Originally published in Remote Control 13 (for the Criterion Press website, click here. Lots of Real Ghostbusters zines and stories available)

It is my greatest fear that Sabitha is dabbling in the forbidden arts. Whilst I know in my heart of hearts thatt she is kind and loving and thatt she would never hurt me or anyone, her desire to learn the secrets of life's meaning have taken her down a dark path from which I fear there is no return. A package came to her from her sister who lives in Salem, where those of the sisterhood practice, and I fear thatt my beloved has given her soul over to evil in order to learn more and more. Three nights past, the good folk of Manhattan were awakened in the night by a flash of light in the town square, and a roar of strange noises, distant voices. Widow Smith has cried ever since thatt my sweet Sabitha had opened a pathway to hell.

"Heavy stuff," muttered Jack Travis, turning the page with gloved fingers. Old manuscripts and documents needed special handling, and Jack, who loved both the manuscripts and the history, couldn't wait to see what would happen next. The museum had acquired the journals of Roger Willett who had lived in New York in the late 1600s and it had fallen to Jack to go over them. Even though it had been 300 years since Willett had penned the words, Jack felt a connection with him. Words could reach across the centuries. While the famous Witch Trials had been in Salem, Massachusetts, there could have been isolated problems elsewhere, and the people's ignorance could cause them to misinterpret what they witnessed. Jack wasn't sure what the strange noises and distant voices were, but if people in 1692 Manhattan had suspicions of Sabitha Dinsmore, perhaps there had been more trouble. She had been a herbalist, creating potions to help the neighbors with their ailments. It had been hard for him to lock the book away over the weekend but he'd promised Madge and the kids a trip upstate and he was pretty sure she would be steamed if he tried to weasel out of it.

But it was okay, he was back. He leaned over the next page. The handwriting had changed. Strange. The new writing looked a lot more modern than Willett's, although the faded ink was just the same. Jack squinted at the text through his magnifying glass. Looked like it had been written with the same rough pen and with the lampblack ink that was common in the period. It looked the same age. But that handwriting was wrong. Did he have a hoax here?

He read on:

Roger loaned me his book so I could write my message. It's a pretty forlorn hope but he talks about witchcraft in here, so if the book survives, just maybe it might wind up in the right place. He asked me if I thought Sabitha was a witch, and I've gotta say, some of the weird stuff going down makes it sound like it. Roger is reading over my shoulder as I write this and he says that 'weird stuff' and 'going down' sound truly peculiar and I should watch how I write, and even that my 'cursive' is strange. I told him that if I wanted to curse I wouldn't write it, I'd yell it from the rooftops. Maybe someday in three hundred years, somebody will be hunched over this faded page and suddenly yell, "Eureka!" Hey, Roger says 'Eureka' is a lot better than the other stuff. Sabitha caused my problem anyway. That's why I'm stuck here in this weird burg. I thought it was a trick at first, but what kind of a trick could it be? It's real. I've eaten here, and slept here and I've gotta say that I miss flush toilets and hot showers.

Jack's eyes widened, then he raised his voice. "All right, who's the wise guy? Do you know what Albertson's gonna say when he knows you've messed with this book?" He wasn't about to yell 'Eureka', although a part of him wanted to.

Dave Kowalski popped up and peered over the cubicle divider at Jack. "What the heck are you yelling about, Trav?"

"Somebody faked my book."

Dave shook his head. "Nobody touched your book. Nobody was here over the weekend. What do you mean, faked it?"

"Well, it's a sure bet they didn't have flush toilets in 1692," Jack said. "It's a good forgery, anyway, at least the ink is."

"Flush toilets?" echoed Kowalski, and he vanished to burst into Jack's cubicle. "You mean somebody wrote a modern message in there?"

"Somebody wrote--wait a minute!" Jack squinted at the words. "This is crazy."

"What?" Dave read over his shoulder. "'I've been here a week. Feels like ten years. And the worst part is that the guys will never know.' What is this anyway?"

"Keep reading."

"Keep read--omigod." Dave rocked back on his heels. "Is this for real, then?"

"How could it be for real? It's gotta be a hoax. Something like Baxter might pull."

"Baxter's in Cleveland. Hadn't been here for almost a week."

"We got the book before he left," Jack reminded him. He read the rest of the page, then he scrambled over to the newspaper that lay unread at the corner of his desk. "Is there anything new in it today about the disappearance?"

"I don't think so. Do you think this was...always in here?"

"I don't know. God, Kowalski, what do you think I ought to do about it? If it's a hoax, then I'd be a son of a bitch to pass it on. But..." He raked his hands through his hair. "It's got to be a hoax. Things like this don't happen. Witchcraft and..."

"Black magic?" hazarded Dave. He dragged up Jack's spare chair and collapsed into it. "I...maybe if we ran some tests, the age of the ink, something like that. If it's real..."

"Then what?"

"Then I'll have to tell them." He shuddered. "God, what a terrible answer."

"Wouldn't it be better to know?"

"Would it?" asked Jack. "Would it?"

I used to like going to work. Here I am, secretary to the one, the only, New York's famous Ghostbusters, and that's pretty special. I mean, sure the guys are too weird. I never had bosses like them before. Every boss I've ever had would take advantage of my good nature, and I've learned to draw a lot of lines, especially with Dr. Venkman, who takes a light year if I give an inch--god, I can't stop thinking about it. Even so, I liked going, and it's not just because of Egon. I mean, maybe someday he'll turn around and really see me, and then we'll have a fairy tale happy ending. I can't push for it now. No point. Egon's so vulnerable now that he might go for it just because he needs someone to put her arms around him and comfort him, but that goes against the rules I made for myself a long time ago. When Egon's down, I never take advantage. If I can't win him fair and square, then I'll take friendship and live with it.

But last week, work wasn't the same. I even went in on Saturday and Sunday because I had an idea if I didn't go and make them eat that they'd forget. They'd be out there beating the streets and looking and I didn't think anything was going to change. New York's a big, bad place, and a body can lie undiscovered for weeks, months. If it ends up in one of the rivers...

No, I'm not going there.

It's paranormal, Egon says. It isn't muggers or drug dealers or the baddies of choice this particular week. Winston said to me that we'd made enemies over the years and wondered where Walter Peck was these days. Ray doesn't have a theory--okay, he has six hundred of them, but he insists none of them matter because it's going to be all right. "He's alive, I know he is." Just watching Egon's face when Ray says that makes my stomach knot up so tight I have to fight not to throw up.

Last week was the week from hell, because it was the week when Peter Venkman disappeared.

He wasn't with the guys when he vanished. He wasn't on a bust. That would have made sense. He'd been out on a date on Sunday night and the girlfriend said he'd left her place to come home. He never made it. Egon says it has something to do with that weird cross-rip he measured about an hour before he expected Peter home. All the meters in the firehall went off. Loud enough to make Slimer scream and shoot up through the ceiling. It took him nearly a day to venture back. But the cross rip closed almost as soon as it opened and it hasn't opened since. Egon worked out all the readings and found a general location, somewhere around Canal Street. He and Ray and Winston have been all over the place, but cross rips don't really leave residuals, not unless they open and close a lot or unless you're there right afterward. This one didn't. And there weren't a whole parade of new ghosts for the guys to bust.

I shoved the key in the lock and let myself into the converted firehall. Just walking in the door I could tell that Peter wasn't back. The guys weren't downstairs, but Ecto-1 was parked in its usual place so they hadn't gone out on a bust or one of their search marathons. The door was still locked so that meant our least favorite cop, Frump, hadn't been by yet today. He's taken to coming by every day, and it drives the guys nuts. He never has any answers for them, and Winston's sure he's rubbing it in. Egon nearly decked him two days ago and, of all the guys, Egon's the least prone to losing his temper.

