The Magpie Feather

By Elsa ©

this story won the third place in the category Original Female Character
this story also won third place in the category Outstanding Second Language Story

“And they are police?”

“Yes,” said the nervous young man in front of me. “Bay City Police Department.”

“Detectives?”

“Yes.”

“That changes the price. Half a million dollars. Per head. Seventy percent paid in advance to a Swiss bank account, thirty percent after the job is done. Expenses made for the job to be paid for separately.”

“My boss won’t like that,” the young man said and swallowed.

“Your boss expects Conrad to kill two cops. Good work doesn’t come cheap,” I replied stoically. “Go to your boss and tell him what I told you. I will contact Conrad and you will be here tomorrow evening, same time.”

“Okay.”

“Leave the photos here.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You can go now."

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait are you waiting for?"

He left. So I had to kill two Bay City Police Officers? Quite a challenge.

***

Of course, the client paid. They always do. I received the money – seventy percent in advance as agreed. Per head. I don’t really care for money but it’s convenient. Money buys things that the salt of the earth can only dream of. Yet, I don’t like to live in luxury. I enjoy a rather Spartan setting, wherever I am. I spend a lot of times in hotels, motels, guesthouses and bed & breakfasts. The simpler, the better. I do however enjoy good sanitary facilities. Shower and toilet, a bath – that does it for me.

I’ve bought two houses, one on the east and one on the west coast, and an apartment in a centrally situated state. So it’s not the money I do it for. It’s the fact that I can. The fact that I don’t fail. The fact that I’ve made killing my job.

Details about what set it off and how it became my work are in my past and don’t linger on them. It suffices to say that it began when I killed a man out of self defence when he tried to rape and throttle me. After that one thing lead to another.

Forensics found the feather of a magpie on the dead man’s body. When I split the victim’s skull with a stone, a feather was caught between the rock and the blood splatters. I liked the idea of a mark and began to use it. Only police and detectives know – the magpie feather has never been revealed to the audience.

Very gradually word of my activities reached the dogs of the underworld. My circle of clients widened. Conrad, a.k.a. The Magpie got respected and feared, although no one knows it’s ME who does the killing. I always make them believe I’m the contact to the actual hit man. They look at a 25 year old attractive blonde student, a 65 year old grey vamp, a 35 year sullen brunette, a 47 year old, washed out house mom. They never know they look the assassin straight in the eye. They never know I’m Conrad, The Magpie.

***

I studied the black and white photos for a long time. It’s important to me to familiarize myself with the target thoroughly. By observing photos endlessly the face gets, as it were, etched on my retina. I always destroy photos, not leaving any trail behind. It’s all in my head.

The photos were taken during lunch hour. On the left was a blond man, eating a sandwich with lettuce and tomatoes. To his right a man with curly, dark hair sat perched on a wooden table and had a hamburger that dripped with grease and ketchup.

The second photo – the pictures were excellent, taken by a good photographer and ditto camera – was a close-up of Blondie. I studied his face carefully, taking in the light eyes, which I knew must be blue. Delicate features, cheekbones slightly emphasising the shape of his face, eating carefully and enjoying the food. Blond hair, loosened by the wind. Strands were blown over his forehead. It suited him. He wore a turtleneck shirt and a dark leather jacket – grey and black in the photo. All in all a quite handsome man, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties.

The other man was of the same age. He wore a sweat shirt and a bomber jacket. His curls were natural, his hair was thick and dark. His eyes were not as dark, maybe light brown or dark blue. The way he ate his burger was different from the way the blond man ate – they both enjoyed the food, but Curly devoured it. His eyes accompanied the smile that curled around the left corner of his mouth. There was a hint of boyishness in his face. He too, was worth a second glance.

Blondie and Curly. A health freak and a clown. A couple. A duo. A team. Soon to be dead.

I looked at the photos for a long time, until I was so familiar with their faces that I didn’t need them anymore. I burned them and flushed the ashes down the toilet.

***

Next to the cottage a red car with white striping was parked. It stood out like a sore finger, the bright red amidst the eternal green of the trees, the undergrowth and the foliage of the forest. I recognized the type: a Ford Torino. With the setting sun reflecting on it, it somehow reminded me of tasty, sun ripened tomatoes.

