Archive of Our Own

A Simple Class Four
by Mara

Janine Melnitz put away her nail file and glanced at the clock. Five p.m. The end of another long, quiet day. She yawned and began to clean up her desk. Behind her, she could hear the tap of a pen against wood, and she remembered that Dr. Venkman had been huddled over his own desk for--nearly an hour now? She wondered what he was doing. He hadn't said a word in that entire time.

Perhaps he was missing the guys. That was understandable. Ray and Egon had left for their Toronto symposium the day before, Winston for his fishing trip with his dad. They had all agreed to take a week off, since business had been unseasonably slow for nearly a month. Janine, her own vacation plans already set up, peeked in her purse to see the plane ticket to the Bahamas and smiled in delight. If only she could take Egon with her, it would be a dream vacation; but going with a couple of girlfriends was the next best thing. A week in the sun to do nothing but relax and flirt, while New York City lay under a blanket of snow!

She could hardly wait to catch the plane.

The phone rang, refusing to let the workday come to a peaceful end. Janine scowled at it. Well, even if it was a call, there was no one to take it. Peter had a date tonight, Janine knew, and he wouldn't go on a bust alone, anyway. Janine scooped up the phone. "Ghostbusters. We're ready to believe you."

There was an amused laugh at the other end of the line, then a woman's voice spoke. "Yes, is Peter there?"

Janine realized it must be the woman Peter had met at the modelling agency, where the guys had their only bust in two weeks. "Oh, is this Alison?" Janine asked, distracted as she reached into her desk for her walking shoes.

"Alison?" The woman's voice was heavy with suspicion. "This is Angela."

Angela. Damn. Janine grimaced and tried to backtrack.

"Angela! Of course. That's--"

"Who is Alison?" The woman cut in, her tone, not particularly friendly to begin with, now downright hostile.

"Alison is. . . um. . . " Janine stammered, faltering as she heard Dr. Venkman's chair legs scrape the floor. Oh, good job, Janine!

Dr. V. had heard the conversation. He was going to kill her. "Hold one second for Dr. Venkman," Janine finished in her most professional voice, and, as Peter appeared and plucked the phone from her hand, she winced and gave him an apologetic smile. He glared at her and put the receiver to his ear.

"Angela! I'm so glad you--" He got no further. Janine sensed that Angela did not want to hear any explanations. Peter's smile vanished as he continued to listen. Even from where she sat, Janine could hear the woman's strident, angry voice, followed by an ominous click.

Peter stood holding the phone to his ear, looking a little stunned. After a moment, he lowered the phone and his gaze shifted to Janine's face. His eyes darkened. "Melnitz. . . "

"Now wait a minute." Janine rose from her chair. "Before you start yelling at me, Dr. V., I'd just like to point out that it isn't in my job description to keep straight the names of all the women you date. Angela and Alison are very similar names.

Besides, Angela was the one who jumped to conclusions there, ya

know. I never said you were dating Alison! I just innocently--"

"Angela's a very sensitive soul, Janine," Peter interrupted, sounding as if he were equally sensitive, and such sensitivity was something Janine wouldn't understand. "An artist."

"She's a swimsuit model," Janine retorted, folding her arms.

"And that's the reason you asked her out in the first place."

Peter's annoyed expression faded into a wistful look.

"Yeah. And is she ever artistic about it." He heaved a sigh

and, coming back to the present, fixed Janine with a warning in

his eyes. "Janine, next time, don't try to chat up my dates and

sympathize with them--"

"They deserve some sympathy," Janine muttered.

"--And just do your job and take the call. Is that too much to ask?" Peter dropped into Janine's chair and, lifting his feet, planted his boots on Janine's desktop. "I was planning to spend the whole week wining and dining Angela. Who knows--I could have fallen in love with that woman."

Janine snatched up her walking shoes and began to put them on. She gave Peter a dubious glance. "Come on, Dr. V. What kind of relationship could you have with a woman who gets that jealous? She'd clobber you for even looking at another woman. You'd end up in the hospital, knowing you."

Janine was right, but Peter wasn't about to admit it to her. Angela might be a knock-out but she was a very temperamental knock-out. Peter had sensed that about her right away, after she'd thrown a camera across the studio when her agent insisted she leave and let the Ghostbusters bust the ghost. But Peter had asked her out anyway, after Egon had stated unequivocally that not even the dashing Dr. Venkman could gain a date with such a spoiled, self-centered woman. Peter smiled, remembering the reluctantly impressed looks on his buddies' faces after he had returned with Angela's phone number.

He hadn't really expected a lasting relationship to come of it; still, it wouldn't do to hand Janine Melnitz more ammo. Peter noticed that Janine was smirking at him with that I-told-you-so look on her face. She knew he thought she was right. Peter made a face at her. "Don't you have a plane to catch, Melnitz?"

Janine folded her arms and gazed down at him, still smiling with that edge of triumph. "Matter of fact, I do." She reached for the phone and held the receiver out to him. "There's always Alison, you know."

Peter took the phone and held it tucked against his chest.

"Have a nice vacation, Janine."

"You too, Dr. V." She broke into a grin, too excited about her vacation to provoke him further. Wondering what he was going to be doing after she'd gone, she glanced around at his desk and noticed there was nothing on it. "You finish whatever you were working on?"

Peter hung up the phone. "Nothing important. Just the books. Paperwork. You know."

"What's this?" Janine caught the edge of a crumpled piece of yellow paper from the corner of Peter's pocket and pulled it out.

"Janine--" Peter, rising, tried to grab it back, but Janine moved out of his reach. She unfolded it and recognized it immediately.

"This is Ray and Egon's list of parts and equipment, isn't it? The one they put together last week?"

Peter sighed. He hadn't wanted anyone to know what he'd been up to--not that it really made any difference if anyone did find out.

With only one small bust in two weeks, none of Peter's expert juggling of books and bank account could provide the funds for the newest gizmo Egon and Ray were all worked up about building. Peter didn't know exactly what it was they had planned on, but he had seen their faces the night before they caught the plane to Toronto. They had been excited about the symposium--but they were far more psyched up over this latest invention. They had sat around the table for hours, making a five-page list of parts they needed. Though they knew as well as Peter did that business had been too slow of late to provide the money for all the equipment, that hadn't stopped Ray and Egon from working themselves into a frenzy of theorizing and designing.

Peter grinned to himself, remembering their expressions. He got a kick out of seeing them acting like two eager little kids instead of two brilliant, composed scientists. Ray usually got a little more excited than Egon did, at least on the surface, over new projects--but Ray's excitement was infectious, and Egon could be counted on to get a sparkle in his eyes and a eager note in his voice by the time the two men started serious planning. Peter would have loved more than anything to provide their equipment in time for Christmas. It was the best gift he could give the two men who had helped him find meaning in the season. The fond memories he had of Christmases with Ray, Egon, and Winston helped to blot out some of the not-so-good memories he had of childhood Christmases.

So Peter had searched for every penny available in the slim hope that he could scrape together enough for at least part of the equipment Ray and Egon needed. He'd spent most of the day working on it, to no avail. Unless a few really good busts came along in the next couple of weeks, he wouldn't be able to get them more than two or three of the items on their list. At that rate, it would be a while before they could start putting together their new toy.

Peter felt a hand on his arm and he woke from his thoughts and looked up at Janine. Her gaze was sympathetic. "Business will pick up, Dr. V. It always does."

"Not in time for Christmas," Peter said, shaking his head. He took the list of parts back from her and stuffed it into his pocket. "I really wanted to get the whole thing at once." He smiled to himself. "Just to see their faces when they realized they had everything they needed. They'd be as excited as a couple of six year olds getting brand new bikes. Even Egon."

"I know," Janine said, sounding a little wistful herself. She loved seeing Egon happy too, his handsome face smiling and those blue eyes shining. "That's really sweet of you, you know, Dr. V." Janine's gaze softened further and she quickly dropped a small kiss on Peter's cheek. "You deserve a lot better than Angela."

She turned hastily away before she got any mushier, or before he could react. Wrapping herself in her coat, she snatched up her purse and started for the door. At the door, she glanced over her shoulder at him. He was still leaning against the desk, and he was watching her with a wry grin.

"See you next week, Peter." She threw him a wave and walked out. Peter remained where he stood, listening to the sputter of her Volkswagen as she drove away. The Bahamas for a week. Lucky Janine. Peter half-wished now that he'd gone to Toronto with Ray and Egon. It might be deadly dull during the day, listening to all those speeches and making pleasant chit chat with the scientists who wanted to talk about nothing other than their latest ideas; but at night, he'd have been able to drag Ray and Egon out to sample Toronto nightlife. They'd have had a blast.

Then again, there was Alison to consider. Peter glanced at the phone. Maybe Alison would forgive him for not calling her for two weeks and go out to dinner with him tonight. He didn't want to stay in and he didn't want to eat alone. The firehouse was all too quiet now with everyone gone, and even Slimer was nowhere to be seen. Peter reached for the phone and his little black book.

After three rings, the answering machine kicked in. "Hello, this is Alison Baker. At the tone, leave your name and number and I'll get back to you. . . "

Damn. She probably had a flight. The perils of dating a flight attendant. Peter put down the phone and determinedly got up out of the chair and headed for his locker. He'd find a nice noisy restaurant and have his supper there. Then maybe he'd consider catching the red-eye for Toronto. He smiled at the thought of the pleased looks on Egon and Ray's faces when he showed up to spend the week with them. They'd tease him unmercifully about the beautiful, temperamental Angela; but it would be worth it if he didn't have to spend the entire week by himself.

He took his coat out of the locker and pulled it on. As he reached for his gloves, he heard a car pull up outside. He listened and knew immediately it wasn't Janine returning for something she'd forgotten.

Maybe Winston was back early. Winston had been reluctant to try ice fishing to begin with, though his dad was eager to give it a go and had tried to persuade both Winston and Peter to come along. Peter had backed out of that invitation immediately. The idea of huddling for hours around a hole in the ice just to catch some stinking fish did not appeal to him in the least. But Winston had gone along with it, mainly, Peter guessed, because he hadn't wanted his dad to go off and get hypothermia trying to ice fish alone.

Perhaps Winston's dad had gotten sick of it and now they were both back. Peter started for the door eagerly. They could all go out to dinner together.

Peter swung the door wide. "Hey, Winston, knew you guys would be back before the day was out," he began cheerfully, then stopped in surprise at the sight of the two strangers, wrapped in heavy black coats, who stood waiting in the gathering twilight. As the garage light fell over them, they blinked and looked at Peter. "Ghostbusters?" the shorter of the two men asked.

Peter smiled. "That's right. But--"

"We need your services," the other man said, stepping over the threshold without being invited. "Mind if we come inside? It's pretty cold."

"You boys can make an appointment, if you want," Peter said, stepping back as the second man followed the first. "But we're shut down for a week. Everyone's on vacation."

"Yeah?" The man who had first spoken now removed his snow-encrusted ear muffs and set a cool, appraising look on Peter. "You're here."

"Well. . . only for the moment," Peter said. "Come on inside and tell me what you've got." He started to close the door, then hesitated, noting the very large vehicle parked at the curb. A limo. A very nice limo, engine running to keep whoever was still in the vehicle toasty warm.

Peter turned to the two men, who were both looking curiously around the firehall. "Gentlemen. I'm Dr. Peter Venkman." He shook hands with the second man who had spoken, a bear of a man with thick black hair slicked back from his prominent brow.

"Name's Doyle," the man said, his accent thicker than Janine's. He nodded in the direction of his companion, a short, bearded man with olive skin and eyes that never seemed to stay settled on one thing for long. "This is Carson. We're employees of Mr. Allen Mirance. You may recognize the name."

Peter's heart did an excited leap, but he kept his outward reaction nonchalant. "Mirance Pharmaceuticals? And that new apartment building? Mirance Towers?"

Doyle smiled. "That would be him."

Peter restrained the whistle that came to his lips. Mirance was money, and that meant this was a bust they'd get paid respectably for. Not enough, of course, to cover all the goodies on Ray and Egon's list; but surely enough to add another item or two, and bring them that much closer to having the parts they needed to start building.

Peter gestured to the chairs in front of Janine's desk.

"Please, gentlemen, take a seat."

The two men made themselves comfortable and, after declining Peter's offer of coffee, got directly to business. "Mr. Mirance," Doyle began, "has a little problem he's hoping you fellows can take care of. Construction's recently been completed on the Towers penthouse, but Mr. Mirance has been unable to move in due to this problem."

"A ghost," Peter said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the desktop. "Have you all seen it?"

Doyle and Carson exchanged a look Peter couldn't decipher.

Finally Doyle nodded. "Yeah, we seen her."

"Her?" Peter picked up a pen. "Clearly female, then?"

"Definitely," Doyle said, exchanging another look with his companion. "She don't do nothing, really. Floats around the place, staring at us. Creepy."

"Has she tried to communicate with you?" Peter noticed the way the two men shifted uneasily in their chairs. But he sensed it wasn't the ghost which had them so anxious. Maybe their boss was leaning on them hard to get rid of it. "Has she said anything?"

"No, she ain't been doing any talking," Doyle answered, his thick fingers intertwined and resting on his still-buttoned coat. "Like we said, she just floats. But Mr. Mirance don't like it. He wants her out of there."

"Naturally," Peter said, infusing his tone with sympathy. "Living with a ghost can be a real pain in the. . . ah. . . well, I assure you, our team can take care of this for you. Sounds like a Class 3, maybe a 4. Since it doesn't appear she is a threat to any of you, what say we set up an appointment for December the 14th? My colleagues will all have returned by then and we can. . . " Peter paused as Doyle began to slowly shake his head. "The 14th not good?" Peter asked.

Doyle unclasped his hands to unbutton the top buttons of his coat. He reached inside and withdrew an envelope. "Dr. Venkman, we've been instructed to retain your services," he said, handing the envelope across the desk. "We're also to inform you that this payment will be doubled if you can eliminate the problem within 24 hours."

Peter took the envelope and opened it. Inside was a cheque payable to the Ghostbusters in the amount of $10,000.00. Somehow, he managed not to let his surprise show on his face. $10,000.00 to bust a simple Class 4. It seemed criminal to accept that amount for what would probably be only a dispersion.

Peter lowered the cheque reverently to the desk. "Mr.

Doyle, if you have what I think you have. . . "

"It's gonna be more than ten grand?" Doyle asked, eyebrows lifting. He seemed more impressed than surprised.

"Ah. . . well, no. . .our standard fee for--"

"Forget about that," Doyle said, with another slow shake of his head. "Mr. Mirance decided on that amount. Ten grand is what it's worth to him to get rid of this ghost. Now all you gotta do is decide if you're gonna take the job, Doc."

His conscience partially relieved, Peter broke into a grin.

"Mr. Doyle, Class 4's are my specialty. If you'll give me the

address, I'll look into it first thing tomorrow--"

"Pardon me, Doc, but Mr. Mirance plans to move in tomorrow. He'd very much like it if you could take care of this problem tonight."

"Tonight?" Well, he had planned to spend the evening talking to a beautiful woman. Maybe he'd talk to a beautiful ghost instead, and help her get where she needed to go. It was not even six yet. He could finish the bust and still catch a late bite to eat.

But still he hesitated. It was accepted among the four Ghostbusters that no job would be undertaken by any one of them without back-up. Rarely had even two of them gone on a bust without the other two available and ready to assist. Peter could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he had taken a job alone, and those had been Class 2's and 3's; nothing with much in the way of genuine risk associated, as far as he was concerned. And he knew the guys didn't even like to take on Class 2's without back-up.

But Peter didn't want to turn this one down. Mirance had money to burn, and evidently he was willing to burn it to get rid of a ghost as soon as it could be done. And this was a client he wanted to impress. This was a client who, so impressed, might mention to his wealthy pals and business associates what good work the Ghostbusters did.

Besides it wasn't, technically, a bust. Not if the ghost in question was simply a lost soul in need of a good talking-to. "No problem," Peter said, giving Doyle and Carson a reassuring smile. "Just give me the address and I'll gather the equipment I need and meet you there."

The two men looked pleased. They rose from their chairs and, handing Peter a business card with the address of the Towers on it, they left. As they went, Peter caught a glimpse of a thin-faced, grey-haired man staring at him from behind the smoky glass of the car window. He knew he had seen that face before on the cover of Newsweek. Allen Mirance. Peter smiled at the tinted glass, hoping he was striking what looked like an impressively intrepid pose. Streetlights flashed on the glass, concealing whatever expression Allen Mirance might have been wearing.

As the limo pulled away and vanished around the corner, the full impact of the money he'd just made hit Peter. He hooted aloud and did a gleeful little dance on the icy sidewalk. All he had to do was talk a Class 4 into dispersing, something he'd done successfully so many times he'd lost track, and he was ten grand the richer. He patted the pocket with Ray and Egon's list safely tucked inside. He felt more excited about the coming of Christmas this year than he'd ever felt before.

A short time later, he parked Ecto in a vacant spot a block from the tall glass Towers apartment buildings. Brand-new and as yet untenanted, the two black buildings gleamed in the snowy night. It reminded Peter of the enormous black monolith in 2001, except that the west tower had a band of light showing in the uppermost floors. Mirance's home sweet home.

A security guard let him into the building. Evidently,

Mirance's employees had already arrived and were awaiting him in the penthouse. Peter took the elevator up thirty-eight floors. During the ride, he checked over his equipment again, prepared with his proton pack on the slim chance the entity became difficult. From the description, she sounded harmless, but it was better to be safe. The guys would never forgive him if he ended up in the hospital and they had to come home early to take care of him. As much as he'd enjoy the attention, he added to himself, grinning.

The doors opened, revealing a lit hallway which stopped at double doors. Peter walked soundlessly over the carpeted hall and knocked on the heavy polished oak. The place was completely quiet, and he felt a small shiver ripple down his back. He felt a little anxious and he guessed it was because he wasn't used to going on busts alone. A little voice inside his head--common sense, Egon would have called it--kept nagging at him, but Peter refused to listen. He wouldn't be here if he didn't feel so certain this was a simple bust, one that he could handle as he'd handled other Class 4's, by just getting to the heart of what kept them earthbound, and helping them understand that it was time to move on.

He heard footsteps on the other side of the door and he straightened up and ran a quick hand through his hair. The door opened and Doyle looked out at him. Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a PKE meter, the very action of it making him think of Egon. He wished the guys were with him.

"Dr. Venkman," Doyle said, stepping back. "Come in."

Peter stepped into the marble foyer and looked around appreciatively. Now this was a prestigious address, the sort of place he'd be living if he'd gone into practice and established a wealthy clientele. Peter smiled to himself and shook his head. Somehow, the thought didn't appeal to him as it used to. A life outside of Ghostbusting was inconceivable. There wasn't a penthouse on the planet he'd take over that drafty old firehouse and the people in it.

"Follow me, Dr. Venkman," Doyle said, leading the way from the foyer. The room opened up suddenly, and Peter saw the pair of staircases rising opposite each other and meeting on the second floor in a wide balcony. On the high ceiling above hung a glimmering chandelier. Ahead of him, on the first floor, was a large central room, elegantly appointed with black and white furnishings, the only dashes of color coming from the large framed paintings on the walls. The place had a clean, nearly sterile look to it, and Peter couldn't imagine crashing on that narrow white sofa with the guys to watch a movie and eat popcorn. He could see the window that took up a wall of the room, an expansive view of night-time New York just beyond the glass. One thing the place did have going for it--it was enormous.

"How many rooms?" Peter asked. He pulled off his coat and slipped on his proton pack.

"Four bedrooms," Doyle replied. "All upstairs. Three baths. A study down. 4200 square feet of living space."

"Nice." Peter wondered if Doyle was Mirance's realtor; he sure sounded like one. Peter tore his gaze from the dimly-lit room to fiddle with the dials on the meter. A presence registered, clear as day, and his heart gave an excited leap. It was a Class 4. He felt as excited as Ray did over Class 7's and higher, and he realized he enjoyed dealing with Class 4's. They provided a different sort of challenge for him, and he liked it when the guys turned to him to handle it whenever they were faced with one.

"Does the ghost tend to appear in any particular room?"

Doyle considered that. "No. She's all over the house."

"Mind if I look around?" Peter asked.

"Mr. Mirance has instructed us to give you free rein in searching the house. He wishes it to be clear that you should not worry about any damage that may occur. He wants the ghost should be caught. I'm sure you can appreciate Mr. Mirance's desire for expediency."

Doyle's occasional effort at more formal speech contrasted comically with his heavy accent. Peter quickly bent his head over the meter to hide his smile. "Thanks. I'll just take a look around, then." Peter paused in a doorway that appeared to lead to a kitchen. "Mr. Mirance here?"

"Nearby," Doyle said.

Peter frowned at the deliberate vagueness of that answer.

He didn't want to aim for a ghost and accidentally zap one of the

wealthiest men in New York in the process. "It really would be

better if all of you waited outside the penthouse--"

"We stay," Doyle cut in calmly. "We won't get in your way."

Peter sighed. He'd just have to be careful. He wasn't about to piss off Mirance, any more than he wanted to zap the guy. PKE meter extended before him, Peter went into the kitchen and circled the huge island overhung with heavy brass pots. A back staircase led up to a doorway and into a corridor. Peter turned on a light and proceeded ahead, eyes flickering occasionally to the meter, though he instinctively trusted his own eyes more than the steadily beeping machine. He felt sure he'd see the ghost at any moment. It was only a gut feeling, but he trusted gut feelings more than machines, in spite of Egon and Ray's faith in their gizmos.

The corridor had two bedrooms on either side. Peter checked each room while the meter continued to announce the presence of a Class 4. Still the lady was a no-show.

Peter sighed and lowered the meter. "Hello?"

His voice echoed in the almost empty bedroom. He glanced at the oak four-poster bed with its brand-new, bare mattress. A few pillows had been left on the bed, as if someone had already spent at least one night in the room. Mirance was clearly eager to get moved in. No place like home.

Peter wished the ghost would show up in here. The bed looked like a much more comfortable place to plop down for a chat than the sofa downstairs. Even the carpet, a plush thick sea blue, looked more comfortable than the sofa.

"Hello?" he tried again. "I'm Peter. I know you're here somewhere. I just want to talk."

PKE meter still lowered, Peter went back out into the corridor. Then he noticed that the light he had turned on was now off. He drew a soft breath. "Hey, sorry, I didn't know you preferred it dark in here."

He walked along the corridor to where it opened up at the stair landing which stood above the foyer. The house was quiet and Peter wondered where Mirance, Doyle, and Carson had gotten off to. Suddenly the meter's reaction to the Class 4 became more insistent. Peter dropped his left hand to the dial and turned the meter off. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in warning with all the accuracy of the meter. Peter slowly turned around. . . and there she was.

For a long moment, he could only stare at her as she stared back. She couldn't be more than eighteen or nineteen years old. Almost as tall as he, her light brown hair bouncing in loose curls over her shoulders, she was pretty in a girlish way. Her ghostly features were pale, all but her eyes, which were a deep shade of green, dark green like moss, soft and shadowed with sorrow.

"I'm Peter," Peter said again, gently, hoping he wouldn't scare her away. She stood poised like the least harsh word would make her flee. "What's your name?"

She stared back. He wondered if she could speak. He decided to try a little cajoling. He gave her his best encouraging smile. "I could try to guess your name," he said, taking a step toward her, "but that seems like a waste of time better spent talking about other things. Like how incredibly beautiful you are." He broke into an impish grin and some of the fear faded from her eyes, the edges of her slim mouth turning up ever so slightly. She extended a slender arm to point at something behind him.

Peter glanced around, half-expecting to find a second entity present. But all he saw was a small table placed up against the stair rail, atop the table an ornate vase filled with red rosebuds. Peter glanced back at the ghost. "What do you want me to see?"

She drifted past him, the slim legs beneath her trim, knee-length skirt never moving as she glided forward. She clearly had the hang of this ghost thing. Peter wondered what could be keeping her here. She reached the small table and waved a hand above the flowers.

Peter drew nearer. "The flowers?"

Her small smile widened just a little more and she nodded. She set her hand over her chest, then gestured at the flowers again. Peter caught on. "Rose? That's your name?"

This time her smile included her eyes, crinkling them at the edges. She seemed delighted he had figured it out so quick. Peter broke into a grin. "I was always good at charades. It's a pleasure to meet you, Rose." He dared another step toward her. She didn't retreat. "Do you know why I'm here?"

She gazed at him for a moment as if she hoped to read his thoughts. Finally she shook her head. Peter wondered again how she had gotten here. He wondered what sort of building had existed on this spot before Mirance built the Towers. Though she had an old-fashioned name, Rose was clearly recently deceased. Her clothes were modern, a plain white blouse, marred by an odd dark spot just below her left shoulder, and her short yellow skirt revealed an attractive pair of legs.

"It's okay, Rose." He smiled at her. "The owner of this building, he asked me to come and talk to you. Do you know him? Allen Mirance?"

At the name, the ghost's eyes widened, her lips tightening to a thin line, and she backed away from Peter. Peter realized he had frightened her and he quickly raised both hands in a placating gesture. "Rose, it's all right. No one's going to hurt you. I promise I won't. I just want to help you. That's all. Do you mind if I talk to you for a bit?"

His soothing tone seemed to reassure her. She hesitated, lingering half in, half out of the light coming from the crystal chandelier hanging above the foyer. Peter, wanting to put her at ease, shrugged out of his pack and rested it on the floor under the table. He set the meter on the table and turned back to Rose. He edged closer to her, holding her anxious gaze. "Did you live here once? Was this place your home?"

She looked confused. Then she shook her head.

"No?" Peter hesitated. "What about the building that used to be here? Was that your home?"

She shook her head again, this time with more surety. Peter considered this. "Why are you here, Rose? Is there something you need to do?"

She hesitated, gazing at him. Slowly her hand lifted to rest gently over her breast. Peter again noticed the small stain on the material and he realized with a shock of disbelief that it was blood. "Rose--" His eyes lifted to meet hers. The grief in her face was palpable. "Someone did this to you," he whispered. "Someone. . . killed you?"

Rose's hand slipped down to her side, her head drooping, shoulders bowed with the weight of her grief.

Peter felt a surge of anger overtake his shock. Who could have killed such a sweet girl? What the hell had happened here?

"Rose, listen to me. This is why you're still here, right?

You're here because you want us to know that you were murdered.

Rose? Is that the reason?"

She didn't seem to hear. Peter drew closer until he was near enough to reach out and touch her. He set his hand lightly on her insubstantial shoulder and tried not to shiver at the sensation of cold. "Rose? I just want to help you. Do you remember who did this to you?"

Her eyes took in the sight of his hand on her shoulder and she seemed only the sadder. Peter wondered if she felt his warmth, and the memory of what it was like to be alive hurt her now. Peter withdrew his hand. "Rose," he said in a softer voice. "Sweetheart, you shouldn't have to spend your eternity wandering around this place. I want you to be free. Let me help you."

She lifted her head as if it were an effort to do so. Her eyes met his again, so close now that he could see the flecks of amber in the green depths. She gave a nod. Peter smiled at her.

"You trust me?" he whispered.

She nodded again, without hesitation.

"Thanks, Rose. Can you tell me who did this to you?"

Her eyes shone as if sudden tears had formed in them. Did ghosts cry? Peter wanted to comfort her. She looked tired, as if revealing herself had exhausted her energy. Her lips parted and Peter sensed she was going to communicate a name to him. But then her gaze shifted to something past his shoulder and a look of terror flooded her features.

At that moment, Peter heard footsteps on the stairs behind him and he turned. Allen Mirance stood at the top of the stairs. As tall as Peter but not quite as slim, Mirance had silver grey hair and pale blue eyes. Peter knew he wasn't quite fifty and he moved like a man of much younger years. He wore a grey suit and dark blue tie, and looked polished and professional. As polished as he had looked on every magazine cover, and on the one day Peter had seen him in person, they day they'd both been scheduled for a talk show appearance. Peter had tried to meet the man then, but his employees--or bodyguards, as Peter thought of them now--had prevented it.

Doyle and Carson had followed their boss up the steps, and two other men had joined them. They hovered behind their boss with a protective air.

Mirance did not spare his men a glance. He gazed at Peter for a long moment without speaking, his face serious, but otherwise unreadable. Finally a slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "Dr. Venkman."

Peter remembered Rose at that moment and looked hastily over his shoulder. She was gone.

"Dr. Venkman," Mirance continued, drawing Peter's attention back. "It seems we've had a bit of a miscommunication." His voice was as smooth as if he were giving a talk show interview, as smooth as Peter, himself, could be, when he wanted to be. The smile on Mirance's lips twitched as if he found something amusing in the situation at hand. "I hired you to trap a ghost. I did not hire you to psychoanalyze it."

Peter smiled and shrugged. "Hey, when you hire me, you get a Ghostbuster and a shrink. A two-for-one you can't pass up. And it'll cost you less in the long run if I don't have to resort to zapping the poor girl."

Mirance's expression did not change, and Peter sensed that the Venkman humor was going unappreciated. "I am a psychologist," Peter said, matching Mirance's smoothness in both tone and expression. "If I can persuade a ghost to move on instead of trapping it, that's what I'm going to do."

"And have you persuaded my ghost to move on?" Mirance countered.

"I don't think so." Peter spoke carefully. A growing

uneasiness gripped him. There was something about Mirance that

bugged him. "Rose has stayed here for a reason--"

"You know her name?" Mirance's pale blue eyes pinned Peter with probing discernment. "She spoke to you?"

"She managed to communicate without speaking," Peter said, measuring his words even as his thoughts began to move with head-spinning rapidity. Rose's fear of Mirance, Mirance's strangely cagey, vaguely hostile manner. . .did Mirance have something to do with Rose's death? And now perhaps wanted to get rid of the evidence of it--Rose, herself?

Venkman, you're letting your imagination run away with you. Mirance would surely realize that calling in the Ghostbusters might well give him away. Unless he really believed that the Ghostbusters were nothing more than a group of goons who simply blasted anything ectoplasmic and asked questions later. Maybe that was what Mirance thought.

Peter shuddered. The situation reminded him of the mystery novel plots Winston was always unravelling aloud. . . and Peter had reached the point where the murderer, his deed revealed, tried to kill the hero. But this time the police weren't going to come to the rescue.

Peter knew he had to get past Mirance and his men. Doyle, Carson, and the other two now seemed as dangerous as any ghost he had ever faced, their faces hard and cold as they watched his every move. He'd figured it out, what they had done; and they knew he'd figured it out. Peter sighed inaudibly. Sometimes he was just too smart for his own good.

Remembering that he'd removed his proton pack, Peter backed a step instinctively toward it, wanting it within arm's reach. If only he hadn't taken it off, he could have set the dial down to incapacitate Mirance and his men, perhaps long enough to help Rose before he called the cops to haul Mirance off--but off for what, Peter wondered. Could a ghost testify in court? Peter could accuse him, but the guy had the funds to get off scot-free, especially if the only proof Peter had was a ghost who might or might not still be around by the time the case got to trial.

Part of him still hoping he was jumping to hasty conclusions, Peter watched Mirance, trying to see more in the man's posture and expression than was readily evident. Mirance's chin lifted and his eyes remained fixed on Peter as if he were attempting the same thing. "Please tell us, Dr. Venkman, what she managed to communicate. I would be interested to know."

Peter sensed his best bet was to play it innocent. He gave a light shrug. "Not much, other than her name. I was hoping to find out how she died. Usually that's a clue as to why a soul is still hanging around." Peter smiled ruefully. "She vanished when you guys showed up, though. Guess she doesn't like crowds." Or guys that put a bullet in her and dump her body who-knows-where.

Mirance's gaze narrowed. "I see. Do you think you can trap her for us?"

Peter thought fast. "Probably. But I'll need more equipment than I have here. And I'll need daylight. Rose has a penchant for darkness. She keeps turning off the lights."

"I've noticed that," Mirance said, voice carrying an odd note of the first discomfort Peter had seen in him. Then his expression changed, hardening, and the look in his eyes Peter didn't like at all. Mirance had probably played cat-and-mouse with too many other men--and women--who had found out more about him than he wanted them to know.

"Dr. Venkman. I've seen you on the occasional news interview and talk show. I mistook you for a show man, a con artist who'd managed to rope in a couple of outcast scientists to run one of the biggest scams this town's ever seen. When I discovered I had an unwelcome ghost of my own, I checked you out a little more, to make sure you had the firepower to do what your ads claim. But I underestimated you. It isn't the sort of mistake I make very often." Mirance sighed heavily and his lips tightened. "Unfortunately for you, I've made it now."

Peter heard the bold words and anger rocketed through him as the full truth of the situation became clear to him. He was so angry he forgot to play it innocent. "You son of a bitch. You did kill her, didn't you?"

The millionaire's expression barely changed. The blue eyes remained calmly fixed on Peter, the same small, light smile returning to the man's lips. But Peter's question won a reaction from Mirance's bodyguards, who stiffened like dogs sensing the command to attack is coming.

Peter wondered if he could dive for his pack before they jumped on him. His desire to lay Mirance low with a good hard right battled momentarily with his desire to run like hell. Finally good sense won out and, knowing he couldn't get to his thrower before they got him, he leaped over the balcony rail. The marble floor whooshed up at him and he landed hard on his side. Without stopping to check for injuries, he shoved himself to his feet and lurched toward the door.

A shot rang out and Peter instinctively dropped to the ground. He peered up toward his escape route, the oak door which stood just a few feet away. Then he heard Mirance's voice.

"I suggest you do not move from that spot, Dr. Venkman, unless you would like to immediately join Rose, wherever she may be."

Peter swore under his breath. Okay, he wasn't going to get out of here that easily. He followed orders and held still, until a hard shoe tip nudged at his side. He glanced up at Doyle, who was holding a small, black revolver. Doyle waved the gun at him. "On your feet, Doc."

Peter climbed to his feet and backed away from the weapon. The other men were coming down the stairs. Mirance still stood at the landing, gazing down at him with an expression that was closed, unrevealing. "Bring him back up, gentlemen."

At gunpoint, Peter ascended the stairs and found himself face-to-face with Mirance again. He decided to try to put the fear of the unknown into Allen Mirance. "Your ghost is a smart ghost, pal," he said, keeping his tone breezy in spite of his anxiety. "If she can learn to flick light switches, who knows what else she can learn to do?" Peter gave him a derisive smile. "Before you know it, she'll be ironing your shirts. Baking cookies. Strangling you in your sleep."

Mirance's lips parted and he stared at Peter hard. Peter noted the look with satisfaction. As long as Mirance needed a Ghostbuster, Peter knew he'd remain alive. Mirance had learned a lesson and wasn't going to risk trying to get Ray, Egon, or Winston to come in and trap Rose. He evidently greatly regretted Peter's presence.

"Rose won't be around long enough to learn much else, I assure you." Mirance nudged Peter's pack, still lying under the table. "Unfortunately, I can't let you use this in order to trap her." He smiled with a humor that did not reach his eyes. "Not when you're clearly ready to try using it on me. However, I'm sure you can be persuaded to show Carson and Doyle here how to work it."

Peter shrugged. "Sure, no problem." He turned to the two men. "Which of you fellows would like to be the one to strap a portable nuclear accelerator on your back and turn it on long enough to trap a ghost?"

The two men stared at Peter, taken aback. They exchanged uneasy glances with each other. Doyle looked at Mirance. "Sounds dangerous, Mr. Mirance."

"Dr. Venkman is merely trying to spook you," Mirance said. "Do you really think any man is going to risk his life to trap ghosts?"

Doyle and Carson relaxed and smiled at each other. Mirance nodded. "Of course not. Now, Dr. Venkman, please explain the use of your equipment to my men."

"I don't think that's such a hot idea," Peter responded, managing to keep his voice calm and level. "It takes a lot of practice to get the hang of this equipment, and even then things can go wrong. You don't see any personal proton packs out on the market, do you? There's a good reason for that."

Mirance stared at Peter a full minute. Peter guessed the millionaire was trying to size up what it might take to convince him to explain the use of the packs, so Mirance's men could bust Rose. With that understanding, Peter's stomach tightened. He knew he couldn't give them that information and let them risk the pack, no matter how much he'd love to see them fry themselves. And he couldn't let them succeed, either. Once they had Rose in a trap, Peter knew she'd be trapped there for good.

Mirance backed up a step, to, Peter surmised uneasily, give his men room on the balcony to work. "Gentlemen, see if you can persuade Dr. Venkman to open up for us."

Every instinct screamed flee; but Peter was surrounded. He told himself hopefully that if he could just take Doyle down, he might have a chance of escape. The behemoth of a man blocked the stairs and was flexing the fingers of both hands as he advanced on Peter.

Peter didn't hesitate any longer. He swung at Doyle and his fist connected with the man's broad chin. Doyle grunted, but did not stumble or retreat. Before Peter could take another swing at him, Carson and the other two men were on him, and his arms were pinned.

Peter swung out with both legs, one boot connecting with Doyle's stomach. Doyle stumbled that time, falling hard against the wall. Carson stepped into the spot Doyle had vacated and, before Peter could lash out at him, landed a punch that knocked the wind out of Peter. He hung gasping for breath as the other two men held him upright.

But Carson wasn't finished. Peter closed his eyes as a second blow followed the first, finding his ribs and sending a lance of agony all up his right side. More blows followed, each one seeming to find a new place to cause pain which could be felt over every inch of his body. He couldn't seem to stand up straight, but the grips on his arms prevented him from falling. After endless minutes, Peter realized vaguely that the blows had stopped. He was afraid to open his eyes, afraid to breathe too deeply. He hurt everywhere. And he had a bad feeling Mirance was only just getting warmed up.

"Dr. Venkman." Mirance's voice again, still quiet, firm, curiously patient. Fingers hooked themselves into Peter's hair and his head was yanked back. A hand slapped his cheek, but barely hard enough to hurt. "Dr. Venkman, are you ready to give us the information we need to get rid of the ghost?"

"That's what you wanted?" Peter muttered, his jaw aching.

He licked his lips and, tasting blood, grimaced. "That's easy.

I'd be happy to tell you how to get Rose to go away."

"Yes?" Mirance sounded guarded, like he didn't believe Peter would break this easily. "Tell us."

"You go to the police and confess to her murder." Peter managed to drag his eyes open and now he looked at Mirance, meeting the man's stare unflinchingly. "I guarantee you Rose will be happy to move on once that's done."

"I'm not amused, Dr. Venkman." Mirance released him and Peter, not having the strength to keep his head lifted, sagged down, closing his eyes again. He heard Mirance speak softly, words directed to his men. "This isn't going to break him. Take him to the bedroom."

What were they going to do to him? Drop him out of the fortieth floor window? But he didn't have the strength to resist them.

They dragged him down the dark corridor and he heard a door open. He opened his eyes, but could not lift his head. The blue-carpeted room. The one with the oak poster bed he had admired earlier. Suddenly he felt himself lifted off his feet entirely and he choked out a cry, wondering what was about to happen to him.

An instant later he felt himself deposited onto the bed. Confused, he forced himself to open his eyes. Mirance stood near the bed, his men gathered suffocatingly close as they pinned his wrists together long enough to lock a pair of handcuffs around them.

"What gives?" Peter muttered, blinking up at Doyle, who was nearest. Doyle didn't answer. As the men backed off, Peter tried to lower his arms; but he couldn't. He looked around in growing confusion as Carson drew a chair to the bedside and, sitting, opened a small black case.

Mirance stood directly behind Carson's chair. Peter tried to crawl to the other side of the bed, but the cuffs and his aching body made the task all but impossible.

Shaken and uneasy, Peter slumped back on the bed. "Does this mean I'm invited to stay for the weekend? It's really swell of you guys to invite me, but I've got a plane to Toronto to catch." He turned his head in Carson's direction and saw a syringe in the man's hand. The first real creepings of fear went through Peter but he tried not to let it show. He looked up at Mirance. "I suppose that's for me?"

Mirance smiled. "Another means of persuasion, Dr. Venkman.

One that I doubt you'll be able to resist."

Peter saw the gleaming needle out of the corner of his eye and he tried not to look at it. His stomach, already queasy, turned into one giant painful knot and he had to lower his head back to the pillow for a moment and catch his breath. "What is it?" he asked at last, managing this time to get some strength, via anger, into his voice. "Sodium pentothal?"

Mirance laughed softly. "Nothing so conventional, Dr. Venkman. No, this is much better. Something that will kill two birds with one stone, if you'll pardon the expression."

Peter didn't like the sound of that at all. "What is it?" he repeated, determined to know what they were going to do to him.

