TIRAH

by Sheila Paulson

Vietnam--Night Patrol

"Tir-ra," groaned the dying man. "Ti-rah."

"Terror?" Winston Zeddemore hazarded. He cast a doubtful look at Sarge, who shrugged but didn't lower his M-16 for a second. Winston couldn't help wondering how he stayed so calm when he'd just blown away the VC who had lobbed the grenade.

Then Winston got a look at Simon's eyes in the moonlight. He wasn't calm. He'd just learned how to act calm. Maybe that was one reason why he was a sergeant and Winston was a PFC. 'Course maybe part of it was that he had a knack for staying alive long enough to score a promotion.

"Ti-rah." Jimmy Howard's voice was faint and broken, but every man in the squad heard the frustration in it. He hadn't meant "terror". So then, what was he trying to say that was so important he fought against dying to say it?

The jungle night was as solid a presence as the soldiers who stood ringing Jimmy's broken body. Winston could feel the heavy, wet heat of the air that stirred the branches of the trees, smell the damp, loamy earth. Every rustle of the leaves could mean the approach of snipers. Sarge knew that; he had three of the guys watching, and his grip on his weapon was so firm he could fire again in a heartbeat. The cold white moonlight filtered through the leaves and traced mottled patterns on Jimmy's face, highlighting the multitude of freckles. No, some of that was blood, not freckles, splattered from the wounds that tugged him inexorably toward death. No time to lug him to an LZ for pickup, no chance of getting him to a MASH unit. Winston could nearly taste the copper tang of blood, the blood that coated his hands and made them slippery as he gripped Jimmy's hand.

Impossible to stop the bleeding, not when Jimmy's leg was gone right below the knee, not when the gaping belly wound offered up a grotesque anatomy lesson. Even if this had happened right in front of an OR, Jimmy would be dead in moments. Nothing Winston could do for him, nothing but hold on and pray.

"God, I hate night patrols," Solly Feldman muttered behind Winston.

"Fucking night patrols," Weird Fred added. Weird Fred couldn't speak two sentences without profanity. Winston was no mealy-mouth but sometimes Weird Fred grated on him and he amused himself by imagining Grandma Alvarez washing out the guy's mouth with soap. She wouldn't have hesitated to do it, either, all the while chiding him in obscure, colloquial Spanish.

"Z-zed?"

Jesus, how long did Jimmy have to endure this pain? Winston tightened his fingers around the dying man's hand, and willed his stomach to hold out a few more minutes. Hold on and pray, Winston, he told himself. Hold on and pray.

"Tell them," Jimmy said with the fierce clarity of the dying. Winston had heard it a couple of times before. A guy was dying, out of it, drifting, then, suddenly, at the end, his entire focus would narrow down and he'd be coherent in his final seconds. Spooky as hell.

"Tell them what, Jimmy?" he prompted softly. He felt the fingers he held uncurl and go lax. Shit.

"Green," Jimmy said calmly and rationally. There was an urgent purpose that kept him going. "Fourth flag. Minnie." His eyes grabbed Winston's and clung. "Tell them."

"Green," echoed Winston. "Fourth flag. Minnie." He had no idea what he was talking about. "I'll tell them." He wasn't sure who "they" were, wasn't sure Jimmy wasn't babbling, delirious.

"Thanks, Zed," Jimmy said as clearly as a healthy man--and died.

Winston felt the hand he held go as empty as the staring eyes that glittered in the moonlight. "Oh, man," he groaned. "Oh, man."

A hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed hard. "Come on, Zed," Simon said. Winston heard the unspoken, "I'm sorry," in his voice.

He retrieved Jimmy's dogtags and turned hollow eyes to the older man. "Why are we here?" he demanded. "Who gives a damn about this strip of jungle?"

"Goddamn right," Weird Fred agreed, but for once Winston heard sympathy in the cynical voice. Whatever Weird Fred was on wasn't enough to shield him from the violent death.

"Sarge." McKenna's voice sharpened and cut across whatever answer Simon would have given. "Somebody's coming."

"We're moving out." Simon glanced down at Jimmy. "Come on, Zed, we have to haul ass."

Winston scrubbed his bloody hands in the grass, then against the legs of his fatigues. Jimmy's dogtags in his pocket, he pushed himself to his feet. He felt a hundred years old instead of eighteen. Solly thrust his M-16 at him, and he grabbed it and checked the clip.

Green. Fourth Flag. Minnie. What the hell did that mean? Tell who? The sound of gunfire sent them running down the path away from the approaching enemy, and in the firefight that followed, Jimmy's words were swept away into a dark recess of Winston's mind. Ti-rah. Had to mean "terror". To die in the darkness, so far from home....

Please, God, let me go home. Just let me go home.

Long Island--1990

"I assure you, young man, I am not senile, in spite of what my granddaughter thinks."

"I don't think you're senile, Grandmama." Cherry Adamson smiled at her grandmother. "Not for a single minute. I just think you're...."

"Confused? Imagining it? No, you must think there's something to it or you wouldn't have bothered the Ghostbusters, would you?" She smiled up at Peter Venkman. Maybe she sensed he had a weakness for old ladies. "Doesn't that make sense to you, young man?"

Peter kind of liked her calling him "young man". He patted the veined hand. "Makes a lot of sense to me. We're the Ghostbusters. Handling ghosts is what we do. A lot of people don't always get it, though." He grinned. "Besides, we can prove it one way or another. See that little gizmo Doctor Spengler is holding? That's a P.K.E. meter. It detects ghosts. If you're haunted, we should know it in a minute."

Egon gestured with the meter to confirm Peter's words, then he bent his head over it, his face intent on its readout screen.

Winston Zeddemore looked around, studying the furniture, the paintings on the walls, the artifacts in a glass case. Winston was an avid reader and he knew a lot about a variety of things. He could probably do a better job of identifying what he was seeing than any of the Ghostbusters, although you never could tell with Egon. Spengs never forgot a thing. Photographic memory. And Ray was so inventive.

