Title: With A Vengeance
Author: Brenda A
Author Page: Brenda A
Rating: PG-13
Category: gen friendship; hurt/comfort
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.

The sorcerer stepped into the carefully prepared circle and opened the small, ancient book in his hands to the correct page. It had taken him nearly a year of research, false leads, visits to places most travel agents had never heard of, and a great deal of money, but he finally had his treasure. It wasn't the most powerful spell book known to man--no, he'd had that book in his possession only briefly before it had been ripped from him--but the spells contained within its covers would enable him to do what he wanted to do. What he had promised himself he would do. People did not cross Geoffrey Neeson without paying the price.

Carefully, deliberately, he spoke the words of the long-forgotten spell, his eyes wary but gleaming with anticipation. He had summoned demons before, but never one as powerful as this incantation promised. Many before him had tried and failed, but none of them had prepared as carefully...and none of them could offer what he offered.

He intoned the final word of the spell, a smile of triumph curling his lips as a thunderous roar seemed to shake his isolated sanctuary. A blinding flash in the center of the pentagram painted on the floor several yards away made him involuntarily tighten his grip on the cracked leather cover of the spell book, but his gaze didn't flinch as the creature he had summoned slowly took shape within the confines of the diagram.

The demon was enormous, even larger than he had imagined, with reddish-brown scales covering its almost human-like form, and venomous yellow eyes. There was intelligence and cunning in those eyes and Neeson understood immediately why A'nuit was so dangerous. It wasn't merely the six deadly claws on the ends of both hands that could rip a human apart, or the incredible strength displayed in the sinewy muscles that defined its body. Brute strength without intelligence was no real threat; but that kind of strength combined with the ability to think and plan would be deadly.

Neeson could see the demon mentally testing the strength of the pentagram that bound him, and knew the exact instant A'nuit realized its power. Rage like nothing the sorcerer had ever seen before blazed in those amber eyes, and in the next moment that fearsome gaze was on him.

"Why have you summoned me, Sorcerer?" A'nuit's voice, in direct contradiction to his enormous form, was dry and dusty, almost a snake-like hiss. But there was enough cold evil in it to make Neeson shiver involuntarily.

"I have summoned you, great A'nuit," he replied, keeping his voice steady with the greatest effort, "to offer a bargain."

A'nuit's eyes flared with contempt. "I do not bargain with humans," he sneered.

"Even if that human can guarantee the destruction of your greatest enemies?"

The demon's eyes narrowed in wary suspicion. "What enemies would you know of, Sorcerer?"

"The Ghostbusters," Neeson stated flatly.

A'nuit's human-like face twisted in rage as he let out a roar that caused Neeson to flinch. "I will crush them!" the demon thundered, clenching one clawed fist and raising it to the heavens as if making a vow.

"But you haven't been able to, have you?" the sorcerer reminded him carefully. "Three times in the last year you have ventured into this realm, and three times they have forced you back into your own dimension." Neeson had done meticulous research on the Ghostbusters' activities over the past year and knew he had found a perfect partner for his scheme of revenge. The demon had as much reason to hate the paranormal investigators and eliminators as he did.

Driven to fresh anger by that reminder, the demon forgot his situation and took a vicious swipe at Neeson, only to howl in new rage as the pentagram held firm, effectively imprisoning him in place.

"I can change that," Neeson continued quickly. "Together we can destroy the Ghostbusters."

Recognizing the futility of continuing to struggle, A'nuit's anger subsided for the moment and he studied the sorcerer with open suspicion. "What are you proposing?"

Neeson took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then replied, "A blood binding." A blood binding was such an ancient and rare ritual that most occult scholars thought it a myth. But Neeson believed it to be very real--and he knew it was the only way his plan would work. A blood binding bound the demon and the sorcerer who summoned him inexorably together for a mutually-agreed upon purpose. The demon could not harm the sorcerer, nor could the sorcerer use magic on the demon. Plus, just as important to Neeson, the binding would allow him to travel freely between his realm and the demon's. After their mutual goal had been achieved, both would be released from the binding, but their vow not to harm the other would be in effect for all eternity. The punishment for breaking that oath would be annihilation for the offender. Without such a promise from A'nuit, Neeson could never release him from the pentagram or he knew his life would be forfeit.

Something resembling a cunning smile twisted the features of the demon. "I didn't think anyone knew of blood bindings any longer."

"I know a great deal of things," Neeson informed him pointedly. "Will you agree?"

The demon's eyes narrowed slyly. "You will deliver the Ghostbusters to me? They must be mine to destroy."

Neeson said firmly, "The Ghostbusters will be destroyed, but we must follow my plan."

A'nuit threw his head back and waved a clawed hand in anger. "I will destroy them myself!"

"You have already tried and failed," the sorcerer said coolly. "My plan will succeed. If you want to destroy the Ghostbusters, we must do it my way." A chilling smile creased his thin features as he mentally reviewed the plan it had taken him nearly a year to conceive and perfect. "I promise you, A'nuit," he said softly, "my plan will provide you with much more, ah, entertainment than simply killing them outright. It will take a little longer, but it will be so much more enjoyable--and, in the end, we will obtain the same result."

The demon listened to Neeson's speech with growing interest, his amber eyes glowing brightly at the thought of drawing out the destruction of his enemies for his pleasure. Centuries ago, A'nuit had been feared widely for the leisurely way he ripped apart men's souls. He had gotten a bit impatient and sloppy in recent years, but it was obvious the thought of the lingering torment of his enemies greatly appealed to him. "Entertainment," he mused. "It has been a long time since I have been properly 'entertained'."

"Then you agree to the binding?" A'nuit had to say the proper words for the oath to be binding, or the ritual itself would mean nothing. Neeson briefly wondered how many sorcerers in the past had overlooked that little detail.

Craftiness sparked in the demon's yellow eyes as if he were trying to determine how knowledgeable Neeson was about the ancient oath. He saw the answer in the occultist's face, grunted, then intoned, "I agree to the blood binding, Sorcerer, and submit to the ritual, acknowledging that the punishment for breaking my oath to thee shall be non-existence."

Neeson nodded his satisfaction. "I, too, agree to the blood binding, mighty A'nuit, and submit to the ritual, acknowledging that the punishment for breaking my oath to thee shall be non-existence."

The demon nodded his own satisfaction at the spoken oath and Neeson carefully removed a leather-sheathed knife from the pocket of his jacket. Sliding the ornately-carved silver knife free, he discarded the sheath and pressed the wicked, curved point of the blade against the inside of his wrist, wincing as blood welled up in the small wound. With careful deliberation, he smeared the blood over the blade, then held it up for A'nuit to see. The demon nodded again and Neeson knelt within his circle and slid the knife across the floor so it came to rest within the pentagram. As he watched, A'nuit picked up the knife, held the curved blade against his wrist, and impassively bore down so it cut through his leather-like scales. A thick, dark liquid with a smell something like vinegar oozed out sluggishly from the cut and the demon casually smeared his own life blood along the blade to mix with Neeson's.

When he finished, he dropped the knife so it fell between Neeson's protective circle and the pentagram. "It is done," he declared. "We are bound."

"We are bound," Neeson replied, ending the prescribed ritual, and stepped out of the circle.

Without hesitation, A'nuit stepped out of the confines of the pentagram, his amber eyes blazing with a fearsome hunger.

Knowing that hunger could not touch him, Neeson smiled cruelly. The Ghostbusters' fate had been sealed.

*****

"That was not fun and I'm not gonna do it again and you can't make me!"

The vicious slamming of one of Ecto-1's doors punctuated the flat statement and Janine Melnitz looked up from her computer screen to see Peter Venkman glaring at his colleagues as they climbed out of the car. Her eyes widened as she took in the psychologist's appearance: he was literally covered from head to foot in what at first glance looked like orange marmalade, but she knew had to be ectoplasm. His dark hair, always a source of such pride to him, hung in limp, wet strands and he impatiently pushed it out of his eyes, grimacing at the orange goo it left behind on his hand. Then he flinched as a particularly large glob of slime slid down his neck and disappeared under his collar.

"Dr. Venkman, what happened to you?" she asked, standing and coming out from behind her desk to get a better look.

He whirled around, transferring his glare to her. "What does it look like happened to me?" he asked between clenched teeth. "I've been slimed!"

"You sure have," she agreed, biting her lip hard to keep from laughing. When Dr. V's temper was this close to snapping it was best not to be the one to provoke him. Especially when she needed to ask for an afternoon off later in the week.

Egon Spengler walked around the car from the other side to stand next to Peter, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "We needed bait," he explained with a perfectly straight face.

"So it was me." Peter flicked his arms, deliberately spraying the physicist with droplets of orange slime. "Why is it always me?" he demanded, his voice rising in outrage.

"Well, because you're so good at it," Ray said innocuously. He looked for a clean area on the psychologist's uniform, found a tiny uncontaminated piece of cloth on Peter's shoulder, and carefully patted it in what would have been taken for a sympathetic gesture if not for the grin on his face.

"He's right, homeboy, you really are good at it." Unlike the others, Winston Zeddemore lost the fight to contain his amusement and chuckled openly. But he quickly retrieved the traps from the back of Ecto and made for the stairs when Venkman advanced on him with murder in his eyes. "Think I'll put these guys in the containment unit," he offered, still chuckling as he made his escape into the basement.

Dabbing at the flecks of orange slime on his otherwise clean uniform, Egon suggested, "Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower, Peter? I'm sure you'll feel better afterward."

"I'm taking a shower and a nap," the psychologist declared, dripping ectoplasm with every step as he made his way up the stairs. "And I don't want anyone to call me before dinner."

Ray hurried over to the steps and looked up at Venkman's disappearing back. "But, Peter, what about lunch?"

Spengler's hand on his shoulder brought the occultist back around. "I think Peter needs a nap more than he need lunch right now, Ray. Remember how late he got in last night from his date. I feel sure lack of sleep is adding to his ill humor." The physicist's lips twitched. "That, and the slime covering virtually every square inch of his body."

Ray couldn't help grinning, too, and that told Janine the bust had been a messy one, but not dangerous. None of them would be joking if Peter had been in any danger. Getting slimed was part of the job, although Janine had to admit she'd rarely seen any of them slimed quite that thoroughly. Satisfied that was the worst that had happened to any of them on the bust, she returned to her desk.

"Why is it Peter always makes such good bait, Egon?" Ray was asking. "I mean, we were all out there running around, but those little goopers seemed to really zero in on Peter."

Spengler nudged his glasses back into place with one finger as he and Ray climbed the stairs to the second floor. "It could be something in his metabolic frequency that somehow attracts the attention of certain ghosts. It's a theory I've long held, but Peter absolutely refuses to allow me to run the necessary tests to confirm it." Then he chuckled softly as they vanished upstairs. "Or it could simply be that he goes out of his way to annoy them and they respond accordingly."

"Or it could be," Janine said aloud, fingers flying over the keyboard, "Dr. V won't let anyone else play bait." Peter liked to whine and complain about getting slimed and any number of other inconveniences, but if there had to be a target, Venkman was usually the first one out in front. She had seen it herself on busts she'd gone on, and had heard it from the other three often enough to know it wasn't mere chance that more often than not put Peter out front. Venkman had a fierce protective streak when it came to his friends, and he didn't allow anything--ghosts, demons, demigods, vampires or werewolves--to get between him and his team mates. Janine sighed as she began printing out the invoices. Dr. V could drive her crazy sometimes, but then, she admitted, so could Egon.

*****

"Go 'way." Peter swatted irritably at the hand shaking his shoulder and tried to pull the blankets over his head. He succeeded, but someone pulled them down again.

"Come on, Peter. We've got to go!"

Venkman cracked an eye open to make out the form of Ray Stantz beside his bed, eagerly bouncing from one foot to the other. The sight was enough to wrench a heartfelt groan from his throat. "Not a bust. Please tell me it's not another bust."

"Up and at 'em, homeboy. Let's move it." That was Winston and he sounded grim.

Peter reluctantly opened the other eye and saw activity all around him. "What's up?" he demanded, sitting up and suddenly wide awake.

"Egon thinks it's that demon again," Ray explained, his eyes shining with excitement. "You remember A'nuit?"

"Him again?" Heaving himself out of bed with an effort, the psychologist grabbed a clean uniform and began pulling it on. "We should have scrambled his molecules the last time around," he growled. Raising his voice, he demanded, "Tell me again why we didn't, Egon."