"Diacetylmorphine," came the answer.

The knot in Peter's stomach found its way to his throat and all but choked off his ability to breathe. "Heroin?" he whispered.

"I'm impressed, Dr. Venkman," Mirance responded.

"Apparently your degree isn't merely for show."

Peter lifted his head and stared up at Mirance. "You're

going to--but why? Why would you--"

"Two birds, as I said, Dr. Venkman. First Rose, whom we will trap with your help after we've weakened you to the point where you'll tell us anything in order to have another injection. And then you, when you have outlived your usefulness. When your body is finally discovered, down one of the many conveniently dark and filthy back alleys of this city, you'll appear to be another sad victim of drug addiction."

Mirance nodded to Doyle. As Doyle moved back toward the bed, Peter tried to edge away and, near panic, made a desperate effort to break out of the handcuffs.

"Hold him," Mirance said.

One of the men used the length of his body to pin Peter's legs down. The other took a tight grip on Peter's right arm, immobilizing both arm and shoulder with his weight. Doyle freed Peter's left wrist from the cuff and pinned the freed arm flat to the mattress. Doyle's huge, thick-fingered hand was a solid, imprisoning weight.

Peter found the only thing he could move was his head. Utterly helpless, he quit struggling for the moment and tried to catch his breath, knowing that words were his only way out now. He lifted his head just as Carson began to push up the sleeve of his jumpsuit. Peter's gaze fell on the gleaming needle lying ready on the nightstand. He had to swallow hard to fight down a new surge of panic.

Stop them. Talk them out of it. Do something!

Peter found his voice. "You think you can get away with this? You've picked the wrong guy to hook. My friends know I'm no drug user. They know I'd never. . ." He winced as Carson secured a thin strip of rubber around his arm just above his elbow. "For God's sake," Peter blurted on, desperate to get through to Mirance, "we do anti-drug ads on t.v. all the time. You have to have seen them. No one's going to believe this.

They'll find me and they'll know. They'll look for answers.

They won't quit."

"They won't find any answers," Mirance returned calmly. "All they'll find is the body of a man who indulged in one injection too many to deal with what no doubt is a tough job. I'm sure you can appreciate the irony, Dr. Venkman, of an anti-drug spokesman dying of a heroin overdose. It won't be the first time such a thing has occurred."

Peter began to struggle again; he knew he couldn't break free, but neither could he lie still for this. Doyle's hand fell heavily on his left shoulder and an instant later Peter felt the needle slide into a vein. He went limp with absolute horror and closed his eyes. The murmur of voices sounded distant beyond the thunder of his own heart.

Everything he'd learned, in school and since then, found its way back to him at that moment. He had ten seconds. Wasn't that right? Heroin took ten seconds to reach the brain when injected intravenously?

He was terrified to feel the results of the injection, knowing what a drug like this could do to him. Seven. Six. Five. Four. . .

Any moment now. All his senses were alive with dread.

Three. . .

A paroxysm of grief almost overwhelmed his fear. Ray.

Egon. Winston. Oh, guys. Guys, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Someone, probably Doyle, returned Peter's wrist to the handcuff. At the click of the metal, Peter shivered and lay still, too afraid to do anything to hurry along the reaction of his body to the drug. The heroin should have hit his brain by now. Perhaps they hadn't injected enough to cause a noticeable effect. . .

A sensation of nausea swamped his stomach. Peter moaned, certain for a moment that he was going to be sick. He felt strangely light, almost dizzy. At each heartbeat, he seemed to grow lighter, until he imagined for one alarming instant that he had just died and he was leaving his body. Was he dead? Peter tried to move. He could hardly feel his arms and legs but he thought he had managed to move a little.

A hand slapped his cheek.

"Dr. Venkman? Still with us?"

Peter could not get his eyes to focus. Finding that disturbing, he decided he'd be better off keeping his eyes closed for now. He wished his stomach would calm down. The rest of his body seemed to be having no trouble relaxing. The pain that had throbbed in his side and along his jaw no longer bothered him. In fact, he couldn't seem to feel much of anything, except the discomfort in his stomach.

Hands shook him and he tried to open his eyes and respond.

Someone, he was not sure who, was trying to wake him. The guys, attempting to rouse him for a bust? He couldn't wake fully. He couldn't even seem to open his eyes now. He shook his head regretfully. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Need to . . . rest."

"We'll give you plenty of time, Dr. Venkman."

Peter heard a door close and, after that, silence. He sensed he'd been left alone in the room, but that didn't alarm him in the least. His fears seemed to have melted away, his nausea receding, and now all he wanted to do was lie still and let himself drift.

What seemed only an hour or two later, Peter opened his eyes. He stared up into darkness and wondered where he was. He glanced around and, not finding a clock, he shifted his gaze instinctively to the curtained window. It was still Friday night--wasn't it? He tried to look around the room again, searching for clues; but his vision kept blurring and he had to blink several times to clear it. What the hell was wrong with him?

Then he remembered. He moved his arms and found them still securely cuffed to the bed. He knew where he was now. Mirance's penthouse. And he remembered why.

Peter tried to speak but his throat was too dry. He swallowed and tried again. "Rose?" His voice was so weak, she'd never hear him. "Rose, you here?"

The place was silent. Silent and dark. He shivered and tried to sit up, but the cuffs prevented that, along with muscles that ached and a left side that throbbed with a dull pain. But he could lean far enough toward the edge of the bed to see a glimmer of pale light showing from beneath the heavy curtains.

Morning light.

Peter needed help. "Rose?"

Mirance had scared her. She might not show herself again to anyone, even if she was still here. Peter swallowed, wishing for a drink of water. His mouth was too dry, his head aching. He thought of food and then pushed the thought away. His stomach was not happy at the moment, either. The drug he had been given had made the night pass swiftly, but brought a morning that made him wish he were still asleep.

"Rose, please. I need you."

She had seemed kind, even compassionate. He wondered how a woman like that had hooked up with Mirance. Perhaps she had been in love and had not seen his true colors until too late. There had been an innocence about her, even after what had happened to her. It reminded him of Ray. And Ray reminded him of home.

Peter closed his eyes, aware of how unsteady his breathing seemed, how slow and laborious. Everything hurt; but all the aches and pains in his body seemed to recede under the one suddenly tremendous ache in his heart. God, he wanted to be home. He knew no one was there. Ray and Egon were still in Toronto, by now probably sick of the speeches themselves, and wishing they were home. Winston was probably shivering over a fishing line at the moment, maybe wishing the same thing the others were.

"I gotta get out of here." Peter opened his eyes and tried to assess the damage Mirance and his men had already done. Headache, nausea, dizziness, weakness, several various aches and pains, and a lingering desire to sleep.

Peter grimaced and continued to lie motionlessly on the mattress, dreading the idea of trying to move. He wished Rose would show up.

"Personally, I don't see the appeal," he commented aloud. "I have enough trouble getting up in the mornings." He sighed and let his wrists hang in the cuffs. "Where's Egon with a hairpin when you need one?"

If he had hoped a little casual conversation might spur Rose to join in, his hopes were in vain. She didn't appear. Peter shifted on the mattress and tried to roll over onto his stomach. No good.

He shifted again, this time to the left, and lay on his side, panting. He felt a little less sick, but he couldn't hold the position. The cuffs cut too painfully into his skin. Peter sighed. Someone oughta invent cuffs that allow a little more freedom of movement. He'd mention it to Egon sometime. The idea of Egon working on extendable handcuffs made him laugh, a laugh that was a little too close to turning into a sobfest. He closed his eyes and rested his head against his arm. He was losing it fast. He had to calm down and put a plan together if he had any hope of getting out of here alive. Rescue wasn't in the cards for him this time. The guys didn't even know he was in trouble. He had to rescue himself.

He heard movement and voices outside the door. The sound set his heart racing, and he had to clench his fingers into tight, determined fists to keep control of the fear spiraling through him. He rolled flat onto his back and jerked his arms forward, but the cuffs held him securely.

The voices drew nearer. Mirance and his men. Peter was at their mercy and he knew what they had come back for.

Not again. Please, God, not again.

"Good morning, Dr. Venkman."

A light came on, too bright. Peter closed his eyes. "Turn it off."

"You'll get used to it."

Peter blinked and looked in the direction the voice had come from. Mirance stood in the doorway, smiling benignly down at him. "You're looking rather tired this morning, Doctor. How are you feeling?"

The man's false solicitousness made Peter angry. "Me? How am I feeling? Oh, I'm just great. I've just been dreaming about how much I'm gonna enjoy seeing my buddies send your atoms on separate vacations, pal."

Mirance chuckled, unruffled by the threat, and stepped into the room, Carson at his heels. Peter watched Carson briskly return to the chair beside the bed. The man had already been given his orders. As the little black case was opened and a needle extracted, Peter looked away from it and up at Carson.

"Should you be dispensing that without a license?"

"Funny you should ask that, Dr. Venkman," Mirance said conversationally, moving to the footboard and resting his hands on the ornate oak. "Carson is indeed a medical doctor and quite capable of taking care of these matters for me in a professional manner. We follow the procedures instituted at Mirance Pharmaceuticals. All our equipment is clean and reliable. Wouldn't you concur, Dr. Carson?"

"Yes, sir," Carson replied shortly, his attention on the injection he was preparing.

Peter stared at Mirance unflinchingly. "People are gonna start missing me long before you can get me hooked on this stuff. They'll be looking for me, and they have the equipment to find me anywhere in New York."

Mirance seemed unperturbed by that revelation. "Do they?

Even thirty or forty stories off the ground? Come now, Dr. Venkman. I will admit your equipment is impressive, but even an ordinary man like myself knows the difference between science and science fiction."

"Come now, Mr. Mirance," Peter said in a deliberate mockery of Mirance's tone. "Did you even believe ghosts existed before Rose showed up to point the finger at you?"

Mirance's amused look faded. "Administer the diacetylmorphine, Dr. Carson."

"Yes, sir."

Peter watched with a mingling of fear and a strange detachment as the needle found its mark. How many doses would it take before they had him describing how to do everything from aiming the thrower to springing a trap? Peter closed his eyes and exhaled softly. Not too many, he imagined. And then what would they do with him, once they had Rose trapped? Give him a final, fatal dose and dispose of his body in the nearest trash receptacle? And what would they do with Rose? Lock the trap with her inside away in a vault somewhere among Mirance's millions, to remain there permanently?

Peter exhaled again, feeling the effects begin as the drug reached his brain. The nausea was back, but with it came a rush of pleasure that caught him off-guard. He could only lie still, overwhelmed and too weak to make a sound as the sensations swamped his body.

The initial pleasure faded moments later, leaving behind the nausea and dizziness, and a strange sense of disconnectedness that Peter didn't like. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. Carson had moved from the chair, but Mirance still stood at the foot of the bed, watching him. Peter broke from that steady gaze and looked around the room. The goons had been sent out, leaving him alone with the millionaire.

"Fast-working little opiate you have there," Peter muttered.

Mirance gave a nod. "Some men are stronger than others," he commented. "It takes more than a roughing up to break them. You've proven more resilient than I would have expected, Doctor. But, in the end, this particular drug brings down even the most resolute of men."

"I haven't seen Rose since you left," Peter said after a moment. It was a struggle to think clearly, and more of a struggle to speak. "Even if I start babbling information, what are you going to do with it if Rose never comes back for you to blast her?"

"Rose will come back," Mirance said.

"You sound pretty sure." Peter met his gaze again. The effort to keep focused was almost more than he could do. "She wasn't your wife, was she?"

"Such curiosity," Mirance countered, faint amusement back in his eyes and voice as he stared down at Peter. "No, Rose was not my wife. She would never have been suited for that role."

"No? I guess not every woman can overlook moral corruption for the sake of a penthouse and a chateau in Switzerland."

"Very clever, Dr. Venkman. So you're a follower of the rich and famous, are you? A fast-talking conman like you would be. Yes, I have a chateau in Switzerland. It's there should I ever need to plan a sudden retirement. In your case, I have no worry that I can continue to call New York home for several years to come. No one's missed you yet. Your car has been safely returned to your place of business, the keys left on your desk, sans fingerprints. I have your other equipment, including the noisy little box that I played with for a bit last night."

The PKE meter, Peter thought in dismay. Egon would be furious. Peter momentarily imagined what the physicist would have to say to Mirance for fiddling with equipment with which he was not familiar, and a smile came involuntarily to Peter's lips.

"I'm entertaining you, Dr. Venkman?" Mirance moved to the chair beside the bed and leaned toward Peter. "Just let me remind you of your position. No one is looking for you. No one has missed you. From what Doyle has told me, no one is likely to miss you for at least another week. Still awake, Doctor?"

Peter felt himself fading fast. The desire to sleep was overwhelming and Mirance's words got fainter and less comprehensible as the minutes slipped by. Warm again and cozy on the bare mattress, Peter could no longer keep his eyes open.

"Still 'wake," he whispered, fighting the approach of sleep. "Someone'll. . . miss me. I know. They'll call. I won't be there."

"True. But I doubt anyone will rush home in a panic just because you haven't picked up the phone. No doubt they'll just assume you went on a little vacation of your own."

Peter heard the chair pushed across the floor. "Sleep well, Dr. Venkman."

When Peter woke again, he was completely disoriented. Light showed under the curtains, but whether it was still Saturday or now Sunday, he had no idea. He had a vague memory of being uncuffed and led to the bathroom, and locked in long enough to tend to his needs before being carted back to the bed. He recalled a sandwich being offered and refused, and remembered the bottle of water that had been thrust into his bound hands.

Peter turned his head slightly and opened his eyes. The bottle lay beside him, nearly empty. He hadn't dreamt that. But how many injections had there been? Perhaps he'd been lying here for days. Even weeks. He couldn't begin to tell.

"Damn it." Peter groaned and writhed miserably on the mattress. That much time couldn't have gone by already. No, it was still December, and either Saturday or Sunday. Monday at the latest. Maybe Tuesday. The guys would come home soon and, not finding him, they'd start to worry right away. Peter had wanted the bust to be a secret, so he could surprise the guys with the Christmas gift of their dreams. He'd expected to have the bust done quickly and to be back home the same evening. There was no note lying on Janine's desk to let everyone know where he'd gone. That had been his first mistake.

No. His first mistake was in thinking he could handle a bust on his own. He should have waited. He should have set an appointment for Mirance. It wasn't an emergency. If he hadn't had dollar signs blinding him. . .

He'd not only doomed himself, he realized, sickened by the growing realization. He'd doomed the business. When his needle-riddled body was discovered, the newspapers and tabloids would have a field day. His reputation would be ruined, and Ray's, Egon's, and Winston's would all be suspect. What credibility they'd managed to maintain in the face of a naturally suspicious world would be shot to hell.

And all because the famous Dr. Venkman had been arrogant enough to think he could handle a bust all by himself.

Peter rolled onto his left side and leaned over as far as was possible in the handcuffs. Not a moment too soon. He threw up, his body shuddering convulsively, as if he'd completely lost control of every muscle in it. When his stomach was empty, he slumped his head onto the bare mattress and closed his eyes.

Would the guys think he had been using drugs behind their backs? God, they couldn't think that. They couldn't. Peter refused to entertain the notion further. They'd know that someone had done this to him. They'd figure it out and maybe they'd even find a way to expose Mirance.

A weak chuckle escaped Peter. No one was going to expose Mirance. Wealthy, powerful men like that knew how to protect themselves. Sure, they screwed up, but they had the means to cover their tracks, avert blame, get rid of those who might prove a problem. The guys might figure out that someone had pumped him full of heroin but Peter doubted they would ever learn who did it. It bothered him that Mirance would get away with this; but it bothered him even more that the guys would never forgive themselves for leaving Peter at home alone, for not being home when he'd gotten into trouble, and for not rescuing him in time to prevent the ignoble death Mirance had planned for him.

"God, what have I done?" Peter screwed his eyes shut tight. The room seemed cold, and ominously quiet. As sick as he felt, he dreaded the sound of voices, dreaded the approach of footsteps in the corridor. Another injection would mean a momentary pleasure mingled with a peculiar sickness, a sensation he was growing all too used to--followed by a period where he seemed to hover at the edge of consciousness, disconnected and floating, and unable to think at all. And finally sleep. Endless and seemingly dreamless sleep.

And waking. Waking to a cold, quiet room, where he had to lie alone with his jumbled thoughts and silent terror, and an increasingly heavy burden of guilt and despair, all of which ate away at him.

Until the next injection.

"Rose!" He tried to scream her name, but his voice came out only a raw, painful sound barely above a whisper. He seemed to remember visions of her standing near the bed. But now he believed he had only dreamed it.

Peter stared up at the ceiling and broke into a humorless grin. God, he had never felt so lousy in his life.

He had fought hard against the first injections; but he knew he hadn't fought the last one. It took too much out of him and he'd wanted to remain awake as long as possible and keep Mirance in the room and talking, in order to get any information that might help in a possible escape attempt.

Not that it was doing any good. Mirance never hung around for long. And Peter was finding it harder and harder to concentrate even after waking from sleep. His brain didn't seem to be able to stay with one thing very long, certainly not long enough to formulate an escape plan and attempt to execute it.

"Rose?" Peter did not try to yell again. It hurt to do that, hurt both his head and his throat. His stomach had settled a little and if he lay very still, he was not in too much pain. "Rose, please, Mirance isn't here. It's just you and me. I want to ask you something."

Silence. "Rose, if you're still here, I'm asking you for five minutes. Just five minutes. I know you're scared. I know you understand why I came here, and what Mirance wants to use my equipment to do to you, but if he shows up, we'll hear him and you can disappear. He can't get you if he can't see you."

Another stretch of silence. Peter knew one thing for certain. Rose was his only chance now, just as he was probably hers, if she was still trapped here. "Rose. Please."

The room was colder. Peter blinked and looked around. There, at the foot of the bed, stood Rose, looking just as she had appeared before. She drifted closer to him and looked down at him, her wide green eyes filled with anguish. She held her hand over his cheek but did not touch him.

"I know I'm a mess," Peter said, managing a weak grin for her. "I usually look a lot better than this. You remember, don't you? I looked pretty dashing when I first showed up here." He paused to catch his breath. "If only I had a comb." He held her gaze, smiling at her.

She looked like she wanted to smile back, but her fear overwhelmed her. Her eyes kept going to the door, as if expecting Mirance to walk through at any moment with a thrower in hand.

Peter tried to distract her. "Hey, beautiful, how about a game of twenty questions?"

She continued to watch him, her eyes sympathetic as her gaze travelled over his limp, battered body. Peter tried to raise his head a little. "You found out some bad things about this guy, Mirance, didn't you? Some sort of criminal activity? And he shot you."

Her hand went to the stain on her blouse, an automatic gesture, and her eyes closed as if trying to shut away the memory of her final moments.

"Rose, I'm sorry," Peter whispered, trying to draw her attention back to him. He hated to pull her into this conversation, but he hoped it would help her disperse. Mirance wasn't going to get caught, and Rose might escape the ghost trap, but she'd still be stuck in the penthouse, invisible and alone forever, if she couldn't peacefully disperse.

"You worked for Mirance, didn't you?" he asked.

Rose nodded, regret in her eyes. Peter persisted. "And you started dating him when he showed an interest in you?"

She nodded again, gazing at Peter with a curious look. His guesses, accurate evidently, were all instinct. Rose seemed impressed. Peter kept going. "And you found out about something--something Mirance has done--and he found out that you knew. And he didn't think he could buy your silence the way he bought the silence of his other employees."

Peter paused, trying to gather enough energy to keep the conversation going. He forced his eyes to stay with Rose. "Is that what happened? Am I close?"

Rose gazed at him for a moment; then, with an odd expression of shame in her face, she lowered her gaze and nodded.

"You aren't taking the blame for any of that, are you?" Peter asked gently. "Sounds to me like he used you and then, when he realized you were too smart and too decent for him to be able to keep using you, he murdered you."

Rose's hands covered her mouth and she avoided Peter's gaze. Peter shook his head. "Rose, it's okay. Listen. I don't think you did anything wrong. You just had a good job, and a boss you thought was a good guy. And he turned out to be not so good." Peter thought for a moment. "I wish you could tell me what he did. Maybe if you could, we could nail the bastard."

Silence followed and Peter closed his eyes. It was no use. For some reason, she couldn't speak to him. "If only you could sign," he said, exhaling a long, weary breath. Realizing she might leave him alone if she thought he was falling asleep, Peter opened his eyes with an effort. His vision was blurry. And he was monstrously thirsty.

"Don't suppose you have any beer in the fridge?" he asked. He turned to Rose and was surprised to see her eyes wide, a smile on her lips.

Rose lifted her hands and signed, "No beer. How about Pepsi?"

Peter gasped. He shoved himself backward, trying to sit up, and stared at Rose in amazement. "You can sign! Why didn't you sign from the beginning?"

She tilted her head slightly, still smiling at him, and signed, "I did not think you could read sign language."

Peter broke into a weak laugh and dropped back onto the bed. "Well, I can read it. Just barely though. If Egon or Ray were here. . ." Peter stopped. Just mentioning their names aloud cut through him with knife-sharp agony. His throat grew tight and he closed his eyes, listening to his own ragged breathing. The release of tears seemed almost a necessary thing, but he wouldn't allow himself that. He was too angry. So angry that he almost had himself convinced he deserved this nightmare for being so stupid and selfish.

He deliberately forced back the tears. When he was composed enough to speak, he turned back to Rose. She had been watching him quietly. Now she lifted her hands to sign. "Friends who worry about you."

Peter nodded, not wanting to talk about it. He could not hold back the tears if he did. "They'd worry," he answered shortly. "If they knew."

Rose nodded. She signed, "I have friends. Back in Oklahoma. I left them to come here. Mistake."

Peter gazed at her. A mistake. And her mistake had been as costly as his would be. "You had proof, didn't you? Proof that Mirance is involved in all sorts of illegal shit, I bet."

"Importing banned drugs," Rose signed. "Financial fraud. Tax evasion. Manufacturing, possessing, and distributing illegal drugs." Her lips pressed together, eyes darkening. "Among other things."

"I'd call that a big yes," Peter whispered. "How long were you working for him?"

She signed, "three months."

"You figured out what he was into after just three months?"

Peter said, impressed.

A small frown puckered her brows. "Deaf does not equal stupid," she signed, vehemence in the movement of her hands. Then she frowned again, this time at herself, he guessed. A rueful smile touched her mouth, and she added, "Sorry. Force of habit."

Peter nodded, understanding. "You got underestimated pretty often, didn't you?"

"Yes," she signed. "People back home. Allen was different. He was nice to me at first. Respectful. He even learned some signs. But. . . " Her hands lowered, her expression sad again, and distant.

Peter's heart went out to her. She was brave to leave home and come to New York on her own, with the added burden of an impairment which must have made life in the city seem even more lonely and frightening at first. He imagined she had handled it well, in spite of that. She had gotten what she must have thought at first was a great job. But she had been underestimated here, too, by a man who solved his problems with a gun.

Peter was angry at the thought, but that anger did nothing to fuel his body into a more alert state this time. He concentrated on breathing for a few minutes and wondered how soon the next injection would be. Then he realized he was looking forward to it with a sense of anticipation, a feeling of need.

"Shit," Peter whispered. "That son of a. . . "

Mirance wasn't going to win, not altogether. Peter lifted his head with an immense effort and focused on Rose. "Rose, look around you. Do you see any kind of light anywhere in the distance?"

Rose stared back at Peter for a moment before letting her gaze drift. From his view, she merely seemed to be taking in the room around them. But he knew better. "Look carefully," he said. "Somewhere out there, there's gotta be a light. It's meant for you. It's your way out. See it?"

Rose stared across the room as if seeing something in particular. She lifted a hand, fingers extended, and her face took on a dreamy look.

"You see it," Peter whispered. "Rose, will you do something for me? Will you walk toward it? Walk toward it, and keep walking until you reach it. Go on into it. That's where you belong. Think you can do that?"

He hated to let her go. She was a comforting presence in the midst of his nightmare. But she was in greater danger than he if she remained. Her soul was at risk, and an eternity locked in a trap wasn't something Peter would wish on anyone. Well, maybe one or two people. . .

"Peter." She signed his name.

Peter sighed. It was so good to know he wasn't alone. But he couldn't let her stay another moment. "Go on, Rose. The Other Side's a pretty nice place, from what I hear. Probably some folks you know there. They're waiting for you. Go ahead."

Rose leaned toward him, her eyes intent. Peter looked up at her. "Please," he whispered. "Go. Before I start begging you to stay. My death's gotta mean something, Rose, and if you make it to the light, it will mean something. Maybe my friends will never know that, but I'll know. So you'd be doing this for me. Whaddya say?"

She shook her head. "Cannot go," she signed.

Peter groaned softly. He knew what this meant. "Let me guess. You're stuck here until you let someone know what he did to you. You got that message through to me--but that's not going to cut it, is it?"

Peter closed his eyes as a momentary dizziness swept over him. He blinked, annoyed at the weakness, and looked up into Rose's sympathetic face. "Telling me isn't going to cut it. You have to tell it to someone who's gonna make it out of this place alive, right? And it doesn't look like that's going to be me."

She put her fingers to her lips and her eyes seemed enormous in her pale face. He had frightened her. "It's okay," he said gently. "Look, Rose, you have more control over this situation than I think you realize. You can show yourself when you want to. You move fast and you have a knack with light switches that would make you really unpopular with the power company."

She smiled at that and Peter was pleased he'd coaxed even that small smile out of her. "I bet you can do more than that if you wanted to," he said, putting as much encouragement into his tone as he could in his weakened state. "You could probably move things around. You might even get a word or two out if you really concentrated on it. I'd love to hear your voice, Rose. It's pretty lonely in here when I'm awake. I've never handled being alone very well."

It was something he didn't admit very often, but somehow it wasn't too difficult to tell Rose. She could get a look of sympathy on her face that reminded him of Ray. Peter usually didn't like sympathy from others; but Ray had a way of showing such guileless concern that Peter had no ability to resist it when Ray reached out to him.

Peter sensed the same sort of sympathy from Rose and it made him feel like he could tell her anything. "I like having friends around." Peter held onto her gaze. Weariness was overtaking him but he couldn't go to sleep. He wanted to keep talking to her now that he'd gotten her out of hiding. "Think we could be friends, you and I?"

Her gaze softened. She lowered her hand again, close to his brow without touching him, and she looked like she wanted nothing more than to smooth his tangled hair back with her fingertips; but she hesitated as if she knew that her touch would only chill him. Peter kept his eyes locked with hers. "I'm glad you're here," he said, the last of his strength going into those words.

He couldn't stay awake. Darkness descended with shocking rapidity and time lost all meaning once again. Once or twice he knew he was dreaming. Ghosts--ugly, hungry goopers with gleaming fangs--chased him through empty space. As he ran, he caught glances of them, getting ever nearer. When they were almost upon him, he could see their teeth, long, thin, and glistening like needles. The ghosts pounced on him and their teeth sank into him, going deep under the skin to pierce vital organs. Even as they tore at him, he looked around wildly, instinctively, for the guys. They'd come. They always did. They would this time, too. He might get into trouble, but they knew how to get him out of it when he got in too deep to dig himself out.

Peter awoke with a gasp, to look up into the calm, almost expressionless features of Dr. Carson. He realized what had awakened him. A needle, buried in his arm and digging down hungrily into a vein. Peter jerked back, breaking the unprepared Doyle's hold on his wrist. The needle slid out of his arm, but Carson seemed unalarmed. "He took most of it," the doctor stated as Mirance stepped into Peter's line of sight.

"Good." Mirance studied Peter for a long moment. "Dr.

Venkman. Good morning. You're not looking very well. Pale. Tired." He leaned over Peter. "We've brought you a bite of dinner. Hungry?"

Peter turned his head away. He heard Carson's voice. "No appetite." It sounded like they were comparing notes on his progress toward complete addiction. Then, he knew, they would start withholding the drug and the real fun would begin.

Peter closed his eyes as the effects of the injection hit. The cycle was starting anew. It seemed to have gone on for so long, he couldn't remember how he'd felt before this all began. He lay still, absorbed in the momentary rush, noting that it seemed to be fading faster.

Or maybe it wasn't, but he was too exhausted to notice the difference. He lifted heavy eyelids and turned his head in the direction he knew he'd find Mirance.

"Today. . . Wednesday?" Peter tried to focus on Mirance but his eyes didn't seem to want to go to that much trouble.

"Wednesday!" Mirance repeated, and gave a laugh. "Sunday, Dr. Venkman. Sunday, December 12th."

"Disorientation." Carson again. Peter wished he'd shut the hell up.

"There's only one thing he'll be needing to remember," Mirance responded. "And I think he'll manage to remember it when called upon to do so." He moved to the doorway, becoming only a tall, blurry object in Peter's fading vision. "See you in a few hours, Dr. Venkman."

The room was nothing more than vague shadows around him. He wanted to call out to Rose, but he didn't have the energy to talk. He didn't have the energy to do anything. So he closed his eyes and slept.

He awoke from a dreamless sleep and wondered for one frightening instant if he'd lost his vision altogether. After a moment, he could make out faint outlines. The nightstand. The curtains. The door. It was just nighttime, that was all. Then he heard the faint rumble of thunder beyond the window. A dark and rainy night. A cold rain. Would it sleet?

Peter tugged at the cuffs. What day was it now? He couldn't remember. He wondered if today was Christmas. "Merry Christmas, Dr. Venkman," he rasped in a voice close to non-existent. "You complete and utter. . . "

Then he remembered. Mirance had said December 12th. But that wasn't the important date. It was December 13th that Peter had wanted to remember. Ray and Egon. They were coming home on the 13th. And Winston on the 14th.

Tomorrow, Ray and Egon would be home. At the thought, Peter's longing for home intensified unbearably. He felt his eyes burn and he squeezed them shut. Hot tears trickled over his face and he felt sick again. He gasped for air, fighting against the sickness, but unable to fight the emotion. He wanted home so badly. He wanted this entire week to have been a nightmare. Any minute now he'd feel Egon's hands on his shoulders, shaking him gently to wake him, and that familiar voice, deep and reassuring, telling him he was safe in his own bed.

"Egon," Peter whispered, keeping his eyes closed. No answering reply came. "Egon, be here. Please be here."

Peter opened his eyes. A silent room, plunged into what seemed permanent night, reminded him that it wasn't a dream, it was reality, one which he'd brought about through his own stupidity. This would tear the guys all up when they found out. They'd hate him for being so careless, so self-indulgent. So what if he had handled Class 4's well in the past? He wasn't a lone Ghostbuster. He was part of a team. He had a responsibility to watch out for the others, and for himself, too. When he was reckless with his own safety, it hurt the others. He would not be the only one harmed by his decision to take on this bust without backup.

They would be hurt, and angry. He wanted them to hate him.

He deserved as much.

"Egon, I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Peter heard his own voice, alienly worn and frail, and he deliberately closed his eyes, willing sleep to come back and shield him from the consequences of his bad judgment.

Sleep obliged.

* * *

Ray Stantz bounced out of the cab and onto the curb. As he turned to watch Egon exit rather more gracefully from the other side and bend to pay the driver, he grinned happily. "We're home!" he said.

"Raymond, that is the third time you've made that exact statement since we left the airport." Egon's tone might have sounded stern to an outsider, but Ray heard the affection in it.

Ray knew Egon was equally pleased to be home. "Yeah, Egon, but now we really are home. I'm just happy to be here."

Egon's gaze lifted to the second floor of the firehouse, and then to the third, and he sighed in satisfaction. "I'm rather pleased to be home, I will admit. I'm surprised that Peter wasn't at the airport to meet us."

"I still think he spent the week at Alison's," Ray said, shrugging. "You know Peter. He doesn't like to stay here alone for long."

"Yes, I know. But it isn't like him to not at least check the messages or remember to give us a call to let us know where he is." Egon, hefting a carry-on over his shoulder, headed toward the door. "And her name is Angela, I believe."

"Angela?" Ray followed him. "I thought it was Alison."

"Alison was back in November, Ray."

Ray laughed and shook his head. "I can't keep track of them anymore. I don't know how Peter does."

"Peter is quite capable of remembering the most complex of details when he wants to keep track of something." Egon dropped the luggage near Janine's desk and noted the flashing light on the answering machine. He sighed and jabbed the answering machine button with a finger. "Returning phone messages is clearly not one of the details he's been interested in remembering this week."

Apart from a few messages from clients seeking help, there were three separate calls from Winston, the last one good-naturedly exasperated that Peter wasn't there to pick up.

"I'm surprised Winston left so many messages," Ray said, easing Egon's carry-on over his shoulder along with his own and starting for the stairs. "The first time he called us in Toronto, he did say he was rather far from a phone and wouldn't be calling much."

"Yes. But he was probably worried when Peter did not answer the phone or return his call." Egon's gaze lifted thoughtfully toward the stairs. He took note of the silence. "I'm a bit worried myself. Peter was rather quiet the day we left, if you recall. I thought he might be coming down with something." Egon followed Ray to the stairs. "He may have gotten sick and could not get out of bed to answer the phone."

"I thought of that, too," Ray said, worry in his voice. Egon caught his arm before he could start up the steps and gently reclaimed his own carry-on and one of the suitcases, giving Ray a look of affectionate reproof.

"I'll take it up, Raymond." As they reached the second floor, Egon glanced around. The place was tidy, no sign of Peter having indulged in late-night popcorn fests with Slimer to take the edge off any loneliness. "Hmmm."

"Looks too clean," Ray agreed with a small laugh that did not mask the subdued anxiety in his tone. They went up to the bunkroom, but, to their momentary relief and renewed anxiety, Peter was not lying sick in bed. There was no sign of him anywhere. "Think he really stayed with Angela?"

"Possibly." Egon dropped his luggage on his bed. "One way to be certain." He went back downstairs and opened Peter's desk drawer, removing the little black book. As Ray joined him, Egon paged through the book and a look of amusement touched the corners of his mouth and shone in his eyes. "He's crossed out a great many names in here. Less than amicable partings, I assume."

Ray broke into a laugh. "Maybe we should get him a new black book for Christmas."

"A gift I'm sure Peter would appreciate." Egon shook his head. "I don't see--oh, wait a moment. Angela Livingston?"

"That's her," Ray said with an eager nod. "She was the tall blond lady modelling those swimsuits, remember?"

"Ah yes. A remarkable example of a physically fit female." Egon cleared his throat and, trying to ignore Ray's grin, slipped past him to go to the phone. As he picked up the receiver, he turned back to Ray. "Speaking of lists, Ray, have you seen that parts list? I thought we had it with us in Toronto, but I couldn't find it among the papers I'd brought."

"I haven't seen it. We must have left it in the lab."

Egon nodded and began to dial. As it rang, he tried to make himself comfortable on the corner of Janine's desk. "Hello?" he said after a moment. "Angela Livingston? This is Egon Spengler. I'm a friend of Peter Venkman's. Yes, that's right--ah, no, Miss Livingston, I just called to. . .oh. I see. Have you. . . "

He paused again, frowning darkly, and Ray sensed it was not worry for Peter that brought on that look, but discomfort with the conversation. Ray remembered Angela Livingston's arrogant, intimidating manner and he shivered. He would never have asked out a woman like that, himself; but Peter had looked on it as a challenge. He had been at his loquacious best after they'd busted the agency's ghost, and had managed to impress the temperamental Angela long enough to get her phone number and a dinner date.

Ray sensed the date had not gone well.

Egon exhaled a faint sigh. "Sorry to have bothered you, Miss Livingston." He set down the phone and snorted in disgust, but Ray noted the faint twitch of his lips and knew he was amused as well. "Exasperating woman," Egon commented. "She says she broke her date with Peter and hasn't heard from him since. And she instructed me to advise him not to try to call her again."

"I didn't think she was right for Peter, anyway," Ray said, affronted that Angela could be so unkind to his friend.

The instant loyalty made Egon smile. "Maybe we should try Alison," he suggested. "It's also possible that he's met someone new."

Egon knew how worried Ray was. He himself wondered where Peter had been the past week. Ecto was parked safely in the usual spot, undamaged, the hood cool to the touch. The car keys lay on the desk a few inches from the phone. That meant that Peter had either taken a cab somewhere or someone had picked him up at Central. Egon scanned the desk, making sure there was no message from Peter he might have overlooked. Janine's desk was neat as a pin. She had probably tidied it up right before she left for her vacation.

It didn't make any sense no matter how Egon looked at it. Even when Peter was caught up with a new girlfriend, he seldom forgot to phone in. Egon took up the little black book again. Peter had to be at Alison's.

"Egon?" Ray was at his elbow, looking at him anxiously. Egon nodded and dialed another number. He got Alison's answering machine.

"Miss Baker, this is Egon Spengler. Please give me a call as soon as you get in." He left the number and hung up. It seemed the more he tried to reason where Peter could have gone, the greater his worry became. Peter, where are you?

"Maybe his dad came by," Ray suggested, casting about as widely as Egon for a reason for Peter's absence. "You know how Charlie likes to drag Peter off to help him out with business."

"Yes." Egon conveyed a wealth of distrust in that one word. "But even in that circumstance, Peter would have left some kind of message."

"Yeah, he would have." Ray looked around. "Maybe he did leave one. Slimer!"

Slimer popped through the wall and, with a shriek of delight, flung himself at Ray. "Ray home!" Dousing Ray, Slimer moved to Egon and, oblivious to Egon's stern look, flung his arms around the physicist. "Egon home!" As Egon sputtered and wiped his face with his handkerchief, Slimer looked around eagerly. "Winston home?"

"Not yet, Slimer," Ray said with a grin. "Do you know where Peter is?"

Slimer looked at Ray eagerly. "Slimer not know. Where Peter?"

"No, it's not a guessing game, Slimer. We're looking for Peter and we can't find him. We thought maybe he told you where he was going."

"Peter not tell Slimer. Uh uh. Peter just go after big car." Slimer snuggled against Ray's shoulder and planted another kiss on Ray's already slimed face. "Janine home?" he asked hopefully.

"No, Slimer, Janine won't be home until late tonight, and she won't come in to work until tomorrow. What do you mean, Peter went after a big car? Not Ecto?"

"Not Ecto," Slimer said with a vigorous shake of his entire body. "Bigger car. Shiny. Black."

"Sounds like a limo," Ray commented. "But where would Peter be going in a limo?"

"Talk show interview?" Egon suggested. Then he shook his head. "Wherever Peter's gone, Ray, it doesn't make sense that he wouldn't have left us some kind of message." Egon met Ray's unhappy look. "I think we have to assume he may have gotten into some kind of trouble."

"Not a bust," Ray murmured, anxiety now stark on his expressive features. "He wouldn't have gone out on a bust by himself, Egon." Ray hesitated, and looked up at Egon in increasing distress. "Would he?"

Ray was looking for the reassurance that Peter would never have taken a risk like that, especially when the guys were too far away to even find out about it until it was too late to help. Egon wanted to tell Ray that Peter hadn't gone on a bust alone; but he wasn't certain, himself, that Peter hadn't done just that. For a client who appeared in desperate need, Peter might have given in and taken the job on alone. Egon knew that Peter had enough sense to know all the dangers of attempting a lone bust; but Peter had a soft spot for people in need, and he might have allowed his natural compassion to overcome his usual good sense and practicality.

"Ray, first of all, we need to keep our heads. Peter could

be anywhere and if we don't approach this problem rationally and

methodically, we'll never find him. Judging from the information

Slimer's given us, Peter did leave here in a limo--"

"Peter not leave in big car," Slimer put in, drifting from where he'd been floating above their heads back down to Egon's eye level. "Peter go in Ecto."

"In Ecto?" Ray repeated in surprise. "But Ecto's right here, Slimer. Are you sure Peter left in Ecto?"

Slimer bounced in the air. "Slimer sure. Slimer come to say bye to Peter but Peter didn't see." He looked sadden by the memory.

Ray patted him sympathetically. "It's okay, Slimer. We're going to find Peter and bring him home. Do you remember when Peter took Ecto and followed the big car?"

Slimer's eyes narrowed in an evident struggle to remember.

"Janine leave. Then Peter leave."

"Wait a minute," Egon said, holding up a hand before Slimer could say anything else. "Janine had planned to leave right after work last Friday. Peter's been gone all week, Slimer?"

"Peter gone," Slimer concurred mournfully. "Slimer miss Peter."

"We miss him, too," Ray said, biting his lip. "What do you think this means, Egon? He went on a bust, didn't he? And now he's. . . hurt. . .and alone somewhere."

