The Jaws of Darkness

by Sheila Paulson

            Peter Venkman always claimed that Slimer couldn't carry a tune to save his life--or, in the case of the little ghost "death"--but Ray Stantz didn't really care. After all, he'd put up with Peter's so-called singing for years. Maybe, in the process, he'd become tone deaf. Alone with the spud on a boring Sunday afternoon at Ghostbuster Central, Ray had finally taught Slimer how to sing rounds, and Ghostbuster and ghost were happily singing together, more or less in tune--at least on Ray's part.

            "Row, row, row your boat," Ray caroled.

            "Wow, wow, wow a boat," Slimer chimed in against Ray's, "Gently down the stream.

            "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...." "Genty down a steam."

            "Life is but a dream." "Merry-a, merry-a, merry-a, merry-a.

            "Life is budda d'eam."

            "Good one, Slimer," Ray praised and patted the green ghost on the head. He made a face at the nasty, oozy feel of slime and looked around for a paper towel to wipe his hand.

            "Sing 'gain," Slimer urged. "Mo' wounds."

            Ray pictured Slimer, whose English was already garbled, massacring Frere Jacques. "Maybe later," he said. "I told Egon I'd check his latest experiment. He probably won't be back for an hour or so."

            Busting had been slow for the past few weeks, and the guys didn't usually accept calls on Sundays unless it was an emergency, so Egon had gone to a physics symposium to moderate a panel on new developments in the science, especially the ectoplasmic variety. Winston was spending the whole weekend at a mystery convention, talking "whodunits" with other fans of the genre, and Peter, who had another new girlfriend, had chosen to spend some time with her. Peter went through girlfriends faster than the Ghostbusters went through tubs of margarine, but he had fun with the process. Ray couldn't help wondering what would happen if Peter ever seriously fell in love. It hadn't happened since Dana Barrett, their very first client as Ghostbusters. Ray could not imagine Peter, or any of them, giving up Ghostbusting, but eventually they'd be too old for fieldwork. Would they have to mentor new young Ghostbusters?

            Well, that was a long way off. They were only in their thirties, after all. They had a lot of good years ahead of them. Maybe by the time they reached their forties, Ray and Egon would design newer, smaller, lighter proton packs that would be easier on creaking muscles.

            Ray approached Egon's new device that sat humming away, lights blinking, monitor screen active, on the far lab table. Egon had named the boxy, brooding machine an Ectoplasmic Energy Collector, or EEC. Some ghosts could be overwhelmed by a concentrated dose of a more powerful P.K. energy than they possessed, so Egon had set the machine to draw in random energy from any Class Seven or below ghosts who happened to pass the area, not quite enough to alert spirits to the process, but enough to increase the overall psi readings of the device. Egon had adjusted the device to filter out Slimer's particular readings so his constant presence wouldn't contaminate the test. Once the machine attained a full charge, Egon would pop the container into a new projection device he and Ray were still working the bugs out of, and use it to overwhelm Class Six ghosts. If the prototype proved successful, they could carry the charged device on busts. Egon was positive it would work. Peter made rude noises about it, and Winston eyed it uneasily as if he expected it to explode, but Ray knew that their reactions were all in fun.

            The power levels on the EEC remained steady. No Class Sevens had wandered past since the last time Ray had checked.

            Ray tapped one of the dials fractionally. It slipped slightly and he frowned. He'd have to tell Egon. Maybe if he tightened the connection.... He wandered over to the cabinet where they kept their tools.

            Behind him, Slimer screamed like a steam whistle and the EEC beeped softly, the faint sound nearly drowned out by Slimer's panic.

            Ray dropped the screwdriver he'd just grabbed and whirled. "Geez, Slimer, give a guy a warning when you're gonna--"

            The sight of the looming black ghost that menaced Slimer made Ray break off in mid-word. "Get away from him," he called. The ghost hovered ominously between Ray and the spare proton pack they kept in the lab. "Slimer, to me!"

            Egon's machine hummed and beeped louder in reaction to the new spirit. Ray wondered if that would help. The ghost didn't seem to notice, but that was the way the machine had been designed.

            The black ghost turned its attention on Ray. Its eyes were as black as the rest of him, nearly invisible in the overwhelming darkness. If they hadn't glittered wickedly, Ray would never have seen them without a closer scrutiny, and getting up close and personal was the last thing he wanted. For an entity so nearly shapeless, it exuded a nasty menace. One quick glance at the EEC proved the entity wasn't a Class Seven. A little dial below the monitor screen registered the energy levels present in the near vicinity.

            The black blob registered as a Class Five. Slimer was one, too, but he was about average for the category. Some Class Fives were more powerful than Slimer, and nastier. Ray would have bet his week's salary that this one fit in at the high end of the scale.

            "Slimer, get over here," Ray called again.

            The black ghost stared at Ray. To see the glinting eyes in the midst of a dark nothingness made Ray almost feel like he was gazing into a black hole. Not that eyes looked back out of the event horizon of a singularity, but the darkness was so complete Ray couldn't repress a shiver. This was so weird. With no defined face to show emotions, it still projected an aura of evil so strong that Ray could feel it all the way down to his toenails.

            Slimer kept on screaming. Much more of this and the neighbors would call the police, to report a murder was taking place. Ray hoped they wouldn't. He didn't need police. He needed a thrower. Class Fives could be taken down with one thrower and a trap if the trap opened quickly on the heels of the beam connecting. More than once, one of them had snared a Class Five on his own, and he'd do it again now, if only he could reach the thrower that lay on the lab table behind the ghost.

            Its eyes vanished to the side, and Ray squinted at it in surprise before he realized that the ghost had simply swivelled its attention to Slimer. At once, Slimer's shrieks shot up the scale to a note so piercing it hurt Ray's ears. For want of a better weapon, he snatched up the screwdriver at his feet and hurled it at the ghost, just as it lunged for Slimer. The tool soared past the ghost with no more than an inch to spare and shattered Ray's coffee cup. The dregs of coffee ran across the table.

            For the first time, the black ghost made a sound, a low, throaty growl. Then it expanded, spread out thin, flat, and wide like a manta ray, and engulfed Slimer completely. The shrieking chopped off.

            At once, the ghost reformed, bigger than before, and the eyes came back, burning into Ray with gathering menace. It lunged at him.

            Ray jumped backward. A trailing pseudopod erupted from the ghost, caught him in an icy grip, and flung him halfway across the lab. He crashed into the shelf where the heaviest books stood and knocked one end of it from the wall. Agony flared through his left shoulder, a pain so fierce he nearly blacked out as he collapsed to the floor. Books rained down on his head and shoulders, and one of the heavier ones landed so hard against his forehead that his vision blurred. Desperately he clung to consciousness. If he passed out, he couldn't stop the ghost from engulfing him, the way it had Slimer. But it was hard to think. The overwhelming agony in his shoulder drove away rational thought, and his head pounded.

            The black menace drifted closer, just as evil and bigger than before. Ray's eyes stung with tears. It had eaten Slimer. Could he get the spud back? Would he be devoured, too? He groped feebly with his right hand for a possible weapon, but there was nothing.

            "Back off, you ugly mother!"

            Ray didn't think he'd ever heard anything as beautiful as the furious growl of Peter's voice. He blinked hard to clear his vision and turned his aching head. Peter stood in the doorway, proton pack securely in place over the Armani jacket he liked to wear to impress his dates. The subliminal hum of the pack proved it was active, and Peter's thumb hovered over the firing button as he made sure he had a clear shot.

            Slimer! "No, don't!" Ray scrambled backward through the books to gain purchase. "Peter, stop."

            Peter hit the firing button and, with a fierce crackle of energy at full streams, the particle beam hit the black ghost dead center. It bellowed savagely. Desperate purpose gave Peter the strength to hold the thrower one-handled in spite of its mighty kick at full streams, and lob out the trap with his other hand. The second it landed, Peter stomped on the trigger pedal.

            "NO!" If they trapped the black spirit, Slimer would be gone forever. Ray didn't know where he found the strength to do it, but he launched himself at Peter right alongside the particle stream, oblivious to Peter's disbelieving yell of warning and the brilliant wedge of light from the trap.

