***
None but the brave deserves the fair.
- John Dryden (1631-1700)
Rain sheeted down and wore rivulets into the mud and gravel road, not even the scrub bushes capable of diverting it into ground so soaked from days of precipitation. Rural LA County was dark, wet, and for unnavigable by any vehicle less than five tons. The Torino stood testament to that, slewed across the corners of Black Bear Canyon Road and County Route 26, up to its center rims in glue-like mud. Deep footprints leading away from the car were steadily being washed away.
Detective Sergeant David M. Starsky climbed up the road, head down against the battering wind and rain. He didn't even attempt to be quiet, certain that the weather would cover his approach. It was at least another two miles to the old house at the end of the road. The house where Huggy had told him Lawrence Haley was keeping his partner. He'd been looking for four endless days. It had been the worst Christmas on record. Haley sprung early due to over-crowding, and Hutch ambushed in broad daylight in front of a market he shopped at in Venice. Shopping by himself, for his empty apartment, which had suddenly acquired its resident back.
Haley had well-earned the nickname "Headcase" on the streets, and in the joint it had apparently gotten worse. A classic case of blaming the cop who'd sent him up, Haley had been obsessed obtaining revenge. Starsky had busted him when in uniform, so it was understandable that it had taken him a whole interminable day and half to find who had snatched him, going back that far in time and number of busted perps. The good description from the passing taxi driver of both man with the gun and the car he forced Hutch into had gone a long way to helping find out who had taken his partner. Then, he'd just dropped out of site - gone to ground and with nothing to go on, the past two days had been insane.
Huggy had beat the streets as much as Starsky had. Every two-bit hustler, street person, and anyone who had ever informed for the partners had been touched. The answers had been the same. Haley had been seen around for a few days, making lots of noise about Starsky, but had not been seen since. Despair and self-loathing had taken turns churning in his gut, knowing it had been his fault that Hutch had been taken.
They'd lucked out when The Angel had contacted them and said that she had known Haley's aunt back in the day. The aunt had owned an house up in one of the remote canyons, a way station for runners left over from the bootlegging days. It had been slim, but a search of old records had turned up trumps.
He'd left a message for Dobey as he screamed up Laurel Canyon Road, on his way to the endless maze of unimproved county roads in the hill country overlooking L.A. Mindful that the LAPD took a dim view of cross-jurisdictional pursuits that they weren't actually in charge of, he'd failed to notify them as he'd moved into their territory. There was no time. That maniac had had Hutch for too long as it was.
Stumbling down the hill that led to the old house, Starsky could see a dim sliver of light from a window. Wood smoke hung in the air as the rush of wind and rain increased in tempo. He stood looking at the house, wondering how he was going to do this. He leaned down, putting his hands on his thighs and breathed deeply, shuddering with cold and reaction, unable to contemplate what he would do if Hutch wasn't alive. Starsky already knew that he was there. He could feel it, just the same way that he could feel when Hutch was covering him even if he couldn't see him. Standing, he thrust his hand into his sopping hair, and pushed it back from his forehead.
Slipping up to the window with the light, he carefully took a look inside. The house had seen better days, but it appeared to be sound and dry inside. The light belonged to a table lamp, and it illuminated a small bedroom, empty except for a single bed with only a bare mattress and a Detective Sergeant Kenneth Hutchinson, bound with what looked like this wires, endlessly looped around his body. There was blood smeared all over the mattress and on Hutch, and Starsky sucked in a breath involuntarily. There, just a little, he could see Hutch's chest rise and fall. Still breathing. The weight he had felt since learning of his partner's disappearance lifted, replaced by that of the anger and determination to find the person responsible.
Starsky touched the window and muttered, "Hutch," and drifted back into the dark. Haley had left Hutch there as a decoration and invitation. It was too dangerous to stay where he could be seen. Somewhere, out here probably, Haley awaited him.