I've got the best team going, Peter thought fondly.

"Gosh, this is a great house." Ray Stantz bounced. He loved new busts, and his face had lit in a smile at the sight of Mrs. Kennedy. She might not be connected to the former president, but there was no doubt her family had every bit as much money as the Boston Kennedys. The Long Island estate had a name--Everglow. Poor people didn't name houses, after all. And Everglow came complete with a full compliment of servants. A liveried butler had opened the door for Cherry and the Ghostbusters. He'd smiled benevolently upon the granddaughter of the house.

Peter could understand that. Any male with a single hormone would smile benevolently--or perhaps predatorily--at the sight of the gorgeous redhead. Her ring finger was bare, too. Thank you, God. The only problem with that was that Cherry scarcely seemed aware of him as anything but a Ghostbuster, one of four. There had to be a way to change that.

"Hmmm." Egon played with the meter. "Definitely Class Three residuals." He smiled at Mrs. Kennedy. "Ma'am, you have a ghost."

The elderly woman had the kind of bone structure that would keep her beautiful to her grave. At eighty-plus, she would still turn heads. From the snowy white hair to the bright blue eyes and the trim figure enhanced by her designer clothes, she was a woman to command admiration. "You see, Cherry," she said with a twinkle. "I'm not senile."

"I never said you were senile, Grandmama. Maybe I thought it was wishful thinking."

"Seeing ghosts is wishful thinking?" Winston echoed. He must have got it then because something on his face clicked. "We're talking a specific ghost here, right?"

"He's not that clear, actually," admitted Mrs. Kennedy. Peter had to give her points for that. If she were imagining it, she'd probably see whoever she wanted to see, maybe her late husband. "I know he's a Kennedy. One of the family. Every one of them had red hair, some of them redder than Cherry's. You should have seen my Frank. His friends called him 'Firetop'."

Peter tried not to ogle the luscious Cherry. She was too caught up in her grandmother's haunting to spare him a thought. But if they could bust the ghost, maybe then he'd try his hand. Instead, he took a step over to Egon and leaned his elbow against the taller man's shoulder. "So what have you got, Spengs?"

"Clear residuals. Strong enough to indicate that the spirit was present recently, or that it appears periodically. Ma'am, does it speak to you?"

"Speak to me?" That disconcerted the elderly woman. "No, he hasn't said a word. He just appears and looks at me very sadly." She stiffened the slender shoulders. "I tried to talk to him, to ask him who he was and what he wanted, and I believe he tried to answer. His mouth moved, but no words came out. No sounds, I mean. And I have never known how to lip read."

"No, it's tougher than you'd think," Peter consoled her. "Did he look familiar?"

"He could be anyone," the old lady admitted. "Any Kennedy, that is. We've lived here since Eighteen Ninety. Everyone had large families. I had six children myself. And they all had children. Frank was one of eight, seven of them boys. So you see, the field is large. Some of them died violent deaths. Two World Wars, an auto accident. One of Frank's brothers was killed by a burglar in Nineteen Twenty-seven. The very day that Lindburgh landed in Paris. Lucky Lindy," she added with vague remembrance. "I was eight years old. I remember it vividly. Frank remembered the day better. He was the one to find his brother's body."

"You think the ghost might be the brother?" Ray asked. "Gosh, did he die in this house?"

"In this very room," Mrs. Kennedy agreed. She pointed over to the fireplace. "They found him there."

Peter craned his neck. After sixty-three years, there wouldn't be any traces, but he half expected to see a pool of blood there. He shook off the image. Ray caught his eye. He must have instinctively looked for blood, too.

Egon aimed the meter at the fireplace and frowned as he considered the readings. The meter didn't do anything in particular. It still gave its residual readings but they were no stronger near the fireplace.

"Gee," said Ray. He gazed sadly at the fireplace. Only Ray could feel empathy for somebody so long dead. "Did anybody ever see ghosts here before?" he queried.

"There have been times," the old lady said slowly. "Frank claimed he'd seen something in the garden a few times, but I never did, at least not clearly, until now."

"The garden?" Egon echoed. "Is that where the spirit manifested?"

"Yes, always outside. I've never seen a ghost in the house. When I saw the ghost last week, I thought one of the grandkids was here. I said, 'I didn't know anyone had come,' and he turned around and looked at me." Her eyes widened with shock. "He was transparent. I could see right through him. That's why I can't identify him. I could see the trees through him. It's difficult to recognize someone when they halfway look like a tree."

Peter could see how that would be. He remembered a lot of transparent ghosts. They had to be fairly solid to be distinct unless they stood against a blank wall. "Did the burglar get away with anything?" Peter asked.

Mrs. Kennedy frowned. "No. Well, possibly a few dollars, but we think he came for the crown jewels, and they were in the safe and he couldn't get into it."

Peter perked up. "Crown jewels?" he asked with interest. Maybe the ghost was the spirit of a burglar who wanted the jewels. He didn't think the Kennedys could have come from a royal family. Did they have kings and queens in Ireland?

Cherry laughed. "They aren't really crown jewels, of course. It was just that one of the pieces in the collection was a crown, so the family always called them that. The rumor is that one of the ancestors, the one who married Liam Kennedy back in the Eighteen Eighties, had fled from some Slavic country with a treasure in hand. We don't know where they came from, and it would probably be impossible to find out after so long. Some noble house, possibly."

"Every now and then one of the family would put out feelers," Mrs. Kennedy said. "But we never found any reports of missing jewelry; of course there was a lot of chaos in the world and who's to say that the jewels were never reported missing--or even that Liam's wife was part of a noble family and had right to them in the first place. Nowadays, of course, the collection is locked away in a bank vault and a couple of the more valuable pieces are on loan to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We don't keep any of it here. Not since the crown was stolen, back in the Fifties."

"Another burglar?" Egon asked. It was possible the ghost had some involvement with the missing crown, but a repentant burglar seemed unlikely to them all.

Mrs. Kennedy shook her head. "If so, only the crown was taken. None of the rest of the collection was missing."

