Chapter Text
"Starsky, hurry it up! We got a call!"
Hutch cracked the Torino's passenger window just enough to yell at his partner. Starsky was jogging across the street, jacket pulled over his head, trying to juggle coffee cups and sandwich bags while dodging puddles. A strong gust of wind sent a solid sheet of rain through the narrow opening, and Hutch leaned back, swearing. Over the sudden violent drumming of water on the roof and door, the squawk of the radio was barely audible.
"One Adam Fifteen, see the man, Nineteenth and Woodbine, reported automobile accident. Caller advises caution, the cause of the accident is reported as a downed power line."
Hutch sighed. Why people couldn't exercise the common sense to stay home in the face of the worst storm to hit Bay City in fifty years was beyond him.
Yeah, home—safe, warm and dry, just like me. Serve, protect and catch pneumonia.
An unprecedented twenty-four hour downpour had Bay City swamped. Gutters overflowed everywhere, some streets near the docks had been impassable for hours, and according to the radio mudslides were starting to endanger homes on hillsides as far south as San Diego. While the weather had done something to knock back the day's crime rate, the downside was that every able-bodied city employee had been drafted to assist where needed. Hutch had spent two miserable hours directing traffic in the pouring rain at an intersection in an area left without power, while Starsky had been commandeered to act as coordinator for a crew cleaning up an overturned oil tanker down the street. He was weary, chilled and still damp; Starsky, in his tight jeans and soaked sneakers, was even worse off, and there was no end in sight to the whole miserable day.
Hutch eased the driver's door open just far enough to let Starsky slide in and ended up with cups and bags dumped unceremoniously into his hands as his partner reached for the key.
"Where we headed?"
The big car rumbled reassuringly to life. Despite Starsky's loudly repeated expressions of confidence in his baby, Hutch had overheard enough mutters about damp spark plugs to know he had been secretly concerned that the Torino might stall out under the constant soaking. On another day he might have teased his partner about it, but today he wisely kept his mouth shut, concentrating on fumbling everything to safety without dropping any containers. Starsky reacted to the wet much like a cat would and had been fantasizing aloud for an hour about hot coffee and dry towels. Dropping his cup would probably have landed Hutch on his ass in the closest puddle.
"Bay City Museum. There's been a break-in." Hutch concentrated on keeping the coffee cups level as Starsky squealed away from the curb, fishtailing slightly on the rain-slick pavement.
"Oh for—" Starsky snarled. "And why are we responding to a 459 call, instead of the nearest uniform? We aren't wet enough already?"
"According to dispatch, the guard claims that his partner's disappeared, too. He sounds pretty spooked. The museum's in one of the areas where the power's out."
Starsky gave a disgusted grunt. "So we gotta miss supper because some rent-a-cop gets the heebie-jeebies? Man, I’m hungry enough to eat the bag, never mind the sandwich." He wheeled the car hard right around a corner, sending coffee sloshing.
Hutch yelped and shook the hot liquid off his hand. "Dammit, Starsk! I'm already wet, I don't need a scalding, too."
"Sorry." Starsky had the grace to look sheepish. "Any damage?"
"Nah. A few skin grafts and my fingers'll be good as new." Hutch couldn't resist a little jibe, and was rewarded with a tired smirk.
For a few minutes they drove in a silence broken only by the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers, Starsky concentrating fiercely on the road. Even at their top speed the wipers barely kept up with the deluge. Occasionally visibility was completely lost as the storm picked up yet more force.
As he eased cautiously through another unlit intersection, Starsky said abruptly, "Hey Hutch, you think there'll be anybody there at this time a night?"
"Besides the security guard? Not likely. Why?"
"I need to renew my membership. I got it in the mail a week or so ago, and I kept forgettin' about it. I thought if somebody was there—"
"You have a membership at the Bay City Museum?" Starsky's range of interests never ceased to surprise him. "You never told me that."
"Oh, that girl I was seein' a while back—remember Amanda? The secretary with all the frizzy red hair?" Hutch nodded. "She dragged me out there one day and got me hooked. Turns out it's a lot more interesting than she was." Starsky chuckled. "It's a really cool place, Hutch. You been to check it out lately? They've got a whole whale skeleton hanging right over the big staircase so you can see all the bones and stuff when you walk up. And a few years back, they had this real important archeology guy come from back east and do their Egyptian hall. They’ve got mummies and scarabs and all kinds of neat stuff. They even unwrapped one of the mummies so you can see all the innards." Starsky’s voice held ghoulish satisfaction.
