Halloween--1973

Darkness, holding the Christmassy scent of pines, with billions of stars spread out overhead. Damita put her hands on the stone rail of the balustrade and drew fresh, crisp air into her smoke-punished lungs. The party was a glorious success, but the smell of tobacco was so thick in the great hall that she was glad to escape it briefly, up here where she felt as if she stood on top of the world.

The tower stabbed into the night, three flights of curving staircase leading up inside the stone spire into the western Pennsylvania night to open onto a circular balcony that surveyed the surrounding terrain. Below her, hills rose in evergreen-clad folds to the distant horizon far beyond the remote house. Lights dotted the darkness at infrequent intervals, giving distant glimpses of moving headlights on the highway, ten miles from here. Whoever had built the medieval caprice Paul had renamed Dameron Castle had possessed quirks of an odd whimsy. Damita was fascinated by the place, all the more so when she learned a nineteenth century robber baron, vastly wealthy from furs and railroad holdings, had purchased himself a castle in Germany and brought it home with him, hiring a regular army of builders, carpenters, and laborers to restore the edifice to its former glory in a remote valley where only invited guests and the odd hiker or hunter could ever see it.

Over the decades, the robber baron's family had fallen upon hard times, and the Crash of 1929 had finished them. The house had stood abandoned until a gangster who had made a fortune in bootlegged liquor during prohibition found it and snatched it up off the market. He retreated there when life became too risky, but the last time he didn't retreat quickly enough and died face down in his own blood in the lobby of a bank he'd tried to rob in Newark, New Jersey.

After that, the estate passed to his daughter, who had gone so legitimate as to marry a police commissioner. She didn't want the house, had no need for it, and had allowed one of Roosevelt's projects to billet men in it when cutting down trees to aid the war effort in the early forties. Damita didn't know exactly what the wood had been used for, but she didn't think many trees could have been cut. The ones surrounding the house were ancient, part of the primeval forest.

The police commissioner's son, an artist by desire, though his paintings never sold, lived there struggling to find his art and someone foolish enough or lacking enough taste to buy it until the late fifties. He then put the castle on the market, where it had remained until Paul bought it two years earlier. Much of last year had been spent in restorations, and only this past summer had Paul and Damita come to stay for any length of time. Damita liked the house; it tickled her fancy, all the more because Paul had given her free rein in the decorating. She'd had such fun maintaining the atmosphere of the sixteenth century structure while permitting such modern anachronisms as central heating, electricity throughout the building, as well as a phone line, run in for miles and miles at humongous expense. For convenience, their Upper East Side penthouse in Manhattan had Dameron Castle beat to flinders. But for atmosphere, this was the place Damita loved best. She and Paul could come here to escape--and she felt like it was hers, the more because she'd planned it with him, every step of the way.

It had been such fun showing the castle to Paul's friends. An elegant and witty lot of people, they admitted her to their circle out of love for Paul and let her stay for her own sake. They approved universally of her decor, and the only fault they had to find with Dameron Castle was the remoteness of the place. When Paul spoke carelessly of clearing an area for a helipad, or possibly putting one in the center of the circular driveway in front of the house it was hailed as a clever idea. Damita knew he would never do it, though. He came here to cleanse his soul, not to make himself accessible to hangers-on. Should any of his friends arrive uninvited they would be welcomed, because Paul could be gregarious among those he knew and trusted. But if none but Max were visiting, he would be content.

Max ...

Damita would have preferred to escape from the party solely because she wanted to, because she needed a breath of fresh air. Why had she even agreed to this meeting? She had told him over and over it would have no earthly good; she would never betray her husband. She loved Paul all the way to the depth of her being, down to a bedrock level nothing could ever shake free. It was as if her feet had rooted and sunk forever down into the endless foundation of their marriage.

Love wasn't usually so wonderful. When she thought back to her college relationships and the brief fling she'd had with one of the other decorators that the firm where she'd been working when she'd met Paul, those times had been so casual, so superficial, so meaningless. Something in Paul had struck responsive sparks in her, and now, after four years of a marriage that was dazzling not only in their understanding but in the joy in which they patched up their occasionally fiery quarrels, she could still scarcely believe her good fortune. There were levels of relationships: casual friendships, brief affairs, best friends, love of family. But none of them touched her as much as being with Paul did. Have an affair? As soon contemplate living on the moon.

But Max was Paul's best friend. She didn't want to hurt him. Although she had not spoken to Paul about Max's importuning in detail, she was sure he knew. He knew what went on in her head just by looking at her. Just as she could tell how he felt when life went wrong or right.

Did Paul know of this meeting? Did he know she wanted to tell Max finally and in private that a relationship with him would never work? Did she know she had only agreed to meet Max because she realized he was serious, had really fallen for her, because she had suddenly understood it was more than just a game? Max deserved letting down in private, gently, kindly. He was too good a friend to Paul for her to do it any other way.

But had Michael overheard them planning the tryst? He was so earnest, so devoted to Paul. Damita knew he loved her, too, but she also believed it was a calf-love, a youthful passion that didn't require her to love him back, only to be nice to him, casually kind, never encouraging him, but never squashing him for it either. But he also worshiped Paul, who had plucked him out of the cluster of groupies that held court around celebrities, and had drawn him into the inner circle. Michael had become a major-domo cum handyman, a personal assistant, an ever-present bodyguard. He coordinated Paul's schedules, saw to his packing before a tour, clipped reviews, kept Paul abreast of other opera singers and what they were up to.

In fact, she had no idea if Michael had any life apart from Paul. Did he date? Have hobbies? She knew he was well-informed about opera and classical music and could hold his own when Paul and Max got talking on the eternal subject of music. He was younger than Paul and Max by about five years, and so much more unformed. But he was so self-effacing, so quick to turn himself into background furniture that she never felt she really knew him.

Max, on the other hand, had been born sophisticated, so sublimely certain of his own worth when he sat down at the keyboard that for him to deny it would be an outright lie. He had been a child prodigy, and only Paul, the singing prodigy who happened to live next door when he was growing up, had ever been able to understand him. Max's vanity was not offensive--it was too large and flamboyant for that. Damita rather enjoyed it. Or she had before Max had decided to fall in love with her.

Michael in love with her was not a problem. He was content to worship from afar. But would he become outraged that someone else chose to try to worship closer at hand? Would he have rushed to tell Paul about this meeting? Would he come to confront her himself? She hoped not. Neither alternative would do any of them any good.

Damita glanced at her wristwatch, an elegant little piece of jewelry with two halves of a golden heart that closed over the face when not in use, a gift from Paul on their first Christmas together. Pressing the button that opened it, she glanced at the time. It was 12:15 a.m. Halloween. The witching hour?

She shivered. Although it was not a cold night, she felt the chill through the thin material of her flapper costume and the light cape she had thrown over her shoulders before she came up the tower. She wished for Paul's warm costume cloak to wrap around her shoulders, for warmth, a talisman to protect herself from the upcoming interview. She didn't want to crush Max, or to offend him. His pride was of a touchy sort, different from Michael's youthful defiance, but no less vulnerable to wounding. She would have to choose her words with care.

The door creaked open behind her. Without turning, Damita said over her shoulder, "I don't know why you wanted me to meet you up here. There's no earthly use--"

He came at her in a rush, a dark figure, shadowy in the night, the only distinguishing thing the cloak that swung from his shoulders.

"No, don't," she gasped, stunned at the stampeding approach. Then arms grabbed her, holding her cruelly tight and a hard fist struck the side of her face, dazing her. She couldn't even turn to see who stood there but a glimpse out of the corner of her eye let her see a hooded shape.

Hooded? Stunned with disbelief, she felt herself lifted, right up over the balustrade. Stars spiraled around her in a dizzying cascade, and then she was falling, without an accusation. Without even a word of censure. Without a cry of anger.

A hooded cloak? Paul's cloak had been hooded. Had Max's? Had Michael's? Oh, god, oh, god. This was impossible. It was a nightmare. If only she could awaken....

As the ground rushed towards her, she felt her heart pound in hopeless terror, filling her with the greatest despair she had ever known. Then the crash -- bones cracked and crumbled, once perfect skin spattered with blood; as pain exploded through her body in the seconds before she died, Damita cried, "Noooooo!"

October--1993

Peter Venkman opened his eyes and instantly closed them again as a kaleidoscope of pain spiraled through his pounding head. Trying again more cautiously, he squinted dizzily at the chaos around him and a face appeared in the middle of his blurred vision, sharpening into Egon. The physicist's glasses hung half off, one earpiece in place, the other end dangling. Putting up an impatient hand, he shoved them into place, wincing. There was a raw, scraped place on his left cheek, and his bottom lip was bleeding as if he had bit it.

"Peter?" The worry in his voice was stark as if he had been repeating Peter's name in hopes of evoking a response for some time. Holding up a hand, he waved it before Peter's eyes to make sure he was tracking. "Peter, can you hear me?"

"Yeah ..." He was dazed and achy, but there were no sharp pains; even the thudding behind his eyes had settled into a manageable discomfort. He was a little confused but even that was easing. Memory was slowly returning. "What ... happened?"

There was a sudden movement behind Egon; Winston, his handkerchief pressed against his forehead and dotted with blood, loomed into sight. Dropping a hand on Egon's shoulder, he said, "The pilot's okay, Egon. He has a broken wrist and a lot of contusions and cuts, but he's clear-headed. He doesn't think we're in danger of the fuel tanks blowing up or anything, but he wants us out of here. Yo, Pete, you're awake? Way to go, m'man." He grinned in relief.

"Pilot?" Peter felt his memory returning in a shaken rush. The small Lear Jet that had flown them out of Toronto was owned by the Danelli Corporation, a firm of stockbrokers who had summoned the Ghostbusters to Canada to bust a persistent Class 4 repeater in their corporate headquarters. The job successfully finished, the four Ghostbusters had been on their way home to New York when disaster struck.

Peter had been dozing, his seat reclined, when he felt a sudden lurch and jerk, and heard cries of alarm. Bolting upright when Egon shook him awake, he had blinked at the physicist dazedly. "What the heck's going on?"

Spengler's face was pale and alarmed. "Peter, fasten your seatbelt," he had shouted in Peter's ear. "Do it now! Quickly, Peter."

Venkman, who had loosened it to sleep more comfortably, had just enough time to yank it tight and push the button to bring his seat to the full upright position before the crash. He felt them hit the ground, bounce, hit again, then jerk wildly as the landing gear buckled. The impetus of their rough landing made them slide, on and on, trees crashing around them. Yells and cries of alarm from his teammates filled the cabin, with the shaken voice of the flight attendent calling at them to hang on.

Jolted backward and forward in his seat, Peter was helpless to prevent the disaster, helpless to save his friends. He could only grip the armrest with a white-knuckled right hand and Egon's wrist with his left as the seat in front of them broke free of its bolts and slid sideways before their eyes. Peter didn't want to watch, but he couldn't stop.

Behind him and to the left, Ray let out a yelp, and Winston screeched, "Look out!" There was a colossal lurch as the left wing ripped free, spiraling the little jet around, whipping them back and forth in their seats. Peter was grateful their seat belts held and that the plane didn't flip upside down. Time slowed down; they must have been crashing through the trees for hours, not seconds. Would it never end?

"I want my money back!" he called to the flight attendant.

Egon made a sound beside him, halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Peter, we didn't have to pay for this," he choked out.

"You mean we got all this for free," Peter screeched. A particularly hard jar nearly yanked him free of the seat belt, then the overhead luggage bin burst open, Winston's tote bag crashed down on Peter's head in an explosion of pain that took him into blackness, and that had been the last thing he remembered until he saw Egon waving his hand like a maniac to wake him up.

"We're down?" He glanced around wildly, realizing one of his team was still unaccounted for, and he struggled to turn around to look for him. "Ray? Where are you? Are you hurt?"

"I'm okay, Peter," called a more distant voice, his words belied by an edge of pain running through them. "I'm just sorta trapped in my seat, though. The seats in front of you and Egon came loose and hit the ones ahead of Winston and me and jammed them. Can you guys help?"

Winston had been in the aisle seat. He must have been able to wiggle free, for he volunteered, "Coming right up." Pausing only long enough to check if his scalp cut was still bleeding, Zeddemore discovered it had stopped, so he dropped the handkerchief and waded away down the aisle through the loosened seats and scattered personal luggage.

Peter struggled to go after him, but Egon held him down, a hand flat against his chest to keep him from moving.

"Easy, Peter, I want to make sure you're still all right before you try to get up. You could have a concussion." He was obviously as worried about Ray as Peter was, but he was trying to be rational--he was good at it, maybe too good. He'd need some downtime when this was all over. All of them would. This was not an experience Peter would want to put in his memoirs.

Peter still felt woozy enough that the hand on his chest kept him down, not quite ready for any strenuous movements, but he raised his voice. "You sure you're okay, Ray?"

"Yeah. The seat ahead of me was knocked loose and it's got my foot caught in the foot rest, but it's not broken or anything, "Ray reassured him. "I can wiggle my toes. I just need somebody to pry it off, is all. What about you? Egon said you were knocked out."

"I'm okay," Peter called back. "Just woozy for a minute. Hang in there, Tex, we'll get you out."

The flight attendant joined Egon, returning from the cockpit. "Is he hurt?" Her name was Susan Lee and Peter had found her riot of red-gold curls and her lazy, triangular smile attractive, but she was all business now. Her neat navy suit was rumpled, the hem of her skirt torn, and she had sustained a shallow scrape on her right cheek that was bleeding sluggishly. She hadn't noticed it yet or didn't consider it important.

"I'm okay," Peter said, struggling to sit up. "Just a headache." He might malinger in front of the guys and enjoy it, but this was a crisis. "Is anybody hurt?"

"Your friend's not hurt, just trapped, but Derek--the pilot--has broken his wrist," she replied, trying to sound reassuring. "Is your vision clear? Are you dizzy?"

"Yes. No." He grinned at her lifted eyebrow. "Clear. Not dizzy," he clarified. "Spengs, you okay?" Reaching up, he caught Egon's wrist and squeezed it in sheer relief. They might have died but his buddies were all intact. Peter decided he'd see the man was put up for an award for piloting above and beyond the call of duty.

"I confess to being somewhat shaken," Egon replied, wincing under the grip. Peter let go at once and examined Spengler's wrist. There were reddened marks where Peter had grabbed him during the crash. They'd darken into bruises later. "Oops, sorry, Spengs."

Egon regarded them, too. "I am unhurt other than minor aches and pains. I believe Ray dislocated his left thumb in addition to being temporarily pinned, and Winston cut his head, but we are all remarkably fortunate. Can you stand, Peter?"

"I can make it." He had to; Ray needed help, and then they had to get off the aircraft. Staying on a downed plane wasn't the wisest thing they could do either, not when there was even the slightest danger of an explosion. "Egon, we better haul our proton packs out of here. Even if the pilot says the plane isn't going to explode, I know I'd feel a lot better if--"

A bolt of brilliant lightning flared, so intense that it filled the dimly lit interior of the plane with a stark, white glow, revealing a small cut on Egon's left ear. "Yikes," Peter breathed as thunder exploded around them like an artillery volley, hard on the heels of the lightning. Way too close. He felt like a target, as if the cosmos was flinging down thunderbolts at them. This was not fun.

"That's why we crashed," Egon explained when the sound had faded enough to make hearing possible. "Lightning struck us and shorted out something in the plane's electrical system. The pilot deserves a medal for bringing us down so well, considering the condition of the plane and what appears to be very rugged terrain. And you're right about the packs. Let's get them while Winston hauls that seat off Ray's foot."

"Unless he needs us to do it. We should free Ray first." He raised his voice. "Hang in there, Tex."

"Winston's getting it off," Ray called back. "You okay, Peter? You scared us."

"He's the one who's trapped and I scared you guys?" he echoed.

"You were unconscious, Peter," Egon said with mild reproach. Knowing Egon, he had been deeply worried, but he also had continued to function in the crisis. He always did. It was one of the reasons he was so good at Ghostbusting.

"I wasn't out very long, was I?" He felt clear-headed and the pain in his head was physical and external, at the point of impact. He was pretty sure he'd be sore for a few days, but would be fine. His stomach was not queasy and moving didn't do more than make him ache from the bruises he'd sustained in the landing, so he didn't think he was concussed. Ray was probably in more pain with his dislocated thumbthan he was. He said so. "Come on, Spengs, I'm fine."

"You were out only a minute or two," Egon conceded. "In fact, we were all somewhat shaken in the crash. All right, Peter, you can getup, but let me know immediately if you feel unwell."

"I'll let the whole world know," Peter said extravagantly, knowing such a comment would relax his friends. "If I feel crummy, everybody's gonna know about it."

Egon gave him a crooked smile and held out his hand. Peter grasped it; and, with Egon's support, Peter hauled himself upright, bending slightly to avoid banging his head again on the open luggage bin above him. He felt battered and shaken but, other than a fleeting woozy moment when he first moved, he still wasn't dizzy.

Susan edged past them and opened the outside door, revealing a drenched and sodden landscape, illuminated immediately by a new flare of lightning. "The landing gear buckled on impact," she said unnecessarily as they saw the forest floor rising away from them, but just a couple of feet below the opening. She paused while thunder rumbled overheard, then added, "You can just step right out."

"Where are we?" Winston asked, wrestling awkwardly with the seat that held Ray pinned, unable to get a decent purchase. Egon moved to help him. Peter trailed behind, rubbing his forehead, relieved to see Ray's alert eyes fall upon him and a grin light Stantz's face. He gave Ray a hasty thumbs' up gesture.

"Western Pennsylvania," replied the pilot, emerging from the cockpit, cradling his right wrist. "I wasn't able to get off an emergency signal but I'd been talking to the Pittsburgh tower only minutes earlier. I'd come a little south to avoid the storm but it moved right along with me. They had us on radar; they'll notice where we dropped out of sight."

He fell silent as lightning and almost simultaneous thunder made speech impossible for a moment, so violent it practically rattled Peter's teeth. Ray flinched.

"We have to get our proton packs out of here," Egon said, yanking at the seat in tandem with Winston. "It can't be left on the plane. Should lightning strike and the plane explode we'd take out a considerable amount of the surrounding area, ourselves with it, if the packs detonated. We have to move them a distance from the plane."

"They're stored in the luggage area in the back," the pilot told them, nodding in that direction, where a door had burst open. "I'll check it out. I think there's a lot of damage back there."

"You'll need some help," Peter volunteered. "You can't do much with that wrist and there isn't room for me to get in there and fight with the seat that's got the drop on Ray."

"You're right, I can't. But I want everyone out of here first. Haul your friend loose, then I'll have Susan splint my wrist and we'll come back for your proton packs."

Suddenly rain drummed violently on the plane's roof, nearly as noisy as the barrage of thunder they'd withstood. "We're gonna drown out there," Peter remarked, knowing a saturating downpour was the last thing any of them needed. Although none of the injuries were serious, shock was still possible, and when coupled with exposure, they could all be in serious jeopardy. He watched Ray test his foot against the inch of leeway Winston and Egon had provided and shake his head.

"Not yet. My heel catches every time. Can you give me another inch?"

"You got it, homeboy." Winston nodded to Egon and they heaved away together, straining against the seat.

Peter turned back to the pilot. "Are we near any towns?" he queried hopefully.

"No, but I did see lights just before we hit. I'd say a quarter mile in that direction." He nodded to his left. "They may have heard us come down."

"They would have probably thought it was just more thunder," Winston muttered. He and Egon struggled to lever up the pair of seats to free Ray. The occultist was trying to help, pushing with his right hand, and didn't seem hurt besides a tiny cut on he point of his chin and the way he favored his left hand. Peter grinned at him encouragingly.

"What kind of lights?" Egon asked, gesturing Peter to take his place with the seat and working his way down the aisle to the door to the luggage bay.

"Probably an isolated house," the pilot said as Peter slid in beside Winston. "Not enough lights to be a small town. We're going to have to make for it. They may have a telephone or a car to take us to civilization. I don't know how soon we can expect search and rescue flights in this storm."

Seeing Egon vanish into the dark of the luggage bay, Peter nodded at his remaining teammate and yanked at Winston's direction. It made his head hurt but not badly enough to stop. The two of them struggled for a moment, then the seat holding Ray down came loose, almost pitching them backwards. Ray yelped, then scrambled backward, yanking his foot out of the tangle of the footrest. Susan moved to help him pull free and Peter and Winston lowered the seat again as soon as his foot was loose. Ray flexed his foot and jumped up easily, putting his weight on it cautiously at first, then with a grin to show it was all right. But he bumped his left hand against the seat as he moved into the aisle and the color drained from his face.

"Ray?" Peter jumped for him and caught him, an arm around his shoulders. "What is it, guy? You're hurt. Show me."

"My thumb," Ray breathed, shivering, his face stark white. He bit down hard on his bottom lip.

Gently, Peter lifted his wrist to check it. The thumb was clearly dislocated. Peter thought he could pop it in again; Ray would need at least some use of his hand to get to shelter. But it would hurt like crazy in the process. "Winston?" he asked. "Look at it. I think he dislocated it. Easy, Ray. Sit down while we get the packs out. That okay?" he asked the pilot.

"I think we'd have gone up by now if we were going to, but let's make this quick," the man said from the doorway to the luggage compartment. "I don't feel right with all of us still in here."

"I can pop it back for you," Winston offered. "I did it before once, a buddy in Nam, so I do know what I'm doing. But a doctor will have to x-ray it when we're back to civilization to make sure you're okay." He clapped Ray reassuringly on the shoulder. "Ray, m'man, it's gonna hurt."

"It hurts now," Ray said, lifting trusting eyes to Winston. "I'd rather you did it."

"Okay," Winston said. He displaced Peter, who moved to Ray's other side put his arm around Ray's shoulders again.

"When are you going--ow!" The thumb slid into place with an audible pop that made Peter feel queasy, then Ray sagged against him in a near faint.

"Ray!" Peter cried, and Egon, a pack in his hand, emerged from the luggage bay to investigate. Seeing what had happened, he lay the pack in the nearest seat and retreated again.

"Thought it was better quick," Winston said. "You okay, Ray?"

Ray lifted his head. His color was already returning. "Gosh, that hurt." He held up his hand and moved it cautiously. "It's sore as blazes but it feels a lot better."

"I'll put a support bandage on it when I've finished with Derek's wrist," offered Susan in the background.

"I'm okay," Ray said, straightening up completely.

Peter gave him another squeeze and released him. "Ray, I gotta go help Egon get the packs out. Let this pretty lady do her thing for you."

"Okay." Ray smiled up at Susan. "Thanks, guys."

"Egon?" Peter called from the doorway, peering into the dimly-lit luggage compartment.

"The packs aren't damaged," Egon said, relieved. He passed the one he'd already brought out to Peter. "I've been digging them out. Put it on. It will be easier to carry that way."

Peter took it, realizing it was his own, and he slipped his arms through the shoulder straps. The pack seemed far heavier than usual and pressed unpleasantly against bruises he hadn't noticed before, but it was bearable. "These things gain weight whenever we're sore, have you noticed that, Egon?"

"I have indeed. Frequently." Egon passed Ray's pack to Peter, vanished inside once more only to emerge wearing his own and carrying Winston's. Noticing what they were doing, Zeddemore came down the aisle and took his own from Egon, putting it on immediately. Ray hurried to join them, although Susan hadn't bandaged him yet. He looked better already, his coloring closer to normal. There were lines of pain on his face but Peter suspected they all had them.

"I brought the ghost we trapped in Toronto, too," Egon commented. "I'll just carry the full trap on my pack. It should be fine; it didn't open on impact."

"Thank goodness for that," called Winston. "Last thing I want to do right now is bust a ghost."

"Is the pilot okay?" Peter asked, gesturing at the man, who sat on the armrest of one of the seats letting Susan work a splint onto his wrist.

"He's bruised and he's got a cut shin besides the wrist, but he can walk if we have to go find that house," Ray said, putting on his pack, a process rendered difficult by his injured thumb. "We all can; isn't it great." He winced, biting his bottom lip, as he tried to buckle on the pack. Peter helped him secure the strap across his stomach.

"Gosh, you scared us, Peter," said Ray, curling his good hand around his injured wrist to keep from bumping his thumb again, although it wouldn't be so painful now that it was back in place. "You got whacked on the head with a suitcase. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Ask me that when I'm out of here." He clapped Ray on the shoulder. "Egon says I was only out a few minutes, right? I haven't got a concussion. Is there something to bandage your hand before we trek on out of here?"

"I have the first aid kit," Susan volunteered. She finished with the wrist brace and put a sling around the pilot's neck, helping him to work his arm through it.

"Thanks, Suz." From the smile they shared, Peter realized with mild regret that there was an interest between them. The lovely Susan was taken. Figures! The good ones always were.

"Quick first aid, then out of here," instructed the pilot.

Outside, the rain still beat down savagely. Peter suspected it was the only reason they hadn't been thrust outside immediately. The plane might still explode, but it wasn't so likely now. At least Peter hoped not.

"Doctor Stantz?" Susan opened the kit again and turned to Ray. "Let's see your hand."

"It hurts like blazes, but we can't stay here and wait for a search and rescue party, not in a storm like this," Ray said, holding out his hand to her. "Derek's lights weren't that far away. Hopefully they'll have a phone."

"I've got a cell phone," Susan offered. "It's in that case over there." She let go of Ray's hand to gesture.

"Is that the case that tried to beat up Peter?" Winston asked. His forehead was still bleeding sluggishly.

"No, Zed, yours is the vicious piece of luggage that attacked me," Peter corrected with a wry grin. He scooped up Susan's case when she pointed it out and passed it over. She opened the case and took out the telephone.

The cell phone didn't work. Whether their location was too remote or the device had been damaged by the crash, when she tried to call, nothing happened. She checked the device, tried again, then shook her head.

"Maybe the batteries are dead," said Derek Massey. "Or maybe the storm's affecting -- " He fell silent at another massive explosion of thunder.

Susan took advantage of the distraction to carefully immobilize Ray's thumb. He winced and bit his bottom lip but the pain was obviously less than it had been before Winston's rough and ready treatment. Peter clasped his shoulder and squeezed reassuringly.

"Hang in there, Super Stantz. You'll be fine," he urged as the thunder died away.

"We should at least take our carry-on luggage," Susan suggested, gesturing at the overhead bins, many of them open, and at the tote bags tossed out into the aisle. "Dry clothes, possible medications, other things we might need. We don't know what we'll find when we get there. It may not have enough supplies for us to get dry otherwise."

"That's right, everybody." Derek warned. The splint had helped him restore control, though he must still be in a lot of pain. "Gather up your things as best you can."

"I'll get your bag, Doctor Stantz," Susan volunteered. The cut on her cheek had stopped bleeding. Peter decided it was slight enough that it wouldn't scar.

"Ray," he corrected. "I can take it in my good hand. I'm okay."

Derek nodded in approval, making sure everyone had what they needed but that no one was overburdened. Grabbing Ray's overnight bag,Winston said, "Ready," and Peter took the case Egon passed him, catching the physicist's questioning eye and grinning to let him know it wasn't a burden.

"I'll get your bag, homeboy," he offered. Turning to Derek, he nodded. "Ready," he said again.

"Then, let's move." Derek stepped out into the rain, his face falling as the cold wetness hit him. "Yuck!" he said succinctly. "This is not very nice. Sorry, everybody. This isn't the way Danelli usually treats its customers."

"You don't have to be sorry. You got us down in one piece, and you get the gold star for that," Peter told him. It was Derek's skill as much as luck that had prevented the crash from turning into a major tragedy. They could easily have all died. Yet everyone was on his feet and mobile, if not one hundred per cent well. Peter was ready to confer sainthood on Massey for saving him and his buddies.

"It's getting dark," Egon remarked as he jumped down and turned to steady Peter. Reluctantly, Venkman stepped into the rain. It was nasty, cold and persistent, and he felt it slide down his neck inside his shirt, chilling him in moments. On the other hand, he decided, Derek should have tried for a landing at a five star hotel. This was not going to be fun.

"I hate this," he said, but softly. He didn't want to discourage the others, especially since some of them were hurt.

"It's only three-thirty," objected Egon, eyeing the low-hanging clouds with disfavor. He ran his hands through soaking wet hair to push it out of his face. Peter hid a grin at the sight of his elaborate 'do trailing down in disarrayed wet strands in front of his eyes. "It's too early to be dark yet."

Peter grimaced at the forest gloom that surrounded them. "Tell that to the storm."

It was a sorry procession that made its way through the downpour, grateful for the marginal shelter they found beneath the towering pines that surrounded them. Everyone was soaked in the first moments. Peter had his doubts about their luggage staying dry; he hoped that they'd find plenty of warm blankets in the house Derek had seen. Hot showers would be a wonderful treat. And he wouldn't say no to a huge fireplace with a roaring fire, a cup of hot cocoa, and fluffy slippers for his icy feet.

The land was steep and hilly and full of trees. Naturally the way to the lights Derek had seen was mostly uphill. Peter's head still ached, and the harder they had to climb the more it bothered him. He knew he hadn't sustained any serious damage; he'd been concussed a couple of times and this didn't feel nearly as bad as that. He was just sore. And when he saw Derek, grimly enduring the pain of his broken wrist as he led the way, a huge flashlight in his good hand, and Ray, biting his lip at the pain in his thumb to keep from complaining, Peter decided to keep his mouth shut about his headache.

It was still light enough to see, if barely. The lowering clouds, the beating rain, and the lateness of the afternoon all combined to make the day seem like night. It was a good thing the month was only October. Peter hated to think what the agonizing journey would have been like if the weather had been any colder. Not that he wasn't cold. A chill had settled deep into his bones, and the sodden condition of his sports jacket and shirt only added to his misery. Maybe they were high enough to get snow in October. That would be far worse than this nasty, persistent rain.

Egon kept pace with him, just as Winston did Ray. Peter noticed Susan, who had little difficulty keeping pace, hovered closely at Derek's side. Luckily for her, she had on sensible flat shoes and not spike heels. She didn't complain either. Peter doubted she was the complaining type.

"Where are we, anyway?" he asked, because it was constitutionally incapable of keeping silent for any length of time. "Looks like something out of a nasty fairy tale. All these dark trees ... I bet we're gonna find Sleeping Beauty's castle any minute now."

"I'm not sure," Susan replied. "Try 'forest at dusk'." "You and I could never date," Peter told her with a wry grin. "Not if this is your idea of a good time."

Her eyes twinkled. "We'll have to see," she said in the tones of one making a major concession. "I'm not sure I could live with the ghosts anyway." Peter's grin grew wider. Good for her. She was helping to keep their spirits up.

"Someone's coming," called Ray. "I see something--a light through the trees."

They all turned in the direction he was pointing, staring, as a light approached them through the gloom beneath the pines, resolving itself into a petite woman in a black raincape with a red silk lining. She stood in the shelter of a tall tree, one hand resting lightly against its trunk, the other holding aloft an old-fashioned lantern.

In the growing dusk, her face was a white oval against the darkness, her eyes a deep, warm brown. Peter's heart quickened at the sight of the elegant face, the smooth line of cheek and brow, the sensual lips, the sleek hair. She was a totally unexpected vision in the middle of the woods.

He plunged forward eagerly to meet her. "I'm Peter Venkman. We had a plane crash. Did you hear it?"

"I heard a sound," she replied, her voice low and throaty. "You appear--the worse for wear. If you go in that direction--" She took her hand from the tree trunk and pointed through the trees-- "you will find shelter in five minutes." As she spoke, the wind wailed through the trees and a light appeared, distant and intermittent, sometimes blocked by swaying branches, sometimes clearly visible. "That is Dameron Castle," she added. "There will be heat and warmth for you there."

"Great," Peter cried enthusiastically. It looked like he got a castle after all. He caught up her hand to thank her, feeling the icy chill of her rain-soaked fingers against his own. "You're frozen," he discovered. "You shouldn't be out in a storm like this. Is that where you live?"

Her head moved from side to side in faint denial. Gently she withdrew her fingers from his.

"I can see the lights, Peter," Egon said behind him. "Let's go."

Peter gestured for the woman to fall in with them but she shook her head again. "I am not ... welcome there," she said in a near whisper. "But you will find shelter there from the storm."

As if on cue, lightning blared into vivid life, illuminating a darkening bruise on the woman's left temple. Her hand came up, pulling the hood around her face more tightly, making Peter wonder if he had only seen shadows.

"We need to get Derek and Ray into shelter," Egon said in Ray's ear. "And Winston's lost more blood than I like from that cut on his head. Besides, I don't like you out here either, Peter. You were unconscious."

"Thanks, Miss," Ray told the woman. "You really helped us. Better get home quick. You're soaking wet."

"Come on," urged Susan. "I think Derek's going into shock."

They turned obediently and started down the slope toward the light. But as they started walking Peter turned, chin on his shoulder to stare back at the woman who had pointed out their direction. He felt strangely drawn to her, and the thought of her disappearing into the gathering dusk so that Peter would never see her again seemed a terrible loss.

She had vanished into the trees. Not even a glow from her lantern remained.

"Weird," Peter muttered in disappointment, but he was too wet and miserable to wonder at her sudden disappearance. "Come on, guys," he urged, checking to make sure everybody was managing. "Let's haul ass down there where it's warm and dry."

The house did indeed resemble a castle in a fairy tale. Closely woven about by vines, its tall spires rose up above the pines that surrounded it like stabbing fingers pointing to the sky, the center one rising higher than any of the others. Lightning flashed, illuminating the worn, grey stone, the mock drawbridge that led up to the main entrance, and the deeply recessed, leaded windows. In the Pennsylvania twilight, it was the most incongruous sight Peter could imagine. Not Sleeping Beauty's castle after all. This one might belong to the Wicked Witch.

"Did we take a wrong turn at Fantasyland?" he asked.

"Wow!" breathed Ray. "It really looks like a haunted house. Isn't it great!"

"Then it's a good thing we've got our packs, m'man," Winston replied. He sounded tired and drained, as if the bloodloss from his scalp cut and the trek through the sodden forest had exhausted him. Ray's mouth was twisted with lines of pain, and Egon, who had given a hand to Peter down the slope, looked tired too. Peter's head throbbed; he'd been trying unsuccessfully to ignore it for some time. After all, Derek was plodding along in spite of his injured wrist, and Susan hadn't lagged. Far be it for Peter to give up.

"Quickly, everyone," Egon urged, shepherding them toward the drawbridge. "At least the lights are on." It was a sign of his fatigue that he hadn't produced a P.K.E. meter after Ray's remark about haunting and taken readings of the castle. His hand at Peter's elbow, he guided him across the drawbridge.

Peter glanced down at the mock moat that had been dug out beneath the bridge. He wouldn't be surprised to learn a troll had taken residence there. He giggled weakly, knowing he was on his last legs.

Searching around for a doorbell, Ray discovered a chain that hung beside the door. He pulled it and they heard a distant, muted bonging sound inside. Delighted with the 'doorbell', Ray began to pull it again, but before he could do so, the door swung open and a man stood facing them.

He was probably in his late forties, a man with black hair as yet untouched by grey that lay smoothly against his head like a cap. Deepset brown eyes regarded them from beneath a barricade of heavy brows. The elegant Roman nose would have been right at home on a classical statue, and the thin but mobile lips gave the appearance of sneering without actually doing so. He was close to Peter's own heightof 5'11," so Venkman found himself eye to eye with the stranger.

Uncomfortable with the unremitting stare, Peter said, "Hi, we're the Ghostbusters."

"I... see." The man's eyes passed over each of them, taking in the proton packs that were incongruous against the team's street clothes, his gaze lingering momentarily on Susan whose riotous red-gold curls had been plastered against her head, lifting a startled eyebrow at the sight of Egon, as if he halfway recognized him. Finally, he pasted a conventional expression on his face and stepped back. "You're very wet. Come in. Although I must admit I have no need of the services of the Ghostbusters."

"We were in a plane crash just over the hill," Ray explained. "I guess you didn't hear us come down. Have you got a phone? Derek broke his wrist in the crash. We need a doctor."

The stranger eyed each of them in turn, sizing up their minor injuries to determine if they were manageable. Egon stared at their host wide-eyed as if he recognized him in return, and the discovery impressed him but he said nothing. Peter couldn't help wondering if they had met before. Mutual recognition hinted at a mystery in the middle of nowhere.

"I regret that the telephone is out of order because of the storm," the man announced. "I tested it ten minutes ago in an attempt to call my agent. However, you must get warm and dry. I shall have coffee and hot soup prepared. I see you have some luggage. If your clothing is wet or inadequate, you must let me know and I will find replacements until your own is dry." He pulled a cord near the door; after a moment a second man appeared from the back regions of the house. He was in his early to middle forties, but extremely fit as if he worked out. His hair was fair, concealing the grey that might have hidden in it, and his face was almost boyish, an appearance belied by the shrewd expression in his ice-blue eyes. Something about the deference in his posture suggested he was employed by the first man.

"Michael, we have 'guests'," the first man said, the slightest edge of sarcasm lingering about the final word. "It seems there has been a nearby plane crash. No doubt the thickness of the walls drowned out the sound of it, or else we mistook it for thunder. Show them upstairs to the free rooms in the west wing and find them dry clothes. I believe there should be sufficient hot water for showers. When you have done that, tell cook to prepare a meal, and then stoke up the fire in the great hall." He gestured toward a curving flight of stairs that vanished upward into darkness. In spite of the storm and lack of telephone, the castle still had electricity. Peter guessed they must have a portable generator.

"Thank you," Susan told him in heartfelt tones, emphasized by the chattering of her teeth.

"I will have the first aid kit ready on your return," their host said, his lips curving into a near smile at her. "My name, incidentally, is Paul Dameron and this is my home." Egon nodded as if he had recognized the name. "We can continue the introductions when you return." He vanished into a room off the hall.

Peter hummed the Twilight Zone theme under his breath as they started up the stairs, winning a disapproving nudge from Egon and a sudden frown from Susan. As they climbed, they could hear music coming from the second floor, a piano accompanied by singing, muted by a closed door. It sounded professional -- a tape, a television program? Vaguely familiar, too. Another mystery -- if this continued, they'd be knee-deep in the things.

"Let's get dry first," Ray urged as Michael gestured them down a corridor in the opposite direction from the music. "Come on."

An hour later, Peter felt human again. The hot shower, brief as it was, had restored warmth to his bones and had eased the thudding in his head. His room had a small private bathroom; this place reeked of money. For a long minute after he'd lathered up he had stood letting the water cascade upon his sodden hair, trickling down his taut shoulders, until his muscles relaxed and the pain lessened. Then he'd toweled dry on a huge, fluffy towel that smelled of cedar and put on a combination of clean underwear and socks from his own suitcase, an Irish fisherman's jersey from the collection Michael had provided, and a pair of his own jeans. Toweling his hair as dry as he could make it without a hair blower, he pulled on a pair of floppy, hard-soled slippers that were a size too big for him. Warm once more, he opened the hall door and stepped out of his bedroom. He could still hear the music faintly, impassioned arpeggios, thundering cords, pauses interspersed by voices too far away to make out words or to tell how many people might be there.

Egon emerged from his own room as Peter passed it. He, too, wore borrowed clothes, but the blue sweater he had put on was too short in the sleeves by a good inch or two, making him seem as if his arms had suddenly grown. In the absence of hair dryers, his blond flip had been abandoned, hair swept to one side, though Peter could imagine it springing into its normal state as it dried; it always did. A bruise was starting to darken on the point of his chin to match the one on his cheekbone.

"You look better, Peter." He eyed Peter consideringly. "How does your head feel now?"

"Better," Peter admitted. "I've decided I'm gonna live. Any way we can sue that thunderstorm?" He grinned. "I bet you'll have to pry us all out of bed in the morning. We'll stiffen up." It was not a pleasant prospect. Egon winced in confirmation.

"No lie," Winston said, joining them from a room across the hall. The cut at his scalp line was raw and red but it wasn't bleeding. "Man, I feel like I was beaten with clubs. I can tell you I won't be in a mad rush to get on a plane for awhile after this. Where's Ray?"

"Here I am." Ray had rolled up the sleeves of his sweater three times, and resembled a little boy trying to wear grown-up clothes. He had left off the support bandage, probably because he couldn't put it on one-handed, but he'd brought it with him, rolled up in his good hand. There was a scraped mark on his left cheek. "Gosh, this place is neat, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing with the bandage at the long hall, the ribbed doors, the dark paneling. "We're sure lucky it was so close."

"You know that guy, don't you, Egon?" Peter asked as they started for the stairs. "Dameron. You recognized him. Is he famous?" It wasn't fair for people to be famous if he didn't recognize them. He was supposed to have an in with celebrities, but this guy rang no bells with him.

"Yes, Peter, he is very famous," Egon confirmed. "He is a world-renowned opera singer, a very famous baritone, perhaps almost in the same league as Robert Merrill or Sherrill Milnes." Peter only vaguely recognized the names, but then opera was not high on his list of fun things to do.

"Oh," he said. "Opera," and grimaced. No wonder he hadn't recognized Paul Dameron.

"Yeah, I thought he sounded familiar," Winston concurred. "Lucky for you, Egon. Maybe you can talk opera with him."

"But he recognized you, too, Egon, or thought he did," Peter pointed out, eyeing Egon with teasing suspicion. "Have you been lurking around stage doors collecting autographs or something, you opera buff, you?"

"No," said Egon so hastily Peter suspected he may have done exactly that a time or two. He avoided Peter's eyes as if to delay confirmation of the question. "I have never met Mister Dameron before tonight, nor seen him, except across the footlights. There is no reason on earth why he should recognize me, unless he has seen me on television. But then he would have seen all of us."

"Looks like we've got a mystery then." Winston grinned. "Maybe he's a Ghostbuster groupie or something. I suppose even opera stars can be. That diva we met awhile back acted like she was, for awhile."

"No way," Peter objected, grimacing at the memory of that incident. "If he was, he'd have recognized me. I'm the one who's always on TV, not you guys."

"Glory hound," Ray teased him, but without malice.

Before the guys could enlarge on this theme, Susan and Derek came out of a room together. "I want to use Mister Dameron's first aid kit," the flight attendant said, her hand on Derek's good arm. "Then I'm going to put Derek to bed. He's in a lot of pain, and I'm not qualified to set his wrist."

"I'm okay, Suz," Derek replied, but the lines on his face and the rigidity of his muscles belied his brave words. "Don't worry about it. That guy, Michael, can immobilize it until we can get out of here."

