Cliffhanger

There were two things that scared Starsky, really scared him deep down. Not like snakes and falling off buildings, nothing like that—those weren't things that kept him awake at night, afraid to sleep, afraid to dream. He'd never told Hutch about the worst fears. So when the day came that both of those things cold-cocked him at the same time, he figured it was time to confess.

So he said, "Hutch. Got something I should tell you."

"Now?" Hutch said without opening his eyes.

He tightened his grip on Starsky's wrists, both of them, and Starsky fought hard not to whimper from the pain of it.

don't let go don't let go

"I—" He hesitated, and tried to get a full breath.

"Don't have all day here, buddy. You got something to say, now's the time."

"Hutch." He spit some gritty dirt out of his mouth. "Sometimes I have bad dreams."

"That's what you want to tell me? Now?" He opened his eyes, tried to shake his hair off his face, and looked down at Starsky's face.

The small movement rained more dirt into Starsky's eyes, and down into the front of his shirt. It trickled down his belly, tickling his hairs as it moved. It felt dry, until it stuck to his sweat.

don't move don't move

"No. I—"

"Just put your right foot up a little more, I think there's a little ledge there." Hutch closed his eyes again, so tight that his lashes disappeared. "Come on, Starsky, just try to move your foot."

"Can't. Hurts." He tried, though. If it could only be his left foot, maybe there'd be a chance. "I'm sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're going to be if you don't try. Please just try."

"I'm scared."

"That your big revelation?" Hutch tried to move backward. "I'm scared, too."

It was hard to talk with his mouth full of dust, his lungs all squashed against the backs of his ribs, and his shoulders pressed tight against the sides of his face.

"No. It's— I don't want it to be your fault."

That was Worst Fear Number Two. That Hutch would blame himself. He didn't know, even now, if he could tell him the first one.

"Don't," Hutch said. "Just don't."

"I'm serious." He tried to lift his right foot, just a little. All that happened, aside from the tearing feeling that something was definitely loose inside his leg, was that his sneaker fell off. He could hear it for a second or two as it bounced off the rocks and the side of the cliff. He watched Hutch watch it fall. He wondered if it would hit Dobson in the nose way down there when it landed. "It's not your fault."

don't cry out don't cry

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. I mean it." Hutch tried again to pull back a fraction, jaw tight, skin red and blotchy, eyes dark and wild.

Starsky thought his shoulders were going to dislocate, or his wrists were going to break. This time he couldn't keep that awful noise from escaping his throat. Even to him it sounded weak. A coward's wail.

I'm sorry Hutch I'm sorry

He didn't dare say it out loud.

Something dripped down the outside of his right leg.

Hutch tried to take a deep breath, but it didn't look like he could, not in that position, not with that rock pressing up into his chest. "If I move my hands closer together you can grab hold of my wrist, and then I can get some leverage with my free hand. Okay? Ready?"

no I can't don't let go

"Okay."

His elbow scraped dirt, scraped rock. His shoulders screamed.

"Open your eyes. Starsky! Open your eyes."

He tried but they wouldn't. Weird. He tried again.

"Never mind, buddy. Just do what I tell you, okay? Can you do that? I'll tell you what to do. You'll be okay."

say something say something

"Not your fault, Hutch. Tell me." He wanted to see his face, look at his eyes, but he couldn't. There were too many other things he didn't want to see at all.

Hutch groaned like his belly hurt him. "It's not my fault." But he said it fast like crossing your fingers behind your back, same kind of thing. "Now you have to listen to me. Listen. You have to put your left hand on my wrist. Can you feel it? It's right there. If you can grab onto me, I can let go and pull us back. Can you grab me? Come on, Starsk. Please."

"'kay." He closed his fingers around the hard bones of Hutch's wrist. He could feel a pulse under his middle finger. "I can feel your heart beating. Too fast. You should try meditation."

Hutch was going to let go of his wrist. He felt his stomach tighten and lift.

don't let go don't let go

Hutch let go.

Free fall wasn't so bad, not in itself. Kind of nice, maybe, if you didn't have to think about landing. Maybe he'd land on Dobson. Might make an interesting sound if he did. If he had time to hear it.

"Starsky! Stay with me, buddy, come on." Hutch grunted. Pulled. Swore. "You have to help me. I can't do it. Come on! Starsky!"

Dobson probably was wondering how come nobody'd grabbed hold of his wrists. Or no, he definitely was not wondering anymore. Maybe he had wondered, though, in the few moments he'd had to wonder, if trying to ambush two cops had been worth it to him. Or maybe he'd wondered who would take care of his family, or how sad his mom was going to be, and who would be the one to tell her the news, and if they'd tell her what he'd been doing just before he died, and that it was a bad thing, or maybe they'd try to make her feel better and tell her he was trying to save lives and that the last thing he'd said was "tell my mom . . ."

"Starsky!"

"Tell ma—"

"Oh, God. Please, Starsky."

"What?"

