IDENTITY CRISIS

by Sheila Paulson

            Egon Spengler frowned at his wristwatch. Here it was nine-thirty, and Peter was still sleeping. Egon hadn't heard him come in last night, but he knew it must have been late because he'd awakened at twelve minutes past two and glanced over to discover Peter's empty bed. Peter's return to Ghostbuster Central hadn't awakened him, but Peter had been there at three-forty, curled up under his covers, snoring faintly. When the other three got up, he hadn't stirred, just pulled the covers more tightly around himself and worked his head into the pillow. Ordinarily, Egon derived a mild pleasure from rousing Peter when he chose to sleep in, but there were no busts scheduled this morning, and Peter had known that when he went out on his date. Amazingly enough, he had chosen to hang up his clothes when he returned because there was no trace of his jacket or shirt draped on the bed pole or tossed on the floor, and even his shoes must have been tucked tidily into his closet. Impressed by Peter's unexpected tidiness, Egon had allowed him to sleep in.

            That had been an hour and a half ago. Peter sometimes made a bathroom run by this time, even if he meant to tiptoe back to bed and hope no one hand noticed he had awakened. Of course, the plumbing in the firehall rattled the pipes, alerting the others that someone had been in the bathroom, and Egon hadn't been so caught up in his research that he would have missed the chugging sound of the toilet flushing.

            Not quite concerned, but curious, he set aside his research on boosting the reading capacity of the aurascope to check on him. Once he'd reminded Peter that the time for sleeping in had passed, he'd head downstairs in search of the PKE meter he must have left there last night. It wasn't in the lab and he hadn't noticed it in the bedroom when he awakened. Egon was certain he'd left it on the table next to the computer. Maybe Ray had borrowed it. Knowing Ray, Egon wouldn't have been surprised if the eager Ghostbuster had decided to wander around the neighborhood taking readings of stray dogs and bag ladies in the hope that they were really ghosts or demons in disguise.

            With a smile for Ray, wherever he was, Egon headed for the bunkroom.

            Peter lay curled tightly in a knot on the bed, his face scrunched up as if in fierce concentration. For the first second, Egon couldn't hear him breathing; then, as if his flash of alarm had telepathed itself to Peter, the sleeper drew a deep, regular breath, then another.

            "Peter?"

            One green eye opened, and he stared at Egon. After a second of disorientation, as if he had completely forgotten who Egon was, he produced a lazy grin. "Hi, Egon. Is it noon yet?"

            "If it were noon, we would have hauled you out of bed long ago," Egon remarked pointedly.

            Peter considered that remark with sleepy concentration. "Okay," he said. "Time to get up?"

            "Precisely. The rest of us are working."

            "But if there's no bust this morning...." Peter began, a doubtful wrinkle on his forehead. Higher reasoning and Peter didn't often communicate when he first awakened.

            "We do perform other tasks than actual busts, in case you had forgotten, Peter. There are always traps to maintain, packs to recharge, records to maintain, readings to take. And of course we must maintain the firehall--which includes, as I remember, your turn to clean the kitchen. Winston has already left to go shopping."

            Peter sat up promptly. "Clean the kitchen. Right." He threw Egon a mock salute. "Aye, aye, Captain."

            Egon's eyes narrowed. "Peter, are you up to something?"

            Absolute innocence shone from Peter's eyes. The look seemed unnatural, somehow, as if Peter were trying too hard. It simply didn't feel right. Hmmm. Had he done something he didn't want Egon to learn about? "No, I'm not up to anything, Egon. I forgot about the kitchen. Sorry. I'll go do it now."

            That was worse. Egon could usually read Peter's expressions and tell when he was choosing to obfuscate, when he was exaggerating, when he was kidding, when he was just having fun. Yet no trace of those particular expressions showed now, only an unfamiliar glitter in his eyes. He was lying. Egon was certain he was lying. He'd never seen quite this side of Peter before. His words were simple--but they weren't quite typical. They felt wrong, and that worried Egon. He'd never quite had this much trouble reading Peter before.

            If something were bothering him, it shouldn't have been that hard to understand. Not that Peter wasn't a complex man; Egon knew full well he was. But Egon had known him since college. If Peter were hurting or upset or in need of help, Egon should have been able to do what needed to be done. Peter wouldn't kid him and lead him on--well, not like this. Peter's pranks and teasing ran along entirely different tracks.

            "Are you all right, Peter?" He laid his palm against Peter's forehead. For the first moment, the flesh beneath Egon's touch felt icy cold, but a second later it warmed to normal. Strange. Had he imagined it? Egon lifted away his hand then laid it back for a second check. Normal. A faint wrinkle of perplexity settled between his brows.

            "Want me to take my own pulse for you, Egon?" Peter asked. He felt for it in his wrist with his fingertips and counted. When he assumed the requisite time was up, he grinned. "Fifty-five. That's pretty normal, isn't it?"

            "Usually." It was clear Egon could expect no straight answers from Peter this morning. Better to back off slightly and observe him from a distance. Peter had a way of sucking in his feelings when something really bothered him. Maybe he'd broken up with Natalie, his latest girlfriend, last night and didn't want to admit it. He'd seemed fonder of her than he usually was of his girlfriends, but Egon didn't know if the woman had reciprocated. Peter rarely brought his dates to the firehall, other than for a quick tour in an attempt to impress. If Natalie had decided to end the relationship, Peter might well clam up. But Egon had seen Peter when he was hurting over a breakup before, and he'd been different than this. Half the time he'd pretend he hadn't cared about her after all, or that the parting had been mutual, and he'd throw himself into hanging out with the guys, kidding around a little too brightly. His behavior this morning revealed nothing specific, nothing Egon could point to and say, "This is wrong." Yet he couldn't help feeling that a problem troubled Peter, a serious matter. Perhaps involving his father? Yet Peter had left at seven-thirty last night to meet Natalie, and his father's last known location was San Francisco. He'd phoned Peter two nights ago to brag about a big score involving selling the Brooklyn Bridge or some other unlikely property. It didn't seem likely Peter would have had the opportunity to make contact with his father while on a date. Had he heard from Charlie since then?

            "I'll go shower," Peter said and got out of bed. He walked off stiffly in the direction of the bathroom, his very gait slightly wrong as if all his muscles had stiffened up and he needed to walk a bit to loosen them up—or as if he had decided it might be fun to imitate the walk of a Hollywood mummy. Was he hurt and covering it up? No trace of a limp, no obvious bruises, although his pajamas might conceal them. He hesitated in the hallway and glanced back at Egon, his eyes shadowed and measuring. His mouth quirked in a smile that sent an uneasy shiver through Egon. It was almost the prankster smile, but not quite. For an instant, Egon thought he saw something almost malicious in it, although the imagined malice slid away to bland innocuousness the instant Egon conceptualized it. He must have seen the perplexity in Egon’s eyes, and wanted to hide whatever it was that was causing him to act just slightly off.

            The bathroom door closed behind Peter and after a second, Egon heard the shower start. Peter had been known to conceal minor injuries from his friends, but he'd also been known to capitalize on them, use them as an excuse to stay in bed, to coax the team into bringing him coffee and extra pillows. He loved it when he could get away with something like that--and he also used his shameless angling to be coddled as a means of reassurance that, even though he was hurt, the problem wasn't bad enough for the guys to worry about. He wasn't doing that now.

            There had been nothing glaringly wrong about the conversation. The "is it noon yet?" question had been pure Peter. The rest had been a conversation that could have taken place between two acquaintances, not two men who had known each other for more than fifteen years. A stranger might not have felt a difference, but Egon and Peter were hardly strangers, and Egon did.

            Most people, encountering a friend whose behavior seemed a little off suddenly, would shrug aside any questions and let it go. Everyone had an off day, and Peter had never been a morning person. But Egon was a Ghostbuster. When people stopped acting normally, even when the difference was subtle, he had to consider that such behavior might have paranormal reasons. Demonic possession might be one possibility, such as Peter's experience with the demon Watt, although that was definitely the far extreme. That weird smile hadn't made Egon think of demons, just that Peter might have resented Egon's scrutiny. But still.... Various other psi factors could be involved. Maybe he could take a reading of Peter to make certain nothing of the sort was wrong. A biorhythm reading might reveal physical changes--the onset of an illness, for instance--although the meters weren't really configured to detect that. It might explain Peter's gait as he had walked out of the bunkroom.

            If there were anything remotely paranormal in Peter's odd behavior, Egon meant to discern it. Once the possibility had occurred to Egon, he switched into scientist mode. He would detect the reason for Peter's behavior, make certain there had been no psi tampering with his friend. Once he had ruled out such possibilities like a good scientist, he could proceed with more mundane explanations. Peter was the psychologist, the inveterate student of human behavior. Psychology wasn’t Egon's field, but he'd learned to know his friends very well. Peter might come out of the shower refreshed and normal. Yet somehow, Egon didn't think so, although he had no scientific basis for such an assumption. Perhaps it was time to gather data.

            Egon headed downstairs in search of his lost PKE meter.

            Although he searched the entire firehall, and recruited Ray to help him in the search, he couldn't find one. Strange. Had Ray taken them off to work on them? Had Slimer decided it would be fun to hide them from Egon. The little green ghost had been known to pull such pranks before. If Ray didn’t know where they were, Egon would ask Janine if she had seen them, or if she had seen Slimer acting suspiciously.  

*****

            "What about Slimer?" Ray volunteered as they stood in the garage after he and Egon had completed their futile search for the missing meters. Janine should be back from her break at any minute, and Winston would return from his grocery run within the hour. Since there were no scheduled busts, he'd taken Ecto and the guys could always call him on the mobile or even call the grocery mart if an emergency came up. There was sure to be a meter in the car, since they kept one handy at all times. "You know how the spud can be. Maybe he thought it would be fun to play with the meters and then left them somewhere."

            Boy, did that make Egon frown, although Ray was sure he’d already considered that possibility. Ray knew how much Egon loved his meters. He was always playing with them--he never called it playing, of course--refining them, updating them, improving their quality as the team learned more about ghosts and the energy they possessed. Egon's play was always extremely scientific. But now he stood there, shifting restlessly from foot to foot, his brow washboarding as he pondered. He was awfully worried about it. Ray couldn't help wondering, too. Was it possible a nasty gooper had swept in during the night and stolen them? Ray doubted it. Except for Peter, the team had been awake since before eight am, and nothing terrible had happened. Ray had performed the routine morning containment unit check, and everything had been fine. No energy leaks, no changes in the readings, no evidence of tampering. Janine had checked it again before she went on break and had handed Egon the clipboard to sign when he came downstairs in search of the missing meter. They had built so many safeguards into the unit that the first sign of tampering would not only kick in the redundant protection systems but also trigger alarms. More likely Slimer had decided he wanted to play Ghostbuster and had forgotten to bring the meters back.

            Egon glanced over his shoulder, and his frown deepened. "I haven't seen Slimer this morning."

            "Gee, neither have I. I didn't even notice he wasn't here. Sometimes he does a garbage run in the morning before the dumpsters get emptied." He grimaced. Much as he loved the little green ghost, he was no fonder of the reek of decaying garbage than the rest of the guys were. Maybe he could design a function into the throwers to draw off or neutralize bad smells. Slimer wasn't the only ghost who stank. A lot of them had a nasty stench. If the Ghostbusters could neutralize it at the start of a bust, it would be so great. There was no way to neutralize slime that Ray could think of, but maybe if he put his mind to it.... Peter would bless him if he could do that. "Hey, Egon, do you think we could work out a meter or thrower setting to tone down the stench?"

            Egon had begun to turn away but at the question he stopped, and Ray could see the birth of new scientific curiosity in his arrested pose. "Hmmm. An interesting suggestion, Ray. Do you have any ideas?"

            "Not yet, but I'll think about it. But first I'm gonna go see if I can find Slimer and see if I can get the meters back."

            "I'll take another look at the containment unit," Egon agreed. He headed for the basement stairs, and Ray trekked up to the second floor, wondering what could have made the meters disappear if Slimer hadn't taken them. But he must have. If the containment unit was fine, then it probably wasn't a ghost sneaking around the premises, even though it could have been.

            He stopped at the sight of Peter standing in the middle of the kitchen with a blank expression on his face. Egon had said Peter was awake and in the shower, and he'd obviously finished, but he hadn't bothered to shave or comb his hair. While Peter might like to hang out in his sweats when he didn't plan to go anywhere, he usually looked pretty decent otherwise, although one could never tell him for fear of evoking his ego. This morning, his hair stuck out at odd angles, still slightly damp from the shower, and he'd chosen to wear blue jeans and his favorite blue silk shirt to clean the kitchen.

            "Not awake yet, Peter?" Ray asked with a grin.

            Peter jumped and whirled. He must have been a million miles away. The handle of the broom he wielded came within an inch of knocking the big casserole pot off the top of the refrigerator. "Oh," he said. "Ray. Hi." His forehead wrinkled. "You called it. Not awake yet."

            "You better go and comb your hair before it dries that way," Ray kidded. "You know how you feel about a bad hair day."

            Peter dropped the broom and clutched at his hair. One eyebrow lifted smoothly. Gosh, Peter wasn't usually able to do a Spock with a single eyebrow--whenever he tried, both of them would go up. He must have been practicing on the sly. "My life is ruined," he groaned, his fingers busy in an attempt to tame the punk-rock spikes.

            "If that's all it takes, your life must be ruined after every bust when you get slimed," Ray kidded.

            A weird frown darkened Peter's face, but he smoothed it away immediately. "I have to clean the kitchen," he said and snatched the broom. He was sure not happy about cleaning, Ray could tell. Odd he hadn’t fixed his hair before he came downstairs. Peter could spend an hour before the mirror in the morning, making sure he lived up to the Venkman "perfection". Today he seemed sloppier than usual. Maybe because he was stuck with the cleaning.

            "Egon getting on your case?" Egon had said Peter was acting a little strangely this morning, but Ray had teased him for his suspicions and asked, if it was Peter, how could they tell? He was sorry now that he'd said that. He should have picked up on Egon's very real discomfort, but he'd become caught up in the great meter search and hadn't really thought about possible problems with Peter. But Egon had been right. Peter was acting weirdly. Something about him, something Ray couldn't put his finger on, felt slightly off. Ray stared at him.

            "When doesn't he?" Peter asked. Usually Peter got a kick out of the time-to-get-up game between him and Egon, but this morning he sounded almost resentful. Ray pursed his lips as he tried to reason it out. Peter wouldn't be mad because Egon had awakened him. Dragging Peter out of bed when he tried to sleep in was a challenge, one both men enjoyed. Even if he'd had a crummy date last night, he wouldn't take it out on Egon. He might gripe a bit or turn the tables on Egon to distract him from how Peter was feeling, but he wouldn't do it maliciously.

            Maliciously? Where had that thought come from? He studied Peter. Peter's face turned neutral, bland. That was weird. He had to be up to something.

            Peter hefted the broom doubtfully. Ray beamed at him. If this was the start of a prank, he had to get his two cents in first. "Peter, we've told you a dozen times. Wipe the counters before you sweep the floor."

