"Daddy, look!" A blonde child, maybe eight years old, her eyes alight with excitement, her dress a pattern of bright yellow.

"Wait, Jennifer. Don't..." The man--her father's hand grabbing for her shoulder, missing. The child skipping forward, sublimely unaware of danger. Bouncing up and down in her joy and eagerness. So full of life... Of life...

"Wait!"

"Look out!"

"Stop!"

The chorus of familiar voices raised in warning cutting across the sizzle of energy and the girl's urging, "Quick, Daddy!"

A blossom of brilliant light, a speeding blue shape, a scream of fear and panic mercifully chopped off. Echoing forever in his head.

"JENNIFER!" Agony. A voice full of the worst kind of pain.

His stomach twisting in horror as he stares at what he has done, his mouth falling open in shock and guilt as the weapon drops, unheeded, from his hands. "No. Oh, God, no."

The young man with the long auburn hair straggling down over the collar of his coverall jumped as the slam of the outer door shattered the afterimage that was playing on the inside of his eyelids. He blinked at the radiator he had been working on for the past hour. Returning to the present was such a shock that for an instant he could only lift dazed eyes to stare at his boss. The elderly man strode briskly across the garage with an energy that belied his appearance. He wore a neat brown coverall with the name, 'Fred,' stenciled above the pocket. The younger man's coverall was a duplicate of his, though it was stained with oil and grease, but it was slightly too big, as if it weren't really his, or if he had lost weight recently.

"Harry, I'm going home now," Fred announced, jingling a set of keys in his hand. "Time to lock up."

The man whose coverall labeled him, 'Harry,' automatically concealed his pain as he donned the shuttered, private expression he wore whenever anyone paid attention to him. Dashing a hand across his face, he paused momentarily as he encountered the mustache that still felt strange to him, as if he had become someone else. That was right, he had become someone else. If Fred Blaine noticed the remnants of the nightmare in his wide, brown eyes, he didn't mention it. He'd always permitted Harry his privacy, at least so far. Maybe he knew the younger man would bolt and run if he didn't.

Harry tightened a final connection and slammed shut the hood of the Topaz. "I'm finished anyway, Mr Blaine," he said. He added quickly in automatic distraction, "I might as well drive it around the block and make sure it's running smoothly, and then it can be ready for Mrs. Harcourt tomorrow. If it's okay, I'll call her and let her know she can have it in the morning. I can lock up again after that," he volunteered earnestly.

"You did a good job," Blaine praised, clapping Harry on the shoulder in an absently paternal manner as he nodded at the car. "But then you always do. You have a real healing touch when it comes to engines. Almost like magic. Hiring you was the best thing I've ever done. I hear nothing but praise for the work you've done since I took you on."

"I like working on cars," Harry said automatically with a grin in response, as he was reminded of the way he'd gotten this job. At least as much as I can like anything now. He began to put his tools away in careful, precise order, concentrating on it as if it were vital to have them just so. There was a meager satisfaction in the knowledge that he could do this work and do it well. He had just saved Mrs. Harcourt the cost of a new radiator by rebuilding the old one. It wasn't much of a satisfaction, though. It would certainly never save the world, but it was safe. No car he worked on left Blaine's Garage until he was positive that everything was working perfectly. The old man might call him a perfectionist, and maybe he was right, but he wasn't about to complain when his customers had begun to ask for Harry specifically when they brought their cars in to be worked on.

Once, the young man would have been thrilled at their delight--

Once, a hundred years ago when anything still mattered.

He heaved a vast sigh as he closed the lid of his tool kit.

Mr. Blaine's eyes narrowed fractionally as he watched him. He didn't pry. He never did. Instead he said, "I hope that upstairs room suits you."

"It's great, Mr. Blaine."

"Well, it beats that transient hotel where you were staying when I hired you." Blaine rumpled his white hair absently, a sign of deep thought. When he'd been pondering a problem, Harry could always tell it, for his hair stood in all directions. "A first rate mechanic like you could write your own ticket, you know that, don't you, son?"

"I'm fine, Mr. Blaine. I like working here." He wiped his hands on a rag. "I needed a place to stay, and I don't mind watching the station when I'm not on duty. I've got my books and that old black and white TV you let me borrow."

"It only gets two channels. A young fella like you ought to have a girlfriend, go out more, spend time with your buddies." Harry winced, then tried to pretend he hadn't. It gave too much away.

"It's great to know there's somebody I can trust on the premises," continued Mr. Blaine, "but if you'd like a couple of nights off a week, I think something could be arranged."

Harry took a defensive step backward. He didn't want time off. He wanted to work and work until he collapsed each night into his bed and slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

"No, I'm fine," he reassured his boss. "You've already given me Tuesdays and Wednesdays off. That's enough. I'm okay, really. I don't mind working nights. I like the job."

Blaine shook his head. "You know, son, you're a damn fine mechanic, and I'd hate like hell to lose you, but if you ever want to talk about it, my wife says I'm a good listener. You're great at this job, but with your gifts..."

Harry retreated another step, his shoulders hunching in, a wild animal at bay. "I don't know what you're talking about," he breathed in tones of sheer panic.

Blaine looked at him for an endless moment, his craggy brows drawing together as the faded blue eyes considered his employee's unconvincing denial. "Okay, son," he said at last, his voice gentle but deliberately disinterested. "None of my business. I don't buy your secrets because I pay your salary." He had never pushed it this far, but at least he didn't seem prepared to take it any further, either. "How long have you worked here?" he mused instead.

"Two months, ten days," responded Harry automatically. Three months since I've been home. No! This had to be home now, the room above Blaine's Garage. This is all the home I deserve.

Blaine cocked an eyebrow at him when he heard Harry's exact response. "Two months and ten days. Just what I thought it was."

"I'll go test-drive the car," Harry said quickly, edging toward the door of the Topaz and opening it.

Blaine relented with a shrug of the shoulders. "You'll call Mrs. Harcourt?"

"As soon as I get back. The number's on the invoice." He slid behind the wheel, and Blaine shook his head and turned to open the door for him.

He took the car around the block three times, testing the response at every stop sign, listening to the sound of the engine idling, concentrating on its steady purr. The southern California night was warm, a faint salt tang in the air. It wasn't that far to the ocean.

Was Blaine asking too many questions? Was it time to abandon this refuge, time to hit the road, time to find a boss who asked no questions, who paid him under the table because he didn't want to produce a social security number and an ID? Was it time to run again, to choose another name, to vanish into anonymity, to find a job that was safe, a job where no one would die if he made a mistake?

A horn blared behind him, reminding him that he had sat too long in futile contemplation at the intersection. He edged out into traffic again and drove Mrs. Harcourt's Topaz back to Blaine's Garage. It ran like a dream.

That night he had the dream again. He wasn't tired enough, and no matter how hard he tried, the dreams kept coming through. This one was more vivid than most, as if his fears had crowded to the surface because of Mr. Blaine's mild questions. He closed his eyes and lay, tense, against his pillow on the hard cot, and struggled to concentrate on the basic structure of the internal combustion engine. He diagramed it in his head, making it clear and visible.

Sleep caught him anyway. In sleep, the dream was waiting.

It didn't start out badly. It was a gorgeous July day, and the guys had been teasing Peter Venkman because he had another new girlfriend. The brown-haired man was fending off their comments good humoredly, pleased with the memory of his date the previous night. The four of them sat around the breakfast table on the second floor, while Winston Zeddemore, whose turn it was to cook breakfast, forked pancakes onto each plate. Egon Spengler had his nose in a book while he scribbled complex formulae onto a notebook that sat beside his plate. At the rate he was going, his pancakes would get cold or Slimer would eat them before Egon got around to them.

"I think it's time we considered enlarging the containment unit," the blond physicist told Ray Stantz, who turned to him with interest. "I want you to go over my schematics with me today and see how we can covert space."

"What's wrong, Egon?" Peter asked, raising green eyes from the pancakes he had been slathering with butter to stare at him. "Are we getting too crowded in there? Any chance of a jailbreak? Too many ghosts?"

"Of course not, Peter," Egon returned. He liked to adopt a pedantic tone when Peter asked questions, and Peter liked equally well to shoot him down whenever he did it. It was a game the two Ghostbusters played, and both of them seemed to enjoy it. "Eventually, however, we will run out of space. Ray and I can add another Klein bottle, but eventually we'll have to make additional provisions. I've done a number of studies, and it's come to my attention that some ghosts eventually dissipate, even in the containment field. However, not enough of them do so to allow for the continual addition of new entities. I've been considering acquiring space for a backup storage facility in the immediate neighborhood, so that it can be monitored easily."

"Hey, that's a great idea, Egon," enthused Ray. "I could design an early warning system--you know, with backup systems that would take over for each other long enough for us to get there if things went wrong. An alarm would go off here the minute the first backup system came on. We'd have to have another backup generator, too, in case of power failures. This is going to be fun."

"What about that diner half a block down?" Winston asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down at his place. "No, Slimer, that is your stack. This one is mine." He swatted at the little green potato-shaped ghost that had become the mascot of the Ghostbusters. When the ghost retreated to his own place with a disappointed, "Oh," the black man turned to Egon. "They put a "For Sale" sign up yesterday afternoon. I think we could buy it cheap. We could sublet if someone wanted to operate the restaurant. There's a direct entrance to the cellar."

"Hey, yeah, and the restaurant could be another source of income," Peter suggested. "We could hire a few good looking waitresses and..."

"And sell cookies," Slimer volunteered in his squeaky voice. "Biiig cookies." Slimer always became interested at the mention of food. When the Ghostbusters had first trapped him, he had been eating everything in sight, and everything he put in his mouth went right through him to end up on the floor. Since he had decided he wanted to live with the Ghostbusters, Ray had trained him to become more solid and to concentrate on how much ectoplasm he shed. Food no longer dripped out when he ate, which made him a slightly more comfortable companion, but the sight of him now, shoveling in a whole plate of pancakes and slurping the plate 'clean' with his huge, pink tongue made Peter grimace.

"Yeah, Spud, big cookies," he agreed. "Whatever."

The alarm bell rang abruptly, announcing a new job for them, and the four men abandoned their plates regretfully and headed for the fire pole that took them to the ground floor of the converted fire house that was Ghostbuster Central. Slimer hung behind, flitting from plate to plate and disposing of the leftovers with great enthusiasm and much smacking of his 'lips'. His cry of, "Oh boy, pancakes," followed them down the pole.

Their secretary, Janine Melnitz, was waiting with the job order when the four men reached the ground floor, her red hair vivid against a face that was paler than usual. She left her desk and hurried toward them, passing Egon the job invoice.

"It was a man from the Mayor's office, Egon," she told the tall physicist, her eyes alarmed. "There's a big, blue nasty running amok in Washington Square, and they say it's killed three people already in other parts of the city. I think you'd better hurry."

Egon's jaw tightened. Snatching the paper from her hand, he studied it briefly before turning to his locker and pulling out his jumpsuit.

Behind him, Ray whitened. He hated it when civilians were endangered by ghosts, as if it were his fault, even if he hadn't been there. "Come on, let's move," he urged, diving into his jumpsuit so fast he nearly went head over heels.

Peter's mouth traced a hard line. There were times when busting the ghost presented him with a real satisfaction, but none of the Ghostbusters liked the thought of people in danger, let alone dead. This ghost would receive no mercy from Venkman.

"What happened, Janine?" asked Winston as he zipped up his uniform jumpsuit. "What did they tell you?"

"Not much," the secretary returned. "Just that it snatched people and made off with them before anybody could stop it. They say it's as big as a panel truck and very fast."

Peter grimaced. "Maybe, but it's gonna be toast real soon now," he ground out. "This one's mine."

"This one's ours," corrected Winston, heading for Ecto-1, their converted ambulance.

Peter considered the high power equipment which rode on a rack atop the vehicle. Maybe they'd need the big guns this time.

Ray settled into the front seat beside Winston, his face unhappy. Peter and Egon glanced at him then exchanged a serious look, a pucker of worry between Egon's brows. He pushed his red-framed glasses into place--they had a tendency to slide down his nose--and shot a question at Peter. The psychologist nodded. Ray was the most sensitive of the Ghostbusters, and the most willing to assume a burden of guilt, even when the occurrence was not his fault. Egon's blue eyes seemed to say that the two of them would have to make sure that Ray didn't get carried away.

"We'll stop it," insisted Winston, backing the car into traffic.

Ghostbuster Headquarters was in lower Manhattan so it didn't take them long to arrive at the scene.

They heard the entity before they saw it, a vast, bellowing roar that reverberated around the park area. Winston drove Ecto right up onto the curb, heading toward the arch, where they spotted a big blue shape darting back and forth under it as if trying to thread a needle. When the vehicle screeched to a halt on the grass nearby, the four men piled out, grabbing their proton packs from the back of Ecto, slipping them on, and powering them up as they raced toward the disturbance.

A curious and uneasy crowd had gathered and a few harried police officers were trying to hold them back. As the Ghostbusters ran closer, the creature swerved close to one of the officers, and he raised his .38 and fired at it.

"No, don't shoot," called Ray in warning. "It won't do any good."

The young policeman shot a glance at Ray that insisted non-vocally, "I'm not facing this sucker unarmed, no matter what you say," but he chose to accept Ray's expertise. Though he lowered the weapon, he didn't put it away. If the creature noticed the shot, it was not impressed and it didn't retaliate.

The ghost they had been called upon to bust was huge and bulky, but more agile than its squarish size would suggest. One whole end of it was mouth, a vast, craterous maw lined with a short row of wiggling tentacles that were backed by a serrated row of teeth. It looked like the tentacles could expand to catch a victim and pull it to the waiting teeth. Though it was clearly ectoplasmic, transparent enough for the Ghostbusters to see blurred shapes through it as it zipped back and forth under the arch, the mouth was particularly nasty.

"Nobody said anything about teeth," Peter said unhappily. His knuckles whitened on his particle thrower, his thumb hovering over the power switch, ready to fire at an instant's notice. He drew a bead on the cavern of a mouth and paused, waiting for the others to join him in fire. "Come on, guys, let's make him history."

"It's a Class 7, Peter," Egon informed the psychologist, raising his head from his P.K.E. meter to give his report. The hand-held ghost detection device was beeping frantically, its little arms pointing straight up, lights ablink. "Very powerful. This will be difficult. It will require pinpoint accuracy and perfectly coordinated fire. Winston, do you have the trap?"

"Right here, my man." The black Ghostbuster gestured over his shoulder at the shoebox sized trap attached to his pack.

"You sure the trap can hold him, Egon?" Peter asked suspiciously. "You're not keeping anything back, you boy genius, you?"

Egon shook his head. "No. He simply appears very powerful."

"We'll get him," encouraged Winston. "We took out Gozer. Compared to him, this mother is nothing."

"He might be nothing to you, but I don't think I agree," Peter observed, leveling his thrower eagerly. "Come on, guys, let's stop him."

Egon stowed his P.K.E. meter in the front pocket of his jumpsuit, and the four men drew a bead on the rapidly moving specter and fired. Jagged streams of yellow energy crackled and sizzled as it shot out at the ghost.

With a savage roar, it shot skyward, jinking to and fro with the consummate skill of a fighter pilot eluding an enemy plane. "He's getting away," bellowed Peter, charging toward the specter. "Get out of the way!"

The crowd shrieked as the blue monster dove toward them, scattering in all directions in response to Peter's warning. As it approached, the policeman fired at it again, and this time the creature must have noticed the bullet, though it didn't appear to hurt him. With a savage growl, it dove toward the officer.

"Get him," cried Ray, cutting off the entity's charge with new fire from his particle thrower. The ghost changed course in mid-dive, circled around the top of the arch, and flung giant globs of ectoplasm upon them. People screamed as each slimy blob found a target.

The Ghostbusters were used to this type of attack and knew that it was harmless, if unpleasant. Ignoring it, the four men took aim again and shot at the ghost, determined to halt his charge. The presence of the crowd made their work that much harder, for the danger of hitting an innocent bystander was always greater when panicked people gathered to watch a bust.

A sudden splat of ectoplasm took Peter full in the face and he reeled backward, gasping and spitting out the nasty stuff, his thrower deactivating. Winston asked, "Pete, you okay?" and started toward him.

Ray's stream struck the entity full in the mouth causing it to scream and struggle to pull free. When Peter ceased firing, the ghost jerked loose, eluding Ray's proton beam and ducking lower, swooping toward the crowd again.

What happened next was so quick that afterwards it was hard to recreate it in order in anyone's mind. What seemed disjointed and endless in actual fact occurred nearly simultaneously. As Ray drew a bead on the entity again, a child's piercing voice cut through the voices of the adults around her, eager and excited, without a trace of fear.

"Daddy, look! It's the Ghostbusters! I want to see."

"Wait, Jennifer." Her father sounded frantic. "Come back here. Give me your hand."

"Look out, Ray, it's coming in low again," called Egon from behind Ray. His view of the crowd to the right of the arch was blocked by Ray, and by Winston, who was helping Peter scrape the blue goo from his eyes. The psychologist sputtered curses and threats, telling everyone within earshot exactly what he was going to do to the ghost when he got it in his sights. His colorful language raised the shocked eyebrows of a little old lady who was cowering beside a park bench.

As Ray took aim at the ghost again, he shifted sideways, and Egon could see. The child, dancing lightly forward in a bright yellow dress, darted toward the ghost, no trace of fear in her face.

"Wait!" cried Egon, his voice full of alarm as he saw what Ray hadn't noticed yet, that the entity's swooping dive was taking it on a collision course with the child.

"Look out," screeched Winston as he steadied Peter with one hand on his shoulder.

Venkman dashed away the last bit of ectoplasm and sucked in his breath in horror. "Ray! Stop!"

The thrower hummed to life at the same second as their shouts. Ray saw the girl as he registered their warning cries and jerked his thumb away from the trigger switch as ghost, girl, and proton stream intersected. The child screamed once, then the cry chopped off abruptly. A golden explosion of light blazed up so brightly that Ray squeezed his eyes shut against it automatically, appalled horror and pain etching itself across his face. When he opened them again, blinking furiously against the afterimage, ghost and girl were gone.

"JENNIFER!" The young man with a shock of hair nearly as white-blond as the child's pushed through the crowd, peering around frantically as if he was certain he had simply misplaced her nearby .

Ray's face went the color of putty, his mouth dropping open and his thrower slipping through nerveless fingers to the ground. He staggered, thrower dragging behind him, to the place where the girl had been, where no one was now, his eyes brimming with pain and a terrible knowledge. "No," he faltered in a voice that threatened to shatter at a touch. "Oh, God, no."

"You killed her!" Jennifer's father screamed and lunged for Ray, his hands going for the occultist's throat. "You killed my baby! I'm going to kill you!"

"Let him go." As if by magic Peter was there, grabbing the man's wrists, pulling him away from Ray, and shoving him in Egon's direction. He caught the occultist by the shoulders and stared worriedly into his eyes. "Ray? Come on, Ray. It was an accident."

"She's dead, Peter," Ray quavered. "She's dead and I killed her." He leaned against Peter's chest while tears stung his eyes. In the background, Jennifer's father screamed, "Murderer!" Winston and Egon struggled to calm and restrain him while the crowd gasped and murmured. Not even the comforting reassurance of Peter's support could break through the dead emptiness in Ray's soul.

A period of confusion followed the disappearance of child and ghost. The police officer with the gun and two other policemen converged on the Ghostbusters immediately, while the child's father raged and raved in Winston's sympathetic grip. Peter never let go of Ray, who pulled just far enough away from Venkman's support to talk to the officers, though tears glistened in his eyes. He was too shocked by what had happened to be very coherent, so it was left to Egon to explain.

"We seldom see it," he told the police sergeant who was scribbling in a notebook. "We've theorized that the proton energy when applied at full streams is powerful enough to destroy a human being." He glanced at Ray and lowered his voice. "The molecules of the body separate at the speed of light. It's instantaneous. The ghost, too, must have been caught in the effect. Full protonic reversal. It was neutronized. It's rare, but it has happened." He pointed his P.K.E. meter at the space where child and monster had vanished and pondered the readings. "I'm detecting powerful residual effects, as if a tremendous energy burst had taken place."

"Murderers," persisted Jennifer's father, hovering nearby, his face taut with shock. "You killed my Jennifer."

"It was an accident," the police officer with the gun told the man. "I saw it happen. The child should never have been so close. We ordered the crowd to disperse not once but four times. Your child should never have been loose so near it. You should have..."

"Murderer," the man murmured, but his face filled with a terrible guilt as if his laxity in restraining his daughter could only be assuaged by passing the blame to another person. Ray appeared all too willing to accepted it.

The sergeant who had been taking notes turned to the child's father. "Please, sir, calm down. We've had a tragic accident, but that's what it was, an accident. We ordered the crowd to disperse several times and tried to restrain them. Your child should have been nowhere near the--the--whatever that was. I witnessed the entire thing and there was no way to avoid what happened, not without clearing the park, and we didn't have the manpower to do that." He sounded almost as defensive and guilty as Ray.

"I'm sorry," breathed Ray, his eyes firmly fixed upon the ground at his feet.

Peter made a hasty gesture at Winston, who edged through the crowd and joined him at Ray's side. "Wasn't your fault, homeboy," he assured Ray, clapping the younger man on the shoulder.

Ray shrugged off the comfort. "I did it. It doesn't matter if it was my fault or not. That little girl is still dead." His voice quivered through the entire speech, breaking on the last word. "I'm so sorry."

The crowd hung breathlessly on every word, stunned and absorbed by the tragedy. Their sympathy, which had fallen upon Jennifer's father, shifted to Ray, and a safely anonymous voice in the rear muttered that it was a damned shame that parents let their children run free in the middle of a crisis. The young father flushed hotly, his eyes stinging with tears.

"She loves the Ghostbusters," he responded, dashing a hand across his eyes. "She slipped away from me."

"Should've had a better hold on her," someone else muttered.

"No, I did it," Ray insisted doggedly. "It was my fault."

"Raymond." Egon turned to face him, putting his hands on Ray's shoulders and meeting his eyes. "It was not your fault. You are not to blame. It was a terrible thing, but it could not have been prevented. You weren't careless. You were unlucky, but..."

"Unlucky," screeched Jennifer's father in disbelief. "He kills my little girl and you call him unlucky." He fought his way toward Ray only to be blocked by the other three Ghostbusters, who formed a living wall between him and his intended target.

"She shouldn't have been here in the first place," Egon said earnestly, his face somber and full of sympathy. "I realize how difficult it would have been to prevent her from running to see the excitement. She was too young to appreciate the danger. I sympathize with you. But you knew the risks. Everyone heard the officers ordering you to stand back. No one went. Ray and the rest of us were the only ones who should have been here."

"Sure, take the easy excuse," another anonymous heckler cried.

"It is hardly an excuse," Egon responded. His shoulders were so rigid that he would have a headache before too much time passed. He shoved his glasses up his nose and looked around for Peter.

Venkman heaved an inaudible sigh. His hand still firmly gripping Ray's arm, he suggested, "I think it's time to break up this party. Those of you who have no business here, go away." The thin line of his mouth and the dangerous green glint in his eyes must have convinced the audience that the show was over because most of them drew away, gathering together in small groups and talking in excited whispers. They would probably dine out on this for months. Peter's jaw tightened.

"Should we send for someone, Mr. Allen?" the sergeant asked Jennifer's father. "I think you should go home now. Is there anyone who can stay with you? I'll run you home myself."

"No, I..." He shook his head. "My dad. I'll call him. He'll come over." He hid his face in his hands. "Oh, God, this'll kill him. I know it will."

Ray moaned inaudibly. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Peter edged closer, his satisfaction at sending the crowd packing vanishing at the utter misery in his friend's voice. He slid into place at Ray's side and slung an arm around his shoulders. "It's okay," he said in the most reassuring voice he could matter. "It wasn't your fault."

Usually Peter could deflect Ray's guilt automatically, before it got out of control. He did it quickly and unassumingly: a brief touch, a casual word, often a joke. This time, humor would have been so inappropriate as to make him sick, and neither reassuring words nor physical comfort were going to do the trick. This was a bad one. Peter could picture the nightmares that would haunt Ray for weeks. He didn't even want to think about the way the youngest Ghostbuster would react to the inevitable bad press that was bound to follow.

"Peter is right, Raymond." Funny, Venkman thought, how Spengler could make Ray's full name sound like an affectionate nickname. Not remotely surprising that Egon could project so much warmth and caring when he tried. Though Egon was often caught up in his work to the point that he failed to notice things like accumulating garbage and his colleagues' fatigue after a long day, when he actually observed something wrong he could be the most understanding man alive. "You mustn't blame yourself for what happened. Any of us could have done it. Besides, the ghost is gone. It will never harm anyone else. If anything is to blame for today, it was the ghost."

"That's right." The sergeant, whose name badge read "Brannigan" nodded approvingly. "Let's put the blame where it belongs. That monster killed three other people today. It won't kill anyone ever again."

Ray didn't brighten one iota at the attempted reassurance. "Sergeant Brannigan's right, Ray." Winston added his attempt at comfort. "We did the job."

"But at what cost, Winston?" Ray whispered. His shoulders were so slumped he looked ready to lean over and be sick. Pulling free of Peter's arm took an effort, as if he could stand there forever drawing warmth from the brown-haired man, then his face twisted and he wiggled free.

"Am I under arrest?" he asked in a flat little voice that sounded like a stranger's.

"You should be," Allen interjected, glaring at Ray with utter loathing.

His hatred couldn't top Ray's sense of guilt. When the sergeant shook his head abruptly and said, "No. I won't arrest you now. My report will state it was an accident without blame on you. There are witnesses who will verify that." Peter knew there could still be charges, but Ray nodded solemnly. He appeared to derive no satisfaction from the apparent official absolution, though.

"I'm going to put my pack in the car," he explained. Shrugging out of it, he took the straps in one hand and started across the grass toward Ecto, his steps dragging.

Egon reached out an abortive hand and pulled it back.

"Ray, wait up," cried Winston, but when Ray shook his head violently, Peter dropped a restraining hand on the black man's shoulders.

"I wouldn't. He needs a few minutes." He had seen the brightness building in Ray's eyes and, though he wanted to go after Stantz and comfort him if he gave way to his misery, he could sense Ray's intense need for solitude. When they returned home, he wouldn't let Ray out of his sight for a minute, but right now, a brief respite was a good idea.

This would be bad. Peter wasn't sure how easily Ray could come to terms with it. Ray was strong, but his was a different strength than Peter's, and the problems Peter could cope with were different. If Peter's fire had caused the girl to die, it would have bit deep, but he was pragmatic enough to work his way through it eventually. He would plunge frantically into his work until he had purged the worst of the guilt from his soul. He would lash out at people, smash things, pound his fist into the wall, let anger prove cathartic.

With Ray, it was different. The pain would bury itself inside. Ray might soon appear normal, but the guilt would remain with him, eating away at him unless Peter and the others found a way to lance it and help him come to terms with it. Even now Ray might know rationally that it had been an accident, but he didn't know it in his heart, and even if he did, it wouldn't be as reassuring as it would be to the rest of them.

He glanced across at Ray, who was slowly and solemnly placing his pack in the back of the converted vehicle, then turned to the physicist. "Egon?" he asked.

Spengler turned dazed blue eyes upon him and lifted one eyebrow as if it were an easier way to respond to the question than with words.

Peter heaved a vast sigh. For once, he felt completely helpless. "What are we going to do?"

Sergeant Brannigan snapped shut his notebook and ran his eyes around the park. The crowd still lingered at what they considered a safe distance, unwilling to disperse completely and miss something. Three squad cars were pulled onto the grass not far from Ecto-1. "Just a minute," Brannigan said, and headed for the nearest one, where he talked earnestly into the police radio for nearly five minutes.

When he had related the story, he listened in turn. The Ghostbusters could hear the sound of the dispatcher talking but they were too far away to make out the words, and, if truth were told, they lacked the energy to try. It wasn't until Brannigan bellowed, "Say again!" with complete astonishment that they even glanced in his direction. His, "Are you sure?" was even more insistent.

Allen, who had been guided to a park bench by the officer who had waved the gun, lifted disinterested eyes and studied the sergeant, who had turned in his direction and was staring at him, a smile starting to form on his face.

"This looks interesting." Peter's curiosity was pricked and he edged closer, the other two trailing him for want of anything better to do. Ray hadn't returned yet. He was probably sitting in Ecto struggling not to cry.

That image almost turned Peter around, but just then Brannigan beckoned them over and Peter delayed going after Ray. It didn't look like the cop was going to arrest them. Instead, he appeared inclined to throw them a party. His eyes gleamed with excited delight.

"It's all right," he shouted as they crossed the last few yards to join him. "Another squad a few blocks from here just picked up a lost child. She says her name is Jennifer Allen and that a big blue ghost grabbed her and carried her away. She's pretty demoralized, but it sounds like she's all right. She's being brought straight here."

"Are you certain?" demanded Egon in disbelief. "It couldn't be a hoax?"

"How could it be a hoax, my man?" Winston disagreed. "No other child would know her name and the fact that she'd been grabbed by a ghost. I wonder how he disappeared without us seeing it. That's weird."

Brannigan left them to give the child's father the news. The three men scarcely noticed his departure. "Maybe it asked to be beamed up," suggested Peter with a twinkle, warmth spreading outward from his stomach. This was great! Of course it meant that they still had the big ugly to fight, but Jennifer's survival was the one thing that could get through to Ray. He'd had a bad scare, and they'd all have to be a helluva lot more careful in future, but this particular crisis seemed as if it was about to have a happy resolution. "You know, teleportation. Some kind of big blue Scotty up above pushing buttons."

"Not entirely impossible, Peter." Egon automatically began to take readings, aiming the P.K.E. meter in all directions, comparing the readings. "The residual effects at the site of the disappearance were unnaturally high. I thought so at the time but there were other factors that distracted me, and since we believed the entity destroyed, it was not vital to measure them. It only shows that I must be more thorough when I run my tests."

"Whoa, back up a minute, Egon," Winston interrupted, catching the blond by the sleeve. "You're saying we have to take on this monster again, aren't you?"

"I'm theorizing that perhaps no one has been killed," Egon returned, frowning.

"You mean you're guessing," said Peter.

"I never guess. I'm basing it on the fact that Jennifer Allen was thought dead but, if Sgt. Brannigan is correct, has survived."

"Yeah, but we were blasting away this time," Peter objected, shaking his head. "If the other times they didn't have proton packs--"

A whoop of triumph cut across his suggestion as Allen received the news that his daughter had survived. Peter glanced over and saw the man spring to his feet, staring anxiously around for the approaching police car.

"I'm gonna tell Ray," Peter cried and sprinted for Ecto. He could hardly wait to break the news.

Ray's proton pack lay neatly in its rack in the rear of the car. Beside it, folded up, was the other man's tan jumpsuit. Peter frowned. Spinning around to scan the square, he tried to spot a slumping, auburn-haired figure trudging away. Ray must have wanted to be alone pretty badly to take off like this.

He'd be back in a shot when he heard the news. Peter scrambled up on top of Ecto, searching for a trace of the green shirt that Ray had been wearing at breakfast. "Yo, Ray!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Come back. All is forgiven." When that produced no immediate response, he added, "The kid's okay. She was just teleported a few blocks. Ray!" Sticking two fingers in his mouth, he emitted a piercing whistle that stopped nearly everyone in sight as they turned to identify the sound.

"Ray Stantz!" Peter called again. "Ray!"

His cries only summoned Winston and Egon. "What happened?" demanded the physicist as Peter scrambled down to join them.

"Went off to be alone," Peter said, anger at himself pumping through his veins. "I'm an idiot. I should have seen it coming."

"None of us did, Peter," Egon consoled him. "Ray will come home later and we can tell him then. He'll probably hear it on the radio or someone will mention it to him and when he hears the good news, he'll head straight for Ghostbuster Central."

Peter exchanged a dubious glance with Egon. "Yeah, I know. He'll come back later." Peter mouthed the words with a notable lack of conviction. "Then why do I have this weird feeling that our troubles are just beginning?"

Jennifer and her father were reunited a few minutes later, the girl struggling free of the officer who helped her out of his squad car and racing across the grass where she was swept up into her father's arms. "Daddy, Daddy, the ghost took me away," she cried excitedly. She looked pale and shaken but otherwise unharmed.

Allen hugged her fiercely, held her at arms' length to study her. "What did it do to you?" he demanded. "You look so white. Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm only tired," she admitted. "My head hurts."

"If you'll permit me..." Egon approached, P.K.E. meter in hand.

Allen backed up a step, clutching the girl to his chest, but Peter intervened quickly, holding up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Egon won't hurt her. He just wants to see if the ghost did any harm to her. If the ghost snatches people regularly, we need to know what it does to them, so we can stop it next time."

"It didn't hurt me, Daddy," Jennifer insisted. "It just picked me up, and it didn't even do it rough. It was like floating." Her wide blue eyes studied Egon and Peter with fascination. "When he picked me up, it felt like--like it did when Jimmy tried to use the vacuum cleaner on my hair. It pulled and felt funny, but it didn't hurt." She wiggled to be let down and when Allen sat down on the park bench and put her beside him, she jumped to her feet and went to Egon trustingly. "Is that a real P.K.E. meter?" she asked eagerly. "Can I hold it? Will you show me how it works?"

Ray would have liked this. Peter shot one quick glance around to make sure he hadn't returned when they were watching the child. No trace of him.

Egon passed it over her once, pondering the readings, then he squatted down in front of her and handed her the device, explaining seriously what it did. Being Egon, he didn't try to moderate his vocabulary as he explained that he was scanning her for ectoplasmic residue and traces of psychic energy. Jennifer didn't seem intimidated. She nodded earnestly, calling out her delight to her father over her shoulder as she reveled in the attention. She was so natural, so completely untraumatized by the incident that Peter could hardly wait to tell Ray about it.

Beside him, Allen made a choked sound and buried his face in his hands.

Jennifer's head jerked up and she stared at her father with wide, shocked eyes, the first trace of fear in her face. "Daddy, what's wrong?" she demanded.

Peter knew. Relief and reaction could do that. He gripped the man's shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.

"You're alive," Allen burst out.

"Of course I am." She blinked at Peter in puzzlement.

He knelt beside her and took her hands in his. "Your dad was worried about you, Jennifer," he told her. "He's okay now that you're safe. You knew you were okay all along, but he didn't."

She thought about that a minute, then she nodded with understanding, passed Egon the P.K.E. meter, and flung her arms around her father's neck.

"We can go now," Egon remarked, stowing the meter in his belt.

"What did you find out, oh great ghost detector?" Peter demanded at once.

"Jennifer appears fine," Egon said, raising his voice slightly so that Allen could hear. "I think the ghost drains energy from those he captures, and uses that energy to change his location. If you will check police reports and find out who was supposed to be killed earlier, we can be sure of it. Anyone so used would be abandoned when no longer needed, as Jennifer was. She should recover completely after a meal and a full night's sleep." He started toward Ecto-1.

"Wait," called Allen as the three Ghostbusters walk away. They turned as one.

"Look, tell your friend I'm sorry," he said, a little shamefaced, a little guilty. "Jennifer got away from me. I can never hold her back. I guess I thought it was my fault and I didn't want to admit it. I was rough on him. I'm sorry."

"He'll be glad to hear that," Egon replied. "We'll tell him."

Telling him proved harder than they had expected. Though the story went out on the evening news, Ray must not have been listening for he didn't return home that evening.

When they returned to headquarters, Janine was waiting. "Did you get it?" She took a second look as they climbed out of Ecto and approached her desk. "Where's Ray?" Her voice rose in alarm. One of the drawers in the filing cabinets behind her desk slid open to reveal Slimer. Janine's tone must have scared him, because he stared from one of the three men to the other, and finally swooped across the intervening space and splatted against Peter's chest, wrapping his skinny little arms around the psychologist's neck.

"Sliiiimerrr!" Peter wailed, struggling to detach him.

"Where Ray?" demanded the ghost, fighting to maintain his grip.

"We had a bad day, Spud," Peter told him. "It turned out all right, but Ray doesn't know that yet. Soon as he finds out, he'll be home."

"What happened?" Janine demanded anxiously.

It was Egon who explained it, his face serious. "Ray took it very badly," he concluded. "I was afraid that he would quit, decide he could no longer be a Ghostbuster."

Peter flinched. He had resisted conceptualizing that idea ever since the blue ghost had vanished. Now that Egon had brought it out into the open, he could only be relieved that it had proven to be a case of ghostly teleportation instead. Ray would be fascinated--if he could work past the might-have-beens. Peter started to plan. Getting Ray caught up in the teleportation process might be difficult, but once the occultist became interested, it might be enough.

Ray had not returned by dinner time. Janine left reluctantly, demanding that she be notified when he arrived home.

"We'll call, even if it's three a.m." Peter assured her. "Sorry about your beauty sleep, but that's the way it's gotta be."

She grimaced, slapped his arm lightly, and headed for the door. Slimer followed her possessively, calling repeatedly, "Goodbye, Janine."

"Poor little spud," Winston muttered in an aside to Egon. "He's afraid the rest of us will take off next."

"Ray will be here any minute," Peter assured him. "Tonight's my special fried chicken. He won't miss that. The great chefs of Europe have torn out their hair when I refused to give them the recipe."

"Or reached for the Tums when they tried it?" Winston countered, winking at Egon.

No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't quite manage their usual banter. It sounded labored. Peter's stomach was tight and tensed, and he couldn't relax. Knowing how easy it was for Ray to accept blame for a crisis, he wasn't prepared to let down his guard until he was sure that Ray was home, safe, and comfortable with himself.

He didn't get his wish. The evening dragged by. Egon spent part of it in his lab, compiling his test results, while Winston phoned around trying to track down the three people who had supposedly been killed by the blue ghost. It took a lot of coordination with the police force, but eventually he dashed up to the lab and flung open the door. Egon raised his eyes from the computer screen, and Peter, who had been bending over his shoulder trying to make sense of a column of figures, spun around and asked, "Ray?"

"Not yet, sorry." Winston spread his hands apologetically. "Just me. I've been calling around. Big Blue hasn't killed anybody. He's snatched about five people that we know about and the next thing they knew, they were five or six blocks away."

"That coincides exactly with my findings," Egon announced. He turned to the screen again, and Peter might not have noticed the way his shoulders slumped if his hands hadn't been resting upon them. Egon wasn't the type to wave his emotions around, but he was close to Ray, who was the only one who understood very much of the technological gobbledy-gook he spouted. Sometimes the two of them would talk for hours and neither Peter nor Winston would understand a word. Egon was very worried.

As for Peter himself, he tended to regard Ray as the younger brother he'd never had. The two of them were the kind of undemanding friends that are always there for each other, but now, when Ray was hurting the most, Peter wasn't there. He didn't even know where there was. He felt as if he'd let Ray down, and every passing minute increased the feeling.

"Tell us about it," he urged Egon. It would do him good to listen to the physicist rambling about his latest discovery.

Egon turned to Winston. "What sort of symptoms did they report?" he demanded.

"They were all tired. One man said he felt like he'd been wrung out to dry, another one said that he thought the ghost sucked away his energy."

"Just as I expected." Egon pursed his lips, thinking. "The entity requires additional energy to make a locational transfer. I theorize that the longer he goes without 'feeding' on human energy, the more he needs to drain in order to shift position. When he grabbed Jennifer, he didn't get as far because she was too small to provide a very big boost."

"Got it," responded Peter, flinging himself down on the couch and propping one foot along its back. "So tell us, how does that give us an edge against Big Blue? Next time we see him, do we go along for the ride?"

"That's an interesting possibility, Peter," said Egon, studying the supine man. "Perhaps it would be best, especially if equipped with a ghost trap. I wonder what would happen if the trap were activated en route?"

"Just so long as it doesn't leave us stranded in hyperspace," Winston worried. "The transfer must be nearly instantaneous. If it isn't entirely instantaneous, that ought to mean that the ghost and its victim passes through another dimension. What do you think, Egon?"

"Highly likely." Egon frowned and ran both hands abruptly through his hair. Usually neat, it now looked like he'd been out in a hurricane. There were shadows under his eyes. "I'd like to spend time on the possibilities. We're certain to encounter the entity again."

"Then what, Egon?" Peter asked. "Offer ourselves up to be drained of energy? I've got the best years of my life in front of me. Suppose it does irreparable damage?"

"Yeah, it might suck out your brain, Pete," Winston returned with a grin. "Not that it has much to work with."

Peter stuck out his tongue at him. It should have felt natural, been fun. Instead, they were going through the motions. He caught Egon's eye. The physicist knew it as well as Peter did.

Ray did not return that night.

In an 18 wheeler on its way to Pittsburgh, Ray Stantz tried to sleep with scant success. The girl's scream echoed over and over in his memory until he bolted upright, shaking.

"Bad dream, eh?" asked the trucker, a big, burly man with muscles the size of Arnold Schwarzenneger's and eyes like a poet's.

"Something like that," mumbled Ray. "Sorry, did I yell?"

"No. Just muttered something. If you're too keyed up to sleep, talk to me. I like riders--keeps me alert."

"I--" Ray couldn't find anything to say.

"Never mind. I can always talk." He grinned. "You're not like my usual riders, you know that, buddy. What happened? You run out on the little woman?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. You don't look married. Lose your job?"

