voice a little strained.  
     
     "Oh, babe, you don't have to do this," Hutch said gently, managing
somehow to rise up to his own knees in the tub, running a warm, wet hand up and
down Starsky's back.  

     "I wanna try.  I don't know if I'm gonna like it, but I...I wanna try it."

     "Then relax, babe, because I've got a few things I want to do first."  Hutch
kissed the base of Starsky's spine, then snaked his tongue out to lick a little at the
skin there.  He was rewarded with a throaty moan.   "I always wanted to make
love to you like this, babe.  Where I could just concentrate on your beautiful ass,"
Hutch said in a voice just above a whisper.  

     "Oh, God," Starsky groaned, instinctively thrusting his ass out a bit more,
bracing his arms on the tub.  

     Hutch flicked the tip of his tongue over the soft skin of one buttock,
loving the little shiver it drew from his lover.  He began to lap at the flesh then,
mixing the licks with little kisses and nips.  By the time they'd finally make love,
Starsky would be so insane with desire that he wouldn't have the brain cells to
think of anything unpleasant...or at least, that was the plan.  

     He moved to the other side, lavishing the same attention there, holding the
firm cheeks slightly apart, his thumbs teasing the little pucker.  

     "Hutch."  It was a soft gasp, barely discernible.  

     Hutch slid his hands away from the opening, and massaged the
saliva-slicked flesh of the cheeks, then darted his tongue into the small opening. 
Starsky was moaning and quivering now at the oral onslaught, which only stoked
Hutch's passion for this act and the almost incoherent level of pleasure it brought
out in his lover.  He tongued Starsky's center thoroughly, probing him and teasing
him until he was begging for something more.  

     "Come on, babe, I'm ready...God, do it!"  

     "You got stuff?"  Hutch reluctantly pulled back.

     "By the tub," Starsky managed.  Realizing somewhere in the back of his
mind that it was a miracle he didn't knock over all the candles, Hutch groped
around by the side of the tub until he found a tube.  

     "Raspberry, huh?"  he said, flipping the cap.  "Somebody was a naughty
boy in Uncle Elmo's shop."  Hutch squeezed out a bit of the lube and coated the
edges of Starsky's center.  Then he moved back in for another taste, thrusting his
tongue in and out of the quivering opening, tasting the raspberry flavor now.  

     "Huutch..."  Starsky moaned, begging for a move to the next level.

     "Tastes pretty good, babe," Hutch said in a husky voice, nipping Starsky's
butt cheek before obtaining more of the lube.  Taking mercy on his partner, he
began stretching him, though in his excited state he was close to being ready
without much help.  Resisting the urge to drive Starsky wild with a graze of his
prostate, Hutch withdrew his probing fingers, afraid that with much more teasing,
Starsky would reach the finish line without him.  He coated himself, and then
moved up so he could whisper in Starsky's ear.  

     "Me and thee, my love."  Starsky took in a little breath at the words, and
sighed.  Hutch carefully pushed past the initial resistance, and found himself
sheathed inside his lover in a much smoother, quicker stroke than usual.  Fully
joined, they were both still a moment while Starsky adjusted to their union. 
"Babe, how about coming back here so I can hold you?"  Hutch suggested.

     "What?"  The question was a little passion-fogged as Starsky struggled to
understand what Hutch was suggesting.  

     "Relax, love, and just move with me."  Hutch wrapped his arms around
Starsky's middle and pulled back, and Starsky followed, finding himself seated on
Hutch's lap, their lower bodies in the water.  "I love you too much not to be able
to hold you right now," Hutch whispered against a curl-shaded ear.  

     "Love you, darlin'...with everything I got."

     Hutch began to move a little, slowly at first, until Starsky joined him, and
they found their shared rhythm.  He wrapped one hand around Starsky's cock and
pumped in time with their thrusts.  The other hand slid up into the curls of chest
hair and found a nipple, rolling and pinching it gently.  His mouth trailed wet
kisses down Starsky's cheek and neck.  

     It didn't matter that water was sloshing everywhere, dousing candles and
messing up the floor.  It didn't matter that the water in question was cooling, or
that the rest of the world didn't approve of what they were doing.  All that
mattered was Starsky, alive and moving in his arms, taking him deep inside,
moaning and shouting out his pleasure.  They could have this anywhere...and
suddenly all the fears Starsky had voiced the night before made sense.  None of
this would be worth it if the next act of hate hurt one of them.  He'd almost lost
Starsky to a spray of bullets--he wasn't about to risk losing him to a spray of
hatred.  

     Then the pleasure was building, and Hutch's capacity for thought went the
way of his capacity for intelligible speech as he shouted a couple of broken,
incoherent endearments as they reached their climax together.  

     "That was perfect, darlin'," Starsky sighed contentedly.  "One'a the best
ever."

     "Every time's the best," Hutch responded, nipping at an earlobe.  "Let's
clean up and take a nap before work, huh?"

     "Sounds like heaven."  

     After washing each other in the now-tepid water, they dried off and
extinguished the candles, leaving them where they were, and returned to the bed. 
Snuggled under the covers, facing each other, arms and legs tangled together,
they drifted into a sound sleep which was not disturbed until the alarm clock
made its unwelcome presence known two hours later.

********

     "Hey, Hutch, c'mon!"  Starsky shouted from the foot of the stairs.  It was
after nine, and while they'd been at work late the night before, and Dobey
wouldn't be expecting them first thing, they were due at Donna Canfield's
arraignment at ten. There was no response from upstairs.  "Hutch!"  Starsky
frowned, then started upstairs.  "Come on, babe, we're gonna be late--" he stopped
in the doorway to Hutch's room when he saw his partner sitting on the floor in
front of a large carton, looking at a photo album.  The carton had been one of
many that had been set aside for later unpacking, or possible storage in the attic.

     "I remembered something."

     "About T.J.?"  Starsky asked, kneeling next to him.

     "This was my Uncle Richard," Hutch said, pointing to a tall man with the
Hutchinson fair hair, standing by an old Studebaker, dressed in jeans and a plaid
shirt, holding a cowboy hat.  "When that was taken, he'd been out to our place to
do some riding."
     "He was your dad's brother?"  Starsky asked, and Hutch nodded.

     "And the thing I was trying to remember?"

     "Yeah?"

     "When T.J. disappeared, and I was running all over the place calling to
him...I...I saw my uncle's car up on the main road.  I remember later being
surprised that he wasn't with my parents--we were all going a little nuts, calling
the police and alerting the neighbors to start looking...I think I asked my dad
where Uncle Richard was, and he...I don't remember what he said, but he didn't
seem to know what I was talking about."

     "Are you sure it was your uncle's car?"

     "I'm sure about that--see, in this picture, it's black--but the next year?  He
painted it this strange sort of bright blue color.  It was the only one around like
it."

     "Did you ever tell anyone besides your father about seeing the car?"

     "I doubt it.  I don't remember.  I don't think I had much reason to.  I said
something to him and he didn't react to it.  I guess I probably just forgot about it. 
Well, obviously."

     "Why do you think you remember it now?"

     "Talking to Adam Gregory--he was Michael Canfield's uncle.  I think the
relationship probably sparked something in my mind about my own uncle."