"We'll find out if there's a hospital nearby," Egon reassured the duo. "I'm sure Mister Dameron has a car." He led the way down the stairs and into the room where their host had vanished earlier. The others trailed him, Susan at Derek's side to give him a hand if he needed it.

The room was huge, a vast bowl of a space with a high, vaulted ceiling and a fireplace along the outer wall big enough to roast an entire ox. Dameron stood before it, prodding at the blazing logs with a poker, one foot braced against the log carrier. The room held a huge trestle table lined with ladderback chairs, comfortable, overstuffed chairs positioned at intervals along the walls, and huge, built-in bookshelves on either side of the gigantic fireplace. Peter saw Ray eyeing the books with fascination. Winston, too, was intrigued. He always had a book at hand when he was lazing around the firehouse.

Then Peter spotted the portrait that hung over the mantle and he looked no further, his mouth dropping open in surprise. He walked over to the fireplace, staring, conscious of the others bunching at his back. Their surprise was as intense as his own. The woman who stood posed against the backdrop of this very fireplace wore no

scarlet-lined cape, and her deep auburn hair was not slicked back but fell instead, straight and unbound, nearly to her waist. She wore a simple green gown with an empire waist, and affected no jewelry except for small silver studs in her ears. Her wide brown eyes gazed out of the painting as if with wonder at all life had to offer. Maybe she wasn't classically beautiful but her personality shone out of her face, giving it a more special appeal than flawless beauty would.

It was the woman they'd seen in the forest. Why was the picture here if she wasn't welcome? Peter asked himself. Why would it be acceptable when she wasn't?

"It's her!" blurted Ray, gazing up at the woman in equally wide-eyed wonder. "The woman we met in the woods. She was so pretty. Does she live here, Mister Dameron?"

"You ... saw her?" Dameron's eyes narrowed in fast-blooming suspicion. "That is impossible." His mouth drew into a tight line; he glared them as if they had suddenly become unwelcome invaders.

"She directed us to the house," Susan said quickly. "She had a lantern and a cloak. She said she couldn't come with us, but she pointed out the lights."

Something weird was going down. Dameron froze, his eyes shuttering, as unrevealing as pebbles, and his hands closed tightly into fists, the knuckles whitening.

"Do you know her?" Winston asked practically.

"She ... was my wife." His mouth twisted on the last word; for an instant his eyes blazed though Peter couldn't tell if it was with pain or anger -- or hatred?

"Was?" Susan prompted in a very small voice. No wonder she wasn't welcome here if they were divorced, Peter thought.

"She -- died. Twenty years ago this very month," Dameron admitted. "Therefore, you could not have seen her. It is impossible."

Susan flinched from the pitiless tone but Peter was made of sterner stuff. "We see ghosts all the time," he reminded the opera star gently. "Usually they don't seem quite as real and solid as she did, but --"

"You're lying." Dameron didn't shout. His voice was soft and quiet, and all the more intense because they had to work to hear him. "Damita is not a ghost." He added even more quietly, "I will not permit it." Had they not already been straining for his words, they would have missed the last bit altogether. Peter couldn't tell from the man's expressionless face if the hot passion in those words was a threat or the pain of a desperate and unhappy man.

Susan stepped into the breach, desperately searching for company manners. "Damita? What an unusual name."

"She was named after an actress of the thirties, Lily Damita, who was once married to Errol Flynn," Dameron explained as if he could hardly bother to continue the conversation. "Damita was her middle name but she never went by Lily."

The arrival of Michael bearing a tray containing cups and a coffee pot, followed by a plump, greying woman with a second tray gave Dameron an excuse to change the subject and he grasped it gladly.

"Coffee, and soup," he said. "Thank you, Mrs. Potter. I'll take that." He relieved the woman of her tray, deposited the bowls it held on the trestle table, and opened the steaming pot, allowing savory aromas to permeate the great hall. Peter's mouth watered. "Sit down, sir," he added to Derek. "Michael will examine your wrist. You will find he has a deft touch."

"We should take him to a doctor," Winston insinuated practically, while Mrs. Potter ladled soup into a bowl for him. "Is there a town close by with a hospital?"

"If there is, it will not serve us tonight," Dameron replied, pouring coffee into the cups. "Michael tried to drive into town earlier this afternoon to pick up a package of sheet music and returned unsuccessfully. He got back shortly before your arrival. It appears lightning struck a tree, which fell across the road. Tomorrow, when the rain stops and it's light, he can go out with a chain saw and clear it away, but since none of you appear to have sustained dangerous or life-threatening injuries, I won't ask him to work in this weather."

Murmurs of agreement filled the silence as his erstwhile visitors savored the steaming warmth. "The tree was huge; it will take some hours to clear it away. One of Dameron Castle's greatest charms for me has always been its defiant isolation. Only in such a crisis as this does the isolation work against us. I suspect the tree also took down the telephone line. Fortunately for us, we have our own generator here. We have our own heat and electricity. None of us will suffer except for our injured man. Suppose you introduce yourselves now."

Susan performed the introductions quickly, explaining about the plane crash and its cause.

"And all survived?" Mrs. Potter asked hopefully. Peter saw an expression of motherly concern in her eyes.

"All survived," he confirmd with satisfaction. He sipped his soup. "Mrs. Potter, you're a marvel. This is the best soup I ever tasted."

Her cheeks reddened at the compliment. "I'll be preparing a full meal in several hours," she promised. "I think you could all use it."

"You've made my day."

Dameron nodded at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Potter, you can go now." She headed back to the kitchen, smiling at Peter. Their host turned his attention to his assistant. "Michael?"

"It seems to be a simple fracture," Michael replied, glancing up. He had Derek's wrist before him on the table, the injured man sitting at one of the chairs, white faced. "I think I can set it, Paul. If you're willing to risk me doing it?" he continued to Derek. "I have set a fracture or two in my time, when I was in the service, in Nam. I know what I'm doing."

"Mister Massey? Is that acceptable to you or would you rather wait for competent medical personnel?" Dameron asked. The bitterness that had sprung into his eyes at the mention of his late wife hadn't faded, but he'd managed to control himself. His voice was conventionally polite.

"If he can set it, I'd rather he did it," Derek replied. "I'll be seeing a doctor tomorrow, evidently, and if it's wrong they can take care of it then. But I don't think I'll be able to sleep unless he does it."

"I'll help," Susan volunteered, drifting over. But Peter saw her cast a quick glance over her shoulder at Dameron as she did. Was she falling for him? Peter knew that look. He'd seen it a time or two on the faces of his own girlfriends. She was fascinated by Dameron in spite of herself; he doubted it was a very good idea in this instance.

Derek noticed too; his eyes narrowed though he didn't say anything. He probably wasn't tracking very well because of his wrist.

Peter glanced up at the portrait of Damita Dameron, then noticed her husband's eyes were on her picture too. Carrying the soup that Mrs. Potter had ladled up for him, he edged closer to the man and said with careful sympathy, "How did she die?"

"She took her own life, Doctor Venkman," Dameron replied with cold abruptness, avoiding Peter's eyes. "She is no concern of yours."

"Only that she may have saved our lives," Peter replied, but he didn't push any harder than that. Instead he addressed himself to his soup, taking his bowl over to join Ray, who had plopped down at the table and applied himself to his meal. He wasn't having any problem eating anyway. Good thing it had been his left thumb.

"You okay, Ray? How's the thumb?"

"Still kinda sore, but not so bad, Peter." He glanced up at the picture, showing he'd been following the conversation, and lowered his voice. "She must've been a ghost, Peter. We couldn't have imagined her."

"No, we didn't imagine her, Tex." Peter took another spoonful of soup. "She was real. Remember, I touched her. She was cold as ice. I thought it was because of the rain, but then I wasn't exactly at the top of my form. Now that I know, her being that cold makes sense. If she killed herself, that might be why she's a ghost."

He didn't want Dameron to overhear him. The man was touchy and sensitive on the subject, and Peter still didn't have a handle on him. He wasn't even sure why the guy lived way out here, probably in between his opera gigs. People didn't just hide away on their estates like this, even if they were rich -- and Dameron sure must be rich. Did opera stars make big bucks? Ordinarily Peter liked hanging out with rich people and celebrities, but he'd make an exception in Dameron's case. The man gave him the creeps. A part of him felt an urge to distance himself from him; he didn't know why, but he felt nervous and uneasy around the man, yet drawn to him at the same time. Peter didn't like weird feelings like that.

"Hey, yeah," Ray said, moderating his normal enthusiasm for the job with a sideways glance at their host, hinting that it was better drop the subject until they could talk about it in private.

Winston sat opposite them, his face lined with fatigue. "You okay, Winston?" Peter asked. "You looked better after we took out Gozer."

"Man, I'm beat." Winston yawned, then buried his nose in his coffee cup. The heat must have helped to ease his aches and pains. Peter knew the hot soup had lessened his.

"Most likely the bloodloss," Egon replied, sitting beside him. "I think you should finish eating and have an early night. I'm going to recommend that for Derek as well." He cast a speculative glance at Ray.

"I'm okay, Egon," Ray said hastily. "My thumb hardly hurts at all now."

Egon's eyes lingered on Peter. "I don't believe you have a concussion, Peter, but you were unconscious. I am less than comfortable with letting you sleep unsupervised."

"Hey, you mean you're gonna watch me get my beauty sleep?" Peter groaned. "Egon, I'm okay. Really." It wasn't the kind of situation he could milk. Egon really did act concerned, and now Ray was studying him in alarm. This was not good. All of them needed fussing over, not just him.

"It would be sensible, Peter."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna sack out yet. I don't get to see that many castles, and I'm gonna take advantage. Not to mention Mrs. Potter's dinner later. We've got servants to wait on us, after all -- guess that lets you guys off the hook."

Egon relaxed slightly -- as Peter had meant him to -- but not entirely. "It would be sensible to rest, Peter."

"Sure, it'd be sensible for all of us to rest," Peter agreed. "But I think we're all too wound up to sack out quite yet. We won't do anything strenuous, believe me. Give us a couple of hours to start believing we really survived and then I'll crash." He winced. "'Crash' being a really lousy choice of words here."

"It certainly is," Egon replied with mock reproach. "I do plan to wake you several times in the night to be sure, Peter. But for now ... "

"It would be rude as all heck to give in before Mrs. Potter's dinner. If all her stuff tastes as good as this soup, we'd be doing ourselves out of a treat."

"I still want to get Derek to bed," Susan remarked, joining the conversation. Peter had avoided watching the setting of his wrist, but he'd been aware of it out of the corner of his eye and he could tell Derek was pretty wasted. The manservant had just finished adjusting a much more professional splint on the pilot's wrist.

"I'm okay, Suz," Derek replied unconvincingly. He wouldn't have fooled a blind and deaf man that he was in good health.

"You should rest," Michael said. "In even a mild injury like this, shock is a real possibility, especially since you were cold and wet, and we want to prevent that. I don't think you'll go into shock now but there's no point in exertion. Finish your soup, and I'll help you up to bed. Like Doctor Venkman, we'll monitor you through the night."

"You can hardly do that and expect to go out and use a chainsaw on the tree in the morning," Derek objected, struggling not to yawn.

"I'll do it," Susan volunteered. "I'll check on you, Derek. I'm not hurt, after all, and I know what to watch for -- I've had first aid training. I don't think you'll go into shock, Derek. You'll be warm and comfortable and you've just had hot food, and we can prop your feet up once you're lying down, just in case. I think you might have been on the verge of it when we came here, but you do look better." She tilted her head and studied him consideringly. "Not all that much better."

"You'll do," Paul Dameron said, joining the conversation. "Michael was a medic in Vietnam. He knows what he is doing."

"Let's check out the rest of you," Michael volunteered. He busied himself putting a butterfly bandage on Winston's forehead, checking out the slight cut on Egon's ear and sticking a band-aid on it, examining Ray's thumb, manipulating it carefully and feeling the joint. There was some bruising around it and Ray winced.

"Sorry, Ray. Just want to make sure it's properly in place. Ordinarily I'd have urged a dislocation, even a minor one like this, to be done at the hospital," Michael said. "But it's already done and it feels right. I'll wrap up your hand more thoroughly before you go to bed so you won't disturb it in the night. As for now, try not to use it if you can avoid it."

"I'm okay," Ray said without hesitation. "It's just kinda tender. Peter dislocated his shoulder once on a bust. So I know how to behave with this. A shoulder's a lot worse."

"And I hear you were bopped on the head," Michael said, turning to Peter.

"Yeah. Winston's suitcase took a sudden dislike to me." He grimaced. "I've got a headache, but I've had worse after doing the monthly billings. And I've had a concussion before and this doesn't feel the same."

"He really was out only a minute," Egon said. "No more than two. Just enough time for the rest of us to see what had happened and for Winston to go check Derek. He was alert when he roused, too."

"Your pupils are normal and reactive. I think you're just sore, buddy," Michael told him. "But I still think we'll pop in on you through the night. Any queasiness from eating?"

Peter shook his head. "No. With soup that good, I'd probably ignore it if there were."

"What about you, Ms. Lee?" Dameron asked, his deep voice startling her and making her jump. She lifted her eyes from the brace on Derek's wrist, a hint of color tingeing her cheeks. Peter knew the signs. She was attracted like mad. Pity it couldn't have been him, but then brooding types with fame and money were like candle flames to all the female moths of the world. Peter was famous, but he wasn't rich, and the guys would ride him unmercifully if he tried to come across as brooding. Heathcliff Venkman wouldn't have a prayer at the firehouse.

"I'm not hurt," she said quietly. "But I'll take Derek upstairs now. Do you have any painkillers?"

"Ibuprofin," Michael responded, producing a bottle and offering it. Still staring at Paul Dameron, Susan didn't notice for a minute, then the flush deepened and she bent her head over the bottle to hide her face. Her hair had fluffed out as it dried into a series of deep waves.

Curious to see if the attraction was mutual, Peter glanced over at Dameron and saw him eyeing Susan with a small smile curling the corners of his mouth. Was he into this, too? Peter knew the other three hadn't noticed. They weren't as fascinated with the female of the species as he was, although they felt as much interest in a pretty woman as the next man. But Peter considered himself an expert on the ladies. He wished he could tell Susan to forget it. He was sure she would be making a major mistake.

As if she knew that, she shook out two pills into Derek's palm and took the glass of water Michael offered. When he had taken the pills, Susan went upstairs with him. Peter was the only one of his team who noticed the gaze she cast over her shoulder as she went, but when he glanced at Dameron to see if it was reciprocated, he discovered that it was. Michael noticed that, too, frowning slightly and shaking his head.

Dameron rose from his chair. "If you will excuse me, I must return to my other guests. We have been enjoying a musical interlude upstairs. I told them I would see to your wants, but you seem comfortable now. If you should need me, send Michael after me."

He left the room, leaving Michael to describe the amenities. Anyone who wished could go to bed, but if the Ghostbusters chose to stay up, there was a television set in the room directly across the hall. TV reception was poor here in the hills, and Dameron Castle was too remote for cable.

"He's not here enough to want a satellite dish," Michael concluded. "When he's not on tour, he usually stays in Manhattan where he has an apartment. But there are a collection of video tapes you might enjoy."

Ray brightened at the sound of that.

"I've seen Mister Dameron perform at the Met on more than one occasion," Egon told Michael. "Meeting one of the world's leading baritones is a fascinating opportunity. I hope I'll be able to discuss the opera with him during our sojourn here. His expertise in Wagner and Verdi -- "

"Sojourn?" Peter teased, unwilling to get Egon get away with a pricey word like that and at the same time forestalling the lecture on Wagner which was probably the same one Peter had been forced to listen to as they waited for the curtain to rise when Egon had dragged him to see Ride of the Valkyries. "Maybe I'd better warn Dameron he has a groupie."

Egon appeared as flustered as Susan had earlier. "I am hardly a groupie, Peter," he retorted.

"Not much! This from the guy who wanted to bust ghosts at the opera in a tux." Egon's cheeks actually reddened as Peter grinned at his embarrassment.

"I'll notify Paul you're an aficionado," Michael said. "He has some tapes you might enjoy listening to. And perhaps you might join them when they have finished their rehearsals. They are working on plans for a PBS special."

"Excellent," Egon responded, as enthusiastic as Ray. Peter was interested in spite of himself. He wasn't fond of opera, but the thrill of fame did fascinate him. He wondered who the other musicians were and if the Ghostbusters would get to meet them too. Maybe he had heard of them, although he wouldn't bet on it.

"I'd like to have a go at some reading," Winston suggested. "I noticed earlier there was a fine mystery collection here." He gestured at the shelves to the right of the fireplace.

"Come on, Peter," Ray urged. "Let's go check out the video tapes. I wonder if he has the Star Wars Trilogy."

"And how many times have you seen that already, Ray? Six hundred and twenty three times? Each?"

"Not that many." Ray smiled.

"I'll see you're summoned for dinner," Michael said and led Egon out of the room.

Paul Dameron did have the Star Wars trilogy. After hanging around a bit to make sure Ray was okay, Peter left him happily cheering on Luke Skywalker and went out to snoop a bit. He couldn't help it. He was still so wired from the afternoon's events that the idea of sitting passively -- or actively like Ray, who bounced up and down and called encouragement to the characters on the screen -- and watching movies made him feel twitchy. He had to be doing something.

Besides, there were strange undercurrents here. If it weren't for the trauma of the crash, which had shifted everybody into a survivor mode, the guys would be thinking about the ghost of Damita Dameron and what she was doing lurking around the woods. Dameron's reaction to their story had been weird; Peter would bet good money he hadn't known her spirit was out there. True, a suicide could well return as a ghost. But that meant the lady was wandering around out in the cold with a lot of problems left unresolved. And it was hard to imagine someone whose eyes had held such wide-eyed wonder deciding to end her life. It would be like Ray contemplating it, and Peter couldn't remotely imagine him ever attempting a thing like that.

So he went in search of Egon. He found Winston first, happily buried in a thick book called Milk and Honey, which seemed a weird name for a mystery, but which Winston said was very good. He was propped up in one of the fat chairs near the fireplace, one leg draped over the arm of the chair, a cup of steaming coffee on a small table beside him, perfectly content with his surroundings.

When Peter asked him about the ghost, he declared, "She's not hurting us, Pete. Let her alone. We don't have to bust every ghost we meet."

"I didn't want to bust her," Peter defended himself. "I want to figure it out. Come on, Zed, you're the mystery buff. Something weird is going on, you know it is."

Winston shrugged, clearly anxious to return to his fictional mystery. "Dameron took us in and fed us. Sure he acted a little weird. We told him his wife's ghost was out there frolicking in the trees. Betcha he knows that already but the last thing he wants is for anybody to bust her. And if he didn't know it, we just gave him a pretty nasty shock. Give the guy time to assimilate it before you try anything."

"Yeah, I guess." But that answer didn't entirely satisfy Peter, so he continued his search and found Egon in a room at the rear of the house, lying back in a recliner, earphones firmly over his ears. Eyes closed, he moved gently in rhythm with the music only he could hear. He looked happy. Involuntarily Peter grinned, enjoying the sight of such contentment and peace on his best friend's face. Egon's hair had gradually curled up into his normal style -- but the scrape on his cheek must be sore. It hadn't warranted a dressing; Michael had dabbed it with alcohol, no more. Unaware of a single ache or pain, Egon was completely lost in the music. Better yet, he was alive and well. Peter would have loved to charge over and give him a big bearhug.

Suddenly Peter remembered Ray, bouncing excitedly in front of the TV screen, Winston, sprawled in the chair absorbed in his book, and now Egon, with his music. They were all caught up in their pleasures -- but if not for fate and the skill of Derek Massey as a pilot, Peter might never have seen such sights again. Reaction caught up with him in a stampeding rush and made him shiver, great, racking spasms that hurt worse than his headache did. He eased back a step or two, out of Egon's line of sight and fought the crash's aftereffects.

They're okay, Peter told himself. They're all okay. It's all right, you idiot. It didn't happen.

But his inner voice argued, Still, it was so close... God, it was so close and there was nothing any of us could do ... He hated that, the helplessness, the random unfairness of it. The lack of control ...

Then he heard Winston's voice in his mind, in a familiar quote. "Close only counts with hand grenades and class 11 mega-specters." It was all right. They had made it. They were safe and well. They'd come through another crisis in one piece.

Gradually the shaking stopped. He was fine. They were all fine, even if they were trapped for awhile in this gothic monstrosity of a house with a melancholy Mister Rochester of a host. The worst thing that would probably happen to them now would be going out to help with the chain saw on the downed tree in the morning.

Peter hesitated, reluctant to disturb his friend when he was so content. As if he sensed Peter's momentary reaction, Egon gazed up abruptly, his eyes pinning Peter in an all-too-knowing stare. That was Egon for you. When he concentrated, he could read his friends as easily as he could read ancient Sumerian.

"Reaction catching up with you, Peter?" he asked.

Peter nodded reluctantly, casting a wry grin at his friend. "Yeah, kinda. God, Egon, we were lucky."

The blond man nodded, removing the earphones. "I have realized that, Peter. What troubles you the most?" He quirked an eyebrow, and Peter realized he could say exactly what was on his mind, like he always could, and expect only understanding.

"Being helpless," Peter said involuntarily. "We go up against a nasty gooper, we've got our skills, your brains, my fast mouth, Winston's combat training, and Ray's enthusiasm, plus four portable nuclear accelerators. We can take charge. But something like this -- " He shook his head. "There's nothing you can do. And it was worse for you, wasn't it, big guy?"

"Why do you say that?" Egon asked, but not as if he had any doubt of the response, or of Peter's understanding in return.

"Because I was out of it for a minute. You knew, the whole way down. I was asleep, missed part of it, then blacked out. But you rode it all the way."

Egon looked as if he wanted to shiver, too. "I am all right, Peter. I made myself consider that, during the march here. Presently, you and I will be able to behave like Ray and Winston and simply feel relief."

"I feel that already," Peter said. "Just watching the three of you helped. You should've seen you sitting there, lost in that opera stuff. No Valkyries, I hope?"

"No, this is Bonaparte, an opera written especially for Paul Dameron. Not a Valkyrie in sight." He picked up the earphones again, prepared to put them on and start up the music again confident, as well he should be, that Peter was on the road to relaxing.

Peter wanted to let him get back to the tape. But he realized he had to tell someone about his general uneasiness that had been growing since they walked across the moat and into Dameron Castle, and Egon was the best one to talk to when he was bugged. Whether the mood had been enhanced by their brush with death or whether it was real he wasn't quite sure yet, but none of the other three seemed to feel it.

"Yo, Spengs?"

"What is it, Peter?"

"Egon, we've gotta talk about the ghost."

With a sigh, Egon put the earphones aside again. "Peter, while it is true we are Ghostbusters and our job is to bust ghosts, it is not our job to bust harmless ghosts no one want removed. Damita Dameron's ghost guided us here. Surely you don't want to zap and trap her."

"No way," Peter agreed. "That'd be a lousy reward for pointing out the way here. I think she needs help, Egon. I just want to figure out what's going on."

"We don't know that anything is going on. Damita Dameron died tragically, and now she is a ghost, whether her husband will admit it or not. She may be bound here -- "

"She said she wasn't welcome here at the house," Peter reminded him. "And she said we'd find warmth here."

"Physical warmth, Peter. If she did indeed take her own life, she may be restricted in some way. You know the afterlife sometimes imposes penalties, or that the spirit imposes its own. She may be bound here, but bound in sight of the house, unable to come closer."

"Or if her husband won't see her ghost, maybe she can't come here," Peter argued. "Egon, it's a ghost. It's what we do. Not that we should bust her, but we should find out about her. She helped us. Why don't we try to help her?"

"She didn't ask us for help," Egon replied. "And I should not like you to trouble Mister Dameron about her."

Peter had figured that much already. He wasn't sure about asking Michael either; he seemed loyal to his employer. But there was Mrs. Potter. Peter didn't think he was being chauvinistic when he believed most women enjoyed gossip. So did most men, if it came to that, in a different way. Besides, it would be no hardship to venture into the kitchen of a woman who could make soup like hers. "I won't, Egon. But I've gotta do something. I just have to."

"Is it because she was such a beautiful woman?" Egon asked.

Peter hesitated. "Maybe that's part of it. But -- well, it just feels like I have to. I don't get it. I don't think it's because she was so beautiful, but you know me. I always fall for the damsel in distress. I don't know what's going on, or if anything is. But it just bugs me, y'know. There's this feeling I've got, that I have to go on with this. I didn't even realize how strongly I felt it until I started to talk to you about it."

Egon studied him thoughtfully a minute. "All right, Peter. Would you like me to come with you?"

Peter hesitated, then he remembered the image of Egon relaxed in his chair, all thought but the music faded away. "Nah, you stay here and do your opera thing, Spengs. I'll come back if I run into trouble, okay?"

"If you must," Egon replied, a wicked twinkle in his eyes.

Peter stuck out his tongue at him.

Searching for the kitchen, he opened a couple of doors, and there, in one of the rooms, he found Susan Lee and Paul Dameron. They were seated on opposite ends of a long couch, talking earnestly together. Neither of them even noticed Peter in the doorway. He was starting to wonder if he were invisible. Dameron's face had lost that expression of distant distaste he wore, and something had brought a tinge of color to his cheeks. So there was a flesh and blood man there under the cold, distant performer. Interesting.

As for Susan, she seemed fully absorbed in the conversation. Peter had thought her attractive before, but in this moment he realized she was beautiful. That triangular smile had blossomed and she couldn't respond fast enough to Dameron's words.

Or he to hers. He was talking about something inconsequential, a tour of southern Europe, making it humorous, adding little bits. " ... tiniest elevator I have ever seen. There was barely room for me, two suitcases, and the elevator operator, who proved to be an opera buff. He was babbling excitedly at me in Greek all the way up, and my limit, I'm afraid is 'kali mera'."

"I love Athens," Susan said. "Before I went to work for Danelli, I used to work for TWA. I had the New York-Athens run for about a year. Have you ever been to Cape Sounion?"

"Once. A beautiful spot. And Byron's signature carved into one of the temple pillars."

"It was so smooth from being touched ... " Her fingers moved caressingly as if to stroke the sun-warmed stone in her memory.

Dameron looked as if he would have liked to capture her hand and hold it, but he didn't. He wasn't given to casual affection. But an inner part of him had stirred.

Peter backed out. He wasn't wanted there. A clearer case of love at first sight he'd never seen, and Dameron a good fifteen years older than Susan. It seemed that Derek was history. Poor guy would be in for a rude awakening in the morning. And what of Damita Dameron's ghost, lurking in the forest? How would she react to this new development?

Peter went in search of Mrs. Potter.

"Damita?" The cook frowned, then paused to add a pinch of spice to a dish in the oven. Savory aromas flowed around Peter, making his mouth water. He loved Chicken Cordon Bleu. "I never met her," Mrs. Potter finally admitted, rubbing her hands on her apron. She gave a stir to the contents of a pan on the stove. "I only started working for Paul three years ago. I don't live here all the time, either. Mostly I'm at the New York apartment, even when he's away on tour. But when Paul comes out here, he brings me and Michael. There are local women he hires for the cleaning but this wasn't their day to come."

"I wondered. It seemed an awfully big house for just the three of you."

"Five of us," she said involuntarily. When Peter raised a questioning eyebrow, she said, "Paul has two guests. Maybe he mentioned them. Mister Rafferty is here ..."

"Who's Mister Rafferty, and why is he hiding from us?" Peter remembered Dameron mentioning his guests but he'd forgotten until now.

"He's Max Rafferty, Paul's lifelong friend. He's a world-famous concert pianist." The information meant nothing to Peter. Classical music was not his thing, and while he'd heard of famous composers, the way everyone had, he didn't know much about pianists. He'd heard of Van Cliburn, but that was the only name he could dredge up out of his subconscious. Rock stars now, that was another matter.

"Paul says he doesn't in general perform accompaniment," Mrs. Potter continued, moving over to the sink and beginning to wash up some dishes. Peter automatically picked up a dishtowel. "But this new program they're working on, 'Two Baritones,' it's going to be called, tempted him. That and the fact he's known Paul all his life. They came from the same home town. They're upstairs working away in the conservatory. You really don't have to do that, Doctor Venkman."

"It's okay, I don't mind." Peter picked up a plate and began to dry it industriously. "So that means there's another singer here too?" he persisted, interested in the setup.

"Yes, Mister Plummer." She smiled. "This is the first time I've met him, but he's a very pleasant gentleman. He looks a great deal like Doctor Spengler, as a matter of fact. I noticed it as soon as I saw him."

Peter's jaw dropped in disbelief and he stood holding a plate in astonishment, his task momentarily forgotten. "You're not talking about Eddie Plummer, are you? But he's a rock star. He's not into opera. Why would he be here?" Remembering the plate, he started drying again.

"No, he's not an opera singer, but Paul likes his singing -- and his dedication. He says Mister Plummer has a superb bel canto voice and a great love of music." She put the last pan into the drainer.

"I can't believe Eddie's here," Peter said, picking it up. "The reason he looks like Egon is they're cousins." He wanted to rush off and tell Egon about the presence of Eddie, but there was more he needed to know. "Mrs. Potter, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Doctor Venkman." She dried her hands on a dishtowel.

"I don't know if anyone told you, but on the walk here from the plane we were shown the way by a woman none of us had ever seen before. When we arrived, we saw the portrait of Damita Dameron. That's who led us here."

Color drained from the cook's cheeks and she put up an alarmed hand to her mouth. "Damita? Here? That's why you asked if I'd ever met her. Do you mean -- you saw her ghost?" Shaken, she moved over to a chair at the small kitchen table and sat down abruptly.

"We sure did. She looked just like that picture. And she wouldn't come here to the house." He saw the woman's genuine fright and added, "Hey, easy. She didn't hurt us. She won't bother you either. It's all right. Besides, the Ghostbusters are on duty. You're perfectly safe, Mrs. Potter." He went to her and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

"I never saw a ghost before," the cook replied, pulling herself together. "I'm not sure I believe in them -- not to doubt your work, of course, but it seems so implausible." Yet her reaction indicated at least an ambivalence about the presence of spirits -- or about this particular one. Peter wondered if she'd seen something before and dismissed it as her imagination.

"Mister Dameron said she took her own life," Peter prodded gently.

Reluctantly, Mrs. Potter nodded. "That's what I heard. Mister Rafferty told me about it. Not a word did I ever hear from Paul, just that his wife was dead and he had never remarried."

"Do you know how she died?" Peter asked. "I'm not being snoopy, but we saw her on our way here. We recognized her picture. We don't always trap and capture ghosts. Sometimes we help them. A ghost of a person usually lingers because they've left something unfinished. There's something they have to do before they can pass on."

"Or they died by violence," the cook put in surprisingly. "I have a secret vice. I read 'true' ghost stories. Hans Holtzer books. Things like that. But I never saw Damita." She jumped up to check the chicken in the oven and turned with cheeks flushed from the heat. "She died here, at this house," the woman whispered. "She jumped from the highest tower."

Peter lifted his eyes involuntarily toward the ceiling. It was difficult to imagine the woman in that picture taking her own life -- she'd seemed so full of joy -- but he didn't know what personal tragedies had led her to such an action. The woman in the woods had been distressed; he'd known that. Yet her death had seemed almost to be a current tragedy to Paul Dameron, in spite of his obvious attraction to Susan Lee. Peter shivered, wondering wildly if maybe she hadn't been given a little push when she took a header off the tower.

That was crazy; there was no reason to think so -- or was there? He didn't comment on his theory. Instead he said, "That's rough. It must have been tough on Dameron."

"It nearly destroyed him," Mrs. Potter explained. She shut the oven door and raised her head, her cheeks flushed from the heat. "I heard he didn't sing for nearly a year after her death. Max Rafferty helped him, stuck with him, encouraged him. Michael did too. And eventually he came out of it and went back to the opera. I'm told everyone was relieved when he started singing. Max composed an opera especially for him, based on Napoleon Bonaparte. Paul sang the part of Napoleon, of course. It's been performed since, but the part is always associated with Paul now. That is, Max did the music. He even worked on the lyrics -- what do they call it? -- the libretto."

Peter had never heard the word 'libretto' before in his life, but if there was one subject he knew next to nothing about, it was the opera. Peter's exposure to that particular art form was a rather unpleasant encounter with a bunch of Valkyries who had tried to take him to Valhalla. Egon probably knew all about Dameron and Max's opera, since that was what he'd said he was listening to just now, maybe even something of Damita Dameron's death, although his interest in opera probably didn't extend to the personal lives of the various singers. He might be an opera fanatic, but he had never been an opera groupie.

Realizing how busy the woman was in the last stages of preparing dinner, Peter thanked her and prepared to go. "I hope you've got plenty of everything. It smells great."

"You're a flatterer." Dimples popped up on her plump cheeks.

"Truth, every bit of it. Word of honor." He sketched a hasty 'x' on his chest. "Cross my heart. If they gave a Nobel Prize for cooking, I bet you'd win it."

He left her blushing and happy, and went in search of Egon, tracking him down where he'd left him, lying back in the chair, earphones over his ears, eyes closed as he enjoyed music Peter couldn't hear. Venkman smiled, bent over the absorbed physicist to pluck the earphones from his ears, and held them just out of Spengler's reach.

"Egon, hey, Egon, you'll never guess who else is here," he cried excitedly.

After one futile attempt to grab the earphones, Egon resigned himself to the inevitable. "I'm certain you mean to tell me," he remarked dryly, measuring the distance to the phones with his eyes so he could grab them the minute Peter forgot he was holding them. "You seem to take great pleasure in interrupting my attempts to listen. Very well, who is it?"

Peter moved the earphones a few inches further away. "A certain baritone you know very well."

"Not Merrill? Milnes?" Egon started to rise, delight shining on his face.

"Egon, I wouldn't know those guys from the guy who does our laundry," Peter said. "And it wouldn't be a big thrill to me to see either one of them. I guess I'm gonna have to tell Eddie you couldn't remember him ..." He started for the door, stopping only because he had run out of headphone cord, and waited.

"Eddie?" Egon shoved his glasses into place, mouth falling open in astonishment. "My cousin Eddie is here?"

"Right here, Egon," said a familiar voice behind Peter. The psychologist whirled, pulling the earphones from their jack and nearly stumbling. Eddie Plummer stood in the doorway, casually dressed in jeans and a sweater, his hair more rumpled than usual, his ever-present sunglasses perched on top of his head. He gave his cousin a huge, delighted grin, adding, "Hi, Peter," and lifting a hand to greet the psychologist.

Egon jumped to his feet and rushed to meet Plummer, who engulfed him in a bearhug. "God, Egon," the singer cried, "Paul told us we had people here who had survived a plane crash, but he didn't tell me you were one of them until just now. We were singing and suddenly he looked at me and said, 'Plummer -- Spengler. Of course. I've been trying to pin down the resemblance.' So when I explained that my last name was really Spengler, he told me you were here."

He gave Egon a few hearty buffets on his back and let him go, fingering the scrape on Egon's cheekbone. "Are you okay? You weren't hurt? Are the others? Peter, what about you? You both look slightly battered." He stepped back and surveyed both men anxiously. "No fair scaring me like that."

"Hey, I'm great." Peter was delighted by the question. He'd been thrilled to know Eddie, even casually, but the last time they'd met the singer, they'd been in the middle of a crisis, when a demon groupie had kidnapped Egon. Peter and Eddie had held vigil in the firehall while the other two went to hunt for Egon in the Netherworld. During their seemingly endless wait, Peter and Eddie had become friends, gaining an understanding of each other they might not have had otherwise.

"We're all fine," Egon replied, and hastily catalogued their minor injuries, the brief list an attempt at reassurance. "We were very lucky. Eddie, what brings you here?"

"I'm working on planning a concert with Paul," Eddie replied. "It's going to be interesting, I think. I came here for a long weekend so we could go over some of the preliminaries and try out the music."

"This is wonderful," Egon replied. "It seems ages since we saw you last. Do Ray and Winston know you're here?"

"Not yet. I just found out you had arrived -- well, that it was you and the other Ghostbusters who had shown up. Let's go find them. I want to hear what happened to you. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Fine, now that we're warm and dry," Peter said. "Let me tell you, it's a crummy afternoon out there --well, it's nearly night, but it's still crummy. You should have seen us when we got here, soaked to the skin and miserable." He contrived a pathetic expression, its purpose defeated by the fact that he and Egon looked quite well now, but for a few minor scrapes. "It's a good thing this house was here. Mama Venkman's little boy doesn't like that kind of weather."

There was just time for Eddie to enjoy a delighted reunion with the other two Ghostbusters before Paul Dameron appeared to summon them to dinner. The meal was not held in the great hall but in a smaller, more formal dining room, the table long enough to seat a dozen people. Dinner was laid out formally, with fine crystal, china, and damask napkins, in spite of the guests' informal attire. Perhaps because of that, Dameron had not changed for the evening meal, although Max Rafferty had done so and appeared in an Armani suit and tie. Peter liked the cut of it and wondered where he'd bought it.

He was a tall man, perhaps an inch or two taller than Egon, and his appearance might be called leonine, with a large head and a great bush of shaggy black hair that he affected to appear somewhat tangled like a beatnik poet and tossed back from his forehead in a gesture Peter thought hokey. But he greeted the Ghostbusters with genuine pleasure and interest, although it sounded like the interest of a skeptic.

"I've seen the four of you on television often enough, but I never thought to meet you." His eyes traveled back and forth from Egon to Eddie. "The resemblance is startling, yet I never made the connection before now."

Susan looked too. She hadn't changed out of her jeans and vivid green sweater, but Dameron stood at her side and escorted her to her chair at his right hand as if she'd been formally gowned. He moved toward his own place at the head of the table, gesturing for Rafferty to take the lefthand place then nodded at the table, encouraging the others to sit where they would.

Michael chose the seat at the foot of the table, causing Peter to wonder if he'd misinterpreted the man's position here. People like Dameron didn't usually sit down to eat with the hired help. Maybe Michael was a bodyguard like Eddie's demon roadie, Mel, who had come back with him from the Netherworld. Evidently Eddie hadn't brought Mel along with him. Maybe he thought it would freak out Dameron and Rafferty if his own hired help suddenly turned huge and blue.

"Derek's not coming?" asked Winston with a glance in the direction of the stairs as he sat down in the chair across from Peter.

"I peeked in on him just now," Susan explained as she shook her napkin into her lap. "He was sleeping deeply, so I decided I wouldn't wake him. He'll only be in pain if he wakes up. Let him rest. He can have something later, can't he, Paul?"

"Of course." He became the proper host with ease as Mrs. Potter made her appearance, distributing salad plates. "So how do you all feel?" the singer continued. "Any lingering effects? Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"You've done a great job so far," Winston lauded. "Taking us in like that, feeding us." He gestured at the fresh tossed salad before him. "Giving us a great dinner and shelter for the night. Thanks, man. We all appreciate it."

"I could hardly do any less for a stranded traveler," Dameron replied. "And it seems it's a delightful reunion. Eddie was astonished to hear the four of you were here."

"It's amazing that you know each other," Egon said to Dameron. "I should have thought Eddie's music would not be to your taste."

"Genuine talent should be to anyone's taste," Dameron replied, and Max Rafferty nodded approvingly. Peter found himself thinking more highly of Rafferty than he had a moment before. He remembered Mrs. Potter explaining how supportive Rafferty had been to his friend after Damita's death. Peter could respect anyone who treated his friends so well, even someone with a big ego.

"Paul came backstage at one of my concerts," Eddie related with a grin. "I'd seen him perform at the Met several nights earlier so I knew him immediately. He'd got the idea that it might be intriguing for the two of us to appear together on a program. I admit he probably wants to tempt some of my audience into liking opera, but I was glad of the chance. I've wanted to try expanding my repertoire. If Paul McCartney can write classical music, why can't I sing a bit of opera? Whitney was all for it. Max is writing some new pieces for us. Paul will sing some pieces from Verdi, Puccini, Rossini as well as do a couple of rock duets with me. We're going to do the Napoleon-Marshal Ney duet from Rafferty's Bonaparte. Ney is the other baritone in that opera."

"I went to the opera once," Peter said with a grin. "Egon made me go. I think he's sorry now, aren't you, Spengs?"

"Prodigiously," Egon replied, straight-faced, while Ray and Winston chuckled. Peter made a face at him.

"I heard about that," Dameron replied in some amusement. "Katherine Smallwood -- the diva -- told me part of the story, and I pieced together the rest from other performers. I hadn't quite been willing to accept the story of the Valkyries -- until now."

"Believe it," Winston said. "They tried to haul Pete away. He claimed he was a hero -- in their hearing."

"That would not be my first choice," Max Rafferty said in amusement. Clearly he didn't buy one word of the story but he had assumed an expression of amusement as if he was willing to go along for the ride.

"Hey. Haven't you ever seen a ghost, Rafferty?" Peter challenged. He tended to get huffy with skeptics who didn't know what it was like to come home at the end of a long day, covered in slime, exhausted and aching, after a battle with a class 7 demon or a whole series of free roaming vapors.

"Once," replied the composer. "I was in England. We took a tour of a 'haunted' castle. Not quite as 'haunted' as Borley Rectory, but famous for its spirits -- enough so that they gave guided tours. Precisely to schedule, a misty figure darted down a shadowy hall ahead of us and vanished before we could get close enough to see clearly." He gave an amused shrug. "Being somewhat versed in stagecraft, I could have endeavored to duplicate the effects with a minimum of effort and a simple movie projector."

"A skeptic!" cried Ray, clearly delighted. "We could tell you lots of stories that would make a real believer out of you, Mister Rafferty. Were you in New York when Gozer came?"

Rafferty shook his head. "No, I was in Milan on tour, but I'msorry I missed the show."

"Show? It wasn't a show. We nearly got fricasseed," Winston objected. "Not to mention buried in marshmallow cream." He forked up the last bite of his salad. "I didn't believe in ghosts until I got the Ghostbuster job. It took me less than a day to become a complete believer. No way they could have faked any of it. I kept waiting for them to tell me how they conned everybody -- and then I got slimed."

"We saw a ghost on our way here, too," Ray insisted, sounding a little put out that Rafferty was not inclined to believe him.

The smug grin on the pianist/composer's face was enough to make Peter want to summon up Slimer and convince him to dive bomb him. But Damita's appearance wasn't the ghost story he'd have chosen. He wished he was closer to Ray, so he could nudge him and get him to change the subject.