Ray bowed his head. Maybe it wasn't the way the driver meant it, but he had lost his job as surely as if he'd been fired. He couldn't face the thought of Ghostbusting any more, not if this was to be the result. Nothing else meant as much as Ghostbusting, nothing but the friendship he shared with Peter, Egon, and Winston. The two went together, though. He might hesitate next time they went out to confront a dangerous ghost, afraid of the consequences, and if he hesitated, he might endanger his friends. He'd quit once before because he was afraid of endangering them, but that time he'd been made to look bad by someone who resented his success, and once he realized that he'd had no further problems. He still had what it took--at least until now. Now he could no longer accept the risk that another innocent bystander could die. Maybe one day he could try again, but right now, he couldn't even face the other three.

So he decided to run. He couldn't tell his friends he was leaving because he knew they would try to persuade him not to go, and he could never stay. With the girl's scream echoing in his mind, he knew he couldn't hold a thrower again, couldn't risk killing anyone else. Although the police had exonerated him, he couldn't begin to exonerate himself. He'd made sure he wouldn't be fleeing the threat of arrest; he wouldn't leave his friends to take his blame. Once he knew that, he had excused himself to put his proton pack in the car. His jumpsuit followed it, then he had simply walked away. Every step hurt as if invisible cords bound him to his friends, strings that tugged him back, that cut into his flesh and bone and ached as if he were bleeding from a dozen wounds. Once he stopped and looked around. The three of them had gathered around one of the police officers and were talking. They didn't seem to be upset. They weren't chasing him and waving handcuffs.

For a long moment, he stood there letting his eyes linger on Winston's solid frame, the glint of sunshine on Egon's blond hair, Peter's automatically cocky posture. If he stayed another minute, he knew he wouldn't be able to make himself leave.

He gritted his teeth and kept on going.

Once, he thought he heard Peter's voice in the distance, calling his name. He hadn't expected them to notice his absence so soon, and he had quickened his pace until he was all but running. When he could no longer hear his friend's voice, he ducked down a side street, head bowed and shoulders slumped. He couldn't remember ever feeling so alone.

He might have gone home later, faced the music, explained, even if he knew it would never work, but the first place he saw was a branch of his bank, complete with an automatic teller machine. Stopping in front of it, he pondered long and hard. Better to distance himself completely, get right away from New York for a little while. Once he'd thought it through and tried to come to terms with himself, he could decide what to do with his life, but he could never make that decision while he remained at headquarters. They'd try to influence him, to assure him that he was guilty of nothing but bad luck, to urge him to try again. They would be supportive--and finally, when it didn't work, they would begin to grow impatient. When they went out on tough calls without him, they would start to resent him, and he couldn't bear that. Maybe they were right about the bad luck, but that didn't change the way he felt about it. If he couldn't go with them on busts, he was useless. He didn't want to be welcomed back only to prove unable to assist them.

He couldn't go home. That made the old firehouse all the more desirable. He remembered all the laughter, the warmth, the joy he had experienced there. They were a family, not a family by blood, perhaps, but a family all the same, four people who had chosen to be kin and who were tighter knit than most real families. He scuffed his foot on the concrete sidewalk, then he inserted his bank card into the machine and made his withdrawal. With the money to escape, it was final.

All gone now. Friends, home, job, life. It was all he could do not to break down and cry in front of the trucker. Instead he gave a shaky sigh.

"Yeah," he admitted. "I guess you could say I lost my job."

"Lot of it going around these days. Rough, isn't it? Must've been a good job. Hope you can find another. Got an offer out west?"

Ray hadn't even thought beyond his need to escape yet. He had taken $500 out of his bank account. That should see him across the country if he kept on hitchhiking or took a bus. It seemed important to go as far as possible, to hide where no one would look for him. Maybe he could locate a job in California, though the guys would start searching for him as soon as it dawned on them that he didn't mean to come home, so he couldn't give references. He didn't want anyone to know who he was. What type of jobs were there for people who couldn't produce an ID or references?

"Well," he said cautiously, "I'm a good mechanic." It was true. He and Winston kept Ecto running. He had virtually rebuilt the engine of the ancient ambulance when he had first bought it, when they were starting up the business. Winston did a lot of the maintenance these days, but Ray had been the star of his high school shop class, and his engineering training had often been accompanied by hands-on experience. He had never lost his touch. Maybe somewhere out there was an employer who would take him on without references. He could offer to do a repair job without pay to prove himself.

The start of concrete plans should have reassured him, but, somehow, it didn't. Instead, it made him feel more lost, further from home, more isolated. He pictured the guys at headquarters, expecting him at any moment, worrying about him, going to the door and glancing up and down the street, maybe phoning his Aunt Lois to see if he had gone there. At the thought his heart sank into his boots. He couldn't bear this. He couldn't.

"Lots of mechanic jobs out there," opined the trucker casually. The collapse of Ray's life was nothing but a diversion for him, a novelty to while away the long hours on the road. "More people keeping their old cars, what with the price of a new one, so repair bills run up. Cheaper than car payments. You can probably turn something up if you give it a good try. How far you heading?"

"Thought I'd go to California," Ray decided. It was as far as he could go. California people were as California-directed as New Yorkers were absorbed in their own particular world. They couldn't care less what was happening in the Big Apple. Ray's tragedy would be replaced by another one in a day or so and people would soon forget. By the time he arrived on the West Coast, he would be nicely anonymous. Maybe he should grow a mustache. He'd tried it once, until he noticed Peter snickering every time he saw him, and Slimer joining in. Okay, so he looked better clean shaven. The people in California wouldn't care. He'd let his hair grow, too. That way no one would stop and stare, wondering where they had seen him before. In New York, his face was fairly well known, but known in context. He often wandered around Manhattan completely unrecognized. It would be easier in California. Egon, with his distinctive hairstyle and glasses was obviously recognizable, and Peter thrived on the attention. He wore a 'notice me' air that made folks stop for a second glance. Peter wasn't above taking advantage of it, either. "Hi. I'm Peter Venkman. I'm famous." Ray smiled faintly at the memory, but the smile died in a hurry.

"Nice place," agreed the trucker. "I used to have a route out there, around Fresno, mostly, down to San Diego. Beats this East Coast to Chicago run."

"Yeah." Ray stared unseeingly down the tunnel of the Peterbilt's headlights. "Maybe." California might be a nice place. It wasn't his place, though. It wasn't home. But Thomas Wolfe had been right. You couldn't go home again. He only knew he couldn't.

Peter awoke much earlier than usual, somewhere around eight o'clock, with the sensation that something very nasty was wrong, and as he lay in his bed, reluctant to open his eyes and confirm it, the memory of yesterday permeated his consciousness and made him groan, pulling the pillow over his head: the bust, Big Blue, Ray's unhappy disappearance before he could learn that Jennifer Allen was safe and well.

Shivering slightly, Venkman pushed the pillow away, propped himself up in bed, and looked at the bed opposite his. It was neatly made, untouched. Ray hadn't come home.

"Egon, Winston!" The other two were still sleeping, exhausted by their late night waiting for Ray. Peter launched himself out of bed, grabbed Spengler by the shoulder and shook him. "Get up. Ray didn't come in last night."

"Say what?" Winston's head lifted from the mound he had made in his pillow and he glanced at the bed beside his for confirmation, his lips turning down at the sight. Egon fumbled for his glasses and shoved them into place, dazed blue eyes resting on Ray's empty bed. He stood, straightening his tangled nightshirt that bespoke a restless night full of bad dreams. Peter sympathized.

Slimer, who had been drifting under a little blanket over Peter's head, pulled it closer around himself and gazed down at them, his face etched with misery. When he saw Ray's empty bed, he swooped down and leaned against Peter's shoulder, and the psychologist hadn't the heart to push him away. "Ray gone?" the spud whimpered.

"That's what I want to know," Winston muttered. "I hate like hell to suggest it, guys, but maybe something happened to him last night. He wouldn't have been any state to watch out for himself, and this town is mugger central. Who knows what he might have walked into without paying any attention." He jumped out of bed and squared his shoulders for an unpleasant task. "I'm calling the police. I hate to do it, but I think we'd better report him missing."

"An excellent suggestion, Winston," Egon returned, "though it's too soon to file a missing persons report."

Winston's mouth traced a hard line. Peter didn't envy the cop who tried to dispute him.

"Well, I'm gonna have a look downstairs," Venkman announced. "Maybe he came back and just didn't go to bed. He might not have been ready to sleep yet." Hesitating neither for robe nor slippers, he hurried toward the stairs, calling hopefully, "Ray? Are you down there?"

Ray didn't answer but when Peter worked his way down to the ground floor, Janine raised her eyes from the computer screen at her desk and registered Peter's tousled hair and pajamas as he thudded down toward the landing between the first and second floors. He stopped there, hands resting on the railing, looking past Janine to his own office behind the filing cabinets, out to the garage where Ecto-1 was parked. No trace of Ray. Nothing to indicate that he had come home and gone away again.

Janine jumped to her feet and stared at him in alarm. "Oh, Dr. V. Didn't Ray come home last night?" She must have decided to let them sleep in, but she had come in early, probably to make sure Ray was all right.

Peter froze, his fingers digging into the wood of the railing. If Ray were on the ground floor, Janine would have seen him. "He's not upstairs," he admitted. "I'm gonna check out the basement." He went past her without pausing, and flung open the door to the lower level. "Ray! You down there?" No response.

The laundry room, the lower lab, the containment unit, none of them produced Ray Stantz. He searched them frantically, determined to locate Ray, as if by finding him, even in concealment, he would make everything normal again. Ray's empty bed had shaken him worse than he was willing to admit, and the hollowness in the pit of his stomach kept reminding him of it.

Peter trudged up the stairs to the ground floor as if he were struggling up Everest. He met Egon in front of Janine's desk. The physicist had thrown on his clothes with no thought to his appearance and had raked a comb through the tangles of his hair. Instead of falling neatly into its usual flip, it stuck in all directions, the tail at the nape of his neck jutting out as if he'd inadvertently and without noticing it stuck his finger into a light socket. Janine stared at him, caught Peter's eye, tried to convey her worry.

Peter sighed inaudibly and went over to prop his elbow against Egon's shoulder, leaning against his friend. Egon automatically braced himself to take the additional weight.

"Nothing?" he asked.

Peter shook his head. "Not unless he ejected himself into the containment unit, big guy." He steadied himself. It wouldn't help Egon if Peter started babbling like an idiot about frantic searches. Instead, he drew his mouth in a critical line. "Look at you. Is this a new look I didn't see in GQ?" He began to smooth Egon's hair into place.

Janine bit her bottom lip between her teeth as Egon stood passively while Peter tidied him. Ordinarily he would have retaliated with a barbed comment of his own, reminding Peter that at least he had bothered to dress, pointing at Venkman's bare feet, and generally contriving to appear in complete control of the situation. Now he stood like a small child whose mother must dress him. He was as confused by Ray's defection as Peter was.

Janine didn't try to join in. Peter doubted she could. Instead she let her fingers rest on Egon's forearm for a minute. "He'll come home, Egon. I know he will. You guys are his family and he loves you. As soon as he gets his act together, he'll be back."

Peter found himself shaking his head. "I hope you're right, Janine, but you know Ray. He lets guilt run away with him."

"You always talk him out of it," Egon put in, collecting himself and batting Peter's hands away as they finished their styling work. He patted his hair once to make sure Peter hadn't made it worse, an automatic gesture that the psychologist was sure he hadn't even realized he made.

"Egon." The words came quietly, Peter's eyes holding his friend's blue ones. "I can't talk him out of it if he isn't here."

It was a slow day at Ghostbuster Central. Winston's call to the police was followed by even more difficult ones, to every hospital in the city, and finally, to the morgue. The only advantage was that there was no trace of Ray in that most final location. Next, they tried the airlines, helped out by a sympathetic policeman who proved to be a big fan of the Ghostbusters, but without luck. No one had a record of Ray flying out of either La Guardia or JFK under his own name. Newark didn't either, and there was no joy at Penn Station. The police were inclined to do what they could, but Winston could tell that they weren't taking him seriously. Even the sympathetic officer pointed out that Ray was probably just upset by yesterday's incident in Washington Square and that he had gone off to be alone. It was most likely a voluntary disappearance. The lack of information from the airlines probably meant Ray was holed up in the city. Winston, who had seen his share of the city's meaner streets in his growing up years, knew all too well that there were many places where a body could lie undiscovered for weeks, months, years. The thought ate at him. He had only to glance at Egon's too rigid shoulders as he forced himself to go through the motions of trap maintenance or at Peter's restlessness as he prowled the fire hall, pausing occasionally to pick up one of Ray's experiments or his baseball, to decide that it was better to keep such speculation to himself.

Sensing the others' worry, Slimer drifted around the fire hall like a lost soul. When he saw Peter holding the baseball, he scooted up eagerly, his eyes shining with a tentative excitement. "Slimer play catch," he volunteered, donning an old glove and pounding his other fist into it as he had seen real catchers do on television. "Play ball!"

Peter lobbed the ball absently in his direction, and Slimer caught it, bouncing and laughing in triumph, but when he tried to throw it back, Peter had already turned away. The little ghost said, "Aw," in tones of great disappointment. When he would have followed Peter as the psychologist made one of his trips to the window to watch for Ray, Egon held up a hand to stop the ghost.

Slimer took him literally and threw the ball to him instead. Egon wasn't one for playing catch with Slimer--he left that to the other three, who were more inclined to enjoy participating in sports, but now he set aside the trap and gave the little spud a few minutes extra attention, his face solemn as the ball flew back and forth. Winston watched from the sidelines, propped against the back of the lab's sofa, glad that Egon had found a distraction, but sorry that the one he had chosen would only remind him of Ray.

Peter turned from the window and watched for a minute, then his mouth tightened and he headed past them for the stairs. Slimer missed his catch watching him.

"Peter sad?" he asked anxiously when the sound of the brown-haired man's footsteps had faded in the distance. He dropped ball and mitt and hovered expectantly in front of Egon.

"He's worried, Slimer," Egon replied. "You know how he gets when something is wrong with one of us. Ray should have been home by now."

"Hey, Slimer." An idea occurred to Winston that was worth a shot. He motioned the green ectoplasmic being over and studied him curiously.

"Aye, aye, Winston," Slimer replied in snappy tones, flashing him a salute.

"Spud, you know Ray pretty well, don't you?" asked Winston. "You probably spend more time with him than you do with the rest of us. He's taught you all kind of things. I don't know all your abilities, little buddy, but I bet you've got a couple even Egon hasn't thought to test you for yet."

Slimer preened himself at the unexpected praise, puffing out his chest and contriving to appear as important as possible. Intrigued, Egon drew nearer.

"Slimer very smart," announced the little ghost.

"I bet you are, pal. So tell me this. Any chance you can tune in on Ray and tell us where he is right now? We're sort of worried about him."

Slimer squeezed his eyes tightly shut, concentrating for all he was worth. The effort he put into the attempt was prodigious, and at first Winston thought his idea might actually have merit, but finally Slimer let out a huge breath as if he had been holding it--he didn't need to breathe in the first place--and shook his head so violently that his whole body spun in a circle and back again.

"Nope. Can't sense people, not far away. Can sense people close. Egon, Winston. Maybe Peter, Janine. Sense ghosts, not people." Slimer was easier to understand at some times than at others, but this time, even though a word or two was garbled, the gist was perfectly clear. No go.

Egon didn't allow his face to change. He looked like he had pulled the humor and warmth that made him who he was inside and shut it away for the duration. "I suspected as much," he said. "Slimer doesn't appear to know when we come home unless he hears Ecto or we call him. I suspect his receptivity is geared exclusively to the spirit world. He can warn us if ghosts are nearby and has done so several times, but no more than that." He dropped a consoling hand on Slimer's head. "You tried, Slimer." Surreptitiously wiping away the slime, he returned to the row of traps and started working on them.

Winston was sorry he'd brought the subject up around Egon. Better to have approached Slimer alone.

The black man was genuinely fond of all his companions at Ghostbuster Central, and he could relate easily to Peter, who was more streetwise than his two eggheaded colleagues. Egon was so darned smart that Winston couldn't help but appreciate him. When he first started working here, he had expected it to make the physicist unapproachable, but Egon's sense of humor crept through at unexpected moments, humanizing him. Sometimes he talked like he had swallowed the dictionary, but he was a man whom Winston could respect.

Of all his three colleagues, he had found Ray Stantz the hardest to understand.

Ray was clearly smart, his IQ way up there in Egon territory, but he didn't act like a genius. He puttered. He put gismos together that did clever things. He collected comic books and liked science fiction as much as Winston did. Yet in many ways, Ray seemed a throwback to a simpler time, when people were innocent, when heroes wore white hats and villains black ones, when idealism was in fashion. There was nothing of the cynic in Ray. He wore his eager enthusiasm for life and for his job like it was a second skin. Danger didn't faze him, and he became so caught up in his work that he could greet with glee the thought of a new demon lurking in the sewers or a dimensional cross rip of mammoth proportions. Things Winston occasionally shuddered to contemplate Ray considered fun.

To put it simply, Winston didn't understand Ray. Under all those smarts and college degrees, under the skill with which he designed equipment and put it together, lurked a childlike soul that still possessed the gift of wonder. Peter warmed himself at Ray's innocent delight in life, the way another man might have warmed himself at a roaring fire. Cynical and slightly hardened by the world around him, Pete wasn't above enjoying Ray's simple joy in life. Winston was pretty sure that Peter would go to any lengths to preserve Ray's innocence.

On top of that, Ray loved his friends wholeheartedly. He seldom found reason to complain of any of them, and wouldn't have changed them for the world. Winston, who considered it only common sense to point out their flaws to his friends when those flaws became annoying, had seen Ray sit watching with open delight on his face while Peter had been at his most obnoxious. Peter not only banked on that, he depended on the wholehearted acceptance that Ray could give him.

Egon, too, still found Ray's continuing absence a puzzle. Though Egon was a fairly self contained man, Winston had long ago decided that he needed his friends more than either he or they realized. It wasn't exactly that Egon took them for granted, because he didn't. It was just that he was so certain of their loyalty that it added automatically into every equation. Winston had often seen him and Ray working together on a new dohicky to use in busting ghosts, talking science as if it were a foreign language in which they were as fluent as they were in English. Egon designed things and Ray built them. Ray understood those professorial little jokes that Egon inflicted upon them from time to time. Ray thought Egon was wonderful and made no secret of the fact. That he thrived under Egon's approval was common knowledge, and Egon enjoyed that. He might spar with Peter and tease him in a more intense way than he would tease Ray, and pull complex practical jokes on the psychologist--in many ways those two were well matched in spite of the difference in their fields. But he listened to Ray when the occultist had something to offer. Egon wasn't the type to lavish praise around, but a few well chosen words from him could have Ray glowing for hours.

The three of them had known each other since college. Though Winston was never made to feel an outsider, he knew that there were depths to those relationships that he might never quite understand. What he did know was that if Ray's disappearance bugged him as much as it did, it must be even worse for Peter and Egon.

The alarm sounded, summoning them to a new job, and so deep in his abstraction was Egon that he jumped and dropped the trap he had been working on. Its doors popped open and Slimer had to backpedal for all he was worth and wrap his arms around Winston's neck to keep from being sucked in.

Egon leaped for it and shut it down. "I'm sorry, Slimer," he apologized gravely.

Slimer favored him with a reproachful glare and drifted away.

"I wonder what we've got now?" Winston speculated as he and the physicist hurried for the stairs.

They found Peter on the ground floor already suited up. Janine was standing facing him, but when she heard them coming, she turned to Egon.

"It's that big blue ghost again, Egon. You have to tell Peter that he can't let it grab him."

"I think that would be extraordinarily dangerous," Egon replied immediately. He stared at Peter as if he'd just been told that the psychologist had decided to eschew Ghostbusting in favor of an unsavory career like that of his con man father. "This is not the time to take unnecessary risks."

"It doesn't sound like an unnecessary risk, Egon," Peter argued, his voice rising on the word 'unnecessary'. "You said it hadn't killed anybody. I thought I'd go in with a trap and let it grab me. The minute it does, I'd activate the trap."

"Dumb," muttered Winston. "Very dumb. What do you think you're gonna prove by doing that?"

Peter's mouth curled. "I'm not trying to prove anything, Winston. You saw how that thing reacted to throwers. I just thought if I could get close enough, the trap would handle it. It would, wouldn't it, Egon?"

The blond paused in the act of stepping into his jumpsuit, balanced momentarily on one foot. "It would, but as you will remember, the entity drains energy from its victims. This is hardly the time for you to be laid up for several days. With Ray away, we need all three of us to handle the jobs already scheduled."

"Ray could walk in at any minute," argued Peter unconvincingly. "And I've got an idea. Couldn't we try to scan for him? Remember, you did it for us when that big red nasty buried Ray and me in an underground cave. You rode the subway all night with a P.K.E. meter turned to our electro-metabolic frequencies."

"I didn't find you, either," Egon reminded him. "It's possible, but in a city the size of New York, it would be like searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack. I'm not rejecting the idea, but neither do I hold out great hope for it." He continued to dress, his face solemn.

"Jennifer wasn't that drained," Peter reminded him. "So I have an early night and eat a huge steak dinner. Big deal. Drained or not, I won't let you down. Besides, I've never had a chance to teleport before. It might be fun."

"Fun," scoffed Winston. "Next thing you know you'll be complaining about having your molecules scrambled, like Dr. McCoy."

"We might not need it," Egon replied. "We couldn't get a clear shot at it last time. Now that the news has spread that the entity drains people's energy, I expect to be given more room when we fight it. Not once did all four streams hit it at once, yesterday."

They were still arguing about it when they climbed into Ecto-1 and set off for Union Square, the site of the latest visitation.

When they first arrived at the scene where Big Blue had been reported, there was no trace of the ghost, but they had no sooner climbed out of the car when they heard it roaring away down a side street. As if sensing their presence, it reappeared, bearing down on them with the speed of a runaway train.

"You know," said Peter in an aside to Winston, as he unslung his thrower and powered up, "getting close to that thing doesn't sound like nearly such a good idea as I thought it did."

"Gotcha," Winston replied. "Wouldn't be so bad if it didn't look so hungry." Peter shuddered elaborately in response. He didn't like ghosts who wanted to dine on fricaseed Ghostbuster.

"Avoid being taken at all costs," Egon instructed them solemnly as they braced themselves to fire, standing shoulder to shoulder and planting their feet firmly on the ground. "Triggering a trap and capturing it might mean that whoever did it would be stuck in the Netherworld or another alternate dimension, if that's where the creature goes during teleportation. We might be unable to make retrieval."

Peter grimaced. His previous visits to that particular realm had not endeared it to him. Returning there permanently was nearly as delightful an image to contemplate as the thought of Ray's not coming home.

The ghost of Ray Stantz accompanied them on the job, at least in the three Ghostbusters' minds. Peter could picture the young occult specialist charging about excitedly, greeting Egon's speculations with eager delight, buoying them all up the way he usually did. Without Ray on the bust, it was merely a job, a dangerous and challenging one, to be sure, but one which lacked the real satisfaction it usually gave them. Peter didn't want to think about this kind of thing continuing.

So used to working together were they that they fired as one, the bright yellow streams striking Big Blue head on. The Ghostbusters were too good at their jobs to falter when Ray wasn't here. Because of him, this one had become incredibly personal. Peter wondered if he were the only one who had managed to convince himself that all they had to do was stop Big Blue for Ray to come home. Then their lives could take up where they had left off yesterday morning when their biggest worry had been whether or not to purchase additional space for a second containment unit, and not whether they would ever see Ray again. A pain began inside Peter that he didn't even try to fight.

Stopping the huge ghost wouldn't be easy. Though the three particle streams slowed the entity, causing it to shake, toss, and rage in the temporary confinement, it wasn't ready to be trapped yet. With a sudden lunge straight for them, it used the momentum provided by its charge and the pull of the proton streams combined with their instinctive ducking to shoot past them and break free of the energy field. Swooping around in a huge circle for a second attack, it bellowed defiance and flung sloppy gobs of ectoplasm in their direction, making them break formation to duck in several different directions.

This time, there were no curious crowds to interfere with their work. The news that the beast captured people and drained their energy made most New Yorkers reluctant to take the risk. The few people who had remained in the open when the Ghostbusters had arrived on the scene had vanished into buildings, under parked cars, or into nearby alleys. Peter could see a few curious folks lurking in the doorway of the Forbidden Planet bookstore. Traffic had slowed to a near standstill, partly because some motorists had deserted their cars and cabs in panic, and partly because others had dropped their speed to a crawl to watch the bust, presuming that their vehicles would shield them from possible risk. In just a few minutes there was a world class gridlock extending in all directions.

Big Blue headed for a bus, causing the faces at the window to vanish as the passengers sought refuge on the floor. The entity hovered over the bus then swooped for the Ghostbusters again.

"Go to full streams," Egon directed, gesturing at the approaching behemoth. The Ghostbusters fired again, the three beams locking on with pinpoint accuracy.

This time, the controlled power of their equipment seemed to be winning. Struggling fiercely, Big Blue ranted and raved, twisting to face them, presenting them with a spectacular view down the entity's vast maw.

"It's not a pretty picture," Peter muttered in an aside to Egon. "How'd you like to be his dentist."

"Man, I wouldn't want to be his anything," Winston called. "Especially not his dinner."

That made Peter frown and retreat an automatic step. "Nobody said anything about dinner, Winston," he protested as he fumbled for the trap attached to his pack. "I think it'd be just as well if we kept it that way."

Winston nodded in appreciation of the thought. "Gotcha."

"Shorten the streams," directed Egon and, in response, they began to reel the creature in. It hung, placid, in the streams, not even bothering to fight. They eyed it nervously, wondering why it had stopped resisting them. It didn't appear the type to give up. Closer and closer it came, while Peter braced his particle zapper one handed to unhook the trap, preparatory to tossing it out under the beast so it could be sucked in.

Unexpectedly Big Blue erupted into furious movement. Again he tried a forward run, as if he hoped that the sudden approach of that gigantic mouth would demoralize the three men and cause them to drop their weapons. It didn't do that, but the speed with which the specter bore down on them was so rapid that it required weapon adjustment. One instant's hesitation was all Big Blue needed. Again he shucked the streams, this time diving lower and closer, his roar deafening. In the background, people screamed.

Without warning, long arms erupted on either side of the creature's mouth like pseudopods, and before he could protest that he had changed his mind about going along for the ride, Peter was snatched from his feet and pulled close against the cold blue ectoplasm of the entity. "Ahhh!" he cried out in startled disgust, fighting to break free. He fired his thrower again at close range, but the heat of it was too intense to continue. If he kept it up he would cook himself along with the ghost.

"Peter!" screamed Egon and Winston in frantic chorus, their feet thudding on the pavement as they ran toward him.

Suddenly he was hit by the full force of the creature's power-draining action. The suction was instantaneous and enervating. He could appreciate Jennifer's vacuum cleaner analogy, because that was exactly what it felt like, as if a vacuum cleaner had been applied to every inch of his anatomy. He let out an outraged yell and kicked furiously at the beast.

Though Big Blue grumbled and muttered, he didn't loose his hold. Everything around them went dark. Peter felt like he'd just spent three nights without sleep, fighting ghosts the whole time. His chin sagged against his chest and his eyelids drooped sleepily. Yet consciousness didn't elude him, and his mind was clear.

The first sight of Big Blue bearing down on him had discouraged him from attempting his earlier plan, but now that it had been forced upon him, he realized he had no other choice.

Though his limbs had begun to tremble with exhaustion, he groped for the trap's trigger and pressed it against the side of the trap for a better purchase. "See how you like this, bunky," he challenged as he forced his hand against the pedal with all his strength. It gave stiffly, requiring almost more pressure than he could manage one handed, but an adrenaline rush provided him with additional strength and he drove the pedal home. The trap sprang open between his clasping hands as if he were a catcher waiting for the pitch. The brilliant white light that shot out nearly blinded him at such close range, but he had taken one or two ghosts this way before and he knew it would wear off once the trap closed. He narrowed his eyes against the dazzle and held on for all he was worth.

Big Blue's savage bellow nearly deafened him, amplified as if it were echoing in a tiny room. Peter screamed but the sound was lost in the entity's thunderous growl.

The trap's pull started to take the ghost and Peter felt as if he were being pushed backwards at lightspeed. Struggling and raging all the way, Big Blue slid into the trap and the doors closed around him with a snap. The brilliant light died and Peter was left in a dark, silent realm, hovering in midair.

"Yaa!" he cried, unable to hear himself. Was this the Netherworld? Some other ghost realm? Was he trapped here forever, suspended between one world and the next?

He hit the concrete of a New York City sidewalk hard, but not hard enough to break anything. He flung out his hands to break the fall, landing painfully upon his hands and knees. Warily, he opened his eyes, blinking furiously to rid himself of the afterimage. A mailbox appeared not two inches past the end of his nose.

"He did! He came right out of mid-air. I saw him!"

"Nah, you never saw nothing like that. It was special effects. A publicity trick for one of Spielberg's new flicks. ILM all the way."

The voices were arguing right over his head. Peter pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the mailbox. "Do you mind?" he demanded. "I've had it bad enough with this ghost, without you two morons screaming in my ears." He held up the ghost trap, waving it menacingly. His fatigue was so intense that his hands trembled with effort.

"Hey, it's one of the Ghostbusters," the first voice cried delightedly. "Dr. Venkman, can I have your autograph?"

Ordinarily, Peter would have been thrilled. He loved giving autographs and would do it for hours, basking in the adoration of his eager fans, preferably if most of them were female. Right now, though, he was too tired to do more than scrawl his name on the paper that the young man produced. "Here you go, buddy. Would you do me a favor?"

"Sure, Dr. Venkman." The teenager helped him to his feet and gripped his arm until he stopped swaying. "Wow, that must have been a really nasty ghost, to bring you here. Was it really big? I wish I could have seen it. This is really exciting!"

Peter leaned against the mailbox hearing Ray in the boy's delight. How often had Ray said much the same thing on one of their jobs. Peter heaved a shaky sigh.

"It looked better from your end than mine, kid. Now, could you point me in the direction of Union Square? I've got a couple of partners who must be going crazy looking for me."

Peter had barely gone two blocks before he met Ecto-1. Egon was leaning out the passenger's side window, P.K.E. meter in hand, presumably tracking the residual readings from Big Blue, or else Peter's electro-metabolic frequency. He gestured with one hand to direct Winston toward the strongest signal.

Venkman knew the exact instant when he was seen. Ecto lunged toward him and screeched to a stop, its hood less than a foot from Peter. The psychologist deposited the trap on it beside the No Ghost hood ornament, put his stinging hands on either side of it, and leaned forward, his head drooping with exhaustion.

Egon and Winston jumped out of the car and hurried forward, clapping him on the shoulders and asking anxious questions. "Are you hurt, Peter?" Egon queried in a voice that proved he had endured too many shocks in the past several days, looking him up and down, discovering the scraped flesh on his palms and frowning over it. Catching Peter's wrist, he examined the injury, his eyes losing their shadows when he realized how minor it was.

"Did it drain you?" Winston asked. "You look like it. We'd better get you home so you can rest. You look lousy, man."

Peter pointed to the trap, where a blinking light indicated that it was full.

"I got him, Egon," Peter mumbled wearily. "No more Big Blue." His lips curled upward at the thought. "Does that mean Ray will come home? he asked in a small, hopeful voice."

Pain flashed across Egon's face and he put an arm around Peter's shoulder. Before the physicist could find words to respond to Peter's anxious question, the brown haired man toppled against the car hood and drifted into an exhausted doze, only dimly aware of the guys' worried questions. He felt Winston and Egon lift him, bearing him toward the back seat and that was the last thing he remembered.

Ray left his truck driver friend in Pittsburgh, surely far enough from New York that no one would expect to find him there. Finding a second automatic teller, he withdrew another $500, uncertain of the cost of a bus ticket. He grabbed a cab and headed for the bus depot where he bought a ticket straight through to Los Angeles. It was only $121 one way. That left him enough to get settled out there while he found a job.

Though the trucker had been kind and sympathetic, he had also been nosy and Ray discovered that he didn't want to talk. He lacked the energy to face conversation, and he feared recognition. Much better to be one isolated traveler on a bus. As long as he minded his own business, no one would bother him. He picked up a paperback thriller in hopes that it would distract him and sat in the busy waiting room until his bus was called. It was a long way to Los Angeles. Maybe by the time he reached California, his life would start making sense again. He only wished he could believe that.

Choosing a seat near the rear of the bus, Ray huddled into the window seat and tried to appear as unapproachable as possible in hopes that he would be left alone. It must have worked because they were all the way to Columbus, Ohio and he was beginning to relax into confidence in his invisibility when a voice over his head said, "Hey, bro, this seat taken?"

Ray glanced up and did a double take. Standing in the aisle smiling down at him was a hippie. She had a madras shirt, faded jeans with designs painted on them--yes, they were even bell bottoms--her hair was long and utterly straight, and a headband kept it back from her face. It was night and the dimly lit bus was kind to her, but he realized that she was probably in her early forties. He blinked at her in surprise, wondering what time warp she had stepped out of.

"Mind if I sit here?" she asked.

"What? Oh. No, it's all right, I guess not," he babbled, too surprised at being noticed to warn her off.

She levered her duffle bag into the overhead rack and dropped into the adjoining seat. "Scared you, huh?"

"Scared me?" He shook his head.

"You had that expression, as if you were on another planet. I shouldn't have reminded you that you were still on this one."

She was more perceptive than the truck driver. Ray cringed slightly. "I was thinking," he admitted, hunching his shoulders slightly and picking up his book. It wasn't his nature to be rude, and he genuinely liked people. Usually he could converse with anyone, picking up friends right and left. Tonight, though, he wanted to be alone. He didn't want to have to pretend to be sociable. Though he could feel her eyes upon him, he stared intently at his book while she settled in, stretching comfortably beside him. She waited just long enough to disarm him and make him forget that she might be a threat, then she plucked the book from his hand.

"Hey. I was reading that."

"Yeah, and I campaigned for Nixon. You haven't turned a page in fifteen minutes, and I think you're too smart to be such a slow reader." She stuck his receipt in place as a bookmark and passed it back. "Talk to me. I won't pry unless you let me, but sometimes it does good to dump on strangers."

He eyed her dubiously, still too traumatized to fight for himself. If she saw the pain in his face, she didn't remark on it immediately. Instead, she said, "My name is Sunshine. I dropped out in 1971 and never looked back. I've got friends whose kids make fun of me because I didn't leave the 60s behind. After awhile, I decided what I liked best about that time and kept it. I dumped the drugs. No point, and after awhile, you get into a worse mess than you can dig yourself out of. I never liked the idea of cultivated filth, either, but the peace and love part worked. All men are brothers."

Ray winced. Back in New York were three men who had become his brothers and he didn't want to remember them right now because it hurt so much.

"Yeah, I'm weird," Sunshine admitted. "But I mean well. You, my friend, are running away from something you think is beyond repair."

"I never said anything like that," Ray denied hastily.

She smiled. "I know. When I got on the bus I saw you sitting back here by yourself, hoping everyone would leave you alone. There was a time in my life I felt the same. I was sure the world had ended and that I'd never be happy again. Then one day I met this guy in Tulsa and he talked sense to me. Nothing's that final."

"I can't go back," Ray murmured, avoiding her eyes.

"Why not?" She held up a hand before he could speak. "God, kid, I don't want specifics. Your business is your business. I'm a busybody but I'm not that much of a snoop. Generalize it. Distance it. Maybe it will make sense to you."

Ray thought about it. Talking would change nothing, but he knew he was too close to it. He needed objectivity. Maybe this chance-met woman, strange as she was, could provide the impartial viewpoint he needed.

He heaved a sigh. "If I stay, I'll hurt my friends," he said, his fingers curling the pages of the paperback book. "I did something--something really bad. I know it was an accident and I'm not on the run from the police, but if I stay, I'll only hurt them. I lost my nerve. I can't back them up any more."

She considered that confusing explanation, tilting her head to one side. Idle fingers pushed a bangle bracelet up and down her slender arm. "Don't you trust your friends?" she asked gently.

"Trust them? Yes." He did. That had never been the problem. "Don't you see? It's me I don't trust."

"Because of this accident? That heals, you know. Not easily and maybe never completely, but you can function again. I ought to know."

"Did you...kill someone?" he ventured, immediately wishing he'd kept his mouth shut.

"Yes. Well, not directly, but I always knew it was my fault." She caressed the bracelet with her fingers and said softly, "He gave me this. We were going to be married, but he wanted to enlist. Viet Nam. You're too young, but we protested it. You know that. 'Hell no, we won't go.' We were the peaceniks. Except David felt he owed it to his dad, who'd been in the Second World War. We fought about it. I pushed and pushed and finally he disappeared and next thing I knew, he was a Marine. He was killed by a bomb on his second day in Saigon. I always thought I drove him into it. If I'd just shut up, he might have thought it out on his own. His father never expected him to go. But I had to play devil's advocate. I had to push. I think he wanted to stay so much that he had to go. I should have shut up."

"He would probably have gone anyway," Ray told her quickly. "You didn't kill David. You know you didn't kill David."

She smiled sadly. "You're a good man. I do know it, really. But for years and years I didn't. It took that guy in Tulsa listening and talking sense to me to make me see it. I felt like I owed that man a payment for turning my life around, and when I said so, he just shrugged, laughed, and said, 'Do it for somebody else.' There's no answer to that. Except, here I am. Have you talked to your friends about it?"

Ray shook his head. "I just walked away. I couldn't face them. If I stayed I'd just be dependent on them. I'd only be a burden. They'd try but..." Watching their love for him die would be the bitterest pain of all.

"Of course they'd try. They care about you. Listen to me. Go away if you have to, but go back and do it soon. Yes, they'll help you. Time will do the rest. You'll grow stronger. You won't be a burden. You'll heal." She tossed her fair hair, smoothed it into one long pony tail and flung it over her shoulder in a gesture that was probably habitual. "You don't believe me now, but there'll come a day when you'll know I was right. One thing, though."

Ray's head lifted just enough to see her face clearly.

"Call them. Tell them you're okay. Send a card. Something. I broke my parents' hearts when I ran away. I didn't go home for ten years, and those ten years were wasted. When I came home they were old. I'd lost all those years and so had they. It wasn't just the years that aged them--it was the way they worried about me. Don't do that to the people you love." She pried the book out of his clenched fingers and smoothed it apologetically. "God, listen to me. I preach at the drop of a hat. I'm a real pain, aren't I?"

"I don't think you're a pain," Ray told her. "I--I'm just not ready yet."

"Okay." She dropped it entirely. "You don't look sleepy, and I can never sleep on busses. Let's stir this place up. Can you sing, kid?"

"Sing?" echoed Ray in astonishment, his mouth sagging open.

"Sing. Like this." She opened her mouth and beautiful, pure sound poured out, quiet enough to confine it to their row and a few in front of them. "'Where have all the flowers gone...'"

Heads turned, and so rich was her voice that even those who had intended to complain bit off their gripes and began to listen. Sunshine smiled as she realized that her audience was appreciative.

Ray warmed to the music as he might have done to the sun. He started to sing along, much more quietly than she did, almost in an undertone, and Sunshine flashed him a delighted grin and gestured for other people to join in. A few did, then a few others, and suddenly, miraculously, the whole bus was singing. It was one of those priceless moments that happens so rarely that those to whom it happens remember it for years.

When they came to the verse about the flowers going to graveyards, Ray realized he was weeping silently as he sang the words. Sunshine slid her hand up his arm and squeezed his shoulder and he didn't pull away from the touch.

They sang songs from the 60s. We Shall Overcome, Penny Lane, These Boots are Made for Walking, songs Peter and Winston often listened to. They made him even more homesick than he had been before. Eventually passengers drifted away, some to sleep, a few to their own conversations, and as the bus became still once again, Sunshine lowered her voice until she was humming to herself. The last thing Ray remembered before he drifted to sleep was the faintest thread of her voice singing I'm Just a Poor Wayfaring Stranger.

When the nightmare startled him out of the first sound sleep he'd had since Jennifer had run into his proton stream, Sunshine had gone and the bus was breasting its way through a torrential rainstorm in eastern Indiana. He was a long way from healing. The girl's scream still reproached him, but perhaps, one day, he might find himself again. Sunshine had come too soon. He wasn't ready.

Hunger woke Peter Venkman. Surprised, he opened his eyes to find himself in his own bed, in his own pajamas, and it took a few minutes for him to remember what had happened. It was daylight, but the sun that slanted into the window had an eastern cast to it. He'd slept the night straight through.

Propping himself on one elbow, he turned to Ray's bed. Empty. But then Egon's and Winston's were neatly made up, too.

Peter jumped up and went hunting for them. He didn't have far to go. Egon was working in the upstairs lab, and at the first noise from the bedroom, he came into the hall to meet him.

"Oh, you're up, Peter." There was relief in his eyes but it was not strong enough to encompass Ray's return. Peter felt something turn in his stomach.

"Yeah. It feels like I lost a day, Egon. What's going on? Is--is Ray..."

"Not yet. The police are searching for him now. Winston and I spent most of yesterday afternoon talking to them."

"And?" Peter prodded. "Come on, Spengs, what aren't you telling me?"

Egon sighed, shoved his glasses into place, and caught Peter's arm, steering him to the bedroom and sitting him down on his four poster bed. He sat beside the psychologist.

"Very well. The police learned that Ray used his bank card and withdrew some money from an automatic teller machine at a bank near Washington Square the day before yesterday. He must have decided to leave immediately."

