From his upstairs lab Egon Spengler could hear the outside door slam, and it wasn't long before hurried footsteps sounded on the worn stairs of the firehouse. Ray was back from his day spent in research at the library, and Egon knew what the first words out of his mouth would be.
"Did Peter call?"
The physicist raised his head from the PKE meter he was methodically disassembling and gave Ray Stantz a studied look. "Not yet, Ray. But I'm certain he'll call soon."
The occultist's youthful face creased in a combination of puzzlement and concern. "Why would Peter just up and leave like that? Why couldn't he have waited at least until we got back?" Dumping his armload of books onto the lab table, he dropped down into a chair. "He should have called by now," he muttered to himself. "Why hasn't he called?"
Egon stifled his sigh. He and Ray had been through this question and answer session countless times over the last forty-eight hours without any satisfactory conclusion. Ray still had questions, and he still had no answers.
Two days ago Peter Venkman, recovering from the worst case of flu Egon had ever seen (Peter didn't get ill often but when he did, Spengler once observed, he usually carried it to extremes) had sat out what should have been an easy bust in a candy factory across town. The job, however, turned sour in a hurry and the three Ghostbusters had spent the entire afternoon chasing two extremely playful and very enterprising poltergeists.
When they finally got back to Ghostbuster Central, it was to an empty firehouse. Peter was gone, leaving only a short, vague note stating he had to go away for a few days and would call soon. From the scrawled handwriting and the state of Venkman's bureau drawers, most of which had been yanked open and left that way, the psychologist had left in a hurry. The three remaining Ghostbusters had spent the last two days speculating--both aloud and silently--about what might have happened to call Peter away so urgently.
Remembering their earlier run-in with the Hob, Winston suggested Venkman's father was most likely the cause of Peter's sudden departure. Either Venkman, Sr. had come up with a new scheme Peter wanted to put a stop to, or--more probably--the man had gotten himself into a jam and needed his famous son to bail him out. It was a likely scenario and Ray had latched onto it immediately, more to convince himself Peter's disappearance hadn't been caused by anything really serious, Egon suspected, than from any actual belief in it.
Spengler offered no theories of his own, preferring to keep his worry to himself. Outwardly he maintained a calm appearance for Ray's sake, but inwardly his unease grew as two days passed without any word from their friend. Peter could be impetuous and self-indulgent at times, but he was never thoughtless where his friends were concerned. He would know what kind of questions and concern his abrupt departure would have raised, and it was not like him to leave them hanging like this.
The physicist was still trying to come up with something new to offer on the subject when the phone rang. Stantz sprang for it, eyes shining with hope.
"Hello?" The way Ray's face lit up told Egon instantly it was finally Peter. "Peter! Are you okay? What happened? We've been worried--" Stantz broke off his questions, looking surprised. "Yeah, he's here. But--" The auburn-haired man listened a moment longer, then slowly turned to Egon and held out the phone, a combination of hurt and bewilderment in his brown eyes. "He wants to talk to you." Spengler accepted the phone in some astonishment as Ray turned away, gathering up his books. "Guess it's personal," the younger man mumbled and abruptly left the room.
Egon stared after him, then quickly raised the phone. "Peter?" This was getting more puzzling by the moment. Peter would never rebuff Ray like that, especially when he must have known the younger man would have been worried sick about him. "What on earth--"
"Egon, don't say anything. Just listen, okay?"
There was none of the usual warmth in Peter's tone. He sounded distant and detached...and weary beyond belief. "All right," Egon said carefully, fighting down his rising concern.
"I'm sorry I ran out like I did, but it was an emergency." Egon opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it again and waited. "And tell Ray I'm sorry, okay? But I just couldn't tell him like this."
When the psychologist didn't continue, Spengler prompted cautiously, "Tell him what, Peter?"
There was a long silence, broken finally by Venkman's quiet, "Mom died."
The physicist was stunned. For a moment he couldn't speak at all. Then a wave of compassion overwhelmed him. "Peter, I'm so sor--"
"Don't, Egon," Peter interrupted sharply. "Just don't, all right? I've spent the last two days trying to track down my dad, talking to funeral directors and lawyers, and trying to remember the names of relatives I haven't seen in years..." Venkman stopped long enough to catch his breath, and when he continued, his voice was so low Egon had to strain to hear him. "...and if you say one nice thing to me right now, I'm gonna lose it. Can you understand that?"
Spengler's eyes slid shut and he felt his grip tightening on the receiver. Yes, he understood all too well. When Peter was suffering from a head cold or a bad day or any one of a hundred other little indignities life threw at humans on a daily basis, he expected--no, demanded--sympathy from his buddies. But as Egon knew from past experience, when real tragedy struck Venkman's initial reaction was to withdraw within himself. He needed time to try to deal with his own emotions before he was able to deal with anyone else's. Egon's heart ached for his friend, but the one thing he could not do was tip the balance of Peter's precarious control--not while he was out there alone and without their support.
So it was with a great deal of control that Egon finally asked in a carefully composed voice, "Were you able to locate your father?"
"No," was the short reply. "I guess the news'll catch up with him sooner or later. The funeral's tomorrow..."
Venkman didn't finish the thought and Egon's mouth tightened at the despondency in the younger man's tone. The psychologist badly needed all the support he could get right now, and his father could have gone a long way toward helping him through this. An unhappy sigh involuntarily escaped his lips. "I wish I could be there for you, Peter," he murmured.
"Nothing you could do. Nothing anyone can do." There was a brief pause. "But thanks. I know you mean it." Spengler heard the waver in his friend's voice and had to force himself to keep silent. He knew the wrong word, no matter how well intended, could shatter Peter completely right now. When Venkman continued his voice was stronger, but strangely hesitant. "Look, Egon, could you...would you tell Ray and Winston--and Janine? I don't think I can--"
"Of course," he interrupted quickly, relieved to be able to do something, anything, to help. "I'll take care of it," he promised.
"Thanks, Spengs." There was real relief in Venkman's tone. "And try to explain to Ray...I just couldn't talk to him, not tonight."
"I'll explain it to him, and Ray will understand," Egon assured him. "We all understand," he added gently.
"Yeah, well..." Suddenly Peter sounded anxious to get off the phone. "I'd better go--"
"Peter, wait." Egon pressed the phone a little tighter to his ear as if that action could bring him closer to the psychologist. "Take care of yourself." That wasn't just an automatic entreaty to a friend. Peter was still recovering from the aftereffects of an illness and his resistance right now was practically nonexistent. He was already under incredible stress; Egon didn't want him to compound his physical problems by neglecting to sleep and/or eat properly.
The voice that responded was undeniably weary but laced with the kind of warmth that could only come with the years of intimacy they had shared. "I'm okay, Egon. Really. Don't worry."
Don't worry. Egon had to restrain himself from sighing out loud."Of course I'm going to worry, Peter," he replied in the sternest voice he could muster, hoping Venkman would respond to that when he wouldn't--or couldn't--respond to anything resembling sympathy.
He was rewarded with a shaky laugh over the phone. "Yeah, I know you will, and a little is okay, but not too much, all right? I'll get through this."
Spengler nodded to himself and said solemnly, "I know you will, but I--we all--would like to be with you right now to help you through it."
There was a long silence, followed by the sound of a deep, weary sigh. "I know I shouldn't have run out on you like that without any explanation, but when the call came through, I just kind of blanked. I don't even remember getting to the airport or the flight out. All I do remember is thinking I had to get out here right away." There was a brief, painful pause. "I don't know why I was in such a hurry. It wasn't like there was anything I could do. It was already too late..."
When Peter's voice trailed off, Egon said quickly, "You couldn't have known, Peter. It must have happened quite suddenly."
"It did. And, no, I couldn't have known, but still..." This time the psychologist's voice caught. "I just wish I could've said good-bye...told her I loved her..."
"I'm coming out," Spengler decided abruptly. "I'll catch a flight out tonight and be there--"
"No, Egon, I don't want you doing that." Venkman hurried on when the physicist tried to interrupt. "Look, the funeral's tomorrow, I've got relatives coming out of the woodwork, and for the next couple of days I'm going to be up to my eyebrows in paperwork trying to get Mom's estate in order. I appreciate what you want to do, but there isn't anything you can do out here."
Egon understood Peter's argument even while he disagreed with it, but the last thing he wanted to do was add any pressure to his already stressed friend. "I'm afraid I'm feeling a little useless, Peter," he admitted finally. "I wish there was something I could do."
The psychologist's soft reply sent a warmth through Egon's chest. "You're doing it, pal. Just don't ever stop doing it, okay?" Before Egon could even think what to say to that, Venkman changed his tone completely. "And don't you guys go taking any dangerous jobs while I'm gone, you hear?"
"Of course not," he said immediately. "If we take any jobs at all, I'll make sure the three of us can handle them."
"Yeah, well, just make sure you don't let Ray pick the jobs. He has a real problem distinguishing between 'fun' and 'dangerous'."
"We'll be careful," Egon promised, knowing how badly Peter needed the reassurance right now.
"You'd better." Peter's voice faded as if he were talking to himself. "I don't want to come back to find out something's happened to one of you, too."
Egon frowned. "Peter--"
Venkman broke in hurriedly, "I've got to go, Egon. I'll see you guys in a couple of days."
