Originally published in Ouch 9

Charlie Rat wanted a drink. No, it was more than that; he craved a drink so fiercely that he could think of nothing else, not the years when he'd been something more than a street wino, not the prestige of his former career, not the friends he'd lost, the wife who had--

No, don't think of that. Think of a drink. Think of...

He turned the corner into his favorite alley, the one by the grocery store where the stale bread got tossed out, where the market owner sometimes threw together a bologna sandwich for him. Never gave him booze, of course. But the food kept him alive till the next drink. He'd just pop in, scratch on the door, look pathetic. No stretch there. Dirty and unbathed, he knew he reeked. He knew he had livestock migrating around his body. When he was sober, he could feel it. It felt like--

No, wait, what was that? Who was that, down on the ground, reeking of gasoline? What was that shadow bending over him, tossing away the gas container?

Abruptly Charlie Rat was stone cold sober. He'd heard about it, heard the word about the crazy who was going around torching winos, saturating them with gasoline, then flinging a match at them. They called him the Torch; he'd seen it in the newspaper he'd used to cover himself the other night. Killed two winos or homeless people a night. This had to be him. He was going for the match now....

Charlie Rat wanted to turn and run away as fast as he could. Two winos... The guy had only to look around and he'd have a second victim. He hadda get out of here. Run, run, run, run, run...

It wasn't Charlie Rat who screeched a protest and charged across to jump at the guy with the match. It was Charles Ratcliffe who had once been sober, who had once been smart--who had once had ethics and courage. "Leave him alone, you scumbag," he howled, running toward the downed man. His heart thumped like a drum, but for the first time in ten years, something inside him didn't cringe at the thought of what he had become.

The shadow jerked. He spun around to confront the screaming banshee bearing down on him. For a second, Charlie saw the face of the Torch, terrible and inhuman, the fangs at the mouth, the horns at the temples, and thought, 'demon'. His stomach roiled as he screeched frantically to a stop, courage deserting him at the realization that the Torch wasn't a human serial killer after all. Oh, god, oh, god, I gotta get out of here! But the demon thing didn't come for him. Instead it snarled, pulling back thin, blue lips, yanked down the hand that had been ready to cast fire from a taloned fingertip, and leaped over the downed wino so high it was almost like it was levitating. Then it was gone, rounding a corner into the street at the far end of the alley, soaring up into the sky as it fled, leaving Charlie Rat shaking like a leaf.

Tentatively, he ventured closer. The guy looked like he'd been crawling around in the dumpster. Face streaked with refuse, he had rotted lettuce in his hair and his clothes were plastered with dirt and reeking of gasoline.

What did they say? You save a guy's life, you're responsible for it? Charlie hadn't even been responsible for himself for ten lousy years, but the guy on the ground looked halfway familiar. He'd seen him somewhere, maybe warming his hands across a fire, maybe sharing a fifth somewhere. I'm responsible for him, thought Charlie unhappily.

So he did the first thing he could think of, unwound the hose from the spigot on the grocery store wall and hosed the guy down to dilute the reek of gasoline so he wouldn't accidentally go up like a human bonfire and negate Charlie's rescue. When he was as free of it as Charlie could make him, he put the hose neatly back in place. Then he bent down, got his fellow wino slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and staggered back into the street, darting across it after a taxi passed, and vanishing into a narrow passage between buildings on the other side of the street.

Save a guy's life--and you wind up paying the price.

And now he had to call the Ghostbusters and let them know that the guy torching winos wasn't just some sicko who got a charge out of burning people. It was a ghost or demon, and that meant they needed the Ghostbusters. Charlie fumbled in his pocket for change. He found two quarters, a penny and three dimes. Not a fortune, but maybe the Ghostbusters would spring for a fifth for him for letting them know. First, he'd stash the poor sucker in his Maytag box, let him sleep it off, then he'd he'd call the Ghostbusters, give 'em a tip.

God, he wanted a drink.

Egon Spengler glanced at his wristwatch and shut down his current project. He'd designed a meter once specifically geared to physical entities, but he'd never worked on it much because the standard P.K.E. meters could pick them up and the need hadn't been great. But the more he'd thought of it, the more he remembered the Bogeyman, and he'd realized that the means of trapping physical entities were limited. The atomic destabilizer worked, reversing a physical entity's molecular structure and making them more susceptible to trapping, and the team frequently carried it along on a bust that sounded as if it might be needed. But if it was possible to integrate some of its features into a standard proton pack and thrower, then they could be prepared at all times. Should one of them be cut off during a bust, he wouldn't be dependent on finding the team member wearing the destabilizer to stop the entity. It was a complicated process because he had to be certain that incorporating the change didn't weaken any of the pack's existing functions. He had been running tests with the spare proton pack in the lab.

Given a full week to perfect his process, Egon was quite content. Business was usually slow in late August, so, traditionally, that was when the team went on their vacations. The Ghostbusters had shut down for that long while Janine took a cruise vacation in the Carribean with her sister Monica. Winston and Ray had opted for camping. Seeing the utter horror on Peter's face at the thought of another camping trip, Egon had said, "I'll take the opportunity of remaining in town to work on the thrower mods."

Peter instantly relaxed. Had all three of his friends voted for camping, he would likely have gone as well, complaining all the way. That he'd probably have enjoyed himself in the process didn't matter; he believed he would hate it. Besides, he had a new girlfriend and was at the stage where the thought of a week apart didn't sit well.

"I'll stay and keep you company, Spengs," he volunteered hastily.

Ray and Winston exchanged knowing grins but Egon lifted an amused eyebrow. "You'll stay and keep Tina company, you mean?" he challenged.

"Well, I'll be here part of the time. She's got a job, after all." Tina Randall was a charge nurse who worked the 7-3 shift at St. Vincent's.

"I am thrilled at your desire for my company," Egon had returned sardonically, winning an amused grin from Peter. He would be around part of the time and both of them would enjoy it. In spite of their differences, Egon relished Peter's companionship, even if he was inclined to tease, to refuse to be serious, to drag Egon out to entertainments he would never have chosen for himself. Even when Peter was just hanging around the lab making smart comments and bothering Egon at his work, his presence was far more enjoyable than solitude. It would never do to say so, however. Peter would capitalize on it like crazy.

Three days into the vacation week, Egon had made strides on the meter, had enjoyed talking to Peter when he was home, and working with concentration when he was not. Tonight, he and Tina had gone out for dinner and dancing and Egon had taken the opportunity to put some concentrated work on the proton pack and thrower. Peter had made him promise before he left that he would stop working at eleven. "Kick back and watch the news, Spengs. If I come back at midnight and you're still working, I'll get even--and I know all the best ways. You spend too much time in the lab, you start growing mold between the ears."

"It is physically impossible to grow mold--" Egon had begun before he realized Peter had been aiming for just that response.

"I'm serious, Spengs," Peter insisted sternly. "We depend on the packs. When you get tired, you make mistakes."

"I assure you..."

"That was the general 'you', buddy. I know you're not like ordinary mortals, but give it a rest here. We've gone five years without needing the new throwers. We can go five more weeks." He was serious. Simply because Egon had nearly caused a proton pack overload the week before... Egon met Peter's eyes and realized Peter's insistence on the break was made out of concern. "It'll be a good deal to have better throwers, but it will not be a good deal to have a crater where the firehouse stands and pieces of you in the Bronx." He grabbed Egon's shoulders. "When I came home last night, you were zoned out like a zombie. I know you love this stuff, but if you don't promise you'll quit by eleven, I'm gonna get a strait jacket and put you in it before I go out. Don't think I wouldn't."

Egon met his gaze head on. "I don't doubt it for an instant. Very well, Peter. I'll stop at eleven. I give you my word."

Remembering that conversation, Egon put away his equipment with a good heart. He realized that Peter's motivation for staying in the city wasn't simply to spend time with Tina, but to keep an eye on Egon as well. Ray, who loved to hang out in the lab, would have watched him if he'd been home, but Ray could be reckless in a different way than Egon was. Since Egon didn't consider himself reckless at all, that wasn't a fair argument. But the thought that Peter was insistent on protective measures warmed Egon. He was very lucky in his friends.

Egon made himself a cup of hot cocoa and put several cookies on a tray, then added a few more in case Slimer should pop in. The little ghost had been in and out during the course of the evening but had wandered away earlier on some ploy of his own. Settling himself on the couch, he turned on the TV. It would be just like Peter to demand a recap when he got home.

The news led off with another story about the Torch, the serial killer who had been dousing homeless people with gasoline or kerosine and setting them on fire over the past few weeks. There were no witnesses to the action, at least none that were willing to come forward. The local news anchor made a plea for eyewitnesses. "The Torch kills two homeless men each night he strikes. That has been the pattern for the past three weeks. Tonight, only one body has been found--so far." The scene cut to the mouth of an alley where police cars were parked at odd angles, flashers going and two EMT's were wheeling out a gurney while a curious and ghoulish crowd pushed up against the police barricade to get a look. The body was bagged. Egon was glad of that. He had not relished the thought of seeing one of the Torch's victims.

"Is this a break in the Torch's pattern?" asked the newsman in a voiceover. "Or has the second victim simply not yet been found?"

The ringing of the telephone made Egon jump. It was late at night and the business was closed down for a week, but he couldn't ignore the call, so he went to answer it. "Ghostbuster Central?" It might even be the guys or his mother.

It wasn't. A doubtful voice said, "This is where you bust those demons and ghosts, right?" The words were slurred and roughened as if the caller had been drinking steadily for a very long time.

"Yes, but we're not taking any calls this week," Egon began.

"Well, I think maybe you better, son," the voice insisted. His words poured out frantically. "I saw him tonight. I saw the Torch. And do you know what, boy? He's not human. He's got fangs and horns and he makes the fire himself, casts it out of his fingertips. His gasoline comes in a can just as it would for a human killer, but the fire comes out of him. He's no serial killer, he's an entity from hell or that Netherworld I've heard tell of. I showed up and stopped him from torching another wino tonight. Came running in yelling, thinking he was a man, but he wasn't. He didn't burn the guy. He didn't try to blast me, just flew away. But I've been thinking, you Ghostbusters need to know because I fear that I've made him angry."

The caller hung up, leaving Egon to stare at the receiver, wondering if he had heard correctly. Had the call been legitimate? The wino had spoken appropriate English, no bad grammar. Yes, he'd sounded intoxicated, but if he were another street person, he might have chosen to get drunk at the sight of an unexpected demon rather than making a phone call. If Egon could find the man and the one he'd inadvertently saved, perhaps he could question them. The demon, if indeed it were a demon, had been thwarted--for the moment. That meant it might yet strike elsewhere in the city. Hmmm. The ambient energy levels had risen slightly over the past month but only in the general area of Ghostbuster Central. Egon had been monitoring it and the fact that the rise was extremely slight was the only reason the vacation had not been canceled. Could the demon, if it were indeed a demon, have something to do with it? Why would a demon use gasoline when it could shoot fire from its fingertips? An answer came to him instantly; it was a cover, so no one--read the Ghostbusters--would suspect paranormal intervention. Egon couldn't remember specific addresses of the deaths because he'd paid little attention to the details, but it seemed that the Torch was mainly active in this general area. Was it possible a demon meant to thumb its nose at the Ghostbusters, covering its actions by the use of gasoline, which would make the police suspect a human criminal? If so, it would need to be stopped. If the demon had a bigger plan, they needed to discover it right away.

Egon was only one Ghostbuster, but Peter would be in soon. Peter's Tina went to work at 7 a.m. which meant their dates started earlier than usual and ended earlier than usual because she preferred to have eight hours sleep before going in for her shift. Peter should be home momentarily, and then they could drive around the neighborhood and look for the alley in question. Peter hadn't taken Ecto-1; Tina had a car and would bring him home. He'd left by cab to pick her up at work.

The newscaster left the Torch story and went on to talk about a subway accident. It sounded like a bad one; Egon had not heard the earlier news and he didn't work with a radio or televsion on in the lab, so he hadn't heard about the accident. A D train had derailed near King's Highway in Brooklyn at the end of rush hour. At that point the train was an el, which meant it had been a bad accident. Several of the cars had hit local businesses and pedestrians on the street had been injured or killed. Egon shuddered. Thank goodness Peter hadn't gone that way tonight. He and Tina had planned to dine at Tavern on the Green. And Janine, who lived in Brooklyn, was likely in Charlotte Amalie tonight and not riding the subway home. The vacation had been well timed because she often took that particular train. Egon breathed a sigh of relief for her, although he was very sorry about the victims.

The front doorbell sounded.

Egon sighed. Had someone else witnessed the demon? Maybe he could get more information. He rose and went downstairs to answer it.

Maybe someone else had witnessed it. The man at the door was Inspector Frump, the New York Police detective who was Peter's least favorite policeman. Frump didn't like the Ghostbusters any more than they liked him, convinced that they went out of their way to make trouble for him. Egon had once tried to explain to the officer that this was an irrational hatred, predicated on factors beyond the Ghostbusters' control, but Frump wasn't having any. Egon had understood Peter's resentment better after that. One could not argue with a person who had taken an illogical stand and was prepared to hold it even in the face of reason.

Tonight, Frump didn't look as gruff as usual. There was a distressed look in the back of his eyes that Egon had never seen there before. He said, "Can I come in, Spengler?"

A part of Egon longed to correct his grammar and ask, 'Don't you mean may I come in?' but he doubted that would be a good idea. Egon was accustomed to dealing on a daily basis with three men who possessed a sense of humor. He had seen no evidence of such from the police officer. Holding open the door, he stepped back to allow the bulky man access. "Is this about the Torch?" he asked.

Frump stared at him suspiciously, eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?" he demanded, looming over Egon.

"I just received an anonymous telephone call claiming that the Torch is a ghost or demon instead of a human being," Egon explained, noting the surprise that filled Frump's eyes before he controlled his expression. "I assumed you had a witness who had seen it at the first torching tonight."

"First torching?" Frump demanded. "There's been only one."

"No, a second attempt was interrupted. The man who called to tell me about it sounded like another street person. He'd seen the Torch bending over a wino, evidently about to incinerate him. He yelled, the entity turned, and it had fangs and horns. It flew away without finishing its work. I assumed you came because of that. To hire us."

Frump shook his head. For once, he didn't look eager to talk, although Egon could see him filing away the report to consider later. "Spengler, we have the first body tonight, the one who didn't get away. He's...burned beyond recognition. But we found...this in his wallet." he held out something small and twisted.

Expecting an object that would prove the Torch was a ghost, Egon started to go for the P.K.E. meter that was lying on Janine's desk. Then his eyes focused on the article and he froze, grabbing it out of the detective's hand.

It had once been a Visa card. It had melted and warped from the heat of the gasoline fire, but some of the raised letters still showed. Even though the color had melted off, Egon could read some of them.

E...T...E..R V...E...N...K...M

Peter Venkman?

Egon's scalp tightened, his stomach knotted, and he stared at the mangled card with a surge of betrayal. It couldn't be real. It had to be a trick. Just because it said the name didn't mean... How could this happen? How could Peter do this to him?

Frump lunged at him as his knees buckled, catching him about the shoulders and half carrying, half dragging him over to Janine's desk where he guided him into the chair. Egon fell into it, numb and appalled. That twisted body in the bag he'd seen on television... No. It couldn't be. It was impossible. That hadn't been Peter. It had to be a mistake.

"This is a mistake," he insisted to Frump. It was amazingly hard to enunciate. His mouth had gone numb. His whole body had, everything but the hand that had closed so tightly around the Visa card. "You have made a mistake. I know you don't like us, but there is no cause to lie to me like this."

Dear god, Frump's face filled with compassion. "No, I didn't like Venkman," he said, and Egon wanted to jump up and pound him in the face, to wipe that expression away, to ram those words down his throat. "But no one deserves to die like this. Venkman was my pet peeve but this is wrong. I hate like hell to think of anybody daring to do this to him. You have my word, and the word of the entire NYPD, that we'll get the son of a bitch who did this."

Egon looked down at the card. He had gripped it so tightly his palm and fingers were bleeding from the jagged edges. "It was a demon," he said reasonably. "It must have recognized Peter. That's why it attacked someone who wasn't a wino." He heard his mind reasoning it out, heard the words emerging, but it was someone else who was talking, some cool stranger who hadn't had the heart ripped, still beating, out of his chest. Peter couldn't be gone. This couldn't be possible. He tried to struggle to his feet, but hands like hams clamped down on his shoulders.

