QUOTH THE RAVEN

by Sheila Paulson

Originally Published in Crazy Quilt

The trouble--at least the Ghostbusters' part of the trouble--started, as trouble often did at the Ghostbusters Central, with a telephone call in the middle of the night. The crisis had begun long ago, but with the ringing of the phone, the four paranormal investigators were at last invited to join the game.

Winston Zeddemore answered it; the phone in the bunkroom was between Ray Stantz's and Winston's beds. He grumbled a sleepy hello into the receiver, then came to attention. "Pete? He's right here."

Peter Venkman emerged from his covers, his hair tangled, his mouth open in a massive yawn. He blinked sleepily for a minute, then dragged himself across the room and took the phone Winston held out to him. "Do you have any idea what time it is?" he demanded in sleepy outrage. He was probably not quite awake enough to realize that a personal call in the middle of the night was not likely to be good news.

Ray sat up in bed and watched Peter, so he was the first to notice the color draining from his friend's face. "Dad?" Peter asked blankly. "You okay?" Midnight phone calls from Charlie Venkman didn't mean the old con man had suddenly remembered Peter's birthday. Peter's father had gotten himself into trouble more times than Ray could count, but he usually got himself out, only calling Peter when the trouble was beyond him. Peter listened for a minute, then he cried, "Are you crazy! I can't let you out of my sight for ten minutes without you getting into trouble."

At that, Egon Spengler climbed out of bed, grabbed for his red-rimmed glasses and approached Peter, his hair on end, his eyes worried. The blond physicist had never trusted Peter's father and he knew, as they all did, what rough times Peter had endured over the years because of father trouble.

"Where?" screeched Peter, unaware of his friends gathering around him. "You're kidding! What made you try something like that? Are you out of your mind?"

The other three Ghostbusters watched Peter, whose face was taut and angry but worried, too. He didn't look at any of his friends as if he were avoiding their gazes. Instead he gnawed his bottom lip as he listened, then cut in to say, "Yeah, okay. I'll be there. First flight out in the morning. But you better think good and hard about this, Dad, because if I ever heard a bigger load of bull in my life"

When he hung up, he turned and came face to face with the other three men. He made as if to push past them, but Egon stretched out a long arm and curled his fingers around Peter's wrist. "What is it, Peter?" he asked in his most reasonable tones. "Can we help?"

"I don't think anybody can help him this time," Peter blurted out, his temper waving like a flag. "You know what my dad did tonight? This is crazy. I never heard of him pulling anything like this in all the years I've known him."

"Like what, Peter?" Ray asked, edging closer sympathetically.

"My dad just broke into a museum in Chicago," Peter said. "Just broke in like he was some kind of second story man, and tried to steal a pair of Inuit masks from a display there. They caught him actually opening the case."

"Inuit masks?" echoed Ray in astonishment. That set off alarm bells in his head. Nearly ten years ago the Ghostbusters had had an encounter with an Inuit legend, one that had practically trashed New York, and that encounter had been precipitated by Peter's father, Charlie Venkman, in one of his endless money-making scams. Now he was involved in another incident involving Native artifacts, although this one seemed free of paranormal implications. Or was it? Funny, thought Ray, remembering a long-ago conversation, something that had worried him at the time, but a possibility he'd dismissed years ago. Yet now here was Mr. Venkman, in trouble over a North American legend once again. Was it possible there was a connection after all? Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated on that long-ago conversation.

1987

It was a few days after the Ghostbusters had managed to recapture Hob Anagarok, the Inuit demon Charlie Venkman had sneaked to New York with profitable plans to display it at Madison Square Garden. Peter's father had found the spirit in Alaska and freed the demon from a block of magic ice during his Garden performance, little realizing it would emerge thirty feet tall--and angry. Trapping the entity had been difficult, since the Ghostbusters' proton packs and particle throwers hadn't worked against it; stopping it had taken an Inuit ritual Egon had discovered in an old book, and even then they hadn't been able to store it in their containment unit. Once the entity was sealed again in the special ice, the team had arranged to keep it in a nearby cold storage locker where it would never be thawed and where they could monitor it easily.

Ray had gone out to retrace the hob's path from the Garden to Central Park and then back toward Ghostbuster Central, to take readings to make sure everything had returned to normal. On the way he encountered someone else covering the same ground, Edgar Benedek, star reporter of The National Register. The tabloid journalist descended on Ray in delight.

