Title: A Fairy Tale
Author: Brenda A
Author Page: Brenda A
Rating: PG-13
Category: gen friendship; hurt/comfort
Warnings: none
Note: Originally printed in Bustin' 2
Disclaimer: The Real Ghostbusters and its characters are the property of Columbia Pictures and DIC. This story is written for entertainment. Original author-created characters, stories and story ideas are the sole property of the author and should not be archived without permission from the author.

A Fairy Tale

Once upon a time people of all countries and all walks of life believed in fairies. Belying the old adage 'seeing is believing', people believed in the existence of these little people without ever actually seeing them. It was said fairies had magical powers, that they could appear and disappear at will, that they could take the shape of humans or animals. They could even cast spells and change the shape of people. It was believed fairies lived for hundreds of years, perhaps even forever. Anyone who discovered a dark green ring in the grass of a meadow knew without a doubt it was a fairy ring. And it was through a fairy ring you entered the magical abode of these creatures, Fairyland.

It was a charming, innocent belief that produced countless stories and fables through the centuries. But eventually, as time passed, as man learned the secrets of the atom and expanded his universe, he began to forget about these creatures of the imagination. And, eventually, people simply stopped believing in fairies.

"Gentlemen, this could be very bad."

From his position leaning against Ecto-1, Peter Venkman crossed his arms and threw a sour look at the man who made that statement. "Egon, you know I hate it when you talk like that."

Egon Spengler raised his eyes from the readings he had been studying on his PKE meter and gazed solemnly at the psychologist. "Yes, Peter, I know," he replied, and returned his attention to the device in his hands.

Venkman scowled and returned his own attention to the wall of trees and wilderness that stretched in front of them as far as the eye could see. A frantic phone call yesterday had brought them to this remote area of upper New York state, an area that had at last fallen prey to spreading residential development. A narrow swath had been forged through the center of the forest, courtesy of the bulldozers and other heavy equipment now abandoned and dotting the landscape in various stages of ruin. Some of the machinery was upended, others were laying on their sides, still others looked as though they had been dismembered by the jolly green giant. Peter didn't even want to contemplate the type of power it had taken to do all that.

Venkman's narrow-eyed glare fell on the little lead box about the size of a small coffin that had been unearthed and cracked by the construction equipment. When the workers had exhumed this box all hell had broken loose. The machinery had gone crazy, running out of control, chasing workers and plowing into trees and over embankments. It was a wonder no one had been killed.

Peter's glare slowly dissipated as he let his gaze rest on Egon and their youngest partner, Ray Stantz, as the two of them conferred. If anyone could figure out the craziness going on around here, it was those two. He was still staring at the two heads, one blond, one auburn, bent over that little box when the last member of the Ghostbuster team, Winston Zeddemore, sauntered up to join him.

Crossing his arms to match the younger man's pose, Winston looked at the impressive scene that stretched in front of them. "'This is the forest primeval,'" he quoted softly.

Peter grimaced. "You had to say that," he muttered.

Zeddemore nudged him playfully in the ribs. "Come on, Pete. Primeval means--"

"I know what it means, Winston," he snapped, then immediately made a wry face. "Sorry, buddy," he sighed, running a hand through his wind-tossed hair.

Unoffended, the black man levelled a steady gaze at him. "What's eating you?" he asked seriously. "You've been edgy all day."

The psychologist drew in a deep breath of country air and let it out slowly. "I've got a bad feeling about this job," he said finally. "Just can't shake it."

Zeddemore nodded his understanding. "We've all had those feelings at one time or another."

"And we've all been right at one time or another," Peter pointed out grimly. "This feeling is worse than most."

Winston studied him a little longer, then grinned to break the tension. "I know your problem, nature boy. You just got too far from the bright lights of the big city."

Willing to let the other man coax him out of his dark mood, Peter flashed a weak grin, waving an expansive hand at their surroundings. "Yeah, give me the streets of New York any day."

"Just can't take good, clean living, can you?"

Before the psychologist could formulate an appropriate response to that, they were joined by their two colleagues. Ray's brown eyes were wide with excitement. Egon looked somber. Putting the two together, Peter decided this was very bad.

"This is incredible!" Ray enthused. "I can't believe it!"

Peter turned a long-suffering look on the physicist. "Translation, Egon. Just how much trouble are we in?"

"Plenty," was the succinct reply. "Ray and I have determined from some incised writing we found on that coffin--"

"Coffin?" Zeddemore interrupted.

"In a manner of speaking," Spengler qualified. "It was used to bury something, but nothing human."

"Animal, vegetable or mineral?" Peter muttered, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"It was an entity, Peter," Ray spoke up eagerly.

"You don't give ghosts burials, Ray," Venkman frowned.

"This was a very special burial," Egon said soberly. "That coffin was sealed with a spell. The lead itself would never have contained an entity; what kept it inside were the words inscribed on the box. When the earth-moving equipment damaged the coffin, the spell was broken and the entity was released."

"Who in the heck put a spell on a coffin to seal in a ghost?" Winston asked

"That's the really neat part." The occultist's eyes were positively shining with excitement. "Egon and I have determined it was Jedediah Tessing. Isn't that great?"

Peter exchanged a blank look with Zeddemore. "Yeah, Ray, that's great, all right. Isn't that great, Winston?"

"I think you're going to have to elaborate, Ray," Egon said pointedly, nodding at the blank expressions of their colleagues.

"Huh? Oh, sure," Ray agreed, although he looked surprised that Peter and Winston didn't recognize the name. "Jedediah Tessing was said to be a great warlock. He lived in the late 1700's and traveled all over the east coast, even up into Canada. He was a writer, a poet and a healer. He wrote the definitive anthology on--" Seeing the mild impatience on Venkman's face, he quickly got to the point. "Anyhow, it seems like he was a sort of Ghostbuster, too."

Peter's impatience blossomed into open skepticism. "Wait a minute. You're telling me some eighteenth century warlock/poet caught a ghost and sealed him in that thing--" he pointed at the box--"with a spell?"

"Precisely," Spengler affirmed crisply. "Ray is certain from the writing that it was Tessing. And the spell worked for two hundred years until the coffin was disturbed."

Zeddemore looked around uneasily at the heavy equipment scattered about like discarded toys tossed around by some giant child. "Just what was it that escaped?"

Egon's long face was grim. "At least a class six. And it is very, very angry." He turned his head, his blue eyes sweeping the destruction. "It was a miracle no one was killed here yesterday."

Peter sighed audibly and turned away, slipping his hands into his pockets. "A pissed-off class six," he grumbled, lightly kicking one of Ecto's tires. "A pissed-off class six that drives bulldozers." He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to find a concerned Ray Stantz by his side.

"Are you okay, Peter?"

Behind Stantz, Venkman could see Egon watching him, his eyes asking the same question. Shaking off his gloomy mood with an effort, the psychologist shrugged. "Sure, Ray." Then he grinned. "I'm just thinking about that nasty class six and all the fun we're going to have catching him."

A wide grin split the younger man's face. "Yeah, won't it be great?"

Over the auburn-haired man's shoulder, Peter traded a resigned look with Spengler. "Yep. It doesn't get much better than this."

***

Peter scanned the crowd of on-lookers that had gathered on the other side of the police line and scowled as he shrugged into his proton pack. "I hope those state boys can keep a lid on all these civilians. I sure don't want any kids wandering around in the woods while we're trying to trap that whatever-it-is."

Egon donned his own proton pack and turned to the psychologist. "You've already had a word with the sergeant in charge," he reminded Peter, "and he assured you his men can contain the situation. You've also made an announcement to the crowd and asked for cooperation. You've taken all possible precautions. That's all we can ever do when we go on a bust." The physicist paused and took a long look at the tight features of his friend. "What is it that's really bothering you, Peter?" he asked quietly. "You've been..."

"Edgy? Tense? Uptight?" Peter interrupted, a little irritably.

The blond man nodded. "All of the above," he replied, unruffled by the psychologist's challenging tone. "Is something wrong?"

Venkman's green eyes slid away from Egon's face, rested on the dark forest they were about to enter, then returned to lock with Spengler's. "I don't like this place," he said flatly.

Egon nodded agreement. "I don't like it much, either." He paused, then prodded gently, "Are you sure that's all it is?"

The psychologist smiled faintly, reminding himself that he ought to know by now he couldn't keep anything from Egon. There were times when he was upset or worried that he could bluff Ray, but Egon wasn't so easily distracted. Spengler never backed off, no matter how hard Peter tried to push him away; he became the classic 'immovable object', placing himself firmly in the psychologist's line of fire and refusing to budge until Peter decided to unload whatever was on his mind. Sometimes that annoyed Peter but most of the time he was simply very grateful to have a friend who cared that much and knew him so well.

"I've got a bad feeling about this place," he admitted finally, repeating what he had told Winston earlier. "Nothing specific; just a real general, real bad feeling. I hate it when that happens." Venkman sighed heavily, shifting the proton pack on his back. "I tell you, Spengs, if we could just pack up and leave this gig..."

"But we can't," the physicist reminded him.

"No, we can't." Peter watched their other two colleagues suiting up on the other side of Ecto, then turned serious green eyes on the blond man. "So everybody be extra-special careful on this one, okay?"

Egon nodded solemnly. "We're going to have to split up to cover all the ground we need to, but we'll work in pairs and keep in contact via radio." He clapped the psychologist on the shoulder adding casually, "Why don't you come with me?"

Venkman shot a half grin at him. "Trying to keep an eye on me, Egon?"

The blond man looked at him over the glasses that had slid down to the end of his nose. There was dry amusement in his tone but nothing except unfeigned sincerity in his blue gaze. "Someone has to."

How Egon managed to walk through that thick woods of tangled underbrush and fallen tree limbs with his eyes glued to the PKE meter in his hand and not fall on his face was a mystery to Peter. He was having enough trouble himself and his eyes were everywhere--on the ground, ahead of them, around them, above them, even behind them. Venkman didn't know when or how that class six was going to manifest and he was determined the damn thing wasn't going to sneak up on them.

The psychologist let his eyes rest on his friend's back for a moment and sighed to himself. He would have felt a lot better if they could have all stayed together, but that wasn't feasible with all the territory they had to cover. At least he knew he could trust Winston to keep a watchful eye on Ray. Their youngest team member tended to look at each bust as a grand new adventure, and in his excitement he often overlooked his own safety. Ray was positively bubbling with enthusiasm over catching a ghost once trapped by that Jedediah Whoever, and Peter had a feeling the occultist's mind wasn't as focused as it should be on this job. Winston would look out for him, though. Peter trusted Zeddemore's battle instincts in the same way he trusted Egon's scientific genius and Ray's intuitive leaps of logic. They had all saved the team at one time or another. As for himself...he went on every bust with two rules in mind: don't let the gooper get away, and protect your team mates at all costs.

He glanced overhead to try to catch a glimpse of the sun through the leaves. He was no boy scout, but he at least knew how to keep track of their direction by the position of the sun, an important factor to make sure they were sticking to the route Winston had laid out. If one of the teams ran into trouble, Venkman wanted to make sure they each knew where the other was.

The sun was a lot lower in the sky than he liked. They had been out here since mid-morning and had nothing to show for it except some new blisters and, for himself, a growing feeling of uneasiness. There was something about this place... something he couldn't quite put his finger on... Suddenly he stopped, a prickling on the back of his neck making him freeze in his tracks.

Egon snapped around. "Peter? What is it?"

Venkman let his eyes travel over their surroundings, his grip tightening on his thrower. "I don't know. It felt like...someone--or something--was watching us."

The blond man looked around as well, then consulted his PKE meter. "Highly unlikely."

"I know it's highly unlikely, Egon," Peter retorted, a little testily. "I just said it felt like it." He gave his head a shake. "Come on, let's keep moving. Anything on that meter yet?"

Spengler shook his head as he started moving again, his long legs carrying him unerringly over and around obstacles he didn't see. "Residual readings for the most part. It's been through here, but--" Egon straightened suddenly, his entire body stiffening. "Peter, it's--"

The physicist never had the chance to finish. A blast of hot, foul air swept past them, nearly making Peter gag at the smell. Before he could catch his breath it was back again, faster this time, so strong it nearly knocked them off their feet with its ferocity. This time Peter saw it coming. It was dark and grotesque with eyes like glowing coals, a mouth displaying long yellow teeth, and deadly claws at the ends of its misshapen hands. He could feel the rage of the thing--a wrath that must have continued to grow and swell during its two centuries of captivity until it finally exploded with the creature's long-awaited release.

