At first, Starsky wasn't sure if the sound of shattering glass was part of a
dream or a reality.  Hutch was awake and moving as well, so unless he'd cried out
in his sleep, or they were sharing dreams now, it was likely more than his
imagination.  

     Without exchanging any words, they both carefully eased out of bed,
slipped into their robes and located their weapons.  The first sound to break the
upstairs silence was the loud groan of a creaky floorboard, followed by a muffled
"shit" from Hutch, who had stepped on it.  Resigned that a silent approach wasn't
possible, they made their way down the hall and to the stairs, weapons poised.  

     "I smell smoke," Starsky said, hastening his pace down the stairs, Hutch
close behind him.  "Oh my God," he muttered as he broke into a run toward the
back of the house, a slight flickering glow visible on the dining room wall.  "Sun
porch!"  Starsky shouted, stuffing his gun in his robe pocket and grabbing the fire
extinguisher they kept in the kitchen.  After the arson attempt, Hutch had made a
trip to the hardware store and brought four of them home, strategically placing
them all over the house.  

     The sun porch was the site of a fairly significant fire, which Starsky
immediately started blasting with the extinguisher.

     "Come on!  We'll call the Fire Department," Hutch pulled on his arm.

     "Like hell!  Go get the all the fire extinguishers!  Now!  This thing spreads
any further and we lose the whole damn house!"

     Not comfortable with that course of action, but with no time to lose,
Hutch followed the orders, flying through the house to each spot until he returned
fumbling with three more extinguishers.  It actually looked like Starsky was
gaining on it, so he set two of them aside and used the third to help his partner
battle the somewhat diminished fire.  

     Starsky finally threw the first one aside and grabbed another, giving Hutch
the more direct "line of fire" to pummel the flames.  Then Starsky was back,
coughing heavily, spraying the fire again.  Hutch was feeling the burning in his
own lungs, the watering in his eyes, and soon he was coughing loudly himself.   
The fire was waning, and after several more shots of the extinguishers, it
surrendered.

     "Go outside.  I'll call it in," Hutch said, giving Starsky a gentle shove
toward the kitchen door.  He was having his own problems with the smoke, but
from the sound of the coughing and the looks of Starsky's ashen face and its sheen
of perspiration, his damaged lung was having a worse time with it.  

     Once he'd made the call to headquarters and to Dobey, Hutch hurried
outside to find Starsky sitting on the bottom step of the porch, still coughing with
a sort of sickly wheeze coming in between.  Without consulting his partner, he
darted back in the house and called an ambulance.  Starsky needed oxygen, and
that was the fastest way to get it.  
     
     "Hang in there, babe.  Help's on the way," Hutch managed, his own voice
rough and broken with coughing.  He sat next to Starsky and rubbed his back. 
"Try to relax and breathe the best you can."

     "Can't...catch..."  Another violent cough.  "My breath," he added.

     "It's the smoke, buddy.  You were closer to the worst of the fire a lot
longer than I was.  Oxygen's on the way."

     "Oh...great...."  Starsky coughed again.  "Ambulance."
     
     "I asked them to cut the sirens when they got into the neighborhood."

     The lights went on next door, and in a moment or two, Tom hurried out
the back door in his pajamas, robe and an old pair of sneakers.  

     "We smelled smoke," he said.  "You two all right?  Should we call the--"
he paused when he saw a black and white unit pulling into the driveway.  "Guess
you got it covered," he concluded.

     "We put out the fire.  It was in the sun room.  There's probably some
smoke damage in the kitchen," Hutch paused for a loud cough of his own.  "I
called the ambulance.  We need a couple hits of oxygen."

     "Hey, maybe you ought to send those guys down to your pal Scott's
house," Tom suggested, and Hutch seized the idea.  

     "Get over to 1654 Birch," he told the approaching officers, then walked
away with them to explain why he was sending them there.  Tom stayed with
Starsky, who was managing his breathing a bit better after being in the fresh air a
while.  

     "Lucky you were able to put that out so fast.  Once it spreads in one of
these old places..."  Tom shrugged, squeezing Starsky's shoulder.  "Breathing
easier?"

     "A little," he said, managing his first deeper breath since he'd made it out
to the step.  "My lung was...damaged in the...shooting we told you guys about."

     "Don't try to talk too much.  Concentrate on breathing."  Tom looked up as
Connie ran across the lawn toward them with two blankets in her arms.  It was a
chilly January night, and the sky was threatening rain.  

     "Where's Hutch?"  she asked, the panic clear in her voice.

     "He went to talk to the cops who showed up.  Looks like the ambulance is
here too.  You okay to walk?"  he asked Starsky.
     
     "Yeah."  Starsky pushed up off the step and accepted Connie's insistence
on supporting him by the arm with a polite smile, though he felt perfectly able to
make the walk to the ambulance on his own.  

     Hutch was talking with Dobey and one of the firemen who had just
arrived on the scene.  Starsky let the paramedics fit the oxygen mask over his
nose and mouth and check his vital signs, though he was more interested in
joining Hutch now that he was getting his second wind.  Tom and Connie moved
away from the ambulance to talk to Keith and Jenny Young, who had donned
jackets over their nightclothes and walked across the yards to find out what the
commotion was about.  

     "Dobey's going over to the Scott house to see if our favorite firebug is at
home," Hutch said, approaching Starsky as he sat on the rear deck of the open
ambulance, oxygen mask in place.  

     "We'd like to take you over to the hospital to be examined," the paramedic
stated after removing the blood pressure cuff.

     "No thanks," Starsky stated, pulling the mask off and handing it back to
her.  "I just needed a couple hits to get me back in business," he said with a grin,
which the young woman returned.

     "Still, your blood pressure is elevated--"

     "Someone just tried to burn my house down.  It probably is.  Thanks for
your help, but I'll be fine."

     "You sure, Starsk?"  Hutch asked, but Starsky nodded.

     "Yeah, I got my wind back.  How about you?  You better check him out,
too," Starsky said, shooting Hutch an impish look.  The paramedic wasn't more
than 25 year old, blonde and pretty, and she definitely seemed dedicated to the
well-being of her male patient.  For his part, Starsky had shamelessly flirted with
her from the time she put the mask on him.  

