He watched.

When he left for work in the morning, balancing donuts and coffee, roaring off to pick up that blond cop partner of his -- he watched.

When he came home in the evening, sometimes late, mostly alone -- he watched.

Even during the day, sometimes, if he could follow unnoticed. While he worked, while he ate, while he played -- he watched it all. He watched and he waited and he plotted and he schemed and he laughed to himself. Any time now, Starsky. You think you had it bad with my old man -- you ain't seen nothing yet.

So he watched. And then he decided to have himself a little fun.

Dave Starsky kick-closed the door to his apartment and headed down the steps to his car. He carried a coffee mug in one hand, struggled into his jacket with the other, and had a white bakery bag clenched between his teeth. Sitting the mug on the roof of his red Torino, he slid the jacket on his other arm. He then fished the keys out of his pocket, unlocked the door, tossed the bag inside, got in and started the engine. He was just about to put the car in gear when he remembered the coffee on the roof. With a sigh, he retrieved it and finally headed off for his partner's place. Tomorrow, Starsky thought, Hutch is picking ME up.

"...the third time this week. I just don't understand why you can't haul yourself out of bed five minutes earlier so we can keep Dobey off our backs. Not to mention that punctuality is important..." It was twenty minutes later, and Ken Hutchinson was in the midst of one of his full-blown and infamous Hutchinson lectures, of which his partner was the most frequent recipient. Starsky gave the appropriate nods and um hmms, knowing from experience that it was better in the long run to let the tirade run its course. However, after glancing at his watch several times, he finally interrupted.

"Hutch."

"...you know whenever I drive I'm at your place in plenty of time..."

"Hutch."

"...and you'd feel better if you weren't up half the night watching the Wolfman vs. Megatron or whatever..."

"Hutch!"

"...it is you watch...What?!"

"D'you log us is yet?"

"What?"

"D'you log us in? You've been in the car ten minutes, so technically, we've been on duty for ten minutes. Did you log us in yet?"

"No, I didn't log us in yet."

"Well, now we're late."

Starsky didn't even have to glance at Hutch to know the look he was receiving for that comment. Hutch grabbed the radio. "This is Zebra-three. Log us in at 08:40."

"Zebra-three, you're logged in at 08:40. Late again, huh, Hutch?"

"Oh, shut-up," Hutch mumbled, replacing the mike with disgust.

He barely had time to settle back in the seat before the radio crackled again. A 2-11 was in progress at a Mom and Pop grocery just a few blocks away. Starsky had just retrieved one of his donuts from the bag and was about to bite into it when the call came. With a sigh, he dropped the donut back into the bag and accelerated around the next corner. Tomorrow, he thought, he drives and I eat.

When Starsky and Hutch pulled up in front of the store, a black and white was already on the scene. Several groups of high school kids were mulling around, trying to get in on the excitement. The detectives entered the grocery. After talking with the uniformed officers and the owners of the store, it was obvious the two thieves had gotten away. Starsky and Hutch returned to the car, intending to patrol the neighborhood in case they were anywhere in the area, although both knew they were probably long gone by now.

After cruising the streets and alleys within a few miles of the store and seeing nothing out of the ordinary, the two agreed they were wasting their time and decided to head for the precinct. As they entered the squad room, Starsky headed straight for the coffee pot and then to his desk. "Ah, breakfast... you want one?" He offered the bag to Hutch.

"Are you kidding? And just how did you have the time to stop for donuts this morning when you were running so late..." Hutch was off again. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Starsky reached into the bag for his long awaited treat.

"...not to mention that those things are gonna rot your stomach..." Hutch was interrupted by a shriek from Starsky, who jumped up and away from his desk, becoming entangled in his chair and almost spilling onto the tile floor.

"What?! Starsky, what is it?!" All color had drained from Starsky's face, and he had backed himself into the corner between the file cabinets and the door to Captain Dobey's office. "The bag, in the bag. Oh, God, I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Starsky! What is in the bag?" Hutch reached over gingerly and peeked into the bag. "Oh, my God." Staring back at him from the bottom of the white bakery bag were two large brown eyes. A note, letters scrawled in red marker lay beneath them -- "I'M WATCHING YOU."

Pete Waters carefully opened the donut bag with gloved hands and peered inside. Reaching in, he lifted out one of the eyes and examined it, as Hutch stood across the desk, watching. Starsky was sitting in the opposite corner, as far away from the bag as he could get and still be in the room.

"Cow's eyes," the lab technician said.

"What?" Hutch asked.

"Cow's eyes. Like the kind you dissect in high school."

"High school?! Whatever happened to frogs? Who wants to cut up an eye, for crying out loud?" Starsky exclaimed, still looking a little green.

"Looks like somebody was having a little fun with you, Starsky," Pete said.

Hutch snapped his fingers. "All those kids outside that grocery. One of them must have noticed the bag and saw the opportunity to play a practical joke on a cop."

"Some joke. I may never be able to look a donut in the eye again." Starsky grimaced when he realized what he'd just said.

"You want me to run the note for prints?" Pete asked.

"Yeah, see if this outstanding youth has a record, maybe I can take him to lunch sometime," Starsky answered. "Just get those things outta here." Pete gathered the bag and its contents and headed back to the lab. Starsky slowly returned to his desk.

"You know, Starsk, that idea about taking the kid to lunch, that's pretty good. You know what they say, an 'eye for an eye'." Hutch couldn't help himself.

Starsky glared at him. "Well," Hutch continued, "I can see we're not going to see eye to eye on this one, so... where are you going?" Starsky was headed out the door.

"Downstairs, to get some breakfast, and I'm not letting them put it any bag." Hutch's laughter followed him down the hall.

