Archive of Our Own ^beta

"O, what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing."
(John Keats, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci")

Not dealing

Finally Hutch started to notice the birds.

They were singing.

Just like any normal sunny morning, they were all up there in their branches, singing their little feathered hearts out. They had been singing all along, but he had not heard them.

Hutch glanced up into the trees. He put a weary hand to the back of his neck and kept it there as he tried to ease out the kinks. The base of his skull crackled. He watched the last of the black and whites pulling away. Interested for a brief second he regarded the split skin of his right knuckle where it had connected with a jaw and some teeth. Then he looked up and sent his gaze down the slope to where the ambulance still stood with its back doors open.

The paramedics looked relaxed. One held a bottle of water. The other was leaning on the door, chatting with the occupant of the ambulance, who was sitting on the back step wearing a blanket and a pair of paramedic trousers. Along with the recently-acquired birds Hutch could hear his own breathing now, feel the signs of life in his limbs once again. He did not feel alone anymore.

"Hutchinson?"

Hutch blinked, rousing himself still further. Captain Dobey was down the slope, summoning him. He moved his long legs forward.

Sitting on the step between the paramedics, Starsky seemed to be holding himself up pretty well, despite looking as if he had been dragged along a bumpy road by his hair. He seemed alert, keenly watching Hutch as he approached, and he just about summoned up a grin. Hutch was still too raw, his face still too stiff, to respond right away.

"He won't go in the wagon," one of the paramedics said. "But he needs a full exam."

"I'll take him," Hutch said at once.

"Good," said Dobey. "We need your statement, Starsky -- are you up to that? Sentencing's been held over til midday."

"'S'OK, Cap, I'll do it after the hospital." Clearly sensing Hutch bristle in his defence he pushed himself up from the step of the ambulance. "Look, I'm really OK." He held his arms out in front of him, looking curiously at the wrists that had been temporarily bound up. Already the white bandaging was seeping brownish-red. Having seen the deep wounds gouged into Starsky's skin, Hutch could hardly credit his nonchalance. For a second he didn't hear the birds anymore, just the drumming sound of his own heartbeat in his ears.

"Alright, Starsky, if you're sure," Dobey said gruffly, swinging his gaze between the two. "Call me from the hospital." He watched as Hutch led the way to the Torino. The blond man kept glancing behind him, ready to assist if needed, but Starsky, although he had no trace of his customary swagger, was upright and walking strongly. Hutch held open the passenger door for him, noting the delicate way he slid himself into the seat, and then walked round to the driver's side.

"Listen, Hutch, I'm pissed at them more than anything," Starsky said almost as soon as Hutch was behind the wheel.

"OK," Hutch said. "I hear you."

"I mean they worked me over... they creeped me out..."

"Creeped you out?" Hutch echoed. "They creeped you out?"

"Yeah, you know... you know what they do."

"I know, Starsky. I've been working on this goddamned, sick, sorry pile of crap for as long as you have... I know what they do." Hutch jerked the Torino forward faster than he intended. "And I know they did more than just creep you out."

Starsky shrugged. "It was only a coupla days, Hutch," he said. "I can see how they'd get to you, but I'm OK. A long way from drooling and chanting, so don't worry. You came. I knew you'd come."

"How did you know?"

"I trust ya."

Simple as that. Try as he might, Hutch could not extrapolate anything out of the ordinary from what Starsky said and how he behaved. All the way to the hospital he seemed calm, lucid, even a little flippant. Not too hyper. Not too shaky. Grateful for his rescue, yes. But still the same Starsky who had trotted out of the courtroom en route for the bathroom. Perhaps it's me who's changed, Hutch thought.

Then sure enough, the question he expected. "You OK, Hutch?" Starsky asked when they had left the hospital armed with spare dressings. He now had a hospital gown to match his paramedic trousers, and had slung the blanket round himself poncho-style. He knew he looked ridiculous and he was rather enjoying it. "Want me to drive?"

"You need to go home and rest," Hutch said, ignoring the question. "And so do I."

"Yeah well, we got a date with Judge Jaeger, and I have to do my statement."

Today is not a normal day. Why are you being so normal?

When they were parked up outside Metro, Hutch fished in his left jacket pocket for something, which he drew out slowly and passed over silently. Starsky took his ID, raising his eyebrows wordlessly at the sight of it.

"Sometime I'll tell you where I found it," Hutch said.

"OK -- so we both got tales to tell," Starsky replied.

He found spare jeans in his locker and then sat himself down in an interrogation room and wrote out his statement while Hutch swallowed yet more aspirin and paced about in Dobey's office which was still littered with the files, cups and debris from the long night before. Huggy Bear's jacket was still hanging on the back of a chair.

"This I got to see a copy of," he said grimly to Dobey when his partner reappeared. Starsky let him snatch the pages out of his hand without a protest. They both gave him the once over. He looked exhausted now, his eyes rimmed red, his face bloodless, the scorchmark livid over his left eye, bruises colouring up on his cheekbones. He held his forearms gingerly into his chest for protection.

"One more stop before bed," he said, as cheerfully as he could muster. "Do you happen to have a spare shirt I could wear? One without guitars on?" There was an unmistakeable sparkle still in his eye. What was that all about? How did he do that? Hutch's frustration slopped about inside him like rancid coffee.

"Are you worried?" Dobey asked him half an hour later, letting Starsky lead the way into the courthouse. "Or impressed? I'm having a hard time deciding." In the corridor they both halted, which brought Starsky to a standstill. He looked back at them.

"I went before we left Metro!" he said.

"That never stopped you before," Hutch told him. Both of them sent a look the other way, towards the Men's Room.

"I'm not so OK that I'd want to be going in there."

"Old habits don't die so hard," observed Hutch.

"Yeah well, I'm gonna break with tradition, just this one time."

In the courtroom they sat self-consciously in the same seats as before. To Hutch, everything seemed amplified -- the air-conditioning, the hard seat, the grim face of the bailiff -- and he felt a cold sweat breaking out all over his back. Next to him Starsky sat with his injured wrists conspicuously on the table-top in front of him. When Simon Marcus appeared Hutch felt first a wave of nausea, and then a burning desire to shout out something, rush across the room towards him, knock him down, force him to buckle, take off the smug look that he surely had on his face. This time, however, Marcus did not turn round at all. He just stood unmoving, keeping his eyes straight ahead of him when he was led in to hear the fate he expected, and out again.

As with everything else he did, Marcus knew that even being impassive would have an effect. Shoulders squared, looking in his benign but unsettling way at Judge Jaeger, he could feel the radiant waves of loathing coming from Hutchinson, could sense them across the stillness of the court. Even from the corner of his eyes he had no sight of them, but yet he could feel them, Heavenly Polaris and the White Knight, side by side as usual. When he left the room he was confident he had left his cipher on them once again.

The three men from Metropolitan sat for a while in their seats as the courtroom emptied. It was hard to believe, after these two years, after the unending flow of violence, heartbreak and wretchedness they had presided over, that Simon Marcus was gone for good. The case files fat with their grim photographs and tales of lives snatched up, twisted and snuffed out at his behest, were still on their desks. The man with all the power was removed. And yet... Hutch knew he was not alone in his feeling of dissatisfaction and unease. Eric Jemson and the Reeder brothers, otherwise known as Matthew, Luke and Peter, would come to trial soon. Gail and countless others were in custody awaiting charges, treatment or release. So much was wrapped up. So many impressionable souls were safer. So... what?

"You win," Starsky said suddenly. "I have to go home now." They turned to him, almost seeing the world becoming fuzzy before his eyes.

Hutch smiled, suddenly soft. "I'll drive you, tough guy," he said.

"Take the week," Dobey said. "You too, Hutchinson. What did the doctors say anyhow?"

"They told me to keep taking the tablets," Starsky said at once.

"They said he had to take it real easy for a while," Hutch said sternly.

"Do both," Dobey decided. "Now get out of here."

In the car Starsky appeared to doze. He sat relaxed, the window open and the smoggy air moving his dusty hair. Hutch kept glancing down at the bandaged wrists laying in his lap, palms up.

"Would you quit staring at me, Hutch, or you're going to crash my car," Starsky said eventually, without opening his eyes.

"Yeah well," Hutch said defensively.

"Yeah well what?"

"You got kidnapped, Starsky!" the blond man yelled. "You got kidnapped, and beaten and strung up. They... they messed with your mind, they poisoned you. I read your statement. They were going to... to hack you into pieces. What do you mean yeah well what?"

Starsky lifted his head slowly off the back of the seat. "Take it easy," he said quietly. "I mean it. So you kill me in a car wreck -- how's that going to help?"

"Look, I'm going to get you home, get you taken care of, and then you're going to tell me," Hutch said.

He knew it was crazy. He was the one coiled up tighter than a spring, the one who could hardly get his words out, the one so clearly not dealing.