     "I'm fine, thanks."

     "He's right.  If you were exposed to the smoke, we should check you out,"
she said.  Just then, her male partner arrived at the back of the ambulance.  

     "We transporting anybody?"  he asked her.

     "No, I don't think so.  I just need to check out Mr..."

     "Hutchinson," Starsky supplied helpfully.  "But you can call him 'Hutch',
sweetheart."  He hopped off the back of the ambulance and gestured grandly at
the seat he'd just occupied, earning himself a rather acid look from Hutch.  

     "Take it easy for a while and don't overexert," she advised.  "You should
consult your doctor tomorrow if you insist on not going into the hospital tonight."

     "Yes, ma'am.  First thing tomorrow."  Leaving Hutch in her capable
hands--and honestly glad he was getting checked out and getting a blanket, since
everyone wandering around the scene with the exception of Connie obviously
didn't think they needed anything more than their robes against the crisp night air. 
Clutching his own blanket around his shoulders, he headed toward the house,
where he retrieved a  pair of Hutch's running shoes and slipped into a pair of his
own sneakers.  He took the shoes out to his still-barefoot partner.  

     "Thanks," Hutch pulled the shoes on gratefully, disrupting the attempts to
check his blood pressure.  "I'll save you the trouble--it's elevated," he said to
Melissa.

     "Yeah, a little bit, but not too much," she said.  "You seem pretty healthy."

     "It's all that jogging and organic seaweed he eats," Starsky interjected.  

     "You're into health food?"  Melissa said, brightening.  "So am I!  I have
this great recipe for harvest cookies.  You'd never know they were healthy," she
added, recording his readings on her chart.  

     "Thanks for your help," Hutch responded with a smile, standing up and
moving away slightly.

     "I could give you the recipe if you like," she offered.

     "That'd be great.  Hutch is a great cook," Starsky said.  

     "Really?  I'll drop it off sometime on my way home from work," she
agreed, smiling sweetly.  

     "Thanks, Melissa," Starsky said cheerily as she packed up her supplies and
waved, getting into the ambulance again.

     "Dickhead," Hutch muttered under his breath at Starsky as they headed
back toward the house.  

     "You sweet-talker, you," Starsky countered, chuckling unrepentantly. 
"Admit it.  You liked flirtin' with her."

     "I seem to recall *you* doing most of the flirting."

     "Apparently you forgot how, you pathetic old married fart."  Starsky
elbowed him as they made their way around the side of the house.

     "*Married* being the operative word here."

     "Yeah?  Married doesn't mean blind and dead.  Kinda nice to know we
still got it with the young ones, isn't it?  And she was cute."  Starsky flexed his
eyebrows.

     "You're impossible," Hutch conceded, laughing.

     "'Course, I already got a cute blond, so what do I need with her?"

     "I prefer brunets," Hutch added, nodding.

     "Then I guess Melissa's outta luck, huh?"

     "No sale, babe."

     By the time they reached the back of the house, Dobey was conferring
with another detective, one of the PD's resident arson experts.  He was holding a
charred shard of glass in a gloved hand.

     "...probably find traces of an accelerant," he was concluding as the two
men approached.

     "Watkins here says he thinks you got a good old molotov cocktail thrown
through the back window," Dobey explained.  

     "I've found a few other fragments of glass that match this--unless you had
any bottles like this stored out there."

     "Nope, nothin' like that," Starsky confirmed, shaking his head. 

     "The only shards you'll find in there are pottery and possibly some
ceramics.  We were using it as a greenhouse," Hutch said, a little tinge of regret in
his voice.  

     It just then hit Starsky that the fire had claimed their joint collection of
plants--nine-tenths of which were Hutch's, all of which he had a certain fondness
for.  Starsky, for his part, raised seedlings and cuttings off Hutch's healthier
plants, because at a point in time, Hutch decided he should and began bringing
them to Starsky's apartment.  

     "Did you talk to that couple over there?"  Starsky indicated Keith and
Jenny, who were talking with Connie in the yard next door.

     "They're neighbors on the street behind, right?"  Dobey asked, and Starsky
nodded.  "Yeah, we talked to 'em.  They didn't see or hear anything until all the
commotion."

     "Terrific."  Starsky pointed toward the street behind them.  "That's the
Canfield house, so there's nobody there, Keith and Jenny are next door to them,
and I'm not real sure who's over there," he indicated the house to the left of the
one behind them.

     "We have officers going door to door.  The Scott kid's nowhere to be
found, so we have an APB out on him."

     "Anyone checked on our pal, Simonetti, lately?"  Hutch asked.  He paused
as Starsky let out a reasonably chesty cough.  "You okay, buddy?"  

     "Just a little crud still in the pipes.  I'm fine," Starsky assured, clearing his
throat.  

     "I'm going over there myself."

     "We'll go with you," Starsky said, but Dobey cut him off with a wave of
his hand.

     "Like hell you will.  I've told you both more than once that you're not
going to run around investigating your own case."

     "We'd just be riding along, Cap'n--"

     "Starsky, this isn't up for debate.  Now I'll go check on Simonetti, and you
two worry about tidying up your mess here.  I'll call you if I find out anything."

     "We're not used to sitting on the sidelines like...*spectators*," Hutch
added, sighing with frustration.  "It feels like we could be *doing* something."

     "Anything you did right now would put any case we would build into a
questionable light.  Having victims work their own cases is not a recommended
M.O. for building evidence to be used by the D.A."

     "I s'pose not," Starsky conceded, looking deflated.  "Well, guess we might
as well go inside and check out the smoke damage."

     "It'll wait 'til morning.  You need to be in some clean air for a while,
Starsk."

     "I'm not goin' to a hotel in a blanket and sneakers."

     "Wherever you two land, give me a call at the station and let me know.  I'll
be working for a while tonight."

     "Okay," Hutch agreed, nodding.  As soon as Dobey had walked away,
Tom joined them.  Most of the neighbors had dispersed once they saw no further
excitement.