Later that afternoon, when their otherwise uneventful shift was over, the two detectives returned to Hutch's apartment. As Starsky put the car in park, Hutch continued the merciless teasing that had gone on all day. "So, you want me to drive in the morning... you're sure you can turn a 'blind eye' to my car so we can be on time for once?" Hutch grinned. Starsky looked at him briefly, made no reply, and began to fiddle with the radio. "Well, I guess beauty is in the 'eye' of the beholder." Again, no response. Hutch got out of the car, chuckling at his own humor. He leaned back in the open window for one last jab. "See ya in the morning, buddy -- be sure and get some shut-'eye'." He jumped back from the Torino, barely saving his toes as Starsky roared off for home.

He watched. He watched and he listened. His eyes had adjusted well enough to the dark that he could just make out the form of the sleeping man. He listened to him breathing in and out. He had watched outside for hours, waiting for the lights to go out, and then for enough time to pass for the cop to fall asleep. He was almost gleeful thinking how easy this had been, how powerful he felt standing in this darkened bedroom. It would be so simple to end it all now. He could just reach out, turn on a light, make a noise. Starsky would wake up, and he would get to see the confusion... and then the fear in his eyes, right before he took his life. He had to cover his mouth with both hands to keep himself from laughing out loud. But it wasn't the right time, he reminded himself, there were still things to do. So he watched. And he listened. And when he had had his fill, he crept away, leaving no signs he had ever been in the apartment.

The next afternoon, Starsky and Hutch returned to Starsky's apartment, beer, pizza and ballgames on the evening agenda. Hutch had run out of one-liners about eyes, so he had to be content with ragging his partner about his choice of ball teams and food. As Starsky opened the door and was sorting through his mail, Hutch headed to the phone to place the pizza order. "I'll be sure to order the artery-clogging high cholesterol special for you, Starsk."

"Make that with extra jalapenos," Starsky added, dropping all but one envelope on the table. He began to open it as Hutch grabbed the phone book and began looking up the number. Several newspaper clippings fell from the envelope. Starsky picked them up and began sifting through them. "Whatcha got there, Starsk?" Hutch stopped dialing and started toward his partner as he noticed that for the second time in two days, Starsky's face had drained of color. Starsky, eyes never leaving the papers he was holding, uttered one word, almost too softly for Hutch to make out. "Prudholm."

Hutch reached Starsky's side, examining the various clippings in Starsky's hands. One was a picture of Lonnie Craig, a teenager Starsky had shot in the middle of an armed robbery. The others were articles about the subsequent hearing, and two fellow officers, Dan Tinker and Jack Forrest, who had been killed. "What the hell is this?!" Hutch angrily grabbed the newspapers from Starsky. He started to wad them up and hurl them into the nearest trashcan, knowing full well the anguish and guilt that Starsky had dealt with during these events, but then his police training kicked in. "Where's the envelope these were in?" Starsky indicated the discarded envelope with a wave of his hand. He moved from his position by the table to stare out his kitchen window. "Nothing... block letters, dime store envelope, nothing. We're going to send this to the lab anyway for prints and analysis." Hutch finished angrily, and then stalked over to the telephone. He punched in the numbers and waited impatiently for someone at the other end to pick up. He glanced at Starsky, who was still standing at his window. "Yeah, Sam, this is Hutchinson... get me the number for Cabrillo State... I know you're not the damned telephone company, just give it to me." He grabbed a nearby pen and paper, scribbled the number down, and redialed.

"Prudholm," Starsky said again.

"I'm sure as hell gonna find out."

Starsky moved slowly over to the couch and sat down as Hutch made the call to Cabrillo State Mental Hospital. Starsky rubbed his hands down his face, trying to erase the images of those events the clippings had brought back, as he had tried everyday of his life since they had happened, trying not to remember all the ghosts the name George Prudholm conjured up. Hutch finished his call, slammed down the phone, and with a sigh, sat down next to his partner. He placed his hand on Starsky's knee. "Any mail sent to or from Prudholm is read and censored. His phone calls are monitored, and he hasn't had any visitors since we put him back in there. It wasn't him, Starsky."

Starsky looked at Hutch. "That's terrific. Some other Looney Toon out there is hosting 'This is Your Life'."

"And we'll find whoever it is," Hutch assured his partner. "We'll bag the envelope and clippings and see what the lab can come up with. Cabrillo State will notify me if and when Prudholm gets any mail, calls or visitors. And we'll see what Pete turns up on those eyes and message you found yesterday morning."

Starsky rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, in all the excitement, I almost forgot about that. You think that's related?"

"Don't you?"

Starsky sighed and got to his feet. "I think," he said, heading for the bathroom, "I'm gonna take a shower."

Starsky stood under the spray, turned as hot and as hard as it would go, and let the water wash over him. He wanted to wash away the dirt -- the dirt from the streets, from Prudholm, from the deaths caused by his dealings with that madman -- the two police officers, and Terry. He knew in his head that he was not responsible, that it was George Prudholm who had pulled the trigger each time, but that knowledge never quite reached his heart. He still carried guilt, regret, hurt, and grief for the lives that were lost and for what might have been. I can't do this again... I just can't. Starsky realized he was shivering, that the water had run cold, and he shut it off, wishing he could do the same with his thoughts.

