Originally published in Ouch 10

"Something's wrong."

Winston hesitated, his key in the firehouse lock, while the taxi that had brought him and Ray home peeled away with a screech of tires. "Wrong? What's wrong?" Ray's tone was eerie, as if he'd just had a long-distance call from the psychic-warning network. The good mood Winston had brought home from the Star Trek convention vanished abruptly.

"It's bad. I know it's bad." Ray shivered, lifting huge, worried eyes to the taller man. "It's really bad, Winston. Hurry." Ray wasn't usually clairvoyant, but Winston didn't doubt for an instant that something was wrong. He could halfway feel it, too. The night suddenly seemed heavy with tension.

Every light in the firehouse blazed brightly. Peter, who paid the electric bill--when he remembered--sometimes went around turning them off with a conscious air of righteousness, and he liked to watch TV with only a dim light burning in the background. Egon didn't make a habit of turning them on either--unless something was amiss. Usually, on a free evening, the physicist retreated to his third floor lab, where he would work contentedly even if the rest of the converted firehall was in darkness.

In the distance, sirens wailed, a whole unearthly cacophony of them, growing louder and louder as the two Ghostbusters stood outside the firehall. Were they coming here? "Man, I wish we had a P.K.E. meter." Winston unlocked the door and raced inside. "Pete! Egon!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

No answer. The structure's silence felt wrong, unnatural. Winston knew the sensation of danger; he'd learned it in Vietnam and reinforced his knowledge with a thorough course on Ghostbusting. His protective senses focused, he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Before he could mention it to Ray, Slimer, shrieking and babbling gibberish, popped up from behind Janine's empty desk and flung himself at them. Liberally adorned in blobs of red, the little green ghost shed Christmas colors in all directions. If he had been alive rather than a ghost, Winston would have suspected he was bleeding. Ray gasped. The spud grabbed Stantz around the neck, burying his face in the occultist's shoulder and splattering slime--and the red stuff--in all directions. Lord, it couldn't really be blood, could it? God, it smelled like it.

"Peter! Egon!" Winston bellowed again, exchanging an alarmed glance with Ray. Silence. Heavy, weighted silence.

"Winston--it's blood," gasped Ray, struggling to detach himself from Slimer. "What's wrong, Slimer? Peter! Egon!"

When no ghosts or paranormal beings responded to Ray's shout, Winston started for the stairs at a dead run, leaving Ray to detach himself and follow when he could. "Leave the door open," he hollered over his shoulder. "I think those sirens are coming here." He took the stairs three at a time, urgency propelling him upward.

The source of Slimer's gruesome coating lay just past the dining room, sprawled awkwardly on his side because of the proton pack he wore. The stomach of Egon's clothes was covered with blood, surrounding the knife that jutted up at an odd angle from his side right next to the pack strap that fastened across his stomach. Dishtowels had been packed in around the knife to try to stop the bleeding, but they were slowly saturating with blood from the knife wound. Egon's face was far too pale and his breathing was shallow and rapid. At least he was breathing. Peter had grabbed a blanket and covered Egon to keep him warm and to combat shock. In the depths of his desperation, he hadn't forgotten his first aid training. But Egon had lost so much blood. He needed to be in a hospital as fast as possible. Winston sent up a mental prayer for the sirens to hurry.

Peter sat cross-legged beside the downed physicist, hands pressed carefully on the cloths so he wouldn't dislodge the knife. His clothes stained with Egon's blood, he stared vaguely at nothing. He looked like he'd performed his first aid by rote. Winston shot him a hasty, measuring look to make sure none of the blood was his but there didn't seem to be anything more than smears on his clothes. Peter wore his pack, too, although not his jumpsuit, as if the trouble had come on them too fast to suit up. His drawn thrower lay carefully beside his right leg in easy reach. He didn't react to Winston's arrival until Zeddemore knelt beside him, then he lifted his head as if it weighed more than Ecto-1 and tried without much success to focus a frantic glance at him. His hollow-eyed stare looked a hundred years old. Winston wasn't sure the psychologist actually saw him, or understood what he was seeing. Peter's entire being was focused on the task of keeping Egon alive. He hadn't even risked removing Egon's pack.

"I didn't...take the knife out," Peter said dully. So he did understand he wasn't alone with his task. "I was...afraid it would...bleed worse. ... I called 911. They're coming." There was so much muted pain in his voice that it hurt Winston, too. He went back to staring at Egon, his hands gentle but firm on the saturated dishtowels. Was that a shadow on his forehead--or the start of a bruise?

"You did the right thing, Pete," Winston assured him, kneeling beside him and clapping him on the shoulder. Peter's muscles were rigid, and he flinched under the touch as if it had startled him. "Egon's alive. He's breathing." He lifted his hand from Peter's shoulder and touched Egon's face. The skin was cold and clammy. Bad sign. Blood loss or shock could cause that. The pulse in his neck was rapid under Winston's searching fingers.

Peter scarcely heard that. "So much blood..." he muttered. He was so out of it he had lost the ability to respond normally. "God, why don't they get here?"

"You hurt, Pete?" Winston detached Venkman's hands from the dishtowels and replaced them with his own. He nodded at the towels. "Can you get some more of these?"

"...more of these." Peter stood up like a zombie and lumbered into the kitchen, wobbly on his feet. He returned a second later with every clean dishtowel the guys possessed and set them very carefully within reach of Winston's hand. "I'm not hurt," he added as if it didn't matter. He scarcely seemed aware of speaking.

Like heck you're not, thought Winston, as he added dishtowels one-handed. "Can you tell me what happened?"

The sirens converged and then shut off in a fast-dying wail. Winston yelled, "Bring them up here, Ray. Fast!" Peter flinched at his shout. He heard a distant affirmative from Ray.

Peter's attention sharpened and he turned cold, empty eyes on Winston. "Slimer did it," he gritted out. "Grabbed a knife and stuck it into Egon, just like that. God, the sound it made..." He shuddered with reaction, his eyes glittering feverishly with unshed tears. "Gonna blast him, gonna get him..."

"You've got your packs on," Winston reminded him. He was worried about Ray. If Slimer had gone berserk, was Stantz in danger, too? He'd sounded unhurt when he'd answered. "Were there other ghosts here?"

Peter shivered, unable to concentrate enough to explain, and returned to his pained contemplation of Egon just as Ray charged up the stairs. He wasn't hurt, but he looked like he'd been in a butcher shop. The blood that had been on Slimer was smeared all over Ray's con tee shirt. Worry shone in his eyes. Winston wondered what information he'd coaxed out of the little ghost.

From the sound of thudding footsteps on the stairs, he was leading a buffalo stampede, but when Winston looked past him, he only saw a couple of paramedics laden with equipment and a two uniformed cops bringing up the rear. The cops had their guns drawn. What had Peter told them when he called 911? Slimer was nowhere in sight. Ray jerked at the sight of the downed Egon, and the color slid off his face like water. "Egon!" He stopped dead, eyes wide and stricken.

The paramedics pushed past him as if he didn't exist and converged on the physicist. They detached Winston, who slid back to give them room. When nothing menacing attacked, the cops holstered their guns and moved in to help. It took both of them to shift Peter, who was so far out of it he hadn't even heard them come. His pupils were huge, barely edged with a rim of green, as if he'd been drugged or knocked on the head. Maybe he had; it would explain that mark on his forehead. He might have a concussion.

"It's okay, Pete, they can help him," Winston encouraged, modulating his voice the way he would to speak to an injured child. He wasn't sure Peter heard him because he didn't stop struggling. Winston had the feeling that, any minute now, he would drop like a stone. Ray hadn't moved. He was still gaping at Egon in horror. Once, he glanced over his shoulder as if to look for Slimer.

"Come on over here and sit down, buddy," the cop with black, curly hair urged. He was a big, muscular guy, his sleeves tight around his biceps, but he had a hard time displacing Peter, who struggled like a savage animal to get back to Egon. The thrower bounced against his ankles.

"No! No! Lemme go. Egon!"

"He's really out of it," Winston apologized to the police. "I don't know what happened, but they're both armed. Something was here, a ghost, maybe. Ray and I just walked in on them like this. I think Pete's been hit on the head."

"Oh, gosh, Peter, what happened?" Ray planted himself in front of the writhing Peter and stretched out and expectant hand to touch his arm.

His horror-stricken expression was probably the only thing short of a slap across the face that could have cut through Peter's shock. Venkman blinked twice and his eyes focused, no, make that nearly focused. "Ray?" he said doubtfully. "Where did you come from?" He glanced around the room and he noticed the response team. "They're here. Ray, Egon's hurt."

Ray nodded at the cop to back off. He took Peter's arm very gently and led him over to the rec area, where he made him sit on the couch, speaking to him soothingly. Peter craned his neck to watch the paramedics at work, but he didn't fight Ray.

"I know, Peter," the occultist soothed. "Let the EMT's help him now. You did everything you could. You did great. They'll take care of him. It's what they're trained to do." Ray was shaken, but he had pulled strength from deep inside. People didn't realize how strong Ray could be when the others needed him. He seemed so easygoing--until the chips were down and then he turned into a tower of strength.

"He's  hurt, Ray." It was a desperate protest at the unfairness of fate. Uninjured, Peter could face anything. But the one thing capable of tearing him apart was something like this. If Egon died...

No, scratch that thought. Midway between Peter and Egon, Winston could tell that Peter's eyes were still dilated. In a minute, he'd have to ask one of the medics to look at him, but Egon's life was at stake and he couldn't distract them from their duties. They were administering an IV. One of them talked urgently into a radio, reporting Egon's condition. He didn't interfere with them. He'd just make sure Peter was transported, too.

The curly-haired cop tapped Winston on the arm. "You want to tell me what happened here, buddy?"

Winston nodded and pulled the man toward the stairs so he could talk freely. "I don't know the whole story but I'll tell you what I know. Ray and I were away for the day and just got home." He gestured at Ray to identify him to the cop. "We both got a feeling something was wrong when we reached the firehouse. Slimer appeared and he had blood all over him. I came upstairs and found Pete trying to stop Egon's bleeding. He said Slimer had stabbed Egon, but I think there's more to it than that. Pete and Egon both have their packs on. I think a ghost showed up here and caused trouble. Maybe it made Slimer do it." He was furious at Slimer, but he didn't think the little ghost would have attacked Egon deliberately. Slimer adored all the guys and he had never been harmful or vicious in the time he'd been their mascot. There was more at work here than he knew.

"Wait a minute. Slimer's that green ghost?" The cop scratched his head then he pulled out a notebook and scribbled in it. "You sure he did it? Sure somebody else wasn't in here?"

"I'm not sure of anything. Peter said he did. I know Pete's not making much sense. I think he's got a concussion. Looks like there's a bruise on his forehead. Somebody or something attacked them, and maybe it could force Slimer to hurt them. When Peter's more with it, he'll be able to tell you. The guys wouldn't have their proton packs on if they'd just surprised a burglar."

"Man, this is crazy. Ghosts stabbing people. You don't think Peter could have done it?"