I think Frump's actually worried about Peter in a sort of weird, roundabout way. He doesn't like Dr. V, but he dislikes him in a way that makes Peter into a pet enemy. In other words, nobody's allowed to trash Dr. Venkman but him. I hope the guys don't realize that. It would make it tougher for them. I can understand that. Peter's my pet annoyance, too.

Egon slid down the firepole and looked around wildly. When he saw me, his shoulders slumped a little. I didn't take it personally. It's just, I knew he couldn't help hoping that Peter had returned, and when he saw it was only me, well, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wasn't the person he wanted to see. I couldn't even feel bad about it, not with Dr. Venkman missing.

"Oh. Hello, Janine. You're early." When Egon is at a loss, he is very good at stating the obvious. It allows him to stall, the same way fiddling with his P.K.E. meter or cleaning his glasses does. Believe me, I know all that boy's moves. And the funny thing is, in general, he hates stating the obvious. He's always getting on Peter's case for doing it. Maybe he doesn't realize he does it himself.

He looked so sad and worried that it was all I could do not to go to him and fling my arms around him. But that wasn't what Egon needed from me today. He needed to think clearly, especially if there was a paranormal reason for Peter's disappearance. So I just said, "I came in a little early. Let me change my shoes and I'll check the answering machine."

"Winston already did it," he said. "Actually, we switched it over to the upstairs number when we went to bed and then Ray switched it back when he got up."

Ray must have arisen before dawn again. He'd probably parked himself in that big front bedroom window to watch the street below for Peter's return until the other two woke up. I'd seen him doing it three days last week when I came to work. Once the day started and he had something to do, he managed okay but, when it was too early to go out and look for Peter, Ray just waited for him to come home.

It broke my heart.

"There was a strange call just now," Egon said while I sat down at my chair and kicked off my Addidas and slid my feet into my office shoes.

That made me pause in the act of stuffing the tennies into my bottom drawer with my purse and gaze at him. Egon wouldn't have mentioned it if it hadn't had something to do with Peter. "Anything that helps?"

"I'm not certain. It was a man who lives near the area of the cross-rip. He left the first thing the following morning for an overseas business trip and didn't return until last night, so he didn't know that Peter was...missing until he got home."

I ignored the catch in his voice. "So what did he say?"

"He didn't see Peter, at least not to recognize him. But he did see the cross-rip. He said it was a gap in the street, not a hole in the pavement but a hole in New York. Instead of the apartments across the way, he saw a row of primitive houses that looked like something out of history. There was someone outlined against it--and then the whole image went away and he could see Joe's Bar with its blinking neon sign. He'd tried to pretend it hadn't happened--until he was reading his newspapers to catch up and he saw the articles about Peter's disappearance and the location of the cross-rip."

"But that's good news, isn't it, Egon?" Why did he look so doubtful?

"We drove along that very street on Saturday afternoon, Janine, right at the spot he mentioned. The meters didn't even flicker."

Oh dear. That didn't sound good. The gate must have closed up tight if Egon's precious P.K.E. meters didn't pick up on it. "Can't you induce a cross-rip?" I asked. "Cross the streams or something?"

"Not without some indication that there is something to open. It could have been a random accident. Ray and I theorize that such things do occur from time to time. It may explain the odd, unexplained disappearances. Judge Crater, the crew of the Marie Celeste. None of those people ever returned."

Double oh dear. Okay, time for bracing. "Good for you, Egon. I didn't think you'd give up before you even tried."

He stiffened and his eyes flashed. "I shall never give up on Peter." His jaw clenched. I wanted more than ever to hug him, but I knew it was the wrong time. Egon wouldn't give up. Whatever else he did between now and the time Peter came back--or until the end of his life--he would always search for Peter. I wrapped my arms around my chest to still an involuntary shiver.

Ray clattered down the stairs, his arms full of gadgets. That boy never just walked. He usually bounced, but he wasn't bouncing today. Like Egon, he wore his jumpsuit.

"Hi, Janine. Egon, Winston's nearly ready." He passed a couple of meters to Egon. "These are the ones we configured for cross-rips. Winston's bringing the dimensionometer. Janine, did Egon tell you we have an idea where to start looking? Isn't it great?" His eagerness didn't bounce off the ceiling the way it usually did.

"What's a dimensionometer?" I asked. The guys talked about all kinds of weird devices and I know they had a trans-dimensional portal upstairs, but it wasn't exactly portable and it needed a humongous amount of power. Whenever the guys ran it, it added probably fifty bucks a day to the power bills that were already big enough to light a third-world country.

"We put it together last night," said Ray. "It was Egon's idea. We turned on the trans-dimensional portal and got a lot of readings from it, then Egon and I figured out a way to quantify those readings and we took apart a couple of our existing meters and made it. We think we'll have a better chance of reading the portal with it. It's really nifty." That was the short version. Ghosbusting Equipment for Dummies. But it didn't matter if I understood it. It only mattered if it worked.

Winston plodded down the stairs checking each step, his arms full of one of the ugliest gizmos I'd ever seen. It was bigger than the one Ray had used to restabilize Egon's molecules, and it had antennae sticking out of it on two sides. Rube Goldberg had nothing on Ray and Egon. "Here it is, guys. Hi, Janine. The mad scientists have been at it again. Did they tell you about the guy who called us?" He circled around Ecto and Ray ran ahead of him to open the rear hatch.

I nodded. "You get over there right away. And you guys call me the minute you have any news." That was probably as close as I could let myself come to admitting how worried I was about Dr. V. Even if he gets on my case and drives me close to justifiable homicide, it's just not the same without him here. I hate seeing how miserable the other three are without him. They just fit together, like they were born to work together, and it's more than just working. Those four clowns are more than friends. They're brothers.

Peter always says that Ray is the heart of the Ghostbusters. Then Egon's got to be the brain, and Winston--hmm, he's so reliable. He grounds them. The body of the team? But Peter is the soul. Even when he makes me maddest, he's there for the guys, watching out for them on busts like a team captain watches his team to make better plays. He loves the guys more than he's ever able to say, and they know it. They let him get away with behavior that would cause me to brain him royally because they know what a good friend he is.

I'll never admit it to anybody, but I really miss the guy.

Egon, Ray, and Winston loaded up Ecto-1 and got into the car, Winston behind the wheel. He's the best driver on the team--well, Peter's decent, too, but if he sees a pretty woman, he gets distracted. Ray makes Richard Petty--or even Evel Kneivel--look tame, and Egon is too absent minded to risk behind the wheel. So Winston drives the most.

I watched them back out of the garage, determined as knights rushing off to find the Holy Grail. They looked so grim and sad--and lost, as if a part of them had been lopped off. Sometimes I felt like a kid with my nose pressed against the glass while all the good stuff happened inside, but then those guys faced death together every day. They fit together perfectly.

An annoying prickle in the back of my nose made me pull off my glasses and scrub a hand across my eyes. Find him, guys, I thought. Please, find him. Because when you bring him home, I'm gonna deck him for scaring you like that. I'm counting on it.

I took two crank calls right away, one guy who said he'd seen Peter with Elvis at the top of the Empire State Building and a little old lady claiming aliens from Arcturus sent her a telepathic message that Peter had been kidnapped by the menace from Alpha Centauri. By the time I got her off the phone, I was steaming. When the door opened and a total stranger came in and paused, wide-eyed near the door, I measured the distance between us and imagined grabbing up the spare proton pack and zapping him. Couldn't do that, though. He might be a client.

He glanced about, probably on the lookout for Slimer then ventured up to my desk. He plopped down a briefcase. "Are the Ghostbusters here?" He was probably Peter's age, really kind of cute if you like the scholarly type--and I do. Smart is sexy, and I could tell this guy was smart. He had horn-rimmed glasses--and a plain gold band on his left hand. Taken. Figures.

