Hi all,
This is the last chapter. No warnings in this one. I've tried for over a year to come up with a better ending, but still haven't found one that works any better than the one I have. I hope it works for all of you. (fingers crossed).
Chapter 8
Mohave desert, day 15
Starsky knew this truly was the last day he would have use of the helicopter. He would have to hire someone else to guide him as he continued his search. He was already paying for the use of the copter with his own money, just as he'd been for the last two days. It was expensive, but worth it to continue the search on his own since Fishborne had other work to attend to and was unable to come along. So today it was just him and the copter pilot, Ray Pyle.
The curly haired detective scanned the parched surface below him. It never ceased to amaze him that no matter how dry it was out here, that there was life. The desert somehow thrived despite adversity that climate forced on it. Could Hutch do the same? Starsky briefly closed his eyes. God, let him do the same… He reopened them to scan the desiccated scenery. "Where are you partner?" A tap on his left shoulder interrupted him. "Yeah?" He said into the headset, keeping his eyes on the ground.
The pilot told him that they would soon have to return to base or risk running out of fuel.
Starsky kept searching the arid landscape below him as he remembered what others had told him. It was hopeless to keep searching after this much time. It was going to be a body retrieval now – if they ever found a body to retrieve, that is. The likelihood as someone as inexperienced in desert travel as Hutch was, to have survived this long without any supplies – was virtually unheard of.
The curly haired cop heartily wished that Kurt Jacobs and Sid Bryant were still alive so he could drop them off in the desert without any supplies. He slowly shook his head. It was useless to wish revenge on the dead. A tap on his shoulder brought him back to the present. He turned to Pyle and gave him a brief questioning look before returning to his endless searching of the ground below them.
"We gotta turn back right now, detective or we won't have enough to make it to the airport." The headset slightly mechanized the voice of the pilot, making him seem a little less human.
Starsky stopped looking at the parched terrain long enough to look at the man full in the face.
The portion of the face beneath the large aviator sunglasses had lines of concern on it. Ray spoke, "I know a guy, and I'll give him a call tonight and see if he can help you tomorrow or the next day, okay?" The guy sounded doubtful.
"Yeah, sure." Starsky was aware with as much as this was costing him, he'd have to hock to Torino soon. But it wasn't the cost that bothered him, he'd spend every penny he had, go into debt for the rest of his life, he'd call in every favor, anything to find Hutch.
Logic prodded at him. What if the experts were correct? What if Hutch was dead? 'Then I find his body and bring him home.' Starsky silently vowed, a lump rose high in his throat and his heart quivered painfully at that prospect. It was the first time he admitted the very real possibility of Hutch's death. He swallowed hard and blinked rapidly.
His heart and mind went to war.
'But he doesn't feel dead…not yet. Don't go!' His heart cried out.
'I'll return tomorrow, okay?' His logic chided his softer organ.
'But-' The brunet's heart whimpered deep in his chest.
'Tomorrow.' His logic firmly returned.
Starsky nodded, agreeing with his logical side. "Take us back to the airport." The words were devoid of the emotions, though they roiled wildly beneath the surface. Tomorrow offered a new day and another chance to find his friend. Tomorrow was another day.
The pilot deftly maneuvered the helicopter about and they ascended rapidly, heading back to the small area airport.
The curly haired detective resolutely stared straight ahead.
'Look back! Just once,' his heart begged. 'Please look back.'
Unable to ignore the silent plea, Starsky looked back in the direction they had just come and that's when he saw something. He quickly raised his binoculars, peering back at the rapidly shrinking thing that had caught his eye.
A lone vulture pin wheeled in the sky, at nearly the same height as the helicopter was.
It was right out of an old Western movie. A cliché. But there it was, a flying signpost, riding thermals over a single, receding spot in the vast desert.
A sign that read 'something dead or near dying, directly below.'
Starsky shifted his gaze down at the ground beneath the circling vulture. He refocused his binocular lens and there -a person waving his arms and running – staggering really- after them down the face of a sandy slope. Even with the field glasses, it was impossible to make out anything but a human figure, gender and features impossible to tell at the ever-growing distance. He could see when the individulal stumbled and fell to the ground. "Turn back!" He swatted Ray in the arm to get the pilot's attention. "Turn around!"
"Detective, we don't have enough fuel to-" Ray gulped as he found himself looking down black muzzle of a Beretta pointing at him. "Where to, sir?" He squeaked.
"Back there! Land as close as you can to that big rock formation." Starsky directed as he yelled into the mic.
The skids scarcely touched down and the detective was out of the cockpit and bolting to the prone figure.
Pilot Ray Pyle finally saw what the detective had already spotted and quickly radioed for assistance and more fuel. Given the circumstances, he completely forgave getting hijacked.
