Originally published in A Small Circle of Friends 5. This zine is a 'recycled plot' zine, where you take the story line from one series and recreate it using the characters of another. The areas of similarity vary, some almost identical, others with the basic theme, no more. This one has quite a different structure in many respects but the basic plot is similar and some of the details are the same.

They didn't use the fireplace much, in fact Ray couldn't remember the last time they had used it, back in '87 maybe. Egon sometimes stored things in it. Winston said a fireplace in the lab didn't make sense, but then the lab hadn't been the lab when they'd bought the firehall to convert it into the Ghostbuster Headquarters. It had been another bunkroom. Six firemen in each side, and the lab side had a fireplace. When they'd rebuilt the firehouse after Walter Peck had shut down the containment unit and blown the place up, they'd decided to use this room for the lab simply because it had been wired with more electrical outlets. Once in awhile, on a cold winter day, they'd used the fireplace, and then, because it was too much of a nuisance to clean the grate and Peter always weaseled out of taking his turn, they just stopped.

Peter . . .

Ray pushed the thought of Peter very carefully out of his mind as he stacked the wood in the fireplace. Outside the windows, the winter wind swirled and wailed like wraiths, like spirits of the dead. No, Ray, don't go there. He wasn't sure why he'd wanted a fire so much, but he thought a part of it stemmed from a childhood memory, from the time he'd been staying with Aunt Lois right after the car crash, right after his folks had been killed. Aunt Lois had built a huge fire in the fireplace--it was in the room where Bassingame had held his seance, Ray remembered, where he had jumped and nearly blasted Winston, and Peter had dropped a casual hand on his shoulder and assured him easily that it was all right, they had won.

Oh, god.

The chair where Aunt Lois had sat, the young Ray huddled and weeping in her lap, had been destroyed during the seance. He'd forgotten until now that it was the same chair, the one that had fallen apart. Somehow, a part of his aching heart mourned the chair. It was easy to mourn a piece of furniture. It hadn't really mattered in the long run. It had been Aunt Lois's soothing voice and comforting arms that had mattered back then. A part of Ray wanted to head up to his aunt's house and let her hug him and stroke his back as she held him, and hear her say that everything would be all right.

But it wouldn't be.

And then there was Christmas, only a few weeks away. The early decorations down in the garage area... Peter's presents...

Ray stacked logs with fiercely methodical precision.

They hadn't even seen Peter die, that was the worst of it. They hadn't even known it had happened until it was over, until the demon slid into the trap and they looked around, afraid that Peter's thrower had stopped because he was hurt. Instead, his proton pack lay abandoned on the pavement with Peter nowhere to be seen. They didn't even realize what had happened to him until a white-haired old man had edged up diffidently and tugged at Ray's sleeve.

"It shot fire at him," he quavered reluctantly when Ray turned to him questioningly, afraid to meet Stantz's eyes. "He just faded away and wasn't there anymore, and then the backpack thing fell to the ground. He didn't even have time to yell."

Ray remembered grabbing the man by the front of his coat and lifting him right up off the ground. "That's a lie!" he'd blurted, too shocked to accept the man's words. "It's a lie. You're making it up." He shook the old man until the ends of his neck scarf bounced.

But the senior citizen just shook his head sadly. "Why would I lie?" he asked rationally "I'm sorry, young man. I'm really sorry."

"Ray, come on, Ray." Egon and Winston had pried Ray's fingers out of the man's coat. He looked up from one friend's face to the other's and seen horror and pain there, and then, in Egon's, burgeoning hope. "Perhaps he was destabilized, as I was." Even as he said it, Ray could see him mentally refute the theory. "No, Peter wasn't using the destabilizer, and even if he had been, I've modified--" His voice chopped off abruptly at the realization that his words made Peter's death final. No hope of a transparent Peter popping in at the firehall, no chance of digging out the molecular phase amplifier to reverse the modification in Peter's disintegrating wave structure. No opportunity to do anything at all. Egon and Ray might be wonderful scientists, but they had never figured out a way to reassemble molecules that had been separated at the speed of light.

The little old man edged away, his shambling walk taking him through the crowd at a remarkable clip, wrapping his scarf around his neck against the cold and tucking his chin down into it. He was probably afraid he'd be grabbed and shaken again, the poor old guy. Winston questioned the crowd, but no one else had witnessed Peter's demise. Every single one of them who hadn't been curled up in a small ball in hopes of being overlooked by the monster had focused his entire attention on the giant yellow demon that had been plaguing the garment district.

The police had arrived, the two cops who had been on site working crowd control during the bust. They'd been watching the demon, too. Egon had taken readings but could find nothing to indicate life signs from Peter. There were only fading biorhythm readings, fading fast. They never lasted long, at least not when detected by P.K.E. meters, and their range was limited--too limited to reach wherever Peter was now. That was when the snow started, a few flakes at first, then whole squadrons of them. Ray remembered hunching his shoulders against them, for once unable to find delight in an early December snow. He was so numb that the cold didn't even sting. It couldn't cut through his horrified shock. Peter's death had happened so abruptly and unexpectedly that it hardly seemed real.

Eventually the cops finished their questions and sent the Ghostbusters home. They had dragged wearily into headquarters, jerking to a stop at the sight of the huge Christmas tree that had been set up in the garage area, still waiting for its decorations. The team's private tree was always upstairs on the second floor, but it wasn't up yet, thank goodness. The sight of Peter's presents stacked under it in bright paper with colored bows would have been far too much to bear. This one was bad enough, reminding them of the impending holiday season, a season they would spend without Peter.

Although it was Sunday, Janine was waiting for them at the office. She'd heard about the bust on TV--Ray remembered the news crew at the scene--and had come in, looking shocked and hollow eyed. Ray remembered the way she had slid her arms around Egon and hugged him tight, one hand reaching up to stroke the back of his neck. A tower of strength until then, Egon had lost it, bowing his head and quivering with reaction and harsh sobs. Ray didn't know if it were the sudden, understanding comfort or maybe even the sight of the unadorned Christmas tree that stood waiting for the four of them to decorate together that had taken him over the edge, and he hovered miserably, reaching out a hand to the oblivious Egon. That was when Winston had grabbed Ray and dragged him down to the containment unit to put the captured demon away so it couldn't hurt anyone ever again. Ray could still hear the ragged sound of Egon's weeping in his mind as he arranged his logs with military exactitude.

The questions that plagued him brought no ease of his pain. Had Peter felt the blast that killed him? Had there been enough time for him to know? Had he died in unspeakable torment, unable to cry out? Or had it happened so fast he hadn't known? Ray hoped it was the latter, but he couldn't believe it. He was sure Peter had known, and the certainty tore him apart.

He was torn from his thoughts by an unexpected question. "Whatcha doin', Ray?" Winston's voice was curiously gentle, but Ray could hear the pain in it even so.

"I'm building a fire," Ray responded in a tight little voice. "It's cold out, and I...like fires." He knew this blaze would be little comfort. Peter wouldn't be able to feel the warmth of the flames.

"So do I." Winston knelt beside Ray and stuck some wadded up newspaper between the logs for kindling. "Ray?"

Bracing himself for a question he knew would hurt, Stantz sat back on his knees and looked up at Winston. "What?"

"Egon's taking this really hard."

"And we're not?" Ray heard the fury burst into his voice and called it back with a gasp. Hanging his head, he apologized for his outburst. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have..."

"Oh, man, Ray, I'm sorry, too," Winston soothed, dropping a big hand on his shoulder and squeezing it. "It's just, in a lot of ways, Peter was--Egon's touchstone. Kept him sane and in touch with the real world. You know? Egon always rationalizes everything. Gets all logical and Spock-like when something bad happens. I left him down there with Janine when he--you know--because he needed to let it go, but it wasn't enough. Wish he hadn't had to see the Christmas tree down there. Man, when I think of the presents we've all got hid away for Peter..."

Ray bobbed his head, unable to speak as he remembered tracking down an autographed first edition of Peter's favorite Dewey LaMorte book and how excited he'd been as he imagined Peter's face when he opened the Christmas gift. Oh, god. He hadn't been able to look past his own pain yet and here was Winston, already worrying about Egon. That was like Winston, though. It was one of the reasons they'd been so incredibly lucky when he joined the team. Winston was a man in a million. But Egon--Egon needed Peter in a way that might not be obvious on the surface. Peter had claimed more than once that Egon had been the first man he'd ever been able to trust, that he'd learned how to trust from knowing Egon. But Peter was the first real friend Egon had ever had, the one who had taught Egon how special a tried and true friend could be. He was still learning how to be a friend when Ray had met them and, even though he was younger, shy, diffident, and insecure, he could see that fledgling friendship and understand a little of it. Horrified, Ray imagined Egon reverting to a pure scientist type, withdrawing into the lab without Peter to come and coax him out. He could picture Egon's face when Christmas came and they all remembered how much Peter had come to love the holiday over the last few years. Horrible thought.

The telephone rang.

Ray withdrew the match he'd been about to use to light the fire and looked at Winston with dismayed eyes. What if it was Peter's father? What if--what if they'd been wrong and Peter wasn't dead after all. Maybe it was...

Winston jumped for it and grabbed it up on the second ring. "Ghostbuster Central." They couldn't refuse calls; not when Peter's father might have heard and would call in. And if there was any chance at all...

In the first moment Ray could see that it wasn't Peter calling to claim he'd been transported somewhere by the demon's blast. The little bit of hope he'd held onto that, somehow, it was all a mistake and Peter would be home any second, finally died. He sat back on his heels, shivering.

It wasn't Peter's father calling, either. It was probably a client, because Winston's shoulders let loose their taut strain for a second. He said, "Slow down, ma'am," quirking a doubtful eyebrow at Ray. "Let me get this straight? Your grandfather was murdered? Uh, we're the Ghostbusters, not the-- What?"

Even through the numbness that he had wrapped himself in, Ray couldn't help wondering what the call was about. Winston listened for a long time, making appropriate sounds every now and then. "His ghost?" Winston asked. "Ma'am, sometimes when people die a violent death, they-- Huh?"

Ray left the matches beside the unlit fire and pushed himself to his feet. It wasn't that he wanted to go on a bust, not now, not with Peter gone. It wasn't even that he wanted to distract himself from the pain that flooded him. He simply couldn't quite believe it. It wasn't real yet. The phone call represented normalcy, but it wasn't fair to Peter's memory to crave normalcy. Pain in his eyes, Ray turned and went over to the window, staring down at Pell Street two floors below.

Night was crowding in, an early night brought about by the nearness of the solstice and the thick bank of snow clouds overhead. In the light of the street lamp, Ray could see the hard, fast flakes flinging themselves at the Earth. And he could see the man in the brown jumpsuit, his face upturned toward the illuminated windows of the third floor of the firehall who seemed to be staring right at Ray.

Ray screeched, "Peter!" in exultation, raced frantically past Winston, and flung himself at the nearest firepole, the steps too slow for his urgent need. He hit the ground floor already running, didn't see either Egon or Janine as he flung open the front door and hurried outside. It was all right after all. Peter was back.

When he ran around the corner of the building, he saw no one standing under the firepole. A few cars skidded by, but except for the hesitant traffic, the icy street was deserted.

"Ray, what the heck?" Winston slogged up behind him through the drifts, draping a coat over Ray's shoulders and holding it in place with the arm he slung around him. "Come on back inside now. It's too cold out here. What did you think you were doing?"

"I saw Peter, Winston," he cried earnestly, his heart thudding excitedly in his chest. "I really saw him. He was standing right there. Look! There's his footprints." He pointed to the place where he had seen Peter. Already the snow was blurring the edges of the bootmarks, but they were real, they were here. They were...proof? "He was standing right there, see? I didn't imagine it. Really."

Winston tightened his arm around Ray's shoulders. "Ray, listen, homeboy. I want to see him, too. I'd give anything, everything I own, if Peter were to walk in the door and make some wisecrack." His voice was heavy with unshed tears. "But that's not gonna happen. Ray, dead is dead--and ghosts don't leave footprints. You saw somebody here and you wanted to see Peter so badly that you imagined--"

"But he was wearing a jumpsuit, Winston. And his hair was just the same, the way it flips down over...over his f-forehead. I kn-know it was Peter. He's alive, Winston. He has to be."

Winston's face was wet, and Ray knew it wasn't all from the snow. "I want him alive, too, Ray, as much as you do. Come on. He's not here now, and he wouldn't thank me for letting you catch pneumonia. Let's go inside and talk about it." He guided Ray's reluctant steps to the door and Ray let him, his chin on his shoulder as he scanned the deserted street behind him. "Come on, Ray. I know it hurts."

Egon met them in the doorway and helped Winston lead Ray inside. He wasn't fully in his rational mode yet and, behind his glasses, his eyes were red and swollen but he'd regained a measure of control. "What happened?" he asked, casting a doubtful look at Ray's shocked face.

"I...I guess I was imagining things," Ray admitted sorrowfully lowering his eyes from the pain he saw in Egon's. "I thought I saw--" He couldn't bring himself to say the name, to watch misery run across the physicist's face.

"Peter," Egon completed the sentence. He must have known that nothing else could have caused Ray's frantic race out into the storm. Leaning past his teammates, he stared out at the snowy night for an endless moment, the gesture clawing at Ray's throat and making it tighten up.

Egon took a very long, deep breath. At the sound of it, Janine darted over and hovered nearby, her eyes red, her mouth set in a line of grim determination. "Come on, let's not heat the city. Our power bills are high enough already." As she remembered it was usually Peter who paid the Con Ed bills and complained right and left about how high they were, she broke off and bit her lip, an apology in her eyes.

The blond's shoulders sagged and his head bowed, and he closed the door very gently. He didn't lock it. The very fact of that made Ray's heart ache. Deep inside the physicist was the forlorn belief that Peter shouldn't come home to a locked door.

"You don't have to stay, Janine." Egon wasn't being cruel or dismissing her concern. Maybe he was embarrassed at breaking down in front of her, but Ray didn't think he'd even considered that yet. "The weather's getting bad," Spengler continued, the picture of logic. "We can run you out to Brooklyn if--"

"Nothing doing." Janine didn't take him wrong, either. She simply planted her feet on the garage floor. It looked like it would take a Class 11 megaspecter to budge her. "I'm fixing dinner for you fou-three clowns." Her eyes apologized for the slip that had made all of them wince. "And then I'm staying. Somebody has to do the phones."

"Speaking of phones," Winston cut in hastily, circling around the Christmas tree. "I just got a weird call upstairs."

Janine hung her head. "I'm sorry, Winston. I was in the bathroom and missed it. I didn't want you guys taking those awful press calls. That's my job."

Egon put a grateful hand on her shoulder but Winston shook his head. "It wasn't a press call. It was weird."

"Winston said it was a woman whose grandfather was murdered." Ray hoped his voice was steady. Talking about someone who had died hit them all a little too close to home.

"Somebody murdered an old guy?" Janine asked a little too brightly. Maybe they really did need a distraction.

Winston collected himself as they trekked up to the second floor and took their places mechanically around the dining table. No one sat at Peter's place; the empty chair mocked them. Winston caught his breath before he resumed his story. "Yeah, and she said the police didn't figure out who did it or why. What's more, it was kind of a ritual thing."

"A ritual thing?" Ray asked sharply, wondering if that was why she had called the Ghostbusters. "You mean like an occult ritual?"

Winston shook his head. "No, man. Like a serial killer. At first, they didn't know he was dead. They found his favorite pipe lying in the middle of the floor; it was a couple of weeks ago. He was missing. Then about a week later, they found the body; it showed up in his house in the same place where the pipe had been lying. He'd been poisoned. She said the police wouldn't tell her anything but she got the feeling there had been other people killed in exactly the same way. They didn't have a clue why it happened but, from the questions they asked, they were trying to find a connection between him and other victims."

"Winston said she'd seen his ghost," explained Ray.

"At his funeral," Winston muttered. "In the back of the church. Wearing his coat and scarf."

"The one they buried him in?" Janine asked absently.

Egon flinched. Oh, god, thought Ray, we don't even have Peter's body to bury. They'd have to have a memorial service...

"She didn't say," Winston muttered hastily, clearly contrite because he'd mentioned a funeral. "But she's seen him a couple of times now. She wants us to come over and find out what's going on. Maybe he knows who killed him and we can figure it out."

In a way, Ray wanted to do it. They'd caught the demon who had killed Peter, and had slammed him into the containment unit, believing what had happened was too good for him. Trapping the entity wasn't enough. Maybe it would feel good to capture a serial killer, or at least help the police do it. Peter would want to. He always felt sorry for people who had it rough, who were hurting. The murdered man's granddaughter would be sure to win his sympathy. Maybe they needed to be doing something, to go on.... The thought of going on without Peter was so incredibly painful Ray couldn't think about it. He knew Peter would want them to.

"It is possible the ghost knows who killed him and could give us the information," Egon replied in an utterly businesslike voice. "We could take readings. He might not want to give the information to his granddaughter for fear of risking her life." Egon could always come up with reasoned arguments, and he might need something to do. How much harder would it be to go on a bust and know that they couldn't turn to Peter and expect him to come up with clever answers about motivations, to direct the team to catch the ghost? For all of Winston's helpful military strategy, it was Peter who managed the busts, a team captain who knew at any given moment where any of the guys were in the heat of a bust and how to coordinate them to catch the ghost. Peter always said Ray was the team's heart but Peter was...more than that. He was the glue that held them together, the spirit of the team.

"I wonder if there are any more of this serial killer's victims haunting their relatives?" asked Janine. "I remember reading something in the paper awhile back about somebody else who had was missing and then his body turned up back in his house."

"I could find it on the computer, look at back issues of the paper," Winston volunteered anxiously. He wanted busy work. Ray could tell he needed a task. "I got the woman's number. We can check it out and call her back in the morning."

Ray exchanged a quick glance with Egon and then looked away again. He could see in his friend's eyes that he really didn't have the heart for this job. He didn't have the heart for anything, not now, when it hurt so much. Deep inside Ray Stantz had always been a core of strength that strangers didn't suspect he possessed. He stiffened his shoulders. "I think we should do it. We can't let that poor woman be upset. And it will give us something to..." His voice trailed out. It was hard to be strong when his heart was broken.

"Something to do," Egon finished for him and Ray saw strength filter into Egon's eyes, too. Yes, it would be hard to do it, but there would be nothing easy now, not even walking into the bunkroom and seeing Peter's bed. Everything would remind them of Peter and, no matter how much it hurt, Ray wanted it to. He didn't want to forget.

Janine looked back and forth between the two of them, then she stood up and said briskly, "I'll go and cook dinner. And remember, this is a one-time deal. Cooking's not in my job description and don't you forget--" She chopped off the words abruptly. It would have been Peter who would have capitalized on her offer, not the rest of them, and everyone knew it. Peter wasn't coming back, though, not even if the man Ray had seen under the lamppost really proved to be his ghost.

No, that had been mere wishful thinking. Ghosts didn't leave footprints.