"No, they're out looking for Dr. Venkman. If you have a ghost I can schedule an appointment for you."

"That's not why I'm here. You're Miss Melnitz?" When I nodded, he said, "I'm Jack Travis. I work with manuscripts at the Museum of New York History up in the West Forties."

"Hi." Okay, so it was a stupid thing to say but I'd been sitting here with no one to listen to me except for Slimer and I was afraid he was another crackpot like the last two phone calls.

He opened the briefcase and took out a musty old book; probably one of his manuscripts. "This is the journal of Roger Willett, who lived in Manhattan three hundred years ago." Before he opened the book, he put on a pair of special gloves to keep the pages from crumpling. Ray said that the acid in our fingertips could damage old books. He keeps his oldest ones under glass. Once he even lost his temper at Egon for not taking precautions--and Ray never loses his temper.

"Did he have a ghost?" I tried not to sound impatient.

"No. He did have a girlfriend who was suspected of being a witch, though. She evidently dabbled in the dark arts. It sounds like she created a spell that caused trouble into the present day."

"That's a powerful spell. You mean when you read the book, it came into effect?"

"No. That's not why I'm here. I want you to look at this paragraph. I assure you it's not a hoax. The ink is the right age and made of the same substances as the earlier portions of the journal. I swear, Miss Melnitz, I verified what I had before I came here. It could all too easily have been a hoax."

He shoved the book in front of me. "Please, don't touch the pages. Let me know when you want me to turn the page."

I skimmed over the part where the writer said he'd gotten the book from the Willett guy--well, I skimmed over the first line or two, then I stopped, suddenly cold all through. It was as if he'd dumped me in a bucket of ice like a champagne bottle. The cold flowed up from my toes.

My name's Peter Venkman, and if you're reading this, Egon, hi from scenic 1692. Hey, Ray. Winston. Anybody else reading this, please get this book to the Ghostbusters in New York, in April, 1992. My life depends on it. If you read it before 1992, please make some arrangements to get it to the Ghostbusters, Mott and Pell, New York, NY 10012 by April, 1992. Work something out with an attorney or a safe-deposit box or something. I'm counting on you.

Believe me, guys, I didn't mean to take off. I wouldn't pull a number like that on you. I was walking along minding my own business, and the next thing I knew I fell through this dimensional hole. I walked out of 1992 and into 1692. No running water, no electricity, no VCR's or ATM's. I got rescued by Roger Willett, the one who said I could borrow this book. He took me in--he's got a reason for it, and I'll get to that in a minute. I got Old Rog to believe me when I showed him things like my pen and wristwatch and calculator. At first he was afraid I was a warlock. Turns out his main squeeze wears a black pointed hat and rides a broomstick. Well, okay, not literally. But Rog says she practices 'black arts'. He's trying to protect her, so he brought me in so the neighbors wouldn't talk. Gave me some scratchy old clothes to wear. You should see me. No fashion plate.

I talked to the witchy fiancee. Her name is Sabitha Dinsmore, and she's a real fox. If she wasn't engaged to Old Rog and lived in the wrong century I could probably fall hard. Thing is, she's not a witch like they believe in, like the ones that got burned at the stake in Salem. Okay, okay, pax, Egon, I know they didn't really burn witches there, but they didn't exactly give them the key to the city, either. Dead's dead, whether they hang you or drown you or burn you. I'm in Manhattan--though you'd never know the place--and they don't exactly burn them here either. Still, Sabitha's neighbors are uneasy. They don't know how to take her and they're afraid because they don't know what's going on.

I didn't have any way to get in touch with you. All I can do is write in this book and cross my fingers that maybe it'll survive the years and somebody will find it and get it to you guys--or get it to somebody who can help me. I asked Sabitha to send me home but she says the time isn't right. She has to prepare for one of her spells. She says she might try again tomorrow, but Rog is scared the townspeople will get on her case and maybe she can't. She did the first spell at night, and she says she's afraid that the full moon helped her. I don't want to stay here a whole month. I just want to go home.

"It's Peter's writing," I said. It was hard to get the words past my numb lips. Peter, trapped in the past with no way home? That would break Egon's heart. No matter what equipment the guys had, they couldn't open a door to another time. They were Ghostbusters, not the guys from The Time Tunnel.

"We didn't know that part. We only knew that the writing had been done at approximately the same time as the rest of the writing in the book. When I first saw it, I thought one of my colleagues was playing a cruel joke, but none of them did. I tested the blobs of ink. I swear to god this is no hoax."

I flipped through another page of writing. There weren't pages and pages of it; the journal was mostly empty. Did that mean Sabitha's spell would work? That Peter would pop back any time? Or did it mean she failed? "I have to get this to the guys right away."

"I'm coming with you. It's museum property and I'll be in deep shit if anything happens to it."

"Do you have a car?"

"No, I came by cab."

"Then we'll take mine. I drove today." I snatched up the book and the keys to the place, and hurried him outside. "I want Egon to see this as soon as possible."

It wasn't hard to find the guys. They were set up just off Canal Street, right where the tip had told them to check, equipment ringing the place. As we screeched up and parked in one of the 'don't even think of parking here' spots, they they didn't even notice.

A whole crowd of curious spectators circled them. Some old guy had wheeled his pretzel cart over and was doing a booming business among the rubberneckers. A street busker had his guitar out and was belting out a song to the tune of 'Bill Bailey.' "Won't you come home, Pete Venkman..." I wanted to brain him. He already had a good collection of bills and coins in his guitar case.

Egon had propped the new dimensionometer gadget on the hood of Ecto, taking readings of the area the team had cordoned off. Beside him, Ray held a P.K.E. meter in each hand, but neither of them stirred. Winston prowled around the perimeter with the magnetometer. It made a few faint chirps, but that could be caused by anything. We'd hear a lot more noise from it than that if the gateway opened.

Winston spotted me first and he glanced past me to Travis, who stood at my side, briefcase in a deathgrip in his fist. He called, "Hey, girlfriend, what's up?"

I pushed through the crowd with the experience of a long-time subway rider. "Excuse me. Pardon me. Outta the way, buster. Move it, lady." Polite wasn't right up there at the top of my priorities. "Egon, you've got to see this. It's urgent."

He hurried to meet me, nodding at Ray to watch the gadget. "Janine, is something wrong? Have you had news?" His eyes lingered on my face. What he saw perplexed him. "What is it? Is it Peter?"

"I know where he is," I said. "Only it's not going to be easy to get him back."

"Where?" He looked past me automatically, then focused on me with all the single-minded intensity he's capable of. I felt like I was standing out there in my underwear.

"Egon, this is Jack Travis. He's got a message from Peter. Show him, Travis."

Travis whipped out the book. He hadn't bothered to remove the gloves, but he took a second pair from his pocket and passed them to Egon. "Put these on. Old books need the protection and you don't want to risk damaging these pages."

He obeyed automatically, although his face didn't lighten. He wasn't ready to believe anything good could come of this. "What is it? A prediction?"

"It's a message from Peter," I said. "Read it, Egon. Now."

His eyes fell in the page and he stiffened. If he'd been a pointer, his blond tail would have stood out straight behind him. Someday I'm gonna take that guy to my cousin Ferdy's barber shop and do something about his hair.

I knew the instant he recognized Dr. V's handwriting. The color went out of his face and, for a second, I thought his knees would buckle. Quick as I could, I slid my arm around his waist to hold him up.

Ray and Winston surged over as if his pallor were a magnet. I put up my free hand quickly to silence them when they would have exploded with questions. "Wait," I said.

"Is it...Peter?" Ray's eyes lingered on the book. "That looks old."