     "Where's your Uncle Richard now?  Maybe you could ask him?"

     "He's been dead almost twenty years.  He turned into quite a drinker, and
had some health problems related to that.  He died pretty young.  In his early
fifties."

     "Do you think Richard had something to do with T.J.'s disappearance?"

     "I don't want to, but the cop part of me wants to know if he didn't, why he
didn't stop and see us--it's not like our house was exactly on the way--it was out in
the country on acreage.  Why didn't he ever tell anyone he was right there at the
time T.J. disappeared?"  Hutch closed the photo album.  "What bothers me more
is why weren't my parents more interested in finding out what the hell he was
doing out there?"

     "Hutch, I'm tellin' ya, we should put in for some time off after this is over,
and take a trip out there.  I could help you this time, and we could try to find
some answers to some'a those questions."

     "My parents wouldn't be receptive to my digging up that case again."
     
     "You don't need their permission, buddy.  We're cops, and the local cops
there would probably cooperate out of professional courtesy.  Maybe there's
something there that'll explain things."

     "My Uncle Richard is dead.  I can't ask him why he was there."

     "No, but you can ask your father why he might have been there, see if
anyone has a logical explanation."

     "T.J. didn't like Richard," Hutch said, as if the revelation were just coming
to him.  "He used to take T.J. on the horse with him when he'd ride, and T.J.
would just squirm like crazy until the ride was over and he could get off the
horse."  Hutch shuddered.  "God, Starsk, you don't think he...that he'd already
done something?"

     "Kids are often victims of family members.  It's possible.  But let's not
jump to any conclusions.  Maybe your uncle was just afraid somebody'd suspect
him of somethin' if he was out in that area at the time."

     "We'd have no reason to suspect him of anything--and he'd have had no
good reason to be out there if he wasn't going to see us."

     "We have to be at the arraignment, babe.  Let's talk more about this
later--and don't rule out making a trip to Duluth, huh?"

********

     Donna Canfield entered the expected plea of "not guilty", despite the fact
the DA was already reviewing her brother's testimony for use in a plea
bargain--whereby Adam Gregory would be spared the death penalty and possibly
have a chance of parole in return for testifying against his sister.  Due to the
heinous nature of the crime, she was ordered held without bond in the city jail
pending trial.  

     Feeling that things were finally looking up, Hutch went on to their desks
while Starsky swung by the cafeteria to pick them up some "brunch"--breakfast
had been coffee on the way out the back door and they'd gone straight to the
courthouse from home.  

     "Where's Starsky?"  Dobey asked, poking his head out his office door.

     "Getting us something in the cafeteria.  You heard about Donna Canfield
being held without bond, right?"  

     "Yes I did.  Good news.  There's something I need to discuss with you two
as soon as your partner gets here."

     "Okay.  We'll be right in."  Hutch frowned a little as Dobey retreated into
his office, unnerved by the captain's serious demeanor.

     "Chow time," Starsky announced as he arrived at the desk with juice and a
couple English muffins for Hutch, coffee and donuts for himself.  He'd brought
three donuts, knowing full well that one long-fingered hand would make its way
over and confiscate one after the muffins disappeared.  

     "Dobey wants to see us," Hutch said, stuffing a couple bites of the muffin
in his mouth.  "So much for breakfast," he mumbled, and Starsky rose grudgingly
and followed him into Dobey's office.

     "Sit down," Dobey said matter-of-factly.  Then he leaned back in his chair. 
"I had a talk with Crenshaw in Narcotics. Apparently he thinks he saw something
going on between you two yesterday."

     "He saw me hugging Hutch.  Big deal.  It's not like I've never done that
before," Starsky responded.  

     "I didn't know you were in the habit of doing it in the men's john," Dobey
retorted.

     "Would you rather I did it in the squad room?  We were havin' a private
conversation, and he walked in."

     "Now look, I know you two are tight, but you've got to use a little bit of
discretion around here.  We've already got one complaint logged from that
neighbor of yours, and then there's the car incident--"

     "With all due respect, Captain, those issues aren't our fault.  We can't
control what a narrow-minded neighbor wants to think, and we certainly didn't
ask for the mess with the Torino," Hutch spoke up.  "Which is totaled,
incidentally," he added.

     "I'm sorry to hear that."  Dobey let out a long breath.  "I'm not accusing
either one of you of anything.  All I'm saying is that like it or not, appearances
matter with something like this.  You made the decision to be roomies, so now
you're going to have to deal with the consequences--and one of those is how that
looks to other people.  The department is wrestling with the whole policy of gays
on the police force as it is, but even if that goes through, you can't legislate
people's attitudes."

     "I thought you weren't accusing us of anything," Starsky said.

     "I'm not, but you have to understand what kind of appearance you're
giving off to the people around you.  You move in together, we get complaints
from your neighbor that you're doin' more than unpacking boxes in there, there's a
vandalism incident and then on top of all that, you get caught in a clinch in the
men's room."

     "This has been a hard case, Captain," Hutch said evenly.  "For both of us. 
We don't usually handle missing and murdered child cases, and we've both had
some...problems with it.  We're handling it, but... what Crenshaw walked in on
was just a...difficult moment.  If he chose to interpret it as something it wasn't,
there's nothing we can do about that."  Hutch felt comfortable with the statement,
because it was the truth.  The embrace Crenshaw had walked in on was as asexual
as any one of dozens they'd shared over the years before becoming lovers.  

     "If this case is getting to you--either one of you--that's what the
department shrink is for.  Don't hesitate to make use of that help.  You wouldn't
be the first cops--and you won't be the last--to have trouble with a murdered child
case."

     "There's something I think you should know about," Hutch said, taking a
deep breath and expelling it slowly.  "This case has been more difficult for me
than it normally would have been because..."  Hutch paused, glancing at Starsky,
then down at his hands, which were loosely twined.   "My younger brother was
abducted and murdered when we were children.  The Canfield kid looks quite a
lot like him, and it just brought up a lot of old...*stuff*.  Starsky's helped me keep
it together, and I *am* handling it.  So if it makes any difference to the situation,
that's why we were in the men's room, and why we were in an embrace when
Crenshaw walked in.  I had just been to the morgue with Ryan Canfield to see his
son, and it brought a lot back."

     "I'm sorry, Hutch.  I had no idea you even had a brother."

     "Well, I don't, anymore.  It wasn't ever really relevant, and it's not
something I like to go back and relive any more than I have to.  When I saw
Michael Canfield downstairs, I lost it, and Starsky was trying to get me back in
one piece so we could finish up with Mr. Canfield and then go after Gregory."

     "If I'd known this ahead of time, I never would have let you take this case. 
You both know that."

     "It's not Starsky's fault.  He didn't know either until after we took the case. 
There's a lot to this, Captain...a lot of reasons why it was just easier to forget. 
They never made an arrest in my brother's case, and there were some family
issues..."

     "Well, it's all water under the bridge now, and the case is shaping up
nicely, so there's not much point in making an issue of it now.  But what is still an
issue is this flurry of rumors you two seem to be generating all of a sudden. 
Behave yourselves and use a little discretion--that's all I'm saying."

     "Cap--"

     "We will," Hutch cut off Starsky's next protest.  