Winston's jaw dropped and he had to hold his breath to keep from exploding in anger. "You're kidding, right? Egon is Peter's brother in all but blood. He'd sooner stab himself than hurt Egon. I'd stake my life on that, officer. Wait a minute." He craned his neck. There. Egon's P.K.E. meter lay abandoned on the floor over toward the spiral staircase. He ran and snatched it, the cop hard on his heels. When he turned it on, it beeped faintly, the antennae stirring.

Curly squinted warily at the meter. "What's that mean?"

"That a ghost or more has been here. We filter Slimer's readings out of all the meters, so it's not him. Something else was here, and Pete and Egon put on their packs to fight it. It went wrong. So don't try to say for even one minute that Peter did anything to hurt Egon." It was a good thing Peter didn't hear that. He'd have thrown ten kinds of fits, and he was in no shape for it.

Winston sneaked a look at him. Ray had a comforting arm around his shoulders. Okay, maybe he needed comfort as much as Peter did. Peter scarcely seemed aware of Ray's presence, and that was bad. Ray's distress could usually win Peter's attention in a second. The paramedics needed to examine him soon, but Egon needed to be stabilized first. People didn't usually die of concussions, and Peter had functioned well enough to take care of Egon and summon help on his own. Part of his reaction was probably shock, although the head injury might be what was making him so zoned out. There wasn't much the paramedics could do for him anyway except to keep him quiet until they could transport, and Ray was already doing that.

The lead paramedic beckoned Winston over. He was a middle-aged black man with salt and pepper hair and bushy white eyebrows like fat caterpillars on his forehead. "We've got him as stable as we can make him," he said. They had removed Egon's pack by cutting the straps so they could lift him without disturbing the knife, and had placed him on the gurney. An IV dripped a solution into him. "Good thing your buddy didn't try to take the knife out. He'd be losing a lot more blood. Possible the small intestine was hit. We need to get him to the hospital right now. They'll remove it there."

"Will he be all right?" Winston hated to have to ask. He didn't know if he could live with a negative answer.

"Well, we got to him fast and your buddy did the right thing. There's a risk of peritonitis if the intestine was punctured but that takes awhile to set in and we'll have him in the hospital and under treatment right away. Looks like it might have been nicked anyway. His symptoms match that. But we can treat that." He nodded toward Peter. "We'll take your friend with us and examine him in the squad. The other two of you can follow us." He named the hospital.

"Come on, Pete," Winston urged, turning to the pair on the sofa. "They say you can ride along with Egon." No point in mentioning an examination. Peter wouldn't take it in and he'd probably fight to keep the paramedics' full attention on Egon. His own attention was so fine-tuned that Winston's words would mean nothing. Going with Egon was another matter. He let Ray haul him to his feet and steady him when he wavered and nearly tipped over. Winston fell in at his other side to grab his arm and they guided him down the stairs while the paramedics bore Egon before them.

Peter got into the EMTs' vehicle voluntarily, but he was dizzy and needed a hand in. Winston saw the black paramedic register that with a knowing lift of a fuzzy brow. Peter was in good hands.

When the vehicle raced of, siren wailing, Winston started for Ecto-1, but Ray forestalled him by catching his arm. "Wait, Winston." He stood, defiant in his bloody tee shirt, calculation in his eyes that didn't begin to overshadow his worry.

"What's wrong?"

"Something was here. I saw you with the meter and you got residuals. Something might have tried to break into the containment unit. I couldn't get much sense out of Slimer--he took off through the wall when the sirens got really loud. But he was babbling about a 'nasty ghost'. I want to take quick readings and put up the defense grid around the containment unit before we go to the hospital." He bit his bottom lip. "We have to hurry."

The residuals were fainter than when Winston had checked them upstairs, but they hadn't entirely gone. "Class 7," Ray breathed.

"Whoa, back up. Are you saying a demon was here?" That was all they needed. It generally took all four of them to take down an entity as powerful as a demon.

"Maybe. Might just be a powerful ghost." He trotted down the stairs to the containment unit. They'd designed in a lot of safeguards that they didn't always leave in place. With an electric bill high enough to light a small city as it was, they couldn't afford to use them except in a crisis. This was obviously one of those times. Ray put three backups into place and waited until a green light illuminated on the control panel for each one. "There. I don't think anything can get in now. I'll put the security fields around the building in place when we go." He grabbed the remote that activated the fields to carry upstairs.

"Winston?"

"Yeah, Ray?"

"Is Egon...going to die?" The words ventured out hesitantly. Like Winston earlier, he was half-afraid to hear the answer.

"Oh, man, I don't think so. They'd have to do surgery, maybe, but he shouldn't die of it and they'll put him on major antibiotics. The knife looked like one of our steak knives, not some mysterious blade from the Netherworld with poison on it. Pete called 911 right away. I think he'll make it."

"What about Peter? He was so out of it, Winston. I never saw him like that before. That bump on his forehead was swelling. He got hit on the head."

"Yeah, he had a pretty good lump forming, but he couldn't have been knocked out for more than a minute or two or Egon would have bled to d--or he wouldn't have been able to help Egon so well. I think Pete's got a combination of concussion and reaction to what happened and he'll settle down once we get the good word on Egon. I don't know where the ghost went or why it didn't stick around but neither trap was full."

"So it's still out there. Winston--" He paused on the top step, then caught himself and led the way out into the garage. "Winston, Slimer did it. He was crying about it before the paramedics got here. He was scared to death."

"I don't think he was in control when it happened," Winston reassured him. He put his hands on Ray's shoulders and squeezed. "Look, run up quick and change your shirt and I'll get Ecto ready." Ray started for the stairs and Winston hollered, "Wait. Take a pack with you."

Ray snatched his pack from the back of Ecto and hurried up the stairs. He returned in moments carrying it slung over one shoulder, wearing a clean shirt, his face and hands scrubbed clean of slime and blood. Winston had taken advantage of his absence to clean up in the downstairs bathroom. "Let's go," Ray cried. "We might have to authorize Egon's treatment, if Peter isn't up to it." The need to get to Egon and Peter was almost fierce enough to levitate him to Ecto.

Winston nodded and slid behind the wheel.

Ray hated hospital waiting rooms. Ghostbusting was a dangerous profession, and the team had received its share of injuries over the past few years but, even if it had been caused by a ghost, this seemed different. Poor Slimer, scared to death of what had happened to him, was as much a victim as Egon was. Seeing Egon lying there so still, his face so white, and Peter, shocked and concussed, unable to function, made Ray's heart harden a bit. He didn't blame Slimer, not if a more powerful ghost had forced his hand, but he had an idea Peter would take it very much worse.

Egon and Peter were already being treated when they had arrived. A doctor had appeared to them after an endless half hour earlier sat them down. He was young, probably younger than Ray, but he was alert and wore an air of calm competence and a reassuring expression on his unlined face. Wide, innocent blue eyes gazed at them, summed up their distress, and registered it. Just looking at him inspired trust. If he could bottle that look, he'd make a fortune from other doctors, used car salesmen, and con men. "I'm Dr. Byers, the surgeon. Looks like you two have been through a rough time. Let me go over the plan with you. We've done X-rays on Dr. Spengler. There's evidence of perforation of the small intestine but it does seem minor. We need to do exploratory surgery to repair the damage. He's stable at the moment. I think he'll withstand the surgery, as he appears to be generally in excellent health. I've spoken with his own physician, Dr. Labraccio, who confirms that. He isn't conscious and can't give permission for the surgery. Is there family--"

"I'll do it," Winston volunteered. "We all have durable power of attorney for medical treatment as our families aren't right on hand."

"Excellent. I'll go over everything after the surgery with you, but we don't want to wait on it. The danger of spreading infection is great when an intestine is perforated. Fortunately, we have wonderful modern antibiotics to fight such a thing, and we're adept at dealing with them. Don't worry. We'll give him our very best."

Winston went with him to handle the paperwork while Ray sat and stared unseeingly at the dark window. He hadn't asked about Peter because it was obvious the surgeon hadn't seen him, but they should know something soon. Shouldn't they?

Winston returned and pressed a Styrofoam cup into Ray's hand. When Ray grimaced, he nodded. "Yeah, I know. Hospital coffee sucks. But it'll keep us awake. They took Egon in to surgery. They said that after we heard about Pete, we should come up to the surgical waiting room on the third floor and that way they can keep us informed during the course of the operation."

"Should we...call Janine?" Ray glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight. It felt much later. If only they hadn't stayed at the con until the end of the dead dog party, they might have reached home in time to prevent what happened. Janine needed to know; she loved Egon so much. Ray shivered, imagining her reaction. It might be kinder to let her sleep and tell her in the morning, but he knew he couldn't do that. It might be kind, but it wouldn't be fair, and she'd be furious. If Egon--if the worst happened, she needed to be here.

"Want me to do it, Ray?" Winston sipped his coffee and grimaced.

"I will. I want to."

"We'll both go," Winston decided. He stood at Ray's back the whole time, his hand on Ray's shoulder. A shaken Janine promised to come immediately.

"I'll get there as soon as I can. Ray--is he..." Her voice trailed off doubtfully. Ray couldn't remember the last time he'd heard anything like that in their feisty secretary's voice.

"They think he'll make it." Ray closed his eyes. Let it be true. Gosh, just let it be true.

"I'll run out and fetch her," Winston volunteered, and Ray passed along the message.

"No, you need to stay there. I'll grab a cab and be there as soon as I can." She was silent a minute, then she said fiercely, "He better be okay," and hung up quickly.

Ray clutched the receiver a few more seconds until Winston detached it from his hand. "Come on, let's go see if there's any word about Peter."

They returned to the waiting room just as another doctor presented himself. This one was old enough to have developed a comfortable middle-aged spread, and a high, advancing forehead. The three strands that he'd deliberately combed across his bald pate enhanced rather than concealed his shiny dome--and would probably look silly in a windstorm. "You're here for Dr. Venkman? I'm Dr. Silvers." He shook hands with them both. "Your friend did sustain a moderate concussion, although he is conscious and alert now. He reports he believes he was unconscious for a minute at most, possibly less, but it was a hard blow. There doesn't seem to be any severe damage from the blow to the head; no evidence of skull fracture or hematoma and his brain scan looks normal, but he also endured acute emotional stress over the wounding of Dr. Spengler and, as a result, we want to admit him so we can monitor him in case of a delayed reaction. He's not willing to consent to this, however."

"He better be admitted," Winston decided, imaging Peter enduring waiting room duty in his state. "We'll talk sense to him, lay down the law, if that would help."

"I hoped you'd say that."

Peter looked better than he had at the firehouse, but it was partly because he wore a clean, white hospital gown rather than a bloodstained jumpsuit. The bruise on his forehead had continued to darken; by morning it would be huge and vivid and puffy. His eyes didn't look nearly so dilated, but they burned with a feverish intensity. The minute he saw them, he grabbed for their hands and demanded, "How's Egon?" The vulnerability Egon's wounding and his own head injury had inflicted on him lingered, although he seemed a lot more...more like Peter than he had at the scene. Ray's heart went out to him. Peter shouldn't be so vulnerable. He was supposed to be cocky and ready for anything.

"He's in surgery," Winston explained. "The doc thinks he'll pull through. They'll have to keep him here for a few days or maybe a week to treat the infection and for him to recover from the surgery, but Egon's tough. You did exactly the right thing for him. You saved him, Peter."

