Holes in the Firmament
Part XVI
Peter Venkman

The rain might have stopped but the pavement was still slick in spots, and outside the city patches of black ice hid in shaded curves and overhangs. For miles and minutes at a time, the only light on the road came from the headlights of the black BMW flying down the straight-aways, its tires scrabbling for traction on the curves but always finding it, although sometimes at the last minute.

On one high curve a particularly foolhardy rabbit darted across the road in front of the speeding vehicle, and only the combination of high-performance German engineering and knife-edged reflexes kept the car on the road and the rabbit alive long enough to cross another day.  Unfortunately for the rabbit, the grass not only wasn't greener, but when he decided to return to his own side of the road the driver only a few minutes behind wasn't near as good as the first.

Peter muttered something highly uncomplimentary about the rabbit, his parentage, his siblings, and any future relations he may have, although Peter knew well that what he was implying was anatomically impossible, especially when involving a wolverine. Eventually though, the steady hum of the road soothed his agitated state from disastrous to merely high and he was able to berate himself in peace.

He'd kissed Spengler.

Spengler had kissed back.

Not just returned it, but taken control of it, owned it in a way Peter had never experienced in his life. It had been hot, and sweet, and soft. Utterly delicious, the way Spengler's long hands had threaded through his hair to hold him firmly in place while his tongue swept across Peter's, learning every bump and ridge behind his teeth before inviting Peter's tongue out to play. It was the kind of kiss that defined a relationship; the kind that said I own you, before it gentled into you own me, too. The kind of kiss that bought secrets and brought down countries.

The kind of kiss that people sold their souls for. Except, of course, that Peter Venkman's was already bought and paid for.

The hottest, sexiest damn kiss he'd had in years, he thought, and felt a shiver run through him hot and cold. Ever, a nagging voice in the back of his mind tried to shout, but over the years Peter had become quite adept at ignoring the one that sounded like himself. It was the other one, the deeper one, the one he'd last heard years and days before, that he had problems with.

Headlights swept across a small, discreet sign informing drivers that the entrance to Morningside was close at hand, distracting him from his thoughts. The Board had decided to place them, one in each direction, soon after Morningside had begun accepting patients; about the third time one of them had ended up fifty miles past the well-hidden turnoff. Peter slowed to make sure he didn't miss it, only to realize he already had. The lack of street lighting made the short access road nearly invisible in the overgrowth along the highway; he quickly cut wide and swung a sharp u-turn followed by a quick right thirty feet further on. The only other northbound driver he'd seen for the last hour slowed momentarily at his antics then sped past him, disappearing from sight and mind as soon as Peter turned into the arboreal tunnel at the entrance to the estate.

He fumbled along the dash for the remote to the gates, his search successfully aided by the brief flash of reflected light from a southbound car hurrying towards an early appointment in the city or perhaps home from a late rendezvous in the country. A moment later the gates to Morningside swung open in obedient silence and Peter tossed the remote back onto the seat next to him.

Morningside at night was less a fairy tale and more a haunted mystery. No lights shone along the perimeter of the grounds to break the dark or gleam off the high wall that edged the property, hidden by strategic trees and shrubs, many now brown and brittle against the sky from the cold. One of their first patients had been a landscape architect, and a number of the plants had been his suggestion; a particularly thorny vine laced along sections of the walls, adding to the illusion of deep forest beyond the grounds and frustrating the gardener in his efforts to keep it from interfering with the delicate electronics hidden in ornamental black iron that graced the top of the brickwork. The sturdy-looking but unexpectedly fragile vines had tumbled many a trespasser into an equally thorny bush or the grip of one of the dogs that roamed free around Morningside from dusk to dawn.

Two of those dogs were at the portico when Peter slid the BMW into its spot, pale light from the chandelier glistening off the Dobermans' tight, glossy black coats. Movement flickered from out of the shadows of the parking area and resolved itself as one of the two Rottweilers, trotting out of the darkness to investigate this newcomer. Peter slid out of his car and locked it before giving the dog its safeword. Pacified for the moment, the beast wuffed his scent and headed back about its business, leaving Peter to remove a dry-cleaning bag and small carryall from the trunk of his car.