The knot in Peter's stomach grew larger. "But that was before he knew that Jennifer was okay, Egon," argued Peter as if it would change the story he was hearing. "Once he knew, he should have come back. Is there more? Somebody saw him make the withdrawal and grabbed him?"

"Nothing like that. In fact, nothing at all. We simply don't know. Ray tends to blame himself for things, but in this instance, there is nothing to reproach himself with. The newspapers and television stations all ran the story. I'm sure he saw it. I simply do not understand it, any better than you do?"

"Maybe he didn't read the papers?" suggested Peter. "Come on, Egon, it's just like him. He thought he'd know what he'd see, and he couldn't handle it yet." The thought that Ray was out there still believing he had killed the little girl made him feel sick.

"I'm afraid you're right. Otherwise he'd be here. What I don't know is what to do about it. I can only assume he'll return one day."

"One day?" echoed Peter, his voice rising. "One day? You think I'm gonna sit here and do nothing while he's out there--" Egon grasped his shoulders, turning Peter to face him.

"Peter, listen to me. Of course I don't expect that. Neither does Winston. Right now, the important thing for you to do is to eat."

Maybe part of the knot was hunger. Peter doubted it, but he knew Egon was right. "What happened to me anyway?" he asked. "Jennifer was running around. I was out for the count."

"We theorized that when you opened the trap, Big Blue drew as much energy from you as he could in a vain attempt to resist the pull of the trap. Had it gone any longer, you could have died. We had a doctor here to see you when you didn't wake up. He recommended we let you sleep, and feed you as soon as you awakened, and that if you had continuing symptoms, we bring you to the hospital. He would have liked to take you there last night because he felt you were slightly dehydrated. Winston and I spent much of the night making you drink water." His fingers tightened affectionately before he released his grip.

"Just what you guys didn't need," Peter muttered, avoiding Egon's eyes. "Somebody to babysit. I'm fine, Egon. Just feed me before I get hungry enough to eat Slimer." He shuddered. "That's the worst idea I've had in years." Jumping up, he headed for the bathroom. "Once I've had a shower, I'll be down. I could do with a great big steak, dripping in its own juice."

"It will be ready." Egon went so quickly that Peter could only stare after him. Damn it. Egon looked so defeated. It would require a lot of effort to cheer him up. It might cheer them all in the process. Maybe that would give them ideas how to find Ray.

As the week passed and Ray didn't return the police had to admit that they were baffled. It was likely that Ray had left New York, but he must have gone to ground because there were no reported sightings. Peter telephoned his cousin Samantha, whose dairy farm might have proven a refuge, but she hadn't seen him. Ray's Aunt Lois took to telephoning most evenings to ask for word of him. Once she dropped in with a box of cookies for them and stayed to join in their speculations for several hours.

A cab driver in Pittsburgh insisted with credible certainty that he had given Ray a taxi ride to the bus depot, but the lead fizzled there. No one at the bus station remembered Ray. He might have gone anywhere, if it had really been he, and he could have gone in any direction from there. Other sightings were even less likely than that one. Ray could hardly be in Nome, Alaska and Paris, France on the same day. His passport was still at headquarters, so he couldn't leave the country. That didn't limit him much. It was a big country.

The day after they trapped Big Blue, Egon sealed himself up in his lab and worked so hard that they had to pry him away for meals. Two days later, he called Peter and Winston in, pointed to a device that sat atop his lab table, a row of lights blinking a steady green across its face. "It's done," he announced. The act of creation did not produce the customary satisfaction, and there was only a little of his usual scientific excitement in his voice.

"That's wonderful," Peter replied with a tinge of sarcasm. "Maybe that means you'll take out the trash when it's your turn now."

"I took out the trash three days ago," Egon responded more sharply than usual.

"Exactly." Peter's mouth tightened. "And now it's your turn again. That's the way it works right now, big fella."

"Oh." Egon was silent a moment, then he straightened up and returned to the device, making fussy little adjustments on it.

"What is it, Egon?" Winston encouraged, pointing to the physicist's gismo.

"It's a long-range high-powered ectoplasmic detector," Egon explained proudly, turning to face them, one hand resting on top of the device as if it were his first born.

"And that makes you happy?" Peter asked, shaking his head. "So what does it do?"

Egon reeled off a whole phrase of technobabble. Peter understood almost one word in three, which was better than usual when Egon went off on one of his tangents. This particular string of gobbledy-gook appeared to mean that the device could detect entities of Class 7 and higher from a much greater distance than their P.K.E. meters did, but it would never do to give Egon the advantage. Peter had been playing the game with him too long now to give ground.

"I'm really pleased," he told Egon, draping his arm around the taller man's shoulders and leaning close to inspect the device. "That's marvelous. Now what is it?"

Egon opened his mouth to explain and closed it again. His eyes made one quick, telling glance around the lab, then he said quietly, "It will enable us to pin down powerful entities from a greater distance and will summon us when one manifests within a five mile radius."

It dawned on Peter that Egon had automatically expected Ray to translate, to praise him for the device, to burble with his usual enthusiasm. They were so accustomed to Ray being there that, even after nearly a week, the habit remained. Peter exchanged a quick look with Winston and spoke rapidly.

"That's gonna save us a lot of trouble, isn't it? You did good, Spengs. Just don't design too much. You could design us right out of business."

"It will never come to that," Egon replied solemnly. "There have always been ghosts and there always will. Which reminds me, we still need that additional containment space. Have you talked to the realtor about the old diner yet?"

"I...forgot," Peter confessed. "I'll get on it this morning." He paused, pointing to the device. "Suppose you give us a test run on that baby."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Egon motioned them closer. "You see this row of lights? While they read green, they are detecting nothing powerful enough to trip the alarm, at least not within range of the trap. Should a Class 7 or better appear within the five mile radius, the lights will turn to red. If the entity comes within a one mile radius, a buzzer will sound." He leaned over and pushed a switch. A deep, insistent buzzing sounded for a second before he turned it off. "Before anything that powerful comes within range of the containment unit, we would know about it."

"Hey, great idea, Spengs." Peter slapped him on the back and moved away. "I like it. Get the patent going right away. Think what we can do with these babies. We can sell them to top security installations. Top of the line ghost detectors."

"Are you implying that foreign powers and industrial spies might hire ghosts to do their dirty work, Peter?" Egon asked, surprised at the idea.

"Hey. Works for me. Besides, this could mean big bucks, especially if those places thought so."

"You know, Pete," Winston murmured, grinning, "With all your get-rich-quick schemes, I'm surprised we're not millionaires."

"I'm not," Peter replied at once. "The gismos Egon needs for his lab aren't cheap. It cost us $78,000 bucks to build that gismo to rescue Egon when his molecules were destabilized and he turned into a ghost."

Winston opened his mouth to reply then shut it again. Ray had designed and built that particular device. Everything about the business reminded them of Ray, and there was nothing they could do about it. Egon shut off his device and they went downstairs for breakfast.

The shrill ringing of the phone woke Peter out of a sound sleep and he lay mumbling a few muttered profanities before awareness kicked in and he jumped for the upstairs extension. Phone calls in the middle of the night usually meant a new ghost was terrorizing New York, but now it could have another, more important, meaning. "Ghostbusters!" he cried into the phone. "Is that you, Ray?"

Egon snapped on the light. He and Winston gathered close in expectation, the physicist sliding on his glasses. He looked rumpled, his hair sticking in various directions, and Winston, behind him, leaned forward eagerly. Outside, thunder rumbled and rain beat against the windows.

"Detective Clark, Twelfth Precinct," said an unfamiliar voice in Peter's ear. Something in his quiet tones sent a flicker of alarm racing through Peter. "I'm sorry," the detective continued in grave, regretful tones, "but we've discovered a body that matches your friend's description--"

Peter felt his insides congeal. The man was still talking but Peter couldn't hear him any more. Blindly, he offered the phone to Egon, who snatched it quickly and pressed it to his ear, then Peter curled his arms across his stomach as if that would warm him there. He'd feared this from the morning after Ray's disappearance, but hope had died hard. Egon looked sick but he asked the appropriate questions, his blue eyes blurring. Winston breathed, "Oh, shit," under his breath and dropped a hand on each man's shoulder.

Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the morgue, all three of them crammed into the front seat of Ecto. The body, Egon said, refusing to assign it Ray's identity, had been found in an alley in the Bronx. He had been beaten to death. At those words, Peter flinched violently and turned his head away, staring unseeingly out the window as the windshield wipers traced endless paths back and forth, back and forth, an exercise in futility.

Peter blocked most of that ride from his memory. None of them talked beyond a few valiant efforts to deny it. "Ray's too smart to get himself hung up like this," Winston insisted. 'Hung up'. Like Peter, he didn't want to use the real word, the final word. Peter's body was wracked with tremors that he couldn't contain. Next to him, Egon felt them and put his arm around the psychologist's shoulders. Peter needed comfort so badly that he leaned into the unaccustomed embrace, a part of his mind registering that Egon must need it as badly as he did. "It may be a mistake," said the blond in a carefully level voice.

"Ray's famous, Egon," Peter replied through numbed lips. "Everybody in the city knows what he looks like." He shuddered. "At least..." At least when he was alive, his mind finished for him. His imagination began to dwell on horrors too terrible to be voiced. Ray had been gone for over five days. How long did it take bodies to start decomposing, especially bodies that had been severely beaten? Not Ray. It couldn't be Ray.

"Egon," he demanded urgently, unable to complete the thought. Egon, help. But how could Egon help when he needed it as badly as Peter did.

"I know, Peter," the deep voice rumbled in his ear. "I know."

"Oh, man," breathed Winston, "I hate this. It's gotta be a mistake."

Peter lacked Winston's faith. When they walked into the room, he found every muscle in his body screaming at him to turn around and run away. He hated the place; hated the look of it, the smell, the implications. He was afraid someone in a white coat would pull out a drawer indifferently and whip the sheet away from Ray, naked and drained of color, a tag on his toe. Oh, God, don't let it be Ray.

A body draped with a sheet lay on a table in the center of the room. At least it wasn't in a drawer. Peter's hand went instinctively to Egon's arm and his fingers dug into the flesh. Egon endured it silently, his jaw tight, his face colorless. As white as he was, the glasses looked as red as blood.

The attendant came forward with sympathetic words, and Detective Clark, a burly man with a polyester suit and a dark five o'clock shadow, gestured them forward, a look of understanding his his eyes.

Egon gestured for the attendant to lift the sheet. "I'll look, Peter," he volunteered, though the offer must have cost him a fierce effort.

"No, Egon," Peter grated out. "I have to know." He stepped forward, Egon and Winston falling into step on either side of him.

He saw the auburn hair first, matted down against the battered forehead, saw the strangely misshapen skull, and his stomach nearly expelled its contents all over the body before he registered the aquiline nose and the narrow-lipped mouth. The face was as round as Ray's but the man who had been bludgeoned to death was a stranger.

Peter's knees buckled in relief. Winston caught him, steadied him, as Egon said numbly, "No. It isn't Ray."

The three of them turned and walked away. It wasn't Ray. Peter felt his eyes sting with tears and had to struggle to hold them back. It wasn't Ray--but that meant nothing. This body was someone else, but somewhere out there, Ray might be just as dead. Ignoring the rain, they walked without speaking to Ecto, climbed in, and then simply sat there together in the front seat again. Peter fought for control and then nearly broke.

Clenching his fists, he slammed them against his knees in helpless frustration. "Damn it, Egon," he growled through clenched teeth, "Next time..."

"I know," Egon replied. "It doesn't get any easier, does it, Peter."

Venkman repeated the movement, and Egon caught his wrists and stopped him. For a minute he fought the grip, then he stopped fighting and sagged in the seat. "It could have been Ray. It could have been so easy," he faltered.

Egon squeezed his wrists sympathetically and let go. "It wasn't," he said in a deep, reassuring rumble.

"No way," agreed Winston, a steady hand resting on Peter's shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ray's too smart for that kind of shit, man. Wherever the kid is, he's doing fine."

"Then why doesn't he come home?" Peter asked uselessly. "Why doesn't he come home?"

"Go west, young man." Ray Stantz thought of those words as he stood in the mangy little room in the Los Angeles transient hotel where he'd been staying for three days. This was California, supposed land of opportunity, but there had been none yet for Ray. So far, he hadn't found a job. Each position for which he might have applied had other applicants who could produce references, Social Security cards and other reassuring documentation. Ray could probably find a job washing dishes if he tried, but there had to be something better. He needed work that was hard enough to keep him busy and complicated enough to occupy his mind. There were too many memories, all of them too close to the surface.

During the endless trip across America, he had opened the battered thriller and tried to read it, but when he turned the last page, he had no idea what he had read. It was around Salt Lake City that he found the note Sunshine had scribbled inside the back cover.

"Don't worry. One day you'll find that you can stop running. I did." Though she didn't sign it, he knew the message had come from her, and he was grateful for her concern, though her choice of words hurt. He was running away. He was a coward, unable to face his friends and go home. Running away. The knowledge made no difference. He stood in line to buy a ticket to New York, but when he reached the window, he turned away. Not yet. He couldn't go home yet. He hadn't resolved anything in his mind.

Now he sat in the dingy little room and fiddled with the knob of the television set. If he babied it, it would come on after ten minutes warmup time. He had watched innumerable game shows, winning himself imaginary fortunes on them. He had watched a few soap operas but their improbable problems felt silly and melodramatic in comparison with his own. Instead he turned to old sitcoms. The Andy Griffith Show. The Mary Tyler Moore Show. M*A*S*H. The old black and white television set was his only companion.

The compulsion to call home had grown stronger every day, and today, he could no longer resist the lure. Sunshine had told him to let his friends know he was all right. The longer he was gone, the worse they would worry. He could imagine them searching for him, growing more dispirited with each passing day. He couldn't send a postcard. They would use the postmark to locate him. But if he called, they couldn't guess where he was.

Tonight, the need to hear their voices was just too strong for him. He gathered together the little stack of coins that had lain on the table ever since he had checked in. He'd call now. Just one minute. He'd tell them he was all right. He had to.

He switched the television on to warm up and went out to the pay phone in the hall. Each coin fell into the slot with a final little thud, then it was ringing. Ray braced himself, excitement and apprehension warring within him.

"Ghostbuster Central." Janine's voice. There was no real life to her words. She sounded tired or bored or dispirited, and he hesitated, a lump rising in his throat that made it impossible to speak.

"Ghostbuster Central," she repeated sharply. When he remained silent, she said, "Listen, buster, whoever you are, maybe you oughta think that this isn't the safest place to make crank calls--" Her voice chopped off abruptly as an idea struck her and she drew breath to demand, "Ray? Is that you, Ray?"

He opened his mouth. Still no luck. She sounded so incredibly hopeful. He had nothing to offer her now except his existence. He couldn't go home yet. Jennifer still ran laughing into the streams whenever he closed his eyes.

She must have taken the phone away from her ear because her voice sounded further away. "Peter," she called urgently. "I think it's Ray."

Peter's voice came so hard on the heels of hers that he must have been lunging for the phone as soon as he heard Janine speak his name. "Ray? Come on, guy, talk to me? Is that you? Ray?" He sounded so unhappy, so worried that Ray gulped and swallowed fiercely, trying to find words. He couldn't remember the last time Peter had sounded that vulnerable.

"I'm...okay, Peter," he whispered, unable to manage a better reassurance.

"Ray! Yahoo!" Peter's triumphant shout nearly took out Ray's eardrum. He didn't yank the phone from his ear, instead he pressed it tighter as if it would bring him closer to his friend. "Where are you, guy?" cried Peter. "We'll come and get you. We've been going crazy looking for you."

"I..." He couldn't go back yet. How to tell Peter. Hearing Venkman's voice made him want to hurry home, hop the first plane, be home tonight. Yet nothing had changed. He'd go home and be a danger to his friends. He'd hesitate, fumble the thrower, freeze up. He couldn't do that to them. "I..."

"Listen, Ray. It's okay. Tell me where you are."

"I--I can't, Peter."

A second's silence. Then Peter said urgently, "Listen to me, Ray Stantz. You haul your butt back here where you belong or I'm gonna send the spud through the phone line and have him drag you home by the hair. Don't think I couldn't, either. You know I could."

"I know." He closed his eyes, but a few tears slipped out in spite of his attempts at self-control. He couldn't bear it.

"Ray." Peter's voice grew serious. "About Jennifer. You know--"

Ray replaced the receiver in the cradle and took a step backward without releasing his grip. Peter would offer him forgiveness and understanding. Peter was a psychologist. He'd have a fairly good idea of what Ray was going through, and he'd say all the right words. Right now, Peter's sympathy hurt too much to bear.

Ray stood clutching the receiver in his hand, then his fingers loosed their grip and he stumbled back to his room, closing and locking the door firmly behind him. He stood leaning his forehead against it, eyes closed, pain radiating through his body. He shouldn't have done it. He shouldn't have called.

"See you on the other side, Ray."

The voice behind him made him jump and gasp, spinning around wildly. The room behind him was empty, but in his absence, the television had warmed up to the movie Ghostbusters. On screen Bill Murray was preparing with Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis and Ernie Hudson to battle Gozer. Ray remembered that at that point, he and his friends had expected to die. Though Egon had insisted that there was a slim chance they would survive, none of them had really believed it.

Drawing a shaky breath Ray reached out to shut off the television, but at the last minute, he pulled his hand away from the dial. Sliding the room's one chair closer, he sat before the screen, his eyes pinned to the image, prepared to watch the film version of their early adventures.

The first Ghostbusters movie was far more accurate than the second one had been, and the battle with Gozer was perhaps the most accurate part. Ray watched as his on-screen alter ego and the others crossed the streams to take out Gozer, the Sumerian deity that had tried to cross over into New York.

The relief the actors conveyed when the guys realized the had survived took him back to that moment on the ruined rooftop of Dana Barrett's Central Park West apartment. The four of them stood there demanding if everyone was okay. The only thing missing in the film was the group hug when everyone realized that they had beaten Gozer and actually survived the experience. Perhaps they had worried that it would smear too much 'marshmallow' on Bill Murray. Ray was glad. He didn't think he could handle that. He sat watching the movie until the end, clinging with all his strength to even this tenuous a link with home.

His fingers gripping the receiver so hard that he thought he might leave fingerprints in the plastic, Peter took a deep breath and spoke. "Ray? About Jennifer. You know she's alive. You heard the news didn't you? Come on, Ray, it's okay-- Ray? RAY?" Dead air was his only answer.

"No, don't hang up," he screeched futilely into the mouthpiece, then, when it was all too obvious that his plea was too late, he lowered the receiver. "Damn it."

"Was it Ray?" Egon's anxious question cut across his growing depression and he glanced up as the physicist, closely trailed by Winston, hurried down the stairs while Janine waited anxiously for confirmation across the desk.

"Yeah," confessed Peter, his eyes seeking out Egon's. "It was Ray. He says he's okay, but..."

"We should trace the call," Winston suggested eagerly. "Maybe they could tell us where he is."

Egon snatched the receiver an instant before Peter could grab it again and dialed for the operator. The guys crowded around him closely as he explained that he wanted to find out where their last call had come from. "I suspect it may be long distance," he said. "Wouldn't there be some sort of record?" Peter watched him anxiously, realizing the moment when it wasn't going to work by the way Egon's eyes lost their glitter. "Yes, I see," he said slowly. "Thank you." He lowered the phone slowly and then looked directly at Peter.

"They can't trace it if it was dialed directly," he said. "Not without a trace already on the line. If it had gone through an operator, it might be different, but..."

"I think it was direct," Janine offered, her voice quieter than usual. "I know I didn't hear any operator." She looked at each of them in turn, then she said bracingly, "Well, at least we know he's all right."

There was that. Peter heaved a sigh. Ray was alive. Somewhere out there, he was safe.

"Did he know about Jennifer?" Egon asked practically.

"He hung up on me," Peter burst out, a combination of regret, worry and resentment filling his voice. Ray was alive, not stretched out anonymously on a slab somewhere, but he had waited so long to call. If he'd called earlier, the other night wouldn't have hurt so badly. "I don't know if he heard me or not, but he's gotta know--doesn't he?"

"Perhaps not, Peter," Egon replied. He reached out to rest both hands on Peter's shoulders, gripping tightly and shaking the psychologist a little. "Even if he does know, however, it might not make a difference yet. He could still blame himself for what might have been. He believed he had killed her. It would take him time to adjust to that. He might worry about his reaction the next time he has to use a thrower, and fear that he would let us down. He might not be ready to take that risk."

"We'd chance it," Winston insisted. "Come on, Egon, I know Ray has a tendency to blame himself for things but this time there's nothing to blame himself for. He wouldn't let us down, either, and if he doesn't know that, he should."

"What did he say, Dr. Venkman?" Janine asked practically before Egon and Winston could argue it out.

Peter took a couple of steps backwards, detaching himself from Egon's grip. "He said he was okay, but he said he couldn't come home yet," he replied. "No, that's not it." He shook his head. "He said he couldn't tell me where he was."

"The fact that he phoned at all is a positive sign, Peter," Egon insisted. The expression in his blue eyes told Peter that he wanted it to be a positive sign so badly that he would insist upon it. Egon appeared desolate, as abandoned as Peter felt. For a moment, rage rose up in Venkman. What right did Ray have to put them through this kind of ordeal? You'd think he'd consider them before he vanished into the blue. Guiltily, Peter stomped the feeling down. Ray had a lot to deal with. He would have felt the urge to go right away and think it out, though he'd have done better to stay here where his friends could help him. Once he'd fled, though, it would be harder for him to return, even after hearing the good news that he had not hurt Jennifer. Peter was sorry he'd tried to lay down the law to him. On the other hand, being too sympathetic might feel unnatural to Ray and make him think his friends were trying too hard. He hoped Ray would realize that.

"Yeah, man, it's the first step," Winston agreed with Egon. He sat on the corner of Janine's desk as if he expected Ray to call again and was waiting to snatch up the receiver at the first ring.

"It means he might call again," Janine agreed. "If he heard you reassure him about Jennifer, Dr. V, he might have been so surprised that he needed time to think."

Peter nodded. Hearing Ray's voice had relieved his main fear, that something had happened to Ray to keep him from coming home, something like the body the other night. He would have been in no condition to defend himself in case of a mugging or robbery attempt. Peter didn't believe for a minute that Ray would have attempted suicide. That wasn't Ray's way: at least he'd tried to convince himself of that. Ray was entirely capable of agonizing over what he perceived as a personal flaw, though, and this time, Peter wasn't there to talk him out of it. He hadn't been prepared for the telephone call. Next time, he'd be ready. Ray would call again. He had to.

But the days crept past, and he didn't. One week became two, and there was still nothing, not even a postcard, to let them know that Ray was out there alive. The knot of rage that Peter had stifled grew slightly, just a bit at first, but it didn't go away.

Peter had learned through hard experience that most people were entirely capable of letting him down at the drop of a hat. His father had never been home at Christmas despite promises to the contrary. His parents had divorced. Girlfriends came and went. Peter discovered early on that very little was permanent when it came to relationships--at least until he met Egon and Ray. As he grew to know them and gradually trust them, he began to realize that there were exceptions to his rule of life. Used to keeping people at bay with humor and sarcasm, Peter gradually lowered his guard and permitted these two in. They didn't let him down, either. The kid that Ray had been had followed Peter around while he played Big Man On Campus. Peter enjoyed impressing the young Ray, but it took him time to realize that there was more to him than a hero-worshiping young kid. Ray was smart, probably as smart as Egon in his own field, and he was so enthusiastic about everything, that Peter, who tended to regard life with a more jaundiced eye, was forced to view the world around him in a new way. Suddenly, without realizing it, he had made two new friends, the kind that last.

The years had done nothing to change that. Ray was always there, always supportive. Ray might tease him gently, though with none of the relish that Peter and Egon enjoyed when they one-upped each other, but Ray was so completely supportive, so constantly there for Peter that he had taken it to mean always. Along the line, his wary barricades that he used with most people vanished, with both Ray and Egon. When Winston came along, Peter found himself admitting a third person to his magic circle, too, based on the fact that Egon and Ray had taught him it was safe to take chances. Peter still held much of the world at arms' length, using humor and wisecracks as weapons, but not with these three men.

Now the one he had been the most certain of was gone without a word, without more than a completely unsatisfactory phone call. Peter knew that Ray was hurting and he worried about him constantly, but there were times when another feeling surfaced. Even though he always stomped it down, it lingered just beyond conscious range. He wouldn't take it out and examine it, but it was there.

Ray had betrayed him. Ray had walked away without a thought for Peter.

He couldn't let himself face it because it was such a selfish reaction that he didn't want to admit it, even to himself. More than anything else, he wanted Ray to come home, but the longer Ray was gone, the harder he feared would be the reunion.

If Egon or Winston noticed, they said nothing about it. Peter found himself watching them, too. If Ray would desert the group, what was to say that Egon or Winston wouldn't go next? Peter watched them possessively, half-afraid they would disappear if he blinked. As a psychologist, he could understand exactly what he was doing and why. Funny that the knowledge didn't help him one bit.

"I know he'll call," Janine would console him, and Peter would always agree with her. Once or twice he saw her exchanging speculative glances with Egon. He ignored them.

The job was always there, and without Ray, it was far harder. It wasn't just that there was one less proton stream to corral recalcitrant entities, though that made a few of their jobs more difficult than they should have been. Ray's quick mind had often come up with solutions that were less likely to occur to the more logical Egon or the less science inclined Peter and Winston. Though several of Ray's wild ideas had failed crashingly, some of them had pulled the group through when things looked their worst. Besides, Ray was an inventive genius who could build anything Egon could conceptualize and who could design new equipment himself. The longer he was gone, the harder it would be for the rest of them to pick up the slack.

Three days later, they signed the papers for the restaurant building down the street, intending to sublet the restaurant area and use only the cellar. Winston had heard of someone who might be interested and the plans for that went ahead, too. Ray had been in favor of the purchase, so that was not a reason for delay. Egon started work on the backup containment unit immediately, relieved to have something concrete to do, and Peter and Winston pitched in to help him. Never once did any of them express the opinion that it would be so much easier if only Ray were home, but Peter could see it lurking unspoken in Egon's and Winston's eyes.

Ray Stantz eyed the 'help wanted' sign at the gas station/garage and squared his shoulders. He'd responded to too many such notices in the past week, and too many times he'd been sent away. He'd noticed this place on his way to the transient hotel and paused to study the man who must be the owner. An elderly man who smiled regularly, he didn't seem the type to dismiss Ray out of hand, but it was hard to tell. Ray had waited until the day staff had gone and the owner retreated into his office while one employee pumped gas, then he crossed the lot and entered the building.

"Help you, son?" The man was in his late sixties, but he it didn't slowed him down. He smiled automatically, as if it was his nature to be friendly. The name "Fred" was stenciled on his uniform.

"I saw the sign," Ray explained, "about the job."

"So you're a mechanic." 'Fred' looked him up and down, a slight pucker between his brows.

"I'm good with cars." It was true. Ray had been the star of his high school shop class and had never lost his touch. He had rebuilt Ecto-1 when they were starting the business and still helped Winston maintain it. He sighed quietly and added, "I don't have any references, but if you'll let me prove what I can do, I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"No references." Fred studied him thoughtfully. "That's a poser, lad. Yet you seem an honest man. I've lived a lot of years and there's a way an honest man looks you straight in the eye that can't be duplicated. A crook will lie and look you in the eye, but there's a difference. Look me in the eye, son, and tell me you're not running from the law."

"I'm not," Ray defended himself. "I made sure of that. If that had been the case, I wouldn't have run--left. That's the truth."

"Yes, I see it is. Some might say I'm a fool for taking you at your word, but I don't think I qualify for that quite yet. You see that car over there?" He pointed to a ten year old Chevette. "That car's old, son, and it's in and out of here. It's dying at intersections. Idling really rough. We've tried to do quick adjusts of the carburetor and it won't stay adjusted. Probably needs to be rebuilt. Take a peek under the hood."

Realizing it was a test of his abilities, Ray went over to the car. Before he opened the hood, he slid behind the wheel. The key was in the ignition. He started the car. It purred to life and idled roughly. He put it in gear and it died immediately. He tried it again and the same thing happened.

This time, he shut it off and opened the hood. Clipping a light to the edge of the hood so he could see, he started a systematic examination of the engine. After a few minutes, he backed out again. "I'd like to put it up on the rack," he said. "I think there might just be a leak, but I want to be sure."

Aware of Fred's considering eyes upon him, Ray worked earnestly. He ran tests. The other man came in several times and went out again, and Ray kept working, knowing he was being tested. Finally, he emerged, grinning, satisfied, a smear of grease on his nose. "I don't think they need a new carburetor, sir," he explained. "Look right here." He pointed. "The air idle mixture screw has worked its way loose. This would create a lot of the same problems." He grinned. "Wow, this is great. It's going to save your customer the cost of a major repair."

Fred eyed him seriously a moment, then he grinned in return and clapped Ray on the shoulder. "Son, I'll tell you a secret," he said. "I knew that. I found it this afternoon, but haven't had time to fix it yet."

"So it was a test?" Ray realized. Had he passed? Had Fred wanted to sock the customer with a big bill?

"That's right, son. First of all, to see if you could find it, and second to tell how you felt about the work. We do honest work here. This business has a damned good rep in the community. We've had customers who have come back to us for twenty or thirty years. I wanted to tell how you would fit in. Guess you passed. Not only did you find the problem, but you were excited about saving the customer money. That's what I like to hear. Let's go in my office and do the paperwork."

Ray saw the precipice gaping before him. "I...uh, don't have any papers," he said in a small voice, shoulders rounding in as the excitement of doing a job and doing it well faded.

"Did I ask for any?" Fred replied. "My name's Fred Blaine, son. What do you call yourself?"

Put like that, it gave Ray the option of offering any name he chose, and Blaine knew it. He would accept what Ray told him. Ray realized he had struck it lucky.

"I'm Harry Smith, sir," he said. His father's name had been Harold, and the Smith was so obvious an alias that in a sense it was more honest than an elaborate hoax would have been. It was like telling Blaine straight out, 'I'm using a false name.'

Blaine nodded. "Okay, Harry. You been in town long?"

"Almost two weeks," Ray replied. "Looking for work."

"Well, you've found it." Blaine clapped him on the shoulder. "I don't pry, son. You put in a fair day's work for me and I'll mind my own business. You shirk or let me down and you're out the door. Fair enough?"

"Fair enough," Ray agreed, shaking hands with his new boss.

Blaine studied Ray thoughtfully. "Welcome aboard, Harry." His face was too knowing, but if he had any real suspicions, he said nothing about them. He merely shrugged. "You can start tomorrow morning at seven. I'll put you to work on that Chevette. Think I've got a coverall here that will fit you." He measured Ray with his eyes.

Ray brushed his fingers over the mustache he'd been trying to grow for the past two weeks. It wasn't much yet, but there was enough of it that people would think he had a mustache instead of trying to emulate Sonny Crockett's casually unshaven appearance. He thought it looked silly, and Peter would probably have laughed at it, but it did alter his appearance. It sharpened the lines of his youthful face and directed the eyes toward it. He hoped.

If Blaine recognized the gesture for what it was, he gave no sign. "Seven o'clock," he repeated as he led the way to his office. "I like people to be prompt. I come from a different generation, son. We put in honest value for our salaries."

"I think that's important, sir," Ray replied. He'd never done any less and he didn't want to start now.

"Then we'll get along just fine."

Ray found the work challenging enough to force him to concentrate on it instead of his own problems, which was a blessed relief after two weeks with nothing to distract himself. There was a product when he finished, too, work he could be proud of, and each new accomplishment awoke a portion of the old Ray Stantz, the man who had always found eager joy in doing a task and doing it well. Tracking down the source of the customers' problems was always fun. When Ray was working, deep in the innards of an engine, he was happy, at least as happy as he could be these days. He gave himself over to the work so completely that Mr. Blaine never hesitated to praise him, though the man was sensible enough to avoid showing any favoritism. The other mechanics would have been inclined to resent that.

As it was, 'Harry' was simply the new man, one who knew his work well enough that they didn't have to bail him out. Sometimes he bailed them out. He was always pleasant to them, didn't take sides, and occasionally forgot himself enough to laugh with them. Usually he kept his distance, and after the other men realized that he wasn't being snobbish or stuck up, they shrugged it off and took him as they found him.

One of them, Bob Greenbaum, was as outgoing as Ray had once been, and he kept trying to include Ray in everything the men did together: going out for drinks, the occasional movie, bowling, watching a ball game or playing a few hands of poker. Ray went along just often enough so that he wouldn't be thought stuck up, but, of everything that he did in the new job, he found socializing with his co-workers the hardest. The casual camaraderie between the men, the jokes, the friendly insults, all reminded him of home, and there were times when he made his way back to the transient hotel alone, his eyes burning with unshed tears as he remembered a time when such companionship was such a natural part of his life that he hadn't thought to question it.

About a month after he had started working at Blaine's, Mr. Blaine called him to his office one morning. "Harry? Can I see you?"

He went, wondering if he had finally been recognized, if he were in trouble. Playing back the previous day in his mind, he could find nothing with which to reproach himself. He stood in the doorway, bracing himself for dismissal.

Fred Blaine wore a serious expression. Ray's heart sank into his shoes. Until now, he hadn't realized how much he valued this refuge, this place where no one found him wanting, this place where he had little time to remember. "Did I screw up?" he asked anxiously.

Blaine's face eased. "Lord, no, nothing like that, son. The day you screw up we'll probably declare a holiday. This is different. I have a favor I want to ask you, that's all."

"A favor, sir? Anything I can do."

"Well, here it is, boy. Last night I was driving along Alameda and I saw you going into the Victoria Arms."

Ray bowed his head. He'd never been able to ask the other guys over for beer and poker because of that place. He was ashamed of it, but he couldn't risk someplace where questions might be asked. No one would search for Ray Stantz in a place like that. "Yeah," he mumbled. "That's where I live."

"I wondered. Well, that's why I feel like I can ask you this. You know that apartment upstairs?"

Ray did. No one lived there, but Blaine occasionally slept over if he had a customer coming in early to pick up a car. Blaine's kept long hours, but it wasn't open all night. "Yes," he said, wondering what was coming.

"Well, I've been thinking how much better it would be to have a man on the premises all the time. I thought, if you'd like to stay there instead, you could have it rent free for being around." When Ray hesitated, he added, "It doesn't mean you couldn't hang out with your buddies or anything like that. Just that when you came in at night, you'd be here and you'd hear anything that sounded like a robbery. I wouldn't expect you to go down and fight them off, either, just call 911. So what do you say, son? It's not much, but I think you'd like it."

Ray knew he would. He hated the transient hotel. It was noisy and dirty and things went on there that kept him awake at night. He wasn't afraid of the place, but sometimes he was shocked, and he was never happy there. A place of his own was an unlooked for gift. "I think it's great, sir," he agreed. "I'd like it a lot. I'll keep an eye on everything for your, I promise you that."

"I know you will. You've shown what a hard worker you are. Move in any time. Here's the key."

So Ray left the hotel behind without a second though. He found refuge in the flat over the garage, a place where he could shut out the world. Sometimes the world seemed so far away he doubted if he could ever find his way back to it. Time might ease the pain of what he had done to that little girl, but time's record was hit or miss so far. There would be days when he felt so normal that he began to think he could go home soon and everything would be as it was, then a nightmare would awaken him in the middle of the night, leaving him drenched with sweat and shaking with the memories. He wondered if it was like this for Viet Nam vets who suffered post traumatic stress disorder. They were encouraged to go in for counselling, and Ray suspected he should do that, too. Peter would recommend it if he were here. He'd do everything he could to help Ray work through it, but Peter had a stake in it, too, and he might feel too close to it to make it work. Usually Ray could control the memories in the daytime when he was awake, but once in awhile, they came then, too. A small thing would remind him, a news flash about a child's death, am incident that reminded him of New York.

One day, Ray had just finished pumping gas for a customer when he heard someone come up behind him on foot. Turning, he froze in dismay at the sight of a little blonde girl about the age of Jennifer looking up at him appealingly. For a shocked moment, his stomach tied itself into a knot at the sight of the ghost out of his past, then he caught himself as he realized this was no specter from the darker reaches of his memory but a living girl. Clad in blue jeans and a Bart Simpson tee shirt, she stood holding the handlebars of her bicycle, her face raised expectantly to his.

"Please, Mr. Gas Station Man," she said, "can you help me?"

Ray was nervous. Usually he felt comfortable with children and he liked them a lot, but he hadn't had the opportunity to speak with a child since Jennifer's death. Catching himself, he bent forward with a smile. It wasn't this girl's fault that he'd made a bad mistake back in New York and killed another child. "Sure, I'd be happy to," he said, though the words that would once have come easily took a real effort to sound normal now. "What do you need?"

"My bike chain came off," she said, pointing to it. "I've tried to get it on again, but it just won't go."

"That's serious. We'll have to take a look at it right now. You've come to the right place." He moved the bike out of the way of the pump and turned it upside down, shifting the pedals to test the damage. "You did a number on it, didn't you?"

She grinned. "It comes off sometimes, and usually I can get it back or my dad can but he's at work and my mom says it only breaks her fingernails."

"Then I'll take care of it for you." He bent over the bike and set to work fixing the chain. He'd once had a rusty old bike back in Morrisville that threw its chain every few days, and he had become an expert at coaxing it into place. This one was almost as stubborn but it didn't take that many minutes to fix. "There you go, honey," he told her, righting the little bike. "Good as new."

"Wow," breathed the little girl, eyeing him admiringly. "You did that a lot faster than my dad, and you didn't even say any bad words when you did it." Impulsively she flung her arms around Ray's waist and hugged him trustingly. "How much?" she asked, pulling a handful of quarters and a crumpled up dollar bill from her pocket.

"It's on the house." He smiled at her, feeling happier than he had for a long time. It was as if the incident had given him a little of himself back. He knew he still had a long way to go, but this time, he had faced the crisis.

When she hugged him a final time and pedaled away, he stood watching her, the tension briefly gone from his body. Smiling, he turned to enter the station, stopping when he saw the boss watching him. Oops. He'd been caught wasting work time. Now he'd be in trouble.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Blaine," he said as he joined the older man. "It didn't take that long. You can dock it off my pay, if you like."

Blaine smiled at him and shook his head. "You're a good man, Harry. The way that little girl trusted you proves it. Any time we can't stop to help a kid, I'll worry about us. Dock your pay? No way." He turned back to the office, and Ray grinned. He'd struck it lucky when he walked in here and asked for a job.

The only down side of that was that his boss might be just a little too interested in him. Ray knew Blaine was curious and sympathetic to him and would have liked to offer help, but the man was tactful enough to leave it alone. He had no clue to Ray's real identity, and as the days passed and Ray's hair grew longer and his mustache filled out, he looked different. It would take a person who knew him to recognize him, he thought, confident in his disguise.

It wasn't foolproof, of course.

It was late one night a few weeks later that the biker pulled in. Ray and Mr. Blaine had been working on an old Edsel that its owner had nursed along lovingly since he bought it new, and the current repair job had called for teamwork. Ray worked nights a lot. It gave him something to do when the bookstores and libraries weren't open. When the bell chimed to indicate a customer, both men glanced up, then paused, exchanging a glance. At the pump sat a huge Harley Davidson motorcycle complete with leather-jacketed biker. Ray knew some bikers could be the best people on the face of the earth, but others weren't. This one was big enough and solid enough to create trouble if he had a mind to. He pumped his own gas, though, and came in reaching for a wallet, and Blaine nodded for Ray to wait on him. Ray headed into the office to meet him, never suspecting his cover was about to be severely tested.

"You all set?" he asked as the man walked in the door, and paused, staring at him through puzzled eyes.

"Ray?" the man asked, eyes wide in surprise. "What the hell are you doing here?"

It was Dan Aykroyd.

Ray's mouth fell open in disbelief at the sight of his big-screen alter ego. It had been Aykroyd who had first dreamed up the idea of the Ghostbusters movie, who had written the first draft of the original script. Like Ray, he was fascinated with the occult, and both of them were members of the American Society of Psychical Research. They had first met when Ray was still an undergraduate at Columbia and Aykroyd was doing Saturday Night Live, and the actor had remembered him, reinforced, no doubt, by Ray's mild fame as a Ghostbuster. So it was Ray whom Aykroyd had contacted when he proposed the idea of the movie.

Ordinarily, as film advisers, the Ghostbusters would have had very little to do with the actors themselves, except that Peter loved surrounding himself with the great and near great, and had hit it off with Murray, and Ray and Dan Aykroyd had been glad of the chance to talk over shared interests again. The two of them had spent a lot of time theorizing about ghosts and other nether entities. Dan was sure to know him, even here, out of context, in disguise.

Ray's scalp tightened as he realized he could lose his bolthole. He couldn't disguise his voice because Mr. Blaine would hear and wonder what was going on, but now he must give an outstanding acting performance in front of an actor who was gifted enough to have been nominated for an Academy Award.

"I'm Harry Smith, Mr. Aykroyd," he said, hoping he came across as a star-struck kid. "You're not the first one to think I look like Ray Stantz. I grew my mustache so people wouldn't keep mistaking me for him. I was even asked for an autograph once. My girlfriend at the time thought it was a big joke."

Aykroyd's eyes narrowed, as if he suspected he was being conned, but he couldn't miss the stenciled 'Harry' on the uniform Ray wore.

To continue his deception, Ray turned. "Hey, Mr. Blaine, it's Dan Aykroyd. Isn't that great." He was sorry for the last sentence: it sounded too much like Ray Stantz. But Aykroyd shrugged.