            Pinned in the suction, the black ghost started the downward slide just as Ray's foot landed wrong on one of the books that lay open before him. He slid sideways and fell against the back of the couch. "Don't, Peter," he gasped through the jarring pain that ran through his shoulder and down his arm. Darkness fluttered at the edges of his awareness and he tried in vain to push himself up.

            The ghost slid neatly into the trap, and the doors snapped shut over it.

            "Ray!" Peter shut down his thrower and pelted over. "God, Ray, what did it do to you?" he cried as he flung himself down on his knees beside Ray.

            "You stupid idiot!" Ray bawled. "You just killed Slimer."

            Peter reared back and stared at him, eyes wide in a pale face. "Huh? That wasn't Slimer, Ray. That was some black nasty about to do a number on you."

            Ray glared. "I told you not to trap him. Why didn't you listen?"

            "You're hurt." Peter touched Ray's injured shoulder gently. "That looks dislocated, and you've got a heck of a bump rising on your forehead. God, Ray, you look like you were knocked out. I'm glad I trapped it. Nobody treats my buddies like that." He hesitated at the unyielding fury he couldn't miss in Ray's eyes, then he said quickly, "I'm gonna call 911. You stay down there, don't try to get up. I'll be right back."

            "You killed Slimer," Ray accused.

            Worry flashed in Peter's eyes, but Ray knew it was for him, not for his accusation. Peter must believe Ray was confused from a blow to the head. "Slimer," Ray moaned. "Peter, you've gotta...." Then his voice trailed off. "Oh, no."

            "What, Ray?" Peter's hand landed on his sound shoulder. "Come on, buddy, you know I had to blast it. It was gonna kill you. Slimer isn't here. It's gonna be okay. I got him."

            "Don't talk to me like I was five years old," Ray snarled through teeth clenched against the pain.

            Peter squeezed once, then he let go. "I'll call the paramedics. Don't try to move. I bet that shoulder hurts." He lunged up and started for the phone, his face twisted with worry. On the way, he stopped to scoop up the trap. "This goes in the containment unit."

            Ray groaned. The very thought of moving hurt, but he couldn't let Peter take the trap away. With a wild cry, he lunged at Peter and tackled him. The pain nearly made him black out as the pair of them crashed to the floor, but the trap spurted out of Peter's grip, spiraled through the air, its cord trailing behind, and bounced off the wall. The force of the collision popped it open and the black ghost came out snarling.

            Peter grabbed his thrower and powered up, but Ray couldn't stop him. It was all he could do to remain conscious. "Don't, Peter," he groaned through the engulfing darkness. "It's Slimer. It ate Slimer."

            Peter hesitated for the first time. "What?" he said blankly.

            Consciousness faded fast. Ray couldn't hold out much longer. His eyes burned with unshed tears. "It doesn't matter," he said in a small voice. "You didn't listen. When you trap two ghosts together, they're bound together for always. He's gone. Slimer's gone. But you...don't care. You never...liked Slimer, anyway. Why didn't...you listen?"

            Then his awareness spiraled out of control in the throb of his aching head and the blinding agony of his shoulder, and the lab faded away entirely.

*****

            "Ray? Ray!" Peter's stomach knotted up when Ray passed out. He couldn't lower his thrower to check him out because the ghost was still there, dark and ominous, glowering at him with glinting eyes. Talk about a guy's worst nightmare. The very shapelessness of the blob of malice made it worse than if it had held a sharper definition. It wouldn't be as easy to trap a second time, and Peter had to protect Ray, who was down for the count and couldn't help even if he revived instantly. Slimer? The ghost had eaten Slimer? It didn't even have a mouth. Was Ray right? Or was he delirious? Looked like half the books in the lab had bopped him on the head, along with whatever had happened to his shoulder.

            The way he'd glared at Peter, almost as if he hated.... Never mind that now. Deal with the ghost. Peter's thoughts raced.

            If it had gulped down the spud, had trapping it joined the two ghosts for all time? Ray would never forgive him if he'd done that to Slimer, never mind that Peter would do it again to save Ray's life--and would probably have to. Sure, Ray loved Slimer, and Peter had to admit he could tolerate the little ghost more than he would admit in public, but when it came to a choice, Ray would win out every single time.

            Peter faced the ghost across Ray's sprawled body and looked for evidence of Slimer in the amorphous black shape. No unlikely bulges, only a darkness so powerful and intense that it seemed no light could ever escape it.

            If he hadn't come home from his date early, would it have devoured Ray, too?

            Peter's scalp tightened and chilled at the possibility. Deliberately, he stepped over Ray and took his position between his downed friend and the ghost. Even if it meant Slimer would be lost forever, Peter couldn't allow the ghost to go free. It might suck up some little kid or somebody's grandmother. Slimer or no, this ghost was going down.

            "I'm sorry, Ray," Peter said softly. "I hafta."

            Ray didn't stir. Was he even breathing? If only he'd had a chance to call 911 first before he picked up the trap.

            No time to think about that. He had to move, now. He had to stop the entity. Could it only absorb other ghosts? What class was it, anyway? He darted a sidelong glance at Egon's EEC. Didn't that thing give out readings? Peter pretended not to understand the thing's function, but he really listened more than he ever let on. When his life--or his friends' lives--depended on knowing how something worked, he couldn't slough it off. That would be insane.

            Class Five? This thing was only a Class Five? Was Egon's thing wrong, or was Blackie just at the top end of the Class Five scale, able to take out Slimer the way the heavyweight champ could take out the middleweight champ?

            "You messed with the wrong Ghostbuster, bunky," Peter growled.

            The entity growled back. It didn't speak; maybe it couldn't. But that low, threatening rumble made its point, and raised the hair on the back of Peter's neck. It didn't like Peter at all. With Slimer, maybe it had just been doing what it did, the way birds gobbled down worms but Peter's attack had made the confrontation personal. It stalked him, drifting and hovering, trying to throw him off balance, as if it realized protecting Ray would limit Peter's range.

            When Peter fired, it shot sideways so quickly that the stream missed by a fraction. Smart little bastard. It hadn't known what the thrower was before, but now it did. Whether that was an instinctive avoidance of pain or a reasoned decision to avoid capture Peter didn't know--or care. He just knew he had to stop it.

            "Slimer? If you're in there and can hear me, give me a sign."

            Stupid, really. Even if Slimer's outline suddenly poked at the ghost's surface, what the heck could Peter do about it with one thrower? He didn't even have a handy P.K.E. meter to check the readings. What would happen if he set the thrower at Slimer's exact frequency? Would that mean he couldn't stop the entity?

            But if Slimer lurked inside Blackie as a conscious, self-contained entity, he gave no sign of it. No weird bulges against the blackness, no piercing shrieks of "Pee-taw!"

            Okay, Venkman, you tried. Peter heaved a sigh, cast one desperate glance at the sprawled body at his feet, and fired again. Blackie eluded him with insulting ease, swooping sideways and up toward the ceiling. "Not so fast," Peter yelled and fired again. This thing might be tough, but it was only a Class Five. He'd faced down a lot tougher spooks and specters than this one.

            He felt around with his foot for the trap and nudged the trigger nearer even as he fired five or six more times. Burn scars etched patterns all over the walls. The ghost gave a few insulting spurts of sound like ectoplasmic raspberries. It was toying with him, convinced it had learned enough to elude him. Worse, it was luring him away from Ray. Maybe Ray made a more tempting target, lying there unmoving, unconscious.

            You better be only unconscious, Ray. If you're-- Don't finish that thought, Venkman.

            His mouth drawn in a tight, unyielding line, Peter fired one more wild shot that nearly took out the brain that Egon, for some reason unknown to God and man, kept in a jar on the mantle. The ghost sneered at him and swooped around to get at Ray.

            With practiced ease, Peter aimed the next shot not at the ghost but along its trajectory, and it collided with the stream before it could swoop away. One kick sent the trap flying out beneath it, and Peter fumbled with his foot to pump it open.

            The ghost tugged and jerked against the stream, growling out a whole stream of unintelligible ghost obscenities, but the combined pull of trap and particle beam proved too much for it a second time. It sank down into the trap snarling, and it snapped shut over him.