Venkman brought up his thrower immediately and even then was almost too slow. A stream of protons shot out of his rifle, deflecting the creature only seconds before it would have gouged him with those claws. A second stream joined his as Egon brought his thrower to bear, his long face set in grim determination. But even two throwers were barely enough to keep it at bay. The creature writhed and screamed as it fought its ion prison, and as its fury grew so did the stench that surrounded them. It burned their eyes and nostrils, and Peter gagged as he inadvertently inhaled a lungful of the rancid air. He could hear Egon coughing, too, as the foul odor engulfed them like a suffocating blanket.

"Peter! Increase your power! We can't--" Spengler broke off, choking. Eyes streaming, Peter fumbled with the switches on his rifle to comply with the physicist's instructions. "Peter! Look out!"

His vision blurred by watering eyes but alerted by Spengler's cry Venkman quickly threw himself to one side, rolling as he hit the ground, but he was too late and Egon's one thrower insufficient to stop the enraged entity. Instinctively, Peter threw his left arm up to protect his head and gasped in surprise and pain as claws tore furrows in his arm.

"Peter!" Proton fire crackled over his head and Venkman blinked his eyes open to see Egon standing over him in a protective stance, braced for the next attack. "Are you all right?" Spengler demanded, not daring to spare him even a glance as he scanned the area for the vanished entity.

Gritting his teeth against the searing pain in his arm, Venkman tightened the grip on his rifle and struggled to his feet. There were four distinct tears in his sleeve right above his wrist, each no more than an inch long. The wounds burned like fire, but they were bleeding sluggishly and wouldn't slow him down. He had a chilling moment of reflection as he realized the damned thing had been going for his eyes. "I'll live," he said, his voice grim. "Which is more than I can say for that gooper when I get my hands on it." The gagging stench had dissipated and he found himself gulping in deeper breaths of air to relieve his oxygen-starved lungs. "Where is it?" he panted, looking wildly around. "Where'd it get to, Egon? Is it running away?" he asked hopefully.

Spengler's face was tight as he played the PKE meter around. "It didn't feel like something that would run away." Eyes still on the PKE readings, he raised an arm and pointed. "It's gone off that way..." Breaking off, he looked up in alarm. "Ray and Winston--?"

"No," Peter interrupted hastily. "They're north. That thing's heading west." He snatched the radio from his belt. "Come on, let's get moving. You take the readings and I'll call the guys and tell them what's going on."

The physicist took a step, then hesitated, his eyes going to the shredded sleeve of Peter's jumpsuit and the slowly spreading patch of red there. "Are you sure you're--"

"Yes--GO!"

Although the blue eyes never lost their concern, Spengler gave a brief nod, then took off at a run, Peter on his heels. With Egon leading the way, the two crashed through the darkening forest as Peter alternately shouted instructions into the radio and cursed the underbrush that slowed his progress. With his longer strides Egon was making far better headway.

"The readings are getting stronger," Spengler called over his shoulder. "It's definitely a class six, Peter--a very strong class six."

"A very pissed-off class six," Venkman muttered as he nearly stumbled. "And it has teeth and claws and bad breath..." They were running up a steep incline, ducking tree limbs and hopping over exposed roots, and only the need to keep breathing kept Peter from enumerating the rest of the entity's nasty qualities.

The forest was thick here and the fading sunlight barely penetrated the dense leaves. Up ahead, Egon was becoming a barely discernible shadow as he plowed ahead.

"Damn it, Egon, slow down!" Sometimes Egon got so caught up in scientific fascination that it was as hard to keep a lid on him as it was Ray.

"It's close, Peter! The readings are almost off the scale!" Spengler disappeared over the top of the ridge.

That was the instant Peter felt the entity. It rushed past him in a blast of hot, suffocating air, going straight for Egon.

"EGON!" he screamed. "It's coming your way! Look out!" He scrambled for the top of the ridge, his eyes watering again from the fetid stench. With his thrower in his right hand and his radio in his left, he yelled for Ray and Winston. Jamming the communicator back onto his belt, he powered up his thrower and crashed through the thick underbrush. "Egon, get out of there!"

"Peter! Peter, it's--" Spengler's shout abruptly turned into a scream of surprise and terror.

"Egon!" Venkman suppressed an insane impulse to blast a path through the trees and growth as he raced to the top of the rise. "Hang on, Egon, I'm coming!" There was no answering shout from his friend and Peter wiped impatiently at his streaming eyes as he topped the ridge. "Egon! Egon, where--"

"Peter!" It was a gasp, and it came from somewhere below his feet, bringing Venkman to an abrupt halt.

Peter stopped just in time. He looked down and saw he was standing on the bare edge of a precipice, a sheer drop that ended in a rushing river some fifty feet below. About six feet below the edge, hanging on for his life, was Egon.

The first sight of that vertical drop sent a message from Peter's brain straight to his stomach, but he swallowed his nausea and dropped flat to the ground, his thrower falling unheeded by his side. "Hang on, Egon! I'll get you!" Stretched out on his stomach, he pushed himself dangerously out over the sharp, crumbling edge, straining to reach his friend's hand. The keen rocks bit deep into his arm as he dug his toes in and stretched out as far as he could reach. "Give me your hand!" He shifted slightly and the movement sent small stones flying over the edge like missiles.

Egon averted his face as the stones pelted him, and Peter could see the physicist's long fingers slide as his grip slipped.

"Damn it, Egon, grab my hand!" Peter shouted desperately.

Spengler made an effort to move his hand, only to lose more ground. "Can't," he panted.

"Don't you tell me you can't," Venkman ground out fiercely. "You grab my hand and you grab it now, or I'm gonna come down there after you!"

In the growing dimness, Peter could see the physicist's eyes, huge blue pools set in a face bleached white with fear and strain. The veins in Spengler's neck bulged with the effort as he laboriously inched one hand closer to Peter's.

"That's it, that's it, buddy," Venkman whispered. "Come on, come on, just a little more..." It took an eternity for the physicist to move the fingers of one hand close enough for Peter to make a reckless lunge. It paid off. He almost sobbed with relief as he felt Egon's damp, slender fingers in his. But it was a precarious hold, he barely had his friend's fingertips in his grasp. It was enough to buy them seconds, but it wasn't enough to keep Egon from plunging to his death. He eased out farther over the ridge, feeling the edge begin to crumble.

"Peter, don't! You can't hold me!"

"The hell I can't," he snapped, seeking for an anchor where there was none. Peter could feel Egon's fingers slipping in his and he struggled to regain his grasp. He couldn't. His friend's other hand was slowly losing its grip in the crumbling rock face and he knew if Egon lost that, his own tenuous hold could never support the physicist's weight. Egon knew it, too. They were close enough for Peter to look directly into Egon's eyes and see the terrible knowledge there. "Don't you dare let go!" Peter shouted, furious and scared all at once. "You hear me! I'm not going to let go and you better not either if you know what's good for you!" He felt himself slide closer to the edge as Spengler's weight, increased by that of the proton pack, pulled at him.

"Peter, no! I'll pull you over, too--"

"Shut up!" Venkman demanded hotly. "Just save your breath! I'm not gonna let go and you're not gonna let go! You got that? We can both hold on until Ray and Winston--" He choked suddenly as from out of nowhere that foul, suffocating blast swept down on him. "Oh, god..." This time he and Egon were both sitting ducks. Spengler was helpless and he was as good as helpless. He couldn't let go of Egon to fight off the class six, but if that thing attacked either one of them, Egon would certainly plunge to his death.

"Peter." The physicist's voice was hoarse from the strain of holding on and the burning air that was suffocating them both. "It's back. You've got to--" Egon's fingers slipped a fraction as he coughed. "It'll kill you. The thrower--"

"Save your breath for holding on," Venkman ground out, and flicked his eyes to the thrower laying by his side, an arm's length away, then overhead to see the entity turning to make a dive at him. If he could just squeeze one shot off to hold that thing away and buy some time to haul Egon up... In an act born of sheer desperation, he made a grab for his thrower. He never made it. This time he tasted death. Hot, putrid air, heavy with the stench of decay, enveloped him, paralyzed him, smothered him, distracted him for one precious fraction of a second...and in that one fraction of a second, Egon's fingers slipped from his grasp. He heard his friend's startled cry and his own scream of denial, and groped blindly and frantically at the suddenly empty air. When his vision finally cleared, Egon was gone. Somewhere in the distance Peter heard what sounded like maniacal laughter.

"NOOO!" His scream echoed through the forest. "EGON!" Desperately he searched the distant rushing waters down below, but there was no blond, bobbing head to be seen. Only water and rocks. He didn't even stop to think. Pushing himself up, he began to strip off his proton pack. Egon was down there, stunned or unconscious, fighting for his life. If he jumped, too, he might hit the same spot, and if he could get to him in time... His radio crackled to life.

"Pete! Egon! Mayday! Mayday!" It was Winston, sounding as harsh and grim as Peter had ever heard him. "We need back up! Ray's down. He's hurt bad. That thing's got us cornered and I can't hold it. We need--"

The radio went abruptly dead and Peter's mind went into a kind of numb, paralyzed shock. Ray and Winston needed help...but he couldn't leave Egon. Egon needed him. Egon. Egon... Egon is dead. He stared down at the water below, remembering the last glimpse he had of his friend, remembering the feel of Egon's slender fingers slipping slowly from his grasp, remembering with unforgiving clarity the very instant they had lost contact. His body began to shake, huge, wracking shudders that were almost convulsions. I couldn't hold on. God forgive me, Egon, I couldn't hold on.

Ray's down. He's hurt bad. Somehow Venkman managed to shake off the traumatizing shock and struggle to his feet, forcing strength into legs that felt like wet strands of spaghetti. If he allowed himself to think about Egon, if he let himself think about the friend he had just lost... Peter squeezed his eyes shut, trying at the same time to squeeze out the memory of the sound of Egon's cry as he plummeted off that cliff. Ray. Egon was gone. But Ray was alive and Ray and Winston needed help. Protect your team mates at all costs. Running a dirty, torn sleeve across his stinging eyes, Peter compelled himself to turn away from the precipice and stumble toward Winston and Ray's last location.

***

Kneeling beside Ray, Winston pressed his hand against the side of the unconscious man's neck and frowned at the thready pulse beating under his fingers. "Come on, kid," he muttered, "stay with me. Help's on the way." Looking around in the growing darkness, he added under his breath, "At least, I hope so. Come on, guys. We've got big trouble here."

A sudden rush of hot, foul-smelling air announced the return of the entity that had attacked them, and Zeddemore jumped to his feet, assuming a protective stance over the downed man. He had already used up half his charge trying to fight off whatever that thing was, and he knew he wouldn't be able to keep it off Ray much longer with one thrower alone.

Positioning himself between Stantz and the dark, threatening mass churning around out there, Winston risked a look at the sprawled man. That class six had come out of nowhere, swooping down on them with a ferocity that had nearly taken them both out. But it was Ray, who had been standing at the edge of a ravine, who had received the brunt of it. He had taken a header into this rocky gorge, ending up crumpled and unconscious at the bottom. From a cursory examination, Winston guessed a concussion and possible internal injuries and was certain of broken ribs, the serious head laceration and the onset of shock. They had to get this boy some medical help fast.

The sound of an eerie non-human moan snapped his attention back to the threat at hand. Firming his stance over Ray, Winston gritted his teeth and let out a blast of protons as the dark, swirling thing hurled itself at them. The stench took his breath away, but Zeddemore dug in his heels, firing a full stream straight into the center of it. Yellow teeth gleamed and red eyes glinted with evil intent as the entity dove at him. Just when he thought it was going to engulf them both, another proton stream hit it dead center.

"Try one more, you son-of-a-bitch!"

Zeddemore looked up to find Peter Venkman standing above him like some wrathful avenging angel, his handsome features twisted in fury as he poured a full stream out of his thrower.

"How's Ray doing?" Venkman shouted down, not taking his eyes off the struggling entity.

"He's hanging in there," Winston yelled back. "But it's bad. We've gotta get this gooper on ice and get him some help." He glanced up again. "Where's Egon?"

Venkman's voice was as hard as granite. "Get the trap ready," he ordered brusquely.

The black man felt a tingling chill travel up his spine at the tone of the psychologist's voice but he forcibly pushed it aside, concentrating grimly on the job at hand. Snatching the trap secured on his pack, he tossed it under the wildly resisting ghost. "Trap out!"

"Bring him in," Venkman ordered curtly, and began lowering his stream toward the trap.