Then, before Spengler could say anything more, Peter had hung up. Slowly, and still frowning, he gently replaced the receiver in the cradle and took a deep breath, allowing the grief he felt for his friend to slowly wash through him. He called up a mental image of Peter's mother and his sorrow deepened. Peter may have gotten his blarney and irreverent nature from his con man father, but he had inherited his sensitivity, determination and core of practicality from that lady.
Sighing, Egon slipped off his glasses and rubbed his stinging eyes. Her loss would be a terrible blow to Peter, and helping him work through it would not be easy. Replacing his glasses on his nose, he reached over to flick off the desk light. There was nothing he could do for Peter until he came back home, he admitted regretfully. Now he had another problem to attend to. Crossing the room, he stepped out into the hallway and went in search of Ray.
"Do you need anything, Egon?"
Egon looked up at Winston from his supine position on the sofa and managed a wry smile. "Perhaps another head," he retorted dryly. "This one seems to be out of order."
Winston grinned sympathetically. "Man, you're lucky you've still got a head. I thought we'd lost you back at that warehouse."
"It wasn't supposed to be that difficult," Egon said in some disgust, gingerly fingering the bandage that covered the stitches in his hairline. "I should have been able to bust that Class Two in my sleep."
Winston gently swatted the physicist's hand away from the bandage. "Maybe you had other things on your mind," he pointed out. "Maybe we all did."
Spengler's eyes met Zeddemore's solemn ones, and he nodded in silent agreement. The last couple of days at Ghostbuster Central had been somber ones as they waited for Peter's return. They hadn't heard from Venkman since his phone call two nights ago, and the strain of worrying about him was getting to them all. Winston was right about their minds not being on their work. They probably shouldn't have taken the job, no matter how simple it sounded.
"I brought you a soda, Egon," Ray announced, hurrying into the room. "How are you feeling?"
Egon smiled reassuringly, trying to ease the anxiety on the younger man's face. "Just a headache, Ray." He accepted the can of soda and pushed himself up carefully. Stantz immediately bent over and slipped an arm around his back to help him up. Ray tended to worry copiously about any one of them when they were sick or injured, and he was already so distressed about Peter that his anxiety level was through the roof. "I'll be fine in the morning."
The occultist's face hadn't regained much of its color since he had witnessed Egon's spectacular fall earlier that day. "Gosh, Egon," he breathed, "when I saw you go over that railing--"
"His life flashed in front of your eyes, right, homeboy?" Winston teased, trying to break the mood.
Egon threw the black man a grateful look as Ray managed a weak smile. "Something like that. I really thought--"
"Hi, guys. Miss me?"
Three heads snapped around at the sound of the familiar tenor voice. Peter Venkman, looking like a shadow of his normal, cocky self, was leaning against the door frame, a deliberately casual smile on his face. Stiffly pulling himself into a sitting position, Egon had to force himself not to let his dismay show. Despite the psychologist's promise to take care of himself, he had obviously neglected even the basics. Peter's face held an unhealthy pallor and it was drawn and pinched with fatigue. Spengler wondered if he was leaning against the wall to appear nonchalant or because he would drop over if he didn't have some support.
"Peter!" His face alight with relief, Ray bounded across the room toward the psychologist. Then, just as he reached the brown-haired man, Stantz held back. Egon didn't know whether Ray sensed something in Peter's mood that made him hesitate, or whether he suddenly remembered Egon's gentle admonition not to overwhelm Venkman when he came home. Like Ray, Spengler searched their friend's face, looking for clues how to proceed.
To Egon's relief, a slight, crooked smile touched the psychologist's lips, and one eyebrow arched. "You mean you didn't miss me?"
That was all the invitation Ray needed. He threw his arms around the other man and engulfed him in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry about your mom," the occultist whispered.
Pain flickered across Venkman's carefully stoic face but his voice was calm and steady. "I know, pal. Thanks." He gave Ray an answering squeeze, then quickly backed out of the embrace.
But before Venkman could back completely away, Winston stepped up and pulled him into a warm bearhug. "Been a rough few days, hasn't it, Pete?" he murmured.
Peter's eyes slid shut momentarily, but his face never lost its impassive mask. "The worst," he agreed. Zeddemore gave him a final, friendly squeeze, then released him. The psychologist immediately turned to look for the person he expected to see next. As soon as the green eyes fell on him, Egon saw Venkman stiffen. "What the hell happened to you?" Peter blurted.
The answer came from all sides and all at once.
"It's really nothing, Peter--"
"It was a Class Two specter, Peter. Gosh, you should have seen it--"
"It was an accident, man, pure and simple--"
Venkman obviously heard none of the explanations. His pale face flushed with sudden color. "Damn it, Egon, what did I tell you about taking dangerous jobs! I'd expect something like this from Ray, but I thought you, at least, had enough sense to know not to take a job that called for a full team--"
"Hey, ease up, Pete." Zeddemore laid a large, firm hand on Venkman's shoulder, instantly stopping his tirade. "It was an accident, that's all." Tightening his grip, he turned Peter around until the psychologist was looking at him. "It was an accident," he repeated, more gently this time. "It didn't happen because you weren't here."
Peter's lips tightened until his mouth was a bloodless slash in his face. Then the air whooshed out of him as he dropped his head on his chest. "Sorry, Winston," he mumbled.
Winston grinned and gave Venkman's shoulder a little squeeze. "I'm not the one you should be apologizing to, m'man. I've still got my head."
The brown head raised slowly, and a sheepish smile reluctantly found its way to the psychologist's face. "Good point," he murmured. Turning away from Winston, Peter walked over to the sofa and slowly sank down beside Spengler. Without a word, he slung an arm around the older man and pulled him into a tight hug. "Sorry, buddy," he whispered. "I didn't mean to yell like that. It just...gave me a scare, that's all."
"I know, Peter," Egon replied immediately, wrapping his own arms around the younger man and pulling him closer. "It's all right."
After a moment, Venkman's tense muscles relaxed and Egon released his grip, allowing Peter to pull back and study him critically. "Are you all right?" Before the physicist could answer, Peter sent a stern look to Stantz. "Is he all right, Ray?"
"He's fine," the occultist assured him. "He needed a few stitches, but the doctor said there wasn't any concussion. He's just supposed to take it easy tomorrow."
Slowly, the lines of worry eased from the psychologist's face and he threw Egon a satisfied grin. "You must be okay; Ray never could lie to me."
"I'm fine," Spengler assured him, then let his eyes sweep the younger man's face. "You, on the other hand," he said with a slight frown, "look exhausted."
Peter immediately averted his eyes. "Yeah, well, right now about eighteen hours of sleep does sound like an awfully good idea," he admitted. With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet. "We have anything set for tomorrow?"
The other ghostbusters exchanged uneasy glances. "Well, we were supposed to have a call at ten," Ray said slowly. "A repeater at a toy store. But when Egon got hurt, we decided to cancel it--"
"No reason to cancel," Venkman interrupted, heading for the door. "The three of us can handle it."
Stantz immediately turned to follow him and either didn't see, or chose to ignore, Egon's sudden warning head shake. "Egon's right, Peter. You do look wiped out. Do you really think you should--"
"Yes, Ray, I really think I should," Venkman snapped, whirling around to confront the occultist. "And I really think you should keep your--" Suddenly he broke off, a stricken look on his face. "Oh, shit," he muttered, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Ray, I'm sorry." Misery filled his eyes as he raised his gaze to meet Stantz'. "You know how I am when I don't get enough sleep--"
"It's okay, Peter," Ray said quickly. "We understand." Stepping forward, he laid a sympathetic hand on the psychologist's arm. Peter's outburst had both surprised and hurt him, but Stantz had already put it behind him. Right now, taking care of Peter was first and foremost in his mind. "You're out on your feet. Why don't you try to get some sleep?" Then he smiled, an unexpected hint of mischief in his eyes. "We'll let you sleep as long as we can tomorrow, but if you give us any grief when we try to wake you for that bust, we're going to sic Slimer on you."
Peter blinked in surprise at the sudden change in tone, then his fatigue-lined face relaxed a little.
Egon felt a surge of pride in Ray Stantz. It was Ray's nature to react with honest, unreserved compassion when one of his friends was troubled or in pain; it must have taken a massive effort for him to suppress that instinct and use humor--one of Peter's tactics--to break the tension. The psychologist needed nothing more at that moment than to be treated as if nothing had changed in his life. He wasn't ready yet to accept their sympathy or lay open his own pain, or even, Egon suspected, to accept the loss itself. While Egon understood that side of Peter Venkman, he knew Ray did not.
"You're a hard man, Doctor Stantz," Venkman proclaimed and headed for the stairs, immediately accepting the escape Ray had offered. "See you guys in the morning." He paused with one foot on the stairs and looked back at Ray. "Make sure he"--nodding toward Egon--"makes an early night of it, too."
The occultist nodded. "He won't be far behind you," he promised.
Nodding his satisfaction, Peter disappeared.
As soon as Venkman was out of sight, Ray's forced smile vanished and he walked over to a chair and sank down, shoulders slumping. Winston threw a comprehensive glance first at Stantz, then at Egon, and tactfully cleared his throat. "Speaking of Slimer, I think I'd better find the spud before he realizes Peter's back. I don't think Pete could handle the Slimer Welcome Wagon tonight."
"That's a good idea, Winston," Egon agreed, his eyes on Ray. After Zeddemore had withdrawn, Egon opened his mouth to speak, but Ray beat him to it.
"I really blew it with Peter, didn't I?"