Dameron flinched. Ray noticed and a rueful expression spread across his face.

"Are you sure being Ghostbusters hasn't made you susceptible to your imaginations?" Rafferty asked.

"They claim to have seen Damita in the forest, Max," Dameron said flatly.

Rafferty's face went white. There must be enough of a believer under his blatant skepticism to make him believe -- and find the belief uncomfortable. "They couldn't have," he proclaimed. "It's impossible. Damita is dead."

Michael didn't say anything, but he was pale as well. When he noticed Peter glancing in his direction, he gave his attention to the salad, calling his expression to order.

"Very little is impossible," Egon replied, prepared to get on his hobby horse. "I am a serious scientist, and can prove the existence of ghosts, using appropriate detection tools and the scientific method. Unfortunately we did not use the P.K.E. meters on the ghost we saw. We were very cold, very wet, and considerably shaken by the crash. It was growing dark because the clouds were so thick. I did not realize we had encountered a ghost at the time."

"Then you probably didn't, although I can't imagine who would beout on a night like this," Rafferty insisted fiercely. "It didn't happen."

"Hey, Jack, I touched her hand. She was icy cold," Peter explained, affronted. He didn't like people calling his friends liars. "Besides she was a dead ringer for the lady in the picture. We didn't have a clue who she was until we saw it."

Dameron flinched again, and Peter realized his phrasing hadn't been exactly felicitous. Felicitous? Now there was a word for Egon.

"She was," Ray put in earnestly. Confirmed skeptics tended to believe Ray when he sounded like that -- or at least to give him the benefit of the doubt. "All of us recognized her."

"What nonsense is this?" Max blurted. "Paul, you can't believe it. It's a scam, and I call it a poor return for your hospitality."

"It's all right, Max." Dameron's face was hard and didn't give away the slightest hint of his feelings, but his eyes were shadowed. "There have been times, over the years, when I've believed I could sense her presence. I've never seen her, but perhaps there can be ... existence after death. Not your false ghost in the English castle, true, but something more than we can know."

"Don't let all the theater superstitions convince you of something that can only be a scam," Rafferty retorted flatly. He grasped his friend by the shoulder. "I hate to see you buy into something like this. It won't do you any good."

"My cousin and his friends are not liars, and they aren't scam artists," Eddie pitched in, frowning. "I have experienced too much of the supernatural myself to doubt it."

"I saw a ghost once," Michael volunteered from his end of the table. He had been so silent that everyone turned to stare at him, and Mrs. Potter, arriving with the Chicken Cordon Bleu, hesitated near the door surprised at the changed atmosphere.

"Come in, Mrs. Potter, it smells delicious." Dameron sounded relaxed and gracious, but Peter could tell he wasn't. He'd been gritting his teeth, muscles tight in his jaw, and his eyes were brooding, the way they had been when the team arrived.

As the woman placed the steaming dish on the table, Michael grinned. "It was in Manhattan, actually. I'd been to pick up a contract for Paul from a producer on West 34th street, and had just come out of the building when a big, wispy -- something or other shot by about an inch in front of my nose. Two minutes later, the four of you came racing after it." He grinned at the Ghostbusters. "I watched the whole bust. Rather exciting, actually. I don't see how it could be faked."

Mrs. Potter distributed their servings, her eyes full of fascination, as Michael spoke. When she had served everyone, she retreated reluctantly, curiosity written across her face.

"The illusion of much of our work can be reproduced on the film screen," Egon answered. "And sometimes in an enclosed setting, such as for a false seance. But to do it outside at random is much harder. Yet there are people who have seen us at work and still doubt us." It was his turn to clench his jaw muscles. "In spite of the scientific evidence, they choose not to believe."

"Heck, big guy, they're afraid to believe," Peter put in. "Not just because ghosts can be scary, but because what they've always known and accepted might not be true any more. It rocks their foundations. They were nice and comfortable before." He took a bite of his chicken which was superb. He wished he could hire Mrs. Potter away from Dameron and install her at headquarters. Meals like this would be great after a tough bust.

"I know what you mean," Susan ventured, casting a quick, telling glance at Dameron before looking quickly away. "I always think part of skepticism is because people don't want to believe. Faith's a funny thing. Some people have no trouble with it, and others are born skeptics. And some people go so far and won't go any further, as if there is an invisible line they won't cross." She sampled the chicken and brightened.

"It's because they don't want their friends to consider them idiots," Max said bluntly. "Should they admit a belief in a paranormal subject, people will instantly classify them with the nuts who sell their stories to the National Enquirer. They might even lose their jobs."

And I would regard them with contempt, was the unspoken conclusion. He didn't have to say it, for Peter could see it in his eyes.

"There are laws against discrimination," Winston put in thoughtfully. "Race and sex and religion, sexual preference, all that. But there's no law that prevents people from discriminating against the gullible -- or the genuine believers of something that's not in favor."

"You called that one, Winston, my man," Peter told him. "I've had dates act like they expected to be let in on a big scam when I took them out. When they found out I actually believed what I did and claimed to be able to prove it, they'd just fade away and wouldn't go out again. Of course there are the groupies, too. They think I'm gonna show them a ghost on a date or let them play with a thrower."

"But I thought you did, Peter," Ray teased him, winning a laugh from his teammates, Eddie, Susan, and Michael. Paul Dameron smiled, but he was a not a laughing man. And as for Max Rafferty, he was such a blatant skeptic Peter suspected he'd be the first to fall, to openly admit belief, if something genuine came his way. Too bad Peter couldn't produce Damita's ghost to order. That would show him.

"I don't believe you saw Damita's ghost," Max growled as if he had read Peter's mind. "And that's the bottom line. I don't question that you met someone, although I can't imagine anyone lurking in the woods in a rainstorm. How close is your nearest neighbor, Paul?"

"Five miles away," Dameron replied. "I chose this place for its remoteness. I often come out here at the end of tours, to replenish myself." He applied himself to the asparagus, lowering his eyes, unwilling to continue.

Peter wondered if it had been hard for him to return here if this was really where Damita had died, but not even he could ask a question like that, at least not at dinner. Being a psychologist didn't automatically give him a license to dig around in people's psyches, especially in public. Ghosts' psyches were another matter. If it turned out Damita was really trapped here, he might have to push a little harder.

"So who do you know from around here who might be frolicking in the woods?" Max persisted, forgetting the bite of chicken he had on his fork in his need for an answer.

"No one." Paul's voice was dismissive.

"But it really was her," Ray said excitedly. "Wasn't it, guys? We all recognized her, and we had no reason to make up a story like that. Besides, we wouldn't. We never make things up."

"I saw her too, Paul," Susan told the opera singer. She reached out to touch his arm then drew her hand back. "I really did. I'd have no reason to make it up."

He turned distant eyes upon her. "I know you wouldn't. But -- I simply can't accept the concept. Damita is dead. Her spirit can't be so troubled that she would linger this long."

Max patted his shoulder with gruff affection. "Come on, old friend. It was a long time ago. You've moved on. Even if this should prove to be true, it's an old pain."

"It's not so old that I've forgotten," Paul admitted. "I don't want to believe any of this. But I don't believe it's a lie, perhaps just a mistake. For it to be a lie, I'd have to believe they all were conspiring against me, including Eddie. There's no sense to that. They could hardly crash their plane to order."

"It could even be a setup," Michael offered. "Not the Ghostbusters or Eddie or Ms. Lee. But someone else. You know, an enemy out to get you, Paul. To cause trouble. Or maybe even a groupie who looks like your wife, enhancing the effect."

"A groupie hanging out in the middle of the woods in a thunderstorm?" Peter echoed. "I know they can get obsessive -- Eddie had a demon groupie once -- but that's pushing it. Made up to resemble Damita? She wouldn't hang out in the woods. She'd pull a stranded traveller number on you; come knocking at your door and wait for you to notice the resemblance. And she wouldn't be that cold to the touch." He shivered at the memory.

"You touched her?" Dameron was shocked. "I didn't think ghosts would be solid."

"Some are more so than others," Egon said quickly. "In any case, we'd been through a trauma, and Peter was not at his best. He was cold and wet; he would expect any coldness he felt to be caused by the same thing. If we had not seen the picture, we would have assumed the woman was alive, just cold, although her presence in the woods would be odd in itself."

"But I have never seen her ghost," Paul insisted as if determined to disprove what they had seen. "Why wouldn't she come to me, if she was trapped? I loved her. I would never have hurt her. Even now, even like this, I wouldn't reject her. I find this very ... disturbing." The depth of the understatement was spelled out excruciatingly on his face.

Susan patted his arm, prepared to pull her hand away if he rejected the touch. "I don't pretend to understand what makes ghosts do what they do, Paul. But perhaps because of ... of the manner of her death, she can't rest."

The words were no comfort; they only added to the torment in the singer's eyes. Max made a harsh sound of protest.

"How dare you suggest -- "

Dameron lifted his hand for silence. "It's all right, Max. Susan is trying to help. So are the Ghostbusters. It never would have occurred to me that Damita might linger. But if it is true, then I must know. I have been trying with a signal lack of success to ignore the possibility, but it seems I can ignore it no longer." He turned to Egon. "What can you do? I won't have her, er, 'busted.' Damita would never deserve that."

"After dinner, We'll take P.K.E. readings throughout the house," Egon replied. "It will tell us if a spirit is present and what type."

"We don't bust every ghost in sight," Peter reassured the singer. "Only the nasty ones, the pests, the ones that cause trouble. Sometimes we just help the ghost disperse peacefully."

"What does that mean?" Susan asked. Intrigued, she had forgotten to eat, she was so wrapped up in what was happening.

"Some ghosts hang out here because they've got something they didn't get done in life. They were murdered, they have family ties, they have a task they didn't get finished, that kind of thing." He grinned. "Last week, we had a guy who was lingering around because he hadn't had a chance to say goodbye to his son. And there was the guy who was hanging around stealing money because he wanted his wife to have security since he wasn't there for her any more. Ghosts have agendas, same as people. Course some stick around because they're having a good time scaring people. The thing is, ghosts come in all sorts, just like live people do. So we can't do the same thing every time. The ones you read about in the papers are the ones where we go in blasting. They make the best stories unless some journalist's out for human interest."

"And there's always the kind we try to help disperse peacefully," Ray added. "We always like it when we can help a ghost move on. Even if we don't always get our fee." Peter grimaced at the thought of those lost fees. He hadn't minded a time or two, but it wouldn't do to admit it. Bad for his rep.

"Here's the bottom line, Mister Dameron," cut in Winston sympathetically. "We won't bust your wife unless there's no other choice. Unless there's a danger to the living. I don't think there is, but it's something we do have to consider."

"That seems fair enough." Peter could tell that Dameron was deeply shaken. The little signs were all there. He was stiff, his eyes were full of pain, his hands, when not involved in eating -- or pushing his food around on his plate -- were clenched into fists. He had forgotten to eat. His meal was mostly untouched on his plate.

"Max, I don't believe this," he burst out to his friend as if demanding help.

"You don't have to believe it, Paul. They see ghosts

automatically, whether that's the answer or not. That's what they do. I'm not saying they're trying to deceive you. But they interpret things based on what they're used to. We all do that."

Susan opened her mouth to object, hesitated, then plunged in anyway. "I saw her, too, and I have no hidden agendas or conditioned responses when it comes to ghosts. Paul, I don't want to hurt you, but I think you have to learn the truth."

That made Dameron smile faintly. "Don't worry. I know you don't mean any harm, Susan."

"Could the ghost be trying to snow you?" Michael offered. He'd calmly eaten his meal during this part of the conversation, and now, his plate clean, he stared at them all. "I don't believe in an anonymous woman running through the woods, made up like Damita. She would have no way of knowing about an impending plane crash, and the meeting would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. So if there really was a ghost in the woods who resembled Damita, that doesn't mean it has to be Damita. Can't ghosts change their appearance? Couldn't it be a different ghost, trying to look like Damita."

"You bet they can," Peter agreed. "Only why? That would mean some ghost would have to have it in for Dameron. But it might explain why we ran into the ghost. It might have sensed we were there. I don't think a living person would have been out in weather like that. Nasty! They'd have to be crazy to be running around in that storm unless they had to, like we did."

"Surely it would depend on the ghost." Max was being facetious, but not as facetious as he could have been. "Paul, I'm sorry about all this. I can't imagine what's going on. I can't even imagine a scam; Ms. Lee and Mister Massey don't know the Ghostbusters. They only met them today. I can't see them planning something, not in the aftermath of the crash. Eddie vouches for the Ghostbusters, and I acquit him of any intent to deceive you. I acknowledge they saw something, and even that it resembled Damita. But that it was Damita? I simply can't buy that."

"Okay," Peter argued. "We weren't expecting ghosts; we didn't even think about ghosts until we saw the picture, even me, and I touched her hand. We didn't show up at your door and claim we saw a ghost. We didn't even know it until we saw the picture."

"The simple explanation is usually the correct one," Winston argued. "We have a woman in the woods who looks exactly like your late wife. Isn't it a bit much to swallow to think it's some other ghost pretending to be your late wife? What would be the point?"

"The ghost did tell us to come here," Ray offered. "But there's nowhere else nearby for us to come. Sending us here can't be part of a plan. Even if the ghost was some other spirit and wanted us to come here and cause trouble, we were all pretty shocked over the crash. We weren't thinking very clearly. We might not have even noticed the picture. We might have gone right to bed, or the tree might not have been down over the road and we'd have been driven to the nearest hospital. So resembling Damita wouldn't necessarily have done any good."

"You mean part of a ghost's plan?" Max exploded. "I don't believe you people. I won't have you preying on Paul."

"No one is 'preying on' me, Max," Dameron replied. "Yes, I'm distressed to hear that Damita might be lingering as a ghost. But it's been twenty years. It's a tragedy, of course, but it's not a present one. I'd have to be abnormal for the grief to have lingered that strongly for all this time." He hesitated. "Of course hearing all this brings back some of those feelings. How could it not? But I'm not going to, how did they used to call it, 'go into a decline' over it." He smiled wryly at his old friend. "I know you mean well, but you're not helping. We're both skeptics but I have to see this through."

Peter knew the possibility bothered him more than he was willing to admit, but he also knew the man was right. Yes, he would be upset at the thought of his beloved late wife flitting about through the trees in ectoplasmic form. Anyone would. And he'd worry that there might be a scam or manipulation.

Unless, of course, Damita's death had been murder and not suicide ...

Peter didn't know where the idea had come from or why it had burst upon him so abruptly, but suddenly he couldn't help wondering if that was really what had happened. They claimed she had flung herself from the tower. Who was to say she hadn't been given a helping hand?

Abruptly he was fathoms deep in a memory not his own, so vivid he could see it as if it were actually happening. It was late at night, crisp and cold. Damita's breath frosted out as she stood, one bare hand on the tower guardrail, her hair loose and whipping about her face. She was staring out over the banks of trees into the night. Peter knew without explanation that it was Halloween. A sound behind her startled her from her contemplation of the night. She started to turn.

"I don't know why you wanted me to meet you up here. There's no earthly use -- " Then the sudden rush, the hands on her arms, gripping so tightly they hurt, a blow to the temple to daze her -- those bruises they'd seen on her face -- the lurch, the panic, the sudden, absolute terror as she swung out over the vast height, the fall, knifing through the clear, crisp air. Oh, god, oh, god, he was going to die!

"Yaaa!" Peter jerked to his feet, shaken back to awareness an instant before he would have felt the fatal impact. That was crazy. Where had the image come from? He didn't make a habit of spacing out like that, getting caught up in -- in someone else's memories, for Pete's sake. Yet he could still feel the cold and the terror, although they were already ebbing.

Everyone was staring at him in varying degrees of astonishment. As the memory loosed its talons on him Peter felt embarrassed and idiotic, pinned in so many stares. "I ... uh ... got a charlie horse in my leg," he explained hastily, taking a couple of cautious steps as if trying to work out the imagined tension in his muscles. He couldn't admit what he had just imagined, not in front of the whole group. Could Damita have done it, put the memory into his head? Or was the wallop with Winston's suitcase making him act weird?

Egon's eyes pinned Peter and one eyebrow lifted as if to say, I know you're lying, Peter. The imagined words rang in his ears clear as a bell.

Tell you later, Peter returned with an equally silent response. They easily knew each other well enough for that. Egon would realize Peter didn't want him to push.

Ray, who was sitting beside Peter and didn't have as clear a view of his face, said, "Gosh, Peter, I bet that hurts. We're probably all still sore from the crash." He might have been offering a reasonable explanation for a charlie horse -- or he might have been covering for his friend.

"Walk it out," advised Winston.

"No, massage it out," Eddie countered. "I get them sometimes, after I've been on stage for hours. Whitney always massages them out." He smiled at the memory of his wife. "She says it's bad for you to walk on it."

Peter sat down again and pretended to massage his calf. "It's okay," he said, but he wasn't sure about that. What if the image he'd seen had been real? What if Damita had really been murdered and she'd finally found someone receptive enough to explain it to? The last thing Peter could do was ask Dameron if his wife had left a suicide note. And the few words he'd heard spoken were completely ambiguous.

There had only been a moving shape, not a face. Covered? Cloaked? Unseen by Damita and therefore unknown? No, if she had somehow planted the image in his mind, if they were linked because he had touched her, she had wanted him to know what had happened. Yet she had spoken to the man as if she knew him.

Then Peter realized she had expected to meet someone in the tower, but she had never known who had come. It was as if, once linked to her like that, the conduit was still open. He had to know more. The compulsion pushed at him. It wasn't quite like a possession -- he'd been through that a couple of times and he knew -- but it was there. The urgent need to know the truth hadn't been his own. And it had been slowly building, as if the link forged that moment in the woods when he had taken her hand, had gradually allowed Damita's control to trickle through. Maybe she could take him over completely.

Stay put, he thought at her urgently. Let me get away from the others before you pull something like that. Let me talk to Egon about it.

He couldn't tell if she could hear him or not because there was no response in actual words. But the certainty that he'd experienced a ghostly contact grew and built. Maybe that was why he'd been so determined to find out about Damita when the others were content to let it ride. She wanted justice, and there had been no means of obtaining it -- until now.

Susan was talking softly to Dameron and he was listening. His face softened as he watched her. Peter thought he was clearly attracted, and Susan seemed charmed in return. But if Dameron had tossed his wife off the highest tower, Susan's feelings were definitely a lousy idea. Peter needed to know more. Damita had been pushed, that meant someone she knew was a murderer, maybe even one of the three men here. Obviously not Eddie. He'd have been too young twenty years ago, just a kid. But one of the other three? Peter probed cautiously in his mind. He could get no definite reply.

He hated this ghost telegraph system. Egon would know what to do. He always did. Now to get a chance to talk to him in private.

Mrs. Potter arrived at that moment with desert, some of the best apple pie Peter had ever tasted, with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. He applied himself to the treat, hearing the guys' exclamations of pleasure at the taste, and knew he had to talk to them in private as soon as possible. If he had a link to Damita, he needed to do something about it. Murderers shouldn't get away with their crimes, not even if the crimes were twenty years old. There was no statute of limitations on murder.

So, that was that. Soon as they were done eating, he'd corner the guys and tell them what had happened. Egon would have some answers. He always did. And Ray knew all sorts of useful things about ghosts. Damita had appeared to him for a reason. She wanted justice.

After dinner, Egon headed upstairs to get his P.K.E. meter and Peter followed after him purposefully. "Egon, I've gotta talk to you."

"I knew something was wrong, Peter," Egon replied as he walked, slowing his pace to allow Peter to catch up.

"Yeah, you read me like a book. Always could." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure they wouldn't be overheard by any of the castle's inhabitants. "Damita didn't kill herself, Egon. Somebody picked her up and tossed her over the parapet."

Egon stopped walking altogether just short of his bedroom and stared at him. "And how do you know this?"

"I think she's influencing me. I think she has all along. That's why I've been so hot to find out what's going on when the rest of you were content to unwind first."

"Influencing you? This is not good, Peter. Come with me." He led the way into his bedroom and made Peter sit down on the edge of the bed while he took out his ubiquitous P.K.E. meter from his flight bag and activated it. Frowning, he passed the detection device over Peter, his eyes on the small readout screen.

"Am I possessed, Doc?" Peter asked, relieved when the meter remained silent and the antennae didn't stir. That had to be a good sign, right? "Level with me, big guy."

"Actually, you are not, Peter. Your biorhythms are completely normal, allowing for a slight variation which is well within nominal limits and is probably due to your headache and the aches and pains from the crash."

"Aches and pains?" Peter echoed. "That makes them sound so minor, you know. It feels like someone used cudgels on me. That wasn't fun, Egon."

"I am aware of the sensation," Egon returned wryly with a smile of understanding. "Imagine how we will feel in the morning when we have had all night to stiffen up."

"Please. I just ate."

Egon adjusted the meter. "Hmm," he said. This time, the antennae stirred fractionally.

That was not good. Involuntarily, Peter glanced over his shoulder. Damita hadn't been scary in the woods, but something about the old house's gothic atmosphere made the psychologist jumpy. "I'm not gonna like this, am I? What are you getting?"

"Fading residuals, but too strong to have lingered from the contact in the woods. Perhaps you were influenced. Tell me what occurred."

Peter hesitated. "I'd kinda like to have Ray and Winston in on this, too. Damita doesn't know who killed her."

"Has she told you who was here at the time of her death?" Egon asked practically. "Winston is our mystery expert and I think that's what he'd want to know, so he could find out who the suspects were."

"What would I say?" asked Winston from the doorway. "Mystery expert? Suspects? What's going on anyway?"

"Yeah, Peter," said Ray, crowding in beside Winston. "You jumped up like you'd sat on a pin. I knew it wasn't a charlie horse."

"Peter was mind-linked with Damita Dameron," Egon explained.

"Wow!" Ray's eyes widened and he hurried over to Peter, staring at him as if he'd grown a second nose. "Then it really is her ghost. What does she want, Peter? Why is she hanging around? Are you okay?"

Peter hadn't crystallized it in his mind yet, but when Ray asked, he knew. "I'm pretty much okay, Ray. She hasn't hurt me, just surprised me world-class. She wants her murderer found. She didn't jump off the tower, she was pushed. But she doesn't know who did it." "So who was here at the time?" Winston asked. He didn't bother exclaiming over Peter's sudden knowledge. As usual, Egon had been right; Winston's love of mysteries might be a real plus tonight. He had the kind of mind that was good at solving puzzles and that was just what they needed.

"We'll have to find that out," said Egon, laying aside the meter, which was still activated. "Peter. Describe what happened at dinner."

Peter jumped to his feet and paced the room as he spoke, recreating the scene vividly, the sharp cold, the air as clear as crystal, the distant stars overhead, the sudden presence, Damita's words, her startled realization, her fright, her sudden, overwhelming terror as she plummeted endlessly to the unforgiving ground. Peter was shivering when he finished, the image seared into his mind as if he'd been the one to experience it. He'd have nightmares about that fall. Heights were bad enough when he was safe at the top. This was one of his pet nightmares delivered up in an appalling package and rammed down his unwilling throat. He hated it.

Talking about it brought it all back, as vividly as when she had first shown it to him. Darkness, cold, the starry night, the endless fall ... Wrapping his arms around his chest, he quivered, seeing her fall, seeing the ground rush up to meet him ... It was worse than before, more vivid, as if, finding she could touch Peter's mind, it was easier a second time. For an instant, he almost blacked out, caught up in her fear, and his own fear of high places. If he felt her fall he would die ... He would die ...

"Peter!" Egon's sharp tone severed the memory, causing its shards to fall around him. Fingers dug into his upper arms and someone shook him out of the memory loop. He blinked groggily, slowly returning to full awareness, the room warm around him, and Egon stopped shaking him as he realized Peter was back to awareness.

"Oh, man! I jus ... r-relived it," he blurted shakily through chattering teeth. "I never w-want to go through that again. It was w-worse now. Like she's got a h-hold of me and can't let go. I kept falling and falling ..."

"She has no right -- " Egon began, his hands sliding up to Peter's shoulders, then rubbing up and down his upper arms as if to warm him. He sounded angry, although not at Peter.

The psychologist shivered, accepting the comfort, grateful for the touch because it brought reality back. What had just happened to him? How could it have felt so real, even more real than the first viewing? And yet, there had been no malice in the sensations, no desire to hurt him, only a frantic pursuit of understanding, of help, in the only place she had found it in twenty years. But if he had felt her die ...

"Egon, l-listen, she's not t-trying to hurt me. She's d-desperate," he said, his teeth chattering. If only he could stop shivering. If only the ground wouldn't keep throwing itself up to meet him in his imagination. "We have to help her, not trap her. She was m-murdered, and it was a really nasty way to go. You just know there's no hope, but it takes a year to fall. God!" He felt warmer now, grateful for the stroking of Egon's hands, grateful for a link with the here and now.

"Gosh, that's awful!" Ray's face held distress. He put his arm around Peter's shoulders and hugged him comfortingly. "But we've got to tell her to stop making you relive it. I don't think it can really hurt you, at least not physically, but she still has to stop."

"You called that one, Ray. Only she's not here. She can't come here. And I'm not sure she can hear me. I think this is just a one-way link."

"How do you know that?" Egon stopped rubbing Peter's arms, but he didn't let go. His eyebrows lifted and his glasses slid down his nose, a sure sign he was intrigued.

"I don't know how I know any of it, Egon. I just do. She was on the tower, waiting. Somebody came up to meet her. She was supposed to meet someone but she wasn't sure ... I mean she didn't know if the person who came was the one she was supposed to meet or not. She can't remember why, not now, not after dying. She only knows she went to a rendezvous. She's scared and lost. I-I'm not actually talking to her inside my head, I just--know. Not with words, not even with something like telepathy. But it's there in my head, what happened to her like she planted a bunch of memories and can trigger them. Do you think it was because I touched her?"

"It could be," Ray theorized. "Maybe it made a link. If she couldn't come to the house, she might not have interacted with anybody for twenty years. Or maybe she can do it because it's near the actual anniversary of her death and you just happened to be receptive."

"You told us she said there was 'no earthly use,'" Egon reminded him, quoting. He picked up the meter and passed it over Peter slowly, studying the screen, one hand still gripping his arm. "Does she know what that meant? What does she remember?"

"The fall, Egon. Being pushed and the fall." Peter didn't want to relive that experience. He didn't think he could stand it.

"But she talked to us normally in the woods." Ray pulled back from Peter, snatched the meter from Egon and adjusted it to a wider range, pointing it at the window. "She wasn't just fixated on one thing. She's not a classic apparition. She has conscious awareness. If we could meet her we could talk to her and ask her questions. Gosh, that would be great!"

"I know," Peter said. "It's a good plan, Tex. But she doesn't know who killed her. Maybe she doesn't want to know. Maybe she's afraid it was her husband and she doesn't want it to be her husband."

When they all stared at him, he held up his hands. "Hey. She isn't making me say that. I can tell when it's coming from her and when it's just me, running off at the mouth. Winston, my man, you're the expert on murder around here, all those mysteries you read and figure out the endings ahead of time. What do we do next?"

"First thing I'd do is try to talk to the lady. You getting anything, Ray?"

"Well, the readings are stronger out there, but she isn't close by. If we want to talk to her, we'll have to have Peter ask her." He turned around apologetically. "Peter, I know she upset you. Gosh, it would be awful to feel like you were reliving her death, the way you did. But is there any chance it's a two-way street? Can you communicate with her? Get her attention? Bring her here?"

Peter didn't want to. The very idea scared him, not because she was a scary ghost; he'd seen a lot worse than the figure in the forest. But that falling bit -- god, he didn't think he could face that again. Maybe if he started right out telling her he got it, he understood, maybe she'd stop putting him through the fall.

"I ... don't know," he said reluctantly.

Egon's fingers tightened suddenly. "I understand, Peter. I know how hard this must be for you. But she has contacted you. It's happened. She found us by accident, but we are Ghostbusters. We have a job to do. We can't shrug it off. If you like, we can go out into the forest and try to find her that way instead of risking the link again."

Peter glanced at the window. He couldn't see much, but he hadn't been hearing rain for a long time; the fierce drumming had stopped. Maybe they could venture out, although he knew none of them was at peak efficiency, and Ray's thumb had to be hurting worse than Peter's head. He'd almost forgotten the headache; it was dull and remote now, still there if he concentrated on it, but receding to a soreness at the point of impact. But there were lines on Ray's face, Winston and Egon both looked tired, and their bruises were darkening. Much better if they could do their little number here in the warm.

Something whispered at the window, and Peter squinted, half expecting to see Damita lurking out there, waiting for him. Instead he realized it was snowing, huge, fat flakes that drifted down, brushing against the leaded glass. "It's snowing," he announced. "No way am I going out in that or dragging any of you guys out there. Egon, let me try to get through to her. I wish I could convince her to come here. But if I start yelling or blacking out or anything, shake me, hard, and bring me out of it. I don't want to feel her die." He shuddered.

"No way, Pete," Winston intervened, holding up his hand. "Come on, guys; he's got a head injury and I hate to think what that last little number just did to his blood pressure. The lady might have an axe to grind. After all, it was a man who killed her. Maybe she's got it in for any man."

"No." Peter shook his head so abruptly it brought a faint return of the pain. "No, she doesn't mean me any harm. I know that. It's just that I don't think she can help it."

"The last thing we want is for her to kill you in the process," Egon stated angrily. "Honestly, Peter, if you think there's that much of a risk, we won't chance it. It might be like lucid dreaming. What happens to you in the dreamscape might duplicate in reality."

The image of Damita's painted face in the portrait downstairs swam before Peter's eyes, the radiant glow, the joy of living. He'd always been a sucker for a beautiful woman. Just because this one was dead didn't mean she didn't need his help.

"Come on, Spengs; I'm a parapsychologist," he said. "I know all that stuff. It's what I was into when I was working on my parapsychology doctorate. Damita doesn't want me dead. She wants us to help her. The only way I can help her is to find out as much as I can. Only I need a lifeline. You guys can do that for me, can't you?"

"We don't want you to risk your life, Peter," Ray insisted solemnly, turning away from the snowy vista below and staring at Peter.

"Believe me, Mama Venkman's little boy doesn't like that idea much either," Peter replied. "It's just something I've gotta do."

"Are you sure you're not being influenced, Peter?" Egon asked, taking a P.K.E. reading. "The residuals have strengthened. She's not here, but there's a link. I can detect it now. It's not continuing to intensify but it's there at a steady level."

"Like he's brainwashed?" asked Winston. He grabbed Peter's shoulder. "Listen to me, homeboy. You don't have to do this. I can go down and pump Mrs. Potter for information. You said she wasn't here then, but she might know who was. I don't want to ask Michael. He might have been here. I'd rather do this than have you risk what you just went through, especially when you've been bopped on the head."

"Or Max," Ray volunteered, then his face fell. "No, we can't ask any of them. Peter, are you really sure? She could be affecting your judgment."

"Well, if Egon monitors my biorhythms and you guys monitor the P.K.E. readings, and if somebody holds onto me, I think I have to risk it." He glanced over at Egon, who lifted his eyes from the monitor screen and held him in his gaze. "I'm not trying to hotdog or get the glory, and I'm not trying to take crazy risks. And it's not because she's so gorgeous," Peter explained, striving to make it clear for the guys as well as for himself. "I think part of it is because she's so alone out there."

He made a wide gesture to encompass the surrounding woods. "And I can get into her head for that. Twenty years all alone. Oh, man, guys, that hurts to even think about it." Egon nodded, understanding. "And then there's the way she died. It's like she's pushing every single one of my buttons. Egon, I have to help her, even if she's a ghost. I just have to. I don't want to. I'm -- I'm scared to try. But I have to."

Egon nodded. "You're a brave man, Doctor Venkman," he said quietly. "But know this. If your biorhythms change by so much as a fraction the way they did when she made you relive her fall, I will yank you out of the link and that's final." "And we'll all help," Winston agreed. "I know the best way to find out is to get it right from the horse's mouth but not if it means trashing you."

"Okay, I'll try." Peter sat down on the bed again and closed his eyes. He felt Egon's hand on his arm, warm and reassuring, heard Ray moving nearby, felt the bed dip as Winston sat on his other side. His team was with him. He had that, no matter what else happened. He knew they'd pull him out before it went too far. He knew that. If it weren't for his certainty and his total trust in his friends, he wouldn't have been able to do this.

"Okay, Damita," he said softly. "Talk to me. I'm ready to listen."

Paul Dameron was younger, drastically different from the brooding man Peter had seen, the one who had only come to life when talking to Susan. He looked young, almost eager; he was singing, his head thrown back, totally lost in the music, like Eddie when he sang. Dameron and Damita were in the great hall downstairs, side by side before the fireplace, the mantle decorated with Halloween designs: a realistic skull at each end, with black candles lit atop each one, a huge jack-o-lantern positioned midway between them, a candle dancing inside.

People milled in the background, cocktail glasses in their hands, most of them in elaborate costume. Damita was garbed as a flapper, made up like someone from the Roaring Twenties. Her husband's costume was probably a costume out of an opera, doublet and hose, entirely in black and silver, a silver chain around his neck with a huge medallion mid-chest, a flowing hooded cape suspended from his shoulders. He had tossed one flap of it back over his shoulder as he sang. Egon might recognize what he was wearing. Damita's portrait had not yet been hung; in its place was a huge mirror, reflecting back the room.

Dameron was singing in Italian and most of the crowd had stopped to listen. Peter could feel Damita's love for her husband as she stood at his side, her fingers curled tightly around his. The man she loved had a wry and vivid sense of humor, an edge of eager anticipation, as if life was a wonderful smorgasbord to be sampled, tasted, savored. He had not yet become a cynic.

Music accompanied the singing. Max Rafferty, younger, thin as a fence post, his hair even longer than it was now, sat at a nearby grand piano that wasn't in the great hall today. His eyes gleamed with excitement and maybe a drink or two too many as his long fingers moved over the keys. This was the first time Peter had heard him play. Venkman might not know much about classical music, or any music, to hear the guys talk, but he could feel this music all the way to the soul. The man was damned good. But right then he was doing it almost as a throwaway, taking the back seat to his friend's singing as if he had nothing whatever to prove.

Michael was there too, a nearly unformed Michael, a shadow personality, drifting among the guests but not of them as if he had to maintain his position as employee in case they didn't. He wasn't in costume, not really, wearing a black turtleneck and pants but he had a cloak draped over his shoulders. Damita knew Paul had given it to him before the party officially started, to make it seem like he was costumed, even if he chose not to be. Peter could understand Damita's knowledge of him as if she had spoken aloud. Michael was hired help; then, if not now, he resented it. He had not wanted to be considered little better than a piece of furniture among the wealthy and important guests so he chose to act the quintessential servant, as if by choosing the role, he denied anyone the right to belittle him for it. He was young and touchy. All three men who were at the house now had been under thirty at the time of the party. Paul and Max had known each other forever, but Michael was a new addition.

Paul finished his song and flashed a smile at Damita. Peter, seeing through her eyes, couldn't help but be warmed by the charm of his rare smile. He knew the intimacy in the man's eyes was for his wife, but the charisma spilled over, touching anyone who was close enough to observe and feel it. "Happy?" the singer asked softly, speaking to her alone.

"Oh, Paul, yes. How could I not be happy?" It was true; her love for Paul Dameron permeated her being, bright as a neon sign to the inner observer. Yet Peter felt a flutter of alarm pulse through her.

"But something's wrong." He caught the tip of her chin with a graceful finger and tilted her face up to him. "Won't you tell me what it is?"

"Not now, not tonight, Paul. Besides, it's nothing. It won't matter, not to us. I promise you that."

"Nothing can ever come between us, you know that, don't you, love?"

She caught his hand in both of his and squeezed it. "Of course I know it, darling. Nothing ever could." Peter shivered. Something had come between them, and very soon, ending the magic which was so strong between them that he could almost taste it.

Max came through the crowd like an icebreaker breasting the Arctic, trailing adoring young females in his wake. He was so sublimely unaware of them -- or pretended to be -- that they rose to the challenge, desperate to tempt him, to lure him. His behavior was much more obviously affected then than it was in the present day, as if he were still feeling his way but determined to show the entire world that Max Rafferty was a great man. He had dressed like Napoleon for the party, a costume that probably suited the megalomaniac part of his nature; as he walked he tucked his hand into the jacket, an irritating affectation that he'd probably deny realizing he was doing. With his other hand, he swirled his cloak around his shoulders.

From Paul, such a gesture held an element of style. From Max, it said, 'Look at me. I'm wonderful.' Peter found him annoying, but then he found him annoying in the present day, too. He didn't like men so sure of their own worth. Egon would be sure to say he was seeing in others faults he denied in himself, but Egon was good at pointing out things like that in order to keep a good, strong rein on Peter's ego.

"Paul!" Max clapped his old friend on the back. "Excellent. Wasn't he wonderful, everyone?" He made a compelling gesture that said, 'Worship him, and while you're doing it, notice me too.'

But Paul clapped him on the shoulder. "Max, good friend, self-effacing doesn't become you. A hand for Max, everybody. He thrives on it."

Max gave him a mock-punch in the ribs; both men laughed, giving Peter a glimpse of their camaraderie that still existed today. Peter frowned at the trickle of uneasiness and regret that flowed through Damita. Unable to understand what was wrong, he realized he couldn't ask her directly. He could only wait for her to show him.

There was a dim awareness of Egon's fingers curled around his wrist and Winston's presence beside him, but it was like a dream. The images of that long-ago Halloween party were more vivid to him than the bedroom where he sat. Without the certainty of his friends' presence, the experience would have scared him like crazy, but there was a certain fascination in the glittering world he witnessed, a compulsion that made him determined to see it out. He couldn't help wondering if Egon's Milnes and Merrill were present, or if they'd even been famous then, but he wouldn't know them unless someone called them to his attention, and probably not even then.

Apparently the Damerons had just shared a private signal to circulate. Their hands clasped fervently, separated, as smiling, they parted and began to work their separate ways around the room. Dameron went left, Damita went right. Max followed Damita.

"It's no good, Max," she said in an undertone the moment her husband was out of earshot. "And you know it's not." "And you know why I persist," he said, his voice low and urgent. He caught up her hand and pressed her fingers. "Damita, I can't help it. It's like being swept away by the tide." He gestured widely with his other hand, nearly upsetting a glass on the tray Michael carried.

He didn't bother to apologize. Michael's face darkened, although he only bit his bottom lip and said nothing, whisking the tray out of danger with practiced ease. Damita tugged to free her fingers. Over the decades, Peter could feel the tightness of the man's grip.

"Oh, Max, don't. Please. You'll only hurt yourself in the end. I can't. It isn't in me. It will never be in me."

"Never is a long time, 'Mita. I won't go away. Maybe I won't press, but I won't quit either."

"It's no earthly good. I have the universe. I don't need an attendant sun, even one as special as you." She was trying to be kind, but kindness was not what Max Rafferty wanted from her.

Bingo! The lightbulb clicked for Peter; it probably would have clicked sooner if he hadn't been tangled up in Damita's emotions -- fastidious distaste, regret, pity, a gentle love that clearly wasn't the kind Max Rafferty wanted. He had been in love with Damita all those years ago. He might even, remarkably enough, have loved her more than he loved himself, and that was saying a lot. The love she felt in return was a sisterly thing because he was Paul's friend. She did care, but not the way he wanted her to. She had no more to give him than that; in addition, she felt very sorry for him, an emotion Max Rafferty would hate if he could be brought to believe in such an unlikely possibility. His ego was far too healthy to understand her regret. Could he have recognized the pity she felt for him and killed her for it?

"Damita, I must talk to you. Can't we meet? We're always in the midst of a crowd."

"It won't help, Max. Don't do this. Paul's your best friend. Don't try to -- to suborn me. I haven't really told him any of this. And I won't either. I won't come between you -- that would be an even greater sin than taking this seriously. I should never have listened to you. If I'd understood, I wouldn't have listened at all."

"But you did listen. You owe me a private talk. Just five minutes, 'Mita. Five minutes. Here, in this very house. Tonight."

"I won't creep away to a rendezvous, Max. I'll meet you, but I'll only say what I have been saying. I love Paul. I shall always love Paul. I need him. He needs me. You don't need me. You only want me. It's not the same."

"Give me those five minutes, 'Mita. Let me try to show you."

"It's no good," she insisted, struggling to keep the pity from her face. Peter was sorry she'd done that. If Max had seen it, it might have driven him away in shocked hauteur, shaken out of his passion in the face of her disdain, and she wouldn't have gone to a meeting that had led to her death. But Peter was here, but not here, not a part of that long-ago night, only a part of an echo. He couldn't change what had been done so long ago. But he could understand Rafferty's desperate emotion, Dameron's heartbreak over her death. There was something about her that he could feel too, even like this ...

"All right," she conceded; Peter winced, knowing the outcome. "The tower. Midnight. Five minutes, no more. And I'll say nothing but what I've said before. I'll do it in private, though. You do deserve that." She slipped her fingers free and took a step backward, her heart racing. Even now, Peter could feel her panic, in spite of the fact that Rafferty tossed his hair affectedly and moved over to the side of a beautiful blonde woman without looking back.

Was that the answer? Had it been Rafferty? Had he realized he would never have her and decided that if he couldn't no one could? Or was that too easy a solution? All kinds of tangled emotions pulsed through the night; even Peter, who fancied himself an expert on romance, might have trouble undoing the tangles. Damita turned abruptly, and found herself face to face with Michael, who stood, the now-empty tray tucked under one arm, as still as a statue. He was gazing at her with emotions all over his face. Young, inexperienced, out of his depth at the party, Michael watched her, his heart in his eyes. "He bothers you," he said awkwardly. "Do you want me to warn him off?"

"Oh, Michael dear, no." She patted his free arm, then took her hand back delicately as if she had realized what she was doing. The blind admiration and love in his face was painful to her. She had nothing to give him either, nothing but friendship and kindness, but she didn't fear his love. Maybe she knew he would grow out of it, given time. He wouldn't do anything about it either, never grab her and kiss her with desperate intensity the way Max had done on two separate occasions.

Peter got a flash of those two times, and he was experienced enough to know that passion could rise up even when it was unwise, even when someone loved another. Max had once evoked a brief flash of a physical response that Damita had controlled as soon as she felt it. It didn't mean she had stopped loving her husband or ever would, and it didn't mean she would ever act on it. But Max Rafferty clung to that one bit of purely instinctive physical reaction as proof he had hope. Damita had recognized it, understood it, come to terms with it, and set out to avoid its reappearance. She had even explained all that to Max, who had listened impassively and had told her he didn't believe a word of it.

