He pelted into the emergency room of Downtown Hospital at a dead run, his outflung arms slamming open the swinging doors at the ambulance bay where the police officer had dropped him off. The scene was chaos; blood, bodies on gurneys everywhere; the moans of the injured, the sharply-barked orders of the swarming doctors, nurses and EMTs; the frightened questions of the next-of-kin who were arriving in search of loved ones who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Peter Venkman paused and took a deep breath as he oriented himself to this particular ER – not like they weren’t familiar with pretty much all of them in the city – then closed the distance between the ambulance bay and the admitting desk in a few long, rushed strides. “My friends - where are they?” he demanded of the first face that looked in his direction. “They were brought here –“

“Sir, please take a seat.” The clerk barely acknowledged his agitated presence as she passed a sheaf of hastily-scribbled notes to a waiting physician. “We’re in the middle of a –“

He cut her off. “I know exactly what you’re in the middle of! We were part of it.” He momentarily shook himself against the vision of the bust as it had gone immeasurably wrong in the face of the unexpected Class Seven manifestation and its monstrous march through Wall Street at the height of the trading day. “Ghostbusters – my partners - “

“I said you will have to wait!” she snapped, gesturing toward the crowded waiting area. Anxiety wafted from the agitated bodies milling there, like a tangible cloud. “Now sit down and shut up and someone will come talk to you – “

“I’m not going to just hang around here while you – “ Abruptly he cut himself off, tired of arguing, and spun on his heels, heading for the crowded hallway.

“Sir, will I have to page Security – “ she called ineffectually after him.

“Yes, you probably will!” he retorted. He was down the hallway before anyone could stop him, peering anxiously at the figures sprawled on the gurneys, pulling back curtains to treatment rooms, in search of three familiar faces, listening for their voices, even praying for just a glimpse of a beige, or a light blue, or a teal jumpsuit.

Nothing.

He’d started back down the hallway when a shout from behind the curtain he’d just passed dragged him to a halt. “Ghostbuster!” He pivoted, foot sliding on a patch of something wet on the floor – he refused to look down to see what it was – to find a doctor in bloodstained scrubs chasing him down. “You looking for your buddy? – I worked on him.”

“Which one?” was his automatic, almost desperate question, as his heart thumped into overdrive.

The doctor shook his head. “There was only one here.” His brow knit for a second, recalling. “It was Zeddemore. You’re Mr. Venkman, right?”

The automatic arrogant correction to the indignity of being called “Mr.” in blatant disregard of his doctorate didn’t even come close to touching his lips. “How is he?”

“We triaged him immediately and sent him upstairs to Surgery.”

He digested that quickly. Surgery, means he’s still alive. “How bad?”

The doctor’s eyes flickered. “Not… good. I’m sure you’re aware of the severe injuries to his chest – he suffered a pneumothorax along with a great deal of internal bleeding.” He must have seen something akin to panic flare in Venkman’s eyes for his tone immediately turned kinder. “We’ve got our thoracic team working on him. If anyone can fix him up, they can.”

Trust it, trust him. Nothing you can do now – Winston’s in the best hands he can be in. Then…. “What about the others? – Stantz, Spengler?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I haven’t seen them. They’ve probably been taken to one of the other hospitals.”

“’Other’ hospitals? You mean they didn’t come here?” He felt a sudden, sick chill at the thought of being separated from the other two team members when they needed him as badly as Winston did, and of a hastily-made pledge that fate appeared to have cavalierly broken.

Stay with Egon, Ray. I’ll go with Winston. Meet you at the hospital.

“No, not in an emergency situation like this. There’s upwards of 50 victims – no way could one ER take care of everyone.”

“Which hospital?” He felt his focus narrowing, desperate for answers. Winston might have been critical when they left the scene, but Egon and Ray hadn’t been in much better shape themselves.

“Sorry, Mr. Venkman, I don’t know. The crisis protocol the city’s following includes up to six of the area’s emergency rooms, and I’m pretty sure they’re all involved. The clerk at the desk might be able to help you with finding out where they’ve been taken.”

Not too damn likely, he thought ruefully to himself, considering how he’d neglected to use his hard-won How to Win Friends and Influence People tone with her in the heat of the moment. “Or,” the doctor was going on, “I heard that the mayor’s activated a crisis center hotline to take care of relatives’ calls. You might check that.”

“Yeah, good idea,“ he muttered. His stomach was starting to roil and for a moment there he thought he was going to lose the fight between it and the remnants of his breakfast. Then he snapped himself back to sharp attention. “Thanks.”

The doctor looked him up and down and smiled wryly. “From what I hear about what went on out there, it’s more like we should be thanking you.” Any further comments he might have added were aborted by a clipped shout of “Dr. Mason, we need you in Three,” and, abruptly excusing himself, he ducked back behind the curtained alcove.

Thanks for what? Peter’s mind played without pity. For letting that Class Seven get away from us over and over… for letting it turn into a free-for-all on the streets with a casualty count rivaling a plane crash…

For letting my friends go down in the first place, and now having lost track of two of them?

His feet started to move again, back in the direction of the ER’s waiting room. There had to be a payphone there. Automatically his hands started grubbing deep into the multiple pockets of his jumpsuit, in search of change for the calls he had to make. Damn it, he wasn’t carrying either his wallet or his phone card… He finally came up with several pennies, one quarter, and two wadded five-dollar bills that looked like they’d been through a wash cycle or two. Futilely trying to smooth them out, he plunked them on the admitting desk’s counter and asked the clerk he’d tangled with earlier in a much more regular, almost contrite tone, “Change?”

She barely spared him a glance, jerking her thumb in the direction of the main lobby before turning her eyes back to the stack of emergency admits in front of her. “Ask at the gift shop, why don’t you?”

He swore under his breath, too rattled to unbottle the genie of Venkman charm and unleash it on her. Besides, wheedling a pinch-faced forty-something bottled blonde with an attitude problem into becoming a charter member of the Petey Venkman Fan Club - dues only a fistful of quarters – wasn’t at the top on his agenda right now; locating the other two was.

He darted into the gift shop with a ready smile on his face, eyes bright and winning as he held out his crumpled bills. “’Scuse me, I really need some change – “

“Sure, Dr. Venkman,” the wide-eyed volunteer at the cash register breathed, hitting the “No Sale” key and popping it right open. She looked barely old enough to be a Candy Striper, and from the starry glaze in her eyes and the fact that she’d recognized him immediately, she probably counted herself among the city’s legions of kids and teens who looked up to the Ghostbusters. Whole sight better than the witch at Admitting, he told himself, relaxing minutely. Maybe this is a good sign….

She couldn’t hide the excitement in her voice. “Wow, you guys were amazing out there!” She rooted through the change drawer, separating a wrapped roll of quarters from the other cylinders of coins, then dropped it into his hand.

A frown line tucked itself between his eyes. “How’d you see – “

“It’s all over the TV. I was watching it in the waiting room until they told me to get back in here. I think you saved the city. Again.” She beamed at him, and repeated softly, “Wow.”

“Thanks…” He scanned for the neat little pin holding her name, “Kirsten.” She dimpled at the use of her name, and a part of him felt disgusted that he could still pull these tricks out of a hat even while two of his buddies were missing and… injured. “And thanks for the change.” He shoved the heavy roll in a convenient pocket and gave her a small, reflex wave as he darted back to the hallway.

As he’d thought, there was a payphone – indeed, a bank of them – near the ER’s waiting area. Two were already in use, one by a woman in a torn and bloodied “power suit”, sobbing almost uncontrollably; the other, a middle-aged, gray-haired man speaking overly quiet in comparison as he broke what was obviously terrible news to the person on the other end. Peter paused for a second, wondering if there was something he should say, could do, but then shook his head – can’t fix the world, Dr. Venkman – and slid in front of the third phone before anyone else could sidle in.

He paused as he picked up the handset, wondering just who to dial. There was a Manhattan phone book, weighty as a pile of bricks, in a heavy-duty black plastic binder dangling from a chain below the phone. He hefted it and started to thumb his way toward the Yellow Pages at the back, flipping to “H” for hospitals.

A random word from the TV blaring in the corner caught his attention and he turned his focus to the live newscast spewing forth. Huh. It was his old friend Cynthia Crawford of UBN news, doing a standup from the scene of the Class Seven manifestation. “Once again, that number for the Crisis Center hotline is….” He paid close attention as what she said was duplicated on the crawl at the bottom of the stream, muttering the number to himself to commit it to memory, and then dialed.

The line was busy. Of course. He hung up, retrieved his quarter, and tried again. This time it rang once before it went into the rapid double-buzz of overloaded circuits. Why was he not surprised? This time, when he hung up, his change didn’t drop to the Coin Return until he punched the payphone in frustration. One try more…. Same luck. Still busy. And no returned change.

Back to the drawing board. He found “Hospitals” again and started dialing.

After 15 minutes, he was no further along than he’d been before; less, as a matter of fact, since he’d already lost a couple bucks’ worth of his finite change to the recalcitrant payphone. None of the emergency rooms he’d managed to reach had a record for receiving either Ray Stantz or Egon Spengler. The rest, like the Crisis Center number – which he had also tried repeatedly – had been busy, except for the one who had left him on hold for several minutes, only to unexpectedly transfer him to the Obstetrics floor. He didn’t think there was any way in this lifetime he’d ever appreciate the humor in that.

So, what now? He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face as if he could scrub away the visions of the afternoon that still lingered behind his eyes. But when he opened them, there it was again in stark video replay on the waiting room television, accompanied by grim statistics.

6 reported dead.

He saw Winston go down.

43 injured.

Egon and Ray followed, falling together, side by side.

Dozens more treated by paramedics at the scene.

He shook his head. 43 injured. Forty, plus three. Forty civilians, three Ghostbusters.

He closed his eyes and blocked out the scene, repeating to himself, At least we got it, at least we got it, at least we got it….

“This is most certainly not a Class Five as we were led to believe,” Egon said in an aggrieved tone, eyes fixed on the PKE meter in his hand that was shrilling and beeping far beyond his expectations.

“You needed that to clue you in, big guy?” Peter said in a low, astonished voice from the shotgun seat beside Winston. “Earth to Egon – why don’t you just take a look at it!” As he watched, a brief flash of something gray, scaly and massive hove again above the roof of the Stock Exchange before vanishing.

“Wow,” Ray hissed, as close to speechless as he ever got. “This is – “

“Don’t say it,” Winston begged, working on maneuvering Ecto as close to the New York Stock Exchange building as possible. Driving the last two blocks to their destination had required a combination of creativity – veering up onto sidewalks wasn’t his favorite way of bucking through traffic – and agility as he tried to keep Ecto from being pinballed by other, frantically fleeing motorists. “It’s not ‘great’, nowhere even close.”

“I wasn’t going to say that.” Ray sounded chastened. “This is awful.”

The debris field reached all the way to the corner of New and Exchange streets, two full blocks from Broad and Wall, their destination. Chunks of asphalt and concrete, some as much as two feet across, littered the road and sidewalks, making the going dangerous. Shards of shattered glass from hundreds of broken windows glittered treacherously in the bright midday sun. From the distance, over the howls of sirens of dozens of arriving police cars and ambulances, a strident, unearthly roar rose and fell in an erratic rhythm. Above everything was the overwhelming sense of panic as hundreds of people surged away from the streets surrounding the Stock Exchange, trying to put as much space as possible between themselves and the mayhem.

“Notice,” Peter muttered under his breath “how everyone but us is going in the other direction?” His shoulders tensed as he leaned forward to scan the area, then he leaned back again, rubbing his eyes against a persistent headache. “Why today, guys? Why today?”

“I assume that’s a rhetorical question, Pete.” A tight grin lightened Winston’s expression. “You should know better at your age than to party like that.”

“It was just a night out with some old frat buddies,” he protested in vain, then added tartly, “and I’m not that old.”

Egon’s eyes never left his PKE meter as he commented under his breath, “The body’s ability to process an excess of alcohol in one’s system does decline as one ages….”

“It was only some beer! Geez, guys, get off my case.” He shook his head, really wishing that he hadn’t stuck around to help those old buddies kill a keg just for old times’ sake, that he had crept back to the firehall earlier than 5:30 a.m. … and even more so, that the damn specter or whatever it was hadn’t chosen the morning of his first hangover in who knows how long, let along the second day of a heatwave, to decide to pop out of whatever it called home to frolic with the bulls and bears of Wall Street. Just breathing the hot, smog-laden air made his head hurt more than it already did.

In the back seat, Ray slid closer to Egon as the physicist readjusted the PKE meter, shaking his head at the readings. Ray’s own eyes went wide. “Class Seven?”

Egon nodded. “Of exceptionally high energy. A very powerful manifestation.” “Nothing like restating the obvious, Spengs.” Peter sighed. This wasn’t going to be fun. Not anywhere near that neighborhood. “The quicker we bust it, the quicker it’s over.”

“And the quicker you can get back home and take a nap,” Ray put in under his breath.

“Or some aspirin,” Peter agreed. “So c’mon, let’s move.”

“I can’t get much closer – “ Winston started.

“We don’t want to. Park here.” At Peter’s direction, Winston slid Ecto just around the corner of New and Broad, parking at an angle with the nose of the modified ambulance pointed toward a quick and easy escape.