            Peter slammed his thrower into its cradle, grabbed the phone--he'd been careful to fire nowhere in that direction--and called 911. He didn't take his eyes off Ray the whole time he explained to the dispatcher what he needed. The rise and fall of Ray's chest as he breathed was one of the most beautiful sights Peter had ever seen.

            The second he finished the call, he ran to the bedroom for a blanket. Gotta keep him warm. He didn't mess with Ray's shoulder; as long as Ray remained unconscious, he wouldn't endure the horrible pain of a dislocation, and moving him might rouse him. But he checked arms and legs as carefully as he could for breaks. Ray had been so zoned on adrenaline there at the end he might have tackled Peter with broken limbs. Other than the dislocation and the swelling on his forehead, Peter could find no obvious injuries. Peter dragged over the ponderous weight of Tobin's Spirit Guide and used it to elevate Ray's feet. With extreme care, he positioned Ray's left arm across his chest to give it as much support as possible. Even in unconsciousness, Ray flinched, which won an answering wince from Peter. "Sorry, Tex," he said softly.

            Ray didn't respond or give any indication he had heard. If he hurt that much even unconscious.... Peter shivered. When he had tucked the blanket around Ray, he rested his palm against Ray's forehead. He didn't seem to be in shock, but he was out. Pain from his shoulder? Concussion? Peter lifted his eyelids in turn, but to his unpracticed eye, his pupils looked equal and reactive.

            "God, Ray, be okay." Even though he'd have to run down and let the paramedics in once he heard the siren, Peter sat cross-legged on the floor, and caught up Ray's right hand in both of his own. "I didn't know about Slimer. But you know I had to stop the ghost. It was gonna munch on you. I couldn't let it do that."

            Ray's face remained blank. That was no easier to endure than the bitter, tear-filled eyes Ray had turned on him just before he lost consciousness. If Slimer were really gone for good, would Ray be able to forgive Peter for not listening?

            "Damn it," Peter snapped, not to Ray but to himself. "Even if I'd known, I'd have had to trap it. It was gonna kill Ray."

            No response. In the distance, faint and far away, Peter heard the approaching siren.

            He didn't want to leave Ray alone, even for long enough to run down and let the paramedics in, but he had to. He grabbed up the trap and took it with him in case Ray revived while he was gone and decided to try to save Slimer.

            Peter left the trap on Janine's desk to dispose of later. Maybe Egon would know of a way to get Slimer back. If not... I'll deal with that later, he thought. He went over and opened the door just as the paramedics pulled up out in front.

            "Up here," Peter yelled. "Hurry. He's unconscious."

            A cab sailed along the street from the other direction as the paramedics unloaded their equipment, and Egon Spengler leaped out, thrusting money at random at the driver in his haste to find out what was wrong. "Peter?" he called urgently. His eyes took in the proton pack Peter wore over his civvies. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

            "Not me, it's Ray," Peter said. "A ghost attacked him. God, Egon, it was gonna eat him.... I had to trap it."

            Egon's face whitened. "Where is he?"

            "Lab." Peter saw that the paramedics were ready. "This way, guys," he said and raced into the firehall with Egon hard on his heels, calling Ray's name.

            When they rattled up the spiral stairs to the third floor and burst into the lab, Ray turned his head and glanced vaguely in their direction. "Egon?" he gasped, and the pain in his voice hurt Peter, but not nearly as much as the way Ray deliberately avoided looking at him did. "Peter trapped Slimer."

            Egon blinked at him, then he knelt at Ray's side. "Easy, Ray," he soothed. "It's going to be all right."

            Ray's face twisted with a combination of pain, frustration, and grief. "No. Slimer's gone, Egon. He's gone."

            The paramedics edged in. They were both men about Ray's age, one very blond and the other dark with classic Italian good looks. "Easy, buddy," said the Italian. "I'm Dom and this is Monty. We're gonna check you out."

            "It doesn't matter," Ray said sadly and made sure he didn't meet Peter's eyes.

            Egon edged back just far enough to give them room. "It matters very much, Raymond," he said gently. "Let them help you. I believe you have dislocated your shoulder."

            "It's nothing," Ray said, even though his breath hissed between his teeth when Dom explored the joint with cautious fingers. "It doesn't matter." He sent Peter an angry glare. "I told him not to blast it, and he did. Slimer's gone, Egon." A tear ran down his cheek. Peter's stomach knotted.

            "Easy, Ray." Egon cast one quick glance at Peter.

            "It was a big black thing, Egon, Class Five. It had Ray down on the floor."

            "We'll resolve that later." Egon's calm didn't entirely disguise his concern. "Right now, Ray, treating your injuries is more important. Naturally Peter couldn't let a ghost harm you further. I think he saved your life."

            "It doesn't matter," Ray muttered and set his jaw tight while Monty checked his blood pressure.

            "How long were you unconscious?" Dom asked.

            "He was groggy when I first got here," Peter explained. "Then when I'd trapped the ghost and was gonna take the trap away, he jumped up and tackled me. The ghost got out, but Ray passed out before I could trap it again. I don't know if it was from the head injury or the pain of his shoulder, but I think he must have been out about ten minutes. You got here quick."

            "Not very long," Ray said right through Peter's words, as if he weren't even there. Peter's heart clenched. "It's just this shoulder thing. Pop it back in and I'll be okay."

            "Well, son, we're going to let the doctor do that for you at the hospital," Dom told him. "They'll want x-rays, and you've got a good bit of swelling there. They can medicate you for the pain."

            Egon patted Ray's good shoulder, then he rose and joined Peter, who stood near the door, his arms folded tight across his chest. "What does he mean about Slimer, Peter?" he asked in an undertone.

            Peter shrugged. "Guess the ghost sort of swallowed him before I got here. I didn't know. I only saw that nasty black thing about to get Ray. He told me not to trap it, but he was down on the floor, hurt, and it was right over him. What else could I do?" He hesitated. "For all I knew, he was delirious. He didn't mention the spud until I'd already caught the ghost. Then he jumped up and knocked me down and the trap went flying and opened, and I had to bust it all over again."

            "I told him it was Slimer," Ray said drearily in the background. He bit his lip at the pain as the two paramedics transferred him onto a stretcher. Peter thought wryly that hauling it down the spiral stairs ought to be a trip. "But he didn't listen," Ray insisted. "He just trapped him all over again." His voice rang with outrage.

            "It might've gobbled down the spud," Peter admitted, "But I tried for a reaction from Slimer, to see if he was in there trying to get out, and I got nothing. It was trying to get back to Ray. I couldn't let it go, Egon." Peter grimaced. "I had to trap it. I'd do it again."

            Ray moaned. Peter couldn't tell if it were from the pain of his shoulder or despair over Slimer. He didn't exactly look forgiving. "Trapped together," the younger man muttered as the paramedics fussed over him. "Never get him back now."

            "Ssh, Ray, let us worry about that."

            "Stuck him in the containment unit," Ray persisted in that thin thread of a voice. "Never get him back now." He suddenly turned his head and looked Peter right in the eye. "You always hated him. I bet you were glad."

            Peter flinched as if Ray had struck him. He couldn't find a single thing to say to counter that argument but it wasn't true. He didn't hate the spud, but even now, maybe especially now, he couldn't make himself admit it. "The trap's on Janine's desk," he said flatly. "Not in the containment unit."

            Ray turned away. "Let's go," he said to the paramedics. "I'm ready."

            "Do you want us to come with you, Ray?" Egon asked. "Surely one of us can ride with you in the ambulance."

            "Why not follow in your own car?" Dom asked. "Not a lot of space in there." He'd thrown in his question so quickly that Peter realized he'd done it to prevent Ray from refusing to ride with Peter.

            Ray spoke up anyway. "You can come, Egon," he allowed.

            "We will both come," Egon said. "We'll follow you in Ecto." If Ray heard the hint of reproach in Egon's voice, he refused to acknowledge it. He turned his angry eyes away from Peter and nodded at the paramedics that he was ready to go.

            Egon caught Peter's arm when he would have rushed out in pursuit. "Wait a second, Peter."

            "So you can jump on me, too?" Peter challenged. "God, Egon, it was gonna hurt Ray, maybe even kill him. It had already dislocated his shoulder. For all I knew, he was out of it. I had no choice, and even knowing what it had done to the little spud, I wasn't gonna let Ray go the same way."

