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On the Vernal equinox, shortly before the boy's fifth birthday, his mother took him to a place they'd never been before. The boy squirmed with curiosity, trying to pull out of his mother's firm grasp and explore, but she didn't share his interest. This area was nothing like their neighborhood with its brownstones snugged up against one another like a secure wall surrounding a castle to keep strangers away.
This place, all dark alleys and curved archways leading down endless corridors, sent a rush of fear down to Ruta's bones. She shivered, very aware of her son's eagerness. He sniffed the air as if he could smell something tantalizing before she tugged him closer against her wool coat.
After climbing what seemed like hundreds of stone steps up to a small, dank room stacked with books, they came into the presence of an old Wise One. She was hunched over her books, wearing a dress of red and blue and wrapped in purple shawls.
"I have to know..." Ruta said nervously, her fingers gripping her son's shoulder for a moment before she pushed him forward.
He was not afraid, and pride swelled inside Ruta. Her oldest son. Her little man. Unique right from the day he was born, early by a full month and with a cawl over his head. She already knew that he would be as different from the one that now grew inside her as if they'd been conceived by two other parents.
Her son lifted his chin, looking straight into the Wise One's startlingly blue eyes. Ruta watched cautiously, sensing why her son was drawn to the woman. She smelled of peppermint and cloves, and there was something marvelous in the way she smiled down at him.
The Wise One passed a tremulous hand over the child. Muttering in a low, elegant voice with her wrinkled lids closed, she nodded gravely. "He has the Gift."
It was just as the boy's mother had expected. Although she had not acquired the abilities, the Gift was strong in her family. It was just very unusual for it to show up in a boy. With a heavy heart, she agreed to the marking.
When the Wise One's apprentice brought the needle down on the child's palm, he cried out. Burying his head in his mother's generous bosom, he refused to watch the pentagram form. But Ruta couldn't look away. The silvery ink glowed against his young skin, a sigil of great portent.
As he grew, the mark all but faded. By the time he had reached adulthood, the young man could barely distinguish the pentagram from the creases and folds in his palm. Maybe it had simply merged with his lifeline, becoming one and the same thing.
Except when the power welled up inside him. Then the pentagram radiated from within, focusing his magic into a usable force.
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"Doesn't look like much, does it?" Hutch peered up at the dilapidated building with a frown. The dark clouds flitting across the moon made it difficult to distinguish anything out of the ordinary, and most of the street lights on this side of Main were burned out.
"Maybe some bum died in the back?" Starsky ventured up the front stairs, trying to simultaneously watch for rotted boards and possible attack. An anonymous caller had reported a dead body in the condemned apartment building where many stoned addicts often crashed. "Could be just some joker wants to get us out here on a stormy night to mess with us."
"Weird." Hutch stood to one side of the busted front door, peering in. Shadows merged into darkness, a black on black brocade embroidered with cobwebs. "It's so quiet. Usually there's half a dozen homeless people camped out in the buildings around here."
"Creepy is more the word." Starsky shivered. Neither of them had pulled their weapons yet, but he wanted to. His left hand pricked, and he wiggled his fingers to relieve the pins and needles sensation. It had been so long since he had done anything more than simple magic that it took a minute to realize why the skin on his palm was tingling. There was some elemental force inside the building that called to him.
Pushing ahead of Hutch, Starsky walked inside, guided more by his Gift than investigative process. He passed the first floor apartments, going straight up the stairs to the second floor and then the third.
"Starsk?" Hutch asked quietly, but he didn't question any further. He must have guessed that this was something more than a mundane investigation.
"This ain't right, Hutch." Starsky held up his left hand, palm extended outward and an eerie metallic gleam shone off of his palm.
"That's never happened before," Hutch said, his hair glinting in the silver light.
"Feels like I put my hand straight down on a hot iron." Starsky clenched his jaw, fighting the pain. The Gift had never hurt before. "There's some weird-ass magic going on here."
"You're the one who always said you weren't that good at much more than simple spells and incantations." Hutch stood shoulder to shoulder with Starsky.
"Thanks for that vote of confidence, Cassandra." Starsky took a deep breath. The burning was getting stronger, and he had no idea what it signified. He felt compelled to walk up to apartment 303 and lay his hand on the wooden door. Unlike many of the other apartments, this one had a sturdy door that was tightly locked.
"Cassandra foretold the future, I'm just telling it like it is," Hutch said, but there was a definite edge to the words. He was obviously feeling the strange otherworldliness of the place, too.
Starsky gasped, shuddering. There something unseeable and foreign on the other side of the door. His hand hurt so badly that it was difficult to speak. "This wood is n-new."
"Get back!" Hutch jerked Starsky away, dumping him on his butt in the dark hallway.
Starsky screamed as he lost contact with the portal, the pentagram rising out of his skin like a branded welt. The silvery light dimmed and sputtered, casting wavering shadows on the narrow hallway. He was now certain that the door was an entrance into another world, some place not here and now. He'd felt the uneasy shift in between the two worlds, like a rift. He'd been sure that if he reached far enough, right through the Hawthorn wood panel, he'd touch the stream of time itself.
"This could be a trap!" Hutch pulled his gun. "Starsk? What the hell is going on?"
Starsky panted, cradling his searing palm in his right hand. He had to--no, he was compelled to touch the door again, risk whatever was beyond the portal. This was his job, the reason he and Hutch had paired so long ago. The police department didn't like to have to acknowledge that magic existed, but faced with evil-doers, vampires and dark mages threatening the citizens of Bay City, they had had no choice. Starsky was one of the few wizards employed by the department. More often than not, the crimes he encountered were when magical forces clashed with the every day. Dead bodies with fang marks on the neck, cursed lovers and the occasional simple illusion were all that he usually had to deal with. Elementary, my dear Watson.
This door, constructed with a wood that gave psychic protection, was on a whole different level. The pentagram etched into his flesh, which wasn't even visible nine-tenths of the time, proved that.
"This isn't anything I've ever encountered before, Hutch." He took another breath to gain a certain level of control over the pain in his hand, and stood up. "This place is a threshold into somewhere else."
"Where?" Hutch touched the door with the tips of his fingers, still standing to one side in case bullets ripped through the wood. "It's just a door."
"No, it isn't." Starsky placed his hand on the door again, and suddenly, the pain level dropped dramatically when he closed his eyes and channeled into the Gift. The blood of his ancestors sang in his ears, filling him up with power. It was like being plugged into an amazing, unending source of energy that only Starsky had access to. "The wood is Hawthorn, which has magical properties--and the lock is made of pure steel."
"Most locks are, Starsk."
"Most locks aren't meant to keep out fairies and other beings from the Seelie court." Starsky exhaled, extending his senses. "Now, shut up and keep watch."
"For what? Prancing pixies?" Hutch asked, sounding frustrated.
Starsky trusted him to protect them from visible bad guys while he dealt with the paranormal. Murmuring spells learned at the Wise One's knee, spells that bent the natural world to his bidding, Starsky flexed his left hand and pushed against the door. The seemingly solid wood yielded like gelatin and his fingers reached into cool, damp air. It felt exactly the same as the here that he was presently in, and at the same time, completely different. He knew without a doubt that he had touched the future.
He thrust his arm through the door right up to the elbow.
"Starsky!" Hutch grabbed hold of his waist just as Starsky stepped through the wood.