Winston followed suit, realizing it was taking them both every bit of experience they had garnered over the years to put this one down with only two throwers. Only two throwers. Zeddemore's jaw clenched as they eased the struggling class six into the waiting trap. Where was Egon?

Then, suddenly, it was over. The lid snapped shut on the trap and the entity was contained. Peter didn't wait for the flashing light that told him the unit was sealed. He came sliding and skidding down the side of the ravine, his eyes on the crumpled form of Ray Stantz. He stumbled over to the occultist's body and dropped down beside him, his hand shaking badly as he touched the younger man's neck, seeking a pulse.

Winston unfastened his proton pack. "It's bad, Pete," he said quietly. "I think he's going into shock. We've got to keep him warm." Joining Venkman, he quickly stripped out of his uniform to his tee shirt and jeans. "I'll go for help. I just hope those cops are still standing by."

Without a word, Venkman quickly shrugged out of his own uniform, stripping down to his sweatsuit underneath, and draped it carefully over Stantz' chest while Winston blanketed the occultist's legs. With the two jumpsuits they managed to cover the unconscious man, although Winston knew it wouldn't be enough. Venkman hadn't said a word since the class six was trapped. He had added his own handkerchief to Winston's hasty bandage to try to stem the flow of blood from the

laceration on Ray's forehead and his eyes were dull with shock and his face as white as Winston had ever seen it.

Zeddemore knew the need for haste, but before he stood he paused long enough to lay a tentative hand on the psychologist's shoulder.

"Egon?" he hazarded.

The shoulder under his hand trembled suddenly. "I couldn't hold on, Winston," Peter whispered brokenly. "I couldn't hold on."

Zeddemore froze. "Couldn't hold on," he repeated carefully. "Pete, what--"

"He fell," was the pain-filled answer. "Into the water. I couldn't hold on. He's gone, Winston. Egon's gone."

The black man's breath caught in a painful stab in the center of his chest. Egon...gone? His hand tightened convulsively. "Pete, my god--"

"We need help for Ray," Venkman interrupted, squeezing his eyes shut. "We need help for Ray," he repeated, his voice on the verge of breaking completely.

Winston swallowed hard, fighting an overwhelming wave of anger, grief and despair. Egon was gone. He wanted to take Peter by the shoulders and shake answers out of him, but he had already seen the answer to every question he could ask in the psychologist's pain-flooded eyes. Without a word, he eased his arm around Peter's shoulders and pulled him into a quick, hard hug. They didn't even have time to mourn. "I'll bring help," he managed, "and searchers."

Peter nodded once, his voice cracking, "Hurry."

Winston gave him one last squeeze, then jumped to his feet and ran like hell.

Peter barely heard him leave. He was numb. The numbness started in the center of his chest and spread out until his whole body felt anesthetized. He had pushed his emotions deep inside himself, sealing them off, pretending they didn't exist. If he allowed himself to feel even the most minuscule sensation of grief, he knew the pain would inundate him. So all he allowed himself to feel was the solid warmth of the body in his arms. The only sound he permitted himself to hear was the raspy, uneven breathing of the man who was fighting for his life. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed.

"I can't lose you, too, Ray," he whispered, tears sliding unnoticed down his face. "Don't let go. Please don't let go."

***

Winston stood on the bank of the dark, rushing river and stared at what was probably the grave of Egon Spengler.

In the distance he could hear the voices of the searchers who had gone up and down both sides of the water searching for any sign of the missing physicist. The officer in charge had not been optimistic...and after seeing the river, and where Egon had fallen, Winston could understand why. The waters of the river were angry and swollen from recent rains and even in the darkness he could see rocks protruding everywhere. Even if Egon had survived the initial fall, the rushing waters could have slammed him against any one of those rocks, rendering him unconscious or killing him outright.

"We usually lose one or two people in this river every spring."

Zeddemore jumped at the sound of the unexpected voice, then scowled at the uniformed officer, resenting the intrusion.

"Sorry, Mr. Zeddemore," the trooper apologized, "but I thought you should know--I'm calling in my men. It's too dark for us to search any more tonight. We'll start again at first light."

Winston looked abruptly away, his eyes stinging. "I know your men have been out here a long time," he said hoarsely, "but can't you--"

"Mr. Zeddemore." A light touch on the Ghostbuster's arm brought Winston around to stare into a pair of dark, compassionate eyes. "That's not the problem. My men would stay out here all night if they had to. The problem is, there are a hundred different places along the river banks where a body could get caught--" Zeddemore flinched, but the trooper continued steadily--"and there's no way we can search effectively until morning." He pulled something out of his pocket and held it out hesitantly. "We found these... Did they belong to Doctor Spengler?"

Winston watched his hand reach out and accept the broken red-rimmed glasses as if the appendage belonged to someone else. His fingers curled around the damaged frames. "Yeah," he said hollowly. "They're Egon's."

The officer tightened his hand briefly on Winston's arm. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and turned away. Winston heard him shouting orders to his men, but he barely registered it. Instead, he carefully tucked the glasses into his pocket, zipped it up, then turned around until he was staring up at the precipice from which Egon had fallen.

He had gotten the story from Peter in broken bits and pieces as the paramedics worked to stabilize Ray for transportation to the hospital. His hands curled into tight fists as he thought about the desperate life and death struggle that had taken place up there. I couldn't hold on, Winston. I couldn't hold on. He could still hear the raw despair in Peter's voice as the psychologist repeated that over and over again like some kind of litany. Zeddemore's eyes slid shut. When he had first taken the job at Ghostbusters, he had wondered at his own sanity. Trusting his life on a field of battle to three college professors? What could those college boys possibly know about covering their team mates' backs? But they knew. He discovered that on the first job he went on. Oh, he had taught them some practical moves and beefed up the security aspect, but the instincts had already been there and that was one thing that couldn't be taught. He may have feared for his life a few times on their jobs, but he never had to fear his back went unprotected.

Forcing his eyes open, he stared at the top of that ridge where tragedy had taken place. Peter Venkman would have hurled himself off that cliff without a second thought to save Egon's life; Winston didn't doubt that for a minute. If Egon fell to his death, then there was simply no humanly possible way Peter could have saved him. He knew that as truth just as surely as he knew Peter would never accept it as such.

With a moan that erupted into a sob, he turned away and began to stumble back to Ecto. Egon was dead. The realization lanced through him and he gritted his teeth, fighting the pain that threatened to tear him apart. He had to hold it together, he told himself sternly. He had to. There was still Ray to worry about and pray for. He still didn't know if the occultist was dead or alive. Oh, god...for all he knew he may have lost two friends tonight.

That thought sent an electric shock through his body and he broke into an uneven run. He had to get to the hospital. Peter had torn himself apart between desperately wanting to stay here to look for Egon and needing to be with Ray. Winston had finally packed him off in the ambulance with Ray, promising to do all he could here and reminding the psychologist that he would be the one Ray would be looking for when he came to. If he came to. Pushing that thought away with an effort, Winston jumped into Ecto and brought the engine roaring to life.

***

Idaville Community Hospital was the smallest hospital Peter Venkman had ever been in. The fact that the staff had been nothing but professional, efficient and kind had done nothing to ease his worry they didn't have the equipment or personnel to properly care for Ray. When he had raised that concern--rather loudly and forcefully--the ER doctor, a man a few years older than Peter with sandy hair pulled back neatly into a pony tail at his neck, had told Venkman in no uncertain terms to sit down and let him do his job. Then he glanced at Venkman's torn and bloody sleeve and shot a look at one of the nurses.

The nurse, a handsome woman with steely grey eyes and a no-nonsense attitude, had immediately taken Peter's arm as Ray had been quickly whisked away on a gurney. "Come along, Doctor Venkman, and I'll clean up that arm for you."

Peter had tried to pull out of her grip, a harder job than he had imagined. "It's nothing," he protested. He had all but forgotten about the gashes in his arm from the entity's attack. The initial sharp pain had long ago settled into a dull, aching throb. "What about Ray?" he demanded.

"There's nothing you can do right now except wait while the doctor examines your friend and runs tests," she pointed out, smoothly guiding him to a small examining room. "So why don't you do something useful while you're waiting and protect yourself against an infection?"

Venkman gave her his fiercest scowl as she firmly guided him toward the examining table, but she seemed impervious to it.

"I've dealt with harder cases than you," she said calmly, cutting his sleeve with a scissors. "So why don't you just relax and let me get this over with so you can get back to your worrying and I can get back to the patients in this hospital who want my help?"

Feeling like he had been put in his place by a couple of experts, first that long-haired doctor and now this Florence Nightingale, Peter endured her ministrations as ungraciously as possible. "Tough town," he observed sourly.

The nurse glanced up from cleaning the dried blood from his arm. "Yes, it is. This is a farming community, and a small one. We get some bad farm accidents in here and we know most of the people brought in. It's not always easy."

Peter felt his face burn with unaccustomed chagrin. "Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean--"

"I know." The nurse was silent as she applied antiseptic and then wrapped his wrist with gauze. "I understand, Doctor Venkman," she said gently. "I know you lost a friend tonight."

Venkman didn't dare look up. If he looked into her eyes and saw compassion there he would shatter. As it was, it was taking every bit of dogged determination he possessed to hold on to the shreds of his composure.

She seemed to understand. Finished taping his arm, the nurse gave it a little pat. "Doctor MacBride is an excellent physician," she told him. "He's the best this hospital has. And he's the finest surgeon I've ever worked with." Nodding his understanding but still avoiding her gaze, Peter climbed slowly to his feet. "Try not to worry about your friend. Doctor MacBride will do everything he can for him." When he still didn't answer, she lightly took his arm and led him to the door. "But it's going to be a while before we know anything," she said practically, "so why don't I introduce you to the coffee machine."

***

Peter was on his fourth--or possibly fifth--cup of coffee when he sensed movement in the doorway of the waiting room. He jumped up, nearly sloshing coffee onto the floor in the process. Winston was standing in the doorway of the waiting room. Venkman tilted his head, straining to see if he was alone, then abruptly slumped as reality crashed in on him. What had he been expecting? To see Egon standing there, alive and unscathed, blond hair immaculately styled in that unique coiffure of his, red-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of his nose?

"Egon?" It wasn't even a question, not really. He already knew the answer.

Zeddemore walked into the small room and stopped in front of him, his dark eyes dismal and edged with red. As if needing the physical contact, he laid a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed. "Nothing," he said quietly. "They called off the search until morning."

"Called off the search? Called off the search!" Anger gave him something to focus on besides his own grief and fear, and Peter focused on it with a vengeance. Knocking Zeddemore's hand away, he squared off against the bigger man, green eyes flashing dangerously. "You let them call off the search?" he shouted. "What the hell were you thinking? Damn it, Winston, that's Egon out there!"

Only the slight tightening of Winston's jaw muscles gave any indication Venkman's explosion affected him at all. "I know," he said quietly and deliberately reached out to again grip the younger man's arm. "How's Ray?"

At the mention of Stantz' name, the useless anger abruptly drained from the psychologist and he sank back down into his chair as if he no longer had the strength to stand. His hand still grasping Peter's arm, Winston went down, too, in the chair beside him. "They're still examining him and running tests," Peter replied, mechanically setting the cup of coffee on the small stand beside him. Then he dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his stinging eyes with the heels of his palms. "God, what's taking them so long?"

"These things take time, m'man," Zeddemore said gently and slid his arm around the younger man's shoulders.

Venkman nodded wearily and dropped his hands. "Yeah, I know, but that doesn't make the waiting any easier."

"No, it sure doesn't," Winston agreed.

After a moment, Peter lifted his head and turned to the other man. "I'm sorry, Winston," he whispered. "About what I said--"

The black man waved that aside. "Forget it, man," he said immediately. His dark eyes were filled with understanding as he studied Peter's face. "If it helps to yell..."

Venkman shook his head. "Doesn't help. Nothing helps." He dropped his eyes again, staring at the clenched fists in his lap. "Winston," he said carefully, keeping his voice steady with a massive effort, "there's still a chance, isn't there? I mean, you were out there. Egon could have gotten out of the water, right? He might just be hurt or unconscious, or..." He flicked his eyes up and pinned Winston with a stark gaze, silently pleading for reassurance.

Zeddemore met the gaze squarely. "They don't have much hope," he said quietly. "That river was full of rocks and..." He didn't finish the thought. He didn't have to.

Suddenly Peter slammed his fists onto the chair arms and jumped to his feet, so agitated he began pacing the small room in a jerky, frenzied stride . "I had him! I had his hand! Winston, I had his hand! Why couldn't I hold on!"