"Yeah, you did great." Ray squeezed Peter's hand.

Peter shrugged off their reassurance. He didn't want praise, not until he was positive Egon would live. "You're sure he'll be okay?"

"I'm sure he's in good hands and that they know exactly what they are doing," Winston told him. "Egon's a fighter, you know that. He's not gonna let us down."

Peter's face hardened. "They can't make me stay here." He wasn't strong enough to fight both of them and he knew it, but he started out firm, hoping that if he got his claim in first they would buy it. No chance of that.

"Oh, yes you are," Winston countered sternly. He folded resolute arms across his chest and presented the image of a man who couldn't be backed down by a fleet of bulldozers.

"You have to, Peter." Ray made his eyes huge and wide and pleading. His puppy dog look. He didn't like to use it against Peter; he wasn't devious. But it usually worked. "Don't make us worry about both of you."

Peter's mouth twisted in a fit of anger that wasn't directed so much at Ray as at circumstance. Normally, Ray might have given ground under it, but he couldn't tonight.

"You fight dirty, Ray."

"I know, but you have to stay. Just think, you can be here with Egon; maybe when he gets out of recovery you can share a room." He trickled the incentive in front of Peter even if he didn't know if it was feasible. Egon might be in the ICU at first.

"Yeah, Pete, Egon's gonna need you to be strong and healthy, not sick because you wouldn't follow the doctor's advice."

It suddenly dawned on him that if he stayed, he'd be near Egon. The protective impulses that had flared when Egon was hurt hadn't retreated they'd just been banked until the opportunity came for them to flare to life. He grimaced and capitulated.

"Doctor?" Ray turned to Silvers. "We need to ask him a couple of questions about what happened. It's important. Is that okay?"

"Five minutes, no more. We'll be taking him to his room. I want him to rest after that."

"Peter, what happened?" Ray asked. He let go of Peter's hand and squeezed his shoulder instead, partly to offer comfort and partly because it would give him better leverage to keep Peter lying flat. "Can you give us the bare bones now so we'll know what to watch for? I set up all the protection grids at the firehall. The readings said it was a Class 7."

"Yeah, it was," Peter agreed. Only his eyes moved. They locked with Ray's as he poured out his explanation. "It was big and nasty and it sneered a lot. It went for Egon right away, and I had a heck of a time getting a bead on it. It was like it wanted him more than me." His mouth twisted. "Maybe because he had the meter. Slimer was there, too, but he was hiding under the couch. We tried to keep it between us so we could get clear shots, but angled off so we wouldn't hit each other. It was tough."

"We should have come home early." Ray could imagine his two oldest friends struggling to defeat a demon without any backup, and he felt bad about it. He knew he and Winston had done nothing wrong, that it was just bad timing. They hadn't been home till late the night before, either and nothing had happened. Ghosts and demons didn't usually invade headquarters.

Peter shook his head and immediately paled. His mouth tightened like he wanted to be sick. "That was a mistake," he muttered as his color strengthened. "Dumb, dumb, dumb." He gathered himself. "Ray, listen. No way you could have known, got it."

Peter shouldn't have to comfort him, not when he was in such distress. "I know," he said. He'd work that out later when Peter was resting. "It's okay. Except that you and Egon are hurt. How did it happen?"

"It was...hard to get a good shot," Peter said. "I kept...bugging it, taunting it, trying to keep it away from Egon. But then it got really creative. It tried to make me put my thrower down--messed with my mind. I could feel it, this really fierce compulsion to give up. Knew it wasn't me; I could see it in Big Nasty's face. He was...working on me. I fought it like crazy and it went away. Don't think he could do that and attack us the way it was doing both at the same time. Divided up its energy. Egon...knew what it was doing, but it wasn't doing it to him." He drew a deep breath. He was nearly spent, but when the doctor tried to end the session, Peter held up his hand to stay him. "Listen, doc, these guys' lives might depend on this. I've gotta finish."

"I don't advise it," Silvers said stiffly. "But I see it's an emergency. Go on, but I reserve the right to end it if I think it's too much."

Peter didn't look grateful for the indulgence; he scarcely noticed it. "That's when the demon got really vindictive. It started throwing things at us, not with its hands but with its mind." He pointed at his forehead. "This was from a book. Caught me with the corner of it. I went down, and I think I blacked out."

Silvers nodded to confirm that.

"Next thing I know, Egon's got his stream at wide dispersion, full streams, holding the demon off, and yelling my name like crazy. He couldn't stop firing or he'd be toast, but, god, he sounded frantic. I yelled to let him know I was still with him, but I was kind of...out of it." Wary fingers explored his bruise and he winced. "It was like...moving through fresh-poured concrete just to haul in my thrower, but I had to because Old Nasty had Egon backed up in a corner and I didn't think...one stream could hold it. The demon tossed a few more things at me, but it missed."

"Not entirely," interjected Silvers. "Those bruises on your shoulder and ribcage came from somewhere."

Peter dismissed them. "Not important, doc. Anyway, I was trying to get up." It had probably taken him several tries. "I could see Egon would go down any second if I...didn't help and I just couldn't." His eyes blazed with an inward-directed fury. He knew he had been too weak to rush in with thrower blazing, but that didn't matter. Egon had needed him.

"That's when Slimer came," Peter said as if telling a story by rote. His eyes dulled and his face sported lines that weren't normally there. "He had a knife, and I thought he was gonna go for the demon, and I said, 'Yeah, spud, go for it.' Figured it would give me time to pull myself together. Damn it!" He sucked in breath as if it offered him sustenance and his eyes were cold and inimical. It might be smart to keep Slimer out of his way for awhile, although Ray was pretty sure the little ghost had been influenced, the way the demon had tried to influence Peter.

Peter collected himself and continued. Each word was an effort. Silvers was caught up in the story or he would have ended the visit. "He circled around behind the wide-angle stream and just stuck his knife into Egon. His face was blank and he just did it and it made this awful sound, god, god, I never heard anything that awful, and Egon screamed and fell down, and the thrower went off and the demon started toward him and I could see blood already and the knife was sticking out of him." He wrapped his arms around himself as he relived the moment, and Ray shuddered in sympathetic horror, imagining how it must have felt to Peter to be there helpless with a demon about to finish Slimer's work.

When he opened his mouth to soothe Peter, the psychologist jerked up his hand. "Lemme finish, Ray, cause I'm gonna...lose it here." It was true. He was barely clinging to consciousness and Silvers looked like he'd have them out the door in the next second. Peter plunged on, words all but running together. "I got this wild adrenaline rush and grabbed up my thrower and ran at the demon, yelling at the top of my lungs and blasting like crazy. Slimer shrieked like a teakettle and took off, and the demon turned around and looked me right in the eye. It smiled, and I could see in its eyes that Egon was dead, or that I couldn't do anything to keep him alive. Then the demon said, 'That's done,' and rubbed his hands together in satisfaction and popped out all of a sudden and wasn't there any more. When I find it, I'm gonna send its atoms in all directions faster'n the speed of light." He collected himself. "Guys, I think it's got it in for Egon. You gotta protect him." His hand fumbled for Ray again and caught him by the wrist, but there was no strength in his grasping fingers. "Promise," he pleaded like a small child. "Gotta promise." He didn't have the energy to sound like himself. No smart mouth, no wisecracks, no attempts to ease their tension with a quip. Only Egon's need existed for him, and he had virtually no strength so he had to spend what he had in the smallest coin possible.

"You bet we promise, Pete," Winston vowed as if swearing a blood oath. "We won't let anybody touch a hair on his head. Try to sleep. Dr. Silvers will hang us up by the heels if we don't go."

"Yeah, we'll watch Egon," Ray promised. He bent and gave Peter a hasty, heartfelt hug. "You just get well."

Peter's eyes acknowledged that but he had the strength to go no further. All he could do was lie there and gaze up at Ray. Then he struggled briefly in a convulsion of energy and said, "Big, green, darker green than Slimer, horns, fangs, all scaly. Face kinda looked like Robert DeNiro, only green and wider at the temples. Check it out." Then his eyes slid shut.

"Out," Silvers insisted. "Out right now. I'll deal with him." His words were so utterly final that Ray and Winston backed out of the room, eyes on Peter until the door closed in their faces.

The two men stared at each other, then Ray said, "Egon!"

"Yeah, man, we better get our throwers. I'll get 'em. You head up to the OR and tell somebody we have to be on the scene."

They separated without further discussion, Ray for the elevator and Winston for the ER exit. No time to wonder why the demon had wanted Egon in particular. It could have killed Peter easily but it hadn't bothered. Of course killing Egon would take Peter as badly as being killed himself. Worse. Peter was so protective toward his friends. It wasn't that he risked himself unnecessarily on a bust, but when he was assigning jobs, he often wound up choosing the most dangerous one, and he never hesitated to race to their aid when one of them was in danger. Ray pushed the elevator button, determined to protect Egon, for Peter's sake as well as Egon's.

Janine found Ray and Winston outside the ER, wearing their proton packs, particle throwers in hand, identical expressions of grim determination on their faces. Ray had an activated P.K.E. meter tucked into his breast pocket. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "Is Egon..."

"We can't go in," Ray explained. "They won't let us in the OR. But if the demon comes back, we'll be ready."

She put her hands to her mouth, horrified at the thought of the disruption a malevolent demon could cause in an operating room. Egon could still die if it attacked now. "Why?" she blurted. "Why does it want Egon? What about Peter?"

"Peter's concussed, but it never came for him, even when it could have," Ray explained. "He said it was like a vendetta, like it had come to kill Egon. Egon didn't seem to know. Gosh, Janine, we have to protect him. And I've gotta find out who the demon was and why it's after Egon. I don't remember any demons having it in for him."

"Neither do I," Winston agreed. "Any demon mad at him would have it in for us, too. Peter insisted on telling us what happened, but it half-killed him to tell us. I think he held out as long as he could and then passed out. Oh, man..."

"Poor Dr. V." She collected herself, trying not to imagine the scene in the firehall. "Will he be okay?"

"I think so," said Ray. "He looked so bad, though. The doctor said he'd be a lot better in the morning."

Janine drew breath in relief. "Have they said anything--about Egon?"

Ray smiled. "It's going well so far. The knife only nicked his small intestine in two places. They think he'll be in there another hour, because they have to make sure, but they keep us posted. I've got the meter set to record anything in a three-block radius. That should give us time to get in there if we have to."

Janine's tight muscles relaxed. Even if Egon were still in surgery, the damage wasn't as bad as it might have been. Ray and Winston stood like angels with flaming swords prepared to guard him against the demon if it should return. "You said Slimer did it?" She'd always defended the little ghost to the guys, but now she liked the idea of volunteering him for target practice.

"Peter said the demon tried to influence him," explained Winston. "I think it influenced Slimer and made him do it."

Ray gave a vehement nod. "Slimer said so, when I was talking to him just before the paramedics came. He kept saying he didn't mean to and crying. I knew he'd done something bad but I didn't know quite what until I went upstairs and saw Egon."

"Demons can make him hurt us?" Janine's eyes widened in horror.

