When the judge rapped his gavel on the desk, and called out, "Court is adjourned," Starsky groaned with relief, pulling off his black knit tie. He hated these depositions with a passion usually associated with such things as root canals and pulling traffic duty. He'd been in the stuffy courtroom for hours. Finally, freedom!

Following Hutch out the front doors of the Los Angeles county courthouse, Starsky paused on the top of the stairs, arching his back in a spine-cracking stretch to get out all the kinks from sitting for so long.

"You didn't have to stay all day," Hutch said with a smile, watching Starsky massage his neck. "Since you were done by ten-thirty this morning."

"Hey, I wanted to support my buddy." Starsky threw his arm around Hutch's shoulders. "That attorney was a schmuck, grillin' you all afternoon about the dumbest little details." He pulled the bag of M&M's he'd gotten from the vending machine out of his pocket and offered a handful to Hutch.

Hutch took three greens and a tan.

"You must be in the mood, tiger." Starsky winked at him, eating a couple oranges and a green one. "Wanna go eat M&M's in bed? I can get us some more greens."

"Starsky, that's a myth." Hutch shot him a look of amused distain. "There's no reason that the green dye is any more of an aphrodisiac than the tan dye is, or the..."

"Orange, yellow, tan, brown and green," Starsky said, eating one of each as he named the colors. "Remember when you could get red ones? I liked the red ones!"

"Starsky, they all taste the sa..." Hutch stumbled on the bottom step to the sidewalk.

The cement shuddered. That was the only word Starsky could think to describe the sensation. A sudden vibration as if a massive truck had driven by, enough to shift a whole concrete staircase, and then terra firma reestablished itself.

"Earthquake," Starsky said, his heart going double time. Earthquakes in the southland were not a weekly occurrence but they were never unexpected, either. Just another bonus of living in California. All around him, pedestrians on the sidewalk and in front of the courthouse had stopped to take a breath, commenting on the capricious nature of the earth.

"Must have been a three point six or so," Hutch said, his voice retaining a hint of nerves. "Not enough to cause any damage, unless I miss my guess."

"One of your strengths, Hutch. You're a human seismo- whatchamacallit." Starsky reached the Torino parked by the curb and unlocked the door.

"Seismograph, dummy," Hutch said affectionately, giving his arm a squeeze. "Any M&M's left?"

"I dropped the last two when the quake hit," Starsky said, showing an empty hand. "You know, if we're goin' to Huggy's holiday shindig tonight, I need to get some cash."

"Wait a minute." Hutch dug into his jacket pocket and produced his wallet. "I've got..." He smiled ruefully. "Two bucks."

"Not enough to entertain me in the mode to which I've gotten accustomed," Starsky snarked. He pointed down a block. "There's a bank. I'll go over there and withdraw a couple twenties. Then we can party tonight, 'cause court is out until after Christmas and we don't have to work until Boxing Day."

"You must have watched too many versions of Christmas Carol." Hutch shut the car door. "Nobody in California calls December 26th that."

"I do." Starsky shrugged, crossing the street. "So, you think ol' Hopkins will get you back on the stand in January and keep trying to trip you up on your statement? I wish t'hell that I'd been the one to plug that whippo instead of you."

"Thanks, buddy, but you weren't exactly rowing with both oars in the water after he cold-cocked you," Hutch said, walking close enough to lightly bump Starsky's hip every other step or so.

"I guess, but it sucks that you're getting reamed by a two-bit shyster who's got delusions of grandeur." Starsky admired the Christmas decorations on almost every building. Wreathes, little illuminated trees and cut-outs of Santa Claus. He loved Christmas time — it was like one big party every day. Which was why being locked up in a damned courtroom for the day, with the prospect of more to come in January of 1979, was such a dismal fate. He'd much rather be out cruising the streets, running down suspects and jawing with snitches. His kind of life. "You still want to go to Maria Ramos' house tomorrow evening to celebrate with Kiko and Molly?"

"What do you think?" Hutch held open the heavy metal and glass door of the bank for Starsky. "Then you and I can spend Christmas morning in bed, opening gifts and..."

"Yeah," Starsky chuckled, already aroused at the picture Hutch had planted in his head. The two of them nude, the covers thrown back, some holiday music on the radio, and a couple of ribbons to tie around various portions of their anatomy for the other to 'unwrap'.

"Hey, wow!" Starsky gazed around the elegant bank lobby with appreciation. The place had been decorated sumptuously with a ten-foot tree decked out in huge gold coins and jeweled dollar signs. In addition, there was a small historical exhibition along one wall. A bright banner above a display of photos and memorabilia proclaimed "Our Bank One Hundred Years Ago!"

"I'd like to look at that. Apparently this bank has been in this exact spot for almost that long," Hutch said, migrating over to the display.

"Me, too. Give me a minute to cash this check and get some bucks, and I'll join you," Starsky called out, but Hutch was already reading the text under one of the pictures.

His transaction was quickly concluded and with fifty dollars in his pocket, Starsky wandered over to where Hutch was standing. The first picture in the exhibit was of an earlier version of the Gold Country bank: a three story brick building on an old fashioned street, complete with a horse drawn buggy out front, circa 1876. The building they were currently standing in, with its Corinthian columns and marble floors, was built in 1905, reflecting the prosperous pre-war era. There was a cluster of photos of past bank managers and wealthy investors, as well as yellowed newspaper articles chronicling the local history.

History buff Starsky could have spent an hour perusing the fascinating glimpse into the past. He was just trying to read the small print from an article describing a bank robbery in December of 1878 when Hutch poked him in the side.

"Starsk!"

Torn from the particularly vivid description of a woman who claimed to have been looking out her window on a "cold, clear night with no moon" in time to see the band of outlaws running from the bank, Starsky was annoyed at Hutch's interruption. "Hutch! This was really interesting. The robbers cracked the safe combination and got away with twenty thousand dollars," Starsky protested, pointing to the clipping. "That musta been nearly a million in our dollars."

"Look at this picture and tell me what you see?" Hutch said in a peculiar voice, indicating a fairly blurry photograph dated December 1878, of the interior of the bank. A woman wearing a poke bonnet was walking through the lobby, and behind the teller cage, an out-of-focus man with blond hair was assisting a man with dark curly hair. The customer was in profile, and oddly, dressed almost identically to what Starsky was wearing, a corduroy jacket with patches on the sleeves and dark slacks.

"Nice picture. Guess it was difficult to get the focus right because the cameras took so long in those days," Starsky commented. "People had to stand for about five minutes..."

"Starsky!" Hutch stabbed his finger within a millimeter of touching the glass covering the old print, sounding spooked. "He looks just like you, right down to the mole on your cheek and the clothes!"

"Lots of people in those days wore jackets kinda like this one," Starsky scoffed, looking more closely at the picture. The 19th century man did resemble him — slightly — but because of the blurriness, it was hard to say for sure. "Hutch, that guy looks about as much like me as the teller looks like you!" Starsky squinted. The teller, with his longish blond hair and angular nose actually bore an almost eerie resemblance to Hutch. "Maybe he's one of your long lost relatives?"

"And he's one of yours?" Hutch had regained his composure. "That's improbable, to say the least. My relatives were all still in Sweden and Germany in 1878."

"You sure?" Starsky considered the notion that some early Hutchinson had met some early Starsky. That might have been possible — if improbable — in old world Europe, but not in Los Angeles, of all places. He shook his head at the fanciful idea that their ancestors might have met, like the old stories of star-crossed lovers destined to come together throughout the centuries.

He moved on to the next series of pictures, all much more traditional of nineteenth century portraiture. A prosperous looking man with a barrel chest and his wife posed stiffly in their best attire. The legend underneath named him Mortimer Lassiter, an early bank president who resigned after a scandal.

"I'm sure, because my grandfather was the first to leave Sweden. My mother even told me that she's sending a box of old photos for a Christmas present." Hutch nodded with a frown, but Starsky got the impression that he wasn't completely sure of anything. Who knew what their great-great-great-whatevers had done since there was so little documentation in those days.

The text under the next photograph caught Starsky's attention, partially because he'd never gone back to finish reading the article about the bank robbery. The men suspected of pulling off the heist were Hannibal Heyes and Kid Curry, two very successful thieves who had been in the area at the time, although nothing was ever proven. Police at the time suspected that there had been an inside man, since there was no sign of forced entry and the safe was opened without explosives. Hannibal Heyes was particularly well-known for cracking safes by listening to the tumblers in the combination lock.

Starsky scanned the print, wondering why the names Heyes and Curry sounded so familiar. Three people posed for the photographer. A beautiful young woman in a unadorned dress and beribboned hat stood between two seated men. Hannibal Heyes wore a suit and a bowler hat. He was a slender, good-looking guy with dark sideburns, his right hand clutching his jacket in a vaguely Napoleonic style. Jed 'Kid' Curry sat back a little with a vaguely satisfied look on his baby-face. Curly hair peeked out from under his bowler, and the woman — identified as Clementine Hale — had her hand on his right shoulder. Starsky wondered if that was some kind of old-fashioned code meaning they were married.

"You ever heard of these two?" he asked, directing Hutch at the picture in question. "It's like I got their names on the tip of my tongue."

Hutch bent down to get a better look. "Weren't they in that special we watched on outlaws of the old west?" He pronounced the latter with radio announcer dramatic intonation. "Curry was a quick draw or something. Rode with a gang that had a similar name to the one Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid joined."

"Hole in the Wall gang?" Starsky went around Hutch, letting his hand 'accidentally' brush the back of his partner's cords, to check the robbery article again.

His foot went wide, and at first, Starsky thought he had just slipped on the shiny marble floor. Looking up, he saw a woman grab the bank counter for support and watched in amazement as the ten-foot Christmas tree swayed like a sapling in a non-existent wind. The metal ornaments clanged together nosily.

"Earthquake!" a teller squeaked in fear, ducking below her desk. Several bank patrons followed her example, although hardier locals stood stoically, waiting out the earth's fury.

This quake was longer, with a distinct jolt and a long shaking accompanied by a low, almost sub-auditory rumble.

Starsky would have gone to his knees if Hutch hadn't grabbed his arm, hauling him upright and pulling Starsky against his chest.

"Man," Starsky breathed out, feeling the rapid-fire beat of Hutch's heart all down his right arm. "That was more than a three point two, I'll bet you anything."

"Not taking that bet," Hutch said, inhaling quick. "C'mon, let's get out of here. There's probably a lot of traffic on the Friday evening before Christmas."

"Sounds good to me." Starsky glanced back at the history exhibit. There'd always be time another day to read all the other articles. He blinked and found himself looking at the blurry image of the bank interior from 1878. He hadn't previously noticed that the teller had his hand cupped over the customer's — as if they were friends.

Most of the other bank customers had the same idea to leave. For a few minutes, there was a nervous log-jam at the ornate glass and metal door of the bank, and Starsky felt like one of passengers fleeing the Titanic. Outside on the street, there was no destruction, no loss of life — this was just another minor earthquake. Sometimes they came in clusters like that.

As the crowd of people dispersed to their cars or bus stops, Starsky heard several mention the notion that multiple quakes lessened the possibility of a really severe one in the future.

"You think it's true that little tremors help relieve the pressure on the San Andreas Fault?" Starsky fished out his keys and unlocked the Torino doors to let Hutch in.

"It's one theory." Hutch lowered the visor against the late afternoon setting sun. "Another is that all the small shifts add up until the faults are very misaligned."

"Aw, don't tell me that!" Starsky groaned, squinting. The pink and purplish clouds stacked over the Pacific Ocean were beautiful, but made it difficult to drive. He kept getting sudden bright flashes of light — the last rays reflected in car windows, and mirrors, and people turning on their high beams once the sun disappeared. "I wonder if there's a book on those outlaws. Remember in that TV show? Heyes and Curry were slicker at robbing banks than just about anyone else at the time. That Hannibal Heyes could manipulate the tumblers on a safe by just touch and feel..."

"Starsk." Hutch chuckled. "You, an officer of the law, are impressed by a bank robber?"

"Well." Starsky thought about his answer briefly. "It's not that I'm impressed... 'cause, if he'd be around now, and robbed the Gold Country Bank, I'd hunt him down like any other criminal." Starsky swung the steering wheel in a lazy arc to turn into Hutch's neighborhood. "But you gotta admire somebody who's really good at what he does."

"Heyes certainly made a name for himself," Hutch agreed, unbuckling his seatbelt when Starsky pulled into a parking space directly in front of Venice Place. "And I think he got amnesty, didn't he?"

"That's right." Starsky grinned, seeing his happiness reflected in Hutch's face. Not that Hutch really cared all that much about two outlaws from one hundred years ago. More that Hutch enjoyed being with him as much as he enjoyed being with Hutch. "See, not such a bad guy after all."

"Let's wrap the gifts for Molly and Pete before we go out," Hutch said. "If you end up with a hangover tomorrow morning, you'll be in no shape to use a pair of scissors on wrapping paper."

"If I get a hangover?" Starsky snorted, suddenly very much in the holiday mood. The spirit would flow freely at Huggy's, if past years were any indication, and there would be music, great food and dancing. Starsky planned to pull a pretty girl out onto the dance floor, since Hutch preferred to do all their slow dancing in bed. "You planning to abstain tonight?"

"Not if I can help it!" Hutch laughed, leaning against wall of the building to wait for him.

Starsky started to get out of the car and then snapped his fingers. "Hey, I can't forget to call Mrs. Walters before we go to Huggy's." Now a man on a mission, Starsky climbed out and swung the door closed, ready to march right on into Hutch's apartment and dial his old friend's number. "This is gonna be a hard Christmas for her and Junior, I mean Jackson, and I want to..."

