In Spirit Part 7

***

Joe got out of the car and – for some reason Hutch was surprised – came around to open the door for Mary. She had a big floppy bag over one arm. Hutch guessed it was her séance paraphernalia.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Starsky got up and came to the head of the steps. “Hiya Mary. Good to see you.” To Joe, “Didn’t expect to see you. Not that you ain’t welcome, but I thought you didn’t believe in all this séance stuff.”

“I got a professional interest,” Joe said, defensive as ever. “Like Houdini.”

Surprisingly, Mary smiled at Joe, unruffled by his doubt.

Leading the way, Starsky said, “The kitchen okay? That’s the only place we got a table and chairs.”

“That’s fine.”

They gathered around the table, Hutch on Mary’s right, Starsky on his, Joe on his. Hutch supposed that, if Joe still suspected Mary of being a fraud, he wanted to be near enough to tell if she tried anything shady. He couldn’t imagine what that might be, and he didn’t care. He wanted it done with. Man, he wanted it done with.

Mary spread a black cloth that covered the entire table, then set a small silver-mounted crystal ball in the center.

“For focus,” she said at Hutch’s questioning look. “And cl—” Looking around, she said, “Never mind.”

“What?”

“I was gonna ask you to close the curtains – it doesn’t have to be pitch black, but it’s easier to concentrate in dimmer light.”

“We don’t have curtains yet,” Hutch said.

“I kinda noticed. Never mind.” She sat down and arranged herself, not unlike a hen settling to brood, and the men took their chairs.

“Don’t we gotta hold hands?” Starsky asked.

“We need to touch hands,” Mary said, reaching out on either side with her plump, ring-weighted fingers. “I need the psychic energy to call the spirit before us.”

Hutch laid a hand over Mary’s and reached his left toward Starsky; his partner grabbed it and squeezed hard, lowering their joined hands to his knee.

Mary said. “Focus on the spirit. Focus on his image – that is, you two, since you saw him. Focus on him, think of him, will him to join us, to talk to us, to tell us what he needs.”

She closed her eyes for a few silent minutes, breathing deeply, then spoke in a low chanting tone.

“Speak to us. Speak to us, spirit that haunts this house. Come to us. Tell us why you are here, tell us how we can help you, how we can free you. Come to us. Speak to us…”

She waited another minute or so, then repeated, “Speak to us, spirit. Tell us why you are here. Tell us how we can help you.”

Hutch felt Starsky’s hand tighten on his as the air turned abruptly cold. Joe sat straighter, alert, looking around the room.

“I can feel you here,” Mary said. “I can … feel …” Her voice altered, rougher, darker with each slow word. “I … can … fee … I am here.”

Hutch shuddered at the weird change, as if someone else were speaking through Mary’s body.

“I am here,” Mary repeated.

 “What’s your name?” Joe asked, startling Hutch.

“Ray,” Mary said in the same odd, strained tone.

“Ray what?”

“Ray …” Mary looked as if she were straining to remember a childhood memory. “Ray … T—t … ”

Hutch and Starsky exchanged a surprised glance; they hadn’t told either Joe or Mary the names of the robbers – had deliberately not given them any details.

“Never mind,” Joe said. “What happened to you, Ray?”

“Betrayed. Betrayal on betrayal.” Mary’s head lolled a little, side to side. “They betrayed me. I betrayed them. Now no one knows. Under … under. Betrayed…”

“Who betrayed you?”

“Partners. Brothers. The money. I took it. I hid it. Under. They betrayed me. They killed me.” She gasped. “They killed me.”

“Tell us the names of your killers,” Joe said. “Name them to us and you can have peace.”

“Brothers,” Mary said. “Gabe. Gene. Partners. I hid the money and they killed me. Sirens. Police. But they won’t find it. Beneath …”

“They’re in prison,” Starsky said, his voice making Hutch jump. “The brothers who killed you are in prison.”

“They’ve been brought to justice, Ray,” Joe said, although Hutch thought that a fairly optimistic assessment. “Is there anything else you want to tell us? We’re ready to listen.”