The carnage on Broad seemed close to absolute. Mangled automobiles that had been unlucky enough to stand in the way of the manifestation when it had first appeared were tossed like broken toys throughout the street. Horribly, in a few of the crushed cars there were still figures locked in place behind the crumpled dashboards. More bodies – dead or alive, none of the Ghostbusters could tell from their distance – lay sprawled and bloody on the sidewalks. EMTs had been able to reach some of them; others were still too close to the danger to allow safe passage, their ultimate fates left to chance.

However, the four took that in only subliminally as they unloaded their equipment from the back of Ecto, donning and arming their packs and checking the ghost traps. Egon’s PKE meter was shrieking and blinking to beat the band, and he bent his blond head over it, peering at the readings. “Bad,” he confirmed, as if it were news to them.

“Spengs, we’re gonna have to get you a new ratings system,” Peter muttered, tightening the waist strap of his pack. He had an unusual unsettled feeling in his gut about this one, no real reason why, except maybe due to the crappy way he felt. Or, as he adjusted his outlook to be a little less egocentric, maybe it had to do with the collateral damage already apparent; usually, streets and buildings looked this way after the Ghostbusters were done, not before. The fact that all this damage – and injury – had been done in under a half hour was not a good sign, either. He added, “Besides, time to put your toy away. I think we’ve already got a pretty clear idea of what we’re dealing with right now. Keep your head up.” The oblique warning made him feel a little better, but not much.

And then the Seven came roaring around the corner at Wall and Broad, heading straight for them, and made any further comments redundant, save for Peter’s absolutely heartfelt “Shit!”

It was easily fifty feet in length, roughly bipedal but with a number of irregularly-shaped excess limbs above what passed for “waist” level, and its scaled form rippled in gray waves almost like old moiré silk. It moved in their direction faster than an out-of-control locomotive roaring downhill and rumbling twice as loudly. Only Ray had a second to thumb on his proton stream and try to draw a bead on it before it had swooped above them, spewing shivering hunks of gray ectoplasm at them and sending them diving flat to the street surface. Then it wheeled back around, so fast their eyes could barely follow it, and vanished again around the opposite corner.

Peter shook himself as he got to his hands and knees, throwing off what felt like a snot-boulder that had dropped in the middle of his back, oozing around his pack and then soaking down to his jumpsuit, and snapped, “Well, someone’s pissed at the Dow-Jones average today.”

“Man, that thing can move,” Winston groaned, climbing back to his feet. Beside him, Ray and Egon were similarly engaged; once he regained his feet, Egon paused an extra moment to fastidiously flick a small speck of ectoplasm off his glasses.

Peter scowled. “Hope we all ate our Wheaties this morning,” he muttered, then gestured down the street to the corner. “Let’s go.”

He ignored how much his head was hammering, and automatically took point as they moved at a careful jog toward the intersection. Four pairs of eyes scanned in as many directions as, throwers at the ready, they advanced toward the lurking Seven. A glimpse of gray thrashing limbs licking around the corner gave them a moment’s warning of the next attack; one of the Ghostbusters might have shouted “Here it comes!” but it was more likely well-honed reflexes that sent all four proton streams blasting simultaneously at the gray bulk as it charged up and over the façade of the Stock Exchange.

Two streams caught it – Egon’s and Ray’s – and it screeched an unearthly Dopplering howl as it surged above them, momentarily caught and penned by the power of the streams. Then it jerked upwards, detaching itself by main force, and hovered out of range for a moment, somehow obviously staring around with its shapeless, formless face.

“I recommend, gentlemen,” Egon said almost mildly, pinned under its invisible glare, “that we move out of its way.” They scattered in four separate directions, just as the Seven boiled downward, slicing through the asphalt of the street as if it wasn’t there, shoving a crater downward into the gravel and then the hard-packed dirt below, and vanished.

Peter spun, looking. “Where the hell…. This is not good - “ Then the pavement exploded upwards, not ten feet from him, with a massive spray of upchurned chunks spraying through the air. He dodged to safety behind a toppled car as more debris pelted down like a demented rainfall.

“Pete! You okay?” he heard Winston shout, along with the sizzle of another proton blast. The specter blew past, back around the corner, and vanished again from sight.

“Oh, yeah, perfect, not to mention pretty as a picture,” he shot back, wiping at another gobbet of ectoplasm that had nailed him on his shoulder. Better that, though, than those asphalt bombs. Any one of those would have wrecked his day real fast.

Ray tilted an inquiring glance in the direction the Seven had fled, murmuring, “I think it’s trying to keep us away from the corner.”

“You think?” Peter bit out succinctly. Time to get the hell over this hangover…. “Well, screw it!” With a wild howl, he burst out of shelter and pelted forward at a reckless run, thrower still pulled and ready.

When he rounded the corner of Broad and Wall, he saw the reason.

Behind an accidental barricade of crumpled cars as well as one taxi and a street vendor’s cart, at least twenty people, most of them obviously Wall Street yuppies by their expensively tailored outfits, huddled in fear. The specter roiled above them, raging inchoately, howling and gesturing at them with misplaced fury as if they, not it, were the intruders on this street. And its behavior demonstrated with painful clarity that it had no intention of letting its inadvertent hostages go.

Peter automatically shouted, “Hey! You! Big Ugly! Over here!” He zapped it with a quick, hot burst of energy to get its attention. “Yeah, you!” He zapped again and waved as it turned toward him; then he took off in the opposite direction as fast as his feet could carry him, pausing for a split second to tickle it with another high-power blast and make sure it was following him.

The other three were already covering him, instinctively knowing what he was doing - baiting the manifestation away from the civilians as well as drawing it into a position where they could take it down. The spit and sizzle of their fired throwers joined the erratic, irritating bursts he was flinging at it.

Peter drew it a quarter of the way down Broad before stopping dead, spinning, and planting himself firmly in the middle of the street. He knew before even looking that the rest of the team had spread out behind it, making a barricade between the Seven and its hostages; it would have to fight three proton streams to try to get back to them.

He braced himself and shrieked more a confirmation to the others than an order. “Now!” Four beams pumped to the maximum lashed out in a “north-south-east-west” pattern that roughly mimicked the way they had arrayed themselves throughout the street. He hit it high, while Winston zapped its right flank. Ray and Egon, almost directly behind it, hit it low and to the left, respectively. For a moment they had it pinned, under control, and Peter was about to toss out a ghost trap to finish up the job. Then it suddenly seemed to contract, pulling in and away the limbs that had been wrapped with proton energy and slipping free again, and dove directly for Peter.

He didn’t even have to hear the others’ warning shouts – he hit the deck almost hard enough to knock the breath out of himself as the Seven hurtled past him only a foot or so above. He rolled and shifted toward the side of the street, edging up against a crushed panel truck – and came face to face with a terrified woman in a torn pink jogging suit who had wedged herself halfway under it. She screamed reflexively as she saw him, then cowered back from him.

“Hey, hey, I’m the good guy,” he grinned at her. “Ghostbusters on the job.”

Her head sagged. “My baby…” she moaned. He looked past her, and felt his stomach churn as he saw a broken baby stroller on the sidewalk, the bundle in it too still and quiet.

In almost one motion, he sprang to his feet, hauling her bodily with him, and activated his thrower in a preemptory blast in case danger was nearby. The Seven was still wheeling around, almost to the other end of the block, regarding them with dark animalistic malice. He bent low to her and directed, “When it charges me, grab your kid and go. You got that?” He poked her with his elbow, trying to jar the glaze from her eyes. “You got that?”

“Uh-huh….” Her mind wasn’t firing on anything remotely near all cylinders, but he figured she understood enough.

“See the EMTs at the corner? Run like hell right to them, okay? We’ll cover you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the guys move closer, into a flanking position again, and then he sprang out of cover, making enough noise to wake the dead. “Hey, Ugly! Over here! You lost me!” Peter taunted, darting back and forth. “Don’t like the NASDAQ today? Investments a little shaky? Maybe you shoulda put your ecto-bucks in pork bellies!”

“Peter, be careful!” Egon called, his voice tense. “You are taking an exceptional risk.”

“Don’t worry, Spengs,” he hollered back, smirking. “I know what I’m doing.”

It started forward, motion slow, considering them. Peter dimly wondered if he was annoying it as much as he was trying to. The mother in pink, her body twisted with sobs, was edging away, toward the sidewalk and the battered stroller. Good, good, he thought, you keep going over there, and Ugly, you keep coming right here. We got a present for you.

“Use a wider dispersal so he can’t do that vanishing trick again!” Ray hollered.

“Got it!” Peter rapidly keyed the controls on his thrower, knowing that the others would be doing the same.

It picked up speed, rolling slowly down the block, staring with its eyes-that-weren’t there right at Peter. Then suddenly it was charging at them – at him, really – amidst a writhing mass of even more extra appendages that had suddenly sprouted all over its body. Dodging the streams of the throwers, it managed only to snatch futilely at him as it roared overhead, sounding like a jet on takeoff.

Peter spared a glance to his left, relieved to see that the lady in pink had high-tailed it out of there as he’d instructed. He could see a couple of EMTs racing to meet her and the limp little bundle in her arms, off in the distance. He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, however, because he could practically feel a thrum in the air that meant the Seven was on its way back for another pass.

It streaked overhead, still buzzing past too fast for them to get a decent shot on it, then wheeled and dove down through the asphalt again.

“I don’t like this!” Peter protested loudly, to no one in particular, certain that this time the damn thing was going to come up right under his feet. When this was over, he promised himself, he was going to down a fistful of aspirin and put those feet up for the rest of the day….

“Anybody else think this is getting really old?” Winston shouted out in frustration, spinning around anxiously, trying to guess where the manifestation would appear this next time. “We’ve gotta slow this sucker down some next time he shows up.”

“We need to adjust the throwers, Egon!” Ray called out, a line of concentration furrowing between his brows. “We talked about that before – how to cut down on an entity’s speed to give us a better shot at pinning it.”

“Good idea, Raymond,” Egon nodded. “The recalculations need to be within certain parameters…” Ray trotted to his side as Egon began to tweak the complex arrangements of controls on the particle thrower. Red and blond heads bent together over it, obliviously working as one on a possible help to the solution at hand.

Great. Peter rolled his eyes, still edgily staring around for the Class Seven’s next Command Performance. Now those two were off in Laboratory La-La-Land right here in the middle of the street, and he and Winston were going to have to look out for the both of them. Even worse, the manifestation’s hostages were starting to make a break for it – he could see a pair slipping around the corner, hand in hand, vanishing at a fast clip toward a line of police cars and emergency vehicles. That’s gonna make Big Ugly cranky, losing his guests –

Peter felt the roar begin – sure enough – almost right beneath his feet, and he flung himself backward as it surged upward yet again and poured itself out of the street, hovering and enraged. “Party time!” Venkman yipped, wobbling as the asphalt below him tilted as if it had been rippled by an earthquake, but his balance held. His particle thrower was ready and he engaged the stream simultaneously with Winston’s. “Hey, Wonder Boys!” he shouted at the two scientists. “Need an engraved invitation?” Egon and Ray had already abandoned their attempts at reconfiguration – obviously, whatever adjustment they’d already made was going to have to do – and, past the ready/aim part, added their fire to the other two’s.

Maybe, just maybe, Peter thought hopefully, they’d pinned it this time. He had it caught high, shooting it right in the face-that-wasn’t-there. Winston had its flank again, and Ray and Egon were pushing it hard right in the “back”. It swirled in the air, fighting, but with a visible reduction to the energy it had exhibited earlier. The extra appendages were back to their usual number of, oh, perhaps only six or so rather than the 25 that had grabbed futilely at him earlier, and that seemed like a good sign.

“I think we’re wearing it out!” Winston crowed exultantly. He had that “oh, YEAH!” look of triumph on his face, the one they all wore when they were at last getting the best of a nasty gooper that had more than worn out its welcome.

“Wouldn’t you be tired if you’d been doing the backstroke in asphalt?” Ray’s face was tight with the effort of concentration, but his typical broad grin was starting to replace the strained expression

“Technically, it’s neither a backstroke nor asphalt,” Egon corrected with an uplift to his brows. Peter cut him off before he could elaborate any further.

“Time for Big Ugly to go to bed, don’t you think?” He detached a trap one-handed, the thrower still braced and pumping out proton streams from the other, and deftly tossed it beneath the writhing entity. “Push it closer, Winston!” he shouted, foot ready to stomp on the pedal and trigger the trap.

The Seven already looked like it was shriveling in on itself just from the disruption of the proton streams, even before the trap opened. The appendages were losing shape, pulling into the shimmering gray core of its body. A dense heaviness started to pool in the lower part of its body, tugging its entire form lower, pulling and twisting it out of shape.

Under his breath, Peter counted to three as Winston maneuvered the Seven into perfect position for capture, then with a certain glee hit the foot pedal to trigger the trap. White light poured up, engulfing it, sending it into howling screaming fits of rage that made its earlier histrionics look like a pettish two-year-old’s temper tantrum. Earplugs – earplugs would be really nice right about now, drifted through Peter’s head as he flinched from the pounding noise.