     "Why don't you guys stay in our guest room tonight?  Connie keeps one of
the spare bedrooms made up."

     "We don't want to put you out--" Hutch started to object, but Tom cut him
off.

     "How could you put us out?  We've got an extra room all made up.  All
you have to do is come over."

     "Why don't you go on ahead, and I'll grab us some stuff?"  Hutch
suggested, and Starsky nodded.

     "Okay."  He started walking across the lawn with Tom.  "Thanks for doing
this.  Going to a hotel for a couple hours wasn't exactly a great option, but we
could both use some rest."

     "I'm making some hot cocoa," Connie said as the two men arrived at the
back door and then entered the kitchen.  "You can take it upstairs with you if you
like."

     "That'd be great.  Sort of chilly out there tonight."  Starsky muffled
another cough.

     "Tom, why don't you take him upstairs and I'll just bring up the cocoa
when it's ready?"

     "Sure.  Follow me," Tom said, leading the way out of the kitchen and
down the hall to the staircase.  

     The bedroom he led Starsky to was at the end of the hall, its window
overlooking their own house and yard.  Furnished in relatively new-looking oak
bedroom furniture, there was a double bed, a dresser, armoir and an overstuffed
chair in one corner.  The color scheme blended various shades of beige and
brown.  

     "I'll grab you some towels.  There's a bathroom in the master bedroom, so
the one that's right through that door over there is all yours," he said, gesturing
across the hall.  "We put in a master suite when we moved in--combined two
bedrooms and added a bathroom.  Would've been cheaper to buy a different
house," Tom explained, chuckling as he pulled a stack of towels out of the linen
closet and set them on the foot of the double bed.  They'd never really admitted in
so many words to Tom and Connie that they were sleeping together, but Tom
didn't seem to assume anything different.  If it made him uneasy, he didn't show
it.  

     "This is really nice.  Did you do all the remodeling yourself?"

     "Most of it.  We actually just finished this room and a couple things
downstairs a few years ago.  Houses like these--they're lifetime projects."

     "That'd be nice," Starsky said, more to himself than Tom.

     "You'll get things fixed up," he said, obviously sensing the discouragement
in Starsky's demeanor.  "Insurance ought to cover most of it.  Fortunately, it
doesn't look like it got very far before you put it out."

     "No, it didn't.  I just wonder how long before something else happens that
does more damage, or worse...one of us gets hurt."

     "Don't you think this is related to the stuff that happened before?"

     "Possibly, but there's always the chance that more people are unhappy
with having a male couple living in the neighborhood."

     "You're not exactly flaunting your private lives.  How would anyone know
for sure you even *were* a couple?"

     "Bigots don't have to know facts."  Starsky sat on the foot of the bed. 
"Besides, we are, so it's not like they're going after us wrongfully."  Starsky
gulped a little.  "If that gets confirmed at the PD-"

     "It won't be from us," Tom cut in.  "So don't worry about that."

     "Does it bother you...knowing that Hutch and I are together like that?"

     "Not if I don't dwell on the details too much," Tom responded with a little
smile.  "I don't get it--I can't lie about that.  But since it doesn't have anything to
do with me, or with Connie or I being friends with you both, I guess I don't know
what difference it should make.  Seems like it ought to be your business."
     
     "You'd think," Starsky agreed, shrugging.  "I don't know how long our
luck'll hold at the department.  We've always been close, and I've been tryin' to get
Hutch to invest in somethin' with me for years--well, he did once, but it was kind
of a disaster, and it took me this long to live it down."

     "Lost his ass, huh?" Tom asked, snorting a little laugh.

     "Well, it started out that my part of the investment would cover our loss,
but I guess he felt sorry for me, so he ended up splitting what was left over with
me."

     "This is your room right here," Connie's voice startled them both as she
guided Hutch toward the guest room.  She was carrying two mugs of cocoa,
which she set on a doily on the dresser.  "You two try to get some rest, and get
warmed up.  If you need the shower or anything, help yourselves.  Tom sleeps
like a stone, and I don't have to get up early anyway."

     "Thanks, Connie--both of you," Hutch said, smiling tiredly as he set a
duffle bag on the bed.  

     "We probably better turn in, honey," Connie said to Tom as she left the
room.  "Goodnight," she called back to their guests before disappearing down the
hall.

     "She's right.  I can fudge on going to my breakfast meeting, but my nine
o'clock is non-negotiable.  Get a good night's sleep, make yourselves at home."

     "Thanks, Tom," Starsky spoke up.  After exchanging goodnights, he
closed the door behind their host.

     "I brought us clean clothes for tomorrow, some underwear, shaving stuff,"
Hutch said unloading the bag.  "We smell like somebody just pulled us out of a
smokehouse.  You want to take a shower?"

     "Maybe if we wait 'til Tom and Connie turn in, we can just take one
together.  I'm too tired to wait my turn, and you look like you're ready to pass
out."

     "Yeah, I'm pretty beat."  Hutch sat on the foot of the bed.  "How're you
feeling?"

     "Okay.  I'm coughing a little once in a while, but not too much.  My eyes
burn like crazy.

     "Mine too.  Yours are really bloodshot.  But you were closer to the fire
longer than I was."

     "I'm sorry about the plants, darlin'.  I was so glad to just get *us* out alive,
and keep the whole house from goin' up that I didn't even think about it until we
got outside and you mentioned it."

     "Never even had a chance to build some shelves.  They were still sitting
around on the floor.  Pots everywhere," Hutch said with a little snort of a laugh
that sounded almost...broken.  Starsky sat next to him on the bed and slid an arm
around him.  "You're right, we're lucky," Hutch said, swallowing and pushing
down his initial reaction.

     "Yeah, we're lucky to be alive, and lucky our house and our stuff is still
reasonably intact.  But that doesn't mean we've gotta be happy because somebody
firebombed our house and burned up all the plants.  That stinks, babe."

     "I better call Dobey and tell him where we are in case he needs to get a
hold of us for anything."  Hutch got up and went to the nightstand where there
was a telephone.  He dialed Dobey's number while Starsky put their things in the
top drawer of the dresser, which was completely empty.

