FATHER TO THE MAN

Originally published in Crazy Quilt 3

With a whoosh of flames the old car erupted into an inferno, driving him back to the edge of the road in a dazed stagger. He stood there, blank and stunned, then he screamed, "Carolyn!" and ran at the burning vehicle again, only to be flung back into the ditch when it exploded. Water from recent rains cushioned his fall, but it drove the wind from him and he lay there wheezing painfully as he tried to suck air into his aching lungs. Water closed over his head and he made futile, ineffectual arm motions to propel him to the surface again as the light current carried him along, scraping him against rocks and tree roots, saturating his light slacks and shirt, weighing him down. He popped up abruptly, bumped his forehead on the top of a culvert, but managed to suck in a deep breath before the water rolled him under again. He let it take him, too stunned and shaken to think.

Carolyn was dead. She was dead because of him; he'd driven too fast and the dog that had darted out in front of the speeding Plymouth had made him react too quickly and lose control of the car. He still didn't know where the tree had come from so fast. Somehow he'd been flung free of the wreck and for a long, aching moment, had sprawled in the grass at the verge of the road, his mind blank, unfunctioning, pebbles scraping his cheek, dirt in his beard. Then the ready alertness that had saved his life on more than one occasion snapped into place and he remembered. Carolyn. Where was she? Screaming her name he forced himself up and ran for the car. He could see her in there, slumped against the windshield. Even from the wrong side of the car, the blood that covered her face was sharply visible. She wasn't moving.

"Oh my god, Carol," he moaned and reached for the open driver's side door to get in and pull her free.

The instant flames beat him back, hot and furious, burning the terrible image of Carolyn's death against his eyeballs. She didn't move when the fire took her, didn't struggle, didn't cry out. When the explosion came, she had to be already dead. He stood there dazed and, god help him, he hoped she was dead, hoped she didn't feel the burning, hoped she didn't know, in that last instant before everything vanished into a giant fireball, that she was dying.

The waters rolled him over again and he breathed, though it hurt. Broken ribs, probably, he catalogued his injuries. A cut over one eye that kept on bleeding. Liveable. Survivable.

He let the water take him, sucking him along, coaxing him further and further away from the wreckage. That was when he thought of the boy and knew a terrible truth.

He couldn't go back.

Without Carolyn he couldn't stay here. He'd stayed here too long already, caught himself in a trap he'd made for himself, gone away and returned too often. Now he had to go away one final time, go away and stay away. The explosion had been so bad there'd be no way to tell he wasn't in the car with her. They'd believe him dead, and no one is safer than a dead man. He closed his eyes, saw Carol in the flames and shuddered fiercely. If he stayed, he'd see her face like that every time the boy smiled at him. Even if nothing worse ever happened he couldn't bear it. He had to run.

In the distance he could hear the sirens approaching, even voices raised above the roar of the fire. People were gathering at the site. He had to get out of here. He was too exposed. There was too much to learn, too many things to give him way. Any investigation could reveal his secret, and he couldn't let them ever be known. It wouldn't bring Carolyn back to life and only god knew what it would do to the boy. Yes. Leaving was best, for the boy, for him, for everyone. The water soothed him, cool and forgiving. He'd done too many wrong things already. Time to get out while the getting was good.

Though his heart ached for doomed Carolyn, he knew he could go on. He knew he had to. "You'll be better without me, kid," he muttered to the boy. "Lots better. I've been a lousy old man to you. Yeah, a lousy old man. You're better without me." It didn't take him long to believe it.

The water eddied, gaining strength from another run off channel and bore him away toward the nearby river. He kicked his feet a little to keep afloat and rode the water to freedom.

He thought of Carolyn, beautiful Carolyn, her hair as red as fire, her hair was fire, and his tears blended with the filthy water in the ditch. He cried for her and for the boy and for what he was losing.

But he didn't cry for long.

"Excuse me. Your name wouldn't be Ray Stantz, would it?"

Peter Venkman lifted his eyes from the billing sheets he'd been reading while he tended Janine's phone during her lunch break. He had to get these forms signed before she returned or she'd be on his case all afternoon. Okay, so he'd stalled on them too long already, but that was no excuse for reading him the riot act before she left. Muttering to himself, he'd been scrawling his name on every form with little thought to what he was signing. He knew he'd have to go back and check them over again, but writing his name so quickly eased the put-upon feeling. He wasn't in the mood for an interruption.

"No," he said without looking up. "My name's Peter Venkman. Ray is shorter and Egon is taller. I thought we were famous." He lifted his eyes then and stopped at the sight of an elegantly clad woman of late middle years who stood before the desk clasping a small handbag in gloved hands. The sheer simplicity of her well-cut beige suit bespoke wealth and power, and Peter found himself straightening up like a schoolboy in the principal's office and wishing for a mirror so he could check if his hair was tidy. This was one client he wanted to impress. "What can the Ghostbusters do for you?" he continued hastily as if his earlier words had not been spoken. "We're always on call for urgent situations." Sweeping the bills to one side, he rose to his feet and took her hand, wondering if he could get away with bowing over it and deciding it would be pushing his luck.

Her eyes lit with momentary amusement as if she was used to the technique, had been any time these past fifty or so years and wasn't entirely impressed though she was prepared to enjoy herself. "My name is Rosalyn Grant, Dr. Venkman. I'm afraid I'm troubled with a spirit."

From the firmness of her chin and the lingering smile at the corners of her mouth, she didn't seem the type to allow any spirit to be more than a momentary irritation. "It must be serious if you need our help," Peter said involuntarily.

Her eyes acknowledged Peter's inadvertent compliment. "Perhaps 'troubled' is the wrong word, Dr. Venkman. "Shall I rephrase that? I believe the spirit is troubled. I can sense that. My grandmother had 'the sight' and my mother sometimes knew when things would happen before they actually did. I'm not as gifted as they; perhaps the line has diluted. But sometimes I feel things, and I feel this spirit, almost as if we were old acquaintances. She is very unhappy."

"She? You know it's female?" Peter asked. He'd learned early in the job that people's first impressions of ghosts were often helpful and sometimes gave the vital clues to enable the Ghostbusters to do their jobs and trap and contain the ghosts before the situation got out of hand.

"I can't explain how I know that. I simply do. I've recently moved into a new home outside the city--actually about fifty miles from here. I finally decided I didn't have to endure the noise, the smells, the traffic of the city on a daily basis. I could live away and come back when I needed it." She smiled suddenly, confidingly. "I come back at least once a week. But a year ago, I decided to build a house of my own along the Hudson. It was finished three weeks ago and I moved in. At first, I didn't sense anything strange."

Peter held up a hand to halt her narration. "Why don't I call in my buddies on this?" he asked. "No point in telling us twice." He ushered her toward the stairs. She deserved first class treatment. Everything about her said 'old money'. But even more than that, Peter liked her. He liked the twinkle in her eye and the way she kept coming back to the city even now she had 'escaped' it. She didn't deserve to have a ghost disturb her at her brand-new retreat, especially since a new home wasn't likely to possess a spirit in the first place. This would be a good bust, and she'd pay them big bucks and they'd part with mutual respect. Peter liked that kind of job.

"So you're Ray Stantz," Rosalyn Grant said as Peter introduced her to the other three Ghostbusters who had been gathered in Egon's third-floor lab working on routine proton pack maintenance. "Yes. I knew your mother, years ago, though I never saw you until now. You resemble her very much."

Ray's face lit up with friendly delight. He rarely encountered anyone who knew his parents, though he must have run into some of them when he'd gone home to Morrisville a couple of years ago to be the Grand Marshal in the Winged Puma parade. "I have a picture of her. I guess I do look like her. Did you know my dad, too, Mrs. Grant?"

She shook her head quickly. "No. That is to say I met him on two brief occasions. I knew your mother in Morrisville after they moved there from the city. I think you were eight or nine then. Your father worked in the city and commuted. Your mother and I were on a committee together and in the garden club, and we saw a lot of each other, but we didn't socialize as couples. Then of course, your father's company sent him on business meetings to the other branches of his firm, so he was gone a lot."

Ray nodded, smiling in fond remembrance. "I remember. He had to go away a lot, but it was great when he came home. He knew just exactly the right presents to bring. We had great times." He smiled reminiscently. "I don't remember ever meeting anybody who knew Mom, though. This is great. I hope we can talk about her."

"Yes, Ray, it's great," agreed Peter, grinning at his buddy, who had lit up at the very idea, "and I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to talk about the good old days, but Mrs. Grant has a ghost she wants us to bust. Can we do that first?"

"Sure. We'll be glad to," said Ray. "We'll take care of your ghost and then you can tell me about Mom. What kind of a ghost do you have?"

"It's a goodie," Peter cut in. "Because she has a brand new house and it's already haunted."

"Fascinating, Peter," Egon mused. "Unless there was a previous house on the property, it isn't likely someone died there. Of course it could well be a free floating vapor, loosely bound to a certain general area. Is it there all the time, Mrs. Grant?"

"No, and I haven't actually seen it, Dr. Spengler. I work for a publisher here in the city--I'm a reader, and I can do a lot of my work at home, but I come into town to bring manuscripts back and take new ones, and confer with the rest of the staff. I work at Blackthorn's."

"Ah. Most erudite," said Egon approvingly.

"Erudite, Egon?" Peter lifted an eyebrow. Spengs loved big words.

"Yes, Peter. You should understand what I mean. The type of books you never read."

"Yeah. Ones with no pictures," Ray added gleefully, making Winston smother a chortle of amusement and elbow Peter in the ribs.

"Pick on Peter, guys," Venkman returned, muttering, "Erudite. Fancy word for snob or highbrow. I just don't show off like you, Spengs."

Mrs. Grant watched their byplay with a smile as if she found them a pack of schoolboys. "I should point out, Dr. Spengler," she said with a wicked gleam in her eyes, "that we're the publisher who is printing Dr. Venkman's latest book."

That made the other three Ghostbusters stare disbelievingly at Peter, who grinned in sheer delight at the coup he'd managed to achieve so unexpectedly and buffed his fingernails across his chest. "Erudite," he said with satisfaction.

"You never said anything, homeboy," Winston accused.

"Well, I was gonna. Soon as the advance reading copy showed up, I was gonna wave it in all your faces." Peter was proud of the book which dealt with the psychology of terror, and the way people reacted in a situation which frightened them beyond the normal. He had plenty of experience studying people's reactions to ghosts, goblins, demons and the like, and he'd had a ball compiling everything in book form with actual case studies. That'd show Egon, who was always waving around his Ectoplasmic Physics college text around.

"Guess we lost that round," said Winston with a grimace at Ray.

"I think it's great, Peter," enthused Ray. "I can't wait to read it."

"Then you get it first, Tex." Peter gave him a big smile, winked at Egon, elbowed Winston and turned back to their client. "Sorry for the distraction, Mrs. Grant. I have to keep them in line, even if it means leading them up the garden path a time or two."

"Yeah, right. Who was it screaming the place down the other night when he found a cockroach in the shower?" demanded Winston.

"Cockroach? That was no cockroach! That was the Andre the Giant of the roach world," Peter defended himself. "You would've screamed if you'd got it in your hair, Zeddemore, so don't read me the riot act."

"Tasted yummy," offered a garbled voice from the doorway, and Slimer drifted into the room, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

Mrs. Grant's eyes widened in shock but she was too self-possessed to shriek or even to jump up and back away at the sight of her very first ghost. "This, I take it, is Slimer," she said drily. "I've read of him."

"Hi, nice lady," the little green ghost greeted her, hovering in midair and studying her with interest for the duration of his attention span when food wasn't involved. Then he waved at the guys and drifted out again and their client relaxed.

"I can't say I'm delighted with that experience," she said. "My ghost isn't quite so--"

"Slimy? Utterly disgusting?" offered Peter. "Thank goodness for that. This might be a bust I could love. Why don't you tell us about her?"

"I haven't actually seen her," Mrs. Grant explained again. "But I know she's there. Sometimes I hear her speaking, calling, really. She sounds so very sad."

"What does she say?" asked Ray, his ready sympathy clearly etched on his face. "If we can find out what she wants it might be easier to do something about her. You know, help her deresolve peacefully and move on."

"She's searching for someone," said the older woman, casting a nervous glance at the doorway as if she hoped Slimer wouldn't return. "She says, 'Where are you? Please, don't leave me. Where are you?' over and over again. She never says any names. She sounds young--younger than me, younger than all of you, but adult. She drifts from room to room. I've heard her in the solarium, when I've sat there in the evening watching the sunset on the river. I've heard her in the cellar when I went down to put away some empty boxes. And I've heard her the most strongly in the garden."

"Outdoors?" That interested Egon. "Do you know if a house existed on the site before you built your home, Mrs. Grant?"

"I don't believe so, but it's possible one could have existed there a long time ago. The area has been settled for centuries, of course--settled by English-speaking people, I mean. I hear her speaking English," she added as if to explain the qualifier.

"That's a good point to make," Egon praised her. "Because there's a difference from feeling a sense of meaning and hearing actual speech."

"I'm sure there is actual speech," she said. "Because I've found myself trying to talk to her, asking her who she's searching for. She doesn't answer me, but I think she hears me. When I speak, she is quiet as if she's listening."

"Maybe we can find what she's hunting for and help her deresolve peacefully," offered Ray. "Sometimes we can do that, when a ghost lingers because something's left undone. If we can find out what happened to the person she's looking for, maybe she'll be able to go away."