            "I have to get the broom before I start, don't I, Ray?" Resentment, not teasing, rang in his voice.

            "What's wrong?" Ray put all the sympathy he could produce into the question. "You're acting funny, Peter."

            "And you're not, Stantz? A guy who sleeps with a Stay-Puft doll? That's hardly normal."

            Ouch. That wasn't teasing, either. That was pure scorn. Ray knew he could be a lot like a kid--he subscribed to the philosophy that life was meant to be enjoyed and that he didn't have to conform to stereotypes to enjoy himself. Peter might kid him about his collection of Star Wars action figures or his love of Captain Steel comic books, but he'd never used Ray's hobbies to put him down before. Did Peter really think that? He tried to stiffen his face and draw the hurt in where it didn't show. Something unfamiliar, something eagerly unkind flashed in Peter's eyes and disappeared so quickly Ray wasn't quite sure he'd seen it and not just imagined it. He sucked in his breath.

            The pain at Peter's disdain must have showed in Ray's face because Peter pulled himself together and slung his arm around Ray's shoulders. "I didn't mean it like that, Ray. I'm just having a bad day. No reason to take it out on you." Ray wanted to believe it, but he couldn't help but think that Peter was only offering up a sham apology, that he didn't regret his words. That had to be wrong, didn't it?

            "Peter?" he said doubtfully.

            "I'm a jerk, Ray," Peter said. He gave Ray's shoulders a squeeze.

            For an instant, Ray felt a sensation of intense cold, then it was gone and Peter grinned at him hopefully. Ray hesitated. This was all too weird. Why was Peter doing this? Was he hurting so bad he wanted to hurt Ray, too? That was so unlike Peter. No matter how bad he might feel, the last thing he'd ever do was take it out on his buddies. Ray frowned, wondering what was going on.

            "Hey, guys, how about a hand with the groceries?" Winston called from the bottom of the steps, and the tableau shattered.

            "On the way," Peter called. He thrust the broom at Ray and hastened down the stairs. Ray propped the broom against the counter and followed, but he wasn't happy. Peter might be annoying at times. He could be thoughtless, and go out of his way to bug people, but he was never cruel. And his words had been. If just teasing, he'd have looked and sounded different, friendlier. As if he...as if he actually liked me. But there had been nothing in his eyes, his face, or his posture to suggest the slightest degree of friendship. That scared Ray as much as it hurt him. The guys knew each other so well that even subtle personality changes stood out. Like this did.

            Was it because they'd had so many strange encounters with ghosts that he feared Peter had experienced one last night on his way home? Could ghosts influence people to act strangely? Or was Peter just grumpy for some reason he hadn't chosen to reveal? He could do a clam imitation with the best of them when he was hurting. He didn't usually lash out at his buddies when he felt bad, though, except as a distraction or a last resort. That remark about Mr. Stay-Puft still stung. Did Peter really feel that way, think Ray was immature, a kid? He'd always claimed that he got a kick out of Ray's sense of fun, and that Ray was there, hard at work, when it really mattered, on a bust. So why did he say this now?

            Gosh, what if somebody had slipped him a drug on his date? Would that make him act that way?

            I better go talk to Egon. 

*****

            Arden Carr had reached the age of forty without developing a great deal of tolerance or compassion. Most people, he had come to realize, were fools, unworthy of his time. The rest either had their uses or were harmless enough to ignore. His ex-wife had proven a fool, irritating in the bargain, and she had vanished to the South of France in the company of a steward she had met on an Air France flight and never looked back, even after that fling ended. When Arden thought of her at all, which he had trained himself to do as rarely as possible, he insisted he was well rid of her, and closed his mind to the faint little niggle of regret that lurked in the back of his mind that she might not have been tempted had he granted her more attention, treated her with more warmth. Better not allow such a thought into his conscious mind. Her desertion troubled his dreams, but, awake, he chose to allow regret a very small place in his life. Some said he had hardened when Zoe left him. He chose to call it waking up to reality.

            Thus it was when he stepped out of his Long Island home to drive into the City to the firm of stockbrokers of which he was CEO that his first instinct when he saw his limo was conspicuously absent and a stranger sat on his front steps was annoyance.

            The stranger sat slumped, his elbows propped on his knees, his head buried in his hands. Brown hair tangled and jacket wrinkled, he must have been a street person, although they rarely ventured into Arden's exclusive neighborhood.

            Two things stopped him from stepping back inside to call for the police. First, he knew Harrison would arrive momentarily with the car. And second, he recognized the cut of the jacket as Armani. Not a battered cast-off, either, but one that, allowing for its crumpled state, must have put on new and clean the night before. Not a street person, then. Possibly one of his neighbors, a bit the worse for wear after a night on the town.

            Arden bounded down the stairs-- he kept fit with games of racquetball and a little weight work--and circled the intruder. At the sound of his feet on the cement, the man lifted his head as if it weighed more than the Empire State Building, and gazed at Arden with mute apprehension.

            He was a stranger, not a close neighbor after all. A lock of brown hair sagged against a bruise in the center of his forehead, and dulled green eyes squinted at Arden as if he couldn't see him clearly. Something green and nasty with the consistency of motor oil smeared one sleeve of the Armani jacket, and a little of it had crusted in his hair just above the bruise. Apart from the surface dishevelment and the ooze, he appeared relatively presentable, but whatever had happened to him had dazed him. Possible concussion, Arden diagnosed, although all his "medical" experience came from watching TV.

            What a nuisance. Now he would have to call 911 and wait around until the paramedics came. Perhaps he could leave the stranger to his housekeeper. He was pondering what he ought to do that would create the least difficulty for himself when the dull-eyed stranger spoke.

            "Who are you?" His voice matched the weariness that made his shoulders sag and his muscles tighten, but he cringed as if he expected blows.

            Arden didn't consider himself inhumane, and while he knew kindness was not one of his virtues, neither, he hoped, was cruelty. "No one who means you harm."

            The stranger didn't believe him. Skepticism flashed in the green eyes. "They all say that," he muttered. His fingers probed the bruise and he winced. Then a terrible desolation filled his face and a great shudder shook his whole body. "Do you know me?" he asked forlornly.

            "I don't. You're sitting on my front steps, but you're a stranger to me."

            All hope fled. He gave a soft incoherent cry and his face vanished into his hands. He mumbled despairingly, "I don't know who I am," and the agony in his voice made Arden think fancifully that the dark angels God had cast out of heaven must have sounded like that when they realized what they had lost.

            Arden abandoned the plan to flee as soon as Harrison brought the limo around, and sat beside the stranger on the steps. "Do you know how you arrived here?" he asked.

            The stranger's head shot up and his mouth quirked. "Give me a break, bunky. We're talking amnesia here. That means I don't remember things. I think my own name might be a little easier than figuring out how I would end up on a rich man's estate."

            "Evidently you haven't forgotten sarcasm," Arden countered. "Nor the ability to reason. A rich man's estate?"

            "Get real, Jack. There's a big house behind me. Major bucks. You're not exactly dressed out of a Goodwill bin." The spurt of annoyance faded and he sagged again.

            Arden rather enjoyed the sarcasm. It proved the man's spirit wasn't crushed. He had always rather despised those he could bully. It never stopped him from bullying them, but it added a layer of contempt. The stranger, even dazed, possibly concussed, evidently amnesiac, didn't evoke contempt, nor did he prod Arden to pity. A stirring of reluctant admiration warred with sympathy in the CEO.

            "I don't believe I've ever seen a Goodwill bin," he said, amused. "Nor, from the look of that Armani jacket, have you." The man's shoes were Gucci, but his shirt looked off the rack, suggesting he aspired to fashion on a limited budget. Not a rich man, then, merely one who enjoyed as many of the good things as he could afford with what he had.

            The stranger's head came up again and he fingered the sleeve of his jacket. "I look like I slept in a Goodwill bin," he groaned. "My mouth tastes like the floor of a taxi."

            "Thank you for that colorful image."

            "Who are you, anyway?"

            "Arden Carr. This is my home. It's on Long Island. You do know where Long Island is?"

            "And me a kid from Brookl--" His voice broke off and then he said more softly, "A kid from Brooklyn," his eyes wide with wonder. "I remember something."

            Arden suspected the words had come instinctively and doubted he would be able to pull more after them consciously. From the wrinkling of the stranger's forehead, that was clearly the case.

            Perhaps a little creative intervention. "Your name!" Arden snapped.

            The stranger's mouth opened, lips puckered for a second, then he shook his head. "Nope. It didn't work."

            "You understood what I was trying to do?"

            "I'm not exactly stupid, Jack. You were playing for another automatic response." His fingers worked energetically against his temples. "God, my head aches."

            "You have a large bruise there."

            "Tell me. I've been feeling it. So, what happened? Somebody whacked me on the head?" He inspected himself for possible jutting fractures, and discovered the goop on his sleeve. "Gaah. Slime."

            "Slime?" A good name for whatever it was.

            "You know. Slime." He waved a vague hand in the air in an attempt to clarify the word. But his brow scrunched at the effort.

            "I can see, yes. Can you stand?"

            "Gonna kick me off the property, Jack?"

            "My name is Carr. I'd prefer that to Jack."

            "Sure, Arden."

            Reluctant amusement trickled in. "Are you trying to be annoying?"

            The stranger grinned. It was a lost, lonely grin, but it was real. "Heck, no. When I try, I bet I can be a lot more annoying than this." He heaved a sigh, and Arden realized what a colossal effort drew forth the smart remarks. He was lost, but he wouldn't admit it. He must be waging a battle inside his head to find himself. He hadn't given up, either. Arden discovered he admired the man.

            "Come on, we'll go inside and I'll send for the paramedics." He watched the stranger carefully for any evidence such a call would be unwelcome. But while the man's mouth twisted, it looked like the twist any healthy man might employ at the thought of needing medical attention, although the man looked far from healthy

            He raked his hands through the already-messy hair and fumbled to his feet. For the first second, he wobbled and Arden shot out an arm to catch him, then his balance steadied.

            The limo purred around the corner of the house and slid to an abrupt stop. Harrison burst out. "I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Carr. Who--are you having trouble? Shall I call the police?"

            "No, the paramedics. My friend may have a concussion."

            Harrison yanked off his cap and created chaos in the neat arrangement of his carroty hair. "Paramedics?" he echoed doubtfully, then hastened to add, "Yes, sir," and dived into the car for the mobile phone.

            "So sympathy isn't your usual gig?" the stranger asked at his side. He had found his balance, but the lines on his forehead and the hollowness in his eyes suggested he was putting on a good front.

            "You could say that," Arden agreed, amused. "In truth, I've even astonished myself. Come on, we'll go inside. I'm sure I can find a place for you to sit where the, er, slime won't damage my furniture."

            Green eyes assessed him carefully. Arden realized he wasn't the only one sizing up the situation. Whatever test the stranger used, Arden must have passed it, because he was allowed to assist the man up the steps. Harrison finished his 911 call in time to come and help. From the narrowed state of the chauffeur's eyes, he meant to hang around as bodyguard until the paramedics arrived. Just as well. The stranger really was hurt--that bruise wasn't stage make-up. But that didn't make him automatically trustworthy.

            Once he was planted in a wooden chair, the soiled jacket hung on the inside doorknob, the stranger frowned. "Hey, if I have a wallet, maybe I can figure out my name." He dug a hand into his hip pocket and came out empty. "I bet we're talking mugging here, although why they'd dump me out here in Long Island...." His voice trailed off. "Which means I don't live on Long Island, doesn't it?"

            "Apparently." Arden kept his voice dry, but he had seen the panic that lurked in the back of the green eyes. In spite of his brave front, the guy was terrified. Who wouldn't be? The sense of self was so strong that, without it, how could a person function? Arden knew he would not only resent fiercely the loss of self but would feel no less terrified.

            Empathy? Amazing. What is it about this man?

            He continued quickly, simply because he knew himself to be less than articulate in matters involving feelings, "The paramedics will be here soon. I'll send for a glass of water for you." He glanced over at the lurking Mrs. McCabe, and gestured the housekeeper closer. "A glass of water for my friend."

            Her eyes nearly popped out. "Yes, sir," she said and whisked away.

            "Not a friend kind of guy?" asked the stranger. The fear in his eyes made way for a shrewd understanding that had Arden feeling awkward, as if he'd waved his emotions about in the boardroom. The man should have been cowering in fear, full of despair at the loss of his memory. Instead, he was analyzing Arden.

            "What are you, a shrink?" Arden asked involuntarily.

            "Nah, not me. I'm a--" The automatic response petered out and his mouth hardened. "All I've got going for me are my instincts," he admitted, as warily as Arden might have. "And they're yelling loud and clear that you're going out of character here."

            "I am. I understand it no more than you do."

            "Must be the Armani jacket," said the stranger with a crooked grin. "Maybe I qualify as one of the elite."

            Arden hid a matching grin. "Perhaps," he said, and turned to accept the glass of water from Mrs. McCabe and pass it to his new houseguest. A part of Arden was glad the paramedics would take the stranger away and allow him to resume his life, rid of an unsolicited complication. But another part, a part he didn't often acknowledge, knew he would hate to find himself out of the loop before he discovered the identity of the stranger. 

*****

            The demon Rumain smiled. So far, so good. He enjoyed the process of throwing the Ghostbusters off balance. They wondered and suspected, and he was quite certain Spengler had already considered the possibility of demonic possession. With a smirk at Peter Venkman's face in the mirror, the demon turned away. Not a bad form, for a human. There might be a great deal to be gained from its continued use. He would have to ponder that. As Peter Venkman, he could pass among humans without alerting anyone to his presence. No one would guess how much more he was. No one would try to harm him, to exorcize him, to entrap him. He would be free, passing among humans, at liberty to seek out prey without arousing a single suspicion until it was too late. He would like that.

            But first, Rumain had a task to complete, one that would be triply satisfying. He had to destroy the Ghostbusters so completely that they could never harm demonkind again. He would then free his brother demons, and any other trifling spirits, from the containment unit. The havoc that would create in the human realm would be sheer delight to watch. And finally, the process of destruction would feed his inner hunger, feed the cravings he had for that wonderful human emotion, fear. He would make them fear, not only simply for their lives and for the life of Peter Venkman, but deeper fears, more insidious fears.

            All humans feared things, some simple--insects, heights, even death. But others had more intricate fears, fear of failure, fear of abandonment, fear of loss. Rumain had plundered Venkman's puny human mind, learned about his friends, the other Ghostbusters, learned what dreads they tried to conceal. Venkman had fought him hard, resisting with all his strength, but that strength, although great for a human, was no match for that of a demon. Rumain had learned, learned enough to know how best to destroy the Ghostbusters. First, he would prey upon their weaknesses until he had them off balance. Then he would strike, evoking their fears, allowing the glorious energy of human panic, human failure, human despair to nourish him.

            "You won't win," Venkman had insisted, even as he lost the battle. "They'll be too strong for you."