"You aren't a woman to shun passion, Damita," he declared. Peter didn't think she was either, but she was wise enough to shun it with all but the man she loved.

Michael stood there, braced to defend her. "I won't have him bothering you," he said. "Mister Dameron wouldn't like it."

"Oh, Michael, no, don't say anything to Paul. It would break his heart to know his best friend wanted to betray him. Besides, Max really isn't thinking of betraying Paul. He'd do anything for Paul. He'd die for him. But he believes I encouraged him when all I encouraged was his friendship. You know, don't you, dear, that Paul is my entire universe? I will never betray him, not with any man."

Yet she had gone to meet with Max in secret. Would Michael, hot-blooded, in love with her, and devoted to his employer, have considered that a betrayal, not only of Paul but of him? Would he have followed her to the meeting place and made sure she never betrayed anyone again?

"I know you won't," he said fervently, devotion in his voice and his eyes.

She squeezed his arm. "You're a dear." The words could have been cruel, a throwaway line, a brush-off, but Damita was not cruel. She knew exactly what she was doing. Not dismissing his adoration, not brushing him off, but explaining to him the affection she did feel for him. He would not think it enough, but he knew her well enough not to take offense. Peter felt his admiration for her grow. She was a woman with a depth to her. He could understand all three men falling for her. He might have fallen for her himself -- well, if he hadn't been about fifteen when she died.

Michael understood. He might not yet be comfortable in Damita's world but he was learning. "I won't push you, ever," he swore, like a sacred oath. "You know that."

"Yes, I do. And now, I must circulate. I'm sorry, Michael."

"No, I am. You never promised anything." He made a hasty obeisance, like a servant of another era tugging a forelock, and swirled away to restock his tray before she could comment.

"I'm sorry," Damita said, under her breath, before she assumed a bright smile and moved on, speaking to a matronly woman with a massive chest who was wearing an improbable golden turban on her head.

The image faded; without warning, Peter was back in the bedroom.

"I don't know if I can explain it to you, but I want to try," Paul Dameron said to Susan Lee. "No, it's not a present tragedy. I don't wear sackcloth and ashes for Damita now. At the time, though, it was as if my heart had been ripped, still beating, out of my chest."

"She was lovely," Susan said quietly, honored by the confidence, fascinated by the intriguing man who offered it. He attracted her, had from the first; their enforced intimacy, as well as the problem of the ghost woman in the forest, had brought them to a deeper level of communication than most people normally achieve in a few hours. What was more, she had found nothing in him to dislike and everything to admire and enjoy.

She had halfway thought herself in love with Derek, but here was this compelling man who blew Derek from her mind like a hurricane. Susan had always considered her a down-to-earth woman and she knew part of her fascination for him was his fame, his dark past, the Heathcliff aspect of his nature. But it could be more. These things didn't happen overnight, but they didn't happen at all if one made no effort. She could go far deeper with Paul than Derek had it in himself to go. She had almost done that already. It wouldn't always be comfortable, and it wouldn't always make her happy. But if she allowed herself to know him better, she might have the chance of something oceans deep.

"Yes, but it wasn't that," Paul said. "There was something about her, an inner strength, a magnetism. Other men fell for her, too. I saw it in their eyes. I think Max was in love with her, too. He never said anything to me, and he would never seriously do anything about it except talk -- oh, he might try his hand but he wouldn't have gotten very far with her. But the attraction was there. Damita knew, I think, and she was very good. She never let him know she felt sorry for him about it. She wouldn't have hurt him like that."

Susan had made a pretty good assessment of Max Rafferty. Yes, he was Paul's best friend, but he also loved himself so much it was more than halfway to idolatry. He might honestly believe he'd put his friends or lovers first, but he wouldn't. He would always check around for the mirror when he walked into a room, so he could pay proper homage to the great god Rafferty.

Yet it was so blatant Susan couldn't help enjoying it, especially since he affected no false modesty. She was not drawn to Rafferty the way she was to Paul, but he made no effort to conceal his ego or be anything he wasn't. In effect, he constantly caricaturized himself.

What did she do?" she asked. "Did she have a career? I know that was twenty years ago, but women's lib was going on by then." The woman in the picture didn't seem the type to make a career out of being a famous man's wife, no matter how much she had evidently adored him.

"She was an interior decorator," Paul replied. "That's how we met. I had just bought the Park Avenue apartment and I wanted it redone. It had belonged to an aging Broadway actress, and everything was gilt paint, ruffles and Victorian clutter. Lampshades with bobbles. Horrid wallpaper. I liked the proportions of the rooms, and the view, and the location. But it was like living in another era. Someone recommended Damita to me, and she came. She stopped in the doorway and stared. Her mouth fell open. I remember noticing that even in a state of shock like that she was beautiful, even with her hair slicked back in a knot and horned rim glasses. Then she turned to me and we looked at each other and burst out laughing.

"She said, 'You need help in the worst possible way.' And it was crazy, it was inevitable, like the sun coming up in the morning. I'd always scorned love at first sight as something stupid that only lived in romance novels. But I knew. Just like that I knew. Later on, after I'd gone through all the proper courtship rituals so I wouldn't scare her off, she admitted it was the same with her. She said she wasn't scared; she hadn't been scared for a second, but when our eyes met she knew."

He gave a self-deprecating shrug. "It sounds silly when I tell it, but it wasn't silly."

"I don't know why people can't have moments of mutual recognition," Susan said. "When I met Janet, my best friend, I knew she was going to be my best friend in that very moment. Don't you think there's something that reaches across the gulf that separates one person from another? Not just pheremones, either, although I've known that feeling too. It's the way you know when you meet someone that they'll be important, just as when you meet other people there's nothing but conventional politeness. Most of our encounters are like ships that pass in the night. But sometimes --"

"Like the Titanic, you hit an iceberg."

Susan giggled. "Well, you have some kind of impact anyway. Your lives intertwine. And even if that's the only encounter, you never forget." She decided to ease off. This might be an iceberg encounter but she didn't want it to sink her. "Do you think the Ghostbusters will find out anything?"

"I hope they don't. Damita was so alive. Even after all these years, I can't bear the thought of her being condemned to wander like that. It just doesn't make any sense. If her ghost were here, why wouldn't she come to me? This is all so insane, Susan. Just insane. I feel like I've slipped between the pages of a horror novel. I halfway expect Stephen King to walk in at any minute."

"It seems odd to me, too," she said. "But I saw her, Paul. I'm an observant woman. In my job I have to pay attention to everything around me. I probably noticed more about her than any of the men did."

"Tell me." He scooped up her hand. "I'm not trying to dwell in the past or agonizing over her after all these years, except that I owe her something if she's trapped here. I loved her and I still love her, but I haven't been bound. There have been women since. None of them have measured up but it wasn't that I was out there with an imaginary yardstick. You just don't go soul-deep with everyone. True friends and true loves are rare and the space between them is as vast as the night between the stars."

Susan was charmed. Worse, she realized that she was rapidly becoming too charmed. This man was a charmer. He was a world-renowned opera star, the darling of millions. She was a flight attendant for a Canadian corporation. She hoped she had good Canadian common sense, but there was also a part of her no one had ever touched as deeply as this man had in just a few short hours.

She answered quickly, "Her hair was pulled back. She didn't have it loose like she did in the picture. She was wearing a cloak, a long one with a red satin lining. I couldn't see what she had on under it, but it almost seemed like period clothing. Like -- something a flapper would have worn. I didn't really notice it at the time. I'm dredging it up now."

Paul closed his eyes. "That's what she was wearing when she died. There had been a Halloween costume party. The house was full of guests, all of us more or less dressed up. I had on one of my opera costumes, I can't remember which. There's no way you could have known that."

"Probably not, though you do realize I could have looked you up."

"I know of no reason why you should. You could hardly plan a plane crash on my doorstep, Susan. Or the Ghostbusters, either. Nor would any sane person take such a risk. I know none of you are hoaxing me. And I can't imagine any woman, not even an obsessive groupie, who would frolic out there in the storm on the off chance a plane would crash and someone would see her. I've resisted because I didn't want to believe. But now I don't see what else could be happening."

She tightened her fingers around his hand. "It's something no sane person can imagine, Paul. I think we're very lucky to have the Ghostbusters here. I know them only fractionally better than you do, because I was on the flight with them. They did a good job for the corporation I work for, and they were nice to me on the plane. I believe them when they say they don't automatically want to bust every ghost." "Do you think she would ... talk to me?" There was a wistful, regretful note in his voice. "I never got to say goodbye to her. That always bothered me, even after I was back to normal, or as close as anyone can come."

"I don't know, Paul. Everyone needs closure. I know that's a trendy word these days but that doesn't make the need any less true."

"I have to know why she did it. I've gone over it in my mind so many times. I loved her. I know she loved me. She was healthy. She was happy. We had begun to talk of starting a family. I had a European tour coming up and she was as excited as a child about going to Rome. That was our main stop. It was a Verdi tour. He always wrote good baritone roles. We were to do Rome, Florence, Venice, then on to Germany. She had been to France and England, but all those places were new to her, and she was thrilled. She had been taking lessons in Italian to plan for it. I can't believe, even now, that she killed herself."

Susan didn't mean to say what came out next, but the words escaped involuntarily, possibly because she'd been thinking it a long time. "Maybe she didn't."

Paul froze. "What the hell do you mean?" he blurted, then he gentled his voice as if he knew he had frightened her. "I'm sorry. My god, Susan, do you know what you are suggesting?"

"No, I'm not saying murder. It could have been an accident." But she had said it. The word had come out anyway. "I haven't been up there. I don't know how it happened but obviously the coroner had evidence. Only might she not have simply fallen? Maybe people had been drinking at the party, not enough to make her drunk, but to make her a little lightheaded. She could have gone up there for fresh air, leaned over a bit, and fallen." She frowned. "There was a bruise on the side of her face ..."

He let go of her hand and grasped her upper arms in a vice-like grip. "What are you saying now?"

"I don't know, Paul. I don't know. Only what I saw. Perhaps she bumped her head on a stone projection and then fell. You say you can't believe suicide. No one heard her fall, did they?"

"No. Later on, someone said they thought they'd heard a bird calling -- and it might have been a cry. Two men went out to smoke cigars around twelve-thirty, and they found her." He let her go and stood up, turning away abruptly. "You say 'accident.' And I can't imagine any reason for anyone to want to harm her on purpose. But you're thinking murder. I know you are."

"Not ... really. I don't want to think that. It's a horrible thing to think. But from what you've said, I can't think suicide either."

"You saw a bruise. Yet when we reached her side, she was broken everywhere. One bruise would have been lost in -- in what was left. Max tried to stop me seeing her, but I had to see her. I had to know. That image haunted my dreams for almost a year. I think I went a little mad. If not for Max, I might have. He put aside all that ego he waves around, canceled concert tours, stayed with me, the whole time.

"Between them, he and Michael pulled me out of it. Max even wrote an opera for me. He composes, but usually only instrumental music. He worked a bit with several lyricists, but in the end a large portion of the libretto was mostly his. You see Max as a vain man. But I've known him all my life. It's thanks to him I went back to singing. I couldn't sing for a long time after Damita died. I'd try, and I'd see her broken body, and everything would dry up."

Susan rose and followed him, catching his arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to have to relive it."

"The minute she appeared it was inevitable I relive it," he said. "You have done nothing wrong, and I shall never hold this against you. I don't believe I could hold anything against you." He spared her a smile that was for her alone. "But now I can't wait any longer. I must find out what happened. I must go and find the Ghostbusters."

"Shall I come with you?"

"I hope you will," he said and held out his hand to her, and she put hers into his as if sealing a pact.

"It was a big party," Peter commented. He'd been trying to capture the mood of the whole thing, the emotions, the reactions, all the subliminal things he'd picked up, and it was hard to put it all together. So much of it had been Damita's feelings, and they had escaped him when he came out of the link, leaving only fleeting images. "But Dameron was there, and Rafferty, and Michael, and all three of them were madly in love with her. Max was even trying to get her to consent to something, a fling, or even leaving Paul for him. She wouldn't have any part of it. But she agreed to meet him on the tower."

"You mean it was Max who killed her?" Ray gasped.

Peter shook his head. "No. She didn't see who killed her. Yes, she had a rendezvous with him, and yes, she was going to give him the big brush-off in private. But the way Paul and Michael were watching her all that evening, either of them could have followed her up there. With all that emotion floating around, any one of them could have gone over the top and lost control for a minute."

"Or it could have been anyone else at the party," Winston put in. "Okay, so all three of them loved her, and maybe that gave them all motives. If Paul thought she was sneaking off with another man, or Max knew she was going to give him the boot, or even Michael, who might have thought she was going to betray his boss with Max -- and not with him. But there were a lot of people there. The booze was probably flowing pretty hard. Probably not drugs so much, although they could have been. It was 1973. Lots of parties back then probably had access. Not that it was a drunken revel or full of potheads or anything. But someone could have been drunk or high, followed her up there, and killed her. It could have even been an accident. Somebody came on to her, she struggled and he pushed her over."

Peter shook his head. "No. Remember I went through it a few times?" He shivered involuntarily at the memory. "It might have been that somebody would have liked to come on to her, but I don't think so. Whoever it was went up there for one reason, to kill her and he did it without even speaking; he hit her once to stun her but it didn't knock her out, just made it hard to fight. She had expected Rafferty, but that doesn't mean it was him. I'd like it to be him. He's so full of himself maybe he couldn't take the rejection. But Damita really doesn't know."

"Gosh, poor Damita," Ray said, eyes full of sympathy. "How awful. Especially when it sounds like she was so nice."

'Nice' was such an inadequate word for her. Peter could understand all too well how the three men might have loved her. He grinned. "Yeah, Ray, she was nice. She was world-class. And now we've gotta help her."

"The readings were very strong when you were linked with her, Peter," Egon said. "Your biorhythms were stable, but Ray said the class four readings nearly went off the scale. It was as if she was with you. We didn't see her, and you weren't possessed, but she was almost here."

"Can you ask her direct questions, Pete?" asked Winston. "Man, I hope we don't have to bust her. This is one ghost doesn't deserve busting."

"I've tried," Peter said. "If we could get her to materialize in here, I think we could talk to her, but unless we can, the only way she can do it is the instant home movie in my brain." He stood up and stretched; it was not a good idea. While he'd sat there absorbed in the images Damita had shown him, his aching body had stiffened up. Wincing, he tried again. "Ow."

"Did she hurt you, Peter?" Egon demanded anxiously.

"No, the plane crash did. Relax, Egon, I'm not possessed. You just said so. I don't even have a headache now, or at least just a vague memory of a headache behind my eyes. We've gotta talk to her."

"Yeah," agreed Winston. "Because in case you haven't thought of it, we've got a major problem here, guys. We're stranded, the phone's out, Susan's cell phone is dead, and we're stuck on unfamiliar territory with three guys, one of whom just might be a murderer. And we're Ghostbusters. The most likely guys in the world to have a psychic hotline to ghosts. If Pete's little recap is on the money, she was killed. And the murderer doesn't know she didn't see who did it. But he's kept his secret for twenty years. He's not going to be happy with us right about now."

"Oh, great," Peter wailed. "You mean we better be careful tonight when we go to bed, because I was gonna sleep like the dead -- and now just maybe that might be the worst choice of words?"

"We'll have to double up, take turns watching," Ray suggested.

"And watch Susan and Derek too?" Egon asked. "They saw Damita, just like we did. The murderer doesn't know that we didn't find out who he was. If Damita had rushed up to us in the woods and named her killer, the last thing we'd do is admit it until we were sure we were safe. But can he take that risk?"

"Yeah, guys, and here's something else I don't like," Peter said. "We're already officially missing in the crash. What if we just vanish? No one's going to trace us here."

"Yeah, but the house is near the plane," Ray objected. He glanced uneasily at the door. "Eddie's here, too, and Mrs. Potter. Unless the murderer kills everybody, we've got witnesses."

"We'd better find Eddie," Egon said, gathering up his proton pack and putting it on. "Get your packs, guys. I know they won't feel very well when we're all so sore, but they'll feel better than dying will."

hey moved from room to room en masse, not because they feared the murderer would spring out and blow them away, but because the eerie atmosphere had intensified their discomfort. No one disturbed them; the halls were empty.

"You said something just now that worries me," Egon told Peter as Venkman donned his pack.

"Yeah, Spengs? I said a lot that worried me. Which particular little nasty tripped your trigger?"

"You said we were missing. By now, that plane has been reported as crashed. The Pittsburgh tower knows what flight it was. Someone will have contacted Danelli and it's probably known by now that we were on it. Janine will have heard. And my mother."

"My folks," Winston added in dismay.

"Gosh, Aunt Lois!" Ray glanced around. "And we can't contact them. I bet search planes can't even be out in that thunderstorm. And now it's snowing. The wreckage might be buried until spring."

"Don't be such a pollyanna, Ray," Peter chided. "Come on, guys, we're not officially dead, just missing. Yeah, it's rough for them, but we can't do anything about that right now. What we have to do is stay alive until we *can* get out of here. And we'd better make sure nobody's off alone with one of the suspects."

Eddie Plummer was alone with two of the suspects; but since he had no idea Max Rafferty was a suspect and was scarcely aware of the presence of Michael, who was sitting quietly in the corner listening to whatever music was produced, the fact didn't bother him. Michael could be so self-effacing as to appear nonexistent, and he'd played audience since his arrival. Eddie and Max had met before; nor was this planned concert the first time they had performed together. They'd appeared at the London Palladium together once; and if they had not become friends, they had appreciated each other's abilities. They were talking concert tours and music, since both of them were musicians.

Although Eddie was no concert quality pianist, he did play better than most people even if his instrument of choice was the guitar. In spite of the fact that some people -- including Max Rafferty --considered rock and roll just noise, Eddie was both a gifted singer with a superb voice and a fine guitarist, and Max had realized that. Since Eddie was not in competition with him, he seemed perfectly happy in awarding Eddie the respect that his talent deserved.

"Red Rocks," he was saying. "Natural acoustics. I did a concert there with the Denver Symphony. Excellent."

"I know; I've been there, too," Eddie replied. "Whitney loved it. If we hadn't bought Segue, we might have considered living in Colorado, up in the mountains. But Segue is just more convenient. You were there once."

Max nodded, his thoughts clearly far away. "Eddie, listen. You know the Ghostbusters. Spengler's your cousin. Are they honestly for real?"

At that, Michael stirred slightly, causing both men to glance in his direction before they resumed the conversation. "Yes, they're for real," Eddie insisted hotly. "I've got a Ph.D. in physics -- my father wanted me to go into a science career and I honestly tried it for a while but it didn't work. But I've got the training. I've studied their equipment and understand the theory behind it. And I've seen them at work on three separate occasions. Ghosts are real and so are they. We had two ghosts at Segue." He smiled reminiscently. "They were minding their own business until I had a party up there and stirred them up. We had the Ghostbusters up and they dealt with them."

"Trapped them?" Michael asked as if he were interested in spite of himself.

"No. I have seen them trap entities, but this time it was different. The daughter of the house had fallen in love with a man her father didn't like. He wouldn't consent to their marriage, so when the lover came, he tried to drive him off. The daughter heard the fight and came running to the second floor balcony -- and the railing gave way. She fell, and the fall killed her. The father went mad and shot her lover and disposed of the bodies. No one ever knew how they'd died."

"So what are the Ghostbusters, mind readers?" Max questioned. "Sounds like they made up a good tale."

"Actually Peter figured it out," Eddie replied. "You don't know him yet. He's a little hard to know. You think what you see is what you get with him, but it's not. He's pretty good at snowing people into lowering their guard around him when he needs to. He's really a gifted psychologist -- he has a Ph.D. in psychology. He got the lover's ghost to talk, reasoned out the story, and found a way to reunite them. Once that happened they were able to -- well, go wherever ghosts go when they stop haunting. The Ghostbusters call it 'dispersing peacefully.'"

He gradually became aware of both men staring at him in shock. "Do you mean he will try to talk to Damita?" Max asked after a stunned pause. His expression had stilled, concealing what he might have felt on the subject. Michael just gaped at them, eyes blank with astonishment.

"Talk to Damita?" he echoed, clearly stunned at the possibility.

Eddie frowned at their responses. The woman had been dead twenty years, but he must have been special to affect them like this after such a long time. These men weren't used to ghosts, of course. Maybe that was it. But they carefully avoided each other's eyes. That raised another set of questions. Eddie decided he'd better tell Egon and the others about their reactions the first chance he got.

"I don't know if they'll talk to her or not," he answered carefully. "From what they said, she doesn't come to the house. And it's been snowing for nearly an hour. I know if I'd just been in a plane crash, I sure wouldn't want to go out at night in the snow. With all that rain we had first, it's probably slippery, too."

"They won't hold a seance?" Michael asked.

"I can't remember ever hearing that the guys held seances. I remember they said they went to one once, but mostly because they knew it would be phony and they wanted to protect Ray's aunt, who bought into a lot of weird spiritualism. They might try to get the ghost to appear, but not in anything like a seance."

"I attended a seance once," Max announced dramatically. "And a more ridiculous event I have never seen. The medium had a spirit guide, an ancient Aztec warrior, who talked the way Indians talked in movies from the forties and fifties. 'Ugh,' and 'How,' and that kind of ludicrous rubbish. The suckers ate it up. I do have to give the medium credit for her skill in playing upon their gullibility. She'd make a generic statement in such a way that someone in the crowd was sure to fall for it, and then she'd play back the clues. They were all fools."

Max Rafferty seemed to consider most other mortals fools, but Eddie knew what he meant. Sometimes people simply wanted to believe so bad ly that they let their normal reason take a back seat. He'd wondered if anyone here wanted to see Damita so badly that he would go along with anything that was said. Not that Paul Dameron seemed the type. Eddie hadn't known him long, but he should have said Dameron was a well-balanced individual, somewhat given to dark humors, but no longer agonizing over his wife's long-ago death.

Naturally the thought that she was a ghost was bound to upset him; it would upset anyone. He hadn't let it dominate him; and from the smiles he'd been sharing with the pretty Susan all through dinner, he'd gone on with his life, once his grieving was finished. He was older than Susan, whom Eddie judged to be about thirty-five at most. But then Eddie was a few years older than Whitney, and it hadn't hurt their marriage. Whitney was his soulmate as well as wife and lover.

Everything he'd heard about Paul Dameron indicated Damita had been his soulmate. That might be a hard act for Susan to follow.

"So you think the Ghostbusters will be able to find out why Damita's out lurking in the woods?" Max continued. He tossed his hair back from his forehead, the affected gesture automatic now.

He'd loved her too, Eddie realized. Over the years, he'd probably built up the feelings and memorialized them into a great lost love, like the fish that had got away taking on the proportions of a whale. People did that. Max had never married, but Eddie had the feeling he'd never found anyone he could love as much as he loved himself. He'd certainly had affairs, relationships, because he would crave adulation. But any woman with sense would have broken it off after a while, knowing she was nothing more than a mirror to reflect Max's glory.

Oddly enough, Eddie liked Max in spite of that. He understood the man's ego, even though his own was surprisingly small in comparison. Singing had been important to Eddie, never the fame that went with it. He sang because not to sing was to die inside, and would have sung alone, with no audience at all. That he had fans, followers, only meant he could share the music with them. Yet everything Max did was a performance. He was always conscious of the reactions of others as if he needed them to give proof of his greatness. The man was a genius at the keyboard; he had the soul of a musician. But Max needed the adulation to feed his soul, whereas for Eddie, the music itself was self-replenishing. Yet to hear him play was worth dealing with the ego. Eddie could forgive him all of it when he sat down at the piano.

"If anyone can find out why she's here, they can," Eddie replied. "I wonder if they've learned anything yet. Egon was going to take readings."

"So what do they do?" Michael asked, standing up as if he wanted to go and watch. "Wander around the house with their equipment?"

"I don't think they've got much equipment with them. Their proton packs and traps, Egon said. And probably a couple of P.K.E. meters. Their equipment is valuable and dangerous. They would have brought what they could with them instead of leaving it in the wreckage, but they wouldn't have loaded themselves down unnecessarily."

"Do you think they'd mind if I went along to see if I could help them?" Michael mused. "I remember Damita. She was still alive when I started working for Max. I hate to think of her ghost wandering the earth."

"I don't think they'd mind at all," Eddie replied. "Peter loves an audience -- he's like you that way, Max."

Rafferty gave them a deprecating smile. "No one is 'like me', Eddie. But I know what you mean. A rather cocky little bantam, Venkman. Hard to believe he's a psychologist."

"I assure you he's an excellent one. I know from personal experience. Once I had a demon groupie. She stole my baby son. The Ghostbusters never stopped trying to help me for an instant." He remembered the agony of that time, and the one thing he remembered was talking to Peter Venkman through a lonely interval while the other Ghostbusters sought a missing Egon in the Netherworld. He would trust Peter and the other Ghostbusters to the death. He said so.

"This will all be hard on Paul," Max declared.

Michael headed for the door. "I'll see what I can find out," he said and disappeared.

"You've known Paul a long time," Eddie observed.

"All his life. The two of us were 'different' when we were schoolboys, me with the piano and him with his singing, and we banded together out of self-defense at first. Over the years, he's been the only friend who lasted. I know you think I have an ego the size of Cleveland, and it's true, I do. I cultivate it, enjoy it, live for it. But if Paul needed me, I'd leave that all behind. I owe him more than I can ever say. So if there's any scam involved in this, I'll make sure whoever is responsible pays for it."

His voice shook with intensity. "I've got two things that really matter in my life. My music and my friend. They're all I've ever really needed. I'm not talking about transitory things I've wanted, women I've slept with, even money. None of that ever meant what my music and my friend meant. Yes, I thrive on the applause, the adulation. But if Paul needed me, I'd cancel a concert to help him."

Eddie could tell that he meant every word. "Then it's good you're here now," he said.

"And I mean to stay until this is finished," Max stated flatly. "Shall we go through the aria again?" Obviously the time for true confessions was over, Eddie realized. "We have a lot of work to do. Your style is coming on but you have work to do. This is different from your usual concerts."

"I know. I love it though," Eddie replied and prepared himself to sing.

Paul and Susan went upstairs together to try to find the Ghostbusters, but when they reached the rooms the men had been assigned, the team had come and gone. "Where do you think they are?" Paul asked.

"Probably exploring the house. They have to run tests. I'm friends with one of the executives at Danelli and she told me they went all over the building with their P.K.E. meters to check out the place and find out where the ghosts are. They probably started at the top and will work their way down. Maybe we should just wait for them to come to us."

Clearly Paul wasn't eager to wait, but he controlled his impatience. "All right. We'll let them do their jobs. If they don't show up soon, we'll try again. Come downstairs with me." She nodded and followed him.

They had no sooner returned downstairs when the Ghostbusters emerged from the door to the attics and stood looking around. "We should check the tower itself," Egon decided. "I wonder where it is?"

"It's in the front of the house," Winston reminded him. "So it should be one of the south-side doors. Somewhere along here." He started down the hall and stopped nearly directly across from Peter's room. The huge, ribbed door rose to a point to fit into the arch, distinguishing it from the bedroom doors which were the normal shape. "I bet good money it's this one," he said, pulling it open.

A row of steep stone stairs led up into darkness in a spiral as tight as the stairs that led to the third floor of Ghostbuster Central. Peter shivered, both at the sight of them and all the chill breath of wind that wafted down to them. "Well, I'm not gonna go up there," he muttered under his breath.

Winston felt on the inside wall and light sprang up, illuminating the worn stone more clearly, but the passage up was still in shadow.

"We must check it out, Peter," Egon replied. "If she can come anywhere, it might be up there. I believe we should go to the top. You can wait inside if you prefer it, but we might need you to try to contact her." He caught Peter's eye sympathetically. "I can understand why you don't like it, but you needn't come outside, Peter."

"No, I'll come," he agreed, trying to conceal his reluctance. "If she's up there, she might talk to me. You guys need me on the job." He plunged into the stairwell determinedly.

"Is he all right?" he heard Ray ask Egon as the other three fell in behind him.

"He will be," Egon replied. "We'll make sure of that."

"And make sure she doesn't influence him when he's up there," Winston put in. Peter stopped and glanced back at him to find all three men staring at him.

"Don't stare at me as if I have a new eye in the middle of my forehead," Peter said uncomfortably. "I'm not possessed, really. Ican't feel her now." It wasn't entirely true. What else was his vast discomfort if not the edge of her memories. He meant he wasn't compelled, he wasn't seeing new images. If only that would be enough.

The stairs went up and up, each one reminding him how sore he was from the wild buffeting of the plane crash. This was a job that might be best left till morning. He said so.

"No, we'd better check now," Egon corrected. "While you are not possessed, Peter, you are influenced to a degree. I want that resolved as soon as possible."

"You and me both, Spengs, you and me both."

"And I want this murder thing solved," said Winston. "I don't think any of us are targets, but with Damita popping up, the killer might get uncomfortable."

"We don't know it's somebody here," Ray argued but without conviction.

Peter grabbed the railing and used it to pull himself upward. They soon passed a door like the one downstairs that must open onto the third floor. It was shut but when Winston tried it, it opened easily onto a dark corridor. He pulled it closed again.

"Why do we always wind up going up stairs when we're were wearing our proton packs?" Peter demanded, grateful for the momentary respite. "It's never down, it's always about a zillion flights up. It's not fair."

"We're nearly there, Peter," Ray called reassuringly. "Somehow, Ray, that doesn't thrill me either." Peter rounded the last turn of the spiral and found himself confronting another ribbed, arched doorway with a latch instead of a doorknob. He reached out and opened it; the door swung outward with a squeak of springs that badly needed oiling.

Peter stepped out onto the small platform that ran in a circle around the tower. A waist-high balustrade provided protection for anyone who chose to come out into the night. Snow slickened the stones beneath his feet, causing him to skid to a dramatic stop against the rail. Below him, the vast drop so familiar from the link, even whitened as it was, spread out.

His stomach lurched and he blundered backward with a panicked shout, colliding with Egon in his haste to return to the stairwell, eyes squeezed tightly shut so he didn't have to see. "Lemme out of here, I can't be up here," he said urgently.

Egon's hand caught his arm and he guided Peter back to the safety of the stairs. "It's all right, Peter. You wait for us in there," he rumbled soothingly. "I should have expected something like this."

"What, that I'd freak?" Peter asked, uncomfortable now that he was safe and could imagine how he must have looked.

"Gosh, Peter, how could you not freak?" Ray asked. He sounded understanding, too. "She made you relive her death."

"I thought it possible you'd find a catharsis coming up here," Egon justified himself. "But I don't think that can happen until we resolve the situation. It's all right, Peter. Let us take readings, and then we'll go down again."

Peter felt much safer inside the stairs. From there he could stare out into the snowfilled night without the swoop and lurch in his stomach, without the sheer, desperate panic left over from Damita's memories. He'd never liked heights anyway, but this one came with a lot of really nasty baggage. "Go ahead," he called. "I'll just wait here, out of the snow."

Winston turned and grinned at him encouragingly. "Do you think you could summon Damita? Would she come here even if she won't come into the house?"

Given a task to do, Peter no longer felt so useless. As Egon and Ray moved around taking readings, he closed his eyes again and thought of the dead woman, trying to reach her and summon her up. There was a faint, distant awareness, but no more than that. It was tinged with a horrified reluctance, though, and Peter suddenly realized it would be no easier for her than it had been for him. Worse, even.

"She won't come here," he announced. "It'd be rough for her. We'll have to go outside later, and reach her that way."

"Very well," Egon replied. "All right, I'm not getting anything, not even residuals here. We may as well go down."

Needing no second urging, Peter turned and clattered down the stairs, the discomfort receding the further he descended. When they were back on the second floor, he heaved a couple of deep breaths. "That wasn't fun."

"I'm sorry you went up there, Peter," Egon told him.

"Me too, Spengs. But maybe it's just as well. That's the worst it's gonna be, and I got through it -- sorta." He grinned weakly. "So how about we go and do something Uncle Peter can do without getting sick?"

"Deal, Peter," Ray agreed, patting him on the arm. "We haven't been able to get readings. I think we need to talk to the people who were here at the time."

"Yo, Eddie!" Peter caroled from the door. He had heard the singing all the way down the hall, that Italian stuff he didn't understand. Nothing as approachable as Eddie's most famous song, Leftover Souls. But it was still Eddie's mellow baritone.

Rafferty's fingers crashed on the keyboard and he favored them with a glance that held no welcome at all. "We were rehearsing, Doctor Venkman."

"Yeah, and very nicely, too. Good work. You've got a real future ahead of you in accompanying." Great, that crack had bugged him, Peter thought as he watched Max's face tighten up. Now they'd never get any information out of him. "We've been getting some readings," he added quickly.

That made Rafferty lift his head. "She's here?" he asked breathlessly.

"Not in the building per se," Egon corrected quickly. "We've just done a quick scan of the upper stories, even the tower where she fell. Nothing but residuals."

"Does that mean she comes and goes?" asked Eddie. "Or just that for some reason she doesn't come inside? What would have made her take her own life? Everything I've ever heard about her said she was happily married."

The Ghostbusters exchanged glances. They knew they could tell Eddie the truth about what had happened; but Peter wasn't prepared to tell Max, who was, in his opinion, the leading contender for Damita's murderer. He was the one who had known she would be up in the tower, he was the one Damita had expected.

On the other hand, if someone else had followed her there, such as her husband, her words as she turned would have convinced him his wife had come up here to rendezvous with another man. Even if they should have proven she didn't intend to begin a relationship with Max, Paul might have been too distraught to listen. He might have acted in blind betrayal, only later realizing what she had said.

Peter didn't trust Max at all. But Damita trusted Paul. Had she been misleading herself all these years? And they had to consider Michael. He might easily have heard Damita plan the rendezvous with Max. He had loved her, too. Peter could make a case for any of the three. Harder to imagine one of the other party guests doing it, although not impossible.

"I think she remains outside," Egon replied. "She did say in the forest that she could not come here. She didn't say why, and at the time we didn't have a meter activated, so we couldn't tell she was a ghost, not when she appeared solid."

"Because she took her own life?" Max queried. Peter had to give him credit; he appeared deeply upset.

"There do appear to be restrictions on the ghosts of people who have committed suicide," Egon replied.

"Yeah," agreed Ray. "We've seen a few. I always feel bad when we find ghosts like that. Sometimes Peter can talk to them and help them, but sometimes there's nothing we can do but bust them."

"Each ghost is different," Winston agreed. "I was a skeptic when I took the job, but I've seen too much now to doubt anything I see. If we can help Damita, we'll do it."

Peter was glad they'd all agreed not to mention the truth of Damita's death until they knew more. He wasn't sure how Rafferty would react.

"What do you do next?" Eddie asked.

"We have to find a way to contact her," Egon explained.

"A seance." Max shook his head. "I knew it. They're going to have a seance. This is ludicrous."

"No, not a seance," Egon replied. "Perhaps we will venture outside. Or we may find a way to lure her inside."

It was weird, thought Peter. Here they were in a spooky old house, and there was a ghost, but finding and trapping her had ceased to be their prime motivation. They had become 'Crimebusters' again. Peter knew Winston had ideas of talking to each of the suspects in private. But it was getting late, nearly nine-thirty. Normally a night person, Peter didn't usually find that late; but he'd been through a plane crash and he ached all over not to mention the weird link with Damita.

Ray's enthusiastic nature was the only thing keeping him going, and both Egon and Winston were tired. Peter's headache had never completely gone away and he knew it would take a refreshing sleep to put it to rest. Only how could any of them get a refreshing sleep when there was a murderer in the house who might consider the Ghostbusters a threat to his twenty years of safety? This wasn't fun. None of the things that had happened today had been fun.

Still, talking to the suspects had to start somewhere, so he gave Winston the high sign. Zeddemore nodded.

"Maybe you can help us, Mister Rafferty," he began. "You were here then, weren't you, when Damita died?"

"Yes, I was here." His eyes narrowed abruptly. "How did you know that?"

Winston shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe I just assumed it. Maybe somebody said something. Does it matter?"

Max's shoulders lifted in an elaborate shrug that made Winston's look like a mere twitch. "Of course not. I remember the night vividly. Paul and Damita threw a Halloween party. It was held the day before Halloween--I think there had been plans to go somewhere on the thirty-first, a performance, something. I can't remember. She died after midnight, actually on Halloween. The press liked that. They splashed it all over the headlines. Disgusting."

He probably meant it was disgusting there were headlines he wasn't in, Peter thought cynically.

"It must have been hard for you. You knew her." Ray's sympathy startled Rafferty who gave the youngest Ghostbuster a doubtful glance.

"Yes, I knew her. I remember when Paul introduced me to her. He'd known her two weeks then, and already they were inseparable. Until he met her, he'd never given women more than a casual glance. He dated, of course, but it never meant as much as his singing. Damita did. I watched them carefully at first. I wanted to make sure she was good enough for him. She was."

That was unexpected. Peter had decided to hold back and not take any part of the questioning. Max annoyed him so much he'd probably say something wrong and irritate him. But Max meant that. He'd worried for his friend. Maybe there was a better side to him after all.

Yeah, right, Venkman. He's got a better side, all right. He tried to steal his best friend's wife. He's a real sweetheart.

"How long were they married when she died?" Winston asked, his voice carefully neutral.

"Maybe four years. He was twenty-three when they met. She was the same age as Paul. She'd graduated from Wellesley and was working for a Manhattan firm of interior decorators. She was twenty-seven when she died."

"Does anyone have any idea why she wanted to end her own life?" Winston prompted.

"What does that have to do with anything -- and how is it your business?" Max demanded coldly.

"It might help us to contact her, or to understand her," Peter said, jumping in despite his intention to stay in the background. This was the kind of question he could answer best. "She's lingering as a ghost. That means something's keeping her here. If we knew about anything that was bothering her, maybe we could help her. You know, talk to her about it?"

Max cringed. "I'm not sure I believe any of this, even if Eddie says you four are on the level. But I'm even less sure I want to see Damita like that. We were all a little in love with her back then. Me, Michael Paris, Paul's agent, half the bookers and backers. She was special. But I talked to Michael about it after her death. He said he couldn't believe she killed herself either. We didn't accept the coroner's report. We think she fell by accident. She'd had one or two drinks, but she was not a woman who drank, as a rule. Perhaps she was dizzy and fell."

"We were just up there," Egon said, pointing upward. "The parapet is waist high on an adult male. Damita seemed fairly short when we saw her. I think it would be very difficult for her to have fallen accidentally and the space between the balusters is too small for a person to fit through."

"That's why they ruled it suicide," Max admitted. "But I still can't accept that. Damita wouldn't have killed herself. If something was wrong that would have disturbed her that deeply, she would have fought back. She wouldn't have given up. The autopsy didn't reveal any drugs in her system or any health conditions she might have known about and failed to admit, such as a fatal cancer. She had been healthy. She was in love with her husband. She would never have done it. Ask anyone who know her, and they will say the same."

"Then you believe she fell accidentally?" Winston's question demanded a straight, unequivocal answer.

Rafferty's eyes flickered. Peter couldn't tell what he was hiding, but the man was hiding something. Did he know who had done it? Was he protecting someone? Or was he covering his own actions? He might protect his friend. If Paul had killed his wife, would Max cover for him? Peter was sure he would. He glanced at Egon, who nodded slightly. He'd observed the reaction as well.

"I think she had to fall accidentally. I know how high the rail is. I was up there. I went to see." He shook his head, causing the long black locks to fall into his eyes. Brushing it back with a casual hand, he said, "I couldn't let Paul go up there. I know how high the balustrade was; it's true that Damita was short, only five foot three. But I think she fell. Maybe something made her climb up on the railing, although I can't imagine what it would be. But she fell accidentally. She did not take her own life. I hated it that the world thought she killed herself. It wasn't true."

"It's all right, Max," Eddie said, clasping the pianist's shoulder in quick sympathy. "The guys will help her."

"I hope so. Because this is going to tear Paul apart."

"That guy's got something to hide," Winston declared when they had left the room.

Eddie had accompanied them, leaving Max at the keyboard. Cascades of sound followed them down the hall, harsh, grating music, as if the musician were tearing himself up inside and pouring it out in the only way he could.

"Think he did it?" Peter asked. "You're the mystery expert, Winston, my man. Come on, give."

"I don't know if he did or not yet," Winston replied.

"Did it?" Eddie stopped walking abruptly and stared at him open-mouthed. "What do you mean, did it?"

"Damita was pushed off the tower," Peter said. "Believe me, I know. She showed it to me in my mind. Over and over, all the way down to the ground. Well, almost all the way. Talk about an e-ticket ride."

"Damita was murdered?" Eddie blurted in astonishment as they reached the main staircase and started down the stairs. "God, I never thought of that. I thought Max was just insisting it was an accident because he didn't want Paul to think it was suicide. Who did it? Not Max?"

"We don't know who did it," Egon replied. "Damita only saw a dark form."

"But we've got three candidates, and here comes one of them now." Peter gestured towards Paul Dameron, who had emerged from the great hall, Susan Lee at his side. The Ghostbusters and Eddie hurried down the remaining steps to join them.

"Paul? Impossible," Eddie insisted in a hoarse whisper. "He couldn't have done it." He fell silent as the opera singer came within earshot.

"Gentlemen?" Paul nodded at them in greeting. "Have you learned anything? We searched for you earlier but we must have missed you."

"Not yet," Egon said, holding up the P.K.E. meter for Paul to see. "We've detected residuals, but not within the house. To see her face to face, we may have to go outside."

Paul blanched. "See her face to face? I'm not sure I can handle that. Even after all this time, I don't think I could see her and not remember ... finding her."

An old grief? Or an old guilt? Peter didn't know which. He hoped Winston would come up with an answer. He could always figure out what was going on in books and mysteries. Guessing 'whodunit' before the end of a movie, book, or TV program was what he did best. But he had more clues than this when he read those books. So far all the Ghostbusters had was a glimpse through the victim's eyes.

Judging from his next question, maybe Winston was planning the next step to gather more information. "Mister Dameron, I know it's been twenty years and the memories of the night she died are not good ones, but would it be possible to hear what happened from you?"

"Why?" demanded Susan, planting herself defensively at Dameron's side. Peter recognized the protective stance. She was on the verge of falling for him. Poor Derek, sleeping away upstairs never suspecting he'd wake up to a whole new world, one that wasn't going the way he hoped it would.

