Holes in the Firmament

Part VII

Peter Venkman

Peter stood on the front steps of President’s House and grinned up at the full moon; one of her pale, softly curved cheeks flirted with him over a fan of coal-black clouds. Mist fell gently, moving unnoticed across the grounds and mixing with the golden light behind him to silver the severe black. It turned him into a creature of darkness, something that walked cat-footed through lovers' dreams.

“Your car, Dr. Venkman.”

Venkman smoothed his expression from happily predatory to charmingly rakish before he turned to the valet. He tipped the young man generously, possessed by the urge to spread his good fortune to others, before slipping behind the wheel of his BMW.

Unnoticed, the student valet stood stunned, caught in a flash of unreality. He was straight. He knew it, his friends knew it, his girlfriend-especially his girlfriend-knew it. But for a split second, when the man had smiled at him, he’d felt an urge intimately familiar to men his age. Ruthlessly he shoved it down; quashed the urge, rolled it up and buried it deep. Fifty-three years into the future, surrounded by two ex-wives, three kids and nine grandchildren, one of his last thoughts would be to wonder.

Peter stopped before he left the University grounds; oblivious to the disturbance he’d left behind. He flipped quickly through the tapes stored in the center console looking for something to suit his mood. Beethoven. Beethoven. Tchaikovsky. Chopin. Chopin, Chopin, Chopin.

Detecting a theme here? He asked himself, amused.

He shrugged and fished, deciding on the tape at the bottom of the pile, regardless. For a moment he stared at his choice, wondering when this particular selection had made it into his car. He set the parking brake and rummaged, reassuring himself it was the only one like it. Peter stopped and looked around. There was nobody in the car with him, nobody to know.

I would know, he thought. But then, who would I tell?

With a grin he hit US-9 with Bob Seger’s opening riffs.

Life was good.

A half dozen turns later he merged smoothly onto Saw Mill Parkway and settled into the rhythm of the traffic, content with the way the night had gone. That the new President’s House had formerly been the sister house of his own fraternity, Tri Kappa Beta, had simply made it easier for him to slide in the back door and rearrange the seating.

He chuckled, remembering the look on Yeager’s face, especially since he’d snuck in the dining room unseen, to catch the dean doing a little rearranging of his own.

Peter's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Yeager had been furious at the switch, no doubt about that; the evening had been a total disaster from the Dean's point of view. Still, why was he making a play for Spengler now? It was possible that the Dean had no ulterior motives in his pursuit of the physicist; having a Nobel winner on the faculty would be a feather in anybody's cap, and go far towards insuring the Dean would be granted the lion's share of his appropriations requests.

Peter snorted. "Now what?" he asked himself. There were too damn many questions surrounding Yeager's pursuit of the physicist. Spengler was at least ten, and closer to fifteen, years older than the average victim. Too, Spengler was socially prominent, a Nobel winner, not somebody easily missed or casually dismissed as a college dropout. If he were found dead or reported missing there would be a serious investigation, not the cursory one that had ensued when Alex Monroe had been reported missing, or Jack Knight, Mark Whaley, or any of the seven.

Including Steven Barrett.

They searched. Just not where they knew they should, a horribly familiar baritone echoed in his thoughts.

Peter's heart skipped a beat and he shivered with a sudden chill. "Not now," he ground out, focusing on the quick turn for the Lincoln Tunnel. But his it was true his memories agreed. Steve had come from a wealthy, moderately prominent family with a number of ties to city politics. His disappearance on his way back to the city from a family weekend in Vermont hadn't raised more than a half-dozen eyebrows, although everybody had said the right things to his family and the press when his body was identified.

Except to me, he thought, the pain and bitterness that went with that realization as familiar as the guilt. Not a word, not a gesture, not even the courtesy of letting him know when the service was. Stevie's funeral was the way the family chose to express their ultimate disapproval of his relationship with their son. It all washed through him like the Mississippi through the Delta; deep, wide, and bottoming out unpredictably. 

Peter slammed his hand against the edge of the steering wheel to keep from choking on his frustration. "Why Steve, dammit!" he growled.  "Why my Stevie when he could have had Spengler then?" And why now? Steve and Spengler had been classmates for two years when Yeager had begun to take an interest in Steve's work.  He was missing something, something vital to Yeager's motivations.

For several minutes Peter skillfully maneuvered around a tangle of cars still smoking from a recent accident, and their equally smoldering drivers, then turned onto Central Park West. Coming up on his building Peter quickly popped the tape out and slid it into his pocket. He grabbed a different one at random, then winced at the volume that slammed against him when he slid it in. Wagner's Ring Cycle had never been one of his favorites, popular as it was with the pretentious.

A quick left and right saw him pull up to the security gate. The guard raised the arm and let him through with a wave when Peter flashed his resident's ID at him. He pulled into his assigned parking and turned off the engine, listening to it tick away in the dampness, releasing its heat until it was once again just a cold lump of formed metal. He let his head drop back against the rest with a thump, feeling the last of his good mood drain away, and not really caring.

Fourteen years, three months, twenty-six days. And still all he had was questions. Why Steve? Why Alex? Why any of the other five dead and who knew how many damaged or disappeared? Why Spengler? Why Spengler now?

Why did he care?

You can save him.

"Shit!" Peter yelped and twisted in his seat, banging against the driver's door. Cold fear caught at his breath and turned his terrified pants to little clouds of frost that clung to the windows. “This is not happening, this is not happening, this is not happening,” he muttered to himself, ignoring the handle bruising his back while he groped for his keys.

Peter sat in his car and stared for several long minutes, fear fading a little when there were no more answers to unvoiced questions. The icy chill faded, letting his numb fingers warm, and he could finally breathe normally.  A wet sheen on the butter soft leather of his upholstery snagged his attention. Hesitantly he touched one of the small, glistening spots on the upholstery, and jerked his hand back when he felt something thick and slimy on his fingertips. In the dim light of the parking garage the partially clear goo shimmered on his shaking hand.  Quickly Peter wiped it off on his trouser leg.

"No," he whispered in denial, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "It's just...hair gel; damn that kid. And to think I over-tipped him." He tried a laugh and winced at what came out. "See what happens when you relax," he growled at himself, disgusted at his lack of control. "Now concentrate!" Several breaths later he laughed again, and this time it was the light, slightly sardonic, slightly self-deprecating chuckle familiar to the world. A cocky grin curled his lips and he took a moment to smooth his hair back into place, checking it in the vanity mirror. "There you are. Dr. Venkman, shrink extraordinaire, at your service: no psychosis too big, no fee too big."

He slid out of his car and hesitated before he reached back and scooped up the discarded cassette case.  Peter slid the tape inside and snapped the case shut sharply. He tucked it in his pocket and locked the car doors before heading inside.

Passing a concrete trashcan at the garage entrance, he smoothly pulled the case out of his pocket and tossed it in, then continued on his way.

"Evening, Dr. Venkman," the doorman said when he keyed open the door for the psychologist.

"Evening, Louis. Here a little late, aren't you?" Peter smiled politely at the odd little man that guarded the Shandor Building's front doors most evenings.

A good six inches shorter than the psychologist, Louis blinked up at him through coke-bottle lenses. "Well, normally I'd say that's true Dr. Venkman, but there's a maintenance guy here in the building, and I don't like to leave until they’re gone. You never know when they might need something, and if somebody's not here when they call down for it, who knows what they might do."