Starsky let out a sigh. "Hey," he said. "Psych services are going to come after me soon enough, so you just let me alone. You pretty much summed it up anyway -- nothing more to tell. I just wanna take a long shower and wash those stinking lowlifes offa me. I want to eat some nice soup, some nice chicken soup. I want to phone Ma. I want to watch the news. Then I want to go to bed. And, Hutch..."

"What?"

"I want you to go home and do the same. That's what I want more than any of the others."

"You want me to go home and ring your Ma?"

"Oh that's funny. You're a real wiseguy, you know that? I just want you to relax, you look like you're gonna blow, man. I'm really fine. Maybe I shouldn't be, but I am. What can I tell you?"

"All right," said Hutch. "All right, all right, all right."

"Good," Starsky said and laid his head back on the seat.

He let Hutch heat some soup while he took a shower. Sitting on the couch in his sweatpants he phoned New York and then let Hutch re-bandage his wrists.

"You have a great bedside manner, you know that?"

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh. Nice and gentle, you don't talk too much. In fact, come to think of it, you don't talk at all."

"I'm concentrating."

"Ya think my piano-playing days are over?"

"Starsky, just shut up will you, shut up and keep still."

Starsky ate the soup like he was doing a comedy routine and then solemnly took some heavy-duty painkillers while Hutch leaned in the doorway to the bathroom watching him.

"You satisfied?" he asked when they had gone down.

Hutch held up his hands in mute surrender.

"So would you go home already?"

"You win, Starsk," Hutch said. For now, he thought.

He caught up his own sleep over the day, rang Starsky at seven and was reassured to be grouched at down the phone.

"You been asleep?" he asked.

"I'm sleeping now, leave me alone."

"Bye, Starsk."

"Guh."

*

"He's putting on one hell of a good act, Hug," Hutch said when he called in at 'The Pits' an hour later. "Or else... or else he really is alright. But then again, why should I be surprised? He's more cussed than anyone I've ever known. I bet those guys figured that out quick enough."

"Hutch," said Huggy Bear, inwardly tutting at the sight of his friend's crumpled and tense demeanour. "You two've been working on this hoodoo stuff so long, idn't it about time you moved on to something else? You know -- before you start growing beards and dressing in black?"

"It's not over," Hutch said, a little stubbornly. "Marcus has got life and a couple of the others might join him. But he had his nine apostles, you know. We only got six. That makes--"

"Three -- yes. Even I can do the math. But I been reading the papers, same as everyone else. You got the movers and the shakers -- now you can pick the others off -- it'll be as easy as 'Matthew, Mark, Luke and John,' -- how does it go? -- ' bless the bed that I lie on'. Know what I'm saying?"

"We've got Matthew, Mark, Luke and... goddamnit, Huggy, there isn't a Mark!"

"You know what?" Huggy said, rolling his eyes. "You're getting boring."

*

Hutch tried really hard to take another day, but it was no good. Turning up an-announced at Ridgeway he found his partner doing well. As pale as you would expect, and still moving around a little carefully, but his mouth working as fast as ever.

"My left is getting better," he said, waving the paw in the air. "I can feed myself. That's something, huh? I'm gonna do what they said, Hutch, I'm gonna stay away til Monday, but then I was thinking... I was thinking about those three. And Gail, Hutch... can you go see her? Make sure she's OK? She's gotta have family somewhere, and she's gonna need the rehab program... you know, I was thinking last night, that even with Marcus... what, Hutch? Why're you looking at me like that?"

"You were thinking," Hutch mocked. "You were supposed to be sleeping."

"So I was thinking in my sleep."

"Yeah, well I happen to know already what you were thinking."

"You do?"

"Yeah, because I was thinking it too. Wide awake and thinking it. Putting Marcus away isn't quite the end of the story, and Dobey's going to try and take us off the case."

"I want to wrap it up for good, Hutch, real bad I want to do that."

"Course you do. But after what happened... you know the standard practice, Starsk. Dobey will want to take you right off the case, and me too probably."

"It would be nuts," Starsky said, bowing to Hutch's intervention as he struggled to lever the cap off a bottle of root beer.

"Well why don't you leave that battle until you're up to it, huh?" said Hutch. "I'm going in now. I'll see how the land lies." He handed Starsky the bottle, giving him a good long stare as his partner swigged at it. "And you're OK being left alone, right?"

Starsky banged the bottle smartly down on the worktop and wiped his mouth, wincing a little as he did so. "Hey, if I get the heebiejeebies I'll call ya, OK?"

Gail

Captain Dobey was definitely planning on following standard practice, but he had doubts about re-assigning this twisty, queasy mess of a case right away -- who'd be happy to take it? Standard practice said that Starsky's abduction had made it too personal to allow him or Hutch to carry on, and yet who else had the breadth of knowledge, the hours of experience in all this... And now Hutchinson was in his office, in his face, staking a claim for he and Starsky to keep it. Dobey wasn't really that surprised.

"I presume your partner feels the same way?" he said bad-temperedly, thinking to himself that Hutchinson looked like he could use a long vacation far away from here. "Despite everything?"

"Oh I dunno, Cap. Maybe because of everything. Yes, he feels the same way. We agree that the other three... well, they aren't just going to hang up their hoods and start going to PTA meetings again. As long as they're out there the Simon Marcus cult isn't dead. You hand this case over to another team and they're going to have to start from scratch."

"I know all that."

"So?"

"So I'm going to think about it. It's not re-assigned yet. I'll discuss it with you and Starsky on Monday morning. In the meantime -- Gail Harper -- here's the file you wanted."

Hutch picked up the file and flipped it open. "I'm going to see her, Cap," he said. "She might be important. Starsky talked her down, right at the end..."

"Yeah, when they were about to stick a meat cleaver in his head," Dobey said. "Are you sure your partner is alright, Hutchinson?"

Hutch just grunted something as he left the office. He understood the Captain's fears, but knowing Starsky as well as he did he was pretty sure he could tell when he was in trouble. Hutch knew what a Starsky under pressure was like, a Starsky distressed by events on the job -- the worse things were the more he became a stoic, setting his chin, becoming monosyllabic and driven... any way he looked at it now, Starsky was not doing that.

I'm not sure exactly what it is you're doing, partner, but you're not doing that.

*

Gail Harper looked a lot different, both from her mugshot and from Hutch's sketchy memory of her at the zoo when he seemed to recall her all in flowing white, her face ghostly and streaked in tears and dirt. Now she was in prison blue, her red hair tied up and clipped on the back of her head. Her face was clean, un-made up, her expression no longer dreamy. A little look of recognition crossed her face as her female guard brought her into the interrogation room, and she sat down opposite Hutch and looked him directly in the eye.

"This isn't an official interrogation, Gail," he said at once. "I'm just here to see how you are. If you want to give any statements, or any information relating to Simon Marcus, then you have a right to your lawyer--"

"What's your name?" she cut in.

"I'm Detective Hutchinson."

"You came to the zoo," she said, "and helped him."

"Helped who?"

"Polaris," she said, and Hutch jumped as if he had been stung.

"That was my partner, Detective Starsky," he said. "Why do you call him Polaris?"

A dreamy look came over her again all of a sudden, as if the name was a trigger. Then she looked him in the eye again. "I'm glad you came."

"Are you glad to be out of there?"

Gail frowned. "Where is he now?"

"Starsky? He's safe. Do you feel safe?"

"I'm not telling you anything," she said. "I know you've got Luke and Peter and Matthew. They think I'll tell you everything but I won't. You go and talk to them. Not me. Although... " and she paused, pulling distractedly at a little tendril of hair hanging down by her left ear, "I'd like to keep him safe."

"That's good of you, Gail. Have you spoken with your Dad in Reno?"

Gail's eyes widened in surprise at this. Then she shook her head. "Daddy and his wife aren't interested in me," she said.

"Are you sure? You can call them, you know."

"Well, maybe," she said. "But aren't you going to charge me with something? I had the knife."

"Do you want to talk about what happened to you? Do you want to make a statement?"

"I'm not telling you anything," she said.

"OK. But the... doctors... are going to keep you here until they think you're alright."

She seemed to think about this for a while and then she fixed the opposite wall with a glassy stare. "Simone," she said with that weird inflexion. It was not the familiar chant, just a statement of the name. She looked away from the wall and directly back at the detective.

"It's alright," he said. "Simon Marcus has gone to jail for the rest of his life. He won't hurt you anymore."

"Simone," she repeated. "Simone, Simone, Simone."

"OK, Gail," Hutch said, pushing his chair back from the table and glancing at the guard who raised her eyebrows at him. "If you change your mind, let me know."

"What do you they call you?" she suddenly said as he reached the door.

"Detective Hutchinson," he said patiently.

"No... I mean, what do they call you?"

Hutch knew exactly what she meant but he was not going to articulate that name out loud. "I don't have another name," he said.

"Alright," she said, accepting it. "Keep him safe, Detective Hutchinson."

Monday morning

"Bartholomew, James and John," Starsky said, first thing on Monday morning, leading the way into Dobey's office.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Simon's other three apostles," Starsky said with exaggerated patience. "Their files are right here, Captain. Laurence Defoe, Mitchell McCarthy and Jermaine Boyd Black... Bartholomew, James and John."