The two dogs guarding the front door eyed him silently but moved aside at his approach; if they hadn't eaten him in the parking lot, their expression said, he was all right to be there. For now. Peter set his bag down and fished for his keys, a chill breeze wrapping playfully around him and ruffling his hair. He inserted his passkey into the nearly invisible slot in the ornate rose vines carved along the door molding, listening for the soft click-and-hiss from inside the door that told him the crossbars were retracting, and by the time they had slid back far enough to let him open it Peter had replaced his keys and retrieved his bag.

"Hey, Dr. V! Let me give ya a hand there." Peter was greeted by one of the night orderlies, who promptly ushered Peter through the door and secured it behind them. "Brrr. No rain tonight, but still cold enough to freeze the…ground." The orderly shot Peter a glance and a grin, changing words in mid-sentence but not fumbling too badly. "Coffee's fresh and hot if ya want any."

"Thanks, Marty." Peter shook his head briskly, feeling his disarrayed hair fall back into its usual style. "Let me just drop this stuff in my office and I'll take you up on it. Evening, Greg," he nodded to the second night nurse who stood casually behind the receptionist's desk.

"Evening, Dr. Venkman," Greg Hoffman nodded back and reholstered the .357 he had behind the mail basket just as casually. Tall, lean and dark haired, he reminded Peter of the Dobermans, much as Marty Johnson – taller and heavier if just as dark – reminded him of the Rottweilers; either would as soon tear your throat out as talk to you, and just as cheerfully.  The former Special Forces men were as much a part of the security system as the dogs, although the orderlies' primary duties involved patient care.

Turning down the hallway to his office, Peter heard the two talking softly behind him, Marty's rolling laugh following him quietly into the dark room. He paused in the doorway to flick on the overhead, letting his eyes adjust while light flooded his office and into the hallway. He swept his eyes across the room, noting that it looked much the same as it had the last time he'd seen it, although some considerate soul had straightened the scattered papers and there was a fresh stack of mail waiting for him in his tray. Peter dropped his bag on the couch and hung the freshly cleaned and pressed suits in the small closet before pulling out his lab coat. He hesitated, one arm through a sleeve, then pulled it off and tossed it over the arm of the couch, neatly covering the bag lying there.

"Pete? What are you doing here?"

Peter looked up and grinned when Mark Hampton stopped in the doorway and leaned against the frame. He was Peter's height and a little stockier, with dark hair that turned auburn in the summer and pale, pale gray eyes fringed with the longest, blackest lashes Peter had ever seen on a man. When they'd first begun working together in college labs those lashes had been a great source of amazement to Peter, especially at how easily and reliably they could be used to coax some of the female TA's into bending rules, lashes that had coaxed Gloria Smythe right to the alter. When Peter had decided to go looking for investors to create Morningside out of the abandoned tax shelter he'd found, Mark and Gloria had been among the first he'd approached; they’d each done their share to make Morningside the successful, if eclectic, facility it was.

"Catching up," Peter waved the other man into his office and to the other end of the couch while he perched on the edge of his desk. "Since Glory decided I needed to go home last weekend."

Mark made a face at the nickname. "If you're not careful I'll tell her you called her that." He took in the man across from him, dark hair only slightly mussed, eyes clear and color good, the gray silk suit as neat and unwrinkled as if Peter had just pulled it on, not driven nearly five hours from Manhattan. "Scared poor Jennifer nearly to death when she found you, but you look good now. Honestly, Pete, what dragged you out here tonight? You're not due back until Saturday."

Peter shrugged. "Honestly? Just bored. Not much going on right now, and I'd just as soon get something done as try and find something to do."

"Ha!" Mark slapped his leg, the crack of it resounding in the small office like a shot. "Stood up! Which one was it? The leggy one or the dancer?"