They wandered into the lab after a dinner that none of them had possessed the heart to eat. Chasing food around on their plates and forcing down the odd bite had been a painful experience. Finally Egon had shoved his plate aside with a quick, apologetic glance at Janine to let her know that the fault was not in her cooking. He bore the look of a man who would be sick if he tried to swallow one more mouthful. Poor Egon. Ray watched him sadly, knowing Spengler was floundering but lacking the heart to do anything to help him.

Once in the lab, Winston booted up the computer and proclaimed that he would research the death of the man whose granddaughter had telephoned. Deprived of that opportunity for research and unwilling to wrest the computer from Winston, who had been such a tower of strength, Egon faltered to a stop. Janine cast a knowing glance at him, then turned her eyes compellingly upon Ray. He scooted over to join Egon.

"I was building a fire earlier. I think it would be nice," he ventured.

Startled at words that weren't part of his imagined script, Egon really looked at Ray for the first time in hours. His eyes were still puffy, but the tears hadn't eased any of his pain. He hadn't quite retreated into total logic yet, not if that showed. Ray wanted to put his arms around him and comfort him, but he was quite sure Egon would fall apart at another kindness and it wouldn't be right to force a breakdown on him right now.

"Yes, Ray," Egon said as if it caused physical pain to speak and thus had to dole out words in tiny increments. "A fire would be nice."

"Come on, then, let's drag the couch over." He caught himself. It was Peter who had insisted the lab needed a couch, an article of furniture neither Ray nor Egon would have thought of. Naturally, Peter had used it for sprawling out, sneaking catnaps during staff meetings, 'supervising' when the other three were working. Ray always thought of it in his mind as 'Peter's couch.'

Egon ignored his slip, maybe too determinedly. Together they manhandled the sofa into place, then Ray knelt and grabbed up his matches, igniting the wadded newspaper. Still on his knees, he waited to make sure the logs were going to catch, then he drew back. Egon had planted himself in the middle of the couch, his hands held out toward the warmth of the fire. Curled up in a corner beside him, Janine stayed far enough away that they were not touching. Ray took the other corner, his eyes on the growing flames. Aunt Lois had been right, a fire could be a comfort, but it couldn't comfort tonight. The only thing that could offer comfort was all of them being together. It was too soon for them to mourn Peter. They were all in shock; tonight they would simply be together, letting the fire and each other's presence warm the cold places inside as best they could.

Ray found himself remembering how much Peter had liked it when they had a fire, how he had perched himself as close as he safely could to the flames, seeking, catlike, the warmth and coziness it represented. Egon had once teased him that he might as well curl up on the hearth and be done with it, and Peter had stuck out his tongue at him. Oh, god.

Ray turned his eyes from the flames and watched Winston instead. He was on line now, checking out websites, his face intent with concentration. Ray envied him his ability to do that, but then Winston had been through this before, in Nam. He'd taught himself to carry on because, in a war zone, it had been the only option. Did it ever build up so much that he might snap under the strain? Sadly, Ray resolved to watch him and make sure he was all right.

"Peter liked the fire," Egon said softly. "He liked it, Ray."

"I know, Egon."

Egon's hand shot out abruptly, his fingers encircling Ray's wrist so tightly that it hurt. "What are we going to do?" he asked in a stunned, lost voice. "What are we going to do?"

Oh, gosh. Ray didn't know what they were going to do but he knew what to do now. He turned to Egon and hugged him for all he was worth. Egon didn't cry this time, but he clung almost like a small child would then he stiffened against the comfort and said in a voice that shook, almost with anger, "How could he do this to us?"

That made Janine draw in a stunned breath. She caught Ray's eyes over Egon's shoulder, her eyes fathoms deep. He gave her a shaky nod. It broke his heart, but he understood. A part of him wanted to rant and rave, too, not really at Peter but at Fate. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right that they lose Peter like this, that he had died and none of them had even known it, that they hadn't even said goodbye.

Ray knew he was crying, but he didn't try to stop it. He wasn't ashamed of his tears, not when the loss was so great.

Egon's realization of Ray's distress pulled him into a gentle, sympathetic state and he let the anger fade, patting Ray's back. Winston's fingers were silent on the keyboard, but he didn't say anything either.

When they collected themselves, nothing was any better, nothing but the fact that they still had each other.

Egon passed Ray a handkerchief and he mopped his face, then he jumped up, unable to sit any longer, unable to comfort himself in front of the fire. Instead he wandered over to the window where he thought he'd seen Peter and stared down into the night.

During dinner the wind had died and the quality of the storm had changed. Great, fat flakes drifted slowly and silently down, coating the city in a cold, white shroud. The figure in the brown jumpsuit stood under the street lamp where he had stood before, huddled in the slowly falling snow, his eyes lifted to the illuminated windows of the lab. His very posture was familiar.

"PETER!"

The others crowded in beside him, straining to see.

"It is Peter," Winston cried, stunned and disbelieving. "What the heck . . . "

Egon took one look and snatched up the P.K.E. meter that lay on the lab table. Yanking up the window, he aimed it at the figure so far below. It didn't beep at all.

"He's not a ghost," Janine gasped, staring. "Peter!" She leaned out the window. "You wait right there!" Already, the other three fled toward the stairs.

When they charged out the door and raced around the corner, there was no one standing under the streetlight, just a disturbed place in the snowdrift where he had stood to prove that anyone had been there at all.

"Oh, man, Ray, I am so sorry," Winston groaned, clapping his forehead in disgust. "I thought you imagined it before."

"That was Peter," Janine blurted, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill. "We all saw him. He's alive."

"I got no P.K.E. readings," Egon said in a strange voice. Stunned, he blinked at the snowflakes, then he jerked up the meter and adjusted it hastily. Once again it did not react.

"Pete's biorhythms?" Winston asked uneasily.

"Yes, but I still get nothing. There should still be faint, lingering readings if it had actually been Peter we saw."

"Maybe he...wasn't really here," Ray ventured.

Janine stabbed a finger at the footprints that were already filling in. "Somebody was here, Ray. Somebody was here for a long time, like he was waiting to be seen. Maybe we should track him." She took two quick steps, then stopped. "He went out into the street," she pointed out. "And there's been enough traffic I can't follow . . . "

"I don't get it. Why would Peter run away from us?" Winston demanded, scratching his head. "And what the heck do you mean, Ray, he wasn't really here? We all saw him."

"Maybe..." He hesitated, shivering. There had to be an answer but his mind wouldn't function. He couldn't understand or find an answer.

Winston's brow puckered in thought, but all he said was, "Come on inside. Won't do us any good to catch pneumonia." He draped one arm around Ray's shoulders and the other around Egon's. "Inside, now."

Once the door was shut behind them and they had brushed off the snow that had begun to collect on their clothes and hair, they gazed at each other in stupefied incredulity. "This makes no sense," Egon blurted, staring at his meter as if it had betrayed him. With a frown, he pulled off his glasses and rubbed at a snow-streaked lens with his fingers. Janine ran to her desk and got him a Kleenex to dry them with. Automatically polishing, he squinted at the others. "We all saw him but there were no readings of any kind. I don't believe in mass hallucinations, especially when they leave footprints. Ray, what did you mean, he wasn't really here?"

Ray hesitated. "Golly, Egon, I don't know. Could the demon have, uh, transported him to the Netherworld or something, instead of...killing him?" In a way, he was afraid to make the suggestion. It offered such false hope. If it were true, if Peter were alive and trapped somewhere on the other side, maybe he could-- Could what? Project his image back? Project it strongly enough to leave footprints? Ray was quite sure an out-of-body experience could do that, and it wasn't as if Peter made a habit of OOBE's.

"If so, he couldn't be here," Egon insisted sharply, settling his glasses into place and pushing them up on his nose with an impatient finger. It wasn't that he would want to deny the possibility of Peter's survival, Ray knew, but he must feel he had to be ultra-rational. "No human can return from the Netherworld without assistance, either from a powerful demon or from a device like our own. If Peter were indeed trapped there, he could not return on his own, and if he had found a way to project his image here in an attempt to let us know where he was--and I know of no way to do that--he would not leave footprints." He worked manfully on the dials of the meter. "I simply do not understand this. But we saw someone. We saw the footprints. If--"

"Could Peter have been transported somewhere here in the city instead of blasted, when he was hit?" Winston theorized. "Maybe he's confused, doesn't remember who he is." His voice trailed off in dismay as he saw the flaw in that argument. "No, we'd have picked up his biorhythms, even if he'd taken off by the time we came downstairs." He shrugged. "Anyway, we all had our coats on over our jumpsuits when we went on the bust. And all he had was his coverall."

"There's an answer, even if it isn't obvious yet," Janine said stanchly. "We all saw him. That means something. And you didn't get normal readings so he isn't a..."

"A ghost," Winston finished when no one else spoke. "Man, if a ghost was the only way to get Pete back, I'd sure take it. But if he wasn't giving off readings..."

"Unless he was not really here, unless what we saw was merely an image." Egon frowned. "The meters are intended to detect ghosts and spirits. What we saw was solid enough to leave footprints but didn't register with Peter's biorhythms."

"So what you're saying is that it was somebody pretending to be Peter?" Winston's face hardened with rage. He caught himself immediately. "Come on! Wearing his clothes and his hair and all?"

"Could you actually see his face clearly through the snow?" Janine wondered, her voice unusually diffident. "I mean, I couldn't. He didn't really respond when I yelled, either."

Ray hesitated then said reluctantly as if the words were being dragged free, "Not clearly. I saw the jumpsuit first, then I saw his hair was combed like Peter's but the snow was just too thick and he was too far away to make out details. Except, the way he was standing--it was like Peter. The...the body language."

"Yeah, I got that, too," Winston said. "He moved like Peter. Oh, man, what the hell is going on?"

Egon held up the meter. "I shall configure a number of meters set to various readings and place them and other detection equipment around the firehall," he decided. "If anything paranormal is going on, we'll have a clear chance of finding it."

They looked at each other doubtfully, completely at a loss. One thing was clear--maybe Peter's death hadn't been exactly what they thought. That old man only knew what he'd seen, Peter disappearing in a blaze of light. It could have been a demonic form of teleportation rather than a disintegration. It could have even snapped Peter into the future, the way a demon had once done to Egon. ⁽¹⁾ Maybe not as far, because he was back--or was he? If they couldn't get his readings... "Gosh, this is weird," Ray breathed, but he felt heartened. Something was going on, even if they didn't understand it. Something had happened and it might mean there was a chance to get Peter back. Maybe the demon had done something to block the readings when he zapped Peter. Maybe until it wore off, Peter could only appear to them and disappear again. But--it could mean Peter wasn't dead. Excitement and burgeoning hope pulsed through Ray's body.

"We'll figure it out," he vowed. "If the demon did something to block his readings..."

Egon snapped his fingers. "Hmm, a possibility. I will boost a meter to maximum gain and fine-tune it to Peter's precise readings." His posture was straighter now, full of purpose. That unfamiliar stiffness was gone.

"I'll set the video camera up in the window and we'll monitor it so that if Pete shows up again, we'll get it on film," Winston proclaimed excitedly. "We'll solve this. Maybe one of us should stay down here in the dark and watch out the back window. We'd be a lot closer and could get there faster, if we did."

They scurried around busily, mounting the camera and placing it in the darkened bedroom window where it wouldn't be visible from the street. Ray knew Winston did that because he was a suspicious man and couldn't help wondering, though he didn't admit it, if some vicious person were simply out there yanking their chain. Most of the Ghostbusters' enemies were ghosts, but there could be someone living out to get them. The whole city, probably the whole world, knew what had happened to Peter by now. There might be some sicko who would enjoy bugging the guys, and it wouldn't be hard to get one of their uniforms or a reasonable copy. Of course that implied the guy was nuts enough to stand out in the blizzard on the off chance someone would look out the window...

Ray didn't think it was that. He wanted to believe it was a sign from Peter, a sign that he was still alive.

When they returned to the lab, the fire was still crackling away in the fireplace. For the first time since he'd lit it, Ray found it comforting.

It was dark where he was, dark and cold, and very confusing. At first, his mind didn't want to work at all, as if someone had flipped a switch the way they did with Data on The Next Generation, pitching him into mindless inactivity. If it weren't for the cold and discomfort, he would have let himself drift, allowing the swirls of consciousness to fade away and leave him floating in his gloomy limbo. Gradually, the chill permeated his entire being and he began to shiver. Tough to shiver and stay out of it. What the heck made him so uncomfortable? He fumbled for the covers--must have kicked them off in his sleep. But his hand wouldn't reach and his fingers tingled unpleasantly, full of pins and needles--was his hand asleep? Yanking at it only made something hard and tight bite into his wrist and cause him to cry out with pain.

What the hell... Almost fully aware, he squinted into the blackness, checking for a source of light, any light. Somewhere high over his head, a few faint trickles of dim illumination edged in, giving him just enough brightness to prove that he wasn't blind but not enough to reveal his surroundings. He could make out thin scrapes of light as if someone had drawn rough lines through the night, rending it fractionally. He didn't understand, didn't understand at all.

Another attempt to move brought him up against the straps again. The tingling in his system eased enough for him to think, but the desperate pulling for freedom hurt his hands and feet. No matter how much he arched his body up, he couldn't undo them from their confinement. He moaned.

"Ah, it talks." The voice was so close that it made him jump. He hadn't sensed a presence until he heard it. He'd barely been able to think. Worse, the voice was waaay too familiar. It sounded like--like himself, and that was just nuts. He hadn't spoken. Someone else had and, straining his eyes, he was conscious of someone very close to him, a faint outline against the blackness that surrounded him. The person loomed over him, blocking out the faint glow high overhead in a man-shaped outline.

"Who the heck are you?" he faltered.

"Who do you think I am, Dr. Venkman?" Again that sense of familiarity. Venkman? The name hit him hard, yanking him into full awareness, pushing him past his discomfort into a sudden knowledge of his identity. Venkman. He was Peter Venkman. He was a Ghostbuster. He was...he had been fighting a demon. A few struggles with his recalcitrant memory and he remembered that. But after that his recall went fuzzy, fading to black, leaving nothing but confused, distorted images. He was Peter Venkman, but where was he--and why did the man talking to him sound so much like him?

"I'm Peter Venkman," he said aloud, his voice slurred and uneven as if he'd been out on a twenty-four hour binge, and his stomach was willing to confirm the possibility. He felt queasy and sick. Okay, so he didn't sound very together yet, but at least he knew who he was.

"You mean, you were Dr. Venkman?" the shadowy form he could barely perceive retorted unkindly. "I am Peter Venkman now." A match flared to life, held in the hand of the speaker, and Peter gasped. He was looking up at--himself, in his brown jumpsuit, with a familiar flip of brown hair over his forehead. He squinted in disbelief.

"It's too late, you see," the man said in Peter's own voice, shaking out the match before Peter could study the stranger's features to see how close the resemblance was. "Maybe you were Peter Venkman, but now, of course, you are dead." Retreating footsteps signified the man's departure, footsteps nearly drowned out by a decidedly maniacal giggle. Then there was no sound but for the harsh rasp of Peter's own breathing.

He lay there trembling, trying to still the unpleasant twist of his stomach, to ignore the sour taste in his mouth. Harder to ignore the frisson of panic that ran up and down his spine. Oh, god, what was going on? What had happened to him? Where was he and why was he here? And who was that guy who wore his clothes and his hairstyle?

"Guys?" he tried faintly. Were they prisoners here, too? Had the demon won, imprisoning all of them in its domain? Or had only Peter been captured? A prisoner? He was tied down, hands and feet secured to prevent escape. The bonds were tight around wrists and ankles but, now that he had slackened his frantic struggles, he realized he could feel blood returning to his hands in an agony of pins and needles.

"Think, Venkman," he urged himself aloud. "You have to figure this out. What the hell is going on?"

His brain was still fuzzy, and he could only lie there struggling to concentrate, to make sense of what had happened. He couldn't be dead. He knew that. If he were dead, he wouldn't be so cold, and his wrist wouldn't hurt where he'd tried to yank free of the bonds that held him.

Bonds? Peter moved cautiously, shifting arms and legs. He was tied down. It didn't feel like rope, more like leather straps. What the hell! Last he'd heard, Demons didn't need to bother with things like this, did they? Or had the demon assumed his form so it could go back to Peter's world and attack his friends? Demons could shapeshift. Oh, god, that meant his buddies were in trouble, and he had no way to warn them.

He writhed and twisted against the bonds in a frenzy, desperate to break free, but they were too strong for him, and the paroxysm of motion only made him dizzy, queasy. Letting his muscles relax, he sagged against his hard bed.

Bed? No, it wasn't a bed, it was a chair, a form-fitting chair, his head and shoulders elevated, his feet a little elevated, too. He squinted into the darkness but there was not enough light, especially after the brightness of the match, for him to see his surroundings.

"Guys!" he called again, louder this time. "Egon! Winston! Ray! Petey needs you."

No one answered.

He lay concentrating. Okay, so he was tied down in a weird chair, fastened with leather straps, but they weren't quite tight enough to impede his circulation. When he pulled, they didn't get any tighter, just put pressure against his wrists so, for now, he'd better lie quietly and let the blood return to his fingers. The last thing he needed was to shut off circulation to his hands. He would need them--when he clawed the demon's eyes out.

Okay, he was tied here so he couldn't get away and go back to warn his buddies that the demon meant to take his place. It might have just killed him, but it had done something else, something that had left him drenched with cold sweat and full of queasiness. Drugged? Did demons drug people, or did it just zap him with demon power and create the same result?

It wasn't all illusion, though. The demon was wearing his clothes; that was why he was so cold. All he had on were the jeans and sweatshirt he'd been wearing under his jumpsuit. His coat was gone, and so were his boots, and his toes felt almost numb, although it was the numb of discomfort rather than the iciness of freezing. Wherever he was, it was warmer than outside, although not by much. It wasn't below freezing in here--he could survive.

"I'm gonna trap you so hard you'll bounce," Peter muttered to the absent demon, then he stiffened in new panic. It looked like him. Wearing his clothes, his identity, the demon could stroll right into headquarters, make some comment to the guys about being stunned and trapped to lull their suspicions, then it could kill them. Probably that was what it wanted, an in to headquarters so it could get at the containment unit.

Forgetting his own situation entirely, Peter struggled frantically to get free. He had to warn the guys.

The straps that held him were unforgiving. No matter how hard he fought he couldn't budge them.

"Guys, listen to me," he breathed in a hard, urgent voice. "He's coming for you. It isn't me. Don't believe it's me." A part of him was positive the demon had only to open his mouth and give away the fact that he was a double--but it had his voice. It might fool them for a second or two, long enough to get the drop on them. If only it would come back, flash the match again, let Peter see how close a duplication it was. Maybe the guys would know instantly and blast it.

If they didn't...

Peter let every muscle in his body relax. If he was going to get out of here, he needed to think. Okay, so he didn't have the strength to break the leather straps that held him, but he was a Ghostbuster. Smarter than any ten demons. He could get out of here. And then he'd warn the guys. Anything else just didn't bear thinking about.