            "You value them too highly. Thus you will never see them again. I rip your mind to shreds. You will wander, lost, helpless, when I am gone, and you will not even know them. All that remains is the knowledge that you have lost what matters most, that you are alone."

            He felt the horrified shudder run through Venkman's form and reveled in the glorious despair, absorbing it, feeling his strength grow. It was wonderful.

            Venkman kept on struggling. "No. You're not gonna...."

            Rumain shut him out with a touch to his forehead, then watched him reel backward and collapse. He would waken to loss, a loss he could not understand. Perhaps, in time, he would recall, perhaps not. But by then, it would be too late for his friends. They would be drained and dead, or broken and no longer a threat.

            Rumain smiled as he remembered Venkman's collapse. All that remained was to remove him, to abandon him in a place where he would not be immediately known. In his uniform jumpsuit, he would be recognized quickly. In street clothes, out of context, he might make someone wonder where they had seen him, although possibly not. Humans were generally unobservant. But it would scarcely matter. The entities from the containment unit would be free, following Rumain's lead, as they pillaged New York.

            It would be glorious.

            He called himself to order, putting on a Venkman expression, yet one with a slight twist. He had used the task of cleaning the kitchen--one far beneath his dignity--to get a feel for the place, to interact with Stantz and with Zeddemore, to test out his ability to know what Venkman knew, to deceive them, and yet to put in a few well-chosen words to start their downfall. Stantz had been hurt by the stuffed animal crack. Wonderful. One would think he was a child, so much pain flashed in his eyes before he stiffened and controlled it. Rumain saw he was trying to work out explanations and justifications, to wonder if Venkman were sick, drugged, even possessed. Ah, but with no meters to use for testing, he would never know Rumain's true nature.

            With Zeddemore, he'd been a bit more subtle. Zeddemore protected the team. He had joined them last, bringing with him experience of combat. Combat was good. Rumain had roamed, invisible, upon many battlefields, savoring the acrid taste of fear, the despair, the grieving over fallen comrades. There might be a plan in that, too. He would have to see how best to use it, to determine how to exploit Zeddemore's inner fear that he might fail the team, that he couldn't protect them. Rumain would have to work on that.

            There was still Janine to interact with. A woman, of course, and Rumain held women in contempt. Easily frightened, although Venkman's memories suggested this one was stubborn and brave. All the more pleasure in evoking fear in her. How to do it? The usual way? Threat of the usual way? He beamed while there was none to witness the un-Venkmanlike twist of his mouth. Anticipation created the best fear, anticipation of a threat from an unlikely source. Not only fear but betrayal of trust. Yes, that was good. He might not waste his time with the entire process, a process that might all too easily be interrupted and trigger difficulties too soon. Overcoming disabilities was not a problem for Rumain; he thrived on it. But there was no hurry. He would stretch out his pleasure in the Ghostbusters' pain as long as possible. He granted himself the whole day.

            Spengler suspected, not the truth, but that there was a danger. Good. Let him realize too late he should have acted upon his suspicions. That would be excellent.

            This would be tremendous fun. 

*****

            It was mid-morning when Peter ventured downstairs. Janine, typing away industriously at the quarterly report, looked up and saw him, and narrowed her eyes. Ray had said Peter was acting kind of weird this morning, and just one look at her pet annoyance proved that Ray had been right. Egon hadn't said much when he'd come down briefly, but he'd asked her to let him know if she saw anything unnatural about Peter's behavior.

            "You will call me immediately if there is anything out of the ordinary," he had cautioned her, and his mouth was tight when he said it. Uncertain of his meaning, she had vowed to contact him if Peter's behavior changed.

            "I will," she'd promised. "But I've got some ideas."

            This might be her kind of mystery. He'd been out with his babe of the week last night, one who had turned into a babe of the month, and now, from what Egon and Ray said, he was remote and irritated, and acting out of character. Any woman could tell at a glance that he'd been dumped. She didn't blame the guys for missing the signals. They were guys, after all, and in spite of his towering intellect Egon was probably the most clueless man since the dawn of time when it came to areas of the heart. Ray, sweet Ray, was so shy and sincere when he dated that Peter's more cavalier attitude probably convinced him Dr. V was just out for a good time, but Janine knew better. She might give Natalie a quick call later to sound her out, although she had only met Peter’s new girlfriend once.

            As for now, better to pretend Egon and Ray hadn't talked to her. Egon had even bemoaned the fact that Slimer had evidently decided to play Ghostbuster in the night and had made off with all the PKE meters. Had he meant to take readings of Peter? Surely a breakup with a girlfriend wouldn't alter his biorhythms, would it? Winston had grinned at her before he had departed to pick up some parts Egon and Ray had wanted for the construction of several new meters. He ought to be back soon. Peter would definitely be a fifth wheel when it came to equipment design. He'd probably grown bored with passing screwdrivers and listening to techie talk and decided to escape.

            She narrowed her eyes at Peter as he made his way down the stairs. The guys were right. He wasn't quite himself today. No trace of a broken heart in his expression, but this was Peter. He'd have died before he'd let himself look vulnerable in her presence.

            "I have to say, Peter, I wouldn't have expected you to grub around in your good shirt."

            Peter looked down at the blue silk involuntarily. A couple of stains marred the front, and one of the cuffs was slightly damp. He grimaced. "Could be worse," he said as he touched a spot. "It could be slime."

            "You're awfully philosophical this morning."

            "What can I say, I'm a philosophical kind of guy." He winked at her.

            "Right. And I'm Nancy Reagan."

            He blinked at her doubtfully. "I thought you were Janine."

            "Oh, that's good, Dr. V." She wrinkled up her nose at him. Sometimes he could be so annoying.

            He came around behind her and put his hands on her shoulders, his fingers massaging gently. They were ice cold.

            She shrieked and ducked away. "What are you doing? Have you been defrosting the fridge? Your hands are like ice."

            He lifted them away and tucked them into his armpits. "Sorry, babe."

            "Call me babe again and you won't have to worry about cold hands because I'll chop 'em off at the wrists."

            He grinned. It was that I-can't-resist-a-challenge look, even if it appeared slightly off true. A trying-too-hard effect. Natalie must have dumped him. Poor guy. She was almost tempted to cut him a little slack, but their relationship didn't work that way. He wouldn't thank her for it.

            He grabbed her shoulders again. Ewww, just what she wanted, smelly hands from his armpits. They were warm now. What did he do, carry little heating packs under there? She risked a cautious sniff, but couldn't detect any obvious eau de Venkman. Just as well. She didn't want to kill him when his heart was broken.

            His fingers kneaded gently, soothingly. Ahhh, that felt good. Nobody gave better neck rubs than Peter. She leaned into it, glad there was something she could allow that might make him feel better.

            One hand migrated southward--toward her breast. That was outside any rule they'd ever made. She grabbed his wrist in the nick of time. For an instant, he pitted his strength against hers.

            "Take your hand away or I'll get Egon to transplant your brain into a rutabaga," she threatened. He wouldn't really do it, would he? Not even Dr. V could be that dense. He'd never been grabby with her. None of the guys had, not even Egon, whom she'd probably have let get away with it. Heck, she'd probably have encouraged it. Peter might flirt with her and kid her and pretend, in a joking moment, that he wanted to sweep her off for a wild weekend of nookie, but when the chips were down, she thought of him as a big brother, and she knew he considered her a kid sister. This was soooo not Peter.

            He lifted his hands. "Sorry. Sometimes the temptation just gets too much."

            "Yeah, right. I can tell." But a part of her halfway understood. He'd been dumped. She was sure he'd been dumped. He was hurting. Here was another woman. What he was doing, she was sure, was thumbing his nose at Natalie, but he'd sure picked the wrong way to do it. He'd never pulled a stunt like that before, be he ever so annoying. "Try that again and I'll get the guys to neutronize you at full streams."

            He pasted on a regretful look that made her narrow her eyes suspiciously. No real apology there. Instead, he almost looked like it wouldn't take much for him to try again. "Sorry, Janine," he repeated.

                        Insincerity, thy name is Venkman.

            The phone rang. Janine snatched it up. "Ghostbusters. Whaddya want?"

            "My name is Lester Roach, and I'm a paramedic in Port Reynard."

            "Long Island? You got ghosts out there?"

            "No. I'm calling about Dr. Venkman."

            Were they complaining about him as far away as Long Island? Figured. "What about him? You want to talk to him?"

            A blank pause, then Roach collected himself and said doubtfully, "He's there?"

            "Standing right beside me. Why?"

            "Oh, well, if he's there, then I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry to bother you." He hung up.

            Janine stared at the receiver. That had been weird. Why hadn't the paramedic expected Peter to be here? Was it something to do with that old con man, Charlie Venkman? Last she heard, Peter's dad had been happily scamming away on the West Coast, but she supposed he could have gone to Long Island and started creating havoc out there. If so, then why wouldn't Lester have wanted to talk to Peter?

            "What was that all about?" Peter asked. She glanced up at him and saw him squinting into space, his mouth tight, his eyes dark and angry. Now that was a different look for Peter. He didn't get cold and angry. When he was mad, he exploded and the whole world knew. She had a feeling he understood what the call was about but that he wasn't going to tell her, or the guys, either, and that was even weirder. When Peter was in trouble, he had to know his friends would stand at his side. He trusted them. He'd go to them. Maybe he'd be reluctant to admit to trouble, but when the chips were down, he knew how much he could rely on them.

            "Some guy out on Long Island asking about you. He didn't expect you to be here."

            Peter's eyes still held that icy coldness that was so unnatural. "Come on, Big J. If he didn't expect me to be here, why the heck did he call? Probably just a groupie," he concluded dismissively.

            "Then why didn't he ask to talk to you?"

            Peter shook his head. "Like I should know the minds of groupies?"

            "I think you know the mind of that one," she blurted. "What's going on, Dr. V? Something's wrong. I can tell. It's more than Natalie, isn't it?"

            "Natalie?" he echoed blankly as if he'd never heard the name before. He caught himself at once. "Nah, nothing to do with Natalie." What was wrong with him that he couldn't even lie convincingly? She felt herself begin to worry.

            "You broke up with her, didn't you?"

            He hesitated. She could see his mind working, deciding what to tell her. Deciding what lie to tell her. That was definitely not her Peter. "What is wrong with you?" she demanded.

            "Nothing," he said smoothly. "Nothing at all." He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. "But you know too much. You see more than you should, and it won't work. You're in my way."

            "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She struggled in his icy grip, but it would have been easier to break away from King Kong. This was nuts. What was wrong with him? Was he on something? She'd never known him to do drugs, but maybe Natalie had slipped him something? Could a ghost be affecting him? The meters were missing, Egon had said. What if a ghost had taken them so there would be no warning? She wasn't sure what to do, but her stomach knotted. She could handle herself given warning, but how could she have known to suspect Peter? He clapped one hand clapped over her mouth to keep her from crying out, he dragged her back to the lab behind his office. The cold from his hands seeped into her body, numbing her, and although she struggled wildly, she couldn't twist away from him. He snatched up an abandoned handkerchief of Egon's and jammed it into her mouth so she couldn't cry out, then he forced her down on the couch.

            For one appalled moment, she thought he meant to rape her. This can't be happening! That gleam in his eyes held waaaay too much lust. Peter would never pull something like that, not in his right mind.

            His right mind?

            Cold fear pulsed through Janine, fear as icy as his touch. Something was wrong with Peter, something far beyond her ability to deal with. Was he drugged out on something? Possessed? God, the way the guys busted ghosts like crazy, he might well be a magnet for something dark and threatening. Egon had said he was acting oddly. He and Ray had been searching for the missing PKE meters. What if Peter was possessed? What if he'd taken the meters away on purpose so no one could detect an entity within him? What if the supposed creature within him thought nothing of rape? Of murder?

            Writhing furiously, Janine managed to knee Peter in the groin, but he didn't even flinch. "You'll regret that," he said tightly. "You will definitely regret that, little woman." He backhanded her hard, so hard that she saw stars. A detached portion of her mind registered that she really did; it wasn't just a descriptive phrase in books.

            Whoever had hold of Peter had more than Peter's muscles. No matter how fiercely she kicked and clawed and struggled, he subdued her with insulting ease. God, no, this couldn't be happening.

            Then he grabbed a handful of wires from one of Ray's projects and used it to secure her hands behind her back and tie her feet together. She flexed her wrists to keep the bonds from being too tight, but he simply held her hands together and made sure the wires were unbreakable. He grabbed a cloth and tied it around her mouth to keep the gag in place. All the while, those cold eyes bored into her, eyes that held not one trace of Peter Venkman.

            God, he was her brother in everything but blood. If the entity made him do this, how could they ever get past it?

            Assuming the entity meant her to live.

            It saw the fear Janine couldn't hold back, and triumph gleamed in the icy green of Peter's eyes. "Yes, fear me. Fear me, my sweet. Glorious fear. I want it. I need it."

            He glared down at her, the lust still lurking, even though something else, a dark hunger she couldn't understand, dominated it. God, she hated being helpless under that gaze, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing the fear she felt. Instead she glared at him. This wasn't Peter. Peter would never do anything like this.

            With the gag in place, Janine couldn't speak, but she glared at him with all the hate she could project and hoped that Peter wouldn't think she meant it for him.

            "Despise him, fear him," the entity said. "And do not think I will not finish what I have started. But for now, you are an inconvenience. I will save you, save you till the other Ghostbusters are dead. I will have them die believing I did what I intended." He grabbed her blouse and ripped away the collar. "A trophy, for their edification," he smirked. "To convince them I have done what I claimed." He ran his fingernail against the back of her hand, hard enough to draw blood, and dipped the corner of the collar in it, leaving just enough faint marks to cause suspicion. "There. Added verisimilitude. Your Egon will fight to avenge you--believing Peter did it. How can any of them survive, when this is over, even assuming I mean any of them to live?"

            He laughed, a vicious sound that could never have come from Peter Venkman. "Or I could let Egon live, knowing I had broken you--knowing Peter had broken you. If he were to kill Peter's body, I would yet survive. Ah, the delight of that." Again that terrible laugh. Janine battled fiercely for freedom but the bonds were too tight.

            When he picked her up, Janine flinched, but all he did was carry her over to the closet and throw her inside. When the door slammed, trapping her in the darkness, she renewed her struggle. She had to get out of here. She had to warn the guys they were in desperate trouble. He couldn't really mean to flaunt the blood-stained fragment and claim he had raped her? She could imagine the guys' reactions. Even if they realized Peter was possessed, what could they do? Without the meters, they couldn't get exact readings of the entity, and without exact readings, they couldn't draw the spirit away.

            How could they protect themselves if they didn't understand the danger they faced? And what about Peter, her own annoying, exasperating, entertaining Peter, who sat behind her office and kidded and bugged her until he drove her nuts? If he were changed for all time, she would miss him so much more than she could ever say. And the guys? If they couldn't fix this, it would break their hearts.