     "Y'know, it seems a little funny that we're gettin' called into the office
here.  First some nosey old biddy tries to cause trouble for us, then my car gets
totaled, and then some asshole takes a totally innocent situation and blows it up
into something major.  And we're the ones gettin' told to behave ourselves."

     "Starsky, I'm not addressing the issue here of whether or not any of these
rumors are true, and quite frankly, I don't want to address that.  What I am
concerned with is the smooth daily functioning of this department, and if one of
our primary teams is the subject of a lot of watercooler gossip, it's disruptive.  So
if you're doing anything to encourage the rumors and the complaints, stop it.  If
you aren't, then I guess we'll just have to ride this out.  I think you know I'll back
you up as long as you're not bringing this all down on yourselves."

     "I think we get the picture, Captain.  Starsk, let it go," Hutch said before
Starsky could get any sound out of his open mouth.  

     "Is there something you want to tell me, Starsky?"  Dobey pinned him
with an intent look.

     Starsky looked at Dobey a long moment, as if he were really considering
telling him everything, and then with a tinge of regret in his face and his voice, he
looked down and shook his head.

     "No."

     "Then both of you get back to work.  I want that Canfield case so airtight
that it's legendary."

********

     Starsky looked up at his partner across the desks.  Hutch was intently
typing up a couple of overdue reports, not noticing the baleful eyes that were
upon him.  It was well past lunch hour, and Starsky's stomach was making its
displeasure known.  Despite the fact he'd spent most of the morning reading the
Canfield autopsy report and studying the crime scene photos and the rest of the
file in order to identify any loopholes and tidy up their inevitable testimony in the
case, his stomach was still not deterred from noticing the absence of food.  

     "What?"  Hutch looked up from his work with a faint smile.  

     "I'm hungry."

     "Oh."  Hutch went back to his work.  "I thought you were going to tell me
something I didn't already know."  The corner of his mouth twitched slightly in a
grin.  

     "You want somethin'?  I'll go get us some take-outs."

     "Surprise me."  Hutch kept typing.
     
     "You sure about that?"  Starsky retorted, standing up and taking out his
wallet to look over his supply of cash.

     "I've been liking your surprises better lately," Hutch said quietly, smiling
but not looking up.  

     "I'll keep that in mind, blondie.  Be back in a few."  Swaggering off
happily as he always did when he scored points with a sexy blond, Starsky took
the elevator down to the police garage and made his way to the bland blue Ford
sedan he was using until he figured out what to do about another car.  

     Just as he stuck the key in the lock of the driver's door, some kind of large,
dark fabric went over his face and head, and he was pulled back from the car,
restrained on either side.  

     "There's no room for fucking faggots around here," a deep voice growled
ominously.  

********

     Hutch looked at the clock and frowned.  Starsky was certainly taking his
time finding lunch.  Shrugging and figuring he must have driven across town to
get some bizarre brand of tostadas, and silently lamenting the grumbling an
indigestion that would inevitably ensue, Hutch went back to typing his reports. 
Just then, Minnie rushed into the squad room.  It was the first and only time
Hutch could ever remember seeing her panicked by something.

     "You better get down to the garage right away!"  she said, pulling on
Hutch's arm.  

     He was out of his chair in a heartbeat, running down the hall and then
down the stairs, his long legs taking him past Minnie until he reached the garage,
pushing his way through a small group of cops gathered near Starsky's blue loaner
car.  There, on the ground, lay his partner, unconscious and badly beaten.  

     "Starsky!"  Hutch shoved past the final few people who were in his way,
moving the policewoman aside who had assumed the job of dabbing at the blood
from a cut on Starsky's forehead.  With shaking hands, Hutch took over the job
himself.  "Did somebody call an ambulance?"

     "It's on the way," Minnie said, finally making her way to the front of the
group.  "He was just lying there like that when I saw him--I tried to bring him
around but he wouldn't come to!"  

     "Starsk?  Come on, buddy, it's me," Hutch said softly, getting his hand
under Starsky's head, cushioning it from the harsh cement.  

     "Here."  Dobey's voice startled Hutch as the Captain handed over his
sportcoat to put under Starsky's head.  "I got a call upstairs there was trouble
down here."  Dobey made the effort to kneel next to where Hutch was tending to
his partner, holding one limp hand.  
     "He's really out, Captain.  Pulse is strong, thank God, but he's really been
worked over."  

     "I've ordered the building sealed, including all the exits from this garage,"
Dobey said.

     "You and I both know whoever did this is in the building and belongs
here."

     "We don't know that at all.  We also may get lucky and find them," Dobey
added quietly.  The sirens were heard in the distance, signaling the arrival of the
ambulance.  "Go with him," Dobey said unnecessarily, as getting Hutch away
from Starsky's side was not an option anyway.  "I'll follow in my car."

     "Thanks," Hutch muttered, keeping a hold on Starsky's hand until he had
to break the link for his partner to be loaded in the back of the ambulance.  

     Hutch got in himself, managing to re-establish his grip on Starsky's hand
despite the movement of the paramedics.  It felt like the physical *tearing away*
of something precious to let go of that hand and watch them hustle Starsky into
an examining room at the hospital. When Dobey arrived with what looked like
half the department in tow, Hutch was pacing the area like a caged animal.  

     "Any word yet?"  Dobey asked.

     "They just took him in.  He didn't rally in the ambulance at all," Hutch
said, noticing for the first time that Starsky's blood was on his hands and a little
on his sleeve.  The bloody nose and the head injury had left their mark.  Hutch
seemed to stare at the stains with a sort of horror-stricked fascination.

     "He'll be okay, Hutch," Dobey said firmly, steering Hutch away from their
concerned colleagues and pushing on his shoulder until he dropped into a chair. 
Dobey sat down nearby.  "Come on, snap out of it," he said, attempting to keep
his tone stern, hoping that would shake Hutch out of the disturbing daze he
seemed to be in.

     "The last time Starsky's blood was on my hands..."  Hutch clenched the
hands he'd been staring at into fists, and his whole body started shaking.  

     "That was then, this is now," Dobey stated, countering the harsh words
with a hand on Hutch's back.  "You've got to pull yourself together and hang in
there."

     "He said it didn't matter about the car...as long as it wasn't one of us,"
Hutch babbled, his voice shaky.  "Oh, God, why not me this time?"

     "Hutchinson!"  Dobey snapped angrily, forcing a punitive tone into his
voice he didn't feel.  Hutch seemed to rally a bit at the sound of his full last name. 
"You're not going to be any good to your partner, or anybody else, if you're sittin'
out here, sniveling and whining when you don't even know how bad things are! 
For all you know he's in there raising hell with the nurses," Dobey added,
gradually taking some of the sharpness out of his voice.  

     "It's no good, Captain.  I can't do this anymore.  I can't...  Starsky's so
damned unhappy, and we're spending all our time looking over our shoulders."

     "This isn't the time to talk about this, Hutch," Dobey said, his tone much
gentler.  "After we find out Starsky's all right, I want to talk to you both, off the
record, got that?"  he said quietly, keeping one eye on the group of cops who had
hung back near the nurses' station, giving Dobey some space to talk to his
overwrought detective privately.  