"Let me go," he cried, struggling. "I have to find the demon. I have to trap it. I have to..." He ran down. He couldn't find words. There weren't any words. "Do I have to...identify the bo-- identify..."

"Dr. Spengler, I don't think you could. There's a wristwatch, too." He pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his pocket and held it out. "Leave it in the bag, Dr. Spengler, please."

Egon took it. Although it was blackened, the crystal melted, he recognized it. It was Peter's watch. There was the inscription on the back. 'Happy 30^th. Time keeps on ticking.' They had given it to Peter three years ago on his birthday. They'd all chipped in to buy him a Rolex, knowing he'd be thrilled beyond belief. He had been. He'd been as excited as a child on Christmas morning, and he'd worn the watch with pride every day since. Egon shuddered and thrust the bag at Frump. Then he turned and ran for the bathroom in the lab area behind Peter's office and threw up.

Frump came with him. The big detective held his head while he lost his dinner, then he straightened Egon up, wiped his face with a washcloth and dried him off. "Is there someone who could come and be with you, Dr. Spengler? Where are the other Ghostbusters?" He removed the card gently from Egon's hand and stuck the bleeding palm under the water in the sink. Egon watched him clean the cut with a strange detachment.

"They're spending a week hiking on the Appalachian Trail," Egon replied. "They're not near a telephone." He'd have to tell them when they came back, when they stopped at a place where they had phone access. He'd have to tell them. He felt cold and sick, his stomach hollow and unhappy, but his mind was numb. He'd have to contact Peter's father. Peter and his dad had never been on the best of terms but Egon had no doubt the old con man loved his son. They all loved him. Peter... It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. It had to be a mistake.

It couldn't be a mistake...

He heard himself speaking. "Frump. Peter was on a date tonight. Was...was anyone with him?"

Investigating the medicine cabinet over the sink, the big cop found a box of band-aids and took out a few to put them over the cuts. "No, he was alone."

Alone... Egon shuddered, scarcely aware of Frump's fingers as he fumbled with the bandages. Peter, who hated being alone, had died that way, without his friends, without a chance to say goodbye. He had died alone, horribly, afraid and in pain...

Egon choked, but the sob wouldn't be held back. He pulled his hand away from Frump's ministrations and covered his face.

Frump didn't touch him as he wept.

Peter... Gone forever.

It couldn't be real. It had to be wrong.

Egon pulled himself together quickly, not because Peter didn't deserve his grief in full measure, but because there was an entity out there to stop. No one else should have to feel what he was feeling. He removed his glasses, mopped his eyes, then cleaned the lenses before putting them on again.

"I have to see Peter," he said.

"No."

Egon's head jerked up. "You can't stop me. I have the right," he insisted furiously.

"There's no point," replied the detective. His face was hard but his eyes held compassion. "You wouldn't be able to identify him. It's for the dental records."

"I owe it to Peter to make the attempt," Egon insisted, although his stomach plummeted with dread at the very idea. To see Peter like that, burned beyond recognition, all traces of humor, warmth, and wit seared away into something horrible... He would rather change places with Peter than see him like that, but he had to do it. "How can I fail him by refusing to go?"

Frump shook his head. "How can you destroy your memory of him by seeing him like that? Don't you owe it to him to remember him the best way you can? Look, Spengler, I've been a cop for twenty-five years, and I've seen a lot of crummy shit. This is...nearly the worst. I didn't like Venkman, but that was personality, that and the fact he bugged me on purpose. But he did his job well, no matter what I think of the job. He put the lives of innocent civilians first. Remember that, not the way he is right now. I've had partners on the job, and I swear to god, I wouldn't be able to live with seeing one of them like this. You have a heavy enough load already. Don't take this on, too. He wouldn't want you to."

Egon shivered. That was true. Peter would never want to burden him with an unendurable memory. But he was burdened anyway, burdened with an imagination that took the worst he'd ever seen in any film and superimposed it over Peter's face. What made Frump think that was any less bearable than the reality?

"Then I want to know about the other instances," he said. "Because that anonymous caller said it was a ghost. I thought the victims were always winos who'd been passed out in the street. Peter wouldn't have been passed out on the..." His voice trailed off, horrified. "Do you think it might have recognized him?" If it had been a personal attack, if Peter had known what was happening...

Frump's massive shoulders lifted in a shrug. "No way to tell. Listen, Spengler, I'll have police reports messaged over to you in the morning with a list of the other locations. There's nothing you can do tonight." He glanced upward. "Can you reach the other two clown--Ghostbusters?"

"They won't be near a phone," Egon reminded him. "They may call in, but I don't know when, and certainly not at this time of night."

"Have you got somebody who can stay with you tonight?"

Egon didn't want anyone else here. He knew Frump thought he'd run off and do something crazy, but that was not Egon's way, not even now. The entity would be trapped, even if he had to do it alone. That was a given. But the thought of tolerating polite, awkward sympathy from near strangers... No. Intolerable. He would stay alone, because Peter had been alone. He would research every book he possessed. He would finish his work on the modified proton pack and thrower. On the morrow, when the police reports came, he would study them with the utmost care, go to each site and take readings. And then, when the demon came back, Egon would be ready for it. Wearing the new pack, he would be able to defeat it on his own if Ray and Winston were not back by the time he was ready.

I will avenge you, Peter, he thought, and knew that revenge would be hollow, that it would do nothing to ease all the empty times that waited for him, the rest of a life that didn't have Peter Venkman in it.

Egon did sleep because he knew he would do no one any good should exhaustion allow the entity to win. He made himself sleep for five hours, although it was a restless and uneasy sleep, filled with half-remembered nightmares of charred corpses and of Peter's face in the moment the fire ignited. Once, he woke up screaming. Twice he came awake with horrendous images in his mind. Each time he made himself calm down. After the worst dream, he drank hot chocolate, but that well-tried remedy did not work this time around. When the five hours were up, Egon suspected he had slept no more than four of it. He was not refreshed, but he got up anyway and, after a cold shower to shock him awake and a cup of strong black coffee, he retreated to the lab. He did three tests with the modified pack and thrower, and the third one dissolved the cardboard cutout into a hazy, transparent image of itself. Satisfied, Egon checked every connection, went over the power controls and intensified them, then set himself the task of boosting a trap to work easily with the particle stream. It would possess more suction than an ordinary ghost trap, but because of the energy expended, it would only work once.

Egon was determined to make once enough.

When he thought he wouldn't rouse her from sleep, Egon telephoned Peter's date, Tina. Peter's name had not been released, so she would not have known. She answered the phone on the fourth ring, yawning colossally. "'Lo..." It should have been past her wake-up time. Egon introduced himself.

"Oh, Egon." She forced alertness into her voice. "I'm sorry. I just fell asleep. There was a major subway accident last night and I didn't get off at seven. I had to cancel with Peter when he came to pick me up. He probably told you when he got home."

So that explained why Peter was alone. It didn't explain why he was in the alley unless he'd been lured there. He didn't know yet where it had happened.

"Tina, I am very sorry to have to tell you this," Egon said, his words gummed together. "But Peter...was killed last night."

She sucked in her breath and said, "Thank you for..." before what he said registered. A long pause, then she said, "Oh, god, oh, god." He waited, knowing she was weeping. "Oh no, not..." And then, "Egon, you're alone! Peter would...would hate that." She was finding strength, the strength that made her a good nurse.

Peter would hate that, knowing Egon was facing it alone, but there was nothing anyone could do about that. Egon feared Tina would volunteer to come over, but that would do no good, unless she needed it.

"I have a task to perform," he said stiffly. "A demon...killed Peter. I must find it and trap it." He didn't want to tell her about the fire unless he had to.

She was weeping. "I only knew Peter a few weeks but he was...someone special. Egon, you've known him for years. Do you want me to come over?"

"I have a job to do, Tina. I can work faster alone. He demon must kill no one else. Peter would...want me to stop it." He would want no one else to die alone, in terror and pain. "Is there someone who can be with you?"

"My roommate. She'll stay home from work today if I ask her to."

"I'm sorry to tell you this by telephone. It is...not a good way to receive bad news."

"No way is, Egon," she replied. "You must get Ray and Winston home. They can be found. You shouldn't have to be alone."

"I will," he said, although he'd have to turn that task over to someone else. Did that mean allowing someone else to break the news? Egon hated that; it was his responsibility. But so was the demon and, if he did not act, someone else might die. The Torch had been acting every three nights for the past few weeks. Did that mean he had two days to prepare? Or would the demon alter its schedule now that it had altered the nature of its victims? There was nothing on the morning radio news to indicate a second person had died last night. The demon had been thwarted. Egon could not assume he had two days' grace.

He ended the call to Tina, assuring her he would trap the entity that had killed Peter, and hung up. He had a purpose. He had the demon to capture.

He also had Peter's father to notify. Searching out his friend's address book, he put out several telephone calls to people Peter had marked as his father's contacts. Such attempts to locate Charlie had not been marked for their success in the past, but he had to try. He called several of the numbers, instructing the people he reached--and the answering machines--to ask Mr. Venkman to contact Egon at Ghostbuster Central. That would probably alarm Charlie, but Egon felt he owed it to Peter to break the news himself.

As for anyone else... His mother? Ray's Aunt Lois? Winston's folks? That could wait until he had more information. He knew they might see it on the news, but he had to work on the demon. If he called them, they were sure to come over, and he had too much work to do for that.

Or was it that he simply could not bear to admit to them, and to himself, that this was real?

What frightened him was the thought of what he would have left once he was finished his work, when there was nothing to do but feel the loss. Already it was all through him, paining him at the sight of Peter's neatly made bed, the shirt tossed casually over the bedpost. His possessions were everywhere, spread around the room in his usual untidy manner. Egon looked at them, then he picked them up, one by one, and put them neatly away. He was putting Peter away with them, closing out his life.

Egon threw the shirt he'd been about to hang up on the double bed and sat down beside it, snatching it up again. He put his face down into the fabric, conscious of the scent of Peter's aftershave. God, he couldn't do this...

No, Egon. You have a task to do. Peter would expect it of you. Do that first. He put down the shirt, smoothing it gently, on the bed. Later, when he had had time, he would put it away, but not now. Not until the demon was in the containment unit.

He returned to the lab, went to his books and studied fire-starter ghosts and entities, looking for one that might be the one he had to face.

He found three possibles. The wino had claimed it had horns and it flew, so he eliminated all hornless entities. In the end, he cut out several for size because the wino had mistaken it for a man. Allowing for the confusion of inebriation, Egon kept those who were remotely human-sized, although demons could shapeshift. That they might not do so in private, where none but the victim could see them, might be a given, and the wino may have been drunk and hallucinating. Still, he could only act on what he knew, and he knew the man had been deceived. So he chose smaller demons.

Three possibilities. Rath, a small, ebony-black demon with neat horns curling over his forehead, capable of shooting burst of fire and incinerating whole houses. Astoliath, slightly bigger than human, but similar in form, who had been known for passing as human and suddenly attacking the humans surrounding him. Astoliath was blue but in a dark alley that might not be evident. Devian, the most human in appearance, the horns and faintly blue skin the only giveaway. It wore human garb and often passed as human. Devian was reputed to burn lone humans and when the soul fled the body in panic, to capture and devour it.

Devour the soul?

No! That was medieval superstition. It had to be. Many of the reports they studied in Tobin's Spirit Guide and other texts that cited medieval references were often invalid, based on the ignorance of the people of the dark ages. This had the elements of myth within it, of an allegory. Such stories were meant to teach a lesson, to frighten innocent and gullible people into the behavior the teller of the tale meant to enforce. It was a means of control. It did not prove that Peter's soul had been taken by a demon. It couldn't. And if it could, then Egon had more reason than ever to stop the entity. He would force it to free Peter's soul.

Egon slammed the book shut with far more force than necessary.

All right. Armed and ready, full of misery and determination, he went down when the messenger came with a folder of Xeroxed reports courtesy of Frump. It gave him what he needed most, a list of the locations of the attacks.

Egon went to the one where Peter...to the most recent one first. There would be no lingering biorhythm readings on his friend, not after so much time, but it was possible there would be faint residuals from the demon. He stood in the alley, noting the police ribbon that marked it off, then he detached it without hesitation and walked forward. Several people who had watched him arrive crowded in behind.

"Hey, Ghostbuster," one of them yelled. "This weren't no ghost attack. It was that crazy killer that's taking out deadbeats."

Egon's meter beeped accommodatingly. It was not his way to alarm the citizens of New York, but it was possible that demons, like human killers, might return to the scene of their crimes. "There was an entity here," he said, holding up the meter. "Stand back, all of you. I have permission to cross the police line. You do not."

"An entity?" called a plump woman with a black dog on a leash. "You mean the ghost of that poor old wino?"

Egon went utterly rigid. He had never thought of that. People who died violent deaths sometimes became ghosts. If Peter's spirit appeared to him... He bit his bottom lip hard as he checked the readings. "No," he said finally. "This is a much more powerful reading, a Class 7. Such entities are most often demons." There was a huge, charred mark on the pavement, the shape of a human body, outlined in chalk. Once he saw it, he could not take his eyes off it. This was the place where Peter...

Several people in the crowd retreated, but the woman with the dog was made of sterner stuff. "You saying a demon's trashing street people?"

"I do not know if that is the case in all the deaths," Egon replied. "But in this instance, an entity was present. From the strength of the readings, the time would match."

"City hire you to bust it?" a teenager with a giant boom box perched on his shoulder called. In honor of the occasion, he'd turned the sound down so he could hear the answer.

In a sense the city had; Frump would have needed permission to deliver the police reports. He inclined his head to confirm the question.

The woman with the dog inched closer, although the dog retreated to the far end of its leash, reluctant to come closer. The woman smoothed her bleached blonde hair back from her face and said, "I heard somebody say it was a Ghostbuster got killed here. That right, Spengler?"

"The body was unidentifiable," Egon replied tightly. If the word got out, Ray and Winston might hear of it from strangers or read about it in a newspaper. Did they have a portable radio with them, a Walkman? Ray did have one. Had he taken it? Egon shuddered involuntarily. He wanted them here so badly, but he didn't want them to get the news that way.

The crowd's mood shifted and the woman, their unofficial spokesperson, said quietly, "Anything we can do to help?" She added sharply to the cringing dog, "Be good, Fifi. Mama's busy."

Egon had never encountered a Doberman Pinscher named Fifi before. He said, "An animal may sense the presence of entities, even after the fact. Added to my readings, it is a good confirmation that whatever happened in this place had a paranormal focus, centering on the burned spot." Egon shuddered, unable to tear his eyes away from it.

A hand came down on his shoulder. It was the bottle blonde. "You'll find it," she soothed, a thread of kindness running through the shrill voice. "You don't know that was...your friend."

"He had Peter's watch..." Egon said before he caught himself. These people would rush straight to the National Enquirer to sell their stories.

"Hey," cried a new voice. "Come on, what's going on here. All of you, out. This is a crime area. Move it or I'll get a paddy wagon here and haul you all away." The command was so fervent that even Blondie retreated, still ogling Egon as she went.

Egon turned, half expecting armed policemen. What he saw was far worse, a tabloid reporter, Edgar Benedek, who wrote for the National Register, an Enquirer wannabe. He sometimes worked with a university in the Washington D.C. area exploring unexplained phenomena with a professor there, but he lived in New York. He was a friend of Ray's, and he and Peter had a semi-friendly rivalry going. He and Egon had once gone through a crisis together last year, trapped in an underwater cavern by a sea monster, ⁽¹⁾ and Egon had cause to know that there was more to him than met the eye, although he could be extremely grating. Right now, he looked grim and unhappy, and his expression was enough to send away most of the crowd. He was so obviously a reporter to Egon--cops didn't usually wear brightly colored sports jackets over neon colored shirts--that he was surprised the curiosity seekers gave way, but Benedek chivvied them out of the alley with surprising skill..