"Don't you get enough nightmares from too much pizza and bad movies without looking at naked mummies?" Hutch leered in Starsky's direction. "Never thought you went for older women."
"Aw, jeeze, that’s disgusting! Anyway, it's not naked, it's embalmed. And . . . "
Temporarily comfortable in the warmth and dryness of the car, Hutch closed his eyes and tuned out the rest of the amateur Egyptology lecture, content to listen to the sound of Starsky's voice, his musician's ear appreciating the cadence and intonation as much as the actual words.
Over the years, he'd become so accustomed to using his partner as the standard by which he measured anything he truly valued—loyalty, courage, integrity, friendship, trust—that it had not come as a real surprise to find Starsky had also become his yardstick for love and beauty. Not that Starsky was beautiful, strictly speaking. His nose was too big, his features too uneven, his hair too untidy. There were times when he was tired or angry that he could look as rough as any thug they dragged in from the streets. Only those indigo eyes, framed with lush lashes, were truly extraordinary. Yet the whole package fit together so well that sometimes when Starsky smiled at him, Hutch felt himself go weak in the knees.
He'd never dared confess his love to Starsky. Abiding love and aching desire might haunt his dreams, but gave him no rights. What Hutch feared, even more than Starsky's anger or contempt, was making him uncomfortable. He could easily envision their friendship being eroded by Starsky wondering what each word or touch might imply, and by his own need to censor himself. So the only course was silence.
Despite his feelings—or perhaps because of them—Hutch found it easier than ever to encourage Starsky in his hopes for the future. In fact, since the shooting he'd worried about Starsky's declining interest in women more than Starsky did. He had at first assumed it was physical, then worried it was psychological. The scars marring the furry torso were horrific even to the most loving eyes. Yet Starsky showed no discomfort stripping down in the gym or on the beach and was as ready as ever to go dancing or flirt with any female between nine and ninety. The difference now was that it almost never went further than that. When Hutch had tried to bring up the subject, Starsky had laughed at him and said he'd decided to try quality instead of quantity for a while.
Hutch tuned back in to Starsky's monologue just in time to catch " . . . suck their brains out through their noses?" Starsky glanced over at him expectantly.
"Really? That sounds like one of those weird books of yours. Sure they weren’t pulling your leg?" Hutch couldn't figure out who was sucking whose brains out, or why—or when the conversation had taken a turn down Grand Guignol Avenue—but slight skepticism was always a safe response, since it usually got Starsky to elaborate without letting him know that Hutch had no idea what was going on.
"Don’t think so. That Jackson guy was supposed to be one of the best Egyptologists around before he got killed." Starsky pronounced the unfamiliar word very carefully, a sure sign that he was impressed
"Let me guess, the curse of King Tut."
"No, it was an accident in New York, a few years ago. He and his wife were setting up a display and some kind of big stone fell on them. Real shame. I'd've liked to hear him sometime. The museum people say he used to give great talks."
"Speaking of the museum—" Hutch broke off as the Torino plowed through another puddle, spraying water high over the hood, and slid around the corner into the cross-street beside the museum. Normally an attractive, modern building, the early dusk and driving rain made the museum loom beneath the low-hanging clouds like a castle from the worst of Starsky's horror films. The total lack of electric light in the area turned the sculptures flanking the stairs into menacing gargoyles and the decorative plantings into dangerous shadows.
"Doesn't look too cheerful," Starsky muttered.
"It's just a power outage, not a satanic plot. And I'm pretty sure that's not Count Dracula at the door, either." Hutch pointed to a uniformed figure hovering just inside the main entrance doors.
"Yeah, well, if he says 'I never drink—wine,' you're on your own, buddy."
The two detectives ran up the wide stairway through the rain, making a futile effort to shield themselves with their still-damp jackets. The guard swung the door open as they approached.
"Man, am I glad to see you guys!" he exclaimed in obvious relief. "This is all just too weird!"
Hutch flashed his shield. "I'm Detective Hutchinson, and this is my partner Detective Starsky. The dispatcher said you've had a break-in?"
"Yeah, and Frank, that's my partner? He's gone!" The guard was just a kid, so wide-eyed and jittery that Hutch was very glad to see that his holster was still buttoned up. This looked like one of those situations where a combination of nerves, adrenaline and firearms had the potential for leaving innocent bystanders in the hospital.
