"Look out, Peter, it's coming for you," bellowed Winston Zeddemore from behind a dumpster. He tried to angle his particle thrower at the ghost without striking Peter, but he couldn't get a clear shot.

Venkman spun around and found himself eye to eye with the specter as it swooped down from rooftop level in a spectacular dive Greg Louganis would have envied. Long and twisty, its body spiraled out into a corkscrew tail. Since it was possessed of four arms, it had no trouble flinging fireballs with great precision. Yikes! The Ghostbuster ducked a huge one that exploded next to him on the pavement, raising his thrower to fire as he pounded toward the entity. It had huge blue eyes that nearly filled its whole face, dwarfing the slit of a mouth beneath them. It didn't have a nose, but then, being dead, ghosts didn't really need to breathe.

The entity's eyes met Peter's and cold emptiness poured across the space between them. He faltered, caught in the intense blue stare. Gasping, he felt it start to pull away the very essence of Peter Venkman. One by one, memories trickled out of his brain, leaving him perplexed and confused. "N-no!" he faltered, waving his hands to halt the exodus of everything that belonged in his brain, panic racing through him as he struggled to sever eye contact. The thrower squirted from numbed fingers as a horrible hollowness oozed into his brain, replacing all thoughts and memories with a dreary, grey nothingness, leaving him empty and alone... Alone...

The impetus of his run pushed him forward two more steps and he tripped over the dropped thrower, his legs tangling in its connecting power cord. Arms windmilling, he went down hard, face first, too blank and dazed to put out his hands to break his fall. His crash landing broke his eye contact with the ghost and at once the nasty suction stopped. Conscious awareness crept slowly back. Breath driven from his body, he lay struggling to breathe while his identity trickled back, sliding neatly into place, filling up the ghastly emptiness. It didn't go far enough to get away, he thought, relieved to feel his own essence pouring back. That had been nasty. Cold with shock, he fought hard to draw air in.

When the first painful breath touched his aching lungs, he gasped hard then panted, "Winston, don't...look it in...the eye!" as loud as he could. It wasn't very loud at all, but Winston wasn't that far away.

"I hear you, m'man," he yelled back, an edge of panic in his voice. "Head down, Pete!" A sizzle of energy from the proton rifle went past just above him, near enough for him to feel the heat, and the ghost screamed, a horrible, agonizing sound that raised the hairs on Peter's neck and made him attempt to bury himself in the concrete. Winston muttered, "Shit," under his breath, and a brilliant flare of light signaled the opening of a trap. Still screeching like a banshee, the blue ghost's cries faded and finally stilled when the trap closed over it. The intense light stopped blasting Peter's eyelids.

"Can I get up now?" Peter asked warily, still struggling to draw enough air into his lungs.

Winston dropped beside him, a hand squeezing his shoulder. "You went down hard, homeboy. Hurt? Your chin is bleeding."

"Yeah, no lie. I used it...to beat up the...pavement," Peter admitted, fingering it cautiously as he pushed himself up to his knees. Wiggling his jaw from side to side proved he hadn't broken it in his spectacular fall.

"Easy, easy, catch your breath," Winston urged, mopping at Peter's chin with a handkerchief. "I got the ghost. What did you say about not looking it in the eye?"

Peter shuddered involuntarily and Winston slung an arm around his shoulders. "It looked me in the eye and I could feel everything going away," Peter explained. "I wasn't Peter Venkman any more, just this big lump with no memory. I was...alone." He shivered, recalling the emptiness that had washed over him. "It tried to steal my memory, Winston. If I hadn't tripped over my thrower and broke eye contact, I'd be sitting here now drooling, no idea who I was. Not a pretty sight."

"Egon?" Winston asked, partly to derail Peter's unhappy train of thought. "What happened with Egon? I thought he was right behind you?"

The four Ghostbusters had been chasing the nasty spirit for three blocks, ducking in and out of doorways, taking shelter behind parked cars while the pale blue spirit cast fireballs at them, jumping out to fire their proton streams in hopes of snagging the stubborn entity. This wasn't fun. They'd been separated from Ray for ten minutes when the ghost had forced it down a different alley. Driven the other way, the remaining three Ghostbusters pursued it until one of the fireballs had nearly made a direct hit on Egon, knocking him into the path of an oncoming taxi. Fortunately for Spengler, the taxi had braked wildly at the sight of the ghost and the fireball, barely grazing the phycist, who had still gone down harder than Peter liked. With a screech of "Egon!" Peter had lunged for his downed comrade just in time to shield him from a second fireball. When Winston raced past, blasting wildly, Peter had lifted his head and stared at Egon, half afraid of what he would see.

"I'm all right, Peter," Egon said hastily, but there was pain in his voice and in his eyes. One side of his face was slightly reddened with a mild first-degree burn that had twisted the temple of his glasses, proving how close he had come to losing vision in his left eye. "Slightly scorched, and I twisted my knee, but it's nothing serious."

"Sure?" Peter hesitated, waiting for the reassurance.

"Positive," Egon reassured him. "You have to stop the Class 5, Peter. I'll be quite all right."

Peter eyed him measuringly, but there was no time. Egon was alert and in his right mind, and the ghost was still flinging fireballs. He wasn't sure where Ray had gotten to; he should have materialized by then. With luck, the youngest Ghostbuster was circling around to help them cut the ghost off. When the cab driver erupted from his cab to make sure Egon wasn't badly hurt, wailing mea culpas in a language Peter had never heard before, and flung himself down at Egon's side, Peter clapped his friend on the shoulder and jumped up to resume the chase, leaving the apologetic cabby to watch him. With luck, Egon would know the guy's weird dialect. Strange languages were one of Egon's many specialties. The cabby, a diminutive, wiry fellow with close-cropped hair that would have been curly had he possessed more of it, bent over Egon solicitously, crying out questions Peter couldn't understand and bowing his head in abject apology. At least Egon was in protective hands.

"Ray!" Venkman bellowed. "Winston!" and cocked his head, listening for the sound of throwers.

"Yo!" bellowed Winston from inside a nearby alley. Peter gave Egon a thumbs' up sign and raced in that direction just in time to receive Winston's warning of impending attack. The nasty interlude that had followed had driven every other thought from Peter's mind. Now that the ghost had been trapped, Peter could worry about the other two members of the team.

Egon. Peter flung himself to his feet, ignoring the blood trickling down his chin. Winston reeled in his thrower and passed it to him, and he holstered it on his proton pack automatically. "He had an argument with a fireball and a taxi," Peter explained grimly. "Come on, we'd better get back to him. He said he was okay, but he was down."

"Oh, man," groaned Winston, grabbing Peter's arm to steady him. They hurried unsteadily out of the alley to find Egon sitting on the hood of the cab while traffic backed up behind it, horns blaring. The side of his face that wasn't reddened looked whiter than usual and a paramedic--where had he come from?--was doing something to Egon's knee.

"Egon!" Relieved to see his friend sitting up, Peter raced over to join him.

Egon looked up at their arrival and measured them with his eyes. "You are bleeding, Peter," he pointed out as if Peter had mysteriously failed to notice the blood dripping off his chin.

"He's good," Peter informed Winston in an instructive aside. "Never misses a thing. Egon, we got the ghost. Well, Winston did. Good thing, too. Old Mr. Blue had a bad habit we didn't realize."

Egon's eyes narrowed and, deprived momentarily of his glasses, he squinted at Peter, ignoring the paramedic who decided to rub a burn cream on Egon's temple, cheek, and chin. Old Spengs had this X-ray vision thing when he suspected Peter wasn't telling him everything, and he employed it now. The poor paramedic didn't distract him at all. He didn't even wince. "What bad habit?"

"You make eye contact with him and he sucks your brain out," Peter proclaimed.

"And how do you know this?" demanded the physicist, finally wincing at a particularly sensitive area on his cheekbone. A second paramedic edged up to Peter and caught his chin in his hand, tilting it to examine the cut there. They didn't object at all to working around the two men. Maybe they were used to patients who ignored them.

"Because he started to do it to me," Peter explained. "Our eyes met across a crowded alley and the next thing I know, he's inviting my mind to dance." He struggled to repress a shudder, batting ineffectually at the medic's hands. "I could feel all my memories sliding away," he confessed in a near-whisper. "If I hadn't tripped and broken eye contact, I'd be about as much worth to the team as last week's newspaper."

Egon pushed himself to his feet, balancing carefully on his good leg and ignoring the protests of his paramedic. He caught Peter by the shoulders, his eyes full of understanding. "Breaking eye contact restored your memories?" he asked.

Peter nodded. "Yeah, the minute I landed it all came back to me. I could feel it just pouring in, just like I felt it running out. Nasty." He drew a deep breath; it still hurt a little to do that, but not enough to indicate fractured ribs. "I was...alone, Egon," he blurted involuntarily, his eyes sliding away.

He caught himself immediately and squared his shoulders under Egon's tightened grip, pulling himself together. "But hey, it didn't happen. I'm fine, we're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?"

Egon must have realized Peter didn't want to discuss it. He gave his shoulders one more squeeze and let go, allowing Peter to help him to sit back on the cab's hood again. The driver hovered in the background, babbling in his obscure dialect, wringing his hands. Peter couldn't remember seeing anybody actually do that before.

"I'm fine, too," Egon reassured him. "I twisted my knee when I fell, but it's not sprained, and I should be walking normally in a day or two. I managed to acquire a set of bruises against my ribcage, but I suspect you might match me in that regard. This burn isn't serious, is it?" he asked the paramedic who, startled at being noticed, shook his grizzled head. "We'll have the rest of the day, and perhaps tomorrow, off, and then--" he lifted his head suddenly. "Where is Ray?"

Peter jerked to attention, ignoring his recovering lungs and the ooze of blood on his chin. He grabbed his walkie talkie off his belt and activated it. "Ray, come home, all is forgiven," he caroled into it. No answer. Frowning, Peter lifted the communicator and shook it lightly. It rattled with the faint tinkle of shattered components. "Whoops, guess I squished it when I decided to fling myself on it in the alley."

Winston already had his out. "Winston to Ray. Come in, Ray." His walkie talkie was intact--he hadn't fallen on it--but he got no better response than Peter had.

Egon tried his but it didn't work. "I don't believe these devices can stand up to encounters with cabs." He grimaced at it and tried Peter's technique. His didn't rattle, but it didn't get an answer either. The three men stared at each other in dismay.

"He ducked into an alley a few blocks back to avoid one of the ghost's flaming treats," Peter reminded the others. "You think he's hurt?" A horrible new idea hit him and he grabbed out automatically and caught Egon's wrist. "Spengs! You don't think it lobbed a big fireball at him--or did the eyes number on him, do you?" he concluded unhappily. Neither option was good. Ray would show up at any moment, claim he took a wrong turn and hadn't heard their throwers. He had to. The three men exchanged worried looks then craned their necks to see if they could spot their missing teammate. The paramedics paused to stare, too.

"If so, it had to break eye contact to pursue the rest of us," Egon replied reassuringly. "He may have turned an ankle or simply lost track of which way we went. We'll retrace our steps and I'm sure we'll find him. He knows where Ecto-1 is parked." He gestured vaguely in the direction where they'd left their converted Cadillac hearse.

"Wait a minute, Festus" Peter said, catching Egon's arm. "You're not going to limp around the city on that knee. Winston and I will go."

"Hold it, homeboy." Winston turned from another attempt to raise Ray on the walkie talkie and gestured Peter toward the cab hood with Egon. "You're still bleeding. This is a job for the Zeddemore patrol. Tell you what, I'll head for that alley, then Ray and I will swing around and pick you up." He turned to the paramedic. "Will Egon need to go to the hospital?"

"He should probably go in for an X-ray and then have his knee strapped up by the doctor," the young man replied. "However, it isn't essential that we transport him. There's no evidence of major trauma, no indication of fractured ribs, and I think we'd have an indication if there were internal injuries. If you take him in when you pick up your missing buddy, that'll do the trick but do it soon just to be safe." He turned back to Egon. "We put an ace bandage on the knee. It should hold your weight, but try to avoid walking on it much for the rest of the day."

"I'm off, then," Winston said and, passing the full trap to Peter, he raced down the sidewalk in the direction where they had last seen Ray. He lifted the walkie talkie and spoke into it as he ran. Peter watched him go, allowing the second paramedic to clean the cut on his chin and pop a band-aid on it. Peter scarcely noticed, watching Winston until he turned a corner, trying to fight down the unpleasant mental image of Ray sitting staring blindly into space without a clue to his own identity--or a big charred place in the middle of the alley. No, he didn't buy that one. If the ghost had charbroiled Ray, his proton pack would have gone up like an A-bomb test and they'd never have missed that. It didn't mean he wasn't down with burns, but they couldn't be lethal. They couldn't be. Burns healed. He wasn't sure brain sucking did. It did with you, Venkman, he insisted fiercely to himself, but he was more than halfway convinced that he'd be curled up in a fetal position sucking his thumb right now if he hadn't tripped over his dropped thrower.

The paramedics finished up and departed, leaving the two Ghostbusters to sit there and reflect upon Ray's disappearance. Peter noticed uneasily that the EMT van departed in the direction Winston had gone as if they had inside knowledge--or as if they expected to get a call from him anyway and figured they might as well go there next.

"Breaking eye contact did negate the effects for you, Peter," Egon consoled him as if he were privy to Peter's thoughts. The tone of his voice made Peter angle an eye in his direction. "It may be a simple method of immobilizing its prey. It needn't be permanent."

"Who are you trying to convince?" He frowned. "Maybe it just didn't have long enough with me to finish the job. I tripped over my thrower and beat up the pavement with my chin." He leaned wearily against Egon's shoulder.

"And maybe Ray went the wrong way when he came after us," Egon remarked, although he leaned in return. "He may well be waiting back at Ecto. Although why he wouldn't respond to the walkie talkies..."

Bad thought. Peter wished they could erase it, but they couldn't. The ghost was still here, though, in the trap. If it had stolen Ray's memory, then they could find a way to make it return it to him, open the trap in a containment field, force it to return what it had taken. Peter curled his fingers around the trap's cable to make sure it didn't slide to the ground and pop open.

"So, these little numbers break if you look at them, Egon," he tried. "Maybe he landed on his, too, when he was trying to duck."

Egon bowed his head in agreement.

The cab driver approached timidly and spoke in halting English, apologizing to Egon. He looked pathetic, diffident, terrified of the cop who had been taking his report, but also impatient to get in his cab and leave this horrible vicinity where there were ghosts as soon as possible. Egon instantly rose and reassured him by demonstrating a cautious, limping step. He even patted the little man on the shoulder. Peter had to smile at the way the cabby's face lit up. He astonished Egon by embracing him fervently and yanking his head down to kiss him resoundingly on both cheeks. In spite of his anxiety over the missing Ray, Peter had to work hard not to burst out laughing at Egon's stunned, disgruntled expression. He'd save up that memory to tell Ray about later when he was back. Ray would like it. Especially the burn cream all over the cabby's lips.

When the little guy had departed, Peter guided Egon over to a nearby apartment's front steps where they shed their proton packs, and sat him down. "Come on, Egon, you're already breaking the rules. No walking, remember."

"Unless Ray needs me to," Egon countered firmly, but he did allow Peter to lower him down, stretching out his bad leg before him and absently rubbing his knee.

"Well, yeah, then you can run a marathon," Peter reassured him. This was bad. Every minute Winston didn't come back was a minute more to convince them that something was gravely wrong. Ray was hurt. He was zombied out. He was...incinerated (without his pack). Peter wanted to jump up and run after Winston but he stilled himself with a fierce effort of will. It was crazy. A routine bust shouldn't end up like this. There should be warning signs to mark the crisis busts so the guys could go in prepared. The spook was only a Class-5 after all, no more powerful than Slimer. "Egon, isn't this a little bit more than Class 5's usually do?" he complained.