"Hutch!" Starsky cried. There was a nauseating swoop and some sort of bounce as if they'd been whisked across an endless void, and then they were through, standing directly in front of 850 Main Street again.
"What just happened?" Hutch looked up at the front of the building. Elegant streetlights flooded the area with yellow light. The once ruined building was beautifully restored, painted a neutral beige with darker tan molding and chocolate brown Victorian style accents. A banner over the front door read "The Lofts on Main, inner city living for twenty-first century life. Condos starting at $510."
"Hutch, where's my car?" Starsky had parked the Torino at the curb, not ten feet from where he was standing now, but there was no bright red car with a wide white racing stripe anywhere nearby. Instead, several unfamiliar cars lined the curb, all styles and makes he'd never seen. A cluster of newspaper boxes stood where there had not been any only minutes before. The front page of the Bay City Chronicle had a picture of a recognizable, strong-jawed man standing before a crowd, giving a speech. Starsky stared at the date on the newspaper with astonishment.
He'd done it. What the Wise One had told him was impossible. He'd traveled through time.
"Somehow, Dorothy, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Hutch said in a hushed tone, swiveling around to take in the quiet city block that was totally unlike the one they'd just left. "Where the hell are we?"
The former druggie flophouses were handsome apartment buildings interspersed with a few small businesses. One storefront advertised organic produce and another was some kind of cafe.
"I think when the hell are we is more to the point." Starsky flicked his finger at the newspaper box, using the first spell he'd every learned--how to bring an object to him. In this case, the newspaper, which jumped quite abruptly from the box into his hand. "Two thousand and eight, Hutch."
"What?" Hutch grabbed the Chronicle, the paper shaking when he tried to smooth the front page. "Starsky, we're almost thirty years in the future."
"And that actor from that Sally Field movie we saw is the governor!"
"Sybil?" Hutch scanned the newspaper as if he couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him.
"Schwarzenegger. Stay Hungry." Starsky took a slow, cleansing breath, letting out all the doubt he harbored. Magic had always been strong with him, that was something he'd never questioned. But Starsky's strength was in the small-fry stuff. This was the real thing, the big time. They'd defied psychics, and every other natural law--not to mention a few magical ones he'd learned as a child, and traveled in time. The very essence of Bay City felt different. Looked and smelled different. "Hey, no smog."
"California elected a guy who can't speak English for governor?" Hutch said out loud.
"He must have gotten a handle on the accent after twenty-eight years." Starsky stiffened, looking down the street toward the small retail section of the block. A silver-gray car was just turning the corner and heading straight for them. "Hutch, I think we've got company."
Hutch rolled the paper into a tube and tucked into his jacket pocket, standing to Starsky's left. "You're the expert here, magic man, what do you suggest?"
"You lay off sexy bedroom nicknames, cream puff, and do what we do best, investigate." Starsky closed his left hand into a loose fist, hiding the sigil in his palm. It no longer burned like fire and the thick welt had flattened out into an ordinary looking tattoo. It still tingled slightly and was far more visible than usual.
Three men got out of the silver car. They were clearly detectives, although there wasn't any outward sign to suggest that. Starsky just knew, as surely as he knew that he shared their profession. The driver had a gut like Dobey's, a thick mustache and so little hair on his head that the overhead streetlights gleamed in his bald pate. The other two were younger; a tall, skinny black man who reminded Starsky of Huggy with his tipped eyes and loose-limbed walk, and a good-looking, brown haired guy in his mid-thirties who wore two earrings in his left ear and a hearing aid. At least, Starsky thought it was a hearing aid, but the man seemed to be listening to something only he could hear and replying to that. Either the police force had started hiring schizophrenics in the future or the device was some space-aged communicator.
"You two." The beer-bellied driver approached, holding out his badge. "You the transfers that Central was sending over?"
It was a gold detective badge all right, and looked so similar to the one that Starsky carried in his pocket that he had no second thoughts about flashing his own. Hutch held his out for the benefit of the other two detectives.
"Ken Hutchinson and David Starsky," Hutch said, stuffing his wallet into the pocket of his jeans. "We're not so clear on why we were sent over specifically."
That was the understatement of the year.
"Can you bring us up to speed?" Starsky asked.
"Ain't you the so-called experts on Frank Stryker's gang?" the black man asked. "Hannibal Brown at your service." He knocked fists with his partner. "This here's my main hombre, Mike Dennehy. He's the brains and I am the style." Dennehy nodded but didn't speak.
"Joe Montenegro." The driver held out his hand and shook first Hutch's, then Starsky's.
"Hey." Starsky inclined his head, checking out the three men from his own future. Brown had to be related to Huggy. Everything about him was a carbon copy of the bartender, from his flamboyant clothing style--a shocking purple and blue striped t-shirt worn with a blue suit, to his speech. Wouldn't Huggy be stunned to find out that he had a kid who'd gone into law enforcement!
"You didn't get the fax we sent over?" Montenegro shook his head. "Typical. That fucking thing never works right. For all I know, I faxed the Stryker file to Estonia."
"Where's that?" Starsky asked out of the side of his mouth to Hutch. Hutch just shrugged.
"Nick Star is supposed to be working his way up Stryker's ladder of success." Montenegro reached inside his jacket and adjusted the fit of his shoulder holster.
"Star's new in BC, been here a couple of months," Brown explained, dropping a casual arm around Dennehy's shoulder. "But dealio is he's a purveyor of illegal pharmaceuticals from the Big Apple come to grace our fair city with his new brand of yay."
"Yay?" Hutch shook his head.
"I like to keep up with the latest," Brown boasted and his partner rolled his eyes. "AKA wacky dust, Florida snow, a Belushi cocktail, Bolivian marching powder, California corn flakes, crack..."
"Coke." Starsky caught the new slang. He twirled his finger around in mock celebration. "Yay."
Montenegro lumbered up the steps that Starsky and Hutch had traversed shortly before, but the wooden risers didn't creak and there was an intercom buzzer beside the front door. "Bay City Police!" he announced when a sleepy voice answered his hail. "We're looking for Nick Star."
"At this hour?" The voice no longer sounded sleepy. The door unlatched with a discordant buzz and all five detectives trooped into the lobby.
The floor was covered with a beautiful, green-veined marble that matched the soft mint shade on the walls. Starsky had an unsettled churning in his belly from the moment they walked out of the chilly late night air. He fully expected his hand to hurt again, but the pentagram didn't even give him so much as a twinge.
"Always wanted to see what they done to this place," Brown commented. "Nice color--like mint chip ice cream. When I was coming up, my daddy had a bar 'bout two blocks over, and this street was a dive."
Hutch inhaled suddenly and met Starsky's eyes. "Huggy's kid?" he mouthed.
"Wait, stop!" A little man with stubby arms and legs came charging out of a door at the end of the lobby, holding a bathrobe together at the waist. It was more than obvious that he must have been sleeping in the nude.
"You the manager?" Montenegro said, barely concealing a crude laugh. He held his badge up above the man's head and then very deliberately lowered it to his eye level which was about even with Montenegro's belt buckle.
"You got a warrant?" the little man asked belligerently, finally succeeding in closing his robe. He put a jaunty bow in the silk tie.
"We do." Dennehy spoke for the first time, producing a folded piece of paper.
"All signed and official-like, allowing us free access to Star's crib," Brown said with a shit-eating grin.
"He hasn't been home for about a week." The manager read the document silently, his lips moving as he sounded out the legalese.