While Starsky was in the bathroom, Hutch made the phone calls necessary to officially begin the investigation into this latest stalking of his partner. He called Captain Dobey and filled him in on the incidents of the last two days, and arranged for a black and white to pick up the clippings and envelope for processing at the lab. He then phoned Pete Waters at home, explaining the now increased importance of the bakery bag and its contents. The lab, as usual, was extremely busy and backed up, but Pete assured Hutch that he would give personal attention to both the bag left on Starsky's desk and the envelope and its contents first thing the next morning. Hutch finished up with a call to Huggy Bear, asking him to check out all his contacts for any information on who currently wanted to make Starsky's life a living hell. Drained, he ordered the pizza, took two beers from the fridge, and made his way over to the couch. Leaning his head back and propping his feet on the coffee table, he searched his mind for anything, past or recent, that might connect someone to the events of the last two days. His mind was filled with the picture of Starsky's face while reading those newspaper articles. This is just not fair, Buddy. I know how much you hurt, hell, still hurt over these things, and to have someone dredge it all up again... Hutch's thoughts were interrupted by Starsky's emergence from the shower.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Hutch had filled Starsky in on the calls he had made, Starsky's responses of grunts and nods a clear indicator to Hutch that he was not yet ready to talk about the situation. The pizza arrived, and both made an effort to eat, drink and watch the games, but it was obvious their minds were elsewhere. Around 11:30, when it became evident that they were ready to call it a night, Hutch made a lame excuse about being too tired and drunk to drive home, but both knew the real deal: Starsky knew Hutch needed to stay and Hutch knew Starsky wanted him to stay. Starsky wordlessly gathered blankets, sheets and extra pillows for his partner. Then, with a pat to Hutch's shoulder, he went to his own bed.

The nightmare was one he'd had before: he and Hutch were chasing suspects fleeing from a robbery scene. He called out a warning, then fired as the thief turned and took aim at him. The ski mask on the downed suspect was removed, only the face he saw was not Lonnie Craig's. Some nights it belonged to Dan Tinker, other nights to Jack Forrest. Tonight, it was Terry.

Starsky sat straight up in bed, soaked with sweat, tangled in the sheets, panting. God, he hadn't had that dream in months, and never had it been Terry's face behind the mask. His heart pounding, he almost jumped out of his skin when he noticed a shadow standing at this bedroom door. "Starsk? You okay in there?" Hutch's voice was low in the darkness.

"Yeah, just takin' a trip down memory lane," Starsky scrubbed both hands down his face.

"Wanna talk about it? Might help." Hutch sat on a corner of the bed.

"No. I just wanna forget it, forget the whole thing." Suddenly Starsky was angry. "God, Hutch, I am so sick of this! I carry this around inside me every day, every minute of every day. And just when I think I'm starting to get past it, get it in perspective, get on with my life, some psycho shows up on the scene that thinks I gotta start paying for it all over again... I thought all this was over when we put away Prudholm and now..." Starsky gestured with his arm, then dropped it to his lap in frustration.

Hutch laid a hand on his partner's shoulder, feeling the tension there. "You know, buddy, if I could, I'd take away every bad thing that's happened since Lonnie Craig. But I can't. All I can do is help you get through this, help you find this scum and put him away." Starsky looked at him. "But I can't do that if we're both exhausted. So how about we try to get a little more sleep so we can nail this clown in the morning?" Starsky studied Hutch in the darkness, then with half a laugh, patted his hand where it still lay on his shoulder and nodded. "Yeah, I guess you're right. Now get outta here... you definitely need your beauty sleep."

"Look who's talking," Hutch smiled as he stood. "You okay?"

"Yeah... you're in the next room, arentcha?"

He watched.

He had waited outside since last night, seeing the two detectives arrive at Starsky's apartment, watching as the uniformed officers came to pick up his little present. He laughed out loud from his hiding spot as he had imagined Starsky's reaction. He had been careful -- the lab would find nothing to link him to the envelope. He watched as the lights had gone off, then come back on again, then gone off a final time -- Sweet dreams, huh, Starsky? As the two detectives left for work the next day, he watched as they argued over who would drive. As they roared away in Starsky's Torino, he laughed again, thinking of his next gift for the detective. This was the most fun he'd had in a long, long time.

Starsky and Hutch spent a fruitless and frustrating day running down any and all leads on Starsky's 'stalker'. The lab was unable to find any prints or other evidence, Huggy had heard nothing, and all known associates of George Prudholm were either dead or in prison. That afternoon they returned once again to Starsky's place tired and, for the moment, stumped.

"Maybe it's not related to Prudholm at all," Hutch was saying as Starsky retrieved his mail and headed to the front door. "Maybe it's some other whacko trying to rattle your cage."

Starsky started to unlock his door. "I been thinkin' maybe it's no big deal... maybe rattlin' my cage is all this turkey is out to do."

Hutch raised an eyebrow. "In our lives... when have you ever known anything like this to be no big deal?" He angled his head at the pile of envelopes in Starsky's hand. "Any surprises there?"

Starsky shook his head. "Nope, just bills." He pushed open his door, took a step inside, and stopped.

Lit candles covered every flat surface in Starsky's apartment. Dirges of organ music played from somewhere inside. The coffee table had been covered in a white shroud, two tall, thick candles standing on either side of a large tombstone carved with the letters 'RIP'. A framed photograph stood in front of it. It was Terry.

Hutch was the first to snap out of the initial shock. He drew his weapon and pushed past Starsky into the apartment. He checked the bed and bathrooms for intruders and signs of forced entry. He found neither. He crossed to the kitchen... again, nothing, except for a cassette player from which the funereal music was coming. He turned it off with the grip of his gun. When he turned back, holstering his weapon, he saw that Starsky had sat down on the couch. He was holding the picture frame, staring at the picture. As Hutch moved toward him, he noted that the tombstone was made of cheap Styrofoam, available at any discount or party store around Halloween. He also noticed another newspaper clipping, like the ones from the day before, laying on top of the table -- an obituary. It was Terry's.