"Its readings were complex, Peter, but mainly within the general Class 5 category," Egon returned, intrigued in spite of himself. Peter was glad he'd found a distraction for Egon while they waited. "You'll remember the Class 5 that knocked me off the World Trade Center could throw fireballs, too. Within each category there are a broad range of specters and an equally broad range of abilities. Naturally a Class 5 is not as powerful as a Class 7 demon. But we have seen them stronger than this one before." He took the trap and studied its readout, then he frowned. "Now that is odd."

Peter's heart caught a second. Odd wasn't good, not with Ray missing. "What's odd?" he demanded.

"These readings are weaker than the ones I took earlier." He jerked up his P.K.E. meter. One of the antennae was slightly askew but the ghost detection device had survived its run in with the cab in better shape than Egon had. Probably the physicist had tried to shield it. A little gizmo like all the rest of them back at headquarters and he'd risked his own life to protect it.

Ready to lose it at the slightest provocation, Peter chose the handiest target. "You protected that meter when the cab hit you, didn't you, Egon?" he demanded sternly.

"Of course. We needed it to complete the bust."

Peter exploded. "Damn it, Egon, we've got a bunch more of them but we've only got one Egon Spengler. Are you crazy? You think we'd sit back and watch them haul you off to the hospital--or the morgue--and then grin and say, 'Oh well, the meter made it fine'? Damn it, Egon, where's your brain! Or did it get sucked out when we weren't paying attention? Don't you do anything that stupid ever again. Guess that little meter means more to you than the way we'd feel if the cab had..." He ran down, realizing how stupid he sounded. Frustrated, he added awkwardly, "So cut it out, okay?"

"The cab driver had already hit the brakes," Egon offered lamely. He was silent a long moment, then he said, "When you put it like that, it does seem ludicrous. I apologize, Peter."

"Oh, goodie. That makes all the difference." He sat fuming, unable to let either one of them off the hook.

Egon put his arm around Peter's shoulders. "I'm not hurt, Peter. And Winston will find Ray soon."

Heaving a huge sigh, Peter leaned into the one-armed embrace. "Sorry too, Spengs. It's just--it's only a tool, for Pete's sake. Winston's right. You need a keeper sometimes." He added in frustration, "I was way across the street and couldn't get to you before it hit."

Egon turned and regarded him with the full intensity of his knowing regard. "It wouldn't have been your fault, no matter what. Peter, Ray may be injured. I think we need to put this behind us and deal with that when we find out about it. I won't fight with you now, even if you think it will relieve your tensions. I'm sorry about the meter and I'm certain it looked bad from your perspective, but I only have a twisted knee. I'll give you a grace period because of what the ghost did to you. It's all right."

Peter couldn't sustain the bad temper, not when Egon looked at him so reasonably. Egon really was okay or the paramedics would have insisted on transporting him. Ray might not be, but they didn't know that yet. Okay, they'd have to play this as it came. Peter sucked in breath--at least that didn't hurt any longer--and said, "What do you mean about the readings being weaker?"

Egon accepted that as the apology it was intended to be and he gave Peter's shoulders a brief squeeze before he returned to the study of his detection device. "I took readings of the entity as we pursued it and it was a very strong Class 5. What I have in the trap is a weak Class 5."

Peter stiffened. "You mean part of it got away?" Horrible thought. Would it be enough to 'come to life' and start flinging fireballs of its own? He'd have expected it to be even stronger if it had absorbed Ray's memory. If it was weaker, maybe it hadn't done it after all. Mentally, he crossed his fingers.

"No, I don't believe any of it got away, and there are no ambient readings of the area to indicate that. I was monitoring from here when Winston trapped it, and nothing remained but residuals once the trap closed. I could see the light of the trap and the ghost's readings disappeared exactly when it closed. The only theory I have now is that the ghost drew energy from its surroundings and, now that it is incarcerated, it can't do that any longer. I'll run tests, of course. The meter may be affected by the acci..." he let his voice trail off and slanted a measuring look at his companion.

Peter ignored that. He wasn't ready to jump on Egon all over again. Protecting the meter instead of himself... When this was all over, he planned to sit the physicist down and chide him very sternly about his priorities--and what he owed his friends.

"Then we'll get another meter." He fell silent at the sound of a familiar engine. "Here's Winston with Ecto," he said, craning his neck to see through the resumed traffic. If Ray were in the antique hearse, he was lying down in the back because Peter couldn't see him.

Winston screeched to a stop in front of them, blocking traffic all over again, and beckoned for Egon and Peter to join him. Draping Egon's arm around his shoulder, Peter helped him to the car and guided him in beside Winston before returning for the proton packs. "Where's Ray?" he demanded when he lugged them back. Winston didn't look devastated the way he would if he'd found a huge charred patch in the alley or a mindless Ray playing in the garbage. Instead he was perplexed.

"I don't know," Zeddemore returned as Peter slid into the back seat, pushing the packs before him. "He wasn't at the alley. No evidence he'd been there. No abandoned equipment, no burn scorches except for one little one that couldn't have done enough damage to hurt him badly. I drove around a few blocks looking for him, but he didn't show up."

Egon turned his head and stared at Peter. "That makes no sense," he said. "Did you look everywhere?"

"Man, I even pawed through the garbage in the dumpsters." His nose wrinkled reminiscently. "Asked everybody I saw, went into a couple of stores. Nobody saw Ray. Nobody knew anything. Nobody saw Ray, even the ones who saw us go by chasing the ghost." Flipping on the siren, he put the car into gear and pulled out in an illegal U-turn, heading back the way he had come. "We can start at the alley and go from there."

"Of course!" Egon cried, raising his slightly-battered meter and adjusting it. "I'll set it for Ray's biorhythms. He can't have gone far." He fiddled with the dials and then raised it. Nothing happened. No flickers, no stirring of the antennae. Egon grimaced. "Peter, reach around and see if there's a spare meter in the back."

Peter pulled one out, adjusting it himself nearly as fast as Egon could have done. This time it quivered faintly with what even Peter could recognize as the faintest of fading residuals. All this told him was that Ray had been present recently. It wasn't strong enough to track him down.

Egon reached out a hand for it and made even finer adjustments. The faint reaction didn't strengthen. "Hmmm," he said.

"Hmmm, what, homeboy?" Winston pulled up in front of the alley. "It's bad, isn't it?"

"We don't know that it's bad," Peter insisted urgently. "Ray just might have wandered away. Maybe he got a little cooked by that fireball or a heavier dose of eye contact than I did, and got confused. Somebody will find him and help him out. He's got his uniform on, after all." Find him and help him? In New York? Peter shook his head. Sure, there were people who would help him out. After all, the Ghostbusters were famous. But there were people who would take advantage of Ray, if he were staggering around in a trance. There might even be a black market for particle throwers and proton packs--terrorists would love to use them as weapons. Peter craned his neck and stared down the alley. If Ray had gone into one of the buildings nearby, he would register on the meter. Even if he'd staggered inside and... No, don't think about that. He's alive. He's not here, but he's somewhere, and he's ALIVE.

"Okay, this isn't working," Winston said. "I didn't have a meter before. Egon, my man, I'm gonna get you to the ER so they can do those X-rays, then I'm gonna call out every cop in the city to look for Ray. If--if he'd been zapped here, he'd still be here, and he's not, so he probably left under his own steam. If he had a dose of that ghost's double whammy with the eyes, he might be confused and not sure where he is."

"Or who he is," Peter muttered gloomily. Remembering that moment when he had felt his conscious awareness slipping away sent reminscent cold chills zipping up and down his spine. Had that happened to Ray, with nothing to break the eye contact until it was too late? If so, they needed to put out an APB on him right now. "Winston, use the mobile and call it in," he insisted, his eyes never ceasing their reconnaissance of the street and adjoining buildings. Crazy. If Ray was still there, the meter would tell them so. He'd gone further afield than this. But where?

Winston punched in 911 and told his story to the person who answered, giving as much detail as he knew. Egon babied the meter, his head bent over it, nearly crooning to it, but Peter could see his concern and the lingering pain from his accident in the lines of his body. Reaching out, he clapped Egon on the shoulder.

"We'll find him," he said quietly. "Believe it."

Egon's head came up. "Yes, Peter," he agreed. "I know we will."

But they didn't find him before they abandoned the search to take Egon to the hospital.

X-rayed, knee bandaged, and pronounced relatively fit, Egon joined the other two, leaning on the cane that had been provided for him. His knee twinged with each step, but not so badly that he couldn't walk on it. He would have preferred to retreat to his lab, prop it up on a chair, and go back to work--if not for the fact that Raymond was still among the missing. While he'd waited to be seen, Egon and his two friends had been cornered by a uniformed policeman who took down all the particulars on Ray's disappearance. The word went out. Missing persons' reports could generally not be filed so quickly, but Ray had been in a dangerous situation when last seen. The police were used to the Ghostbusters and bent the rule enough to put out an All Points Bulletin on him right away. All over the city, cops would be on the lookout for Ray.

Winston's next call was to the TV stations. Get the word out, every way he could, he insisted. He even phoned a few radio stations who would tell their listeners that Ray was missing and that anyone who saw him should call it in.

Egon went to the next pay phone and called the firehall. Janine might be fielding calls soon, and she had the right to know what had happened. When he said, "It's Egon," there was a pause while their secretary played back the sound of his voice.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her worry making her voice grow shrill.

He explained succinctly everything they knew. "We don't know where he is," he concluded, "but Peter's experience leads us to believe he may be wandering the streets in a state of confusion. While it's within the bounds of possibility that he was taken away on purpose, it seems unlikely, far too coincidental. It's not as if he stumbled into a robbery in progress; at least none was reported and we'd have seen police on hand when we searched the alley or when Winston checked out the adjoining stores. Wherever he is, he still has his proton pack."

"He'll be okay," Janine insisted stanchly. "Dr. Stantz is tougher than people think he is. He bounces back. If it didn't suck out Peter's brain, then it won't suck out Ray's. After all, he's got more of one than Dr. V does."

Egon smiled faintly, reserving the comment to relay to Peter at an appropriate moment. "We'll be home soon," he added. "There's no question of admitting me--"

"Whoa! Wait a minute. Back up. Admitting you? Egon, you're hurt!" Oh dear, now she would fuss over him when he came home. Peter loved to be fussed over, but Egon was not quite so inclined, especially by Janine, who had a tendency to hang on him and overdo it.

"I'm mildly bruised," he defended himself. "Obviously, if I were badly hurt Peter or Winston would have made the call to you." He had a bad feeling she'd take one look at the cane and descend on him in full fussing mode. Repressing a shudder, he added, "We're on our way home now. We need to replenish some of our equipment, and then we can go out and look for Ray ourselves. Armed with P.K.E. meters, we'll have a better chance of finding him than the police will."

When he hung up, Peter stood waiting for him. "Tell you what, Spengs," he said brightly, "We'll drop you off at headquarters and you can do your tests on the ghost--without letting it out of the trap. After all, we might need it to put back what it took from Ray so we can't stick it in the containment unit yet. Let Winston and me be the search patrol."

Egon frowned. "I can ride in Ecto without hurting my knee, Peter. Of all of us, I can get the most from a P.K.E. meter. I'll remain with you for the search, because it gives Ray the best chance of being found."

Peter hesitated, then he nodded. He couldn't argue with that.

"Michael! Time to wake up now!"

The voice had been calling for some time, but he hadn't really recognized it at first as anything but background noise, something that didn't relate to him at all. The touch on his shoulder made him stop and think. Michael? Was that him? He opened his eyes.

A woman bent over him, smiling when he looked up at her. She was probably in her mid-fifties, streaks of grey weaving through auburn hair, laughter lines touching the corners of wide-set brown eyes. She was smiling down at him with such a look of relief and love that he couldn't help smiling back.

"It's time to get up now, Michael," she said. "You've had a nice, long nap, but it's getting on for dinner time. I've made all your favorite foods."

Michael. That must be him. Why didn't he remember that? Why didn't he know his name? He tried to think but it didn't work very well. He was in bed and this woman was here and she thought he was Michael, so he must be. Maybe he'd remember more in a little while. Unwilling to hurt her, he said cautiously, "That sounds nice," and sat up. He was frightened, but she didn't seem threatening.

She flung her arms around him. "Oh, Michael, it's so good to have you home at last. They told me you were dead, but I knew you weren't. A mother knows these things."

Gosh, he must have been hurt or something, that was why he couldn't remember her. He put his arms around his mother--wait a minute, was that right?--and hugged her back. "I'm okay, Mom," he soothed. "Just a little confused."

"Oh, son, that's natural. It's all right. Being home will make all the difference. After you've been home awhile, it will all make sense to you. All your things are still here. I think you've outgrown your old clothes, but we'll get you new ones. Your books and comics are still here, and your model planes and everything." She eased back and gestured.

It was a young man's room, the remnants of boyhood--the comics, the model planes--gradually being replaced by grown-up books and a photo of a young man--him?--and a girl dressed for a formal dance. They were laughing and she had a tiara on her long, straight hair. He squinted at the photo. His hair was the same color as his mom's, only not grey. Thank goodness. That face did look vaguely familiar. It was okay. The weird, niggling uneasiness was only because he'd forgotten. He was where he belonged.

"The things you came home in are there," she said, pointing to a chair in the corner where jeans, a shirt, and a sweater vest had been folded and draped over its back. "Tomorrow we'll buy you new things. You're a little broader than you used to be." She giggled girlishly. "We all are."

He looked down at himself, in tee shirt and shorts. Yep, he was definitely broader than the laughing boy in the photo. He pulled the blanket up, blushing.

She smiled reassuringly. "I'm your mother, Michael. I've seen you wearing nothing at all. But you're a man now. I'll go. Come out to the kitchen when you get dressed. Dinner in ten minutes, sweetie." She kissed his forehead and went away.

Michael got up slowly. He didn't seem to be hurt, only fuzzy. He couldn't remember his mom, but parts of the room looked familiar. The comics did, for sure. He picked up the top one. Captain Steel. His favorite.

His favorite? So he did remember things. He tried to think what else he liked, but nothing came to him. Maybe he had to let it come on its own. Maybe seeing familiar things would help him get his memory back. That's what Mom had said, that being home would make it all come back. But the room wasn't really familiar at all. Only the comic book in his hand reminded him of anything.

Well, he thought with a pugnacious grin, it was a start.

There was a mirror over the dresser, an old, fitted one with old photos stuck in the corners; a black and white picture of his younger self perched possessively on the hood of a '57 chevy, another picture, probably a graduation one, of the girl in the prom dress, one of him and his mother, looking much younger and happier, with his arm around her shoulders and that of a man who was probably his dad. From the look in the back of his Mom's eyes, his dad must be dead, and that brought a wave of sadness through him. But worse, he didn't remember either of them. They weren't as familiar as the comic book.

He peered at himself in the mirror. A lot older than the high school senior in the prom shot, but so similar that he was reassured. He was stockier than he'd been in high school, but that was natural, wasn't it? The same auburn hair, only worn shorter than the boy's near-hippie locks, the same turned up nose, the same wide-mouthed grin. What had happened to the boy-turned-man in between the picture and now? And how had his mom finally found him and brought him home? He had a lot of questions.

There was no wallet in the pocket of his jeans and he couldn't find one of the dresser or in any of the drawers. Maybe he didn't have one anymore.

When he hurried out to look for the kitchen, he realized he was probably in an apartment building, an old one with steam heating units under the windows and a few pipes running across the ceiling. But it was nicely decorated with throw pillows on the couch and knickknacks on the shelves: china statues, vases with flowers, a collection of Avon bottles, and there were pictures of him here and there, and pictures of his dad. There was one of him in a military uniform, looking tall and straight and proud. So he'd been in the service. That didn't feel quite right, but it was probably just his amnesia.

"In here, dear," Mom called, and he went down a short hallway and found himself in a wonderful old-fashioned kitchen with cabinets painted white and trimmed with blue. Ruffled curtains in patriotic stripes hung at the window, partly blocking off the view of another apartment building across the street. A big table with a Formica top and metal legs dominated the empty space, with places set for two on crocheted red and blue place mats. The old refrigerator was white and rounded at the corners. As he came in, Mom set a pot roast on the table. It smelled wonderful, steaming from the oven, with potatoes, onions, and carrots framing it. She lifted her head, brushing back wispy hair with her forearm, and smiled at him. "Don't you look nice! Have you remembered anything?"