Egon drew a deep breath, fighting down his own burgeoning sense of alarm. His feeling that Peter had gotten into trouble had intensified and he didn't like any of the scenarios his imagination kept trying to present him. He thought of Peter lying alone in some deserted place, injured and unable to move, perhaps near death from a combination of hypothermia and his injuries, and that image sent his heart racing into a state all too close to panic.

"Let's do this the right way," Egon said, determinedly forcing away the images his mind wanted to present. "We'll call Winston and let him know what's going on. I doubt he'll be able to get an earlier flight, but he deserves to know that Peter may be in trouble. Then we'll call up the local limo services and see if Peter did, by any chance, hire a limo, or if a limo was hired to come to this address."

"That's a good idea," Ray said. "If you'll call Winston, I'll go upstairs and bring down a pair of meters."

Egon nodded in understanding. They had used the meters before to track each other via their biorhythms. It was a pains-taking and rather unreliable method, but the best they had at the moment. Egon wished that Janine was present; they could have used both her assistance and her car. Instead, Egon would have to take a cab while Ray used Ecto to scour the city for some sign of Peter. "Don't worry, Ray, we're going to find Peter. And when we do, we're going to hang a bell around his neck so we don't lose him again."

Ray managed a half-hearted grin at that and headed upstairs.

Egon sat down in Janine's chair and pulled out a phone book. "Peter Venkman, I promise you, if you're out there somewhere having a grand time, running around with a new girlfriend and leaving both Ray and I to worry unnecessarily, when I find you, I will. . . " His heart raced and his hands were a little unsteady. He needed to focus. He dragged the phone toward him and opened the directory.

He knew what he would do upon finding Peter unharmed; he'd hang onto his best friend just long enough to be reassured Peter was truly all right; and then, to borrow the Venkman vernacular, he'd clobber Peter soundly and make sure Peter understood in no uncertain terms that he was never to be so thoughtless again as to disappear without leaving a message behind for his friends.

* * *

The road between sleeping and waking seemed to get longer and rockier each time Peter travelled it. Sometimes he wasn't sure if he was even awake when he seemed to be. He felt positive he had experienced just about every level of consciousness and unconsciousness the human brain was capable of. Between unconsciousness, sleep, and wakefulness, being awake proved to be the least pleasant.

A waking nightmare--the long stretch of time where he lay awake and his own imagination wrecked its worst havoc on his increasingly vulnerable emotional state.

Then again, sleeping was not particularly enjoyable, either. He seemed to be dreaming incessantly, the same dreams over and over. Dreaming of home, of his friends, perhaps as a consequence of needing them so badly.

The dreams came even when he was not quite asleep, but floating in the twilight world of near-sleep. In that eerie place, he spent all his time searching for Egon, Ray, and Winston. Sometimes, he found them, and the reunion was joyous. They pounced on him, hugging and teasing, and let him know how relieved they were to have him back. Lost in that dream, Peter could forget he was lying bound and helpless and dying inch by horrifying inch. He clung to that dream. Each time he woke from it, he found himself near tears and it took him several minutes to calm down.

Those dreams, he'd enjoyed, even if waking from them to find they were only dreams was upsetting. Then there were the other dreams, where the guys stood at a distance, lingering at the edges of his awareness, watching him as if in disapproval that he could have gotten himself into such a mess.

One of those dreams had him now, though even as he experienced it, he felt himself waking. He struggled to stay with the dream, fighting like a wild man to reach his friends, desperate for the chance to explain himself and feel their arms come around him and gather him in.

But the guys vanished before he could reach them. He stood alone, unforgiven. He was going to die alone. He began to tremble.

"Egon!" He heard the stark terror in his own voice and he kept struggling. Cold metal on his aching wrists reminded him he wasn't going anywhere. He called Egon's name over and over, Winston's and Ray's, focusing on the one thing that kept him sane; his slim hope that his friends would still find him. An image rolled through his head, of the guys driving through the streets, PKE meter set for his biorhythms. They'd find him.

But would the meter's range extend to the top floor of Mirance Towers? Doubt sliced through the little hope he had left and he imagined what would happen if they didn't find him. He saw journalists besieging Central, a barrage of invasive questions for his friends, who, already battered by the shock of his death and the circumstances surrounding it, would find their nightmare furthered as they attempted to explain why Dr. Venkman's autopsy showed that his death was caused by an opiate overdose. He could see Ray's anguished face, Winston's angry one, Janine in tears. And he could see Egon, blue eyes filled with pain as he tried to deal with both the loss of his dearest friend, and the ugly rumors which would no doubt be flying.

Peter slid his body downward and pulled against the cuffs until his arms were stretched taut above his head. He thrust himself forward and the cuffs bit into his skin. A furious yell broke from him. "I'm not going to die in here! I'm not going to die!" His voice cracked and dwindled to a whisper. Wild with frustration, he pulled on the cuffs, deliberately trying to cut into the skin. If Mirance did kill him, at least the evidence of his wounded wrists would help prove Peter had nothing to do with the drugs permeating his system.

The guys would know this had been forced on him; but Peter wanted them to have evidence. Evidence that someone had bound his wrists, kept him prisoner, and pumped him full of drugs against his will.

He sank onto the mattress and let his eyes close. His anger was spent and now he felt sick again. How soon until Mirance would return to give him another injection?

Peter leaned over and looked down at the edge of the drapes, to see no light at all. He sensed it might be early morning, but he was no longer sure what hour of the day it was, nor even what day it was.

He lay back flat on the mattress and let his wrists hang against the cuffs. He tried to ignore the pain and discomfort he felt over every inch of his body. Maybe he could get back to sleep. And maybe he would see the guys again in his dreams. He closed his eyes and willed sleep back, trying to relax a body that felt like it was already broken beyond repair.

"Sleep," he murmured encouragingly. "Come on, Petey boy. That's where the guys are waiting for you. Back to dreamland now. Sleep."

But sleep was not cooperating this time. Peter reluctantly opened his eyes and, sensing movement, gasped, startled. Could it be time again already? Then he realized the figure beside the bed was not solid and he almost cried aloud in relief. "Rose!"

Her expression, as she gazed down at him, was so sorrow-stricken that Peter wanted to reassure her. "It's morning, isn't it?" He managed a shrug and a weak smile for her. "I'm never at my best in the morning. Just ask the guys."

She glanced toward the drapes, then back at Peter, looking alarmed. Peter's heart seemed to go still for a moment.

"They're back, aren't they?" he whispered. "They're coming up?"

Rose's lips parted and she drew a deep breath that lifted her shoulders, as if she were fighting down emotions of her own. Her fingers pressed against her lips, her eyes so bright, she seemed a living, breathing woman, not a ghost.

Peter tried to pull himself up a little, but it seemed more difficult than climbing a hundred flights of stairs with his pack strapped to his back. He sagged back down and writhed fitfully on the bed. "Rose," he whispered, drawing out her name since he couldn't raise his voice. "Listen to me."

For a moment, he wondered if she could; his voice was so frail. But there was no time to speak slowly and carefully. He pressed on desperately. "You have to listen. It's important, okay? Mirance has the equipment I use to trap ghosts, and he's going to use it on you--" He paused as her face filled with fright. "Don't panic, Rose. You have to be strong now. I know you are strong, and you can do this. It's a real simple thing, okay? All I want you to do is hide."

As Peter paused to catch his breath, she took a tentative step toward him, bewilderment in her face. She shook her head and signed the word "hide" as if questioning why he would want her to do that after he had expended such effort over the past few days to call her forth.

"Hide," Peter rasped, nodding. The movement made his head spin and he moaned and momentarily shut his eyes against the dizziness. But he couldn't stop now. She needed to understand the full danger of her situation.

Peter dragged open his eyes and tried to focus. "Rose, Mirance will stop the injections." She blurred in front of his eyes and he didn't know whether she was vanishing, or his eyesight was faltering again. "Don't know if I'm going to be able to keep from telling him what he wants to know."

His voice faded and she drew nearer. Peter gestured weakly with his fingers to get her to come even closer. "Gonna try to keep my mouth shut. That's a promise. But if I can't. . . " He stopped again, swallowing against the ache in his dry throat. Every breath he drew made it worse. He glanced down regretfully at the empty bottle of water, wishing he'd saved a little of it. But he'd been so thirsty.

The need to lie back, close his eyes and drift was coming back rapidly upon him. Peter shook his head and, putting everything he had into staying awake and focused, pushed the words out, one after another.

"Rose, as long as Mirance can't see you, he can't bust you. If he traps you, he'll hide the trap away somewhere where no one can ever find it. You'll be his prisoner and that'll be far worse than haunting this penthouse for the rest of eternity. I don't want that to happen to you, Rose. Do you understand? That's why you've got to hide. As long as he can't see you, he can't trap you. If you hide, then no matter what I end up telling him, you'll still be safe."

Peter heard footsteps in the hallway. Voice spent, he could only whisper. "Get out of here, Rose. Go on. Go away and don't show yourself again."

She stared at him another moment, seeming unwilling to leave him alone; but at the sound of the doorknob turning, she vanished. When she was gone, Peter exhaled in relief and closed his eyes. She was safe for now, and hopefully she would remember what he'd told her.

The door opened but Peter kept his eyes closed. He was sick of the sight of Mirance and his goons. No one spoke, but Peter heard movement as someone approached the bed. A moment later, a hand struck him across the face, a slap to wake him. "Venkman?"

Peter opened his eyes and blinked. Mirance's face hovered above him in the semi-gloom. The millionaire stared at him with a curious expression of detached interest, as if Peter were a lab experiment and Mirance was checking in on the results.

"Dr. Venkman, good, you're awake. Hungry?"

A sandwich appeared before Peter's eyes and the sight of it made his stomach churn. He turned his head away.

"You haven't eaten in quite a while," Mirance said. "Are you sure you don't want this?" Mirance waited and, when Peter didn't respond, he took away the food. "Dr. Carson. Please proceed."

Peter shuddered. He turned back to Mirance. He hated to ask the man for anything; but he had to. "Water," he whispered.

Mirance smiled magnanimously. "Of course." One of the men standing in the shadowy doorway handed over a bottle of water and Mirance opened it and put it into Peter's hand. Peter quickly upended it and water trickled into his mouth. The relief of his thirst almost made him gasp aloud.

"You may keep the bottle." A silence fell and Peter stiffened in dread, knowing what would come next. But to his surprise, he felt Mirance's hand on his wrist instead of Doyle's. The millionaire made a soft tsk'ing sound. "You're bruising your wrists deliberately, aren't you, Dr. Venkman? I do hate to see you injure yourself in this way. Dr. Carson, I think it would be appropriate to bandage these wrists before returning them to the cuffs. We wouldn't want Dr. Venkman to leave here with any other wounds." Mirance's face hovered above Peter, a small smile playing on his lips. "You seem like a man who would prefer to leave a good-looking corpse, Doctor."

"I'd love to," Peter whispered. "But mine isn't the one I have in mind."

Mirance looked genuinely amused at that. "Witty fellow, aren't you? I remember watching you on the talk shows. Always had the crowds entertained. New York City's going to miss you, Dr. Venkman." Mirance stepped back. "Go ahead, Dr. Carson." That command was followed by the nightmarishly familiar creak of the chair.

No. Please. No, no, no, no. . .

Hands released his left wrist from the handcuff and pinned his arm down on the mattress. Peter shut his eyes. I'm not here. I'm home. I'm sitting at the table, sharing a pizza with the guys, and Slimer's dive-bombing for the leftovers. I'm in the lab, watching Egon and Ray puzzle over plans for some new gizmo, and they're giving me those reproachful looks they get when I tease them about blowing things up. I'm standing with the guys and we're facing all the nastiest goopers in the universe and we're trapping them all, like the great team we are. I'm . . . I'm. . .

"Up the dosage," Mirance said, his smooth voice cutting into Peter's desperate attempt to be anywhere else when the injection was given.

"Sir, I've already--"

"Up it again."

A moment of silence passed. Peter could only wait, having neither the strength nor will to move or speak. He felt, in a weird way, detached from the tormented body lying on the bed. He wondered how pure the drug was. Days ago, Carson had said something about ten milligrams. Were they giving him so much? They would overdose him before they even got the information they wanted.

"No need to worry, Dr. Venkman," Mirance said, as if he knew what was going through Peter's mind at that moment. Mirance's voice came closer. "In a few more days, the injections will end. I think we've brought you far enough along to get what we need from you without too much of a fight. Wouldn't you say?"

Peter looked up at Mirance. His throat soothed by the water, he managed to speak a little more clearly. "The only way you'll get anything from me without a fight is when I'm dead."

"Are you at all familiar with the symptoms of heroin withdrawal, Dr. Venkman?"

Peter wasn't going to give Mirance the satisfaction of knowing he was scared. He shrugged. "When you've defeated Gozer and survived some of the meanest ghosts and demons around, opiate withdrawal's a walk in the park."

Mirance's eyes darkened, but only for an instant. Then he smiled. "Very convincing, Dr. Venkman. But even if you did believe that, the next few days should convince you that you are as vulnerable as any man to the power of addiction."

"So I'll be sick for a day or two," Peter said, refusing to back down. "You're talking to a guy who gave new meaning to the term 'hung over' in college."

"You'll be experiencing a little more than a headache, I assure you," Mirance said. "We've increased your dosage steadily, and now we're going to up it again. Your injections have been like clockwork, timed to keep you from coming down completely. Your body belongs to the drug, Dr. Venkman. In a few days, you're going to begin a descent into such complete suffering that college hangovers will seem like minor tension headaches."

Mirance looked pleased at the very thought. He let out a regretful-sounding sigh. "I would have liked a month or even longer in which to work with you, Dr. Venkman. It would have been amusing to watch you come down from a full-blown addiction. But unfortunately I have other deadlines to meet. We have a grand opening celebration planned for the Towers a few days before Christmas and we must have you removed before then."

"Yeah, I can see how it might cut into the festive air of a grand opening to lug a dead body through the lobby."

The comment brought a faint look of annoyance to Mirance's expression. But Peter hardly noticed it. His gaze was drawn to Carson, who sat waiting patiently, syringe in hand. Peter's grip tightened convulsively around the water bottle. The sight of the prepared drug was still terrifying. But that sense of need was back, that tingling of anticipation. The dose would eliminate every present agony he felt, both the aches in body and spirit. A part of him looked forward to that. It would bring sleep back, and sleep was the only safe place now. The only bearable place.

He was addicted to it. Addicted to heroin. His mind whispered it over and over, and hideous awareness slid slowly through his veins like a thick cold sludge, threatening to suffocate what life was left in him. The peace to be found in that needle was also death. It was killing him.

And he wanted it.

Peter looked away from the needle and back up at Mirance.

He hated the man more than he had ever hated anyone in his life.

"Got some bad news for you, bunky," he whispered. "Rose isn't going to be around to be busted. We had a little chat, she and I, while you were away. She signed a whole bunch of interesting tidbits of information and, with a little help from yours truly, she figured out that a pathetic little son-of-a-bitch like you will end up in prison eventually. She didn't need to hang around to watch it happen."

Mirance stared at Peter, that probing gaze again. Peter met it with defiance. He hoped he was scaring the hell out of the bastard. And he hoped Rose had heard every word.

"Dr. Carson," Mirance said at last, moving aside so that Carson could reach Peter more easily.

Peter couldn't watch. He looked away, his gaze wandering the room, of which every detail had already been committed to memory. He barely felt the needle as it entered the vein. Out of habit, he began to count backward from ten in his mind. His train of thought was broken as the first rush hit him with an impact that sent a powerful shudder through his body and forced a gasp from his throat.

How much had they given him? His body was burning, throbbing, a cauldron of intense, overwhelming sensations that robbed him of the ability to speak or form a coherent thought, and very nearly ended his ability to breathe.

But it wasn't enough to kill him. After several minutes, the sensation finally ebbed. His limbs grew heavy and he knew his breathing pattern had altered, his heart rate slowing. He was floating again, into that shapeless void where his whole existence focused on breathing and floating, breathing and floating.

The room was silent and dark. Peter knew they had left him alone again. He realized he'd never even heard them go.

* * *

Winston dropped his suitcase just inside the door and stood there for a long moment, taking in the beautiful sight of home. It was great to be back. He'd had enough ice fishing to last for a lifetime. Next summer, fly fishing instead, he and his dad had agreed.

The firehouse seemed strangely deserted. Where was everyone? It was well after lunchtime. In fact, he was ready for supper and he'd hoped the guys might be sitting around a pizza by the time he got home.

He went upstairs and looked around the second floor, then the third on the chance Ray and Egon were in the lab. Winston found no sign of anyone. Troubled, he went back downstairs and tried the basement. Where the hell was everybody?

He checked the messages but there was nothing. They did know he was coming home today. He concluded they'd gone on a bust, taking Janine with them. He frowned at that. He didn't like the idea of Janine risking her life on a bust while he was away on vacation. But there was nothing he could do about that now, except hope and pray everyone came home in one piece.

And speaking of one piece. . .

Winston had made a mental note over the past week to come down hard on Peter for forgetting to return his phone calls. It was bad enough being in the middle of nowhere and chilled to the bone while trying to carry on a conversation with his equally chilled dad as the two of them pretended ice fishing was actually fun. But then to call home and get only the answering machine time after time. . .it had made Winston terribly homesick. He had found some comfort in the thought of calling Peter up and making the ice fishing vacation sound like the most fun in the world, just to get Peter back for refusing to go in the first place. Though he doubted he'd have convinced Peter he was having a great time, it would have been fun to try.

Basically Winston just wanted to be able to talk to his friends, and know they'd be there to commiserate if he decided to 'fess up and let them know he hadn't found ice fishing the most relaxing sort of vacation.

But he had never reached Peter, and though he'd left a number, Peter had never called back. Winston had talked to Ray and Egon while they were in Toronto, and they'd been sympathetic, mentioning also that they hadn't been able to reach Peter. Over the phone, Winston hadn't relayed any of the worry he had begun to feel upon finding out that no one could reach Peter--but the worry lingered with him the rest of the week, and now he knew he wasn't going to really relax until they were all back home safe.

Deciding he'd be better off doing than waiting and worrying, he unpacked and then went downstairs and cleaned up the untidy kitchen the guys had left. Just as he had decided a good hot meal might be a nice thing for the guys to come home to, he heard Ecto pull in downstairs and he ran down, repeating firmly to himself that he'd find everyone was okay.

But he didn't find any encouragement to keep believing that when he got a look at Egon and Janine as they climbed out of Ecto.

Winston moved toward them anxiously. "Egon? Janine?

What's going on, guys?"

Egon looked startled by the sight of Winston standing in front of him, almost as if he'd forgotten they had a fourth team member. A shiver of worry went down Winston's spine. Something bad had happened. Something really bad.

"Egon, what's wrong?"

"We tried to reach you, Winston," Egon began, greeting him with a warm, welcoming clasp on the shoulder. "You didn't get any of our messages?"

Winston looked at him in growing alarm. "Who's hurt? Peter? Ray?" He looked at Janine, who gazed back, her face drawn with anxiety.

"It's my fault," she began.

"No, Janine," Egon interrupted gently. "It isn't your fault. If Peter was persuaded to handle a bust on his own, he could have left any time before or after a date. I don't believe that your inadvertent termination of his date with Angela had any impact on whatever has happened to Peter. I'm convinced of that." He drew an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his side as Winston took it all in with increasing worry.

"Pete went on a bust by himself?"

Egon's face was grave, his blue eyes shadowed with what Winston knew was a combination of a sleepless night and an endlessly long and troubling day. Winston sensed the turmoil underneath Egon's calm, controlled demeanor and he grabbed onto Egon's free arm, meeting the physicist's eyes with an expression that insisted on, and pleaded for, an explanation.

"We got home," Egon began in a soft, tired voice. He hesitated. "Was it just yesterday?"

Janine nodded against his shoulder, her lips tightly pursed. Egon's hand moved up and down her arm in an absent-minded gesture of comfort. "Yesterday. Janine came in this morning. She and I have been searching downtown. Ray went north, with Slimer, in Ecto." He withdrew a PKE meter from his pocket and laid it on Ecto's hood. "Set for Peter's biorhythms." His eyes closed, his face drawn with apprehension.

"We didn't find anything," Janine finished softly, as if Winston couldn't guess as much from Egon's expression. "We haven't the least idea where he could be."

Winston exhaled a shaky breath. "I can't believe it. Peter

knows better--"

"He does." Egon opened his eyes and met Winston's gaze. "I suspect Peter put the needs of a desperate client before his own safety. He's done it before. But the circumstances in this instance are rather. . . strange. When we came home, Ecto was here, but Slimer told us that Peter left in Ecto and followed what would appear to be a limousine to the location of the bust. All we can surmise is that Peter returned without Slimer knowing about it, and then left again by some other method than Ecto."

"Or someone brought Ecto back here and parked it, and deliberately left Peter out there in trouble somewhere without any way to get back home," Janine said, her dejected tone revealing that she still blamed herself for the whole thing.

Winston set a hand firmly on her shoulder. "We're going to find Peter, Janine. And when we do, he'll tell you himself that none of this is your fault."

Janine put her hand to her lips and nodded, seeming too choked up to speak. She swallowed hard. "He can blame me, I don't care," she said. "As long as you get his butt back here safe and sound."

Winston smiled at her. "Count on it." He looked up at Egon, whose mind appeared to be a million miles away at the moment. "Egon? You look beat. You too, Janine. Why don't you guys take a break, eat something? Give me the map of the area you've covered so far, and I'll go out with a meter and cover some more ground."

"I'm not tired," Egon said. He squared his shoulders, but Winston saw in the physicist's shadowed eyes and fatigued demeanor a desperate need for rest. Winston knew what was going on. Egon had probably concluded that Peter could very well be lying injured in an area exposed to the winter weather, and Egon did not want to waste any time that might result in a worsening of Peter's health. Hypothermia, Winston thought, and frowned. Pete, damn it, what were you thinking?

Winston looked at Egon shrewdly. "You and Ray, you've been out all night looking for him, haven't you?"

"We had no choice," Egon said, quietly, calmly. The man was exerting an iron control over his emotions at the moment, and Winston knew that Egon would not be able to relax enough for sleep.

"We've already called hospitals and alerted the police," the physicist continued, picking up the PKE meter and cradling it in his arm. "Peter hasn't been found by anyone else. He's out there somewhere, Winston, in his uniform, with his pack and one of the meters, and since he hasn't contacted us in days, I can only conclude he is injured or trapped in such a way to prevent escape. And it is forty degrees out there at the moment," he finished bleakly, his shoulders drooping. He shook his head, as if he could just shrug off the fatigue. "I'm going out again."

"Then I'm going with you," Winston responded. "And I'm driving."

"You guys go out for another couple of hours," Janine said, dabbing at her eyes with her coat sleeve. "I'll make you some supper and you come home and eat it, okay? I'll feed Ray, too, when he gets back. You gotta keep up your strength, especially since you're not getting any sleep."

Egon started to turn toward the shotgun seat of Ecto, then paused and turned back to Janine. He caught her hand and held onto it, looking down into her face with a serious, thoughtful expression. "Janine. . . " He paused, and his blue eyes softened just a bit, whether from fatigue or something else, Winston wasn't sure. Egon's voice was very gentle as he continued. "Thank you, Janine. I couldn't have gotten through today without your help." A slight smile lifted his lips. "I even rather enjoyed the ten minutes I spent listening to you explain in detail to that policeman why we were parked illegally at that construction site. I'm still astonished that you talked him out of giving us a ticket."

Janine stared up at him, obviously touched by his unexpected expression of gratitude. Then she managed a small, wobbly smile, herself. "I just thought he'd understand, ya know? You guys protect this city, too. Besides, I want to get Dr. V. back just as much as you do. Just don't ever tell him I said so."

"I don't think I'll need to tell him," Egon returned, a knowing look in his eyes. He clasped her shoulder for a moment.

"Janine--"

"Hospitals," she murmured, nodding. Her eyes brightened and she put her slender hand over Egon's long fingers, intertwining her fingers with his. "I'll call them again while I'm fixing you guys a bite to eat."

Egon, looking a little flustered by the handclasp, quickly nodded and turned away from her as Winston slid into the driver's seat.

They covered as much ground as they could in two hours and returned to the firehouse for supper. Janine's car was parked at the curb. Ray was home.

Egon and Winston found Janine at her desk, talking to someone on the phone. She put her hand over the phone and smiled at them. "Food's ready and Ray's already eaten. Help yourselves." She returned to the call, leaving Egon and Winston to trudge upstairs, where they found Ray, a half-finished plate of spaghetti in front of him, sound asleep, his auburn head resting in his folded arms. Winston had to grin at that, and Egon produced a tired smile.

"Let him sleep," Winston said. "If we wake him, he'll only want to rush out again. He needs to get some shut-eye first."

Egon nodded and sank into a chair at the table. "I'm not

really very hungry--"

"You'd better eat some of this, my man, or Janine's going to go out in search of that policeman and ask him to write you up after all." Winston set a plate of spaghetti in front of him and then sat down across from Egon.

Egon hid a yawn behind his hand and reluctantly took up a

fork. "I'm going back out--"

"Egon, let me take Ecto out for a few hours. You steal a couple of hours' sleep, you and Ray both."

"No." Egon lowered the fork to his plate. "Winston, every minute we waste. . . " He stopped, his jaw tightening. Winston saw the effort he was expending to hold back the storm of emotion wanting to be expressed. Egon leaned forward and rested his head in his hands. After a moment, Winston heard his voice, almost inaudible, and strained to the breaking point with suppressed fear and grief. "Where is he, Winston?"

"I don't know," Winston said quietly, extending a hand to

set it on Egon's arm. "But when we find him, he'd better have

one damned good explanation for this. That boy can pull some

pretty impulsive stunts, but he's way too smart to take on a bust

without us, especially when we're all out of town and he knows he

can't expect any kind of back-up or rescue--"

Winston stopped abruptly on the word, feeling it echo though his insides, and he swore under his breath. Egon's blue eyes, dark with anguish he couldn't suppress, lifted to lock with Winston's gaze. Winston nodded, understanding. "I know how you're feeling. I'm scared too, Egon. This whole thing just doesn't make sense. I don't see Pete going out on a bust unless he had some real evidence it was just a Class 2 or something he could easily handle. And if it was something he should have been able to handle, then why isn't he home, safe and sound? And why's Ecto here? I don't get it."

"There was, evidently, a limo involved in Peter's disappearance," Egon said, sitting back. "There is no record of Peter renting a limo, and Janine was told by the limo services that none of the drivers took a passenger to this address."

"Someone who owns a limo, then," Winston suggested.

Ray muttered something in his sleep and shifted, his elbow precariously close to edging his plate of spaghetti onto the floor. Winston moved the plate. Ray, still muttering, shook his head. Winston saw his face twist in grief, though still locked in sleep. "He's dreaming," Winston murmured.

Egon reached out a hand to touch Ray's shoulder. Before he could, Ray jerked upright with a gasp, eyes wide open. "Peter!" he exclaimed.

"Ray," Egon began, sounding alarmed. He grasped Ray's wrist to get his attention. "Are you all right?"

Ray blinked, and his wide-eyed expression faded into a bewildered look. His gaze shifted fearfully to Egon. "Peter?"

"We haven't found him," Egon said, sympathy in his voice as he regarded Ray's hopeful and all-too-exhausted face.

"Then we're going back out," Ray said, a stubborn expression replacing the hopeful look. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. "I'm ready."

"Yeah, you look ready," Winston said in exasperation.

"Both you guys could use about eight hours of sleep."

Ray stared at him in dismay. "Winston, Peter's out there in

the cold and he could be badly hurt--"

"Hey, I know, Ray," Winston cut in gently, "but you guys aren't going to be able to find him if you are too wiped out to even read the meters."

"Then we'll go with them," Janine said, coming up behind Winston and placing her hands on his shoulders.

Ray turned to Egon. "You okay?" he asked, noting, as Winston had, the utter weariness in Egon's face.

Egon doggedly picked up the PKE meter and slipped it into his pocket. "Let's go. It's getting colder out there."

Winston watched as the two men dragged themselves to their feet and headed for the stairs. He stood and turned to Janine.

"You and me, we're the ones doing the driving. And, Janine--"

"If Egon falls asleep, I'll hang onto the meter and drive at the same time," she said, a smile on her lips as she preempted Winston's instructions.

Winston grinned at her. "Are you getting psychic, girl?"

Janine gave a soft laugh. "Nah. I've just been around you guys long enough to know how you look out for each other. I know you're as concerned for Ray and Egon as you are for Peter. You gonna let Ray fall asleep?"

"If he does, I sure won't stop him." Winston started down the stairs. "And Janine, you be careful out there. It's getting dark. Don't go wandering into any deserted areas on your own, all right?"

Janine nudged him as she followed him downstairs. "Stop being so over-protective, Zeddemore," she said in a teasing voice. "Anyway, I'll have a proton pack with me, and a semi-conscious Ghostbuster. Nothing scares me with that on my side."

* * *

Peter was standing in Ghostbuster Central. He looked around curiously. It seemed rather dark and deserted and he wondered where everyone was. He walked across the first floor toward the stairs, his footsteps the only sound in the place. It was an unsettling feeling, to be home and yet be so alone here. Surely someone was around. "Guys?"

There was no answer. Peter went upstairs. The television was dark and silent. Peter checked the kitchen, half-hoping that he'd see Egon sitting there in his nightshirt, reading a book, cocoa in hand. But no one sat at the table.

Peter went up to the third floor and stood in the darkness at the top of the stairs. "Guys?" he tried again.

The four beds stood empty and neat, the room quiet, as if no one had been there for a long time. Peter shivered. He didn't like this. Where the hell were the guys? He turned to the lab and peered through the doorway. There, in front of the glowing computer screen, sat Egon, tall figure slightly bent as his fingers flew over the keys. Peter stepped into the room. He wanted to make a joke, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. He couldn't believe he was home again, and his emotions were too close to the surface, too close to be joked away.

"Egon? I'm home."

Egon continued to type, oblivious to Peter's presence.

Peter walked deliberately over to him and leaned in front of him. "Hey, Spengs, I'm home. Where's Ray? And Winston? How come you're sitting here alone in the dark?"

Egon stopped typing and lifted a calm gaze to meet Peter's stare. He did not speak, but stood and picked up a proton pack lying on the lab table. Peter watched him in confusion as Egon put the pack on. "Egon, what are you doing?"

Egon eased the pack on and strapped it in place. Peter looked at him apprehensively. "Look, I know I went away without telling anyone where I was going. And I've been gone for a long while. I'm sure you guys must have been worried, huh?"

Egon took the thrower in hand and powered up. Peter, startled by the seemingly loud sound in the quiet room, backed away a step. "I'm sorry, Egon. God, you don't know how sorry I am. I thought I could handle it. A Class 4. Her name's Rose, Egon. She's just a sweet kid who got herself into a whole lot of trouble." He tried to grin. "Kind of like me."

Egon's response was to turn toward him and start forward, thrower aimed at Peter's chest. Peter could only gaze back at him, shocked. His breathing sped up, his heart racing, and he tried to back away, succeeding in stumbling against the table.

"Hey, Egon, come on. . . what are you doing? Can't a guy make a mistake? I didn't mean to put you guys through this. I swear. I'll admit I was a complete idiot, okay? I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you guys. You--you couldn't really blast me-- could you?"

Egon's approach was relentless. Peter backed further away, until he found himself up against the wall and trapped. Still, Egon advanced. Peter lifted his hands in frightened protest.

"Egon, don't. I know you're mad at me. You gotta hate me for what I did. All of you guys--I know. But you can't--" He gestured helplessly at the thrower. "You can't," he whispered.

Egon steadied his aim. Peter saw his finger slide toward the button. Egon was going to kill him. Peter stared at him disbelievingly.

There was a burst of light.

"No!" Peter felt his body jerk forcefully and then land on something soft. His eyes flew open and he stared straight ahead, into darkness. There was no sign of Egon anywhere. Then Peter remembered where he was and he deliberately shut his eyes.

"Egon," he whispered, all the longing he felt for his friend suffused into the name.

"Peter."

Peter froze, hardly daring to draw a breath. He heard the voice, clear and real, very close to his side. But it wasn't Egon's voice. It wasn't any voice he knew. It was. . . a woman's voice, sweet and girlish, warm, with the hint of a Midwestern accent. Peter opened his eyes. He could see her, hovering close by in the dim room.

"Rose," he whispered.

Her face brightened at the sight of him awake. She spoke again, one word. "Peter."

Peter gazed at her in amazement. "Hey--you spoke!"

She fairly beamed at him. She came closer and bent down to look into his face. "Peter," she breathed, as if she found it the loveliest sound in the English language.

Peter, tired and aching as he was, grinned at her. "That's the name," he said. "You go ahead and wear it out, though. Just keep talking to me, sweetheart."

Her gaze dropped, though she was still smiling, and Peter could have sworn he saw a hint of a blush on her cheeks. She was such an innocent thing. "Rose, you aren't supposed to be here. Remember?"

Her smile faded into a vaguely guilty look. She held out a hand, just above his chest, and signed, "Sorry." She didn't seem capable yet of saying anything more than Peter's name.

"Not that I'm not glad to see you," Peter murmured, lying back limply on the mattress. As lay back, he noticed that his wrists, still trapped in the cuffs, were also bandaged so that he could do them no further damage. Well, at least it made the cuffs a little more comfortable. He sighed and looked up at Rose. She was in danger. Why didn't she leave? There was no more time for talk, no time for questions; and his mind was too addled anyway to think of anything else to ask her. "You gotta hide, Rose."

She leaned nearer and her eyes met his, filled with heartfelt compassion. Her hand came close again, hovering just above his imprisoned wrists, and her face tightened in a look of intense concentration. Peter watched, fascinated. What was she doing? Could she summon the energy to free him? He held his breath, telling himself not to hope, and finding himself hoping desperately.

Rose's fingers curled into a fist and her eyes closed. Her shoulders trembled, her head bowing. She was clearly giving it everything she had. Her heard her gasp, as audibly as her saying of his name earlier. The metallic click that followed the gasp made Peter cry out. His wrists fell from the opened cuffs and his numb arms dropped to the mattress. He looked up at Rose, stunned. "You did it."

Her face filled with a look of pure joy. Joy tinged with triumph. She had won something over Mirance by freeing Peter. Peter felt a surge of pride at her success. "Rose," he whispered. "You really are my guardian angel."

He pushed himself into a sitting position. Unused muscles protested and Peter groaned and leaned forward. God, this was going to be painful. Slowly he pushed himself onto his feet and straightened his legs. He couldn't feel them. An instant later, he was sprawled on the floor. He lay there for a moment, dazed. In better health, he could have escaped in moments. In his present condition, it seemed a task of such enormity he wasn't sure he could manage it.

Rose was watching him worriedly. Peter inhaled a long, deep breath and sat up again. "It's okay. You got me free and now I'm gonna get me out of here."

His movements slow and clumsy, he managed to get back up on his feet. He felt so unsteady, a light breeze could have knocked him flat. Clinging to the bedpost, he started a slow shuffle in the direction of the door. He realized Rose was following him closely and he had to smile to himself. She couldn't catch him if he fell. . . could she? He doubted it.

Reaching the door, he grasped the knob, wondering if Mirance had locked it from the outside. Peter turned the knob determinedly, ready to kick the door down if he had to.

Thankfully he didn't. The door opened and he stepped into the dark corridor. A thought occurred to him and he turned to Rose. "No lights, okay? We don't want to draw any unwanted attention to ourselves."

She nodded, and Peter, satisfied, started down the corridor. He could barely manage a slow, stiff walk. Every few feet, he stopped and clutched at the wall to steady himself. If Mirance showed up now. . .

Keep walking, Venkman.

Peter reached the stairs and started down. The whole place was dark and silent; like a tomb, he thought, and shivered. He remembered the phone he had seen earlier and he went in that direction. He picked up the receiver and put it eagerly to his ear, ready to dial home.

The line was dead.

Peter grimaced in frustration. He put the phone down and turned toward the entrance. Time to get the hell out of here. Peter moved as quietly as he could, his entire being focused on reaching the elevators. But upon reaching them, he found they had been turned off, shut down probably until the grand opening. Mirance was the only one using them at the moment.

Peter swore softly and rested his head against the closed elevator doors. How the hell was he going to walk down all those flights of stairs? Maybe he could just throw himself down, and with a good start, roll all the way to the ground floor.

"Peter."

Peter turned to her. She was standing behind him. She gestured at the nearby door marked Stairs. Peter gave her a weak smile. "Guess I could use the exercise."

She smiled back, radiating sympathy. Peter trudged to the door and opened it. The stairs went down into darkness that seemed endless.

Peter groaned softly. "I don't like stairs."

He started down, forced to cling with both hands to the railing as he maneuvered the steep metal steps. One flight. Two. Three. He was having trouble finding the steps and occasionally he landed on his butt when his legs crumpled under him. He allowed himself to sit just long enough to catch his breath before he forced himself onto his feet. Four flights. Five. Six. Seven.

By eight, he was ready to lie down and let oblivion steal away what consciousness he was in possession of. His legs were wobbly tubes of jello and his arms weren't much better. He felt dizzy and nauseated and he could barely focus ahead to the next flight. The thought of passing out cold and falling down those stairs was not pleasant; but he knew he would end up doing just that within the next few flights.

He was trapped. He couldn't escape Mirance's damned monolith. Mirance would come back, find him missing from the bedroom, and know just where to start looking. They'd find him and drag him back, tying him down even more securely, and that would be the end of little Petey Venkman.

Peter reached another landing and sank to his knees. He couldn't do ten floors, let alone four times that many. He considered trying to slide his uncooperative body down the next flight. Even that seemed impossible. Peter sat curled up against the stair rail and closed his eyes. It was taking forever just to catch his breath. He wondered how long he'd sit here before he heard footsteps pounding down the stairs above him.

He became aware of a sensation of cold on his skin and he shivered. Then he heard Rose's voice. "Peter." It was a whisper, close to his ear. He lifted his head and looked around at her, bleary-eyed. "Hi ya, beautiful," he muttered, lips futilely trying to form a smile.

Rose gazed at him, her eyes dark. She leaned toward him and slipped her arms around his waist. Peter gasped aloud at the iciness of her touch, unable to stifle the sound. Her grip only tightened. Peter shook his head in feeble protest. "Rose, don't. Cold. Hurts."

She didn't let go. Peter realized with a shock that she had pulled him upright. He was standing; but if she released him, he knew he'd just fall again. She seemed to know it, too. She kept her chilling grip around him and headed for the next flight down.

"What--" Peter broke off with a gasp. But he didn't fall.

She kept her hold on him.

Rose drifted down the stairs, turned at the landing, and started down the next flight. Peter saw his own legs dangling uselessly. He was limp in her arms, but his weight seemed nothing to her. She moved steadily down, flight after flight, as he hung shivering in her grasp.

Peter, unbearably chilled, closed his eyes and made no further objections to what Rose was doing. She was saving his life, as long as he didn't freeze to death on the way down. But they reached the bottom floor, and he was still alive, if shivering almost uncontrollably. Rose released him and he sank to the ground and stared up at her in disbelief.

"How did you do that?" he whispered.

A little smile appeared on her lips and she tilted her head at him. She signed, "guess I'm stronger than I look."

Peter leaned his head against the wall and, gazing at her, laughed in spite of his shivering. "You're getting really good at saving Dr. Venkman's butt. I owe you big-time. Don't suppose you can leave the building with me?"

She shook her head. Peter felt regret and anxiety gnaw at his heart. "I didn't think so." He climbed to his feet. "Okay, Rose, I'm going to stay right here, then, until you go into the light."

She looked at him and shook her head.

"Still can't go?" Peter asked. "It's not because you're madly in love with me, is it?"

She smiled at that, and her cheeks seemed to redden again, although perhaps it was just a trick of the bad lighting in the stairwell. Peter held out a hand toward her. "Because of old Mirance, huh? Look, Rose, I'll do what I can about that. Not sure how effective I could be. I'm gonna ask you something that might be a little indelicate, okay?"

She nodded expectantly. Peter pushed himself toward the door that led out of the stairwell. He slumped against it and turned back to Rose. "Do you know what Mirance did with your body?"

Rose nodded slowly.

"Can you tell me?" Peter whispered.

She lifted her hands and began to sign.

"Destroyed?" Peter whispered, shocked. "Chemical. Wait, I don't--" He realized what she meant. "Chemicals? He--" Peter stopped and pressed his lips tightly together. Mirance had destroyed Rose's remains with chemicals. Peter wished passionately for his thrower. He wanted to blast Mirance clear into next month.