"You look just like him," he said. "You're in good company. Ray Stantz is one of the nicest guys I ever met. He'd do anything for a friend." He opened his wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

Ray read off the amount, taking the money and making change. He decided to conclude his performance with something Ray wouldn't have done to a friend. "Could I--well, just have your autograph?"

A hint of suspicion lingered in the actor's eyes but he didn't push it. "Sure," he agreed and signed the back of a work order that Ray produced. He left, staring over his shoulder, and Ray's heart sank into his shoes. Would the actor bother to call headquarters and ask for Ray, tell him he had a double in California? Would he stop to realize that it was one thing to look just like Ray Stantz but another to sound like him, too? Would he bring the guys down on Ray before he was ready?

As the Harley roared away, Ray stood leaning against the counter, cold with alarm. That had been bad. How could he ever explain to Dan Aykroyd why he had been reduced to such an elaborate charade. If Aykroyd heard about Jennifer, he would probably never bother with another Ghostbusters movie, even if the other actors would agree to do it.

"What was that all about, son?" Fred Blaine asked, wiping his greasy hands on a rag as he walked into the office. "Do you know Dan Aykroyd?"

"No, Mr. Blaine," Ray denied hastily. "Well, I know who he is, of course. I didn't think you'd know him, though."

Blaine ran an absent hand through his hair. "Yeah, I know him--my wife always watched Saturday Night Live--but that's all. Who was it he thought you were?" the old man wanted to know.

No way to lie. Blaine would know it if Ray lied. So he braced himself and said levelly, "He thought I was Ray Stantz."

Fred Blaine looked him straight in the eye. "Who's Ray Stantz?"

"Okay, Winston, just tighten up that final connection, and I think we're ready." Egon nodded approvingly as Winston finished his work. "Excellent. You really do fine work, Winston. The team needs a nuts and bolts man."

That reminded him of Ray, and he was sorry he had spoken. It had been over two months since Ray had vanished from Washington Square, and after that one phone call to Peter, he had not telephoned again.

They didn't talk about it often. Egon could tell that Peter's worry ate at him almost constantly, but he'd pulled it inside and shut it away, and when Egon had once tried to urge him to talk, he had backed off, vanished for an afternoon and returned, his face smooth and bland as if nothing had happened. Egon had sighed inaudibly and let it alone.

They talked of Ray, of course. It was inevitable. No one could be such a part of their lives and depart without leaving a gapping hole. They saw Ray's empty bed every night, his name on his locker, his comic books stacked around. Slimer was disconsolate. The little ghost still wandered around the firehouse from time to time hunting for Ray.

Once Egon had come upon Peter talking quietly to the ghost and realized that Venkman was trying to reassure him that Ray was all right, but neither of them had come away convinced. Slimer lacked his usual enthusiasm. He ate less, which Peter once muttered was the only good thing to come out of the entire experience.

When they weren't in the lab or out on a call, they were down the block at the new containment unit that was slowly growing under Egon's direction. A phone was installed there so they could take calls if necessary. It would probably require another month to finish it. In the meantime, Egon had his current projects.

Winston frowned and looked around the lab, as if to make certain that Peter wasn't there and would overhear him. "Egon, this has gone on too long. We've gotta find Ray." He set aside his tools and stood, hands on hips, meeting Egon's startled, unhappy glance. The physicist had been expecting this and expecting it soon. The air at Ghostbuster Central was thick enough to cut with a knife these days.

"The police decided he went voluntarily," continued Winston in frustration, "so they're not hunting for him. We can hardly advertise. That wouldn't be fair to Ray. Run an ad on the national news? 'Come home, Ray, all is forgiven?'" He grimaced at the idea. "It's been too long, Egon. We've have to do something."

The physicist started to disconnect the modified trap they had been servicing from the monitoring equipment, satisfied that it was working correctly now. "I've told myself that, Winston, but I have no clear idea where to begin. Ray chose to go away. He told Peter he couldn't come back yet. After all this time--and those nasty stories in the Enquirer and the National Register and the Star, you'd think he'd have figured out that he could come home, that he had done no harm. Short of running ads in the personals, there's little to do. Where do we start?" He stared at Winston helplessly.

"Peter tried everything at first," Winston remembered, pausing, his fingers curling around the scanner in his hand. "Those trips to Morrisville, calling Aunt Lois every few days, checking in with Ray's cousin Sam--which he would have enjoyed ordinarily, but I don't think he even noticed that Sam was a woman last time we drove up there. I spent a whole evening calling every name in Ray's address book--and the boy knows a lot of people."

Egon knew that. Ray's friends still called at all hours of the day and night, asking if he were home yet and if there had been any news of him. Fortunately, Janine fielded most of the calls, because Peter closed in on himself whenever he took one of them and was reminded that Ray wasn't here, that Ray might never be here again. Peter had been different since the night they had been called upon to try to identify that body. He wasn't checking with Morrisville any longer, and it had been two weeks since he had telephoned Ray's Aunt Lois. Egon wondered if Peter had given up.

"It's hard on Pete," Winston continued as if he had guessed what Egon was thinking. "You know, I won't say he took Ray for granted, because that's not the truth, but he took Ray's being here for granted. He relied on it, I think. He was sure Ray would never leave, just like we were."

"Peter needs Ray very much," Egon said in a somber voice. "Though he doesn't let it show, his childhood was far from happy. He loved his parents and they loved him, but the divorce took him really hard. It made him realize that nothing is forever at a far younger age than most people realize it. You saw how he was about Christmas. It took almost losing it to realize how much it matters." When Winston would have interrupted, Egon held up a hand for silence. "I'm not saying that's the case with Ray because Peter knew how much Ray mattered to him. Ray gave him the kind of wholehearted acceptance that most people get in their childhood, that Peter seems to have missed. He thrived on it. Ray was like that. He loved his friends so wholeheartedly that it never dawned on him to find fault with them." He heard the past tense in his voice and cursed himself mentally, but to correct it would draw attention to it, and that would be worse. "Oh, he'd tease us and roughhouse with Peter and stand up for himself, of course. But Peter needed to know he was there. It gave him security."

"Is that why you've been so outgoing lately, Egon, my man?" asked Winston, a sympathetic smile on his face. "To keep Peter on track?"

"He needs to know we won't walk out on him, too," Egon said gravely. "Of course we wouldn't--but he didn't think Ray would, either. He needs it proven, but he doesn't want to admit he needs it proven, so we can't reassure him in words. We have to make it obvious without being too obvious about it."

"You mean he doesn't trust us?" Winston asked, picking out the heart of Egon's meaning without hesitation. His eyes narrowed. "Oh, man..."

"Yes, he does," Egon replied instantly. He set aside the trap and reached for the next one to be tested, hooking it up with the ease of long practice, his eyes never leaving Winston's. "Both Peter and Ray are capable of great trust," he explained. "The difference between them is that everyone Ray met was a new friend to trust, and he only stopped, selectively, if anyone proved himself unworthy of it. Ray would be sorry, but he'd shrug his shoulders and go on because he knew that the rest of the world was still all right. Peter starts out suspicious of everyone. Each new person has to convince him that he's all right, and prove it to Peter's satisfaction. It isn't impossible, but it's not automatic, either. So Ray has a certainty to fall back upon, whereas Peter doesn't. Of course it's not as black and white as that, because for the most part, Peter has a lot more self-confidence than Ray does. When someone turns on Peter, he considers it their fault. When someone turns on Ray, he wonders what he has done to deserve it. Can you see the distinction?"

"Yeah, but Ray knows there are nasty people in the world and he doesn't go around blaming himself for everything that happens," objected Winston.

"No. But when he does blame himself, it can be very bad. That's why he hasn't come home. He came so close to killing that girl, that, even if it wasn't his fault and she's all right, he's wondering what will happen next time. Will he hold off firing his thrower in a crowd situation? If he does, will one of us pay the price? He tried to quit in Morrisville, because he thought he would endanger us. I know he feels guilty about that child, but I think that he also fears we'd pay the price if he returned too soon. He doesn't want to risk us."

Winston closed the tool box with a snap. "That's crazy, man. We trust him. In a crisis, if we were in danger, he'd react automatically to help us, and both of us know it."

"Yes, but does Ray--" Egon's words were interrupted by a loud and unexpected buzzing sound that made both men jump. Spinning around, the physicist saw the row of warning lights blinking on his long-range ectoplasmic detector. The alarm that indicated that a Class 7 specter or better was within a one mile radius of Ghostbuster Central was sounding wildly, echoing all through the firehouse.

"Oh, man," Winston groaned. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

"Exactly."

"You mean we have to put our packs on and fight Class 7s?" the black man asked with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. "We could really use Ray right now."

"Did you notice the lights blinking before the alarm sounded?" Egon demanded sharply, going to the device, where he began to adjust knobs and flip toggles in an attempt to take a directional reading.

"No," Winston assured him. "It all went off at once. The lights, the noise, everything, bang. All at the same time." He heard what he had said. "That's not right, is it, big fella? Lights--five miles, buzzer--one mile. That's what you told us. It should have blinked red first." He grabbed the spare proton pack that they kept in the lab in case of trouble and slid his arms through the straps.

"Unless there's a dimensional gateway within a one mile radius that suddenly opened and produced a demon," replied Egon. This was beginning to sound very serious.

Summoned by the piercing sound of the buzzer Peter appeared in the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower. It was early evening and he had announced his plans for a date just before dinner. He'd only taken time to don his shorts and throw a towel around his bare shoulders before hurrying to investigate.

"Did you break it, Egon?" he asked suspiciously with a gesture at the shrilling device. Grabbing the towel, he rubbed his dripping hair vigorously.

Egon shut off the buzzer so that they could converse. "No, I didn't break it. This is fascinating, Peter. Something suddenly appeared within the one mile radius. It didn't approach from outside the area, or the warning lights would have blinked. It just sprang into being less than a mile away." He pointed south. "In that direction."

Peter's green eyes reacted with intelligent supposition. "And that's bad, isn't it, Egon?"

"Well, it's not good," put in Winston, settling the proton pack on his shoulders. "I say we should suit up quick, because a major nasty just popped in from another dimension and the last thing we want is to give him time to make himself at home."

"Is he right, Egon?" Peter demanded, his mouth twisting in disappointment. "Do I have to give up my night on the town with Elyse to fight a mega-specter? I knew there was no justice in the universe." Peter hadn't dated anyone for almost two months, and Egon was glad he had found someone he liked. He needed the reassurance that one facet of his life was still normal.

"Judging by these readings," Egon replied, checking the different monitoring devices he had incorporated in the design, and punching them into his hand held calculator, "we're facing a trans-dimensional cross rip of epic proportions. This could be as serious as Gozer. It's fortunate we're making decent progress in the backup containment. We may need it."

"You had to go and say it, didn't you," objected Peter, draping the towel across one still-damp shoulder. "I liked it better in the shower. The worst thing I had to fear there was that my skin would shrivel like a prune."

"Hey, it'll be fun," Winston started to disagree, but before he could continue, Peter spun around and glared at him as if he'd just been kicked. Egon realized the word 'fun' had reminded him of Ray, who would, had he been here, probably be half dancing around the room in excited glee, exulting over the challenge facing them.

"It won't be fun," Peter snapped. "You didn't think Gozer was fun, did you? How about the Bogeyman--or Samhain? It'll be nasty, that's what it'll be. As bad as Gozer! I'm gonna get dressed. The last thing I want is to run into a minor god while I'm only wearing my shorts." He stalked out, his feet leaving little wet trails behind him.

"Oh, man," Winston moaned. "That was dumb. Dumb, dumb, dumb."

Before he could continue to reproach himself, the lights on the long range ectoplasmic detector switched off all at once, leaving the device silent and blank, as if nothing had happened.

"Did you do that?" Winston demanded suspiciously, turning to Egon.

"No." Egon flipped a switch. "The entity is gone," he replied. "I tripped the buzzer again. Nothing. Either it can move instantaneously, such as the teleporting ghost did when it snatched Jennifer Allen in Washington Square or our theory about a cross rip is correct."

"So what do we do about it?" asked Winston, frowning.

"We assume that if a gateway between our world and the Netherworld or another alternate dimension is opening, it will do so again. A powerful entity must have used the gateway, but its stay was brief. We can but assume it will return, and that means this device must be rigged to a recording mode. Several such instances will allow us to triangulate and pin down the opening. It could be very near."

"Within a mile is near enough for me," remarked Winston, unfastening the straps of his proton pack and sliding out of it. He set it on the table next to the long-range detector. "Maybe it isn't a gateway after all. Maybe it's just another teleporting ghost. It popped in, did its number, and popped out again. Nobody said there had to be only one of them."

"Thank you, Winston. You've made my day." He busied himself with his calculations again. "No, I think what we witnessed was a gateway. For one thing, I was able to detect a higher ectoplasmic energy reading than one Class 7 would produce, even one that was attempting a teleportation. I checked the readings very carefully when the previous one snatched Peter. These don't correlate at all."

"Nobody says they're twins," Winston disagreed. "Maybe they're just similar."

"Perhaps, but there was still too much energy to be justified by one entity teleporting, assuming the energy needed for a locational transfer is relatively constant."

"Is he talking gobbledy-gook again?" Peter asked, returning clad in his brown jumpsuit and carrying his proton pack by the straps. He stared at Winston. "So now we're not going ghost hunting?" he asked, depositing his pack next to Winston's.

"It went back where it came from," Winston replied. "So it looks like Elyse is on after all, my man."

Peter brightened. "There is a god," he observed to the room at large. "What do you mean, went back where it came from?"

"There appears to be a dimensional nexus capable of opening and admitting entities to our world within a mile of headquarters," Egon replied, still punching buttons. He would spend the rest of the evening making sense of the data he'd acquired so far. "While nothing has come through this time, we could be on the verge of a dimensional crossrip as powerful as the one we experienced when Gozer tried to take over New York."

Peter studied him through narrowed eyes. "Egon, you have a real knack of ruining my evenings," he said. "So we're going to save the world again. This does not sound good."

Over the next two days, the alarm went off three more times but it never lasted more than several minutes each time. Egon rigged additional monitoring equipment to the long-range detector, which he claimed would eventually give them a directional fix. Peter wondered if each time indicated the arrival of another teleporting Class 7 like Big Blue, but if so, the Ghostbusters received no calls about such a specter. Their jobs were no different than usual, except that there were more of them, increasing each day.

"So what does that mean, oh wise one?" he asked Egon as the three men sat in the TV room while Egon worked on a calculator.

"Do you remember the way psi energy built before the coming of Gozer?" Egon asked, glancing up at Peter and Winston, who sat side by side on the couch. Both of them stared back, ignoring the ball game that had been engrossing them on television before Egon's calculations had interrupted and made them think about their current problems. Peter grimaced. Their problems were never away from his thoughts.

"Something's coming, isn't it, Egon?" Winston suggested, as if he'd figured that out, too. "Did you ever run Big Blue through Tobin's Spirit Guide?"

Egon stiffened, lowering the calculator and frowning. "I am a fool!" he cried, slapping his forehead in exasperation. "How could I have overlooked such an obvious precaution?"

"Well, maybe you had just a little too much on your mind at the time." It was as close as Peter came to mentioning Ray these days. Ray was never entirely out of his thoughts, but he found it harder and harder to talk about the absent Stantz with each passing day. Somewhere out there, Ray was hurting. Maybe soon he'd heal enough to come home. Peter bit his bottom lip. If he was in pain, Ray ought to know that the best place for him was here where he belonged, with his friends. He had to know they were hurting, too.

"I'm sure you're right, Peter," Egon replied gratefully, his eyes full of understanding. "Wait right here."

He returned a few minutes later with the portable computer and three or four thick reference books. "We'll check for it right now. The readings I've been able to access from the long-range ectoplasmic detector are remarkably similar to Big Blue's. They are not identical, of course, but the power levels are the same. I've checked the containment unit to be certain it hasn't managed to escape."

"Escape?" Peter echoed, exchanging an alarmed look with Winston, who frowned in return. "Come on, Egon, it's in the containment unit. How could it escape from there?" He answered his own question. "You don't think it could teleport out, do you? Tell me you don't think that."

"I considered the possibility when the Class 7 readings vanished so instantaneously the other day," Egon replied. "I checked the containment unit that night. Big Blue is still there."

"So maybe he has a brother," suggested Peter. "What do we do about it? If you say p.k. energy is rising, that means something nasty's coming, doesn't it? Maybe the Blues Brothers are paving the way."

"It's one possibility. What I would like to do is to design several hand held detector links that will tie into the main device and which will enable us to pinpoint the crossrip while we're in the field."

"Sort of like a geiger counter?" Winston suggested. "So that we can tell when we're getting closer? Ray can--" He broke off, his face hardening as he realized what he had done. It was still too easy to write the missing man into every equation. "Shit." Disgusted with himself, he pounded a fist into his other hand and avoided Peter's and Egon's eyes.

"Ray could have done it easily," Egon said. Deliberately ignoring the mention of Ray's name was something he had proven unable to do. He watched Peter warily.

Peter grimaced. "Ray isn't here, Egon," he said as if his teeth were grinding together. Every time he had to say that, it bit deeper. "Ray might not be here in time for whatever's coming. Ray might never be here." He made an abortive gesture of protest with one hand and forged on quickly. "Egon, can you rig the detectors?"

"Yes, and Winston can help me."

"You got it," agreed Winston. He added reluctantly, "Guys, I don't like this, but with the possibility of another Gozer, I think we have to hire temporary help."

"No," said Peter immediately as if that was the end of it.

"Not to replace Ray," Winston insisted, dropping a hand on Peter's arm, his fingers squeezing sympathetically. "No one could do that. Just a body to back us if we have to deal with an entity as bad as Gozer. You know three of us couldn't have handled that on our own."

"Winston is right," Egon replied. "I've been considering the possibility, but I've been reluctant to suggest it. We could advertise for temporary help. We're starting to get more calls now, small specters that probably drift through each time the gateway opens. If our theories are correct, that will only increase. A time will come when we won't be able to keep up with them."

"No," repeated Peter stubbornly. This was crazy. Replace Ray? He knew that the others were right that they needed help, but it was so damned final he couldn't accept the suggestion. It made him angry: angry at Winston for coming up with the idea, angry at Egon for going along with it, even angry at Ray for making it necessary. Peter hated that. He didn't want to blame Ray for anything, not when his all too vivid imagination presented him with images of a miserable Ray, struggling through each day alone, afraid to come home. Yet he couldn't entirely hold it in, either. That made him angry with himself.

"Think about it, Peter," Egon said softly, sitting beside him on the couch. "It won't do Ray any good to come home and find that one of us has been killed because we were too short staffed to do the work. If we hire anyone, we'll make it quite clear to that person that it's only until Ray comes back."

Peter made a sharp gesture with both hands as if to push away the entire suggestion, then his shoulders lifted in a halfhearted shrug. "Go for it," he murmured. It felt like turning his back on Ray, and he hated that more than anything he'd done since Ray left, but what choice did they have?

Instead of looking up to see his friends' expressions, he flung open the book in his lap, Egon's most recent copy of Who's Who and What's That. A few pages ruffled and on one of them, before it flipped over, he had a glimpse of a big, blue specter that was all too familiar.

"Yo!" he burst out. "Wait a minute." He turned the page and stared down at an entity that he recognized. He'd been closer to it than his fellow Ghostbusters and it wasn't an experience he was likely to forget. "Egon, here's Big Blue."

Spengler snatched the book from his hands and stared at it, his eyes scanning the page as he read the description below the picture of the huge, bulky spirit. Peter heard Egon's indrawn breath. He wasn't going to like this: he was sure of it. "So what have we got, Egon? Tell me it isn't as bad as I think it is."

Spengler read the rest of the page, then he lowered the book to his lap. He shoved his glasses up his nose and frowned. "I'm sorry, Peter. If anything, it's worse. This is a caveris," he explained as if they should know what he meant.

"So what's a caveris?" Peter demanded. "I'm not up on my gibberish, Egon. I let my lessons run out."

"A caveris," Egon replied, skimming the text, "is a Class 7 spectral manifestation which is connected with an entity named Vorenx." The way he spoke the name implied that they should recognize it. Peter exchanged a quick glance with Winston, who shook his head. He didn't know what it was, either.

"Vorenx is a Class 8 fire elemental," Egon replied in the pedantic tones that must have put his students at Columbia to sleep within minutes of the start of each lecture. "It resembles a fire-breathing dragon, and I would theorize that many of the proposed sightings of dragons throughout history may be laid at Vorenx' door." He flipped pages of the book and showed them a picture of a huge, bronze dragon so stereotypical that it resembled a creature from a fairy tale. Peter half expected it to be curled around a hoard of treasure, and he couldn't help wondering if that particular legend might be valid now. Given the proper incentive, Peter was more than ready to take it on. Swords weren't much good against such beasts, but a proton pack and a particle emitter just might do the trick.

Remembering how effective the beams had been against Big Blue dampened his enthusiasm slightly, but not much. "We have to fight that thing?" he asked skeptically.

"Precisely. That is, if our theories are correct. While Vorenx is able to pass through earth as if it were air and to shift locations instantaneously, its minions, the caveris, do the same thing in air. They are not powerful enough to be true elementals, but they are very strong. Theirs is a symbiotic relationship with the dragon. Together, they are able to maintain control over a much vaster area than either could manage alone."

"Oh yeah? And how many of the Blues Brothers do we have to fight before we start dragon-slaying?" Peter demanded.

"Four of them," replied Egon. Peter's face fell.

Winston had picked up Tobin's Spirit Guide and sought the reference there. "According to this, it comes around every five hundred years. So far, it has always been forced to return to its own dimension. Hey, maybe that was what St. George fought."

"Hmmm." Egon considered that possibility. "Perhaps. What we do know is that Vorenx wants to be worshiped. It kidnaps people to serve it, and they are never seen again. It is destructive and powerful, and if it means to appear in Manhattan, it will find more potential worshipers than it has ever encountered before. In its haste to capture them, it could destroy the entire city. Unless stopped, it will feed indefinitely."

"You had to mention 'feeding', didn't you, Egon?" Peter didn't like this. "So what do we do? Tell the Mayor?"

"That would create a panic," Egon replied. "Unless we could guarantee a systematic evacuation of the entire city, I very much doubt that reporting this would benefit anyone. Much more important that we locate the portal to Vorenx' dimension and seal it off. Perhaps we can prevent the dragon coming through, but if not, we can be waiting, ready to take it on when it emerges." He picked up another reference book and flipped through it. "This means we must hire a temporary replacement for Ray. We have no choice."

Yeah," Winston agreed. "I don't like this. I'll run the ad. In the meantime, maybe we'll start getting calls on Big Blue's brothers."

"Right," agreed Peter. "Next time, it's your turn to pop through with it and suck it in. That wasn't fun."

"Neither will this be," Egon replied solemnly as he rose to his feet. "I'll begin work on the hand detectors."

"I'll help you," Peter volunteered and followed. If only he could figure out how to get in touch with Ray. If they ever needed him, they needed him now.

Ray Stantz was worried. Ever since Dan Aykroyd had come into the station and almost identified him, he had feared the actor would return, convinced that Ray had tried to pull a fast one on him. Though Mr. Blaine had not seemed very interested in the possibility and had disclaimed all knowledge of anyone named Ray Stantz, the occultist couldn't help worrying that, one day, his boss would put two and two together and figure out who he was.

But a few weeks passed and nothing happened. Ray did his job, and Mr. Blaine said nothing at all. The other workers noticed nothing amiss and they continued to include Ray in everything he would consent to, though, as time passed, he wondered if socializing with them wise. He didn't fear endangering them, and he didn't let them get close to him, but it felt like he was betraying Peter, Egon, and Winston.

Every day that passed made him long for home.

Jennifer still inhabited his dreams, but he'd felt a gradual easing of the pain that filled him at the thought of her. He knew he could never forget, but as time passed, he found himself facing it. He had killed her. It was done. He had to live with it. Maybe running away had been the coward's way out. Maybe it proved him a weakling. Or maybe it was just the distance he needed to allow himself to heal.

If the nightmares had diminished in intensity, he might have believed that, but they didn't. They did diminish in numbers, which was progress. Whole nights would go by from which he would awaken refreshed. He would just start to relax when another dream would come, as sharp and painful as ever.

Maybe he needed professional help. He watched Mr. Blaine, knowing that the man would help him in a minute, would listen sympathetically and nonjudgmentally, and would offer words of wisdom to help Ray find peace. But still, he kept his mouth closed. He couldn't tell yet. Every time he thought of it, he shied away from it at the last minute. What would Mr. Blaine do? Would he encourage Ray to return home and face his friends?

Peter. Occasionally, Ray imagined the expression on Peter's face if Ray went home, opened the door at Ghostbuster Central and walked in. He pictured Peter's eyes glowing with relief, Peter's mouth curling in a triumphant smile, Peter's arms hugging him so tightly that he couldn't breathe, and he lay awake at night longing for the reassurance that he was accepted and needed.

What if Peter didn't greet him that way? What if Peter had come to blame him for Jennifer's death? What if Ray's absence had hurt the business? What if everything had gone wrong and Ray had left them to face the consequences alone?

Maybe they were better off without him. Once the idea occurred to Ray, he couldn't get it out of his mind. No matter how much he missed Peter, Egon, and Winston, and Janine and Slimer, too, they might manage just fine without an idiot who was inclined to run away at the first hint of trouble. He'd left them to pick up the pieces because he couldn't face it. If he returned, they'd welcome him because that was their nature, but it might not be right, it might not be fair to them. He'd made his bed. Now it was time to lie in it.

The realization hurt. It hurt worse than he had believed he could still be hurt. He couldn't go back. Not now, not yet, maybe never. He would have to stay away, because they would be better off without him.

He bit his lip so hard he drew blood, and forced himself to concentrate on the brakes of the same Chevette he had first worked on, the car that had got him the job. Poor old car was in worse shape than he was. They were two of a kind.

"I'm sorry, guys," he muttered. "I'm really sorry."

"Another day, another sixteen calls," caroled Peter as he trudged down the stairs on the three months' anniversary of Ray's disappearance. "Why doesn't anybody answer that ad? We have the plague or something?" He'd fought tooth and nail against advertising for a temporary replacement for Ray, but once the ad had been placed, it seemed that someone out there should have answered it. It had been running for over two weeks now, and every day brought more business their way. As much as Peter hated the idea of anyone in Ray's place, even temporarily, he was starting to wonder if he could keep up the pace without additional help.

Janine Melnitz glanced up from her coffee cup, her eyes narrowing in concern as she studied him. The gum she was chewing snapped loudly. "You look tired, Peter," she remarked.

"Gee, I wonder why. You're really perceptive, Janine. When was the last time we slept a night through?"

"Three days ago," Winston reminded him, coming downstairs in his wake. He, too, resembled a bad case of sleep deprivation. "Vorenx must have had an off day. These piddly little Class 2s he's been sending through are too easy to catch, even if there are too many of them. Wonder what happened to those nasty caveris thingies?"

"I hope they're in bed with virus X," Peter griped. He was of the school of belief that it was better not to ask for trouble because, when asked for, trouble arrived with bells on. "Maybe they don't like the cold weather," he suggested. It was October now, and the nights were beginning to feel crisp. Last night had certainly been crisp enough when the phone had rung at 2:30 and summoned them to bust three Class 3s at the 12th Precinct. Peter remembered that comedy of errors as he, Egon and Winston had chased the specters around the squad room while the night watch cheered them on.

"Yeah, or maybe they're waiting for Halloween," suggested Janine. She began to blow a big bubble, her face intent with concentration.

"Yeah, Halloween!" Slimer popped out of her desk drawer to join them. "Big Halloween party?" he suggested, yellow eyes wide with anticipation. "Trick or treat? Slimer likes Halloween." Noting Janine's gum, he paused, fascinated, and watched as the bubble grew bigger and bigger. When it finally popped, he heaved a huge sigh of disappointment. "Slimer likes bubble gum," he hinted pointedly.

"Don't give him any," Peter cautioned. "The last time you did, he tried to chew it instead of just eating it. He got it all over Egon's notes and on the front seat of Ecto, and Winston sat in it. I don't want to go through that again." He grimaced at the memory.

"Sorry, Slimer," Janine told the ghost and started another bubble.

"Yeah, well, I remember a few nasty Halloweens in our time," Winston mused, returning to the original subject. "What about Samhain, Spud? What about that Crowley character who tried to get rid of Halloween?"

"Okay, I get it," Peter retorted, propping his hip on the edge of Janine's desk and picking up the day's tentative schedule to study. "Vorenx is this year's guest of honor, right? I wonder if Egon knows that. How long till Halloween now?"

"Six days," Janine replied, checking her calendar. "It's October 25th."

"Oh, joy," Peter purred with patently false enthusiasm. "I can hardly wait."

The telephone rang. "Oh, man, before breakfast?" Winston moaned, straightening up with an effort. "I'm getting old. Every muscle and joint in my body hurts from yesterday. Remember when this job used to be fun?"

"Ghostbusters," Janine spoke into the telephone.

"Yeah," Peter replied sourly to Winston. "There was one more of us then."

Winston's jaw tightened. "Sorry."

"You do?" Janine's voice rose, drawing the stares of both men. "You have?" Her polite business voice dropped and she continued, "Where?" Grabbing a pencil, she scribbled down an address. "They'll be right there," she promised the party on the other end of the line, and hung up, hitting the alarm button with the palm of her hand. The bell shrilled loudly throughout the station and, overhead, the long-range detector buzzer went off in accompaniment. Slimer put his hands over the sides of his head where ears might have been, if he had had them. "Too loud."

"It's close," Winston observed unhappily.

What is it, Janine?" Peter asked. "I'm not gonna like your answer, am I?"

"It sounds like another Big Blue," she replied. "One of those caveris thingies. You don't suppose that Vorenx is getting ready to...mph...unh...come through."

Before she finished the sentence, Peter had clasped his hand over her mouth. "Don't say it, Janine. I don't want to hear this."

She pushed his hand away. "I don't like it either, Dr. V. Maybe I should put on a pack and come, too."

"I agree." Egon hurried down the stairs, zipping his jumpsuit as he came. "Last time, the entity was incredibly powerful. This should be the same. I don't intend to overuse you, Janine, but until we can hire additional help, I think we'll need you for the big jobs."

"Right. I take it there's a pay boost in this for me?" When Egon nodded solemnly, Janine scrambled for her jumpsuit and proton pack, as Peter and Winston kitted themselves up. Venkman was pretty sure Janine would have done it with or without the pay raise, as long as Egon asked it of her. He had paid very little attention to her lately, not for any real lack of interest, but simply because there hadn't been time. Sometimes Peter suspected that Egon would have pursued Janine more eagerly if he hadn't had to do it in front of the others. He might be wrong--Egon might be too caught up in his work to bother with romance--but he doubted it. Something existed between the blond physicist and the redheaded secretary, but Peter, that expert in the art of romance, had no further clues.

Big Blue's smarter brother was lurking in front of Macy's, of all places. They reached 34th Street and parked in a no parking area half up on the sidewalk. A long time ago, they'd come to terms with the New York Police Department and they were accorded the same courtesy as other emergency vehicles with regard to parking. Otherwise they would never have managed to park anywhere close to a bust. Running in six blocks with a portable nuclear accelerator on one's back dampens the enthusiasm for pursuit.

"Is that it?" Janine, thrower in hand, gestured to the bulky blue shape that swooped through the doors of the department store as if drawn to them instinctively.

"I think this one's even bigger," Winston moaned. "Look at that mouth."

"You look at it," Peter snapped. "I'd rather trap the sucker. Everybody have a trap?"

They all nodded.

"Now remember, Janine," Egon repeated the instruction he had given in the car. "If it grabs you, open the trap. Keep it pointed away from you. The entity will drain you, but the trap's suction will be strong enough to pull it in. I've modified all the traps we have with us today, to increase the suction. Peter was very drained last time, but he received no lasting ill effects."

"Everybody got their walkie talkie?" Winston asked. "If any of us gets snatched, just call in and we'll be right there to pick you up. Whoa! Here it comes, and I think it's mad!"

"Duck!" shouted Peter, powering up his thrower with his thumb and diving behind a parked car as he took aim. His stream shot out to temporarily pin the entity, which roared and bellowed in surprise and pain.

"At least he doesn't know what happened to the other one," Winston shouted in Peter's ear as he skidded into place beside him. "Let's see how he likes two." His stream flashed out to join Peter's.

At once the entity started to rage and scream, shaking violently back and forth as it struggled to break free.

A TV news truck screeched to a halt just beyond the ghost and a camera crew jumped out. There was no hope of keeping this one quiet. Peter wondered how he'd appear on the news. If they could just reel this one in right now...

No such luck. It thundered with fury and snapped free of the streams, diving sideways for the TV crew, who darted in all directions, except for the cameraman, who stood, feet planted, lens pointed right at the monster. There'd be an Emmy in that film, thought Peter as he leaped to his feet and loosed another stream after the beast. It caught him in the posterior and made him bolt straight upward with a series of yipping sounds. People cheered, and Peter, always the ham, took a quick bow for the camera. This was fun--or rather, it would have been if he hadn't known that this was only the second of the entities and that their dragon lord was sure to follow.

"Get back, Peter," Egon bellowed from the middle of Broadway, where he and Janine had retreated. "It's coming your way."

"Maybe it wants to try Gimbel's," Peter replied. "Yow. That mother's fast!" He ducked sideways, hitting the ground hard and rolling, hating that moment when he was on his back, his pack tipping him at an awkward angle like an upended turtle. Momentum carried him the rest of the way and he tried to strike the creature on the underbelly as it passed overhead. Winston was a dozen feet away, firing at it and yelling.

At the last moment, it didn't pass overhead. It must have identified Peter as its prime tormenter because it came to a screeching halt in midair, dove straight down and grabbed him, yanking him aloft in one nauseating lurch.

"Hey, no fair," objected Peter as he let go of his thrower and fumbled for the trap on his pack. "I took this ride last time. It's somebody else's turn.

The energy drain began, the suction leeching away his strength. Remembering his tactics three months earlier, Peter pushed the pedal against the side of the trap and forced it down with all his strength.

This one fought harder than the first one. Perhaps it was weaker and needed more energy to resist the trap's pull, or perhaps it was just stronger than the first caveris. Whichever was the case, Peter understood exactly what a strand of wet spaghetti felt like. Worse, the glare from the trap stung his eyes. Not only spaghetti, but blind spaghetti.

"Come on, you sucker. Let go!"

As if obeying him, it zipped into the trap so quickly that Peter barely remembered to let go of the trigger pedal. The doors closed over the struggling caveris and Peter let out a horrified yell as he once again found himself suspended in midair.

The fall was no further than last time, but, this time, he had the misfortune to come down against a fire hydrant. His head slammed into the protruding section where the hose attaches, and the stars that Peter saw were as bright as the glow from the trap.

He didn't entirely black out, but everything swirled around him as if the city had decided to stand up and dance. With a groan, he clasped his hands to his head, only to pull them away at the feel of warm stickiness under his fingers. "Aaa," he gasped as he went flat on the sidewalk, rolling over onto his side. Above him, the Empire State Building did a decidedly peculiar bow and began a stately pirouette.

Peter fumbled for his walkie talkie, raised it to his mouth and jammed his finger on the transmit button.

"Egon," he moaned weakly. "I'm bleeding."

It seemed to take forever to locate Peter, though he had only been taken a few blocks. Finally Egon spotted his sprawled form and pointed. Ecto-1 screeched to a stop beside him, ignoring lesser traffic. Behind it, the TV camera crew pulled up and the news people piled out.

Peter squinted up at Egon, who bent over him, staring in horror. Blood had covered half his face, closing one eye. His fingers moved weakly toward the blind eye.

"Easy, Peter." Egon caught his hand and pulled it away, examining the wound as best he could. "You have a bad cut at your scalp line. It's bleeding a lot, but it's not serious. Winston, call the paramedics."

"You got it." Winston hurried away in the distance.

A camera lens peered at Peter over Egon's shoulder. The injured man struggled to sit up, fighting against the hand Egon put on his chest to restrain him. "Egon," he objected groggily. "They're not getting my best side."

When he saw Peter start preening Egon glanced over his shoulder at the cameraman, then caught Janine's eye. "Get them away, Janine," he urged. "I don't think Peter is ready for this yet." The psychologist was still groggy, and Egon's heart hadn't quite steadied from the shock he'd received when they pulled up and he saw Peter sprawled on the sidewalk, covered with blood.

The redheaded woman didn't hesitate. Her face tight with worry, she grabbed the man by the arm and, although he was a good six inches taller than she was, she hauled him away by main force. "Look, buddy, back off right now," she ordered in the tone of voice that most people tended to obey without hesitation. "I've got access to ghosts and if you don't give us space, you'll be sorry."

The cameraman retreated to a reasonable distance, but he didn't lower the camera. "Come on, lady, this is a great story."

"It's just as great from over there. If anything happens to Dr. Venkman because of you, you'll be toast." She gestured meaningfully at the particle thrower stowed on her proton pack. "Get the picture, buster?"

Confident that Janine had matters well in hand, Egon turned to Peter, who looked disappointed at being preempted from the six o'clock news. That was typical. Peter loved appearing on television and craved the fame and recognition. Of course, right now, he was hardly up to an interview. He must have hit his head on the fire hydrant and he had been drained by the caveris. Though he seemed alert and responsive, he was obviously groggy and weak. Quickly, Egon stripped off his proton pack and passed it to Winston as he returned from Ecto's mobile phone. Next, Egon eased Peter flat. The sight of all that blood still made Egon's stomach lurch. Realizing it was a scalp cut, which would tend to bleed copiously whether it was a serious injury or not had assuaged his fear slightly, but Peter's condition worried him. Venkman was always so cocky, confident, and on top of things that Egon had never been comfortable with the sight of him injured.

"I got him, Egon," Peter muttered, gesturing feebly at the trap which lay beside him, light blinking. His lips curled in a grin that appeared grotesque on his bloodstained visage. "I got the caveris. Only two more to go. Hell of a trip, though. Next time it's your turn."

"Yes, if you insist," replied the physicist, pressing his handkerchief against the wound. Peter winced but didn't protest. When Egon lifted it a few moments later, the flow of blood was slowing.

"Then we face the big guy," Peter continued, his mouth turning down. "Egon, I think we're in trouble."

"Hey, everybody, give him air," Winston could be heard ordering the curious spectators in the background, and the press of the crowd retreated slightly. New Yorkers had always been fascinated by the Ghostbusters, and this time they had witnessed one of them materializing out of thin air.

"Egon, here's the first aid kit." Janine knelt opposite him, holding out the box. "Peter, lie still. You look terrible."

Peter groaned heartrendingly. "Where does it hurt, Peter?" Egon asked in alarm as he opened the first aid kit and took out a bottle of antiseptic.

"Gonna be on television," Peter complained. "Look terrible... Not fair."

Janine laughed, sounding relieved. "Think of it like this, Dr. V. You'll win the sympathy vote. Your old girlfriends will come out of the woodwork the minute they see you, and will hurry over to fuss and baby you. Elyse will be over in a minute."

Peter brightened remarkably, enjoying the thought. Egon used the moment to dab antiseptic on the cut and to sponge away as much of the blood as he could reach. Peter stiffened but not from the pain. "Egon?" His hand shot out and encircled the physicist's wrist, his fingers digging in fiercely.

"What is it, Peter." He gestured for Janine to open a gauze pad and place it over the wound. "Are you in pain?"

"Maybe...Ray will see me. Think that'll...bring him home?" The eye that wasn't blood-encrusted held Egon's pleadingly. Janine drew a sharp breath at the idea. Egon bathed the eye with a moist pad, allowing Peter to open it. If Ray saw Peter this way, nothing would keep him away. It might be their best option yet. Egon began to regret sending away the cameraman. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the TV crew lingering the background.

"It well might," Egon replied. His eyes sought the camera truck, seeking the station logo. It was the local CBS affiliate WCBS. That wouldn't necessarily promise national coverage, but with luck...

"Janine." Peter turned to her. "Go make nice with the cameraman. Maybe I could say a few words. They can't resist me."

Janine glanced at Egon, who nodded. If Peter felt up to it, it was worth the chance.

Peter insisted upon sitting up, and the change from horizontal to vertical didn't appear to do any major damage. Egon studied his face intently. His pupils were equal and reactive. Peter complained of a headache and admitted he was slightly dizzy, but he displayed no nausea. "No way, Egon. Think I'm gonna barf on national television?" He shot a cocky grin around, winked at Winston, who had joined them to assist Egon with taping a temporary dressing over the cut, and smiled like he was on top of the world. Egon hadn't seen him so up for a long time. It must be the thought of the TV program reaching Ray and bringing him home. Egon was more pragmatic than that: Ray hadn't come home for the news stories about Jennifer's survival. Yet the sight of an injured Peter might well do it.

Egon checked Peter's pulse. It wasn't far off normal. He'd need x-rays, of course, but Egon didn't think he'd sustained a concussion when he fell.

"Course I didn't," Peter replied when the physicist tried to reassure him. "I didn't pass out. I'm doing great, or I would if New York would quit break dancing."

"Just stay still," Winston urged, resting a hand on his shoulder. "Next thing I know, you'll be up there making it a duet. Keeping you out of trouble is like keeping Slimer away from food."

The cameraman returned, accompanied by a reporter who introduced herself as Marla Kennedy. She held out a microphone. "Would you tell us what happened, Dr. Venkman?" she asked.