     "We can't--"

     "*Off the record*," Dobey restated.  "And I want you to think about some
counseling to work out whatever's still getting to you about the Canfield case." 
Dobey hadn't moved his hand off Hutch's back.  Now he gave him a couple of
gruff pats before moving away.  "Think  you're going to hold up all right now?"

     "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," Hutch hastened to respond, nodding.  Then he
looked over at Dobey, and smiled a little.  "Thanks."

     "Don't thank me.  I'm just trying to keep my best team in action.  Don't
want my unit having a dip in the arrest record.  Looks bad on my evaluation,"
Dobey joked, and Hutch actually chuckled a little.

     "Can't have that, can we?"

     "Not considering the fact that Chief Ryan never liked me too much after
that search warrant I got on his office when you two thought he was framing you,"
Dobey said, chuckling.  

     "That wasn't one of our better calls," Hutch admitted, smiling a bit
sheepishly.

     Just then, an older woman in blue scrubs approached the two of them, and
the other detectives who had hung back a bit now joined them.

     "You're here for David Starsky?"  she asked.  Hutch nodded immediately. 
"Are you family?"

     "I'm his partner.  I have his power of attorney for any medical issues--his
family's all in New York," Hutch said.  

     "I see.  Well, at the risk of sounding cliched, I have some good news and
some bad news.  The good news is that the beating he took looks worse than it
actually is.  He's badly bruised and has a couple cracked ribs, but I don't see any
evidence of internal injury.  Given Mr. Starsky's medical history, I plan to run
additional tests on him to be sure we aren't missing anything in the line of internal
injuries, but at this point, I don't think that's a problem.  The bad news is that he
suffered a significant blow to the back of his head--given the situation, I'd guess
he hit his head on the cement when he fell or was thrown down."

     "What are you saying exactly?"  Hutch prodded.

     "I'm saying that he still hasn't regained consciousness, and he has a serious
concussion.  Our greatest concern is the head injury at this point.  We'll be
monitoring him closely for signs of serious swelling of the brain or the
development of blood clots."

     "My God," Hutch muttered.  "W-what are his chances?"

     "If he regains consciousness within the next 24 hours, excellent.  This
doesn't mean that he has any permanent damage, or that he won't make a full
recovery.  It simply means his condition is considered serious but stable, and that
a danger of damage to the brain or more serious complications does exist, which
is something you need to be aware of."

     "Can I see him?"

     "As soon as he's settled in ICU, you can see him briefly--"

     "Doctor, I'm concerned about my partner's safety.  Someone is going to
have to guard him, and I want that someone to be me."

     "Detective Hutchinson is correct that security measures need to be taken. 
If you have a private room where he can be monitored as effectively as in an ICU
ward, that would be best.  We'll have a man on the door and one in the room at all
times," Dobey concluded.

     "I see.  We do have a few private rooms in the ICU for special cases.  I'll
make the arrangements.  Detective, if you'd like to come with me, you can
oversee his move to the room."

     "Thank you."  Hutch said the words to the doctor, but gave Dobey a very
pointedly grateful look.  It had been his captain's calm intervention that had made
it possible for him to be so close, so constantly, to his partner.  

     "I'll keep an eye on Starsky for now," Dobey spoke up.  "You go get
washed up."

     "Oh, yeah..."  Hutch looked down at the drying blood on his hands.

     "You come with me, honey," Minnie said, linking her arm through
Hutch's.  He let himself be guided down the hall to a unisex bathroom where
Minnie steered him inside to wash his hands.  He went through the process
somewhat mechanically, the sight and smell of blood threatening his already
tenuous control.  "You want to give me a house key and I'll run over and get you a
clean shirt?"

     "It's okay, Min--"
     "Okay, but Starsky's not gonna like wakin' up to see you sitting there with
blood and guts all over you."  She held out her hand for the key, and Hutch had to
laugh at her crass assessment of his appearance.  He pulled out his keys and held
them up by the house key.  

     "My room--" he stopped himself, thinking of how much Starsky hated that
arrangement, and how little propriety mattered right now.  "My clothes are in the
bedroom with the brass bed in it.  Anything clean is okay."

     "I need an address," she said, taking out her notepad.  

     "1267 Garden Drive."

     "Sounds pretty nice," she said, smiling a little.

     "The house is.  Wouldn't give you much for the neighbors right now."

     "I heard about Starsky's car.  Hard to believe someone could total it in
broad daylight with nobody seein' anything."

     "Yeah, isn't it though?"  Hutch agreed.

     "So how much is it gonna take to fix the car?"

     "It's totaled, Min," Hutch said as they walked back toward the ER.

     "All that means is that fixing it will cost more than you could sell it for. 
We all know Starsky doesn't want to part with that car," she concluded, smiling.

     "I didn't ask him.  I guess I could check with Merle."

     "Honey, trust me on this one--you could buy that boy a Mercedes and he'd
still be feelin' bad not to have that big red monster back in his garage."  She
headed toward the exit.  "I won't be long."

     "Thanks again, Minnie."  

********

     Starsky's breathing was deep and even, and all tests run so far had shown
that he wasn't suffering any internal injuries from the beating.  Hutch rested his
arms on the railing of the bed as he sat in a chair next to it.  Finally, he propped
his chin on top of them and just watched his lover sleep.

     //Sleep,// Hutch chided himself. //He's out cold, you moron.//

     The bruising on Starsky's face was significant.  His mouth was badly
swollen on one side, making him look as if he had cotton packed under it.  One
eye most likely wouldn't open all the way even when he did come to--not until the
swelling on that spot went down a bit.  There were a few other scrapes and
bruises on his face as well.  Still, Hutch took in the sight of the thick dark lashes
and the silky dark curls, and trailed his thumb over the soft lips that he longed to
feel respond to his own.  

     "Aw, Starsk, wake up, will ya?"  he whispered to his lover, feeling the
threat of tears again.  He'd known he was pushing himself emotionally with the
whole issue of T.J.'s murder being brought to the foreground so much in his mind
with the Canfield case, and the strain of knowing he and Starsky were the targets
for so much hate.  Now, without Starsky's constant strength and
encouragement--be it voiced or just through his presence alone--Hutch felt as if
one small push could send him right over the edge.

     "Ken?"  A woman's voice surprised him from the door.  Connie was
speaking through a crack in the door.  He got up and went outside the room to
talk to her, and found Tom was out there as well.

     "How's he doing?"  Tom asked.  "Connie saw someone else letting herself
into your place, so she went over and asked what was going on."

     "Oh, yeah, Minnie mentioned that you had come over," Hutch said,
remembering now that Minnie had told him that his neighbors were "right on the
ball" with watching the house.  "He's bruised up, but the biggest problem is the
concussion.  He hit his head pretty hard on the cement when he fell--or was
pushed--and he hasn't rallied yet."

     "Oh my God," Connie said, covering her mouth.  "Oh, Ken, I'm so sorry! 
Did the doctor think he'd be okay?"

     "She said if he regained consciousness in the first 24 hours, that would be
best.  Otherwise, the chances he has other damage, or of complications, increase."

     "How did it happen?"  Tom asked.

