Fireflight

By Kathy Esselman

I

Ken Hutchinson tossed sweat-soaked in his bed, tormented by one of the enigmatic variations on the nightmare reality of Starsky's shooting three months before. This time Hutch ran out of the station into the parking garage only to find Starsky trapped in the Torino, its doors welded shut by the heat. The cops already on the scene informed him that a Molotov cocktail had been thrown through the rear windshield just as the car entered the garage which had ignited the upholstery. The Cali Drug Cartel had objected to an inquiry they had initiated into their local franchises. The Young Lords must have assumed Starsky would jump out of the car leaving himself open to attack. He had resisted that urge, remembering instead the instructions given by survival trainers who argued that the human body could withstand up to 360 degrees Fahrenheit.

Haven. Safe at home. Starsky had reached headquarters. Yet, they hadn't yet been able to pry open the doors. Two officers had gone for foam sprayers. Flames leaked out of the tomato, through the cracks in the back windows. His partner hunched over the front wheel gasping for air. No way to roll down the front window and feel the fire with fresh oxygen.

Hutch pulled off his jacket, wrapped it around his hands and yanked the door open on the driver's side. It gave. He dragged his friend out and away from the car, falling beside him on the ground. the acrid smoke choked him. he breathed deeply, wanting to clear his lungs. They were twenty feet from the fire. Still, he could not draw a clean breath of air.

His partner lay where he had fallen, breathing in short rasping tones, white shirt red with blood. Shouldn't be any blood. No way, he could have been hit with broken glass. No time to worry about that now. Not when Hutch grasped at every breath. he coughed. Swallowed. spit out smoke. Coughed again.

The disturbance alerted him. He tried to move, but felt groggy, choked by smoke. He moved deliberately, trying to regain his equilibrium. Smoke closed over him. He reached up and slipped his Magnum out of the holster hanging on a straight chair under his jacket. The air became increasingly unbreathable in the room. The window was barely visible through the oily grey fumes. He shook his head. He must have fallen out of bed in the grip of his nightmare. The dream had been a realization of his fears, the fire however was all too real. Using his elbows, he crossed the room, remaining close to the floor as he had ducked under barbed wires back in basic training. He smashed the window with his gun and crawled down the fire escape.

Tenants and street people crowded outside the front of the building shouting to one another, frustrating two uniforms assigned to crowd control. He lent them a hand until the fire engines arrived with reinforcements. They had the fire under control within twenty minutes.

By that time, his apartment had suffered extensive smoke and water damage to make it uninhabitable for, at least, a week. The bed squished as he set his suitcase down on it. He didn't want to look around and see what damage had been down. Right then, all he wanted was sleep. He had Starsky's key. His friend still remained in the hospital six weeks after he had been gravely wounded in the parking lot at Headquarters.

Hutch dropped his bag by the couch in Starsky's living room and went for a beer. The extra blankets and pillow were piled neatly in the closet with clean sheets. No need for extras. Neat. Even the extra blanket had been folded evenly, corners matched. No wonder Starsky became a cop. He liked his daily routine to be as well-organized as his belongings. This time, a bullet had once more brought disorder and disarray into his life.

Twice now, Starsky had survived a shooting incident. Next time, he might not be so lucky. Next time. Hutch slid down the doorjamb choking, catching for breath, trying not to think about all the next times to come. His lungs ached. His eyes smarted. The symptoms could be attributed to smoke inhalation, had to be if he was to get on with his job. He couldn't afford the fatal distraction of worrying about his partner, especially once Starsky got back on the street.

He couldn't sit here, gnawing over his problems. at least, not when he didn't have any answers. Better, he should go into work. The report on last night's stake-out needed to be typed up. Maybe, they'd found out something about the fire at his apartment. Anything.

Taking a Coors, he showered, changed and went back out into the pre-dawn darkness. The dampness seeped through his clothes. Droplets brushed off the freshly-watered shrubs onto the his leather jacket. He shook the water onto the newly-turned earth at the edge of the lawn in the process of being reseeded. The grave chill clung to him as he hurried toward the car. Rapidly, he got in, rolled up the windows, and headed downtown to Parker Center.

By the time he reached the office, Captain Dobey had already put a call through to Division requesting information about the Venice fire when he heard about Hutch's apartment. No luck, though. Someone had stuffed oily rags in some paint cans stored down in the basement apartment abandoned last month by a young couple passing through.

"By the looks of the physical evidence, it was an amateur job. No timing device. Nothin. You sure you want to stay in here, today?" Dobey shifted heavily on the edge of Starsky's desk, absently rattling the piggy bank that he had given his partner after they got promoted. Pigs for the pigs. Ever since, they'd stuffed it with pennies to hoard their small store of luck.

"Hutchinson, maybe, you best go back to Starsky's place. Get yourself some sleep. You been pushing too hard ever since Starsky left."

Might's well work through my shift."

"All right. You'd better follow down those leads you turned up last night. Starsky still coming home tomorrow?"

If the doctor doesn't change her mind," Hutch replied, resigned to the vagaries of the medical establishment.

Starsky was playing with the puzzle cube the Captain had given him when they arrived at the hospital. He dropped the pieces as soon as they came in. He had already packed his bags and set them by the door ready to leave as soon as the doctor sprung him. Dobey started fiddling with the puzzle cube as Hutch described the fire.

"Was there much damage?"

"Yeah, I finally got that waterbed I've always wanted."

"Hey, babe, you sure you're all right?" Starsky put his hand on his arm.	"Yeah," Hutch covered his hand. "The place should be cleaned up in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, you're just gonna' have to put up with me."

"I'll see what I can do. The doctor said she'd spring me at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. You gonna' be here."

"Depends on Captain Dobey - - "

"I think that could be arranged, if as you get yourself back into the squadroom straightaway. Your partner's drove off some of my best officers.""

"Thanks Cap,' Hutch responded sharply.

"Ready to go. Edith will be waitin' dinner."

"Whatcha' havin'?"

"Fried chicken and biscuits."

"You couldn't smuggle me out?"

"Not 'til tomorrow. Right now, we're gonna' feed this boy up," Dobey directed him toward the door. "Get yourself some rest."	"See you in the morning," Hutch said.

"You better be here bright 'n early. Otherwise, I am taking a bus."

Next morning, Hutch inched the tomato into a space close to the doors. Mel had repaired the damages inflicted by the shots that felled Starsky. Since the shooting, he had just warmed the Torino up and driven around the block a couple of times. He switched the motor off and sat there.

"Hey, you want him or do I just let some nice lady take him home." Huggy yelled from the doorway. Starsky had his suitcase and very determined look on his face.

"Hurry up there. I've gotta' get back."

"Comin' as fast as I can," Huggy said, slowing down to a shuffle. Hutch drew the car up to the curb and opened the passenger door. Huggy caught the brake, took the suitcase and handed it to Hutch who put it in the trunk. He reached down to help Starsky who was already prying himself out of chair.

Resting heavily on the arms, he stood a moment, wobbly as a tourist on his first cruise. Huggy started to take his arm, but Hutch shook his head. His partner needed to do this alone. Starsky lurched toward the driver's side, hung on, looking a little seasick, then let himself down into the seat. He still looked a little green, but Hutch decided to ignore it. The last thing he needed was to be reminded that he wasn't well yet.

A few more days, that's what the doctor had said. Give him time to get back into shape. Work back into his normal routine gradually. He'd be on desk duty for at least a month. Already, he leaned forward in his seat eager for an up-date on the stake-out on the art store dealing in stolen Mexican antiquities.

"Hug, you want a ride?" Hutch asked.

"No, I'm stayin' here awhile. A gentleman upstairs expressed an interest in purchasing a fine Rolex, I just happened to have on my person."

"See you later." Starsky revved up while Hutch winced visibly as he turned out of the parking lot narrowly missing a Cutlass Brome parked at the end of the aisle.

"Hey, look out." Hutch yelled as the other driver screeched to a halt.

"Who's driving, you or me," Starsky said.

"You, that's the problem.

"Are you saying I can't drive this overdressed hunk of scrap metal?"

"Just get us home in one piece," Hutch pleaded. Starsky pulled out on the freeway squeezing into a non-existent space in front of a van. The driver punched down on his horn obviously peeved by his tactic. Starsky considered driving on the freeway as an exercise in low-intensity warfare. Apparenty, he believed technology plus skill made this to be a winnable conflict. Hutch looked over at his partner but withheld comment on his guerrilla driving even after he had bested a semi for a choice position on the off-ramp. Hutch gripped the door. Just then Starsky paled suddenly, slowed the car and tried to catch his breath.

"Starsk?" Hutch reached out to touch his shoulder.

"S'nothing. I'm just not used to all this fresh smog," he grinned anemically. His friend looked worn when they reached the apartment and let Hutch help him up the steps. He stabbed at the frozen burrito Hutch warmed up for him and lay down as soon as he finished picking at his food. As soon as Starsky fell asleep, Hutch left quietly.

At the Municipal Building, Hutch spent the afternoon sifting through the records related to the last five apartment buildings set ablaze to trace a complicated web of cross-ownership to the same holding company. They had also changed hands several times in recent months for increasingly inflated prices which had increased their face value in spite of the fact that their real value had not risen. Interesting. No clue to the partner of the holding company. Westview Reality registered as a subsidiary of Arnulf Enterprises, a Bahamian holding company. Since Hutch did not think the D.A.'s office would spring for a trip to the West Indies, he seemed to have come dragging to a halt, at least temporarily. Damn! He'd seen the little girl they found last week. Home alone, she'd hidden under the bed and had died of smoke inhalation. The taste of smoke haunted him, brought back the memory of the child clutching a stuffed rabbit, huddled under her bed. Marisol. Sun child lost in smoke.

At Headquarters, he shared his findings with Captain Dobey. Shuffling the xeroxed copies, he pointed out the Westview Reality Company. The captain passed the pages to other members of the task force assembled by the Chief of Police to deal with this situation. Investigators from the Fire Department confirmed that a pattern of arson could be established in these recent fires. Only Hutch's building had proven an exception to their theories. He rented his apartment from an elderly couple related to the man who had laid out the canals of Venice. Other fires had been triggered by an incendiary device, while the fire at his building had been set off by the more traditional rags and gasoline.

Shards of the timing mechanism used by the arsonist had been retrieved from the burned buildings. They had been sent to the State Police Laboratories while the sites themselves had been thoroughly examined by specialists from the Arson Squad. The Westview Reality Company appeared to offer the best clue to the complicated questions raised by cross ownership.

"Any clue to who controls the that company?" Lt. Takahashi from the Arson Squad asked.

"The records are tangled up six ways from Sunday. An Eric Orsini manages the local office," Hutch replied.

"We'd better put a tail on him. Did you find out anything else that might be of interest, Hutchinson?"

""Five different realty companies have held these properties in the past twenty-four months. All of them have connections with Westview Realty or Arnulf Enterprises. It'll come as no surprise that Westview is a subsidiary of Arnulf Enterprises, incorporated with its home offices in the Bahamas."

"I'll check this out with the I. R. S. and the Feds. For now, why don't you head home. We can continue with this tomorrow," Dobey said as soon as all present had commented upon the information.

"Hutch had looked forward to sharing his finding with Starsky, but his partner slept until seven, then remained awake only long enough to eat dinner. That night, Hutch stayed up to watch "Torchy Blaine in Chinatown" then fell asleep before the intrepid reporter defeated the minions of the evil Tong.

The crash woke him. Blearily, he forced himself to full consciousness. The phone. Still ringing. Painfully. Insistently. He reached over the end of the couch and grabbed the receiver. A Fed from D. C. with a rotten sense of time was calling him at 5:30 A. M. Obviously some folks had never heard of Pacific Time.

"Federal Bureau of Investigation, Agent Leider speaking."

""Hutchinson, here."

"Your Captain Dobey got in touch with my boss last night. I've pulled our files on Jay Urbano. Seems he's involved in laundering money from the Midwest Truckers' Pension Fund. The Midwestern group are vying for control of Atlantic City with the Florida, South East and Montreal branches of the Mafia. They could be doing it for ready cash or might just want to call attention to this operation and embarrass this Midwestern group. We'll make our records available. Agent Stedman from our Los Angeles office will get in touch with you."

Hutch didn't want to talk to Agent Stedman, or anyone else for that matter. He didn't even want to wake up. Sleep seemed infinitely attractive and he pulled the covers over his head and began to drift off. The dream of smoke returned to haunt him. Still, grey, redolent with death. He shook himself. Acrid smoke drifted from the open window in the kitchen. Burning trash. Stumbling sleepily to the sink, he started to pull down the window. A bullet crashed through the sash grazing his forearm. He ran into the living room retrieved his Magnum and raced out on the porch just in time to see a black Firebird spin out onto the driveway. He could see a vanity plate inscribed with "Aztecs" as the car vanished around the bend.

The Aztecs had been trying to widen their area of influence on the West Side. Local distributors for the Cali Cartel, they had been suffering the normal woes of any quickly-expanding business. Quality control, underselling, and industrial espionage. A rival had alerted them to a shipment of cocaine base being smuggled upstate in a shipment of salsa from a small local firm. Starsky and Hutch had been able to intercept the shipment and were due to testify next week. Obviously, the jefe and his lieutenants thought a conviction might have a negative impact on second-quarter profits. Clearly, they would have to talk to Captain Dobey about improving their security procedures until after the trial.

II

David Michael Starsky jogged along the water's edge maintaining a steady, if unexciting pace. Eight weeks ago. B. B. S. (Before being shot) he could have easily doubled his time. Often he had out-run his partner, Ken Hutchinson despite his casual exercise schedule. Being a cop had kept him in shape. In the alleys of East L. A., he had run gang members to ground on days so hot, the asphalt stuck to his Nikes.

On this spring afternoon, the sun warmed the hard damp sand lapped by the waves. Few people walked along this exclusive stretch of sand until evening. If they lived here, they couldn't afford to indulge themselves. At these prices, the grains of sand weighed out at twice the price of the latest designer drugs. He let the waves wash away his footprints as he made his way through the surf.

The Malibu Compound stretched along the beach. Captain Dobey had wanted him to stay at a beach house owned by a friend who coached basketball in Boston who would not be back until after the NBA play-offs in June. Starsky could stay here until he testified against the Aliens, a group of enterprising distributors bent on expanding sales in the Bay Area. Hutch and he had intercepted a shipment of home-made salsa with a double-wrapped cocaine base. The Estevez Brothers had taken exception to their interference in the free market economy and had offered a hefty incentive to anyone who could eliminate the competition.

Captain Dobey felt confident that he could secure the Compound which would re-assure his partner. One less thing for to worry Hutch who was working the streets alone without Starsky watching his back. Hutch had always been able to count on his presence, ever since they had patrolled the lower reaches of the Ho Chi Min trail. Mean street from Saigon to L. A., they had always walked together. Last year, Hutch had only picked up his badge after they had quit the force because Starsky had not been ready to leave.

One more year. That had been the deal. The year was up. Maybe, he should take the job in his Uncle Jake's business and encourage his partner to go back to Law School. Hutch had spent every spare moment in the Intensive Care Unit (I. C. U.) willing his survival. His partner still looked tired, blue eyes pale and light blonde hair had faded in the weeks since the shooting. All shades of color and emotion had been leached out of his friend during the past two months. Maybe, the time had come to quit trying to outwit fate.

A golden retriever bounded after him. His owner, Sadie Breszky had offered to pay him for taking Golden Boy on his run. Her husband had written comics, pulps, and mysteries during the thirties and had parlayed that into a thirty-year career as a screenwriter. Good-natured, gifted with good sense, she reminded him of the old lady who owned the corner drug store in his neighborhood back and let kids read comics in the corner. If anyone saw fit to complain she'd pull herself up to her full four foot nine inches to respond: "So they're reading, ain't they!"

Sadie had given him a ride to temple on Friday night, his first visit in almost two years and had also insisted that Starsky borrow her Austin Healy Sprite to shop and explore the coast highway since he would not accept money for running the dog. Actually, he enjoyed having company on these afternoon excursions. Golden Boy raced ahead along the shore only to fall back, inscribing ever-widening circles until Starksy picked up his pace. The dog found a stick at the shoreline, recovered it, and threatening to topple Starsky in his enthusiasm to share this prize. Starsky threw the stick. The dog plunged into the surf to retrieve it, snapping and growling at the waves breaking on shore. A cramp caught him unaware. A sharp pain immobilized him while he tried to breathe evenly. He leaned over to rest his hands on his knees suddenly unable to move. The muscles in his chest had rebelled against the extra mile added to his schedule. Waves broke around his ankles, curdled white as they deposited pebbles on the sand. Goldie chased them snapping and snarling as if intent on confining them in their proper bounds.

When he bent over his rumpled black curls flopped over his forehead since he had not taken the time to have his hair cut since he got out of the hospital. Too much trouble. He attempted to breathe evenly, but could not control the pain. He kneaded muscles the knotted muscles in his left side hoping to relieve the spasm without any of his prescription muscle relaxants.

"You sick?" a small voice asked. A little girl in a candy-striped hat and sunsuit was studying him seriously from an uphill vantage.

"No, I'm all right." Starsky responded, sitting down on a driftwood log at the bottom of the incline. Goldie sprawled at his feet amenable as always to a brief break in their schedule.

"Can I pet your dog?" When he nodded, she extended her hand gingerly to let Goldie have a sniff before scratching his ears. The dog rolled over on his back, his tail thumping rhythmically. "What's his name?"

"Golden Boy out of Barrie's Blue Boy by Carstair's Sunbright. You can call him Goldie."

"His name's bigger than he is, just like mine. That's what my daddy says. I can't say my whole name. You can call me T'Lis."

"My name's Dave. Have you lived here long?"

"We just got here on "bacation."

"T'Lis . . . T'Lis." A man with light brown hair burned blonde by the sun hurried down the hill. Compact, medium height and weight, he still exuded an air of authority as he moved toward the water. Spotting them, he scooped up the little girl in his arms. "T'Lis, I told you to stay on the deck when I'm with George Samuel." He had light hazel eyes, yellow rimmed with green, that seemed to reflect his moods. Pale when he had first approached them, his eyes seemed darker, tinted undersea green in the afternoon sun. He turned toward Starsky holding him with a steady gaze. "I hope my daughter didn't bother you. She's been watching your dog all week."

"Goldie's pretty irresistible. How old's your little girl?"

"Two-and-a-half, this month."

"She's friendly as a pickpocket. Fearless, too." Starsky smiled approvingly.

"We kind of like her," he smiled putting her down on the sand. "I just wish I had more time to spend with her. I've only got six months home leave. By the way, my name's Jim."

"Dave Starsky. You're in the Navy?"

"I'm serving with the Fleet," he started up the hill, military bearing evident in his carriage.

"Look, I have to get back. If you'd like a cup of coffee, I just brewed a fresh pot." Starsky began to say no, but when he moved he realized the muscle pain had abated, not disappeared. He would never make it home with out sitting down for awhile. He might as well spend it here. If he limped into Sadie's house, she would have him at the hospital in six minutes flat.

"Don't mind if I do. What about Goldie?"

"Bring him along. I'm sure we can scare up a snack for him." They climbed up the beach in companionable silence while the little blonde girl ran ahead with the dog. They entered a weathered clapboard and fieldstone beach house with Indian rugs on the walls. Functional chairs and leather couches were ranged around a fireplace on the far wall. Book shelves crammed with volumes consumed almost all the remaining space. A table had been set against the clear glass wall overlooking the beach. An infant seat was sitting at one end and a high chair at the other leaving only one space free.

"There's coffee in the kitchen. I'd better go check on the baby."

Starsky found coffee boiling down in a coffee-maker crammed with coffee grounds. He put a couple of extra cups of water in the pot to dilute it. The kitchen was a bright airy space, that looked as if it had been designed for someone who enjoyed cooking. Not this guy. There were printed notes on the bulletin board that included precise directions for the preparation of baby food. Formula in thirty-two steps which started with turning on the stove. Coffee seemed to test the limits of his culinary skills. "You think it's done?"

"I had to put in a little water."

"Shit, I thought I had that figured out. After I went to the Academy, I didn't get much of a chance to cook. Never seemed like a problem until now." He poured them both a cup, put milk out, put a bag of cookies on the table and motioned him to set down. T'Lis climbed in his lap settling against him while she ate a chocolate chip cookie.

Starsky smiled as he sipped the now-drinkable coffee. In an odd way, this man reminded him of his partner in his single-minded approach to everyday problems. He probably never just let things happen. Jim would persist until he had mastered this discipline to his own satisfaction, just like his partner, Hutch, who always had a how-to book in hand. He would have to find a cook book that started with turning on the stove.

"Are you alone here?" Starsky asked.

"For the time being. My mother-in-law is due in at the end of the week, but she might be delayed. They're in the Diplomatic Corps."

"This is their place?"

"Yeah, I didn't expect it to be so isolated. Are there any commissaries close by?"

"Hey, we got specialty stores that charge a day's pay for caviar and quail's eggs. For milk you gotta' go down toward L.A."

"Where can I get the subway?"

"Nowhere, all we got are rackety city buses that stop up on the road two or three times a day. Believe me, you do not want to take one."

"I don't think I have a lot of choice. I'll have to go shopping in a couple of days and I don't drive."

"What borough are you from?"

"Borough?"

"Only Americans who can't drive are from New York."

"Oh, I just let my registration lapse. I've been assigned to an exploratory mission."