And then, just as the trap began its suction, the manifestation’s entire mien shifted drastically. A new appendage burst out of its body, low, thick, and heavily scaled like a prehistoric monster’s nightmarishly armored tail, and whipped around at a ferocious, deadly speed. With a crack like a baseball bat it swung low through the air, swatting at its tormentors. It caught Winston hard, across the chest, throwing him back against a parked car with a solid thud and crunch of giving bone and flesh that was audible even over the infuriated roars. It continued on its path, slamming into Ray and then Egon beside him. It flipped Ray high, sending him in a pinwheeling arc through the air before he crashed heavily back to the pavement, limbs akimbo as if he was trying futilely to somehow break his fall. Egon too went momentarily airborne, though not as high, clipping the top of a wrecked minivan and rolling over its dented roof to land in a crumpled heap, face down next to Ray.

Peter had barely enough time for a reflex reaction to send himself out of its way, dropping to his knees and ducking under its swing, the near-blow so close he felt it brush against his hair. Somehow his thrower was still aimed at it, particle stream at full blast, but now his was the only one still pinning it in the light of the trap. And the trap itself was now slowly closing, since his foot was no longer on the pedal, and the manifestation was writhing away from its weakening suction. He lurched forward, got his knee on the pedal to shove it back open, and hunkered down as the tail came back for another pass.

“Guys!” he hollered, flicking his eyes to the left – Winston – and the right – Ray and Egon. “Need some help over here!” No one stirred. Oh god. He felt sick. They’re down….

He adjusted the thrower, pumping it almost to overload, tightening the beam and aiming right into the Seven’s “face”. It roared again, twisting and writhing, trying to slide away from him, from the trap, pulling a little bit further every second. “You bastard!” Peter started to scream. “Go down, go down, damn you!” The thrower bucked in his hands as the Seven fought against the pounding stream, tugging up, and Peter felt his knees lift off the asphalt for a moment. It was going to tow him upwards and he’d have to cut the power, let it go, and then it would be free to take not only him down like the others, but everyone else in the vicinity like it had before they’d arrived –

And then suddenly there was another stream, not at full power and set at widest dispersal, catching at the Seven and fixing it into place. And a few seconds later, a third, probably at less than half power, but it was working, those two extra beams giving him just enough of Advantage: Venkman he needed to finish up the job. How the hell – who the hell…? He didn’t have time to look. He manipulated the proton stream high, finessed the energy above and around the entity, drawing it in and down toward the blazing trap.

“You miserable scum-sucking excuse for a sack of ectoplasm, you’re toast, you’re done, stick a fork in you,” he muttered, furious, past cursing, trying to focus on the task at hand – bring this sucker down – rather than three friends who were lying on the pavement, which he couldn’t even think about right now…. His ears were ringing from all the noise, the sound and roaring and the hiss of the streams and the hum of the packs…

And then it was over. The Seven suddenly sizzled down with a brusque whoosh into the trap, the doors clacked shut, and the containment light glowed into life on its surface. Smoke climbed from it in a thin gray stream, curling toward the sky.

He stood up, staring, blinking rapidly against the afterglow of the trap’s white light. Funny how the normal raucous concert of New York – the sirens, the honking, the shouts of people and the chop of helicopters – could suddenly sound so quiet in comparison now that the Seven was gone.

He shook himself and stared around, first at Winston, curled in a ball over by the curb about fifty feet from him. He could see the blood – lots of it – on Zed’s jumpsuit from here. But there were Egon and Ray, too, just about as far away to the other side, Egon still collapsed face down in the exact same posture as he’d landed, and Ray… Ray sitting there cross-legged, rocking back and forth and clutching at his left arm, blood streaming down his face, and two particle throwers smack in front of him, his own to the right, and Egon’s to the left.

Peter took a fumbling half-step toward Winston, then saw that a team of paramedics was already racing to him and would make it there before he did, and changed direction without even really thinking about it. Ray and Egon need some help….

Heart in his throat, he dropped to his knees on the asphalt, automatically reaching for Ray. Stantz was shaking uncontrollably, starting to huddle in on himself, his eyes glazing as his lids flickered. The arm he clutched to himself was swollen and bent in an unnatural posture, and Peter swallowed as he realized that somehow, Ray had managed to not only grab a second thrower, but aim and fire it as well with that damaged arm. Peter put out tentative hands, catching Ray at the shoulders as he started to go over; Stantz hissed and flinched, but the pain sent more awareness flashing to his eyes. “Stay with me, Ray,” Peter managed, bracing him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

The pack…. Get that pack off him. There was no way Peter was even going to try to work the straps down Ray’s arms, so he loosed one supportive hand to fumble in his pockets for his knife. He sliced the sharp blade through one shoulder strap, then the other, then more conventionally unfastened the buckle of the waist strap and finally eased the pack from Ray’s back. The younger man groaned, sagging against Peter at the release of the heavy weight.

“Gonna lie you down now,” Peter soothed him, keeping his voice calm and gentle while inside he was roiling. “Hang on.” Where the hell are the paramedics? He looked around and found that they were everywhere, occupied with dozens of wounded, pulling bodies out of trashed cars, wheeling the injured on gurneys to waiting ambulances, performing CPR on the least lucky Wall Street workers. They were everywhere, in fact, but here.

Ray was resisting his attempts to settle him more comfortably, shuddering. “No - hurts too much.” Tears were streaking his face, cutting odd, slightly pinkish tracks in their wake as they trickled through the blood.

“Okay, then just stay still while I check on Egon.” He took another deep breath as he shifted aside, turning to where his oldest friend lay motionless.

“Egon,” he said urgently, placing tentative fingers against the physicist’s throat. The thready thump of a pulse was a welcome sensation beneath his touch, and he released half a held breath. “Wake up, big guy. C’mon, we got the gooper, it’s over.” He caught up the knife again and sliced away all three straps to dump aside the pack. We really need to put on those quick-release buckles we talked about, he remembred irrationally. “Spengs? Come back, huh?”

Egon didn’t look that bad, just very… still. Nothing that should have kept him down and out like this. A few cuts, scratches, a blooming bruise along his jaw, all the usual crappy post-bust stuff that they bitched about back at home, especially when Winston was painting them with that stinging Betadine to prevent infection. His red-framed glasses were hanging awkwardly from one earpiece, and Peter automatically removed them, pocketing them carefully. “Egon, please? For Uncle Peter?”

Scanning him with his eyes, he noticed a near-subliminal hitch to Egon’s breathing, a hesitation that should not have been there. If the wind had been knocked out of him… no, that would have resolved in a minute or two and it had been longer than that since he went down. But there was a circle of blood on the right upper back of his jumpsuit, dark against the teal, that seemed to bloom from a dimensional, angled silver line that didn’t belong there. Then the image suddenly resolved and Peter realized he was staring at a thin piece of metal that had impaled Spengler. Almost against his will, his eyes tracked downward, to find where it had pierced its way through Egon’s body, the other end jutting from the right side of his ribcage.

“Oh, shit.” Peter felt his heart lurch into overdrive and stared around wildly. Fingers to his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle that no one could ignore, then waved frenetically as faces turned in his direction. “Over here! Now!”

It was instantly, horribly clear to him what it had to be - the minivan’s antenna, from when Egon had been tossed up and over it and had rolled across the vehicle’s dented roof. What kind of sick freak accident does it take for that to happen? Peter shook his head, feeling sick and utterly helpless as he placed a hand to the back of Egon’s head. “Spengs, hang in there, okay? We’re gonna get you some help.”

At least the paramedics were rushing to them now, with their kits and equipment, stark-faced and probably worn to beyond a frazzle by the exceptional demands of the day, but there, able to do something for his friends. He let himself be moved aside as a pair settled beside Egon to take vital signs and make a field assessment. Peter felt his hand shake as he pointed, and his words came too thickly when he explained, “He’s been stuck... car antenna went right through him…” Just saying it made him sick, especially when he saw how grim his words turned the faces of the paramedics.

He couldn’t watch them working on Egon, just couldn’t, for fear of what he might see happening, so he turned back to Ray. There was a woman EMT cautiously taking his vitals, talking softly and soothingly to him as she pointed a thin flashlight beam into his eyes to check his pupillary responses. She’d handed him a square of gauze for his bleeding face, and Ray’s fingers were trembling as he pressed it against his cheek. Peter tried to move closer, to take over the simple duty for him, but the EMT caught his eye, shaking her head and warning him back with her expression. Ray was so sunken in on himself now that he wasn’t capable of dealing with anything outside the narrowed center of his focus - the EMT taking care of him - nor did she probably want anything – anyone – to interfere with her duties. Peter understood, but still hovered, feeling torn and useless.

“Gonna go check on Winston…” he finally mumbled to himself, since no one else was listening, and paced over to the cluster of medical techs that was working on the third downed Ghostbuster. Someone had already ripped open the sleeves of his jumpsuit to start a couple of IVs, and they’d obviously figured out the new Venkman technique for Emergency Pack Removal 101 and dumped it out of the way. One of the paramedics was calling in Winston’s vital signs – such as they were; Peter knew what blood pressure that low meant – to emergency room personnel on the other end of the radio, while two others worked to stabilize him, packing huge gauze pressure bandages against the collapsing angle of his chest to stop the bleeding. He’d probably popped half his ribcage when that Seven smashed him.

Unable to bear watching any longer, Peter turned away, and went onto autopilot at that moment, as if his brain was shutting down. There was nothing he could do but what they usually did after a bust: pick up everything and put it away. He reflexively caught up Winston’s pack by one of the dangling straps and simply lugged it down the block to where they’d parked Ecto. The converted vintage ambulance that they’d positioned so carefully was now in the center of a parking stack of recently-arrived emergency vehicles and police cars, and he threaded his way through the tangle of automobiles to dump both his and Winston’s packs in the racks in the back. Quietly he made his way back, sidestepping the huge chunks of asphalt and concrete in his path, detouring around a wayward tire in the middle of the road. He caught up the ghost trap, still smoking slightly, staring at it as if he hardly recognized it for what it was, then walked on. Ray’s pack, Egon’s pack, somehow he hefted them both and, staggering under their combined weights, made the trip back to Ecto and dumped them there too, along with the trap. Then he carefully made sure all the doors were locked, checking each a couple times just to make sure, and headed back to his friends.

A couple of ambulances had pulled up to them from the waiting line of emergency medical transport vehicles at the end of the block. Ray and Egon were both on gurneys now, both stuck with IVs just like Winston. But Winston was still on the pavement, a lot more people working over him than before as they tried to stabilize him enough for the trip to the emergency room. He saw that they were now breathing for Winston with an ambu-bag; if his heart stopped, Peter wondered how the hell they could do CPR with half his chest collapsed.

He watched impassively as they lifted Egon’s gurney into the ambulance. The physicist was still silent, motionless, an oxygen mask fitted to his face and heavy gauze pads encircling and bracing the protruding ends of the invasive antenna. Ray, at least, looked a little more awake and aware, and Peter clung to that as if it were evidence that everyone, not just Ray, was going to be all right.

Ray noticed him through wet, pain-dimmed eyes as he moved closer, and struggled to raise his head from the thin pillow on the gurney. Peter reached him in time to gently press his palm against Ray’s forehead and still the motion. “Take it easy, Tex. Save your acrobatics for later.”

“How’s Winston?” Ray murmured, the glitter bright against his lashes.

“I don’t know,” he answered tersely but honestly. “They’re still working on him.” He swallowed, making a hard decision. “I’m going to stay here for now and… see how it goes. You okay with that?”

Ray nodded vaguely, his eyes sliding shut for a second. “Yeah, you’d better. He needs you here.”

Peter shot a quick despairing glance at Egon, just a moment, gathering in the still, white form, and went on, wondering how he was managing to keep his voice that steady. “You stay with Egon, Ray. And make him stay with us, okay? I’ll go with Winston. Meet you at the hospital.” And then they lifted Ray’s gurney, slid him into the ambulance, and pulled away with lights and sirens adding to the cacophony of the street.

At last, it looked like they were just about to transport Winston too; they’d shifted him to a gurney as well and were hauling ass to transfer him into the waiting ambulance. Peter moved as if to follow, then noticed that there was already another person in the back, for transport as well. Double occupancy? – no fair. Plus, there was even a third less-critical victim seated in the shotgun seat in front. Peter frowned - how could he catch a ride to the hospital if all the seats were taken? Ecto was still hemmed in by all the other emergency vehicles so following in it wasn’t an option.

A cop behind the wheel of a nearby cruiser must have noticed his dilemma, and shouted out to him. “Hey, Venkman!” Peter thought he looked vaguely familiar and realized he must have seen him before, doing crowd control at one of their other highly-public busts. “Need a lift to Downtown? I’m transporting but my partner and I have room for one more.” ”Yeah, thanks.” He caught a deep, grateful sigh of relief as he climbed into the back of the cruiser. Another Wall Street type was already back there, worn down, eyes closed, a bandage on his forehead and his arm wrapped with blood-stained bandages. He didn’t stir when Peter settled next to him, probably preferring to hide from reality a little bit longer. God knew he wished he could. “Hey,” he added, “you think you could call for a tow truck to haul our heap back home once things settle down here?”

“Sure. Bet you’ve got stuff in there you don’t want to get lost – or out, right?”