"Of course not," Egon replied immediately. "You know how Peter gets when he's over-tired. He was just reacting to the strain he's been under, not to you."
Stantz' chest rose and fell with an expansive sigh. "I guess." He ran his fingers through his hair, then dropped his hands onto his knees. When he looked at Egon, his open features reflected his concern. "Do you realize we don't even know how Peter's mom died? We don't know what happened, we don't know how he found out, we don't know--"
Egon interrupted gently, "When Peter is ready, he'll tell us. Until then we'll just have to let him set the pace. You know as well as I do we can't force him to talk about it."
"I know that. But--" Ray shook his head in honest bewilderment. "I remember what it was like when my folks died. I would have given anything to be able to talk to someone about it. I mean, really talk. I didn't have any real close friends back then. But if I had..." He turned imploring eyes on Spengler. "I think I can help him," he said softly. "I know what he's going through."
The physicist nodded solemnly. "I know that, Raymond. And I believe Peter will turn to you...in time. But you must let him choose the time." Pushing himself slowly to his feet--when had his muscles stiffened up so?--he walked over to where the auburn-haired man was sitting and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "We all want to help him, and we will, I promise you. But I'm afraid it's going to take time." His fingers tightened on the younger man's shoulder as his thoughts focused on the psychologist. "It worries me, too, that we don't know what happened," he admitted. "Nor do we know what he might have gone through in the last four days. I know Peter has never been close to the relatives on his mother's side of the family. And I doubt very much he was able to locate his father." He allowed himself a momentary scowl as he thought of that. "It can't have been easy for him handling everything alone."
"Why didn't he wait for us?" Ray asked quietly. "Any one of us--all of us--would have gone with him in a minute. Why did he run off like that? And why did he shut us out?"
"And why is he shutting us out now?" Spengler added, asking the question the younger man hadn't voiced. Ray nodded. "I don't know," the blond man answered honestly. "I wish I did." Settling his hip on the arm of the chair, Egon draped his arm around Stantz' shoulder and said very carefully, "When you are hurt or troubled, your first instinct is to seek out someone and talk about what's bothering you. Peter's first instinct is to withdraw within himself and put up a wall to keep everyone out. I don't know why. Perhaps it started when he was a child as a sort of defense mechanism. From what Peter has told me about his childhood, it was just he and his mother most of the time. I gather they didn't have an easy time of it and money was often scarce. When he was troubled or hurt, it's possible he tried to deal with it himself rather than burden her." He tightened his arm briefly. "What I do know is we can't tear that wall down. Peter has to do it himself."
"But he's in so much pain," Ray whispered, his brown eyes miserable. "I hate seeing him like this. I just keep thinking if it were one of us, Peter would know what to do."
"I know," Egon agreed. "But we're here for him now, and he knows when he's ready to talk, we'll be here to listen."
Stantz was silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed. "I don't like it. But I guess all we can do is wait."
"I'm afraid so."
The auburn-haired man craned his head to give Spengler a discriminating look. "Well, you'd better do your waiting in bed, at least for now." Getting to his feet, Ray took the physicist's arm and firmly turned him toward the stairs.
Remembering the scare Ray had had that morning, Egon allowed himself to be steered upstairs without so much as a murmur of protest.
Winston was careful to keep Peter in sight as the four Ghostbusters searched the appliance warehouse for the malevolent Class Five they were stalking. This particularly nasty specter had already eluded them once before in another location and they were determined to put an end to the chase once and for all today.
Up ahead Venkman turned a corner, and Zeddemore followed while trying to make it look like he wasn't. Peter had been back at the firehouse for four days now and had not brought up the subject of his mother even once in that time. It was as if the time he had been away--and the reason for his absence--had never happened. Winston frowned slightly as he watched Venkman's progression. He and Ray had both gone to Egon to voice their concern about Peter and, even though Spengler was just as worried as they were, he counseled patience. Winston trusted Egon's judgment implicitly, especially where Peter was concerned, but he knew something Spengler and Ray did not: the psychologist might be presenting an all's-right-with-the-world appearance for everyone else to see, but things were not all right where his work was concerned. Peter Venkman was definitely off his form.
Winston had first noticed it on a job two days ago. It should have been a simple bust, as busts went. At the very least it should not have turned into the near disaster that it had. And it wouldn't have, if Peter had had his mind on what he was doing. Zeddemore was willing at first to put it down to the fact he knew Peter still wasn't feeling well. He also wasn't sleeping well or eating much of anything. Combined with the stress he had been under, that was reason enough to be slow on a job.
But then yesterday it happened again, and that time it had nearly gotten Peter killed. Ghostbusting was dangerous enough without someone going into it with something else on his mind. Of his fellow Ghostbusters, Peter had always been the one Winston knew he could count on to be completely aware of his surroundings. More than once both he and Peter had bailed out Egon when he got so caught up in scientific readings he didn't see danger, or Ray when he charged enthusiastically into a situation without giving danger a thought. But Peter was different. He possessed the kind of street smarts that gave him the same edge Winston had acquired in Nam. Going into a job as a Ghostbuster was a little like going into combat, and while Egon approached each job with scientific fascination and Ray looked at each bust as a grand new adventure, he and Peter entered each new bust with their battle senses on full alert. There was a natural wariness to Peter Venkman that had kept him, and the rest of the Ghostbusters, alive on more than one occasion. That's why his recent near-misses on the job worried Winston so. Venkman had walked away from those by sheer luck alone; next time he might not be so lucky.
Which was why Winston had appointed himself Peter's shadow. He wasn't about to let one of the best friends he had ever had get himself killed because he had too much on his mind to think about self-preservation. He hadn't gone to Egon or Ray about this latest wrinkle. They hadn't witnessed either debacle and besides, they were worried enough already about the psychologist; he sure didn't want to add to it. His plan was to stick to Peter like glue when they were on a job and hope Venkman soon came to grips with the grief that was slowly tearing him apart.
As he followed Peter in the dim warehouse, his eyes swept their surroundings and he concentrated on keeping an eye out for danger to Peter as well as himself. This particular ghost was the one that had nearly taken out Venkman yesterday, and he sure didn't want to give it another chance. The first time they had encountered this Class Five Peter had likened it to a garbage bag with teeth, Winston remembered. It was a pretty good description.
Suddenly Zeddemore stopped, his battle sense screaming a warning. There was a noise...he looked around sharply, trying to locate the source. Then he sensed movement overhead and his gaze shot upward. Dangling from a rope on a crane was a crate marked 'refrigerator', and hovering right above that crate, red eyes glittering, was the ugly, dark specter they had been stalking. And standing right under the crate was Peter. Before Winston could aim his thrower, the grinning phantom swooped at the rope, teeth bared.
"Pete! Look out!"
Peter snapped around at the sound of Winston's frantic shout and looked around wildly for the danger. He looked everywhere but up.
Deciding in a fraction of a second that blasting the refrigerator could bring down enough shrapnel on Peter to kill him just as easily as the whole appliance could, Zeddemore stowed his thrower and threw himself at the psychologist in a desperate tackle. The crash of the falling crate nearly deafened him as they hit the floor. Winston didn't even take time to catch his breath. He pushed himself off the downed Venkman, made sure the Class Five had disappeared, then stared at the remains of the crated refrigerator laying barely a foot away.
"Pete? Man, are you okay?" Venkman hadn't moved or made a sound, and Zeddemore quickly eased him up into a sitting position. "Peter?" The psychologist gazed groggily at him, and Winston winced at the blood flowing liberally out of the younger man's nose. "Popped you a good one, didn't I?" he murmured, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressing it gently against Venkman's nose. "Sorry, man, but it was either that or watchin' you get squashed like a bug."
Venkman blinked at Winston. "What the hell...?" Then he noticed the refrigerator next to them and his green eyes widened in awful realization. "Where did that come from?"
Now the crisis was over and he knew Peter was all right, aside from a bloody nose, Winston felt his adrenaline rush quickly channel into anger. "Didn't you hear me yell? Didn't you hear that gooper? He was right over you! Where the hell is your mind?"
Venkman took the bloody handkerchief from Winston and gingerly dabbed at his still-bleeding nose. "Right where it's always been," he mumbled, the pressure on his nose giving his tone a nasal quality. "And do you have to yell?"
"Yes, I think I do," Zeddemore shot back testily. "Damn it, Pete, do you know how close you came--" Breaking off, he took a deep breath and tried to regain control of his temper.
The psychologist gave him a long look. "Yes," he said quietly, "I think I do." Hooking one arm around Winston's neck, he tightened it in a fierce squeeze. "Thanks, buddy," he whispered.
Winston returned the hug, shaking his head at the close call. "This is the third time in three days," he murmured. Venkman stiffened immediately and tried to pull away, but Zeddemore only tightened his grip. "I know about the other two times," he continued in a level voice. "C'mon, man, you can't go on this way. Maybe you should take a few days off--"
"I don't want a few days off," Venkman snapped, and this time he did pull out of Winston's grip. "Just let it go, Winston."
"Let it go?" Zeddemore stared at the tightly set face only inches from his. "You nearly get yourself killed on each of our last three jobs and you want me to let it go? Pete, your mind isn't on the job. You're a danger, not only to yourself, but--" He broke off as fury flared in the psychologist's green eyes.
"Go ahead," Venkman said coldly. "Say it. I'm not only a danger to myself, I'm a danger to my friends, too. Isn't that what you were going to say?"