     "He was in the police garage.  I'm not sure how it happened.  Starsky's a
pretty good fighter, so if he was overpowered and beaten this way, there had to be
at least two or three of them, and they had to know what they were doing."

     "You don't think it's the same jerks who messed up the car, do you?"  

     "Not likely in the police garage, but it's possible.  The security there's not
airtight, though it *is* pretty good."

     "Your own people?"  Connie asked, horrified.

     "Well, if news about the car--and why it was damaged--got out around the
department, it's not outside the realm of possibility."

     "It just seems like everyone's going crazy--first this horrible news about
Donna being the one arrested for poor little Michael's death, and now this!" 
Connie threw her hands up in exasperation.  

     "I did a little asking around," Tom said, taking out a small piece of paper
from his pocket and handing it to Hutch.  "You might want to check up on these
two guys here.  I have it on pretty good authority they're the ones who messed up
the car."

     "How'd you get this information?"  Hutch asked, looking up from the two
names Tom had written on the paper.

     "Hung over a few fences, drank a couple beers, spouted a little gay-hating
rhetoric.  You'd be surprised what people with low mentality levels will tell you
with a little prodding--then again, maybe you wouldn't," he said, chuckling.

     "The dumber they are, the more they talk," Hutch agreed.  "I really
appreciate this.  We would have never had any way of getting this kind of
information."  Hutch paused.  "It's not going to set too well if we pursue this, and
you two are seen associating with us afterwards."

     "Let me tell you something about that neighborhood of ours.  In the fifteen
years we've lived there, I've put up that storage barn, the gazebo and trellis Connie
wanted, painted twice, and then put in the fence.  In all that time, not *one* of the
able-bodied men in that neighborhood walked over and asked if they could help
out.  The first day you moved in, your partner not only offered to help, but he
spent the day out there busting his butt with me putting in fenceposts.  If things
hadn't gone haywire with the Canfield situation, he planned on coming back and
helping finish the job.  So if the other neighbors don't like the company we keep,
they can kiss my ass," Tom concluded.  "Excuse me, Connie," he said, glancing at
his somewhat stunned wife.  

     "What if the rumors were true?"  Hutch asked, wondering how insane he
was to even chance such a question with their lone ally in neighborhood.

     "You're good neighbors.  I don't frankly care if you dress up in ballerina
outfits and hold recitals every Sunday."

     "I agree with Tom, Hutch.  You and Dave are welcome at our place any
time--regardless of whether the rumors are true or not."

     "Thank you."  Hutch hugged Connie, and shook hands with Tom.  

     "Could I just stick my head in and see him a second?"  Tom asked,
pointing toward the room.
     
     "Sure, go ahead."  

     Tom walked over to the bed, and while Hutch didn't follow him all the
way in the room, he could hear the quiet words he said as he took a hold of the
limp hand resting on Starsky's stomach.  

     "Hey, bud, time for you to snap out of it.  I still have to stain that fence,
and I was hoping not to have to do that on my own.  Beer and pizza on the house." 
He paused and chuckled a little.  "Connie and I are praying for you--the rest is up
to you."  He released the still-limp hand and leaned on the railing of the bed. 
"You two are the best neighbors we've had on that block--don't conk out on us
now," he added, patting Starsky's shoulder before turning away from the bed and
walking back toward the door.  "Unnerving how he just lies there, isn't it?"  he
said in a hushed tone as they stepped outside the room again.

     "I don't know if I've ever seen him totally still before," Connie agreed. 
"Poor guy.  You let him know, as soon as he wakes up, that we were here to see
him, okay?"

     "I'll tell him.  It'll mean a lot to him."  Hutch paused.  "It means a lot to me
too.  Thank you for coming."

     "Keep us posted, will you?"  Tom asked.

     "Sure."

     "If you get away from the hospital for a while, you stop by and I'll fix you
some decent dinner--anytime."

     "Thanks, Connie."  Hutch watched them leave and then turned to go back
into the room.  Starsky was still as motionless as he'd been before, his state too
similar to those long hours when he lay between life and death after the Gunther
shooting.  

     Hutch sat next to the bed again, this time putting down the side rail and
taking Starsky's hand in both of his, bringing it up to his cheek.  
     
     "Please, babe, I need you."  He kissed the still hand, feeling his heart break
for the want of just feeling those fingers close around his.  In a somewhat strained
a capella voice, he started to sing, Starsky's hand still pressed against his cheek. 
"So I sing you to sleep, after the lovin', with a song I just wrote yesterday, and I
hope you can hear, what the words and the music, have to say.  It's so hard to
explain, everything that I'm feelin', face to face, I just seem to go dry, 'cause I love
you so much that the sound of your voice can get me high."  Hutch had to smile in
spite of the tears that stung his eyes, remembering Starsky's reaction to the song
when he'd sung to him that morning.  "Thanks for takin' me, on a one way trip to
the sun...thanks for turnin' me, into a someone," Hutch managed, his voice
breaking on the last words.  

     "Someone who's nothing without you, babe," he added, giving in to the
tears and resting his head on the edge of the bed, letting the heavy sobs come as
they wished, shaking him to his core.  Starsky had been his strength, his courage,
and his solace while he faced all the memories of his brother's murder, and as
long as they had each other, even the hate and the potential danger that seemed to
be around every corner since they'd started loving each other, seemed
unimportant--distant somehow.  Now there was nothing between him and all the
pain and ugliness.  Starsky's smile and his laughter and his love had been that
light in the dark.

********

     Dressed in a comfortable old blue sweater and shirt, Dobey made his way
down the hospital corridor.  He was officially off duty now, and figured that if he
was going to spend any time around his favorite pair of detectives at the moment,
it had better be off the record.  He'd spent most of the day wrangling with his
personal feelings about the turn he knew their relationship was taking, and it had
been a revealing odyssey indeed.  Not much work had gotten done, but he'd come
to a few realizations about himself, and his own broad-mindedness--or lack
thereof--and looked at an issue from an angle he never had before.  

     Gays were a social issue, not people.  Even the revelation about John
Blaine at the time of his murder had been somehow...distant.  John was dead--and
while Dobey still respected him immensely as a cop and missed his presence as a
friend, he was conveniently able to compartmentalize the fact the man was gay in
some dark corner of his mind as a fact that was irrelevant to everything John
Blaine was to his friend and colleague, Harold Dobey.   Who the man had sex
with didn't really matter.

     So then his mind turned to Starsky and Hutchinson.  Picturing the two
tough street cops as gay was, in itself a stretch in Dobey's mind.  Gays were men
who worked as hairdressers or sang in nightclubs, dressed up like Sugar.  Of
course, his mind had then traveled back to Starsky's and Hutch's undercover work,
and he cringed a bit. //Okay, so gays are men who work as hairdressers and are
actually *good* at it,// he amended quickly.  

     Here were these two perfectly "normal" guys, on the tough side of normal,
even--two of the strongest men he'd ever met.  What do you call them when they
fall in love with each other?  No ruffled curtains had been hung in the new house,
neither had started wearing eyeliner or earrings or flashy clothes.  All they did
was fall in love, buy a house together, and quietly go about their business.  As far
as he knew, neither one had ever been seen cruising gay bars before--word of
stuff like that spread like wildfire through a PD, and inevitably, someone in Vice
usually knew who was hanging out where.  John Blaine had been discrete, but
then, even though he was a lieutenant, Blaine wasn't as "out front" and visible in
the department as Starsky and Hutch.  Those two had a reputation, and most any
Vice cop would recognize them from their street work in the porno district.  