Circling the house, Starsky saw a battered jeep parked by the sagging front porch where more light spilled from a window looking into the kitchen. There was a small shed to the north of the house that looked like it could collapse at any minute. No Haley.
He searched around the house but found nothing. He carefully opened the door to the house and searched the other rooms. Haley was nowhere to be found.
Fed up, Starsky yelled, "Haley! I'm here Haley. Come out and tell me what you want." Probably not the best reaction, but he was tired, cold, scared and mad. Hutch was the brains of the outfit anyway. He went out onto the porch and yelled into the night - nothing. Knowing that he had to secure Haley before he could help Hutch, he decided to search the shed. He found a flashlight in the jeep, and carefully picked his way over the muddy yard to the shed. The door was partially open and Starsky carefully looked around it, his Beretta in one hand, the flashlight in the other.
He was laying crumpled on the ground, a somewhat surprised look on his face, but dead as a mackerel for all that. The flashlight wasn't too bright, but Starsky thought he looked like the description he'd gotten of Hutch's kidnapper. He looked nothing like the twenty something punk he'd busted those years ago. Haley had put on more than a few pounds in prison, and from his bluish cast, had most probably died of a heart attack. Kidnapping Hutch had quite likely been the most strenuous thing he'd done in a long time. Shaking his head, Starsky checked his pulse for form, and finding none, he kicked the shed door shut and raced back to the house.
Stumbling into the bedroom, Starsky attempted to loosen the wires with hands that shook from the cold, but he couldn't get his fingers to work properly.
"Hutch," he said insistently over and over. "Hutch, come on, wake up, buddy. Don't do this to me. Hutch!"
Locating the pliers that Haley had probably used to wire his partner up, Starsky started carefully unwinding the wires cutting into fair skin. Mercifully, it was toward the end of this task that Hutch started coming around.
"Starsky," he moaned, a hand flailing in his partner's direction.
"Just a minute," Starsky caught the hand and held it gently. "I'm almost done, Hutch."
"Hurts," his partner mumbled, thrashing his head.
"Keep still," Starsky ordered in a too loud voice that spoke of fear. "I don't want to hurt you any more."
"You won't," Hutch's voice came out a little clearer, his eyes brighter as he watched his partner pull away the last of the wire on his legs.
"Not what you said a few days ago," Starsky moved to help Hutch sit up and began to take inventory of of his injuries. Looking down, he added, "I'm sorry."
"You just said what you felt, Starsk," Hutch gasped as his partner found a very tender area on his rib.
"No, I panicked," Starsky replied shortly, soothing the bruised ribs with his hands. "I'm a big, brave cop that can look down the barrel of a gun without flinching but can't talk about my feelings without fucking it up. A coward." He finished his examination, a lot of small cuts and one on Hutch's left arm that was pretty deep and would need stitches.
Hutch put a hand on Starsky's arm, preventing him from getting up. "You're not a coward," he began.
"No? Then I'm just an asshole for saying those things to you," Starsky's eyes were flashing with self-loathing, but finally meeting Hutch's. The look and the feeling that neither partner could ever describe to an outsider pulled between them. Starsky just folded as Hutch, despite the discomfort, tugged him into his arms and held him.
After a while, Starsky muttered into Hutch's chest, "Don't want you to go."
"I'm not, Starsk," Hutch assured him, petting his hair.
"Love you," followed after a pause. "Always have."
"I know," Hutch continued soothing him. He blinked as Starsky pulled up and looked him in the eyes.
"Time for me to face you," Starsky put a hand up to Hutch's cheek and cupped it.
"You make me sound like a firing squad," Hutch muttered.
"No," Starsky assured him vehemently. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me. The only one who matters. You make me who I am."
"That's a tall order," Hutch replied, a little intimidated.
"Nah, it's easy," Starsky replied stroking his cheek. "You just be you. I'll work on coming up to your standards, okay?"
"Okay," Hutch murmured as he leaned into Starsky and they both held up the wall and each other as they waited for the cover units that Dobey had dispatched.
Fin