When Egon awoke from his restless, uneasy sleep, it wasn't light yet. In early December, that didn't mean much; he always got up in the darkness in December, but this morning, it was much harder than usual to roll over and sit up. Instead he huddled, Peter-like, beneath his covers, unwilling to face the day. The scientific curiosity and delight in his life that drew him out of bed each morning to face the challenge of a new day was totally muted.

Peter was dead.

Egon squeezed his eyes tightly shut upon the darkened bunkroom. Dead, Peter was dead--

Or was he?

Egon didn't understand the image they had seen last night, that Ray had seen twice. Had it been Peter's ghost, there would have been Class-4 readings, and there had been none. Neither had there been detectable biorhythms, at least not Peter's. Egon had focused the meter on Peter's exact frequency, boosting the power as high as he could in case something blocked the readings. It hadn't helped. He had picked up nothing to indicate Peter had stood there beneath the light post, gazing up at the firehall, nothing but the marks in the snow that matched the bootprints of the Ghostbusters' boots.

They had trapped and confined the demon that had blasted Peter, so it could not be using Peter to taunt them. Could another demon, a friend or relative of the one they caught, have Peter in his power? Could it block the readings? What did it want? A chance to free its friend and the other ghosts in the containment unit? Revenge on the Ghostbusters for daring to attack demons? The opportunity to play mind games?

The one thing that he did not believe was that the entire team had hallucinated the image of Peter. If they saw him again, he would make each person write down exactly what he had seen before they discussed it.

The smell of coffee wafted its way up to him, and he sat up reluctantly, glancing around to see who was up. Peter's bed, of course, was untouched, but Ray and Winston were unmoving lumps beneath their covers. How? Peter! He nearly leaped eagerly from bed and raced downstairs, but then he remembered that Janine had chosen to stay over last night and had slept on the couch. She did that sometimes when things went wrong, or even when the weather was bad and she didn't want to trek out to Brooklyn. In this case, both rules were in effect. She must have slept as poorly as he had.

A glance at his watch proved it was later than he thought it was. Nearly seven. Time to get up and face the day. Without Peter, facing it would be harder than usual, but there was a chance that Peter was alive and a prisoner and, even if the chance was one in ten million, Egon would not squander it. If Peter could be saved, Egon meant that he would be. Somehow. If the meters didn't track him, then he would simply redesign a meter until it did. If they had to drive all over the city or use Ray's molecular phase amplifier to reach the Netherworld and search there, Egon meant to do it. We'll find you, Peter, he vowed.

Ray and Winston hadn't stirred while he had his shower and they didn't awaken while he dressed. Let them sleep. It would give him time to formulate a strategy, to determine a plan.

Janine was sitting at the dining table, her fingers curled around a coffee cup, staring unseeingly into space. When she heard Egon on the stairs, she turned to see who was up and her face softened. Jumping up, she vanished into the kitchen and returned with Egon's coffee cup in hand. With a gesture at his chair, she set it in front of him. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes, restlessly," he confessed honestly. "You?"

"Some," she admitted. Egon knew that Janine cared about Peter far more than she would ever admit. In some ways, Peter was her big brother, even a soulmate. What drew him to Janine was similar to what drew him to Peter, a respect for that stubborn spirit that wouldn't back down, an appreciation of wicked humor. Of course it was far more than that in both cases, but in some ways Peter and Janine were very much alike, although neither of them would admit it aloud under pain of death. Death? He pushed that thought away.

Picking up the cup, he sipped it. "Thank you."

Janine rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin on them, peering at him measuringly over the tops of her glasses. "You think there's a chance, don't you?" she asked.

"Don't you?"

Janine hesitated. "We saw something last night, Egon," she said slowly. "But...it was what we wanted to see. I don't know. I honestly don't."

"Ghosts don't leave footprints," Egon reminded her. He wanted to refute her charge but he knew what she was doing. She was cautioning him not to hope too much. The blond shook his head. Peter deserved every chance he could get. Egon wouldn't avoid the attempt simply because failure would cause him pain. He didn't understand what had happened last night, but something had, something they had all seen. He would find answers, even if the answers hurt. He had to. "I can't let it go, Janine, not if there is even one chance. I owe Peter so much more than I can ever repay. If he is out there, in this world or the Netherworld, I will find him."

She reached out and patted his arm. "I know you will, Egon. If anybody can do it, you can."

Winston clattered down the stairs, still yawning. He must have been awake when Egon was getting dressed, after all. Still in his pajamas and a bathrobe, he was unshaven, but he held a video tape in his hand. "Coffee!" he muttered, dragging up a chair and depositing the tape beside his plate.

Janine fetched it for him. "Did you sleep?"

"Man, I wouldn't wish my dreams on Walter Peck," Winston groaned. "Ray looked peaceful so I didn't bother him. Let him sleep as long as he can." He took the cup from Janine's hands and chugged about half of it. After a moment, he straightened up. "I feel halfway human," he admitted. "How you doing, Egon?"

"I confess to total perplexity," Egon replied. "I simply do not know what to do, short of trying every detection device we have and playing back the tape you set up last night."

"Yeah, I brought it," Winston said unnecessarily. "Ran out of tape and around dawn and rewound. I heard it and stuck in a new tape, and it's going now. Pete wasn't out there when I changed it. We can do a fast forward in a minute. See if...if Pete's on it."

"Do you believe it's Dr. V?" Janine asked him.

"I'm not sure what I believe," Winston replied cautiously, shooting a tentative glance at Egon. "All I know is that we saw something and it looked like Pete. And it wasn't a ghost. Even if we couldn't read him, we can track him down somehow. Wherever we go today, we can take meters with us."

"What good is that, if they don't work?" Egon snapped. The failure of the meter to register Peter's biorhythms or P.K. energy made him angry, not at the equipment but at himself. He was a scientist and these were his usual tools. Why had they let him down? What had he done wrong? Peter might be alive and in jeopardy, and Egon didn't know how to track him. Later on, he wanted to set up the trans-dimensional portal and take readings of the Netherworld. Maybe that would help.

"We just haven't thought of all the answers yet, homeboy," Winston said quickly. "Doesn't mean they aren't out there to be found. Last I heard, none of us are any good at giving up on our buddies. Just because you don't know the answer this minute, Egon, doesn't mean you won't figure it out in the next half hour."

Egon noticed Winston didn't say the rest of them were counting on him. Maybe he was trying to avoid putting too much pressure on Egon's shoulders. "We will, of course, run every test I can devise, and we can return to the site for additional readings. I am afraid we were too shocked to take thorough readings yesterday afternoon."

"I know. We've got that woman who called about her grandfather's ghost, too. When we head up there, we can leave three or four meters active in Ecto, boosted to their highest gain," Winston continued. "If we pass near anything that might relate to what happened, we'd know right away."

Egon had no interest whatsoever in the ghost of the murdered man. He opened his mouth to snap at Winston that she could wait, then he closed it again. She had lost someone she loved and was plagued with the sight of his spirit. The physicist understood all too well what she was going through. Yes, they would stop there in their search of the city, and take readings for her. He doubted if any of them would have the heart to bust that particular ghost, but maybe they could convince him to disperse peacefully. Maybe the spirit could tell them who his killer was so that they could report the information to the police. It might feel good to do that.

"Very well," he agreed. "After I've checked all our equipment, tested the Netherworld and studied the tape, we'll consider that." He glanced at the nearest window, where daylight was starting to filter in. It promised to be a sunny day. Egon nodded abruptly, taking mental notes. He had a great deal of work to do.

Ray trailed down the stairs as Janine returned from the kitchen with a plate of scrambled eggs. Hearing his shower a few minutes earlier, Egon had volunteered to cook only to be restrained by Janine. If--if they got Peter back, Egon wouldn't dare to tell him Janine had done the cooking while he was gone. Knowing Peter, he would expect it in the future. Egon's fingers tightened around his coffee cup. If only he would have the chance...

"Hi, guys," Ray greeted them. He, too, looked unrested, dark circles under his eyes, but there was a cautious optimism in his face that only Ray could have managed. The youngest Ghostbuster could see hope in dark situations when none of the rest of them could. "Oh, you got the tape, Winston. I'll check it out as soon as we eat." He dropped into his chair. "We're gonna find Peter today," he proclaimed. "I just know we are. I woke up with a feeling that he was okay. We've only got what that old guy saw, and he doesn't understand our job as well as we do. What happened to Peter could have been anything."

Janine started to speak but fell silent abruptly, casting a doubtful look at Egon. "If anybody can do it, you guys can," she said.

"I know we can," Ray insisted stubbornly, his mouth tracing a pugnacious line. "Because I'm sure Peter's out there. Why else would we have seen him last night if--if he wasn't?" He accepted the coffee cup Janine passed him but he didn't drink it. "I've been thinking about it, and the more I think, the more I'm convinced it was a projection from Peter. His image."

"The footprints..." Winston began, but Ray waved a hand to shush him.

"No, Winston. I know it's more than that. I read about a man who had an out-of-body experience and couldn't find his way home, but he knew his wife understood what had happened, and he was able to use the power of his mind to leave her a message, written on a piece of paper for her to find. She helped talk him back into his body because of it. Peter didn't have any paper to write on, but he did have the snow. I think he's trying to tell us he's trapped somewhere and needs us to come and get him."

A horrified look ran across Winston's face. Egon turned to him expectantly. "Winston?"

"I don't want to shoot down your theory, Ray, but I read somewhere that if...something happens to the body when someone is doing an OOBE, then he'll be trapped forever because there's nowhere to go home to."

Egon's heart stampeded up into his throat. He realized he had been working extremely hard not to conceptualize that very possibility. It would explain the readings he got perfectly. No biorhythms because Peter wasn't actually present and there was no body to give readings, and no P.K. energy because Peter was not conventionally a ghost. A disembodied essence from an OOBE was not a ghost and would register quite differently on the meters. Egon had several theories of what kind of settings would detect such an occurrence, and he planned to adjust one of the meters to check for them. If Peter's conscious awareness could project a visible image, and if his body had been destroyed... It did not bear thinking about.

Ray stared at Winston, eyes huge and stricken. "But he..." he tried, then he swallowed hard, unable to find the words. If he and Winston were both right, Peter's conscious awareness would dissipate slowly enough for him to understand what was happening to him, and Egon could not think of any possibility that would terrify Venkman more. Clearly, Ray couldn't either. "Oh, gosh," he moaned.

That did it. Egon called himself to order. He was a scientist, a rational man, not someone who would fall apart at an unpleasant theory. "Raymond, we have no proof that your theory is the correct one. We simply do not know enough to understand."

Before he could say more, a squeal of delight rang through the firehall as Slimer zipped through the wall returning from one ghostly foray or another. "Oboy, foooood!" the little green ghost shrieked and dived eagerly for the table.

Janine yanked the platter of eggs out of his way. "Hold it right there, Slimer or I'll blast you!" she threatened, stabbing a threatening finger at the spud.

The menacing words from the secretary, who usually defended him from Peter, stopped the ghost in midair. Hovering in front of Janine, he produced a hangdog look and batted his eyes at her in a blatant plea for sympathy. "Aw..."

"Not now, Slimer," Winston said curtly.

"No, wait." Ray snapped his fingers eagerly. "Slimer, something bad happened to Peter yesterday. We need your help. We need you to go and hunt for Peter."

Slimer hesitated, his eyes lingering wistfully on the eggs. "Sure, Slimer hunt," he promised vehemently. He frowned. "Uh...where Slimer hunt?" he asked. The little ghost had never been particularly expert at finding one of the guys when they were somewhere far from home.

"I'll show you where to start," Ray vowed, jumping up. "I'll take him out and show him the place and see if he can sense anything. Come on, Slimer." He started down the stairs. Casting a last, longing look at the scrambled eggs, the spud drifted down after him.

Slimer had no better luck at sensing anything under the lamppost than Egon had with his meter. When Ray returned, he looked momentarily daunted and Slimer's face was sad and lost. "Poor P'taw," he moaned unhappily. "Slimer go look," he promised.

"You do that, Spud," Winston encouraged. "When you get back, we'll give you cookies."

"Oboy, cookies!" Slimer threw up his hand and gave Winston a quasi-military salute, casting slime everywhere, then he oozed through the window, leaving a slimy streak on the glass, and vanished.

"He couldn't sense anything," Ray admitted sadly, flinging himself into his chair. "He sniffed all around and said no bad ghosts were there, and when I asked him if there had been any ghosts, he said no. He couldn't sense Peter there at all. But he wouldn't," he insisted. "Not after all this time. Unless he was there in the night... I'm gonna go watch that tape now." Jumping up again, he snatched it up from the table and trekked into the TV room.

"I shall customize my equipment," Egon decided. He cast an apologetic look at Janine. "I'm sorry. The eggs are excellent, but work must come first now."

"I better have my shower," Winston decided and turned for the stairs.

Egon paused, meeting Janine's eyes. It was better to have something to do but he knew, deep inside, that all their efforts might come to naught. Sometimes the easiest explanation was the right one, and their desire to see a living Peter last night might well have turned a neighborhood stroller into what they most wanted to see. No, Egon didn't believe that, either. The sight of Peter under the lamppost had to mean something, although he did not understand it. Ray's OOBE theory was painful because it could involve no happy resolution. On the other hand, Egon did not think that, without an external force to cause it, Peter would be capable of an OOBE. He had tried it unsuccessfully a few times at Columbia when he was doing research on various parapsychology studies. The only time he had ever actually managed it to Egon's certain knowledge was the time the entity had trapped his body in crystal and Peter had desperately forced his mind out to seek rescue and wound up trapped in Janine's mind. ⁽²⁾ Even then, Egon had theorized that something of the crystalline construct had boosted his mind to enable him to do it.

This time, a burst of some form of energy had encircled his body. Could that have driven him into an out-of-body experience this time? Or had the demon itself caused it?

A small hand slid into his and squeezed it. "You'll figure it out, Egon. I know you will."

"Yes, because I must." He clasped Janine's hand for a moment in both of his own, then he let go and started for the stairs.

"How long has he...been dead?" Ray asked gently.

Their client gave a quiet sigh. "Two weeks now. It...still doesn't seem real that anyone would...would murder Grandfather." She pushed back a recalcitrant strand of blonde hair from her eyes and shivered. Winston couldn't help thinking that Peter would have found her attractive. Petite and trim, she was around thirty, her hair as fair as Egon's and casually styled. She looked tired and haggard as if she had not slept well since the murder; Winston recognized the look in her eyes. He'd seen it this morning in the mirror when he'd shaved. The only good thing he could see in the whole visit was that she had not put up any Christmas decorations. She probably didn't have the heart for the upcoming holiday either.

After talking to Winston last night she had taken the day off work for their visit to the Upper East Side. She lived in a brownstone that looked like it must have been in the family for generations. The place spoke of old money, even the knickknacks looked expensive, and Winston would bet good money that was a real Monet over the fireplace of the room their hostess had called the library. He suspected the slacks and blouse she wore had a designer label; their very simplicity spoke of major dollars.

Karen Mellin gestured at them to help themselves from a tray of cookies and petits fours. "I...I'm sorry about your own loss. I almost called and asked you not to come when I read the paper this morning."

Winston said quickly, "That's all right," realizing how inane it sounded as soon as he said it. Frustration had driven them out to keep their appointment; the tape had revealed only a few innocent passers' by, no trace of Peter at all. Egon's equipment modifications produced no readings that might explain the team's sighting of Peter, and the Netherworld was simply too vast to investigate in a year, let alone a morning. Finally, no further ahead than before, the had left Janine to answer the phones, taking the press calls and the kinder ones from Peter's friends. His dad was sure to hear what had happened and call eventually, and they didn't want to leave him to the answering machine. Winston smiled reassuringly at Egon and Ray. "We're Ghostbusters. That's what we do. Tell us a little about your grandfather."

"Granddad, Jack Mellin, was a stockbroker, but he retired about five years ago," Karen explained. "When he was working, he might have had enemies, even if everybody seemed to like him. But he put it totally behind him and enjoyed his retirement. He had a place up in the Adirondacks where he would spend a month fishing every summer and he belonged to a really rabid chess club here in the City. He'd been to one of their meetings, or matches just before he disappeared."

"So he made it home all right?"

"I don't know. All I know is, when I got home from work, I found his pipe lying out there in the hall. He never went anywhere without it, even if he didn't smoke it when he got there. He always carried it in his pocket."

"Could he have dropped it on the way out?" Winston asked.

"Oh, no. He carried it in a pouch in an inner pocket; it had a compartment for his tobacco. He said it was messy to keep it stuck loose in a pocket. He would only have had it out if he'd been smoking it. He was very...fastidious about it. When I saw it on the floor, I was afraid he'd become sick while smoking. I looked through the house for him, but he wasn't here. I couldn't understand what had happened."

Winston frowned. "Was the door locked when you got home?"

"Yes, but the chains weren't on. I didn't think anything of it. He never put the chains on if one of us were out; we left it open for the other. The police asked me that, too, when he didn't show up and I finally called them." She shivered. "They looked for him everywhere, all through the house, and asked questions in the neighborhood, checked with the chess club people to see if he'd said anything to them about leaving, but he hadn't. They contacted all the hospitals in case he'd been taken ill. They never found him or any reason for him to disappear. Then, one day, a week later, I came home and he was..." Her voice trailed off and she shuddered. "He was lying there, dead. It was cold out, but he wasn't wearing a coat--we never found his coat. There were marks on his wrists and ankles; he'd been tied up, they thought with leather straps. The autopsy said he'd been poisoned." She wrapped her arms around her chest, shuddering. "Anyway," she added much more briskly, "they still don't know who killed him. They've watched the place a little. They talked to his office, where he worked before he retired. Talked to all his friends. And the scary thing is, though they haven't said much to me, they've asked me if he knew a couple of other people. A woman named Miranda Cole--I think she was an off-Broadway actress--and a man named Jake Salazar. I...looked them up and they'd been killed, too, just like Granddad. They were kidnapped and held somewhere and then returned, dead, poisoned, with marks on their wrists."

"So it is a serial killer," gasped Ray. He'd been quiet, letting Winston, the mystery buff, ask the questions about what had happened, although that wasn't really part of their job. "Gosh." He reached over and patted Karen's hand. "This must have been just awful for you."

"It was. I still can't believe Granddad is gone. He raised me after my parents died in a boating accident when I was seven. When I got a job at his firm, I just lived here until I married, then, after Paul and I were divorced, I came back here. I...don't think I will stay."

"One more question and then we'll move on to the ghost," Winston said hastily. "Was there any connection between your grandfather and Cole or Salazar?"

"Not that I know of," she replied. "I knew who Cole was because I'd seen her in a play a long time ago; Paul and I went and he said she was beautiful. A wife remembers things like that, even if a husband says it in passing. Salazar; no, I don't know anything about him."

"When did the ghost begin to appear?" Egon asked. He had been playing with his P.K.E. meter since they'd arrived, twiddling dials and looking at the screen. The detection device hadn't reacted visibly, but he might have turned down the sound to keep from startling Karen.