Spengler was in the lab across the hall, frowning in concentration as he made an adjustment to the atomic destabilizer. He didn't bother to look up as he answered Peter's question. "Because he slipped back into his own dimension before we had a chance," he said tersely, raising his own voice in reply. "And the portals he uses keep shifting. We can't seal them if we can't find them."

"Well, this time let's fry his butt and trap him and then we won't have to worry about floating dimensional doorways," Peter muttered, pulling on his boots. He remembered their three prior encounters with A'nuit all too well and he wanted nothing more than to have that demon safely put away in the containment unit. Someone always ended up getting trashed when A'nuit paid a visit.

"Good idea, Pete. Got any suggestions how we might do that?" Winston hurried past him into the hallway. "He's given us the slip three times already. I think he knows all our moves."

"Then we'll just have to come up with some new moves." As Peter left the bedroom, Egon was handing the atomic destabilizer to Zeddemore, who carefully carried it downstairs. He could already hear Ray revving up Ecto in the garage. When Peter started to follow Winston, the physicist snagged his arm. "I want you to be very careful on this bust, Peter."

The seriousness of Spengler's tone made the brown-haired man stop in his tracks to stare at his friend. "I want us all to be careful on this bust," he countered.

Spengler's long fingers tightened around his arm. "I mean it."

"You having premonitions or something?" the psychologist asked lightly, trying to ignore the sudden chill of nervousness that shot through his body.

Egon's blue eyes were grave behind the red frames of his glasses. "I'm simply remembering our last encounter with A'nuit," he said somberly. "Your taunts infuriated him and he made a special point of seeking you out for retribution. We know he is powerful and extremely dangerous, and I am very concerned he may concentrate his efforts on you again." He lowered his head so he was gazing sternly at Peter over the rims of his glasses. "I do not want you to play bait this time out, Dr. Venkman. If it becomes apparent he is singling you out for special attention, to put it bluntly, you get the hell out of Dodge. Is that understood?"

The psychologist smiled faintly and clapped the taller man on the arm. "Understood. But if he starts heading in your direction, you just remember your own advice, big guy. I'm counting four noses going out and I want to count the same number coming back."

*****

Peter climbed out of the back seat of Ecto-1 and stared in dismay at the scene of destruction laid out in front of them. A'nuit, all nine feet of him, was tromping through Central Park, growling and howling, knocking trees over with a mere swipe of his hand, hurling park benches like missiles, and unearthing huge clots of ground with his feet. The place looked like a war zone.

The terrified civilians in the park had long since bolted, and only the bravest--or most foolish--were lingering in the vicinity to watch the Ghostbusters at work. Even the police had retreated to the sidelines, having quickly discovered their weapons had no effect on the rampaging creature. Predictably, the media was out in full force and minicams were capturing the destructive events live as they unfolded. Peter grimaced as he saw the cameramen jockeying for the best positions; he loved being on the air as much as the next guy, but he wished the civilians weren't quite so close. A'nuit had a pretty long reach, and any one of those journalists or on-lookers could be in danger.

The demon chose that moment to uproot a good-sized oak and hurl it an easy fifty yards with no more apparent effort than Peter would have used to throw a softball. "Holy shit," he hissed. "Is it my imagination, or has he gotten bigger?"

"Bigger and meaner." Winston moved up beside him, his thrower already in his hands. "What the hell is he doing, anyhow?"

"Urban renewal?"

"I'm getting some very disturbing readings, gentlemen," Egon announced, frowning prodigiously at the PKE meter in his hands.

"Let me guess," Venkman muttered, unshipping his thrower. "Bigger and meaner, right?"

The physicist slid the psychologist a quick look. "Essentially correct. These readings are stronger than the ones I took during our other encounters with A'nuit."

"But how could his readings change?" Ray asked, his eyes fixed on the demon as A'nuit began tossing park benches into a nearby pond as if he were tossing pebbles.

"I don't know. But--" Spengler broke off, his frown deepening as he stared at the readings.

"What is it, Egon?" Stantz asked, standing on his toes in an attempt to peek over the taller man's shoulder to get a look at the meter's display.

"How very odd," the blond man murmured. "There was a fluctuation in the readings just then as if something were interfering. A sudden surge, but it's gone now."

"Bottom line, Egon," Peter demanded, tightening his grip on his thrower as he continued to track the demon's movements with his eyes. "Can we take him?"

Slipping the PKE meter into his pocket, Spengler pulled the atomic destabilizer from the back of Ecto. "I don't see where we have a choice," he said grimly. "Everyone set to maximum power. That's the only chance we'll have."

"I don't like the sound of that," Zeddemore grumbled, sweeping the battle area with a practiced eye. "If we move on him in a semi-circle, we won't run the danger of any of us getting caught in a crossfire--and maybe we can herd him away from these bozos," he suggested, jerking his head toward the growing number of on-lookers.

"Sounds like a plan," Peter agreed. "Winston, why don't you and Ray cut to the left and Egon and I'll come in from the right." The scientific half of their team sometimes forgot some of the basic rules of self-preservation when they got caught up in the fascination of encountering new non-life forms, and he always felt better when the team was configured so he and Winston were directly covering the other two. Zeddemore gave him a thumbs-up and moved out with Ray. Peter looked over at Egon, who had the destabilizer in his hands. "Ready, pard?"

Blue eyes blazed with determination from behind the red frames. "As I'll ever be. Let's do it."

They moved cautiously but deliberately toward the rampaging demon, hoping to trap him between them and the pond, but he saw them coming and moved with astonishing speed to escape being cornered. The Ghostbusters picked up their pace and followed.

"This isn't working," Ray called over to Egon and Peter. "At this rate he could lead us all over New York."

Venkman nodded immediate agreement. "We've got to try to contain him in the park if we can. Two of us should try to head him off." He shot a doubtful look at Egon. "I'm not sure you're up for a jog with that rocket launcher, Egon."

"I can make it," the physicist replied calmly. "Besides, the destabilizer is our best chance at stopping him. Without it, all our throwers are going to do is annoy him."

"Oh, good, like I really want to annoy this guy."

Waving to get Ray and Winston's attention, Egon pointed to himself and Peter, then gestured to the far side of the park.

Winston and Ray nodded their understanding and Ray yelled, "Be careful!" as Peter and Egon peeled off and began jogging at a brisk pace to try to get ahead of the demon.

Peter led the way, years of chasing ghosts through city streets and up and down flights of stairs with a proton pack on his back keeping him in shape enough to manage with little difficulty. He glanced back now and then to check on the progress of his friend, but Egon was keeping up nicely even with the awkward destabilizer to contend with. They were in the process of crossing one of the small bridges in the park when Peter's radio crackled to life.

"Pete, where are you?" Winston demanded.

Venkman looked around quickly as he snatched the radio from his belt. "Got the Mall in sight. We've almost got him cut off."

"Well, get back here to the lake. He's stopped and it looks like he's digging in for a fight."

"On our way." He and Egon had spun around and were running back toward the others even as Peter signed off. "Why do you think he's stopped, Egon? That's never been his style before. When he thinks he's being cornered, he just blips back to his own dimension."

The tall physicist's face was grim as he picked up his pace, his long legs eating up the distance between them and the other Ghostbusters. "I don't know, but I don't like the sound of it."

"Don't tell me," Venkman panted, "this could be bad, right?"

"Very bad," Spengler confirmed.

"Thought I told you not to tell me that."

*****

They found their team mates and A'nuit with no difficulty. The demon's roars were mixed with the crackle of proton fire, leading Peter and Egon directly to the site of the battle. Only it wasn't much of a battle. With only two proton packs the best Ray and Winston could do was fire off short bursts to keep the demon at bay as he took swipes at them with his deadly claws. This isn't right, Peter thought as he and Egon charged up to take a stance by their friends. He shouldn't be fighting like this. What's he after? Every other time we've cornered him he's cut and run.

Those questions fled his mind as he took a stand by Ray and opened fire. "Having fun, Tex?" he asked, shooting the occultist a wry smile.

The auburn-haired man spared him a glance, but it was enough for Peter to see the shining excitement in his brown eyes. "Isn't this great?" he enthused. "Maybe this time we'll really trap him."

"Nothing I'd like better," Peter muttered, dancing back as A'nuit lunged at him. "Ready with that destabilizer, Egon?" he called, glancing over at his friend. "Now might be a good time to use it."

The physicist nodded, swiftly adjusting the settings on the weapon. "Almost there. I'm adjusting for his increased readings."

Peter frowned as he, Ray and Winston spread out and took turns firing bursts of protons at the demon in an effort to keep him occupied while Egon made his modifications. Venkman was fairly certain A'nuit could rush them and get through the simultaneous beams of three proton rifles, but he didn't even try. He just kept moving sideways and the Ghostbusters had no choice but to trail along with him to keep between the demon and the crowd of on-lookers at the edge of the park. But, again, it felt wrong. A'nuit wasn't behaving in the same pattern he had in their other encounters and that bothered Venkman. He had the uneasy feeling A'nuit was trying to lead them somewhere, and that could only mean a trap.

Suddenly the reason for the demon's actions became all too clear. Reaching a small picnic area, he roared and effortlessly plucked up a picnic table which he hurled at Winston. As Zeddemore quickly flattened himself to the ground with a muttered curse, his rifle slipping from his hands, the demon turned with astonishing speed, picked up a bench, and threw it at Ray. With a cry of alarm, Stantz flung himself to one side, falling to the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him. With Winston and Ray momentarily out of commission, that left Peter with one proton rifle to face a rampaging demon only a few yards away.

"Get that destabilizer working, Egon," he called nervously, backpedaling from A'nuit's steady advance. "I don't want to be a happy meal here."

Behind the demon Peter could see Winston and Ray frantically scrambling to their feet while Egon readied the destabilizer, his lean face tight with tension. A'nuit stopped his progression, raised one clawed hand, and pointed it at the psychologist. Peter felt something like an electric jolt zip though his body, then his world turned black and he felt nothing.

*****

"Peter!" Egon's hoarse shout coincided with the blast from his weapon, but he knew the instant he fired he was too late. A'nuit made a twisting little turn and disappeared just as the bolt from the destabilizer should have hit him. But Egon didn't take the time to think about checking for dimensional doorways or shifting portals; his eyes were riveted to the limp, unmoving form of Peter Venkman laying crumpled on the green grass of the park.

Winston and Ray reached their downed partner's side a scant second before Egon did. Zeddemore knelt over the motionless man and quickly checked for a pulse. A moment later his head shot up and his face was ashen. "I can't get a pulse. And he's not breathing." Then, as if he'd just heard what he said, he gave his head a sharp shake. "CPR, Ray," he ordered, his voice strangely harsh. "Now. Egon--call 911." Without waiting to see if either man obeyed his instructions, he began the methodical chest compression they had all learned in their emergency first aid courses. His face white and blank with shock, Ray moved automatically to take up a position beside Peter's head, his lips moving soundlessly as he counted the chest compressions to know when to begin forcing air into Peter's lungs.

This can't be happening. It cannot be happening! Egon spun around to look for a phone or emergency personnel and for the first time noticed the crowd that had gathered around them. Minicams were everywhere and he could hear the whirl of still cameras as photographers recorded their frantic efforts to revive Peter. A hand on his arm brought him sharply around to find a New York City policeman with a radio in his hand.

"We've called for the paramedics," the officer told him, glancing at the tableau on the ground a few feet away, then back at Egon with stark sympathy in his eyes. "They should be here shortly."

Spengler nodded numbly, then dropped down beside his friends, automatically picking up one of Peter's limp hands and squeezing it gently before moving to grasp the psychologist's wrist. One look at Winston's grim face told him all he needed to know even before he registered the fact there was no pulse to feel. Tears were running unchecked down Ray's face as he forced air into Peter's lungs. "Breathe, Peter, please breathe." The words were coming from Ray in soft sobs and Egon quickly laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Let me take over for a while, Ray." When the younger man shook his head and tried to pull away from his touch, Egon gently pressed Peter's hand into his. "Make sure he knows we're here," he said softly, and moved to take up the rhythm of breathing. The occultist clasped Peter's hand tightly to his chest, his sobs coming in earnest.

