From: HILLEMANN@MACALSTR.EDU
Date: Wed, 26 Apr 1995 20:27:52 -0500 (CDT)
Subject: "Partners"  (Part 6)
Message-Id: <01HPT1I8TLCIAL34X6@MACALSTR.EDU>

"Partners"  (Part 6)
By Beth Hillemann


Al disappeared to prod Ziggy and Sam headed for his apartment.  He was
convinced there was more to the events at the asylum than Al had told him.  And
maybe _that_ would be the way he could help Hutch.  Sam made a sandwich for
himself from the meager fixings in Mike Jennings' refrigerator, then tried to
read a book as the evening wore on.  But he was restless, wanting Al to come
back, and wanting to know what Hutch was doing.  Waiting was a hard thing, and
he wasn't very good at it--he wanted to be _doing_.  That thought triggered
something that had been pushed into his subconscious.  Something that had
happened that day, or been said--something he had wanted to think about...  Sam
gave up after a few moments.  He was too fidgety to pull up subconscious
thoughts.  The clock on the television showed 10:45--and Sam made a decision.

He reached for the telephone and dialed Hutch's number.  If Hutch was home he'd
make up an excuse for calling so late, if not...well at least he'd know.  There
was no answer at Hutch's place.  Sam put the receiver down, thinking, then
pulled out a matchbook he had picked up from The Rafters.  He dialed the number
for the restaurant and asked for the colorful manager.

"Huggy," Sam said when he heard the other man's voice on the phone, "this is
Mike Jennings.  Listen, Hutch had kind of a rough day and I called his place
just now but he's not home.  Have you seen him?"

"Yeah, Mike, I'm glad you called," Huggy replied.  "As a matter of fact Hutch
came into my place about an hour ago.  And I think he should be leaving, if you
know what I mean."

Sam nodded, his fears confirmed.  "I'm coming down," he told Huggy.

When Sam arrived at the restaurant, Huggy met him and indicated Hutch sitting
at the bar, a gap between him and the other people there.

"He'd already been drinking before he got here," Huggy said quietly.  He looked
at Sam with concern.  "I haven't seen him this bad since...well, since Starsky
died.  What happened?"

Sam, his eyes on the isolated figure at the bar, let out a soft sigh.  "He
keeps being reminded of what he's lost," he explained softly.  He glanced at
Huggy.  "You remember that fist you told me about?  It's around his heart." 
The two men shared a look, then in silent agreement headed toward the bar, and
the detective.

Hutch looked around as Sam and Huggy approached, his eyes bleary.  He gazed
from Sam to Huggy, then back again.  "What do you want?" he asked, his words
slurred.

"I think it's time for you to be heading home," Sam suggested gently.

"You called him, huh?" Hutch asked Huggy.  "Well I don't need any h-help." He
swayed on the barstool.

Sam reached out for him.  "Come on Hutch," he said, "let's go home."

Hutch shoved him away.  "Keep away from me," he snarled, and for the first time
since Sam had known him there was open hostility in his voice.  "I don't want
any help.  Not from you or anybody."  He stumbled to a standing position, still
glaring at Sam.  "You're not my partner, you hear me?  You're not!  I don't
want any partenrs...I don't..." and his voice broke off as he staggered against
the bar.

Huggy moved in to steady Hutch.  "C'mon now," he said softly.  "C'mon now,
we're just trying to help."

Hutch stared at him, then at Sam, looking perhaps for a face that wasn't there. 
Then the anger slowly drained from him and he muttered, "Sorry.  I'm sorry."

Huggy helped Sam get Hutch to his car and told him where Hutch lived.  They
were quiet on the way to Hutch's aparment; or maybe Hutch had passed out, Sam
wasn't sure.

When they arrived, however, Hutch was alert enough to take most of the
responsibility for getting himself up to the second-floor apartment, although
he seemed to be fading fast.  Sam helped him inside and got his jacket and
shoes off, then steered Hutch for the bed that was screened off from the rest
of the large apartment.  Hutch collapsed on the bed, murmuring "Thanks, 
Starsk," before he was out.

Sam studied Hutch for a moment, his expression bleak as he listened to the
steady breathing.  Then he quietly returned to the main room of the apartment
and went looking for the makings for coffee.  He had decided he was going to
stay with Hutch tonight.

Some minutes later he was sitting in a comfortable chair in the living area of
the apartment, meditating while he drank coffee.  He was thinking about
friendship and partners, and suddenly, in his head, he heard his own voice
saying _It's not fair for one partner to take all the risks, while the other
one stays safe_.  Sam's breath caught--he felt like he was in free fall, with
vertigo swirling his senses.  He stared unseeingly across the room, wondering
for the first time just what Al was feeling each time Sam ended up in a
dangerous leap.  Sam had been furious with Hutch for leaving him out of the
action earlier in the day--putting him in the position of bystander while Hutch
met all the dangers.  The fury stemming from terror at the thought of a death
he could have prevented.  How would it be if he had to watch his friend, _his
best friend_, in danger of losing his life and not able to help in any way
except by talking?  Wasn't that what Al was going through?  He knew Al loved
him and worried about him--wasn't that why he was always teling Sam to be
careful?  But what Sam had never considered before was Al's reaction if Sam
died during a leap.  He had always assumed Al would just go on as he was.  But
now he heard Al's voice, with undertones he had missed before: _He wasn't there
when his partner needed him_.