"You don't automatically blast all the ghosts you see?" Mrs. Grant's face cleared as if the thought had disturbed her. "I'm glad of that. I felt bad coming here, but that voice is so very lonely I had to do something. Will you come back today? There's room if you need to stay overnight. You could drive back tomorrow. It's not far. It's actually not much beyond Morrisville, Ray. I'm accustomed to the neighborhood even though I left Morrisville when my husband died and moved back to the city then."

"I think we should go," agreed Ray. "That'll give you time to talk to me about my mom, and besides, the ghost sounds pretty sad. Maybe we can help."

"I think we should go, too," Egon confirmed. "Do you have your own car, Mrs. Grant, or do you want to ride with us in Ecto-1?"

"I have my own car and driver," she explained. "I'll give you directions and meet you there. I'll expect you for dinner this evening."

Egon picked up a P.K.E. meter from the table beside him and aimed it at Mrs. Grant. "We use P.K.E. meters to detect the presence of ghosts and ectoplasmic residue," he explained when she stared curiously at the device. "I wanted to see if there was any evidence of direct contact, possession or ghostly presence. There isn't."

She rose briskly and smoothed her skirt. "I'm glad to hear that, young man. Come with me, Ray and see me out. I'll give you the directions since you know the neighborhood."

"Wow, this is great," said Ray once they were in Ecto heading out of the city. "I can't believe I found somebody who knew my mom. She seems like a great lady."

"A rich lady," Peter put in with a grin, winning a dirty look from Ray. "Hey, we're in this business to make money. We're not philanthropists or civil servants," he defended himself. When Ray stared at him reproachfully, he added in some haste, "Hey, I like her, too. Just reminding you our proton packs don't charge themselves, and our equipment isn't exactly the kind of stuff you can buy wholesale. Just because you'd bust ghosts for the sheer fun of it doesn't mean somebody doesn't have to think of the bucks."

"And we can always count on you to do that, can't we, Pete?" demanded Winston from behind the wheel. "The way to Pete's heart is straight through the pocketbook."

"But she knew my mom," Ray persisted.

That made Egon turn around from his place beside Winston and gaze at Ray thoughtfully. "Are you okay with that, Ray?" he asked in a serious voice. "You don't usually talk about your mother."

Ray's eyes widened in surprise at the question as if it was something he hadn't really considered. "Well, gee, Egon, you don't talk much about your mom either unless she's coming to town. It's not something that comes up a lot." His face softened. "I think about her sometimes," he admitted. "At Christmas, you know, when your mom stops by or Winston goes to his folks'."

Peter found himself nodding involuntarily. It was at times like that he remembered his own mom, even though his dad had actually made the effort and sent him a Christmas card the last year or two. Of course last year's had come in February, but Peter told himself sternly it was the thought that counted. He remembered Ray in college, wanting so desperately to have Christmas with his buddies, hanging around and spreading Christmas cheer, though cheer was the last thing Peter had wanted back then. He'd put up with it for Ray's sake but it hadn't been fun, even though Ray seemed to view him and Egon as a sort of joint Santa Claus. Ray hadn't wanted to talk about his folks then; it was probably still painful. He'd come on a lot since those days.

"I know what you mean," he said more quietly. "Listen, Ray, if this gets too much for you say the word and I'll distract the lady. She's a class act and I bet she has some younger lady friends in her income bracket who are just dying to meet a young, upwardly mobile Ghostbuster like me."

"Not if they have any sense," said Winston under his breath.

The conversation descended into a series of good-natured insults and Ray seemed glad to have the subject of his mother dropped. Peter hoped it wouldn't be too upsetting to discuss her with Mrs. Grant once they arrived at the scene of the haunting. He hoped it would remind Ray of some good memories.

Nothing could have less resembled the site of a haunting than the house waiting for them overlooking the Hudson as they pulled into the sloping driveway in the late afternoon. It was obviously new, but was constructed in the Tudor style and blended in with the gently wooded terrain. Reached by a recently paved county road, the house was unmarked from the road except by a large mailbox with the name 'Grant' stenciled on its side. "Turn here," said Ray unnecessarily, pointing, while Peter eyed the house with enthusiasm. He loved staying in the homes of the rich and famous.

Egon turned on is P.K.E. meter and took a reading. "I'm not picking up anything yet," he reported, adjusting the dials for a moment before switching it off. "If the ghost is really a free-floating vapor it may come and go. It may travel over the entire area."

"We haven't had any calls from the neighbors," Peter reminded him. "If the ghost was wandering around moaning and crying we'd have had a ka-zillion calls from all these nice, rich folks." He gestured up and down the road where two or three rather distant homes spoke of others in retreat from the city in their elaborate hideaways.

"Yeah, but Mrs. Grant said she was almost psychic," Ray volunteered with a gesture up at the Tudor house. "She told me that when I walked her downstairs. Her grandmother was a real psychic, but Mrs. Grant is only a little bit that way. Maybe the ghost has been here all along but it's not very strong and nobody else has been able to sense it."

"If that's the case," said Egon, his brow wrinkling as he considered it, "the ghost is likely to become more visible and more people are likely to spot it, the longer it stays in proximity to someone receptive. Typically, response from the living can provoke a ghost. It's obviously not a focussed repeater."

"Unless it's focussed on an awfully big area." Winston drew the car up before the double front doors. "Maybe it makes the rounds every day, the way Slimer does of all the garbage cans and trash bins in the neighborhood."

"She said the ghost heard her talking," Ray reminded him as he climbed out of the car and walked around to the back to get out their packs and overnight bags. "So it's not just an apparition repeating itself over and over. It has awareness. We can do something about it."

"I hope you can," said Mrs. Grant from the doorway. "Because it's scaring my servants. The maid just quit."

"As long as you've still got a butler," Peter said brightly, his voice fading on the last word as he noticed an man in black livery with a dignified and elegant bearing standing behind their client. "I like butlers," he added, trying not to appear embarrassed.

"Good one, Peter," said Winston in an undertone. "You want to stick your foot any further down your throat or will gnawing it off at the knee be enough?"

"Come in, gentlemen," urged Mrs. Grant, standing back to welcome them. The butler came down the steps, trailed by a young man in jeans and a plaid shirt whom he began directing to take the suitcases in a veddy veddy British accent. Each Ghostbuster snatched his proton pack, unwilling to let strangers carry them, and hurried up the stairs to meet their client while the young man balanced their overnight bags in his arms.

"I haven't detected anything yet, ma'am," Egon told her as they stepped inside. "In your experience, does it come and go?"

"Yes. Most of the time it isn't here, but it comes unexpectedly. So far I haven't been able to see a pattern to it. Is there usually a pattern to the appearnce of ghosts?"

"Not always," said Peter. "Because live people don't always have patterns. She's looking for something. Maybe her lover let her down or her boyfriend went off with another girl or something. Egon'll find her and then we'll talk to her and see what we can find out. We're good at talking to ghosts."

The man with the suitcase grimaced as if to say, 'rather you than me', and plodded up the stairs. The butler surged forward. He was younger than Peter had expected, probably their own age, with his hair brushed firmly down to control a riot of dark curls. "I'll show you to your rooms, gentlemen and once you've settled in, you may return downstairs. Hors d'oeuvres will be served in the salon at five o'clock." He gestured to a door beside the staircase to point out the location then swept them toward the curving stairs. "This way, please."

Peter was the first one down again after cramming his pajamas in a drawer, combing his hair to his satisfaction and laying out his jumpsuit on the bed in case he needed it. He switched quickly into his best suit and knotted his tie in record time. He was pretty sure Ray and Egon would take readings up here before going down and Winston, who had been doing the heavy duty maintenance on the packs before their client came had muttered something about catching a quick shower. So Peter beat his buddies downstairs, pausing in front of a gilt framed mirror outside the salon to straighten his tie and smile in satisfaction at his reflection.

Mrs. Grant was sitting at a desk in a corner of the salon, flipping through the pages of a manuscript. When Peter came in she set it aside. "I prefer to work on paper rather than reading on the computer screen," she said. "It's easier to jot down my changes. Maybe I'm old fashioned that way, but marking something on paper feels really marked."

"You got it," agreed Peter. "I put something on the computer and it disappears somewhere in all that RAM and ROM. Egon says I'm computerly inept." He grinned. "But I can beat them all at Battle Chess."

"The four of you are very close friends, aren't you?" asked Mrs. Grant.

Peter opened his mouth to say something flippant, caught a gravity in her eyes and answered, "You could say that. Egon, Ray and I were only children. I moved around a lot when I was a kid, and you know about Ray's folks. Egon's dad trained him to be a super brain from the time he was born. So we didn't really have normal childhoods. Now I guess we're like brothers, and Winston, too. That's why we can get along so well, living and working together. They say that can drive you nuts if you don't get along." His mouth curled into a fond grin. "Of course they get on my case about my dirty socks on the floor, and Egon has this habit of whistling through his teeth when he's really really absorbed in his work, and sometimes we have to coax Ray down off the ceiling, he gets so caught up in his enthusiasm, but they're great guys." He was surprised to hear himself talking so much about something so personal, but she was that kind of a lady. She listened well, her eyes sympathetic and understanding. Peter liked her.

"I could tell you all thought highly of each other." She glanced at the doorway as if to see if the other three were on their way. "Peter, tell me something. Does Ray speak often of his father?"

There was a note in her voice that made Peter uneasy. "Not very often, but he doesn't say much about his mom, either. He was crazy about them. I think they must have been good folks. It was really tough on him when they died."

"His mother was a very charming woman, full of an eager enjoyment of life." Mrs. Grant smiled sadly. "Much like what I've seen of Ray. When I lived in Morrisville, we were very close. Neither of us worked, and our husbands were both away a lot, so we spent time in each other's company during the day when our children were in school. My Jacob was six years older than Ray. I doubt they knew each other." An old sadness showed in her eyes. "Jacob died in Vietnam."

"I'm sorry." There was no room in her expression for him to say more.

She nodded. She hadn't been asking for sympathy. "Peter, I want to tell you something very strange. It may have no meaning at all, and evidently Ray never heard anything of it--at least so I assume from his manner today." She paused, went to the doorway and glanced up the stairs. "I wouldn't upset him for the world, for his mother's sake if nothing else. One of the last times I saw her was right after I received notification about Jacob. She dropped everything and came over, stayed with me until Charles returned from his business trip." For a moment, her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, then she dashed them away with an impatient hand. "I didn't want to wallow in old sorrows. What I wanted to do was talk to you about the accident."

"The one that killed Ray's parents?" Peter lowered his voice as if afraid Ray would come bouncing in and overhear. "He never talks about that. He talks about them, sometimes, when it would come up in the conversation, but not about their deaths." That was the one thing Ray had never quite managed to reconcile, and Peter could understand that.

"Charles and I were in Europe when it happened," Mrs. Grant explained. "It was six months after Jacob died and he felt I needed to get away. We heard about it in Belgrade. You could travel there safely in those days. We flew home immediately. Another friend of mine was Charlotte Tilson, whose husband was the local medical examiner. She said a funny thing to me not long after the funeral. It may mean nothing at all, because the car blew up. The explosion was violent and there was evidently...very little to find afterwards in the way of...remains. But..."

Peter's stomach twisted. He didn't know where this was going yet, but he was positive he didn't like it. He was even more positive Ray wouldn't like it. "But what?" he asked heavily.

"They found dental remains and were able to identify Ray's mother from them," she said. "Her dental care had been in Morrisville. Ray's father evidently had a dentist in the city. But--but every tooth found matched hers. In fact, though forensic science wasn't as advanced then as it is now, the only actual, provable remains were hers."

Peter felt his eyes widening in horror. "Are you trying to say Ray's dad might be alive?" he demanded, his lightning mind thinking up appalling things, like wife-murder.

"He was with her when they drove away. His office never saw him again," said Mrs. Grant. "Everyone accepted that he died, too, and the explosion was simply so massive there was nothing left to find. They did find fragments of a jacket that was probably his." She shrugged. "I just wanted to ask if Ray has ever given any indication he knows about this?"

Peter shook his head abruptly. "No, and he's not going to hear about it. This is crazy. His dad couldn't be alive. He was so good with Ray, he wouldn't have taken off and left him, not at a time like that. Unless you're suggesting he was thrown out of the car and has been wandering around with amnesia? That's crazy. It's like something out of a book--the kind your company doesn't print."

"As far as I know, there was no actual police investigation," Mrs. Grant concluded. "Charlotte said the police checked with his office in the city. They didn't have anything. No one ever touched the joint bank accounts--what little money there was helped support Ray while he stayed with various relatives and in foster homes. I may be speculating without anything real to back it up, or at least nothing more real than a lack of information from the autopsy reports. And I don't want it to go any further than this."

Peter found himself furious. "Give me a break. You drop a total bombshell--say Ray's dad may not be dead--and you want me to keep it a secret?"

She frowned. "I--never cared for David Stantz. He was open and jolly and friendly and evidently adored his wife and was good with his son, but something about him made me uneasy. I was uncomfortable. After I talked to Charlotte I asked Charles to check into his business in the city."

"And?" Peter encouraged. He didn't like where this was going but he had to follow the trail to the end now, if only to refute her theory, whatever it was.