"No evidence," Rose signed sadly. "All that is left of me . . . " She hesitated, then pointed at herself. Her lips trembled.

Peter nodded in mute sympathy. He was going to do everything he could to make sure Mirance paid for this. "You won't go into the light until Mirance is arrested, will you?" Rose affirmed that statement, as Peter feared she would. He wanted to question her further, but he was fading out again and he knew he had better try to leave quickly or he'd lose his one chance to escape.

"Okay, then. You have to promise me something before I can leave here. Promise that you'll hide and you'll stay hidden until I come back here. You don't show yourself to anyone else but me. Promise?"

She came nearer and her fingertips grazed his cheek, her eyes soft as they lingered on him. She nodded. "Peter," she whispered.

"We've got a deal," Peter whispered back, and touched her hand with his fingers, ignoring the chilling sensation. He turned toward the door and opened it. Across the wide, dim expanse of the lobby he could see the security guard's station. Standing at the station, in conversation with the lone guard, were Mirance and his bodyguards.

Peter choked back a gasp and quickly closed the door, praying they hadn't seen him. He waited several moments in dread. Finally unable to bear the waiting, he cracked the door open enough to peek through. They were still there, still in conversation. His opening of the stairwell door had not been seen. He guessed the absence of light near the door made it less visible from the station.

But there was still the problem of getting from the stairwell to the entrance undetected. Even after Mirance left, there would still be the security guard to deal with. Peter felt trapped again. What was he going to do? Saunter past the guard and give the guy a friendly wave to let him know everything was cool? He was sure the guard had instructions not to let anyone in the building, and definitely not to let anyone out.

Peter leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Now what? If he could just bring some sense of order to his fuddled brain, just long enough to come up with a plan. "Rose. . . " He opened his eyes. She was gone. "Rose?"

A moment later, shouts erupted in the lobby. "Shit," Peter whispered, and peered around the door. He was in time to see Rose soar, pale and softly glowing, past the solid dark forms of Mirance and his men. They were after her instantly, Mirance giving orders in a harsh voice while his men scrambled in a useless effort to surround Rose.

Even if they could have seized her, she was too quick for them. She swept through the air out of their reach, and Peter had to grin. "You go, girl," he whispered.

One of Mirance's men lowered a large case to the floor and opened it. My pack, Peter realized in horror. He clutched at the door handle, wanting to rush out and grab the equipment away before they could use it on Rose. But he knew the only way he could protect Rose now would be to take the opportunity she had handed him and leave the building as swiftly as possible. She would know he had gone, and she would hide herself again until he came back. Once she was hidden, she was safe from the thrower.

Peter watched, holding his breath, as Rose vanished through the double doors of what appeared to be a conference room. The men, including the security guard, stormed after her.

The moment they were gone, Peter stumbled out of the stairwell and went at a lopsided run toward the Towers entrance. He could hear the men crashing about inside the conference room. He lunged at the glass door and shoved it open, stumbling outside into the gathering evening. Cold air hit him and he shuddered and almost fell to the sidewalk. Behind him, the glass door was slowly closing. Just before it did, he heard the familiar sizzle of his own thrower.

"Rose!" he gasped and turned back, trying to peer through the glass into the lobby. There was no sign of anyone.

Rose, I'm out. Hide, damn it! Hide!

Peter looked around the dark street. Snow gleamed in the darkness and shimmered under the street lights. A few people hurried along the sidewalks, ignoring him as they went from building to vehicle, obviously intent on getting out of the cold weather. Peter shivered again and looked for a cab. "Never one when you need it," he muttered, and began to jog heavily along the sidewalk, heading south.

He had gone less than ten feet before he stopped and turned back toward the Towers. He couldn't just leave her, not knowing whether Mirance had successfully trapped her. He had to know.

He started back toward the building.

Suddenly before his startled gaze, she burst through the glass doors, her arms extended, her pale form twisting as she looked around wildly. Her eyes fell on him, standing on the sidewalk, and her face shone with relief. She came forward and then stopped, and shook her head.

Peter realized that she could go no further from the building. Her purpose was here, and here she would remain until it was taken care of. But she had forced herself this far, just to make sure he was out. And perhaps to let him see that Mirance had not captured her.

Peter wanted to say good-bye, to thank her, to reassure her that he would come back to help her. But she shook her head again and signed swiftly, "Go! Go on!"

Then she vanished. Peter knew that in moments Mirance would be heading upstairs and, finding his prisoner gone, would immediately begin a search of the surrounding neighborhood. Peter turned away from Mirance Towers and began to run.

* * *

Egon Spengler had never felt so frustrated in his life. How could one man disappear so completely, without leaving a clue as to where he had gone? This was so unlike Peter, Egon could only surmise that, while Peter might have left the firehouse willingly, he was now so deep in trouble, or so badly hurt, that he could not reach help. . . and perhaps could not be reached to be helped.

The last time he had spoken with Peter had been that Thursday afternoon almost two weeks ago, as he and Ray were rushing out of the firehouse, late, but still hopeful they could make their plane to Toronto. He could picture Peter standing on the sidewalk, not wearing a coat, his hands thrust in his jeans pockets as he grinned at his friends and bounced up and down in an effort to get warm.

"Send me a postcard this time," he had yelled over the rumble of the cab engine.

Egon had opened the window and poked his head out, the cold wind blowing his hair into his eyes. "I will remember to do so if you will remember to check on the temperature in the lab each evening. If it gets below 60 degrees, my latest mold experiment will be ruined."

Peter had rolled his eyes. "I'm not babysitting your mold, Egon. Besides, I plan to be out every night. Late."

"Then check the temperature before you leave," Egon replied, and drew back out of the way as Ray leaned across him to grin through the window at Peter.

"Hey, Peter, since you're staying at home this week, you could make yourself useful and clean the place up. Catch up on the laundry. . . " Ray laughed and ducked back into the cab as Peter advanced on him threateningly.

"I'm on vacation, Stantz."

"Which means we can expect to come home to a pig-sty," Ray teased, poking his head back out. The cab roof crushed down his winter cap and the tassel hung over his nose. Peter, laughing, caught hold of the tassel and gave it a tug, dislodging Ray's hat completely.

"Hey!" Ray snatched the hat back. Smiling, he shook his head. "See you next week, Peter."

As Ray sat back in the seat, Egon looked up and met Peter's gaze. Without a word, he extended a hand to the psychologist.

Peter came closer and extracted a chilled hand from his pocket long enough to clasp the offered hand. "Try and have fun, Egon. I know it won't be easy, without me there. But you are on vacation, you know."

Egon's mouth formed a warm smile, his eyes resting affectionately on Peter. "Stay out of trouble."

That was all he had said. Peter had laughed at that, and the cab had moved on, taking them away from the firehouse. Egon had glanced around once, to see Peter standing alone on the sidewalk, watching them go with a rather wistful expression on his face, as if he were having second thoughts about not going with them.

Stay out of trouble. . . Egon sighed softly. How many times had he said those words automatically to Peter, imagining it enough to keep Peter safe.

Egon pushed aside the meter he had been fine-tuning and walked out of the lab. It had been five days since they'd discovered Peter was missing, and since then they hadn't found a shred of evidence as to where he'd gone or who had taken him. The meters, limited at tracking a living force via biorhythms, had not pinpointed Peter anywhere in Manhattan. Egon and Ray had planned to start looking again at first light, spreading out further into every corner of the city. Winston had been out all day, having borrowed his dad's car, and was still not back, even though darkness had fallen.

Egon sank down onto the edge of Peter's bed and stared toward the window where he could see the distant gleam of city lights. Frost rimmed the window. It was colder tonight than it had been all week. Unbidden, the image of Peter lying hurt and unconscious, numbed through by the cold and unable to even raise a cry for help from passers-by, intruded into Egon's thoughts. The control he'd kept over his fears during the searching was crumbling as the hours passed. Overpowering frustration, alternating with the unspeakable dread that Peter was lost to them forever, left him feeling so aching and empty that he just wanted to curl up on the bed at this moment and release the floodgate of emotion that had been fighting for expression for almost a week.

Egon lowered his hand to Peter's pillow, aware that it was partially slimed due to Slimer's constant mournful pilgrimages to all the spots in the firehouse most frequented by Peter, as if the little ghost kept expecting to find Peter in one of them. Egon picked up the pillow and wrapped his arms around it. He sat there, staring across to his own bed, and wished that he could hear Peter stroll into the room, come up behind him and say in that teasing voice, "Hey, Spengs, miss me?"

Egon tightened his grip on the pillow and bowed his head. Too many days had passed, too many days in which the weather had gotten colder and any injuries Peter might have sustained had gotten worse. Peter might well already be dead. A shudder passed through Egon and did irreparable damage to the wall of restraint he had held in place for five days.

Once, so long ago that he could hardly remember what it was like, there had been no Peter Venkman in his life. And he had lived a peaceful, studious existence, never knowing what he was missing. Then he had taken notice of the gregarious, fun-loving student and he had permitted himself to be swept into friendship with someone so unlike him that none of his "egghead" friends, as Peter had called them, believed it was a friendship that could ever be real or meaningful.

And even Egon had doubted occasionally in the beginning that he and Peter could reach that middle ground that would keep their friendship intact. A similar sense of humor made all the difference, and the two men realized they were more alike than they'd thought, at least in the things that mattered, the values they held. And even the differences became something precious, keeping the two of them on their toes to understand each other and to appreciate what each man had to learn from the other.

And now, after all those years of learning about each other, those years of developing an unspoken trust that Egon knew nothing could shake, those years of coming to know each other so well that it took only a look to convey any thought or emotion, Egon knew exactly what he was missing; the one person who knew him better than any other man alive. The one person whose absence in his life would render life all but meaningless.

"Peter." Egon pressed a hand to his face, one arm still locked around the pillow. Tears burned and stung, and he let them fall, no longer capable of restraining them. Once freed, they came so hard and so fast, he had trouble catching his breath. He fumbled for his handkerchief, and found one pressed into his hand, as an arm came around his shoulders. The arm pulled him close against a shoulder and rocked him gently back and forth.

"It's okay." Ray's voice was quiet but taut with grief. His hand absently patted Egon's shoulder as he rocked. "It's okay, Egon. Go ahead. I'm glad you aren't keeping it bottled up any more."

It sounded so like something Peter would say that Egon's heart contracted, a sense of utter loss overtaking him so completely that he could not even lift his head, but lay limply against Ray's shoulder, his body shaking with sobs. Ray rested his head against Egon's, and the arm around Egon's shoulders remained close and shielding, giving Egon the only comfort that could exist in the face of such a loss.

We're not going to find him, Ray.

Egon didn't say the words aloud. He didn't need to. He knew that Ray's own thoughts already whirled around that one agonizing awareness, that Peter was out of their reach, beyond rescue, and that the teasing, affectionate farewell outside the firehouse two weeks ago had been their last good-bye. They would continue to search, no matter how long it took, until they found Peter's remains; but the chance of still finding him alive. . . Egon knew how likely that was, and he knew that Ray was aware of it, in spite of the optimism Ray had projected during the past days.

"Egon," Ray said at last, when Egon's shaking had calmed a little. "Egon, I have to know what happened to him."

"I know, Ray. We will find out. We'll keep looking until we know. Until we find. . . " He stopped and, with an effort, straightened. Removing his glasses, he dried his face on Ray's kerchief and blew his nose. He stole a glance at Ray, to see the man's pale features, his brown eyes enormous in his grief-filled face. "Thank you, Ray."

Ray set a hand on Egon's arm and squeezed, a glimmer of a smile just lifting the corners of his mouth. "You've held me together this week, Egon. If you weren't here. . . " He stopped and his gaze dropped, his fingers settling on the blanket. Egon saw him caress the blanket lightly, his face still quiet and touched with the pain of loss.

Egon returned Peter's pillow to its proper place and smoothed it carefully, slime side down. He cleared his throat. "I think I'm ready to go out again."

"Winston's back," Ray said, as if just remembering. "He's fixing supper." He lifted his gaze to meet Egon's. "Gosh, I don't know what either of us would have done if Winston hadn't been here this week."

"He's kept us as fed and rested as we could be, under the circumstances," Egon conceded, nodding. "And he's been as sick with worry as we have. He and Peter have become excellent friends in the past two years. Peter has come to trust him as thoroughly as he trusts us, and I know that means a lot to Winston. It has always meant a lot to me." Egon stopped, not confident his voice could hold out if he let himself wander further into reminisces.

"Means a lot to me, too," Ray said simply. "It has always been special with Peter. Once we gained his trust, he threw everything he had into being friends. He'd always be on my case for getting so excited that I'd rush into danger, but he never hesitated to put himself first in line when we were facing the worst entities. . .and that always made me afraid for him. Afraid we'd lose him." Ray gazed up at Egon, every bit of the pain eating away at him evident in his eyes. "How do we do this without Peter?"

Egon didn't have an answer for that. He knew it wasn't simply their job Ray was referring to, though ghostbusting would not be the same without Peter. Nothing could be the same. The future seemed nebulous, empty, and endless without him. In spite of his occasional tendency toward self-aggrandizement, Peter had always possessed a steady, unobtrusive wealth of kindness, intelligence, and natural wisdom that he shared without reservation with those he held dearest. To think that Peter was gone forever from their lives was more than Egon Spengler could stand to do. He didn't want to think of the future. He wanted to keep looking, scouring every inch of New York and beyond, until he found Peter, alive and well, and could bring him back home where he belonged.

Ray rubbed a sleeve across his face and stood up without any of his usual energy. "I'm ready to start looking again," he said. But the despair in his voice was palpable, and a lump welled up in Egon's throat, preventing a reply.

Ray didn't seem to expect one. He turned slowly toward the door. Egon climbed tiredly to his own feet, his fingers brushing longingly against the blanket and wishing that the owner of that blanket was safely tucked under it, snoring away even at this late hour of the day. Egon would have let him sleep as long as he wanted the next morning. Closing his eyes against a fresh assault of grief, he moved around the bed to follow Ray downstairs.

Winston appeared in the doorway. "Supper, both of you. And I'm not taking no for an answer."

Egon nodded. "We'll both eat something before we go back out. How much ground did you cover, Winston?"

"Not enough," Winston said grimly. "Peter isn't home. It won't be enough 'til he is."

Egon knew Winston was remaining determinedly strong and optimistic for his and Ray's sake. He gave Winston a look of gratitude. "It's good of you to make us a hot meal."

"It's okay, man," Winston said, gently clasping Egon's extended hand. "No way am I bringing Peter home to find a couple of pale, under-nourished scientists. He'd give me one hell of a hard time about it."

"Knowing Peter." Egon exchanged a smile with him, and put an arm around Ray. "We're going to have to keep an eye on Winston, Ray. And Janine as well. Between the two of them, they're contriving to keep us fed and rested. When Peter comes back, he will be convinced that none of us were too worried about his disappearance."

A shaky smile formed on Ray's lips. "Yeah, he'll be pretty sore unless it's clear we've missed him plenty." The fervent note behind the humor in Ray's voice reached them all.

Winston clamped a firm hand on Ray's shoulder. "You guys gotta remember that Peter is one tough guy. He's survived some pretty nasty stuff, just as we all have. No one's going to bring him down too easily, and definitely not without a fight. He might be in trouble but I'm not calling him down for the count yet. I think he's still fighting, and he's gotta be thinking we're hot on his trail."

"The trail he didn't leave us," Ray said soberly, shaking his head.

"Maybe so," Winston conceded. "But we've got the tools to find him even without a trail to follow. Come on, guys. Come and eat."

They started toward the door as one. Egon heard footsteps flying up the stairs, the clack of Janine's heels, and a strange sort of panic grabbed him. She wouldn't be rushing like that unless. . .

"Egon," Ray whispered fearfully, hearing the same thing and coming to the same conclusion.

"It's gonna be okay," Winston said instantly, but his own heart seemed to have decided it was a good time for calisthenics.

Janine appeared in the doorway, her face white, her shoulders heaving breathlessly. Her gaze landed on Egon. "Downstairs," she blurted out. "Egon, a police car. They're coming to the door. The police." Her voice broke.

Egon just stared at her, until he felt Winston's grip tight on his arm. "Don't think the worst," Winston said, so softly that Egon almost missed hearing it. As Winston's words sank into his thoughts, he turned and met the dark-eyed gaze and saw the silent sympathy, as if Winston had been unable to take his own advice.

But Egon managed a nod and, almost on their own, his legs moved him rapidly toward the stairs. Janine was right behind him, Ray and Winston almost on top of her in their rush to get downstairs. Egon could not speak, nor even think very clearly, caught in a vise of sheer dread. He wanted to take Winston's advice, but his mind and heart refused to allow that. If Peter were only hospitalized somewhere, Central would have received a phone call, not a visit.

Egon reached the first floor, to hear a firm knocking at the door. He was across the room in seconds. Fighting for some semblance of calm, he locked his fingers around the doorknob and yanked the door wide. A middle-aged policeman in uniform, a professional, polite smile on his features, stood in the snow and tapped the rim of his cap in greeting.

"Good evening, sir. Officer John Keeshan." He showed his badge.

"Egon Spengler," Egon responded automatically, and stared at the officer, waiting for the news.

Officer Keeshan nodded. "Yes, sir. Recognize you from your television ads." He paused and glanced around toward the squad car parked at the curb. Egon, peering into the darkness, noted the man's partner standing near the open car door, talking into his radio.

"Sir," Keeshan continued, drawing Egon's attention back. "Sorry to disturb you so late. . . " A slight smile tugged at the man's mouth, but there was sympathy in his eyes. Egon hated the sight of it. Keeshan's smile widened a little more, oblivious to the agony churning in the physicist's heart and mind. "I believe we have something that belongs to you."

Egon stared at him, uncomprehending. "Something that. . . belongs to me?"

"Yes, sir," Keeshan replied, his gaze going back to the car. "Or someone, rather." He lifted his arm and waved to the second officer. "Bring him in, David."

Egon's heart lurched, his knees going weak. He clutched at the doorframe and stared out into the darkness, willing his eyes to see everything that could be seen. The second officer had opened the back door of the squad car and was hauling someone out of the backseat. Egon felt Winston and Ray press close behind him, and Janine's hand steal around his wrist. As they watched, the officer came forward. At his side stumbled a tall familiar figure. The officer pulled one of the man's arms around his shoulders to steady him, then continued forward as the figure, apparently intoxicated, all but slumped against him.

It was Peter. . . wasn't it? Egon's vision blurred and he quickly jabbed a finger under his glasses to rub his eyes. He stepped through the doorway, out into the snow. "Peter?"

The stumbling, pathetic-looking creature hanging off the arm of the police officer lifted his face at the call. When there was no other response, Egon immediately stepped forward. He grasped Peter's free arm just below the shoulder and stared into his face. Peter blinked up at him, seeming puzzled to see him. Egon stared at him in dismay. His unshaven face was far too thin and he seemed incapable of focusing his attention. Peter's eyes met his for an instant, without any expression of emotion, then wandered to take in the policeman keeping him upright.

"I'm home?" he muttered.

A second shock went through Egon at the sound of the familiar voice so raw and shaky, so lacking in the usual vitality. Egon looked up at the officer. "What happened to him? Where did you find him?"

"Let's get him inside," the officer responded kindly, nodding toward the door.

"Of course." Egon took Peter's arm and slid it around his shoulders, then slipped his arm around Peter's waist. Registering with new worry how thin Peter felt in the circle of his arm, he moved stolidly forward. Winston and Ray came out and helped him half-pull, half-carry Peter into the firehouse.

Peter, for his part, seemed completely oblivious to the attention centered on him. He sagged against Egon, muttering unintelligibly under his breath. He could not stand upright and, after trying to hold him up, Egon decided it was best to settle him into a chair for the moment. Winston was one step ahead of him and had Janine's chair pulled out. He pushed it up behind Peter. Egon and Ray lowered Peter gently into it. Peter slumped down, his head tilted to the side. Squatting down in front of Peter, Egon stared up into the unresponsive face.

"Peter?" He closed his fingers around Peter's wrist firmly.

"Peter, it's Egon. Can you hear me?"

"Sure I c'n," Peter mumbled, his eyes never opening. A slight smile quirked his mouth. "You gonna blast me 'gain, Spengs?"

Egon stared at him in alarm. "Blast you?" He tightened his grip. "Peter, I haven't blasted you. We've been searching all over the city for you. You're home, and safe now. No one's going to blast you." Egon exchanged a troubled glance with Ray and Winston. What on earth had happened? "Peter?" he tried again.

Peter's face crumpled into a grimace of discomfort but still his eyes remained closed.

"Pardon me, Dr. Spengler," Officer Keeshan interrupted, appearing at Egon's side. "There are a few things we need to fill you in on."

Egon rose and turned to him. "We've been searching for him for five days."

"That's what we were told when we found him and called in," Keeshan said, nodding. "At first I thought he was just another drunk. . . " The officer paused and coughed, looking uncomfortable. "No offense, sir. I didn't realize he was one of your boys until I saw the uniform."

The younger officer, the one Keeshan had called David, moved to Keeshan's side and, removing his cap, looked earnestly at Egon. "We didn't want to take him to the hospital, after we found out who he was."

"That's right," Keeshan cut in gruffly. "David and I, we figured you boys oughta decide what you wanna do about this." His mouth pursed in a hard line for a moment, as if he were considering handing out some advice.

Finally he continued, "Look, I know you boys have got a pretty tough line of work here, and I know you lay it on the line for this city, same as us. We saw what you did a couple of years back, to get rid of that marshmallow guy, and we figure that kind of shit entitles you to tie one on once in a while." A faint grin touched the officer's mouth, his eyes crinkling at the edges with his smile. "And it's more than that. My kids think a lot of you guys. I ain't about to be the cop who arrested one of the Ghostbusters for public intoxication."

Egon shuddered at that statement. He nodded gravely at the officer, feeling both appreciation and relief for the man's compassion and thoughtfulness; but a part of him refused to believe that Peter Venkman was sitting behind him, dead drunk after a two-week bender. Peter had never been that kind of a drinker. The drinking he did in college was frequent and usually connected to frat parties, and had resulted in many days spent nursing hangovers, Egon knew. He had, himself, nursed Peter through a few of those hangovers. But Peter did not even drink like that anymore; in fact, he drank very little these days, usually the celebratory drink on holidays and once in a while on a date. No, something more had happened to him. But Egon did not know what yet, and he wasn't about to start theorizing with the officers present.

Ray appeared startled by Officer Keeshan's words. "Peter doesn't drink," he said, almost indignantly, then turned to Egon as if seeking confirmation of his statement.

Officer Keeshan sighed and smiled again. "I understand, sir. I know it's upsetting, if you're just finding out he's been keeping this habit from you, but better to face it now and deal with it before your buddy gets into real trouble."

Ray, about to protest further, hesitated as Egon silently wrapped his fingers around Ray's wrist and flashed him a warning look. Egon did not want to extend this conversation any longer than necessary. He wanted to tend to Peter.

Ray nodded and remained silent. Egon glanced at Winston.

Winston stood beside Peter, one hand resting on Peter's forehead. Winston's face was distinctly troubled, but Egon knew that Winston couldn't believe Peter was merely drunk any more than he believed it.

Egon turned back to the policeman. "Officer, we're very grateful to you for bringing him home. Where did you find him?"

"Passed out under a pay phone a few blocks north of here," Keeshan said, throwing a grim look in Peter's direction. "We couldn't find any identification on him, just the uniform. If not for that, he'd be in the drunk tank right now."

Egon turned to look at Peter, shocked at the thought of his friend being imprisoned with a cell full of noisy, belligerent drunks. Peter was obviously in no condition to protect or defend himself from anyone or anything at the moment.

"Officer," Egon turned back to Keeshan, "Did he say anything? Give you any clue as to what happened to him?"

Keeshan smiled with a patient sort of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Dr. Spengler, but he's said almost nothing since we found him. He couldn't even give us this address. We had to look it up. But I think it's pretty clear what he's been doing the past few days. I'm sorry, sir."

Exhaling, Keeshan clapped Egon on the shoulder. "But he's home now, and you boys know best how to deal with this, so Dave and I'll leave you to it. Just keep him off the street, okay?"

Egon swallowed hard against the protests that he, himself, wanted to make. The officers had already decided the reason behind Peter's disappearance and they were content to let the Ghostbusters handle the matter. Egon was just grateful they hadn't carried Peter off to jail.

"Thank you, Officer Keeshan," Egon said, and nodded his

thanks to the younger officer. "Both of you. I know this is not

standard procedure--"

"Don't worry about it," Keeshan said mildly. "Your boy's got a clean record and he wasn't driving. I'm not about to trash you guys over one stupid mistake. Just make sure it doesn't happen again."

He touched the brim of his cap and bid Egon and the others good-night. David followed him out, walking a little more slowly as he tried to take in every interesting sight the firehouse had to offer. In other circumstances, Egon knew Ray would be eager to give the officer a tour, since David seemed interested. But a glance at Ray now told him that a tour was the last thing on his mind. Ray hovered beside Peter, anxiety in his face as he stared down into Peter's lax, pale features.

"Gosh, Egon, he looks terrible." Ray turned to him just as the door closed behind the officers. "I can't even get him to open his eyes. What do you think could have happened to him?"

Egon approached Peter, gazing down at him quietly for a long moment. Peter, in the light, did look terrible. Thin, far too pale, huge dark circles under his closed eyes. A healing cut ran an inch down his cheek, alongside a fading bruise. Another cut ran across his forehead. Someone had beaten him. Egon swallowed hard and felt his fists clench in involuntary anger. When he found out who had done this. . .

"Egon," Winston interrupted his train of thought. "Let's get him upstairs and cleaned up. And then into his bed. That's where he needs to be."

"He isn't drunk," Ray persisted, his tone defiant. "Peter

doesn't--"

"You're preaching to the choir, man," Winston murmured, giving Ray a reassuring pat on the back. "But whatever's happened to him, we need to get him to bed so he can rest up. Ray, can you dig out the first aid kit and bring it up?"

Egon took one of Peter's arms, Winston the other, and the two men hauled a limp Peter to his feet. They got him upstairs and laid him on his bed to undress him. Peter lay unmoving on the blanket, looking, to Egon's eyes, like a battered toy a child had tossed aside. Egon tenderly brushed back the tangled dark hair from Peter's brow, his hand lingering; no fever.

"Peter?" he tried, keeping his voice level. "Peter, open your eyes."

Peter murmured softly at that, but did not wake. Egon felt

sure Peter had heard him though. "Peter--"

"Let's get him undressed and into his pajamas," Winston said. "We aren't going to get anything out of him tonight, Egon."

Egon heard the grim tone and he looked up at Winston. "You don't believe he was drinking?"

Winston's dark eyes, seared with pain, met Egon's. Winston sighed deeply and rubbed a hand along his jaw, clearly frustrated. "I don't like to say it, Egon--I really don't like to say it--but that's sure what it looks like."

Egon reached for the PKE meter he had left sitting on the nightstand. He ran it over Peter, and the meter did not react. "There is no psi energy to indicate someone turned his blaster on him. Nor is there evidence of anything else that would indicate paranormal. . . " Egon paused, aware of the slightest motion from the meter's dial. "Residuals." He frowned. "Residuals, very faint."

"And that means?" Winston prompted.

"Contact with some sort of entity. But it's weak. Not a powerful entity. Nothing greater than a Class 4, I'd hazard."

Winston bent down, his face just above Peter's. Egon watched him curiously. "Winston?"

"No alcohol on Pete's breath," Winston said after a moment, sounding relieved. He straightened, looking Egon in the eye. "You think a Class 4 did this to him?"

"That is my theory," Egon said, setting the meter back on the table, but leaving it activated. "Hopefully when Peter wakes, he will be able to confirm it." Egon bent over Peter to unzip his jumpsuit. "I'm just. . . " His eyes on the quiet, pale face, his voice failed him.

After a moment, when Egon didn't continue, Winston spoke. "Yeah, Egon." His voice was low, sympathetic. "Me, too. He's alive." Winston felt his throat tighten and he let out the tension with a sudden laugh, tears stinging his eyes as his relief and joy intermingled. "Our boy's home, and it's damned good to have him back."

"I concur." Egon's relief swamped him and he could only stand over Peter for a long moment and soak in the sure knowledge that they had him back, safe and sound.

Safe, anyway. Egon noticed immediately the bandages around Peter's wrists. "Look at this, Winston."

Winston gently peeled one bandage away. The skin beneath was bruised and reddened. There were a few scrapes, but nothing that required such heavy gauze. "That's strange. Why would Peter wrap up his wrists for simple bruises like this and not do anything for that nasty cut on his face?"

Egon lifted Peter's hand gingerly, seeing the injured skin, and he looked up at Winston in alarm. "I believe he was tied up, Winston. Handcuffed, perhaps. Look at the way the scrapes run around his wrists. It looks like he was held prisoner."

"How did he get away from them in this condition?"

The ghost of a smile crossed Egon's face. "As you said earlier, Peter doesn't give up without a fight." His gaze dropped back to Peter's face and Winston saw the look Egon wore. That expression, a contemplative look tinged with pride and intense affection, was a look Winston only saw on the physicist's face when Egon looked at Peter--and usually only when Peter's attention was directed elsewhere.

Winston himself had been the recipient of a similar look pride and affection from Egon upon occasion, and he had seen Egon give Ray such a look. Egon might not be as verbally expressive as Ray, or even Pete, but he could not altogether hide his feelings for his friends, especially at certain times.

The look on Egon's face right now was for Peter alone. Winston understood. He had learned in the past two years that the two men were as close as any pair of brothers on the planet. Even Ray had acknowledged that privately to Winston, without the slightest hint of jealousy. Ray, to the contrary, seemed delighted with the fact that Peter and Egon were so close; and Winston suspected that the survival and subsequent blossoming of that friendship had a lot to do with Ray, whose easy-going and affectionate personality had probably more than once bridged the more extensive differences that existed between Peter and Egon.

Winston took the zipper from Egon's motionless fingers and pulled it down the rest of the way. Egon woke to the present and began to ease Peter's left arm out of the sleeve. Winston went to work on the right as Ray appeared in the doorway, first aid kit in hand. "How is he?" Ray asked, moving to Winston's side.

Winston took the first aid kit and set it on the edge of the

mattress. "Nothing a little TLC won't fix, Ray, m'man," he said,

giving Ray a quick grin. "Egon's detected some residuals--"

"Class 4 or lower," Egon added, as he extracted Peter's left arm from the sleeve of his jumpsuit.

"Yeah," Winston said, "but we're gonna fix him up and let him sleep, and he's gonna be right as rain in the morning."

Ray's face cleared and he smiled at Winston. "Good," the occultist said softly, gazing down at Peter. "I'm just so glad he's home!"

Winston exchanged a look with Egon and they both smiled at hearing their sentiments echoed so earnestly by Ray. Egon lowered Peter's arm gently to the blanket and reached up to slide the jumpsuit down from his body. As his fingers curled around the material, Egon's gaze fell upon Peter's arm and he stared blankly at the odd pattern of small red marks standing out on the pale skin. He let go of the jumpsuit and set light fingers on Peter's arm, in the crook of his elbow, where blue veins ran just beneath the skin. The marks were not his imagination. A niggling uneasiness, vague but persistent, started somewhere deep in Egon's gut. He smoothed his fingers over the damaged skin as if he could clear away the tiny red marks, make them disappear, deny their existence. The uneasiness grew.

"Egon?" Winston's voice, concerned. "What's wrong?"

Egon instinctively covered the marks with his hand, then wondered what he was trying to do. He moved his hand away and forced his eyes from the marks to meet Winston's questioning look. Ray, who had been sorting through the kit, raised his head to look at Egon. Egon stared back at them, trying to find his voice. At last, he managed it. "Winston, it's. . . I'm not sure. Come here."

Winston, frowning, rose and moved around the bed and, at Egon's gesture, bent down to take a look at Peter's arm. He saw the marks and his reaction was instantaneous. "Shit." He brushed his fingers over the skin. Needle tracks. Injections. How many? More than he could count. Winston stared in utter disbelief as the full impact of what had been done to Peter hit him. He knew it had been done to Peter, because there was no way in hell Pete would have ever done this to himself.

"It is what I think it is," Egon said, more a statement than

a question, his long fingers clinging tightly to Winston's

shoulder. "Isn't it? Winston--"

"Yeah, it's what you think," Winston cut in, his voice harsh with the anger growing in him. He felt Egon, next to him, start at the tone. Winston turned to him, and his gaze locked with the physicist's. Beyond the anxiety in Egon's features, Winston saw fear and confusion. Egon had dealt with Peter sick, drunk, injured, and unconscious; but this was something new. Something Egon had never dealt with before, nor Ray, judging by the look of sheer horror dawning on Ray's face.

"Guys, don't panic," Winston whispered urgently. "We'll get to the bottom of this. Whoever did this to Pete is gonna know the feel of a thrower blast at full power, I promise you that." Winston's grip tightened on Peter's arm. He could only imagine the nightmare Peter had experienced in the past two weeks. Winston didn't want to try and guess what they had given him, nor why they had done it. He reminded himself, as he'd reminded Egon moments ago, that Peter was still alive, and that was what mattered now. Everything else would have to be dealt with as it came along.

"Someone. . . " Ray's voice quivered and his round eyes were fixed on Peter's arm. "Someone gave him drugs?" His gaze lifted to Egon, and then to Winston. "But why? Why?"

"I don't think it's going to do us any good to guess at that right now, Ray." Winston leaned over Peter and, taking Peter's chin in his hand, bent closer, until his face was inches away from the psychologist's. "Pete? Peter, it's Winston. I want you to open your eyes and try to focus. I need to talk to you."

He deliberately used an urgent tone, hoping it would stir Peter's protective urges and give him no choice but to respond. "Come on, Pete. We need you. Egon and Ray need you. Peter!"

Winston gave Peter a light slap. Ray flinched in reaction but kept quiet, watching, as Egon did, while Winston tried to rouse Peter. "Pete, open your eyes, damn it," Winston snapped, and the anxiety in his voice finally won a reaction. Peter groaned softly and opened his eyes. Twin slivers of dazed green peered up at Winston.

"Guys're relentless," he muttered, and his eyes began to close again.

"Peter, what did they give you?" Winston demanded instantly, before Peter could slip back into sleep. "Peter! Wake up! Two minutes, man. Just give me two."

Peter's eyes opened, a grimace on his face. His head rolled back and forth on the pillow restlessly and he lifted one arm to clutch feebly at Winston's hand. "Zed, don't tell them. You can't tell them." His hand dropped to his chest and his eyes closed. "Can't. . . tell."

"Can't tell who?" When Peter didn't respond, Winston gave him a little shake. "Can't tell who, Peter?"

"Mmmm." Peter's eyes fluttered open. He made an effort to

focus on Winston's face. "Ray. Egon. Don't--"

"They know already, Pete," Winston cut in softly, his heart aching for the guy. He knew where that request was coming from. He had seen the same look of shame and humiliation in another pair of eyes long long ago. "Peter, we all three know. But we're here. We love you, man. We're going to take care of you. You got that?"

Peter grimaced again, shaking his head. He seemed to drift off, but his fingers moved with little nervous jerks over his tee shirt, plucking at the material as if he wanted to tear it off.

Egon had enough. He rose to his feet. "We have to take him to

the hospital--"

"Wait," Winston said, rising quickly. He seized hold of Egon's arm. "Wait a minute, Egon. We need to talk about this."

"Talk?" Egon repeated, looking nonplussed. "Winston,

someone has deliberately injected Peter with some type of drug,

we have no idea what. Peter needs medical help. We can't forego

help for him on the chance whatever he's been given is just going

to wear off. We must call in a doctor--"

"No doctor." At the hoarse whisper, Egon and Winston both looked down at Peter. His eyes were open and he gazed up at them, first at Egon--then his gaze swiftly shifted to Winston, as if looking at his oldest friend was more than he could bear to do. "No doctor. Can't. . . do that."

Winston released Egon and bent down over Peter. "Pete," he said urgently. "You have to tell me what they gave you. Tell me."

Peter stared up at him, and mortification clouded the green

eyes. Winston held onto his gaze, refusing to relinquish it

until he had the answer he wanted. Peter exhaled softly, his

hand still plucking at his shirt. "Diacetylmorphine." His voice

was laced with mockery, but Winston only heard the answer, not

the tone it was uttered in. "Or as my buddies on the street call

it--"

"Heroin," Winston finished in a flat tone.

"Heroin," Ray echoed, voice low with such shock that Winston instinctively reached out and grasped his shoulder. Egon didn't speak, but Winston didn't need to look at the physicist to know his reaction. Egon was just as stunned as Ray, and just as frightened and heartsick.

Winston, on the other hand, was seething. Just the idea of someone doing that to Peter--Peter Venkman, who had to be practically held down to get him to take a simple hay fever pill--made Winston's stomach churn with cold rage. "Pete, we're going to get the bastards that did this. Who did it? Do you know their names?"

Peter blinked, his face giving nothing away. For an instant, Winston wondered if Peter had even heard the question. But after a moment, Peter responded. "Can't remember."

None of them believed it. As Peter's eyes closed again, Ray turned a stricken gaze to Egon. "Why is he protecting them?"

"I don't believe he is protecting them, Ray," Egon murmured, his eyes shifting to Peter. "I believe he is attempting to protect us."

Ray frowned and shook his head. "What do you mean? From what?"

Winston knew what Egon meant. "He doesn't want us going after whoever did this. Must be someone who could really hurt us."

"I think we are going to require professional help in order to deal with this," Egon said.

"Hold on a minute," Winston said, catching Egon's arm to keep him from moving away from the bed. "I know you want to do what you think is gonna be best for Pete, but I'm not so sure handing him over to a hospital or rehab is gonna be best for Pete."

Egon looked at him sharply from behind the red-frame glasses. "What are you saying, Winston?"

Winston let go of his arm and averted his gaze for a moment. It was a little bit of Zeddemore history he hadn't ever expected to share with anyone, let alone three guys he'd only known a couple of years. But these guys had become more than co-workers. They were friends. Truth be told, he knew that there were no three men to whom he was closer.

"I've been through this before, Egon," Winston said quietly, returning his gaze to meet the physicist's. "With a friend. A long time ago. Sure, the circumstances were different. The guy had been mainlining heroin for months. He had a psychological addiction to it, as well as a physical addiction. His folks put him in rehab. Man, the place was harsh. He came out of there cleaned up, but he didn't get what he needed to get past the psychological need. He started up again and nearly killed himself." Winston paused, aware of the fact that both Ray and Egon were staring at him, their faces etched with mute sympathy and compassion. Seeing that made him feel better about having told them so much.

"What happened?" Ray whispered.

"I took him in for a month," Winston said, memories of that month edging themselves into his mind and making him shudder. "It wasn't pretty, but he got off the stuff and stayed clean for a while."

"For a while?" Egon asked gently.

"Yeah. Until 'Nam." Winston turned from them and stood

closer to the bed, to gaze down at Peter. "Bill o.d.'ed over

there. I didn't know about it until my mom broke it to me in a

letter." Winston pushed away the memory and roused himself to

the present. He looked up at Egon. "Peter's been on the stuff

for two weeks or less. His withdrawal's not going to be nearly

as bad as Bill's was, but it isn't going to be easy. He needs us

to get him through it. . . more than he needs a clinic full of

doctors and nurses who don't know Peter Venkman and don't know

how to support him emotionally--"

"Winston, I can understand why you are reluctant to trust

outside care, but rehab has improved considerably since the early

'70s--"

"It's not just that," Winston cut in grimly, knowing the

reaction his next statement would produce. "If we take Peter to

rehab or even to the hospital, chances are this story's going to

be all over the newspapers tomorrow. We don't know the truth of

what happened yet, any more than the press will know, but they'll

fill in their own blanks. We've already got a pretty solid

reputation as good guys among the majority of New Yorkers, but

we've also gained a rep as off-the-wall cranks who believe in

ghosts, and there are folks out there who even think of us as

scam artists. If people start looking at us as drug-users--"

"They wouldn't do that, Winston," Ray protested. "All our

t.v. ads, all the talks we've given--"

"Ray, none of that will weigh in our favor. This is a skeptical world, buddy. There are a lot of folks out there ready to think the worst about a guy. I don't want to give the world an opportunity to say one bad thing about Peter Venkman, and I know you guys don't either."