You got that right, he thought tensely, fingers tightening on the back of the seat as the ambulance carrying Winston started up, and the cruiser peeled into formation behind it, following it on its way to the hospital.

This was a nightmare, a full-fledged friggin’ nightmare, and he couldn’t wake up.

Peter finally gave up dialing. Talk about the dictionary definition of going nowhere fast…. He could walk to the rest of the emergency rooms in the city and get information from them faster than trying to get through on the phone.

Except he couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave, not until he knew about Winston. About time to transfer this party upstairs to the Surgical department.

A keening came from across the room and his eyes flicked over. He tensed as he saw the flash of bloodied pink jogging suit, the mother from the street. There was a young doctor approaching her, his face arranged into a careful mask, and she was reading and reacting to his body language already, throwing herself forward at him and begging without words. Peter watched as the doctor murmured to her, his broad hands bracing her shoulders, speaking quietly and surely… and then suddenly she was smiling, falling tears changing from despair to relief, as the news was good, not bad, and everything was going to be all right…

Peter hung up the handset and started to turn away, when somehow her eyes caught his with a blazing flash of recognition. Other eyes turned toward him then, and he felt a sudden, strange murmur flow across the waiting room, that of celebrity recognition. God, he was used to it, God, he usually basked in it, but not now, not now….

The swell of applause took him by surprise. It started slow, like a lapping wave, only a few hands, but in a minute as more people looked at him, in his stained brown jumpsuit, the “No Ghosts” patch on his shoulder drawing their attention like a beacon, it erupted into a frenzy of hand-clapping. Then the shouts, the cheers, the “Thank you’s!” People were even getting to their feet, a veritable standing ovation, for him…

Last Ghostbuster standing.

He gave his name to the chubby young LVN with the sympathetic face at the nurses’ station on the Surgical floor, then walked the well-worn path to the waiting room. He wasn’t sure if he recognized that particular room from personal, prior experience with a post-bust vigil, or if it was simply that all such rooms looked alike. Same blandly-upholstered couches that always seemed to sag before their time, bent no doubt under both the physical and mental weights of those who were forced to park themselves there in such a state of stress; same sad looking potted plants that were supposed to add cheer but instead, with their spare, trailing vines, only reminded him, at least, of fading life; same eggshell white walls with inoffensive pastel art prints of bucolic outdoor scenes. Even, he sighed, the same damn magazines as the last time he’d sat in a hospital waiting room, when Egon had needed a few stitches in his upper arm after a Class Two, of all things, had lobbed a kitchen knife in his direction.

The waiting room was nearly as full as the ER’s equivalent downstairs, though a great deal more subdued. Once you were upstairs, Peter mused, you almost certainly had a much better idea of what odds you were facing, and you could let go a little bit. Or, at least, everyone could but him. Most of the chairs were already taken, but since he was too wound up to think about sitting, seating didn’t matter much to him. Instead, he staked out an unobtrusive corner, bracing himself against the wall, and tried to gather his thoughts before beginning the next round of phone calls.

He had to call Winston’s folks, a duty he did not look forward to, but one that he accepted unequivocally out of loyalty and friendship. Zed’s folks deserved to get what little news there was about their son, directly from him. And they’d want – need - to be here too.

He’d’ve given just about anything to have Janine here with him – with them – too. What crappy timing he’d picked to be nice to her; just three days before they’d shipped her off to a Secretaries’ - oops, excuse me, Administrative Professionals’ – Conference. Janine had been talking about it for a couple of months, dropping hints, buttering everyone up with surprise lunches and plates of cookies, leaving the brochures for it all over the damn firehall. Peter had even found one on his pillow, little smears of ectoplasm on the cover revealing how she’d sneaked it up to the bunkroom.

Because the past few months had been great in terms of busting and billing – and because not only Egon, but Ray and Winston too – thought she deserved a break for all her hard work, they all finally agreed on it, and shipped her off as an early birthday present. Ultimately, Peter didn’t complain one lick that it was all the way in Hawaii. It took a while for everyone to realize he wasn’t complaining, exactly because it was in Hawaii, a continent as well as an ocean away.

He never thought he’d be wishing for Janine’s abrasive presence, but right now, he really could have used her here with him, the two of them going back and forth the way they always did, jollying each other through this unbearable wait, with reassurances that everything was going to be okay. He wasn’t even sure which island she was on today – some “conference”; three islands in seven days with plenty of sun and luau time – let alone which hotel, and her itinerary was lost on his desk back at the firehall. He settled for leaving her a message on her home answering machine, just in case she checked in.

“Janine, it’s Peter.” He hesitated, wondering how best to break it to her without scaring the shit out of her at the same time. “When you get this message you’ll want to get right in touch with me. We… had a bad one today. All the guys are in the hospital and I can’t even really tell you how they are because I don’t know yet. It’s about 3 o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, and I’m at Downtown. I think I’ll be here for a while. Call here and have me paged and I’ll give you more details if I know any. If you can’t reach me here –“ If, by some miracle, I’ve found out where Egon and Ray are and I’ve gone over there – “then just leave me a message at the firehall and I’ll call you back.” He paused again. “I don’t want you to worry too much, and I’m sorry this is screwing up your conference, but if you can, change your flight and come back a little early.” It wasn’t until after he hung up that he realized he hadn’t bothered with a “good-bye”.

Now, Winston’s folks. He called Directory Assistance for “Big Ed” Zeddemore’s construction company, hoping he’d catch him at the office. No such luck; Dawn, their receptionist, told him that Big Ed was out in the field with a crew, would be next to impossible to get in touch with, and wasn’t expected back until late in the evening. “

Anything wrong, Pete?” There was small edge to her tone, as if she was rapidly figuring it out that it wasn’t a social call.

He debated for a few seconds, then laid it on her. “Yeah, Dawn, there is. You haven’t had a radio on? – heard any news?” He filled her in quickly, his story punctuated by her small gasps and “Oh, no’s”, and at the end, she promised to do every possible thing to get word to Big Ed that he was needed at Downtown Hospital, like, an hour ago.

Peter got the Zeddemore house number from her, even though calling Mrs. Zeddemore was the last thing he wanted to do. The phone rang four times, then their machine kicked in. Damn. No way was he going to leave that kind of message for her to play back at her leisure. Great, another phone number to add to his lengthy list.

Speaking of which, it was about time to start the latest round of Hunt the Hospitals again. Find the missing Ghostbusters, win valuable prizes… like, maybe, his peace of mind. From how tightly he was controlling himself, temples and jaw were adding their throb to his existing headache, and his stomach lining was in the kind of uproar that made him wish he had stock in Rolaids. Hey, “stock market”, get it? – great joke, Venkman. Since he expected nothing, he got exactly what he’d planned on – another busy signal – when he dialed the Crisis Center hotline again, then started right down his list of Manhattan ERs.

At least he had some luck, not what he was hoping for, but he finally got through to two more emergency room admitting desks and was able to strike them from his list. He picked a cliché from his mental list, settling on “no news is good news”, and tried to let that offer him some comfort. He would have started at the top of his list again, but his peripheral vision picked up an anxiously hovering figure, coins in hand, waiting for her turn at the phone. He met her eyes, nodding sympathetically as he ceded it to her, then went back to his safe corner to slouch against the wall.

Every time a physician came through the waiting room door, a couple dozen pairs of eyes swung his or her way to see if the forthcoming news, good or bad, was for them. Peter was damn surprised, considering how the day had been going, when after only about an hour a doctor who looked way too young to be a trauma surgeon stuck his head in and, after referring to a scrap of paper in his hand, called out, “Mr. Venkman?”

There they went with ignoring his doctorate again; again, he let it go. Peter knew damn well that he was only letting it irritate him today out of proportion to its importance because it was giving him something, anything, to think about other than Winston, Ray, and Egon. “Yeah?” he called back, starting upright from his wall-supporting slouch. “That’s me.” No grammar awards today.

The doctor gestured him over with a faint hand motion, then led him out of the waiting room and started down the hall. Peter’s unease flared as he tailed him, matching the long, purposeful strides through the hospital corridors.

“I’m part of the surgical team that worked on Mr. Zeddemore,” he began, and launched into a complicated description of procedures and terminology that had Peter’s mind jumping to translate what the hell the doctor was getting at – all that talk about “flail chest” and “pneumothorax”, “blood O2 level” and “crits” until he couldn’t follow it at all. He was just about to blurt out, “But how is he?” when the doctor unexpectedly halted before the doors of the ICU. “He’s in Intensive Care now. If you’d like to see him for a moment – “

Peter did interrupt then. “You mean he’s okay?” Cold relief washed over him in a wave so intense it left him wobbly.

“No, not ‘okay’.” The surgeon shook his head. “I wish I could tell you that. He’s come through surgery and he’s fairly stable, but he still has a way to go before we can consider him out of danger.” His eyes were sympathetic. “Dr. Henderson headed the trauma team that worked on your friend. He’s had some experience with the four of you before, a few years ago – you may not even remember.” Sure enough, Peter didn’t; there were more than a few bust aftermaths that had been a blur – especially those in which he’d been knocked around – though none as bad as this one. “Normally we wouldn’t allow anyone in to see a patient at this stage, but Dr. H. remembers the fuss you kicked up about access, so he said to make sure you got to go in and see Mr. Zeddemore. Now, remember, you can go in for just a couple of minutes per hour – and we will hold you to it.” The doctor did his best to fix him with a severe glare to show Peter that he was absolutely serious, but spoiled the effect with a sympathetic smile.

Peter swallowed, grateful, and bobbed his head. “That’s fine, really. Thanks.” He awkwardly put out a hand to shake the surgeon’s. “For everything. I really didn’t think….”

The surgeon nodded in response, then broke the handshake and turned to leave. “Go see your friend, Mr. Venkman,” he finished mildly.

“’Doctor’,” Peter finally corrected, not at all irritably, already moving toward the ICU’s door. He crept through, damn scared but damn relieved too, that part of the day’s mess was finally resolving. The charge nurse at the central station directed him to Winston’s curtained cubicle, and he slid quietly between a gap in the hanging drapes, gathering himself.

Winston wasn’t alone – a pair of nurses, one with a pin identifying her as a shift supervisor, were hovering beside him, in quiet, technical tones discussing the data on the complex banks of monitors surrounding him. Peter took in the plethora of equipment, all the hissing, burbling, muttering machines surrounding his friend, his eyes drifting over tubing and IV stands, bottles and bags and catheters, trying to find optimism in the complex technical array supporting Zed’s life rather than seeing it as a desperate attempt by modern medicine to keep him from slipping to the Other Side.

Peter finally let his eyes slide down to the still figure on the bed. “Hey, Zed,” he whispered, clenching his fingers around the cold steel of the bedrail as his insides twisted. Shit, he’s on a ventilator. He barely looked like Winston – his dark complexion was completely wrong, gray underneath the chocolate tone. Peter put out a tentative hand, almost afraid to touch him, but needing to, for both himself and for Winston – let him know I’m here – and gently placed it on the man’s shoulder, squeezing lightly.

The skin beneath his probing fingers skin was too cool, the muscles too slack. Winston’s entire aspect was just too… far away, as if he weren’t there at all. Peter pressed his eyes shut for a moment, then spoke softly in a controlled voice. “Zed, it’s me, it’s Peter. I’m here. You’re gonna be okay, hear me? No way could that thing get the best of you – of us. I wanna let you know, we nailed it, put that sucker away big-time. Soon’s I get back home I’m gonna dump it in Containment and let it know the reason why….”

The nurses’ voices suddenly intruded on his rambling monologue – something about “not liking this reading”. He took his eyes away from Winston’s blank, slack face and instead studied theirs for a clue. The supervisor did not look at all pleased, while her compatriot looked more than a little anxious at what one of the monitors was displaying. As if he wasn’t there – as if Winston wasn’t there either – they continued to discuss the ramifications of the readings, more of those “crits” – dropping this time – and falling blood pressure with an increasing pulse. Finally one of them seemed to notice him; perhaps it was the fact that his voice had trailed off and he was just staring at them that awoke them to his presence. “I think you should leave now,” she nodded a dismissal to him, then turned her attention back to Winston.

“He’s okay, right?” The words and tone didn’t even feel like his. “Right?” His voice came out a little more strident than he’d intended, earning him a severe glare from the nursing team.

The second nurse caught his eye, giving him a slight shake of her head, and said, “You’re really going to have to come back later.”

“Okay,” he breathed, suddenly and unexpectedly sick with apprehension. He gave a final squeeze to the cold, slack shoulder, whispering, “See you in an hour, pal – you hang in there, okay?” and turned away, moving like an automaton toward the door.

He reeled out of the ICU like someone had punched him. The floor beneath his feet felt funny, like it had gone all spongy, or maybe he had. Who knew? All he was sure of at that moment was that he was finally going to be sick.

He found the sign that pointed to the nearest Men’s Room and made tracks for it, afraid that he wouldn’t make it in time. Hey, that’s why they have janitors with buckets – bet I’m not the first one to lose it in the hallway outside the ICU. Somehow, though, that thought was hollow comfort. He flung himself into the restroom and headed for a stall, dropping to his knees just in time as his stomach finally surrendered. And even as expert as he was with self-dissembling, there was no way he could pretend it was just another side effect of his utterly irrelevant hangover.