"Charles went there. It was only three months after the accident, but when he arrived, he found a different business in the office. They said they're rented the place two months earlier, only a month after David's death. They didn't know anything about the previous tenants, and neither did anybody else on the floor of the building. Charles wanted to do some more checking but--that was when he had his coronary and he spent the last six months of his life in a nursing home." She shivered. "I was so worried about Charles I never thought of David again, not until I started hearing about the Ghostbusters. Stantz is not a common name. That's why, when this happened, I thought I would stop by your office in person because I wanted to meet Ray, and because this reminded me of my old doubts."

"You thought I was Ray," Peter reminded her as if he could prove she was talking malarky.

"I'd never seen Ray when he was a child," she said. "The only pictures of him I ever saw were black and white school shots. I simply didn't remember. David had brown hair. Evidently Ray got his hair color from his mother. Forgive me for not recalling the details of something that happened in 1970. It was nearly twenty five years ago."

Peter nodded reluctantly. She probably hadn't wanted to remember any of this, tying in as it did to a time when she had, within a short period lost her son, her best friend and her husband. When you thought of it like that and considered at her now, she was an amazingly gutsy lady. She'd gone out and made a new life for herself and done herself proud. If only she hadn't got herself a ghost and used it as an excuse to start poking around in Ray's life.

Now that had life thrown her together with Ray after all this time, she was obviously considering the implications of the bit of knowledge she had. She'd watched the Ghostbusters interact. Peter had noticed how busy her eyes were as they teased each other back at the firehouse. She'd decided the guys were his friends and cared enough to be trusted with something that had probably always disturbed her.

It disturbed Peter, too. The news that there was even a microscopically remote chance Ray's father still lived should have been good news, but on closer consideration, it wasn't. True, the business, whatever it was, could well have folded without their main employee, or simply relocated. Charles Grant hadn't been given the time to investigate it further before his heart attack. No one had touched the Stantz nest egg, either. But that lack of even a bone fragment bothered Peter. Ray's dad didn't seem like the type to vanish without a word to his son, especially at such a tragic time. Either he'd flipped out or lost his memory because of the stress, hokey as that possibility was, or he'd been a baddie, using his wife's death as an opportunity to vanish. Maybe he was even a spy, who had been swept away by his agency for some nefarious purpose, or the accident rigged by the other side to kidnap him. Any of those ideas were like fantasy, fairy tales, and Peter knew the most logical answer was the simplest. The explosion hadn't left enough of David Stantz to find. He said so. The police must have been satisfied at the time, after all. There hadn't been a major investigation.

"I know, Peter. Except..." Her voice trailed off. "This is the part that worries me, and why I even mentioned it at all. I may be wrong, and it was a long time ago. David Stantz always wore a beard and mustache. Of course a lot of men wore beards around 1970. It wasn't uncommon. His was short and neatly trimmed, nothing of the hippie about it, though his hair was longish, longer than yours now. I never saw him without the beard, on the two occasions I actually met him and the several times I saw him in passing in the market or the gas station or on the street. But last year--" She stopped abruptly, frowning then persisted. "Last year I was walking along Fifth Avenue near Scribners and I saw a man walking toward me. He was clean shaven except for a very slim mustache but there was something familiar about him. He looked like David."

"After all that time, you could be remembering wrong," Peter reminded her as if he had to prove the point. This really made him uncomfortable. He could see how it might trash Ray, when--if--he found out.

"I know I could. That was my first thought. After all those years, the memory plays tricks, so I tried something. I spoke to him. I said, "David Stantz? Is that you?

"He turned. If he hadn't been David, he might have given me a curious look, or said, 'Wrong guy, lady,' but he didn't. He stared at me, not like someone who has been called the wrong name by a total stranger, but like a man whose past has caught up with him. He paled. The color just ran out of his face. Then he jumped to the curb, flagged down a cab and drove away without speaking a word to me."

"Shit," said Peter succinctly. Up until then, everything Rosalyn Grant had said could be explained away or discarded as pure speculation. This couldn't. This was really bad, one of the worst things Peter could imagine. He couldn't begin to guess how hard this would hit Ray--and he didn't have to guess. He knew. It would be like getting hit across the stomach with a board only it would hurt inside and go on hurting. If true, Ray had been abandoned by his father when he needed him the most. Peter knew what it felt like to be let down by his own father, but Charlie Venkman's abandonment had never been permanent. He'd always come back, even with lame excuses. Ray's father hadn't.

"Peter!" Egon and Ray burst into the room with Winston not far behind. They were suited up and wearing their proton packs and Egon's P.K.E. meter was reacting. "We've got it," cried Ray with eager enthusiasm. "We're picking up the ghost. Come on, grab your pack and let's go."

Peter shot a hasty warning glance at Rosalyn Grant as if to caution her not to raise the subject of Ray's father yet and headed for the stairs at a dead run.

The ghost was in the library. Peter stopped in the doorway, panting for breath after his frantic dash upstairs to fling on his jumpsuit and pack and stampede down again afterwards. The guys had stopped just inside the doorway and Egon and Ray were taking careful readings while Winston stood guard, thrower in hand. If the ghost was there, it wasn't visible yet, because Peter couldn't see it anywhere, though Egon's meter was blinking away, the screen reading an entity, and Ray's chimed in as soon as he made a few adjustments. Mrs. Grant had stopped in the doorway and she moved aside to allow Peter past her but didn't go away.

"It's here," said Ray, pointing to one corner where a huge world globe, the kind that could be lit from within, stood balanced on a brass stand. Beside it, a ladder attached itself to the edge of the top shelf, wheeled so it could be run along the walls. There were books everywhere, a lifetime's collection, paperbacks and hardcovers, some matched sets, many random ones. A publisher would likely have a huge collection, but Peter was sure these were more than just the books she had selected and reviewed for Blackthorn's.

As he stepped further into the room, his neck craning to survey the huge collection, the P.K.E. meters went even more berserk and suddenly a misty shape began to appear in front of the globe. At first Peter could see Africa through its middle, then it grew slightly more opaque. Its features weren't clearly defined, but the overall shape was female, petite and nicely rounded. She was wearing trousers and a plaid blouse and her hair was shoulder length but beyond that it wasn't possible to detect any more. She hovered there, staring around, then with a shriek, she dove straight for Peter.

He let out a matching shriek and ducked aside which stopped the ghost in her tracks. "Guys, she's coming after me," he hollered, putting the desk between himself and the female spirit and unshipping his thrower in a hasty movement and powering it up.

"Nooooo," she moaned, stopping dead (possibly not the best metaphor) as he moved. "Don't...."

"Stand still, Peter," said Egon as he realized the ghost wasn't following the psychologist. He took two sideways strides and placed himself between Peter and the ghost. "Let's see if we can find out what she wants."

"She wants me, Egon, and not for anything good," Peter objected. "Somebody else can play target today. Uncle Peter isn't up for it." He peered around Spengler's shoulder at the ghost, who was gazing at him mournfully, rejection spelled out in every line of her ectoplasmic form. For no reason at all, Peter felt like a world-class heel.

"Peter," chided Ray. "Talk to her. See what she wants. She only materialized when she saw you. If anybody can find out what she wants, and what she's doing here, you can."

His mind frantically trying to catalogue possible old girlfriends who might have passed on nearby still bearing grudges, Peter eased out from behind Egon, though he stayed on this side of the desk, and said, "Uh, do I know you?"

"You--don't remember me?" the ghost breathed. She sounded as if Peter had just given her a hefty backhand across the face, and it made him feel like a louse, even if he didn't remember her, even if he was sure he'd never seen her before in his life.

"I'm really sorry," he said, "but I don't. Are you sure I'm the one you want? My name is Peter Venkman."

"Peter?" she echoed doubtfully, oozing forward and staring into his eyes. Her features sharpened a little, revealing a pert nose, a pair of matching dimples on either side of her mouth and wide-set eyes that were a little familiar. Peter racked his brain to put a name to the face, but nothing came to him. "Always?" she asked faintly as if she suspected him of trickery. She put out her hand and brushed her fingers across his cheek, leaving a sense of cold but not very much in the way of ectoplasmic residue. He tried not to shudder at the touch.

"Born with it," he admitted, watching the features fade away to the same blur as before and her hand drop in disappointment back to her side. He straightened up to his full height and gave her his most earnest smile. "I'm sorry."

"Not him. Never him. Alone...." A spectral sob shuddered forth.

"Easy, easy, sweetie," he comforted her. "You're not alone. We're the Ghostbusters. It's our job to see that things run right in the ghost world. We'll help you if we can."

"Not--a ghost." He didn't know if she meant to insist she wasn't a ghost or whether her long-lost 'him' wasn't one. She shivered and tried to concentrate, as if she could firm up and solidify if she tried.

For a moment, her features were vivid on her face, and Ray, his eyes on his P.K.E. meter's screen, cried, "Keep talking, Peter. It's working. She's going to firm up. Maybe we can--"

Rosalyn Grant screamed loudly enough to wake the dead and keeled over in a dead faint on the floor behind Winston, who just missed grabbing her. Peter jumped a good foot at the sound, and Egon spun around then back to the ghost as if seeking a reason for Mrs. Grant's delayed panic.

The misty figure lost all cohesion and vanished without a trace.

With the aid of Mrs. Grant's butler, a dignified David Niven-ish figure--a young David-Niven-ish figure, whose name proved to be Tarrant, they settled the lady on the long divan in the salon while Tarrant hustled off after smelling salts and a dismayed Ray covered the older woman with an afghan he found on the back of one of the chairs. Winston opened a window to allow her fresh air and Egon took her pulse and lifted an eyelid to check her pupils for reaction. "I think she merely fainted," he said as he completely his amateur examination.

"Must've been the ghost," said Winston. "She wasn't any too keen on Slimer at the firehall, remember?"

If it were only that, Peter thought it had taken her a long time to react. She'd calmly stood there watching it fade in and out, and had spent three weeks listening to it and trying to talk to it without falling victim to intimidation. Why should this time be different? He couldn't help remembering the woman's story and wondering if, perhaps, she were too imaginative for her own good. Maybe she'd made it all up. It might be a scam, a way to get money from the Ghostbusters, though the meter had reacted, proving the ghost was real.

Ray sat down beside the woman who had been his mother's friend and gently chafed her hands. "I hope it wasn't something we did," he said unhappily. "She didn't act afraid before, just interested. I checked to see if she was okay and whether we shouldn't warn her to wait outside, but she seemed intrigued and the ghost wasn't threatening, even if it chased Peter across the room."

"Hey," objected Peter. "It's only sensible to get out of range."

Ray gave him a grin. "I know, Peter, but you had a great burst of speed." He turned back to the unconsious woman. "I don't know why she changed. What do you think, Egon?"

"Whatever it was frightened the ghost away," Egon replied, fiddling with his P.K.E. meter as if one more twist of the dial would bring back the ghost so they could deal with it. "It vanished without a trace. Not even residual readings."

"Does that mean it won't come back?" asked Peter warily. He had a really bad feeling about this particular ghost, about this entire job. Mrs. Grant's story about Ray's father was really unsettling and the possible truth of it hung over everything, a responsibility Peter had never sought and didn't want. But the ghost bothered him, too, though he didn't know why. After all this time, he shouldn't be afraid of ghosts, other than what was sane and necessary to preserve his life. Only an idiot didn't run when it was the only way out of danger.

"We have no reason to assume it won't come back," Egon replied without hesitation. "As proven by Slimer's behavior, ghosts can be frightened by the unexpected, just as humans can. I don't know whether the sudden scream frightened it away or if it simply decided we weren't what it was searching for. This particular spirit is searching for something."

"Yeah, and in spite of her good taste in men, Egon, I've gotta say I don't think I like this very much," Peter said. He looked down at Ray's bent head, but Ray glanced up at his words, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"What do you mean, Peter?"

"I don't know yet. But there's something. A pattern, only I can't quite get it. Whatever it is, though, I don't think Mrs. Grant should start selling tickets for tours through the haunted house."

"Not if the ghost plans to dive-bomb male tourists," Winston replied with a grimace, leaning against the back of the couch and glancing over his shoulder as if he expected her to return and make another strafing run. "I don't think that would go over very well." As he finished speaking the butler returned and bent over Mrs. Grant with the smelling salts.

A groan from the couch announced their client's return to the land of the living as Tarrant waved the smelling salts under her nose. She sneezed and coughed, and made a feeble attempt to brush them away. Ray freed her hands and stepped back as she opened her eyes.

"That's enough, Tarrant," she said in much her normal voice, then her face changed and she shuddered as if someone had run an icy finger up and down her spine. "Oh, god," she breathed, stricken. "I--I didn't expect...." Her eyes sought Peter's, expression heavily meaningful as if she meant to convey a private message. Her hands gripped each other and squeezed tight, knuckles whitening, and tears stood in her eyes. Peter's gut twisted, though he didn't quite know why. She said, "Ray, would you go and get me a drink of water, please?"

"I can do that, madam," began Tarrant, but she waved him to silence.

"No, I want you to bring me my pills. Go now. Hurry." She gave him a brief and shaky smile and he hesitated, his face full of concern, then he nodded.

He left the room with Ray, pointing him in what must be the direction of the kitchen. As soon as the two men vanished, Mrs. Grant grasped Peter's wrist and pulled herself upright, containing her distress with a fierce effort. "It was Carolyn," she breathed portentiously. "Peter, it was Carolyn."

For a moment, his mind was blank. The name meant nothing to him at first, nothing clicking, then abruptly it did. Mouth falling open, he demanded in horror, "You can't mean Ray's mother?"