"Because if we understand what happened, we'll know what to say to her when we finally see her," Egon explained patiently. "Mister Dameron, your wife's spirit can't rest. We want to help her move on. I'm sure that's your wish, too. Yes, this is painful for you, but it's been painful for her for twenty years."

Paul lifted his hands and hid his face in them for a shaken moment, then he lowered them. His eyes were full of pain but his chin was tight with determination. "Very well. Come into one of the sitting rooms where we can be comfortable, and I'll tell you what I remember of that night. This is a nightmare. It's been a nightmare from the beginning. Damita and I loved each other. I never could believe she would take her life, in spite of the findings of the coroner." He waved them toward a salon the room where Ray had watched Star Wars on tape and everyone fell into step.

When they were settled into comfortable chairs in the small sitting room, surrounded by patterned wallpaper and dark paneling, a fire crackling in a fireplace smaller than the one in the great hall, Paul gestured for them to begin. He had taken a small sofa, pulling Susan down beside him. She had gone willingly as if she knew she would one day belong at his side but her position was not possessive, not yet.

Ray sat in a huge armchair that nearly swallowed him up, his left arm stretched out on the armrest, the bandaged thumb at rest. There were lines of fatigue and pain around his eyes as he stared at Paul Dameron. He ought to be in bed. They all should. But with a killer at large in the house, it wasn't the best time to lower their guard.

Egon, P.K.E. meter in hand, took readings of Dameron, his face inscrutable. No one who didn't know him well could tell what he'd detected, but Peter knew he'd picked up no special readings from the singer, and not just because the antennae had not stirred. Egon was too stubborn to admit to fatigue. His fascination with unsolved mysteries was not as great as Winston's but complex puzzles intrigued him, especially when they involved a ghost.

Eddie was interested and sympathetic. Clearly he liked Paul Dameron and had been stunned to hear his wife was murdered. He sat back, accepting the position of audience this time around.

Winston took over. "Mister Dameron, none of us are experts at solving mysteries. Our job is busting ghosts. But this has become a mystery. I think you are entitled to know why."

"Know why? Because my wife's ghost is wandering in the forest. What more reason could there be?" Yet he hesitated when he spoke as if he already knew of a reason. Either he'd always had his doubts about the cause of her death or he knew more about it than he'd ever wanted to admit.

Winston caught Peter's eye, and he shook his head. It wasn't time, not yet, so he resumed his circumspect search for truth. "Mister Dameron, what we want to do is find a way to help your wife to disperse peacefully, to go on to whatever awaits people when they die. We need to know what happened on the night she died. What people's movements were, that sort of thing."

Dameron erupted from the sofa. "Movements? My god, you're implying that someone pushed Damita off the tower. That she was murdered!"

"Paul ... Easy, Paul ... It's all right ... Listen to them." Susan was on her feet beside him. "We've already talked about this. You're not surprised. You just don't want to believe it. I trust them. They mean you no harm."

"You suspected she was murdered, didn't you?" Peter asked.

Dameron's eyes came to rest on Peter's face and for a long time he simply stared at him. Then he shook his head. "No. At least I never let myself consider the idea, not until Susan and I talked earlier and speculated about it. It wasn't possible. No one would want to harm Damita. As long as I didn't think it, I didn't have to face the possibility. I told myself the coroner knew. The police experts knew. There was no evidence of murder, no motive for murder. It wasn't possible. Do you hear me! It wasn't possible."

"But it is possible," Peter said softly. "I'm sorry, but that's what happened." He hadn't meant to tell Dameron about that; they hadn't told Max. But Paul was a step ahead of them already. He needed to know.

"What! You can't know that. You said she only gave you directions in the forest."

"She did," Peter returned. "But I touched her hand. And ever since then, she's been able to tell me things."

"Did she tell you who the bastard was who murdered her?" Dameron thundered. "How dare you sit here playing with me when somewhere out there is a killer? Who is he? Tell me who; I'll kill him." His face twisted with pain and rage.

"Wait a minute," Eddie tried. "Paul, they're not playing with you. I guarantee it. They're trying to help."

"Easy, Paul," Susan murmured, patting his arm. "Listen to them. I know this is hard for you ..." Realizing she was offering him cliches, she fell silent and remained seated at his right hand as if making a choice, her hand on his arm. There were no right things to say in such an unlikely situation. She could only be there.

Dameron didn't hear them. Instead he lunged at Peter, grabbed him by the shirt front and lifted him right up out of the chair.

"Yikes!" blurted Peter. He hadn't quite seen that coming.

At once the other three Ghostbusters converged on them to pull him away, but Paul had already reined himself in. Releasing Peter, he lifted his hands pacifically, and took a step backwards. "My god, I'm sorry. I'm at such a loss here." He gave Susan a faint smile and shook his head ruefully.

"Why are you?" Peter prodded. "You loved Damita. I know that from what she's let me see. If you thought someone murdered her, why would you refuse to acknowledge it? That doesn't make any sense. I've wondered that all along."

"He's right, Mister Dameron," Winston chimed in. "Because I can't think of a single sane reason for you to deny it -- unless you're the one who did it and you're giving us a world-class acting performance right now."

"Did it?" Horror filled his eyes. "You can't for one moment believe I would have killed Damita. She was --I loved her. I wouldn't have harmed one hair on her head. Life without her wasn't life at all. It took me years to accept that I'd lost her and to go on with living."

"Because you have the capacity to care so deeply," Susan declared quietly beside him. "Because there was so much love in you to give."

At that he put his hand over hers and squeezed it once before letting go. Shaken, he pulled her back to the couch and sat down again. "Susan's right; I gave so much -- I don't mean possessions."

No real relationship for him would be anything but wholehearted, Peter realized. Once he admitted a person, he would admit them all the way to the soul. But love that intense had a downside, too. If he had believed himself betrayed, his hatred would go just as deep, and he was probably capable of depths of revenge. Peter, whose friendship with his fellow Ghostbusters was of the enduring kind, could understand how a betrayal might turn a positive love into a double-edged sword. Not that he could ever imagine any of the guys betraying him ...

"We're not saying you killed her," Eddie interposed. "Paul, I don't know you as well as Max does, but I do know you're an intelligent, thoughtful man. If you so much as suspected Damita had been killed, you would have told the world about it. It's what I would do if anything happened to Whitney. If you wouldn't acknowledge the possibility, even to yourself, you must have been protecting ..." His voice trailed off, eyes widening in realization. "You suspect Max?"

Peter made a quick gesture for none of the other Ghostbusters to intervene. He saw Winston's hasty response of agreement and knew what Winston did, that Paul's instinctive reaction here was the best thing they could have.

And they got it. "Max!" Dameron's eyes widened with shock and pain; the answer spilled out involuntarily, surprising even Paul. "He was all I had left."

"Even if he killed your wife?" Winston said softly.

"I wouldn't believe that. You don't know Max. I've seen you watching him. You only see the ego, and there's so much more to the man. He saved my sanity when Damita died. I didn't have anything else." He buried his face in his hands.

Susan put her arm around his shoulders but she didn't offer any words of comfort. Though he didn't reject the touch, he seemed scarcely aware of it, but Peter was pretty sure he was.

"Do you have any reason to think Max could have done it?" Winston persisted.

"No." Dameron's head came up, eyes blazing. "No, I don't have any reason to think anyone did it." He hesitated. "Max loved her, too. I think he even told her so, asked her to reciprocate."

"And you didn't mind?" Ray blurted.

"No. I knew she wouldn't. I knew how she felt. She told me a bit. She never said he'd talked to her, just that she was afraid he loved her. I think he did talk to her, but she respected my friendship for him too much to say anything. Damita wasn't devious; it wasn't that. She did the right thing. And I couldn't blame him for loving her. I was sorry for him about it. I knew most of his talk was just that. Had Damita been a lesser woman, she might have been tempted, but if she had been a lesser woman, he wouldn't have been interested. I never challenged him on it. I knew when it came right down to it, nothing would happen. Max could no more resist the challenge than he could have resisted music. We were all moths to her flame. But I knew, deep inside me, that he'd never have done more than play the game."

"So deep inside you wouldn't acknowledge that she might have been murdered?" Peter prodded. He knew there were a lot of complex emotions tied up into Paul's reticence and refusal to consider the possibilities.

"There was no evidence of murder. Don't you think the police would have found it?"

"Didn't they? If someone else went to the tower, there should have been forensic evidence of it for them to find," Winston reminded them. "The crime scene boys could have told she wasn't up there alone."

"They did. But there was no specific evidence to point to any one person. All through the evening, people had gone up there. I'd shown the guests the tower earlier in the day and my guests were fascinated by it. There was no way to distinguish evidence. It wasn't wet and snowy like tonight. No blood, no dramatic scuff marks. When we were hunting for Damita, after I'd noticed she was missing, I went up there myself to see if she'd gone up for a breath of fresh air. I didn't think to look down. It would never have occurred to me."

Earlier, Max had admitted going up there himself. That was two of the three suspects who had willingly admitted being up there. But that was reasonable, too, wasn't it? To admit it was to play a game of double bluff and to explain away any remote possibility of forensic evidence.

"Did the police check?" Winston asked.

"Yes, but all they could tell was that a number of people had been up there. The stones were scuffed, traces in the dust, but not in such a way to suggest foul play. It's hard to leave traces on stone ..." His voice trailed off, not as if he realized that had been an infelicitous remark but as if he were thinking about the possibility. He sat in silence a moment, and Winston let him. Peter watched the singer but he didn't prod him either.

After a minute, Dameron's eyes focused again. "Anyone here would realize that. If Damita went up there for air, anyone with malice in mind could have followed her. You!" Suddenly his eyes pinned Peter, and he felt pinned like a butterfly in a tray. "You said you knew I loved her from what she'd let you see. That means ... My god, that means you've been in contact with her! You've spoken to her. Why play these games with me then? You already know I didn't kill her. You must know who did. How can you torture me like this?"

Peter's first instinct was to exonerate him. Dameron's response sounded so natural, so unstudied, so confident in his own innocence that he almost carried the day. But the man was never unstudied, and the murderer must know Damita hadn't seen him -- or he must take the chance he had not been identified. If Dameron was very cool and a killer, he would have said exactly the same thing.

"Paul's right," Susan intervened, frowning at Peter, her voice full of reproach. "If you spoke to her, you must know who did it."

And if Peter said he didn't know, they would give away their advantage. Thinking fast, he returned, "Tell us what happened? When you went up on the tower."

Fear flickered in Susan's eyes, not yet accompanied by doubt, as she glanced at Paul and horror ran across Dameron's face in a great wave.

"My god!" he howled, yanking himself to his feet and throwing himself up and down the room in a fit of frantic pacing. "You can't mean she believes I did it? Oh, dear god, that's why she never came to me, never appeared in the house."

His eyes glistened too brightly, and as they watched him in varying degrees of shock and discomfort, a tear spilled over and ran down his left cheek. It was a sign of his utter consternation that he paid no heed to it and made no attempt to dash it away. "My only consolation was that she knew how much I loved her," he said in a voice that sounded as if the words were being tortured from him. "She knew that. Now you're taking that comfort away, too."

Ray opened his mouth to speak, but Peter shook his head. He was pretty certain Dameron was innocent, but he wasn't one hundred per cent sure and, because of that, he couldn't give ground. If the man was vindicated, Peter and the others would owe him a world-class apology.

"She can't believe it," Dameron cried. "Why would she think anything so perverse? Did the damned killer wear my coat up there? Did she see that? Because, as god is my witness, she could not have seen me. I would have taken my own life before I took hers."

That was too much for Eddie. "No one is saying you did it, Paul," he protested, leaping to his feet and grasping Dameron's arms to stop his desperate pacing. Dameron let himself be stopped. He blinked dazedly at Eddie as if he had never seen him before, but he let the rock star guide him back to the chair, a reassuring arm around his shoulders.

Peter decided to admit what few facts he could. "I haven't actually talked to Damita, not one on one, not like you think. She shows me images inside my head. It's not like a two way street. She showed me scenes of a really happening party, and I think she's gonna show me more. She wants this resolved, too." Could Dameron be right, could she believe, or at least fear, her husband had been her killer? Was that why she lurked outside, unable to come into the house?

"Then you must try to communicate with her, ask her what she knows."

"Yeah, I was planning on that. We wanted to talk to everybody before we went out in the snow."

"Snow? Is it snowing?" Susan sounded surprised. "I hadn't noticed." She stood up abruptly as if she had been shaken out of any certainties. "I really must go upstairs and check in on Derek. He hasn't come back down; he might be sleeping, but I'd feel better if I went to see him."

"I'll go with you," Peter volunteered hastily before Paul could speak. He didn't think the man was a murderer -- but he wasn't quite sure. It wouldn't be safe to let Susan wander around anyway, because the other two were out there somewhere. After Susan looked in on Derek, maybe they could round everybody up. They still had to talk to Michael before they went searching for Damita.

"I won't say no," Susan replied, rising. She gave Paul a muted smile. "I won't be gone too long."

"I don't understand why you Ghostbusters think you have any right to question us," Paul said, gaining ground. "You're not police. You have no authority here."

"I know we don't, m'man," Winston told him. "But someone has to deal with the situation and we're outsiders, objective. And we do have authority when it comes to ghosts."

"Dealing with Damita is our responsibility," Egon replied. "If she was actually murdered, it does explain why her spirit has lingered. We can help her by finding out who killed her."

"Yeah, we have to help her find peace," Ray insisted. He'd been awfully quiet for awhile, Peter realized, and knew his thumb must be hurting a lot. But there was a stubborn cast to Ray's face that made Peter know he wouldn't go tamely off to bed, even if it had been safe to separate.

Paul made a deprecating gesture. "I hate this," he muttered. "I don't know what to say."

Susan started for the door; as Peter fell into step with her, Egon warned, "Keep your eyes open, Peter."

"I hardly think anybody's going to jump the two of us," Peter reassured him and drew his thrower. "Paul's the only one who knows our suspicions and you guys are here. Besides, it's not nice to be neutronized." Carefully he adjusted the thrower so it would do no more than stun someone if he fired. He wasn't ready to zap and trap Damita, especially since he'd been in her head, but if anybody else tried to cross him, he'd show them Pete Venkman wasn't to be trifled with.

"Maybe we should check on Mrs. Potter," Ray volunteered. "I'm sure she's in no danger from anyone here, but I'd feel better if I knew she was safe in her bedroom until morning." He stood up with none of his usual bounce, fatigue spelled out in his careful movements. "We'll meet you back here, Peter. Be careful."

The house seemed spookier than usual, now that there was the threat of a murderer present. Peter wished he'd thought to divide the team, although he was pretty sure no one would try anything when he was with Susan. He wasn't sure anyone would try anything at all but it wouldn't hurt to be ready.

"You really think you need that?" Susan made an uneasy gesture at his thrower. They headed for the stairs as she spoke. She looked as tired and sore as Peter felt, and the skin around her scraped cheek had begun to darken into a bruise, as if someone had smudged soot there.

Peter shrugged. "I hope not. But a Ghostbuster is always prepared. It's not like Damita's a nasty ghost or anything. She's a pretty classy lady. But somebody here might have am unpleasant secret, and I'm the conduit. It's sorta like walking around with a bulls-eye painted on my forehead. But nobody gets the drop on Peter Venkman."

"I wish I could say you're paranoid," she said as they started up the stairs. "But I've been talking to Paul for some time. I think Damita was one of those people with a magnetism that draws everyone. People who can evoke strong feelings can evoke both kinds, love and hate. I think I do believe she was killed. But I can't believe Paul did it."

"I don't lean that way myself," Peter admitted. "But the guy's had twenty years to perfect his routine. Whatever emotions were running wild that night probably didn't go away but they're cold now. And you know what the Klingons say about revenge?"

"I don't think it was originally the Klingons, if you mean revenge being a dish best served cold." She dimpled slightly.

"Well, Shakespeare, then," Peter said with a return grin. "Most quotes are either from him or the Bible. But you know what I mean." He paused as they reached the top of the curving stairs and glanced up and down the corridors. No one stirred in the shadows. When he fumbled for a light switch, a blaze of electricity illuminated empty passages.

"Ghosts beware," he called out warningly. "The dreaded Venkman is on the scene!"

Susan moved a step closer to him. "After all this time, no one would want to be found out," she said with a shiver.

"I bet." He glanced over his shoulder involuntarily. "How'd you like to live in a shack like this?"

"Not if I had to dust it," Susan replied lightly. Her lips curled in amusement but her eyes roved up and down the hall in a proprietary manner. She was hooked, all right, and not by the fact that the handsome prince had his very own castle.

"I never dust anything," Peter admitted. "You only have to do it again in a week anyway. If I can't blow on it and get rid of the dust, I cover it up with something."

"You must be a fun roommate." She started down the hall. "Derek's light's not on. I don't see anything shining under the door."

As they stood there, Peter heard the distant sound of the piano down the other corridor. "Sounds like Rafferty's attacking the ivories."

Susan shook her head. "If he weren't such a wonderful pianist, I'd find myself thoroughly irritated with him." She put her hand on Derek's doorknob and turned to Peter questioningly.

"You pop in and check him out," Peter encouraged. He positioned himself in front of the door as Susan slipped in.

"Derek?" he heard her call softly, and a muttered response. The light came on and the door closed behind her.

"Thanks, I'll just stand guard out here," Peter muttered wryly. He glanced up and down the hall. Some doors stood ajar revealing dark rectangles, yet others were closed, concealing their secrets. The place felt nearly alive, a breathing entity that could pounce on him at any given minute. He was probably taking lessons from Ray at letting his imagination run away with him.

That was when he felt Damita's presence in his head again, sudden and intense, the overwhelming question she projected made him stagger. Although she didn't use words -- what need were there of words when he was right inside her head? -- he could tell she wanted to know what he'd found out. Had he talked to Paul? Had he learned anything? Until now, she had experienced no conduit to the house and its occupants, and Dameron was not often here anyway. She needed answers.

Did he do it? The question was all through her, and all through Peter as a result, staggering him by her need to know; the only thing he could do to respond was to let her see the interview in the salon downstairs. He concentrated on the confrontation with Dameron, trying to remember it as best he could.

Damita's awareness slid into his head and he could feel her gazing out of his eyes. It wasn't possession; he'd once been possessed by the demon Watt and he knew the difference. Instead it was a sharing, bonding them together, her in her desperate need to know her husband, the man she had adored and still did, had not killed her. In turn, Peter's link was motivated by concern for his friends' safety and a willingness to help this woman who had been cheated out of life at her happiest moment. What had happened to her had been cruelly unfair, irreparable, and only the desire to see her husband vindicated and to know she had not been mistaken in her love for him tied her to this earth.

Peter's headache returned with a vengeance. He didn't know how long he stood there while the scene downstairs played out in his head; it could have been seconds or half an hour, although he doubted it was the latter. Susan would have come out and interrupted, and she never did. He knew he could have thrust Damita from his mind but he didn't try. He was only human, after all, and he had a weakness for the fairer sex. A part of him acknowledged that he was drawn to her, too. After all, he'd been inside her mind. Could even Paul Dameron say he knew her so well?

At first he only felt the abrupt sting of cold along his ribcage, then a sudden hot wetness where the blade slid. Damita shrieked into his mind, unable to see what he couldn't see but aware of the presence of the man who had come up behind him while he stood there, locked in communion with a dead woman. Both of them could see the knife that struggled to plunge between his ribs. By the time he felt it, it was almost too late to fight it. The strap of his proton pack had deflected the blade and saved him from a far worse wound, but if the killer struck again ...

"Go, Damita," Peter whispered, trying to push her from his mind. Maybe she could see ...

But at the soft command, the killer jerked as if he'd been struck, yanked the thrower from Peter's cold fingers, manhandled him across the corridor, and threw open the tower door, blocking Peter's weakening attempts to turn with his body and the arm that didn't hold the knife. The thrower hilt whacked him on the back of the head, not hard enough to render him unconscious or even to daze him, but enough to shock him. The flight of stone stairs spiraled up into darkness, leading to the place where Damita had met her doom. Was this where he was to meet his own? Peter blinked at it, the staircase fuzzing and blurring before his eyes. He had to think. There had to be a way out of this stupid mess.

He felt blood saturating his shirt over his ribcage from the attack but he didn't think the knife had penetrated. That wouldn't matter in the long run because he could feel it against his ribs even now, and knew the killer was only collecting himself to strike again. In the distance, the music from the practice room played on and on. Did that mean Max Rafferty was not the killer? Or did it mean a tape was playing of a previous rehearsal to cover his actions?

Peter didn't know. He struggled weakly in the grip of the killer, unable to identify him, unable to fight him, opening his mouth to yell.

Then abruptly he felt weight pressing him down, a knee in the small of his back just below his proton pack, and the light around him vanished as the door softly drew shut. "If you make a sound, I will snap your spine," a hoarse, anonymous whisper grated in his ear.

Faintly, through the heavy wood of the door, Peter heard Susan's voice. "Peter? Where are you?" She sounded frightened. "Peter!"

"Not a sound," hissed the killer.

Blood! Maybe she'd see his blood on the floor and know something was wrong. Would she dart into Derek's room again and recruit him to help her? Would she run downstairs to fetch the guys? Would she go to the practice room?

"PETER!"

Then a door clashed shut. She'd gone to Derek for help, not that he could do much with a broken wrist.

"Now. Get up. Up the stairs." The weight lifted from his back and he felt himself half pushed, half dragged up the flight. One hand tangled in his hair to yank him to his feet, and he had to force himself upright or be scalped. Bloodloss made him weak and dizzy but he wasn't done yet. He wouldn't let this creep get the better of him.

The stairway lights came on; probably at this point the killer didn't mind if Peter saw him or not, and he needed light to climb the stairs. The hand railing was on Peter's left, and he reached for it weakly, needing it even more than he had in his first ascent. Unable to find strength to fight back, he couldn't turn and face his attacker. He had to hoard what strength he had to fight when he must, and to yell was to invite the knife in his back. If not for his proton pack, he'd probably have already felt it plunge into his spine.

Up and up and up they marched, following the curve of the stairs in a tight spiral into the tower. The thrower dangled at the end of its cord, banging against the steps behind him as he struggled higher. At the end, would he share Damita's fate? Peter quested for her in his mind but he could not find her there. She had withdrawn again. But she knew. She knew he was imperiled. Maybe she could overcome her prohibitions and bring him help. She'd seen the other guys. She knew who they were; she had to know all the doubts and questions the four of them had faced, all the speculations, after being in Peter's mind.

But who could she trust? She'd know from him how worthy of trust they were. But would she even try? She was a spirit. She had appeared and spoken, she had shown Peter glimpses of the past, but how much of awareness was left to her? Could she reason beyond the impetus that drove her? Could she think rationally? Would she even try to help?

"Keep moving," came a whisper, still anonymous. The killer was risking nothing, even now. "Keep moving. This is the end for you. No one will undo twenty years."

"Damita knows," Peter wheezed, struggling to make it up another step. The knife had shifted; now it was prodding him against his spine just below his pack. It would be so easy for the killer to shove it into his back. He had to fight, he had to get away, but the strength trickled away with his blood and he had to concentrate even to think. "She and I are linked. What I ... know, she knows. And more. She saw you ... just now. She -- knows. Right now she's ... going to my friends, to ... tell them what you're doing. You can't ... get away with it. No chance, bunky. No ... chance."

"Shut up." Even rage and worry didn't make the whisper rise to normal volume. A cool customer, the killer. All this time, he'd deceived everyone, he'd gotten away with it. But it had to stop here. Damita knew. She would help him. Help me, Damita. Don't let him kill me. Don't let him win again!

"She's dead," hissed the killer. "Dead and cold in her grave. She can't help you now."

The door appeared before him, fastened by a simple latch that probably worked from both sides. No need for a lock on this high tower; no burglar would try to enter the house from up here. "Open it," whispered the killer. "Open it now before I gut you."

Peter fumbled for the latch. His fingers were clumsy and the iron was cold beneath them, burning with an icy fire. He struggled to lift it but it was heavy, too heavy for his gradually declining condition. Weakness crept through his body. Guys, help! he thought desperately, wrestling with the latch.

There. It gave. The door swung open with a squeak of sound that hurt his ears. Peter stumbled as the door gave, tripping him onto the snowy platform, the narrow, circular walkway surrounding the pointed tower roof that rose above him. He fell against the balustrade, hands reaching out to slide in the snow. One hand shot out between the balusters and he let out an involuntary yelp of panic and tried to jerk back.

He might be able to hide on the other side of the tower, but Peter knew that it was no use to run. He couldn't escape that way. The killer guarded the door. He was trapped up here.

The man with the knife never gave him a chance. Lurching up behind him, the killer grabbed Peter and forced him up against the rail. He flailed at the arms that grabbed him around the hips, lifting him, but he lacked the strength to fend off his attacker. While he writhed against the overpowering grip, Peter's fingers fumbled for purchase on the slippery, snow-coated stone -- and found none. Up -- he was lifted up, up and over, and the nightmare Damita had shown him through their link came true as the night spread endlessly beneath him. One final shove and he was over the edge. Footsteps retreated and a door banged shut behind him. Then with a whoosh that made his stomach rise up into his throat, Peter was falling, losing his grip on the rail - -

Frantic fingers felt something, grabbed; for an instant, it felt like someone caught him, broke his fall, held him while he tried to secure his grip. "Damita?" he gasped.

"I've got you."

The words were a mere breath, no louder than the wind. But he could feel her supporting him, wraithlike and insubstantial, but with enough force to hold him. Slimer could do something like this, boost him if he fell, so why not Damita, too?

Slipping, slipping, he scrambled desperately for purchase, wrenching in his shoulders as the ghost broke the momentum of the fall. His scream of panic ended in a desperate gasp for breath as he dangled from a projecting edge of stone, trying to dig his nails into it while his feet tried to discover footholds. If he couldn't hold on, he would fall.

But he had to hold on. The proton pack on his back weighed a thousand pounds but there was no way to get it off. If it weren't for the feeling of Damita at his back, boosting him, he knew he would have plummeted down like a stone to the unyielding ground so far below.

No sense in yelling. The walls were too thick for anyone to hear him. The killer had retreated quickly, probably determined to put himself into an innocuous position while Susan ran for help or get rid of any bloodstained or snow-saturated garments. But Peter couldn't think of that. All he could think of was the drop beneath his feet and the way his body would shatter when he landed.

Opening terrified eyes, he saw he had latched onto the wing ridge of a stone gargoyle, one of half a dozen that decorated the outer rim of the tower just below the balustrade. He had a good purchase, but it was slippery and his grip wouldn't hold forever, even with the ghost's support. He was too weak to pull himself up -- but he had to pull himself up. Sheer panic forced adrenaline through his veins and he wriggled a little higher, his slippered feet scrambling to find purchase on the icy stone. They were too big anyway and, to his horror, one of them slid off and went clopping down, its faint slapping against the stone of the tower sounding like crashing to Peter's ears. Damita pushed lightly, as much as she could manage. It was just the boost he needed. There -- he had a better grip. Writhing desperately he inched higher, higher, digging fingertips into grooves in the carved stone, pulling himself up and up. The blood-moistened fabric of his shirt was cold, rapidly hardening as giant flakes of snow swirled around him in the icy wind. If he didn't get up and in pretty soon ...

"You can do it, Peter. You can do it. You don't know how to give up. Do it for your friends. For Egon. For Ray. For Winston. Don't make them find you the way Paul found me."

Damita's words, her voice. Peter had heard her in his mental link and he had heard her in the forest, but the caressing warmth of encouragement was this time for him alone. She had him pegged; she knew exactly how to get to him. It energized him, gave him the strength he needed. He wasn't going to fall. She wouldn't let him. She would let no one else die in this place.

There! His bare foot found a sturdy support in the gargoyle's open mouth. He could feel the jagged teeth pressing against the sole of his foot, as cold as ice, nearly as slick from the wetness of the snow-covered stone, but it gave him something to balance upon. Lunging up, he slid one arm through the gap in the rail, curled it around the baluster, hung on tight, struggling to catch his breath. Air sobbed out of his lungs; it hurt to draw new air in because the night had grown so cold. It wasn't the pain of a welling puncture or the agony of a fractured rib against his lungs that caused it. But it still hurt.

"If I get out of this ..." he muttered under his breath, "somebody is gonna pay! For you too, Damita. For both of us."

His second arm joined the first, and he embraced the baluster as fervently as he would a lover while his feet scraped their way up the gargoyle's snarling snout and found a slippery tread on its head. There -- now he could move. Slowly Peter straightened, hanging one arm over the rail, crooking his elbow to maintain the grip.

Damita hovered at his back, her cold hands pressing against the back of his shirt. "For those you love," she whispered, knowing how close he and his buddies were. She'd been in his head. Maybe it had been a two-way link, after all. He was sure glad of it right then. "Because that's what is most important."

His other hand came up, caught the rail; with an urgent wiggle, he was over the top. His strength suddenly deserted him, leaving him sprawled in a puddle in the slushy snow, less than a yard from the door.

He blinked, opened his eyes. Damita hovered above him, pale and insubstantial as if the effort to levitate had drained away the ability to appear solid. "I cannot come inside with you," she said with aching regret. "You must do that for yourself. Do it for your friends who love you; do it for yourself, for I know you in some ways more deeply than even I knew Paul." She stretched out an arm, pulled it back before she could reach across the railing. "You must live," she breathed and faded before his eyes.

"Damita, wait!" Peter called weakly. "Get help. Get the guys. Please?"

But she was gone.

"Come on, Peter," he told himself, his words too faint to be heard. "You can do it. You've gotta get down from here. You'll freeze. It's not as bad as the big splat, but it's just as dead."

He struggled to push himself up, but could make it no further than hands and knees. His fingers tingled with the cold as he crawled like a baby toward the distant door. It was only inches away. It might have been miles.

"The guys'll find you," Peter whispered to himself. "You know they will. Don't make them find your body." He shivered at the very thought with a cold that went far deeper than that of the snow. He wouldn't put them through such an experience. He couldn't.

Besides, somewhere down there in the house was a creep Peter was going to enjoy blasting at full streams. Gathering his hatred and his love of the guys to him like a shield, he lurched forward and his groping hand found the door. Damita had been right. It was all the motivation he needed now.

"Way to go, Pete!" he crowed, triumph as adrenaline gave him a last burst of strength. The latch worked from the outside, too, just as he'd known it would. "Yes!" he exulted as he tugged the door toward him. "You can do it. Nobody keeps Peter Venkman down!"

It was cold in the staircase, but not as cold as it was out there on the tower. Peter turned laboriously and pulled the door shut behind him, relieved at the solid clang of sound as the latch caught. At once the icy breeze retreated.

"Gotta get down. Gotta get warm," he chanted through chattering teeth. "Gotta find the guys. Damita? Where are you? Help me ..."

Scooting over to the steps with his remaining strength, he tried to slide his way down feet first. The proton pack caught him, halting him before he could drop more than a couple of steps and he hit the release button for the straps and worked his way out of them, abandoning the pack. Then he let himself slide free, bumping roughly on the washerboard ride. He'd have stone bruises on top of his plane crash bruises. He made it as far as the first turn before the darkness swallowed him up.

"I'm worried about Peter," Egon said to the other two Ghostbusters and Eddie as they left the kitchen. Mrs. Potter had a room in the back premises; she promised to retreat there as soon as she away the last of the dishes. She'd been baking rolls for breakfast. The three men hadn't told her much of what was happening, just that there might be danger. Egon knew she assumed they meant ghostly danger, but if it encouraged her to take precautions, then it was well done. When she had gone, they had taken readings outside the kitchen door. There had been nothing but residuals.

"Worried about Peter?" Ray stared at him. "Why, Egon? You don't think he hurt his head worse than we thought?"

"Or that the ghost is really possessing him?" put in Winston. "He has been kind of ... less mouthy than usual tonight. Think it means trouble?"

"It isn't even that," Egon replied. "None of us are as energetic as usual, but I've been watching Peter for evidence of delayed reactions to a head injury. His pupils remained equal and reactive; he's alert, has had no dizzy spells. No, I'm afraid he's been more influenced by Damita than he's let us believe."

"Gosh, then he is possessed?" Ray's face lost color. "We'd better head up and find him quick."

"I'm not sure it's that, Raymond," Egon countered. "The P.K.E. readings didn't reflect that. But in essence, it was as if he had formed a telepathic link. He could see things she'd seen. She was, by all accounts, a very beautiful and compelling woman, and you know how Peter reacts around the female of the species."

"You mean he's in love with a ghost?" Winston blurted. "Come on, Pete wouldn't --"

"No, I don't mean that," Egon replied, "although I believe he is drawn to her in a way. But what concerns me is his unexpected awareness. I watched him when we were questioning Paul. Peter was far more sympathetic to him than he would normally have been. I think his view of the man was colored by Damita's feelings for him."

"Everybody's always said they were really in love," Eddie volunteered. "And nobody could understand why she took her life. If all this is true, then she couldn't just turn that off. If she's making Peter see it -- I think he was buying most of what Paul said. I was, too, but then I know Paul, and what he said matched what I'd expect of him."

"He's smart enough to know what people would expect," Winston disagreed, shaking his head. "To get away with a murder for so long requires a clever man."

"But can Damita really influence Peter?" Eddie persisted. "I believe it's possible," Egon replied. "In a different way than possession."

"She's controlling his mind?" Ray asked. "Gosh, that kind of thing can happen. It's like the Sacramento incident of 1928, when the deceased wife of a city council member started influencing his business partner."

"What happened to him?" Winston worried.

"Well, he killed himself," Ray admitted.

"And that doesn't worry you?"

"Not in Peter's case. The guy overinvested in the Stock Market; when the market crashed the next year he lost everything. Whether she drove him to invest or not, she didn't make him take his life. I don't think Damita's hurting Peter. But I think he could tap into her feelings. You're right, Egon. Peter's pretty smart when it comes to what makes people tick, but even he doesn't usually have deep insights on total strangers. It takes time to figure them out, even for a really great psychologist. Sure, he picks up signals quick from people, even from ghosts. But I bet Damita's mixed up. She doesn't want Paul to be the one who killed her, but she doesn't know. So if she's influencing Peter, it's to think favorably of Paul. Not to get him in trouble. When she's not in his head, he'd only have residual feelings from her, and the longer she was gone, the more they'd fade."

"But as long as we're here, she might renew them," Egon pointed out. "I wish one of us had gone with him. I thought it was a good sign that he volunteered to go with Susan, since it took him away from Dameron. He always does volunteer when it involves a pretty girl."

"Man, you called that right," Winston agreed as they returned to the entry hall, casting a glance up the stairs. "So you think Pete's in any real trouble?"

"I think we simply need to watch him until this is resolved. There is, of course, another problem." Egon frowned as he realized he hadn't taken his concerns far enough. "I am a fool! We've considered the possession problem, but what we have not considered is the threat Peter might pose to the murderer, if he realizes the ghost is communicating with him."

"Shit!" exploded Winston. "I should have thought of that. This guy's been sitting pretty for twenty years. We did know it, but we still let Pete go off alone."

"Not alone, with Susan," Ray corrected, starting for the stairs. "I don't think the killer would try anything with a witness. One more person to deal with. Don't you think so, Winston? You know the most about things like this."

"I know the most about fiction, Ray," Winston reminded him. "This is real life."

"Listen," Egon said sharply, holding up a hand for silence. "I heard someone shouting."

They waited, holding their breath, but the sound was not immediately repeated. "I think we had better go up there," Egon said, and started for the stairs at a run.

Before they had reached the halfway mark, Susan and Derek appeared at the top of the stairs. Her face was very white. Derek looked better than he had earlier except for the darkening of his bruises. As soon as she saw them, Susan called, "Is Peter with you?"

That brought Paul out of the room beside them. "What's wrong?" he asked. Clearly he'd spent the interval brooding about Damita, but he had responded without hesitation to the sound of Susan's voice.

"Where's Peter?" cried Ray. "I thought he was with you."

"He took me upstairs," she replied, hurrying down to join them. "I went in to talk to Derek, but when I came out again, Peter was gone. He'd just disappeared." She stopped, her hand on the railing. "There was ... blood on the floor."

Egon's stomach lurched. "This is very bad," he declared and pushed past her, taking the steps two at a time, conscious of Ray and Winston right behind him.

Derek nodded as they approached him. "I saw it, too. Not much blood, just a few drops, but right in front of my door, and it was fresh. We didn't hear anything. I'd been sleeping, but I woke up when Susan came in. She was telling me what's been happening, but not so loudly we wouldn't have heard a disruption."

"Blood?" Paul demanded, following them up. When they reached the second floor, he shouted at the top of his lungs, "Max? Michael?"

The two men converged on them immediately, one from each wing. Michael appeared rather rumpled, his shirt untucked. "What's wrong, Paul?" he asked. "I was about to go to bed."

"I've been rehearsing, but I thought I heard a shout just now," Max replied. He eyed Michael with some suspicion. "You said you were going to look for the Ghostbusters."

Winston moved down the hall in the direction of Derek's bedroom, while Egon and Ray waited to see what Michael would say.

"I did hunt for them. When I finally found them they were downstairs talking to Paul, and I assumed they hadn't found anything yet. I was tired so I decided to go to bed. I'm going to have to work on that downed tree tomorrow and I need my sleep for that."

"Never mind trees," Ray cut in. "Peter's missing."

"Yeah, this is bad," Winston said, down on one knee, examining a fingertip. "It is blood, guys, and it's fresh. Not much of it but it's real."

"Can you see where it leads?" Ray's face was pale. He came up behind Winston and peered over his shoulder.

Since everyone else was accounted for and evidently uninjured, Egon realized the blood must be Peter's. His heart sank. He should have realized sooner that Peter was in danger from the murderer. "Is there a trail?"

"Not really, just right here." Winston frowned as he turned slowly. "There!" he shouted and flung out a pointing finger at a door across the hall, the one that led to the tower. Everyone crowded close and Egon saw what he meant. One more drop of blood, halfway covered by the door itself. He lunged for the knob and tugged it open. On the third step of the spiraled flight, there was more blood, a small puddle of it, as if Peter had sprawled there.

"The tower?" Paul said dazedly, his face drained of color. "Oh, dear god! My sincere apologies, gentlemen. I didn't believe you, not until now. I didn't want to, but --"

"Believe what?" Max demanded.

Before Paul could answer, Ray cried, "Peter!" in a stricken voice and charged up the stairs in a desperate rush. Egon went after him, calling over his shoulder, "Watch them, Eddie!" He heard footsteps on the stairs behind him and knew it was Winston.

The three flights seemed impossibly high. If Peter had gone over the tower ... Damita had been dead on impact. What chance did Peter have against a determined killer, especially wounded?

Then Ray yelled again, a wordless sound of outrage and fear, that cut through Egon like a blade. "P-peter?" gasped the occultist. "Omigosh, all that blood ..." He clattered up a few more steps and Egon, hard on his heels, rounded a turn to see Peter, not thrown from the tower after all, but sprawled, lifeless and still, on the stairs, his face as white as parchment. His pack was gone, and the front of his shirt over his ribcage was saturated with blood. One of his slippers was gone. He had been outside in the snow, for a damp trail led down from the door half a dozen steps higher, and his hair and face were wet from its exposure.

Egon could feel Winston pressed up against his back, trying to see over his shoulder but there was hardly room to maneuver in the narrow curve of the stairs. "Check for broken bones," Egon instructed Ray. "We have to move him, but --" He bit his lip, then he squared his shoulders to ask one of the hardest questions he had ever had to ask. "Is he--alive, Ray?"

It seemed to take a year for Ray to answer. Then he looked up, his face nearly as pale as Peter's. "I think he might be in shock, Egon. He's breathing, but he's so cold ..."

"We've got to get him downstairs and warm him up, stop that bleeding," Winston said behind him. "We need hot water bottles, bandages, and we can't give him a transfusion so we'll have to force fluids. I'll get it started." He clattered down the stairs yelling for Paul, who would presumably know where to get what he needed.

"Work past him, Ray, and take his shoulders," Egon said. "No, wait. If he's still bleeding, we have to stop that first."

Ray opened Peter's shirt, mopping at the blood with his handkerchief. A long slice across the ribcage was still oozing blood. Pressing the handkerchief across it, Ray then carefully lay Peter's arm over the makeshift bandage to hold it in place. "I don't think he was stabbed, just cut," he said, raising worried eyes to Egon. For a moment they shared a worried stare. "It's not a puncture wound."

"Thank god for that," Egon replied. "Ray, we have to move him."

"I can't find any broken bones," Ray said. "But he's been outside. I don't think the killer would have just left him ..." He eased carefully past Peter, balancing on his toes to find a foothold without disturbing the injured man. Egon moved closer and put out one hand to touch Peter's face. It was cold and wet from the snow, tight with pain even in unconsciousness.

"We're here, Peter," Egon said, making his deep voice as reassuring as he could. Then he took his position at Peter's feet. "You're safe now. We'll take care of you ... Carefully, Raymond."

"Yeah," Ray agreed. "His pack's up by the door, Egon. He must have taken it off and tried to come downstairs."

"Ready? Lift!"

Carrying someone down a flight of spiral stairs is a difficult process, and Egon found it all the more difficult because their burden was his oldest friend. He could hear Peter's shallow, rapid breathing. His skin might be clammy from exposure to cold on top of blood loss, but Egon feared he could go into shock which might kill. Peter was one of the most stubborn, determined men he had ever met, but even that obstinate nature might not save him now. All the way down the stairs Egon planned their treatment. Peter felt like he might be slightly hypothermic; he had to be warmed up thoroughly. If he wasn't already in shock, it must be prevented at all costs. All the first aid classes and materials he had read said shock victims should be transported to a hospital immediately, but that was not an option. They had to get him warm and do it fast.

Finally they were down and carefully carrying him into the hall, where the others waited. Susan didn't take time to exclaim over Peter's condition. "This way, Paul's prepared his bed," she said. "Michael's gone for the first aid kit, and Mrs. Potter is preparing hot water bottles. He's very cold, isn't he?" She touched Peter's face and took his pulse. "I'm not a nurse but as a flight attendant; I've had first aid training with frequent refresher courses. We must get him out of those wet clothes and warm him up immediately."

Winston and Eddie stepped up to help; the four men carried Peter into his bedroom, stripped him of his sodden clothes, and rubbed him down briskly with heated towels. They laid him on the bed, elevating his feet just as Mrs. Potter came in with three hot water bottles.