Afterwards, he sat on the cold tile floor in the stall, the door firmly locked against any intrusions, drew up his knees and dropped his forehead against them. Shit, it wasn’t going to be all right, Winston was going to die, and for all he knew – for all he’d been able to find out - Egon and Ray could be dying right now too….

He forced the train of thought away and instead yanked his focus back to what, if any, constructive thing he could be doing instead of puking his guts out. He wearily levered himself up again, out of the stall, and trudged to the sink where he splashed his face with cold water until he felt more like himself.

A thought tickled at the back of his mind as he stalked back out to the hall, a random conversation he and Winston had had a long time ago, waxing philosophical over a couple of cold beers. He couldn’t even remember how they’d gotten on the topic; while Winston would have readily opened himself up to such revelatory conversation – and even welcomed such introspection – Peter still cautiously held such personal things close and safe inside, unwilling to bare that part of himself… as if he even had a comparable part.

He must have been teasing Winston about church again, their running discussion about how Zed always wasted the sleeping-in potential of a nice Sunday morning. Winston had merely grinned widely in that “you just don’t get it” way of his. Then, when Peter had pushed him just a little bit more, the grin had faded and Winston had done his best to explain… that it wasn’t just about meeting nice church-going ladies, a point which Peter had been willing to concede. Nor was it about banking up enough celestial Frequent Worshiper points to ensure that when the time came – hopefully, after a long, well-lived and satisfying life – to move on, he’d have bought himself a direct ticket to Heaven and not have to make a stopover in either Hell or Atlanta.

Nope. It was something simpler, yet harder to explain, based on the here and now, on what they did in the lives they were leading day to day... that sometimes when they were out there, face to face with some unimaginable ectoplasmic horror more than willing to rip his head off and ask questions later, what he heard in church gave him strength to know that, even if he couldn’t see it, there was a force for Good out there looking out for him as well, one that would always be there for him when he needed it.

Well, Winton sure needed it now.

The LVN Peter had spoken to earlier was already regarding him with concern as he approached her, so he put on an easygoing grin, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. “I’m wondering if you could help me with something…. Is there… a minister or a priest or someone on call here? My friend…” he flicked his eyes toward the closed doors of the ICU just down the corridor, “he doesn’t look so good and I know it would mean a lot to him if I could get someone like that here for him.”

He was relieved when she nodded, reaching for the in-house phone on her desk. “I can call our Guest Services department and have them send someone up here as quickly as possible. I can’t guarantee how soon, or who they’ll send from what church, since I’m sure they’re pretty busy right now…”

“Guest” Services… wow, now that’s a euphemism. He ignored it, smiling again. “That would be great. Thanks. And…” He glanced at her phone as another thought came to him. “I don’t know if you have a… hotline or something to any of the other hospitals, but I can’t find my other two friends who got banged up today too. Ray Stantz, Egon Spengler?” She followed his nod as if acknowledging the names. “The paramedics took ‘em somewhere else. Do you think you could, if you have the time, maybe try to locate them for me?”

“We usually don’t, but…” She paused, gnawing at her lower lip, but must have caught something behind his eyes, and nodded again. “You know, I’ll really see what I can do. Today’s really not a good day for you and your friends, is it?”

“You don’t know how grateful I’ll be if you can make it better,” he answered soberly, and really meant it.

He hovered in the hallway, rather than going back to the surgical waiting room to wait out the hour before he could next go in and see Winston. He didn’t know if it was his, or their, vibes that made him feel out of place in there – he felt antsy, unable to be too far, wanting, needing to know that Winston was still alive and breathing – well, being breathed for – just on the other side of that wall. Peter didn’t even know if they’d let him back in after the hour’s wait; there was way too much action going on involving the ICU, folks being moved in and out, accompanied by a veritable roll call of hospital personnel. He really hoped that some of the more grim-faced specialists were not there on Winston’s behalf.

The sharp clack of high heels stood out enough over the muffled shuffle of nursing shoes that Peter pulled up out of his subdued abstraction and automatically looked around to see who might be arriving. Maybe someone in Winston’s family? Nope – no such luck. He made a typical Venkman evaluation as she stopped at the nurses’ station, but his heart was so disinterested and dispassionate that it was more an academic exercise than anything remotely enjoyable. She was attractive, blonde and pale-eyed, in her late twenties to early thirties, and clad in a smart but highly conservative black suit that looked much too severe on someone that young and fair.

To his surprise, she turned in his direction and began walking his way, and only then did he see the black blouse with its white clerical collar that explained the cut of her clothes. She put out her hand as she reached him, taking his in a grip that was firm and warm and utterly without calculation, and gave him a smile as genuine and engaging as the handshake. “Peter Venkman, right? I’m Reverend Patricia McLaren. They told me one of the Ghostbusters ordered up a minister.”

He looked at the hand he was shaking, then up to meet her eyes, and answered dumbly, “Um, yeah, I guess I did.”

“Well,” she continued to smile, with the barest interrogative lift to one eyebrow, “here I am.”

As modern as he considered himself to be in terms of the contemporary roles of male vs. female in the workforce, he had to admit he was completely taken aback by a woman minister coming in response to his request. He would have been less surprised had a Hassidic rabbi come strolling down the hallway, more so than someone who looked like a cute Junior Leaguer who’d made an unfortunate fashion choice in neckwear. She must have finally read the look in his eyes and recognized his surprise, for with humor she asked, “Not quite what you expected, huh?”

“No, I have to admit, you’ve got me there.” He grinned back at her self-effacement. “Nice to meet you… um, hey, I’m not even sure what to call you.”

“How about Patty?” Her fingers clasped his one last time, then released. Blue eyes, sharp and inquisitive yet friendly, assessed him. “May I call you Peter?”

“That’s what I answer to.” He felt uncommonly awkward in her presence, like he didn’t have a clue how to act; as if her clerical collar was causing a disruption to his fine-tuned social radar. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have acted much more at ease with a man of the cloth; but her being a woman definitely made it worse. “So…” he fumbled, “thanks for getting here so fast. I didn’t think anyone could show up this quickly.”

“I was already downstairs talking to some people – today’s my day off, but when I heard about what happened in the Financial District, I came in because I was pretty sure I’d be needed. And they beeped me to come up here.” She leaned back against the corridor wall, mimicking – certainly consciously, the psychologist noted – his posture, and searched his face. “So, Peter, what can I do for you?”

“It’s not for me,” he started, breaking away from that too-searching gaze and the look of slight surprise that blossomed there at his words, “it’s for my friend Winston. He… took a bad hit today, and I was hoping you could go in and see him.” She nodded. “I’d be happy to. What church does he belong to? Maybe I could call his own pastor.”

Her question as much floored as dismayed him. He didn’t have a clue. All those years of not only working side by side with Winston, but living with him – sharing the same bunkroom, even – and he couldn’t tell her where he went to worship. “Sorry,” he said quietly with a shrug. “It’s not something we talk about much.”

“That’s okay.” Her hand dropped lightly to his forearm for a moment, squeezing a reassurance. “You knew to ask for someone to come, and that’s more than enough. Why don’t we go see him?”

He gave her a dubious glance. “I have to warn you - they sort of chased me out of intensive care, and I’m not sure they’ll let me again so soon.”

“Don’t worry about it. Being with me is as good as having a backstage pass.” She gave him an unconcerned wink. “You’d be amazed at what this collar gets me.”

“Remind me to call you the next time Bruce Springsteen is in town,” he said under his breath.

She didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry, Peter, I’m more a Bruce Hornsby kind of gal.” She gave him a measuring, sideways grin. “But I’ll be happy to let you know the next time the Range plays Madison Square Garden.”

He grinned back at her, despite himself, despite all his worry and tension. Okay, so maybe it isn’t so hard to talk to a minister… or at least this one.

With her leading the way, they slipped into the ICU; Patty went directly to the nurses’ station and spoke for a minute in a low voice to the staff nurse there. When she came back to Peter, he was not thrilled to see what looked like a slight crease of concern between her brows. “They’re giving us only a minute or so with Winston. Dr. Henderson is coming down to take another look at him.”

“What’s wrong with him?” He jumped almost accusingly on her words. “Didn’t they fix him up?”

“Sorry, Peter, she didn’t tell me much.” Her hand came to his forearm, lightly resting a moment, before drifting away. “Just that his vital signs are not what they should be, so they sent for his surgeon again. He’ll be in good hands, don’t worry.”

The scene behind the curtained cubicle was not much different from before, Peter saw with dismay. Nope, one difference – if it was possible, Winston looked even worse. He wished he could interpret what all the gauges and readings meant, get a clearer idea of what was going on, but right now, all he felt was helpless desperation.

Do something. Someone.

Patty approached the high bed and casually folded her hands atop the silver bed rail, looking down at the still form against the white sheets. She spoke exactly as if he could hear her, as if they were having a dialogue instead of her speaking to his slack, unresponsive face, her voice calm and full of solace. “Hi, Winston. I’m Reverend Patricia McLaren, but you can call me Patty if you want. Your friend Peter asked me to come here for you. He’s here right now too. You’re a lucky man to have such a good friend looking out for you.”

If only I’d looked out for him better on the street… circled through Peter’s mind in silent refutation of her generous statement.

She slipped one hand from the rail, to rest it against Winston’s, tucking her fingers around his. “I want to say a prayer for you, Winston. It’s a very powerful force for healing – I’m sure you know that.” Peter wondered briefly why she slid him a momentary glance even though she was nominally addressing Winston. “I don’t know which words are most special to you, or would give you the greatest comfort, but this one always works for me when I need to be reassured how much God loves me and looks out for me, as I know he does for you, and as I know he is doing for you right now.” She bowed her head, closing the china-blue eyes, and began to speak with such intense focus and concentration that Peter could almost believe she was dialing up a hotline to heaven itself. Her voice was at the same time confident and lulling, lyrical yet strong, as she spoke a psalm as heartfelt as if she’d written it herself.

Peter looked away, uncomfortable, feeling as if he’d stumbled on a conversation way too intimate for his involvement. Winston’s thing, not mine, he reminded himself. When she got to the part about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, he twitched, and wondered if she’d made the right choice for Zed after all, considering the present circumstances. But she kept on going, that voice still so calm and strong, and when she’d finished with that recitation, she segued right into another one, what even Peter could figure out was the Lord’s Prayer.

His lips automatically moved when she said “Amen”, though no sound came out of his mouth. It had been an automatic reaction, yeah, but there was a small, superstitious – no, downright atavistic - part of him that figured it couldn’t hurt to send up another small hallelujah.

Patty raised her head and opened her eyes, her lashes glittering with emotion that did not look out of place accompanied by the small smile that touched her lips. “God will take care of you, Winston. I promise. And,” she lifted her gaze to Peter, still smiling, “I’ll take care of your friend. We’ll see you later.” She squeezed Winston’s limp fingers once more, then released him and moved away, drawing Peter with her.

”I don’t need – “ he began with genuine affront at her presumption that he needed anything. Then Dr. Henderson came apace through the cubicle as they edged themselves out. Seeing him, Peter did dimly remember who he was – oh yeah, he looked at Ray a couple of years ago when he got clobbered in the chest; they called him in to rule out an aortic aneurysm or something, didn’t they? – but the look on the surgeon’s face wiped away any momentary reminiscences about previous busts that had sucked. Dr. Henderson looked annoyed and agitated, as if the poor surgical outcome on his patient had really ruined his day.

“His b.p.’s still dropping?” he barked at the nurses without wasting time for any introductory pleasantries. The nursing supervisor nodded, handing him Winston’s chart, and he flipped through it rapidly, shaking his head before shoving it back at her. “Shit, I bet we missed a bleeder. We’ve got to get him back to Surgery right now before he codes.”

As if cued, one of the monitors began bleating. Peter started at the sound, trying to backpedal to the cubicle to see for himself what was going on, but Patty’s hand at his elbow suddenly grasped and tightened and hauled him forward, out to the corridor. “It’s not our time to be here, Peter,” she said, low-voiced. “Let the doctors take care of him.”

“Because they’ve done such a great job so far,” he retorted. He leaned back against the wall and folded his arms across his chest, as if holding himself in. Patty settled back beside him, silent and discreet, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she was holding some kind of personal vigil.

A minute later the ICU door popped open again, to release a medical team wheeling Winston back in the direction of the surgical suite, Dr. Henderson still snapping orders as he trotted beside the efficient mix of orderlies and nurses under his direction. They brushed past so fast, so urgently, that Peter barely had a chance for a glance at his friend as they moved by. Peter almost wanted to look away, but didn’t; instead, he fixed the moment, staring at the figure on the bed, wanting to believe that this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see Zed alive, but unwilling to look away lest it were. All too quickly, the tableau moved out of sight, around the corner at the end of the hall, in the direction that the sign reading SURGERY pointed.

He sagged back, drooping his head until his chin was almost to his chest, and simply said, “Oh, hell.”

“That about sums it up,” Patty agreed, nodding, her eyes filled with concern.