Zeddemore was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the psychologist by the shoulder to stop him. "Stop it, Pete," he ordered harshly, pulling Venkman around to face him. "Stop it right now. You barely had a grip on him, that class six attacked--there was nothing you could do."

The psychologist pulled out of Winston's grasp, turning away again and running a shaking hand through his already untidy hair. "I should have done something! If I had gone in after him--"

The black man grabbed his arm, yanking him back around, this time anchoring him with his hands on both shoulders. "If you had gone in after him, you would probably have gotten yourself killed too," Winston said bluntly. "And that gooper would've trashed me and then finished off Ray. Does that sound any better to you?"

The scenario flashed ruthlessly through Peter's mind and he flinched visibly. He couldn't save Egon, but he did save Ray. Or did he? What if he had lost Ray, too? Suddenly Winston's pain-filled face crystallized in front of him and it was brought home to him with some force that he wasn't alone in this, that the loss wasn't just his.

Stepping forward, he hooked an arm around Zeddemore's neck and pulled him into a tight hug. The other man reciprocated immediately and the two stood there in the middle of the waiting room, clinging to one another.

Finally, Peter loosened his grip and stepped back when Winston did the same. "Come on, buddy," he said huskily. "Let's wait this out together."

Nodding gratefully, Winston followed the younger man to the small couch and the two of them sank down. Zeddemore had known, of course, that losing Egon would devastate Peter. He knew how much he was hurting himself, and knew that pain must be magnified ten-fold for this man, whose relationship with Spengler had been cemented years before he knew them. That loss alone would have been crushing, but the risk of losing Ray, too, hung over them; and that meant Peter had been sitting here alone facing the possible loss of his two oldest and closest friends in one fell swoop. No wonder the man looked like he had aged years in the time he had been waiting here. At least Winston had been able to keep himself occupied up to a point in helping to search for Egon. Peter had been alone with nothing to keep him company except the dark, terrifying fear he may have suddenly lost the two closest friends in his life.

Winston turned his head, studying the granite-like profile of the man beside him. Peter was struggling so hard to keep it all together he was practically shaking with the effort. Winston was afraid Peter would shut him out, close himself off, and try to face this all alone. He had seen the psychologist do that before, had seen him put out a neon No Trespassing sign and retreat into himself when he was going through a bad time. But the one person he could never keep out, the one person who always managed to penetrate those walls, was Egon Spengler. Somehow the physicist always managed to get through to Peter, always seemed to be able to get him to talk and persuade him to share the pain he was harboring deep inside himself. Winston took a deep, ragged breath. Who would do that now?

His hand brushed against his pocket and he suddenly remembered Egon's glasses. Wondering if he should just keep them tucked away and not mention them to Peter, he shot a quick, sideways look at the psychologist. Peter, however, had noticed the movement and looked at him expectantly. With a little sigh, Zeddemore slowly unzipped his pocket and removed the frames from his pocket. Venkman stiffened immediately, his entire body going rigid at the sight of those bent, familiar glasses.

"They found these," Winston explained unnecessarily. There really didn't seem to be anything else to say, and he held the frames out.

The brown-haired man stared at them, his face expressionless, only the deep, terrible pain in his eyes giving his face any life at all. Finally, he reached out with an unsteady hand and took the glasses, touching the bent frames gently with one finger as if testing their reality. "Egon." That one word was spoken with such an impossible mixture of love, despair, guilt and anger it made Zeddemore's eyes fly to Peter's face. Venkman looked as if he could fall apart at a wrong word, so Winston kept silent, dropping one warm hand on the younger man's shoulder and gripping it tightly to anchor them both together.

"Gentlemen?"

Both heads shot up at once. There was a doctor standing in the doorway. Winston was surprised at the length of his hair, but the man had an air of quiet competence about him as he regarded the two Ghostbusters.

"Ray?" Peter was on his feet in an instant, Winston right beside him. "How is he?"

"He's stabilized," the physician answered carefully. Turning briefly to Winston, he added, "I'm Doctor MacBride," by way of introduction. Without waiting for an acknowledgement, MacBride waved at the chairs. "Why don't we sit down?"

"How is he?" Peter repeated, more insistently this time.

When it became obvious Venkman wasn't about to make use of a chair, the physician regarded him with serious eyes that were not lacking in compassion. "He was shocky when we got him in here, but we've taken care of that," MacBride explained, "and as I said, he's stabilized. Most of the injuries will heal nicely without complications. His ribs took a beating, two cracked and one broken--he's lucky he didn't puncture a lung. He's got a scalp laceration that thankfully looked worse than it was and a simple fracture of the left humerus," he concluded, pointing to his left arm, halfway between the shoulder and elbow.

Peter nodded impatiently. "Broken arm. You said most of his injuries will heal nicely," he pressed. "What else is wrong with him?"

MacBride levelled a steady look at Peter. "He's badly concussed, Doctor Venkman. He hasn't regained consciousness and that concerns me. His vital signs are pretty good, considering the trauma, but--"

"He's in a coma." Peter's whisper was so faint Winston barely heard it, and his face was strangely blank as if it was all too much for him to assimilate. Perhaps it was. At that moment Peter Venkman looked as lost and scared as Winston had ever seen him. "I can't believe this is happening."

Winston gripped the psychologist's arm and squeezed it gently in a gesture of silent support. Almost immediately he could feel Venkman stiffen in a palpable effort to pull himself together.

"I want to see him." Peter's voice was stronger now and there was a grim set to his jaw that told Winston he had managed to regain control, at least for the moment.

"Absolutely," MacBride said immediately. "I want you to see him."

"Then I can stay with him?" Peter sounded surprised, but his relief was so obvious it made the doctor smile.

"You'll have to sleep in a chair--"

"I'll sleep in the shower if I have to," the brown-haired man interrupted. "I just want to be with him."

MacBride nodded. "We still don't know what coma patients are capable of hearing or sensing, but I'm a firm believer in trying everything. Talk to him, read to him, sing to him, touch him, recite the Pledge of Allegiance if you want to; whatever it takes to let him know you're there."

Venkman nodded his understanding. "He'll know I'm there."

Even under those circumstances, Winston had to smile at the stubborn determination in Peter's tone. Venkman wasn't a person who liked being ignored, and there was no doubt in Zeddemore's mind the psychologist intended to plant himself by Ray's side and not leave until he was acknowledged. He silently cheered his friend on. Hang in there, Pete. If anybody can get through to Ray, it's you.

There was a flash of respect in MacBride's aqua eyes as he studied the psychologist. "Good." Then sympathy touched his expression and he shifted his gaze to include Zeddemore. "I know what happened tonight. I'm sorry about your friend."

Winston could feel Peter tensing by his side, but the younger man said nothing. Zeddemore murmured their thanks, but Venkman was already turning away. "Where's Ray?" he asked abruptly, prepared to start down the nearest hallway himself in search of the occultist.

MacBride exchanged a look with Winston, then silently led the way to Stantz' room.

Peter came to an abrupt halt in the doorway of the hospital room and stared at the slack, bruised face of his friend. Ray had looked bad enough in the growing dusk of the forest; but here, under the austere lighting of the hospital, Peter could see he was as pale as a corpse. Stantz' left arm was protected by a cast and there was a bandage covering the scalp wound that had bled so copiously in the woods. He looked like he was merely sleeping. But this was no innocent sleep; this was a coma...and that knowledge chilled Peter right down to his toes. But Ray was alive, he reminded himself firmly. Ray was alive and they'd get him back. They simply had to.

His eyes never moving from his friend's slack features, Venkman crossed the room and pulled a chair over to the side of the bed. Without a word, he sank down and took possession of the lax hand laying on top of the covers, encasing it in both his.

"Ray." His voice came out a hoarse croak and he gave himself an impatient mental shake. "Ray." This time his voice was firmer, more in control. "Ray, it's Peter. Can you hear me, pal?" He squeezed the limp fingers, trying to force warmth into his friend's cold skin. "I'm here now. And Winston's here." He looked up and Winston moved forward to stand beside him, laying his own hand on Stantz' arm.

"Hey, homeboy," Zeddemore said softly. "We're here for you."

"We got the gooper, Ray." Peter had to struggle to inject the proper amount spirit into his words. "You should have seen that sucker go--kicking and screaming the whole way down. But we got him. Nobody messes with a Ghostbuster and gets away with it." To his dismay, his voice broke on the last word and he had to take a moment to get his act together again before he could continue. "Come on, Tex," he whispered, his voice steadier. "Don't scare Uncle Peter like this. I need you to wake up." He raised questioning eyes to Doctor MacBride and was rewarded with an approving nod.

"That's it. Talk to him, let him know you're here."

The psychologist returned his attention to his unconscious friend, chafing the cold, limp hand with his thumb. "No problem," he said with quiet determination. "I'll make sure he knows I'm here."

"At this point you can do more for him than we can," MacBride conceded. "However..."

When the physician paused, Peter looked up, a frown narrowing his eyes ever-so-slightly. "However what?"

The doctor met his challenging gaze squarely. "However," he stipulated, "do it in shifts. I don't want to see you both in here together." Venkman immediately opened his mouth to protest that two friends working to coax Ray back to consciousness would certainly have more effect than one, but MacBride didn't give him the chance. "Look," he said quietly, "you guys have had a rough night. I know right now you think the best way you can help your friend is for all of you to stick together and not leave his side."

"Damn straight," Peter growled.

MacBride ignored the interruption. "And I know right now this is the last thing you want to hear, but you're going to hear it anyway: get some rest, both of you." As if seeing the stubborn defiance in Peter's eyes, the doctor aimed his next words at him. "I know what you're going through," he said in a softer tone. "Believe me." He nodded toward Ray. "But getting him back is only half the battle. He still has everything you're going through to face himself and he's going to need your support for that. You can't help him if you end up in here yourselves." He turned to leave, but paused in the doorway and looked back. "In shifts," he repeated, his voice serious. "I mean that." Then he left.

Winston watched the doctor leave, then turned his attention back to the other two men in the room. MacBride had made good sense, but he doubted Venkman had listened to a word he said. Peter had already dismissed the physician and was bent over Stantz, clasping the occultist's hand in his, speaking to him in a low, insistent murmur. Zeddemore took a breath, then laid a hand on Venkman's shoulder. "The doc's right, Pete. We should spell each other--"

The brown-haired man nodded impatiently. "You go ahead. I'll stay with Ray."

Zeddemore hesitated, noting the dark shadows in Venkman's eyes and the wiry tautness of his muscles that only hinted at the strain he was under. "Why don't I take the first shift," he suggested gently, "and you can--"

"I said I'm staying," Venkman interrupted sharply.

Instead of snapping back, Winston only tightened his hand on the taut shoulder under his hand. "This is me, Pete," he said softly. "Remember? We're in this together."

The shoulder under Zeddemore's hand quivered, then abruptly sagged. Reaching up, Venkman covered Winston's hand with one of his own. "I'm sorry, buddy," he whispered, his voice rough with fatigue and fear. "But I can't leave him. I just can't."

Winston could almost hear the unspoken words: This time I won't leave. This time I won't let go.

Suddenly Venkman's face scrunched up in pain. "Oh, no," he murmured, dropping his head. "Janine."

That one name drove all the other thoughts out of Winston's head. "Oh, shit," he mumbled. They had both been so caught up in their own emotions and in their fear for Ray they had forgotten their secretary, who had been in love with Egon practically from the first moment she had seen him. The fact that Spengler had not returned her affections as ardently as she wished had done nothing to dampen her passion or daunt her hope for the future. This would tear her apart.

"I have to tell her."

Winston leaned over until he was looking directly into the psychologist's fatigue-lined face. "Maybe we should wait," he suggested, "until..."

Venkman shook his head. "Can't." He drew a deep, shaky breath. "Half the town was out there, Winston," he said in a weary voice. "By now the other half knows what happened. There was already some clown here from the local press--I damn near had to ram his tape recorder down his throat to get him out of here." With his free hand, Peter rubbed at his damp eyes. "I don't want her hearing it on the news or getting a call from some tabloid."

Winston nodded reluctant agreement, then brought his dark eyes up to meet the psychologist's. "You want me to call her?" he offered. Janine was going to be devastated no matter who broke the news to her, but he wasn't quite sure Peter was up to it.

Sincere gratitude warmed the dulled green eyes, then shifted almost immediately into something Winston couldn't quite identify. "Thanks. But that's my responsibility." Pushing himself to his feet with all the agility of an arthritic old man, Peter carefully transferred Ray's hand to Winston's grip. "Don't let go of him," he ordered, his gaze locking with Zeddemore's. "He has to know one of us is here all the time."