The ground vibrated violently as if a giant hand shook the landscape like dice and then tossed Bay City out, hoping for snake eyes. Starsky scrambled for balance and slipped, grabbing for the edge of the car. He saw Hutch clutching the front doorknob and closed his eyes, fighting nausea, the roaring boom of the earthquake louder than a low flying jet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The plaintive howl of a coyote. The scritch of dry grass under his cheek

Consciousness came back in dribs and drabs. It was very quiet, almost peaceful and Starsky was content to drift slowly in the stream from oblivion to alertness.

Where was Hutch? He pondered the question, but really, it was a minor distraction. Hutch must have gone for help, that was it. He was always doing stuff like that. The quake probably caused massive damage across the region.

The main thing that worried Starsky was the temperature. Why the hell did it feel like it had dropped about ten degrees from a moment earlier? The ground was very cold where he lay. It also felt grittier, like dirt, instead of hard concrete, the way Ocean Avenue should be, and there was something prickly poking him in the side.

Disoriented and aching, Starsky groaned with his eyes closed, trying to make some sense of his surroundings. He must have fallen during the quake and hit his head — so much for going to Huggy's party. All he wanted to do was get into the house, down a couple of aspirin, and sleep for about a hundred years.

He just couldn't quite motivate himself to get up. The sound of horses' hooves pounding on the packed ground revived him. He struggled to open his eyes, the strong odor of sweaty animal filling his nostrils.

"What'd ya think he's doin' here so far out from town?" A twangy accent from one of southern states like Alabama or Arkansas. "Kinda cold to be sleeping on the ground without a bedroll or nothing, in December!"

"Kyle, I don't think he's asleep, he's probably hurt," another man said patiently, although Starsky could hear a vein of exasperation in his tone. A horse nickered and jangled his bridle, snorting in the cold air.

Starsky pushed against the ground, and managed to rise up on his forearms. In the deepening twilight, he saw a blurry forest of horses' legs, restless hooves flashing sharp metal shoes, and scuttled back to avoid being stepped on by one thousand pounds of animal. Where had they come from?

Someone swung down from the saddle, but Starsky still wasn't focusing well.

"Hey, mister, you need some help?" This was a third voice, not as deep as the second, and far closer to the ground than the others. Must be the guy who dismounted.

"Guess I hit my head," Starsky mumbled, turning slowly to see his rescuer without jarring his already sizable headache. A young man was crouched next to him, close enough that Starsky could see his smooth cheeks in the darkness. A cowboy hat hid most of the rest of his face. The man looked vaguely familiar, but Starsky couldn't place him.

"Ah think he's off his noggin," Kyle announced, chewing furiously on a mouthful of something. "Addled."

Bending his neck back to peer up at the man still sitting on a horse, Starsky felt a wash of acid rush up his throat and barely managed to avoid vomiting on his young rescuer's scuffed leather boots. Heaving, Starsky stayed hunched over until the sick feeling had passed.

"Heyes?" The young cowboy simply said the single name, but there was an entire question there, a wordless discussion between he and his friend.

The man with a black cowboy hat sighed.

Starsky wiped his mouth and sat down on the cold ground, watching them communicate exactly the way he and Hutch did. As if by mind power alone. And he'd caught the name. Heyes.

Hannibal Heyes? If so, the young cowboy was Kid Curry.

How was that even remotely possible? Starsky felt like he was awake and solid; he even surreptitiously pinched his own arm just to be sure. It hurt. This sure didn't seem like a concussion hallucination, certainly nothing like anything he'd ever had before.

But it wasn't possible.

"Be the Christian thing to do, Heyes." Kid Curry — if, in fact, is who he was — said softly. He stood up, his thick leather jacket lined with sheepskin gaping open in the front.

Starsky saw a heavy leather holster tied around his thigh, and a low slung belt bristling with bullets, exactly what he would have imagined a gunslinger to wear. Somehow, that made it feel all the more real, because the photograph of Curry and Heyes he'd seen at the bank had been different.

"What if he ain't Christian?" Kyle asked into the dark evening.

Both Heyes and Curry ignored the southerner. Heyes shoved his black hat further back, although it was too dark to make out his features. "Not exactly an opportune time, Kid," he said, without reproach. In fact, he sounded resigned, as if he'd already accepted the fact that this stranger would be coming along with them.

"What are you doing way out here, all alone?" Curry asked, holding out a hand to help Starsky up. "Waylaid by highwaymen?"

"More like an earthquake," Starsky muttered, breathing slow to get his headache under control.

"There was a rumbling just before we found you lying there." Curry nodded. "Felt like some miner threw a couple of sticks of dynamite down a shaft."

Good to know that some things were the same here as in his time. Starsky took a deep slow breath. His belly had settled and his headache had downgraded to a persistent throb, annoying but easily ignored. "Listen, I don't want to... just point me in the direction of Bay City, and I can walk."

Kyle brayed like a donkey, holding his belly. "Bay City? You got a long walk 'head of you without no horse, mister." He waved a gloved hand in a westerly direction. "'Bout ten miles from here, as the crow flies. Longer for a man who has to traverse these durned hills and canyons."

"Kyle's right," Heyes said, as if this were a very rare occasion. "You'd best stay the night with us, mister...?"

Curry regarded him steadily, his arms crossed over his chest, leaning against Heyes' horse, his right shoulder brushing Heyes' left leg. Once again, Starsky noticed how familiar the two of them were with each other. Just like he and Hutch were.

"David Starsky," Starsky reached up to shake the famous outlaw's hand. Although, was he currently famous? What year was it? Starsky wasn't about to go asking stupid questions like date and time. They'd peg him for a crazy person immediately.

"Jedediah Curry, and that's my partner, Hannibal Heyes." Kid shook his hand with detached friendliness. "Where'd you come from?"

"Bay City." Starsky went with the truth since apparently there was a Bay City, just much, much smaller than the one he'd left in 1978. "Came out here..." He was fairly certain he was approximately midway between Hutch's house on Ocean and his on Ridgeway. The curve of the hills and black hulk of the mountains to the east were exactly what he saw many nights when he was driving home after a swing shift. "To look for a home... land to buy."

"Sure is purty country," Kyle agreed. "But hell of a long way to get back to town. We only done it cause we..."

"Kyle." Kid stepped on the end of his sentence.

"What's your business? You with the law?" Heyes asked bluntly.

"Why do you ask?" Starsky responded. They still weren't being hostile, just careful. Was there some kind of danger up in these hills? Or were they involved in something they shouldn't be? Like robbing the Gold Country bank?

"'Cause it's right strange t'find a fellow dressed in his town clothes up in the hills with no horse..." Kyle began.

"And not wearing a gun," Curry added. For a man who had the smooth cheeks of a teenaged boy, he could project a surprisingly menacing aura.

"I..." Again, the truth seemed easiest, with a minor codicil. "I'm out of my element here. I work with the police in another city..." he glanced down the dark hill. In the far distance, there was a faint glow of light, way down in the valley that he knew to be the Los Angeles basin. No fluorescent lights, no neon. The mild brightness he could just barely make out was candlelight or possibly gaslight, assuming they had that in the wild, wild west.

"Far, far from here, but I'm not involved in any current investigations." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm kind of on a leave, you might say." Starsky very much hoped there was some way back to Bay City, 1978, or he was completely screwed. "I must have hit my head earlier, and lost my... ride."

"Horse shied from the quake?" Curry asked. Again, he didn't threaten in any way, but the earlier kindness was muted. It was obvious he was weighing Starsky's merits.

"A red horse," Starsky said, warming to his subject. He knew very little about horses, but remembered that certain types of horses could be described as red. "With a white stripe. Lots of horse power..." He almost said under the hood. "I haven't a clue where she is now."

"Chestnut with a blaze," Heyes translated into cowpoke lingo. "Haven't seen the animal. But the Kid here is determined to be neighborly toward you, so unless you've got a better option, we'd be obliged if you would come along to our place and have a bite, rest up until morning."

"You want to sit my horse?" Curry offered. "I'll ride behind Heyes."

Starsky was having a difficult time reading the young gunslinger. Maybe it would be easier when he could see the man's face clearly, but Curry seemed both friendly and guarded at the same time.

Could Starsky have arrived right before or just after the robbery? Was that why they were so far from town?

While climbing awkwardly up onto the surprisingly patient horse, Starsky tried to review everything he could remember about the outlaws from the TV special. Naturally, nothing specific came to mind. Hutch was always much better at recalling details from past — or would that be future — crimes. Something about Wyoming niggled at the back of his brain but he couldn't say why. When Starsky was seated in the saddle, Curry grabbed the reins, leading the horse behind the one he shared with Heyes.

It was eerie riding through the dark hills, and Starsky had to keep alert to stay in the saddle, even if he wasn't actually 'driving'. He ducked to avoid the branch of a live oak tree, looking up at the incredible sky. He'd never seen so many stars in all his life. Even the time he and Hutch had gone to Yosemite, the sky hadn't looked so amazingly black and studded with stars. A narrow sliver of a moon rode very low against the inky jut of hills to the west. By tomorrow, Christmas Eve, there would be no visible moon at all. A perfect night to rob a bank.

Starsky inhaled sharply, watching the two horses up ahead. Curry had one arm around Heyes' waist, speaking softly. Kyle rode point, slouched lazily on his mount.

The horses' bridles jingled, but there were other night sounds that Starsky had never expected to hear. The sigh of wings as an owl hooted somewhere in a tree above them, and the lowing of cows in a small, sheltered canyon to the right. He had a fairly decent internal compass, and knew the area pretty well despite the lack of street signs. His future house would be to the far left, along the little ridge. They had ridden about a mile and a half, up and over one hill, threading through a gap in the rolling landscape to a small homestead. There was a rough hewn house built of logs and what must be a barn behind sheltered by a thick cluster of trees on the windward side.

Starsky shivered. It wasn't his imagination, the temperature was lower here that it had been when he 'left' Hutch by the Torino. His corduroy jacket wasn't adequate protection at all. So some things were the same; like the earthquake and that it was presumably December. And some things were different; the weather. There was frost in the air. Starsky's horse snorted, its breath coming out in a plume of white.

Curry swung off Heyes' horse and looped the reins of Starsky's around a post in front of the little house. "We're staying here until it's warmer up north," he said as Heyes dismounted. "Not much, but it was standing empty, and we had the need."

"Squatters?" Starsky climbed out of the saddle, his thighs aching. Hell, what would it feel like to be on a horse all day long?

"Never heard it called that before," Heyes said, regarding him curiously. He stripped off a pair of leather riding gloves and tucked them in the pocket of his thick corduroy jacket.

Now that Heyes was standing on the ground, Starsky noticed that he and the outlaw were of a height, although Heyes was fine-boned and slender.

"Folks come out west thinking they'll make it rich panning for gold, and they go bust," Heyes continued. "They go running back east with their tails between their legs, leaving the houses behind." He patted the black he'd been riding on the nose. "Kyle, can you bed all the horses?"

"Sure thang, Heyes," Kyle said cheerfully, spitting a wad of tobacco out one side of his mouth.

"You hungry?" Kid Curry asked, leading the way into the cabin. "Heyes shot some venison last week, been bragging about his shooting abilities since."

"I never claimed to best you with a revolver," Heyes said, twin dimples bracketing his teasing grin. "But I have considerable prowess with a Winchester."

"So you keep saying, over and over again." Kid rolled his eyes. In the spill of light from the open door, he looked even younger than Starsky had expected, barely out of his teens. With his dark blond hair and blue eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to the actor Paul Newman.

Starsky closed his eyes, his head throbbing again — there was too much to take in.

He wanted to believe that he was dreaming except everything felt so damned real. The cold that nipped at his bare skin, the wonderful scent of cooked venison, the rush of warm air when he followed Heyes in the door; too many vivid sensations for this to be a dream.

"Mmm." Kid sniffed appreciatively. "Smells like dinner is cooking. Kennet must have made it back before we did."

Another member of the gang? Starsky took a big whiff, his belly rumbling with hunger pangs. The last thing he'd eaten were the M&M's with Hutch, and that seemed a lifetime ago.

"Heyes!" a deep, heart-stoppingly familiar voice called from the fireplace. "You were correct, the bank president is keeping the mon..."

"Kennet," Heyes said abruptly, dropping his saddle bags on the floor with a deliberate thud. Curry stepped nimbly around them and went over to a cast iron pot hanging on a hook on the hearth, giving Kennet a welcoming slap on the arm.

Hutch? Starsky froze in place, staring at the man standing next to the Kid.

"We have company." Heyes waved a hand at Starsky.

"Ursäkta!" His face flushing, either from the fire or the unexpected guest, a man with Hutch's features and pale blond hair dropped the ladle on Kid's boot. "Oh-oh, I am so clumsy!"

"Least you cooked," Kid said mildly, picking up the spoon with a smirk. He scooped out a ladle full of stew and poured it into a small metal bowl. "Heyes'd like to let me starve to death riding up from Los Angeles."

"You've got a hollow leg," Heyes took off his hat and jacket, hanging them both on a hook.

"Smells terrific!" Starsky came up close to the fire, grateful for the heat, trying not to stare at Kennet. He could be Hutch's brother. There were minor differences; Kennet had a small scar on his chin, and he wasn't quite as tall as Hutch. In fact, wearing cowboy boots, he wasn't quite as tall as Starsky. Used to looking slightly up at his partner, it was disconcerting to look him straight in the eye.

"I've never had venison." He stuck out his hand at the disconcerted blond. "David Starsky."