"Nobody has seen him, including us. Hasn't been to any of his usual haunts. They're always in the last place we look." Montenegro started up the staircase. "Now you going to produce a key or do I have to blow the fucking lock off with my service revolver?"
"No shooting! You'll wake up the tenants." The little man made a face and stomped back into his apartment to get the keys. "Why d'you always come at this time of night?"
"Seemed real neighborly, don't you two think?" Brown laughed, glancing at Starsky and Hutch, his eyes bright with devilment.
"Nice and legal," Hutch said evenly, the furrow between his eyebrows a deep gulley and his jaw was carved from granite.
Starsky could read the tension in his body loud and clear. Hutch was uneasy, and he felt exactly the same way. How was it that they'd responded to a tip twenty-eight years in the past to the same building, on the same night as these detectives? What was it that linked the five of them?
Dennehy scanned the row of mailboxes. "Seven condos--two to a floor, plus the little guy's on the ground floor. His name is Po."
Starsky tried not to stare when Dennehy pulled out a small rectangle device like a tricorder from Star Trek and tapped it a few times with a small wand-shaped thing. It pinged a couple of times and Starsky could just make out a screen of written information before the detective tapped it with his wand again and the words disappeared.
"Logged in all the names with LaShondra," Dennehy said to his partner.
"Hey, Po, get a move on!" Brown called out just as the dwarf came out, now wearing a pair of pants under his robe. "You didn't have to get all fly for me, player."
"This is a respectable building, leave the other tenants alone," Po said, the keys jangling in his hand.
Starsky let the other men proceed him on the stairs, hanging back a moment with Hutch. "You get the feeling we're going up to 303?"
"If we go anywhere else in this building, I'd be even more surprised." Hutch raised a blond eyebrow. "I didn't think anything could catch me off-guard after fighting vampires and shape-shifting demons with you."
"Ah, c'mon." Starsky trailed his hand across the small of Hutch's back when he passed him on the second floor landing. "They must have much weirder stuff in the twenty-first century than vampires."
"Us. We don't belong here." Hutch looked up to the third floor. They could hear Po's keys jingling as he inserted one into the lock on 303. "Stryker's empire must have grown since the late seventies. We have no idea what is going on here and we're supposed to be the experts. Right now, all that comes to mind is the forgery and dealing drugs out of the Velvet Slide."
"Yeah," Starsky said shortly. The tempest in his belly had developed into a full-blown typhoon. They'd only tangled with Stryker a few times, but one of those times was more than memorable. It had involved family. He raced up the last flight, arriving just as Po shoved the door open.
The distinctive smell hit them all like a stink bomb exploding.
"At least one body." Montenegro sniffed, drawing his gun. He stood to the left of the door, sweeping the area before stepping over the threshold, his thick mustache scrunching like a caterpillar trying to escape.
"Stay back, Po." Dennehy barred the little man from the apartment as Brown and Montenegro advanced cautiously, weapons at the ready. He tapped the hearing aid in his left ear and said, "Dispatch, we're at the location. Send CSI, we have a possible DB."
"I got a bad feeling about this," Brown said.
Starsky would have laughed at the Star Wars quote still in use so many decades after the original movie, but he had exactly the same feeling. He and Hutch drew their guns in tandem and Starsky let go Hutch inside first.
He paused long enough to run a hand over the outside of the door, feeling for runes, protective spells, anything like the door had had back in '80. There was nothing. It was not even constructed from Hawthorn, and there was no anti-fairy lock guarding the entry. Just an ordinary door.
There was a thick pool of blood in the hall leading to the bedrooms, and the smell of decomposition permeated the walls. Red splashes and splatters showed that the victim must have been shot only a few feet from his front door and had run back down the hall to the master suite.
"Arterial spray," Dennehy said, coming in last. He pointed to a wide arching of gore that looked like the tail of a comet painted in red against a blue wallpapered sky. "From the trajectory of the spray, the victim was probably shorter than you, Starsky, but not by much."
Hutch looked over at Starsky and then away, his face grim. "Nick Star? Could be . . ."
"It isn't," Starsky cut him off and stepped around a large crimson splotch on the cream colored carpet.
The body was in the back, half hidden in the closet, with his shoeless feet sticking out and his head covered by a tumble of clothing. He must have grabbed the hanging shirts and jackets just as the final bullet hit, dragging them down with him when he fell.
"Monty, wait 'til CSI gets here," Dennehy called as his superior bent down to uncover the victim's face. "Can't contaminate the scene any more than five sets of footprints already have."
Hutch caught hold of Starsky's arm. "Things are a lot different here," he said. Starsky knew was he was trying to tell him. It wasn't just the way the detectives operated that was different. If that was Nick Star--AKA Nicholas Marvin Starsky, his future self was as unknown to them as the identity of his murderer.
Starsky shook him off with an irrational snarl, anger and fear warring inside him. "So what're we supposed to do? Just wait?"
"You willing to fuck up the forensic evidence and incur the unholy wrath of DA Dobey?" Montenegro shrugged like he didn't give a shit. "Be my guest, but I ain't gonna help out." He backtracked to the living room of the apartment. "I need some air, breathing in decomp can't be healthy."
The others followed although Starsky itched to push the clothes in the closet back so he could take a good hard look at the body. Not Nick--it couldn't be. He had no idea what his younger brother would be doing twenty-eight years from 1980 but he had the sick feeling he was going to find out.
Hutch took Starsky's arm when he almost planted his foot right in the largest of the blood droplets decorating the carpet. "Be careful," Hutch whispered in his ear. "If that is Nick, we need to figure out what's going on."
It's not Nick was on Starsky's tongue, but he couldn't prove it. The feet were about the same size as his own--and therefore, Nicky's. They wore the same shoe size. Other than that, how would he know? Would he even look the same? Nick would be 58, probably paunchy like their Uncle Shlomo had been.
"Why don't you bring us up to speed on Frank Stryker while we wait?" Dennehy asked politely, intelligent eyes assessing them. He leaned against the living room wall.
Brown perched on the squared off edge of a chocolate velvet sofa, the sleeve of his blue suit just brushing Dennehy's black jeans. It could have looked causal to some, but Starsky recognized the maneuver. He'd used it himself on numerous occasions. A way to touch his partner and lover without appearing to.
"We've mostly in the....history end of things these days," Hutch said after a slight pause that proved he was selecting his words carefully. "We work cold cases, wrapping up unfinished stuff from the late '70s, back in Stryker's hey-day."
"Like we need to know that," Montenegro groused. "What's relevant here is that Nick Star has been moving Ecstasy, Roofies and God knows what else for the last month or so, and Stryker's people welcomed him into my burg like the prodigal son."
"They even pulled out a fatted pig for Star," Brown cackled. "Old Mosby got capped days after Star showed up in BC. The Golden one ended up with the lion's share of Mosby's business."
"You can prove that Star was dealing?" Hutch asked. Starsky could feel Hutch's blue eyes boring into him, teasing out the darkest shadows of his fears.
"We have a witness all ready. Ms. DA Dobey has been holed up in her chambers for days with the guy, getting all the goods," Montenegro answered. "That's the only reason we got a warrant in the first place."
Nick was dealing drugs again. Starsky swallowed down his pain, reminding himself that this wasn't his time. If he found out how Nick died in 2008, could he take that knowledge back with him to his own timeline and warn Nick? Keep him away from whatever wrong path he'd followed? He'd had little enough success with that after the whole Stryker mess in 1978; there were no guarantees that Nick would listen to any crazy talk about what could possibly happen in the future.
