Title: Catalina Express
Author: Paula Wilshe
Type: Gen
Summary: In the wake of "Sweet Revenge", Starsky and Hutch go undercover on California's Catalina Island, giving Starsky a chance to shine as he regains his stride and self-confidence while working the case. Hutch, who finds it hard to let go, discovers that his partner is back -- and better than ever.
Format: Story
Categories: Mystery, Hutch H/C, Post-SR
Rating: PG
Size: 77K
Date Added: 2002-11-18
Catalina Express
by Paula Wilshe
Cast:
Hutch: David Soul
Starsky: Paul Michael Glaser
Captain Dobey: Bernie Hamilton
Guest Starring:
Daniel Quigley: Alex Henteloff
Miss Patton: Nancy Kulp
Bird: Jonathan Livingston Seagull
Special Appearance By: Donny and Marie Osmond
Written, Produced, and Directed by: Paula Wilshe
Script Consultants: Dr. HR3 and Keri T
Technical Advisor/Computer Wizard: Keri T
Special Thanks to:
Catalina Island Conservancy
The Seagull Trust
~*~
Ken Hutchinson looked up from the accident report he'd been filling in, his eyes settling on his dark haired partner, David Starsky, who was hunched uncomfortably over his own stack of paperwork. It had not been that long, in the relative scheme of things, since the shooting which had nearly cost Starsky his life, and Starsky had only been back to work full time for a few weeks. Hutch was still trying to get used to having the world back on its usual axis.
As he observed his partner, Hutch felt a flush of content wash over him. Not only had Starsky survived, he had overcome so very much, had triumphed, really, and sometimes in quiet moments like these, Hutch was unable to resist the temptation to steal a glance, just to reassure himself that things were really normal once again.
"Hutch?" Starsky said, without looking up.
Feigned nonchalance. "Hm?"
"Stop it."
"Stop what?" Hutch ran a nervous finger over his mustache.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" Hutch looked up, as if for the first time.
Starsky looked up from his desk, a slow smile breaking out over his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Staring at me."
"No I'm not."
"Yes you are," Starsky insisted, and although he retained the teasing smile, his voice was gentle. "Relax, willya? I'm not going anywhere, I keep telling you that."
Hutch smiled back at him, wishing he could articulate exactly how he was feeling. He was overjoyed to have his partner back, equal and reactive at his side, his happiness only tinged by a lingering fear that something like this could happen again, and the knowledge that he, himself, was probably not strong enough to withstand a second round. Starsky would do just fine, he thought, I'm the one who couldn't take it.. "I know, I'm just..."
"I get it," Starsky assured him. "It hasn't been that long, it's all new again..." He indicated the squad room with a wave of his hand. "It's gonna be okay, I promise. Okay?"
"Okay," Hutch smiled back, wondering at his partner's uncanny ability to read his mind, particularly when he himself was unable to translate his own thoughts into words. "I promise I'll try not to--"
"Starsky! Hutchinson! In my office," boomed the voice of their Captain through the slightly open door.
"Coming, Cap," Starsky spoke over his shoulder, as he pushed back his chair, and picked up the mug of coffee he had poured a few minutes before. He looked up at Hutch again. "Okay?"
"Okay." Hutch agreed shyly.
~*~
"Are either of you familiar with this?" Dobey asked, handing a folder across the desk to Starsky, who was perched on the arm of his partner's chair. Hutch plucked the coffee cup from Starsky's hand and took a sip.
Starsky opened the folder, and Hutch leaned in to give it a quick look. "Catalina Island? Sure," he said, "Abby and I used to go over for weekends sometimes." He looked sideways at Starsky. "Didn't you and Terry--"
"We were always going to," Starsky said, taking back the mug and sipping from it, "never found the right time." He looked up at Dobey. "So what's on Catalina besides a lotta bathing suits and buffaloes?"
"Bathing suits and--" Dobey looked puzzled, the sudden image of bikinied bison stampeding across his mind. He massaged a temple and wished his life were not so complicated, and glancing up, sent a fervent thank you heavenward that his life was thus complicated once more.
Starsky bobbed his head. "You know, Cap," he said, "Contestants in the Miss America pageant are always wearing 'coordinating swimwear courtesy of Catalina,'" the last voiced like a television announcer, Brooklyn accent not quite overcome.
"You don't say."
'No, I do say," Starsky grinned. "And the buffaloes...they're just there, up in the hills, roaming."
"Buffalo, Starsk," Hutch put in, reclaiming the mug and draining its contents.
'Huh?"
"Plural of buffalo is buffalo."
"Oh, yeah, how about that," Starsky agreed. "See, Cap, the buffalo?" He leaned over the desk. "They like to roam." He blinked his eyes blithely at the baffled countenance of his superior. "The two aren't related, Captain, the buffalo and the bathing suits."
Hutch nudged his arm. "Shut up, Starsk," he advised, "the captain will think you mixed up your medications again. You didn't, did you?" he added in a stage whisper.
"I'm not on any medication, and you know it," Starsky retorted, cuffing him in the arm.
"Maybe you need to be," Dobey muttered. "Can we talk about work now?"
Sure, Cap," Starsky answered, eyes twinkling. He leaned forward. "Hutch tries real hard to behave," he said conspiratorially. "He can't help it, sometimes, I promise he'll try to be good."
"You're sure you've got everything out of the car?" Hutch asked, groaning under the weight of most of the partners' luggage. "Can you take this?" he asked, indicating Starsky's camera bag with a tilt of his chin.
~*~
Starsky slid the bag easily from Hutch's arm, and set it down on the table, then began, one by one, to remove the other pieces of luggage from Hutch's shoulders. "Now your back's gonna hurt," he admonished, "and I'm not gonna feel sorry for you, because you wouldn't let me carry anything." He shook his head. "And yes, I got everything out of the car. And I remembered my jacket. And I took my vitamins." He looked at Hutch seriously. "Anything else you wanna grill me about?"
"Starsk, I didn't say anything."
"You didn't have to," Starsky poked him in the chest with a finger.
"Okay," Hutch answered quietly. "I'm sorry, I just..."
"I know, Hutch," Starsky sighed, "I understand, I truly do, but you're gonna have to let go sometime, and maybe this is the time to do it." He tugged on Hutch's arm. "Sit down," he ordered, sinking onto a dockside cement bench, and pulling his partner down next to him. "I think that this missing little manuscript is probably a good place to start."
"But I don't--"
Starsky held up a hand. "Lookit, Hutch, Dobey says you got some eccentric old guy writing a book about arts and crafts on Catalina Island, there's no murders, no violence, but somebody swipes his manuscript...I'm only going along with it 'cause I...I mean, this is a bullshit case, and Dobey only gave it to us because..." he stopped short, and pressed his lips together.
"Not arts and crafts, Starsk," Hutch put in patiently. "He's an author and an artist who's researching the original paint compositions of the tiles they used to manufacture on the island, and besides, his grandfather was..." He shook his head. "What do you mean, a 'bullshit case?'"
Starsky looked at him, eyes filled with hurt. "You don't have to tell me why Dobey gave this to us," he said. "He thinks I can't cut it on the streets, and so do you."
"That's not true, and you know it," Hutch felt his temper begin to flare, then carefully tucked it away. "That's not true," he repeated in a softer tone. "I know you can cut it, so does Dobey. It's just..." He put a hand on Starsky's shoulder.
"It's just so soon, I know, I know," Starsky shrugged Hutch's hand away. It's always 'it's just...' and it's been like that ever since we started back on the streets. Did you ever think, Hutch, did you ever think that maybe there are things I need to know for myself? That there are things I don't know if I can do anymore? Things you gotta let me try?"
Hutch nodded, unable, for a moment, to speak. Finally he replaced the hand on Starsky's arm, and this time the dark haired man did not shake it away. "You're right," he said. "and I know you're right." He took a deep breath and blinked his eyes. "I'm sorry. But it scares me, the thought of...because I don't think I can..."
Starsky nodded, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a sad smile. "I get it, Hutch, honest I do. I know how you feel. N'I can't promise I wouldn't be the same way with you. But you gotta let me try, or I'll never know for sure." He leaned in closer. "and I gotta know."
"Okay, fair enough," Hutch nodded again, and cleared his throat. Pasting on a sunny smile, he offered, "Fine. When we get there, you can carry your own bags."
Starsky grinned. "Well let's not get carried away with this," he said. Looking up toward the ticket office, he pointed to a sign. "Hey, they got food. You want a muffin or something?"
"Sure," Hutch ran a hand through his blond hair, trying to change gears and adjust to the tempo. "Coffee too, if they have it."
