Ghostbusters The Return (8 page)

"Why am I finding this new attitude of yours hard to believe?"

"Because you're overly skeptical? It's okay, everyone has their little character flaws." He laid his hand on hers. "But admitting it is the first step. I'm here for you. We'll get through this together."

Dana barely acknowledged that he said anything. "I've known you long enough to know that you always have an angle. However, I've also known you long enough to know that you usually do the right thing in the end. Who knows - maybe this whole thing will be good for you."

"So we're back together?"

Dana looked into his eyes and smiled. "I'll think about it."

CHAPTER 7

Ray and Egon stared at the flames all around them.

"Fascinating phenomenon," said Egon.

Ray extended his hand, palm outward, toward the nearest sheet of bluish fire. Then he slowly pushed his hand further, until it was enveloped by the flames. His face registered no pain. "No heat," he said. "It kind of reminds me of..."

"The spirit inferno of Avingon?"

"Exactly. France, 1862."

Egon shook his head. "1863."

'Oh, right. Of course." Ray started thrusting his hand in and out of the fire, as scientific curiosity began to yield to playfulness. "Wow. I've read about it, but this is the first time I've actually seen a level-B pyrokinetic manifestation."

"It's the first time anyone's seen one in nearly one hundred and fifty years," Egon said.

"Then it seems like a funny coincidence to have one show up now." Instinctively, for what must have been the six hundredth time, Ray slapped at the last remaining ghost spider. It had been scrabbling around his body since the day before and was likely to continue doing so, since his hand passed through the spider without any noticeable effect. "You think it's connected?"

Egon pointed his PKE meter at the flames and moved it from side to side in a slow arc. "The readings are consistent with the incidents we've seen over the last few days."

"So does that mean you guys can put it out?" The question came from a burly fireman in full gear. He was the only one willing to join the two Ghostbusters in the middle of a city block that was engulfed in a supernatural blaze. Half a dozen of his colleagues were huddled near a pair of fire engines that idled a block away. They weren't nicknamed "New York's Bravest" for nothing - these were men who would charge into a raging inferno without thinking twice. But this was something completely outside their realm of experience. "My boys tried everything, but nothing worked. Foam, water everything just passed through without doin' nothing."

"That's because it wasn't holy water," said Ray.

"Huh?"

"The thing that puzzles me," said Egon, "is that this one breaks the pattern."

"Into a million pieces," said Ray. "It's different than the incidents we've been dealing with recently. For one thing, it's the first time there hasn't been any damage. We've got plenty of fire all over the place, but it isn't actually burning anything."

Egon nodded. "Moreover, it's just a fire, albeit a spectral one. There's nothing about it that would cause it to qualify as an urban legend."

Ray leaned back, so that the ethereal flames engulfed the top of his head, along with the ghost spider. With a sizzle and a tiny scream, the spider was gone. "Yep, it's a puzzle, all right," he said with a yawn. "If I had time to get more than three hours of sleep one of these nights, I might have enough brain cells left to solve it."

"Yeah, yeah," said the fireman. "But can you put it out?" His questions were getting more insistent - and, all things considered, Ray couldn't blame him.

He looked up as a
chup chup chup
sound grew louder above them. "Actually, it looks like your people want to give it one more try."

A trio of pale, white helicopters approached overhead.

"Those aren't our birds," said the fireman.

"Then whose are they?"

"You got me. News choppers?"

Egon raised a hand to his forehead, to shield his eyes against the sun as he watched. "What's that beneath them?"

Ray squinted at the aircraft. "Oh, it's an old fire fighter technique for fighting forest fires. They hang a giant tarp under the helicopter, dip it in a lake or body of water to pick up several hundred gallons of water, and then they release it over the fire."

"Not in a populated area!" The fireman was getting agitated and nervous. "The weight of that much water falling from that height could kill somebody! We've gotta get out of here!"

"It's worse than that," Ray said, as he pulled out his nutrona wand and hit the power. "It
is
an urban legend! Get ready, Egon."

Egon followed Ray's lead. "For what? What is it?"

"A skeet shoot," said Ray.

That's when the spectral helicopters released their loads of water.

And that's when scuba divers started falling from the sky.