"Have I got a story for you, Stanzo!" he crowed triumphantly. "I saw you guys trap that demon. I got the best pictures! You get a full cover spread in tomorrow's issue of the Register."

"Peter will love that," Ray said with a grin. Of all of them the psychologist most loved free publicity.

"Any person of sense would." Benny grinned. "Wait till you read it. 'GHOSTBUSTERS RUB NOSES WITH ESKIMO SPOOK!' Some of my best work. But I was gonna stop by and talk to you because I think you've got a problem."

Ray smiled. He had always liked Benny, even if Peter had his suspicions about the reporter. But then Peter tended not to trust anyone who was a faster talker than he was.

"I read up on that ritual of yours," Benny continued. "Even called my Canadian connection on it. I think you guys have still got trouble--with a capital 'T' and that stands for the Trickster."

"Trouble? What do you mean, the Trickster? We didn't even encounter the Trickster except as a representation in the ritual. We've sealed away the Hob. It's safe now."

"And how was Pete's pop acting when you shipped him out of town?" Benedek asked suspiciously. "Normal?"

"As normal as possible, for somebody like him." Ray replied. "Why?"

"Because, near as I can tell, that ritual might have backfired on him. He represented the Trickster in your Eskimo rite, right? Ever think that was tempting fate? I betcha good money Pop Venkman rented out space in his upper story to the Trickster."

"You think Peter's dad is possessed?" Ray gaped blankly. "He can't be. It's not a part of the Inuit legend. I read up on the subject, and nothing was mentioned about residual possession."

"Well, you know about the Trickster myth, don't you? Universal Native American legend? A knavish being with some supernatural powers, right? Causes lots of trouble?"

Ray nodded. "I know a lot of the legends and stories. But I never heard any about anything like this."

"There are ton of Native American legends, and the Trickster pops up in gobs of them. You could've missed the ones you needed. Usually he has the form of an animal, and the ancient people thought they were mischievous and capricious, all that fun stuff."

"But Peter's dad didn't do anything suspicious during the ritual," Ray protested, certain his friend was wrong. "He just stood there. He would have run away if we'd let him. He didn't act possessed, just spooked. He knew he was in over his head and was counting on Peter and the rest of us to bail him out, the way he always does."

Benny shook his head. "Come on, Ray. The Trickster's sneaky. Loyalty and steadfast devotion is not hishis raison d'etre." He looked delighted at his phrasing. "Listen to me. The Prof is rubbing off on me. I'm turning into a class act."

Ray made a face, imagining how Benny's crony from the Georgetown Institute's Unexplained Phenomena Department would react to such a comment. "I'll tell Dr. MacKensie you said so. But I think you're way off base about Peter's dad. You think once he played the role of the Trickster, he was influenced by the part? He's going to run around and get into all kinds of trouble?"

Benny grinned knowingly. "He already does," he pointed out. "I met Peter's pop right after you guys took down the New Jersey Parallelogram. I never knew him when he wasn't in trouble. Where do you think he is right now? Best guess."

"Iowa?" suggested Ray hopefully, gesturing vaguely westward. Peter had had high hopes of keeping his dad out of trouble by sending him back to the family farm.

Benny shook his head. "Not a chance," he declared. "I'd stake my rep on it."

"Gosh, it could be neat," Ray mused, then he shook his head. "But Peter won't think so. We better tell him right away."

"He won't buy it from me. Can't figure why, but the Venkster doesn't trust me."

"Gee, I can't imagine why." Ray grinned encouragingly. "Come on, Benny, you've got to help me out. You've always claimed to be a paranormal expert. You boast about it on all those talk shows you do."

"Yeah, but I only know about this from books and from my contact in the Northwest Territories. I never met an actual Inuit spirit before. Come to think of it, I never met an actual Inuit before. From the looks of your pal, the Hob, I've gotta say I'll keep my distance from now on. Monsters thirty feet tall should stay nice and safe inside the pages of fairy tales, not go rampaging through Manhattan, stomping on taxis."

Ray threw up his hands in disgust. "So did your source in Canada have any bright ideas? How can we tell if he's possessed by the Trickster?"

"I'm not sure he isn't the Trickster, Ray."

"I don't believe that." Ray grinned. "He's always been shady but that doesn't mean he's become the living incarnation of the Trickster. I suppose he could have been affected by the energy needed to confine the Hob but that would probably wear off naturally. Maybe that's what your legends mean."