"Stood up? Me?" Peter pressed his hand to his chest in outrage. "Nobody stands up Peter Venkman."

"At least not since – "

"Everything okay in here?" Marty stuck his head around the corner and gave the two doctors and the office a quick but thorough look.

"Fine, Marty, thanks. The old-and-married here is impugning my dating skills." Peter waved in Mark's direction.

"All right. I'm heading upstairs for a check but Greg's still at the desk if you need anything."

"And I think I'm going to go flop in my own office for a quick nap," Mark said, rising from the couch. "I want to check in on Trisha again in a couple of hours, her last round seems to be taking pretty well and I’m hoping for no setbacks this time. Her birthday's coming up next month and it'd be great for her to spend the time with her family."

"That's great, Mark." Peter stood up. "I'll go with you," he grinned. "At least as far as the coffee."

Five minutes later he was back, overlarge mug overfull of overhot and overstrong caffeine. Peter took a cautious sip of the brew before setting it carefully on the coaster near the phone and reaching for the pile of papers that had accumulated during the week. He hesitated briefly over Alex Monroe's file, then gave in and scanned the most recent exam and treatment notes left him by Gloria. Alex was doing as well as could be expected of an otherwise catatonic patient, and Gloria's notes indicated she planned on stepping up his physical therapy work in the next week or so. Checking Alex's visitor's log, Peter noted that the boy's mother had been there on Monday, but still no sign of the father. Frowning, Peter made a mental note to call the parents; Mr. Monroe hadn't been in to see his son since their first visit after Alex's transfer to Morningside, and always seemed to have a plausible reason for his neglect.  Peter snorted when he got to the end of the update; Gloria had slapped on a highly acerbic Post-It Note, letting Peter know just exactly what she thought about psychologists who insisted on seeing patients and doing rounds while coming down with the flu and concluded with a reminder to take his vitamins and cut back on the night life. Snickering, he grabbed his pen and scribbled "Yes Mom" across the note before closing the file and dropping it in the out basket with the others.

He flipped through the dozen pink message slips, noting that half were from Frump and four were from Dana Barrett. Those he balled up and threw in the trash, making a mental note to call Frump and update him on Alex's condition. Half of the mail went quickly into the trash as well, but the contributor's copy of Psychology Today went into his briefcase; he already knew his own article was tidily placed in the middle of the magazine, but still --. There were three heavy envelopes and Peter reached into his desk drawer for the opener while scanning the top one for a return address.

Metal sliced cleanly through paper, the steel edge glinting in the light, cool satin and stainless finish weighted in his hand. Peter twisted the blade in his grip, caught by the feel of it. Experimentally he jabbed it forward and slashed left then a quick twist, an abbreviated move that was mother's milk to anyone who handled knives, and snapped the flat of the blade against his forearm, hilt fisted.

Poorly balanced and awkward, he thought, would the blade even hold an edge?

Peter leaned back in his chair, feeling a puff of cold air from the vent behind him wrap around the chairback and tease the ends of his hair before stroking down under the edge of his collar. Elbows resting on the chair arms he set the point of the opener against his palm and twirled it, feeling the point dig into his skin. The overhead light splintered along the edges, becoming a smeared rainbow, like rainfall in an oily gutter. The balance was off, yes, but added weight in the handle would correct that; the blade, though, was too long and narrow for long term use and to support the kind of edge and pressure needed for some of the…damage…that had been inflicted.

Closing his eyes, Peter called to mind the letter opener he'd seen Yeager with, was it really only two days ago? Just about a foot long and perhaps two fingers at the widest point, the blade flat but wide and about eight inches long. How thick had it been? He fought to remember, but couldn't retrieve that detail and set it aside for later.  Made of rosewood, the grain distinctive and unvarnished, the edges sharpened as fine as wood would hold and dark from use and skin oil. A stone, a cabochon cut tiger's eye mounted in gold, a thinner band of the same metal just below it, catching the light in the arc made when Yeager moved it from right hand to left; catching, breaking and throwing it back just like the edge of the metal opener did.