"I thought I saw Granddad even before his body...came back." She grabbed up her coffee cup and curled her fingers around it, maybe to keep them from trembling. "I looked out one day, just a forlorn hope that he'd be heading down the street, and he was heading down the street. By the time I got to the door, he was gone. I told myself, of course, that it was someone similar, with a similar topcoat, but then I saw him again once when I came up from the subway stop. I lost him in the crowd. It wasn't until his body was found that I saw him again, and then I'd see him all the time. I...wondered if those first two times were him trying to tell me where to find him."

Egon looked up from the inactive meter. "Did he ever come into the house?"

"Oh, no. He was outside, though. I looked out the upstairs window once and saw him near the steps. That was yesterday before I went to work. He hasn't been back since. At least not that I saw him."

Winston frowned because this was crazy. It sounded too much like their vision of Peter; only Peter hadn't been yanked away by a serial killer. He'd been blasted by a demon.

"I'm not getting any readings," Egon remarked. "I have to wonder if there is something wrong with the meters, even if it doesn't show. I got nothing last night, either." He fiddled with the dial, aimed it at Ray, and it beeped away.

Karen blinked in surprise. "What makes it do that?"

"It's adjusted to read biorhythms now," explained Ray. "Egon reset it to test it."

"Do you have a picture of your grandfather?" Winston asked.

"Of course. Just a moment." She darted over to a table where several photos stood in silver frames and picked up one of them. "He had this taken on his last birthday," she said and put it into his hands.

Winston's mouth fell open in total disbelief. "But...but that's the guy..." Confused and doubting, he passed the picture to Ray. Was this some kind of setup? No, he'd researched the story on line. The picture of Mellin he'd found had been grainy and unrecognizable and probably taken ten years earlier. This picture...

"But that's the guy who said Peter was blasted," blurted Ray in total disbelief. "The one I grabbed. He wasn't a ghost." He squinted at the picture. "I won't ever forget that face." Then his eyes narrowed.

Egon leaned over Ray's shoulder, staring. "You had a better view of him than we did, Ray. Are you positive?"

"N-not really. I mean, yeah, he looks like him. Same haircut, same bushy mustache, same plump cheeks, but...but not quite. Almost." He gazed up at Egon, shaken. "What does it...mean?"

"You saw Granddad, too?" Karen asked, her eyes wide and doubtful, as if she were regretting calling in the team. "You couldn't have. Why... Because your friend was dea--was..."

"This makes no sense whatever," Egon stated in a flat tone. "Ms. Mellin. When you were checking out the other two victims, were you able to ascertain if their relatives saw their spirits after their deaths?"

She stared at him, openmouthed. "No, it never occurred to me to ask. I just checked in Granddad's records to see if I could find a connection between him and the other two. If there was any, it was fleeting and undocumented. Why?"

Ray answered. "Yesterday, when we busted the demon, we turned around and Peter was gone. All that was left was his proton pack. We didn't know what had happened but an old man came up to me and said the demon had blasted him and he'd vanished."

"I know. I heard that on the radio this morning. I'm so sorry."

"That's not the point, Ms. Mellin," Egon interrupted her sympathy. "The point is that the man who told Ray what had happened to Peter looked just like your grandfather."

"You mean his ghost witnessed..."

"No," cried Winston, holding up his hand to interrupt. "You don't know it all. Neither do we, yet. You say you've seen your grandfather outside. You also said his coat was missing. When you see him, is he wearing the coat?"

"Why--why, yes. I've only seen him outdoors. It's cold out. But...but a ghost wouldn't feel the cold."

Ray's eyes were wide with excitement and worry. "Is his coat grey?" he asked. "This color?" He jumped up and touched the cover of a thick book on a side table. And did he wear a tartan scarf with a lot of reds and yellows in it?"

She nodded, setting aside the cup because her hands were shaking harder than before. "Yes."

"We know he's dead," Ray continued gently, reaching out to grab her hands and squeeze them. "But Egon's equipment is picking up no residuals from a ghost. And...and it was his 'ghost' who told us Peter had been zapped. And we've seen Peter." Horror made his face go white. "Oh golly, guys, what if Peter wasn't zapped at all? What if the serial killer grabbed him, too?"

"I don't follow you, Ray," Egon replied, then he snapped his fingers. "You're saying the serial killer assumes the identity of his victims, wearing their clothes and perhaps disguising himself to resemble them as closely as possible?"

The three men stared at each other, weighing the possibilities. "I know it's a wild theory," Winston muttered, "but it sure as heck explains why we didn't get any ghost readings last night and didn't pick up Peter's biorhythms. Because we weren't seeing Peter. We were seeing this guy who killed Mr. Mellin and those other two people. He'd been running around looking like Mr. Mellin for awhile now. Maybe before that he looked like Mr. Salazar."

"And Ms. Cole?" Karen asked doubtfully. Their theories wouldn't bring her grandfather back, but maybe it would help to solve the mystery, to track down the killer.

If they were right, Peter might not be dead but in the hands of a killer, and he had less than a week to live, assuming the killer followed a pattern. Winston knew that most serial killers did have their routines that they liked to adhere to religiously.

"Do you have the name of the investigator who is working on your grandfather's case?" Egon asked the fair-haired woman.

"He left a card. It's Detective Burke. He's been...very kind. He came out again three days ago and he had a...a profiler with him."

"One of those guys who studies the guy's m.o. and tries to tell what he's like and what to expect when tracking him?" Winston replied with a nod. "Yeah, something like this, that's probably just what they need. But they don't know what we do--at least what we're theorizing here. We could be wrong, but we have to tell him about it. What do you say, guys? Let's track down Detective Burke."

Ray couldn't help hoping that they had a chance to rescue Peter. At least they had more than they'd had yesterday, they had a chance that Peter wasn't dead. They had a few days, if the killer stuck to his routine, to track him down and, assuming the man didn't move Peter all over the city, that should be enough to find him with the boosted meters. He might be in trouble, but Karen had said that when her grandfather had been found in the living room he'd been dead no more than eight hours, according to the medical examiner, which meant he'd been kept alive the whole time, until right at the end. If the killer had his own agenda, that meant Peter could be a prisoner of a killer, but he wouldn't be slated for death, at least not yet. Being a prisoner was better than being dead, though, and the heaviness that had weighed down Ray's steps since the previous afternoon had lifted. He wasn't bouncing yet, but they were going to get Peter back. He was sure of it.

Detective Burke proved to be a tall, thin, wiry man with lots of laughter lines around deep-set blue eyes that held a lot of wisdom and determination. He ushered them through a squad room already decorated for Christmas into what was probably an interrogation room, big enough for all of them with a chair or two to spare around a table, and a minute later a second man came in with coffee in cups on a tray before departing. The thin detective nodded at the cups. "Help yourselves. I'm Craig Burke," he said, running a hand through his dark hair in a gesture of frustration, impatience, and wild curiosity. The case must have frustrated him because he looked impatient of the time spent settling down with their coffee.

When they each had a cup and he had one, stirring two mini packets of cream into his and three sugars, he continued, "You said this had to do with the Mellin killing. Unless old Jack Mellin's ghost popped up and started talking about his killer, I'm not sure what's going on, but a couple of my buddies swear by you guys. Frankly, there aren't enough leads out there, and I'll take anything I can get."

Egon did the explaining, starting with Peter's 'death' and the phone call from Karen Mellin. "So we went over there and found out what she'd been seeing, and we got no readings, nor did we see the ghost," Egon concluded. "I began to wonder if Ms. Mellin was seeing what she wanted to see, just as we may have done last night when we saw what we thought was Peter out the firehall window. But then she showed us a picture of her grandfather, and he was a dead ringer--er, perhaps 'dead' was not the most felicitous adjective--of the man who had told us Peter was dead at the scene of our bust--which was, in fact, no more than three blocks from the Mellin house."

Burke stared at them, his quick mind going a mile a minute. Ray could see it in the way his eyes measured them. "Meaning..." he encouraged, stirring his coffee with what looked like a cinnamon stick.

"We don't know what it means," Egon replied, sliding his glasses into place as they slid down his nose. "But we wondered if perhaps the relatives of the previous victims saw their 'ghosts' after they were dead, or even before." He had forgotten his own coffee existed. Ray could tell that the more he considered their theory, the more satisfied with it he was. It did fit all the known facts. Ray hoped Burke wouldn't know some obscure detail that would shoot down all their hopes.

About to rake both hands through his hair, Burke froze, then he lifted his head very slowly and stared at Egon. "That information was never released to the press. How do you know it?"

"I didn't know it until you confirmed it just now," Egon replied. "I simply hoped it was true. My hypothesis was that, after killing his victim, for some reason the serial killer assumes his identity. Perhaps he uses the week's delay to accustom himself to his victim's speech patterns and body language. He evidently stole Mellin's coat and scarf--if the man who told us Peter was dead had in fact snatched him, if he were, in fact, the killer. Should he have taken Peter as his next victim, he now has Peter's clothes, which would explain why the figure we saw under the streetlight did not register on the meter or give off Peter's biorhythm readings and why he was wearing Peter's jumpsuit."

"God, I must be tired. That almost makes sense." He stared at them, registering their earnest faces, their anxiety, the signs of strain that must be evident in their very posture, then he shrugged. "I hate like hell to think of Venkman in this guy's hands. I'd hate to think of my worst enemy in this guy's hands, strapped down for a week and then poisoned. The only thing it gives us is a chance to get Venkman back. In fact, if you're on the money, and I don't know anything to argue it, we might have the best lead we've had so far. We didn't realize when Mellin disappeared that it was another instance of the serial killer, not till his body came back. We're treating any unexplained disappearance with the utmost care right now. In fact, when I read about Venkman in the papers this morning, a part of me wondered if he'd actually been snatched. When you asked to see me, I thought maybe I'd lost it for a minute there." He jumped to his feet, energized by the puzzle the three Ghostbusters had just lain before him. "I'll have to get Corder."

"Corder?" echoed Winston. "That your profiler? Karen said something about you working with one."

"He's a psychologist from Boston, in town because he read about Mellin's death. Apparently he does this freelance, but we're not gonna reject help, wherever it comes from. I hate the thought of a crazy killer pulling something like this in my town. We played it down for Karen Mellin but there'd been some torture. It was recent," he added hastily when the Ghostbusters flinched in perfect unison. "I mean, he evidently didn't do it until the last, right before the poison. If we get lucky, we can pull Venkman out of there before it happens."

Ray heard the reassurance in his voice but didn't take a lot of comfort from it. Apparently there were two choices, that Peter was dead or that he was in the hands of someone insane who didn't hesitate to resort to torture and who finished up with murder. They had six days left. Would that be enough to locate Peter?

Burke hurried out of the room and was back in less than five minutes with a shorter man with a mop of dark hair even more untidy than Burke's. He had shrewd, measuring eyes that rested on each Ghostbuster as if he could read the inner soul right through the skin. His knowing gaze made Ray uncomfortable, and it wasn't that he'd be bugged by psychologists. He lived with one every day and Peter could read him the way he could read the headlines, spelled out in huge, black letters. Of course Ray knew Peter, too; it went both ways. He wasn't sure he wanted a stranger reading him that well.

"This is Dr. Daniel Corder," Burke introduced. "The Ghostbusters, Doc, at least three of them." He rattled off their names. "There's a chance their fourth teammate might be in the hands of your nutcase."

"Nutcase?" Corder asked with a hint of a grin, settling into a chair and depositing his coffee cup on the table in front of him. "I'm not sure I ever used that word, Craig."

"The killer, then," Burke insisted impatiently. "I filled you in as much as I could. I know it might be a long shot, but the fact that they saw someone three blocks from the Mellin house who looked just like Mellin, dressed just like Mellin, and that's evidently the only witness to Venkman's death--and then they start seeing Venkman..."

"It definitely means something," Corder replied. "We'd had a theory already that the killer assumes the identity of his victims."

"Why would he do that, Doc?" Winston asked, pushing his coffee cup aside and tipping back in his chair.

"Possibly because his own identity is unsatisfactory to him," Corder replied in the tones of a lecturer. "Here's the stripped down version for the sake of simplicity. He captures his victim, induces in them a helpless state by strapping them down, gradually assumes their own identities, even Miranda Cole's identity. Several of her fans evidently got her autograph after her actual death, and if there hadn't been a big article in the papers that her body had turned up in her apartment, we might not have known about this aspect. The people with the autographs turned up and made statements. While the killer evidently hovers in the vicinity of the victim's life, his neighborhood, his place of employment, he does not actually step in and assume their lives. He returns the body as if to say, 'I don't need it any longer.' For a time, after that, he goes about the city as if he were the victim."

"And this is documented?" Winston shook his head. "Man, talk about wild!"

"There have been sightings of all three victims," Corder replied, pausing to sip his coffee. "To make it worse, you say you've seen Venkman."

Burke gave a faint grin as he dropped into his chair. "And you're in a unique position. You have equipment that can tell the difference."

"Do you think the killer will figure that out and back off?" asked Ray. "Will it make him try to kill Peter sooner?"

"I should doubt he would deviate from his pattern unless pressured," the psychologist replied thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "Even more than the murder, assuming the victim's identity is motivation for his actions. Perhaps he hates his own life, perhaps his childhood was unsatisfactory. Often we find people who try to shed their own identities to have grown up believing they were worthless, or having family members tell them they were worthless. I picture the killer as a very solitary man. He might have acquaintances, but the odds are he does not have close friends. He may, perhaps, have spent some time in institutions. As a child, he may have tortured small animals. This series of murders may not be the first time he has killed. He may have done it in other cities."

"We're checking that out," Burke put in. Do you think he would have killed enough people in another place for the pattern to have emerged?"

This was clearly old ground to the cop and the profiler. They were going over it for the Ghostbusters' sake. Ray doubted they'd tell most people what they knew, but the three paranormal investigators, with their specialized equipment, were in a much better position to locate Peter and, through him, the killer, than anyone else in the city.

"Possibly," Corder replied. He frowned.

"Would he have met or known his victims?" asked Winston.

"He could. Ms. Cole was a public figure. He may have seen her in a play and fixated on her. Salazar drove a cab. He may have ridden in that cab and decided he did not care for the driver. It would take very little to set him off. If he felt that he was in love with Ms. Cole and she passed him by at the stage door without recognition, he might have believed he had a determined grudge. We've carefully studied the members of the chess club that Mr. Mellin attended, looking for new members. Nothing."

"But when would he have met Peter?" Winston persisted. "Pete's pretty vocal. If somebody had been on his case, we'd all have heard about it, probably ten times over."

"Actually, Peter may have never noticed the man. All he would have to do is fail to respond to a greeting at a...a bust. I understand Dr. Venkman enjoys signing autographs for the crowd. If he signed one for this man and failed to recognize him at a second bust, it might be enough to set the killer off."

"In other words, somebody cuts his cab off in traffic or goes through a revolving door in front of him and the guy could be history?" Winston shook his head. "Man, this creep's really got a problem."

"No, Winston, it's Peter who has the problem, if he is in the hands of a man like that," Egon interrupted, his face grave. Ray could hear the concern in his voice, although it might not have been as obvious to Burke and Corder. "Naturally, I far prefer this theory to the one where Peter was instantly neutronized, but that would mean we have very little time and a huge city to search."

"True, and you don't know that your theory is the correct one," Corder replied. "Your sighting of Venkman and the lack of, er, readings do suggest it, but there might be other answers. I'm not trying to rain on your parade, but just because a killer assuming Peter's identity explains your lack of readings last night does not mean we're on the right track."

"I agree," Egon replied, sitting up very straight, his chin up. "But if there is even one chance that Peter is alive and needs us, we'll tear the city apart to find him." He turned to Burke. "We have an advantage you lacked before, Detective. Our meters can detect Peter. Perhaps the range is not great, but it is great enough, if we can boost it, to search the city thoroughly in less than two days."

Burke smiled. "I like the way you think. I'm going to get this killer or know the reason why. However, you're on the trail of a very dangerous man. I don't want you going without police backup."

"We want police backup, m'man," Winston insisted. "We want whatever gives Pete the best chance. Assign your men. We'll cooperate fully."

With the coming of daylight, the scratches of light overhead had resolved themselves into a skylight that someone had painted over a long time ago. Worn spots in the paint allowed a few faint streaks of light to illuminate Peter's prison. When he awakened from a restless, nightmare-laden sleep, his first thought besides his discomfort was that he wasn't in the Netherworld after all. He was in an abandoned, run-down building, probably still in Manhattan.

The idea didn't quite track, though. He was cold and shivery, thirsty, hungry, and his bladder was very full. For an instant, he lay there gazing up at the catwalks overhead, at the darkened skylight, and the thought of his imprisonment blocked out everything else. It hadn't been a dream. It had been real. It was still real.

He lay collecting himself, conscious of the tightness of the strap around his right wrist, the way his fingers felt colder than his other hand's. The circulation would go, and...

Wait a minute. Right wrist? Peter tried to lift his left hand and it came free effortlessly. So did his feet. He erupted from his cold chair, tangling himself momentarily in a thin blanket that hadn't been there when he'd fallen asleep, and stood panting, still queasy from whatever drug he'd been given the day before, his head bowed, his breath whistling between his teeth. Then he realized he was still caught, just by one hand rather than both, and he looked down at the buckle that held him.

It was secured by a solid padlock.

Out of the shadows in the corner of the room, a reasonable voice, his own voice said, "I didn't want you to escape, now, did I?"

Peter's head shot up and he stood at bay, noticing the man who wore his jumpsuit, leaning propped against the wall in the corner. It was too dimly lit in here to see him clearly, but the hair was definitely styled like Peter's. A wig?

The man shivered elaborately. "I admit the facilities are not much, but we shall be spending a great deal of time together over the course of the next few days and I should hate to spend time with a prisoner who ...smelled." He pointed to a bedpan that sat waiting on a chair beside the contoured chair on which he was bound. "Avail yourself of that. And then I'm afraid you will have to be fastened down again."

The thought of using the bedpan in front of the man who held him prisoner made Peter feel a sick disgust. As if he sensed it, the man chuckled faintly. "Don't worry. I get no jollies out of watching you. I will return in five minutes." He moved away and a door closed softly.

Hating his captor with a savage fury, Peter used the bedpan quickly, half afraid the man would return before he was finished. It was better than no options, but it didn't make him feel any kindness toward the man who imprisoned him. He had just zipped up his jeans when he heard the door open again and he turned to face the man who had snatched him. He realized without the slightest doubt that he was not in the demon's captivity. How he had reached this point from the bust yesterday, if it had actually been yesterday, he didn't know.

It did no good to dwell on that right now. Instead he said cockily, "So, you don't like smells? You gonna leave it there or do you have to dispose of it?" He grinned to suggest that it was a menial occupation.

The stranger approached the bed, spread a sheet of newspaper over the bedpan and carried it away at arms' length, his mouth tight with annoyance. He returned momentarily with a new one and replaced it on the chair. "As you see, cleaning will not be my problem. Now, lie down and buckle the restraints on your feet."

"Like I'm gonna do that?" Peter sneered.

"Like you're not?" The man produced a gun and leveled it at Peter's stomach. "I would rather not kill you now. It would thwart my game, and the game is everything. But I would have no qualms about wounding you. Shall we consider your kneecap?" The gun lowered until it was aiming at Peter's leg. "Hop up now and fasten yourself down. I may be many things, but I'm not a fool. Don't you think I've learned how this works?"