     "Oh my God," Hutch's voice caught his attention, the tone and words
different from the nondescript one-sided conversation Starsky had pretty much
tuned out while unpacking.  "Does his wife know yet?"  Hutch sat on the side of
the bed, and Starsky walked over to where he sat, watching him.  Hutch looked
up.  Covering the mouthpiece, he said, "Simonetti's dead."  Then he went back to
the conversation.  As soon as he'd hung up, he looked up at Starsky.  "Dobey went
over to Simonetti's place."

     "And?"

     "He, uh, found the body.  There was no answer, but there was a TV on in
the family room.  Dobey and another cop went around back and after pounding on
the door, and getting no response, they forced it open.  He was just...sitting there
in front of the television.  Dobey said he...uh...it was a head shot..."  Hutch stood
up and started pacing.  "I guess I should feel relieved...or *vindicated*.  All I feel
is like throwing up."

     "I know what you mean, babe."  Starsky felt the same way, almost sick
inside over the death of a man who not only hated him enough to beat the hell out
of him, but who aimed that beating in such a way as to directly attempt to cause
him serious internal damage.  A man who went after Hutch for first degree
murder...a man no one at the PD liked.  Except for possibly Dryden, and then
Starsky was none too sure about him.  Being someone's partner didn't mean you
had to like them.  

     He wondered if anyone from the department would cry at Simonetti's
funeral, and as his mind drew a blank, he felt a lump in his own throat.  Maybe
that was the saddest commentary of all.  Ironically, at John Blaine's funeral--a
man Simonetti certainly would have persecuted had he but known--there was
standing room only, and people fighting tears, and often losing.  Blaine had been
loved and respected among his colleagues, no matter what their rank.  

     "Let's go get a shower," Hutch said, moving tiredly as he picked up the
towels Tom had left for them.

     Their shared shower was nothing but practical, a way to get clean and
relaxed before making an attempt at sleep.  Once they'd dried off, they returned to
the comfortable guest room, turned back the bed and climbed in together.  Starsky
shifted onto his side, and Hutch spooned around him.  After making a reach to
turn out the light, Starsky let out a long yawn, followed by a little hack.  The
cough didn't sound threatening, and didn't really rattle in his chest all that much.  

     "Did Simonetti have kids?"  Starsky asked.  He watched the shadows of
branches dancing the in moonlight on the wall opposite the window.  "Weird, you
work with a guy--well, not with him exactly, but you know, same department and
everything...and you don't even know somethin' that basic."

     "Dobey said his wife and son were at her mother's visiting--I don't know if
that meant that they were split because of the case, or if she was doing just what
he said--just visiting family.  In any case, she wasn't home, so Dobey had to track
her down at her mother's."

     "How'd he know she was there?"

     "Simonetti left a note.  Guess he just left a name and number where to
reach his wife, because he said he didn't want her to find him, or the boy to see
him.  They weren't due back for three or four more days."

     "They know how long he'd been dead?"

     "Not long.  Dobey said he thinks it happened shortly before they got
there."

     "You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?"

     "If something happened at our place, the cops would go to his place to
question him--and find him?"

     "Yeah, so there was no risk of his wife and son walking in on that.  With
him bein' off the force on suspension, nobody woulda noticed him not showin' up
for work--so maybe he figured that if he left the TV on, where it could be seen,
and the cops were there to question him, they'd do just what they did--force entry
and go in."

     "You think tossing a molotov cocktail through our window was just a
means to an end, or do you think he really was making one last shot at us before
he hung it up?"

     "Maybe a little'a both."  Starsky was quiet a moment.  "I figure he
probably didn't care if the house went up in flames and we both bought it--he'd
tried it once before, using those kids.  At the same time, I think he was more
worried about settin' up a way for somebody to find him before his wife did."

     "Would've been easier to just call it in, and then do it."

     "Yeah, maybe."  Starsky rested his arm on top of Hutch's where it crossed
his stomach, holding him close.  "But then Simonetti wasn't exactly rowin' with
both oars in the water."

     "Doesn't look that way...not after what he did to you, how far he went...all
because of a job he wanted that he didn't get.  I guess if you're obsessed,
something like that festers over time and becomes...*huge*."

     "I know I always gave him a hard time--whether he was on our case or
not.  Y'know, anything I could do to push his buttons.  Knowin' what I know now,
I'm not real surprised he snapped."

     "You never know for sure who around you is dealing with serious
psychological problems.  What's going to touch them off."

     "You think maybe we can rest easy now, about...well, about worrying
about bein' *attacked* in our own house all the time?"

     "Hopefully they'll find some evidence that it was Simonetti.  If they do,
once Scott's behind bars, I think we can put it behind us and move on with our
lives.  Even Muriel is moving out."  Hutch had a definite smile in his voice, and
Starsky snorted a little laugh.

     "Yeah, that by itself is cause for celebration."

     "I keep feeling almost *responsible* because this situation was the thing
that pushed Simonetti over the edge.  I know that's crazy..."

     "No, I kinda feel like I did something to cause it...all the times I gave him
hell even when he wasn't ridin' us for something.  But lots of people give you hell
in your life, and you don't usually kill yourself over it."

     "Just like a lot of people lose out on bids for jobs they want, and again,
that doesn't cause suicide.  That's something within a person...something that
prevents them from coping with the things that hurt them or trouble them...and
they feel cornered...desperate, like there's no reason to go on living...like it
*won't* get any better..."

     "Hutch?"  Starsky rolled over within the circle of Hutch's arms.  "Talk to
me, babe."  He caressed Hutch's cheek lightly, and found it damp with
perspiration.  "What's wrong, darlin'?"

     "I know...how that feels."  Hutch swallowed audibly.  "When I was
fourteen...you know, T.J. had been dead six years, and...things weren't good at
home.  Susan was...they were so...excited about her.  She was four then, just
getting ready for school...cute little thing."  Hutch smiled, remembering his little
sister.  "But those years after T.J. were really...*dark*--the two years before Susan
was born.  And then it was like all the lights went back on in their lives and there
was happiness again.  And again, I was on the outside of it."  Hutch sighed.  "I
guess I was just tired of it, and I wanted to be out of it."