"I only meant--"
The blood on Peter's features stood out in stark contrast to his bleached face. "What's the matter, Zeddemore?" he demanded. "Think I can't cover your back any more? Think you can't trust me?"
This had gotten way out of hand. "Come on, man, you know I didn't mean--"
The brown-haired man scrambled to his feet, throwing the bloodied handkerchief to the floor. "Well, I've been covering your backside for quite a few years now, pal, but any time you want out, you just give the word."
Zeddemore climbed to his feet also, his jaw clenched. "No one wants out, Peter," he said carefully. "And nobody said anything about trust. All I'm saying is--"
"Peter? Winston?"
Both men snapped around at the sound of Ray's shouts as both he and Egon thudded into view.
"We heard the crash--" Stantz broke off and the color drained from his face as he saw both the ruined refrigerator and the blood smeared over Venkman's face. "Oh my gosh!"
"Peter, Winston, what happened?" Egon demanded, although it was obvious from his own pale face he knew exactly what had happened.
"Just your everyday, run-of-the-mill, near-disaster in the life of a Ghostbuster, Egon," Peter called out with forced cheerfulness. "But thanks to Winston here, I'm still alive to have nightmares about it."
"Are you two all right?" Spengler asked as he and Ray hurried over to their sides.
Venkman accepted Ray's offered handkerchief, but waved away his anxious solicitation. "I've had worse in playground brawls," he insisted, checking the cloth for signs of fresh bleeding. "It was just an accident, right, Winston?"
Zeddemore met Peter's steady gaze and looked at him a long time before answering. "Yeah," he said finally. "Just an accident."
Peter relaxed only a fraction, but it was enough to be noticed by anyone looking for it. "So, did you guys happen to bag Black Ugly, I hope?"
"I'm afraid it escaped," Egon said regretfully. "This makes the second time." He looked at Peter more closely and frowned. "Peter, are you sure you're--"
"Yes, I'm sure I'm," Venkman interrupted, then quickly added a tired grin to take the sting out of his words. "But since our job here seems to be over for now, can we go home?"
"Of course," Spengler said immediately, but he hung back with Winston as Peter, with Ray hovering by his elbow, headed back to Ecto. As soon as they were out of earshot, the physicist turned to Zeddemore. "What happened here, Winston?" he asked in a tone that told the black man Spengler knew there was more behind the story than he had been told.
Zeddemore hesitated a moment before answering. "Like the man said, Egon. It was a close one, that's all." He didn't give Egon a chance to question him further. Turning, he followed Peter and Ray back outside.
After they got back to the firehouse, Peter headed upstairs for a shower and then disappeared into his office. He had been retreating there a lot lately.
Too restless--and too angry, he admitted--to concentrate on reading, Winston wandered out to the garage area to see what he could find to do under Ecto's hood. He had given her a tune-up not that long ago, but there was usually some sort of maintenance to be done. Maybe once he got busy with his hands, he could forget Peter's angry words. Rolling up his sleeves, he stuck his head under the raised hood and got to work. So involved did he become in his labor that he never heard the soft footsteps approaching from behind.
"Winston?"
Startled, he jerked upright, but a quick hand on the back of his neck stopped him short of ramming his head into the hood. Turning slowly, he found himself facing a pair of green, somber eyes. He nodded briefly. "Pete."
Venkman stuffed both hands into the pockets of his sweat pants as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them. "Can we talk?"
Wiping his greasy hands on a rag, Winston shrugged. "Sure," he replied in a neutral voice.
Peter didn't meet his gaze for the longest time. When he did, Winston was shocked by the misery he saw in Venkman's normally twinkling eyes. "You know," Peter said in a very quiet voice, "in my life I've had to apologize for a lot of crap that's come out of my mouth. But I don't think I've ever regretted saying anything more than the things I threw at you today. I don't know why you didn't just pop me in the jaw."
Zeddemore felt the last of his residual anger fade at the genuine anguish in Venkman's tone. "It's not that it wasn't tempting," he said dryly.
But, for once, Peter couldn't respond or resort to humor. "I didn't mean any of that shit, Winston--"
"I know that, m'man," Zeddemore broke in quietly. "I knew that the minute the words left your mouth."
"But that didn't make it any easier to hear them, did it?" Venkman asked steadily.
"No," he answered honestly. "It didn't."
"I'm sorry," Peter said helplessly. "I don't know what else to say."
"Nothing else to say, homebody," Winston replied immediately, and stuck out his hand.
Relief washed over Venkman's drawn face and he gripped Zeddemore's hand the way a drowning man might grab for a life preserver, using it to pull the older man into a close hug. "Thanks, Winston," he whispered. "I'm not sure I deserve it, but thanks."
Zeddemore shook his head in affectionate exasperation. When Peter chose to beat up on himself, he usually did quite a job of it. Sighing, he tightened his own arm around the psychologist. He worked side-by-side with this man, looked out for him, looked after him, and loved him like a brother...and that was why he couldn't let this drop. "Pete," he said quietly, "we've got to talk."
Venkman pulled back and held up a hand. "Look, I know I've screwed up," he said quickly, backpedaling, "but it won't happen again. It's okay now--"
"No, it's not okay." Winston gripped the younger man by the shoulders to stop his backward progression. "You know it's not." The psychologist's body went completely rigid and he tried to twist out of the black man's grasp, but Winston held on grimly. "You're my friend," he said bluntly, "and I don't want to lose you. None of us do. And I'm going to do whatever it takes to make sure we don't." His eyes never left the other man's face as he added steadily, "And if that means telling Egon--"
"Don't tell Egon," Peter objected quickly. "He's worried enough--" He broke off abruptly and flicked his eyes away, his mouth tightening. "He's worried enough," he repeated, then blew out his breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Hell, Winston, I know Egon's worried about me, Ray's worried about me--"
"I'm worried about you," Zeddemore put in steadily.
The psychologist nodded, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I know," he admitted. "But don't, all right? I'm okay, really. I'm getting through this. I know my mind hasn't exactly been on the job recently, but I can work it out. What happened today won't happen again." His voice firmed as he brought his eyes back to Winston's face. "So keep Egon out of this."
"All right," Winston agreed. "On one condition." Venkman's gaze hardened and Zeddemore met the smoldering gaze squarely. "You take yourself out of the game for a while."
Peter stiffened. "I can't--"
"You need the time off," he said firmly. "Have you looked at yourself recently?" Winston grinned slightly and dipped his head, forcing Venkman to look at him. "You look like shit, man. You probably feel like it, too." Flexing his fingers, he began a gentle massage of Venkman's shoulders. "Take a few days off," he insisted softly. "Get some rest, get some sleep--"
"Get my act together?" Peter added, but there was no anger in his tone, only incredible weariness.
"We're here, Pete," Winston told him solemnly. "Any time you want to talk, or cry, or get drunk...whatever it takes. We're here."
The brown-haired man looked away quickly and bit his lip until it was bloodless. "I know," he whispered, his voice wavering. "Thanks." Winston could feel him struggling to regain control, and in a few moments Venkman turned back, his voice stronger. "All right," he agreed reluctantly, "I'll take a few days off." Then he shot the older man a sharp look. "But this is between us, Winston. All Egon and Ray need to know is that I'm taking some time off to rest up."
Zeddemore nodded. "You have my word." He studied the psychologist's drawn face for a few moments, then gave the slumped shoulders one final squeeze before dropping his hands. "Takes time to heal, m'man," he said gently. "And everybody's got to go about it in their own way. But just remember what I said: we're here for you, we care about you, and we want to help."
The younger man gave his head a brief bob. "I know, Winston, but I--" For an instant, Peter's eyes locked with Winston's, then abruptly he turned away. "Thanks," he whispered, and quickly walked away. Zeddemore stood for a long time staring after him, wishing not for the first time that he knew how to help.
Egon was in the middle of meticulously recording the latest growth pattern of the extremely rare fungus he was cultivating when a determined knock on his lab door interrupted his concentration. "Can it wait?" he called out, not masking the annoyance in his tone.
The sound of the door opening, then closing, answered the question. "No, it can't," Janine Melnitz stated quietly. "It's about Peter."
With a sigh, Egon laid his chart aside, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and turned to regard their secretary. Grim would be the only way he could describe her expression, and he sighed again. Everyone had been walking on eggshells around Peter these last few days, and no one had been able to anticipate his wild and erratic mood swings. And none of them, he thought ruefully, had been able to avoid the psychologist's outbursts of temper. He, himself, had encountered a spectacular one yesterday when he suggested to Peter that he had never fully recovered from his bout with the flu and should perhaps go back to the doctor. Egon knew better than to take Venkman's blowups personally--he knew, like the other Ghostbusters, that Peter's anger right now wasn't really directed at him--but perhaps Janine didn't.
"If Peter said something," he began.
"No." Janine shook her head immediately. "Nothing like that." For one of the very few times Egon could ever remember, the woman looked uncertain. "Egon," she said slowly, "I did something today, and I hope it was the right thing to do."
The physicist looked at her curiously. "What did you do?"
"When Peter was away, before we knew why he left, I put his mail on his desk like I always do when he's not here. Then while you guys were out today, I was looking for the paperwork from the bust yesterday. He had forgotten to give it to me so I checked his office, and I saw his mail was still stacked up on his desk. He hadn't even looked at it. I didn't want to bother him about it, so I sorted through it myself to make sure there wasn't anything important in it."
When she didn't continue, Egon prompted, "That was very conscientious of you."