"Hey, you seen those Emperor penguins down in Antarctica? They really look like Chilly Willy."

"I see him on tb." T'Lis piped up. "He funny. Can I go talk to Goldie. He look lonely."

"Hey, we'd better get on with our walk. His owner will be worried about us if we don't get back soon. I'm running him for a lady down the beach. Hey, look. If you could use a ride to the store, I'm going down tomorrow."

Thanks, I'd appreciate that." Jim walked out on the deck keeping a close hold on the little girl who clearly wanted to spend more time with Goldie. Starsky determined to take the dog with them in the car tomorrow even though he hated to think what they might do to the Torino's upholstery. The hell with that. It needed a cleaning anyway. The beach house seemed a great deal emptier that night than it had in the past. He had grown accustomed to the quiet, had welcomed the quiet after the hospital's din. Now, he felt at odds with his solitude.

In some funny way, the guy reminded him of Hutch. Quiet. Determined and alone. Only Hutch ever seemed so alone. A chill wind cut through the house. Starsky went to close the sliding door that led to the deck and lay down on a lounge chair listening to the waves break on the rocks below. The phone must have rung at least five times before he stumbled through the door to answer it still half asleep.

"Starsk, where the hell have you been?"

"Fell asleep out on the porch. Guess I'm not the Flash. Five miles seems to be my limit for the time being."

"Hey, you sure you're ok?"

"Think I'd let a perfectly good guilt trip go ta' waste, if I wasn't. You've spent enough time lookin' after me these past few weeks. Weren't you goin' ta' give Felicia a call?"

"Yeah, I took her bowling last night," Hutch said. "She's on call the rest of the week."

"That place got everything you need."

"Well, ta' tell you the truth I could use those electric trains you got me last year."

"With the light-up village."

"Yeah, I almost forgot about the station and the lumber loader."

"You met a girl with a passion for trains."

"Yeah, but she's not your type. So when can ya' bring 'em up."

"I've got late shift tonight. I should be able to drive up late tomorrow."

"Look, I'll pick us up a couple of steaks. You can stay ta' dinner."

"Yeah, it's kinda' quiet in the squadroom. All the bad guys seem ta' be waitin' for you."

"I'm touched."

"Take care, babe."

"See ya' tomorrow, Hutch." The next morning Starsky woke up on the couch, stiff from the damp breeze blowing through the open door. He had slept in despite his good intentions to get up early. The Torino balked only a bit on being started. He had only driven a little in recent weeks and looked forward to getting out on the coast highway. When he arrived at Jim's place, he went around the back. T'Lis was implanted in front of the television, any closer and she would have had to be surgically-separated from the screen. Her father was brushing out the blonde curls before putting a sun hat on that matched her sunsuit and moving her back from the tv. He straightened his own t-shirt before seeing to the baby settled in the carry seat on the table. The breakfast dishes had been cleaned and the room picked up already. The floors looked as if they had been holystoned. Starsky could not help being impressed. Much as he liked his apartment to be clean, he didn't know if he could keep his place spotless with two kids underfoot.

They picked up their groceries in record time. Jim had little interest in food but proved open to suggestions. He had been living on tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches. Starsky helped him pick out a slightly more varied diet. All canned soup could be cooked exactly the same way. Fruit and salad should be easy enough to fix, particularly with bottled dressing. He had a list of things to get for the kids, although some of the words were in a choppy hand, like Chinese script. He followed that to the letter. The baby only woke up on their way home and T'Lis was too enthralled with her adventure to get into any mischief.

"I really appreciate your help today. I didn't realize we were so far away from everything."

"That's all right."

"I'm going to work on the boat this afternoon. They've let it go the past few years." Starsky followed him into the house grabbing three boxes of Pampers. He put the baby in a mesh crib warmed by the last of the morning sun to touch the kitchen. T'Lis started to go back to the television as if drawn by a magnetic coil. A sharp command halted her in her tracks. She shuffled slowly backwards until she reached the kitchen. "Pease Daia, just this once."

"We'll read a book as soon as I get done with these things."

"I not need diapers. I big girl," she pointed at the box of Pampers on the chair. She looked inordinately pleased with herself.

If you'd like to help you could take these boxes to your brother's room." She smiled, hazel eyes wide reflecting her father's. Taking a deep breath, she hauled a box half as big as she was down the hall.

"That should keep her busy for a little while." Jim gave a pleasant lopsided grin as she disappeared around the corner.

"Coffee."

"Only if I make it."

"Deal." Jim organized cans and boxes in the cupboard clearly anticipating a decent cup of coffee. T'Lis slid on the shiny floor. returned, tried to drag two more boxes off the chair with decidedly mixed results since she tipped over backwards in the process.

"I've got to get going," Starsky said.

"Thanks for the lift."

"Anytime." Starsky started toward the door when a cramp caught him. He groped his way to the nearest solid surface. The wall was the only thing holding him up.

"Are you all right?"

"No." Jim, helped him to the nearest couch. Starsky huddled in the corner painfully attempting to ease himself into a more comfortable position. He managed to get the muscle relaxant prescribed by his doctor out of his pocket, but his hands were shaking too badly to open the bottle.

"Let me help," Jim set down a glass of water on the table and opened the child-proof cap after only three tries, a record of sorts. "How many?"

"Two," Starsky gasped.

"Here, drink this slowly. Just rest. There's no reason to move just yet." Jim moved toward the hall carrying two boxes of Pampers in an attempt to give him some privacy. Starsky shut his eyes for a few moments until the painkillers had time to work. He could hear muffled voices from the other end of the house, comforting sounds which soothed him as he fell asleep. The late afternoon sun slanted in through the blinds waking him. Someone had covered him with a dark afghan.

The house seemed uninhabited. Still. He raised himself gingerly from the couch supporting himself by leaning on the arm. He rested against the bookshelf by the door grateful that the pain and stiffness appeared to have subsided once more. The doctor had recommended a course of exercise that included a daily swim; but he had not implemented those instructions fearing just the kind of cramp which had struck him earlier.

Starsky pushed open the sliding glass doors that opened onto the deck. There, he could hear soft voices from the side of the house. He moved toward the door still not feeling entirely steady on his feet. Jim was sanding the hardwood trim of a sailboat while T'Lis balanced on the rail scrubbing brass polish on the fittings with fixed concentration, sandy blonde curls framing her face. The baby sat in a sturdy carrier protected from the sun by a green-striped umbrella stuck in the sand. Jim slid down the side to make sure the baby had not gotten too much sun. He brushed the thick shiny black hair back from George Samuel's face. Unguarded, he studied the child with a look of ineffable sadness.

"Sta'sky," T'Lis jumped down to the deck and jumped off the boat. Her father caught her just as she was preparing to hurl herself in his direction.

"How are you feeling?" Jim asked, bundling her under his arm like a bag of flour.

"Better. What time is it?"

"Almost four."

"Goldie."

"I already called Sadie Brezschky. I told her you'd called to say your doctor's appointment had been delayed by an emergency."

"I'd better get down there."

"Why don't we come along. I wouldn't mind a walk before dinner."

"I'm not going to move very fast tonight," Starsky warned him.

"Don't worry, neither am I. George Samuel was up half the night with the croup."

"He seems to be all right now." Starsky observed as he put on the t-shirt he'd folded up on a bench by the door. From his muscle tone it was obvious that he was accustomed to regular work-outs a good deal more strenuous than a stroll on the beach. He swung the baby into a backpack and buckled on T'Lis's sandals before they started back up the beach. T'Lis stood up on her tiptoes to ring the bell beside the door. "Up up and away," the first notes of the Superman theme chimed brightly. Sadie Brezhky was nearly bowled over by Goldie as she opened the door. The retriever wriggled ecstatically as T'Lis scratched him behind the ears.

"I think Goldie's found a friend," Sadie smiled.

"He's a beautiful dog," Jim remarked, patting the wagging mass of fur. George Samuel cried, a high thin wail made more plaintive by his size.

"David said you had a baby, but not one so little. How old is he?" Sadie asked trying to get a better look at George Samuel.

"Almost five weeks."

"We better get going." Starsky started toward the steps. He could see a marine inversion beginning to form along the shore. They would barely be able to see their hands in front of their faces if they waited much longer. happened to their mother sooner or later. Now, he wasn't so sure he wanted to know.

"If you'd like to leave the baby here, I'd be happy to keep an eye on him. My oldest granddaughter and her family were in last week. I've still got the crib set up." Starsky suggested.	"I don't know."

"Hey, there's fog rollin' in. It's gonna' be cold and damp down on the beach."

If Jim doesn't feel right about leaving him . . ."

"It's not that . . . I don't want to impose."

"You wouldn't be imposing. He's a doll. Where did he get all that beautiful black hair?" She gently extracted the baby from the backpack who quieted immediately at her touch.

"Look, let me get the jacket my granddaughter left behind. I don't want that child catching her death out on the beach." She retrieved a dark blue windbreaker from the closet and handed it to Jim. As he knelt on one knee to slip on her jacket, the little girl regarded him solemnly, wide hazel eyes mirroring his own.

"She's got your eyes," Sadie observed.

"And my stubborn streak. At least, that's what my mother-in-law says."

David said she's coming soon. Has she seen the new baby?"

"No, my father-in-law's a trouble shooter in the Diplomatic Corps. An emergency came up that took them away from home at the last minute."

"I'll bet she's looking forward to seeing him."

"She's called twice since we got here."

"Is this her the first grandson?"

"And last," Jim's look discouraged any further speculation. Sadie busied herself with the zipper on T'Lis's jacket, unwilling to inflict further pain.

"Daia, we go," T'Lis strained to hang onto Goldie's leash who seemed equally ready to go out the door. Sadie settled the baby in the crib patting his back soothingly as she pulled a light coverlet over him.

"You sure he'll be all right?" Jim asked.

"He'll be fine." Starsky could see her watching as they disappeared into the fog vainly trying to keep up with the little girl romping with Goldie at the edge of the water.

"Be careful. You don't want to get wet," her father called.	"Of course, she does," Starsky picked up his pace as he began to feel better. "Maybe if we speed up a little, we can wear them out." Jim stretched out to pick up his pace. He ran smoothly clearly well-accustomed to such activity. They

raced along the edge of the water on the hard-packed sand passing the granite rocks tumbled at the foot of the cliffs. the fog hung thick over the beach. Tendrils wound around their feet, grey and musty. T'Lis finally began to lag behind them dashing in and out of the wavelets behind the dog. Goldie snapped at the combers getting closer as the tide began to rise. T'Lis squealed as she retrieved star fish and crabs washed up on the sand. Starsky and Jim turned back up the beach. As they neared the rocks, Goldie began to dash in circles around Starsky in a vain attempt to engage him in their games. Black boulders jutted out into the water. They started around the rocks. Goldie skidded into Starsky knocking him off-balance. He twisted. A cramp gripped him again. He fell against the rock. Kirk leaned down to help him.

A dark shape loomed out of the fog and dragged Jim away from him. "Get your hands off my partner."

"Hutch." Starsky yelled, barely able to make himself heard above the din. His partner must have blamed Jim for his collapse. Hutch had had a bad few weeks, make that a bad couple of years. He grabbed Jim by the shirt, slung him up against a boulder and tried to take him out with a single blow. Jim rolled with the punch and responded with a left hook that seemed to come out of nowhere. He deflected a body blow drawing his opponent out into the open where he could take advantage of his speed and agility. Although Hutch had four inches and fifteen pound on him, the younger man made up for it with a series of unorthodox moves that kept him off balance. T'Lis dashed toward the combatants.

"Get way from my Daia."

"T'Lis Ydresil, get back. That's an order," Jim spoke firmly without taking his eyes off the man in front of him. Starsky lifted her up to put her on a rock safely out of reach.

The fighters circled around one seeking a hold. Jim feinted then moved in weakening Hutch with a rapid series of blows aimed at his head and upper body. Jim might not want to inflict any real damage on his opponent, but his partner harbored no such scruples. Once more, Hutch attempted to back him up against the granite rocks at the foot of the cliffs.

"Damn it, Hutch, lay off." Starsky wrestled him to the ground and pinned him on the hard-packed sand by the water.

"Whatta' ya' think yer doin'?"

"Some detective you are, Sherlock. This guy you were attempting to murtilate was trying to help me. I got a cramp." Starsky kept a firm hold on him.

"Says who."

"Says me. Now, say you're sorry ta' the nice man before I land you one."

"You couldn't do that on your best day."

"Go ahead, make nice with him." Starsky let Hutch go, caught his breath and slowly got to his feet with his partner's help.

"Sorry," Hutch shoved his hand toward Jim.

"You've got to protect your partner. That's not always easy."

"I don't know if it's even possible, sometimes, I swear Starsky needs a keeper."

"You sound like my First Officer." Jim gave a rueful grin.	"Hey, I don't wanta break up this mutual admiration society but I, for one, am starving," Starsky announced to the world at large. "How's about you, Lady Jane?" He lifted T'Lis from her perch gingerly setting her on the sand.

"I hungry," she agreed. "We go." She ran over to her father's side to drag him down the beach. Goldie returned from a short adventure, an impossibly large chunk of driftwood clamped in his jaws. T'Lis could barely heave it to the water's edge.

Starsky flinched when he leaned over to pick it up.

"You still hurtin', Starsk?" Hutch ruffled his hair sliding his arm down his back to lend unobtrusive aid as they started back up the beach. Starsky welcomed the easy familiarity of his support.

"I'd better get back to pick up the baby. Sadie's going to think I abandoned him. I can drop Goldie off," Jim offered.

"Hey, there's no necessity," Starsky objected.

"It's the least I can do. Besides, it's on my way."

"Look, I picked up a couple of extra steaks. If you want to come by later, feel free."

Jim moved briskly flanked by the golden retriever as he returned to the little girl carefully returning star fish to the deeper water just beyond the waves. They made uneven progress up the beach, stopping to mount rescue operations for half the crustaceans washed ashore.

"I brought the model railroad. It's at your cabin. That the girl you were hopin' to impress?"

"Yeah."

"Isn't she a little young for trains?"

"What d'ya mean? Terry 'n me, we talked about it. Girls oughta' be able ta' play with trains same as boys."

"But Starsky, she's a little girl?"

"Hey, you're the one who's always givin' me lectures about sexism bein' endemic in the society. What it got to do with her bein' a little girl?"

"Really little, you bozo. Starsky, she's barely two?"

"Oh, well, we can play with them. I laid out this great route through the kitchen and onto the back porch. We can ship breakfast out there, if ya' remembered the flat-bed cars. Ya' did bring the kitty-cat car."

"I brought the Chessie car. I brought everything, you moron," Hutch grabbed him around the neck to give him a nuggie. "Rap you around the head and shoulders, clear your thinking, Curly," he grumbled as he ruffled the black hair.

"Hey, ye're gonna' mess up my coiffure."

"Whose your stylist? Larry? Mo?"

"Hey, it ain't that bad. At least, I don't have fur growin' out of my face." Starsky announced smugly as he twisted out of the head-lock and beat Hutch up the stairs to the house where he was staying.

"You said my moustache made me look distinguished."

"So I lied. If you can't say somethin' nice . . . "

Hutch chased him around the house to the front door. Starsky tried to shut the door on him, but could not move quickly enough to put the catch on. He had not yet regained enough weight to hold the door against his partner. Making light of his adversity, he bowed Hutch in.

"Come into my parlor . . . " Making light of his adversity, he bowed Hutch into the long low living room with weathered brick walls and wide oak plank floors. Comfortable chairs and couches in earth tones complemented a fine collection of Afro-American art. A dark Haitian painting hung over the hand-hewn mantel dominated the room. A dark-clad madonna stood guard over a sleeper, framed in light at the door. A Voodoo vision of salvation. The dining area at the opposite end of the house had a New England farm table long enough to accommodate the coach's five children with ease. Over the low buffet, a lion and a lamb lay down on sugar-white sand beneath the palm trees ranged along the Caribbean shore.	Hutch walked around the room studying the sculptures ranged around the room, most of which came from the East Africa particularly from Nigeria and Ghana including a Benin bronze.

Starsky left him to his exploration. He needed a few minutes to himself. He still did not have his strength back and had been in the habit of taking a short rest before dinner. That alternative was not available. His partner was already worried enough without him showing any obvious weakness. He started the grill and rested against the railing of the deck.

Jim strode briskly down the beach, a striking figure in the evening light. He had changed into white slacks and a gold shirt which reflected the molten glow of the sunset burning a track across the Pacific Ocean. The rising tide thundered against the rocks down the beach. Jim stared into the setting sun, his expression as if seeking solace in its peace. He looked lost, alone, if only for a moment.

Starsky turned away suddenly as he heard his partner open the refrigerator. On the street, Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson was bold, imaginative and deadly. Unfortunately, such a description also applied to his brief sorties into the kitchen. He dealt with food on a need to eat basis. When he was hungry a three day old pizza would do, but if he would waste half an evening seeking out a "heathy" meal. Any man who would eat cold soup out of a can was in no danger of succumbing to starvation, however, he should not be trusted with his only bag of salad greens. Starsky could still taste the garlic-orange dressing his partner had devised for a salad made from fresh dandelion greens, kale and leaf lettuce with chunks of fresh ginger tossed in to ward off colds. They certainly didn't have to worry about colds out on patrol that night. They were well-protected from vampires, or muggers, and their fellow cops. They could have just breathed on the bad guys.

Starsky waved to Jim who turned around just before he rushed into the house. As he had feared, Hutch had arrayed a wide range of condiments on the counter, three different kind of oils and four different kinds of vinegar, including Szechuan hot oil. At times, his partner lacked a sense of proportion. Starsky sent him out to the back porch to put on the potatoes while he arranged a more modest, but edible salad, the greens flavored with Parmesan cheese, grated Mozzarella and a hint of oil, vinegar. Ordinary oil and vinegar.	"Hutch sent me in for the steaks," Jim had moved so quietly that Starsky had not even suspected he was there until he had spoken.

"How'd you manage to ditch the rug rats?" Starsky grinned.

"Sadie offered to watch them in exchange for looking after Goldie for a day or two."

"Whatsa' matter?"

"Nothing really, her daughter, the youngest one graduating."

"The one in Architecture School?"

"I think that's the one," Jim said speculatively.

"Two kids, a dog. Next thing you're gonna' be investin' in a split level house and a station wagon. Me 'n Terry, the lady I was engaged to, we bought into that whole scene. We talked about kids. A girl first, that's what she wanted. If we'd had a kid, she'd be 'bout your little girl's age."

"You might still be alone," he looked out the window as if intent upon regaining control of his emotions.

"Look, you're doin' good. When Terry died, Hutch 'n me we drank half the state dry tryin' ta' forget. It's only been a few weeks."

"No, it's been a lot longer than that," Jim looked bleak in the half-light.

"Ya' don't mean an accident. I read about a coupla' those cases where someone expectin' was kept breathin' 'til the baby came. Ya' don't mean?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"What happened? Sideswiped? Terrorist bombing?"

"Unfriendly aliens," he said.

"Yeah, even we've been up against a couple of those wacko terrorist gangs ourselves. They're really from outer space."

"And who should know better than David Starsky, space cadet," Hutch leaned against the door. "Make him tell you about the time he was captured by religious cult mad for his body. Now those people were really crazy."

"Hey, any lady pantin' yer bod would have ta' be certifiable," Starsky jabbed.

"Certified for her excellent taste, appreciation of my finer qualities."

"Like gettin' the steaks on before we starve ta' death," Starsky shoved a platter of steaks into his hands. "We'll bring out the beer."

"I think we'd better keep an eye on this process. He once burned a boiled egg.

"How?"

"He was thinking deep thoughts at the time," Starsky grinned as they started out the door toward the deck with their Coors. After dinner, they began to set up the model railroad. Jim extended the tracks out onto the deck while Hutch lay the tracks that snaked through the dining room to join the living room with the section outdoors. Starsky plotted a route that took his trains under the couch and around the coffee table.

"I'm gonna' take the boat out tomorrow, Starsky. Want to crew?"

"Hey, I wouldn't know a spar from a spinnaker. How about askin', Horatio Hornblower here? He's always talkin' about all the sailin' he did as a kid?"

"Hey, I only went out with my grandfather," Hutch protested.

"I haven't done much sailing since the Academy. we don't have to win the race to Hawaii. Why don't you and Starsky come out with me on Saturday?"

"I can't go 'til afternoon. I'm gonna' drag Starsky off to the doctor. Dobey wants a personal report on his progress."

"Hey, he can ask me," Starsky objected.

"You never got there Monday,"

"The nurse gave me the wrong address. I'd ridden around for an hour and a half before I pulled off to try to figure out what to do."

"That Highway Patrol Officer (C. H. I. P.) who found you reported that you'd passed out, kicked the can, left this world behind. "

"Did you see that kid? If he'd hid out on your sun-porch you'd never've seen him, he was so green."

"Starsk,"

"Hey Blondie, enough with the guilt! We gonna' walk or play trains." Starsky levered himself up supporting himself on a chair as unobtrusively as possible. He went out to the kitchen to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee. "Hutch, you want cream in your coffee."

Jim came out to get himself a fresh cup of coffee and cheerfully took in the Oreo cookies. Starsky took one of the pain pills, prescribed by the doctor. He could not afford to have Hutch worry unnecessarily about his health. He settled on the arm of the couch to watch Hutch drive the tracks under the Deacon's bench. He himself clipped in the sections that would join living room and dining room. The train chugged around the tracks emitting mournful howls and discreet puffs of grey smoke until it completed its run.