"Kennet Hutchinson," he replied, still blushing, wiping his hands on a piece of flour sack before grasping Starsky's hand. Staring at Starsky for a moment, he made a small sound in the back of his throat as if he wanted to say something else. "Happy to meet you."

Starsky picked up on the Swedish accent now. What the hell was going on here? The article he'd never gotten to finish had mentioned Heyes, Curry and a gang. Did that mean that Hutch's doppelganger was a bank robber?

"Kid, leave some for the rest of us." Heyes dipped a finger into Curry's bowl, licking stew off with mischievous glee.

"Get your own!" Kid laughed, throwing a leg over a wooden bench next to a split log table. He shoveled the stew into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten in a month of Sundays.

Feeling like a fish out of water, Starsky sat down next to Curry, needing a few minutes to assimilate. The pounding in his head was causing some vertigo, as if he was tipping off the edge of the world.

He looked around carefully. Next to the modern, well-appointed cabins he had stayed in with Hutch, this place wasn't a full step up from camping in the wilderness. The cabin was square with rough plank floors. The walls were not properly chinked, letting wind in through the gaps in the logs, and the windows were covered with some kind of thick, oiled paper that flapped incessantly. The only actual furniture was the table and two benches. There were no beds, no chairs, and now that Starsky thought about it, the toilet was most probably an outhouse past the barn. Quite a chilly walk just to take a leak. He shivered again, tucking his cold hands up into the long sleeves of his jacket. He was warm because he was facing the wide hearth, however, he could feel the sharp bite of the cold air coming through the chinks in the wall at his back.

"Heyes?" Hutchinson asked softly, going back to his stew pot. "Is he...?"

Starsky caught an undercurrent of tension. Something made the guy nervous, and it wasn't simply that there was a stranger in the house.

"We'll talk later," Heyes answered, taking bowls from a shelf above a box full of dried goods. The old time version of the kitchen cabinet. "We found Starsky on the trail about two miles from here. He must have fallen off his horse."

"You are lucky, then." Kennet served the stew into bowls. "Not many folk in this..." He frowned, handing out the portions and muttering in Swedish under his breath. "Sometimes I forget my English."

"Canyons around these parts can be treacherous," Kid said, glancing at Heyes who just smiled benignly. "Homesteaders are few and far between, and there's not much farming in these hills."

"This is beef country," Heyes explained. "More cows than people."

"You might have spent the night alone, on the ground," Kennet said finally, smiling when Starky scraped the bottom of his bowl. "You like the stew?"

"Best stuff I've had in years." Starsky licked his spoon and wished for more. However, there wasn't much left in the pot, and Kyle hadn't eaten yet. They weren't exactly rolling in money. Maybe that was the reason for the upcoming heist?

"Thank you for the hospitality. In the morning, could I borrow a horse? I could pay..." he trailed off, very aware of the wallet in his corduroy jacket pocket. Full of cash. Twentieth century money, which would be about as good as Monopoly dollars in this time period.

With a suddenly racing heart, he glanced down at his wrist. Luckily, his jacket sleeves were long enough to cover the very un-1870's wristwatch on his left arm. Dropping his hands into his lap, under the edge of the table, he slipped off the watch and tucked it into his pocket with the wallet.

"That's not necessary." Kennet shook his head, the resemblance to Hutch all the more uncanny when he smiled. "I will have to work in the morning, at the bank. I can take you into Los Angeles."

"He needs to get to Bay City," Heyes mentioned.

"You work at a bank?" Starsky asked, even more pieces to the puzzle falling into place. Kennet must be the inside man, which is why Heyes and his crew had gotten into the bank so easily. The big question was, why had Starsky dropped into their lives, forearmed with the knowledge that they were about to rob a bank? To stop them? If so, wouldn't that change history?

"It's a good job. I am lucky to have it." Kennet ducked his head, the smile gone. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. "I came to California to find some... thing, but what I... sought was already dead, so I must work."

"Work makes you an honest man," Kid said, stacking the empty bowls on one end of the table. "That's the important thing, Kennet."

Kennet stared into the fire for a moment, flames reflected in his eyes and pinking up his cheeks, which had gone too pale. He shook himself as if tucking something heartbreakingly sad and difficult to bear back into the depths of his heart.

"What brought the four of you together?" Starsky looked around the table. Heyes had produced a bottle of rot-gut and a deck of cards. He passed the whiskey to Kid, who took a swig and passed it on to Kennet just as Kyle breezed in, letting in a blast of cold air. "You all work at the bank?"

"In a manner of speaking." Heyes dimpled, shuffling the cards with limber fingers. "The Kid and I needed a place to stay, and mutual friends introduced us to Kennet who was in similar straits. This cabin was abandoned. It was fate, you might say. "

"Ödet," Kennet said in Swedish, as if talking to himself. "Kismet."

"Horses all fed and watered," Kyle announced as he clattered through the door, stomping his feet. "Anythang left in the pot f'me?'

"Of course, min vän, my friend." Kennet got up to give Kyle his place. "In Swedish, we would call this köttgryta." He ladled out a portion of stew.

"Don't care whatcha call it," Kyle said, digging into a bowlful. "It's fine eating."

"There any coffee?" Kid asked, pushing the whiskey toward Starsky.

Starsky took a swig and sputtered, coughing. White hot fire blazed down his throat; pure moonshine, stronger than the stuff he'd gotten sick on two months before. Another couple of swallows and he'd be plastered, which wouldn't be a good idea under the present circumstances.

"I can make some." Kennet opened a bag full of coffee beans, pouring some into a small grinder.

"Mr. Starsky," Heyes said formally, with a twinkle in his eye. "Do you play poker?"

"Heyes!" Kyle complained. "Ain't none of us got a plugged nickel between us until..."

"Play for matches, then," Kid cut in smoothly. "Lots of those around this place!"

Heyes laughed, a warm indulgent laugh, his dark eyes lingering on his partner for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. Again, Starsky thought of Hutch, and missed him like crazy, despite the fact that there was a man with his face standing not five feet away. Kennet wasn't Hutch, no matter how much he looked like him.

"I'll sit out." Kennet held up his hands. "I will clean up. I have no head for cards."

"You're an intelligent man, as well as honest," Curry said, picking up the cards Heyes had dealt to the three men sitting at the table. "I don't know why, after all these years, I still play poker with Heyes at all."

"He good?" Starsky asked, glancing at his cards. A jack of spades, two and three of clubs, ace of hearts and the ten of diamonds. All very unremarkable. Poker was not his game, but he knew better than to bet much on these cards.

"He good?" Kyle drawled, looking over his hand with a grunt of displeasure. No poker face at all. "Heyes knows a deck backwards, forwards 'n sideways."

"Maybe I should be sitting this out, too," Starsky mused. He was surprised that he felt at ease with these men. He was out of his time, and had no idea how to get back.... Panic began to rise in his guts, and it was impossible to hear over the rushing blood in his ears.

"David?" Heyes asked, and by the look on his face, not for the first time. "Where'd you go?"

"My head." Starsky pressed on his forehead with a wince that wasn't entirely faked. He felt lousy, and was glad these men were genuinely kind. "Sorry, what?"

"Five match sticks from every player for the pot." Heyes indicated the small pile of matches in front of Starsky.

Spooked that he hadn't even noticed the Kid handing out the 'loot', Starsky shoved five matchsticks into the middle of the table. He had to stay more alert. Who knew when he would discover some way to get out of here. What would H.G. Wells or Jules Verne do at a time like this? Too bad he didn't have a way to build a time machine out of spare parts.

"One card." Kid discarded one and Heyes dealt him another.

"Two." Starsky shrugged, getting rid of the clubs.

"Since you're a newcomer," Heyes said, passing him two more cards. "I'll tell you an old saying my grandpa Curry used to say..."

"Never draw to an inside straight," Kid finished in unison with him, both of them laughing.

"Curry?" Starsky asked, trying to deflect his amazement at the two new cards. The king of clubs and the queen of hearts. He had a royal flush! So much for Heyes' advice. "Any relation to you, Jed?"

"Close ties in our families," Heyes said, gazing straight at Starsky as if he knew exactly what Starsky held and was mightily amused at the exception to his rule. "My mother's kin to Kid's Grandpa, second cousins, more or less."

"I'm plum out, nary a good'un in my hand," Kyle said mournfully, taking a long drink from the whiskey bottle. He laid out a two of spades, a three of hearts, the ten of diamonds and a six of clubs.

"I'm in four." Kid tossed in four matchsticks and tapped his card fan closed, placing it face down. He struck one of his matches against the table and lit a cigar he'd taken from his vest pocket. The stink of cheap tobacco proved it was no fine Cuban hand-rolled smoke.

Heyes glanced at Curry, one eyebrow slightly elevated. He matched Kid's bet and raised him one, all without a single 'tell' to reveal what he held in his hand. "Think you got something, Kid?"

"Might be, Heyes," Kid gave him a 'cat who swallowed a canary' smile, smug and full of promise.

Intrigued by their obvious joy of one another, Starsky almost forgot to bet himself. "Uh- sorry," he stammered when Heyes and Curry remembered there was another player in the game and turned toward him. "Six matches."

"Aha." Heyes laughed with delight, plucking the cigar out of Curry's fingers to take a puff. "Another country heard from. This is getting interesting, and on the first round." He blew a lazy smoke ring in the air. "Kid?"

"Hmm." Kid fanned out his cards again, squinting at them. The light from a single lantern hung on the rafter above the table cast an uneven light, throwing shadowing in all directions. "What're we up to? Six?"

"Six it is!" Kyle crowed.

Kennet stopped sweeping the hearth, and leaned against his broom, watching the game from over Kyle's shoulder.

Starsky glanced up, his heart accelerating. Why was he so excited to win a stupid little card game played for matches? He liked these guys, and wanted them to like him. Kennet was staring at him with slight frown, the furrow between his brows so like Hutch's that Starsky started to say something.

"I'll..." Curry paused as if considering betting an entire fortune instead of sulfur tipped sticks. "Double." He pushed in twelve matches.

"Thirteen," Heyes said, the dimples in his cheek deep grooves as he upped the ante.

Starsky glanced at the other two. Kid had the cigar again and was sitting back, drawing in a long, slow mouthful of smoke. He looked unworried. Heyes had the peaceful, content air of a man having a damned fine time. Both had to be bluffing. Neither of them could have a hand anywhere near as good as Starsky's unless there was a possibility of a royal flush in one suit or a straight, high flush, including face cards. Those might beat his five marvelous cards, but he doubted it.

Quickly counting the matches he had on the table, Starsky pushed them all in. "Twenty six," he said breathlessly. Maybe he should have been playing poker with Hutch all along; this was much easier than Monopoly.

"I fold." Kid laughed, putting his cards face up. A pair of sevens, a pair of eights and an odd ace of diamonds.

"David?" Heyes mused. "I believe that you like what you have in your hand, since you bet the whole thing. He gazed at Starsky for a long moment. "Call?"

"Royal flush," Starsky showed his winning hand.

"Very nicely played!" Heyes' dark eyes lit up. "Wasn't my night, I guess." He turned up a hand almost as good as Starsky's; a straight flush, the five, six, seven, eight and nine of spades. "High cards win, and you get the pot."

"Least I'll be able to build a fire if I get stranded outside again!" Starsky scooped all the matches into a pile in front of him with a lighter heart. He wasn't going to dwell on the 'what-ifs' right now. There was no point.

The game started over again with good-natured arguing about poker rules and the ownership of matches. Starsky could tell that Heyes was one hell of a poker player. He had an innate sense of which cards were already in play and which were still in the deck. What a quick mind the man had; in the twentieth century, he could have been a wiz on Wall Street.

In the midst of a game where Heyes was winning easily, Kennet placed the coffee pot on the table and poured thick, richly scented brew into old canning jars.

Starsky's eyes were burning from the smoke in the room. Between the fireplace and the vile-smelling cigar Curry and Heyes were sharing, the air quality was worse than Bay City during a summer smog alert. He coughed against his fist and turned his cards down to reach for his coffee cup.

The surface of the coffee was rolling like the Pacific during a heavy storm.

"Damn," Starsky said as the bench he and Curry were sitting on shook violently, sliding sideways toward the closest wall. When the ground lurched, the wooden floor buckled, riding the vibrations like a surfboard on the waves. A thrill ran down Starsky's spine. If one earthquake had propelled him back in time, maybe another would reverse the process?

"Earthquake!" Kyle shouted, diving under the table, which only got him kicked by the other men's feet.

"Gud i himlen!" Kennet went pale, holding onto the table with both hands.

Sure that the rickety house was going to be reduced to a pile of rubble, Starsky sat out the quake, waiting to wake up in his own era. Would he ever see Hutch again?

He squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating the jolt that would send him hurtling through time and heard the coffee pot crash onto the floor just as the earth went still.

"I hate those damn things," Heyes growled, collecting the scattered cards with a visibly shaking hand. "Everyone all right?"

"That was stronger than the earlier one," Kid said, snuffing out his cigar against the table top. There were matches strewn everywhere; a crazy game of pick-up sticks. "Kyle, you can come out from under there now." He nudged the other man with a boot tip.

Kyle chuckled self-consciously, standing up. "Ah thank Ah'll go bed out with the horses. They're sensitive bein's, they's probably shook up worse than us."

"With four horses, half the time it's warmer out there." Curry grinned, youthful resilience overcoming the fear. "G'night, Kyle."

"See y'all in the morning," Kyle called out.

"Sleep well, min vän." Kennet waved, bending to pick up the coffee pot.