Time and time again Egon forced air into Peter's lungs, but Venkman's body made no attempt to react to his desperate ministrations. When Egon raised his head from his resuscitation, he caught Winston's eye and saw the terrible knowledge there before the black man quickly returned his attention to the unresponsive chest under his hands. As they continued to wait for the paramedics, Egon and Winston switched positions, Zeddemore taking over the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation efforts while Egon compressed Peter's unmoving chest, all the while watching frantically for some sign of response. "No," he ground out, forcing himself to maintain the smooth rhythm when what he wanted to do was take Peter by the shoulders and shake him until he opened his eyes. "No, no, no. Don't you give up, Venkman. Do you hear me? Don't you dare give up." But there was no response from the psychologist, not even the faintest flicker of life.

"Egon. Egon."

Spengler barely registered the insistent voice in his ear or the hand that gently shook his shoulder. A moment later a strong arm encircled his chest and he was pulled forcibly away from Peter. "No!" Lunging back toward the still form, he found himself instead wrapped in a steel embrace.

"The medics are here, Egon," Winston said urgently. "Come on, man, let them do their job." It was only then Spengler saw that a bearded stranger in a uniform had taken over mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Winston and another paramedic had worked his way in beside Egon and was busy compressing Venkman's chest, a look of profound concentration on his youthful face.

"Let's get out of the way," Zeddemore was saying.

Egon didn't move. His eyes were riveted to the bearded man's face as the paramedic quickly checked for a pulse. "How long have you been doing CPR?" he asked without looking up.

When all three Ghostbusters hesitated, none of them certain of the elapsed time, the policeman who had placed the call answered, "Fifteen minutes."

The bearded medic glanced up then and exchanged a look with his partner that sent a chill knifing through Egon.

Strong hands suddenly pulled Egon to his feet and turned him away as the emergency team prepared to transfer Peter to the ambulance. There was a haunted look in Zeddemore's dark eyes and a quaver threaded through his voice as he insisted, "This isn't helping anybody. Let's get back to Ecto so we can follow them to the hospital."

"I'm going with him," Ray announced, stepping in front of the other two Ghostbusters. His face was deathly pale as he watched the EMT personnel continue their efforts to revive Peter even as they placed him on a gurney. "One of us should be with him," he insisted, his voice suddenly becoming uncharacteristically strident. "He shouldn't be alone. I won't let him be alone."

He's losing it, Egon realized, and quickly put an arm around the younger man's shoulders, feeling them quiver uncontrollably under his touch. "He won't be alone, Ray," he said gently.

The bearded medic turned and let his hooded eyes sweep over them. "I'm sorry," he said in a tone curt with urgency. "There won't be room. And there's really--" He bit off the rest of the words and looked away, his jaw tightening. After a moment he continued carefully, "We're going to St. Luke's. You can meet us there."

There's really no point. That's what he was going to say. There's no point in going with him because...Oh dear god... Egon stared at the pale, unmoving form that was being loaded into the back of the waiting ambulance and suddenly felt his knees buckle. If Winston hadn't grabbed his arm he would have fallen and taken Ray with him.

*****

Winston felt like someone had kicked him, hard, in the gut. Peter was dead. That single thought echoed through his mind in a growing cacophony until it overwhelmed all others. Peter is dead. He knew it, Egon knew it, Ray knew it. They had known it when their friend's body had been placed into the ambulance to be brought here and they knew it as they waited in the small, private waiting room for final pronouncement by a doctor, a formal validation of the grief that was already chilling their souls.

From his position sagging against the wall, Zeddemore raised his head despondently to let his eyes rest on the other two Ghostbusters. Egon and Ray were sitting side-by-side on the worn sofa, the physicist's long face blank with shock, only his eyes showing any expression at all. The pain there was so searing Winston might have thought the cause was physical if he hadn't known the real reason for it. Beside Spengler sat Ray, his body hunched over so his face was hidden from sight. Winston couldn't see his expression, but Ray's turmoil was evident from the shudders that periodically racked his body and the way his hands were joined in a crushing grip in his lap.

Looking down, Winston discovered his own hands were clenched into balls, the nails biting deep into his palms. For a moment he stared at his fists, then in a surge of angry frustration slammed one balled hand back into the wall, regretting the action immediately when the unexpected noise made both scientists jump.

Ray's head shot up and Winston caught a glimpse of red-rimmed brown eyes before Stantz again dropped his head, this time pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. Egon, who had been staring uncomprehendingly at Winston, immediately turned his attention to Ray as if that movement from the occultist reminded him he wasn't alone. As Winston watched, sorrow ingrained itself even deeper into the lines of the physicist's face, and he slid fractionally closer to Ray, carefully easing an arm around the bowed shoulders. The younger man responded to the touch instantly, dropping his hands and leaning into the offered comfort, tears leaking from under his tightly closed lids. Spengler gently tugged again and the occultist turned completely toward him, pressing his face against the older man's chest. Egon closed both arms around him, running one hand up and down the quivering back in an automatic gesture of comfort. After a moment he looked up and blue eyes, lifeless and empty, met Winston's briefly before sliding shut. The feeling of loss in the small waiting room was almost palpable.

His own eyes burning, Winston took a step toward them, then halted when a white-coated doctor appeared in the doorway. The physician met his gaze somberly and inclined his head toward Egon and Ray, a question in his eyes. Nodding, Winston walked over to the two scientists, laid a hand on Spengler's shoulder and said gently, "Egon."

The blond head raised slowly and Egon blinked his eyes open. When he saw the doctor he stiffened, then dipped his head and murmured something to Ray. Stantz responded by slowly pulling away from the haven of the older man's chest and wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, but he kept his eyes averted, not looking at either the doctor or Winston. As one, he and Egon rose, the physicist keeping one arm around the younger man's shoulders. Winston moved beside Egon and laid a hand on his shoulder and thus anchored, the three of them faced the waiting physician.

The doctor, a dark-haired man even taller than Egon with a thick mustache and deep-set aqua eyes, adjusted his glasses in a gesture reminiscent of Spengler's. He looked at each of them in turn, his gaze sympathetic, before saying quietly, "I'm very sorry. There was nothing we could do. He was already gone when they brought him in."

They had known that, of course, but hearing it confirmed was like being dealt a physical blow. Egon actually fell back a half-step before recovering and finding his voice. "We want to see him," he said, his normally composed voice strained almost to the point of breaking.

The physician nodded. "Of course. We've moved the--Dr. Venkman," he corrected hastily, "to another room so you could have some privacy. If you gentlemen would follow me, I'll take you to him."

*****

They had moved Peter to a small, private room. He had even been transferred from the gurney to a regular hospital bed and the covers were pulled up and smoothed over his still chest. His jumpsuit lay neatly folded on the visitor's chair, his boots placed out of the way underneath. His dark hair, which had been in such disarray after their frantic efforts to revive him, had been combed neatly into place and, although whoever did it didn't have Peter's flair for styling it, the fact that someone had gone to the trouble instead of whisking him directly to the morgue touched Egon deeply. The back of his throat began to burn as he thought how Peter would have loved the attention.

The three of them gathered silently around the bed and looked down at their friend. From underneath the covers peeked the top of Peter's Hard Rock Cafe, The Netherworld T-shirt Ray had given him for his birthday last year. There was no sign of violence on the composed, handsome face, no evidence of any sort of struggle or attack. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, so inexplicably that even after medical corroboration Egon could barely force himself to believe what he was seeing. Or not seeing. There was no sign of life in Peter, no flickering movement under his eyelids, no rise and fall of the blankets to indicate breathing. Egon knew if he laid his head on his friend's chest he would hear no steady, thudding heartbeat and if he touched Peter's skin he would feel no warmth of blood rushing through the veins. Peter's heart had been stilled, his spirit already released.

"Peter."

Ray's choked whisper brought Egon's head up and he watched as the occultist carefully eased Venkman's arm out from under the covers and pressed the limp hand between his. Tears slid unchecked down Ray's grief-ravaged face as he gently massaged the still-pliant skin of the lifeless hand. "I'm sorry, Peter." His voice broke completely on the psychologist's name and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, pressing the captured hand to his chest. "It happened so fast. We didn't know--we couldn't--" The rest of his words were lost in sobs and he could only stand there, his body shaking, Peter's hand clasped in his, as tears streaked down his cheeks.

Egon stood helplessly beside him, his own grief so profound he felt incapable of offering solace, even to Ray. It was as if someone had reached into his soul and ripped out a vital piece, as if he had sustained a wound that would never heal. But even as his own pain threatened to overwhelm him his natural compassion would not be denied. With a soft, shuddering sigh he laid his hands on Ray's shoulders and squeezed. The younger man immediately leaned back into the support, his body shaking with new intensity. They stood like that for a long time until finally Ray let out a long, shaky breath, opened his eyes and gently placed Venkman's hand on top of the covers. "I'll see you on the Other Side, Dr. Venkman," he whispered, his voice hoarse with tears. "We love you." He gave the psychologist's hand one last squeeze, then turned and fled the room.

From their positions across from one another, Egon and Winston shared a long look, then Zeddemore sighed and stepped up closer to the bed. He, too, took Peter's hand, but he didn't say anything for a long time, merely gazed down at their lost friend with deep sadness in his eyes. Egon wondered briefly how many friends Winston had been forced to bid good-bye on one battlefield or another. Zeddemore cleared his throat, then in a quiet voice laced with anger said, "I don't know what happened out there, Pete, but we're gonna find that demon and he's gonna pay. And that's a promise from Winston Zeddemore." He had to clear his throat once more as his voice threatened to give out, and when he spoke again his tone was soft as, like Ray, he carefully replaced the limp hand on the covers. "I'm gonna miss you, buddy. You were one of a kind, and I'm proud to have been your friend. Rest well, Peter. You've earned it." As he walked away from the bed he paused to lay a hand briefly on Egon's shoulder, then left the room.

In the silence that followed, Egon gazed down into the peaceful, vacant face of the man who had been his oldest and best friend. Contrasting the blankness of those familiar features with the animation and mischief that usually resided there, Egon suddenly felt the full impact of his loss. No longer feeling the need to hold his emotions in check for Ray's sake, he allowed his quivering knees to buckle and sank down heavily into the chair on top of Peter's jumpsuit. Fumbling, he pulled off his glasses, dropped his face into his hands and finally released the anguished grief he had managed to keep at bay in Ray's presence. With the door closed, he was insulated from the normal hospital sounds in the corridor outside, and the only noise in the room was the sound of his deep, ragged sobbing.

A thousand images kaleidoscoped through his mind, drawn from the lifetime he and Peter had shared as students, colleagues, partners and friends. Those images were filled with life, laughter, good-natured arguments, intense debates, gleeful teasing, diabolical practical jokes, moments of sheer terror, acts of sacrifice, feats of incredible bravery, and always, always the deepest, most intimate friendship Egon had ever known.

All that was gone, ripped away in one instant of unexplained horror. He would never forget the look of absolute astonishment on Peter's face the moment before he collapsed. He had literally not known what had hit him and for that, Egon could actually be grateful. At least it had happened quickly and, he could only pray, painlessly. Even as Peter had fallen to the ground it must have been too late to save him, although Egon had refused to believe it. There had been so many close calls in their careers as Ghostbusters, so many seeming miracles before, that he had kept believing--hoping--there would be one more. But there was to be no miracle this time, no inspired esoteric scientific solution. There was no antidote to death, even in science. Another sob caught in his throat and he choked on it before it finally escaped. There was more grief in his soul than could ever be released with tears; the pain of this loss would be with him like his own shadow for the rest of his life.

At long last his sobs subsided and he released a deep, quivering breath, straightening with an effort. Wiping his eyes, he replaced his glasses, bringing his friend's composed features slowly into focus. "Oh, my old friend," he murmured, his voice raw from tears, "you have no idea how much you have enriched my life, and how very much I shall miss you." He let his gaze linger on the familiar, pale face, noting how whoever had combed Peter's hair had forced that stubborn wave in front into submission. Peter probably could have done that as well if he'd tried, but Egon had long suspected the psychologist liked the rakish look the unruly curl gave him. Besides, the more hair Peter had to look at in the mirror every morning, the more it probably took his mind off the way his father was rapidly losing his. That particular genetic feature was not something Venkman liked to be reminded of. Standing, Egon curled one hand around Peter's and raised the other, gently threading two fingers into the thick hair to release the captured curl. He watched with a tiny, sad smile as it sprang to life and dipped over Peter's left eye, nearly touching the dark eyebrow. Peter had just been complaining the other day that they'd been too busy recently for him to even get a haircut.