The music flared as Venkman strolled quickly across the stage. The band launched into a few bars of a familiar, bass-heavy melody. When the band leader called out, "Who ya gonna call?" the cheering audience screamed, "Ghostbusters!" The applause went on until Venkman and the host greeted each other with a warm handshake, and Peter took a seat in a comfortably padded chair beside the host's desk. He flashed the band leader a little thumbs-up and silently mouthed the words "Hi, Paul."

"Welcome back," said the host. "Now, you've been here before, right? What is it, about four years ago?"

"More like five, I think," said Venhnan.

"Is it really? Well, I'm sorry it's taken so long to have you back. Now, Doctor Venkman... It
is
'Doctor,' right?"

"Right, Dave." Ordinarily, Venkman's gut impulse would have been to tell the host to call him by his first name. But the media trainer had taught him to use the title. It established a subliminal air of authority in the eyes of the audience, especially if he kept using the host's first name.

"And what are you a doctor of, again?"

"A couple of things. I've got Ph.D.'s in both psychology and parapsychology." 

"Really That's very impressive. Two degrees?"

"The very best that the Offshore University of Manila has to offer," Venkman said with a smile The trainer had warned him that Mayor Lapinski's people would probably try to downplay Venkman's credentials by questioning the validity of an advanced degree in parapsychology, but he could preempt the strategy by making light of it himself. By lacing his discussions with just a touch of self-deprecating humor (although not too much - he didn't want to raise any doubts about his qualifications in the audience's mind), he could use his advanced education as a point in his favor while still sounding like an average joe.

After pausing for a laugh from the audience, he added, "No, actually, I went to Columbia University."

"Not too shabby," said the host. "Well, I know everyone's anxious to hear about the mayoral race, and we'll get to that in a minute. But first, there's something I've got to ask you."

"What's that?"

"Do you think you could exorcise the spirits of last night's audience from the studio? Now, those folks were scary..."

While Venkman handled the entertainment circuit with his characteristic smooth charm, the media planners at party headquarters booked Winston into the more serious outlets that drew smaller audiences but focused more deeply on the issues. And so it was that Winston found himself sitting in a darkened studio, across the table from a talk show host who was far more somber and sincere than the one who was interviewing Venkman across town.

"Mister Zeddemore," said the host, leaning forward in his chair.

"Yes," Winston replied, leaning comfortably back with a look of concentration on his face. The media trainer had taught him to look relaxed and confident, but to be careful not to seem bored or disinterested.

"Transit fares."

"Yes."

"As you know, the Metropolitan Transit Authority raised them this year."

"Yes." Winston wished the host would get to the question already. He was beginning to become acutely aware of the quiet that came with the lack of a studio audience. In the midst of the darkened set, the host's slow, contemplative style was starting to make him sleepy. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself awake.

The host made a tent with his fingers and touched them to his lips. He studied Winston for a long moment, and then finally asked, "Are the fares too high?"

He sat up and leaned forward, toward the host. "I'm glad you asked me that."
Or that you asked me any question, he thought.

Winston launched into his pre-scripted response. It was made easier by the fact that this was one of the replies that weren't all that different from his own opinions. "Personally, I've never met a New Yorker who didn't think transit fares are too high. In this case, though, I think the issue is less about the fare hike itself than about the way in which it happened. The MA petitioned the government to raise the fares by arguing that they were facing a massive deficit, and that's what swayed the government in their favor. 

Now, of course, we know that wasn't really the case. The MTA did have enough money. They just weren't managing it well "

The host nodded sagely. "If you were in office when a similar situation transpired, how would you handle the dispute?"

"I'd challenge the MTA to find better ways to handle their budgets. I'd remind them that their mission is to serve the public, not to turn a profit." Winston had to acknowledge that the campaign people had written him a good answer. It put him squarely on the side of the public, but didn't rule out the possibility of fare hikes, so that he could avoid completely offending the MTA.

His eyes moved away from the host to look directly into the camera. "New Yorkers want to work. They want to live their lives. It's up to us to make that possible, and to make sure they can afford to do it."

As stoic and professional as he appeared on the outside, Winston was grinning like an idiot on the inside.