“It’s here,” Mary said. “Under. They can’t have it.”

“We won’t let ’em have it,” Starsky said. Hutch shot him a look and Starsky shrugged as if to say ‘why not?’

“You won’t let them?” Mary said, querulous. “They’ll pay for what they did to me?”

“They are paying,” Joe said. “We won’t let them have it. It’s all right, Ray.”

“They’ll pay?”

“They’re in prison,” Starsky repeated. “They won’t get the money.”

“They’ll pay …” This time it wasn’t a question, more a sighing into silence.

“They’ll pay,” Joe said again. “It’s all right. It’s taken care of, Ray.”

Then Mary opened her eyes, too wide, the pupils huge and dark. When she spoke this time, it was in – almost – her normal voice.

 “We hear you, Ray. We hear you. You’ve done what you needed to do. We’ll take care of it. You can go on now. You can rest. You can be at peace. Ray? You can go on.”

All three of the men jumped when a man appeared behind Mary – solid, vivid – the same balding man in the brown sweater, his eyes staring blankly straight ahead and his hands resting on her shoulders. As soon as they got a good look at him, he vanished.

“Jesus,” Hutch breathed, hearing a similar curse from his partner.

Mary shivered, closing her eyes. When she reopened them, they and her voice were normal. “What happened?”

*** *** ***

“So Ray hid the money somewhere in the house,” Starsky said. “Under something.”

“And when he wouldn’t tell his partners, they killed him,” Hutch said. “Right when the cops arrived.”

“Honor among thieves?” Joe suggested.

“Not that I’ve ever seen,” Starsky said blandly. “But those two guys are already in prison for the robbery. We can’t ask for murder charges on the word of a ghost.”

“Not sure you need to,” Mary said, lighting up. “Sometimes all they want is, you know, for someone to know the truth. They want to get it off their chests so they can let go of this world with their business finished.”

“How will we know if he’s gone?” Hutch said.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” she said calmly. “But you don’t hafta pay me ’til you’re sure. Say 30 days?”

“That’s not necessary,” Starsky said.

“It’s okay,” she replied before Hutch could differ with his partner on the matter. “Good faith. You’re nice guys, and I admit I gotta professional interest. This is the first real job I’ve had in years.”

“Thought you said you were a fake,” Joe accused lightly.

She drew on her smoke, blew it out. “I’m a fake cuz that’s what pays the rent. I always had a touch of the Gift, but that kinda thing’s not exactly in demand. I do the cards, the crystal ball, the palmistry, and that’s mostly fake, but it’s what people want. They want to hear certain things, you know, or they want advice on whether to dump the creep they’re livin’ with when they already know they oughta. They wanna hear what they wanna hear. They don’t really want to know about the other side.”

“They’re smart,” Joe said. “We’ll all find out about it soon enough. We’re all gonna be where that poor bastard is one day.”

Hutch realized he was clutching Starsky’s hand, hard, below the tabletop. He glanced that way, startled, and Starsky gave him a reassuring squeeze – a visceral ‘I’m fine’ – before letting go.

“I don’t know about you folks,” Starsky said with deliberate cheeriness, “but I don’t plan on bein’ no ghost. Hangin’ around harassin’ innocent homeowners. That’s downright rude.” He got up. “Thanks for comin’ out, Mary, Joe. Can I get either of you a beer or a soda or something?”

Recognizing the hint, Joe and Mary rose, declined the offer of refreshment, and allowed themselves to be directed out of the house.

“Mary,” Starsky said, shaking her hand. “The check’s in the mail.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said with a smile. “I meant it about the 30 days.”

Hutch put in, “We appreciate all your help too, Joe. If there’s ever anything we can do for you, you know you can call us.”

“Thanks,” Joe said, somber as ever. “But I kinda think you already did.”

Then he smiled, just a little, and Mary blushed.

Hutch looked at Starsky, saw a reflection of his own confusion clearing to surprise.

“What,” Starsky blurted, typically blunt, “you two?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Mary and Joe exclaimed simultaneously.