"That's a great idea, Ray," Edgar Benedek burst out enthusiastically, tugging on the lapels of his garishly patterned shirt. "But I still think he could be possessed by the Trickster."

Ray shook his head. "I took P.K.E. readings. Egon took even more. All we got were fading residuals. Egon monitored Peter's dad, and Dr. Bassingame and all of us afterward to make sure the city was safe again. If he found anything abnormal, he didn't tell anybody, and he'd have said so if he had."

For once Benny wore a serious expression. "Look, I was digging through some rare old books of mine when I heard what had happened, and that's when I got a whiff of this ritual you guys used to make the Hob shrink down to a big ice cube. Wherever you've got him stashed, you better watch out for freezer burn. Mr. Hob-goblin might be in cold storage, but all that energy had to go somewhere."

"And you honestly believe Peter's dad absorbed it? Gosh, Benny, Peter's not gonna like that."

"It may not mean anything," the tabloid journalist assured him. "But all I say is you better keep an eye on Pop Venkman whenever he shows up from now on. Maybe even take a few readings on the sly when Pete and Egon aren't watching you. Odds are nothing's gonna happen that wouldn't have happened already, but heck, Charlie Venkman's the best candidate to become the living incarnation of the Trickster I ever met. I know you can't watch him all the time; Pete probably hardly ever knows where he is unless he's in major trouble and needs bailing out. But keep an eye on him when he shows up, willya. I'd just as soon not spend my declining years dodging monsters"

* * *

It had been a long time since Ray had thought of Edgar Benedek's wild theories about Peter's father being possessed by the spirit of the Trickster, and nothing had ever come of them, although Ray had run surreptitious tests on Charlie whenever he dropped by to visit his son. Though Ray and the others had encountered Edgar Benedek from time to time, he had never again mentioned his theories on a backlash from the Hob Anagarok incident. Was the fact that the artifact was of Native origin a coincidence? Or was it because of its origins that Charlie Venkman had been prodded to attempt out-and-out theft? And if so, why?

Caught up in frustrated anger Peter scarcely noticed Ray's inflection, but Egon did and he lifted an eyebrow at Ray, who shook his head quickly. "You're going?" Egon asked Peter.

"Soon as I can grab a flight to Ohare," Peter admitted. Though he often resented his father fiercely, he also loved him very much and would probably go on bailing him out as long as he lived, complaining madly every time.

"Then we will come with you," Egon stated as if it were not debatable.

Peter looked startled, then he shook his head. "No way, Egon, this isn't your problem. Dad's managed to drag you three into his scrapes too often already, and it's a wonder nobody's gotten hurt--or sued or arrested--so far. It's my job to pick up the pieces when Dad's in trouble, not yours."

"And it's our choice to help you," Egon replied, meeting Peter's gaze. "It's our job to pick up the pieces when you are in trouble, Peter."

"Besides, we know you, Pete," Winston put in, clapping Venkman on the shoulder. "You pick up the pieces for your dad, but it won't be long before you'll need us to pick them up for you. We're a team, remember. You need help, we're there."

"We sure are," agreed Ray. "Besides we don't even have any busts scheduled for tomorrow, uh, today."

Peter hesitated, and for a minute Ray thought he would refuse their offer of help, then he shrugged and grinned at each of them in turn, a relieved look in his eyes. He'd never have asked their support for his dad, but he wouldn't fight them when they volunteered it, not for his dad but for him, and he'd be glad of it. "Thanks, guys." Then he shot out a hand and grabbed Ray's shoulder. "Now what's the big deal about this Inuit business?"

"Probably nothing," Ray replied. "Just that we ran into some Inuit business once before."

"Hob Anagarok," Egon remembered, his eyes narrowing behind his glasses as he cast his mind back. "But that entity is safely confined and there have been no repercussions since. Do you actually believe the stolen masks are related to the Hob, Ray?"

"No, not necessarily," Ray replied. He honestly didn't believe Benedek's wild theory either, not after nearly ten years. But Charlie Venkman had never been this kind of criminal before, and a lot of his scores had paranormal elements, especially since his son had become a Ghostbuster. Probably because his son had become a Ghostbuster. "But it could be connected to the Hob somehow. Part of the same legend, maybe."

"Well, whatever it was, he didn't get away with those masks," Peter said. "The guards caught him right away. He's in jail now. I'm supposed to talk to a Detective Vecchio when we get to Chicago. He's apparently got some kind of history with the masks. Somebody tried to swipe 'em before."

"So is this guy with the art squad?" Winston asked, interested.