Winston gasped and Egon said in shocked tones, "That ghost was Ray's mother?" as if he suspected Mrs. Grant of pulling a terrible hoax. Peter glanced in his direction and saw his face had whitened as he considered the horrible possibilities. They could hardly trap Ray's mother. Worse, they couldn't dispose of the ghost without allowing Ray to know the truth. But what would that truth do to Ray?

For once Egon didn't have a plan, a solution. This wasn't something he could program or solve with science. "What do we do, Peter?" he demanded.

"It's worse than you think, Spengs," Peter replied, moving away from Rosalyn Grant and grabbing Egon by the forearm. "Mrs. Grant was a good friend of Ray's mother. She lived in Morrisville until after the car accident. She--doesn't think Ray's dad died in the accident. She thinks he's still alive out there somewhere and she's sure she saw him in Manhattan last year. If she's right, that's probably who the ghost is trying to find. If she finds out who Ray is, the first thing she's gonna do is ask him where his dad is. What do you think that'll do to Ray, finding out his dad is alive but hasn't even bothered to send him a birthday card in the last twenty years?"

Egon was silent a long moment, as his mind put together the 'facts' Peter had presented. Then he said succinctly, "Shit," which said it all.

"I'll go along with that, homeboy," said Winston, shaking his head. He shot an uneasy glance at the hall to make sure Ray wasn't coming back. "So what do we do?" he demanded.

"I don't know," replied Peter. "We can't keep it from him. He has the right to know, no matter how much we'd like to protect him. If he found out we knew and didn't tell him...." He let that thought trail away and saw the realization on their faces. "But this is gonna just kill him." He hesitated a long moment, thinking about it, then he said reluctantly, "I'll have to tell him."

"We should all tell him, Peter," Egon disagreed, shaking his head. "We're his friends--no, we're his family."

"You got that right," Winston confirmed. "But I think Pete's right. I don't think Ray needs a big audience for something like this, even if it's his family."

"And it should be me because I know what it's like to have a dad let you down," Peter insisted stubbornly as he fought for something he didn't really want to do. "Course my dad never did anything quite this bad to me."

"Your dad?"

Ray's voice from the doorway was tentative, and he stopped walking when the other three turned and stared at him, even took a step backward at the expressions on their faces. "What's wrong?" he asked uneasily.

"Ray, good buddy, you and I have to talk," Peter said and snatched away the unwanted glass of water, passing it to Egon who gave it to Mrs. Grant. "Come on, good buddy, let's go somewhere private."

"My mother?" Ray echoed, dazed. His eyes shifted sideways, away from Peter's, in the direction of the library. "The ghost was my mother?" He shook his head fiercely in instant denial. "No. It can't be. I would've recognized her." As if that made it true, he folded his arms across his chest. "You're wrong, Peter."

"Mrs. Grant did recognize her," Peter said. He dropped down on the couch beside the occultist and draped his arm around Ray's shoulders so Ray didn't have to feel alone. "You were checking the readings when she really sharpened up. You didn't see her. You only saw the misty blur. That's why Mrs. Grant fainted, because she recognized her."

"No," muttered Ray. "No, Peter. It can't be my mom. It just can't." His eyes pleaded with Peter to tell him it was a mistake, a joke, a trick of some kind. Peter wished it was.

"I'm sorry, Ray. I'd rather tell you I was drunk or crazy or making it all up, but I'm not. Unless Mrs. Grant is scamming us, and I'm pretty sure she's not, because she feels like she's telling the truth and she has nothing to gain from it that I can see."

Ray nodded automatically but not as if he'd understood one word Peter had said, or believed it. "She said the ghost was my mom?" he repeated in the same confused voice. "But--but she's--she's--what does she want?"

Peter would have liked to hold off on that question for about a century or two, but he'd known all along he couldn't. "I think she's looking for your dad," he said.

Ray received that in a silence that went on and on so long Peter was ready to break it when his friend finally spoke. "But--you mean my dad has passed on already and left her behind?" It must have violated his cosmic view of the afterlife because he wagged his head back and forth in stubborn defiance, even though he could find nothing more to say, except, "No."

"I don't think that's it." Peter tightened his arm around Ray's shoulder, willing him to feel the comfort Peter had to offer. "I was talking to Mrs. Grant before you guys came downstairs. She told me a really weird story."

"About my mom and dad?" Ray asked with obvious reluctance. He was quivering with shock. The one thing he'd always had to hold onto was that his parents had loved him, had died loving him, and thus would always love him. Now he lifted frightened eyes and stared at Peter accusingly as if it were somehow his fault. "Tell me, Peter. I have the right to know."

"I hate having to do this," Peter said under his breath, adding, "It could all be some kind of scam, remember that, Ray. It might be a big mistake."

"What might?" Ray wiggled out of the circle of Peter's arm and grabbed him by the shoulders. "You're scaring me, Peter. Tell me. Right now."

"I'm sorry, Ray. I wish I didn't have to. But she doesn't think your dad was--in the car when it blew up."

"What do you mean?" Ray blinked at him as if he couldn't find sense in any of it. "Not in the car? He was in the car. I went to their funeral, Peter." He nodded once as if that proved it. His face held a combination of expressions; hope Peter might be right and he'd get his father back and fear Peter was right because then he wouldn't. He hadn't sorted it out in his mind yet and he wasn't sure what to think. The one thing still visible in his eyes was his trust in Peter.

"Mrs. Grant thinks he's still alive," said Peter with aching gentleness, stretching out his hand toward Ray as if to offer him something to grab hold of.

"No!" Ray leaped to his feet and took a couple of steps backward, ignoring the reaching hand as if it were meant to trap him--or slap him. His eyes were wide and accusing as he stared at Peter with betrayed eyes, the trust fading. "Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to hurt me?"

"Ray, I'm not. You know I'm not. I'd rather cut off both my hands than hurt you," Peter cried, jumping up, too, and clutching Ray's shoulders to keep him from turning away. They were taut with tension under his hands. "You know that. You've gotta know that. Egon and Winston and I would probably kill somebody to keep you safe and happy. But--well, we don't know what happened, and we honestly don't know it's true. But if it is, it would explain why your mom is here."

"Because my dad ran out on us," said Ray in a dreary little voice as he went directly to the heart of the problem. Under Peter's hands, his shoulders sagged. The pillars of his existence were shaken and every shred of the bright joy in living that Ray's face habitually wore had disappeared, making him resemble a stranger. "It's not true, Peter. It can't be true."

"I hope it's not," Peter said, hearing his words and realizing he was hoping that Ray's father was actually dead. He didn't know if that was right, either. "But it doesn't have to be that way. He might have had amnesia or a breakdown or something and wandered away without knowing what he was doing." Peter doubted that, or the man Mrs. Grant had seen wouldn't have run away, but he felt compelled to offer Ray hope in any way he could.

Ray bought into that so quickly Peter was sorry he'd mentioned it. "He might need me," breathed the younger man. "Oh, gosh, Peter." He sounded so shaken, so confused and so miserable Peter pulled him close, wrapped his arms around his friend and held him tight.

"It's gonna be okay, Ray. I don't know what it all means, but it's gonna be okay, because I'm sticking with you no matter what and so are Egon and Ray--and Janine and Slimer, too. You have us and always will. And if your dad's alive and in trouble, we'll find him."

Ray was silent a long moment, and Peter suspected he was crying, but he didn't say anything. He just held on, and after a few minutes Ray's arms crept up and encircled Peter and hugged him so tightly Peter could barely breathe. He didn't complain though. Ray needed him right now. Ray needed them all and they wouldn't let him down.

"It's funny...." Ray's voice trailed off then he went on in a different tone. "You know, when I was in my senior year in high school, I really wanted to go to college and I had a couple of scholarships but they really weren't big enough to do what I wanted. They would have given me a junior college and that's about it, and I really wanted to do something more than that. Then all of a sudden, out of the blue, I won a scholarship to Columbia; lots of money, enough that I could make it if I did a little tutoring on the side and was really thrifty. I never knew where that money came from. We always thought it was some kind of wealthy eccentric because I had the best grades in my class. I used to make up stories about him in my head." He pulled back long enough to stare at Peter. "Do you think maybe it's true, and my dad...."

Peter didn't know. Somebody who vanished, didn't touch the family nest egg, disappeared and took his business with him might have trouble laying his hands on that kind of money, but by all accounts Ray's father had loved him very much. Peter hesitated. "Maybe," he said. He found himself thinking of things like the Witness Protection Program, running from the mob, even spies. "Maybe he had a really good reason for it, but he didn't want to abandon you altogether and this was the only way he could help."

Ray pushed away from Peter and sat down again. He still looked stricken, his eyes bitter with the kind of old knowledge Peter had never seen there, the kind that comes from being kicked in the teeth by the person who means the most. "It's just--I can't--" There were tear tracks down his cheeks and he lifted his hand to rub at them then let it fall again, the job undone. "Is it my fault?" he demanded in a very small voice as if he expected to be kicked--hard--now that he was down.

"Your fault? Hell, no!" snapped Peter angrily. "How could it be your fault?"

"He went away when she died--because I wasn't good enough...."

"Damn it, Ray, that's nuts. Not good enough? He'd have to be blind and stupid and probably crazy to think you weren't good enough. You're the best, kiddo. I've always known that, and your dad knew that. And that's a promise from Peter Venkman."

"He's right, Raymond," Egon said from the doorway. "Whatever this is all about, it's not your fault, and it could never have been your fault. If you believe anything less, you'll be questioning our judgment and all the years of our friendship." He gestured to include Peter, and Winston who stood behind him in the doorway.

That made Ray smile faintly, a muted, pale echo of his usual thousand watt grin. "Thanks, guys," he said. He stood up slowly and faced each of them, and Peter saw him drawing strength from some inner core, his shoulders squaring, his head coming up. "I--I have to talk to my mom," he faltered as he gathered the strength to do just that. "I have to find out why she's here?"

As if the words had summoned her up, the P.K.E. meter in Egon's hand reacted, blinking and beeping with growing strength. The blond glanced at the screen and nodded. "The same readings. Ray, we won't trap her."

"Course we won't," Peter insisted. "If you want us to go away and let you talk to her in private we will, but otherwise, we're right here with you," he promised. He tried to imagine how it would feel if the ghost of his own mother were to appear to him, and the thought was so painful he automatically shifted closer to Ray until he stood shoulder to shoulder with him.

Ray reached out and grasped Peter's wrist. "Stay," he said simply. "All you guys."

They lined up beside the occultist as the ghost materialized, staring at them, still fuzzy as she examined them. "Where is he?" she moaned.

Ray said, "Mom?" and his voice didn't falter one bit, though Peter could hear the sheer strength of will that held it steady.

There was a moment of frozen silence, then the specter began to firm up. Her features became visible, and now that he knew the truth Peter realized the reason the ghost's eyes had been so hauntingly familiar was because they were so much like Ray's. There was definitely a resemblance, now that he knew to check for it.

Ray must have seen it, too, because he sucked in a shaken breath that was the next thing to a sob and took a step closer to the spirit, holding out his hands. "It's me," he said in a small, shaken voice. "Ray."

"Ray?" she faltered in return. "My boy? My Ray?" Staring at him intently as if she had to memorize every feature in the next three seconds, she began to smile. "Grown up. My boy. Oh, my little Sunshine." She grasped his hands and Ray gasped but didn't pull away.

"I can't find him, Ray," she whispered. "I can't find your father. Please. Where is he? I have to find him."

"I don't know." Ray's words echoed in the hollowness. "I always thought he was--with you."

"He was never there. I looked. I waited. I never saw him. Please, Ray. Promise me you'll find him for me. Promise."

Ray gulped and fought for control. "I promise. I'll find him. I promise."

She enveloped him in a ghostly hug. Ray stiffened and shivered a little but didn't pull away. Instead he found the strength to hold her, one hand patting the ectoplasmic shoulder. "I promise, Mom," he said again.

"Are you all right?" she asked him. "I didn't want to leave you but I couldn't stay; I tried but I couldn't. Are you all right?"

Ray's head moved up and down in a nod. He might not be okay at this moment, but he couldn't tell her that. "I've got my friends--the best friends anybody could ever have, and my job's great, too. I love it. I'm okay. I did okay. I did fine."

"He's telling you the truth, Mrs. Stantz," Winston volunteered. "We love this guy. There's nobody like him."

"That's for sure," agreed Peter. "We couldn't make it without him."

"Agreed," said Egon, resting a big hand on Ray's shoulder and squeezing. "Tell us what we can do for you?"

She was silent, then she said, "Ray must find his dad. If he does that, I'll be at peace."

"I will, Mom. I promise," Ray vowed. "I'll find him."

"Then I can rest." Her arms tightened around him, and she breathed, "I love you, son."

"I love you, Mom," Ray returned, his voice shaky. Before they could say any more, she faded away to nothing, leaving Ray with his arms around a circle of air. Lowering them, he turned first to Peter and then to Egon.

"Is she--gone?" he faltered.

Egon took a hasty reading. "Yes, Raymond. Even the residuals are fading now. I don't think she'll reappear. If--if you find your father, she will know and will be content."

"But--how do I find my dad?" asked Ray, looking around at each of them, his eyes hollow and shocked. "He--doesn't want me to find him."

"I think we'd better talk with Mrs. Grant," suggested Egon hastily before Ray could explore the implications of that particular comment. "We'll find her now."