But not wood, he thought. Wood would never be able to make cuts that fine, that exact, without repeated sharpening. Something niggled at the back of his mind but wouldn't come clear. He blinked and glanced up to see Marty pass by the open door, heading back towards the desk. Peter always found it a little eerie, the way a man that big could move that quietly, floating invisibly from shadow to shadow. With a growl for the interruption, Peter tossed the metal opener back in his desk, hearing it rattle against the other miscellany there before slamming the drawer shut.

He picked up the thick, cream-colored envelope and dumped the contents on his desk, sorting the stack of paper out. Flipping through the pages he discovered it was a quote for the extension they'd been considering to the long-term care wing. Peter quickly noted the figure at the bottom of the cost breakdown –somewhere in the middle, telling him it was a bid to be seriously considered – before he stapled it and tossed it in the folder for Board consideration.

He stopped. Pulled the folder back towards him, flicked it open to the cover letter of the new quote and there it was. "Sincerely Yours, Ed J. Zeddemore – Zeddemore Construction."

Zeddemore Construction. Peter searched his memory, had they bothered to bring up a list of specific contractors to approach, or had they just decided to choose them at random? He couldn't remember off-hand, but the minutes should tell him. This was the third recent contact with Zeddemore Construction, and in Peter's world that added up to more than coincidence. It was time for a little research, and there was a handy place to start just upstairs.

Peter reached for his coffee and rose from his desk at the same time. Taking a sip while he headed for the door, he made a face, realizing it was ice cold and mentally damned the over-zealous air conditioning in his office. Even with most of the vents closed, he couldn't keep anything warm. With his free hand he scooped up his lab coat and turned out the light to his office. Upstairs, yes, but a detour to the breakroom was in order first for a warm up. Priorities, he thought. It's all about priorities.

Peter drifted down the hallway and nodded to the two men talking quietly, then made a face at the rumbling snore that rolled out of the dimly lit breakroom. It had been somewhat of a running joke between the three of them, Peter, Mark and Gloria, about Mark's ability to sleep anywhere, any time. An ability, he'd admitted halfway through his residency, that was invaluable in the medical field. Eventually Mark had stopped sleeping on just any handy couch and begun to spend most of his nights on Gloria's. From there it had been a short step into her heart.

"After all," she had pointed out, "I've already seen him first thing in the morning, bed-head and all."

Peter reached over the sleeping doctor and pulled the ratty afghan from the back of the couch, a tedious job one handed, but necessary against the random cold drafts that permeated the old building. He thumped the pillow when he was done, jarring Mark enough to stop the snoring, and went to pour himself another cup of coffee in the dim light from the nurses' station. 

He stopped in the doorway to sip the hot brew and rolled his eyes when a snort and grunt heralded the sleeping doctor's return to snoring.

"Hey, at least we always know where he is." Marty grinned at Peter from his desk, the picture of a hugely overgrown puppy. That would rip your throat out in a heartbeat and without a second thought.

"I'm sure that somehow, somewhere, sometime, that will be a good thing," Peter murmured in passing, smiling back when the two men laughed quietly. Sipping his coffee Peter drifted down the hallway to the elevators, listening to the quiet hum of machinery in perfect working order blending with the small, quiet sounds of Morningside at night. The doors slid open for him, and in an instant of indecision Peter's hand hovered over the buttons, at the last second tapping the third floor button sharply.

The new elevator in the old construction rose smoothly to the top floor of the manse, pinging lightly twice to alert Peter of his arrival. This floor was both the warmest and the coolest, the heat trapped within the rooms by double-paned windows and heavy drapes, maximum R-factor insulation in the attic and under the flooring, but somehow the drafts still crept in, chilling the flesh faster than ice. The third floor was one of the few places that Peter could feel the cold affecting him, although sometimes he wondered if it wasn’t just that the most severe cases were lodged there.