"Frank Stryker was indicted in 1978 on charges of forgery, drug dealing and murder of a Fed," Starsky said finally, a bitter taste in the back of his throat. "He owned a restaurant called the Velvet Slide across town from here. A Nick Starsky worked briefly with him but went back East after only a couple of days."
"To avoid gettin' caught up in all the Fed soup?" Brown asked with a wry smile.
"No doubt." Hutch glanced at Starsky but didn't say more.
Starsky didn't let himself react to Hutch's concern. Couldn't let himself.
"Stryker's been out of prison for a while now and is back to his ol'tricks," Brown added.
"Starsky, huh?" Montenegro sucked on the end of his mustache. "Any relation?"
"You could say that." Starsky shrugged as nonchalantly as possible. "Lotsa Starskys in New York."
"I'll bet." Montenegro raised his eyebrow and tugged on his wet 'stache. "I could use some coffee, this looks to be a long night. Brown?"
"No problemo, my brother. I need to stretch my legs," Brown drawled, sounding exactly like his old man. "Player, you want something?" he addressed Dennehy, standing up.
"You know what I like." Dennehy pulled out a couple of dollars.
"Mocha chocolate latte with a dash of cinnamon on top," Brown hummed to the tune of Lady Marmalade, suggestively plucking the money from his partner's hand and leaving Starsky with no question of their relationship.
"Gentlemen?" Brown looked over at Starsky and Hutch while collecting even more money from Montenegro.
How much did a couple of cups of coffee run in 2008?
"Two," Starsky ordered, praying that the cash in his pocket wouldn't raise questions. The money Brown held looked pretty much the same as 20th century greenbacks except that the five had a suspiciously pinkish tint to it. "How much you need?"
"Depends if you're a purist or want some of the more complicated caffeinated beverages," Brown said. "I, myself, enjoy a vanilla frappacino with chocolate curls on top during a stakeout, when the day is slow and the action even slower. For a high profile case on a cold night like tonight, I am leaning toward a double shot of espresso, from the organic Sumatra-Peruvian blend."
"You'll be up 'til dawn," Dennehy said dryly.
The three members of the lab crew tromped in just then, carrying far more equipment and cameras than Starsky ever remembered seeing at a crime scene in his bailiwick. Montenegro grimaced, complaining about the wait to a petite Asian girl wearing a white coverall, and led them all down the hall. Comments about the blood spatter pattern and particulate transfer filtered back in their wake.
"Whatever's the house brand," Hutch said. "Coffee is coffee, right? Starsky takes two sugars."
Brown fixed him with a disbelieving expression. "You must be one of those who boycott Starbucks out of principle," he laughed. "Four dollars for the two of you. Add a Washington, and I'll throw in a couple of those fine pumpkin muffins at less than cost."
"Deal." Starsky dug a five out of his pocket and handed it over to Brown.
"Nice ink, there, Star-sky," Brown commented, not meaning the money.
"Uh--thanks." Starsky flattened his palm, not accustomed to the pentagram being quite so visible. Usually, the sigil barely showed among the lines of his hands, like an old scar that he could feel--more like sense--when he needed the magic, but otherwise not noticeable to others.
"It looks freshly done," Hutch said in wonderment.
"You get any flak from the brass when you came on the force?" Brown asked. "Had to keep all my tats away from public view, if you catch my drift. Only certain--friends are allowed to see them."
Starsky didn't miss the slight smile on Dennehy's face, or the look of understanding in his eyes when he saw the star inside a circle etched on Starsky's hand. "You're got the Gift."
"How did you...?" Instinctively, Starsky closed his fist, protecting the outward sign of his power. He couldn't get used to people seeing the tattoo at all, much less recognizing its significance.
"My aunt, my mother and my sister." Dennehy touched his hand with one finger and Starsky loosened his clench, letting the man gently trace the circle. "Aunt Laurn was the strongest practitioner. It's much rarer in men, isn't it? I didn't get any."
"You got magic in you, believe me," Brown said. "And yo' sister didn't have no pentagram inked on her hand. She did have a nice Chinese character, of which I will not translate for those with delicate sensibilities, on the small of her back."
"Han," Dennehy said sharply and then smiled to soften the criticism. "That's my sister you're talking about. The tattoo is put on as a child and then fades."
"So why's his so shiny?" Brown leaned against his partner.
"Good question." Starsky stared down at his own hand. The marking no longer burned as it had done twenty-eight years and one hour in the past, but the way the symbol seemed to almost glow--not as brightly as it had in the dim hallway--but far brighter than any day since it was drawn into his skin was disturbing. "Something about this is..."
"Hinky," Brown finished.
"Brown, you still here?" Montenegro stomped into the living room. "I had my mouth all ready for some coffee and you're all standing around like a gaggle of fucking girls talking about Paris' latest tattoo and how many piercings you got."
"Going out the door now, boss." Brown disappeared as if he too had a bit of magic.
"Do you feel something..." Dennehy asked carefully. "This is going to sound very Star Warsian, but a disruption in the force?"
"No, Obi Wan, I don't," Starsky answered in kind, mostly serious, but giving the subject a light touch, just glad that movie references were always a common link between generations. "But the fact that Hutch and me know about Stryker--and possibly Nick Star, ain't just a coincidence."
"No, you were transferred over because you knew about this case," Montenegro grumped. "So let's get some fucking investigating going on here, ladies. Check out the computer, see if the guy had a Blackberry or a cell lying around."
"Computer's over here." Dennehy had gravitated to a small flat, black square no thicker than a couple of file folders.
"Ain't enough room in that whole desk for a comp..." Starsky started. He stopped abruptly when Hutch elbowed him in his ribs as Dennehy opened the black square to reveal a TV type monitor and a keyboard.
"I'll--uh, check out the kitchen," Starsky muttered, fascinated. Dennehy typed out some letters and boxes of information popped up on the monitor. Just like the transistor radio Starsky had owned a few years back, computers had gotten much smaller in the new century. "I'm no good with technology."
Hutch stood watching Dennehy's fingers fly over the keys, unlocking vast amounts of data far, far faster than Minnie's old machine could ever have done.
"Hutch?" Starsky encouraged.
"I'll join you," Hutch said, still looking over his shoulder when Dennehy pulled up a short movie, complete with sound. "Amazing."
"Hey!" Montenegro yelled before they could walk away. "You sporting latex?"
"Huh?" Starsky gaped at the more than personal question. The relationship he had with Hutch wasn't usually so transparent to outsiders. In this society, were gay partnerships de-rigueur?
Montenegro tossed over four rubbery gloves with a grunt. "Next time, bring your own."
"Thanks," Hutch said, deftly catching the protection and stuffing his hands into one pair.
"What are we doin' here, Hutch?" Starsky asked desperately when they'd reached the sanctity of a gleaming chrome and black kitchen. It didn't appear that Star had done any cooking in the opulent room. Vegas showgirls wearing marabou and silver lame would have looked right at home dancing on the black marble countertops. There was an fancy hand mixer, a pasta maker and a blender all lined up next to a range that was big enough for a large restaurant.
"Investigating the murder of Nick Star," Hutch said sensibly.