Peter shrugged. He didn't know.

"Gosh, this is going to be interesting," Ray said, wide awake. "I'm gonna take detection equipment so we can make sure the masks aren't haunted or possessed or don't have a history in primitive rituals."

"I hate to break it to you, Ray, but with my dad, the key factor would be how much they're worth," Peter said. His shoulders sagged. "I used to envy kids with normal dads," he concluded then, as if he'd given too much away, he whirled abruptly and headed for his bed. "Somebody better make sure I get up early," he said without enthusiasm as he climbed in.

The other three exchanged worried glances, then Winston muttered, "Uh huh," and returned to his own bed. Ray decided he'd get up earlier than Peter and call Edgar Benedek as soon as it was light.

* * *

Benedek was not as helpful as Ray would have hoped though, as a journalist, he had his finger on the facts or could get them quickly. "The masks aren't Inuit," he announced when he called Ray back. "They're a pair of Tsimshian transformation masks," making a wild, and probably incorrect, stab at pronunciation of the name. Ray remembered hearing of them vaguely and didn't think it was pronounced, 'Tishimmy-shun'. "The Shimmy-whatevers are a Northwest Coast tribe," Benny continued quickly, reluctant to let the little fact of a minor mispronunciation slow him down. "Salmon fishing and stuff like that. They've got connections in British Columbia and Alaska."

"Alaska?" Ray echoed, pricking up his ears. That sounded promising. Charlie Venkman had found the Hob in Alaska when he was up there trying to sell ice makers to Eskimos.

"Near's I can tell, they showed up in Alaska pretty recently," Benedek said. "Sometime at the end of the last century, I think. If you're wondering about that Hob business, I don't know if there'd even be a connection. But get this, Stanzo, old buddy. The masks are worth major bucks. Betcha my first Pulitzer that's what's got Charlie going."

"You haven't got a Pulitzer, Benny."

"Yet," said Benedek with profound expectation. "Anyway, this isn't the first attempt to rip off the museum for the masks. The exhibition opened a couple of weeks ago, and the masks actually were stolen before the opening night. They got 'em back in time for the grand opening. Turns out it was the curator and the rep for the Canadian government who decided a million bucks could benefit their romance. I almost went out there at the time. I could've made a great story out of it, haunted masks, spirits wandering the museum halls, all that wonderful stuff. Not to mention Tsimshian activists roaming around wanting to take the masks back. It would have been fantastic." He sounded like he wouldn't mind being asked along this time, but Ray was pretty sure the last person Peter would want along on his rescue mission was a journalist, especially Benny.

Ray was both disappointed and relieved by Benedek's information; disappointed because the journalist's possession theory might have explained Charlie Venkman branching out into museum theft, and relieved because he'd always hoped the Inuit ritual had not permanently marked the old con man. Charlie was getting up in years and the last thing he needed was a new--and dangerous--career move. But neither did he need to be possessed in a way that couldn't be detected. Ray rejoined his friends, no more prepared to mention Benedek's wild theories than he had ever been, although he did tell them about the previous robbery attempt. But he made sure they didn't leave home without a P.K.E. meter--not that Egon ever went anywhere without one--and chose to take their proton packs along, too, just in case.

* * *

When Detective Ray Vecchio showed up at the Canadian Consulate the morning after the second attempt to steal the Tsimshian masks from the Natural History Museum of Chicago, he found Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police already in Inspector Margaret Thatcher's office. The mountie stood at rigid attention as if he was in the process of receiving a typical reprimand for some imagined misdeed from the Inspector. He did unbend enough to say, "Hello, Ray," before assuming his formal posture once more, so maybe it was just normal RCMP deportment. Ray was never quite sure how much of his friend's behavior was a Mountie thing or how much was simple Fraser being Fraser.

"Detective Vecchio," Thatcher said with no evidence of enthusiasm. "Here about last night's attempt to steal the Tsimshian masks, I presume? Did your Captain Welsh send you?"

Ray nodded, wincing at the memory of Welsh's send-off. "The museum security guards caught the guy, but it's so soon after the opening and the last rip-off attempt I came by to make sure it didn't have anything to do with the other time. Welsh thinks it did, but we've got the right masks in place and Fraser's buddy Eric is back with the tribe and the others are in jail. I think this is a whole new job, especially after talking to the perp."

"Did you question the suspect, Ray?" Fraser asked unnecessarily.

Thatcher cut in to query, "Is he Canadian?"