The door of the cottage was ajar. Music was playing inside.

“Hello?” I called.

A voice reached my ears. “Starsk?”

I stepped in and followed the voice. From the kitchen a smell came my way, which brought water to my mouth. There was a chef at work. I peeked around the door and there he was – Blondie.

“Hang on a mo…” he fiddled with pots and pans and turned the gas low. He wiped his hands on a towel. “Did you bring the…?”

He was every bit the photo and my recollection, but he flashed me a smile that didn’t come with the pictures. My face made the look on his change. “O. Errr… You’re not Starsky.”

Well, that was the understatement of the year. He quickly turned the volume of the radio off, looking as surprised as could be expected.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” I asked him slowly, pretending to be appalled and upset.

“I’m sorry? Miss…?” O, you’re going to be much more surprised than this, Blondie, I thought.

“I rented this cottage. This … Who are you?”

“There must be a misunderstanding,” Blondie said, slightly worried. “I’ve rented this cottage – I’m here on holiday. This week.”

“No,” I said belligerently and shook my head, “not any longer. I’ve rented this place for this week. I’ve got the reservation right here.”

“So do I,” he said and fetched an envelope from the mantle piece. “Here. See? My reservation.”

My forgery is notorious. How could he know both papers came from the same hand? I took out mine. “But… but this is mine.”

He took it from me and studied it. When he looked up from the paper, a vertical wrinkle had appeared between his eyebrows. “This is very strange. This must be a case of double booking.”

He got a somewhat helpless look.

Then another voice preceded a man, who could only be Curly. “”ullo. Problems?”

“Yes,” we said simultaneously.

In a few words, Blondie brought Curly up to speed. I picked up the well-oiled machinery between the two. This needed good planning, for one was very aware of the other. I scrutinized them as they were consorting.

“Look Miss, you’ve come a long way. Why not join us for dinner and we’ll think of something. It’s too late to do anything about this. It’s almost dark and these forests are really pitch dark – I don’t want anyone to wander off here. Please, would you accept dinner?”

“But…”

“Miss, I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like Hutch’s cooking,” Curly said dashingly. He smiled and I met lively, bright dark blue eyes that followed his smile.

“Well, in that case…” I sighed.

Blondie extended his hand and I took it. Warm and firm – the way I like a handshake to be. “Kenneth Hutchinson,” he introduced himself. “This is my partner David Starsky.”

“Minerva Conraditz,” I said and shook his and after that Curly’s hand.

“Well, miss Conraditz – maybe you’d like to use the bathroom to freshen up a little while I fix the rest of the dinner?”

“Yes please. And - call me Connie.”

“Okay, Connie it’ll be.” Blondie went back into the kitchen and the dark haired man began to set the table. After that he cleared up the room a bit, shrugging apologetically.

“Sorry ‘bout this. Hutch is kinda messy.”

I smiled gingerly. “Bathroom?”

“That door,” he said with a nod of his head.

I closed the door behind me and met my own reflection in the mirror. So far, so good.

***

The evening turned out to be an unexpectedly pleasant one. There was something very strange about the two. Unlike most men I had shared tables with, they did every effort to trivialize their own and praise the other one’s achievements. Yet, they didn’t give away anything about the cases they worked on. They did tell me they were police officers (surprise, surprise) but like some sworn oath of secrecy they kept details between themselves. I know all cops do – or are supposed to anyway – but there was a level of unspoken understanding that ensured they never crossed an imaginary ‘revealing’ line. It came natural. Both men knew exactly where that line was.

“What’s the attraction in being a cop?” I asked. “Isn’t it like carrying coals to Newcastle? For every felon you catch, ten others are eagerly waiting in line to follow.”

Blondie answered. “If I prevent one murder by catching a bad guy, then it makes it worth while. It’s true, it’s frustrating at times. The brains behind assassinations that we never seem to be able to catch, the rapist who gets away in court, the vanished arsonist who’s responsible for the death of a homeless man who happened to be sleeping in the place he’s set afire…”

Curly agreed. “As long as innocent people die, there’s always a drive to keep going. Every time I see lifeless eyes of victims, tears in those who survived or are left behind…  It’s always hard. In all the years I’ve been a cop, I’ve never got accustomed to it. Never could and never will.”