"Kid, you about ready to turn in?" Heyes asked, inclining his head at the ladder to the loft. He threw a friendly arm over the gunslinger's shoulders.

Curry nodded, rubbing one eye the way small children did, with his whole fist. Starsky again wondered how old he was and what had caused two personable young men like Curry and Heyes to become thieves.

"David, there's a bedroll in the corner over there. If you sleep near the fire, you'll be warm enough. Kennet has the only mattress." Heyes pointed to a patched, lumpy thickness folded against the far wall that Starsky hadn't even noticed previously. It looked far too small to fit Kennet, and as uncomfortable as sleeping on a pile of sticks.

"Thanks." Starsky watched the two outlaws climb wearily up the stairs. The earthquake had doused the camaraderie of the evening, and brought back his own concerns.

What the hell was he going to do?

"They sleep..." Kennet shrugged, glancing up at the ceiling, or the floor of the loft. "To keep their body warmth. I enjoy being near the fire, myself."

Listening to Heyes and the Kid getting ready for bed above them, Starsky was fairly certain that they slept together for more than just conserving body warmth. He could almost swear he heard the touch of lips and a soft sound of love as they nestled down into blankets. All he could think of was sliding between the sheets of his own bed with Hutch and seeing dark curls next to shining blond in the overhead mirror.

Feeling incredibly lonely, Starsky watched Kennet bank the fire, trying to blot out comparisons between him and Hutch. Except every time the firelight reflected in Kennet's blond hair, Starsky was overcome with a sadness that he couldn't control. It wasn't as if his Hutch was dead, he hadn't even been born yet!

After braving the cold to empty his bladder, Starsky hunkered down in the thin blankets that smelled strongly of horse — and were scratchy, to boot. He was beginning to be downright scared. Why hadn't the second quake taken him back to 1978 Bay City? There was no logic here. In Star Trek, when one event caused a rift in time and space, then a second one resolved the situation.

He wanted to fall asleep, wanted to be transported to his own time in his dreams, but he was beginning to suspect that would not happen. Maybe, like Dorothy, he had to find a pair of red glittery dancing shoes and click his heels together? It was worth a try.

At the very least, the idea made him smile.

It was probably lucky for the sake of his old west disguise that he'd worn a plaid shirt, corduroy jacket and dark slacks with Fry boots to court. Dressed like this, he looked far less out of place than he would have in threadbare jeans, a t-shirt, windbreaker and Adidas sneakers.

He had to think up a plan. Turning his back to the fire also kept Kennet out of his line of sight. The Swedish man had plumped up his mattress, sending clouds of straw dust into the already smoky air and settled in with a sigh, covered with a patchwork quilt. His nearness didn't exactly make Starsky uncomfortable, but thoughts of Hutch kept flooding his brain, canceling out any useful plans on how to get home. What was Hutch doing? Did he realize Starsky was not there — or like in so many time travel movies, did the old E equals MC squared enter into the equation somehow? Were the time streams diverging? Or maybe 1978 and 1878 were in some weird alignment because of an elliptical star in the Milky Way? Was there some kind of wrinkle in time between the years? Should he be looking out for Charles Wallace, Meg and Calvin O'Keefe to help him get back?

None of that was helping whatsoever.

Rubbing his nose to prevent sneezing and waking Kennet up, Starsky reviewed what he already knew. According to the article in the Los Angeles Guardian for December, 1878, the Gold Country bank was robbed by a small gang of thieves. They'd either picked a lock or had a key, since the doors were not busted down. The bank manager had opened the safe on December 26th to find it nearly empty. The sole witness, a woman who had looked out her window to see the gang fleeing, had described it as a "cold, clear night with no moon."

That would definitely be the next night. Starsky sneaked a look at the lighted dial of his Yamamoto watch under cover of the horse blanket. It was just midnight, December 23 sliding into Christmas eve. What time was it when he'd fallen through time? Just about twilight, so about four thirty or closer to five o'clock. Funny, he hadn't even paid attention then.

The text under the photograph of Heyes, Kid and the beautiful Clementine had said that Heyes was suspected of the robbery but that was never proved because he was never caught or charged with the crime. The sole fact that the safe had been cracked without damaging the surface had pointed to the slick outlaw, but there had been no way to prove the allegation. Starsky could only assume that Heyes and Curry, and probably Kyle whateverhisnamewas either were not yet as famous as they would be or this was before they joined the gang in Wyoming. He still hadn't remembered the name of that gang which was not exactly pertinent information, in his present predicament. He really needed to know why he was here and how he was going to go back home.

Starsky dreamed of Hutch wearing cowboy garb and riding a piebald horse with a limp, galloping across an endless plain. Some how, he never got any nearer to Starsky, who was waiting at the Bay City train station without a ticket.

From out of nowhere, a shot rang out.

Awakening instantly, Starsky bolted upright, his heart hammering against his ribcage. There was no one in the cabin, but he was certain that he'd seen — no, heard — a shot just before being ripped out of his dream. He'd seen Hutch fall...

Another gunshot blasted just outside. Starsky scrambled to his feet, running out the back door, automatically reaching for the holster that should have been under his right arm. He skidded to a stop, the thoughts no gun, it was a court day, where's Hutch? and wrong century jamming up his brain, and took in the sight of Heyes and Hutchinson watching Curry practice shooting in the barnyard. There were five bottles lined up on the corral fence. Two of them were broken.

Kid Curry flipped his pistol in a road agent spin, dropping it into the holster tied to his right thigh. Seconds later, faster than Starsky had ever seen anyone draw, the revolver was back in his hand and he'd pulled the trigger without appearing to aim at his targets. The bullet hit true, smashing the third bottle to smithereens.

"It's pulling to the left," Kid said with a grimace, examining his pistol. The sun was low in the eastern sky: Curry's shadow arched and danced when he rotated the bullet cylinder with his thumb, then cocked the trigger and squinted at the barrel.

Leaning against the fence barely a foot from the shooting range, Heyes just grinned indulgently and sipped his coffee. Wearing a Henley shirt with the suspenders hanging down over the tops of his thighs, Heyes looked completely unconcerned that one wrong bullet would kill him instantly. He must have total faith in Curry's aim.

"That was incredible shooting," Starsky said, stunned. He'd read that historians considered Curry to be the best fast draw in the old west, but that in no way conveyed the man's talent or the precision of his marksmanship. In the twentieth century, he could have been a gold medal winning Olympic athlete. He had an uncanny, almost unnerving ability with a revolver.

His face reddened from the chilly wind, Hutchinson glanced over at Heyes. Starsky got the feeling that he'd barged in on something the two were discussing. The bank robbery, perhaps? Since he'd arrived the night before, Hutchinson had looked uncomfortable, almost guilty. Was his part in the upcoming theft weighing on his conscience? If he really was a distant relation of Starsky's Hutch, Starsky really didn't want the man involved in an illegal act.

Lifting his coffee to his lips, Heyes glanced coolly at Hutchinson and gave a single nod.

Blowing out a white puff of air, Hutchinson shivered, rubbing his arms. Of the three early risers, he was the only one who had shaved and was dressed in something different than he'd worn the night before, a brown suit. "I should get the horses saddled. David, I must be at the bank in two hours. We will leave soon." Kennet jerked his head at the cabin. "I let you sleep in. There is coffee made."

"Thanks, I guess I needed the sleep." Pretending he wasn't speculating on what Heyes and Hutchinson were involved in, Starsky rubbed his head. He wanted a few more minutes to admire Curry's prowess with a revolver.

The sweet-faced outlaw was unshaven but even that didn't make him look any older. He reholstered his gun and stood relaxed with his arms at his side, facing the fence. In a blur of motion, he drew and fired, the fourth bottle meeting the same fate as the other three.

"How's your head?" Heyes asked, as if his ears weren't ringing from the close proximity of his partner's targets.

"Much better, thanks." Starsky shivered. Judging from the sun, which was barely up above the tree line, it couldn't be more than an hour past sunrise. "And thank you for the hospitality to a stranger."

Heyes dimpled, raising his cup in a toast just as Curry killed the last bottle.

"No more shooting this morning, Kid, we've got more pressing needs," Heyes said.

"I'm out of targets anyway." Kid shrugged. "Unless...?"

"I only have one complete deck left, no thanks to you." Heyes poked his friend in the ribs and passed him the coffee for a sip.

Kid and Heyes looked at each other, Kid obviously begging for a little latitude and Heyes giving in, all in under a second.

"Can you give me any tips? My aim is all right but I can't draw half as fast," Starsky said, getting used to their non-vocal communication. This must be what others felt like when he and Hutch did the same thing.

"Wait one minute." Kid winked saucily at Starsky and ran into the house, coming out with a handful of playing cards.

"Those had better be from the old deck," Heyes warned.

Curry flipped one over for Heyes to inspect. Heyes checked out both sides, grinned and tucked the king of spades into a split in the wooden fence. Kid stuffed the rest of the cards into his jeans pocket, spilling a few onto the hard-packed earth. To be helpful, Starsky scooped up what he could and tucked them into his own pocket.

Kyle came out of the barn wearing a heavy red and black plaid horse blanket jacket leading a saddled horse. "Kennet says this one's fer you," he said to Starsky. "Ah always like watching the Kid shoot." He spit tobacco juice on the ground and stroked the horse's nose to keep him calm. "He's never missed yet."

Starsky scoffed silently. Even the Kid couldn't possibly hit such a tiny bull's eye with a 19th century gun that had no scope or special targeting device.

Taking two steps further back than where he'd been standing to shoot at the bottles, Curry exhaled, drew and fired, all so quickly that Starsky didn't see the separate movements. One moment the Kid's hand was empty, the next he was holding the pistol and the card had a perfect hole right in the center of the spade.

"No wonder..." Starsky blurted out before he could stop himself.

"Show off," Heyes said blandly, going into the barn. "David, Kennet'll be leaving shortly. Best get some coffee and a biscuit before you ride out," he said over his shoulder.

Spinning his gun backwards over his hand, Curry made the pistol perform like a trained dog. He flipped it barrel up, twisted his wrist and suddenly, the Colt slipped into his holster, smooth as silk. There was no conceit, but from the self-satisfied smile on his face, it was clear that shooting and handling a gun were simply what he called fun.

Starsky whistled through his teeth. "You have a real talent."

Curry shrugged, holding the back door open for him. "Thanks. We all got something we can do best. Ain't what my mama wanted me to do, but I wasn't any kind of farmer."

"Where are you from?" Starsky asked, glad to be inside the house again. It was colder outside than he'd expected, and the coffee that Curry poured into two cups smelled terrific.

"Me and Heyes grew up in Kansas." Kid sat on a chair, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back until the chair was tipped precariously against the table. Starsky had sat that way in the BC metro detective squadroom many times. "Left when Quantrill's raiders came through and killed our folks." He related the facts as if they had very little effect on him, but there was a rough sentiment in his voice. He drank some coffee and attacked a cold biscuit with hunger. "Been doing one thing or th'other ever since. Wyoming's more or less home, but it's unlivable in the dead of winter."

So the gang was already in Wyoming, unless Starsky was misconstruing everything.

"Are you three spending Christmas up here in the cabin?" Starsky asked. He started to mention the lack of tree, ornaments or gaily wrapped gifts and then caught himself. Sure, people in his time period liked to believe that the Victorian era had the corner on Christmas merriment, but that didn't take into account the poverty, cold or difficulty in getting anywhere in a short time. Maybe Heyes, Curry and Hutchinson simply didn't have the means to spend money on extras when they were living so frugally.

"No, me and Heyes have a friend up in San Francisco," Kid said, eyeing Starsky warily. "Hutchinson had some family in these parts, but there's been some troubles, and he's on his lonesome now." He let the chair come forward with a thud. "What about you? You show up here, not dressed for winter. No money, no weapon..." Kid took out a roll of gun cleaning tools and placed them on the table. He drew his pistol, slow and unthreatening, but still, it was a revolver in the hands of a very good shot.

Counting mentally, Starsky realized that Curry had taken six practice shots without reloading. Whew. There were no bullets in his gun.

He took a beat to remember the story he'd told them the night before. "I was in the market to buy land and my horse shied during the earthquake. Nothing all that remarkable..." He kept his hands away from his body, trying to look as innocent as possible. It was a good thing none of them had ever searched him because they would have found his gold detective's badge and 20th century currency.

"So where were you planning to be this morning, after your tour of the countryside? Got family in Los Angeles?" Curry flicked open the bullet cylinder and blew gently to remove any excess gunpowder.

Starsky picked up a biscuit, surprised at how uncomfortable he was with the outlaw he'd originally considered so friendly. Curry was deceptively easy-going, but there was a deep current of suspicion underneath. It had to stem from whatever the four outlaws were planning.

"Seems to me that you're more'n naturally curious about the four of us, without telling much at all about yourself," the Kid said, poking the brush down the barrel of his gun. "Oh, I forgot, you wanted to go to Bay City, which ain't much more than a dock with a couple of seaman's shacks around it." Kid flicked a glance at Starsky over the top of his gun. "No place for a gent with a nice suit like yours."

"I'm not hiding anything, Kid." Starsky shrugged. "Are you?"

Curry had a damned good poker face, so it was only because Starsky was watching for a reaction that he saw one. The Kid's eyes slid left for one second, then he focused on the gun, ramming in the brush more forcefully than necessary.

Starsky wanted to ask why they were robbing a bank on Christmas eve, but he didn't risk doing so. Curry was already suspicious, and the last thing Starsky wanted to do was change history forever by inadvertently altering the course of future events. Even his own presence here affected what would happen. Starsky could only imagine what meddling more could do. He'd probably arrive back in Bay City, 1978 to find that Hitler had won the war and now John F. Kennedy was fighting a rebellious battle against evil like Luke Skywalker squaring off against Darth Vader.