"You've done this before?" Peter challenged. "And why do you have to keep talking like me?"

"To practice," the man replied. "When you are gone, I will be Peter Venkman in your place. Perhaps not with your friends--except as your ghost--but in the world at large. I will enjoy it. I will be a better Peter Venkman than you could ever be."

"And you get your jollies from doing this?" Peter countered. "I hate to break it to you, bunky, but there's a place for people who do that, and most of the folks there wear straitjackets."

His captor's face tightened angrily, but then he smoothed it away. "Ah, he mocks and attacks when threatened. I must remember that."

"And he doesn't say 'ah'," Peter scoffed. "You may have my voice down, although you're not quite right, but you don't have the things I'd say down. And, let me tell you, you look a little like me, and you've got the hair down and my clothes, but you're not me, and anybody else can tell."

The gun jerked peremptorily. "Back on the chair. Now!"

Peter was a very good psychologist, but a rank amateur could have realized that the man was riding the edge and prepared to follow through on his threat. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and his hand twitched unpleasantly. Maybe Peter could work him up to a point where he could jump him, but this wasn't the time. The guy was just out of reach, too, close enough for the bullet to nearly take his leg off, but too far for Peter to have a chance. Seething with impotent fury, he climbed back onto the chair. God, it was a dentist's chair, modified to secure its victim.

"I always hated going to the dentist," Peter muttered.

"Very good, now the bonds."

It was tricky fastening them one-handed. He couldn't make them tight, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how the gun jerked threateningly, but he knew they were tight enough to allow the man to fasten them more securely without risking a kick to his gun hand.

Setting aside the weapon, his imitator secured them tightly, careful to stay well out of range of Peter's free hand, then he came around to do Peter's other hand.

Peter swung at him, but the man in the jumpsuit evaded the blow without effort, since Peter had such a limited trajectory. "Now, now," he chided fussily. "I was going to leave you that hand free to eat, but if you insist on fighting me, you can miss breakfast."

Placating his captor wasn't anywhere in Peter's scheme of things, but he knew the human body could go only so long without water, so he heaved a put-upon sigh and uncurled his fist. Eventually he'd get the drop on this fruitcake, but he wouldn't be able to fight if he were dehydrated and weak from hunger.

Breakfast proved to be a glass of water and an Egg McMuffin. It was still warm, proving to Peter only that he might be near a Golden Arches. Since they were all over the city, that didn't help at all to determine his location.

The minute he was took the last bite, the gun came up again. "Even if you hit me," the man said, modulating his tones to sound like Peter, "you can't get free. So I'll give you water and leave that one hand free." He smiled as he moved down to fasten a padlock to the straps that held Peter's feet. "I don't want you to die before I have become you."

"You need contact lenses, Jack. In case you didn't notice it, I've got green eyes."

"You think that is difficult?" He smirked. "I will be away for a time now." He pushed a button on the chair and it sat Peter up. "There, much more comfortable. I warn you, no one will wander into this building by mistake. Don't expect rescue." He reached over and picked up a copy of the New York Times, displaying it for Peter. He squinted at it.

'GHOSTBUSTER KILLED BY DEMON!' it read in huge block letters, with a picture of Peter below it. "Oh, I am so very sorry for your poor friends. Even now, they are no doubt grieving over your loss."

"Huh?" Peter stared at the paper in horror, reminding himself that people could pay to make up dummy headlines. That didn't have to be real. But here he was, a prisoner, and the last thing he remembered, he and his buddies had been fighting a demon. "Sure, you just walked up and grabbed me and nobody noticed?" he scoffed.

"Actually, those people who weren't trying to dig themselves into the pavement were watching the giant yellow demon. It was far too easy. The opportunity was tailor-made. I had my van parked there and you were a little distance from the others. Since I was ready for a new victim, I simply drugged you and pulled you into the truck while everybody else was watching the bust. No one saw. It was far too easy."

Fighting a demon required major concentration. All it would take was for the guys to focus on it and Peter would be gone. He didn't blame them for what had happened. They'd been tricked, taken advantage of. And now... God, they thought he was dead. They'd be sitting there at the firehouse in utter misery, and they wouldn't even know to look for him. He couldn't expect rescue. His face fell.

When the man saw Peter realize that, he beamed. "That's right, your friends believe you dead. No one ever searches for a dead man. Although they did see your ghost last night. What pain they must feel today." He laughed, and the sound of his laughter was nothing like Peter's.

"You're gonna have to work on that maniacal cackle, bunky," Peter snapped, willing away the image of his grieving friends to give himself the strength to deal with this slimebucket. "'Cause I never sound like that."

The man backhanded him across the face. "Shut up! Shut up!" His mouth twisted in fury. "Within a week, I will sound so much like you that your own mother won't know the difference. Ah, that's right, your mother is dead. But I can telephone your headquarters and enjoy the distress I inflict upon your friends. I will revel in it. And then, when I deliver your dead body back where I got it, I'll enjoy it even more. They'll see me in the distance, your ghost. I'll haunt them so well."

"The hell you will." Peter glowered at him, closing his mouth over the words he wanted to say, that the guys would know in an instant, that they would be able to take readings and tell they weren't confronting a ghost. This guy may have his little murder and imitation game down to a science--and everything was laid out too well for Peter to believe this was his first effort, even if he hadn't mentioned his 'next victim'--but he hadn't come up against the Ghostbusters before.

"I expect belligerence," the copycat replied. "I've left you water." He pointed to a pitcher just within Peter's reach on the table. "You won't get free. I'll even give you the newspaper to read." He flung it down beside the pitcher. "And now, I'm sorry, but I must go to work. It wouldn't do for me to be missing. I'm going to have such an entertaining day." He unzipped the jumpsuit as he headed for the door, giving Peter a flash of what looked like a business suit beneath it.

"Well, yeah, you come back and take me on in a fair fight and I'll turn you into ectoplasm," Peter hollered after him.

The door banged shut.

Peter lay unmoving for a long moment. "Well, this isn't fun," he muttered, more to ease his own stress than to say anything useful. "I've had fun before, and it was nothing like this." Straining his ears for any indication that the creep who tried to imitate him would return, he braced himself carefully, then he reached over and explored the padlock that fastened the brace on his right wrist. The guy had figured out he was right handed and less likely to be able to use his left hand for anything requiring deft manual skill. It sucked.

The chill of the room, forgotten while the jerk was there, returned, and he fumbled for the thin blanket that was tangled beside him on the dentist's chair, settling it over himself. It wasn't cold enough for him to freeze in here, but this was December and yesterday had been snowy. If the decrepit building had heat, it wasn't very effective. Peter meant to keep himself warm, eat whatever was provided--at least it didn't seem to have been poisoned--and making sure he got to move around as much as possible. The last thing he wanted was to pass up a chance to break out of here if one should come.

The guy was a lunatic, of course. Peter had seen something eerie in the blue eyes as they studied him. Well, grabbing somebody and learning to talk and act like them wasn't exactly normal. Once he'd realized he wasn't the prisoner of a demon, it hadn't taken Peter long to realize he was dealing with a loony-tunes character, probably a serial killer who was into bizarre rituals. Those abnormal psych classes had been a long time ago, but Peter was used to the twisted 'minds' of demons and evil ghosts and that kept his hand in. He should be able to judge just how far he could push the guy.

If he could get these bonds off... Digging around in his pockets with his one free hand didn't reveal anything but some loose change and pocket lint. Anything useful was long gone. Not much he could do with two dimes and five quarters. His wallet was gone, too, and that pissed him off. He didn't want Jerkface using his credit cards.

On the other hand, he'd rated a huge, front-page headline over his supposed death. There shouldn't be anyone in the whole city who didn't know that Peter Venkman had supposedly bit the big one. If Mr. Clone decided to use one of his cards, he'd probably get caught. Peter grinned wickedly at the very thought.

That wasn't a major problem, though. He didn't really want to consider the worst problems, that his friends thought he was dead and were mourning him--and that, because they believed he was gone, they would have no reason to look for him. He hated to think of them suffering on his behalf, but he also hated the fact that the cavalry wasn't about to come galloping to his rescue, P.K.E. meters in one hand, particle throwers in the other. If they even had a clue that he was alive, they'd tear the town apart. Did they have a clue? Peter grabbed the newspaper to check it out.

It was just like Chuckles the Clown had told him. They'd been so caught up in capturing the yellow demon that when it was trapped and they'd noticed Peter's absence, the only reason they knew what had happened was because an old man had seen the demon zap Peter. Old man? The jerk who was in here wasn't a day over thirty-five.

On the other hand, if he could rig himself out to look like the most debonaire of the Ghostbusters, he could probably put on a white wig and make himself up to look decrepit, too. He'd even implied as much. Bummer. The guys would have no reason to doubt a senior citizen.

The article went on to say that there had been only faint, fading readings where Peter had last been, perfectly matching what was suspected to have happened--or what would have happened if Peter had been driven away from the scene. The possibility that the demon had used its powers to send Peter into the Netherworld had been mentioned, probably a theory offered to the police by Egon or Ray.

Peter set the paper aside. It had told him all he needed to know, that his buddies were miserable. The smaller picture below the fold of the paper showed the guys at the scene. The devastation on their faces, even in the grainy picture, cut at Peter's heart. I'm here, guys, he thought desperately. I'm not dead. Come on, you guys know me as well as you know yourselves. You should be able to tell I'm still in the world.

He'd run tests on all of them to see if they had developed any form of telepathy through all their contact with the paranormal. It was true that they could sometimes finish each other's sentences, and Egon could read him as easily as he could one of his microscope specimens. But Egon couldn't read him if he didn't try, if he believed he had no reason to try.

Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Peter thought as hard as he could, flooding his mind with the thought of his oldest friend. He focused every iota of concentration on the physicist, reaching out to him with all he had. EGON. Egon, come and find me. Egon, I'm alive. I'm not dead. I'm fine. Well, I could use a little help here.

Nothing. No sensation of Egon at all. Okay, so he'd never been able to do that before. This was different. This was an emergency. He should be able to do it now. And Egon should know. Peter had the feeling that if one of his friends were no longer in the world, he'd be able to tell. There'd be an empty place inside where his friend had been. Couldn't Egon, Winston, and Ray pull that number, too? Of course Egon was so blasted pragmatic. When he was miserable or unhappy, he pulled rationality around him like a security blanket. It wasn't the ideal comfort but it worked for him, at least until Peter noticed and could trail along and talk him out of his bleak mood.

Ray was an optimist. He'd hope like mad there was another explanation than the nutcase's lie. He wouldn't know it was a lie, but he'd hold on to the possibility of rescue far longer than the others would. Maybe Ray would be able to tell. He could sense when the phone was going to ring before it did almost as well as Peter did. Maybe if Peter concentrated on him right now...

Ray? Winston? Guys, I'm not dead. Come and find me.

It wasn't going to work.

Winston really was a pragmatist. No, he was just a down-to-earth guy who took most things at face value. He would have no reason to question the fake senior citizen. Instead of dwelling on forlorn hopes for Peter's survival, he'd be helping Egon and Ray cope with their loss. That's the kind of guy Winston was. Peter would be beyond his help, or so he'd believe, but Ray and Egon would need him. Instead of letting his mind wander out in the ether looking for mysterious ESP messages, he'd focus on the two forlorn scientists. No help for Peter there.

Heaving a sigh, Peter put aside the attempt for the moment. Okay, so he was mostly tied down but he had one hand free. There had to be something out there to use to get out of this crazy prison.

He started to explore the underside of the dentist's chair in hopes of finding something loose enough for him to use to pick the padlock. It was going to be a long day.

Egon twisted the dial on his P.K.E. meter with a savage spin. Already the sky was darkening, and they had picked up no trace of Peter yet on the meters. Christmas lights everywhere reminded Egon of the bleak Yuletide ahead for the team if they couldn't track Peter down in time to save his life. He pushed aside the thought of his presents for Venkman, carefully concealed so Peter couldn't find them ahead of time and guess what they were by shaking the boxes. Peter always did that, now that he'd come to like Christmas, and the hiding of presents had become a ritual between him and Egon, just as planning birthday surprise parties had. Egon turned his eyes away from the Christmas lights, half convinced they shone with a false promise.

The team had split up to cover the city more quickly. Egon found himself paired with Burke himself in his unmarked car, Ray was riding with Burke's partner, Eddie Bender, while Winston, in Ecto-1, had taken the profiler, Corder and a uniformed officer to back him up. They'd considered using helicopters to cover the city more quickly, but the meters had a limited range and if Peter were kept in an underground prison, the odds were they could fly right overhead and miss detecting him at all.

"Easy, Dr. Spengler," Burke consoled him, taking his eyes from the road long enough to make sure Egon wasn't about to lose it. "We've only been going a couple of hours. We'll find him."

"If it were your partner the killer had, I suspect you would be impatient, too, Detective," Egon replied grimly. "We face the possibility of death every day, just as police officers do. That makes a strong bond, and Peter has been my friend since 1977."

"That's a long time." Burke hesitated as if doing the math in his head.

"Sixteen years," Egon said automatically. "We met in college. In fact, Peter was the first friend I ever had."

He could feel Burke casting a doubtful glance at him and said quickly, "My father was a fanatical scholar. I wasn't encouraged to make friends, only to get good grades. That all changed when I met Peter, and then Ray."

"Ah." Egon could tell the detective felt uncomfortable with him, but there was nothing he could do about that. He frowned at the meter's screen. It just wasn't reacting. Set to Peter's exact biorhythms and boosted to max gain, it still had a limited range. Barring complications such as a natural jamming agent or a suspicious killer moving Peter from one location to another, the meters would eventually find him, assuming he were actually still in Manhattan--or still alive.

"We will find Peter," he said firmly. "The equipment will detect him. The only problem is the range of the meter." He could only hope the killer had no idea of the team's search. If the man stood, dressed like Peter, outside the window, there would be none but Janine at headquarters to see him. With the resumption of another day, the phone calls had picked up, and she had vowed to stay late on the chance Peter's father telephoned or showed up. When the team had started their search with the police department, she had told them to work as late as they could. She planned to spend the night at headquarters again so that someone would be there if any leads came in. Egon felt a surge of warmth flow through him at her steadfast loyalty.

Burke reached over and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's why we have three teams searching for him, to cut down the time required to find him." He hesitated. "We haven't given a lot of information to the press about what's been happening with the victims. They know they were taken away, and returned, dead of poisoning, but the news isn't out about the rest of it, the copycat actions of the killer. We wouldn't have told you three if you hadn't had cause to put it all together."

"I realize we may be, even now, acting on false hope," Egon replied somewhat stiffly.

Burke grabbed the wheel again and circled impetuously around a hovering taxi. "I don't think you are, Spengler," he said. "I think your coming in today was the first lucky break we've had."

"Not your voluntary profiler?" Egon asked.

There was a silence, then Burke frowned. "Maybe I'm from the old school. Knowing our perp pulled the wings off butterflies when he was a kid isn't leading me one step closer to finding him. So we get him eventually, and he matches what Corder said. If the guy doesn't have a record, how does that get us any further along?"

"It warns us what to expect with him," Egon offered. "To know what danger Peter is in if he actually is the imitator's prisoner. If the killer hasn't broken his pattern before now, then he won't break it for Peter, as long as he doesn't realize we're after him." An idea struck him. "Which means we'll have to spend time at the firehall looking as if we are in mourning. Maybe not all of us, but two of us at a time. It's possible he's followed us. Couldn't that upset his schedule, make him try to--to hurt Peter sooner?"

Burke hesitated. "Yes, to be frank with you, it could. The thing is, we suspect the guy holds down a day job. You saw him yesterday afternoon, but yesterday was Sunday. Mostly, he's been seen at night or early in the morning before work, never during the 9-5 workday. He may not know where you are right now. You'll have to go back fairly soon, and in your Ecto-1. Tomorrow, wait until after nine or nine-thirty before you show up for the search. I know there are no guarantees. But even Corder says he believes the week between capture and killing is because the killer only has the evenings and weekends to work with to learn to imitate his victim."

The theory gave Egon a bit more hope. Even knowing their hypothesis that Peter was in the hands of the killer instead of vaporized by the demon couldn't be proven short of actually finding Peter, Egon had been unable to keep the hope out. He was a scientist who worked with facts, but when his oldest friend's life was at stake, it was impossible to be objective. We're coming, Peter, he thought urgently, as if he could project his rumination to his captive friend and reassure him. It will be up to you to hold out until we arrive. He held up the meter and aimed it at the street in front of him. When it didn't respond immediately, he couldn't help sagging even though it would have beeped in his lap if they had neared Peter's prison. Manhattan was a vast and crowded place. The search wouldn't be easy, but none of the Ghostbusters would give up.

Winston brooded over his P.K.E. meter as he guided Ecto-1 down the streets of the Upper East side. He had it propped on the dashboard, turned up to maximum power so the slightest distant beep would resound through the antique vehicle. In the back seat, the uniformed officer, Peyton, concentrated on the streets, his youthful face full of eager anticipation. Beside Winston, Daniel Corder glowered at the road ahead. His skepticism over the search process was visible in his entire demeanor.

"That device can actually lead to Venkman?" the profiler asked, his voice pregnant with doubt.

Winston didn't like the guy, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe it was because Corder had shown marked skepticism about the search from the beginning. Hadn't Burke said he was from Boston rather than the city? New Yorkers were inclined to grant more credence to the Ghostbusters than outsiders did, since they frequently had a chance to observe the four paranormal investigators in their daily work, which was often performed in the full glare of publicity. Outsiders were more inclined to think the Ghostbusters were a New York phenomenon, scam artists with fancy light shows, capitalizing on the popularity of the New Age movement. Although Winston, who had started out as a doubting Thomas himself, was less inclined to grow peeved at the skeptics as Egon did--the physicist took it as a reflection upon his brilliance as a scientist--he still didn't like it when it followed proof of their abilities. As a quick demonstration of the device's capabilities before they started the search, Egon had recorded the biorhythm readings of Burke, then used the meter to find his concealed location in the precinct. After that, Winston expected the profiler to be neutral rather than openly disbelieving. But he was still a skeptic.

"It led to Detective Burke," he pointed out. "Remember, we don't know the precinct house, and nobody helped us."

Corder nodded once in confirmation. "It's difficult for an outsider to conceive of your work," he admitted reluctantly. "We don't have anything like this in Boston."

"Okay, then, take it like this," Winston challenged. He was used to the presence of a psychologist, and accustomed to Peter being there, a knowing and concerned expression in his eyes and the right words on his lips, when Winston was down. Peter could read people pretty well, and could take a fair stab at total strangers, given a little time to talk to them. This guy was supposed to be top of the line at his job, but he hadn't given Winston the benefit of the doubt. Okay, so maybe he had a lot of nutso clients who claimed to see the ghost of Aunt Bertha across the breakfast table every morning, but that didn't invalidate what the Ghostbusters did. "We can prove what we do. You're supposed to be this great psychologist. Can't you tell I'm leveling with you, that we're on the up and up?"