"Was it all locked up together?" asked Winston. Peter could see his interest in mysteries rising to the fore. Of any of them, Winston might be able to solve the mystery of the missing crown. He'd always been good at things like that.

"They weren't locked up at all," Mrs. Kennedy said. "Frank was alive then and he'd gotten them out to be photographed for a magazine. The house has had burglar alarms since the murder, but they didn't go off. Afterwards, Frank was furious that he'd foolishly left things out when the photographer was finished. Suspicion fell on the photographer, of course, since he had known about the jewels and been here and seen them, but nothing was ever proven. He didn't have the crown in his possession, but he would have been a fool to keep it. The police followed up on it, but he never had any unexplained money, at least not right away."

"He could have held it and sold it later, after suspicion had passed," said Peter. "Or collected cash and hid it."

"Yes, he could have done all that, but nothing could ever be proven. All we knew was that the crown was gone."

"So, let's figure this out." Peter wanted answers, too. Finding the long-lost crown was probably impossible unless the ghost was here about it, but no. Mrs. Kennedy had said the ghost had the family red hair.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves. I think we should investigate the Class Three readings," Egon said instead. "After all, we have no reason to assume the ghost has anything to do with the missing crown. We can come back to that if it seems warranted." He glanced over at Winston. "I can see that you'd like to solve the old mystery, but the odds are we won't solve it at this late date. Much better to locate the ghost and attempt to communicate with it."

"Or bust it if it's not the friendly type," Peter threw in.

"It might even be the guy who was murdered," said Ray. "Mrs. Kennedy, did you notice what it was wearing? Period clothes? Modern clothes? Anything to suggest when he died?"

The elderly woman bestowed an approving smile upon Ray. "Now that is a sensible question, young man. I didn't even think of that at the time. I was too busy being shocked when I realized I was actually looking at a ghost. Let me see." She scrunched up her face in concentration. "I honestly don't remember. Loose fitting, I thought, but that's the best I can do. I didn't even think of that."

"Could you tell anything about his age?" Peter asked. He was starting to suspect this was going to be more than a zap-and-trap job. Any minute now, Mrs. Kennedy was going to get all sentimental about the ghost, especially if it proved to be a family spirit, and request that they help it disperse peacefully. He could see it in her eyes. She was that kind of lady.

"Young. He was young." She glanced sideways at her granddaughter. "You never asked me any of these questions, child. You just asked me if I were sure I didn't imagine it."

Cherry laughed. "I know. But you threw me for a loop. I didn't even tell Mother or any of the others. I just thought it would be better to contact the Ghostbusters. I never thought you were senile; you know better than that. I just thought maybe you imagined it, or mistook what you saw."

"When you are old, Cherry, you'll realize nothing is more exasperating than to be treated like a small, over-imaginative child. I saw what I saw. I don't like the fact, but I didn't conceal it, nor did I demand belief. It happened, no matter what you or your mother or any of the Kennedys think. And what's more, I have a sneaky feeling I've seen it, off and on, for years, without realizing it, and Frank did, too." The "so there" she didn't add was so clearly present that Peter had to hide a smile. "I never had such a direct, face-to-face confrontation as I did last week or I would have said something. It was always just a motion out of the corner of my eye before, a blur that could have been a person but wasn't. I think I pretended it was my imagination until this time."

Cherry stared. "Then why didn't you ever tell anybody before?" she asked.

"Well, Frank wouldn't. You remember your grandpapa, don't you? What a stubborn, down-to-earth man he was? He wouldn't have me talking about it. It was always our secret. I know your mother never saw it. Your uncle Lester saw it once, but he claimed he imagined it and never mentioned it again. I'm surprised none of you children ever encountered it."

Cherry's face was stubborn, resistant. Then, abruptly, she dimpled. "All right, Grandmama, you've got me. We all did know, all of us kids, when we were here to visit. We used to dare each other to see if we could sneak out of our bedrooms at night and face it alone. I thought I saw it once, but I was little then, and I--well, over the years I convinced myself that I'd been psyched up to believe in it. It was only after the Ghostbusters went into business that I wondered if maybe it had been real. That's honestly why I called them when you told me about it last week."

"So everybody knew and nobody told." Peter grinned. "Typical. And here I thought we'd been getting good press these days. Seeing ghosts is respectable now."

Cherry smiled at him. "What do we do next?" she asked.

"Perhaps the best thing would be to move to the location of the last sighting."

Mrs. Kennedy nodded. "Excellent. Let us move to the garden."

*****

The garden whispered discreetly of money. Peter surveyed the layout of the formal grounds, a huge chunk of greenery bordered by a high brick wall that would prohibit any snoopy neighbors from spying on a Kennedy barbecue. A walkway of paving stones led the way around the walls and angled in from each of the four corners to a fountain where water spouted from the mouth and the nipples of a saucy mermaid. Peter had to say it was a statue he could grow to love. He ogled it enthusiastically until Winston poked him in the ribs, then he gave a resigned shrug and studied the rest of the garden.

Roses in bloom in gorgeous shades of pink and yellow had crept up to cover all the walls, and in each wedge of greenery there were patches of other flowers he didn't recognize. Nobody ever claimed Peter Venkman was that much of a nature lover.

No trace of a barbecue grill though. Maybe it would mar the perfection of the scene. The gardeners didn't just mow the grass, they manicured it. A lot of money was spent in the maintenance of the Kennedy lawns. An automatic watering system shut off just as they walked in and the faucets slid down into the grass.

"Not exactly a good place for a game of softball," Peter said.

He had meant to keep his comment low, but Mrs. Kennedy must have had good ears. "It is rather formal, although the children have always been fascinated by the mermaid. We tend to keep them out of here when small, for fear they would fall into the fountain and drown. Through that gate is a less formal garden where the children play. There is a baseball diamond, swing sets, a basketball hoop, everything they could want."