He shook his head regretfully, afraid it would make her sad. "Well, only Captain Steel--the comic book. But I know it'll come. I looked in the mirror and I know my face."

"And I knew it the moment I saw you. My own dear boy, home again. I've missed you so much." She dropped a kiss on his cheek, then motioned him to a chair. The kitchen wasn't familiar at all, but maybe it had been redecorated since he was here last.

"Home?" he unfolded the napkin and put it in his lap. "Mom--is this New York?"

"Of course it is. You see, you're remembering all the time. After dinner, I'll show you some of the family photo albums. I know that will help."

"Will you tell me what's happened to me?" he asked. He needed to know. It felt funny, pushing against the cotton wool that filled his mind. He was eager to learn all he could.

"After dinner, I'll tell you what I can. I don't know all of it, sweetie. I just know they made a mistake when they said you wouldn't be coming home." She stood, arms wrapped across her chest, and hesitation flickered in her eyes. This had to be hard for her, too, although she was doing it with her memories intact. Then she smiled at him and took the chair opposite him.

"Tell me my whole name, anyway," he urged.

"Michael Raymond Berenger," she said. "Does that sound familiar?"

"Kinda," he admitted. "The Raymond part sounds most familiar, though. Did...did people ever call me Ray?"

Her eyes flashed. "Your school friends did, I think. Would it be easier if I called you that? Your father called you Mickey, but I always called you Michael. There were seven Michaels in your high school class, so you used your middle name there. I'll try, sweetie, if that will make it easier for you." She beamed at him. "Now, eat. You always liked my cooking."

The pot roast was so tender it melted in his mouth. Everything tasted wonderful. But as he sat there eating it, he had a flashing image of himself sitting at a different table right next to a flight of stairs, eating Chinese take-out instead with several men whose faces didn't come clear. The memory disappeared the minute it showed up. No matter how much he strained after it, he couldn't bring it back or recall the faces of the people who had been sitting with him. A terrible sense of loss made his stomach twist, and the pot roast was suddenly ashes in his mouth.

"Isn't it good, Mi-Ray?" Mom asked.

"It's great," he insisted valiantly, dredging up an unconvincing smile. "It's wonderful. I'm just...not very hungry right now. I'm sorry, Mom."

"No, I am. I'm pushing you too hard, and that's not fair to you. Tonight we'll just take it easy, watch TV, and I'll tell you how the old neighborhood has changed. There are a lot of artists in the block now, and a big studio down at the corner where Jake's Grill used to be. You wouldn't believe the pictures in the windows. Naked ladies with three eyes, spots of color without a pattern that I could see. Your father always said I was a Philistine when it came to art, but I know what I like, and it isn't those awful pictures."

Michael/Ray's mouth hurt from smiling but he was afraid he couldn't conceal the panic that ran through him. He'd lost something. Okay, he'd lost his memory, but it was more than that. Wherever he'd been since he'd last been home had been important to him. Why couldn't he remember any of it? Remembering a comic book and that people called him Ray wasn't enough, was it? He had to know more. He had to.

At his mother's expectant face, he picked up the fork and made himself eat. It wouldn't help to starve himself. He had to be strong and ready for whatever was to come. He had to remember. Mom would help him, but she was so shaken up by his return that he had to help her, too. Where had he been, all those years since high school? Were the people he had known all along looking for him, too.

"Mom, where have I been?" he asked. "Do you know?"

"In a VA Hospital," she said quickly. "Your...your dog tags got mixed up and they thought you were somebody else. They found out and they called me and I picked you up."

"But--but why can't I remember that?" he persisted. "I can see not remembering whatever happened to put me in the hospital. But if I was there for years...was I in a coma?"

"Part of the time, I think. Next week, once you're settled in, there's a doctor for you to see. But right now we won't worry about that. We'll just get you comfortable, feed you up, be together. Oh, Michael--Ray--I've missed you so terribly much." Her face crumpled and she sobbed, bringing up her hands to hide her face.

Ray jumped to his feet and hurried around the table to put his arms around her. "Don't cry, Mom," he pleaded. "It's okay. I'm home now. It's okay."

"This is crazy," Peter exploded, stilling the restless pacing that had taken him up and down the third-floor lab since Egon had begun his readings on the trapped spirit that had endangered Ray. Still no trace of the missing Stantz and might was falling. Winston dropped the two of them off at the lower Manhattan firehall so Egon could do research on the ghost in hopes of possible leads, and had stayed out, planning to drive in widening circles around the area where Ray had vanished, activated P.K.E. meter on the seat beside him set to Ray's exact biorhythms and boosted to full gain. Every so often, the police would check in with them. Once it was even Peter's least favorite policeman, Frump, who had said grumpily that there was still no sign of Stantz. His tone implied that the Ghostbusters were always causing him trouble, but he wasn't quite as obnoxious as usual, and that worried Peter. He'd rather have had Frump be nasty. It would have given Venkman an excuse to fight back.

Unable to discover an exact match to the specter in his favorite reference source, Tobin's Spirit Guide, Egon began to play with the limited information he'd collected at the scene. The defective P.K.E. meter had managed to record the ghost's original readings and keep them; it was only new readings that caused it problems, and Egon had retrieved the readings and now worked with them and with the trap's output grid, measuring and comparing, trying to make sense out of what he had. Peter wouldn't let him free the ghost. The last thing he wanted was a gaga Egon, sitting drooling at the table.

Although it was past her usual quitting time, Janine had volunteered to stay late to answer the phones. She talked to reporters, giving out what information they had, and taking calls from the general populace, who had seen Ray in places as diverse as Coney Island and the top of the Empire State Building. She had to sort through them, pass any likely ones on to the police, and placate the crazoids who called because they were bored or wanted to make trouble. Peter expected them to start wandering in off the street at any moment, claiming to see Ray in Nome or Stockholm.

The only good thing he could see in the whole deal was that no one had found a body. If Ray had been physically injured and keeled over, someone would probably have found him by now. If he'd been hurt badly enough to...die, he couldn't have gone very far, and the police had scoured the immediate area so thoroughly a flea couldn't have escaped them. Peter imagined drug dealers and criminals scattering in all directions to avoid the search.

Of course they couldn't search every room in every business, office, and apartment in the area. That would take more manpower than could be spared for one missing man, even a missing Ghostbuster. Ray could have stumbled through an open doorway and passed out. He could be lying somewhere nearby... No, he couldn't. The meter would have picked him up. Wherever he had wound up, it was beyond meter range.

So the logical conclusion was that he'd had eye contact with Old Blue Eyes--Peter offered up a silent apology to Frank Sinatra--and was now roaming about the streets in a state of confusion.

But if that were so, why hadn't somebody seen him? If he'd been kidnapped, no one had called in a ransom demand.

"We're missing something, Egon," Peter insisted.

Egon jumped, knocking his cane to the floor with a crash that made Peter start in turn. They were both tense and uneasy and every time the phone rang downstairs, they stiffened, waiting for Janine to come racing up the stairs and tell them they'd found Ray. At least they'd been a long way from the East River or the Hudson, so Peter didn't have to imagine Ray falling in the river.

"I know," Egon replied. "I'm missing something in my research. I can't understand why the ghost would be weaker after draining Ray. You don't suppose it possessed him?"

"If it did, why was it still ogling me later? You think it can spin off little ghostlets and brainwash people?"

"I admit that does seem unlikely." Egon heaved a sigh. "I wish I could have monitored the experience."

"Believe me, you don't," Peter replied firmly with a shudder in remembrance. "There I was, waving bye-bye to my brain. Not right up there in the list of my ten-thousand favorite things to do."

"No, of course not, Peter. If I had been there, I would have been rushing to your rescue rather than taking readings. But I do wish we had readings. If we knew exactly what the ghost did, we'd have a better opportunity to counter it."

"Yeah, right. Well, we don't. We're going to have to wing it. Put the great brain on it, and give it your best guestimate."

"I never 'guestimate', Peter. I theorize. I hypothesize, based on existing data and observation, as any good scientist does."

"Oh, well, same dif." Peter shrugged. "A hunch is a hunch, whether it pops out of the old subconscious or whether you get it from fifteen columns of figures." Ignoring Egon's pained grimace, he plunged on. "When Winston comes back, he can give you a blow-by-blow description of Peter's brain drain. I'll even force myself to go over it again for you." He didn't want to. Only to save Ray would he even consider letting himself relive the experience in his mind. That had been really bad. Losing who he was meant losing the guys, losing everything that was important to him. He would have been alone, with nothing... He hugged his chest, rubbing his arms to fight the chill that recalling it gave him.

"I have a better idea, Peter."

Peter stared at Egon. "I'm not gonna like this, am I?"

"Most likely not. I can release the ghost in a stasis field, maintaining an open trap. We can set up a wide range of detection devices to record the experience, and then I will make eye contact with the entity. After a few seconds, you can push me out of the way or cover my eyes and suck the ghost back into the trap." He said it so calmly and reasonably that Peter didn't instantly realize the full impact of his words. When he did, he just stared, mouth hanging open, for a full half a minute.

"Are you crazy, Egon?" he yelled indignantly. "You think I'm gonna allow that? Not for one split second, I'm not. You are not going to do anything so stupid. We need you intact." He knocked on Egon's skull with his knuckles. "Hello, in there. No way."

Egon caught Peter's wrist to stop him. "I believe it might be the only means of discovering exactly what happened to Ray."

Peter broke his hold, grabbed Egon by the upper arms, and shook him lightly. "Come on, Spengs, this is so far out of the ball park it's in another stadium. You are not going to turn your brain over to Mr. Blue, not if I have to tie you down and blindfold you. Not if I have to deck you and put you down for the count."

"I must." Egon looked him right in the eye, his grim determination so strong it was like gazing into a force field. "It is the only means I can see of understanding what happened to Ray. We can get the readings to study, and I will have a firsthand experience of what the entity did. We can use that to locate Ray--and to figure out how to bring him back if his memory were indeed drawn away."

"No!" spat Peter, suddenly seething with fury. "Damn it, Egon, I know how it felt and I'll tell you every ugly little detail if it'll shut you up and make you see reason. But I will not let you turn your brain to mush to try to find out how to save Ray, when we don't even know he was sucked dry in the first place."

"It is the most logical explanation for his disappearance, Peter," Egon returned reasonably. "I'm not trying to sacrifice myself. Quite frankly, the thought of offering my mind to be drawn away terrifies me."

"Then don't do it," Peter cried. "You know this is wrong, Egon. You can't do it."

"You'll be there to break the contact," Egon reminded him. "I will proceed under the most controlled circumstances possible. You can close the trap the moment the recording is made."

"Yeah, and what if I should do it two seconds too late and you're a permanent candidate for an actual 'absent' mind? No! You're not doing it. What is wrong with you? This is the craziest stunt you've ever dreamed up. First you try to protect your stupid meter and let a taxi hit you instead, and now you want to throw your mind away. How can you even think of something like that? Ray's missing! We don't need you to take a brain hike. You know what this is, Egon? It's hubris. Yeah, I know a few big words. You think nobody but you can understand anything. Well, you're wrong. I know what it was like, I know what it was trying to do, and you can ask me anything about it that you want to. There's no reason for you to face it, too, except that you have this disgusting pride thing that only you can understand it."

"It's not hubris, Peter. I don't believe that I, alone, have the answers. But we don't have readings of what happened. We have your experience, and your description of it, which can only be subjective. The meters are not subjective, Peter. I want nothing less than to throw my mind away," Egon insisted levelly, although the tight control in his voice was halfway to a grim and quiet anger, "except to find Ray and restore him to himself. I won't let my fear of the process stop me from saving Ray." He met and held Peter's gaze with unshakeable determination shining in the blue of his eyes.

Peter exploded. "Oh, so I'm afraid of it, is that what you think? So you have to protect me while saving Ray singlehanded? Damn it all to hell, Egon, when did you become so suicidal? This is just plain stupid. I thought you had more sense than this. You are not doing it. You can't." He whirled around in a fury so intense he could barely contain it, and then the rage abated and he blurted out, "I won't lose both of you."

Once the words were out, his anger, his nice, safe anger, slid away down a mental drain, and there was nothing in front of him but Ray's disappearance. He whirled back to confront Egon, but no words would ease the pain of loss, the fear that Ray might be gone for good, or that he would return a vegetable. There was no way he would let Egon go through what he'd been through. They needed Egon to solve it. He'd seen that taxi bearing down on Spengler like a juggernaut just a few hours ago. He wouldn't risk Egon's life a second time in one day.

"You won't lose me, Peter," Egon replied, grabbing Peter by the wrists. "I know that for a fact because I know you would protect me, that you would stop it and shake me out of the contact before the process was complete. I know this because I trust you all the way down to the soul."

"Yeah, and you can trust me like that," Peter insisted. "Because I won't let you do it in the first place, not even for Ray. What good does it do to throw yourself away to get him back? I'll do it." He heard himself volunteering with stunned astonishment and his stomach churned at the very thought. He had to be crazy, but he wouldn't take the offer back.

"Oh, so it's all right for me to throw you away to save Ray, but not me?" cried Egon, his eyes glittering angrily. "Don't be ridiculous, Peter."

Peter twisted his arms free. "If it's ridiculous for me to do it, it is for you, too. Don't you see, Egon? It's a great idea--but it's not safe, and we can't risk it."

"The point is that the effect may be cumulative. You've had one exposure already. A second one may push you over the edge. One contact is survivable. We don't know that two would be. So it is only reasonable that I be the one to take the risk."

"You only think it's reasonable. It's not. For either of us."

"Peter, I saw the look in your eyes after it happened to you. I won't inflict that on you again."

"Oh, thanks, protect me, huh? Well, what look do you think would be in my eyes if you destroyed your brain, Egon? Ray...might be...gone. I am not going to lose you, too. You think you can take all these stupid risks and it's fine, because you're doing it for a good cause. Well, doing something so stupid it could kill you doesn't help any cause, and you damn well know it. How can you even think of doing this to us?" To me?

Egon met his eyes levelly and came up with a reason that was unanswerable. "Because I love Ray, too, Peter. And because I could not live with myself if I didn't do everything possible to save him. I can't risk you doing it because you've been through it before. I only need several seconds of the process. I'll wait till Winston comes home to provide additional safety factors. You and he can wear the Ecto-scopes with filters for further protection. But we'll record my reactions and what the ghost does, and we'll have that information ready when Ray comes home."

"No!" Peter insisted stubbornly, although he could understand where Egon was coming from. He hated it but he could understand it, and he didn't want to understand anything that would risk Egon right now.

"Quiet!" Winston yelled from the doorway, Janine at his side. "What the heck are you two fighting about? I could hear you all the way downstairs. I bet Ray would just love to hear it, too."

Janine stared at them in shocked disbelief, her eyes huge in a white face. Peter and Egon were not prone to fighting between themselves, at least not loudly enough to be heard two floors down.

"He wants to let Mr. Blue out of the trap and let it suck part of his brain away," Peter defended himself. Janine's mouth dropped open in horror.

"Say what?" screeched Winston, eyeing the physicist as if he'd turned neon green. "Egon, my man, are you sure the taxi didn't hit you on the head. Are you nuts?"

"That's what I asked him," Peter defended himself, grateful for backup.

"I can't use Peter for the test because the effect may be cumulative," Egon defended his reasoning, "but I need the information on record. I need to understand what it might have done to Ray."

"And you think Zed and I can interpret it when you're huddled up in a corner drooling a lot?" Peter challenged, glaring at his friend. "Stupid, Egon. For somebody smart, you are so stupid."