Peter automatically nodded agreement, stuck his hands in his pockets and started to drift towards the elevators, ignoring the slight stickiness clinging to his right hand. Louis started drifting with him, gold braid rustling against black nylon, still chattering. It occurred to Peter suddenly; the doorman was the only person he'd ever met to be completely at home in a polyester uniform. He stopped and studied the other man for a moment. The light caught the gold braid, making it flicker with bright flames at the edge of his sight.

"You know something, Louis?" Peter interrupted the words that flowed like a postnasal drip-- annoying and stuffy, with much the same accent.

"What's that, Dr. Venkman," Louis whined cheerfully.

"I think you should know, and I'm sure I speak for many of the other tenants also when I say; you wear your uniform well, Louis. Keep up the good work."

His words had the effect of freezing Louis in his tracks, allowing Peter to make his escape to the safety of the elevator bank. He punched in his code and looked back, willing the car to arrive quickly, before Louis regained his balance. The man was staring at him, mouth agape and eyes wide, magnified like fisheyes behind the thick lenses.

"Thank you, Dr. Venkman!" Louis called after him, then pivoted neatly when the front buzzer sounded, and promptly tripped over his feet. If he didn't notice that Peter's answering smile was a bit tight, that was to the good as far as the psychologist was concerned.

The elevator chimed softly behind him twice, and he stepped into the gold trimmed box, reaching to insert his key into the penthouse bypass.

“Hold it! Hold the elevator please!” A woman’s voice called from the hallway.

Obediently Peter held down the ‘Door Open’ key, then cursed himself an instant later when the owner of the voice whipped around the corner.

“Oh! Dr. Venkman! Thank you so much, these elevators are just soooo old and slow sometimes. It’s just ridiculous, you’d think with the fees we pay they’d be able to put in something better.” Dana Barrett, the femme fatale of the Shandor Tenants’ Association, flashed her eyes in Peter’s direction.

The woman was as tall as Peter was, auburn hair impeccably coifed, bedroom brown eyes seducing the light. She’d obviously been out with the quiet man standing behind her; the red and gold sheath wrapped around her wasn’t anything she’d be allowed to wear in her position with the Met Symphony. She stepped closer to Peter, and her heavy floral perfume surrounded him.

“Peter, I’ve been trying to reach you all week. You’re an…impossible man…to get a hold of.” She inched closer, and Peter fought the urge to step back.

Instead he allowed himself a slow smile, studying her from half-closed eyes. He reached up and moved a stray lock of hair back behind her ear, a dangling gold teardrop throwing back his distorted reflection. He let his fingers linger on the curve of her lobe while he contemplated, just for a second, the wild idea of telling her exactly what he was thinking; then he remembered the other man in the elevator with them.

“Dana, if I’d known you wanted me, I’d have made sure I was available.” He dropped his hand and folded them neatly together, the quirk of his lips twisting the meaning of his words.

She pouted in a way that had bent dozens of men. “Friday. I want you to come to my party. We’re trying to get all the tenants together to get the roof restored.”

He felt an eyebrow go up. “The roof restored? Is something wrong with it?”

“No, silly,” she smiled with feline primness and slanted a look up at him. “The roof is just covered with dozens of absolutely marvelous statues from the ‘20’s and ‘30’s, along with what’s left of an arboretum and rooftop garden. I think it would be terrific to restore it for the tenants’ use.” She leaned even closer and whispered in his ear. “And very, very romantic.”

He couldn’t breathe; he was going to die if he didn’t get away. The elevator softly chimed their arrival at her floor, and the doors rolled slowly back, sucking the heavily perfumed air out and letting in a rush of coolness.

“Friday, my place. Bring a date.” She winked then reached back for the other man’s hand. “Or don’t.”

The doors slid closed on her fiery clad form, and Peter leaned back against the wall. He hit the button for the penthouse floor, and then closed his eyes, trying to ease the nausea. Had she actually used the words arboretum and rooftop garden in the same sentence?  He’d once spent a long weekend screwing her into oblivion, just to relieve his own needs, to block off memories by submerging them in sensation. He’d known then it was a mistake; Dana Barrett believed in once tumbled, twice hers. Hopefully the guy she’d been with tonight would be enough to distract her from her intermittent hobby of attempting to lure Peter back into her claws.

The soft chime alerted him to his arrival on the 23rd floor. Peter tucked his hands in his pockets and strolled towards his apartment. Walking towards him was a well-built black man in workman’s overalls, perhaps two or three inches taller than Peter and correspondingly broader in the shoulder. Sometime in the past the man’s nose had encountered something much harder than itself, leaving a slightly abnormal thickening just below the bridge and ruining the otherwise ideal symmetry of his face. When they passed in the hallway Peter gave him a smile and a nod, taking in the 'Zeddemore Construction' patch on one side, and the man's name 'Winston' on the other. 'Winston' nodded back, but didn’t break his stride, disappearing a minute later around the corner towards the service elevator with the lithe and carefully light walk of a man in enemy territory, expecting an ambush any moment.

Peter stopped in front of his door and bounced his keys thoughtfully. Had the man gotten that nose and walk from the streets like Peter himself, or somewhere less beneficent? Peter glanced down to unlock his door and dropped his line of thought. His own defense systems, honed from his own years of street-life and never ignored, were screaming for his attention.

The owners of the Shandor Building knew, and knew well, that to attract the kind of tenants willing to pay the outrageous prices the owners demanded, the tenants would have to be catered to. The upwardly mobile class the owners wooed needed all the trappings: pool, spa, gym, and doorman. One of the lures was the furnishings in the opulent common areas, geared to make a favorable impression on any client a tenant brought home. Number one on the list was the carpeting; the thick, plush, immaculately kept, medium-pale-gray carpeting that dominated this wing of the building. The carpeting that showed every mark of the vacuum’s passage when the maid did her thrice-daily maintenance rounds on the penthouse floors. The carpeting that Peter had been instantly enamored of, when he realized how easily and clearly footprints showed up in it.

Just like the slightly larger, slightly heavier marks that might be left by a workman’s boots. Just like the ones that led down the opposite side of the hall to the main maintenance access for the building, then back out and directly to Peter’s door. The darker gray marks were scuffed there, with a number of toe and heel impressions, then continued on down the hallway back to the elevator lobby.

Without pausing Peter unlocked his door and swung it open, stepping to the side while he did. When nothing happened he glanced inside, then checked the floor. More scuffmarks showed in the carpeting just inside the entrance, trailing deeper into the apartment and just visible in the dim light he always left on. Peter stepped carefully inside, avoiding the marks and shut the door quietly. He threw the dead bolts then double-checked them before turning back to his apartment.

Somebody, presumably the maintenance man he'd seen in the hallway, had been in his apartment. He snorted; forcing the air from his lungs then slowly drew a deep breath, nostrils flared. Just faintly he could smell cologne that wasn't his. Anger and tension flashed up his spine and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Peter ground his teeth and forced it down, sheer willpower commanding his muscles to relax; now was not the time for emotion.

He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, turning his thoughts inward. Years of practice made it easy to rein in his anger and harness his hate. The coolness of logic and unfeeling welcomed him, wrapped him in gray shrouds of cotton and quiet and held him secure. When he opened his eyes again, the Peter Venkman society matrons welcomed with delight had been stripped off, folded up and locked away until needed.