Peter and Winston trekked over to the gate and inspected the other garden. Formality went by the wayside here. The grass was cut, but no one fussed over paths made by energetic small feet. The swing set would have thrilled Peter when he was eight. A kid would feel right at home in a place like this. The main garden might be a showplace, but the Kennedys had provided for their numerous progeny's entertainment. The tangled shrubbery would be a good place for adventure games, the concealed hideout of gunslingers or Robin Hood's Merry Men.

"If I were the ghost, I'd have come here instead," Winston muttered under his breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the mermaid statue. "Well, when I got a little older, I'd have opted for the fountain."

"Know the feeling," Peter agreed. "Just like sneaking a peek in National Geographic when you were in grade school to see the women's breasts."

"Ah, so that's why that magazine was always so popular with the boys." Mrs. Kennedy gave a comfortable chuckle. She must have super hearing. Peter's cheeks reddened slightly. "Frank never minded if they looked. After all, our mermaid is art, not pornography."

"The readings are stronger here." Egon had looked at the mermaid once and then averted his eyes.

Peter trailed back to contemplate her more closely and saw the face for the first time. He stared for a second in utter disbelief, then he cracked up laughing. "I want a picture of this."

"Really, Peter." Egon sounded stern. "Please try to remember we are on a bust and restrain your prurient interests."

But Ray fell in beside Peter. He studied the statue, then he giggled. "Gosh, Peter, she looks just like Janine."

"Say what?" Winston's eyebrows shot up as he joined them. "Oh, man. He's right."

Peter longed for a camera. Change Janine's hairstyle, remove her glasses--and her clothes--and the stone lady was practically a dead ringer for the Ghostbusters' secretary. Not that Peter had ever seen Janine topless--ah, for the lost opportunities! But he had seen her in a bikini. "I have got to have a picture of this. I can have it blown up and hung on the wall of my office."

Winston rolled his eyes at him. "Have a death wish, do you? The lady isn't somebody you can mess with."

Peter considered it and realized there was probably some truth to Winston's observation. Janine could be a tough cookie. "Well, then I'll give it to Egon for his birthday. He can hang it over his bed, and Janine will be so tickled she won't kill me after all--and I'll still get to see it every day."

Cherry smiled at Peter. "You're rather a wicked man, aren't you?"

"Do you like me this way?" he asked hopefully.

"Don't answer him, Ms. Adamson," Egon said quickly. "He is far too insufferable already."

"Spoilsport," Peter muttered, but his words were drowned out by the shrill beeping of Egon's meter.

Mrs. Kennedy flinched. "What's that?"

"One ghost, to order," Peter caroled. "Don't worry." He pulled his particle thrower. "You've got the Ghostbusters on the scene. We won't let him harm a hair on your head."

The ghost materialized on the opposite side of the fountain from the six of them. He was definitely transparent, more a vague blur than a clearly-defined person. His clothes were slightly baggy, and he wore boots that were outlined against the flat paving stones and stood out better than the rest of him did. A pale oval marked the face, eyes turned toward them. Peter could see dark hollows where the eyes should be. It was a creepy feeling as if the ghost were looking out of a hollow skull. A riot of vivid pink roses shone through him. Mrs. Kennedy had been right. The most distinct thing about him was his mop of Kennedy red hair.

"Class Three," Egon said. "Ma'am, is that the ghost you've seen?"

Mrs. Kennedy pressed her clasped hands against her bosom. "Yes," she admitted. "Oh dear, what should I do?"

Peter tightened his grip on the thrower. "We can blast him and trap him and then he won't bother you any more."

"Perhaps. No, maybe I...." The vagueness was uncharacteristic. Peter didn't really know her, but he did know that.

It was Cherry who spoke. "I would rather find out why he's here before you do any blasting. He's been coming here off and on for years, ever since I was a little girl anyway. In all that time, he hasn't hurt anybody. Before you trap him and take him away, let's see if we can find out why he's here."

Ray grinned. "Let me." If anybody would befriend a ghost, it was Ray. He took a couple of steps to circle the fountain. "Uh, hello. I'm Ray Stantz of the Ghostbusters. Can you tell us what you want?"

The ghost moved his arms, but he didn't speak.

"He never says anything," Mrs. Kennedy admitted. "I know last week is the first time I saw him clearly, but I'm sure he was here before and couldn't communicate. I've begun to worry about him. He seems more urgent today. Maybe he feels he has less time to communicate with me. After all, I am eighty-one. I won't live forever."

"You'll live to be a hundred, Grandmama," Cherry said. She turned back to the ghost. "I don't understand why he would be here." She took hold of Peter's arm. "He's haunting this house, not some other one. Could he be the ghost of Grandpapa's brother, the one who was murdered? After all, he died in the house."

"Ma'am?" Egon turned to Mrs. Kennedy. "When did you and your husband first notice the ghost? Did he see the ghost in the late Twenties, after his brother's death?"

Mrs. Kennedy tore her eyes away from the transparent entity long enough to stare at Egon. "Why, no," she said in surprise. "I don't believe any of us saw the ghost earlier than twenty years ago. Maybe even less. When did you first see it, Cherry?"

"Hmm," said Cherry as if she'd been taking lessons from Egon. "I think maybe I was five or six. I was in school, but I think I was still in first grade. I was born in Nineteen Fifty-nine. I'm the one of the youngest of the grandkids. We'd all come here, sometimes we'd spend a few weeks here in the summer. The boys would camp out in tents out there." She waved toward the less formal garden. "The older kids knew about him already. A couple of the boys wanted to scare me--but I wasn't scared. I was never scared, even when I saw him for the first time." She looked surprised. "Isn't that funny?"

"I've never been frightened, either," Mrs. Kennedy admitted. "I just want to know what he wants."

"Then let's find out." Peter circled around after Ray and halted in front of the ghost. "Hi, pal," he said, conscious of Winston and Egon coming up to join them. The Ghostbusters formed a solid line between the spirit and the two women.

The ghost watched them. Up close, his features were slightly better defined, but blurry, like a photograph of someone in motion. The image Mrs. Kennedy had mentioned earlier, looking at him through the pattern of leaves, persisted. Peter wanted to move him out from under the trees in hopes of seeing him better.