"I'll do it," Winston volunteered abruptly, winning stunned gazes from both Peter and Egon, who stood blankly, running out of steam at the unexpected offer. "It won't be cumulative with me because I didn't go through it, and that leaves you free to solve it, Egon. Pete knows how long to allow before he jumps in to stop it and he can block my eyes or trap the blue ghost again before I'm...gone." He shifted uneasily on his feet, nervous but stubbornly defiant. That was Winston, in full protection mode. He could see Egon and Peter would fight over who would do it, and neither would abandon the chance to help Ray. Peter would hate it, but he couldn't stop himself offering because he couldn't refuse to try everything to save Ray. If they didn't do it and Ray came back a vegetable, Peter would never forgive himself. But here were Egon and Winston, calmly offering to volunteer to have their smarts and their memories sucked out. There had to be another way--a safer way--to get Ray back without risking Peter's two remaining best friends in the process.

"Nobody's gonna do it," Peter yelled. He didn't want to lose Winston, either. What was going on here? Last he heard, insanity wasn't supposed to be contagious.

"You are outvoted, Peter," Egon replied, an apologetic smile darting quickly across his face. "Winston, I guarantee every possible safeguard. But we must understand what has happened to Ray."

"We don't even know this is what happened to Ray," Peter reminded them pointedly. "Help me out here, Janine. Somebody's gotta be the voice of reason."

"But we do need to know," she said thoughtfully. She was siding with Egon. She always did. Peter felt more than outvoted. He felt isolated. He felt betrayed. It made him mad, but it also made him think very hard.

He risked a devious grin. "Maybe we could try it on Slimer."

"Slimer isn't even here," Egon pointed out. "Peter, I don't know if you can forgive me for this, but I honestly believe it's what I must do."

Peter wasn't sure he could forgive him, either. A part of him wondered if he were overreacting because it had been such a nasty experience, but he couldn't stop being furious. Okay, so he was infuriated because it was safer than other, gentler emotions, and he knew that very well, but that didn't stop the way he felt. Sometimes he could stand back from himself and let his psychology training point out all the problems with his behavior--and it didn't change a thing. This was one of those times.

He said in a hard, intense voice, "Egon, I've been through this already. I know what it's like. You and Winston don't. I don't want any part of it." He made an abrupt gesture with his hand. "If you do it, I'll have to be there. But I don't think you have the right--"

"Whoa, hold it, homeboy." Winston jumped in and grabbed Peter by the shoulders. "We're trying to help Ray. That's the bottom line. Nobody's trying to freak you out and nobody wants his brain sucked out. Come on, Pete. Because you've been through it, you're the best one to bring me out of it once Egon has his readings. You don't have to look at the ghost. Your back will be to it the whole time." He was completely earnest and just as completely determined to go through with it for Ray's sake. "Think about it, homeboy. If what happened to you happened worse to Ray, you want to bring him out of it even more than we do--because you know what it's like." He squeezed Peter's shoulders and then stepped back.

Peter sucked in breath. "You fight dirty, Winston," he muttered, because that argument had more strength than any that had gone before. He added, "That doesn't mean it won't be nasty. You may be cussing me out once this is over." The thought of Ray wandering about, feeling empty and alone, unable to go home because he couldn't remember his home or his friends had been lingering at the back of Peter's mind since Stantz disappeared. Peter didn't want anybody else to go through that, but he'd endure it again in a second for Ray's sake. Egon insisted he couldn't, and Peter understood that, although he'd take the risk for Ray in a heartbeat. Winston or Egon had as much right as he did to take the same risk. But Peter loathed the thought of jeopardizing either of them.

"All right," Egon said quietly, realizing, without further clues, that Peter had consented. He displayed no triumph, which was good because, in his present state of mind, Peter might have decked him for it. Egon didn't have the common sense to come in out of the rain. He'd probably look at the entity, too.

Peter jumped for him and grabbed him before he could start to set up the protection field for the entity. "Egon, you listen to me. I don't like Winston doing this, but he's right. We need what you can get out of the equipment, to figure out how to restore Ray when we find him. I want you to give me your word you won't take a look at the ghost while this is going down. Your solemn promise, Egon. You never broke your word to me in all the years I've known you, so I want you to swear to me that you'll monitor the equipment and that's it. I can break the eye contact for Winston, but I can't do it for both of you--and you won't be here, Janine," he added when she opened her mouth to volunteer to watch Egon. "This is too dangerous."

The secretary opened her mouth to protest, then she nodded. "But you're awfully pushy, Dr. V." She looked from Egon to Peter, then she gave a worried little shrug. "I'm going back to the phones," she announced. "You guys be careful. If anybody comes out of this with his brain sucked out, you're gonna know the wrath of Melnitz." She stalked away, radiating hurt and fury. Peter felt bad about that, but there was nothing he could do about it.

When her footsteps had vanished down the spiral stairs, Peter turned to Egon. "Your word," he prompted.

"You have it, Peter. Did you honestly believe I would do anything to jeopardize Winston?" Was that a flash of pain in his eyes, too? You're cutting quite a swathe, Venkman.

"Not to jeopardize Winston," Peter said with difficulty. "But all day you've been jeopardizing yourself. Isn't it enough that Ray's missing?"

Egon's face softened. "It really was very bad, wasn't it, Peter?"

Oh, now, that wasn't fair. Egon just knew him too well. Peter squirmed. "It was only for a minute," he muttered. "I came back from it." There had been too much to think about ever since, but he'd packed the memories of the attack into the back of his mind and Egon's plan had jostled them loose. It wouldn't take too much to bring them to the surface in all their ugly little detail.

"I don't want anyone else to face that," Egon replied. "But there is another possibility we have to consider. Not only is Ray missing, but the ghost may have created other victims before we were called in. They might be hospitalized right now, no one realizing what is really wrong with them. I would have been willing to undergo the process because of that, and because of Ray. Winston is willing. We know from your reaction how bad it is."

"And I'm going in willingly," Winston replied, clapping Peter on the shoulder. "Egon's right. We really need the information."

Peter bowed his head in final concession. "Okay. Maybe I am running scared. I'll help, guys. And I'll make sure you don't go in too deep, Winston. But I want it down for the record that I still don't like it."

Egon looked him right in the eye. "Neither do I, Peter. Neither do I."

It took ten minutes to set up the equipment. Releasing a ghost into a protection field was something they did every so often for additional tests, a process that was relatively safe under normal circumstances. The trap stayed open the whole time, adding its suction to the field Egon created. The ghost could move about within the field but could not break free. Egon didn't like to risk the procedure with anything above a Class 5, but they'd done it with many of this particular ghost's classification and nothing bad had happened. When Egon blew up the lab, as he did periodically, it was usually on another type of experiment.

The delay was caused by Egon's decision to use a number of measuring devices to record the incident. Besides a standard P.K.E. meter, he had one set at Winston's specific frequency to monitor his reactions, plus the magnetometer, the spectrameter, and any number of little gizmos that warmed the cockles of the physicist's heart. Ecto-scopes perched on his forehead, Peter watched him set them up. He was still angry, but much of the anger was rapidly mutating into concern for Winston's safety.

"When the trap opens, you will be facing Winston and not the ghost," Egon instructed. There was an element of discomfort in his face, as if he knew that Peter was seething inside, where it didn't show. "I hope you will be able to tell from his expression when eye contact has been made. My attention will be on the biorhythm P.K.E. meter and you have forbidden me to look at the ghost. I believe Winston will have a moment's grace to tell you the contact has initiated. Winston, how long did Peter look at the ghost before he tripped?"

"Oh, man..." Winston cast his mind back. "I'd say no more than fifteen seconds. He knew it was happening. I could see him trying to fight it, and he said, 'No.' I didn't know what was going down but the look on his face scared the hell out of me. Then, once he tripped, it took him maybe twice as long to come back. I couldn't get to him. I was trying to zap the ghost. It was probably close on a minute before he yelled not to look it in the eye but he was starting to come out of it before then. I'd already figured it had done a hypnosis number and I was doing a crazy dance to keep it from catching my eye. Pete wasn't unconscious, not any of the time. He was moving and his eyes were open. But when he first went down, he wasn't seeing me--and he looked right at me and I could swear he didn't know me." He shuddered. "Can we get this over with? Much more of this and I'm gonna back out."

He wouldn't back out, of course. He never backed out when his buddies needed him. But he stood, tense and rigid, and the delay couldn't help his state of mind.

"Thank you, Winston, that was very helpful." Egon removed his glasses and put on the Ecto-scopes that were modified to his eyeglass prescription. "Peter, you stand here, facing away from the field. Winston, here." He gestured them into place. "Peter, put on the scopes."

Peter slid into the proton pack that usually remained in the lab and drew the thrower before he reached up for the goggles and pulled them into place. His heart thumped uneasily in his chest. Half afraid he'd jump at Winston too early and render the test useless and half afraid he'd wait too long and turn his friend into a zombie, he braced himself, looking up at Winston, who stood valiantly waiting, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"Opening trap--now."

Brilliant light flared up and Winston tensed, his every muscle stiffening. "I'll let you know, Pete," he said. Meters squealed into reaction as the ghost emerged.

The sound of his voice must have alerted the ghost to his presence. Winston jerked abruptly and groaned, "Oh, man..." Peter started counting in his head, his eyes on Winston's face. One...two... three... It was eerie, watching through the polarized lenses of the 'scopes as Zeddemore stiffened and froze, his face twisting against the compulsion to jerk away. There was stark fear in his expression as he realized he was unable to pull free, and then the awareness bled right out of his eyes. The meters continued their steady reaction and Peter, shivering at the thought of the ghost's eyes on the back of his neck, kept counting as Egon darted from device to device, careful not to turn his head in the direction of the ghost.

...twelve...thirteen...fourteen... Lunge! Letting go of the thrower, he tackled Winston and flung him to the floor, slapping his hand across Zeddemore's eyes as they landed. "Close the trap, Egon!" he bellowed, shielding Winston from the ghost's glare with his body. "Come on, Zed," he muttered urgently as the entity swooped into the trap and it snapped shut, dimming the lab. Peter blinked hard a time or two to clear his vision. "It's okay. Wake up now."

Blank-faced and staring at nothing, Zeddemore lay unmoving on the floor.

"Shit, shit, shit," Peter groaned, dragging Winston up into his arms, resting the downed man's head against his shoulder. "Come on, Winston, it's over. You're fine. It's okay now."

"He said it took you about a minute to come back," Egon ventured in the background, his voice curiously diffident and full of self-reproach. Peter wanted to comfort him, but the slumped body that sprawled against him didn't encourage reassurance. A part of him wanted to jump up and deck him, too. But Egon's face was horrified. Peter stayed where he was, fighting a welter of conflicting emotions.

"Winston?" he tried again, gripping his shoulder and giving it a light shake. God, this sucked. Had Winston felt like this in the alley when Peter was struggling back to himself? Was it a minute yet? It felt like ten minutes, an hour. Dragging off the ecto-scopes, he lifted his eyes to Egon, who was just replacing his glasses. Spengler's face was white as fleece but his eyes were dark with brooding shadows.

"I fear you were correct all along," Egon began, bowing his head. "I took an unconscionable risk..." Before he could develop this theme into full-fledged guilt, Winston tensed and jerked against Peter's shoulder and he squeezed his eyes shut tight before opening them warily.

"Ahhhh...." he said profoundly, but Peter didn't mind that because he could see life and recognition filtering into the eyes again.

"Winston."

"Don't yell. My head's...ready to fall off," Winston groaned.

"You're okay? You know who you are?" Egon fussed, kneeling beside him and touching his arm. "Is your memory intact? Winston, how are you?"

"I'm back," Winston confirmed, shaking his head as if to clear it. "I know I'm a damn fool for even trying something so stupid. Man oh man. Next time I'm such an idiot, Pete, you kick me to Cleveland and back. I didn't know if there'd be anything left of me when that was over."

"Yeah, I remember that feeling," Peter agreed. "It goes away."

"Demonstrably," Egon murmured wryly.

Peter lifted his eyes to Egon's and they stared at each other, not quite at ease yet, not quite ready to make peace. Egon's eyes were far too knowing. Peter lowered his gaze to check on Winston again. "I hope those readings will help Ray," he said levelly. He wanted to let Egon off the hook but something inside him wouldn't quite permit it yet.

"The readings!" Satisfied that Winston was bouncing back, Egon patted his arm again and jumped up to check. After a pregnant pause, he murmured, "How very odd."

"Oh, man, I don't like the sound of that." Straightening up, Winston let Peter haul him upright, then he planted his feet a little distance apart and clutched at Peter's arm to gain his balance before he let go. "What's wrong, m'man?"

"The ghost's readings are even weaker than before," Egon replied, scratching his head as he tried to reason out an explanation.

"Weaker? Because we interrupted him and Winston got his memory back?" Peter asked as he shucked the proton pack and laid it on the table. That didn't really make sense. The ghost should be the same as before, shouldn't it? But it had been weaker after it had done its number on Ray and nearly zapped Peter.

"No, I don't believe that's the reason." Egon picked up the meter that had been configured for Winston's biorhythms and aimed it at him. "Hmmm," he said.

Egon had a lot of different 'hmmm's. He had one to stall for time to work out a theory in his head, one to display fascination in an unlikely result, one specifically designed to bug Peter, any number of them. But this one was different. It was the kind of 'hmmm' Egon used when something huge and nasty was about to pop out of the wedding cake and devour the bride and groom in one gulp. It was not a good 'hmmm' at all.

Peter grabbed his arm. "Hmmm, what, Egon?"

"Winston's readings have changed," Egon admitted. He bowed his head. "You were right, Peter, and I was a fool to attempt this experiment."

Peter's muscles tightened unhappily. "Hey, Egon, I'll leave the 'I told you so's for later. Is Winston okay? What's different--and, bottom line, what do we do about it?"

"I feel okay," Winston put in hastily. "Well, I feel mostly okay."

"Define 'mostly'," Egon urged, playing back the readings of the incident on the meter's screen.

"Well, I've got this major paranoid urge to never let either of you out of my sight again," Winston admitted. "Pete, the way you were ranting about this test was right on the money. Stupid, stupid, stupid."

But Peter was frowning. "Egon, hey, Egon," he blurted out, grabbing another meter and starting to change the settings. "Did you take any readings of me after I got zapped?"

Egon slapped his hand against his forehead, nearly knocking his glasses off in the process. "No, I didn't," he realized. "An unforgivable omission." He plucked the meter from Peter's hand and finished the adjustments himself, then he aimed it at Peter. He didn't hmmm, this time. But he did clench his teeth and take a deep, steadying breath. "I am so sorry, Peter. I never meant..."

"So what's wrong with us?" Peter asked quickly. "And can you fix it?"

"The ghost is weaker because, in the process of trying to block your memories, it appears to leave a portion of itself within you. It's not enough of itself to possess you; I think it is more of a partial block. It doesn't shut away your memories. It doesn't shut away your reason. But it evidently affects you in small ways."

"Like jumping you over the meter after the accident?" Peter ventured. No, that was a valid response. Egon's actions with the meter then had been just plain stupid and anyone would agree.

"Perhaps," Egon conceded. "But you did overreact to the test, Peter."

"Overreact? When it just did a number on Winston that hasn't gone away? That isn't overreacting, Egon. That's just plain common sense."

"I'm sorry," Egon blurted desperately. "Peter, Winston, I am very sorry. Had I taken an initial reading of you, Peter, we would have had the answer then. But I think I know how to deal with it." He headed across the lab, still talking. "I theorize that the ghost flings a barricade into its victim's mind. If it completes the barricade, it can feed on the memories there and sustain itself for a time. But because it exerted energy in the first place, it's not very far ahead, so it needs another victim. Because it couldn't finish with you, Peter, it didn't replenish and that's why it was weaker after we trapped it. Ditto with Winston. But what it left behind was a weak form of simple P.K. energy. It should be easy to draw out." He turned, holding a trap. "Peter, you have been affected longest. Close your eyes."

Peter squeezed them shut against the brightness of the trap, but he could still feel its brilliant glare on his eyeballs. Worse, he could feel a weird, unpleasant suction as if someone had stuck a huge wad of gum on his chest and was trying to pull it away. It didn't want to let go of him. The light grew brighter as Egon held the trap nearer, then there was an absurd, mental pop that made him jerk, and the light went out. He opened his eyes, and stared at Egon, who was watching him expectantly.