"Do I take it that you two have spent the last five days going over this case instead of getting some rest and recuperating?" said Dobey sharply.

"Cap, we've got to stay ahead of the game here," Hutchinson said, reasonable as always. "We need you to know that we're up to speed... and that nobody else is."

"What Hutch means is, you can't take us off the case," added Starsky.

"I can do whatever the hell I like, Detective. And what I don't like is having one of my men stolen out from under my nose and then put through an ordeal like..."

"I know, I know, which is why it's better that we get the rest of the creeps off the street as soon as possible. I'm driving again -- look, no bandages. The bruises are wearing off." Dobey looked at him as if he could not believe his ears. "I'm not minimising what happened, Captain, but it's gonna play far worse on me if I can't carry it through to the end," Starsky said. Had he been taking lessons in sweet-talking from his partner? "Hutch's already talked to Gail Harper -- we got an appointment to see Jemson and the Reeders. All by the book, we promise. No short cuts."

Dobey was silent for a while. Hutchinson still looked like he hadn't slept properly in days, and there was that dangerous hyperactivity about Starsky that never boded well. Hutch took up the cause. "Captain, Marcus always said his apostles would carry on. Hensley Reeder -- Luke -- he was the main lieutenant, but we think that when one goes down another one steps up to the mark."

"Hutch, Simon doesn't have a Mark," Starsky put in.

"What?" demanded Dobey.

"You know, Cap. The apostles, there were twelve of them in the bible, right? Can you name them all?"

"Well there was Matthew... Mark... Luke..."

"Nah," said Starsky smugly. "No Mark."

"Well anyway," Hutch cut back in, "Marcus in his wisdom decided he'd have nine. His apostles, his disciples -- they were the guys who spread the word. He named Andrew and Thomas--"

"Already in jail," said Starsky.

"Peter, Luke and Matthew--"

"Awaiting charges," said Starsky.

"--And Bartholomew, James and John."

"Like I said, still out there," said Starsky.

"OK, and you two know where any of them are?"

"They're in the State, Captain, probably in the city. That's all."

"Uh-huh. And do you have any other reasons for wanting to stay on this case? Like personal vendettas, or some such?"

"There's maybe fifteen or twenty more missing people," Hutch said. "Unaccounted for -- probable converts to the cult. Still in a group somewhere, with these three, or... dead."

"Yeah, conversion doesn't seem worth the money," Starsky observed. "All it gets you is your throat slit."

"The point is," Hutch hustled on, not immune to the odd twist to Starsky's tone of voice, "that there are lives out there we might be able to... well it's not like it's only us, Captain. There've been scores of cops working on this with us." He petered out and fell silent.

Dobey contemplated the inside of his coffee cup for a second. Then he said, "Well let me make it clear. I have to cut resources on this now, now that Marcus is in jail. The Commissioner wants you off the case -- no, not just you, most of the team -- he doesn't think these three creeps pose much of a threat now. But I'll go with you... you can use Dean and Del Rey if you need to. Other than that you have to come through me. You got it?"

Nods.

"And Starsky?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Psychiatric Services want to see you at 2 o'clock."

"I'm not ready for the funny farm just yet, Cap... what if I accidentally forget to go?"

"If you don't go, Sergeant, you don't work the case!" Dobey snapped.

"He'll be there, Cap," Hutch said soothingly. He put his hand firmly in between his partner's shoulder-blades and steered him from the room.

Dreaming

Jemson and Michael Reeder were truculent under interrogation, but they both seemed to have dropped their Matthew and Peter personae, maybe on the advice of their lawyer, who they shared, and who sat scribbling copious notes in a large notebook during both interviews. They would not allude to Starsky's abduction, pretended to know nothing about Gail Harper, and just grinned when the name Simon Marcus was mentioned. Starsky was very cool in their presence, letting Hutch do most of the questioning, and he stayed very still, an unusual thing for him. For their part they seemed nervous to see him sitting before them. The biter bit, thought Hutch.

"Well they didn't help us," Hutch said when Michael Reeder had been taken out. "But then they didn't help themselves much either. You OK for Reeder's brother, Starsk?"

A non-committal shrug.

"Starsk?"

Starsky flicked him a little smile. "Those two," he said, "like any other two-bit punk who ever took a shot at me. But, last week, when I went in the Men's Room, I did my business and I was washing my hands... then I looked up, into the mirror. And there he was... Hensley Reeder... Luke... whatever... right behind me and he was holding this big knife and he had this weird smile plastered all over his face... just that. Next thing I know I'm eating dirt in the bear pit."

Hutch shook down a little shiver.

"You want to go on with this?"

Starsky looked down at his wrists and then up at the steady gaze of his partner's eyes -- his touchstone. "Sure. Couldn't do it on my own though."

"Fine, you don't have to. Let me do the talking, OK?"

Starsky gestured fulsomely for him to go ahead. He sat down astride the chair at the back of the room and waited for the prisoner to appear.

Hensley Reeder, one-time owner of a bookstore in Sausalito, divorced father of two, eldest of the three Reeder brothers, and one of Simon Marcus's longest-serving disciples, came shuffling into the room ahead of his lawyer, who they had never seen before. The lawyer, Fischer, wandered in and stood with his back to the wall on the other side of the door from the prison officer. He had no papers, no pen, and he stood with his arms folded. Reeder sat himself down opposite Hutch, gave him a close stare and then pretended to look lazily around the room until his eye lighted on Starsky. He settled himself in his chair and did not move or take his eyes off the dark detective even when Hutch spoke to him. Hutch kept trying to break the line of vision, by walking across it, leaning across the table, but it was fixed. Whatever questions Hutch asked, he did not look away. For his part Starsky just stared right back at him.

"What we're interested in, Reeder," Hutch tried, "Is the whereabouts of your other friends. You know who we mean."

"Bartholomew, James and John," Reeder acknowledged. "They are keeping the faith."

"Sure they are. Where are they keeping the faith?"

"In their hearts. Simone still dreams for them."

"Well he's a dreamy kind of guy," Hutch said. "Where are they?"

"I don't dream," Reeder said. "Only Simone dreams."

"Can you tell us the whereabouts of Lisa Gatlin? Mary Sue Freeman? Judith Hirschbaum? John Amos? Peter van Rensie? Any of the other people you recruited? Are they alive?"

"Simone dreamed Bartholomew's return."

"Return to where?"

"Simone dreamed the death of Polaris." Again that name... Shifting his shoulders Hutch did a quick, unobtrusive look round at Starsky who was unmoving. Fischer unfolded his arms from right over left to left over right. Hutch looked round at him.

"If there has been any question of communication being passed between him and Marcus, Mr Fischer--"

"There is no question, Detective Hutchinson," Fischer said.

"Simone," went on Reeder as if oblivious, "dreamed that Polaris will die all alone. He dreamed that long ago."

"Alright then," Starsky suddenly said. "Tell us about that dream."

Reeder smiled at him then. "Only Simone can speak about the dream. And he will only speak to the White Knight." Finally he withdrew his stare and looked directly across the table at Hutch.

"Did he teach you all about these games, Reeder?" Hutch said. "All this dreaming mumbo-jumbo? We know who you mean by Polaris and the White Knight. You can use our real names. I think you just told us that Simon Marcus had issued a death threat to Detective Starsky here? Am I right about that?"

"It's not a threat," said Reeder calmly. "It's a dream."

"And was the violence perpetrated against Detective Starsky a dream too?"

Hensley Reeder sighed. He scratched the fingers of one hand through his thick black hair, then he murmured a few unintelligible words to himself and finally sat up very straight in his chair, fixed his stare back on Starsky and then slowly closed his eyes. A hanging silence remained in the room for a while.

Hutch uncoiled himself from his seat. He took a tour around the room, giving his partner a "can you believe this guy?" look, glaring at Fischer and then coming to a halt right next to Reeder. He snapped his fingers by his ear. There was no reaction, not even a tremor of eyelid.

"I know you can hear me, Reeder," he said, bending down. "And you think on this. You may be able to sit here and play the dreaming game, but Matthew and Peter aren't doing it anymore. In fact, they aren't even Matthew and Peter. They've gone back to being plain old Eric and Michael... and you know what else? Just like Andrew and Philip and Thomas, bit by bit they're going to give us everything we want." He motioned at Starsky. "Come on, let's get out of here." As Starsky passed before him through the door, he paused next to Fischer, still standing with his arms folded.

"Do you dream too, Mr Fischer?" Hutch looked back at the man sitting at the table. "He's all yours. When he wakes up, you can tell him we'll be back."

*

In the Torino Starsky sat behind his dark glasses drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as Hutch, who had stopped to speak to the guards, came out of the prison a few minutes behind him.

"OK, Starsk, tell me that didn't spook you?" he said as he slid in and banged shut the door. "Have you heard this Polaris thing before?"