Suddenly the ghost jerked as if he'd been hit full streams. He made a sound, a strange, inarticulate noise so full of desperation that Peter felt a knot form in his stomach. Then the ghost lunged at Winston.

Peter and Egon moved instinctively, to jump between Winston and the ghost, but Winston suddenly jerked as if he'd been kicked, and caught Peter's arm. "It's okay," he said in a weird voice.

The ghost had stopped dead when Peter and Egon moved. He held up his hands to prove he didn't mean any harm, then stretched out one of them in Winston's direction.

Winston spoke stiffly, as if his lips had turned numb. "Combat fatigues," he said. "He's wearing combat fatigues. Just like in Nam."

Mrs. Kennedy gasped. Peter spared her one glance and saw the color run from her face. "Vietnam?" she whispered. "You say he's a soldier?"

"I was in Nam," Winston said. "Feels a hundred years ago. I can't see him clearly, but he looks--oh, man, he looks like the guys in my squad."

The ghost pointed at Winston and nodded.

Okay. If the ghost couldn't talk, maybe it was time for a quick game of charades. "You were in Vietnam?" Peter asked.

The ghost's head bobbed in the affirmative.

"Did you...die over there?" It would explain the uniform anyway.

"Oh, man," Winston muttered. He hardly ever mentioned his time in Nam. He'd explained once to Peter and Ray that no one could really understand who hadn't been there. When Peter had offered to listen so he could have a better feel for it and understand where Winston was coming from, Zeddemore had shaken his head fiercely.

"Thanks, Pete. I know you mean well, but I'd rather not. Not to keep secrets from you, but because, well, because that's what we fought for, to keep folks safe at home. The world will manage just fine without a few more guys who know what it was like to live in hell for a few years."

"But we want to understand," Ray had ventured softly.

"I know, Ray. You guys are the best, and I know Egon would make the same offer if he were here. I'm not keeping secrets from you. I just don't want to relive it--and the last thing I want is for the three of you to live through it, even second-hand." He eyed them soberly. "We've been up against some nasty stuff, entities who wanted to steal our souls, the Netherworld, demons, beings shooting lightning at us. You know what it's like, up to a point."

Ray's eyes had rounded. "But...gosh, I know it's terrible, sometimes, and we're in really bad danger every now and then--and nobody who hasn't done it can ever understand. But I always knew that we weren't up against human malice. Demons are supposed to be nasty. I think a war would be so much worse." He had clapped Winston on the shoulder. "I won't make you tell us about it, ever. But if you ever need to talk, we'll listen."

Peter had nodded his confirmation. Vietnam was something he couldn't share with Winston, and Winston wanted it that way. He wouldn't even watch war movies, other than some of the older ones like The Great Escape.

That didn't help now. They all stared at the ghost. In answer to Peter's question, he nodded. He gestured at Mrs. Kennedy and let his hand sweep out to point at the garden.

Mrs. Kennedy paled. "Jimmy?" she whispered suddenly. "Are you Jimmy?"

Peter didn't know who Jimmy was, but the ghost nodded again. The elderly woman pressed her hand to her mouth.

"Jimmy?" Peter muttered to Cherry.

"My cousin, Jimmy Howard." Her eyes were wide and full of doubt. Anonymous ghosts she could handle, but it looked like finding out this one really was family had thrown her for a loop. She went to her grandmother and wrapped a supportive arm around the old lady's waist.

"Jimmy!" Winston looked like he'd been kicked hard in the belly. "Oh man, it is you."

At the recognition, the ghost found the ability inside himself to firm up at least enough so that his features came clear. Peter didn't think he'd ever before seen a ghost with freckles. Jimmy Howard had died young; he didn't look a day over twenty.

Being visible didn't grant him the ability to speak. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

"He can't communicate," Egon said unnecessarily. He glanced sideways at Mrs. Kennedy. "Some ghosts can't."

"Oh, Jimmy, you can talk to me," she pleaded with him. "Please tell me why you're here?"

The ghost gestured again. "Because it's home?" she asked. She murmured under her breath, "But that can't be right. Jimmy never lived here. His family had a place on the Upper West Side."

"He isn't haunting Aunt Maria and Uncle Norm," Cherry said. "At least they never said anything about it. Maybe they wouldn't, but Jimmy's here, not there." She took a step forward. Peter reached out automatically to rein her in, then he stopped. She must have been a preschooler when Jimmy Howard died; at best, she would have only vague memories of him. "Jimmy, I'm Cherry Adamson, your cousin. Can you tell us why you're here?"

Peter would have done anything if that earnestness had been turned in his direction, but Jimmy only smiled at her fleetingly. Cherry winced but kept her face warm. Jimmy moved on.

To Winston.

The other three Ghostbusters lined up with him automatically, but Winston waved them back. He took one step closer to the ghost and put out his hand. "Jimmy...." The ghost clasped it. Peter shivered involuntarily, imagining the cold, damp feeling of ectoplasm and how tough it must be for Winston to grip the ghostly hand of someone he'd known.

"You were his friend?" Mrs. Kennedy asked softly.

"I was with him when he died." Winston's eyes turned vague, and Peter knew he was reliving the moment. "It was night; we'd been on night patrol. Sarge was tense, all of us were. Man, I hated night patrols. Some guy came out of the jungle and lobbed a grenade at us. Sarge got him, and he was alone, but Jimmy...." He glanced sideways at the guys and then nodded vaguely at Mrs. Kennedy to warn them not to ask for more detail.

"You were with him? Did he say anything?" Mrs. Kennedy was trembling, but she was holding on. A brave lady.

"There wasn't time for much." Winston flinched. "I tried to stop the bleeding. When I saw that wasn't working, I did the only thing I could. Held onto his hand and prayed."

Mrs. Kennedy's eyes softened. "I'm so glad he had a friend there to hold his hand. No one should have to die alone."