"Three hundred years old," said the manuscript guy. He introduced himself to Ray and Winston, and shook their hands. Winston and Ray turned to Egon and watched him read. They were holding their breath. Winston put his hand on Ray's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

Egon's face stayed white. When he finally looked up, he said, "Gentlemen, we have a problem."

"Where's Peter?" demanded Ray. "Is he alive?"

Egon opened his mouth to reassure Ray, then he fell silent. It dawned on me that, if Peter couldn't be rescued, he was dead, had been dead for many, many years. It hit Egon like a Class 7 in his face. "He was drawn into the past, Ray," he said and passed the book over. Travis let out a protesting yelp, but Ray was careful. He held it without touching the pages, just the cover.

"Say what?" Winston crowded up behind Ray and read over his shoulder.

Ray punctuated his reading with eager wows and goshes, his eyes huge and darker than usual. I could tell his eager mind was going lickety split as he tried to put it all together.

"Listen to this, guys," he cried. This is what Peter says.

I did some asking around. Well, I asked Roger. He talked to Sabitha. The three of us talked. She says she used a 'window' spell, and she got it from The Spell Book of Tobias Weaver. Ray, good buddy, tell me that's one of the weird books on your shelves.

Ray lifted stricken eyes and gazed at us. "Egon!" he breathed. "I don't have that book. I've heard of it, but I've never been able to find a copy."

Egon flinched then tried to hide his reaction from Ray. "A 'window' spell, Ray? Do you know what that means?"

"Well, yeah." Ray's face was all scrunched up, and he was a little stooped like he'd just had somebody dump the Statue of Liberty on his shoulders. "It's a way to open a window on another world. What we do with the trans-dimensional portal back at headquarters only by magic instead of science. We designed that using our readings from the Netherworld. I wrote down some of the readings I got before that terror dog broke my meter and, when you designed it, you used those readings as a focus. We don't have a focus on where Peter is."

"So, all that means is that we can't use the trans-dimensional portal to find him," Winston said. "Like you said, that's science; this is magic. Ray, you know about these window spells. Wouldn't any one work? Does it have to be the one in the Weaver book?"

Ray hesitated. He looked so sad and forlorn when he nodded. "The thing is, Winston, I could find a book with a window spell in it, and maybe if I did everything right and believed, like believing in fairies in Peter Pan, it might work. But how could I control it? How could I get it to open exactly three hundred years ago, right here? If we had the exact spell, maybe, but without it, I can't even guarantee we'd get anywhere near where we wanted to go. Too early and Peter isn't there. Too late and he's an old man."

Egon went as rigid as a board. Every word Ray said made it more likely that he'd never get his best friend back.

"We're not magicians, we're scientists," he blurted. "Ray, there must be a way to do it."

"Design a time machine in an hour?" Winston shook his head. "I don't think so. What else does Pete say? Any hints? You can bet he's over there working like crazy to get back."

Ray bent over the book. "Hey, yeah. Let's see. He's really helping. Gosh, it's amazing we got this book when we did. What if we never got it at all? If Mr. Travis read it before Peter disappeared, he'd have thought it was a hoax."

"Never mind, Raymond," Egon said stiffly. "Just read on."

"No, I wouldn't," Travis muttered. "I'd have tested it and then checked to see if the disappearance had happened. If it hadn't, I'd have come and warned you about it."

Ray nodded in acknowledgment without looking up from the book. "Well, okay. Let's see."

I asked Sabitha if she could recreate the spell. Rog got all upset. He said if the neighbors found out what she was doing, they'd stone her or tar and feather her or something else not fun. He said he felt sorry for me, that I was so far from home--boy, has he got that right. I miss you guys--but he would not risk her life. He said my life was not in danger but hers would be. I guess that's true, but it feels like it is. I feel so far from home. I didn't think anybody could be this far from home. Well, maybe the Apollo 11 astronauts were, but at least they could talk with Houston. Oh, god, guys, I want to come home.

Ray raised stricken eyes. "We have to get him back," he said. "We can camp right here and figure out how to do it."

"Hey, come on." Winston clapped him on the shoulder. "Pete's a fast talker. He can turn them around. We've been in the past before. Remember that number with the ghost traps that took us back to 1959? Couldn't we try that?" Winston was no quitter. Ray looked up at him in gratified excitement, then he saw Egon's face and it bled out of him.

"I have never been able to duplicate that process," Egon said. "Even if I could, for us to return home required a power source, which we were able to adapt in the technological world of 1959. There would be no power source in 1692. We couldn't carry anything with us powerful enough to provide it."

"What about that portal that took us back to 1837?" suggested Ray. "Back when we met Scrooge and the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future?"

"That was either a natural phenomenon or a product of those three ghosts," Egon reminded him. "They did say we were there so we--actually Peter, I believe--could learn to value Christmas. They transported us home without the need of the energy portal. However, we do not have them at our beck and call and it is April, not the Christmas season. I do not know how to summon them."

"Well, some entities can travel in time," Ray persisted. "Can't you think of something that will work, instead of just shooting everything down?"

Ouch. Egon took that like a body blow. His face grew stiff and emotionless but we could see how much he hurt. Peter would have known exactly what to say to him. Peter always did. But Peter wasn't here and it was left for Ray to cry, "Oh, gosh, Egon, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"You did, and it was a valid judgment." I ached for Egon, for all of them. They were just so worried, and so incomplete without Peter. They let me in as much as they could ever let anybody in who wasn't them. I didn't want to come in by the back door, though.

"It isn't that I want to shoot down theories, Ray," Egon said, as dogged as Ray, his voice gone stiff. His muscles were absolutely rigid and his hand played nervously with his P.K.E. meter. "It's simply that theories won't bring Peter back. What else does he say?"

Ray glanced down at the book again. He was so apologetic, and Egon was so lost in his own pain that he didn't even see it. Winston did; he made a frustrated gesture then gnawed on his bottom lip. I could tell he didn't want to say anything that might make it worse. Peter would have known exactly the right words. He always did.

Ray started to read out loud. Travis hovered nearby, turning the page for Ray because he still had his gloves on.

Anyway, I've been working on Sabitha, and she does want to help me. Wish you could see her, guys. She looks a little like Ray's cousin Sam, big blue eyes and hair the color of corn. Is she ever built. Even all bundled up in those old fashioned dresses without even a glimpse of her ankles, she's gorgeous. She and I had a talk while Rog was at work. She says she doesn't want to cast spells or do evil. She just wants to know things, how the world works, what life is all about. She's got this scientific curiosity in a time when women just didn't, and it's just bursting to get out. The only way open to her was this witchcraft gig. I told her a little about our time, not much because I seem to remember she shouldn't really know about the future because then she might change it. So I didn't tell her specific events or anything, just that women could be scientists. I told her a little about the kind of things we do, your experiments, Egon, and the things you make, Ray. You should have seen her. She looked as wistful as I do when I wake up each morning and find out I'm still stuck here in Pilgrimville.

Anyway, she does want to help me, but she must be really careful. I think the people in the town are convinced that she's a bad witch and that she'll curse the crops or make somebody's milk cow go dry. We're way back in the dark ages here, guys. You know that scientific cause and effect you're always going on about, Spengs? Well, they don't have a handle on it. Maybe really smart guys do but the average people around here are superstitious and narrow minded. They live in a world they don't understand and can't control, so I guess it's inevitable, but it's scary. I have to pretend to be Roger's cousin. They let me keep my name because it doesn't sound wrong for here. Rog says he knew some Venkmans left over from when New York was New Amsterdam--not that many years ago either.

"There's a gap here, guys," Ray said. "Sort of like he went away and came back." He went on reading.

I'm still working on her, but she says that she can do the spell tonight. Whether it will work or not, I don't know. She doesn't want Rog to know. But it sounds like everybody will know. I think when she did it before, they could see the streetlights and hear the cars going past and it scared them. They thought it was an opening into Hell or something. I'll be right in the middle of it and if it isn't fast enough, I might wind up getting stoned along with her. Stoned...