     And they'd wrestled with the revelation of Blaine's sexuality.  Neither had
said much, and both had respected his memory and protected his reputation to the
best of their abilities.  But Dobey knew them both well enough to know that the
whole issue had left them reeling on a personal level, and while none of them had
said anything, when the three of them sat around at Huggy's the night of the
funeral, draining his beer supply, the silence had spoken volumes about the
proverbial elephant standing there that they were all artfully ignoring.  

     Now the elephant was back, standing in his squadroom.  He'd been
side-stepping it for months now--knowing that something had subtly shifted in the
relationship he was so used to observing on a daily basis.  They weren't overt; not
only were they more professional than that, but he felt confident that they had
more respect for him than to put him in a position that would be awkward or
difficult.  He'd covered for them before--and he expected to do it again, because
the department would lose more by losing one of its top teams than it would by
looking the other way for what those men did in the privacy of their own
bedroom.

     He pushed open the door to the hospital room, and froze there.  Starsky
was awake, but Hutch wasn't.  The latter had found his way into the hospital bed
and was sleeping soundly with his head on Starsky's shoulder.  

     "You're awake," Dobey said in a breathy whisper.

     "Came to about an hour ago.  He was sleepin' with his head on the bed and
his body on the chair," Starsky whispered back.  "I don't think he's too sure where
he is, but he moved when I told him to," Starsky concluded, smiling fondly at his
partner.  

     "Has the doctor seen you yet?"

     "No, and if I'm lucky, the nurses won't be around for a little while.  He
needs the sleep."

     "Are you going to be able to give us ID's?"

     "Voice ID's, maybe--but I didn't see any faces.  I saw some brown boots,
though."  

     Hutch stirred and shifted a little, and Starsky winced as an arm wrapped
around his middle.  

     "Easy on the ribs, blondie," he chided gently, stroking Hutch's hair lightly. 
Surprisingly enough, he didn't seem uneasy that Dobey was watching all this--and
Dobey himself found that it didn't seem all that unusual--had he not known
something different was in the air, he'd have never been surprised to witness such
a scene.  Hutch had spent the evening in bed with Starsky--in the presence of
Huggy and Dobey--the night they'd all celebrated Starsky's progressing recovery
from the Gunther shooting.  It hadn't seemed odd then, and somehow, it seemed
no more out of place now.

     "You want me to give him a ride home so you can get some rest?"

     "He won't go," Starsky said simply, smiling at the sleeping man in his bed. 
"But thanks."

     "The doctor ought to look you over."

     "I've got a bad headache and a lot of bruises.  I'll be okay.  I've had worse."

     "Look, I know you and Hutch have been under a lot of pressure lately, and
it's showing on him."  Dobey let out a sigh.  "I'll do what I can to help you both
out," Dobey added gruffly.  "What IA doesn't know won't hurt 'em."

     "What about you?  Does it hurt you?"  Starsky asked, looking at Dobey
with eyes that couldn't quite withstand the discomfort of opening all the way. 
Dobey thought that one over before he answered, wanting to be sure he could live
with it before saying it.

     "No, it doesn't hurt me either.  I think losing one of our best teams would
hurt the department more.  So you worry about getting back on your feet, and
tying up this Canfield case, and Internal Affairs can concentrate on investigating
this beating incident."

     "That's not the angle they're gonna take, Cap," Starsky said quietly,
looking back at Hutch.  "What happened to me doesn't matter to them.  All they
care about is why it happened."  Starsky squinted as if in pain, and Dobey cut in
on him.
     
     "Settle down, son.  Get some rest," Dobey said in a moment of
uncharacteristic gentleness as he patted Starsky's shoulder.  "Don't let this thing
rile you up while you're supposed to be getting better.  Things have a way of
working themselves out.  This will too."

     "Thanks, Cap," Starsky whispered, smiling as much as he could with the
swelling around his mouth.  

     Dobey pulled the door of Starsky's room shut behind him and sighed
tiredly.  This wasn't going to be easy to get around with Internal Affairs, but as
things stood, Starsky had committed no crime by being beaten in the police
garage.  He was the victim.  And IA would just damn well have to learn to
approach it that way.  As for the rest of what was going on between them, Dobey
wasn't sure how he'd handle it over the long haul.  Right now, not knowing the
graphic details, and not acknowledging any of it "on the record" would suffice.  

     Having these two under his supervision for the last several years had been
many things, but easy had never been one of them.  This was just one more sticky
situation he'd have to find some way around.  Shaking his head with the ghost of a
smile, Dobey made his way out to his car, hoping Edith would have a piece of pie
and some coffee waiting for him when he got home.

********

     Hutch sighed contentedly, finally opening his eyes.  Starsky's hand was in
his hair, moving languidly, just enough to wake him.  

     //Starsky!!//

     Hutch jerked fully awake and stared up at the man he'd been sleeping
with, stunned.  
     "You're awake," he said, his voice faint with shock--and relief.

     "Have been for a while, babe.  You're the one who needed to go down for
the count."  Starsky smiled a little weakly.

     "How...I was...I was sitting over there and..."

     "When I came to, you were sleepin' on the side'a the bed.  Your back
woulda never stood for that too long, so I just told ya to come on up here with me
where you belonged.  And you did."  

     "How do you feel, babe?  How's your head?"

     "Lousy and lousier.  But I'm okay, so how about relaxing this little crease
right here," Starsky teased, stroking the worry line between Hutch's eyebrows
with a gentle finger.  

     "I'll get the nurse for some pain medication."

     "Yeah, that'd be good," Starsky admitted, the discomfort plain on his face. 
It occurred to Hutch that must have been why Starsky woke him when he did. 
Extricating himself carefully, Hutch rearranged the bed covers and smoothed his
hair back.  

     "Welcome back, my love," he said gently, leaning forward for a soft kiss
to Starsky's mouth, careful not to put too much pressure on the swelling.  

     "You were singin' to me, weren't ya?"  Starsky responded, squinting a little
at the pain in his head.

     "I hoped it'd wake you up."

     "Thought I was hearin' the angels.  All y'need is a harp, babe," Starsky
said, smiling as he let his eyes drift shut.

     "Starsk...the guys who did this--"

     "Voice ID's...*maybe*.  They didn't say a whole lot, and they put
somethin' over my head.  I didn't see anything."

     "Okay, babe.  Just relax.  I'll get the nurse."

     The nurse notified the doctor, who came to see Starsky, checking his vital
signs and verifying what was fairly obvious--that he had survived the concussion
with no long-term damage.  She ordered the appropriate pain medication and
gave him the promise that if all went well, he'd be on his way home the following
afternoon.  By the next morning, Hutch was ready to head home for a shower and
to pick up some clothes for his partner. 
     
     "Huggy's coming over for a while--the guard's still on the door, but I want
someone in the room with you at all times," Hutch said as he prepared to leave.

     "Take Huggy with you.  If I've got a guard, I'm okay," Starsky objected,
turning off the television he'd been watching.