"We were all there. We held vigil with him," Winston told her in a gentle voice. Then, abruptly, an expression of utter horror flitted across his face.

Peter landed his hand on Winston's shoulder. "Zed?"

Winston flinched at the name he usually accepted casually. "Don't. He called me that."

Peter's fingers tightened. "It's okay, Winston. You did what you had to do. You didn't let him die alone."

"No." Winston shifted out from under the grip. "He wanted me to tell them, to pass on a message. And I forgot. We came under heavy fire on the way home and by the time we were back, I just lost it." He turned to the ghost. "Jimmy, I'm sorry. I didn't tell them what you asked me." His eyes sought Peter's, hollow eyes, despairing eyes. "God, Pete, it was his dying request, and I forgot."

"That's all right," said Mrs. Kennedy. "You were with my grandson at the end. Tell me now what he said."

"Yeah, Winston, I bet that's what he's waiting for." Ray's voice was soft and understanding.

"You mean he's been hanging around for nearly twenty years because of me?" Winston couldn't have looked more abject if the other three Ghostbusters had kicked him out of the firehall.

"We don't know that," Peter said. "He had something unfinished, that's all. So maybe you can help him finish it right now."

Winston heaved a shaken sigh. "That's just it," he said in a shamefaced voice. "I can't remember." He raked his hands through his hair. "It was nonsense. I didn't understand it. Something about golf and flags and mice. And then he was babbling some word none of us could get. It was important to him. He said it a couple of times. I should have written it down. I should have remembered. Maybe Sarge would know.... He's out in California, I think.... I could call him."

Winston had never sounded so disoriented. Peter slung his arm around his shoulders. "Easy, Winston. We can work it out. I bet we can help you remember. We'll just start slow and figure it out together."

"Of course we will." That was Egon. "Winston, you have a vague memory of it. You said it was nonsense to you, so you associated it with things that made sense. Let's start slow. Golf, you said?"

"Hey, yeah, word associations." Ray rocked on his toes. "It'll be like twenty questions or something. Jimmy can clue us if we get warm. It'll be like a game."

Winston looked at them, his eyes a bit too bright. "You guys are the best," he said softly. Then he straightened up away from Peter's arm. "Okay. Jimmy, we'll make sense of it. That what you want, buddy?"

The ghost nodded. Again he tried to speak but no words came.

"Very well." Egon stepped in. "Golf, you said. You've never played golf to my knowledge." Winston shook his head. "So evidently he said something you associated with golf. Clubs?"

Winston shook his head. "No, that doesn't sound right."

"Fairway?" offered Ray. "Masters' tournament? Putter?"

"Balls?" offered Peter.

Egon arched an eyebrow at Peter. "Caddy?"

"Green!" exploded Winston. "That was it. Green. I thought of golf. I guess I knew he played. He used to caddy for his dad, too. I remember now. I thought maybe he was remembering his dad."

"Green?" Cherry echoed. "But this is the green. I mean this garden. That's what we always called it. He must have been remembering how much fun we always had when we came here, wishing he was home."

The ghost shook his head stubbornly.

"Not remembering?" Peter asked. "But you did mean this place?"

This time, he received a nod. "Okay, so we have a location." He glanced around. "I don't see a flag, though."

"Fourth flag," Winston cried. "That was it. Fourth flag." They looked around. Not a flag in sight. Not even one flagpole, let alone four."

"Aren't flags some kind of plants?" Cherry asked vaguely. Her eyes tracked the banks of flowers that filled the garden. She looked as much of a botanist as Peter was. A city girl.

"They are indeed," her grandmother said. "But I don't think we ever had any in this garden."

"And I bet Jimmy never knew about them being flowers unless he was into botany," said Ray. "I only know about them because Aunt Lois likes them."

"I never heard of them," Peter admitted.

"You don't know the difference between lilacs and dandelions," Ray teased him gently. He may have been hoping for a smile from Winston, but Winston was frowning. His eyes moved around the garden. No trace of a flag, let alone four of them.

"Jimmy, can you show us where your flags were?" he asked.

Peter felt a smile blaze out on his face as an idea hit him. "I might not know about plants, Ray, but I do know there are other kind of flags than the kind on flagpoles and weird plants that nobody ever heard of. Flagstones. Paving stones." He stomped on the one beneath his feet. "And there are a heck of a lot more than four of them here."

Jimmy nodded vehemently.

Egon arched an eyebrow. "Well done, Peter. I must say I am impressed." Peter had the idea he'd been about to offer that suggestion himself, but it didn't matter who thought of it, as long as the answer helped Winston and Jimmy.

"But which is the fourth one?" Ray asked. They circled the garden and marched in on the fountain, and even circled it. There were dozens of them, and unless you knew where one was starting, you wouldn't have a clue which was the fourth. What did it matter anyway. Had Jimmy been standing on it when he kissed his girlfriend goodbye?

Winston turned to the ghost. "Jimmy, which one did you mean?"

Peter should have expected the vague gesture he got in return. Jimmy might want to resolve the issue, but he couldn't do it. Maybe he couldn't remember. It wasn't as if ghosts had good memories. Slimer could never remember he wasn't supposed to sneak into the fridge and eat what the guys had planned to cook for dinner, no matter how many times the guys told him not to.

"Okay, so we're on our own. What, Winston?" he asked when he saw emotion flash in his friend's eyes.

"Just the 'we', Pete. Sounds good."

"We're a team," Peter reminded him. "One for all and all for one. We'll figure this out. What was the next one? Mice?"

"Something about mice." Winston shook his head. "Man, I can smell the jungle night. The moon was so bright. That clearing looked unreal with that weird lighting. It was so hot and the air was so heavy, and Jimmy had a grip on my hand that I thought would crush my fingers." He turned to Mrs. Kennedy. "He was hurting. I didn't want to let go. He needed something to hang onto. I let him hang onto me."

"Just like you always do for us," Peter said. "It's gonna work out, Winston. Let's do the mice game. What do you associate with mice. Three blind mice?"