"Hum," Starsky said. "I think so, maybe. Maybe one of them mighta said it to me while they were... when they were using me as a punchball." He took hold of the dark glasses and peered at Hutch over the top of them. "The White Knight is a new one on me, though. I kinda like it, even though it's not fair."

"Not fair? What's not fair?" demanded Hutch, mystefied.

"Well, you know, that you get the romantic hero role and I get named after some star."

"Polaris is the brightest star, buddy," said Hutch. He paused, and then said, "of course, it's also a ballistic missile. That can't be coincidence."

Starsky looked impressed. "You think that whacko thought of that for me?"

"It's no joke, Starsky. Simon Marcus seems kinda fixated. I don't know about you, but I find that a little scary."

So did Dobey.

"I want round-the-clock protection for you, Starsky -- who knows what these guys might try? That was a death threat, I don't care how they say it... dreams, visions, whatever..."

"Oh come on, Cap, they're just mad I got away," Starsky protested, and Hutch could see from his face that he believed that, he really believed it. "Reeder was just trying to spark a reaction. I don't need anybody else hanging round me... I got my White Knight."

"Starsky, will you quit that name!" snarled Hutch.

"Tough being a hero, huh?"

"I'm warning you..." and the finger came up threateningly.

"Is your armor weighing you down?" Starsky inquired sweetly, heading for the door.

"Enough!" bellowed Dobey. "Where are you going now?"

"I have an appointment with the shrink, remember?"

"Hutchinson?"

"Gonna make some calls, Captain. We've got to get a lead on where these three are." He watched Starsky weaving his way out through the squadroom. "Hey, don't disappear after!" he yelled, eliciting a casual handwave. Then he turned back to Dobey, one hand on the doorknob as he prepared to shut the door. "Get that detail organized, Captain."

"Your partner's not going to like it."

"Oh I'll deal with him," Hutch said, jettisoning the doorknob from his hand. Dobey was left contemplating the juddering panel.

Babysitters

"You happy now?" grumbled Starsky at around eleven pm. The Torino, scented with a recent drive-thru meal, was rolling back towards Ridgeway. "I've done word association with psychs, we've had two positive sightings on Boyd Black, Gail wants to talk to me, Marcus wants to talk to you... and..." a heavy sigh, "...there's two babysitters waiting for me outside my house."

Hutch sent a satisfied smile his way. "Oh yes, I'm happy. You be nice to those guys, Starsk. Dobey's got Wang on sentry and Francome on half-hour drive-by. They're gonna have a long night."

"It's a waste of time," Starsky said. "This outfit has got pieces to pick up, they don't want to chase my tail, they want to get out there and get recruiting." He stopped at kerbside, neatly nosing Hutch's LTD. "I'm going to turn on all my charm tomorrow with Gail. She can help us, I know she can."

"All your charm?" Hutch repeated.

Starsky was too busy squinting through the windshield at Francome's car across the street to reply. Hutch reached for the radio mic. As Starsky got out he signalled Control. "This is Zebra Three signing out at twenty-three fifteen. Officers Francome and Wang in position at Starsky's."

"Copy that, Zebra Three. Have a quiet night."

Hutch got out and stretched. He motioned for Starsky to precede him up the steps to his house.

"Oh come on! I can open my own door," Starsky whined but Hutch, implacable, shook his head.

"Need to check it out, Starsk. Sorry."

Another huge sigh. "OK, be my guest." Starsky waggled his fingers at Francome and Wang as they went up the steps. Inside he followed Hutch around as he went through each room and then stood in the centre of the kitchen with his hands on his hips.

"Seems fine," said Hutch, making for the front door. "Stay put, huh, Starsk? No trips to the all-night store if you get the munchies."

"You know me so well, Blondie. Now beat it." He showed Hutch to the door. "'Seeya."

The door closed pointedly. Grinning to himself Hutch pattered down the steps and across to Francome's car. Wang was getting out and he stroked his jacket under the arm as a sign he was on alert. Francome wound down the window.

"Hey, Barney," Hutch said. "Keep close, willya? Call me if you need to. And in any case, give me an alarm when the shift changes."

"Will do, Hutch. Take it easy, OK? So much as a spider starts up those steps we'll have it cuffed and down the precinct before sleeping beauty in there has even turned over."

Hutch glanced back in his mirror as he drove away. There was a light in Starsky's bathroom which shone down on Officer Wang in his position at the foot of the steps. He grinned to himself again. Starsky hated spiders.

Awakened

Starsky had slept well the last week. He had surprised himself there. In waking moments a stray detail about his captivity might have wandered in uninvited, but he had faced it up and sent it away. So he wasn't pleased when he was woken up by Officer Wang sneezing under his window in the middle of the night. Blearily he reached for his clock to see what time it was. Four forty-eight. Make that nearly morning. He got up and went to the bathroom, lightly touching the scorch mark above his eyebrow which felt hot and itchy. Then he went to the fridge, yanked open the door and peered in. Yawning, he picked out a bottle of milk, took a large swig and then banged it back. As he went back to bed he heard Wang coughing and he grumbled to himself. The quilt was warm. Starsky turned over and buried his face in the pillow and as he sank into sleep he heard Wang clearing his throat again.

Hutch had not slept well the last week. During his partner's captivity he had not slept at all, but tonight he felt a little twinge of relaxation as he lay down. They had made good, unexpectedly good, progress on the case today and he was satisfied that Dobey had organized protection for Starsky so quickly. Maybe, just maybe, things were about to get better.

In fact, he slept so deeply that when the phone rang in his ear at eight o'clock it took him some time to come out of it. One hand reached from under the covers and connected with the receiver. He dragged it to his ear and said "Morning, Barney."

Just the few seconds of silence that greeted this were enough to bring him fully awake.

"Hutch, it's Dobey."

Hutch sat bolt upright in bed. He knew that tone of barely-suppressed fury and in any case, by now, he could feel the bad vibes of this day slithering all over him. Things were not getting better. They were getting much, much worse.

"Captain?"

"I need you at Starsky's. Something went down a few hours ago. Looks like Starsky's in trouble."

"Cap..."

"Listen, Hutchinson, I've one cop dead and two missing. Get here."

Hutch felt his heart freeze. He must have got dressed somehow. He must have got in his car and driven. With a terrifying sensation that normality was spiralling away from him, he found himself on Ridgeway, and it was crawling with cops. Outside Starsky's there was a police cordon, and he could see Dobey at the bottom of the steps leading up to the apartment. The Torino was still where it had been left. Barney Francome's car was gone. A coroner's wagon stood half parked on the grass. Getting out of the LTD, his heart like a lump of ice, Hutch ducked under the tape and went for the wagon. A body under a sheet had just been loaded. Hutch turned back the edge. It was Wang.

"Throat cut," said one of the guys on stretcher duty. "Had four kids."

"I know," Hutch said blankly.

Dobey was gesturing at him. Hutch put one foot in front of the other and got to the bottom of the steps.

"What's going on, Cap?" he managed to get out.

"A jogger found Wang at around half past seven," Dobey said. "Raised the alarm. Francome and Starsky are missing."

"When?" Hutch croaked, eliciting a squeeze on his arm from the Captain.

"Looks like Wang was killed around five this morning. Seems at least one of the assailants was under the house. Would have been there way before Starsky got back last night."

"One of the assailants?"

Dobey pointed up the steps at the open front door. "Forensics are in there now. Definitely more than one. Maybe up to three."

"Three," Hutch said. "Bartholomew, James and John." He sprinted up the steps and in the familiar door. For a second he balanced in the doorway, and then he moved forward, glass crunching under his feet. The place seemed full of people, and like a rogue wind had blown through, upturning furniture, toppling lamps, leaving a malign imprint behind. Hutch recognized Don Meakin and he made his way over, wary of where he was stepping.

"Hey," Meakin said, standing up from his crouch.

"What happened here, Don?"

Meakin shrugged uneasily. "We got a lot of evidence," he said. "There's prints and skin and hair and blood all over the place."

"I can see that."

Meakin paused a second, then said, "Seems like your buddy sure put up one hell of a fight, Hutch."

Hutch thought about that, about Starsky fighting back with his injured arms. "You have his blood?"

"It's all gone down to the lab, but there's clear evidence of an... attempted assault and resistance... that's why his place is so disturbed. Seems like he fought back for some time, but they overpowered him. We'll know more when the analysis comes back. It's got priority, Hutch."

"Sure, thanks, Don."

Hutch went to rejoin Dobey. "How did this happen again, Cap?" he was saying as he came down the steps. "Just how? We only just got him back. What did we miss this time?"

"They were in place before we ever got Wang and Francome here," Dobey replied tersely.

"I'm going back to talk to all of them," Hutch said. "Gail, Jemson, the Reeders. Marcus. I want to know what the lab says as soon as the results are back. Goddamnit, I don't believe this is happening again!"

"Starsky was a marked man," Dobey said heavily. "Marcus musta decided all this a long time ago. He's personalized this case, right from the moment you two were assigned. He led you to him last time, Hutch, maybe he'll do that again."