He sat down close to Starsky. "Come on, buddy, let's get you outta here... let the crime lab go over the place."

Starsky continued to gaze at Terry's picture. "This is the picture I keep in my bedroom with me." Hutch patted his knee. "I know," was all he could think of to say.

"She understood, Hutch."

"Understood what, Starsk?"

Starsky smiled a half smile. "Everything. The job, you and me. She understood everything. And she loved me, Hutch, she really loved me. God, I miss her." Starsky's voice was raw.

Hutch closed his eyes, feeling his partner's pain. Oh, Starsk. I know you do.

"You know, not a day goes by that something doesn't remind me of her -- song on the radio, passing by a school, a sunset... something, every single day. I miss her." Starsky said again. He sighed, put the picture down, and pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Hutch. "You got this one, partner?" he asked.

"I got it, partner."

Starsky sat outside on his front steps until the crime lab team and Captain Dobey arrived. Then the traffic up and down and in and out drove him off. He stood watching from the sidewalk for a few minutes, leaning against his car, then decided he had had enough. He'd take a walk around the block, clear his head, come back when this was all over. Who knew... maybe he'd come up with an idea about who was leaving him these little presents and why he was so lucky.

He watched, as Starsky started down the street, alone. He couldn't believe his luck. He couldn't believe it was going to be this simple. He had known that he would have to watch for just the right time, just the right moment to make his final move... and here it was, delivered on a silver platter. He grinned, a grin that couldn't erase the madness in his eyes, and stepped from his hiding place.

Inside the apartment, all the candles had been extinguished, and were being bagged for evidence. Photographs had been taken, and someone was just finishing up dusting for fingerprints. Dobey and Hutch stood talking, watching over the movements of the team. "I don't like it, Captain. Three days in a row, and now somebody has a way through that front door."

"I don't like it either, Hutchinson. You guys have no idea who might be doing this?" Dobey asked.

"We've checked out all the leads, looked into everyone George Prudholm ever knew... we've come up blank. Tomorrow we start going over other unrelated cases. There's gotta be something out there somewhere. I'm taking Starsky back to my place tonight, until I can get someone in here tomorrow to clean this place up. He doesn't need to see it like this again."

"How's he holding up?" Dobey knew, almost as well as Hutch, how much Starsky had suffered in his dealings with Prudholm.

"As well as can be expected with some psycho leaving him these tokens of esteem. I'm going to find him and get him outta here." Hutch grabbed the bag he had hastily packed for Starsky, with toiletries and a change of clothes, and headed for the door.

"I'll stay until they're finished here," Dobey told him. "Keep me posted, and Hutch..." Hutch turned to look at him. "Be careful."

"Always," was Hutch's reply, as he went outside to find his partner.

Starsky never knew what hit him, had no time to pull his weapon or defend himself in any way. As soon as he rounded a curve in his street, the Watcher was waiting. A blow to the side of his head knocked him flat, blood streaming into his eyes; kicks to his side and stomach robbed him of the ability to breathe, and another, crushing blow to his head sent him into darkness. He didn't feel the other kicks and punches, delivered for good measure, nor did he feel himself being pulled through the bushes, shoved into a car, and taken away.

It didn't take Hutch long to realize Starsky was missing. When he left Dobey, he didn't find his partner on the steps or in the yard as he'd expected. Nor was Starsky in his car or anywhere in sight. None of the technicians or officers on the scene had seen him since they'd first arrived. Hutch tried to tell himself that Starsky had just needed to get away, probably had gone for a stroll, but the dread in heart and the rock in his stomach wouldn't let him believe it. After cruising the immediate area, his head knew what his heart had feared: Starsky was gone.

"We've put out that APB, we'll check out what we found here in his apartment. What else do you want to do?" Dobey asked, watching Hutch pace back and forth in front of Starsky's place, cursing himself inwardly for letting his partner out of his sight. He stopped suddenly, an idea dawning. "I'm going to do what we should have done when all this started," Hutch told his captain. "I'm going to see George Prudholm."

Hutch paced impatiently in the cold white room. The door on the other side of the room opened, and the man he had come to see was led in. Time and insanity had made George Prudholm an old man. His body was stooped, his face gaunt. What little hair he had left was white, wispy, and stood up on his head at odd angles. The one thing that hadn't changed, would never change Hutch suspected, were his eyes. They still blazed with the same fury and madness that for the last several years had been directed at Starsky and all things he held dear. Prudholm smirked and snorted half a laugh when he recognized his visitor, then made his way to the straight back chair in the middle of the room. "So, hero," he said after seating himself. "To what do I owe this honor? Somebody finally take out that punk partner of yours?"

It took every ounce of self-control Hutch had to slam the lid on the feelings he had for this man. He couldn't, however, keep them from boiling over into the glare he fixed on Prudholm. "What do you know about my partner, Prudholm?" his voice was icy steel.

Prudholm snorted again. "You came here because you think I know something about Starsky? Whattsa matter... you lose him? Nothing gets in or out of this stinkin' hellhole. But I'll tell you this, if somebody has finally taken care of Detective Sergeant Starsky, I'd love to shake his hand."

Hutch moved swiftly across the room. He put his hands on either side of the back of the chair, and leaned in close, so close that George Prudholm could actually feel the deadly anger rolling off of him. Prudholm had just enough of his faculties left to feel a knot of fear deep in his gut. He shrank back, just a little.

"Starsky is missing, Prudholm, and it's got your stink all over it. Let me tell you this... I find out you had anything to do with this, in any way..."