“Nothing.” Starsky grinned. “Not one darn thing.”

Hutch shook Joe’s hand. “Congratulations to both of you.”

“Hey, it’s just a date,” Mary said. “We’re not gettin’ married or anything.”

But Hutch thought, for some reason, that Joe’s face said yet.

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad for you both anyway.”

They escorted the freshly minted couple out of the house, watching them walk to Joe’s car. Again Joe opened the door for her, a perfect gentleman, then shut it, glanced up at Starsky and Hutch for one brief, unreadable moment, then waved and went around to the driver’s side.

“How d’ya like that?” Starsky said as the Cadillac bounced down the drive.

Hutch tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. It makes perfect sense, in a weird kind of way.”

He realized what he was saying and glanced at Starsky.

Brows raised in what would in other circumstances be an irritating expression of superiority, Starsky turned around and sauntered back into the house.

Hutch followed, torn between sitting his partner down and having a long, potentially disastrous talk, and simply taking the easy route of focusing on finding the money.

When he reached the kitchen Starsky was at the kitchen counter, one hand holding up a corner of the newspaper.

“Hutch.”

“What?”

“Did you see this?”

“What?” Hutch came over, looking at the small story in the bottom corner. The headline read: Local lawmaker blasts parole policies.

“So?” Hutch said. He’d glanced at the entire paper earlier, while smarting over his partner dumping him for Karen. “What about it?”

“Look,” Starsky said, giving the word slight emphasis. Hutch peered closer, saw a paragraph reading: “The official pointed to recent early releases, such as Gene and Gabriel Keller and Jack O’Neil, the convicted cop-killer, adding, ‘Don’t our citizens deserve to feel the legal system is working for them, instead of against them?’”

Hutch scowled. “What? I agree with the big blowhard – for once.”

Starsky tapped the page impatiently. “Keller. Gene and Gabe Keller.”

Hutch straightened, puzzlement replaced with surprise. “The guys in the robbery. They’re out?”

“Apparently,” Starsky said, still scanning the story.

“When?”

“Story doesn’t say,” Starsky provided almost before Hutch had managed to spit out the question.

Hutch went to the window and scanned the backyard. Nothing amiss – nothing much of anything, which was business as usual.

“Think they’ll come here?” he said, not really a question.

“For a quarter of a million?” Starsky replied. They both knew the answer.

“What do you wanna do?” Starsky went on. “Look for the money first, or find out when they got sprung?”

“I know what I want to do first,” Hutch said, heading for the front door at a ground-eating lope. Starsky joined him in the quick trek to their respective cars, where they collected their guns, cuffs and harnesses and brought them back into the house.

As he strapped on his own weapon Hutch watched Starsky arm himself and thought: He looks like a cop again. He is a cop. No matter what those assholes decided.

He crushed the flare of anger and frustration, aware Starsky was looking at him curiously.

“You okay?” he asked gently. Hutch had the impression his partner knew exactly where his mind had gone.

“If you are, I am, partner,” he said. “I was just thinking … how damn’ good you look right now.”

Split-second surprise flashed on Starsky’s face, giving way to a half-shy, half-seductive smile. “You got a gun fetish, Blondie?”

Hutch grinned. “Maybe.” Or maybe I’ve just got a Starsky fetish. “I’d better call Dobey and see if he can dig up their release dates.”

Starsky nodded. “Then let’s find that haul and get this over with.”

A quick call left their former captain with a sketch of their situation – excluding the psychic angle – and a promise that he’d call them as soon as he found out the Keller brothers’ release dates.

“So where do you wanna start looking?”

“The dead guy said ‘under’.” Starsky shrugged. “Basement’s the logical choice.”

“You know, you oughta be a detective.” Hutch gently shoved him toward the door under the stairs that led to the cellar. Starsky balked in the doorway, standing stock still for a moment. Then he turned around, his expression sober.

“Hutch. I gotta tell you something.” He held Hutch’s gaze, and Hutch saw that same combination of fear and hope he’d seen earlier. “Hutch.”

“I’m right here,” Hutch said gently.