When they were gone, only the dog lady hanging back at the end of the alley, the journalist turned to Egon. "Yo, Spengster. I heard about Venkman. I'm sorry." His eyes were on the burned place and Egon could tell he was struggling to hold in the smart remarks that were so much a part of his nature. "Is it for sure?" he asked. "After all, when the Sleeping One popped us down under the river they thought we'd bought it, but we were alive."

"The police had Peter's watch and wallet," Egon replied. "And Peter did not come home."

"Coulda been mugged," Benedek suggested. For an instant, hope leaped into Egon's heart, but then it slid away again. That didn't mean Peter was alive. If he'd been mugged, he could still be dead or, at best, unconscious in a hospital without an ID.

"Gimme a minute," Benedek said and whipped out a cell phone.

"What are you doing?" Egon continued to prowl around the alley, taking readings. Yes, the ambient energy levels were higher here. That had to mean something. Could the demon have a greater plan than incinerating innocent victims?

Benny braced the phone between his chin and shoulder. "Calling hospitals." He moved a little to one side and made call after call while Egon adjusted his meter and recorded his findings. Benny must have memorized the number of every hospital in the city. When Egon finished his readings--he'd have to research them when he got home--he joined the reporter, listening to Benny spinning a tale to one of the hospitals. He was being very careful not to mention the Torch or Peter. Protecting his story? When he ended that call, he said, "I have to check the morgue too, Spengler. Sorry."

Egon was sorry, too, but if Peter had died that way, in a mugging, his soul would not be endangered. To lose Peter in any way was still beyond bearing, but the way the man had died here was far worse than a mugging death in Egon's mind. Either way, Egon had lost his oldest friend.

None of the unidentified bodies in the morgue matched Peter either.

Although Egon didn't want to see the story spread all over the front page of the National Register, he told Benedek about the anonymous call he'd received last night. Benedek could be annoying, but he had endless connections in the occult community and elsewhere throughout the city. He probably had friends among the city's homeless, who gave him scoops. It might be possible to track down the man who had phoned. "He had an educated voice," Egon concluded. "His grammar was far better than I would expect from a street person. He employed the subjunctive correctly."

"A lot of your street people are smart, Spengster," Benny replied, shutting off the small tape recorder he'd used as Egon talked. "Some of 'em used to be businessmen or college professors. Alcohol or drugs or a case of the crazies can put anybody out on the street. I posed as a street person for a story once. Got into a long, involved discussion on Freudian psychology with one of 'em, and another knew everything there was to know about Dostoevsky. You would have liked another. He knew more about the quark than Einstein."

"Not too difficult," Egon put in automatically. "Dr. Einstein died in 1955, and the term 'quark' did not come into use until 1963."

Benny shrugged that off as a mere technicality. "All this means is that, if we can find the guy, he'll probably be a decent witness. Did he sound sober?"

"Completely," Egon replied. He hadn't entirely made that connection last night. The man's voice had been slurred, but he had been fully alert.

"Well, if I saw a demon I'd either sober up fast or be convinced I was drunker than I thought and go off on a six-month bender," Benny said. "Whoever called you must have sobered up. Listen, Spengster, where are Ray and Winston?"

"On a camping vacation. Out of reach."

"And the gorgeous Janine?"

"In the Virgin Islands."

Benny struggled not to make the obvious comment about the choice of location. Instead, he said, "So you're on your own? Okay, you just got a temporary partner. You're gonna take this demon down by yourself? No way. I couldn't look Ray in the face again if I let you. I've been chasing shadows for years. I'm your man. You got a spare proton pack in Ecto?"

Egon did, but he didn't want Benny accompanying him, making wisecracks all day long. On the other hand, Ray had taught the reporter how to handle a particle thrower, and Benedek, although small and slender, was tough and wiry and had proven to be remarkably adept with one. Once, when he'd been hanging out at the firehall in hopes of a story, a call had come in. Winston was laid up with a turned ankle and Benedek had volunteered to fill in for him. Peter had worried about insurance but Benny had signed a disclaimer. In the end, he had acquitted himself well and had been insufferable afterwards, crowing about it, waving his thrower over his head and bellowing for all to hear, "I coulda been a contender."

Besides, even with special equipment, Egon was not sure he could bust the demon alone. It would not be fair to Peter's memory to die in a failed attempt to exact retribution because he had not taken proper precautions. Peter would hate that, to know that Egon had taken too great a risk. He wouldn't want Egon to die, too.

It was that fact alone that made Egon agree. Although he knew he would see the whole story in gory detail in the National Register, he agreed. "When I go to take on the entity, you may come with me. Evidence suggests that it only attacks at night."

"Okay, then, it's a big city. How will you know where it will attack? I know your meters can pick up demons, but probably not that far away."

No, that was true. Egon intended to use a grid map of the city and mark all the attacks on it in hopes of determining a pattern. He had planned it on the way here. He had focused on planning, concentrating on it as hard as he could, although all his concentration did not remove the imaginary image of the charred body who had been his friend that waited behind his eyes.

"So far, the attacks have been in the general area of the firehall, and the police sent me a list of them--I have it in Ecto-1. I plan to plant a series of meters at specific locations throughout this part of the city, based on any pattern I can find in the series of attacks," he said. "I'll link them by remote to a master device. Once night falls, I will go out into the city--"

"You mean we'll go out into the city," Benedek corrected, pulling himself up to his full height. If he were afraid of the demon, he didn't show it.

Egon inclined his head in agreement. "--and rush to the site. It is not an ideal plan, but it is the best that I can conceive on such short notice."

"Hey, great plan. I'll help. Come on, let's go check out that map. I'll put in a few calls while you set it up. I've got some contacts who would knock your socks off. Aerobic exorcists and psychics who get phone calls from the dead, and there's a guy on West 86^th Street whose parrot gives him predictions about the future. He really cleaned up on the stock market, let me tell you. Some of them might know something or have some ideas. We've got the whole day to work out the fine points." He saw Egon eyeing the burn mark on the pavement, and he grabbed him by the arm. "Come on, Spengster," he urged. "You've got all you need here."

No. I don't. I need Peter, Egon thought woefully. But he let Benedek drag him toward Ecto.

Charlie Rat cradled the bottle of cheap wine in his arms. It was all he'd been able to score today and he was looking forward to drinking it. Being sober was unbearable; his hands quivered and shook, his stomach twisted, and he was sweating like a pig. But no matter how many times he tried, he couldn't bring himself to raise the bottle to his mouth and gulp down the mind-numbing contents. That thing he'd seen last night, the inhuman, the glowing eyes, the horns, was so vivid in his memory that he was afraid if he drank himself into oblivion he would see it again, coming after him. Sober, he could run. Passed out in an alley, he could be incinerated by the demon. Demons took one's soul to hell. Charlie Rat didn't intend to go to hell. He had already lived it every day of his life for the past ten years.

Besides, there was his new friend, the guy he'd rescued. He had to protect him. Once, integrity had mattered to Charlie Rat. Once, keeping his word had been his defining characteristic. Once, before he'd betrayed Sally with another woman, before she had found out and killed herself.

No! He hadn't let himself think of that in ten years. He couldn't think of it now. He uncapped the bottle and raised it to his lips, then he gasped and lowered it again. The demon's inhuman face was worse than the guilt he had to live with. The demon would take him away to hell if he drank it.

The man beside him stirred and whimpered faintly. Waking up, then. Good. Charlie Rat set aside the bottle. Maybe the poor sucker would need it. "Hey, boy," he said in a gentle tone that would have surprised the people he'd met on the streets. "Easy now. You're safe. It's gone."

The eyelids lifted and he squinted up. "My eyes hurt," he said.

Gasoline. Had he got it in his eyes? Had the hosing down washed it away? Was he blind?

"Can you see me?" he asked.

His responsibility squinted at him. "Yeah. You're kinda funny around the edges, and my eyes burn, but I can see you."

"I think you got some gasoline in your eyes," Charlie said. "I washed it out, but it'll probably take time for your eyes to heal."

"Gasoline?" He put up his hand to rub his eyes.

"No, don't do that. Let me get something and wash them out again." He looked around for a handy spigot. He'd dragged his Maytag box here because there were a couple of them, and because the guy who owned the pawn shop didn't mind if he used it once in awhile, not after he'd scared away the burglar that time. Pulling out his glass--a plastic one from Burger King--he went over and rinsed it out before he filled it. When he came back, the guy was propped up on his elbows, looking groggy and sick, his mouth twisted unhappily.

"Think I'm gonna throw up," he groaned.

Charlie Rat set aside the glass and helped him out of the box and over to a trash can. "There you go. Help yourself." He supported the shaky man while he heaved. If he'd swallowed any of that gasoline... Maybe he'd have to get the guy over to the free clinic. They'd make him bathe, of course, but then Charlie sometimes missed being clean and went himself for that very reason. One bath wouldn't take away the stench of living rough, but most of what he smelled on his new friend was rotting food from the dumpster. He hadn't been homeless very long. His shoes were new and they looked like they fit.

When the guy was finished, Charlie led him over to the spigot and ran it for him. He cupped water in his hands and splashed it on his face, on his neck, in his hair. Then, when he was relatively clean, he splashed more in his eyes, over and over. When he turned, the eyes were clearer, but he was still inclined to squint a little. With luck, that would go away. He might have got some mild burns but at least he could see.

"Feel better?"

The mouth quirked. "Oh yeah. My head's falling off, my eyes hurt, and I feel like I drank kerosine. Yeah, I'm great." He sounded fuzzy; he was answering questions but it hadn't occurred to him to ask any yet.

"Come back and lie down again," Charlie urged. "Know who you are?"

The stranger squinted at him. "Not sure of anything," he admitted. "Everything's kinda fuzzy." He concentrated hard, a fierce paroxysm of thought. "Peter," he produced triumphantly. "I'm Peter."

"Good. Any more?"

"Who are you?" Okay, good, he was tracking. Maybe not fully yet, but it was coming back.

"Charlie Rat. I got you away from the demon last night."

"Demon?" His eyebrows shot up. "What are you talking about?" He massaged his temples vigorously. "Charlie? That sounds...kinda familiar." He added in tones of outrage, "I've got a nasty lump here," poking at a spot behind his right ear."

"I know. I saw it last night. I don't know if the demon hit you or if somebody else did. You've got no ID, but then I don't have any either. Well, no, I have my card for the free clinic. They know me there."

"You live here?" Peter asked, gesturing at the box. He looked confused and disoriented and hadn't quite reached the point of wondering exactly what had happened to him or where he was. Even mentioning the demon hadn't shocked him unduly. His aches and pains were as much as he could deal with yet. But more would come.

"In the summer I do. Winter I sleep in shelters or in the subway, wherever I can go that's warm."

Peter squinted at him, then he grabbed the water and poured some of it into his hand and washed out his eyes again. "That's better," he said.

"Try not to rub them," Charlie instructed. "You'll inflame them, and that might do more damage."

"Yeah, I kinda figured that. "You look...familiar." He squinted again.

"So do you. I haven't realized why, yet, but I believe we have met. Yet I do not believe you are on the streets."

"You don't sound like you are, either." Peter flushed out his eyes again then lay back, closing them. "Gonna take a little nap," he decided.

Charlie watched him, hearing the breathing even out. Peter's color was not very good. He'd been hit on the head. Very well, Charlie would wake him periodically to make sure he didn't drift off into a coma. Max in the pawn shop would let him poke his head in and check the clock. He'd do that. Every hour or so, he'd awaken Peter.

Now if only he could remember where he'd seen him before. Had it been at the university? One of his students, maybe? Charlie tried to push that thought away. He didn't want to remember the university, the place where he'd once thought he had everything he could ever want. He'd had a wife who loved him, a wife he'd destroyed. Now he had nothing. No, that wasn't true. He had someone to save. He couldn't save himself, but he could save Peter. If only he could remember more about him. But that ten years was a long time. Ten years and a pickled brain. That was what he had to offer Peter. No, he had more. He'd given Peter back his life. Maybe the saving of him could give him back his own.

Although it took every ounce of willpower he possessed, he shoved the bottle out of the Maytag box and turned his back on it.

"There is a pattern," Egon said with relief. He studied the pins he had stuck into the map, color coded to indicate times. They made a near-circle enclosing parts of Tribeca and edging over into Chinatown. Peter...had been the closest to the firehall, although the wino had not given his location and that botched attempt might be closer. Egon could vaguely remember hearing sirens as he worked on the proton pack. He hadn't dreamed that they were racing to investigate Peter's death. Even if he had been given psychic insight, it would have been too late to do anything about it by the time he heard them. He couldn't help wondering where the one the wino reported had been. From the pattern of the other marks, the wino's instance would have been later, and even closer to the firehall. Egon frowned at the map, mentally projecting its rough location. Peter would have had to backtrack slightly after leaving the subway to reach the spot where...where he had been... Egon forced himself not to complete the thought. He had work to do, and he couldn't do it if he kept seeing Peter in the alley, lying in the middle of that scorched spot.

Egon composed himself, stuffing his feelings deep inside where they would spill out periodically until he could look at them at his leisure. The thought of looking at them was so devastating that he stiffened, controlling his features, controlling his behavior. He had a task to complete.

When the demon had finished, the circle would completely enclose the firehall. And it was nearly finished. Three more deaths would complete the loop. The energy levels had definitely been rising in this area, and the Torch must be the cause of it. The demon had a plan.

"What does that mean?" Benedek demanded when he explained it.

Ray would have had fifteen theories at the mere sight of the map. Benedek wouldn't know although he probably had some wild speculations to offer, but Egon had a very bad feeling about it. "It's possible that the demon could link the energies expended at each site at the time of death and seal off the firehall long enough to breach the containment unit," he admitted. "Without additional readings, I can't confirm that, of course, but I suspect that there is definitely a plan in motion that is aimed at the containment unit."

"We're taking major explosions, aren't we?" Benedek demanded, glancing down at the floor as if he could see through it to the protection grid.

"We are indeed. I will, of course, put every protection field we possess into effect before we leave tonight. We must stop the demon before it completes its task. I don't know the consequences if I should fail, but I theorize they would not be pleasant. I need Ray and Winston here as soon as possible."

"Can you call the Park Service or somebody who might be able to track them down?"

"I have a general itinerary," Egon replied. He had wanted to be the one to tell his two colleagues about Peter. Allowing someone else to do so was repugnant to him, unfair to them and unfair to Peter. But allowing the containment unit to be breached could endanger innocent lives. If the demon had a scheme that required deaths, Egon had to stop it. He didn't have the luxury of trying to contact his two friends himself. He would have to contact someone to locate them. They might be able to be helicoptered out and be home by tonight. If they could be easily found. It might not be until tomorrow... All right, the Torch had been skipping nights but last night he had been foiled. He might try again right away.

Egon picked up the phone and called Inspector Frump. He was the last person Egon wanted to talk to; he wasn't sure he wanted to talk to Frump ever again after last night, even in spite of the detective's unexpected kindness. Only the urgent need propelled him. When the detective came on line, Egon began to talk, very fast, very urgently, very succinctly. He had to give Frump credit for listening. The man might not like the Ghostbusters, but he did care about protecting the city. He listened. When Egon stopped talking, he asked several pertinent questions.

"This is just a theory, isn't it?" was the first of them.

"Yes, of course it is, but the circle is gradually enclosing Ghostbuster Central. The, er, perpetrator is a demon. I took readings at the site of Peter's... The readings proved conclusively that a demon had been there. The other sites were too old for readings to exist, but the residuals I got at the most recent site, coupled with the anonymous call indicate that a demon was present. Power levels have been rising throughout this portion of the city; I monitor it daily and I believe the rise began around the time the Torch began the killings. We cannot assume it was a coincidence or hoax, because I believe the end result will be an attempt to breach the containment unit, thereby endangering the lives of everyone in this city."

Frump was silent a moment, considering, then he asked his second pertinent question. "What do you need from me? And this better not be a hoax, Spengler."

Egon drew a sharp breath. "Peter is dead, Inspector. I have no time for hoaxes. While it is possible the call was a hoax, a demon was present at the site--at least a Class 7 entity was--at the pertinent time. I cannot assume it was a coincidence, not when the pattern of attacks is going to enclose our headquarters after only three more deaths. I want not only to prevent those deaths but also to keep the containment unit unbreached. What you can do is get the word out, locate Ray and Winston, and bring them back here before nightfall."