"I should have stayed, Captain," Hutch said. "Last night. It was too important. Why the hell didn't I stay?"

Dobey regarded him askance. "Probably because your partner pushed you out the door?" he suggested.

For a brief while Hutch stood with his eyes closed, his head bent, listening. All he could hear were faint voices, radios crackling. In the trees across the street, in the bushes under the steps there was silence. Ridgeway. Starsky had chosen this apartment because, city boy though he was, he liked the sound of birdsong in the morning.

Hutch could not believe the reality being served up to him here. He was supposed to be with Starsky. They had bounced back and sent the demons all away. But now they were telling him that Starsky was gone. Taken. Twice in as many weeks, snatched away, as they liked to do. It had happened before, they had it on file goddamnit... what was her name? Joan something... rescued from the cult and then snatched again two days later. Picked out as a victim, circled, stalked, stolen from view when you glanced away, and then... left a shell, or a corpse. But not Starsky, surely not. No victim, no shell, he. No corpse. But Simon Marcus wanted him. Had always wanted him, who knew why? And was it all over this time? Last time Hutch had been ignited by shock and anger. This time, weakness washed over him. All the information in all the files told him there was nothing to be done. Marcus was mad. The others were mavericks, stripped of any sense of common humanity, united by the appeal of ritual and violence. Hutch's heart was banging. He thought he might fall over. Quickly opening his eyes and looking around he saw neighbors staring out of windows, curious, troubled. Up above a cloudy sky. Next to him Dobey, breathing hard, looking at him closely.

"Come on, son, you've got to get a grip," he was saying. "Don't come undone now. Starsky needs you."

Polaris

Gail would not talk. She cried lots, but she wouldn't talk. Eric Jemson seemed surprised to hear of the new kidnap, and Hutch latched on to his nervousness, but he took refuge in silence. Hensley Reeder was as before, alternating between defiance and babbling. It was Michael Reeder who wanted to explain. Because it was all Simone's plan, see? He got this plan when he knew he was going to get arrested. He followed all the police movements, knew all about the detectives on his case. And he was real disturbed by Starsky and Hutchinson. Saw them on the evening news. Saw Starsky interviewed live late one night, taken by surprise by a news team doorstepping him on his street. It was very dark, the TV people were having trouble with their lights. And he saw Starsky saying his days were numbered and then all of a sudden the TV people got it together and this light hit Starsky in the eyes and he looked right at the camera, mad as hell. The name came up. Detective David Starsky and Simone couldn't seem to get the name out of his mind after that. That was how it was with Simone. He got fixed on things you'd never think of, see? He got all mixed up with the name and the lights and the darkness. That was the Polaris thing. And he wanted him ever since he saw that TV thing. Started having all these dreams. See?

"And what did the dreams consist of, Michael? The particular Polaris dreams?" Hutch asked. "Did he dream what would happen to Pol... Detective Starsky? When it would happen? Where?"

"The dream changed all the time, man," Michael Reeder said. "I can't remember them all. He had the zoo dream but he had other ones too."

"Tell me, Michael. I need to know about them."

"But I can't tell you Simone's dreams, man!" Michael Reeder said at last, amazed that Hutchinson should think he could. "I was never allowed to tell dreams. Only Simone can do that."

And so Hutch found himself face to face with Simon Marcus once more.

He took Luis Del Rey in with him because he couldn't stomach being on his own in the room again with the man. Marcus had his lawyer too. (His name was Lockyer -- he seemed too young to be doing the job, there was just a hint of panic in his eyes.) And there was a guard. The room felt full up and yet it was as if it were just he and Marcus again.

Simon Marcus could dominate a space, there was no doubt about it. There was something compelling in his presence, and he seemed able to spread a kind of silence through the room, rendering those around him speechless, doubtful, even unaccountably afraid. Hutch had felt it before. He found it hard to look him in the face. He felt as if his very soul were bared when Marcus was staring at him with those oddly unblinking eyes and he hated himself for it. He fought to remain calm and think his questions through. Think, Hutchinson, think... you need to get on top of this guy, not the other way around. Luis Del Rey was twitchy at his back. What Hutch wouldn't have given to have his partner there. Fortunately, it was that sudden longing that gave him the sudden strength to speak.

"How'd you set this one up, Marcus?"

"Polaris dies," Marcus said, matter-of-fact. He sat straight in his seat, his smooth, neat hands resting on the table edge as if he were in a pulpit. "The White Knight rushes in, but Polaris dies. He dies over and over again. If the dream doesn't finish the first time then it finishes the second, or the third. It always finishes."

"And... uh, your boys... Barthol... Defoe, McCarthy, Boyd Black. They know all about the dream, huh?"

"I tell my dreams," Marcus said, rather as if he were giving an interesting lecture, "and they come true. My dreams are the clearest ones, so they listen. They always listen."

"And, you're going to give me some clever clues all over again are you? The Temple of the First Kingdom? Ebony, granite, trees, water, the King of the Forest, blah blah blah... What is it this time? Or are you going to change the game?"

"The skies," Marcus said softly, "are painted with unnumber'd sparks, they are all fire and every one doth shine, but there's but one in all doth hold his place..."

"OK, so you can quote Shakespeare," Hutch said, hanging on to his temper somehow. "What? I've got to read Julius Caesar to find out where he is? Come on, Marcus, tell me how it is. You have a thing for Starsky, is that it? He's some kind of symbol to you. He rang your bell? Got under your skin? What?"

Marcus looked at him reprovingly. "Bright and fierce and fickle is the South," he said, "and dark and true and tender is the North."

"Fine, you can have that one. I don't know it. Did we miss this out of your profile, Marcus, that you have a poetic soul? Or is it just more bullshit?"

Marcus looked irritated at that. Just for a tiny second Hutch thought he saw the flash of something under the facade and he decided to carry on. "So, what's behind all this stuff you got on my partner, huh? You saw him on TV, right? Something about him... is he like someone else you know? Is he like someone you want to be? Does he represent some kind of threat... that you've got to get rid of? Making up names... giving people names, what is all that? Have your psychiatrists ever figured it out, huh?" He took a deep breath. "But you know what, Simon Marcus? I don't care about all that. I don't care what the psychs say about you... you had a terrible childhood, yeah, I' ve read all about it... so what?... wherever my friend is, whatever they're doing to him, what I really want to know is... why? Because I know you're not going to tell me where he is. That's not in the dream, right?"

"The northern star," Marcus said. He sounded a little breathless all of a sudden. "Who... whose true-fix'd and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament." He gritted his teeth. "Polaris."

Hutch just stared at him. "For pity's sake, Marcus! You're right... Starsky is Polaris... the north star, whatever it is... there's no one like him! You've got that, you've absolutely got it, just from one moment on the TV. So why harm him, huh? Why threaten him?"

Marcus gave one of his trademark laughs, but it did not sound convincing somehow. His gaze flicked from Hutch to Del Rey to the lawyer, who was sitting stockstill in his chair. Marcus put his arms up towards Hutch as if pushing him away.

"My client is clearly tired and stressed!" squeaked the lawyer at that point. "We must insist that this interrogation is terminated."

"Fine!" Hutch snapped, reaching over and banging the stop switch on the tape machine. "But just remember this. My partner is not the only one missing... for every single person whose whereabouts we cannot account for, who we believe to have been recruited into your cult, Simon Marcus, I will back. I'm going to find those people, even if I can't save my friend."

"Bright and fierce and fickle!" spat Marcus. "What ails thee, Knight at arms?"

"Yeah, whatever," said Hutch. He nodded at the guard to open the door, felt Del Rey appear on his heels and headed for the corridor outside.

"Man!" Del Rey said, taking Hutch's arm as he began striding at speed along the echoing linoleum. He was rather afraid that the blond detective would stumble, there was so much raw emotion speeding around his system. "You sure rattled him! You really know all that Shakespeare stuff?"

"Sure, I was a drama major."

"You were?"

"No, Luis. I just... like poetry."

"And you think it really doesn't mean anything? Don't ya think it'd worth looking through this Julius Caesar thing?"

A slight smile curved one corner of Hutch's mouth. That could have been Starsky speaking.

"Let me tell you, Luis, I've learned a few things about Simon Marcus along the way. If he talks about his dreams, he's probably trying to tell you something. But if he quotes poetry at you he's just being crazy."

Would it were that simple.

Outside it was dark already. A light drizzle was falling. A uniformed policeman was waiting there with a sheet of paper in his hand. "Detective Hutchinson!" he called as soon as the two detectives appeared in the side door of the prison building. "Word from the lab."

Hutch took hold of the page and scanned it, screwing up his eyes in the bad light.

"Hutch?"

Hutch tapped the page with the back of one hand. "The prints and blood matches from Starsky's... we got Boyd Black here, we got McCarthy... they left prints everywhere. Definitely Starsky's blood on the floor, the table, specks in the doorway." He took a breath, mindful that his voice would reveal him. "They had to work to get him down."