Sam's stomach twisted into knots, and his eyes fastened with something like
horror on the divider blocking Hutch's bed.  _It wouldn't be like that_, he
thought to himself, trying to be comforting.  _Al's tough; he's lost people
before and survived_.  His thoughts shied away from the manner of the survival. 
_He knows the risks involved, and he wouldn't blame himself if I died.  He'd
adjust_.  Sam tried to convince himself, but his eyes stayed glued on the
divider and he shuddered.  He didn't want to admit how much he meant to Al
because then he would have to face what he was doing to his best friend, and he
couldn't do that.  Not now, at any rate.  Not when he needed him so much.  Not
when he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Sam heard the imaging chamber door open and close, and he twisted quickly
around, looking for his partner--and spilled his coffee in his lap.

"Damnit," Sam said forcefully, climbing out of the chair to go look for a
towel.  "Look at what you made me do!"

"It's good to see you too, pal," Al said sardonically, watching as Sam mopped
up the coffee.

"What're you doing here so late, anyway?" Sam asked, trying to pull himself
together.  He spoke in low tones although he didn't expect Hutch to wake up.

"Well, I thought you'd be interested in what we found out." Al walked toward
Sam, puffing on his cigar.

"About what?" Sam asked, still feeling out of it.

Al rolled his eyes.  "About the _body_," he reminded Sam.

"Yeah?  What?" Sam looked at Al intently.

"We got ourselves a match.  Looks like your hunch was correct."

Sam blew out a breath.  "It was Starsky then?"

"Yeah," Al nodded.  "Meaning that he didn't get blown up in that explosion, but
he died sometime afterwards."

Sam began to pace, deeply disturbed.  "Why would he want to fake his own
death?" he asked Al.  Unspoken he wondered _How could he have put Hutch through
that_?

"Whoa," Al said.  "Slow down there Sherlock.  What makes you think that Starsky
was responsible?"

"Well who else, Al?" Sam asked his friend reasonably.  "Why would anyone else
want to make it look like Starsky died?  On the other hand, all sorts of people
have tried to fake their own deaths to get out of whatever trouble they're in. 
Maybe he got into something he couldn't get out of any other way."

"And killed two people when the explosion went off," Al reminded him.  "Does
that sound like Starsky to you?"

"I don't _know_ Starsky," Sam replied swiftly.  "And maybe something went
wrong."

"And then who killed Starsky?"

"I don't know."  Sam stopped pacing and pointed at Al.  "You said it
yourself--at the asylum.  Maybe Hutch killed him.  Maybe he called Hutch and
told him to meet him at the asylum and they got into an argument and Hutch
killed him and then killed himself."

"He was beaten, too," Al pointed out.  "You saying that Hutch beat him up
first?"

"I don't know!" Sam exclaimed, resuming his pacing.  "I don't have all the
answers.  There must have been other people involved to pull this off anyway." 
He met Al's skeptical look.  "Do you have any better explanations?"

Al shrugged.  "I don't have any explanations.  I just think you're leaping to
conclusions before you know enough about it.  Maybe somebody wanted revenge on
them and came up with this little scenario."

"Why would anyone fake a death and then kill them both?" Sam shook his head. 
"Just to torment Hutch?  I don't buy it."

"Well I don't buy that Starksy would do that to his partner," Al said quietly.

Sam met Al's eyes, and paused.  "Well, this is kind of unusual," he said
finally.  "Aren't you usually the cynical one?  Aren't you the one telling me
that life is filled with betrayals?"

"Yeah, I am," Al agreed.  "But this time I don't think that's what happend."

"Why?"

Al hesitated, turning a little away from Sam.  "I...look, just call it faith."

"Faith?" Sam repeated.

"Yeah.  Hey, you're the guy that keeps saying what a good guy Hutch is," Al
pointed out, almost belligerently.

"Yes, but you're the one who doubts him!" Sam exclaimed, not understanding.

Al sighed.  "It's not the friendship that I'm doubting," he said.  "I never
questioned that."  Al's eyes met Sam's and held.  "It's a hunch, okay?"

Sam gazed at his partner, his head tilted, a smile growing in his eyes. 
"Well," he acknowledged softly, "I'd trust _your_ instincts any day, too.  So
I'll look into other possibilities."

An answering smile lit Al's eyes.  "Thanks, Sam."  He nodded toward the bedroom
area.  "How's he doing?"

Sam shrugged.  "He's sleeping it off.  He's going to be a bear to be around
tomorrow."

The smile turned into a gleam.  "It'll seem like old times," Al promised.

Sam groaned and threw one of the couch pillows at (and through) the hologram. 
"In that case," he said, "you'd better get out of here so I can get whatever
sleep I can get."

"All right.  Good night Sam," Al said, poking at the handlink to open the
imaging chamber door.

"Night Al." Sam watched his friend disappear, his smile slowly fading
and turning a little grim.  Al was his best friend in the whole world, and he
owed him so much that could never be repaid.  He felt humbled by all Al had
given him, and ashamed to have given so little in return.  The prospect of
leaping without Al's support scared Sam to his soul--but Al's welfare was more
important than anything else.  Even if Al didn't agree.  He didn't know how he
would do it, but Sam vowed he would find a way out for Al--find a way to
protect Al from himself.  Al was his responsibility; that was the privilege of
friendship.

Still thoughtful, but more at peace after coming to that resolve, Sam cleaned
up the remains of the coffee, then found some blankets to throw over the couch. 
He settled down, afraid that he wouldn't be able to sleep, but he was out
almost before his head hit the pillows.

--End of Part 6--

Beth Hillemann
hillemann@macalstr.edu