"I'll do that. Give me a possible location." Frump had stomped down his habitual distrust. Either Egon had convinced him or he had decided he couldn't take a chance that the physicist was wrong.

Egon snatched up the list and read the itinerary to him slowly so Frump could take notes. When he finished and hung up the phone, Benedek was waiting. "Now what do we do?"

"I configure a second trap for you. And modify your proton pack, as many packs as I can, in hopes of Ray and Winston returning in time. Take a look at the marked pages in that book, too. There are three possible contenders for the demon last night, and I want you to be familiar with them. We can project the general area of the next attack, and will set meters there, but I think when the time comes, we must be out in Ecto, already waiting, so we can get there in time. I will not allow another man to die."

"Egon, you're not a one-man crusade," Benedek said softly. "I feel for you. I liked Venkman. He was one of the good guys. He wouldn't want you to throw your life away on a crazy risk."

"He wouldn't have been in New York if not for me," Egon said. The words burst out unexpectedly but he realized he had thought them many times and refused to face them.

Benedek winced. "Hate to point it out to you, Spengster, but he lives in New York." He caught himself, and Egon could see him repress the urge to correct himself and say, 'lived in New York.'

"You don't understand," Egon said sharply, then he controlled himself. "Ray and Winston wanted all of us to go on the camping vacation. I could tell Peter didn't want to go; he doesn't like camping very much, although he might have enjoyed himself if he had gone. But if all three of us had gone camping, he would have come. I wanted to continue my work on the packs and, quite honestly, I do not enjoy camping as much as Ray and Winston do. So I volunteered to stay at home, knowing that Peter would take that as an excuse not to go himself. If not for me, Peter would be alive right now." He shuddered, the mental image of Peter's charred body rising up before his eyes.

"Come on, Egon," Benedek said, "for a brain trust guy, you can be a few clowns short of a circus. Being in town didn't take Peter to that spot. He'd have been on a date if not for the subway crash. Does that mean it was the fault of the driver of the D train for hitting the bottle? Or the fault of Tina because she's a nurse? Give me a break here. You'd chop off your head if you thought it would save one of your buddies. You're not to blame--and you know it."

"But he would have been safe on the Appalachia Trail if not for me."

"Sure, where he might fall off a mountain or get bitten by a Copperhead or chased by a cougar. You think life comes with guarantees? Or does it give you a sick kind of power to be responsible for something like that?"

Egon flinched. "Shut up!"

"No, listen, Big E, and listen good. I see where you're coming from, because I'm like you in some ways. Letting out the feelings, being vulnerable, that's tough for me, too. I lower my guard to Dr. Jack--you remember, my buddy down at Georgetown Institute--and then I have to piss him off ten seconds later or I'm uncomfortable as hell. Well, you've got it stuck in your pointy little head that it's undignified to show your feelings. Me, I'm embarrassed and afraid it lets somebody get the jump on me, kind of like Venkman. But you--you have to be controlled all the time. You have to have this dignity and restraint. Well, who said? You just lost your best friend. It's okay to feel miserable. It's okay to be mad and throw things. Hell, it's even okay to break down and bawl, if that helps. But it's not okay to blame yourself for something that isn't your fault so that you can shut it all away and be mad at yourself because that's easier. Don't you owe Pete more than that? He'd kick your ass if he thought you were blaming yourself, and you know he would. Okay, so you've got this big job ahead of you and you don't want to break down beforehand. But you've done everything you can. I'm not gonna let you do it on your own. Ray would kill me if I walked away. And Pete would probably haunt me."

Egon sucked in his breath. What if Peter appeared to him as a ghost...

"Erase that," Benedek said hastily; he must have seen the horror on Egon's face. "Listen up. I know how crummy you feel."

"No," said Egon coldly. "You don't." How dare he even imply that he could understand. Only Ray and Winston would understand and they weren't here.

Benedek held his ground, meeting Egon's eyes without backing down. "I didn't lose a buddy, but I lost my fiancee in a plane crash, way back before I met Jonathan. Worse, I had a premonition about it, and there was still nothing I could do. I'll never forget standing in the airport waiting for somebody who wasn't going to come back to me. They didn't let me see her body, either--what was left of it. So don't tell me I don't know how you feel because I know exactly how, and it's about as bad as it can get. Nothing I can say is going to make you feel any better, but if you want to sound off, I'm right here. If you want to deck me, I'll take it. If you want to break things, I'll take you down to the kitchen and we can throw some glasses around. And if you just want to talk, I'll listen. You stood by me when we were trapped in that cave when the Sleeping One snatched us. We handled that okay. We'll handle this, too."

Egon felt the anger run out of him, felt the guilt ease away. In their place was a terrible desolation that not even Benedek's words could ease, because nothing could ease them. It was not even so much that Peter was gone forever, but that he had gone in such a terrible way, alone. He whirled abruptly and stalked over to the window, gripping the sill so tightly his fingers ached. He felt hollow and empty, deprived of the prop that supported his life.

Benedek came up behind him and put his hand on Egon's shoulder. He didn't say anything more, just stood there holding on. Egon couldn't help remembering all the times when Peter had done the same thing in a crisis, ready to offer understanding, to say, "It's okay," and banish Egon's mental demons. He couldn't do that now and the hand that wasn't his was almost as much pain as it was comfort. God, Peter, I miss you.

Peter awoke to a touch on his arm and lay blinking, confused and aching, his eyes still burning. Somebody had said something about gasoline before. He could halfway remember. Maybe he could remember better if his head didn't ache so much and his stomach wasn't doing a nasty dance. He said unhappily, "I feel sick."

"It's the concussion," said the voice he remembered from last time. "I'm just waking you up. Don't try to sit up yet. I'm going to wash out your eyes." He did it carefully with water from a Burger King glass. Peter wondered vaguely how clean it was, but the water soothed the sting in his eyes and his vision seemed a lot closer to normal.

When he finished, the man set the glass away. "Can you tell me your name?"

"Uh...Peter Venkman." Was the 'Venkman' new? It had come to him naturally, but it was hard to remember what he'd said before. He didn't remember getting the concussion. Had he been hit on the head?

"Venkman?" echoed the voice in astonishment. "Then I do know you."

He squinted up at the man who bent over him. His face was compassionate but his hands were shaking, and his mouth was twisted as if he shared the queasiness Peter felt. The guy didn't look familiar; he looked dirty and halfway high on something. His hair was white and it stuck out in greasy spikes from beneath a battered Yankees cap. He was unshaven and dirty and he smelled. That was weird. Usually nurses didn't dress like that, in three layers of tattered, grimy clothes, and they didn't usually reek either.

"Know what day it is?" the guy persisted.

"Uh..." He fumbled around in his memory. "August sometime," he ventured. "Maybe the 20^th? No, that was yesterday, I think." Such an attempt to make sense exhausted him. He didn't have the strength to do more than lie here and react. Trying to think still hurt and he was content, at least for the moment, to be passive. He squinted up at the angle of sky he saw around the corner of the cardboard box. Afternoon? Late afternoon? It was hot; he could feel the heat against his skin, but a part of him was shivering.

"It's the 21^st," the street person told him. "You're on the money. If you want to go back to sleep, you can."

Peter blinked at him. Something beyond the cardboard box that enclosed him pushed at the edges of his mind. He didn't belong here. Out there was something else, something better, something he craved. "I...don't belong here," he ventured.

"No, that you don't. And I'll have you back where you belong as soon as I can get you to the free clinic and have you checked out."

"Got...insurance," he offered.

"Not with you. No wallet. I found you in an alley. Thought you were one of us at first. You were dirty like you'd been hunting through a dumpster. Maybe you were put in the dumpster. Does that ring a bell?"

He struggled after thought. "No," he said. He didn't understand why he was in a box, why he was in an alley, and his mind wasn't ready to let him process the questions that came to him. But somewhere beyond the alley was a life, wasn't there? He wanted it. "Egon?" he ventured. "Why isn't Egon here?"

"Because I didn't know to call him," the man replied. "Don't have a quarter for the phone now."

Peter dug in his pockets. No wallet didn't mean no pocket change. He found a handful of change and thrust it at the man who helped him. "Uh...you said you were Charlie?"

"I'm surprised you remember that, son. You haven't been very clear-headed until now."

"My dad's name is Charlie," Peter said. Another memory. He hadn't lost his memory, then, not if he remembered his dad. Not if he remembered Egon. For a few minutes, he lay there imagining Egon's face, the glasses, the weird hair. Why wasn't Egon here? Shouldn't he be here? If only he could think. He said petulantly, "I want Egon."

"I'll call him for you. Just stay there and rest. I'll be back in an hour and wake you up again. We'll see if you can sit up then."

Peter lay back against the smelly blanket and watched him walk down the alley and knock at a door. It opened and a man looked out, peered over his shoulder at Peter, and said something. Charlie expostulated, gesturing with his arms, and the guy gave an annoyed shrug and nodded. He braced himself in the doorway, folded his arms across his chest, and stood there watching Peter while Charlie hurried away to the end of the alley and out into the street.

Everything fuzzed out again and Peter drifted into sleep.

Charlie slid the quarter into the slot and dialed the same number he'd called last night. Peter Venkman. He had one of the Ghostbusters in his Maytag box. Pete Venkman, god, he remembered him. Quarterback of the football team, prime mover of a party fraternity, he would have been too obnoxious to be tolerated--except that somewhere along the line he'd run into Egon Spengler, goody two shoes science student, who had helped pull Peter together and turn him into a decent human being. Of course Peter had pulled Egon together and turned a fanatical scientist into a normal human being, too. Peter gave him a life beyond science and he gave Peter a reason to be honorable. Then along came Ray Stantz, fresh from a farm somewhere and without a shred of belief in himself, and somehow the three of them had gelled. They'd all benefitted from the experience. He'd seen Ray Stantz on TV a year or so ago when he'd been clean enough to venture into a bar and perch on a barstool. There was little Ray Stantz on TV, talking energetically and enthusiastically about ghosts, and everybody listening to him. He wasn't lacking in self confidence any longer. He stood up to tough interviewers, too, full of delight at the challenge. Those three men had been good for each other. Charlie Rat remembered those days, and he longed for them back again. He could never teach again, not after everything that had happened. But for the first time, he wanted to.

The phone rang and rang and rang, and no one answered.

Okay, maybe they were out busting a ghost. He hung up and retrieved his quarter. Shouldn't they have an answering machine? Or a secretary? Had he dialed wrong. He tried again, no better luck. Okay, so they forgot the answering machine. He'd call again later. In the meantime--god, he wanted a drink.

No, you can't have one. Peter needs you sober. No one had needed anything of him in a long time. It felt good. It felt so good he pushed the thought of drinking out of his mind. When Peter was safe at the free clinic, or home with his buddies, then maybe Charlie could have a drink. A reward...

No. He wouldn't. Maybe there was no life for him any longer, but he didn't know that. For the first time in ten years Charlie Rat wanted to quit drinking. "Peter needs me sober," he said. "And, damn it, maybe I need me sober, too." He was too intelligent a man to believe it would be easy. It might not even be possible. But if he could just hold out a little longer, there might be hope.

He turned his back on the phone and hurried back to Peter, nodding at Max, who had grudgingly consented to keep his eye on Peter while he made the phone call. Max didn't like to get involved. He wouldn't tell anybody about Peter. Should he? Should Charlie call someone else? Have an ambulance come? That was the right thing to do, the smart thing to do.

But if I let him go, what's to keep me sober?

Charlie bent over the man who slept so restlessly in his box. "Egon," Peter muttered. "Where are you? Ray? Come and get me, Ray. W-Winston?" He shivered and pulled at the thin blanket Charlie had spread over him. It was August, for Pete's sake. It was hot out. Here was Peter, shivering and calling out for his friends.

Before Charlie knew who he was, keeping him here seemed the only thing to do. Now that he knew his identity, Charlie knew he couldn't. Maybe he'd have to have a drink if Peter was gone, but maybe he wouldn't. Okay.

He turned and rapped on the door again, clenching his fist tight against its shaking. "Max, please, I need your help. This guy should be in a hospital."

By late afternoon, Egon had configured three traps and two more proton packs. Once that was finished he and Benedek had gone out and mounted activated P.K.E. meters in a six block radius of the next projected attack site. He came home to find that he had forgotten to switch on the answering machine before they had departed, and he put in a call to Frump to see if he had missed an important call. The detective reported that there was still no word from the people out searching for Ray and Winston. It might take several days to locate them, especially as some locations were only reachable on foot. Egon explained that he had forgotten to leave the answering machine on but that when he and Benedek went out to await the demon on site, he would do so and would check calls through Ecto's mobile phone. He gave Frump that number, too.

"So just two of you are going to take on this...demon?" the police officer asked.

"Benedek has used a thrower before," Egon replied.

"I know this Benedek." There was no enthusiasm in the cop's voice. "He's a tabloid reporter. You trust him?"

Once, the answer would have been a definite no, but that had been before a sea monster had trapped them together in an underwater cave, before Benedek had listened this afternoon and said all the right things. "Yes, I do trust him," Egon said. "Not, perhaps with my secrets, but with my life, I do." He saw Benedek looking mortified and concealed a little smile. "He was Peter's friend," he added. "And he is mine."

"Ah, geez, you don't have to get all mushy," Benedek muttered, squirming.

"Look, Spengler, I'm going to send over a couple of cops to go along with you. I can find some who have been at the site of your busts. You got any spare whatchamacallits, throwers, they can wear 'em. This demon's committing crimes in my town. You're not doing this with just a reporter at your side."

Egon felt curiously humbled. He knew that once the crisis passed, Frump would revert to type, and he hoped so. It would be far easier to face the man if he were his obnoxious, overbearing, intolerant self. Yet Egon remembered his gruff kindness the night before. He said quietly, "Thank you," and began to explain what he had been doing during the afternoon. "The meters should react to the entity's presence," he said. "It's possible that it may not reappear tonight, since its pattern has been to come every three nights. However, last night its pattern of two victims was broken, so it may well come ahead of schedule, at least to locate one victim to catch up."

"Yeah, I'm with you on this one. No chances. When are you moving to the site?"

"I have to link the throwers into the grid device we'll carry with us. That should take another half hour. By then it should be close to eight o'clock. It won't be dark yet, but we'll move to the site as soon as it's ready. There isn't time to configure another pack before then but the standard ones will work. I'll bring several spares for your officers." He gave the address where he would be waiting. "If they meet us there, I'll have time to instruct them in the handling of the particle throwers. They are different from firing a police weapon."

"I'll pick the team and get them on their way."

When he hung up, Egon turned to Benedek. He had no energy; he was spent and drained, and even a little shaky on his feet. Benedek took one look at him and said, "Do your number. I'll whip up dinner."

The thought of eating appalled Egon. His grimace must have said so.

"Listen up, Dr. Einstein. You're not helping anybody if you keel over from hunger. Last thing I want to do is face His Royal Demon-ness on my own if you go belly up. You're gonna eat if I have to stick it in an IV and shove it into a vein. Got it? Ray would brain me if I let you go out there without eating."

Egon agreed but only because it was reasonable. The thought of eating disturbed him, but he knew a portion of the emptiness he felt was simple hunger. It didn't seem right to eat when Peter was... No. Peter wouldn't thank him for starving himself. Peter wouldn't thank him for behaving like this. Peter would be the first one to egg him on, to do what he had to do, to take the demon down, and then to get on with life.

Could you do it any more easily than I can, were the circumstances reversed? He thought to his absent friend. Of course you couldn't. Dear god, why, Peter? Why did you have to die? How could you leave me behind like this? It wasn't supposed to be this way. All of us going out in a blaze of glory, saving the world, that would be different. But you, alone? Oh, god, I'm so sorry you were alone. But how could you do this to me? A flash of anger ran through him, anger at Peter, who had let him down by dying, and he hated it. No, he wasn't angry at Peter. He was angry at fate. Fate had betrayed him, and the one person who would understand just exactly how he felt and know the right things to say to help him was gone. No more midnight cocoa sessions to put his head on straight. No more glances across a room to share humor or understanding. No more teasing about his vocabulary...