"Whaddaya gonna do?" Prudholm replied. "I'm a sick man, and you're a hero cop. You don't have the guts to do anything but hide behind that badge... just like your partner."

Hutch stood, pointing his finger in Prudholm's face. "If something happens to Starsky, I won't have a badge, and I won't care about anything but making you pay. When I come looking for you, you won't have anything to hide behind. Now," he stepped closer again. "Who's outside doing your dirty work?"

"There's no one who hates Starsky like I do," Prudholm's eyes reflected the truth of his words.

Hutch stepped back. "Maybe," he said. "But you weren't man enough to finish the job, were you, George? You didn't stand a chance against a cop like Starsky."

The man in the chair became more incensed. "Yeah, but he paid... he's still got the deaths of those two cops and his tramp girlfriend on his head. He paid."

"You lost, though, Prudholm. You lost your freedom, you lost your son, but Starsky's still out there."

Insane fury crossed Prudholm's face. "Gary. It was all about Gary. He took Gary from me. He killed my son, the only son that meant anything to me."

Hutch froze. Something Prudholm had just said... "You're right. Starsky put away your no-good punk of a son. The only son you had."

Prudholm continued to rant. "Gary... not Gary... it shouldn't have been Gary."

Hutch pushed again. "But it was Gary, wasn't it Prudholm? Knifed in prison after Starsky put him away. Dead."

"It should have been him, that good for nothing little pansy... not Gary."

Hutch moved in. "Who? Who should it have been, George?"

"Sissy, momma's boy, not my Gary..."

"WHO?!?" Hutch was is Prudholm's face again, the volume of his voice almost matching that of the other man's.

"TED!" Prudholm jumped from his chair, screaming. "Why couldn't it have been Ted, not Gary! It shoulda been him! But I made him pay! I made Starsky pay! Ted will pay, too, for not dying instead of Gary! You'll all pay for taking my son away from me!" Two orderlies had entered when Prudholm had jumped from his chair. He was sedated and dragged from the room, still screaming the name of his dead son.

Hutch headed back to the station. On the way he talked with Dobey, asking for Prudholm's records to be pulled, and a call to be placed to the police department in his hometown. Hutch knew there was no record of another son of George Prudolm, but if he was out there, Hutch was going to find him. It was the only thing he had that might lead him to his partner.

Cold. The first thing Starsky became aware of was the cold floor on which he was lying. It had seeped into his skin and he was shivering. The second was the pounding of his head, and the warm blood sticky on the side of his face. The rest of his body felt bruised and sore. Someone was fooling with his hands, hurting him, and he tried to push them away.

"Ah, ah, ah, Starsky. Can't push me away. Glad to see you're back among the living, at least until I decide otherwise."

Starsky slowly eased his eyes open a crack, trying to focus. A face swam before him, a face that looked vaguely familiar, but that he couldn't quite place.

"Come on, don't you notice the family resemblance?" Ted grinned, crouching on one knee in front of Starsky. "How 'bout the profile?" He turned his head one way, then the other. "No? Huh, well, I guess I got the brains of the family, not the looks. Not that my old man was any prize. You remember my old man, dontcha? You two had a lot of fun together over the years." Ted stood up and walked over to pick up the end of a rope laying on the floor. Starsky was silent, trying to clear his head, trying to remember who this man was, who his father was. Suddenly the events of the last few days came flooding back. "Prudholm," he said, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears. Ted grinned again, and started pulling hard on the rope, which had been thrown over the heavy pipes in the ceiling, the other end tied tightly around Starsky's wrists. "Ding, ding, ding, you win the prize, Detective. You're not as dumb as I thought, although I'm sure my clues were a dead giveaway." He giggled at this own joke, and then pulled again, hauling Starsky up, first to his knees, then to his feet, then his toes. He tied the rope tightly to a metal hook in the concrete wall. "Bet you didn't know good ol'George had another son didja? Naw, I imagine he didn't talk too much about me, just his precious Gary." A look of pure hatred crossed his face at the mention of his brother's name. "Yeah, good ol'George and my mom -- what a happy home. He used to knock her around, and Gary, my 'big brother', used to beat the crap outta me. God, I hated him." He glared at Starsky. "I'll just bet you're a big brother, too. Just one more reason for me to hate ya." Ted walked slowly back toward Starsky, whose arms and shoulders were already beginning to scream in protest to their stretched position. "They took off when I was fifteen, headed out here. Didn't leave us anything, not even his name... yeah, that's another reason you brilliant cops didn't know about me... my name's not Prudholm. It's Wilkins, Ted Wilkins."

"Y'know, all I ever got from my old man, all I ever heard, was what a no-good piece of crap I was, how I would never amount to nothing. Well, lookee here, Big Brother Gary is dead, and I'm about to do something my dear old dad never was able to do." He grabbed a handful of Starsky's hair, yanking his head up, forcing Starsky to look at him. "You see, the thing with my old man, Starsky, was he was willing to spend too much time playing around -- he got caught before he finished what he had started. Now me, I believe in going straight to the heart of the matter. The fact is, I don't care about your reputation as a cop, or your lady friends, or Huggy Bear, or even that partner of yours. The only thing I care about, the only one I want... is you. And now you're mine."

The call from the chief of police from Prudholm's hometown came in just as Hutch entered Dobey's office. George Prudholm was from a small town on the east coast, and the chief remembered him well. Hutch finished the call quickly, scribbling down information and thanking the officer for his help as he hung up. Dobey looked at Hutch questioningly, as his detective dialed the phone again, requesting records from R&I on a Theodore Wilkins.