Egon stiffened, the pain gleaming in his blue eyes the only

outward sign of the turmoil he was going through. "Winston, I

will not put the reputation of this business ahead of Peter's

well-being--"

"I'm not asking you to, Egon." Winston met the hurt, anguished gaze steadily. "But you gotta remember that Peter, once he's clean, is going to blame himself if this thing's gotten out. If our reps are tarnished and the business goes under, do you think Peter's going to be able to live with that?"

"He isn't responsible for what's happened to him, Winston,"

Ray said, sounding fragile with grief and shocked by the turn the

discussion had taken. "Someone kidnapped him and did this to

him. He's not to blame--"

"And I'm not blaming him," Winston said with a shake of his head. "None of us would blame him. But none of that will matter to Pete. He'll have already condemned himself."

Egon looked supremely troubled. He folded his arms, lifting one hand briefly to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Winston knew it was just an absent habit while Egon thought carefully over what Winston had said. Finally Egon's blue eyes lifted from Peter's limp form to again meet Winston's gaze.

"There is some merit to what you're saying, Winston, but I cannot in good conscience entrust Peter's survival to us when we haven't the medical skills or experience with this kind of thing to properly insure he comes through it, mind and body intact."

"I have experience with this kind of thing," Winston responded, keeping his voice calm and level, wanting to convince Egon that Peter could come through fine, being cared for by his friends. "And who knows Peter's mind better than the three of us?"

Egon looked down at Peter, as if weighing the matter once more; then his jaw tightened and he looked up at Winston, his eyes too bright. "No. We will take him to the hospital. We don't even know how much of the drug he was given, Winston. I simply can't risk Peter. . . " Egon paused as a frail but determined voice interrupted him.

"No hospital."

Egon looked down at Peter, meeting the bleary green eyes.

"Peter, you need--"

"No hospital," Peter muttered, frowning. "Not taking you guys down with me."

Winston bent over him. "Peter, do you know the dosage they gave you?"

Peter inhaled deeply, blinking and obviously struggling to keep his eyes open. "Don't know 'zactly. They upped it. Remember something. . . ten milligrams? But that was a while ago. Probably more than that."

Egon looked at Winston questioningly. Winston shook his head. "Sounds like they gave him enough to keep him up and floating." Winston paused, noticing Egon's fingers curled protectively around Peter's arm, a gesture Egon was probably not even aware of. "I'd sure like to know who did it, and why."

"We will look for answers to those questions later on," Egon said, and began to tug Peter's jumpsuit back up in place. "For now, we get him dressed and get him to medical help."

"No!" Peter snapped, pulling out of Egon's grasp. Breathing heavily, he slung a hand up high enough to grab onto Egon's arm and pull the physicist down toward him. "No hospital! The press'll rip us apart. Do you think I can. . .let. . . " His grip loosened on Egon's arm and he sank back onto the bed, closing his eyes. Egon dropped down beside him and lowered his hand to Peter's forehead, gazing down at him with such a look of fear showing in his eyes that Winston hesitated to intervene at that moment and voice support for Peter's determination to remain at home.

Ray crept to Egon's side. "I've read a little bit about

this, Egon," he began tentatively. His fingers reached down and

curled around Peter's limp hand. "I read all those pamphlets

that we got while we were doing those t.v. ads. And a few of the

occult books I've got have some discussion of the effects--"

"Hallucinations?" Egon whispered, his eyes going immediately to Winston.

Winston shook his head. "The withdrawal's effects are

mostly physical, from what I remember," he said. "Loss of

appetite, insomnia, muscle pain, maybe some nausea--"

"Chills," a weary voice continued for him. "Vomiting, diarrhea, cramping, depression. Oh, and let's not forget the panic attacks." Peter's eyes were open and he looked up at Winston. "That's all I can remember right off, but I'd say that's plenty."

"Peter," Egon began.

"But you know what?" Peter said softly, closing his eyes again. "I'll go through the whole range of it before I step foot inside a rehab and let them hook me up to their methadone machine. And I'm sure as hell not going to start giving interviews to the press explaining why Peter Venkman's been higher than a kite for. . . " He trailed off, opening his eyes. "What's today?"

"December 18th," Ray told him, clinging tight to Peter's hand.

Peter nodded at that, moving his fingers in Ray's grasp but unable to return the reassuring squeeze Ray offered. He was blanking out again, what little coherence he had grasped fading with consciousness, taking him back to the place where disconnected images and disturbing dreams ruled his mind. "No," he muttered. "No, not there. Not there."

"Peter?"

Peter heard Egon's voice, heard the fear behind Egon's usual firm control; but he couldn't seem to pull up out of himself to reach out to Egon and help him. He could hear them all from what seemed far away, still discussing the matter of rehab. He knew they had been arguing over it. The sound of the heated discussion surprised him. He had never heard Winston really argue with Egon before. He knew that Winston found the brilliant physicist a little intimidating; but Peter believed Winston had grown comfortable even around Egon in the past two years. And evidently he was right, if Winston was able to argue Peter's case for him in the face of Egon's determination that Peter should go to a hospital.

"Egon," Winston was saying. "Look, let's compromise, for Peter's sake. Let's call in Greg. He's gonna have to know about this anyway. He can guide us, and help us get Peter through the withdrawal."

Peter listened, knowing each and every emotion gleaming in Egon's eyes that moment without having to see Egon's face. Egon's prime motivation would be his friend's health, even at the expense of the business and Egon's own reputation. Peter imagined the response of the scientific world and he shuddered.

Don't do that, Egon. Not for me. Not after what I've done.

Don't let me ruin you, too.

Egon was silent longer than Peter expected. But finally he heard the deep bass voice, soft and etched with pain that only his closest friends would have heard beneath the overlying calm suffusing it.

"Very well. We will call in Greg and have him examine

Peter. But if Greg insists that Peter needs more than we can

give him--"

"Thanks, Egon." Winston sounded relieved. Peter felt Winston's hand on his shoulder, the firm clasp meant to convey reassurance. Evidently Winston expected that they'd receive permission from Greg to keep Peter at home.

Thanks, Winston. Peter let himself drift back into sleep.

* * *

"Well?" Egon stood in the doorway of the bedroom, Winston, Ray, and Janine crowded with him, as Greg Labraccio left Peter's bedside and came toward them.

"His withdrawal symptoms have already begun," Dr. Labraccio stated soberly, directing his words to Egon. "Anxiety, restlessness, sweating, chills. You say he was alert earlier today?"

"Not as alert as he normally is," Egon said. "He was coherent. He understood what was going on and was quite determined that he remain here at home for the duration of his withdrawal."

"I see. And you don't know the dosages he was given, nor when the last was administered." Greg frowned.

"You think he should be hospitalized," Egon prompted. He glanced at Winston, who looked troubled but said nothing.

The doctor ran a hand through his curly hair, then clasped his hand absently over the stethoscope still hanging around his neck. "In attempting to evaluate the extent of Peter's possible dependence, I've concluded that it doesn't appear he's been exposed to the drug long enough to have developed a psychological addiction. But make no mistake--withdrawal is going to be hard on him physically. For the past two weeks, his body's shut down its own natural production of endorphins. Now that he's going off the heroin, his body has no ability to deal with pain. Any kind of pain, physical or emotional."

Greg looked at the anxious faces that stared back at him, and he sighed. This was going to be almost as tough on his friends as it was going to be for Peter. "Most treatment programs will use medications to help a patient deal with the withdrawal. I recommended Clonidine, but Peter cut me off right there. He thinks he can do this cold turkey. That kind of determination wins half the battle, but only half. If you fellows are going to keep him here and help him through this, he's going to need every ounce of support and every moment of your time. Heroin withdrawal isn't fatal to an otherwise healthy adult. But the severity of withdrawal depends on the amount used, the duration of use, and intervals between dosages. From what I've gleaned from Peter, he's been given approximately ten to as much as twenty milligrams every six to eight hours for a two week period."

"If we take him to rehab," Egon began.

Dr. Labraccio held up a hand. "In Peter's case, it may actually be better to keep him at home. The current trend is to admit someone with a heroin problem to a hospital just long enough to get him through the worst of the physical withdrawal and then to send him to outpatient counseling. That method of treating heroin addiction is the most widely used. . . and also the least successful."

Greg shook his head. "Methadone maintenance is the most effective known treatment for heroin addiction, but it's tightly restricted. I can't prescribe it and regular pharmacies don't distribute it. He'd have to get it at a specialized treatment program, and those places tend to be underfunded and in short supply. They don't always prescribe the adequate dosage and users often end up returning to the heroin to deal with the withdrawal pain."

"Or they do get an adequate dosage," Winston said quietly, "and become dependent on the methadone."

"Yes," Dr. Labraccio conceded. "Methadone's usually prescribed when long-term use of the opioid alters brain chemistry to the point that the user may have a long term and possibly permanent craving for the drug. For Peter, that may be a rather extreme solution. He has a slight temperature right now. His blood pressure is also slightly elevated, his pulse and respiration a little fast. The physical symptoms will probably peak within the next day or two, depending on when his last dose was."

Dr. Labraccio gestured for them to come nearer and he lowered his voice. "Let me tell you boys what you're in for." He rattled off a long list of symptoms. Aware of the growing distress in the four faces before him, he set a hand on Egon's shoulder, and the other on Winston's, a comforting gesture. "Most of these symptoms are experienced only by long-term users who are coming off the drug. In Peter's case, he may experience several of the symptoms, but I expect them to be considerably less severe than the symptoms of the average drug-user. They are also not likely to last as long. Maybe three or four days, in Peter's case."

Egon couldn't let it go. "You don't believe he requires hospitalization and observation?"

"Oh, he requires observation," Greg said gently. "He needs to be strictly monitored for at least 48 hours. But I would rather see him watched over by a group of friends who know him inside and out, and know how to take care of him. Most of the symptoms are flu-like. You've nursed him through the flu before, I know. This will be similar, except for the fact that he may possibly reach a point where he wants another injection. Knowing Peter, he'll fight that craving, but he may have trouble fighting it completely. That's when you guys are going to have to be strongest. Do whatever you have to do to support him through that. Distract him, entertain him, feed him sugar, caffeine, junk food, anything. But keep him here and keep an eye on him at all times."

Winston sensed that now was the time to support Dr. Labraccio's recommendation for treatment. "We've already gone through the medicine cabinets and removed anything that might tempt him. Just as a precaution."

"A good precaution." Greg gazed at Winston for a long

moment. "I don't mean to pry, Winston. . . but you've been

through this before, haven't you? With someone else. I saw you

nodding at my list of symptoms. I just got the feeling--"

"I've been there, Doc," Winston said as Dr. Labraccio paused. "A friend of mine, Bill Delancy. He dropped out of rehab, but once we got him away from his drug buddies, we got him cleaned up for a while."

Dr. Labraccio didn't pry further, but simply nodded. "That reassures me as far as leaving Peter in your hands. I will come by to check on him every day. If his symptoms become severe, we will discuss other options." He paused again, turning to Egon. "Peter hasn't given you a clue as to who did this to him?"

There was a sparkle of anger in Egon's eyes, and everyone present knew it was directed at the unknown assailant. "He has refused to tell us so far, and I suspect it is out of concern for what may happen to us if we attempt to find or capture these people. But I do not plan to let the matter drop."

"Nor should you," Greg agreed. "But this is not the time to

press him on it, Egon. Let Peter recover--"

"I intended to," Egon interrupted, with a concurring nod.

"Good." Dr. Labraccio looked around at Ray, Winston, and Janine, to make sure they were all in agreement on the matter. Then he quirked an uneasy eye in Slimer's direction. Slimer hovered in a corner of the room near the ceiling, wringing his hands, his wide-eyed gazed fixed on the still form of Peter Venkman. Though Slimer had visited the guys in the hospital on more than one occasion after an injury, Greg wasn't entirely used to Slimer yet, and it made him uneasy to be in the room with the little green ghost.

"One other thing," Greg said, removing his stethoscope and slipping it into his medical bag. "I did get out of Peter that he believes sterile needles were used on him. I don't know how accurately he was able to determine that, considering what he's been through. I'm going to bring the materials to test him for any possible transmissions that could have come through needle use."

Egon shivered, knowing what he meant. Bottling down his

fears, the physicist managed a calm nod and held out his hand to

the doctor. "Thank you, Greg. I know it's rather late to be

making a house call--"

"Don't think another thing about it," Greg returned with a smile, shaking Egon's hand. "I hope I've eased your worries a little. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon."

"Just part and parcel of being physician to four guys who can't stay out of trouble," Winston commented with a wry grin at Ray. Ray smiled a little wanly, seeming overwhelmed by all the information Dr. Labraccio had just given them.

Greg chuckled and, after a wary glance at Slimer, moved back to Peter's bedside, the others following him. He lowered a hand to Peter's forehead and bent down to look into Peter's quiet face. "Pete, it's Greg. Can you open your eyes for me, buddy?"

Peter made an effort to cooperate, managing to open his eyes just enough to peer dazedly up at the doctor. Greg smiled at him. "I'm going home now, Pete. You're in good hands. All you have to do is lie here and let these guys take care of you."

Peter swallowed visibly and blinked. "I'm good at that," he murmured.

Greg laughed and gently mussed Peter's hair. "I just bet you are." He straightened. "If you change your mind about the Clonidine. . . " He trailed off as Peter's mouth formed a straight, stubborn line. "Okay, Pete. See you tomorrow."

Greg turned to Egon. "The more sleep he gets, the better. But he's probably going to be pretty restless, and increasingly uncomfortable. And the more miserable he gets, the more he's likely to lash out at whomever's at hand. Something to be aware of. Don't take it personally if he chews your heads off in the process of withdrawal."

"We can deal with that," Egon stated, sounding far calmer than Winston knew he actually felt.

Winston shook the doctor's hand. "Anything else I need to know, Doc?" he asked.

Greg eyed him for a moment, then drew Winston aside and spoke quietly. "You may have more experience with this than either Egon or Ray, Winston, but I want you to keep in mind that this isn't all on your shoulders. Let them help. You all have one goal here, and Egon and Ray are going to learn real fast how to deal with this."

Winston nodded slowly. He realized he had been thinking of Peter's recovery as his own responsibility. It was hard not to. Ray and Egon, in spite of their determination to get Peter through this, had never nursed a friend through drug withdrawal before. Winston was thankful that at least the process wouldn't be as severe for Peter as it had been for Bill.

One thing Winston knew for sure, Peter was going to survive. And Winston knew what in particular he had to watch out for. He knew Peter was smart and wily enough to get out of the firehouse behind their backs, if the need to locate another injection became too much for him; and Winston was resolved to keep Peter securely at home even if he had to resort to tying the psychologist down to his own bed.

Greg seemed to sense Winston's resolve, and, feeling he had done as much as he could to ease some of the responsibility off the man's shoulders, the doctor decided to say nothing more about it. He bid Winston good-night, and, after saying farewells with added reassurances to Egon, Ray, and Janine, he threw one last dubious smile at Slimer and left the firehouse, leaving Peter in the care of his friends.

Winston turned to Egon. "I think we should take this in shifts. That way we can all get the rest we need, and I think we're definitely going to be needing it."

"I will take the first shift," Egon said automatically.

"All right." Winston knew better than to try and argue the matter with him. It was going to be tough enough to get Egon to leave Peter's side when the shift ended and Egon needed to sleep, himself. "I'll be second, then," he said, before Ray could chime in. He knew Ray would have a tough time pulling Egon off his shift. That was better left in Winston's hands.

Ray did not object. His gaze was on Peter, his brown eyes soft and brimming with worry. Winston took him firmly by the shoulders. "Come on, Ray, time for bed."

Egon sat on the edge of Peter's mattress and gazed down at his friend, swamped with the same worry Ray and Winston felt. He had never dealt with anything like this before. Only Winston had, and Egon was very grateful for the strength and reassurance Winston was lending them all right now.

Egon remembered that Peter had once dealt with a situation like this, long ago when they were teaching at Columbia. One of Peter's students, an intelligent, driven, but fun-loving man who had reminded Egon of Peter, had died of a drug overdose just before Spring finals. Peter had been devastated by the student's death, and, Egon suspected, had never really gotten over it.

That experience had a lot to do with Peter's present aversion to any kind of medication, even the simplest of cold medicines. And Egon knew that Peter would suffer every misery of the heroin withdrawal before he'd agree to allow one more drug into his system to combat the suffering.

Egon sighed softly and lowered his head into his hands. He would give anything to know who had done this to Peter, and why. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to get his hands on the assailants and wring their necks for this. Not even the satisfaction of sending their molecules on separate vacations would be enough for what they had done to Peter. Egon felt angrier than he had ever felt in his life; and he wanted to expend that anger physically, with his fists, pounding apart the men responsible for this. He was not a man given to physical expression of emotion, whether positive or negative. But just the sight of Peter curled up under the blanket, shivering and whimpering in his sleep, created a wellspring of anger so great in Egon that he could hardly think straight. He wanted to hurt the people who had done this, hurt them as thoroughly as they had hurt Peter.

You're going to tell me who did this to you, Peter. As soon as you're well enough, you're going to tell me. Resolved, Egon calmed himself with an effort and, seating himself in the chair Winston had placed beside the bed, tried to immerse himself in some of the literature he'd picked up at the symposium.

After an hour, Egon gave up on the reading. He couldn't seem to focus on anything except the weary face and increasingly restless form of Peter Venkman lying in the bed in front of him. Egon set aside the literature and leaned toward the bed. He pressed his hand to Peter's brow. Peter had a fever, a slight one, as Dr. Labraccio had said.

Egon brushed his fingers across the pale cheek, wishing he had some way of easing the discomfort Peter was obviously feeling. Damp with perspiration, his brown hair clinging to his brow, Peter seemed only half-asleep. He tossed and turned, pushing away the blankets, and his face twisted every once in a while in a grimace, though his eyes did not open.

Egon got up and soaked a washcloth in cool water, then returned to lay it gently on Peter's forehead. Peter moaned softly, legs twisting further in the mess of blankets, hands tugging at his pajama top. He could hardly seem to lie still for more than a few moments.

Egon could hear him muttering, as he'd done on and off for the past hour, most of what he said essentially unintelligible. To Egon's ears, it sounded like anguished protest, punctuated by short gasps for breath and plaintive moans, no doubt originating from the suffering he was enduring.

Egon leaned closer, his face inches from Peter's, as he strained to hear the psychologist's ramblings.

"Peter?" Egon slipped a hand over Peter's hand, stilling its movement. "Peter." He said it firmly, trying to distract Peter from whatever visions tormented his half-conscious mind.

"No," Peter whispered in a clearer voice, albeit still almost too weak to hear. His head rolled back and forth on the damp pillow. "Won't. . . won't trap her."

Egon caught his breath. Won't trap who, he wondered. He clasped both hands over Peter's, and tightened his grip. "Peter, tell me what you mean. Who are you protecting?"

Peter's hand twisted in Egon's grasp as if he were desperate to break free; but his movements were too weak to pull loose from the physicist's long fingers. "Just want to talk to her," he muttered between gasps for breath. "Just talk. C'n help. If you'd let me. I'm. . . " He trailed off, wincing in pain.

Egon leaned closer to him, gazing down into Peter's tormented face, wishing the green eyes would open and focus on him, wishing he could talk to Peter. Peter hardly seemed aware of his presence.

The psychologist struggled briefly again to wriggle out of Egon's hold, then went limp, breathing heavily. "Isn't right," Peter suddenly choked, with such pleading in his voice that Egon's heart contracted in pain for him. "I can help her. Please. I'm good. . . at that. I'm--I'm a doctor."

Egon drew a soft, shaky breath, aware of the stinging in his eyes. He blinked, wanting to rub away the sudden tears, but he couldn't let go of Peter's hand. "A damned fine doctor," he whispered.

As if hearing him, Peter slowly opened his eyes. But his vision remained unfocused, his green eyes dim and filled with an expression of confusion and pain. "No," he whispered. "Not enough." Though his voice was soft, Egon heard the note of defeat. "Not like. . . Egon. Not like Ray." His eyes closed again, and the hands in Egon's lay still. "Not good enough."

Egon's heart twisted at the words, and the tone in which they were uttered. Where was this coming from? It seemed as if every doubt and uncertainty Peter had ever experienced but had never voiced was now surfacing, his usual bravado and confidence dissolving under the effects of the withdrawal. But Egon was determined Peter would not continue to think that way one minute longer without hearing the truth.

"Peter, listen to me. You're a brilliant doctor, Peter. Whatever happened to you. . . you can't compare your own talents to mine or Ray's. You're brilliant with people, brilliant in a way that Ray and I are not, and are not ever likely to be. Do you hear me?"

Peter's eyes opened and slowly, painfully, focused, finding Egon's face. The confusion faded, but the anguish and uncertainty remained. "I'm important," he whispered. It wasn't Peter's usual cocky declaration. It sounded more like a plea, a desperate need for confirmation.

Momentarily shocked, Egon quickly found his voice. "Of course you're important." He held onto Peter's gaze with his own, wondering how clearly Peter could see him. "Important to all of us."

Aware that Peter's hands had curled into fists, Egon gently unclenched the stiff, chilled fingers and rubbed them with his own. Peter exhaled and closed his eyes. Egon watched him, heart aching. "Important to me," he added more softly. "You may not realize how important. And I don't know how to express it any better than to just tell you so." He paused, then, with a smile, added, "None of the 'twenty dollar' words I know can come close to expressing your worth."

A faint smile touched the corners of Peter's mouth. "Heard that, Spengs. But. . . you remind me later. Remind me you said it. I don't wanna. . . forget."

He was drifting off again. Egon smiled back at him, though Peter's eyes remained closed against the sight. "I suspect you won't forget it any time soon, Peter. But I will remind you as often as you like."

Egon, aware of his own exhaustion, lowered his head against Peter's shoulder and closed his eyes. He could hear the steady beat of Peter's heart against his ear. It was more soothing than any lullaby and threatened to ease him into sleep. Prying his eyes open, Egon unwillingly sat up and, after tucking Peter back under the blankets, he shifted himself back to the chair. In no frame of mind to read, he simply sat in the chair, watching Peter as he slept.

"You doing okay?" Winston's voice, coming out of the darkness, startled Egon.

"You should be sleeping, Winston," Egon said after a moment, and smiled to himself. The protective streak Winston had begun to exhibit just after joining the team two years back included all of the guys, even Egon, to his surprise. Peter's protectiveness, Egon had grown used to; he didn't bother to complain about it or tease Peter, knowing it was only part of Peter's nature to fiercely protect the people he cared about. But when Winston, too, showed signs of thinking Egon needed looking after, especially on busts, Egon had begun to think he must unwittingly be projecting a vulnerable air, to make the people that knew him so inclined to always watch out for him. It was true that he sometimes became distracted by the theoretical aspects of their work, but he hadn't thought it was so noticeable that everyone would assume he was at greater risk because of it.

"Just checking." Winston got out of bed and moved to Egon's side, his hand coming down lightly on the physicist's shoulder. "I know you and Ray might be a little out of your element here."

He paused. "All I mean by that is--"

"I know what you mean, Winston," Egon said, without a hint of reproach. "And you should know that I appreciate your concern."

Winston exhaled and clapped Egon on the shoulder before letting go of him. "Man, I'm sorry about giving you a hard time earlier. I really do respect your judgment, Egon, especially where Ray and Peter are concerned. I just. . .well. . .I've seen what it takes to get past this. It takes everything a man's got, to get through the withdrawal. But when people find out that you were a user. . . " Winston's lips tightened. "They start treating you like you're something that just crawled out of a sewer. Even nowadays, they do it. Bill hated that more than anything. God, I never saw a look of shame and misery so deep in anyone's eyes. The thought of seeing that look in Pete's eyes. . . Egon, I couldn't let that happen. You know what I'm saying. You saw the way Peter didn't even want you and Ray to know what had happened to him. And you guys are closer to him than any other two people in the world."

Egon was quiet for a long moment, turning over Winston's words in his mind. He realized how glad he was that Peter was in their care, in spite of the fears he had harbored. Whenever Egon looked down at the pale, battered face, so grim and quiet, so unlike the lively, irrepressible Peter he knew, he shuddered to think of anyone else trying to help Peter get through this. Peter deserved the best possible care, they were all agreed on that point. But Egon had not been confident that the best care could come from Peter's friends, no matter how determined they were to watch over him. Lack of experience with the physical and psychological effects of such a drug had led him to that conclusion. Now he was more than determined to prove how inaccurate his conclusion had been. And he was very glad at this moment that he had listened to Winston.

"I know what you were doing and why, Winston. I know that it

was all done out of love for Peter," Egon said. He paused,

then continued, wanting to reassure Winston as much as

himself that everything was going to be okay. "I'm glad you

stood up for him like that. I wasn't thinking as clearly--"

"Sure you were, Egon. You and me, we had one thought in our heads." Winston sat on the edge of the bed and set a hand lightly on the blankets covering the sleeping man. "This guy right here. Peter Venkman, who couldn't stay out of trouble if his life depended on it." He chuckled, patting Peter affectionately. Peter did not wake, but sighed softly in his sleep. Winston turned to Egon and they shared a smile. "Egon, look at us. We're worn through and we know we're not going to be getting any sleep tonight. And we're still the two happiest guys in New York City at the moment." He sighed, himself. "That's the one thing I do know for sure."

Egon's laugh was low and not quite as steady as it could have been. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hand absently closed over Peter's wrist. "I guess I'm a little over-protective at times, at least where the three of you are concerned. The thought of losing any of you. . . "

"I read you," Winston said, sounding a little relieved. "And you know what? I don't think it's such a bad thing, being a little over-protective in a job like this. Makes me feel a lot better knowing you guys are right there, looking out for me."

Egon pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger. He cleared his throat. "It would appear that in the past year or so, though, you have taken on the greater burden of that particular task, you and Peter both."

Winston realized what he was saying. To his surprise, he realized Egon was actually a little embarrassed to acknowledge that Winston and Peter did most of the work when it came to protecting the team in the middle of a bust. "You may have a point, Egon. But looking out for you guys, that just seems to come natural to me. Maybe it was something I learned when I was a kid, looking after my brothers and watching out for the younger kids in our neighborhood. Or maybe I picked it up in 'Nam, watching over the guys who came on tour after me and looked like they were ready to keel over from the nightmare if someone wasn't around to back 'em up."

Winston paused, not comfortable pursuing that particular line of thought. He shifted around on the edge of the bed and looked up at Egon. "All I'm saying is we each of us do what we're best at. You'll think up a plan of action, Ray'll tell us how to make it work, and me and Pete, we'll throw ourselves into it whole-heartedly because we know we can trust your ideas and Ray's know-how. At the end of the day, we're all still alive because of all four of us, not just me or Peter. You get what I'm saying, don't you, Egon?" Winston paused and grinned faintly. "Dumb question, that one."

Egon returned the smile. "A reasonable question, under the circumstances. And I will add that I'm very glad you're here to help us handle this one, Winston. I must admit when I saw those marks on Peter's arm. . . " He trailed off, his gaze fixed on Peter.

Winston saw the look in the blue eyes and he gave Egon a gentle nudge. "You've seen that boy through hell and back. Well, this is just another little corner of hell we have to get through. But Peter's going to survive it. We'll carry him through whatever fires we've gotta carry him through, and he's gonna know he's got no choice but to fight back and get well, because we're not giving him any other option."

Egon's gaze returned to Winston, a thoughtful look in his eyes. But all he said was, "I think you should get some sleep, Winston. You're the next shift, aren't you?"

Winston, smiling again, rose to his feet. "You know something, Egon, I think you pay a lot more attention to the world around you than we ever think you do."

Peter was only half-awake again when Winston rose to take over his shift hours later. The psychologist had grown more restless in those hours, occupying Egon with the effort of keeping Peter in bed, trying to calm him, and coax him to rest.

Winston, still sleepy-eyed himself, gazed down at Peter in renewed worry. Wrapped in a blanket, Peter had curled himself up into a tight ball and chills wracked his body, eliciting a whimper every few minutes from the suffering man.

Winston sat down and rubbed a hand over Peter's back, trying to comfort him as much as warm him. "Hey, Pete, it's morning. You're getting there."

Peter didn't seem to hear him. Winston leaned closer, his arm sheltering Peter's quivering shoulders, offering more warmth. "I know it hurts, Pete," he said, hoping he sounded more soothing than he felt. "But you just hang on. We're here. Me, Egon, Ray, Janine. Even Slimer's worried about you. I don't think he's eaten a thing this morning."

A wobbly laugh rose, faint but audible, from beneath the edge of the blanket. Peter had heard him. Winston grinned. "I knew you were alive in there somewhere, Peter. Feel like eating anything?"

"You mean, like food?" came the muffled response, in a tone that pretty much answered the question.

"He doesn't want breakfast?" Ray asked, emerging from the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower.

"I don't think so, Ray."

Ray bent over Peter, trying to peer under the blanket, but all that was visible under the curve of Winston's arm was a brown thatch of tangled hair and a pair of closed eyes. Ray looked up at Winston. "Well, I'll bring you some breakfast, so you can stay with him."

As Ray started for the door, Winston called after him. "Uh, Ray. . . would you bring up one other thing? One of Peter's westerns from his bookshelf."

Ray broke into a smile. "Sure I will, Winston. That's a great idea."

Winston spent the better part of the morning reading aloud. Westerns weren't his favorite, but he found this particular one amusing. He wasn't sure if Peter was really focusing, but he kept reading, hoping it would provide some distraction. He tried also to tempt Peter with the toast and eggs Ray brought up, but Peter merely rolled over and buried himself all the deeper beneath the blankets.

Winston had reached the last chapter at lunchtime, and as he read, he wondered where Egon and Ray had gotten off to. It had been rather quiet in the firehouse the past couple of hours. He figured they must have gone out for groceries and would probably be lugging home everything they could think of that they knew Peter liked to eat, just to get him to eat something. Winston yawned, and, sipping at the now-cold cup of coffee, picked up the book to finish the tale, though he suspected Peter was asleep again.

He had nearly finished the last page when he heard the pounding of eager footsteps on the stairs. Ray appeared, still dressed in his winter coat, and grinning like the cat who swallowed the canary. "Hey, Winston, how's Peter?"

Winston made a shushing gesture with one hand and Ray immediately looked abashed. He crept forward and gazed down at Peter. Still twisted in his blankets, Peter lay with his head on the very edge of the mattress, apparently asleep except for the fact that his hands had twisted one corner of the pillowcase into a tight knot and were even now tugging at the material.

Ray set a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Peter?" he said softly. "It's me. Want something to eat now? Or a nice cold drink?"

Peter's eyes opened as if the effort took intense concentration on his part. He squinted at Ray. "Ray?"

Ray knelt down, his mittened hand still resting on Peter's shoulder, and he looked eagerly into Peter's weary face. "Peter, we have a nice surprise for you downstairs. You wanna come down and lie on the sofa for a while? You can see it from there."

"Downstairs?" It seemed to take even more concentrated effort to talk.

Winston leaned across Peter and looked at Ray. "What's up?

What's the surprise?"

Ray grinned up at him. "If I told you that, it wouldn't be a surprise. Come on!"

Together, they eased Peter up out of bed and, wrapping him securely in his blanket, guided him down the stairs into the rec room. Winston sat Peter on the sofa, but Peter, instead of lying down, leaned sideways and rested his head against the cushion, his legs tucked under him. Winston straightened and looked expectantly at Ray. "So?"

"Just a minute!" Ray vanished downstairs. Winston, curious, peered down over the railing. A moment later, the top limbs of a rather large evergreen appeared, branches bouncing as Ray and Egon carried it up the stairs between them.

Winston, realizing his mouth was hanging open, shut it and backed out of the way to let the two men bring the tree into the rec room. They leaned the tree against a wall and Ray triumphantly produced a tree stand and set it on the floor.

Once the tree was in place, Ray turned to Peter, who had watched the proceedings from half-lidded eyes, his head still cradled against the sofa cushions.

"Well? What do you think?" Ray gestured eagerly at the full, bushy fir, whose height barely left room for a star to be placed at the top without hitting the ceiling.

Peter blinked and managed a slight smile. "It's definitely a tree, Ray."

Ray sat on the back of the sofa and wriggled excitedly. "Egon and I went out and got it early. We thought it'd be fun to stay in today and decorate it together."

Peter pulled the blanket tight around his shoulders and yawned widely. "You go ahead, Ray. Uncle Peter'll watch and let you know if any of the lights don't work, 'kay?"

Ray glanced at Egon, who just nodded. Winston noticed the look that passed between them. He knew that buying the tree early was meant to be a distraction for Peter. It had been, to some degree. But Peter was having too much trouble focusing on anything at the moment, never mind tree decorating.

Ray went to fetch the boxes of lights and bulbs out of storage. While he was gone, Winston decided it was time for some lunch; soup for all, which he thought even Peter might be able to handle. Peter balked at first but after some cajoling by all three of his friends, he reluctantly took the bowl Egon handed him. But his hands were too shaky to hold the spoon and he just sat holding the warm bowl in his lap, staring down at it as if he hadn't the strength to do any more. Winston quickly took it from him and transferred the soup into a cup, and Peter managed to drink a little of it before mumbling that he was tired and wanted to go back to bed.

Winston took him back upstairs while Ray sat down forlornly next to the partially-decorated tree. Egon sank into a chair. "It was a good thought, Ray. I just don't think Peter's up for any of this right now. I have a feeling we haven't seen the worst of the withdrawal symptoms yet."

"It's my shift," Ray said staunchly, rising. "I'm going up.

You should get some rest, Egon, before your shift starts."

"Winston's with him right now," Egon said, his smile soft at Ray's earnestness. "Why don't we finish the tree? Maybe later Peter will feel like coming down again, and I'm sure he'd like to see it finished."

They were adding the last of the trim when Janine called up that there was a client on hold, wanting to talk to a Ghostbuster. Ray went downstairs to take the phone, while Egon went up, to see if Winston needed any assistance. Peter lay in bed, still cocooned and shivering as if it were as cold in the firehouse as it was outside. Winston, who was shaking out another blanket to add to the ones already draped over Peter, looked up as Egon entered the room.

"What's up, Egon? We got a call?"

"Yes. Ray went down to talk to the client."

"Ray?" Winston snorted. "Egon, our goal is to not take any calls today."

"You have a point," Egon said with a dry smile.

Winston headed to the door. "I'm just going to make sure our boy isn't talked into any busts. Be right back."

He left Egon standing at Peter's bedside. Egon crept

quietly forward and, picking up the blanket Winston had dropped,

covered Peter with it. Peter twisted over restlessly onto his

back, flinging away the blankets. He slid both hands over his

stomach and the expression that came over him made Egon move

swiftly to his side. "Peter, are you--"

"Get me up!" Peter rasped, fumbling for the edge of the mattress in an effort to get himself out of bed. Egon wrapped one arm around him, and helped him to his feet. The moment Peter was upright, he tore out of Egon's grasp and lurched toward the bathroom. Egon flew after him, only to find the door shut in his face. He knocked urgently. "Peter? Peter--" He stopped as he heard the sound of Peter being sick. He tried the doorknob to find it locked. With a sigh, he waited patiently until things grew quiet.

When another long moment passed and Peter did not emerge, Egon knocked again. "Peter? Are you all right?"

A groan issued from the other side of the door. Then Peter blurted out something that sounded like, "all right".

Egon was not reassured. "Peter, can I get you anything?"

He pressed an ear against the door to listen for a reply.

"You got ten milligrams of diacetylmorphine on you?"

Egon, startled, didn't respond. He knew Peter's joking tone; but the underlying bitterness threw him off-balance.

"Egon?" Peter's voice was quieter now, the bitterness vanished. He sounded almost worried. "Sorry. That wasn't funny." The lock clicked and the door slowly opened a few inches. Peter was sitting on the tile floor, white-faced. He leaned his head against the door. "Guess I'm not used to eating actual meals."

Egon knelt down and reached out to clasp his shoulder. "How do you feel now?"

"I'd feel better back in bed," Peter mumbled, eyes closing.

"If I could just get up off the damned floor."

Egon took the hint and, sliding his arms around Peter, carefully hoisted him onto his feet. They stood in the bathroom doorway for a moment while Peter caught his breath and regained his equilibrium. He clung to Egon, the only thing keeping him standing, and rested his head against his friend's shoulder.

"Spengs. . . " hardly more than a whisper. "I'm sorry about this."

Egon pulled him close. "It's going to be all right, Peter. We're going to help you." He eased Peter through the doorway and slowly maneuvered him back to his bed. Peter all but collapsed onto the mattress and curled his wiry frame into a ball again, as if some instinct urged every measure of self-preservation he could come up with. Egon wondered what other instinct had been at work when Peter shut him out of the bathroom by locking the door. Winston's comment about the shame Bill had endured came back to Egon at that moment. Did Peter see himself as a drug user? Did he imagine that his friends would look at him differently now, even though the injections had been forced upon him? The thought of that made Egon's heart ache for Peter. . . and made him clench his hands in anger at whoever had done this to his friend.

Egon was resolute that Peter would know he still had his friends' unfailing love and support. He drew the chair flush with the edge of the mattress and sat down. Taking Peter's limp hand, he squeezed it reassuringly and held onto it. "I'm here, Peter. We're all here. Right here, whenever you need us."

The fingers in Egon's grasp moved a little and Egon smiled, knowing Peter had heard.

During Ray's shift in the afternoon, Dr. Labraccio came by to examine Peter and do a series of tests. Peter put up no resistance to any of them. He seemed barely conscious of them and didn't even react when Dr. Labraccio drew a small blood sample.

When the doctor finished, he sat with Peter for a little while, talking to him in a low voice. Egon heard some of the doctor's questions and realized Greg was testing Peter's awareness. Peter answered in monosyllables, eyes closed nearly the entire time. His shivering continued, and he looked a little more feverish than he had that morning. He moved his arms and legs restlessly, as if he couldn't bear to keep still. Dr. Labraccio seemed less concerned with those things than with Peter's mental state.

When he had finished with Peter, he came down to the rec room. "Lovely tree," he remarked. "It wasn't here yesterday, was it?"

"We got it today," Winston told him. "Thought it might distract Pete a little."

"Good idea. Did it work?"

Winston and Egon looked at each other and saw each others' acknowledgement that it hadn't been as successful as they had hoped. "I don't think Peter was really ready for it," Egon said, turning to Dr. Labraccio. "How is his condition, Greg?"

"Stable," Greg said. "Within the normal range of withdrawal symptoms. Blood pressure, temperature still a little elevated. He's experiencing some muscle discomfort. I'd recommend a nice warm bath." The doctor smiled. "Just make sure he doesn't fall asleep in it."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Egon asked.

"Continue what you've been doing," Greg said, nodding in

approval. "He's more alert than I'd expect him to be, although

he's as weak as a baby. If you could get a little food into him-

-"

"We tried," Winston said, with a wry face.

"Didn't keep it down, hm?" Greg looked sympathetic. "Keep trying, just a little at a time. And keep it bland. Eventually he'll be able to hold it down. Liquids too. Treat it like the flu. He needs as much energy on his side as he can get." He gazed at both men for a moment. "And try to get some sleep, yourselves," he said, giving them each a stern look. "I'll see you tomorrow."

When he'd gone, Egon and Winston gave Ray the details of the doctor's exam.

"The bath sounds like a good idea," Ray said.

Peter, awake, grimaced. "Does anything ever sound like a bad idea to you, Ray?"

"Come on, Peter, it'll make you feel better," Ray said, peeling the blankets off him. "We'll all help you so you won't wear yourself out."

Peter shivered. "You're all trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Winston grinned at him. "I'll turn up the heat while you run the bath, Egon."

"Do I get any say in this?" Peter asked plaintively.

Egon sat down on the bed and, slipping an arm around him, sat him up. "None," he replied, and drew Peter's legs gently off the edge of the mattress.

"Oh, good." Peter's sarcasm was not lost on them, but Ray and Egon merely exchanged a worried smile before they hauled Peter onto his feet and guided him to the bathroom. Once the warm water was drawn and he was undressed and lowered into it, he stopped complaining, mainly, Egon surmised, because he was too tired to complain any more.

Ray, still on shift, remained in the bathroom to watch over him, reading to him out of an occult book entitled Talismans, Amulets, and Other Charms: A Thorough History. Peter lay motionless in the water, eyes closed, looking almost at ease, much to Ray's relief. Ray read to him eagerly, dipping a finger into the water every few minutes to make sure it was still warm.

After about twenty minutes, Peter exhaled a soft sigh.

"Ray?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"If you read any more of that book to me, I'm going to drown myself."

"Oh." Ray, reddening, closed the book and set it carefully on the sink. "Ready to get out?"