The tension ratcheted up in the small cabin and Starsky was aware of the mingled scents: unwashed body, gun oil, coffee and wood smoke. He took a slow, calming breath, watching Curry work.

The Kid smiled suddenly, a sunny thing that turned up his blue eyes and made him look about eighteen. "Sorry, David, I've been a mite skittish of late. Feeling protective of me and mine."

"I..." Starsky started but Kennet stuck his head in the door.

"David, we must be on our way. The bank will only be open for a few hours today, but my boss is a stubborn and..."

"Dangerous man," Heyes added obliquely, brushing past him to get another cup of coffee. "Kid, you been entertaining our guest?"

Curry glanced at him with an enigmatic expression that gave away nothing, loading bullets into the chamber.

"Thank you again for letting me sleep by the fire, and feeding me." Starsky shook Heyes' hand. "Really nice of you."

"Only doing what it says in the good book." Heyes smiled, leaning against the mantle over the fireplace. "Matthew 25, verse 40."

Starsky didn't know the Bible well enough to recall specific verses, particularly since he'd never read the New Testament. He flashed on a memory of Hutch hunched over in a chair, swigging beer and reading the Bible because there was nothing else to do in the guarded hotel.

"Ah, yes." Kennet nodded with such sadness that Starsky wanted to pull him into a bear hug the way he would have done with Hutch. "Jesus said, "Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.""

"Kennet's father was a man of the cloth," Heyes said by way of an explanation. Something like anger flitted across his face only to replaced with a kind of fierce determination. "You take care riding down the hillside, it can be treacherous for a man not used to sitting a horse."

"Am I taking one of your rides? How can I return the horse?" Starsky asked. He liked these men, but really wanted to get back to his own time and never come back to this one again.

"Me and Heyes don't mind riding double." Kid kept right on oiling his Colt .45. "We're used to it. You just leave the horse at the livery near the bank, and we'll be by to pick him up by nightfall."

Following Kennet outside, Starsky mounted the patient chestnut he'd ridden in on, Curry's horse. The air was warming enough that he no longer felt chilled to the bone. The sky was a china blue, the color of Hutch's — and Kennet's — eyes, and Starsky still couldn't help comparing them. If this was Hutch's great-great-whatever, how did he get back to Sweden to father Hutch's father's father? Holding tight to the horse's reins, his feet jammed into the stirrups, Starsky felt sturdy enough to be able to talk and ride at the same time.

"Kennet? Heyes said your father was a..." Starsky searched for the correct term. He'd always been confused with the varieties of ordained Christians. Priest, preacher, reverend, pastor, vicar — the list was endless. Taking a stab in the dark, he guessed, "Minister? Was that in Sweden?"

"Yes." Kennet jerked his mount's reins, keeping the black horse on the trail and away from an inviting clump of fresh green grass. "He was a very pious man," he trailed off as if trying to translate what he was saying from Swedish into English. After a false start in his own language, he said, "Reverend Hutchinson was full of virtues, with none to bestow upon his son."

"Hard on you, huh?" Starsky clucked the horse he'd decided to call Patience up closer to Kennet's mount.

"He wanted me to be just like him." Kennet shrugged. "But I was not." He rode quietly for a long while, his sleek horse picking up speed as they trotted across a wide expanse of grassland before slowing to go up the steep incline of a hill.

At the top, Kennet reined in and sat in the saddle, gazing down at the view. When Starsky drew abreast of him, he understood why. Rows of rolling hills crowned with the familiar dark green of live oak trees rippled down into the valley and then right out toward the coast. Starsky gaped. There were no concrete highways, no office buildings competing for space, no billboards, airplanes or smog. Just an unspoiled bowl of land, beginning to fill up with the hustle and bustle of a western town turning into a big city. In the far distance, further than Starsky had ever been able to see in his own time, the Pacific ocean was an infinite swath of gray blue, stretching to the horizon. He could just discern a cloud of white sails and the tangle of masts of ships docked in the harbor to the south of Los Angeles. That little port must be his future home.

"You are from Bay City?" Kennet asked, pointing out the tiny seaside hamlet.

"I've lived there a while," Starsky said vaguely, still taking in the remarkable sight. Bay City was so small! He was surprised how different the whole area looked with so little 'civilization'. The hills were covered with winter green grass, but there were no palm trees, and far fewer eucalyptus than he was used to. Hutch had once told him that most palm trees and all eucalyptus were not actually native to California.

Nature lover Hutch should be the one to see this. Starsky tried to drink in enough to describe it to him when they were back together. Because, no matter what, they would be back together.

"Kennet..."

"David..."

They both spoke at exactly the same moment and Starsky laughed. "Jinx."

Kennet frowned, the furrow between his brows exactly like Hutch's. "I'm sorry, I don't know that word?"

"You say it when two people said the same thing, at the same time," Starsky explained, shifting on the big broad leather saddle. He'd never find riding enjoyable or comfortable. "Even though we said different names, we said them at the same... Nevermind, what were you about to say?"

"No, no," Kennet colored and ducked his head. "You must go first."

"Okay." Starsky decided to throw caution to the wind and chance mucking up history. He really didn't believe that the actions of one guy at the wrong time and place could really affect the outcome of World War Two, anyway. Heck, that war was still over sixty years in the future. "I get the feeling that you, Heyes and the Kid are involved in something that just doesn't sit well with you."

Kennet gasped, going from bright pink to a ghastly pale so quickly that Starsky was afraid he was going to faint and fall out of the saddle.

"Kennet?" Starsky swung down from Patience, grabbing the black's reins from Hutchinson's lax hands.

"H-how did you know?"

"Just chalk it up to intuition and some inside information," Starsky said grimly. "What's going on?"

"I know that Heyes, Curry or Kyle did not speak to you about this." Kennet worried his bottom lip with his top teeth, one hand sliding under his wool-lined jacket to rub his chest. "So, perhaps... Mr. Lassiter?"

The name rang a bell, but Starsky couldn't place it. "Kennet, believe me, you wouldn't believe me if I told ya." Starsky patted his thigh. "Did Heyes and Curry talk you into something illegal?"

"No, no." Kennet sighed in distress and dismounted. "Actually, I asked them. This is so..." He grimaced, searching for a word, and cursed softly in his native tongue. "Complicated. I came to California one year ago, with dreams of finding gold, just like every other sucker." He gestured out into the valley at the sprawl of frontier Los Angeles. "Mr. Barnum says there is a sucker born every minute. I thought my sister Emma was one of those lucky ones — born in the moments in between." He began walking down the slope, leading his horse.

Starsky followed, fascinated with the tale. "You sister arrived here first?"

"Emma married a man in Malmö, where I am from, and he planned to set up a bank here in the west coast, where there was so much promise of a wonderful new life." Kennet spoke wistfully, the sadness that always seemed a part of him almost overwhelming. "Her husband came here before her to set up the bank and build them a home. Our family- my grandfather comes from a long line of bankers..."

"But your father was a minister and didn't approve." Starsky kicked at a clod of earth that the black horse had loosened.

"Exactly." Kennet smiled a little, as if watching his family's history unfurl in front of him. "Nor my grandfather of his son, so Farfar—" He gave a short laugh. "Farfar is what you call—"

"Grandfather."

"Farfar was so proud of Emma and her husband Sven. They were carrying our bank to the United States, to America." He shook his head bitterly. "We were so sure there were streets lined in gold in the west."

"I've heard that one before," Starsky agreed.

"No one knows what happened. Emma was with child soon after her husband left and had to wait until the child was born." He smiled again, this time more happily. "My nephew, also named Kennet, for me. She sailed to America without her son, and I was to bring the boy— last year—" He choked, and gulped, obviously close to tears.

"Emma and her husband died?" Starsky asked softly after a long time. He really needed to hear the end of the story, although they were nearing Los Angeles. Here and there were small farmhouses and fenced in pastures with herds of cows. He had a feeling that Kennet was his link to Hutch — and his own time.

"We only heard from Emma twice. Once when she arrived in New York, the next when she arrived in Los Angeles a month later." Kennet leaned his forehead against his horse's neck, whispering softly in Swedish. Starsky wondered if he was praying.

Kennet mounted. "She wrote to say that Sven had encountered many difficulties in starting up the bank, although we had heard from him that he had procured a building and met with some other Swedish immigrants who were..." He gestured helplessly.

"Backing him? Supplying local money and clients?" Starsky suggested, climbing back on Patience.

"Exactly. Then nothing — from Emma or Sven." He kneed his horse over to one side of the rutted road to let a wagon rattle by. It was the first sign of traffic Starsky had seen. "I was very concerned, but we set out for America. The boy— little Kenny, he did not suffer the voyage well."

"Sea sick?"

"More something in his chest. He coughed and coughed until many of the other passengers complained." Kennet's mount kept plodding along, but Kennet rode with his head bowed and one broad hand covering his face. "We were in sight of New York harbor when Kenny died."

"Damn," Starsky whispered.

"I telegraphed Emma and Sven when we disembarked, but got no reply," he continued, voice choked with tears. "My journey took a long time across the continent. Weeks. By the time I arrived in Los Angeles, my sister and her husband were dead, too."

More wagons and horsemen had joined them on the road now that they were on the outskirts of the biggest city in California. A stagecoach, exactly like one in a Wells Fargo Bank ad, jangled past them, the team of horses snorting and stomping in the cool air. Just behind that was a dray wagon, as if a Budweiser commercial had come to life, huge hoofed Clydesdales pulling the enormous wagon with placid strength.

"What did you do?" Starsky asked when Kennet wiped his eyes with his shirt cuff.

"I spoke to as many Swedes as I could — all said the same thing. They were happy to have a bank from the old country, but Mr. Lassiter and owners of the Gold Country Bank resented the competition and blockaded Sven." He frowned, biting on his bottom lip again. "They put up many obstacles, preventing Bank of Malmö from ever opening its door. The building Sven bought burned down, suspiciously — there were many fees to rebuild — most illegal, until Sven had nothing left of the $20,000 he had started with."

"And your sister?" Starsky felt anger brewing in his belly for the underhanded practices of the GC Bank, the very same one he kept his money in. And the name Lassiter finally fell into place. He could picture the man: stout and pompous, wearing a black suit with a gold chain stretched across his corpulent belly. He and his wife had been the portrait right next to Heyes and the Kid in the bank's historical display.

"I believe they died together, both contracted a fever and had no money to pay a healer — nothing left, no food, no home..." Kennet hitched an unsteady breath and squared his shoulders, anger flashing across his handsome features. "I had to— you know? Avenge my sister and her husband. I would work in the Gold Country bank. It is my trade."

"So you got a job with the competition to weed out the unscrupulous practices going on under the table?" Starsky laughed at the surprising deviousness of the plan. Just as he'd figured, Kennet was the inside man.

"I think I understand." Kennet shot him a look that Hutch often gave Starsky, which said 'somehow you hit it on the nose, but you're weird, you know that?' He clucked his tongue at the black. "Exactly. I learned that Mr. Lassiter is an evil man who destroys all that he opposes."

"Don't get mad, get even."

Kennet startled, gripping his reins tightly when the black sensed his surprise. His cheeks flushed even redder than they were from the cold air. "That is what Heyes said."

Astonishing to think that he and Heyes had much at all in common. "It's a well known saying." Starsky shifted in the saddle.

"You are very easy to talk to." Kennet frowned. "And you comprehend my skäl..." He faltered, groping for a word. "Reasons."

"Motivation," Starsky said simply. The need to defend family was strong. His own father's murder had affected his actions all of his life. Yes, he knew. "You had to right a wrong. But how did you hook up with Heyes and Curry?"

"Mutual friends." Kennet lead the horses onto the first real street with houses and small shops on both sides. The street was unpaved, with deep puddles of rank, sticky mud. They had reached Los Angeles.

"I knew from the first what they could accomplish..." He glanced warily at Starsky. "You know, don't you? I don't know how — this inside information, but you know that they will rob the bank." He dropped his voice until the latter came out in a whisper.

"Yeah, I figured that out," Starsky agreed, steering Patience around a pile of manure. The old west stank. There was no other word for it. These weren't the sanitary, flat dirt streets of a John Wayne movie. "Heyes can fiddle a safe combination."

Kennet gave a stiff nod, threading the horses through more of the busy city. Starsky wanted to look everywhere at once, and dreaded losing Hutchinson in the fray so he nudged his mount to stay right on the black's tail. The muddy streets had given way to cobblestone paved thoroughfares and buildings made of brick or stone, some three stories high. Starsky spotted the usual old west style saloons and whorehouses, but was impressed to see fancy restaurants, elegant homes and fine emporiums, too.

"Heyes and Curry are very good men, but with some bad..." Kennet said, sounding half desperate and half afraid. "Please, turn onto that side street up ahead." His jaw was tight and all his movements jerky as if he couldn't quite coordinate his emotions and riding a horse at the same time. "That is where the livery is." He looked ahead, keeping an eye out on the thick congestion of horses, wagons, pedestrians and dogs that filled the road.

Starsky wrestled with his conscience. Hutchinson's situation was horrible. Starsky was a cop, he should stop Hutchinson and the gang, but he wasn't going to. Because the gears were already in motion and he didn't think he had the power, or the right, to change what had already happened, judging from the article he'd read in 1978. And the son of a bitch Lassiter had it coming to him.

They turned onto the quieter lane that led to the stables. "Will you — stop us?" Kennet asked.

"Do you want to go through with this?"