Guys, I can't let her be stoned. It isn't right. I want to come home more than anything. I want it so bad I can taste it. But I can't do it if it means she dies. I can't take the chance.

Ray lifted his eyes--they were horribly hollow and frightened--seeking out Egon first and then Winston. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out at first. Then he said, "Oh, no."

I have to admit I felt pretty sick myself, even more so when I saw the utter horror on Egon's face and the way it melted away until he looked like a statue. "Peter would never risk an innocent life," he said, and his words were stiff, so utterly empty of anything like emotion that I knew he must be raw and bleeding inside where it didn't show. Sometimes he can be every bit as bad at Peter at letting his feelings out. Only thing is, we all know exactly how bad it has to get for him to close up like that. "He's risked his life many times to save the innocent. We've all seen it."

"But she's not really innocent," I put in. "She really did do spells."

"She didn't do black magic," Winston reminded them. "She was just trying to find a bigger world. Pete will never let her take that risk, even if it kills him to be trapped there forever."

Ray's eyes were too bright. I thought he was about to cry, only he didn't. Ray's a lot stronger than anybody thinks he is, but he's also vulnerable because he cares so much. I could see all too clearly that he was picturing how miserable Peter would be. Knowing he'd done the right thing in protecting Sabitha would be about as cold a comfort as there could be, all the more because a part of him would want to sacrifice a stranger so he could come home to the people he loved. Peter might pretend to see self-interest as a virtue rather than a vice and proclaim its benefits from the rooftops, but when the chips were down, he'd make the right choice. Sometimes he even felt bad because he'd considered the wrong one. Once he and I had talked about it. He told me he was pretty sure Egon and Ray and Winston might not get it; they'd think he should always want to chose the virtuous thing. I remember pointing out that when the chips were down, when someone needed him, he always did.

"Yeah, but I didn't always want to."

I'd bet half the Bronx that Egon knows that perfectly well and has always known it. Winston too. Probably even Ray, who is the type to choose the right thing because it is the right thing and never have any doubts in the first place. What Peter didn't quite get--and maybe it's because he was raised by a con man--is that doing the right thing when you don't want to might mean more than doing it without any doubts. I never quite said that to Peter. It doesn't do any good to build up the Venkman ego. I just said that it worked out in the end, but he looked at me like he knew what I was thinking--and he probably did.

I think he came to me about it because he knows that I'm like him that way, that I have all the wicked impulses, too, and have to rise above them. Not that they're really wicked...

"So, we'll just have to open it from this end," Winston concluded. "And do it in such a way that it's pretty obvious that Sabitha didn't."

"Would this window spell thing react to the fact that one had been opened before in the same place?" I asked. Egon had talked about currents in the flow of time and space. He said it was why the guys had wound up in the same part of the Netherworld when they went over to rescue him after the restabilization of his molecules shoved him over there.

Ray snapped his fingers. "Hey, it might. I wonder if I've got anything in the car that would help."

"I'll check," Winston volunteered and darted over to Ecto.

"Why would you keep spell books in the car, Ray?" Egon asked.

"Well, I bought a couple yesterday down at Wyrd. They're really old and I got a call that I'd have first choice at them. I didn't have time to look at them yet."

Winston returned one of Wyrd's distinctive Slimer-green bags and passed it to Ray, who handed the journal back to Travis. The museum guy cooed over it like a baby, all the while ogling Ray's spell-books out of the corner of his eye the way Slimer does when we bring in pizza.

I edged up to Egon. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment, Janine, thank you. Perhaps ask that officer to keep the crowd back."

I glanced around. We weren't doing anything but standing here looking at old books. Some of the crowd had already taken off, but new people had replaced them. Whenever the guys went out it had the possibility of being a real media circus. "Okay, Egon," I said and went over to lay down the law to the nearest cop. He wanted to know what was going on and I explained about Peter vanishing right here. The guy bought every word I said, which meant I didn't have to break his jaw. He gestured a hot-dog vendor back and moved a giggling knot of teenage girls who were trying to flirt with Egon. I knew from personal experience that he hadn't even noticed they were there.

When I returned, Ray looked disappointed. "No window spells in any of these books. And it's not like we go around casting spells anyway."

"Do we need a wiccan or something?" asked Winston.

We pondered that. "I don't think they do things like this," Ray said regretfully. "If we can't figure it out, I know a couple of people to call." He handed the books to me and I tucked them back in the sack. Ray looked disappointed and a little guilty. Egon didn't even notice. There was a trace of that in his face, too, and I don't know what either one of them had to feel guilty about, unless it was easier than dealing with the fact that Peter might be gone for good. Baloney! Just because he didn't intend to risk Sabitha didn't mean there weren't other options for him to try.

"Does Peter say anything else, Ray?" I prompted.

"Gee, I don't know. Mr. Travis?" He took the book back and held it up so the manuscript expert could turn the pages. Travis was bearing up pretty well under all this, though I had seen him cringe more than once when Ray had come close to touching his precious pages. I was ready to blast him if he jumped on Ray, because those pages were a helluva lot more precious to us than they were to him.

Egon turned his Spock-face to Ray. He was hurting so badly. Probably blaming himself because he couldn't invent a time machine in ten minutes, even if there was no reason why he should. He wasn't a temporal physicist or whatever they're called. He was a Ghostbuster, and being a Ghostbuster didn't come with time travel abilities written into the job description.

Peter would have taken one look at that face and known exactly what to do. But if he'd been here, there wouldn't have been any need for Peter to analyze him. It wasn't even a conscious analysis. It was just a knowledge of the way Egon functioned that went all the way down to the soul level. Egon could do the same for Peter, and the other two had their ways of reading each other, too, but nobody could get to Egon in this frame of mind better than Peter. You better figure out a solution, Dr. V, I thought furiously. It's not like you to just sit back and give up.

Ray found the place and started reading again.

Guys, if you've found this book, you probably know where I disappeared, but anyway, here's the address. Ray read it off. Right where we were standing. "I hope you've found this book and that it isn't sitting in a museum somewhere gathering dust. It feels good, writing this to you. Ray, it's not your fault. "Gosh, how does he know..." Ray began, then he gave a faint, abashed grin and continued. And that goes for you, too, Egon. Just because you can't dream up a time travel gizmo in fifteen minutes doesn't mean you blew it. Winston, good buddy, knock some sense into these guys.

Just hearing Ray read that made all of them get lost, wistful expressions on their faces. I bet I had one, too.

Janine, if they read this to you, I want you to take care of them for me. I may not like it here, but I'm alive, and I'm okay. Well, sorta okay. No, I'm not hurt. Don't anybody go ballistic on me. But I just wish I wasn't here. I've been telling Rog and Sabitha about the firehouse and what it's like there. About you, Egon, and your lab and all the things you study. Sabitha gets this look on her face, like I'm describing heaven. You'd like her, Spengs. She has this same craving to know that you do. If she lived in 1992, you can bet good money she'd be a scientist. Even though she never heard of your scientific method, she writes everything down and keeps track of her experiments. It isn't that she's been trying to be a witch all this time. God, Egon, she's trying to be...you. I can't let her die for my sake. Last year, they hanged some guy not far from here for leading a rebellion. They said that if he didn't die of the hanging, they'd chop of his head and disembowel him. No way will I escape here and leave Sabitha to something like that.

Old Rog is like you, Winston. He's running around, trying to protect her, and he won't even listen to my plans to come home because he's sure she'll wind up dying over it. He's a universal protector, just like you, Zed. That's why he took me in when I wound up trapped here.