Mission accomplished. They retired to the long low couches before the fire. Hutch had sprawled on the sand-colored couch only a few shades darker than his hair. Starsky flopped against him, his legs propped up on the arm of the couch, remaining awake only with effort. Jim had gratefully accepted a snifter of brandy from the drinks cabinet in the dining room. Now, he settled into a comfortable armchair as they bickered cheerfully before the discussion grew serious.

"Ya' know the firebug struck again," Hutch announced. "Got two little kids. Their Mama had ta' fill in on the night shift. Her sister was babysittin', just fourteen years old. Managed ta' get the baby out. She thought the kids were with her."

"Captain Dobey's put me on this full time."

"Hey, that ain't fair."

"He wants me to spend my time trying to find out who owns those buildings."

"Who's the brains of this outfit?"

"Well, you got any ideas, Einstein?"

"I'm thinkin', I'm thinkin'. Didn't you trace the money back to some bank in the Bahamas?"

I got names. Westview Reality seems ta' be some sort of subsidiary of Arnulf Enterprises who do their banking down in the Panama. They're incorporated in the Bahamas ,but they've also got subsidiaries down in Belize. They're big in the shrimp business."

"Like in the New Jersey mob," Starsky responded knowingly. "Without them, no shellfish gets sold anywhere on the East Coast."

"How are you going to follow this money trail?" Jim asked.

"I hate to leave this lunkhead here alone," he said, putting a hammerlock on Starsky, "but I guess I've go down to the West Indies . . . " Hutch said.

"Why not use a computer?" Jim suggested.

"How would I do that?"

"Just tap into the system to trace the electronic transfer of funds?" Jim leaned back in his chair and ran his thumb over his lower lip as if thinking through the problem.

"How'd ya' learn ta' do that?" Starsky asked.

"One time when my First Officer and I got kidnapped, my father-in-law found us by following the money trail with some help from a few associates in the banking community."

"The `unfriendly aliens'?" Starsky observed.

"Other unfriendly aliens, we've run into quite a few on this voyage." Jim smiled, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes. "I'd better get going. I've got to pick up the kids."

"I'll give you a ride," Hutch offered. "I'm on the early shift tomorrow morning."

"Thanks." Starsky watched them walk out of the house. Both looked uncharacteristically quiet as they went down through the gate along the pebbled walkway that wound around the small Japanese garden in front of the house. Stone lanterns illuminated the dark pool by the path. Hutch turned at the gate, haloed in the golden light, Lucifer fallen from the sky, an angel given into his keeping.

They walked across the street to the place where the LTD had been parked beside the road. Jim moved briskly by his side, his difference in height partially offset by his erect bearing and military carriage. Starsky watched them leave away, suddenly conscious of how alone he felt here. Hutch would not come by tomorrow morning to pick him up, grousing constantly about the chili dog he was having for breakfast. He had been eating cereal and milk ever since he got here. Half the fun of eating cold pizza had been the look on his partner's face. He activated the security system and turned off the lights suddenly sharply aware of his solitude.

III

Hutch observed the young man staring out of the window, more silent than he had been all evening. He found that quiet demeanor vaguely reassuring. Jim didn't talk just to hear his head rattle as had the temporary partners foisted upon him these past weeks. They had all felt compelled to fill the silence, asking questions about his partner's recovery seemingly unaware that other people might welcome a few moments of privacy.

"If you want, I could wait for you," Hutch offered as they neared the driveway.

"That's all right," Jim replied though he didn't sound entirely convinced. He grasped the door handle, his face pale, his expression grim as if he had been startled by a premonition of disaster.

"Look, if you need a ride . . . " Hutch asked.

"I shouldn't worry."

"Never left your kids before?"

"Not since George Samuel was born,"

"Sixteen times, my sister called when she left her oldest kid at our house."

"I don't know,"

"Intuition?"

"I've got a feeling."

"Starsky gets flashes. They've saved our lives more than once. Look, I'll just wait here 'til you come out and breathe the sea air. I'm not in any rush." Jim hurried into the house, clearly preoccupied by his concern for the children. He brought out the little girl who was coughing, a hollow bark easily identified by anyone whose nieces and nephews had succumbed to croup. Sadie followed issuing rapid-fire instructions to Jim as she handed him the baby.

"It's not contagious?" Jim asked.

"Don't worry. It's not catching. It's not fatal. The babies they survive. The parents do not do so good. T'Lis will be all right As soon as you get home, take her into the bathroom and turn up the shower. Hot. The way I told you. It should be like a sauna in there. She'll begin to breathe more easily in a little while. . . . You're sure this has never happened before."

"Absolutely. The doctor would have informed me."

"Doctor?"

"We had her in sickbay for awhile before we took her to my parents-in-law. They never mentioned anything either."

"Then she should be fine. The first attack usually doesn't last very more than few hours. I'm glad you can give him a ride home," Sadie reminded Hutch of Starsky's mom, always in charge. She had set a baby carrier on the back seat. Goldie climbed into the back of the car as soon as she opened the door, keeping watch over George Samuel sleeping peacefully despite the din.

During the short drive to their house, the child continued to be racked by the hollow cough that characterized croup, gasping for breath. Jim rubbed her back, trying to soothe and comfort her, calm despite his evident concern. As soon as they pulled into the driveway, his companion slid out of the passenger seat with the little girl in his arms. He paused before opening the back door clearly intending to try to manage the cranky baby and the carrier. Hutch turned off the car. Clearly, this man needed help.

"I'll get the baby," Hutch took the baby carrier from the back seat. The dog bounded up the steps racing into the house as soon as the door had been unlocked.

"His bassinet's in my room. The third door down the corridor on the left." Jim waited only long enough to be sure Hutch had his bearings before continuing to the bathroom. The sound of the shower was accompanied by an off-key attempt at a lullaby in an unfamiliar language. Good he had gone into the Navy, this man had no future in music.

By the time Hutch found the light switch in the bedroom, Goldie had installed herself on the bad, her head on the pillow. The baby made soft mewling noises as he unzipped the carrier, but settled down as soon as Hutch lay him on his stomach in the bassinet by the double bed. Firmly, he ordered the dog down off the bed. Gracefully, she leapt off the bed sweeping a pile of brightly-colored pile of plastic chips off the bedside table onto the floor where she lay down by the bassinet to guard her charge. Hutch bent to retrieve the plastic wedges, many of which had fallen down beside the bed. Most appeared to be unmarked, though some had titles imprinted along the edges. What looked like a slide viewer was sitting on the edge of the bedside table. Hutch dropped in a red wedge marked SFH\QCR. The screen lit up. Yearly Report of the Quartermaster General to the Chief of Operations. Hutch wanted to read further but heard the shower turn off. He dropped the chip into the pile and was relieved that the viewer turned off instantly.

"Hutch, could you bring me a couple of towels before you go," Jim called from the bathroom. "They're in the closet." Hutch found the shell-colored towels folded neatly on the shelves of the closet above an instrument case with an unfamiliar catch.

"Is she gonna' be ok?"

"Seems like she's breathing a little easier," Jim said as he turned up the steaming shower once again.

"You be all right here by yourself?"

"I'll manage,"

"I could drive you to the local Emergency Room, Starsk said you came without your car."

"I don't think there's any need to do that. The crisis seems to be passing. She's almost got her breath back." The little girl had slumped against him, baby blonde hair curled in damp ringlets like her father's. He rocked back and forth patting her back with a regular motion that seemed to comfort them both. Though Hutch knew he was their age, Jim looked younger and somewhat vulnerable at that moment.

"Look, I'd better get back to town. If you want, I'll turn the lights off in your room."

"Thanks for your help." A fit of coughing cut off further communication. The sound of the hollow cough so like a seal's bark drifted down the short hall to the bedroom. Hutch could hear the shower being turned up. That would give him time to take a closer look at his room. He wanted to know who this guy was and why he had latched onto Starsky. For one thing, he was cool. Too cool. He had stayed in control both here and on the beach.

Jim had handled himself well on the beach defending himself with a combination of skill and strength which testified to his training. He had not fought like someone who had the slightest vulnerability that afternoon. He was a trained fighter. Hutch had the bruises to prove it. Where he had learned the unfamiliar fighting techniques he had used, and why he had latched onto Starsky in the first place had to be answered, and had to be answered now.

Jim had mentioned being on a ship. Maybe, he had some ties to Naval Intelligence. Starsky had done some liaison work with those guys in Vietnam when he was an M. P. Maybe, they were investigating one of their own guys who had gone bad. If Jim was in the Service, he'd have some kind of weapon or identification. Hutch checked the bedside table. He only found a child's necklace and a magic marker note pad in the drawer. Looked like one of the kid's toys. That reminded him that the gun would not be stored within easy reach of a curious toddler. Where would he hide a weapon? He reached up to the bookshelves above the bed. On the third shelf sat copies Admiral Horatio Hornblower and Robert Graves's I, Claudius together with a few well-thumbed volumes on naval strategy and tactics. Hutch reached behind the book to find two small items each of which fit snugly in his hand. Rounded, black, they looked like they had been molded from a metallic black substance. One had a gold grid and the other rounded buttons. Neither looked even faintly familiar. Suddenly, he was eager to get out of there.

Turning off the lights, Hutch called goodbye as he left. A jar of Gerber's carrots had been thrown in the garbage can. That should provide him with a usable set of prints, particularly if he served, or had served in the Armed Forces. Hutch wrapped the bottle in his handkerchief and shoved it into the glove compartment. The fog had crept up the beach. The gritty fog smelled musty and dank, like outgrown clothes stored in an attic. Sometimes, he felt as if Starsky might have outgrown the need to stay with him. His continued presence might be as cloying as the fog.

The military intelligence guys had shown an interest in recruiting Starsky back during the war. They might want him to take one of their safe jobs back at Headquarters. He knew a great deal more Hebrew than he let on, a skill he had perfected during the two summers he spent with his cousin, the kibbutzim, outside Haifa. The sabras with their long legs and short shorts had been a major source of inspiration. The dark grey fog almost hid the broken road that wound up the hillside.

In the drawer, he had found a child's necklace with a Star of David. If Jim had been sent here by the Mossad to recruit Starsky, he might well be a formidable adversary. Hutch felt sure he would never spy on the United States. Besides, he seriously doubted that Shimon Peres had any interest in the life history of their local perps. However, if he were asked to serve the state of Israel, maybe he would be tempted. The fog obscured the curves, hiding the lines that would lead him out of the darkness that had closed in upon his life since Starsky had been shot.

Smokey tendrils of fog seeped into the car, sour as loss. Hutch had not yet had time to deal with what had happened to Starsky. It was his job to make guarantee his partner's continued well-being. To that end, Hutch intended to learn more about the young man who had spent so much time with his friend during the past couple of days.

The fog had been burned off the water by the time Starsky woke startled and disturbed. The phone rang. Persistent. Implacable. He opened the drapes and squinted against the sun as he dragged the phone out from under the couch by the window. He had been lying on there when Hutch called the other night. He answered the phone surprised by the hour of the call, if not the caller.

"Starsky, could you stop by Sadie's house. T'Lis has been up most of the night with the croup. I hate to take her out, but I've got to get Goldie's food."

"I don't have a key."

"She said she'd leave it under the planter."

"Give me a few minutes to open my eyes. I'll drive over to your place." Starsky cracked the drapes and winced at the sight of the light glancing off the waves. Outside, he put on his sunglasses to shut out the spectrum exposed by its glare. Too much light could be blinding. He had no need to see more than the visible spectrum on the beach or in his friends, but might have wished for a better view of the cliffs overlooking the colony.

There had been a few too many attacks on them of late. Two too many.

Starsky found the dog food set out beside the sink in Sadie Breszky's kitchen. The bowl was atop the counter. Beside it, there was a pile of Golden Age comics and pulp magazines that had been left for him together with a note asking Jim to give him an update on T'Lis's croup attack. Starsky threw the bag of dry dog food in the car before driving the short distance down the beach.

As he got out of the car, Starsky looked up into the rocks and scrub on the cliffs above unable to forget the most recent attack. The Aztecs were fighting on two fronts. They had to defend their drug operation against rival gangs and the police. Rumor had it that they were allied with the newly-formed Cali drug cartel formed to expedite cocaine exports from Columbian, chief rival of the Medallin drug cartel.

Light glinted gold up on the rim of the cliff. Gun barrels no longer reflected bright sunlight, but chunky nugget bracelets did. A shot rang out. Starsky moved quickly into the shelter of the carport, ready to defend himself, despite the fact that his .38 would not be effective at this distance. Another shot plowed a furrow in the front porch exposing the bare wood.

At least, two shooters were concealed up on the hill. If they were serious, they would have chosen a closer vantage point. Maybe they just wanted to spook him. Starsky did not want to take that gamble remaining hidden behind the pile of lumber apparently left over from remodeling work on the house. He returned fire concentrating on the shooter concealed behind the granite boulders above the point. He heard a board squeak on the deck behind him. Starsky turned just in time to see the man drop, followed closely by Jim who scooped up the machine pistol dropped where the man had fallen. "You ok?" Jim asked.

"The kids?"

"Sound asleep."

"Who's out there?"

"The Azteca," Starsky said.

"Who are?"

"A local group of local importers who seem to feel that we're interfering with free trade between nations."

"Drugs?"

"Cocaine."

"I'll go up the cliffs at the point."

"I ought to be the one to go."

"Give me fifteen minutes. Can you hold them that long?"

"Yeah." Bullets shattered the running lights on the sailboat and pinged as they bounced off the rudder. Starsky hunkered down behind the barricade formed by the two by fours stacked against the house. That should give him adequate protection. He dropped a trash barrel behind him, hoping that would absorb any stray bullets that ricocheted off the boat. He had moved back to check the beach at least twice but saw no one else approached from that direction.

Black granite boulders studded the cliffside which offered cover to the shooters and to the man stalking them. Starsky thought he saw a flash of blue light, but after he blinked it had disappeared. The first shooter to his left kept peppering the carport with shots from a rifle that sounded like an M-16. He heard a car approaching but hoped it would turn off before reaching his position.	On the hill, he thought he saw a man in a brown jacket slide down the slope above the boulders heaped on the beach below the cliff which turned so easily to mud during the spring rains. Starsky reloaded and focussed on his target. The car moved swiftly in his direction. Coming fast. Too fast to warn away. Starsky started to move as soon as he saw the LTD. Hutch was driving his junk heap directly into the line of fire, putting the car between Starsky and the sniper. Starsky heard a shot and felt a sudden, sharp pain in his shoulder before he lost consciousness.

Hutch used the car for cover as he raced toward Starsky's position. He heard the shot from the heights as his partner straightened up. Jim moved toward his hiding place, laid hold of his partner and appeared to exert pressure at the back of his neck just above the spine. Hutch could do nothing to stop the attack. Starsky dropped as a volley of shots rang out from the heights. His body fell limp, as if his neck had been snapped.

Jim eased him to the ground remaining concealed behind the lumber making it impossible to take a shot at him without taking the risk of hitting Starsky. The rifle fire from the hill ceased at least for a moment. Hutch raced toward his partner intent upon lending him support. Jim had moved out of sight. A shooter on the beach shook his head, stared at Hutch than took off toward the point. He levelled his Magnum at the young man stooped beside his partner.

"Move away from him. Slowly." Jim stepped back, his hands open	wide to show that he had been unarmed. A machine pistol lay on the ground at his feet.

"He'll be ok."

"What did you do?"

"Put him out for a few minutes. Check his pulse."

"Feels strong. Why d'you do it?" Hutch dropped to his knees beside his partner reassured by the stable vital signs he observed when he checked his pulse and his reflexes.

"Those men on the slope will go away thinking they hit their target."

"Who were they?"

"Starsky said they were some drug-running gang with a grudge against him."

"The Azteca."

"But how did they find Starsky?"

"That I can't answer. I took one out up among the rocks and emptied his pockets. I left the wallet but took a small notebook together with few papers with telephone numbers on them." Starsky groaned.

"You all right, babe?" Hutch glanced at the papers without releasing his hold on his partner. Gradually, Starsky regained to consciousness. Still groggy, he stirred slightly as Hutch loosened his hold.

"Starsk,"

"Who called in the artillery strike?" Starsky rubbed his neck but made no effort to rise.

"Jim,"

"What'd you do?"

"Compressed the blood vessels at the base of the neck to put him out a few minutes." Hutch examined the notebook handed to him along with the registration for the black BMW used by the men who attacked his partner. Starsky groaned as he tried to return to consciousness.

"Why'd ya' put me out?"

"I was hoping to give you a little breathing space. From their viewpoint up on the hill, they should think they had a clear shot at you."

"And to them . . . "

"You're out of the game. After I put out the first guy, I checked over their car. It was registered to one Enrique Torres who had left a notebook that might prove of value to your partner in this investigation."

"What about me?" Starsky swayed slightly as Hutch helped him to his feet.

"You sure you're ok," he followed Jim in the direction of the side door. "Look, we'd better put some distance between ourselves and this place."

"Where we gonna' go?" Starsky groggily inquired. "Looks ta' me like someone in the office is on the take. That's three times lucky."

Yeah, you're right. My place, your place and now way the hell out here," Hutch said. "Maybe an alternate dimension?"

"Or a safe house." Jim remarked.

"You got somewhere in mind?"

"Starsky could stay with us. We're moving to a secure facility down the coast. I don't want to put the kids at risk."

"Starsk, we'd better clear this with the captain."

"But, not over the phone. Why don't you drive over there with us? That way, you can check it out for yourself," Jim suggested as he went to let Goldie out of the bathroom. T'Lis lay sprawled out in her playpen while George Samuel had fallen asleep in his infant seat in the kitchen with a bowl of baby cereal cooling on the counter beside him.

"You sure you didn't give them something?" Hutch asked.

"No, they usually take a nap this time of the morning," the baby awoke as Jim touched the side of his face, hungry for the last bits of his breakfast.

Hutch drove Starsky back down the beach to collect his belongings. When they returned twenty minutes later, Jim had crammed their clothes into a carry-all and set the security system. Everyone crowded into the car with the dog curled up on the floor in the back. Exhausted by his ordeal, Starsky fell asleep as soon as they reached the highway and didn't wake up until they reached their destination, a small coastal town almost deserted this early in the year. A sharp breeze was blowing off the water, stirring the waves against the wooden pilings at the dock. They passed a filling station, a grocery and a bar before reaching the Oriental Spa and Pastry Shop that fronted a string of cabins along the beach.

In the office, they were greeted by a spare, tall Eurasian woman. In her long black cheong sam and trousers, she reminded Hutch of the mama-sans who presided over the better brothels in Saigon. They could see men in business suits, hear the click of mah-jongg tiles and see young women in colorful silk dresses escorting clients to their rooms.

"Hey Hutch, I don't know if we oughta' be here?" Starsky said, moving close to his elbow.

"I assure you, your friend will be quite safe here," the woman assured Hutch. "The captain has informed us of your dilemma. No one will seek your friend in this place."

"But this is . . . "

"A massage parlor . . . that is, in fact, the only service we provide. We are newly-arrived in your country. Work permits and qualifying tests take time especially for those with professional backgrounds," she said.

"Yeah, sometimes it takes time," Starsky agreed. The woman moved ahead to lead them toward an apartment at the rear of the building overlooking the water. Jim and she talked softly as they ferried the children to their new quarters. Though the outside of the building looked shabby and windridden, the interior had been carefully maintained. Starsky had a room to himself on the second floor, well away from the others. There, he should be able to get the rest he needed. Hutch was not the only one who noticed that his friend was beginning to tire.

"Maybe T'Hirran ought to have a look at your head," Jim suggested.

"You a doctor?" Hutch asked.

"I am a healer."

"She looks too good to be a doctor," Starsky quipped.

"Nevertheless, I specialize in human ailments," she calmly replied, "but I might be able to help you, I've practiced veterinary medicine," she said with only the vaguest suggestion of a smile. Hutch almost doubled up with laughter. At last, Starsky accepted the inevitable. Not surprisingly, the doctor advised him to rest, re-enforcing her suggestion with a shot in the arm so swift that Starsky didn't even admit to feeling it.

A young woman led the way to a bedroom at the far end of the apartment well-removed from the living room. Glass walls opened onto the ocean lending them a breathtaking view of the coast. The soft grey walls blended with the granite cliffs while the lichen green carpet reflected the surface of the sea. Two sand paintings hung over the bed, discreet echoes of the desert land beyond the cliffs.

The cry of seagulls penetrated the stillness as Hutch began to pull down the bright grey comforter on the low bed by the window. Starsky slipped off his sneakers, loosened his belt and lay down, too tired for pretense. His partner dumped the contents of his backpack into a hastily-emptied drawer then hung his jacket in the closet Jim had indicated. Not surprisingly, the young Naval officer was used to giving orders since he'd signed up as a plebe at the Academy. Seventeen seemed kind of early to rule out all your other options but he'd never expressed any regrets. In fact, he seemed to miss life aboard his ship. Odd, he always said he served in the Fleet rather than the Navy. Strange. Starsky yawned. At the moment, he was too tired to deal with strange.

"You gonna' be all right here by yourself?" Hutch inquired anxiously as he was drawing the drapes. Light sifted through the pale green curtains giving the room the glow of an undersea grotto, an image enhanced by the roughhewn stone fireplace set into the far wall.