"I am — so worried." Kennet threw his leg over the black and slid to the ground. "Every moment I reconsider. I cannot sleep. I cannot... I dream of being in prison and then I dream of Emma dying in the cold, hungry." He held up his hands desperately. "I have to do this. For... ära — honor."

"What're you going to do with the money?" Starsky said, dismounting with a wince. He was never, ever getting on a horse ever again. His thighs and butt hurt like hell.

"Repay my grandfather. I will send the money to Sweden," Kennet said soberly, leaning against his black horse again. "After that, I do not know. Of course, I cannot work for Gold Country Bank. Heyes and Curry are headed north to San Francisco. I suppose I will follow. I am an outlaw now."

Starsky felt something twist inside him, his heart speeding up. He had this illogical fear that if Kennet didn't reconnect with his family, then Kenneth Hutchinson, son of Edward James Hutchinson, would never be born on August 28th, 1945. His Hutch. The Hutch he wanted to see more than anything on this earth. "Why don't you go back to Sweden?"

"My father..." Kennet began, but the naked yearning was there. He wanted to return. "He will find me a failure."

"And your grandfather?" Starsky ran a hand down Patience's withers, feeling the warm, breathing strength of her. This was no dream, this was no fantasy. He was one hundred years from his own world, and it still freaked him out.

"He is a forgiving man." Kennet swallowed, fear and anger warring on his face. "You will not stop us?"

"No." Starsky dredged up a smile. "It's not my place."

"Thank you," Kennet said with relief. He bowed his head, the blue eyes so like Hutch's, haunted with the past. "My part is small — and nearly over with. I told Heyes where the money is kept, and I will let them in. Heyes should only take what was Sven's, twenty thousand dollars, and a small fee for his expenses. But I feel a criminal."

"You're also a proud man." Starsky pressed his fingers into Hutchinson's arm, afraid to say too much and reveal how he knew the future, and yet afraid to part with this man without leaving some kind of impression. "This isn't the end of the road for you, I just can't tell you how I know. Lassiter was the criminal, you're just correcting an injustice the only way you can, with a little help from friends."

"I must tell you something." Kennet glanced at the livery. A heavy set black man in a derby hat was chatting with another customer mounted on a large gray mare, and it would be their turn next. "You will find me completely mad."

"We're all mad," Starsky misquoted the Cheshire Cat. "Or we wouldn't be here."

"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland!" Kennet said with surprise. "I have read that book." He searched Starsky's face with a quizzical expression. "Perhaps you might understand after all."

"We read the same books and know some of the same people," Starsky quipped.

"When I first saw you..."

"Hutchinson!" the livery owner bellowed. "You comin' in?"

"In one moment, Dobey." Kennet waved his hand. "You, David..." He shook his head, reaching up to touch Starsky's scruffy cheek. "Resemble someone I used to know."

Shock and something indefinable tingled in Starsky's chest.

"My grandfather had a great and good friend, from Poland, and his name was Starsky, like yours."

A boulder lodged in Starsky's chest, almost stopping his breathing.

"They were friends until Starsky was shot." Kennet gazed at Starsky in wonder. "Men in Malmö did not approve of my grandfather, a good Lutheran, befriending a Jew, and they shot Starsky in the chest."

"My God," Starsky whispered, unable to process anything past the fact that Hutchinsons and Starskys had known each other for generations.

"My grandfather grieves to this day. I will never see him again." He lifted his chin, pride and sorrow mingled in the strong lines of his face. "But were I to be with him once more, if there is nothing else I could give back to him, it will be that I have met a very good man who could be Uncle Starsky's young twin." Lingering just one moment longer, he dropped his hand to his side, a kind of peace in his eyes. "You have eased my mind more than you will ever know," Kennet said before trudging down the lane to the livery.

Starsky couldn't speak. It was all too much. He wasn't just evoking the Cheshire cat, he had tumbled into Wonderland mixed with Oz. Almost-Hutch chatted briefly with almost-Captain Harold Dobey in the guise of a livery owner, and then walked back onto the main street. Starsky recognized the large brick building in the middle of the block as the original Gold Country Bank, circa 1878. Kennet swung open the front door bedecked with a green wreath and disappeared inside.

Starsky stood rooted to the spot, still holding onto Patience's reins. What was he supposed to do now? Feeling hysterical, he clicked the heels of his Fry boots together and chanted, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home." But that did nothing except make Patience whinny.

"Hey, you! You just gonna stand there?" Dobey called out.

"Yes, Cap'n," Starsky started, but when he looked closely, he realized that Dobey wasn't his Captain. There was a superficial similarity to the two men, but the livery stable owner was not Harold's identical twin. There was a certain quirky satisfaction in that; this was not mirror-Bay City, like that weird episode of Star Trek where Spock was evil. Yet, at the same time, without Hutchinson, or Heyes, Kid and Kyle, Starsky was incredibly lonely. Was he stuck here forever? How in the hell was he getting back? Because, in every movie he'd ever seen, once the hero set things straight, or realized an important truth, then sproing, he was back at home with loved ones.

Walking the horse over to the livery, Starsky felt miserable. His head was hurting again and he was already hungry. Half a cup of coffee and a small biscuit hadn't held him for long.

"You lost, mister?" Dobey growled, chomping on a foul smelling cigar. He shoveled horse droppings from the stable floor into a big pile. Flies buzzed busily over the load of fresh manure that steamed faintly in the cold air.

"Just out of my usual routine," Starsky sighed. "Hutchinson's friend, Jed Curry will be along to get this horse later this afternoon."

"Yeah, I know them." Dobey puffed smoke and Patience sneezed. The livery owner towed the horse into the barn, unsaddling her and wiping her down with maximum efficiency.

Not knowing what else to do, Starsky wandered out onto Main Street. Fourth Street was to his left, Third Street to his right. He knew exactly where he was — if this was his time. In 1978, the courthouse where he'd given the deposition and listened to Hutch testify would be just about where he was standing now, in the lane leading to Dobey's Livery.

Main Street, 1878, was a busy place. Women in long skirts with fat bustles on the back and tiny little hats bristling with lace, feathers and enormous bows hurried along the street to finish their Christmas shopping. Men in fancy suits complete with vests and wearing hats on their heads went about their business with determined intent. Starsky had nowhere to go and nothing to do. If he was stuck here for the rest of his life, either he'd need to get a job, or join Heyes' gang.

That was not going to happen.

How could he get a job? He had no papers, no ID.

It struck him that men in this era could easily reinvent themselves, as Kennet was trying to do, because it was difficult, if not impossible to trace credit history or employment records. All Starsky had to do was march into the saloon two doors down, tell them he'd worked as a bartender before, and if they needed one, he'd be in like Flynn. There was no reason to mention that he'd been a bartender for all of a couple of weeks before he was fired, and that his cab driving skills were far superior — there were no cars to drive here.

Maybe the local constabulary would need a cop with futuristic ideas?

Starsky decided he needed to make a decisive move. At least, find a way to earn some cash. He took a step off the sidewalk and saw something glinting faintly in a puddle.

A dime! At least he thought it was. Fishing it out of the water, he examined the coin. There was a seated lady holding a crest and a small flag, and on the other side, the words one dime surrounded by olive branches.

He grinned. Surely the saloon would have food? Or at least a beer so he could think without his belly rumbling constantly.

Clasping his salvation, he pushed through the batwing doors and into the saloon. Déjà vu hit hard, making him dizzy. The place was so similar to the set of the Steve Hanson movie that he'd worked on that he had to stand just inside the door to acclimate. None of the patrons took the least interest in him, hunched over their whiskeys and beers as if they'd been dying of thirst in the desert until just that moment.

A bar stretched the length of the far wall. There was a painting of a partially nude Rubenesque woman eating grapes above the shelves of alcohol, with a drawing of an old fashioned Santa Claus tacked to the edge of the gilt frame for holiday decoration. An open door led to a small kitchen at one end of the bar. Six or eight tables were scattered around the narrow room, with a piano shoved into a far corner. Sawdust littered the floor, but the interior still reeked of stale booze, urine and cigar smoke.

Blinking in the dim light, Starsky approached the bar. The tall, slender black bartender looked awfully familiar.

"What'll it be, pilgrim?" the man asked, a wry smile playing on his thin face.

Starsky didn't blurt out "Huggy!" because it wasn't his old friend. His ears were too big, the gold tooth that glinted when he smiled was different, as was the missing left arm. It was quite possibly one of Huggy's many, many relatives, already in the bar business in the 19th century.

"What can I get for a dime?" he asked, with that weird sense of being with his old pal and yet not, at the same time.

"We gots a breakfast special goin' on t'day," the bartender announced cheerfully pointing to a misspelled menu scrawled on a small slate propped against a bottle of rotgut.

Ten cents bought a full meal; eggs, ham and grits with gravy — spelled gravee. Starsky wasn't too crazy about grits, but he was hungry enough not to care. And just grateful that he could pay for the meal.

"The special," Starsky ordered, plunking down his money.

"Comes with a beer, free a'charge." The bartender drew him a draught pint, straight from a barrel. Starsky could smell the hops and barley from where he was sitting. "Name's Lefty Brown, cause I only got the right one left." He laughed at his own joke, shoving the brimming glass across the bar. "You new around these parts?"

Starsky nodded, taking a long swallow of beer. Used to Coors and Bud, he was surprised at the strong, bitter flavor. "It's a long story, but I need to get back home a-s-a-p."

"Asap? Sounds like some new fangled invention," Lefty puzzled. Dropping Starsky's money into the till, he shouted into the kitchen for a special.

"As soon as possible," Starsky translated. "Name's David. How'd you lose your arm?"

"War between the states," he drawled. "But I made it through 'live, thank the Lord, which is more than some soldiers did."

Taking another drink, Starsky did a fast mental history lesson. The Civil War was fought from 1861-1865, and had ended thirteen years before — slightly longer ago than the Viet Nam conflict in his own era.

Lefty responded to a whistle from the back and ducked into the kitchen to get a plate heaping with eggs, ham and grits, the gravy nearly obscuring the food underneath. He smiled, making a show of smelling the food. "Fast Eddie lives up to his name. He's th'fastest cook we ever had."

Digging in, Starsky didn't even take time to savor the food. He shoveled it in, famished. About half way through, he was feeling much better after a large burp.

"Belchin' always does a man good." Lefty nodded, sliding two shots of rye down the bar to a couple of nattily dressed gents.

Starsky dropped his fork into the remaining grits. "Is that the bank president?" he asked, recognizing the man with a pair of enormous mutton chop whiskers.

"Mister Mortimer Lassiter." Lefty nodded. "That's him." He rubbed down the bar with a filthy rag. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, but looked steadily at Starsky as if weighing his merit. Apparently, he saw something in Starsky's face that convinced him to speak freely. "I shouldn't talk ill of a customer," he said in a low voice meant only for Starsky's ears. "But that man's a cruel, hard-hearted bastard."

Lassiter and his friend had moved to a table in the far corner of the room, next to the piano, for a private meeting. A group of poker players glanced their way and sneered openly, going back to their cards with soft curses and rude gestures.

"Don't I know it," Starsky said, watching a slight older man dressed like a cowboy and another man in 'town clothes' finish their breakfasts fast and then leave when Lassiter chose the table next to them. "He screwed a friend of mine good. Embezzled all his money."

"Seems to be the same chorus 'mongst lots of folk," Lefty agreed, propping his stump on the bar. "Gold Country was started a couple years ago by some right-minded men, but since Lassiter got t'be president of the bank, nobody's made a profit but him."

"He stole investments?"

Tugging on his earlobe, Lefty glanced at the banker's table and hunched his shoulder as if drawing a quiet curtain around the two of them. "I ain't got no proof, or nothing, but suddenly the owner of this here fine drinkin' establishment lost his savings and owes more'n he used to on the building."

"Did you know a Sven..." Starsky swallowed the last of his beer. He'd never heard Sven's last name, which certainly wasn't Hutchinson unless there was a lot of inter-family marriage in Sweden, which he doubted.

"Sven Ulvaeus," Lefty said without hesitation, a bitter anger twisting his mobile mouth. "Many of us tried to help, but Lassiter went after him with some kind of vengeance. Sven and Emma were salt of the earth. Dogs are treated better than they were."

"Then you know his brother-in-law, too?" Starsky asked, almost certain he knew the answer already. Like Huggy Bear in his time, Lefty seemed to have his one hand on the pulse of the neighborhood. The question was, did he know about Kennet's plans with Heyes and Curry?

"Kennet? 'Course I do." Lefty waved at two newcomers, a young cowboy and a girl with a shawl wrapped tightly around her. She wasn't wearing a coat and looked cold. "Come on in, my friends. Fast Eddie's already got the eggs on the griddle for you."

"Lefty," the young man said with regret. "I only got enough for coffee."

The girl, probably his wife, nodded, her face pinched and thin. "We just came in out of the cold for a spell."

With a whole meal only ten cents, what did just coffee cost? Thinking about what Hutch would have done, Starsky started to reach into his pocket to give them a dollar or two before remembering that the fifty bucks he was carrying was one hundred years out of date. Closing his fingers around some rectangle objects inside his pocket, Starsky pulled one out, scattering his matchstick winnings onto the bar.

"Coffee's already made, Tobias, and..." Lefty paused when Fast Eddie gave a whistle from the back. "So's your eggs. Be a shame to let 'em go to waste."

"Thank you!" Tobias said gratefully, pulling the chair out for the girl while Lefty went to get the food.