You understood all my big words, didn't you, Peter? he thought wistfully. I'll miss your complaining about them. I'll miss the way you always understood, the way you bugged me with your teasing, the way you slept in and the battles we fought to drag you out of bed. Looking across the hall, he could see Peter's bed sitting there, empty. No more mornings of dragging him out of the sack.

Benedek clapped him on the shoulder. "You okay while I fix dinner?"

"Yes, go ahead. I have my work to do." His work? Content to be in the lab, alone, working away, what was his work now but something to do to erase the mental image of Peter's body? An anodyne--yes, there was a big word, Peter--for the pain that hit whenever he remembered Peter.

But there was a demon somewhere in the city who would kill again if Egon could not stop him, a demon who might release the ghosts in the containment unit and endanger the city. He sat down at the table and began to link the remote meters to the grid so he could tell the location of each. When he finished, he would eat, would force down the food, then he and Benedek would go out to await the return of the demon. He would destroy it, for Peter's sake he would destroy it. If only Ray and Winston were here... At least, while they hiked unfound, they believed their lives were unchanged. Maybe the best gift he could give them was another few hours of normalcy.

He bent his head over the device and concentrated on it with all his strength.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Peter blinked and tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't open. Something was taped over them. What the hell? He jerked up his hand to investigate the bandages but someone caught his wrists. "No, don't touch the dressings. They'll be off in a few hours. Your vision is unimpaired."

"Vision? What the hell..."

"You suffered some very slight inflamation around your eyes from contact with gasoline," the voice explained. She was female; she sounded young. He wished he could see her. It was weird, unnerving, in the dark.

"Gasoline?" he echoed. Why didn't anything make sense. He had a series of weird memories, of lying in a cardboard box with an old wino bending over him, fussing over him. They were strange and disjointed, an image here, another there, but now his mind felt clearer.

"Someone evidently threw gasoline on you," the nurse said. "You were rescued by a street person, an alcoholic. He came with you in the ambulance and promptly signed himself into detox. He said to tell you that Charlie Rat thanks you for giving him his life back."

"Huh? I gave him his life back?"

"He says you might remember him as Professor Ratcliffe?"

Peter frowned, trying to make sense of everything. "Professor Ratcliffe from Columbia? That wino was Professor Ratcliffe?" Was that why he'd looked familiar? Peter rubbed his temples, careful not to touch the dressings. "Hey, you said my vision was okay?"

"Yes, the doctor put drops in your eyes. He wants you to rest them for a few hours. You've been in here several hours already, drifting in and out. You have a concussion. That's why your head aches."

"I think I'm alert now," he said; although he was queasy and his head throbbed, he could think. "What happened to me? What time is it? I remember...Tina couldn't get off because there was a subway accident, she had to work, so I was gonna go home and bug Egon..." He cocked his head, listening. "Where is Egon? Isn't he here?"

"First, tell me your name. I want to see how clear you are."

"Peter Venkman, born Nov. 15, 1957. I'm a Ghostbuster, and I live in a converted firehall at the corner of Mott and Pell. I think it must be August twenty-first, and Egon should be here. Ray and Winston went hiking in the mountains, but I like the city better. Where's Egon?" He shivered. "I can't remember what happened to me. Is--oh, god, did something happen to Egon? Are you trying to break it gently? Did he blow up the lab or something?" He fumbled for her hand. "Come on, you've gotta tell me."

She was silent a moment. "All right. It's around 8:30 in the evening. And as far as I know, your Egon isn't hurt. We suspect you were the victim of a mugging, and your wino said that the Torch tried to kill you."

"The Torch? That serial killer who's frying winos?" Peter shivered. "Is that how I got gasoline on me? Doesn't Egon know? Where is he?" He couldn't imagine why Egon wasn't sitting right here waiting for him to come to. Ray and Winston--they were probably still on vacation; there wouldn't have been time to call them back, and he didn't think he was hurt badly enough to cut into their vacation; he could talk to them on the phone and let them know he was okay. But Egon should be here. He listened for any trace of Egon out in the hall trying to get in.

"Your friend said you were Peter Venkman, but you had no ID, and we knew that couldn't be right, or we thought we did. We didn't call him. If you weren't who he claimed it would have been cruel to contact Dr. Spengler."

"What do you mean, cruel?" he demanded uneasily. "Tell me or I'll rip these bandages off and go find a phone. I've gotta call Egon. If I didn't make it home last night, he'll be going nuts. No, maybe he'd think I stayed over with Tina, but we haven't been dating that long and we're not..." He squeezed her hand. "Tell me what's wrong?"

"Are you really Peter Venkman?" she asked doubtfully. "When they brought you in, you were filthy and with a wino, and they didn't believe him. They thought he was trying to lie to get you better care, not that we treat people differently in here because they don't have any money. Besides, the Torch only kills winos."

"Damn straight I'm Peter Venkman. Don't know why this Torch creep would have it in for me, but you call Egon right now and I'll prove it."

There was a hesitant silence, then she said, "I'd better get Dr. Ligutti. He'll explain it to you. As far as I know, though, your Egon isn't hurt." She gave his forearm a squeeze and retreated.

Her heard her footsteps as she hurried out of the room, and he sat up, cautiously because he still felt woozy and fumbled around for a nearby table with a phone on it. If they wouldn't call Egon for him, he'd call him, himself. Alarm and worry gave him an adrenaline rush that fought down his stomach's alarm at the abrupt movement, and he swallowed hard a couple of times to keep from losing what little remained in his stomach. He could feel an IV going into the back of his left hand but, other than that and the patches over his eyes, he seemed unfettered.

He had just groped his way to the phone when he heard returning footsteps. "Here now, what's all this?"

"Spare me the cliches, I need to talk to Egon," Peter snapped.

A hand removed the telephone receiver and replaced it in the cradle. "We'll call him in just a minute. Before you do, there's something you have to know."

"The nurse said Egon was okay," Peter protested. What the hell was going down. They were trying to snow him. Peter knew a con job when he encountered one.

"To the best of my knowledge, Dr. Spengler is not injured," the male voice insisted. "I'm Dr. Ligutti, I've been treating you for concussion and some slight inflamation around your eyes. According to the gentleman who rescued you, he got the gasoline off you before you could breathe in enough fumes to damage your lungs. We have you on an antibiotic just to be safe, though. You should recover completely and your vision is intact. But the problem isn't Dr. Spengler's health or your own. The fact of the matter is that the Torch was active last night."

"Yeah, they said he tried to torch me."

"He did torch someone last night, Dr. Venkman. He torched a man who had your wallet and your wristwatch. It was on the news earlier this evening, claiming you'd been killed. You can see why we want more information before we disturb Dr. Spengler."

"Huh?" Shocked, Peter let the doctor guide him back into bed. "What do you mean, my watch and wallet? Charlie said I didn't have one, that's why he didn't know who I was. Somebody mugged me? Is that it?"

"It must be," Ligutti offered. "Because, right now, the whole city, including your Egon, believes that you're dead."

"What!" Peter howled, lunging for the phone again. "I've gotta call him. I've gotta tell him I'm okay. God, he'll be going nuts." He scrambled for the phone only to have the receiver put into his hand. He could hear someone pushing the buttons. Egon must be ready to freak. Oh, Geez, the Torch lit his victims on fire. Whoever bought it must have been burned beyond recognition or Egon would have known the body wasn't him. Peter's stomach twisted at the thought of what his friend had endured. They hadn't made him identify the body, had they? He felt sick at the very thought.

The phone rang twice, then Janine's recorded voice came on. "We can't come to the phone right now. If you've got spooks in the night, leave your name and number at the beep and one of our specially trained Ghostbusters will get right back to you."

Was Egon so inundated by calls that he'd put on the answering machine? Peter waited till the tone and then said urgently, "Egon, this is Peter. It was somebody else. I'm alive. I've just got a bit of a concussion and I'm in the hospital, but I'm fine. I'm really okay. It's all right, Egon.... Which hospital is this? Egon, I'm at St. Vincent's. It's okay. Really. It wasn't me, it was some other guy. They think I got mugged so he had my wallet and my watch. My Rolex. Egon, call me back."

He stuck out the receiver and someone hung it up for him. "Don't you get it?" he said. "He's probably sitting there with the machine on because he's had so many calls. I've gotta get over there. He might not be checking messages." He turned his face toward where he supposed Ligutti stood. "Can't these bandages come off now? You've gotta let me go home."

"You've responded well since we brought you in and you are clear-headed now. Your X-rays are good, there's no evidence of a skull fracture and your brain activity seems normal. But I really want to continue monitoring you through the night since you were disoriented for a time, and your eyes need an additional treatment or two to ease the inflamation. If you like, I can arrange to send a police officer over to your headquarters to leave a message."

"Wait," Peter said, thinking furiously. "Tina. She works here, doesn't she? Tina Randall? She's a charge nurse."

"I know her," said the nurse who had been there before. "She's not on this shift, though. I think she worked a double shift yesterday because of the subway crash. She's off today."

"Then let me call her. She can go over and tell Egon. I think the last thing he needs right now is another cop at the door. Betcha that's how they told him last night." He recited the number, and a second later, he was listening to the phone ring.

"Hello." The voice was dreary and unhappy. They'd told Tina he was dead. Peter felt sick. He'd only known her a few weeks and she sounded miserable. How much worse would it be for Egon?

"Tina, it's Peter, I'm not dead, it was a mistake," he rattled out before she could reply. "Really."

She gasped. "Peter? Is it really you?"

"It's me, babe. I'm in your hospital but it's only minor stuff. Tina, did you talk to Egon?"

Her voice was shaking. "Peter, I was so sure... we thought you were dead." She pulled herself together. "I can hardly believe this. It's so wonderful. Yes, Egon called me. Oh, Peter, he was so unhappy. I don't think I ever heard anyone so miserable. You called him, didn't you? He knows?"

"I called but I got the answering machine. Tina, babe, they won't let me out of here yet. I think he's not listening to the machine and I won't have another cop go over and knock at the door. That's probably how they notified him, and I won't have him face another cop right now. Will you go and tell him I'm all right? I left a message, he can listen to it if he won't believe you." He was shaking with urgency, and it made his head pound, but he ignored the pain.

"Of course I will, Peter. Then we'll come right over to see you. I know visiting hours are over now, but I'm sure they'll let him in under the circumstances." She hesitated. "I'm so glad you're all right."

"I'm glad of it myself, but I'll feel better when Egon knows." He said goodbye to her and let the doctor and nurse ease him down on the pillows again. At once the doctor began an examination but Peter replied absently, his mind full of nasty images of Egon, all alone with Ray and Winston on vacation, hearing the news with no one to stand by him.

Had he called the guys? Were they on their way back? Had he called Peter's father? Poor Egon, all that weight on his shoulders, all alone. Peter shivered. He had to get word to Egon. He'd done all he could, and he knew he really didn't have the strength to do more than lie here yet. But he felt so helpless. This wasn't right. He had to get out of here. He had to go find Egon.

"Tina is already going to find him," the nurse said, and he realized he'd spoken aloud. "You've done everything possible."

"Yeah, I know. It's just not enough." I'm okay, Egon. Think about it. You should be able to know.

"Well, it will have to be for now," Ligutti said. "I'll arrange for him to come and see you as soon as he arrives, even though visiting hours have ended. I'll be back in an hour to remove those dressings and put more drops in your eyes. I know you're worried about your friend, but try to rest until then. Try not to move around too much. Your equilibrium isn't ready for that yet."

Peter knew that was true, but he didn't care, not if he could get to Egon and reassure him. Only he couldn't. He'd have to wait. Maybe Egon would call first, before he came, and Peter could talk to him. Or maybe the doctor would let him go once the bandages were off. He'd have to. If Tina didn't find Egon at home, then Peter would sign himself out and go looking for him. It wouldn't take much energy to sit in the back of a taxi, would it? Sure. He could do that. He didn't reveal his thoughts to Dr. Ligutti, though. Until the dressings were removed, he'd be a model patient. If Egon wasn't here by then, he'd be out of here so fast heads would spin.

So he lay passively, cooperating with the examination. His head did feel better for not moving. Okay, another hour and he was out of here. That was the bottom line. Hang on, Egon, it's going to be okay.

Egon frowned, adjusting the focus of the remote device that was linked to the activated P.K.E. meters. So far, only the mildest of flickers had touched the apparatus, small ghosts going about their business, nothing to do with the expected demon. Egon had filtered out everything below a Class 5, so any wandering spirits wouldn't set the meter off. Twice there had been Class 5 readings, but they crossed the fields quickly and passed beyond the meters' ranges. Nothing bigger. Nothing remotely resembling a Class 7 entity.

It wasn't fully dark yet, although the light was going, and Ecto was parked beside a building that had cut away the sunlight sometime earlier. Now that the sun had actually set, twilight hung thick over the city and ground fog rose, creeping into the shadows between buildings and glowing eerily as the streetlights blinked on. The air was damp, inducing a clammy feeling. Nine o'clock. The demon might not appear before ten or eleven. He'd gotten that call during the eleven o'clock news last night. The first attack, the one that had...the one that mattered...must have happened sooner. Egon was certain the demon would wait until full darkness, but he couldn't take the chance that, impatient, it might risk the twilight.

"So what will happen when it shows up?" Benedek asked. He was wearing one of Peter's jumpsuits; it was too big for him, the sleeves a little long, bulky and belted tightly to hold in the extra material. Egon had felt a twinge when he offered the uniform, even knowing Peter did not need it now. Seeing someone at his side in the familiar brown jumpsuit was a stab in the heart, but it was more practical than Benedek's garish clothing.

"The alarm will sound much more loudly than these previous ones," Egon explained. "We will be able to pinpoint the location and can be there within in minutes. Hopefully, we will come in time to stop the demon. It will have to hunt for a victim in the appropriate area. It will not instantly materialize and locate one, unless we are very unlucky."

"You're just dying to take it down," Benedek said. His eyes narrowed. "I don't want to have to explain to Ray that you meant it literally." He waved over at the police car parked near Ecto on the quiet street. "Remember, they've got proton packs, too." Egon had decided it would save time to provide the officers with the packs once they arrived here; that way, there would be no delay when they found the demon. The officers had tried out the throwers against a cutout figure Egon had brought in Ecto. They had quickly adjusted to the unusual pull of the throwers. Of course they would not be as skilled as the regular team, but the regular team was not here. It would never be completely here again.

Benedek shot out a hand and grabbed him by the wrist, just as Peter sometimes did--had. "Come on, Egon, I need an answer."

"I am not...suicidal, Benny," Egon replied. "I admit I feel a strong desire for revenge, but I cannot let it be my primary motivation. Peter would...come back and, er, kick my butt if I did. But I can't let anybody else die because of this demon. Had we known sooner, we might have stopped it in time..." He shoved his glasses into place with a savage thrust. "But we didn't know. So I must stop the demon. If I die in the process, it will not be of my choice. I hope you believe that. I know I am taking risks. I know I could die. But if I do and you survive, I want you to tell Raymond and Winston that it was not my choice to do so. Do you believe me?"

Benedek met his gaze levelly. "Okay, yeah, I do believe you." He squeezed the wrist and let go.

"Will you be all right when the demon comes?" Egon asked. "I know you've come on two busts with us and Ray let you use a thrower against a ghost on one of them. But that was a simple Class 5, a weak Class 5. This demon is deadly. It may or may not be one of the three I showed you in Tobin's Spirit Guide. I know you've experienced a lot in your work as a paranormal investigator, but I don't know if you've ever come face to face with a demon."

"Let me at it," Benedek said resolutely. "Okay, so I don't like the idea of fangs and horns and cloven hooves, but I've seen a lot of weird stuff since Jonny and I started running around tracking down shadows. I've met a vampire and aliens from outer space, and had an out-of-body experience, and met some zombies. Okay, so they weren't real zombies; they were going to be cut up for spare parts, but they acted like zombies. Jonny says most of it had rational explanations, but I can't figure out why something being a ghost isn't a rational explanation. He's met Slimer, after all."

Egon smiled faintly. Benedek's partner in 'slime' was Dr. Jonathan MacKensie, an anthropology professor who had been dragooned by his department head into heading up a paranormal unit at the Georgetown Institute. MacKensie had been rather stuffy and conventional the first time Egon had encountered him, but during the incident with the Sleeping One, he had come to know the professor better. What MacKensie did was to rein in Benedek who believed things that Egon could prove didn't exist with his equipment. If it was paranormal, Benny wanted to believe in it. That didn't mean he'd stand up well to a demon. Still, he had faced the Sleeper and had gone down taking eager snapshots when the sea monster had grabbed him. Benedek was no coward.