What a trip!
he thought.

"The time grows closer, Geezil."

Much as Geezil realized that the statement was self-evident enough to be a little silly - time always grows closer, it doesn't stand still - he had enough common sense to know better than to mention it. In fact, he'd long since discovered the wisdom of staying outside the reach of Xanthador's arms. Physical abuse came with the job description here. But as Xanthador's size and strength grew day by day, the chances that Geezil's master would kill or dismember him by accident were becoming even greater than the chances that he'd do it on purpose.

With all of that in mind, he simply said, "My heart leaps with joy, o most excellent monarch of fright."

Xanthador's tongue rolled languorously out of his mouth to extend several feet, before curling around to lick his lips with pleasure. "Do you feel the change, Geezil? Can you taste it?"

Geezil stuck out his considerably shorter tongue. All he tasted was the usual foul air. "Oh, yes. Most definitely, o archduke of horror. It tastes delicious. Yum yum."

Without warning, Xanthador's tongue lashed out to wrap itself tightly around Geezil's throat. "Then why have you not begun the preparations?" he said in an oily tone that did nothing to hide the implied threat beneath the words.

His power must be growing,
thought Geezil as he struggled to breathe.
He can talk with his tongue stretched halfway across the plain.

"II was... just on my...way...to do so...o...master," he wheezed.

"By all means, then. Fulfill your duties without delay," Xanthador said, releasing him.

Geezil fell to the ground, gasping for breath.
The neck,
he thought.
Why is it always the neck?

"The barrier between worlds grows thin as vapor," said Xanthador. "It will be soon now. Before long, Xanthador shall walk the Earth once more. All must stand in readiness."

He plucked long, silvery strands of ectoplasm from the breeze, and began to mold and weave them into shape.

"To work, Geezil," said Xanthador. "We have much to do."

"The thing is," Louis was saying, "If we leave now, we can still be there in time for the curtain. It would be a shame to miss part of the play, even though I did get the tickets for half price, so I guess we'll come out ahead as long as we get there before fifty percent of the play is over. Although, on second thought, I suppose that in computing the net cost of the tickets, you also have to factor in the sixty-three minutes I spent standing on line at the TKTS booth. And, of course, they were sold out of tickets for the play we really wanted to see. But even so, it's still a good deal."

Janine didn't appear to hear a word that Louis said - she was too busy talking on the phone and scribbling notes at lightning speed. "Yes, sir," she said into the receiver, "I'm sure you had no idea that the car wasn't yours when you drove it away... Yes, I understand that you didn't know the owner's dead grandmother was wrapped in the blanket on the luggage rack... Yes, it must have been quite a shock when she sat up in the chop shop..."

"Hello, my fellow citizens!" Venkman threw his arms open wide as he swept into the office with Winston following behind.

Egon raised his eyes from a dusty tome to stare at Venkrnan. He used an elbow to nudge Ray, who was slumped over an equally ancient volume and snoring quietly. Ray woke with a start, exclaiming, "Aw, Mom! Why can't I fly to the Bermuda Triangle?" It took an instant for him to take in his surroundings, and another to wipe the sleep from his eyes After that, he stared at Venkman, too.

"Did you catch us on TV?" Venkman asked, without waiting for anyone to answer. "It's amazing. These reporters and talk show hosts are hanging on my every word. Naturally, some of it comes from my personal eloquence. But you wouldn't believe what running for mayor does for your social life..."

He continued on like that for a while, not noticing the state of his audience. But as he spoke, Winston looked around and was concerned about what he saw. It was anyone's guess as to whether Ray or Egon was more disheveled than the other. Their coveralls were dingy, their cheeks were hollow (well, Egon's were more hollow than usual), and there were dark circles under their eyes. The two of them continued to stare at Venkman. Winston suspected that it would have been an angry glare instead, if not for the fact that they looked too exhausted to muster up the necessary energy.

In fact, Janine didn't look much better. Usually, her clothes were a bit loud and funky but neatly pressed, and her shoulder-length hair was perfectly straight without a strand out of place. This evening, however, her clothes were rumpled and her hair was starting to frizz up as she struggled to keep up with the ringing telephones.