The brunet scrambled toward the fallen person. The person's clothing was in tatters and all of the exposed skin was sunburned. The facedown individual had sun bleached white-blond hair. Starsky's heart was in his throat as he dropped to his knees next to the prone figure.
"Hutch!" He carefully turned his partner over and pulled him close, hugging the hot, limp body to his chest, unconsciously he closed his eyes and rocked the tall blond.
Feeling the living weight of his long missing friend in his arms was bliss, but Starsky was aware that his partner was in dire need of help. The big blond was far too hot, far too red to be anywhere near healthy. He briskly ran his hands over his partner's body, feeling for injuries and finding drum tight skin and ribs that poked out too far out. Remembering what one of the S&R people had told him about testing for dehydration, Starsky gently pinched and tugged up on a bit of skin and released. It stayed tented for several long seconds before slowly smoothing out. Not a good sign.
Further searching revealed a myriad of injuries and signs of recent restraint. The deep purple bruises, in the shape of fingers and scabbed over ligature marks on Hutch's throat, all silently screamed captivity and torture to Starsky. Similar bruises and marks bracketed the blond's wrists. The brunet looked towards his partner's feet and glimpsed corresponding marks marring the exposed ankles above the tattered hiking shoes.
Starsky physically ached at the notion that not only had Hutch been mugged and abandoned in the desert, he had been brutalized and abused as well. He clutched his partner closer to his chest; the limp body began to tense as Hutch began to come around.
"Ray! Bring me some water! Hurry!" The brunet carefully brushed back at the drooping blond forelock, avoiding –as best he could – touching the sun-scorched skin. What skin hadn't been covered, was lobster red. "Hutch? Buddy? Can ya hear me? Hmm?"
The lanky blond shuddered, limbs twitched and jerked as consciousness returned.
A fist weakly flailed out, narrowly missing Starsky's face. "Easy Hutch, s'me… s'okay now. I'm here, right here." He itched to brush his knuckles over his parched friend's feverish and burned face, but wavered, agonizing over whether the touch would help or harm. His hand hung –momentarily undecided- in midair while he quickly debated his next move.
The other fist struck out and only excellent reflexes kept Starsky from a solid pop on the chin. "Whoa! Easy there slugger." He looked around for the pilot. "Where the hell's that water?!"
Ray ran over and dropped to his knees next to the detectives. "Here," He handed the canteen to Starsky. "I found Peter Bench is just over there, about fifty feet away, on a travois. Looks like your friend dragged him here from Bench's property. Wonder what the hell happened to 'em?"
"Bench? The prospector?" Starsky asked distractedly as he repositioned his partner in his arms to give him water. He tipped the canteen up and water dribbled out on to his partner's dry, cracked lips. "He alive?" He never looked up from his friend's face.
"Yeah, just barely, he's much worse off than your partner. I radioed, help's on the way. I'll go see to Peter. These two have been through hell, I wonder what the hell happened?" The pilot, seeing that he wasn't going to get a response from the Bay City detective, got to his feet and trotted to the other desperate soul. Answers would have to wait.
Starsky barely registered when the pilot left to tend the other man. His whole being was wrapped up in taking care of his friend – nothing else was important. He adjusted the blond head in the crook of his arm and tipped more fluid onto the cracked and bleeding, parched lips.
Hutch's whole body trembled at the touch of the water and he weakly pursed his lips, begging for more. His swollen tongue peeked out, seeking moisture.
Starsky felt a knot surge violently up into his throat. He carefully tilted the canteen again, the touch of the fluid on the blond's lips this time invoked a frenzy of movement as Hutch grappled for control of the container. The brief struggle and some spilled water brought the abused and dehydrated man closer to full consciousness.
Light blue gaze darted about, unfocused. "More?" The sound was cracked and every bit as dry as the terrain that surrounded them. The eyelids slid shut.
"Sure," Starsky gave his partner a few more sips of the life-giving fluid. "Easy, Hutch, slow…" he cautioned as his friend again grabbed for the container. "Easy, easy, easy." After several minutes of this, Starsky reluctantly pulled the canteen away and set it aside. He tore part of his shirt off and folded the rag and wet it. He carefully patted the sunburned face, avoiding rubbing so as not to further aggravate the burned tissue.
After a few moments of this, Hutch's lids opened again, closing briefly, absorbing the coolness of the cloth. "Feels good." His eyes popped open and locked onto Starsky's face. The blond stared for a long while; confusion slowly filled his face, "S-Starsk?"
A broad Cheshire lit up the swarthy man's face "Yeah, s'me."
Hutch began to laugh. It was weak and raspy, but it was a laugh.
The brunet joined in as joy suffused him. He had been ready to give up and stop searching for the day. If he hadn't looked back, he would have missed his friend. But right now, none of that mattered. What mattered was Hutch was alive and laughing in his arms. It was like having all of his Christmases and birthdays all at once. He laughed until his ribs ached.