"Prudholm had another son," Hutch told him as he hung up the phone for a second time. "Seems he shacked up with several women in town, the last one a Carol Wilkins. He stuck around long enough to produce another kid -- Theodore, or Ted. The chief remembered the whole family, was always there on domestic violence calls. Prudholm and his son Gary split to come out here about twelve years ago, and the other beloved son left town about five years later, presumably to hook up again with his old man and stepbrother. Chief said he wasn't at all sorry to see them go." He was interrupted by a knock at the door; an officer from Records and Information handed Hutch a manila folder. Hutch moved over next to Dobey, both of them examining the contents of the file.

"Armed robbery, breaking and entering, time served..." Dobey read aloud.

"We got an address." Hutch scrawled the house number and street name on a notepad and headed for the door. Dobey grabbed his suit coat and followed.

A dozen or more officers surrounded the small, run-down cottage in Venice, the last known address of Theodore Wilkins. All eyes were on Hutch, waiting for his signal to move in. Hutch took a deep breath, trying to force his emotions under the control of his experience and training -- part of him wanted to rush the house, find his partner, take him home. The other part knew that acting rashly could get Starsky killed, so he forced himself to proceed with caution. He flattened himself beside the front door, rapping on it with his gun. "Police, Wilkins... open up!" When there was no response, Hutch gave the signal, and the officers entered the house from every door and window.

Starsky was not here. Hutch knew as soon as he entered the cottage that he would not find his partner in this place. Neither, he quickly discovered, would he find Ted Wilkins, though dirty dishes and recent newspapers indicated he had not been away long. For the second time that day, Hutch and Dobey stood back as the lab boys took over, examining every square inch of the house for clues that might lead them to Ted Wilkins and to Starsky.

Starsky mustered all his strength and tried to raise his head. Failing that, he had to settle for opening his eyes. There was not a spot on his body that didn't hurt; when Wilkins had tired of beating him with his fists, he had used a 2x2 wooden club and then, when that had broken, a piece of pipe. Starsky had lost count of the number of bones he had heard break, the number of times he had screamed. He had held out as long as he could, but he knew that if Hutch didn't find him soon, he was going to die in this cold, concrete room.

Wilkins reentered his narrow field of vision, red-faced and breathing hard. Beatin' me must be great aerobic exercise, Starsky thought as a flash went off in his face. Wilkins had been documenting the whole ordeal, taking pictures of his prisoner every few minutes. He had quite a collection spread out on the floor.

"Just a few more shots, Starsky, and you're finished," Wilkins said, adding the latest Polaroid to the group. He looked at the detective hanging before him. Starsky's eyes were swollen almost completely shut and blood covered his face and head from multiple gashes. The damage inside would be the same, Wilkins knew. He, too had heard Starsky's bones snap as they broke under his blows. Wilkins did have to hand it to the pig -- he had kept control, crying out only at the end, when Wilkins had used the pipe. Ted's own arms were aching, and he was tiring of his 'game'; it was time to finish the job and get the hell outta Dodge.

Wilkins walked to the wall where the rope holding Starsky was tied. Pulling a large hunting-style knife from an ankle sheath, Ted cut the cord, allowing Starsky to fall to the ground. Starsky stifled a scream as he hit the concrete floor, reawakening every bruise, every cut, every broken bone. Pain seemed to come in waves from every part of his body, and he fought to remain conscious. Wilkins took one more picture of the detective, then walked over to where Starsky lay.

"It's over, Starsky," Wilkins crouched beside the injured man. "My job here, our time together, and your life. It's all over. Won't dear old dad be proud?" Wilkins snickered as he stood. He reached down and grabbed Starsky's bound hands, dragging him to a metal door across the room. Starsky couldn't help but groan as his pain-wracked body bumped and scraped across the floor. Wilkins pulled him through the door to the loading dock on the other side. He dropped Starsky's hands, raising the lid on a metal dumpster next to the dock. He leaned down once more to whisper in Starsky's ear... "You're goin' out with the trash, pig. See you in hell" -- as he plunged the hunting knife into Starsky's back. Starsky jerked and then went still. With his booted feet, Wilkins pushed the body off the dock, into the dumpster. The last sound Starsky heard before blackness overwhelmed him was the click and whir of a Polaroid camera.

Hours later, as the last of the lab boys packed up their equipment and bags of evidence, Hutch sat in a kitchen chair, head in his hands. Nothing that had been found in the house had brought him any closer to finding his partner. The APB on Starsky and Wilkins had yielded nothing; Huggy's contacts had no information. Hutch stood wearily, needing to go somewhere, do something, but not knowing where or what. God, I hate this feeling, this helpless, lost, impotent feeling... what have you done with my partner, asshole?! Hutch was about to upend the kitchen table in frustration, when one of the officers still on the scene rushed in. "Hutch... Dobey needs you out front, now!" Hutch was out the door before the uniform had finished speaking. One look at Dobey's face stopped his feet, his breath, his heart.

"We've got something, Hutch... homeless guy looking for a place to sleep, alley over off Fourth..." Dobey continued as Hutch jumped into his car. Dobey barely got the door closed as Hutch roared away, tires squealing, siren screaming, mind pleading -- Hang on, Starsk, I'll be there as fast as I can... please, just hang on.

Hutch could see the flashing lights of the black and whites that had arrived first as he approached the alley. He slammed on the brakes, and before the car had come to a complete stop, he was out and running, past the squad cars, past the other officers, past the bearded, shabby man being questioned. He ran for the dark blue, metal dumpster behind one of the abandoned buildings that flanked the alley. His partner was in there; Starsky was in that cold, filthy box, and Hutch could not get to him fast enough. What he saw when he reached the top of the concrete dock and peered into the dumpster froze both his actions and his heart; had it not been for the curly hair and the familiar blue running shoes, Hutch would not have recognized his partner. There was not a visible spot on Starsky that was not bruised, bloody, discolored, swollen. Hesitating only the few seconds it took to absorb the initial shock, Hutch climbed down beside his partner, careful not to injure him further. He laid a hand along Starsky's face and neck, to reassure himself that his friend was still alive, and to reassure Starsky that he was no longer alone.