The redhead looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, then held out an envelope she had in her hand. "I took this."
Puzzled, Spengler accepted the plain white envelope. From the handwriting and the type of envelope it was obviously personal correspondence, and he frowned. "Janine, why--" Then he spotted the name and return address. "Oh, no."
Janine nodded. "I didn't have to see the name to know who it was from. I've seen enough of Mrs. Venkman's letters through the years to know her handwriting. It came before we knew what happened and I just put it on Peter's desk with the rest of his mail. I didn't even remember it until this morning." She stopped, then said in a rush, "I took it, Egon. I didn't think we could let him just find it without any warning--"
"Of course not," Spengler said immediately. Laying a large hand on her shoulder, he patted her reassuringly. "You did the right thing. And I'm very grateful," he added. He stared at the envelope in his hand, realizing he had just accepted the responsibility of deciding when and how to deliver it to his friend.
"What are you going to do?" Janine asked quietly.
The blond man raised his eyes from the precise handwriting on the envelope. "I'll have to give it to him, of course, only..."
"Only, not yet?" Janine guessed. He didn't answer, and she laid a comforting hand on his arm. "Then when, Egon?" she asked gently. "I took it because I didn't want Peter to find it without some preparation, but do you think you should keep it from him?"
"No, I don't," he answered honestly. "But I'm not sure exactly how to 'prepare' him for this."
"He hasn't talked about it at all, has he?" Janine asked sympathetically.
Spengler shook his head. "No," he admitted, "and I'm worried. It isn't that this behavior isn't typical of Peter; unfortunately, it's entirely typical. It's just that..."
"It makes it kind of hard to help him, doesn't it?" Janine supplied with a soft smile.
Egon smiled, too, his expression touched with sadness. "Yes, it does, indeed."
"You'll find a way, Egon," the secretary declared stoutly. "I know you will."
The physicist looked at the envelope in his hand. "I hope you're right, Janine," he murmured. "I hope you're right."
Egon slid his bare feet into slippers and groped for his glasses on the night stand. Insomnia wasn't usually a problem for him but for some reason tonight he just couldn't get to sleep. Well, not 'some reason', he admitted to himself. He knew exactly why he couldn't sleep tonight. Opening his bed stand drawer, he retrieved the letter he had placed there earlier that evening and fingered it absently. Peter had seemed in better spirits tonight than he had all week, and Egon hadn't been able to bring himself to tell him about his mother's letter. Now he was thoroughly annoyed with himself. What was he waiting for? For Peter to get depressed again before he gave it to him? With a snort of self-disgust, the physicist got to his feet. Maybe some warm milk would help at least one of his problems. Unfortunately, it wasn't the problem he was worried about most.
As he padded across the darkened bedroom, he noted with dismay that Peter's bed was empty. He had been somewhat surprised, but very relieved, when Venkman had announced his intention of sitting out a few busts until he was feeling better. Egon hoped he would use the time to get some badly needed rest; Peter was a man who needed his full allotment of sleep daily, but since his return he seemed to spend most of his nights wandering the firehouse.
It didn't take long to locate his friend. Venkman was sitting on the sofa in the TV room with the television droning in the background, drinking a glass of milk. He looked up when Egon entered the room. The physicist smiled sympathetically. "Insomnia, or Ray's spaghetti sauce?"
The brown-haired man looked sheepish, admitting, "Guess my stomach wasn't quite up to a meal like that. But I didn't want to hurt his feelings. He spent all day making it..."
"And he knows it's your favorite," Egon supplied, "and the only reason he went to that much trouble was because he was hoping he could finally get you to eat something."
"All of the above, Spengs," Peter acknowledged, raising the nearly-empty glass in a toast. "And now I'm paying the price for being such a nice guy." He tilted his head and regarded the taller man. "That explains why I'm sitting here at two-thirty in the morning. What's your excuse?" When Egon hesitated an instant too long before answering, Venkman's green eyes warmed with concern. "Anything you'd like to talk about?" he invited in that casual, non-prodding tone he adopted when he sensed one of his friends was troubled or just needed to sound off to someone.
Spengler studied the expressive face of the man who had been his closest friend for most of his adult life, and wished suddenly he had even a fraction of Peter's innate ability to deal with others' emotions. Peter was the one who always knew what to do and what to say when someone was troubled or confused or struggling to deal with feelings they didn't want to acknowledge. As much as he ached to help his friend, he felt woefully inadequate to the task.
"It's something I have to talk about, Peter," he replied gravely. "And I have to talk about it with you. It's something I should have told you earlier today." Wariness darkened the psychologist's eyes, but the expression on his face gave nothing away. The blond man sat down beside him and took a deep breath. "While you were away," he began carefully, "before we knew about...what happened, a letter came for you. Janine put it with your other mail. She didn't remember it until this morning." Slipping a hand into his nightshirt pocket, Egon removed the envelope and his eyes locked with the shuttered green ones. "We didn't want you to come across it without some...preparation."
Venkman's steady gaze fell on the envelope in Egon's hands and on the familiar handwriting. "I see," was all he said, and there was no emotion at all in his tone.
The psychologist made no move to take the letter and Spengler felt his heart sink. Clearly, he had done a poor job of 'preparation.' "Peter," he said softly, "I'm sorry. I wish I--"
"'S okay, Egon," Venkman broke in, and quickly pulled the envelope out of the older man's hand. "If this is what's been bothering you, don't sweat it, all right?" Tucking it into the pocket of his bathrobe, Peter stood and drained the last of his milk. "Better get some sleep, big guy," he advised, and abruptly left the room.
Egon stared at Peter's retreating back, then dropped his head wearily against the sofa cushion. He had a feeling sleep would be a long time coming tonight...for both of them.
The next two days were quiet ones at Ghostbuster Central. During the day Peter divided his time between shutting himself away in his office and catnapping. But as far as Egon could tell, if Venkman slept at night it was only in snatches. Janine screened the calls carefully, and they only accepted busts Egon was reasonably certain three of them could handle. Even so, Janine confided to him that Peter woke up every time the alarm sounded and didn't stop pacing until he, Ray, and Winston were all safely back in the firehouse. That, of course, was understandable. Peter had already suffered an unexpected and terrible loss in his life; his biggest fear right now would be that he might suffer another. Which was why Egon had been so surprised when Peter opted to sit out their busts for a few days. Venkman was undeniably exhausted and still feeling the effects of his earlier illness, but with Peter stubbornness usually won out over everything else. It would have been more in character for him to force himself to stay on the job, even if he was sleepwalking, rather than admit he couldn't keep going.
These were the thoughts going through Spengler's mind as he poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the breakfast table across from Ray. Stantz had been uncharacteristically quiet and subdued the last few days but that, too, was understandable. He suffered when one of his friends suffered, and he felt as helpless as Egon did where Peter's grief was concerned.
They both looked up as Winston entered. "Is Peter still asleep?" Egon asked immediately. This was the first morning he had found Peter actually asleep and in bed, and he and Ray had been very careful to shower and dress without disturbing him.
Zeddemore nodded. "Anybody know what time he finally hit the sack last night?"
"Around four," Ray answered, then looked up. "I turned the phone off upstairs, and I told Janine if we get any calls not to hit the alarm. Maybe he'll finally sleep for more than a couple of hours at a time."
"Good idea," Winston said approvingly. "He needs it. I don't think I've ever seen Pete look so ragged."
Egon took a sip of coffee, privately agreeing with him. He was getting more worried by the day about Peter, and he had just about concluded he was going to have to do something--anything--to get through to him.
"What was Pete's mom like?" Zeddemore asked suddenly, his dark eyes resting first on Ray and then Egon. "I never met her."
A soft smile touched Ray's lips, as if some pleasant memory had just drifted back to him. "She was real nice, wasn't she, Egon? Remember that time she came to Columbia to visit Peter?"
Spengler smiled, too. "Peter had just received his first doctorate," he explained to Winston, "and he took her for a tour of the campus and then brought her over to Weaver Hall where we were doing research." His smile twitched. "He told her we were his assistants."
Ray chuckled. "As I recall, you didn't think it was too funny at the time," he teased.
Spengler acknowledged the point with an answering grin. "It really didn't matter; she didn't believe a word of it anyway."
"No," the occultist agreed, "but she was so proud of him. All you had to do was look at her to see it."
Egon, who had met Mrs. Venkman on several occasions and had liked her immensely, nodded. She had been a forthright, plain-spoken woman whose pride in her son was evident to anyone who met her. Peter had been a devoted son, and he had taken great pride in being able to provide the kind of life for her that neither one of them had known during the lean years when he was growing up. Peter's mother, quite simply, had cherished him, and their relationship had remained close and loving though they had been separated by distance.
Egon had just pushed himself to his feet to pour himself another cup of coffee when Janine appeared in the doorway. "We just got a call," she announced, "and it sounds like the Class Five that almost dropped the refrigerator on Peter."
Winston and Ray both turned to Egon. "You think we should wake him?" Zeddemore asked quietly. "It might take all four of us to nail this one."
"I don't think he's up to it," Stantz objected quickly. "I say we try it ourselves first."
Spengler nodded. "I agree," he said, setting his cup on the counter. "Let's go."
Janine followed him down the stairs. "I could go," she pointed out. "You might need me--"
"We need you here more," Egon told her, hitting the ground floor and heading for his locker. "I don't want to leave Peter alone. If we run into trouble, we'll call."