Hutch kept laughing too, only his laughter slowly turned and became odd.
Starsky immediately picked up on it. "Hutch?" Worry kicked in as his partner went on giggling and chortling in a most absurd manner. "Hutch, what-"
"No gold… no water…no guns… no games!" The dehydrated man hysterically sang/giggled the words. "There's no gold in them thar hills! No gun! I broke it… smaaaashed it. Monster mashed that gun!" Hutch lilted. "I did the mash, I did the monster mash!" He hiccupped and laughed harder.
Starsky was appalled and concerned, he gently -but firmly- shook his madly laughing friend. "Hutch! Stop it!" He shook the tall blond again as the chuckles slowly died and the hysteria turned to tears so fierce that they shook the long, thin frame.
Hutch tilted his body towards his best friend, seeking comfort. "Starsk." He sobbed the word.
Instinctively, the brunet tucked his friend in closer, gently rocking him as he hugged the weeping man, carefully ghosting his free hand over his friend's shaking form, needing to touch, but not wanting to hurt him. Needing –desperately needing- to take away the fear and pain. He carded his fingers through the fine blond strands.
"Aw, babe…" Starsky leaned forward and mantled his friend, like a hawk does to its prey, protecting Hutch from the sun and from the world, with his body. Quietly offering his partner a safe harbor.
With rapidly fading consciousness, Hutch did let go, giving himself over to the care and compassion that wafted off Starsky in nearly visible waves. It was safe to let go now. He was safe. The blond sobbed loudly, but no tears fell from the dehydrated eyes.
The curly-haired detective felt a sharp pain in his chest at the sight of the dry crying and held on tighter as the sobs slowed and quieted. He continued to tenderly rock the thin and battered body. Crooning softly to his injured friend, not knowing or caring what he said, anything to let Hutch know that he was protected and cared for.
Starsky sensed -more than felt- when Hutch slipped fully into an exhausted sleep and he was glad of it. The blond would be out of pain for now. He kept his partner in his lap. The sand was hotter than he was and he settled in to wait for the rescuers. And to ponder the evilness that Hutch had obviously endured during his 15 days of being in the desert.
High above them, Larry the vulture flew in slow, expectant, pin wheeling circles.
XXXX
Eureka HospitalHutch stared out the window of the hospital to the arid landscape outside his room. He would be able to go home in a couple more days. The outer injuries were fading, but the internal ones would take much longer to heal. He sighed heavily and threaded his fingers through his hair. He would get through this, just as he had gotten through his kidnapping and forced heroin addiction.
Being tied up and forced to do things he didn't want to do, was giving him flashbacks to that other dark time in his life. His nightmares were twisted compositions of his forced addiction and this new one. They paralleled. Being held prisoner and tortured by men with a point to make, seemed to be a reoccurring theme in his life. One he dearly hoped was never going to happen again.
Peter Bench was alive, the damage from fighting with Hutch was minimal. The damage wrought by the sun, the effects of dehydration, and years alone in the desert, were far worse. Bench was already paying for his crimes, no trial required.
The prospector had completely lost his mind when Sheriff Robert Fishborne informed him – after Rob had investigated the scene- that Bench's mine had gold in it after all. Part of the ceiling of the mine had collapsed sometime after Hutch had dragged the injured prospector away, exposing the vein.
Upon hearing that, and knowing that he had committed enough crimes that he would be put away for a very long time, Bench had completely lost whatever tenuous grip he had had on reality. If the psych doctors were to be believed, Peter Bench would never be able to be released.
It was also unlikely that Peter would even stand trial. However if he did ever mentally recovered enough, Hutch intended to see that the man was prosecuted to the fullest letter of the law. The blond twitched the thin curtain back into place and looked over to the bed at his sleeping partner.
Just knowing that the mad man was locked away and would likely never be free to get to his precious gold - would suffice. He'd consider it justice served. It reminded Hutch about the myth about the man who was doomed for all eternity to have a banquet inches away from him, to see the food, to smell it and to never, ever have a single morsel. It was fitting.
Hutch hadn't told Starsky the whole story. His partner of course had been there when he'd given his statement to the local authorities. But he just wasn't ready to give Starsky all the details. He'd needed some time to recover from his ordeal, to decompress. When the walls started to close in, or when his nightmares turned the blankets into ropes that bound his hands and feet, he knew that his best friend would be there to talk him out of it, unbind him and bring light to the darkness.
The blond detective walked over to his friend - who had fallen asleep watching TV - and rearranged a fallen curl. It was good to have friends, and there was no better friend to be found then David Michael Starsky.
A dark blue eye opened and peered up at him. No words were needed. Starsky sat up and patted the mattress.
Hutch nodded. It was time to talk.
The End