"But why did we come?" Starsky struggled to pull on the latex gloves before opening the fridge. There was nothing on the shining white shelves except a brand of beer he'd never heard of, Samuel Adams. He had the overwhelming desire to toss back a cold brew; anything to clear his head. This all felt completely wrong. And not just because it very well could be Nicky lying there under a bunch of expensive clothes. "Whadda we know that'll help a murder case twenty-eight years in the future?"
"I can only think that it's your link to your brother." Hutch ducked down, peering into the cabinet under the sink.
"Dennehy is right, the Gift doesn't usually hit guys." Starsky poked a finger into the ice cubes, a common place to hide diamonds, but all he got was a cold finger. "I was the--what do you call it? Not anatomy."
"Anomaly."
"Yeah. Nicky had no magic. My mom didn't have any, either, 'cept that she was sensitive. She could sense it in other people. I'd put Dennehy in that category, too." Starsky slammed the refrigerator door, seeing a dark version of himself reflected in the sleek black doors. "So, that still doesn't explain why we'd get pulled into the future to discover my bro--that body in there."
"So that you have a chance to change something in the past?" Hutch asked softly. He stood next to Starsky, gazing at their reflections, touching his partner from the shoulder all the way down to the hip.
Starsky resisted the urge to lean into Hutch. Not in public, not even in this possibly more permissive society. That was just not their way. This perfect alignment was how they reconnected without any overly demonstrative gestures. He could feel the warmth of Hutch filling him up, through the sleeves of their leather jackets and the thick fabric of their jeans. Strange how similarly they'd dressed on the long ago morning, and that the clothes of 1980 didn't look so very different than those of 2008.
"I've never heard of anyone jumping through time like this--not nearly thirty years. Even going back a couple of minutes needs some kind of spell to boost the power," Starsky said, pressing his hand just once on Hutch's belly before moving away. "This kind of magic is just completely out of my league. And why this?" He displayed his palm again, the tattoo evident but quiescent, not giving him any hint of what had happened. "That Hawthorn door was the portal, but how did it get there?"
"Didn't you say that there are a couple of portals placed through the city--over ley lines, for travel to other areas?" Hutch glanced out the door, but Montenegro and Dennehy were crouched over the computer, talking intently. Montenegro nodded once and went back down the hallway toward the bedroom.
"Yeah, if you know where to look for them. And they generally connect to other realms--they're not like some kinda mass transit to go between California and New York. That building..." Starsky faltered and pointed downward. "This building, ain't over a ley line. And this isn't fairy world. It's our BC, only--"
"Not," Hutch finished. "And our method of investigation seems outmoded."
"Where do you think we are?"
"Starsk, did you miss the big banner out front?" Hutch stared at him, comprehension dawning. "Oh, you mean, where the older us are?"
"And you're always correcting my grammar," Starsky teased. "It's a really bad idea to cross your own life line." He prowled the kitchen restlessly, touching the shiny appliances. At least he could recognize what all of them were. There didn't appear to be any droids for doing housework yet. "A paradoxal contradiction. We can't be two places at one time."
"I'd be sixty-three years old," Hutch said in wonderment.
"Old man." Starsky smiled faintly, imagining Hutch with silvery hair and a pair of reading glasses..
"Hey, who's birthday is in March!" Hutch raised that finger of his. "I would hope we're not on the force anymore. Retired, maybe?"
"Sitting on the porch, watching the sea..." Starsky laughed.
"Monty!" Dennehy's voice called excitedly. "Starsky, Hutchinson, come in here."
Brown came in the front door just as Starsky and Hutch made it back into the living room. Hutch nearly tripped over a small chrome and leather ottoman next to a leather recliner, but Starsky caught him by his belt buckle before he went face down on the Persian rug.
"Coffee de-livered piping hot!" Brown declared, holding up a tray of paper cups. "Where's the fire, boys?"
"This may just solve the whole case," Dennehy said, gracing his own partner with a proud smile. He accepted his coffee with one hand while typing a long string of letters and numbers with his left. "Star had a very sophisticated security system in the apartment, with video feed."
"Excellent!" Brown crowded next to Dennehy, letting Starsky and Hutch figure out which cups were theirs.
"I didn't see a camera in the bedroom," Montenegro said.
"Well, there is." The tiny Asian woman walked out of the back hall, toting a clutch of plastic evidence bags that she stowed in a large carry-all. "Small, the latest in digital, set up in two positions in the bedroom. As well as..." She pointed up at the crown molding on the living room wall directly above what looked like a huge black non-reflective mirror.
"We're on candid camera?" Brown asked, waving.
"That's tiny," Hutch said.
Not just tiny, barely there. Starsky would never have noticed the minute, flat camera perfectly aligned with the decorative molding.
"This is the last entry on the file. Let me fiddle with a couple things and I'll link the feed over to the plasma screen." Dennehy sipped his coffee, his fingers dancing over the keyboard. "Somebody turn on the TV?"
"That I know how to do." Montenegro picked up a large remote control and flicked a button. The picture came up, crisp, bright and immense, filling the large screen from one side to the other--with a woman's bare breasts. "Nice what Showtime puts on late!"
"I think that's The L Word." Brown twisted his head to watch the action between two women. "I've seen that one."
"I have something to look forward to." Starsky just stared. He'd never seen anything like it on his own 13-inch screen.
"I've intersected with the TV. Star has all his entertainment needs connected with the computer, so it was easy enough to do." Dennehy clicked a small, rounded device attached to the computer and the picture on the television changed to a darkened interior. The lights flicked on suddenly, revealing the room they were currently in with a few minor changes. There was a newspaper and some mail on the chrome and glass coffee table. A man with his back to the camera shrugged out of his raincoat and tossed it on the couch. Sitting down heavily, he took off his shoes and rubbed his stockinged feet.
Starsky clenched his teeth, determined not to show any outward emotion. Watching the man on the screen was like being sucked back into his family. Memories of reunions, weddings and funerals crowded his brain. That wasn't just Nick, older, heavier and shorter of hair. It was most definitely Uncle Shlomo reincarnated with their father's walk, and that way of cocking his head that was all Ruta Starsky.
"Starsk?" Hutch's voice was pitched way below normal human hearing, almost an audible thought, but Starsky heard him loud and clear.
"That's Nick Starsky," he said, carefully hiding any grief.
"Looks like he's alone, and the time stamp says November tenth, four days ago." Brown sat down on the recliner, drinking from his coffee cup.
"Genius," Dennehy commented deadpan.
"That would jibe with the liver temperature," the Asian lab tech said. "Rigor has come and gone on our vic. He's been dead that long, maybe more, but that's not set in stone until he's opened up on the slab."
"Gihae, it's any wonder you get dates with that kind of sweet talk." Brown winked at her.
"Love you too, Han," she said, raising her middle finger in his direction.
"Think you can act like fucking adults?" Montenegro grumped. "Dennehy, fast forward until we get some action here. I don't feel like waiting through a day in the life of Nick Star."
The jovial teasing ground to a halt as all five of them watched the security footage.
"Sit down before you fall down," Hutch murmured in Starsky's ear as the video zipped along. Nick looked at the mail, and then put away his coat and shoes at high speed. "You don't need to watch..."
"Hutch," Starsky said sharply, stopping him from any further mother-henning. He'd had enough of that after his shooting. He did sit down on the ottoman because his knees were so wobbly it felt like an earthquake was shaking his entire foundation.
Finally, a second figure appeared on the screen and Dennehy slowed the video down to regular speed.
"Didn't think you'd come," Nick said in a gravely tone that suggested long time cigarette use.