The black man encased Ray's hand in both his as Peter had done earlier. "I know," he said solemnly. "I'll stay with him."

Peter nodded once, as if he barely had the strength to make the gesture, then mumbled, "I'll be back in a few minutes," and left the room.

Winston watched him go, then sighed unhappily and lowered himself into the chair Venkman had vacated. He spent a few moments studying the peaceful features of the unconscious man, then squeezed the fingers he held captive. "It's Winston, Ray," he said softly. "We need you back here, homeboy. Peter needs you. He's trying to handle all this by himself, trying to blame himself for Egon...wants me to blame him, too. You can be damn sure he's gonna make certain Janine blames him." This time when tears stung his eyes he didn't bother to brush them away. "He's not handling this, Ray. I'm not handling it, either, but it's even worse for Pete. And you know how he is; he won't let anyone help him." He squeezed the younger man's hand again, this time massaging it between his two. "But you could help him, Ray. You could get through to him. You've got to... because I don't think he could take losing you, too."

***

"Hello."

Her voice was raspy with sleep. Peter glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was after midnight. Time seemed to stand still in a hospital; it was a little amazing to find that the world outside kept turning regardless of personal tragedy. "Janine, it's Peter."

"Peter?" She was alert now, probably sitting up and switching on a bedside light. "Are you guys back from Idaville?"

"No, we're still up here."

There was a brief pause. "Peter, are you all right? You sound a little funny. Is something wrong?

He tightened his grip on the pay phone. "Janine," he said carefully, "we ran into some trouble."

"Is everyone all right?" she demanded. "What happened?"

"Ray's been hurt," he answered steadily, and told her about the class six and Ray's injuries.

He heard her gasp over the phone. "Oh, Doctor V, that's terrible! He's in a coma? Do you want me to come--"

"No, no, that's not necessary," he said hastily. "I don't want you driving up here."

When he didn't continue, the first notes of fear crept into her voice. "Peter, where's Egon? I want to talk to him."

Peter dropped his forehead against the pay phone, squeezing his eyes shut. He could almost see the look in her eyes, could imagine her gripping the receiver and holding her breath as she waited for his answer. "Janine..." Despite his best efforts, his voice broke. "Oh, god, Janine, I'm sorry. I couldn't hold on..."

There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone, followed by Janine's fearful, "Peter, what are you talking about?" Her voice was practically vibrating with the effort it took to keep it steady. "What happened?"

Venkman took a deep, ragged breath and swallowed hard. "Egon and I were teamed up," he said, only his iron control keeping his own voice steady. "The class six attacked us, then disappeared. We tracked it. Egon...Egon got too far ahead of me. I couldn't keep up. I heard him scream and..." Despite Peter's best efforts, his voice broke and he bit his lip, hard.

"And what?" Janine sounded nearly hysterical.

"When I found him, he was hanging from a cliff; there was a thirty-foot drop to a river below. I-I tried to pull him up, but..." His hand tightened around the receiver until his fingers ached. He could still feel the strain in his muscles from his desperate attempt to haul Spengler up. "The entity attacked again. I tried to grab the thrower, thinking I could hold it off, but when I did that, I...I lost my grip on Egon. I...let go and he fell. The cops have been searching the river, but they haven't found his--him."

"You lost your--you let him go? You let go of Egon?!" Janine was sobbing openly now, anger and despair making her voice so shrill Peter winced as it blasted through the phone. "How could you? How could you? He trusted you!"

The receiver clattered to the floor as it slipped from his suddenly nerveless hand. It took him several stunned moments before he managed to clumsily retrieve it and press it to his ear. "Janine? Janine, I--" He broke off as the dial tone sounded in his ear. Automatically, he replaced the receiver on the hook, then continued to sit there, staring at the pay phone. He trusted you! "I know," he whispered. "I know, I know, I know..." The sobs came from deep within him. Dropping his forehead against the pay phone, he squeezed his eyes shut and cried.

***

Winston looked up when Peter came back into the room, and what he saw on the psychologist's face brought him abruptly to his feet. A glance was all it took to see Venkman had been crying, although he had probably tried to wipe away all traces of his breakdown. But his face was so white the redness of his eyes stood out like a beacon to his grief. Without a word, the psychologist sank down into the bedside chair and reclaimed Ray's hand, his own shaking badly.

Zeddemore gripped the younger man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, man," he said softly. "That must've been rough."

The brown head nodded jerkily. "About what you'd expect." Peter raised his free hand suddenly and wiped at his eyes. "I called her parents, too, so they'd know what was going on. She's going to need a helluva lot of support."

"That was a good idea, Pete," he said approvingly. He probably wouldn't have thought of that himself, but of course Peter would. Peter Venkman might present a facade of irreverence to the rest of the world, but Winston didn't know of anyone with more compassion and natural empathy than this man. He just hoped Peter allowed some of that compassion to extend to himself.

"I called Egon's Uncle Cyrus, too." Peter's voice was dull and without inflection, as if he were afraid to allow himself to show any emotion at all. "He has a right to know what's going on." Winston remembered suddenly that Egon's mother had left recently on a tour of Europe. "He doesn't know how to get in touch with Egon's mom. He said when she goes off like that, she can be gone weeks without checking in. I remember once Egon--" Peter's voice cracked then and he squeezed his eyes shut. A few moments later he continued, once again in control. "Once she went on a safari to Africa and was out of touch so long Egon thought she was eaten by lions or something." He was silent for a long moment, then drew in a deep, ragged breath and sat up a little straighter. "Why don't you go get some rest, Winston. I'll be okay here."

The black man knelt beside the chair so he was eye level with Venkman. "I'll go back to the motel room," he said, keeping his voice slow and careful, "and grab a change of clothes and a shaving kit for us both. Then I'll come right back. I'll spend the night in the waiting room. If you need me, I'll be right outside."

Peter nodded. "Okay," he agreed, but his voice sounded lifeless and distant, and Winston wasn't sure Venkman had even heard what he just said. He gently shook the shoulder under his hand and the younger man looked at him blankly, tears shining in his eyes.

"Pete--"

"I can't believe he's gone, Winston. I can't believe he's really gone."

Winston felt his own eyes begin to burn. "I know," he murmured, moving his arm to drape the psychologist's shoulders. "But the cops are going back out first thing tomorrow--"

"Don't bullshit me, Winston." Unlike Peter's earlier outbursts, this one contained no anger, only pain, incredible, soul-deep pain. "You saw that river. And I saw where he fell." He looked down at his hands, his mouth tightening, and Winston knew he must be reliving the moment Egon's hand had slipped from his grasp. Venkman dropped his head suddenly, a shudder running through his body. "He's gone," he whispered. "Just like that, he's gone."

Zeddemore ran his hand back and forth across Peter's back in a helpless gesture of comfort, then pulled him close in a quick, hard hug. "I know how much you loved him, Pete."

Venkman turned his head then and looked at him, his haggard features softening. "You loved him, too." He gave his head an impatient shake. "I'm not being much help, am I? Shit," he muttered, "I'm supposed to be better at this."

"Nobody's good at losing a friend, m'man," Winston said quietly. "And nobody ever gets any better at it."

"Yeah." The psychologist heaved a sigh. "I just never thought it would be Egon who went first. I just never thought..."

An image flashed through Zeddemore's mind, of Egon bent over his workbench in his lab, glasses riding on the tip of his nose, completely engrossed in some experiment Winston could never hope to understand. At first glance Egon Spengler, genius, physicist, scientist, college professor, had seemed the last man Winston would have expected to go charging out to enter into combat with demons, ghosts and goblins. He sighed heavily, "Yeah, me either." Winston squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "I'm going back to the motel now to pick up those things. I'll be back as soon as I can."

"You're going out tomorrow morning, with the cops?"

He nodded. "First light."

Peter's eyes returned to Ray, but not before Winston saw the agonizing conflict in them. "I want to be there, too, to help look...but Ray..."

"This is where you belong, Pete," Winston said immediately. "If anyone can get through to Ray, it's you." That was true. But it was also true Winston didn't want Peter anywhere near that river. If or when they found Egon's body, Winston had a pretty good idea what kind of shape it was going to be in and he wanted to spare Peter that at all costs. He had seen things in Vietnam that had prepared him in a way for what they might find, but he doubted there was anything in Venkman's background that had equipped him to deal with it. Winston knew what memories he still carried from seeing the broken bodies of his buddies on the battlefield, and he didn't want Peter to have to carry that kind of memory with him for the rest of his life.

"I guess you're right," Venkman conceded reluctantly. "I just wish there was something I could do...for Egon."

"You're doing it," Winston insisted softly. "You're taking care of Ray."

Venkman nodded slowly and reached out with his free hand to brush a stray strand of auburn hair back into place. "Yeah," he whispered, "taking care of Ray."

Winston hesitated. "Pete, I should go now..."

"Go ahead. I'll be fine."

That was so patently untrue Winston simply ignored it. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

As he left the room Winston could hear Peter's voice, quietly insistent, "I know you can hear me, Ray Stantz, so you just quit pretending you can't. I'm going to sit right here and I'm not leaving until you tell me to go. You're going to get so sick of hearing my voice..."

***

"...And you remember how Professor Burton always carried his lecture notes around in this little binder, right? So he gets up in front of this huuuge audience of alumni and fellow professors and the Board of Regents and he goes up to the lectern and clears his throat--you remember how he always had to clear his throat before his presentations--and opened up his binder all prepared to give his speech...only it's not his lecture notes. It's a picture of Miss April 1976. And the next page was Miss June and then there was Miss December... You should've been there, Ray. It was the best lecture old man Burton ever gave."

Peter paused to take a sip of Coke to ease his dry throat, then set it aside and rubbed the limp hand in his.

"Come on, pal," he said softly. "I'm running out of stories here. You're going to force me to start reading to you out of those two-month old Time magazines out there in the waiting room."

There was still no response from the unconscious man and Peter closed his eyes, sighing. Aside from the time he had taken to shower and change, he had remained here by Ray's bed, keeping up an almost constant patter of one-sided conversation. Winston had spent the night in the waiting room, coming in every hour or so to check on him, bring him coffee, offer him bathroom breaks and generally keep him from going crazy. Then he had left at dawn to resume the search at the river.

Still clasping Ray's hand, Peter got to his feet and tried to ease the kinks out of a back that was protesting the fact he had spent the night in a chair. Doctor MacBride had not been pleased to find him pulling a sit-in, but aside from a disapproving frown had kept his opinions to himself. His eyes fell on his half-eaten lunch, courtesy of Ms. Kathy Wardenfelt, the nurse who had taken charge of him when they brought Ray in. She really wasn't a bad sort. So far he had discovered she was divorced, a single mom with two kids--one boy, one girl--and had lived in Idaville all her life. When it became obvious he wasn't going to leave his vigil to get himself something to eat, she had brought him breakfast from the cafeteria. Then, later, when she came back to change his bandages, she brought lunch. And she had been in and out regularly to check on Ray--and, he suspected, to keep his spirits up. Their conversations had gone a long way toward keeping him from falling apart completely when Ray continued to ignore his repeated demands to wake up.

"Never known you to be this stubborn, Tex," he murmured. "But you want stubborn, you're gonna get stubborn. You ain't seen nothing yet."

"Well, you've got my vote." Peter's head snapped around as Doctor MacBride entered the room on silent soles, clipboard in his hand. The physician walked over to the other side of the bed and lifted Ray's eyelids as Peter had watched him do a dozen times before. "How're you doing?" he asked, directing the question at Venkman.

"I'm not the patient here."

MacBride glanced up. "Do you mind if I ask anyhow?"

Venkman dropped back into his chair. "I'm fine. How's Ray?"

"Has there been any reaction? Any movement, any sign of restlessness?"

"I think his hand moved once," Peter told him, remembering that brief moment of excitement, "but I couldn't get him to do it again."

"It may have been something, or it may have simply been muscle reflex," MacBride commented, straightening. "Sometimes it's hard to tell." He studied Peter for a moment. "If I ask you again, will you give me a straight answer?"

At first Peter didn't know what he was getting at, then as the message sank in his shoulders gradually lost their defensive hunch. "I'm hanging in there," he said finally. "Although don't ask me how."

The doctor flipped a page in his chart and scribbled something. "I had a long talk with your friend, Winston," he said casually. "He's worried about you." Peter focused his attention on Ray, refusing to comment. When it became obvious Venkman wasn't going to encourage any further conversation, MacBride cleared his throat. "You're a psychologist, Doctor Venkman. You don't need me to tell you the kind of stress you're under or the dangers of trying to deal with that stress yourself-- "

"That's right," Peter said flatly, "I don't."