     "What did you do?"  Starsky's throat was so dry he was amazed he could
speak.  As it was, he hacked a couple of dry coughs.  

     "Drove my dad's Cadillac into a guard rail."  Hutch snorted an ugly laugh. 
"Damn, but I didn't expect that guard rail to hold up like that."

     "You wanted to go over the side?"

     "Yeah.  There was a pretty deep gulch not too far from the house--and a
curve where there was a guard rail--right at the point where your car could really
sail off the road with a good momentum.  The Caddy was big, so I figured it
would just crash right through.  Obviously, it didn't."

     "You were only fourteen--"

     "Richard taught me how to drive when I was about thirteen.  He let me
drive his car once in a while when we went somewhere.  My folks would have
skinned him alive if we'd gotten caught and ticketed, but it was fun."  Hutch
paused.  "He was really good to me.  I sure didn't do much for him at the end... 
It's so...*crazy*.  There's this part of me that has all these good memories about
him, remembers what a great guy he was to be around, and then this other,
horrible part that wells up when I think about what he did..."

     "Like Jekyll and Hyde," Starsky suggested.

     "Yeah.  Jekyll was a hell of a nice guy--and he was really there for me
growing up.  Once he really started drinking heavily, he changed, and while we
got together sometimes, it wasn't the same.  It was pretty...*flat*.  He seemed
distracted and bored, and like he wanted to go home and have another drink. 
Like there was always something else on his mind."

     "There probably was."

     "Probably," Hutch echoed a little sadly.  

     "What happened with the Caddy?"

     "Well, I was all set to sail out into eternity, and I ended up sitting by the
side of the road, about four miles from my house, in a smashed up car.  I was
fine."  Hutch chuckled.  "Car was totaled.  You should've seen my old man when
he got a look at that car.  It wasn't funny at the time, but it is now."

     "What'd he do?"

     "Ranted, raved, revoked my allowance for some indefinite period I don't
remember, grounded me, told me hell would freeze over before I'd ever get to
drive one of his vehicles, even after I got my license.  Come to think of it, I never
did.  I bought a car myself, with some money I saved up from my allowance, and
gifts--and about $300 from Uncle Richard so I could get the one I wanted." 
Hutch was quiet a minute.  "Damn, it's so fucking ironic.  All the good memories
I have of him, all the nice things he did...have to be colored by what he was, by
what I know he did."

     "Didn't your father wonder why you'd smashed up the car?"

     "He figured he knew.  He thought I was doing it as a teenage rebellion--to
get at him.  To upset him.  It never occurred to him to *ask* me why I did it.  He
just informed me that's why I did it.  No more was said about it after that."

     "You didn't...try anything again after that, did you?"

     "No.  I lost my nerve, I guess.  The car had this 'blaze of glory' feeling to
it--something sort of surreal about hurtling down the road toward
destruction...and not caring.  The thought of the car flying off the edge...the crash. 
I wondered what my parents would think about it, how they'd feel, if they'd feel
anything.  Time went by, and the other ways seemed--too...deliberate.  Not that
driving off the road isn't, but things like guns and knives and pills and
hanging...maybe I was afraid of the pain, or maybe I had to think about it too
much.  Anyway, eventually I moved away from home, and the idea of ending my
life didn't seem so attractive when I was just starting to enjoy it a little."

     "I wonder what I did to deserve getting you," Starsky said softly, running
his fingers lightly through Hutch's hair.  "By right, that damn rail shoulda given
way and then you wouldn't even be here.  I never would've known you...and I
don't wanna think about my life without you."

     "If you'd never met me, babe, you wouldn't miss me," Hutch chided gently,
turning his face to kiss the palm of Starsky's hand as it moved away from his hair. 


     "That's like tellin' somebody who's only ever had one leg that they don't
miss the other one.  You're the best part of me, darlin'.  If I didn't have you, no
matter whether I knew it or not, I'd miss you...you're my star, babe.  All the light
in my life, and the one constant thing I always hold onto.  Nobody could be
without that and not miss it."

     "That's the most beautiful thing anybody ever said to me," Hutch
responded in a whisper, pulling Starsky into his arms.  "I love you so much, babe. 
More than anything."

     "Good, 'cause you're never gettin' rid of me."  

     "Better not," Hutch retorted, smiling and kissing Starsky's neck before
moving back so their lips could meet.  The kiss was slow and sweet, deep, but not
a prelude.  It was a wonderful end in itself.  

     "I wish I could change all the stuff you had to deal with when you were a
kid.  It shouldn't'a happened to you.  Shouldn't happen to any little kid."

     "The things that happened to both of us are what brought us where we are
now.  Maybe we need to stop looking behind us at all the ugliness and start
looking ahead to the beautiful life we can have together."

     "I'm lookin' straight ahead right now, and what I see is damn beautiful,"
Starsky responded in a whisper, resting his forehead against Hutch's.  

     "Let's try to get a little sleep, huh?  Tomorrow's going to be a...full day."

     "Yeah, probably.  You wanna stay on your side?"

     "Makes my back happier," Hutch responded, smiling.

     "Mine too."  Starsky shifted onto his other side so Hutch could spoon
around him again.  "Nice," he sighed, letting his eyes drift shut.

     "Good night, sweet love," Hutch whispered in his ear, kissing the lobe and
nuzzling his neck before settling in close for the night.  

     The two men slept peacefully until morning.

********

     The day Simonetti was buried, rain poured out of the sky in torrents. 
Mourners huddled under umbrellas by the grave as a minister said some final
words.  Starsky had surprised everyone, most of all Dobey, by arguing
vehemently that Simonetti should have a traditional police funeral, complete with
honor guard, despite the fact there were felony charges pending against him.  

     While Hutch had considered the gesture noble, he hadn't fully understood
it until he saw Simonetti's son standing there, sad faced, holding the flag his
mother had entrusted to him.  He had to be almost the same age Starsky had been
when his own father was killed.  