"I'm gonna' be fine," Starsky assured him for the umpteenth time. "Shouldn't ya' be gettin' back?" Hutch hesitated by the bed unwilling to once more abandon Starsky in unfamiliar, and possibly unsafe, surroundings. Anything that could go wrong had these past few months. There had to be some way to re-assure or at least distract his partner. They might not be able to discover the meaning of life, but just might have a crack at solving this case with a little judicious assistance from their resident Naval officer. A Captain. The brass had access to security systems inaccessible to law enforcement agents, especially information on foreign banking operation. Jim had offered to check into the cash transferred to Swiss bank accounts from Los Angeles through a Caribbean bank.

Now, all he had to do was talk his partner into accepting Jim's help. Hutch tucked the silver-green comforter around him and sat down on the edge of the bed clearly not eager to leave.

"Did you get a chance to look at that notebook Jim found?"

"Not really," Hutch opened the small book with costs and payments neatly recorded for drug sales in the area supervised by Hector Ramirez. Telephone numbers recorded on the last page suggested his connection with the Aztecas, but one number included an exchange far from their headquarters on the East Side. In fact, it looked like a number he had called Agent Stedman at home after failing to reach him at his office in the Federal Building to set up a meeting of the arson task force. That would interest Captain Dobey. It might encourage him to initiate a phone tap on the F. B. I. agent's home phone. "Tonight, bring back some of Huggy's ribs and some dim sum."

"Dim sum?"

"Do dead people eat Chinese?" Starsky asked.

"Only kosher Chinese." Hutch replied.

"I thought you were reformed?" Jim stood in the doorway with a puzzled expression on his face. "You keep kosher in this time?"

"Only on the High Holy Days and Passover same as any other time," Starsky said. "You do things different in Iowa?"

"We lived thirty miles from our nearest neighbor, cornfields stretching as far as the eye could see. I had to travel all the way to Des Moines for Hebrew school."

"So why didn't you marry a Jewish princess."

"Starsky!" Hutch burst out.

"It's all right," Jim waved his hand dismissively. "How did you know?"

"The little girl's name - T'Lis. You said she was named after her great aunt."

"Whatcha' gettin' at?" Hutch said.

"Her great aunt who lives next door. Don't ya' see?" Starsky asked.

"If I did, I wouldn't be askin' now would I?"

Because Jews don't name babies after living relatives. Never. Nada. Not a chance. There are no Jewish juniors," Starsky grinned as he judged the impact of his words on the young man across the room. Jim smiled guiltily. He also noticed that his partner had finally begun to relax.

"The family wanted to guarantee a place in the succession. T'Lis Ydresil was first ruler and founder of their dynasty."

"A princess. A royal princess."

"Where does she come from?" Hutch asked apparently now curious in spite of himself.

"Nhirva'al, a little place in the foothills north of the Sa'ahdai kingdom on the edge of the desert. You can hardly find it on any current map." Jim stretched out his legs and rubbed his lip with his thumb.

"So how come they worry about their dynasty."

"Because they're busy selling energy and the technology to use it to all their neighbors. They deal in fossil fuel, geothermal power and systems to maximize energy efficiency."

"So she's heir to the throne."

"Not a very big throne," Jim grinned. "It's a commonwealth. You have to be confirmed by a majority vote in the legislature."

"Like in Sweden. They vote on the king. I read it in the Enquirer," Starsky yawned.

"You need your sleep," his partner started to get up but Starsky placed a hand on his arm.

"See I told you that he's just a nice Jewish boy who married a shicksa, not even a blonde. That's love."

"How do you know that?" Jim asked.

"The little guy. You ever seen so much black hair in your life? I rest my case."

"Ok, Perry Mason sleep." Hutch started to go.

"Yesterday, Jim mentioned they met in a systems class down at Stanford."

"So . . . "

"Do I gotta' draw you a map. Jim knows computers, not great but he might be able to trace that money for you. And don't forget my dim sum tonight."

"Shut up, Starsk." Hutch gently pulled the cover up around his shoulders as he rose to leave. The dark room looked cool, a place of refuge from the disorder that threatened them out on the streets. His partner might be safe as long as he stayed here.

Hutch followed Jim downstairs to the living room. If Starsky was right, he could use Jim's help in tracing the money trail. His partner's hunches had almost always played out well in the past. If Jim could trace the transfer of the funds to banks in the Bahamas by the Westview Reality Company, Hutch could concentrate on the link between their local F. B. I. contact, Stedman, and the Azteca. "Do you think you can follow up the money trail today?" Hutch asked.

"I'd also like the name of the arsonist. I should be able to learn if there've been any recent transfers into his account. If they can be traced to another source than Westview Reality that might also shed some interesting light on this case." Hutch gave him the name though he clearly did not think that approach would yield any major clues. A high piercing wail interrupted their discussion.

"Another country heard from," Kirk paused only long enough to warm a bottle before moving toward the bedroom. By the time he returned, Hutch had left for the city. Before commencing his research, he took T'Lis down to the beach to collect shells washed up along the shore by the tide then retreated to the computer set up in the safe house's small office. The systems mimicked their twentieth century counterparts and had even been fitted with keyboards which could be activated at a word. Certainly, he would have to switch over if Starsky rose early from his afternoon rest. The detective would think him a little strange if he started talking to the computer, but would really begin to wonder if it talked back.

The results of his investigations still required interpretation. Although he could trace the ownership of the buildings back to the midwestern Teamster's Pension Fund through a series of investments and interlocking trusts. Profits would be withdrawn and invested in a seemingly unrelated business on the west coast such as a fashionable health spa. The owners of La Costa, the resort, would re-invest their suspiciously high profits in the Westview Reality Company which speculated in real estate was the subsidiary of a Bahamian holding company that banked in Panama. Funds were then transferred to numbered Swiss accounts. Those accounts posed his first challenge of the day. Even Swiss banks took only the most elementary security measures to secure their systems. After an hour, most of which was spent making sure no one could detect his intrusion, he penetrated their systems. According to their records, funds had been credited to the accounts of top officials of the Midwestern Teamster's Union, and to members of the International Teamster's Union.

There was only one problem. He could find no record of funds being transferred to any account registered in the name of Daniel Gregory Madden, the alleged arsonist. The man had maintained a residence in the newly-gentrified area behind the Hobokan Docks that overlooked the Hudson River in Northern New Jersey. Local tax records indicated that he was employed as a middle-level manager in a Florida company that imported shrimp from Belize and distributed the frozen seafood to stores throughout the eastern United States. There were no untoward deposits in his accounts there or on the coast; however, there had been regular and generous deposits made within days of every building being destroyed to a Panamanian account. Those funds could be traced back to one Nicholas Mancuso of Fort Lauderdale.

These researches took the better part of the day. By the time he had printed out the bulk of his results, T'Lis was sitting cross-legged in front of the television in the corner singing her own unique version of the alphabet along with Big Bird while the dog sprawled at her side eager to share her box of animal crackers. Sesame Street had been one of her most significant discoveries in this time. Even Kirk couldn't resist an occasional glance at the giant yellow bird dancing on the larger screen.

Kirk sat back satisfied with his preliminary research. Apparently, one Nicholas Mancuso had deposited the money in a mutual fund in the name of Daniel Gregory Madden. Although Captain Dobey had never heard of Nicholas Mancuso, he promised to ask someone in the organized crime division to do some research before Hutch drove out that evening to pick up the disk with the data. He also prepared a print-out so he could show him how the moneys had moved through the pipeline from the Midwestern Teamster's Fund. The mystery remained. Who had hired Madden to torch those buildings and why did this case mean so much to Agent Stedman.

He was still there three hours later well along in his research. The parts of the puzzle were coming together nicely. The pension funds invested cash in La Costa, a posh resort up the coast, the majority shareholder in Westview Reality. Money transferred through normal channels could all be accounted for resulting in small profits to the pension fund. Though the owners who bought property from Westview Reality later destroyed by fire seemed to have little in common, they all banked in Panama. In fact, a number of title transfers were brokered through holding companies in the Bahamas all with ties to Arnulf Enterprises, Westview's parent company. For the rest of the day, Kirk patiently traced the money trail from the Chicago pension fund through a Bahamian holding company to a Panamanian bank which regularly deposited funds in two Swiss bank accounts.

By the time Hutch called to say he and the captain were on their way, Kirk was feeling well-pleased with the results of his preliminary survey of the data easily-available on contemporary systems. In fact, few late twentieth century computers were secure against the skills of a twenty-third century hacker, even one as ungifted as himself. In this primitive period, computers were indeed nothing more than machines rather than the sentient entities of his own time.

"Daia, Lady T'Hirran say someone at the door," T'Lis yanked on his shirt to get his attention.

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Bear," she replied.

"I don't think Mr. Bear's been off of George Samuel's dresser," Jim answered patiently.

"Not baby's bear, Mr. Bear. He big. Not look like bear at all. I see him on viewscreen."

"Guess, I'd better go speak to him myself."

"He say he Sta'sky friend."

"Well, why don't you go upstairs and ask Starsky. Take Goldie with you," Jim suggested. Immediately, they barrelled up the winding stairway making only slightly less noise than Rommell's Forces at El Alamein.

IV

Starsky woke gradually to find it had already gotten dark outside. He could see his suitcase propped up against the chair beside the dresser. Evidently, Hutch had given Jim the key to the house down the beach so he could go get a few of his clothes before anyone began to watch the place. In the bathroom, he found a sunken dark green jacuzzi. As he soaked, he stared out at the night sky, easily visible once he turned the lights down. He could accustom himself to a life of leisure, at least a week with nothing to do. Too much free time would be as bad as too much chocolate, he suspected as he wrapped himself in one of the forest green towels piled on a nearby shelf.

In the bedroom, he busied himself with putting away his clothes. The two top drawers had been hastily cleared out, their contents stuffed in with those in the drawers below. Most of the clothes he had brought to the beach fitted easily into a medium-sized suitcase. Jeans, t-shirts and his sneakers took up very little room compared to the sweaters. His plaid wool shirts had been laid atop them, but his down jacket had been hung up in the closet. Starsky neatly organized his clothing in the space put aside for his use but could not close the top drawer. A small photograph album had fallen down behind the drawer.

The album was crammed with pictures of T'Lis, her age and a date neatly inscribed on every page. In one taken barely three months ago, an dignified gentleman, who appeared to be in his early sixties, rested on a marble bench by a fountain in an alcove framed by a bas relief of mounted riders. Dressed in casual dark clothes, he dozed in the sunshine, T'Lis asleep in his arms. Other photographs included an older woman with delicate features who was trying to coax T'Lis into taking a few steps toward her. The woman had a graceful air, enhanced by a flowing dove-grey gown, the skirt delicately-shading into a rose pink rich as the blooms on bushes planted near the fountain.

There were pictures of Jim with the baby scattered throughout the pages but not a single picture of his wife. The only other person included in the volume was a tall, saturnine white Dominican, dignity and discomfort painfully evident even a this remove. Odd, to have a picture of a priest in here. It must be one of his mother-in-law's colleagues. Jim had mentioned in passing that she did research in language acquisition at a university near her home. A soft tap on the door distracted him followed by a thump. He opened it to find that T'Lis had flopped against the door to wait with the dog. They almost tumbled in when it opened.

"What are you doing there?"

"We wait. I not supposed to bang on door. Maisha say so." T'Lis announced solemnly.

"So you sat down to wait."

"You want cookie." She pulled a soggy chocolate chip cookie out of the pocket of her overalls.

"I think I'll pass," Starsky turned to slide the small album into one of the lower drawers. T'Lis padded after him while the dog snuffled his suitcase.

"Zebra," she pointed at the shirt Hutch had left at his place with a tiger on the front.

"Tiger," he pronounced carefully as he pointed at the embroidered emblem.

"This is becoming a regular zoo around here. I sent T'Lis up to tell you the guards said a Mr. Bear is here to visit me. Do I know him?"

"Yeah, that's our snitch Huggy Bear."

"I'll authorize his admittance."

"If Hutch got delayed, he may have asked Huggy to bring the ribs." Starsky grinned as his host rushed to the phone on the bedside table. Clearly, he wasn't the only one terminally bored with his own cooking. Fast food could be addictive. As soon as he had completed his call, Jim swung T'Lis up on his shoulder to start down the stairs. The dog criss-crossed their path as they made their way to the front door. A security system had to be de-activated which had been turned on when he slept. As soon as the door opened, he introduced Jim and T'Lis to his friend.

"Starsky, my man, I heard you had a grievous brush with the law of averages," Huggy observed.

"Yeah, the Aztecas don't seem to be lookin' forward to seein' my shinin' fact upon the stand. If it hadn't been for Jim here, I might well have been back ogling that red-haired night nurse, Hawkins."

"I believe I be in your debt," he smiled at Jim. "Wouldn't be able to live with that partner of his, if anything untoward should befall my man, Starsky, here."

"I know what you mean. My doctor used to say much the same thing."

"So you work with a partner." Huggy observed before Starsky could give him a signal to shut up.

"Not any more," Jim replied softly.

"Enough with the talking. I am a growing boy who has just spent five weeks eating hospital food. I don't even remember what real food tastes like. Gimme' eat." Having successfully redirected the conversation, Starsky went back to the apartment's small kitchen while Jim and Huggy went out to bring in the dinner. His friend had surpassed himself in gathering a gourmet selection of fast food within the brief time allotted to him. There were slabs of ribs, dim sum, sweet and sour shrimp and vegetarian pizza.

Hutch and Captain Dobie arrived within half an hour ready to settle down to some serious eating after a long, frustrating day down at Parker Center. Jim cut a slice of vegetarian pizza for T'Lis before trying the ribs. By the time, Starsky brought another six pack of beer from the kitchen they had settled at the table and served themselves. T'Lis was wandering around the dining room clearly fascinated with the visitors and was babbling earnestly at Captain Dobie who responded solemnly, but declined an offer to share a soggy piece of half-eaten pizza.

"Only parents have to share half-eaten pizza. If she's bothering you, send her over here. She loves to talk." Jim said.

"Reminds me of our oldest girl at that age. It's been quite awhile since we had a little one around the house." Dobie said.

"You could always fix that." Hutch said.

"I'll just wait on my kids to get married. Once we get them all through college, we'll be ready for grandkids. Now, it's nice just to have time to ourselves."

"At least you speak to your kids which is more than Hutch's father ever saw fit to do. How long has it been since he's spoken to you?" Starsky said.

"Let it go, Starsk." Hutch responded morosely.

"Didn't want you to join the police force?" Jim asked.

"How did you know?" Hutch asked.

"My first officer had the same problem. It's hard when parents criticize you for what they see of themselves in you rather than for what you are."

"But I'm nothing like my father, . . . " Hutch argued.

Starsky turned the thought over in his mind for a few minutes before making a response. He had visited the Hutchenson estate in Minnesota to attend a funeral for Hutch's grandmother. There, he had been struck by the keen resemblance between his partner and his friend's indomitable adversary, the Judge Per Holger Hutchinson.

"Man, you know you are twice as bull-headed as your father. I never seen two people who look more alike, though his old man's not half so ugly." Starsky grabbed him in a hammerlock as he reached around to grab the last chicken wing off his partner's plate. They finished the sweet and sour shrimp while Captain Dobie split the last of the ribs with Jim. T'Lis wandered back to her father only to curl up sleepily in his lap, two fingers firmly implanted in her mouth. Jim brushed the blonde hair, fine as milkweed floss away from her face. T'Lis dozed off, held securely in her father's arms.

"Another beer," Hutch offered as he came back from a trip to the refrigerator with a fresh Coors.

"I've got to drive back to town, but I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee." the captain said.

"I'll go put it on. I know where everything is." Starsky spoke quickly. He might trust Jim with his life, but never with a coffee-maker.

"I'd better go put her down," Jim left them after he had walked Captain Dobie to the door. There were lights visible on the cliffs. Evidently, someone had been sent to keep an eye on this place at least for tonight. From there, no one could see into the house and they were unlikely to have anyone posted on the beach. Still, they had better keep the drapes closed until they went to bed.

From now on they would have to take special precautions until the assailants became convinced that they had been successful. Tomorrow, his grieving partner Hutch, would put an urn on a plane headed for New York. It would be retrieved by his bereaved brother, who had been suitably re-imbursed for his trouble and for not telling their mother about the hoax. Starsky sprawled against Hutch his legs over the arm of the couch while he nursed his coffee.

V

Jim lowered the lights and stoked the fire. He rested in a creaky leather armchair, his coffee cup balanced on his knee. The past few weeks had been hectic. He had taken his ship into its home port, filed his final reports and taken compassionate leave. While in the past, he agreed to compile a profile for intelligence purposes on David Starsky, a man whose uncle controlled one of the largest companies exporting arms to the Arab states from Israel. This easy assignment gave him a chance to get to know his children without being forced to think about the circumstances that had left them alone.

Starsky and Hutch certainly didn't mind being alone. They seemed indifferent to their surroundings as they discussed the events of the day. They anticipated each other's thoughts as they teased one another, their easy give and take a painful reminder of his own loss. Yet even then, he found it difficult to imagine such an exclusive relationship. Though he had lost his closest friend, he found he could not fathom the depth of their commitment. They depended upon one another not merely for survival, but for emotional sustenance.

Jim had always enjoyed the closed confines of his ship with little concern for whatever loss of privacy he might experience. In that small community, no two people could exist in unobserved isolation. Jim himself had always been comfortable living in such close contact with other people, sure of his mission, and confident in his ability to command.

Imprisoned behind enemy lines, he had spent four months in a single cell with his First Officer, an experience he did not want to dwell upon in detail even now after almost three years had passed. That experience had made him preternaturally aware of his limitations. After their release, he had taken refuge in the company of his friends and fellow crewmembers in an effort to forget the chill horror of their isolation, deprived. Once back on board ship, he had hesitated even to lock his door for weeks after his return so much did he dread even the thought of confinement for the few months back on active duty.

"Jim . . . Jim, do you want another beer."

"No, I think I'd better lie down before I fall down. Hutch, are you sure you want to drive back tonight. You could stay on the couch," Jim said.

"Thanks, I think I'll take you up on that," Hutch grinned. "I can keep an eye on Starsky here. I'm not sure he should be let out without a keeper." Kirk left them in the living room exuberantly arguing about the case. He himself felt exhausted after a day that had begun at six o'clock that morning. After a shower, he settled down with Robert Grave's I Claudius.

This reclusive emperor had been re-called back from his post as the governor of Rhodes to aid Augustus during the final years of his rule but found scant satisfaction in public life. He could not help sympathizing with Tiberius, a man who had faithfully served the Empire even in his self-imposed exile on Capri.

James Tiberius Kirk understood his reluctance. Grand Admiral Nogura had asked him to initiate Fleetwide reforms as the Chief of Operations, which would necessitate a permanent promotion to flag rank. He empathized with Tiberius's unwillingness to surrender his independence. No matter how much Kirk valued the Federation and the Fleet, at times he found it difficult to set aside his own needs.

One day his daughter would rule in T'Pau's stead, but that day would not come for many a year. As he read about families sundered by their duties to the Emperor, fathers dispatched to the far frontiers as Germanicus had been while his younger children responded to their loss with rage at their abandonment. Once Caligula did when he set his grandmother's home ablaze. Kirk understood how anger and aloneness could consume a child's reason. When his father had died in action, he had hidden in the hayloft until his brother came to get him for the funeral. He had refused to go, but his ten year old muscles were no match for his thirteen year old brother, George.

His mother had broken it up, yanked him down out of the hayloft and taken him out to the old pump to wash off the worst of his cuts. She was a vet, a zoo vet used to dealing with wild animals, good training for rambunctious boys. His Mom had scolded him for letting down his left, put merthiolate on the worst of his cuts. That had stung and made his eyes water. His mother had held him until the worst of the pain went away.

That night, his brother George Samuel had brought him the tapes his father had sent that told of his missions after they returned from the memorial service. Since Jim had always talked about going into space, his brother thought he might like to use them to help him study for the entrance exam at the Fleet Academy. In two years, he'd be old enough to apply. His father had always looked forward to having him join the Fleet.

Caligula's family had treated him like a monster so he had responded in kind. Jim Kirk wondered what he would have done if his family had not allowed him to make his own peace with his father's passing. He nodded over the book unable to keep his eyes open, soothed by the flow of the narrative until he fell asleep. The next morning he awoke with the sensation of being watched. A sickly-sweet odor drifted in his direction. The future matriarch of All-Vulcan needed a change. T'Lis Ydresil was peering at him solemnly, two fingers plunked firmly in her mouth.

He lugged her down the hall tucked under one arm like a sack of potatoes to her changing table in the other room. Part-Vulcan toddlers might be precocious, but did not violate the laws of nature by being toilet-trained before two. In fact, they were slightly slower developmentally because of their longer lifespan. His first officer hadn't reached puberty until he was thirty-eight. Luckily, early child development was not nearly so out of sync with the shorter-lived species of the galaxy. T'Lis only needed diapers at night, just about on schedule for a girl.

"Daia, I hungry."

"We'll have breakfast as soon as we get you changed."

"Have bath?"

"Only after you've bathed in your breakfast. Maybe we can go down to the beach for a swim."

"We take Sta'sky."