Janine glared after the three of them as they quickly donned their jumpsuits and ran to Ecto. "If you run into trouble," she called after them, "you might not be able to call."
"Peter, wake up! Can you hear me? Wake up!"
"They can hear you in Brooklyn, Janine," Venkman mumbled into his pillow, trying to pull the covers over his head.
Janine immediately yanked them back down. "Peter, this is serious! The guys are in trouble!"
That was perhaps the only statement in the world which could have penetrated the thick covering of wool that had settled over Peter Venkman's brain. He struggled to sit up, cursing vividly when he found himself twisted in a cocoon of sheets and blankets. "Whatthehell--" He threw the sheets aside and turned glazed eyes on the secretary. "What d'you mean, the guys are in trouble?" he demanded, his voice still hoarse from sleep. "What kind of trouble?"
"They went on a bust, that Class Five you've been chasing. Winston just called. They need you; they've run into some kind of trouble."
"Shit!" The psychologist scrambled out of bed and lost his footing as he slipped on a discarded blanket. Janine grabbed his arm to steady him. "Of all the lame-brained...They know better than to go on a job like that without a full team!" he fumed and began stripping off his pajamas without a thought to his audience. "Why didn't somebody call me?"
The secretary turned away as clothes began to fly in all directions. "They didn't want to wake you."
"Where are they?" Footsteps thudded as Venkman ran for the fire pole.
"A sporting goods store across town."
The psychologist hit the ground floor running. He yanked open his locker door and grabbed his jumpsuit, grateful that Slimer hadn't chosen to play Ghostbuster in his uniform today. He was zipping up his jumpsuit when the redhead caught up with him. "I'm taking your car," he said abruptly, snatching the key ring from her desk.
"I'm going, too."
Venkman paused long enough to give her an impatient glare. "Janine, I don't have time--"
"You also don't have the address," she pointed out. "I do." She waited until that sank in, then added, her hands on her hips, "I'm going, Doctor V." There was no way in the world she was going to let this man drive out of there alone in his present state, especially in her car. From the look in his eyes she'd have to arm wrestle him to get the keys away, but at least she could go along and try to provide moral support--and besides, if Egon was in danger, there was no way she was staying here.
Throwing another mute glare in her direction, Venkman grabbed his proton pack and pounded toward her Volkswagen. Janine paused only long enough to snatch her own pack from its peg on the wall before she followed hard on his heels.
Peter Venkman drove with grim determination, darting through traffic with a recklessness that would have made a New York cabbie cringe. With Janine calling out the directions, he threw on the car's lights and flashers, laid on the horn, and broke every traffic rule on the books as he sped toward the sporting goods store on the other side of town. White-faced and tense, he gripped the steering wheel with such fierce intensity his muscles trembled.
They saw the flashing lights and smoke from a block away. "Oh, no..." Janine breathed. "Peter, look--"
Peter braked the car to an abrupt halt as a policeman waved at them to stop. Jumping out of the car, he began running toward the commotion, only to be brought up short when the cop snagged his arm. "Hey, buddy, you can't--"
The psychologist whirled around. "Leggo, dammit!" he snarled. "I'm a Ghostbuster!"
Recognizing the uniform, the officer released him immediately. "Sorry, sir. I'm afraid you'll have to go in on foot, though. We've closed the street--" He was talking to the air; Peter was already running.
"I'm with him!" Janine yelled, and ran past the startled policeman to catch up with Venkman. Still physically not up to par, Peter's breathing was coming in harsh pants as he raced toward the crowd ahead.
The psychologist pushed roughly through the milling on-lookers until he finally broke through, then stopped dead. Heavy black smoke was rolling out of the sporting goods store and emergency vehicles were everywhere. Janine's eyes swept the area frantically as she searched for the familiar Ghostbuster uniforms. Beside her, Peter turned in an agitated circle, trying to see everything at once. "EGON!" he bellowed. "WINSTON! RAY!"
"Peter!"
It was Ray's voice, raised above the pandemonium, and Venkman snapped around. "Ray? Ray, where--"
He broke off as both he and Janine spotted them at the same time. The occultist was standing with a knot of uniformed personnel over by an ambulance and was waving to get their attention. Even from that distance they could see his jumpsuit was partially charred. Beside him, Winston, his clothes in like condition, was kneeling alongside emergency personnel as the EMTs worked on someone on the ground. It occurred to Peter and Janine at the same time that there was no blond head bobbing among the crowd.
Janine's breath caught. "Egon..."
"No, no, no--NO!" His face bleached white, Venkman broke into a run. "EGON!"
Even from his supine position on the ground and amid the din that surrounded him, Egon heard Peter's panicked shout. Struggling against the hands striving to keep him down, he managed to free one hand to push aside the oxygen mask that covered his face. "Peter!"
A female paramedic immediately snapped the mask back into place. "Sir, you have to--"
"I am perfectly fine," he insisted in an impatient if somewhat hoarse voice. "Please remove this from my face." Squinting through the layer of smoke that drifted around like fog, he could see Ray holding onto Venkman's arms, trying for all he was worth to explain that they were really all right. Egon took one look at Peter's ghastly white face and yanked the oxygen mask off, shoving it unceremoniously into the paramedic's hands. "Peter!" His voice was still raspy from the smoke he had taken in and lacked its usual strength, but it got Venkman's attention. Green eyes flew to his face, and what he saw in them brought him upright.
Ignoring the protests of both the paramedics and Winston, who was doing his best to keep him flat, Egon scrambled to his feet. He swayed momentarily, but Zeddemore's quick hand steadied him as he took a step toward the white-faced psychologist. Venkman looked like he was about to pass out, throw up, or both. "Peter," Egon said very carefully, his gaze never leaving the younger man, "we're all right. It's over now, and we're fine."
Terrified eyes met his. "I thought--" Peter stammered. "I saw you and I thought--"
"I know," Spengler said quickly, and reached out to lay a gentle hand on the younger man's arm. "But I'm fine."
But the female EMT wasn't to be shrugged off quite so easily. She took a stubborn stance by Spengler's side. "Sir, you should let us take you to the hospital to get checked out."
The physicist shot her a withering look. "I don't need to go to a hospital," he said sternly. "What I need," he continued, his voice softening as his eyes traveled back to the psychologist, "is to go home." He felt the warning tremor under his hand and shot a meaningful look at Ray. They had to get Peter out of here immediately. There were cameras and film crews everywhere, and he did not want what he sensed was coming broadcast on the eleven o'clock news tonight or splashed over the tabloids tomorrow.
The occultist quickly nodded his understanding and gently, but firmly, turned Peter back toward Ecto-1. "Come on, Peter," he urged. "Let's get Egon back home." His face strangely blank, Venkman allowed the auburn-haired man to lead him through the milling crowd toward Ecto.
Egon started to follow only to have Zeddemore stop him with a light hand on his arm. "You sure you're okay?" Winston asked with a little frown.
"Maybe you should go to the hospital, Egon," Janine suggested, worry puckering her face.
"I'll be fine," Spengler assured them both, then had to cough to clear his throat. "But we'd better get Peter home immediately."
Winston watched the two men moving through the crowd ahead. Ray had his arm protectively around Peter's shoulders and had placed himself firmly between the psychologist and the crowd as journalists pressed against them, hoping for a quote or a quip from the never publicity-shy Venkman.
"I think we'd better get you both home," the black man decided, and took Spengler's arm to steer him through the crowd, prepared to act as the same kind of buffer for the physicist.
Egon sat in the passenger seat of Ecto as Winston drove, and listened to Ray recount the events of the morning to Peter. The two men were in the back of the refurbished hearse and the psychologist was pressed tight against the door, his body stiff, his face expressionless. Ray's tone was anxious and he was talking even faster than normal as he explained what happened at the sporting goods store with the 'trash bag' ghost.
"...then after Winston called Janine, the ghost got into the electrical wiring in the store. That's what started the fire. It shorted everything out. Before we knew what was happening, the place filled up with smoke. We managed to trap the ghost and get outside, but Egon got separated from us. We thought he was right behind us..." The occultist tore his gaze away from Peter long enough to look at Egon with a stricken face. "We thought you were right behind us--"
"It was no one's fault, Ray," Spengler said immediately. "I thought I was behind you, but I got turned around in the smoke."
Stantz looked at him a moment longer, chewing his lip, then turned back to the psychologist as Winston pulled Ecto into Ghostbuster Central. Egon could see the auburn-haired man square his shoulders as if trying to put the entire experience out of his mind. "But we got the Class Five, Peter," Stantz finished earnestly, and patted Venkman's arm reassuringly.
As Zeddemore braked the car to a halt, Peter spoke his first words since leaving the scene of the bust. "I'm so happy for you all," he said coldly. "The next time you decide to get yourselves killed, leave a wake-up call so I don't sleep through it, all right?" Flinging the door open, he got out and slammed it viciously before stalking away without another word.
Ray jumped out of the car and tried to catch up with him. "Peter! Peter--wait--" He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, his brown eyes wide with dismay as Venkman marched stiffly up the steps and disappeared.
Zeddemore and Spengler moved to stand beside him. Winston whistled softly. "Man, he's steamed."
"He's scared," Ray corrected, his eyes still on the empty stairs.
"He's angry and scared," Egon said quietly.