Coldly opaque green eyes flicked around the living room. Seeing nothing out of place, Venkman quickly checked the kitchen and dining nook. Finding nothing touched in either place he followed the trail of scuffed carpet down the hallway to the bedrooms. The guest room on the left had been searched quickly but thoroughly, the fibers crushed by the bed where 'Winston', if that was the man's real name, had knelt to look underneath, leaving one neat corner mussed. One closet door was slightly ajar, as was the bottom dresser drawer.

Venkman shed his jacket while he crossed the hall to the master bedroom. He fished his keys out of one pocket then paused; a fresh scratch on the strike plate showed a clumsy attempt to pick the lock, the disturbance of the carpet under the door showing the attempt had succeeded. Venkman tried the doorknob, not particularly surprised when it swung open at his touch. Failing to relock the door marked this as the work of an amateur, and a careless one at that. Nothing appeared to have been touched in here, where he only rarely allowed himself to stay in case he became too relaxed and careless; already the warmth was beginning to sink in, easing residual tension from his neck and shoulders. The carpet showed the same pattern of movement as the guest room; it would stand to reason the same places would have been checked, and Venkman knew exactly what a thief would have found in any of those spots.

Jewelry and cash still on the dresser, suits accounted for although it was doubtful any of Venkman's would have fit the supposed workman. He thought for a minute then neatly hung his jacket up before moving back to the kitchen. He picked up the receiver and held it between head and shoulder while he dialed downstairs and listened to it ring. One...two....

"Shandor Building, this is Louis, how will I help you?"

The obsequious, seesawing voice grated against Venkman's nerves and his nose wrinkled involuntarily, but he put shallow charm into his voice when he answered. "Louis, it's Dr. Venkman on 23. I was wondering, has the maintenance guy left yet?" While he spoke he began removing button cover and cuff links, shaking out each wrist as he did. The sparkling green stones were luminescent in the low lighting, showing twice the warmth and humanity of Venkman's eyes.

"Gee, Dr. Venkman, I just let him out. Do you want me to try and stop him? Is there a problem? I can call Syd in the garage and maybe catch him that way."

Venkman heard the door buzzer in the background, and assumed the doorman had moved the phone away from his face since the "just a second," sounded muted, but still clear enough that Louis hadn't covered the receiver with his hand. Wallet, keys, change, subway tokens, and a desperately illegal switchblade knife had joined the pile before Louis returned his attention to the conversation.

"Dr. Venkman? Did you want me to try and stop him?"

Venkman sighed. "No, Louis, thanks though. It's just I'm still getting these cold spots from that non-existent cooling fluctuation, and I thought maybe I could ask him about it." His eyes narrowed while he mentally reviewed the doorman’s profile. Couldn't hurt. "What do you think, Louis, would the guy that was out tonight be able to do anything?"

He could hear Louis' ego flex at being consulted. "I bet he would Dr. V," was the answer. "It was the supervisor who was out tonight, Winston Zeddemore. He knows his stuff all right, or I wouldn't let him in the building. The board trusts me to know stuff like that," he added.

"So you know this guy?" Venkman asked, eyeing the tracks in the carpet by the door.

"Sure, Winston's out every month or so, checking up on the regular guys and taking care of anything big, you know? Hey, how about I put down your problem on his list? I can have the day man call his office, get him out here to take a look?"

"No, that's okay Louis. It's probably just my imagination anyways. Thanks."

"Well, okay Dr. V., but if you change your mind, just let me know. I'll get it taken care of. Have a...."

Venkman hung up the phone mid-word. Long experience had taught him that was the only way to get the little man off it. "'Good night.'" He shook his head. Dr. V.? Where had the man come up with that?

His eyes flicked over to the VCR to see that it was close to eleven o'clock, down to the disturbed carpet, over to his desk, back to the carpet. Suddenly he was very tired. He shook his head sharply, scooped up the contents of his pockets from the counter and headed for the bedroom. He unlocked it then tossed the handful of stuff on his dresser. What he wanted to do was pull on a pair of sweats, crawl into bed and lose himself for an hour or so in one of his westerns, before turning out the light and sleeping until noon. What he did was pull out a black fisherman's sweater and more casual pair of slacks, changed and headed back out to the kitchen, his one concession to personal comfort being a slightly battered pair of fleece lined slippers.

Venkman grabbed a bottle of Perrier out of the refrigerator and frowned at his slippers, trying to decide whether he needed to replace them.  After a moment he set the question aside for another time, and headed for the broom closet, pulling out two baskets of cleaning supplies. Depositing one on his desk, he took the other into the bathroom to begin reclaiming his territory.

Half past two found Venkman sitting cross-legged on the carpet, rubbing the last claw leg with oil. His apartment was his once again, all traces of anybody else eradicated by a determined application of Lysol and Carpet Fresh. The sheets on both beds had been changed, suits rehung, and even the inside of the rarely used oven wiped out. Venkman, himself, was the last thing in the place in desperate need of cleaning, his back complaining while he once again stowed his supplies in the closet.

He ducked into the bathroom and started the shower, then stripped and tossed his clothes into the hamper, nose wrinkling at the smell. Nude, he padded down the hallway, ignoring the gooseflesh the cool air raised on his skin, the small shudder when he past through a pocket of air close to frigid.  Underwear and robe were quickly collected, and he headed back to the bath, absently noticing that his passing seemed to have dispelled the cold spot just as it usually did.

Tired and sore, Venkman let the hot water pour over his head, plastering down his expensive hairstyle and darkening the brown strands to nearly black. He ran his hands across his face then through his hair, separating the tangled locks and massaging his scalp. Venkman shuddered under the heat; he could feel his tension flowing away with the sweat and dirt, easing the low grade pounding that had begun behind his eyes. It was a number of long, relaxing minutes later before he was numbed enough by the pounding spray to reach for the soap.

Sense memory engulfed him while he lathered his hands, the tiny white bubbles bursting under his nose with the sharp smell childhood conditioning told him meant 'clean'. Closer, more adult memories told him it was the same scent that had risen from Egon Spengler that evening, when Venkman had invaded the man's personal space in the receiving line. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, the steam heat and soap smell becoming Spengler's heat, Spengler's scent. It wrapped around him and drew him close, starting an answering shudder that arrowed sweetly up to his throat and down to his groin.

Involuntarily he gasped and wrenched himself back from the moment, grabbed awkwardly for the faucet and slapped open the cold water full force. Venkman gritted his teeth against the indignant shriek from his body, swallowing it back as a little whimper of shock.  In seconds the near freezing rain had dispelled the fog from the room and washed the last of the clinging soap trails down the drain.

Venkman leaned back against the chilled tile, eyes closed and breath coming in little pants while he fought down his body's reactions to both the melting heat and shocking cold. Bone familiar fatigue and tension settled back on him; tiredly he reached one hand to moderate the water temperature, and with the other he reached for his shampoo. Quickly he finished his showering then stepped out into a room nearly the same temperature as the icy water. He toweled off roughly and pulled on his clothes. Almost as an afterthought, he reached back into the shower for the soap and weighed it in his hand before tossing it in the trash.

For once the air in the rest of the apartment was relatively warm in comparison to his body temperature. Venkman detoured through the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, grabbed another bottle of water, and headed for his desk.

He settled himself in the leather-covered chair and carefully placed his water on a coaster near the left edge, then moved the desk set and blotter aside. Venkman ran his fingers over the silky smooth, freshly oiled surface, then along the underside of the near right lip until he encountered a spot that would appear to most no more than a slight flaw in the wood, a place where a less than careful craftsman had forced the wood instead of coaxing it like a master. He applied a certain pressure there, followed by six other touches along the underside of the desk, until with a near silent click part of the top depressed along a butt joint, then rose quietly to allow him access to the hidden compartment within the giant puzzle box.