Egon looked at the man who wore Peter's jumpsuit and a wave of longing for yesterday, when everything was still all right, flooded through him. Benedek was brave and stubborn. He'd handle himself. Ray trusted him. Of course Ray trusted nearly everyone until he had reason not to, but Egon was sure Benedek would back him. If only it were over. He wanted to finish it.

As if in answer to his determination, the remote device switched to vivid life. Snatching it up, Egon frowned. "Right where we expected to find it," he said, turning the key to start Ecto and hitting the horn to alert the police.

Neither vehicle played the siren, but they ran with lights blinking against the gathering night, racing to a confrontation they had to win. I'll stop him for you, Peter, Egon thought fervently. I'll stop him.

"Okay, now, open your eyes."

Peter obeyed Ligutti's command and found himself staring up at a middle-aged man in a white coat, a guy with shaggy hair like Einstein and a long, narrow face. He wasn't fuzzy around the edges the way Charlie Rat had been; he looked normal. The lights in the room were dim and positioned so they didn't shine into Peter's face. His eyes still burned slightly, but they felt so much better he sucked in a deep, relieved breath. "You look fantastic, doc," he blurted. In spite of Ligutti's reassurances, waking up with his eyes bandaged had scared him badly. Now all that tension went out of him with a whoosh of breath, leaving only his worry about Egon in place. Only? It was the worse concern. Egon should be here now.

"Any pain?" Ligutti asked.

"They feel a little sore but a lot better than when I was in the box in the alley."

"That's from the irritation. I expect you rubbed them without knowing it. We'll give you some more drops now and I'll give you a prescription for when you go home. They look good to me. No physical damage, just slight inflamation that's already going down. If it were daylight, I'd put the dressings on again, but you should be fine by morning. Just wear sun glasses outdoors for the next few days." He gestured the nurse forward. She was young; it looked like she was just out of nursing school, but she administered the eyedrops like a pro. They felt good, easing away the mild inflammation. Peter's tensed muscles eased a bit.

Noting that, Ligutti grinned. "A good sign. How's the head now?"

Peter considered it. "Well, it's only pounding like an ordinary hammer now, not a sledgehammer, and it doesn't pound as often. Doc, I've gotta go find Egon."

Before Ligutti could reply, the telephone rang. Peter scrambled after it, but the nurse picked it up and passed it to him.

"Egon?" Peter demanded.

"Tina. Peter I'm just down the street from your headquarters. No one came to the door. I went around and looked in the windows and there's only one light on, the one at your secretary's desk. And your ghostmobile is gone. Egon must have gone somewhere. I'm really sorry, Peter."

He sagged. He'd been counting on talking to Egon, on reassuring him. Where could Egon have gone? To the airport to pick up Winston and Ray? Up to Aunt Lois's house? Just out away from the firehouse that reminded him so much of Peter? Wait a minute? If he took Ecto-- "Tina, honey, I've gotta get off. I didn't think of calling him on the mobile phone. If he took Ecto, maybe I can reach him that way."

"Of course, Peter. I'll come and see you tomorrow."

"Looking forward to it. But I have to let Egon know right now."

When she hung up, he said to the doctor, "He wasn't home," and leaned over to dial the number of the mobile phone.

It rang and rang, unanswered. The mobile phone didn't have an answering machine so he couldn't leave a message there.

Peter sagged back against his pillow. Where the heck was Egon? He was out there somewhere, alone and miserable, and Peter had to find him. He knew he wouldn't sleep until he had reassured Egon he was alive and kicking. He had to tell him. "Doc, please, I've gotta go find him."

"And where would you look?" Ligutti patted him on the arm. "You can't go out and cruise the city. He could be anywhere. You could miss him all night long. You've left a message on your answering machine. I think your Egon would not be happy to think of you wandering the streets with a concussion. If you knew exactly where he was, I'd let you go and then come back because I can imagine how he must be feeling and how worried about him you are. I know you'd sleep better for seeing and reassuring him. But we don't know where he is."

"I know where he is."

Peter jerked his head around to goggle at the vast bulk of a man in the doorway. Inspector Frump, trailing the folds of a trenchcoat, plodded into the room as if his feet hurt and stared down at Peter with a look that puzzled Venkman. Frump actually appeared glad to see him. Weird. The world was upside down tonight.

"Venkman," he said. "I don't like you. I'm never going to like you. But I'm glad you're alive."

"Because if anybody's gonna fry me, it's gonna be you?" Peter ventured doubtfully. He was in a play without a script.

"Because I lost a partner once, and because I saw everything I felt about that in your geek partner's face when I had to tell him you'd taken a one way ticket to the great beyond."

"You told him?" Peter exploded, horrified. He couldn't imagine a worse person to break bad news to his best friend. "I bet you just loved that."

Frump squashed down incipient rage. "No, Venkman. It might surprise you to know I didn't. Doc, I know where Spengler is right now. When I got the word from the hospital that Venkman was alive I came right over here. I'm gonna borrow him for awhile, if it's medically feasible. Maybe I could have got a message to Spengler, but after last night, I think he deserves to find out face to face that my main pest is still among the living."

For the first time in his life, Peter felt something toward Frump that wasn't annoyance or irritation. "You'll take me to Egon?" he demanded hopefully. Okay, so he'd just given his nemesis ammunition to use against him, but that didn't matter. Getting to Egon did. He turned to Ligutti. "Come on, Doc, you said if I knew where he was, I could go. If I'm not safe with a cop, then I'm not safe at all."

Ligutti frowned. "I don't like it. But if you promise to sit quietly in the car and to come back afterward, I'll allow it. And I do mean it about coming back. You're not discharged."

"Anything you say," Peter promised. "Where are my clothes?"

In the end, he went in borrowed garb because his own clothing was in such a sorry state it was only fit for the trash. Ligutti gathered up enough of a substitute wardrobe that he was decent. Jeans from a resident, shoes from another one, a faded tee shirt with a picture of Bruce Hornsby on it, and a jacket because it was a mildly foggy night. For once, Peter didn't care that he looked like he'd hunted up his outfit in a Goodwill basket. He was going to reassure Egon and that was what mattered.

"So where's Egon?" he asked as they started down the hall. He was a little lightheaded but it passed after he'd been up a bit, and Frump had him by the elbow in case he lost it and keeled over. At least he was big enough to catch him.

"He's out trying to bust the demon that nearly killed you," Frump said.

"Demon," Peter screeched, moderating his voice to keep from waking up the rest of the floor. "Egon's battling a demon alone? And you let him?"

"Let him? I couldn't have stopped him. He's out there avenging you, and he isn't alone."

"Ray and Winston are back?" Peter exulted. Egon would be okay with them, even against a demon. Alone, seeking revenge, Egon might as well paint a target on his back and be done with it.

"No, he's got the one person in the city I hate worse than you. Edgar Benedek."

"Benny? He's not a ghostbuster? Are you nuts, letting him--"

"I can't stop him. He's also got two police officers who have had a crash course in your weapons, and he has a specially modified...whatsit, a thrower and pack."

"He was working on it when I went out to meet Tina," Peter remembered. "Come on, we've got to get over there right away." Wait a minute? A demon had nearly killed him. "I thought it was the Torch that tried for me." The mention of the demon was vaguely familiar from the alley.

"Turns out the Torch is a demon. Your wino pal saw him. Spengler figured it out. He'll tell you when we get there."

"Then let's move." Peter was pretty sure no one would offer him a proton pack when he arrived, but he wasn't going to let Egon take on a demon without somebody experienced at his back. He would spend a week in the hospital later if that was what it took. "And you can run your siren the whole way."

Edgar Benedek thought he'd seen everything but when the makeshift team moved into the alley, he had to rethink that fast. There it was, nasty and ugly, the poor man's Old Nick, with horns and claws and a mouthful of hungry, pointed teeth. In spite of the gathering fog, it was far too clear as it stood near a dumpster jammed to overflowing with the smelliest garbage Benny had ever encountered. Illuminated mistily by the glow of a failing streetlight behind it so that its face was in shadow, it caught enough light from the street behind them to give them a faint glimpse of its ugly features. It was so far from a pretty sight that Benny, who always claimed that he'd seen everything, was shaken into shocked stillness, gaping up at it. It didn't stop him from grabbing one quick snapshot, but the demon's head turned in his direction and he decided that one would have to do.

One of the officers, the younger one, Ford, muttered, "Sweet Jesus," in the tones of someone saying a heartfelt prayer. His older partner, Sanchez, made the sign of the cross and muttered, "Blessed Mary and Joseph, protect me." The religious gesture didn't impress the demon, who yawned at the sight of it. So much for pulling out crucifixes and stars of David and waving them at it. Regretfully, Benny abandoned the thought of the holy water he carried in a small bottle in his pocket and the chain of garlic cloves he had hung around his neck. This creep wouldn't be fazed by religious symbols. Probably silver bullets wouldn't help, either.

Egon regarded it without alarm. Okay, so he had plenty of practice. If he could take it, Benedek could. That thing had killed Peter, and Benny had always liked the Venkmeister. It was payback time. What got him was that, once Egon had trapped Satan's right hand man, he wouldn't feel any better, not for a long, long time.

The demon looked a lot like one of the ones in the book. Devian. The one who ate souls. Nice. Benedek hoped his soul was the wrong flavor for Big Nasty. He hoped Egon's was.

Egon lowered his meter. "This is the one," he said. "Devian."

The demon bowed his head in mocking acknowledgment. "The one who is about to incinerate you and drink the hope from your soul," Devian returned, unimpressed. "It has taken you long enough to discover me, Ghostbuster. I calmly set out to ring your headquarters in bodies, to enable me to take it over. I thought you would have noticed before now, but no matter. These others are not Ghostbusters. Where are the others?"

"You killed one of us last night," Egon said in a voice that would have sent Benny packing in record time if it had been directed at him.

"Did I?" Amusement ran across the demon's sadistic face. Four men with particle throwers didn't intimidate him at all. That was not a good sign.

Egon would have gone for him with his bare hands if Benny hadn't grabbed him by the arm. "Whoa. Back off, Doc. That's not the way."

Egon must have realized it. The fury on his face mutated to an icy cold rage. Like the Klingons said, revenge was a dish best served cold, and if Egon's eyes had anything to say about it, the alley would be forty below. "What purpose is served by circling our headquarters with the dead?" he demanded. His voice shook with the strength of his desire to stop the demon.

"You don't know?" Devian picked idly at his teeth with one of his talons. It was not a pretty sight. Benny wished he'd mastered the gift of invisibility. He could feel the tension in the two cops who stood, throwers drawn, shifting uneasily on their feet as they waited the command to fire.

"Enlighten me," Egon ground out. He was really ticked at the devil wannabe. He wouldn't be satisfied with just trapping it. He'd want to send its molecules in all directions at the speed of light. Benny kind of liked that idea himself.

"Once I have done, their death energies are available to me. I will finish the loop, then I will draw it tight, sealing off your structure. Once it is blocked from the rest of the city, I will enter it at leisure and open your containment unit. I know it has many guards upon it, but they will go down like matchsticks when I pour all that energy into the building. I will free all ghosts and specters and they will serve me as I destroy your world."

"Watch it with the ego, bud," Benny put in to distract Egon from his rage. "You think you're tougher than all the other Class 7's the Ghostbusters busted? Wrong. You've got a plan but we got wise to it before you finished. Tough break--for you. When you're locked away, you can think of everything else you screwed up on the way and compare notes with the other poor schmucks in the containment unit."

Devian shot fire at Benedek, causing him to yelp and jump sideways. He was quick on his feet and he'd expected an attack, so he was ready. The balefire hit the dumpster instead, carving a neat hole through the side. Smoke arose around the edges. After a second, garbage oozed out, sizzling and making the air unhappily ripe.

"Now," said Egon in a quiet voice that the demon didn't hear and fired at him in one quick burst. He hit the entity mid-chest, and it shrieked, not in pain but in surprise. Benny decided he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer, assuming demons had either knives or drawers. At once, he looked fuzzy around the middle, almost transparent. With a yell of pure outrage, he shot fire directly at Egon, who was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't duck.

Benny hit him around the hips with a tackle that would have made a linebacker proud and the sizzle of the attack whizzed past over their heads. It would have followed them down but by then New York's Finest had clued in and started blasting. Nerves and inexperience made them erratic but the younger of the two scored a hit on Devian's shoulder and he stopped blasting.

"Where's your brain?" Benny demanded of Egon as he hauled the physicist to his feet. "The point's to make him the target, not to let him fricassee you."

Egon came up firing. "I'm sorry, Benny," he said almost absently. It hadn't dawned on him yet that the reporter had just saved his butt. One fixed purpose shone out of his eyes and that was to stop Devian. If he died in the process, he wouldn't object, so long as the demon went with him. Benny wondered if that meant he and the two cops were demon chow.

"We didn't volunteer to die," he muttered. "It's the demon who goes down, not the four of us. If you get too carried away and I buy the big one, I'm coming back to haunt you."

Egon straightened his glasses with one quick push and renewed his fire. His face didn't ease, but he muttered quickly, "I do apologize," as he charged closer, blasting away. And Benny had thought Ray was the reckless one.

Still, what would he do if the demon had charbroiled his best bud, Dr. Jon?

Benny yanked up his thrower and took aim. Peter had been his friend, too. He wanted a part of the monster or he'd know the reason why.

In the distance, sirens converged, and the demon, hearing them, jerked up his horned head and howled furious words in a language Benny had never heard before. It wasn't Latin--Benny had been force-fed Amo, Amas, Amat in high school and this didn't sound like dividing Gaul into three parts. Egon's face whitened noticeably in the dimly lit alley. "We can't allow him to finish," he called.

"Why not?" Benny countered.

"He is reciting a ritual to draw the energy from the deceased to him," Egon replied. "He intends to add it to his own and, if he succeeds, he will be too powerful for us to stop him."

"So, how do we stop him?" Ford had been cocky when he was practicing with his thrower, but now he stood blasting away, mouth drawn in a grim line, looking like he was ready to puke. He had never learned anything like this at the police academy.

"All four of us must hit him at once and trap him before he completes his ritual," Egon instructed. "Benny, adjust your fire."

"You got it, bwana," called Benny irreverently. "I came on this safari for the biggest trophy I could get. Think that head would look good over my mantle?"

"You don't have a mantle," Egon reminded him absently. All his attention was on the demon and its spew of foreign words. "Sanchez, raise your stream. Tighten it, the way I showed--"

Devian lifted his hand palm up and flung fire at Egon, who jumped sideways without needing a tackle. It missed him by such a small amount that the left sleeve of his jumpsuit started smoking. Bad sign. He'd probably got a little cooked there but his face didn't change. Benny doubted he'd even felt it. His proton stream flashed back to the target before the demon could pull free of the other three admittedly shaky ones. Maybe this would be a good time to release the Stay Puft Marshmallow man and sic him on the demon. He was a lot bigger than old Dev, after all.

"What's he saying?" Benny asked. "Secret passwords to get the key of the city? Lecherous lyrics in Ancient Phoenician? Curses?"

"Curses," Egon confirmed. "Sumerian, not Phoenician. He's trying to complete his circle without the last three deaths, drawing in the power he has awakened. It will just enclose Ghostbuster Central if he is successful, creating a field around him so powerful we will be unable to break free."

"How long will it take?" ventured Ford, darting sideways and shifting his stream. The fog swirled eerily at his abrupt movement.

"Not long," Egon replied. Great. That was a helpful answer. So what now? Stand here frying the guy until he finished and sealed them in?

"Come on, Spengster, you're the Spock clone here. No ten minutes and thirty seven point five seconds?"

Egon ignored that. Instead he braced his thrower and whipped the modified trap off his pack. "We have him confined. If we can seal him away before he finishes the spell--"

Devian heard that and tried to leap upward. All four men compensated instantly, forcing him back to the alley. He came down writhing and twisting in the streams, bathed in golden light that shone around him like a halo in the mist, his face full of fury and contempt--and then he started to grow, bigger and bigger until his body was two stories high.