"That's Davey," Del Rey said, laying a hand on the back of his shoulder. "Stubborn as a mule."

Hutch looked upwards again, which he knew had become a habit, as if the answer to all this was written in the stars. Marcus must really be getting to him -- Huggy was right, they'd been working this case too long. The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks, they are all fire and every one doth shine, but there's but one in all doth hold his place. Got that on the button, you bastard, he thought, and then turned to Del Rey.

"Last known addresses on anyone you can come up with who knows Boyd Black and McCarthy. I'm calling Dobey to get some more people on this."

"Hutch!" It was Dean, standing by the Torino, the radio mic in his hand. "Captain Dobey for you."

"Yuh, Cap?" Hutch said into the mic, taking it from Dean's hand with a strange frisson. Not Starsky passing me the radio, making a face, he thought.

"They found Francome," Dobey's voice came through. "In his car. Dead, same way as Wang. Forensics think Starsky was in the car too."

"But not...?"

"Not anymore, no."

"Where was this, Cap?"

"About twenty blocks from Starsky's, in an underground garage. They musta transferred to another vehicle. We got teams in the area. Anything from Marcus?"

"Not much, but he's not quite as sure of himself anymore. Unfortunately, I think he's just getting madder. He's got a good line in Shakespeare but I don't think it's going to help us."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Oh I'll tell you later," Hutch said wearily.

*

Back in Dobey's office he was more than weary. He slid into a chair and sat with his head bent on to the knuckles of one hand. "Beats me how he was thought fit to stand trial," he mumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose

"Have you eaten, Hutchinson?"

"No I haven't eaten. How can I eat?" snarled Hutch.

"Listen, Hutchinson, I want you to take twenty minutes out. Stay here. Don't move. I'm going to get you something to keep you going. No arguments."

"Do you think he's still alive, Cap?" Hutch said as Dobey reached the door.

The Captain turned around. "I wouldn't want to bet against Starsky," was all would say, gruff and to the point. He went out and shut the door, leaving Hutch slumped in his chair. Before him on Dobey's desk were the piles of manila files relating to the Marcus case, several small mountains of brown cardboard. Being a cop, the tutor had said on their very first day all together at the Academy, is just legwork and paperwork. And if you think it's going to be anything different, you might just as well leave right now. Hutch had glanced sideways at his neighbour, the curly-headed kid from Brooklyn who had kept them up last night with his antics in the dorm. And for the first time Hutch had seen that smile. He reached out with one hand to the nearest mountain and pulled the first file from the top.

Keepers of the Light

"I have Huggy Bear on line 3," Dean said, poking his head into Dobey's dimly-lit office. Hutch was still there, surrounded now by the remains of a poorly-addressed sandwich and several cans of Dr Pepper, something unheard of in his normal diet, as well as up to twelve different files, all open. Some were spread on the floor at his feet, others on the Captain's desk. Hutch lifted his head and Dean felt bad for him. The blond detective's eyes were bloodshot, his face haggard. Nevertheless there was something steely about him which was entirely characteristic as he dragged himself up out of the chair.

In the squadroom he staggered rather than walked to his desk where Dean was indicating the phone, pressed line 3 and held it to his ear. "H-Hug?" he heard himself stammer.

"That sighting on Boyd Black?" came Huggy's voice. "Looks like we can go one better. Had a dude in here saying he thought he mighta rented out an apartment to him two weeks ago. And get this, Hutch, it's on Ridgeway... Second floor, 827 Ridgeway. Hutch? You there?"

"Yeah, Hug, I'm here. I got you. Thanks."

"I'm doing all I can," Huggy said earnestly, responding to the note of defeat in his friend's voice.

"I know it, Huggy. Catch you later."

Hutch wrote it down on a pad, tore off the sheet and passed it across the desk to Dean, who was leaning up against the chair on Starsky's side. "Could be a lead on Boyd Black," he said. "Take Luis, and don't take any chances. If you think there's anything there... anything... let me know." As the younger officer began his exit from the squadroom, Hutch arrested him for one more second. "Hey," he said. "All this extra time, Jay, I know it's way beyond the call of duty... I appreciate it."

"Forget it, Hutch," Dean said, "This is Davey we're talking about."

As Hutch went back into Dobey's office he felt as if something were tickling the back of his brain, trying to persuade him to pick up his faculties. Starsky always recognized when it was happening. Whoa, look out, Hutch is reaching warp speed. Passing to one of the smaller piles of paper he had made he began leafing back through the sheets, even though the type on them was swimming before his eyes. He did not stop even when he heard Dobey crashing back into the squadroom. But then Dobey shouted his name and he knew it was important.

Hutch turned around and saw a square white package waving in the Captain's hand.

"Just delivered," said Dobey grimly. "It's for you."

The names of victims spangled through Hutch's head just then -- they had known them off by heart. The families too, all those people who received the white packages with the grisly photos of their missing dear ones inside. Such agony, such grief, that he and Starsky had struggled to get through it sometimes, to carry on.

Even as Hutch got hold of it he knew what he had. There were no photographs. "It's a tape, Cap," he said, and they both began out of the squadroom and up the corridor towards the empty Audio room, Hutch ripping at the stiff white paper in his hand. It was a brand-new black videotape, unmarked. When they got to the VCR Hutch used the paper to hold it and slot it in.

"Who delivered it?" he said as the screen before them erupted in a flurry of snow.

"A courier. I've got a man questioning him but I don't think he knows much. What is this? A joke?"

"Wait a minute, Cap." The snow was dissipating. Now they were seeing jumping lines, then a shaky blackness. Hutch reached for the volume control. A camera was moving in the dark somewhere. There were some vague shapes appearing on the screen, but the picture was almost completely dark. Then some sound came up -- shoes stepping on stone, a vague whispering. Hutch and Dobey strained their ears. There were maybe two voices. Or was it more? But they were just whispers in the dark, trying not to be heard. The shakiness seemed to still and then a bright white light flashed on at the bottom of the picture, sweeping across a floor covered in garbage, piles of clothes... were they clothes?... and then coming to rest on a pair of feet, a pair of human feet, shackled at the ankles.

"Good God," said Dobey. The beam of the flashlight moved from the feet and travelled up a seated form. Hutch swallowed several times to dislodge the boulder from his throat. Navy trackpants. Hands in cuffs, nestled anxiously in the lap, forearms streaked with wet blood. White teeshirt, spotted with brownish stains. When the light hit the face of the man in the chair he attempted to avert his eyes but a hand seemed to appear from nowhere and embedded itself in his dark hair, jerking the head back forcefully to the light. There was blood under the nose, the lower lip was split, as was one cheek.

"We are the Keepers of the Light in the darkness," said a voice in the background. "See the light and die." The click of a gunlock releasing. The man's eyes were now staring straight at the light, even though it clearly hurt him. They were brilliant, a stunning electric blue, furious and afraid at the same time.

"Oh no," Dobey was saying, reminding Hutch of himself in the Men's Room at the courthouse, staring in horrified fascination at the name of his partner dripping fresh and scarlet down the glass. He felt paralysed now, unable to make a sound.

A gun barrel, shiny black, was placed against the temple of the prisoner. Hutch saw his partner grit his teeth, his jaw clenching. When the trigger was pulled Starsky's eyes pinched shut. The noise of an empty chamber firing echoed flatly. Starsky's head dropped, chin to chest. Wild laughter burst out, snorts and puerile giggling. Then another voice.

"Darn it... forgot the bullet again. Let's try that one more time. Third time lucky it's gotta be."

The hand seized hold of the dark hair again. The curls were slicked oddly flat by... by what? Was it sweat, blood, water? They could practically hear Starsky's teeth rattling in his jaw as his head was jerked back up and the pistol was placed in position again. He was breathing fast, struggling for self-control. His eyes gazed deeply into the light he saw before him, staring out and beyond it, straight into Hutch's as he sat forward in his chair leaning towards the screen. Dobey was looking away, but Hutch kept his eyes on Starsky's. They were looking to him, Hutch knew it. It was the least he could do, the only thing. Make contact through space and time. Starsky swallowed and blinked convulsively. Then there was a sharp click as the flashlight was turned off, the sound of a gunshot and something heavy falling to the floor with a smack. The screen was abruptly filled with snow once more, and an eerie silence. Hutch sat unmoving, staring at it.

Captain Dobey was shocked into blasphemy. He could not believe what he had just seen and heard.

Hutch could not believe it either -- in fact, he did not believe it.

"No," he said, "No, no, Cap, they didn't shoot him. He was alive when they stopped filming -- whenever that was."

"Why are you so sure?" Captain Dobey demanded, sweeping his handerkerchief over his perspiring face.

"Why turn out the light? It's all a game -- like it always is. Mock executions. Russian roulette. They just want us to know what they're putting him through." Hutch felt an odd clarity touch him, despite the painful thumping of his heart, the dull aching of his head. "It's been nearly thirty hours," he muttered.

Dobey looked at Hutch wondering what was keeping him together. "Why don't you get some rest?" he offered.