"Almost." Peter closed his eyes and sank below the level of the water. Ray, alarmed, reached over to grab him out; but Peter slid back up, dripping like a wet terrier, and smiled tiredly at him. "Got any shampoo, Tex?"

After dabbing a bit of shampoo into his hair, Peter submerged himself briefly again and, with Ray's help, buried himself in towels. Though Ray found the bathroom toasty and humid, Peter began shivering again almost immediately. He leaned heavily against Ray as they returned to the bedroom. Back in clean pajamas and draped with blankets, Peter lay in bed, trembling even worse than he had before his bath. His momentary energy had dissipated and he rocked back and forth against the pillow, his eyes closed.

"Maybe a warm drink," Ray suggested, as Egon, Winston, and he stood around the bed, watching Peter in worriment.

"Yeah, Egon," Winston put in. "How about some of your cocoa? Peter'd probably drink that."

"I'm not sure he could keep it down," Egon said pensively.

"Perhaps some hot tea would be better."

Peter tolerated half the cup of tea before he refused to take another sip. Slumping back down against his pillow, he curled up again, rocking back and forth like a man in supreme discomfort. His face grew more flushed as the afternoon wore toward evening, and chills continued to wrack his body, forcing small, protesting moans from his lips.

Ray sat stolidly by his bedside and, forgoing the occult book, read from one of Peter's westerns instead. But Peter seemed oblivious to the story. When Egon and Winston went to bed, Peter did not even respond to their "good night" but only moaned and twisted, eyes closed, too absorbed by his discomfort to hear anyone.

Winston lay down but knew he'd never get to sleep. He trusted Ray completely; but a part of him feared that if Peter got too restless or, worse, started asking for an injection, Ray wouldn't know how to handle it. So he lay awake, watching through the dimness of the room as Ray sat in the chair beside Peter and read quietly, a small bedlamp his only source of light. Winston could see Peter's pale features stark in the white glow of the lamplight. Peter didn't hear a word of the novel, Winston was certain. The psychologist's kicking and twisting had sent all the blankets over the edge of the mattress, onto the floor.

Ray scooped them up and, draping one blanket over Peter, laid the rest at the foot of the bed. Peter's hands automatically clutched tight at the blanket as if he were seeking something to hold onto, something to bear him away from the incessant torment and into some kind of oblivion. He was muttering again, under his breath, and twisting on his pillow.

Suddenly Peter cried out softly in pain.

Ray stopped reading. Winston could just imagine the worried, anxious look on Ray's face and he wondered if he should get up and sit with them both for a while.

"He's not here," Peter muttered, just loudly enough to carry to Winston. Winston leaned forward, straining to hear him. Ray, unaware that anyone else was awake, hung over Peter with a helpless air. Peter tossed and turned, his hands moving all over the blanket. "Not here. Said he'd be here."

"Peter?" Ray whispered. "Who do you mean? I'm here, Peter."

Another soft cry escaped Peter. His legs jerked, involuntarily. Muscle spasms, Winston thought. He moved aside his own blanket and sat up. Peter's gasping moans could be heard across the room. Winston saw Egon, still slumped in exhausted sleep, move his head back and forth as if hearing, at least subconsciously, Peter's cries.

Ray took hold of Peter's hands, stilling the constant movement. "Peter, I'm here," he repeated, his voice a little firmer, but still scared.

"He said he'd be here," Peter whimpered, fingers tightening convulsively around Ray's hands. "He said. He wrote it on the postcard. He'd come this time." Peter's eyes opened, gleaming with fever, seeing nothing but the visions in his own mind. Winston still hesitated to intervene. As much as he wanted to reassure Peter, part of him was rooting for Ray to handle it.

"What's the postcard say, Peter?" Ray asked, so softly Winston almost missed it.

Peter whimpered again, writhing, his legs pushing the blankets into a lumpy bundle at the bottom of the bed. "He's in Mexico," Peter whispered. "That's far. But he's going to come. He wouldn't write it if he wasn't going to come. Would he?"

The question, pleading for an answer, hit Winston like a kick in the gut. He saw Ray's head bow for a moment, and knew Peter's grief had hit him hard, too. Egon, over in his own bed, had grown restless, although Winston knew the physicist was still asleep and couldn't be hearing the conversation. At least not consciously.

"Maybe he meant to come but he couldn't," Ray tried, but Peter didn't seem to hear. Whatever nightmare had hold of him, he had slipped back into it fully, and now just lay, twisting and turning, the occasional moan of pain breaking from his lips. Ray picked up a blanket and covered Peter with it.

Winston crawled back under his own blanket and lay awake, gazing across the room. Ray remained steadfastly at Peter's side, and Winston heard the occultist's voice, low and soothing, trying to help Peter gain some measure of peace.

But as the minutes passed, Peter only seemed to reach a new level of restlessness. He shoved down the blanket again, then pushed it off onto the floor. "Can't do this," he muttered. "Can't. Can't." He seemed to notice Ray for the first time and he turned onto his side, reaching out his hands toward the occultist. "Ray?"

Ray instantly sat on the bed, putting an arm over Peter's shoulders. "I'm right here, Pete. What do you need?"

Peter writhed restlessly in the circle of Ray's arm. His hands clung to Ray, pulling at the material of Ray's shirt. "Don't know. But I can't. . . I need. . . " His eyes focused a little more clearly on Ray. "Ray," he whispered, and his grip on the shirt tightened. "You love me, don't you, Ray?"

Ray blinked at him in astonishment. "Of course I do, Peter.

What--"

"I knew you did. Knew it." Peter, hanging onto Ray, pulled himself up until he was almost sitting. Ray held onto him, keeping him upright. Peter leaned closer toward him. "I'm not doing too well," he said, his shaking voice making the truth of his statement all too clear. "I feel like shit, Ray."

Winston swallowed hard and closed his eyes, sending up a silent prayer. Don't, Pete. Don't ask him. Not Ray. Please, don't ask.

Ray nodded in commiseration. "I know, Peter. I wish I could do something. . . "

Don't say that, Ray. Winston groaned and clung hard to his own pillow. Peter, don't! He could see Peter's face from where he sat, the green eyes, bright and feverish, gazing up into Ray's sympathetic face. Winston braced himself to rise, knowing this time he would have to get up and intervene.

Peter seemed to stare up at Ray for a very long time. As he did so, Winston thought he saw the psychologist's face soften, his tense, fretful look fade into an expression of shame and regret. His desperate grip on Ray's shirt loosened, and he lowered his gaze, hiding the pain on his face from Ray and, unknowingly, Winston.

"You can do something for me, Ray," Peter muttered, sinking back onto the pillow and closing his eyes. "Just be here, pal. That's all I need from you."

Winston stifled his exclamation of relief by pressing his pillow over his mouth. He'd never considered for an instant that Ray would go out in search of heroin if Peter asked for it, but just the thought of Peter asking that of Ray sent a cold chill down Winston's spine.

But Peter hadn't asked. Good boy, Pete. I'm proud of you.

Ray nodded vigorously. "I'll stay right with you, Peter. I promise." Ray leaned over and set a hand lightly on Peter's brow. "Gee, you've still got a temperature. I wonder if we should call Greg."

"No doctor," Peter muttered. He rolled over and his legs slipped off the bed. "God, I can't lie in this bed another minute." He slid down until his knees hit the floor. Then he simply lay there for a moment, his head still resting on the mattress.

Ray leaned across the mattress, smoothing back the brown hair plastered damply to Peter's forehead. "I can put some fresh sheets on the bed," he offered.

Peter pushed himself back off the bed completely and held himself upright, still on his knees on the floor. Even across the room, Winston could see he was beyond exhausted, his pajamas rumpled and clinging to him, his face far too pale, his eyes far too bright. Peter sucked in a deep breath and climbed to his feet. Ray instantly rose and hurried around the bed.

"Peter, you shouldn't be up if you feel so bad. At least sit down while I change your sheets. I'll fix you a nice cold drink. Okay?"

Peter pulled away from Ray's hands and stumbled out into the middle of the room. He moved so unsteadily that Winston expected him to collapse at any moment. But he didn't. He stood in the middle of the room, gasping for breath. Then, wrapping his arms around his middle, Peter sank down to his knees again. Ray followed him.

"Peter, what are you doing? Come back to bed. Please?" Bending, Ray slipped one arm under Peter's arm and tried to pull Peter back up onto his feet. Again, Peter wriggled his way out of Ray's hold and, dropping forward, began to crawl across the floor on hands and knees. As Winston watched, Peter weaved unsteadily for a moment, then lowered himself down onto his side and curled up on the floor.

Ray bit his lip and stared at Peter as if wondering what he should do now. Getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled to Peter's side and looked down into his friend's face, his own features taut with concern. "Peter?"

Peter's eyes were closed, his breathing labored from his exertion, but he was lying almost still, except for the shivering that had reclaimed his body.

"You're getting cold," Ray exclaimed, and jumped up.

Winston wondered if Ray was going to try to carry Peter back to bed. But Ray didn't attempt to move the sick man. Instead, he went to Peter's bed and gathered up the blankets and the pillows. Returning to Peter's side, Ray carefully eased a pillow under Peter's head, then gently covered him with the blankets, tucking them securely around and under Peter as well as he could without moving him too much. Fetching his own blanket and pillows and the occult book from his nightstand, Ray put them on the floor and lay down next to Peter, facing him. He drew one of the blankets over them both and, propping a book on his pillow, switched on his booklight and read to himself, letting Peter sleep.

Winston lay back with a sigh. He had underestimated both Peter and Ray. He wouldn't do that again. He let himself drift off, and was asleep within a minute.

What seemed less than an hour later, he woke with a start. The room was quiet and a quick glance showed him that Peter and Ray were still curled up on the floor together, like two young boys camping out. Ray, arms folded on his book, appeared to be dozing off. Peter was curled up tight against him, brown head tucked close to auburn head, and Peter's arm was slung over Ray's back as if Ray were the one in need of protection, not Peter.

Winston smiled at the sight. Ray's duty was done. Now it was his turn again. He decided not to move either of them, but let them both sleep where they were. A glance toward the window revealed to him that it was snowing, soft, silent flakes whisking through the dark night.

Winston turned to look at the clock. Three in the morning. He yawned, feeling like he hadn't slept at all. He took the chair from beside Peter's bed and planted it next to his own bed, facing the two sleepers so he could watch over them both. The room was a little chilly now and Winston tugged his own blanket off his bed and covered himself with it.

That was the last thing he remembered doing before he fell asleep.

"Winston!" The urgent voice cut through his pleasant fog of sleep and drew him rapidly toward wakefulness. "Winston, wake up."

Egon's voice. Winston, stricken with a sudden vague anxiety, opened his eyes and looked up into Egon's face. Though Egon at first glance appeared calm, the glint of sheer fright in the blue eyes sent alarm bells off in Winston's mind. It took something very bad to put a look like that in Egon's eyes.

Winston sat up straight, the blanket falling from his shoulders. His glance flew to the floor. Ray, in the process of waking also, sat alone beside Peter's discarded blankets.

"Peter!" Winston gasped, turning back to Egon. "Egon, I fell asleep. Damn it!"

"So did I," Ray said in a small, guilt-stricken voice.

"We do not have the leisure for either blame or recriminations, gentlemen." The deep bass voice was under control, just barely. Egon turned and went to the door almost at a run, his nightshirt flapping about his long legs. Winston and Ray bounded after him, both of them sick with the thought that Peter might have left the firehouse and they had not been awake to stop him.

Down the spiral steps they flew, to the second floor. It wasn't quite dark in the rec room. Ray had left the Christmas lights on, and now the tree glowed softly in blues, reds, greens, and whites, reflecting off glass bulbs and strands of tinsel.

There, standing in front of the tree and, by all appearances, mesmerized by the sight of it, stood Peter.

Winston seized both Ray and Egon by the arm before they could surround Peter. "Wait a minute, guys," he whispered. "We don't know what frame of mind he's in. Let's do this gently."

Peter did not seem to be aware of them. He stood motionlessly in front of the tree, only a slight movement of his pajamas revealing the chills that still shook him.

Egon took a tentative step toward him, then stopped as he noticed something in Peter's hand. It was a long, slim package, containing a gift Ray had bought for Peter in Toronto. Peter clutched it tightly.

Winston moved around on Peter's left, and Ray crept forward on the right. Egon, staring at the way Peter held onto the package, did not move but watched in growing dread. He knew this stance of Peter's, legs and arms spread, back straight, his entire body as braced and tense as it was when he was aiming his thrower to blast at a Class 7.

"Peter," Egon whispered.

He didn't believe his soft whisper triggered it, but Peter came to life at that instant. The right arm lifted before Ray could grab hold of it, and swung the package forward in a sweeping motion that scattered bulbs, tinsel, and evergreen needles before it, sending broken glass flying all around Peter.

Ray froze in shock at the violence of the swing, but when Peter raised the package to bring it down for another sweep, Ray and Winston both sprang into action. They leapt at Peter, seizing his arms, and pulled him backward, lifting him clear of the broken glass that littered the floor. Peter began to struggle as they bore him backward, and Winston and Ray both staggered, working desperately to keep their balance.

It was a losing battle. All three men dropped onto the floor, Peter landing neatly on Winston. Winston groaned aloud, but managed to get his arms up and around Peter, hanging onto him while Ray scrambled up to help.

Between the two of them, they captured Peter's flailing arms and gently but firmly held the psychologist locked in their grasp while he continued to try and fight them off. Peter's eyes were only half-open, and unfocused. "Go to hell!" he yelled, his voice a rough, broken rasp but still audible in the silence of the room. "I don't need you, you son of a bitch! I never needed you!"

Ray and Winston's eyes met over Peter's head and Winston knew Ray had the same thought he did. As well did Egon, who voiced it. "Charlie Venkman."

Ray looked up at Egon, wide-eyed, frightened. "He was having a bad dream. He thought he was back home with his mom at Christmas, waiting for Charlie to come--" He looked down at Peter. "Is he still asleep?"

Egon bent over Peter, noting that though Peter's eyes had closed again, they moved rapidly beneath the lids. "I think he is," Egon whispered, sounding as distressed as Ray had. His control was fading fast in the face of this new torment Peter was facing, torment they hadn't even realized he was enduring. "But I think we need to get him calmed down and back upstairs."

Winston saw the tears that streaked Peter's face and he recalled what Greg had said about Peter's inability to deal with pain. . . any kind of pain. It hadn't occurred to him at the time that Greg might mean the surfacing of pains almost thirty years old.

"Peter," Winston said as firmly as he could. "Calm down, Pete. You're at the firehouse. It's me, Winston. Take it easy, buddy."

Peter resisted feebly, twisting against the hands restraining him. "What is this," he muttered, "a prison?"

Winston felt some relief upon realizing Peter was awake now. "If it has to be," Winston said grimly. "You're not taking another swing at that tree. You'll end up hurting yourself. You gotta calm down, Pete."

Peter winced and huddled against Winston's shoulder. Shudders overtook him and he clung to Winston, gasping. Winston, alarmed, held tight to him. "Ray," he said, "a blanket, quick." Ray let go of Peter and got up to snatch a blanket off the sofa. He bent down and covered Peter with it. Peter tried to push himself away from Winston. "I can't," he whimpered. "I can't.

I need--"

"No, you don't, Pete," Winston said, imbuing his voice with such determination, he hoped Peter would hear it and accept it as true. "You don't, Pete. You're gonna survive this."

"No, no. . . " Peter buried his head against Winston's shoulder, his clenched hands pressing uselessly against the sturdy arms keeping him in one spot. "Please. . . no," he moaned. "I need to talk to him. I need to go find him. Please!"

The desperate plea made Winston's gut twist in guilt and misery. He hated having to restrain Peter; but he was afraid Peter was only going to hurt himself further if Winston let go. Peter was rambling now, an edge of delirium in his voice, and the skin against Winston's hands felt too warm.

"Peter," he began, knowing he had to reach him to get him to calm down.

"Please," Peter whispered. "I need him. Please. I need him right now. He has to forgive me."

Winston, about to try again to get Peter calmed down, stopped at that last statement and frowned up at Ray. "What's that mean? Forgive Peter? Peter's blaming himself for all of Charlie's failings?"

Ray slipped closer to Peter's side. "Who, Peter? Who has to forgive you?"

"Need him," Peter said again, burrowing against Winston, seeking the warmth and comfort sensed closest at hand. But it didn't seem enough for him. "Please," he repeated, his fingers clutching at Winston's pajama top. Then he sagged, his hands dropping. His voice came, even softer, dispirited beyond recovery. "He won't forgive this. He can't. I know. . .he can't."

Winston sat up with an effort, dragging Peter up with him.

He settled the slumping body against his shoulder.

Egon, who had crept nearer but had not intervened, now

reached out and set his hand on Peter's cheek. "Greg said he was

vulnerable to any sort of pain. But I didn't think--"

Peter moaned and shook his head. Winston met Egon's eyes, letting Egon see the confusion he felt. "Pete's fighting some pretty old demons, isn't he?"

"You remember what we told you last Christmas about Peter's father. Peter might have come to think more kindly of Christmas over the past few years, but he still suffers from the memories of all those Christmases where Charlie couldn't be bothered to be there for him. Perhaps part of him still views it as some inadequacy in himself that kept Charlie away."

Winston saw the tight bunch to Egon's jaw and the cold blue glint in the physicist's eyes, and he frowned, himself. "He wants Charlie to forgive him for something that was never Pete's fault in the first place?"

Before Egon could reply, Peter grew restless again, his hand lifting blindly to the hand resting on his shoulder. As his fingers touched Egon's, Peter's eyes flew open and his gaze struggled to focus on Egon's face. "Egon?"

Egon heard the soft, tortured tone and had to swallow hard before he answered. "I'm right here, Peter. Are you in pain?"

"Egon," Peter murmured, and his fingers tightened around the hand under his. "Egon, I'm sorry." His voice was almost unintelligible under the layers of pain and grief that robbed it of all strength. "I'm sorry." Peter's face was etched with misery. He shuddered again but didn't release his grip on Egon's hand. "Have to ask you," he whispered. "C'n you forgive me?"

Egon stared at him in shock.

"You," Ray and Winston whispered in unison, their eyes lifting to Egon's stunned face.

Egon shook his head, blinking in bewilderment. He was sure

Peter had been referring to Charlie. "Peter," Egon began

urgently, curling his hand around to hold onto Peter's clinging,

shivering fingers. "It's Egon, Peter. Not your dad. Not

Charlie. He isn't here. You're home, with us, at the

firehouse--"

"I know," Peter interrupted, a little more strength and an exasperated inflection in his voice.

Winston looked up at Egon and saw the uncertainty, so rare, in the physicist's blue eyes. He smiled at the man. "It makes sense, Egon. Don't you see it? Maybe you're too close to him and you can't. But I see it. And I bet Ray does too."

"I'm not sure what you mean." Egon fixed his gaze back on Peter as if he could read the answer to his confusion there.

"I'm sorry," Peter mumbled, his voice sounding lost again.

"Why does he keep saying that?" Egon demanded, a note of frustration added to the bewilderment in his voice. "Does he think we blame him for this?" He clutched Peter's shoulder firmly. "Peter, we know someone did this to you. We know you aren't to blame." He raised a troubled gaze to Winston. "Are we doing the right thing, Winston, trying to handle this ourselves?"

Winston hated to hear such doubt in Egon's usually self-assured voice, but he understood where the man was coming from. He tightened his arms around Peter as if to shield him from all the professionals out there before giving Egon a reply. "They're not going to do anything that we aren't doing, and they sure as hell won't do it better than we will. Egon, we know Peter. Everything we do for him is done with pure love. They're not going to show him that. They won't understand why Peter Venkman took a swing at a defenseless Christmas tree--but we do. Don't you see that?"

Egon sensed that everything Winston said was true. But was their love enough to protect Peter from all this pain? Winston seemed to hear that question, even though Egon's gaze never left Peter's face for an instant to let Winston read his expression.

"Egon, I'm gonna make it real clear to you, since I'm not sure it is. You're the most important person in Peter's life. Sure, he loves me and he loves Ray, but there's a need for you that goes deeper, and you just saw evidence of that. You, you've given him things his father never gave him. Not just the reassurance needed to trust. You've given him a greater sense of stability. You've been the compass his father should have been."

Winston, emotion threatening his own voice, continued, wanting Egon to hear everything he had to say. "You guys have an essentially equal relationship. I know that. But even though he never admits it, Peter takes everything you say to heart. He listens to you. Your approval means more to him than anything else. In some ways, you do make up for what Peter never got from his dad. Even subconsciously, Pete knows at this moment that he's not going to reach out and find Charlie here to hold onto. But he still believes he can reach out and find you."

Egon wanted to reply to that, but his throat was far too constricted to allow a single word out. He felt an overwhelming and peculiar mingling of pride, sorrow, and grief at the notion that Winston's words were the truth. It saddened him that Peter would have to rely on a friendship to replace those things that should have come from his father; but Egon was terribly glad that, if Peter did need such support, he wanted Egon to be the one who provided it. Egon gazed down at Peter, engulfed by an all-embracing wave of love for the quiet, softly shivering form lying in Winston's arms. It was a good feeling, to know that he was needed in that way, and by a man who would seldom admit that he did long for just that kind of support from a friend.

Egon realized Winston's dark eyes were misty with tears.

Ray was crying unabashedly, his head resting against Peter's arm. Winston broke into an emotional smile. "Egon, our boy Pete's hanging onto the wrong man at the moment. There's one man he needs to hang onto right now. And it ain't Charlie Venkman."

Egon knew tears stood in his own eyes, but he couldn't help it. He knew it was partly a result of being tired, worried, and frightened for the well-being of his friend. The worry had built up since Peter's arrival home, but Egon had not broken down and permitted all that fear and anxiety to show, not until this moment when he'd realized not only how much he needed Peter, but how much Peter needed him.

Winston chuckled sympathetically. "Dr. Spengler, I believe I have something that belongs to you."

A moment later, Egon was sitting on the floor of the rec room, in the semi-dark, the Christmas tree still valiantly glowing over him and over the peaceful form of Peter Venkman lying in his arms. Peter had fallen back asleep, only waking enough to voice a soft sigh when the transfer to Egon's embrace was made.

As Egon sat there, he watched Ray and Winston quietly sweeping up the broken ornaments and fallen tinsel. While they worked, Egon rocked Peter absently back and forth, one arm secure around the psychologist's lax body, his free hand offering a soothing touch to Peter's feverish brow.

"Peter," he whispered, bending his head so that his words reached the sleeping man. "I don't believe you've done anything that requires my forgiveness. . . " He paused. That wasn't enough. "But if it will make you feel better, I do forgive you, Peter. I want you to know it. And I want you to know that what I said earlier, about how important you are to me. . . it's quite true." Egon pulled him closer, wishing he could calm the chills that still occasionally rippled through the psychologist's body. "Quite unequivocally true."

He felt Winston's hand descend gently onto his shoulder.

"Come on, Egon. Let's get Peter back to bed."

* * *

Peter lay still, eyes closed, wondering where the hell he was and what the hell had happened. He had the distinct impression that he had been run over by a truck and nobody had bothered to peel his remains up off the highway. He groaned softly, mostly to see if he were still capable of making any noise.

"Dr. V.?"

Janine's voice, coming from what seemed miles away. Maybe Janine had finally fulfilled her fondest dreams and had run him over with her Volkswagen.

For a moment, Peter wasn't sure he could open his eyes. At last he did, though not without an expenditure of energy that seemed like far too much. He blinked, and saw a familiar ceiling above him. He was lying on his back in his own bed.

He closed his eyes again, strange, vaguely familiar images flitting through his thoughts. Memories of almost unbearable discomfort hit him first. Muscles throbbing throughout every inch of his body. Nausea wracking his stomach and making his head spin. Chills that seemed to go on forever. And a dark longing for the jab of a needle into his arm that would make all that misery go away and leave him floating in that quiet, empty space, where there was no pain, where there was nothing. Nothing and no one. He had been utterly alone, but he didn't remember feeling any fear. He didn't remember feeling anything.

Now he could feel again, and it was painful.

Peter shuddered and forced his eyes back open, though he couldn't seem to focus on anything. The pain lingered, reminding him that he was alive yet; and that he half-wished he wasn't. Then he remembered something beyond the pain; he remembered hands, gentle hands holding him and carrying him, and voices soft with worry and compassion washing over him, easing his suffering. It had made all the pain, physical and emotional, bearable, to know that he was not alone, and that someone was always near, if only to talk to him and distract him from the nearly intolerable assault on both nerves and senses.

Peter exhaled and tried to mentally assess his physical state without moving. He did not seem to hurt as much now; but he did feel too tired to move.

A feminine hand touched his forehead, remaining there for a moment. Alison? He wasn't sure, but he made a half-hearted effort to put on a smile, giving that precedence over the effort required to open his eyes. "Hi ya, sweetheart," he murmured in his most winning manner. His voice seemed weak, but he thought that whoever was present would hear him.

Then he heard a soft explosion of laughter and he remembered who it was. He groaned, this time more in chagrin than discomfort, and somehow got his eyes to open. Janine was gazing down at him, her face alight with laughter.

"You are so predictable, Dr. V." She withdrew her hand from his forehead. "Well, your fever is back down. How do you feel?"

Peter heaved an aggrieved sigh. "Like I've been thrown off the top of the World Trade Center. And run over by a truck.

And--"

"I get the idea," Janine cut in briskly, pressing one hand over Peter's mouth to quiet him. "The guys are downstairs, eating the breakfast I made them. You want some?"

Peter didn't feel hungry, but he wanted to see the guys, so he nodded and started to slowly sit up.

"Whoa," Janine began, pinning him back down. She was

stronger than she looked. "Where do you think you're going,

buster? I'll bring it up--"

"I want to go down, Janine," Peter interrupted, closing his hands around her wrists to get out from under her. But he barely had the strength to hold onto her.

She shook her head at him, but her eyes were sympathetic. "Look at you, you can hardly move. You know, this might be a good time to wrestle you to the floor and hold you there til I get that raise."

"Try it, Janine, and I'll tell Egon about that dream you were having when you fell asleep at your desk a couple of months ago. You know, the one where you were moaning Egon's name over and over."

Janine yanked her wrists free of his weak grip and glowered at him. "Dr. Venkman, all I got to say is that you're darn lucky you're lying there sick, because if you weren't, you'd be lying somewhere else, black and blue!"

Peter gave her a tired grin. "You're beautiful when you're enraged, Janine."

Janine folded her arms, her eyes glimmering with unspoken threats. "Okay, I'm taking you downstairs. If you think I'm bringing you breakfast in bed after that crack, you got another thing coming."

"I knew it would work," Peter countered deliberately, then grinned at her again as she worked her arm around his shoulders and dragged him into a sitting position. He slid his legs off the bed and, his arm around her shoulders, he tried to rise. On his feet, he wobbled, almost falling. Janine managed to keep him up, although he was all but bent over on top of her.

"The smart-aleck crack might've worked, but I'm not so sure this is gonna!" Janine swung around, an unsteady Peter stumbling around with her. They lurched together toward the doorway and through it to the stairs.

At the landing, Peter's knees decided that was far enough.

"Shit," he muttered. "I'm an invalid."

"C'mon, Dr. V.," Janine panted. "We've made it this far.

It's all downhill from here."

With that encouragement, Peter dragged himself back onto his feet and, one trembling hand locked around the stair rail, the other hand clinging to Janine, he started down.

"You're doing great," Janine said, as they took one slow step at a time. "Just don't fall or you'll drag me down with you."

Her exasperated tone made him smile. It was such a normal response from her, he found it reassuring. He needed that sense of normalcy after the endless row of days--now one nightmarish blur--that had seemed to change for good everything he was and everything he knew. Now he sensed Janine was deliberately not coddling him, in spite of his weakness, and he was grateful to her for it.

At the bottom of the steps, they both stopped to catch their breaths. Peter heard voices in the kitchen raised in serious discussion. His arm slipping from Janine's shoulders, Peter crept on shaky legs toward the kitchen, stopping just out of the line of vision of the three men gathered around the table.

"I didn't mean that, Winston," Egon said.

Peter frowned worriedly. Were they arguing--about him? Egon continued. "I just meant that it seems you're taking on sole responsibility for Peter's recovery. I wish you had awakened me."

"I shouldn't have fallen asleep," Ray interjected, sounding like he was trying to play peacemaker.

Peter winced. This was about him. Guilt rushed over him in a wave, and remorse. It seemed the consequences of his stupidity had not yet found their limits.

"Hey, guys," Winston said, his voice quiet but warm, "we don't need to do this to each other or to ourselves. Pete made it through last night. No real harm was done."

Harm? Peter's heart skipped a beat. He felt Janine's hand on his shoulder and he looked down at her, anguished. "What did I do?" he whispered. She bit her lip, gazing up at him with mute sympathy. Peter caught hold of her wrist and held on tightly. "I hurt one of the guys," he choked.

"No, no, you didn't," Janine instantly reassured him, her own eyes wide with alarm. "No, you just. . . " she paused, then sighed. "You snuck out of the bedroom when the guys fell asleep and you. . . " She grimaced, eyes briefly closing. "You took a couple of swipes at the Christmas tree."

Peter gaped at her. "I. . .what?"

There was the scrape of a chair being pushed back and Peter, glancing around, saw Egon rise and peer out at him. "Peter?" Winston and Ray quickly jumped up, and all three men moved toward him, their faces tired, yet tense with concern. For him.

Peter could not meet any of those three pairs of eyes. He felt Janine's reassuring pat on his back, but that didn't make him feel any better.

Janine spoke up. "He wanted to come down to breakfast and I was afraid he'd fall flat on his face if he did it by himself, so I helped him downstairs." She sounded apologetic, as if she expected the guys to reproach her for letting Peter out of bed.

Egon gave Janine a grateful smile, then he reached out and slipped a hand under Peter's elbow. "You look a little unsteady, Peter. Come and sit down."

Peter found himself swept into the kitchen and settled into a chair; a moment later, a plate of pancakes was set before him. He glanced around instinctively, prepared to guard his food from Slimer, but the spud was nowhere in sight. Janine slipped back downstairs, leaving Peter alone with the guys. Peter sat in silence, staring down at the pancakes without the slightest interest. The others ate in silence, as if they didn't know what to say to him.

Peter shivered, his stomach tightening into a knot. What could they say to him? Sure, they'd gotten him cleaned up, but perhaps they'd just felt that was a duty, something they owed him. He didn't understand why they weren't furious at him. Perhaps they thought he was too fragile at the moment to withstand the angry and reproachful lectures they wanted to give. He wished desperately that they could forgive him for what he'd done; but how could they? He'd nearly ruined them all, destroyed their careers, their reputations, everything they held dear. And all for a ten thousand dollar cheque that Mirance had probably found on him and torn up immediately.

Peter idly picked up his fork, then set it down beside the pancakes. He couldn't eat a bite. His insides were knotted up and he felt like he could just slide down out of his chair and lie there on the cold floor for the rest of his miserable existence.

The silence seemed to drag on interminably. Finally Peter dared to glance up. As soon as he did, three guilty pairs of eyes quickly looked away, and the three men pretended to take great interest in the remains of their breakfasts. Peter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He felt Egon's eyes on him again and met the physicist's troubled gaze.

"Egon?"

"Yes, Peter?"

Peter could hear in Egon's voice the struggle to hold back something. Anger, perhaps. Peter wanted it to be anger.

"Egon, am I in a petri dish?"

Egon looked startled at the unexpected query. "No. . . "

"Then would you three mind not staring at me like I am?"

Egon pressed his lips together and exhaled almost inaudibly.

"Peter, we didn't mean--"

"Is this how it's going to be?" Peter asked, aware now of how raw and scraped his own emotions felt. "Peter Venkman, scientific curiosity?"

"Peter," Ray began hesitantly, "We're not--"

"Hey, I don't blame you," Peter cut in, suddenly desperate not to let anyone get a word in. He sensed sympathy coming and that was the last thing he wanted. Where were the recriminations? The stern lectures? Where was the Peter-how-could-you? that he had been expecting? Was he the only one who was angry about what he'd done?

Peter had to find out. "I don't blame you guys for looking at Uncle Peter like he was something in a freak show. I'll admit I don't remember that much of the past few days. Hell, I can barely remember the past two weeks. But I remember just enough to have a good idea of what I put the three of you through." He averted his eyes from the dismayed expressions on their faces. His frustration and fear was growing by the second, both emotions alive in his veins to the point that he could hardly bear it. He clenched his fists, pressing them against the edge of the table. "To be honest, I don't know how any of you can stand the sight of me."

So unexpected was the statement, so filled with self-loathing and pain, Winston, Egon, and Ray could only stare at Peter for an endless moment. Then, as one, they seemed to explode into protests.

But Peter couldn't bear to listen. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered away from the table. All three of his friends shot up, encircling him before he could leave the kitchen. Ray latched onto him first, but before Ray could say another word, Peter turned and met those anguished brown eyes.

"Don't, Ray." Peter looked at Winston and then at Egon. They all stared at him anxiously, all of them clearly ready to deny that he had done anything to deserve their anger. Peter shook his head. "Would all of you just--" He broke from Ray's gaze, unable to hold it. "I went out alone," he said, his voice trembling and weak. "Alone on what was essentially a bust, without any back-up."

The confession out, Peter drew his arms against his stomach, sick in both body and spirit. He could not bear to look at any of the guys, to see whatever expressions might be on their faces. "The whole situation blew up in my face," he continued, anger creeping into his voice. "I could have ruined us. If I'd been taken to a hospital, it would have been all over the papers. No one would ever have taken us seriously again. In one fell swoop, I'd have destroyed everything. Just hearing our names would remind people. . . "

Peter turned away, staring into the rec room where the Christmas tree stood, dark but still gleaming softly from the kitchen light which reached it. "I had no right to take that bust. No right."

A hand, Egon's, gripped his shoulder firmly. "Peter, tell us what happened."

Peter stood with Egon's hand on his shoulder and closed his eyes, absorbing the comforting feel of those fingers holding onto him, and wanting nothing more than to be hanging on tight to all three of his friends while he related the whole hideous nightmare of what Mirance had done, first to Rose, and then to him.

But Peter dreaded telling it. The guys might not hate him yet; but once they heard the whole story, once he told them about the cheque, then he would see the disgust they couldn't hide, the condemnation. Peter Venkman, once again showing his true colors, placing self-interest ahead of what was best for the team as a whole. Peter Venkman, who couldn't be trusted any more than his father. Peter Venkman, who had, at the very least, probably ruined three of the greatest friendships a guy could ever hope to have.

"I can't," he whispered, shaking his head. It was all he could do to stay on his feet, he was so worn out. "I just can't."

He swayed slightly, not enough to fall over, but enough to instantly find himself lifted off his feet and carried gently over to the sofa. Once there, he was covered with an afghan and surrounded by pillows. Egon, seated before him on the coffee table, leaned forward, his gaze seizing Peter's and refusing to look away. "Here," he commanded, placing a small glass of orange juice into Peter's hands. "Drink this. Slowly."

So stern was Egon's tone that Peter decided not to put up an argument. He sipped at the juice. It was wonderfully cold and he realized he felt a little better almost instantly. When was the last time he'd eaten?

When Peter finished the juice, Egon, looking satisfied, took the glass and set it aside. "Peter, I want to ask you something, and you are going to give me an answer."

That tone again. Peter, too tired to fight it, merely nodded. He rested his head against the pillows, waiting. He heard the soft rustle of paper and a moment later, Egon was holding a very familiar looking cheque in front of Peter's face. "Peter, does this have something to do with what happened to you?"

Peter stared at the cheque, then blinked dazedly at Egon. "Where did you find that? I thought for sure he'd taken it and torn it up after he took my wallet."

"It wasn't in your wallet," Egon said. "I found it in that little secret pocket on the inside of your jumpsuit, this morning when I was starting up some laundry."

Winston took the cheque and looked at it. "Allen Mirance? The pharmaceutical guy?" He frowned. "Egon, why didn't you tell us about this?"

"I was going to, at breakfast," Egon responded patiently. "I never got the chance to." His eyes returned to Peter's face, and Peter saw a touch of sorrow there in the blue depths. Peter shuddered. They all knew now. They knew why he'd taken the bust. Was that disappointment along with the sorrow in Egon's expression? It was a look Peter had hoped never to see in Egon's eyes. And he was the cause of it. Peter sank down lower into the sofa, wishing he could crawl under the afghan and never come out. "I can explain," he began, but his voice shook and he had to stop and catch his breath.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Egon said quietly, to Peter's surprise. There was another rustle of paper and Peter glanced up. Egon had a small smile on his face, and the blue eyes were bright now with such an affectionate look, that Peter could not figure it out at all. What kind of reaction was this to the horrible thing he'd done? They should, by all rights, be very pissed at him.

But none of them seemed remotely angry. Winston had that look he got whenever Peter had done something particularly exasperating; but it was tinged with such fondness, Peter couldn't imagine that Winston was sore in the least. And Ray's face fairly shone, his eyes expressing nothing but love for a guy he ought to have been pretty ticked off at. And Egon. . .

Egon was holding up another familiar bit of paper, unfolded yellow sheets, now crumpled from having lain in Peter's pocket for so long.

Egon and Ray's list of equipment.

Peter's heart ached at the sight of it. "Oh, yeah. That was in my pocket, too," he said, before Egon could.

"Yes," Egon concurred, his tone dry, even if his eyes were soft and gleaming with emotion. "Which at least gives us the answer as to why you went on this bust alone. Peter Venkman, I should. . ." Egon stopped suddenly, his lips tightening, and Peter gazed up at him anxiously. Emotion had gotten past Egon's sturdy barrier and tears shone in the physicist's eyes.

Peter shifted uncomfortably. "You shouldn't assume that's the whole reason I did such a stupid thing," he began, wondering if he could even make them believe that the parts list wasn't the only reason he'd gone on the bust. He didn't deserve to be forgiven this easily.

"I'd assume that," a voice said from behind him. The clack of heels approached the back of the sofa and Janine's hands came down firmly on Peter's shoulders. She leaned down, her head close to his, and smiled knowingly at him, snapping the gum she was chewing. "Especially," she lifted her head to look at Egon, "since Dr. V. spent an entire afternoon after you guys left just trying to figure out a way to get you guys everything on that list for Christmas."

Peter groaned inwardly. "Thanks, Janine."

"Sure thing, Dr. V." She winked at him and, patting him on the back, straightened up and went on into the kitchen. Peter watched her go, calculating by how much he'd like to cut her salary; then he reluctantly returned his attention to the three men, who were all smiling at him as if they weren't in the least surprised by the secret Janine had given away.

Peter dropped his gaze. "Okay, so you know the whole ugly truth. . . "

"Not all of it," Egon reminded him.

Peter felt their expectant looks and realized they weren't going anywhere until they got a full confession out of him. He buried himself a little deeper into the afghan until only his face showed, and folded his hands in his lap. He gave them the most pathetic look he could manage, which wasn't hard, considering how completely ragged he felt. "You guys wouldn't yell at a poor, defenseless invalid, would you?"

"Spill it, Peter," Winston said sternly, shaking his head.

Peter spilled it. He began with the arrival of Doyle and Carson and, as he spoke, he kept his eyes fixed on his hands, on the floor, on the three pairs of boots resting a few inches away from his own bare feet; any place but up into the expressions of his friends, not wanting to know their reactions to the story. He heard the clack of Janine's heels and knew she had left the kitchen and was listening in on the story. Once or twice, Ray started to interrupt, to ask a question, but then fell silent;

Peter, not daring to glance up, surmised that Egon had hushed him in order to keep Peter talking until the whole thing was out. Peter rushed through it, glossing over the blur of days he spent cuffed to the bed in the blue-carpeted room, and avoiding entirely the dreams he'd experienced, both good and bad.

Everyone remained quiet as he wrapped it up, and Peter grew more and more uneasy. Were they all shocked into silence? Were they too furious to get a word out?

Unable to stand it any longer, he lifted his head and looked at Egon, then Winston, and Ray. Janine hovered behind them. All four of them were staring at him with something akin to disbelief in their eyes.

"That's how it happened," Peter added, a little defensively, clutching the afghan tight around his shoulders.

Ray got up and dropped down on the sofa beside him, putting an arm around Peter's shoulders as if suddenly realizing all too painfully how close they'd come to losing Peter.

"Rose saved your life, Peter," Janine whispered, sounding awed.

Peter nodded. He had considered that over and over again, every moment he'd been well enough to think about it. "I know she did." He paused, his gaze finding and holding Egon's. "That's why I have to go back there and make sure she's not trapped. I owe her."