"If he wants to go," Jim drew the curtains eager to have something to distract him from the task at hand which he found only marginally more appealing than flushing the sanitary recycling system as a midshipman. Pelicans waddled along the beach who looked only slightly more steady on their feet than the baby lying on the changing table before him. T'Lis chattered while he changed her and retrieved a pair of dark blue overalls from the dresser. She squiggled and squirmed only a little bit until he tried to put on her high-top white shoes. T'Lis curled her toes and tossed the offending object over his shoulder with a well-aimed kick that would have easily-earned her a position as a punter in the starting line-up of any team in the NFL.

"Hey, baby girl you nearly beaned me," Starsky brought over the shoe that had sailed within an inch of his ear and tickled her stomach until she started laughing.

"Sorry, about that," Kirk said.

"You think of trying her out for the Rams?"

"As a matter of fact, I had." Kirk straightened out her toes and stuffed the shoe on while she was distracted. There had to be some advantages to the swift responses honed during hours of combat training with his First Officer aboard the Enterprise. Swiftly, he brushed the snarls out of her hair and put in one of the many barrettes her grandmother had sent with her. The doctor, or healer, came down to the bedroom to check on the children. While she did so, she asked Jim and Starsky to leave.

In the living room, they found the blankets and pillows Starsky had provided lay in a tangled heap. Hutch had almost finished his breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and coffee provided by the residents of the safe house when they found him. He had decided to drive back into Los Angeles to continue his investigation of the arson cases for which he wanted Kirk's help. If the records down in Parker Center on previous fires and on the F.B. I. agent could be examined in the same kind of detail as the money transfers, maybe, this case might be solved sooner than later.

No response was forthcoming. Hutch could not understand why Jim seemed so concerned about a simple physical exam. As far as Hutch could see they were pretty healthy, normal kids despite a little touch of croup. T'Lis wandered out of the bedroom carrying a Richard Scarry book with a young woman dutifully trailing behind.

"Lady T'Hirran poke my tummy." she complained.

"The healer had to check you over."

"She buzz me all over. Hurt my ears. Say I need 'fusion," the baby groused.

"Maybe, I'd better talk to T'Hirran. With barely a backward glance, he headed for the bedroom. A sharp exchange followed. A transfusion would be necessary. Recently, there had been too many. "What about the new prcedure? Shouldn't that have stimulated hematopoiesis?" Jim asked.

"We've got to give it time to work. This method combined with the experimental drugs available here should stimulate the production of erythrocytes. Once she has ample stem cells in her marrow, she should be able to make a sufficient quantity of blood cells to insure her survival."

"If not?"

"We may have exhausted our last best hope," T'Hirran replied, her voice betraying concern for the child entrusted to her care. T'Lis was taken back to be transfused though the process proceeded much more rapidly than when Starsky had been given blood back at L. A. General. Jim emerged in less than forty-five minutes looking tired and worn accompanied by the healer. "Could you leave the children here alone overnight?"

"I don't know," he shook his head.

"I need to get linear readings unmarked by the parental bond. You couldn't shield against the children?" T'Hirran asked.

"I don't control . . . I just feel their needs."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"There must be something that can be done."

"To teach you how to moderate the bond requires time, a commodity in very limited supply. I have to determine whether her marrow can produce red blood cells," the doctor said.

"Will you be able to tell if the procedure has taken effect?" Jim asked restlessly pacing the length of the room. Taking her silence for assent, he nodded his agreement. Clearly, he was not enthusiastic about leaving the children but had bowed to necessity in this matter as T'Hirran retreated.

"Look, if you've got time on your hands, we could use your help in this investigation," Hutch explained their dilemma. No travel funds equalled no further investigation of the relationship between money laundering scheme and the arson cases. T'Lis wandered out of the bedroom clutching a Richard Scarry book while the dog tagged after her. Her father buttoned up her overalls and retrieved her red sneakers from under the couch while listening without comment to Hutch's proposition. Jim replaced the candy-striped barrettes as soon as he finished brushing her thick blonde curls.

" We could never have followed up the electronic transfer of funds without your help. Starsky told me your wife was some kinda' computer expert." Hutch said. "Said you got together at Stanford."

"Advanced systems seminar. I couldn't have gotten through that on my own. We worked well together."

"You partners long?"

"Not long enough."

"It's tough losing a partner. I don't know what I woulda' done if anything had happened to Starsky . . . anything permanent, I mean." Hutch stared out the window unable to gain consolation from the vistas that so pleased his partner. Jim studied the storm clouds moving in off the Pacific darkening the horizon in their wake as the rushing winds whipped up the surf spraying the fishing boats seeking safe harbor. "Losing Starsky would be like losing a part of myself. You ever lonely?"	"Always," he turned to look out the wide bay windows holding his daughter gently in his arms. He seemed to be scanning the bare boulders for a glimpse of hope. Gulls dipped into the waves cresting below. The whales swam along in the distance as they made their way to the warm waters off the coast of Mexico's Baja Peninsula.

On the drive down to Los Angeles, they rode in companionable silence. Jim read I, Claudius, though curiously enough hadn't heard about the PBS miniseries that had been such a sensation. Hutch had figured everyone, even naval officers serving at sea had heard about its cheerfully wretched excess. Starsky had taken his phone off the hook so as not to miss a single scrumptious orgy.

"Do you think you could check out Stedman, the F. B. I. agent, for us?" Hutch asked as they drove into town.

"I'm no expert but I've learned a little something about computers over the years," Jim said.

"How will you do that?"

"Personnel records."

"He's a government employee. He should have health records, service records, even records of any loans from the Library of Congress. Government employees can withdraw books from its collection. He may have had some interesting reading material."

"I don't see what you can find out this afternoon, but I've got no objection to your trying. Your sure you can do it."

"If it can be done. Not all records have been computerized. if they're in a conventional system, the files should be accessible. Besides, I don't mind the break. Spending a week alone with children under two can severely limit your conversational skills."

"I appreciate the help. You're sure there won't be any problem with Starsky staying here for awhile."

"Just make sure you put out the word that the gunmen succeeded. If your Captain agrees to the ruse you could send his remains back home to New York. For the price of an urn, you should be able to buy a week to complete your investigation. You said you're almost ready to file indictments in your arson case. Could the government official be behind this?"

"Why would he do that?"

"During twenty-odd years in the Service, I've seen my share of inter-agency squabbles. He may want to take the entire credit for breaking this case. I've known diplomats who ignored protocol whenever they were afraid I might successfully negotiate a treaty without their assistance. They wanted their commendation. Maybe, he wants a promotion."

"Stedman has been trying to transfer to the Washington headquarters of the Bureau for the last couple of years."

"If it's anything like the military, you can't advance without a tour of duty at Headquarters where the Joint Chiefs can assess your promise."

"Like taking the lieutenant's exam. I'll look into it," Hutch assured him as they pulled into Parker Center. With so many feds prowling the premises, nobody even noticed one more recruit. Seated by himself at Starsky's desk, Jim meticulously entered data into a small computer outlet that looked like a cross between a portable computer and a miniature television after which he called home. After checking on the kids, he transmitted the information to be entered into the main frame. A few moments later, Captain Dobey called Hutch into his office to say that the F. B. I. had confirmed Jim's identity on the basis of the fingerprints Hutch had obtained. According to his service records, he had served as an officer aboard the U.S.S.Enterprise for the past five years but had been granted compassionate leave as soon as the ship docked in San Francisco a month ago.

On that authority, Captain Dobey gave him access to the record room sending down all the latest information to be correlated. The personal computer that Jim set up in a dusty corner of the dark reference room was thinner than an attache case. A garish blue screen displayed the data in eye-watering detail. Ugly, but useful, the personal computer seemed to soak in information through the keyboard, although complex calculations required the central computer.	When Hutch came back to check on his progress after a half hour, he found that Minnie was plying his computer expert with hot coffee and pastries from the German bakery down the street. Already the flow charts recording transfers of ownership and profit margins were taking shape on the screen. Effortlessly, Jim charmed Minnie into collecting the rest of the scattered records needed to complete his initial compilation.

"You findin' all you need?" Hutch asked.

"I wouldn't mind a look at the cases in which agent Stedman has been involved,"

"You think there's some connection," Hutch sneezed at the dust rising from the folders.

"I think it merits closer consideration," Jim regarded the screen with some satisfaction. He typed like Starsky who had a vendetta against the keyboard. Hunt 'n peck with the emphasis on hunt.

"You used to havin' someone to do your typing for you," Hutch observed. He could have sworn Jim looked puzzled for a moment before recovering his aplomb.	"Normally, I file my own reports. My First Officer always organizes - organized - the reports from the other departments. We always went over them together before I filed my final reports on a mission."

"I can't imagine windin' up a case without Starsky bein' there ta' bug me. . . . So where is he?"

"Who?"

"Your First Officer."

"Missing in Action. We lost him during the final engagement of our mission."

"A fire fight?"

"In a manner of speaking," Jim said.

"Look, I'm sorry."

"I think we'd best end this discussion. . . . "

"Didn't mean to pry. If there's anything I can do. "

"No, I'd better get back to these figures." Hutch left him studying the files too focussed on his task to be easily distracted. Captain Dobey called down to records to send for Hutch. He had long had his own doubts about Agent Stedman, particularly his serendipitous snitches who only ever sang about the Aztecas opposition. Visibly agitated, he called Judge Childress to request a wiretap on Stedman's home and office. Dave Jennings, assistant to the head of the Vice Squad, had landed with Starsky at Cam Ranh Bay and thus had a personal reason for sharing his conjectures on the reasons why the Aztecas might be willing to work as paid informants for the F. B. I. In the past, their cocaine had been supplied by the Cali, a rival Columbian drug cartel steadily losing ground to the Medallin cartel.

"They may be hoping to undercut their rivals and gain a little breathing space for themselves."

"Why would Stedman go after my partner?"

"I don't think he intended for Starsky to get hurt. He just wanted to set a distraction so he could claim this collar for himself. Our guys have had more than a few questions about the quality of his intelligence. Seems his snitches always tipped him to a buy whenever a rival gang began to edge in on the Aztecas turf. You know he served with their Jefe in Laos."

"Why hasn't anyone looked into that?"

"Not for lack of trying. The F. B. I.'s stonewalled us at every turn. Seems they were working for some airline supplying the Hmong tribesmen. To tell the truth, I don't think the F. B. I. guys have much use for him. People on my squad who work closely with them say that their agents suspect him of being a C. I. A. operative assigned to the bureau. That's why he's having such a hard time getting promoted."

"You can't be serious."

"I think they're just being their normal paranoid selves, but I do think he may know more about the drug smuggling operations than he lets on. He sure hasn't been instrumental in organizing any operations that led to the arrest of any major players and we're reasonably sure he's been responsible for warning off the Aztecas to at least three raids in the past year and a half."

"Can any of these charges be substantiated?" Dobey leaned forward until his desk chair creaked. He rested his arms on the desk eager to understand the full parameters of the problem set before him.

"If we could have made any of these accusations stick, we would have already gone to the head of the local bureau. I'll be glad to put my suspicions in writing if you think it will facilitate your request for the phone tap."

"I'd appreciate that." Dobey said. "If you could have your people keep their ears open."

"I'll be sure to tell them. Maybe it would be a good idea if Starsky stayed dead for awhile."

"That's exactly what we're planning to do."

"This should give a chance to finish our investigation without worrying about Starsky's welfare."

"He's not exactly in top fighting condition," Jennings said thoughtfully. "In fact, If the homeboys think he's checked out, they might be encouraged to cooperate with us, especially if they only meant to spook him. They don't necessarily want to buy into a rap for First Degree." Hutch left them to work out the details of their strategy. He wanted to check in with the people in the Arson Investigation Unit before heading out on the streets. They confirmed that the device planted in his apartment building failed to match the chemical units placed in the building downtown, though there had been some effort to place them in the same locations in the lower hall and to make the devices appear similar. Whoever had set that blaze had information known only to the arsonist and the investigators.

By late that afternoon, Hutch felt thoroughly exhausted. After sifting through the records of six people who had purchased chemicals capable of being employed in an incendiary device at stores in and around the Los Angeles area, he split the list with an investigator from the Fire Department's Arson Squad. A special effects director had used his purchases to torch a pink Cadillac on the Universal backlot. Even the employees at the local bank could testify to the force of that explosion. A woman from U. C. L. A. had put in a purchase order for her lab, but had not received the shipment in time. She was measuring the effect of fires in the upper levels of high rise buildings on the physical integrity of the building. He didn't know why she was wasting government funds. He'd seen The Towering Inferno.

Third time lucky. The sixth person listed an address that turned out to be a warehouse located down by the docks leased to a subsidiary of the Westview Realty Company. No one answered, but they would have no problem obtaining a search warrant for the premises. Captain Dobey called some people downtown to expedite the proceedings. Tonight, they would have to set a watch on the building themselves.

Hutch slumped exhausted in a straightback chair down in records while Jim went to call home. Dust motes swirled around the green lamps hanging over the gunmetal grey library tables piled with musty files. On the computer screen, tables traced title transfers of buildings owned by Westview Realty to a holding company in the Bahamas. Convincing evidence. Too bad, this couldn't be followed up now. They probably wouldn't even get home tonight. They'd barely even have time to catch a burger at Huggy Bear's before taking over the second shift of the warehouse stake-out.

"Opinion," Jim asked gesturing toward the green screen.

"Interesting. You find anything else?" Hutch asked as he packed up the computer. "Agent Stedman seems to have some interesting hobbies."

"Flammable materials, fuses, fire detection devices," Jim said. "That makes for more than a casual study of arson."

"How'd you find this?" Hutch asked as he dumped the computer in the L. T. D.'s trunk.

"Internal F.B.I. memos. He sent to the labs in Washington and also requested material from arson squads in New York, Chicago and San Francisco," Jim said.

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, he requested information from Interpol a year ago."

"When last year?"

"January."

"Three months before the first fire," Hutch responded thoughtfully as they brought their burgers and fries back to the car. They checked out a couple of leads on timing devices at local Radio Shacks before proceeding to the docks. They settled down half a block from the warehouse with hot coffee to watch the entrance as the thin brown drizzle began to fall.

The dense smog that had accumulated during the day dissipated in the wake of the rain driven in from the ocean by the easterly spring winds. Down the street, Hutch could see a thin man in a dark hat and overcoat moving furtively toward the warehouse. He paused for a moment to check an address under the streetlight and Hutch could see he was wearing a Marks and Spencer burberry from London. Far too pricey for this block. Around here most people patronized Good Will.

By tomorrow, they'd probably have permission to plant a listening device in the apartment, but they had too wait until the judge in superior court could hear their captain's request. If his partner had been there, Starsky could have done a little eavesdropping. The window was right next to the neighboring rooftop. The man looked both ways before entering the building. Hutch could see the occupant open the window for a little fresh air before answering the door. The visitor entered the loft then threw his coat and hat over a chair clearly planning to spend some time there.

"Look, I should be able to get up there," Jim offered.

"You don't haveta' go."

"If I go up along that neighboring fire escape, I should be able to get a clear picture of your suspect and his contact and hear what they have to say."

"Look, this could be dangerous," Hutch said.

"Not if it's done right," Jim responded with finality. Matching actions to words, he stuffed a Nikon in his jacket. Clearly, he had handled a camera before if not this particular model. With infinite patience he maneuvered himself into position on the neighboring rooftop. Two more men, unrecognizable in the lowering darkness, arrived before the evening was well begun. Jim moved with patient precision taking pictures from various angles before moving into position by the open window.

On the sill, Jim set a small dark object that looked like a listening device. Although they wouldn't be able to enter any tape obtained in evidence, they could use it to find out more about the bomber and his friends. Now, maybe they would be able to act, rather than just to react.

If just once they could get to the site of a bombing before the triggering device was activated, they might be able to save a few lives. They'd also learn a great deal more about the bomber's methods than they knew at present. A few charred circuits didn't give them much to go on. If they could match a device with evidence gathered from the loft, they'd have the makings of a solid case against the bombmaker.

The rain pattered on the roof soothing as memories of spring showers in his youth. Jim used to wake to the even rhythm of rain when the lower limbs of the oak tree scraped the eaves of their farmhouse in Iowa, but now leaned against the low retaining wall unaccountably comforted by the steady rain blowing off the sea. As the wind picked up, he hunched over zipping up his jacket keeping watch on a passerby hurried along the sidwalk tightly clutching a black umbrella.

On the rooftop, Jim packed up his recorder and climbed down the fire escape as soon as the man in the dark trenchcoat left the apartment. With practised ease, he followed the visitor to his parked car near the docks while Hutch maintained surveillance. Hutch kept watch on the bomber. After a quick phone call, the suspect lowered the lights.

Jim returned with the license number just as their replacements arrived. Back at Parker Center, his temporary partner read quietly at the adjoining desk. Hutch completed his report, intensely aware of how very much he missed his Starsky. Normally, his partner bounced around the room while Hutch typed, kvetching about missed meals despite the carob-coated granola bar in his hand. After consuming every bite, Starsky would lick his fingers, finicky as a snow leopard, and would lounge against his desk to offer unwonted advice, make him laugh and just incidentally to remind him of his own humanity. Hutch contemplated his ghostly reflection in the glass. Despite the crowded squadroom, he felt isolated, sensitive in his singularity. The quiet conversations of his fellow officers barely intruded on his consciousness as he reviewed his report.

As they drove up the coast, the fog rolled in nearly obscuring the road. He dropped Jim off at the safe house just as the streetlights faded in the wan predawn light. The surf rumbled in the distance as early morning joggers etched their ghostly outlines along the boardwalk, unsubstantial as his own reality. He no longer had a sharp sense of self. His self had faded. Too much had happened in the past couple of year. Shadows had engulfed him. Vanessa. Gillian. An old friend had been shot by a trigger-happy white cop. Too much death. Too much injustice. Hutch was no longer the white knight enlisted in a just war. He had to come home from the Crusades.

Now, his past self lived only in memory, Starsky's bright memories of a knight who'd long since been stripped of his ideals along with his armor. Sometimes, he felt that he might indeed be a figment of his friend's imagination. Starsky thinks, therefore I am. Hutch spent the rest of the day tailing Madden through the hills and valleys of greater Los Angeles returning that night exhausted by his vain quest.

When Hutch arrived at seven-thirty p. m., he looked even more exhausted than he had the night before in Starsky's opinion. All day, he had been assigned to follow Daniel Madden and had spent hours trying to inconspicuously take the same hiking paths in the new state park north of Los Angeles and follow him through the Getty Museum. "God, my feet are killing me," he complained as he sank down on the living room couch.

"Didja' get any dinner?" Starsky asked.

"I got a cup of coffee at a drive-in MacDonald's on the way back from the museum." Hutch said.

"I don't believe you. You dope, you'd forget your head if it wasn't tacked on. You're gonna' get sick if you don't start eatin' right."

"You call burritos for breakfast a balanced diet," Hutch argued.

"At least, I eat three meals a day. You may drink that health glop for breakfast but you never touch fruit vegetables unless I'm watching. Someday, you're going to die of kuru, or something even worse." Starsky complained as he went into the kitchen to find in the refrigerator.

"I don't think Hutch will get kuru." Jim said.

"Now come?" Starsky asked.

"You gotta' eat your grandmother's brains to get that," Jim said.	"So how do know what they do up in Minnesota on those long winter nights. No sunshine. No vitamin D. They get strange. Look at Hutch."

"You dummy," Hutch grabbed Starsky in a hammerlock and wrestled him away from the refrigerator door in order to take his place. "Whatcha' got in there?"

"We had toasted cheese sandwiches," Jim said.

"I hungry," T'Lis announced to no one in particular.

"All right, I, the magnificent Starschevski, will produce a meal which will rival any you have enjoyed, at least since breakfast."

Starsky proceeded to fry sliced potatoes in one skillet while he made a farm omelet on the other burner. T'Lis slathered margerine on both sides of the toast before being narrowly prevented from buttering her little brother's fingers in the process. Jim decided to put his son and heir to bed anything else happened. George Samuel gripped his bottle as his father rocked him. His eyes were still blue, but he had inherited flared eyebrows and thick glossy sable hair that made him look like an elfin miniature of his elder. The baby clutched at his finger gurgling cheerfully as he settled him on his which distracted him from the gloomy him with a cheerfully as he settled George Samuel in the bassinet.

The red light of the fireshrine gave a soft glow to the bedroom. Order, symmetry, the dark peace of K'Dron's Forge illuminated the room where the baby fell asleep lulled by the Kirk's off-key rendition of the lullaby his mother used to sing. "Hush little baby don't say a word, Daddy's gonna' buy you a mocking bird,/ if that mocking bird don't sing Daddy's gonna' buy you a diamond ring . . . " The promises continued, growing more extravagant by the verse. The baby settled down.

"Daia, the stars fall down." T'Lis peered over the bassinet.

"Hey Jim, you gotta' come out 'n see the meteor shower."

"I didn't know you were interested in astronomy."

"Usually, I can take it or leave it. It's Hutch who gets into the nature stuff. He took a course in astronomy back in college and ever since he thinks he's Carl Sagan."

Jim laughed good-naturedly as he bundled T'Lis into her warm red jacket and tucked George Samuel into his back pack. Starsky took one of his own jackets to replace the leather bomber jacket accidentally-returned to Los Angeles. Hopefully, no observer would recognize him in the Giant's cap, Kirk had bought to take back to Sulu. Goldie bumped against T'Lis in her eagerness to get out on the beach. They walked all the way to the point before they found Hutch leaning against the rocks. A meteor shower poured into the water, stars swallowed by the sea. Neighbors straggled out on their decks to enjoy the natural fireworks accompanied by the resounding crash of black waves crashing on the beach, Their gleaming spray splashed ashore. The pale green glow came from stars, trapped like fireflies, within the waves. His grandmother had told him that story on his first trip to the beach.