Stepping from the small box Peter flowed through the shadows down the hallway to the open door at the end, the warm glow of a nightlight creeping out into the dark hallway. He stopped in the doorway, hovering between light and dark, watching the tableau in front of him.

Ian MacDonald sat in his chair next to the bed, one age-clawed hand resting lightly on the younger – if just as thin one – of Alex Monroe. Ian's voice, thinned by age and oxygen, covered the silence of the room.

"…so there we were, ten stories up, caught between Capone and the cops. Fifty grand in slips in our pockets. I could hear Capone and his boys tearing up the joint behind us, getting closer by the second. So Lucky turns to us and says, 'Quick boys –'

" ' – the fire escape.'" Peter cut in, moving to the bed and taking Alex's other wrist in his hand. He felt for the slow, steady beat under his thumb, one eye on his Rolex's sweep hand. "You know, that building gets taller every time you tell that story."

"The old ones are the best. Goombas these day, pah!" Ian waved both hands in disgust. "College boys, all of them, taking more meaning from what the letters strung after their names mean than what they can do. Not one of them would last a minute – a minute! – on the street."

Peter made a note of Alex's pulse and respiration on the boy's chart. "Hey, I've got letters after my name, you know," he pointed out, mockingly indignant.

"That's different; you're a doctor, docs are supposed to have letters. Otherwise they're just quacks."

Peter snorted. "Some of them still are." He returned the chart to its hook on the end of the bed. "But since you're in the mood for reminiscing, I've got a question for you."

"Look, if it's about that Saint's game –"

"Whoa, stop there!" Peter raised his hand to ward off anything the old man might say, then jerked his head in the direction of the small conversation area. Ian nodded, gave Alex a final pat on the back of his hand, and maneuvered his chair around the obstacle course that was a high-risk ward. While he waited for Ian to follow, Peter moved from window to window, restlessly twitching curtains aside then smoothing them back. The well-known routine relaxed him, and he took the opportunity to rein in his tumbling thoughts. He paused at the last window, studying the grounds from behind the thin lacy veil, the beginnings of a breeze rustling branches gently across the glass.

"So what's on your mind if not the game?" Ian asked softly.

Peter ruffled one hand through his hair and then absently smoothed it out again. "I've run into a number of…coincidences lately." He threw a sidelong look at the other man, waiting to see if Ian caught his meaning.

"Coincidences," Ian cocked his head and nodded once. "I see. What sort of coincidences are we talking about here?" The old man tugged at his blanket and folded his hands in his lap while he spoke.

"Zeddemore Construction. Somehow I keep running into the company and one of the sons. I was wondering if they're family." Peter's hesitation on the last word was almost nonexistent. Ian's eyes narrowed just the slightest bit, telling the psychologist 'message received'.

"Zeddemore? Humph." Ian chewed on the name for a minute. "As far as I know they're not related on either side, but my information is a little out of date; could be they've married in recently. Maybe tomorrow I'll call around; ask some questions, call in a couple of favors, see what I can find out."

"Thanks Ian, I owe you one." Peter muffled a sigh. Not part of any of the families or syndicates, but not actively known to be a cover for police was what Ian implied. And if the old man's information was out of date, it was by less than a month.

Ian waved off the debt with a gnarled hand. "Take care of Alex and we'll call it even. Oh, and speaking of favors," he fumbled with his blanket before reaching into the pocket of his robe and pulling out a slightly rumpled envelope. "Here, this might be of some help later on."

He held the envelope out. Peter took it, noting the blank front and the tucked in flap. There was something heavy inside, wrapped in a fold of paper. Curious, he tapped the contents into his hand, and out fell both items; on the paper was written a name – William – and an overseas phone number. The heavy thing proved to be a locker key from a bus terminal, the metal gleaming dully in the watery light. Without a word Peter slid both back into the envelope, retucked the flap and slipped it into his inside jacket pocket. Only when it was safely out of sight did he turn his attention back to Ian. The look on the old man's face was enough to give anyone pause; the saintly smile was anything but, and the glint in his age-dulled eyes was as cold and hard as any gun barrel.