The psychologist let go of the breath he'd been mentally holding when he reached in and pulled out a thick manila document file. Venkman set the file to the side and closed the compartment, only vaguely reassured by the decisive snick of the lock engaging. Quickly he pulled the blotter back into place and sat down to review the contents. He quickly flicked through the file, assuring himself that everything was still there and untouched.

With the speed of long familiarity he sorted the papers into seven different stacks, oldest to newest. His hand rested for a moment on the oldest pile, caressing papers worn soft like he once had the skin they represented, then grabbed the bottle of water. Venkman pulled a legal pad out of his desk with the other hand, took a drink, then set aside the bottle and took up his pen.

For a long time he sat and stared blankly at the pad, running his thoughts through their long familiar paces. With a sigh he started writing, listing the common attributes each of the seven murder victims had, trying to see where they intersected, what would draw Yeager to them. All were young men, the youngest eighteen and the oldest twenty-three. All were blond; three were over six foot, the shortest just five feet, six inches. Most had once had blue or green eyes; only Steve's had been brown. Five had been from upper class families, two on scholarships and other financial aid. Six had been from Columbia, one transfer from NYU. Four Protestants, two Catholics, one Buddhist. All were exceptionally intelligent; four double majors, an engineer, a physicist, and a religion major. Of the doubles, two were engineering/parapsychology majors, one applied physics/religion and occult studies, and the fourth in parapsychology/botany.

As he always did, Venkman smiled at the last, thinking the child had probably been looking for better religion through herbal essences.

Multiple subjects, all nearly identical, except in one or two categories. Yeager’s ideal victim would be a white male in his early twenties, tall, blond and blue eyed. He, or his family at least, would be well off. He would be intelligent, with a hard science major and a soft science minor or second major in one of the ‘New Age’ disciplines, and studying at Columbia. He would be Protestant, although not necessarily devoutly.

So far each of the victims had been a perfect match to the ideal in every category except one. Yeager had yet to collect exceptions to age, hair color, and sex.

Based on those criteria, Spengler would be perfect as one of Yeager's victims, giving him an exception in the age category. Could that be why he’d waited this long? Because he’d had to practically hand cultivate a victim for himself to meet the age exception?

Venkman tossed the pen on the desk and leaned his head on his hands in disgust. Either Yeager wanted Spengler for the department, clean and on the level, or he wanted the physicist for one of his own private reindeer games. Venkman closed his eyes and felt a shiver run up his spine, cold air curling up it in delicate tracery, raising his hackles and settling firmly behind his eyes to throb in time with his pulse. For a long time the only thing he saw was Egon Spengler's face, as blind and sightless as his Stevie's, all the humor and intelligence he'd seen in the man's eyes that night lost to humanity forever, and something inside him crumbled a little.

Eventually, distantly, he heard his alarm clock beep gently. Dry-eyed, Venkman stood up to get dressed for his morning run before starting his day.

Venkman slowed and downshifted, waiting for an oncoming truck to pass before he turned left onto a private road, windshield wipers slapping in gentle counterpart to the radio. The road was carefully paved, the edges landscaped to hide it from immediate view both from the main highway and the house itself. He shifted gently, listening to the thrum of engine when it engaged. The psychologist slowed slightly on a curve, reached over and punched the button on a remote that sat in an open briefcase full of files on the passenger seat. In response, a pair of wrought iron gates swung open to admit Dr. Venkman onto the grounds of Morningside.

The gray rain that New Yorkers cursed turned the Morningside estate into a mystical realm of ancient trees and blurred fields, early mists clinging to the long blades of grass. The paved drive wove around the edge of the grounds to the converted mansion in the middle of 20 acres, a black water river that brought a different kind of life to the complex.

Gravel crunched under the wheels when he pulled into his reserved slot under the awning at the front of the stately mansion. Venkman tucked his sunglasses into their case and leaned against the wheel, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and forcing himself to relax after the four hour drive from Manhattan. A minute later he slammed the lid of the briefcase shut and slid from the sleek black BMW. Venkman grabbed his monogrammed umbrella from the trunk and checked his suit for imperfections.

In the twenty steps from the parking awning to the front entrance, Venkman mentally pulled out his warm, caring, slightly mischievous public persona and made sure it was firmly in place.

“Good morning, Jennifer,” he smiled down at the receptionist/nurse at the front desk.

“Good morning, Dr. Venkman,” she smiled back, as always a little flustered by the attractive man. She handed him a stack of files and an envelope full of pink message slips before the phone rang.

Peter quickly flipped through both the messages and files. Several were from the Barrett harpy; those he balled up and tossed in the trashcan Jennifer offered him, grinning at the disgusted face he made.

Peter waited until the receptionist had cooled the ire of whatever impatient relative she’d been talking to by promising that "the Doctor will call as soon as Mr. McCallister is able to receive visitors,"  then caught her attention. “Jennifer, where’s the Alex Monroe file?”

She blinked. “The Monroe file? Oh, Dr. Hampton--,”

“-has it right here. Morning Dr. Venkman; the Monroe file.” The words were accompanied by a thud when the thick manila folder hit the counter in front of him.

“And good morning to you, Dr. Hampton. Thank you, have you seen him yet?” Peter turned to his partner and co-founder of Morningside, Dr. Gloria Hampton, M.D. One hand rested covetously on the newly returned file, the other on his hip while Peter gave her his full attention.

“Physically, he’s doing as well as can be expected, poor bastard.” Gloria ran a narrowed gaze over Peter’s face. “You, on the other hand, look like shit. Should you even be here?”

“Sure, I’m fine. Just a little headache. Coffee?” He swept the file up with the other four he’d collected from the receptionist and motioned the stately brunette ahead of him into the doctor’s lounge behind the nurses' station.

“I guess the reception was a success then. Need some Tylenol?” she grinned and reached for both their mugs hanging over the lounge sink, turning to hold them while Peter poured.

“Let’s just say I had a very…late…night.” He leaned back against the counter, a long, elegant line of gray Armani suit and Gucci loafers. The smile when he sipped his coffee was more a smirk. He watched Dr. Hampton’s face from under his lashes. “I happened to run into a pair of gorgeous blonds, one with legs up to here,” he motioned with his cup, “and a mouth made for sin, while the other was a most excellent…hmmm, dancer.”

It was almost a minute before Gloria was able to stop laughing. Venkman watched her, his own grin stretched across his face. He set his coffee down on the counter and moved to slap her back when she started coughing.

“Venkman, you are such a slut. I can’t wait for the day you fall, because you’re going to fall hard!” She spluttered through a few last gasps.

“Never happen, Fancy Free Venkman, that’s me. Besides, the only woman who interests me is already taken.” He fluttered his eyelashes at her before opening his eyes wide and rolling them at her to make his point. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she sighed, humor falling away. “I needed that, thanks. I take back most of what I said about your degree.”

“Only most?”

She shook her head, but not in denial of her words; when she looked up it was obvious her mind had shifted topics. “That kid, Peter, that damned kid. What are we going to do?”

He frowned, realized she was referring to the Monroe case. “We do what we always do, Gloria. You take care of the body, I’ll handle the mind.” He held up his hand to stop her before she said anything. “There is a mind in there, hurt and hiding, but I’ve seen traces of it. It’s just going to take some time.” He reached for his mug on the counter and sipped, watching the other doctor carefully.