"Ain't here to chat about the price of gas, Star, just show me what you got, and I'll bounce." The newcomer was wearing a wide brimmed hat that covered most of his face. A thin twist of hair dangled down his back halfway to his waist. Sunglasses and a beard obscured the rest. He had wide shoulders, a high-pitched voice, and seemed very aware that he was being filmed. Even with the hat on, he turned his face away from the camera. The visitor obviously had prior knowledge of the condo and its contents.
"Let me get it, it's in the den ...." Nick turned, starting down the hall when the first bullet hit him high in the back.
Even with the sharp resolution of the security cameras, Starsky hadn't seen the gun in the newcomer's hand until a split second before he shot Nick. He sucked in his breath, too horrified to close his eyes. He was only peripherally aware of Hutch's hand on his shoulder, clutching him hard enough to leave bruises. Every time a bullet hit home, Starsky's gut jerked and spasmed.
"There's the arterial spray," Gihae said faintly as shockingly red blood arched across the blue wall-papered hallway. "I've--never actually seen it in real life before."
"Always a first time." Dennehy sounded as if this were not his.
Starsky hunched over his knees, determined not to heave. That was not the Nick he knew, but it was still his little brother. Watching his murder was one of the worst things that Starsky had ever experienced and that included finding Hutch huddled in an alley with needle marks in his arm. He kept trying to rip his eyes from the screen, but he couldn't shut out the sickening realization in Nicky's face when he looked back at his killer.
"W-wha . . .?" Nick stumbled for the bedroom, leaving the trail of gore behind. His assassin didn't speak another word, just tracked him down the hall. There was a slight pause and the camera angle shifted twice, once for the hallway and once more in the bedroom, so that the final gunshot was heard and not actually seen.
The man in the black hat surveyed Nick's body now sprawled under the suits in the wardrobe and turned, the camera catching his hawk-like profile for a split second.
"Freeze it there and grab that image, then email it to HQ," Montenegro commanded. He walked up to the television as if closer proximity could tell him who the shooter was. For a moment, his bulk hid the picture.
Starsky listened to the stuttering thunder of his heartbeat, willing himself under marginal control. He'd studied meditation under the Wise One, yet he'd never mastered the discipline as easily as the non-magical Hutch. He'd been trained to wall off his emotions, first by the older cops at the police academy and then by experience in the field. None of his past studies helped here. Nothing he could draw on did anything to mollify his grief. Nicky never had a chance.
The video was running again, the black hat moving out camera range, his shadow flickering against the carpet from the recessed lighting in the bedroom, and then suddenly, he not there at all.
"Where'd he go?" Brown asked.
Shit.
Starsky knew, without a doubt, why he'd been called from three decades earlier, to this place. "Can you . . ." He gestured, unable to speak coherently.
"Rewind?" Hutch obviously understood his unspoken question. Hutch always did. "Back before he showed his profile."
Dennehy performed his own version of magic and took the shooter back in time a couple of minutes. Starsky watched more closely, not looking at his brother, but taking the time to really See the assassin.
"Only three fingers," he said on a choked exhalation. The hawk-like nose, the long thin hair--no wonder he was using the partial disguise.
"Good eyes, Starsky," Montenegro said, tapping the TV screen. The assassin's image wavered slightly, the way a rock rippled the surface of water.
"Don't touch," Dennehy said faintly with a wince.
"He's had the grip on his pistol specially molded," Starsky continued, mentally sorting through what he knew about three-fingered beings. No wonder the Hawthorn door was fitted with a steel lock. To keep fairies and their ilk from moving between centuries.
"Darby Lynch has three fingers," Montenegro mused.
"On his left hand," Brown said. "That guy's right handed."
"He has very pale skin," Hutch peered at the larger-than-life man. "Almost like... Starsky?"
"Not me." Starsky managed a half-believable laugh, knowing what Hutch was fishing for. "This is gonna sound--way out there, but do you have any dealings with non-humans?"
All three of the twenty-first century detectives raised solemn eyes to him, none giving anything away. Starsky wouldn't want to play poker with a single one of them. Gihae frowned, pleating her lower lip with two fingers. She was the first to nod, very reluctantly.
"You mean a fairy, don't you?" She looked frightened and slightly embarrassed.
"Fairies, vampires, werewolves, you name it, they've passed through this hellhole," Brown drawled finally. "We ain't that far from Sunnydale."
Starsky vaguely remembered Sunnydale as a small, non-descript town about thirty miles away and didn't know what that had to do with Nick's murder. He was also profoundly relieved that in nearly thirty years, the BCPD had gotten around to actually acknowledging the existence of other worldly beings. That made things a whole lot easier.
"Looks like he's a..."
"Member of Oberon's posse," Dennehy finished. He pointed to the computer. He'd created a split screen to compare their assassin with a picture of several tall, slender, broad-shouldered men with sharp features and wide, jewel-colored eyes. All were pale and far too handsome to be human.
Oberon stood in the middle of the group, tall, austere and incredibly good-looking with his silvery hair and eerie aqua eyes. The titular king of Faerie looked exactly the same as the last time Starsky had seen him, on Starsky's sixteenth birthday when the full measure of his magic had slammed into him like a sledge hammer. To prove his worth as a wizard, Starsky had traveled to the other kingdom to encounter his opposite kind. Sort of like the magical version doing his Bar Mitzvah.
To Oberon's right was a man with a hawkish nose. His gray-green hair was pulled back in a tail like a Revolutionary soldier's. Their assassin.
"Damn." Montenegro slammed a fist into his palm. "His disappearance wasn't just a glitch in the video, he stepped into the fairy realm."
"And I think there's a portal into Faerie in this building, one nobody human knows about," Starsky said softly, not willing to reveal exactly how he'd gotten to 2008. "Nick Star wasn't just dealin' in drugs, he had something that Oberon's boys wanted."
"That isn't good," Gihae put in.
"You think?" Brown growled, his usual casual sprawl drawn up tightly like a tensed wire. "What did Fairy-boy want?"
"You said there were new drugs out on the street." Hutch stood. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets which rounded his shoulders and made Starsky think of a college professor starting his lecture. "Maybe this Yay isn't cocaine at all, but some kind of--I don't know, pixie dust?"
"I can fly," Brown sang with a sardonic lilt. "It would explain a hell of a lot."
"The so-called suicide last week when the mayor's youngest walked off the courthouse roof," Dennehy said.
"If Star was dealing with folks in Faerie, he had this coming to him, the fuck," Montenegro spat. "Everybody knows not to meddle with their kind, brings nothing but bad mojo."
"We've been finding white powder residue on the hands and faces of a number of the DBs lately." Gihae crossed her arms over her bunny suit, making the paper fabric rustle. "It's chemically like cocaine, but had some differences in the carbon molecules--sixteen instead of seventeen, and some extra stuff which was obviously fairy, but so far not a recognizable element in the periodic table. Ours or theirs."
"They have a periodic table?" Brown laughed, brown eyes alight with dark humor. "Never under estimate the element of surprise."
"Wrap it up, Jeong?" Monty made hurry up motions.
"Our Unseelie expert was even perplexed, and she's a changling," Gihae concluded. "Knows her pixie dust. So it's new and very powerful."
"How do you go after this guy?" Starsky stabbed a finger at the quartet still pictured on the computer screen.
"Very carefully." Brown raised an evocative eyebrow.
"We tear down this apartment until we find the portal," Montenegro said.