"So has your detective – what's his name? Frump? – come up with anything? Any new leads?"

"Not that he's sharing with me," a beat, "although I have an idea or two."

A bone thrown out, but right now that was all he could afford. Ian was offering to help with the Zeddemore problem, but his priorities and Peter's rarely matched.

"Which means you know who did it but you can't prove it." Ian's eyes narrowed even further and his jaw flexed slightly, a sign the old man was putting things together.

Peter started to snarl a protest but bit back his words at the last second. "I have an idea, Ian, that's all," he settled on.

He watched Ian study him, and felt his face fall into its usual mask of calm cheer. The old man shook his head and chuckled.

"Peter, your mother didn't name me your godfather just because I knew how to bring your father to heel. What's really the matter?"

The sudden show of sympathy unnerved Peter. He turned back to the window, watching the early moring mists creep across the grounds. They swirled and danced in the thinner spots, seduced by the occasional breeze into a wild minuet before rejoining the heavier strands when the fickle breeze left them. A darker patch flickered through one long tendril and resolved into one of the dogs, pausing to sample the air before trotting off, it’s mate appearing and disappearing behind it. Tiny twigs from the tree outside skrrritchhed softly against the glass, sometimes tapping when the breeze picked up.

On the one hand, Ian McDonald was his godfather, trusted by his mother to raise him if anything ever happened. It was nothing against her that when she died both Ian and Peter's father were unreachable; Ian spending time in prison, his father off to some unknown corner of the world, pursuing his own little gods. On the other, Ian had always had his own agenda. While it was possible he had originally married his wife out of love, it was more likely his accountant's mind had tallied up the pluses and minuses of wooing a Mafia princess before making a decision. It hadn't hurt his suit that he had been a fairly successful bookie in Chicago before moving his operation to New York . Everything Ian did had so many twists from wandering through his labyrinthine mind, Peter sometimes wondered if Ian knew why he did things.

"I...," Peter's mouth snapped shut on his words. What was he going to say? I think my apartment is haunted by the ghost of my dead lover? Oh, and by the way, he was a guy? Sorry I never got around to mentioning I play for both teams, but you know how it is. He shot a glance at Ian, catching the look of patient waiting. He needed to come up with something, or the old man would hound him until he broke.

Peter turned all the way around, arms cradling his chest defensively while he studied the small coffee table. He frowned down at the dog-eared magazines that were scattered across the surface; two women's magazines peeked out from behind a copy of Time, and a copy of MAD Magazine with a piece of something lacey tucked in the pages like a bookmark. The MAD had Alex's name and address on the mailing label. Peter's forelock fell across his eyes and he looked up at Ian from under it, letting the fringe hide him from the too-perceptive man.

"Ian, do you believe in life after death? Or reincarnation? You know, Heaven and Hell, karma, what have you?"

The old man's laugh was half cough. "Peter, I'm 86 years old. Of course I believe in an afterlife. I'm expecting to spend mine in someplace a little warmer than Florida though." It was his turn to look thoughtful. "Not that it would be all bad; I could probably hook up with some of the boys and be running the joint in a week, if they haven't already taken over. What's your point?"

"There's something strange going on, Ian." Peter chose his words with care.

"And you think Zeddemore Construction is wrapped up in it?" Ian thrust his head forward and narrowed his eyes, suddenly resembling a hawk more than a sparrow. "You think someone there had something to do with…that?" He jerked his head towards the bed behind them.

"No!" Peter flashed a look at the bed, even knowing that they wouldn't disturb the patient if they'd been having this conversation next to him. "No," he said quietly, moving to sit on the edge of the table in front of Ian. "I think I saw a ghost, Ian, a real one." He pushed the words out quickly. "Tuesday, in the public library."

"Did anybody else see it?"

"You believe me?"