"Okay, just calm down, give it to us from the beginning," Hutch said soothingly as he peered around the gloom of the foyer, searching for any obvious signs of trouble. The huge area was filled with indefinable shadows, some of which he assumed were caused by display cabinets. A vast shapeless form floating over the staircase startled him for a moment, until he remembered Starsky jabbering about a whale skeleton.
Sinister enough to give anybody the creeps. Good thing I'm a tough, grown-up cop.
The kid was still shuffling from foot to foot and throwing the occasional nervous glance over his shoulder, but having two armed cops for company calmed him down enough to tell his story more or less clearly.
"We come on duty after the museum closes," he said, leading them toward the security station. "One of us is always at the front desk to keep an eye on the security panels." He gestured at the dimly lighted monitors behind the desk. "The other one patrols the halls. We take turns doing it, so nobody gets bored from just sitting and watching. We're supposed to check in by radio every ten minutes.
"Everything was real spooky tonight after the power went off. Even with the emergency generator, there's only the stairwell lights on and the security system, and you couldn't see anything anywhere." The boy shivered. "Frankie, he laughed at me, said I was bein' a pussy, but it really was scary in some of those rooms back there. So he said he'd take the patrols if I was scared to do my job." In the dim glow from the monitors, Hutch could see the embarrassment on the kid's face.
"So you stayed here the whole time?"
"No way! I can handle anything he can. I did my round and then Frankie started on his. About halfway through, I saw the alarm light go on at one of the rear windows. I called Frankie, but he didn't answer. I kept on calling, but he just never answered."
"Did you go look for him?" Starsky cut in.
"No. Procedure is, if anything goes wrong the person at the desk calls the cops and stays put." The two detectives involuntarily exchanged looks; the idea of staying put when his partner didn't answer the radio was unthinkable to both of them.
The guard caught their expression and said defensively, "I know it sounds dumb, but it's the rule. Back in Chicago a couple years ago, some thieves lured the desk guy away and just walked right out the front door with about five million worth of stuff."
Hutch nodded. "Okay, then. You stay here, and we'll check things out. Where's that window where the alarm's showing?"
"Down in the basement, in the back storage area. The window's at the end of the hallway." The guard pointed to the monitors again. "There's a layout of the whole place there, and it's hooked into the emergency power."
Hutch leaned over Starsky's shoulder as he examined the illuminated schematic board. Starsky followed the corridor with his finger and asked, "Where's the closest exit door?"
"There's a fire exit halfway along the corridor, here." The guard pointed. "But it's a fire door. The alarm goes off if you open it. And all the doors except the front door are hooked into the alarm system after hours anyway."
"So if anybody came in through that window they're still in the building," Hutch said, also tracing the corridor, counting the doors indicated.
"Or went back out through it already." Starsky grinned. "Sure make things easier for us."
The guard looked sick. "Oh, fuck, they could have taken anything out of there by now."
"Hey, you followed procedure, right? Nothing to worry about." Starsky's grin showed an edge of teeth this time. He gave his partner a light slap on the shoulder. "Come on Hutch, let's check this out."
"What do you think?" Hutch said quietly as they moved out of earshot.
"I think ol' Frankie's pulling the kid's leg. He probably set off that alarm himself and he’s sittin' somewhere laughing his ass off at the doofus getting all panicky." Starsky gave a little snort. "Some partner, huh?"
"Yeah. Not exactly crime's worst nightmare."
When they reached the end of the foyer they faced a pair of hallways heading in different directions.
"So do we split up?" Starsky said uneasily.
"No." Hutch made sure to keep his face expressionless. "Dark as it is, we'd probably end up shooting at each other. Or Frankie, if he actually is fooling around down there. Might as well play it safe." He didn't miss Starsky's little sigh of relief. Guns, cars, thugs with knives—Starsky was fearless in front of them all, but give him a eerie setting and he was like a kid at a ghost story session.