To give MacBride credit, he wasn't a quitter. Laying the chart aside, he walked around the bed and came to a halt beside Peter, folding his arms over his chest. "You know," he said seriously, "sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger in a situation like this. Winston's going through the same thing you are and you don't want to add to his burden--that's understandable and commendable...but it's not helping you. So if you want to sound off to someone or talk things out or throw a few breakable objects around and just yell and scream a little... I'll be glad to listen."

Peter lowered his eyes. It was a generous offer from a compassionate man. He recognized that and appreciated it while at the same time he had to fight his initial impulse to tell the man to mind his own business. In fact, he very nearly did that. But he didn't. Instead he looked up and met the doctor's steady gaze squarely. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Maybe I'll take you up on that later." MacBride nodded and Peter managed a small, tight smile. "Especially the part about throwing breakable objects."

There was a knowing look in the doctor's eyes. In an apparent non sequitur, he said, "My brother was my best friend. He was two years older than me and I looked up to him my whole life. I was the wild one; he was the sensible one, the logical one, the prudent one." There was a soft smile on his lips when he said that. "And he always knew when I was keeping things inside or going through a bad time. Even long distance. When I was in med school and things would get to the point where I was starting to wonder if I had the stuff to be a doctor--" He shook his head--"I don't know how he did it, but the next thing I knew the phone would ring and it'd be Roger and he'd give me one of his patented pep talks. He was real good at that."

Peter nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said softly, "Egon was like that, too. He always knew. And he must've had as many different pep talks as I had moods."

MacBride grinned. "Yeah, that was Roger. He had quite a repertoire."

It was impossible to miss the way MacBride continued to use the past tense. Peter hesitated, then broached, "'Had'?" although he already knew the answer.

The grin faded from the other man's face. "He was killed last year in a motorcycle accident," he answered quietly. "And I still miss him like hell."

Venkman let out a long breath. "I'm sorry."

"And I'm sorry about Doctor Spengler." MacBride paused, then added, "Winston says you two were real close." Not trusting himself to speak, Peter only nodded. "How long had you known each other?"

Peter knew exactly what MacBride was doing and why he was doing it, and while a part of his brain urged him to resist it, another part realized how badly he needed to talk to someone, how badly he needed to talk about Egon. Gently massaging Ray's hand in a gesture that had become second nature during the long hours, he began, "We met back while we were both attending Columbia. I took one look at him and decided he was the classic egghead; he took one look at me and decided I was something out of Animal House." Peter dropped his head, unconsciously tightening his fingers around Ray's limp hand. "God, I would've been such a mess if it hadn't been for him," he murmured.

"How so?" MacBride pressed gently.

One side of the psychologist's mouth curved upward in a rueful smile. "When I first met Egon, my major was partying; Psych came in a distant second. My grades were okay, but I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do with my life so I was doing as little as possible with it." He shrugged. "Between the fraternity and football and girls and parties...well, that didn't leave a whole lot of time for studying or deciding on a direction for my life." He lapsed into silence then, gazing at Stantz' peaceful face.

"And then Egon came along?" the doctor guessed.

Peter nodded. "It wasn't exactly love at first sight," he said dryly. "We were complete opposites, from our upbringing and our families to our economic background and course of studies. He was a hard scientist; I hated anything that had to do with test tubes. He was completely focused on what he wanted to do and what he wanted to be...and who he was. I had never met a man so totally assured with himself, so completely at peace with who he was." He grinned. "It was a little irritating. I on the other hand didn't have the faintest idea of what I wanted to do or what I wanted to be...and it turns out I had it all wrong about who I really was." Something like wonder entered his tone. "I still don't know how he did it, but he helped me figure all that out." His eyes slid shut and he felt fresh tears gather behind his closed eyelids. "Yes, I do know how he did it, too," he said softly. "He became my friend, and he stayed my friend--and he taught me how to be a friend. Everything I know about being a friend I learned from Egon." Blinking his eyes open, he gazed at Ray for a long moment, then brushed at a stray strand of auburn hair on the unconscious man's forehead. "And from this guy here. I never trusted anyone before I met Ray and Egon. They gave me that...that and so much more." Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks now, but he didn't even notice. Without a word, MacBride offered him a handkerchief and he took it, first mopping his eyes and then blowing his nose. When he thought his voice was functional again, he whispered, "Thank you."

"No problem," MacBride said quietly. "Doctor Spengler sounds like an exceptional man."

Venkman raised his eyes, meeting the doctor's frankly compassionate gaze. Everything he felt about Egon, every bit of love and respect he felt for his friend came to the fore in one simple/complicated statement of fact: "He was my brother."

Comprehension flooded the other man's face and for an instant his eyes sparkled with the hint of dampness. Then he nodded. "I understand." MacBride had taken up a position leaning against the wall while Peter was reminiscing, and pushed away now. "I've got other patients to see, but later, if you want to talk some more, I'll stop back."

Venkman nodded.

The doctor clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he passed and Peter turned as MacBride reached the door. "Hey, do you have a first name--other than 'Doc', that is?"

The physician turned, his mouth curving in an easy smile. "Alan to my friends."

"Peter to mine. And if I can ever return the favor...I'm a pretty good listener, too."

"I might take you up on that...Peter." MacBride lifted his hand, then disappeared through the doorway.

Venkman turned back to Ray with a shaky sigh and affectionately brushed at the tangled auburn hair, careful to avoid the bandage that encircled his friend's head. "You remember those days at Columbia, don't you, Ray? We were quite a team, weren't we? Remember the time all three of us went to that homecoming party and--" He broke off as Stantz' head moved under his hand and a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan escaped the occultist's lips. "Ray?" he said urgently. "Ray, can you hear me?" Without taking his eyes off the stirring man, he shouted, "MacBride! Alan! Get in here!" Lowering his voice, but not losing any of the intensity in his tone, he continued to harangue the younger man. "Ray Stantz, you open your eyes and you open them now, you hear me? This is Peter Venkman talking, Stantz, and I'm not kidding." Someone thudded into the room behind him.

"What happened?" MacBride demanded.

"I think he's coming around." He shot a pleading look at the doctor. "Tell me what to do. I almost had him--"

MacBride leaned over Stantz and tapped his cheek briskly. "Doctor Stantz," he called loudly. "Wake up." He shot a look at Peter over Ray's supine body. "Talk to him again."

"Ray? Come on, pal. Wake up. This is important. I want you to wake up." To his everlasting relief his friend's eyelids fluttered. He squeezed Ray's hand, holding his breath as the lids slowly raised, revealing confused brown eyes.

"Peter?"

Ray's voice was a lot weaker than Peter wanted to think about, but at that moment it sounded positively wonderful to him. "Yeah, pal, it's me," he said softly. Finally releasing his grip, he gently rested his hand on top of the younger man's head, threading his fingers through the tousled hair. "Welcome back, Tex. I missed you."

Stantz had focused his somewhat dazed eyes on Peter and he was blinking rapidly as if to clear his vision. "Peter...what happened?"

Venkman didn't have to look to MacBride this time to know how to proceed. He reclaimed Ray's hand and squeezed it gently, never moving his gaze from his friend. "You're in the Idaville hospital, Ray," he said carefully, "but you're okay. You've got a concussion, a broken arm and some broken ribs, but you're okay. Understand me?"

Stantz nodded slowly, then grimaced. "Bad idea," he mumbled.

"Bet your head hurts like a son of a gun, doesn't it?" Peter asked sympathetically. "And your stomach probably doesn't feel too good, either. That's what a concussion does to you, buddy." He eased down onto the side of the bed, careful not to jar the younger man. "What's the last thing you remember?"

The occultist's face creased in concentration. "Don't know..."

"Think, Ray," Venkman pressed, injecting some firmness into his tone. "Come on now. We're in Idaville--"

"Tessing!" Ray cried suddenly, his face clearing. "Jedediah Tessing! And the class six we were chasing!"

Peter broke into a huge grin. "That's my boy."

"We were in the woods and Winston--" Ray broke off suddenly, alarm flooding his eyes. "Winston! Is he okay? And Egon--"

"Both fine," the psychologist broke in hastily, studiously avoiding the sharp look MacBride threw him. "We'll talk about them later. Right now I think the doc here wants to poke and prod you some." Leaning over, he gathered the younger man in a very careful hug. "I'll be right outside," he whispered.

Ray caught his arm in a weak grip as he straightened. "How long was I out?"

"Day and a half, give or take."

Brown eyes studied him intently, then warmed. "You were here the whole time, weren't you?" Stantz tightened his hand. "You look awful."

"Yeah, well, remind me to bring you a mirror, kiddo," Peter retorted, falling gratefully into the old comforting banter. "You wouldn't win any prizes yourself." Still refusing to meet Alan's disapproving gaze, he gave Ray's hand a little pat, then got to his feet, forcing his thoughts away from the questions Ray would soon ask... and the answers he would have to give. "I'll be right outside," he repeated, offered the brightest smile he could muster, and left the room.

As soon as he stepped into the corridor and the door closed behind him, Peter sagged against the nearest wall, closing his eyes in sheer, overwhelming relief. Ray was okay. He whispered a prayer of thanks to whatever deity or being that happened to be listening or who looked after Ghostbusters in general or certain brown-eyed occultists in particular.

"Doctor Venkman? Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes and found himself staring into the concerned--and not unattractive--face of Ms. Kathy Wardenfelt.

"Is it Doctor Stantz? Has something happened--"

"I'll say something's happened," he crowed happily. "Ray's awake." He had to share his joy with someone and she happened to be the one within reach. Throwing his arms around the nurse, he hugged her soundly. "He's awake, Kathy!"

After her first startled moment, the woman returned his embrace with almost his level of enthusiasm. "That's wonderful, Doctor Venkman," she said warmly.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Venkman held her at arms' length and grinned. "That kid's a helluva fighter."

"And he has good friends," she retorted, giving him such a direct look he almost squirmed. "That helps a lot." She patted him on the arm as he reluctantly let her go. "I hope this means you'll get some rest yourself now; we'll look after Doctor Stantz." With another smile, she turned and continued on her way.

Peter leaned back against the wall, too tired to keep on his feet but too wired to sit down. Ray was okay. Maybe things really were going to be all right. Maybe Winston would call any minute and say there had been a miracle, that Egon had somehow survived, that they had found him alive and...

"Pete?"

Peter's head shot around at the sound of Winston's voice. Zeddemore was standing stock still a few feet away and Peter knew instantly from the despair in his dark eyes and the way his usually military-straight shoulders slumped there had been no miracle. Without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the bigger man in a tight hug. Winston's arms closed around him immediately.

"I'm sorry, man," Zeddemore said hoarsely. "We looked everywhere. We just couldn't find him."

"I know, Winston, I know." And deep inside, he had known, Peter realized. He had known it all along. They were never going to find Egon's body. Winston had finally told him last night that the river emptied into an even larger one a few miles downstream. If Egon's body had been carried that far they had little hope of recovering it. "You did everything you could." With a determined effort, he fought down his own massive despair and tucked it away deep inside to be dealt with later. He gave the older man one last squeeze, then pulled back, gripping Zeddemore's arms tightly. "Winston," he said carefully, "Ray's awake. He's gonna be okay. Ray's gonna be okay."

The sorrow for Egon didn't fade, but relief flooded Winston's features. "Oh, man," he breathed. "He's awake? Pete, that's great."

"Yeah, it is." For a moment his eyes locked with Zeddemore's and he saw the same mixture of anguish and relief he felt himself. "We're gonna be all right, Winston," he burst out, trying to mask the desperation in his voice. "We're gonna be all right because we have to be all right." He had to force himself to focus on the fact Ray was alive and safe; if he allowed himself to think about Egon, if he allowed himself to touch the pain that was spreading through his body, he knew he would fall apart.

As if reading his thoughts, Winston laid a hand on the side of his neck and squeezed gently. "That's right, Pete. We will be all right... because Egon would want us to be."

Venkman took a deep, shaky breath, but nodded. "Yeah, he would."

The soft thud of a door closing behind them brought them both around to see Doctor MacBride stepping out of Ray's room.

"How is he?" Peter asked immediately.

"He's sleeping now, which is exactly what he needs. We'll be keeping a close eye on him, of course, but everything looks good."

Venkman felt himself smiling and realized even though Ray had awakened from the coma, he had still been mentally holding his breath until he got the all-clear from MacBride.