There was a nice breeze coming up from the canyon. He tipped his head back. It felt good on the back of his neck, and he liked the way it lifted the hair off Hutch's forehead, and blew it back from his face. Hutch always did well with the windblown look. It was an updraft, too, so maybe on the way down he'd get some gliding in, get to sightsee a little, like an eagle, or one a those vultures with the nine-foot wingspan.

Something hurt. Not his wrist, not his leg. Something else, something worse.

"Starsk."

That was it. That's what hurt.

don't break your heart Hutch it hurts

"Starsk."

say it I always loved you say it

"I always loved you, Hutch. I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, Starsky. Fuck you."

"Not the response I was expecting, y'know."

"If you don't help me now, I'm going to just let you go, and then I'm going to send that fucking goddam tomato over the edge after you and the walk home will be worth it, I swear."

"Forty-seven miles?"

"Worth it."

From a vulture's-eye point of view, Starsky watched Hutch walking, fast and furious at first, brushing off his hands, shaking out his shirt. And then brushing something out of his eyes and slowing down. And then he saw him stop, right there in the middle of the dusty track. What was he going to do? Start kicking at rocks? Pick one up and throw it back toward the empty cliff's edge? Start shouting obscenities at the circling vulture? Or maybe just curse Starsky out for making him walk forty-seven miles alone, with no one to talk to, no one to listen to.

okay Hutch it's okay

He took one more circling pass overhead, his vision clear and sharp. Dobson far below, with odd angles in his limbs, the smell of blood rising on the updraft. The odd blue speck, what was that? oh, his sneaker, have to buy new ones, green maybe this time, and there, himself attached to the side of the cliff, like a mountain goat. No, a goat wouldn't have let itself get head-butted off the cliff by its opponent. A bat. No, then he'd be upside down and he wasn't. Okay, then, one of those—hell he was out of ideas. Time to make landfall. Or no, that was a bad analogy. Time to return to his earthly bonds. That was better. Especially if he didn't want the Torino to end up a smashed and burning hulk. It would probably land right on top of him and Dobson, entomb them together forever like a double coffin . . .

Hutch's grip on his right wrist slipped. Just a fraction.

Someone yelled No! but Starsky was never sure who.

He began to slip down, his shirt lifting, his belly tearing against the rocks on the cliff face. His right leg caught fire, or that's how it felt, and he fought the urge to look down at it to see if that's what had really happened.

Hutch said something—there was no understanding what it was. But he was sliding too, and then someone was shouting, yelling, hollering. Screaming.

not you too not you just let go Hutch please let go

He kicked in and down with his left leg, without thought—all instinct, all mad fury.

fuck you Dobson I ain't sleeping with you for eternity and neither is Hutch

He kicked again and hit something solid. Toed it, shoved down on it.

come on come on

Lifted up a fraction. Scrabbled with his left hand—when had he let go of Hutch's wrist? Found a root, had it been there before? Up an inch. Hutch moved back, pulled hard.

come on come on

He could see over the edge now. Hutch was wriggling backward like a demented rattler. He sounded like one, too. He dragged at Starsky's right wrist and pulled hard like he was trying to yank a gopher out of its burrow.

Starsky got his left elbow up onto the crumbling edge of the cliff and kicked some more. Hutch seemed to be having trouble breathing.

"Grab my shirt."

At least that's what Starsky thought he said, so he did. Hutch lifted himself up onto his knees, and dragged Starsky up with him, up and over and then Starsky was lying on the flat ground, face in the dust, arms up beyond his head, like those priests when they take their vows, what was the word anyway, oh ordained, and maybe that's what he should be doing, too, taking some kind of vow like I will never swat a fly again or I will let Hutch throw trash into the back seat and just clean it up later without saying anything or I will adopt three starving children in Botswana or . . .

Finally finally Hutch let go of the deathlock on his wrist and flopped over backward. He stared up at the sky like he'd never seen it before.

"Oh, my leg," Starsky said. It was still sticking out into space, and while it was no longer on fire, it was making sure no one had forgotten it was feeling poorly. And, "Oh, my wrist," he threw in, too, because that was the last thing he was going to say about either one.

He listened to Hutch's ragged breathing, and to his own heart. Somebody had to say something. Starsky decided it could be Hutch, because anything he said himself was just going to come across as complaining, and he felt he really shouldn't be complaining about anything. Not while he was lying face down on flat ground with Hutch breathing hard right by his head. So he waited, and tried not to moan.

"Starsk." It came out in kind of a croak.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

oh for Godsakes he's going to take the blame anyway

"What for?"

"You said you loved me, and I didn't say it back."

An unseemly urge to laugh began somewhere down deep, just above the spot where the stick was digging into his lower left rib. He tried to move one of his arms down to get rid of the stick, but neither of his shoulders would unlock. The sun beat down on his back, but he could feel himself start to shiver.

"Well?" Starsky said.

say it back then say it back now

"Well, what?"

"Oh my God."

If he moved his head just a fraction it would be easier to see if Hutch was moving yet.

just come over here and move this stick would you please

Hutch rolled himself over with a couple of grunts, turned himself around, and pushed up onto his knees.

"Shit, buddy. Can you move?"

"No."