"Okay," Starsky said, rising quickly. "I'll get it." He patted the blond's shoulder. "And, uh...thanks," he said quietly, and was gone.
~*~
Hutch shook his head and smiled at the sight of his gotta-let-me-try-tough-guy partner. Starsky had crumbled half of his muffin and held it out, crumb by crumb, to the tiny sparrows who inhabited the dock in hopes of sharing breakfast with generous tourists waiting for the island ferry.
"Look at this," Starsky whispered in awe, as one of the tiny birds lit quickly on his hand, snatching a crumb, then flew away hastily lest it might be expected to share with one of its nestmates.
Hutch placed another crumb in Starsky's palm, and watched, entranced, as another sparrow repeated the process. "I've never seen anything like this before," he said, grinning. "It's a good omen, I think."
Starsky smiled, flicking his eyes up quickly to meet those of his partner. "I think you're right," he agreed. "Wish I could get to my camera, but it's in the bottom of the..." he indicated the photographer's backpack with his eyebrow.
"Want me to try?"
"No, soon as you move, they'll fly away. I'll get some good bird shots over on the island." He rolled his eyes. "Since I'm posing as a photographer anyway."
"Well, since I'm posing as a journalist," Hutch said, "I'll caption 'em for you. Deal?"
"Sure. Hey," Starsky moved to look around the blond. "Here comes the boat!" he said, as the birds scattered for less stressful surroundings.
~*~
"I knew you'd love this," Hutch shouted above the noise of the ferry's engine, and the rushing wind.
"This is so cool!" Starsky yelled back, leaning against the railing of the boat as he watched the sights of Long Beach receded into the distance. The hour of travel passed quickly, and soon, moving to the other side of the craft, the hills and immediate scenery of Santa Catalina Island began to come into view.
As the boat slowed down in its approach, Starsky smiled in delight at the quaint homes tucked away against the cliffsides, and suggested that maybe this wouldn't be such a bad assignment after all. Pleased and relieved, Hutch pointed out a round building with a terra cotta roof. "That's the casino," he offered.
"Casino?" Starsky repeated hopefully.
"Not that kind," Hutch laughed. "I think that the name, translated literally, means something like 'a gathering place.'" He clapped Starsky's shoulder. "Sorry, buddy. There's a museum in there, sometimes they have concerts, stuff like that. Maybe there'll be a concert while we're here"
"Oh," Starsky replied. "Well, that's okay, we can play poker in the hotel room at night and bet our expense money."
"Hotel's right up there," Hutch pointed across the cove, "the building in the middle, kind of."
"Okay, so when the boat docks, we'll get our bags, and what, go rent a car?"
"Um..." Hutch's mustache twitched as he struggled to keep from laughing. "No car."
"Whaddya mean, no car?"
"What I said," Hutch answered patiently. "No car."
"No car?" Starsky was incredulous. "What if we gotta get someplace?"
"Uh, well," Hutch said slowly. "Golf cart. We can rent one up there if we have to go up in the hills. You can only have a car on the island if you've lived here forever because they try to--"
"My God," Starsk exhaled slowly. "What have I let you talk me into?" He stalked up the ramp to the dock, seemingly lost in thought, as his blond partner trailed behind him, although Hutch heard him mutter, "Terrific," as he tossed the camera bag over a shoulder.
"Mr. Starsky?" came a tentative voice, as someone tugged on Hutch's jacket.
Hutch turned around to see a short, portly man, gray hair tied back in a ponytail. He was dressed oddly, although his clothing was obviously expensive, it was rumpled and mismatched. "Um, I'm Mr. Hutch...uh...I'm Hutch, Detective Hutchinson," he stammered. He grabbed hold of Starsky's jacket and hauled him back. "This is my partner, Detective Starsky. You're Quigley?"
"I am," the man answered proudly. He shook their hands solemnly. "Welcome to Catalina. I'm proud to make your acquaintance."
"Likewise," Starsky said, eyeing him up and down, then flicking his eyes to his partner. "What's all this about golf carts?" he asked the islander suspiciously.
"Well..." Quigley chuckled. "I'm sure you'll get used to it. Our island is very quaint and old fashioned in many ways. Part of the charm, I suppose." He rubbed his hands together. "Let's get you two settled at the hotel," he suggested. And then we'll talk."
Hutch reached over and snagged their luggage as it was brought out from the storage area of the boat and placed on the dock. Starsky made no move to help him, although he did grin as his partner strained with the bags.
"Oh, Mr. Starsky," offered Quigley, snatching one of the bags from Hutch's shoulder. "Allow me to help you with that. Follow me," he said expansively, and began walking along the water's edge, toward the main street.
Starsky nudged Hutch's arm as they fell into pace, several yards behind their host. "What."
"What what?"
"Why's he bug you?"
Hutch exhaled noisily. "I'm not sure, exactly. He acts as if he owns the island or something, and he's..."
"He's what?"
"Well if you'd been working on a book, and someone swiped the only copy of your manuscript, don't you think you'd be just a tad more upset than that?"
Starsky considered this for a moment. "I guess," he admitted, "except maybe he's just really laid back, or maybe Dobey talked us up and he's thinkin' it's only a matter of time till we find it or something."
Hutch nodded. "Okay, maybe." He stopped and looked over at his partner. "How'd you know he bugged me?"
Starsky shrugged. "Body language."
"What body language?"
"Your mustache gets bristly."
Hutch shook his head and laughed good-naturedly. "Just for that?" he said. "You can carry this," and he dropped Starsky's flight bag onto his shoulder unceremoniously. Then, after an odd glance at his partner, Hutch fingered his mustache thoughtfully, and moved on ahead.
~*~
Starsky dropped a used roll of film in his camera bag, and felt around the inside pocket for a fresh one. Lazily, he loaded it into the Nikon, carefully feeding the leader into the right side roller. "You better put something on," he advised Hutch, who was stretched out lazily on a beach blanket, enjoying the early afternoon sun. "You're gonna burn like crazy."
Hutch opened one eye and squinted at him. "Starsk, I live a block from the beach, we go to the beach all the time. You don't bug me about this at home, why are you doing it here?"
"Yeah, but this is an island," Starsky stated, as if that explained everything. He adjusted the settings on his camera, and looked through it, focusing on the tiny waves lapping up onto the nearly deserted beach. "Besides, we're usually there in the morning, or after work." He glanced up at the sky. "Sun's higher."
Hutch sighed and closed his eye again. "Don't worry about it," he said. He thought back to their leisurely fact-finding lunch with Quigley. "So what do you think about that guy?" he asked.
Starsky focused the camera close on his partner's profile. "Um...I think he's weird. But a lot of artist types are weird, so it's hard to judge, you know?"
"Yeah, I know what you mean. I knew his grandfather was an artist, but I didn't know he'd been one of the original designers of the Catalina tiles." He opened one eye again. "What are you doing?"
Starsky pressed the shutter down quickly. "Nothin'" he grinned. "Say cheese."
Hutch raised himself up on one elbow, a threatening smile firmly in place. "Camera in the ocean," he said cheerfully. He flopped back down. "You're supposed to be taking pictures of birds and stuff anyway. Knock it off."
"His grandfather painted a lot of the tiles too," Starsky ventured, taking another picture, "and he was the one who made a lot of the dyes in the first place. Why do you think this guy doesn't have his notes? Isn't that something you'd leave to a grandson?"
"That's sort of what I was thinking," Hutch agreed. "Are there other relatives, is there bad family blood, was the grandfather nuts..." he sighed. "Lots of possibilities. I think I'll think about them for a while, okay?" he yawned widely. "Wake me up in an hour."
~*~
"Say it," Starsky insisted.
"No. Come on, Starsk," Hutch said, unable to keep the petulance from creeping into his tone.
"Not till you say it," Starsky teased. He held a jar aloft. "I mean it."
"Anybody ever tell you you're mean?" Hutch asked him, then winced. "Ow..."
"Say it." Starsky repeated.
"And creepy and scary?"
"Say it," Starsky insisted.
"Okay, okay," Hutch sighed. "I'd throw up my hands but it hurts my shoulders too much. You were right, I was wrong. Okay?"
"Okay," Starsky relented, grinning. "Turn around." The sight of his partner's red and blistered back made him wince in sympathy. "Aw, Blintz, this looks really bad." He dipped his fingers in the jar of analgesic cream and began to stroke it lightly across his partner's shoulders."
"Ow... ow.. ow..."
"Don't be a baby," Starsky admonished him, although he gentled his touch as much as he was able. "How's that?"