"That may be difficult if he's a close enough to Oberon to touch the king." Dennehy tapped the device in his ear. "Dispatch? We need the paranormal team out here to 850 Main, apartment 303."
Starsky wanted one of those nifty telephones. The errant thought distracted him from the memory that his younger, but much older, brother was lying dead in the bedroom down the hall. And he was beginning to get used to the smell, which was disturbing.
"Starsky could..." Hutch looked over at him, the suggestion dying on his lips.
"No, I don't sense anything." Starsky shook his head, raising his left hand, palm up. Nary a tingle, no burning sensation, nothing. It was frustrating as hell. Why had he been called all this way, if not to ferret out Nicky's murderer? Grief and helplessness warred inside him. The Gift had failed him right when it mattered the most.
"We got a whole team with kick-ass equipment for detecting protoplasm and ectoplasm, that kind of hoodoo." Brown toyed the round device attached to the computer until his partner snatched it away.
"I don't think the Ghostbusters care about the cellular components of water, and leave my mouse alone," Dennehy said with a straight face, adjusting the placement of his mouse. Brown sent him a withering look even though the sides of his mouth were turned up in amusement.
"Gihae," a voice said from the bedroom. A massive black man with his hair braided tight to his scalp stuck his head out the door. His bunny suit strained across his enormous chest. "We're ready to move the stiff--you want a last look and some more photos?"
"I'm coming, Mohammed," Gihae called.
"You know the yahoo best," Montenegro said to Starsky. "You make an ID?" It was more of a demand than a question.
"That seems to be what I'm here for," he muttered, getting to his feet and feeling as old as he should have been in the current year.
Hutch caught his eye and held it. Starsky felt the love and support all the way down to his toes, muting the anguish.
Squaring his shoulders, Starsky walked down the hall with Hutch right beside him.
The body--he really didn't want to refer to it as Nick, not anymore--had been wrapped in a black plastic body bag with only the face left uncovered. The death smell still bracketed the room, closing it in, turning it into a morgue. Starsky breathed in too sharply and coughed, a heaviness settling in his chest.
Nick's eyes were closed but his face still looked scared, the same expression he'd had on the very last time he'd looked at the camera in the video. Starsky would see that expression until the day he died, too.
"Damn," Hutch whispered, squeezing Starsky's bicep.
"That's my--" Starsky stopped, remembering that he hadn't told them that he and Nick Star were related. The age difference would be way too difficult to explain. "That's him, Nick Starsky." He bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to cause explosions in the back of his retina.
What am I gonna tell Ma? went through his brain until logic caught up with him. That was one conversation he was never going to have to have, thank God. Ruta, bless her heart, would certainly be a beloved memory in 2008. She'd been born in 1920, and the Starskys were not a long-lived family.
"Thanks, man." Mohammed zipped the rest of the body bag closed.
"C'mon." Hutch tugged at Starsky's arm, pulling him away from the macabre scene. "We don't need to be here any longer." He stressed 'need' just a little harder than the rest, the tension back in his jaw. Hutch was definitely not happy.
"I wanna look in the den. Nick Star said whatever he had was in the den." Starsky surged ahead and then paused in the doorway of the adjacent room, clearing his mind of all outward distractions. The voices of the lab crew and the detectives faded into the background as he extended his Gift. Here he felt a residue, leftover magic like forgotten debris at a picnic site. It wasn't enough to identify where Oberon's right-hand man could have slipped into the netherworld, but it was sufficient to discern where something with a fairy signature was once kept.
Reaching out toward a set of file cabinets, Starsky finally felt the reassuring tingle in his left hand that proved that his sigil was working right after all. "In the bottom drawer."
"Locked, babe," Hutch commented.
"You found the Holy Grail?" Brown stepped into the room, but it was too small for all five detectives to be present at the same time.
"Probably not quite so momentous," Starsky answered. He extended his left hand outward until it was a few inches away from the drawer, feeling cheap tumblers in the combination lock like a series of steps he needed to traverse. Each one settled into place, and he gave a tiny pull with his fingers curled into his palm. The drawer popped open like a child's Jack-in-the-box sans the Jack.
"Whatever was in here is gone now." Hutch looked in but didn't touch. "The assassin must have taken it and fled."
"Sneaky bastard," Brown said to no one in particular. "Gihae! Until Buffy and Xander get here with their Faerie sensor, you can dust for prints." He hunkered down on his heels next to Hutch. "Starsky? You getting anything?"
Starsky shook his head, wishing he had more to give. The pricking on his palm proved that whatever had been there had been supernatural. "Nothing except what Gihae said. Some kind of powder. The whole drawer sort of gives off a weak force, and I can see a little glitter, but after four days, it's not enough to track to the source."
"Good enough for me." Brown brushed off the knees of his blue pants with a grimace. "Never should wear Bottega Veneta to a crime scene."
Starsky moved aside to let Gihae into the den and walked out with Hutch on his tail. How long were they going to be stuck here? As much as he wanted to go after Oberon and choke a confession out of his gray-green haired goon, there wasn't much point. Bringing someone from Faerie to human court was virtually impossible, since they simply didn't operate under mundane state and Federal laws. They were a law unto themselves. The only way to avenge Nick's death was to prevent it from ever happening. And for that, he had to be back in 1980.
"We need to go back," Starsky said.
"Not much more any of us can do here." Montenegro scrunched his mustache as Mohammed and his colleague toted the body bag down the hall, walking carefully to avoid all the yellow markers Gihae had used to indicate blood spatter on the hall carpet. "It's crime lab and the Ghostbusters' territory now. We're headed back to Metro as soon as we get the all clear from the captain."
"DA Dobey ain't gonna be too pleased." Brown leaned against the doorframe of the den, his eyes on Dennehy carefully stowing Star's computer in a large plastic evidence bag. It was patently easy to see the love Brown bestowed on his partner. It oozed out of him, the desire a palpable thing.
"We need to check in..." Hutch started. "Can we meet you there? Our car isn't too far away."
That almost made Starsky smile. Yeah, right at the curb in a completely different decade.
"Sure, the Stryker angle doesn't go away just because Star is dead," Montenegro grumped from the threshold of the apartment. "Bring Thai food and Dennehy will set up any computer access your little hearts desire."
"Terrific, thanks!" Starsky said with forced jocularity. He hadn't a clue how to get back to his own time. He wasn't at all sure how they'd been brought here in the first place, without a Star Trek transporter beam in sight.
Dennehy had managed to pack up all the electronic equipment that he could carry on his own. He handed one bag to Brown and grinned at something private Brown must have said to him.
"Starsky," he said, tucking the plastic covered, black computer under his arm as if not willing to let it out of his sight. "This is not the end." The way he paused, Starsky knew that the magically sensitive Dennehy recognized that there was more between he and Nick than he'd let on. "Just because the murderer isn't human doesn't make him any less culpable. We've prosecuted fairies before."
"Good to hear." Starsky nodded at the man. He'd like to get to know these future detectives better, and it made him proud that Bay City was in such capable hands. "'Cause we haven't had that much success in bringin' paranormals to trial where we come from."
"See you at the station." Brown gave a jaunty salute and pulled the door of number 303 closed behind him.
Abruptly, Starsky felt a strong ripple in the air as if something elemental had shifted. He took in a steadying breath, watching to see if Hutch had noticed anything. Hutch frowned at him, lifting his hands in the classic 'what now?' gesture.