            Fix it? The demon meant to kill them, to torture them first with lies about what had happened here, to make them believe she had been raped, maybe even that she was dead. They'd have to do something--but what if they couldn't fight off the demon? What if it killed them--no, please not that--and then came back for her?

            Janine struggled to spit out the gag but it was too secure. How could the guys even find her before Peter attacked them, too? She tried to yell, but the sound she managed would be lost in the overall noise of the city; traffic noises outside, the subliminal hum of the containment unit. The door would muffle her further. Still she kept trying. Maybe someone would pass near enough to hear. 

***** 

            "You're Peter Venkman."

            It had taken no more than ten minutes for the paramedics to arrive, a two-man team, carrying the necessary supplies as Mrs. McCabe admitted them and gestured toward him. One of them was tall and thin and looked a heck of a lot like a beardless Abe Lincoln would look if he gave up his stovepipe hat and donned a paramedic's uniform. The other one had thick brown hair with a dusting of grey at the temples and one of those faces that would make him look young until he suddenly blossomed wrinkles. He was the one who had spoken.

            The man without a memory looked at the baby-faced paramedic. He knew what paramedics were. He spoke English, and he knew all sorts of things about the world he lived in. He just couldn't remember himself. Yet here was a paramedic walking into Arden Carr's classy house and calling him Venkman.

            What's more, it sounded halfway right, too. Venkman. Peter Venkman. Definitely a familiar name. He knew he'd heard it before, even if he couldn't quite say when. Concentrating on it made it slip away from him, and he clenched his fists in frustration. Even if the guy was right, that didn't make him remember anything. He got nothing from the name, nothing but a vague sense of familiarity. But what did that prove? He knew who the president was, after all. He had a sense of familiarity there, too. Not that he was Bill Clinton just because that name sounded familiar. His knuckles strained into the tightness of his fists.

            "You know him?" Arden asked. The name evidently meant nothing to him. But then he didn't seem the type to pay attention to anything that didn't interest him. All caught up in the world of making money and keeping it, and other people be damned. His kindness to a stranger was out of character. He'd surprised himself. The man without a memory knew that, understood it just from watching him and talking to him a bit. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. Just because this paramedic thought he knew him didn't mean he was anybody a millionaire on Long Island would recognize.

            The paramedic stared at Arden in openmouthed disbelief.

            Am I famous after all?

            "You're kidding me, right?" the guy plunged on. "Doesn't everybody? He's one of the Ghostbusters."

            "Ghostbusters?" The word tasted familiar on his tongue. Venkman sounded right. Peter. I must be Peter or it wouldn't feel so good. Okay, maybe the guy did recognize him. Maybe the name sounded familiar. But that didn't change a thing. He still didn't know who Peter Venkman was. Ghostbusters? No, he couldn't get it. He strained against the wall in his mind, but it loomed as solid as a fortress.

            "You mean those lunatics in Manhattan who chase ghosts for a living?" Arden evidently didn't think much of the Ghostbusters. Chasing ghosts? It didn't feel wrong. It didn't shake him out of hope. Ghostbusters? Maybe, but he couldn't recall one collaborative detail. Nothing to prove the paramedic was right. But he was Peter. He was sure he was Peter, even if he couldn't verify the assumption.

            "Lunatics?" he echoed. "Come on, Arden, give them a break."

            "You remember?"

            He shook his head. That was a mistake. It made the room spiral. Gritting his teeth and holding perfectly still fixed that particular problem, but it didn't help him confirm his identity.

            The paramedics picked up on his dizziness right away. They converged on Peter and put him back in the chair. Out came their equipment and a second later there was a thermometer in his mouth and a blood pressure cuff around his arm.

            "Peter? My name's Lester Roach. You can call me Les," the baby-faced paramedic introduced himself. "This is my partner, Theo Sorenson. I want to check out your eyes. Look at me."

            He shone a light in Peter's eyes while Sorenson finished with the blood pressure reading. What was that for anyway? Reminded Peter of an old TV show called Emergency!, where the paramedics were always doing that. Maybe to see if his pupils reacted to the light? He had a vague feeling he'd been through this before, but it didn't clarify. Why should it? Only in the movies did people got their memories back at the drop of a hat.

            Arden Carr hovered. Look at him, actually concerned. Peter smiled around the thermometer. He'd gotten to the guy. "How is he?" Carr asked.

            "Temperature is normal," Sorenson said, studying the thermometer. "Blood pressure within normal limits. Does your head hurt, Peter?"

            He used the name, too. Was that just a technique to relax him, make him feel comfortable? Or was it a trick, to see if he'd respond? Peter had responded, for just one second before the blank wall hit him.

            "You don't know I'm that guy," he spat out.

            "Maybe not, but Les is a pretty shrewd character. I ought to know. I work with him every day. If he says you're Venkman, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt until we prove otherwise." He suddenly grinned, erasing all resemblance to Honest Abe and sending a wonderful net of laugh lines out around eyes and mouth. If he smiled like that at a little kid, and the kid would take candy from him and go anywhere with him. Just as well he was a paramedic. Peter found himself smiling back.

            "Shrewd character," Les echoed. "That's the way, Theo, acknowledge what a great guy I am." They grinned at each other. Peter sensed the friendship. It made something stir inside him, a longing to know if he had any friendships like that, a feeling that maybe he did. If he did, there'd be someone out there missing him. Worrying about him. If he were really Peter, maybe the other Ghostbusters were looking for him. Maybe they'd contacted the police to find him. There'd be something on the news, especially if he were famous. Famous people didn't just vanish without a lot of hue and cry.

            Yet neither Les nor Sorenson had expected him to be missing. Did that mean he wasn't Venkman? Or just that it was too soon to file a missing-persons report? He had no idea how long it had been since he'd known who he was, since he'd been bopped on the head. Amnesia. It didn't usually work this way, did it? If he'd been in an accident, wouldn't he remember everything but just some time around the accident?

            Something dark and ominous, a threat he couldn't remember, couldn't understand, flashed through his mind. Something that slammed up barricades around his memory. He felt his stomach clench, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut.

            "Peter?" Les prompted. "Are you in pain?"

            Pain? Well, yeah, his head beat like jungle drums, but it wasn't that. It was something else, something he couldn't quite get, something about fear...about using fear.

            Forget, forget. He could hear a dark, malicious voice whispering in his mind. They will die, and you will not stop me.

            His body broke out in cold sweat, and he stiffened in the chair as if he'd had an electric shock. Push against the wall of memory and that sadistic voice would shout at him. They will all die? Who would die? People he cared about? His family? The whole world?

            Right, Venkman? As if you could control the whole world. It's just confusion. That's all it is.

            But his stomach knotted tight. If he didn't remember, everything would go so wrong. He had to get his memory back. He had to learn the truth.

            The wall in his mind was as thick as a barricade. He couldn't work past it.

            "I...it's like there's a threat," he said doubtfully. Was it even safe to speak it aloud? That malicious voice might know.

            How could it know? How could it read his memory?

            "What kind of threat?" Les dropped his hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed it. "You mean a ghost threat?"

            Peter hadn't taken it that far. Could it be? Had the flash of voice he'd sensed been a ghost? A dangerous, threatening ghost that had captured him to get at the other Ghostbusters? Maybe it meant to take them out, one by one. Panic flashed through him. He couldn't remember the other Ghostbusters, but if someone he cared about was in jeopardy.... He was afraid, afraid for someone he couldn't even remember. He had to remember. He had to bring it back.

            "I don't know," he gasped. "It won't come. Just that...." He hesitated, then blurted out, "Somebody's going to die."

            "Who?" Carr demanded. His brow furrowed and he looked down that Roman nose at Peter as if he wasn't sure whether to believe him or not.

            "I don't know," Peter said helplessly. "I can't remember, don't you get it?"

            Arden raised pacifying hands. In the background, the housekeeper lingered, eyes wide and curious. The chauffeur Harrison hadn't gone away, either. He stood agog near the door.

            Peter dismissed them from his thoughts and turned his eyes to Les instead. The guy believed in him. He'd listen. He'd understand. "What am I going to do?" he pleaded.

            Les stared back. He might have recognized Peter, but he was a paramedic, not a Ghostbuster. "I don't know."

            If only such a vast chasm didn't gap before him. Something important belonged in the emptiness, something real, something vital. Without it, what was he? He was alone and he hated that. He belonged to someone. Friends? A wife? Kids? People anyway, people who mattered. Not only had the blow to the head stolen away his memory, it had stolen everything important to him, everyone important to him. He had to get it all back. If there was danger, if he was really a Ghostbuster, a lot of people might be in danger if he didn't remember. People who mattered to him might be in danger. A drive inside him that insisted he protect...someone. He didn't know who, unless it really were the Ghostbusters, and he didn't know how, but he couldn't let that stop him.

            "You really think I'm this Venkman guy?" he asked. Wistfulness rang in his voice, just like a lost kid. Maybe that was what he was right now, a lost kid, a long way from home and from the people who loved him. Somewhere out there, he was sure there were people who loved him. People he loved. It wasn't right that he could forget them, just like that. "I've gotta know. There's this voice in me that's talking about fear and danger." It whispered away at him subliminally, as if it were relishing his fear and panic. He hated that. No matter how he tried to stiffen up and control the desperation that flooded him, it wouldn't go away. It almost felt like it was being evoked, so the evil he could hear could enjoy it. But here he sat, in a rich man's home, and there wasn't any evil around him. Carr had put aside disinterest for him, and his sincerity might have surprised his staff, but Peter could feel the reality of it, see it in the guy's eyes. The paramedics seemed on the up and up, a couple of good guys. But could Peter even judge? He wasn't operating on all thrusters here. He was too out of it to trust his own judgment. "Come on, Les, what do you think?"

            "You look just like him. I didn't even stop to think when I saw you, the way you do when somebody looks familiar but you're not sure why. My kid is a real Ghostbuster buff. He always watches when they talk about the Ghostbusters on the news. He's got a poster of the four of you on the back of his bedroom door."

            "Poster? They make posters of me?" Even in the midst of his panic and the sense of threat he felt, the idea tickled his fancy. "I'm famous?"

            Arden looked down his nose at him. "There is, of course, a vast difference between fame and notoriety."

            His tone wasn't malicious. Peter could hear a note of reassurance in the words. They didn't completely reassure him, because the memory of the evil voice had him too scared to relax, even if the loss of his memory would allow it. But a stubborn side of him, the one that wouldn't give in, even if he wasn't sure how he remembered that, kicked in, and he fell into banter with a surge of relief. It was as if he had found a part of himself in it.

            "You're just jealous because nobody makes posters of Arden Carr," Peter kidded. He turned to the paramedic. "You think I really am this Peter guy?" he persisted.

            "Yeah, and I'll prove it. I'd better, if there's a new ghost problem to worry about. Where's the phone?" He left his partner to finish taking Peter's vital signs. "I'll call and see." Spotting a telephone on a stand opposite the door, he went over and punched in a number. Maybe this guy had ghosts that needed to be, what was it? busted? Nah, he just had a groupie for a son. Maybe these Ghostbusters were so famous everybody--except for skeptics like Arden--knew the number. After a second, someone must have answered because he said, "My name is Lester Roach, and I'm a paramedic in Port Reynard." He hesitated. "No. I'm calling about Dr. Venkman."

            Whatever the person on the other end of the line replied must have proven a setback because Roach's brow puckered. "He's there?"

            Peter's heart plummeted to the very pit of his stomach, and his breathing quickened. If Peter Venkman was at the Ghostbusters place, then that meant he couldn't be Peter Venkman. He'd been sure. Well, he'd been almost sure. Peter Venkman. Ghostbuster. An identity, one that felt dead on target. Especially because of the voice that had whispered in his consciousness. That had been a real memory, one he could believe, even if it was too horrible to think about. Forget, forget. They will die.... How could he imagine something like that? And how could any human enemy be guaranteed that a blow to the head could cause amnesia? It could just as easily have left Peter dead, concussed, even momentarily stunned with no trace of forgetting. Could amnesia be induced?

            Hell, yes, he thought, it could. I'm a psychologist. You can hypnotize.... Psychologist? Where the hell had that come from?

            I'm a psychologist?

            Roach heaved a sigh. "Oh, well, if he's there, then I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry to bother you." He hung up. "I'm sorry, Peter--uh, sir. He was there at the Ghostbusters' headquarters. I didn't talk to him, but the secretary said he was with her when I called. So I'm afraid I was wrong. I could have sworn you were him. You look just like him."

            "They say everybody has a double," Theo threw in. "Maybe he's Peter Venkman's double?"

            Les turned from the photo and let his hand rest on Peter's shoulder again. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have said a word if I weren't so sure. I think we need to get you to the hospital. Let a doctor examine you. Even though you don't seem to have a concussion, we still need to check you out. X-rays and the like, just to be sure, to find out why you can't remember."

            Peter's heart sank. Why did it feel so right to be Peter? "He was there?" he whispered, ignoring the part about the hospital. How could he be there--when he was here? And if he wasn't Peter Venkman, what was that ghostly voice he'd heard whispering evil insinuations into his mind?

            "The woman who answered said he was right beside her." Roach tightened his grip on Peter's shoulder. No, not Peter. Not if Peter was there. But he didn't abandon the name. He was Peter. He had to be. He couldn't go back to being no one.

            "I'm sorry," Les continued ruefully. "I didn't mean to get your hopes up like that, but I was so sure that's who you were. I've seen that poster a hundred times. I've seen you--him--on TV."

            "Maybe I'm his twin brother," Peter ventured. That didn't feel remotely right, but he had to say it.

            "He's an only child."

            "Groupie," his partner teased under his breath, but tentatively as if he understood what a bad time it was for teasing.

            Roach made a face at him. "Johnnie talks about the Ghostbusters all the time. He wants to be one when he grows up. I know all about the Ghostbusters, believe me, Theo." He pushed that aside. "How were your readings?" Back to business. If he couldn't solve it with a heroic identification, he was prepared to fall back on good old medical science. That was a scientist for you. Rational theories all the way.

            Scientist? The guy wasn't a scientist, he was a paramedic.

            Did Peter know a scientist?

            And why did it feel so wrong to have to even ask the question?

            "Apart from this bruise, everything seems good. His vitals are within normal range. You can call it in but I'm sure they'll want us to transport him, especially with the amnesia. They'll take x-rays, see what they can figure out." Sorenson shunted himself back to paramedic mode after the drama of mistaken identity. Was it mistaken? "Sir? Do you know if you were unconscious?"

            Peter blinked up at Theo as he whipped away the blood pressure cuff, and then he exploded. "You want me to remember something? Get real. How should I know? We've already established that I don't know who I am or what happened to me. I thought I might be Peter, but he's there and I'm here. I'm the patient here, not the expert. Give me a ghost to bust and I'm your man but...."

            His voice trailed off and the others all stared at him. "You can't be Venkman," Theo said softly. "He was there, at the Ghostbuster headquarters."

            "That sounded awfully natural, Theo," Lester objected. "What's more, I've seen Venkman on TV, and he not only looks like Venkman, he sounds like Venkman. I know they said he was there, but this just feels like it should be...." His voice trailed off.