"Being a profiler does not automatically make me a lie detector, Zeddemore," the man returned.

"Hey, don't call him a liar," Peyton burst out in hot defense of the Ghostbuster. "I've seen these guys at work. I think I'd rather face a street gang with one hand tied behind my back than do what they do. They're on the up and up."

Winston risked a quick glance sideways at Corder. Rush hour traffic was starting to heat up and he couldn't lose concentration on his driving but he needed to see the man's reaction. What he saw was momentary annoyance, smoothing away to polite disbelief. Peter would make mincemeat of the guy.

"You mistake me." Corder's voice was smooth and reasonable. "I wasn't calling you a liar. You seem an honest man. I'm fighting a lifetime of conditioning. Reasonable human beings are raised to think that ghosts are the result of people's imagination."

"Yeah, and serious study into the matter proves that every culture in the history of the planet claims ghosts," Winston countered even though he knew where the guy was coming from, having been in his position the day he walked into Ghostbuster Central and announced he'd believe in anything if there was a steady paycheck in it. "That's gotta mean something. Guess what I'm trying to say is, okay, you can tell us what the killer's gonna be like and I respect that. But if you think we're bunko artists, why come along? I'm doing something concrete to find Peter--and your killer along with him--but you're just sitting here being Mr. Negativity. What good does that do us? I'm not even sure why you need to be here."

"Now you're putting down my work." Corder's voice was soft and silken but Winston could feel a deep annoyance running beneath it.

"Then you can tell why I'm upset," Winston replied. "Okay, this is all a game for you, a nice, complex puzzle that you can solve safe and sound at the precinct. But my buddy's out there, and he's probably strapped down like all the others, and if this psycho nutcase is into mental torture as well as the physical stuff, Pete probably believes we think him dead and that nobody's looking for him. I don't have time to be polite. Hear me out. My friend's life is in danger. That's the bottom line. You don't like the idea of ghosts? Tough. Live with it."

Corder backed off, although Winston suspected he was still seething. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to demean your concern--or your profession. Just grant me a grace period to accept something I've never had reason to believe before. This is as likely to me as being told there really is a man in a red suit who comes around every Christmas and slides down chimneys to give gifts to children."

Winston's grin was genuine. "I hate to break it to you, but Santa hired us once." ⁽³⁾

The profiler's return smile was tentative, doubtful. He looked like he wanted to bury the hatchet. Winston was willing to let him. "Okay, you think you know what this guy's up to, where he's coming from. Does that give you any clues to where he might have hidden Peter?"

Corder was silent, pondering. Stopping at a traffic light, Winston cast a glance at the officer in the back seat. Peyton grimaced and rolled his eyes. He didn't like Corder either, but he wouldn't have the luxury of saying so.

"He won't keep Peter at his own apartment," Corder said as the light changed. Winston started forward, glad the temperature was warm enough to have melted yesterday's snow, at least in the streets. It was still banked up on curbs, but wet and slushy. Water ran in the gutters making it tough for pedestrians to cross the street without acrobatic leaps that sometimes fell short and sent cascades of water up to soak their pant legs and those of their fellow pedestrians. Winston was happy to be in Ecto. "He wouldn't take the risk. He'll be maintaining a low profile--in that case making himself like the majority of New Yorkers who aren't inclined to socialize in elevators or apartment lobbies. He'll find somewhere else, an abandoned or little-used building where he won't expect discovery."

"Won't people notice him going in and out?" Winston asked.

"In New York?" put in Peyton, elevating an eyebrow. "People will mind their own business. He might be noticed, but nobody's gonna call us about it for trespassing. They'd probably think he was in a gang or a drug dealer if they thought about it at all and they'd mind their own business."

Winston knew he was right. The city was an ideal place to commit a crime. Sometimes, crimes committed in plain sight were ignored, the witnesses hiding behind closed doors. "You called that one," he conceded.

"The odds are that he wouldn't have moved Peter into the building until darkness," Corder continued as if they hadn't spoken. His arrogance was seriously beginning to bug Winston, but he squashed it down. The guy could be as smug as he liked, as long as he could help them find Peter. "He takes risks, but usually when he's in the persona of his victims. We have no reason to assume he'd take risks the rest of the time; he would have been caught if he'd been seen lugging bodies about."

Winston frowned. "You sound like you actually admire the guy," he objected.

Corder eyed him in surprise. "Admire him? No, not that. But I do admire cunning. Do you realize how few criminals have the intellect to be worthy of what I do? Most crimes are quick and hasty, in the heat of the moment, out of anger, out of a need for drug money. No finesse. While I decry crime as much as the next person, this is a challenge to me, a challenge to my intellect."

Winston had to bite his lip to hold back his immediate outburst. Drawing in a steadying breath, he said, "It might be this major intellectual puzzle to you, but it's Peter's life we're talking about. I don't care if this guy's the next Moriarty. I want him behind bars where he belongs. Brilliant or not, he's still a murderer, and he doesn't get a shred of respect from me. Ask any of his victim's families and they'd agree with me." And you might be a brilliant profiler, Winston added to himself, but you don't possess one fiftieth of Peter's empathy.

Annoyance flashed across Corder's face. "Of course they would. But I have to get inside his head if I'm to do my job. When I do that, I have to try to see his point of view. It's unpleasant, but the end result is what matters."

Winston squashed his anger. The man was right, but he didn't have to be so annoying about it. "Getting Peter back alive is what matters," he insisted. "Okay, we've been that way, so I might as well turn here."

"It's time to call a halt anyway," Corder said, glancing at his watch.

"Are you kidding? Pete's still out there."

"True. But if your killer is a working man, he'll be off soon and ready to go and check on Peter. He might want to run past your headquarters first to play his mind games. If you're not there, he might get suspicious."

That was true, but that didn't mean all of them had to quit. Maybe they could take turns checking through the evening while the other two made themselves visible at windows from time to time. He said so.

"Perhaps," conceded the profiler doubtfully. "But be careful. You wouldn't want him to see you."

"So, he sees us, what does he think? That we're tracking Peter down? For all he knows we're just going out on busts. He doesn't know what a team we are, how much we matter to each other. He probably wouldn't expect us to do what we're doing now. If he's working, then he hasn't been watching us today and it's all over the papers that Peter is...dead. Okay, I can see the sense of being home, but who says all of us have to be? You think we're gonna sit around, all cozy at home when Pete's in trouble?"

"Then be very careful," the profiler advised. "Talk to Burke about what you do."

"You can bet we'll do that," Winston said and used Ecto's mobile phone to call Egon, who had the cell phone. Burke could contact Ray. Time to go home, time to set the stage. Maybe if they were careful, they could even grab the guy. Winston didn't bother mentioning that idea to Corder, but Burke would be sure to put surveillance teams on the firehouse. They'd be very discreet, but he wouldn't pass up a chance to grab the guy if he showed up and played games under the lamppost in Peter's jumpsuit. The guys could set their meters for generic biorhythms and aim them in the right direction. There were always possibilities.

By the time his captor returned, Peter was already regretting drinking water all day. He was uncomfortable and hungry and, even more annoying, he was bored. The day had been endless. There was nothing within his reach that could help him undo the leather straps, and a study of them proved they were new and very strong--and faintly stained darkly around the edges. The blood of the last victim? He didn't have a hope of breaking them. His water glass and pitcher were Tupperware, nothing he could break and use to saw the leather, nothing he could bash his captor with; the jerk had thought of everything.

As the day progressed, Peter studied his surroundings more thoroughly. When the sun was directly overhead, he got the best light and that let him make out the details of his prison. He was in a small room that might, once, have been an office because there was a phone jack on one wall, although no telephone remained. Over on the far wall was a rusting file cabinet in industrial grey, the bottom drawer open to reveal a few crinkled, filthy file folders, empty of files. On two of the walls were old lighting fixtures, set behind broken glass shades. Even from here Peter could tell they held no light bulbs. The walls didn't reach all the way to the ceiling; that was high above him and crossed with catwalks that ran beneath the blacked-over skylight. A warehouse office?

Street sounds were a muted, distant hum, too far away to make out the sounds of individual vehicles. Several times he heard a faint, basso hooting that might have been a boat's horn, leading him to guess he was near one of New York's many piers. Ghosts seemed to like such places. At least this one wasn't haunted.

Okay, so he was in an abandoned warehouse, most likely somewhere along the Hudson or the East River, probably still in Manhattan though he couldn't really assume as much. How did that help him? The answer was, it didn't. He was in the hands of a nutcase who was trying to be him. The guys wouldn't fall for that for a second. Only people who didn't know him would be misled. No matter how much the guy mimicked his expressions and gestures and wore that wig that looked just like his haircut, he was still not Peter. His eyes were the wrong color, although contacts could take care of that. But his facial features were wrong. Even if he were skilled at make-up and wore appliances, his chin wasn't quite the right shape and his eyes were too deeply set. Only, put all those other things in place and, from a distance, he might seem the real thing.

Not to the guys, though. If he chose to 'haunt' them, he'd have to do it from a distance. He'd already done it last night. Maybe they'd been too shocked to take readings, although Egon was so conditioned to do it, he'd probably have done it then, no matter how much he was hurting. Peter imagined the tight, closed-up expression on Egon's face and wasted his energy in a paroxysm of struggles in a futile attempt to break free, then he quieted and focused on Egon. Egon would take readings. He'd know he wasn't confronting a ghost. Once he'd done that, he'd take biorhythm readings, to make sure Peter hadn't been bopped on the head by the ghost and was wandering around in a daze. No matter how much his new twin looked like Peter from a distance, his biorhythms wouldn't come close. That ought to give the guys enough clues to realize something was rotten in Denmark.

The afternoon dragged endlessly. Peter consoled himself with the hope that the guys actually had seen his 'spirit' and had come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't zapped to infinity. It gave him hope of rescue, and it took away the harsh sting of pain over their imagining his loss. They'd find him. He knew they'd find him, because they'd never give up.

It was already dark when his captor returned, clad in Peter's jumpsuit, shedding his topcoat as he came in and dumping a new McDonalds' bag on the table. He had the green contact lenses in this time, and he walked like Peter, a disconcerting sight. "Seven o'clock," he said. "Sorry for the holdup, but I have a job to go to."

"Wanna undo me?" Peter asked. He would wait and challenge the guy after he took care of his needs.

"Partly undo," corrected the stranger and unfastened his feet, jumping back out of range in case Peter meant to kick him. Peter had, and the man's quickness annoyed him. He jumped up quickly, trying to work the kinks out.

"You have two minutes," the man in the jumpsuit said and left the room.

Availing himself of the bedpan, Peter moved away from it and did a few knee bends to loosen himself up. He knew he couldn't argue the guy out of chaining him up again. Even if he didn't want to shoot Peter, yet, he would if Venkman challenged him. Better to stall, play along for now unless the perfect opportunity presented itself. With more range, he did a very hasty check of the room to see if he could find anything useful. The closest he came was a huge, sturdy splinter about four inches long, on the bottom of the chair. Sticking it into the fabric of his blanket out of sight, he was investigating the contents of the sack when the jerk came back.

His dinner proved to be a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Cholesterol city. The creep returned and removed the bedpan, substituting a new one for it before he took off. Peter sat on the edge of the bed and ate while he waited, pausing every now and then to flex his right hand. The circulation wasn't cut off and he wanted to make sure it got plenty of blood.

"I hope you've got no objection to Mickey D's," the killer said, returning. "It's nearby and it's cheap."

"Fast food works for me," Peter admitted. Don't push, Venkman, not till you've eaten. He could take it away as punishment.

"Don't imagine your friends will find you," the man said with a crooked smile. He was getting better at mimicking Peter's facial expressions, and that wasn't good. It was like watching himself in a distorted mirror, creating a sick, eerie mood that put him off his appetite. The thought of this jerk stepping into his life disgusted him.

When he finished the last bite and sucked the last of the coke through his straw, he glanced up at the man who watched him and said, "This isn't gonna work, you know? There's no way you can be me." He grinned. "Why do you need to? Is it really that sucky being you?"

"Don't presume to believe you understand me," snapped the stranger, his eyes flashing with fury.

"Some things don't take understanding. It's not hard to read a neon sign. You're pretty transparent, Jack. I can think of a couple of reasons to change your identity. One's to hide who you are, and you're not doing that or you wouldn't have gone to work today. The other is because you're a miserable specimen of human being and you think being somebody else would be better. Doesn't matter who, just so long as it's not you. What's the matter, have a crummy childhood?" He knew he was pushing harder than he should, but he wanted to get a handle on the guy and he couldn't do it while the creep was being smooth and confident, full of arrogant conviction that he was in control. He might have the gun, but Peter didn't give over control that easily, not while he could trip the guy's trigger. He could almost hear Egon warning him to ease up, not to push the killer too far, but Peter was a lot more reckless than Egon was. He also was better at guessing how far he could go. This character wanted an excuse to brag about how clever he was. If Peter handled him right, he might babble more than he meant to. It wasn't as if he could take him on physically, not yet. A splinter was no match for a gun, and he could hardly use the Tupperware pitcher to bash the guy with.

"You should know about bad childhoods," the man returned, hanging onto control, although Peter could see he was seething.

"Yeah, but I've got a great life now," Peter proclaimed, hating the fact that his captor knew enough about him to assume that. "You don't, or you wouldn't be into this.

"Enough," snapped the guy. "Lie down, and shut up or I'll fasten both hands down." The gun came out again. Okay, Venkman, ease up a little, Peter instructed himself. Don't take it too far.

With the gun barrel aimed at his kneecap, Peter had no choice. If both hands had been free, he'd have tried something, but he didn't have room to duck behind the chair. Instead he put on an expression of defeat and climbed into the chair again, sticking out his feet. As the guy reached for the straps, he kicked as hard as he could and the gun went flying.

Jumping up again, he threw himself at the man only to be pulled up short at the end of his strap. Grabbing up the new bedpan, he lashed out at his captor with it.

Instead of fighting him, the man went after the gun, aimed it toward Peter, and fired. Involuntarily, Peter flinched, expecting to feel the bullet bury itself in his body. Instead it hit the wall behind him. "Last warning," said the man in the jumpsuit. "Try that again and I'll give up on you and just shoot you. It would annoy me very much, so I might aim for a place that wouldn't instantly kill you. Then I'd just go away. You'd be dead by the time you were found, and it would be slow and agonizing. Remember, I am in charge here. I am in control. Try anything like that again and I'll make you wish I'd just put a bullet cleanly in your brain."

The maniacal glow in his eyes made Peter shudder. Tight-lipped to keep from speaking, he returned to the chair and allowed the man to fasten his feet, unable to keep the hatred from flaring in his eyes. Okay. So he couldn't break free. That didn't mean he had to help the guy. He'd watch what he said very carefully and try not to utter a single one of his patented 'Venkmanisms' for the rest of the time the guy had him. He'd talk like Egon, all big words, or like Ray with enthusiastic gee's and gosh's. Peter wasn't going to let this guy try to be him--and succeed at it.

Ray stacked the logs tidily, unable to hold back a mental comparison to last night's fire building. Then, he had been utterly devastated, his heart broken. Tonight he was worried sick but he had hope. The Christmas tree downstairs wasn't nearly as much of a reproach as it had been last night. Then it had stood for what they lost. Today it was a symbol of what they hoped to regain. They hadn't found Peter yet, but Winston was still out there looking. The uniformed officer, Peyton, had volunteered to take him around on his off-duty time once they'd dropped the profiler at a subway stop. The psychologist had promised to go home and go over his work-up of the killer. Winston had claimed to be glad he was gone.

"Man, that guy doesn't buy a thing we do," he had growled when the three teams had met at police headquarters. "He thinks it's all hype or something. Tomorrow, I'm gonna take Slimer along and have him bury the jerk in ectoplasm. You could tell he wasn't the least bit surprised we didn't find Pete with our equipment. I hope he's there when we do so I can ram my meter down his throat." He climbed into a squad car with the clearly sympathetic Peyton and started out for the next section of the search pattern grid.

"But we can document what we do," Egon had remarked, staring after the vehicle. "And it's what's going to save Peter."

"I know, Egon." Ray didn't want to stop searching any more than Spengler did, but they had to make it look good for the killer so he wouldn't get suspicious and move Peter to a different location. Once he started doing that, their chances of finding him would decrease drastically. They'd already wasted more than a whole day without finding him, more than twenty-four hours of Peter in the hands of a crazed killer.

They had taken Ecto home, where Janine awaited them. There had been a lot more press calls, but none of the reporters had guessed that there was a chance Peter might be alive. Peter's father hadn't surfaced yet. That made Ray angry. Nobody could be that far out of touch. It was his own son. He should be here, sharing the guys' ordeal, but he wasn't. Ray knew that, when they rescued Peter, he would feel bad about it.

"I tried to track him down," Janine explained. "I put out a lot of feelers. Peter gave me some names and numbers once, in case he ever needed to reach his dad in a hurry. I call them all this afternoon. Nothing. And nobody else called for him either. I checked outside a few times and didn't see the killer, either."

"It's likely he has a day job, Janine," Egon explained. He put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, sliding her arm around her waist. Ray could see in Egon's eyes the need for whatever reassurance he could get. No matter how close he and Janine might be in private, he wasn't usually demonstrative to her in front of the guys. Now, he needed the solace she was willing to offer.

"I'll go up and get dinner," Ray volunteered.

Janine shook her head. "No, I've got it in the oven--and if you tell Dr. V I've been cooking for you when he comes back, I'm going to brain the lot of you."

Hugging Janine to himself, Egon gave her a quick squeeze and let her go. "Thank you, Janine. I must go upstairs myself. I have an important job to do." He started up the stairs, his back rigid with determination. They watched him go. Edging over to Ray, Janine hugged him, too. "He's so worried about Peter," she said. "Did you have any luck?"

"Not yet. But we will," Ray insisted. "I know Peter's gonna be okay. I just know it. We'll find him tomorrow. We can't miss." I hope we can't miss.

"What's Egon got to do?" she asked, lifting her eyes toward the upper stories.

"I don't know, but I'd better go and help. You know how he gets when something goes wrong. I don't like to have him up there alone." He beamed at the secretary. "You've been great, Janine."

She smiled after him, but he could feel the worry she'd never admit once Peter was safe.

Dinner had been a casserole--recipe compliments of Janine's sister Monica. After that, he and Egon retreated to the lab. Egon's plan had been a brilliant one and he'd just had time to implement it before they ate. Now, as Ray stacked the logs, Egon sat at the lab table playing with the remote control device he'd designed in what felt like ten minutes. Ray had helped him assemble it, and he couldn't wait to use it. As he finished up building the fire and lit it, he got to his feet.

"I'm gonna call Janine up here." Their secretary was staying for the duration. During her lunch hour, she had raced out to Brooklyn in a cab and packed up a suitcase. She loved Peter, too, although they played a game of being adversaries. Siblings, thought Ray wistfully. He hadn't had any brothers and sisters when he was growing up, but he'd learned to know how having them felt when he met Peter and Egon in college. When Winston came along, he simply became one more brother, and Janine was their sister--well, maybe not Egon's sister but the rest of theirs. Winston even called her 'little sister' from time to time. But it was Peter who had come the closest to being Janine's big brother. When she dated, which she did every so often, Egon was jealous--but it was Peter who usually scoped out the guy to make sure he was worthy of their secretary, especially after the disaster with Paul Smart.