Sanchez lost it, wailing in superstitious terror and backpedaling wildly. He would have stopped firing if Ford hadn't yelled a furious, "Joe!" at the top of his lungs. "Give me back up!" At the shout, the panicked cop charged forward and resumed firing. Devian fought hard to break free but the streams had never stopped and he couldn't entirely manage it.

Egon whipped the trap out under the demon and gave a hasty nod at Benedek, who copied the gesture. Letting go with one hand nearly lost him his target, but he corrected hastily. Wonder if the press is here, he thought wryly. He hadn't noticed any flashbulbs going off. Too bad his hands weren't free. This would make a great story.

The demon's words reverberated off the sides of the buildings, growing louder and louder as if his size had increased his ability to shout. Weird green light ran toward him in slender strands, pouring into his body and illuminating it from within. He put out both his hands and grabbed for them. The pavement shook beneath their feet and the mist churned, glowing like a Christmas tree between the green stuff and the police lights at the end of the alley.

"Spengster, what's happening?" yelled Benedek. He had never seen anything like that before in his life.

Egon stared at it, his eyes full of calculations, and the P.K.E. meter that Egon had activated in the pocket of his jumpsuit screeched with overload. Jerking it free, Egon studied it then flung it away across the alley, where it collapsed in on itself in a vivid shower of sparks.

"It's the concentrated death energy I expected," the Ghostbuster shouted. "He's drawing it from the sites of the deaths. Such energy can lie dormant for years, but this is fresh, and there's enough of it to be very powerful, especially since the victims were murdered. He can tie his own energy into it and boost the overall power he possesses until he registers above a standard Class 7."

"Why have I got the feeling that's bad?" Benny called back, blasting away for all he was worth.

"It is very bad. If he completes the loop, he will be able to control the streams, break free, and destroy us," Egon warned. "We must not let him finish it."

"No shit, Sherlock. How do we stop it?" Benny yelled wildly. He had a terrible feeling Egon didn't know.

The two cops kept on firing, exchanging dubious looks. It would take very little for them to break and run. They weren't cowards, but they weren't remotely used to this.

"NO!" Egon stomped on the trigger pedal of his trap and it opened up in a blinding glow of white light. The green strands broke free of the demon and zipped into it. "It's not powerful enough to resist the trap," he called reassuringly. "As long as we can draw the energy in, he can't use it. If it comes to him from both directions, we are in major trouble. There's only one chance to break his link, by trapping it before it finishes."

"Stop! No! Stop!" It broke off his ritual chanting and threw fire at Egon again, who ducked without breaking off the fire from his thrower. "Let me go! Let me go, or die!"

"You won't escape," the physicist ground out. "I'll stop you even if it means dying, and you know it."

"You must be a lot of fun at parties," Benny muttered under his breath. He didn't want to die, but they couldn't let the demon have its way, either. The look on Egon's face scared him, a hard, resolute determination that would not yield even on pain of death.

"Then you will die as your friend died," Devian replied, ignoring Benny's remark. "Burned beyond recognition, a lump of charcoal. He screamed when he died, a soul in torment. He screamed your name, Ghostbuster, calling for help, but you didn't come."

Egon flinched, his hands tightening on his thrower until his knuckles were white. Nothing else would have had the power to daunt him, but he let his pain channel into a cold, controlled anger, fighting away the horrific image Devian's taunting evoked. "Benedek, open your trap," he called out. "Ford, Sanchez, maintain fire."

Benny fumbled with his foot and found the trigger, stomping on it with fury. This demon had existed waaay too long. He didn't want to let himself think of Venkman buying it like that, and he sure didn't want Egon to think of it, even though he would probably never forget it. Benny had hated a few people in his life but he'd never quite wanted to dismember one barehanded before, not until now.

A second burst of brilliant white light enveloped the demon, but it fought wildly to break free, screeching out words in its weird language. They could have been something innocuous like its locker combination but Benny would have bet his life savings that they were about as nasty as words could get.

Abruptly, a fifth proton stream cut through the night and hit the demon full in the face. None of them could look around to see who had joined in the fray, since the pull on their throwers was so fierce. The demon's roars increased to an eardrum-battering level that blocked out normal voices. Only the piercing shriek of the approaching sirens cut through it. More cops, that's who it had to be. There had been a couple of extra proton packs in Ecto-1. Benny yelled in exultation at the new addition. It didn't matter who it was. It could be an old bag lady for all he cared because it made the difference. He didn't dare turn to see, and Egon didn't, either. Together the five proton streams worked the demon lower and lower, and the trap's pull drew it down faster and faster. With a cry that nearly shattered Benny's eardrums, it hit the trap so hard that it leaped right up off the pavement and danced around through the alley before it suddenly slammed shut, leaving them dazed and deafened, only muted sounds penetrating. The fog seemed thicker than ever, red-tinged, eerie and mysterious.

With an involuntary shudder, Benedek shut down his thrower and wondered if it was all right for dashing journalists to go off to the nearest corner and throw up.

Egon bent down and picked up the trap. "It's holding," he said with grim satisfaction, the words echoing hollowly in his ears. His hearing was returning, but all he could detect beyond his own voice was a jumble of noise comprised of shouts and wailing sirens. The green light had dissipated now, all but what they'd caught in the first trap, and Egon was certain that he had been correct, that it was the life energy, the souls, of the victims. Just as death energy from an old city morgue had once brought to life a parade float and loosed a powerful entity on the city, this would have enveloped the demon in a conjoined energy too powerful to contemplate. It would have been the ultimate betrayal of his victims, using the agony of their deaths to strengthen their murderer. Was Peter's death energy in there? Should he let them go and hope that they would find peace? Could there be peace for anyone who had died in such torment?

His arm ached. Bowing his head to see, he fingered the fabric carefully. His arm was blistering already. It had been too close.

He stood there staring down at his burned arm, the blink of police car flashers turning the fog to a demonic red glow, and he had no strength to move, no inclination to do anything at all. Devian was gone, trapped and, after revenge, there was nothing left but despair.

"Egon!"

Spengler went utterly rigid as the shout cut through the fuzziness in his ears, clear because it was right behind him. It sounded like Peter. Impossible. Could the green light have really been the ghosts of the Torch's victims? Was Peter's spirit hovering behind him? The voice sounded alive, resonant and real. He stood like a statue, unable to move or breathe, waiting to be sure he hadn't imagined it. At that moment, it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard--but was it real?

"Spengs, will you listen?" A hand grabbed his good arm and pulled him around with urgent need, and Egon found himself staring at the living, breathing Peter Venkman from about a foot away. He was wearing unfamiliar clothes and there was a slight redness around his eyes but he was on his feet, a proton pack on his back, and Egon realized that he had been the one to join in on the bust and give them the energy they had needed to trap Devian. "The guy who died wasn't me," he cried, grabbing Egon's shoulders and shaking him lightly. "It was some jerk who stole my wallet. I'm alive."

"You're alive?" Egon repeated numbly, stunned and shaken. This couldn't be real. Could someone collapse from joy? He felt his balance quiver and he reached out a tentative hand and planted it flat on Peter's chest. "You're real?" His voice caught. "Please be real," he breathed.

"I'm as real as it gets." Peter grinned reassuringly, his eyes worried as he studied Egon's face. "I got here as fast as I could. I tried. I left you a message on the answering machine, I sent Tina over but you weren't there. Then Frump showed up and brought me here. I'm okay. Come on, Egon, you're scaring me here."

Egon caught his breath, then he wrapped his arms around Peter, bent his head against the dark hair, and held on for dear life. "They told me you were dead," he faltered.

"They weren't messing with your head," Peter said quickly. "I got mugged. Somebody grabbed my wallet and my watch. The creep you just took down found me passed out in an alley, about to do the fire number on me, but I got rescued by a wino who used to be one of my profs at Columbia. He thought I was another street person and he took me back to his box in an alley. After awhile, he realized I should be in the hospital and he knew who I was by then--he tried to call you too, but couldn't get through--so I wound up at St. Vincent's. I finally woke up and started making sense awhile ago, and then I did everything I could to get to you. They didn't believe the wino when he told them who I was because it was on the news that I'd died. But I'm okay, Egon. It's just a concussion."

Egon didn't let go. "They said you'd been burned beyond recognition," he admitted. "Frump wouldn't even let me identify you. I'm sorry, Peter."

Peter's arms were as strong as steel bands around him. "Hey. What have you got to be sorry about? Do you think I'd have wanted you to see me like that, if it had been real? Best thing Frump ever did. He brought me out here so you could see for yourself that I was alive, too. Gotta say, I might have to put him on my Christmas Card list for this one. Come on, Egon, it's okay."

"For a day I believed you dead, Peter," Egon murmured helplessly. "I believed you had died alone."

Peter shivered. "No way. I wasn't alone, or only for a few minutes. I got rescued right away."

"How could you do this to me, Peter?" Egon heard himself burst out. "You were dead."

Peter's hand ran up the back of his neck and tangled in his hair. "Egon, believe me, I'd do anything if that had never happened. But I really am alive. It didn't happen. I wish you hadn't heard about me. Better you thought I was missing than that. Especially without Ray and Winston to back you up."

"I'm glad they didn't have to go through it," Egon said. He was shaking hard, and a part of his mind recognized the symptoms of reaction. The tension had broken, Peter was all right, and for a second, Egon gulped hard against a desperate sob of relief. That didn't matter; Peter would understand. The realization that he was here to understand washed away the worst of the pain.

Peter held on, gently rocking him while he let go of the anguish that had wrapped itself around him since Frump had appeared at the door last night. "It's okay, it's okay," he soothed. "I'm fine. Well," he temporized, "Mostly fine."

Egon finally pulled himself together and drew back long enough to stare at Peter, realizing that the psychologist had thrown in the qualification on purpose to distract him. He cleared his throat and gulped hard a time or two, then he let go of Peter long enough to take off his glasses and run a hand across his eyes. He felt rather idiotic for breaking down in public, but Peter's eyes held no condemnation, only warmth and reassurance. He grabbed the glasses and dried them on his tee shirt that was emblazoned with a rock star Egon didn't recognize. Just seeing the look in his eyes made Egon feel whole again. Losing his oldest friend for a day had been unendurable--but it hadn't happened. Although he was still quivering with reaction, he felt whole for the first time since Frump's arrival.

Peter adjusted the glasses on his face. "There you go, buddy."

"What did you mean, Peter, when you said 'mostly fine'?" Egon demanded.

"Just a concussion." Peter rubbed his temples energetically. "Doc said I had to come back after I saved the world, and what's wrong with your arm there?" He pounced, lifting away the charred fabric, then wincing. "Egon, Egon, Egon. Do I have to keep my eye on you every second?" He looked past him. "Benedek. Thanks for coming off the bench for me. But we'll have to talk later. I want Egon in the hospital. Maybe we can share a room. Keep those insurance rates down." He waved his hand. "Yo, Frump." As the detective approached, Peter winked at Egon. "I take it what we just took out was the Torch?"

"Of course it was, Peter," Egon said with mock sternness.

"Thanks to yours truly." Peter grinned broadly and turned to the detective, although he didn't loose his hold on Egon's good arm. "Hey, Frump. So, is there a reward for catching the Torch? Major bucks? Benedek, you're just the one to write it up. Ride with us back to the hospital and I'll give you an exclusive interview."

Frump grimaced expressively and shook his head. "No, let him take your car back to headquarters," he said. "He can interview you in the morning."

Benny grinned and bobbed his head in agreement. After all, he could write up most of the story from first-hand observation. He gave Peter a comradely slap on the back, took Ecto's keys from Egon, and busied himself loading proton packs. He would write it all up for the morning edition, interviews or no, and Egon discovered he didn't mind. Of course, he would probably be outraged when he saw the article but right now he didn't mind a bit.

Peter opened his eyes, glanced sideways at the window, and saw that it was too early to wake up, even in a hospital where they habitually popped in with grating cheer and roused you at the crack of dawn. His headache had retreated to a dull tension between his eyes, scarcely there unless he concentrated on it, and his eyes didn't burn any longer. He could happily sleep till noon. Prepared to huddle defensively back into his covers, he stopped dead, turned his head and saw Egon, slightly propped up with pillows, his bandaged arm lying outside the covers, wide awake and watching him. There was a desperate, protective, almost angry glint in his eyes that Peter had halfway been expecting, and he abandoned all thought of sleep without a second's hesitation.

"I wasn't dead," he said as if resuming a conversation. "It was a mistake."

"For a day, it wasn't," Egon replied. His eyes glinted furiously. "I've been lying here fearing that I could not forgive you for what you put me through. And that is so stupid when your survival is a miracle." He turned a helpless face to Peter. "I can't understand what is wrong with me for thinking such a perverse thing." He gazed frantically at Peter, seeking answers at the same time he assured himself that his friend was really still alive. He was hurting in the worst way.

"And here I thought I'd really made progress teaching you the psychology thing; you're so good with me when I need it," Peter tried lightly. When Egon's expression didn't ease, he heaved a gentle sigh. "You always say I make things hard for myself, but right now you're making them waaaaay too hard for you. Bottom line, and I don't expect you to jump on the bandwagon yet. If you can't forgive me, you won't suffer like that if I should die for real. It's not something you've even thought consciously, I bet, but it's there inside."

Egon shuddered, fists clenching in denial. "How can you be so preposterous about it. I agonized over you, Peter."

"It's okay," Peter soothed. "I made you suffer in the worst way. I didn't mean to, but it came down to the same thing. It's okay to hate me for a little while. Course if you don't snap out of it soon, I'm going to have to steal all your P.K.E. meters and donate them to Goodwill."

"Hate you?" Egon gasped, horrified. "Of course I don't hate you. Do you imagine for one second that I would have suffered like that if I hated you?" He pushed himself upright and reached across the intervening space between the beds. At the last minute, he drew his hand back, and Peter saw pain flash in his eyes, pain that had nothing to do with the huge broken blister on his arm. They would discharge Egon as soon as the doctor arrived to check him out but he had keeled over in a dead faint when they were dressing his arm. Peter, who had waited and watched, had assured the medical staff that Egon was just reacting to the last in a long line of stresses and they'd agreed, but they'd admitted him anyway. One of the doctors remarked that he doubted he could have pried Egon out of the hospital if they'd tried to send him home.

Now he sat there in a hospital gown, bare feet danging, staring at Peter with a helpless frustration. "You put me through hell," he breathed.

Peter had expected that. He'd deliberately provoked it to get it out in the open. "Okay, fine, I've got it. Once we get discharged, I'll go home, pack up my bags, and get out of your face. Is that what you want?"

"NO!" Egon cried out desperately. "I just want..." He stopped short, up against a wall he couldn't break down. "How could you do this to me?"

"Well," said Peter with a wry grin, "I thought, gee, it would be fun to get bashed over the head, dumped in a dumpster, nearly set afire, and wait, for the final act, I'll have everybody gang up and tell Egon I got fried. Slow day, that's all."

Egon's face twisted and he erupted from the bed, fury boiling over, and grabbed Peter hard by the shoulders. "You bastard," he spat, shaking him. "You son of a bitch." Then he sagged and Peter had to jump up himself to grab him as the physicist's knees buckled. He wrapped his arms around Egon and eased him back to his bed, sitting beside him and slinging his arm around his shoulders. Egon leaned against him as if he couldn't keep his balance without the support.

"It was really bad, wasn't it?" Peter prodded gently.

Egon fumbled for words and then they gushed out unchecked. "It was...the worst thing that ever happened. Not only that you were dead and that you died in such a horrible way. I kept picturing you...when I look at you now I see that in front of your face, screaming as the fire took you, and I wasn't there to save you. Oh, god, Peter..."

Peter turned Egon toward him and put his other arm around the shaking shoulders. "Tell me, Egon, anything you need to. It's all right." This was bad. This might even need somebody who wasn't so close to it to talk to Egon a few times and help him work through it. But right now there wasn't time for that, and nobody knew Egon as well as Peter did. He had to do what he could, but he was scared.