“I hope to God the police can find the bastard that did this.” Gloria leaned back against the counter and wrapped her arms around herself as if she could ward off a sudden chill.

Peter set down his mug and watched her for a moment, then took a step forward, closing the last distance between them. One arm went around her in a hug, while the other hand reached for the glitter of the fine gold chain around her neck. Gloria leaned into the offered comfort, then brought her hand up to help him pull out the small gold cross her husband had given her on their first anniversary.  She looked at him, puzzled.  Peter held it on his open palm, watching the bright metal glitter in the fluorescent lights of the lounge, feeling the warmth from her body heat. “I’m sure he’ll get what he deserves, Gloria, in the next world if not this.” He dropped the cross back on her chest, and tapped it lightly to reinforce his meaning, before looking up to meet her eyes and give her half of a reassuring smile.

Gloria froze, caught by an unexpected glitter in his deep green eyes, and in that moment, forced to choose between the fires of damnation and an hour at the hands of Peter Venkman, she couldn't honestly say what her answer would be.

"Peter," she started, disturbed by the darkness she saw, so in contrast to the man she knew.

In a sudden shift he stepped back and swept up the files under one arm, grabbing his cup in the other hand. Peter flashed a cocky grin at the other doctor. “Gotta run, my dear. I hear there’s a new nurse in the kids’ ward and since my calendar is open for Saturday after next, who knows?” He motioned wildly with his cup, close to slopping some of the hot liquid over the side.

Gloria took a step towards the retreating man and mentally shifted to catch up with the him. “Venkman, the woman’s short, fat, fifty if she’s a day, and has nine grandkids!” she called after him.

“Ah, an experienced woman!” and he disappeared around the corner of the door.

Gloria Hampton shook her head and collected her own mug. Already she was putting down the icy blankness she’d seen in the psychologist’s eyes to a trick of the lights; the man she'd known since her undergrad days, who'd introduced her to her husband, could never be that soulless. Unconsciously, her left hand touched the cross still visible on her blouse before tucking it away and turning her attention to finishing her rounds for the day.

By two o’clock Peter had seen an autistic millionaire, the wife of another, self-admitted for alcohol and barbiturate abuse, and met the new children’s ward nurse while they held a twelve-year-old leukemia patient between them as she vomited up her last round of chemotherapy. The grandmother of nine had proven no more immune to Peter’s charm than any other woman, especially once he helped her change her patient’s clothes and bedding, as well as wash down the small bathroom. When he followed that by holding the girl’s hand and telling outrageous stories until she dozed off, the newest staff member was ready to nominate him for sainthood.

Peter was on his way out of the doctor’s lounge with his twelfth cup of coffee when Ian McCallister intercepted him in front of reception. The 85-year-old, ex-Mafia bookmaker had been attempting to persuade the lovely Jennifer to marry him for several months now, with Jennifer continuing to firmly refuse. McCallister had even opened an informal 'book' on it at Morningside, although takers for him making it to the altar were few and far between.

McCallister waved farewell to the receptionist and then neatly pivoted his wheelchair into Peter’s path. The electric chair hummed alongside the psychologist, who obligingly slowed his pace and stopped at the elevator with the old man.

“I heard what you did for Trisha Anne this morning,” Ian said, motioning for the younger man to precede him into the elevator.

Peter stepped inside and held the door, then pushed the button for the second floor. He’d known Ian McCallister for a number of years now, had even arranged the fake nervous breakdown and subsequent onset of senility that had taken him safely out of the 'family' business. One thing he’d learned was that McCallister never started a conversation with what he wanted to discuss. Thus, Trisha Anne’s reaction to her chemo treatment was not on the agenda.

“What, held her head then told her a story?” He sipped his coffee and watched the other man watch him. On the second floor he once again held the door open and followed the other man to his private suite.

McCallister waved his hand and wheezed with what passed as laughter for him these days. “A little more than that, I think, but probably less than the bringing her back from death’s doorstep that new nurse has you doing. Charmed her out of her tree already, have you?”

Peter moved around the room to each window in turn, twitching the curtains and adjusting the blinds just so, in subtle reassurance to the old man’s lifetime of paranoia. He knew McCallister appreciated it, that somebody at Morningside understood what knowing the coast was clear meant to him. That neither man would ever acknowledge the trait in the other, no matter how appreciated, was also understood; acknowledging would mean explanations, something neither wanted nor needed.

“Well, I don’t think she needed much charming, do you?” Peter smiled and turned his back to the last window, continuing to sip his coffee while he waited.

“With a face like that? Probably not.”

“Oh, come on Ian, she’s not that bad. Maybe you should give her a whirl, instead of wasting your time with Jennifer.”

“Spending time with Jennifer is not a waste. Anybody who can brush off my relatives and still keep the peace is worth their weight in platinum. I hope you’re paying her what she’s worth, Venkman, or I’ll have words with the Board.” McCallister shook his finger in Peter’s direction, knowing that not only was the young woman more than adequately compensated, but that in talking to Dr. Peter Venkman, he was talking to the Board of Morningside.

“She told you Martin called.”

“I’m telling you, one of the biggest mistakes of my life was not having him and his mother drowned at his birth.” With a bird-like gesture emphasized by his fragile bones, McCallister cocked his head sideways and studied Peter out of his good eye. “So how is Trisha Anne?”

Peter gave him back stare for stare. “I’m a psychologist, not a medical doctor. I can have Dr. Hampton come around if you want the details.”

“Not good then,” he shook his head. “It’s always a pity to see the young ones taken like that; like Trisha Anne, or that young Monroe boy.”

Ah, thought Peter, here it is. But instead of saying anything he just relaxed further against the window ledge and sipped.

McCallister gave him the fish-eye again. “I saw him when they brought him in last month. I’ve been by his room a couple of times myself. I’ve talked with his family.” The old man sat back and twitched at his blanket, then turned his chair towards the sitting area. McCallister looked over his shoulder at the younger man, then snapped his fingers towards one of the velvet-covered, straight-backed chairs.

Peter plastered an amused smile on his face, and fought down both anger and incipient nausea. Maybe this last cup of coffee hadn’t been such a good idea. He bit back what he wanted to say, and took the seat the old man indicated.

Ian moved closer, until he could reach out one hand that was less frail than it looked and wrap it around Peter’s forearm. “Don’t much like that, do you, youngster.” The smile with the words was no less dangerous for being on an old man’s face.

Peter looked away to set down his cup. “Not particularly.” He looked back. “But you’ll notice I took it.”

“For the moment, eh? Like I said, Dr. Venkman, I’ve talked with the young man’s parents. I found it interesting that such an obviously blue-collar couple could afford to keep their son at a place like Morningside. Seems the cop working the case put them in touch with a victim restitution program from the state.”

“So I understand,” Peter drawled with a slight smile. He held his face and body still, showing only mild amusement. He shrugged and pulled back out of McCallister's reach. "As long as the bill gets paid doesn't matter to me who pays it."

The old man tapped the side of his nose knowingly, then shook his finger in Peter's face. Suddenly he sobered and motioned the psychologist closer, looking around as if to assure himself there was nobody else listening. Peter obliged and leaned forward until the two were nearly nose-to-nose.

"Peter, we've known each other for a while, so I'll be frank. I've done a lot of bad things, seen a lot of bad things; but this, what was done to that boy, that's just plain evil. Bring that boy back, Dr. Venkman, it's the only way. Anyone that can do that kind of stuff to a kid needs to be put down like a mad dog."