“The other day, when … before we saw the ghost?” Starsky raised a hand as if to touch him, then drew back, his eyes shying at the same time. “You … we were huggin’, and …”

“I remember,” Hutch said.

“Hutch…” Starsky began again.

Worried, Hutch moved closer. “Starsk, what?”

“I …” Starsky gulped. “I really wanted t-to kiss you right then,” he blurted, then looked up wide-eyed, defensive. “Hutch—”

Heat flashed through Hutch’s body, leaving him light-headed. He backed away a step, actually dizzy for an instant, and bumped into the wall.

“I’m sorry—” Starsky reached out and Hutch held up a staying hand; it tangled with one of his partner’s, and Hutch held on, hard.

“No,” he said. “I’m just … Jesus. You … you’re serious?”

“Hutch, I don’t know—”

“Don’t.” He pulled his partner closer, vaguely aware he was crushing his fingers, and managed enough breath to speak. “Don’t apologize. Just answer me. You’re serious?”

Starsky nodded, a tiny gesture. “I wanted to. Bad. Hutch …” His voice dropped, not ashamed but uneasy, exploring unlighted, unmapped territory. “I still want to.”

Whew. Leave it to Starsky to just plunge right in at the most unexpected moment.

“I don’t know why,” he stammered, his words rushed, apologetic. “I don’t know what happened or when things changed – I been tryin’ to figure out – I don’t think I’ve gone crazy, but—”

“Starsk.” Hutch eased his grip and his partner shut up, red-faced, looking at him as if he might have the answers.

“Starsk …” Both Hutch’s hands came up, wary, framing his partner’s astonished face with feather-light touches. His insides felt the same – floating, nervous, unanchored, but knowing, regardless, where home was. “I’ve been trying to figure the same thing out myself,” he said, hearing the unsteadiness in his voice.

“Y-you have?” The dark blue eyes widened; hands – not hesitant, but firm – grasped Hutch’s shoulders. “Hutch … you sayin’ ..?”

Hutch shook his head. “I have no idea. I have no idea what I’m saying. But … if you want to, we can try to find out.” His palms rested on Starsky’s cheeks, somehow freeing a smile.

And something thudded, down in the basement.

Hutch started, saw the fire in those eyes so close to his turn cold. Both men drew their guns and moved against the wall, peering into the dark basement.

Hutch, eyes on his partner, reached his free hand toward the light switch at the top of the stairs. If he turned it on, they both became visible targets. If they left it off, they were all in the dark.

Starsky, visibly processing the same thoughts within a split second, offered him a minute shrug and nodded, his body coiled, ready.

Hutch flicked on the light.

Silence. He could see down to the bottom of the stairs, maybe a little bit of the concrete floor beyond, but he’d be vulnerable to attack as he descended until he got to a level where he could see the rest of the room.

Best to do it fast then.

Back to the wall, he gave his partner a nod and launched himself down the stairs, hardly touching each bare concrete step until he was at the bottom, back against the corner, gun and eyes scanning the room.

Starsky came right behind him, the same way, fast and ready, stopping a couple of steps up, crouched, his Beretta tracking the empty space around them.

Nothing down here but a bare bulb illuminating damp brick walls, concrete floor, a long wooden table and a few small piles of broken furniture and packing crates. Nothing Hutch hadn’t already seen in his first tour of the place.

Starsky glanced at Hutch, who gestured in a semi-circle to indicate that the basement rooms curved around the central staircase. Starsky nodded for him to take point and he headed around the staircase toward the back rooms.

A scraping shuffle was his first hint before something – a man, a big one – came flying down the stairs, crashing into Starsky, sending them both tumbling to the bottom.

Hutch leveled his gun at the two struggling men and snapped, “Freeze.”

Then something hit him in the back like a pile driver, slamming him to the floor. He hit hard and pushed off, against the weight on his back, rolling over, an elbow connecting into soft belly flesh. He heard a grunt before big arms came around him, trying to pin him as he kept rolling, side to side, until he got on top, then used his weight, his elbows, his heels and the hard floor to batter the body wrapped around his. After what felt like an hour, another elbow connected and the arms around his chest came loose. Hutch broke free and rolled away, coming to his feet, gun homing on the man on the floor. He got a flashed glimpse of Starsky’s blue tennis shoes flying up the stairs in pursuit of the other man before he trained all his attention on the bulky man struggling to his feet in front of him.