"Wrap them in towels," Susan instructed. They did, and packed them around Peter while the cook retreated for more. Max entered in her wake with a heating pad, kneeling to plug it in. For once, he wasn't performing. Even a man with an ego as huge as his didn't feel the need to be center stage in a crisis, although Egon suspected he would bag every headline he could when this was over.

Michael had fetched the first aid kit, and he and Susan examined and cleaned the wound on Peter's ribs. The wound was a long, narrow slice that had probably been turned aside by the strap of Peter's proton pack, preventing a thrust between his ribs; it had stopped bleeding when she lifted away Ray's handkerchief. Carefully she cleaned it and disinfected it. "It could be worse," she said, sparing the other three Ghostbusters a reassuring smile. "I know that seems like a lot of blood, enough to weaken him, but not enough to kill him. If we can warm him up ..."

"I think he was on the way to developing hypothermia when we found him," Michael volunteered as he taped a dressing over the long cut. "I don't think he was out there very long, and even if it's bled a lot, I don't think this is a serious wound. Now that we've found him and can warm him up and stop the bleeding, I think we can keep him from going into shock, if we're lucky."

"He should have a blood transfusion, but we don't have the facilities to do that here," Susan said, worried.

Hovering at the foot of the bed, Ray said faintly, "Will he ... be all right?"

Susan raised her face to him, her eyes as green as Peter's, vivid in the shocked pallor of her face. "I hope so." She rested her palm against his cheek. "He's too cold. When we have the hot soup, we'll feed it to him if we can get him to swallow, but right now these blankets aren't enough. Even with the heating pad. Put it on his feet, Mister Rafferty."

Max obeyed, lifting up the blankets and sliding the pad into place. Egon watched him, determined to monitor all three suspects carefully. Peter was particularly vulnerable now, and it might be easy for the killer to grab a moment and finish his work. The Ghostbusters didn't mean to allow any of them to get close enough to hurt him again.

Susan started to take off her blouse, and instantly had the startled and undivided attention of every man in the room, even the Ghostbusters, who found it hard to pay attention to anything but Peter. After the initial surprise, Egon understood her intention immediately. "Of course. You'll need someone else."

"You, then," she said at once.

"What?" Eddie asked as Egon began to strip.

"Body heat," Winston told him, understanding at once. "Until we get him warm, we'll have one of us on either side of him." At that, everyone averted their eyes from Susan.

Egon saw Ray gazing down worriedly at Peter. His breathing was too rapid, and there was a sheen of perspiration on his face. He wasn't doing well at all.

As soon as Susan had stripped down to her bra and panties -- a number in black and lace that could raise Peter's temperature under normal circumstances -- she slid under the blanket next to Peter, cuddling up against his side. This produced the first reaction from him they'd received. He made a soft, contented sound and shifted into the warmth.

"Trust Peter," Winston muttered in a gruff little voice. "He always lucks out with the ladies."

Wearing only shorts and socks, Egon climbed into the bed beside Peter, shocked at how cold his friend's flesh felt against his own. "You should remember this, Peter," he said under his breath as he put his arm across Peter's chest. "You'll be able to claim you enjoyed a menage a trois -- and with an audience, too. You'll never let me live it down. And when I think of what you'll tell Janine ..." He hoped the secretary wasn't worrying too much. The word of their missing plane must have made the news. Their family and friends were probably worried sick.

Egon's words made Ray and Eddie chuckle, and even Paul smiled faintly.

"You kidding me?" Winston teased. "Who's to say Peter isn't an old hand at this? Only difference, there'd probably be two women." He watched Peter hopefully but the psychologist didn't rouse.

"What actually happened?" Max asked abruptly, finishing up with the heating pad. "I like to know what's going on when I'm upstaged."

That made Paul exchange a faint smile with him. Egon could tell it didn't touch his eyes. If Paul were innocent that meant there was a fifty-fifty chance his best friend was guilty and he was too smart not to know it. "Damita was murdered, Max," Dameron said tightly. "She told Peter so."

"Murdered!" Horror flooded the pianist's face. "That was why they asked me all those nosy questions. I presume I am a suspect?"

"All three of us are," Paul replied, gesturing at himself, Max, and Michael.

"You can't be serious!" Michael dropped the lid of the first aid kit shut with a bang. "That's preposterous."

"If it were preposterous, Peter wouldn't have been injured," Paul reminded them, gesturing at the unconscious man.

"It was more than injured," Ray burst out. "I think the killer tried to throw him off the tower. Peter wasn't just up on the stairs. He'd been outside in the snow. That's why he's so cold. I think he nearly had the same thing happen to him that happened to Damita. I was highest on the steps. The door had been open. There were wet marks on the stones. Peter dragged himself inside again before he passed out." He glared at all three men.

Egon felt a rage begin to build deep inside of him at the thought of Peter's ordeal and at how close he had come to death. Had he actually fought off the killer up there? Why had he been left for dead instead of actually finished? Egon wished he could have seen the faces of the three suspects when they found out Peter was still alive. He hoped Susan had. She might be attracted to Dameron, but Egon doubted she would cover for him. Certainly Eddie wouldn't.

He could feel the warmth of shared body heat gradually making inroads on Peter's icy flesh. His friend was stirring now, making faintly contented sounds, still too deep under to rise, but aware enough to feel the warmth and to know at a subliminal level that he was safe. He'd know Egon was here. Spengler was sure of that.

Outside their cocoon of warmth, new accusations raged. "So one of you killed Damita," Eddie said fiercely. "And whoever it was had to be scared to death because Peter had a connection with her. He didn't want the truth coming out."

"But that's just stupid," Winston objected. "Because we're going to find out and that's the bottom line." He turned as Mrs. Potter entered, bearing a tray that held a steaming pot of soup, a bowl, and another pot that smelled like hot apple cider. Grabbing the tray from her, he deposited it on Peter's bedside table.

"I knew I couldn't put any brandy in it," the cook said, eyeing Peter in dismay, "in case he was in shock. But I knew he needed heat and fluids, so I brought what I had. It's chicken soup."

Egon ran his hand over Peter's arm and shoulder and down to the middle of his chest, splaying his fingers there and feeling the steady beat of his heart. "He's somewhat warmer. I think we can risk feeding him now assuming he'll swallow."

It became a major production, as they boosted him up with pillows and allowing him to rest against them within the circle of Egon's arm, tucking the blankets around him carefully, another pillow supporting his head. The three suspects stood at the foot of the bed while Mrs. Potter ladled up the soup and passed it to Susan. She pulled a blanket around her shoulders, then knelt beside Peter and held a spoonful of soup to his lips.

"It's all right, Peter, we're here, it's safe to eat," Egon encouraged him.

That was enough. Peter opened his mouth obediently and took the soup, swallowing automatically. Susan at once presented him another spoonful.

"Yes, Peter, go ahead, eat it," Egon urged him on. "You need it, it's good for you -- and far better tasting than my mother's magic cure-all. Although if Mrs. Potter has the ingredients, I might whip up a batch for you. A special nightcap."

Peter didn't react but he did keep taking the soup while Egon, Winston, and Ray encouraged him, until the bowl was empty. Mrs. Potter said something about warm milk and disappeared again while Susan filled another bowl. Peter got half of that one down, too. "Very good," she encouraged. "We need to warm him from the core. Look at him, his color is already better."

"Paul, you can't seriously believe one of us killed your wife," Max said in the background.

"If not, why was Peter attacked?" Paul said unarguably. "None of us met him before today, except for Eddie, and he was with the other Ghostbusters at the time."

"Maybe one of them tried to kill him," Michael volunteered. "After all, they're the only ones who claim to have seen Damita. We only have their word for any of this."

"And mine," Eddie retorted furiously. "I've known Egon all my life and the others for at least five years. They saved me from several paranormal events. Besides, Susan and Derek recognized Damita, too. They have no reason to lie, even assuming they could contrive to crash a plane in a storm near this house."

"It's just that it all seems so crazy," Michael argued. "I know they didn't do it. But to think one of us might ... We all cared about Damita. Paul would no more kill his wife than he would destroy his vocal cords."

"That's the truth," Max agreed.

Peter muttered faintly against Egon's shoulder, refusing the soup. "I think he's had enough for now," Susan said. "Let's lie him down again and prop up his feet once more. Max, if you would adjust the heating pad again ..."

While Rafferty obeyed, Ray and Winston helped Egon and Susan shift Peter. When he was flat again, Egon and Susan pulled the blankets over them. "I really think he's nearly warm enough for us to get dressed again," she said. "But I should wait a bit just to be safe. "You can feel a difference, can't you, Egon?"

"Very much so." Egon put his hand on Peter's chest again. He no longer felt so cold although he would be weak when he revived; but they would care for him. In the morning, search planes would be out. If only the wreckage wasn't concealed by the snow ...

"There's something we have to think of, and I want to say it with all of us here," Winston announced. "Derek, sit down, man. You don't look that great."

The pilot collapsed obediently into a chair. He resembled a man who was trying to keep track of events without a scorecard, although Susan must have told him some of the night's events.

"What do you have to say, Winston?" Eddie encouraged.

"Just this: somebody here tried to kill Pete. It's the same person who murdered Damita. Peter had a link with her; he relived the fall after she was thrown off the tower. It was murder. Whoever tried to kill Peter made a mistake though, because Damita didn't know who did it. You tried to kill him for nothing. He couldn't finger you, whichever of you it is. But now he can. One of the three of you is a killer, and Peter knows who it is. I don't know how the killer got the drop on him, but I can't imagine him doing it without Peter seeing him, which means the last thing he wants is for Peter to survive. So this is a warning. Nobody leaves this room."

He pulled his thrower and powered it up. "You three are under guard as of right now. And since Peter bled like a pig, that means the odds are, whoever did it got blood on his clothes." He studied the three men. Egon followed his gaze. Paul Dameron wore exactly the same outfit he'd worn at dinner; there was no trace of blood on it. That didn't necessarily exonerate him. If he were the killer, he could have put on something over his clothes in case of traces, like the 'leather apron' they said Jack the Ripper wore.

Michael had been wearing a sports jacket at dinner. It was gone now. He had on a plain white shirt, and there was not a drop of blood on it. But the jacket might have more evidence.

Max had worn an Armani suit to dinner, the only one who had dressed for dinner. Now he had on an Irish fisherman's jersey in a cream color. No blood was visible on him either. Had he been wearing the sweater when they'd interviewed him in the rehearsal room? Egon rather thought he had.

The three men stared down at themselves and each other. "I don't see any blood," Michael challenged.

"We're going to search your rooms," Winston answered. "Egon and I will stay here and watch the three of you."

"And I'll help," Derek volunteered. "I have a gun in my flight bag. I always carry it on a flight on the off chance of trouble. I'll go and get it."

No one moved while he was gone. A few minutes later he returned with a small handgun. Few subjects interested Egon less than weapons; he did not know what it was except that it was not a revolver, but he had no doubt it would be lethal. "Good thing it's my left wrist that's broken, isn't it?" the pilot asked through tight lips.

"You have no right to do this," Max said desperately. "You're not police. You have no right to take over like this."

"That makes it our right," Winston growled, flinging his hand in Peter's direction. "That and the fact that a ghost needs our help. Damita was murdered. Peter nearly was. I wouldn't care if you were the President of the United States. I'm not going to allow another attack, another murder. We Ghostbusters were once appointed a special task force on crime. Come to think of it, nobody ever revoked that. That gives us the authority to take over here."

"And it's my house and I grant it to them," Paul announced.

Max subsided, but he seemed gravely alarmed. Did that mean he was guilty?

"One thing we need to be sure of," Winston said. "Which of you had time to attack Peter and go up the tower with him?"

"I was in with Derek nearly fifteen minutes," Susan said. "There was ... something I wanted to discuss with him, besides telling him what was happening here." The color rose on her cheeks as Derek's mouth tightened. The telling hadn't been pretty. Perhaps she had told him she wanted to end their relationship. She had been awfully attached to Dameron downstairs.

"Did you see anyone when you came upstairs?" Winston queried. "No. I heard Max playing, down that hall." She slipped a hand out from under the blankets and pointed.

"I was. I've been practicing since Eddie left," Max admitted. "That and a little bit of composing -- that oratorio I've been working on, you know the one, Paul."

Dameron nodded. "I was downstairs after Susan, Eddie, and the Ghostbusters left," he explained. "I had ... much to think about. I realized they meant Damita was murdered; it was such a shock I didn't move from the room. I can't prove I didn't hurry upstairs and try to kill Peter, unless you count the fact that I'm not bloodstained or damp from the snow."

"I've been in my room, reading." Michael paused then shrugged. "Well, trying to, anyway. I didn't believe that Damita's ghost could be here. I never saw a trace of her in all the time we've been up here. But I couldn't stop thinking about it. She was always kind to me. I've been sitting in there brooding. I'd had a shower and was thinking about going to bed, but then I thought I'd better come downstairs one more time. I thought I heard Susan yelling, so I threw on my shoes and shirt. That's when Paul called me, so I came out here."

"Yet, I believe there was time for anyone to have done it," Egon said. "We spent possibly fifteen minutes in the kitchen with Mrs. Potter while she finished up. We opened the back door and stepped outside long enough to see if there were readings out there, but all we got were faint residual readings. We weren't gone that long, but I doubt it would have taken more than five minutes to wound Peter and force him to the top of the tower."

"In other words, one of you is lying." Ray glared pugnaciously at the suspects. "And we'll find out who it was, and then you'll be sorry."

Max opened his mouth to object, then abruptly he must have realized Ray's words were true. One of them was lying, and there was no way as yet of telling who. Peter had seemed inclined to exonerate Dameron. The fact that he hadn't changed his clothes might mean he was innocent, but it needn't. He was still downstairs and had not been breathless when he joined the others.

Egon couldn't tell which of them it was, not yet. He was sure Winston could eventually figure out any puzzle. Winston always figured it out -- but that was in fiction where the author left a few judicious clues scattered through the mystery. This murder was twenty years old, and what clues there had been were long gone. The attack on Peter was recent, proving the killer was ruthless and nerveless, to take a chance like that. He'd had no guarantee Susan wouldn't open the door and discover him in the act, or that someone wouldn't discover he was missing.

"Yes, one of us is lying," Paul said bitterly.

Susan shifted abruptly. "I think Peter is warm enough now," she remarked, feeling his forehead and taking his pulse. She held out her hand for her clothes; Paul jumped forward and passed them to her. Egon touched Peter's arm, feeling warm flesh instead of the icy feel of before. Yes, it was time to be up and doing, even though every bone in his body cried out for sleep. He wasn't sure what time it was, but he was willing to guess it was after eleven. They were all tired.

Peter made a faint, regretful sound when Egon got up and began to dress. Although he was closer to consciousness, he could not be left alone for an instant.

"Okay," Winston said when Egon was dressed and had resumed his proton pack and thrower. "It's time to search the house. Ray, you come with me. Susan, would you stay here with Peter and monitor his condition?".

"Of course," she agreed.

"And I don't think it would be a good idea for anyone to be alone," Winston continued. "Listen, folks, I don't have any authority here, but two of you are innocent. You want justice done as much as we do. So stay here for the time being, okay? If we find any evidence, that could change things."

"I'll come with you," Michael offered. "I know the house pretty well. You'll need some help." Egon couldn't tell if the offer was altruistic or defensive.

"Fine," Winston agreed as he pulled out his thrower. "Derek, how you holding up, man?"

"Better than you. I had some sleep." The pilot sat in the big easy chair, cradling the gun in the crook of his arm. "I'm not going to fall asleep on you. If I start getting drowsy I'll say so."

"What do you want me to do, Winston?" Eddie asked.

"Maybe get a little sleep now so we can trade off later. If none of the suspects are at liberty, you should be perfectly safe."

Eddie nodded. If he was disappointed at this tamer role, he didn't say so, nor did he offer to switch with Egon. He knew his cousin too well for that. Peter was close to reviving and Eddie had to know how much Egon wanted to be here when that happened. "Okay," he said. "But if anybody wanders off on their own, I hope you'll wake me up." He gave Egon a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Count on it," Ray promised. He turned wide eyes to the sleeping Venkman. "Egon, you'll stay with Peter and make sure he's okay? I really hate leaving him."

"Of course. It's all right. You know I won't let anyone harm Peter."

Ray nodded, steering Eddie toward the door. Winston fell into step with him.

When they had gone, trailed by an expostulating Michael, Egon took a deep breath and looked over at Peter. He was sleeping more restlessly now, not out of discomfort but because he was closer to rousing. Paul and Max eyed each other uneasily then sat down side by side on a small settee. Susan sat cross-legged on the foot of Peter's bed, leaning back against the bedpost, running her hands through her tousled curls. Paul's eyes lingered upon her and so did Derek's, his gaze tinged with some bitterness.

Egon sat down at the head of the bed next to Peter, removing the pillow. He couldn't lean back comfortably with the pack on, but he didn't want to remove the portable nuclear accelerator, in spite of Derek's more conventional weapon, so he balanced himself carefully, leaning back against the headboard. Resting his palm on Peter's forehead, he found it was much better. He was warm now, his skin not as clammy, and there was a tinge of faint color in his cheeks.

"We can try the cider now," Susan urged. She got up again and went over to the tray. Egon realized the cider was in a crockpot and that Mrs. Potter must have plugged it in before she left. It was still hot. He filled a cup; he and Susan assisted Peter to sit up and pressed the cup to his lips. He sipped it willingly, even made a sound of pleasure. Good. In the absence of a blood transfusion, Peter needed fluids.

Mrs. Potter returned with warm milk while they were performing this operation, and they gave him a glass of that, too. He took it as well, and when they lay him back against the pillow, he seemed far better.

"The poor man's getting color back," Mrs. Potter said, standing at the foot of his bed and smiling down at him maternally.

"Yes, he is." Susan smiled. "Mrs. Potter, you can go to bed now. It's perfectly safe. And the more of us who get rest, the better."

"I'll sleep for four hours then come and relieve you," the cook agreed.

When she had gone, Egon and Susan returned to their posts. Peter might simply pass into normal sleep and not rouse until morning. Egon put his hand on his friend's shoulder and leaned back against the bedpost to wait.

"I thought it was you." The voice roused Egon from a near doze, and he glanced across the room to the couch where Max and Paul sat. They'd kicked off shoes and loosened the top buttons of their shirts almost in chorus as if they had known each other so long they sometimes mirrored each other without even thinking.

Max had spoken. He continued now, an edge of self-reproach in his voice. "You knew, didn't you, how I felt about Damita?"

"If you mean did I know you wanted to sleep with her, yes I did. She told me, not details, but that you were attracted to her. Not to betray you, that wasn't her way. She told me because she didn't keep secrets from me. She said she knew you had to try because that was the way you were made and that you would never do anything against her will."

"God, Paul, you know I wouldn't," Max burst out, sounding more spontaneous than Egon had ever heard him. "It was almost a game with me. I loved her, but not like you did, and that was really the bottom line. After she died, I felt like a major heel. It was probably the first time in my whole life that I believed I'd been at fault. Not that I'd done anything, not that I'd done more than kissed her twice, for god's sake. But because your friendship mattered to me far more than the game I was trying to play. I learned something about myself when she died, that I don't always like myself."

"What a terrible shock," Paul said, a faint edge of derision in his voice.

Max gave him a nudge with his elbow like a schoolboy. Then he collected himself. "I never told you this. I couldn't. I was afraid you'd hate my guts for it. I got Damita to agree to meet me that night. She said she'd come, but only to tell me one more time that I didn't have a hope with her. I think she wanted to tell me in private. She'd have been kind -- and that would have stung. My ego wouldn't let me believe anyone should ever need to be kind to me."

"She would have had more tact than that." The two of them might have been alone in the room. They had long since forgotten their fascinated audience.

"I know, and that would have stung, too." Max collected himself. He tossed back his hair but this time the gesture was automatic, rather than affected. "We were going to meet on the tower," he said.

"What!" Paul stared at him, eyes full of shock.

"She was up there because of me," Max confessed. "She wouldn't have been in a position to die like that if not for me. God, Paul, I've hated myself ever since."

"You didn't --"

"Kill her? God, I'd as soon have killed music. That lovely, warm, generous woman, all that intelligence and beauty? No, Paul. Never. I went up there to meet her, but she wasn't there. I never thought -- oh, god, I never thought of looking over the edge. I thought she'd changed her mind and hadn't waited because I was late. I came down again, greatly put out. I, Max Rafferty, to be stood up? It didn't bear thinking about. When I found out she had died, I felt a centimeter high."

Paul weighed and measured him with his eyes. Susan held her breath. In his chair in the corner, Derek was impassive, like someone watching an intriguing drama on television, as much affected as any viewer. Beside Egon, Peter shifted once; Egon suspected he was half awake. But instead of leaning over him and encouraging him to rouse, Egon waited. He wanted to hear what would be the next revelation.

"I knew she was going to meet you," Paul admitted. "I didn't know where. After she'd been gone a time, I thought perhaps the two of you were quarreling, but then I saw you were back in the room, looking rather as if you'd been stomped on. I held back, giving you your privacy. She was mine and I was sure of that. I'm afraid I felt rather sorry for you and I knew you'd hate that."

"In fact it was the most unkindest cut of all," said Max, and a smile of vivid understanding flashed between them.

Paul continued, "It was only when we found out she was dead that I -- started to wonder."

"If I did it, you mean?" Max grimaced. "I can understand you thinking that but, my god, Paul, murder isn't my thing. I admit there are a couple of critics I'd like to torture to death -- slowly. But that's not the same thing."

"No, of course it's not. I couldn't believe it of you, but I knew I hadn't done it. I was ... torn up when we heard the coroner's verdict. It was inconceivable that Damita could have taken her own life. But she was already dead. It couldn't hurt her because those of us who knew her knew better. But it meant I didn't have to ... lose everything."

"I didn't want to think you'd done it either," Max returned. "We should have talked like this years ago."

Peter shifted restlessly against his pillow, turning Egon's attention from the two men on the settee. "Peter?" But Venkman's eyes were closed. He had only curled into the pillow more comfortably.

"I think he's sleeping now," Susan murmured. "He needs that, too. We'll let him rest a bit more, then we'll try to get him to take more soup." Her eyes lingered on Peter, then drifted over to Paul and Max.

The door burst open on a furious Michael Paris, trailed closely by Winston and Ray. "I tell you, it's a setup," Michael snarled. "It's a trick. It didn't happen that way. I know it."

"What's happened?" Egon asked, rising to meet them.

"We found a raincoat with blood on it," Ray explained, casting a hopeful glance at Peter only to sag in disappointment when he realized Peter wasn't awake yet. "Michael says it's Paul's."

"I didn't say he was wearing it," Michael objected as Susan came to her feet, a hand pressed against her mouth. The color left her face.

Egon stared at Paul, whose eyes had fallen on the bloodstained trenchcoat Winston carried. He couldn't have appeared more astonished if it had come to life and punched him in the jaw. "That's not possible!" he insisted. "I didn't do it. I wouldn't have hurt Peter. I'd have no reason to hurt him."

"I said you couldn't," Michael explained, folding his arms across his chest. "Anyone can put on a coat. I told them it wasn't you."

"Where did you find it?" Max asked practically. He glanced from Paul to Michael and back again.

"Downstairs in the back hall coatrack," Michael replied. "I couldn't have gotten there, not before Susan gave the alert. I was downstairs. You three," Paul gestured at the Ghostbusters, "were in the kitchen. I couldn't have passed you in the corridor without being heard."

"That would apply to anyone," Egon argued. "The door was open when we were in the kitchen talking with Mrs. Potter. No one could have passed."

Susan hadn't moved. Her fingers curled tightly around the bedpost and she worked her bottom lip between her teeth as Ray and Winston took up places on either side of the door.

"It got there somehow," Winston stated flatly. "Now you're telling me it's impossible for it to have done so? What about back stairs?"

"There is a flight," Paul answered promptly. "It comes down along the west wing from the old servants' quarters and opens into the back hall near the door. If someone came down the stairs, they could leave the coat there without being heard in the kitchen, if they were very quiet."

"But what they couldn't have done," Max replied, his face scrunched up in concentration, "is brought the coat down, come back up the servants' stairs, and gone along the main hall and downstairs again without being seen by Susan. In other words, there's no way Paul could have done it."

Winston frowned, glanced at his watch as if it would help him to work out the timeline. "No, it'd be almost impossible. I won't say completely because we don't know when Peter was jumped. It could have been the minute Susan went in to talk to Derek. The killer could have come down and taken the coat before Susan and Peter went upstairs, at any time, for any reason. Returning it would be trickier." He frowned as he reconstructed what might have happened. "The killer either came back down before Susan noticed Peter was missing."

"When I came out and he wasn't there, I went in to tell Derek," Susan said. "I didn't immediately think anything of it, but I was nervous and didn't want to come downstairs on my own. I thought I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't help the feeling. Derek said he'd get up and come down with me. We didn't know Peter was hurt. Derek put on his shoes and shirt and he couldn't button it because of his wrist, so I did it for him." She hesitated, rubbing her forehead in thought. "I'm trying to guess how long that would have taken, but I think it would have been enough time for the killer to have ducked out of the stairwell and hurried over to the servants' stairs if he hadn't already done it."

"Probably, though it took nerve," Winston agreed. "There was no guarantee you wouldn't come out and see him."

She nodded. "So we came out into the hall, and Derek noticed the blood. I hadn't thought of looking down before but he spotted it. I think he could have gotten past me while I was in Derek's room. I was there maybe five minutes."

"Or he could have come out on the third floor," Ray cried with sudden excitement. "Remember, we found the door there when we went up the tower? That's what I'd have done, if I'd been up on the tower and didn't want to get caught. Paul, do those servants' stairs go up that far?"

Dameron nodded. "That's where they originate. The third floor must have been the servants' quarters in the old days. The rooms are much smaller and it's not as fancy. Damita did it up nicely when we remodeled the house, but we didn't pull the walls out. The rooms are big enough for individual guests if we have a houseful, but we rarely use it."

"So whoever did it, got out on three, took the stairs down, dumped the raincoat, then got back up here. Lot of ups and downs. The guy has nerve, all right," said Winston. "And he had the luck, too, because the timing was close for anybody. I think it would be pushing it for Paul to have done it, but just maybe it's within the bounds of possibility."

"Whoever it was got right up to Peter," Ray reminded them. "Peter can be really suspicious of people, and especially now, after what he found out from Damita. He wouldn't have let anybody get the drop on him. I still think that part's weird."

"You can't say 'wouldn't', Ray, because he did." Egon frowned. "Max. Would you have heard anyone pass the practice room while you were working?"

Max shook his head. "It would probably take someone yelling my name -- or the last trump -- to distract me while I'm playing. Short of a marching band, anyone could have passed along the hall outside and I wouldn't have noticed. You realize when you talked to me before, you didn't speak of murder, only of suicide and accident. I was uneasy after you left, so I focused on my music. Sometimes when I do that, concentrate on it to the exclusion of all else, things come clear in my mind. Nothing did this time. You have to remember, I've spent twenty years repressing the thought that my best friend might have killed his wife -- and blaming myself for it because if not for me she wouldn't have gone up there in the first place." He shook his shaggy head. "No, I heard nothing."

"What about you, Michael?" prompted Winston, eyeing the angry man.

Michael still hadn't relaxed. "I didn't hear anything until Paul yelled for Max and me. I'm in the opposite direction anyway."

"You're right in this wing," Max pointed out.

"I work here," Michael retorted. "It's not my place to come out when I hear people talking or even calling each other's names. I did hear Susan calling Peter's name but it wasn't anything to do with me. I had no reason to hurt him -- or Mrs. Dameron either."

Egon wondered if Rafferty even had an idea where the back stairs were. He wasn't the type to use the servants' staircase, even if it was moreconvenient. He didn't mention the idea. It might help to discuss the theory with Winston. Of any of them, he was best suited to catch even tiny clues.

"None of us did," Max insisted. "I was piqued with her because she wouldn't play the game, but I don't kill people out of pique. No sane man does."

"Do you wanna keep it down?" whined a new voice, the most welcome one Egon could have imagined, cutting into the conversation. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

Nothing could have been guaranteed to win the attention of the Ghostbusters more quickly than that weak, exhausted voice. "Peter!" they cried in chorus and clustered around the bed, gazing down at their friend who shifted against the pillows and opened his eyes, blinking up at them dazedly.

"Peter?" Egon went down on one knee beside the bed to bring himself to Peter's level, and scooped up his hand, squeezing it fiercely. "Thank god you're awake."

"Yeah, and permanently crippled in that hand now," Peter muttered wryly, flexing his fingers when Egon loosened his grip. He didn't let go, though.

"Allow us to express our concern, Peter. You scared us." "You sure did," cried Ray. He went to Peter's other side and sat carefully on the bed, reluctant to jar the injured man. "We found you on the tower steps all covered with blood." His fingers closed over Peter's shoulder as if he felt a need of tactile reassurance.

"Do we hafta talk about blood, Ray?" Peter demanded, his voice thin as paper, but he was aware. "I hate blood, especially when it's mine."

"Peter?" Winston moved into Venkman's line of vision at the foot of the bed. "Who did this to you? Do you know who attacked you?"

The entire company held themselves breathless, waiting for the response. Peter glanced past his friends to the three suspects who had drawn apart from each other involuntarily. Egon had never seen three faces more carefully impassive in his entire life. For an instant the thought ran through his mind that what they had here was a Murder on the Orient Express, and that all of them were guilty. But he didn't believe that. Didn't they say three people could keep a secret only if two of them were dead?

"No," Peter said regretfully, shaking his head. He let his gaze drift to the suspects and linger upon each of them in turn. None of them avoided his eyes -- or appeared guilty either. "All I saw was the knife."

Tension leaked out of the room, at least one kind of tension. Peter's revival hadn't put an end to the problem after all. There were still no easy answers. But maybe this made Peter less a target.

"He had on a -- a raincoat." Peter frowned, struggling to recapture the moment. "I could see the cuff." He tried to moisten his lips with his tongue. "Egon, I'm really thirsty."

"It's the blood loss," Susan explained. "I'll get him some water." She vanished into the room's small bathroom and came out with a glass. With Egon's help, Peter sat up. They propped him up with pillows; as he reached for the glass, his hand shook, so Egon steadied it while he drank in steady sips. He drained the glass and held it out for more. When Susan returned, he finished half the second glass, then passed it to Egon and leaned back against the pillows as if that little action had pushed his strength to the limits.

"We found the raincoat." Winston snatched it up from the back of a chair and holding it out so Peter could see it. "This the one?" He grabbed Peter's foot and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"... think so." He yawned gapingly, then tension flashed through him with the return of memories. "He tossed me off the tower, guys." Reaction made him quiver and the color that had returned to his face drained away.

"Off the tower?" gasped Ray, horrified. "But, Peter ... We found you in the tower, inside, on the steps, though you were cold enough and wet enough to have been outside. How did you keep from falling?"

Peter hesitated, then abruptly a smile blazed out, warming the ice of his recall. "Damita saved me," he breathed, beaming. "I grabbed for something when I fell and there was a gargoyle. I caught onto its wing but if Damita hadn't held me until I could get a good grip --" His fingers tightened convulsively on Egon's hand, nearly hard enough to crush it. "I saw her fall. I saw it over and over in my head. God, I knew I was going to fall, too, and die like she did. I knew it." He was shaking.

"You didn't fall, Peter." Egon sat beside him and encircled his shoulders reassuringly. "You're safe now. I promise you no one will have a second chance." He lifted his eyes and glared threateningly at the three men near the foot of the bed. One of them would pay for what he had done to Peter.

"Damita?" Paul whispered, shocked from his impassive stare. His face was alive with a wild confusion of painful emotions. At the sight of it, Susan moved involuntarily. "She ... came?"

"She was with me when I got jumped," Peter said. "In my head again, trying to find out who killed her, trying to believe it wasn't you." He hesitated. "In her heart, she knew it wasn't, but a part of her was so afraid it was. I was all tangled up in that, so I didn't hear whoever it was creeping up on me." He paused to collect himself, leaning into the circle of Egon's arm, and gestured for the water again.

Susan brought it absently, her eyes on Paul, which forced Ray to snatch the glass from her and offer it to Peter. Did she fear it would be impossible to compete with a memory that struck so sharply even after twenty years or did she fear, as Damita must, that Paul had killed her?

Concentrating on the action, Peter sipped the water. "I didn't see him," he finally said. "But there's gotta be a way to tell ..."

"Okay, let's try this, then," Winston intervened. "Could you say how tall he was?"

Peter considered it. "Not sure. He was at least as tall as me, because he was talking in my ear. He wasn't shorter than me."

"None of them are, Peter," Winston pointed out. "Paul's about your height, Michael's maybe an inch taller, and Max is the tallest. Did he seem to bend down to speak to you?"

Peter shook his head dazedly. "I don't know. I just don't remember ..." He glanced around. "Where's Eddie?"

Egon explained, "And we felt it was safe for Mrs. Potter to sleep as well. I doubt she is a target, and if she isn't here and doesn't learn anything more, she won't become one."

"That's right." Winston hung the raincoat on the edge of the closet door. "We've got us a pretty cold-blooded killer, but I don't think he's ruthless enough to kill an innocent woman who hasn't hurt him and who knows nothing. Besides, if we keep an eye on our suspects, she won't be in danger."

"You expect us to sit up all night?" Michael demanded. "I've got work to do with a chainsaw in the morning. It's already midnight."

"I expect everyone to remain under observation all night," Winston persisted. "Look, none of us are detectives. I read mysteries a lot and I --"

"Winston!" Peter's voice cut in sharply, an urgent undercurrent running through it.

Winston turned away from the three of them and came to stand beside the bed. "Yeah, Pete?"

"What about the knife?" Peter nudged Egon surreptitiously with his elbow. "Did you find the knife?"

"No, and I don't think we're gonna find it, either," Winston replied. "If the guy had one shred of sense he tossed it off the tower as far as he could throw it. In all that snow, there's no hope of finding it until spring, if then. I think that makes the chance of fingerprints pretty much nil."

Suddenly Egon realized what Peter had meant when he had interrupted. If Winston admitted how good he was at solving mysteries in front of all three suspects, he might make himself a target, too. Of course the murderer's days of freedom were numbered now. As soon as the police became involved, the truth would come out eventually. For the past twenty years no one had even tried to find the killer, because officially there hadn't been a murder. Now the secret was out, there would have to be an investigation -- and the attack on Peter proved there was something to hide and that it wasn't just the imagination of four men who chased ghosts for a living.

"What'll they do?" Max asked, sounding intrigued. "Lie detector tests?"

"Maybe," Winston replied. "We're going to have to divide up. Stand guard. I know nobody likes this. I sure don't. But I think we need two people to be in the room with the suspects at all times. Derek, you look wiped. You get some sleep. You haven't seen or heard anything that would make you a target."

"What about me?" Susan asked.

"No, you can't take the chance," Winston decided.

"Why not?"

"Because you're becoming involved with Paul. I know it's early, but you were hitting it off downstairs. Don't know where it'll go if anywhere, but the last victim was involved with Paul. I don't want to take any chances with you. You should rest, but not alone."

Derek hauled himself out of the chair and handed the gun to Winston. "Susan, you can come with me. I'm a very light sleeper. The conventions are all shot to hell anyway. You can sleep in my bed. I give you my word you'll be as safe there as in your own."

Susan melted. "Oh, Derek ..." An expression passed between them, one of regret and apology mixed. She hesitated, then nodded. "All right. But it isn't fair to you."

"Susan, it's a crisis. I'd do anything to keep you safe, you know that."

They left together, Paul's eyes following her. "I think I ... came between them, didn't I?" The question made Max eye him speculatively.

"Not on purpose," Peter said quickly from the bed. "I think they were dating -- but if a newly-met stranger can yank her chain harder than her boyfriend can, that says it wasn't going anywhere. Not your blame, Paul."

Egon turned to stare at Peter, who had a vague and distant expression on his face. Part of that analysis had been pure Peter, his experience with relationships and his general perceptiveness about human nature, but the sympathy in his voice might have been a leftover from Damita's link. As Egon watched he shook himself out of it and his eyes cleared.

Paul flinched, but he tried to hide it.

Winston gestured at Ray. "You go find Eddie and bunk with him, Ray. We'll call you in three hours, okay? I know how to use a gun so I'll keep this. Egon and I will take keep an eye on these three."

Ray nodded reluctantly, paused long enough to give Peter's shoulder an encouraging pat. "Take it easy, Peter. We won't let anyone hurt you." Then he went out obediently, watching over his shoulder at his friends as he departed.

"You expect us to sit up all night?" Max snorted.

"No. Stretch out on the floor and sleep, if you want. Go and drag in pillows -- two of you. I'll come with you. Egon, watch the other one." Egon pulled his thrower and prepared to guard Max, while Paul and Michael left with Winston.

"Crimebusters again?" Peter said faintly. His face was grey with fatigue but he did seem better than before. Egon gestured at the half-full water glass, and Peter picked it up and sipped it without enthusiasm, even though he must still feel thirsty.

"Yes, Peter." Thrower in hand, Egon sat down beside him and filled him in on everything that had happened since he left to escort Susan upstairs. Tired and drained, Peter listened, and if he lacked the energy to sit up without the pillows to prop him, his mind was alert enough to take it all in.

"So there's still no clue who did it?"

"Are you sure Damita doesn't know?"

Peter thought hard. "No. All she knows is that the killer wore a hooded cloak. And all three men that night had cloaks. I think the reason she's stayed away all these years is because it was hooded and she knew Paul's cloak was hooded."

"So was mine," Max put in. "Damn it, I admit it was my fault; she wouldn't have been up there if not for me. All these years I've been afraid to do anything, afraid to say anything. I was afraid it was Paul. He never talked about it, or her, until tonight. Oh, sometimes he'd mention her in passing, but not like he has now. I don't believe he did it."

"If you claim innocence and don't believe Paul did it, then you think Michael did," Peter said quickly. "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know that I do, except through process of elimination. Michael's a hard man to know. You'd think in this day and age no one would attach stigma to being employed like he is. We hardly think of 'servants' the way people once did. But Michael's stiff with pride. He reminds us he works for Paul before Paul can remind him. Not that Paul ever would. At least not the Paul I knew before Damita died. That Paul is showing in flashes now. If it turns out he's guilty ..."

His voice trailed off, and Egon realized that maybe there was one thing in the universe Max Rafferty still loved better than himself. His best friend. Egon's own best friend sat at his side, bandaged, pale, weak from blood loss. Egon would defend him with his own life if necessary and never stop to count the cost. How far would Max go to defend Paul?

The others bustled back, arms loaded with bedding. Michael shot a resentful glare at Winston. "Look, I know what you say, but I still think you've got no right to come here and take over our lives like this."

"The hell I don't," Winston snapped in an unaccustomed display of profanity. "Like I said before, my right is lying over there with a knife cut along his ribs." He gestured angrily at Peter. "I'm sorry about Damita and I like seeing justice done as much as the next man, but one of you tried to kill my friend. I'm not gonna just sit back and take that. Okay, so I'm imposing martial law. Tough shit. Two of you are innocent and should want justice too."

"That's telling him, Winston," Peter lauded. "Go for it, big fella."

Egon frowned. All right. Paul might kill if he believed his beloved wife meant to be unfaithful, even if Peter insisted she had no such intention. Max might kill out of deeply wounded vanity if she rejected his blandishments. But why would Michael kill? Out of hopeless passion and the thought that she would choose someone else for a fling? It was farfetched, but sometimes motives were bizarre. Who knew how emotions could twist on a person? If Peter had died, what would Egon have done, confronted with the murderer? The very thought chilled him all the way to the bone.

"All right, everyone," Winston announced. "Get some sleep. In the morning, we'll figure out how to get help; or maybe a search plane will spot our wreckage. Egon and I will keep watch for now. That means you, homeboy," he said, coming over to the bed and smiling down at Peter. "I bet you could use it."

"I know I could. Good thing you didn't say, 'stay awake, Peter', because I don't think I could have done that." He suddenly grinned appealingly. "Does that mean I get to sleep in tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, Peter," Egon instructed with deliberate patience. "Just this once. Go to sleep now, though. You need the rest."

"I need the john more," Peter decided. "Otherwise you're gonna have to change the sheets, big guy." He pushed himself away from his pillows and tossed aside the blankets, his mouth dropping open as he realized he wasn't wearing anything. "What's this Egon, 'Nudes 'R Us?'"

"We had to get you warm, Peter. You were nearly hypothermic and we didn't dare risk letting you go into shock."

"Yeah, Pete," Winston called from the chair where Derek had sat earlier. "Susan warmed you up with body heat."

Peter's eyes grew huge. "You mean she was into this nude game, too, right here in my bed? And I missed it?"

"She wore her underwear, Peter." Egon produced pajamas from Peter's flight bag. "As did I."

"You too?" Peter lifted an eyebrow. "I would have liked to see all this. And everybody else just stood around watching while the three of us cuddled?"

"Everyone was fascinated," Egon teased. "We dealt out cards to write down the numbers to rate your performance. Unfortunately, you didn't perform. No tens for you, Peter."

Peter allowed Egon to slide his pajama pants on over his feet, then he stood up very carefully and pulled them up. He didn't appear to be dizzy, just shaky on his feet. Egon helped him into the pajama top, and then walked with him, steadying him with a hand to his elbow, as far as the bathroom door.

"Okay, Egon, I can take it from here," Peter said, gripping the doorknob to steady himself. "I'm a big boy now, I've been handling the bathroom on my own for years." He gave Egon a grateful smile for the support, then let himself into the room, closing the door behind him.

Egon exchanged a relieved glance with Winston. Peter was already showing signs of recovery. He deserved the downtime of a late morning, perhaps several of them, although Egon wouldn't feel totally comfortable until Peter started to enjoy his recovery and capitalize upon it.

When he was finished in the bathroom, Peter returned slowly to his bed, eschewing the helping hand this time but allowing Egon to pull up the covers and tuck him in like a child. He smiled drowsily up at Egon, closed his eyes, and was asleep in moments.