"Whoa," he breathed. He felt different. He hadn't noticed the P.K. whatever when it was in him but he sure could tell the difference. "Give the man a gold star." It was as if an unbearable weight had rolled away and, for a second, his balance wobbled. Egon caught his arm and steadied him until it passed. "You did it, Spengs," Peter told him. "Now do it for Winston. Believe me, Winston, you'll be able to tell the difference."

Winston grabbed up a second trap and let the trigger fall at his feet. He pulled the nasty residue out of himself, jerking when it slurped into the trap. When he set it aside, he was grinning. "Oh, man, do I feel better." Then he sobered abruptly. "And that's what Ray's got inside him?" he asked.

Peter's high faded as if he had been ducked in ice water. "We've gotta find him," he said. "Egon, will the traps do it for him, too?"

"It will remove any blockage on his memory, of course," Egon replied, passing the meters over Peter and Winston to make sure they were free of the lingering energy. "But..."

"Why do I know I won't like what you're about to say?" Peter demanded.

"Because I do not like it myself. Ray will have the blockage in his mind, perhaps even more than you two did." He shut down the meters, satisfied with their results. "You two are fine--but it never completely removed your memories. The difference between my original readings of the ghost and the readings I got after it had attempted to attack you, Peter, were almost an exact match for the difference in readings between the trapped specter and the retrapped one after it attacked Winston."

"So, let me get this straight. You're saying that it fed from Ray and got to keep it, and when it came after me, it was pretty much back to normal again?" Peter didn't like the sound of that. Restoring the block might not restore Ray's memories.

Egon bowed his head. "Yes, Peter. We may restore Ray and discover that everything that made him Ray is...gone." They stared at each other in horror.

"Into the ghost," Peter insisted, trying to ignore the cold shiver of alarm that wanted to jump up and down in his stomach. "We'll make it put it back!"

Egon nodded, although he probably had no idea how to do that. "Of course we will."

"There's another possibility," Winston put in, holding up a sustaining hand. "Maybe it didn't zap Ray after all. So it wasn't drained, and Ray wasn't either."

"If so," Egon replied gravely, setting the full trap aside so it wouldn't be disturbed, "where is Ray right now?"

The three men stared at each other and could find no easy answers.

"Michael? Are you sleepy?"

Michael/Ray jerked his head up and focused his tired eyes on the page of photos. Every person in them looked like a total stranger. No matter how many albums Mom showed him, his buried memories didn't even flutter. Although he was home, he felt like he was trapped in limbo, in a strange place that wasn't the right place. Something was missing, something important, something vital. If he'd spent the past seventeen years in a VA hospital, why couldn't he remember that? If? Mom wouldn't lie to him. But it all felt so wrong. There was something out there, just on the other side of his mind's edge, that was too valuable to lose. He didn't know what it was or where it was, but he knew he had to find it again. Gosh, he missed it, even without knowing what it was.

Seventeen years in a VA hospital. Eighteen years growing up. That would make him thirty-five, wouldn't it? But the face in the mirror was younger than that. He didn't look thirty-five. He barely looked thirty. If he'd been hospitalized all those years he ought to look older than thirty-five, not younger.

But there were those photos of him as a teenager, and there was Mom, whose love for him shone out of her eyes. She wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't lie to him. She brought him the morning paper--the New York Times and showed him what day it was. The headlines didn't feel as strange as the photos did. Why did he remember the world around him and not remember himself? Why was April of 1988 so familiar but Michael Raymond Berenger a total stranger? Okay, amnesia was a funny thing. People usually didn't forget their language or the names of furniture and foods. They forgot the personal stuff. But they didn't forget it all. The mostly forgot a little time. He had lost both time and identity.

"I'm a little tired," he said, smothering a yawn. "Would you mind if I went to bed early?"

"No, you go to bed. I'll stay up and watch the eleven o'clock news before I go, but you get your rest, honey. Tomorrow we'll go and buy you some new clothes."

He got up, bending to give her a good-night kiss, then he trailed along to the unfamiliar bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he checked in the drawers to see if there were any pajamas there that might fit him. Gee, it was kind of sad that Mom had kept all his things all these years, when she'd believed he was dead. She hadn't wanted to give up on him. Maybe that was how she'd finally found him. People knew things like that, didn't they? He'd know if anything happened to the guys...

The thought trailed off unfinished and he poked it warily in his mind. The guys? What guys? The other guys at the VA Hospital? Friends from Vietnam? Trying to think about it made it harder than ever, as if he had run up against a solid roadblock in his head. Gosh, that was weird. Scary, too. He closed his eyes, opening himself up and trying to let the images come through, but there was nothing but a thick mist, blocking out his vision. He could dimly tell that someone or something was on the other side of the mist, but it was too thick to see through.

Okay, maybe it couldn't be forced. Maybe he had to wait and rest and let it come on his own. Disappointed, he let the concentration go and turned instead to pick up the Captain Steel comic book that had felt familiar before. Maybe if he went with what did feel right, other things would come into focus.

On the cover of the comic book, Captain Steel faced off against Dr. Destructo, who stood on the roof of one of Delta City's tallest buildings. Captain Steel in his bright superhero suit, hovered nearby in midair, his hands outstretched to block a beam of energy Destructo's gadget flung at him.

But Dr. Destructo wasn't in the comics any longer. He had been trapped...

Michael/Ray frowned. Okay, this was an old comic book, dated 1971. All that meant was that Ray had read more comic books since then. But why could he remember Dr. Destructo when he couldn't remember his life? Just because it was right in front of him to remind him? But if that were the case, why didn't the apartment look familiar? Why didn't...Mom?

Flinging aside the comic in disgust, he dropped down on the bed. He felt icy cold inside, more alone than he'd ever felt in his entire life.

Somewhere out there, he had...what? Another life? A life in a VA Hospital? No, there had to be more than that. He knew there was more.

Dragging himself over to the window, he squinted up at the night sky. You couldn't see many stars in Manhattan; the city lights blocked them. But the moon, nearly full, hung overhead. Somewhere out there, under that same moon... wasn't there a song?

"Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight,

Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight."

No more of it came to him. He was surprised that did. But it proved one thing to him. He was going to remember. If things came back that didn't matter, like knowing what city he was in, recognizing a comic book, and recalling the words of a familiar song, then the rest of him would come back, all those lost years. He had to find them. He had to find himself. It wasn't enough to know he was Michael Raymond Berenger. He had to feel it inside.

He opened the door and went along the hall to the living room, where he saw his mom staring at the TV screen where a local newsman--he looked vaguely familiar to Michael/Ray--was saying, "...unexplained disappearance. Anyone who has sighted him, please notify the police department immediate--"

Mom noticed him then and jumped up to switch off the TV. "Are you all right, Michael?" She looked tense and nervous, and there was a flash of something in her face that he didn't recognize, almost a confusion. A guilt. Did she know more about his background than she was telling him? Had he been somewhere else besides the VA Hospital?

"I just...wanted a glass of milk, Mom."

"I should have remembered that. You always did, all through high school, a glass of milk before bed. I'll get it for you." She disappeared into the kitchen.

Michael/Ray switched on the TV again. A knifing on the D train had taken over the headlines. He sat huddled on the couch watching it until Mom came back with his milk, then he drank it down in one long gulp before trailing back to bed.

None of his old pajamas fit so he slept in his shorts, pulling the covers around him tightly against the chill of the April night.

He dreamed about a monster, a strange blue thing that hovered over his head and stared down at him with huge dinner-plate eyes. Somehow, those eyes, although mild and blue, promised terror and torment. In his dream he screamed for help as he felt the eyes suck him down into darkness. He screamed out names of people who didn't come to help him, screamed them over and over until there was nothing left but darkness and he jerked awake, still screaming, to find himself sitting up in bed quivering, with Mom's arms tight around him, soothing him.

"Shhh, shh, sweetie, it's all right. Mom is here."

"Why didn't they help me, Mom?" he faltered, confused and miserable.

"Who, love?"

"The people in the dream." They were nameless now. He couldn't remember the names he had shouted. But they hadn't come, they hadn't helped him. They had made him face the terrifying eyes alone. Alone! They were his enemies, not his friends, or they would have helped him. He shivered helplessly, burrowing more tightly into the comfort of her hug. His head pounded, and pain lurked, waiting to pounce, between his tightly shut eyes.

"Shh, it was only a dream. It isn't real. You're safe now, sweetie. You're safe."

Someone's thinking of me and loving me tonight.

Or were they?

He felt warm, salty tears running down his face, tasted them against his lips. He had nothing. There was nothing left, nothing but Mom, holding him against the darkness. He didn't know who he was, not know inside where it mattered. Knowing his name didn't help to find himself. He wasn't Michael Berenger yet, not until he knew he was.

He was Ray.

But he couldn't remember being Ray, and the people in the dream hadn't cared. The wall in his head wouldn't let him remember them, and when he tried, it only brought him loneliness and more pain. Who are you? Why didn't you help me? he thought desperately.

She was still there, humming under his breath and stroking his hair, when he finally drifted off to sleep again.

Egon awoke at seven, weary and unrefreshed. Usually, he met the morning with anticipation, eager to plunge in and get to work on a bust or on his current experiments, looking forward to the challenge of convincing Peter to get up earlier than he wanted to. Most mornings were good. This morning, waking only reminded him that Ray was missing.

Winston had called just before bedtime to check in with the police, but there had been no word of Ray. If he were wandering the city, it would be easier to find him in daylight and if he had gone to ground somewhere, he might emerge with the day. As an answer it was unsatisfactory enough to make Peter slam his fist down against the lab table top when Winston relayed it. Ordinarily, Egon would have tried to calm him, but he didn't. Peter had been too quiet since Egon had discovered a residue from the ghost trapped within Peter and had pulled it free. There was a touch-me-not aura about him that Egon couldn't get through, and he understood it well enough. Not to take a reading of him after learning what had happened had been an intolerable blunder on his part. Peter had every right to be angry with him about it.

Yet, Peter hadn't been angry, not after he knew what was happening. He'd been angry before, but that could have been induced, or even a subconscious protection against the P.K. residue. Peter should have felt normal with it gone, but he'd been too quiet and he had kept his distance, climbing into bed with the briefest of good nights. Between that and Ray's continuous absence, Egon's mood when he retired to his own bed had not been a happy one.

Sitting up, he glanced over at Peter's bed, then stared in surprise to discover it neatly made and Peter gone. Seven a.m. was not Peter's usual wake up time, but maybe he'd gone downstairs to phone about Ray. There might be news, but Peter would have awakened them if it had been good news. Egon grabbed the clean clothing he'd laid out the night before and went to have his shower. His knee wasn't nearly as tender today; it held him up without the cane, although it twinged to remind him of the injury when he moved. Even in the face of Egon's unsteady gait, Winston didn't stir. Egon let him sleep.

When he came down to the second floor, he heard movement in the kitchen and the smell of coffee lured him in that direction. Peter stood at the stove, already shaved and dressed, whipping up a monster omelet. The band-aid was missing from his chin, revealing a dramatic bruise around the slight cut, and a few unshaven prickles in the affected area that made him look like he was trying unsuccessfully to grow a goatee. Egon could sympathize. The burned side of his face had not taken kindly to the razor this morning. He'd felt like a masochist for shaving at all.

When Egon came in, he said without raising his head, "Green peppers or onions?" in a completely neutral voice. Egon couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking. He knew who had come down without so much as a look. Peter was good at that, a sixth sense where the rest of the team was concerned. Of course he might simply have heard the stutter to Egon's walk.

"Green peppers," he responded automatically, hoping he didn't sound as stiff as Peter did.

Peter picked up a cup of diced peppers and sprinkled them in on top of the chopped ham. He didn't seem inclined to maintain the conversation.

That left it to Egon. "You're up early."

"I called to check on Ray," Peter admitted. He flipped half the egg mixture over on top of the peppers. "They haven't got anything yet."

"I feared they wouldn't before morning," Egon replied. Opening the refrigerator, he took out the orange juice and poured out two glasses. "Toast?"

"Sure."

They worked together in what should have been a companionable silence, but it wasn't. Last night's disagreement over the test hung between them. Egon found himself most uncomfortable. At worst, he had jeopardized Peter's life by failing to take the readings, a procedure that should have been automatic. He had certainly allowed a situation to go on that needn't have happened. Removing the excess energy had made a difference in both Peter and Winston. He had allowed Peter to endure that for unnecessary hours. He owed Peter a major apology.

"Peter, I..."

"Egon..."

They broke off and stared at each other hopefully. Peter held up a hand to delay and whipped the omelet out of the frying pan, cutting it in two with the spatula and putting half on each plate. "Egon, you were right," Peter said in a rush, his eyes on the eggs. "You were right about the test. We needed that information. We needed it to figure out what was going on with me and how to help Ray when we find him. The great brain came through again."

Egon shook his head. "No, I was at fault, Peter. I knew you didn't want it done because I intended to risk myself. You were trying to protect me. I was sure I could control the test. I didn't realize the ghost's excess energy might have made you more..."

"Idiotic than usual?" Peter ventured with a crooked grin. "Egon, I've gotta get this said. I feel about two inches high."

"It's not necessary, Peter. I was completely at fault."

Peter shook his head so vehemently that his hair, still damp from his shower, bounced up and down against his forehead, and he spoke as if tearing the words out of himself. "When you were proposing to throw yourself away on that test last night, a part of me almost...hated you for it."

Egon drew a sharp breath, unable to move or speak. Anger he had expected but not that, and it hurt him all the way down to the soles of his feet. Peter hadn't been quite in his right mind during that argument but to think his feelings had gone so deep that Egon might have lost Peter's friendship... He fumbled for words but none came.

"I think it was mostly what the ghost did to me, not me, and not even you," Peter plunged on, still intrigued by the sight of the omelet. He didn't lift his head. "When you sucked it out of me, I felt--like myself again. And most of those crazy feelings went away, but not quite all of them. I mean, I felt that way because I...didn't."

"Perhaps that is logical to you, Peter," Egon said doubtfully, "but you've lost me."

"No, Egon, that was it. I'd just lost Ray. Here you were proposing something that might mean your brain would go on vacation, too. With that ghost thingie in my head, all I could think was, 'how can he do this to me?' 'Course, now I know that you were working out a way to rescue Ray. You weren't thinking, 'how can I make Peter suffer?' But all I could think yesterday was that you didn't...care enough to worry about how I felt." He grimaced, his cheeks tinged with pink. "God, it sounds so stupid, like some character in one of those emotional TV movies on Lifetime or something."

"It sounds like an psi-induced mental state to me," Egon offered hastily, recognizing Peter's mortification for what it was. "Winston said the same thing, that once it was gone, he felt like himself again, but that before the trap sucked it out, he didn't even realize it was there." He hesitated and forced out the one question that he needed the answer for. The rest could wait. "Do you still...hate me?"

"I never hated you, Egon. I only thought I did for a little while. Probably because I thought, in here--" he tapped his forehead, "Thought it was safer." Peter groaned, then, abruptly, he lifted his eyes and met Egon's look head on, embarrassed but resolute. "There's this really fine line between hate and...love. Sometimes, it's the same feeling, just tipped on its side. Ray's missing, Egon. He might have actually...lost his memories. I guess I just couldn't take it if..."

"If something happened to me as well?" Egon's hurt feelings slid away as he understood what Peter was saying. After the taxi incident, Peter would have been touchy, even without the psi remnant in there messing with his mind.

Peter nodded. "Listening to you casually offering to toss your memories away--two things. First, you might die of it. Second, you might not remember us. And then Winston actually did it. I just lost it there for awhile. Think I want to be the only Ghostbuster left? God, Egon, I screwed up last night. I'm sorry."