"Nope, American to the bone--the kind we'd like to export," Ray returned. "Weirdest thing I ever saw. He's either the greatest con artist since the dawn of time--and his record shows he's not that good at it, though he is a con man--or he really believes what he's saying."

That made Fraser interested. "What do you mean?"

"Guy swears he never meant to rob the place. Yeah, I know, they all say that. He claims he was in Chicago for a scam, all right, but he never even meant to go to the museum. According to him, he didn't even know there was a museum."

"The fact the masks are worth more than a million dollars doesn't have anything to do with it?" Thatcher asked with a hint of sarcasm.

"Most likely, sir," Fraser agreed automatically.

"No, you've gotta talk to this guy, Benny," Ray persisted. "I pulled his rap sheet. He's got a long history in the con game, done a little time at the local levels, six months here, a year there, nothing major. He never attempted anything as big as stealing the masks before. He's never even tried breaking and entering. Then all at once he's in the museum acting like he just woke up from a bad dream and saying, 'What am I doing here?'"

"Or at least was never caught at it," Fraser pointed out. "What does he actually claim, Ray?"

"That the last thing he remembers was being at his hotel. When he was caught, the guards say he looked around like he didn't know where he was. At least he's consistent. He'd be a lot easier to believe if he wasn't a known con man, but I can't shake him on it, either. Near as we can figure, he's got no connection to your buddy Eric, who was here before the opening of the exhibit, or any connection at all to the Tsimshian tribe. He's been to Canada, but only to a couple of the major cities; Toronto, Vancouver, Montreal, at least that's all he'll admit."

"Are you certain he's not snowing you, Detective?" Thatcher asked, tossing her dark hair and regarding the detective with suspicion.

"Hey, look, I know a con man's gotta do the sincerity bit and be convincing about it. Like my old man said once, 'The secret to success is sincerity. Once you can fake that, you've got it made.' Maybe he's just a lot better at it than his record indicates."

"Particularly when he was caught red-handed, stealing the masks," Fraser said thoughtfully. "Perhaps it would behoove us to have me question him."

Ray arched an eyebrow at the word 'behoove' but shrugged. "That's what I'm here for, to pick you up. There's one other thing about him that's kind of interesting."

"And what would that be, Ray?"

"He's the father of Peter Venkman."

Thatcher's mouth rounded into a startled 'O', but Fraser only looked blank. "I'm not familiar with that name. A local criminal, perhaps?"

Vecchio stared. "Venkman? You know? Peter Venkman? One of the Ghostbusters?"

At each succeeding question Fraser shook his head, still baffled. "Ghostbusters? I never heard of them."

"You never heard of the Ghostbusters?" Ray gaped at him in disbelief. He'd always known Fraser had lived a remote life in the Great White North in weird places with names like Tuktoyaktuk and Inuvik, but he'd never thought the library where Fraser appeared to have spent his every spare moment memorizing every book in sight wouldn't have had material on the Ghostbusters. "Where the heck have you been?" he demanded.

"I was in Canada, Ray." The inflection suggested persons of such dubious respectability never ventured onto the soil of America's northern neighbor.

"So was Thatcher here, and she knows," Ray replied with a gesture at the Mountie's boss. Lowering his voice, he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Course she probably likes their looks."

"What was that, Detective?" The woman demanded sharply, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

"I said Fraser's been reading the wrong kind of books," Ray managed to retrieve the situation. He elbowed Benny surreptitiously, who stifled a jump and murmured:

"Precisely, sir."

It was doubtful Thatcher believed either of them, but a fortuitous distraction was offered in the form of Fraser's wolf, Diefenbaker, who had been standing at lupine attention at Fraser's side. Dief chose that moment to whine up at Fraser, who at once bent his head to listen. "Yes? Really?" he asked for all the world as if Dief had offered something intelligent to the conversation. Ray hoped he had. Intelligent dialog was sorely needed at that point.

"Apparently I am the only one here who has never heard of the Ghostbusters?" Fraser said as if to indicate that Dief was familiar with the paranormal investigators and eliminators, even if his master wasn't. "I presume from their nomenclature that they are individuals who offer the service of ridding people of ghosts."

"You got it," Ray agreed, casting a doubtful look at Dief, whose expression was too smug to be believed. He was never quite sure if Fraser meant to be funny at such moments, whether he really believed his wolf could talk to him, or whether Dief actually could. Sometimes Ray felt like he'd put money on the last option. "Come on, Fraser, I'll tell you all about them in the car." Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, he grabbed the Mountie's arm and all but dragged him from Thatcher's office.