Hutch let loose an ironic squawk of a laugh. "Rest?" he said. "Listen, I've got Dean and Del Rey doing my legwork on Boyd Black. Huggy's shaking down every freak who comes near him trying to help me out. And Starsky... Starsky is out there somewhere, Cap, being taken apart piece by piece..."

"OK," Dobey said. "OK. I'm going to get on to the TV people, see if I can't get hold of a copy of that interview Starsky gave, the one that set Marcus off."

"Great, Cap, thanks."

"And what are you going to do?"

Hutch reached towards the screen in front of him. "I'm going to look at this again," he said. "See if I can pick something up."

Yeah, thought Dobey, a truckload of pain.

News at Night

Germaine Boyd Black's apartment on Ridgeway had been mostly empty, but clearly the three of them had been there recently. Forensics went away with a small stack of books, some underwear, a few towels and a camera with no film in it. Hutch told Dean and Del Rey to go home. Still there was this prickly feeling in the back of his brain. He got some coffee and a doughnut because having a Starsky breakfast was a comfort somehow, and then went to meet Dobey at the TV news studios.

"We remember this!" trilled a pert female producer who would normally have set Hutch's pulse racing. "When Captain Dobey told us what he was looking for we remembered it immediately. The reporter doesn't work here anymore but that little clip has become a legend."

"I don't remember it," Hutch said, frowning. "Why the hell don't I remember this? He never said a word about it."

It was just as Michael Reeder had described. Starsky, in jeans and black jacket, surprised getting out of his car, maybe thirty metres from his front door. A dark, rainy night. He had realised he was being ambushed straight away, a look of disgust passed over his face and he set his head down and began to walk up the hill towards his apartment, hands dug deep in his pockets. The camera followed, the reporter barking questions. "Detective Starsky! Jim Dogan from News at Night. A word about the Simon Marcus case! How close are you to finding Marcus? Are the arrests at the bookstore connected? Detective... can we hope for a breakthrough soon?" Not a flicker of response from Starsky, a shadowy figure stomping up the hill. Not even a brusque "no comment". Then it was all a bit confused. It looked as though the cameraman managed to run past him, thereby stopping him in his tracks and at that moment someone in the background yelled, "Yeah! I got it!" and there was suddenly a bright light shining full in the Detective's face. "Is it true Marcus might be responsible for up to twenty murders?" the reporter asked breathlessly. Brought up short, Starsky looked straight into the camera. "You're goddamned right there'll be a breakthrough soon!" he growled. He looked tired and strung out, ready to say the first thing that came into his head. "Marcus will be apprehended before the week is out. I can give him my word." He was still staring into the camera, his eyes holding that same blistering depth that had sparked out in the other tape. It had arrested the TV people, made them remember. It struck Hutch too, even though he was used to it. "Detective, can we take that as gospel?" asked the reporter, almost too excited to get his question out. Starsky did not look at him, just straight into the lens, his visceral hatred of the man in question conveyed by his expression, his body language, the tone of his voice. "Marcus, you can take it as gospel," Starsky said, "and now get out of my face!" He somehow pushed past the cameraman and was off up the steps in a second. The reporter turned to do his piece, face flushed. "That was uh... Detective David Starsky of the Bay City Police Department, part of the dedicated team that has been working on the Simon Marcus case... with something of a revelation. This is Jim Dogan reporting for News at Night. And now, back to you in the studio... Jerry."

"Oh perfect," said Hutch. "Right outside his place. He talks straight to Marcus. He says it's gospel! The reporter says it's a revelation. Perfect, just perfect! I can't believe he didn't tell me about this... what was he thinking of?"

"Take it easy," said Dobey warningly, indicating the open-mouthed producer. "Thank you, Miss... thank you for your time. Hutchinson..." He nodded to the door. Hutch glanced at her, twisted his face in an attempt at gratitude and headed out. "He probably didn't tell you because he knew you'd be mad," Dobey said as they pounded down the stairs.

In the car Dobey let him alone. Just a quick glance at the statuesque profile told him to hold off. But as they neared Parker Center again he had to ask.

"What do you want to do, Hutch?"

Hutch seemed to snap out of a reverie and realise where they were. "You go home, Cap," he said.

"What about you?"

"I'm going to look at the tape again."

Dobey narrowed his eyes. Was his boy unraveling? "What's the point?" he found himself saying.

Hutch's voice was quiet, flat. "Oh I don't know, Cap. It's the only bit of Starsky we got left."

"Hutchinson, you need to sleep. Not keep putting yourself through this."

"I'll go home after," Hutch lied. "I promise."

Dobey looked at him suspiciously but let him go. Hutch sprinted up the steps into Metro. Maybe he was crazy. Why choose to watch Starsky die again? It seemed downright weird. He got the tape out of his desk drawer and went up the corridor to Audio once more. To concentrate better he left the lights off, like he and Starsk would do sometimes when they watched a late-night movie, crashed on the couch, too weary with the day to speak anymore, just giving in to the pleasure of the dark around them, the flickering glow of the TV, and the quietness of the other close by. Until Starsky made some inane comment, of course.

The grueling scene played itself out again. The identity of the voices would be hard to verify with the poor sound quality. Environment indeterminate, but a very dark interior. Somewhere abandoned. Why did Starsky look like he was wet through? He projected an incredible defiance into the camera for a man who thought he was about to die.

"I know you're talking to me, Starsk," Hutch said out loud to the screen.

He watched the pistol raised again. Heard the snickers. Saw the rapid movements of Starsky's eyes, the manic blinking. It was agonizing to watch his partner afraid, but Hutch felt something else there too. If there was one thing about them that confounded people the most, one thing that formed the bedrock of their partnership, it was the ability to communicate, to tune in on some level that did not always need words. Hutch rewound the tape. He counted, then he rewound and counted again. He watched what seemed like convulsions of fear... but when he counted what he saw there were ten blinks, so rapid it was hard to be sure, but it seemed like ten. Hutch let the sudden black, the gunshot and the crashing sound play on. He pushed himself up from the edge of the table on which he was sitting and began back to the squadroom. Someone hailed him, surprised to see him still there. He raised a hand, automatic, in greeting. There were three overnighters in the squadroom who looked up as he came in. They exchanged glances.

"Any of you guys have a city streetplan?" Hutch said, after rifling in his own desk drawer and then Starsky's.

"Yep, there's one right over here. There you go," and a dog-eared volume was slung across the room at him.

Hutch skimmed through the pages until he found Ridgeway. A cascade of thoughts was cantering through his brain now. What was Starsky saying? Ten miles? Ten minutes? Ten blocks? He knew where he was. He was close to home. They had watched and circled, near him all the time, Boyd Black's apartment a matter of minutes away. Starsky, beaten, but conscious. In Francome's car, twenty blocks from his apartment. Ten stop-lights? What had he seen, or heard, as they drove him away? Hutch took a pencil and began to draw a big circle around Ridgeway on the map. He had to make an estimate. There were lots of streets. He knew some were full of shops. A freeway cut across the area. There were churches, temples, schools, clinics. Not much industry. He squinted down at the little symbols and names. He ran his eye from one end of Ridgeway to the other. He counted ten blocks and drew another circle. It was a painfully inexact science when a life depended on it. He scribbled a cross where Francome's car had been found. The pencil dabbed on the page. 8th Street. 9th Street. 10th Street. He had seen the street sign, Starsky had seen the street sign... Hutch stared down at the page. Not much on 10th Street, except halfway up, a little square, with tiny blue letters next to it. 'Gymnasium.'

Hutch's gut twisted.

Police work is all legwork and paperwork.

Suddenly he could see it in his mind's eye, the very page in the very file which he had looked through in Dobey's office not long ago, seen many times before, seen but not thought significant. Mitchell McCarthy had run a youth gymnasium once. He had owned it. It was the one on 10th Street, not far from Merl's place. They had passed it when they had collected the butchered LTD... it was boarded up, ready for demolition.

Hutch dragged himself from his position. "I need you to call Officers Dean and Del Rey," he said to the overnighters. "Tell them to meet me at the Youth Gym on 10th Street. Do it now."

Cold

Too late, too long, Hutch kept thinking. The streets were pretty quiet and he got through from Parker to 10th in about twenty minutes. It had been raining again but the skies seemed to have cleared now. As he got out of the car outside the wire fence that surrounded McCarthy's Gym he took his ritual look up into the sky. Clouds moving in the dark. There were stars out, too. A stiff breeze rattled the padlocked gate.

He had done a quick circuit of the site by the time Jason Dean got there, still puffy-eyed from sleep. Del Rey would take longer to arrive.

"You got cutters?" was the first thing he said.

Dean ducked back into his own car, scrabbled under the dash and emerged with a pair of wire cutters.

"Don't see any lights," Dean said as he began on the fence. "Ya think this is it, Hutch?"

This could be it, thought Hutch, the end of it all.

The building was square and silent before them. All the windows were covered in corrugated iron boards.