Peter leaned against Egon's supportive shoulder and contrived to appear as pathetic as possible. Egon exchanged a faint smile with Janine, who worked her way through the crowd to join him.

"I was teleported by a ghost," the brown-haired man explained. "We had one like this a few months ago. It draws energy from the people it snatches and uses it to change location. Very nasty. The only way to stop one is to go along for the ride and open the trap en route." Always the showman, he fixed the camera with his most sincere expression, holding out his hand for the trap. When Winston passed it to him, he dangled it by the cord, pointing at the blinking light that indicated it was full. "We're short staffed right now," he went on, his voice gaining in intensity. "At full strength, these jobs are much easier and we're not as likely to get blood on our uniforms."

"Where is Dr. Stantz?" the reporter asked, having glanced around to discover which Ghostbusters were present. "We'd heard a report that he was no longer with the agency."

"On a leave of absence," said Peter promptly, staring anxiously into the camera. "We hope he'll be returning soon. We need him." Peter closed his eyes and leaned his head against Egon, collecting his strength so quickly that Egon didn't know if it were a genuine weakness or if he had done it for effect. "I'll be all right," Peter continued, putting deliberate bravery into his voice. "We're Ghostbusters. We'll get the job done."

Egon chose to step in before Peter overdid his hamming it up. "I think that's enough for now. The paramedics are arriving." He gestured the camera away. As soon as it was gone, Peter closed his eyes again and sagged against his companion.

"Peter?"

"I'd kill for an aspirin," Peter replied, keeping his eyes closed. "How did I do?"

"Better than I had expected." Egon fussed over his makeshift bandage and looked up at Janine, who watched them with concern. A second later, Winston brought the paramedics to Peter, who roused a little when he saw that one of them was young and female. Egon shook his head. Peter would never change.

The paramedics took him to the nearest hospital, and the other three followed in Ecto. After x-rays and a thorough examination, the emergency room doctor, a young man with a ready smile and wide blue eyes, announced that Peter was not concussed and that there was no evidence of a skull fracture.

"You can go home now, but spend the rest of the day lying down. Head injuries are tricky things, Dr. Venkman," he concluded. "Take this." He gave Peter a printed sheet. "This is a list of delayed symptoms which could accompany a blow to the head. If you experience any of them, you're to report to us immediately." He turned to the other three, who were waiting anxiously. "I don't think there will be any additional problems," he said, "but it's better to be safe. That was a nasty bump, but I suspect it looks worse than it really is."

"Feels worse," Peter concurred, touching the dressing cautiously. "I'm not gonna take on any more fire hydrants, believe me."

Egon took the sheet from Peter's hand. "We'll monitor him very carefully, Doctor," he promised.

"Excellent. I think he should take it easy tomorrow. After that, his headache should let up and he can resume limited work. No chasing ghosts until the day after tomorrow, Dr. Venkman."

"Great," Peter agreed with a grateful smile. "I promise. Can we go home now?"

Fred Blaine was a worried man. When he had first hired Harry Smith to work for him, he had felt no qualms about taking on the young man whose honesty and sincerity he could sense. Though he had also suspected that Harry was an unhappy man with a past he found difficult to face, he had assumed that time might heal the wound. He was pretty sure that when that happened, Harry would find a way to resolve the IRS question created by paying him under the table.

Since Harry tended to flinch like a timid deer at the faintest suggestion of questions about his background, Fred had given him space, suspecting that Harry would do a bunk if he thought anyone was prying. Better he stayed here where he was treated fairly and paid well and where someone worried about him than to venture into the world again. He was so vulnerable that he would be an easy target for those who took advantage of the weak and helpless. Fred didn't think Harry was weak or helpless in his normal state, but right now he wasn't in his normal state.

Everything had gone well enough, though Fred suspected Harry was experiencing some kind of flashbacks. The young man wasn't old enough to have been in Viet Nam, so it couldn't have been that. He would have liked to suggest a counselor, but he didn't dare. At least Harry was safe here. If Fred pushed too hard, he'd run.

That was the state of affairs until that actor, Dan Aykroyd, had come into the station and identified Harry as Ray Stantz. The name meant little to Fred, who had heard of the Ghostbusters but had not been interested enough to read about them in the newspapers. It was only when Harry gave that weird performance about growing the mustache so people wouldn't mistake him for Stantz that Fred had heard one grain of truth in his honest young friend's performance for the actor. Harry didn't want anyone to know who he was--and he was Ray Stantz.

Fred let it drift for the moment, but the first chance he had, he headed for the nearest library and started checking references. It didn't take him long to discover that Ray Stantz was one of the Ghostbusters. He found a picture of four men. One was tall and blond with glasses who had the word 'scientist' written all over him. Another, a black man, seemed fairly tough and competent, though he had a pleasant grin on his face. The third had brown hair and a cocky smile that said 'I'm famous and important'. His arm was draped with easy affection around the shoulders of the fourth man, who was shorter, auburn haired, and simply glowing with the joy of life. His mouth was stretched into a happy smile, and anyone who saw him would like him on sight. His hair was shorter than Harry's, he was a few pounds heavier and he wore no mustache. But no one who knew him could have failed to recognize him. Harry Smith was none other than Ray Stantz, former Ghostbuster.

Fred deliberated. Should he call the other Ghostbusters and tell them Ray was here? Ray might consider it a betrayal, but he was so clearly unhappy and missing something in his past that he might be glad. Fred researched further. Ray had left because he had nearly killed a little girl on the job with one of their proton rifles. The near miss had must have scared him so badly that he had decided he couldn't take the risk a second time. A gentle spirit like Ray would naturally be upset. Maybe that was why he'd looked so upset that time he'd fixed the little girl's bicycle chain, because he'd been reminded of another little girl. Fred wondered about it. This was a long time to dwell on a near miss, to agonize over an incident that hadn't really happened. Perhaps there was more to it than that, a fight between Ray and his friends following the incident. Maybe they had taken him to task for his supposed carelessness. Or more likely, Ray had blamed himself. He was the sort who would take full responsibility for his actions.

He watched Ray carefully for the next few weeks. Only last night he had attempted to broach the subject again, offering to listen if the boy wanted to talk. Ray had panicked, backing off, vanishing in the repaired car. Blaine hadn't doubted he'd return it: Ray was as honest a man as he would ever meet. But who was to say that Ray wouldn't bolt afterwards.

Today, he'd kept his distance, trying to pretend like the previous night's conversation hadn't taken place. After his initial wariness, Ray had relaxed and unbent a little, but he was still unhappy. Sorrow gleamed in his eyes. This wasn't where the boy belonged. He was wasted here. If he could do that fancy Ghostbuster work that Fred had been reading about he should be doing it instead of rebuilding engines. The article had said he possessed several degrees, including one in engineering. No, Ray was overqualified for this job, and Ray was lonely for his friends, the three men in the picture. Last night Fred had called long distance information for the telephone number of Ghostbuster Central. His wife had stared at him in shock when he asked for the number.

"I hope there aren't any ghosts at the station, Fred," she'd ventured nervously. "You're the last man I'd have thought would be interested in the Ghostbusters."

"Course there's no ghosts, Martha. I might need to talk to them about a different problem one of these days." He wrote the number on a sheet of paper and stuck it in his wallet. If necessary, he'd phone them and tell them about Ray. If he thought Ray meant to run, he'd call immediately.

Today it proved harder than usual to remember to call the young man Harry. One slip would finish it, so he made a point of ignoring names altogether. He stuck to his own work and let Ray alone. It was effective. The tension gradually left Ray's shoulders: not completely, because he was still wary, but enough that he could banter with Dave and Jimmy while they did their jobs. He tensed a bit when they went home, though.

It was nearing closing closing time and Fred was sitting in his office doing the bookwork, the portable TV blaring away unheeded on the shelf opposite his desk, when something happened that might change it all. Though he hadn't really been paying attention, the words played themselves over in his mind.

"Coming up after this break: trouble with the Ghostbusters. Stay tuned for an on the spot interview with Dr. Peter Venkman."

Venkman, that was the one with his arm around Ray's shoulders. He and Ray had looked like good friends. The sight of him might just do the trick.

Fred jumped up and opened his office door, an idea forming in his mind. "Hey, Harry. Get in here. I need you to check an ad for me."

Ray had spent the day in a state of barely controlled tension. Last night, Mr. Blaine had come a lot closer to prying than he had since Ray had begun the job. Afraid of losing this sanctuary, Ray had lain awake for hours last night after the dream of Jennifer had awakened him. He was tired and edgy, afraid that he might be found out. Now Mr. Blaine wanted him in his office. Was this the end? Was it time to leave, to find another place to hide? A sense of solitude made his shoulders sag as he responded.

"What is it, Mr. Blaine?"

The boss nodded him to the folding chair beside the desk. "I just remembered. One of my competitors is running an ad during the news tonight," he explained. "I've gotta do the accounts. I want you to watch for me. Pay close attention because I don't want to miss anything. Wish I had a VCR here to tape it. Afterwards, I want to go over it with you and see how we think it might affect us. You know much about advertising?" he concluded.

"Not much. Peter--a friend of mine used to arrange ads on TV." He bit his lip. This was going badly. He might as well admit his name and be done with it.

Blaine only shrugged. "Good. Then you'll have an idea what to watch for," and returned to his books. The sympathetic man of the previous night had become a near-impersonal stranger, and, irrationally, Ray missed him.

Heaving a silent sigh, he turned to the small screen. The picture was slightly squiggly across the top, but it wasn't a bad enough distortion to bother Ray. He watched the news of Eastern Europe, the latest depressing figures on the economy, three commercials about fast food chains and one about General Motors. It was funny to be paid to watch television. So far, there hadn't been any local commercials. Maybe Mr. Blaine had been wrong and the ad he wanted would be on with the local news. "This afternoon, a near miss nearly put an end to one of New York's most unusual businesses," the anchorman announced. "On the spot reporter Marla Kennedy gives us this up to the minute report on the Ghostbusters."

Ray went utterly rigid. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mr. Blaine stolidly entering figures in the ledger, paying not the slightest heed to the screen. He didn't know anything. Ray was unable to tear his eyes away from the TV.

There were several scenes of Peter, Egon, Winston, and a fourth Ghostbuster whom he belatedly identified, after an unhappy moment in which he feared he'd been replaced, as Janine. They were battling the entity in front of Macy's, a huge, blue specter whose resemblance to Big Blue made Ray gasp. The creature dove for Peter, shooting out arms--Big Blue hadn't had arms, had it? A burst of brilliant light made the picture fade. It cut immediately to a closeup of a ghost trap, the light that signified a successful capture blinking reassuringly. Had the entity escaped? Was it one of a race of similar creatures? Ray leaned closer.

The scene shifted again to Peter, lying on the pavement, one side of his face coated with blood, still more stains on his jumpsuit. The eye not caked with blood was open but he appeared dazed. Egon bent over him, then turned and gestured the camera away.

Ray froze, his mouth falling open in horror. A hard knot formed in his stomach and he braced himself for what was to come next. Peter looked terrible. What could have happened?

Marla Kennedy appeared, crisply professional. "That was the scene near the Empire State Building this morning when Dr. Peter Venkman was injured while attempting successfully to trap a dangerous ghost. Dr. Egon Spengler reported that the ghost was a Class 7 free roaming vapor, extremely powerful and very dangerous, as demonstrated by Dr. Venkman."

Again Peter appeared on the screen, this time sitting up, much of the blood wiped away. He was leaning against Egon's shoulder, his eyes peering earnestly, if slightly blurrily, into the camera as he explained that the ghost had teleported him. It wasn't Big Blue, but one very like him. Teleporting people? Wow! Ray's eyes widened at the thought. He'd never heard of ghosts doing anything like that. The sight of the injured Peter dampened his fledgling enthusiasm, as the psychologist grabbed the full trap from Winston and displayed it. "We're short staffed right now," he explained. "At full strength, these jobs are much easier and we're not as likely to get blood on our uniforms."

Ray felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "Oh, Peter," he breathed, his eyes burning with incipient tears. "I let you down."

"Where is Dr. Stantz?" the reporter asked. Dr. Stantz shivered, huddling in his chair, biting his lip, as he waited for Peter's reply.

"On a leave of absence," Peter explained, peering at the camera as if looking straight at Ray. "We hope he'll be returning soon. We need him." He sounded so anxious, so sincere, that it cut to the quick. The reporter was only a medium to convey the message. Peter was begging him to come home.

Ray closed his eyes in pain, but opened them immediately, afraid he would miss something important, just in time to see Peter sag against Egon. The blond reached out and patted his shoulder in a gesture of automatic comfort. Egon was like that. He never let anyone down. Ray heaved a shaky sigh as he thought how much he missed them.

Peter collected himself immediately. "I'll be all right," he promised weakly as if speaking the words took the rest of his energy away. "We're Ghostbusters. We'll get the job done."

"There you saw it," Marla Kennedy cut in as the camera panned the scene, lingering over Ecto-1, displaying Janine in her jumpsuit, and finally returning to the newswoman. "The Ghostbusters, short one man. A dangerous job, but one we rely upon. Dr. Stantz, wherever you are, it's time to come home." The scene faded to a commercial for Taco Bell, and Ray heaved a deep sigh.

"No ad?" Fred Blaine asked, then paused in concern. "You look like you've been kicked in the gut, boy. What's wrong?"

It was time to end it. "Mr. Blaine, I have to quit," he said quickly, jumping to his feet. "I hate running out on you, but you'll find somebody else. There are a lot of good mechanics out there. There's not so many Ghostbusters."

"Then you're going home, Ray?" Blaine asked gently. Ray froze, eyes widening in astonishment.

"You knew who I am?"

"I know all about it, son. I waited, hoping you'd want to tell me about it, but when I heard what they were going to talk about on the news, I figured you ought to see it. I didn't know it would be so bad, but I think your friend will be all right."

"How do you know?" demanded Ray anxiously, his heart thumping in concern. Peter had really looked bad.

"Because I could tell that his buddy Egon was worried sick about him--you all love each other and it shows. If he was in serious danger, he wouldn't have been on the boob tube. He'd have been in an ambulance on the way to the hospital."

Ray realized that was true. Egon would never have permitted Peter to be interviewed if his condition were life-threatening, or even serious. Peter would be all right--but he nearly hadn't been. "If I'd been there, it might not have happened," he said at last.

"Maybe not, son, but let me tell you this. I think you should stop worrying about what might have been, because it never was. Instead go home where you belong. You've been eating your heart out for too long now when you could have been with folks who care about you. I'll spring for the plane fare if necessary. You can catch a redeye flight to New York tonight."

"I have enough money, Mr. Blaine." How much did the man know? He sounded like he even knew about Jennifer, yet he was still worried about him. Maybe the guys would welcome him home, after all. Peter had certainly sounded like he wanted him to return. That speech had been nothing less than a plea for Ray to come home.

The weight that had rested on Ray's shoulders for the past three months slid away and he staggered under the loss. He was too used to bearing up under it. Now he felt light as a balloon, ready to drift free in the wind. "How did you know?" he asked. "When did you recognize me?"

"Son, I wouldn't've recognized you in a million years. Never knew much about the Ghostbusters. It was that actor friend of yours that came in here who started me thinking. You're too honest to lie, my boy. You don't have it in you. When you try, it stands out like a beacon. I listened while you talked to him and a bigger crock of shit I never heard. I figured you were the one he said you were and you thought you had a reason for hiding your identity. That actor should have realized it, but he would have had to call you a liar. I'm surprised he didn't rethink it and come back. Now that I know what happened, I can understand why you ran, but you have to put it behind you, boy, and forget. You'd never hurt another living soul on purpose and everyone who matters knows that. Go home. Let your friends help you. That's what counts. There's another Ray inside you. I've seen him a few times when you finished a really tough job and it went perfectly. I watched you bounce around and glow, and you put out enough warmth to cure the frostbite. Find that enthusiasm again. I saw a picture of you with your friends. The same expression was on your face, the look of someone who's just full of the joy of living. I don't think that Ray Stantz is gone forever. Find him."

Ray felt the first bubbles of enthusiasm rising in him again. Maybe Mr. Blaine was right. Maybe he could go home. He started to smile.

"Can I use the phone?" he asked. "I want to book a flight to New York."

"I'll do better than that, my boy. Get your things together. I'll drive you to the airport."

"You can't. You'd have to close the station," objected Ray. "We're the only ones working tonight. I can call a cab. Really."

"No, I'll see you off, Ray. I want to come along and say goodbye. One night's business won't hurt me," Blaine told him, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry about it. Go up and pack. I'll call and get you a reservation while you do."

When Ray came downstairs with his suitcases, Mr. Blaine was just sticking a hand-lettered sign on the station door. It read: "Closed tonight for family emergency. Open first thing tomorrow morning." The young man stared at the sign, his heart warming at the sentiment. Mr. Blaine meant it. Ray knew that. He'd taken Ray in without question, protected him from an unsympathetic world and never treated him as anything less than family. Without him, Ray didn't know what would have happened to him, though he was sure it wouldn't have been good.

"Gosh, Mr. Blaine," he began, his eyes shining, "that's nice."

Blaine slapped him fondly on the back. "Come on, son. I called and reserved your ticket. Let's head out to LAX. You'll be home by morning."

"There's something I can do for you when I get home," Ray volunteered quickly, thinking of a way to help the man who had helped him, who had probably saved his life if not his sanity. It wasn't enough, but it was necessary. "I'll work out the tax thing for all the money you paid me under the table. I'll put my accountant on it. I know you've worried about it, and I don't like the thought of leaving you in the lurch. You could have got in trouble for me." It was nothing to what Fred Blaine had done to help him, but Ray felt like he had to do something. Louis Tully could straighten out the mess. He'd probably enjoy it and spend tedious hours explaining each step of the process to Ray and anyone else who would listen.

The older man smiled. "What else could I have done? I knew you'd make it right one day." He picked up one of Ray's suitcases and started for his car.

Peter pushed the cold cloth off his forehead and sat up cautiously. His head made no attempt to explode this time. He was starting to feel better.

Egon put down the book he'd been researching for information on Vorenx. "Do you need anything, Peter?"

"A soda would be great."

"I'll get it." Winston vanished in the direction of the kitchen.

Peter grinned after him. "You know, Egon, much as I love being waited on hand and foot, we all know the real reason it took me so hard this afternoon was that the caveris sucked away my energy. After that humongous meal you guys force fed me, I feel bloated. I wonder if this is how Slimer feels when he stuffs himself on everything in the refrigerator."

"Probably," replied Winston, returning with a can of Coke. "Only with him it's like eating Chinese. Half an hour and he's hungry again."

"Where is the spud anyway?" Peter asked as he accepted the can and took a sip.

"Bothering Janine, I think." This was one of the nights the secretary worked late, though in light of her extracurricular work in the morning, Egon had urged her to go home early. She had declined. Peter suspected that Janine was hanging around because he was hurt, but he knew better than to say so. Janine would deny it in a flash. More likely she was waiting in case Ray should call.

"Lucky Janine," muttered Peter. He glanced at Egon, who had set aside the weighty tome he'd been perusing. "Talk to me, Egon. Do you think it worked?"

"What, the TV program?" Egon pondered it. "If Ray saw it, I believe he will come home. We have no guarantee that he saw it, however."

"Yeah, that's what I think," Winston replied.

"I looked good, didn't I?" Peter asked, recalling the program they had watched at six o'clock. "Even all bunged up, I looked great. Elyse called twice. So did Sharon, and Maxine, and..." he fell silent, checking them off on his fingers. "Oh yeah, and Ruthie, and even Beth, and that woman from the Hungarian embassy. I think I need my own personal answering service, don't you?"

"I think you need a bodyguard," Winston replied. "If they find out about each other, you're not gonna be worth chopped liver."

Holding his soda in one hand Peter wandered over the the mirror on the wall and inspected his face, prodding the area with his other hand. The small dressing covered the wound, but the bruise extended beyond it, dark and puffy. "Come on, Winston, I'll get the sympathy vote for sure."

"Maybe you should lie down again," Egon suggested. "It's getting close to eleven." "No, I'm tired of lying down. I think I'll go and pester Janine as long as she's still here."

"That's one sick man," Winston told Egon, but he was grinning as he said it. "I'll come, too."

"So will I." Egon cast the book aside and climbed to his feet. Peter realized that they were as uneasy and restless as he was. They'd been killing time ever since the news broadcast had been aired, waiting for any word about Ray. Every time the telephone rang, all of them jumped. Janine took note of the jobs, explaining that they weren't taking any calls today, and asking questions in case another caveris had come into their world, though the long-range detector had been completely silent since they had returned from the hospital.

Janine was typing away when they trooped down the stairs, and she paused only long enough to see their faces before she shrugged and returned to her work. Slimer, who had been drifting just over her head, saw Peter and was reminded of his injury.

"Peter better?" he asked anxiously, swooping forward to hang in the air just past the end of Peter's nose, inspecting the bruise and the dressing. His eyes held distress. Slimer had been frantic when they returned from the hospital, demanding promises that Peter would not vanish the way Ray had. Bad enough he had to suffer being slimed on top of doing battle with a fire hydrant. Now he had to deal with a neurotic ghost.

"Yeah, Spud, I'm better," he began, but the shrilling of the telephone made him fall silent and all of them grab for the receiver. Being closest, Janine grabbed it first and cast a defiant glare at the others. "Ghostbusters?" she spoke anxiously, holding her breath.

A faint frown drew her eyebrows together. "Yes, this is Janine. Who's that? I know your voice, but..."

Even after three months she would have recognized Ray's voice instantly. Peter sighed and dropped down on the edge of the desk, while Winston and Egon tried to pretend they hadn't been expecting the occultist to telephone and confess that he was coming home.

"Oh," said Janine in the type of voice that was best suited to accompany the narrowing of her eyes. "Yes, Dr. Venkman's here, but first of all, I've got a bone to pick with you."

The person on the other end of the line evidently expressed surprise. Peter reached for the phone, but Janine jerked it away from him and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Oh, yes you did. I saw that movie, remember? I know what you did to me."

Sheer curiosity kept Peter from wresting the phone from her so that he could take his call. What did a movie have to do with Janine?

"Yeah, that's right, buster, the second movie," she continued. "We all went to it. I think you got your facts wrong."

"Our second movie?" Winston queried, leaning closer. "What's going on, Janine?" Obviously this wasn't going to be about Ray.

"You paired me up with Louis Tully!" Janine accused hotly, her voice gritty with a long-held grievance. "<Louis Tully>! Are you crazy? First of all, he's hardly my type. I have other interests." Her eyes flicked to Egon and away again so quickly that only these three men who knew her so well would have seen it.

"Aykroyd or Ramis?" Egon asked, intrigued, but Janine ignored the question. If she was getting on someone's case for the relationship portrayed between Janine and Louis in the second film, it had to be one of the two of them, because they had written the script as well as portrayed Ray and Egon.

"To make it worse," Janine continued in an aggrieved voice, determined to air her complaint now that she finally had the opportunity, "Louis saw the movie. Stop laughing. It isn't funny. That movie gave him ideas!"

That made Peter laugh, as he remembered the time in question. It had been the best fun he'd had in ages, watching Janine, who had never been remotely interested in Tully, try to avoid the little accountant's amorous advances.

"Yes, I said 'ideas' and that's what I meant," she ranted. "The little twerp tried to hit on me. I may never forgive you for that. I had to squash him like a bug."

By now, Winston was doubled over with mirth and even Egon was laughing. Janine spun around in her chair and pinned them in her glare as if they were insects impaled in a display case. Suddenly her eyes widened.

"What do you mean, it wasn't your idea? You mean Harold Ramis--" She broke off and went very quiet. Peter felt an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck.

"You did?" she asked. "He did?" This time her glare was for Peter alone. "Doctor V, how could you?" she demanded furiously. "You told him to put that in the script! You're dogfood, Venkman!"

Before she could lunge at him with tooth and claw, the person on the other end of the line must have caught her interest, for the rage deserted her and she cried, "You did!" again, this time with such awe that the three men moved closer automatically, though Peter let Egon and Winston form a protective shield between him and Janine. He knew that the wrath of Melnitz was not to be risked lightly, and he was not a well man.

Janine's eyes had begun to shine with excitement. She held out the phone to Peter, her fury in abeyance. "It's Dan Aykroyd," she announced unnecessarily. "He wants to talk to you."

Peter took the phone as if it might explode. "Yo, Danny," he greeted. "What have you been telling Janine? I think she's going to skin me alive. That was supposed to be our little secret."

"What other little secrets do you have?" Egon asked pointedly.

"Peter." Aykroyd sounded serious. "I saw you on the news. You okay?"

"Huh? Me?" Peter was surprised and tickled at the concern. "Yeah, I'll live. I've discovered Excedrin Headache #47, but aside from that, no biggie."

"Glad to hear it. Listen, Peter, I didn't realize until I saw that clip that Ray was gone. Where is he anyway?"

"He's on a leave of absence," Peter returned automatically. "Why?"

"I've been kicking myself since I saw the broadcast," Aykroyd admitted. "But if you know where he is, I guess I was wrong after all. About a month ago I pulled in for gas at a station out here, and the attendant looked just like Ray. I thought it was Ray, but he said he wasn't. He said people mistook him for Ray all the time. I guess that's possible. Everybody has a double. But what didn't hit me until I saw the newsflash was that not only did he look like Ray, he sounded like Ray. I just couldn't imagine Ray working in a gas station. I was in a hurry that night and when he said he wasn't Ray, I gave him the benefit of the doubt."

"Working in a gas station?" Peter asked dubiously. This was the last thing he expected, but it was a lead. He heaved a sigh. Dan was Ray's friend and he was trying to help. "Danny," he confessed unhappily, "we don't know where he is. Things went wrong on a bust a few months ago and it hit him hard. He went away to get his head together. He was so freaked that he just left. We've been looking for him ever since." He considered the actor's story. "Ray does know cars, but... where is this place? Do you know the name of it?" It might be their best chance yet.

"I started thinking about it once I realized Ray was gone. I wasn't sure what street it was on, but I couldn't get it out of my head, so I went back. It should have been open--it's usually open at night, but there was a sign on the door that it was closed for a family emergency so I couldn't talk to anybody, but I got the name. Blaine's Garage. I looked up the phone number for you. Why don't you take it down and you can call them when they open up in the morning."

Peter scrambled for a pencil and jotted down the number. "We owe you big for this one," he said, grateful to the actor for caring and for taking the trouble to help. "Thanks. If you ever decide to go for that third movie, come to me. I've got a lot of great ideas."

When he hung up, he stood there a minute clutching the telephone number like a talisman, then he threw back his head and yelled, "Yahoo!"

"Is it Ray?" Winston demanded, grabbing Peter's arm. Egon pressed closer, his blue eyes dazed with hope.

"It's Ray. If Aykroyd's sure of it, then it must be him. He's known Ray for years. Ray fobbed him off, but that was before he had any reason to think that Ray was missing." He related Aykroyd's information quickly then snatched the phone again and dialed the number, but the actor had been right. The place was closed. The phone rang and rang, and no one answered.

"Think we should go out there?" Winston asked.

"No. I think we should call first," Egon returned. When Peter and Winston stared at him in surprise, he said quickly, "First of all, though it seems likely that it's Ray, Aykroyd may be wrong. He knows Ray but hadn't seen him for a long time. Besides, if he saw the newsflash, then it was broadcast in California. If Ray saw it, he may be on his way home right now. I think he'd do that, just come home, rather than phoning first. Perhaps that was the emergency, that Ray had to leave."

"Family emergency?" Winston reminded them.

"Knowing Ray, they probably think of him as family," suggested Janine.

Peter nodded. He could easily believe that. He also thought that Ray would want to see their faces when he talked to them, so that he could be certain of his welcome. Peter could imagine him standing hesitantly in the doorway, waiting to be noticed, a doubtful expression on his face.

"Ray coming home?" Slimer demanded eagerly, his face perking up. For the first time in weeks, there was a glow in his yellow eyes. "Ray come home, Ray come home!" he exulted, swooping in excited circles over their heads.

"Easy, Spud. We're not sure yet," Egon told him, but even he could not sustain his skepticism. Maybe this nightmare was nearly over at last.

"This where you want to get out, buddy?"

Ray jumped. The taxi had pulled up across the street from Ghostbuster Central. It was early, so early that the guys were probably still sleeping. Janine wouldn't be here yet. He feasted his eyes on the converted firehouse. Home.

But not yet. Ray decided to make one stop first. He had thought of it all the way across America in his overnight flight home. He couldn't go back to the firehouse until he had made a pilgrimage to Washington Square to confront the memory of Jennifer. Once that was behind him, once he had faced it fair and square, then he could go home.

"No, I've changed my mind, driver," he admitted. "Take me to Washington Square instead."

"We came right past Washington Square on the way here," the driver objected bad temperedly.

"I know. I'm sorry," said Ray earnestly. "But I have to go there first."

"Well, it's your money, bud." He put the cab in gear and made a U-turn, pulling away with a squeal of tires. Ray had long ago decided that most New York cabbies must have a death wish--or lead charmed lives. He was used to it now, but when he'd come here from Morrisville to attend Columbia, he had found it unnerving to swerve in and out of traffic as the cab driver tried to set a new land speed record. Ray had been born in New York and lived here when he was a child, but the years in Morrisville had introduced him to a simpler life that he still enjoyed. Peter had never been able to understand that. Give him the bright lights any day of the week. Egon was content to be with his friends as long as a good lab was nearby, and Winston had grown up in the area and took it for granted. Even after three months in California, Ray, who didn't quite realize that he drove just like a New York cab driver whenever he climbed behind the wheel of Ecto-1, still found the traffic here something to contend with.

When he left the taxi at Washington Square, he realized he had concentrated so fiercely on cab drivers because it put off what was to come. Ray didn't want to do this. The last thing he wanted was to remember the moment when he had killed Jennifer. He knew it must be done before he made peace with himself, but it was harder than he had expected. Just a little further south, his friends would be waking up right now. If only he could have come here with them instead.

But they weren't here. He approached determinedly, smothering a yawn--he had slept poorly on the red-eye--suitcases banging awkwardly against his leg. His eyes never left the spot where Jennifer had died. When he reached it, he set the suitcase beside him and stood there silently, his eyes full of pain. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"Not as sorry as you're gonna be, pal."

The unexpected voice jerked him from his unhappy reverie and he raised his eyes to find a young man with greasy brown hair clad in the tatterdemalion attire of a street person confronting him menacingly. In his hand was a nasty knife and it was pointed directly at Ray.

"Okay, buddy, hand over your wallet," the man ordered. "And I think I'd like the suitcases, too."

Ray was so surprised that, for an instant, he could only stare in wide eyed astonishment. He hadn't expected anything so mundane as a mugging to interfere with his penance.

"Don't go into a trance, Jack," snarled the mugger, his mouth twisting in a fierce scowl. "Just take out the wallet, real slow now, and pass it over to me. Do that, and you won't get hurt."

Ray eyed the knife and tried to calculate the possibility of wresting it from the criminal. Peter might risk it, but Peter was the type to snow the man with fast talk and distract him. Ray was still weighted down by the fact that he stood at the site of Jennifer's death, and he lacked the energy to fight. It would be stupid, anyway. The man was poised and ready, on the verge of losing it altogether. If Ray tried anything, he'd wind up with a knife between his ribs. Besides, there was an unnatural glitter in the man's eyes that indicated the use of drugs, and his nose was running. He was probably high. Better just to play along. What was a little money when compared to survival?

He glanced around quickly. It was early in the morning, and there weren't many people around. Those who were avoided them. Probably didn't want to get involved. Ray was disappointed by that reaction, but he'd been in New York long enough not to be surprised.

"Okay, I'm getting my wallet," he said in his most soothing voice. He started to reach for his hip pocket, his eyes on the man's face so that he could be ready in case he went berserk.

"Just the wallet, bozo," growled the robber. "Any trouble and you'll wind up on a slab, you got that?"

"Yeah, I got that," Ray agreed, pulling the wallet free and starting to offer it.

"You mocking me?" The man made a jab with the knife that missed Ray by no less than an inch. He arched his midsection backwards to avoid it, nearly fumbling the wallet.

"All right, clown, drop the knife."

At the authoritative command Ray and the mugger turned simultaneously. A cop, gun in hand and leveled at the mugger, was standing not ten feet away. There was actually a policeman in New York when Ray needed one. Wait till Peter heard about this! Ray couldn't help it, he started to laugh.

"Drop the knife or I'll fire," insisted the uniformed officer. "Do it now, punk."

Still clutching his wallet, Ray tried to shift out of the cop's way. Maddened by the police intervention, the mugger screamed, "No, damn you, go away," at the cop and made a grab at Ray, who batted at his wrist to deflect the knife. He didn't want to wind up a hostage.

"Son of a bitch," screamed the man. With a grab at Ray's wallet as a distraction, he swung the knife handle at Ray's head. It hit him just above the ear. There was a momentary explosion of stars, then the world faded to black and he started to fall. A gunshot rang out and the pressure on his wallet vanished. Still clutching it, he collapsed in a heap in the very spot where Jennifer had died. Ray's last coherent thought was that it was no more than he deserved.

"Come on, Pete, it's only five a.m. out there. Blaine's won't be open yet." Winston urged, gesturing at his wristwatch to indicate that it was barely eight o'clock. "Give them a chance to open the place. We just have to wait. After three months, a few extra hours can't matter."

"That's what you think." Peter had already considered dialing every Blaine in the Los Angeles phone book if he'd had one to try to find out about Ray. It was frustrating to be so close and yet to be so helpless. For all they knew, Ray had panicked and left when Aykroyd had recognized him. He might be weeks gone already.

Physically, Peter felt much better this morning. His head still hurt a little, but the vertigo had long since vanished, and the pain was bearable. It hadn't prevented him from putting away a big breakfast. Sleep and the thought of finding Ray had replenished his energy. The bruise on his forehead was even more dramatic today, and he had tried to comb his hair to conceal it, but without much luck. The dressing forced the hair to stand upright, almost as if he had a cowlick. He made a futile attempt to smooth it down.

"I can start calling now," Janine offered sympathetically. The three men were gathered around her desk. Though she wasn't due to come in until noon today after working late last night, she had confessed that the hope of hearing from Ray had brought her in early. "I didn't want to wait any longer than I had to," she had admitted when the guys had come downstairs and found her installed at her desk with her first cup of coffee.

"Yeah, call Ray," urged Slimer anxiously, wringing his hands in anticipation. The result was a little puddle of slime on Janine's desk blotter. She saw it and shot a glare at the spud, who gulped and said quickly, "Sorry, Janine."

"You can try, Janine," Egon encouraged her. "But I doubt the garage would open before six, Pacific time." He started for the stairs.

"Where are you going, Egon?" Peter asked suspiciously. "We're gonna find out about Ray."

"I know, Peter, but that could take time. We still have to prepare for the coming of Vorenx," the physicist reminded them. "I learned more last night and I want to see if I can cross reference it in any of the other sources."

Vorenx. Yeah. Right now, Vorenx was the least of Peter's worries, especially when they were so close to finding Ray, but the problem with the dragon elemental wouldn't go away if he ignored it. "So what did you find out when you were reading into the wee hours, big fella?"

"Vorenx takes human sacrifices," Egon replied flatly, pausing on the first step and turning to face them. "Traditionally, he prefers the sacrifice of young maidens. That may be how the various tales of knights rescuing women from dragon grew up in legend. If a sacrifice is made when Vorenx first appears, he occasionally takes that as his due and retreats, convinced that he is still worshiped and feared."

"Hey, you mean if we can find a maiden and give her to Vorenx, he'll go away?" Peter asked in surprise.

"We can't do that, Pete," objected Winston, swatting his arm. "We can't turn an innocent girl over to Vorenx just to get rid of him."

"Oh, I don't know," Peter objected flippantly with a sly grin. "It beats having New York trashed again." He favored the secretary with a crocodile smile. "Hey, Janine, want to volunteer? I'm not sure if you qualify for the maiden part, but--"

"You're dead meat, Venkman," she replied, tight lipped. "I already owe you. Keep it up and you won't live past breakfast. I'll have Egon transplant your brain into a cockroach."

Peter shuddered and said brightly, "Just kidding."

The phone rang. Once again, they all pounced for it, even Slimer, scrambling to grab the receiver. This time, Egon triumphed and raised it to his ear.

"Ghostbuster Central?" He was silent, listening. "Yes, I'm a Ghostbuster. This is Egon Spengler and I... You're from where? Why... WHAT!" His eyebrows shot up and he made a wild gesture for the others to be quiet. "He is? What happened to him? Is he all right?"

Peter's stomach knotted up fast. "Ray?" he demanded, grabbing Egon's shoulder and shaking it. "Is it Ray?" Egon's questions had an ominous flavor to them. Ray might be found, but he didn't sound well.

"What happened to him?" Egon repeated. To Peter he replied quickly, "Yes, it's Ray."

"What's going on, Egon?" Janine asked, edging closer and sliding an arm around his waist and looking up at him with worried eyes. Peter and Winston pressed closer, trying to hear, and even Slimer got into the act, wrapping a skinny arm around Egon's neck. The physicist fended him off impatiently.

"I see." Egon's voice was level, but his blue eyes glittered with alarm. He dropped his arm around Janine's shoulders, and Peter suspected he wanted the comfort for himself as much as he meant to offer it to the secretary. "Is it serious?" Peter felt the muscles beneath his hand tense and then ease slightly at the answer. His own clenched muscles didn't relax much.

"We'll be right there," Egon promised. "Thank you for calling." He replaced the receiver and faced them, meeting Peter's eyes.

"Is he hurt?" demanded Venkman frantically. "Come on, Egon, give. Where is he? What's wrong? Talk to me, big guy."

"Yeah, where is he?" Winston asked.

Janine jogged Egon's arm, her eyes concerned. "What happened to him? Is he hurt, Egon?"

"Where's Ray?" wailed Slimer.

Egon held up a hand for silence. "Ray is in St. James Hospital--the same hospital where you were yesterday, Peter." His eyes lingered on Peter's bruised forehead. "He was mugged this morning in Washington Square."

"Washington Square?" Peter echoed blankly. "You mean where he thought he killed Jennifer? What was he doing there?"

"I don't know, Peter. He's unconscious." When the others clamored at this in alarm, Egon added quickly, "The doctor feels he will be reviving soon and the x-rays show no serious damage. He says he believes that Ray would have regained consciousness by now but that he appeared very run down, as if he hadn't been caring for himself properly for months. He's slightly anemic, and there are other minor problems that will improve with care and attention. We'll have to see he feeds himself properly and make sure he gets enough rest. The doctor says if he revives alert, we can bring him home, provided that we watch him."

Peter had listened to all of this, the muscles in his face tightening as he heard it. He didn't know what Ray had been doing, whether he had worked in that garage or not, but somebody had a lot to answer for, for letting him go downhill like that. Damn it, Ray, why didn't you take care of yourself? he thought, wishing the knot in his stomach would ease up.

"What are we waiting for," Winston urged. "Let's go. You can bet we'll take care of him. That boy needs a keeper."

"What happened to him, Egon?" Peter asked as they started for Ecto, accompanied by Janine and Slimer, who clearly had no intention of being left behind.

"Someone attacked him with a knife," Egon replied. "No," he added quickly when Peter grabbed his arm and spun him around. "He wasn't stabbed. A policeman happened upon the mugging and the thief panicked, hit Ray with the knife hilt and ran. He didn't even steal Ray's wallet. That's how they knew to call us. His driver's license was in it. The woman who called saw the news report yesterday and she suspected Ray had seen it, too, and was coming home."

"With a little detour to Washington Square?" Peter asked as he slid into the front seat of Ecto, while Egon climbed behind the wheel. Winston and Janine crowded into the back seat and Slimer joined them.

"That makes sense, Peter," Egon said as he started the car and hit the remote control door opener. As he backed Ecto into the street, he explained himself. "Perhaps Ray did work at that gas station. Maybe he worked somewhere else. The fact that he's here today leads me to believe that he saw the broadcast and decided to come home. I think he went to Washington Square to make sure he was ready, to see if he could deal with it."

That made Peter's stomach knot up again. "So we don't know if he's ready or not, do we? He might have decided to leave again." The sense of abandonment that he had fought to submerge for the past three months bobbed to the surface again and his jaw tightened.

"Peter," said Egon softly, taking one hand from the wheel to pat his shoulder, "he came this far. I can't believe he would leave again now. He knows we need him. He was just paying his dues first."

"I hope you're right," put in Winston from the back seat. "We'll have to go easy on him at first, I think. He's gonna worry about whether or not we blame him for taking off the way he did."

Peter worked his bottom lip with his teeth. He wanted Ray back more than anything he'd ever wanted in his life, but the nagging voice in his head insisted that Ray had run out on them. Ray had let him down. He knew why; he understood why. He was prepared to welcome Ray with open arms. But what about the next time? the little voice echoed unkindly in his head. What then?

Ray drifted to consciousness and opened his eyes, surprised to see a hospital room ceiling overhead. Nothing else could be so bland and boring. When he turned to investigate, he found that it was a hospital room. His head ached, but not so badly that he couldn't think. He wondered vaguely how long it had been.

Sitting up cautiously, he discovered that the pain in his head didn't increase much with the movement. There was no dizziness either, and everything stayed properly in place. The headache made him emit a brief whimper, but it eased immediately. Cautiously he reached up and found a dressing on the side of his head.

"Awake, are you?" A nurse entered briskly, a tall, thin black woman with a warm, cheerful face and a businesslike manner. "I don't know that you'd want to be sitting up yet. Any double vision? Any dizziness?"