Peter tilted his head back up and glanced at her, feeling anxiety mixed with irritation starting to create something in him as ugly as what Egon or Ray could mix up with dangerous chemicals in the lab back at the firehall. “I think you’re falling down on your job, Reverend. Aren’t you supposed to be telling me ‘it’s going to be all right’ instead of agreeing with me?”

“That would be lying,” she replied evenly, “and I won’t do that.”

“Not even to make a great guy like me feel better?” he pushed.

She shook her head. “We don’t know if it’s going to be all right. It’s out of our hands now, Peter.”

“And in whose?” He felt control starting to snap, but for the life of him, he couldn’t hold his retort in abeyance. “God’s? Or Dr. Henderson’s? Or whichever knife jockey’s gonna take a crack at Zed this time?”

“How about, ‘all of the above’? God and men make a good team - ”

“Oh, don’t give me that God bullshit.” He unfolded, impotent and angry – at what? – and paced away from her, hands planted on his hips, the line of his back rigid.

She stubbornly tailed him down the corridor; he could hear the clack of those office heels close behind him on a direct trajectory. “So tell me what ‘bullshit’ you’d prefer then,” she said, low-voiced, as she pulled beside him.

He actually stopped dead at her use of profanity, staring at her, his lips twitching with amazement. “PAT-ty said a DIR-ty word,” he sing-songed humorlessly.

“Well, it got you to stop, didn’t it?” She reached out and placed her hand on his shoulder, keeping it there when he tried to shrug it off. “Peter, you’re angry, and upset, and I think we really should sit down for a while and talk about it –“

“Look.” He cleared his throat and turned his face in her direction, though his gaze stayed directed somewhere over her right shoulder. “You’ve done your thing. Thanks for coming for Winston. But you don’t have to stay any more. His dad’s gonna get here any time now, and he and I can –“

“Mr. Venkman!” Third time. Damn. The LVN at the desk had caught sight of him and was waving him over, excitement in her eyes. “I’ve got some news for you – “

“About damn time.” He scuttled forward, eager to hear something, anything good, barely away that Patty was still doing her trailer impression and was moving with him as if towed.

“I got a callback from St. Vincent’s,” she was explaining animatedly. “They said there was a D.O.A. that – “

He felt the color leave his face, the blood leave his brain, as the rest of her sentence faded away in a pounding rush.

“Tina!” Patty rebuked sharply, and Peter dimly felt her nails dig into his shoulder through the fabric of his jumpsuit.

“But it wasn’t either of your partners, that’s all I meant to say,” Tina finished awkwardly, her face flushing with guilt.

He shook himself back to full alertness, suddenly so pissed at her misstatement that he could almost actually picture his hands going around her throat and squeezing. Patty, though, was speaking quickly to defuse the tense situation. “Tina, I know you’re new, but believe me, there are better ways to share news, good and bad.”

“It’s not even something I was supposed to be doing,” she mumbled, abashed and trying to save face. “I was trying to do him a favor.”

“Some favor – “ he bit out.

“Peter.”

“But I thought he’d appreciate the news –“

“But not when you tell it that way. Remember, there are better ways,” Patty repeated firmly but without anger. “Why don’t we talk about them after your shift, okay?” She didn’t wait for a reply; instead, her hand slid down Peter’s arm, grip firming around his biceps, and she pulled him away from the confrontation.

Ha. Now he was the trailer, and she was towing him, guiding him toward and plunking him down in a single forgotten chair stuck in an alcove. He realized he was shaking from the release of adrenalin, and focused on getting himself back under control.

Patty bent down, leaning in close enough to violate his concept of personal space, and met his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that your other partners were hurt?”

“I hadn’t gotten to that part yet,” he muttered, still feeling disoriented from the bad-news-that-wasn’t. “I tell you, this day just feels like a video stuck on fast-forward, except to all the bad parts.”

“They’re at another hospital?” she pressed.

“Who knows? I guess. We got split up during transport. I don’t even know how they are.”

“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry.” She looked as if she really meant it, too, even though she barely knew him and didn’t know Ray and Egon at all.

“And I’ve been dialing those damn numbers all day,” he went on in a rush, rattled and rambling and complaining. God, it felt good to complain and have someone listen for once. “I haven’t been able to get through to most of them, and no one can tell me any goddamn thing if I even do get through. And that Crisis Center hotline? What a joke!”

“You stay here a minute,” she said firmly, “and I’ll go make some calls.”

“You can do that?”

“With my Hotline to God.” She straightened up, smoothing her skirt back into place. “Or at least the numbers of the other hospital ministries in Manhattan. I think we can get answers quicker from them than from the official information numbers.”

“Oh, thanks,” he breathed. Maybe something’s finally going right after all.

“Take a time out. I’ll be right back.”

She sure didn’t lie; she couldn’t have been gone for ten minutes before she was striding purposefully in his direction. In response to his wordless query, she answered, “No, nothing yet. I just spread the information, and now we’ll have to wait for them to get back to us. They will, as soon as they can. That I can promise, Peter.” She glanced at her watch. “Why don’t we go downstairs for a little while and get a cup of coffee while we wait?”

He shook his head. “I’d really rather not leave, not while Winston’s still in surgery – back in surgery. Hell, whatever. If he – “

“I have a beeper. I’ll leave my number at the nurses’ station. They’ll page me the moment there’s any news.” Her eyes went sharp with assessment as she regarded him, seeing doubt in his face. “And your second excuse would be…?”

He shrugged helplessly, lifting eloquent shoulders. “I don’t have my wallet. I know, I know, don’t leave home without it, but who listens to those commercials anyway?”

She was already gesturing at him, briskly curling her fingers in an “up, up” motion. “Contrary to what you may believe, Peter,” she commented dryly, “your manliness will not be compromised if you let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

Damn, a cup of hot coffee, with all that caffeine and a double-dose of sugar, sounded awfully good, no matter who was buying, even if it was a lady minister. “I’m not sure what it might do to your feminine honor,” he responded with a half-felt, crooked grin, as he surrendered and stood.

She snorted as they started walking toward the elevators. “If the Stanford Marching Band couldn’t compromise it my senior year, you don’t have a chance. Believe me.”

Funny enough, he did.

“Dr. Peter Venkman, attracting crowds wherever he goes,” he said wryly, balancing a tray of food as he weaved his way through an obstacle path of round tables and folding chairs that filled the cafeteria. The room was packed, almost as bad as the two waiting rooms he’d spent the majority of the afternoon in, and with a lot of the same people as well. Another blaring TV in the corner added to the overall impression of chaos and cacophony.

“I didn’t realize you were a doctor,” she said around a mouthful of cookie crumbs. She’d picked up two packages of cookies – one of Oreos, the other of Keebler Chocolate Chip – and had already made inroads on the first while waiting in line. “Cool.”

“It’s a Ph.D.,” he explained before she could press him about any medical specialty, like so many people did when he imposed his hard-earned title on them. With a toss of his head he indicated a change in their direction; two people were about to vacate a table and if he hustled he could appropriate it for himself and Patty before anyone else did. “In both psychology and parapsychology.”

“Wow, a two-fer.” She nodded, impressed. “Good job.”

Peter claimed the table by plunking the tray onto it, then pulled out a chair for Patty and solicitously seated her. The smile she gave him in reply warmed him for certainly the first time that day. “I have to say,” he admitted as he sat, “I wasn’t much of a student. My friends – Egon and Ray – they dragged me through it.” Saying their names dissipated the warmth as if a cold wind had blown right through him. “I don’t think I would have stuck it out without them. When they push me like that, they can be a real pain in the ass, but they’re…” He shrugged, almost unable to finish. “Don’t know what I’d do without them.”

“I’ve got friends like that.” She pulled the tray toward herself, removing the foodstuffs that made up either a late lunch or an early dinner. “They help clear our path and make it possible for us to go where we never believed we could. There’s a lot to be said for their loyalty, persistence and tolerance.” Carefully she quartered the egg-salad sandwich on her plate, and pushed a section toward him. “I’d really like it if you’d eat something. Your day’s been longer than mine and I’m starving.”

He started to protest, “Not hungry,” but the sudden audible growl of his stomach at the sight of food before him made his lie impossible before it had even been spoken. Patty grinned privately at him, as if she’d read his mind, and took advantage of the moment to hand him an extra fork as well and gesture at the fruit platter she’d also picked up. “Dig in,” she commanded, not without humor, and he surrendered and accepted the proffered food. He supposed it beat just the cup of coffee to fill his stomach, and began to pick at his portion of the shared meal.

After a few minutes of silence between them, Patty spoke up quietly. “Rosie Perillo says thank you.”

“Huh? Who?” He pulled up out of his blank abstraction and frowned. The name didn’t ring a bell; not one of his former, half-forgotten girlfriends, that’s for sure, and there was no way he thought that the reverend could ever have known any of them anyway.

“The lady in the pink jogging suit, the one with the baby. I guess formal introductions would have been a little difficult, considering the circumstances of your meeting.” He started as he made the connection, mind flickering back to that moment on the street. Patty went on. “I had the chance to talk to her down in the ER waiting room. She says you saved their lives.”

He looked down, all desire for food vanishing. “I’m just glad the baby’s okay.”

“There’s a lot more ‘okay’ than just the baby, because of what you and your friends did. Don’t forget that, Peter.”

“I just wish…” He reconsidered what he was about to say and hid behind his cup of coffee, taking a long hot swallow and closing his eyes to enjoy its warm burn down his throat to his still-hollowed stomach.

She was waiting when he reopened them, looking into his eyes with a direct blue gaze, querying him without words. He knew that kind of look – hell, he got it from Egon all the time, even to the eye color – and knew he wasn’t going to get away with leaving his statement unfinished. “I wish I could have done something more.”

“From where I’m standing, it looks like you did everything possible. Maybe not what you would have wanted to do, but what needed to be done.”

“But… the guys…” He tightened his hand around the Styrofoam cup, wondering how tightly he could squeeze before it cracked in his grip and spilled over the table. “It shouldn’t have been them – it should have been me. I got it to go after me, draw the damn thing away from them, from the people… I’m used to that part, it’s what I’m good at. But it didn’t work out like it was supposed to.”

“And why is that?”

It just came out. “Because it didn’t play fair!” He said it so sharply he surprised himself. A few people looked over toward his table, then looked away in embarrassment at his outburst. “It went for them, instead of me. And… I should have done something more, kept it from…” He waved a tense hand in an indefinite motion. “I don’t know what. But it shouldn’t have been them”

She considered, taking the time to nibble on the edge of yet another cookie before musing, “So you’re saying you’d rather it stomped you down like Godzilla crushing a cardboard Tokyo?”

“Better me than them,” he insisted stubbornly.

“And does that make any sense, Peter? Think about it. Because the end result is the same – someone who did everything they could, worrying about someone else who got caught despite what everyone else did. Except it would be your friends worrying about you if it had gone the other way.”

He digested that thought and found it pretty unpalatable. He really didn’t like worrying the guys any more than they liked worrying him. Okay, so maybe she had a point there… but the other thing that ate at him, perhaps even more than the first…

He bowed his head, almost afraid to admit it. “Plus, Reverend, I wasn’t at my best today.” He laughed harshly, then lowered his voice until it was barely audible, as if facing the truth was easier when whispered. “In fact, I’m still not. I keep thinking if only I’d been more together…”

She’d leaned in to not let one word of his impromptu confession escape. “’More together’? I don’t think that would have been humanly possible, Peter.”

He laughed weakly. “Well, try seeing me work sometime when I’m not hung over.”

She replied quietly, with an assessing tilt of that blonde head, “Funny, I thought I was. From what I’ve heard, and certainly what I’ve seen,it looks like there was some pretty heroic stuff going on from your end out there.”

“Not ‘heroic’ enough,” he insisted, and somehow he’d mentally circled around to the start of their discussion. “Or else—“

“We went over this already, Peter. What it boils down to is, you’re human. “ She plunged on without a breath, briskly overriding the start of his protest. “You went to the edge of your abilities, to do what needed to be done, no matter how you were feeling. The result might not have been what you wished, but there couldn’t be anything more pointless than faulting something that was totally out of your control, even when you've given all you have.” She leaned over toward him, and for a second he thought she was going to give him a consoling pat. Instead, she poked him sharply in the shoulder with her index finger, smiling. “Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” he admitted ruefully. “Don’t like it, but I got it.” He sighed and gave up on eating anything else; at least she looked like she wasn’t going to force him, that she knew – like he inherently did – when to stop pushing. “Anyone ever tell you you’d probably make a hell of a psychologist, Reverend?”

“I’ll let you in on my big secret, Peter - Psych was my minor because it fit in the best with the direction I wanted to go in my divinity studies.”

He shook his head, feigning dismay. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Yes,” she finished with a grin so wicked that surprised him, “I’ve heard they’ll let anyone into Psych programs these days.”

“Hey,” he started to protest, almost smiling at her and the way she was able to keep up with him. Not a lot of people outside of his own circle had that talent. Across the room, someone flipped the channel on the TV from a talk show to the news, and turned up the volume. Peter tensed as someone complaining about a loveless marriage suddenly segued into more news footage of the afternoon’s bust, now graphically bannered “Today’s Top Story!” He stared at the screen for a moment, to see that the day’s stats had been updated – now, 52 injured, and 8 dead. Two more. Trying not to think what that could mean, he shook his head and looked away, speaking to no one in particular. “You know, I’m really sick of seeing that on TV.” Then he stood up stiffly and stalked out of the cafeteria.