"I wouldn't have started this if I didn't feel it so strongly," Mrs. Grant explained half an hour later as they sat around her big dining table, the remains of a mostly-uneaten dinner in front of them. It wasn't that Mrs. Grant's chef hadn't done a bang up job, it was simply that none of them could find any appetite. Ray hadn't even tried. He'd chased his food around the plate as if putting it through hoops, but if he'd eaten more than four or five bites, Peter would be surprised. Ray had made heavy work of each one, as if they were sawdust.

"And the funny thing," she added, "is that I hadn't even thought of it until I moved here. I didn't even think of it until now, but I think the accident happened near here. I knew it was north of Morrisville, but I didn't even think...."

"I didn't know either," said Ray. "I don't think I ever really knew the exact place. Maybe I didn't want to know but I wasn't quite eleven and nobody ever said. By the time I was old enough to figure it out on my own, I realized there wouldn't be any point in finding the place. You think it happened near here and--and Mom came when you moved here because she recognized you?"

The older woman nodded. "I honestly do. Because she had to be the one to make me remember all this, either because I recognized her subconsciously or she caused me to remember. I haven't thought of it in years, other than the time I thought I saw him in the city last year, and even then I wasn't quite sure I believed it."

"You saw my dad last year?" Ray asked, eyes widening. "Alive?"

She nodded regretfully. "I saw a man who strongly resembled him, without the beard and with a thinner mustache, and quite bald on top. He was different enough that I didn't really believe it. I called him by name. He didn't reply; he got in a taxi and drove off."

"But you said you thought he was trying to avoid you," Peter reminded her reluctantly.

"Yes. I did feel that, but it needn't be any more than he was trying to avoid someone who might have been trying to accost him." It was plain she didn't believe that, and Ray shook his head.

"You don't have to try to protect me, Peter," he said. "I really want to know all of it. What Mrs. Grant felt at the time is evidence."

"I have a thought," Egon volunteered. "Mrs. Grant, do you remember the man you saw well enough for us to produce a picture of him?"

"You mean like an identikit?" she asked. She was quick.

Egon nodded. "We have a program on our computer that can do it. We've mostly used it for ghosts so we could match clients' descriptions to known specters in our research books like Tobin's Spirit Guide, but the potential exists. It depends on what kind of a witness you are. Not everyone can manage it properly. Peter never could."

"Hey," objected Peter. "It's a computer. They don't like me. They never liked me."

"Well, you can't, Peter," said Ray with a flash of his old spirit. Then he sagged. "I don't know. I was only ten, and I remember the beard and mustache really well, that and the way his eyes would smile. I never had a decent photo of him, only that one snapshot of him and mom and he's turned away from the camera. I think I could recognize him if he were aged to look like he might today, but I'm not sure. Can we try it?"

"Of course, Ray," agreed Egon. "I'll run the program. But you realize if we confirm the man in question is your father that doesn't help us find him. If he's--alive, he'll probably be living under another name, unless the fact Mrs. Grant saw him in New York means he's living there, and even then, it's still like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"I just want to know," insisted Ray. "I want to find him so I can ask him why he left me. I have to know, Egon. I--think I have to know."

"Yeah, and I've got a real bone to pick with him," muttered Peter. At that back of his mind was an uneasy feeling he couldn't explain. He wondered if he couldn't get there first, if the man Mrs. Grant had seen proved to be Ray's dad and if he lived in the city so he could be found. If he managed to get there first, he could coach the man, make sure he didn't hurt Ray again. But a part of him knew, without understanding how he knew, it wasn't as bad as it was going to get.

"You need to make sure your descriptions are clear," Egon told Mrs. Grant the next morning as they gathered around the computer in his third floor lab. "This program isn't the best on the market, but it's the best we've needed until now." Egon had been a little too quiet this morning. He'd been watching Ray--they all had--but while Egon was clearly supportive and appeared to understand what an unexpected trauma this must be for Ray he hadn't said a lot. He'd watched Peter, probably to make sure Peter kept an eye on Ray while Egon worked on the program, adjusting it to meet their needs.

Ray, too, had been quiet as they returned to the city, choosing not to spend the night at Mrs. Grant's after all. Ray's mother wasn't going to appear again, and all of them felt an urge to be home, to give Ray the comfort of familiar surroundings. He'd agreed to drive back at once, almost resigned to the situation. In a way, he'd been glad he'd been able to help his mother; he'd told Peter that last night while he was getting ready for bed. Ray had finally sat on the edge of his bed, one boot off the other on and turned his eyes toward Peter, who had come at once and sat beside him.

"It's like I finally had a chance to say goodbye," explained Ray. "That always bothered me, not being able to really say goodbye. When they went off that day, they were going on a 'grown-up' picnic, they said. I wanted to play baseball with the guys anyway, so it didn't bother me. I just waved when they drove off. I was supposed to stay with my friend Jimmy, have lunch there, and Mom and Dad were gonna pick me up. But instead Aunt Lois came and it was awful--and I never said goodbye." He was silent a minute while Peter sat breathlessly beside him, afraid to speak and break the mood. "I even thought maybe it was my fault because I didn't," Ray finally blurted out. "You know, kids think things like that." He smiled when Peter clasped his shoulder and squeezed. "It's okay. I know now that wasn't it. I'm just glad I got to say goodbye. Now, if I can figure out what happened to my dad...." He raised his face to Peter. "Do you think he ran off on purpose?"

"I don't know, Ray. We might never know." Peter didn't lift his hand from Ray's shoulder. "But if it's possible to find out, we will, and if he took off, he's gonna get a piece of my mind."

"And he hasn't many pieces to spare." Egon's automatic remark didn't defuse the tension as he must have hoped. The physicist, who had listened to Ray in silence, came up behind them and leaned across the bed to touch each man on the shoulder. "Just remember we're here for you," he said, his voice a little gravelly as with emotion. Egon could be a whole lot more empathetic than people who knew him casually ever thought. He sat down on that edge of the bed and Winston joined him and for awhile they'd simply let Ray talk, rambling on about his mom and dad and what his childhood had been like before the accident.

It was the most outgoing he'd ever been on the subject, and Peter had listened, catching a glimpse of the carefree child that had been Ray, confident and secure in his home life, even though his dad had been gone a lot. Peter thought back on his own homelife, and his own often-absent father and wondered what the difference was? Ray's more trusting attitude to life, or a different attitude on the part of David Stantz?

Charlie Venkman had made big promises to Peter, but he'd always broken them. By the time Peter was ten or eleven, he had it all down pat. His dad was great and Peter adored him--but he didn't trust him. He had a buddy who'd lived with an abusive father, and Peter remembered how fiercely Jack had defended his dad when it all came out. Sometimes he wondered if his father's absences and broken promises weren't a different form of abuse, one that needed the same fierce justifications to make himself believe he was loved. He was still playing that game today, at an age when most men took their fathers a lot for granted, saw them casually for holidays and fishing trips and didn't have to worry about what had gone before. Ray had never had to worry, either--until now.

Now Peter watched Ray as he and Egon compared notes on the computer program, the youngest Ghostbuster leaning over Egon's shoulder to hit a key or two. Ray was still a trusting individual. Would Ray have been that way no matter what life had thrown at him? Would he have learned to be suspicious if any of this had come out earlier? Peter didn't know but he knew he didn't want Ray to change like that. He didn't want to see cynicism on his buddy's face and know a part of his innocence was lost forever. If there was anything he could do to protect Ray, he'd do it.

"I have a suggestion, Ray," Egon said when he was finished setting up the program for the test. "I don't think you should watch the picture form. It would be a better test if you didn't see it until it was finished. I'm going to do it two ways. I'm going to give you a bearded version, since your father wore a beard. I'll create a figure to match the man Mrs. Grant saw, the way your father would look today, and I'll put a beard on him. You check it out. If you think there's any possibility, I'll take off the beard and we'll see what we can do."

"Okay, Egon, if you think that's best," said Ray obediently. He had his emotions in hand today but it was hard for him. If Mrs. Grant were able to give a description that matched Ray's memories, this would be tough on him. If she didn't, then Ray would always wonder but he then could allow himself to believe the woman wrong. Peter hoped the image they formed didn't remotely resemble Ray's dad.

"Peter, you go over there with him," Egon added, a meaningful expression in his eyes. 'Stay with him,' Peter thought he meant, and nodded.

"Gotcha. Come on, Tex, let's leave super-brain to work on his own."

Ray came tamely, sitting down in a chair Peter dragged up for him in front of the lab table. Peter stood beside him, leaning back against the chair. "Is this gonna be like those special effects in Terminator 2, Ray?" he asked in an effort at distraction.

Ray shook his head. "Not really. We have a morphing program but it isn't a very good one. This is a lot more basic. You know those drawings the police come up with and run in the papers after eyewitness crimes? It'll be like that."

"Ray, most of those pictures are so bad their own mothers wouldn't know them," argued Peter.

"If they're so bad, Pete, how come they work?" asked Winston. He was standing behind Egon, one hand on the back of Egon's chair, while Mrs. Grant was seated next to Egon, her eyes on the screen. She appeared distressed as if she knew what a can of worms she'd opened and really regretted it.

"Dumb luck?" offered Peter.

"Sometimes," said Egon, "they surprise people. Are the eyes like that, Mrs. Grant? As best you can remember, I mean?"

"Very like that," she replied, staring at him in surprise. "Only maybe just a little bit narrower and slightly closer together. I can see him in my mind's eye, the way he stood there staring at me."

"Hmmm," said Egon, raising his gaze from the screen and staring at Peter and Ray. "I'm going to age the eyes a little, put in some wrinkles." He hit the keys and did something with the mouse. "He'd be in his late fifties or early sixties today, I suspect. Tell me when it looks right."

"There. Like that. I wish I could get the expression in his eyes, but I don't know. But that's close. Now the nose. It's not like Ray's. It never turned up quite that much and it was narrower. Yes. Just like that."

"Bingo," said Peter. "The boy genius scores again. Egon, my friend, you have a natural talent for this kind of thing. All this time we never knew you could have been a police artist instead of a physicist."

Egon's face held guilt. His expression assumed a particularly blank and irritated aspect, but Peter, who knew him well, could see past that. Something was going on here and he wasn't sure he liked it. He began to wonder if Egon hadn't already known something about Ray's father and had chosen to keep it to himself.

"On the other hand," he continued brightly, "police artists have to level with their team."

Egon's cheeks took on a slightly pinkish cast, and it was all Peter could do not to jump up and cry, "Aha." Except that might bother Ray. He took a step closer to the computer screen, curious to see what Egon was up to. Egon shook his head, all the while his fingers kept on working. "Let me finish this, Peter." The note in his voice was almost like an apology. Peter's bad feeling grew worse and worse. This was going to knock Ray right off his feet and there was nothing Peter could do about it.

"No, the teeth were different," Mrs. Grant said. "More--prominent."

"My dad didn't have buck teeth," objected Ray, shaking his head in denial. "Maybe--maybe you made a mistake?" he concluded hopefully.

"Well, predatory, then," said Mrs. Grant, with a rueful look in Ray's direction. "It was a smile I didn't trust. Yes, very like that. The lips a little thinner. No, the chin is narrower than that."

Peter's imaginary mental picture transformed with each word into a squinty, bucktoothed, oily type who could all too clearly have ditched his wife and son. He couldn't imagine Ray remembering someone like that so fondly all these years.

"Shit, Egon," muttered Winston as he stared at the screen in shock and horror, his face falling, his eyes growing huge with disbelief. "You knew, didn't you?"

"I feared it after last night," Egon replied, very solemn and grim. "Mrs. Grant, I'm going to adjust the hairline now. His hair was long when he was younger, you said."

"Not like a hippie's. Just longer than most men wear it today. But when I saw him he was bald on top, all the way back to here." She touched the top of her own head near the back. Like you had it. But yes, it was more like that in the old days."

"Now to add the beard," Egon said. "How long? Like Abraham Lincoln's? Or ZZ Top? Somewhere in between? Short? Very short?"

"Very short, but more than just a few days unshaven," she said. "Very neatly trimmed. No, not as long as that."

"Like this?" Egon worked a minute. She nodded.

"All right. Raymond, take a look at this. Tell me if this matches your memory."

Ray and Peter moved toward the screen, but Winston stepped between them. "Let him see it on his own," he urged in Peter's ear.

Peter heaved a sigh. "You gonna be okay with this, Ray?" he asked.

"I think so. I need to see."

Peter nodded and let him go, and Ray took the final steps with strength and determination, pausing just at Egon's shoulder to stare at the screen. His eyes narrowed as he considered it. "He's older," he said. "But you know--he really seems familiar. I--know him. Gosh, Egon, maybe he really is. Maybe my dad's really alive."

"Look closely, Raymond." Egon stood up to be on a level with him, but didn't touch him. "It's best to be as sure as possible. I can print out a picture of him like this if that would be easier."

"No, the screen's fine. Gee, those eyes. Egon I've seen those eyes before. You don't think maybe he--hangs around? Maybe he...." His voice trailed off completely and he paled as if he'd seen a new complication. "Egon," he said, "What--I want to see him with the beard off. Right now!" His mouth twisted in a sudden hard line and he glanced away from the screen at Mrs. Grant as if she had suddenly sprouted tentacles and horns. "It's a trick. It's gotta be a trick."