Ray shook his head. "No, nothing like that. It just hurts. I've got a headache."

"I don't wonder, Dr. Stantz. You took a pretty good whack there."

Ignoring the 'whack', Ray tensed. He was so accustomed to the need for secrecy and concealment that hearing his name shocked him far more than it had when Mr. Blaine had recognized him yesterday. Mr. Blaine had been sympathetic and understanding and had worried about Ray, offering him undemanding support, if Ray chose to take it. This woman was a total stranger. Concealing his identity might not be as valid now as it had been before Peter was hurt but the possibility of being easily identified still sent panic fluttering through him.

"How do you know my name?"

"The police arrived on the scene and stopped the mugger before he could escape with your wallet. Do you remember that?"

He nodded. It didn't hurt worse than sitting unmoving did. "Yes. I'm not sure what happened next, though."

"That's because the mugger knocked you out."

"He hit me with his knife," Ray agreed, remembering the assault.

"Well, that sounds like you don't have any memory loss." She smiled. "The doctor didn't expect any, and you've proven him right. You probably would have woken up sooner, but I think you needed the rest. You haven't been taking care of yourself very well lately, have you? What have you been eating?"

"Things out of cans," Ray admitted, bowing his head. "McDonald's. Fast food. Stuff like that."

"Not one shred of nutrition in the entire bunch," she chided. Taking a thermometer in its paper cover from her pocket, she said, "Open," and when Ray did, she peeled away the paper and inserted the thermometer deftly under his tongue. Pulling out a blood pressure cuff she wrapped it around his upper arm and pumped it up. Ray sat still while she took his blood pressure. When she unwrapped the cuff, she smiled at him encouragingly. "That's not bad. Try to eat better, though. I suspect your friends will see to that."

"My friends!" gasped Ray around the thermometer.

"The Ghostbusters. You saw that news show yesterday, didn't you? I swear, when I saw that last night, and poor Dr. Venkman was pleading with you to come home, I wanted to call you myself and urge you to show up. They brought him here, you know," she added as she withdrew the thermometer and studied it. "He took a worse knock on the head than you did."

"Peter? Is he all right? Is he still here?" Ray grabbed her arm and stared at her pleadingly. "I have to know if he's all right."

"He went home yesterday," she said. "He wasn't admitted. He should still take it easy today, but I'm sure he's on his way here right now. The doctor had the head nurse call and tell them to come for you."

Unaccountably, Ray panicked. As much as he wanted to fling himself at his friends and accept their welcome, he was afraid of it, too. This was too soon. He wasn't ready. He'd become so accustomed to hiding that the confrontation had taken him unawares. The guys would have to welcome him home if they came here. No matter what they really thought, they wouldn't turn him away when he was hurt. They might wonder why he'd gone to Washington Square first, and blame him for doing anything but returning straight home. He looked around frantically, seeking a hiding place. This was stupid. He wanted to see them. He wanted it more than anything he'd ever wanted before. Then why was he so afraid of it?

Misinterpreting his reaction, the nurse smiled at him and patted him gently on the shoulder. "Give them a little time, Dr. Stantz. They'll be here before you know it. I'm told they sounded really worried about you when they got the call. Let's make sure they see you at your best."

Ray nodded. "At my best," he repeated mechanically.

She squeezed his shoulder and let go. "Good man. I'll leave you now. Don't worry. The doctor doesn't think you'll have any side effects from the bump on your head. He'll come and sign you out and explain what precautions he wants you to take. Just relax and wait. The other Ghostbusters will be here soon."

She breezed out, confident that she had brought him good news. The minute she was gone, Ray scrambled to his feet and headed for closet and dresser. He found his clothes and his suitcases, and dressed hastily. His wallet was gone. Maybe the police had taken it as evidence or it was locked in a safe here in the hospital. He could always pick it up later. Right now, he needed a breathing space, not a long breathing space, but a little more time. He'd leave the hospital, sit in a park until he found his confidence. He hadn't resolved things with Jennifer yet. That had been interrupted. Fine. He'd return to Washington Square--and then he'd go home. He'd feel better if he could walk in the front door under his own power, with a measure of control. The guys evidently did want him back. The nurse was delighted with his return. Maybe that meant that it would be all right after all.

Peeking out to make sure the coast was clear, Ray started for the end of the hall, where he could see an exit sign that marked a stairwell. It never occurred to him that, in his weakened, run down condition, he was displaying bad judgment. He only knew he had to go quickly while he still had the courage to go.

Peter led the way into the hospital. It was all he could do to keep from running, charging through the lobby. Egon already had the room number, so they caught the elevator and rode up to the fifth floor. It was hard to believe that they were about to see Ray at last. Peter's mouth was dry and his heart was thumping in his chest. He was still afraid that something would go wrong.

They left the elevator, glancing around for a sign to tell them which way to Ray's room. Though it was too early for visiting hours, nothing would have kept them from Ray. Still in the lead, Peter came to a dead halt, his mouth falling open. Just beyond the elevators, a familiar shape hurried toward the stairs at the end of the hall, suitcases in hand. The auburn hair was shaggy, straggling over his collar and down in his eyes, and he'd grown a mustache. He was far too thin. Ray had been slightly chubby when he went away, but this man was on the wrong side of his ideal weight as if he were recovering from a long illness. A small dressing over his right ear showed where he had been struck by the mugger. It was Ray, fully dressed and running away.

Something in Peter snapped. Finally, they had found Ray again, and Ray wasn't bothering to wait for them. Peter spoke without thinking, the first words that came to him, cruel, accusing words. "So, Ray, you running out on us again?" As soon as he said it, he wanted to kick himself, especially when Ray flinched as if he'd sustained a second blow, one that wounded him more than the mugger's had.

"Peter!" Egon blurted, shocked to the core. He grabbed Peter by the shoulder and squeezed warningly. Janine gasped, and even Slimer, who had been all set to pounce on Ray and slime him more thoroughly than he had ever been slimed before, hung doubtfully at Winston's shoulder, his eyes full of fear.

"He didn't mean it, Ray," Winston said quickly. "He's been worried sick about you, okay? You scared him. We don't want to lose you again."

At Peter's words Ray froze, his entire body rigid. It was doubtful if anything else came through, not even Winston's hasty attempt to make peace. His suitcases hit the flor and he spun around, eyes huge with guilt and apology, and stared at Peter like a wild animal at bay. Retreating a step or two before he lost momentum, he waited, shoulders slumping, mouth drooping, for Peter to trash him. Venkman knew the exact second Ray noticed his bruised forehead. Huge and alarmed, his eyes focused on it, and he breathed, "Oh, Peter, you look terrible. Are you all right?" Then, catching himself, he whispered, "I'm sorry. I really wasn't running away. I just...needed time. I..." His voice faltered as if expecting judgment.

Peter hesitated, torn in two by his conflicting emotions. Ray was right in front of him, alive and safe, but Ray had been leaving again. Peter's trust, fragile creature that it was, cracked but didn't quite shatter. This wasn't a stranger, it was Ray, and he was suffering. Peter's words had added to his pain, and he felt like a jerk. Then Ray's knees lost their starch and the color fled his face, and Peter was there before he could begin to fall, wrapping his arms around his friend so tightly that neither of them could breathe properly. "You're not going anywhere, Ray," he chanted in Ray's ear. "You're coming home, where you belong! You got that, Stantz? You're coming home."

Ray's arms closed around him diffidently, then with growing hope, and suddenly, Peter wasn't supporting his whole weight any longer. Ray had gained strength and confidence from Peter's urgent words. "Please, Peter," he mumbled against Peter's shoulder, clinging for all he was worth, his body quivering as he shed tears of pain, weakness, and relief. "Can we go home now?"

"All right!" exulted Winston in the background, and the others crowded around to welcome Ray home. Peter didn't let go entirely--Ray wasn't getting away from him a second time--but he drew off enough that they could fuss over him and welcome him. He needed the tactile reassurance that Ray was here and safe.

As Egon detached him from Peter and hugged him thoroughly, Winston rumpled his hair, and Janine kissed him soundly on the cheek, color returned to Ray's cheeks and a faint and hesitant smile spread across his face.

"I was going to come home," he insisted, his fingers digging into Peter's arm as if he didn't want to let go. "I had to go to Washington Square and face it first, but the mugger interrupted. I was just going back there, and then I was going to come home. I wasn't running out on you, Peter. I wasn't."

"Hey, guy, I know," Peter returned. "I was a jerk. All this time and there you were. I panicked. Come on, let's go to your room and get you checked out of here."

"I saw you on TV," Ray admitted as they retraced his steps with Winston hauling his suitcases. He reached out and brushed his fingers against Peter's bruised forehead.

"God, I hope you did," Peter said. "I didn't want to go through that again. I did everything short of going down on my knees and begging you to come home. Glad to know I've still got it."

"You've still got an ego, homeboy," Winston informed him with a grin. They were all a little slap-happy with relief.

"Were you really working in a gas station, Ray?" Janine asked as he sat down on his bed again, Peter plopping down beside him. "Dan Aykroyd called last night and said he was sure he'd seen you but you gave him a fake name."

"I thought I'd fooled him," Ray confessed. "I never thought he'd call you."

"He only called when he saw Peter bleeding on TV," Winston explained. "He was worried about you both."

"The great and near great are always concerned about me," Peter put in quickly with an attempt at his usual cocky smile. It didn't quite come off, but maybe it would help.

The reminder of Peter's injury made Ray wince, but he braced himself and said quickly, "That was nice of him. I'll call him back tonight and let him know I'm okay. There was more than one of those big blue things, then?"

"It's worse than that," Egon replied. "They are caveris. The precursors to Vorenx. Have you come across him in any of your studies?"

Ray's eyes widened in surprise. "Vorenx! That dragon elemental? I've read about him. He shows up every now and then wanting a virgin sacrifice. If he doesn't get it, he tries to take over. Sometimes he causes trouble for years. This time, we'll stop him for good." His eyes glowed with excitement. "Wow. Vorenx. What have you learned so far?"

Peter and Egon exchanged relieved glances. Ray was beginning to sound like himself again. The enthusiasm was still muted, as if he were afraid to really let himself go, but it was still there. His exile hadn't crushed it completely.

Egon started to fill him in, his vocabulary growing in complexity by the minute, his eyes shining with as much enthusiasm as Ray ever displayed. He was like a child suddenly turned loose in a toy store, and Peter realized once again how much Egon had missed Ray. Of all of them, Ray was the one who best understood Egon's sheer joy in science, and who could share it with him wholeheartedly. There had been times when Egon had wandered around his lab like a lost soul during Ray's absence, touching the abandoned projects that the occultist had been working on and none of them had been able to cheer him up. Now he glowed with happiness, and Ray warmed to it, responding with eagerness and fascination.

Slimer wrapped his arms around Ray's neck and planted a whole row of messy kisses across Ray's face. "Ray not go away again," he insisted fiercely. "Slimer missed Ray." Another dozen kisses.

"Slimer," wailed Ray, pushing him away, though he didn't detach him entirely. "Enough, already. I'm back."

"You sure are," Winston told him. "And you're staying if we have to chain you to Ecto. Got it, homeboy?"

Ray grinned happily. "Got it."

Peter leaned against Ray's shoulder. "I like the mustache," he announced brightly. "It almost doesn't look like a demented caterpillar crawled across your face and took up residence on your lip."

Ray's eyes sparkled. "I think it looks pretty good."

"Don't listen to him, Ray," Janine urged. "It looks just fine. Women will flock to you. Some men look wonderful in mustaches. Sean Connery. Tom Selleck. Burt Reynolds. You're in good company." Ray's cheeks reddened in delighted embarrassment, as she reached out and brushed it with her fingertips.

"Adolf Hitler," Peter put in mischievously. "Josef Stalin..."

"Peter!" Ray groaned in protest. Everybody laughed, then Egon pretended sternness. "This frivolity is interrupting my report," he remarked, folding his arms across his chest and giving Peter a look of mock annoyance.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Egon," said Peter smoothly, dismissing the complaint with a wave of his hand. "Maybe it was just because I couldn't make any sense of it. If you don't use words that normal Ph.Ds can understand, I'm going to have to hurt you."

"I can understand him," Ray informed him automatically. "I even like it. Nobody talked like that at Blaine's. Come on, Egon, tell me more. Did you ever finish the second containment unit?"

"It's nearly ready," he said, drawing up the room's one visitor's chair for Janine. "I was hoping you'd get home in time to activate it. I want you to go over the schematics and the work we've done and make sure it's functioning properly before we start using it."

"Yeah, and we'd better do it quick," Ray replied, his face alive with excitement at the project facing him. "If Vorenx is about to break through into our world, we're gonna need the space."

"I needed to hear that," muttered Peter sourly, leaning against Ray's shoulder comfortably. "Wouldn't it be nice if we could work out some kind of transfer portal and when Vorenx tries to come through, he'd be shunted into the Netherworld."

"Hey, that's a great idea, Peter," lauded Ray, smiling happily at Venkman. "I wonder if we could do it. What do you think, Egon?"

"Hmmm." The physicist's face lit up with fascination. Peter could almost see the wheels spinning in his brain. "A fascinating concept. Amazing that you thought of it, Peter."

"Hey," Peter objected hotly. "I'm a genius, remember? I'm just so modest I let the big brains take the credit for it."

"We've seen that before," Winston put in, resting his hands on the footboard of Ray's bed. "Maybe twice since I started working for you. I'm not convinced, Pete."

Peter stuck out his tongue at him. The byplay felt wonderful. Maybe they were trying just a tiny bit too hard but it felt so much better than anything had while Ray was gone. The warmth of Ray's shoulder against his provided him with a tactile reassurance that he was reluctant to lose. Ray was back. Peter had to make sure he stayed here this time.

"Perhaps it might be possible to shunt Vorenx into another dimension if we had the time to work it out," Egon went on, reluctant to abandon the idea now that it had been brought to his attention. Peter preened himself, pleased with the success of his suggestion. As if he sensed it, Ray nudged him lightly with his elbow.

"Good idea, Peter."

Peter grinned.

"I might be able to work a out modification to the molecular phase amplifier that Ray designed," Egon forged on, his mind as quick as lightning. His glasses slipped down his nose, a sure sign of concentration, and he pushed them absently into place.

"Oh, Egon, that sounds like a brilliant idea," Janine put in, flashing him a quick smile.

"I thought that thingie was supposed to restabilize your molecules," objected Winston, frowning.

"It did, but Ray modified it again after it sent me into the netherworld. I think if we worked on it, we could figure out a way to halt Vorenx' transfer into our dimension, or even to get rid of him once he got here."

"I hate to break it to you, Egon," Peter cut in, "but doesn't that thing need just a teensy bit too much power to carry around in Ecto. I don't know how we'd use it without a generator to supply it. It isn't exactly like a proton pack, you know."

"Precisely why I suggested modification," Egon returned smugly, as if he were ready to counter any objections. Peter realized that the idea had become Egon's in the physicist's mind.

"Yeah, well, if it works, I want credit for being the brains behind the whole thing," he pushed. Egon turned considering blue eyes upon him.

"Occasionally laymen do blunder in with clever suggestions," he began.

Before he could finish or Peter could voice a protest, Ray's doctor appeared, the same blue eyed young man who had treated Peter the day before. "I see your friends have arrived," he told Ray with a smile. "I'm Dr. Feldman. Mrs. Brown, the nurse, reports that you have no memory loss and that your vital signs are normal. I'm going to send you home, but head injuries are nothing to play with. I told Dr. Venkman the same thing yesterday. Let's take a look at you," he said to Peter, whipping out a little light and shining it in Peter's eyes. "That looks good. How's your headache?"

"I can live with it," Peter said. "Compared to last night, I feel ready to run the New York Marathon. Getting Ray back helped, too," he added, ruffling Ray's hair. "It's about time my luck changed for the better."

Ray glowed. Peter suspected he would need a lot of reassurance in the next few days. Settling in again might be difficult, but Peter meant to see that it went well. He knew what life without Ray was like, and he had hated it. Still kicking himself for his reaction at the sight of Ray tiptoeing away, he realized that months of isolation might make his friend timid and wary, even around his friends.

"All our luck changed," Winston added.

"It did indeed," Egon concurred. "Doctor, can we take him home now?"

The doctor examined Ray quickly and appeared satisfied with his findings. Peter watched him carefully, alert for the faintest nuance of concern. "Yes," Feldman finally decided. "The same rules apply as yesterday. Any adverse symptoms and I want him in here. You too, Dr. Venkman. Now that you've got your friend back, please, get some rest."

"We have the list," Egon assured him. "We'll take care of both of them. Come on, Ray. Let's go home."

Ray stood on the ground floor of Ghostbuster Central staring around with delight, and felt his eyes fill with tears. Home. There had been so many times in the past three months when he had believed he'd never make it back here that it still felt like a dream. He stood before Janine's desk, feasting his eyes on familiar objects, his smile growing. Maybe that woman on the bus to California had been right. Maybe it was time to stop running at last. His friends wanted him back. Even Peter, who had pounced on him in the hospital with an accusation, had probably done that out of fear of losing him again. Ray felt warmth flow through his veins at the knowledge that, in spite of everything, he belonged here. He knew it would be hard to don a proton pack again and go into the field, especially since he still remembered Jennifer so clearly, but he was beginning to believe that he could do it. His friends had no doubts. Already Egon was soliciting his help for various projects, and even Peter was coming up with clever ideas to halt the threat of Vorenx.

Slimer was proving a real pest, but Ray had always tolerated Slimer better than the others did. He loved the green ghost and didn't have the heart to push him away. The spud was off-color, as if his energy had been siphoned away. "What happened to Slimer?" he worried, catching Egon's eye. Slimer hovered closer to Ray, one hand on the occultist's shoulder.

"He lost his appetite when you went away," Egon replied, dropping a hand on Ray's other shoulder to reassure him that the damage was not permanent. "He still ate, but not as much as usual. We had to fix special treats for him. Even Peter helped prepare them."

"Yeah," Peter growled, in spite of the twinkle in his eye. "Cooking for Slimer. Don't let the word get out, whatever you do. Talk about a blow to my dignity. Now that you're back, he'll probably start raiding the refrigerator again."

"Raid the refrigerator. Yeah! Yeah!" Slimer cried in eager excitement, his yellow eyes glowing with joy. "Gotta go. Ray don't go away." He bestowed a sloppy, ectoplasmic kiss on Ray's cheek, went straight up through the ceiling and vanished. A moment later the little puddle of slime that he'd left on the tiles succumbed to gravity and came splatting down on top of Peter's head. Venkman let out a roar of annoyance. "Somebody give me a thrower," he cried. "I've let that little ghost get away with too much already. It's time to teach him a lesson." He rubbed at the slime in disgust.

Ray started to laugh. Peter complaining about Slimer was such a normal part of his life that he rejoiced to hear it, even as he caught Peter's arm to restrain him. Winston grabbed the psychologist's other arm. "Come on, Pete. He's just hungry again. He's got his appetite back," Winston reminded him. "Cut the little guy some slack, okay?"

"If I have to, I have to," Peter agreed reluctantly. "It might be nice to have him back to normal--remember, I said might."

"I hope he's not the only one who's found his appetite," Winston muttered, his eyes moving up and down Ray's decidedly smaller frame. "You look like an ad for diet pills, Ray."

"Yeah, you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet," Peter commented, walking around Ray in a circle. He pinched Ray's upper arm between thumb and forefinger, as if he were ready to prepare him for the oven. "This does not look good."

"Oh, I don't know, Pete," Winston disagreed. "On second thought, I kind of like the lean look. You're just afraid that Elyse will find him more appealing than she does you. Or Beth, or Ruthie, or whoever the others were that were calling you last night."

"Ruthie," Ray cried, staring at Peter in surprise. "You broke up with her months ago."

"True," Peter admitted regretfully. "Too true. But when she saw me on TV yesterday, she came back. They all did. Sharon Westerman. Maxine. Tina." He started to count them off on his fingers, and ran out of fingers. "I have to fight them off with barge poles," he added with becoming modesty.

"I saw you on TV, too," said Ray. Peter tensed, not at remembering his injury but as if the words had reminded him of the reason for his appearance. Ray knew that Egon and Winston could have kept the cameras away from Peter. Likely Peter had insisted on appearing, partly because he loved the publicity, but mostly because it was a good forum for an appeal to Ray. Ray was grateful for the concern. He struggled with the memory of a bloodstained, desperate Peter for a minute then he forced himself to play along. "You really hammed it up."

"It worked, didn't it?" Venkman retorted with a broad grin. "It brought my favorite boy scout home. You'd better stay this time, and that's an order." His eyes narrowed slightly as he stared at Ray. In their green depths lurked worry, as if afraid Ray would bolt once more.

"I always wanted to come back," Ray admitted. He knew he wasn't ready to talk about this yet, but that much had to be said. Before he took it further, though, he needed to settle in first, to feel comfortable here again, to be certain of his place.

As if he realized that, Peter said quickly, "I should hope you did. We're such wonderful people that I'm surprised the whole world doesn't want to live here." He buffed his fingernails against his shirt.

"They probably do," Winston informed him, giving him a shove. "But you fight them off with barge poles, remember?"

"I think you should go to bed, Ray," Egon interrupted, suddenly serious. "After all, you were knocked unconscious." His eyes moved past Ray to the man who hadn't budged from his side since they had climbed out of Ecto. "Peter, you must be a little shaky, too. Why don't the pair of you take a nap."

Ray suspected that Egon didn't want to leave him alone yet and he was grateful for it. He was so glad to see his friends again that not even the specter of Jennifer could dampen his delight. He didn't want to let any of them out of his sight yet. He knew it was smart to rest for awhile, and the throbbing in his head proved it. Besides, Peter's face still held traces of pain and pallor, and the bruise that decorated his forehead must be as unnerving to Egon, Winston, and Janine as it was to Ray.

"Okay," he said. "I'll take a nap, but not a long one. It sounds like there's a lot of work to do. Egon, can you get the material on Vorenx laid out for me so I can go over it when I wake up? This could be a nasty one."

"Yeah, it'll be a lot of fun, won't it, Ray?" Peter draped his arm around Ray's shoulder. "Come on, you boy genius you, let's sneak out of here and let the others do our work for us for awhile. Deal?"

"Deal," Ray agreed. He still wasn't sure of his rights, especially since Peter's attitude bespoke a possessive panic, a fear that Ray would creep away again. Ray knew he wouldn't do that. It would be cruel. But saying it wouldn't be enough. He'd have to pitch in and prove it, make sure Peter and the others could trust him.

He let Peter steer him toward the stairs, and the others fell in behind him, Winston snatching up his suitcase.

"What's in this, Ray? Bricks?"

"Books, mostly," Ray admitted with a rueful shrug. "I read a lot of books while I was gone and I didn't want to leave them behind." They had given him a distraction in the evenings; thick, technical books that needed concentration if one was to comprehend them. They were too useful to abandon.

"Good. I just wanted to know what I was risking a hernia for." Winston grinned and bore the suitcase upstairs with an ease that belied his words. Ray fell in behind him. Janine gave him a friendly wave as she sat down at her desk.

"Take it easy, Ray," she said. "Welcome home."

Everything was so familiar to him that it seemed, in many ways, as if he had been gone only a few days, or had never left at all. Only the devoted attention of the guys and Janine made this day different. Peter watched him constantly. Ray was afraid that Peter had really meant his words at the hospital, that he blamed Ray for his departure and took it personally. Though Ray had intended no such thing, he knew Peter well enough to realize that the psychologist well might take it wrong, not at a conscious level, but deeper inside. Peter had grown up with a father who was not always there when Peter needed him, and though Peter's love for his dad had never faded, his trust was not as wholehearted as that of most boys for their parents. Peter dealt with it better now than he once had, but it had required a lot of effort. Trusting didn't come easily to him. The fear that Ray's actions might have affected Peter's trust in him hurt, but he couldn't do anything to fix that now except to prove himself worthy of it again.

Peter certainly appeared glad to have him back--Ray was humbled by the delight of all his friends and by the ease with which they had opened ranks and pulled him in. He wondered how long it would take him to relax and take his acceptance for granted the way he'd done before.

His own bed waited for him, still made up, and his own clothes still hung in his closet. Touched, Ray stood in the middle of the room while Peter opened up his bed for him and Winston put the few clothes from his suitcase away and stacked the books on his footlocker. Egon guided Ray to his bed, a hand on his arm.

"Get some rest," he urged. "I think you'll feel better after a nap. Would you like an aspirin? A heating pad?"

"No, I'm okay, Egon," Ray replied automatically, beginning to unbutton his shirt. "I don't have a bad headache. The nurse said I was just run down and otherwise I would have snapped out of it quicker."

"Yeah, and we'll take care of that little problem for you," Peter told him. "When's the last time you ate a decent meal?"

"I haven't had anything that matched your cooking, Peter." Ray smiled at him earnestly.

Winston chuckled. "That's one good thing, anyway, homeboy. Probably saved your life."

Peter punched Winston's arm. "Let's not pick on Peter--at least not until I'm perfectly recovered. This nap business is a good idea." He gestured Egon and Winston away. "Go on, you two, earn your keep. Ray and I will crash for awhile." Egon stopped long enough before leaving to lower the window shades, putting the room into semi-darkness. "Let us rest," Peter continued. "With Vorenx on the horizon, this might be the last chance either of us get."

Ray put on his pajamas and climbed into bed. His own mattress felt wonderful. Rolling over, he curled into a comfortable position.

"Here." Peter stood over him holding out Ray's Stay-Puft marshmallow man doll. "Want this? I think he missed you."

Ray felt warm all over at Peter's offer. He reached for the stuffed doll and pulled it into his arms. It felt nice, comforting. "Thanks, Peter."

"No biggie. I did have to fight Slimer off it when you were gone, though?"

"How? Sleeping with it yourself?" Ray teased gently.

Peter started to his own bed, the picture of offended dignity. "I prefer my bedmates female--and alive, thank you very much." He made a great show of settling in. "Ray?" His voice was suddenly dead serious.

"Yes, Peter?"

"I'm really glad you're home."

Peter started awake, not sure what had disturbed his sleep, and lay amid the twisted bedclothes, listening. The false darkness produced by the lowered blinds had passed into genuine darkness. He realized with surprise that it was evening. He must have needed the rest worse than he thought.

A faint muttering sound gradually registered on his consciousness, and he turned his head questioningly to identify its source.

It was Ray.

Peter was out of bed in a flash, hurrying across to the other man's bed. He had awakened earlier, in the middle of the afternoon, jerking awake at the memory. Ray had come home. Peter had bounded out of bed and come here, to stand at the foot of Ray's bed, staring down at him in greedy relief. Ray was here, Ray was safe. Peter had needed the reassurance, and it had felt good to stand watching his friend's sleep. He was back and Peter was going to make sure he didn't vanish again, if he had to chain him to the fire pole to do it.

Then, Ray's face had been peaceful in sleep, the longer hair tangled against the pillow, the mustache adding a touch of strangeness to the familiar image. Now, Ray tossed and turned restlessly, muttering, "No, no, no," over and over again, his face damp with perspiration. Suddenly his whole body tensed, taut as a drawn bowstring, and he erupted from the mattress, sitting bolt upright and awake, his eyes wild and staring. For a minute, he wasn't aware of Peter, not until Peter sat beside him and put his arm around the younger man's shoulders.

"Ray. Come on, Ray, easy now. You were dreaming. Wake up, Ray. You're safe in your own bed. It's okay. Peter's here."

He continued the litany until Ray shuddered violently as if emerging from a trance and turned his face into the shelter of Peter's shoulder. Automatically, Peter began to trail his fingers through Ray's hair. "I'm sorry, Peter," came his muffled voice. "I... still have the nightmares sometimes. Not as often as at first, though. I--I didn't mean to wake you."

"Wake me, hell," Peter said to render that particular apology unnecessary. "What nightmares, pal?" he asked, alarm twisting the old familiar knot in the pit of his stomach.

Ray hesitated, his voice sinking even lower than before. "About...Jennifer," he breathed. "About when I...killed her."

"That's crazy," blurted Peter, tightening his grip and shaking Ray slightly. "You didn't kill her and you know it!"

"I know," Ray confessed in a low, urgent voice. "I know it was an accident, but it still hurts. She was so young and happy, Peter, and now she's gone. It's my fault, whether it was an accident or not."

Peter went rigid with horror. They'd discussed this possibility, but the excitement of Ray's homecoming had driven it from everyone's minds. "Shit," he muttered, furious at himself for overlooking it. "I should have told you right away. You think you killed her," he breathed. "You think she's dead."

"I..." Ray lifted his head hesitantly. Peter saw the agony of the nightmare still etched upon his face, but underneath it, faintly, a gleam of curiosity manifested itself. "She is dead," he whispered miserably. Then when Peter's face twisted in shock, he added faintly, "Isn't she?"

"No! She's alive, Ray. Alive. You took off before we could tell you. We went crazy hunting for you and we were sure you'd come home as soon as you heard, but you didn't."

Ray stared at Peter in openmouthed shock, unable to understand what he was hearing. "But Peter, I saw..." he began reasonably.

"You saw Big Blue grab her and use her energy to teleport them both to another location." Peter spoke so quickly that the words fell over themselves in his hurry to reassure his friend. "We didn't know it was possible but, believe me, buddy, it is. I've had it happen to me twice, once when we caught Big Blue and the other time when I got this." He pointed to his forehead. "When it snatched Jennifer, you fired and it might have drawn energy from that, too. What the caveris do is snatch up people and use their energy to transport them--"

"To another location," Ray breathed, his eyes wide with dawning wonder. "I didn't know it was a caveris then. I'd only read about them, never seen a picture. You mean Big Blue and Jennifer weren't neutronized? They just teleported someplace else, like a transporter on Star Trek?"

"Yes," said Peter fiercely. "God, Ray, it was on all the news channels everywhere and in all the papers. We were sure you knew about it, and we couldn't understand why you didn't come back. We waited and waited. Egon said you'd--" He fell silent. Better not suggest to Ray that he'd probably have blamed himself for what might have happened--that the guys had believed that was why he hadn't come home. "Damn it, Ray," he finished in a voice that was harsher than usual because his own emotions were too close to the surface, "couldn't you at least have checked? Do you know what we went through, not knowing where you were?"

Ray flinched, and Peter realized how that had sounded. He pulled Ray close against him in apology, enveloping him in a fierce hug. "Don't listen to me. You know how I get. Of course you couldn't. You thought you knew what the papers would say and you didn't want to see it. Nobody would."

Ray's head moved up and down against his shoulder in hesitant confirmation. "I...I couldn't, Peter. By the time I was ready, there wasn't anything in the news any longer." He heaved a vast and shaky sigh. "Jennifer's alive," he exulted as if that discovery had restored the world to its rightful order. "You're not just telling me this?"

"Alive and well," Peter confirmed. "You can go and see her if you want to. Her father wanted us to apologize to you. He knew he shouldn't have let her run free and he blamed himself, but it was easier for him to take it out on you. Human nature. Ordinarily I would have decked him, but he was so trashed already that I couldn't. The whole thing was one big, crazy misunderstanding, but the important thing is that she's alive and well and you're home."

Reaction finally caught up with Ray. His body quivered with uncontrollable sobs. Burying his face in Peter's shoulder he wept the tears of relief and exhaustion. Peter held him close, one hand stroking his shaggy hair, and he murmured over and over, "It's all right, Ray. It's over now. It's all right."

At a sound in the doorway he lifted his head. Egon was silhouetted there, his whole body registering shock. "Is he all right, Peter?" he asked softly, coming closer and sitting behind Ray on the bed, reaching up to rest a hand on his shoulder.

"We're idiots, Egon," Peter muttered through clenched teeth. "He had a nightmare about Jennifer. He didn't know she was alive."

Egon's eyes widened in shock. "Oh, God," he gasped. "Raymond, I'm sorry. I should have told you." He leaned closer and put his arms around both Ray and Peter, bowing his head in distress.

Gradually Ray gained control of himself again. He caught his breath, little quivers still making his shoulders tremble. Finally he drew an uneven breath, sniffling a little, and lifted his head. Even in the dim light from the hallway, Peter could see a shaky peace in his eyes.

"You guys didn't know I still thought that," he said quickly. "It's not your fault." He smiled at Peter and turned his head to include Egon. "I feel so light, as if I could fly." His eyelids drooped.

"You probably need sleep," Egon said. "Sleep without dreams this time."

"Hey, yeah," Ray replied. "I'm just zonked, guys. I promise, tomorrow I'll get back to work, really."

"There's no hurry, Ray," Egon assured him. "We want you feeling better. You've had a rotten time. Go back to sleep now." He caught Peter's eye. "We'll stay with you until you're sleeping." He rose to his feet.

Ray's face warmed. "Thanks," he replied as they eased him down against the bed again. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed almost instantly. Peter sat beside him until he was certain Ray was sleeping.

When Ray's face smoothed out, Peter leaned forward, touched his shoulder very gently and smiled down at him before climbing to his feet. "Don't go away, Egon," he said softly, though Ray didn't stir at the sound of his voice. "I'm gonna get dressed and I'll be right with you." He hurried into his clothes and followed Egon across the hall to the lab.

"He'll begin to relax now," Egon assured him. "I should have realized that was why he went to Washington Square. I just assumed he wanted to face it before he came home. We were fools."

"No, Egon," Peter comforted him. "We were all so caught up with finding Ray again that none of us were thinking straight. I think he'll be okay now, don't you?"

"I think so. If we can make him excited about the teleportation process, he'll probably focus on that."

"He'll probably still have some residual feelings about Jennifer," Peter mused. "Knowing the truth will help him a lot, but it will still take time. You can't go through three months of hell and get over it in a minute."

"That goes for all of us," Egon returned as if he wanted to make the point especially clear to Peter. "It will take time for us to adjust again to Ray being home, not just time for Ray to adjust."

Peter heard a certain perception in Egon's voice that made him hesitate. "Is that directed at me, big guy?" he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes. It would be just like Egon to notice Peter's subconscious resentment, though he had tried to hide it, even from himself.

"Perhaps a little, Peter." Egon gestured for Peter to sit down, and he dropped onto the couch, where he sat blinking up at Egon. The headache had gone from behind his eyes, but the faintest remnants of it still lingered when he moved quickly. He started to massage his temples.

"Come on, Egon, what are you getting at?" he demanded.

The physicist drew up his desk chair and sat on it backwards, folding his arms across the backrest. "Your attitude toward Ray," he said with the quiet understanding he was so good at.

"My attitude?" He knew what Egon meant, but it was difficult to admit it. "Come on, Egon, what's wrong with my attitude?"

"Nothing, really. You're genuinely glad to have Ray home and it shows--I know how much you missed him. We all did. But there's a slight element of mistrust in your behavior toward him now, isn't there? Think about it."

Peter hesitated. He wanted to deny Egon's charge categorically, but he was too honest with himself to do so. The sight of Ray creeping toward the stairs in the hospital still stuck in his mind, and he recalled his accusation just now, when he had become annoyed because Ray hadn't checked the newspapers and come home. The lingering resentment he had buried all these weeks was still there, fading rapidly, but not yet entirely gone.

"Okay, yeah," he said. "I just gave him hell because he didn't bother to check the newspapers and find out about Jennifer. Damn it, Egon, it was Ray. I know he probably wouldn't have checked the newspapers. It would have only been confirming what he didn't want to face in the first place. I can't blame him for behaving according to his nature. I like him that way and I don't want him to change. But a part of me still resents it." He dropped his eyes, playing with the buttons on his shirt, uncomfortable with the discussion. No more than most men did he like digging around in his psyche and exposing his findings for the world, or even for one of his closest friends. He trusted Egon completely and knew that anything he said to him now would go no further, but it was still difficult. His training should have made it easier for him, but this time, it was too close to home.

"You're the psychologist, Peter," Egon reminded him in a sympathetic voice. "You understand what's at work here, both with you and with Ray. You just said it about Ray, that it would take him time to heal. Knowing that Jennifer is safe will make all the difference, but it can't wipe out those months he's suffered overnight. Knowing Ray is safe will make the difference for you, too, but you'll have to work through it just like he will. Just as I will, or Winston, or Janine. I didn't resent Ray for leaving, but there were times when I found myself very angry, not with Ray, but with fate. You aren't the only one who needs him, Peter." He lowered his eyes, giving his glasses an awkward shove into place at the admission.

"I know," Peter said softly. "I'm sorry, Egon. I know how hard it was for you. I saw how happy you were when you were spouting all those twenty dollar words at Ray in the hospital. You really missed that--the special companionship you have with Ray." He sighed, thinking of his own friendship with the occultist. How had any of them survived the past three months?

"There is one good thing about all this, you know," Egon said thoughtfully, raising his head and meeting Peter's eyes. He looked more alive than he had looked for weeks. Peter realized something he had known since Ray's disappearance but hadn't let himself conceptualize because it would have been too painful. Over the past months, Egon had only been going through the motions. They all had. They should have supported each other more. If anything like this ever happened again, he'd be ready. Or else, he'd make sure that it never happened again.

"Great," he exulted in response to Egon's remark. "I need to hear something good. Go on, you boy genius, what is it?"

"I don't think any of us will take each other for granted any more."

Peter felt a smile begin. "Gotcha," he agreed happily, reaching out and clapping him affectionately on the arm. Egon was right. All of them had adjustments to make, but they wanted to make them. The stakes were too high not to make them. For the first time, Peter genuinely believed that everything would work out.

He might have been a bit more cautious in his optimism if he had noticed Ray's presence in the hall a few minutes earlier. Ray had awakened alone in the darkened room and climbed out of bed, needing the simple reassurance of seeing the others, even if only for a second or two. Hearing voices across the hall, he started to investigate. Egon was speaking.

"...there's a slight element of mistrust in your behavior toward him now, isn't there?"

Ray froze. He knew without hearing a word from Peter that it was true. Peter had accused Ray of running out on him in the hospital. Just now he'd complained that Ray hadn't bothered to check out the story about Jennifer's survival, implying that by failing to do so, Ray had let him down again. He strained his ears to hear Peter's reply.

"Okay, yeah," Peter admitted reluctantly. Confirmation. Ray's heart sank. Even as he listened to Peter's words, Peter's protests that he understood why Ray had done what he did, the occultist could hear a thread of resentment running through Peter's voice. Peter no longer trusted him. "A part of me still resents it," Peter concluded and Ray crept away before he could hear any more. He had believed that Peter's welcome was wholehearted and genuine. His earlier, "I'm really glad you're home," had come from the heart. Ray was sure of that. But this negative feeling lurked in Peter's heart, too, and Ray wasn't sure which of them would win out in the end.

It took him a long time to sleep again after that. Though the Jennifer nightmare didn't return, it was replaced a series of confused images of the guys in danger, needing him and him not there, none of the dreams lingering past awakening, which left him feeling confused and unhappy as if he'd left something important unfinished. He had slept the night through but he did not awaken rested.

He got up and dressed, trying to ignore the dull ache which lingered behind his eyes. The headache was much better than it had been yesterday, but the aftereffects coupled with his worry about Peter left him drained and listless. He took a quick shower in hopes that it would revive him, and paused, studying himself in the mirror, the long hair damp and limp around his face. With sudden determination, he took out his razor and made the mustache vanish. He didn't need disguises any longer. He wanted to be himself again. Maybe the change would help them all adjust. He felt immensely better when he was finished. He felt like Ray again.

Hunger guided him to the second floor, where he found the other three eating a big breakfast. His momentary feeling of being left out vanished when he saw that his plate was waiting for him in the usual place and that the others looked up to greet him with welcoming smiles and hellos. Peter jumped up, grinning.

"Sleeping beauty awakens. Come and sit down." He yanked out Ray's chair with a screech against the tile floor and gestured Ray into it. "You must have needed the rest, guy. I checked on you a couple of times in the night to make sure you were okay and you were sawing logs like crazy." He added seriously, "No more bad dreams?"

Ray shook his head vigorously. "No, not a one." Never mind the faded memories. He always remembered the Jennifer dream when it came, and he hadn't had it again after finding out she had survived.

"Great," enthused Peter, his voice empty of any resentment. "How about sausage and eggs? I heard you in the shower and figured I'd have everything ready. Don't expect special treatment every day, though," he cautioned, his eyes sparkling with good humor. "This is your welcome home breakfast."

"That sounds good, Peter."

Venkman headed for the stove, calling over his shoulder, "You lucked out, kiddo. My turn to cook. All the best of everything."

Winston pretended to gag, and Egon looked amused but refrained from comment about the cook. Peter returned in a minute with a platter full of sausage links and two eggs fixed just as Ray liked them best, over easy. He scooped the eggs onto Ray's plate with a spatula. "Eat, eat," he urged. "You'll have people saying I starve you."

"You sound like Egon's mom," Winston told him with a grin, causing Egon to frown at him.

Peter ignored that as beneath his dignity. Instead, he sat down and grabbed a sausage from his own plate, eschewing knife and fork, and began to chew it. Around the mouthful of food, he mumbled, "I see the lip fuzz is gone. Now you look like Ray again."

"Janine thought it was cute," Ray reminded him, grinning. Just being around his friends was enough to dispel some of the shadows of the previous night. He found himself falling into the old byplay without a second's pause.

"Ray, Janine thinks Egon is cute," Peter returned with relish. Egon's cheeks reddened slightly and he favored Peter with a more pointed frown than the one he had given Winston. "Therefore," concluded Peter, waving the remaining half of his sausage in the air as if to illustrate his point, "her taste is questionable."