     Despite his negotiations on Simonetti's behalf for the ceremony, Starsky
avoided any contact with the family.  The situation would be awkward, at best,
and would serve no other purpose than to make the family uneasy around the man
Simonetti was accused of victimizing so ruthlessly.  

     "I'm glad you pushed for Simonetti to get the whole nine yards," Hutch
said quietly as he drove out of the cemetery.  Starsky was twitching with the
collar of his dress uniform, finally undoing the top button and loosening the tie.

     "It'll mean something to the boy someday.  He's got enough ahead of him,
and enough to face now, without havin' to see his father shunned by the
department."

     "I guess since Dobey found the ingredients for the molotov cocktail in
Simonetti's house, that pretty much lets Scott off the hook."

     "Lets us off the hook, too."  Starsky leaned back in his seat.  "Maybe we
can go to sleep in our own house without worryin' about being burned up alive in
our bed."

     "I got an estimate on the greenhouse," Hutch said, steering the car down
the familiar street that led to their house.  

     "And?"

     "You got any spare organs you don't need?  I hear they fetch a nice price
on the black market.  Might even pay for half the greenhouse."

     "We could get a loan."

     "From whom?  Benny the Glass Eye?"

     "I guess we're kinda overextended, huh?"  

     "We're a loan shark's dream, babe."

     Once they'd arrived home, Starsky went out on the front porch and took in
the mail, sorting the junk mail out from the letters.  He paused when he saw a
white business envelope from his attorney's office among the correspondence. 
The last time he'd talked to the man was when he agreed to be part of a class
action suit against Gunther Industries for damages caused by their illegal
activities.  The corporation did have some legitimate holdings, and the revenue
from its dissolution was what the lawsuit sought for its plaintiffs.  

     "Probably a check for $12.95, less lawyer fees," Starsky grumbled,
walking into the living room with the mail tucked under his arm, opening the
envelope in question.  Hutch was on his way upstairs and paused.  

     "Anything interesting?"

     "Just a letter from my lawyer.  Must be some other stupid paper to sign for
that lawsuit he signed me up for."  Starsky took the mail out of his armpit. 
"Looks like Ed McMahon wants to give you a million bucks," he joked, handing
Hutch the pile of mail.

     "Lucky me."  Hutch started looking through the envelopes while Starsky
finished opening his letter.  

     Inside the envelope was a check--a bank draft, actually--in the amount of
$152,639.78.  

     "Oh my God."  Starsky fell into a chair in the living room.  "Oh my God,"
he repeated, surprised when Hutch took the letter out of his motionless hands.  He
thought his partner had gone upstairs instead of following him into the living
room.  

     "'Dear Mr. Starsky, 

     Enclosed please find a check in the amount of $152,639.78, your portion
of the settlement of the class action lawsuit against Gunther Industries.  Award
amounts were determined based on the seriousness of the damages.  Yours was
the third largest award, the two highest awards being made to the estates of
Thomas May and Lionel Rigger.' " 

     Hutch paused.  "There's some stuff here about the lawyer's fees and other
legal jargon."

     "Hutch...I never thought...I mean, I thought I might get a couple hundred
bucks..."

     "I'm glad Alison and Mardene and Jamie are benefiting from this too."

     "Yeah, Tanner knew I was concerned what happened to them in the
lawsuit," Starsky said.  "I kept tellin' him they deserved the money.  I *lived*. 
Lau...*Alison's* father and Lionel...they paid with their lives."

     "You deserved something for all the pain and misery you went through to
get your own life back, babe.  Don't diminish it."

     "You mean what *we* went through.  There wasn't one minute of pain or
rehab or...or anything...that you weren't with me for."  Starsky waved the check. 
"And the first thing we're gonna do is build the best damn greenhouse we can, and
we're gonna get you so many plants that you're gonna have to quit your job just
t'stay home and water 'em."  Starsky was out of his chair then, grabbing Hutch
around the waist and making the supreme effort to hoist him a couple inches off
the ground.  Dropping him fairly quickly, he planted a kiss on his startled
partner's mouth.  "And then we're gonna turn this house into a showplace."

     "Starsk, maybe we ought to just put some away--"

     "We will, but first, we're gonna build that greenhouse and fix all'a the
things here that need fixin'.  We're gonna have a little fun with it, babe.  Life's too
short not to."

     "Guess we oughtta take a look at those greenhouse estimates then, huh?" 
Hutch asked, beaming.

     "Yeah, and a bunch'a books on plants so you can fill it with as many plants
as your beautiful little blond heart desires."  Starsky smiled and lifted a couple
fly-away strands of hair off Hutch's forehead.  "I wish this stupid check was ten
times what it is.  I wish I could give ya every beautiful thing in the whole world."

     "You already do, babe.  And you didn't need a check."  

********

     Starsky was just driving the final nail into a shelf in the new greenhouse
when Hutch emerged from the house, looking more solemn than he had when
he'd dashed in to grab the phone.

     "The jury's back," he said.  

     "Took 'em long enough," Starsky said, rising and brushing his hands on his
jeans.  "Better get changed and get down there."

     "Usually juries don't take this long for a conviction."  Hutch looked
through the windows of the greenhouse toward the now-vacant Canfield house. 
"Dear God, they couldn't acquit her, could they?"

     "Juries can do all sorts'a bizarre things, but the only way we're gonna
know is to get down there."  Starsky walked through the house and upstairs,
knowing Hutch would follow.  

     After a lightning fast wash-up from their working activities, both men
quickly donned dress pants, sportcoats and ties.  Starsky drove, looking happy as
a clam behind the wheel of his rejuvenated Torino.  Hutch had to admit that
Merle and his boys had worked miracles on the devastated car, restoring it to life
as if nothing had ever happened to it.  The new engine seemed to have even more
"oomph" than the old one, and Hutch had to smile to himself as he figured he was
in for another ten years of riding around in the infamous striped tomato.

     "What?"  Starsky glanced over at him now that they were at stop light.

     "I was just thinking about how much I love you," he said, realizing that the
gaudy car had a place in his heart because Starsky filled every corner of that
heart.  