“Hands up, turkey.” Overhead, he could hear the running footsteps against the bare wood floors of the house.

The panting, red-faced man glowered at him, but raised his arms. He was tall and broad, heavy with muscle and fat, with black hair and a broad, homely face.

“Turn around.”

When he did, Hutch whipped out his cuffs, glancing around until he found a handy support column. Shoving the man over to it, he pulled the pudgy arms around the pillar and cuffed the man to it.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he said, ignoring the man’s vulgar response to race up the stairs.

He ran into the front hall, gun at the ready, and whirled about, scanning for his partner, vaguely thinking he’d heard the phone ringing. More thudding footfalls overhead told him where they’d gone and he leaped for the main staircase, listening for shouts or gunfire – as if anything could make him move faster.

At the top of the stairs he did the same frantic 360.

“Starsk!”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the door to the attic stairs swing shut. He darted that way, running up the narrow steps and bursting into the dusty, barren attic in time to hear a crash of glass and see a wide shape fly through the broken window, Starsky diving after it.

Hutch shouted – after, he had no idea what – and lunged toward his partner, gun holstered in one lightning motion.

He grabbed Starsky by the waist and stopped, seeing the other man slide flailing down the steeply pitched roof and tumble over the edge. Backpedaling, he hauled his partner inside, feeling Starsky’s whole body flinch as he caught his hand on the broken glass and gasped.

Then they were both solidly on their feet again, breathing hard, Starsky scowling at his own thumb and Hutch entirely unable to let go. His palms tingled at the feel of the lithe muscles of Starsky’s torso working, drawing air deeply into his lungs, and before he could think he’d drawn him closer, his fingers spreading along Starsky’s sides in a surreptitious caress.

“You okay?” he said, his voice rough with sudden need.

Apparently oblivious both to Hutch’s tone and to the fact that he was as good as in his partner’s arms, Starsky nodded.

“Cut my thumb,” he said, holding it up as evidence and – finally – raising his eyes to Hutch’s, the glittering blue depths anything but oblivious.

Hutch removed one hand from his waist, took very deliberate hold of his wrist, and raised it to his lips to lick the welling blood.

Starsky’s eyes gaped.

Hutch then drew Starsky’s thumb into his mouth. And sucked, tasting bitter-salt-Starsky, the flavor new and intoxicating.

Starsky’s eyelids fluttered and his jaw fell slack. “Oh … god … Hutch, you …” His fingers, apparently less startled than the rest of him, curled around Hutch’s jaw. Hutch slid his other hand around Starsky’s back and eased his unresisting body closer; Starsky’s free hand, between them, came to rest on Hutch’s chest.

“Hutch,” he groaned. “The … the suspects …”

Hutch hummed, his tongue rubbing the pad of his partner’s thumb. Starsky gulped, pressing his face against Hutch’s throat, his breath hot against Hutch’s adam’s apple. “Oh … jeez … you’re suckin’ my … Hutch – ”  His free hand slid up Hutch’s chest to cup the back of his head; gently he slipped his thumb from between Hutch’s lips, passing it across them in a brief caress before drawing Hutch’s face to his.

With no more than a whisper of space between them, Starsky breathed, “Hutch.” The word was promise, seduction, declaration. Then he brought their mouths together, gentle, hungry. His tongue stroked hot against Hutch’s lips, insistent, and he opened to it, melting around the firm masculine feel of penetration, dizzied as Starsky tasted him, claimed him.

Fuck, I take it back, Hutch thought, his inner voice soft over the roaring of his blood. You are a good kisser. God ... His head was spinning, his body was buzzing … his ears were ringing … sirens.

Sirens?

Starsky drew back with a pained grunt, gasped, “Sirens.”

 

 

 

"Part 8"