Peter shoved up between Ray and Egon, even though Winston made a grab at his arm to hold him back, and stared at the screen. The man was bearded and long haired and the mustache was neatly trimmed. The hair draped across the forehead, but Peter knew him all right, even with all the facial hair. He couldn't help it. His heart pounded in his chest and his stomach reminded him of the breakfast that hadn't sat all that well to begin with, as if it wanted to come back up.

"Take way the beard, Egon," he said through stiff lips.

"Peter, I--"

"If you knew about this, Spengs...." Peter gritted out. "Take it away right now."

Egon hit several keys and the extra facial hair vanished as did the pseudo-hippie locks.

Charlie Venkman stared at Peter out of the screen.

"You made a bad mistake," Peter snapped at Mrs. Grant, anger washing through his body in a flood. "I don't know what your scam is, lady, but you sure picked the wrong people to cross."

She stared at him blankly, unable to comprehend his anger. "But that's David Stantz," she objected helplessly with a gesture at the screen. "At least as close as I can get him. I'm not lying, Dr. Venkman. I'd have no reason to lie."

"I don't think she is, Peter," Egon said quietly. "I didn't know until now, but I wondered a little last night when the ghost appeared to recognize you and was so disappointed to find out you weren't the one she was searching for, not the whole truth, not until I knew who the ghost was, and then it seemed so illogical--."

"I don't look like my dad," Peter insisted stiffly, cutting Egon off before he could finish. He concluded weakly, "At least not that much."

"No, but maybe he looked more like you do now when he was younger," Egon replied. He didn't back down from the glare Peter gave him, and his eyes were full of sympathy and quiet understanding. "I didn't want to think it any more than you do, and I wanted to say something last night, but I wasn't sure and I thought you'd only be mad if I said anything without proof."

Mad? He was mad right now, utterly furious. This had to be a scam. It just had to be. "You got that right," he muttered.

"What does it mean, Peter?" asked Ray in a very small voice, reaching out to touch Peter on the arm. "That's your dad, not mine."

"I think what all this is leading up to, Ray," Winston offered in a soothing voice, "is that they're one and the same."

"No," said Ray, jerking backward. "They're not! My dad's dead. I knew he was dead all along. This is some kind of trick!" He glared at Mrs. Grant. "And I thought you were such a nice lady, too," he added in hotly betrayed tones as if he'd just been told the Easter Bunny dealt drugs to kids, disguised as chocolate eggs.

"You mean that's your father?" Mrs. Grant said to Peter as the reason for everyone's upset finally dawned on her. "Oh, dear god, I'm sorry. I--I think I asked you yesterday if you were Ray because I couldn't remember Ray but you had a look of David. Not a strong resemblance, but enough that I thought you must be his son. When I saw Ray and he was the image of Carolyn, I assumed I'd been mistaken, but I wasn't, was I?"

"Peter and I can't have the same dad," Ray insisted. His eyes were shining with tears and Peter had never seen him quite so miserable. "You mean my dad took off and went back to Peter and his mom and maybe he and my mom weren't even married because then he'd be a bigamist, and when my mom died he--he didn't care about me any more?" He bit his bottom lip as he heard what he'd just said and then mumbled, "It's not true. Peter's right, it's a scam. Tell them, Peter."

But Peter was beginning to realize it might not be one. It hurt, though. It hurt him in whole different ways it hurt Ray, remembering Ray's joyful recollections of childhood Christmases while Peter's were bleak without his father. He recalled his first meeting with Ray Stantz, an earnest young freshman at Columbia who gazed admiringly at the BMOC Peter had worked so hard to become and said, "We haven't met before, have we? You look kind of familiar," with such utter sincerity it couldn't have been an excuse to try to score points with the in-crowd. It might have explained Ray's automatic and ready trust of Peter, too, even when Peter was inclined to scorn the younger student at first for his gung ho attitude until he came to know Ray well enough to like him. Then there was the mysterious scholarship Ray had received. If this whole crazy, mixed-up mess had one shred of truth in it, maybe Charlie had wanted to do his best for Ray, even from a distance. Maybe he'd married Carolyn under a fake name and kept her separate from his life with Peter and his mother, and when the accident took Carolyn he realized the bigamy might come out if he didn't allow himself to be dead. It made a sick kind of sense.

He remembered something else, too. Charlie Venkman had always treated Ray well. Ray liked him a lot, knew he was a con man and didn't care, and had happily gone off to Mexico with him last year. Peter had been surprised at that, surprised that Charlie had actually taken Ray, even when Peter had opted out of the trip, but afterwards Ray had talked glowingly of the time spent with Charlie when they were trapped in the Aztec pyramid as if it were a particularly special memory. Maybe Charlie had gone along because in addition to tracking the treasure he sought it finally gave him a chance of something he hadn't dared do before, spend time with Ray.

But Peter's anger still churned inside him. He felt like his father had knocked him down and kicked him, and Ray, too. He turned to the younger man, who had lifted his eyes from the computer screen and was gazing at Peter with a combination of horror and awe that sat very strangely on his normally cheerful face.

"Didn't you recognize him?" Peter demanded, unable in that first moment to control his temper. "Didn't you ever wonder at Columbia when he showed up?"

"I never really saw him much at Columbia," Ray said in a very quiet voice. "He met Egon there, but I didn't see him except that one time when you went rushing out to help him out of that jam the year you were a senior, and then it was so quick. 'Ray, this is my dad. Dad, this is Ray. Hi, Ray, bye, Ray.' Remember?"

Peter nodded. That was true. Egon had spent some time with Charlie at Columbia; the three of them had gone out to dinner once but it was the night of dress rehearsals for a play Ray was in for a drama class and he hadn't been able to make it. It wasn't until they became Ghostbusters and Charlie showed up with the ghost repeller ponchos that Ray had spent any time with Charlie Venkman at all. He didn't see the ghost of his own beloved father, bearded and long haired and affectionate. He saw a brash, conniving older man with a plaid suit and a receding hairline, someone he'd met only in passing at Columbia a time or two, and he must never have given it a thought--except that he'd always insisted he liked Peter's father.

"This is all a case of everybody jumping off the deep end at once, isn't it, Spengs?" Peter demanded, turning to Egon for the common sense solution, the true answer, the way he often did. Egon would make sense of it. Egon could make sense of anything. "It's a trick?"

Egon shook his head regretfully. "I'm not entirely sure, Peter. I was afraid you and Ray would both be hurt when I thought of it. So many little details fit, things we had no reason to question before."

"Yeah, like the huge coincidence that I'd grow up and meet Ray and he'd be one of my best friends," Peter grated out. "Give me a break. Coincidences are for books, not real life."

"In actual fact, it's the opposite, Peter," Egon said quietly. He put his hand on Peter's arm. "Good writers will try to explain them away but they do happen. In this case, I don't think it's a coincidence, entirely, except that Ray and I were thrown together in that first parapsychology class he took. Ray had a scholarship to Columbia that may have been engineered by his father. I remember Ray telling me he thought you looked familiar, Peter."

"You mean I wanted to get to know Peter because he subconsciously reminded me of my dad?" Ray asked blankly, stunned and shaken.

"Not necessarily. But that's why you may have noticed Peter," Egon replied. "I don't know if that were engineered or not, but Charlie knew, of course, where Peter was attending college. He might have wanted to send you there, too, Ray."

"And he conned somebody good for the money," Peter said sourly.

"If so, I, for one, am grateful, and so should you be, Peter," Egon chided him. "We wouldn't have known Ray otherwise, and I should not like to imagine a life without Ray in it."

Peter nodded automatically. That went without saying. "I won't try to imagine it," he agreed because that was one thing none of this could touch. "Ray's family."

"Literally," agreed Egon drily.

"Gosh." Ray's eyes widened at this. Though so many thing were unresolved, unsolved, unexplained, one thing suddenly stood out. "Peter's my brother."

"If any of this is true, Ray, remember?" Winston cautioned him. "We don't know yet if our imaginations haven't run away with us."

"Or even if I'm honest," said Mrs. Grant. She stood up. "I think I've created far too much trouble for you and I never meant any of that. It's a poor reward for the wonderful friendship Carolyn gave me all those years ago. I've made trouble, and I've upset all of you, and that I never intended. I think it's best I leave now. You know where to locate me if need be, if you have further questions."

Peter let her go. If she were a scam artist, they could still find her. He wanted her to be a scam artist in the worst possible way. He wanted Ray's illusions to remain unshattered, his innocent trust to be unbroken, and Peter's own wary and fragile links to his father to remain as firm as they were. He'd finally become comfortable with what his dad was--but the boundaries of his comfort wouldn't stretch this far. They couldn't.

Yet there was one thing that needed doing and saying, one thing that was true whether this was a trick or a lie or not. He turned to Ray and grinned at him, though it almost hurt his face to make the effort. Smiles were expensive right now, even when they were meant. "I've always been your brother, Tex," he said and opened his arms to the younger man. "And I always will be no matter what happens here. If this is true, the only good part is this makes it official."

Ray cried, "Peter," and hugged his friend for all he was worth.

"So what do we do?" asked Winston when they finally settled down enough to think logically. They had gathered in front of the TV on the second floor though no one had turned it on. Ray was sitting cross-legged at one end of the couch, Peter in the middle, Winston at the other end while Egon had dragged the big chair around to face them.

Peter shot a still-angry glare at Egon and folded his arms across his chest, sliding down against the cushions until he was braced on his tailbone, his legs mostly under the coffee table. He wasn't ready to give ground to anybody yet, except Ray, who had received a much worse deal out of this than he had. "I don't know, but next time somebody decides it might be fun to knock the bottom out of my life, Egon, I hope I get a hint at what's going on first. You knew it all, had it all figured out and thought you'd surprise me with the portrait of the month. Thanks a heap, Spengs."

"Peter, I couldn't," Egon said earnestly, though he was prepared to bear the brunt of Peter's anger if need be. He braced his shoulders to take the full weight of Peter's rage. "I had no proof. I had what appeared a flight of wildest imagination and sheer coincidence told to us by a stranger who may have been the best con woman since the dawn of man." A few quick telephone calls after Mrs. Grant's departure had confirmed her as a woman of high integrity and validated her background entirely but Egon was right. Until they made those calls, they couldn't know for certain she was on the up and up, though Ray insisted he believed her. She might have scattered careful clues to lead them to Charlie, clues intended to upset and disorient the Ghostbusters for some as yet undisclosed reason. "I couldn't trust her to tell the truth, not then," Egon continued. "First the ghost evidently recognize you when there was no reason for it--the ghost of Ray's mother. That perplexed me even before I realized who the ghost actually was. When I found out and when I learned what Mrs. Grant believed about Ray's father, something in my mind brought the possibilities together, but I didn't want to believe it. I knew my theories would only hurt you, Peter, to say nothing of what they would do to Ray, and that was the last thing I wanted to do. There's been a lot of talk of brothers here today, but something you I hope you remember is you are my brother, too, you, Ray and Winston, whether there is blood kinship or not. How do you imagine it felt to suspect something like this? I kept hoping one more bit of knowledge would prove I had suddenly developed a wild and unnatural imagination. I was almost positive Mrs. Grant's description wouldn't match your father--except..."

"Except you knew my dad," Peter conceded. He could see Egon's very genuine concern for him in the blue eyes that watched him, waiting to see how he would take his words. True, Peter had learned the possible truth in a bad way--but was there a good one? Egon had done things carefully, logically, scientifically, all the while hurting for his friends and hoping against hope he was wrong. Now he waited, knowing Peter's quick and ready temper might still be too hot to absolve him. But Peter saw more than concern in the anxious eyes behind the round-rimmed glasses. He saw worry that this blow might damage the friendship the four of them had built. Peter knew that was the one thing he didn't want to lose. "Okay, Spengs, I'll buy it," he said, the anger still in is voice but no longer directed against Egon. He pulled himself upright enough to lean across the coffee table and give his friend a light cuff on the arm that made Egon smile faintly in return. "You knew what we all know, that he's capable of this. The only thing I can't see is how he could run out on Ray." He shook his head. "That's the worst thing." It was the worst, too, far worse than the lonely Christmases. He'd halfway been afraid he might resent Ray for that but, while he resented his father for it like crazy, somehow he didn't resent Ray. His family might be growing unexpectedly, but right now he felt like he could gladly dump the senior member. Peter's father must have got in way over his head and cut and run at the worst possible time, but he could have gone back for Ray. Peter knew his mother would have stood by him, and would never turned away the young Ray, no matter how much learning the truth would have hurt her. The only good thing Peter could see in the whole mess was that his mom had never had to find out what her husband had been.

"Wait a minute, what about Aunt Lois?" asked Winston abruptly. "Wouldn't she know about this? Isn't she your dad's sister?"

"No, my mom's," Ray said quickly, shaking his head.

"I thought, when you were talking about your family being Russian...." Winston persisted as if he'd figured out a solution to the whole problem.

"They were, but on Mom's side. Well, her dad was Russian but her mom was Scottish, you know, like my Uncle Andrew. Mom was was proud of her father's background, and so was Aunt Lois and after my folks--my mom--died, I would stay with Aunt Lois some of the time and she'd tell me all the family legends. I didn't have any from my dad's side, no background that I could remember, and Aunt Lois couldn't remember anyway. She never talked about my dad much, but I didn't think about it. I just thought she didn't know him very well." He raised his face at last. "I feel kind of dazed, guys. I keep expecting--well, the sky to fall."