"Starsky, buddy, I'm here. It's all over... can you open your eyes for me?" Hutch could hear the arriving ambulance as he began to gently examine his partner. He noted the swollen wrists, the bruises, the broken bones. Starsky was shivering, going into shock, and Hutch carefully tried to pull him closer, to warm him, without causing him more pain. It was only then that he discovered the blood, pouring from Starsky's back, soaking his clothes, pooling on the cardboard underneath him. My God, Starsk, what did he do to you? Hutch briefly closed his eyes, then yelled for the paramedics to hurry.

Starsky's eyes remained closed, his skin sickly white, as the EMTs worked to stabilize him enough for transport. Even as he was lifted out of the dumpster and onto a gurney, there was no reaction to the incredible pain he must be feeling. Hutch watched, emotions rolling within him: fear for his partner, guilt for not finding him fast enough, rage at the man who had hurt Starsky so badly. He approached the ambulance as the paramedics were about to load the gurney carrying his partner, grasping Starsky's hand as he climbed in beside him for the ride to the hospital. Just as the doors to the ambulance closed, Hutch felt the faintest stirring of the hand held within his own, then a quick, weak squeeze. Hutch smiled a small smile, and covered Starsky's cold hand with his other, warm one. "You rest, partner. They're taking good care of you, and I'm right here," he whispered, as they sped toward the hospital.

He hurt. As he slowly became aware of his body, fighting off the dark fog that wanted to envelope him, he knew that he hurt. He tried to move, to get away from the pain, but he was weighted down, somehow; his arms and legs felt too heavy. Beginning to panic, needing to escape, he turned his head, tried to open his eyes, but even his eyelids were not under his control. A sound escaped from his throat, hardly stronger than a whimper when he wanted to scream, yell, for someone to help him, let him up, stop the pain. When a hand grasped his own, he tried to jerk away, and then he heard a voice, Hutch's voice, talking to him, calming him, helping him to understand that the weight he felt were casts and bandages, that he would see when the swelling around his eyes improved, that the nurse was on the way with something that would ease the pain. He relaxed and listened as Hutch continued to talk, telling him he was safe, that he would be okay, that everything was over. He listened, until he fell into a deep, healing sleep, still holding onto his partner's hand.

Hutch slept, too, in the chair next to Starsky's bed, close enough to maintain the grasp Starsky had on his hand. The hours waiting for his partner to come out of surgery were long and horrible; the relief when the doctor had relayed Starsky's prognosis immense. With time, medication and physical therapy, Starsky would fully recover. We did it again, partner; we beat the odds. Just how many lives do you have, anyway? Hutch hoped there would be no more chances to find out. He had been at Starsky's bedside as quickly as allowed, and would remain here until he was physically removed; Starsky had woken up disoriented and scared, and Hutch could not stand the thought of him being alone when he woke again. So, he found as comfortable a position as possible, held onto Starsky's hand, and dreamed of revenge on Ted Wilkins and George Prudholm.

Sunlight finding its way through a crack in the curtain and a nurse checking vital signs woke Hutch several hours later. Starsky continued to sleep peacefully, his hand still grasping his friend's. As the nurse exited the room, Captain Dobey slipped in quietly, indicating with a tilt of his head his need to talk with Hutch. Hutch gently eased his hand from Starsky's, stretched, and went to the door to speak with his captain.

"How's he doing?" Dobey asked, as he and Hutch stepped into the hallway.

"He's holding his own. Woke up once, wasn't sure where he was or what had happened, but calmed down and went back to sleep pretty quickly. We got anything?"

Dobey nodded. "Just got a call from Cabrillo State."

Hutch raised his eyebrows. "What?"

"Seems Prudholm got a package this morning. First mail since he's been there. Said they thought you'd want to know. It hasn't been opened yet... they're waiting for you."

Hutch was already on his way to the elevators. "Call Huggy, get him to come sit with Starsky. I don't want him alone if he wakes up again. Tell them I'll be back as soon as I can."

Dobey followed Hutch down the hall. "We've still got Wilkins' cottage staked out... I'll let you know if anything turns there."

The elevator arrived and Hutch stepped on. Dobey caught his eye once more. "Be careful, Hutchinson."

Hutch nodded as the doors between he and the captain slid shut.

Hutch wasted no time getting to Cabrillo State. They were expecting him, and he was quickly ushered into the administrator's office. After quick introductions, the head of the institution indicated a small, brown-paper wrapped package on his desk.

"This arrived just a little while ago. As you know, George Prudholm hasn't received much mail during his time here, and in light of recent events, I felt that you should be the one to open it, since its contents could prove to be evidence for your investigation."

Hutch expressed his appreciation to the director, then quickly donned the pair of latex gloves he had provided. The detective slowly began peeling back the brown wrapping, careful to leave it as intact as possible. Soon the paper was removed, revealing a small, plain white box. The contents of the box were enough to turn Hutch's stomach: a stack of at least twenty Polaroids, all of his partner, all revealing the various stages of his ordeal at the hands of Ted Wilkins. At the bottom, under the photos, was a plain index card, now-familiar block letters spelling out a cheery greeting: "Happy Belated Father's Day."