"Okay," Hutch hissed through gritted teeth. "You almost done?"
Starsky checked to make sure that all of the angry red skin was covered with salve. "Yeah." He wiped his hands with a towel. "I hope it helps. Turn around."
Hutch turned slowly to face him, blinking his eyes slowly, and Starsky dipped into the jar again, and dropped a bit of the salve on Hutch's nose.
"I can do that," Hutch protested, pushing Starsky's hand away from his face.
"Stand still," his partner said firmly. "Jesus, you look like a raccoon." He used his index finger to spread the medicine along Hutch's nose and cheeks. "Okay, you're done." He grinned at his blue eyed, alternately scarlet and white streak faced partner. "You hungry there, Old Glory?" he asked.
Hutch turned to look at himself in the mirror. "Oh god," he moaned, "You're right, I look like a flag." He tried to spread the cream more evenly across his cheeks, somewhat successful, although he ended up smearing a generous dollop into his mustache. He snatched the towel from Starsky's hands and wiped it away. "Only place that doesn't hurt," he said, running fingers along his bristly lip to make sure it was all out.
Starsky shook his head. "I'm sorry, Hutch, I really am. If I hadn't lost track of the time while I was taking pictures..."
"Don't be ridiculous," Hutch said, frowning. "I'm a grown up. I should have stuck my shirt on in the first place." He moved his head gingerly. "Feels better, honest. You wanna get dinner?"
"Sure, if you're up to it."
Hutch blinked at him. "Long as you're not embarrassed to be seen with me," he said. "I look like a--"
"I've had worse looking dates," Starsky mused, nudging him toward the door. "Did I ever tell you about the McQuillan sisters?"
~*~
The jangling telephone woke Starsky some hours later, and he dove across the night table to reach it, hoping not to wake his partner whom he knew had had a difficult time falling asleep. "H'lo?" he whispered.
"They're gone, they're gone..." came the anxious voice through the receiver, thick with tears.
"Mr. Quigley?" Starsky sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Mr. Quigley, is that you?"
"The tiles," Quigley moaned, "all of them from the Pattons' house, they're gone, I tell you!"
"Mr. Quigley," Starsky turned away and spoke softly. "You need to slow down and tell me what happened."
There was a rustle of sheets from the other bed, and Hutch's sleepy voice cut through the darkness of the room. "I'm awake, Starsk, you don't have to whisper."
Starsky held his hand over the telephone's mouthpiece. "Sorry," he apologized. He spoke into the receiver once more, this time in a normal tone of voice. "Go on..."
Quigley's voice was high and strained. "Miss Patton, she was out this evening, whale watching," he explained, sounding as if he might break down at any moment. "Always something she does at this time of year, every Tuesday night like clockwork. But when she returned, a short time ago, all of the tiles had been methodically cut and removed from the fireplace. All of them, Mr. Hutch." He drew a shuddering breath.
"Okay, well," Starsky smothered a yawn. "How did you find out? And this is Starsky," he added.
"She called me, she called me right away, she--" Quigley said. "I'm heartbroken, you have no idea...they were six of my grandfather's hand painted originals, I had just been testing and sketching them yesterday morning...you must come now, you simply must."
Starsky nodded, then realized the man could not hear him. "Okay," he agreed, "I'm on my way. Where are you, anyway?"
As Starsky hung up the phone, Hutch sat up slowly in bed. "What the hell was that all about?" he asked. "What time is it?"
Starsky turned on the light and squinted at his watch, which he'd left on the nightstand. "Four," he said. "Somebody lifted a bunch of original tiles tonight. You okay?" he asked, as Hutch bit his lip, trying to pull the sheet up around himself.
"Yeah, just cold." answered the blond. "I thought Quigley didn't have any of the tiles in his house."
"That's from the sunburn," Starsky assured him. "No, not at Quigley's house. Somebody named Patton. They were out on a whale watch or something." Starsky rubbed his eyes. "I didn't know the McQuillan sisters had moved over here" He got up and rummaged in his suitcase for something, then disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a glass of water. "Here you go," he said, holding out his other hand. "Take these and try to go back to sleep."
"Thanks." Hutch tossed the aspirins into his mouth, and gulped down half of the water. "But I thought he wanted us to--"
"I'll go," Starsky said, pulling on his jeans. "It's only a couple of blocks from here. You just got to sleep a couple of hours ago, I know you don't feel great."
"Starsk, it's sunburn, I'm fine," Hutch replied, although he gritted his teeth as he levered himself out of the bed. "You're not going by yourself, that's ridiculous. It's the middle of the night. What if--"
"Yeah," Starsky said, handing over Hutch's shirt from its resting place on the bottom of Hutch's bed. "What if? You're gonna be great backup, no doubt about it. N'besides, I'm a big boy now, I'm tyin' my own shoes and everything, see?" He held out an Adidased foot for examination.
Hutch struggled into his shirt, wincing and grimacing as the coarse fibers touched sensitive burns. "Oh...shut up," he said amiably. "You're stuck with me."
Starsky pushed back a grin. "Could do worse, I guess. Come on."
~*~
"I'm so upset, I don't know what to do," began Quigley, tears still evident in his voice. "Oh..." he backed off quickly from Hutch. "Mr. Starsky, you don't look at all well, are you ill?"
Starsky immediately stepped between them, guiding Hutch to a chair by the elbow. "Sit," he urged, "before you pass out." He looked back at Quigley, wishing to save his partner the embarrassment of explanation. "Blondie here forgot to pack the sunscreen, got fried to a crisp on the beach this afternoon," he said easily. "He's fine, little bit sore."
"Mm," grumped the blond, trying to rally. "So, Mr. Quigley, would you be so kind as to show us the way over to Miss Patton's?"
"Now?" The man looked incredulous "It's four o'clock in the morning."
"Mr. Quigley," Starsky interjected, hoping to run interference before his partner made a cutting remark and alienated their only contact on the island. "The best time to investigate a robbery is pretty much right after the robbery has occurred...when the clues are fresh...before people disturb things..."
"Oh," the older man wiped his eyes and sighed, brokenheartedly. "I suppose you're right." He nodded. "Let me call her and ask."
He moved silently down the hallway, and disappeared into what had to be a studio, as there were canvasses and an easel visible through the open doorway.
Starsky looked down at Hutch. "How you doing? You okay?"
"Yeah, fine," Hutch assured him. He lowered his voice to a near whisper. "If he didn't want us to visit the crime scene, then why the hell did he call us in the first place?"
"At four in the morning."
"At four in the morning."
"I dunno," Starsky shrugged. "Maybe he just wanted us to hold his hand or something." He fingered an open box on the table that was filled with paintbrushes and odd looking knives. "What the hell is this, do you think?
Hutch peered inside, poking the implements apart with a finger for a better look. "Well, brushes, obviously...this thing's a trowel...and these things here," he picked one up and held it aloft, "this one's a palette knife. Artists' tools."
"Well why are they here and not in his studio?" Starsky asked. "He doesn't put his toys away?"
"That I couldn't tell you," Hutch shook his head, "But I still think he's weird."
"Yeah, me too," Starsky agreed, grinning. "He kind of creeps me out."
Hutch stood painfully as Quigley re-entered the room. "What's the verdict?" he asked.
Quigley gave him a quick nod. "She was quite receptive to the idea," he informed the duo. "She offered to make a pot of coffee for us, in fact." He looked down at the table and frowned. "What are these doing here? I didn't use them today." He snapped the art case shut. "One moment," he said, "These need putting away." He moved down the hallway to the studio, and was back almost instantaneously. "Shall we away, gentlemen?"
"Lovely," Starsky said. "Let's go." He started to reach out to tug Hutch along, then withdrew his hand quickly at Hutch's anticipatory wince. "You sure you're okay?"
"Mm hm," Hutch said briefly. "Just don't touch me, okay?" He smiled, realizing that was probably not something he had ever before said to his partner. "Weird, huh?"
"Well," Starsky said with a laugh, "It's not the way we usually work. Come on," he added, as Hutch shivered, "the coffee will warm you up."
~*~
"Okay, that was just weird," Starsky hissed insistently several moments later as he waited for Hutch to climb slowly from the back of Quigley's golf cart. Quigley had hopped out, full of energy, and was trotting up to the door of his friend's home. "I'm riding through deserted streets in a golf cart at four thirty in the morning." He shook his head and looked down at Hutch, whose sunburn glowed gloriously in the light from the streetlamps. "With my partner, Rosie Red. Nobody would believe this." He looked up. "I don't believe this. I remember being shot in the chest. Did I have a head injury?"