Egon tasted fresh tears as he let his knuckles trail down the side of his friend's face in a gentle caress, struggling to speak over the lump that had formed in his throat. "Know that I love you, Peter," he whispered, straining to keep his voice steady. "Wherever you are, carry that with you." Drawing a deep, bracing breath, he gave the limp hand one final squeeze, then carefully tucked it back under the covers.

After taking an inordinate amount of time to make sure the covers were once again smooth and wrinkle-free, Egon still hesitated, reluctant to leave. Although he knew it was too late for Peter to hear what he was saying--and he would regret that for the rest of his life--he was taking some small comfort in spending time with his friend. He imagined briefly that if Peter were there, he would probably shake his head in affectionate exasperation, tap him on the chest and say, Come on, Spengs, enough is enough already. Get out there and find a way to kick that demon's butt before he hurts someone else. The next time it might be a civilian, or even a child. Find out what he did to me and make sure he never does it again.

As if he had actually heard those words from the psychologist, Egon nodded solemnly. "You have my word." He took one long, last look at his friend's composed face, then in a voice so soft the words were nearly lost even in the silence of the room, said with deep, quiet pride, "It's been an honor working with you, Dr. Venkman." Leaning over, he pressed his lips against the smooth, cool forehead, then quickly turned and strode from the room, not allowing himself to look back.

The hospital room door closed behind him with a soft thud and Egon stood motionless for several moments, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. An important part of his life had just been ripped away and he felt a gnawing emptiness beginning to grow inside him. Abruptly, he opened his eyes, pushed away from the door, and stumbled down the hospital corridor, his mind too numb to even take note of what direction he was going.

The hospital had arranged for the Ghostbusters to have the use of a small, private waiting room to avoid the hoards of journalists who were waiting like vultures outside, ready to pounce at the first sight of one of the team. Without knowing how he got there, Egon found himself standing in the doorway of that waiting room, staring blankly at Winston, who was sitting on the worn sofa, head in his hands.

*****

Winston sensed rather than heard Egon's approach. His head snapped up, he took one look at the physicist's grief-lined face and unfocussed eyes, and jumped to his feet. Quickly crossing the room, he stopped beside the taller man and eased an arm across his shoulders. "Come on, Egon," he ordered gently, "you look like you need to get off your feet for a while."

Spengler allowed himself to be led over to the couch, although it took Winston a moment or two to get him seated. Zeddemore dropped down beside him, his eyes sweeping carefully over the lean form. The trembling that started almost imperceptibly with Egon's tightly clasped hands rapidly spread through his body until he was shaking uncontrollably.

"Oh, man," Winston breathed, and tightened his grip around the blond man's shoulders.

That contact brought Egon's head around, but his eyes were filled with shock and disbelief. "He's gone, Winston," he said, his voice nearly inaudible. "He's really gone. We've lost Peter."

Without a word Zeddemore pulled the grieving man into a hard embrace. He had never seen Egon look so shaken, so utterly lost. There were no words he could offer to ease the soul-deep pain Egon was experiencing, so Winston merely held him, silently supporting him as the racking tremors ran their course. Finally, Spengler's breathing eased out to almost normal and he pulled back. Zeddemore gave him one final squeeze, then released him.

The physicist removed his glasses and wiped his eyes, his hands still noticeably unsteady. "I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely.

"For what?" Winston asked kindly. "I know how tight you two were--and how much you loved him."

Spengler looked at him then, his blue eyes huge and vulnerable without his glasses, the naked pain shining through the lingering tears in his eyes. "I can't even begin to describe what his friendship meant to me," he said, his voice stretched thin with his effort to keep it steady. "He has been in my life for so long it seems impossible to think--" He broke off, pressing a hand tightly against his eyes. "I'm going to miss him more than I can say, Winston. I simply cannot believe he's gone."

Zeddemore sighed heavily, rubbing his own eyes as fresh tears gathered there. He knew how hard Peter's death had hit him, and he couldn't begin to imagine how it must be tearing Egon and Ray apart.

"Ray. Where's Ray?" As if Winston's thoughts had somehow penetrated his, Egon fumbled to get his glasses on as he urgently searched the waiting room for their youngest partner. "Winston, where--"

"He's in the mens'," Winston broke in, laying a calming hand on the physicist's arm. "I checked on him a few minutes ago, but he...I think you're going to have to talk to him."

Spengler nodded, automatically accepting the responsibility inferred in that statement. "He shouldn't be alone right now. None of us should," he added as he got stiffly to his feet, his tall frame sagging under the weight of his grief. He took a step toward the doorway leading to the restrooms, then stopped, his hands clenching. "If only I had been faster with that destabilizer," he blurted. "If only I'd been able to make the adjustments sooner--"

Zeddemore sprang to his feet, grabbed the physicist by the arm and pulled him sharply around. "Stop it," he ordered harshly. "Just stop that kind of talk right now. Nobody made any mistakes out there."

Spengler's anguished eyes locked with Winston's and in a voice choked with pain he corrected, "We lost Peter."

Winston flinched, then recovered, swallowing hard before he attempted to speak. "We lost Peter," he agreed softly. "But you know what Pete would say if he thought you were blaming yourself for that."

A fragile, sad smile touched Spengler's lips. "I can think of any number of things he might say, none of them particularly complimentary."

That drew a weak chuckle from Winston. "I hear you," he grinned, several possibilities playing through his mind as well. Then his grin faded and his tone grew sober again. "Just remember that, Egon. Ray and I were both out of commission out there. Even if you had fired a second or two earlier, there's no guarantee you could have changed what happened."

"No, but--"

"No 'buts'," Zeddemore said flatly. "Just get that thought out of your head right now. Ray and I both know it wasn't your fault--and so did Peter."

If he was hoping to coax some kind of acknowledgment from the physicist, Winston was disappointed. His eyes still stark with dreadful pain, Egon nudged his glasses back into place with a nervous jab. "There will be arrangements to be made," he said, squaring his shoulders. "Paperwork to be seen to, decisions regarding the disposition of--" He broke off, his face stricken. After a moment he continued in a carefully controlled voice, "I'll take care of all the arrangements."

"You don't have to do it all," Winston rebuked gently. "Let us help. We're all in this together, you know."

Egon's eyes flew to Winston's face. "Of course we are," he said immediately. "Winston, don't ever think I'm trying to exclude you--"

Zeddemore dropped a warm hand on the physicist's shoulder. "Never thought it for a minute," he said easily. "I just want you to remember Ray and I are here, too, and we're all gonna have to help each other through this." He gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze, then released it. "None of us are alone in this, Egon. We're still part of a team--that's the way Peter would want it."

Something like wistfulness flickered across Spengler's drawn features and he said softly, "Yes, that is the way Peter would want it. This team was very important to him and none of us will ever forget that." He straightened a little, forcing stiffness into his spine. "I'd better go see to Ray."

"If you want, I'll check on him again."

The blond man shook his head. "Thank you, but I need to talk to him." His face grew bleak as he stared at the opposite wall. "Although I have no idea what I'm going to say."

"There's nothing to say, is there?"

Both men looked around in surprise to find Ray standing in the doorway of the waiting room, his face showing unmistakable evidence of prolonged crying. He seemed completely spent, as if it were taking all his energy just to remain on his feet.

Egon was by his side in an instant. "Ray, are you all right?" he asked gently.

The occultist looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes. "I just want to go home, Egon," he said in a choked voice. "Can we leave now?"

"Of course we can," Egon replied immediately, placing an arm protectively across the younger man's shoulders. Winston moved to join them, taking up a position on the other side of the occultist. They were no doubt going to have to run the gauntlet through the swarm of reporters outside, but Winston already had plans as to what he was going to do to the first media person who stuck a microphone in their faces.

They had just stepped into the corridor when a trio of sober-faced men approached. The first two Winston recognized: one was the uniformed officer from Central Park and the other was the doctor who spoke to them earlier. The third man was dressed in a cheap suit and tie and he had the look of a cop; probably a plainclothes detective, Winston guessed. As the three converged on them, he muttered, "Now what?"

His arm still across Stantz' shoulders, Egon sighed wearily. "Whatever this is about, gentlemen, can't it wait until tomorrow?"

The uniformed officer took a step forward, his tone respectful. "Dr. Spengler, the mayor has arranged for a police escort for you. There's a mob of reporters both outside and back at your headquarters, but if you don't want to be bothered, my men will see to it you get through without any incidents."

Winston felt a rush of gratitude toward the mayor. They hadn't always had the best working relationship with His Honor, but it was good to know the man could come through when it counted.

Spengler's face relaxed and he nodded gratefully. "Please thank His Honor for us. We'll gladly accept--" He broke of abruptly, his already pale features draining even further. "The firehall. Janine." He looked at Winston, his face stricken. "I didn't call her."

Winston scrubbed a hand wearily over his face. None of them had thought to call their secretary about what had happened to Peter. "You say there are reporters at Central already?" he asked the officer.

"It's all over the news," the policeman replied apologetically. "All the local TV crews were there when it happened. It's probably gone national by now."

Zeddemore looked at the physicist. "She already knows, Egon," he said quietly. He hated like hell to think of Janine finding out that way, but there was no way to change it now.

"I should have called her--"

"None of us thought to call her. There's nothing we can do about it now except get back there as soon as we can."

Spengler bobbed his head quickly and turned to leave, only to find his way blocked by the doctor and the other man. "Dr. Spengler," the physician said, "we really didn't get introduced earlier. I'm Dr. Brand and this is Detective Wallace."

Egon nodded impatiently to both. "I'm afraid we're in somewhat of a hurry," he said bluntly. "I know there are arrangements to be made, but perhaps I can call you tomorrow--"

"I'm afraid you don't quite understand the situation, Dr. Spengler," Detective Wallace interrupted. He was a compact man with close-set gray eyes and thinning red hair. He had the look of someone who had decided long ago that in his line of work sparing compassion on victims would only make his job harder. "I'm from Homicide." When that produced no reaction from Egon, he continued, "We'll be needing statements from all of you, of course, but the mayor has asked the captain to delay that for a while." He shrugged. "We already have enough eye witnesses and taped evidence, so that part is only a formality."

Winston could see Egon's patience had begun to run out. "And the point of this discussion, Detective?" Spengler asked with no attempt at courtesy.

Wallace looked at him with dispassionate eyes. "I'm afraid you won't be able to make any 'arrangements' at the moment, Doctor. Due to the circumstances of Dr. Venkman's death we have no choice but to order an autopsy."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then three voices rose as one:

"I will not allow that."

"Man, you're outta your mind."

"You can't!"

Wallace was unmoved. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," he said, although Winston could hear no real regret in his tone. "But I'm afraid we have no choice. Even the mayor agrees on this one. The autopsy is scheduled for nine o'clock tomorrow morning." As Egon drew himself up to square off with the detective, Wallace turned to confront him. "Do you know what caused Dr. Venkman's death?"

The physicist's jaw tightened, but he shook his head. "No, I do not. But we can run tests--"

"We'll be running our own tests. From everything I saw, we've got some kind of creature out there who can kill people without laying a finger on them. We've got to find how he did that to Venkman."

Dr. Brand touched Egon lightly on the arm. "Don't you want to know what caused your friend's death?" he asked quietly.

It was Ray who answered the question in a toneless, flat voice. "What difference does it make? He's dead."

"But perhaps what we learn from the autopsy will help prevent other deaths," Brand pointed out gently.

Stantz turned his grief-ravaged face to Egon. "Don't let them do it, Egon," he begged. "Don't let them do that to Peter."

Winston saw a war of emotions flash across Spengler's face. "He is right in one respect, Ray," Egon said in a carefully controlled voice. "We have to know what it was that...killed Peter. Unless we know, we will be unable to fight A'nuit effectively." He looked down at the occultist, sorrow aging him years. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "But Peter wouldn't want us to risk any more lives."

Winston cleared the lump out of his throat. "He's right, homeboy. If this can help, you know Pete would be all for it."

Stantz looked at them both, then turned his face away.

"We don't need your permission," Wallace told them. "We're simply informing you as a matter of courtesy."

"Courtesy." Winston fairly spat the word. One look at the shaken faces of his colleagues told him enough was enough. Grabbing an arm of each, he propelled them out the door. "We'll take that police escort now," he announced, and as the uniformed officer hurried to catch up, Zeddemore privately pitied the first journalist who had the bad judgment to get in his way

*****

It was a long, silent ride back to the firehall. The officers dispatched as escort did their jobs professionally, and with as much relish as if they were the Secret Service protecting the President. In his job as a Ghostbuster, Winston had had many opportunities to talk with patrolmen all over the city and he had found many of them felt a sort of fraternity with the Ghostbusters due to the danger involved in their respective jobs and the way they each looked out for their partners. That may have had something to do with the determined way the cops plowed through the mob of reporters to get them to Ecto.