Hutch forced down the horror and fury he felt at seeing his best friend so abused. The last picture of Starsky lying in the dumpster, discarded like so much trash, was almost his undoing. Get it together, Hutchinson... you can deal with this later. Right now you've got a job to do; falling apart is not going to do anyone, especially Starsky, any good. Gathering both his thoughts and the horrible pictures, Hutch stood and asked the hospital administrator for some sort of bag in which to place the evidence. After the package was safely stored in plastic, Hutch once again thanked the director of Cabrillo State for his cooperation, and headed for his car.

He watched.

As the blond detective entered the mental hospital, he watched. What a rush; one cop down, one to go. Killing Starsky had been so rewarding, so much fun, he'd decided he'd go after Hutchinson too, just as an extra-added bonus. He'd show his old man, once and for all -- Ted Wilkins was not worthless. He'd accomplished more in three days than Prudholm had done in several years, and he was still walkin' around to tell about it. Who's the big man, now, George? he thought as he waited. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to have as much fun with the blond as he'd had with Starsky; this would have to be quick, and then he'd skip town, head up the coast. He doubted the cops were smart enough to be looking for him, but he wasn't taking any stupid chances. Prudholm would just have to read about Hutchinson in the papers. After this morning's little package, he'd know who should get the credit for the cop's murder. And Ted hoped the old man would rot knowing the no-good son had succeeded where he himself had failed. Wilkins grinned at the thought, waiting and watching for his prey to exit the hospital.

Hutch was so deeply involved in own thoughts and feelings about what had been done to his partner that the first shot caught him completely off guard whizzing past his head, much too close for comfort. His froze in his tracks for just a moment, then, regaining himself, dove for cover, pulling his weapon, eyes darting, looking for the man who had fired on him. He knew it was Wilkins, prayed it was Wilkins, and that he would be able to take him down. The second shot came, and this time Hutch was ready. As soon as the concrete next to his head splintered, he was up, firing, running forward toward the spot from which the shooting came. He dodged as two more shots were fired, ignoring the potential danger, his focus only on catching the one on the other side of the gun. He caught sight, just for a moment, of a face, surprise evident in its expression as he continued to barrel toward it. Then the face turned, and the man to whom it belonged ran. Though he had a head start on the detective, Hutch had the advantage of anger and vengeance pushing him forward. Just as Wilkins reached the handle of his cardoor, Hutch launched himself off the ground, knocking the air out of Wilkins as he landed on him, slamming his body into first the car and then the pavement. Both weapons skittered away across the parking lot, but Hutch needed no weapon at this point. He jerked Wilkins over onto his back, leaning in as close as he could without touching this piece of scum who had caused so much damage to his best friend. His voice was low; his tone and the look in his eyes conveyed more than volume ever could; and for the first time since facing George Prudholm as a young child, Ted Wilkins was afraid.

"You are under arrest for the kidnapping and attempted murder of Detective David Starsky. You have the right to remain silent, and if you have any sense at all, Wilkins, you will."

Hutch finished the rest of the Miranda, as he hauled Prudholm's son to his feet and over to his car. He forced his prisoner to lie face down on the pavement as he called and waited for back-up to take him to the station. When they arrived, they were told only to place the suspect in a holding cell; Hutch himself would do the honor of booking and interrogating Wilkins, but that would have to wait. He had a partner to get back to.

Several days later, Starsky was well on the road to recovery, as was indicated by the amount of complaining he was doing about the food, the nurses and the hospital in general. Hutch stood by, taking it all in stride, happy Starsky was well enough to complain about anything. The evening meal arrived; Starsky crossed his casts and refused to even remove the tops covering the 'food'.

"Aw, come on now, Starsk, it can't be all that bad," Hutch crossed the room to Starsky's bedside, reaching for the tray.

"Then you eat it. I'm not gonna." The pout on Starsky's face made him look about five-years-old. He grimaced as Hutch proceeded to uncover several unidentifiable piles of gray mush on his tray. "See, you can't even tell what it is... it all looks, smells and tastes the same -- terrible."

Hutch recovered the tray, silently agreeing with his partner. "Well, it must be bad if even you won't eat it. But you need to keep your strength up, partner. You're gonna be awfully hungry by morning."

Starsky glared at him. "Yeah, gruel, porridge, and curds and whey are on the menu for breakfast. I can hardly wait. I'd kill for a donut right now."

"A donut?! Starsky, have you lost your mind? This whole thing started with a donut!"

"Well, yeah, but you can't hold the poor donut responsible. Wasn't its fault."

Hutch chuckled, just as a knocked sounded at the door. "I could always bring you one of my health shakes." He opened the door as Starsky made retching sounds behind him. Starsky ceased with the sound effects, leaning forward to see who was visiting this evening. He couldn't see or hear what Hutch was doing, but he could smell something...

Hutch turned around with a flourish, a huge, steaming pizza box in one hand, a large Styrofoam cup in the other. "Get rid of that inedible crap on the tray, partner, dinner is served."

Starsky's eyes lit up, and a grin spread across his whole face. For the first time since the ordeal with Wilkins began, he looked like the Starsk Hutch knew and loved. Pizzas everyday for the rest of your life, partner, if that's what you want, Hutch thought.

He placed the box in front of Starsky. "No jalapenos, no banana peppers, no hot sausage, but all the other calorie laden, fatty junk you love is on there, and for dessert, a large chocolate milk shake, just the way you like it."

Starsky dove in, as fast and as furious as his still-healing injuries would allow. He paused for just a second, smiling at his partner. "Hutch. Thanks."

Hutch smiled right back. "Any time, partner, any time."

Both knew they were referring to more than just pizza and milkshakes.

The End