When the three of them were sitting on the couch in front of the fire, Ray couldn't help remembering the previous night. It was different tonight; Winston was out there, actively searching for Peter, and the rest of them had a purpose, decoys to reassure the killer. They'd get the guy and rescue Peter.

After about half an hour of idle conversation Ray glanced at his watch. "This is about the time he came yesterday," he said, his eyes on the dancing flames. The crackle of the fire and the flickering light was soothing, but none of them was prepared to be soothed. Last night, they had been a broken and defeated bunch. Tonight they were united in a firm purpose. Peter was in desperate trouble but, unless the killer broke pattern with him, he was still alive. They could save him. Even better than the police, they could find him and track him down.

"Do you want the honors, Ray?" Egon asked. In the middle, he had one arm around Janine's shoulders and the other around Ray's. He withdrew his arm to free him, clasping the back of his neck for a reassuring moment before letting go.

"Okay, Egon, I'll do it." Jumping up, he went over to the window and stared down at the light pole.

He was there. The figure in the jumpsuit stood in the slushy snow, patiently waiting. Ray knew they could have arranged a stake-out, but a call to Burke had proven the detective was thinking, too. If they grabbed the guy too quickly, they might lose any chance of finding Peter. The serial killer might have read enough about the team to know what could block a P.K.E. meter. He might have Peter somewhere over in Jersey, far enough away that the search would take too long. They wouldn't help Peter if he died of cold or dehydration while they searched all five boroughs and half of Newark to find him. The police would follow him rather than jumping out to apprehend him. With luck, he would lead them back to Peter.

If only it was really Peter he saw. The cocky stance looked exactly right, the flip of hair was just like Peter's. Too far away to make out exact features, Ray was struck by the sense of familiarity. Yet this wasn't Peter. The meter he'd snatched up still gave no readings at Peter's biorhythms.

"He's there," Ray said over his shoulder, conscious of Egon striding to the table, reaching for his remote device. Opening the window, he flung his head out and cried, "Peter!"

"Help me, Ray!" the voice was hollow and sepulchral, but it was Peter's voice, perfectly pitched. If the meter hadn't been dead in his hands, Ray would have believed without doubt that his friend stood there, possibly trapped between worlds. "I...can't get home." Gosh, he had that note of fear in it that Ray had heard in Peter's voice when he was desperate. Usually after a moment of such vulnerability, Peter collected himself and faced his fear with cocky self-confidence, hiding the fact that he had been frightened. The killer didn't. He cried, "I can't...get home. I'm...all alone, Ray." The pained tones stabbed at Ray. What if they were wrong? What if Peter was trapped in a realm that didn't let his readings come through?

"Got it," Egon muttered behind him. "Let's go, Ray."

That was it, then. Egon had just proved it wasn't Peter. Time for Ray to play his part.

"I'm coming, Peter. Don't go, we'll help you," Ray called to maintain the illusion, and they raced for the stairs, Janine right behind them.

When they burst out into the night, there was no one beneath the lamppost. Ray had known there wouldn't be. He looked around, wondering if the surveillance cops had picked up on the guy, if he were being followed. They should have left one of them upstairs to see where he went. Now that it was too late, he kicked himself mentally for not thinking of it.

Egon went to the side of the building, in the shadows, where he had mounted the remote-linked P.K.E. meter. Unfastening it from its brackets, he checked it out and then made a very satisfied sound. Turning up the volume and activating the antennae, he aimed it at the spot where the killer had stood. The meter gave out the fading blips that went with residual biorhythm readings. "It worked, Ray," he exulted, holding up the screen. "We now have the killer's biorhythms on file. If the police don't trail him back to Peter tonight, we'll have two chances of finding him tomorrow."

"He got away from us," Burke said when the guys arrived at headquarters for their pre-search meeting the following morning. They already knew that because the detective had phoned last night to explain. "Just disappeared. We patrolled the neighborhood for the rest of the night and he didn't come back."

"Do you think he knew you were after him?" Ray ventured. The meeting had expanded. Burke was there and his partner, Bender, and Corder sat with several file folders stacked in front of him. A number of other plain-clothes officers had crowded into the room, too, taking the handouts that Burke passed around.

"He would have known," Corder put in. "He would have half-expected pursuit. My studies indicate he would have reveled in the challenge. It would be a chance for him to prove he was smarter than the police." He nodded at the papers Burke distributed. "I did a work-up last night on what we might expect if we find him. The search is expanding. Not everyone will be equipped with your, er, meters."

"We've made progress, though," Winston said with a half-defiant glare at the skeptic. "Tell them, Egon."

"Our P.K.E. meters are designed to read living human biorhythms, as you know," Egon responded, picking up the two meters that lay before him, one in each hand. "This meter is set to detect Peter. We all have them for the search and I brought several spares for other officers. Unfortunately, the biorhythm field is not as strong as that of P.K. energy, and it is not the prime focus of the meters. So to get Peter's readings means you will have to pass within several blocks of his location."

"That's why we didn't detect him yesterday," explained Ray. "We just didn't hit the right area yet."

"Assuming they work at all," Corder muttered under his breath.

Egon stiffened as if he'd been accused of dishonor. "They do work," he said, adjusting the meter that read Peter's biorhythms. "As you remember, I took Detective Burke's reading yesterday. I'll adjust for it." He did so, activating the meter and aiming it at Burke. It went off in a flurry of beeps and blinks, the sound rising to a higher and higher pitch. "As you see, it works very well." He twisted the dials back to Peter's readings and it silenced. Ray eyed it wistfully. Peter wasn't concealed near the precinct.

"And your point?" Corder asked in the tones of one who is convinced he has just witnessed a fake.

"Last night, the killer came to the firehall," Egon pointed out. "Yes, he eluded the police, but he did not elude the meter mounted outside the structure, the one we triggered by remote control to take and record his precise readings." He set aside the meter that was geared to detecting Peter and held up the other one.

Shuffling through papers as if he'd lost something important, Corder muttered in annoyance, completely ignoring Egon's words. "I've left it on my desk," he grumbled. "Is this important, Spengler? Can it wait till I fetch what I need?"

Pardonably, Egon looked put out as Corder rose and started for the door. The profiler could have at least pretended to believe them, especially after yesterday's meter test. "What I was trying to say," Egon stated in irritation as the door closed behind the profiler, "is that we now have the killer's biorhythm readings." He flipped on the meter. "And we can--" the shrill, yet fading beeping of the meter cut across his words, causing everyone in the room to stare at the meter in astonishment.

For an instant, Egon regarded the meter in blank disbelief, then he aimed it at each detective in the room, one at a time. The readings continued to fade. When Egon aimed it at the door, they strengthened, but not by much, and not for more than a second before dying down still more.

"What the hell," Bender blurted out, jumping to his feet.

The door opened and a white-faced man ran in, a sheaf of papers in his hand. "Guys, you are not gonna believe--where is he?" He looked around wildly.

"The killer was here!" cried Egon. "He just left. He--"

"Corder," confirmed the new arrival. "The records just came down from Boston." He flung his packet of fax sheets down on the table in front of them. "The fingerprints don't match, and the BPD reports that a profiler named Daniel Corder was found murdered in his apartment six weeks ago."

"You mean Corder is the killer?" cried Winston. "Hell, that makes sense. He'd be right here, knowing everything the police were doing, twisting around the information to cover himself."

"Never mind that," Egon cried, grabbing for his coat. "He didn't believe the meters worked before, or at least he wasn't certain, but now he knows we have his exact readings and can prove it. He'll go straight to Peter. We don't have any time."

They raced madly for the door.

Winston jumped behind the wheel of Ecto, and the others leaped in hastily, Burke with them. In the front passenger seat, Egon adjusted the meter to its highest gain and was rewarded with a faint beep. "That way," he cried, pointing south.

Winston launched Ecto into traffic with all the force of a rocket lifting off from Cape Canaveral, and the team set off in frantic pursuit.

"Let me get this straight," he asked without sparing a look for Burke in the back seat. "This guy just waltzed in and you took him on. Didn't have a clue who he was?"

"He brought references with him and statements from the Boston Police," a shaken Burke replied. "God, I can't believe this. I didn't like the guy, but I thought it was just because he was a shrink. He was always so blasted knowing, like he could read your mind."

"Yeah, and he treated us like frauds," Ray objected. "I didn't like him, either."

"I thought he didn't buy a word of what we did," Winston retorted, following Egon's gesture to turn so abruptly they were all flung sideways in their seats. Siren wailing, Ecto raced in pursuit of the killer. They had to get to him before he reached Peter. "But he must have had his doubts. As soon as he realized where you were going about the meter, Egon, he faked it so he could get out of there. Nerves of steel. I thought he was just so arrogant he wasn't gonna give us the courtesy of listening. Never dawned on me he was the killer." He put his foot flat down on the accelerator and wove his way through the traffic with the skill of an Indy 500 driver. The readings strengthened faintly.

"Didn't he have a photo ID or anything?" Ray wondered. How could the police have trusted the guy? People don't usually just stroll in off the street and get taken into police confidence on a major crime--well, okay the Ghostbusters had, but that was different. Everybody in New York knew who they were. But Corder! Even with papers and references...

Burke slapped his forehead with his palm. "He did have one. Had a mustache in the picture but he said he'd got tired of it and shaved it off. Probably figured we'd spot a fake one. Damn it, we were fools!"

"He's very good at what he does," Ray consoled the officer. "Last night when he was pretending to be Peter outside headquarters, he had his voice down perfectly. I wonder, did he know the real Corder? Did Corder know him?"

"We'll check that out. See if we can get his background. Right now, this is more important." He pulled out his cell phone and put in a call, talking urgently about background and backup, and reporting his location and the direction they were moving.

It was a race against time. They were several blocks behind Corder, or whatever his name was. Several blocks was enough for him to reach his destination, to get inside and to kill Peter before they could arrive on the scene. Of course he might not be going for Peter. He might have cut his losses and simply be attempting escape. They couldn't take that chance, though. Ray shivered at the thought of arriving only moments too late to save their friend. After all Peter had been through, they had to free him.

"Hang in there, homeboy," Winston muttered, sensing Ray's apprehension. "We're gaining on him."

It was a wild and crazy ride through the city. Morning rush hour was mostly over and some people did try to move aside for them when they came racing up behind them. They probably figured Ecto was big enough and fast enough to damage their cars if they didn't get out of the way. Corder, who couldn't have an Ecto to flee in, must be taking incredible chances. Twice they came upon accidents that the man must have caused, fender benders with drivers yelling at each other out of car windows. They couldn't lag back for a second without risking losing the signal and, three times, Winston was forced to drive on the sidewalk to get where he was going, scattering panicked pedestrians right and left. He must have hit a dozen parking meters, no less than five trash bins, one mailbox, and a fire hydrant that erupted into a towering geyser of water behind them. Ray kept track, in awe of driving even wilder than his own. Hang in there, Peter, we're coming, he thought. Burke never once protested the reckless ride. Maybe he was used to them.

Egon fussed over his meter, playing it like a concert violin, his slender fingers drawing forth every iota of power he could evoke. The signal never failed, not once. They even gained on Corder in their frantic rush through the city. Once, Ray thought he saw a police car ahead of them, lights blinking, siren wailing, and he pointed it out.

"Yeah," Burke grumbled, turning from his phone, where he'd maintained a running commentary. "He grabbed one of our squad cars. I've been trying to set up roadblocks, but he never goes the way we think he will. He may be an insane killer, but he's a very smart insane killer."

"Think he's got Pete in an abandoned warehouse?" Winston asked, gesturing at their surroundings. Close to the Hudson, they were passing pier after pier.

"Probably the safest place to hide someone," Burke decided. "I should have tried that yesterday."

"We had to make a methodical search," Egon reassured him, but his voice was tight and controlled. Now Peter's danger had intensified. The meter squealed in his hand and he cried, "We're gaining on him."

"He's stopped," Ray realized, knowing every second they delayed could be the one that cost Peter his life. If Corder hadn't been crazy enough to kill in such a ritualistic manner, Ray would have believed he was trying to get away. They couldn't take the chance that he had a boat waiting and meant to escape on the water. He might believe he had to kill Peter first. "Hurry, Winston."

Winston pulled around a corner and found the abandoned police vehicle sitting there, flashers blinking, door wide open. Ecto squealed up behind it and they jumped out, pausing only long enough to grab proton packs and settle them on their backs before they raced to the open door of the nearest warehouse, only steps behind Burke. The detective had his gun in hand.

"No time to wait for backup," he cried over his shoulder. "Can you adjust those proton thingies so you don't vaporize the guy? We want to catch him and bring him to trial, not zap him to Mars."

Ray wanted to vaporize him so badly. The guy had kept Peter tied up and threatened him and might even now be attempting to kill him. But he adjusted his thrower as he ran and saw Egon and Winston doing the same. They plunged into the open door and paused only because the interior was dark and gloomy and it took a second for their eyes to adjust. High overhead a skylight had been painted over with black paint, but time had worn a few scrapes in it. Not much light to search the place with. Their quarry was nowhere in sight.

"Corder!" Egon yelled at the top of his lungs. "You are a dead man if you harm him."

A gunshot rang out from the far wall. Ray saw a movement there, a flight of stairs, a man rushing up to the second floor, shooting. They all ducked, and Burke cried out and collapsed to the dusty floor, blood springing up along the side of his head.

"Can't stop me," Corder bellowed triumphantly.

Ray fired his thrower at the killer. He must have missed because the footsteps never hesitated.

Egon went past the policeman's body and ran for the stairs on winged feet. They crowded in after him. Charging up the stairs, Egon yelled Peter's name. Ray started after him but the stairs were old and rickety and bucked beneath his feet, shuddering from the weight of three running men.

"Egon!" Ray called warningly as he felt the staircase start to give, and the physicist lunged for the top just as the whole flight collapsed, pitching Ray and Winston to the ground in a flurry of boards and splinters as they struggled to jump free.

Landing hard, Ray had one quick vision of Egon teetering at the top of the stairs, arms windmilling to catch his balance at the edge of the second floor that didn't cover the whole building, then he caught his balance and ran on.

"Corder! You are a dead man if you harm him." That was Egon's voice cutting through Peter's idle daydream. He closed his eyes in mindless relief. They'd found him. His friends were here.

The shot that followed the yell jerked Peter into full awareness. Oh, god, he should have remembered the guy had a gun. Had he hit Egon? Bracing himself against the sound of another shot, he heard running footsteps, the clatter on the stairs, and Egon calling his name. There was no way to duck, strapped down as he was with only one free hand. He reached wildly for the Tupperware pitcher, curling his fingers around it to use it as a weapon.

"Egon!" Ray's shot was full of warning, not of the kind of alarm he'd use if Spengler had been shot. Peter strained his ears, horrified when he heard a rattle and crash, interspersed with yells from Ray and Winston and the thud of approaching feet. The killer? His friends?

The copycat burst into the room, his hair disheveled, devoid of the Peter wig he'd been wearing and the green contact lenses, wearing a business suit. He wasn't attempting to be Peter any longer. He had the lead on Peter's friends; Peter had to stall. With a yell, he flung the pitcher at Corder. It sailed through the air spewing water as it went, taking the killer in the shoulder. He reeled at the impact, his face darkening with fury. For an instant, the gun came around to aim at Peter, then the killer shook his head. "Not that way," he muttered. "Not that way." Instead he lunged across the room, whipped open the top drawer of the file cabinet and pulled out a small bottle made of brown glass. Peter fumbled in the blanket for the splinter he'd found under the chair. It might be his only chance.

"Now, you die," he howled. "Now you die." Unscrewing the cap, he lunged for Peter, grabbed him by the throat, and brought the bottle up to his mouth to force the contents down Peter's throat.

Teeth clenched, lips pressed tightly shut against the poison, Peter tightened his grip on the long splinter and jammed it as hard as he could into the killer's belly.

It broke, of course, but it must have penetrated a little way because the killer cried out in pain and Peter felt a spurt of blood on his hand. Backhanding Peter across the face with the hand that held the bottle, the man jumped back, his other hand clutching his wound. He dropped the poison and it landed on the dentist's chair near Peter's head. "You'll die for that," he shouted, then he whirled, grabbing up the gun, and fired wildly at the doorway where Egon appeared and ducked frantically to avoid the shot.

Egon came up firing, a glowing stream of protonic energy missing the man by inches. He tried to adjust his fire and duck at the same time.

"Look out, Egon," Peter yelled, elated at the sight of his friend but worried about the gun. He couldn't even duck if the killer chose to fire at him instead of Egon. Bound helplessly, he tried to make himself as small a target as possible.

Maybe he could have timed the shout better because it distracted Egon momentarily and made the energy weapon jerk in his hands. "Peter!" Egon cried, his voice full of relief.

The killer chose that moment of diversion to act. He went low, diving for Egon, grappling him around the waist and flinging him backward out of the door. Peter strained upward, knocking aside the bottle and spilling the poison onto the worn leather. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer and closer, a great many sirens. From outside the door, where he couldn't see, came the sounds of a frantic scuffle as Egon fought the crazed murderer for Peter's life. He couldn't see, he could only hear the gasps and cries as blows fell, and he knew that Egon, while strong and wiry, had no skill in down-and-dirty street fighting. And where were Ray and Winston?

"Guys!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs and he heard Ray and Winston yell his name in response.

"We're coming!" they reassured him.

A rending of tortured wood and the crash as it shattered cut off any replies. He heard the clattering, crashing, falling sounds for a long time, echoing through the building. Shouts rang through it, urgent cries, police warnings, a horrified, "Egon!" from Ray. The floor beneath the dentist's chair quivered. The stairs must have gone first, before Ray and Winston could follow Egon up. Ray was obviously alive, but the panic in his shout proved that the second crash had been the floor giving way beneath Egon and the imitator. A fall like that could kill a man...

Peter closed his eyes. "Egon," he muttered. He was certain Egon was dead.

"We're coming, Pete," yelled Winston. "Hang on, we're coming."

But it was five minutes before he heard footsteps cautiously approaching his prison, five endless, agonizing minutes that gave him time to imagine every possible fate for Egon. The killer must be caught; all those sirens had to mean something. Then he heard voices. They weren't the killer's voice; and one of them was Winston's. He didn't hear Egon, and that scared him.

"Careful."

"I've got the ladder."

"Steady it."

Scrambling sounds indicated people climbing up to his level, then a head poked around the corner of the door.

Peter felt every muscle in his body lose its starch. Egon stood in the doorway, a battered and bruised Egon with a smear of blood in his eyebrow and down the side of his face and his glasses askew on his nose. He was holding one wrist in his other hand and, even from where he stood, Peter could see it was swelling badly. Yet he had been first up the ladder, moving under his own steam, and there was sheer determination in his eyes that indicated he'd had to fight for the privilege.