Starsky stared at the card in his palm. The king of hearts. It was one of the cards he'd picked up before Curry shot a perfect hole through the ace of spades. The king was in profile, with a regal crown on his flowing blond locks, and his nose was exactly like Hutch's. Starsky felt his heart skip a beat. He had to find Hutch — he had to find a way back.

Business in the saloon was picking up and Lefty was suddenly busy dispensing drinks and picking up dirty dishware. Lassiter and his associate got up to leave, lifting their noses as they passed the hungry young couple eating their eggs. At the table near the bar, a man in a black suit with a string tie and a red-headed lad gathered up their equipment, calling out thanks to Lefty.

"Come back again, Atticus!" Lefty yelled out just as Fast Eddie whistled from the kitchen.

Lost in thought, Starsky didn't pay much attention until the red-head stumbled with his unwieldy bundle and nearly dropped the entire contraption on Starsky's feet.

"Criminy!" he exclaimed, his cheeks blushing almost as bright at his hair. "Sorry, mister, this bundle of sticks is always giving me fits."

"S'all right," Starsky assured, stooping to help him pick it up.

His bundle of sticks proved to be the tripod for an old fashioned camera. The man in the string tie chuckled, placing the large box of the camera on the table carefully. "Seth, you're going to have to learn to haul this stuff around before you can be a photographer. Why, Mr. Matthew Brady used to take his equipment onto the battle fields of the war between the states without losing a lens, tripod or a glass plate."

"Sorry, Atticus." Seth sighed, collecting the various parts of the apparatus to stuff back into a voluminous carpetbag. "I'm all fumble fingers this morning."

"Are you taking some photographs around here?" Starsky asked, fascinated by the mountain of equipment needed to produce just one picture. He'd never appreciated his small, portable Leica with its close-up lens and light meter half enough.

"Yes, Mr. Lassiter has had such a momentous year since becoming bank president that he wants to commemorate the occasion with a photograph," Atticus said with a smile. "My name is Atticus Rathborn." He grasped Starsky's hand, shaking it firmly.

"David Starsky."

"I am trying to emulate Mr. Brady in producing more..." Atticus waved both arms expansively as if trying to grasp all that he wanted to say. "Dramatic, yet intimate, real life photographs. The newer plates are amazing."

"I've seen Matthew Brady's stuff — the pictures of the battlefield, even the guns in the trenches," Starsky said honestly, recalling an exhibition at the Bay City Art Museum. "Really impressive."

"Aren't they?" Atticus said enthusiastically. "No more portraits. I feel that I will be chronicling the life of Los Angeles, possibly to preserve some part of our history for the next generation. The interior of the bank will be the first in my new series."

Starsky gulped air, his heart palpitating so irregularly that he wondered if he was having a heart attack. The sounds of the saloon faded away, replaced with a sudden certainty. This was it! The picture of the Gold County lobby! He and Hutch had seen it together, had commented on how the men in the photograph looked like them. Now he realized, as bizarre as it seemed, that really was David Starsky talking to one of Hutch's great-great grand relatives. This was how he would get back to his Hutch. He had to be in that photograph.

"Sir, are you all right?" Seth patted Starsky's arm, bringing back the clink of glassware and babble of voices from the bar. "Are you afflicted with the grippe? Or some sort of difficulty of the spleen?"

Pressing his hand hard against his chest, Starsky shook his head. "Just overcome with..." He looked up at their concerned faces and realized that he was sprawled in a chair, with no recollection of sitting down.

Even Lefty was there, holding out a cup of coffee.

"Thanks, Lefty." Starsky took the cup, drinking quickly to collect himself. He wanted to go home. These were all great people, just not his own. He needed Hutch. "Can I watch you work?" He asked Atticus and Seth, setting down the drained cup with a surprisingly steady hand. "I'm really interested in photography."

"Of course, of course!" Atticus said, grinning with excitement. "I thank you for your bracing morning repast, Lefty! Next, we should photograph your most excellent tavern."

"Drop in the Bucket ain't mine," Lefty said. "But some day, I aim to open my own es-ta-blishment." He hooked his only thumb through the right suspender, puffing out his skinny chest. "Ain't too many former slaves got their own saloons, which is why I plan on calling my place The Pits, 'cause that's where I rised up out of."

"Lefty, I know you will," Starsky said, clapping him on the back. "The Brown family's got a future in selling booze. You might try buying a place in Bay City. That's an up and coming town."

"I concur!" Atticus had managed to collect all the bits and pieces for his camera. "Onward, Seth. We have work to do."

Starsky followed the photographers across the street, dodging a huge dray pulled by six straining horses and loaded with stone. There were new buildings going up in every empty lot — most of them made of stone. Los Angeles was expanding, bursting at the seams to become the largest city on the west coast.

Walking into the lobby of the Gold Country Bank was like stepping into the photograph. Starsky felt a chill run down his spine, and he gave himself a little shake. He was going home.

He glanced around to get his bearing, and more importantly, find Kennet. If he remembered correctly, there should be two, or possibly three, teller cages and Kennet would be in the last one. Yep, just past a huge redwood decorated with strings of popcorn, beautiful blown glass ornaments and unlit candles was the teller's area. There were three teller stations, but only two were open. Kennet was helping an older man make a transaction, nodding his head at whatever the man said.

"Mr. Rathborn! Mr. Douglas!" Mortimer Lassiter stood near a door in the rear of the bank. Seeing the photographers, he came hurried over, all hearty greeting and pompous bonhomie.

Lassiter set Starsky's teeth on edge, and it was all he could do not to shove the asshole over a convenient desk and cuff him. But this was not his fight. It was Kennet's turn to expose the shyster and get a little of his own back — with Heyes and Curry's help. Starsky grinned, satisfied that Lassiter only had a couple of more days as bank president before his downfall. He almost wished that he could be around to see the fireworks, but he wanted to see Hutch even more.

"Where do you want us to set up, Mr. Lassiter?" Atticus asked, putting the camera box on the polished floor. Seth had already unfolded the tripod and was assembling the chemicals needed for the flash. "A view of the magnificent Christmas tree? Or the workings of the bank?" Atticus held out a hand toward the teller cages.

"As much of the bank as can be seen." Lassiter smiled, all teeth. He patted his rounded belly covered in plum brocade and fingered the gold watch chain in his pocket. "I would oversee your creativity, but I must make more money." He winked slyly, with a self-satisfied smirk. "We've a large sum in the safe today, the proceeds of several lucrative foreclosures in the immediate area. Soon you will see many more large buildings going up, all financed by myself and the bank."

"Impressive," Atticus said politely, with a perfect poker face. Whatever he thought of Lassiter's grandiose schemes, he wasn't giving anything away. "I'll get to my work, then? A photograph to hang in the main hall, to prove what a prosperous institution this is." He gave a polite bow, already concentrating on what Seth was doing. "Dear boy, position the camera toward the western wall, so that the light coming through the windows will be behind us."

"Can I lend a hand?" Starsky asked, eager to get this going. Several customers had come and gone since they arrived, but he hadn't seen the woman in the long skirt and poke bonnet yet. He had time to go over to Kennet and convince him to go back to Sweden, to marry, to father a son who would someday father Hutch's dad.

"Steady the tripod while I screw the camera onto the base," Seth suggested. "It's heavy, and just one wrong move could prove disastrous."

"You have a flair for the dramatic, Seth Douglas," Atticus laughed. "Although, it's true, that contraption is as ornery as sin to focus once the lenses are out of alignment." He stood regarding the room with an artist's eye. "Yes, the photograph will show the bank employees, going about their jobs. A sort of visual diary."

"Should I include the Christmas tree?" Seth asked, draping the camera with a black cloth to protect the sensitive photographic plate from light.

"No." Atticus ducked under the cloth to peer through the lens. His voice was muffled as he continued speaking. "The tree will give the picture a holiday spirit. I shall preserve the honest endeavors of a day's work reflected in the tellers and their customers."

"Want me to go up to one of the tellers, like I was making a deposit?" Starsky glanced across the room, meeting Kennet's startled eyes. The blond man mouthed something, but Starsky was too far away to read his lips.

"Certainly!" Atticus agreed, reemerging from his photography 'cave'. "That will lend verisimilitude to the image."

"We're ready, Atticus!" Seth announced, putting the last of the flash powder into the container.

A woman walked past Starsky, her long moss-green velvet skirt brushing against his leg. Because she was living color, in a jacket that matched her skirt and wide brimmed hat trimmed with green velvet ribbon, he didn't recognize her at first. But when she took her place in the queue to wait for a teller, he knew the curve of her poke bonnet and the sweep of the bustle on her skirt. He had only a few moments to get into position! If she went to the second station, presided over by a balding fellow in a stiff white collar, then Starsky could get Kennet's station.

"I'll go to the teller on the end," Starsky said over his shoulder, moving quickly before another customer took his place in line.

"Stand there with him," Atticus directed, stooping under the black drape again. "For at least three to five minutes. That should be sufficient."

His heart pounding, Starsky waited for Kennet to finish counting out a clutch of money to a short, portly gentleman in a beaver stovepipe hat worthy of Abe Lincoln himself. For a moment, Starsky thought there was another earthquake. His hands were shaking and his head swimming, but it was just nerves.

He found himself whispering, "There's no one like Hutch, there's no one like Hutch..." and clicked his heels together, just in case. The woman in the poke bonnet walked up to the second window at exactly the same moment that the short man in the tall hat ended his transaction with Kennet.

"Thank you for your patronage!" Kennet called out, but he was looking straight at Starsky. "David!"

"Kennet—"

"Jinx," Kennet laughed. "You see, I have learned a new American word."

"And I really do need to talk first," Starsky said, glancing back at the camera crew. "I don't have much time, so hear me out."

"If you don't have any money, pretend to write out a chit." Kennet pushed a piece of paper to him.

"You must to go back to Sweden after tonight." Starsky pulled out the wallet that held his badge. Under his detective ID, he kept a snapshot of him and Hutch standing on top of the Torino. He slid the photo out, laying it on the counter. "I know this sounds crazy, but I'm from the future — one hundred years in the future."

"David!" Kennet gasped, but there was no disbelief in his expression, only wonder.

"That is your—" Starsky poked a finger at Hutch in the picture. "Descendant. My best friend, my partner... And if you don't do what you have to do with Heyes and the Kid, and then go back to Sweden to see your grandfather, get married and have a family of your own, then I don't think my friend will be born. And I won't have a life worth livin'."

"Min vän, my friend," Kennet said softly, staring at the photograph in awe. "He is... but how can this be? The grandson of my son?" He nodded, tears glinting in his blue eyes. "As you are the twin of my Uncle Starsky, he is my doppelganger." He smiled, so like Hutch. "If you are crazy, then so am I. I believe you, David."

Starsky felt a strange tremor under his feet, although no one else seemed to notice. Then, too many things happened at once for him to catalogue in order.

The woman in green velvet calmly turned away from the teller window.

There was a brilliant, white hot flash from the camera.

Kennet placed his hand on Starsky's. Each incidence occurred at once, and yet all separately, distinct points in time like drops of amber strung on a thread.

Vibrations jittered up Starsky's legs until he shook all over, light and darkness shattering inside his skull.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Damn!"

Hutch's voice.

And the ground wasn't just vibrating, it was undulating continuously, as if the blacktop had turned to wiggly Jell-o.

Hutch tightened his grip on Starsky, and for a moment, Starsky didn't respond, except to give thanks. Because even without looking, he knew this was Hutch. Knew deep inside himself, recognized his partner with every fiber of his being.

"This is the worst one yet," Hutch said, but Starsky could tell that he was talking to himself. "Probably over a six..."

"H'tch!" Starsky slurred. "What...?" The earth gave one last sharp jerk before quieting. Starsky realized he was half in Hutch's lap, held close to his partner's chest.

"Starsk!" Hutch practically yelled in his ear. "Where have you been?"

"You have no idea..." Starsky muttered, opening his eyes slowly. He was definitely on Ocean Avenue. He could see the dark bulk of the Torino parked at the curb, but the whole block was completely dark. The earthquake must have taken out the power. Up in the sky, stars that were usually hidden by smog and light pollution shone brilliantly.

It looked almost exactly like the sky did one hundred years ago.

"Are you all right?" Hutch gently got him sitting upright. They were side by side in the doorway of Venice Place, sheltered by the sturdy door frame.

Starsky groaned, wishing he could shove the pain in his head out one of his ears because it felt too wide and too big to be completely encompassed by his skull.

"Starsk?" Hutch asked again, his face pinched with worry. "You must have hit your head during the aftershock a few minutes ago. One of the waiters from Helene's—" He pointed to the milling crowd on the sidewalk to their right. All the diners, wait staff and cooks had evacuated the building, and were holding lit candles. The flames wavered, illuminating the nervous faces. Loud chatter in both French and English just exacerbated Starsky's headache. "Helped me get you out of the street," Hutch continued.

"And then there was another 'quake?" Starsky asked, feeling hazy. Had he really traveled back in time? Or was it just a dream, like Dorothy at the end of the Wizard of Oz? She'd met people who resembled her friends, too, but... He'd been so sure that Kennet, Heyes and Curry, not to mention Kyle, Dobey and Lefty were real, not figments of his imagination.

How could he discover the truth?

"Yeah. You were unconscious, which means you have a concussion," Hutch said, smoothing his palm along Starsky's brow. "I need to get you to a hospital."

Even the delicate caress was too much. "Hutch, don't!" Starsky pushed his hand away. "A couple aspirin, I'll be fine." Grabbing onto the doorknob, he hauled himself to his feet. For a moment, the world grayed out, and Starsky's stomach tried to make a desperate escape up his throat. He leaned against the door, barely aware of Hutch keeping him upright.