Late afternoon traffic was heavy, but Ecto moved through it steadily, aided by the patrol car leading the way. Winston glanced into the back seat several times during the drive, but neither Egon nor Ray seemed to notice. The two scientists sat at either side of the back seat, both staring blankly at the passing scenery. As far as Winston could tell, neither man had so much as uttered a word since they climbed into the car.

He turned his attention back to the street, exhaling softly. At a time when they should be pulling closer together for support, they seemed to be drifting apart, each of them locked into their own private world of pain. He was certain it wasn't deliberate on Ray or Egon's part; both men were too shell-shocked to really understand what was happening. Zeddemore rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing Peter were with them because he would know what to do. Peter had understood the dynamics of their team better than anyone. During bad times, if it seemed they were on the verge of pulling apart instead of pulling together, Venkman stepped in without hesitation. He bullied, cajoled, threatened, teased, blackmailed, whatever it took; but he got them talking. Winston wondered soberly who was going to do that now.

Thanks to the efforts of New York's Finest, Winston was able to pull directly into the firehall and close the door behind them without a single reporter getting close enough to even lay a finger on Ecto. With a sigh he shut off the engine and the three of them sat in the sudden silence, none of them willing to make the first move to climb out.

It was the sight of Janine's tear-streaked face that prompted Egon into action. The secretary was standing in front of her desk, hugging herself as if she were freezing. On her desk Winston could see the small portable TV she kept around for amusement when business was slow. Beside the TV, he could see she had taken the phone off the hook.

The moment Egon stepped out of the car Janine broke and ran. By the time Winston and Ray had climbed out of Ecto, she was wrapped in his embrace, her face pressed tight against his chest. "It's really true, isn't it, Egon?" she demanded, her voice muffled.

The physicist nodded, one hand stroking her hair in an automatic gesture of comfort. "Yes, Janine, it's true."

"But how? Why?" The red-headed woman pushed herself away far enough to stare up at him, anger and pain warring in her tone. "What happened?"

The blond man shook his head, his voice cracking as he answered, "I don't know."

Just when Winston was debating whether to try to peel Janine away from Egon to give the physicist a little space, he heard a strangled sob and quickly turned his attention in the direction it had come from. Ray was standing by Janine's desk, staring at a film clip on the TV that showed in excruciating detail their frantic, and unsuccessful, efforts to revive Peter at the Park.

"Ray, no." Egon took a step toward the occultist, but Winston was faster.

"I don't think we need to see this, Ray," he said quietly, and flipped off the TV.

Ray stared at the blank screen for a moment, then turned and fled up the stairs. Zeddemore took a step after him, then hesitated and looked inquiringly at Egon. But the blond man had already gently disentangled himself from Janine and was moving toward the stairs.

Winston walked over to the petite woman and without a word put his arms around her. She returned the embrace tightly, sniffling near his ear. "I can't believe it," she said shakily. "I've seen it over and over and I still can't believe it."

Zeddemore closed his eyes and sighed. "I was there and I can't believe it."

*****

Egon stood in the doorway of their sleeping quarters, one hand braced against the door frame. Ray was sitting on the edge of his bed, his Dopey Dog stuffed animal clutched tightly to his chest, staring at Peter's bed. It was the sight of Peter's bed that froze Egon also, and caused him to quickly fortify himself against an almost unbearable onslaught of emotions.

Peter's bed was unmade, the covers thrown back hastily when his nap had been interrupted by the bust that had ended so tragically. For some reason Egon suddenly remembered the pillow fight that had broken out between Ray and Peter only a few nights ago and which had rapidly drawn in Winston and himself. It had been an exhausting couple of weeks, with busts seeming to come at ever closer intervals, and a number of very close calls for the team. Spengler suspected Peter had precipitated the diversion deliberately, realizing they all needed a release from the stress that had been steadily building, and knowing a good old-fashioned pillow fight was a good way to do just that.

Tearing his eyes away from the four-poster bed with an effort, he walked slowly into the room and eased down onto the mattress beside Ray. Without a word, he draped an arm around the younger man's shoulders and pulled him closer, then snaked the other arm around Stantz' chest so he had Ray caught in a tight embrace. Ray came willingly, dropping his head to rest on Egon's shoulder. After a few moments Spengler could hear the occultist's breath catching as he fought tears.

"How can he be gone, Egon? How can Peter be gone?"

That was a question that had haunted Egon ever since he had watched the body of his friend being loaded into the ambulance in Central Park. And it was a question that would haunt him for the rest of his life. But he had no answers, not for Ray and not for himself. Instead of trying to offer any type of response he rested his cheek on the top of Ray's head and the two of them sat in silence, sharing their grief, but wrapped in their own thoughts.

"Egon?"

At length Ray's soft voice broke the stillness and Egon raised his head, looking down into the occultist's upturned face. "Yes, Ray?" Stantz hesitated so long and looked so uncertain that Egon prompted gently, "What is it, Raymond?"

The younger man dropped his gaze before saying in a rush, "I'm sorry about the autopsy. I know it has to be done and I know Peter would have wanted us to find a way to stop A'nuit, no matter what it took. It's just..." He shuddered, his voice dropping miserably. "I just hate to think about it. I can't stand to think about what they're going to be doing to him."

Egon felt his own body react with a violent shiver as something he had been desperately trying to block from his conscious mind suddenly forced itself to the forefront of his thoughts. It settled there, dark, heavy and ugly, and would not be moved. It had come to him during that silent, interminable ride from the hospital, and although he had tried to ignore it--even banish it--it would not be ignored. He knew quite clearly what his duty was...he just wasn't certain if he could fulfill that duty and maintain his sanity.

Carefully modulating his voice, he said, "Unfortunately, a simple medical autopsy isn't going to give us anything helpful. It will tell the medical examiner Peter's bodily functions ceased, but it won't tell him why. Along with the autopsy we're going to need more...specialized information. The kind of information that can only be obtained through our equipment."

Ray had been looking at Egon, his face puzzled, but as the significance of what the physicist was saying finally sank in he gasped, twisting around so he pulled out of Spengler's grip. "Egon, you can't!"

"I must," he said quietly, trying to ignore the fact his stomach was trying to turn itself inside out at the very thought of what he was proposing. "One of us must be present to take readings when they perform the autopsy. That is the only way we're going to obtain the information we need to fight A'nuit, and perhaps save a life the next time."

Ray's face filled with horror at what Egon was suggesting. "But, that's Peter! You can't just stand there and watch while--while--" His face drained and he couldn't go on.

"It has to be done, Ray," Egon insisted doggedly. "It's the only way."

Stantz grabbed his hand, squeezing it so tightly Egon winced. "But not you, Egon," he insisted. "There's got to be some other way. Maybe someone else." His eyes lit with sudden hope. "Winston!"

Spengler shook his head, dismissing the suggestion immediately. "I can't ask Winston to do that, Ray, and in any event, all he would be able to do is record basic readings. He doesn't have the specialized knowledge needed to be able to adjust the instruments for the spectrum of readings that will have to be taken." He hesitated, then with as much professional detachment as he could manufacture, said, "We'll only get one chance at this, and we can't afford any mistakes."

Ray stared at him, his face reflecting a mixture of dread and disbelief. Then suddenly he turned away, biting his lip hard. "I can't do it, Egon," he choked. "I'm sorry, but I just can't."

"I know that," Spengler said gently, once again wrapping an arm around the younger man's chest. "Nor would I allow it. I'll be the one taking the readings. That's settled."

Still turned away, Ray squeezed the arm encircling him, then let his hands fall away. "Why did this happen to happen?" he asked in a lifeless voice. "Why did Peter have to die?"

At a loss for an answer to that question as much as Ray, Egon could only shake his head and offer hoarsely, "I don't know."

I don't know. That was the only answer he seemed to have, and with every admission of ignorance his failure weighed on him more heavily.

Twisting in Egon's arms, Ray turned and caught him in a hard embrace. Egon could feel the wetness of tears where the side of Ray's face pressed tight against his and he felt the younger man's body shake as Stantz struggled for control. For several minutes they remained locked together, then Ray slowly pulled away and Egon gently released him.

Scrubbing the traces of tears away with one hand, the occultist asked in a small voice, "What about Peter's dad?"

Spengler's eyes slid shut. He hadn't even thought about Peter's father.

"How are we going to get in touch with him? We don't even know where he is."

"I don't believe you were here when Peter got the letter from his father." Spengler removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes, remembering how upset the psychologist had been over his father's latest scheme. "He's in South Africa."

"South Africa?" Ray's tone reflected his shock.

"Something about a diamond mine. Peter predicted disaster, but by the time he received the letter his father had already left the country. As far as I know he left Peter no instructions on how to get in touch with him." Egon's mouth tightened in irritation. "That was typical of him."

"But we've got to get word to him." Ray's face fell. "Egon, how are we going to tell him about Peter? How are we going to tell him Peter's..."

When Ray couldn't finish the question, Egon sighed and replaced his glasses on his nose. "I'm afraid I know of no way to get in touch with Mr. Venkman at this time." He was silent for a moment, then added softly, "But I don't think we need to be concerned about him reading about it in the papers, not in South Africa. However I will contact the South African Embassy and see if they have any suggestions for locating him. Peter wouldn't want his father finding out about what happened from strangers."

Ray nodded immediately. "We have to try to find him. For Peter."

"We will."

Stantz nodded again, his gaze fixed on Peter's unmade bed. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. "I think I'll take a shower," he blurted, and bolted into the bathroom, closing the door quickly behind him. Within seconds Egon could hear the shower running, although Ray couldn't have possibly had time to get out of his clothes. The physicist listened to the sound of the running water for some time, then climbed slowly to his feet, wishing he knew of some way to help Ray through the worst of his grief, yet at the same time realizing what a hopeless wish that was. Their grief at the moment was numbed somewhat by shock; tomorrow when some of that wore off he was certain the pain would be even more acute. It made him wish the numbness would last longer and go deeper.

As he crossed the room, he paused at the four-poster bed, gazing at the rumpled blankets and discarded socks that peeked out from underneath the frame. Deliberately, and with infinite care, he pulled up the covers, tucked them in snugly and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Only after Venkman's bed was completely re-made did he quietly leave the room.

His feet heavy with weariness, Egon walked across the hallway and stepped into his dark lab, closing the door behind him with a shaky sigh. For some minutes he didn't even turn on the light; he simply stood there in the dark, grateful for the solitude and order surrounding him in his retreat. He badly needed both.

He had just reluctantly flipped on the light when a quiet voice spoke his name. He spun around, heart slamming into his chest, to find Winston standing in the farthest corner of the room. "Winston." Zeddemore's name came out as an explosion of breath. "I didn't know anyone was here."

Winston stepped out of the shadows and walked across the lab to join him, his eyes never leaving Egon's face. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I was coming upstairs to check on you two and I heard what you were saying to Ray." He stopped directly in front of Egon, shaking his head in open disbelief. "Egon, you can't mean what you said in there. You're actually going to take readings at Peter's autopsy?"

Egon stiffened, then turned away and deliberately walked over to his lab table. Without conscious thought he began randomly rearranging the tools he always kept there in perfect order. "It has to be done," he said, praying the other man didn't hear the betraying quiver in his voice. "And I'm the best qualified."

Zeddemore had followed him over to the table and spoke from directly behind him. "I'm not arguing that, but do you have any idea what they're going to be doing--"

The wire stripper in Spengler's hand dropped onto the table with a loud metallic clank. He immediately picked it up again to try to disguise his badly shaking hands. "I know what an autopsy involves." An iron-like grip on his arm abruptly pulled him around and he found himself held firmly in place by two heavy hands on his shoulders.

"And do you have any idea," Winston asked bluntly, "what seeing that done--to Peter--is going to do to you?"

Spengler physically flinched at the question and tried unsuccessfully to pull out from under Winston's tight grip. "Winston, please--"

"No." Zeddemore's tone was almost harsh in its intensity as he tightened his fingers and gave Egon a little shake for emphasis. "Listen to me, Egon. I know what you're saying about that demon and what we might be able to learn from taking readings, but it doesn't have to be you."