"Permission to leave, sir," Fraser called politely back, resisting.

"Granted." Thatcher sounded less than enthusiastic, but the moment her reply drifted to them, Fraser stopped holding back and fell into step with Ray. "Thank you kindly, sir," he called as they headed for the door.

Once the two men and Diefenbaker were in Ray's Buick Riviera heading for the precinct, Ray said, "There's one other thing I didn't want to say in there. I figured you wouldn't want me to talk about it in front of the Dragon Lady. Well, there's actually two things."

"What two things, Ray?" In the back seat, Dief stood up, resting his wolfly chin on the seatback in front of him and yipped a question of his own. "Be patient," Fraser advised him.

"The guards at the museum didn't want to say anything last night," Ray said, "for fear they'd be suspected of drinking or using on duty, but one of 'em swears right before they came around the corner and saw Venkman trying to get into the mask case, he heard a crow."

Fraser stiffened imperceptibly. "A crow? Are you sure it wasn't a raven, Ray?"

"Raven, crow? What's the difference. They're both big, black birds that go, 'caw! caw!'"

"Incorrect, Ray. The crow is Corvus Covidae, a bird with a standard length of 19 inches while the Raven, a bigger bird, is of Corvus Corax and has a length of 22-27 inches. While of the same family--"

"What is it with you?" Ray demanded, hastily interrupting a further spewing of facts. "Did you eat an encyclopedia for breakfast? How can anybody remember all those facts and numbers? Is this what Canadians do for fun? Are you sure you're not related to Mr. Data?"

Fraser meticulously straightened the front of his red jacket. "Mr. Data?"

Ray gnashed his teeth. "If you tell me you've never heard of Star Trek I'll have to believe you were living in a cave with a stone over the entrance all those years."

"Of course I have heard of Star Trek, Ray. You're referring to the android from Star Trek: The Next Generation. No, I assure you, flesh and blood here." He pinched his wrist to make his point. "The guard," he prompted Ray in a far more serious tone, "heard a raven?"

"Oh, come on, Benny, just because you fell for that Trickster gambit your friend Eric was peddling a couple of weeks ago--"

"The Trickster is a universal myth, Ray, known not only among the various Native North American tribes but as far afield as Africa."

"And you buy it? Mr. Straight and Narrow? Okay, then, what's wrong with the Ghostbusters? If you can go for legends coming to life, what's the problem with things that go bump in the night?" Ray's own problem with ghosts was very specific and he was just as glad his own particular haunting hadn't manifested itself on this occasion. He glanced over his shoulder uneasily, half expecting to find his pop sharing seat room with Diefenbaker, but to Ray's relief the wolf was alone in the back seat.

Fraser elevated one eyebrow and stared at the Chicago cop. "I didn't disparage the Ghostbusters," he defended himself. "Legends of ghosts are pervasive throughout all known cultures at many points in history. This could mean such legends have some basis in reality. Whether that basis is in actual fact a sheet-clad figure making spooky noises in the night or a more logical return of a familiar figure to haunt a person"

"Let's get back to the ravens," Ray cut in before he could be treated to a learned discourse on spirits. He didn't want Fraser to push his buttons all unknowing. "You can discuss ghost theories when the Ghostbusters get here. Venkman's son is showing up today to bail him out, should be here before noon. And he's bringing the rest of the team with him. You'd think it was a holiday at the precinct. Don't let it get your nose out of joint but Elaine's thinking about starting a Ghostbusters fan club."

"Ravens, Ray," Fraser prompted, undismayed by Elaine's hero-worship of the Ghostbusters. "The guard at the museum heard a raven? I assume no ravens were actually seen on the premises."

"No, the guards came running into the room and found Venkman. He hadn't paid any attention to the motion detectors and pressure plates you checked about eight hundred times and it wasn't until he actually got to the case with the masks in it that any alarms went off. Either he's a lot more of a pro than his rap sheet tells us or he flapped in there on big, black wings."

"I find it difficult to believe the father of one of these, er, Ghostbusters, could actually be an incarnation of the Trickster, Ray," Fraser argued.

"I'm glad we're one on that. I thought you'd insist he was."

Diefenbaker made a low, thrumming noise deep in his throat. "Quite right," Fraser told him.

"What?" Ray asked staring at the wolf suspiciously.

"Taxi, Ray," Fraser warned him calmly.