Night, the tower, the stars swirling around! The rush of someone behind her, the push of someone behind him ... Damita's memories and Peter's actual experience blended in the dream, the cloaked and hooded figure from the scenes she had shown Peter growing in size to an evil creature out of a melodrama who twirled his mustache, his sinister laugh ringing out across the night. Peter felt himself fly from the tower, grabbing frantically for a hold, any hold. Snow blinded him but not thoroughly enough to keep him from seeing the ground rushing up to meet him. He was going to die. Falling, falling, falling -- "Yahhhh!" Peter jerked bolt upright, shaking with reaction and, for those first few moments, he was only aware of the dimly lit room, superimposed with the nightmare images. Then an arm came around his shoulders and a deep voice said reassuringly, "It's all right, Peter, it was only a dream."

He was too confused in that first instant to recognize the voice, although it meant security. It was all right. Paul was here ... No, that wasn't right. Paul was not security to him. Damita! She was there, still in his head, confusing him, distorting everything. He blinked frantically, then his head was pressed into a familiar shoulder and big hands stroked his back and the nape of his neck. "It's all right, Peter, just a dream."

"E-egon?" His body quivered with uncontrollable shaking, making his teeth chatter.

"I'm here, Peter. Winston's here, too. You're safe. It was just a dream." He could feel Winston's hand on his shoulder, offering him reassurance.

"No 'j-just' about it, S-spengs," Peter murmured, clinging tight to the security the tall physicist offered him. "God, Egon, I was f-falling and falling and I was gonna d-die."

"I know," Egon reassured him. "Believe me, I know how it feels to fall forever. But we were both saved. We didn't fall all the way, after all."

Yeah, he would know. Egon had fallen off the World Trade Center once; if not for a particularly miraculous bit of flying with Ecto-2 by Winston, Egon would have made the big splat. So, no one else could understand his nightmare so well, no one but Damita. Peter felt the shivering that had racked him ease. He was warm, safe, secure in the company of his oldest friend with Winston at his back. "It was so close," he muttered, the vivid images dancing behind his closed eyelids. "Heights--bug me, y'know."

"Yes, Peter, I do know. I understand. You have every right to feel a delayed reaction. Let it go now. You're safe, and that is a promise. I don't know who he is, but he will not have a second chance."

"No lie," muttered Winston in the background.

Peter lifted his head and studied the two of them. They looked utterly drained with exhaustion. "You guys are constitutionally opposed to sleep, huh?"

"We're taking turns, Peter. Ray and Eddie will be back in another half hour for their shift."

"What about them?" He noticed three figures sprawled on the floor. Paul was awake, watching them, but the other two hadn't stirred at Peter's panicked yell. Peter smiled at him benevolently, then caught himself. Damita again. He hated being influenced like that.

"We're watching them." Winston still held Derek's gun. "They won't try anything. I guarantee that."

The last of the shivers faded; Peter released Egon from the stranglehold and propped himself up with pillows. It wasn't as hard to sit up as it had been earlier, although his side felt raw and painful where the knife had bit. The only good thing about the whole experience was that it had made him forget his headache.

"Egon?" he began in a hesitant voice.

Spengler must have heard a note in Peter's voice that alerted him because he sat down again on the edge of the bed. "What's wrong, Peter?"

He hesitated, reluctant to talk, then he said, "I keep seeing her in my head, Egon. The way she fell, all of that. And then I keep feeling things that aren't me. Like worrying about Paul, when he might even be the one who tried to throw me off the tower. Egon, she's in my head. What if she won't go away? What if I am possessed?"

"You're not possessed, Peter." Egon reached for his ever-present P.K.E. meter that lay on the bedside table, activated it, made several adjustments of the dial, and passed it over Peter. Beyond him, Paul, who had heard Peter speak, sat up, his eyes huge with shock and a strange hunger. He didn't speak, for which Peter was glad. He wasn't up to dealing with Damita's husband, not when he could feel Damita so clearly, not when he was afraid she would always be in his mind.

"Then why is she in my head? I keep getting glimpses of that party, of her waiting on the tower. I know things, Egon, things there's no way I could know, like how Paul likes kippers for breakfast -- gross! -- and how some rich old railroad guy bought this house in Europe and had it taken down and reassembled here. I've gotta be possessed. Come on, Spengs; you've gotta help me."

"There's no evidence of possession, Peter. However, there are residual readings. It's rare, but what I think you have is a conduit."

"And this is better?" He lifted an eyebrow. "Come on, Egon, I want to help her, but I don't want her stuck in my head forever. I don't feel like me any more."

"What else does she say?" Paul's voice made Egon jump, he had been concentrating so deeply on his readings and Peter's words, but Peter had known without even thinking of it that he was there, standing at the foot of the bed, his face naked with unhappiness and regret for something that was long gone.

"She doesn't 'say' things, it's not like that." Peter reached out and gripped Egon's wrist in hopes of a more 'real' conduit to the here and now. "I can't step aside and let her talk to you. It doesn't work like that. And believe me, if I thought it would get her out of my head, I'd do it."

"Not a good idea, Peter," Egon insisted. "What you have here is a link. She found you receptive, and she was desperate. She let you see things, and the way she did it was to make you relive them. That's why they are so real to you. When this is over, they will fade until they seem no more than a dream."

"Are you sure, Egon?"

"Pretty sure."

"Come on, Spengs, that's not like you. You usually know things one way or another." He shivered, pulling the covers up around him, settling back against the pillows, careful to grab Egon's wrist again when he was comfortable. In the process his eyes met Paul's.

"I'd tell you things if I could," he said to the man, feeling an echo of Damita's tender longing and the fear that was all through her that the man she loved more than life had destroyed her life. "She can't come to the house."

"Why not?"

"Because she saw a hooded cloak, and she's scared you did it. If you did, then everything she ever believed is destroyed. She'd rather wander around out there in the darkness forever than accept that." Peter felt his voice taking on an unfamiliar tone and tightened his grip on Egon.

"Don't you think I would rather have lingered forever in the darkness than hurt her?" Paul demanded. "I never could explain to most people how deep things went with Damita and me, but you know, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know." Peter hesitated. "I know because I've got three friendships that deep. Maybe that's why she could touch me, because of that." He shot a blazing smile at Egon, whose eyes warmed, then turned and grinned affectionately at Winston. "We're more than co-workers. We're family. When you go up against something that can eat your souls, you have to be. We'd die for each other."

The sentiments were true, all the way down to the bone, but Peter didn't usually speak of them to strangers. It was just that he'd seen so much of Paul in his link with Damita that the man wasn't a stranger. He wasn't a friend either; he was an odd bird somewhere in between, and the storm and the crisis had heightened relationships tonight.

"Maybe that is why Damita felt she could bond with you," Paul said. "I still have trouble dealing with all this. If I could think of a logical reason for you to be here telling me this, I'd discount it, but I can't. No scam would be worth risking your life for in the plane crash."

"Risking all my buddies? No way," Peter agreed. "Okay, Paul. I only know what Damita knows of you, but the link is there. Give it to me straight here. Bottom line. Did you kill your wife?"

Paul's brown eyes met his dead on as if he could see through Peter to Damita out in the darkness. "No, I didn't."

Suddenly Damita was with him, far more strongly than before. She wasn't present in the room, but she had come swarming into Peter's mind. He could feel her staring out of his eyes, feel himself shunted aside. It scared the hell out of him, but Damita's need was so strong he couldn't fight it. His fingers around Egon's wrist were his one link to reality.

And then Peter felt the certainty beat through him, Damita's certainty, her intimate knowledge of Paul Dameron, a knowledge Peter could never emulate. Damita believed him. She knew he was telling her the truth. Joy sparkled inside Peter, a joy not his own, but one that surged through all his veins and arteries. Compelled by the link, he surged forward and landed on his knees at the foot of the bed. Reaching out, he wrapped his hands around Dameron's wrists.

"I believe you." Although the voice was his, the words came from somewhere else, from Damita's knowledge of the man. "You could never lie to me, my love." He caught himself on that, and jerked back.

"Damita?" Paul blurted, stunned beyond words.

"She came through a little strong right there," Peter said hastily, struggling to regain possession of himself. "Not that I have anything against you or anything, but that's not exactly how I think of you -- Egon! Do something!"

"Damita used Peter to speak to you," Egon commented. "And I think it is time for her to draw back now. The link has become too easy." He caught Peter by the shoulders and turned him so they were eye to eye. "Damita! If you are there, if you can hear me, know this: if your inability to enter the house was predicated upon your fear that your husband had killed you and you now believe differently, you have no further need of your link with Peter. From all I have heard of you, I do not believe you would risk Peter's sanity to make your point. You can come here directly now. Sever the link, and do it now!"

Winston came to stand beside the bed, looking down at the two sleeping men guarding his friends as Peter stared back at Egon. Then he felt it, a cold, hard twist inside him as if something had broken free. All the awareness Damita had given him trickled away through the breach, leaving him only remote memories as of a near-forgotten dream. He sagged, gasping, and Egon caught him; he and Winston helped him back to the pillows, drawing up the blankets over him.

"She's gone," Peter said, his voice thin and tired. "Egon, she's just gone!"

"You wanted that, Peter," Egon reminded him.

"I know I did. It's just that it feels ... kinda empty for a minute." Suddenly he wallowed up out of the covers and grabbed Egon's arm with one hand and Winston's with the other. Feeling warm, human flesh, living flesh, under his fingers returned him to reality and he sighed with relief.

Egon sat beside Peter. "Are you all right, Peter?"

"Yeah, I think I am now, but I could sleep for a year. What about Damita? Is she gonna pop in now?"

"I think she might," Egon replied. "However, I suspect it might take her a moment or two, possibly longer. She has a great many years of conditioning to overcome."

Paul's face looked white as paper. Peter looked at him and only saw a newly-met man, one who'd suffered a terrible loss twenty years ago. There was nothing personal in him any more, not for Peter, only this night of shared danger. Paul stared back, shocked. "Did she believe me?" he pleaded. "Did she believe me?"

"She sure did," Peter said. "You might have sounded as sincere as anyone since the dawn of time, but I wouldn't have been able to tell. But I think she could."

"Does that exonerate me?"

Winston shook his head. "Nice thought, and while I'm inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, I can't take chances with anyone's lives. Nothing's changed. We play this out just the way we did before."

"I concur," said Egon.

"Wait a minute, guys," Peter put in. He paused to yawn capaciously. "You're gonna have to take my word for it here, but even if there's nothing in me for him any more, I know he's innocent. I can't explain it. It's something to do with the link. Most of Damita's memories are fading, but that one thing I know because I remember how it felt when she heard him. I got it through the link, kinda like a psychic hot line."

"Very subjective, Peter. Go back to sleep now."

"No, wait, Egon," Peter objected, gesturing wildly, only to wince and press a hand to his side. "Oops, got a little too energetic there. Don't you get it?"

"Evidently not," Egon said dryly. "Get what, Peter?"

"She can tell. Damita can tell. She's going to pop up here any minute in her full ectoplasmic glory. And when she's face to face with the man who killed her -- she'll know. She didn't want to know before, because she was afraid it might be Paul. But now that she believes him, she can come and take the risk."

Peter, I don't think you should --"

Suddenly Paul yelled and staggered backward. The bedding behind him erupted in a flurry; the man who had bumped into him shoving him fiercely toward Winston. He tried to get out of the way, but went down in a clatter. The gun spurted from his hand and slid out of reach beneath the bed as Winston struggled to push himself up. Clambering up on his knees again, Peter got one glimpse of the twisted face of Michael Paris as he paused in the doorway, before he burst out of the room and raced away, his footsteps echoing behind him, heading toward the main stairs.

A puzzled Max Rafferty popped up beside Paul, his hair in wild disarray, crying, "What the hell happened?"

As Winston dove beneath the bed to retrieve Derek's gun, Paul turned on Max, lunged for him, and enveloped him in a colossal bearhug, confusing the newly awakened man still further. "You didn't do it! Thank god you didn't do it!" he cried, hugging Max tight.

"Well, of course I didn't do it, Paul. I would have smashed myhands before I would have killed Damita."

"Paul didn't do it either," Peter said. "Damita's ghost is coming. When Michael heard that, he took off. It was him."

At that Max returned Paul's embrace with equal relief.

"I did try to warn you, Peter," Egon said dryly. "There were no guarantees either man was asleep. You warned him without meaning to."

"Yeah, but where can he go?" Peter demanded wryly. "It's not like the road is open. He can hardly take off and hop on a bus or flag down a taxi."

"What's going on?" The sleepy question from the doorway made Max and Paul draw back from each other. Ray stood there, his hair standing up in spikes like a punk cut. Eddie stood beside him; but since he always wore his hair that way, he did not seem particularly sleep-rumpled.

"Michael killed Damita," Paul gritted out. "When I find him --"

"Wait, guys!" Winston emerged from under the bed, gun in hand. "Paul, listen. He's gonna be desperate. Is there any way he can get out of here?"

"Not unless he uses snowshoes. The tree across the road is real. I've seen it. Until you came here with your news of Damita he would have had no reason to lie to me."

"You got any guns down there he might go for?" Peter demanded. Now that they knew who the killer was, he had to take every precaution.

"No. Well, I do have a rifle, but it's locked up."

"Could he have the key?" asked Ray.

"No, but I suppose he could smash the case. I'll go and see."

"I'll go with you," Winston volunteered. He paused in the doorway. "Someone go after Mrs. Potter, and Derek and Susan. It's possible he might welcome a hostage."

It was an hour later. Four A.M. Ray was wide awake. A search of the house had not produced evidence of Michael Paris, but it had secured Paul's rifle and an assortment of kitchen knives that might be used against them as weapons. Awakened from sleep, Mrs. Potter had proven relieved to know her master was innocent, but not much surprised. She and Susan were now sleeping in the room across the hall from Peter's room while Derek and Eddie sat guard duty in the hallway.

Peter had been coaxed back to sleep, and Egon shared the bed with him, snoring softly. Winston had appropriated Michael's bedding, and dozed in the corner chair.

Paul had been reluctant to move from this spot because he was sure it was where Damita would come. So far, she had not

materialized, and the more time that passed, the more disappointed the singer became. Finally Max had given an exasperated snort and dragged him off to bed. When Ray had looked in on them, they were both fast asleep, sprawled out on the king sized bed in Paul's room, just three doors down the hall, relief in each other's innocence dragging them fathoms under in seconds.

Ray had tugged in a comfortable chair from his own bedroom and positioned it near Peter's bed so he could watch his friends. He didn't want to go back to sleep but it was four in the morning, he was tired and sore, and his thumb ached. Helping to carry Peter down the stairs hadn't dislocated it again, but it hadn't made it feel any better, either. He knew he should sleep, but he was too wired to do so. People didn't really value sleep until they couldn't get it, he thought. Once they caught Michael, or once morning came and they could tell he'd left the house, then he'd sleep the clock around.

Peter slept as if he had to make up for lost time. Egon had said he'd experienced a nightmare about his near-fall from the tower, but he was not restless or distressed now. He smiled in his sleep, and Ray wondered if Damita hadn't done that when she severed the link, eased his pain over the fall. He thought maybe she could do that, and maybe she owed it to Peter for what she'd put him through. But he was okay now; Peter was going to be fine. But it had been rough on him, and not just the attempt on his life. The whole night had been rough on all of them. It was hard to remember back to the terror of the plane crash, now that all this other stuff had happened.

Ray listened to the silence of the big, old house. Egon was snoring, Winston was muttering faintly in his sleep, but aside from that, the night was still. Against the big window, snow still hissed down, but not as heavily as before. The flakes were tiny now, stinging with a hint of sleet. Rescue would not be fun.

Alone, with time to think, Ray wondered why none of them had tried listening to a radio to see if there was news of their downed flight or of rescue searches. It wouldn't be worth it to listen now. Maybe reception was bad among the hills and trees. When he had been watching tapes of Star Wars earlier, Ray hadn't thought to check the news channel on the TV. Now he wished he had.

Did everyone think they were dead? Had someone called his Aunt Lois or his Cousin Samantha to tell them of the crash? What about Winston's folks, Egon's mom? Peter's dad would be harder to find since he had no fixed address, but he might have heard it too. The Ghostbusters were famous enough for their disappearance to make the national news. Poor Janine, she'd know too. Too bad she hadn't sent Slimer out to hunt for them. Of course the spud wasn't always very good at things like that. He might be out there in the snow trying his best.

"Hello, Ray," murmured a soft voice in his ear.

He jumped, staring in astonishment at the woman who stood before him; she smiled down at him as if she had met an old friend. She was dressed in the garb of the Roaring Twenties, a short skirt, a little cap on her head, but he recognized her instantly. Although the auburn hair from the painting was smoothed back from her heart-shaped face, she was still as beautiful as she had been in the storm -- and in the painting over the fireplace in the great hall.

"Damita!" he breathed. She seemed completely solid, as she had on the way to the house. He would never have taken her for a ghost -- if he didn't already know she was one.

"Don't get up; I know you're sore," she said, gesturing him back when he would have jumped to his feet.

"Gosh, we thought you might come an hour ago." Ray lowered his voice automatically so as not to awaken his sleeping friends. "What took you so long?"

"It was strange, Ray." She sat on the end of the bed, smiling fondly at Peter. Ray was stunned at the depth of love he saw in her eyes when she smiled down at him. She brushed her hand affectionately across Peter's foot. The touch was too light to rouse him but he shifted slightly and made a contented sound against the pillow. Turning to Ray, Damita continued. "I had stayed away so long I could scarcely remember how to come here. It's not the same when you are dead. You can't just walk up to a place, you have to find a different means of getting there."

"I bet." Ray nodded in understanding. He'd been a Ghostbuster long enough to grasp what she was talking about. Ghosts were bound by different rules than the living. "You kinda have to play it by ear. There's lots of things ghosts can do, but they have to try them and find out what they are first; I know you probably never tried anything until you linked with Peter. Have you seen Paul?"

"I will soon. I must see him. I've longed to see him for such a time now. But I came here because this is where I was last, when I saw Paul through Peter's eyes." She smiled down at Peter. "I must apologize to him, Ray. I owe him so much, and I hurt him so badly."

"Peter? You didn't hurt him." Ray shook his head. "You maybe scared him a little, but it was Michael who hurt him."

"I made him feel my fall, when falling was his great fear. I made him believe he was possessed, even realizing how much it terrified him when he was possessed by Watt."

"How can you know all that?" Ray blurted out in stunned amazement. Come to think of it, Damita was awfully familiar with him, as if she had known him for years.

"Ray, oh, Ray, I know him to the very bone. I was in his mind, he was in mine. How could I not know him? How could I not love him, as all of you love him?"

"Don't tell him that, he'll be so full of himself," Ray said involuntarily. But he couldn't help wondering if the reverse was true. In spite of the unpleasant parts of the link, Peter had been awfully protective of Damita and willing to allow her to use him to achieve her goals. Ray hoped Peter wasn't going to get hurt -- well, hurt worse than he already was.

Damita smiled gently as if she understood his concern. "I am not in love with him, Ray. Not the way I love Paul and always will. When I was alive, no one came closer to me than Paul. But knowing Peter as I did this night, I know I could have loved him in that way, too. It wouldn't have been right, as Paul and I were right. But it would have been fun." She smiled then, a warm yet mocking smile, as if she could laugh at herself, at her wild fancies. There was a special warmth to this woman that stirred something deep inside of Ray, and he could understand, all at once, how all three men had loved her, all those years ago. How could Michael have killed her?

"Your face is so expressive, Ray. I feel like I know you from Peter's mind. I don't know why I died, even now. Do you?"

"No, only that when Peter said you would be coming here and would know who did it, Michael ran."

"He was in love with me, Ray," she explained, a hint of reticence in her tone as if, even now, she had no right to betray the young Michael's pain. "I thought it a boy's crush, but he was twenty-three. No longer a boy. Perhaps I did what he would most hate, look at him without really seeing him, without taking him seriously. He worked for Paul, and he was so determined none of us ever forget that. Somehow he saw shame in it, as if he were a servant in the olden days, who was only an object to be used by the master. Paul never treated him like that, never thought of him like that. But Michael made it hard, sometimes, to see him, to understand him as a person. Maybe we bought into his stubborn pride."

"You mean like he thought there was something shameful about working for Paul, like he was a second class citizen or something?" Ray hadn't put that together before; Michael didn't tend to do that as much as he had earlier, but he'd kept himself in the background before all this had happened. He hadn't behaved with subservience, but he'd hesitated, as if he didn't quite feel he had the same rights as the others. That was crazy. Even in 1973 it would have been crazy.

But it did make sense. "He changed once he knew he was a suspect. He got defensive, even kind of pushy about it. We should have known then, but he didn't seem to have as much reason to harm you as Paul or Max might have."

"They had none either," Damita said with complete certainty. "Unless someone lied to him, told him untruths about the meeting I planned. Paul knew I would never have been unfaithful to him. Even then, he should have known. And so should Max. It was a game for Max; the only reason I agreed to meet him was because I realized at the party that he really did care for me, that it had stopped being a game. It was only fair that I acknowledge that and tell him privately that it was no good. I couldn't let him continue, not when he might suffer because of me. Until then I thought Max could only love himself."

"And Paul," Ray reminded her.

"Yes. That was always what I liked best about Max, how much he cared about Paul, about his friend. Do you know, I honestly believe that if I had ever agreed to begin an affair with him, he would have found an excuse not to, for Paul's sake."

Ray nodded. He thought that, too. It was so weird to sit here in the dead of night calmly talking to a spirit; she seemed so unlike a ghost, so real, so alive. He would have loved to ply her with questions: about her link with Peter, about her experiences as a ghost. But this was not the time to do it, so he squashed down his eager queries.

"Where is Michael?" Damita asked.

"We don't know. He ran. We searched the house, but we didn't find him. We couldn't very well separate to do it, not after what Michael tried to do to Peter. Paul said he could easily avoid us under those conditions. Or he could attack someone alone. He's got nothing to lose now. We're taking precautions, having people stand watch while the rest of us sleep."

"Perhaps I can find him ... after I have done what I came for."

"To see Paul," Ray agreed, starting to rise.

"Yes, I must see Paul. I have lived for that moment. Well, not 'lived' but waited. I must see Paul before I can rest. But first, I must see Peter."

Ray didn't want to wake his friend; but he was pretty sure Peter wouldn't thank him if he didn't, so he leaned over, put his hand on Peter's shoulder, and said quietly, "Wake up, Peter; you've got company."

"What? Huh?" Peter blinked up at Ray, eyes dazed with sleep. "Company? What d'you mean, company?"

"Me ..." Damita moved into his field of vision. "Hello, Peter."

The psychologist's jaw dropped. Then, before Ray could even realize his intent, he leaped out of bed and flung his arms around her, gathering the petite woman against his chest, actually hugging the ghost. "You made it! That's great. I knew you could do it, sweetheart."

This, of course, roused Egon and Winston from the depths of their sleep. Zeddemore pushed aside his blankets and stood up, while Egon sat up in bed, knuckled his eyes, and fumbled for his glasses. Winston passed them to him and he put them on, jerking to alertness as he saw Peter holding the spirit against his chest.

"You made it!" Peter crowed again. He stood back, his hands on Damita's upper arms and smiled down at her. "It was all real, wasn't it?"

"Every bit of it. Peter, I owe you so much."

"You did what you had to do. It was rough, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world." He bent his head and kissed her on the cheek, holding the pose for a breathless instant. "Come on; I think it's time for you to see Paul."

She drew back, expressive brown eyes wide with apprehension. "Peter, I'm not sure I'm ready."

"Ready? Of course you're ready. You're a tough lady. You can handle anything."

"Even seeing him for the last time?"

Peter took her hands and squeezed them. At least she didn't seem to be the kind of ghost who slimed people. If her fingers were cold and clammy, Peter gave no sign of it. "I know that's rough, babe. But you know there's something better for you."

"Heaven?"

"I don't know. That part's not something we Ghostbusters can research. But peace anyway. I've seen it when we've helped ghosts disperse before." His eyes held aching regret and a deep sadness. Ray knew when this ghost moved on to whatever awaited her, it would be a personal loss to Peter. He was a little in love with her. Of course, Peter fell in love at the drop of a hat, and out again as easily, but Ray didn't think this would be easy. It wasn't the deep, forever love, not even the almost forever kind he'd felt when he fell for Dana Barrett; but he cared, and losing someone always hurt. Peter had never been very good at that. No one was.

"I know. I've seen it in your mind."

Ray caught Egon's eye and exchanged a worried glance with him. Egon nodded.

"So what do you want to do now?" Peter asked her. "Bring Paul here? Go to him?"

"Go to him," she decided. "Come with me, Peter."

"To the door, I will. The rest of it is up to you." He squeezed her hands. "You can do it."

"I know I can." She shivered, not at the thought of seeing Paul again -- she had already seen him through Peter's eyes. But Ray thought it was because this was the first time Paul would see her as a spirit.

"Be right back, guys." Peter took her arm and guided her to the door.

Paul had slept badly. He was relieved to know his lifelong friend had not taken Damita's life; but he also knew their exoneration, his and Max's, meant that Damita might soon appear to him in an approximation of her former self. And that would be hard.

For the past twenty years he had learned to live without Damita. It had been a difficult lesson at first, and the effort had made him bitter, evoked a darker, brooding side of his nature. He had healed, of course, because it was unnatural to go on brooding and grieving for twenty years. Max had been at his side whenever he needed a hand, a support. In later years, Paul had not needed the support, but he had needed Max's friendship. Knowing nothing need come between him and his friend again had revitalized him.

And meeting Susan had helped. Over the years Paul had fallen in love a few times, but they were casual love affairs, not the kind that would leave a painful memory to last a lifetime. Sometimes Paul speculated about true love and whether it was a one-shot deal, but not often. Even if he had considered himself something of a romantic in his younger days, he didn't spend a lot of time dwelling on the memory of loves lost and found. Damita had been a kindred spirit. He'd had Damita for four years, and he'd had Max, another kindred spirit all his life. Perhaps he'd been luckier than most men already.

Yet when he saw Susan, something clicked. They had talked. He could feel the spirit they might share, should fate be kind, should they have the opportunity to come to know each other. Paul meant to make time if at all possible, to get to know her, to see if she really was the kindred spirit he thought she might be.

But first he had to get through this endless night, find answers, find Michael.

Face Damita.

The knock on the door didn't surprise him. There were too many reasons why someone would awaken him. He sat up quickly, put on a robe, and went to open the door. Behind him, Max stirred, muttered, "Whazzit," and sat up, groaning as he noticed the clock. Not yet morning. Paul opened the door.

Damita stood there. For an endless interval he stood staring at her in shock and disbelief while twenty years fell away. She was unchanged, as beautiful as he remembered, her eyes as full of fire and warmth. Behind her, Peter Venkman drew back, letting his hand fall from her shoulder. She put out a hand to him, squeezed his fingers, all without taking her eyes from Paul's face.

Like an idiot, he said, "You look just the same."

"I feel the years just like you do, Paul." She put out her hands to him.

Peter withdrew across the hall, into the bedroom, but he waited in the doorway, not closing the door. He felt rather the worse for wear and there was pain in his eyes that had nothing to do with his wound or the injuries from the plane crash. Another one bites the dust, Paul thought ruefully.

Damita's fingers were cool, but not cold and clammy as he had expected. She felt nearly real. "You know I would never have hurt you," he said quickly. "It would have been like hurting myself. All the way to the bone. You know that."

"I know. Maybe dying affected my judgment, maybe I was just afraid. Our life had been perfect, so perfect I thought I was the luckiest woman alive -- until I was falling."

"And I was the luckiest man -- until they came in and told me what had happened. It took me a long time to let you go and, seeing you now, I know I never fully did."

"A part of me is glad of that, Paul. But another part knows you must let go of me. That might even be what bound me. Not that I mean to reproach you for it, not when it means I have this moment, seeing you again."

It was the most bittersweet experience he could ever recall, but it was so much better than never having a chance to say goodbye that Dameron gathered her to his heart and held her there for a long time. Behind him, Max stood silent as a statue, practically holding his breath; in spite of the tangle of emotions that had sent Damita to the top of the tower and then down so abruptly, Max had the right to be there. Paul didn't grudge him the right to witness Damita's farewell appearance.

She put her arms around him. It didn't feel quite normal -- he could tell he did not hold a living woman. But he held the essence of Damita, and that sufficed. "I love you. I have always loved you and I will always love you."

"Yes, and I will always love you. But, Paul, please don't tie yourself up in my memory. You have so much to give. You've shut a part of yourself away, over the years. Please -- don't do that any longer. More than anything, I want your happiness. If Susan can give it to you, then go to her, try to make it work."

He stared down at her in astonishment. "You know about Susan?"

"I know what Peter knows. Which means I don't know whether you simply feel an attraction or if there might be more. I won't grudge you more. You know that. What we had was the most perfect relationship I can imagine, but I don't believe it was the only perfect relationship in history -- or the only one you're capable of having. You inspire deep commitment, Paul. You inspire friendship and love. If you find love, grab it with both hands."

"I don't know what will happen. Yes, I want to know Susan better. But if I could change what had happened--"

She raised a finger to his lips. "No, my love. You cannot change it. Nothing can do that. You have so much to offer, so much to give. Live, and live to the full. And with that I will be content."

He didn't kiss her. He didn't think he could bear to do that and feel the cold of ghostly lips against his own. But he held her tightly for a long moment, knowing only he could give her what she needed, release from two decades of torment. "I'll do the best I have in me to do," he vowed.

"Then I am content." She backed away, suddenly less substantial than she had been before. "I will go now, and find Michael. Maybe I must be the one to confront him. I will come and tell all of you when that is done. This much I can do for you, for all of you." She gazed past him to a frozen Max. "Max, I couldn't be what you wanted me to be."

"You were exactly what I wanted you to be in every respect but one," he responded. "You weren't mine. But I understand that now. Don't worry, 'Mita. I'll watch after Paul for you."

She smiled faintly. "No one but you ever called me 'Mita. I did love you, Max, just not the way you wanted me to. And what happened to me was never your fault. Do you know that? You must know that."

"Sometimes I know it. Sometimes I wonder."

"Then Paul will have to help you."

Paul nodded. Damita stood on tiptoes -- or maybe drifted above the floor -- and planted a kiss on his cheek. Then she drifted away down the hall. Paul watched her go, grateful she had not disappeared before his eyes. Then he shuddered as shock caught up to him and spun away from the hallway, pushing the door shut. Max stood waiting. He flung his hair back from his eyes, then he put his arms around Paul and stood holding him while tears for Damita and for all they had lost ran down the singer's face. It was hard, in that moment, to understand, but at least he knew what he had left.

"I'm getting readings now," Egon said to Ray, lifting his eyes from the P.K.E. meter in his hand. "I think we should follow her. She'll lead us to Michael."

They had gathered in the hallway, all of them but the two women, who were presumably still sleeping, and Paul and Max, who were likely in shock. All the Ghostbusters but Peter wore their street clothes; he was still in pajamas, hair standing on end from sleeping so deeply. Eddie, accustomed to ghosts, was in better shape than Derek Massey, whose eyes had taken on a glassy stare as he kept glancing nervously over his shoulder. In spite of everything he'd witnessed since the lightning had wrested control of the plane from his hands, the sight of a ghost when he knew she was a ghost was almost more than he could comprehend. He'd do what he needed to do if they ran into Michael, but he was still stunned by the experience.

"Derek, you stay here," Winston cautioned. "Take the gun. I don't think Paul's going to be very alert at the moment, and we'll let Susan and Mrs. Potter sleep. Someone will need to stand guard."

He nodded in agreement. "I can do that."

"So we're going busting at 4:30 in the morning?" Peter groaned, yawning prodigiously. "Egon, did I ever tell you you pick the worst possible time for busts? What ever happened to that sleep-in you promised me?"

"I did not choose the time, Peter," Egon reminded him. "And we're not on a bust, at least not the usual kind. We have to take Michael into custody and secure him until we're rescued or can cut away that tree outside and leave this place behind."

"Won't be soon enough for me." Peter ducked into his bedroom long enough to fumble for his shoes and slide his feet into them. "Where's my pack?" he asked as he returned to the hall. "It wasn't in there."

"Leave it off, Peter," Ray encouraged. "It's still up in the tower; we were too worried about you to bring it down when we found you. I know we can't get you to stay in bed like you should, but you're not up to wearing a proton pack right now anyway."

"I love it!" Peter cried. "You're telling me to take the easy part. I get to be in charge and give orders while the rest of you run around blasting things. Sounds like a good deal to me."

"He's improving," Winston observed dryly. "He's starting to get above himself. That's a good sign -- for now."

"What do you mean, for now?" Peter challenged. "After all, I'm a wounded hero."

"Yeah, an obnoxious one," Ray pointed out gleefully. Egon saw the relieved and delighted expression on his face and knew he was grateful to hear Peter sounding mouthy again. All of them were.

Still wearing pajamas, Peter said, "Think I should get dressed?"

"Nah," said Winston, rumpling Venkman's already disarrayed hair. "Most famous Crimebusters chase killers in their pajamas."

Peter grimaced and muttered, "Winston, I hate that," but didn't bother to seek out more clothes. He was probably still too sore to bend over comfortably and dig things out of his suitcase. As they stood waiting while Egon took readings, Max emerged from Paul's bedroom fully clothed and handed the psychologist an elegant dressing gown in burgundy silk with black cuffs and collar and gold piping.

"Here, Doctor Venkman, use this," he offered. "It wouldn't do to get a chill."

Peter eyed Max, studied the robe, and grinned in sheer delight. He put it on over his striped pajamas, causing Max to wince in offended asceticism. Prancing around the hall, Peter modeled the garment. "Hey, guys, I should get me one of these. Isn't it great?"

"Yeah, it'll go really well with your sweats," Winston said wryly.

"Yeah, right, but I could get some black silk pajamas." "If you want to look like a gigolo, you could," Ray teased him. "Not that you do," he added hastily to Max who had lifted an affronted eyebrow. "It's just that Peter isn't exactly the classy type. You can carry off something that stylish. He can't."

"Thank you, I think," Max said wryly then retreated to the bedroom again where he could be heard talking to Paul. Both men emerged a moment later.

"Gee, thanks, Ray," Peter echoed the pianist. "If your friends can't tell you the truth, who can. Besides, you should see me in a tux. My dates have all approved -- fervently."

"If anyone is actually interested in the crisis," Egon interrupted the byplay, "the readings are stabilizing." He had waited as long as he could to interrupt, knowing the whole team needed a few moments of normalcy.

"May we come?" Paul asked. "I would like to see Damita one more time."

"He should be safe enough," Peter put in quickly. "If three proton packs can't stop Michael, I don't know what will. I hope he hasn't gone up and grabbed my pack."

"Now there's a nasty thought," said Derek Massey.

"Couldn't have," Winston replied. "There's been someone watching this corridor ever since he ran. And once we found Peter, there was no chance for him to go up there. Derek will be here now, so he can't get to it now."

"I'll get the pack," Eddie offered. "I've used one before, after all . You don't mind, do you, Peter?"

"No, I don't mind. I think if I put it on, I'd wind up flat on my face and that would not be good."

Eddie opened the tower door and hurried up the stairs, as Winston gave final instructions. "Tell you what, Paul, we'll bring your rifle with us. Not that we want to shoot Michael -- well, a part of me would enjoy blasting him for what he did to Pete -- and to Damita -- but I'd rather do it with a thrower at low power. Still, he might respond better to it."

Paul retrieved it, returning just as Eddie clattered down the stairs, Peter's pack on his back. "I'm ready," the opera singer said. "Where is she? Can you tell?"

"Downstairs, that way." Egon started down the hall, P.K.E. meter in one hand and thrower in the other. "Adjust your throwers to the lowest power, wide dispersion. That way, if we have to blast him, firing will stun him without doing any permanent damage." He watched Ray and Winston make the changes on their particle throwers, then nodded in satisfaction, pausing to check out Eddie's actions. "Exactly right, Eddie. I see you remember your previous experience. Let's go."

Conscious of Paul and Max trailing behind him, Peter followed Egon, Winston, Ray, and Eddie down the stairs. Delighted with Max's elegant robe, he stroked the fabric as he walked, enjoying his appearance. He wouldn't for the world have admitted to his buddies how tired he was and what an effort it took to keep up. He'd lost a lot of blood and should probably be in bed, but it would take a strait jacket to hold him back when his friends were heading into trouble, and the sleep he'd had, little as it was, had helped. Grateful for the stair rail and the fact that they were going down and not up, Peter kept up, realizing they had already slowed their pace to accommodate him. He was going to be fine; that wasn't in question. He just wasn't there yet.

Dameron Castle felt like a huge, conscious entity, watching their every move. Peter had been impressed with the place when they had arrived, but he wasn't impressed now. The house had a dark history; Damita had not been the only one to die here, although she was the only one to die by violence. Peter knew all about the house from his link with Damita. Some of that had faded into old memories, but he could still recall enough to want to grab Michael and see he got what was coming for him. Destruction of a woman like Damita deserved retribution.

Peter caught himself on that last word, knowing Damita hadn't gone after Michael seeking revenge, at least not seeking cold-blooded revenge. She didn't want to kill him, only to stop him. Rather than hating him, she pitied him and felt sorry for him. It was only when she thought of Paul, of his loss, of their life together, that she had been angry.

The link with Damita was gone now. He couldn't feel her in his head any more, and in a lot of ways he was vastly relieved. He'd hated the lack of control more than anything. Because of the link and the way it had taken over, distracting him from his surroundings, he'd nearly died. While he couldn't quite blame Damita for it, he didn't want to experience it again, not for anything. But a part of him missed her. Dameron had been a lucky man. Maybe he'd only had her for four years, but they must have been glorious years. What he'd seen of their relationship through the link told Peter it was one of those relationships that went all the way to the soul.

Peter knew what that was like; he had such a friendship with his three teammates. Because of his own experience, he could understand Damita better, could sympathize with Paul over his loss. Damita might not want retribution -- but Paul might. Peter decided he'd better be sure to watch the man.

They reached the bottom of the stairs and stood bunched in the main entry hall. "Hey, Paul," Winston asked. "You sure Michael didn't have a gun of his own?"

"If he did, he never mentioned it to me," Paul replied. "I don't remember the subject ever coming up. Did he ever say anything to you, Max?"

"He never was very chatty with me," Max replied. "I suppose I didn't encourage it. You know how I am. Content to let the peons worship from afar."

Paul gave him a nudge on the arm. "You haven't done that with Michael."

"No, but I never got close to him. It was just a casual, conventional relationship."

"Hey, think part of his reason for choosing the tower was because he knew you were going up there to meet her?" Peter asked Max. "Maybe he figured people might have overheard or someone knew, and that when it all came out, you'd be blamed?"

"It's possible. Only when the opportunity came up, he didn't try to frame me. And he could easily have done that."

"No, it would have been better for him to pretend to know nothing about it," Winston replied. "Volunteering information might call undue attention to himself. He might hope someone else had overheard and would mention it, but the last thing he'd want to do was say anything. He wouldn't press his luck."

"That would be the smart way to behave," Egon replied. "However, he is quite calm and cool about his actions. He takes great risks. The odds of him being seen grabbing Peter when Susan and Derek were within earshot were high. Planning enough to wear Paul's raincoat and then to return it to its place were carried out with great risk."

"You almost sound like you admire the guy, Egon," Peter remarked.

Egon's eyes came to rest on Peter's face. "I do not admire him at all," he stated flatly, and Peter could see the truth of that in Spengler's eyes. Egon was furiously angry with Michael Paris and meant to see him brought down, for Peter's sake. "I simply admit that he possesses nerves of steel."

"It was the same the night he killed Damita," Paul said. "He could easily have been observed going to the tower, yet no one saw him."

"He probably relied on that 'invisible servant' mentality at your party, Paul," Winston offered. "Peter says he was handing out drinks and not mingling like one of the guests. How many people even noticed him as a person? If they saw him in a corridor somewhere, they wouldn't remember him at all. To them he was a waiter, and how many people notice waiters?"

"I bet you're right, Winston," agreed Ray. "Egon? What are the readings doing?"

"Moving around a bit in the kitchen regions," Egon replied. "I've been waiting for them to stabilize, but I think we had better go now."

As if she had been waiting for a cue, Damita materialized directly in front of them, fading in from invisibility and causing Egon's meter to beep loudly. He adjusted the sound automatically. Paul jumped in surprise, his eyes lingering on her face. Peter could see the pain there, but it was an old pain. He thought Paul might be okay if they could pull this off.

"He's in the kitchen cupboard," Damita explained, gesturing in that direction with a slightly transparent hand. "I didn't let him see me. He's got a blanket roll back there and dozing. The door is locked from the inside, and he has a shotgun and a box of shells."

"My god, I forgot there was a shotgun in the garage," Paul blurted in dismay. "He can hold us off. He can hold off an army with that gun if he can reload fast enough."

"He can't hold off a particle stream," Egon declared with grim determination.

"You can blast him through the door?" Plainly the idea appealed to Paul.

Peter wasn't sure such an action appealed to him. He wanted Michael to know what had happened to him. He wanted him to see Damita. That was the best way to do it, to have her confront Michael face to face. Maybe that would be riskier, but it didn't need to be impossible.

He started to grin as the ideal solution to the whole problem popped into his head. "Hey, guys!" He beckoned them closer, the grin expanding. "Have I ever got a great idea."

Damita's part of Peter's plan came first, a simple enough one. She drifted into the kitchen, the Ghostbusters, Eddie, Paul, and Max following her. It wasn't daylight yet, but the kitchen light was still on, allowing them a clear view of the large room. They stopped out of range of the shotgun, and stood waiting silently. Damita popped out of sight and a second later the cupboard door opened silently, swinging inward on well-oiled hinges. Actually the term had been misleading. The cupboard was an actual small room, more like a walk-in pantry, lined with shelves, stocked with canned goods, boxes of cereal, bags of flour, jars of spices, all manner of food supplies. Although there was no light inside the room, the kitchen's ceiling fixture was positioned so it threw light into the cupboard. The room was shadowy but there was enough light to observe its occupant.

Michael lay sleeping against the far wall, half concealed behind a barrier composed of a small, metal table, his hand curled tightly around the stock of the shotgun. Removing it would surely awaken him. Damita drifted over and picked up the box of shells, bringing them to Paul, who received them from her hand and set them on the table. They smiled at each other.

"Remember," Peter instructed her in a low voice. "You can shapeshift."

"He still has the gun, Peter," Egon reminded him.

"Yeah, but he's not gonna be thinking about it, if I have my way," Peter mouthed back. "Easy, Spengs. Let's go with the plan. Paul and Max, be ready to get out of range if he acts like he's gonna blast us. Get your thrower ready, Ray, Winston. You too, Eddie."