"No, Peter, it is I who should be sorry." Egon bowed his head. "If I had taken even one reading of you before the test, we might not have needed to go through with it. I would have realized that the ghost left a residue behind and I would have known how to treat it with Ray. Winston needn't have risked himself at all. I live and breathe P.K.E. meters, and the one essential test never occurred to me. You were right to chastise me."

Peter cocked his head and regarded Egon with great interest. "Gee, Spengs, Ray was missing and you'd just lost a fight with a taxi. I can't even guess how you could forget to use a meter. It's not like you had anything important on your mind." Peter waggled his eyebrows, his voice full of exaggerated sarcasm. "That wasn't stupid. That was human. I still think the test thing was stupid, but not forgetting the meter. I was there and I was okay, and I had all my memories. And you were sore and worried about Ray and your meter was bent already."

"But I--"

"No." Peter shook his head. "Come on, Egon, we both screwed up but we got through it. I'm okay, you're okay--hey, isn't that a book or something?--and Winston's okay. Soon as we find Ray, we'll know how to make him okay, too. And we'll find him today. I know we will." He clasped Egon's shoulders and squeezed them, then he grinned and pulled him into a quick but enthusiastic bear hug. Egon returned it with relief, his world righting itself. When he let go, Peter looked at peace, but he also looked mischievous. Typically Peter. "So come on, eat. Think I cooked a whole omelet for the fun of it?"

"You sound like my mother," Egon responded, his face warming to a smile. He mimicked her voice. "'Eat, Egon. Eat. You have a busy day ahead of you.'"

Peter's head came up and his eyes lit with an unholy glee. "Which reminds me, are you black and blue?" He gave Egon a very gentle poke in the ribcage.

Egon, who had been shocked at the sight of his purple ribs when he'd gone to shower, nodded reluctantly, wincing slightly at the touch. "Yes, I'm bruised. Did you expect anything else?"

"Well, I heard the limp already. What happened to your cane?"

"I found I didn't need it this morning," Egon replied reasonably. "I'll take it with me when we go to search for Ray, but my knee is much better now."

"Progress. That's perfect." Peter went over to the refrigerator and brought out a tall glass of something that looked utterly ominous. "I ran up one of your mom's cure-all concoctions this morning, Egon." He gestured at the blender that reposed in the sink. Naturally, Peter hadn't run water in it to rinse it out. "Figured you'd be sore. Drink it down." He set the glass in front of Egon and waited expectantly. The look in his eyes was a challenge, one Egon could not refuse after yesterday.

"And I thought you didn't hate me," Egon murmured wryly as he picked up the glass, holding it out at arms' length. "This is harsh, Peter."

Peter folded his arms stubbornly and didn't give an inch. "Oh yeah, well, drink it down now, because, if you don't, Janine will come up as soon as she gets here and the two of us will force it down your throat." Contemplating the process, he beamed wickedly.

"I never liked you, you know," Egon replied, suddenly comfortable enough with Peter for teasing.

Unimpressed, Peter grinned broadly. He could always pick out a declaration of affection, even if it was buried in a complaint. "Everybody loves me and you know it." He waited with the air of a man who would stand there all day, if necessary. It looked like it would take Gozer to back him down from his position.

Defeated, Egon downed the repulsive contents in one endless swallow, then he set the glass as far away as he could reach. With a grimace, he reached for the orange juice he'd poured and drank enough of it to remove the ghastly taste from his mouth. Meeting Peter's eyes, he saw the old, wicked humor that had been gone from his friend's expression since yesterday. It was muted because Ray was in trouble, but it was there--along with the reassurance that their friendship was intact. Drinking his mom's disgusting remedy was a small price to pay for the knowledge that his oldest friendship had not been damaged by the ghost.

"I hope that was what I think it was," Winston said from the doorway, nodding at the empty glass. He was dressed and ready for the search for Ray.

Peter nodded. "You bet. I couldn't wait to give it to him." He winked at Winston. "I already cut my omelet in half to share with Egon. You take my part and I'll whip up another." A little of Peter's protection mode still lingered.

"No way. If I know you, it's full of green peppers." Winston grimaced expressively. "I'll make my own. Coffee hot?"

Peter nodded him toward it, grabbing up his plate and his glass of orange juice and heading for the dining table. "Hurry up, Zed. We've got a lot of things to plan. We're getting Ray back today or I'll know the reason why."

"You called that one," Winston agreed. "We could start at the alley, check with the businesses around there. I just looked in to make sure Ray wasn't there. But somebody might have seen something. I've been planning what to do."

"Winston, my main man. Way to go." Peter grinned. "We'll find him," he said. "He's out there somewhere. We'll get him back." He caught Egon's eye. "We will get him back, Egon."

Although Egon's attitude was divided between optimism and pessimism, he heard himself replying, "Of course we will."

"Good morning, sweetie."

"Morning, Mom." Michael/Ray paused in his setting the kitchen table for breakfast as his mother appeared in the doorway. He'd had to put on the same clothes as yesterday, but he was up and alert, and the nightmare had faded with the morning sunshine that filtered in through his bedroom curtains. It left an uneasiness in the back of his mind, but he meant to remember more today. He just knew he would.

"How are you this morning. They said at the hospital you might have a few bad dreams. But it's okay. We'll get over them together." She started for the stove. "I'll have your breakfast for you in a second. It's sweet of you to set the table, love, but there's only two of us for breakfast."

He glanced down at the table, frowning. Four plates reposed there, four cups, four glasses. He'd done it automatically, without even thinking of it. It felt right. Taking two of them away again felt so wrong that guilt crept into his mind. Who was he shutting out?

"Mom?" he called, stacking the two extra plates.

She turned away from the frying pan. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Do we have any other relatives?"

"I've got some cousins in Tulsa," she said. "I haven't seen them for over twenty years. Your dad was an only child."

"But don't I have an...Aunt Lois?" the name popped into his head, surprising him. He could see her vividly, plump and cozy and motherly, bringing cookies and pastries to...to...

For an instant, alarm ran across her face, then she smoothed it over. "Hmm, you know, I think you might be right. But I think she's your great aunt, your father's aunt. I...don't think you ever met her."

But I did meet her. I know I did. He could see her face so clearly. Why could he see her and not see other people? Was he wrong? Was he superimposing the face of one of the hospital nurses over the memory? Mom looked so worried, so earnest, he didn't want to hurt her. "You're probably right," he conceded.

She beamed at him, blew him a kiss, and began to break eggs into the skillet, leaving Michael/Ray to clear away the extra silverware. A minute later, she returned the egg carton to the refrigerator, pausing to check something. "There isn't enough milk. I'm going to run across the street to the mom and pop store and pick up some more."

"I could do that for you while you cook the eggs," he offered. "Let me. You've done so much for me." He caught himself. "I don't know if I have any money. I couldn't find a wallet..."

"It's okay, I have the money. I'll go. It'll only take a minute. I'm just doing them scrambled. Put them in that bowl when you're done." She scooped up a purse, slid her arms into a sweater, and let herself out of the apartment.

Ray moved over to the stove and stirred the eggs with a big spoon. He sprinkled a little salt and pepper into them. It smelled good. When it was done, he spooned them out into the bowl and left it sitting on the stove between the burners to keep the eggs warm. He didn't like them overdone, not brown the way Peter...

Peter?

The name faded from his memory as quickly as it had come. But it had given him a good feeling. Struggling to recapture it only made his head ache.

"Peter," he said aloud, refusing to let it go. "I'll find you, Peter. I promise." Peter, who liked his eggs overcooked. Peter who must be...a friend.

He had just put the frying pan in the sink when the telephone rang.

Michael/Ray hesitated, then he went over and answered it. "Berenger residence."

A surprised female voice asked with a strong Brooklyn accent, "Who is this?" How could Janine call me here? he thought, then frowned. He didn't know who Janine was. He could recall nothing but the name. He really was starting to remember. First Peter, now Janine. Somewhere out there were people who mattered. He had to find them, find their identities inside himself. Gosh, even without really remembering, he missed them.

"This is Michael. Did you want my mom?"

"Michael." Shock ran through the voice. "You're kidding. Brenda's son?"

Brenda? It dawned on Michael/Ray that he didn't even know his mother's first name. "Yes, I just got home yesterday. Mom just ran across the street to the market. I can have her call you back as soon as she gets home."

"This is Mona from the office. I wanted to warn her that Mr. Horn was pissed off because she didn't finish her route yesterday. But if she got the word you were coming back, I can see why she forgot. She better call him and butter him up as soon as she gets home, though."

"Gosh, I'll tell her. I sure don't want to get her in trouble," Michael/Ray proclaimed earnestly. "I'm okay, really. She can go to work as soon as we have breakfast. I'll tell her when she comes in."

"We all thought...we thought you were dead," Mona said delicately.

"So did she, but she just found out there was a mistake. Some other guy had my dog tags. I was in the hospital under another name. Mom's so excited. I bet she just forgot to call Mr. Horn."

"This is incredible news. Brenda's been sad about you as long as I can remember. She's worked for Horn's Pharmaceuticals for the past ten years and she has your picture on her desk. She's been okay most of the time, but once in awhile I'll catch her looking at your picture and there's so much grief in her face. I'm just thrilled for her. Y'know what, Mike, I'll tell Mr. Horn and make it right. I bet he'd want her to take today off to be with you. I'll check and call back. Imagine! This is a miracle."

"I know," Michael/Ray said. "I'm...glad to be home." If only it felt like home.

"This is a crazy, mixed up world. Omigosh, just imagine! Wow! Tell Brenda I think it's fabulous."

Ray hung up smiling a little. Mona's excitement was contagious. It sounded like his mom had a good friend there. He was glad she'd had someone in her corner all these years.

Horn's Pharmaceuticals? Gee, that sounded familiar. Why did it ring a bell? His mom had gone to work there probably around the time when Dad died, so she could have an income. She hadn't worked there when Michael still lived at home, so he couldn't have known where she worked, but the image of a panel truck with the logo of Horn's Pharmaceuticals on the side was vivid in his mind, bringing with it some of the uneasy sensations from the dream last night. Had she driven him home in it? He'd half expected he'd been brought by ambulance...

He shivered the feelings away. He was just recovering. Things were bound to be weird at first. It didn't mean anything was wrong.

Mom bustled in with a half gallon of milk in a plastic bottle tucked under her arm, pausing abruptly, a nervous gleam in her eyes as she studied his face. "What's wrong?" she cried. "You look--"

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Mona from work called. She said you forgot to tell Mr. Horn yesterday when you found out about me."

"You told Mona who you were?" Why did that crafty look dart across her face? Was he supposed to be a secret? "What did she say?"

"She was really excited for you. She said she'd make it right with Mr. Horn. Is he a tough boss?"

"No, but he's businesslike. He expects us to follow the rules. I swear, when I found you, he went clean out of my head. I didn't think of work at all. I just brought you home."

"Found me?" he ventured. That sounded wrong, somehow. She'd been on a delivery route? How had she heard about him at all? Checked in for phone messages at home? Picked up her mail? Did she have one of those cell phones? Or a car phone in her delivery van?

"I mean, when the hospital called. All this time, you were right here in New York and I didn't know." Tears sprang to her eyes and she turned her head to hide them, her shoulders slumping.

Michael/Ray felt terrible. He leaped to her side and put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't upset me, sweetie. I just...it's just so hard to believe that it gets to me sometimes." She pressed a hand to her bosom. "I can't believe how lucky I am to have my boy home again."

"I'm glad to be home." But was he? More and more, the situation scared him. It didn't feel right. It was almost impossible, not remembering anything. In spite of the pictures of his younger self, things were beginning to add up that didn't fit. What could be wrong? Was he delusional? Had the hospital kept him in a mental wing? He didn't feel delusional. He just felt alone, abandoned, missing something that he didn't understand. Aunt Lois that he'd never met. Four places on the table. But Mom looked at him with such love, and that had to be real.

"Oh, Michael, love, you have to take it slow," she breathed as if she'd sensed his uneasiness. "One step at a time, that's what the doctor said. He didn't want me to push you. I could answer questions but not push you. He said your memory would come back on its own, eventually, but not today and not tomorrow. I know it's hard to wait. I know the little you can remember is confused. But that's all right. Just give it time, sweetie. Give me time. Please. For your mother."

He hugged her. "Of course I will." But a part of him wanted to force the memories, to make lists of the little inconsistencies, to write down all the things that tiptoed into his mind before they tiptoed out again. Okay, he'd have to do that, but he wouldn't upset Mom with it. There were old school notebooks in his room. He'd start making lists right after breakfast.

So, after breakfast, when Mom called to apologize to Mr. Horn and request a day off, Michael/Ray headed for the bedroom, sat down at the old desk, and pulled out a pen. Opening the notebook, he grinned at the scribbled notes for a physics class. Gosh, it sounded really basic. Not that he was a physicist, after all, but when he and Egon...

The wall in his brain slammed shut so hard it hurt. Squirting from his fingers, the pencil bounced across the desk and rolled off the edge, landing near his feet. He leaned down and picked it up.

Egon?

"Egon?"

He turned to a blank sheet and wrote the name down, followed by 'Peter' and 'Janine'. Then he frowned again, squinting at his handwriting. Turning the page back, he compared the names to the physics notes about quantum theory.

The handwriting wasn't the same.

A cold, twisty feeling settled in his stomach. That was so weird. The writing in the book was curled around the way a person who was left-handed wrote. Yet he was right-handed. He had used his right hand as the dominant hand the whole time since he had awakened yesterday afternoon. Switching the pencil into his left hand, he wrote 'Egon' again. It was the typical jagged, scrawled effort of a person using the wrong hand to write. Seventeen years in the VA Hospital shouldn't make him right handed. He wasn't paralyzed or even weakened on the left side.

Oh, gosh, this didn't make any sense.

Michael Raymond Berenger was left handed.

He was right handed.

He wasn't Michael Raymond Berenger.

But he had to be. The pictures matched. His mom knew him.

But he didn't look thirty-five years old.

His mom had got a call from a hospital about him--while in her delivery van at work.

He remembered Aunt Lois's face.

Mom said he'd never met his aunt.

He couldn't be Michael Raymond Berenger.

But then, who was he? Why was he here? Because if he wasn't Michael, he had to be somebody. And he had to be somebody with amnesia. It was almost too much coincidence. So what had caused his amnesia and how did Brenda happen to find him. That's what she'd said, that she'd 'found' him. She'd covered it up afterwards, but he thought that was what she had really meant.

Amnesia like this wasn't...normal, was it? People hit their heads in accidents and they forgot the accident and a few hours before it. They didn't usually forget their names. Yet he remembered language and knew he was in New York. He'd recognized Mona's Brooklyn accent. He remembered somebody named Egon who evidently knew about physics and Peter, who liked his scrambled eggs overcooked. He could see Aunt Lois' face when he closed his eyes. Somewhere was a woman named Janine who talked like Mona. But he was here, and Mom said he was Michael Berenger.

So, what had happened?

Horn's Pharmaceuticals?

Could Brenda Berenger have drugged him, given him something to make him forget who he was? Did drugs like that even exist? They probably did, but only in fancy labs where secret government tests were run. Mom--Brenda--didn't work in a place like that. She just delivered drugs to drugstores. Why would he have let her feed him designer drugs?

Was he a prisoner here? She wouldn't let him go for the milk, but she'd said they'd go shopping today, so that didn't sound like she meant to keep him a locked up in the apartment. But...but when she looked at him, there was so much love in her eyes. Did she believe he was her son? She must. But sometimes she looked...so wary. So sneaky. Was she really his mom? Not if her son had been left-handed, he wasn't? So he wasn't her son, but she acted as if he was. Was she even sane?

What on earth was he going to do? The only thing he could think of was to keep trying to figure it out--and to play along. Maybe he could learn something.

"Oh, man, I feel like I'm beating my head against a rock," groaned Winston Zeddemore as he pulled Ecto-1 up at a stoplight. "This isn't getting us anywhere."