"Powerful demons have always been able to influence humans," Ray reminded her. "And possess humans, like Watt did with Peter and Karo Zans did with all of us but Egon. Samhaine influenced Slimer, too, remember?" He swallowed hard. "I know it's not the little guy's fault, but when I saw Egon with the knife sticking out of him..."

Janine felt new horror punch through her. Had she seen that, she might never forgive Slimer, even if it wasn't his fault. She imagined Peter, unsuspecting, watching it done, and would have made book on the fact that Peter would be even more unforgiving. But that would have to wait.

"Do you think the demon will come back?"

They exchanged glances. "Peter thought it had come just for Egon. When Egon went down, the demon told Peter, 'that's done,' and then it left. I think the left because it believed Egon was dying. If it finds out Egon is still alive, it'll come back."

"I don't get it. Why would a demon take out just Egon and not the rest of you? Egon wouldn't have gone on a bust alone and one person can't catch a demon, not even Egon."

Ray scrunched up his forehead in concentration. "Sometimes Egon thinks of the solution on a bust. He's always coming up with great ideas."

"Yeah, but then we all bust the ghost," said Winston. "We're a team. We bust as a team. Even Egon he had a brilliant idea, we'd all carry it out. I think it's gotta be something more specific. If we helped trap the demon's best pal, for instance, the demon would have wanted to take us all down."

"Or hurt the rest of us by killing Egon," ventured Ray in a small voice. "You should have seen Peter, Janine. He was really out of it. Course he got hit on the head and he's got a concussion, but if Egon had--had died, the demon would have really got revenge on him. On all of us."

Janine frowned. "Think it's subtle enough to pull that? Kill Egon and sit back to watch you suffer?" She considered it. "I don't think so. We need to figure out how Egon ticked it off. Because, once it realizes Egon is going to get well, it might come back."

Winston gestured with his thrower. "Why do you think we're standing here, girlfriend?"

"That's not what I mean. You bet you guys are gonna protect him while he's in surgery and while he's here. But what if the demon doesn't come back for weeks? You can't guard him the rest of his life. You've gotta figure it out." She hated to say that. The way the two of them hovered near the OR door she could tell that their need to defend Egon was probably the only thing that kept them going. It was late, they were beat, they'd gone through a major crisis. Peter was hurt, too, although not as badly, and it sounded like he was in a bad way emotionally. The last thing Janine wanted to do was to take away the protective urge that kept them going, although she knew they'd need to sleep eventually.

They stared at her. "We'll figure it out," Ray said. "Maybe Egon will have some ideas when he wakes up. Or we can go through the computer files. And I've got a great idea. Once Egon's in a room, we can rig it with a bunch of traps and give him a trigger remote--it'd be just like his call signal. If the demon came when no one was here, he'd just have to push the button. He'd be strong enough for that. If we had enough traps, it should work, wouldn't it?"

"Unless the demon comes at night," muttered Winston. "Or sends in a controlled orderly to smother him."

They stared at each other in horror.

"I've got a better idea," Janine decided. "You've got two possibilities. Either the demon wants revenge on Egon for his own sake, or some idiot summoned him to attack Egon. Right?"

"Sounds reasonable," conceded Winston. Ray bobbed his head in agreement.

"Okay, then, how's this. We tell the newspapers that...that Egon didn't make it through the surgery. It gets in the papers. We'd have to call his Mom and clue her in. But if it's some jerk who summoned the demon, he'll back off--at least until Egon's strong enough to handle himself or until you find out what happened."

Winston and Ray stared at her, then Winston tucked his thrower under his arm, swooped down on her, grabbed her by the shoulders, and gave her a big smooch on the mouth. "Girlfriend, you've got an idea there. I better find somebody to work it out. What do you think, Ray?"

"We'll be giving Egon's friends a bad few days, but we can warn his mom it's not real. I think we should go for it." He threw his arms around Janine and hugged her. She tried to ignore the thrower jamming her in the back and hugged him back.

"What about Peter?" Ray asked as he let her go.

"We tell him first thing in the morning," Winston insisted. "Before he has a chance to hear anything different. He'll go along with anything that will protect Egon."

The demon probably didn't read the New York Times. If it wanted revenge on its own, the publicity gimmick wouldn't work. But the plan gave them a fifty-fifty chance of keeping it away long enough for Egon to get back on his feet.

Now if Egon just made it through the surgery...

Peter Venkman awoke early the next morning, his head still pounding but not with the savage fury of the previous night. He felt more clear-headed, too, able to think and remember, and what he remembered was Egon. The guys had said they thought he'd be okay, hadn't they? He was sure he remembered that. He'd dozed restlessly through the night, waking and drifting off to sleep again, hoping each time for news of Egon. The guys would probably have let him sleep, but now that it was morning... Was it morning? The light that filtered in his window was still a little grey. Okay, early morning then. Wouldn't he have to rub it in to the guys that he was awake so early?

He glanced around the room but they weren't here; maybe they were with Egon, keeping an eye on him, since the demon's attack had been personal. When Peter found the demon, his own attack would be personal too, when he utterly neutronized it.

He had a tray table near him with a remote for the TV on it. He snatched it up to turn it on. If the guys had caught the demon, it would be big news. He could send for a nurse but she probably wouldn't tell him anything until the doctor had been in. They always went out of their way to keep information from the patients.

He found UBN. There was Cynthia Crawford, going on about a murder/suicide. Peter grinned at her. He'd taken her out a few times after she'd interviewed him. Maybe she'd only come because she'd done her story about Slimer rather than him, but it had been fun. He decided he'd ask her out again.

She switched stories, and he stared in surprise for her eyes were full of tears. Reporters didn't get that carried away on a story, did they? They were supposed to be impersonal. "On a tragic note, this morning New Yorkers are mourning the loss of a local hero. Dr. Egon Spengler of the Ghostbusters, did not survive surgery last night after an attack by a demon--"

The air went out of Peter's lungs in a whoosh, and he lay, frozen, while the rest of the story washed over him. The guys had said Egon would survive. Oh, god, they'd said he'd make it...

Egon. Oh, god, no. This couldn't be real. His strength fled and he felt himself break out in a cold sweat. It was as if a giant hand had reached down and backhanded his whole body. It wasn't real. It was a trick. Had to be. A mistake. Some other guy named Spengler had died and they'd mixed it up. Egon would be furious when he heard... God, and Ray would go to pieces.

His head pounded, and his stomach roiled. "Egon," he whispered in a small, broken voice. "Oh, god, Egon, I tried. I'm sorry."

There could be no absolution for Peter's failure to protect his friend. He'd done all he could, but it hadn't been enough, and Peter would have to live with that for the rest of his life.

Live without Egon? Deep in pain and his shock, he couldn't imagine doing it. Scarcely aware of the way his hands clutched his pounding head, he stared at a mental vista of a world without Egon in it. He'd wake up in the morning and see the empty bed beside his own. He'd cross the hall to the lab and fail to see the blond head bent over an esoteric piece of equipment. He wouldn't hear the dry, humorous voice teasing him over some imagined misdoing or insisting he get up immediately.

He wouldn't have the one person who understood him so thoroughly that Peter could feel safe even when things were falling apart because he knew he had only to turn to Egon to make it right. Egon was his oldest friend, his closest friend. It wasn't that Ray and Winston weren't close. They were; the four of them were the kind of friends they wrote heroic ballads about. He saw other guys out there with their casual drinking buddies and felt sorry for them because they didn't have an Egon or a Ray or a Winston. They didn't know how lucky Peter Venkman was.

Lucky? Oh, god, Egon. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to blot out the light and the pain, but he couldn't blot out the emptiness that gushed through him like a flash flood. His fingers massaged his scalp quite independently of any conscious urge to do so. It wasn't true. Why hadn't the guys come and told him? He felt alone, abandoned, devastated, and the moan of utter desolation that shuddered free wasn't conscious either. It came from a pain so deep that it permeated every fiber of his being. The pounding of his skull was secondary, lost in the tide of his grief.

He didn't even see the nurse who stopped in the doorway then rushed, alarmed, to his side, nor did he notice when she went running for the doctor. Curled into a ball, he rocked slowly, tears running down his face.

"Peter!"

It was Ray's voice, cutting through the fog of misery. The hands that felt his pulse and held the stethoscope to his chest weren't Ray's, but Ray was close behind their owner. "What's wrong?"

"He seems to be in great pain," the doctor said. "I'm afraid he's having a delayed reaction to the head injury."

"Oh, no." cried Ray, stricken. "Oh, gosh, Peter."

"Easy, Ray, let the doctor check him out." That was Winston, practical and comforting. He sounded worried, too, but he didn't sound like he was grieving. Maybe he could only focus on one crisis at a time.

Peter couldn't help Egon, but he could help Ray and Winston. Sucking in a painful breath, he tried to straighten out and forced his eyes open. Ray's face had lost all color as he stared at Peter. He looked drained and fatigued as if he'd been up all night, his chin unshaven, and Winston was in much the same condition. They must guess what was really wrong. If they didn't, Peter couldn't let them think he was having a relapse.

"I heard it on TV," he gritted out with an accusing gesture at the screen. He didn't want to say the words out loud. That would make it true. "God, Ray, why didn't you tell me? I had to hear it on TV that Egon was--"

Comprehension and horror warred for dominance on Ray's face. Behind him, Winston said furiously, "Shit, shit, shit."

Ray didn't wait. "Egon isn't dead, Peter. I give you my word he's not. Announcing it on TV is a trick in case somebody made the demon attack him. If they think they've won, they won't try again. It was to protect him. We were gonna get here first thing and tell you."

"Well, you didn't," Peter said. The words spilled out without volition. He could scarcely understand what Ray was saying. Egon was alive? The confirmation shone out of Ray's eyes and, behind him, Winston nodded vehemently. The doctor paused, about to pump up the blood pressure cuff, and added his own corroboration.

"Easy, Dr. Venkman. Yes, it's true, your friend is alive, and doing well; we expect to move him out of the ICU before noon. We'll put him in here with you."

Peter stared at them, unable to take it in. He'd plunged to the utter depths of despair, and it was hard to find the strength to bob to the surface. To believe them was a risk, an impossible risk. What if they were wrong? What if they were lying to protect him?

Ray must have seen the doubt in Peter's eyes, the reluctance to accept their reassurance. He gulped, then he wiggled past the doctor and grabbed Peter's hands. "It's okay, Peter. Really. Egon came through the surgery with flying colors. We were so relieved. The doctor says he'll be in the hospital about a week, but he's coming back really great. Honest. You know I would never lie to you." He edged back, fervent and forthright, his eyes pleading for understanding. "We were gonna be here first thing, Peter. I'm so sorry we didn't get here in time."

"Yeah, it's not even seven o'clock," Winston added with forced lightness. "You never get up this early, man. We were gonna be here when you woke up. Egon's okay. We wouldn't lie to you."

Peter stared at them. The truth shone in their faces. "He's alive?" he whispered, half-afraid to speak any louder for fear of evoking a malign fate to slap him down for daring to hope.

"He sure is," Ray said. "Doctor, can't we take him up there to see?"