You didn't usually see somebody try to run who was limping that badly but Egon didn't hesitate. He flung himself at Peter, who propped himself on one elbow to receive him, throwing his free arm around Egon's neck as the physicist hugged him hard. Peter leaned into the embrace. "You're alive," Egon blurted, too stunned to consider that he was stating the obvious, an action he often teasingly reproached Peter for.

"I thought you were dead," Peter breathed in utter relief. "I heard you fall. God, Spengs, you scared me." He clung tighter.

Egon made a faint, chuckling sound in his throat than nearly turned into a sob. "I scared you," he stammered. "We thought you were dead for almost a day, Peter." He was quivering with reaction and his voice was shaking badly. Conscious of Ray and Winston, eyes wide with relief, hovering just behind Egon, Peter gave them a reassuring smile. "He told us...the demon had--had vaporized you."

"Yeah, he showed me the Times article. I knew you'd figure it out," Peter reassured him, stroking the back of Egon's neck. His eyes sought out Ray's and then Winston's, offering them what comfort he could. Their faces were full of joy. "I knew you'd get here."

"No, you didn't, Peter," Egon corrected against his ear. "I'm sure he told you that we thought you were dead."

"He did," Peter admitted, squashing down the complicated surge of emotions that threatened to choke him as he remembered how helpless he'd felt when he heard that. "But I knew you'd figure it out anyway--and you did. You're here. It's all right, Egon. I'm not hurt. He knocked me out when he got me, or drugged me or something, but the worst I've had since then is having to eat Big Macs." Okay, so the worst was being tied up here all alone, afraid his friends wouldn't find him in time, imagining their suffering, but that could wait. "What happened to the guy?" he asked. "Did the police get him?"

"Yes, actually." Egon had collected himself, and he drew back from the embrace, leaving room for Ray and Winston to charge in and take turns hugging Peter. "When the floor gave way, I, er, fell on him. He broke my fall." He finally realized his glasses were crooked and straightened them with an impatient finger. The familiar gesture made something twist happily in Peter's stomach.

"First good thing he did in his entire life," Peter proclaimed. "Uh, guys, while I appreciate the nice warm fuzzies, I think I'd like it even better if you'd get these stupid straps off."

"Hey, he's locked up," bellowed Winston. "There are padlocks. Did he have a key?" He bent to mutter in annoyance at the padlock that held Peter's right wrist in place. "He did a real job on these. Don't worry, Pete, we'll get you free if we have to blast you out with the throwers."

"Long as you do it, Zed. Not sure I want Tex Stantz blasting at me." He winked at Ray to take the sting out of his words.

A tall, skinny man Peter had never seen before came into the room. Like Egon, he had blood down the left side of his face, and he was followed by a second man who was fussing over him the way the guys had just fussed over Peter. "We found a key in his pocket," the man said. "You must be Peter. Can't tell you how glad I am to see you alive."

"I'm glad of it myself," Peter returned with a crooked grin.

"Man, look at those straps," the stranger continued. "We'll have you out of there in minutes."

"Let me do it, damn it, Craig," snapped the second man, grabbing for the key. They must be the police, partners. They had that feeling of being in tune with each other that Peter knew from his own teammates. "You're hit."

"Barely a graze," Craig defended himself, although he looked as if his vision might be fuzzy around the edges. He searched through the keys on the chain and found one that looked appropriate. In less than a minute he undid the padlocks.

Peter bounced up off the chair with a relieved shudder, the guys grabbing at him to steady him as he stood up. Okay, so he might just skip his next six-months dental check-up. He had never been so glad to leave a piece of furniture in his whole life. Don't lose it, Venkman, he told himself. You're fine now, it's over. Studying his friends, he realized they'd had it every bit as bad as he had. This was no time to freak the world with a monumental reaction, although it would have been so easy. "That guy tried to be me," he insisted, outraged. "And there's no way he could do it. Imitate the magnificent Venkman?" That made the guys grin. "He didn't have a clue." He caught himself. "So who is he, anyway?"

"A very sick man," Egon replied, his hand on Peter's shoulder. "And one who will spend the rest of his life behind bars."

"Worse than that," Craig's partner said with a sound of satisfaction running through his voice. "I think he broke his back when he fell. He may be paralyzed. He'll never have the opportunity to hurt anyone else again."

Peter looked around the room that had been his prison for nearly two full days and decided that was nearly two days too long. "Okay, guys, what say we do the wrap-up somewhere else." He shivered.

Craig's partner, the only man in the room with a coat on, pulled it off and draped it over Peter's shoulders. "Let's get out of here," he encouraged. "We'll turn it over to the forensics team."

Peter concurred completely. "Can we go home now?" he asked, half afraid he'd get caught up in hours and hours of police statements.

"We can do whatever you want, Peter," Egon vowed fervently. It would have taken all the police in the city to stop him.

"Okay, then, good buddy, I say we make a detour at the hospital first and get you looked at. You're a real mess." Peter reached out to help Egon to the ladder.

Egon had two cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, assorted cuts and bruises, and a pulled a muscle in his leg, but none of the injuries were serious enough to keep him in the hospital. While he was being examined, Peter, who had passed his own examination with flying colors, phoned Janine to reassure her that the inestimable Peter Venkman was intact and free. The ER was bright with Christmas decorations, and Peter couldn't help smiling at them. For awhile there, he'd thought he'd seen his last Christmas. From the way the guys were fussing over him, he had an idea he'd score pretty well in this year's presents department. Just being home, where he belonged, was the best present he was going to get.

On the other hand, they'd been so worried about him that it didn't feel right to capitalize on it. Maybe he could sneak out in the next few weeks and pick up some extra gifts for the guys. That'd be fun. With luck, he could use the sympathy vote and con Janine into wrapping them for him.

Janine answered the phone on the first ring.

"Hey, Melnitz," Peter greeted her cheerfully. "Hanging in there?"

"P-peter?" Her voice wobbled then rose to a relieved shriek before she caught herself. "Took you long enough." Nice to know she cared. He couldn't hold back a grin, planning how he'd reassure her by pretending to capitalize on it.

"Are you okay?" she demanded. "Did the guys find you? Where are you? What's going on?"

"I'm fine, yes, they found me, and I'm at the ER, right now, but I'm not hurt. We'll all be home--but Egon got a little banged up." Peter broke it to her hastily and as matter of factly as possible, knowing it would give her something to focus on besides her relief that Peter was alive and well, relief she'd hesitate to show.

Instead she yelled at him for a minute about Egon, then calmed down. "Is he gonna be okay, Peter?"

"I think he'll have some really interesting bruises. You'll have a great time kissing them and making them better." Egon would brain him if he heard Peter say that, but he wasn't here right now, and Janine wouldn't tell him. She might actually do it, but they wouldn't tell Peter about that, either. Peter Venkman, matchmaker extraordinaire, he thought with satisfaction. The fact that he could freely be obnoxious made some more of his tensions leach away. "He's okay, Janine," Peter reassured her. "You think I'd be standing here bugging you if he wasn't?"

They bore Egon and Peter home in triumph. Already reporters were gathering outside headquarters in hopes of a great story, and Peter pulled himself together to talk to them. The guys stuck close, closer than usual on an interview, and Peter grinned and let them field some of the questions until Janine came out to find them and dismissed the reporters with a few well-chosen words. Peter saw the look on the face of Edgar Benedek of the National Register, and figured Benny would find a way to sneak in later for a more personal interview. A personal friend of the team, he usually did.

When they were inside, their secretary astonished Peter by hugging him hard before she even hugged Egon. He preened himself when she let go and turned to Egon, grinning a mile wide as the secretary grabbed the hapless physicist--gently to keep from hurting him--and gave him the once-over to make sure he was in one piece. Peter watched her fingering the dressing on the blond's forehead, and fussing over his strapped wrist.

"We waited until you got home to decorate the tree, Peter," Ray explained, gesturing at the bare evergreen, his face shining. Peter could see the shadows retreating from his eyes. It didn't take much imagination to picture how hard it had been for the guys to look at the lobby tree when they thought he was dead--and Peter had a lot of imagination.

"And well you should," Peter returned brightly. "Any kind of party is the responsibility of the great Venkman. I can imagine the mess you'd have made of it. I do the best decorating in this place."

"And the worst cleaning up," Egon countered.

Happily, Peter made a face at him. "So we'll decorate it tomorrow," he said. "That's the ticket. I'll supervise. It's what I'm best at. And our personal one upstairs, too, so you guys can have a place to put my vast haul of loot."

Winston gave him a nudge with his elbow, but he was grinning a mile wide as they started for the stairs. "In your dreams, Pete. In your dreams."

Peter pretended affront, then he collected himself. "I bag the first shower," he cried and raced up the stairs with the others in hot pursuit. They didn't fight him over the shower, though. He stood under the beating water for a long time, feeling filthy and grimy, trying to wash off the taste and smell of captivity. When he came out, someone had left heated towels and clean clothes for him. He knew it wouldn't happen again, but the attention to his comfort warmed him more than the beating water had. His buddies were a team in a million.

A neatly bandaged Detective Burke showed up around mid-afternoon. "Thought you'd like a wrap-up," he announced when Janine showed him upstairs to the lab. "The man we thought was Daniel Corder is really named James Dean, like the actor. He was a patient of Corder's briefly before he killed him and assumed his identity. We don't know if this is his first identity killing, but his past records indicate a severely disturbed individual."

"No shit, Sherlock," Peter muttered. "Believe me, that guy wasn't operating on all thrusters."

"Apparently his mother was also quite disturbed and finished her life in an institution for the mentally ill," the detective explained. "Dean had a history of being a loner. The other kids at his school thought he was weird, and some of them said he killed small animals for pleasure. His IQ is very high, but he never learned to fit in with other people. I suspect the 'profile' that Dean worked up on himself is extremely accurate."

"Wouldn't mind seeing that," said Peter. "I picked up a lot of signs of problems with him, but there wasn't much I could do. I didn't want to push him too far, not when he was obviously ready to shoot me in the kneecap or play a few other nasty little games."

Egon flinched and Ray stared at him, horrified. "We didn't know you were even alive at first, Peter, or we would have found you sooner."

"I know, Ray," Venkman reassured him hastily, clapping him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Besides, you did rescue me. Rigging that meter out there to get his biorhythms was brilliant. Just what I'd expect from you and Spengs here." He reached out and mussed Egon's hair. He hated what his friends had gone through and the only good thing he could see in it was very selfish. If he had to help them work through the trauma, it would be a way of working through it himself. They'd get through it, though, together.

"I'll see you get a copy of the report," Burke promised. "Corder is in the hospital now. His spine was crushed in the fall and his spinal cord damaged. They don't believe he will ever walk again. He's withdrawn into a state of near catatonia. The one thing we can guarantee at this point is that he will never kill anyone else. Small consolation to his victims' families, and to the four of you, but a dangerous psychopath is off the streets, thanks to you."

Peter hoped the others didn't realize it could so easily have gone the other way, Egon in the hospital with a severed spinal cord instead of the killer. He'd be happy if none of them thought of that. Bad enough that he had. Egon might look like he'd been a few rounds with Evander Holyfield, but he was alive and moving under his own steam. Peter closed his eyes for a moment in sheer relief. When he opened them, he saw Egon staring at him and realized that Spengler knew exactly what he'd been thinking and had already conceptualized how it might have gone. Without speaking a word, they formed a mutual pact never to mention it to the others.

When Burke had gone, the four men and Janine sat gazing at each other for a long moment, then Ray cried fervently, "Gosh, I'm glad that's over," and they all laughed.

The phone rang. "Press," Winston murmured sourly, frowning. They'd had tons of press calls already and everybody but Peter was sick of them. Maybe it was Benedek, calling to see if he could sneak over and get his exclusive.

"Let me." Peter jumped up. He loved press calls. After all, they'd taken so many pictures of him when the team got home that he was sure to be on front pages of newspapers from here to Beijing. It didn't quite take away the lingering chill in his stomach, but being home and safe with his buddies would deal with that before much more time had passed. He snatched up the phone. "Ghostbuster Central. The famous Dr. Venkman at your service."

"P-peter?" The broken voice that faltered his name was not a reporter. It took half a second for Peter to realize that he was hearing his father.

"Dad? Is that you?"

"You're alive? They said you were dead. All the papers and the TV said you'd been killed. I just found out or I'd have been there by now. Son--is that really you?"

Oh, god, his dad. Janine had tried to call him before they got home from the ER but she hadn't had any better luck finding him than she had the day before. Maybe he hadn't been in touch with any of his contacts until now. "I'm fine, Dad," he cried hastily. "I wasn't zapped. I got in the way of a crazed killer, but he didn't hurt me just kept me prisoner for a little while. I'm fine. We're all fine. It's okay. Dad? Dad?"

Charlie Venkman tried to speak, but he couldn't force out the words. Shocked beyond measure, Peter clutched the receiver, listening to the sound of his father's harsh, relieved sobs. He couldn't remember hearing his father cry before, not once, not until now, and it shocked him down to the soles of the bunny slippers Ray had brought him after his shower. "Dad? Easy, Dad, I'm not hurt. Really. I'm okay. Come on, Pop, it's all right." If he had ever really wanted proof that he mattered to his father, he had it now--in spades.

Catching himself, Charlie pulled himself together immediately, steadying his voice. "Of course you're okay. It's what I'd expect from my boy. Takes more than a killer to stop you."

"You bet it does," Peter assured him. "It's okay, dad. We're all fine--well, Egon collected his share of bruises. He caught the killer--by falling on him. Gotta say that wouldn't be my technique of choice, but hey, it worked." Across the room, Egon lifted an amused and understanding eyebrow at him. Peter tried to lift one in return, but he'd never had the knack. Both of his went up.

When Peter had consoled his father a little longer, an embarrassed Charlie remembered an urgent appointment and ended the conversation. Peter wouldn't be surprised if he showed up in a day or two, to make sure his son was really all right. Of course if he happened upon a promising scam along the way, he'd get sidetracked the way he always did, but that didn't matter. For once, Peter was completely and utterly satisfied with his father, and the warmth he felt at the older Venkman's concern eased some of the stresses of the past two days.

"He cried, Egon," he told the physicist later that evening, after a delicious dinner cooked by none other than Janine.

"And don't expect it again, Venkman," she'd huffed when he'd teased her about it. "I've tasted you guys' cooking, and I don't want to have to do it again." After they ate, she'd gone home to Brooklyn to give the guys an evening to unwind, leaving Egon's darkening bruises unkissed. Well, there was always tomorrow night.

"Your father?" Egon asked understandingly, turning from the table where he was engaged in complicated work on the innards of one of his P.K.E. meters while Peter sprawled lazily and contentedly on the couch. The two of them were alone in the lab. There was a fire in the fireplace, and the hiss and crackle of the dancing flames had provided a cozy counterpoint to their idle conversation. It was time for one of Ray's favorite TV programs and he'd dragged Winston off to watch it with him. "That must have been hard, Peter."

"Yeah," he admitted, ducking his head. "I never knew him to cry before, not even when...when Mom died. Maybe he did, but I didn't see it. God, Egon..." His voice trailed off as he struggled to find the words to admit how he felt, straightening up to a sitting position and lifting his face to see how Egon reacted.

"He...isn't the only one who did," Egon admitted diffidently.

"Ray?" Peter began, then stopped and stared at Egon, who faced him levelly. "You?" God, this was too much. He jumped to his feet and went to stand in front of his friend.

"You were dead," Egon reminded him, his voice not quite steady. "Or so we thought." The memories of the guys' ordeal was spelled out starkly in his very posture.

Peter grabbed Egon by the shoulders and squeezed reassuringly. "Get this. I'm not dead. I was never dead, and it's okay. It's okay, Egon."

"Yes, but--for awhile, it wasn't." Egon leaned into Peter's grip. "You're surprised about your father," he said, "But I'm not. You were gravely missed. Although I am positive I will regret saying this, and very soon, too, there is something about you, Dr. Venkman, that makes people...care about you."

He didn't deserve it. He didn't. Nobody had the right to cause his friends and family so much suffering, to put them on the line for him and tear them apart like this. Looking Egon right in the eye, he acknowledged the bond that bound them together, the bond that extended to the two who were camped in front of the TV set downstairs but would be up here in a heartbeat if they were needed, that reached out to a con man who wasn't always everything that Peter had wanted him to be but who had proven how much his son mattered to him, and to a red-haired secretary who had hugged him the minute she saw him back from the dead. Knowing how much they had suffered at his loss made him feel utterly humbled. An abiding warmth crept through his veins, taking away the agony of panicked isolation he'd felt when he was Dean's prisoner in the old warehouse, alone, afraid he'd die alone, without his friends. He hadn't died, he wasn't alone now, and he didn't ever have to be alone again. And if he said one sappy word about how he felt, he'd break down and bawl like a baby--and probably take Egon with him. Sometimes, relief was just too great to be spoken. It had to be lived.

So he let his eyes show Egon how he felt, saw Egon recognize and understand his feelings. Then he grinned wickedly and declared with careful smugness, "So what's not to care? I'm a great guy!"

The result teetered on the balance. Egon's eyes were far too bright and, for a second, his bottom lip quivered, then he called himself to order and his face filled with delight as his own shadows retreated. He understood. They had it all back, the years of friendship and understanding that they'd thought gone forever. The blond hesitated, then a smile split his face. "You'll pay for that, Peter," he retorted joyfully. "I knew I'd regret feeding your ego."

Before he could seek his well-deserved retaliation, Slimer swooped through the wall, spotted Peter, and shrieked his name in piercing tones that would bend metal. Dive-bombing the hapless psychologist, he bathed him in slime, and hugged him hard around the neck, pressing sloppy kisses all over Venkman's face. Peter could feel the unpleasant ooze of ectoplasm penetrating his clothing all the way to the skin.

"Slimer find P'taw!" the little ghost screeched triumphantly in Venkman's ear, causing him to give a shriek of his own, clap a hand over his ear to prevent deafness, and struggle to free himself from the slime-ridden grip.

"Come on, Spud, lemme go. Back off, or there's a trap with your name on it. I mean it. Lemme go."

"But now," Egon said as if resuming their conversation, openly grinning at Peter's sodden face, hair, and clothes and struggling manfully not to laugh out loud, "I believe that debt is paid in full."

"You're gonna pay, too, Egon," Peter yelled gleefully, finally erupting from Slimer's messy and affectionate grip. He lunged for the physicist, who took one look at Peter's saturated state and broke and ran, sheer panic in his eyes.

Never one to pass up such an outstanding opportunity, Peter took full advantage of Egon's limp to catch him after a mere three steps. He threw his arms around his oldest friend--and slimed him as hard as he could.

Egon's cry of, "Disgusting!" rang through the firehouse, and when the other two raced up the stairs to see what had happened, they found Egon brushing ineffectually at himself and Peter laughing with sheer delight as he tugged off his sodden shirt.

It was going to be a perfect Christmas.

*****

1. Demon Blues, 1994

2. Traveling Light, Dealer's Choice 2

3. The Christmas Spirit, Adventures in Slime and Time 3