Blondie raised his glass and let the light play with the wine. “I don’t ever want to get used to it.”

“I drink to that,” Curly acknowledged and Blondie followed his friend’s example.

My my… they weren’t just empty headed cops who did as they were being told. They actually thought about their work. About the victims and about the perps they were trying to catch. I liked the fact that they could be serious as well as light-hearted.

“You always work together?”

“Yep,” said Curly. “Always. We watch each other’s back. We’re so used to working together that it’s part of our way of life.”

“It IS our way of life,” the other corrected his partner’s words. He changed the subject. “Enough about us. What do you do for a living, Connie?”

People who ask me that question, always get an honest answer. Once. “I’m a professional hit man,” I said. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

Curly was the first to react. “In that case I must say you sure as hell know how to pick your holiday!” He snorted with laughter, as did Blondie.

I laughed too. Funny, isn’t it, that it’s always considered a joke? Even while I’m honest, no one believes me.

“The lady’s got a wicked sense of humour.” Blondie chuckled, “Now, what DO you do?”

I answered again the way I always do. “I’ve done everything. Worked in a restaurant, a tax office, a sports school, for a marine biologist, for a computer expert, a grocery store … I’m a jack of all trades and a master of none.”

Both men looked at me, slightly surprised, to see if I was telling the truth. It was true. I worked in all those places, for all those people, as a result of, or prior to, an assignment.

“I like to change often, see what the world has to offer. It’s a good way to live. I get to see things of the world and meet a lot of special people. I’m like an ornithologist: the more birds I see, the more birds I want to see.”

Curly nodded once, laughed broadly and touched my glass with his. “I’ll drink to that too.” He threw me a happy glance. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Actually, he seemed to be at peace with the world in general and his life in particular.

I enjoyed myself much better than I had in a long time. As alcohol was running freely – I kept sure to drink very little to keep a clear head – the men got more relaxed and improvingly amusing. They were an entertaining couple, filling in the blanks in each other’s stories, bringing tears to my eyes from laughter.

Much more than I was willing to admit I liked their company and the evening. Both men were very hospitable and excellent hosts. They didn’t want to hear about me helping out with the dishes so Mr Dark Guy put on a fire for me to sit by and relax. I waltzed the white wine around in my glass and thought about the men, who were frolicking and bantering in the kitchen.

How should I do it? Electricity? Poison? Knife? My gun, that was stashed in parts in my suitcase? They drank enough wine to probably be sound asleep during the night, which would give me plenty of time and opportunity. I sat back and relaxed. I was fairly sure what was going to happen. They were in a way predictable. Either they would offer me the cottage and leave or they would ask if we could share it for the week. Since they would be here for at least this night, there was no rush.

“You’re still there, Connie?”

“Sure. You’re silently hoping I’m bailing out of here?”

“Are you nuts?” That was Curly.

Immediately followed by the blond cop. “YOU are, egg head. Behave. I’m doing my best to make the lady feel welcome – and you manage to crush it with one of your Starsky-goes-to-school-remarks.”

“Starsky-does-what?” His face appeared around the door of the kitchen and he was all smiles. It was so funny to see him like that, that I burst out in laughing.

“You. Being all like a steamroller. Once you start, you can’t stop. Babbling, talking total nonsense.”

“Well, pardon ME for being the illiterate one, Monsieur.” He snorted. “I bet your erudite talking will put Connie to sleep in no time.”

“Erudite? Have you been trying to learn a new word again?” This time the blond appeared again and exasperatedly rolled his eyes.

“My ‘babbling’ as you so nicely put it, is the only thing that keeps her from dozing off, do you realise that?”

“Connie – tell us, are you still with us?”

“I’m having a ball,” I replied. “It’s like watching a comedy here.”

It went on and on like that, and I was highly amused. Not once it was ugly or nasty and – and that struck me too – they kept very chivalrous towards me. I knew for a fact that they were the kind of smooth talkers who could get a lot of girls between the sheets in no time. If they wanted to.

But since our meeting was not planned as a date is, they were careful.