"And you gentleman," the physician continued, giving them both a steady look, "have just had your unlimited visiting privileges revoked. Visiting hours have been carefully prescribed so a patient isn't tired out and his recovery slowed by well-meaning friends and relatives. Come back at six tonight, and if he's awake, you can see him for two hours."

Peter wanted to argue the point, but had to admit MacBride made sense. The last thing either he or Winston wanted to do was keep Ray away from the rest he needed.

The doctor turned to him and said in a carefully neutral voice, "He asked me about Doctor Spengler and Winston."

Peter felt Winston's eyes on him, but kept his own eyes on MacBride. "What did you tell him?" he demanded.

"Nothing."

Venkman relaxed a little. "Pete?" He looked around and finally met Winston's questioning gaze. "Did you tell him about Egon?"

"No, I did not tell him about Egon," he retorted shortly.

"You told him Doctor Spengler was fine," MacBride reminded him with a little frown.

"You told him Egon was fine?" Winston was incredulous. "Pete, what the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking about Ray," he snapped, his ragged nerves finally fraying completely. "What was I supposed to say, 'Oh, by the way, Ray, Egon's dead'?" Venkman looked away, running a hand recklessly through his hair. "He just woke up from a coma, Winston," he said tightly. "He wouldn't be able to handle it." He was aware of Zeddemore and MacBride exchanging a look behind his back and it irritated the hell out him. Turning back to Winston, he said decisively, "It's my call and my responsibility, and I'll tell him when I think he's ready to handle it."

MacBride took a step closer. "If you like, I could talk to him--"

Peter rounded on him, furious. "I said it's my responsibility. I'll decide when to tell Ray and what to tell him. You're not the only doctor around here, MacBride. I've got a doctorate in psychology--"

"I know what your credentials are, Doctor Venkman," the physician interrupted without anger. "But don't you think in this situation you might be a little too close to the patient to make an objective judgment call?"

"What I think," he said coolly, "is that I'm the one best qualified to make this judgment call because I'm so close to this patient." He paused, then repeated what he had said earlier, this time with a lot more firmness. "I'll tell him when I think he's ready to handle it."

MacBride looked at him a long time before nodding, although he clearly didn't agree with the decision. "All right, Doctor Venkman, it's your call. But are you sure your friend's going to thank you for keeping the truth from him?"

"That's between Ray and me," he said flatly. The physician gazed at him a moment longer, then turned and left. As soon as he was out of earshot, Peter turned on Winston. "You have a problem with that?" he demanded.

His face strangely unreadable, Winston shook his head. "No, I don't have a problem with that. In fact, I think you're right."

Venkman felt some of the tension drain from his body; the last thing he wanted to do right now was fight with Winston. "Okay," he sighed, realizing suddenly how utterly exhausted he was, "I guess we'd better go back to the motel and grab some sleep. I want to be here as soon as visiting hours start.

But before he could move, Zeddemore clamped a large hand on his shoulder with surprising force. "Before we go anywhere," the black man said grimly, "we're having a talk, Pete, and we're gonna clear something up once and for all." The psychologist was so surprised by Winston's actions that before he knew what had happened he found himself being firmly pushed down into a chair.

"Winston, what the hell--"

"Shut up," Zeddemore said flatly, "and listen." Peter tensed, but made no move to get to his feet. Winston slowly relaxed his grip but didn't remove his hand. "Okay, now you listen because I'm only going to say this once. If you think it's your responsibility to tell Ray about Egon because he knows you and you know him better than I ever could, then I agree with you. If you think it's your responsibility to tell him because he'll take it better from you than from anyone else, then I agree with that, too. And if you think it's your responsibility because you've got the training and the skills to handle this, then I'd say you're right again." He knelt down by Peter's side, his dark eyes as serious as Peter had ever seen them. "But if you think it's your responsibility to break the news about Egon to Ray--or to Janine, or the press, or Egon's mother or anyone else--because you've got it stuck in your mind that any of this was your fault--" Peter made a sudden move to jump to his feet, but Winston tensed his arm, keeping him pinned--"then think again, Pete. That's just plain crazy." He gave Peter's shoulder a little shake. "I called Janine a couple of hours ago. Just what the hell did you tell her anyhow?"

Peter's head shot up guiltily. "I told her the truth."

"The hell you did. What are you trying to do, Pete? Make us all blame you for Egon's death?"

The pain and guilt he had tried so hard to smother, to tuck away in the deepest recesses of his soul, suddenly broke through his defenses and sent his emotional system into overload. "I was there!" he burst out. "Winston, I had his hand!" His voice broke, "Oh, god, why couldn't I hold on?"

Zeddemore eased an arm around his trembling shoulders. "Because it was impossible, Pete," he said gently. "And anyone who knows you knows that. Janine knows, I know--and Ray will know-- there was no way you could have saved Egon." He tightened his arm, his voice so soft he could have been talking to a frightened child. "And Egon knew it, too."

An image flooded his mind. He saw Egon's face, white and pinched with fear, his eyes huge behind his red-rimmed glasses... and then he felt his friend's fingers slip from his grasp. He squeezed his eyes shut with a choked sob. Peter wanted to believe it hadn't been his fault, he wanted to believe there really hadn't been anything he could have done to save his friend. He wanted to believe that more than anything. But he couldn't. He couldn't help believing that if it had been him hanging by his fingertips, Egon would have found a way to save him.

"Peter. Look at me." Winston tightened his arm until Peter finally opened his eyes. "Egon would hate what you're doing to yourself, man," he insisted softly. "You know that."

Venkman drew a shaky breath, then conceded the point with a slow nod. He could almost hear Egon's deep bass voice and that patiently reasonable tone the physicist used when he was trying to get through to Peter during those times when Peter was being less than reasonable. "I miss him, Winston," he admitted in a hoarse whisper. "I miss him already."

"So do I," Zeddemore said softly, and moved his hand back and forth across Venkman's shoulders in a comforting massage. "We're going back to the motel now," he continued in a tone that brooked no argument. "You're out on your feet, m'man, and if you expect to get back here by visiting hours, then you've got to get some sleep." Standing, he tugged the younger man to his feet and waited for him to comply.

To Peter's everlasting surprise, he allowed Winston to lead him out of the hospital without so much as a murmur of protest.

***

It turned out to be the following morning before they were able to see Ray. The occultist slept peacefully through the evening visiting hours and although Peter and Winston returned to the hospital and remained in the waiting room during that time, they finally had to leave without seeing him.

It was nearly eleven, the start of visiting hours the next day, when Winston and Peter returned to the hospital. They had called first thing in the morning, relieved to learn Ray had had a good night, awakened early, and eaten enough breakfast to satisfy the nurses on duty. Winston glanced at the silent man by his side as they walked through the automatic doors that led them to the now-familiar nurses' station on the first floor. Ray's night had apparently been a great deal more tranquil than Peter's had been. He had heard the psychologist tossing and turning all night, then finally get up before dawn and go outside, presumably to take a walk. Even now, at mid-morning, Venkman looked drawn and haggard, as if he hadn't slept in days.

They stopped at the nurses' station and Peter smiled when he saw it was Kathy Wardenfelt on duty. She, in turn, had a bright smile for both of them. "Doctor Stantz has been asking for you. He's feeling much better this morning."

"That's real good news, Kathy," Peter retorted, the relief evident in his tone. "Thanks." Turning away from the desk, he began walking down the hallway toward Ray's room, then stopped, his shoulders slumping as if some impossible weight had just been dropped on them.

Concerned, Winston laid a hand on his shoulder. "Pete?"

The psychologist turned, his emerald eyes pleading. "Do you mind if I go in alone, Winston?"

Zeddemore tightened his hand in understanding. "You're going to tell him," he said gently, making it a statement.

The brown head nodded. "I have to. Last night...last night I did what I had to do--"

"And you did the right thing," Winston interrupted quickly. "Ray was in no shape to handle it last night."

"None of us are in any shape to handle it," Venkman murmured, "but we don't have a lot of choice." He sighed shakily, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. "I honest to God don't know what I'm going to say to him, Winston."

"You'll find the words," Zeddemore assured him, then grimaced at how inane those words sounded. "What I meant--"

"I know what you meant." Dredging up a weak smile, Peter patted the hand on his shoulder. "I'm not sure I will find the words, but thanks."

The black man looked at him doubtfully. "Pete, are you sure you want to do this alone?"

"No," Peter answered with complete honesty, "I'm not." He turned his head slightly, staring down the hallway that led to Ray's room. "But if the two of us go in there without Egon, he's going to know something's wrong. If I go in alone...I just want the chance to talk to him a little first...you know..."

"I know." Zeddemore clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "I'll be right here."

Venkman nodded. "Thanks." Then he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders and fixed a smile on his face that would have been convincing to anyone who didn't know him as well as Winston. Taking a quick breath, he strode the rest of the way down the hallway, hesitated for an instant outside Ray's room, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The way Ray's face lit up when Peter stepped into the room made the psychologist's forced smile soften. There was none of the disorientation or pain in Ray's eyes that had been so evident the last time Peter had seen him, and a hint of healthy color had returned to his cheeks. For a moment, Peter felt heartened by the sight, then almost immediately his delight faded as he realized he might soon be dashing any progress Ray had made since last night. But, for now, he plastered the brightest smile he could muster on his face.

"Well, you sure look better than the last time I saw you," he observed.

Stantz' smile nearly matched his, but Peter could feel the occultist's eyes sweeping his face. "Wish I could say the same for you. Didn't you get any sleep last night, Peter?"

Venkman shrugged as he snagged a chair and brought it around to the side of the bed. "Too keyed up, I guess," he retorted, and immediately changed the subject. "So how're you feeling this morning, pal?" Leaning closer, he dropped a hand on the younger man's arm, all humor dropping from his tone. "Gave us a helluva scare, you know," he said seriously.

Ray's smile faded. "I know. I'm sorry."

Peter squeezed the arm under his hand. "Yeah, well, just don't do it again," he said gruffly.

That brought the smile back to Stantz' boyish face. As Peter watched, Ray's head shifted on the pillow and his eyes lifted to glance at the door. "Where are Egon and Winston?"

Venkman feigned indignation. "You mean my own wonderful presence isn't enough to keep you fully and completely entertained, Stantz?"

Ray's eyes warmed. "It usually is," he said dryly.

They chatted for a few more minutes and Peter carefully noted Ray's reactions and responses, watching him for signs of fatigue or pain. Ray still looked tired, but he was alert and, aside from the nagging headache he admitted to, seemed free of pain. Finally, Venkman had to concede there was no reason to avoid telling him about Egon any longer. Last night it had been 'withholding information', today it would be lying.

"Peter?" Venkman snapped sharply alert, finding himself staring into a pair of concerned brown eyes. "Are you all right?"

Silently cursing himself for woolgathering, Peter took a moment to mentally square his shoulders. Without answering the question, he again laid his hand on Ray's wrist and forced himself to meet the younger man's gaze. "Ray," he said carefully, "how much do you remember about our bust?"

A little perplexed frown gathered Stantz' eyebrows, but Peter sensed it was more because he didn't understand why the question was being asked rather than because he was trying to remember. "Most of it has come back, I think," he answered slowly. "I remember the part about Jedediah Tessing and splitting up in the woods. And then you radioing for help. Then the class six coming after Winston and--" Ray's eyes widened suddenly. "Winston! Did something happen to Winston? You said he was all right! It slammed into me, but I don't know what--"

"Winston's fine," Peter interrupted quietly. "You were knocked into a ravine, but Winston managed to hold out until I... got there." He waited for the significance of that deliberately qualified statement to hit Ray. It didn't take long.

"Until you got there," Ray repeated slowly, his eyes on Peter. "What about Egon?"

Even though he had known from the beginning this question was coming, and even though he had tried to brace himself for just this moment, Peter still faltered. And in the instant he hesitated he saw the terrible realization in Ray's eyes. "Peter." Stantz' voice quivered and he twisted his hand out from under Peter's and grabbed his arm. "What about Egon?"

Venkman dropped his eyes, aware of Ray's fingers digging painfully into his wrist. "That class six came out of nowhere, Ray," he said hoarsely, feeling fresh tears sting his eyes and tighten his throat. "It got to Egon before I could. I couldn't save him. I couldn't--" His voice caught. "Oh, god, Ray," he whispered brokenly, "I couldn't save him."

"Egon's...dead?" The hollow shock in Ray's voice brought Peter's head back up. Stantz was staring at him, his face drained, his eyes filled with horror. Then, almost immediately, the auburn head shook stubbornly. "No, he can't be. He can't be."