     "Love you too, darlin'," Starsky responded, smiling back as the light
changed and he crossed the intersection and cruised around the courthouse,
looking for a parking spot on the street.  Once they were parked, he looked over
at Hutch.  "No matter what they come up with in there, we did all we could.  And
we did a damn good job with this case."

     "I know."  Hutch sighed.  "It's just..."  He shrugged.

     "Getting justice for Michael would make things a little easier to take about
T.J.?"  Starsky surmised, and Hutch closed his eyes briefly and nodded just once.  

     "Yeah," he admitted softly.

     "Guess we better go hear the verdict, huh?"  Starsky reached over and took
a hold of Hutch's hand, squeezing gently.

     "I watched Ryan Canfield all through the trial, how he broke down, how
his life seemed so...destroyed.  I watched how calm Donna Canfield was sitting
there, and I thought about how my fath..."  Hutch shook his head.  "How cold
T.J.'s father was about his death--how he was able to cover it up and move on, all
for the sake of appearances."

     "It's not your fault how they reacted, babe.  You loved him and you
mourned him, and you did all you could, even that day, to find him.  It's in the
past now, darlin'.  T.J.'s always gonna be in your heart, but you gotta let go of all
that old pain."

     "I'm working on it, buddy."  Hutch smiled a little unsteadily.

     "Come on, you old blond blintz."  Starsky could barely resist flopping an
arm around Hutch as they walked toward the courthouse, but with all they'd been
through lately, the public display of affection didn't seem like a wise thought.  If
they were going to try to stay with the department, there were a few rules they'd
have to obey--and getting caught on dozens of press cameras in a compromising
pose would be one of those forbidden things.

     They approached the swell of reporters hovering around the entrance,
fighting their way to the door.  The Canfield trial had been the media event of the
year locally, and even nationally.  Network news reporters, as well as reporters
from talk shows, shared space on the courthouse steps with the local gang. 
Starsky used the excuse of pulling his partner through the crowd to take a hold of
Hutch's arm and press their bodies close as they eased through the horde and into
the building.  

     Barely making it into their seats before the judge walked in, both watched
Donna Canfield out of the corners of their eyes.  Dressed in a conservative blue
business suit with a white blouse, she looked as unruffled as she had the very first
day of her trial.  In an ordeal that had been emotionally draining for everyone
from the child's grief-stricken father to Hutch who fought demons of his own, to
Starsky who had to pause his testimony once to gulp water and try to get past his
emotions in describing finding the child's body, Donna Canfield had remained
serene, barely squeezing out a tear during some of the most graphic crime scene
and autopsy testimony.  

     "Makes you wonder if some people are born without hearts, doesn't it?" 
Starsky whispered to his partner, who nodded.  Both could think of a few other
people who fell into that same category.

     "All rise," the bailiff announced, and the courtroom's occupants were on
their feet as directed.  

     "It is my understanding the jury has reached its verdict?"

     "Yes, your honor," the foreman, a middle-aged man, responded.

     The aging black man on the bench placed a pair of silver-framed reading
glasses on his nose, waiting for the small slip of paper to be brought to him from
the foreman.  Once the bailiff handed it in, the judge scanned it, then spoke to the
jury.  

     "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, on the count of murder in the first
degree in the death of Michael Ryan Canfield, do you find the defendant, Donna
Canfield, guilty or not guilty?"

     There was an almost deafening silence in the instant before the foreman
responded.  Regardless of the press or anyone else, Starsky slid a hand over and
took a hold of Hutch's hand.  A not guilty verdict was going to be hell for his
partner, and he didn't give a damn if fifty cameras snapped photos of them
holding hands in the courtroom.  He felt Hutch's fingers curl gratefully around his
own.  

     "Guilty."

     The single word prompted an eruption of sound that ranged from whoops
of glee from some law enforcement personnel and Ryan Canfield's family and
friends who had been with him daily at the trial, to gasps and shouts of anguish
from Donna Canfield's mother and a few of her close friends.  

     "Order in the court!"  the judge bellowed in his usual strong baritone,
banging his gavel.  As the room fell silent, he looked at the defendant who, for
the first time, looked a bit shaken.  "Donna Canfield, you have been found guilty
of murder in the first degree in the death of your son, Michael Canfield.  You will
be remanded to the custody of the county correctional facility until the time of
your sentencing, on April 5th.  Court is adjourned, and the jury is excused with
the court's appreciation."

     "It's over," Starsky said, standing as Hutch did the same.  "We got her,
buddy.  That judge is gonna throw the book at her, I just know it."

     "Doesn't bring Michael back, but at least...at least he got justice," Hutch
said, just as Ryan Canfield approached them. 

     "I wanted to thank you both for all you did on this case.  I know it was
personally difficult, and I really appreciate you sticking with it."  He extended a
hand to Hutch first, who shook it, then shook hands with Starsky.  

     "We're glad it turned out this way," Hutch said.  "Though I know you've
got a long hard road ahead of you, dealing with all this."

     "Yeah, well, you know as well as I do that you don't get over something
like this...but hopefully, it gets easier.  I'm still waiting for that to happen," he
admitted, smiling a bit sadly.  

     "With the support of someone you love, it does," Hutch said, glancing very
pointedly at Starsky, with a hint of a smile.  Then he added, "you seem to have a
great support system."  He nodded toward the row of seats where Ellen Whitfield,
Ryan's parents, and his older sister were standing, talking among themselves.

     "My family's been great, and Ellen is my lifeline.  Well, I better get going. 
Thanks again for everything, in case I don't see you at the sentencing."

     "You will, but you're welcome," Starsky said, smiling.  

********

     Donna Canfield's sentencing took place on the same day a verdict was
returned in Kevin Scott's case.  

     The arsonist and would-be murderer had chosen to fight the arson and
attempted murder charges, hoping to get himself a better deal than the plea
bargain the DA had offered which required a guilty plea on the arson charge.  To
the end of his trial, Scott would deny any intent to set the house on fire, claiming
the two youths planned to set fire to the garage as a message.  The jury was not
convinced, nor were they sympathetic considering two people had been in the
house, presumably asleep, at the time the fire was set.  A guilty verdict had been
returned after two hours of deliberation.   Scott was to begin serving a
twenty-year prison sentence.