Winston shook his head. "No, it wasn't that. It's almost there, but it won't come. I can remember everything about that night, the way the sarge had his hand on my shoulder, Weird Fred cussing up a stream, the way he always did." He gave a snort of shaky laughter. "He was high the whole time he was over there--and now the guy's a commodities broker. Three-piece suit, straight as an arrow. Weird Fred. People change."

"People find ways to deal with things that are too hard to face," Peter said. "There are ways to do it. That must have been his. Anybody who comes out of that sane and intact, that says a lot for their strength. You'll get this, Winston."

"Mice.... Cheese?" Winston shook his head. "Mousetraps? No, I'm not getting it."

"Mickey Mouse!" Ray cried. "That's what everybody thinks of when they think about a mouse."

"What any toon fan thinks," Peter teased.

But Winston suddenly snapped his fingers. "Minnie! Not Mickey, Minnie. That's what it was. Not a mouse. Minnie."

"But I don't know anyone named Minnie," Mrs. Kennedy said with a frown.

Cherry giggled. The sound was so unexpected they all turned to stare at her. She clapped a hand over her mouth, then she controlled herself and pointed at the Janine clone in the fountain. "That's Minnie. We always called her Minnie the Mer. I don't think any of the grown-ups ever knew. We figured it would be disrespectful or something. A kids' secret."

Jimmy nodded. Now that they knew, he pointed at the statue.

Winston beamed, then his smile faded away. "Okay, so we know we're in the garden and the flagstones and the statue. But...oh man, was he just rambling, remembering his childhood?"

Disappointment flashed across Jimmy's face. That wasn't it.

"Listen, Winston." Peter clasped his arm. "He was dying. Maybe he wasn't making sense to anybody but himself. Just because we figured out what he'd said to you doesn't mean it ever made sense."

"It did to him. It was important enough to keep him here all these years. I want to figure it out. I need to figure it out."

"You said there was another word he said that you didn't understand," Egon said. "You said he babbled it and none of you understood it. Can you remember what that word was?"

Winston's face scrunched up in a parody of concentration. "Uh...I remember I thought he was saying 'terror' but that wasn't it. It was something like...uh, 'tirah'." He glanced at Mrs. Kennedy. "Does that mean anything to you?"

The color slid out of her face and she put out a helpless hand to Cherry, who looked confused but took it anyway, and squeezed it in both of her own. "Oh, dear god, to hear it spoken after so many years."

"I never heard it," Cherry said doubtfully. "What does it mean, Grandmama?"

"It's what the children used to call the tiara," she said.

"Tiara?"

"It's a kind of crown," Peter offered helpfully. "When Becky Stephenson and I were homecoming queen and king at our senior prom, she wore one."

"I know what a tiara is," she told him with a flash of amusement. "But what--one of the crown jewels? I don't remember seeing a tiara among them, Grandmama."

"None of the children understood what a tiara was, and when they mutilated the name, we took to calling it the crown."

"You mean the one that was stolen?" Peter asked. He looked at Jimmy in time to see the ghost shake his head fiercely. And then suddenly he knew. "Mrs. Kennedy, I don't think the crown got stolen after all."

"No," agreed Winston. His train of thought had chugged along a parallel track with Peter's. "I bet Jimmy hid it. Maybe a game. He must have been a kid then."

Mrs. Kennedy counted back the years in her head and frowned. "He was...ten. The children were here for the weekend. We showed them the jewels. Frank talked about the danger of theft. The boys all volunteered to stay up all night and guard them. They offered to carry BB guns. Frank said he'd set the burglar alarm and that it was nice of them to offer but he wouldn't need them. We found Chris--Cherry's oldest brother--asleep in the den with a golf-club lying beside him like a weapon before we went to bed. The crown was still there then. Frank carried Chris up to bed without even waking him. He said he'd put the jewels away in the morning."

"And in the morning the tiara was gone. Do you think he could have hidden it to protect it from thieves?" Ray asked.

Relieved, Jimmy nodded.

"Okay, so that's what he was trying to tell you, Winston." Peter grinned. "Where to find the crown. Just think, we're gonna discover hidden treasure." It was actually kind of exciting. He could remember treasure hunting expeditions he'd made when he was five or six, usually in somebody's garage or the trash they put out. He'd hauled back broken lamps that he thought he could fix for his mom, and once he'd found a bracelet he was sure was diamonds and rubies, but that had turned out to be costume jewelry. In retrospect, it had been gaudy, ugly, but his mother had accepted it from him and worn it with pride. Kids just got their perspective turned around. Jimmy must have thought he was doing the right thing.

"Yeah, but where?" Winston looked around the garden. Then he snapped his fingers. "I've got it. He buried it under the fourth flagstone. That's what he did. That's what he was trying to tell me." He heaved a vast sigh, relieved to finally have it right.

"I'm sure you're right, Winston," Egon said. "That's it, isn't it?" The smile on the ghost's face proved that Winston had found the answer.

Peter had just started to put it together himself, and he was sure Egon had figured it out, but he was glad that Winston had been the one to say it first. It meant the most to him. "Jimmy, did you shut off the burglar alarm to get out and then reset it when you came in again?" He asked.

Jimmy nodded.

"Can you tell us which is the fourth flag?" Egon persisted.

Jimmy gestured vaguely.

"I know," Ray said. "At least I think I do. He wouldn't have mentioned Minnie otherwise. I bet it's the fourth one away in the direction she's facing. So he'd remember which one he dug up. What do you think, Winston?"

"I think you're right, Ray."

They all stared at the mermaid statue. Her face was turned toward the path that led to the house. Peter let his gaze linger on the statue's more noticeable attributes a second, then watched Winston pace off the flagstones. The fourth one was fractionally higher than the others.

"He couldn't get all the dirt back in," Ray said. "I bet he had to haul it away and dump it in the flower beds. He must have been up half the night. Wow, this is great. Digging for buried treasure. Where can we find a shovel?"

Jimmy beamed at them all.