            "Yeah, and Venkman comes in stereo? Give me a break." Sorenson planted resistant feet. "His symptoms don't really account for amnesia. Could it be this is all a scam?" He gripped his partner's arm. "Maybe he's setting us up."

            "No, I don't get that feeling at all," Les insisted. "You don't know how many times I've seen the Ghostbusters on TV. Whenever there's a late night interview, I wind up taping it for Johnnie. I've seen him on TV too many times. I know his voice. If you saw someone you watched on TV all the time, you'd know it, too."

            Peter let them squabble. His instinctive words had felt so right. The evil voice whispered to him again, but it held an element of frustration. Fear me, fear me.

            But what Peter felt at the moment wasn't remotely like fear. It was anger. Determination. He was gonna get through this. He was gonna solve it, because nobody imposed anything like this on Peter Venkman. People depended on him. He didn't know who those people were yet, whether they were the other Ghostbusters--and that felt right--or whether it was somebody else, but nobody could come in and steal his memories and then tell him to be afraid.

            Tell him to be afraid? Why? Because it liked his fear? Because it...fed on it?

            Talk about a crazy idea. He didn't know where it had come from, but something inside him insisted that just maybe it might be right. Stealing his memories, his friends, his life, wasn't enough. It was going to relish his reaction. And it was going to hurt....

            He had to figure this out. He had to.

            "Excuse me, gentlemen," Arden Carr intervened. "This is all quite fascinating, but it appears to me that we have a major problem. Our friend here might be an amnesiac but he came out with several things instinctively, before his conscious mind censored him. This implies to me that his memory is still there but that it is blocked. If we have a man who not only looks like Venkman, sounds like Venkman, and breaks off a few times when the implication is that he's a Ghostbuster, then perhaps one might consider that could imply a paranormal situation here."

            Paranormal situation? The voice in his head--a ghost? Peter had already considered that, but now, hearing it spoken out loud, it seemed all the more real, all the more dangerous. There was a Peter Venkman at Ghostbuster Central. But he was here, on Long Island.

            There was one Peter Venkman too many.

            "What are you saying, sir?" Theo asked doubtfully.

            "Believe me, I have no idea. I am not a believer in the mystical realm. I have never seen a ghost."

            Peter could believe that. Arden was the kind of man who would look right through a spirit. A skeptic. If he couldn't balance it in a column of figures, he wouldn't believe it. In spite of his involuntary kindness to one man who needed help, Arden Carr was a hard type. It wasn't that Peter didn't feel grateful to him for taking an interest, but even without memory, he could see the man was no believer. Yet he was the one who had thrown in a suggestion that didn't make sense to either paramedic. But it did, to Peter. It was all coming together. Well, everything but his memory.

            "You're talking doppelgangers here," he suggested. "Aren't you?"

            The four men and Mrs. McCabe stared at him, eyes wide, and the housekeeper put her hands to her mouth as if Peter had suggested demonic possession. Nasty thought. The chauffeur shuffled his feet. He looked like it wouldn't take him much to head for the door and not come back.

            "What do you mean by that?" asked Theo.

            Peter couldn't hold back a grin. Here he was, a guy with no memory, no way to prove a thing he said, but his mind wasn't dead, even if he couldn't put names and faces together in his mind. There was a threat, a threat only he knew about, a threat only he could warn against--and it was blocked away behind the barricade that cut him off from his memory. "You know, doppelgangers. Evil doubles."

            "Evil doubles?" Theo's skepticism radiated out of him.

            Les frowned. "That wasn't really Venkman and you are, is that what you're saying?"

            "I don't know. We could be ten miles off target here--but God, Les, what if that's the truth? I...feel like Peter Venkman, even if I can't prove it. If I am, then who's that with them, making them think he's me? We have to do something." God, he wanted the guys.

            The guys? What guys? The other Ghostbusters? Just trying to think about them brought up a blank white wall in his mind, blocking off all conscious thought. Yet, behind it, stood three shapes, three men. How did he know there were three? He wanted to see them. He ached to see them. Even though there were no names in his mind, there were three great gaps of emptiness where they belonged. His friends. He was sure of it.

            The breath he drew was so strong it shook his whole body. "Think of it," he said. "Les here was positive I was Pete Venkman. After all, I'm famous." He caught himself. "Well, Pete Venkman is famous, anyway. But there's a Venkman at Ghostbuster Central already. You can't have two. Or can you?"

            "Ghostbuster Central?" Les echoed. "Oh, my God, I think you really are Peter. You know too much, even without your memory." He flashed a triumphant glance at his partner, then dimmed it as if the implications of one Venkman too many had suddenly hit him.

            "So who is that at headquarters?" Arden asked. "Just because this is an intriguing theory doesn't mean you can overlook the obvious evidence."

            "Devil's advocate," Peter challenged him. "Aren't you?" All the while, his mind worked hard, but it wasn't taking him any closer. The evil voice still lurked, touching him as if through a distant link. No communication there, just a sense of uneasiness, yet a never-ending tug at the edges of his panic, as if the evil voice found it palatable, a treat.

            Was it feeding on his fear?

            Arden stood his ground. "Someone must be. This is fascinating but it's an incredible leap. There's already a Venkman there, one who is apparently accepted by the other Ghostbusters. How do we know that you aren't the doppelganger?"

            "That's crazy," Les exploded. An ally in a million. "What good would it do for a doppelganger to be here? If I were some nasty ghost or goblin or whatever, and I wanted to take over Peter's identity, I'd get rid of the real Peter in some out-of-the-way place, immobilize him or kill him, and then I'd have my way clear to do what mischief I could at the firehouse."

            "Firehouse?" Arden echoed doubtfully.

            "Get with the program," Peter told him. "Ghostbuster Central is a converted firehouse."

            "See?" cried Les, practically dancing with excitement. "He's got to be Peter."

            Arden squinted at Peter. "So the doppelganger simply dumped you here, on my front steps to get you out of the way?"

            "No, I get it." Theo rose to his full Lincolnesque height, and suddenly Peter was sure the skeptical paramedic had become an ally, had turned into one of the believers. Impossible as it all must seem to them, the two EMTs and Arden Carr now looked at him as if they were certain they had the real Peter Venkman. It was as if he'd found himself. Theo continued, "You don't seem to have a concussion, Dr. Venkman. I bet the doppelganger took your memory by some weird ghost power so he could replace you."

            "He didn't get it all, then," Peter said. The idea of his memory being stolen, of a few fragments floating around in his mind and popping out on occasion, didn't give him much hope that he'd ever get the rest back. It must have needed what he knew to get past any possible suspicion. Even if it could change its appearance to look like Peter, it would still have to know what he knew. What if the doppelganger fooled the guys? Janine must have thought it was really him after all or she wouldn't have said so on the phone.

            Janine?

            Oh, my God. He was remembering. A little at a time, but he was thinking. If he could remember Janine--and his mind conjured up a sudden image of a feisty red-haired woman who could hold her own against ghosts and demons from the Netherworld without raising a sweat--then maybe he'd remember the rest. The guys. They wouldn't come clear. Had the doppelganger taken those memories permanently?

            Peter's heart ached with agony at the very thought. He had to get it back. He had to. They needed him. If the impostor and the evil voice in his mind were one and the same, then his team was in terrible danger.

            "I don't think he took it," Lester insisted. His face blazed with eager excitement. "I think he went through it and assimilated it, but it wouldn't do any good if you remembered and phoned home and warned them. I think he put up some kind of block in your mind to give himself time to do whatever he meant to do, and now it's starting to break down, especially since you're fighting so hard for it."

            "Yeah, adrenaline can do wonderful things," Theo agreed.

            The two paramedics stared at him as if their urging could give his adrenaline a jumpstart and shatter through the wall like a battering ram.

            Peter clutched after Les's theory. If only he was right. If only his urgent need could slam through the wall that blocked him. That would mean he'd remember eventually, he'd get his life back. He'd--

            Oh, my God. "It's there. The doppelganger is right there at Headquarters. Who knows what it's doing to the guys!" His heart tried to gallop up his throat into his mouth. "Readings!" he blurted. The word fuzzed for a second, then he snapped his fingers. "PKE readings. Egon can...."

            His voice trailed off. "Egon," he whispered, and the word sounded like a prayer. "Egon." Eyes scrunched tightly shut, he let the images come crowding into his mind, slowly at first, tantalizing fragments like islands in a vast ocean. He threw himself at them eagerly and the islands grew bigger, bigger until they began to merge, to form larger islands, finally continents. Yes. Yes. Yes. He could feel the barricade crumbling away and he slammed the fragments with every chunk of his will.

            Egon. Egon Spengler, his oldest friend, greatest guy in the known universe. Weirdest hair. Smartest man Peter had ever met, and the guy who had taught him how to trust. He'd forgotten Egon. Forgotten him. The doppelganger had a hell of a lot to answer for.

            Ray. God, how could he have forgotten Ray, who had been his kid brother almost from the moment they met? Ray with that great big heart and enough enthusiasm for any dozen people, would do anything for a friend. He'd be easy prey for the doppelganger, at least at first, worrying about any unnatural behavior, afraid something was wrong with Peter. But he was too smart to fall for it for long.

            Winston. He might not have been with them at Columbia, but had since proven he was wholeheartedly one of them, Winston was so sharp and on the ball that it wouldn't take him long to figure it out. He'd be on his guard; he always was. That combat training kept him on his toes, and he'd appointed himself protector of the other three, who tended to go off on weird tangents at the drop of a hat. You couldn't find a more reliable buddy than Winston.

            And Peter had forgotten them, forgotten his family, the people who had stood at his side against demons from hell. The demon had blocked them from his memory, stranding him here, but he hadn't taken them away entirely. They were there again, in his mind, whole and complete. Shaking with tension and relief, he let it all come back until he was whole again. His fists unclenched, his shoulders squared, and determination flowed through him strong enough to wipe out the distant evil voice entirely. The demon. It was gone, battered away by the shattering of the blocking wall. He'd defeated it.

            Well, he'd defeated it here. It was still posing as him, still lurking at headquarters, deceiving his friends.

            And it meant to destroy his friends. Slowly. Feeding on their fear as they gradually realized something was wrong. It would hurt them, torment them, torture them, and thrive on every second of their pain and panic--until it finally killed them.

            "I am Peter," he cried. "I'm Peter Venkman, and I remember." The truth hit him in the gut like a sledgehammer. "My buddies are in trouble. There's a demon at headquarters in my place. Let me at that phone."

            Theo and Arden echoed, "Demon," and both men looked as if they wished they hadn't heard the word at all. Les only nodded, but his eyes filled with worry. He followed the Ghostbusters for his son's sake. He would understand.

            Peter remembered the telephone number--that had come back, too. Quick as he could he snatched up the receiver and phoned home.

            The line was busy.

            "Shit, shit, shit," he muttered, then he called the operator. "You've gotta interrupt the call. This is an emergency, a matter of life and death."

            The operator didn't raise a sweat. She calmly took the number information from him. A second later the word came back that made Peter's heart lurch. The phone was out of order.

            Out of order? Yeah, and he knew just who had made it out of order. The last thing Mister Feeds-on-fear wanted was the real Peter Venkman calling back and blowing his cover. He'd been standing right there when Janine took the call. He'd have asked her what Les had said, and it would have taken no effort to guess what was going on, to know Peter had been found and identified. Maybe he had expected the block in Peter's memory to last longer, maybe he'd forgotten that Peter might well be recognized, even without memory. But the call had proven the entity was running out of time. What did he want? The containment unit? Revenge on the Ghostbusters? God, if he killed them and reverted to his natural form, there might even be witnesses who would claim that Peter had done it. Right now, he could be stalking Peter's buddies with a thrower, prepared to neutronize them. And Peter was just sitting there.

            He snatched up the receiver and punched in 911. "This is Dr. Peter Venkman of the Ghostbusters," he said in his best professional Ph.D. voice. "There's a crisis at Ghostbuster Central. I need you to send the police over there right away and warn them that there's a doppelganger in my place that means them harm."

            There was a breathless pause, then the dispatcher said, "You can't tie up a 911 call with practical jokes, sir." And hung up on him.

            "Son of a bitch!" Peter threw the phone at Arden. "You call them. They didn't believe me."

            "Surprising," Arden muttered wryly. "Peter. What you told her must have sounded like a prank. You called the local 911. They're not accustomed to you Ghostbusters. I'll phone the police in Manhattan. What are you going to do?"

            Peter glanced at Les and Theo. "Does your ambulance have a siren?" he asked. When Theo nodded doubtfully, Peter said, "I'm going to Manhattan, fast as I can," and ran for the door, two protesting paramedics hot on his heels. They could call in to arrange for the unexpected journey once they were moving and clear it with their dispatcher or whoever made the rules. The guys' lives were at stake, and Janine's. They could call ahead, too, to let Manhattan's finest know what was going down, and even if the siren wouldn't be official, it would clear the roads. Peter would insist they do whatever it took to make sure his friends were safe. 

***** 

            "There, I think it's coming together." Egon snapped the casing into place over the meter he and Ray had so hastily cobbled together. "This is obviously a rush job, and it lacks the refinements we've grown accustomed to, but it should give us quick-and-dirty readings."

            "Winston should be back with those extra parts at any minute," Ray agreed. "Gosh, do you really think Peter might be possessed?"

            "I'm not certain. It's entirely possible he might simply be having a bad day, but even Winston said Peter didn't appear to know where to put the groceries. While that might simply have been one of his ploys to avoid manual labor, it meshes with the rest. I need readings."

            "You think he's okay downstairs?" Ray asked. "I mean, Janine's down there."

            "He hasn't done anything," Egon replied. "There may simply be an unnatural psi overlay. Or we may be overreacting. However, I believe I will go downstairs just to make certain Janine is safe. I can't believe he would harm her. He's simply been unlike himself, not remotely threatening. I have to believe we are overreacting. I have to hope we are." He drew a deep breath. "Yet a part of me can't take the chance. You finish up the second meter. We may need more. The fact of their disappearance...."

            "You think Peter took them?" It wasn't a new theory. They'd batted around any number of around in the middle of the night, and hiding all the PKE meters where Egon couldn't find them appeared ludicrous. However, a possessed Peter might well do it, and a meter reading would prove it. When the demon Watt had possessed Peter, they hadn't had a chance to take readings until his behavior became suspicious--attempting to open the containment unit. If Peter were possessed, what had stopped the entity within from opening the unit as soon as Peter arrived home in the wee hours of the night while the guys were sleeping? He hadn't done that. He'd simply gone to bed, and this morning he'd been acting a little bit off. A casual acquaintance would probably never have noticed the difference, but the guys knew each other far too well for unusual behavior to slip by. No one remained a hundred percent consistent in his actions, and it was entirely possible that Peter was simply having a very bad day. But too many things added up to something unnatural, and the absence of the meters had proven it. Egon had played with the aurascope and come up with some unnatural energy, but it was diffuse and difficult to pin down, and he'd had the device apart before Peter awakened. The modifications were not complete and the readings unsatisfactory. They merely showed that something wasn't quite right. Give him a meter every time for the best results.