They had been up and down the streets at both ends of the alley where they had last seen Ray, talking to people who lived and worked there. So far, no one had remembered seeing Ray. Well, no, a few of the neighborhood folks had seen him with the whole team as they chased the blue ghost down the street. One of two of them even admitted seeing Ray disappear into the alley. They all claimed that it wasn't the kind of neighborhood where drug dealers lurked in alleys, and maybe it wasn't but Ray had gone into that alley and no one had seen him since.

"They could be lying," Peter muttered. He'd been developing that theme for the past half hour. It was getting on for noon and calls to the police had been negative. They were still searching for Ray. People all over the city were still calling in with sightings. Janine fielded them and relayed them to the police and the guys. Once they'd gone racing over to a junior high school over on the Lower East Side, because some guy loitering near the school grounds looked like Ray. When they'd arrived, the only point of similarity was the color of his hair. The guy proved to be a man waiting to pick up his son to take him to a doctor's appointment.

"Why would they lie?" Egon demanded.

"Ray's missing. Who knows why." Peter shrugged. "I want to check that drugstore again."

"We've been in there twice, Peter," Winston reminded him. "The guy says he never saw Ray. He did see us run past his window but he had customers and didn't pay attention."

"Customers!" Peter exploded. "Maybe one of them saw Ray. We can get their names, call them."

"Peter, if they'd seen anything, they would have called the police. Ray's been all over the news and in the papers this morning."

"Some folks don't watch TV or read the papers," Peter insisted. "Come on, guys, let's try it. It's better than driving around. What do you say? We can try the stores next to the alley and see if they can give us names."

Egon and Winston exchanged glances. Peter was better than he'd been last night; he was in his right mind, but he was still worried. All of them were. Okay, why not? It was a chance.

Mr. Fenner groaned when he saw the three of them in the doorway. "You guys gonna take up permanent residence in my business now?" he demanded.

"Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Fenner," Winston apologized quickly. "But we're still looking for Ray. I know you never saw him, but maybe one of your customers did when he left the store. Can you remember who was here when we went by?"

"Hmm, never thought of that." The druggist stroked his bushy, white mustache, rubbing it up and down with his fingertip. "There were some people here, sure. Maggie in the back never saw them." He nodded toward a door that led into the back regions. "But I'll call her out, anyway. She would have filled a prescription or two." He raised his voice and bellowed. "Mags! Front and center!" Maybe he'd been a drill sergeant in a former incarnation. He sounded just like the old jerk Winston remembered from boot camp.

Maggie proved to be a young woman who looked barely old enough to have a pharmacy license. She was small and slight of build, with pale wispy hair and a pointy chin. But her eyes sparkled with mirth and she snapped a mock salute as she planted herself before her employer. "Pharmacist Randall reporting for duty, sir!"

Fenner chuckled. "Mags, these are the Ghostbusters. They're looking for their missing friend. Wanted to know if we remembered who was in here yesterday at the pertinent time. Maybe somebody saw something."

"You know, I kind of wondered that myself, Nate," she admitted. "I was thinking it after you said they'd been in before. I even made up a list. There was old Mrs. Rafferty, but she's so nearsighted she wouldn't see a spaceship landing. Her son brought her and waited in the car, so he might have seen something too. That guy who works across the street was in here, too, Fred, but they probably talked to him already. He had his usual book and I swear, he even reads it when he crosses the street. He'd never have seen Dr. Stantz unless he grabbed the book away. People aren't observant. Oh, hey, I've got an idea. Brenda was here making a delivery and she parks in the alley. If anybody would have seen anything, she would. I think she was here before Mr. Zeddemore came in yesterday the first time."

"Brenda?" Peter asked. This sounded like a good lead. "She was actually parked in the alley? Winston, was anybody parked there when you went to look for Ray?"

Winston shook his head. "No cars at all. Just a couple of real smelly dumpsters. Believe me, I know."

"So who's Brenda?" Peter asked as Egon took readings of the pharmacy with his meter.

"She works for the pharmaceutical company where we get our supplies," Fenner replied. "She made a delivery yesterday, a special trip because Mrs. Rafferty needed her inhaler and we were out, so Brenda brought one over along with the usual supplies. Mrs. Rafferty stood right where you're standing now and complained about how long it took to get here, but Brenda said she made good time. I don't think she could have seen Dr. Stantz before she came in. She didn't mention it anyway."

"Where does she work? We can call her office," Egon asked practically.

"I'll give you one of their business cards." Fenner passed it over. "Can't remember Brenda's last name but she's been delivering to us for years. They'll know."

Peter snatched the card and led the way out the door for Ecto and the mobile phone, Egon hard on his heels. Winston hung back long enough to offer the druggist and Maggie a grateful grin before he hurried after them.

Peter dove into Ecto and snatched up the mobile phone. Okay, so there were no guarantees that this Brenda had seen Ray, but it was one more place to try. Egon climbed into the back seat as he pushed in the numbers and listened to the ring.

"Horn's Pharmaceuticals, Mona." The woman who answered had a thicker Brooklyn accent than Janine did.

"I'm trying to reach Brenda."

"She's not in today. She took a day off."

Great. Why was nothing ever easy. Peter groaned. "Mona, this is kind of an emergency. I'm Dr. Venkman of the Ghostbusters. I don't know if you've heard that we've lost Dr. Stantz?"

"It was all over the news last night. I read the article in the Times first thing this morning. Gosh, Dr. Venkman, I'm really sorry. Has he been found yet? I've been worried about him."

Something inside Peter warmed at her obvious concern. "Not yet. But we just heard that Brenda was in the alley where he disappeared about the right time, and we want to find out if she saw anything. She hasn't called in to report it, but maybe she didn't see it on TV."

"I bet she didn't even turn the TV on last night," Mona said. "She's floating on air today. Her son was killed in Vietnam--she thought. But yesterday she found out he was alive after all after all this time. I don't think she'd paid attention to anything but her son since then. I'll give you her number and you can call her."

"She's a lucky lady," Peter said. "What's the number. We won't bother her for more than a minute or two."

"Let me look it up for you. Weird about her son, isn't it?" Mona sounded like an inveterate gossip. Maybe she knew Janine. "You have to wonder why nobody figured out before. Do you think he had amnesia or something? Here's the number."

"Amnesia?" Peter echoed, jotting the number absent-mindedly. He turned and stared at Egon. That was what the ghost had tried to do, not suck out brains, but take away memories. Two instances of that in one day was a little weird. "She didn't say anything about her son when she was at Fenner's Drug Store." Egon, something's going down here. I don't get it. Egon lifted a questioning eyebrow, aware of Peter's tension.

"She didn't know till after, I guess," Mona explained, happy to have an audience. "She found out and just took the rest of the day off. Didn't even call in to say she was doing it. Mr. Horn was pretty steamed until I explained."

"How did you find out?" Peter asked. He wasn't surprised. She seemed the type to figure out everything going on.

"I called to see why Brenda hadn't come to work this morning. Michael answered. He sounded okay, I thought, just maybe a little vague. He said his mom had just found out about him and brought him home yesterday."

"Yesterday?" Peter echoed encouragingly. This was strange but he had a feeling it would be a good idea to pursue it.

"Brenda just took off. I don't know how she found out about her son. She delivered at Fenner's and didn't finish her route. The son said she brought him home--but how did she know to go and find him? Not a word did she say to me when we had lunch together yesterday."

Peter stiffened. This was really weird. Amnesia. A long-lost son. And Ray was missing. It didn't make sense, but there was sense to be made of it. His eyes held Egon's, and he saw Spengler watching him expectantly.

"Is this Brenda--normal?" he ventured. "In her right mind?"

"Well, yeah. I guess. I mean, she was always obsessed with Michael, but then what mother wouldn't be over a dead kid, and she has his high school graduation picture on her desk here. Nice looking, red-headed kid."

"Red-headed? What shade?"

Winston clamored for information but Peter waved him back.

"Sort of auburn. But what--"

Bingo. "Mona, sweetheart, I think we need to go and talk to Brenda in person. Can you give me her home address."

"Well, I don't know. We're not supposed to give out things like that," she temporized. Peter could hear the ambiguity in her voice.

"We're not strangers. We're the Ghostbusters," he proclaimed. "Do it for Ray. He's in trouble and he needs you, Mona."

"Well..." Her voice trailed off indecisively, then her tone strengthened. "All right. But only because your friend is in trouble and maybe she can help. He's got hair that color, doesn't he. You don't think... Oh, gosh." He could imagine her eyes widening as Peter's wild theory hit her like an express train. "Here's the address. Go right over there, Dr. Venkman. Hurry."

"Believe it. If this works out, I'm gonna send you a big, fancy box of chocolates, and that's a promise from Dr. Venkman." He scribbled the address down. Tribeca. Not that far from the firehouse.

"What is it, Peter?" Egon asked as he hung up the mobile phone.

"Egon, buddy, you are not going to believe this. I think I know where Ray is."

The astonishment and relief from his two friends made him grin. "Let's go," he said, passing the address to Winston. "I'll explain on the way. We've got a retrieval to make."

"Up there," Peter said half an hour later as Winston pulled Ecto into a no parking zone before a red brick Tribeca apartment building. "Third floor."

Egon raised his P.K.E. meter and aimed it at the upper story. It beeped obligingly, a nice, steady chirp of response. Peter's heart thudded with excitement.

"Yahoo, Ray's here!" exulted Winston, high fiving Peter in sheer delight.

"I am getting an overlay like the one I got from the two of you," Egon mused, squinting at the screen. He pushed his glasses into place with an impatient finger and pondered it. "It's stronger than either of yours was. I estimate that the ghost had time to finish its barricade with Ray. He will likely not know us when he sees us." He drew in breath. That was not a happy thought.

"But he will eventually," Peter insisted grimly. "Once you suck it out, he'll know us. It'll all come back." He didn't even want to think of the possibility that Ray's memory was gone for good. "Come on, guys, let's go get him." He flung open the car door.

There was no doorman or security buzzer to get through. They just charged in, each of them carrying a ghost trap. They wouldn't need the proton packs. Egon studied the readings as they took the self-service elevator up to the third floor. He had his cane although he barely put weight on it, but he definitely looked glad of the elevator. The building was an old one, pipes running along the ceiling in the brick corridors, but it was clean and well maintained.

Brenda lived in 3E, to the right of the elevator. Peter charged up to it and knocked.

After a moment, the door opened and a woman with fading hair that had once been the color of Ray's opened it and stared at them. Her eyes widened in horror and the knowledge that she was busted and she tried to slam the door in their faces. Proof Peter had been right, that the meter had been right. Peter slid his foot into the doorway to block it open. She fought him, her face contorted, screaming, "Go away! Go away!"

Running footsteps announced a new arrival, and Ray's voice cried, "What are you doing? What's wrong?" At the sound of it, Peter sucked in a deep breath of sheer relief and caught the woman's wrists before she could claw at his eyes. Streams of curses and invectives poured from her mouth. Fury or insanity gave her the strength to resist his grip, and he had to fight hard to keep her from ripping up his face with her fingernails. One of them scraped along his jawline but not deep enough to draw blood.

"Ray!" cried Egon as Peter struggled to restrain the woman. She was a lot stronger than she looked. Winston forced the door open and there was Ray in the middle of the cozy living room, his face pale and frightened, his eyes huge as he stared at the team without a shred of recognition. They had expected that but it still stabbed them to the heart. Watching Peter finally restrain the woman made him shiver and he put out a protesting hand only to draw it back doubtfully.

Egon's shout caused him to turn and stare. "I...I think I'm Ray," he said doubtfully. "Who are you? What are you doing to her?"

Egon passed the meter to Winston and removed the trap from his belt. "Hold her, Peter," he instructed. "Ray, we're your friends and we have been looking for you for the past twenty-four hours. I know how to help your memory, if you will let me." He displayed the trap he held. "This is a ghost trap. I'm going to use it to draw energy off of you that the ghost left behind to block your memories."

"But...what's wrong with Mom?" He gestured at the woman. "I know she's not really my mom, but I don't know more than that. I can't...remember."

"I am your mother, Michael," screamed the woman, her eyes burning with desperation. "Don't let these bastards take you away from me! They're evil. They've come to hurt you. Mommy will protect you!" She made a vain attempt to claw Peter's eyes out, but he was too strong for her and bore her hands down. Far worse than her attack was the lost expression on Ray's face.

"Please, Raymond," Egon begged. "Close your eyes. The light will hurt them."

"It's a trick. It's a trick," screeched Brenda. "They'll kill you. Only Mommy can save you."

Ray looked at her for a moment, his face full of sorrow. "I really thought she was my mom at first," he confessed wistfully. "I couldn't remember anything but she was here to help. It was nice, having a mom, but she isn't. I figured it out. Too many things were wrong. Her son was left-handed, and I'm too young to have been in Vietnam. But she loved me. I could tell." He turned to Egon, who stood with the trap outstretched, the trigger at his feet. "Are you...Egon?" he ventured.

Egon nodded, closing his eyes for a moment in sheer relief. Peter heard the hesitation in Ray's voice and hope soared through him. If Ray could remember that, then his memory wasn't gone, it was only blocked.

"Ray, I'm Peter," he said, holding Brenda as far from Ray as he could get her. "We've been going nuts worrying about you. Let Egon help you. I had a dose of it myself yesterday. I know how nasty it feels. Everything's wrong, and it feels like everybody's against you. But you're going to be just fine. I give you my word on it."

"Peter? You like your eggs burnt," he said. Ray tried out the name but it didn't quite open the door to his lost memories. Yet, inside, something must have stirred. Small details had begun to creep through. He stared at Peter, struggling to bring answers to the surface. "Venk--"

The rest of the name didn't come, but it was enough. "Venkman, yeah. You're getting it. And eggs taste better when they're not gooey." He winked. "Come on, Ray, let's let Egon do his number on you, and then we can take you home."

"No! NO! NO!" wailed Brenda heartbrokenly. "He's my Michael. I found him and he's mine. Go away. Go away." She tugged at Peter's grip, fighting him desperately.

Ray's eyes lingered on her, full of compassion and pity. Even without a memory, he still had a great heart. Turning to Egon, he nodded. "I can't help her by being Michael when I'm not," he said, standing straight. "Maybe I can help her if I'm Ray." He closed his eyes obediently. "Go ahead." Did some remnant of the trust he'd felt for his friends linger? The woman had claimed to be his mother. Ray must have believed her at first--but he'd already figured out that was wrong before they showed up to take him home. That was Ray for you, in there pitching. Peter couldn't hold back his smile. He was proud of his friend.

Egon hit the trap's trigger and the wedge of brilliance flared up as the trap opened. Turning Brenda so she wasn't looking at the too-bright light, Peter squinted at Ray's face, holding his breath.

Winston held up the meter, studying the readings. "It's going," he chanted. "It's going."

"It's gone!" exulted Peter when an indefinable blob of near-invisible ectoplasm erupted from Ray's chest and zipped into the trap. The doors slammed shut over it and Ray staggered, gasping. Winston caught his arm to steady him.

"You can open your eyes now, Ray," Egon said gently.

Ray did. He stared at Egon, at Peter, at Winston, and there was no more recognition in his face than there had been before. Peter's heart plummeted into his boots before Ray caught his breath and faltered, "I...gosh," he lamented. "I still don't remember you. It...didn't work."

As he spoke the words, Ray watched the three men who claimed to be his friends as horror and devastation added years to their faces. He didn't know them yet, but he could tell from their reactions that they knew him, that they had worried about him, that they wanted him to be all right. Someone out there had been loving him, all right. The remnants of the nightmare melted away, leaving him confused and doubtful but full of hope. They were here. His friends were here. They'd make it all right. He knew that.

Egon glared at the trap as if it were faulty, and pain flashed in Peter's eyes. Winston bit his bottom lip. The weight of their disappointment made the room's very air feel heavy. It was as if he had failed them. He knew it wasn't that but, gosh, he should have remembered. He did feel better; whatever Egon had done had taken away the dark miasma that had hung over him. The only thing was, nothing had replaced it. He felt empty as he stared at the three men hopefully, aching for his memory to come back.