"I always considered Janine a woman of excellent taste," Egon said stiffly, eyes on his plate.

Slimer came drifting into the room before Peter could reply. "Oh boy, breakfast," he exulted, heading for the plate of sausages.

Peter held up his hand. "Wait a minute, Spud. Ray gets first pick."

Ray was genuinely hungry. He speared four sausages with his fork, considered it, and took two more. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten with such pleasure. Yesterday, except for a bag of peanuts and a soda on the plane, he had eaten nothing at all, and today, he was starving.

Slimer eyed the depleted mound of sausages with regret, but decided to go for what he could get. Enthusiastically, he swooped toward the platter, opening his mouth wide enough to take them all at one gulp and swallowing them whole.

"Ah, the joys of watching excellent table manners," Peter remarked, shaking his head. "Slimer, I thought I'd taught you how to eat nicely. Did you forget all your lessons so fast?"

Slimer emitted a loud burp, clapped both hands over his mouth apologetically, and murmured, "Sorry, Peter," hanging his head in shame.

"You've been teaching Slimer?" Ray asked in surprise. "What brought that on?"

"Desperation," was Peter's prompt response. "You weren't here to keep him in line and somebody had to. Egon's been designing all kinds of gismos--have him show you his long-range ectoplasmic detector, the gadget that goes off in the middle of the night and wakes us out of a sound sleep. You know how he gets when he's hip deep in research."

"Garbage stacked to the ceiling?" hazarded Ray.

"You got it," Winston told him, mopping up the yolk of his egg with a piece of toast. "We had to pick up after this boy like you wouldn't believe."

"I'd believe it," Ray said, smiling at Egon, who started to tell Ray about the long-range detector. Forgotten, Slimer pretended to pout, then he brightened and made a strafing run at Peter's plate. The psychologist wrapped his arms around it protectively.

"Oh, no you don't, Spud."

Making a nasty face at Peter, Slimer backed away, settling himself beside Ray like a puppy begging a bite. Ray grinned at him, flipping him one of his sausages.

"I'd like to take you to see the back-up containment unit this morning," Egon went on, ignoring Slimer's plays for attention, so caught up was he in the subject. "Then I'll show you the ectoplasmic detector. It's how we learned about Vorenx. I theorize that we have until Halloween to work it out. The information I can find on Vorenx indicates that he enjoys making an entrance."

"He does," Ray replied. "I remember reading about him. I wish I'd realized that Big Blue was a caveris. We'd have had a lot more warning. They usually start coming a few months before Vorenx attempts a breakthrough."

"Yeah, and the second one came a couple of days ago," Winston put in, stacking his coffee cup and saucer on the middle of his plate. "Took us awhile to realize that Big Blue hadn't broken out of the containment unit."

"We called 'em the Blues Brothers," Peter said with a grin.

That reminded Ray that he needed to call Dan Aykroyd. It was a little too early to call California now, but it couldn't wait much longer.

"But seriously, Ray," Egon persisted, "I think that Peter's idea yesterday was a workable one. I doubt our particle throwers will prove effective against Vorenx. They were fairly ineffective against the caveris."

"Yeah, and I'd rather try my suggestion than crossing the streams," Peter replied. "It's too dangerous to suit me. One of these days, we'll do it too often and the known universe will vanish in a puff of smoke."

"Entirely possible," Egon agreed, which made Peter's face fall. Ray couldn't help smiling at his comically dismayed expression. "Come along, Ray, if you're finished," Egon continued, aiming him toward the door. "There's a lot of work to do, and I don't think I could have managed it without your help."

Ray felt his enthusiasm growing. "This is great," he burst out. "Vorenx is going to be a real challenge. I can hardly wait. I do have one thing I need to do today, but I can do it this afternoon. Let's take a look at the new containment unit."

Peter threw him a sharp, narrow-eyed glance at the mention of his task as if he expected Ray to head straight for the nearest bus terminal, and Ray flinched. Another example of Peter's mistrust. The psychologist must know that Ray only meant to visit Jennifer and confirm, for his own peace of mind, that she really was fine. He caught Peter's eye and tried to smile reassuringly, though his muscles had tensed at the proof that Peter didn't trust him. Peter's eyes met and held his. After a moment, the psychologist deliberately relaxed and fell into step. Ray wasn't sure anyone else had noticed the exchange. Winston seemed unaware of it. But the others hadn't asked him what he meant to do. They were giving him space, trying not to tie him down and overprotect him. Yet their silence worried him.

When they passed Janine at her desk, she called a cheery greeting to Ray. "I see the mustache is gone." Her eyes measured him. "You look better this way. More like our Ray." She cocked an eyebrow at Egon. "Where are you heading? There hasn't been a call."

Egon explained it to her. "Ray hasn't seen the backup unit yet. We're going over there and put the final touches on it. Let us know if the long-range detector goes off," he concluded.

"It probably will," she replied sourly. "It does often enough."

They left the building and headed down the street. Peter pointed out the new restaurant that occupied the ground floor of the building where the containment was located as they went around to the side of the building and down a railed off flight of stairs to the lower level. The Ghostbuster logo had been painted prominently on a sign over the doorway. "Hey, this is great," Ray said, taking in the details with his eyes. Egon produced a key and ushered Ray into the room.

Across from the door was a containment device, similar to the one in the cellar at Ghostbuster Central, a big, red structure set into the wall, the containment grid open and unpowered. Disconnected power cables dangled near the wall unit, and a schematic diagram lay spread out on a table in the middle of the room.

Hurrying forward eagerly Ray bent over the blueprint, his eyes tracing connections. "This is the same plan we have at headquarters," he realized. "It looks good, Egon."

"With a minor modification," Egon replied, leaning over Ray's shoulder and pointing to a section of the design. "I incorporated an alarm into the program. You once mentioned putting in a back up system that would give us a fifteen minute time delayed warning and provide that much additional power if anything started to go wrong. We need it since it's not on the premises at headquarters."

"Hey, yeah," Ray remembered. "I thought that might be necessary. Wow, that's really good system. The way you've shunted power here won't drain the system one bit." He pointed to the diagram. "You're a genius, Egon."

"Yes, I know." Ray saw him catch Peter's eye and both of them grinned.

"So when do we turn it on?" Ray asked, prowling over to the unit itself and examining the unfinished connections. "It only needs these power lines attached, doesn't it? I can do it in five minutes."

"Go for it, homeboy," Winston urged, so Ray pushed up his sleeves and went to work. It felt wonderful to be doing Ghostbuster business again, and he lost himself in it, even if it was so simple that Peter could have done it. Peter himself helped, passing him tools when he asked for them, and Egon buried his nose in the schematics, watching Ray do the work and comparing each step to the drawing. When he threw the final switch and the containment unit hummed into life, Peter clapped him on the back. "Good work, buddy," he said.

Egon closed the containment grid and watched the green light come on, then he took a number of readings with his ever-present P.K.E. meter, checking the dials on the containment grid. "Power levels are constant and the readings are steady. It's ready for use. We'll store any ghosts we trap today in here." Egon rolled up the diagrams and fastening a rubber band around them. "As for now, Ray, I'd like to go over the long-range detector with you. I've been trying to triangulate the location by increasing fine tuning and cross referencing of the signals we pick up. If we knew the location of the gateway, we could be prepared when Vorenx come through. Peter's suggestion about shunting Vorenx to the Netherworld might work if we could be ready with the modified molecular phase amplifier. We'll need to find a way to tie our throwers into it. If we take the core unit and build a new framework, incorporating the power in our throwers and a portable generator, we could possibly create a device that we could take with us on calls. What do you think, Ray? You're the expert."

He started for the stairs and the other three fell in behind him.

"That might work, Egon," Ray replied, continuing with growing enthusiasm, "If we boosted power on the phase amplifier and shunted the destabilizer rectifier power we might be able to focus the device so its main function would be to force entities into alternate dimensions. It would be fantastic! Some of the really top of the line demons and nether entities strain the containment unit. We've worked on this kind of idea before, but with this, we'd have an effective device we could take with us into the field. This is great!" Ideas came to him quickly. He knew he could make it work.

"You know, Ray," Winston said thoughtfully, "I don't mean to rain on your parade, but didn't you say once that powerful demons could escape from the Netherworld? Vorenx is that powerful, isn't he? What's to stop him from coming back to our world once we shunt him there?"

"Good question, Ray, my man," agreed Peter. "We don't want him popping in again with revenge in mind. That wouldn't be any fun."

"When we modify the device, we'll adjust for that," Ray said promptly. "Vorenx is ectoplasmic," he reminded the two men. "Shifting him to the Netherworld altered Egon's molecular structure. It reversed the polarity, remember? If we do that to Vorenx, we'll alter his power base. It's bound to affect his capabilities. He might eventually be able to return, but there's no guarantee he could do it. Egon and I will design a failsafe into the destabilizer rectifier unit that will prevent him from reversing his polarity once he's over there."

"Oh, good," said Peter brightly as they walked toward Ghostbuster headquarters. "You can talk gobbledy-gook as well as Egon can."

"It makes perfect sense, Peter," Egon chided. "It will take a great deal of work, however. How do you feel today? Do you think you can go on busts?"

"Moi?" Peter poked his chest dramatically with his thumb. "I'm the picture of health."

Winston stopped walking and leaned in close to examine his forehead. Peter had removed the dressing this morning and the small cut was healing nicely. The bruise around it was vivid, though. It would take time for that to go away, working its way through a number of colors in the process. "You know, good buddy, you could cover this up. I'm sure Janine would lend you some of her makeup to hide it."

"Hide it?" objected Peter. "I don't want to hide it. This wins me the sympathy vote big time."

"But it doesn't get you out of your chores," Egon pointed out.

"Egon!" Janine burst out of Ghostbuster Central just as they reached the doorway. "That thingie of yours is buzzing again. Come quick."

They raced through the ground floor and up the stairs. Slimer came to meet them, wailing about demons and wringing his hands. "Bad ghosts come?" he asked anxiously, wrapping an arm around Ray's neck and quivering there nervously.

Ray detached him gently. "It's just an alarm, Spud. There aren't any bad ghosts here."

"Just one," Peter corrected immediately, favoring Slimer with a dirty look. "The one who slimed my boots this morning."

"Oops," muttered Slimer, attempting to look nonchalant.

The buzzer was a shrill, persistent drone that echoed throughout the entire structure. When they burst into the lab, Ray could see that a row of lights were blinking red along its main face in counterpoint to the buzzing noise. Slimer clapped his hands to the sides of his head, as if to shut out the noise.

"Excellent," Egon cried, hurrying to the printer he had attached to the device. It was drawing out a series of lines that merged and diverged again. "More data." He began to make notes on a pad that lay nearby, studying the printout and adding information from a series of dials on the front of the device. "If the gateway opens once more, I should have the location pinpointed. I've narrowed it to a three block radius now." He gestured at a street map of Manhattan pinned to the wall behind the detector. Brightly colored tacks had been stuck into the map and pulled out again, as the series of tiny holes suggested. Each withdrawal must have contracted the pins around a smaller area, because the target was narrowed in on, less than six blocks from Ghostbuster Central.

"It's in there somewhere," Egon informed Ray, pointing to the small area. "With these readings, I should be able to narrow it still further, to within one block of the crossrip."

"Wow!" Ray leaned closer. "When the openings get closer together, we can judge approximately when Vorenx will come and we can be waiting. How long do you theorize we've got?"

The buzzing stopped in the middle of his sentence and he automatically lowered his voice.

"Less than a week," Egon replied. "We have a lot of work to do."

As if in response to that, the alarm sounded from downstairs, to signal that they had a call. "We'll have to start it when we get home," Egon added, turning for the stairs.

"It's more of those pesky little Class 2s that squirt through whenever the gateway opens," Janine informed them as she gave Egon the work order. "They're not far from here. I think they were spotted right away. Will that help you pinpoint the gateway?"

"It might," Egon replied. He already was wearing his jumpsuit, as were Winston and Peter, but Ray was in street clothes. He headed automatically for his locker and took out his jumpsuit, which, he noted, had been cleaned and pressed during his absence. He pulled it on and zipped it into place, noting that it was a lot baggier than usual. He must have lost more weight than he thought in California. Oh well, when he fastened on his pack, it wouldn't make any difference.

Or would it?

Ray was still wondering about that when they arrived at the site of the call, a run down housing project with a number of people, mostly black, a few oriental, the rest white, gathered around outside. A police car had pulled up and the cop had gestured the people back. Even before the Ghostbusters climbed out of the car, they could see the ghosts, wispy little Class 2s, which were often incomplete manifestations, darting in and out of windows, swooping through the glass and leaving ectoplasmic traces behind them.

There were around half a dozen of the little specters, ranging in color from pastel blue to faint pink. Most of them were partial torso forms, a head and arms, part of a body, ending in straggling tails like tattered sheets. Their heads were round and their eyes wide and appealing. In spite of the tenants' distress, Ray thought they were cute.

"Oh, brother," groaned Winston. "They look like Casper. I always feel like a brute when I bag one of them."

"They may look cute, Winston," Peter reminded him as he settled his proton pack onto his shoulders, "but they can turn nasty. Remember those little suckers at the World Trade Center last week?"

"Yes, don't forget, Peter, that most Class 2 entities can manipulate the physical environment," Egon put in, scanning the cavorting spirits with his P.K.E. meter. "These fall into the same category as the ones we've bagged all last week."

"He means they throw things," Peter said in an aside to Ray.

"Yeah, I know. What kind of things?" Ray took his thrower in hand. He'd half feared that he would lose his nerve when he took it out, but it felt surprisingly right, and his enthusiasm for the bust rose rapidly.

"Garbage, mostly," Winston retorted sourly, glaring at the pastel spooks. "Pete's right. They look cute, but they're nasty."

To prove his point, one of them swooped up behind Egon, grabbed the blond tail of hair at the nape of his neck, and yanked for all he was worth. Lavender slime oozed down inside Egon's collar as the entity zipped away, laughing.

"Precisely." Egon eyed the vanishing ghost malevolently. "Everybody ready?" When they nodded, he added, glaring at the spook that had slimed him, "Let's bust those ghosts!"

They plunged into their work, jagged streams of yellow flashing from their proton guns like lightning as they fired. Ray had been worried that he wouldn't be able to fire when the time came, but when he pressed his thumb against the trigger on the handle of his thrower, he felt none of the panic he had half expected. His first shot was right on target, and the pink ghost shrieked as it was sucked into the trap that Winston threw out beneath the writhing specter.

"Our boy hasn't lost his touch," Peter called, curling his thumb and forefinger together in the traditional sign of approval and holding up his hand to display it. "Way to go, Ray!"

Seeing their brother trapped irritated the rest of the milling specters and started them moving. They dived for the crowd that was gathered up and down the street. People scattered, shrieking in panic. The ghosts spun around in a circle high above then headed for the garbage bags and pails that lined the curb in preparation for pickup. Ray wasn't sure how long it had been since the last time, but there was a healthy accumulation of trash. The ghosts snatched it enthusiastically and took a bearing on the crowd, beginning to fling their stinking bombs randomly, without much skill at striking the bulls-eye. One bag took down the cop who had been trying to restrain the people of the neighborhood, breaking open when it hit and spraying him liberally with coffee grounds, wet bits of paper, apple cores, and banana peels. The crowd laughed uproariously and started cheering the ghosts on, clapping and whistling and stomping their feet as if they were at a sporting event.

"This is a strange town," Winston muttered under his breath as he dodged a flying trash can.

The gathering throng of people pressed closer, suddenly reminding Ray of the similarly fascinated mob at the incident in Washington Square. He stiffened, a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Jennifer wasn't dead. He knew that. But right before her supposed death, hordes of people had pushed forward just like this.

Jennifer's image rose before his eyes and he froze, his thumb hovering above the on/off switch, unable to move. This was what he'd most feared, that his inability to act would harm his friends.

The purple entity emitted a raucous cry and lobbed another trash bag, this time directly at Peter. The brown haired man was busy working a little lemon-colored ghost into the trap he had tossed out and he didn't see the threat. From the way the bag swooped through the air, it must be a lot heavier than the one that had felled the officer, and it was going to hit Peter.

Ray thumbed the trigger and he fired, not at the ghost but at the trash bag. The proton stream was dead on target, the power that could restrain a Class 7 full torso apparition easily defeating the plastic bag. It came apart in midair and garbage rained down on the crowd, who scrambled for cover as fast as roaches when the lights come on. A big glass jar missed Peter by inches, sending him ducking backwards with a hoarse yell of protest just as the trap's doors closed over the ghost he'd been fighting. He glanced up in alarm, doing a quick step sideways to avoid a shower of falling orange peels. Metal cans and heavy objects crashed to the ground all around him.

"Oh, good, I love being a target," Peter caroled out, scraping kleenex out of his hair, his mouth curled into a sour smile.

"You're lucky, Pete," Winston shouted from across the street. "That whole bag would have taken you out if Ray hadn't zapped it."

Peter lifted his eyes to Ray, and for a moment, they smiled at each other. "Score: one for Stantz, zero for trash bags," Peter called. "Good going, Ray. Let's finish this up before the only way we can get clean is to drive through a car wash--with Ecto's windows open."

Greatly heartened, Ray returned to his work. The crowd had daunted him at first, but when the job needed doing, he hadn't hesitated. His spirits rising, he plunged into the fray and joined the others in stopping the rest of the ghosts.

There were seven of them altogether. Peter managed to bag two of them in one trap plus the yellow one, Ray captured two, and Egon and Winston each pulled down one. The watchers applauded and cheered each capture, even the folks who had received a garbage bath. The downed policeman finally found his feet, his fingers raking coffee grounds out of his hair, and returned to work, holding the crowds out of the Ghostbusters' line of fire as best he could.

Ray felt like he really belonged again as they returned home, reliving the experience as they boasted their captures. Egon spent part of the short journey speculating that the gateway had to open within a two block radius of the housing complex because of the little time that had lapsed between the detector alarm and the telephone call to hire them.

"That means we should make sweeps of the neighborhood," Ray suggested. "We can estimate roughly what type of power such a gateway would produce. There's bound to be residual P.K. energy in the area. If we did it street by street, I bet we could pin it down even closer. Once we found the point of greatest concentration, we'd have our nexus."

"We didn't really have time for that before," said Peter. When Ray stared at him, half expecting criticism, Peter said quickly, "I didn't mean it that way. Just a fact. We've been busy, especially since the gateway started to open and close."

"Your idea is brilliant, Ray," Egon said hastily. "I can't imagine why I didn't think of it."

"Good old Egon, ego firmly in place," Peter teased him as he stretched out in the front passenger seat, his feet out as far as they could go, his hands folded behind his head. "If it's brilliant, it has to come from you? Ray here is pretty smart, as I remember. He had a great idea. I think we should go for it."

"I thought I just said he had a great idea," Egon returned.

Ray couldn't help smiling. Praise from Egon always warmed him through, and praise from Peter, though it tended to come a little more often as a rule, felt good, too. For all Peter's aren't-I-wonderful attitude, he was never delinquent in lavishing praise on anyone he felt deserved it.

They returned to headquarters and Peter headed straight for the shower. Of all of them, he had managed to accumulate the most garbage on his uniform, though Winston was a close second. Ray, who was relatively untouched, brushed a few crumbs from his sleeve just as Slimer swooped down to greet him.

The little ghost sniffed the air and a beatific expression lit his face. "Yummy. Guys smell goooood!"

"To you, maybe," Winston retorted, attempting to push the ghost away as Slimer decided to forage up and down his arms and chest, seeking tasty morsels and slurping them up with his huge, pink tongue. The black man's face held utter disgust at the sight.

"You may as well let him eat, Winston," Egon suggested, unzipping his jumpsuit and pulling his arms free of the sleeves. When it bagged around his waist, he shook it to rid himself of any excess food remnants before pulling the uniform on again.

It was the first peaceful moment since his return home. Ray took the time to call Louis Tully and explain about his three months work for Mr. Blaine and his need to square everything with the older man and the tax people if necessary. Tully agreed to do it, reading Ray a little lecture about the problems such deals could cause. "This is going to take a ton of paperwork," he concluded reproachfully. "Next time, you probably should ask me first. It saves a lot of trouble. Oh yes, and welcome home."

There was still Dan Aykroyd to call, and Ray spent another ten minutes tracking him down and getting a call through. The actor was relieved to hear from him, and Ray, who felt he owed the man an apology as well as an explanation, gave both. Aykroyd was sympathetic.

"I should have known that was you at the gas station," he concluded. "You could never lie to anybody and get away with it. I'm glad you're home."

Peter rejoined them in the TV room ten minutes later, passing Winston, who headed for the spiral stairs to the third floor. "Well, that was not my favorite bust," he announced, flinging himself flat on the couch and massaging his temples.

"Headache?" Egon asked automatically. He had changed out of his jumpsuit. Now he seated himself on the arm of the couch nearest to Peter's head and bent over to examine the healing cut there. Urging Peter to sit up he began a neck massage. Peter leaned into it blissfully, his eyes closing, as Egon's long fingers worked the kinks out for him.

"Headache," he agreed. "Not a bad one, though. Just bad enough that it would really really be nice if someone took the trash out for me. I don't want to see any more garbage today. This morning was enough."

"I'll do it for you, Peter," Ray volunteered eagerly. "I have to go out anyway, so I might as well take it down when I go."

Peter lifted his head away from the massage and stared at Ray through slitted eyes. "And where are you going, Ray?" he demanded. The note of suspicion Ray had already heard several times from him was so pronounced that Egon's frown drew his brows together before he pulled the psychologist back to continue the neck rub.

Ray met Peter's eyes and beneath the suspicion he saw a very hasty glimpse of something that resembled a plea for reassurance. 'Promise me you're not leaving for good this time.' It was gone so quickly that Ray could not be certain he had actually seen it. Peter's eyes glittered green, suspicion the predominant expression. "What's the big secret?" he asked as if he resented being left out.

Ray realized he hadn't explained what he meant to do and promptly felt guilty. He was humble enough that he didn't always realize that people might worry about him. "Oh. I'm sorry, Peter. I thought you knew. You suggested it last night after all. I just--wanted to see Jennifer. You know. To make sure with my own eyes that she was okay. If we're too busy, I won't go, though."

Peter's eyes softened immediately and he pushed himself up from the couch. "Hey, guy, I didn't mean to jump on you. I'm the one who's sorry. Tell you what. I know where she lives. I'll drive you over there."

"But your headache--" Ray began only to close his mouth when Egon caught his eye and gave him a hasty headshake.

"That's a good idea," he said. "Better than encouraging Peter to lie around all afternoon pretending to be sick."

Peter spun around and stuck out his tongue at him. "Am so sick," he defended himself, sounding about five years old. "Well," he concluded, "not very. Come on, Ray. I know the way. Let's get this over with."

"How do you know the way?" Ray asked.

"Pete looked him up," Egon explained. "He went over and tried to trash the man."

"Why?" demanded Ray, his mouth falling open in surprise. "He didn't do anything?"

"He came down too hard on you," Peter said. "Blaming you for what happened when he knew it was his fault."

"It wasn't," Ray insisted. "He was just crazy with grief. I never blamed him for anything, Peter."

"No, you wouldn't," Peter reminded him. "That's not your way. That kid should never have been running loose. He should have watched her better and he knew it. Admitted it, too. When he found out Jennifer was alive, he asked me to apologize to you."

"Then why did you try to trash him?" Ray asked.

"Well..." Peter lowered his eyes. "Because you were gone. If he hadn't come down so hard on you, maybe you would have stayed. I thought maybe he could make a television appeal and bring you home."

"When you get there, Ray," Egon warned him, "you'd better leave Peter in Ecto."

"Come on, buddy." Peter slung his arm around Ray's arm and steered him toward the door. "Let's put this ghost to rest."

"How did it go?" Winston asked a couple of hours later. Peter had brought Ray home, both men appearing happier and more relaxed than they had since Ray had returned. Winston had waited until Egon had swooped down on Ray and borne him away to the upstairs lab to withdraw the core unit from the destabilizer rectifier unit before he dragged Peter into the kitchen, where Winston was fixing fried chicken for their dinner that night.

"It went great," Peter said, grinning. "You should have seen Ray when he came downstairs afterwards. I didn't stay in the car. I went up to the apartment with him. I wanted to see Allen's face when he saw Ray. Jennifer came to the door with him, and I thought Ray would lose it when he saw her. Jennifer was tickled to see me. She wanted to know if she could have her own P.K.E. meter. I introduced them to Ray and took off. I don't think I'll ever be happy with that character."

"So Ray resolved it, then?" Winston asked as he disected the chicken into its separate pieces. "Think it will take care of everything, man?"

"Yeah," Peter said in a quiet voice. "I hope so. Ray looked like he wanted to cry when he came downstairs, but he was so happy he was nearly levitating. He talked about Jennifer for a dozen blocks, then he made me drive him to the nearest comic book store. Seems like he's behind in his Captain Steel collection. We wouldn't want that to happen. The world would probably end."

"So he dragged you along with him?" Winston asked. He was pretty sure Peter would have gone without being asked.

"Yeah. I think he knows every customer who goes into the place on a first name basis. You should have seen the way they mobbed him."

"The boy has a knack for making friends," agreed Winston with a smile. "I just hope he learned something from this mess."

"Yeah, where he belongs," Peter replied.

"Cut the kid a little slack, Peter," Winston chided gently. "He knows he's home. He knows he was wrong to go. He's not going to pull this kind of stunt again. I know how hard this was on you, but it was harder on him. Give him a break."

"Winston. I want him back. Give him a break? I nearly gave him the key to the city."

"I know, and that's just what he needed from you, especially. He was miserable the whole time he was gone. You can tell it now. Just watch him sometime when he's looking around and seeing us, knowing he's where he belongs. He didn't want to go. He should have known he needed the rest of us to make peace with himself. You know why he came home, don't you? Not because he had his act together. He didn't. He came home for one reason, because he saw you on TV all covered with blood and knew you needed him. I don't think anything else would have brought him home." He abandoned the chicken he'd been working on, snatched a towel to wipe his hands, then he grabbed Peter by the shoulders and stared him straight in the eye. "He's not like your dad, Pete, staying away all those years at Christmas because there was a buck in it." Peter flinched and tried to pull away, but Winston was the stronger of the two and he refused to let Peter break his grip. "He's Ray," he continued, his words intent with meaning, "who probably loves you better than anybody ever loved you in your whole life. Don't treat him like one of the girlfriends who dumped you along the road."

The pain in Peter's eyes was so vivid that Winston felt like a world-class jerk for initiating the conversation. "I know," the psychologist replied in low tones. "Most of the time I want to stand on top of the World Trade Center and shout to the whole world how great it is to have Ray back." He heaved a vast sigh. "But I can't stop thinking that he went once and maybe he'll go again." He shrugged. "Crazy, isn't it? I know he won't, not like that. Any of us might leave one day--to get married if nothing else. We'd know about it first, though. That's different."

"Ray didn't run out on you, Pete," Winston reminded him. "He was hurt so badly he couldn't see anything but his own pain. Contrary to popular opinion, you're not the center of the universe." He tightened his grip before Peter could jerk free and smiled at him affectionately. "One other thing and I'll shut up. Just back off a little. If he wants to go somewhere, he doesn't have to tell us. We're not his keepers." He turned the grip into a fond squeeze and released him. "I don't think he'll do that. He came home and found that we were thrilled to see him again--but he also saw that the business didn't go under and we didn't work ourselves into a breakdown while he was gone. Let him feel needed."

Peter cleared his throat and nodded. "Right. I'll do my best."

The next few days were a flurry of activity, all four of them and sometimes Janine drafted into tracking down and zapping the little Class 2 spirits that had filtered through the periodically opening gateway. The rest of the time, the guys spent working on the modified unit that they hoped to mount in Ecto and take with them to the final confrontation. Peter's headache disappeared and Ray's was long gone. Only the fading bruise on Peter's forehead remained to remind them of the battle with the second caveris. There were still two of the blue creatures to confront, but so far they had not manifested. The new containment unit was operating perfectly.

The work went well. Egon and Ray buried themselves in various schematics and diagrams, talking in such technical language that even Winston, who had a good ear for that kind of thing, was left behind, and Peter simply gave up trying to make sense of it. He'd learned a lot about physics and engineering just from listening to Egon and Ray over the years, and he wasn't without some skill in that particular area, though his attempts at design generally ended in a collapsed and smoking gismo. This time, he knew enough to understand that the sight of the blond and auburn heads bent over the innards of the device meant that progress was being made.

Egon and Ray had decided that the core unit was sufficient to do what they intended it to do, as long as they modified it, added an external power source, and tied it into their throwers. When Ray had used the original device to restabilize Egon's molecules and solidify him, the power surge required had been enough to disrupt the dimensional fabric and propel the now-solid physicist into the Netherworld. Using the same device, Ray had enabled the others to go after them, setting up a retrieval circuit to bring them back. Now, while Egon boosted the destabilizer circuits, Ray altered the retrieval circuit, reversing its polarity so that instead of bringing an entity back from the Netherworld, it would bind anything transported to that unpleasant place.

"What it means," he explained to Peter, Winston and Janine as they gathered around Janine's desk for a break at the end of the second day, "is that Vorenx's molecules will attune to the Netherworld so thoroughly that, should he try to get through, he'll destabilize. He'll be nearly corporeal over there but not quite, since he never was to start with, like Egon. If he tries to come through or bribes a demon like Tolay to bring him through, he'll discorporate completely. His molecules might one day come together, but it would take--" he played with the buttons on his calculator--"fifteen thousand years." He grinned brightly. "Give or take a few hundred."

"And by then, we won't care," Peter said with a big grin. He glanced around. "Hey, where's Egon. Don't tell me he's still slaving away up there?"

"No, he wanted to run a few more programs with the long-range detector," Ray replied. "He has it pinned down pretty thoroughly now. Tomorrow, if everything tests out right, we'll mount the unit in Ecto and go out to see. It's a lot heavier than it was originally, so it'll be quite a job."

"Is it where I picked up those readings this morning in that alley?" Winston asked. He had been deputized to take Ecto out with a specially modified P.K.E. meter to scan for the traces of the gateway. "I found one place that seemed to be the best bet, and Egon fed it into the computer. It's right in the center of the area he's marked off."

"That's the place," Ray agreed. "Gosh, this is exciting. We'll be right there on the spot when Vorenx comes through. The day after tomorrow's Halloween. I bet that's when he'll try to cross over, don't you?"

"We never have peaceful Halloweens," said Janine, putting a cover over her computer keyboard in preparation for going home for the night.

"I'm gonna go drag Egon down here," Peter said. "He's starting to look crosseyed. I think we need to designate this as an official coffee break. Somebody should make coffee."

"I will," volunteered Winston. "I've drunk your coffee. Want some, Janine?"

"Yeah, that sounds good. That wind is chilly tonight. It'll fortify me for strap hanging."

Peter and Winston started up the stairs, kidding and laughing. "Oh, Egon," Peter bellowed, raising his voice so that it could be heard on the top floor, if not Central Park. "Shut it down for the night before you turn into an integrated circuit."

Janine shook her head. "You four are too much," she remarked, opening the bottom drawer of her desk and taking out a pair of Nike's. "You're looking forward to this dragon ghost, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Ray replied unhesitatingly. "It'll really be great."

"They probably couldn't have modified this destabilizer amplifier or whatever it is without you, you know," she told him. "The three of them are enjoying the job again for the first time in ages. Peter always had his wisecracks, but it never felt right."

The sound of the outer door opening made them turn around, expecting a new client to enter. A young man in his late twenties in what looked like an Armani suit with a yellow power tie passed the parked Ecto and approached the desk. He was so bristling with confidence that both of them paused to stare. A clear, open countenance was topped by a superbly cut head of rich brown hair, and his eyes were as blue as Egon's and full of the knowledge of his own worth. He did not bear the appearance of a man who was troubled by spooks or specters in the night.

"Can I help you?" Janine asked, shoving her sneakered feet out of sight under the desk and straightening up in the manner of any woman in the presence of an attractive man.

"I hope you can," he said in a pleasant, cheerful voice. Opening his briefcase he removed a newspaper, open to the classified section. "My name is Bradley Singleton. I'm here about the Ghostbuster job." His finger stabbed one ad that was crowned by a small No Ghost logo.

The Ghostbuster job! Ray's heart dropped into his stomach and he stared at the man, his eyes full of hurt. He felt like someone had kicked him in the gut. The guys had tried to replace him. Maybe they were still trying. The ad must still be running or Mr. Yuppie wouldn't be here in hopes of a position.

When Ray did not reply, he went on, "I'm well qualified. I have a doctorate in electrical engineering and a masters in parapsychology. I took several of Dr. Venkman's classes when he was still teaching at Columbia and my thesis was about your business and the increase in spectral activity which was prompted by the arrival of Gozer in New York. I've studied Dr. Spengler's proton pack designs and Dr. Stantz's work and I have several suggestions that might make the job easier for all of you."

Janine started shaking her head as soon as he began to speak, and finally held up her hand to halt him. "I'm sorry, Dr. Singleton, but the temporary job is no longer necessary." Her emphasis of the word was meant to reassure Ray but it didn't completely succeed. "We cancelled the ad several days ago," Janine concluded. "That must be an old newspaper. Now that Ray is home, we don't need anyone else."

Singleton's eyes lingered on her thoughtfully then he turned to study Ray consideringly. "Ah yes, you're Dr. Stantz, aren't you? I did some checking and I saw Dr. Venkman on TV the other night claiming that you were on a leave of absence. You're back, then. Fortunate for your friends, but unfortunate for me. I would have enjoyed the work."

"It's a great job," Ray said automatically, his stomach still fluttering. Of all the things that he had expected, this had never occurred to him. Fighting to conceal his shock, he continued doggedly, "I enjoy it myself. I can't promise you a shot at it, but if you leave us a copy of your resume we'll contact you if we ever need temporary help again."

Singleton shrugged. "The ad said it was temporary, to meet an expected crisis, but I hoped it would translate into something permanent." He shook hands with Ray and removed a small portfolio from his briefcase, passing it over. "There's the resume. I'll keep an eye on the news for the crisis."

"If you'd consider selling us the rights on any of your ideas that will help us on the job, we'd be willing to go over them," Ray assured him as he walked the man to the door. When the job applicant was gone, Ray retraced his steps to Janine's desk with lagging feet, his shoulders slumping. The man's arrival had shocked him badly.

"Listen to me, Ray," the redhead said, jumping up and coming to meet him. She put her arms around his waist and hugged him encouragingly. "Don't take this wrong. The guys hated the idea of hiring temporary help. Peter wouldn't even listen to the suggestion until they assured him that the ads would only ask for someone to deal with the Vorenx problem and no longer. Don't you see, they needed you so badly to get this right that they couldn't handle it on their own. I doubt if Pretty Boy could have filled your shoes anyway. Peter cancelled the ad the first chance he had. You should have heard how happy he was to do it."

Ray sighed. "I guess I thought that--"

"That they'd replace you just like that?" She snapped her fingers. "Of course they wouldn't. For such a smart man, you don't have a very high opinion of yourself." She patted his back sympathetically. "You belong here, Ray. Don't doubt your place. Too bad Peter can't give you some of his ego. It might balance you both out, maybe even make him bearable."

Ray had to smile at that. "You love him really," he said.

Grimacing, she raised an eyebrow. "Well, maybe," she conceded. "Sort of, even if he can be a real pain."

"You do. You told him so once. I remember."

"She does what?" asked Peter, coming down the stairs with Egon. "You two are pretty cozy. What have we been missing?"

"It was nothing," Janine said hastily, backing away from Ray. "Somebody came in about the ad."

Peter's mouth fell open in dismay. "We cancelled that stupid ad as soon as Ray came home. Can't the jerk read? A fat lot of good he would have been to us. I knew that ad was a big mistake."

"It's a good job, Peter," Ray reminded him earnestly. "He probably thought it was worth a try."

"Maybe," said Peter, eyes narrowing. "But whoever he was, he couldn't measure up to Dr. Stantz, could he, Egon?"

"Definitely not. I'm not sure how we managed to get along without him." With a reassuring smile at Ray, Egon pulled off his glasses and polished them. "Oh, are you just going, Janine?"

"I give you Dr. Egon Spengler, stater of the obvious," Peter put in irrepressibly, but the eyes he turned in Ray's direction were worried, holding shadows.

Ray remembered his shock at Singleton's arrival. He was home, but he still didn't feel he belonged here. He wondered how long this feeling would last, and if there would be any other unpleasant surprises. He wished they'd told him about the ad.

Winston came down the stairs bearing a tray of cups and a pot of coffee. "I hereby declare this an official coffee break," he announced. "Come on, everybody, grab a cup."

"Coffee! Oh boy!" Slimer glided down the stairs in Winston's wake. "Slimer wants a biiig cup."

"Oh, good, the spud," Peter announced, sharing a commiserating glance with Ray. "I knew it was too good to be true."

"It's finished," Ray announced, tightening the last cable of the much enlarged device that had been moved to the rear of Ecto-1. He had spent most of the day working on it, with only one break for a bust following another alarm from the long-range detector. They had expected to find more of the wispy, little ghosts when they answered the call but, instead, they had found themselves up against the third caveris, bigger and meaner than its two predecessors.

Ray had shuddered at the sight of it, remembering the last time he had seen one. He was glad they faced it on a deserted street where pedestrians and vehicles had vanished without a trace because a crowd would have made it too familiar. It was lucky he had been given several neutral ghosts to bust before this encounter. If he had faced the caveris first it would have been infinitely harder.

The other three knew the routine by now. Peter sneaked a quick glance at Ray to make sure he was okay, and Ray gave him a hasty thumbs-up sign.

Egon eyed the psychologist doubtfully. "Not again, Peter," he cautioned. "I think one of the rest of us should handle this capture."

Winston shrugged. "Guess this one's mine," he volunteered, unslinging the trap from his belt and stepping out to meet the ghost, squaring his shoulders for the task. Egon grabbed a P.K.E. meter from Ecto and made hasty adjustments on it, presumably for Winston's electro-metabolic readings if they had to trace him.

The ghost saw Winston approaching and bellowed with rage, hovering motionless as it studied him.

"It thinks you're getting cocky," called Peter warningly. "Take it easy, big fella. It's a nasty ride."

"I'm taking lessons from you," Zeddemore returned with a big grin. "Do you think I'll rate a TV interview afterwards?"

Ray powered up his thrower and aimed it at the gigantic creature, standing shoulder to shoulder with Peter. They couldn't fire yet because Winston was between them and the entity but if it altered direction they'd zap it. So far, a caveris had not been hit with all four streams. It might be enough.

"Teleporting sounds awfully dangerous," Ray remarked to Peter. "But still, it must be an incredible trip. Sort of like being beamed up. I wish--"

Before he could complete the sentence, the caveris started its run, diving straight for Winston. The black man stood his ground, the trap extended before him in both hands. Just as arms sprouted on either side of the ghost's cavernous mouth, Winston let the trigger fall to the ground and stomped on it with all his strength. The ghost met the trap's suction six feet in front of Winston and, with a horrendous rumble of rage it slipped into the trap, defeated by its own momentum. Winston's feet never left the ground. As the doors closed over the entity, he turned, blinking away the afterimages produced by the light and dangled the trap from its cord, a delighted grin on his face.

"What do you say, Pete?" he asked. "Some of us have it and some of us don't."

Peter's lower lip jutted out as he struggled for an excuse. Finally he shrugged. "Good thing I showed you how not to do it, buddy. Besides, you'll never get to teleport now."

"Just as well," said Egon, putting aside the adjusted P.K.E. meter and pulling out his usual one to take readings for residual energy. "The last thing we need now is another injury. I estimate we have less than twenty four hours before Vorenx comes through."

Ray remembered the entrapment as he and the others carefully carried the redesigned core unit down the stairs to Ecto-1, where Winston had built a cage to hold it, and helped install a portable generator to feed in necessary power. It proved so heavy that they took a break afterwards and put their feet up for ten minutes, just catching their breath. Then it was nonstop work. While Ray completed the assembly and finished fine-tuning the retrieval/discorporation circuitry, Egon attached four long, heavily insulated cables that would connect to their proton packs, slaving them to the unit. It would be essential to take the car as close to the nexus as possible.

Now it was finished. Satisfied, Ray surveyed his handiwork. He'd done it, and he'd done it in time for the confrontation. All they had to do was to wait until the gateway opened again. There was still one caveris to go, but his studies indicated that the last one occasionally came after Vorenx. If they could defeat the dragon entity, the gateway would close again and the final caveris would never break through.

It was not yet Halloween, but it was nearing ten o'clock. In just a few hours it would be October thirty-first and the dimensional doorway could open any time after that.

Peter had been working on the cables with Egon, but now he stopped and turned to Ray. "For that, you get the gold star. Can we stop and rest now? I could sleep for a year."

"I thought you wanted to meet Elyse," Winston teased him.

"Winston. I'm too tired. I couldn't even raise a smile for her, let alone anything more interesting. Besides," he added regretfully, "she found out about Ruthie and Maxine and Tina and..."

The other three burst out laughing and even Slimer, who had been hindering them happily all evening, joined in.

"Give it five minutes." Egon passed Peter a screwdriver. "Tighten up these leads and I'll run one last test." He gestured to the connections that needed work.

"What did your last slave die of, Egon?" Peter demanded, taking the screwdriver and obeying. They knew Peter was tired. Ray had been working so hard his headache had returned and the same was probably true for Venkman, who had been hurt worse only one day before Ray, losing a lot of blood in the process.