"I'm afraid it does," Spengler replied evenly. "The only other person remotely qualified to handle those instruments is Ray, and that is out of the question." Momentarily pushing aside his own anguish, Egon's eyes blazed with sudden, terrible anger. "A'nuit has the ability to kill. We didn't know that and it cost us Peter. We cannot go up against him again until we have some answers. The only way to protect ourselves--and others--is to take the proper readings at the autopsy and find out how he kills." He lifted his chin a little higher. "Peter would understand."

Zeddemore gave a snort of impatient disgust. "Of course he'd understand; that's not the point." Softening his tone, he began gently kneading the stiff shoulders under his hands. "The point is, it shouldn't be you, and Peter wouldn't want it to be you. If you go through with this it's gonna mess you up for the rest of your life, and that's the last thing he would want. You know that."

Egon felt a wave of nausea wash over him again as he thought about what he faced in the morning. A part of his mind argued that it couldn't possibly be worse than what he had faced just a few hours ago at the hospital. But another part of his mind knew it would be one more layer of torment added to a pain he already found unendurable.

"Let me do it," Winston insisted, tightening his fingers abruptly. "Show me how to use those instruments. I'm a quick study. Just show me what to do and--"

Egon shook his head, cutting Winston off. "Thank you," he said sincerely, deeply touched by the offer. He was honest enough with himself to admit he desperately wished he could accept it. "But I'm afraid it would take more than a crash course to be able to handle what will have to be done tomorrow."

Zeddemore's hands dropped from the physicist's shoulders and he took a step back, his face reflecting equal measures of incredulity and anger. "This is just plain wrong, Egon," he stated flatly. "Peter was your best friend. Are you telling me you can just stand there and watch while they cut him open like some--"

"That's enough!" Egon tried to recoil from the explicit images flooding his mind, tried to distance himself from them, but he couldn't. He drew himself up, concealing his shaking hands behind his back. "That is enough," he repeated in a voice he barely recognized as his own. "The decision has been made and this discussion is over."

"Egon--"

Spengler abruptly turned his back on the other man and busied himself at the lab table. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. There's much to be done before..." Before tomorrow morning. There was a long silence behind him, then a hand dropped briefly on his shoulder before falling away. Egon didn't breathe again until he heard the door close softly behind Winston as he left the room. With a shattered sigh, he sank down onto the nearest stool and stared blankly at the jumbled mess of tools in front of him.

*****

Winston stopped by the bedroom long enough to see that Ray had finished his shower and was lying on his bed, his back to the door. He took a step into the room, his initial intention to see if the occultist wanted to talk, then decided against it and withdrew. Ray wasn't any more ready to talk about what happened than the rest of them were. For now they each had enough to handle with the legacy of raw pain Peter's death had left them; later, when the worst of their grief had subsided into aching mourning, would be the time to talk. Zeddemore paused at the top of the stairs and gazed at the closed lab door, his face somber. He just hoped there were three Ghostbusters left to talk when it was all over because he didn't know how Egon was going to survive with his mind intact if he went through with his plans to attend Peter's autopsy.

Giving his head a sharp, frustrated shake, Winston continued down the stairs. Janine was waiting for him, her eyes red-rimmed and anxious. "Are they all right?"

Zeddemore hesitated an instant before answering. "Ray's lying down for a while and Egon's in his lab."

When the secretary's eyes immediately shot to the stairs and she took a step in that direction, Winston lightly caught her arm. "Not yet, Janine. Give them time."

Janine turned her gaze on Winston and he could almost feel her steeling herself for what she was about to ask. "Will you tell me what happened, Winston? I know what I saw on TV, but..." She waved a helpless hand at the silent television. "That can't be all of it. I want to know--I have a right to know, Peter was my friend, too--but I can't ask Egon or Ray."

Winston nodded and gently guided her over to her chair. "You do have a right to know and I'll tell you everything I saw and heard." As she sank down into her chair, her pale face full of frightened expectation, he settled one hip on the edge of her desk and said quietly, "I'll tell you what's going to happen tomorrow, because I think you have a right to know that, too. And because if he goes through with this, Egon is going to need all the help and support we can give him."

*****

Almost two hours later Winston was finally able persuade Janine to accept a ride home in the police cruiser still parked outside the firehall. She had listened to the story of Peter's death stoically, only the naked pain in her eyes warning Winston how close that carefully constructed control was to cracking. To an outsider Janine and Peter's constant verbal sparring might have given the appearance of two people who neither liked nor respected one another, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Janine was one of the few people Peter had allowed into his finely-defined and fiercely protected inner circle of friends. And Janine had trusted Peter enough to confide in him during troubled times in her personal life. When he had offered her an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, she had used both more than once. Peter had teased her unmercifully with the same gleeful enthusiasm an older brother would tease a kid sister, and she responded to the verbal battle of wits with a skill that at first had surprised, then challenged him.

When Winston had told her everything up to the ride back from the hospital, the tears shimmering in her eyes finally spilled over, trailing slowly down her cheeks. Looking around at the firehall, she whispered, "It won't be the same around here without Peter. I-I just can't imagine this place without him." She turned her gaze back on Winston. "It'll never be the same again without him. Nothing will. Not even Egon."

"Maybe especially Egon," he had murmured, and told her about the physicist's plans for the next morning. It had been hard at that point to restrain her from rushing upstairs to try to talk some sense into Spengler, but he finally convinced her nothing anyone said at this point would get through to him. All he could hope for was that after Egon had an entire night to confront the idea of what he planned to do, they could convince him there had to be another way to obtain the information they needed to fight A'nuit.

After Janine had gone he listened to the unnatural silence of the firehall. Slimer had been gone all day, probably out raiding garbage cans again; when he got on that kick he could be gone for days. Winston was just glad they didn't have to deal with the Spud's reactions when he heard about Peter; they all had enough to handle without Slimer's histrionics on top of it, but sooner or later they would have to face that too.

Dismissing that thought for later, he headed for the kitchen. His stomach rebelled at the thought of food and he was sure Ray and Egon's would, too, but he had to make the effort. Maybe they could at least manage some sandwiches. As soon as he pulled the refrigerator door open, he stopped, his eyes sweeping over the collection of low-fat, no-fat, cholesterol-free, tofu-infested foodstuffs lining the shelves: Peter had done the food shopping yesterday. For a man who kept junk food under the pillow of his bed in case of a midnight snack-attack, he was scrupulously health-conscious when it came to buying their groceries. For a moment a soft smile creased Winston's face as gentle memories wafted through his mind. Then reality crashed down and his smile vanished. With a sigh he pulled out a plate of ham, some fake mayonnaise, and set about making sandwiches.

The first challenge facing him was where to set up the meal; he didn't think any of them were ready to confront Peter's empty place at the table just yet. So he chose the TV room, but was careful to turn on the stereo so no one would unthinkingly switch on the television and encounter news reports of Peter's death.

He congratulated himself for having the good sense to go after Ray first. The occultist's initial response was as apathetic as Winston had expected, but a little talking on his part persuaded Ray he was the only one who could coax Egon out of his laboratory. As Winston suspected, when Ray urged Spengler to join them and try to eat something, Egon didn't hesitate. If Ray had asked him to walk downstairs on his hands, Spengler would have probably given it a shot.

None of them ate much, but at least they were together and talking, and that was a great deal better than all of them grieving alone in separate parts of the firehouse. After much deliberation Winston had chosen Simon & Garfunkel for the background music, remembering how Peter loved their songs and often played their albums when he was in a contemplative mood. The three of them ate and talked quietly while the duo's bittersweet tunes played softly in the background. Not surprisingly, it was Ray who first mentioned their lost partner.

"Remember that Simon & Garfunkel concert Peter took us to in college, Egon?"

A slow smile creased the physicist's face, momentarily easing the lines of sorrow there. "I remember it was an outdoor concert and it poured rain the entire time," he said wryly.

"Yeah, but we didn't mind," Ray remembered, his tone wistful. "Peter always said that was the best concert he ever went to."

"He caught a cold right after it," Egon recalled. "It got so bad we were afraid he had pneumonia."

"And he wouldn't go to a doctor so your mom came into town and gave him all those Spengler home remedies."

A chuckle escaped Spengler's lips at the memory. "For weeks after that he ran at the sight of a blender."

Ray laughed, too, but there was the shine of tears in his eyes. "Those were good times," he said, his voice catching.

From his position on the sofa beside Ray, Egon draped an arm across Stantz' shoulders. "We had many good times," he said softly, "for many years, and we have the memories of all those years. Peter will always be with us, Ray, because we will always remember him."

*****

And a rock feels no pain

And an island never cries

*****

Ray nodded, wiping his eyes with one hand. "I know. But I'm going to miss him so much."

The blond man nodded, too. "So will I," he agreed, his bass voice not quite steady.

Winston, who had been sitting apart from the other two on a chair, stood and walked over to join them, taking up a perch on the coffee table so he was facing them. "We're all gonna miss him." He smiled faintly. "I'm even gonna miss his singing in the shower."

That brought the scientists' heads up. First surprise, then approval and gratitude sparked in Egon's blue eyes. "And I shall miss the damp towels he left strung all over the floor after his shower."

"Aw, come on, guys," Ray started to object. "He didn't always..." Then a sadly affectionate smile touched his lips. "And I'll miss coming back late from a hard bust and finding my bed short-sheeted."

Spengler cocked his head, his eyes taking on a faraway look. "Having my socks full of slime because Peter told Slimer I had jellybeans there."

"Not having clean clothes to wear because he could never remember it was his turn to do laundry," Zeddemore mused.

Ray was silent for a moment before offering, "Grounds in the coffee?" It was a well-established fact that Peter was a more than competent cook, but he was renowned for making the worst coffee in the firehouse. The others looked at him, then all three began laughing, though it was the kind of laughter that bordered on tears. When it died down, Ray laid his head on Egon's shoulder, admitting softly, "I'm going to miss it all."

Spengler tightened his grip on the younger man to pull him a little closer.

*****

when darkness comes and pain is all around like a bridge over troubled water

I will lay me down

*****

His voice steady, but filled with emotion, Egon said quietly, "And I shall miss his generosity of spirit, his loyalty, his compassion, and the friendship and trust we shared." He let out a shaky sigh, his voice beginning to quaver. "I shall miss that most of all."

"And the way he could make us laugh," Ray added, his voice hoarse with tears. "He could always make us laugh, no matter how bad things were."

"And the way he could always get us to talk," Winston recalled. "Even when we didn't want to."

"Especially when we didn't want to," Egon amended.

Zeddemore nodded agreement, a fond smile of remembrance on his face. "He always knew when something was bugging one of us and he wouldn't let up until he got us to talk about it."

"He taught us a lot, didn't he?"

That quiet observation from Ray made the other two men look at each other, realization slowly flooding their eyes. "Yes, I suppose he did," Egon agreed, his lips quirking. "He would have loved to hear that."

"I wish we had told him," Stantz murmured.

Winston leaned forward and laid a hand on the occultist's arm. "I think we just did, homeboy," he said seriously.

Ray seemed to consider that for a moment, then nodded, closing his eyes with a broken sigh and burrowing his head a little deeper into the hollow of Egon's shoulder. "Maybe you're right, Winston. It still feels like Peter's around, doesn't it, Egon?"

The physicist nodded, his blue eyes both thoughtful and sad. "He will always be here, Ray. And he will always be with us, in our hearts, wherever we go."

*****

if you need a friend I'm sailing right behind like a bridge over troubled water

I will ease your mind

*****

It was nearly eleven before the music and the reminiscing gradually came to an end. When Winston quietly suggested they should try to get some sleep, leaving unspoken a reminder about the ordeal which faced them all tomorrow, Ray reluctantly roused and sat up, wiping at the dried tears on his cheeks. But Egon didn't move. Spending the last few hours with Ray and Winston reflecting on their lives with Peter made him realize how badly he had needed to talk about his friend. For the time they had joined together he had been able to draw some comfort from their shared memories. But he could feel an aching loneliness seeping into his soul and he knew sleep, or even rest, was an impossibility for him. Even if by some miracle he did sleep, he knew what he would dream about; at least awake he had some control over the thoughts and images in his mind.

"Are you coming, Egon?"

Spengler looked up at Ray's question, then shook his head. "I think I'll stay here a while longer."

Stantz looked like he wanted to say something, but instead sighed. "See you in the morning."

Winston lingered after Ray left the room, offering, "Would you like some company?"

The physicist raised his eyes to meet Zeddemore's compassionate gaze. "I think I'd rather be alone, Winston, but thank you."