The two men studied each other for a long moment. McCallister nodded once, satisfied.

Dr. Venkman had one last patient to visit.

Peter let the door to the third floor private wardroom shut quietly behind him and leaned back against it. The bed to his left was empty and neatly made; next to it a small nightstand with phone, lamp and alert buttons. Behind a hand-painted antique screen near the door was an array of life-support equipment.  A determined effort had been made to personalize the room, with a few pictures of friends and family taped carefully to the bed frame and adorning the small side table.  The bed itself had a worn quilt thrown over it.

Despite efforts to make the room more cheerful, there was a miasma of despair draped over everything, compounded from the faint antiseptic smell typical of a hospital room, with human fear and bodily waste.

The last patient Dr. Venkman was here to see was sitting in a wheelchair by the bay window, white lace curtains drawn back to let in the gray light. The rain, so nearly violent in the city, here made gentle patterns on the window, the soft tapping inviting the unwary to curl up in the window seat and nap.

It was doubtful the pattering rain soothed the young man sitting by the window. It was doubtful the young man was even aware of the season, let alone the weather. Dr. Venkman had reason to believe that his newest patient wasn’t even aware he was still alive.

“Alexander Graham Monroe,” Venkman rolled the name around in a whisper. Bell to his friends. Bellwether. Bell-ringer. For Whom the Bell Tolls. “It tolls for thee,” he murmured to himself, and leaned back against the door, eyes closed. His stomach did a slow flip, and a cold sweat broke out along his spine. He was almost grateful for the discomfort the nausea caused; it distracted him from the panic and helped him quell the occasional stab of hope the young man's every living breath elicited.

"The voice of an angel and the heart to match," was the way his pastor had described the bright and gentle soul belonging to the tall, blond young man with a face only the generous could call plain. Now the only record of that personality was the traces seen in the family photo by the bed in a heavy, gold-toned frame. When Alex had gone to his pastor, certain he'd been called to the church, the pastor had been the one to suggest his protégée enroll in Columbia's Religious Studies program, to experience a little of the world before committing himself. Dr. Venkman had discretely arranged several sessions of grief counseling for the elderly cleric.

Peter pulled himself out of his thoughts and knocked gently on the door behind him several times, watching for the slightest reaction from his patient, but not really expecting any.

"Good afternoon, Alex, It's Dr. Venkman; sorry I'm so late today, but Ian McCallister wanted to have a little heart-to-heart, and when he makes you an offer you don't refuse." He kept his voice quietly cheerful while he settled on the ottoman in front of his patient. Peter flipped the tail of his lab coat out of the way and set the heavy file on the low coffee table behind him.

Every move was made as slowly and quietly as possible, a lesson learned the hard way; when Alex had first been transported to Morningside an incautious move had jarred the gurney and Alex had reacted with a frenzied attempt to fight himself free of straps and attendants. The desperate man struck out wildly, hitting one paramedic with the I.V. pole and dragging the second half across the bed. For two of the three nurses that leaped to help, it was the first time they'd ever heard the howlings of human desperation given voice without tongue; the third would have a months of sleepless nights featuring Morningside firmly planted in Vietnam.  The one paramedic shook off the pole and with the other four held Alex down until Dr. Mark Hampton arrived at a run with a sedative. Slowly the screams died off to moans, then whimpers, until the young man's body went lax in drugged relief.

Conscious of past traumas, Dr. Venkman studied his newest patient. This was the third time Peter had seen the young man, and the first without tremendous amounts of medical equipment and personnel in attendance. Straw blond hair stuck out randomly, like an entire heard of cows had taken turns licking at his hair, several long strands hung lankly down his face, partially covering his eyes. Alex's head drooped onto his chest, azure eyes half closed, surrounding tissues still puffy. His lips were slightly parted, and listening closely Peter could hear the air moving slowly in and out.

Peeking over the top of Alex's pajama shirt, Peter could see the fine lines that were the beginnings of deeper, angrier healings. Watching his patient carefully, his hands reached for the tie on the robe. He shouldn't do what he was thinking; there was no justifiable reason for it. If he needed to know the extent of the physical damage done he had full access not only to every physicians' report, but he could pick up the phone and pick Gloria's mind on the matter any time he needed to. But he didn't know, could never know.... At least this way he might learn a little of it. Steeling himself, he started moving again.

With infinite patience, Peter gently lifted away the edges of a worn blue bathrobe, then unbuttoned the pajama shirt and peeled it back to reveal the wounds he'd never seen clearly before. The last time he'd seen Alex, the young man been flat on his back and hooked up to more machines than Peter cared to think about, especially inside a pure oxygen environment. The wounds on his chest had mostly healed in the last nine months, the skin grafts over the worst burns shiny and pink; the deep, filleting cuts that had delineated every bone were red traceries that in time would heal to heavy scarring. Already the shallower cuts scattered across the milky white skin in small, random groups had healed to near invisibility, revealed more by touch than sight.

Still studying Alex for any sign of awareness, the earliest twitch of tension, Peter leaned closer and ghosted his fingers along the heavy scarring in the center of Alex's chest. There was something about the small cuts, the way they were scattered and grouped that seemed strange.

A sudden freezing draft curled around Peter's legs and up his spine, under his coat and across his neck. Startled, he jerked back and sat with a thump. Now it was his turn to freeze, inside and out, taking a long moment to force control over his trembling body. His eyes widened and excitement shivered through him.

"Writing," he breathed, not noticing his words puffed out in small clouds of frost. "Hieroglyphics of some sort.”

Slowly then, but getting faster as he gained familiarity with the oddly angled strokes, Peter began copying what he saw on the living clay in front of him. Occasionally he had to stop and reach forward, drawing his fingers across the slowly rising and falling flesh, feeling the fainter marks, sometimes going back when the mark he traced was an older one or one of the normal flaws all flesh held. Oddly, the proper ones had a different feel to them, like an overlay of slime was the closest he could come. It made his flesh crawl, and Peter could feel himself wanting to shrink back from them, avert his eyes.

Twenty minutes later Peter finally came back to himself, muscles beginning to twitch. He frowned and looked around, making a note to have maintenance check the bay window for leaks. The psychologist never noticed that nothing moved in the chill breeze that puffed across him but his own hair.  Peter blew on his pale fingers and shook out the cramps in them. He shivered and refastened his patient’s shirt and robe, taking care to continue moving as slowly and carefully as possible.  Finally the air began to warm around them, and Peter looked at the yellow notepad covered with chicken scratches.

What was he thinking? No way the scattered markings formed anything coherent. But something at the back of his mind, his always-heeded intuition, told him they were important. He stared at his copy, seeing neither the ink on paper, nor even their original carved into living skin; but an older canvas, one that he’d only ever seen when his nightmares came out to play. Now there would be new details added, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to see them.

A small, soft sound, the near subliminal rub of cloth on cloth brought his focus back to the present. Peter glanced up and dark green eyes met soft blue, both sets full of not only their own pain, but the pain of others as well. The psychologist gasped, but a moment later the awareness, the self-ness in the blue eyes dulled and faded back to nothing before he could catch it.

Deep down, Peter Venkman knew what the scarred young man across from him wanted, so he gave it. Peter leaned over his patient, supporting himself on the arms of the wheelchair. “Don’t worry, Alex, I’ll get him,” he whispered near one ear, the tip still shiny although the scabs had long since fallen away. “I’ll get him for all of us. That's a promise from Dr. Venkman.”