Egon ignored the remark as beneath his dignity. He connected the first cable to his proton pack and powered it up. "Hmmm."

"Translation, please?" Peter asked, attacking the third cable with the screwdriver.

"It's working," Egon replied. "We'll need to set our throwers at maximum power and broaden the streams to as wide a dispersion range as possible."

"Zapping entire sections of Manhattan at one go?" Peter asked. "This'll be fun. I love wholesale destruction."

"Vorenx is big, Peter," Ray informed him, peering over Egon's shoulder as he worked.

"Define big? Are we talking something like Mr. Stay Puft? Mee-krah? Nexa?"

"Bigger."

"Bigger?" Peter winced. "Bigger! What other little secrets are you keeping, Stantz? Not only do we have to meet a monster as big as the World Trade Center--" he paused, quirking an eyebrow for Ray's response to the comparison, and when Ray shook his head, he asked, "Bigger?"

"Not as big," Ray replied. "Big, though. Remember the werechicken that climbed the Empire State Building? Bigger than that, but..."

"Oh, great? The four of us are supposed to take something like that? Class 8 in the bargain?"

"Yes, of course," Egon replied reasonably. "That's why we did all this."

"Probably brain damage," Winston volunteered, grabbing Peter's wrist and taking his pulse. "He's been unconscious the past few days."

"I was just hoping we'd dreamed it all," Peter replied with a wry grin. "No such luck." He brightened. "At least we didn't dream Ray came home."

Ray brightened, too. Peter had been much better lately. There had been no evidence of suspicion in the past two days though Ray had seen Peter watching him once or twice, an unreadable expression in his eyes. It was true the guys had tried to hire a replacement for him, but while he worked today, Ray had forgotten all that and concentrated on the job ahead. Only now that the device was finished did he find himself wondering what it would be like when they didn't have a major confrontation to prepare for.

"Just in time, too," Winston agreed with Peter, giving Ray a friendly clout on the shoulder. "We couldn't have done it without you, homeboy."

"Just in time to save the world," Peter agreed. "We ought to start keeping track. One of these days there should be a Nobel Prize in it for us."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Winston asked. He started to collect the tools to put them away.

"I'd love it. I deserve it."

"Ray deserves it," Egon remarked, gesturing at the device. "I might have done that, but never in time for Halloween."

"Peter thought of it," Ray said quietly.

"You'd have come up with it yourself soon enough," Peter replied. "One of you would. Though it does show my natural genius." He yawned gapingly.

Ray echoed it. He was exhausted, too. With a grin, he turned toward the stairs.

Peter looked after him, eyes narrowing again. Ray was growing accustomed to being watched, but he didn't like it. It made him feel guilty. "Come on, Peter," he said tiredly. "Do I have to ask your permission to go to the john?"

Surprise registered on Peter's face, then his own fatigue got the better of him and his ready temper flared to vivid life. "I didn't say anything, did I?" he snapped. "Did any of you hear me say anything?"

"You didn't have to," returned Ray. He had been working hard all day and his defenses were down. The pounding headache that thrummed steadily behind his eyes didn't help one bit. "You keep giving me these looks, watching every move I make. I'm not going to run out on you again. I never meant to stay away permanently before."

"No, just long enough to drive us nuts," Peter snapped. "Thanks for all your concern. Did you ever stop to think that we might be missing you? No, you just curled yourself up and forgot about us. Well, fine. So I've been watching you. It takes time to adjust, in case you didn't know it. Maybe it's easy for you, but it's not that easy for the rest of us."

"Maybe you didn't want me back," Ray snapped. "You were quick enough to advertize for a replacement, weren't you. Maybe I should call Bradley What's-his-name and let him fight Vorenx instead."

"Sure, run out on us again," Peter growled. He was furious. His temper came and went fast, and this had been building in him for days. In the old days, Ray would have realized he was blowing off steam because he was tired and stressed out and reacting to the knowledge that their confrontation with Vorenx could well prove fatal to one or all of them. Now, Ray was working under a disadvantage. Peter was right. He had run out on them, and though he had often worried about them and how his absence would affect them, he had only made one unsatisfactory phone call.

"Shut up, Pete," Winston intervened, his eyes narrowed in shock. He grasped Ray's arm. "You too, Ray. Neither of you mean it. You needed to say it, but now consider it said and put it behind you. Peter doesn't want you to go and you don't want to go. Got it?"

"Yeah, got it?" Slimer seconded. He had ducked behind Egon when the fight began.

Peter opened his mouth, whether to apologize or to continue the fight, but before he could speak, the long-range detector alarm blazed to furious life, the sound echoing down from the top floor.

"I hope it isn't a caveris," Winston said wearily. "I don't think I have the strength to hold a trap long enough to suck it in."

"I hope it isn't Vorenx," Egon corrected, heading for the stairs. "I'll go check the readings."

"Vorenx?" Peter's eyes widened. "It couldn't be Vorenx. It isn't Halloween."

"It's Halloween in Europe right now," Ray said thoughtfully. "I have a bad feeling about this." He grabbed for the cables that connected to their four packs and started to load them, still attached, into Ecto. The tension that radiated from him was contagious. Peter grabbed the next pack and started toward Ecto, coiling the cable around it as he moved.

"Uh, Ray?" he ventured.

"Yes, Peter?"

Venkman stopped, staring at Ray, regret shining in his eyes. "I--guess I needed to say all that," he said. "I know it wasn't fair, but a part of me needed to blame you. I--it's funny but I'm not sure I..."

"It's the gateway," Egon cried from the top of the stairs. "I think this is it. Let's move. We don't have much time."

Ray nodded quickly at Peter, though he wasn't sure what his friend had intended to say. He was dazed with shock and fatigue. The approaching confrontation would have come so much better after even two hours of sleep, certainly without the altercation between him and Peter. Did they all feel that way, that he had self-indulgently pampered himself at their expense. It wasn't what he had meant at all. He hadn't been able to think past his own pain.

"Ray? We need to go," Egon urged, patting his arm. He raised his eyes as Peter stowed the final proton pack in Ecto.

"He'll be a lot better now that he's blown that off," Egon said gently. "So will you. All of us have been tiptoeing around the issue. It will be better. You'll see." He urged Ray into the back seat while Winston slid behind the wheel and Peter jumped in beside him. The automatic doors opened when Winston keyed the control button, and Ecto's siren started shrieking its warning into the night.

The dimensional gateway was only six blocks from Ghostbuster Central, halfway down an alley lined with trash containers and piles of garbage. Peter groaned at the sight.

There was no evidence of the portal when Ecto-1 screeched to a halt, at least none that could be measured with the human eye. Egon's P.K.E. meter began to blink and shrill with the intensity of the reading, its arms standing straight upright, and the physicist bent over it, mouth open in fascination.

"I haven't seen this powerful a reading since Gozer," Egon breathed, making minute adjustments to the dials.

"I needed to hear that." Peter grimaced. He turned around in his seat and met Ray's eyes. "Come on, Ray. It's time to save the world again." His mouth quirked up into a hesitant smile. "I didn't mean it," he apologized. "You know what I'm like when I sound off. Kick me in the butt a couple of times, okay?"

His sincerity was patent, but he had been sincere in his anger, too. Ray hesitated, mouth opening to speak.

"Oh, shit!"

Winston's abrupt words turned everyone's eyes forward, to the place where the portal would open--where the portal was opening. The empty air before them shivered like a highway mirage in the summer, as if the other end of the alley were half concealed beyond a veil. Then it vanished entirely, replaced by a band of reds and blues and yellows, swirling in a chaotic mixture of primary colors, blending and mutating to a multitude of shades, some so bright that they hurt the eyes, others breathtakingly beautiful.

In the middle of it light grew, pulsating like a heartbeat, and with every new throb, a hole widened at its heart. Through the growing gap, harsh, white sunlight spilled out, sunlight from a sun that was nothing like Sol, hot and fierce and burning, revealing a land bathed in light so relentless that nothing grew there. Stark pillars of rock rose stories high, dwarfing the buildings on either side of the gateway, reminding Ray of the strange granite spires the four men had seen when they had gone to Greece, to the abbey of St. Theophilis at Meteora. The resemblance ended there, for the fertility of Greece's olive groves and cypresses, oleander bushes bright with color and flowers everywhere was absent here. Instead, between the black spikes stretched a landscape as desolate as Mars, etched in fierce black and white, the shadows so stark there seemed to be no atmosphere. In the distance, Ray thought he saw faint movement, as if strange creatures lived there. No, not lived. Vorenx's realm was a world of ghosts.

As if he had been hiding behind the gateway's frame, Vorenx appeared, slipping sideways into the center of the opening. He was huge, a giant bronze dragon-shaped entity, scales gleaming in the harsh light of his world. His head was small and narrow, a row of spikes beginning just behind his eyes and continuing down his long neck, all the way to his tail. Braced on his hind legs like a tyrannosaur, he had powerful leg muscles and huge feet, each one big enough to trash three or four cars at one go. If he stepped on Ecto, all their work would be in vain.

His arms were shorter and ended in five-fingered hands, long and bony with a sharp talon at the tip of each finger that sparkled like faceted gemstones. They glittered in a multitude of hues as if bathed with an inner light that sent ripples of color sliding along the dragon's belly. Its face was savage and alien, heavy brow ridges protecting eerie yellow eyes that narrowed upon the four men who sat in Ecto. It bore no resemblance to the dragon once conjured up by an ancestor of Egon's. Vorenx wasn't cute.

The elemental flowed toward Ecto without seeming to move at all, passing through the gateway as if it were ten times bigger than its actual size and stopping about six feet in front of the car, making it impossible for those in the back seat to see much of him.

"Packs, now," Egon suggested and they scrambled for the rear of the car to don the modified proton packs, each one connected by cable to Ray's machine. The occultist turned it on and the steady, reassuring hum of power filled the alley. Each man unshipped his proton rifle.

Vorenx was bigger than the opening he had just passed through. He sat radiating power as he studied his surroundings, nearly concealing the gateway with his vast bulk, while around him poured dozens of the Casper-like Class 2s that had been irritating New Yorkers for the past few weeks, slipping down the alley past the Ghostbusters and out into the city.

"Oh, man," groaned Winston. "After we take care of this mother, we're gonna have to go after those, too. They'll haunt us for weeks."

"Silence, mortal!" Vorenx's voice was so deep and resounding that Ray could feel it through the soles of his boots. He clapped a hand to his ears, noticing the other three doing the same. But that wasn't the solution. Ray tightened his grip on his thrower and pointed it at the giant entity.

"Vorenx!" he shouted. "You are not welcome here. Return to your place of origin or we will be forced to return you against your will."

Vorenx laughed. Bending his long-necked head down until he was eye to eye with the occultist, he sent a long, hot breath in his direction. Not a fiery breath or Ray would have been crisped where he stood, but a breath that held the acrid tang of sulfur in it, promising worse to come. Traditionally, dragons breathed fire.

"Puny humans, do you believe you can vanquish me, Vorenx, greatest of the dragon gods? I will teach you respect before I destroy you. Where is my sacrifice? Of eld, humans knew how to respect me. Now there is nothing but contempt."

"Oh, hey," Peter muttered cockily behind Ray. "We forgot to find him a virgin. Aw, gee, we're sorry."

"Don't make him mad, Peter," cautioned Egon sharply as the dragon's small head swung sharply in Peter's direction, its beady eyes narrowing as it sent a steamy breath toward the psychologist. He mopped his forehead.

"Well, he's making me mad," Peter burst out. "He's gonna trash my town and I don't like it." Peter was always brave in the face of death. He stood there defiantly, valiant against a creature that was so much bigger than he was that there could be no real comparison.

Ray noticed Peter's thumb inching toward the trigger, waiting only the signal before the four of them blasted Vorenx into the Netherworld. He wouldn't hesitate. He'd take Ray's word that the device in the back of the car would do the job that Ray and Egon had designed it for. Peter might be afraid--and Ray could tell from the complete rigidity of his shoulders that he was terrified--but he would never give ground. Oh, Peter...

What if it didn't work? In sheer bulk alone, Vorenx was bigger than even Ray had imagined him. What if they only made him mad? He'd trash them all, starting with Peter, who had dared to smart-mouth the elemental.

A simpler solution occurred to Ray, one that might have an even higher guarantee of success, and he took a step closer, drawing in his breath as he thought as fast as he could.

"You're mistaken," he said.

"I? Mistaken?" The glowing yellow eyes pinned him in a hypnotic stare. "You interest me. In what way am I mistaken?"

"You said there was no sacrifice. You were wrong. Take me. I'll go, if it will spare my world."

"Ray!" blurted Peter in horror, his hand grabbing for Ray's shoulder to pull him away. "What are you talking about?" He raised his voice. "He didn't mean it. He was just babbling. Ignore him, your dragon-ness."

"Yes, I did," insisted Ray. "The Ghostbusters can manage without me. They did it for three months. I'm the most easily spared."

"Like fun you are," objected Winston just behind him.

"Stop it, Ray," Egon cried. "You don't know what you're doing."

Ray shook them off and advanced. "It has to be me," he insisted. "The others probably don't qualify, and besides," he caught his breath as it shuddered out miserably, "Peter doesn't trust me any more." Speaking the words aloud hurt worse than the thought of being imprisoned in Vorenx's realm, but they had to be said. He bowed his head, eyes stinging with tears, and waited for the dragon to keep his end of the bargain.

Peter felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. Ray couldn't mean to go with the dragon and turn into dragon food just to ensure their safety. He couldn't! The minute they hit him with the streams, he'd be forced into the Netherworld and he'd be toast. Ray's final words made Peter gasp in shock as he stared at the man standing before him, head bent. Ray was only reacting to Peter's behavior since he'd returned, but now, hearing it expressed by Ray hit him hard. It was funny, but even though Ray was offering to go away again, it never occurred to Peter that he was being abandoned once more. This was Ray, ready to jump in and save his friends, even at risk of his own life. Not trust Ray Stantz? As well not trust the sun to rise in the morning. Peter's world righted itself. Now all he had to do was hold it together and hope they could defeat the dragon.

"Hmmm," breathed Vorenx in tones so similar to Egon's when fascinated with a subject that they all flashed the physicist an involuntary glance. "Yes," continued the dragon. "An innocent. Not my usual bill of fare, but promising. Quite promising. It does meet my requirements. I will consider it."

"It's for the best," Ray replied earnestly. "You can spare my friends and take me. I should be the one to go."

"That's a damn lie," Peter burst out, erupting into furious movement. "Of course I trust you, you crazy idiot." Peter's fingers locked around Ray's wrist, his other arm around Ray's shoulders and he tugged him slowly backwards toward the dubious safety of the others while Ray tried to struggle free. "Listen to me, Ray. I need you here. I didn't mean any of that stupid stuff I said at the firehouse. I was just blowing off steam. Sometimes I get crazy." He grabbed the shorter man by the shoulders and spun him around until they were face to face, less than a foot apart. He gazed into Ray's eyes, drawing a sharp breath at the sight of the tears that had gathered there. With a shaking hand, he reached out to brush them away. "You're not going. You're not going, damn it! You're not gonna let him eat you!"

"Eat me?" Ray echoed though Vorenx's comment about his bill of fare ought to have made that particular point clear to him. "I thought I might be a prisoner in his world, but..."

"I devour my prey," put in Vorenx, his voice full of amusement, "though sometimes, they please me and I keep them for a time. You might amuse me, innocent mortal. You have certainly surprised me. I will take you and you shall live, at least for a time."

"The hell you will," Peter snarled at the dragon, throwing one quick look at it before he turned to Ray again. "If anybody goes, Ray, it's gonna be me. Most easily spared!" he ranted, talking fast and furious because of the utter panic that filled his soul. "You're needed. All of us need you." His eyes locked with Ray's. "I need you, and I trust you. Really, Ray. Believe it, pal, because it's true."

Stantz stared at him doubtfully as if he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. He'd heard Peter's assurances before and they had not held water, not when it counted. Peter held his gaze, hoping that he could make Ray see the truth, that this was different. It would take time and explanations to resolve it completely, but right now he wanted Ray to know how much he trusted him. There was a moment of doubtful hesitation while the dragon shifted impatiently in the background and made irritated grumbling sounds, then a tremulous relief sparked to life in Ray's face. He might not know all the whys and wherefores yet, but he understood that the problem between him and Peter was going to be all right.

Ray's happiness shone forth as he realized Peter meant what he said, and with renewed energy, Venkman turned back to the dragon. "You hear that, you big lizard?" he screamed at Vorenx. "Forget him. You don't want him. Take me instead."

Vorenx had listened to Peter's words with the tolerant amusement of one who is confident of the outcome and feels no need to interfere. Now he bared his teeth in an unnerving smile and licked his chops with a long, menacing tongue. "Ah, yes, the human trait, self-sacrifice. It fascinates me. Such a useless suggestion. You would never do, mortal. I find the cynic a tasteless meal. I require an innocent, preferably a succulent young maiden, but any innocent soul will suffice. I will take your friend. It is infinitely easier than thrashing around and tramping through buildings and breathing fire. Yes, yes, I'll take him. I like the quiet life."

"The hell you will!" shouted Peter. He pushed Ray toward Winston and Egon, who each grabbed an arm. "You won't take him one inch from this spot. I guarantee it." He powered up his thrower and stomped toward the dragon, prepared to take on Vorenx single handed if necessary. Squaring his shoulders, he drew a bead on the biggest, closest target, the dragon's midsection. "See how you like this, rotten egg breath!"

His thrower shot the altered stream, the jagged bolt of energy widening out in a conic projection, brilliant yellow against the darkness of the alley. It hit Vorenx in mid-chest, causing the dragon to thrash around wildly, bellowing in pain and fury. One arm waved through the stream on its way toward Peter, and, for a moment, it faded out as if it were no longer there. Protonic reversal? Or a phasing into the Netherworld? Whichever it was clearly startled the giant elemental, for it bellowed so loudly that lesser sounds were drowned out, and swatted Peter with its other hand.

It was the lightest of taps, but Vorenx was so big that a tap from him hit like a pile driver. Peter went down hard, rolling head over heels a couple of times fetching up half jammed under Ecto's front bumper. The beam of his thrower took out two garbage pails and a pile of bagged trash as he rolled. He had a hasty glimpse of them wavering and popping out as if they had never existed. Frantically, he yanked his thumb from the power switch before he sent one of his friends to the Netherworld. They had enough troubles already without that.

"Peter! Are you all right?"

Ray and Egon pulled him out and dusted him off, studying him up and down for wounds. Ray's eyes were huge and wary as he looked at Peter hopefully.

Peter grabbed him around the neck and hugged him hard. "You're not going," he said fiercely. "Just bear with me, okay? Everything's gonna work out. That's a promise from Dr. Venkman. You try anything stupid and I'll have to follow you down his gullet to bring you out. You got it, Stantz?"

Ray's face lit up and his arms encircled him fiercely. "Yeah," he said, his head nodding against Peter's. "It was--just a thought. If I could have saved the rest of you..."

"You can still save the rest of us, Ray," Egon interrupted. "Did you notice everything Peter's thrower hit phasing out?"

Ray's head came up, intrigued. Sure of his place once more, he was recovering his equilibrium. "What did he hit?" he demanded eagerly. "Wow, this is fantastic. I wish I hadn't missed it."

"Two trash cans," Peter enumerated, checking them off on one finger. "Some garbage--oops. Part of that wall." He pointed to a building that had a perfectly round hole in one wall, displaying the contents of a Mom and Pop grocery store. The first food rack had a smaller hole in the middle of it.

Vorenx snarled with rage and brought lashed his tail around at them. It missed but it gouged a large hole in the building opposite the place where Peter had done his damage.

"Hey, look, a matched set," cried Peter as they ducked falling plaster and brickwork. "Nice work, dragon breath!"

"Don't make him mad, Peter," Egon counselled, thrower in hand.

Ignoring the danger, Ray studied the damage done by the proton stream. "It works!" Ray bounced up and down in glee. His face alight with enthusiasm that was powerful enough to overcome his fatigue, he reached for his thrower again. "It really works! Wow, did you see it? This is incredible."

"Yes, Ray. Incredible. I'm soooo impressed." Peter took a stance at Ray's side. "Can we discuss it after we blast the monster?"

"You think to threaten me!" thundered Vorenx, suddenly unfurling wings that had, until now, lain invisible against his back. They sparkled against his scales, but they were leathery and tough, strong enough to carry the vast creature aloft. "Nothing can stop me when I fly." He made a curious burping sound deep within his throat and the wings fanned back and forth, the breeze they made lifting Peter's hair and whipping at Winston's collar.

"That noise," Ray gasped, his auburn hair standing on end as if he'd received an unexpected punk cut in the wind from the wing strokes. "He's gonna shoot fire. He must have been getting it ready. It sounds like he's got two stomachs or else--yeowww!"

The four of them dived for cover as the dragon loosed a blast of flame directly at the spot where they had congregated. Hot and furious, it erupted from the dragon's mouth with all the force of a flame thrower. Diving for shelter behind the nearest trash container, Peter stared around wildly for his friends. He saw Egon picking himself up behind Ecto, carefully settling his glasses on the bridge of his nose, Winston glancing around from the dubious shelter of a stack of garbage bags, his mouth tight and worried, and Ray, half under Ecto, his hasty dive aborted by his pack, his legs wiggling as he struggled free.

Peter darted over to join him and helped pull him out. "Cute, Ray," he said as he dusted down the occultist.

Grinning wryly at Peter, Ray regained his footing. "Come on, guys," he called urgently beckoning them together. "He's working up to flying. I'm not sure we can stop him once he's aloft. He'll gain speed too fast and go out of range."

The wings beat faster and the dragon shot fire again, making the guys leap aside a second time to fetch up against the wall damaged by Vorenx's tail, sheltering temporarily behind a dumpster. As the four men regrouped, Egon was forced to grip the frame of his glasses to keep them from being sucked away in the frenzied wind from the dragon's wings.

A third gout of fire shot at them, but this time they had figured out the trajectory and they were able to dash sideways to avoid it. "He's so big it takes him time to work up to flying," Winston cried as he realized why the dragon was still earthbound. "I saw it in Nam. You don't just hop into a chopper and turn it on and fly. It takes time to warm up. We can do it before he flies."

"Then, on the count of three," Egon hollered, powering his thrower. Peter did the same. His power dipped for a second, but then it returned, steady and strong enough to make the thrower buck under his hands.

"One... two... three!" cried Egon, lowering a hand on the third number as a signal to start.

Each man hit the power at the same instant, four conic streams launching themselves at the dragon an instant before it would have sprung aloft. It hesitated, bellowing in rage, as it fought against the pull from the four throwers. Each man was dead on target, and as they watched in astonishment, Vorenx started to pulse the way the gateway had pulsed before he came through. He writhed and twisted in the beams and for the first time the Ghostbusters could see past him and tell that the door to his own world had closed. He couldn't return there.

"No! No! You will not trap me!" wailed the elemental, rocking to and fro in a furious attempt to break free of the confining energy. In rage he swatted at them but they gave just enough ground to avoid the blows. The pull from the stream nearly yanked the thrower from Peter's hand and he tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening under the stress. He was sure that when they pried his fingers free of the thrower, their marks would linger, embedded in the hard plastic covering of the handle.

"It's working!" exulted Ray, dancing closer as he played the beam over the resisting ghost. "Look! It's working! He's starting to phase out." He sounded so excited, so caught up in the job, so free of doubt that Peter felt a surge of relief so powerful that it nearly leveled him, near as he was to the end of his strength. He risked one quick sideways glance at Ray, who stood, feet planted, hands clenched around his thrower, eyes radiating nothing but honest enthusiasm. "Wow!" he cried. "This is fun."

"The boy needs a lesson in real fun," Winston muttered. "I should know. I've had fun before, and this isn't it." His eyes caught Peter's and they shared a joyful smile. Ray was becoming himself again. Beyond Ray, Egon seemed to gain strength and confidence as Ray's delight spread through the group.

Vorenx flapped his wings furiously and managed to lift his bulk half a dozen feet, only to find himself halted by the confining force of the streams. Shrieking curses, he thudded to the alley floor again. The ground rocked beneath their feet, nearly staggering them. A few more loose bricks rained down, most of them hitting the dragon, who bellowed in impotent rage and arched his spine to bounce them off.

"Now! Narrow the streams," Ray called. "We want to force him into the Netherworld now. He can't escape."

"You hope," Peter replied, but he obeyed Egon's shouted instructions.

Suddenly the dragon gave an astonished bellow and craned his neck to stare at his stomach. It was phasing more obviously now, the sparkle of scales in the proton light fading out as he became transparent.

"Yahoo! It's working!" exulted Winston, and the four of them moved closer, shoulder to shoulder, their throwers leveled at the dragon. It felt as if they had to push the dragon physically before them, requiring every bit of strength they had. Already weary, they were nearing their physical limits and Peter knew it. If it took much longer, he was going to keel over in a dead faint.

He jumped when his thrower unexpectedly bucked sideways in his hand as if the power feed had jammed and then cleared itself, sending renewed energy through the cable. Worried, he forced the thrower back on target. That didn't feel right. Before he could glance away to investigate, Vorenx trumpeted like a rogue elephant and tried to lunge at them. The power confined it and the arm with which he meant to snatch Ray passed completely through him. The occultist jumped in surprise.

"He's halfway out of our world already," he shouted in explanation. "When the gate closes behind him in the Netherworld, he'll be almost completely solid, and powerless, his whole power base gone."

Peter's thrower jumped again. "Oh, guys," he called. "I think I screwed up the cable when he slam dunked me. My zapper's acting weird."

Egon edged sideways, never ceasing his own fire but casting a questing eye along Peter's power cable. His eyes widened in horror. "Oh, no!"

"What?" Peter demanded. "I hate it when you say that, Egon. Oh, no, what?"

"You have a small rupture in your cable," Egon called. "It's bleeding power off and shunting some of it back to the machine. If we shut down now, Vorenx will solidify this side of the nexus."

"And if we don't shut down?" Peter demanded anxiously, trying to peer over his shoulder and watch the elemental at the same time.

"Your pack could explode. We only need--how much time, Ray?"

"Just a few more seconds," Ray called, his face going white in the uncertain light as he looked at the struggling dragon. "Peter, can you unfasten your pack? You're gonna need to get out of it fast. We can hold Vorenx the way he is now."

Good advice. Peter undid the fastener across his chest, feeling the power surge and lower yet again. It was going to be close.

"Now!" cried Ray. "He's going! Peter, you were supposed to power down."

Peter had expected Vorenx to vanish in a burst of smoke and the thunder of an explosion, but that didn't happen. Instead, the dragon shrank before their eyes, folding in upon itself until it was little taller than man-high. Then, with a silly pop, no louder than that of a champagne cork leaving the bottle, the elemental vanished without a trace.

"Shut down fast," Ray cried anxiously. "Peter, your pack..."

Peter wriggled free of the harness, yanked the connecting cord loose and, grabbing the pack by its straps, flung it as far away from them as he could. It exploded violently even as it hit the far end of the alley, the shock waves rocking them, knocking Peter and Winston to their knees and making Egon reel against the wall. Ray was running frantically for Ecto before the explosion even began.

"Got to shut the power down," he panted. "There could be feedback... Ecto would blow..."

Peter didn't know if he could make it. Looking around, he spotted the cable that had been attached to his thrower. He dove for it like a baseball player racing the throw home in a frantic slide, grabbing the damaged cable just the other side of the rupture, and pulling with all his strength. A bolt of energy ran through him, making his body quiver and shake, then the cable gave way and went dead in his hands.

He fell on his side and lay there twitching, too surprised that he was still alive to do anything but register the fact. The rumbles of the pack's explosion were still echoing around the walls of the alley when he heard his friends thudding toward him.

"Peter!" cried Ray, pushing his way to Venkman's side. "You idiot, you took the charge. It could have killed you!"

"It didn't," Peter heard himself stutter in a voice that wobbled from the force of the charge. "I thought it would blow you up if you risked shutting it down, so I--"

"Risked your life in a most foolhardy manner," Egon said stiffly. Peter glanced at Egon's worried face and realized with a stirring of warmth how worried the physicist had been. "We could have lost you."

"You could have lost Ray if I didn't do it, couldn't you?" he countered, teeth chattering.

Egon nodded reluctantly.

"Well, then," Peter concluded simply, his voice beginning to come under control again though it still quivered, "it was worth it. Losing Ray once was bad enough. I wasn't gonna do it again."

"Aw, Peter," breathed Ray, his eyes shining with happiness. Then he caught his breath and added, "That was the dumbest stunt I ever saw you pull, and I've seen a lot of them."

"Not as dumb as offering yourself to Vorenx," Peter defended himself. "Virgin sacrifice? Virgin sacrifice?" he retorted, his eyes full of glee. "Come on, Ray, you're over thirty. What about that redhead in your senior year at Columbia? I know there was something going on between you. Virgin sacrifice. You couldn't qualify."

"He said an innocent," Ray explained with a grin. "That's not the same thing as a maiden, after all. Besides, he added with a grin, "you're always telling me how innocent I am, compared to you."

"Compared to him, everybody's innocent," put in Winston grinning. "Yeah, Ray, I was afraid Vorenx was gonna laugh in his face," Winston's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Now if it had been Egon..." he began, turning his eyes on the physicist, who had been smiling at the banter.

"I assure you, Winston, I could never meet the qualifications," Egon returned hastily, his cheeks reddening. He avoided everyone's eyes.

"Oh, is that a fact?" asked Peter, bubbles of laughter rising in his chest. "I'll have to ask Janine all about it." The blush spread, causing the other three to stare at him in fascination.

Peter couldn't help it, he laughed aloud for the sheer joy of it. The quivering aftereffects of the shock were passing and he risked sitting up, delighted when three pairs of hands reached out to help him to his feet. He loved it when the guys fussed over him. Ray steadied him a minute, then dropped an arm around his shoulders. "Okay, Peter?" he asked anxiously.

"Is the dragon gone?" Peter glanced around the alley just to make certain, leaning against Ray comfortably. Suddenly he realized that all traces of suspicion had vanished. Ray was Ray again, and all was right with the world.

"Yeah, it's gone. It just popped out," Winston replied, looking over his shoulder as if to be sure.

"Then I'm fine," Peter confirmed. "I only have one other question to ask."

The other three exchanged a knowing glance and demanded in perfect unison, "Can we go home now?"

*****

"What are you doing still up?"

Peter jerked alert. He had been half dozing in front of the TV screen, too keyed up from the bout with Vorenx to sleep comfortably. For a long time he had lain in his bed upstairs, listening to the others' steady breathing, then he had got up and grabbed a robe. Ray was sleeping peacefully when Peter tiptoed past his bed, and he had paused at the foot of the bed to smile at his friend. No nightmares disturbed his rest tonight. His sleep was peaceful.

Peter was at peace, too, for the most part, but he still couldn't sleep. Afraid of waking the others, he crept out of the room. Only Slimer stirred, but Peter held a finger to his lips and murmured, "Go to sleep, Slimer. I'm not going after food."

"Aw." Disappointed, the ghost pulled his trailing blanket around himself more tightly and closed his eyes.

For awhile, Peter had watched Headline News, catching up on the affairs of the world, though he doubted he would have passed a pop quiz on anything he'd seen. Finally he had dozed lightly through an episode of Mr. Ed.

Now Ray's voice startled him to full awareness. He pulled himself into his corner of the couch and gestured the occultist to sit down. Ray appeared young and sleepy in his striped pajamas, his hair standing on end.

"You look beat," Peter said. "We keep trying to feed you up but there hasn't been much time to eat."

"I'm okay," Ray countered. "Just kind of sleepy."

"Then stretch out," Peter encouraged. "There's plenty of room."

Instead, Ray sat at the other end of the couch, his face carefully wary. "Peter, Egon was right," he said.

Peter tried to think of the proper response, and, for once, failed utterly. "Egon's always right about something," he replied, stretching out his arm along the back of the couch so that he could clasp his friend's shoulder. "What's he right about this time?"

"That we should have talked before. You were right, too," he continued hastily, his eyes upon the TV screen. "I did run out on you and the others. I let you down. I didn't mean to--I didn't even think I was doing it right away. Mostly, when I thought about you and Egon and Winston, I thought you'd be better off without me. I didn't think I'd have the nerve to handle a thrower, and I was afraid I'd get you killed. It was only an excuse, though." He turned from the screen and stared at Peter apologetically. "I was afraid I'd stay and screw up and none of you would want me any more."

"Wouldn't want you any more!" echoed Peter in rampant disbelief. "Wouldn't want you any more! God, Ray." He shook his head. "You weren't thinking clearly. If you'd stayed, we'd have helped you. You wouldn't have had to pump gas out in California, land of the brain dead." Ray's honesty deserved a response. "You know about me," he said, suddenly realizing why the screen had proved so fascinating to Ray. He eyed it unseeingly. "Sometimes I get possessive. If I hang on for all I'm worth, nobody will run out on me again. Crazy, isn't it? You learn things when you're a kid and you think you've left them all behind, but maybe you never do until you face them. I finally learned it was okay to like Christmas. I used to tell myself that my dad would have come home if Christmas was important, so it couldn't be important. When you're a kid, it's either that or believing that it's your own fault. I had an ego even then and I didn't want it to be my fault. You'd think a Ph.D in psychology would teach me sense, but it's hard to apply to yourself. When you left, part of me blamed you--and that was stupid. You did what you thought you had to do."

He was silent a moment, then he continued, "I knew it was okay when you told Vorenx to take you instead."

Ray frowned at him, knowing it was all right, but with a hesitancy in his eyes that made the explanations all the more necessary. "I know you did, but I still don't really understand why. I was offering to go away again. I was half afraid you'd be mad at me for saying it."

"Mad at you! For trying to save my life?" Peter stared at him openmouthed. "If I was mad it was because throwing your life away like that was stupid and I wasn't gonna let you do it. Besides, you weren't really offering to go away again, not like before. It wasn't the same," Peter assured him. "You were trying to protect us, and you can't tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing for us even if the past three months had never happened."

Ray considered that. "Maybe," he said. "I thought I might have to go to his realm and that you guys would find a way to get me back. I didn't realize he was looking for instant dinner." He shook his head as if to put the incident behind him. "I wouldn't have tried that unless everything else had failed first, though, if this hadn't happened. I just thought I was...well," he bowed his head, "the most expendable."

"That's crazy! You saw how worried we were, even if I was acting like a jerk about it. The only reason I did it was because I was afraid you were going to take off again and once was too much." He cleared his throat and added quietly, "We filed a missing persons report on you, you know. One day, right before you called, the police found a body."

Ray made an inarticulate sound of horror, stretching out his hand to grip Peter's apologetically. "I never thought..." he began with such aching regret that Peter gave himself a mental kick for bringing it up even if he thought the point was valid. Now that he had, it was better to continue. If nothing else, it would convince Ray how much he mattered, something he needed to hear right now.

"It's okay," he said automatically. Ray heard the familiar tones of absolution and relaxed though he didn't loose Peter's hand. Peter curled his fingers around Ray's more tightly. "It was pretty bad," he continued, "but it wasn't you--that would have been..." His voice failed him. Ray dead was the worst thing he could imagine.

He saw that realization filter into Ray's eyes, followed by astonishment that he would mean so much, and finally a quiet contentment that everything was going to be all right. Peter fumbled for the correct words. "I just wanted you to know why I acted the way I did," he said, looking Ray right in the eye. "I love you and I couldn't imagine life without you here. I'm not good at this, but I...wanted you to know."

Ray's eyes glittered with sudden, happy tears and he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Peter's neck. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "I didn't want to put you through all this. I love you, too."

There was nothing more to say that wouldn't be unbearably corny. Peter savored the moment, completely at peace, then he grinned and eased his fierce grip. "Sounds like true confessions."

Ray chuckled and leaned back in his corner, looking more comfortable with Peter than he had been since he came home.

"Winston reminded me that you came home for my sake," said Peter softly, "even if your own problems were still unresolved. Thanks, pal." He tightened his grip on Ray's shoulder. "I'm okay now, I think. I feel normal again--maybe even better than normal." He eyed Ray expectantly. "How about you? Is it all worked out?"

Ray grinned happily, a bright, glowing approximation of his best smile ever, and nodded. "I'm fine, Peter. The bust felt good, didn't it?"

"Yeah, but next time, I don't want you pulling this self-sacrificing number. We'll face it together from now on. Got it?"

Ray smiled faintly. "Got it." He hesitated, started to speak, paused. Peter waited encouragingly. Finally Ray said in a quiet voice, "You talked about when you were a kid. I never told you that much about my childhood, did I?"

"Just about losing your folks, and that sometimes you stayed with your aunt Lois and sometimes in a foster home."

Ray's head bobbed up and down. "You don't tend to think much of yourself in foster homes, Peter," he confessed, avoiding his friend's eyes. "If they have kids of their own, you learn you're second best in a hurry, no matter how nice the family is. You start to believe it after awhile. Especially in Morrisville, where I didn't fit in. Most of them thought I was weird and that I'd never amount to anything. I guess I bought into it." He drew a deep breath and continued in a stronger voice, "It took you and Egon to teach me to have confidence in myself, and I backslide once in awhile. I thought if any of us had to leave, it was better if it was me."

Peter's heart twisted at Ray's words. He wished he could have been there when Ray was a kid to show those jerks what they had missed. Imagine putting down someone as smart and caring and enthusiastic as Ray. Never amount to anything? Not hardly. "None of us are leaving, especially not you. Look, I don't go around talking like this, baring my soul, very often but it had to be said. We need you. All of us. Maybe me most of all. Try to remember that the next time you go off half cocked. Talk to us first."

"I will, Peter," Ray promised. He hesitated. "I guess that was why I was so upset when Bradley What's-his-name showed up. I thought you'd replace me."

Peter gave a scornful snort. "Replace you with Bradley Singleton?! You have got to be kidding! He may look good but that's all he's got going for him. That guy took a couple of my classes at Columbia."

"Yeah, he said so." Ray looked at him expectantly, the tension leaving his face. "Why? Wasn't he any good?"

Peter grinned, shaking his head vehemently. "No way. I gave him a D. I wouldn't have hired that turkey on a bet, not even if you hadn't come back." He shivered at the thought. "I'm just glad you did."

Ray's smile blossomed, genuinely happy. "I'm glad I did, too."

"Good." He broke off to yawn. "God, I'm tired and you look like you can barely keep your eyes open."

"I'm okay." Ray slumped down on the couch, on the verge of falling asleep. "I'll just curl up here."

"C'mere, kid," Peter urged, and Ray stretched out on the couch. Peter edged over and patted his knees. "Come on, let's make you comfortable." Soon Ray lay with his head in Peter's lap, his eyes closed and a contented expression upon his face.

The psychologist smiled down at him indulgently in the flickering light from the TV screen. He was tired, too, so tired that everything seemed sharper and clearer than usual one minute and fuzzed around the edges the next. He needed sleep as badly as Ray did, but, for now, he'd allow himself the luxury of reveling in his friend's return home. Reaching out he rested his hand on Ray's shaggy hair, twisting the longer strands around his fingers and tugging gently. "You need a haircut, pal," he said softly.

Ray leaned his head into the touch, a smile curling his lips as Peter's fingers continued stroking gently. "Is this corny or what?" Venkman muttered, a little embarrassed at his open display of affection.

"No," murmured Ray with a smile. "You don't have to stop. I think it's nice." His voice thinned as he drifted nearer to sleep, and Peter resumed the motion, idly and automatically smoothing the sleep-tangled hair.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there half-dozing watching Ray sleep before a quiet voice from the door asked, "Is he all right?"

Peter turned his head, and raised a finger to his lips to keep Egon from waking Ray. "Yeah, he's fine, Egon," he replied in a near whisper. "So am I, I think. We talked. You were right. It was good to clear the air."

Egon padded barefoot into the room in his nightshirt, shoving his glasses up his nose, and sat on the arm of the couch next to Peter. "He's not going to leave again, Peter," he said reassuringly.

Peter grinned and leaned his head against Egon's side, noticing how quickly and automatically the physicist shifted position to accommodate him. Egon never made a production of it, but he was always there for them when they needed him. "We're lucky, aren't we, Egon?" he asked. "The four of us, I mean."

"Yes, but why particularly?" Egon queried. Peter was sure he already knew the answer.

"Because we're a family. We can screw up and do dumb things but when it's all over we're still a family. We can count on each other."

"Precisely, Peter," Egon replied. He patted Peter on the head as if he were a child, and Venkman, who, as a rule, hated having his hair mussed, bit his lip and held his peace.

"We're still learning about each other, too," Egon continued seriously. "That makes a difference. This scared us because we had become a little complacent. I don't think that will happen again." He began to stroke Peter's hair absentmindedly, probably unaware of what he was doing.

"Egon, I hate that," Peter protested automatically, though he made no attempt to pull away. Ray had been right, it did feel nice, though he wouldn't want to encourage Egon to make a habit of it.

"Yes, I know you do," the physicist replied, though his hand didn't still. "Right now, I'd suggest that you get some sleep yourself, Peter. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow."

"We do?" Peter demanded, tilting his head to frown up at Egon. "What horrible new work have you dreamed up for us now, Spengs? I kinda thought I'd sack in until noon. What's on tap for tomorrow, big guy?"

"All those irritating little Class 2s," Egon reminded him, his arm dropping around Peter's shoulder as he struggled not to laugh. "I counted at least two dozen of them sneaking through the gateway when Vorenx appeared. Unless we want the mayor and the police force and hordes of maddened New Yorkers coming after us, we're going to have to capture every single one."