"Starsky?"
"Yeah."
"Shut up?" Hutch asked pleadingly, shivering again from the touch of the night air on his sunburned arms.
"Okay," Starsky replied with deliberate pleasantness. "But you gotta admit--"
"Thank you so much for coming," called a tall, gray haired woman who was waving a dishtowel from the front porch. "Come in, come in," she urged, "I have coffee on."
Hutch leaned over to whisper in Starsky's ear. "She looks like Miss Jane from the Beverly Hillbillies. Do you suppose she and Quigley are...you know?"
Starsky laughed out loud. "God, I hope not. She's about a foot taller than he is, and at least twenty years older."
Miss Patton welcomed them as they made their way through the doorway to her home. "Come in, come in," she said again, and introductions were made all around. "I've made coffee and blintzes."
Starsky looked quickly at Hutch, whose eyebrow shot up, although he remained silent. Starsky cleared his throat. "You, uh, made blintzes at this time of the morning?" he asked.
"Why of course," Miss Patton answered. "Wouldn't anyone?"
"Of course," murmured Hutch, tiredly, sinking down onto a musty well stuffed sofa. He pointed to the fireplace. He rubbed his eyes. "Uh, is this the--"
"No, no," she answered, "it's the one upstairs in the library. These tiles are reproductions and, as you can see, there are none missing. We could go up there now, or would you prefer to eat first?"
Starsky affected his most charming smile. "Well, ma'am," he purred, "as tempting as it always is for me to bite into a blintz," he flicked an amused eye down to his partner, "Duty comes first, so I think we should..."
Hutch put a hand over his mouth and pretended to cough politely, although Starsky was clearly able to discern the word "Moron."
"What did you say, Officer Hutchinson?" asked Miss Patton.
"Nothing, ma'am," Hutch replied, flushing deeper red. "Tickle," he waggled his fingers toward his throat. "You know."
She pulled her glasses down her nose and looked at him critically. 'You don't look at all well," she observed. "Are you ill?"
Quigley interrupted with an amused chortle. "I'm afraid Mr. Starsky caught too much sun this afternoon on our lovely beach," he explained.
"Ah," Miss Patton nodded. "Certainly. This way, gentlemen," she said, swishing from the room."
~*~
Hutch emerged from the bathroom, holding a glass of something that was fizzing cheerfully. He gave the concoction a dark look. "Starsk?" he asked his partner, who was flopped across the hotel bed, paging through the previous day's L.A. Times.
"Mm?"
"I don't like it here," Hutch said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He took a sip of the frothing mixture and made a face. "I just really don't."
"You have bubbles in your mustache," Starsky said absently, although he did not appear to have looked up from the editorial he was reading. "Blintzes really got to you, huh?"
"A little," Hutch allowed, taking another swig. "Or the sour cream, I'm not sure which. I'm still not sure that we accomplished anything either, and that's bugging me too."
Starsky put the newspaper aside and sat up. "Don't blame you, I feel the same way," he answered thoughtfully. "Like, the tiles belong to Miss Hathaway..."
"...but Quigley is more upset about them than she is," Hutch finished. "Although, I suppose since..."
"...they were his grandfather's handiwork..."
"...that is sort of makes sense. I guess." Hutch sighed. "But then..."
"Exactly," Starsky agreed, getting up off the bed. "So now what?"
Hutch chugged the rest of the contents of his glass, and set it on the night table. "I think," he said, reaching under his bed, then beginning to pull on a sneaker, "I think we should take a hike up to the museum. Maybe if we learned a little more about the history of the tiles, and something about Quigley's grandfather's part in their production...maybe we'd get a better picture of where he fits in to this whole mess."
Starsky nodded. "I think that's a good idea. You up to it?"
"Definitely," Hutch nodded. "Doesn't hurt much any more, in fact, it's kind of starting to itch now." He moved over to the mirror over the dresser. "Oh, great," he said, putting a hand up to his nose.
"What now?"
Hutch turned around and angled his head down so Starsky could get a better look. "Starting to peel. That'll do wonders for my image." He grinned self consciously. "If you tease me about this, I'll belt you one."
"Just an observation," Starsky mused, "but this is a far cry from yesterday morning when you wouldn't let me carry any of the luggage, have you noticed that?"
His partner broke out in a slow grin. "You're right," he said. "It's like...I almost forgot about everything, the stuff that happened...is that good or bad?"
"I think it's terrific. Unless you expect me to do all the grunt work now." Starsky's eyes twinkled.
"Hey, pal," Hutch ruffled Starsky's hair as he moved to the door to snag his jacket from a hook. "Grace period's over, and Me isn't going to carry Thee anymore, you're on your own." He pulled the door open and moved into the hallway whistling. "You coming?"
"I'm comin'" Starsky answered, then said to himself, "and if you really mean it, there is a God."
~*~
"This place is so neat," Hutch breathed. "I feel like we learned an awful lot, even though it's such a small museum." He hoisted himself up on the wall outside the Casino building, breathing deeply the clean, salty air. He looked up at the sky. "Gonna rain, though, maybe we should head back."
"You wanna get lunch on the way?" Starsky asked hopefully.
"Sure," Hutch agreed, hopping down from the wall. He paused for a moment, rubbing his back against the wall, a blissful expression on his face.
"Hutch?"
"Yeah? Ohhh...."
"What the hell are you doing?"
The blond looked at him owlishly. "Scratching. Sunburn itches."
"I can't take you anywhere," Starsky sighed. He looked up as several large raindrops splatted the pair. "We'd better make a run for it."
Five minutes later, the pair were seated at an awning covered table belonging to one of Avalon's dockside restaurants. Since it was the middle of the afternoon, most of the lunch crowd had dissipated, and those who were left had chosen the inside tables, leaving the partners to talk freely. The rain had begun to fall harder, and the temperature had dropped slightly, but not to an uncomfortable level.
Starsky scanned the menu studiously, then glanced up at Hutch. "Still itching?" he asked.
"Not so much," Hutch told him. "It's weird, comes and goes."
"You should see your nose," Starsky teased. "Peeling like crazy." He reached out, but before he could make contact, Hutch batted his hand away, and pulled his own menu up higher.
"You are invading my personal space, Starsky," he said warningly. "Knock it off."
Starsky laughed, relieved and happy to have his grumpy partner back, rather than the hovering mother hen who had possessed the blond so often during these past several months. Starsky reveled in their teasing and normal banter, the thought occurring to him that he had missed it more than he'd realized. "What are you going to have, Rudolph?" he asked.
Hutch pressed his lips together in annoyance, but answered civilly. "Cheeseburger with the works," he announced. "With guacamole. I want guacamole. How about you?"
"Well," Starsky reached out quickly and tapped Hutch's still burned cheek softly. "No clue why, but I'm just in the mood for lobster."
"Fine," Hutch said, "Fine, but you're buying." He raised a finger in warning. "And that's enough."
"Do you think that Quigley stole the tiles himself, when Miss Hathaway was on the whale watch?" Starsky asked, abruptly changing the subject.
"Possible," Hutch set down the menu. "Possible, even probable."
"But why would he do that?"
"That's what I can't figure out," Hutch mused. "Because from all the stuff we just learned at the museum, there was no reason for him to do that. He's wealthy enough in his own right, or at least," Hutch sipped his water, "between his own art sales and what his grandfather left him, he is."
"See, that's what I kept thinking too," Starsky offered, "and I'm still not convinced it's not true. Like, he told us he was taking scrapings of the paint samples from the tiles--what if..."
"What if there was something in the paint that was valuable? But what? Drugs? What?"
Starsky shrugged. "Guess that's what we have to figure out," he said. "I do think, though, we've been asking so many questions about Quigley and Miss Jane up there...I mean, it's hard to know where the alliances are on this island, like the museum curator, or anybody we strike up a conversation with. Maybe we should tone it down a little for the afternoon."
Hutch nodded in agreement. "Do some plain picture taking and local color sort of stuff, you mean?"
"Yeah." Starsky raised his eyebrows. "Who knows, we might pick something up that way anyhow. When you were in the john, the lady in the gift shop said something about there bein' a concert up there on the weekend, maybe we should do that too, bring a lot of the townspeople out, I'll bet."
"That's probably a good idea," Hutch nodded again. "Who's playing?"
"No clue," Starsky said, picking up the check and digging for his wallet. "Probably something classical so you can have a good time and I can be tortured."
"That seems fair," Hutch mused, tossing money for the tip on the table.
~*~
"Get that one," Hutch pointed toward the water. "That one right there."