"If they're here," said Hutch, "they're not going to open the door and let us in." He made his gestures big and clear as they approached what looked like the main door. His partner would have slipped into a natural routine already, have his weapon out, knowing that Hutch was going to kick the door in, but Dean needed more obvious instructions. Hutch knew he was a good cop, but he felt a prickle of unwanted extra apprehension as he crashed his booted heel against the glass and wood panel. It gave immediately, falling flat into a large entrance hallway with a resounding bang. They moved in quickly, ready to cover the area, and were surprised by two things. The silence and the light.

When the bang of the falling door had faded, utter quiet replaced it. Hutch swivelled his head from side to side, and then took it in a slow upwards arc. He was inside but staring at the sky. The stars twinkled down on them. Unnumber'd sparks. The place had no roof. The stone floor beneath their feet was full of puddles. An image of Starsky wet through flashed into Hutch's mind and his feet took him forward.

The main hallway was empty. Two rooms that looked like offices were empty. The locker-rooms were stripped of their fittings, full of broken tiles and dented lockers. Empty. No sign of anyone having been there at all.

Some double doors led into the gym hall proper. Hutch used an elbow to gently push one of the doors which gave into the force. He had to turn round to Dean and mouth the words "you go low." If there was any hostile presence here it was behind these doors.

They both expected the place to be illuminated slightly with the ever-lightening dawn sky, but it was pitch black, the roof was still on in here. Hutch's forward momentum took him stumbling over something both heavy and soft. As he regained his footing he heard Dean say, "Holy Cr... oh... god, Hutch, oh my..." and then go silent.

The smell of death was as strong as Hutch had ever experienced and his first reaction when it hit him was to gag. He could hear Dean to one side almost gabbling in shock.

"Jason," said Hutch calmly. "Jay, listen to me. Go back to the car. Go get a flashlight. Go on now. We need it. Come on, help me here."

By the time Dean had stumbled out Hutch's eyes were getting accustomed to the dimness. Stepping carefully around what he knew had been a body, he bent to pick up a piece of masonry and placed it next to the open door. A sickly light from the roofless entrance-hall crept into the gym. The floor was covered in piles of... clothes. Yes, clothes. The clothes they had seen on the tape. To his right the heaped shape of another body. To his left one more. Garbage, discarded food, crushed cans, broken bottles, sandwich wrappers.

Trying not to breathe too hard, to keep that stench out of his throat, Hutch got near enough the three bodies to verify they were not his partner. One of them had on the black robe with the upside-down cross on the back. Names were running through his head. Lisa Gatlin, Mary Sue Freeman, Judith Hirschbaum, John Amos, Peter van Rensie. Across the room he could just about make out a huge puddle, a hole in the roof. More indistinguishable shapes. A crunching behind him brought Dean with the flashlight. He was still trying to compose himself. Hutch took it out of his nerveless hand and switched it on.

There was still some old equipment lying in a pile. A ripped exercise mat, a pair of dumbbells, half a pole with a big weight on one end of it. Hutch swung the light all around.

Dean had got himself together now. "We should check they're dead, right?" he asked in a small-boy voice.

"You take those three," Hutch said, his own voice a whisper that seemed to die on his lips. "I'll go over there." He walked around the pile of equipment, taking in two more bodies. They were face down. Cold.

In the far corner of the gym, about twenty metres away, under the hole in the roof, Hutch saw the legs of a chair. A chair lying on its side. A sillhouette of a chair on its side with someone still sitting on it.

Something bubbled up in Hutch as he cleared the space -- tears, hope, disbelief, despair. He was there. Even without being able to see him, Hutch knew he was there. Still tied to the goddamned chair.

"Jay," he said. "It's him. We got him."

As Dean came scuffling across the floor to join him, Hutch got down on his knees and tried to pull the chair towards him. Starsky's feet and hands were still shackled. Nylon cords pinned him to the chair back. Hutch slapped his jacket pocket for his little knife, snapped closed in its red case. Hardly big enough to pick your teeth with, Starsky used to scoff. But good enough now. He cut into the cords and pulled the chair away, kicking it across the room and pulling the body towards him.

"Hutch?" Dean said.

"Game over," Hutch muttered. "Dream over." Starsky was drenched with the rain that had poured through the roof. Lying amongst the dead, but not dead.

"I'll go call an ambulance," Dean said, but Hutch stopped him.

"We're close," he said. "Let's take him in your car. It'll be quicker."

"All these bodies, Hutch... "

"Yeah, we got us a charnel-house here," Hutch said, "so let's not add to it, OK? I can lift him, you go start up the car. These people aren't going anywhere."

Del Rey was just drawing up as Dean was revving his engine. "Sorry, partner," he said, leaning out of his window, "Don't go in there... We need Captain Dobey, we need coroner's wagons, we need forensics and we need uniforms. Don't go in alone." Del Rey gaped at them.

On the back seat of Dean's car, Starsky remained far away. They couldn't cut through the cuffs with the wire-cutters and he was still curled up, hands balled into his chest. Hutch sat with him laying across his knees. They wrapped a rug around him and Dean set off into the gathering day like a madman, the car bumping at speed over the ruts and ramps in the road. Hutch held Starsky's head with one hand, the other arm wrapped right around him to keep him from falling off the seat. He smoothed the sodden dark hair, listening to Dean on the radio to Memorial.

"Tell me how he's doing, Hutch," Dean said, tossing a wild look over his shoulder.

"Still with us," Hutch said.

He didn't die in there. The dream didn't come true, Marcus. Polaris lives.

The stars had gone now. A pale blue sky was up above.

*

There was confusion in the ER. They hated cops bringing their own, but there was a team on standby outside the doors with a gurney. Someone whipped off the rug as they laid the body down and there was a collective intake of breath at the sight of the shackles.

"This is a hospital, right?" Hutch said, irritated.

"It's alright, Officer," a nurse said, "We'll handle it."

Out in the dim reaches of triage, Hutch and Dean wandered around one another for a while, and then Dean said, "Hey, I'm going to go back there... to 10th Street... meet up with the Cap... and..."

"Go on, Jay," Hutch said at once, "I know, your partner's still there, he needs you. Take it easy, huh?"

Jason Dean put his hand out to tap Hutchinson's back lightly. "You too, Hutch. It's not over till it's over, right?"

The White Knight rushes in, but Polaris dies. He dies over and over again. If the dream doesn't finish the first time then it finishes the second, or the third. It always finishes.

Hutch began walking stiffly around, all alone again. The sounds of the hospital floated in and out of his consciousness. He caught sight of his reflection in a glass wall and he hardly recognized himself. Who was that gaunt, whey-faced guy glaring back at him?

What ails thee, Knight-at-arms, alone and palely loitering... oh for God's sake... he's got to you, you've let him get to you, and if he's got to you, then what has he done to Starsky?

"Detective Hutchinson?" He opened his eyes. Had he been asleep?

The doctor was tiny, a diminutive man with bright black eyes. "You're next of kin, I believe, for David Starsky?"

"Yes." The voice coming out of Hutch was unfamiliar to him. He wished something -- anything -- would get back to normal.

"It's taken us this last hour," the doctor said, "but we have your friend's body temperature at a reasonable level now, and we're treating his other injuries. None are serious. Fluid, antibiotics and rest should do it. He is coping remarkably well, given the... circumstances."

"Is he conscious? Can I see him?"

"He is drifting in and out," the doctor said.

"I know how he feels," Hutch replied. Following the nurse to find Starsky, he was already assessing the distance from the elevator to the room, searching out the fire escape, glancing at the people wandering the corridor.

If the dream doesn't finish the first time then it finishes the second, or the third. It always finishes.

The nurse cast him a nervous sideways look. She opened the door and let him in.

Before him a deceptively peaceful, sleeping form, swathed in white. White bedclothes, white pillows, white bandages on both forearms, white gauze on the face. The black curls splayed out in all directions almost made Hutch smile. Such a pale face, the jaw so tense. He shook his head. Was this the man on the tape? The man who they pretended to shoot, not once, but who knew how many times? The man left shackled and left freezing and alone to die amongst corpses, the corpses of the people he had tried so hard to rescue? Was this the man, and am I the man who rescued him? Am I the White Knight, thought Hutch. Reality swerved out of reach just for a second, leaving him lost and breathless.

"Whassa... whassa..."

Reality lurched back, a hot, almost bitter emotion welling up in him. Vivid against all that harsh white were Starsky's eyes, awake, knowing him, speaking to him. They looked at him and his unshed tears questioningly.

"Whassamarrer, Hush?"

Hutch swallowed fiercely. A drop of salty water missed his cheek and landed on the white sheets. He reached out a hand and let it come to rest across his friend's forehead.

"I'm sorry, buddy," he said, and at last he knew his own voice again. "Don't worry. I think it's just my armor weighing me down."

"...Bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender is the North."
(Tennyson, Song 3)

"But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true -- fix'd and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks,
They are all fire and every one doth shine,
But there's but one in all doth hold his place;..."
(Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, III i 60-65)