I can't hurt these people. Guys, I'm sorry. You know I love you all, even you, Big J. But I guess I have to sit this one out. I feel like crap for it. I'm scared to death you'll need four on a bust or something'll come along like Gozer that needs all of us or the world'll sizzle. But that's not guaranteed, and from the way the people in this backward burg talk, I wouldn't trust any of them not to get carried away if they get a hangnail and kill Sabitha for it. So I can't...

Ray blinked furiously. "Oh, gee," he said. "I can tell just how he feels. It's awful. But it's so like Peter. He won't let anybody hurt her."

"What else does he say?" Egon asked, and I was pretty sure it was not so much because he had hopes of a solution as because he wanted to hear Peter's words, even read aloud in Ray's voice.

Ray cleared his throat. "There's not much more in here," he said, holding out the book to the manuscript worker. "Will you turn the page, please?"

Travis complied. I could see he was starting to get into it, too. History had abruptly come alive for him; it wasn't stick figures on a canvas but real people who bleed and die. And one of them was Peter. I would give my next three raises just to hear him getting on my case again. Next time I'd want to ask Egon to transplant his brain into a chicken, I'd take a step back and let him get away with it. Okay, so maybe only once, but I miss him, too.

Ray's voice got excited and he gestured for Egon and Winston to listen, not that their attention had slipped an inch.

Hey, guys, I've got a plan. I don't know if it's a good one. It might be a great one, and if anybody can pull it off, it's the great Venkman. Only thing is, I bet it would help if you could be here waiting when I come home. I'm gonna need my pack in a real hurry and I want it set on stun. You got that? I don't know how the time over there passes or whether it's different, but I've been here seven days and fourteen hours. So do a countdown till we're on the same schedule. Then give another hour for me to set this up. If you've found this book--and I bet the odds are really big that you haven't--then be there around 1 or 1:30 on Monday afternoon.

We all looked at our watches. It was around 12:45.

"We're in time," Egon breathed. "Even allowing for time differences; we're not in daylight savings time yet." He checked his wristwatch a second time, then he walked over to Ecto and got out Peter's pack and thrower. He adjusted the setting before he brought it back and handed it to Winston. Next, he dug into his pocket and produced a piece of chalk. I wasn't surprised. Nothing Egon could carry in his pockets would surprise me. Once Winston had said he'd produced a hairpin on demand. Hmmm. Maybe that's how he keeps his hair like that.

Egon knelt on the sidewalk and drew a line across it at a slight diagonal. "This is where we're told the gate opened," he said. "I want everyone to stand back from it. I think he will come toward us, but just in case, Winston, you go over on the other side and have your own pack ready to give him." There was so much hope in Egon's voice.

"Got it." Winston passed Peter's pack back to Egon, who took it with gentle hands, as if he were reaching out over the three centuries to Peter himself. "Here you go, homeboy."

"Ray, I want your thrower drawn and ready," Egon decided. "I have a feeling that, when Peter comes back, he'll be on the run with the locals in hot pursuit. We can't kill them, of course, but we can stun them if necessary and give Peter a chance to come home."

I studied Egon's face. If Peter couldn't make it through, somebody better grab Egon and keep him from jumping through after him. I wasn't so sure about Ray, either.

"Finish reading the text, Raymond." Egon's voice was very steady. The tension made him vibrate with suppressed energy.

When you see me, be ready to play along with me, okay? I'm going to be on the run, and I don't know if it will even work. Just hang on there. Gotta go now. Go with what I give you.

And if you don't find this book, maybe someday it will make its way to you. I won't hold it against you if you're not there, I swear it, guys. And I'll never give up trying to find a way home. I've just gotta say that if I'm stuck here, at least I had a good run--and the best friends anybody could ever hope to have. Cross your fingers for me.

I sneaked a look at Egon's hands. Yep, he was crossing his fingers. He didn't believe in superstitions like that, but he did it because Peter asked him to. I'd never call him on it. Ray and Winston crossed theirs, too. And so did I.

"That's all of it," Ray said. "Do you--do you think that means he made it home? If he hadn't, if it hadn't worked, he'd have written more, wouldn't he?" He bounced on his toes, squishing down his suppressed excitement.

I saw the look that Egon and Winston shared. After working with these guys for so long, I knew exactly what it meant. Ray's theory was the optimist's version. Egon was afraid there was no more in the book because Peter had been killed. If they hanged people and disemboweled them where he was stranded, somebody who was as different as the twentieth-century Peter was sure to be noticed--and suspected.

Don't you dare die, Dr. Venkman, I thought fiercely. Don't do that to these guys--or to me. And don't do it to yourself. We all want you back, though I'll deny I ever thought it, once you're home.

There was nothing to do after that but wait. The hands of my wristwatch moved with agonizing slowness: one o'clock, one fifteen, one thirty. One thirty-five. Egon's mouth tightened and Ray's bounce vanished. The crowd sensed the guys' tension and edged a little closer and the cop waved them back. I noticed a few reporters and camera crews working their way to the front of the hastily-assembled barricade. Travis stood holding his precious book, his eyes on the chalk line. He wasn't still here because I was the one who'd brought him and he didn't have a ride. He wasn't even waiting so he could take the book back with him. He was dying to get a glimpse of the 17th Century.

Egon had stuck an activated meter in the vest pocket of his jumpsuit and Ray had asked one of the two cops to bring the dimensionometer closer and prop it up near the chalkmark. Once he'd done it, the cop jumped backward. I could see doubt in his eyes, but he believed that something was about to happen. His hand hovered nervously near his gun.

That's when the dimensionometer squealed into activity. Lights blinked all over it and it wailed like an air raid siren. Half the people in the audience suddenly decided they liked the other side of the street better. They migrated in a frantic surge, like lemmings.

Egon's head came up and he exchanged a gaze of blazing hope with Ray. He would have done the same with Winston but, all at once, Winston wasn't visible. Instead a big hole opened in midair, blocking Winston from our sight, and everybody craned their necks to see what it meant. A few seconds later, Winston scurried around the edge of it, his eyes nearly popping in astonishment.

It opened onto another world, all right, a really old-fashioned one. The street was broad but unpaved, and the houses were frame houses, not a skyscraper in sight. I'm no architect but I'd seen pictures like that in history books. I couldn't tell from the sight if it was 1692 or not, but gate had opened on cue, so it had to be. It just had to. In the distance beyond the portal we could hear the shouts and bellows of an angry mob headed our way fast.

"Peter!" Egon's desperate shout ripped through me and I tore my eyes from the view of the past to Egon's exalted face. Triumph blazed there, triumph, incredible relief, and brand new worry. "Peter! This way!" He beckoned urgently with Peter's thrower.

That was when I saw him. He wore a long, black robe over his jumpsuit and his hair was tousled, a smear of red down his left cheek. I don't think he'd shaved since he left. He dodged from side to side as he pelted toward us and I realized with horror that the mob was trying to stone him. Hands pressed against my mouth in alarm, I saw Ray jerk up his thrower and level it at the crowd. He couldn't get a clear shot without hitting Peter, though, and he hung there, braced to shoot, muttering encouragement to Peter through the portal. "Come on, Peter, you can do it. Run, Peter. Run!"

At Egon's first shout, Peter's head came up. If I thought the elation on Egon's face had set a record, I was wrong. Peter's matched it. Years dropped off his face. He raised a thrilled hand and waved it at Egon and Ray. "Guys!" Then he went back to yelling something else. I didn't understand what it was at first, then I realized it was a song, one from The Wizard of Oz. He bellowed at the top of his lungs that he was 'off to see the wizard'. It sounded sinister--and wildly off key.