"Right." Vecchio turned eyes front and navigated around the illegally parked vehicle.

"Just an editorial comment," returned the Mountie, harking back to Ray's question.

"O-kay." Ray hesitated. "Then about the second thing. You ever heard of something called Hob Anagarok?"

Diefenbaker retreated instantly to the back seat where he lay down and settled his nose between his paws, whining unhappily. Fraser stared at the detective. "The First Demon," he replied informatively.

"I don't think I like the sound of that. What do you mean, The First Demon?"

"Early Inuit peoples, most notably the pre-Dorset peoples, had a legend about a great demon who had been placed by the gods to warm the earth. The humans defeated him and sealed him in a block of special ice with evident magical properties and sank it to the bottom of the sea. The land grew cold and became much as it is to this very day in the far north. It's part of an origin myth."

"Yeah, right," said Ray out of the corner of his mouth, sneaking a peek at Diefenbaker, who had put one paw over his head as if to protect himself from the very mention of Hob Anagarok. Inexplicably Ray felt nervous.

"Pedestrian, Ray."

"Got it." He hit the brakes to allow the old woman to cross in front of him. Sometimes he wondered how Fraser expected him to reach their destination with all these interruptions. Maybe he should just park and let Chicago go about its business before he tried to drive anywhere.

"Why do you ask about the Hob?" Fraser asked. "He's not a part of the Tsimshian legends and should have nothing to do with the Transformation Masks, other than the Canadian connection."

"Because this Venkman character is supposed to have found a demon sealed up in some black ice up in Alaska that he said had been spit out of a glacier. He turned it loose in Madison Square Garden, where it broke out of the ice and went rampaging through the city until the Ghostbusters stopped it."

"That sounds highly suspect and most likely apocryphal, Ray."

"It's on his rap sheet. He had to pay a whopping big fine just to keep from winding up in jail. Apparently the son paid it for him. The point is, there was major damage at Madison Square Garden and other areas of the city. Probably some kind of special effects light show that got out of hand, something a la Spielberg."

"No doubt," replied Fraser so ambiguously Ray suspected he didn't know about Spielberg either. The Mountie continued quickly, "At least one hopes so. If in actual fact Hob Anagarok were to break free of confinement, if there was any truth to the legend, the danger would be grave indeed."

Maybe it didn't take much more of a leap of faith to believe in demons sealed up in special ice than it did to talk to wolves and believe that men could turn into ravens. All that remote, northern life and reading had definitely gotten to Fraser. Ray shook his head with a grin. "It won't be so bad," he said cheerfully. "We'll have the Ghostbusters on our side after all. If the monster attacks, they can blast it."

* * *

"I didn't break into the museum," Charlie Venkman insisted half an hour later. "I tell you, I don't know how I even got there."

"You just happened to waltz into the Natural History Museum of Chicago, stroll over pressurized plates in the floor, miss the motion detectors and heat sensors and get all the way to a set of million dollar masks while you were sleepwalking?" Ray asked, dubious. "My buddy here tested all the security equipment before the exhibit opened and if anybody could make it secure, he could."

The old con man studied Fraser, noting the red coat, the hat set aside on the table. "Mountie, eh? They say those masks I didn't try to steal were Canadian. So you got called in, Constable Fraser? That was quick. Ottawa is Johnny on the Spot today."

"Actually I work in Chicago at the Canadian Consulate, sir," Fraser informed him.

"Well, I never tried to rip off any masks. Never tried any heists, not my speed. Give me a nice healthy con racke--I mean, I'm innocent."

Diefenbaker whined. Venkman stared down at him in surprise and stretched out a hand to rub Dief behind the ears. The wolf appeared to enjoy it. "Do you always bring your dog along when you question witnesses?"

"He's a wolf," Fraser replied repressively. Venkman's hand retreated immediately to the tabletop.

"Have you ever been in Tsimshian territory, Mr. Venkman?" Fraser asked.

"I never even heard of anything like that. That some local street gang or what?"

"The Tsimshian are the tribe who originally made the masks," Fraser informed him.

"Beautiful things," Venkman said. "I got a good look when those guards came in yelling. Saw the label, too. Transformation masks. Well, I don't know what that is, but I know when something's special, and I think those masks are. I'd be so far out of my league trying to peddle them it wouldn't be funny. Only way to get ahead in this crazy world is stick to what you know. I won't kid you I've always been legit, but I've never been big time, not like this."