            "Of course you couldn't, Peter. You saved Ray's life, and I know he'll realize that when he's able to think more clearly. He obviously has sustained a head injury. He's fixated on the loss of Slimer. But when he's clear-headed--"

            "He's still gonna hold Slimer against me," Peter said positively. "God, Egon, when he was losing it, about to pass out, he remembered that if you trap two ghosts together, they can't be separated. There's no way to get Slimer back." He heaved a shuddering sigh. "What if he can't forgive me?"

            Egon looked Peter right in the eye. "I will make certain that he does, Peter. While I regret the loss of Slimer, too, it was the ghost who took him, before you even arrived. Ray will come to accept that."

            Logically, he might. But could he ever accept it in his heart? Peter still remembered the scorching resentment in Ray's gaze. Ray had never looked at him like that before, even when at his most irritated with Peter. He'd glared at him as if--as if he hated him.

            And all I did was save his life.

            "Let's go, Spengs," Peter said, pushing that thought aside. Ray was hurt. That had to come first. This other stuff could wait. "Ray needs you right now."

            "He will need both of us, and Winston, too. Once we're in Ecto, we can use the mobile phone to call his conference and tell him to meet us at the hospital." He reached out abruptly and gripped Peter by the shoulders. "Ray will be all right, Peter, thanks to you. The rest of this can be resolved later. You saved his life. We'll deal with anything else as it comes up."

            Peter trailed him down the stairs, grateful for his support. Egon might regret what had happened to Slimer, but he didn't hold it against Peter. There was nothing but understanding and concern in his voice, his face, his body language. Peter latched onto that reassurance and let it warm the cold places inside him. Surely Ray wouldn't hate him forever, not for saving his life. Ray loved Slimer more than the rest of them did. Peter felt bad about what had happened, but he'd do it again, to save his friend. Could Ray ever accept that?

            "Egon?" he ventured as they started down to the ground floor. "Is it true?"

            "Is what true, Peter?" Egon dug in his pocket for his keys.

            "That if two ghosts are trapped together they can't be separated? Their molecules mix or whatever it was you said when we busted Drool and the shape-shifter ghost together that time?"

            Egon frowned as they reached the garage. He glanced over at the trap on Janine's desk. The device's light blinked to indicate a capture. "Hmmm," he said. "In a sense, if Slimer were completely absorbed in the ghost before you trapped it, their molecules were already blended. Trapping may have made no difference. I'll take readings when we come home. Janine won't be in today. The trap can safely remain there until we return." He took Peter's arm and steered him to the passenger seat of Ecto. "I'll drive. We'd better hurry."

            Peter heaved a sigh as they heard the siren start up outside. This felt so wrong. One little bust, and everybody's lives turned upside down. "Egon?" he said in a small voice. "What happens if Ray never forgives me?"

            Egon met his eyes before he closed the door on Peter. "He will," he said, but the grim determination in his voice made Peter realize he had his doubts.

*****

            Winston raced into the hospital waiting room and skidded to a stop at the sight of Egon and Peter sitting side by side on the sofa waiting for news of Ray. Egon looked worried, but Peter's face held whole depths of extra misery. What the heck? Yeah, Egon could go all Spock-like and Vulcan in a crisis, but his worry seemed directed as much at Peter as it was toward the absent Ray. Had Pete been hurt, too? No obvious trace of injuries.

            "Guys?"

            Egon looked up. Peter's head tilted slightly in acknowledgment of Winston's greeting, but he didn't lift his eyes. With a near-inaudible sigh, Egon patted Peter on the shoulder, then he rose and came to meet Winston, indicating with a hand gesture that they should step out into the hall.

            "What's going on, Egon?" Winston asked. Something felt waaay wrong here.

            "Ray was injured by a ghost," Egon explained, "as I told you when I called. He sustained a dislocated shoulder and has some head trauma. We don't know how serious; no one has told us yet. He was conscious and aware when they took him away but he was...." He hesitated.

            "Disoriented? Confused? What? Come on, Egon, don't scare me like this," Winston demanded.

            "I suspect he has no more than a mild concussion," Egon admitted. "But he is very angry with Peter."

            "With Peter?" Winston heard the way his voice shot up, and he moderated his tone. "What do you mean? You said on the phone Peter saved Ray from a nasty ghost."

            "And he did. Unfortunately the ghost had first swallowed Slimer. Ray tried to stop Peter from busting it, but when Peter arrived, Ray was down, injured, and the ghost was hovering just above him. Peter had no choice but to trap it."

            "No lie," Winston agreed. "That's what I'd have done. That sucks about the little spud, but he was already gone. Nothing Pete could have done without risking Ray's life."

            "I know that, and so do you," Egon said. "And Peter insists on it. The problem is that Ray blames him for the loss of Slimer."

            Winston let those words simmer in his mind for a second, then he blurted, "Oh, shit." Egon nodded as if he did not find the words inappropriate. Winston pursed his lips, then he said, "Ray's half out of it from the head injury. When he's feeling better, he'll...." He'd what? Understand? Surely he would. Wouldn't he?

            "I intend to make certain Ray knows how grateful we are to Peter for saving his life. We all regret the loss of Slimer, and I will take readings of the contents of the trap, and determine if the situation is different enough from the Drool experience to permit us to rescue Slimer. The ghost was exposed to my EEC, after all, and it's possible that could make a difference. If Slimer were still a cohesive entity within the other ghost, its ectoplasmic barriers might prevent the molecular blending that would happen if two ghosts were sucked into the same trap separately."

            "Could that happen?" Winston asked blankly.

            Egon hesitated. The magnified blue eyes behind his glasses held doubt. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I fear the eventuality is slight. It would depend on the nature of the ghostly entity, and Peter was unable to take readings. He heard Ray yelling and the ghost roaring and he grabbed a proton pack out of Ecto and ran upstairs. There was no time to find a meter to take readings. He said the EEC indicated the ghost was a Class Five, but that's all he knew. It must have been a more powerful Class Five than Slimer."

            "Yeah. Surprised Pete could get it on his own."

            "It is possible to trap a Class Five with one thrower and trap," Egon reminded him. "And he was strongly motivated." He glanced over his shoulder into the waiting room. Peter sat on the couch, his hands danging down between his knees, his face abstracted, his mouth twisted with unhappiness. Man, that sucked. Peter had done the right thing, a brave and heroic thing, to take on a nasty ghost single-handed to save his friend, only to have his friend turn on him. Had to be because Ray was half out of it. Ray had always considered Peter a beloved big brother. For him to blame Peter for saving his life must mean that Ray was not thinking clearly. Whatever the cause, it was tearing Peter apart.

            Egon stood beside Winston, watching Peter, too. When Winston flicked a glance at the scientist, he saw troubled shadows in Egon's face. "I regret the loss of Slimer," Egon said. "I was fond of him, too. But far more will I regret it if this puts an end to Peter and Ray's friendship."

            "Aw, man, it couldn't do that, could it?" Winston resisted the urge to go over to Pete, drape an arm around his shoulders, and tell him everything would be fine. Probably wouldn't help. Peter was sure to be prickly. He was worried sick about Ray and for all his bluster, he cared about Slimer, too, although he would die before he admitted it. Now he was forced into a situation where he had to defend the final incarceration of the ghost, even though such a possibility had been the last thing on his mind. Winston couldn't make out whether guilt or betrayal, or simply loss, won out among the conflicting emotions on his friend's face.

            Maybe Ray, when he was feeling a little better, had his shoulder popped into place and his aches soothed, would realize what he had inadvertently done to Peter and everything would be fine.

            Yeah, right, Zeddemore, in which fantasy kingdom will that happen?

            Peter gave his trust reluctantly--well, not as reluctantly as he'd done before he'd met any of the guys. Was it a failure of trust that he hadn't listened to Ray? Or would he consider Ray's refusal to understand his heroic rescue--one on one with a powerful ghost--the larger betrayal?

            Egon frowned, then he turned and looked Winston right in the eye. "All I know is that when we get home, I will put careful research into the possibility of retrieving Slimer."

            "Count on me to help. I'll miss the little guy, too. But--"

            "But what?" Egon asked.