The doctor pumped up the blood pressure cuff and studied it. "Hmm. It's a little elevated, but I think it'll come down to normal now. Respiration is steadying and so is his pulse. Dr. Venkman, I want your word you won't do anything strenuous. We'll take you up to the ICU in a wheelchair and give you two minutes, not one second more. This kind of reaction is not good for a head injury." He must have known Peter wouldn't relax until he had confirmation of Egon's survival, that only the sight of Egon would calm him down.

"Anything you say, doc, just let me see him." He scrubbed his hands across his face to eradicate the tear tracks. Ray and Winston pretended not to notice. "He's in trouble and he's up there alone?" he asked.

Ray patted the P.K.E. meter that he had stuck in the pocket of his jumpsuit. "I've got this set for a three block radius, and Janine's outside the ICU with a proton pack on and a thrower in her hands. We've been taking turns since he came out of surgery."

Getting into the wheelchair wasn't as tough as Peter had feared it would be. His headache had retreated to the manageable state it had been in before he'd heard Cynthia Crawford's broadcast. Okay, so he was still a little woozy, but he'd have died before admitting it. They might not let him go see Egon. It didn't matter anyway. With Winston and Ray helping him and holding him steady the way he did, he could have floated upside down to the intensive care unit and still have been perfectly safe.

Egon lay in the ICU bed, attached to three different IV's, and to monitors that blinked out a pattern on a screen above his head. Peter didn't know how to read it so he ignored it, concentrating instead on Egon's face. Too pale, but better than last night. God, so much better than last night.

The doctor himself wheeled Peter in, banishing Ray and Winston to wait outside with Janine, who shucked her proton pack and offered it to Ray when they arrived. She looked exhausted, too, but her eyes glowed. She even bent and bestowed a kiss upon Peter's cheek. He didn't gloat about it. Time for that later.

"One at a time," the doctor insisted. He'd made Peter stop just inside the unit to wash his hands. He must have known Peter would grab Egon's hand as soon as he got close enough and they had to be wary of infection.

Careful of the IV's, Peter held on gently, conscious of the warm, living flesh beneath his fingers. Egon was alive. He was still a bit too pale, and he looked more fragile than Peter had ever seen him, but he was breathing slowly and regularly. He was on oxygen, but that was probably natural after surgery.

"He's doing very well," the doctor said. Egon wasn't his patient, but he knew how to read the monitors. "Two minutes, Dr. Venkman. I'll wait." He backed off to stand beside the nurse whose responsibility it was to monitor Egon.

Peter forgot about him. "Egon, it's okay," he said. "You're gonna be fine. Your biggest problem will be fending off Janine when you get home. She's gonna want to come and stroke your brow and help change your dressing--and give you sponge baths. If you don't take advantage of it, I'm gonna wonder about you."

Egon didn't respond. The doctor said he might stir a little but even if he woke up for a second, he would probably fail to remember it later. Peter had once had his appendix out and he remembered how groggy he'd been the day after surgery. He'd wanted to sleep more than anything. People came and went but he'd just drifted, vaguely registering their presence. What the doctor said was normal, but he wanted Egon to wake up, just to prove to Peter that he was going to be all right.

"Come on, Egon, open those baby blues," he coaxed. Then he let it all spill out. "They told the press you bought the big one to protect you until we can figure out what's going on. I heard on TV that you were dead. Come on, help me out here. I really need you to open your eyes."

Egon's eyelids fluttered to half mast and he squinted nearsightedly at Peter. A gleam of intelligence shone there. "P-peter?" he ventured.

"It's okay, Egon. You're gonna be just fine." He tightened his grip on Egon's fingers. "Do you hear me. Just fine."

"'m alive," Egon forced out, his fingers shifting feebly in Peter's grip. Even in his semi-conscious state he must have heard and understood Peter's desperation and responded to it. "Alive, Peter." He heaved a weary sigh, coaxed his lips into a semblance of a smile, and drifted back to sleep, still smiling.

Peter's own smile stretched all the way across his face. He turned elated eyes to the doctor who swooped forward and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

"Back to bed for you," he said. "I think you'll rest easier now, won't you?"

Peter nodded, a little nod that wouldn't make his head fall off. "Anything you say, Doc," he vowed, although that would be subject to negotiation later when he felt better. Egon was alive. Right now, everything else was secondary. He wouldn't mind a little downtime as long as Egon was well guarded. Maybe he could put some thought into figuring out why the demon was so hot to trash Egon. Yeah, he'd have to do that. If only it wasn't so tough to keep his eyes open.

The doctor and a nurse put him back to bed and he was so limp and relaxed in the grip of his relief that he scarcely noticed what a babe she was. Instead, he pulled the blankets around himself and dropped without effort into a deep, comforting sleep.

"...the death of Ghostbuster Egon Spengler..." The radio cut into his preoccupation and made him stiffen like a pointer who has picked up the scent. His face blazed into a triumphant smile. It had worked! Spengler was dead at last, Spengler, who hadn't deigned to notice him, Spengler, who had won the glory all these years. Spengler, who rated an obituary in the media. If he died, he'd have a quiet little obit buried in the back of the newspaper. David Proctor, 34, died of frustration and resentment. Graduate of Columbia, physics professor at Norton Junior College. He left no family. Yeah, he could just see it now, that pathetic little obit. Spengler's would be front page news.

Well, he could endure that, he thought, his lip curling. He was still here, still had his chances, while the great Egon Spengler was about to push up daisies. That would show all those high and mighty Spenglers back home in Ohio. Highfalutin' Cyrus who wouldn't hire him for Spengler Labs. Edwin was dead now, or it would show him, too. Maybe he'd meet his dead son in the afterlife and know there. Good for him.

And the others, the hangers-on who gathered around the brilliant Spengler. Let them suffer. Let the other Ghostbusters mourn their loss. They had crowded around him back at Columbia. Never mind that hometown boy, David, was there already, ready to take the Spengler boy under his wing. Finally, he'd have a chance to outshine the younger Egon.

It hadn't happened, though. Egon had settled in quickly. He had been polite to David: the occasional get together, the physics meetings, even a study session or two. At least until that obnoxious Venkman came along and ousted him. Then there was that Stantz kid, the one who was too shy to look you in the face at first. Spengler wanted them instead of his hometown friend, his scientific colleague. He'd wanted them enough to form a business with them.

David had put in a resume with the Ghostbusters, but by that time they'd hired Zeddemore. He wasn't even a scholar. Lousy bachelor's degree. When they could have had another brilliant resident physicist.

He wouldn't last, though. So David had done the research, learned everything he could about ghosts and spirits. Dipped into the occult, ready and waiting in the wings for the time when the Ghostbusters needed him. He'd been waiting ever since.

Finally, the award, the National Physics Prize for excellence in the field. Spengler, of course, been one of the nominees, not for the first time. They'd passed him by then. Ectoplasmic physics? It sounded like a hokey, invented field, making a game of serious science, but when the time came due this year, the award went to Spengler. David had lurked around the award banquet last week, seen Spengler in a tuxedo, accompanied by his cronies and their dates, and hated them all. The redhead on Spengler's arm gazed up at him as if he were God Himself. He hated Spengler more and more with every passing minute. There was Venkman, kidding him, making wisecracks, but his eyes, when they fell on Spengler, were full of pride and friendship. Friendship. For some jerk who wrote a textbook on ectoplasmic physics! Crap.

David had considered doing away with Venkman instead of Spengler, partly because Venkman was so annoying but partly because Spengler would suffer if he lost his oldest friend. In the end, though, he'd resolved to end Spengler's life as he'd planned. Spengler was the cause of all his troubles. And he'd kill him by occult means, because Spengler had abandoned pure physics for that. Never mind David had studied it, too. That had only given him the means to attain his goal and do it without giving himself away. The world would be devoid of yet another Spengler, and no one on earth would suspect David Proctor of any wrongdoing.

Summoning a demon wasn't tough. He'd known it wouldn't be. All that occult study had produced the very means to do it. When the demon stood, glowering, in the pentagram, trapped until he did David's bidding, it was all so easy.

"When you have killed Spengler, or arranged his death, you will be free," David promised.

"Free in your world?" the demon had challenged.

"Yes. The only bond I require from you is that you kill Spengler--and that I am safe from your depredations," he added hastily. "That you will not harm me."

"Harm the one who has freed me?" The demon smiled. Gad, look at those teeth. "You have my word. Others will deserve no mercy, though. I will be free, and I will explore your world. No words of yours will bind me again."

"Yes, but Spengler must die, and die first. I would not have you trapped by the Ghostbusters before you complete your task. You must pick a time when they are not all home."

"Think you I fear the Ghostbusters?" snarled the green being who towered over him.

"No, I'm sure you fear nothing. Why should you fear them, anyway? They aren't so special."

"Yet, you hate one of them enough to risk my wrath."

"Yes. I hate him. I have always hated him. Kill him."

"It will be my pleasure." The demon's smile was worse than his glower but David smiled back, glad of the promise.

Now it had happened. Egon was dead, dead of the demon's handiwork. It had compelled the Ghostbusters' little mascot spirit to kill Spengler. Now Venkman and Stantz and Zeddemore would suffer as they deserved to, their lives torn apart. Excellent. David listened to the rest of the news broadcast. Died in surgery. Lived long enough to grant hope to his friends. And Venkman hurt, too. It couldn't be better.

He rubbed his hands together in glee. Perfect. It was perfect.

Peter slept most of the morning, conscious of Ray or Winston popping in a time or two, to say hi, retreating to allow him to rest. Had to grin at that. They weren't trying to yank him out of the sack. This was going to be good for a little downtime when he went home.

Course when Egon came home, Peter would have to fetch and carry for him. They had to keep an eye on him until they figured out who had sent the demon or whether it had come on its own initiative. Either way, they had to bust it. He'd be up for it by tomorrow, he decided. He'd better be. Ray and Winston, and probably Janine, needed to crash. They'd been up all night. Catnaps in the waiting room wouldn't leave them in great shape to face a Class 7.

A commotion in his room startled him awake. His head didn't throb any longer. It only felt like a normal headache. His mind worked, too. Finally. Opening his eyes to see what all the commotion was, he grinned in sheer delight at the sight of a couple of orderlies transferring a sleepy Egon to the room's second bed. Egon was alive, and he looked a lot better than he had just a few hours ago.

"Egon!"

The blond rolled his eyes in Peter's direction as the orderlies hooked his IV's to the stand beside the bed. "Hello, Peter." His voice lacked its usual resonance but he sounded alert, even if a yawn smothered any further words. He was wearing his glasses, which he hadn't been earlier, another sign of progress and he was no longer on oxygen.

"You're out of the ICU."

An eyebrow arched. "Q.E.D."

Peter's smile expanded exponentially (as Egon might say). For the first time since it had happened, he felt like himself, safe and whole. "Can't say much for your tailor," he remarked with a quick grin as the orderlies departed.

Egon glanced down at his hospital gown then regarded Peter pointedly. "Since we appear to share the same tailor, Peter..."

Nailed. Okay, so his garment had a rear exposure, but it didn't matter when he was sitting down. He'd get the guys to bring his pajamas if he had to stay here much longer. "Yeah, but I've got the class to carry it off," he challenged, then grew serious. "You doing okay?"