My own thought made me chuckle. Our meeting WAS planned of course. But how much did they know?

I usually found a slight devilish pleasure in personally meeting my victims before the hit. Though briefly, I often saw what my clients hated so much. Especially unscrupulous business men, sexual perverts and child molesters were a thorn in my flesh and I felt little remorse when I killed them according to the deal. Fact is, I usually feel very little at all.

Nevertheless, now I wondered why I was ordered to kill these men. They made a very sincere and pleasant impression on me. I realised that they were probably very good at their jobs. Without a doubt, that was exactly the reason why my client wanted them out of the way. They were a threat because they were good at what they did. Good and persistent.

My thoughts were put to a halt by the train of charisma that came rolling in from the kitchen. They were nice. Blondie and Curly. Really nice.

***

Curly had a peculiar liking to Monopoly. The three of us played a hilarious game that lasted until one at night. It was very funny to see how Curly nearly bought himself bankrupt, trying to get his partner into stepping on his property while Blondie somehow managed to skip the hazardous areas time and time again. The comradeship between them was heart warming. I noticed they called each other by their last names – or an abbreviation of it. Hutch, short for Hutchinson and Starsk or Starsky, plus a dozen of other names, varying from pal to buddy and Gordo to Blintz.

When finally Curly had to give up and Blondie was the winner, the last one said,

“You can sleep in Starsky’s room. We’ll share mine.”

Curly nodded. “Hutch, you take the floor, I’ll go for the bed,” he quipped, a grin from ear to ear.

“Starsky, my son – you disappoint me. You don’t think the bed is big enough for the both of us?”

“Man, as much as I love you – I don’t want to wake up in your arms.” He made a face. “Ugh! The thought of seeing YOU first in the morning… yuk!”

Blondie studied the ceiling and made a face to me. I laughed.

Every joke and every pun added to the great atmosphere this lovely evening. And what was most remarkable: it never annoyed me.

“If you clear out your room, I’ll help Connie with her bags,” Blondie suggested as he got to his feet. “In your car, I take it?”

“Yes,” I said and we put away the Monopoly board. Curly went to his bedroom to get his things out, and I followed Blondie outside to my car.

“I left the keys in the ignition,” I said. “Hang on, I’ll open the trunk.”

Blondie walked round the back and opened the boot. Half seated in the front seat of the car, my fingers softly slid down my right boot, where I held my big hunter’s knife. It was in the sheath, attached with tape to the inside of my boot, ready for use.

I still wasn’t sure how to go about. I’m not particularly keen on guns, although they are very effective. But the men were rather big, and especially Blondie seemed too tall for me. I couldn’t just slid his throat, since we were not on the same eye level. I’m rather short myself. I might take them tonight, by surprise, as I had already thought inside.

From my mirror dangled my talisman: a magpie feather.

***

Exactly at that moment I heard something that brought the hair on my arms on end. A roaring, soft and deep and unbelievably menacing. It was like a primal sound, coming from very deep within. It aired danger, menace – life threatening and bloodcurdling…

The blood in my veins seemed to freeze.

I looked in my mirror, but my view was hindered by the lid of the trunk that was open. In my side mirror I picked it up. In the scarce light coming from the cottage I saw a shape, flickering teeth – 1400 pounds of muscles and anger.

Just a few feet from Blondie stood a giant grizzly bear. Blondie stood dead still, trying not to defy the animal, but the bear attacked almost instantly. Hutchinson never stood a change. Maybe the alcohol had taken away the top of his reflexes, but he was a split second too late. I must admit I was still surprised by how fast he reacted to avoid the giant paw that the bear swung out at him. Nevertheless the claw hit him and send him sprawling to the humid soil.

The bear – standing on its hind legs and towering an impressive seven or eight foot in the air – roared and dropped his weight onto Hutchinson, who had fallen to the ground by the first blow. He opened his jaws, ready to bite Blondie’s head of. It was only a few feet away from me, the air thick with its presence. Blondie struggled. I heard something snap and a cry that filled the night – Hutchinson’s cry.

In a flash of second I reacted. I pulled the hunter’s knife from my boot and in the same movement I threw it at the large predator, aiming for its giant head. The knife buried itself just a little below its ear, into the thick fur. I couldn’t tell if the knife struck home.