"What one?" Starsky asked, pulling the camera away from his face. "I don't see anything."
"You don't see that fish?"
"What fish?"
"The big gold and silver one right there," Hutch pointed again. "There! Get it!"
Starsky tried looking through the lens again. "Hutch, you know what?"
"What? There, Starsky!" he insisted.
"There is no fish, is there?" Starsky glared over his lens. "You're just doin' this to make me crazy."
Hutch gave him an incredulous look. "Starsk, it's right there." He grabbed a handful of jacket, and pulled Starsky around so that he could look into his eyes. "Maybe you need glasses," he suggested.
"Hell with this," Starsky grumped. "Let's do birds instead."
Hutch hid a smile. "Birds it is, and you are no Marlon Perkins." He reached back on the bench and picked up a small white paper bag. "You want a brownie first?"
Starsky took a bite from the brownie he had purchased on the way to the cove. "Maybe the sugar will cheer me up," he said. "Because I really don't believe that there was any kind of a fish down there, and I don't even see any birds around here that are close enough to--ow!"
"What's the matter?" Hutch turned back, instantly concerned. "You pull something? Starsky, what?" he said louder, as his friend turned to him, eyes huge.
"Get the hell out of here!" Starsky yelled, and the tone in his voice nearly caused Hutch to pull his gun, simply from reflex. Starsky pointed down toward his leg, next to which sat the hugest seagull that Hutch had ever seen in his life. "What the hell is that," Starsky hissed.
Hutch pulled at his mustache to keep the smile under control. "It's a bird."
"I know it's a bird, dummy," Starsky said, gritting his teeth. "It pecked me. What the hell does it want?"
Hutch leaned forward, two huge tears rolling down his face from the effort of trying to hold in the laughter , but he quickly conceded the battle. "He wants your brownie, Starsk..." he managed to get out, before losing it completely.
Starsky grabbed the empty bakery bag. "Shoo..." he said, waving it at the bird, who watched him, nonplussed. The bird shifted its gaze to Hutch, who was heaving for breath, then back to Starsky. It reached out quickly and pecked at his leg, as if to demand full and immediate attention.
"I mean it," Starsky said. He pulled his gun quickly and aimed it at the bird, who continued to stare him down.
"Starsky, what the hell are you doing?" Hutch sputtered. "You don't shoot a seagull."
"He pecked me," Starsky said, as if that explained everything.
Hutch stood up, then placed a hand under Starsky's armpit, pulling him to his feet. "Put the gun away," he ordered, "before the SPCA arrests us. He reached out and snatched the brownie from Starsky's grasp. "Give me this." He pulled the brownie apart, tossing half of it toward the rocks, and the bird immediately waddled over to investigate and claim his prize. Hutch pushed the other half of the brownie into Starsky's surprised fingers. "You can share."
Just then a loud clap of thunder gave way to a hard steady rain, and the two detectives jogged quickly back to the hotel, dodging the raindrops between the awnings as they went.
~*~
For a few moments Hutch assumed the noise was thunder, and burrowed back against his pillow. Realizing that the incessant knocking was actually someone at the door, he quickly rolled out of bed and padded to the door, hoping not to wake up Starsky, who was splayed across one of the double beds, limbs sprawled about in reckless abandon. The early morning rising had resulted in both of them feeling so exhausted that they'd decided by tacit agreement to spend a couple of hours relaxing with the television set in the hotel room, and had both ended up falling asleep.
"Sh..." Hutch whispered automatically as he opened the door a crack. "Miss Patton," he said, running a hand through his hair, and then across his eyes. "What are you doing here?"
"I need your help, Officer Hutchinson," she said urgently.
"Okay," he said pleasantly, stifling a yawn. "For what?"
"I am quite sure that Mr. Quigley is responsible for making off with both his own manuscript, and the fireplace tiles from my home." She shook her head. "Simply irreplaceable, as you know, and I'm sure you've gathered that he is somewhat...unbalanced."
"Um," Hutch blinked at her tiredly. "Well, he does strike me as a bit eccentric, but then again..." his voice trailed off.
"Precisely," Miss Patton agreed. "And I have caught him in his own web, but you must come with me now."
"Okay," Hutch said, ready to move back inside. "Let me get my shoes, and I'll wake up Starsky."
Miss Patton pushed her way into the room. "Oh, the poor darling," she said. "Mr. Quigley tells me he is recovering from serious injury? You nearly lost him?" she whispered.
"Yes, I--he--"
Miss Patton patted Hutch's arm. "You poor boy, what you must have gone through." She looked back at Starsky. "Oh, how innocent and untroubled he looks. He must be exhausted."
Hutch stopped to consider this. The past few days had been more active than the partners' few cases since Starsky's return to the force. In all likelihood, although the working relationship seemed normal, and the banter light and positive, Starsky was probably still hurting much more than he ever would admit. Had to be.
"Shall I wake him for you?" Miss Patton asked.
"No, no, you know what?" Hutch grabbed his jacket from the back of the door. "Let's just let him sleep. I can handle this."
"As you wish, dear," she said, proceeding him down the hallway. "And zip up that jacket, it's quite chilly."
~*~
Hutch pushed dripping hair back from his forehead, and squinted in the heavy rain, which had begun falling in earnest as he and Miss Patton had trundled their way into the wilderness with her golf cart. Although she was making an effort to keep him squarely under her umbrella, her unexpectedly brisk pace and long strided walk resulted in Hutch catching the runoff from the sides of the device every few moments. Eventually he reconciled himself to being soaked, and stepped aside, as the only other alternative seemed to be blindness from the strike of a metal spoke.
"I don't think I quite understand why we're out here," he said, speaking loudly through the storm. "Why would Quigley be way out here? He doesn't seem like the outdoorsy type to me."
"You will understand shortly, my dear," Miss Patton clucked, "and then I'm taking you home for tea, you're getting soaked."
"That's not necessary," he insisted, "but--"
"Just a little ways further, dear," she pointed a bony finger toward a clump of trees. "I am so disappointed in Mr. Quigley," she said, "my heart is quite broken about this."
Hutch never really saw the blow coming. His senses registered the flash of something metal coming toward him, and a brief sharp pain in his shoulder. He reached a surprised hand toward the burning, and just as he realized that he was bleeding, the umbrella jerked quickly, and he was struck strongly in the side of the head, and an instantaneous explosion of lights and stars shot up behind his eyes.
The last thing he heard as painless oblivion claimed him, was Miss Patton's chiding, "Oh, Detective Hutchinson, how simply dreadful."
~*~
"Hutch, get the phone," Starsky mumbled. "Hutch..." The telephone continued its shrill and incessant ring, and finally Starsky rolled over and dragged the receiver from its cradle. "Hmnl..." he breathed, incoherently.
"Mr. Hutch?"
"I'm, no, um..." Starsky opened his eyes, ready to hand off the ever-annoying Mr. Quigley to his lazy partner, but when his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room, he realized he was alone. "Um..." he yawned, "Mr. Quigley, Hutch isn't here, he must have gone out for something to eat. What can I do for you? What time is it?"
"No, no, it's you I want, not Mr. Starsky," Quigley said, insistently. "I'm calling about Mr. Starsky."
The dark haired detective wasn't sure whether to be amused or annoyed so, keeping his voice neutral, he said simply, "What about him?"
"I'm afraid something dreadful has happened to him."
Starsky sat up straight. "Whaddya mean?" he asked.
"Well, it's...I believe that Miss Patton...that is...she's heavily involved, and I...because of..."
Fear shot through Starsky at the realization that something had likely happened to his partner, but he closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to remain calm. "Start at the beginning, Mr. Quigley, okay? The beginning." He quickly searched the floor for his shoes, and began to pull them on. "Where's my partner? Where's Hutch?"
"Well," Quigley stammered, "The thing is, I'm not sure, but I have...could you meet me in front of the hotel? I'll pick you up in five minutes and I can explain on the way."
"Make it three," Starsky snapped, slamming down the phone and reaching for his holster.
~*~
Starsky held on tightly to the side of the golf cart as it chugged up the slick hillside. Night had fallen hours before, and with it, an intensifying of the storm. The rain poured down in sheets, and Starsky hoped the cart wouldn't flip over before they found Hutch. "Step on it," he demanded. "And keep talkin'..."
"I'm trying, Mr. Hutch, I'm trying," answered Quigley, giving him a nervous glance. "She came to my house early this afternoon, brandishing an umbrella, and behaving like a mad thing, she was." He raised his voice. "It was quite frightening, very disturbing."