            "I don't know about you, but if Ray only forgave me because we saved Slimer, I wouldn't exactly feel like a happy camper."

            Egon swallowed so hard his Adam's apple bobbed vigorously. "Nor would I, Winston," he admitted. "Nor would I."

*****

            Peter roused from his unhappy thoughts--not a nice place, the inner reaches of the Venkman psyche--when the doctor appeared in the doorway. He was a middle-aged man with a long, bony face, jutting eyebrows, and a Jay Leno chin, and he had kind eyes. Kindness was problematic just then, but a part of Peter craved it nearly as much as he craved answers. Before Egon or Winston could react, he leaped to his feet and charged to meet the doctor. The unrestrained rush made the poor guy jump backward a step, the way he would if a wild rhino had charged him unexpectedly, then he caught himself and smiled. Surely he wouldn't be smiling if Ray were really bad.

            "You're one of the Ghostbusters. You're here for Ray Stantz." Winston and Egon joined Peter and the doctor introduced himself. "I'm Doctor Kelso. How do you do? He'll be fine, gentlemen, although he won't be very comfortable for the next few days."

            "He'll be fine," Winston echoed. "You hear that, guys? Ray's gonna be fine." A huge grin split his face.

            "Any concussion?" Egon asked. "He did lose consciousness."

            "True. From what he told me, it was after vigorous exercise that jarred his injured shoulder. Yes, he sustained a bump to the head, but the blow did not render him unconscious. He has no symptoms of actual head trauma, other than a swelling and bruise on his forehead. We'll monitor him for another hour or two, and then we'll send him home with a list of symptoms to watch for, just as a precaution. Ordinarily, I would consider overnight observation here, but he is determined to go home and won't consent to stay. I'd ask your help in overruling that if I thought his condition warranted it. He'll be sleepy and sore and won't feel very energetic tonight, and the three of you will be on hand to look out for him."

            Winston grabbed Kelso's hand and pumped it energetically. "We'll take good care of him, doc."

            "Yes, you Ghostbusters have plenty of practice, don't you? I've read about you and I've heard of your exploits in various hospitals in the city." He smiled, but it faded slightly, and he singled out Peter. "You're Peter Venkman?"

            "Yeah, doc. Why?"

            "This is awkward. He asked to see the other two, but he asked me to make sure you didn't come. He wouldn't explain why."

            Peter felt like he'd been kicked in the gut. He'd been hoping against hope that Ray would forgive him as he started to feel better. It looked like he had been wrong. His stomach churned unhappily, and he felt the color leave his face.

            The doctor took one look at him, then he thrust him into a chair. "Sit down before you faint. I'm sorry I had to tell you that, but he was insistent. I take it you have a conflict with him?"

            "With Ray?" Peter heard the edge of unsteadiness in his voice. "Never. He's got one with me." He had to stop talking then or lose it. Before he could stop himself, he raised desperate, appealing eyes to Egon.

            Egon sat beside him and put his arm around Peter's shoulders. "I shall make this right, Peter. You have my word."

            "How?" Peter asked bleakly. "A little miracle with the ghost trap? Yeah, I'd be glad to get Slimer back--but if that's the only way to get Ray back...." He'd take it, God, yes, he'd take it. But if Ray forgave him only because Egon undid what Peter had done--did Peter want that kind of forgiveness? He felt his heart harden.

            "Peter, Ray is hurt. He's in pain, in shock, and he's mourning the loss of Slimer. He can't be thinking clearly. I am certain he will come around. You know Ray. Have you ever known him to hold a grudge?"

            "Never knew him to be unfair before, either," Winston muttered under his breath."

            Peter studied Winston. He hadn't seen Ray lying there in pain while the ghost loomed up over him yet he was siding with Peter--but Peter hated that it be a question of sides. They were a team, a family. This had to come right. Families might fight, but they still loved each other.

            That inimical glare in Ray's clouded eyes had felt a lot closer to hate than it had to love.

            Peter bolted to his feet and took a couple of quick steps toward the door. "Go on. You guys better go see Ray. Don't make him wait because the jerk has hurt feelings." He made shooing gestures with his hands.

            Egon and Winston converged on him. "Peter, you have been through a stressful event, too," Egon reminded him. "Later on, when Ray has calmed down, when we've all calmed down, we'll talk."

            "Yeah, homeboy." Winston clapped a big hand on his shoulder. "Hang in there. We'll get through this."

            Peter savored the touch and the reassurance from both men. He stood between them for a second, then he held up his head. "I'll catch a cab home," he said, "so Ray won't have to endure my presence in Ecto. I'll clean up the lab and see what I can do about all those scorch marks on the walls. Least I didn't shoot out any windows...."

            Distress ran across Egon's face. "Peter, you shouldn't have to--"

            "Ray's hurt, Egon. He needs to be comfortable on the way home. I'll catch you guys later. I can call out for a pizza or something for us when I think it's about time for you to get home. I'll make sure the spud--" Doesn't eat any. His voice chopped off. "God, I'm sorry," he blurted.

            "Peter." Egon's voice was firm. "You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. You saved Ray's life. I, for one, will be forever grateful for that."

            "Yeah, me too," Winston assured him. "I'll drive you home. I can come back for Ray."

            "No, he wanted to see you." And not me. "Go on and see him. I can cut it." Somehow.

            They gazed at him regretfully, but they took him at his word. He watched the doctor lead them away, then he turned abruptly and slammed his fist into the wall.

            The sharp pain in his bloodied knuckles shocked him to his senses, and like a good little Boy Scout, he trekked over to the ER desk and offered them his hand for bandaging before he went out to flag down a cab for the lonely ride home.

*****

            Ray's shoulder throbbed. He lay in the cubicle in the ER, keeping time by the beat of his heart. Slow and steady, over and over, like a round. Not Row, Row, Row Your Boat. The beat was more like Frere Jacques. Steady. Even. Over and over. His aching head kept perfect time. Much better to keep his eyes closed against the brightness of the light. Against the pain of loss.

            Oh, Slimer....

            He should have been able to do something, to save Slimer from the black ghost. What had he done? Stood there like an idiot? Thrown a screwdriver at it? What a professional Ghostbuster he was. He hadn't even been able to stop Peter from zapping and trapping Slimer.

            The pain that ran through Ray at the memory had nothing to do with his aching shoulder and head, or the myriad of other minor aches and bruises from the toppling books. Peter should have listened to him. Peter should have understood. He had always understood before. Why not this time? Then, when Ray had freed the ghost and hoped to reverse what had been done, what did Peter do but go after it all over again, even knowing he was condemning Slimer.

            "Ray?"

            Egon's voice. Quickly he opened his eyes, squinted against the light, and turned his head. Egon and Winston stood side by side at the foot of his bed, their expressions full of concern for him, but tinged with wariness. Wary of him? He looked past them. The last person he wanted to see right now was Peter Venkman. But Peter wasn't there. Ray had insisted the doctor keep Peter out, but somehow, Ray hadn't believed Peter would listen. He'd push right in and defend himself. That's what Ray had expected, and he'd braced himself for it, ready to tell Peter exactly what he thought of him. But Peter wasn't here. Good. Ray didn't want to see him.

            Or did he?

            "How you feeling, Ray?" Through the concern, Ray caught a note in his voice that he wasn't used to hearing from Winston. Disapproval. Winston tried to keep it off his face but Ray could still hear it, see it in the glint of his eyes.

            Peter blasts Slimer forever, and Winston doesn't approve of me? Ray gazed at him with wide, hurt eyes. "I'm okay," he said hastily. "My shoulder's lots better since they put it in place." He didn't want to remember the actual process. That had hurt far more than he liked to think about, but once it was over the pain had retreated to a manageable ache, annoying but liveable.

            "The doctor says we may take you home shortly," Egon said. "He told us you refused to be admitted. Are you sure that was wise?"

            "Well, yeah. I'm okay. I don't have a concussion or anything. I won't be able to use my arm, so maybe you'll have to help out for a few days. But I want to be home. I don't want to stay here."

            "I can understand that," Egon said. "We will help you, of course. That goes without saying. But I should point out to you that you may be very uncomfortable at the firehall." He sounded so stiff and unnatural that Ray couldn't help wondering if his friend was very uncomfortable right now. He probably hated being in the middle, and his friendship with Peter was sure to put him there.