"It will," said Peter grimly. "When I get my hands on him."

"I'll help," offered Winston. "Nobody jerks my buddies around like this and gets away with it."

"I think you're both right in one respect," Egon put in. He turned to Ray who was still sitting curled up in his corner, appearing smaller and more fragile than usual, though he kept darting a gaze at Peter and then away again as if that part of it was something he wanted to think about and treasure. Peter could feel the warmth of those hasty, sidelong looks without even turning.

"What respect, Egon?" asked Ray.

"I think we need to speak to Peter's father--uh, your father..."

"Dear old Dad," said Peter with a twist to his mouth. "That oughta be fun. It's not like he has an answering machine."

"Do you have any idea where he might be, Peter?" asked Egon more seriously. "I know you're not going to feel good about this until that meeting is behind you, and Ray needs it, too." Ray nodded uneasily. He may have always liked Charlie, but now he could only feel hurt at being abandoned, even if the abandonment had been years ago. Peter knew he was thinking of the time he had spent with Charlie, when Charlie had known and had said nothing at all.

Peter reached out and clapped Ray on the shoulder. "I'll sure as heck track him down. Let me loose at the telephone."

The day passed slowly. Peter made about ten calls, to cronies of his dad whose numbers he'd accumulated over the years, to relatives out in Iowa, the ones he'd tried to send his father to visit after the debacle with Hob Anagarok, to one or two girlfriends Charlie had mentioned in passing the last time he was in town. No one had seen him recently, or at least was willing to admit it. They all wanted to know what it was about.

"Tell him it's an emergency," Peter always concluded. "I want him here as fast as possible. Tell him his son needs him." He slanted a glance sideways at Ray as he spoke and resisted adding, "Both of them."

Janine, who had realized there was a crisis when Mrs. Grant departed in some distress and had come upstairs to find Peter ranting and Ray looking lost and pathetic, had pried the answer out of Peter without even trying. She'd retreated, knowing it was hard on Ray, and had been unobtrusively available to the guys ever since. She returned at lunchtime and fixed them a meal without even bothering to complain that it was not part of her job description, and went back again, fending off new clients and rescheduling the afternoon's appointments for later in the week. She found the bills that Peter hadn't finished signing and dispensed with them herself, though she did tell Peter he owed her for it.

"I owe you big, Janine," he said with a crooked grin. "Just give me a little time to pay you back."

"All the time you want," she promised and returned went back to her desk.

"How you doing, Ray?" Peter asked late that afternoon.

Ray, who had been working on the pack maintenance they had left unfinished the previous day, jumped at the question and heaved a sigh, pushing the hair back from his forehead with a greasy hand, leaving a dark streak from his eyebrows to his hairline. "I guess I'm okay, Peter. I just keep telling myself we'll find out about it when your dad comes."

"You can claim him, you know," Peter said. "Though I don't know if you want to." He grabbed a kleenex and tried to scrub the grease away and Ray took it from him and went over to the mirror on one wall and did it himself, grinning crookedly.

"Thanks, Peter."

Egon set aside the meter he was recalibrating, his eyes lingering on Peter as he heard the note of bitterness in his voice. He didn't speak, though.

"I don't know if I want to, either," added Ray sadly. "I remember--when I was a kid he was always so much fun. I can't help wondering if I was just too dumb to see past the front. He's a con man. He sure conned me into thinking he cared." The bitterness in Ray's voice stung like acid.

"You always told me he cared about me, in his own way," Peter reminded him. "You always said he had his own way of showing it. I guess he did with you, too. If he's the one who got you that scholarship, then he did something pretty special. He must have wanted us to meet, or at least hoped we would. Something else, too. When you went to Mexico with him, did he say anything that might have been--"

"A hint?" asked Ray, picking up on Peter's meaning without hesitation. "I can't remember. I thought going off like that was great, a real adventure, and I was glad he still wanted to go even if you didn't, though I figured it was the treasure. But we had a great time, even when we were trapped." He smiled wistfully. "Maybe he wanted to tell me but just couldn't swing it."

"He probably did," Egon put in. "But I'm afraid he's made to take the easy way. Enjoying your company was special for him, Ray, but telling you might have made things difficult."

"Yeah, and he hates difficult," Peter said sourly. "Damn it, I want to hate him in the worst way. I do hate him."

Ray shook his head. "You don't, Peter," he insisted.

"After what he did to you, what he did to my mom, the way he's always tried to use me, all this, tell me one good reason why I shouldn't hate him, Ray?" Peter demanded, gesturing wildly around the lab as if to encompass all his father's 'crimes'.

Ray stared at his hands as they clutched the strap of the pack he was working on, his fingers curling around it so tightly the knuckles whitened. He bit his bottom lip, then he took a deep breath and gave the one answer that was unarguable, though Peter knew he would argue it anyway.

"Because he loves you." He didn't lift his head and Peter heard what wasn't said as clearly as if Ray had shouted it. 'And he doesn't love me.'

Egon drew in his breath as he realized it, too, and exchanged a worried glance with Winston. Peter saw it and hesitated. He knew his dad loved him, knew Charlie was proud of him. But something had been left out when Charlie was created. Whether it was empathy or understanding, or the ability to care deeply, Peter didn't know. He'd believed he'd finally come to terms with that knowledge, but now he realized he hadn't and maybe he never would. Yet he kicked aside his own hurt and turned to Ray, who looked purely miserable. "It's gonna be okay, Ray. Because I've seen him always getting along with you. I think he did as much as he believed he could."

"He could have told me. I'd have wanted to know," mumbled Ray, his eyes on his hands.

"Maybe he thought it was kinder not to tell you," Peter suggested, though he knew kindness was never one of Charlie's prime motives. He hadn't done it because it would have been awkward and uncomfortable for him to tell the truth and that was all there was to it.

"Kinder?" Ray echoed. "Gosh, Peter, I just feel awful. I've tried to make all those excuses, and they just don't work. He didn't want me, and that's it." His eyes were too bright, and he blinked furiously as if he were fighting against tears.

Peter didn't know if that were true, but Ray wouldn't believe it. The only thing he had to offer was his own love for Ray, so he grabbed his friend--his brother--and pulled him over, hugging him. "Then he's stupid. He might not want you but I do."

"So do we," insisted Egon, coming up behind Ray and resting his hands on the younger man's shoulders. "You have a family, Ray, a family who loves you."

"Yeah, and who'll stand beside you against characters like Tolay and Gozer and Samhaine," Winston added. "And you won our loyalty, homeboy. We're here, part of the team because we chose to be, same way we chose to be friends. Don't ever think you're on your own, because now Pete's your own flesh and blood and Egon and I are the same as flesh and blood. You got that?"

Ray leaned into Peter's embrace and heaved a great sigh. "Yeah," he admitted, as if he'd found his touchstone and meant to cling to it no matter how bad things became in the next few days. "I've got it. Gosh, guys, there's nobody like you."

"Damn right there isn't," Peter said quickly in as light a tone as he could manage. Next thing he knew they'd all be crying and acting silly, and while he didn't have any trouble with men crying, he wanted to lighten Ray's mood and cheer him up, not turn this into a maudlin wallow. "Otherwise, I'm gonna be real hurt, and you know how I get when that happens."

"Unfortunately yes," Egon said with a wry chuckle, and Peter knew Egon had picked up his intent without needing it spoken. Egon could do that so well--even when Peter didn't want him to, but thank goodness when he did. "Unbearable."

"Right," agreed Peter with a wicked grin. "Come on, guys, I've got a good idea. It's getting close to dinner time. Let's call out for a giant pizza and pig out all evening. Anybody but me think that's a great idea?"

"Me, me!" squeaked Slimer, who had been hovering around uncomfortably since they'd returned to the lab. The little spud didn't understand what was going on but he knew it made his human friends unhappy, and that made him unhappy, too. He had drifted from man to man, not saying very much, but the mention of pizza revived him. "Biiig pizza, Peter. Pleeeeease!"

"Gigantic," agreed Peter. "But no anchovies, guys. I hate the little fishes."

Janine had come up to bring them their giant pizza, two boxes of it, one of which was for Slimer to keep him busy long enough for them to get some of their own before he finished gobbling down his share. "I see you're going to have a truly nourishing meal, guys," she remarked. Her considering gaze traveled around the group as she tried to judge their state of mind. "Don't you think some real food might help for a change?"

"This is real food, Big J," Peter defended his meal choice without hesitation. "All the basic food groups. Meat, vegetables, dairy products, grain--you can't go wrong with pizza."

"Thank you, Mr. Nutritionist," retorted Egon. "We all feel better knowing that. Never mind the fat content, the sodium content, the cholesterol..."

"I don't want to hear it, Egon," Peter returned with a grimace, snatching one of the boxes out of Janine's hands. "Don't be a killjoy. You like pizza, too. I've seen you pigging out on it just like I do."

"True, Peter," Egon replied, removing the box from Peter's hands and placing it on the dining room table. "Somebody bring the soda."

"I'm getting it," offered Ray, emerging from the kitchen with four Coke bottles while Winston trailed him with glasses and a tray of ice. "You gonna pig out with us, Janine?" he asked, gesturing at the table by way of invitation.

She glanced sideways at Egon to see if he would second the invitation. Egon hesitated, then he must have decided Janine's presence would add an air of normality to the evening--or else he had the hots for her company. "You're welcome to stay, Janine." The words may not have been effusive, but his tone was warm. Her eyes lit up and she sat down next to Egon while Winston ducked back into the kitchen for more soda and another glass.

Slimer started wheedling to have his pizza and Ray was instructing him to wait until everybody was ready when they heard the outer door bang shut downstairs and hurried footsteps cross the garage and approach the steps. "Client?" Janine hazarded, glancing at Egon, though her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Peter! Where is he? Where's my boy?"

It wasn't a client, not unless Charlie Venkman was here as a client. Judging from the worry in his tone, worry that would once have brought a smile to Peter's face and spread warmth through his body at the evidence of his father's concern, the senior Venkman was here because he'd picked up at least one of Peter's 'emergency' messages and he'd taken it to mean his son was in dire trouble.

Ray's face lost all color. He took a backward step toward the kitchen as if he meant to conceal himself there, but Peter caught his arm and stopped him. "It's okay," he said under his breath. "Hang in there, Tex."

Charlie was on the steps now, still yelling, though his words were interspersed with heavy breathing. At his age and in his lack of top physical condition, running up a flight of stairs was enough to make him breathless. Egon stood up to face the older man and Slimer, possibly intimidated by the mood of his buddies, zipped into the kitchen, snatching one of the pizza boxes and taking it with him. Rapid gobbling sounds followed him.

Charlie reached the top of the stairs and turned which brought him face to face with Egon and Winston. He must have seen the grim, unwelcoming expressions on their faces because he grabbed for Egon's arm and demanded, "Where is he? Where's my boy?"

Before Egon could speak, Peter pushed in between him and Winston and confronted his father, hands clenched into fists. "Which one, Dad?" he demanded, in a hard edged voice. "Which one?"

At first, the question left Venkman blank. He started to relax at the sight of Peter, obviously intact and healthy, then the words registered and he went as white as Ray and reeled back a step. His eyes lingered on Peter's face and then shifted sideways toward Ray. As if he realized the gesture had betrayed him he tried to bluff it out. "What do you..." Seeing that wasn't working, he donned a carefully cultured look of innocence and waited for Peter to take his shot, so he could refute it.

"You son of a bitch," snarled Peter, resisting decking is father with an effort. "So it is true? I should've known. Is there anybody who loved you that you didn't trash? Or is that too much to ask?"

"I don't know what you mean," Charlie blustered. He didn't convince anybody of his ignorance or his innocence, not even Slimer who hovered in the doorway, shivering.

Peter saw what little light that lingered there begin to fade from Ray's eyes, and he edged over next to the younger man in a carefully overt gesture of support and loyalty, uncurling the tight fingers of his left hand and wrapping them around Ray's wrist. Before the older man could reply, Egon jumped at Charlie as if he meant to do him violence, grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and lifted him right off the floor. "If Peter isn't going to shake sense into you, I will," he snapped, doing just that. "You have a hell of a nerve if you think you can twist your way out of this one. I'm not taking any more lies from you. Sit. Right. There." He shoved Charlie into a chair and hovered over him menacingly, his arms folded across his chest as if defying the older Venkman to weasel out of anything more tonight. Janine gazed at the furious physicist admiringly, her eyes shining.

"Good for you, Egon. That's telling him."

Straightening his jacket with shaking hands Charlie Venkman risekd a glance at Peter and Ray, who stood side by side in a conscious display of unity, at least on Peter's part. Ray simply stared at the man who was probably his 'long dead' father, the man who had abandoned him, who had walked away. Peter darted a look at Ray to see how he was holding up, and saw his friend was practically memorizing Charlie's features, not as if he were enjoying himself but with a helpless desperation. Peter doubted he could have said anything if his life depended on it.

That left it up to Peter. He eased past Winston, who looked like he wanted to restrain the psychologist, not because he had any desire to protect Charlie but because he wanted to make sure Peter didn't do anything that might land him in jail. "Easy, Pete," he muttered as Peter advanced on his father. "We're with you."

Peter stopped beside Egon and glared down at his dad. "Every time I think you can't get any worse, you do," he said flatly. "This time, I can't even imagine any excuse for what you did. You gave up Ray. I don't know why you did it, but probably because it was 'convenient'. You bastard. Start talking or get out of here and don't ever come back."