            Peter, what is wrong with you? He couldn't hold back the thrill of fear that curled up in his stomach. "It's possible he did," Egon replied. "You know that, Ray. We've been trying to play it calmly, not to let him know we suspect anything. And in truth, it may be nothing."

            "But you don't think so, do you?" Ray's eyes flashed with worry. "You think something's really wrong with him, other than just acting a little weird." He could see the same fear in Ray's eyes that grabbed at his own heart. Worse, he could almost sense something strange and unnatural, a feeling that somewhere, somehow, their fear was noted, appreciated, even reveled in. The idea was so bizarre, so unlikely, that he wanted to ignore it entirely, as a self-indulgent bit of worry or a flight of fancy. But the meters were missing. Something was wrong with Peter. It was not unnatural to worry.

            With an effort, he pushed the anxiety aside so he could focus his energy to concentrate on solving the problem. He had always been able to do that, to shunt away his concern, not to rid himself of it, but to focus on the problem without allowing worry or fear to distract him from what needed to be done. Today, doing that was far harder than normal.

            Egon hesitated. "I do," he said. "Perhaps our jobs make us paranoid, but I'd rather test Peter with the meter and be safe. If he's possessed, we know how to free him from possession. I want to take readings of him immediately." He frowned over the meter as he made the last setting adjustment. "Now we shall see." He flipped the "on" switch.

            The antennae lifted and the lights at their tips blinked wildly. Egon had adjusted the sound down so it wouldn't alert Peter--or rather, the possible presence in Peter--but he didn't need the sound, not with the grid pattern on the screen. Class Seven, powerful. A demon lurked close at hand, its readings even stronger than Watt's. Once Watt had taken residence within Peter, his human biorhythms had muted the readings, not enough to prevent Egon from detecting them and detecting the being's exact frequency, but enough to bland them down. These weren't bland at all. Brow puckered in alarm, Egon reset the meter. He'd worked hard on accomplishing the biorhythm functions in the brief time he'd allowed himself, because he had suspected he would need them. Nudging the gridlines to match Peter's exact readings, he frowned.

            The meter gave no evidence that Peter was present at all.

            His stomach lurched, and the control he'd perfected through years of crises slid away from him on greased wheels. "Oh, dear."

            Ray craned his neck to see and his eyes grew huge. "Gosh. That's bad, isn't it?"

            "It is indeed, Raymond. We had better hurry downstairs. If Peter's readings have been so completely overruled that we can't read them...." His voice trailed off. He could scarcely bear the thought that stabbed him. Voicing it aloud would be even worse.

            Ray's eyes filled with shadows. "You mean...."

            He was going to have to say it. "I mean that it's possible the demon has completely destroyed the very essence of Peter. That we won't be able to get him back."

            Ray stared at him, his eyes far too bright. "Oh, no," he breathed. Then he squared his shoulders and that particularly pugnacious grimace of Stantz stubbornness flitted across his face. "I don't believe it," he insisted. "We're Ghostbusters. It's what we do. We'll get Peter back. I just know we will." His eyes filled with realization that they might already be too late. He struggled to deny it, but couldn't. "We have to," he concluded in a small, desperate voice.

            Egon nodded. Impossible to imagine life without Peter. All these years since their first meeting, Peter had become closer than a brother, family by choice, necessary to Egon's contentment, damn it, to his very existence. They had blandly walked around all morning playing with the meter when Peter's essence might have been in the process of being devoured by a vicious entity. How dare they take their time, assuming everything would be fine? It might never be fine again. The demon Egon was reading had maneuvered them into an impossible corner.

            Egon refused to give up. Surrender Peter without a fight? Impossible. He stomped down the pain and panic so he could concentrate--the effort it took required far more effort than it ever had before, as if the same force that had consumed Peter wanted to consume him--and reached for the lab's proton pack. If Peter--or the entity within him--had stolen the meters, it might have taken the packs, too, but this one was still here, still intact. Egon shrugged his shoulders into it.

            "We'll need another thrower, Ray. Winston took Ecto, didn't he?"

            Ray nodded.

            "You call the electronics shop and see if he's still there. Tell him what we suspect. We'll need him back here immediately."

            Ray reached for the phone, then he stopped. "What are you going to do?"

            "Make sure the entity hasn't harmed Janine. And attempt to detect biorhythm readings at close range." He didn't wait for an answer but tucked the meter into the front of his jumpsuit to free his hands, hurried for the nearest firepole, and slid away before Ray could grab the receiver.

            Janine wasn't at her desk. No one was in sight when Egon landed in the garage. He drew his particle thrower, although he knew he could not risk destroying the demon, even assuming he could restrain it with one thrower. Did that mean Peter had left and that was why there were no readings? Egon refused to allow himself that hope. He couldn't take the chance. If Peter still lived, if his consciousness still lingered in the entity, Egon had to save him. He had to.

            What if he couldn't?

            "Janine?" Egon called. "Peter?"

            At the question, Peter stood up behind the filing cabinets and looked at Egon over the top of them. "Egon," he said. His eyes widened at the sight of the thrower in Egon's hand, then narrowed. He strolled around the filing cabinets and thrust the gate open with his foot. "Just a little creative zapping between friends?" he asked in a voice filled with an unnatural cold sarcasm.

            In Egon's pocket, the meter set to detect Peter's biorhythms remained treacherously silent. Goodbye to the forlorn hope that he'd simply gone out. Egon's heart descended into his boots. "Peter," he breathed, then he braced his shoulders. "What have you done with Peter Venkman?" he demanded coldly.

            "Hey, Spengs, it's me." The familiar nickname sounded so wrong, an obscenity, coming from the entity who had stolen Egon's friend. Egon knew without one further clue, without even the meter readings, that he was no longer looking at his oldest friend. Peter, what has he done with you?

            "Don't call me that," he snapped involuntarily.

            "What's the matter?" scoffed "Peter". "Did I hurt Spengs' little feelings? Get used to it. There is no more Peter. There is only me. You have created another meter to replace the ones I removed. I should have expected that. His memories indicate that you are intelligent. Perhaps he overestimated your intellect. It took you a long time to realize I stood in his place."

            "I knew something was wrong within moments," Egon replied, and realized it was true. The man he had awakened had raised doubts from the beginning. Even for a Ghostbuster, the leap to assuming demonic possession did not come instantaneously.

            "And did nothing?"

            "If there is still a chance that Peter can be saved--"

            "Forget him. I am here now, and the device you created will not detect him. He is gone. I plundered his brain and discarded him. You will never see him again. Not that it will matter to you long, for you will be dead. But you will die knowing your oldest friend died in unspeakable torment, struggling to resist me, and failing."

            The words stabbed like daggers. Peter would have fought with every iota of strength he possessed, knowing that the demon would turn on his friends next, perhaps lulling them with his Venkman act until he could get close. The very thought of that was such torment Egon was sure even the demon could sense it. From the utter glee on the familiar face, not only was it sensing it, it was reveling in Egon's agony. Even...feeding on it? Drawing energy from him?

            Quickly Egon set the meter back to normal. The demon only smiled, twisting Peter's mouth into an expression Peter had never worn before. Hate and hunger, contempt, enjoyment of Egon's pain, all played out there. Beneath it was an urge for speed, an urge to complete the destruction of Egon, as it had destroyed Peter.

            Could it do that? Switch bodies, leave Peter an empty shell and control Egon, destroying his brain? He squelched the involuntary horror he felt at the possibility. He would not give the demon fodder for enjoyment, not when it had destroyed Peter.

            Destroyed him? There had to be hope, a chance to pull him back. The demon might even be blocking the biorhythm readings. It would have learned of them from Peter when it had learned the purpose of the meters, even learned Peter's familiar nickname for Egon.

            Egon hoped Ray was lurking just out of sight listening, but Ray was impulsive. If he heard the demon boasting about destroying Peter, he'd race down to stand with Egon, even though he was weaponless. Stay put, Raymond. This once, don't rush into danger.

            Egon leveled the thrower at Peter. It was cranked up as high as it could go. If he hit the demon at that level, any possibility of rescuing Peter would be gone. Not that he could stop a powerful demon with one thrower, but maybe he could stall until Winston returned. "Don't try anything," he insisted. "You know what these settings mean."

            "They will destroy the host body," the demon agreed. "I am not physical. I will simply separate from the disintegrating husk and seek a new host."

            "I might hold you till Winston comes," Egon insisted. He knew he couldn't do it, not if there should be even one slight chance to free Peter. "Where is Janine?" he asked.

            The demon smirked, a terrible expression. "I had my way with her. She quite liked it. I think perhaps she has always desired Peter. This is quite a decent body, for a human. I let her believe I was Peter and seduced her, and then, when she was moaning in pleasure, I satisfied myself--and killed her." He picked up a piece of bloodstained cloth from the desk and brandished it in Egon's face. Surely that had come from the collar of Janine's blouse....

            Egon's heart turned to stone. It was a lie. Easy to produce a small bit of blood to make his lie believable. It couldn't be true. For Janine to die in such a way, believing Peter had turned on her.... Yet Janine was nowhere in sight. Did her body lie, broken, concealed nearby? Impossible. And Peter.... If he still existed in the prison of his own body, he must have fought and failed, struggling to stop the demon. He had to. Yet the meter said no.

            Janine. Egon shuddered. If this were true, the demon had destroyed two people he loved, and he would not tolerate it. He shunted away his misery and pain and stood like a stone, immovable. "I will destroy you," he said coldly.

            "Then you destroy Peter. Blast me, Ghostbuster. Blast your closest friend. Perhaps I will let him come back to suffer the torment of your attack. Would you like that, to see him die, to see him look at you with betrayal in his eyes as you blast him to death? I shall let him believe you took revenge for the woman's death, that you blamed him for it. When this is over, I shall walk away, leaving the bodies, and your friend will become known as a killer. He will be dead, of course, but he will die with that reputation. Not, of course, that it will matter to him, or to you, who will also be dead. But I shall free the spirits from the containment unit before I go, and I shall organize them to destroy first the other two Ghostbusters, and then this city." He laughed, a twisted sound that could never have come out of Peter's mouth, and tossed aside the scrap of Janine's blouse. Egon watched it fall for a split second, then his gaze returned to the demon. Hate pulsed through him, but how could he show it? If Peter lingered in there, still aware, Egon didn't want him to see the hate and believe even a fraction of it was meant for him.

            "You will not organize them. They will flee in all directions," Egon pointed out. That was what they had done when Walter Peck had shut down the containment unit. He had to keep thinking of the demon, the need to stop it. He couldn't let himself imagine Janine's broken body lying concealed near at hand, or Peter, his brain controlled, the essence of Peter gone from him forever.

            No, not forever. If the demon could allow him to feel Egon's blast, Peter was in there. God, the torment, knowing what the demon had made him do to Janine, what he still meant him to do. Peter was one of the strongest-willed people Egon had ever met, but he had been unable to fight off Watt. Like Watt, this demon was a Class Seven. One human alone could not stand up to a Class Seven. The only reason Egon was still here was that the demon did not fear him, that his ego demanded he make Egon pay before killing him. In essence, the entity was playing with his food. He might even be deriving strength from Egon's emotions.

            Could it do so? Why not? It was a form of energy, an unlikely meal for a major demon, but perhaps a meal all the same. Egon struggled to harden his heart, to turn to icy cold logic, but the effort was beyond him.

            Without biorhythm readings, there was no way to configure two throwers, one set at Peter's exact frequency and one at the demon's readings, to draw the entity out of him. Egon would have stalled, waited for Winston to return, if he'd gotten so much as a flicker of readings, but there had been none. He could only hope that a blast would drive the creature from Peter. If that failed, he would be killing his oldest and best friend--but he would be saving Peter from the torment of permanent possession with no hope of rescue. He would be saving the city from the depredations of a powerful entity. If there had been another thrower here, he would have waited anyway, even without the readings, but Winston wasn't here, and Ray didn't have a thrower. Even the atomic destabilizer was with Winston in Ecto.

            Face to face with a demon who meant to free every entity in the containment unit, Egon had no choice. He drew a shuddering breath, his heart breaking. "Peter, if you can hear me, know that you bear no blame for what has happened." He kept his voice steady and determined. "Know that if it is possible, I will free you, and if I fail, I will avenge you. Ray and Winston will help. In spite of what the demon made you do, it was never you. We know that, and we love you." He gazed into the green eyes, into the hot, angry, hungry expression that lurked there, and could see no trace of Peter in the contemptuous glare. If Peter were still conscious, still aware, he'd probably be yelling at Egon to run, to save himself, but Egon would never do that, not at Peter's expense. He couldn't free his hands to alter the settings on the cobbled-together meter to check for variations in Peter's readings, either, to give himself the confirmation of hope. All he could do was gaze at the demon and hope that Peter could see in Egon's eyes and hear in Egon's voice the truth of their friendship and brotherhood, and the pledge that Egon would stop the entity if it were humanly possible--or die trying.

            He didn't even have the consolation of the slightest flicker of response in the hot, glaring eyes. Teeth capturing his bottom lip to steady it, Egon put his thumb against the trigger and fired at Peter.

            The demon threw back his head and laughed as the particle stream impacted on his chest. The silk shirt caught fire and blazed up and the flesh beneath it melted and blackened before Egon's eyes, and the ghastly, unedurable smell that came with it made Egon's stomach knot and his heart ache. It was all he could do not to pull his shot. The entity screamed, one horrible, anguished cry that sounded entirely like Peter. It was just enough to make Egon flinch and twist with misery but he couldn't stop firing.

            The demon sneered, then he lifted his right hand and threw a bolt of radiant yellow energy directly at Egon.

            It hit him in a huge, diffuse glow and crackled around him like an electrical charge.

            The stiffness went out of his legs and he trickled down to the floor in a puddle, his body twitching with little aftershocks, scarcely conscious.

            The creak of the garage doors opening and the smooth purr of Ecto-1's well-tuned engine drifted across his senses, but he lacked the strength to lift his head and see Winston's return or to shout a warning when Winston yelled, "Egon! Peter!" in a horrified voice. In that cry, Egon heard Winston's utter despair that he had come too late, that he had failed to protect his friends. Winston couldn't endure that. At his despairing cry, the demon chortled with sheer delight.

            Another sizzle of demon energy and Winston cried out, the sound broken off. The muffled thud of his fall against the side of Ecto was nearly drowned out by the sound of the demon's obscene laughter as it chased Egon down and down into the darkness. 

***** 

            The phone didn't work. Ray clicked the button, but he couldn't get a dial tone. That was weird. Maybe another phone was off the hook. He couldn't leave Egon hanging out to dry, though, so he checked the one between his and Winston's beds--no luck--then raced down to the second floor to check the phone there. It didn't work, either. They had several phones all through the firehall. The one in the bunkroom was a separate line, the personal line, and the lab one was connected to the main line. But neither line worked. Phone company trouble? Or the demon that had possessed Peter, ripping the lines free? Ray was pretty sure the answer was the latter.