            Ray saw that same disapproval in Egon's eyes that he'd seen in Winston's, and now he understood it. "Because of Peter, you mean? It's his fault. I guess I can avoid him if I have to."

            "I fail to understand why you should have to," Egon challenged him. "I understand you're in pain, and that you're grieving for Slimer. We all regret what happened; we'll all miss him. Don't you think what happened broke Peter's heart, too?"

            "Why?" Ray demanded coldly. If only his head didn't hurt, if only he could think. "He never liked Slimer. He's just been living for a chance to blast him. He's always talking about it. Now he did it. You guys think he did great. Maybe you never cared about Slimer, either." He gnawed his bottom lip. Weak and in pain like this, it would be so easy to break down and blubber like a baby, and he didn't want to do that in front of his friends.

            "You know that's not true." Now Egon sounded angry. "Ray, I grant you some leeway because of your injury. But you are being very unfair to Peter."

            "I told him to stop. He wouldn't listen."

            Egon didn't yield. "Of course he wouldn't. You were in grave danger, you didn't mention Slimer, only that he stop, and you appeared disoriented. He acted to save your life. While such choices are never fair, if you were given the option of saving Slimer or saving Peter, which would you save?"

            Ray sucked in breath. Even mad at Peter, that question hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

            "Let me make it easier for you in light of our your present attitude," Egon continued. "If you had to choose between Slimer and me, which would you choose?"

            "You," said Ray in a small voice. Was that what it looked like? That he was faulting Peter for making the only possible choice? "But he didn't listen to me," he wailed. "Slimer and I were singing and having fun, and he was so happy. He loves living with us, sneaking food, sliming Peter's pillow. Then the ghost came, and he was so terrified, and I couldn't save him." The tears he'd been fighting won the battle. "I couldn't save him, Egon. I couldn't get to the proton pack. All I had was a screwdriver."

            "Nothing you could have done, Ray," Winston soothed him. "Nothing but do your best to stay alive. Peter did what he had to do, too. You think he could have lived with himself if he'd let the ghost go at your say-so and it had killed you?"

            "Yeah, it was nasty." Ray turned his face away from them. "But Peter killed Slimer."

            "No, Ray." Egon gripped his hand and squeezed it. "He didn't. We don't even know that the ghost did. Slimer still exists in some form, even in the trap with the ghost. If it is possible to release him, I will do so. If not, then we will mourn him together. But don't let it destroy the team. Don't let it destroy your friendship with Peter."

            Ray heaved a shaken sigh. "I couldn't save him," he whispered. A small voice in his head pointed out that maybe it was easier to blame Peter than to face his own failure and the loss. That wasn't fair and it wasn't nice. Peter had been so worried about him. Ray had seen it in his face as he charged in so desperately with the thrower. He didn't even know how strong the ghost was. For all he knew, it could have been a Class Seven, too powerful for him to take on alone, but he'd never hesitated. Then, when Ray had flung all his anger at Peter, he'd taken it. He'd stayed away now at Ray's command.

            Suddenly Ray felt about two inches high.

            "Where's Peter?" he asked, and his voice shook.

            Winston's mouth tightened. "He went home by himself in a taxi so you wouldn't have to ride home with him in Ecto."

            "Ohh." Ray looked past them wistfully in case they were just trying to make the point and win his sympathy, but there was no sign of a lurking Peter. He imagined Peter, shoulders slumped, slipping away to summon a cab to ride home alone to a place where he'd been forced to zap Slimer, a place where Ray had turned on him with cruel words. He'd be alone at the firehouse, imagining Ray's return and supposed hostility. He'd be feeling bad already because Ray knew Peter had really liked Slimer even if he wouldn't admit it, and he probably felt lousy enough without Ray's condemnation. "Gosh, I'm a jerk," he breathed.

            "You were confused and in pain," Egon said, and his fingers tightened around Ray's hand in understanding. "But you must talk to Peter and make this right. Trying to save Slimer will be my job. It's possible we can separate him from the other entity with two throwers set at their exact frequencies."

            "But if they were trapped together--twice...."

            "Possibly the fact that Slimer had been engulfed would make a difference." Egon frowned, but he was deep in thought. He'd enjoy the problem in the abstract if it didn't hit so close to home. "As soon as we return to the firehall, I'll begin my research. In fact, I'll begin the math on the way. The EEC...." His voice trailed off into abstraction. Maybe he had an idea.

            "I'll talk to Peter," Ray promised. "Gee, guys, I'm really sorry. Do you think he'll forgive me?"

            "Peter? Forgive you?" Winston asked. "You have got to be kidding. After what he went through to save you? In a New York minute."

*****

            Peter stood back and surveyed his handiwork. The bookshelf had been restored to its place on the wall, the books stacked neatly--and in the proper order--on the shelves. Some of the scorch marks on the walls had come off with a little elbow grease--and they said he couldn't work hard if his life depended on it! Boy, were they ever wrong.

            He chewed his lip. Keep it up, Venkman. Eventually you'll convince yourself that the world is normal.

            Some of the burn marks had proved too deep to scrub away. They'd need painting. He'd sanded them down, removing the old paint along with them. There wouldn't be time to haul a can of paint up from the basement and finish the job before Ray got home; he'd handle that tomorrow. So that left the one thing he'd been putting off.

            Wearily, shoulders and back aching, his bandaged knuckles sore, blood spotting the dressings here and there from his exertions, he trudged down the stairs to the ground floor. It was gloomy in the garage area; the daylight was going fast. He switched on Janine's desk lamp, and it created a puddle of light in a lake of darkness. The shadows reminded him of Blackie. He shivered. With his left hand, he picked up the trap that lay on Janine's desk. Good thing she hadn't dropped in unexpectedly while they were gone and shoved it in the containment unit.

            Was Ray right? Were Slimer's ghostly molecules so completely blended with those of the black ghost that restoring him would prove impossible? If there were a chance, Peter would take it in a heartbeat. Annoying as he found the little ghost, he'd welcome him back with open arms. Okay, maybe not with open arms, but with a display of grudging tolerance, for Ray's sake. Had Slimer been aware while trapped inside Blackie, or had the conscious awareness of the little spud vanished as soon as the ghost had gobbled him up? If he'd been aware, had he known and understood what Peter had done? He'd approve saving Ray. Slimer had been so devoted to Ray.

            "But I'd choose Ray every time," he said aloud. "You know that, don't you, green guy?"

            If Slimer's voice, going, "Uh huh, uh huh," had popped out of the trap, it wouldn't have surprised Peter.

            He weighed the trap in his hands. The traps never really felt heavy, no matter how massive the ghost. Maybe someday he'd get Egon to explain how that worked. Not that it mattered. Egon would spew out some techie talk that could, for all Peter knew, mean he didn't have a clue, either.

            Nah, he'd know. He might even know how to draw Slimer out of Blackie and restore him.

            Then Ray might be willing to forgive him.

            Peter sighed. He didn't want that kind of forgiveness. Didn't want Ray to tolerate him because he'd been granted a do-over. It would mean Ray still faulted him, deep down inside.

            Peter set the trap down and fetched a P.K.E. meter. He knew Slimer's exact frequency. If he could detect that in the trap's readings.... He bent over the meter, gnawing on the side of his tongue to help his concentration. There. Now to see. He activated the meter and aimed it at the trap.

            It reacted. The antennae lifted, the lights blinked, and the beeps started. Peter nearly dropped the meter in surprise. Did that mean Slimer was in there, actually himself? Or that he was picking up part of the whole? Nobody ever said I had this physics stuff down. But if I could get him out before Ray got home....

            Yeah, right, Peter. Open the trap? Even you aren't that stupid.

            The trap gave a little jump. Sometimes full traps did that, but it usually took a more powerful ghost than a Class Five to evoke such a strong reaction. Two Class Fives didn't exactly add up to a Class Ten. Was it Slimer in there, trying to get out?