The black man nodded his understanding, but dropped a hand on Egon's shoulder as he passed behind the sofa. "I don't think I'll be sleeping much tonight, so if you decide later you want to talk..." Zeddemore let the invitation dangle, and Spengler nodded his thanks. The warm weight disappeared from his shoulder and he heard Winston climb the stairs.

For a time there were some sounds from upstairs: Winston's inquiring voice, Ray's murmuring reply, too soft for Egon to make out the words, padded footsteps, then silence...all encompassing silence. Egon sat on the sofa in the dim light in the TV room, listening to the quiet surrounding him and trying to keep unwanted images at bay. Failing miserably, he shot to his feet, walked quickly into the kitchen where he dropped some ice cubes into a glass, then returned and poured himself a scotch from the small bar in the corner. He let the first swallow of the smoky-flavored liquid burn its way down his throat before he moved again, this time to the stereo. After carefully returning the Simon and Garfunkel disks to their cases, he placed one of his own favorite albums in the CD player, turned the volume down so as not to disturb Ray and Winston, and returned to the sofa.

As the haunting music swirled around him, he drank his scotch, called upon his memories of Peter, and didn't try to suppress the tears sliding down his cheeks. Peter Venkman had put a stamp on his life, had had a hand in forming his personality, and had contributed immeasurably to his happiness and contentment, just as surely as he had provided those same things to Peter. Their lives had been completely intertwined since they were young men at college, their respective paths through life shared from that moment on. Through good times and bad, flush and lean, life and death, Peter had been there by his side. It seemed impossible to believe he would no longer share that journey with his friend, would no longer have Peter's unquestioning support and unflagging humor to see him through whatever that journey brought.

At length, his drink finished, he set the empty glass aside and got stiffly to his feet, weary, but too restless to sit still. Walking aimlessly around the room, he let his gaze touch on the personal items filling the room. Their lives were completely integrated at the firehouse, yet they had each carved out personal space for themselves: Egon had his upstairs lab; Ray his workshop in the basement; Winston's chosen area more or less revolved around Ecto, his pride and joy; and Peter's private space was his office. But in the TV room it all came together. They gathered in the kitchen to eat, in the bedroom to sleep, and in the labs and library to work, but here they gathered to relax, to talk, to unwind after a hard bust, to celebrate birthdays and Christmas, or to share losses and pain.

Egon came to a stop by the bookcase along one wall and gazed at the books lining the shelves. They had a library in another part of the firehouse where he and Ray kept their research and reference materials, and Peter kept his professional journals in his office, but this bookcase held their personal libraries. It was crammed with Winston's mystery novels, Ray's science fiction books and Peter's Dewey LaMort westerns. Standing out among the paperbacks was a set of beautifully bound hardback books and Egon carefully pulled one from the shelf, running his fingers over the fine leather. He remembered how surprised he had been at Columbia to discover Peter was an avid Tolkien reader. (It turned out to be only one of many surprises he was to encounter as he and Peter continued to explore and define their burgeoning relationship.) At the time Venkman's Tolkien collection had been comprised of used paperbacks, dog-eared and tattered from use. On their first Christmas at Ghostbuster Central, Egon's present to him had been this beautiful hardcover set. Astonished and delighted, Peter had given the set a special place of honor on the bookshelf. With a sigh that bordered on a sob, Egon slid the book back into place, his fingers lingering on the spine before slipping away.

*****

As I walk the rooms

there before me a shadow

from another world,

where no other can follow.

*****

It would be a long time, Egon knew, before he would be able walk through any room in the firehall without seeing Peter's shadow in every corner. It would be an eternity before he ever stopped missing him.

*****

Forever searching; never right,

I am lost

in oceans of night.

Forever hoping I can find memories

those memories I left behind.

*****

There it was, the struggle Egon was facing: finding memories and holding onto them so tightly they would never slip from his grasp. Because more than anything, both for his sanity and out of respect for his friend, he knew he had to remember Peter as Peter had been and not as Egon would be forced to see him tomorrow. The thought that the images of Peter's autopsy would be the memories of his friend he would carry for the rest of his life brought fresh pain to the anguish already burdening his heart. He could not allow that to happen. He would not allow that to happen.

Standing by the bookcase, one hand gripping the edge of a shelf, Egon squeezed his eyes shut and called upon the lifetime of memories, the millions of images of Peter he had stored in his brain, and focussed on them. In moments he not only had Peter's image, but the sound of his voice as well. Egon drew a deep, unsteady breath and relaxed a little as those memories poured forth. The image of Peter was fixed in his mind and in his heart as sharply as if the psychologist were standing in front of him; he could hear his friend's voice in his ear as clearly as if Peter were relating his latest grievance with Slimer. The pain of such vibrant recollections was incredible, but there was comfort to be found there, too. He began to believe it would be impossible to lose those memories, impossible for him to think of Peter any other way but alive, happy with his chosen work, content with his life, and secure in the love of his friends. No matter what Egon saw tomorrow, he would always have his treasured memories. Nothing could interfere with that. Squaring his shoulders, he lifted his chin a little higher. He could do this. He could handle it.

With a sigh he opened his eyes, swaying slightly from the combination of alcohol on a near-empty stomach and the flood of sheer relief at his sudden conviction. With that certainty in mind, he was about to turn away and return to his lab to finish preparing for the morning when another book caught his eye. His hand was practically brushing it, and he froze in momentary hesitation before slowly sliding it out of its place. Causes of Death, a book Winston had picked up at one of the mystery bookstores he frequented. It outlined various methods writers used to instill death in their characters and contained a rather graphic forensic guide regarding investigation of the cause of death. He remembered vividly an animated discussion Zeddemore and Ray had over the breakfast table about one particular chapter until an irritated Peter put an end to it by threatening to throw the book into the containment unit.

It wasn't a very thick volume and it took him only a few moments to locate the chapter he was seeking: The Autopsy. His hands were trembling as he began turning the pages, forcing himself to scan the paragraphs for hints of what he might be facing. Years in the scientific world had given him a good idea, of course, but if he could get a more specific idea of what to expect, perhaps he could prepare himself for it in some way. If, indeed, there was truly any way to prepare for what duty demanded he do tomorrow. Then he turned an innocuous-looking page and came face-to-face with an illustration of an autopsied body. The book fell from his hands and he spun around, running for the kitchen. He barely made it to the sink in time.

When he finally stopped retching, he fumbled his glasses off and laid them aside, then spent a long time splashing cold water on his face until he finally felt recovered enough to straighten. Turning the water off, he gripped the edge of the sink to brace himself while the mixture of water and tears slid down his face. "I can't do it," he whispered brokenly. "I can't do it, I can't do it, I can't do it." But if he thought that admission would bring him peace, or absolution, he was wrong. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the weight of his responsibility came crashing down, and for the first time in his life he cursed his intelligence, knowledge, and skills, because it was those gifts which made him quite literally the only man in the world who could do it.

After a restless night with unpleasant dreams wrecking what little sleep he did get, Winston finally got up before dawn. He refrained from turning on a light so as not to disturb Ray, but the occultist was already awake and rolled over in his bed to stare through the darkness at Peter's empty bed.

"It all seems like a bad dream, doesn't it?"

Zeddemore sighed. "Yeah, it does. It doesn't seem any more real today than it did yesterday."

"But it is real. Peter's dead."

The flat, lifeless quality of Ray's voice prompted Winston to turn on his light so he could see Stantz' face. There was so much naked pain in the younger man's eyes Winston quickly tried to draw his attention outward rather than let him continue to focus inward. "Egon never made it to bed," he pointed out, indicating the physicist's untouched bed. "We'd better check on him."

Ray's head snapped up at that and when he, too, saw Spengler's bed, covers still in place, he pulled himself up, throwing his legs over the side of his bed. "He shouldn't have stayed up all night, not alone like that."

As the two of them headed for the door, Zeddemore observed, "I don't think he could have slept last night anyway, not with knowing what he has to go through today."

The auburn-haired man stopped short and looked at Winston. His face was startlingly pale, but there was a quiet determination in his brown eyes. "I'm not going to let him go through that alone, Winston. I don't think I can stay in there when they..." He faltered briefly, then continued, "But I'm not going to let him go through that by himself. I'm going with him."

Winston nodded solemnly. "Me, too, homeboy. Me, too."

Stantz offered a bleak little smile at that, and the two of them continued out of the bedroom. It didn't take them long to locate Spengler. Although the door to his lab was closed, a slim beam of light from underneath spilled out into the hallway. Ray knocked gently, then opened the door without waiting for a reply.

When Egon turned to face them Winston decided instantly he would rather face a class seven alone with one thrower than confront the kind of demons Spengler had apparently fought last night. The physicist's long face was haggard with exhaustion and grief, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that made Winston catch his breath.

"Egon." The shocked note in Ray's voice conveyed his concern, and he quickly crossed the room to lay a hand on Spengler's arm. "You should have tried to get some sleep last night," he chided gently.

The blond man gestured vaguely toward the pile of equipment on the lab table. "I needed to make some adjustments on the equipment."

Ray ran a quick eye over the various pieces. "Do you need some help?"

"No, I finished a couple of hours ago. I've just been...sitting here."

"Why don't you try to get some sleep now?" Stantz insisted, his voice kind and soothing. "It's still pretty early. It's hours yet before we have to leave."

"We?" Spengler's eyes sharpened at that. "You're not--"

"Yes, I am," Ray stated firmly.

"And so am I," Winston added levelly. "So why don't you do like Ray suggests and grab some shut-eye. We'll call you in plenty of time."

Egon barely heard him. Looking at Ray, there was something like panic in his eyes. "Ray, you shouldn't be there--"

"None of us should have to be there," Ray interrupted, his voice so soft it was barely audible. "But if one of us goes, we're all going." His fingers tightened around Spengler's arm. "Now please try to get some rest, Egon."

The physicist looked at him, the panic of a moment ago replaced by an expression of such hopelessness Winston had to avert his eyes. "Just for a little while," he agreed, his normally resonant voice weary and almost toneless. "We have to be at the hospital by nine."

Winston clapped him on the arm. "We'll be ready. You grab some sleep."

Spengler laid down the tiny screwdriver he had been fingering and quietly left the room. After he disappeared into the bedroom, Ray let out a shaky breath and swallowed hard. "I'll make some coffee," he said, and abruptly left the lab.

Winston paused only long enough to flick off the light, then he too left the lab, closing the door behind him. He heard Ray in the kitchen as he went downstairs and continued on to the office area. It had just occurred to him that they had all gone to bed last night with the ringer on the phone turned off. As he expected, the answering machine was blinking like mad, and he dropped down into Janine's chair, assigning himself the task of clearing the calls.

Twenty minutes later, he was tapping his pen against the desk top as he stared at the list of messages he'd transcribed. The majority were requests for statements or interviews from all manner of news media. A few were from people whose names Winston didn't recognize, but as they claimed to be calling from universities across the country or carried the title 'Doctor', Winston assumed they were colleagues or old friends of Peter's; he'd pass them on to Egon to be dealt with later. The calls that couldn't wait were in response to messages left by Egon's mother, Ray's Aunt Lois and Cousin Samantha, and his own parents.

He called his folks first and spent the first part of the conversation explaining to his worried father what exactly had happened, and then trying to calm his frantic mother, who had concluded after seeing the initial news reports that if the demon had killed Peter, there was nothing to stop it from killing Winston too if the Ghostbusters faced it again. When he finally hung up he felt drained.

After a brief debate with himself, he picked up his pad with the remaining messages and headed for the kitchen. There he found Ray staring at the Mr. Coffee as a stream of coffee trickled down into the glass coffee pot. "Ray?"

The engineer looked around and Zeddemore held up the message pad. "Your aunt and cousin called last night. They both sounded pretty upset."

Stantz' face fell. "Gosh, I never thought about calling them. I'd better do that right now." Turning away from the counter, he crossed the kitchen to the door.

As he moved past Winston, the black man added, "There was a message from Egon's mom, too."

Ray paused in the doorway, his face troubled. "I wish she hadn't heard about Peter like that," he said sadly. "She really liked him. And he thought she was terrific. I remember one time at Columbia..." He stopped suddenly. "I've gotta stop doing that."

"Doing what, Ray?" Winston asked, his tone understanding. "Remembering?"

The auburn-haired man nodded briefly, his eyes filling. "Hurts too much," he said, then turned away quickly, but Winston snagged his arm before he could make his escape.