There was no answer, but Peter hadn’t expected one. Dr. Venkman gathered up his file and left the room without a backward look, swirling insolence and nonchalance around him like a matador’s cape.

That protection guarded him until he made it back to his office and could shut the door behind him. The office was cool and welcome against the heat of his skin. He longed to embrace the cool grayness of logic, lock away the panic and grief he could feel edging up his throat, his eyes burned. Gulping down suddenly too thin air he forced his nerves to steadiness and made his way across the room.

Every move was an effort, right down to nonchalantly sliding into place behind his desk. The file went on top and he allowed himself a minute of stillness, unaware of his fingertips running searchingly over the shiny smooth hidebound arms of the chair. Several long, deep breaths later he forced the tension down, feeling muscles relax along his neck and back, the near constant pounding behind his eyes receding slightly. Close, he'd come so close to slipping, the discipline of fifteen years cracking under a needy blue stare belonging to an infant that didn't know if he was alive or dead.

Eyes nearly the perfect blue of the summer sky, with almost the depth of the Cote d'Azur. Eyes full of pain and grief and regret. Eyes almost as compelling as....

"No!" the word exploded out before he could stop it, and he slammed his hand down on the desk, feeling a bit more control return after his outburst.

Fifteen years, yes. Fifteen years of locking away what he might want, what he might need; of choosing every word, every look, every move with more care than any actor looking for an Oscar. Fifteen years of knowing that what he was doing to himself was surely destroying him, but not able to stop, not willing to stop, unable to forget what his ultimate goal was.

And now to have the answers to all his questions dropped into his lap and not be able to read them.

A cold gust from the air conditioning gusted across his desk and ruffled papers, flipping over the neat pile of pink 'While You Were Out' message sheets near his phone. Quickly he grabbed at the handful of slips before they made it over the edge and riffed them. One in particular caught his eye and he dropped it near the phone before he yanked out his notepad from the stack of files. Peter picked up the receiver and dialed the number he needed, studying the random collection of lines and arrowheads he'd made while the line rang. Coming to a decision he ripped off the top sheet and stuffed it into his briefcase just before the other end was picked up.

"Frump."

"He's conscious."

"Who's conscious? Who is this?" The gravelly voice on the other end held all the snarl of a junkyard dog and backed it up with 200 pounds of pure meanness.

Pure 'gotcha!' leached into Peter's voice. "It's Peter Venkman. Alex Monroe regained consciousness briefly this afternoon."

"He did? Did he say anything? Any names?" Was that hope in the Detective Sergeant's voice?

"No, he wasn't aware long enough. But not only are the lights on, somebody's home. Hopefully I'll have some answers for you soon." Peter kept his voice light with an effort that wore on him. Fortunately, Frump didn't like to talk long on the phone.

"Great. Keep me posted on any, and I mean any changes. I want this guy, Venkman," the older man paused. "Whoever he is." There was no mistaking the emphasis in Frump's last words before the line went dead.

Peter snorted before he hung up his end of the line, willing, under the circumstances, to cut the other man a little slack. Nine months before a squad of NYC fire fighters had answered a call to one of the warehouses along the Hudson River. The fire had burned so fiercely they had suspected arson, and when they pulled a living body from the edge of the flames they thought they'd found the arsonist. The young man had been rushed to the closest trauma center, and the case had landed on the desk of one Detective Sergeant Frump, NYPD.

By sheer coincidence, almost fifteen years earlier while walking a beat through one of the roughest districts along the waterfronts, Officer Frump had been called to assist at another suspect fire. That time there had been no survivor to question later; although the coroner's report had revealed smoke inhalation as the primary cause of death, there had been too many other inconsistencies including the lack of an accelerant at the scene. Later investigation at the most recent fire would prove the same.

It had been Officer Frump who had broken the news to the Barrett family that their son was dead. He'd also been the one that told eighteen-year-old Peter Venkman that his best friend wasn't coming back, and had been the primary source of information for the soon-to-be freshman on the investigation, as well as the only one to tell him when the funeral would be. The Barrett family hadn't approved of their precious only son consorting with the riff-raff of Brooklyn.

They didn't know, a ghostly voice whispered out of the past.

They should have, Peter's heart answered. How could they not have known how much Steve meant to him, how much they meant to each other?

And now here was Alex, another boy caught up in a monster's web, barely alive. Doubts crept out of Peter's id to nibble at his confidence. What if he couldn't get Alex back, or if he could only get him partway back? Amnesia in these situations was hardly unknown; what if Alex couldn't remember who had attacked him and left him to die in a burning building?

The knowledge in those eyes told him otherwise.

Peter shook himself; he had more to go on now. He had Alex; who not only would recover, but would be as whole as Peter could make him. He had the writing; there was a language expert at the NYC Humanities library who would be able to point him in the right direction. He had police support; okay, it was Frump, who'd never been quite sure Peter's accusations weren't just the wild needs of a bereaved young man, but refused to overlook any lead.

On the other side was Jack Yeager, a sadistic serial killer who might have already picked out his next victim, one Egon Spengler.

Peter frowned. No, Spengler should be safe enough for a while. Yeager knew Peter had Alex, and according to the records, the Dean of Physics had yet to visit; there was no way he could know either where Alex was, or his state of recovery unless he approached either the boy's parents or one of his physicians. Yeager would need to take care of Alex first, either to finish what he'd started, or make sure Alex was unable to testify in some other way. Yeager had not spoken with either of the Monroes that Peter knew of, but he'd better check.

The police were not a factor there, except on Peter's side; he'd convinced Frump to initially let the arson charges stand, thus keeping a police presence in the hospital, and continuing it later by making Monroe a material witness to a felony act who might be endangered. Peter had done his part by making sure every cop that stood watch outside Alex's room knew the violated young man had been planning on entering the priesthood. He had it on good authority that every one of them was leaning on informants for what they could get. Nobody would be talking to anybody that might be a suspect.

No, Spengler was safe enough for now.

But what if he’s not? asked a memory.

He is, Peter insisted. He was aware of Yeager's intentions, he'd seen the open lust Yeager felt every time he'd looked at Spengler. He could also tell that Spengler in no way reciprocated. Spengler was older, more secure, less inclined to yield to flattery. And Peter himself would be watching.

What about less gentle means?

Frost touched Peter's neck and he felt himself shiver. Violence was always a possibility. Was that how Alex had fallen to Yeager, not by sweet words or influence, but by brute force? The idea made some sense; it was unlikely a student in Religious Studies would normally cross paths with the Dean enough times to attract attention.

Spengler, on the other hand, was not only frequently in the building, his office was next to the Dean's, as befitting such an honored instructor. Rebuffed outright, what was there to stop Yeager from taking Spengler from the parking lot? He could picture it; a late night seminar or lecture that ran over, the walk through the darkened parking lot, security would be easily drawn away by the report of a disturbance at one of the other buildings or frat houses near campus. A little ether, easily obtained from any of the chem or biology labs, and the Nobel winner disappears mysteriously.

To resurface like Alex, barely alive. Or any of the others, two found simply as charred fragments, identification tenuous even with the advances in forensic science. The humor, warmth and intelligence in the mobile face gone, never to discover if the pale blond hair in that impossible style was as soft as he thought, left wondering what the milky skin would taste like heated and flushed with desire.

“No!”

Fury poured through him, white-hot and purifying. He slammed his hands down on his desk and lunged out of his chair, never noticing when it crashed into the wall behind him. Venkman glared at the wall opposite, but through unshed tears his eyes saw a different scene. Gray-green hospital walls surrounded him, institutional brown tiling flecked with color to hide stains was cold under his thin shoes. The cold seeped up his legs, numbing them. He wished the cold would reach his heart and freeze it, too.