Peter slid one hand behind the younger man's neck, as much to stop his insistent head-shaking as to offer support. "He fell into an ice-cold river, Ray," he explained, steadying his voice with an effort. "They've been looking for two days, but they haven't even found his body--"

"No body?" Hope flashed in the brown eyes. "Then he might still be alive! He might--"

"Don't, Ray," Venkman broke in sharply. "Don't go hoping for miracles." The younger man stared at him in stunned despair at the harshness of his tone, and Peter slumped suddenly as fresh pain squeezed his heart. "They've searched the river banks for miles," he whispered. "They don't have any hope..." His voice gave out and he swallowed hard, tasting new tears. Forcing himself to meet Stantz' shell-shocked stare, he offered the only thing he had left: "I'm sorry, Ray. I'm sorry. I couldn't save him."

The next thing he knew Ray was in his arms, clinging to him like a child, his face buried in Peter's chest as he sobbed out his grief. Mindful of Ray's damaged ribs, Peter held him, pulled him close, rested his cheek on the auburn hair and cried, too. He didn't think he would ever run out of tears for Egon. Last night after his worry about Ray had been relieved and he no longer had a reason to avoid turning inward to touch his own grief, he had stood in the shower back at the motel, letting the sound of the beating water muffle his sobs as his sorrow exploded. This morning he had retreated there again, pounding the walls of the shower stall as anger erupted along with the tears. He raged at Egon for his defection to the Otherside, at himself for his helplessness, at Winston for not being there to help, even at Ray for his blessed ignorance of their loss. All those tears, and still there were more and always would be. There would never be enough tears, he knew, to cleanse him of the pain of losing Egon.

He held Ray as the younger man cried, offering what comfort he could, feeling every tear Ray shed soaking through his shirt. Eventually, the occultist's sobs lessened into silent weeping. The intensity of Ray's reaction hadn't surprised him, but he was worried about the effect on Stantz' physical condition. Raising one hand, he laid it on the back of the auburn head and stroked the soft hair in an automatic gesture of consolation. "I'm going to call for the doctor, Ray," he said gently. "I'm going to lay you down now and--"

"No!" The younger man tightened his one-armed grip around Peter. "Don't leave!"

"I'm not going anywhere," Peter assured him immediately. "I just want the doc to check you over."

Stantz' head moved against his shoulder. "Not yet. Please. I...can't..."

Biting his lip, Venkman slid a hand up and down the younger man's back. "Okay, not yet. We'll just sit here a while longer, just you and me." He could feel the other man quivering against his body and he automatically shifted to try to pull him a little closer, taking care not to put too much pressure on Ray's damaged ribs. "Winston's outside," he murmured. "He's okay."

Ray's arm around his neck tightened to the point where it nearly choked off his air supply. "I'm glad. I'm glad you're both okay." Suddenly Stantz pulled back, staring at Peter with red-rimmed, empty eyes. "Egon's gone, Peter," he whispered. "What are we going to do without him?"

In the flash of an instant Peter thought about how intertwined their lives had been for so long. He remembered Egon as he had been when they met at Columbia, how at first glance he had dismissed Spengler as just another boring egghead. And he remembered how he had quickly discovered the sharp, dry wit that lay under Egon's phlegmatic exterior, the mischief that could spark in his eyes without warning, the intellect that blazed so brightly, the deep caring and ready understanding he had always offered unstintingly. He loved that man, respected him, looked up to him, depended on him, and trusted him in a way he had never trusted anyone before. Ray had enhanced their relationship, had strengthened it and brought his own special qualities to it. It seemed as if the three of them had been together forever. It had seemed as if they would always be together.

Venkman drew a shaky breath. "I don't know, Ray," he said hoarsely. "I just don't know." He studied Stantz' tear-stained face for a moment, then leaned over and snatched some kleenx from the bedside table. Ray accepted them and silently wiped at his eyes. Peter squeezed his arm. "I'm just going to slip into the bathroom; back in a sec." Striding across the room, it only took him a moment to locate and dampen a washcloth in the tiny bathroom. Back by Ray's side, he dropped down onto the edge of the bed and gently pushed the younger man back down onto the pillow. "I want you to lay there and rest for a while," he ordered quietly. "Close your eyes." Hesitating only an instant, Ray did as he was told and Peter folded the cloth and gently laid it across the occultist's closed eyes. Ray flinched at first at the coolness of the rag, then visibly relaxed, a broken sigh escaping his lips. Dropping his hand on the younger man's arm, Peter sighed, too, a sigh that came from the depths of his soul.

"How did it happen, Peter?"

Venkman stiffened. "What?"

"How did it happen?" Without removing the cloth that covered his eyes, Ray laid his hand on top of Peter's. "I want to know."

"Maybe later, Ray, when you're--"

"Peter, please." Stantz' hand gripped his and squeezed. "I have to know."

Closing his eyes, Peter nodded to himself. And you have a right to know. His eyes still closed, Venkman braced himself and with a voice as steady and detached as he could manage, he told Ray about the attack on the cliff and how Egon had been lost. When he was finished there was nothing but silence. Peter didn't dare open his eyes. He couldn't bear to see the look on Ray's face. Then there was a rustling of sheets and suddenly Peter found himself engulfed in a tight embrace.

"It wasn't your fault, Peter," Ray whispered in his ear. "It wasn't your fault."

As badly as he needed to hear those words, as badly as he needed to believe them, Venkman shook his head, denying the absolution. "You weren't there--"

Stantz moved his hand to the back of Peter's head, gently pressing it down against his shoulder, effectively cutting off the words. "I didn't have to be there. I know you, and I know there wasn't anything you could have done to save Egon."

Peter would argue that point with himself until the day he died, but he would not argue it with Ray. Ray didn't need a friend consumed with guilt and self-disgust at his own helplessness; he needed a friend who was strong enough to help him through his grief. He had failed Egon when Egon had needed him most; he was determined he would not fail Ray.

Pulling carefully out of Stantz' embrace, he held the younger man at arms' length and studied him for a moment. All traces of color had fled from his face and Ray looked drained and empty. "How're you feeling?"

Ray looked as though he was about to insist he felt fine, but something he saw in Peter's eyes must have changed his mind. "Not so good," he admitted reluctantly.

"I'll bet." Gently, but firmly, Peter pushed him back down flat. "This time I am getting the doctor." Laying his hand on the younger man's forehead, Peter brushed at the tousled hair. "Winston's outside. He wants to see you. You up to that?"

Ray gave a little nod. "Yeah. But you--"

"--won't be far away," he promised. "You just lay quiet for a while, okay?"

Weariness and pain etched into his youthful face, Ray nodded, his eyes sliding shut. "Okay."

Peter hesitated a moment longer, then gave Ray's chest a gentle pat and left the room.

Winston all but pounced on him as soon as he stepped into the hallway. "Is Ray okay?" Then, before he could answer, Zeddemore frowned and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"No to both questions," Peter answered, subdued. "Ray's pretty wiped out and I'm going to go find Alan to get him checked out." He briefly rubbed at the moisture in his eyes. "He wants to see you."

Zeddemore nodded. "I'll stay with him." He gave the shoulder under his hand a little squeeze. "Take some time if you need it, man," he said gently.

Peter nodded his thanks, then turned and headed toward the nurses' station to track down Doctor MacBride. Whatever he might need himself would have to wait.

***

Winston slid a supporting arm around Ray's back and squeezed lightly. "Come on, Ray," he urged gently, "let's get you back to Ecto. You've been on your feet long enough."

But the occultist continued to stare at the rushing waters of the small river, tears sliding down his face. "Egon," he whispered.

His mouth tightening, Winston firmly turned Stantz away from the racing waters and forced him back toward the parked car. Ray had only been released from the Idaville Hospital that morning, and only then because Peter had talked long and hard, finally convincing MacBride that Ray would convalesce better at home with his friends around him offering support twenty-four hours a day. The fact was, Ray wasn't bouncing back from his injuries the way MacBride felt he should and the doctor was concerned. And Peter, Winston knew, was worried sick. Egon's death seemed to have crushed Ray's normally buoyant spirit, knocking all the fight out of him and slowing his recovery to a snail's pace. Peter hoped getting Ray back to the firehouse where he could devote all his time to getting the occultist back on his feet would make the difference.

They were supposed to be heading home now, but Ray had begged to be brought out here to the river to see for himself where they had lost their friend, and to say good-bye to Egon. Under the circumstances Winston had been reluctant, but Peter had agreed so he didn't argue. Where Ray was concerned, Winston trusted Venkman's instincts implicitly.

"Peter's still up there."

Ray's soft voice brought Winston out of his thoughts and he looked up at the cliff that towered above them as they reached Ecto. He could see the solitary form of the psychologist standing by the edge.

"He's never going to forgive himself."

Knowing Peter, that was probably true, but Zeddemore said, "It's just going to take time, Ray."

But the younger man shook his head, his eyes never leaving the figure outlined against the bright morning sky. "No," he whispered, "he's never going to forgive himself." He gripped Winston's arm with his good hand. "Go bring him down, Winston," he implored. "He shouldn't be alone."

Winston hesitated. As much as he wanted to get them all away from this place, he was reluctant to intrude on Peter's very private grief.

The occultist's hand tightened around his arm. "Winston, please." Ray finally tore his gaze away from the man on the cliff and turned to Winston, his eyes reflecting the pain each of them were feeling. "None of us should have to be alone now."

That was true enough, Winston admitted. "Okay, I'll go get him," he conceded, "but you get in the car and wait."

Ray probably would have argued the point at any other time, but he was too worn out now to make the effort. Nodding, he allowed Winston to help him into the back of Ecto. Zeddemore waited to make sure he was settled comfortably, then turned and jogged away.

A short time later Winston slowed to a halt, as much to catch his breath as to observe the solitary man ahead for a few moments before approaching him. Peter was standing near the edge of the drop-off, staring at something he was holding in his hands. Zeddemore felt something in his chest twist as he recognized the broken remains of a PKE meter.

The last few days had been a waking nightmare for them all, but while Ray had retreated into emotional lethargy and Winston had been silently struggling to deal with the reawakened feelings of losing a friend in combat, Peter had apparently assigned himself the role of caretaker. He was with Ray every minute MacBride allowed him to be, encouraging, entertaining and assisting the injured man, alternately cajoling or stern depending on Ray's responses. When he wasn't with Ray, he was with Winston. Perhaps sensing the ex-soldier was trying to deal with a strange overlay of grief, Venkman made himself available, probing gently, carefully urging him to talk or to explore his turmoil of emotions. Zeddemore shook his head sadly. Sometimes he wondered if Peter was even aware how often he slipped into his 'psychologist mode' when one of his friends was going through a rough time. But when Winston tried to return the favor and get Peter to open up, Venkman had pulled back, stating tersely he wasn't ready to talk about it yet. Winston wondered if Peter would ever be ready to talk about it or whether he was going to seal his grief inside until it slowly destroyed him. He didn't want to see that happen...but he wasn't sure what he was going to be able to do about it. When Peter decided to shut himself away, and shut others out, he did it with a vengeance, and the only person Winston had ever seen who could really get through to Venkman at those times was Egon Spengler.

Closing his eyes, Winston thought briefly of the madness that had swirled around them yesterday. Deciding they could no longer avoid the issue, Peter had made a statement to the press about Egon's death. First he had called Janine to tell her to avoid the firehouse in case the place was besieged by press in New York, then he made all the proper calls and set up a press conference here in Idaville. Determined that Ray wasn't going to be hounded by reporters or anyone else, he asked Winston to stay with the occultist at the hospital, then set up the conference at the community center. As he had with every other aspect of the aftermath of this tragedy--dealing with the hospital, the police, Egon's relatives--Peter had thrown himself out front to act as a buffer for the other two. Winston had known the confrontation with the press was unavoidable, and he knew it would be hard on Peter, but he had no idea how hard it had been until he saw it for himself on the eleven o'clock news that night.

Zeddemore shook his head, remembering what he had seen on the screen. Somehow Peter had managed to hold himself together through the whole thing, even after he had finished his statement and the press began firing questions at him from all sides. Peter had made it very clear from the outset that he would be making a statement, but would take no questions afterward. That, of course, had not stopped the attending journalists and scavengers from the New York tabloids from shoving microphones in his face and blinding him with flashes from their scores of cameras as they hurled questions at him. Despite the obvious strain he was under and his well-known temper, Venkman had remained poised and in control...right up until the end. Winston couldn't hear the