            Peter twirled the dials from the specific to the generic and aimed it at the trap. Equally powerful readings, maybe more so. Egon could fine-tune them and pin down the black ghost's exact frequency. Maybe it would take two throwers to separate them, each set at one particular frequency, but such an attempt would require the team, armed and ready to recapture Blackie. Much as he longed to offer Ray a fait accompli, Peter knew it would be stupid to try it on his own. It wouldn't help Slimer, it wouldn't help Ray, and it wouldn't help anyone if Peter got zapped by a ghost because he wanted to make the world right.

            The trap gave another little half skip across Janine's blotter. Eyebrows lifted, Peter watched it move. Was that the spud, trying to get Peter's attention? Had they separated in there? Sort of a reverse of the blending because Slimer had been inside the other ghost? Yeah, that was about as likely as Venkman Senior showing up in time for Christmas with an armful of presents. Yet Slimer's reading had been distinct. He had to be intact, didn't he? "Slimer? Answer if you can hear me." He felt like an idiot for talking to the trap, but he had to try.

            The trap gave another lunge, this one much wilder, right off the edge of the desk. "Whoa, Nellie," Peter yelled and grabbed for it, even though his fingers were stiff under their dressings. He didn't even have one thrower down here. He'd abandoned the one he'd used earlier on the lab table waiting for recharging.

            His fingers missed. The trap thunked on the floor, the trigger bounced beside it, and the doors flung open. Brilliant light caught Peter full in the face and temporarily blinded him. He reeled back, blinking at the huge black spots that obscured his vision.

            With a whoosh, something huge shot past him, growling, and toward the ceiling.

            Peter squinted up at the looming ghost. No trace of Slimer after all, just Blackie, hovering over him, surveying the garage. It hadn't noticed Peter sprawled, near-blinded, on the floor, but it would discover him at any second. If he scuttled under Janine's desk, it would be sure to notice him.

            What if it engulfed him, the way it had Slimer? Would the guys be able to free him? Would they even know what had happened? Would his molecules meld with the ghost's for all time if they trapped it?

            A sudden, savage bellow of triumph proved he'd been spotted. "Guys, where are you?" Peter wailed. He pressed his palms against the cold floor, then he flung himself up, scooping up the trap as he moved. Allowing the trigger to fall to lie beside his feet, he held the trap against his stomach the way a catcher holds his mitt and faced the ghost. He didn't know how long he could keep it at bay with the threat of the trap, but maybe he could back away from it up the steps and retrieve the thrower.

            Yeah, right, it's hard to climb a spiral staircase without exposing your back, Venkman.

            "Stay away or I'll suck you in again. This time, you're going into the containment unit."

            The ghost chortled.

            "That's a new sound for you," Peter called. "Don't suppose you can talk? Or are you all ectoplasm and no brain?"

            The ghost growled at him. Eyes as dark as an abyss glinted at Peter and sent an icy shiver trailing down his back. Cautiously, he worked himself away from Janine's desk, step by step, out toward where Ecto parked. Was there a spare pack and thrower in one of the lockers? He couldn't remember. If Ray had stowed it in the storage locker....

            As he retreated, the ghost paced him, fathomless eyes darting between Peter's face and the trap he held at ready. It had to know Peter would stomp on the trigger if it lunged at him. Wouldn't want to go back in there, would it? "That's right, you ugly mother. Come and get it. Take a nice little nap in the containment unit." If it lunged at him, its momentum combined with the trap's pull could suck it right on in.

            Grrrrr.

            "Grr, to you, too. Yo, Spud, you in there? Anything you can do? Petey needs you."

            Nothing, only more growling while those eerie eyes bored into him. He was trapped. One more step and he hit the lockers. He could feel the handle of one of them pressing into his left buttock, but he couldn't risk shifting. The ghost bunched itself, prepared to lunge. Cold and tense with anticipation, Peter's entire focus narrowed down to the ghost. A whole marching band complete with drum majorettes could have trooped past belting out Seventy-Six Trombones and he wouldn't have noticed. "It's just you and me," Peter gritted out. "Come and get me. I'll make you pay. Want a nice nap in the containment unit?"

            Another growl, this one far louder. Peter hunched his shoulders up in a desperate effort to block his ears, but he couldn't suck his head down, turtle-fashion, into position. He waved the trap at the ghost and fumbled for the trigger with his foot. If he opened it, maybe he'd drive the entity back long enough for him to get into the lockers.

            "This isn't the way I want to go out," he said too softly for the ghost to hear. Heck, it didn't have any ears. Maybe it couldn't hear him anyway. Did it even matter? What would Ray think if he came home and found the ghost at liberty and Peter gone?

            Will you miss me then, Ray?

            "Peter! Duck!"

            The warning shout cut through his absorption in his adversary. Egon's voice. Where the heck had he come from? How could he be here? Not even this whole screw-up had messed with Peter's automatic trust of his team. He flung himself flat as the ghost dived at him. With a quick twist, he thrust the trap out in front of him with both hands, while the crackle and sizzle of particle energy lashed out at the ghost just above his head. He buried his face in the crook of his arm and listened to the Egon yelling instructions. Something about frequencies. Winston called an affirmative.

            The sound of the throwers altered fractionally, Winston's higher pitched than Egon's, which echoed with a deep thrum. The beams were so bright Peter could practically see them through his closed eyelids, but he didn't risk looking up. Setting the trap firmly into place, he groped with his other hand for the trigger cable and worked his way along it until he gripped the trigger.

            The growls of the ghost intensified, and Winston groaned, "Man, he's a tough one. Pete handled him on his own--twice? Oh, man...."

            "It's working." Ray's voice sounded excited and eager. That angry bitterness was gone--but then he wasn't talking to Peter. Peter wanted to look up in the worst way, but if he did and Ray saw him, and that coldness returned to his eyes, Peter couldn't endure it. He lay just beneath the energy streams, the trigger pedal waiting beneath his palm, his raw knuckles throbbing from the pressure of holding his hand in place.

            "Now," Egon cried. "Increase power. Stand ready to shift, Winston. I'll need you very quickly."

            "Right with you, Egon."

            A high-pitched squeal assaulted Peter's ears. Between that and the growls, he wished they were retractable so he could suck them into his head and protect himself from deafness. The squeal intensified. Over it, Ray shrieked, "Slimer!" exultantly.

            "Now," Egon cried.

            Peter risked one quick glimpse and saw Egon wrestling with his bucking thrower--full streams would do that--to hold Blackie while Winston made hasty adjustments on his thrower settings. Slimer, miraculously restored, cried, "Ray, Ray!" and dove for him. Ray's face was pale enough that the darkening bruise on his forehead resembled a smear of coal dust. With one arm immobilized in a sling, he couldn't hug Slimer as enthusiastically as he must have wanted to. He did drape one arm around the ghost, but after one quick glace of reassurance, he turned his gaze from Slimer--and looked at Peter.

            His eyes were full of worry.

            "Stay down, Peter," he called anxiously. "Get ready with the trap."

            He sounded normal, sounded like Peter's own Ray. Peter blinked at him, confused, then he understood. Slimer was back, so Ray had forgiven him. Somehow, that hurt almost as badly as Ray's anger had. Peter dropped his gaze to the trigger in front of him. "Yo," he called back. Even over the roars of the ghost and Egon and Winston's yells, he could hear how stiff he sounded.

            "Now, Peter!" At Egon's shout, Peter slammed his hand down on the trigger. Damn it, that hurt. Eyes squeezed tightly shut so as not to nearly blind himself a second time, he waited while the glare of light shot up, and the trap's suction caught the ghost. It exploded into a veritable flurry of growls, fury warring with desperation, as it resisted the force of two throwers and the pull of the trap, then it lost the fight and plunked right in, so quickly Peter was not quite prepared for the darkness that followed the light. He blinked furiously to get rid of the afterimages.

            "Got him!" Winston exulted.

            "Peter?" That was Egon. Concern filled the deep rumble of his voice. "Are you hurt? Did it harm you?"

            "Uh...no." I'm still alive. It didn't get me. Stunned, he opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position.

            "Why the heck did you let it out?" Winston demanded as he stretched a hand down to grab the trap by its cable. "Gonna go dump this character in the containment unit."

            "I didn't let him out," Peter denied as Winston headed for the basement stairs. "That stupid trap jumped right off the desk."

            "Were you taking readings of it, Peter?" Egon demanded.