"Yes," Egon said quietly, to Peter's surprise. He'd half-expected an argument. But they all seemed to understand why he had to go back.

"But this time," Egon added, "you aren't going alone."

A knot formed in Peter's throat. "Guys. . . I'm sorry about

that. Really. I mean, I can just imagine what you went through,

searching for me. I'm just so sorry--"

Ray pulled him sideways and into a hug. "We all know why you went. I think it's neat that you wanted to help her."

"Ray's right," Egon said, leaning forward to set his hand lightly on Peter's knee. "Your instincts were on the mark concerning the Class 4. You couldn't have predicted that the trouble you'd get into would come from the client instead of the ghost."

"So you don't think what I did was phenomenally foolish?" Peter asked, his spirits starting to lift, a grin touching his lips.

"No," Egon said, after considering it for a moment. "Well.

Not phenomenally."

"Oh." Peter's grin widened. "Thanks, Egon. I needed to hear that."

"Yes, you did," Egon returned dryly.

"You know what this means," Ray said, a twinkle in his eyes. "Egon, we can't leave Peter at home alone any more when we go on vacations. We're going to have to take him with us."

Egon's eyebrow lifted. "Hmmm. A disturbing thought, Ray."

"You think you're disturbed by it," Peter said, shuddering at the idea of being trapped at a physics symposium for a solid week. Then he relaxed into another grin. "I gotta admit I was thinking about coming up to Toronto, though. I might have, if Mirance hadn't shown up to hire us. Or me, rather." His grin faded. But before he could apologize again, Winston, whom Peter noticed had been altogether too quiet, suddenly spoke up.

"Guys," he began seriously, "how are we going to get up into the penthouse?"

Ray's smile faded, his face becoming thoughtful. Egon sat back, pushed his glasses up his nose, and folded his arms. Janine frowned, her own glasses settling down at the end of her nose. Winston looked around at all of them, then his gaze settled pensively on Peter.

Peter gazed at his friends and had to allow himself another grin. Even after what he'd done, they were still ready to race with him headlong into a situation very likely to prove dangerous for them all. His greatest fear while locked up in Mirance's penthouse had been being separated for good from the family he had here. And the idea that he might survive only to lose them anyway when they found out what he'd done, that was as unbearable as dying alone without seeing them again. But he hadn't lost his family. They were all here, around him, and ready to go into battle again with him in spite of everything. Peter swallowed and hastily rubbed a corner of the afghan over his face.

"Pete?" Winston was eyeing him with the hint of a smile.

"You okay?"

"Well. . . " His hesitation brought everyone's attention back to him. Peter broke into a sheepish grin. "Actually, I'm a little hungry."

"Really?" Ray asked eagerly. "That's a good sign."

Egon looked pleased, Winston and Janine relieved. Peter flung an arm around Ray's shoulders. "Well, aren't you going to feed me?"

Ray sprang off the couch without a moment's hesitation and vanished into the kitchen. Peter bit his lip as he realized he may have directed that question to the wrong person. Egon, noting his dismayed expression, laughed, but the look in the blue eyes was expressly sympathetic. Janine, giggling, gave Peter a you-asked-for-it-Venkman look as she headed back downstairs. Winston, laughing wholeheartedly, flung himself down beside Peter on the sofa and deliberately messed up Peter's already untidy hair. "Welcome home, Pete!"

Peter did not protest the familiar gesture. He knew Winston had been the one to keep him out of the hospital; and he owed Winston big for that. Instead, he gave Winston a friendly warning nudge, then turned to Egon and smiled in delight.

Egon, his own smile deepening, acknowledged Peter's look with a slight nod of his head. His voice brimmed with warmth. "Welcome home, Peter," he said.

* * *

Peter ate only a little, though the soup Ray had made was surprisingly edible. The others hovered near, Ray sitting beside him on the sofa and tossing him the occasional saltine. Peter was feeling tired again, but he wanted to stay up long enough to form some sort of plan for reaching Rose and making sure she made it safely to the Other Side.

"Mirance has my proton pack," Peter said soberly. "And one of our meters."

"We should get a search warrant," Ray declared. "I bet

Officer Keeshan would help us--"

"Not a bad idea, Raymond, but it is very unlikely that we will find Peter's pack and our meter stored at Mirance's penthouse. Mirance will be on his guard against us now." Egon looked worriedly at Peter. "He may even have one of his men tailing us to see if he can get Peter alone."

"You've been watching too many detective shows, Egon." Peter brushed it off, hating the fact that they were all looking worried now. "Come on, guys. Mirance isn't going to risk himself like that. I don't have any hard evidence that he killed Rose. I was too far gone under the drug to ask her any intelligent questions. I can't prove anything. I don't think he'll come after me."

"You were able to sign to her with your hands cuffed?"

Winston asked, puzzled.

"I didn't need to sign," Peter explained. "She could hear me."

"Fascinating," Egon said. "Of course, her hearing impairment was a part of her physical self. There is no reason why she shouldn't be able to hear in a noncorporeal state. But she never said anything apart from your name?"

Peter shrugged. "Maybe after spending her whole life in silence, the idea of talking and hearing her own voice was new to her. But she learned fast." He smiled. "Like she said, deaf doesn't equal stupid. Mirance really underestimated her."

"But what about her family?" Ray said in dismay. "They haven't heard from her. They don't even know."

"I will let them know," Peter said quietly. "Her remains won't be found, but I'm going to let her folks know everything she said to me. They deserve a chance to take their own shots at Mirance."

"Maybe the search warrant isn't such a bad idea after all," Winston said thoughtfully. "At least it will get us into the penthouse and we can look around for Rose."

Peter blinked sleepily. He realized the half-finished soup bowl was still in his lap. Ray gently took it from him and Peter, glancing up at him, saw the smile on the occultist's lips. Ray picked up a pillow that had fallen on the floor and, fluffing it, set it behind Peter.

Peter did not resist. He slipped down and stretched his legs out. His muscles still ached, but not as miserably as they had for the past two days. He wanted to remain awake a while longer; they hadn't finished discussing the matter of getting into the penthouse. But his eyes refused to cooperate and slid shut.

As he lay, listening to the quiet murmur of voices that seemed to be growing more and more distant, he felt the afghan being drawn neatly over him and tucked around him. For the past couple of days, falling asleep and waking had been a nightmare interspersed with bouts of awful pain and disorienting dreams. It was good to fall asleep knowing he was feeling better and that the people around him were keeping an eye out to make sure he recovered completely.

"Middle of the day and he's sleeping." Egon's voice held a note of teasing. Egon knew he wasn't quite out yet.

"Yeah," Winston said in an affectionate tone. "That's our boy."

"Sure glad he's home," Ray said, his voice as enthusiastic as if a Class 7 had just popped out of the ceiling. "Aren't you, Egon?"

"Indeed."

Peter smiled to himself at the familiar dry response, hearing the heartfelt emphasis underlying it. In spite of lingering discomfort, he felt safe and whole, and he drifted off to sleep.

He awoke groggily, to notice the evening light that streamed into the rec room. He must have slept away the better part of the day. Remembering the discussion he'd fallen asleep in the midst of, he shot up, clutching the back of the sofa, and looked around anxiously. The television was on, the sound muted. At the other end of the sofa, Ray sat slumped, his mouth hanging open, soft snores issuing therefrom. Peter broke into a laugh. He crept around to Ray's side of the sofa and nudged him awake. "Hey, Tex, nap time's over. What's going on? Where're Winston and Egon?"

Ray, waking, blinked in confusion, then looked at Peter. His face lit into a beaming smile. "Peter, you're awake! How do you feel?"

Peter brushed that away impatiently. "I'm fine, Ray. Did Egon and Winston go out?"

Ray punched the remote and turned off the television. He sat up. "They left to talk to the police." He yawned widely. "They've been gone. . . " he paused and glanced at his watch.

"A few hours."

"A few hours?" Peter frowned. "How long does it take to get a search warrant?"

Ray shrugged. "I'm sure they'll be back soon. Hey, Pete, where you going?"

Peter, up off the sofa, started down the stairs. Ray hurried after him. "Peter! Wait a minute! Pete!" Ray, barrelling down the stairs, almost crashed into Peter, who had stopped on the bottom step. He grabbed onto Peter's shoulder and followed the psychologist's gaze to the spot where Ecto was usually parked. "Peter, what's the matter?"

Peter turned to Ray. "Did they take their packs?"

Ray looked at him in surprise. "You think they went to Mirance Towers without us?" He sounded highly doubtful.

"Maybe." Peter didn't want to think that Egon and Winston had done such a thing; but if they'd thought Peter wasn't quite up to the task, they might have gone ahead without him, leaving Ray to babysit.

Ray shook his head firmly. "They wouldn't, Peter. Besides, you told us she wouldn't reappear for anyone except you."

"Well, I don't think she would," Peter said. "And anyway, she doesn't have to appear at all. One sweep of the meter would tell Egon whether or not she was still there."

Ray bit his lip, looking less confident. "Yeah. . . but I still don't think they'd go without us. Egon knows you want to be the one to help Rose. Let's call Ecto's mobile phone."

He sprang to Janine's desk and dialed. Peter, a little unsteady after his race down the stairs, ambled carefully over to join Ray as the phone continued to ring, unanswered. Ray's expression grew more anxious. "They're still at the station," he suggested.

"Call there," Peter said.

Ray did, and found out that Egon and Winston had already left. Ray reluctantly related that information to Peter, then latched on tight to Peter's arm when the psychologist's eyes darkened with a mixture of worry and anger. "Peter, I'm sure there's a good reason why they aren't in the station or the car.

They might have made another stop--"

"I'm sure they did." Peter pulled out of Ray's grasp and set his hands on Janine's desk, leaning his weight on his arms as he tried to think. Perhaps Egon and Winston had gotten their search warrant and had gone with the police in the squad car to Mirance Towers. But a search warrant had to be signed by a judge, didn't it? Would they have obtained a judge's signature at this time of day? Even if they had, Peter doubted Egon and Winston would ride with the police. They'd have followed in Ecto. Worry swamped Peter. Mirance and his men were well armed. Even if Egon and Winston had two policemen with them, they were still out-numbered. And Peter didn't think Mirance was the type to go down without a fight.

"Ray, where's your pack?"

Distress shone in the brown eyes. "Peter, we can't. Not

without Egon and Winston--"

"Egon and Winston are already there, Ray," Peter said grimly. "And I'm all too familiar with how difficult it is to leave Mirance Towers in one piece. I'd like to get the guys home safely."

"Peter, I'm sure they didn't go there without us. If you

thought about it, I know you'd realize it--"

"My mind is perfectly clear, Ray," Peter snapped, then grimaced at the unintended harshness of his tone. He grabbed onto Ray's arm and drew the occultist close to his side. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm just worried."

Ray's smile was immediate and forgiving. "Yeah, well, I'm worried about you. I know you're feeling better, but you're not up to your usual self yet. If I let you go to the Towers, Egon and Winston'll kill me."

"Ray, Ray," Peter wheedled gently, sliding his arm around

Ray's shoulders. "Look, we'll just drive up to the entrance,

okay? See if Ecto's parked out front--"

"And if it is?" Ray said, a glint of suspicion in his eyes at Peter's cajoling tone.

"No further than the lobby," Peter said, raising his hand in the boy scout salute. "I promise. I know Rose can make it down to the lobby and if she's around, she'll come out if I show up. I know she will."

"But won't the security guard recognize you, Peter?"

Peter thought for a minute. "I'm not sure he ever got a good look at me. If I'm not wearing my uniform and I keep my coat and hat on, he probably wouldn't know me from Adam. Come on, Ray. Chances are we'll be in and out of there in a few minutes. All I wanna do right now is make sure she's still there, that she's okay. How about it, pal?"

Peter knew he couldn't go unless he got Ray to agree to go with him. He couldn't leave an upset and worried Ray behind, and he wasn't quite comfortable with the idea of going by himself, anyway.

But Ray didn't seem comfortable with the idea of going at all. "Peter, I think we should wait for Egon and Winston to get home. . . " Ray trailed off as Peter led him over to the bottom of the stairs and sat down beside him, arm still slung around Ray's shoulders.

"Ray, it'll be fine. Think about it. If you're right, Egon and Winston aren't there. We won't see Ecto parked there and we'll just come back home. And if we do see Ecto there, we'll be glad we decided to check it out."

Before Ray could say anything, Peter leaned closer, his voice softly coaxing. "You'd love Rose. Remember those tests you and Egon were running to see if ghosts could learn new things? Rose is the brightest Class 4 you've ever met, Ray. She learned to say my name and to unlock handcuffs while I was there. Two useful skills for any woman." Peter grinned. "Class 4, and beautiful, too. What do you say?"

A faint look of excitement and longing had replaced some of the worry in Ray's face. Peter pressed his advantage. "Listen, Ray. You can bring the meter and any other toys you want. She'll let you do your tests if I ask her. She's madly in love with me, you know."

"Oh, Peter," Ray grinned, shaking his head.

"And then you can watch me talk her into going into the light." Peter tugged gently on Ray's arm. "C'mon on, Tex. You know you want to. It'll be neat." Peter paused, waiting. If that wasn't enough, Ray couldn't be talked into it.

Ray turned an excited gaze on Peter, eyes fairly glowing with anticipation. "But how are we gonna get over there, Peter? Janine's already gone home and we don't have a car. We'll never get a cab at this time of night in this weather."

"I'll call for one," Peter said confidently, springing to his feet. He grabbed Ray's arm and levered Ray up from the bottom step. "Grab your coat and pack. Better not wear your jumpsuit, though. I'll get a meter."

Peter dressed in jeans and a sweater, wishing he still had his coat. He met Ray at the door and slipped outside. Faint traces of sunset still colored the sky, giving an eerie cast to the quiet street still blanketed with snow. Hopping about to keep warm, Peter looked up and down the street for a sign of the cab.

Ray hefted the proton pack over his shoulder, not wanting to leave it lying in the snow. "Peter, why are we bringing a pack anyway? We're not going to blast her."

"No, we're not," Peter agreed. "But we'd better bring it, just in case we have to blast anyone else."

"Peter--"

"Don't worry, Ray. We probably won't need it at all."

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea," Ray began.

"There's our cab!" Peter hopped off the curb as the cab pulled up. They rode north in silence, Ray fiddling with the dials on the meter while Peter gazed out into the snowy night, running through his mind how to best convince Rose to move on, and worrying about Egon and Winston. He hadn't really believed it at first, that they might have gone ahead with him and Ray; but now he was beginning to feel they must have done so. They weren't home and they couldn't be contacted.

Peter shivered and slumped down in the seat. The nap had helped him but he was still weary, aching, his body still protesting the entire experience of being alive, after two weeks of being all but dead. Peter frowned, trying to resist the encroaching desire to just lie down and rest. Rose needed him, and maybe Egon and Winston did, too. He couldn't let any of them down. Not again.

As the cab pulled up in front of the Towers, Peter gazed up at the dark monoliths and shivered. Disturbing memories pushed at the corners of his mind, and he found himself dreading going back into the building.

Ray climbed out of the cab after him and stood staring up at the building. "Wow," he said, and turned on the meter.

Peter glanced around the street. "Do you see Ecto?"

"No." They both looked, but there was no sign of the car or of Egon and Winston. Ray turned back toward the building. "I see the security guard at his desk. He's not going to let us hang around the lobby, Peter."

"Yeah, probably not."

"So what do you want to do? Wait out here until Egon and Winston show up?"

"It's cold out here, Ray."

"We could wait in the cab."

"Or we could go inside." Peter edged toward the door.

Ray grabbed his arm. "I don't think that's a good idea, Peter. Not without back-up."

Peter looked regretfully into the lobby. "Yeah, you're right. There's only one thing to do." He leaned his head back and yelled, "Rose!" at the top of his voice.

Ray, startled, edged back, then broke into a reluctant grin.

"Didn't I see that in a movie once?"

Peter winked at him. "Hey, it might work. She came through the doors last time. That's about as far as she could go."

Ray peered through the tinted window. "Do you think the security guard saw us?"

Peter shrugged. "Let him. We have a getaway car standing by." He leaned back again, arms outstretched, and yelled for Rose.

Ray moved close to his side and nudged him. "Peter, look. Readings. Class 4." He sounded excited. "She's still here. Or someone is."

Peter rubbed his hands together, wishing he'd remembered to bring his gloves. "Maybe we should wait in the cab," he ventured. "Uncle Peter's going to be a frozen treat if we have to wait much longer."

"Okay." Ray turned toward the street, then stopped with an exclamation. "Peter! It's Ecto!"

"And a police car," Peter murmured, following Ray to the curb as the two cars pulled up. Egon and Winston burst out of Ecto, leaving the engine running. Peter saw the stern looks on both their faces. He immediately pointed to Ray. "His idea."

"Hey," Ray protested, indignant but smiling. He turned to Egon. "Class 4 readings, Egon!" he began, eager to share the information.

"One moment, please, Raymond," Egon said briefly. He turned to Peter, a clear purpose in his eyes, and Winston joined him.

Peter backed up. "You're going to let me explain, aren't you?"

Winston and Egon looked at each other as if allowing the question a moment of consideration. Then they exclaimed in unison, "No!" Surrounding Peter, they each took an arm and forcefully dragged the psychologist along the sidewalk toward Ecto.

"Wait a minute," Peter sputtered. "We can't leave--"

"We aren't leaving," Winston cut in, keeping a firm grip on Peter's arm. "It took us a lot of waiting and a lot of convincing, but we've got a warrant and we're going up with the cops. They won't let us in, but if your pack's in there, they'll bring it out."

"You, however," Egon continued calmly, "are going to wait in the car. Open the door, please, Ray."

Ray opened the door, and Egon and Winston deposited a still-protesting Peter onto the front seat. As Egon shut the door, Peter rolled down the window. "Spengs, Rose is up there. I need to go with you!"

Egon leaned down toward him. "Peter Venkman, step one foot out of this car and I'll. . . " He trailed off.

"You'll what?" Peter asked, curious in spite of himself.

"I don't know," Egon said. Then his glance darkened. "But I promise you it will be very bad."

Peter's imagination ran wild with the possibilities. Considering Egon's penchant for understatement. . . "Gotcha, big guy."

"If Rose shows herself," Winston said, "we'll send her down to you."

"We will," Egon concurred, hoping that would induce Peter to remain behind more than any threat would. "But you're in no condition to do this and you're staying put. Right?"

"Okay, okay." Peter saw the worry behind the threats. He knew that Egon and Winston were afraid he'd lose it at the sight of Mirance and go after the man. And Peter knew they were right in their fears. "I'll stay here."

Egon gazed at him, all sternness vanished and only concern evident in his eyes. "Please do. And don't worry. We'll be careful." He clasped Peter's arm reassuringly before he turned away.

Peter sat back and watched as his three friends, accompanied by the two policemen, entered the apartment building. As the glass doors closed behind them, Peter leaned out of the window and looked around. "Rose!" His voice didn't carry far in the icy wind that had started to blow. Peter grimaced and tried again. "Rose! I'm back. Come out, come out, wherever you are."

There was no sign of her. Peter rested his head against the door. He was not up for this. He felt as aching as if he'd run all the way from Central to the Towers. He was worried, too, worried about the guys. What if Mirance put up resistance to the search? What if he had his men up there, and they decided to fight back?

Peter leaned his head and looked up to the top of the building. The penthouse seemed dark from his vantage point, but it had begun to snow again and it was difficult to tell through the fall of white. Clouds hung low over the building and the night had fallen. The only light Peter could see within the Towers was the flicker of fluorescence at the security desk, which now appeared deserted. Peter realized the guard must be escorting them, unwillingly perhaps, up to the penthouse.

Peter wanted desperately to be up there with them. "Damn," he whispered. "Damn, damn, damn."

A noise behind him made him jerk around. A walkie-talkie left on the backseat had come to life. Peter snatched it up. "Peter here," he said through force of habit.

"Peter--" Winston's voice, distant. "We're taking the elevator up, though the guard thinks Mirance isn't at home. Stay low and keep your eyes open. If you see anything suspicious, get the hell out of there. You read me?"

"And what are you guys gonna do? Have a sleep-over up there?"

"Peter," Egon's voice, impatient, "we're armed. You're not.

Please do as Winston says."

What is this, Boss-Peter-Around Day?

Peter sighed. "Okay, General Spengler. Private Venkman will lay low, as instructed. You guys be careful up there." He dropped the walkie-talkie onto the seat and scowled up at the apartment building. If he was in tip top shape, at his best, he wouldn't be sitting down here. He'd be up there, watching out for his buddies, like he should be.

He hated this.

"Peter?"

That wasn't the walkie-talkie. Peter sat up so abruptly that he hit his head on the window frame. "Ow." He blinked and looked across the sidewalk to the entrance of the apartment building. As white and fragile as the snowflakes that fell around her, Rose drifted just outside the doors. Her eyes were on him, dark, but shining with some inner light. She seemed glad to see him.

Peter leaned out the window. "Rose! Hey, I thought you'd gone for good. Are you okay?" It seemed like a stupid question, but he had to ask it anyway.

She held out her arms as if gesturing him forward. Peter shook his head. "I told the guys I'd stay put, Rose. Do you know if Mirance is at home?"

Her smile faded and her hands covered her mouth. She was still afraid of Mirance, as afraid as she'd been on the day Peter met her. "Rose, don't panic. It's okay. My friends are here, with the police. We came to get my equipment back and to help you. Do you know if Mirance left all my stuff upstairs?"

She lowered her hands and held them out to him, this time in a helpless gesture. Suddenly she turned and vanished through the glass doors.

"Rose!" Peter reached over and turned off the ignition, pocketing the keys. He hesitated. "Damn. I said I'd stay here." But Rose was in trouble. Egon had to understand that. Hating himself for leaving the car, Peter fumbled for the door handle and shoved the car door wide, clambering out. "Rose, wait!"

Slamming the door, he lurched across the sidewalk and into the lobby of the Towers. The place was dark and silent, but for the single glow of light at the desk to his left. "Rose!" His voice rang across the lobby.

Silence.

"Come on, Rose," Peter whispered in frustration. He reached instinctively for his walkie-talkie but it wasn't there. He remembered he was out of uniform. He ran to the security desk and found himself faced with dozens of small screens and switches. He tapped at one of the speakers. "Hello? Can anyone hear me?" Peter guessed there should be rotating images showing the hallways of each floor, but every screen was dark, except for one which appeared to be fixed on the penthouse entrance, and one other which showed the interior of an elevator. Peter saw his friends and the two policemen, along with the security guard, who had probably flicked on the elevator's camera so Mirance, arriving, would know where he'd gone.

The rest of the cameras were probably shut off until the grand opening. Peter had a suspicion Mirance wanted them off as long as possible. The millionaire was not a man who liked to have evidence of anything, particularly if it was damaging to him. Peter smiled and began to flip every switch he could find.

As he did, he tried the speakers again, hoping to communicate with the guys. He saw them looking around in confusion and realized in delight that they'd heard him. "Guys! I'm in the lobby. I just saw Rose!"

Their lips moved but Peter could not hear anything they said. He tested a few more switches, until the crackle of static, followed by Egon's voice, issued forth from the speakers. "--in the car." Egon's gaze lifted directly into the camera. Peter grinned at him, though he knew Egon couldn't see him. Egon seemed to somehow sense Peter's expression though, because he immediately frowned. "Peter?" His voice was faint and almost overwhelmed by static. Perhaps because of the distance, Peter surmised. Either that, or the meter beeping in Ray's hands.

"Egon?" Peter flipped the switch back and forth.

"I hear you." Egon, sounding stern.

"Egon," Peter continued, ignoring the tone, "Rose is here.

She was outside and she went into the lobby. I followed her."

"I deduced as much." Egon stepped closer to the camera, squinting up at it. Peter could make out Ray and Winston behind him, talking together. "Peter," Egon said urgently, "Rose is safe, for the moment. I want you to return to Ecto and hide yourself immediately. Do you understand? You have no protection whatever against these men."

"All right. I don't like it, but I'll do it." Peter started to rise, flipping a few more switches and noting with pleasure that nearly all the screens were activated now. He could see himself on one of them, standing at the station.

He ran his fingers through his hair. "God, I'm a mess. . . " He trailed off, aware in one part of his mind of the cool gust of night air that had just brushed past him. He stopped moving, although his heart continued at a much faster pace.

"Dr. Venkman." The surprised voice belonged to Allen Mirance.

Peter, equally shocked, managed to hide it as he lifted his head and saw the millionaire standing in the doorway. Doyle was at his side, Carson holding the door. Two other dark shapes were heading toward the doorway from the limo at the curb.

Peter realized two things in that instant. One, that the speaker was still on and the guys could still hear him. And two, if he didn't move quickly away from the security desk, Mirance would come around the side of it and, noticing the speakers, shut them off.

Peter glanced down furtively at the screen. Egon had a waiting look, as if he expected something further from Peter before Peter finally followed orders and went back out to the car. Egon was clearly about to add another admonishment, just in case Peter had lingered.

Peter realized he'd better cut Egon off fast if he wanted to keep the presence of his buddies a secret. "Mirance, you're back," he began in a bright tone, flashing a smile at the man.

"Sooner than you'd expected, I'm sure," Mirance responded with a smug gleam in his eyes. He started toward the desk.

Peter glanced once more at the screen, noting the alarm in the faces of the men in the elevator. They'd heard.

Peter hastily moved around the corner of the desk. As he did, Mirance's men, sensing a threat to their boss, quickly converged around Mirance. Peter stopped short, holding up both hands in a gesture of surrender, hoping he appeared as non-threatening as he felt. He did not relish the idea of being a punching bag for Mirance's bodyguards again.

Mirance watched him narrowly. "Why did you come back, Venkman? Not for the drug. You might need it, but you're far too smart to come crawling back here for it. You aren't here for Rose, are you?" His lips twitched as if he found that humorous. "She's gone. For good."

"That's a shame. She was the one bright spot in this miserable place." Peter edged toward the elevator doors, hoping the guys were heading down. Was Mirance trying to make him think his men had succeeded in trapping Rose with his equipment? If so, Peter wasn't about to give her away. "Well, I did just come to see Rose, but since she's not around, I guess I'll be leaving."

He started to move past Mirance, longing to take a swing at him. He could feel Mirance's gaze following him, that smug, triumphant look still plastered on the man's face. Peter knew Mirance wasn't going to permit him to just leave. The millionaire's goons were already moving toward him.

What the hell. Peter turned and swung a swift right at Allen Mirance's nose. The man's head jerked sideways at the impact and he staggered and fell to the floor.

Instantly, Doyle and Carson were across the room and upon Peter. Peter, his energy nearly dissipated in the punch he'd taken at Mirance, tried to resist the hands latching onto his arms, but he couldn't summon the strength. He was dragged backward away from Mirance, then pushed to the floor.

Mirance got to his feet unassisted and, handkerchief to his bleeding nose, stood over Peter with a promise in the pale blue eyes. Peter struggled to get up, but Doyle's powerful grip kept his arms pinned behind him and he couldn't rise.

The smile returned to Mirance's lips. He was clearly enjoying this, in spite of the punch he'd taken. "You know, I didn't consider that you'd make it quite this easy for me. I'll admit I was concerned when you got away from me. Not that you had any evidence of any wrongdoing on my part. But I imagined that the police and the public would probably at least hear you out if you started making accusations. I'm relieved to see that my worry was for naught. I'm going to be able to rid myself of you after all."

"The same way you got rid of Rose?"

"Rose was a good girl from a good family, Dr. Venkman," Mirance said, feigning a shocked tone. "She would never indulge in narcotics of any kind." His smile faded. "No, Rose played by the rules. Such a shame."

"She was going to turn you over, wasn't she?" Peter pressed.

"That's why you killed her."

"She told you that, did she?" Mirance was as smooth as ever. "Rose was a chatty little thing, in spite of the fact that she couldn't hear a blessed word. I used to try to get her to use her voice, but she was too self-conscious about it. She would only sign."

Mirance calmly removed his gloves and tucked them into the pocket of his overcoat. "She even taught me her language in the few short months she worked for me. A clever girl. Too clever for her own good. Rather like you, Dr. Venkman." Mirance raised his hands and, smiling at Peter, signed briefly, "I really did not enjoy having to kill her. You, on the other hand. . . "

Peter, aware that his heart rate and breathing had increased considerably, tried to catch his breath. A rising anger at Mirance pumped what seemed an infinitesimal amount of adrenalin into his bloodstream. "Mirance, you kill me, and my buddies will know exactly what happened. And they're not the only ones. You haven't got a hope of getting away with it now."

Mirance's smile did not falter. "We have one more injection for you, Dr. Venkman. The last one you'll ever require."

"Where's my pack?" Peter demanded.

"In safekeeping, far from here. But I wouldn't worry about that, Doctor. You won't be needing it any more."

Peter feared the guys weren't going to hit the lobby in time. He had one other avenue of appeal. "Rose!" he yelled, twisting in Doyle's grasp and forcing the man to drag him hard to the floor and pin him down with brute strength. "Rose, Mirance doesn't have my equipment here! This is your chance to get this son-of-a-bitch!"

Mirance laughed aloud. "Never know when you're beaten, do you, Dr. Venkman? Rose is gone. She won't show her face here again. And you will now be joining her. Go ahead, Dr. Carson."

Doyle shoved Peter onto his back and leaned heavily on him as Carson tugged up his sleeve. Peter strained to see the elevator doors. Come on, come on. It couldn't take more than half a minute to ride from the penthouse to the lobby. . .

He had to delay the injection, if only by a few precious seconds. He began to struggle again, though his body did not want to cooperate in the effort. He tried to yell but Doyle's weight kept him from drawing breath enough. He could feel Carson snapping the length of rubber tight around his arm. Someone knelt on his wrist, with a pressure that pinned his arm to the floor and tore a gasp of pain from his throat.

Desperate to stop them, Peter bucked and twisted, but he couldn't push Doyle off. He saw the needle as Carson lifted it in the dim light to check the dosage. Peter didn't even have breath enough to protest as the needle was lowered to his arm.

Then, to Peter's shock, Mirance shouted, a cry of fear and outrage.

The guys, they must be here! Peter twisted his head back in an effort to see them. But the elevator doors were still closed, and Egon, Winston, and Ray were nowhere in sight. Then Peter saw what had evoked such a reaction from Mirance. Rose, a glowing figure in the darkness, darted over her former boss, who ducked down in reaction.

"Get him, Rose!" Peter exulted.

Rose did. She dived and her arms came around Mirance and lifted him off the ground. At that moment, the elevator doors slid open and the occupants raced out, just in time to see Rose carry Mirance as high as the lobby ceiling would permit. Mirance, red-faced and panicked, struggled in her grasp. The millionaire was swearing volubly and shouting for help from his men.

Peter felt the grip on his arm loosen and he glanced up at Carson furtively, to see the man's attention captured by his boss' predicament. Doyle, too, had his eyes fixed on Mirance, his mouth hanging open in awe. Peter swung his arm up and knocked the needle from Carson's hand. Carson instinctively tried to grab Peter's arm. Peter swung his arm wildly and it connected with the man's chin. Carson grunted in pain and fell over backward, sprawling on the floor.

But there was still the massive Doyle to contend with. Peter shoved, but it was like shoving at a ton of bricks. Doyle pushed him back down and shot out one hand to grope across the floor for the needle Carson had dropped.

Peter threw everything he had into pushing Doyle off, but the man was too heavy. With a snarl of satisfaction, Doyle seized the needle and hefted it in his right hand like a small dagger, aiming for Peter's heart. Peter's left hand shot up and grasped Doyle's thick wrist. But Doyle had the advantage. He pressed downward steadily, thumb poised to inject the heroin the minute the needle pierced Peter's chest. Peter, gasping, forced his aching muscles to fight against the inexorable descent of the needle.

Suddenly, Doyle froze, needle just inches above Peter's chest. Peter, focused on the needle, realized that someone was standing over Doyle, and he forced his eyes away from the deadly weapon above his heart to look upward. Egon stood there, his thrower tucked neatly against the broad side of Doyle's neck. In the instant his eyes met Egon's, Peter saw a glimmer of enmity so potent that he thought Egon might kill Doyle right there, without a second thought.

Then Egon spoke, his voice hard and measured. "Place the needle on the floor and get up." He jabbed at the man's neck with the thrower tip.

Doyle's gaze shifted nervously to Peter's face. Peter nodded. "Portable nuclear accelerator," he reminded the man, savoring each word and Doyle's horrified reaction to them.

Doyle flung the needle away. The minute it was gone, Peter choked back a gasp of relief and closed his eyes. He yanked the strip of rubber off his arm and massaged his arm to restore the circulation. That was just a little too close an escape to suit him.

Egon prodded Doyle to his feet and well away from Peter. A moment later, Peter felt a hand settle gently on his chest. Egon was gazing down at him. Peter gave him a weak smile, but Egon only looked all the more concerned. "We need to get you home, Peter."

"Wait a minute." Peter's gaze went to Rose, who still hovered at the ceiling, a squirming, panicked Mirance hanging in her arms. "There's something I gotta do." He moved away from Egon, but the physicist followed close behind. Mirance's men had made for the door at the sight of the police officers. But Ray and Winston had them cornered and they weren't going anywhere. Officer Keeshan and his partner stood nearby, both of them transfixed by the sight of Rose and Mirance.

His legs warning him that he wouldn't be vertical much longer, Peter leaned his head back and looked up at Rose beseechingly. "Rose, I know you're angry."

Peter hesitated. That she was angry was all too clear. Her eyes sparkled with her pain and fury, and Peter could tell that the icy grip around Mirance's middle was tight enough to cause the man supreme discomfort. Peter met the ghost's flashing green eyes and let her see every bit of the sympathy and gratitude he felt.

"Rose, you saved my life. You were afraid of him, but you overcame it and you saved me. I owe you more than I can repay.

That's why I want you to listen to me, okay? I know you'd like

nothing better than to let go and drop that bastard on his head

or fling him through that glass door. . . " Peter paused,

realizing maybe he was giving her too many options there. He

started again. "Don't sink to his level, Rose. You don't have

to do that. He'll be punished for what he did--"

"I haven't done a damned thing, not a thing," Mirance sputtered, arms and legs flailing.

Peter smiled faintly. "I'd shut up, if I were you, pal.

The only thing between you and a skull fracture right now is me.

And I'm sure not trying to talk Rose out of this for your sake.

Are we clear?"

Mirance's lips twitched but he did not say anything. Peter met Rose's gaze. She had listened. Her expression had softened, the anger fading til only the pain remained. Her grip loosened slightly, and Mirance gasped. Peter moved closer, until he stood almost directly under them.

"Rose, put him down, and let's talk about this. I know maybe you think you don't have anything to lose at this point and you can get some kind of revenge on the guy. I don't blame you. I'd like to take a few good jabs at him, myself. But you do have something to lose, Rose. And you know what it is. That part of you that is all decency and goodness. If you kill him, if you stoop to his level, you'll lose that. It wasn't a part of your body, Rose. It's a part of your spirit, and it lasts forever. You give it up for him, and he wins. Understand?"

She nodded and Peter smiled at her. She was a quick learner in every sense. He sighed in relief, watching as she slowly floated to the ground and released Mirance. He stumbled and fell to his knees in front of Peter. Peter stared down at him as Mirance tried to collect himself and get back on his feet. Peter bent and grabbed Mirance by the collar, dragging him up. As Mirance struggled to gain his balance, Peter peered into his face and gave him a mocking smile. "Still with us, Mr. Mirance?"

Mirance grimaced and jerked away. Peter noticed that he was shivering, no doubt from being in Rose's chilly embrace for so long. "We could really wrap this up and go home if you'd just confess and get it over with," Peter said, meeting Mirance's rancorous look with the same sardonic smile. "What do you say, Allen, old buddy?"

Mirance turned to Officer Keeshan. "Officer, do you know who I am? Do you hear the threats and accusations being leveled at me?"

Officer Keeshan, after an uneasy glance at Rose, moved toward Mirance. He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, sir, I do. Sir, I have a search warrant here, and we'll be wanting to do a search of your premises. This gentleman," he said, gesturing at Egon, "has sworn under oath that you have illegally obtained and held possessions belonging to him and his place of business."

Keeshan squinted at the warrant. "One portable nuclear accelerator. . . " He trailed off, his glance raised questioningly at Egon, who merely nodded. Officer Keeshan swallowed and cleared his throat. "And one PKE meter, also belonging to these gentlemen. I'd be pleased, sir, if you'd show us the way to your penthouse."

"He's also got my coat up there, somewhere," Peter added.

"I really liked that coat."

Mirance smiled tightly. "Of course, Officer," he said, ignoring Peter. "I have no objections to having my penthouse searched. Go right ahead." He gestured expansively toward the elevators.

Peter stared at Mirance for a moment, remembering what Mirance had said earlier. Peter turned swiftly to Rose. "Do you know where my pack and my PKE meter are? The things Mirance took?"

Rose lifted her hands and began to sign. Instantly, Mirance

darted toward her. "Stop it," he demanded. "She has no right--"

"Sir," Officer Keeshan said, "I'm going to have to ask you to stand back, or I'll have to cuff you. Please permit the young lady to. . .ah . . . have her say."

Peter tried to follow the quick, agile movement of Rose's fingers, but it was too much for him. He frowned and shook his head. "Rose, whoa, slow down! I can't--" Peter hesitated as Egon appeared on his left, Ray at his right.

"She's saying that our equipment is. . . " Ray paused.

"Old. . . house. Brooklyn?" He glanced at Egon, who nodded.

"This is an invasion of my privacy!" Mirance choked, starting toward Rose again. Officer Keeshan took a firm grip on Mirance's arm, holding him back.

Rose glanced at Mirance, and Peter saw an unmistakable glint of triumph in her eyes. She turned back to Peter and began to sign again, so rapidly that Peter just hung an arm around Egon, lowered his head to Egon's shoulder, and muttered, "Can you take over, Spengs?"

Egon slipped his arm around Peter's waist to assist him in staying upright. "She's saying. . .ah. . . Mirance's childhood home. . .she's been there before. . . we can find our equipment there, she believes. It is where he keeps those things he wishes to remain hidden." Egon's eyebrow lifted. "Including. . ." He paused, and Ray, in an awed tone, continued for him.

"Documents for shipments of drugs which have not received FDA approval. . .illegally imported drugs which have been officially banned here. . .doctored documents which have allowed him to ship drugs such as the heroin to different cities across the country in Mirance Pharmaceutical trucks. . .holy cow!" Ray exclaimed, shaking his head and stealing an amazed glance in Mirance's direction.

Peter let go of Egon and moved closer to Rose, standing near enough to hold out his hand and lay it on her shoulder. He hardly noticed the cold. "Rose, where is the murder weapon?" She signed "concealed".

"I have a license to carry this gun," Mirance said quickly,

as the policemen confiscated the weapon. "There's no evidence

that I did any harm to this woman--"

"He got rid of her body by dissolving it with chemicals," Peter told Officer Keeshan. "A method of destroying evidence that he's indulged in more than once, according to Rose. By the way, you might want to review the security tapes I accidentally turned on. I think they'll show Mirance pretty much confessing to murder." Peter paused, then signed, "too smart for your own good" at Mirance. An inarticulate growl of rage issued from Mirance's throat, but he couldn't advance on Peter. Officer Keeshan still had a firm grip on his arm.

The policemen glanced with troubled expressions at the millionaire. Allen Mirance squared his shoulders and tried to regain some semblance of composure. "I demand to have my lawyers present before I say anything else," he said, with a venomous look in Peter's direction.

"That's probably an excellent idea, Mr. Mirance," Officer Keeshan said. He paused as his partner came forward, the needle with the heroin tucked carefully into a plastic bag. "Ah, good, you've got that bagged." He lifted the bag and shined a flashlight on it. "Looks like a lethal dosage there." He handed it back to David. "David, read Mr. Mirance his rights, if you please. Dr. Venkman, do you require an ambulance? You look none too steady."

"No," Peter said hastily. "I'll be all right." He turned to Rose. "Besides, I'm not finished here yet." He smiled at her softly. "Rose, you look as worn out as I feel. We've both been through quite enough."

Her eyes seemed to grow more sorrowful. Peter knew she realized that this was good-bye. "It's gonna be okay, you know. No matter where you go, I'm not gonna forget about you. We're friends."

Her face brightened and she held out both hands to him. Peter put his hands around hers. "Hey, who knows, maybe we'll see each other again sometime." He tried to grin, but it was too hard. He liked her and he hated to see her go, knowing he was not likely to ever see her again, at least in this lifetime.