Ian sighed and this time, it seemed, it was his turn to pick and choose words. "Peter, I've known you since you were in diapers, and you've never lied to me." Ian waved Peter to silence when he started to interrupt. "You know how to lie with the truth better than anybody I've ever known, but it's still the truth. If you think you saw a ghost, you think you saw a ghost. What you really saw is up in the air, but I'm not going to call you a liar about it. Besides," he added, "I do believe in the human soul, so how far a step is it to ghosts? Now, answer my question, did anybody else see it?"

Peter felt himself relax minutely; he'd given Ian a puzzle to chew on and deflected the old man's curiosity away from himself. "Several others, including Zeddemore; a son, not the boss, although I don’t know anything else about the company. A friend of his named Raymond Stantz and Stantz' wife, a few of the public and the head librarian. Oh, and Egon."

"Egon?"

Shit. "Spengler," Peter returned smoothly. "He's a physicist."

"Not your usual brand of company," Ian probed.

Peter shrugged. "I own-" owned, the word whispered through him "- stock in his family labs. We were having lunch, discussing stock prices, current projects. Business." Stock prices? Doing business? So who's whoring for whom? The voice became clearer, deeper, and a tiny finger of ice ran up Peter's spine. He quelled the shiver it brought, ignored the voice and concentrated on the conversation.

"So how did that get you to the library?"

"Stantz called." Peter frowned; how had Stantz known they were at? Oh yeah, a 'friend' of Egon's and Stantz's, somebody named Winnie. "Somebody named Winnie had told him where we were." He met Ian's eyes. "Which raises the question of who is Winnie and how did Winnie know. I made the reservations that morning, didn't write them down, and didn't tell Spengler or his secretary where we were going."

Ian nodded. "Something to look into. Go on."

"Stantz and Dr. Spengler have a long standing interest in the paranormal it seems. The library had contacted Stantz; there had been a ghost sighting in the building. He called Dr. Spengler and I decided to tag along; Spengler didn't have his car, I'd driven, so it seemed only right." Peter shrugged. "We got there, ran into the…thing…and ran. It did some rather – significant damage to the library."

Peter flexed his shoulders slightly under his coat, feeling the slight lingering ache where the antique wood chandelier had scraped along his back. The bruising was nearly faded even now, but what the heavy oak frame would have done to the back of Spengler's head if Peter hadn't knocked him out of the way wouldn't have healed as easily, if at all. He saw it again, the…thing, swooping through the air, dragging books and papers in it's swirling trail, the huge light caught in the draft and the instant he'd known the hook holding it in the ceiling was going to give. He'd been too far to yell and Spengler couldn't have heard him anyways over the howling of the ghost and the screams of the few patrons left in the room.

Something tapped sharply against the window and Peter shook himself, putting the memories away for later. The tapping was followed by a sk-skk-srkiiiicth that drew his glance to the windows, and he saw Ian's look follow his.

"I'll have to remember to have those branches trimmed back," Peter said, noting the way the bare fingers of wood continued to scrape against the glass while the wind picked up. He stood up and started for the window, intending to open it and snap the smaller branches back by hand.

"Hmph. Damage to the library, you say? I don't remember reading – whoa!" Ian's question was cut off when a sharper gust slammed the offending branch against the glass and the pane broke with a sharp crack!

The wind whistled through the tiny gap, banging the branch against it a second and then third time, each strike widening the small hole until it was large enough to catch and hold the edges of the leaves, the twigs caught in the gap and twisting it wider, reaching like a gnarled hand into the room. Peter struggled with the sash, trying to throw open the window so he could reach the twigs and snap them free but the window refused to budge. Chill air hissed through the gap, sucking warmth from the room faster than he thought possible.

And then the screaming began.

Hoarse, choking shrieks of despair from behind them, ripped from a throat too raw for speech. Window forgotten, Peter whirled back towards the door.

"What the—"

Not from the door but the bed, the bed that up until a second ago had held an inert shell that stayed where it was put. That body was trashing now, with too much strength for somebody who'd been bedridden for almost two years.