With a Nijinsky leap through the opening, Peter screeched to a halt and grabbed the pack Egon held out to him. A rock whizzed out after him and missed him by half an inch, crashing to the pavement just beyond Winston, who jumped and muttered something a lot more profane than his usual language. Jack Travis scrambled after the rock and shoved it in his pocket, probably to study later. Peter didn't take time to do more than sling the pack's strap over one shoulder before he whirled, the thrower aimed at the angry crowd. "Stop right there, or I will curse you the way I cursed the woman," he bellowed. "You will die in torment if you come one more step."

The mob, in the way of mobs anywhere, surged forward anyway but a few of the people on the fringes did stop and edge backward.

Peter turned his head and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. "Egon, you're the Wizard of Oz here. Play up." Raising his voice, he bellowed, "I have brought you to my master, Oz the Terrible. He will smite you if you dare cross the barrier. He will cast fire at you." His voice dropped. "Tell 'em, Spengs."

Egon played up. Squaring his shoulders, he fired past Peter, the thrower energy sizzling in front of the mob. They shrieked and stopped but they didn't stay stopped. When the particle stream dissipated, they edged closer and a couple of them threw rocks. Egon blasted the missiles in midair. I got a big kick out of seeing most of the other people in the crowd drop their rocks as if they'd suddenly turned red hot.

"I am the Mighty Oz!" Egon bellowed. I'd never seen him ham it up so well before. "Stop where you stand, mortals. You dare not enter my realm. I will smite thee! I will burn thee all!" A longer blast shot out from his thrower and took out a wooden staff that the leader of the mob waved over his head. The guy was clad all in black like a pilgrim or a preacher. When he felt his staff crumble in his hands, he jerked his eyes up, got a face full of dust, then let out a panicked shout and backed up into the next row of followers. They yelled and tried to push him forward again.

The guy was no quitter, though. He raised his hands, curling them into fists, and charged for the portal.

Peter fired without hesitation and the guy fell down like a puppet with cut wires. He lay there on the ground twitching, obviously alive, since the throwers weren't set at full power, but stopped. The crowd shrieked and bridled, edging backward, afraid to turn their backs on Egon and Peter. Peter raised his voice. "Nobody messes with the great Oz!" he reminded them.

The portal slammed shut so fast that we all blinked. One second it was there and the rest of the mob was torn between picking up old Blackie and running away as fast as they could, the next there was nothing but modern Manhattan in sight. The dimensionometer quit its banshee shrieking and Egon's P.K.E. meter stilled. The crowd behind us that had decided the end of the block was a much better place to watch from let out a collective sigh of relief and the pretzel vendor pushed his cart back, only one step behind the newspeople, who were already calling out eager questions. My phone would ring off the hook when we got back to the firehall. I wondered if I'd be able to weasel overtime out of the guys.

Peter slammed his thrower into its rack and wheeled on Egon. Now that it was over and he was safe, I could see how shaken he was, even though he struggled hard to keep up his usual cocky expression. He didn't quite manage it. Instead his eyes grew very bright and he blinked furiously. I knew the feeling. He didn't want to break down and bawl in public. I wouldn't either.

He didn't have to worry about it because Egon, Ray, and Winston converged on him at the speed of light and buried him in the most ferocious hug I have ever seen, blocking Peter from the public's view. The cameras went right on rolling and I heard the different reporters giving hasty voice-overs. Some of them called my name for answers, but I wasn't ready for that yet. I just watched the guys, my guys, safe and together again.

I heard them babbling Peter's name, saw Egon tighten an arm around Peter's shoulders while his other hand came up and stroked the tangled hair. Ray, his head tight against Peter's shoulder, went on and on about how he had known Dr. V would make it back in one piece. "I knew you weren't dead," he insisted. "I just knew it."

Winston had his arms around the other three, doing his usual guard dog routine on them. I stayed back and waited my turn, knowing how much the guys needed this, all four of them. Peter wasn't the only one who was ready to howl like a baby. But he was back, he was safe, and he must have figured out how to do it without jeopardizing that Sabitha woman. Turning himself into a wizard who was responsible for his own arrival in the past and presenting them with an even more powerful guardian of the gate was sure to turn Sabitha into a victim who might win the people's sympathy. I sure hoped so. I wasn't sure it would be possible for Peter to find out, and if he had any doubts he would find them tough to live with.

But he wasn't thinking of that now. I could hear him talking. "I didn't think I'd ever see you guys again. How did you know? When that gate opened and I saw you lined up there..." His voice quavered. I pretended not to notice; it wasn't something I could use as a weapon in our ongoing game.

"We got the book, Peter. Just a little while ago. We've been reading it. We were so scared you'd think you had to stay. Oh, gosh, it's great to have you back." That was Ray. Peter warmed to it.

"Your plan was...interesting, Peter," Egon murmured.

"Oh yeah, and I've gotta say, Spengs, you get the Oscar for that performance. 'I am the mighty Oz,'" he imitated Egon, glowing with delight. "I loved it."

"It was the least I could do, Peter," Egon said. I didn't like that tone. "After all, I was unable to devise a means to return you home."

Peter jerked back a little and stared Egon right in the eye. "That was my job, buddy," he corrected. "I had a handle on it from the start. Just had to figure out how to make it look like I was the baddie and not Sabitha. If you pack your bags for a guilt trip here, I'm gonna be really pissed."

Egon relaxed. He didn't relax all the way; he wouldn't, not until he'd gotten comfortable with having Peter home again. But at least he believed what Peter said.

Winston slapped Dr. V on the back. "So what'd you do, m'man? Make it look like you'd opened the gate the first time and now you were going to open it again when you went back?"

Peter's head bobbed. "You called it. Sabitha did it all, but she did it quiet, in the background, and I hammed it up even more than 'Mighty Oz' here. Lot of smoke and mirrors. Pulled off a few magic tricks I learned when the Great Strazinksy hired us. With any luck at all, they're gonna be so apologetic to Sabby that they'll forget that they wondered about her before I came." He gestured down at his weird robe. "Rog got me this. I said I needed to look like a mage. Best he could do. I think it's a choir robe or something." He settled back into the hug, and I could tell he needed it every bit as much as the rest of the guys did.

He said in a voice I wouldn't even have heard if I hadn't been about two feet away, "When I thought I was stuck there..."

"You weren't stuck there, Peter," Egon said with great determination. "You always knew the way home. You had only to devise a plan, and that was not difficult, not for a man with a twisted brain like yours."

"Geez, Spengs, if you're gonna insult me..."

"I believe it was intended as a compliment," Egon said.

Peter gave him one of those sharp, knowing looks he has that can see right through your skin. "'Course it was. The great Venkman can do no wrong."

"Uh oh, he's getting above himself," muttered Winston.

"I think we should let him." That was Ray, of course. "At least for the rest of the day. He deserves it for figuring out how to come home." He nestled in more tightly for a minute.

Then, as if they'd rehearsed it, they drew apart and Peter looked around the scene, taking in the sight of the eager crowd. He raised his arms above his head and clasped his fists together like Rocky. The crowd gave him an ovation that made his face light up. Eyes on the reporters, he waved at them and said, "Have I got a story for you. Give me a minute here."

He saw me next and pounced, grabbing me by the shoulders and planting a big smacker right on my mouth. I started to plan his death and then decided he could get away with it--this once. Besides, the guy could really kiss. I wondered if Egon would notice--nah. So I came out of it grimacing. "Nobody said you could take that kind of liberties, Dr. V. Besides, you need a shave."

He rubbed his chin absently. "Come on, Big J, I could hardly plant a smooch on Egon, could I?" he asked as he started toward the reporters.

"I sincerely trust not," Egon said so dryly that everybody cracked up.

The guys were gathered in Peter's office when the telephone rang the following morning. They'd just come in from a bust, one that they'd evidently loved every second of, because when they got out of Ecto they were laughing and jostling each other like the schoolboys I sometimes suspect they are. I would have called them for it and suggested their average age was somewhere around twelve when I saw the deep contentment in four pairs of eyes and realized they were finally starting to believe that they had their lives back. I'd allow them the junior high attitude. Today. Maybe tomorrow. Then it was business as usual.