"A couple of aspirin could cause you to bleed in your brain," Hutch murmured against his temple, and amazingly, that didn't hurt like hell.

"Gonna push me up the stairs, or do I have to walk the whole way on my own?" Starsky groused. "The hospital will to be overflowing with people freaked out, or really hurt."

"Stubborn idiot, You don't think a concussion counts as really hurt?" Hutch shook his head with a weary half-smile. The other half of him regarded Starsky with consternation. "Get on up there. Don't come complaining to me if your brain leaks out."

"You got a flashlight?" Starsky pushed open the front door but the stairwell was pitch black. "You're such a klutz, you'll fall over your big feet in the dark."

"I'm a klutz? Who fell down and broke his crown?" Hutch took his hand away from Starsky's spine. "You okay standing there?"

"Not going anyway, pop." Starsky breathed in slow. Losing Hutch's support didn't make him fall, but he definitely felt unsteady. "There's a flashlight in the—"

"Starsk, I ride in this car three days out of five and I check the glove compartment every time." Hutch swung open the Torino door, talking the entire time. "You think I don't know where the damn flashlight is?"

All that chatter was probably just a reaction to the quake and finding Starsky unconscious. Whatever it was, it made Starsky ache with love for the big lug.

The arc from the powerful flashlight lit up the night. Several of Helene's patrons exclaimed in surprise, shielding their eyes. Starsky had to squint when Hutch shone the light up the stairs to light his ascent.

"Be careful," Hutch said unnecessarily.

Starsky tackled the first two steps. Walking with a gargantuan headache was harder than he'd expected. "You want to hold my hand, Mr. Policeman?"

"Yes," Hutch said softly from behind him, pushing gently on the curve of Starsky's butt to propel him upwards. "Always."

"H-hutch..." Hell, he was emotional all of a sudden. Starsky swallowed the swell of tears in the back of his throat and reached above Hutch's door for the key.

"A little to the left," Hutch said, his voice unusually husky.

Starsky managed to get the door unlocked even though his fingers didn't seem to want bend and turn properly. He was really glad that the darkness hid his clumsiness or he'd never live it down.

"Sit," Hutch ordered. He placed the bright flashlight on the coffee table, pointed at the ceiling so that it provided a goodly amount of light. "Where'd I leave those matches?"

"Wait a minute." His heart racing with hope, Starsky sat down and reached into his pocket. "I got some."

It was true!

He had proof; physical, real proof that he'd played cards with Heyes, Kid and Kyle. He traced the pasteboard edge of the king of diamonds before pulling out a handful of matches. Blinking away tears, Starsky struck the match on the edge of the coffee table and lit one of the thick decorative candles there. The matches wouldn't convince Hutch, but Starsky knew. If he could somehow get something like fingerprints off the card and matches, it would prove that he had gone one hundred years back in time. But that didn't matter, in the long run, because he knew, and he believed. That was enough.

"Where'd you get those?" Hutch picked several out of Starsky's palm and set about lighting every single candle in the room. Very quickly the place was better lit than the cabin had been with two old dirty lanterns and a fireplace.

"My head hurts," Starsky said, which wasn't a lie, just a feint. Should he tell Hutch and risk being teased for the rest of his life? Or worse, risk Hutch thinking that he'd permanently damaged his brain in some vital way?

"Let me take a look at your eyes." Hutch perched in front of Starsky, gazing at him. "No blown pupils, no blood."

"And I'm oriented times three," Starsky added, using the medical jargon he'd heard often enough in the ER when being checked out for a concussion. "I know the president, my name and where we are."

"So?" Hutch waggled his fingers in the 'give me' gesture.

"President—" Starsky was tempted to give him the name of the president from 1878, but hell if he could remember with his head pounding so badly. He'd have to look it up. "Jimmy Carter. My name is David Michael Starsky, and yours is Kenneth Rupert Hutchinson." He earned the dreaded Hutchinson finger for that, although Hutch's concern had softened into an indulgence. "And we're in your crappy apartment."

"My apartment is not..." Hutch shook the finger before grabbing a coverlet. "Lie down and rest. I'll check for gas leaks and see if the phone works. Who knows how long the power will be out. This quake could have brought down a freeway..."

"Like in '71," Starsky said sleepily, to prove that his brain worked just fine.

"Or done structural damage," Hutch added, clanging things in the kitchen.

"Hutch?" Starsky called out. "Do you know who the president was in 1878?"

"Rutherford B. Hayes," Hutch answered promptly, although he sounded far away. He was probably in the greenhouse. "Had to memorize them all in high school. Comes right after Ulysses S. Grant and before James Garfield."

"Smart-ass," Starsky muttered, and then he was asleep.

This time, he knew he was dreaming, because he was simply an observer, as if watching the entire thing on a huge, color TV. The sky was crammed with stars, tiny pinpoints of light, but there was no moon, and the streets of nineteenth century Los Angeles, so busy and frenetic during the day, were quiet and still. The Gold Country Bank stood like a sentinel in the middle of the block. A horse nickered softly, jingling its bridle but the animal was hidden in the shadows, along with two others. Heyes, Kid and Kyle crouched low a few feet behind the bank, waiting until the back door opened just a crack.

Kennet let them in, holding a storm lantern with the wick shielded to block most of the light. Heyes' teeth showed when he grinned at the Kid. There was excitement in the air, but neither lingered very long. Kyle stayed with the horses while Heyes and Kid hurried into the bank. Although Heyes didn't seem to know the combination to Lassiter's safe in advance, he put his ear to the front and carefully manipulated the tumblers to puzzle out the correct sequence of numbers. He bit his lower lip once, frowning just a little, and Kennet froze, looking incredibly guilty. Curry patted his arm, as if imbuing him with a little more patience, leaning back against Lassiter's desk. They didn't have to wait much longer; Heyes drew the safe open, revealing a cache of stacked money.

He didn't remove all of it, just the twenty thousand that had been stolen from the Hutchinsons, plus the extra that Kennet had promised Heyes for traveling expenses. Before closing the heavy metal reinforced door, Heyes selected one more thing. He stood and pressed a gold coin into Kennet's hand, saying something Starsky couldn't hear. There were tears in Kennet's blue eyes and he nodded sincerely, thanking them.

Kid caught Heyes in a bear hug, whispering in his ear.

"Starsk?" Hutch gently kissed his partner's forehead.

"Huh?" Starsky swam out of the dream, wanting to know more. Had Heyes and Curry gone to San Francisco? What had Kennet decided? Or was this really all some complicated fantasy brought on because he'd hit his head during an earthquake?

"You know the drill," Hutch said patiently. "Name..."

"Rank and serial number," Starsky finished. "Sergeant Starsky, David M., number RA 664..." He stopped before Hutch could launch into a frantic examination of his pupils, reflexes and memory all while calling emergency services at the same time. "Got you!"

"You're despicable," Hutch smacked him on the upper arm.

"Ow!" Starsky complained far more than was necessary and sat up slowly. "I'm Starsky, you're Hutch, I drive a terrific candy apple red Torino, you drive a piece of junk, the vice president is Mondale, and I'm hungry."

"Now I know you're feeling better. How's your head?" Hutch leaned down to brush his lips softly across Starsky's.

Relishing the caress, Starsky considered the pain level. He didn't feel all that bad. There was a KISS concert playing at airplane engine decibel in his head, but it didn't make him want to shove spikes into his brain, like earlier. "I'll live."

"You and the rest of the Los Angeles basin." Hutch got up, still eyeing him critically. The candle flames caught the brightness of Hutch's blond hair, making it gleam. "I got a lot done while you slept. Talked to Dobey on the police band — remarkably few injuries, no major building collapsed and so far, there are no reports of vandalism or looting. I told him about your head. He said stay put."

"Must be the Christmas miracle earthquake." Starsky put his feet on the coffee table, careful not to knock over the candles and saw a pile of mail with a large package sitting on top. "What's all this?"

"Felt my way down the stairs in the dark to my mailbox and there was one of those 'we left a package while you were away" notes from the letter carrier. Helene was keeping the parcel for me." Hutch headed into the kitchen. "Tylenol and some stew?"

"You got any of those cookies Minnie made the other day?" Starsky asked, picking up some of the Christmas cards scattered on the coffee table. However, the mid-sized box kept distracting him. He wasn't about to dive into Hutch's private package, but he really wanted to.

"Eat something healthy before the cookies." Hutch came back with a tray full of temptations. Starsky couldn't resist the Tylenol and took two right away with a large glass of water.

"Did you get a present from a secret admirer?" Starsky asked, poking at the box with his toe. "Doesn't look like a tree planted in your honor."

"You ever going to let me live that one down?" Hutch sat down, doling out a bowls filled with thick stew. He placed a few cookies for each of them on a napkin. He bit one, and Starsky was amused to see that the cookie was studded with M&M's. Greens.

"I love my tree. I look at it every time I go to the park." Starsky took a spoonful of chicken and vegetables. "Hey, this is great, but you didn't make it."

"Helene sent it up. She had to close up and had a lot left over. Coq au vin."

"So you're eating cookies first?" Starsky tasted more of Helene's specialty, grinning when Hutch abruptly put down his second cookie for a bowlful of coq au vin.

There was a short silence punctuated by the clink of spoons on bowls as they both ate. Starsky contemplated a cookie, but his stomach still felt wavery. He'd wait until the painkiller really went to work on his head.

Hutch pulled a handful of old photographs out of the box, displacing some Styrofoam packing peanuts. "My mother has been going through some of the Hutchinson memorabilia lately." He handed over a photo of a youthful Edward James Hutchinson, in a formal WWII era Air Force uniform, standing proudly next to the breathtakingly young Louise Mathiasson in a forties-style wedding dress. "My parents," Hutch said unnecessarily.

"I knew you looked just like your dad." Starsky stared at the picture, seeing not only Hutch in Edward's face, but also Kennet. "You got any older ones? Your grandfather?" He had to remind himself to breathe. This was all too perfect. Even if he never told Hutch what he knew, what he had seen; he already had proof linking the three of them together. He'd been with Kennet in the Gold Country Bank, one hundred years ago, and seen the picture with Hutch a century later. What he really wanted was evidence of Kennet's return to Sweden to continue the Hutchinson legacy.

"Apparently Mother is on a genealogy kick. Since I am the last remaining Hutchinson, now that my father has died, she's sending it all to me." Hutch glanced through a few more pictures, all blond, beautiful people. The style of clothing and manner of photography got progressively more old-fashioned. "Makes me feel part of a line." He touched the image of a man leaning against a Packard auto.

"I can really see how you came to be," Starsky said, picking up more pictures, his headache forgotten. There was Lt. Edward Hutchinson beside his bomber in the Pacific theatre of WWII. Another showed Kenneth Edward Hutchinson, Hutch's grandfather, dressed in the stiff styles of the early 1900s. A delicate beauty with blonde frothy curls was standing beside him. "What was your grandmother's name?"

"Anna." Hutch grinned. "She made the best Christmas cookies. She was originally German, but moved to Denmark and then Sweden as a girl."

"Minnie's cookies ain't bad," Starsky said, tasting one with lots of orange and yellow M&M's.

"Just two more pictures," Hutch said, placing them on the couch. "And something in a little velvet bag."

"Hey!" Starsky stared at the last of the photographs, and choked on his mouthful. Coughing, he tried to breathe through the cookie crumbs lodged in his throat and just choked more. Hutch pounded him on the back but that only made the headache blossom as if he'd never taken Tylenol. It took several minutes and a glass of water before he could inhale without coughing.

"What the hell?" Hutch asked, hovering.

"M&M down the wrong way." Starsky waved him away irritably, trying to think past the drum solo pounding on his temples. "I'm okay!"

"Eat slower."

"What's in the bag?" Starsky asked to distract his partner while he looked at the photo that had started it all. He held it as close to the candle flame as possible so that he could make out all the detail.

The Hutchinson men all looked quite similar, but he knew the man in the sepia-toned print. Knew the determined brow and the small scar on his chin. Kennet Hutchinson sat bolt upright, holding a baby on his lap. A woman, wearing a long dark dress, her blonde hair done up in an elaborate hairdo decorated with a jeweled clip, stood behind him, her hand on the shoulder of a small blonde girl in high-topped shoes. "Uh—" He couldn't admit that he already knew the man's name. "Who is this?"

"Mother wrote the names on the back," Hutch said absently, untying the strings that held the velvet bag closed.

Kennet and Suzanne was written in Louise's flowery script. Underneath, it said Kenneth Edward, born 1890, Analiese, born 1888. Starsky flipped the picture over, just absorbing everything. He had crossed time to connect with two different generations of the same family. Had maybe even convinced Kennet of the right path, to go join his grandfather in the banking business and start a new dynasty.

His heart overflowing with love, Starsky leaned into Hutch, feeling Hutch's arm slip around his shoulders.

"For some reason..." Hutch trailed off, clutching something in his hand. "I'm really profoundly touched by all of this. More than I expected to be."

"You know what I like about all of this? You." Starsky turned his head just enough to kiss Hutch and be able to reach what Hutch held in his hand. The kiss kept them occupied a good little while, but eventually, Starsky rested his head on Hutch's shoulder. "Show me."

"A twenty dollar gold piece," Hutch whispered. "Circa..."

"1878," Starsky said, tracing Lady Liberty's gold diadem on the coin. A long time ago, Kennet Hutchinson had probably done the same thing. "Must be worth a mint."

"Wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel if I didn't have you," Hutch vowed, placing the coin in Starsky's palm

"I think I'll stick around for another hundred years," Starsky promised, closing his fingers around the coin. "Until you're 148."

FIN