Starsky ran a hand over his face, ostensibly to brush away the rain's wetness, but as much for a second to think, and to convince himself to remain calm. "Okay, when we got back from lunch," he said, "we were watching tv. When you called, which was, what? Eight hours later, Hutch was gone. And you think she had something to do with that?"
"I know she did," shouted Quigley, as the cart leapt over a rock. "She said she did."
"What did she say? Why was she there?"
"She was raving on and on about my grandfather, how he'd led her on, and cast her aside the disgrace of it, you know...how she planned to fix things...already had started to fix things..." Quigley paused as he slowed the cart and idled for a moment. "Which way, which way..." he murmured, tapping himself on the forehead. Choosing a fork in the lumpy, wet path, he accelerated once again.
"I don't get what this has to do with the case...or with Hutch," Starsky yelled, the escalating panic over his partner's life clearly evident in his voice.
"It's retribution, pure and simple," Quigley shouted back. "And you and your partner are in the way... an unexpected, but not insurmountable obstacle, she said." He slowed the cart down. "There," he pointed to a wooded area. "This is her land," he said, "I'm sure he's in there somewhere...not that we will be able to find him till morning..."
"I need to find my partner," Starsky said evenly, climbing from the small vehicle. "And then you and me're gonna talk some more."
"By all means," Quigley agreed. He reached in the back of the golf cart, flipped up the booty lid, and handed an object to Starsky. "Flashlight," he explained. "And I have a blanket if he's...if we're able to find him."
An hour into the search, Starsky was beginning to succumb to the unrelenting wet and chill, and he wasn't at all sure if it was from the rain, or the ache inside at the possibility that he wouldn't find Hutch, or in what condition he might find him. He wasn't sure which was more frightening.
He and Quigley had begun at opposite sides of the parcel of land, their occasionally sweeping flashlights reassuring them both that the other was still on the search, although the rain and thunder were too loud for conversation to be exchanged. Their attempts at shouting for Hutch were carried away by the wind, and Quigley was calling Starsky's name anyway, but Starsky figured that Hutch, were he nearby, would likely answer to either.
Suddenly Starsky's foot caught on a root, and he was catapulting through the air, landing hard on the sopping ground. "Moron," he hissed disparagingly...until he realized that the breathy whisper he'd attributed to his own voice, had actually come from somewhere left of where his body was sprawled.
"Hutch?" He scrambled up and grabbed at the place from where the voice had come, hand making solid contact with his partner's body. 'Hutch!" he breathed, moving closer and nearly falling again.'
"Starsk..." Hutch whispered weakly. "Starss..."
"Right here, Hutch, right here," Starsky made his tone as soothing as possible, then stood up and yelled for Quigley. "Got him! Bring the blankets!" He dropped down to his partner, setting the flashlight down at an angle so he could assess the damage. "Aw, Hutch...where're you hurt, huh? Where's it hurt?" He ran a hand through Hutch's sopping hair. "What the hell were you thinkin' goin' off without me, huh? Pretty stupid, if you ask me, and..."
"M'cold, and my arm..." Hutch whispered, "an' head..." He shivered violently. "Cold..."
"Okay," Starsky said, an eerie calm descending upon him. If Hutch were clear enough to answer questions, things couldn't be as bleak as he'd feared. He yanked a clean handkerchief from his pocket, although damp from the rain, it was still absorbent enough that he was able to wipe at the trickle of blood that was running down the side of Hutch's face. Holding it in place with one hand, he used the other arm to maneuver his partner up against him, hoping that his own body warmth would keep his partner's chills from becoming any more pronounced.
Quigley appeared then, and without a word, helped Starsky to wrap Hutch in the musty blanket which was already growing damp from being carried through the storm. "Which arm?" Starsky asked Hutch, and the blond indicated his injured limb with a brief tilt of his head.
"Okay," Starsky soothed, "Gonna be okay, come on..." and he looped Hutch's good arm around his own shoulder and dragged him to his feet.
Halfway down to the path, Hutch's legs gave out from under him, with a mumbled, "Sorry..." and he sagged, nearly pulling Starsky down with him. Starsky grimly picked him up, and carried him the rest of the way to the cart.
"You gotta hospital here?" Starsky demanded, when Quigley appeared at his side to help him secure Hutch for the ride. Starsky climbed in the back seat and pulled Hutch down against him, trying to warm him with his own body, and running a hand up and down his back in comfort.
"No hospital, we've a few doctors, if it's that serious we fly back to the mainland," Quigley explained, settling in the driver's seat. "We'll take him to my house, and I'll go for Dr. Meade."
As there was little choice, Starsky shook his head in agreement and concentrated all his efforts into warming his partner. Hutch continued to shiver, and yet there was a disturbing warmth radiating from his body, and blood all over goddamned everything. "Shot, Hutch, is that what happened?" Starsky asked softly.
"Nnn..." Hutch shook his head slightly. "Sta..." he broke off into a fit of coughs, and Starsky held him tighter until they passed.
"Sta...stabbed, buddy, is that what you're tryin' to tell me?"
"Mm," Hutch blinked his eyes slowly, apparently in deference to nodding.
Smoothing back the matted blond hair from the forehead cut, Starsky whispered reassuringly. "S'okay, now," and, he pulled a bit of Hutch's shirt away from his chest to look at the wound. Bloody, yes, but it appeared to be a shoulder wound, nothing more, and Starsky relaxed marginally. He pressed a hand to the uninjured part of Hutch's forehead and leaned down again to speak into Hutch's ear. "Got a fever cookin' there, partner, prob'ly from the rain...didn't your mother ever tell you to wear your rubbers?"
This elicited a tired smile from the blond, and at that point Starsky relaxed, knowing his partner was conscious and coherent. He lay his cheek down on the top of his partner's head, closing his eyes in thanks for a moment, and tried to be patient as the golf cart hurtled back through the darkness.
~*~
"Hutch, try to help me a little, if you can," Starsky asked gently, "We've gotta get these wet clothes off you."
Hutch, though offering Herculean effort, provided minimal assistance, but it was enough, and Starsky stripped him quickly and efficiently of the wet clothing, which he discarded in a corner. "Sorry, partner, it's all he's got," he told the blond, holding up a lavender and blue sweat suit."
"You gotta be kidding..." Hutch breathed, fixing the ensemble with a disdainful eye.
"Wish I was, babe, but at least it's warm and dry," Starsky said, all business, and no teasing apparent in his tone. "Come on..." and he pulled Hutch upright as he fitting the clothing to his partner's still shivering form. "Quigley went to get the doc," he continued, easing Hutch back against the guest room's many pillows. He pulled up a blanket and comforter, tucking them around his partner, then picked up a steaming mug from the bedside table. "Come on," he urged, "drink this, it'll make you feel better."
"What izzit?" Hutch slurred, reaching for the mug. It was obvious that the shivers were going to preclude his holding the drink without spilling it, so Starsky put his hands around Hutch's and guided it toward his lips.
"Tea," Starsky told him. "It'll warm you up, come on."
Hutch took a few tentative sips, then pushed the mug away. "Don't feel good..." he said, curtly. "Can't."
Starsky pulled the tea away quickly. "Gonna throw up?" he asked, looking around for a trash can.
"No," Hutch said firmly. He took a deep breath. "No, just feel sick."
"Okay, you let me know," Starsky said gently. He took a cloth and a basin of water that Quigley had provided before his departure and began trying to clean up the laceration on Hutch's forehead. "Gonna need a coupla stitches, I think," he observed. "What'd she hit you with?"
Hutch winced at the careful dabbing. "Her umbrella." He made a sour face.
"She ain't no Mary Poppins, is she?" Starsky said, taking hold of Hutch's chin and tilting his head to a better angle. "Hold still, I need to get this clean. I still can't believe I found you."
"I can't believe you tripped over my foot."
Starsky chuckled. "Me neither, usually you're the clumsy one of the family." He shook his head. "Hey, Hutch?"
"Mm?"
"Why didn't you wake me up? Why'd you go out there by yourself?"
Hutch looked at him for a long moment, looking sad and tired and worn. "I--you were sleeping, and I--"
"You know what? Don't you ever do anything that stupid again," Starsky told him firmly. "What if something had happened to you, huh? I mean really happened. How d'ya think I'm supposed to deal with that on top of everything else that's happened? I understand how you feel about things, at least I think I do, but come on. Next time use a little sense, okay?"
Hutch shivered and closed his eyes. "Are you done?" he asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
Starsky sighed and leaned down to give his partner a quick hug. "Yeah, I'm done," he breathed. "M'just glad you're okay. Now try to drink some tea, your teeth are rattling ."