Nick Star's apartment looked the same as always, but Starsky was sure the walls were closing in on him. They had to leave--their duty, mission, whatever it had been, in 2008 was complete. He could hear Gihae humming in the den, but the sound seemed to be muted, receding into the future, or maybe he was simply moving back into the past.
"Hutch!" Starsky gasped when pain flared up in the palm of his left hand, the pentagram rising out of his skin with a silvery, lunar glow. The apartment door looked no different than one moment earlier but when Starsky planted his hand on the grain of the wood, he Saw the Hawthorn wood just beneath, calling to him.
"We leaving?" Hutch asked, grabbing his right hand in a strong grip.
"Train's pulling out of the station right now." Starsky closed his eyes, summoning the same calm he'd had when they went through the magical door the last time. There were no obvious wards guarding the entrance, but now he could feel the power emanating from this place. He murmured spells that welled up from his earliest memories, protecting he and Hutch on the voyage, calling to the magic that had brought them here.
Pain so intense that Starsky cried out burned through his hand. The wood gave, becoming the consistency of quicksand. He stepped through, hanging onto Hutch as they were swirled into a vortex that cramped his belly. After a moment that was as endless as the entire universe and as quick as the blink of an eye, Starsky stumbled against Hutch, landing on hard concrete.
Rain spilled into his eyes and he opened them, leaning against the comforting bulk of his partner. They were standing on the sidewalk in front of a dilapidated building, getting very wet from the winter rainstorm.
"Home again, home again, jiggity-jig," Hutch said, his voice unsteady. "My grandmother used to say that whenever she came home from a long trip."
"What a strange trip it's been," Starsky quoted, turning around to take in his city. The buildings were once again boarded-up shells and flophouses, with decades to wait until they were revived in peacock array. There was his car, snugged against the curb, the candy apple red paint bright even in the dark. A measure of anxiety drained away, leaving him weary beyond belief.
"Grateful Dead."
Starsky laughed, "Hutch, you never cease to amaze me. Who'd a thought you'd be a Dead Head?"
"Long ago girlfriend," Hutch confessed. "So, were we really there?" He pointed up to the third floor. "In 2008?"
Starsky probed the palm of his hand. The pain had leached away completely and the tattoo was fading fast. Very soon it would just be a faint star and circle mingled with the lines folded into skin. "It wasn't a dream unless both of us are hallucinating. You remember Brown and Dennehy?"
"Gihae and Montenegro," Hutch agreed solemnly. "Let's get out of this rain, you're as pale as a... " He stopped, a rueful smile tightening his cheeks. "You must be exhausted."
"Yeah." Starsky gave 850 Main one last look and probed in his pocket for the keys to the Torino. There they were, just as they should be. He opened the passenger door for Hutch, splashing through a puddle in the gutter as he rounded the hood of the car to get to his side. Every step taking him back into his real life.
What about the future? How much of that was real? So many little things could sway what happened from one minute to the next. Would Nicky really be shot by an assassin from Faerie on November tenth, 2008? If Starsky advised him to stay away from Bay City in the twenty-first century, would that keep him safe? Or if he told Nick about his possible death, would the information change everything and cause him to be killed in some other way, on some other day and time?
"If butterflies in South America can make the wind blow in Africa, you think I can change what happens to Nick?" Starsky asked wearily, leaning his head back against the seat of the Torino. There was too much to think about, too much to consider.
"Starsky, you have twenty-eight years to change the future. It's not too late to start now." Hutch smiled at him, his blue eyes like stars in the night.
"Think we should tell Hug about his kid?"
"No." Hutch chuckled. "I liked Han, but let dear old dad find out who his son will be like any other parent. We should talk to Nick, though. Make sure he's not dealing, now or..."
"In the future." Starsky nodded, sad when he shouldn't be, because Nick was safe in New York, as far as he knew. Was it possible to know too much? He laughed and leaned across the seat to kiss that luscious mouth just opposite his and get lost in those blue eyes. "Tomorrow is another day," he said just before finding Hutch's lips on his. For a moment, time stretched and contracted, sealing the two of them together.
Hutch clutched at him, drawing him closer until Starsky was half out of his seat and his leg was jammed against the gear shaft.
"You're all wet." Hutch nibbled on Starsky's lower lip, letting Starsky take possession of the last kiss. "Let's get out of these wet clothes."
"Right here?" Starsky grinned, banishing any fatigue to the back of his brain. Hutch was there beside him. Nicky wasn't dead. Dobey's daughter wasn't the DA. Huggy didn't have a handsome, teasing son--yet.
"You dog." Hutch struggled to pull off his damp letterman jacket in the confines of the car. He twisted, pulling ineffectively on the wet wool and smacked his arm the roof. "You can't wait until we get home?"
"You're the one who wanted to take your clothes off." Starsky rolled his eyes at Hutch's contortions. "Let me. Ain't like I haven't undressed you before." He tugged the sleeve past Hutch's arm and saw something poking out of the pocket. "What's this?" Starsky abandoned his efforts, plucking the newspaper out just as Hutch got the jacket all the way off.
"Starsk," Hutch said on an exhale. "That's . . ."
"The future governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger." Starsky read the headline of the BC Chronicle again. California finally had a balanced budget after months of recession. He flipped the newspaper over, glancing at the other articles, something he hadn't done when he'd first had the paper. Just below the fold were two columns on the recent president-elect, Barack Obama. "The president's black," he said in wonderment.
"I think I'm looking forward to that new world." Hutch dumped his soggy coat in the back seat and took the paper so that Starsky could strip off his own jacket. "That nifty little telephone Dennehy had in his ear."
"That was something," Starsky agreed, still amazed that they had proof of their visit to the future. "But I gotta get one of those huge TVs. What'd he call it?"
"A plasma screen," Hutch answered, flipping through the front section of the paper. "Which makes no sense. Plasma is a component of blood. You got some after surgery last year..." He trailed off, reading silently.
Starsky started the car, inordinately pleased with all the simple pleasures of life; the purring roar of the Torino's engine, the smell of wet Hutch and the promise of naked Hutch in the very near future, and a phone call to his mother and brother just as soon as they got home. No, make that naked Hutch first--on the bed, with his legs spread wide--then phone call in the morning. There was the three-hour time difference between California and New York. Didn't need to wake Ruta Starsky up at some ungodly hour just to tell her that he missed her.
"Starsk," Hutch said in a strange, sweet and slightly strangled voice.
"What's the matter?" Starsky released the handbrake but not the foot pedal, holding the big car in stasis when Hutch held up the item on the front page of the middle section. Just under the banner of City News was their picture. They were older and a bit fuller in the face. Both of them were wearing suits--Hutch in a blue tie and Starsky sporting a red one. Hutch was beaming, his blue eyes bright and his silver-blond hair thin on top. "You're still the best looking guy in the room," Starsky said reverently.
"Not so bad yourself for an old codger."
"Five months older." Starsky stared at himself at sixty-three, stunned. His curls were streaked with gray but nothing could diminish the joy that radiated from his face.
"We got married," Hutch said softly, pointing to the text. "It's legal in 2008. Men can get married to each other."
"It's worth the wait, babe." Starsky looked away from the older Hutch into his own beautiful, blond Hutch. Tears sparkled in the summer blue eyes and Starsky was undone. He just remembered to set the hand brake before kissing Hutch again, pouring every ounce of love he had the power to give into his partner.
It made his palm tingle.
FIN