T'Lis looked as if she had been mesmerized by the brilliance of the sky. Kirk pointed out the whole menagerie crowded into the dome overhead -- the Big Bear, Little Bear, Swan, and Taurus whose red eye balefully stared at Orion the Hunter who stalked the heavens with his dogs. These stars had shaped his image of space when he was a child. He'd set out on his first cruise only to see the shape of the constellations shift at every planetfall.

"I canst see the sehlat," she complained, yawning sleepily.

"Cellar?" Hutch asked.

"The Southern Cross," Kirk replied. "She's been staying with my in-laws at their house in the desert." His daughter, who'd lived most of her short life on Vulcan had grown up with other constellation shaped to suit those desert dwellers' myths, the Sleeping Sehlat, the L'Matya, K'Dron's Bow, and Tyrn's lyrette.

"That sehlat?" T'Lis pointed toward the Big Bear.

"The sehlat isn't up there. Only the bear."

"What a bear?"

"Rr-rrowr," Starsky growled as he tickled her.

"You 'top it," T'Lis wriggled away from him but couldn't quit giggling.

"I'm a bear."

"No,you Sta'sky. You not bear," T'Lis announced, ever logical.

"Guess, she told you," Hutch punched his friend in the arm.

They wandered slowly back to the house invigorated by the brisk salt air. Kirk took George Samuel back down the hall to T'Lis' room where his bassinet had been moved. The baby had been sleeping through the night for more than a week. Only his father was losing sleep. Captain Dobie had succinctly stated that babies grunts and groans never disturbed their own rest only their parents. If George Samuel wanted attention, he'd make himself heard.

Back at the dining room table, Kirk drew pictures of the Terran constellations. Orion the Hunter, boldly strode through the firmament accompanied by his dogs in search of bears. Taurus hid in a covert with his horns lowered primed to attack. The swan cried a warning just in time to alert Orion to his danger.

T'Lis knelt on the chair beside him, following the outlines of the figures taking shape among the stars sketched out on the long sheet of computer paper. She stared wide-eyed at the images being formed before her. Hunting dogs, bears and a bull, with wide curving horns and long brown fur like a musk-ox enthralled her as they had Kirk when his father brought this hunting scene to life in his childhood.

"Hey, now how come no one ever taught astronomy like that, when I was a kid?" Starsky asked.

"Cause they don't have stars in Brooklyn," Hutch said.

"We got the Brooklyn Bridge. From Brooklyn Heights, you can see the Verrazano Narrows Bridge 'n the Statue of Liberty,"

Starsky declared.

"The average astronomer might not be familiar with those constellations, Starsk."

"Then he ain't never been on the Crosstown Expressway."

"I hate to break this to you, Babe, but I've never been on the Crosstown Expressway," Hutch said as he went to the kitchen for another beer.

"It's tough dealin' with cultural illiterates," Starsky declared. "Hey, that Taurus, there. He looks like the minotaur back in that Steve Reeves movie about Hercules." To illustrate, Starsky rose and pointed his fingers over his forehead to form bull's horns. Whuffling, he scuffed his sneakered hoof, and lowered his head to charge Hutch who had just come out of the kitchen door. Flourishing a red-striped dish towel, Hutch made a perfect pass. In the living room, he fought off another attack with a gracefully-executed Veronica and finished off the minotaur with a broom handle sword. T'Lis giggled at the spectacle delighted to see her father's picture come to life.

The little girl curled up in her father's lap barely able to keep her eyes open, but unwilling to go to sleep. Two fingers stuck firmly in her mouth, she tried to stifle a yawn that proved catching. Starsky looked only slightly more alert.

"Maybe, we should call it a night," Kirk grinned at Hutch.	"I've got to be at the station at 8:30 tomorrow morning. I'd better get back," Hutch said.

"I'll walk you to the door," Starsky offered.

Despite her protests, T'Lis fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Kirk straightened the covers and retrieved her stuffed animal from under the rocking chair able to see in the dim red light that suffused the room. The baby gurgled softly but settled down once his back was rubbed. By the time, Kirk went to set the security system by the front door, Starsky had already gone to bed.

The lights from the neighboring houses illuminated the darkened hallway. He settled down in his own room to pick up the book he had been reading, I, Claudius. The Emperor Tiberius, his namesake, had ordered a judicious use of poison to discourage his protege Germanicus, from enlarging his influence with the citizens of the Roman Empire. A sure cure for ambition. By that time, Tiberius had already retreated to his gardens and palaces on Capri. Kirk too found himself tempted to withdraw from the too solid world of Star Fleet. It would be easy to retreat into a world of ideas where image took the place of reality.

Spock had fled the pressing reality of his own experience to seek refuge in the caves of Gol. There, his friend could concentrate upon ideal forms, seek the bright images that lent shape and substance to the shadows in Plato's cave. If Spock succeeded, he would erase even the memory of the substantial reality that had given him such pain.

Kirk tried to concentrate upon his book but the words blended together as he began to fall asleep. The surf rumbled softly in the distance, an even pulse against which to measure his heartbeat. He nodded and finally was forced to rest his eyes.

Waves beat steadily against black rocks that had fallen from the cliffs overlooking the beach. Kirk had landed at Tiberius' retreat on Capri. Slowly, in dreamtime, he made his way up the winding path to the formal gardens that surrounded the villa. Quick as thought, Kirk met Spock in a sun-lit courtyard. He reached out to greet his friend puzzled by a sense of foreboding. Spock followed him into the shadowed arch of an entranceway, but suddenly seized by convulsions, he pitched forward into Kirk's arms.

An amoeba had affixed itself to Spock's back. Tendrils burrowed into his spinal column, interfacing with his nerves. Power poured through the link, overloading circuits, and deadening the opiate receptors. Spock writhed in agony. Helpless unable to allay his pain, Kirk sought salvation from the sun.

A flashing crystal appeared in the sky. A blue-white beam enveloped his friend but its brilliance obscured Kirk's vision. Spock stumbled into the labyrinth blinded by the light. As soon as he regained his sight, Kirk pursued him into the tunnels dug into the limestone cliffs beneath the villa.

Kirk unwound a golden thread from a distaff, he found lying by the entrance to the cave. The thread to guide him safely from the minotaur's lair where Spock had sought refuge. The tiles within were strewn with the carcasses of previous victims sacrificed to sustain the sacred monster who guarded the labyrinth. The minotaur's roar echoed from the direction in which Spock's flight had taken him.	A mosaic of the minotaur took shape before him, a great hairy golden man with bull's horns and a face hidden in the shadows. Like constellations, portraits of monsters who shared the minotaur's voracious appetite as did the Medusa and the Cyclops, red-slipped with the blood dripping from the walls. Through the bloody film, he could dimly see his own image, a figure who brought death, like the Medusa, to those bewitched by his ambition.

The tunnels narrowed. A twisting maze led him deep into the mountain underneath the villa. Frescos adorned the walls. The fates of those who had penetrated the central caverns were chronicled in impasto, bound with the blood of those sacrificed to sate the beast imprisoned in the labyrinth. The walls pulsed red and warm around him.

Spock had fled to the place of sacrifice. Only an equal sacrifice could save him. Narrow tunnels, slippery with blood, slowed his progress. Kirk followed the echo of Spock's heartbeat to the entrance of the central cavern. There, he pushed through a tight passage which led into a vast underground chamber. Sunlight slanted through the golden dome to illumine a rough altar carved with images of Osiris's rebirth.

Kirk entered the vast temple of Isis where the minotaur had been confined. Shapes shifted on the arched dome. Far above, Isis could be seen giving birth to Osiris. In a rage, his father tore the newborn infant into pieces scattered on the waters of the Nile. Isis descended into the underworld to win new life for her child.

The shaggy man-bull roared in the shadows. Golden fur and horns gleamed in the half-light as he tested his bonds. The minotaur could not threaten Kirk in this place. If he completed the ritual correctly, he could deliver his friend from darkness.

On the altar sat an egg whose golden glow reflected the light slanting through the opening in the dome. The luminous egg shone against a green altar cloth embroidered with Vulcan runes. A stone knife set in a golden haft lay on a silver paten. The knife must be purified by the light. He raised the knife. Sapphires with green hearts at their core were set in the golden tracery of the hilt. The jewels caught the beams of light streaming through the dome. The bright sunlight burned at the height of the day. Kirk drew strength from the sun to consecrate his sacrifice.

He purified the blade with his own blood, prayed for his friend's release, and plunged the knife into the egg. The shining, leathery surface resisted. Kirk hacked repeatedly until he had torn away the upper layers. Blood, green and molten, burst through the gaping hole pouring over the edges of the altar to obscure the images of Osiris carved below. The knife fell into the open wound. Kirk plunged his hands into the rapidly-cooling fluid to retrieve the sacramental weapon. He dragged out an infant, still and blonde, almost hidden by the bloody birth caul.

Kirk tore away the smothering placenta. To keep faith with Spock, he had to insure her survival. He bathed her in the life-giving blood shed that she might live. The child cried. He handed her to Sarek who waited in priestly white robes, well-pleased with the sacrifice.

Kirk knelt before the altar stained by the sacrament. The green torrent ceased. The blood gelled as it cooled. Yet, there would be no deliverance, now or forever, for his friend. On the rough stone surface, he could see a blue-clad figure whose abdomen had been ripped open by the stone blade that protruded from the wound. Spock lay unmoving on the rough stone consecrated by his sacrifice. Kirk himself had torn the life from his friend. The golden minotaur roared his approval, his hunger still unsated.

A chill hand hung down beside the altar. No touch would warm the flesh. Taut skin turned blue as the blood cooled in Spock's veins. Although his touch could not heal, Kirk was unable to break the contact between them even though he could not share his warmth. The minotaur tore away the bonds restraining him. The monster lunged out the the shadows intent upon devouring the child hidden in the maze by her guardian.

Kirk chased him into the labyrinth through a shifting landscape alien to himself that was home to the monster. After what seemed like hours, an underground channel blocked his path. On the opposite bank, the minotaur approached the guardian who had fled with the child. Kirk jumped, fell short, but plunged into the boiling water. The guardian Sarek was torn apart by the minotaur who hungrily swallowed every gobbet of flesh. As Kirk was carried off by the current, he could see the massive paws of the ancient beast close upon the child. As the minotaur reached toward her, the monster's face became visible. A familiar face. His own face.

The thread broke. Now, he could no longer find his way out of the maze. Breathless, he fought against the tide which threatened to swallow him. He had to pursue the beast which threatened to devour the child. Once again, he found himself in the sloping tunnels where he followed the green gory footprints of the monster. Narrow walls, streaming with his friend's blood, closed around him. Kirk followed the monster into the bowels of the earth, intent upon rescuing the only part of his friend now left to him. The child.

A baby's cry lured him onward. He stumbled through the blackness toward an opening. There, in the red-shot darkness, he saw the a pale hand resting on the infant's back. Long fingers like Spock's stroked the soft dark hair. He focussed on the figure obscured by the shadows, hope reborn in time.

VI

Starsky woke from a sound sleep mercifully delivered from the nightmares that had plagued him ever since the shooting. Unable to go back to sleep, he decided to go downstairs. Maybe a glass of milk, a handful of cookies and a snatch of creature features would help put this latest home-made horror flick into perspective. The moon kept disappearing behind the clouds producing a silent play of light and shadows in the darkened house. His grandmother would say that spirits were abroad in the land, although he knew full well it was only a storm front approaching. Still, he felt restless after being wakened by the nightmares that had plagued him ever since he checked out of the hospital. Funereal dreams, redolent with black orchids and snow-filled paperweights. A movie death made real. Pimps, prostitutes and numbers runners they had busted politely tendered their regrets to Hutch as they passed down the receiving line to pause momentarily by the coffin where Starsky himself lay in his one good suit with a rosebud in his lapel. That was when Starsky always woke up startled, not by the sight of his own body, but by Hutch's scream.

The cry froze him. Despite the warmth, he shivered drawing his sweater more closely around him as he moved quietly through the dark hallway, chilled by a scrap of memory that surfaced in the wake of the dream. The grey dawn light barely tinged the shadows of his room the first morning after he had come home. He had turned over to find Hutch sitting by the bed, pale and unmoving as an elder spirit reconciled to his own passing.

The memory of Hutch's face still haunted him especially in the middle of the night. Starsky had always worried that his partner's bright hair would catch the light in the dark alleys where they so often ventured. They had both been prepared for that eventuality. Neither of them had foreseen an attack at midday in Police Headquarters. The assassin's bullet had destroyed the balance in their lives. Now they had no refuge, no safe haven.

In the weeks since the shooting, Hutch had become more and more quiet. Never had he been given to idle chatter, but now he frequently lapsed into silence in the middle of a conversation. He would sit still, his eyes bright and unseeing, as if waiting patiently for the shadows to consume him. The shadows grew by the day crowding every corner of his life. At least, that was what his partner had told him one night just after Starsky came home from the hospital. Though Hutch had not openly expressed his fears since then, he still seemed quiet and resigned. Starsky could not help fearing that that very resignation would dull his partner's reflexes someday when Hutch was very tired. He had no intention of waiting for that to happen. Now, he only had to figure out what to do. Downstairs, he could hear the baby crying.

The high thin wail shattered the peace of the silent house. Disturbed, Starsky headed for the downstairs bedroom. He couldn't help responding any more than he could keep himself from trying to rescue the gaunt, sooty cats with sharp claws who occasionally followed him up Prospect Avenue on his way home from the park. After a bowl of matzo soaked in milk, his dad would take them over to a couple of old ladies on his beat. In a backyard that overlooked the bay, they sheltered the wild things.

As long as the baby kept crying, he'd never be able to get back to sleep. Just what had to be done now became immediately apparent as soon as he entered the nursery. The baby was wailing. His crying must have disturbed his sister because T'Lis was thrashing around in the grips of a bad dream. Starsky straightened her covers and patted her back until she settled down. George Samuel was starving, or at least thought he was, so they had to go to the kitchen for a bottle. Unwilling to disturb T'Lis, he jounced the baby against his shoulder while the bottle was warming on the stove then they went to sit in the darkened living room.

George Samuel greedily glubbed half of his bottle before quieting down. Starsky settled the baby on his lap to be burped, rubbing his back in smooth circular motions. If only Hutch had kids, this might not have hit him so hard but for the time being, they only had each other. Me and thee. Now, it was up to Starsky. His partner was hurting but he didn't have any idea how to help. Just being there used to be enough, but now his presence reminded Hutch of Starsky's near encounter with death.

Gradually, dawn broke through the dark storm clouds gathering above the point. The shadows in the living room began to fade even though Starsky himself remained hidden in the depths of the brown leather easy chair. Sunbeams broke through the early pre-dawn darkness illuminating the infant whose black hair shone in the first light. Only Starsky's hand remained visible, long fingers brushing back the baby's hair.

"Sp . . . Spock." Jim stood frozen by the door his gaze fixed on the long fingers splayed on the baby's back.

"Ya' don't need ta' check Dr. Spock to know when the little guy's starving." Starsky replied. "

"Doctor Spock?"

"Baby doctor . . . wrote all sorts of crazy stuff about spoiling kids."

"What?" Jim looked genuinely confused as he rubbed his hand over his mouth. To Starsky, he looked exhausted like a man who hadn't slept well for weeks. Quietly, he passed the baby over to Kirk who carried him back down the hall to the children's room. With gentle care, he cleaned and changed the baby before offering him the rest of his bottle. George Samuel gurgled, grateful for his midnight snack. The baby grasped the blue plastic bottle in his long fingers drifting off to sleep clutching his father's thumb. Carefully, Jim pried the thin fingers loose as he settled George Samuel in his cot.

"He's got a good grip," Starsky remarked.

"Musician's hands. That's what my mother calls them." Jim set the bottle on the dresser. "Earlier, I mistook you . . . I thought you were . . . "

"A ghost. . . "

Without a word, Jim meticulously straightened the blue covers his hand trembling slightly as he stroked the baby's glossy hair. Warm and secure, George Samuel grizzled softly as he fell into a sound sleep.

T'Lis tossed restlessly in the grips of a nightmare. Her bangs flopped into her face. She made a vague swipe at them without even waking up. Reaching over, Jim smoothed her hair automatically as if from long custom. Quietly, she snuggled up to the stuffed bear with long felt fangs falling into a deep sleep seemingly soothed by her father's touch. Whatever memories Jim might have now lived only in the tenderness shown toward his children.

"I used to dream of having a beach to walk on. I thought we'd spend a couple of weeks at my family's cabin once our mission was over."

"Well, the beach is right out front."

"I can't leave the kids alone."

"I'm here. You can leave 'em with me."

"Thanks, I owe you one," he said with a slight smile. Pausing only to grab a warm shirt, he headed toward the water. Starsky watched him walk unhurriedly along the tideline, his boots dampened by the waves that washed away his footprints. The mist rose around the headlands. For a moment, he moved through a brightlit haze, golden as Hutch, until the shadows gathered him to themselves.

Starsky shut the drapes, safe within the darkness, soothed by the children's even breathing. At least, Jim still had them. He'd lost his partner, not his life. Starsky settled down the rocker and had almost dozed off when T'Lis threw off her covers dumping her stuffed animal onto the floor. Starsky was fishing around under the bed for her bear but banged his head into the springs when the door slammed. Starsky was still sitting on the floor grumbling when Jim walked into the room.

"What happened?"

"Nothin', just cracked my skull on the bedsprings when the door banged."

"The wind blew it shut." Jim explained walking over to check on the baby. "Starsky, this morning . . . earlier this morning, I took you for someone else."

"An ax murderer?"

"Why do you say that?" Jim said.

"You looked . . . well, . . . like the first guy on the death scene."

"Yes . . . " Jim turned toward the window a bleak look coming over his face.

"You want a beer? " Starsky led the way into the living room. A can of Coors might make this conversation a little easier. Jim sat stiffly on the edge of his seat as if he was still unable to relax. "Do you feel like you can talk about it?"

"I don't know what to say."

"Who'd I remind you of Freddie Kruger?" Starsky said as he opened the refrigerator and took out two beers tossing one to Jim.

"Who?" Jim asked as he caught it.

"Nightmare on Elm Street -- your friendly neighborhood psychopathic killer."

"No," his eyes clouded. He sipped his beer then spoke softly, his hand tapping the right arm of his chair. "No, the gentlest soul I've ever known."

"Spock?" Starsky asked remembering the name he'd heard Jim whisper.

"Where did you hear that name?" Jim demanded sitting bolt upright.

"Well, if you don't know from baby doctors, who's Spock?"

"He's . . . he is . . . was my First Officer and my closest friend."

"Your wife 'n him must of been related?"

"After a fashion," he said shortly. "How did you know?"

"You've talked a lot about your First Officer. Whenever you do, you always check out the little guy to see if he's still there. Sometimes, you just stare at 'im, as if ye're lookin' fer someone else." Kirk blushed, a gesture charmingly at odds with his blunt military bearing. "Your wife musta' of been some looker. What happened?"

"What d'you mean?" Jim asked looking confused.

"Their Mom, what happened to her?"

"They don't . . . there isn't . . . we became separated." Jim replied flustered.

"Doin' spy stuff?"

"We were on our way back from a mission behind enemy lines when a phony distress signal drew us off course in the DMZ," Kirk replied. "We'd almost made it past enemy lines when they surrounded us. We were outnumbered and outgunned but still had one advantage. Spock had stolen an enemy vessel from a research base located along the border."

"That's like at Da Nang. Lots of the Vietnamese pleasure girls had ties to the VC so they could smuggle people onta' the base. S'that how he got the ship," Starsky asked.

"Same principle. We had an operative in place who helped Spock commandeer the prototype of a new vessel under development, a small swift gunship capable of slipping under the range of the big guns. He was able to take the ship in close to the command vessel, set the detonation devices and created a diversion that gave us time to reach our own lines with only minutes too spare," Kirk said.	"The operative?" Starsky said.

"Did not make it back. The Fleet lost at least four good officers in that operation."

"And your children?" Starsky asked.

"Lost a parent." Kirk paced the floor moving over to the window as the cold blue shadows faded before the pale dawn rising over the mountains to the east. As he opened the drapes, he stood there, his face half hidden in the darkness, a military man taking refuge in the familiar forms that had until now given meaning to his life. "It was a suicide mission. Spock was the best qualified because he could pass for one of their own people. I sent my First Officer to his death then recommended him for highest honors. Commander Spock offered his life in the performance of his duty."

"You got the kids out?" Starsky leaned forward fascinated as he nodded his head.

"Affirmative. However, if I had crippled their command vessel more quickly, he might have been able to escape." As Jim finished speaking, Starsky had come to just two conclusions and the second was that this guy was still in a lot of pain, too much pain to confront his feelings and had sought comfort in the familiar formulas of command. Clearly, he had not had time yet to deal with what had happened behind enemy lines, though Starsky could not guess the enemy's identity. They probably had not gone into Vietnam so many years after the war, but he like everyone else knew the U. S. Navy was involved in covert operations all over the world from Russian ports in Lithuania to hidden bases in China and North Korea.