"Sore and tired, Peter, but I shall be fine. They're pleased with me."

"I bet they are. You're smarter than they are. They have to be." He narrowed his eyes and pondered Egon. Okay, there was a hint of pain in his eyes and he looked like he could drop off for a nap in the next few seconds--and probably would. He hesitated then the words spilled out. "I'm sorry, Egon."

"Sorry?" This time the eyebrow signified a question. "Ray told me that you saved my life. I shall be most annoyed with you if that is what you are apologizing for."

"I let Slimer stab you," Peter blurted out. "He got right up to you and I didn't do a thing."

"No, because neither of us realized Slimer was under the demon's control. I believed he had found the courage to protect me, right until he swung the knife. In any case, you'd already been struck on the head by then and were obviously concussed. And I was unable to get to you."

Peter flinched at the self-reproach in Egon's words. "Yeah, but I'd felt the influence, Spengs. I felt the demon trying to make me put my thrower down."

"Except that you held out. You never did lower your thrower. If you mean to blame yourself for not making the connection with regard to Slimer's actions when you were already suffering the effects of a concussion, I shall be very angry with you." He gazed at Peter out of fatigued eyes and struggled to stay awake.

Peter capitulated instantly. He could finish this when Egon was well enough to handle it. "Okay, point made. Go to sleep, Egon. I can see you need it."

"Thank you, Peter." Egon closed his eyes and was out just like that. Peter felt mean for pushing his own guilt on Spengler when he wasn't strong enough to cope. He sat watching his friend breathe deeply and offered up silent thanks to any deity that might be listening for his survival. Carefully he got out of bed, delighted to be without that twist of vertigo he'd felt last night. He plucked off Egon's glasses and put them on the table where he could find them when he awoke.

"Peter?" the hushed whisper came from Winston in the doorway as Peter climbed back into bed. Zeddemore tiptoed in ostentatiously, thrower on his back, and perched on the edge of one of the two visitor's chairs.

Peter blazed a smile at him. "Hey, Zed."

"You look better, and so does he."

Peter gazed past him. "Where's Ray?"

"I sent him and Janine home to get some sleep. We were up all night."

Peter ran his eyes over Zeddemore's exhausted face. He'd shaved, but he didn't look as if he'd napped much. "And you weren't?"

"Well, I caught a couple of catnaps. I sleep sitting up better than Ray does. He'll be back in a few hours, and then I'll head home. We're gonna alternate." He pulled a second proton pack from beneath Peter's bed. Ray must have left it there before he went home. "It's the atomic destabilizer. We figured we'd put it at the foot of your bed. The doc's not real keen on it, but he says you're doing better. Besides, everybody seems to believe the news reports."

Ordinarily, Peter would have challenged his own need to stay in the hospital, but not today. "Are they keeping me tonight?" Egon was alive and that made him feel like he could fly. Never mind the slight, but persistent, headache that lurked behind his eyes. The queasiness had left his stomach, and he was sitting up just fine without any dizziness. He was even hungry. Maybe he wasn't quite ready to wear the destabilizer yet, but he would if he had to, and he could always fire from his bed.

"Yep, probably discharge you in the morning. They can't really stretch your stay more than two nights, I guess, and, from the look of you, even two will be pushing it."

Peter would camp here voluntarily if need be. "Any idea who might have it in for Sleeping Beauty?" he asked with a gesture at the snoring Egon. He had more color in his face.

"Ray and I thrashed out a few theories. If Egon has any enemies, we couldn't think of them. I mean, no nasty phone calls or threatening letters, that kind of thing lately. Ray says the demon would probably have finished Egon off if it were the one who wanted revenge. 'sides, anything to do with a bust would make all of us targets, not just homey here." He nodded at Spengler.

"What about human jerks?"

"We went over that, too. Janine couldn't think of anything either, but then Ray remembered Egon won that award last week. One of the other nominees, maybe? Somebody who resented Egon getting picked instead of him?"

Peter brightened. That idea might fly. "So is one of them the Physics Ripper?"

"Ray got a list of the other nominees. There were only two of them. One is such a prestigious guy that Ray says he can't imagine him doing anything so petty."

"Petty?"

"You know what I mean. He's the type who wouldn't stoop to revenge. His name's Charles Cleveland and he's a big shot up at M.I.T. He was up for the Nobel once. We asked Egon about it up in the ICU. He says he corresponds sporadically with Cleveland and there's no bad feelings between them."

"What about the other guy?"

"He's a Frenchman, Jules LeMotier. He didn't come over for the banquet, since they announced the award in advance. Egon says he's a reputable scientist. He's an astrophysicist, works at the Sorbonne. Egon doesn't believe either guy would do anything like this. Anyway, neither of them would know how to summon a demon."

"So that takes us back to square one?" Peter massaged his temples energetically. "When do they wheel in the gourmet lunches around here? I could eat a Class 6."

"Saw 'em starting at the other end of the hall. Any minute now. Egon gets a liquid diet. Might get soup tonight." He hunched his shoulders to adjust his pack. "Ray said maybe somebody who didn't get nominated and thought he should."

"Oh, great, that leaves the whole world as a suspect."

"Well, only physicists." Winston grimaced. "We'll figure it out, Pete. Ray's checking Egon's old mail to see if there's anything that might give us a hint."

"Like the boy genius would miss a threat?" Peter rolled his eyes. Okay, so maybe Egon might if he weren't paying attention to a letter. "Yeah, probably a great idea. What about crank calls, things like that?"

"Janine doesn't remember any. We all tried to think about people hanging around the firehouse, but nothing clicked there, either. Janine keeps a record of calls, name, date, and time, and she's checking them all."

"And if this is just some creep with an imagined grudge..." Peter's mouth twisted. "There are nutcases out there who want your life if you cut 'em off in traffic. It could be anybody."

Winston shook his head. "Not anybody. And if it's somebody with one of these imaginary grievances, he might call to gloat. Pretend he's calling to sympathize with us, but call to gloat, anyway."

"So we go around looking like we lost our buddy here?" It wouldn't be that much of a stretch. Peter knew exactly how such a loss felt; he'd experienced it for ten minutes this morning, and that was an eon too long. "Egon can't stay dead forever. His credit cards'll be canceled, and they'll give somebody else his social security number. We've gotta figure this out."

"We're gonna get it," Winston agreed. "Once Egon starts staying awake longer than fifteen minutes at a stretch, we'll turn him loose on the problem. He'll have some answers."

Peter smiled fondly at his sleeping friend. "Oh yeah, he'll have it in ten seconds, once he puts his mind to it," he said with an affectionate smile.

"I have absolutely no idea who might have wanted me dead."

Egon had dozed off and on all afternoon, but he'd roused when they'd brought him a delightful supper of clear soup and orange juice. He'd even gotten out of bed under the direction of a nurse and walked a short way down the hall and back. He tired quickly but he was fighting against the infection that had spread through his system. He was winning, because he looked a lot better than he had just that morning, but it would be awhile. He was in no shape to deal with a thrower even if the proton pack was lying on his bed.

He remembered his transfer to Peter's room and even their conversation but could not recall the earlier one in the ICU, beyond the fact that it had happened and that he vaguely remembered that Peter had been upset. Now, with the dinner trays whisked away, he was clear-headed and relatively alert, ready to talk. Ray and Janine, who were there to visit while Winston caught up on his sleep, had explained so hastily the words had tumbled over themselves in their haste to be out, and for the first time, Egon had discovered that he was 'dead'. Reassured that his mother knew the truth, he set himself to reasoning out who might want to kill him. He had no luck, at least on first attempt.

"Are you certain it wasn't the demon of its own volition?" Egon persisted. He shifted slightly in the bed. He'd raised the head a bit and was comfortable with it, but his side was sore and he lacked the energy to do much more than lie there and talk.

"Well, no." Ray frowned. "I'm checking Tobin's Spirit Guide. I haven't found the right demon yet, but I'll keep looking."

"The demon was glad when it thought you were dying, Spengs." Peter's jaw tightened at the memory. "But he wasn't dancing a jig about it. It was more like, 'okay, now I can go rape and pillage, that's done.'"

"And has it been?"

Ray's eyebrows arched."Huh?"

"Running rampant through Manhattan. Have there been calls about it?" Egon persisted around a capacious yawn. He removed his glasses, knuckled his eyes, and put them on again.

Janine looked startled. "Well, there were a couple of calls about demons but we couldn't do anything about them. Neither one of them was a major crisis call, just that people had seen a demon. I told them to call back if they see it again."

"The demon didn't burst in and announce it was after me," Egon reminded Peter. "It just calmly tried to separate us and came for me. Very businesslike. I think your belief that it was set on me by a human agency is the most likely theory. It would have been much more vindictive had it been personal."

Venkman nodded. He was a little more quiet than usual, and that bothered Egon. Of course Peter had seen him lying there bleeding, and he'd also heard on the news that Egon had died. They'd have to talk about that eventually. Peter was good at making everybody else deal with their crises, but he wasn't as skilled at facing his own and he fought like mad to cover them up. Egon knew unveiling this one was his own job, once he was up to it.

Peter spoke thoughtfully. "Yeah, but who? If you haven't pissed anybody off lately..."

"I don't, er, 'piss people off'," Egon pointed out with a touch of wry humor. "That, Peter, is your department."

"Thanks. I think. Have I just been insulted?" Peter couldn't help grinning. Having Egon ragging him would feel safe and normal. Good. That was what Egon had hoped.

"In any case," he continued, "since I can recall none who wish to put a period to my existence--"

"Just people who favor plain talk," Peter ventured without his usual heat.

"They have long been aware of my vocabulary." Egon dismissed the linguistic pygmies with a shrug. Interesting that it was harder than normal to shrug when lying down and sore from surgery. He concealed a slight wince. "Ray suggested the physics prize." Hard to hold back the surge of pride that flowed through him as he remembered it. For a long time, he had doubted he would ever win the respect of his peers for his very legitimate work. While he suspected the vote had been extremely close, the award meant more to him than just a prize. It meant that other physicists were coming to understand that Ghostbusting was a valid science.

"So, you think there's anything to it?" Peter prompted. "An outraged physicist or two hot for blood. I kinda like that idea." He caught himself. "Not that they'd try anything, I mean."

Oh dear. Peter was upset or he wouldn't have added that. "I do not believe my competitors would dream of such an action, nor would they know how. Quantum mechanics and astrophysics are not fields that usually teach one how to summon a demon."

"No, but that could be a hobby," said Ray. "What about people who thought they should be nominated instead of you?"

"Since there is no way to attempt to guess who they might be..." Egon began.

Peter grinned. "Whole rows of demented physicists. You have to wonder about the profession. I mean, there's that Beckett guy you know, Egon, who thinks he can build a time machine. And then there's you. Take the hair for instance..." He waggled his eyebrows. "And, now that I think of it, wasn't Dr. Frankenstein a physicist? Gee, Egon, I think we're onto something here."

"He was a medical doctor," Egon corrected.

"Whatever."

"Well, I think we ought to see who sends you guys sympathy cards, or who calls in to offer it," said Janine. "We can't get a list of all the physicists in the Tri-state area and start calling them to see if they're gloating. They better not be," she concluded hotly. Her gaze was almost motherly. Oh dear. Next thing he knew, she'd whip out the blender and mix up his mother's magic cure-all. At least he was safe while he was in the hospital. He hoped.