"The decedent," he growled, "was presented in a black vinyl zippered bag on table three at Queen of Mercy Hospital Morgue; Dr. J. Jameson and Dr. Michael VanHort in attendance. Identification was initially made at the scene by circumstantial evidence of personal effects, see Personal Effects Appendix A for additional. Confirmation of identity was made by the examining physicians from dental records provided by the decedent's family physician, see Dental Records Comparison Appendix B for additional."

But you knew me, whispered a familiar baritone voice in his head.

His heart answered, Yes. Always.

Fine tremors began in his hands.  Caught in his memory, he never noticed his fingers whiten from his grip on the edge of his desk. Instead he saw swinging hospital doors clearly labeled, whispers of sound, distant voices warding him away from here, that he didn't belong, this was not for him. This was his fault. Caught in memory he ignored the voices as he always did; first would come the man and woman, people he should know, did know, but cared nothing for. Now the other man, deep and gravelly, defending his right to be there.

“The body is that of a well nourished Caucasian male, measuring 72 inches in length, weighing approximately 195 pounds. At initial viewing, the body was unclothed. Body temperature is cool to the touch. A distinctive odor of burn and char is present, typical of the presence of extensive third degree burns. Atypical mortis is observed, as the arms and legs are fully extended, rather than withdrawn fetally.”

Of course rigor had passed, it took them two days to find me, the voice whispered.

 But I looked, Peter’s heart answered. I searched everywhere.

Everywhere but there, and he couldn’t tell whose voice spoke.

The shaking moved from his hands up his arms, racking his body. He was blinded by the memory of sudden stark sunlight. There shouldn't have been sunlight, he thought, sunlight made it too easy to see, wreathed everything in warmth, blunted truth with joy. It reflected off the stone steps carved in his mind, blurred only by tears that fell in the past.

His breathing was ragged when he started again, reminding himself of prices paid. “Remaining hair,” he faltered, then ground his teeth to spit out the rest. “Remaining hair is blond and is present in a four inch circular patch on the right side of the head, approximately two inches long. No facial hair is observed.”

From a distance he heard himself continuing, reciting the description of the blunt force trauma found at the base of the skull that was engraved on his soul, while he, himself, stood on the steps and looked down at a thin manila envelope, a twenty page summary of the end of his life. Wet spots dotted it in two or three places and he wondered how it could rain when the sky was so clear. Gold sparked at the corner of his blurred vision, and impatiently he wiped at his eyes with the edge of his letterman's jacket. The gold turned out to be the strand of hair he wore wrapped around the band of his cheap watch.

His hands had been buried to their wrists in Steve's thick gold mane while they stole a kiss behind Steve's house; the watch had snagged in the fall of sunlight, and despite his care Peter still pulled out a couple of strands. Steve had teased him about it when he'd caught Peter carefully winding the strands through the band. Peter had just laughed, thinking they made his watch more precious than the most expensive Swiss timepiece made.

Standing on the steps Peter had carefully unwound them and dropped them in the unsealed envelope.

“No examination of the eyes was possible, as both had been removed and not recovered during the investigation.” His voice continued automatically in the present, catching when a particularly strong tremor shook him hard enough; they were coming nearly constantly, his elbows and knees locked to keep him upright against the desk. Something was wrong; the tremors should have subsided by now, but he still couldn't stop. “Preliminary observations indicate removal was made with a sharply pointed, dull edged, long, narrow, triangular blade. Removal was made prior to the burning of the victim, however lack of secondary wounds in the remaining soft tissue around the orbitals indicates the victim was unconscious at the time.”

Caught in the past, unable to focus on the words that centered him, his memory played out. He watched himself fold the top of the envelope over the coroner's report and the last keepsake Steve had given him. For the first time he began to fight down the emotions that warred within him, pushing away the pain and grief, focusing on what needed to be done.

"Venkman. Sorry about that, they had no right--," it was the voice from the hallway.

Peter cut it off with a slash of his hand and swung to face the patrolman who'd first told him about Steve. Peter's eyes were red-rimmed but his face was composed. He quirked a faint grin at the cop who looked at him, stunned. "No biggie, not like I've never heard it before. The problem is catching the guy that did it."

Peter watched Frump visibly changed gears. He shivered; why was it suddenly so cold?

"Yeah, you're right. Homicide seems fresh out of ideas though." Frump's voice was so faint.

"It was Yeager," Peter heard himself blurt out. Maybe this time he could convince the cop and all the others would be safe. Damn, it was getting cold. He'd need to get going soon or he'd turn into a Popsicle. "Stevie...he...he started spending a lot of time with the professor after finals; said the old guy was trying to get him to go strictly hard science and had started introducing him around. Said it would help out after graduation." Somewhere somebody was talking about charred lung tissue, third degree burns and smoke inhalation. He turned around to look for whoever it was to tell them to shut-up, he already knew that part.

"They've already talked to Yeager. He was home with his wife at the time. Besides, sounds more like he was trying to help the kid. Or considering who the kid's parents are, maybe himself."

Bile and failure flooded Peter's throat, and the present snapped back into place with a vengeance. Of course he'd failed, idiot! That conversation was the past, it couldn't be changed. Just like Steve's death couldn't be changed, or any of the other six failures Peter gagged on. He fought down the wave of nausea; smell was always the worst and last to recover, the memory of formaldehyde and the hospital smell around him always mixed. His head throbbed a warning and when he sucked down a second breath he lost the battle and lunged for the bathroom, stumbling over the threshold barely in time.

Seven times he'd failed; he would not fail an eighth. Then misery overtook him and he relaxed unwillingly into the night.

“Peter?”

He had the impression the voice had been calling him for some time, but it was warm and safe in the darkness around him so he found it no hardship to continue to ignore it.

“Peter.” Cool hands on his face felt good. Mom? No, she was gone. “Peter Venkman, wake up! Wake up this minute!” The hands were on his shoulders shaking him, and he couldn’t ignore that. His head and stomach were both telling him the sudden movement was a Bad Thing. He woke up the same way he’d passed out, heaving his guts out.

His stomach emptied of everything he’d eaten in the last week, his surroundings resolved themselves into his office bathroom. Resting his head on his forearm, Peter rolled one eye up enough to recognize Dr. Hampton.

“Hi, Gloria,” he smiled weakly.

“Venkman, you need a keeper,” Dr. Hampton reached an arm around his waist to steady him on his way to the sink, and then stepped back to wait against the doorway. “It’s a good thing Jennifer wondered why you didn’t answer your intercom; who knows how long you might have been down there.” She frowned at him. “I still don’t like your color, but any fever you had seems to have broken. I want a blood sample for the lab, though.”

“Gloria, I don’t need a keeper, I’ve got you,” he cut in, running a damp towel over his face. “It’s nothing major, just a flu bug or something. I’ll stay in tonight, pack it in early, and by tomorrow I’ll be fine.” He made a face at his reflection and pulled the ruined tie from his neck, tossing it in the trash.

“Maybe,” she conceded, meeting his dark eyes in the mirror. “But I’m taking you home now. Mark is still here, he can drop your car off tonight and cab it back to our place.”

“Mark is not driving my car!”

“Fine, I’ll take you home in your car and then catch a cab.” She held out her hand.

Resigned, Venkman sighed and started fishing in his pockets.