"We're here," Quigley announced simply, as he preceded a tall gray haired man into the room. "This is Dr. Meade."
"Hi, David Starsky," the dark haired detective rose and held out his hand. He indicated his partner, "and Ken Hutchinson. We're glad to see you."
"I can imagine." The doctor sat down on the side of the bed, and placed the back of his hand on Hutch's forehead, as he looked over his patient appraisingly. "Little bit of fever," he announced. "What happened, son?"
Hutch started to reply, then turned away and coughed weakly. Starsky moved immediately to the other side of the bed and ran a hand up and down Hutch's back. "S'okay," he soothed. He looked across the bed at the physician. "I found him up in the woods, been out in the rain at least six hours, cut on his head, and..." he gently pulled down the front of the sweatshirt, revealing the hasty bandage he'd applied to the shoulder wound. "He'd been stabbed."
"Let's start with that," the doctor decided. He carefully peeled the bandage away and inspected the edges of the stab wound. "Looks like...looks like...pen knife?" He raised his eyes to Hutch's face.
"Palette knife," Hutch said softly.
Dr. Meade flitted his eyes to Quigley, smiled, then looked back at Hutch. "Did you piss off an artist?" he asked.
Quigley cleared his throat. "I think it might have been my palette knife," he put in. "Last night...my tools were not where I'd left them...and when I took inventory this afternoon, some were missing."
"Okay," the doctor said. He looked at Quigley again. "Daniel, I'm going to need some fresh hot water, and some more pillows."
"Surely," Quigley agreed, moving soundlessly from the room.
"Good man," Dr. Meade said, as the artist left. "Quite misunderstood, but his heart's in the right place." He probed a little at Hutch's shoulder. "You're going to need some stitches, son, both here, and in your head. I think it would be better to send you to the mainland. Better equipment, better lighting, plastic surgeon..."
"No." Hutch said emphatically.
"Blintz, what're you...?"
"No," the blond repeated. "S'all going down tomorrow night...Miss Patton...she's got a..."
"Miss Patton?" The doctor arched an eyebrow. "Now there's a strange duck." He looked down at Hutch again. "Wait a minute," he said, "you mean she's the one who..."
"Yeah, she did," Starsky answered for his partner. "Damn near killed him, and left him for dead. If I hadn't..."
"...been such a klutz..." Hutch said hoarsely, closing his eyes. He blinked twice and opened them purposefully. "This is all a vendetta against Mr. Quigley," he told Starsky. "She stole the manuscript and pulled out..." he paused to cough harshly.
"Easy, Hutch, go slow," Starsky warned.
"...pulled out the tiles, because she...his grandfather..."
"Okay, okay, I know that bit."
"she's been replacing them with fakes...around the island...when we showed up..."
Quigley reentered the room, and set down a pan on the bed. "When you showed up, it speeded everything up for her," he explained, "because when I started making scrapings of the tiles, she knew it was only a matter of time until I discovered that they were forgeries. By stealing my manuscript, she had hoped to slow down my project, give herself time...and destroy me in the process, but then..."
"When we showed up," Starsky said, the light dawning, "she needed to get rid of us, and the tiles and the manuscript before we..."
"...and now she's..." Hutch breathed softly, "...got accomplices...from the mainland...and tomorrow..."
"Got it," Starsky said, "now shut up, you sound awful." He squeezed Hutch's good shoulder affectionately. "So you want her to think you're still out there lost and dead somewhere, and let the buy go off as planned tomorrow night, and then we don't just get her, we get everyone...and we're all happy little campers."
Hutch nodded, and indicated Starsky with the cant of an eyebrow. "Pretty smart for...klutz..."
Dr. Meade looked up from his work. "I can tell you that none of these wounds are life threatening, if that helps. I can suture them, I can do that here and now. I worry about infection, you're already running a fever...exposure...all of that."
"Bottom line..." Hutch said.
"If Daniel and your partner here agree to keep an eye on you, and if by morning there are no complications, then I think it would be safe for you to stay here until your partner catches the bad guys." His eyes twinkled and he winked at Starsky. "Always wanted to say that," he said, "'the bad guys'." He reached into his black bag and pulled out a packet of suturing materials. "Shall we?"
~*~
"How you doin', Hutch?" Starsky asked softly, in the darkness.
"Okay," Hutch assured him. "Tired, sore...okay."
"Okay," Starsky said. He leaned back in the chair, and propped up his feet on the bed. "Can I get you anything?"
"No, but thanks."
"You're sure about this?"
"Yeah, it's the right thing to do," Hutch said.
"Well," Starsky mused. "Since Quigley turned out to be an okay guy and all, I mean, if you're feelin' up to it...there's a concert at the Casino tomorrow night...if I get done workin', Quigley's got two extra tickets for you and me."
"Oh yeah?" Hutch asked, through the darkness, "Who's playing?"
"Donny and Marie Osmond," Starsky answered, the grin evident in his voice.
"Gimme the trash can, Starsk," Hutch said evenly, "gonna be sick again..."
"Fine, fine," Starsky fussed. "We can hold out for the Captain and Tennille if you want, they're here next week."
Hutch chuckled softly, but then was unable to contain a quiet moan of discomfort, and instantly Starsky was perched on the edge of the bed again, soothing his forehead, and tucking the blankets more firmly around him.
"Close your eyes, Blondie," Starsky said quietly, "try to get some sleep, and I'll take care of everything, a'right?" He continued speaking softly, the words nearly unintelligible, but their intent clear and effective, as he stroked Hutch's now-dry hair gently. "Gonna be okay..."
Hutch closed his eyes gratefully, against the sting of the stitches, and the fevered chills which threatened to overtake him. "Saved the day, partner..." he murmured. "Good to have you back..."
"Starsky, you're pissin' me off," shouted Dobey through the telephone. "What the hell are you two up to?"
"Cap, stop yellin'," Starsky begged, "you're gonna wake up Hutch."
Without thinking how ridiculous the statement was, Dobey lowered his voice to a near whisper. "I just don't think this is a good idea," he said. "If Hutchinson's sick, he should be--"
"Cap, this is the way he wants to play it," Starsky insisted. "I promise I'll bring him home in the morning. Quigley turned out to be...well, not so much of a flake as we thought, and...he helped me find Hutch, and..." he fumbled for the correct words. "This is so much more than some stolen pieces of tile, it's...well, it's this guy's heritage, his life's work..."
"I get that, Starsky, but your partner's out of commission, which leaves you with no backup against who knows how many guys coming in tonight, with just you to make the bust...I don't like it. We can call for reinforcements, pick these guys up over here."
"Yeah, but Cap," Starsky ran a hand through his curls in frustration. "Who knows where they're gonna go from here? We don't even know what kind of boat they're gonna have, or plane, they could be headin' for Long Beach, or San Pedro, or anywhere, Mexico...I just think it's a lot smarter to get them while they're here."
"But what if this Hathaway person suspects something?" Dobey demanded. "What if she either calls off the rendezvous, or sets you up somehow?"
"It's Patton," Starsky said calmly, "she just looks like a Hathaway, and I been real good this morning with my 'I can't find my partner and I'm goin' crazy routine.' Interviewed half the town by eight a.m., they all think I'm nuts."
Dobey made a grumping noise indicating that he did not necessarily disagree with the townsfolk.
"I even went up to her house, Cap, and you shoulda seen me, I got my eyes all teary and everything. Shoulda won an Oscar."
"You know what, Starsky?"
"Yeah, Cap?"
"You give me a headache."
Starsky grinned. "That's just what Hutch says," he answered, pleased. "But he really doesn't mean it."
"All right, Starsky," Dobey sighed. "We'll play it your way. We'll have some guys out there in unmarked boats by sunset, but you can make the bust. They won't move till you tell 'em to."
"Thanks. I appreciate it. This one's important to me, because...well, it's just important."
"Okay, I've got it." Dobey allowed the scolding tone to recede. "How is Hutchinson?"
"Little better," Starsky said. "He's still runnin' a fever, but it's down a little, coughin' some, but he's not pukin' anymore, so that's good, nothin' looks infected, the doc was by to check him this morning. He'll be fine, and I'll bring him home tomorrow."
"All right, son," Dobey finished. "You take care."
"You bet." Starsky grinned over at his partner, who was propped up in bed, enjoying the entire exchange. "Oh, and Cap?"
"Yeah?"
"Hutch sends his love."
~*~
"You're sure you've got--"
"Hutch."
"Yeah, but--"
"Hutch." Starsky sat down on the edge of the bed. "Lookit, partner, you gotta cut this out. I got my badge, I got my gun, Dobey's on the way, half of the San Pedro police department are down in the harbor, fishin', ...it's fine, okay? It's fine."