But my knife wasn’t the only thing that hit him. Four shots rang out, coming from Curly’s gun, who stood, legs wide, gun held high, in the doorway. The bear roared in pain and ran off, taking my knife and Curly’s four bullets with him.

“Hutch!” Curly called scared, was in two steps at his partner, who lay motionless on the ground. “Gawd… Hutch… Geez…” His eyes flashed to me. “Connie? You okay?”

“Yes,” I acknowledged with rubber in my voice. I’m not easily scared but that animal sure as hell spooked the living daylights out of me. I dropped down to my knees, next to his partner.

Hutchinson was semi-unconscious. He seemed aware of his partner but not enough to answer him. Starsky put his hands around his friend’s face and tried to bring him back to the land of the living.

“Hutch? Come on, babe. Open your eyes. Please. Do it for me. I know you can. Come on. Open your eyes.”

I looked at him closely. His face, in this light, was hard to see, but his total posture radiated worry and concern. It was a sight for sore eyes, one that my darkened mind hadn’t seen for a long time.

“Hutch, answer me. Talk to me, buddy. Say ‘yes’ and I’ll stop naggin’. Com’on, Hutch.”

Something that sounded like ‘aye’ came from Hutch’s lips.

“Good boy,” Starsky said softly and stroke his friend’s hair once. “Good boy, Hutch.”

“We’ve got to bring him inside,” I said. Starsky nodded.

“Hutch? This’ll hurt, but we’ve got to get you inside,” he said kindly. Amazing – even as his partner was oblivious to his words, he still conferred with him.

He moaned and Starsky stiffened from the obvious hurt it caused. I looked around me, to make sure we wouldn’t be surprised a second time by a returning, pissed off bear. But it remained still and silent in the woods. Together, we brought him in the house and lowered him onto his bed.

***

Hutch’s injuries were serious although my experienced eye told me they were not life threatening. He had nasty gashes over his chest, that ran from his left shoulder down to his navel – four next to each other. Each imprint was a proof of the giant claws of the bear. His shirt was blood soaked, but there’s nothing more deceiving than the sight of blood. It often looks worse than it is.

Not so for the bite. That DID look bad and I’m sure it was. The snap I heard might very well have been one of the bones that broke, although ripping flesh can cause a similar sound.

With trembling fingers Starsky pulled Hutch’s shirt away.

“Step aside, Dave. Let me do it,” I said. But Starsky shook his head. Even though he was obviously very shaken by what happened to his friend, he was determined to handle it himself. I helped him, unable to get rid of the vision of the bear burying its teeth in Hutch’s shoulder. I was shaken too.

We took care of him together. With the well-equipped First Aid Kit from their car and the one I found in the bathroom, we tended to the wounds as good as possible. I placed little butterfly-shaped band-aids over the gashes, providing a kind of improvised stitching that brought the gaping skin back together again. During this, Hutch’s eyes slowly opened.

“Hey,” Starsky said, his voice thick with warmth and concern.

“Hey yourself,” Hutch said with a strained, strange voice.

“We’re gonna take care of your shoulder, Hutch. This is nasty.”

“Tell me somethin… I don’t know.”

Starsky pulled Hutch up to a sitting position. Sweat dripped from his face. He winced and bit his lip not to cry out loud when we cleansed his shoulder and applied a dressing to the wound. It was bleeding and looked very raw and painful.

“All done,” Starsky said comfortingly, and pulled a light blanket over the shivering blond man. He let out a shuddering sigh when we carefully lowered him back into the pillows again.

“Sorry, Ken,” I said. To my own surprise, I was sorry. It felt bad that he was hurt and I was sorry this was happening to him.

“Where did … that bear come from?” Hutch squeezed his tear-filled eyes. It was obvious his shoulder hurt a lot.

“I don’t know,” I answered in honesty. I wiped his wan face with a cool cloth. He pinched my hand gratefully.

“He must have picked up your scent,” Starsky mused, “or maybe our cooking.”

“Or maybe he was just looking for a snack,” I said. Hutch tried a brave smile, but he was exhausted. I took a few aspirins from my private package and handed it to them.