            He raced to the stairs down to the garage and crept down to the landing. He could hear Egon talking, so he stopped there, just out of sight of Peter--no, the creature that had taken Peter--and listened. The words stabbed him deep; his stomach twisted into horrified knots as he listened to "Peter" bragging about raping and killing Janine. It couldn't be true, could it? Surely they would have heard something. They'd just sat in the lab working while Janine had fought for her life and lost. Ray's heart broke, for Janine, for Peter, who must have been trapped horribly inside, while the demon made his body do unspeakable things. Even if they saved Peter, how could he hope to live with that? How could anyone? And how could they ever convince the authorities that Janine had not died at Peter's hands, but the hands of a demon? Ray crouched on the landing, his fingernails digging into his palms tightly enough to draw blood, his eyes leaking helpless tears. He had to do something. It was up to him. He had to do it. But what?

            When he needed it the most, the answer came. With a surge of triumph that wasn't remotely strong enough to override his grief and anguish, he tiptoed upstairs again and ran madly for the third floor staircase. Hang on for a few more minutes, Egon. I'll be right back.

            He was halfway down the spiral stairs when he heard the sizzle of the thrower, followed immediately by the most horrible scream he'd ever heard. It was pure Peter, pure anguish. Oh, no! What if the demon had left him the second Egon fired? Peter couldn't survive a thrower charge at full streams. No human could. If Egon had just killed Peter....

            Ray galloped down the stairs as fast as he could and pounded across the second floor. The sound of Ecto's return made his feet falter for a second. Oh, no, Winston was walking right into a trap! He yelled, "Winston, look out!" but Winston's horrified bellow of "Egon! Peter!" drowned him out. What had happened? Why had Ray taken so long to think of an answer? If his delay had caused his friends' deaths....

            At the thought, it was as if a strange suction gripped his body, as if the pain and fear and blame were being sucked from him. The demon? Could it control him from a distance? He braced himself, squared his shoulders. It wasn't going to stop Ray Stantz. If he died in the process, Ray meant to stop the demon.

            He galloped down the stairs two at a time, the unaccustomed weight heavy on his back. The sight of Egon and Winston sprawled unmoving on the floor checked him only for a second--Oh, God, are they dead?--then he whirled to confront the demon that had stolen Peter's body.

            Egon had blasted it. In that first second, Ray took in the sight of the smoldering shirt, the horrible charred burn across Peter's chest. Even if the demon left him right now, he could never survive a burn that massive. Only the demon's presence inside him had prevented Egon's blast from neutronizing him where he stood. Only the demon's presence kept the dying body on its feet. Out of the familiar green of Peter's eyes glared a savage, inimical presence, who studied Ray with contempt and unconcern--and hunger.

            "So. One more of them. When you're all dead, I shall walk out of here as Peter Venkman and let myself be seen. Then I will abandon the body and be free." He chortled, a sick, disgusting sound that could never have come from Peter's mouth. "He will be blamed for your deaths. His name will go down in the history of infamy, and the rest of yours as failures who could not save the people of this city, this world. And I will take with me--"

            "I know, all the entities in the containment unit. I heard you." Ray squared his shoulders. From where he stood, he couldn't tell if Winston or Egon were even breathing. If they were dead, if Janine were dead and Peter dying, that made him the only one left. He'd never thought he'd be the lone survivor of his team. He couldn't bear it. But neither could he let his friends die unavenged. Someone had to tell the story; someone had to stop the entity that had killed them all. Ray's chin thrust out. Stubbornness kicked in, a near-automatic reaction, while the pain lingered beneath, a white hot essence that took the heart of him and twisted it. He risked a quick glance at his two downed friends. They didn't move and he couldn't risk sparing his attention from the demon long enough to be sure they were breathing. "You're going to pay."

            "You want to blast me with your little toy, too?" The demon arched one eyebrow. Ray remembered him doing it earlier and how he'd suspected Peter had been sneaking in practice in front of a mirror. It was just what Peter would do, Peter, trapped now in a demon, his body only animated by the entity who controlled him. Was he dead? Dying? Aware at all?

            "It's okay, Peter," Ray said very softly. "I'll avenge you."

            "I'm soooo scared," the demon mocked. He spread his arms and stood there waiting. "Go ahead, little man. Blast me. Your Egon tried, so brave, so heartbroken, prattling of love and vengeance. He failed. So will you, but I will not deny you your chance. Your weapons, singly, are powerless against me. Not against this body, as you see, but I am not bound to the body. Have a go at destroying it. You are not good enough to stop me. You will try and fail, and it will be your fault the people of this city die. Your fault. I will simply flee if the damage is too severe. Even should it die, I will not, for I am immortal and you cannot stop me."

            "Yes, I can," Ray said and fired. He knew he had just one chance, and maybe it was good that Egon had tried and failed, because it had made the entity complacent.

            The SCEPTAC didn't work the way the regular throwers did. It was really nifty, and sucked in entities instead of holding them for the traps. They'd designed it to pull in tough entities, but it only worked a few times before it would freeze up everything around it. They'd used it in Mexico, but they'd reset it since then, and didn't use it that often. Ray had almost forgotten it until he needed it so badly.

            For the first second, the entity smiled, then alarm darted across Peter's face in an unfamiliar twist of expression that Ray had never seen on his friend's features before. In the distance, a siren wailed, and Ray wondered fleetingly whether someone had heard Egon's thrower or glanced in the open garage doors, seen his sprawled friends, and called for help. No time to speculate. He tightened his grip on the SCEPTAC and waited for it to suck in the demon.

            "Come on, come on," he muttered. Then he raised his voice. If it pulled the creature out of Peter and Peter died without it, he still had to do it, but it broke his heart. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said, just loudly enough for Peter to hear if he still could. "I have to. I have to." Tears ran down his face, but he couldn't free a hand to brush them away, and he wouldn't even if he could. Peter deserved to see them. He deserved so much more than such a terrible death, knowing his body had been used to kill Janine, Egon, and Winston.

            Then the most horrible thing yet happened. Peter's body twisted and warped, bent all out of shape, and mutated into something huge and hulking, a vile, putrid green with scales. Taloned claws swiped at Ray as the entity vanished into the suction of the SCEPTAC. The talons missed him by no more than half an inch.

            As the demon slid into the SCEPTAC, Ray shut down power, whipped the heavy containment off his back and peered into the device's viewscreen. An inimical face with nothing left of Peter about it, seething with rage, glowered back.

            "Oh, Peter," Ray moaned softly, then he propped the pack against the steps and flung himself at Egon and Winston, just as the wailing siren drew up out in front. He heard a flurry of urgent footsteps, but Ray didn't even look up to see who had arrived too late. He'd just killed Peter. Now to see if he had any friends left.

            He was reaching for Egon's wrist to check for a pulse when someone flung a stream of questions at him. "Where is it? Did you get it? Is it still here? Are they...?"

            The voice was so impossible that for the first second Ray just knelt there with his fingers pressed against Egon's wrist, scarcely aware of the reassuring thump, thump, thump against his fingertips. Peter! It couldn't be Peter. Peter was dead, trapped in the SCEPTAC with the demon, his body shattered by the possession. Even as that thought crystallized, Ray realized it made no sense. The demon would have been drawn off, or else it would have retained Peter's shape in its prison.

            Ray froze. He could almost hear the thudding of his heart. His lips shaped Peter's name, then he forced his head up. It weighed more than the Queensboro bridge, but he did it.

            A battered Peter Venkman, tired and unshaven, a huge bruise darkening on his forehead, stood in momentary shock beside Ecto, two paramedics crowding up behind him. When Peter took in the sight of the downed Egon and Winston, and the tears on Ray's face, his whole body flinched. "Ray?" he pleaded. "They're not dead. Tell me they're not dead."

            Winston moaned heartrendingly. At the sound, Peter went down on his knees beside him. "Easy, Zed," he soothed. "It's gonna be okay." Hands busy checking for a pulse and comforting the slowly rousing Winston, he looked over at Ray. "Egon?" he pleaded. "Come on, Ray. Is he...?"

            "He's alive," Ray said doubtfully. "I can feel his pulse. Peter? That can't be you."

            "He took my place, Ray," Peter gabbled out. "I didn't remember at first. He caught me on the way to the subway last night and carried me out to Long Island. He put his hand on my forehead and read my memories. I couldn't remember anything for a long time. What happened? Did you get him?"

            "He wasn't you?" Ray had trouble connecting. Who were those paramedics coming in behind Peter? Ray didn't know where they'd come from and their uniforms weren't familiar, but Ray was sure glad to see them. He made urgent gestures to them at his downed friends, but his gaze scarcely left Peter.

            "He assumed my form," Peter said. "Shape-shifted right in front of me." He left Winston to one of the paramedics and dragged the other one over to Egon, then he knelt beside Egon and touched his forehead. "Come on, Spengs," he prompted. "Open those baby blues."

            One look at the real Peter convinced Ray they'd been utter idiots not to know the difference. But the sight of the demon standing there in Peter's form, his shirt half burned off, his chest blackened from the streams was so vivid in Ray's mind that it was hard to look at the real Peter and let the image go. If he did, he thought he'd break down and bawl like a baby.

            "We only had one thrower," he said. "Egon tried that first. He thought you were trapped inside it, that you were possessed. It was so awful, Peter."

            Peter slung his arm around Ray's shoulders. "I know, Tex. But you did great. You got him, didn't you?"

            Ray nodded at the SCEPTAC. "I got him. But Egon and Winston--and oh, God, Peter, he killed Janine."

            Peter stiffened and all color drained from his face. "Where is she?"

            "I don't know. He told Egon he r-raped her and killed her--and that he did it looking just like you."

            Peter's face froze, and he turned even whiter than before, although Ray hadn't thought that was possible. Every muscle in Peter's body went rigid, and his mouth traced a grim, hard line. Eyes hollow with shock, horror, and misery, he put one hand on Egon's shoulder and squeezed, then he stood up. "Take care of him, Les," he said. "How is he? How are they?"

            "It's like an electric shock," Les replied. "But they're coming out of it. I think we'll transport them to be sure. But I'll have Theo call it in. You go and check...." He didn't finish the sentence, and Ray was glad.

            "I'll come, too, Peter." Ray pushed himself to his feet. The tremendous, impossible relief at Peter's return hadn't eased the pain of Janine. He didn't want to see her violated body.

            Peter led the way back to his office. No trace of her there. No evidence of violence, either. Shoulders rigid, Peter opened the door to the lab and forced himself to enter. They didn't find a body there, either. Pressed close beside Peter, deriving his only comfort from his friend's survival, Ray looked around doubtfully. There was still the basement to check--and who said the demon hadn't disintegrated her or taken her somewhere far away, where she would never be found?

            Thump. Thump. Thump. The muffled pounding made both men stiffen, then Peter gave a cry, jumped for the closet, and flung open the door.

            A gag in her mouth, hands bound behind her, Janine glared at them over the tops of her crooked glasses. At the sight of Peter, she flinched, then she caught herself and her eyes narrowed. It took only moments for relief to filter into her eyes.

            At the flinch, Peter jerked back, horrified, but Ray flung himself at Janine and pulled off the gag and freed the wadded-up handkerchief from her mouth. She made spitting sounds and swallowed hard. Then she let Ray put his arms around her. "It's okay, Peter," she said. "I know it wasn't you. I can tell the difference."

            "I wasn't even here, Janine. It was a demon. Can I untie you?"

            "I don't know what you're waiting for." She eyed him doubtfully. "I suppose he told you all a nasty story about what happened to me. Well, nothing did."

            Ray felt his eyes nearly pop out. "He didn't ra--"

            Her mouth twisted. "Rape me? No. He wanted to, though. I could tell. But all he did was lock me up and say he was gonna tell Egon he had. He thought it would make Egon mad enough to do something stupid, and I think he could feed off how we felt, if we were scared or upset." She tried to see past them, and the color drained from her face as she realized he wasn't right there. "Where is Egon?"

            Peter opened his mouth to answer, swallowing hard.

            "J-janine?" The faltered voice made her head come up. When Peter finished unfastening the wire that had bound her, she erupted to her feet and threw herself into Egon's arms. They closed around her tightly.

            "It didn't rape me," she insisted. "I'm all right, Egon. I'm all right."

            Egon hid his face in her hair for a second. Ray thought he even pressed a kiss into her hair. Then he straightened up and let go. Janine drew back as Egon turned to Peter.

            "Peter?"

            Ray could see Peter assessing Egon's condition. He was shaky on his feet, too pale, and trailing a determined paramedic, who hadn't abandoned his ineffectual pleas for Egon to lie down. But the pain and darkness in his eyes had nothing to do with his injuries. Ray remembered the charred demon in Peter's form and knew that image must be seared onto Egon's eyeballs. He stared at Peter, checking him out, the unburned state, the different clothes.

            "Is that really you?"

            "The one, the only, the incredible Venkman," Peter said with forced lightness. "I'm okay, Spengs. It was never me."

            "A shape-shifter?" Winston ventured in the background. Ray felt a surge of relief that he was among the living, too. They were all alive, all safe. They'd survived.

            "Shape-shifter?" Egon clapped a hand to his forehead. "I am an utter fool," he cried. "There were no biorhythms readings. I should have known. But it knew things only you would know, Peter. And I remembered Watt."

            "It took my memories--well, borrowed them for a while--and dumped me out of the way," Peter said. "Part of its plan. Egon, it's me. I'm okay."

            Egon looked at him for a long moment, then he gave a glad cry and he pulled Peter in, just as he had done Janine. He was shaking. Ray saw Peter realize it, and he hugged Egon just as hard.

            "I couldn't remember anything," Peter said. "For a long time, I didn't know who I was."

            He wasn't complaining, or even admitting fear, Ray knew, though both would be true. He was trying to get through to Egon. He proved it by continuing, "Egon, you've got your pack on. Did you have to zap him?"

            Egon hid his face in Peter's hair. "Yes," he said. "He was wearing your blue shirt. It caught fire, and his chest was...." He gulped hard and couldn't go on.

            "My blue shirt?" Peter tightened one arm around Egon and the other came up to tangle in the blond tail. "You zapped my blue silk shirt?"

            Egon gave a faint sputter of laughter that was so close to tears Ray was afraid he'd lose it and start sobbing. But he didn't. Instead he said in a shaky voice, "Only you, Peter Venkman. Only you could worry about a stupid shirt at a time like this."

            "And you love me for it," Peter said positively. "I know you do." He caught Ray's eye over Egon's shoulder, and then Winston's. They moved closer, drawn together in a group huddle, hanging onto each other. Peter opened one arm to draw Janine in, then stretched out his hand, palm outward, to ask the paramedics to wait. They needed this time.

            Peter sucked in a deep breath they could all feel. "That was my favorite shirt," he proclaimed. His hand came back to Egon's neck and rubbed it, and he leaned against Ray to offer him reassurance, too. "So, buddy, you gonna buy me another one?"