Peter dropped the paperwork on my desk. "They paid with Visa. Profit, I love it. Easiest bust I ever saw. Nasty gooper, though, nasty."

"Yeah, horns and a forked tail," Ray elaborated, his eyes shining. "A demon, one of those kind that look like a human except for the scales and stuff. Wearing a business suit."

"He wanted to make a killing on Wall Street," offered Winston. "I mean a real killing." The guys thought that was hysterical. They leaned against each other laughing, even Egon, who had totally forgotten his natural dignity since Peter came home.

"In the end, it charged at Peter," Egon said. For a moment, his eyes flashed with the protective impulse they must all have felt.

Peter made a quick, dismissive gesture. "All I did was put up my trap like it was a catcher's mitt and the demon slipped right in. You should have seen the astonishment on his face. Wish I had a photo of it. It'd be great for business. Hey, guys, maybe an artist's concept drawing..."

They headed for his office. I wasn't sure why. Of course none of them had been slimed so there wasn't a mad rush for the showers. I followed to watch. Peter plopped down at his desk and the other three snatched chairs. At the last minute, Egon perched on the corner of the desk. They sat around like sports analysts after the big game and picked the bust apart. Still unwinding. Building themselves up till they sounded like heroes. A few more minutes of this and they'd be unbearable. You've gotta love those guys.

The phone rang. Thank goodness. Any more slaps on the back and I'd be too sick to eat my lunch. Men! I hurried back to my desk and answered it. "Ghostbusters. You've got a ghost, we bust it."

"Miss Melnitz? It's Jack." When I hesitated, he added, "Travis. From yesterday."

Oh yeah, Saint Jack, the guy that helped us save Peter, even if he'd mostly saved himself. Ray had already planned to haul several of his most interesting moldy old books up to the New York History Museum and turn Jack loose on them as a reward. Talk about a feeding frenzy. "Hi, Jack. What's up."

Egon peered over the filing cabinets. I'd like to believe he didn't care for the way my voice warmed, but maybe he just knew which Jack it was. "Is that Dr. Travis, Janine?" he asked. Yep. Second option. Figures.

I pushed the button to put the call on speaker. "Jack, the team is listening."

"Excellent. I've been going over the book."

"My book," exulted Peter. He came around to the gate, the others right behind him, and they bunched around my desk. "I always knew I was famous, now I'm famous in history, too."

Egon gave him a swat on the arm. "And in your own mind." Peter stuck out his tongue at him.

"Evidently," Travis said, unable to see the byplay. "The book got a bit of rough handling--no one blames any of you for it, since Dr. Venkman's life is more important." He sounded a little doubtful. Maybe his boss had read him the riot act. "But anyway, the back binding came loose and inside the back cover, I found a sheet of paper that had been secreted there. Someone had carefully worked part of the binding loose, fitted the paper inside, and sealed it in again, presumably so no one at the time would find it. It's a message to you, Dr. Venkman. I'll bring it to you, if you would like, since it clearly belongs to you, but I'd love to go over it first and copy it and make certain it's preserved properly."

"Read it to me now," Peter urged. He had stiffened up the way Egon had when Ray read the part in the journal about Peter thinking he couldn't risk coming home.

"Very well." I could have told Peter that Jack didn't sound like he had bad news, but Peter would have to hear it to be sure. "It goes like this:

"'Dear Peter,

I had a very brief glimpse of your world when the mob pursued you into the vortex. It looked very big, very complex, and I am glad it is not mine. But I saw your friends awaiting you, and I saw the joy that shone in their faces when they saw you. You are where you belong and this gives me great joy, too.

'I shall never forget the way you devised a plan to save my Sabitha. When all had calmed and the mob, embarrassed and uneasy, broke down into their individual members, several of them came to me and apologized for their suspicions. Two mentioned their gratitude to Sabitha for the healing potions that had helped to cure their children. They were most vocal. They will, I now believe, consider Sabitha a good woman skilled in the herbal arts.

'As I write this, it has been six months since you departed through the doorway between times. Sabitha continues to study and learn, but she has also learned caution. In a way, that saddens me, because I could tell how badly you felt for her. You wished for her the options of your Egon, to expand her mind. But we do not live in your world. Since our marriage, I have bought books for her when possible, books to aid her learning and her great hunger for knowledge. I will continue to do so. She will teach our sons, when we have sons, and the family will always remember what you have done for us.

'Sabitha now expects our first child. We plan to name him Peter.

'With our sincerity and affection,

'Roger Willett

'On this 21st day of October, the year of our Lord 1692.'"

When he finished, Peter's face blazed into a smile almost as triumphant as the one he'd worn when he'd seen Egon and Ray waiting for him on this side of the portal. For a second, his shoulders slumped with relief, and Egon reached out and put his hand on Peter's back. I watched Peter's face lift and saw the joy on his face.

"Now I can really be glad I'm back," he said involuntarily.

"It would never have been at her expense, Peter. We always knew that," Egon said. They were the exactly right words. Peter beamed. I thought it would be hugs all around again, but he caught himself and called out a thank you to Jack.

"Hey, Jack, I do want that letter," he added. "Seal it up in plastic or however you can preserve it best. I want to keep it forever."

"I'll bring it over when I get off," Travis promised.

When I hung up, Peter stood there safe, his family around him, and bounced on his toes exactly the way Ray did. "Hey, guys. They named their kid after me."

"If it was a boy, they did," Winston said with a quick grin. "They didn't name girls Peter back in 1692, or any time I ever heard of."

"Killjoy," muttered Peter, but without heat. He was still riding the wave. "Too bad they couldn't send a snapshot."

"Oh yeah, like they had photography back then," teased Ray.

Peter ruffled his hair. Then he stood back and beamed at all of us. He didn't usually get this sappy, but I guess he was entitled.

"She reminded me of you, Egon," he said suddenly. "All that love of learning. Just watching her with her books reminded me of you in the lab. I couldn't have jeopardized that, not even if it meant staying there forever." He shuddered.

"It didn't come to that, Peter," Egon reminded him. "Consider this. She was obviously a most intelligent woman--"

"Because she reminded Peter of you?" said Ray. Egon grimaced and Winston smothered a chuckle.

"My point," Egon continued with mock irritation, "is that, once aware of the danger she was in, Sabitha would have been far more cautious in the future. She took a great risk, and you helped her deal with it. She was obviously too intelligent not to learn from that."

"You're right, Ray, he is kind of smug about this," Peter said, tilting his head to study Egon. Then he grinned. I was afraid it was suddenly going to dawn on him that Sabitha and Roger--and even baby Peter--had been dead for hundreds of years and I didn't want it to. Let him realize that later, when he was more himself.

"Not smug," Egon corrected in the most annoyingly gloating voice he could manage--and knowing my Egon, that can be very annoying indeed. "Simply aware of my natural worth."

Peter grimaced. "Come on, Spengs, I'm the hero of the day this time around. I'm so brilliant people in the past name their kids for me. They probably need to design a new IQ test for the great Venkman."

I hoped the guys wouldn't let him get away with that one. I wasn't even sure he wanted to. To have the guys come down on him with hobnail boots would be the final proof he needed that he was home and safe, and that all was well.

I can always count on my guys. In unison, they advanced on him, grabbed him, and bore him away toward the stairs.

"Where are you taking him?" I called after them.

Egon's eyes sparkled with amusement. "To throw him in the shower."

I said they were about twelve, didn't I? Well, that proves it. I jumped up and followed. No comments now about my mental age. All I knew is, my day wouldn't be complete unless I got to watch.

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