In the end, Winston dug up the treasure. He took the shovel Cherry fetched from the gardening shed and pried up the flagstone. Ray knelt to help him lever it to one side. It must have been a heck of a job for a ten-year-old. Jimmy watched them intently, his face full of urgent need.

Then Winston plied the shovel. He didn't have to go very deep. Only four scoops and he stopped. "It's here. I've hit something."

Everyone crowded in to see. Winston knelt and dug in the loosened earth with his fingers. "Cloth. I've found cloth. Burlap, I think. There's something inside."

Jimmy knelt beside him and reached into the hole. His face blazed with relief. "It's still here." Peter couldn't lip-read but that was so obvious they all got it. "It's still here." Ectoplasmic tears filled his eyes.

"You didn't steal it, Jimmy," Winston consoled him. "You thought you were protecting it."

Jimmy bent his head. Peter spoke quickly. "Then, when there was a huge fuss about it and the police came, I bet you were scared to tell anybody what you'd done, weren't you?"

Jimmy's bent head bobbed.

"Any kid would've been," Peter assured him. "What I would've done, I give you my word on it."

"And then he probably put it out of his head," Ray said. "Maybe even forgot over the years."

"Until he was dying and he had to tell," Winston said. "And he told me, and then I forgot. Jimmy, I'm so sorry."

Mrs. Kennedy came up behind the kneeling man and ghost and put one hand on each shoulder. If the cold of the ghost disconcerted her, she didn't show it. A classy lady. "Well, that doesn't matter. Jimmy, you were always more important than a crown we only kept locked away. I'm glad to have it back, but more because it will make you feel better than for any other reason. We would never have been mad at you. Your grandpapa and I would have understood."

Winston worked his prize out of the ground, and held it up, a burlap bag probably borrowed from the gardener. A rope secured it. The knots were old and Winston couldn't manage them, so he pulled out a pocket knife and sliced the bag open.

The tiara dropped neatly into his hand.

It needed cleaning, but it was intact. Even dulled and dirty, its gleam of diamonds made them all suck in their breaths. The "tirah" in Winston's hands was worth a king's ransom.

Jimmy took it carefully from Winston and balanced it in his hands. He had firmed up enough to carry it. He rose with the fluid effortlessness only spirits and gymnasts could manage and held out the tiara to his grandmother.

She took it from him. "Oh, Jimmy, thank you."

The smile that lit his face seemed to shine from within him and make him glow. He lunged at her and hugged her hard, then he stepped back. She was crying, but she held her head up proudly.

Jimmy ruffled Cherry's hair. Peter grimaced at the thought of the slime, but Jimmy was no Slimer. He didn't make a mess of it.

Then he turned to Winston, who tossed aside the burlap bag and snapped the blade of his knife shut. "Jimmy? I am so sorry it took me so long to do what you needed done."

Jimmy shook his head. His hands landed on Winston's shoulders. With a cataclysmic effort, he forced words out. "Thank you." Barely audible and then only with a good imagination, but heartfelt--and forgiving. His fingers tightened, his eyes met Winston's, and for a long moment, the two who had last encountered each other on a jungle night on another continent in another decade, gazed at each other. Then Jimmy said slightly more clearly, "Goodbye, Grandmama," and melted away to nothing.

Cherry went to her grandmother and hugged her hard.

Winston stared into the place where Jimmy had disappeared, tears on his cheeks. The guys converged on him and patted him on the back.

"You did good, Winston," Peter told him.

"Yeah, after trapping that guy here for nearly twenty years? Just dandy."

"No," said Ray. He planted himself pugnaciously in front of Winston. "You did what you could. It's not your fault the war was so nasty you didn't remember. What he said sounded like nonsense and you came under fire right after that. I bet it was tough to remember something that didn't make any sense, especially when you'd just lost a buddy."

Winston sucked in a breath so deep his whole body quivered from it. "Oh, man, there's nothing worse."

"Is that why you tend to be so protective of us on busts?" Egon asked softly. "So what happened to Jimmy won't happen to us?"

"You stand up for your buddies," Winston said. "Always."

"As you did for my grandson." Mrs. Kennedy came up to Winston and hugged him. "Yes, he needed to return the crown--but thanks to you he didn't die alone. You were there for him when it mattered most, both then and now."

"I didn't remember--"

"Winston. If you had remembered right away, we'd have dug up the tiara and Jimmy would have been gone. What you did gave me a chance to see him one last time and to say goodbye." Her arms tightened around him, and he hugged her back before they broke apart. "I'll never forget that I got to see my Jimmy one last time. That means so much more to me than diamonds. Family matters so much more than material things."

Winston nodded. "You are so right."

Peter glanced at his adopted family and knew it was true. He, Egon, and Ray crowded around Winston and showed him by their presence and unspoken support what an important part of their family he was. He grinned shakily.

"Thanks, guys."

"Wow." Ray was beaming. "I love a bust like this. It's so neat that we helped him disperse peacefully."

"Don't forget the hidden treasure, Ray." Peter grinned. "Now, there's only two more things I need to make this day perfect."

"I know," said Egon with a groan. "A camera so you can risk life and limb by alienating Janine."

Peter glanced at the statue. "Come on, Spengs, the temptation is irresistible. Don't tell me you can just walk away without immortalizing the moment."

Egon hesitated. "Well...."

"I knew it!" Peter crowed. "We'll make a human being of you yet. Cherry, do you have a camera I could borrow? Here's what we do. I take a bunch of shots, then I get them developed, and I can bring back the camera, I'm thinking Saturday night. I know this great Japanese restaurant on West Forty-fourth Street...."

"And that's the second thing," Winston said knowingly. "A date. Peter, you are soooo predictable."

Peter studied Winston for a second. He was teasing. A good sign. He might feel bad about what had happened so long ago in the jungle war, but he would be okay. Peter and the guys would make sure of that.

"Yeah, and you guys love me this way, so that's just fine." He gave Winston an encouraging wink, delighted when Winston grinned in return, then he turned back to Cherry.

"So, is it a date?" he asked hopefully, and grinned with delight when she said yes.