“What are those?” Starsky asked, suspiciously. Hutch was too tired to speak but in his eyes I saw a flash. Of what? Fear?

“Just aspirins,” I said. “They’ll ease the pain.”

Starsky took them from me, read the inscription and nodded his agreement. He helped Hutch take them. I didn’t miss whatever it was that was between them, and could only guess that Hutch and drugs didn’t go together too well.

Starsky stroked Hutch’s blond hair once. “Get some sleep, buddy. If there’s anything, just holler. I’ll be right here.”

On Hutch’s face a smile appeared, faintly and brief. His eyes were closed and with Starsky right beside him, he quickly fell asleep. I stood, resting against the door, and watched them. It was as if Starsky had forgotten about me. Every time Hutch’s breath stuck or was guided with a groan or a moan, Starsky stiffened. He hushed his friend tenderly, mumbling comforting words.

“Can I get you something?” I asked softly after a while. “A drink?”

“No. No thanks, Connie.” He looked up, looking ten years older. He got to his feet and came over to me. He put his hands on my shoulders and looked me into the eyes.

“Sorry – you must think I’m very selfish. Are you alright?”

He surprised me – again. “Yeah. A bit shaken, that’s all.”

“Sure?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Thanks for helping.” He smiled, tiredly, but sincere.

“Sure you don’t want a drink?”

“No, thanks. You want me to get your suitcase from your car?”

“No. I’ll do it. But keep an eye open, will you?” I patted his hand that rested on my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

***

Once in bed, sipping from a scotch, my mind repeated the film that was stored in my head. When had I stopped referring to them as Blondie and Curly?

It took a long, long time before sleep finally came.

***

“Connie?”

A soft knock on the door.

I was instantly awake and remembered what had happened a few hours ago.

“Hang on.” I got out of bed in my pyjamas and opened the door. There was Starsky, looking all crumpled and pale. I noticed a misty, bleak light of day that came seeping through the windows. It was still very early.

“His temperature is rising rapidly. We need to get him to a doctor.”

“Wound fever?” I asked.

“Yes. Some kind of infection.” He stood hopping from one leg onto the other, almost like dancing. His face carried traces of a bad night. I followed him to Hutch’s room.

“You worked so skilfully… professionally on his injuries last night. Are you a medic of some kind?”

I shook my head. “I’ve worked for Medicins sans Frontiers in Africa. I’ve learned it the hard way. I’ve had my share of sick and injured.” He took my explanation without further questions.

Hutch was indeed worse than when I left him that night. It was hard to imagine that he could go downhill that quickly, but on the other hand I knew what dirty wounds and infections could do. I put my hand on his face. It was burning. I checked the cuts on his chest. Those looked sore but not bad, but the shoulder was very red, swollen and warm. The skin near the ripped flesh was deep red and shining ominously. The smell that reached my nose told me bad news.

A moan curled from his lips as my fingers very softly touched the infected tissue.

“Ken. Ken! Hutch! Can you hear me?” I spoke loudly, patting his face gently. He reacted after a while. He saw me and bewildered eyes were searching for reassurance.

“Starsk?”

“Right here,” said the curly haired man and took his friend’s hand. “Let the lady take a look at you. She’s better at this than me.”

“Ken, you need to go to a hospital. The bite is infected.”

“Okay.” He whispered. His eyes were glistening with fever. Apart from the blush on his cheekbones, he was ghastly pale. “It hurts… Starsky… hurts so much…”

“Shhh. I know it does, buddy. Be strong. We’re working on it.”

Again there was this magic between them. Hutch turned subconsciously towards his partner, who gently brushed a strand of hair from his forehead and the injured man relaxed a little again.

I turned to Starsky who looked wide-eyed from Hutch to me and back. I took him aside.

“What do you want to do? You’re right – he’s not doing well. We can’t wait for him to go any worse.”

“Is he in a condition to drive?”

I shrugged and shook my head. “I seriously doubt it. It would be best if he was picked up be a Medivac team. Driving over these sand roads won’t do him any good and will undoubtedly be very painful.”

Starsky nodded. He bit his lip and looked at Hutch who was sinking away into oblivion again.