     "What do I need Huggy with me for?"

     "I don't want you goin' around alone--not after what happened.  You got
nobody to watch your back that way."

     "They made their point, Starsk.  They aren't going to do the same thing to
me they did to you."

     "So far, my car's been totaled and I ended up in the hospital.  Somebody
out there is really out to get us, and I don't want you takin' any dumb chances. 
Come on, babe.  For me?  Hey, I'm awake now.  It's not like I'm *helpless*--and
you've got somebody good outside, right?"

     "Well, yeah, Jim Frasier, but still--"

     "Jim's been on the force, what, fifteen years?  How many commendations? 
Geez, he must'a really pissed Dobey off to get this assignment."

     "Dobey wanted the very best watching out for you."

     "Take Huggy with you, babe.  Please.  I don't want to worry about
something happening to you."

     "Okay."  Hutch smiled and leaned down for a long kiss.  Just then, Huggy
walked in, and froze in the doorway, then laughed when he saw the veteran cop
outside hadn't been looking into the room.  

     "Can't you two wait 'til you get home?"  he teased, and Hutch chuckled a
little uneasily.  

     "I guess it's sort of pointless to go into the whole 'it's not how it looks', isn't
it?"

     "If it ain't how it looks, it oughtta be."  Huggy swaggered into the room. 
"I've been wonderin' when you two were gonna quit messin' around with chicks
and start gettin' down to business where you belong."

     "Where we belong, huh?"  Hutch repeated, chuckling a little.  "My partner
here thinks I need a bodyguard.  You up for the job?"

     "Bodyguard, babysitter, you name it."

     "I already got a bodyguard.  He needs one too," Starsky spoke up. 
"Somebody's goin' to an awful lot of trouble to give us a hard time."

     "You think it's the same folks that messed up your car?"  Huggy asked.

     "I doubt it," Starsky said.  "Our colleagues at the PD hate us as much as
the neighbors do."

     "Starsk," Hutch chided gently.

     "Well it's true.  In the past week, they hammered my car and then they
hammered me.  What would you get from all that?"  

     "I won't be long," Hutch said, taking a hold of Starsky's hand briefly and
squeezing it before walking toward the door with Huggy.

     "Don't forget my pants this time," Starsky called after him.  He smiled a
little as Hutch chortled and walked out the door.

     Starsky lay there and stared at the ceiling, thinking about where they
stood.  Dobey was going to try to stick with them--God, the times he'd stood by
them over the years and put his own ass on the line...sometimes it seemed wrong
to accept his willingness to do that again.  IA was going to be all over this like
stink on shit--not on the fact he'd been beaten senseless on PD property, but on
the fact that it came so close on the heels of the car incident, which was very
clearly related to the fact rumors were flying about their relationship.  

     Shifting onto his side and regretting the motion as it pulled on his bruised
body, he stared out at the perfect weather visible through his window.  Sunshine,
clear blue sky...probably warm with a nice breeze.  He had to smile in spite of
himself, thinking about his partner.  Hutch's favorite kind of day was so like
him--gold light and clear blue and warmth.  

     The kind of day it must have been when little T.J. Hutchinson was
snatched right out of his yard, and when Hutch's parents had decided to sentence
their elder son to an indefinite punishment of coldness and rejection for the loss. 
And what about Richard Hutchinson?  The uncle little T.J. didn't really like too
well?  The uncle whose distinctive car Hutch had spotted on the road the day T.J.
disappeared...  

     Starsky vowed to press Hutch on the issue later.  There was something
huge and obvious right in front of them that everyone was missing--maybe
intentionally.  Though he didn't relish taking Hutch back to the environment that
had made him stutter, made him feel that he wasn't nearly as beautiful as he was,
made him surprised to be worthy of someone's unconditional love...despite that,
he felt Hutch would never truly lay his brother to rest and move on until some
resolution was brought to his murder.  Now seemed a good time to ask for a leave
of absence--once the Canfield case was underway, there would be enough time
before the trial that they could make a trip to Duluth.
     
     Christmas was only a couple days away...it was probably ice cold in
Minnesota, snow everywhere.  He closed his eyes and pictured Hutch riding
horseback across a snowy field, and the vision seemed so right...and suddenly it
seemed so unjust that he'd grown to fear and avoid his roots, and that he'd been
made to feel shunned in his own home.  

     Hutch had said something about a special present.  Starsky had to laugh at
himself.  In spite of all the horror and mayhem they'd been involved in during the
last few days, he was actually going a little nuts wondering what Hutch got him. 
He thought about his own gifts for his partner--he'd given Hutch some little things
during Hanukkah--he always did.  But he saved the real goodies for Christmas,
since that was Hutch's traditional holiday.  Hutch had always given him
something special the last night of Hanukkah.  This year, it had passed amidst the
rushing and misery of the case, but he had every confidence Hutch would be true
to his word.  It wasn't the present that mattered--for the first time in his life,
Starsky could say that with total honesty.  But these were their first holidays
together, and he needed to feel that it meant as much to Hutch as it did to him.

     //And you act like Hutch is insecure,// Starsky chided himself. //How many
times do you need him to say it?  How many songs does he have to sing to you? 
How much more destroyed by your pain does he have to be before you believe...
Before you aren't sitting there trying to drag more proof out of him?//

     //Maybe fifty years from now, if he still hasn't left me, if I can die in his
arms and I haven't had to bury him...then, maybe I'll feel secure.// Starsky almost
had to smile at the irony of the dark thought.  He'd lost so many people he
loved...and sometimes just discovered that they hadn't loved him the way he loved
them, or that if they had, it hadn't been enough to keep them in his life.  Or that
even if it was, they wouldn't be with him long.  Death or circumstance would take
them away.  Sometimes he felt like he could never get enough of being in Hutch's
arms, of feeling that gentleness and strength combined, of knowing that for those
moments, no one could take it away. 

     Now they were facing all this harassment because they loved each other. 
How long would it take before Hutch couldn't stand it anymore?  Or before he
was hurt?  A small voice somewhere within Starsky said that maybe breaking this
off would be the kindest thing he could do for Hutch--put him back in the
mainstream of normal life.  In his heart, he knew that would shatter Hutch almost
as badly as it would destroy him.  Whatever life they would ever have would be
nothing if they didn't have it together.  

     "Hey, babe, you wanna tell me what the heavy thoughts are?"  Hutch was
there now, in front of him, in different clothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. 
"You didn't answer me when I came in.  I thought you were asleep."

     "Just lots of stuff.  Nothin' in particular.  You know how it is when you
think too much," Starsky said, smirking a little.  

     "Can take you down some painful roads," Hutch said, a little too
knowingly.  He reached out and stroked Starsky's hair back from his face, smiling
as Starsky closed his eyes and his whole face seemed to relax.  "As soon as you
get sprung, I'll take you home to bed, huh?"  

     "Won't be good for much," Starsky mumbled.  "I'm pretty sore all over."

     "Too sore for me to hold you while you sleep?"

     "Never too sore for that," Starsky responded, grinning, still not opening
his eyes as Hutch's hand continued its gentle motion.  