"It would hurt a lot more," Zeddemore told him very gently, "if you didn't remember."

The younger man bit his lip, but nodded in slow agreement. "I know. But right now it hurts...all the time, all over." Raising his eyes, he gave Winston a heartbreakingly helpless look. "And I don't think it's even really sunk in yet."

Winston sighed heavily, privately acknowledging the same was true for him. He still expected to see Peter, rumpled from sleep, eyes half-closed, come shambling into the kitchen and mumble an incoherent plea for coffee.

"I'd better go call Aunt Lois and Sam," Ray said, breaking into Zeddemore's silent reverie. "Then I'll give Mrs. Spengler a call. I don't want to wake Egon up yet if he's asleep, but she's probably really worried about him."

"I can do it if you want," the other man offered, wondering if Ray was really up to handling all three phone calls. He knew how hard his own had been.

Ray gave him a frankly grateful look. "No, I'll do it. But thanks." With that, he disappeared through the doorway, leaving Winston to watch over the still-dripping coffee in its glass pot.

*****

If Egon had gotten any sleep at all in the few hours allotted him, it didn't show. Paused at a stop light, Winston glanced into the rear- view mirror of Ecto and took a moment to study both silent scientists in the back seat.

Those phone calls Ray had made back at the firehall seemed to have taken what little starch he had left out of him. Stantz had been gone so long Winston had gone to check on him and had unintentionally overheard part of his conversation with Mrs. Spengler before silently withdrawing to the kitchen. When Ray returned several minutes later, his eyes were red and puffy but he said nothing about his exchange with Egon's mother. Now he looked tired and defeated, his shoulders slumped, and his bloodshot eyes reflected a deep dread of what lay ahead.

In contrast, Egon's face was a mask of non-expression, his air one of total distraction. Or rather, Winston decided, total detachment. In view of what the physicist had laid out for himself in the way of duty, Winston didn't know how else Egon could cope with it other than trying to disassociate himself completely from his feelings for Peter. He felt a strange mixture of awed admiration and exasperated anger with the physicist. He knew he himself didn't have the guts to do what Egon was planning to do at the morgue; but he also felt Spengler had assumed a burden he wouldn't be able to bear, and he couldn't help believing there had to be some other way to obtain the information they needed to defeat A'nuit. The fallacy of that logic, of course, was that if there had been another way, Egon Spengler would have thought of it. As deeply grieved as he was, his remarkable, logical brain hadn't stopped functioning.

Putting those thoughts aside as not helpful to anyone, Winston returned his attention to navigating through the rush hour traffic. He didn't want to think about the next few hours any more than Ray and Egon did.

They arrived at the hospital in silence, and in silence made their way to the basement housing the morgue where Peter's body had rested overnight. The antiseptic smells were harsh enough to turn Winston's stomach, but Egon appeared not to notice them. His face was completely impassive, his eyes expressionless as they made their way down the brightly lit corridor. It was Egon who put his hand on the door knob of the door marked Morgue and, although there was no hesitation in his movements, Winston saw the betraying tremor travel through the physicist's lean form. "Please wait out here."

When Ray took a step forward, Winston snagged his arm and held him back. He had no illusions about Ray's emotional ability to handle what lay ahead, and knew any debate would only make it harder on Egon.

But before Spengler could open the door, Dr. Brand came striding quickly down the corridor. "Dr. Spengler, wait." Startled, the physicist's hand fell away from the door knob as if burned. Right behind Brand was an expensively dressed man with thinning straw-colored hair and an anxious look on his face. "We've been trying to reach you," Brand said, coming to a halt in front of them.

"Is there a problem, Doctor?" Egon asked in what was meant to be a professionally detached tone.

"I'm afraid there is." The physician nodded toward his companion. "This is Mark Weiderman, the Hospital Administrator."

Spengler's shoulders straightened and his voice took on a hard, determined tone. "If you've come to challenge my right to be here, Mr. Weiderman--"

"No, no, nothing of the sort," Weiderman assured him hastily. "We have orders from the mayor himself to cooperate with you gentlemen in every way possible."

"Then what's the problem?" Winston asked.

Weiderman looked nerously around at the people passing in the corridor. "Could we continue this conversation in my office, please?"

*****

"You what?" From across Weiderman's desk, Egon stared uncomprehendingly at the hospital administrator.

"You lost Peter's body?" It was the sound of Winston's voice, filled with sick disbelief, that cut through Egon's fog of incredulity and made his stomach clench with the awful realization.

"You don't just 'lose' a body, Mr. Weiderman." Egon could feel his fingernails biting into the wooden arms of his chair. He could also feel his composure slipping badly.

"A body just doesn't get up and walk away," Zeddemore said sharply, on the verge of shouting as his own self-control began to crumble. "Not unless--" As soon as the words left his mouth he looked like he wanted to bite off his tongue. He slid a quick, guilty look at Ray, who up to then had been sitting in shocked silence.

"Unless he's alive," Stantz breathed, hope sparking in his dulled eyes and giving his face life again. Eagerly he turned to Egon, desperate to receive confirmation from the physicist, but Spengler could only shake his head and grip Ray's arm, squeezing it tightly.

"Ray, no," he whispered hoarsely. "Don't."

"But he could be hurt or in shock and wandering around somewhere. That's why--"

"Dr. Stantz," Brand interrupted gently. "Dr. Venkman was dead on arrival at the hospital. I assure you that fact was confirmed."

Ray clenched his jaw stubbornly. "Then where is he?" he challenged. "Where's his body?"

Brand glanced at the hospital administrator, then confessed, "I'm afraid we don't know."

"This is monstrous." Egon's voice vibrated with anger. "I want an answer and I want it now. Where is Dr. Venkman's body?"

Weiderman took a deep breath and laid his hands on his desk before replying. "We have hospital security, of course, and I assure you, all due diligence was observed. But we are not in the habit of checking on the bodies during the night. There's no need. Dr. Venkman's body was tagged and placed into storage last night; when it was sent for this morning for preparation of the autopsy, it was simply not there."

"That is not an answer," Spengler said flatly.

"But I'm afraid it's the truth," Weiderman replied carefully. "We've notified the police and they're conducting an investigation. Until they come up with something..." He spread his hands apologetically. "I'm afraid all we can do is wait."

Winston, who had listened in silence as Weiderman told his story, asked quietly, "Has this ever happened before?"

The administrator cleared his throat. "Actually, yes, on two other occasions. Once, a few years ago, some college students stole a body as part of a fraternity initiation. It was returned the next day."

"And the other?" Zeddemore pressed when Weiderman didn't continue.

Weiderman frowned as if remembering something quite distasteful. "The other occasion happened last year. We managed to keep it out of the press--more for the family's protection than ours. Gentlemen, I can't impress upon you enough that what I'm about to tell you cannot leave this office."

Egon's lips thinned. "And I cannot impress upon you enough," he ground out, "that if you do not cooperate with us in every way to locate Dr. Venkman's body, the press will be the least of your worries."

The administrator's Adam's apple bobbed once, then he nodded. "Of course. From what the police were able to gather, there was some sort of Satanic cult operating in the city at the time. They were never able to apprehend anyone but they were able to recover the body after the cult discarded it." A delicate shiver passed through Weiderman. "There were certain...atrocities perpetrated on the corpse, presumably in some type of ritual."

Ray's breath caught in a sharp gasp and Egon had to swallow rapidly to force down the hot bile rising in his throat. Although most of their real enemies were in the containment unit, there were certain fringe groups involved in all manner of dangerous occult studies who considered them adversaries. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility that one of those groups had decided to steal Peter's body and use it in some sick, twisted... "Oh, god," he whispered, his eyes sliding shut. Almost immediately he felt a strong, warm hand gripping his shoulder as Winston rose to stand behind him and Ray.

"What are the police doing?" Zeddemore demanded.

"Everything they can," Weiderman assured them sincerely. "I understand the mayor himself has chosen the people to head up the investigation. Believe me, gentlemen, everything possible is being done to recover your colleague's body."

"I don't think any of us are quite ready to leave this in someone else's hands," Winston said bluntly. "Egon, Ray. Let's go home. We've got work to do."

The ride back to the firehall was silent except for Ray's soft sobs. In the back of Ecto Egon held the younger man close, forcing his own grief back with only the greatest effort. But it was more than grief: it was anger and fear and a terrible despair. Deep, unrelenting anger at whoever had stolen Peter's corpse; desperate fear for what the thieves might do to their friend's body; and despair that they would never have the chance to lay him to rest. They hadn't been able to save him from A'nuit; they should have at least been able to put him to rest with all the dignity, care, and love their friendship warranted. Now they were going to be denied even that.

He had toyed briefly with the idea of offering a reward for the return of Peter's body, but had rejected it almost immediately. That would have guaranteed an even more escalated media circus, complete with lurid tabloid headlines, sightings of Peter ... la Elvis, false leads, and bodies of every John Doe in the country being offered for the reward. No, he wouldn't do that to Peter's memory. Nor would they trust that the police were doing everything possible. Egon had dismissed the possibility of a prank at the outset. Even a fraternity prankster far below Peter's caliber would have realized the type of furor that would erupt over the snatching of a body as famous as Peter Venkman's and would have known every cop in New York City--plus the remaining Ghostbusters--would be looking for him. No, Peter's body was taken by someone, or several someones, who had no intention of returning it. Since there was no moral purpose behind stealing a body, the logical conclusion was that the purpose was heinous. Since it was a Ghostbuster's corpse which had been stolen, Egon took that logic one step further to the subsequent conclusion the theft had some connection to the supernatural. Since the supernatural was the realm in which the Ghostbusters worked, they were best equipped to conduct a successful investigation. Looking down at Ray's tear-stained face, Egon drew in a deep, broken sigh. They certainly had the most incentive.

*****

Janine was waiting for them when they arrived back at Central. She rushed over to the physicist as soon as he stepped out of the car, her eyes searching his face. "Egon, are you okay?"

Realizing she was referring to the autopsy, he took her hands in his and squeezed them gently. "They didn't do the autopsy, Janine."

Relief flooded her features. "Oh, I'm so glad. I was so worried about you--"

"Janine, please." When she stopped, he took a deep breath. "They didn't do the autopsy because some time between last night and this morning Peter's body was stolen from the hospital."

The secretary's face went dead white. "Stolen? But who would--"

"We don't know," Winston said grimly as he passed. "But we're sure gonna find out."

Ray, who had regained his composure shortly before they arrived at the firehall, said quietly, "I'll start calling some of my contacts and getting my notes together," and disappeared in the direction of the library.

"And I'll pull our old files and start going through them," Zeddemore added, heading for the cabinets next to Janine's desk.

Spengler looked down at Janine's shocked face. "We believe whoever took Peter's body may somehow be connected either with some cult or the supernatural. The police are investigating at the hospital but we are going to see if we might be able to come up with anything."

The redhead, though badly shaken, nodded immediately. "I'll help. We'll find those creeps, and when we do..." She left the threat hanging, but from the fierce look on her face there was little doubt what she had in mind for the body snatchers was a good deal less pleasant than anything the Ghostbusters could ever imagine.

Egon watched as Janine and Winston began to pull out files, then blurted, "I'll join you in a moment." Ascending the stairs at a run, he didn't stop until he was inside his lab with the door shut behind him. He leaned back against the door for a long moment, tears burning his eyes, before he stumbled over to a stool and sank down at the lab table. Dropping his forearms on the table, he curled the fingers of one hand around the nearest object, an empty test tube, and braced himself against the tremors that racked his body as the long-denied reaction finally set in. It had all been too much: First the indescribable pain of Peter's loss, then the night spent grieving and agonizing over what he thought he faced this morning, and finally the shock of discovering Peter's body had been stolen from them.

Some still-functioning part of his brain woke up the instant before the glass tube would have shattered in his clenched hand and he threw it to the floor rather than simply relax his fingers. For a moment he stared at the tiny fragments of broken glass, then without thinking, picked up another empty test tube and threw that to the floor as well, feeling some grim satisfaction at the sound it made and the way the shattered pieces scattered on the wooden floor. Another tube followed. Then another. And another. He wasn't even aware of the tears streaking down his face as he methodically emptied the table of the carton of glass tubes that had just been delivered the other day.

When the last one hit the floor, he sagged as if suddenly drained of every ounce of energy in his body. He stared at the mess of fragmented glass glittering on the floor, then smiled shakily as he removed his glasses and wiped at the wet tracks on his face. "Oh, Peter," he murmured, &quo