“How far is the nearest town?” I asked.

“That’s Pallas and that’s about forty miles southbound from here. How long will it take for you to get there and get a Medivac here?”

I calculated, quickly, like he did.

“They could be here somewhere around noon,” we said in unison.

“Or, I could drive northbound and hope to find a village to make a phone call,” I said.

“And waste valuable time?” Starsky raised a questioning eyebrow. He was right – that was long shot. This was a pretty isolated part.

“Shall we try to get him into the car?” His doubt was as evident as mine. For a few seconds we stood there, watching the blond man in the bed intently. He was not in any condition to be sitting up, let alone get through a ride in a rough terrain like this.

Starsky turned to me and took my hands in his.

“Connie, will you please get help? I wouldn’t ask this if I could do it myself. But I can’t leave him. Not now, not the way he is. I’m putting his life in your hands. In fact, I’m putting both our lives in your hands. If anything happens to him… I’ll never be able to forgive myself. I’m begging you… will you please drive to Pallas and get help?”

I had seen the magic between the two and for some reason that I could not understand myself, my eyes filled with tears.

“Sure. I will. Just let me get a few things. I’ll be as fast as I can.”

His spontaneous nature took over. He embraced me and hugged me. “Thank you,” he said stifled.

“No need to get all mushy on me, Dave. Come on, let’s get Hutch to safety.”

He gave me a well-meant warm kiss on my cheek. Relief shone in the sapphire eyes.

“Try to make sure he doesn’t get too hot. Rinse him, keep his hands and feet cool if he gets to warm. And if possible, let him drink. Light tea.”

Ten minutes later I was on the road.

***

What are you doing, Connie? You’re trying to save the man you were set out to kill.

Is this where preparation got you? You intercepted Hutch’s mail for weeks. You forged the papers, you got close to them. Drive away, let them be. Hutch won’t make it if he doesn’t get medical help. An easier job you’ve never had.

No! I can’t let him die. For Starsky. For the hell he’s going through.

You’re letting your judgement get clouded by a tragic event, a bear, a blond man, his curly partner and a nice evening.

No, not true. The evening had nothing to do with it. Their respect towards me. Their lust for life. Their unconditional friendship. Their… their love for each other. Their Magic!

I drove to Pallas in a world record time. I alerted the hospital, they got the Medivac in the air and somewhere around two that afternoon, Hutch was wheeled into the theatres where he was treated for the bear bite wound. His shoulder was badly damaged but thanks to the quick first aid we had given him and his strong constitution the doctors convinced us it would all heal well. A fair amount of antibiotics and sleep would do the rest.

I found Starsky in the hall, in the hospital. He was dozing in a chair but he woke when I approached him.

“I came to say goodbye,” I said and took the chair next to him.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yep. I’ve got unfinished business to take care of,” I said slowly.

“You’re not waiting till he comes round?” He sulked a bit. “They won’t let me near him yet.”

I laughed, softly.

“No,” I said and shook my head.

He cupped his hands around my face and gently placed a kiss on my lips. It was so tender that it tingled all the way down to my feet.

“Thank you, Connie. With all my heart – thank you. Tell me how I can reach you?”

“You can’t,” I simply said. “But I know where to find you.”

He picked up something in my voice and the blue irises seemed to grow a shade darker. But he didn’t say what he thought. I hugged him and after a last goodbye I left him.

Just as I got to the door, his voice reached me. “Where did you learn to use a knife like that?”

So he HAD seen it. I turned on my heels. “In a circus. I’ve worked in a circus a couple of years.”

He laughed. So did I.

“Connie?”

“Yes?”

“Minerva Conrad?”

“What?”

Shit. I reacted positively to Conrad. That was a name I never mentioned to them.

“Nah. Never mind.”

***

Starsky and Hutch were my last assignment. I went back, put a tip to the police about my client who ordered the killing of Blondie and Curly and donated almost my entire fortune to charity.

I sometimes still see them, when I visit Bay City. They never see me. I keep out of sight, as I have done for years. I have the unexplainable feeling that Starsky and Hutch have studied the Conrad files extensively.

I’ve never taken up the trade again.

The End

Elsa, April 2004