            "Yeah, I got Slimer's reading, clear as you please, and then I went to general and got the ghost's. I thought maybe when you got home...." He blinked again. "I thought Ray had to stay there a couple of hours."

            "Peter. It's been a couple of hours," Egon reminded him gently.

            Oh, yeah. Fixing up the lab. He'd forgotten.

            Egon bent and snatched up Peter's hand. "What happened here, Peter? This looks like a professional dressing. You've started it bleeding again."

            Peter ducked his head. "No biggie. I...uh...." He saw Egon's expectant gaze--he'd wait forever for an answer--and mumbled, "I sorta--punched out a wall in the waiting room."

            He risked a glance at Ray to see how that would go over, and half jumped when the injured man sat down beside him, lowering himself carefully because he had to be hurting. He snatched Peter's hand away from Egon and gently fingered the bloodstained dressings.

            "Oh, gosh, Peter, I'm so sorry."

            "Now that Slimer's okay?" Peter challenged, but he didn't let himself sound angry or suspicious. He lacked the energy for either and wasn't sure if it were even a fair question. How much sense could Ray have made of everything when he was hurting so badly? In pain, grieving for Slimer--Peter would probably have screwed up far worse. He waved a hand to erase the question. "Nah, skip it. I didn't mean that."

            "I didn't mean any of it," Ray cried. "I was just--gosh, Peter, Egon asked me what I'd have done if it had been a choice between saving you and saving Slimer, and much as I love Slimer, there's no question. I'd have saved you. I'd have done exactly what you did. I'm sorry I was so mean to you."

            Peter shot one quick, grateful glance at Egon, who lifted his head from his meter readings as if he could feel the summoning of Peter's eyes, and smiled. "For you, Peter," he mouthed, and Peter flashed a grateful smile at him before he met Ray's rueful, apologetic gaze.

            "You were hurt, Ray, and I didn't listen to you."

            "I didn't explain. I thought you knew, but there was no way you could. I didn't mean any of it. Will you forgive me? You've gotta forgive me."

            Peter looked at his friend, who sat there beside him, breathless and earnest, waiting for absolution. For just an instant, he hesitated, conscious of the expectancy of Egon's gaze without even looking at him. In the distance, Winston started up the stairs again after shutting Blackie away for good.

            How could he not forgive Ray, when he'd done what he did to save him? The cold knot in Peter's stomach melted away as if it had never existed. "Come on, Ray, you know I do. You don't even have to ask." He grabbed for the other man--carefully to avoid jarring his injured shoulder--and hugged him. Ray's good arm encircled Peter tightly and his forehead pressed against Peter's shoulder. A step behind Peter announced Egon's presence, and a big hand rested on Peter's back.

            "Hey, way to go, guys." Winston's delighted cry announced his return. "Everything all better now?" He clattered over to join them and energetically ruffled Peter's hair.

            "Great, thanks, Zed," Peter griped, but he felt so good that not even the teasing violation of his "do" could ruin his elation. He'd been nuts to doubt Ray would come around the second he was feeling well enough to think. How could he have doubted that Egon would take action to reconcile them, that Winston would understand. They were a family, after all. Families might fight, but they always made up in the end. As if to prove it, Ray lifted his head and grinned at him.

            One thing still bothered Peter. "I don't get it, though. Ray was talking about two ghosts trapped together, and how they'd be blended forever because of it. When I got those readings, it wasn't like they were blended, and you were able to separate them. What did you do, set one thrower at Slimer's readings and the other at the ghost's? How'd you even know the ghost's?"

            Egon actually beamed. "That was simple, Peter. We brainstormed the situation on the way home, and Ray mentioned the EEC, the energy collector I've been developing. I'd thought of that myself. The ghost was exposed to it. Not only does it draw energy from ghosts, it reacts to specific presences within range. So some of the ghost's energy was drawn into the device, and some of the energy it collected permeated the spirit."

            More Egonspeak. Confusing as hell. "So you knew this how? You didn't run upstairs to check it while I was holding off Blackie?"

            The smile on Egon's face became positively beatific. "Because I designed a remote link feature into my personal P.K.E. meter. Eventually, the others will have them as well. I was able to access the last recorded interaction in complete detail, to measure how it affected the device and how it affected the ghost. Factoring in Slimer's readings, and bearing in mind that the ghost and Slimer had not entered the trap separately, the way Drool and the shape-shifter ghost had, I was able to extrapolate a theory, that because of the nature of the ghost's readings, and the fact that Slimer was contained entirely within him, that he remained a complete entity within the other ghost. Therefore, attempting a separation was feasible."

            "Yeah, we planned it on the way over," Ray threw in with a huge grin. "Of course we didn't know you were going to let it out and play with it, Peter."

            The teasing note in Ray's words made the other man grin. "You know me," he said. "I throw myself into my work." Wait till they saw how much progress he'd made upstairs. He could capitalize on that for weeks.

            "You throw yourself into sleeping in," Winston kidded.

            "Tough job. Somebody's gotta do it."

            Slimer must have decided he wanted a piece of the action, because he suddenly cried, "Pee-taw! Pee-taw save Slimer," and flung himself into the huddle. Ray jerked back smartly to avoid a face full of slime, and Egon and Winston whipped out of range with amazing agility, leaving Slimer to splat against Peter and embrace him with ghostly fervor, his little arms tight around Peter's neck. "Pee-taw save Ray." To Peter's utter disgust, the spud planted a big smooch full on his mouth.

            "Yuck, quit it, Slimer." He pushed the ghost away with his bandaged hand while his other scrubbed at his mouth. Behind him, Egon and Winston convulsed into laughter. He'd get them for that, see if he didn't. Maybe the spud would play along for a little retaliation.

            "Slimer!" cried Ray before Peter could implement his plan. "You could see what was going on when you were inside the ghost?" The question made Egon stop laughing and edge closer, eyes alight with fascination.

            Slimer nodded so vigorously his whole body bobbed up and down. Slime flew from him and a gob of it hit Peter right in the eye. With a groan, he mopped it away. This was not his day.

            "Uh huh, uh huh, see it all. Peet-taw save Ray, trap nasty ghost." He hugged Peter again, just as energetically as before.

            "You weren't mad at me for trapping you, too?" Peter had to ask.

            Slimer hesitated. "Not mad. Save Ray, more i'port'nt."

            Color surged up and flooded Ray's face. "Gee, Peter, even Slimer understood what you did."

            "So do you, now, Ray. It's okay."

            The funny thing was, it really was okay. They'd all survived, and the guys had stood by him, just as he'd stood by Ray. Surely he was entitled to worry a little when it was all going down.

            As if he knew what Peter was thinking, Egon stretched out a long arm and hauled Peter to his feet. "Are you certain you are uninjured other than your hand, Peter?" he demanded.

            "The ghost didn't lay a finger on me, not that he had fingers," Peter agreed. He put his bandaged hand behind his back, but Egon only looked at him.

            "We will, of course, redress that now."

            "Whatever you say, Egon." It might feel good to let the guys take care of him. With a huge grin, he helped Ray to his feet. "Come on, Tex, I bet the doc wants you to take it easy tonight. Once Egon finishes fixing me up, I'll be saintly and virtuous and wait on you hand and foot. What do you say?"

            "Mee too, mee too?" Slimer asked eagerly.

            Peter stopped dead and rolled his eyes at the spud. "Don't push your luck, Slimer. Remember, I've got a trap with your name on--." He caught himself at the familiar threat and glanced uneasily at Ray. Was he pushing his luck?

            But Ray smiled. "Don't worry, Slimer, I'll protect you. What's more, I've got a great idea. Remember this afternoon before the ghost came? I think we ought to give the guys a concert."

            "Wow, wow, wow a boat?" Slimer asked eagerly.

            Winston groaned, and Egon slapped his forehead with the hand that didn't hold his P.K.E. meter. "Ray? You didn't finally teach him how to sing rounds, did you?" he asked in alarm.

            In spite of his bruises, aches and pains, Ray rocked proudly on his toes. "I sure did. And we're gonna give you guys the whole repertoire."

            Peter groaned even more loudly than Winston had. "My life is complete," he griped, but a quick glance at his laughing friends proved that he spoke no less than the truth.