Hutch lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. "It's just...you know...after everything..." He looked up at Starsky, eyes ever so slightly moist. "S'hard to let go, Starsk," he said quietly.
"I know. I promise you, it'll be fine. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
Hutch nodded, not quite able to speak.
Starsky grinned madly, then leaned down and tousled his partner's hair. "See ya, Blintz," he said, and was gone.
"Be careful, Starsk," Hutch whispered softly.
~*~
"Thanks," Hutch took the phone from Quigley, and tried to make himself more comfortable in the bed, which, between the injuries, the fever, and the random aches and pains of his adventure, was well nigh impossible. "What is it, Cap?"
"Starsky's gone?" Dobey asked.
"Yeah, he left about a half hour ago."
"Okay, that's fine. And, uh, how are you?" he asked almost as an afterthought.
"Terrific," Hutch answered. "What did you want him for?"
"Not that important," Dobey said. "I'm down here at the Casino, we wanted to let him know that we just got a call from the San Diego P.D., and I think these fences are going to be posing as a delivery service, gift shop items, novelty stuff...I was just going to let Starsky know...."
"You want me to--"
"Good Lord, no, Hutchinson, I want you to stay in bed. Starsky's a big boy now, and a good cop. He'll be looking at anything coming into that cove, he'll figure it out. This is his bust. You stay put."
"Okay," Hutch answered, biting his lower lip. "See ya, Cap."
~*~
Hutch pulled the windbreaker closer around his shoulders, shivering. Getting dressed had been nearly impossible, and he'd only been able to sneak out of the house because Quigley was planning to watch the rendezvous from the fishing club pier, figuring he had a vested interest in the outcome. Somehow, Hutch had managed to put on his pants, which were filthy and muddy from the night before, and he'd tied his shoes, although he suspected that a kindergartner might have done a better job.
He'd slipped out of the house and down the street, feeling the weight of his magnum, tucked in a jacket pocket, since there was no way to don the holster without having it rest against his shoulder wound.
Hutch slunk just above the softly lit path to the casino, up behind the wall, where he was sure he'd have a good view, but wouldn't be seen. He could clearly pick out Starsky's crouched form, behind the rocks where they'd been...God, was that only yesterday? Hutch blinked hard against the pain in his shoulder, and hoped with all his being that he wouldn't pass out. Beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead, from the fever, he supposed, as the night air was colder than he had truly expected. He clamped his mouth shut to keep his teeth from chattering, and rubbed a hand up and down his arm in an effort to keep warm.
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. A small boat, jetting purposefully into the cove flashed a light three times, and Hutch watched as the shadowed figure, which could only be Miss Patton, signaled back from the dock. He could clearly see her luggage outlined in the darkness, and the boat began to sidle up to where she was standing.
With that, Starsky gave a yell, and began running toward the dock, and the formidable Miss Patton. "Freeze!" he yelled. "Police!" as several other boats executed a pattern in the water, closing in on the incoming vessel. Shots were fired from the boat, and Hutch's heart froze as Starsky tumbled and rolled, although he was up again in an instant, pointing his gun, and shooting toward the spot from where the shots had come.
"Hold it, Miss Jane!" Starsky said loudly, grabbing her arm, but not taking his eyes off the craft on the water.
From his vantage point, Hutch saw, as if in slow motion, one of the men on the boat draw and aim at his partner. The words, "Starsky, get down!" froze in his throat, but they were unnecessary, because Starsky, at that precise moment, as if psychic, whirled and fired his Beretta. The two men occupying the small craft saw him turn and bailed out, leaping over the side, as the boat exploded in a fireball which lit up the sky, and sent showers of tinsel and confetti so thick into the sky that it nearly looked like snow.
Finally, Hutch was able to let out his breath, and he sagged weakly against the wall, watching Dobey appear from the fishing club's headquarters, as fellow policemen rounded up the two suspects who were still in the water. Starsky himself handcuffed Miss Patton, and as Quigley trotted merrily down the dock, Starsky personally handed over the woman's suitcase, which Miss Patton admitted contained his manuscript, and the original Catalina tiles.
"Good work, Starsky," Dobey boomed.
Hutch looked up to the skies, then closed his eyes in gratitude. "Good work, Starsk," he breathed, before pushing himself away from the wall, and heading back toward Quigley's home.
~*~
"Hey, Hutch!" Starsky took the steps two at a time. "You still awake in there?"
Hutch looked around quickly to make sure that all traces of his recent jaunt had been removed. Clothes were off and stashed, he was back in bed, resplendent in lavender jogging suited glory, and he quickly pushed a damp sneaker aside with his good hand, even as Starsky bounded into the room.
"Starsk!" he greeted his friend. "You're back, how'd you do?"
"The good guys won," Starsky crowed jubilantly. "Aw, you shoulda been there, Hutch, it was beautiful. Got the manuscript, got the tiles, sendin' Miss Jane far away from the Clampetts...it was terrific!"
Hutch beamed at him, prouder than he had ever been of his friend, his partner, this incredible human being who had overcome so very much. "Good for you, Starsk," he said quietly. "I'm proud of you."
"Thanks," Starsky was grinning broadly, eyes crinkling from the effort. "It was a good bust." He sat down on the edge of the bed. "How you feelin', partner?"
"I'm fine," Hutch answered, suddenly limp with exhaustion--although whether it was from the stress of worrying about his partner, or from his unplanned trek to the center of town, he was not sure. "Don't feel bad at all. Tired, glad you're back, though."
Starsky lay a hand on his forehead. "Still a little warm," he said. "Dobey's downstairs, but I think you ought to stay in bed. I'll bring you up something to eat."
"Starsk, forget about me," Hutch said emphatically. "Grab Dobey and Quigley and go out and have some champagne, and a steak or something. I'll be fine."
"Nah," Starsky shook his head. "Rather celebrate with you. Nothin' in the world like a good bowl of chicken soup after a tough case." He grinned at the blond. "Besides, this is our celebration," he said. "Even though you weren't there...you were there, you know?"
Hutch nodded. "Okay," he agreed softly.
"Dobey wants to come say hello, though, you feel up to that?"
"Sure."
Starsky reached down and tugged at Hutch's hair briefly. He held open his hand so that Hutch could see what he'd found clinging to the blond strands. "Even though you weren't there," Starsky repeated, "you were...there."
"Wow," Hutch said, "that looks like...uh...some of that...uh..."
"Confetti."
"Yeah, confetti." He felt his face flush.
"Busted," Starsky nodded his head for emphasis.
"Uh, busted?"
"Yup." Starsky's eyes twinkled with merriment. "Busted."
"Starsk, I--you're not mad?" Hutch asked, surprised.
"Not mad, and no lectures," Starsky promised, holding up his hand. He looked at Hutch seriously, then squeezed his hand. "Thanks for the backup, partner."
"Anytime," Hutch said fervently.
~*~
"I can carry the camera bag," Hutch insisted.
"No way, Blondie, I got it covered," Starsky insisted. "You just worry about gettin' off the boat without tripping over something. See if you can manage that."
"Starsk, come on, this is ridiculous, I'm fine," Hutch told him. He rotated a shoulder. "See how much better I can move? No fever, stitches come out in a couple of days, you've got to stop treating me like some kind of invalid."
"Hutch," Starsky peered at him strangely. "Get a holda yourself. You're getting' all wound up here." He shook his head. "Fine," he said, finally, "Carry the bag from the bakery."
Hutch reached out to take it, just as a small child, spying a familiar face on the landing, rushed past him, bumping him against the railing, and knocking the bag from his hand.
Starsky turned around quickly. "You okay?"
"Uh...hey, Starsk," Hutch laughed nervously. "Looks like your friend followed you home." He pointed to the ground where an oversized seagull was ripping through the white confectioner's bag, eyeing the pair of detectives threateningly, as it began to peck at the brownies within.
"You're dead, Hutchinson," Starsky said menacingly. "That was my brownie."
Hutch backed up against the railing, throwing Starsky his most pitiful expression. "Now, come on, partner, remember, I'm still hurting here, and..." He stopped mid-sentence as he was distracted by small fluttering forms, as a flock of tiny sparrows joined the seagull to share in the repast. "Uh...brownies are bad for you, you know, huh?" he pointed out, affecting a caring smile..
Starsky glared at him, and began to move closer.
"I'll, uh..m-m-meet you at the car, huh?" And Hutch took off, his partner in hot pursuit.
"Huuuutch!"
THE END
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