"At least you've got the kids," Starsky said.

"But I never planned on bringing them up alone." Kirk wandered down the hall to the bedroom as if seeking to reassure himself of the children's presence. Gently, he regarded the baby snuggled under the blue blanket. Hesitantly, he smoothed the silky hair behind tiny elf-like ears that made the baby look like a changeling deposited on the doorstep. Kirk stared out the window toward the waves breaking on the sand. His face drained of all color, as he gripped the window ledge. Hutch and him had had three months to deal with his shooting but they still weren't exactly ready to talk it out. No matter what had happened, they still had one another. Despite being a bit bruised and battered, their friendship remained intact. They remained intact. Starsky had no words of comfort to offer Kirk. If Gunther's gunmen had taken his life, he was not sure Hutch would even still be on this earth.	Next morning, Kirk walked into the kitchen looking exhausted. Neatly attired in a pair of blue jeans and a blue and gold checked shirt, he brushed back his hair carefully. To Starsky, Kirk looked like a spy getting ready to face the firing squad. Restraint was admirable, but not when taken to extremes. Kirk set the plate of toast down in front of T'Lis but reminded her to butter only one side this time. Starsky started the coffee impressed by the casual efficiency with which Kirk organized their breakfast chores. They ate in compatible silence watching the dolphins play around a pleasure boat passing the point.

T'Lis tried to dunk her last piece of toast into a jar of greengage plum jam without looking away from the water. The green goo spilled into T'Lis's lap, dying her sunsuit and oozing off the chair onto the light beige carpet where Goldie started to lick it up. "T'Lis Ydresil," he spoke sharply. "You had specific orders not to play with your food."

"Wasn't p'aying," she replied, sticking out her lower lip.

"I didn't solicit your opinion, Young Lady. Now, I want you to go in and change right now. If this happens again, you can consider yourself on report." Starsky obligingly wiped the worst of the mess off before she left the table knowing that otherwise a trail of green slime would extend all the way to the bedroom. He followed her down the hall to make sure she didn't get distracted.	When he returned to the living room, he could see that Kirk had gone to get a damp sponge from the kitchen. However, he seemed unwilling, or unable to mop up the green gobs of diced fruit dripping off the edge of the table. He dabbed the sponge at the jam but pulled back as if the very thought of getting near the gooey green substance sickened him. That was how Starsky always felt at drive-by shootings when some guy's brains were splattered all over a stoop.

Greengage plum preserves were splashing off this table. That Starsky could deal with. Now, strawberry jam could give you a start after you'd seen someone blown away by a shotgun at lose range. However, only lobsters and a few other posh crustaceans found only in nouvelle cuisine had green blood so he could not understand Kirk's reluctance to clean it up.

Kirk's hand shook. He seemed to be controlling himself only with the greatest of difficulty. He wouldn't usually get so upset about a spill but he had had a bad night. Starsky had seen how upset Kirk was when he came into the baby's room. That tension had still not abated, but cross examination would not help. Like Hutch, Kirk kept his own counsel. Running might help. Sometimes, Hutch ran ten miles a day to sweat off his frustrations when they'd been assigned to a particularly brutal case.

"Look, if you want to take a run down the beach, I could hold the fort?"

"You sure?"

"No problem."

"I could give Goldie her run." Without preamble, Kirk changed into cut-offs and a t-shirt. Goldie leaped off the deck eager to chase the waves along the beach. Kirk set an even pace as he raced along the hard-packed sand that sparkled with chips of mica in the early morning sun.

"Ick, b'ood," T'Lis stared at the jam now hardening on the rungs of the Captain's chair where she'd been sitting.

"Not bread . . . jam." Starsky corrected her absently as he cleaned up the sodden remains of the mess.

"B'ood . . . g'een b'ood," she stubbornly repeated pointing to her scraped knee.

"Blood is red . . . yucky, but red. The veins just look blue through our skin 'cause they don't have much oxygen. Sometimes, our skin looks yellow or kinda' green when we're sick. Is that what you mean?" Starsky never found out what she meant. At that moment, they were interrupted by the doorbell. A red-haired woman in the simple pink suit set two suitcases inside the door. Fine bones and delicate features gave her a look of patrician elegance.

"I don't think I could have the wrong house," she said.

"Maisha," T'Lis hurled herself into the woman's arms. "I miss you."

"Grandpa and I have missed you,too, T'Lis."

"Where's your Daddy?"

"On the beach."

"He took the dog for a run," Starsky put in.

"Dog . . . how many beings are in residence. Just a round number?" she asked, forestalling questions or emendations with a wave of her hand. She looked distinctly non-plussed by his presence. Luckily, they soon heard the dog bounded up the steps. Her son-in-law followed at a more sedate pace, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, as if he could never run far enough or fast enough to elude his demons. They needed time alone without half of L. A. listening to every word with bated breath. At least, he could give them that. Shepherding T'Lis inside, he started a fresh pot of coffee. By the looks of them, they both could use a cup. He sure as hell needed a shot of caffeine after being up half the night.	Jim Kirk saw Starsky signal thumbs up as he shooed T'Lis back through the sliding door. The Lady Amanda looked frail, delicate and formidable as she progressed toward him, a tangible reminder of the friend whom he had lost. If anyone had heard anything about his whereabouts, she would have heard while she was home. Oddly, home held no appeal. Here, at least, memories could torment him only from a distance.

"Amanda, I'm so glad to see you. Have you heard anything?

"Nothing at all, they've called off the search."

"I've got to get back there. He's alive," Jim said.

"How can you be sure?"

"I can't be certain, I just have a feeling, an intuition, but intuition is a command perogative."

"And T'Lis . . . "

"I don't intend on going anywhere 'til she's out of danger."

"But after that?" Amanda said.

"I can't leave him alone in enemy territory," Jim said.

"I won't try to stop you. Admiral Nogura says that if anyone can find him, you can," the older woman sat down twisting her gloves.

"I will get him back," Kirk spoke softly as if he was trying to convince himself as well. Starsky waited until he was sure they'd finished talking before he returned.

"Amanda, I'd like you to meet Dave Starsky."

"Sadie's friend."

"You've heard about me."

"I've known Sadie ever since I moved into the beach house six months ago just after we'd started this research project."

"'N y're almost done?" Starsky asked.

"With the initial phase of the project."

"S'like a fairy tale," Starsky said.

"Starsky?" Kirk asked in a puzzled tone.

"Yeah, like one o' them bedtime stories, wakin' the little princess," he smiled benignly.

"Not precisely, we're activating the stem cells to help them produce healthy erythrocytes," Amanda countered.

"Like I said, Sleepin' Beauty. That's why she's been tired all the time. Without you, she wouldn't be goin' anywhere fast, would you sport?" Starsky swung T'Lis up over his head while she squealed with delight.

"Hey, where ya' been babe? Doesn't anyone around here answer the bell?" Hutch asked as he turned the corner of the house.

"I wantcha' ta' meet my partner, Ken Hutchinson, who's usually got more manners. Jim's mother-in-law come ta' stay awhile."

"Pleased ta' meet you, Mrs. . . . "

"Amanda, please call me Amanda, Mr. . . "

"Hutch will be fine," the lanky blond leaned over to shake hands with a courtly bow. Before Starsky could tease him about his sudden attack of good manners, his partner straightened up, shoulders back, a sure sign of indecision. "Look Jim, I hope I haven't come at a bad time, but I could really use a little help. We've got a feeling that the torch is gonna' take a try at one o' those buildings owned by Westview Realty downtown. You targeted about four buildings in a six block radius."

"You can stake out that area . . ."

"'N scare him off," Hutch said. "He's got inside information on our investigation. I don't dare mount a full scale assault. besides, he's no dummy, he'd notice a squad o' plainclothesman deployed around the perimeter. If you'd come downtown, maybe we could get a make on him ourselves before calling in the strike."

"You really think you got in?"

"Wiring, fuses and those pressure gauges all were picked up at Radio Shacks down in Orange County last night by a man answering our torch's description." Hutch gave him time to process the information. After only a moment, Kirk nodded agreement.

"Amanda, I know you just got here . . . "

"I'm sure Mr. Starsky will fill me in."

"Hey, my dad was Mr. Starsky," he complained as they watched them head toward the road.

"Well, you've just been promoted," Amanda smiled as they went inside.

Hutch headed back to town at the highest speeds possible on the switchbacks overlooking the ocean, while Jim revised his records with barely a glance at the spectacular view along the coast. With a fine indifference, he checked his new calculations carefully reducing the buildings under consideration. They could post a few undercover agents from the DEA at those locations, but did not dare involve the L.A.P.D. or F.B.I. for fear of spooking their suspect. They presented their findings to Dobey over burgers at Huggy Bear's bar. He could put in for a search warrant for their suspect's loft this afternoon. That way, they could go in later that night if he made a try to torch for those buildings.

They spent the rest of that afternoon following up leads on the investment of profits from local check cashing services in Westview Realty, a not insignificant amount when considered in the aggregate. At eight o'clock, they replaced Turner and Cash on stake-out. Despite the long day, Kirk appeared as alert as ever, as if his adrenaline had no turn off valve. He sat on the other side of the car, ramrod straight, while he kept watch on the suspect's loft.

"Relax, willya' the building's not gonna' sprout legs 'n walk away," Hutch slumped down against the seat unaccountably irritated both by his closeness to Starsky.

"We have to remain alert."

"Alert - yes. Conspicuous - no. Ye're sittin' up there stiff as a target in a shootin' gallery, which you just might be if any bad guy's spot ya'. Ye're not exactly inconspicuous." Kirk slid down without losing sight of the building. "Look you want to go get a cup of coffee? It may be a long night."

"Negative."

"I'm gonna' go get one for myself, shall I bring one for you?"

"Negative," Kirk responded his tone sharp as if he was consciously controlling an impulse to reprimand his temporary partner. Same to you buddy, Hutch thought. At a nearby diner, he bought a cup of coffee and a bag of home-made chocolate-covered doughnuts to take back to Starsky. The fog funneled into the streets, sour, gritty and solid as had been his rage after his friend had first been shot. In the weeks that followed, his rage had transformed itself into grief, a grief he was still unwilling to confront.

As he settled himself on the front seat of the LTD, he spared only a brief glance at his temporary partner. Blessed. Golden. Bright as his medals. Though he may have ventured behind enemy lines once or twice, his bearing and command presence made it obvious he spent most of his time handing out orders on the bridge far removed from the sailors who sacrificed themselves on his command. This was the probably the closest Kirk had ever come to the mean streets that had almost taken his partner's life.

With one sharp twist, Hutch snapped on the FM rock station. Jimmy Page bowed the electric guitar, a shrieking scream that echoed like the cry of lost souls in the dim confines of the car. Robert Plant wove in sinuous vocal lines which offered sensual redemption at the second coming. "Stairway to Heaven." Starsky loved the song, the irony and the driving rhythms inspired by L. A., a neon garden of carnal delights.

Without even asking, Kirk reached over to turn off the radio. Carefully, with slow deliberate movements, Hutch turned it on again unwilling to be trapped in a car with a tin soldier without any distraction.

"Turn that off, Mister."

"Is that an order, Sir." Hutch drawled without taking his eyes off the man at his side.

"Affirmative. . . . " Jim gave him the sharp appraising look. "Look, we don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

"Who's to know. No one down here but us 'n seagulls."

"If any of his pals should show up unexpectedly, they won't exactly welcome our presence."

"How'd you know?"

"I . . . I broke radio silence. Three months ago. A phony distress call. Refugees in a failing vessel. The enemy commander used that excuse to lure us into neutral territory where their ships could surround us. Only my First Officer's actions saved us. He acted as a decoy . . . "

"And now . . ."

"we wait," Kirk said apparently relieved when Hutch left the radio off for the balance of the evening.

The torch, John Gregory Madden, sneaked out the back doors across the rear loading dock. After looking around, he got into a Chevy Nova parked halfway down the street. They followed him to a single occupancy hotel near Needle Park kept up to full occupancy by retired filmworkers, single mothers and the occasional junkie. A bored clerk yawned at the front desk in a lobby that was a preservationist's dream. Wrought-iron elevator cage, worn Turkey carpeting and frayed velvet drapes looked like holdovers from the thirties. The suspect entered the lobby dressed as an electrical repairman carrying a toolbox. After speaking briefly with the man at the desk, he headed downstairs on the creaking elevator.	Jim went around the rear of the building while Hutch waited until the man was out of sight before entering the lobby. "I'm looking for this man," Hutch pulled out a photograph of Starsky to show the clerk.

"Hey, I don't get paid enough to know everyone that checks inta' this dump."

"Look, he hadda' of come in within the past hour. Now, he robbed these gamblin' guys from the Triads."

"Hey, whatta' ya' want from me?"

"Look, who ya' seen in here tonight," Hutch handed him twenty dollars.

"NO one worth gettin' greased?" the man fingered the bill.

"Let me re-phrase that question," Hutch grabbed his collar dragging him up against the desk meanwhile sticking another bill in his pocket. "I don't have time for games. Who came in here tonight."

"No one. We got regular guests, we ain't like one o' them places down along the strip. No rooms by the hour. We got a respectable clientele."

"What about that guy just come in?"

"Electrician. City guy. Been back twic't already this week. We got a circuit up on the fourth and fifth floor west that keeps shortin' out."

"Kinda' late for a house call, isn't it?" Hutch asked.

"That's what I as't him? Said he was in the neighborhood on an emergency. Look old lady Keller, every time her hair drier don't work she calls her nephew down at City Hall. Gets the owners in a snit. If he can fix it . . . "

"He looks like someone we've had under surveillance. Ya' mind if I check downstairs?"

"Help yerself," the desk clerk went back to watching the Lakers' game on the ten inch black-and-white in the office. Hutch eased down the back stairs careful not to spook the suspect. The man in the electrician's uniform was just disappearing through the exit at the far end of the basement. Hutch called in an alarm before even taking a close look at the triggering mechanism. Damn! What he didn't know about explosives would fill a few fair-sized volumes. Hurrying upstairs he warned the clerk to evacuate the building.

On his return, he saw Kirk disappear through the exit at the far end of the hall. The countdown had halted twenty-three seconds before detonation. The bomb squad found the timing mechanism had malfunctioned twenty seconds before the triggering device would be engaged. The commander figured a wire must have shaken loose during transport. Leaving the bomb squad to take the evidence back to headquarters, Hutch rushed out into the alleyway to find his temporary partner waiting by the car.

"What'd you do?"

"Disarmed the mechanism," Kirk replied. "It may have taken a little longer than usual since I've never worked on a timing device of this design."

"No need ta' apologize. Still, too bad we lost our guy."

"Don't most people who set incendiary devices stay around to enjoy their handiwork?"

"Yeah, most torches like fires, a lot, a whole hell of a lot. You think he's still around here."

"I'd make book on it."

"How can ya' be so sure?"

"For one thing, his car's still parked down on the next block. Why don't you check down the block? I'll go across the roofs," Kirk said.

"Look, come on back by the car," Hutch opened the glove compartment and tossed over his partner's .38. Kirk hefted it gauging its weight and checking to see if it was loaded before he headed down the street to scan the adjacent streets and alleys. Hutch could see him moving stealthily across the rooftops while he himself checked out the blocks around the hotel. Street people bedded down in refrigerator boxes. Hookers leaned against the streetlamps while their johns lounged in the doorways. Drug deals went down in the white-tiled entryways of old apartment buildings.

They saw nothing untoward until they entered the park across from the hotel where a man had stationed himself within sight of the hotel entrance. The fire engines had just driven away. As the police departed, he took a small package, wrapped in a black garbage bag, from his jacket examining it closely. Without a word, Kirk went around the front to cut off his escape while Hutch followed the culprit down the dark alley to the basement entrance of an old apartment building. He felt his way down the stairs guided only by a crack of light at the end of the hallway. Moving warily down the corridor, he could see the red-haired suspect settling his package in a nest of oily rags. As the triggering mechanism was being set, Hutch started to move quietly down the hall but could not reach the door before his acting partner came into view. Jim ducked into the doorway with his gun drawn.

The suspect never even had time to pick up the weapon laying at his side.	Coolly dispassionate, Kirk kept him covered until Hutch arrived. They called in the bust dragging the bomb squad out to retrieve the evidence before they could book their man.

Hutch had completed his report a half hour before, but was concentrating so fully on the information report gathered by Jennings on Stedman, their slimy F. B. I. agent's, overly intimate relationship with the Aztecas that he failed to hear Captain Dobey approach his desk.

"Hutchinson, you gonna' sit here all night."

"I just finished my report."

"Well, put it on my desk I'll read it in the morning."

"It's already morning," Hutch replied reasonably.

"Not 'til I go home 'n get some sleep. I been up all night."

"The search warrant," Hutch said.

"That I got last night."

"What were you doing here?"

"Talking an Interpol agent very interested in our investigation. Seems our Agent Stevens has been over to Paris twice in the past three months to learn more about the French cocaine trade." Captain Dobey said.

"And they were suspicious."

"Very."

"Any reason?" Hutch said.

"One of their men trailed him to Geneva. Found him real buddy buddy with one o' those Swiss bankers. Old acquaintance."

"They gonna' send us the name."

"They're gonna' fax it in the morning. Until then, we might's well go home, get some rest." Dobey yawned then waved goodnight on his way out. Jim stood, stretched then moved deliberately toward the window that overlooked the city seemingly taken with the view. The thruways were drawn through the valley stitching the brightly-lit streets into a coherent pattern.

"We're not gonna' be able to get back up the coast tonight," Hutch walked up beside him.

"Problem?"

"We may have a lead on Agent Stedman. I'd like to follow it up as soon as possible tomorrow morning, but I've got to get some sleep."

"You think he was carrying cash to that Swiss bank?" Jim asked.

"And maybe making a few private investments," Hutch suggested.

"Interesting," Jim replied. "We'll just have to see what records turn up."

They drove into Venice just before dawn. Hutch had coffee and a chocolate-covered doughnuts out on the sun porch while Kirk took a shower. The familiar sounds of the waves merged with the rushing water to call back memories of Starsky after an all-nighter. Silly from lack of sleep, his partner would wander out of the bathroom to divert him with extravagant histories of the surfers and street cleaners below. Their dull humdrum lives were transformed into James Bond by way of Baron Munnchausen. By the time, he was finished, Hutch would have unwound enough to finally get some sleep.

Alone. The brass bed had always seemed wider, colder and emptier whenever Starsky was snoring away contentedly on the couch in the living room. So lost in his own thoughts had he become that Hutch failed to notice Kirk's arrival. "You worried about the case?" Jim asked.

"No, looks like we might be finally getting it under control. Just seems kinda' strange," Hutch mused.

"Strange?"

"Not having Starsky here rootin' through my fridge after an all-nighter," Hutch said. "Get used ta' havin' the guy around."

"How long have you been together?" Kirk asked.

"Since we made detective three years ago."

"Then you share this apartment?"

"When Starsk starts makin' direct tactical strikes on my closet after an all night stake-outs, it sure seems that way." Hutch replied.

"Ya' know, just before he got shot, he appropriated my new cream cashmere sweater, hundred dollar sweater, my birthday present to myself. Wore it on a bust in a garage that turned ugly. The jerk decided ta' get the drop on these guys by goin' under a truck. Not around but under the freakin' truck. When he come out, Starsky there coulda' swum the English Channel. That sweater was solid grease by the time he read those guys their rights. I coulda' killed him ruinin' the sweater like that, couldn't even send it to Goodwill. No one's touched a single one of my sweaters in weeks; all my shirts are sitting in the closet. All my cold pizzas here. There's not a single can of root beer in my refrigerator. God, Starsky drives me crazy at times the way he just moves in on me."

"But you're not together?"

"Last few years, we've never been apart, got so we did almost everything together even on week-ends. Never thought I'd have to go out on the streets by myself. Always Starsk's been there backin' my play. God, I miss that crazy idiot." At least, Starsky had survived, a thought that considerably lightened his view. Kirk touched his arm in a spontaneous gesture of sympathy as unexpected as it was heartening. Together, they watched the sun describe a bright arc on the horizon. A golden haze brightened the horizon pale as hope as he stared into the distance. The red wafer pierced the fog, turning water into wine, consecrating the sea. Met in silent communion, they contemplated the new day.

Hutch tossed and turned freshly aware of his cold isolation. Too many time, he slept by himself painfully aware of Starsky's presence in the adjoining room. Never had he even considered breaching that privacy until today. Possibilities, barely considered before now, suddenly dangled like a lure drawing him into the maelstrom, dark as the morning sea. Water changed to wine. Transubstantiation. Body and blood transformed. Made one. In the unity of desire. Me and Thee. Together for all time. Satiated, Hutch slept comforted by the vague memory of a dream he dared not yet remember.

They slept in their separate accommodations until almost one o'clock in the afternoon when a fender bender outside and the ensuing argument made further sleep unimaginable. By the time, Hutch had showered and changed, Kirk had already begun to examine the data collected during the past couple of days. The two most recent buildings chosen by the torch were both within the limits defined by their computer-generated map. Not only were these Westview Reality properties, but lay within a well-defined set of parameters slated for commercial development.

"What will you be doing now?" Kirk asked as they left for the station house.

"Goin' crazy while I wait ta' find if Starsky gets ta' go back 'n on the street.

"Is that what you want?" Neatly, Kirk had skewered the problem, a problem without a solution.