Rose drew her hands back and used them once more to speak to him. It was one sign Peter knew by heart. He grinned at her then, and shrugged. "Hey, I knew you were madly in love with me," he said in his most teasing tone.

She beamed at that, and her blush this time was not a trick of the light. She shook her head at him, as if exasperated. Peter moved closer to her and touched his lips to her ghostly cheek, the whisper of a kiss. "I love you too, kid," he said in a voice so soft, only she could have heard it.

He drew back to see her eyes grow luminous, fixed on him with such a wistful look, he felt, oddly, a little self-conscious. He was more than flattered by her evident infatuation; he was touched. She seemed aware of his serious expression and signed, "You okay?"

Peter signed back, "Okay". He managed a slight grin. "Hey," he said gently, "you've been hanging around this dump long enough. Get out of here before I start bawling or something."

Her smile was still soft, almost regretful, as she raised a hand one last time in a farewell gesture, then turned away from him. Her gaze drifted, her eyes seeing something that no one else present could see.

A moment later, she was gone.

As the lingering light of her aura faded, and the room felt suddenly too dark and too quiet, Peter exhaled, feeling both regret at having to say farewell to her, and hope that she could find peace in whichever realm she had vanished into.

He missed her.

Peter sensed Egon moving up behind him, and realized at that moment that his entire body had tired of the whole matter long ago, and only the desire to see Rose off on her journey had kept him standing this long.

"Egon?"

"Yes, Peter?"

"I think now would be a good time to catch me." He swayed, hoping with one part of his fading consciousness that Egon would be quick.

Egon was. The last thing Peter remembered was lying on the floor with Egon's arm around his shoulders, the physicist's hand smoothing back down the sleeve of his sweater.

Peter didn't wake again until he opened his eyes and found himself lying in Ecto as Winston drove her through the night toward home. He was curled up on the seat, Egon's knee providing a rather uncomfortable pillow. He made an effort to sit up, but no sooner did he manage it than he wanted nothing more than to lie down again. An arm came around his shoulders and he rested his head agreeably against Egon's chest, closing his eyes to shut out the intermittent flash of street lights through the car window.

"Spengs?"

"Yes, Peter." The hand on his shoulder rubbed reassuringly.

Peter sighed and relaxed against his friend, grateful for

Egon's presence. "Sorry--"

"No more apologies, Peter," Egon interrupted quietly, lifting his right hand to gently muss Peter's hair. "All that matters is that you're okay."

Peter exhaled, a muffled sound against Egon's jumpsuit. Then he realized vaguely that Egon's coat wasn't on Egon, but around his own shoulders, instead. Peter snuggled into its warmth. "Aren't ya cold, Spengs?"

"No, Peter, I'm just fine. The car heater's on."

"Is it?" Peter burrowed deeper.

"Are you cold?" Egon asked.

"Fine, too," Peter mumbled, letting himself drift off again. He heard the distant sound of a street Santa's bell and he fuzzily remembered Christmas. "Egon. . . "

"Yes?"

"Did we miss Christmas?"

When no answer came for a heartbeat's time, Peter sensed Egon was startled by the question. Then, warmth in his voice, Egon answered. "Christmas Eve's on Friday, Peter."

"Oh, good. . ." Peter trailed off with a yawn. "Was gonna get you something special this year. Something you really needed." He blinked, trying to remain awake for the conversation, and knowing he couldn't. He was half-aware of Egon's arm drawing him just a little closer, a protective gesture that was very comforting.

"I assure you, Peter, I already have everything I need."

Peter heard the wobble in Egon's voice, but he was too tired to interpret it at the moment. Instead, he let himself fall asleep, feeling as free of worry as a small child. His friends were near and, as far as he was concerned, he was home already.

* * *

Peter woke to find Dr. Labraccio's concerned face hovering over him. "Hi ya, Doc." He tried to smile. Nope. Too tired. Instead, he managed a blink, hoping that would be somehow persuade Dr. Labraccio that he was just fine.

Greg smiled and rolled his eyes. "Venkman, you need your own personal physician on call 24 hours a day. You can't keep yourself out of trouble, can you?"

A weak smile lifted Peter's lips; but his eyes closed in recompense. "Whatever they've been saying about me, Doc, it's completely untrue." He paused, and opened his eyes. "Well, at least greatly exaggerated."

Greg laughed and clapped Peter on the shoulder. "In spite of your inability to follow doctor's orders, I think you're going to recover from this. Your vital signs are all good and your tests all came back negative. I'll want to run a few more tests. . . " He paused, noticing Peter's frown. "Peter, considering what you've just lived through, these tests shouldn't bother you. How are you feeling? Any cravings?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Yeah," he said finally. "I'd love a pepperoni pizza and a cold coke."

"That's the kind of craving you can live with," Greg retorted, grinning. His grin faded and he gave Peter's shoulder a squeeze. "You're a very lucky man, Dr. Venkman."

"Don't I know it. After playing Mirance's pin cushion for two weeks. . . " Peter shuddered. "I feel pretty lucky to be alive."

"There's that," Greg acknowledged. "But I was referring to the gang downstairs. You've got something that a lot of folks coming off an experience with drugs don't have. A family who's there to help you keep it together. A family that would do just about anything for you, if you needed it, I suspect."

Greg glanced toward the doorway thoughtfully. "They're all down there right now, waiting for me to come and tell them you're going to be okay. That's their whole concern right now." He turned back to Peter and flashed a smile. "You."

Peter's throat tightened and he swallowed hard and blinked. "Yeah," he managed, his voice a bit rougher than usual. "Well, it's not all luck, you know. I'm a pretty loveable guy."

Greg snorted. "I can see this experience hasn't

done any damage to your self-esteem. But as far as your body's

concerned, twenty-four hours bed-rest--"

"Twenty-four! Greg--"

"Twenty-four," Greg said, and clasped Peter's shoulder briefly. "You want to recover, don't you? There's a group of people down there who need you to get well."

Peter couldn't argue with that; but, as much as he liked to sleep in, twenty-four hours, when he wasn't so sleepy, seemed a lot. Greg, to assure he got the rest, advised the others to make sure Peter stayed in bed. The guys seemed intent on following doctor's orders, even if Peter did not. His meals were carried up to him, one of them by Janine, who, seeming to sense his need for distraction, spent thirty minutes detailing the break-up of one of her girlfriends.

"Lynette? Isn't that the one who calls us 'those cute little scientists you work for'?" Peter asked, when he could get a word in.

Janine frowned, thinking. "Oh, yeah, that's right. Did you think she was pretty?"

"I'm not asking her out," Peter said, and folded his arms as if underscoring his determination not to be set up. "She was all over us last time she was here." He shuddered. "Scary."

"Well, I'm not asking you to ask her out," Janine retorted, removing her glasses to pin him with a withering look. "She thinks Ray's the cutest, anyway."

"She does?" Peter unfolded his arms and sat up straight against the pillows. Aware of the smile on Janine's face, he turned his attention to straightening up his scattered blankets. "Don't you have work to do, Melnitz?"

Janine rose and scooped up the tray. "I don't know why Dr.

L. prescribed bedrest for ya. You've recovered, if you ask me."

Peter grinned at the exasperated tone. But after Janine had gone, he considered that she did have a point. There was really no need for him to stay in bed. He crept up and dressed. A peek into the lab showed no signs of life. Peter noticed that Egon's latest mold experiment had perished and was now residing in the wastebasket.

Wincing guiltily at the sight, Peter left the lab and padded downstairs. The rec room was empty, too, but for the Christmas tree Ray had put up. Peter eyed it soberly, remembering what Janine had said about the damage he had done to it while he was going through withdrawal. Another guilty pang stirred inside him. He wondered why the guys didn't just come to the conclusion that Peter Venkman was more trouble than he was worth.

Peter sighed and crept closer to the tree. He tried to boost his spirits by reminding himself that he was a great guy after all; but the thought seemed hollow and a little unbelievable at the moment, even to him. He eyed the bulbs and tinsel, and the strings of colored lights, now softly glowing in the semi-gloom of a cloudy winter day. Whatever damage he'd done, Ray had evidently fixed. The tree looked beautiful.

"Hey, Peter!" Ray, bounding up the stairs, stopped at the landing and grinned in delight. "You're up!" He was in his coat, a rim of ice on his boots.

"Well, I figured the only way to keep you from tracking snow into the bunkroom would be to come down and meet you halfway," Peter said. "So I made the sacrifice."

Ray laughed. He lifted a bag and shook it, and bells rattled inside. "I got some more decorations." He upended the bag and dumped a pile of glittering goodies onto the sofa. "I though the firehouse needed a little more Christmas cheer."

"It does," Peter agreed, glancing over Ray's purchases with a faint smile. "But I was thinking more along the lines of rumcake, brandied cherries, or maybe just some good old-fashioned spiked eggnog." If there was a slight bitter note to his tone, he hadn't really meant it; but Ray detected it nonetheless.

Ray gazed at him for a moment, his expressive face serious and concerned. "Peter, are you all right?"

Peter turned toward the tree and stared at his reflection in a glass bulb. "I will be, Ray. I just need a little time. A little distance from. . . you know. The past couple of weeks. I think I can live down this experience." Although maybe not the knowledge of what an idiot I was to go out on a bust alone in the first place.

Well, at least Rose had been set free. Something good came of the nightmare he'd endured. He lifted his hand to a small silver bell hanging from a branch and swung the bell back and forth with a finger. It chimed a faint, high note.

Peter felt Ray's arm slide under his and knew the sympathy that was coming. But he didn't mind that at all right now.

"Peter, you take as much time as you need. We'll be here.

You can talk to us about it, you know."

Peter had to smile at that. "Yeah, I know, Ray." He continued to swing the bell with a fingertip, finding some comfort in the lone tinkle of the little thing.

Every time a bell rings, an angel gets her wings.

Peter scolded himself inwardly; he was developing a sentimental streak, and he knew who to blame for that. He turned to Ray and caught Ray watching him with a curious smile. Peter grinned back. "Just making sure," he said, with a final jab at the little bell.

Ray's face lit up and he patted Peter on the back. "Rose is fine, Peter. I'm sure she is."

"I sure hope so." He averted his gaze. "Hope you guys are all right, too. Can't have been easy, what you went through because of me."

"Aw, Peter." Ray's smile deepened. "We just wanted you back safe. No matter what happened, even if it had gotten out, we would have nailed Mirance and made everyone understand that it was all done against your will. And we would have kept saying it until everyone got the message." A determined, loyal glint appeared in the brown eyes. "And even if no one believed us and came to us for help anymore, I wouldn't have cared. As long as we got you back, Peter. You're more important to me than the greatest job in the world could ever be."

That statement, coming from Ray Stantz, overwhelmed Peter. He knew, as far as Ray was concerned, that Ghostbusting was the greatest job in the world. Peter quickly glanced away, long enough to rub a sleeve across his eyes and cough to clear away the knot that had formed in his throat. Yes, he was definitely developing a sentimental streak. Giving up the losing effort to play it cool, he threw an arm around Ray and pulled the occultist into a hug.

Ray, delighted, hugged him back whole-heartedly. "Glad you're okay, Pete," he whispered, just before Peter slipped out of his grasp and flashed a sheepish grin at him.

"Thanks, Ray. I'm glad you aren't mad at me." His smile faded. "I hope Egon isn't either."

"Egon isn't," came a voice from behind them. Peter swung around, chagrined. He wasn't sure how long Egon had been standing there. The physicist was not wearing a coat and had cleaned off his boots. The only sign that he'd been outdoors was the flush of color touching his nose and cheeks. He smiled at Peter. "Granted you did get yourself into trouble, Peter, but you also got yourself out of it. Keep in mind that you helped Rose find the strength to face her fear and to save herself. You wouldn't be alive now and she wouldn't be free if. . ." Egon paused, profound affection and pride twin lights in his eyes as he gazed at Peter. "If you weren't as brilliant a psychologist as you are."

Peter sucked in a surprised breath. It wasn't often Egon extended such praise; usually only when the physicist felt it was most deserved. Peter savored it, knowing he would treasure those words for quite a while. "I'm not letting you forget that admission, Spengs," he said with a wicked grin.

Egon looked unperturbed. "It's not something I'm likely to forget anyway," he said with a mild shrug. "By the way, have you seen Winston?"

"Not since this morning," Ray said. "I'm not sure where he went. He said something about visiting a friend."

Peter sensed that, of all his friends, it was Winston who had been the hardest hit by what had happened to him. He sensed that he should probably corner Winston as soon as he was home, and have a talk with him. But as the afternoon wore on, Winston didn't appear. Peter, at Egon's insistence, lay down on the sofa for a while to rest and promptly fell soundly asleep. When he woke, it was to the sound of pots clanging in the kitchen and the fragrant smell of. . . roast beef?

Lured out of the comfortable burrow he'd made under the afghan, Peter crept into the kitchen. Winston stood over the stove, ladling gravy over the source of that delicious smell.

"You made a pot roast?" Peter said in amazement.

Winston raised an eyebrow at him, Egon-fashion, and Peter broke into a laugh. Winston turned back to the roast. "I can cook, you know. Unlike some of us around here."

"I'll assume you're referring to Ray," Peter said, coming nearer to steal a stray bit of meat as Winston sliced the roast.

Winston eyed him sternly, but allowed the appropriation.

"Glad to see your appetite's back. How you feeling, Pete?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm alive. That feels pretty good. For a while there, I couldn't much tell the difference between alive and dead."

"The stuff does that to you, man." Winston sawed through another slice of roast with a little more energy than Peter imagined was necessary. "Kills the pain, and then it kills you."

"And you know that from personal experience," Peter murmured.

Winston, startled, looked up at him. "You heard us talking about Bill," he said finally, and lowered his gaze back to the roast.

"I vaguely remember," Peter said. "You saved his life, too."

"Don't know if I saved it," Winston said, a creeping note of bitterness stealing into his tone. Peter watched him for a moment as Winston cut neat, quick slices at a rapid pace, hands tight around the knife and fork. "I might've helped him buy a little time. 'Nam made sure my efforts were wasted."

Peter stood a little closer and nudged his shoulder gently against Winston's. "Sounds to me like you were there when he needed someone. And you haven't changed in that regard." He eyed the roast critically, then gave Winston a small grin. "Mind if I try that?"

Winston, exhaling, relinquished the cutting tools to Peter. Their eyes met and Peter gave him a bolstering smile. "Zed, you okay?"

Winston glanced away, exhaling again, audibly, before answering. "Yeah, man, I'm sorry." That seemed to loosen something in him and he met Peter's gaze again, more steadily. "Pete, you know I was the one who pushed to keep you here at home through your withdrawal."

Peter wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question. "Sure, I know. I remember you arguing a bit with Egon. Egon wanted me in the hospital?"

"Yeah." Winston rubbed a hand over his chin, a troubled light in his eyes. "I put the responsibility for your health into our hands. Even though Egon and Ray weren't really okay with it. This was something new for them to deal with, you know?"

Peter sensed that even though he was standing alive and well in front of the man, Winston was still trying to reassure himself that the right decision had been made. He set a firm grasp on Winston's shoulder. "You put me in the best possible hands, then, Winston. I would'a gone nuts if I'd been stuck in some strange bed with a bunch of doctors and nurses trying to get me through that withdrawal. And you knew I would have. You protected the business, Zed, and we owe you for that. But you weren't just protecting the business. And I owe you for that, too, more than you know." He tightened his grip on Winston's shoulder. "When we started up this business, I never imagined we'd be hiring a fourth."

Winston met his gaze, an uncharacteristically shaky smile on his lips. Peter smiled back. "Can't begin to tell you how damned glad I am that we did. I think you were the best impulse decision Ray Stantz ever made in his life."

Winston snorted with laughter that was a little unsteady but genuinely heartfelt. "I'd say impulse decision is a pretty redundant term in Ray's case, m'man."

Peter grinned in delight. "You have a point there, Zeddemore."

Winston hooked an arm around Peter's neck, dragged him closer, and very deliberately wiped out any semblance of neatness that remained to Peter's hair after the nap. Peter gave him a mock glare, then shook his head. "I'm only letting you off the hook for that because you made a roast. Keep that in mind, pal."

"I will," Winston said, letting him go, "if you keep in mind

that if you ever go off on a bust by yourself again, even for

those Class 4's you're so damned good with, I'll personally tie

you down and take a razor to that unruly clump of hair you're so

proud of--"

"You wouldn't!" Peter said in horror, scrambling nimbly out of Winston's reach. "You couldn't."

"I can and I will," Winston said, calm smile on his lips.

"Remember that, Venkman."

"Consider it chiselled on my memory," Peter said, shuddering.

"Good. Let's eat."

It was the second-best pot roast he'd ever had, but as full as he was after supper, Peter was too wide-awake to get to sleep. The nap had taken the edge off his need for rest and he tossed and turned until, sick of lying in bed, he had to get up and go downstairs in search of a distraction. He sat down on the floor in front of the Christmas tree and began to poke around the gifts. Finding one with his name on it, he gave it an experimental shake. It didn't rattle. Whatever it was, Egon had packed it up tightly enough so that no clue could be gained no matter which direction Peter tilted the box. Egon, you did that on purpose, didn't you? Peter grinned to himself and, putting that gift aside, looked for something from Ray to shake.

"Aren't you supposed to be in bed, young man?"

The stern voice startled Peter. With a yelp, he quickly slid the gift back among the others and peered over his shoulder, to see Egon standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded as he gazed disapprovingly down at Peter.

Peter put on an angelic smile. "I tried to sleep," he said with all the earnestness he could muster. "Really. Guess I slept too much earlier today."

Egon walked over, nightshirt billowing around his legs. He sat down beside Peter on the floor. "Hungry?"

Peter shook his head. "After that meal? Are you kidding?"

Egon smiled. "Some cocoa, maybe?"

Peter sighed at that. It did sound nice, a part of the familiar routine, a reminder that he was safe, and home where he belonged. It pushed the lingering memories just a little further away.

Peter felt Egon's hand pull gently at his elbow.

"Are you having nightmares?" the physicist asked.

Peter looked up in surprise. "No," he said. Then added, "not yet."

"Perhaps you won't," Egon suggested, but with a wavering conviction that Peter heard.

Peter realized how tough it must have been for both Egon and Ray, coming home to find him gone, only to have the cops bring home a drug-addled, half-dead creature a few days later that hardly resembled the man they knew. "I put you guys through hell," he whispered.

Egon's blue eyes radiated sympathy. "You went through hell yourself, Peter. But as I've said, I do not consider that your fault. You did make the error in judgment of taking on the bust without us, but it was not unreasonable of you to assume, from what they'd told you, that the entity was one you could handle. If the man who hired you had not been the man responsible for Rose's death, you would have been home that same night, most likely. Your instincts as far as Rose was concerned were correct, and you have no cause to berate yourself for a moment over that."

"But. . . " Peter paused and looked up at him. "Your mold died."

Egon's eyes widened at the out-of-the-blue subject change; then he realized it wasn't really a change in subject. "Yes, the experiment failed, but I hardly thought twice about it after I'd discovered it. I just threw it away. I had much more important things on my mind at the time."

Peter nodded. "You know something," he said softly, avoiding Egon's gaze. "I only realized it today, although I knew it all along. There's never been a ghost that we've faced that's scared me the way that syringe full of heroin scared me."

Egon's fingers curled comfortingly around the back of Peter's neck. "I know."

Peter leaned against him. "It took me away," he whispered. "Took me from every emotion I could feel, every thought in my head. It wouldn't even let me feel the fear of losing you guys forever. Of being separated from you. Of. . . " Peter grimaced. "Of imagining you might think I'd done this to myself, behind your backs--" Peter stopped as Egon's free hand encircled his wrist and gripped it so firmly that Peter lifted his head and met Egon's gaze without thinking twice about it.

The blue eyes drew him in, stern and resolute. "Not for an

instant did we consider such a thing, Peter Venkman. You must

know that." He loosened his grip, but did not relinquish his

hold on Peter's wrist. "I was afraid you might be thinking

that way. You didn't want us to know what had happened to

you. You even locked me out of the bathroom when I wanted to

help you--"

"I guess a part of me did feel ashamed," Peter cut in quickly,

eyes dropping again, a faint flush to his cheeks. "I know that

drug users aren't criminals to be condemned. Just people who

screwed up and need help, for the most part. . . but it was

hard not to feel like I'd screwed up, myself, so badly this

time that you guys would finally be fed up--"

It was Egon's turn to interrupt. "No, Peter, you went out there with the best intentions and Mirance turned that against you and hurt you badly. Can you really imagine that Ray, Winston and I would ever be angry with you for acting out of love for us? It might have been done impulsively, and it did end up being perhaps one of the worst decisions you've ever made. . . " Egon paused, and, smiling, shook his head fondly at Peter. "But it was done with a good heart. And we've come to know quite well by now that that's the way you do everything, Dr. Venkman."

Warmed by the implacable look and tone, Peter nodded. "I guess I did believe down inside somewhere that you guys would still be there for me. But when the drug's effects faded and I was left lying there with my imagination running wild, I seem to only be able to think the worst. It was pretty damned scary."

Egon nodded, his eyes resting thoughtfully on his friend. "I'm sorry you had to go through that, Peter. Just the sight of you when the policemen brought you home. . . " Egon shivered at the memory of Peter hanging, a fragile, battered creature, off of the officer's arm. "And I realized that in spite of all the ads we've done against drug use, I didn't know what to do for you. I didn't know how to take care of you, Peter, as much as I wanted to. I was scared," Egon admitted, meeting Peter's gaze, eyes gleaming. "I was afraid to even let you go to sleep, afraid you'd never wake, and we'd have ourselves to blame for thinking we could take care of you better than a hospital or rehab clinic could."

"But you took better care of me than anyone else could have," Peter said, a sparkle of conviction in the green eyes that was all his own. "I was afraid, too, Spengs. Afraid that if I did survive, I'd be addicted for the rest of my life. But once I got through the withdrawal, thanks to you guys, I knew I'd never need a drug to help me get through any bad moments. I've got you guys to get me through." He dropped his gaze as the emotion behind that realization caught up with him. "I've got you guys. In that sense. . . " He snuck a grin up at Egon, "I guess you might say I'm addicted to you."

Egon couldn't help a smile at that. "You're fortunate, then, that we are so good for you."

Peter gave Egon a teasing shove. "And you say I'm conceited!"

Egon's eyes sparkled with quiet laughter. "I would concede the point--except I truly do believe we are good for you." He gently clasped Peter's arm, giving it a squeeze. "Just as you are good for us."

Peter, ready to defend himself, paused as he realized what Egon had just said. He forgot the retort he had ready, and grinned broadly instead. "Well, since you put it that way."

A serious look came over the physicist's face as he suddenly recalled the moment that Peter, locked in a nightmare, had voiced furious words, directed at the father Egon knew Peter loved in spite of Charlie Venkman's neglect. Egon wondered if he should broach the subject with Peter. But he was reluctant to do that after all Peter had been through. And he doubted Peter even remembered those angry words now. A part of him sensed that Peter might even deny having said them. Perhaps it was better to leave that for another time. Peter had been through enough for now.

Egon moved on quietly to another subject. "Greg and

Winston deserve the real thanks, though. Ray and I were at

a loss--"

"Nonsense," Peter stated flatly. "I remember all of you taking care of me. Working in shifts. Teamwork. It's what we're best at. Guess that's something I need to keep in mind."

Egon nodded sagely, but could not hide the faint twinkle still in his eyes. "I have no doubt that you will from now on."

Peter heard the dry observation, a unique Spengler talent, and realized he'd missed hearing that as much as he'd missed Ray's knack for sympathy and Winston's quiet, reassuring strength during those long, miserable days away from them. Peter laughed in pleasure to hear it again, and flung an arm around Egon's shoulders. "Hey, Spengs, whaddya say you and me sneak open a gift right now? Just like we used to do when we were kids?"

Egon straightened his back, chin lifting, as well as one eyebrow. "I never snuck around at night to open gifts without my parents' permission, Peter."

"Figures." Peter grinned. "I sure did."

"And your mother never knew?"

"I guess she probably did know. But she never said anything. Just told me I'd better be a good boy if I wanted Santa to come by."

"Hmmm. If that is the basis by which Santa conducts his business, it's a wonder you ever received any gifts from him."

"You're heartless, Spengs." Peter put on his best aggrieved air. "And I never did get that cocoa."

Egon tilted his head, considering Peter measuringly. "Well, if you're a good boy, I'll prepare a cup or two right now. Unless you're starting to feel sleepy. . . "

"I'm never too sleepy for cocoa," Peter said eagerly, climbing to his feet. "Then maybe we can start a firehouse tradition of sneaking into one of our presents a few days early." He grabbed Egon's arm and hauled the physicist onto his feet.

"We need more traditions around here."

Egon chuckled and shook his head. "St. Nicholas must be an extraordinarily patient man."

* * *

In the end, all the gifts were opened on the appropriate day, and then all but forgotten as the guys roped Janine and Slimer out into the snowy Christmas morning for a snowball fight. Slimer easily avoided every ball lobbed at him, the majority of them thrown by Peter; but the little ghost proved less adept at throwing snowballs, which was a blessing, Peter thought, since all of his snowballs were basically lumps of wet, sticky ectoplasm, what snow there had been all but melted away by the time Slimer had finished patting it into shape.

Janine, on the other hand, was all too good at both packing and aiming; and her primary victim soon found both his new coat and his brown hair thoroughly soaked. Peter suspected everyone of plotting to give him the worst of it, since the idea for the snowball fight had been his to begin with. But one look at Ray, just as soaked, plopped down in a snowbank, laughing; and Egon, blond hair hanging damply in his eyes as Janine tried to dry off his glasses for him with the edge of her long, snow-splattered skirt, proved that the battle had been, for the most part, a draw.

Only Winston was relatively unscathed, too quick on his feet for most of their lobs to strike home.

"Hey, Zeddemore," Peter yelled, furtively packing another huge ball of snow together while he glanced over one shoulder to locate the driest member of the team. "Where'd you learn to duck?"

"From teaming up with you one too many times on a bust," Winston returned, dancing boldly across the icy road in front of Peter, as if daring the psychologist to get in one good hit.

"Oh yeah? Okay, Mr. Perfect-Aim-With-A-Thrower, duck this!"

Peter sent the snowball flying through the air. Winston staggered backward, arms wheeling, as he sought to avoid what looked like a five pound ball of snow. The snowball cleared his head by several inches and landed smack on the windshield of a police car that had just pulled up to the curb. Winston clamped a hand over his mouth to hide a grin. He fell against Peter, nudging him, voice filled with laughter. "You're a dead man, Venkman. The cops'll nail you for that one."

Peter looked at him in indignant outrage. "Me! You're the one who ducked. If you'd just let the snowball hit you, I wouldn't have an incensed police officer getting out his car to yell at me. On Christmas Day, no less."

"That's hardly a logical conclusion, Peter," Egon said, sliding his glasses back up his nose. He smiled at Peter. "You were the one who hurled the snow. I think a quick admission of guilt and sincere apology should, however, resolve the matter without resulting in a diminishment of your current solvency."

"Spengs, I have no idea what you just said. I'm going to have to bury you in the nearest snowbank for that." Peter advanced on him menacingly. "Here I am, about to be locked up on Christmas Day, and all you can do is drop twenty dollar words. . . " He trailed off, a memory tugging at the edges of his thoughts. Something Egon had said to him a week ago--what was it? Something about twenty dollar words.

Then Peter remembered. He stopped his approach and stood in knee-deep snow, staring at Egon, but unable to speak for the moment because of the sudden knot of emotion which had crept up on him and made words all but impossible. The blue eyes met his, questioningly at first; then Peter knew that Egon's lightning quick mind had put it all together and remembered, too. Egon's eyes brightened and his smile suddenly seemed unsteady. He moved a little closer, as if not trusting his voice to carry the few feet between them. "I meant it, Peter."

Peter swallowed, blinking, and broke into a grin, feeling foolish for standing out in the snow on the verge of tears, and really happy because he knew the reason he was standing out in the snow of the verge of tears. Composing himself, he patted Egon's arm with his damp glove and gave the physicist an affectionate look. "Okay, Spengs. Forget the snowbank. You go ahead and use all the twenty dollar words you want to. My treat."

Winston, Ray, Janine, and Slimer, having gathered near to see what was going on between Egon and Peter, now exchanged a dumbfounded look at Peter's comment.

"Say what?" Winston turned to Peter, mystified.

Peter didn't have the chance to explain, even if he wanted to. The police officer, in his heavy coat and woolen flap cap, had reached them, huffing and puffing with the exertion of crossing the snowbound road. Peter flashed an apologetic grin at the man. "Officer, I--" He stopped in surprise. "Officer Keeshan!"

Keeshan broke into a broad smile. "Gentlemen, good to see you again. Making the most of this wintry day, I see."

Peter grimaced. "My aim was a little off." He threw a glare at Winston, who merely snickered behind his glove.

"Quite all right," Keeshan said, exchanging a cheerful grin with Ray. "I've had kids pelting my poor car with the stuff for a month. I think the old gal can withstand a few snowballs."

"Would you like to come inside for some cocoa, Officer?"

Egon asked.

"Thanks, no. Unfortunately, I'm on duty, but I wanted to stop by and deliver something to you fellows." Keeshan's eyes twinkled as if he were feeling a bit like Santa. He withdrew something from the inside of his coat, a small envelope. "When I heard about it, I asked to be allowed to deliver it in person. I was really pleased when it arrived yesterday, just in time for Christmas."

"What is it?" Janine asked excitedly, burrowing in between Egon and Peter to get a closer look.

Slimer dove closer, hovering over Officer Keeshan's shoulder, much to the officer's apparent uneasiness. "Is it food?" the little ghost asked eagerly, rubbing his hands together and dripping blobs of ectoplasm into the snow.

"Um. . . no, it isn't food," Keeshan began. He turned to Peter with a smile. "It's a cheque, made out to you fellows. Seems that Dr. Carson, aka Dr. Julio Navarro, was a wanted man in Mexico City. He had a nice little drug trade going for a while there. When he fled Mexico and came here, he hooked up with Mirance, who got him a name change. You boys were responsible for his capture. The reward is all yours."

Peter, aware that his mouth was hanging open, quickly closed it. He glanced at Egon, who seemed as astonished as he felt. Winston, too, seemed too surprised to react. Only Ray had the presence of mind to hold out his hand as Officer Keeshan extended the envelope. Janine clutched at Egon's arm, her face alight. "A reward! This is so exciting!"

"Yeah," Peter said, trying not to sound too excited, himself. "Maybe it'll make up in part for the bill Mirance stiffed us on."

"Another bit of news," Keeshan said, as if reminded by Peter's comment. "A search of Mirance's properties and bank accounts proved every accusation Rose Applegate. . . ah, or rather, her ghost. . . made against Mirance. The police department and the FBI are still going through it all, but it looks like Mirance is going to be going out of business and into confinement permanently."

Peter could not hide his pleasure at that. As the others responded with satisfaction to Keeshan's statement, he turned his gaze heavenward, where heavy snowclouds hung low in the sky. You got him, sweetheart. Way to go. He's not going to be hurting anybody else.

Peter wanted to tell her in person; but he sensed that, wherever Rose was now, she probably already knew.

"One more thing," Keeshan said in a more subdued tone. "Miss Applegate's folks are flying in next weekend. I understand you wanted to meet with them."

"Yes," Peter said, with a nod. "I have a lot to tell them."

Keeshan gazed at him discerningly. "Good. Okay, well, I'm glad to see you're doing better, Dr. Venkman." He held out his hand and Peter shook it, thanking the officer.

"I gotta get back to work," Keeshan said cheerfully, shaking hands all around. "You folks have a Merry Christmas."

As he strode back to his vehicle, Peter turned to Ray. Ray had extracted the cheque from the envelope and was staring at it, a slight frown on his lips, his brows drawn together in an uncharacteristically unreadable expression.

"Ray?" Peter tugged at his coat sleeve. "Well?"

Ray blinked, as if waking from a dream, then looked up at Peter and grinned. "Hey, we captured a wanted felon, Peter! Isn't that great?"

"That's beautiful, Ray." Peter clamped a hand around Ray's wrist and tried to maneuver it around so he could get a look at the cheque. "The cheque, Ray. How much?"

"Yeah, man, how much did we get?" Winston asked eagerly.

"Enough to get a new paint job for Ecto?"

"Enough to buy some new shelves and supplies for the lab?"

Egon put in, squinting over Ray's shoulder to take a look.

"Enough to upgrade my computer so it doesn't crash every time I hit the space bar?" Janine inquired, sending a rueful look in Peter's direction.

Peter made a face at her, then turned quickly back to Ray.

"Come on, Stantz. How much?"

Ray's smile was beatific. "This should cover everything," he said, and turned the cheque around so Peter could see it.

Peter stared at it. He had never seen that many zeros on a cheque; certainly not that many following a 5. "Fifty thousand dollars?" He lifted a hand to touch the cheque, then remembered his gloves were damp and quickly withdrew. "Fifty thou. . . " He swallowed. "I think I need to sit down."

Ray laughed. "I thought you'd like that, Peter."

"Like it? Since when did you become the master of understatement, Ray? I thought that was Egon's department." Peter tugged off the damp glove with his teeth, and took the cheque in his chilled fingers. "Guys, this is fifty thousand dollars. Do you realize what this means?"

He lifted his gaze and looked at Ray and Egon. He knew that the smile stretching his face said it all. The two scientists both gasped audibly at the same moment. Ray turned to Egon, his face glowing. "Egon, we can get all the parts! We can start building it right away! I can't wait! Isn't this fantastic?"

Peter's gaze went to his best friend's face. He knew Egon

was as thrilled as Ray. It didn't burst out of Egon as it did

from Ray. But his eyes sparkled and his smile was as eager

and excited. "It's wonderful, Ray. . . " Egon paused, turning a

more serious expression upon Peter and Winston. "but it's hardly

fair of us to--"

"Don't you dare say what I know you're going to say," Peter cut in, pouncing on Egon and gripping his arm tightly while waving the cheque in his face. "I got myself into that whole mess because I wanted to have this moment, when I'd get to see you guys go nuts over your plans for your new toy, and I was feeling pretty down for a bit late last night because I couldn't get you but one thing on that list. Now you can get everything and you're damned well going to."

Peter, managing to sound stern, broke into an impish grin at the end and gave Egon a playful push. "So cut all that other stuff out, Spengler. It'll make my whole Christmas, just to go shopping with you mad scientists, and watch you hunt down all the goodies on your list. There's more than enough to cover everything on it, get Janine a decent computer, and leave a little in our account to cover other expenses for the rest of the month. Heck, the next few months."

Peter paused, a new idea coming to him. He let out a crow of delight and danced around in the snow, dragging Egon with him. "I'm going on vacation. A real vacation! You guys can stay here and build your gizmo." Peter turned to Janine. "Melnitz, give me the number of your travel agent."

"The Bahamas?" Janine asked, laughing.

"You're going on vacation by yourself?" Ray asked.

Peter calmed down enough to glance around at them all, his eyes twinkling. "Not by myself, no."

"Angela?" Janine asked, sounding horrified.

"Alison," Ray predicted.

"Nope." Peter decided to spare them further guesses. He hooked an arm around Winston's neck. "One Winston Zeddemore. What do you say, buddy? Sun. Sand. Tropical paradise. Beautiful girls in bikinis." He winked wickedly. "It'll be your first real vacation this year. The ice fishing doesn't count."

Winston's initial look of surprise metamorphosed quickly into one of elation. "Sounds fantastic," he said. "When do we leave?"

"You two boys loose on the beach?" Janine giggled at that.

"Someone oughta warn all those poor women."

"Fortunately, you won't be there to mess up any potential relationships, Melnitz," Peter said.

Janine knew when she was being egged on. "You oughta be thanking me for that one, Venkman."

Peter looked at her seriously for a moment. "You know something, Janine--those goons showed up right after you left. Even if you hadn't nuked my date with Angela, I probably would've cancelled on her to take the bust. She was a bit on the temperamental side."

Janine smiled knowingly. "And $10,000 is a lot of money to pass up when you've got an extra special gift list to consider."

Peter grinned at her. "You got it, Big J." He stuffed the cheque in his pocket and looked around at his friends, their beaming, flushed faces, and he remembered Dr. Labraccio's words. Greg had hit it right on the mark. He was lucky.

"Guys. . . " Peter knew he was in dangerously sentimental territory, so he decided to plunge through it quick before he got hopelessly sappy. "I oughta be thanking you all. And I am." He pushed his damp hair out of his eyes and grinned at them. "Thanks."

Ray turned to Egon, then exchanged a look with Winston and Janine. "Snowbank?" he suggested, and they all nodded their agreement.

"Whoa, hey, hold on!" Peter exclaimed, backing up a step. "I thought you guys would appreciate a little acknowledgement from Uncle Peter."

"Peter, you've been feeling guilty and apologetic all week," Egon stated calmly, as the four of them advanced on him.

"That's right," Ray said, sounding almost apologetic himself as he marched alongside Egon. "It's not like you at all, Peter."

"The fellows do have a point, Pete," Winston said. "I guess we just don't know how to deal with a sensitive version of Peter Venkman."

"Right," Janine concluded. "A nice cold dip in the snow oughta shake you up and snap you back into the old, obnoxious Peter Venkman we all know and love. Well, some of us," she amended, a wicked smirk on her face.

"Oh, I like this!" Peter exclaimed, backing further away as

they got closer. "You're all always on me to be more sensitive

to everyone's feelings. . .especially you, Melnitz. . .and

then, when I am, you wanna turn me into a human popsicle! Jeez,

if your friends can't tell you--"

"Sorry, Peter," Egon said, a barely suppressed twinkle visible in the blue depths behind the glasses. "It is for your own good."

Peter hastily zipped up the pocket containing the cheque. "Guys, please!" he beseeched, but they surrounded him. As four pairs of hands latched onto him, Peter yelled, "Help!"

Slimer, having devoured the box of jelly donuts he'd found going to waste on the back seat of the squad car, now sprang into action, zooming down upon the group standing in the snow. His skinny arms wrapped around Peter and, with a monumental effort, he lifted Peter off the ground and into the air, forcing the guys to let him go. Peter let out a yell of triumph, which quickly fizzled into a cry of dismay as Slimer's jelly-slicked fingers lost their grip. Peter dropped all of six feet into the deep snow at the curb.

Egon, Winston, Ray, and Janine raced to the curb, to find the psychologist lying face down in the snow, arms and legs waving feebly. Egon and Winston dragged Peter by the arms until the psychologist was sitting up, the front of his coat, his face, and his hair caked with snow. He sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of snow. "Sliiiiiiiiiimer!"

"You did ask for help," Egon began, but his reminder went unheard. Peter was already on his feet and flying after Slimer. Egon sighed and, with a smile, dropped onto the curb to watch as Slimer led Peter on a merry chase up the street. Ray dropped down beside Egon, and Winston and Janine joined them, Janine availing herself of Egon's lap, to the physicist's dismay, as the cold snow seeped into her skirt.

Peter, pounding after Slimer, realized the spud had gone well out of reach. He waved an arm threateningly. "You're in it, you little troublemaker! You got jelly donut on my new coat! You're gonna pay!"

Hearing gales of laughter, Peter turned to see his friends huddled in a group in the snow, all of them so helpless at the spectacle of him chasing Slimer futilely up and down the street, that when he threw a reproachful look at them, they could not get out a single word in response.

Just the sight of them huddled together and red-faced with laughter made Peter relax into a grin and shake his head. Things felt a little more back to normal. He felt more like his old self, well enough in spirit if not entirely well yet in body. He didn't feel quite as guilty any more, or regretful; he had helped Rose and he was happy about that. He reminded himself that the bad memories would start to fade, and he would cling tight to the good ones. He might have to face some difficult moments. Though he felt no physical or psychological craving for the drug, he knew he would yet experience some nightmares because of what he'd gone through.

But the thought of that didn't frighten him as much as it might have. He could deal with it, and the main reason he knew he could was because of the four people who, at the moment, were sitting in the snow falling over each other laughing. Peter stood in the street, watching them, and his heart felt suddenly as light as the snowflakes that had begun to fall around him. As long as he had Egon, Ray, Winston, and Janine. . . and even, he grudgingly allowed, Slimer. . . around to look out for him, he knew he would work through the worst of what he had yet to deal with.

As long as he had his friends, he would be just fine; and not even the most thorough dunking in the cold snow could curtail his sentimental smile at the thought of that.

The End