     "I'm so sorry this happened, babe," Hutch said softly, his hand still moving
back through the dark curls.  "I love you so much.  Damn it, every one of these
bruises hurts me."  Hutch's thumb lightly traced the ugly purple smudge on
Starsky's cheek.  

     "I'm just glad it was me an' not you," Starsky said with such complete
honesty that it raised a lump in Hutch's throat.

     "I hate it that you got hurt just for loving me like you do."

     "I'd die for lovin' you and figure I still got a good deal," Starsky said,
opening his eyes and locking his gaze with Hutch's.  "Because without you, I got
nothin' worth livin' for."

     "You *are* what I'm living for, love.  You have been for a long time." 
Hutch leaned down for a careful kiss.  Despite the pain that flared, Starsky
deepened it, sliding his hand behind Hutch's head, tangling his fingers in the
blond silk there, forcing his abused mouth to mold to Hutch's.  

     "I gotta talk t'you about somethin', Hutch."  Starsky said, kissing the finger
that probed his swollen lips to be sure no more damage had been done by the kiss. 


     "Anything, babe."

     "Once we've got the Canfield case ready to go to trial, I want us to go to
Duluth and find out what really happened to T.J."

     "Starsk, please--"

     "Are you ever gonna be able to let him rest in peace if you don't know
what happened to him?  You're a cop, Hutch.  You know it's eating you up inside,
and has been for a lotta years now."

     "I know," Hutch admitted, nodding.  "I'd rather die than go back there."

     "You can't live until you do, and you know it.  We need to find out the
truth about T.J."

     "You sound like you think you know what that is."

     "You told me about seeing your uncle's car, that T.J. didn't like him all
that well."

     "That doesn't mean he had anything to do with it."

     "No, but it's damn strong circumstantial evidence, and you know that now
you remember it, your cop's brain is in overdrive."

     "I've been thinking about it quite a bit, yeah."

     "You're not a little boy all alone anymore.  You're a man, Hutch.  Your
father doesn't have that kind of power over you anymore.  Nobody's gonna hurt
you as long as I'm around.  I won't let anybody treat you rotten while I'm there."

     "They're more subtle than that, Starsk.  They don't have to say anything.  A
look is enough.  The way my father looks at me...I f-feel m-my whole insides
caving in.  My stutter gets bad again...I can't face him without f-feeling like a
little boy who did something t-terrible."  Hutch's hand squeezed Starsky's almost
convulsively.  "Dammit."

     "Calm down, darlin'.  Come on, you know you don't stutter anymore.  Not
like that.  Don't let that bastard scare you like this."

     "I can't help it.  Wh-when I had to face him...after...after T.J.
di-disappeared...I was so...*scared*.  I feel those old feelings every time I see
him."

     "Which is why you avoid doing that."

     "Yeah.  Some tough cop, huh?  Scared to face his old man."

     "You got good reason."  Starsky pulled the hand in his up to his mouth and
kissed the back of it, then held it close to his face.  "But this time, we're both
gonna be facin' him.  So he better watch his step--because I don't stutter and he
ain't my father--just some creep who hurt my partner."  

     "You make it seem possible," Hutch said, smiling.  "Like I could walk in
there and not feel...four feet tall again."

     "We're gonna find out what happened to T.J., and if we have to face off
with your old man, he's gonna know he tangled with somethin'."

********

     Hutch looked at the names on the piece of paper that Tom had given him. 
He was amazed that their neighbor would go out on a limb for them that way, and
even more amazed that he'd been slippery enough to do it.  Undercover work
shouldn't be that easy--if it was, he and Starsky had been kidding themselves how
slick they really were to have solved the number of cases they did that way. 
Laughing at himself a bit for that observation, Hutch stuffed the paper back in the
pocket of his jeans as Starsky emerged from the bathroom of his hospital room,
still shuffling a bit slowly but moving pretty well considering the beating he'd
taken the day before.  

     "I can't wait to get outta here," he said, reaching for his shirt, but putting
up no fight when Hutch decided to dress him.  Twisting, turning and pulling on
his clothes couldn't possibly be easy, and hanging forward to tie his shoes would
have most likely started his head pounding unpleasantly.  

     "Tom gave me a couple names to check out--about the Torino."

     "You're kidding.  How'd he know?"

     "He did a little undercover work--in his words, he 'hung over some fences
and drank a few beers' and I guess spouted a little disgust about his new
neighbors.  The people he talked to were dumb enough to name names, I guess."  

     "Probably wouldn't feel that way if he knew it was true."  Starsky sighed
and then held onto his ribs, obviously regretting the expelled breath.

     "He knows.  I told him...well, indirectly, but I let him know it was true.  It
didn't change anything," Hutch said, looking up to have eye contact with his lover
as he tied the second shoe.  

     "Well, you might as well know now.  Dobey knows."

     "I know."

     "You know?"

     "We didn't talk about it in so many words, but he knew something was up
when you were hurt.  Not only because of the fact you got roughed up, but
because of the fact that I didn't hold up too well."  Hutch frowned.  "When did
you talk to him about it?"

     "He came in while you were sleepin' yesterday."

     "Talk about getting an eyeful, huh?"  Hutch shook his head.  "We've gotta
be more careful."

     "You were exhausted, babe, and you'd been crying.  I just wanted to hold
you, and you needed the sleep."  Starsky reached down and caressed Hutch's head. 
"You were so shot that you didn't even realize what was happening when I told
you to get in bed with me.  You just did it."

     "Yeah, well," Hutch rose from his crouch on the floor and sat in the chair
across from where his partner sat on the bed.  The nurse was due in momentarily
with the final forms and a wheelchair to carry Starsky to freedom.  "We still have
to watch out."

     "Dobey didn't seem surprised.  Not like he hasn't seen us in bed together
before."

     "I suppose there's some truth in that."  Hutch rubbed his chin.  "What's he
doing about it?"

     "What's Dobey always do?  Tryin' to keep our fat outta the fire with IA
and the brass.  Covering for us."

     "Wow."  Hutch shook his head.  "This is almost surreal.  I was sure that
we'd be *crucified* if anyone found out."

     "We still would be if certain people found out.  But Dobey's never been
that much of a bigot."

     "What do you want to do about following up on those names Tom came
up with?"

     "I wanna find them and nail their slimy little asses to the wall for
vandalism and then sue them for damages so I can get my car fixed."
     
     "Sounds reasonable.  But the car's totaled."

     "Sure it's totaled.  That just means it would cost more to fix it than what
the insurance guy thinks it's worth.  I told Merle to just stick a tarp over it until I
found out if I could get any money together.  If I can, I'd rather invest a couple
extra grand in getting my car back than I would to buy something I don't want.  I
get the insurance settlement either way.  I'd just have to put some money with it if
I wanted the Torino fixed."

     "So it'd be a couple grand more than the insurance?"

     "Well, yeah.  I want to put a good engine in it if I do it, so it's not the same
as just pullin' some old engine out of a hunk'a junk in a scrap yard.  Merle said he
found a whole new, intact set of front seats out of a totaled Torino at the junk
yard.  I already paid him for those, just so I didn't lose 'em if I decided to go ahead
with things."

     "I just don't see where we'd get two thousand dollars right now."

     "Me neither--except outta the hides of the creeps who did it."