"Son. You're right to talk to me like that," Charlie said, avoiding Peter's eyes. "And you..." He glanced past Peter to Ray, who still hadn't said a single word. Peter didn't think he could.

"You ran out on Ray," Peter repeated. "How could you do it?"

"Carolyn..." began Charlie, picking his way through the shrapnel from the bombshell Peter had dropped at his feet. "I--saw her die. I tried to get her out, but the fire--and then the explosion--right in front of my eyes." Even after all these years, his eyes hollowed out with the memory of that dreadful sight, and he glanced nervously at Ray and away again as if he realized what he'd just said could hurt his younger son. "I couldn't think. I just knew I had to get away. My mind was all messed up. I had nightmares for months."

"I'll buy your mind was messed up," Peter said coldly. "But for over twenty years? And after you met Ray again? Give me a break? You weaseled out of this the way you've weaseled out of every confrontation and commitment in your life since I can remember."

"I made a bad mistake," Charlie admitted, studying the table top as if it held the secrets of the universe. "I don't know how you found out about it, but I guess I can't hide it any longer." He propped his elbows on the table and put his face into his hands. "I fell in love with Carolyn and I already loved Margaret. I was all over the country for years, selling, scamming, working any job I could find. For awhile I had two families."

"When you even bothered to show up," Peter accused.

"When I bothered to show up," Charlie confirmed, for once not offering an excuse. He slid his fingers back into his hair and the unconvincing toupee he wore shifted alarmingly as if it were about to come off. "I knew it was wrong. I knew it was a crazy risk, but I couldn't stop myself. You know me, Peter. I never had any will power. I stayed. I went back and forth from you and Margaret to Ray and Carolyn. But then Carolyn died, and I panicked. I was sure if I went back people would find out what I'd done. If I was dead, Ray wouldn't have to live through all that."

"You mean you wouldn't have to live through all that?" Peter flung the words at him like knives. "Don't try to convince us you ever cared for anybody but yourself. Ray needed you. So did I. For all the good it did either of us."

Charlie lifted his head and stared at Peter, and there were shocking tears in his eyes. "I know you hate me, son, but I do care. I love you."

"Yeah, that's why you use me every time you show up."

"He means it, Peter," said Ray in a small voice.

"For what it's worth."

Charlie turned to Ray. "Walking away from you was hard, Ray, but I had to. It would have all come out, and besides, I couldn't have raised you alone anyway. You don't know how many times I almost came back. I wanted to see you. You're my boy, too, and I never stopped loving you. I did what I could to help you. I fixed it so you could go to college, the same place as Peter, and I hoped you'd meet each other. I showed up to visit him and you were there, and I couldn't believe it when Pete said you and Egon were his best buddies. It was like a sign."

"Sure, a sign you'd got away with it," Peter muttered, unwilling to buy into the raw emotion in his father's voice. He'd heard the old con man scam people like this before, and he'd sounded as sincere all those times as he did now. "I bet you were scared to death the first time you really talked to him, afraid you'd get caught out."

"I was," Charlie agreed. "But not because I might get caught, or at least not entirely. Because it was like a miracle. I knew I couldn't say anything because I knew it would hurt you both, but you were together, and you stayed together. My two boys. You made me proud, both of you. Pete, so much like me, and my Ray, just like Carolyn."

"Peter isn't like you," Ray insisted stubbornly. "Peter cares."

Charlie winced as if he'd been slapped. He did it very well. "I deserved that," he admitted. "I deserve a kick in the seat of the pants and every bad thing you can throw at me. But last year in Mexico when we sat in that temple waiting to be rescued, and we knew we would because Peter would tear the entire country apart to find you, and so would Egon and Winston, I loved every minute of it, the flies and bugs and not enough water, and the heat, because it meant I had a chance to talk to you."

Candor rang in his voice, but he'd always been able to fake it. Peter stared at his dad through narrowed eyes and realized Charlie meant every word he said, at least as much as it was possible to mean it. And what really bugged him was this was as good as it would ever get with Charlie--and Ray knew it. And it wasn't good enough. Ray swallowed and gnawed his bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. Not being loved enough was almost worse than not being loved at all.

"So that makes up for all those years?" Peter demanded in rampant disbelief. "Just tell him you're sorry and you're glad to know him now and everything's fine? I can't believe you're for real." He turned to Ray. "I'm sorry, Ray. It's always like this. I wish we'd never found out, because then at least you'd have good memories."

"I still have good memories," Ray said in a small voice. "They're just--different now." He looked Charlie Venkman right in the eye. "You gave up any right to be my father," he said levelly, not with the fierce bitterness Peter had flung at his father but with resigned acceptance. "But I got two things out of this. I got to say goodbye to my mother last night, and I--I acquired a family." He shook his head suddenly and gestured around the second floor, his eyes finally warming to life. "No. That's not right. I realized what a great family I already have. Peter's my brother--but he always was. That doesn't change. Egon and Winston are my brothers, too. We're a family. We're here for each other, we back each other. That's what a real family does. I feel sorry for you because you never learned that. You talked about a miracle, but the real one is you did your worst to Peter and he turned out to be one of the most caring people I ever met. My 'official' brother is the best one I could have, but so are Egon and Winston." He smiled at Janine then. "And Janine, too. We'd do anything for each other."

Charlie Venkman stared at him as he watched Ray gain in stature and confidence. Peter felt pride in his friend swell in his chest and he slung his arm around Ray's shoulders. "Is this kid great, or what?" he asked.

Egon slid neatly into place at Ray's other side and encircled Ray with his arm too, his fingers reaching over to clasp and squeeze Peter's shoulder and affirm his friendship for both of them for Charlie's benefit, in hopes he would realize what Ray had that he didn't.

"Yeah," agreed Winston, tousling Ray's hair affectionately. "I can't believe sometimes how lucky we all are. I feel sorry for people who don't have that. 'The worst solitude is to be destitute of true friendship.'"

"Francis Bacon," said Egon, recognizing the quote. "It's quite true." He shook his head at Charlie Venkman. "I feel sorry for you, Mr. Venkman. Because you had two chances to understand that, and you didn't take advantage of it. You came close with Peter, but you always found a way to ruin it. Peter doesn't quite hate you now because it isn't in him. He may not forgive you for this, though."

Blind panic flashed in Charlie's eyes as he heard how sincere Egon was. "Peter. You can't--"

"You could," Peter said remorselessly. "You did it to Ray. Maybe just once I could be a chip off the old block."

"It's called reaping what you sow," said Winston. "It's in the Bible, but it's also common sense. The consequences of your actions. You get what you deserve and you deserve to be thrown out that door and never allowed back."

"Ray?" Charlie turned to his younger son. "Won't you give me a chance, Ray? I never had a chance to be a real father to you. I'd like to try."

Ray hesitated, and so did the other three. Even Janine, who was always blatantly outspoken, held her peace. Slimer oozed back into the room and hovered behind the Ghostbusters as if he'd chosen sides. Peter would go with whatever Ray chose, even if it meant accepting Charlie. He wasn't sure what Ray would do, but he trusted Ray to do the right thing. If anybody would, it was Ray.

"Give me a break, Ray?" Charlie pleaded. "The only thing I can do is try to make it work. I don't think I can change too much. This is as honest as I get. I'm a con man. I'm not like you boys. I never had what you did. Not that I mean it as an excuse," he added hastily as he saw scorn fill Peter's eyes at his words. "But it's true. I love you boys. That's true, too." The air of earnest entreaty came back. "What do you say?"

Ray frowned. "I've seen you use Peter for years, and I never liked it, but I didn't know who you were then."

"I always grew the beard before I came home to you and your mom," Charlie explained. "It was one way to keep the two worlds separate."

"A disguise," said Peter disgustedly. "A fake name and a disguise, so you wouldn't get caught out."

"Peter," said Ray quietly.

Peter looked at Ray, who was still pale and shaken, but who was beginning to find himself now that he'd faced the worst of it and hadn't fallen apart under it. He'd probably like to go off somewhere and cry his eyes out but he wasn't going to. Instead he was standing here as brave as Peter had ever seen him, projecting understanding for Peter's disillusionment and a quiet acceptance of his own. Peter smiled at him. "It's your call, Ray."

Ray detached himself from his friends and took a step closer to his father. "Okay," he conceded. "You can try. Winston's right about solitude and it's awful. I wouldn't even put that on you. But I don't trust you. That's something you'll have to work on. I'll let you try..."

Before he finished speaking, Charlie had his arms around Ray's neck, hugging him for all he was worth. "I'll do my best," he said in Ray's ear, "and that's a promise. Peter will tell you I have a lousy track record and he's right, but I'll try."

Ray didn't exactly return the hug, but he did lift one hand and pat Charlie lightly on the shoulder. Peter found himself going forward, wanting to be there for Ray, but he found himself pulled into the hug by his father, who was more shaken than Peter had ever seen him. The psychologist wasn't easy in it, but this was all the dad he had, and if Ray wanted him, he could have him. Peter would be there to make sure Ray didn't get burned any worse than he already had.

Charlie finally released them. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his eyes, blew his nose loudly and returned the handkerchief to his pocket. "I'll try," he repeated.

"That'll be something to see," muttered Peter under his breath, but he found a part of him was glad Ray had chosen as he had. It might take years of trying to make up for Ray's disillusionment, assuming it was even possible, but the effort would do Charlie good. Not that Peter would trust him for an instant, but then he never had. Why should this be different?

He did trust, Ray, Egon and Winston though, and that was what really mattered.

"You think you'll be okay, Ray?" Peter asked him later, after the cold pizza had been eaten, after Charlie had departed to check into a hotel and Janine had gone home for the night. The four men still sat around the dining table, held there by the inertia that sometimes follows extreme emotion. Peter smiled around the table at his buddies.

Winston had a satisfied grin on his face as if he were pleased he had helped his friends navigate once again through rough shoals to a safe harbor. He was the kind of man who backed his buddies out of love and loyalty, and would stand at their side if they needed him, even against a class eleven entity about to squash the world.

Egon had been watching the his two long-time friends, concerned and ready to act if anything had been necessary. Egon wasn't effusive or sentimental but in a crisis, Peter would rely on him one hundred and twenty per cent. Egon knew him better than anyone ever had, understood why this had been almost as hard on him as it had been on Ray, realized Peter still had a lot of coming to terms to accomplish, and was prepared to stand at Peter's side while he did it, quietly offering whatever reassurance Peter needed. Peter found his grin widening sloppily as he saw Egon watching Ray. He knew Egon was completely comfortable with the new relationship between him and Ray, knew as they all did that it would change nothing between the foursome, except to give Ray closer blood kin than he'd had before, and to confirm the 'big brother-little brother' relationship Peter and Ray had always felt.

Then Peter turned to Ray and asked the question.

Ray smiled tiredly. "Yeah, after I sleep for a week. I'm really tired, Peter."

"I wish I could have changed things," Peter said.

Ray smiled. "Not being brothers," he insisted. "I don't want to change that. And we put enough of a scare into your--into Dad that it might do some good."

Peter shook his head. "Don't count on it, Ray," he cautioned. "He's the way he is. We might've scared him, but he'll ease back to his old ways quick enough."

"Even he can grow," Ray pointed out, not with any great hope but as if he knew from long experience that anything was possible. His dreams held dragons and unicorns and castles in the air, and Peter had always cherished that. "I--part of me wants to punch him out, just like you do, Peter. But I think if I'd seen--seen my mom die, I'd have had to go away, too."

"You're a generous guy, Ray," said Winston. Peter couldn't imagine him, or any of his three best friends, going away at such a time, not for more than long enough to find the right words to soothe the son left behind. Well, it proved something Peter had always known. You were stuck with relatives, but you chose your friends. He had chosen well when he'd selected these three. If they gave Nobel Prizes for the selection of friends, Peter would have won it long ago.

"He's the best," Peter agreed, smiling at Ray. He included Egon and Winston in the smile. "You guys all are."

"Because we're the best team going," Ray said. If his smile was still shaky, it held the beginning of the old Ray Stantz enthusiasm. The strength of character that had helped him through more than his share of ups and downs was already reasserting itself.

"Of course we are." Egon made it sound like a given. Egon, too, knew the value of what he had, and it showed in his eyes. For the first time, Peter realized he felt sorry for his father. The thought depressed him, but he had so much to balance it.

"So what do we do next?" asked Winston quickly as if he sensed a change of mood might well be in order. "Save the world?"

"It's what we're best at," Peter said without a shred of false modesty. "Besides, there's a ton of stuff I want to teach my kid brother."

"Be careful, Raymond," Egon cautioned, his face warming with sudden humor. "You're in trouble now."

"I hope so," Ray said with the beginning of contentment filling his eyes. "It's all in the family."

"I thought that was a TV show," Peter said, pushing himself to his feet. They'd come through the crisis intact, and he felt good, all of a sudden.

The other three jumped in, teasing and kidding, and roughhousing, and headed up the stairs to bed. Saving the world could wait until they'd had a good night's sleep.

Author's Note:

First of all, I don't believe a word of it. This is one of those 'what if' stories that show up periodically in fandom. When the idea came to me, I said, "No way," but it wouldn't leave me alone. The only way to get it out of my head was to write the thing. So for all you purists out there, this is an alternate universe Real Ghostbusters story, made valid only because it's not beyond Peter's father to pull such a thing.