     Donna Canfield's sentencing hearing was an emotional experience, with
family members pleading on her behalf.  Those relatives, however, showed more
emotion than Donna herself ever did.  For her part, she was quiet and composed
as the parade of character witnesses attested to the fact she was a respected
member of the community and a good mother who could have never done such a
thing.  
     
     When all was said and done, the judge calmly imposed the death penalty,
which was met with a sort of stunned silence in the courtroom.  Reporters took
notes but made no sound, the handful of cops, including Starsky and Hutch, who
were still interested enough to attend the sentencing, were equally silent.  Ryan
Canfield's mother was crying, and the boy's father himself took the news with a
sort of pained silence.  The defense attorney made an immediate statement of
intent to appeal, and the courtroom was cleared.  
     
     Sitting in a restaurant, pushing salad around disinterestedly with his fork,
Hutch couldn't help but feel haunted by the coldness in Donna Canfield's
demeanor...her utter lack of emotion throughout the trial, and the horror of
murdering one's own child for financial gain.  

     "Either the lettuce is wilted or somethin's botherin' you," Starsky said,
taking a bite of his chili.

     "You're gonna regret that later," Hutch said sullenly, finally taking a bite
of his salad.

     "It's mild here--never bothered me before," Starsky said.  "You know
we've eaten here since my surgery and I usually have the chili."

     "I'm sorry.  Guess I forgot.  I was thinking of the five-alarm special over at
Pancho Villa's. "

     "Yeah, I remember that," Starsky said nostalgically.  "Gone are the days. 
Oh well, at least stuff doesn't just sort of pour out of the holes like it does in the
cartoons when the Coyote gets it."  Starsky snorted a little at his own joke, then
looked up to see Hutch's stricken expression.

     "Don't joke about that.  It isn't funny."  Hutch laid his fork down and took
a drink of his beer.  

     "Sorry."  Starsky sighed.  "The verdict wasn't the big charge I thought it
was gonna be either.  Guess it doesn't bring little Mikey back...or T.J.  But,
y'know, you probably never would've gotten any answers about T.J.'s case if we
hadn't taken this one."

     "I don't know what I expected.  I guess I thought I'd feel some greater
sense of...*joy*--but someone being condemned to death doesn't really cheer me
up.  Not that it isn't justice."  Hutch slumped back in the booth.  "Maybe it's just
the case...or...the g-greenhouse.  I don't know."  Hutch mumbled the last part,
stumbling over the key word slightly.

     "The greenhouse?"  Starsky asked, raising his eyebrows.  "It's almost
finished.  It's perfect, babe."

     "We bought it with...blood money."

     "What?"  Starsky frowned.  "That money was legally ours, free and clear,
from the dissolution of Gunther's legal business ventures.  What's the problem?"

     "It was a payoff for what happened to you, and nobody can put a value on
something like that."

     "So that's what this is about," Starsky said, laying his spoon down now, his
appetite waning a bit.  He'd thought the greenhouse would be a thrill for his
partner the plant lover.  To finally have a structure built to his specifications, big
enough to house a whole jungle of plants of all shapes, sizes and varieties. 
Instead, Hutch had seemed moodier than ever since they began its construction. 
"Hutch, that money is a chance for us to do some things we never could'a done
otherwise.  And not usin' it isn't gonna change what happened to me."

     "I know that."  Hutch let out a long breath.  "I don't know how to explain
it.  I guess I walk out into that greenhouse and feel like it was bought with
your...*pain*."

     "What if it was?  Hutch, I was gonna have the pain either way.  If you
went home and ran a bulldozer over that greenhouse, it wouldn't go back in time
and make the shooting *not happen*.  But if that's what it takes to make you
happy, then let's do it, because all that damn greenhouse was supposed t'do in the
first place was make you happy."  Starsky paused, realizing his voice was rising
just a little.  Then, more gently, he added, "Makin' you happy is what matters
most to me, darlin'.  And if that damn greenhouse is making you miserable, I'll
tear the son of a bitch down with my bare hands."

     "Aw, Starsk.  God...I've been such an *ass* about this."  Hutch had a slight
flush to his face now.  He could feel the heat creeping up into his cheeks.  "Of all
the things you could have spent that money on, you spent most of it on me, and I
throw it back in your face.  I don't know sometimes why you put up with me."

     "'Cause you're so great in bed, why else?"  Starsky retorted quietly,
waggling his eyebrows at Hutch, who had to laugh.  "I mean it, babe.  If you don't
like the greenhouse...we'll...tear it down again.  Whatever it takes."

     "No, no, of course we won't tear it down.  I know I'm overreacting.  I
just...Starsk, there's nothing in this world that could pay the price for losing you. 
Nothing that would be worth you getting hurt."

     "You didn't lose me, and I got hurt anyway.  I just got paid for it this time. 
Let's just enjoy the money, and what we can do with it and not worry so much
about where it came from.  Okay?"

     "Okay."

     "By the way..."  After a surreptitious glance around to be sure they weren't
being watched, Starsky covered Hutch's hand where it rested on the table,
squeezing it gently.  "I love you for lovin' me so much that it bothered you.  But
don't let it, okay?"

     "Okay."  Hutch smiled and turned his hand to hold onto Starsky's, not
really caring that a couple of other customers in the restaurant could see them.  It
was nice to hold Starsky's hand shamelessly for a good reason, instead of because
he was on his deathbed.  

     "Maybe we oughtta go home and, uh, figure out a way to make the
greenhouse special."  

     "Let's skip dessert," Hutch agreed, squeezing Starsky's hand one more time
and releasing it to gesture at their server.  When the young woman arrived at the
table, she pulled out her order pad.

     "Will you be having dessert this evening?"  she asked cheerfully.  In an
equally cheery voice, Starsky answered her, winking at his partner.

     "We're going to have dessert at home tonight."

     Hutch turned a lovely shade of pink.

THE END