            "Peter!" Egon straightened remarkably. His laugh was still too close to tears, but it was genuine. "Must I?"

            Peter nodded. "You sure must." He laughed, too, but Ray could tell how glad he was to be home and safe. Amnesia could have been no picnic. But he'd gotten through it on his own and even brought paramedics right when they were needed. Ray was sure that would make a great story. He couldn't wait to hear it.

            Egon drew a steadying breath, and Ray could tell he had himself under control again. Ray felt so much better himself. It had been horrible, but it was over and they were all here.

            As if he sensed the release of tension that could snap at any second, Peter took charge again. "Okay. Bonding moment over. I need to breathe."

            With a joyous laugh, the team fell apart and grinned exultantly at each other. Ray was so happy he could have danced a jig.

            Suddenly a whole conglomeration of sirens bore down on the firehouse. The neighbors must be having a field day watching.

            "Finally," said Peter. "Once this is over, I'm gonna sue 911 for hanging up on me out on Long Island. Took Arden long enough to get through to them."

            "So," said Les, the paramedic, just before the sirens cut out right out in front and a dozen policemen burst into the room, guns drawn. "Which ones of you are ready to go to the hospital?" 

***** 

            "It took forever to convince anybody to listen to me," Arden Carr explained later that afternoon. He'd phoned the Manhattan police from the mobile phone on the way into the city, and answered more questions than he could ever remember. At first, no one wanted to believe a word he'd said, but he'd kept insisting they contact the Ghostbusters. When they couldn't get through to Ghostbuster Central, they'd decided there might just be something in his story, and they'd finally agreed to send the police over.

            He looked around the garage of the converted firehall. Once he'd done his bit, he'd been out of the loop, and he'd spent his time at the office wondering what had happened, his television set turned to CNBC in hopes of news of the event. He'd called Ghostbuster Central repeatedly, but the line remained out of order. When he'd checked with the police around three, they simply said that all was in order and that the Ghostbusters were at the hospital. Hardly in order. So Arden asked his secretary to phone every hospital in the city--no small task--and finally learned that three of them, including Peter, had been examined and then released. So he had taken off early--rank hath its privileges--and directed Harrison to drive him to Lower Manhattan.

            The red-haired woman at the desk must be Janine. She looked up at him and frowned. "We're closed today," she started.

            Peter popped up behind the file cabinets at the back of her work space to see who had come, and a big grin lit his face. "Hey, Arden," he said. "Welcome to headquarters. Guys, this is my rich buddy, Arden Carr."

            Three other men stood up beside him, but Peter hurried out of his office and came to greet him, trailed by his friends. "Hey, guy, thanks. The police finally showed up. I got on their case for not listening to you, and I'm gonna see that whoever you talked to out there in the wilds of Long Island gets what's coming to him. The guys could have died."

            "We're all right, Peter," said a very tall blond man with a hairstyle that Arden couldn't imagine wearing. He held out a hand to Arden, who shook it. The man had a very firm grip. "Egon Spengler. Thank you for helping Peter when he was in trouble. He told us how you helped him."

            "Against his instincts, too," Peter said. "I'm just so incredibly deserving that I can get through to anybody."

            The man with auburn hair poked Peter in the ribcage and the tall black man groaned. "Don't let him kid you," he said. He stuck out his hand. "Winston Zeddemore. This is Ray Stantz. And Janine, our secretary. Pete says you're not a believer in ghosts."

            "Well," Arden admitted wryly, "I wasn't. The concept of doppelgangers never appealed to me."

            "It wasn't technically a doppelganger," Ray plunged in. "It was a demon shape-shifter who fed on negative emotions. It took Peter's form and his memories and tried to be him so it could freak us out and feed while it killed us all. It didn't do a very good job of it."

            All four men shifted fractionally closer to each other, a supportive gesture so natural as to be instinctive. Arden felt an unexpected tug of envy at the sight of their closeness. It was not a feeling he had ever pursued, and had never felt the lack of it before. Now, observing Peter, surrounded by his friends who had, by all accounts, realized quickly that the demon wasn't him and had taken steps to rectify the situation, he couldn't help wondering if perhaps he had missed something important in his life. If he'd been more open to Zoe....

            "It's gone now," Peter said with a grin. "Ray trapped it." He rumpled Ray's hair with open affection.

            Only yesterday, Arden might have felt contempt for such a display. Oddly, he didn't now.

            "And we've got Peter back," Ray said with a huge grin. "Gosh, we don't know what we'd do without Peter."

            "Probably not have to be teased every ten seconds," the secretary threw in.

            Peter winked ostentatiously at Arden, but went to her and slung his arm around her shoulders. She tensed for half a second, then allowed herself to lean into the embrace. "You love it," he told her. But he relaxed when she did. They made wry faces at each other.

            "Yeah, the way I love it when I stop hitting myself on the head with a hammer." In spite of her grimace, Arden saw a flash of warmth in her eyes.

            Peter squeezed once, let go, and gestured at Egon to take his place. Egon frowned at him very sternly, but he didn't object when Janine slid in beside him, and he put a wary arm around her shoulders as if he half expected bombs to explode as a result.

            Peter nudged him, then thrust out his hand to Arden. "You were great today," he said. "Shows what a guy can do when he has to."

            "If there's a message in there, Peter, I don't find it very subtle."

            "Subtle?" Winston chortled. "You expect Peter to be subtle? Guess he was different with amnesia."

            Arden looked at Peter thoughtfully, and picked up on the knowing gleam in everyone's eyes. "Oh, yes," he said. "I'm sure Peter can be excruciatingly subtle, if he chooses to. Point taken, Peter."

            "So, gonna take the plunge? The water's usually...interesting."

            Arden frowned, then his face cleared. "I believe I will," he said. And wondered just what Zoe was up to these days.

            He left the Ghostbusters to their happy reunion with Peter and went out to Long Island trying to imagine what it would be like to have lives like theirs. The job might be horrifying, but to have three brothers in all but blood standing at with a person would make it endurable. No, it would make it well worth doing. 

***** 

            "You do know it wasn't me you blasted, right, Spengs?"

            Egon looked up from the array of parts spread out on the lab table, components of the new PKE meters he planned to build to replace the ones the nasty demon had swiped and probably threw in a dumpster somewhere. Peter was glad he had that task ahead of him. It would give him something concrete to do, something to focus on besides that vivid image Ray had described and that Peter didn't really want to think about, the charred copy of the one and only Peter Venkman--on a day when there had been two.

            In the end, he, Egon, and Winston had been taken to the hospital and examined, but none of them had been admitted. Egon and Winston had to deal with unbalanced electrolytes from the demon's attack, and Peter had x-rays based on the bruise on his forehead. In spite of his vagueness when Arden had found him, he didn't have a concussion, just demon-induced amnesia that had passed on its own. They were all under doctor's orders to monitor each other and return at the first sign of difficulty, but there had been no trouble. Just being home, alive, together, was the greatest cure Peter could imagine.

            The demon had planned it all out, felt its way carefully through the morning, testing, provoking. Creating doubts. Then it had gone full steam ahead with its plan. Peter didn't like to think what might have happened to Janine if Ray hadn't thought of the SCEPTAC, what would happen to the already-downed Egon and Winston. The demon had fed on each of them, swallowed their doubts, their panic, their anguish. But it was their determination, their knowledge of each other, and their stubborn persistence that had beaten it.

            Peter had been glad Arden had come by to check on him. Maybe the experience would shed that stiff armor he'd worn in the beginning. It might be fun to see what happened there, give the man a call in about a month, see if he had reverted to type.

            Janine had gone reluctantly home at quitting time--Peter had carefully bugged her until then to make sure she was comfortable with him again, after what the demon had done and threatened to do in his image. He was sure she'd jump if he sneaked up on her, but that was easing. He'd keep an eye on her for the next few days, just to be sure. She hadn't let them drive her home, not even Egon, and Peter thought that was a good sign.

             Once the guys had finished supper, and Egon had phoned Janine to make sure she had made it home all right, he immediately retreated to the lab. Peter wasn't sure he liked the look on Egon's face. Ray was a little stiff, too, but with Ray, healing could be easier. Just knowing things were okay could do it for Ray, at least most of the time, and Winston, too. Ray wasn't wallowing in guilt, thank goodness. Winston looked a little peeved with himself for going off and leaving the others unguarded, but after a few reassurances from the guys he was putting himself together again. But Egon hadn't yet unwound, and sometimes, with Egon, Peter needed to prod a bit, or at least flaunt a willingness to listen.

            As for Peter himself, he needed a distraction of his own, and since he was a psychologist, he went there. He knew he probably needed to unwind as much as Egon did, but he could do double for the price of one here. So he flung the question at Egon, and waited to see how Egon replied.

            Egon's hands stilled on the electronic components. "Yes, Peter, I do know that."

            Peter tapped him on the forehead. "In here you do. How about in here?" He poked Egon in the breastbone.

            "That is rather more difficult." He hesitated, then he spoke very fast. "I took readings. There were no biorhythms. I didn't know it was a shape-shifter, and of course it wanted me to think it was you, simply possessed. Without biorhythms, the rescue method we employed when Watt possessed you wouldn't have worked." He stared at his hands for a long moment, then he looked up. "I wanted you to know I didn't just arbitrarily blast it, thinking it was you."

            Peter simply stared at him. "Is that what's got your butt in a sling? Give me a break. It would never have occurred to me--or anybody who knows you--that you wouldn't have tried to rescue me if there'd been a chance in a million to do it. Listen up, Spengs. There wasn't a chance because it wasn't me. 'Course you didn't read my biorhythms. They weren't there."

            "I would have taken any risk to save you, Peter."

            "You had better." He grinned. "Come on, Egon, you and Ray did the right thing all the way, the only thing. If I'd really been possessed, you'd have saved me just like you did that time with Watt." He grimaced. Not a good memory. The amnesia had been better than that, although not by much.

            Egon turned his attention back to his hands. "It...screamed when I blasted it, Peter."

            Ouch. Peter shivered involuntarily. "You know it wasn't me. It was trying to freak you out so it could gobble down your pain. Demons just aren't nice guys." He put his hands on Egon's shoulders and felt the muscles, taut and tense under his grip. "I'm glad we zapped and trapped that one. It made things a little too personal for all of us." He gave the rigid shoulders a squeeze. "But we're okay. Come on, Egon. No guilt for holding the demon off long enough for Ray to think of the SCEPTAC. Deal?"

            Egon hesitated, then he reached up and encircled Peter's wrists with his hands. "Deal." The muscles eased fractionally. Progress. It would take more than one night to throw off the effects of the day. That was only natural. But at least some of Egon's tension relaxed. One eyebrow lifted. Peter had never been able to do that. "What about you?" Egon asked.

            "Well, I wouldn't recommend amnesia as a rest cure." The isolation, the aloneness, still rang in his head. He had his friends back, his life back--but now he knew what it would be like if he lost them in every way that mattered. Just recalling the emptiness made his stomach shiver. He let go of Egon and took an involuntary step backward.

            Egon's head lifted sharply. "Are you all right, Peter?"

            Was he all right? The demon was gone, and that moment when he'd seen Egon and Winston flat out on the floor with Ray hovering over them so miserably had not been as bad as it seemed. They were alive. He remembered everything he'd thought he'd lost. So he produced a smile. It took a little effort, but he meant it. "I'm me again. You guys aren't dead. That counts as all right in my book. Long as you're okay." He shivered. So much for being the big, brave psychologist. "I didn't know who I was, Egon. I didn't have a clue."

            "That must have been...difficult."

            "You called it. The weird thing was, I was still me. I mean my personality was the same. I was making smart remarks to old Arden--and hey, he's a CEO. Major bucks. You should see his estate. He's got a stretch limo with a chauffeur. How about that, a new rich friend."

            "Only you, Peter." But Egon's eyes were knowing. He could tell Peter was being flippant because it was easier than admitting pain. But Egon had admitted his own. Peter owed him equal honestly.

            So he drew his breath and plunged on. "The worst part, though, was knowing there was something important, something I couldn't remember and that it was vital. Part of it was that the demon was gonna come in and replace me. I remembered afterward that he'd said he was gonna kill all you guys and then let himself be seen, so that when I came back--he never meant my memory to be gone forever--I'd be arrested for murder. He was gonna gobble up any fear and pain he caused, then take us all down, and I was the one he happened on first. He would have grabbed whoever he could get for his game. He had it all planned."

            "Thank God Ray remembered the SCEPTAC," Egon said with a sudden smile. "It was the only chance we had with all the proton packs in Ecto--that was very poor planning on our part--and Winston off picking up meter components."

            "Ray was great, wasn't he?" Peter beamed. Poor Ray, thinking he was blasting Peter, but still doing it because it was the only way to save his downed friends and the city. "It must have half killed him."

            "Gee, Peter, it wasn't that bad," said Ray from the doorway. He stood there, a bowl of popcorn in his hand, Winston at his side. Perfect timing.

            Peter rolled a skeptical eye at him. "Truth time, Tex." If he and Egon could do it, Ray could, too. It would clear the air. And the air sure needed clearing.

            Ray hesitated, then he bobbed his head. "Okay, it was awful, Peter. We thought he'd possessed you, and we didn't have any choice but to blast him. Only he was so fast, he got Egon and Winston first."

            Winston grimaced. "Yeah, Pete. I came in and Egon was on the floor and the demon was standing there, all charred, looking like you were about to collapse, and Ray and Janine were nowhere in sight. I got out of Ecto and he zapped me before I could get to a proton pack. This was not a fun one." He draped his arm around Ray's shoulders, and Ray flashed him a quick smile about a thousand watts dimmer than the usual Ray Stantz delight.

            "You called that right. For any of us." Peter shivered. "What a crazy business this is."

            Egon looked at him in sudden alarm. "Too crazy, Peter?" he asked, and his voice was dead level because he was struggling to keep it that way.

            They all stared at each other. How many days like this one could any person endure and stay sane? Peter could tell the same thought had occurred to all of them. Was it worth it? Was anything worth what they'd gone through today? They all knew and understood the question. Times like this, it was almost as if they were telepathic together.

            But, in a way, that ability was the answer. Peter smiled slowly. He looked at his three friends, all of them alive, all of them in one piece, all of them together. For them, anything was worth the price they paid. "No, just business as usual. Long as we're all here, standing up for each other. Doing what we have to do because--hell, because it's right." He shook his head. "My pop would have a fit if he heard me say that, but it's true."

            Egon's face warmed, and that helped Peter. He could feel the sensation spread. "We are all here," he said, quiet peace replacing the flatness of his earlier tone.

            "We're alive, and we won," Ray cried, and the triumph and exuberance in his voice were pure Stantz, the wattage brightening.

            "We're a team," Winston exulted, and that was the bottom line.

            Peter couldn't hold back a smile as he echoed what he'd said atop Dana Barrett's building when they thought they'd defeated Gozer. "It's Miller time."

            "It's a Kodak moment," Winston countered.

            Ray held out the bowl, his smile so broad it practically split his face. "Popcorn, anyone?"