Patty followed him – he figured she would – juggling the cookie packages, her Coke, and his cup of coffee. “Forget something?” was all she said when she caught up to him striding down the hallway, literally going nowhere fast.

“Yeah, how to be polite.” He stopped and took the sloshing cup from her. “Sorry,” he shrugged. “It just got to me for a minute.”

“No apologies necessary, Peter. I understand.”

“Glad someone does,” he muttered, feeling more tired and ragged than he had before their little lunch break. “So… what now? Upstairs again?”

She shook her head. “No, I don’t think your friend will be out of surgery yet, and there’s no need for you to sit around and worry yourself – because you will, if you’re there, and don’t tell me otherwise. We’ll go… somewhere quieter. Follow me.”

“Not church, Patty, please.” They had stopped before the door to the hospital’s chapel, and he was looking at it with a curl to his lip, balking before it like a kid sent to wash up before dinner. “That’s cheating. I don’t go there.”

His protest fell on deaf ears. “It’s a non-sectarian refuge for contemplation and prayer, Dr. Venkman. That’s enough for me, and it should be enough for you.” Her voice was tart. “And if you don’t stop with this whining I’ll get formal on you and make you call me Dr. McLaren.”

His eyebrows arched. “You’ve got a doctorate?”

“Surprise! Now wipe that look off your face – I didn’t act that way when I found out that you had one..”

“Well, it’s just…” He looked her up and down. “Aren’t you awfully young?”

“Well, it’s just,” she parroted back with a smile, “yes, I am.” She looked at him now, not up-and-down like he had, just focusing on his face for a long moment. “Like you weren’t yourself. I guess some of us have it, and some of us don’t. Now why don’t we take this sterling conversation inside?” She pushed open the heavy wooden door to the sanctuary.

He stalled, staring with some trepidation over her shoulder at the ordered interior of the tasteful chapel. “But I can’t bring my coffee in here, can I?”

“Not usually, but I’ll do you a favor and let you. You look like a big enough boy that you won’t spill anything on the pews or the prayer books. Come on.” She stepped in and beckoned him after her, giving him a mock stern look. “Now, Peter, I’m sure you’ve faced scarier things than this.”

She led him to a pew in the center of the chapel, well away from the few other people who too had sought its sanctuary. Automatically, her voice lowered. “It never ceases to amaze me that more people don’t come here. One of the average hospital’s best-kept secrets.”

He had to admit, it was nice and quiet – peaceful, even. It had it all over the atmosphere throughout the rest of the hospital. No TVs…. “So…” he began. The coffee was cooling but he still sipped at it.

“So,” she replied agreeably, looking content to just sit beside him.

The silence was a little too contemplative for his liking, so he grasped at a conversational straw. “How’d you become a minister?”

“How’d you become a Ghostbuster?” she shot back, just as quickly.

Answering a question with a question…. He was really going to have to watch how fast she could dish it out back at him, and using the tools of his trade besides.. “No fair. I asked first.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “If you really want to know. Like a lot of things in life, it just happened. I didn’t exactly go to college thinking I’d be coming out with this collar at my throat. I had to list something as my major, so I declared Sociology by default while I was trying to find my calling – not literally, Peter; you can stop rolling your eyes! – and it finally found me. I had a revelation halfway through my second year…” She closed her eyes and Peter leaned in toward her, listening. “My mother died unexpectedly. A cerebral hemorrhage, while we were on vacation. One day she was there, the next she wasn’t. And I was with her when she died, and what I experienced…..” Patty shook her head. “Now this is where it gets strange. You’d think something like that – the very unfairness of it all – would have convinced me that there was no God. But… the opposite happened. For the first time, I was absolutely certain there was something after life. I could still feel my mother’s presence in my life.”

He was intrigued. “Like a ghost?”

“No, not at all,” she said quickly. “Not at all like that. I just knew that, where it counted… whether it was only in my heart, or in an afterlife, she wasn’t gone. It got very important to me to understand just where, though, so I started taking some Comparative Religiion courses to try to figure things out. And that was where I found my home. Next thing I knew, I was planning on becoming a minister.”

It’s a shame,” he mused distantly, “that your college didn’t offered parapsychology. You could have turned in that direction for your answers too, and we could be coworkers.”

She smiled and looked down, breaking the last cookie in the second package in half and offering him the other. “No, I’m probably too much of a traditionalist to explore that direction. I think I already knew where I’d find my answers and that’s where I went.”

“Too bad. I have a feeling it would have been nice working with you.” The chocolate chip cookie went down well with the last of his coffee. “So I guess I’m the flipside of what you do, then.”

“How so?” She daintily wiped the cookie crumbs away from her mouth.

“I’m betting you don’t know what a Class Three is, or a Class Four.”

“It’s a shame we didn’t put money on it, because you’re right. But I assume it has something to do with your Ghostbusting?” She raised an inquisitive eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“Good guess. Class Threes and Fours are the spirits of the formerly human that have stuck around for some reason or another.”

“Mmm.” She looked thoughtful. “I’m not sure I’d like to have an encounter with one of those. That strikes a little too close to theological shaky ground for me.”

“But those are the ones I kind of like the best.” His voice went almost wistful with an uncommon earnestness. “We try not to use the throwers on them; I just apply a little old-fashioned psychology, and I can usually get them to disperse peacefully. To wherever it is they go afterwards.”

“And that’s where I come in, right? With the answer to that question.”

“And do you have it?” He caught her eyes and they stared at each other for a moment, jade locked on delft, until she finally broke their gaze and looked down, shaking her head in sorrowful negation.

“Probably no more than you do, Peter. There are a lot of ways of interpreting Scripture, depending not only on the faith that’s asking, but the time and place in which the question is placed. It’s….” She paused, obviously searching for the right word . “It’s humbling, isn’t it?”

He laughed quietly, without humor, leaning back in the pew and stretching. “Nah, not the word I’d use for it. Try… ‘exciting’… or better yet, ‘financially rewarding’? Wait, that’s two words.” His grin was hollow and evasive.

“That’s right,” she nodded, and surprised him as she assessed, “because humility and Peter Venkman aren’t supposed to be on speaking terms, are they?”

She’d pegged him too well; it had been a long time since he’d spent time with a stranger who turned out to be that insightful, and it unsettled him. He liked keeping certain parts of himself buried away, a secret save to those he trusted. Perhaps it was because those people he did trust were denied to him right now, their lives in danger, that he was sticking to the closest approximation of their understanding that he could find. But the road they were treading was getting a little too uneven for him; time to shift topic gears before things got any bumpier. He cleared his throat awkwardly and dove in another direction. “So how’d you get to be queen of the chapel? Good gig or bad?”

“I love it.” Her reply was so instantaneous he knew she meant it… and also, that she was going to let him get away with his evasion. “Ministering in a hospital is the best I could possibly hope for. You see people at their worst… but also at their best.” She smiled at him, those blue eyes bright. “I don’t think I could tie myself down to a congregation right now. I’d miss the chance to do good every day, to matter when I’m needed most, to meet new people… people like you, Peter.”

“Not everyday you get to meet a Ghostbuster,” he said with false brightness. “Hey, maybe that means it was your lucky day. Gonna write about me in your diary tonight? Want my autograph?”

“Peter.” The voice was softly remonstrative as her hand went to his shoulder and tightened supportively. “It’s not everyday that I get to meet a hero. Or someone who cares about people as much as you do. Or about his friends.”

And now they were back to that. “God, I hope they’re okay.”

Her hand slid down to cover his. “You’re certainly asking the right person – “ He scowled, looking away from her. “That’s not how I meant it.”

“But why not? What do you believe in, Peter?”

“I believe in what I see,” he answered flatly. He wished that she wasn’t looking at him so frankly, with such a challenge in her eyes. He could have resisted it a lot better if she’d been going at him with the saccharine glow of the hopelessly pious. Irresistible reason bugged the hell out of him.

“What about those Class Threes and Fours and whatever other ‘classes’ there might be, before you actually saw one? And would you have believed in that thing out on the street today – “

“A Class Seven spectral manifestation,” he interrupted, deliberately rude, wishing she’d shut up.

“Okay, a Class Seven, before you finally came face to face with them?” She paused, tilting her head at him. When he didn’t answer, she cleared her throat and said, “Not a rhetorical question, Dr. Venkman. Did you?”

He tiredly rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Great, kick a man while he’s down with a theological debate. No, I didn’t, and I thought Ray and Egon were crazy for believing in things like that. But that doesn’t mean - ”

“Of course it doesn’t. It took me years of going on faith and prayer before I could get to where I am today. But it also doesn’t mean you should keep your eyes – and your mind – closed to the possibilities. Where would you be today if you hadn’t believed in your friends’ – in Egon’s and Ray’s – theories?”

He smarted back, “Getting a hundred bucks a pop listening to people whine about their sad and sorry lives in a nice suite somewhere on Park Avenue.”

“Living the good life then. I can get behind it.” She nodded approvingly. “And where would they be?

“Probably having all this fun without me.” He blew out a breath. “Like today was fun.”

“You did what you had to do – all of you. I thought we covered that. Right now, it’s just down to a matter of faith, that it will all turn out all right.”

He shook his head, staring at an invisible and utterly fascinating speck on the farthest wall. “I can’t do that. I can’t… let go. I don’t like it when it’s something I can’t control. I don’t like being out of control, and today’s been just one long runaway train.” He sighed deeply, bowing his head.

“No one likes it. I sure don’t.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a piece of gum. It wasn’t a standard wrapper of Juicy Fruit; he instantly recognized it as prescription nicotine gum to help with smoking cessation. “I’d offer you some, but…” She shrugged. “Mind if I don’t smoke?”

He was surprised, but still asked sympathetically, “Having a nicotine fit?”

“And how,” she admitted. “I just quit last week… again. I don’t like what it can do to my body in the long term – although I have to admit it helps keep my weight down, because when I’m not smoking I head for the sugar.”

“Well, that explains those two packs of cookies.”

“You got it. By next week this suit probably won’t fit anymore.” She ruefully plucked at the sleek fitted wool skirt. “But, I really don’t think it’s good for my image as a minister. Reverend Patty and her pack of Camels doesn’t make a good first impression. Plus when I’m counseling someone, it gets really distracting when that little voice in my brain tells me it’s time for a smoke, that grieving mother in the waiting room, or pre-surgical patient in the hallway be damned. Makes me very mad at myself.”

Her admittance of vulnerability triggered his own helper instincts and he was offering before he could stop to think, “I can hook you up with a cessation program if you want to go that route. “I have a friend who runs a really good one.”

“Already in a support group, but thanks. I even get to lead us in prayer at the start of the meeting.” She started twiddling what looked like a lollipop stick, sans candy, between her fingers. “You see, Peter? There are tools to help with things you can’t control. Like this gum to settle me down when my body and brain are just screaming for a puff. Like prayer, and faith, to settle down your mind when things are bad.”

He shook his head, feeling anger and betrayal that he’d started to fall for her analogy. “Don’t be sneaky, Patty – it doesn’t become you.”

She leaned into him, and her voice was very gentle. “I’m not sneaky, Peter, and I think you know it. I’m just trying to help you. You believed in Winston’s belief enough to call me. I think that was pretty brave of you, considering your feelings. But I just want you to think of something - how can you say that you believe in all those ‘classes’ of ghosts or spirits or demons or whatever it is you run across out there, and all your equipment and what it does, and still not give at least a little credence that there might be something to the concept of God? Or at least a Higher Power, if you’re not comfortable with the Judeo-Christian tradition? I know you’re a psychologist, but don’t psychologists need something to hold on to sometime?”

“Yeah,” he started dryly, “and our discipline is even called psychology – “

Her beeper suddenly shrilled, harsh in the relative silence, and Peter jumped at the noise. His heart skipped into overdrive even before she calmly reached into her purse and pulled it out.

“What – is it from – “ He was desperately afraid that it was news – bad news – about Winston.

It was as if she read his mind. “No, it’s not from upstairs. Outside call - I need to go return it. Give me a minute and I’ll be right back.” She rose and he started to come with her, but she put out an arresting hand. ““Peter, really, I want you to stay here, to take it easy, relax a little.”

“Say a prayer or two while I’m at it, Reverend?” He tossed her a deliberately insouciant, cocky look meant to divert her. “Ask for a little divine intervention? A sign? Order up a miracle or two while I’m at it?”

For a long moment, she said nothing, blue eyes holding his suspicious green gaze almost to the point of discomfort. Then, as she broke their mutually challenging stare and turned to leave the chapel, she said quietly, “You know, Peter, I’d never ask you to believe – I’m just asking you to have faith.”

The door snicked softly shut behind her, and she left him in silence. After a few minutes of sitting there, trying to coax the last few drops of coffee out of his almost totally drained cup, he looked around and realized that he was the only one in there.

Yeah, he had to give it to her - it was nice and quiet. Relaxing. Not what he was used to – a little bland on the décor. Gee. It was so non-sectarian that there wasn’t even a cross on the wall, or the altar, or whatever place it should have been. He absently wondered if they trotted out the appropriate religious symbol when it was time for services on Sunday mornings.