He fell silent as Michael stirred, but he was only moving restlessly in his sleep. Egon had been right about steel nerves. If Peter was being pursued, he wouldn't take time out for a little nap.

Damita threw an apologetic smile at Paul, then she began to shapeshift. To a degree, all ghosts could do that. Hastily Paul averted his eyes as Damita made herself appear as she had when she had been found, dead, at the foot of the tower. He had seen her like that once before and didn't want to see her that way again. Damita had told him not to watch, and he had agreed, although Peter wasn't sure he could manage to hold off during the entire process.

She looked ghastly. Bones jutted through the flesh, her head hung at an unnatural angle, blood materialized on her flapper costume. It was enough to make Peter queasy, and he'd been expecting it -- and had the experience of seeing even more nasty ghosts to back him up. They were strangers, though, and he knew Damita. It made a difference. Watching her transformation, Max winced in horror, and put his hand comfortingly on Paul's shoulders. "It's necessary," he whispered. "Remember that."

Peter steeled himself to give her an approving thumbs' up sign. For a moment her face lit up in a smile of anticipation, then she drifted into the cupboard and hovered menacingly over her sleeping killer.

"Michael," she breathed in a near whisper, then repeated his name, the word long, drawn out, with a sepulchral note that wailed through the tiny room. "Miiiiiiichaaaaaeeeeelllllll."

He jumped and awakened, scrambling up, his face weary and wary, hair tousled, chin unshaven. Grabbing for the shotgun, he fumbled it and nearly dropped it. Even as he looked up to see who had found him, he was raising it to fire.

Then he saw Damita.

There was a pause in which the men in the kitchen held their breath. Every scrap of color drained from Michael's face and he jerked as if he'd been kicked in the belly. Fingers tightening convulsively on the shotgun, he fired one quick blast that went right through her. Only Peter's warning yell, Ray's hasty tackle of Paul, Eddie's grip on Max's shoulder, and Winston grabbing Egon by the arm and yanking him aside as Paris fired spared them from being struck, that and the angle of the door.

Half the shot went into the inside wall of the pantry, the other half decorated the kitchen table with pellet holes. From his angle Peter saw Damita produce blood on cue to match what would have been a huge hole in her stomach -- had she been living. Peter couldn't tell how artistically she enhanced the 'wound' because the angle was wrong, but he could just see Michael's face, its aspect ghastly. He was shaking, but his jaw was tight with rage and desperation. And he still held the shotgun. "Careful, guys," Peter cautioned. "He's a tough nut."

"No lie," agreed Winston. His knuckles were tight on the thrower he held aimed at Michael.

"Michael," she breathed again, stretching out her hand toward him. He flinched away from it, eyes huge and hollow in a face as white as flour. "You can't kill the dead, Michael."

"Get away, get away," he howled, retreating a step and trying to take aim at her again. "Get away from me."

"I will never 'get away'," she threatened. "I will haunt you to your grave. I will follow you, taunting you, wherever you go. You will pay for my death and for trying to kill Peter, all the days of your life. And when you die, you will be condemned to roam the earth, never finding rest."

"No," he wailed. "No! It's a trick. An illusion. You're not real! You're dead. I killed you. You're dead. You're dead."

She smiled at him. "That's the whole point, Michael. I am dead."

"Help me. Get her away from me," Michael moaned, struggling to free himself, to avoid her reaching hand. She trailed fingers across his cheek, leaving behind a trail of icy ectoplasm. Michael shrieked and batted at her hand. "No! No!"

"You must pay for your actions, Michael. You did what you did in full knowledge -- and in full knowledge you will pay for it."

"It's a trick," he insisted desperately. "The Ghostbusters did it, some fancy light show with their equipment. It's all a trick."

"No. It is not a trick." She shapeshifted again, reverting to her normal appearance, beautiful as a flame. "You know me, Michael Paris. You know I was always kind to you. You had no right to kill me, no right to end my life, no right to hurt Paul as you did. You know full well he never hurt you, he liked you, he cared for you, he gave you every chance. And you betrayed him." She might as well have spit in his face, so contemptuous did she sound.

Instead of raging, he grew cold. "Fond of me? You sanctimonious bitch, you patronized me from the moment I met you. You knew I cared for you, and you were amused by it. Amused, damn you. You laughed about it with Paul."

"No, that I never did, and you know it, Michael. You know I was not patronizing you. That was never my way. You saw it that way because you -- and you alone -- perceived yourself inferior. No one would have ever treated you as a servant, as a lesser being, if that's how you saw your position. But you insisted you were the less, that you were subservient. You chose your course, Michael. No, I didn't love you; I loved my husband. And yes, I was sorry for the way you felt about me, because it was not in me to give my love to anyone who was not Paul. I didn't love Max either, not that way. Yet you would not say I patronized him."

"I wanted you," he said, his voice cold, yet aching with the pain for something he had never stopped wanting, even after she was dead.

"No, Michael. You didn't. You wanted what you believed I represented. I think I knew that, even then. You wanted me because I was a symbol of everything you believed you could never have. But you could have had a life, friends, a family. You could have had it all -- if you had let yourself believe it."

"You were what I wanted. You, always you."

She shook her head gently. "Michael -- tell me. If you wanted me, why did you kill me?"

"I heard you conspiring with him," he said, gesturing wildly with the shotgun at Max Rafferty. "You arranged to meet him. Yet you wouldn't allow anything for me. If you would give yourself to him, because he was rich and famous ..." He muttered an angry curse, the twenty-year-old pain still pulsing through him. "If I couldn't have you, then I'd be damned if he could have you. I couldn't make myself be rich and famous for you. But I wouldn't let you have another one who was rich and famous."

"She didn't want me," Max called. "Damn it, Michael, all she wanted to do was tell me in private that I hadn't a hope. You're sick. She didn't love Paul because he was rich and famous. Yes, he's both of those things, but that's not why she loved him. She loved him because he's the man he is, the man inside, the man all of us were drawn to. It isn't anything to do with money and position, let me tell you. And I wasn't rich back then. I was getting famous but I came from a normal background, middle class. I acted like I was wealthy and famous because it's my nature to puff myself up. But money and fame have nothing to do with who you are."

Peter was astonished to hear such a sentiment from Max Rafferty, he of the ego the size of Cleveland. But it was true. "Listen, Michael!" Venkman yelled. "You created your own problems. You put limits on yourself. No one wanted to limit you or hold you down, or think they were above you -- but you bought into that. Even if you'd been as rich as Donald Trump, that wouldn't have made Damita love you. You've got this 'servant' hangup. But a job is a job; if you do it with self-respect it doesn't matter if you're a bricklayer or CEO of a major corporation. I'd like to have major bucks, myself, but I wouldn't give up my buddies for it. Or my self-respect."

"Listen to them, Michael," Damita said. Peter could tell she felt sorry for him, and he hoped it was because he knew her so well, because pity was the last thing Michael needed right then. The guy was halfway crazy, obsessed anyway. Damita had been a symbol of everything he believed he couldn't have because he was a 'servant'. And Peter knew with unswerving certainty that was the one thing Paul had never considered him. Until tonight, he'd called Michael his friend, although he would never do so again.

"I don't want your pity, Damita," Michael snorted. "And don't think you can scare me into giving up and going tamely to jail. You're not going to stop me. I killed you. Maybe I messed up with Venkman, but I'm going to give you a present, bitch. I'm going to make your fancy husband a ghost for you. I'm going to send him to you in the afterlife." He laughed bitterly. "I'm going to blow him away."

"Get ready, guys," Peter cautioned, but they already had the throwers lined up. They didn't want to blast Damita by accident. But they couldn't let him fire that last round, either.

Paul jerked up his rifle but he couldn't get a clear shot. Max grabbed it by the barrel and forced it up. "Back, you idiot. Get out of the line of fire."

Michael took a step closer to Damita, helpless rage twisting his face into a rictus of hatred. He started to take aim at Paul, even as Max manhandled him toward the door.

"Damita!" Ray yelled. "Now."

The ghost nodded. Then she grasped the shotgun to wrest it from his grasp, jerking the barrel up, away from anyone in the kitchen.

It went off again, the second barrel blasting the cupboard's ceiling and bringing down its light fixture. Plaster and pieces of glass from the lightbulb rained down on Damita and Michael. The pieces fell right through Damita, causing Michael to gasp.

It would have been a snap to walk into the room and grab Michael then; but that would have been too easy, and he might have used the shotgun as a club to attack them. They couldn't blast him with Damita in the way, but Peter figured she was entitled to her revenge. "Go, babe!" he encouraged her.

He could tell from a sudden movement that she had heard him. She threw a smile over her shoulder before she drifted up to Michael and grasped him by the arms. He shuddered in the icy touch, the now-empty weapon still clutched in his hand.

"Give me the gun, Michael," Damita whispered softly in his ear. "It's no good to you now."

In that moment Peter knew she would not seek revenge. What had been done to her and to Paul was too terrible to imagine -- Peter knew the other guys' reactions to his wounding and near-death had made it all too clear to them how Paul had felt, how the team would have felt if he'd died. But what good would revenge do now? Michael would be arrested, tried, convicted. He'd admitted killing Damita in front of seven witnesses. He'd pay. But Damita, in life, had not been the type of woman to exact revenge. She didn't now.

Instead she put her arms around Michael and held him. He shuddered and quaked but didn't make any effort to fight, not even when Winston edged into the cupboard and pulled the shotgun from his nerveless hand. Instead he collapsed against the ghost woman, and began to sob into her hair.

Paul exchanged a doubtful frown with Max, who shrugged. "He's mad," he said. "All these years, and we didn't know."

"That's over," Paul said. "It's over now. It's over." Damita led the weeping man from the cupboard and turned him over to Winston and Ray, who each grabbed an arm. Then she went to Paul. "I'm sorry, love," she murmured. "I didn't mean to bring him to this."

"You didn't," Paul said with certainty. "It was never you. I can't blame him for loving you. Not when I loved you so much." He looked past her. "But I can blame him for killing you." He walked up to Michael, who lifted his chin in a halfhearted show of defiance. Not even Paul could resist the target offered. He swung his fist hard against Michael's chin, then let out a yelp, clutching his hand, as Michael collapsed in a heap on the floor.

"I'm glad you did that," Max said brightly. "I wouldn't be able to play for a week if it had been me." Paul gave a sputter of nervous and reluctant laughter in answer.

"Paul?" Damita went to him. She gazed up into his eyes for a long moment, then she said, "I have to go now."

He flinched, then he nodded. "I know. But it's not fair." "No, it was never fair," she agreed. Peter gestured his buddies to step back to give them their moment. "It was never fair, my love. But we had the best four years I can imagine. Some people don't even get four minutes of perfect happiness."

"That's small consolation."

"I know it is. But you can have happiness again. I want you to. I want you to fall in love, be happy, maybe even have children. That was the one regret I had, that I couldn't give you children."

"I never regretted anything with you."

Peter swallowed hard. He caught Egon's eye and smiled. Egon nodded.

"I only regret that we can't be together," Damita said as she hovered in front of him, starting to fade, then she lifted her head and brushed her lips against his, a butterfly kiss, this time with no evidence of ectoplasmic residue. Paul quaked with a helpless passion, but he didn't try to touch her or hold her back. As they watched, she grew steadily more transparent until she was gone.

Peter would have liked to go off alone and bawl. He edged away from the others, turned his back so they wouldn't see that his eyes were too bright.

A hand came down on his shoulder, gripped tight. He turned his head and saw Egon standing there. "I'm sorry, Peter," he said simply.

"No, I'm okay, Spengs. Really. Yeah, I think I halfway loved her, too. But I wasn't in love with her, not like Paul was. I'm gonna be just fine." And he was surprised to discover he meant it. For a while, Damita had been a part of him, but a temporary part; even though he knew she had cared for him, too, it had not been real, never real. He could live with that.

"What do we do with Michael?" Winston asked.

"Lock him in the dungeon for the rest of the night," Paul said as if it were the only answer. "It came with the place, and I have to admit, I've had no use for it until now. I'll get the key."

"Dungeon?" Ray echoed in happy disbelief, sharing an excited grin with his teammates. "Wow! Did you hear that, guys? A dungeon! This place has got everything."

The sun was shining in his window when Peter finally awoke. From the angle he could tell it was late morning, probably almost noon, and for a few minutes he considered turning over and going back to sleep. The long cut along his ribs was tender under his probing fingers but not as bad as it had been the night before; there was no evidence of a headache when he concentrated on it. He was still a little tired and stiff as a board from all his bruises, but on the whole, he felt pretty good.

At least until he got up cautiously, wincing, and wandered into the bathroom, where he got his first good look at himself in the mirror. Where had those bruises come from? He peeled off his pajama top and studied himself. There was a big, dark bruise on his forehead not too far from the left temple, where the flight bag had fallen on him. He had others, too, mostly from the plane crash, but a few from his experience in the tower. His shoulders ached from the wrenching he'd given them when he'd grabbed the gargoyle's wing, but they were okay, just achy, and a hot shower should help. He looked like a punching bag after a boxer's workout. The dressing over his wound had a few spots of blood showing through it, but when he peeled away a corner of the tape to examine it, it seemed to be healing cleanly with no redness or inflammation.

"I'm black and blue," he said mournfully, lifting his eyes to the mirror again. "And they were never my best colors."

"Oh. You're up," said Egon from the doorway. He, too, was patterned in bruises, but he was moving easily enough, already shaved and dressed.

"The multicolor Spengler," Peter greeted him with a bright grin. "I bet Winston and Ray look as bad as we do."

"Yes, but it doesn't show as much on Winston."

"Lucky guy," Peter remarked. "Everybody okay?"

"Ray's thumb is feeling better today. Derek's wrist is still sore. Paul is a little quiet, but that's to be expected. You slept through breakfast."

Peter's face fell. "No. Don't tell me you guys had one of Mrs. Potter's fabulous meals and you didn't wake me? Egon, that's cruel!"

"We thought you needed the sleep, Peter," Egon pointed out. "However, I came up to get you because she's prepared an excellent lunch. She's been working away for hours, and she didn't want you to miss it."

"What a great lady!" Peter exulted. "Have I got time to shower and shave?"

"If you hurry."

"I'll set a new land speed record," Peter promised, "if you'll dig out some clean clothes for me." He threw a wheedling glance at Egon, who pasted on an expression of resignation.

"If I must, I must. I did bring along fresh dressings for your side. I'll wait while you shower, then I'll attack you with peroxide."

"You're such a pal, Egon," Peter told him, bestowing on him an affectionate grin before he stepped into the shower.

As he turned on the water he thought he heard Egon say under his breath, "You're worth it, Peter," before the sound of running water drowned out further conversation.

"And another advantage," Max Rafferty said encouragingly, "is that she's used to jetting all over the place. An irregular schedule like yours won't be any impediment."

Susan Lee stopped dead in the doorway to the great hall. A remark like that deserved an answer, and she wanted to hear it before she walked in on Paul. She'd been thinking hard about him all morning, wondering whether she wanted to take the risk of a relationship, especially with a man who had such ties to his late wife. She knew it wasn't fair to judge at a time like this. By all accounts, Paul had gone on with his life, finished his grieving and done his best to move on. Suddenly learning his late wife had been murdered and encountering her ghost had revived all his memories. Did that mean she would be compared with a dead woman -- and one who had been such a paragon she wasn't sure she could compete with the memory?

"Does compatibility fit in here, Max? What are you doing, playing matchmaker?" the singer asked.

Susan retreated a step. She couldn't tell from Paul's words if he were faulting Max for interfering or protesting the very concept.

"I don't think compatibility is a problem, old chum," said Max. "I watched you this morning at breakfast. I know the timing couldn't be worse, but that doesn't mean you should let her walk away."

"I can hardly ask her not to walk away," Paul said gravely. "Not now when my mind is so full of Damita. It isn't that she'll stay there forever -- she will, of course, but reasonably, the way Damita herself would want it. But I've never met a woman content to play second fiddle."

"Would she have to?" Max prompted. "Once we all recover from yesterday, once you have a little more time to heal, once we all do ..."

"Why should she have to wait?" Paul asked. "It might be months before I would feel ready. I don't think it will be, and I have to admit Susan moves me in the way I haven't been moved since Damita." He paced up and down; Susan could hear his footsteps and shifted position again so he wouldn't inadvertently see her. She had no right to eavesdrop, but this was her life they were talking about, and that gave her a right.

"No, damn it," Paul burst out. "That's wrong, too. You can't compare apples and oranges. I should say only she and Damita have ever moved me like this. But, god, Max, one day! I've known her less than a day."

"You knew with Damita in one day," Max reminded him. "Paul, my friend, listen to me because it's all too rare that I relish conversations that don't center around myself."

"That may be true most of the time, but it never was with me," Paul reminded him. "I remember you when you were in diapers, my friend. I remember you when you fell out of Mrs. Chester's pear tree and broke your arm --and your nose." A pause while Max muttered something that sounded like 'get off'. "And gave it that elegant bump. Damita gave all that back to me, all the years. Not that they were ever really gone, but they're back now."

"For me, too," Max replied. "But you're changing the subject. Hear me out, Paulie." Susan smiled involuntary at what must have been a childhood nickname. "I saw you watching her -- and I saw her watching you. Yes, the timing's bad, but don't let that ruin what might be good for you. You were made to be happily married, maybe even have kids. Me, I couldn't stand the competition. I'll never marry. But you? Yes, it's too soon, but don't let her walk away without some encouragement or you'll be sorry, and then I'll have to write you another opera, and god knows who I'd find to help me write the libretto this time."

"You can write me an opera any time you chose," Paul said. "I wouldn't mind restaging Bonaparte and might even have to after doing bits from it on the special. There's sure to be requests for it." He heaved a sigh. "I don't want Susan to walk out of my life, Max. You know that. But I have to take it slowly. It's not fair to her otherwise."

Susan decided not to wait any longer and strode into the room. "Did you ever think I just might have a say in this matter, Paul Dameron?"

"I think it's time for me to go find Venkman," Max said hastily. "I suspect the man means to make off with my dressing gown. It's a particular favorite of mine. Smallwood gave it to me after our tour in 1986."

"I hear she encountered Peter once," Paul said with a smile. "I don't know the whole story, but you might ask him about it. But go. I wouldn't put it past him to have packed it already. You'll have to hurry."

Max smiled encouragingly at Susan and walked out of the room.

"Of course you have a say in the matter, Susan," Paul said to her, turning to face her and putting out his hands. She let hers lay in them, pleased at the strength of his grip. "But I can't ask you to consider me now. Not if you think -- as many might -- that Damita will always be a ghost for me."

"I don't think that," Susan said with a sudden certainty she hadn't felt until that very moment. "I've just been talking to Peter upstairs. You might not know it but he's a very good psychologist, as well as knowing a lot about ghosts. He said it was inevitable that you remember Damita more vividly now, and I wouldn't want you not to remember her. He told me how she helped save his life and how she talked to Michael in the wee hours of the morning. She was special. I'll always think of her with affection. If you were the kind of man who could forget a woman like that, I wouldn't care about you."

"If you weren't the woman who could say such a generous thing, I probably wouldn't return it. But it's so soon. I know you'll need more time, even if you're actually considering me."

"Yes, I do need more time," Susan said. "I don't even know if it's time to get to know you -- because I already feel like I do. Maybe it's just time to accustom myself to being swept away in a hurricane. But I do know there's a spark between us." She hesitated, freed his hands and moved to stand near the fireplace. Damita looked down on her benevolently. The warmth of the flames was soothing, too.

"Last night when I went upstairs with Peter to check on Derek," she began, "I had two motives. To be sure he was all right, of course, and didn't need anything. But -- I'd been dating Derek before the plane crash. It was a convenience thing as much as anything. I like him very much. We were compatible, we had good times together. We hadn't talked of marriage, but we might have come to it. And I might have been content -- but once I met you, I knew that what Derek and I had wasn't enough for marriage. It wasn't that I expected to run back and accept a proposal from you. It was because you touched parts of me that Derek never touched. How could I go on with him after that?"

"You couldn't, of course. There have been women since Damita; it would be unnatural if they hadn't been. But until I met you I never thought there could be another woman I could love and want to marry. Yes, we'll take it slowly, but not too slowly. My dear, I'm nearly fifty. Some would say too old for you."

"I'm thirty-five," Susan returned. "But I don't see what age has to do with compatibility. I don't know much about the opera either, but I can learn. For you, I'd want to learn."

"We'll learn from each other, and we'll take as much time as we need," he told her and pulled her into his arms. He didn't kiss her but just stood holding her gently as if he had drawn her into the place she belonged. They stood together for a long time.

"I swear," Winston groaned, taking off his coat and shaking it out. "I'm glad it stopped snowing, but if I ever see another chain saw again in my life, it'll be too soon."

"Tell me about it," Eddie agreed, his eyes sparkling. "I can't wait to tell Max it's his turn out there."

"We can't have Max doing it," Ray objected. He hadn't done much work on the fallen tree because of his thumb, but he'd gone along to accompany Eddie and Winston. "He might hurt his hands, and they're his career, remember."

"Yeah, but I'd like to see his face if we told him," Winston responded. "At least the snow is melting."

"It's too early in the year for much," Eddie replied. "But I'll be glad to get to a phone. I haven't talked to Whitney for more than twenty-four hours and it seems like years."

Peter wandered into the kitchen regions. "There you are. Clear the road already?"

"Can I kill him now?" Winston demanded, pretending to attack the psychologist. "Somebody hold me back!"

Peter grinned. "What's the matter, guys, too big a job for you?"

"Chain saws aren't that much fun, Peter," Eddie told him.

"I never did see the need for all this chain saw hooey," Peter replied. He folded his arms across his chest, carefully favoring his ribcage. "Why not 'bust' the tree? Take it out with our throwers? Seems like a good plan to me -- ee!" His voice shot up on the last word when Ray and Winston grabbed him and pretended to shake him.

"You knew that all along and you're only mentioning it now?" Ray demanded in mock outrage. "When we get home, I'm gonna have Slimer slime you, your bed, your pillow, and everything in your closet."

"You mean you haven't been using the throwers?" Peter asked in stupefaction. "I kinda like the idea of sending the tree's atoms on separate vacations at the speed of light. Hey, Egon!" he called out to the approaching physicist. "Why didn't you tell the guys to neutronize that tree that's across the road instead of having them working on a chain gang?"

Egon stopped dead and froze, an expression of ludicrous chagrin across his features. "We could have left here last night," he burst out, smacking his forehead in disgust.

"We wouldn't have," Ray replied. "Not the way we felt then, soaking wet and aching, and not with the snow coming on."

"Yeah, like my feet right now," complained Winston. "Why didn't you say something sooner, Peter?"

"Because he didn't think of it either," Eddie replied, grinning. "Did you, Peter?"

"Okay, yeah, I didn't think of it last night, but I have an excuse. All that bloodloss, remember? Nobody makes the wounded hero work or think too much."

"I think if I hear one more word about wounded heroes I may have to consider rearranging your DNA, Peter," Spengler said consideringly. "And, remember, I do know how."

"Oh, thanks, Egon." Peter lunged for him, but Egon stepped aside easily.

"Guys, come on, guys, no fighting," began Ray as they danced back and forth, evading each other. "Let's just go out and zap the tree --" He broke off abruptly, cocking his head. Hey, guys, listen!"

"Listen to what -- Oh!" Peter bounded over to the window. "You mean to the helicopter?"

They raced madly for the front door, encountering Susan and Paul in the entry hall. Spilling out onto the doorstep they watched the National Guard Huey make a neat landing in the clear area where the circular driveway had pushed back the trees. Max and Derek joined them as the pilot shut off the rotor and a couple of guardsmen jumped down and approached them.

"We just saw the wreckage of the missing plane we'd been searching for half a mile from here," the older man, a

slightly-greying, hatchet faced character with Captain's bars informed them. The name 'Haldeman' was spelled out across his pocket. "We're hoping to find survivors."

"We're the survivors," Peter said, plunging forward to greet him. "Every one of us, present and accounted for, sir." He sketched a quasi-military salute, then proceeded to introduce everybody by name. "Captain Haldeman, guys. Be sure to give credit to Derek here for the best landing a man could make under those conditions, Cap." He pulled the pilot forward.

"Lightning hit us," Derek explained. "We had to pack it in."

"We thought it might be that. You're all over the news," he added. "Anything that happens to the Ghostbusters makes headlines."

"Can you notify our families that we're safe?" Egon asked hopefully. "We know they must be worried."

"I'll have the pilot contact our base and the word will go out. Can we take you out of here? We have the space."

"Yes, and we have a confessed murderer locked up in the house," Winston added, joining them. "We need to take him out of here and get him to law-enforcement people. We heard him make the confession."

"You've had a killing here?" the captain asked, shaking his head in dismay.

"An old one," Paul said. "My wife died twenty years ago. Last night we learned she was murdered, and who did it. It's a long story, Captain Haldeman. But I'd be very grateful to you if you take him away. I don't think I can bear to keep him here any longer."

"I don't blame you. Yes, we'll take him into custody."

Everything became chaotic after that, though a precise, organized chaos. Remembering the downed tree, Winston and Egon went out with their packs and throwers and zapped the road clear, while the guardsmen from the helicopter watched with interest. Then everything they'd brought with them from the plane was loaded into the helicopter. The rest of their things could be retrieved from the wreckage of the Lear Jet later.

The captain and one other man brought Michael up from the dungeon and put him into handcuffs that one of the guardsmen had found on the helicopter. The murderer appeared quiet, almost blank, unresponsive to the curious stares of the guard officers. He didn't look at Paul as he walked past him, or at any of the others, but Paul watched him go, a lingering sadness on his face.

"All these years," he said quietly. "All these years he's been here claiming to be my friend and I didn't know ..."

"How could you?" Susan asked, putting her hand on his arm and gazing up into his face. "How could you even think such a terrible thing? But now it's resolved."

"I hate to think of the publicity," Paul began.

"I never hate to think of publicity," Peter and Max chorused inadvertently in perfect unison, breaking off to stare at each other in some dismay, each of them recognizing a fault in the other than he considered a virtue in himself.

"Yeah, Pete is from the school that says all publicity is good publicity," Winston chided him.

"The school of Ego," Egon added.

Peter poked the physicist with his elbow. "You think I want to have something in common with him?" he snorted.

"Or I with him?" Max demanded, yet the Ghostbusters had come to know him well enough to see the humor lurking in his eyes that saved him from being unredeemably narcissistic. Anyone who could laugh at himself was not beyond hope.

"Actually," Egon said with a quiet and approving smile, "they have more in common than ego. They are both very loyal to their friends."

Peter and Max found that acceptable, but only just. Peter glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. Like Rafferty? He couldn't be!

"I'm not really like him, am I, Egon?" Peter yelled in Egon's ear as they started to get into the helicopter for their flight out. Eddie was staying for two more days as he'd originally planned although he'd asked Egon to telephone Whitney and reassure her he was fine. She wouldn't have known he was in any danger and wouldn't have worried about him, but she might have tried to phone him to let him know Egon and the others were missing and been unable to get through. But Susan wasn't staying, which caused a lot of speculation until they saw her saying a fond goodbye to Paul that included a brief kiss and talking about a meeting in Pittsburgh the following weekend.

"Well, Peter, if you really want to know ..." Egon shouted back.

"You're just kidding, right?" The sound was slightly dimmer inside the chopper, but they still had to shout.

"No, Peter," Egon said. "Although both of you are rather full of yourselves, he more than you, I think. You forget your ego in the heat of a bust -- or when one of us needs you. I'm not sure he ever does unless Paul needs him."

"Got him beat on points," Peter said with good cheer and waved at Max as he climbed in, taking the earphones the guardsman passed him. "Just don't let him know I got myself a good souvenir."

"Not that bathrobe, Peter?" Egon groaned. But Peter slid on the earphones and shot a blank look at Egon, pointing to his ears as if he hadn't heard the question. Egon vowed to retrieve it from Peter's luggage and return it to the pianist as soon as possible.

Then the helicopter rose into the sky, and Peter looked down at the house, watching it grow smaller and smaller as they soared heavenward. The tower speared toward them, upthrust against the trees. Peter shuddered at the sight of it, recalling those nasty moments up there. He wouldn't easily forget the terror that had pumped through his veins as he had gone spiraling over the parapet, desperate to break his fall, not yet realizing Damita was waiting to save him.

As if he knew and understood the reaction, which he almost certainly did, Egon reached out and patted Venkman's arm. Peter grinned at him. It would take more than Michael Paris to put an end to Peter Venkman. Thanks to Damita, he was alive and almost well, and Michael was going to jail. Peter owed the lady big time.

He watched Dameron Castle vanish behind him into the distance, then he smiled reassuringly at Egon, Ray, and Winston before turning for one last glance. "Thanks, Damita," he said under his breath. "You were one gutsy lady. I hope someday I can find another one like you."

"Did you say something, Peter?" Egon asked over the earphones.

"Yeah, Egon," Peter replied, turning to grin at his friends, who smiled at him understandingly. "I just said goodbye."

Janine was waiting for them at the airport when they returned to New York, watching anxiously as they walked out into the terminal. With a glad cry, she flung herself at Egon and hugged him fiercely. "Oh, Egon, we thought you were all dead!"

"We're all fine," Egon assured her, patting her on the back. "You did tell everyone we were all right when I called you yesterday?"

"Oh, yes. I called your mother and your Uncle Cyrus, and Ray's Aunt Lois, and Winston's family, and I even tracked down your dad, DoctorV. He'd heard about it on the news and was on his way to New York. He called the firehall to see if we'd heard of anything right after the National Guard notified us. Then you called, Egon. I was never more glad to hear anybody in my life."

"So we did make the news?" Peter asked, although he remembered a huge headline in a newspaper he'd seen in the Pittsburgh airport: GHOSTBUSTERS' PLANE REPORTED MISSING.

They hadn't had much time there; the National Guard chopper had taken them directly to a hospital where they'd been X-rayed, examined, poked and prodded, and Derek's wrist enclosed in a new cast. Ray's thumb was healing nicely but a nurse had replaced the support bandage with a brace that he was instructed to wear for a week. Peter's wound was already healing, so he didn't get any stitches, although the doctor told him it might leave a scar. Peter considered it. He had a few scars from the job already, and they fascinated his dates. One more wouldn't hurt, although he wouldn't look as stunning in a bathing suit as he usually did.

Janine freed Egon and proceeded to hug and kiss Ray and then Winston before replying. "You were all over the news," she said and astonished Peter by hugging him, too. "You guys ever scare me like that and I'll -- I'll never bring you coffee again."

"You don't bring us coffee now," Peter reminded her with a wicked grin.

"Then I'll dump all those Playboy magazines you keep in the bottom drawer of your desk into a shredder," she replied, snapping her gum at him. "Treat me nice, Doctor Venkman. I made Slimer stay at home, after all. You could be dripping in goo right now, if not for me."

"Then I'll definitely let you live," Peter said, giving her a kiss on the forehead before she could wiggle out of his grip.

"I just might be persuaded to do the same for you," she retorted. "So let me look at you four bozos." She studied them each in turn, frowning and tapping her toe as she registered the bruises, the neat dressing on Winston's forehead, the professional brace on Ray's left hand. "They look terrible," she announced to the world at large. "Not fit to be let out alone. But they're all in one piece. I guess it's safe to turn the press loose on them."

"The press?" Peter perked up. "There are reporters waiting?"

"He never changes," Janine said to Egon in an undertone. Raising her voice, she added, "They found out you ran into a ghost. Even a plane crash turns into a busman's holiday for your four clowns. Edgar Benedek called from the National Register eighteen separate times wanting to get the scoop on the ghost. Everybody from the New York Times to CNN to Opera Today is waiting out there for the scoop."

She gestured down the concourse. "I made them hold off until after I talked to you." If anyone could manage to restrain the press like that, it would be Janine Melnitz.

Peter pushed up his sleeves and tossed back the lock of hair from his forehead. "Guess it's time for me to get to work, guys," he announced and plunged down the passageway in the direction of the waiting reporters.

"Is the press really there, Janine? Or did you just play a trick on him?" Ray asked, his eyes alight with amusement.

"Oh, they're there, all right," she replied. "They've been camped at headquarters since we got the word you had gone down. They knew you were missing right away. And they called me to get the name of your families." Her face still held strain for the worried vigil she had been forced to hold.

Egon put his hands on her shoulders. "It's all right, Janine. We were very fortunate. No one was killed, no one was even seriously hurt. We would have called you if we could."

She cuffed his arm. "You'd better have," she snorted and stalked away after Peter. Egon followed her instantly, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"Poor Janine," Ray said to Winston. "That had to be rough. We knew we were okay but nobody else did."

"Yeah, I know. When I called my folks last night from that hotel in Pittsburgh they said they'd been worried sick."

"Aunt Lois, too. Gosh, I wouldn't have worried anybody for the world, but it's nice to know somebody cares."

"Got that right, homeboy," Winston told him. "Come on. We'd better go make sure Peter gets the story straight. You know how he exaggerates."

"I sure do," Ray agreed and fell into step with them. They came into view of the reporters almost immediately. Peter stood in front of them, his whole being registering delight. "Well, folks, it was like this," he announced with a huge grin. "It was a dark and stormy night ..."

Ray groaned, rolling his eyes at Winston. It was going to be horrible.

The conclusion to the whole experience didn't arrive until three months later. During that time, Peter had a few bad dreams about the near-fall from the tower, talked it out with Egon over midnight cups of cocoa, and generally came to terms with the experience. For a long time, he would pause at the sight of an auburn-haired woman in the crowd and stare after her with a rather wistful smile on his face before shaking his head and moving on.

Egon watched him at such times, occasionally taking readings of Peter that the psychologist didn't see. The link that had formed between Peter and the dead woman was one Egon had not encountered in his studies before, and he would have enjoyed researching it, plying Peter with questions, taking whole books full of notes.

But it hadn't been a research project to Peter. It had been a bond with a particularly vibrant and special woman, even if she was a ghost. Peter had fallen for her. It would have been surprising if he hadn't, even without the link that took him into her mind the way it did. He had come to know her far better than he did his usual dates, and she him. Even if the link itself had made Peter uncomfortable and he'd feared and hated the lack of control, he hadn't feared and hated Damita. She had been special, and the bond she and Peter had developed had been unique.

Paul and Eddie's TV special aired just when Egon suspected Peter had put it all behind him, about a month after the incident. He would have taped it for private viewing but Ray saw it in the TV Guide and announced it at dinner, and the four of them watched it. It was strange to see Eddie singing opera -- which he did with his usual intensity, stranger still to see Dameron doing a duet with Eddie on Leftover Souls.

For several days after the special, Peter was quiet, but he bounced back almost immediately. If he knew he was being watched he didn't say anything.

So Egon did his research as best he could without questioning Peter too much. Tests on the psychologist proved he was no longer affected by the link, that there had been no permanent bonding, that he was clear of any psi influence. Assured of that, Egon relaxed slightly, watching Peter from time to time, relieved when Peter met and started dating a woman who worked at CBS. That it had taken him five weeks after the experience to ask anyone out was a sign of how much Damita had touched him. Resuming dating indicated progress in his recovery. As subtly as possible, Egon encouraged him.

But Peter wasn't ignorant of his friend's manipulations. "I know what you're up to, Spengs," he'd said one night, after returning from a date around one in the morning to find Egon waiting up for him.

"I'm watching a program on the Society of Psychical Research," Egon countered, gesturing at the television screen where the narrator was talking about the Fox Sisters and their seances. The timing of the show was particularly apropos because Egon would have waited up in any event and this gave him an excuse.

Peter's eyes lingered on him knowingly. "You're testing me to make sure I haven't been messed up by that link," he said.

Since this was the first time he had spoken of it voluntarily -- he'd even played it down to the reporters at the airport-- Egon felt encouraged. "Naturally, Peter. It was unusual, something we'd not run up against before in our work. You've been quieter than usual. It would be an unconscionable act on my part to fail to test you and determine if all is well."

"Unconscionable, huh? Why is it you can't use normal English?" The complaint was a mild one, but it was familiar in spite of the fact.

"I do use normal English," Egon replied dryly. "Why is it you can't understand it?"

Peter grinned in delight. "Because your idea of 'normal' English isn't normal, Spengs." The banter had relaxed him. "I know you have to do it," he went on. "It was weird, Egon. Damita, I mean. Even if she'd been alive, nothing would have come of it, because she was mad about Paul. But I got to know her so well. When you know somebody inside out like that, you can't help loving them."

"Or hating them?" Egon asked.

"Not somebody like Damita," Peter said. "It wouldn't have worked for us, even if everything was right. We would have been too different, wanted different things. I know all that, Egon. And it's not like I'd never want to date again or even not get married some day. But it's like losing a really good friend." He flopped down on the couch and grinned wryly up at Egon. "Not as bad as losing one of you guys, but nasty."

"You still have us, Peter," Egon reminded him.

To his astonishment, Peter jumped up again, flung his arms around the physicist, and gave him a quick bearhug. "Thanks, Egon," he said before letting go.

"What was that for?" Egon asked, although he knew the answer already.

"For being there," Peter said. "For letting me know you inside out."

"That works two ways, Peter. Or four ways, because it goes for all of us."

"I know," Peter said. He stretched out on the couch and grinned. "I'm okay, Egon. Really. I'm not possessed, and I'm not warped or anything. I just needed a little time to ... get over it."

"I hope my tests didn't remind you ..."

"No, run your tests, Egon. I'll even put on that bondage headgear of yours and give myself a bad hair day if that'll make you happy."

"Make me reassured," Egon corrected.

"Yeah. Because I know why you're doing it. Thanks." He glanced at the TV screen. "You're watching this? Come on, Egon, this would bore Einstein. Can't we find an old John Wayne movie? Did you know two of his movies were based on Dewey LaMorte books. I've got 'em on tape. We don't have to fight our way through infomercials and Mister Ed reruns and whatever this garbage is. We can watch something with class."

While Egon found Dewey LaMorte movies even more boring than the books they were based on, and John Wayne's Dewey LaMorte movies the worst of the lot, he sat down while Peter dug out the tape and watched the movie with him to the bitter end.

Then one day, Janine brought the mail in to Peter's office where he sat building a long chain made of the extra large sized paper clips. When he heard her coming, he yanked out a report and flopped it down on top of the chains, but not before she had seen what he had been doing.

"Bored, Doctor V?"

"Egon's making me read this report on the consistency of slime, Janine," Peter wailed in outrage. "And you think I'm bored!? Give me a break. It's the most fascinating report since the dawn of life on the planet."

She dimpled at him. "Much as I love Egon, I've gotta say better you than me, Peter. The chain has got to be more fun."

"You're a good sport, Janine. One of these days I'll have to start paying you so we can give you a raise."

"I won't hold my breath. Here's the mail." She flopped it down on top of the slime report and marched back to her desk quickly, but not so quickly Peter had seen the smile she hadn't been able to hide.

The mail was mostly bills, the envelopes chilly to the touch from the January weather outside. An expert in sorting through them, the junk mail, the fake ghost reports, the personal stuff, it took Peter no longer than ten seconds to pull out the thick white envelope made of very fancy paper. Dumping the bills in one pile and the junk in the round file, he snatched up his letter opener and pulled out the contents of the envelope -- a second envelope.

"Fancy stuff," Peter said, who recognized a formal invitation when he saw one. The second envelope had the names of the four Ghostbusters in an elaborate calligraphied script, listed alphabetically, adding, 'and guests'. Hmmm.

"Yo, guys," Peter bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Get down here! There's some mail for all of us."

"Do you have to yell, Doctor V?" Janine groaned, peering over the top of the filing cabinets that separated their offices from each other.

"At least it isn't as loud as that bell you love to ring," Peter defended himself as he opened the second envelope, pulled out a card edged with gold leaf. Fancy stuff indeed.

"What kind of mail?" Ray asked, skidding to a stop in front of the swinging gate to Peter's office. He'd been working on Ecto-1 with Winston and had a smear of grease on his nose.

Winston followed him, a socket wrench in one hand. "Yeah, Pete, what's up?"

"Wait till Egon gets here," Peter said, grinning like mad. He'd taken a quick peek into the card. This was great news.

Egon arrived several moments later, carrying a P.K.E. meter. "I assume we have no haunted mail," he remarked, automatically pointing the meter at the card in Peter's hand.

"Haunted mail? What a concept. Come on, Spengs, the post office is slow enough already. That's why they call it 'snail mail'. No, I've got something better."

"Wedding invitation?" Winston asked. "You're not pulling a big surprise on us, Peter? Not that woman at CBS?"

"No way," Peter said hastily, spreading his hands wide. "Janice and I are just friends. Well, maybe a little more than friends, but we're not ready for the big step."

"So who's getting married, Peter?" Ray demanded excitedly.

"You guys ready for this?" Peter stood up, opened the card and began to read dramatically. "'Mister and Mrs. Thomas Lee request the honor of your presence at the wedding of their daughter Susan to Paul Dameron on March 16, 1994 at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City at 2:00 P.M.'" He grinned broadly. "They did it!"

"Wow," cried Ray. "That's great! That's really great, Peter. Gosh, the day before St. Patrick's Day. Too bad they couldn't do it then. A St. Patrick's Day wedding at St. Patrick's Cathedral would've been so neat."

Janine edged in at Egon's elbow and wrapped her arms around the physicist's waist. "Oh, Egon, it's so romantic. Isn't it?"

"Well, um, I would say so," Egon replied uncomfortably, although he did put his arm around her shoulders. Egon was not nearly so hesitant these days to admit he cared for Janine. Maybe one day Peter would get an invitation like this one for them.

"It's what Damita wanted," Peter said involuntarily. When Egon looked at him with a peculiar expression in his eyes, Peter shook his head. "No, I'm not being influenced. I just remember it. She hoped Paul would be able to be happy again." That sounded sentimental, but he didn't care.

"Anyway," he persisted, "just think: a big, fancy wedding, a high class reception, celebrities -- famous people, and us. I love it."

"Figures. He's gonna put on a tux and try to act important," Winston said with pretended disgust.

Peter swatted him on the arm. "I don't have to try to act it, Zed. I am important. A legend in my own time."

"You mean, a legend in your own mind," Egon retorted.

"I'm gonna get you for that," Peter cried and lunged at him, muttering under his breath, "Legend in my own mind. Shows what you know."

"Children, children!" Janine reproached them, returning to her desk and struggling not to smile as Peter chased Egon up the stairs, the other two in hot pursuit.