Stantz brought his gaze around until he was looking at Spengler. "Egon, we've got to talk to him," he insisted. "I know you said we should let him make the first move, but--"
The sudden sound of glass shattering interrupted Ray and brought Spengler's head up. "I think he just did," the physicist murmured. Another crash from above brought a rueful smile to his lips. Well, if Peter was going to vent his anger, it might as well be on some harmless lab equipment.
"Sounds like he's tearing your lab apart," Winston commented.
"Yes," Egon agreed with some relief. At least it was a reaction; that was more than they had gotten from Peter up to this point.
"Egon?" The physicist turned his head at Ray's soft inquiry. "What should we do?" Another crash from above, louder than the others, made Stantz wince. "We can't leave him up there alone. What if he hurts himself?"
"He's much more likely to hurt my current fungus experiment," Egon said, laying a reassuring hand on the younger man's shoulder. "But we're not going to leave him alone. I'm going to talk with him." He gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze. "He'll be all right, Ray. He's held it in too long. This is the first step for him in dealing with his grief."
Ray look at him for a moment, then nodded. "I know," he sighed. "And I know anger is part of the grieving process." Shadows darkened his eyes as he continued softly, "I still remember how angry I was when my parents died. I was so mad at them for leaving me alone." He threw Spengler an embarrassed glance. "Then I felt guilty about being angry."
"That's all part of it, Raymond," Egon told him gently.
A slight smile touched the younger man's lips. "I know. Peter told me that." More glass shattered above, and his smile faded. "I just wish there was something I could do to help him."
"He's going to need all of us to help him through this," Egon said, his gaze taking in both Ray and Winston. Then he looked at the stairs and unconsciously squared his shoulders. "Of course," he murmured, placing his foot on the first step, "he may not see it that way right now..."
The door to his lab was ajar, and Egon opened it cautiously. He was just in time to see a petri dish fly across the room and explode against the opposite wall. Peter was hunched over the table, hands braced against the flat surface, his face hidden by his bowed head.
"Peter." Spengler's quiet bass voice brought the psychologist's head up like a shot. "Are you all right?" It was a calculated question designed to provoke an uncensored response, and that was exactly what he got.
"No, I'm not all right!" Another petri dish hit the wall as if to underscore Venkman's angry shout. "I thought you were dead!"
Egon regarded him solemnly. "I know. I'm sorry you had to go through that."
"You left me here! You went off on that bust and you left me here! You could've been killed in that fire!" In a sudden, vicious move, Venkman swept his arm across the lab table, sending various small pieces of equipment flying. "Damn it, Egon, you had no right!"
Spengler's eyes never left the younger man's face. "No right to do what, Peter?" he asked quietly. "No right to leave you here? Or no right to get myself killed?"
Venkman went completely still. His breathing quickened enough for Egon to notice it from across the room. "I thought--I saw the fire--and they were working on you--and I thought--" His breath was coming in gulps now and the brown-haired man was physically shaking as he struggled to maintain his rapidly crumbling composure. "Damn it, Egon, I don't think I could handle it if you--if I--"
Egon held his breath. Come on, Peter. You suffered a terrible loss. Say it out loud. Acknowledge it.
"--if I lost you, too." The words were torn from him and Venkman's voice finally broke. "Oh, god." He no longer had the strength to maintain his carefully constructed walls. They crumbled like dry sand, leaving him defenseless. "She's gone, Egon. She's gone and I wasn't there and I never even had the chance to say good-bye!"
Egon was across the room in an instant. His arms went around the younger man as the first sob racked the wiry frame.
"She was always there for me--always. And I wasn't there!"
"I know, Peter, I know," Egon murmured. The psychologist's arms immediately closed around his waist and Peter burrowed his face against Egon's shoulder, seeking refuge. He clung to Egon and cried as if he would never stop. It was as if a dam had burst inside him and all of Venkman's anger and sorrow were finally free to come pouring out.
Egon rocked him gently as the younger man sobbed out his grief and despair, stroking the slightly too long hair at the back of his neck, offering the kind of comfort only a friendship as comprehensive and enduring as theirs could provide. He was not a man who was normally at ease dealing with others' emotions, but his responses with Peter felt completely natural. He had known what he was letting himself in for when he came up here; he was just sorry it had taken so long for this moment to arrive, and sorry Peter had to go through such an emotional trauma at the fire to bring it all to a head.
Resting his cheek on top of the thick, brown hair, Egon closed his eyes and sighed softly, realizing this was probably the first time Peter had actually allowed himself the luxury of really releasing his grief. At the funeral, surrounded by strangers and near-strangers, he would never have permitted himself to break down. He would have sealed off his emotions and presented an in-control facade for the rest of the world to see. Only here, safe among his friends--his family, Egon amended--did Peter feel secure enough to expose his pain. Realizing the incredible trust that entailed on Peter's part, the physicist tightened his embrace around his friend.
He didn't know how long they stood like that in the middle of his lab before Peter's emotional release gradually subsided into soft weeping. Finally, the psychologist gave one, long shuddering sigh and started to pull back. Egon tightened his arms briefly before he released him and allowed him to step back. Venkman's face was tear-stained and his eyes swollen and red, and he raised a hand to wipe ineffectually at the wetness on his face. Without a word, Egon put an arm around the younger man's shoulders and guided him over to the couch. Gently pushing him down onto the cushions, Egon left his side only long enough to retrieve a cool, damp washcloth from the bathroom and bring it back.
Without meeting Spengler's eyes, Peter accepted it and lowered his head, covering his face with the cloth. Beside him, Egon waited patiently until the younger man finally lowered his hands, then waited some more when Venkman didn't raise his head. "Peter," he said finally.
"I'm sorry," Venkman mumbled, his voice as raw as Egon's.
The physicist smiled. "For what?" he asked gently.
"For losin' it like that."
Spengler eased an arm around the bowed shoulders. "There's nothing to be sorry for, Peter. You know that."
The psychologist turned his head slightly to give him a grateful look. "Yeah, I do know that," he acknowledged softly, and gave the physicist's knee a quick pat. "Thanks, Spengs." Then he dropped his head again. "I guess I've been hell to live with these last few days, haven't I?"
Egon squeezed the shoulder under his hand. "No more than usual," he replied, with enough dryness in his tone to bring the brown head up.
Venkman eyed him for a moment, then ran a hand through his tousled dark hair. "How is it you always know what buttons to push with me, Doctor Spengler?" he complained.
"It wasn't always like that," Egon reminded him. Blue eyes warming, he added, "And I still don't always know the right buttons to push."
"Yeah, but you hit more times than you miss," Peter retorted immediately, his voice clearing. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I never told you what happened with Mom."
"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."
The other man grinned crookedly. "Mom always did like you. She said you were a good influence on me."
Tightening his arm to give the psychologist an affectionate squeeze, Egon said, completely dead-pan, "Well, I have tried."
Venkman made a wry face to acknowledge the statement, then dropped his arms on his knees and stared down at the floor. "I talked to her just two days...before. She sounded fine. She said she felt fine..."
Egon listened silently, his arm still around the younger man's shoulders, as Peter told him about his mother's sudden heart attack, the phone call that came while he was alone at the firehouse, his flight to the small mid-west town where his mother had lived, dealing with relatives he barely knew and couldn't remember, his desperate but unsuccessful attempts to locate his father, the funeral, and the aftermath as he tried to settle his mother's affairs.
It took a long time to relate it all, and Peter stumbled over some parts as he fought tears and anger. When he was finished, he was completely drained. Easing him to his feet, Egon steered him across the hall to his bed where Venkman all but collapsed. Spengler stayed with him the few minutes it took for him to fall into an exhausted sleep, then quietly went into the bathroom to shower and change out of his smoke-tinged clothes before going back downstairs.
Ray and Winston, who had both used the time to shower in the downstairs bathroom and change out of their own ruined uniforms, were waiting for him in the TV room along with Janine. Three sets of eyes shot to Egon's face as he walked into the room, searching for clues to what happened.
Ray was the first to speak. "How is he?" he asked anxiously.
Egon smiled reassuringly at the younger man. "He's sleeping. He's going to be fine."
"It got kind of noisy up there," Winston commented. "We were trying to decide if one of those crashes was a body falling."
Slipping off his glasses, the physicist rubbed his burning eyes; the smoke had left them red-rimmed and irritated, and his throat was dry and sore. "He had a lot to work through," he said finally, replacing the glasses on his nose.
"Did he...tell you what happened?" Stantz asked hesitantly.
The blond man nodded. "Let's go into the kitchen. I could use a cup of tea, and I'll tell you about it."
Peter slept the rest of the day and Egon declared a day off for them all, including Janine. While Winston went to visit his parents, Egon and Ray worked in the lab. Ray slipped into the bedroom every couple of hours to check on Peter, but always came right back to report, "He's still asleep."
For supper that evening Ray made chicken noodle soup in deference to Egon's still-irritated throat, and in the hope Peter might wake up and want to eat. Later that evening, lost in a weighty tome on exotic fungi written by a mycologist friend of his, Egon was only dimly aware of the occultist going upstairs with a bowl of warmed soup. When he didn't reappear after twenty minutes, Spengler laid aside his book, went upstairs and quietly crept to the bedroom door. What he saw inside brought a relieved smile to his lips.
Peter was sitting cross-legged at the head of his bed, hands gesturing expressively as he spoke in a low, soft voice. At the foot of the bed sat Ray, also cross-legged, leaning toward Peter as if hanging on to every word. As Egon watched, he murmured something and reached out to lay a hand on the psychologist's arm.