"Besides," said Ray thoughtfully, "you said the demon said 'That's done' or 'that's it' after Egon was hurt, Peter. But you were down, too. Maybe it didn't even want to kill anybody. Maybe it just wanted us to suffer."

They all stared at him in astonishment, then Peter shook his head. "No way, Ray. Sending a demon to inflict a little bodily harm is kinda overkill, and besides you weren't there. Yeah, that's what he said, but I wasn't down then. I was up again, blasting him--or trying to," he conceded. Egon remembered his struggle to push himself to his feet. It had required three tries. "He came for Egon specifically, believe me."

"Has anybody seen Slimer today?" Janine asked.

Peter stiffened. "I hope I see him. I'm gonna zap and trap him the second I do and then slam dunk him into the containment unit." His eyes glinted with hostility and he folded his arms across his chest.

"Oh, gee, Peter, you said the demon controlled him, just like he tried to influence you." Ray's eyes filled with distress. "Slimer didn't mean to. He couldn't help himself."

"Okay, Ray, right, he couldn't help himself. Next time he can't help himself, one of us could be dead for real. He's outlived his usefulness--assuming he ever had any in the first place. He goes or I blast him."

Egon caught Ray's eye and shook his head. It wasn't the time to push it. In spite of Peter's careless cross-legged perch on his bed and the way he had bounced around all evening, he was not completely recovered from his concussion. There was no way he could yet be recovered from the shock of hearing on TV that Egon had died. He would have to be reconciled to Slimer later--once he'd come to terms with Egon's survival. Right now he really meant to do Slimer harm, even if he must know inside that it wasn't the spud's fault. Peter was essentially a fair man, and Egon knew that if he pleaded with Peter right now for Slimer's continued presence at the firehall, Peter would give in because he couldn't yet refuse Egon anything. But if he gave in for that reason, he'd never trust or welcome Slimer again.

Then there was Egon's own reaction to Slimer. Knowing rationally that the ghost had not intended to hurt him was not the same thing as knowing it in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't looking forward to their first meeting.

"That can wait," said Egon. "We need to resolve the identity of the one who hired the demon. And while I would love to theorize, I find myself growing sleepy." It was true; he'd been fighting it throughout the conversation.

Peter capitulated at once. "You need the nurse? A painkiller?" He hopped down from his bed and stood beside Egon's. "Feverish?" His palm came to rest on Egon's forehead. Probably his mother had tested him for fever that way.

"No, simply limited energy, which is perfectly natural following surgery. I shall have more strength tomorrow. I can feel a considerable improvement from the way I felt this morning." He smothered a yawn as he reached out and caught Peter's wrist. "Peter. I am alive. I am recovering. Any person who would threaten my life is flush with success at the moment and plans nothing further. Tomorrow, when you are discharged, the three of you can track down the demon and demand of it the identity of the man who compelled it to attack me."

"The four of us," said Janine hotly. "I'll wear your thrower, Egon."

He hadn't had a chance to consider Janine, but now he saw her eyes were hot and full of vengeance. She took the attack very personally, as she had the right to do.

Peter grinned and backed away, and Egon put out his hand to Janine, who snatched it. "My apologies, Janine. Of course I meant the four of you."

"You'd better." She bent suddenly and pressed her lips against his cheek, then backed away. "Get some sleep now. You need it."

"Thank you, I will." He smiled at the guys and closed his eyes.

Peter said in a whisper, "We'd better be quiet."

Without opening his eyes, Egon said, "In a few seconds, it won't matter, Peter. I assure you, I can sleep through anything you might say."

"Hey!" protested Peter, his voice full of amusement.

It was the last thing Egon heard before sleep took him.

"...and there were a ton of phone messages of condolence." Ray held up his hand to check them off, finger by finger. "Aunt Lois called, and I told her the truth. Gosh, I wish I'd remembered to let her know yesterday. She was really upset. She loves you, Egon."

"I shall telephone her this morning. I would never have caused her distress."

"You didn't, Spengs," put in Peter. He was ready to be discharged. Ray and Winston had brought clothes for him this morning, and he'd put them on, even if the doctor hadn't been by to spring him. The swelling on his forehead had started to go down but it had assumed spectacular proportions and colors. Peter looked like he'd been in a street fight. He had bruises on his ribcage and left shoulder, too, but they weren't quite as bad; his clothing had given him some padding when Old Nasty was throwing things. He'd combed his hair down over the bruise, but it only partly concealed it. Lucky it hadn't turned out to be a shiner.

Being discharged didn't mean he'd take off. It just meant he wouldn't have to put up with the nurse from hell who would pop in any second with the intention of bathing him. In front of his buddies, too. At least Janine wasn't here to watch.

"No, but I still regret it. Who else phoned, Ray?"

"A couple of the guys you know at Columbia. The curator of the Mesopotamian museum, Dr. Gregory. That librarian who has the hots for you at the Public Library. That guy from your hometown that we knew at Columbia, David Proctor. Mr. Catalfo from Luigi's. Dr. Beckett. Lots of people. I wrote them all down. Here's the list."

Egon studied it thoughtfully, poking his sliding glasses into place with an impatient forefinger. "Hmmm."

"Egon, I've gotta say, surgery has made you really profound."

Egon lifted an eyebrow at Peter. "I am pondering."

"Stalling, more likely. You really think somebody on that list is out to kill you? Now if Dean Yeager were on it..."

"I cannot imagine Dean Yeager hiring a demon under any circumstances."

"We still don't know that the demon didn't just want to bop in and munch on you," Peter argued. "Nobody showed up last night."

"That's because we guarded the door, Peter," Ray reminded him. "We left you that pack, and a police officer sat outside the door, and we left him one, too. We showed him how to use it out in the parking lot."

"That was fun," muttered Winston.

Peter waved his hand for attention. "Hey, I thought of something. What if somebody who works here is a blabbermouth and spills it to the press?"

"If so, that would probably have happened already," Egon said. "I turned on the news when I woke up this morning and there was nothing about me. There was a follow-up about Peter likely being discharged today, but no revelations about my survival."

"Yep, I'm outa here," Peter proclaimed. "Course I'll stick around to stand guard against the demon, but I'll be safe from the nurse from Hell."

"Will you, Peter?" Egon glanced at the door.

Peter froze. There she was, the hospital's answer to Nurse Rachitt, foot tapping as she glowered at him. She might be gorgeous, but she was also stubborn, determined, and completely unimpressed with the Venkman charm. His best little-boy smile didn't melt the armor. He was doomed.

"Out, out," she said sternly, shooing Ray and Winston toward the door. For big, brave Ghostbusters, they gave way without hesitation, wicked grins on their faces. Boy, you just couldn't trust a buddy to run interference.

Peter grinned weakly. "Hi, Nurse Kittleton. And you're looking very lovely today."

"Hmmph." She advanced on him. "What are you doing dressed? The doctor hasn't discharged you. This is very bad." Was that a flash of humor in her eyes? He wasn't sure. It might just be stubbornness.

"No, it's all right, nurse."

Salvation in the form of Peter's own physician, Dr. Greg Labraccio, appeared in the doorway. "Funny, Ray and Winston tried to bribe me to wait before I came in here." He added to the nurse, "I'm here to spring him."

Nurse Kittleton turned to Egon, who grimaced at Peter. The distaste on his face was so natural that Peter couldn't help smiling as he let Dr. Labraccio examine him listen to his heart and take his pulse. At least he was spared the nurse's tender mercies. "We'll have you up for a walk soon, Dr. Spengler," she promised, hovering over him like a bird of prey.

Greg unhooked the blood pressure cuff and rattled off a list of delayed symptoms Peter was to watch for over the next few days. "And I'll tell Winston and Ray the same thing, so no pretending you're fine if you're not. I'm sure we can't pry you out of the hospital while Egon's here, but I will insist you go home and sleep at night. Let your friends stand the night watch. That's a direct order and I'll have them enforce it if necessary."

"Aw, come on, Greg."

"You are my patient, too. You need it, Peter. You've been through a trauma. Trust your friends and the city police to watch after Egon."

Yeah, since I couldn't protect him the other night, Peter thought with fleeting bitterness but banished the thought before it could show on his face. Even in the process of a sponge bath, Egon would notice, and Peter didn't mean to bug him with his own problems while he was down.

"You'll be all right," Greg said. "At least we don't have to wheel you out of here--since I assume you're not leaving." He smiled at Egon but left him to Nurse Kittleton. Peter heard him exchanging a conversation with Ray and Winston outside before he left.

Officially released, Peter simply moved from the bed to a visitor's chair, a proton pack at his feet. He kibitzed the tail end of Egon's bath, making smart remarks that Egon countered with determined dignity. The nurse didn't drive him out, but that was probably because Egon's life could be in danger. Maybe she didn't want to face a demon on her own.

When she was finished, she turned to Peter and, for the first time, her face softened into a smile. "Watch over him well, Dr. Venkman. I'll be back to take him on his walk in a little while," she said and whisked away to find a new victim

"I've still got it," Peter said with a grin.

"On the contrary, Peter, she was worried about me."

"Yeah, since you've just been so intimate and all that. I'll tell Janine all about it when she gets here this afternoon."

Egon made a face at him. He looked a lot better today. He wasn't quite as inclined to drop off in a nap without warning and he'd had some real food for breakfast, though still a soft diet. He elevated the head of his bed a little higher, and regarded Peter thoughtfully. "Where did you put that list of callers? We should go over it."

Peter retrieved it from the floor and handed it to Egon. Bending down to get it didn't bring back a shred of dizziness. He still had a faint headache, but he could forget it most of the time as long as he didn't do something stupid like poke his bruise. "Did anybody ring a bell before?" he asked. "Any axe murderers or crazed postal worker on the list?"

"Such people don't normally phone to inquire enquire after my well-being."

"Just as well." He plucked the list out of Egon's hand and squinted at it. "Let's see. Professor Englund. Hmm, I never trusted him. Guy gave me a C. No taste."

"Perhaps because you didn't study hard in your physical science class."

Peter ignored that as beneath his dignity. "What about your old buddy David? He never liked me."

"We also haven't heard from him since college other than his call of congratulations for my award. I can't imagine what grievance he might have after all this time."

"You never know. It's the quiet ones that surprise you."

"Of course. Which is why you never surprise me."

Peter considered ignoring that, too, but chose instead to grimace at Egon. "Let's see. Who's Del Taylor?"

"He's an occultist from Massachusetts. Ray and I met him when we went up to that conference in Boston last year. He's provided us with occasional information since then. He has a vast research library. Ray knows him better than I do."

"And who's Gloria Montez? Sounds like an exotic dancer," he asked hopefully.

"No, a secretary at Cable and Gunn, the place where I get most of the parts for the equipment Ray and I build. A pleasant woman. She has, on occasion, run small parts by for us."

Peter remembered her. She was fifty, chubby, jolly. A nice lady. Not the type to get up close and personal with a Class 7.