"That's what Starsky wants." Though Hutch now knew how much he dreaded their first day back on the street. Starsky's desire to go back on the street disturbed him, but Hutch had not yet expressed his misgivings. He didn't have the right. Starsky was his friend, not his lover.

"I thought you were partners."

"That doesn't give me any rights," Hutch replied.

"Maybe not," though Kirk didn't sound entirely convinced. "It does give you some duties though, how long do you think you can go on like this?"

"Whatta' you mean?"

"Not saying anything to Starsky."

"About what?" Hutch replied defensively fearful this casual friend of Starsky's had somehow intuited his none too casual interest in his partner.

"Your concerns about his welfare?"

"Welfare?"

"You are worried about what will happen when he goes out on the street again, or was I wrong."

"No, it's just . . . how did you know," Hutch responded to something very close to a dizzy feeling of relief. At least, any bozo who walked in off the street couldn't see how much he cared about his partner. That would never do. Hutch had been afraid he'd been not walking around with his feelings hanging out. Bad enough that he was already way too involved with his partner. That commitment had been made a long time ago, too long for him to go harboring any regrets. Me and thee. No rings. No vows. No mortgage. They'd just made every decision that counted together, and would continue to do so as long as they lived, if they lived much longer. If anything happened to Starsky once they went back onto the street, they wouldn't have to give any thought to the future.

Even that knowledge carried its own irrational feeling of relief. If anything did happen to his partner, Starsky would never know how he felt, never guess that his feelings had long ago crossed the polite limit of affection between friends. He loved Starsky, had never made any secret of that fact, but he also loved his friend in a way that was neither polite nor decent in the view of someone as obsessed with proper male image as his partner. Easy to remember the horror roused by Johnny Blaine's murder. Only child molestation had appalled his partner more than the taint of homosexuality clinging to the case.

"My First Officer did not always see why I had to, in his view, take chances on occasion by leading a landing party myself rather than merely delegating authority. I never appreciated his feelings until now. Before he went out in that decoy vessel, I never expressed my concerns, even to myself, about his chances of survival. For the good of the service, my friend went into a no-win situation on my orders. Maybe, if I had spoken, we might have been able to find an alternative solution to the problem. I have to live with my decision, you don't. Why don't you say something to Starsky?" Kirk stared out of the window at the water.

"Maybe, I will," Hutch had the uneasy feeling that they were discussing more than his concerns about Starsky's safety on the mean streets, but didn't want to know. His own feelings were too new, too unfamiliar, to expose before this stranger. To tell the truth, he didn't even know if he'd be able to broach this topic with his any time soon.

Once they'd checked in at Parker Center, they split up for the day. Hutch spent the majority of his time running down records at the phone company with the help of a Judge's Order obtained by Captain Dobey only stopped down at City Hall to review the records for proposed construction by the city at the end of the day. His partner in crime, Kirk, spent the day tapping into the Swiss bank accounts that the captain had alerted them to that morning. All their findings dovetailed nicely as they discovered on the drive back up the coast that night.

Jim Kirk leaned back against the seat, tired despite himself, after the past few days activity now that the adrenalin rush had begun to dissipate. Something would have to be done about these two people before they destroyed themselves or each other. They certainly failed to understood their level of involvement with one another. Given adequate time and normal sexual urges, they would discover each other, but that they did not have. Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, AIDS, the Terran equivalent of s'rrkyn, would begin its devastating assault upon North American population centers within a short time, how short, he could not determine from their imperfect records of this period.

Anyone who had unguarded sex outside of a regular relationship risked exposure. Both Starsky and Hutch had a penchant for flight attendants, a particularly dangerous group, who had played a crucial role in the spread of the infection, if his memory served him correctly. A monogamous relationship would, not only provide them with emotional satisfaction, but might help protect them in the years to come. God knows, they deserved a happy ending after all they'd gone through these past few months.

Kirk had run out of miracles two months ago when Spock's fighter imploded. There wouldn't be any happy ending for him, not in this life anyhow, but at least, he had his kids. However, he saw no reason why Starsky and Hutch should have to eschew the comfort of a loving relationship just because they lived in a barbaric period where primitive sexual attitudes prevailed.

The prevailing winds were blowing off the ocean on the drive northward. Sailboats tacked in the stiff breeze. Fishermen waded in among the rocks to throw out their lines. The waves looked grey and choppy as they broke upon the sand. They parked up by the safe house but found that Starsky had taken T'Lis out for a walk. Hutch moved along with a nervous gait until he finally caught a glimpse of his partner examining the shells and sticks T'Lis collected along the tideline while Goldie dashed around them in ever widening circles.

Hutch relaxed visibly in Starsky's presence. The crisp professionalism gave way to a warmth almost entirely submerged in the everyday encounters with colleagues and cons which Kirk had observed during their brief time together. With brisk steps and renewed energy, Hutch hurried down the beach to greet his partner with a propriety, Kirk found oddly disturbing under the circumstances. Three months before, they had almost lost one another. Propriety made a cold mistress. These partners now had a second chance. There had to be a way to help them take advantage of their good fortune. Maybe Dr. McCoy's med kit might hold an answer, a commonly-prescribed drug which lessened inhibitions without interfering with normal thought processes. That might just give Starsky and Hutch the courage to confront their own needs. As the two men headed down the beach, they unconsciously fell into step together, a detail, he found both touching and disturbing, though he couldn't for the life of him understand why.

"Daia, you home," T'Lis threw herself into his arms confident of being swung up into the air.

"I was just down the coast," Kirk bounced her up onto his shoulders for the walk back to the safe house.

"I miss you," she replied.

"I missed you, too, baby girl. Were you good for Grandma?"

"Un-huh. You go way on 'Prise again?" she asked clearly remembering his short visits during the past year when than two years she'd had to stay with her grandparents in Shi-Kahr.

"Not for a long time. Maybe, not 'til you're a big enough girl to go to school. Would you like that?"

"We have a dog?"

"Why don't we talk about that once we get to San Francisco," he replied.

"So you're going to take the position as Chief of Operations," Amanda remarked as she walked down the wooden hillside steps.

"I think I'd better consider the offer seriously," Kirk let the little girl slide back down onto the sand where she could chase Goldie through the wavelets. "I've got responsibilities."

"You know, they'd be more than welcome to stay with us," Amanda replied.

"I know . . . it's just . . . it's just I'd like them to have a father at least for awhile." Even to his mother-in-law, he could not explain how confused he had been when his own father had visited between mission. For all practical purposes, he'd never had a father though his mother had always been there for him. The single parent family in which he'd grown up had been a fun, loving environment where a little boy who'd dreamed of being a starship captain could grow up safe and secure. No way would he condemn his own children to the cold, lonely room where Spock had grown up.

After a quiet stroll, they returned to the safe house. Dinner was already on the table when they arrived. Starsky and Hutch respected the medical personnel's preference for mealtime silence, though normally, as Kirk well knew, they would be eagerly filling each other in on the day's events. Together, they sat across the table, seeming to communicate even without words. Starsky only had to move his fingers toward the rolls. Without apparent thought, Hutch passed over the rolls and butter. They operated as a single entity, a symbiotic relationship far closer and more intuitive, in many ways, than had his been with Spock. After what happened on Kaaiern, they had always been careful, perhaps too careful as it turned out. All Kirk had left was the chill memory of their correct behavior to be contemplated in isolation, nourished only by the hope that somehow his First Officer had survived.

The children's bedtime offered the perfect opportunity to leave the partners alone for awhile. As soon as T'Lis wandered downstairs towing her stuffed sehlat, Kirk took her upstairs. After making sure that George Samuel was tucked in, Kirk settled down to read T'Lis Green Eggs and Ham. When that didn't put her to sleep, he tried the annual Star Fleet ordinance update. The specs of upgraded weapon's systems were bright as any storybook. With a steady voice, he read aloud the plans to charge the phaser through the main engines. Though he had some reservations about the procedure, Kirk could see its advantage in a combat situation. No longer would they have to risk attack while the phasers were being recharged.

T'Lis curled up in his lap, blonde curls disordered as she dozed off to sleep. Not wanting to waken her abruptly, he kept on reading for awhile. Design problems had plagued the Fleet cloaking device so none would be installed in Constitution-class ships for another two years. That was one program that might be directly affected by improved funding during his tenure as Chief of Operations. So involved did Kirk become in his reading that he failed to notice the passage of time. It was almost eleven o'clock when he checked on the children before going downstairs.

No need to have hurried, Starsky and Hutch had been adequately entertained. Starsky was sprawled on the couch, his head resting in Hutch's lap while they talked about the investigations. "We should be able to set a trap at the Canco Warehouse. They probably won't hit the area by the park this soon, but well may strike down by the docks. That's the other area slated for redevelopment," Hutch suggested. Long fingers brushed Starsky's hair off his forehead, carding through the shiny black curls.

"We gonna' set up a stake-out?" Starsky asked.

"If we go through the department, we might's well send out engraved invitations. We'll have to do this on our own," Hutch replied. "Jim?"

"I'd like to help, but my leave's almost up. I have to return to base for an interview with my commanding officer as soon as T'Lis is able to travel," Kirk said.

"And that will be?" Hutch asked.

"In a couple of days," Kirk said.

"Then the Sleeping Princess is all right?" Starsky asked.

"According to the doctor, T'Lis has made phenomenal progress in the past couple of days. We should have her home by the week-end."

"That doesn't solve my problem," Hutch shifted to give his partner more room, but did not make any move to leave.

"You could try goin' in yourself?" Kirk suggested.

"Do that 'n he'll get himself fricasseed." Starsky said. "You can't go in there without back-up."

"For once, I had not the slightest intention of taking such a risk," Hutch said.

"Who ya' gonna' draft, Huggy Bear?"

"I was thinkin' about someone closer to home. What ya' say?" Hutch asked.

"I thought you weren't exactly enthusiastic about goin' out on the streets with someone who'd just gotten himself ventilated. Bad karma, 'n all that?"

"Look Starsk, it's not that . . . it's just . . . look, we've got to talk, really talk. It's not that I don't wanta' be your partner, but I also don't exactly look forward to seeing you get shot. I don't know if I could handle sitting in some slimy alley waiting for the medics." Hutch tightened his hold on his partner.

"Ain't carved anywhere in stone, I gotta' be a street cop. Already done that routine. Tomorrow, we go out there, bust those bad guys, than we talk for real. This time I'll listen," Starsky responded.

"It's been awhile since I stood four watches, I'm afraid I could use some sleep." Kirk went out to the kitchen to get himself a brandy. Weighing the bottle in his hand, he realized this might be a good time to bring the partners closer together. Since his leavetaking could not be postponed much longer, a resolution would have to be achieved as soon as possible. Tonight might be the best time. Starsky and Hutch were well on their way to working out their professional problems, but had not yet resolved their personal dilemma.

When Kirk returned, the partners were still settled on the leather couch talking quietly. When an Enterprise crewmember suffered from irrational fears such as claustrophobia Dr. McCoy normally prescribed a mild anti-anxietant Relcom which relieve their inhibitions without diminishing rational control over their actions. Two doses from the sample included in his medical kit should help Starsky and Hutch deal with their feelings for one another. If they had any reasonable doubts about this relationship, they would be able to act upon their judgment. However, irrational fears should be overcome with ease.

Hutch's beer and Starsky's root beer should cover the drug's sour aftertaste. Although Kirk tried to scare up a smidgen of guilt, he actually felt very smug about this brief foray into matchmaking.

His confidence proved justified when he discovered no one had used the couch last night. Starsky's door was still locked at 7:00 when George Samuel made his presence known. Hutch only ventured downstairs an hour later after they had returned from their morning walk on the beach. The tall light-haired detective looked a little stunned, as if he'd just emerged from a dark cave. Coffee and pastries, he took back upstairs to share with Starsky. Given adequate sustenance, they might hibernate for days.

They would, however, have to come downstairs by two o'clock, if they wanted to trap Stedman, the rogue F. B. I. agent. Hutch and Kirk had run in the torch last night. Westview Realty would have to hire a new torch, if they wanted to burn down the final buildings on their list especially since Stedman was being re-called to Washington as of the end of the week. If he was supposed to oversee the job, he would have to move quickly. Metro records had yielded the names of four local guys who could be trusted to do the job. No reason to bring in foreign talent for a one night stand. They only had three buildings to go, not counting the ones last night. Those, they would have to put on hold for awhile since a fire tonight would be too suspicious.

"You sure you don't want to come downtown with us?" Starsky asked as he came downstairs yawning two hours later. "We could use the help. There're three buildings 'n two slightly used street cops. They'll probably hit Canco, but we could use someone else in place."

There was no real need to talk Kirk into lending assistance with their stake-out. Frankly, he'd rarely had so much fun in his life. Even at the Academy, he'd been captain of cadets. Here, he could go out on the streets without having to take responsibility for the lives of four hundred thirty people. Civilization as we know it was in no immediate danger. It was as if he'd walked into a museum re-creation of the late barbaric twentieth century, only here the waterfront smelled of real gasoline and real fish. Longshoremen yelled in the distance as they unloaded freighters from still distant places that would be well within commuting distance in his own time.

The cold coffee picked up a flat taste from the paper cup, an odd detail never recorded by cultural historians. The chocolate-covered doughnuts, unlike their twenty-third century counterparts, got his fingers all sticky. Kirk was assigned to cover the torch's loft. From what they had been able to figure out, Westview Realty owned that building. The torch had just been staying there while he was in town. When they last trailed Stedman, he had handed their last torch his payment at that location. It stood to rights, they'd use it again for a drop. They had no way of knowing it had been compromised.

From the roof across the way, Kirk had a full view of the premises from which to photograph the pay-off. Transmitters had been planted in the building and loft which would record the torch's assignment which should give Starsky and Hutch a chance to intervene. The thin dark jacket was barely needed on this warm, windy night. Kirk turned up his collar to wait.

In his own corner of the dock area, David Michael Starsky remembered what he didn't like about police work. Dull boring routine surveillances had nothing going for them. The coffee they had gotten back at the diner had long since gotten cold. He dug his hands into his pockets while he tried to find a comfortable corner on the deserted loading dock. The massive doorway with inset sliding doors provided a dark refuge with a full view of the old Canco Warehouse despite having no confirmation that that was the probably target.

Hutch had established himself on the top floor overlooking a major intersection. If Starsky had not known his location, he never would have guessed the building was occupied. They had parked their car down the alley. When the radio signalled, Starsky responded. Captain Dobey informed him that Stedman had left Headquarters ten minutes ago. An alert attendant in the garage had noticed a gas can and a sack full of rags in the trunk. Since the young man had seen Captain Dobey leaving with Stedman, the attendant had alerted the Detective Captain to a possible fire hazard. Starsky thanked the captain for his timely warning. Either Stedman was providing the materials or doing the job himself. That would certainly be one way to skim profits. Pay yourself a fee, as well as a percentage.

Jim Kirk stared at the building with the same unwavering gaze normally reserved for the viewscreen. Habits of a lifetime asserted themselves. Patiently, he studied the frame in which this drama would be played out. Stedman drove up to the warehouse in a sleek, black car with tinted windows. After briefly checking the street, he waited in the front hallway of the building. A lean Hispanic in an dark green forage jacket arrived within the hour. Stedman briefed the newcomer, handing over half the money for a job near the park, the hotel where they'd foiled the firebug last night. The young man would find materiels cached in a towel-filled wicker basket in the laundry room.

After the young Hispanic left, Stedman followed only to search for a phone. At the end of the block, he went into a lighted booth from which he reported a confederate. Apparently, Stedman, realizing the loft had been bugged, had created a diversion. The confederate would call in a warning to draw attention away from the docks. That should give Stedman time to complete his task. The Santa Ana was blowing. A fire at Canco might well spread to the surrounding buildings providing them with an added bonus.

As soon as the black car disappeared around the corner, Kirk called Dobey to report. They could send in a couple of people from the bomb squad to arrest the torch as soon as he tried to activate the device. That should protect the people at the hotel. Captain Dobey would notify Starsky and Hutch that the warehouse now appeared to be the primary target. The building was five long blocks away. Kirk would have to set out immediately, if he hoped to get there in a reasonable period of time.

The long black car parked a block away from the warehouse within sight of the third floor windows. Hutch saw the man drag gasoline, rags and a small sophisticated timing device out of the trunk. Like many novices, Stedman apparently thought the gasoline fire would obliterate all traces of the electrical timing unit. Signalling Starsky, he headed back down the stairs toward the first floor to meet his partner. If the Stedman followed the torch's routine, he would set the fire in a basement stairwell. The bowed wooden steps would provide more than adequate fuel.

They waited on opposite sides of the crowded floor until they heard the loading dock door slammed shut by the wind. Circling around the crates piled almost to the walls, they moved quietly toward the central stairwell by the ancient wooden freight elevator. As they approached the stairs, they could see a bright flame, like a campfire, lighting the dark green elevator cage. A pile of rags had been ignited in the center of the floor before the button had been punched. Already, they were too late to stop it on this level.

Since there was no sign of the timing device, Hutch continued toward the stairwell while Starsky went upstairs to extinguish the fire in the elevator shaft. Hutch knew his partner had called the fire department before coming in. The engine company should arrive at any moment, but until then they were on their own. Stedman appeared to have more theoretical than practical experience with explosives. The man had set up an incendiary device under the stairs, near a pile of rags and paper liberally doused with paint thinner. When Stedman ignited the fire, his face took on an eerie otherworld glow in the light given off by the pale blue flame.

Hutch tackled Stedman, rolling through the flames, before subduing his prisoner. They had no time to deactivate the timing device, only to make their way to the street above. The flames licked through the first floor of the warehouse fed by the dried wooden floors and window casements. The house paint stored on the ground floor exploded from the heat. Hutch tried three windows before he found one large enough for a man's Stedman's size to squeeze through. They climbed out of a narrow basement window well away from the point of origin. Clothes and skin blackened by smoke, still coughing from the intense heat, they waited on the sidewalk for the fire trucks to arrive.

A patrol car came first. Hutch turned his prisoner over to the officers than went looking for Starsky. In the second floor window, he thought he could make out a dark form silhouetted against the glass. Without thought, Hutch plunged back into the building heading for the back stairs by the loading dock. Mouth with a damp handkerchief, he climbed the narrow twisting metal stairway, a primitive fire escape, which was already hot to the touch.

Starsky had headed toward the roof. The building plans showed an exit from the third floor, but his own recent reconnoitering indicated that someone had recently blocked off the exit. Swiftly, Hutch made his way toward the firedoor, fearful that his friend's recent injuries would hamper his progress. Smoke choked him. Red flickers of flame lit his path through the third floor to the steel door.

The exit had apparently been jammed shut from the outside. His most strenuous efforts failed to shove it open. Someone had also shot out the lock, but made no impact. His own attempts to break down the casement apparently caught Starsky's attention. His partner dragged him over to a window within full view of the street.

Water played on the blaze engulfing the warehouse. Red and yellow flames curled around the narrow banisters, licked the wide window sills and slid up the narrow casements holding in the panes. Glass burst out, shattered by the intense heat. They had taken refuge by the window farthest from the stairwell. A fireman spotted them, signalled and inflated an airbag.

"Hey, look, they're rollin' out a mattress for us. I feel like I'm at the circus," Starsky produced a non-sequiter that stopped even Hutch.

"Circus?"

"Didn't you ever see the clowns in the burnin' house. They all tumble out. I remember laughin' til my sides ached when I went ta Madison Square Garden as a kid."

"You're good at that," Hutch said softly.

"Bein' a kid?"

"No, laughin', don't think I'd ever laugh without you." Hutch reached over impulsively to kiss his partner before breaking the window to dive down into the air bag. With the sound of Starsky's laughter ringing in his ears, he hit the mottled surface. As soon as he rolled out, Starsky followed. They had only a few hours in the emergency room before being released. Captain Dobey gave them the rest of the day off before coming in to file reports. They drove Kirk to the beach house one final time where Starsky bid everyone goodbye. On the way back, Starsky stared out at the ocean seemingly indifferent to his companion until Hutch spoke.

" Without you, I couldn't go out on the street, wouldn't be any fun, and it is fun, weird as you are. You decide to come back, I'll be waitin'." Hutch scrubbed the soot off his face at a stop light, leaned over and kissed him lightly, a promise, a commitment.

"Thanks partner, though 'fore I saw that air bag down there, I was afraid we were goin' ta' be keepin' the peace in the celestial city for awhile. Stupid, but that really worried me," Starsky said.

"Why's it stupid to worry about dyin'?" Hutch asked.

"Dyin' wasn't what was gettin' ta me. It's just I'm Jewish."

"And?" Hutch asked, trying to make sense out of the statement.

"You're Lutheran."

"Yeah?"

"So what if everyone really is on a different floor. Couldn't get through eternity without you raggin' on me. Wouldn't be the same. I don't want ta go hangin' around no self-important archangels suckin' up ta the Almighty, like those guys from the Internal Affairs."

"Hey, Babe, no way are ya gonna' get rid o' me here or in the hereafter. Me and Thee. That's how is now, 'n how it'll be forever even unto eternity."

"Maybe, we can sign on with the four horsemen o' the Apokolis."

"Apocalypse. Maybe, right now, I'd rather tend to more immediate needs, at home." At the Venice Beach exit, Hutch turned toward his apartment, certain at last of his partner and himself. They had more together than many people ever even could imagine in a lifetime. They would make their way together, truly together, at last.