"It was all gone," Egon continued as if Peter hadn't even spoken. His voice quivered as he explained. "I don't think you realize how much I rely on you to keep me sane and balanced. You're my devil's advocate, my sounding board, my touchstone. You understand when I'm frustrated, when I'm miserable, when I'm elated. You know when to shoot me down when I get above myself. You listen. You tease me and give me grief, and the thought that I would never have that again was...unendurable. And, oh, god, Peter, I thought you had died alone. I knew how much you would have loathed that and I knew if I had gone on the camping trip you would have gone too and you would have lived."

"Whoa!" Peter shook his head fiercely, running soothing hands up and down Egon's back. "No way. Listen to me, Spengs, and listen good. You just gave me a good excuse not to go. I wasn't going anyway. I was halfway falling for Tina and I wanted to stay here because of that and because I really hate camping. Bugs and no bathrooms and no VCR and no city lights. Not my gig. I would have stayed no matter what you did. You were not at fault. Even if it had been really me who died, you weren't at fault. And if you so much as mention this guilt number again, I'm going to flush all your fungi down the toilet--and then hit you with the plumbing bill."

Egon gave a faint sputter of laughter. "I knew it was irrational; Benny told me it was, but you weren't there to balance me, and irrational was all I knew how to be."

Peter squeezed him tightly. "I am more sorry than I can say that you had to live through a day of that. I know how it feels because I know how I'd feel if you weren't there--the way I felt when your molecules were reversed and we thought you were dead. You didn't even have Ray and Winston to stand with you, and that sucks. Anger's normal. You can yell at me all you like--for a day. Then I'll call a moratorium on it--see, Egon, I know big words, too--and we'll get back to normal."

"Actually, Peter, I don't believe your usage is entirely correct," Egon said involuntarily, and so naturally that Peter grinned.

"No, I leave that for the brain trust. Egon, listen to me. If you want me to find somebody to talk you through all this, I will. None of this World-Trade-Center-I-can-handle-anything crap. I'm too close to this. If you want me to, just say the word."

"Possibly," Egon agreed. He drew a deep breath. "Just be here, Peter. Be alive."

"Does this mean you're gonna fuss over me when we go home, and wait on me hand and foot and bring me sodas and fluff up my pillows?" Peter asked hopefully in the most outrageous voice he could manage.

Egon sputtered into laughter, then his arms were tight around Peter and he was caught halfway between laughter and tears as the tension flowed out of him. Peter knew he was going to turn around a lot in the next weeks and find Egon watching him, guarding his back, making sure he was all right, but he could live with that, as long as Egon was coming back from the dark place he'd been. No one should have to endure such a horror alone. Thank god for Edgar Benedek, for doing what he could when Peter couldn't be there.

Egon drew in a shaky breath and then controlled himself. "Is there anything you want to talk to me about?"

"Like what?" he asked blankly. Okay, so the blank part was fake. He knew exactly what Egon meant, and he couldn't make Egon say it. "Okay, you mean like I nearly did die?" He shivered. "Yeah, I know. That's a tough one, and I was down for the count and wouldn't have even known until afterwards. I can't remember actually getting mugged, but I guess the guy tossed me in a dumpster and I got out--either that or your demon dragged me out. Last thing I remember is getting off the subway. Doc says that's normal, and I'm all right, even if I never remember it. But that's not the way I want to go." He drew back. "I think I'm okay with it," he said. "Because my part was a lot easier than yours, even if I did have to sleep in a cardboard box for awhile."

He caught his breath. "But I've gotta say, you gave me a few bad moments yourself. Taking on a demon--a demon--without proper backup? Do you have any idea how dangerous that was. You could have been killed! Are you crazy!"

"I had to. The demon meant to enclose headquarters in a force field and release all the ghosts in the containment unit."

"Not that minute, though. Ray and Winston could have been back to help you. But no! You took a couple of cops and Edgar Benedek! Are you nuts?"

"There was a grave risk to the city if I waited," Egon replied. Then he lowered his eyes. "Besides," he added, "I thought it had killed you."

"Revenge?" Peter screeched. "Revenge, Egon?"

"I only know I felt a tremendous satisfaction when that one went into the trap. Perhaps it was an unconscionable risk, but I could have done no less."

Peter gave him a pat on the back. "Okay, Egon, I understand. But just don't scare me like that again."

Egon stiffened in momentary reproach. "I scare you, Peter? I can't believe you said that."

"Okay, peace. Guess I'd have done the same thing." He drew back, grinning shakily. "I promise you, Spengs, if I have a bad dream about it, I'll wake you up for the obligatory cocoa session--long as you promise to do the same thing."

"I promise," Egon agreed. "And remember, I will hold you to it."

It wasn't much later that trays of hospital breakfast arrived; food that was worse than the sweat sandwiches Egon had once tricked them into eating. Peter was hungry or he wouldn't have touched the stuff. He hadn't wanted any food last night; it had been over a day since he'd really eaten and his stomach was demanding food. Egon, who had picked at his food the day before, or so he admitted, devoured his, too, pleasing the nurse who had arrived as they finished. Perky and professional, she took pulses and blood pressures, put new drops in Peter's eyes, and informed him he'd probably need them for another day or two just to ease the fading inflammation. Satisfied with him, she allowed him to get up and have a shower. She wouldn't let Egon take one for fear of getting his dressing wet. He was on antibiotics, too; the burn had been a nasty second degree one that might even leave a bit of a scar. So while Peter ventured into the shower and raised his what he considered a very tuneful voice in song above the pounding of the water, Egon submitted to the indignity of a sponge bath. When Peter emerged he eyed at the nurse, who was gorgeous, and rolled his eyes in disappointment that Egon had lucked out. Egon, who didn't look as if he'd enjoyed the experience, volunteered to trade. "Quite frankly, Peter, being bathed is not a delightful experience."

Severely tempted, Pete squashed down his hormones. "Are you kidding," Peter objected. "She works the same shift with Tina. I'd be dog meat."

"I'll tell her you said that," the nurse replied and whisked away. Ten minutes later, Tina herself arrived, hugged Peter quite fiercely, gave him a kiss that was rich with promise, and twinkled away to return to work, leaving Peter preening himself in spite of Egon's exasperated arch of eyebrows.

The next visitor was none other than Charlie Rat, clean now with the look of a man who has scrubbed himself so hard he had removed three layers of skin. He was dressed in regular clothes and not a hospital gown, and there was both tension and peace in his eyes. Passing him on the street, you would never have taken him for a wino, except that he was full of nervous energy and his hands, when he wasn't gripping the foot rail of Peter's bed, had a tendency to shake. He had a hard road ahead of him.

"Hello, Peter."

"Charlie. You look great," Peter exulted. "They said you signed in for detox. Way to go!"

"Detox, yeah," admitted the former professor. "It's going to be tough. I can feel it all through me, all the need for the booze, all the memories that are going to come. But I called my daughter and she's forgiven me. We're going to make peace." He beamed. "And I owe it all to you."

Peter shook his head vehemently. "No way. I owe you. You saved my bacon. If it hadn't been for you I wouldn't even be here now--and nobody would know the Torch was a demon. You did great!" He grinned. "You proved you had what it takes. Once you knew you could do that, you could do anything. You need an ear, you call me, okay? I don't have my card with me--some creep ripped off my wallet. But you've got the number."

There was a lot he wanted to say to the man who had saved him, but there weren't enough words. "Egon, this is Charlie Rat, uh, Ratcliffe. Remember him from Columbia. He was one of my psych profs. He's the one who called you to tell you about the demon."

Egon pumped Ratcliffe's hand so hard that the old man took it back warily and flexed his fingers to be sure they hadn't been crushed. "I am very grateful to you, Mr. Ratcliffe." He shot a beaming look at Peter. "Not only did you help to save the day but you saved the life of my friend. If there is anything I can do for you, you have only to ask."

"See," Peter said delightedly. "You've got the Ghostbusters on your side. You need us, you call."

"I'm going to try to handle it myself. Go to A.A. See if I still have what it takes." He must have seen the need in his eyes because he added, "But I might call you, Peter. See if I taught you right all those years ago."

"Go for it."

The orderly who had escorted him over from the detox area took him away again after that, and Peter couldn't help wondering at the way fate had thrown him down and given him the chance to bounce up again. He'd have to keep in touch with the old guy, help out if he could. He owed him world class.

Benedek came in next with clean clothing for both men. "Here you go, delivery service. Had to fight off Slimer, and let me tell you, it wasn't a pretty sight. I had to bribe the little guy with a big pizza to keep him from coming here."

"For that you're officially in my will," Peter proclaimed, grabbing his clothes with relief. He started to dress without bothering to ask permission. "You got an interview anyway."

"Small burden," Egon put in, sorting through his clothes. "He'd give them in his sleep. Publicity hound," he added with a vivid note of fondness in his voice. Peter decided he might even have a week before Egon got on his case. He'd have to provoke the guy, help him get back to normal. If it came to that, he'd have to provoke Frump. Sure, the cop had been great and Peter owed him for helping Egon out the way he did, but they functioned better when they shot sparks off each other.

"Oh, and your dad called when I was there, Pete," Benny put in.

Peter stared at him in horror. "My dad? He knew about this?"

"I tried to reach him," Egon admitted. "I called some of the contacts in the book, but I didn't tell them you were dead, just to call me."

"He'll be worried," Peter said and stared at Benedek to see if that hope was refuted.

"You called that one right," the reporter admitted. "Worried sick. I told him you were okay, just a little woozy from a bop on the head, and that you'd still helped save the day. Never heard a guy more proud of his kid." A wistful look came and went in Benedek's eyes so quickly Peter was almost sure he'd imagined it. One thing he had in common with the journalist was an unreliable father.

"He say he was coming?" Peter asked.

Benny shook his head regretfully. "Nah, he said he'd call tonight and make sure you were okay. He told me to tell you to pinch a nurse for him."

That was Pop, all right. Peter shrugged, glanced over at Egon, and saw a flash of understanding in his eyes. Egon didn't say anything but then he didn't have to. The knowledge that he understood was enough for Peter.

Benedek waved the new issue of the National Register in Peter's face. It sported a picture of Egon confronting the demon that Benny must have snapped before he started blasting away. "Maybe this one'll be the Pulitzer one," he exulted. 'Demon murderer zapped,' screamed the headlines. "You did it, Spengster. New equipment, the B-Team and all, you got the Torch."

"I could never have done it without you," Egon admitted. Whoa, thought Peter, a little crisis bonding here?

"Are you kidding, Igor?" Benny said rapidly, ignoring Egon's wince at the hated nickname. "I was just a tool here. You had a major quest and it would have taken the entire NYPD to stop you."

"It was for Peter," Egon said as if the words were self-evident. Peter couldn't help grinning.

"Still puts you right up there in the hero book," Benedek said. He wasn't comfortable with being thanked. "Hey, suppose the Big Apple will lay out a reward? I could use the bread--even if most of it belongs to you, and the Venkster for his last minute heroics."

"Yep, saved the day," Peter teased, although he knew the driving force had been Egon. He was just glad he'd arrived on time.

Benny bounced around on his toes, grinning a mile wide, bragging about making the rounds on all the talk shows. "I'm gonna do Letterman. Suppose he could include a Stupid Demon Tricks routine? A new Top Ten List? Ten reasons why you shouldn't ask a demon to tea." But Peter couldn't hold back a grin at his unexpected tendency to fuss over Egon--who displayed an equally unexpected tendency to tolerate it. He was even seen to smile benevolently upon the journalist.

Benedek had been gone ten minutes when Winston appeared. "Guys?" he asked, poking his head in the door.

"Winston, my man," caroled Peter, who had been sitting cross-legged on his bed entertaining Egon with tales of his own talk show plans. "Where's Ray?"

"Here I am, Peter." Ray burst into the room and stared at the two of them, eyes enormous. "Gosh, Peter," he said, "They told us at first that you were dead." He lunged at Peter and threw his arms around his neck. "The ranger who found us had a cell phone and he gave us a number to call. Frump took it and said right away you weren't dead, just a little bit concussed, but for awhile there it was awful." Winston nodded vehemently in confirmation. Both of them were busy studying their two hospitalized colleagues for signs of jutting fracture and mangled limbs.

"It wasn't much fun at this end, either, Ray," Peter said, returning the embrace and then letting Ray go so Winston could grab him, squeeze him, and rumple his hair. "Not the hair, Winston." He wailed quickly. "Especially for Egon. But he did it. He got the demon, though. Benny was here to show off his paper's write up. Egon did good."

"You guys fought demons alone?" Winston demanded disapprovingly. "That's crazy."

"We didn't," Egon replied, trying to adjust his hairdo after a Winston attack. "I had Edgar Benedek and two police officers to assist me--Benedek has handled a thrower before, as you will remember. At the last minute Peter arrived and we finished the job."

"Gosh, that must have been great," breathed Ray, snatching up the copy of the Register to study it. "I sure wish we'd been here." He held up the paper to display to Winston, who grimaced at the sight of the demon, then turned and lifted an eyebrow at Peter. He must have seen what blazed out of the snapshot to anyone who knew Egon, the look of a man hanging on by a thread. Peter nodded to show he understood and that he was on the case.

"The demon meant to encircle the firehall with deaths, then use the death energy that remained dormant, to enclose Headquarters and break into the containment unit," Egon explained.

"Yeah, and he was only three people short of having the energy to do it," Peter put in. "If we hadn't figured it out, Egon would have been doing a last stand at the firehouse. Lots of nasty ghosts roaming around--as bad as when Walter Peck shut down the containment unit." He shuddered extravagantly.

"Whether he realized the two of you were gone and timed his attacks to match or whether that was a fortuitous accident on his part, I don't know," Egon put in. "In any case, we were extremely lucky that Peter's rescuer called me and gave the warning."

"See," Peter said quickly. "Camping was a bad idea. I knew it from the first. Out there communing with nature, bugs in the food. It's not natural."

"Actually, Peter, we do have some time left on our vacation," Egon pointed out. "It might be an excellent time to get out of the city and take a break." The darkness that had been in his eyes when they woke up had disappeared. Winston registered it and grinned.

"Does that mean I have to go camping?" Peter put exactly the right level of a whine into his voice to win a grimace from the physicist. "We can't. You can't get that arm dirty, Egon and I don't want to get dust and pollen in my eyes. Eye drops and nature just don't mix. I've got a much better idea. Atlantic City. Roulette. Chorus girls. Room service. We got rid of the demon. I think I'll call the mayor and wheedle the trip out of him. Compensation for all we've been through. Come on, guys, doesn't it sound great? Egon you can work a system and beat the wheel. I know you can do it."

The other three regarded him without a shred of enthusiasm. Peter heaved a sigh and looked as put upon as he possibly could. Better not mention the 'wounded hero' routine. That always made the guys leave unspeakable things in his bed or put stuff in his shampoo to dye his hair bright pink. He said pathetically, "Well, I thought it was a good idea."

And then Egon smiled. "If that's what you really want, Peter," he said in the most sickening, saintly tones imaginable. "We'll do it." The 'we won't enjoy it' was all too evident in his voice.

"We could go up to Boston," offered Ray. "There's a comic book convention--"

"No," insisted the other three.

"Actually, Peter," Egon offered, "My mother has a time share in a condo in the Hamptons that she won't be using until next week. We could go there. I know she'd want us to."

Peter knew Egon would rather spend the rest of the week in the lab, but the offer was too good to pass up. He'd let old Spengs risk sunburn and Winston endure seasickness because getting away from town for a few days was just what the doctor ordered. "Done," he confirmed. "Little Petey Venkman is not going to lift a finger the whole time. Does she have servants?" he asked hopefully.

"No, and if you're thinking of us, forget it," Winston laid down the law. He grinned immediately. "Sounds good to me, too. I was starting to get a blister from all that hiking."

Ray edged over to Egon. "Are you all right?" he ventured in an undertone.

Egon glanced over at Peter, who was describing to Winston the idea of beaches and bikini-clad women, but who was listening like mad for the answer.

"I believe I will be," Egon replied and caught Peter's eye. Peter grinned at him.

"What's going on in here, a convention?" said a stern voice from the doorway and Dr. Ligutti popped in, looking as if he hadn't been to sleep since he'd checked Peter in again last night. "I've come to turn you two loose."

"World, look out," Winston muttered under his breath, and Peter winked at him. He was right on the money. With the Ghostbusters together, anything could happen.

1. The Guardian