He set down the coffee cup and, tired, ran his hands through his hair, rubbing fingertips over his tight scalp. The headache had been called back with a vengeance, he realized, and the sudden absence of his afternoon’s companion and her sincere, distracting dialogue brought it again to the forefront of his attention.

How the hell – oops, shouldn’t think words like that in a place like this – had he become her pet project? He didn’t generally project lost little lamb, even when he was trying to for effect. She had to have other places to go, people to see, souls to save.

Still and all, he was damn glad she’d come to see Winston. And, he had to grudgingly admit, he was damn glad that while she was at it, she’d seen him too.

He folded his arms across the top of the pew in front of him and leaned forward, chin propped against his crossed forearms, brooding. Not that there was any proof to anything she said…. But maybe there could be something to it. He’d expanded the parameters of what he was willing to believe in, over these past few years, and while he was nowhere near the same spiritual neighborhood that Reverend Patty lived in, he felt like right now, it couldn’t hurt to try to make a quick visit to it.

He was skeptical, he knew and accepted that. Part of what made little Petey Venkman the fine upstanding man he was. He was a psychologist and he knew the state-of-the-discipline workings of the human mind. But hell, there was also a parapsychology doctorate with his name on it, and he’d dealt with weirder stuff than a secular chapel that looked no more offensive than an upscale dentist’s waiting room.

What if… The thought crossed his mind before he could stop it. Wow, I really must be tired. And desperate. He sighed so deeply it was almost a sob, the thoughts drifting to Winston, under the knife for the second time in one afternoon… to Ray, who’d looked such a mess on the street, ready to check out for a little while… to Egon. God, Egon. So still and quiet in the back of that ambulance, looking as if he had already moved outside the borders that marked life.

He didn’t have a clue how any of them were at that moment, all these unbearable hours after everything had gone down. And he grasped at the last of his emotional straws and suddenly knew he’d stack the deck in any way he could to help them out, even if it meant opening up to something that logically he couldn’t and didn’t believe in… but others did.

He lifted his head and looked around, stealing a guilty glimpse to make sure he was absolutely alone, and shifted uncomfortably in the pew. “Okay,” he said to himself. His whispered voice sounded unbearably loud in the quiet room. “Umm…. I don’t really know how to do this.” Just those first words made him horribly self-conscious. “Shit.” He flinched. Shouldn’t have said “shit” in a church. “I’m sorry, but I really suck at this. Okay….” He tried to start again, drawing a deep breath. “Whoever’s out there… whatever’s listening…” He tried to make himself relax, let the words come. He was good with his mouth, wasn’t he? “I guess we need to talk or something. Whoever I’m talking to, that is.”

Pretend it’s a shrink, Venkman. The Big Psychiatrist in the Sky. Talking’s good. Talk out your problems.

“It wasn’t good out there today. It went so far past bad I can’t even find the words for it. All of them… down. And I didn’t know what to do or where to go or who to help. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.” And I really hope you don’t take that ‘damned’ part literally. “A lot of me feels like I made it happen that way. That I should have done something or could have done something, or maybe the night before shouldn’t have done something, you know? Or… that it should have been me. I’m the one who was dancing around out there like an idiot, drawing the fire and being the hero and having a high old time of it. But it wasn’t me who got nailed, it was them instead….” He swallowed and went on with his ragged confession. “And they didn’t deserve this to happen to them. And I don’t want it to get any worse for them, okay?”

He thought for another moment, knowing there were more things to be said, things he hated to say but had to get out. “I’m really scared for them. I’m not sure Winston is going to make it. He looks… bad. I’ve never seen him look that bad. Ray… he might be okay. But I can’t find him and Egon so I don’t know it for sure. And Egon…” He couldn’t even say it out loud, but since he could think it, it probably still counted. What if he dies? He swallowed. “And… and I’m scared for me.”

He raised his voice, challenging. “Okay, it’s out. I’m scared. I’ve been scared all afternoon. And there’s not a damn thing I can do it about. Little Miss Reverend says to have faith, that Something out there can take care of things, take control when I can’t. Okay? I guess that’s the deal. Take care of it. Take care of… them. And maybe me too, while you’re at it, if you feel like it, and if you think I need it. Your call.”

With the words out, he felt something ease in him. He could consider it from the purest psychological standpoint, the basis of modern therapy, that by giving voice to his deepest fears, expressing his deepest pains, he had helped to let it go. Or, he could ride with what Patty had said, that there was someone or something out there, listening to him, taking his burden when he turned it over, easing his way.

Either way, it worked.

He wearily tilted his head forward, pressing his closed eyes against one sleeved forearm, feeling a faint, embarrassing dampness from them seeping through to his skin. Damn, letting it go did feel better. Not that he’d turned it over to a Higher Power or anything like that…

“Peter? Are you all right?” He hadn’t even heard her return and he started, head jerking up, eyes blinking rapidly. “Need a tissue?”

“No, I’m….” He fumbled awkwardly, desperately wondering how to fake her out that he was okay, so she’d stop looking at him like that, with worry bright in those big sweet compassionate blue eyes.

She wasn’t buying it, and just stuffed them into his clenched fist. “Here, take two. They’re cheap when you buy ‘em in bulk like I do.” She settled down beside him again and for a moment patted a steadying hand against his back while he twisted the tissues between his fingers, not looked at her.

Finally she spoke again, in a warm voice that was positively glowing. “I’ve got some good news for you. That was Sister Estelle, over at Cabrini. Your friends are there.” His head jerked up and he stared at her in complete suspension, his breath catching as he waited for her words. She carefully regarded the slip of paper in her hands, the printing across it neat and regular. “Dr. Egon Spengler, in the ICU, serious but stable, and Dr. Raymond Stantz, on the medical floor, fair and stable as well.”

“Oh.” It was all he could manage as his breath came back. He felt suddenly limp with relief, as if something overstrung inside him had finally loosened. “Thank you.” His arms automatically came up, went around her in an embrace which she returned without inhibition.

“Any time,” she murmured, squeezing tightly. “Now why don’t we head upstairs and see how Winston is doing? It’s been a while and he’s probably about ready to come out of surgery.”

”Yeah.” He was having much better luck now controlling his voice. “That works for me.” He pulled back from her embrace and stood, and as he automatically straightened his disheveled appearance, took a surreptitious swipe at his eyes with the frayed tissues. “Let’s go.”

She held back a second, regarding him. “Peter.” There was something slightly stern about her tone that gave him pause. For an illogical second he worried that she was going to ask him what he’d done while he was alone in the chapel, like she could see something in his eyes that should have been hidden.

“Huh?” He shifted under her gaze.

The lips flickered in a sudden smile as she made a gesture toward his discarded coffee cup on the floor. “Don’t forget to bus your trash.”

A figure that looked familiar was waiting, pacing, outside the doors to the ICU, and Peter broke into a trot upon seeing him. “Ed!” he called.

“Big Ed” Zeddemore turned at the call, his eyes flashing with recognition as Peter pelted down the hall toward him. “Pete. Didn’t know you were still here.”

“Yeah.” He caught his breath as he pulled up next to the large man. “We just went downstairs for a little bit while Zed was in surgery.” Patty, slowed by not only her heels but also her dignity, finally drew up beside him and he felt immense gratitude for her presence. He and Ed Zeddemore did not have the most comfortable history when it came to his son’s career choice. “Do you know how Winston is?” Peter blurted.

Ed nodded, relief in his eyes. “Doing okay, they told me. They brought him down again about five minutes ago. Everyone’s in there getting him settled. His doctor’ll be out to talk to me – us – as soon as he’s sure everything’s all right.” His eyes drifted to the woman with Venkman, a peculiar look in his eyes as he caught sight of her clerical garb. “Reverend,” he said consideringly, looking more than a bit surprised by her presence.

“Patty McLaren,” she confirmed, turning that beaming, confident, reassuring smile on Winston’s dad. “Peter asked me to come by for your son, Mr. Zeddemore, and I was able to spend a few moments with Winston before he went back into surgery…” Hands on Ed’s arm, she gently drew him a few yards away for privacy, and Peter watched as they spoke for a minute, then bowed their heads and began to pray together, totally unselfconsciously, right there in the bright, crowded hospital hallway.

“Mr. Zeddemore.” Dr. Henderson exited the ICU and, as he looked about to find the father of his patient, caught sight of Peter. “Oh, Mr. Venkman.”

“Doctor,” he corrected again, with Patty in quiet unison with him, and they both grinned faintly.

“How’s my boy?” Ed’s face was twisted with anxiety, prayer still in his eyes.

“He’s doing well.” Both Ed and Peter released a breath of relief at the news. “I’ll be damned if the team didn’t miss a bleeder the first time in, but when we went back in we were able to locate it immediately and suture it off.” He went on, speaking in his own brand of technical jargon about the procedure, the treatment, the prognosis, sounding to Peter as incomprehensible as Egon when he got going about some of his pet theories.

Egon.

And Ray.

He knew where they were. They were going to be okay, and Winston was going to be okay as well. Okay, maybe there was something to asking for miracles. Peter grinned faintly, stupidly, with gratitude.

Henderson was addressing them both again, and Peter pulled his thoughts back. “Mr. Zeddemore, we’re going to let you go in to see your son, and you can stay with him for a while if you like.” Big Ed was already starting to move toward the door, his anxiety a powerful force drawing him to the bed of his boy. “Mr. – Doctor Venkman, if you want to go in, you’ll have to wait until Mr. Zeddemore comes out.”

“No, it’s okay.” He found the words leaving his mouth without consciously thinking about saying them. “I… don’t have to see to believe he’s all right now. Ed? – you go in and don’t worry about it. And… tell him hello for me.”

Peter slumped against the wall, worn out, as the ICU doors brushed closed. Winston was going to be fine. His dad was with him… and Peter knew where he could go, now that he could leave. Patty was still there with him, still vigilant, even though he knew her duty to him was over now. She just hadn’t caught on yet, he figured.

“I’m gonna head out now,” he explained. “Got to see Egon and Ray. Um…” He felt awkward, wondering if he should hold out his hand for a so-long shake. “Thanks for everything today.”

She regarded him with arch curiosity. “And just how are you getting to Cabrini with no wheels and no money? Were you planning on walking? Or were you just scamming me for a free cup of coffee in the cafeteria?”

“No,” he muttered irritably, patting his pockets. “I probably have a subway token or two in here.” He felt something in one pocket, a stiff shape half forgotten, and unzipped it to draw out Egon’s glasses which he had slipped safely away what felt like days, not mere hours ago.

“Nice fashion statement.” She quirked a brow at the oddly-styled spectacles.

“My friend’s.” He looked at the bright red frames, the thick lenses ground for Egon’s myopia, and automatically reached to polish the smudges off the glass.

“Well, he needs them back, doesn’t he?” she stated as if it should have been obvious. “Let’s take ‘em.”

He looked not at her, but towards her, staring over her shoulder again, his eyes not quite grazing her face. “Don’t you think you should stay here?” he murmured. “With Winston?”

“He’s covered now that his dad is here. And Mr. Zeddemore told me the rest of the family’s on their way as well. Plus, I put in a word with the Big Guy upstairs to do some watching out for everything we can’t see. However,” she paused, “I think everyone would be in agreement that Peter Venkman needs assistance a little more tangible than the ‘theoretical’ gathering of holy spirits.” There was an unexpected edge of keen amusement to her tone, in the sideways flicker of her blue eyes.

He returned the look, drawing his eyes to hers. “Are you making fun of me, Patty? God’s not gonna like that.”

“Oh,” she smiled, car keys suddenly jingling in her hands, “I have a feeling God’s getting a big kick out of this.”

“Yeah, I always heard He had a sense of humor,” he muttered, abashed, as he obediently trailed her down the hallway. “I just didn’t want Him to decide to test it on me.”

“Spengs…” Peter whispered from the doorway of the ICU cubicle at Cabrini Hospital. He’d never known that his heart could release so thoroughly in one second, yet tighten and sink, feeling broken, to the pit of his gut in the next. Egon looked bad, white and shuttered against the hospital sheets and surrounded by almost as much equipment as Winston, cross-town, had been – all wires and monitors, fluid lines and oxygen cannulas… but he was alive.

Patty had driven him from NYU Downtown to Cabrini, darting through the ceaseless, late-evening traffic with brisk efficiency in her aging compact car, making optimistic conversation while he’d sat hunched forward in the too-small passenger seat, knees almost to the dash, fidgeting restlessly and replying in a bare monotone. He’d wanted to bolt from the car the moment she’d pulled up in front, but instead contained himself, waiting for his volunteer chauffer to park and then accompany him to the floor that housed both his friends. He was glad he’d waited for her, for he’d suddenly pulled up short in the hallway as he realized that he couldn’t see both of them at once, with Egon in the Intensive Care Unit and Ray housed in a regular room. He was beyond making a decision over whom to visit first, so, as if she’d intuited his predicament, Patty chose for him, based on the honored principles of triage. “Egon needs you first,” she firmly declared, steering him in the direction of the ICU. “Go. And I’ll be with Ray until you’re able to come to him.” It made sense to him, and relieved any guilt he might