Peter flung himself across the room and onto the bed. "Ian! Get Mark!" he shouted, fighting to pin the convulsing body down while he shuddered against the unhuman wailing coming from the young man under him. He grabbed one thin wrist, feeling it twist in his hand, unnaturally strong. Peter forced it down and lunged for the other when his vision grayed out and pain exploded behind his eyes. Seconds passed while he grappled with consciousness and a flailing body; when his vision cleared he heard running feet clattering towards him.

"Alex! Alex, you're safe! It's okay, relax. It's Peter, Alex, Peter." He gave up on grabbing Alex's hands and instead grasped the boy's narrow chin with his free hand, holding it still, forcing Alex's wild eyes to meet his own. Recognition sparked in blue eyes that were clear for the first time in years and Peter leaned closer, intent on reading how much intellect was there. Peter caught movement from the corner of his eye and saw two broad hands pulling Alex's free arm straight. Light flashed – needle tip – he realized; Mark had arrived with reinforcements.

Something dripped in Peter's eye and he shook his head, drops of heavy, dark wet scattering from his lashes. A harsh moan brought him back to the slowly relaxing body under his own. "Easy, Alex, just relax. You're safe," Peter leaned forward, keeping up his quiet litany, absently rubbing the wrist he still held. Consciousness slowly faded from blue eyes and the young man went lax, the last of his energy used to mouth a silent plea before the sedative cocktail dragged him under.

The form under his still, Peter went limp with relief, letting his head drop momentarily to the cool linen sheet. His forehead throbbed and stung, and he wanted to curl up and sleep for a week. Instead, he used the moment of rest to recover his balance.

"Pete, you okay?" A hand on his shoulder pulled him up, and Mark got a look at the damage. "Wow, really clipped you a good one there."

A penlight briefly flickered in his eyes and Peter batted it away. "Geez, Mark, you're gonna poke an eye out if you're not careful." He brushed his hair back with impatient fingers, then pulled his forelock down between his fingers and rolled his eyes up to get a good look. "My hair, however, may require emergency surgery, so unless you can do something about it, put that thing away."

"All right, all right." Mark slipped the light in his jacket pocket. "And thanks guys," he said to the pair of orderlies that had followed him up.

"No problem, Dr. Hampton, comes with the territory." Marty threw a smile at the doctor before gently lifting Alex's frail body to let Greg finish straightening the bedclothes. The two of them tucked Alex back into the bed before returning downstairs, Greg scooping up the used hypo for disposal with a nod for the doctors before he trailed off in Marty's wake.

"What happened, Pete? What set him off? I wouldn't think he'd have enough muscle tone to sit up, let alone a fit like this. Hold still, you're still bleeding a little." Mark pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and reached to swipe at Peter's forehead.

"Will you stop that? Here, gimme." Peter grabbed the cloth from Mark's hand and held it against his still-throbbing forehead. "I don't know, Mark. Ian McDonald was up here, telling stories about the olden days. We started talking and moved over by the window." Peter waved towards the sitting area, reminded by the fluttering curtains of the broken glass. "A tree branch popped the glass and he started thrashing." Peter shook his head and winced when the move jarred his head. "Maybe the sound got through to him, touched a cord." He paused considering. "Something to look at, anyways."

Mark picked up the chart from the end of the bed and scribbled a few notes. "Well, I'll tell Gloria what happened; looks like the P.T. is taking well, if nothing else." He replaced the chart and stuck his pen behind his ear. "Come on, you could use a drink and a break. Doctor's orders," he warned with a grin.

"Yeah," Peter sighed and headed for the door. "Yeah, I think you're right." He waved Mark through the door, stopping to throw one last look around. "Remind me to have Marty or Greg come up and tape that window."

"No problem, buddy. Hey, did Alex manage to say anything…sign anything?" Mark paused in the doorway and the hope on his face was easy to read, even in the dim, nighttime lighting.

Peter sighed again. "No. No, nothing." Peter tucked the memory of Alex's strained face and desperate mouthings away, a single harshly enunciated word lipped over and over.

Sacrifice.