Lit only by the glow of the emergency exit signs, the hallway seemed longer and narrower than it had any right to be. By the time they reached the stairs at the end, they were both glancing uneasily into the shadows between the display cabinets and had instinctively moved so they were nearly back to back. Hutch tried to shrug off the nervous tension that was building, telling himself over and over to stop being a superstitious idiot, but his sensible side could not stifle the deepening apprehension. Something was wrong in this place; he could feel it in his bones. He could hear Starsky breathing behind him, deep, slightly forced breaths that meant his partner consciously kept them under control, and reached back to lightly rub Starsky’s side. Under his hand the stiff back relaxed noticeably. Starsky chuckled softly, and then chilly fingers lightly squeezed his.
"Big brave pair a cops, huh?"
There was both affection and mockery in that whisper, and Hutch smiled involuntarily. Starsky might get rattled, but he never lost his sense of humor.
Because of the emergency lighting there was better visibility in the stairwell, and they clattered quickly down the two flights to the basement. However, the lower hallway they emerged into was even darker and gloomier than the main floor. The only lights were spaced far enough apart to leave whole sections in darkness. Reluctantly, Hutch pulled out his flashlight. He'd have preferred not to use it, since the light made the person holding it an obvious target for any hidden shooter, and played hell with night vision as well, but it was too damn dark to risk stumbling blindly any longer.
Starsky produced his own light and pointed it over Hutch’s shoulder toward the end of the corridor.
"Window's that way."
Following the twin circles of yellow light, they made their way cautiously toward the back wall. The window itself was at shoulder level for Hutch, and he examined the frame while Starsky held the light closer.
It didn't take long to spot the heavy layer of old paint, chipped in places but still intact. Hutch stepped back and shook his head, puzzled. "This window hasn't been touched. And even if somebody wanted to get in here—look at it. Nobody bigger than a five-year-old could squeeze through."
Starsky raised his light higher and gave a soft laugh. "Look up, Hutch."
As Hutch's eyes followed the light upward, he saw a trickle of water moving steadily down the wall, following the wire of the alarm system until it connected with the upper edge of the window frame.
"Don't tell me," he said in disgust. "The water shorted out the alarm system. And our security guard's buddy decided to have some fun." Starsky nodded in agreement. "We better have a look around anyway. If we do nothing else we can throw a scare into the asshole, maybe threaten him with handcuffs or something."
"Told ya. Like we didn't have any real work to do on a night like this. Made us miss supper for nothing." Starsky had that look in his eye that meant trouble.
Hutch rolled his eyes. "You know, the world doesn't actually revolve around your stomach, Gordo."
"Nothin' in it to revolve around," Starsky grumbled. "Come on, let's get it over with. I'll check out the other end, you start here."
Before Hutch could say a word, Starsky trotted briskly back toward the far end of the hall. He had to squelch a sudden urge to call him back, as his form blended into the shadows. Once more damning himself for an idiot, he turned back to the first doorway and opened it cautiously, sweeping the beam of the flashlight around the room. Nothing was visible but stacks of dusty boxes.
By the time Hutch had gone through three rooms, he had discovered nothing except that the museum definitely needed a better cleaning staff, and he needed some allergy meds. His eyes had begun to sting and his nose to itch, and he knew any minute he would be sneezing uncontrollably. As he stepped out into the hallway, ready to call it quits, he suddenly realized how quiet it was. There were no footsteps, no rustling sounds, no Starsky griping under his breath about the unfairness of life.
Silence.
"Starsky?" he called.
There was no reply. Hutch felt the hair on the back of his neck try to rise. The last two doors at the other end of the hall stood open, and he moved swiftly down to glance in. The last room was completely bare, and the one next to it held only more stacks of boxes, a half-dismantled shelving unit and something that looked like a large irregularly framed mirror standing in the middle of the floor. Except for the open doors, there was no sign his partner had ever been there.
"Fuck!"
Hutch dashed back down the hallway, yanking open the remaining doors with little caution. Like all the others he had seen, the rooms overflowed with boxes and shelves crammed with odd-looking objects—and held absolutely no trace of Starsky. Backing out of the last room, Hutch turned in a slow circle, looking up and down the hall.
Nothing. No movement. No blood. Not even a drag mark anywhere in the dust. Nobody could have taken Starsky out without making any noise at all, let alone get rid of his—Hutch refused to let himself even think the word "body". There just hadn't been enough time. And even if Starsky had seen someone suspicious, he wouldn't have gone off after him without so much as a warning yell.
The terrible feeling of apprehension settled even more deeply into his chest.
"Starsky! Starsky!" This time it was full shout that echoed through the hall and into the stairwell.
There was no answer.