They were...familiar, sort of, but they were still strangers. But, if they were strangers, why did he understand the pain that filled their eyes. Peter looked ready to deck Mom--Brenda. He was mad because it was easier than admitting how hurt and worried he was. Egon had snatched the P.K.E. meter away from Winston and was frowning at it with worried frustration, seeing a rational explanation, trying to reason out an answer, because as long as he had something to try, he had hope, and Winston eyed the two of them unhappily, checking out their reactions protectively, before he turned back to Ray. Winston? He hadn't known that name before, had he? And he knew what the meter was. It was...maybe it was coming back.

"But you're clear of the residue, the barrier in your mind," Egon insisted. "I don't understand. You must remember, Ray. You must feel a change."

"I do," Ray admitted. "I feel sorta better. I feel more like me. But I can't remember. There was this big black cloud hanging over me and that's gone. I had a nasty nightmare last night and it was awful. You guys had left me with the ghost, and you wouldn't come when I called."

"You remember the ghost?" Winston asked hopefully.

Ray shook his head. "No, it was in my dream. I don't remember it when I'm awake. But you left me to it."

"We didn't leave you, we just got separated," Peter insisted. Holding Brenda at arms' length away from Ray, he dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Tex, you know we wouldn't hang you out to dry."

Tex? That sounded nice. It sounded right, and it made him smile wistfully, wanting more. "I know, Peter, but I still can't remember. I know the dream doesn't matter. Not now. Doesn't the P.K.E. meter--"

"You know it's a P.K.E. meter, Ray?" Egon asked in an unsteady voice. Now there was hope on his face, hope Ray couldn't fulfill.

"Well, yeah. But I..."

"Ray, no one mentioned the meter by name. That is definitely a memory."

"Hey, it is. And I know Winston's name, too. But I just can't... That dream was so awful. But it doesn't feel as bad now that you did your thing."

"Course not," Peter said hastily, his grip tightening. "Because you know we'd never leave you like that, don't you? We were just running in a couple of different directions." He sounded so scared, so desperate for Ray to remember him, and it wasn't coming yet. "I got a little of it myself. I felt it start to happen, all my memories going bye-bye, only I tripped and got away. And then Egon decided to go one on one with a taxi. You should see his ribs."

"You're hurt?" cried Ray, horrified, his stomach plummeting as he looked the tall blond up and down. "Egon, is it bad? You'e got a cane. What happened to your face? It's burned, isn't it? What about you, Peter? Are you sure you're all right? That's some chin." Gosh, they'd gotten into bad trouble when he wasn't there to help. He stared at them, alarmed.

"We're fine," Peter said hastily, ducking away from Brenda's clawing fingers as she made a break for it. He had to let go of Ray to catch her. "Well, I'm doing the two-step with the Madwoman of Chaillot, but other than that..."

"So how did you find me?" Ray cried. "Did you track me down with the meter set to my biorhythms? Oh, gosh, I'm glad to see you guys." And then it hit him. He was glad. Because it was all coming back, all the years of memories, all the little details, the friendship, the laughter, the excitement, everything. Ghostbusting, the firehouse, his three best friends. Cautiously, it ventured out of the dark corners of his mind and crept into the light, where it belonged. He could see his buddies watching him, hoping, holding their breaths, waiting.

"I do remember," he exulted. "It's all coming back fast now. It's all right. It's okay, I'm okay. Gosh, guys, I was so scared. I thought I was somebody else for awhile but it didn't fit."

Peter dumped Brenda on the couch with a savage, "Stay there!" and lunged at Ray, flinging his arms around him and squeezing fervently. Egon and Winston didn't hold back either, crowding into hug, making it four-way, and holding on with all their strength. Half-smothered in the protective and welcoming embrace, Ray clung to them, laughing in sheer relief. Even if he was still at Brenda's he felt as if he had come home. It was over, he was himself again. He was safe, and the guys had come to rescue him. The world was finally right side up.

"Oh, man, you scared us, homeboy," Winston cried when they at last gave him room to breathe. He stretched out an affectionate hand and rumpled Ray's hair.

"Yeah, set a record for giving us panic attacks," Peter agreed. He was bouncing about with sudden, unlimited energy, like he wanted to rush out and plant happy smooches on everybody on the street. "Don't do that, Ray. Next time a ghost gives you the eye, you just turn your back on him, got it?"

"The eye? Oh, gosh, that's what it was. I remember now. Wow, that was different. Eye contact. I was in the alley and it looked at me and its eyes were so big and something im them just pulled me in. I tried to look away and all I could see for a second was this delivery van, and then I saw its eyes again and everything just went away." He shivered at the recollection. "It took my memories. I could feel them going..."

"Actually, it merely blocked them, Ray, and the block was not one hundred per cent complete. You must have had little things trickle through."

"I did. Captain Steel. There was a comic in my bedroom--uh, Michael's bedroom, and I remembered it, and that they didn't have Dr. Destructo any more. Then I kind of remembered Aunt Lois's face, and I remembered your name, Egon, and that you had something to do with physics, and when I was fixing scrambled eggs, I knew how Peter liked his. And somebody called with an accent like Janine's and her name popped into my head, too."

"Bet it was Mona," Peter said positively. "I'm definitely going to have to send her a box of chocolates."

Ray nodded. "Is that how you found me? It was Mona. Gosh, you've been playing detectives, haven't you?" He grinned. "I really tried to remember, guys. I knew there was something too important to forget. But every time I tried to think, it hurt, and Mom, I mean Brenda, said the doctor wanted me to wait."

"Once we removed the barrier, I think it took a few minutes for everything to return to you, Ray. You had a psychic shock."

"Gosh, yeah, that would explain it." He hesitated glancing over at Venkman, who hadn't taken his eyes off him. "You said Peter had some of it, too?"

"I had my brain played with, too," Peter admitted easily. "Enough for me to be an idiot. Made me feel kind of paranoid. I jumped all over Egon. It wasn't pretty." He grimaced.

"You had a fight with Egon?" Ray screeched. Peter and Egon might tease each other or, on occasion, disagree, but they didn't fight. They were too much in tune with each other for anything more than occasional minor disagreements. "That's terrible."

"We made up, Ray," Egon said quickly, smiling to show he meant it. "I'll fill you in with all the details once we're home. I think we should take you to a doctor to be examined first, though. And we must do something with Brenda."

"It doesn't matter," the woman said miserably. She was trembling, tears pouring down her face. "I--I--I really thought he was Michael at first. He didn't know he wasn't. I wanted him to be Michael so badly and he looks so much like Michael." She waved at a photo on a table across the room, Michael's graduation picture. They all stared at it, shocked at the strength of the resemblance. "I--when you came I didn't want him to be Ray. I think I--went a little crazy."

"You made it all up," Peter said, slipping into his psychologist mode. "Did you really believe he was Michael?"

She couldn't look at him. "I did at first. I was so sure. When it started not to match, I didn't want to admit it. I heard myself lying to him, saying what sounded good and I couldn't stop. I planned it all out in my head because he had to be Michael. I couldn't bear losing him all over again." She wept noisily, not even bothering to put her hands over her face. Peter's face softened.

But it was Ray who sat beside her and put his arm around his shoulders. "Don't cry. I'm sorry you couldn't find Michael. He must have been a wonderful son. I'm not mad at you. You took care of me when I couldn't take care of myself. We'll see you to a doctor and he can help you. Is that okay?"

She gazed at him with wide brown eyes, eyes very much like his own. "Oh, if only you were Michael," she moaned and sobbed against his shoulder. He sat there holding her, sad for her, and even a little sad for himself. For awhile, he'd had a mom again. She wasn't really his, and she could never replace his own, any more than he could replace her son, but there had been a few moments when it had felt good. So he patted her shoulder in an attempt at comfort, his friends waiting with him and telling him about their search for him until the paramedics and the police came to take her away.

"Gosh, it's good to be home," Ray cried as Ecto pulled into the firehouse and stopped.

Spotting him in the 'shotgun' seat, Janine cried, "Ray!" and ran to meet him, hugging him fondly as soon as he got out of the car.

"That's our boy," Peter teased, rumpling Ray's hair. "Do the rest of us get hugs, Janine?"

"In your dreams, Venkman," she retorted, bestowing a welcome-home kiss on Ray's cheek. She did sneak a measuring glance at Egon as if weighing whether or not it was worth hugging Peter to have an excuse to hug Egon, too, but, by then, the moment had passed.

Peter grinned at her knowingly, delighted when she caught the look at glared at him. Scoring off Janine was always fun, but she firmly believed in payback. Today, he didn't care. Having Ray back made up in advance for whatever Janine might do to him.

"You had a call," Janine told them as they headed for the steps. "Some guy wants you to come by tonight and bust a ghost at his place. It sounds like a typical Class 3. I said we'd let him know."

Ray's face lit with delight. "Oh boy, a bust."

Peter exchanged an amused and tolerant smile with Egon at the sound of his enthusiasm. Watching Ray enjoy a bust would be fun. Just knowing he was back made everything more enjoyable.

"Call him back and tell him we'll be there," Egon instructed as he led the way upstairs.

"I hate busts at night," Peter complained just to keep his hand in. "I'll miss Magnum, p.i."

Winston snickered. "Imagining yourself as Tom Selleck, Peter?"

Busted. Peter pretended he had never considered himself in the same league as the sexy TV detective. "Are you kidding? With a wardrobe like that? I wouldn't be caught dead in a Hawaiian shirt. Ray's the one who dresses like Magnum sometimes."

"I think shirts like that are spiffy," Ray proclaimed. "You liked the one I loaned you when you went to the Cloisters, Peter. You said you did."

Oops. How to get out of that one? Peter heaved a sigh and opted for the truth. "Not really my style, Ray."

"Nope, you should have worn your sweats," Winston teased.

Peter grimaced, waving his hands for silence. "Whoa. Time out. I didn't know it was 'Pick on Peter' night. Let's start over."

"Not possible, Peter," Egon replied. "I haven't had a chance to put in my two cents worth yet."

"The problem is you always put in two dollars worth and nobody can understand half the words," Peter griped.

Egon's eyes sparkled. "I'm sorry, Peter. It's an inveterate habit of mine, a proclivity I find myself unable to desist. Are you implying my language is ostentatious?"

"No, just wordy," Peter retaliated, grinning. If he didn't interrupt, Egon would throw in five or six more highfalutin words, just to show off. At least he and Egon were back in tune with each other. He had missed the security and reassurance of knowing all was well between him and Egon.

But now there was Ray to think about. Venkman sneaked a sideways glance at Ray as they disposed themselves on the couch in front of the TV. Ray was smiling. Good. But there was still a faint wistfulness in the back of his eyes. Not good.

Egon propped the cane against his chair and stretched out his leg before him, massaging his knee. When he saw the guys watching him, he said quickly, "It's fine, guys, really. Just a little tender."

"Maybe you should sit out tonight's bust, big guy," Winston suggested. "After all, if it's just a Class 3, we can take it. I'm up for it. Ray, you feel okay?"

"I feel great. I can do it. I want to."

"I'll come, too," Egon's voice was firm. "I needn't do too much running. If necessary, you can drive the ghost to me." He sounded firm and stubborn, and Peter understood without any further explanation. Ray had been missing. Egon was not yet comfortable letting him out of his sight. It was a protective urge they all shared. Give them a couple of days of normal busts and they'd ease back into the support, the watching each other's backs that made up a typical bust.

"We all go," Egon added firmly.

"We're a team," Winston put in unnecessarily, and that said it all. Their sense of unity permeated the whole room.

Egon picked up the P.K.E. meter that had lain in his lap. "Ray, I'd like to take readings of you and make certain you're all right."

"Go ahead. But I really am. I just feel kind of bad about Mom--Brenda."

"That had to be tough, Ray," Peter sympathized.

"Yeah. At first, I believed her. I thought it was nice. She really loved me. Well, she loved Michael and she wanted to believe I was Michael so bad. After awhile, I could tell things weren't right. But I didn't know who I was." He shivered, and Peter leaned closer and draped an arm around his shoulders.

Egon shut down the meter, nodding to indicate the results were normal. "All traces of the ghostly residue is gone, Ray. You're fine."

"I know. I could tell as soon as it was gone. I just think...Peter, should I go and visit her in the hospital?"

Peter wanted to yell, "No," at the top of his lungs. He didn't want Ray anywhere near that woman. But he managed to hold it back. "I don't think you should," he said, and found a good reason for it. "You remind her too much of her son. I think it would be better for her if you didn't go, at least not until the doctors think she's ready." Way down the road, it wouldn't be as hard on Ray to visit her and, by then, he might have put the pain out of his mind.

If Ray caught Peter's motives, he gave in to them anyway. "Okay. Not if it makes it worse for her. I don't want to press charges against her, though. She couldn't help it."

Peter exchanged a grimace with Winston, who didn't look like he'd object to charges any more than Peter did. "She did kidnap you, Ray," Zeddemore pointed out. "She took you away from the bust against your will. Well, against your will if you'd known what was going on. She lied to you when you couldn't remember who you were. She put the three of us through a lousy time."

"But she was...sick, Winston. She probably couldn't help it. She'd get off anyway, if her lawyer claimed temporary insanity. I don't want her to have to go through that. She loved her son so much and lost him when he was just eighteen. He must have died right about the time I lost my folks. I'm not pressing charges." He cast them a stubborn look. "I would kinda like to get my wallet back, but that's all."

"Let me handle that for you," Winston offered. "The cops can search her place for it." He was silent for a second, then he asked, "You okay with this, homeboy?"

"Yeah. Just a little sad, mostly for her. Just let me go on the bust tonight and get back to normal, that's all I ask. And I'd like to study the results of the test you did on Winston, Egon. Gosh, if ghosts can leave something behind when we trap them, we need to find out all about it. Wouldn't it be keen? Just think of all the possibilities."

"I am thinking of them, Ray," Peter said sourly. "It sounds like you have a lot of work planned for yours truly." He had to struggle not to smile at the sight of Ray in full cry.

"And you know what else," Ray burst out, ignoring Peter's complaint with the skill of long practice, "We need to call all the hospitals in town right away."

"And why, pray tell?" Peter asked, chin on his hand as he stared at Ray in pretend horror.

"Well, gosh, Peter, what if the ghost took somebody else's memories away before you guys busted it? We have to find them and help them. We've got all the rest of the afternoon to do it in before we have to go on that bust tonight."

"He's ba-ack," Peter caroled. "I had a feeling this would happen." Never mind it would be work. He loved the sight of Ray's enthusiasm.

"I meant to check on that possibility," Egon exclaimed. "Very good, Ray. I'll go down and tell Janine to start checking the hospitals, and I'll make modifications on several meters in the meantime. Would you like to help me with that, Ray?"

"Gosh, yeah, I'll run up and get started while you talk to Janine." He leaped to his feet, as bounceable as Tigger.

Winston got up agreeably and followed.

"What are you going to do, Peter?" Egon asked as Ray and Winston hurried up the spiral stairs to the third floor.

"Are you kidding, Spengs? 'Magnum' Venkman is going to take advantage of the moment and catch a nap. It's not like I'll have a chance later, what with trekking around to all the hospitals in town and busting at night. You guys just love to dream up work for me."

Egon tried hard not to smile, but the corners of his mouth turned up anyway. Instead of recommending work for Peter, or pointing out the urgent need to rush out and save humanity in the next ten seconds, he said, "Go ahead. I'll wake you when it's time to leave," and started for the stairs to the first floor, pausing only long enough to grab the cane because he knew Janine would fuss if he didn't use it.

"You're a prince among men, Egon," Peter said, and meant it.

Egon paused at the top of the stairs. "So are you," he said. "But if you ask me to repeat it, I'll deny I ever said it." He began to limp down the stairs.

Peter stretched out on the couch, hearing a periodic cry of excitement from Ray upstairs and the sound of Egon's footsteps as he made his way down to talk to Janine, and happiness lapped through him like little waves slapping up against a dock. It didn't get any better than this.

He was still planning a list of irritating little ways to bug his friends back to 'normal' when he fell asleep.