Mentally Peter checked off half a dozen names on the list as casual friends of the team, acquaintances of Egon, and former clients. He considered them carefully. Had Egon accidentally blown up valuable property at any of those busts? The list looked pretty innocuous. Course there was no reason for the killer to call. Anyone in the rest of the world could have summoned up the demon. Well, anyone who knew how to summon up demons. Peter easily acquitted the woman from Cable and Gunn. Taylor would know how, but why would he want to? David Proctor probably wouldn't have a clue. Peter had always thought he was a dim bulb. Of course most physics students hadn't been the sharpest knife in the drawer, when compared to Egon. Maybe old David had resented playing second fiddle. What about old Professor Englund? He might have just hated the fact that his student was smarter than he was? Assuming whoever had summoned the demon was a nutso, you could probably argue a good case for half the people on the list. That didn't make them guilty.

But someone was guilty. Someone had caused Egon to be stabbed. Egon had come too close to dying. Peter remembered kneeling at Egon's side, trying to keep him from bleeding to death before the paramedics arrived, afraid the demon would return or that Slimer would show up with a new knife.

A shadow fell across him and he looked up to see his least favorite policeman, Inspector Frump filling the doorway, eyes narrowed as he considered Egon. He let his eyes move over Peter the way he would a roach on the floor, and Peter, yanked out of dark memories, snapped to attention.

"Venkman. You look like you've been in a brawl." He studied Peter's vivid bruise and arched an eyebrow. Peter felt his muscles tighten.

"Oooh, I feel safe now. Have you come to protect Egon?"

"No, to question him. Interesting he would suffer a stab wound when you were the only one with him..."

Peter came out of his chair like a fighter pilot who has just pulled the 'eject' lever. "Son of a bitch! If you're saying I hurt Egon--"

"Nonsense, Peter," Egon cut in firmly. "Inspector Frump, I was also present and I know what happened. Peter did everything he could to save my life, and if you had half the integrity or insight you claim, you would know that. It was the demon who caused my injury, and he used poor Slimer to do it."

"Poor Slimer?" Peter stared at Egon, open-mouthed. "He nearly killed you, Egon."

"It wasn't his fault."

"Hey, Frump. Maybe you can arrest Slimer," Peter said. He was dead serious.

"You can't arrest a ghost," Egon countered.

"I can arrest anyone who looks suspicious," Frump argued, but his eyes were wary and without enthusiasm. Probably the last thing he wanted was encounter Slimer. "Here's the deal. I can't haul your ghost in but you can bust it. If it's running around stabbing people, it's dangerous. Now that you know it has a vicious streak, you have to bust it."

Egon turned shocked eyes to Peter; his expression stopped Venkman from volunteering to bust the spud the next time he saw him.

'It wasn't Slimer's fault," Egon replied. "He was under the influence of a demon. If the demon had made a human attack me, that person would not be an attempted murderer, any more than Slimer is. We plan to bust the demon as soon as we find it, removing any threat Slimer might pose."

Frump didn't push, but Peter suspected he might go to the firehall and insist that Ray and Winston zap and trap the green guy. It would break Ray's heart. Peter hardened his own.

"The word is that a human made the demon attack you, Spengler. And that you believe it was a personal attack."

"You bet it was a personal attack," Peter snapped. "When Egon was lying there bleeding, with the knife sticking out of him, the demon said, 'that's done,' and went away. It could've killed me. I was half out of it and couldn't have fought it off. I wasn't anywhere near dying, either but Egon was. No, it was a personal attack. I know demons. Wish I didn't. If the demon had it in for Egon personally, it would probably have dismembered him."

"Indubitably," Egon concurred with a grimace. "In fact, it was a clever plan. We might have taken the attack at face value."

"So who had it in for you?" Frump plodded over to Egon's bed and gazed down at him.

Peter crowded in beside him. "We don't know. We've been checking the list of people who called yesterday to offer condolences." He waved it in the detective's face.

Frump snatched the paper from his hand and scanned it. "I'll have these people checked out."

"We already figured some of them are innocent."

Frump glared down at Peter. "I don't tell you how to bust ghosts, Venkman. Don't tell me how to do my job. I might not like you four clowns, but I like killers a whole lot less."

A few encounters with Frump since the headless motorcyclist case had proved that. Frump hated crime far more than he hated the Ghostbusters. Egon said he couldn't remember any obvious motives. Someone on that list might have held an unspoken grudge against him for some little thing that Egon hadn't even considered important. Egon was far from insensitive, but he was caught up in his work. It could be an imagined slight.

"So, who has been to visit you, Venkman?" Frump asked.

"Nobody but Ray, Winston, and Janine. We had it said that I wasn't up to visitors yet. Today they'll tell them I'm discharged. So nobody will be up here to see Egon who shouldn't."

"Unless they don't stop at the desk to ask. You didn't think of that, did you, that the killer might have followed your other two buddies up here?"

Peter grimaced. The cop outside the door was there to protect Egon from human killers. The proton pack and thrower were to handle the demon, if the killer sent it back. But if the killer arrived, it could go down fast.

"So what are you doing to save Egon?" Peter challenged, chin up.

"Trying to find out who wanted him dead." Frump scowled at him and stalked out of the room, the list clutched in his massive fist.

"I never liked him," Peter said as soon as the big man was out of earshot.

"I'm astounded."

"Smartass." Peter grinned. "The weird thing is that I feel a little better. I must be slipping." He pretended to take his own pulse.

"No one ever denied that Frump was not competent and thorough in his own work, Peter."

"Maybe, but he isn't the kind of guy you invite to happening parties." He squared his shoulders. "If he can find out who has it in for you, I'll put him on my Christmas card list."

The two of them exchanged a grave look, and Peter could tell Egon understood how urgent was the compulsion Peter felt to protect him. He might even look kindly on Frump if the detective could prevent a second attempt on Egon's life.

"I am recovering, Peter," Egon ventured.

"When I find out who did this, I'm gonna grab him so hard I'll yank his toes out through his eyeballs."

"A colorful description." Egon was silent a moment, then he said gravely, "Peter, I know how hard it was for you."

"Do you?" The words were taut.

"Of course I do. The way I should feel, had you been the target."

Peter deflated immediately. "Sorry, Egon, that wasn't fair. But...god, there wasn't anything I could do. If the demon had come back..."

"It didn't. Might-have-beens are pointless. I understand your urge to protect me and why it is stronger than Ray's and Winston's. I want you to convince me you don't believe you could have prevented it."

"You don't ask a lot, big guy. I should have--"

"Should have done what? You just said there wasn't anything you could do. That's the truth. One man, a man already injured, can't take on a demon, especially a demon who has the ability to influence people's behavior. Neither of us expected Slimer to attack me so we didn't defend against him. We'll deal with the Slimer issue later. I know that you saved my life, Peter. You called 911 immediately and tried to stop the bleeding. Ray and Winston told me that. You did nothing wrong, and if you try to assume a responsibility not your own, I will be very angry with you."

Peter felt his breath rush out. "God, Egon..."

"I mean it."

Peter reached out and encircled Egon's wrist with his fingers. "We won't let him get you, Egon and that's a promise from Dr. Venkman." He gritted his teeth. "If we just knew who it was. Hey, maybe it was that groupie who tried to hit on you the week before last. That woman from Bloomie's. She was pretty steamed when she saw you at the award dinner with Janine."

"Hardly steamed enough to kill me for it," Egon replied. "Do you imagine she's doing a 'Fatal Attraction' number when I never so much as took her out?"

"Don't underestimate the rage of a woman scorned," Peter said with a grin. It faded rapidly. "No, I don't think she's the one. But we have to find out. We can't keep the hoax up forever. It'll leak eventually, probably sooner than later. We have to find out."

"We'll find out," Egon replied then he shot out a question abruptly. "Who do you think it is?"

Peter said involuntarily, "Proctor."

"David Proctor?" Egon looked surprised. "Why?"

"Because he was always jealous of you," Peter pointed out. He didn't know if he really believed it or not, but he remembered a period of a month or so back at Columbia when Proctor had tried to come between Egon and Peter in the early stages of their friendship. Wary and half-expecting to be turned on, Peter wasn't as confident as he had later learned to be. But there was Proctor, always hanging around, another physics student, edging in and talking to Egon about people Peter didn't know and science he didn't understand. Egon didn't have it in him to be blatantly rude and get rid of the guy. Like Egon, he was from Cleveland and a part of the same social set. He knew Egon's dad and uncle, and he had a lot of money. He wasn't at college on scholarship and a shoestring like Peter; he'd paid his own way and was prone to remind Peter of it with annoying regularity. He came to eat at the restaurant where Peter was a bus boy and contrived to look smug. Peter wanted to rearrange the guy's face.

It had taken Peter nearly a month to realize that Egon politely avoided Proctor whenever possible, although he didn't say so, and that he always steered the conversation away from physics and the wealthy of Cleveland when Proctor brought it up. Proctor noticed and started to act smug and lordly around Peter, and, one day, Egon said sharply, "David, if you have nothing better to say, please leave. Peter and I have plans."

Peter couldn't remember any plans, but he couldn't hold back the cocky grin he threw at Proctor. He and Egon took off and wound up going to a Knicks' game the choice of which Peter realized was meant to reassure him since Egon was not sports minded. Egon said, "I can't really be too rude to him. It's awkward, since he knows my family. I hope you know I don't share his values."

Peter had grinned in reply. "I'll buy that, Spengs." He was silent a second, then he said, awkwardly, "Thanks." They'd never discussed Proctor again except in the casual way that someone might mention an old acquaintance. Peter knew that Egon had continued to be polite and had occasionally spent some time with Proctor, but he made it clear to Peter that it was duty and not pleasure. Had Proctor known that? Had he wanted revenge all these years?

"Jealous of me?" Egon blurted in surprise. "I thought he was jealous of you."

Peter found himself laughing. It was a long time since he'd been as insecure as he'd been in those days, although he'd always overcompensated royally and tried to deny it even to himself. "Jealous of you for being smarter than he was, and jealous of you because he wasn't friends with the mighty Venkman," he kidded.

"He was always trying to brown-nose me," Egon replied. "When I was growing up, I knew a few people like that. It wasn't that we were wealthy; we weren't, just comfortable. But I had the background of Spengler Labs and a guaranteed job, although I knew even then that I wouldn't want it. I suspect Proctor did want it. I know he applied there but my father didn't hire him. Possibly Proctor resented it. But that was around 1980, Peter. It's a long time to hold a grudge. Why suddenly attack me now?"

Yeah, that was a good point. Just because he'd disliked or resented Egon a long time ago didn't mean he should pop up years later seeking revenge for imagined slights. "I don't know. We haven't heard from him or seen him since Columbia, not since applied to work for us right after we hired Winston. Weird that he'd pop up like that, especially since he couldn't stand me and was awfully contemptuous of Ray."

"I did hear from him on several occasions," Egon said thoughtfully, casting his mind back. "He's teaching at Norton here in the city. When he was hired, he telephoned, but it was not a convenient time for me to meet with him. He didn't contact me when I won the award, although I saw him in the audience at the dinner. I can't see him hiring a demon, though."

Peter frowned. He wanted to suspect Proctor so badly, but the guy was such a nothing he was sure it was his old jealousies speaking rather than common sense. He was about to say so