Spengler withdrew silently and returned to the TV room. That was the best thing for both of them, he knew. Ray had been aching to do something to help Peter, and Venkman still had things he needed to talk about. After his emotional release earlier, Peter was ready now to accept Ray's open compassion and sympathy.
It was nearly an hour later when Ray finally returned. There was a hint of wistfulness in his brown eyes, but he was smiling. "Peter was awake," he reported happily, "and we talked for a long time." His smile widened. "He said it really helped."
The physicist smiled, too. "I'm sure it did, Ray." I'm sure it helped both of you.
It was just after five o'clock the next morning when Egon heard Peter climb out of bed and leave the bedroom. When the psychologist hadn't returned in thirty minutes, Spengler quietly got up and followed him. After his talk with Ray and a meager helping of chicken soup, Venkman had fallen asleep again and slept the night through. Chances were hunger had merely driven him to look for something to eat, but Egon was still concerned enough to make sure that's all it was.
The smell of freshly brewed coffee tickled his nostrils as soon as he reached the hallway, and he nearly turned and went back to bed, but something, some little warning system that seemed to be tuned in to Peter, drove him on.
He found Venkman at the kitchen table. A steaming cup of coffee was sitting untouched at his elbow and his mother's letter was spread out in front of him. The psychologist looked up as Egon entered; tears trailed down his thin face, but there was peace in his eyes. "I did it, Spengs," he said softly. "I said good-bye."
Moving to stand behind the seated man, Egon placed both hands on his shoulders. "That's always the hardest part," he said gently.
Peter patted one of the large hands on his shoulder, then let his hand rest there. "I couldn't have done it without you...and Ray. If it hadn't been for you guys--" he took a deep, shaky breath. "Thanks, pal. Thanks for being here. Thanks for always being here."
Egon squeezed the shoulders under his hands. "It works both ways, Peter. You've been here for Ray and myself more times than either one of us can count. It's all part of being a friend."
"It's all part of being a family," the psychologist corrected, a trace of bitterness entering his tone. "Family's always there when you need them."
Walking around the table, Egon sat down in the chair across from him. "Peter," he said carefully, "I know how upset you are that you weren't able to locate your father, but--"
Venkman quickly waved a hand. "But that's not his fault. Yeah, Egon, I know that. Hell, he's always off somewhere and I never know where he is. That's just Dad. I ought to know that by now. That's the way he's been my whole life." Reaching for his coffee, the brown-haired man fingered the cup absently. "Part of me is angry at him for not being there, but the truth is, I'm worried about how he's going to get the news and how he's going to take it. He and Mom were divorced when I was just a kid but I don't think they ever really stopped loving one another. They just couldn't live together. Mom couldn't take the constant moving around from one city to the next, and Dad couldn't stand to stay in one place for more than a few months." He shrugged, then took a sip of coffee. "They each just married the wrong person, that's all."
"Perhaps," Egon murmured, but it occurred to him that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Venkman regretted their brief union for the son it had given them both.
Suddenly Peter raised his head, green eyes brightening. "Hungry?"
The change of subject caught Spengler off-guard. "Well, yes..."
"How does pancakes and bacon sound?"
"It sounds fine," the physicist said. "Who's cooking?"
"I am," Venkman announced, and got to his feet.
"You?"
"Sure. I can cook, you know."
"Yes, Peter, we know you can. It's just that we don't usually see you up before noon."
"Well, you're seeing me now. Pancakes and bacon," Peter repeated, digging out the skillet. "Then when it's ready..." He turned from the stove, a mischievous smile playing at his lips. "We let Slimer play alarm clock."
Two days later Egon was about ready to sit Ray down and ask him what in heaven's name was wrong. The occultist had been uncharacteristically nervous all day, jumping each time the phone rang and throwing anxious glances in Peter's direction. Venkman had noticed it too, and Egon found the psychologist watching the auburn-haired man thoughtfully, as if he, too, was trying to figure out what was going on.
They had had a messy bust earlier that day at a garbage dump, and were just sitting down to a casual meal of pizza in front of the TV when the door buzzer sounded downstairs. "I'll get it!" Ray was on his feet and out of the room before anyone else could move.
Peter threw a questioning look at Egon but the physicist could only shrug. He had no more idea than Peter did what was going on with the occultist today. No more than a minute later Ray was back. "Peter," he said softly, "there's someone here to see you."
The brown-haired man looked surprised. "Who would be--" He broke off, the words catching in his throat as his father walked into the room. Peter jumped to his feet, his face frozen in a combination of surprise and apprehension. "Dad?" Like Winston, Egon had been staring at Mr. Venkman, but the wobble in Peter's voice brought his eyes back sharply to the psychologist.
"Peter." The elder Venkman moved toward him, holding out his arms. "Son--"
Without hesitation Peter flung himself into his father's arms. The man gathered him in and pulled him close. "She's gone, Dad," Peter choked. "She's gone."
"I know, son. I know." The sorrow plain on his face, Mr. Venkman gently pressed his son's head against his chest. "I'm here now. Your dad's here."
Egon turned at the light touch on his arm. Ray was by his side, nodding toward the door. Spengler gave one last look at the two men clinging to one another, then followed Ray and Winston as they left the room. Stantz closed the door behind them, then turned to face his two colleagues.
Winston looked at the younger man. "Ray, did you...?"
The occultist nodded, his eyes bright.
Egon was as full of questions as Zeddemore. "But how...?"
"I hired a private detective," Stantz explained. "I could see how upset Peter was that he hadn't been able to find his dad, and I knew he'd be worried about how he was going to learn the news. The investigator called yesterday; he finally tracked down Mr. Venkman in Montreal." Ray raised brown eyes to lock with Egon's. "I called him last night and told him...what happened."
The physicist immediately laid a hand on his friend's arm. "That must have been very difficult for you," he said gently, knowing what an understatement that was even as he said it.
The occultist acknowledged the truth of that statement with a brief nod, but he was standing tall. "Yeah, but I didn't want Peter to have to tell him, and I didn't want Mr. Venkman to find out from some stranger. That would have been awful for them both. This way was better."
Egon gave the younger man a long look, wondering how Ray Stantz could manage to surprise him after all these years. "Peter will be very grateful for what you did, Raymond," Egon told him solemnly, tightening his fingers. "And so am I."
Zeddemore slung his arm around the occultist's shoulders and gave him a squeeze. "I'm proud of you, homeboy. What you did took something special."
The auburn-haired man's cheeks reddened slightly, but his eyes were shining with pride at his friends' approval. "I'm just glad I could do something to help."
Egon's eyes traveled to the closed door and he thought about the reunion going on behind it. They had all gone a long way toward helping Peter deal with his feelings and his grief, but there had been a core of anger and despair inside him that only one man could heal. "I think you've done more to help than you know," he murmured, and guided his two colleagues downstairs. Tonight they could go out for pizza.
"Well, I say we've asked this lovely young woman enough questions. We're ready to investigate whenever you are."
Mrs. Faversham dropped her eyes to the small purse she was clutching in her lap. "There's another matter," she said in a soft, hesitant voice. "I don't know what your fee is. I'm afraid I don't have much money, but whatever I have..."
Peter leaned over and laid a hand on hers to stop her from opening the purse. "Actually, you're in luck," he said brightly. "We're having a special for lovely women this week. Our retainer's been reduced...to a smile."
The three other Ghostbusters stared at him. Even Janine turned around at her desk to blink at this declaration.
The brown-haired man leaned a little closer to the older woman, his tone gently teasing. "You can smile, can't you?" That coaxed a shy smile out of Mrs. Faversham, and Peter beamed. "Ah, there you go. Our fee is amply paid. Just give us a minute to get ready."
Venkman walked over to his locker with a jaunty spring in his step, and his colleagues followed more slowly. They watched him with as much puzzlement as concern as he dug into his locker.
It was Ray who asked, "Are you okay, Peter?"
Venkman appeared to be lost in thought. "Hmm? Oh, oh, sure, fine. I've had my quota of Slimer; I'm set for the day. Besides..." The psychologist leaned back so he could see his three friends, who were watching him curiously. A wistful smile touched his lips as his eyes met theirs. "She reminds me of my mom." As he watched, the quizzical expression on their faces shifted to understanding.
Quickly, he ducked his head back into his locker and pulled out his uniform. It suddenly occurred to him, as it must have occurred to Egon, Ray, and Winston, that this was the first time he had mentioned his mother since his dad's unexpected visit two months ago. It felt okay, he realized. It still hurt, but it felt good to talk about her now.
Ray passed behind him to reach his own locker and dropped a hand briefly on his shoulder. Peter smiled as he zipped up his jumpsuit, reveling in the warmth of the friendships that surrounded him. He would never be able to thank Ray for what he did by finding his father and breaking the news to him. Glancing over at the auburn-haired man, he was rewarded with that contented smile that meant all was right with Ray Stantz' world. Throwing the younger man a wink, he turned and ambled over to Mrs. Faversham.
Stopping by her chair, he helped her to her feet, then offered his arm. Her eyes brightened, first with surprise, then gratitude, and her face glowed as she took his arm. "Why, thank you, Doctor Venkman. It's so unusual to find a young person with such manners these days. Your mother must be very proud of you."
Aware of three pairs of eyes on him, Peter drew himself up a little straighter and let his gaze touch each of his friends. "I like to think so, Mrs. Faversham," he said softly. "I like to think so."