"What about Hob Anagarok?" prompted Ray, only slightly mispronouncing it.

"That was a mistake," Charlie said at once. "I never thought it'd get out of hand like that. Comes of getting cheap help. That Bassingame clown, you know, the TV spiritualist guy, was supposed to help me contain it but he didn't have a clue. I thought I'd make the rounds, get people to come to the freak show, rake in the bucks. Better than the Cardiff Giant, and real to boot. I never knew the thing would be thirty feet high and fire would spring up in his footprints."

"Even you should be able to track that type of entity, Ray," Fraser said dryly as if he were trying hard not to smile.

"No, thanks. I'll stick to normal city ways of finding perps and leave the Pathfinder stuff to you," Vecchio replied. "Though that might be a treat for you. You go to taste the dirt, at least it would be cooked." Ray's eyes lit with amusement but he turned back to Venkman at once. "So you claim you actually loosed a demon on New York?"

"Of course I did, and I have witnesses to prove it. What's more, I took part in the ritual that saved the day by confining it. I was a hero, and what did they do? Slap on a big fine." He shook his head mournfully at the limits of society. "Nobody appreciates my work."

"Not when it takes you into a museum after closing time," Ray told him.

With a knock, Elaine popped open the door and poked her head in. "The Ghostbusters are here," she announced, excitement in her eyes.

"Send them in," Fraser told her. She favored him with a thousand-watt smile and stepped back to allow four men to enter. They weren't wearing Ghostbusters jumpsuits, just normal street clothes, but the way they walked into the room suggested ability in dealing with greater dangers that cops and Mounties. One of them, brown-haired, simply bristled with cocky self-confidence that might have been defensive because there was a definite resemblance between him and the prisoner. A second was tall and blond with red-rimmed glasses. A third was a tall, powerfully built black man, and the last one was shorter, stockier and auburn-haired. His face lit with delight when he saw Diefenbaker and he automatically stretched out a hand to greet the wolf. Elaine ushered them in, her eyes lingering on the brown-haired one with great enthusiasm. He smiled back at her, a conditioned reflex in the presence of an attractive woman, but the minute the door closed he turned to glare at the prisoner, launching himself at him and grabbing him by the shoulders.

"Are you nuts, Pop?" His tenor voice was full of outrage. "A museum?! You broke into a museum?! What did you think you were doing?"

"Peter, my boy." The old man's voice was smooth and polished as if he were shifting into high gear, but underneath it was a combination of relief and pride. "I knew you'd come and help out your old man. I was framed. I don't know how they did it or why, but I never meant to break in anywhere. I had another rack--uh, I had other plans."

"Framed?" Peter said skeptically. "Why don't I buy that? Maybe it's because I know you too well. You only call when you're in trouble or when you think you can use me and the guys. But you went too far this time."

"But I didn't," the older man protested. "I was minding my own business at my hotel; I had a meeting for this morning and I wasn't doing anything but watching TV. They had your first movie on and I was getting a kick out of watching Murray play you. The next think I knew, two guards were waving guns in my face. I swear it, son, I don't know how I got there."

"Gosh, he sounds like he means it, Peter." The shortest man looked up from rubbing Diefenbaker's ears. Dief appeared to be enjoying the attention. "Maybe it's true."

"Hardly, Ray," the blond said. He was the one who turned to Vecchio and nodded by way of greeting. "You'll have to forgive Peter. He's been waiting to chastise his father since he got the call last night. We're the Ghostbusters. I'm Egon Spengler, that's Peter Venkman, the one petting the wolf is Ray Stantz, and this is Winston Zeddemore," he concluded with a gesture at the black man, who nodded and offered a greeting. Stantz looked up from Diefenbaker and said:

"Hi. Is this your wolf?"

"Wolf, Ray?" Peter asked a little uneasily, taking an automatic step backward.

"He's mine," Fraser said. "I'm Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police and this is Detective Ray Vecchio of the Chicago Police Department."

Peter looked from Fraser to Vecchio, then turned back to his father. "It's worse than I thought. Now you've caused an international incident. I suppose these priceless masks you wanted to steal belong to the Canadian government." He turned to Fraser and Ray. "He doesn't mean it. Causing trouble's like a knee-jerk reaction to him. I've gotta say he never tried anything like this before. You're working with somebody, aren't you, Pop?"

The elder Venkman shook his head. "I work alone, you know that, son."

"Sure, most of the time. What about the time you recruited Dr. Bassingame to help you?"

"That was different, not to mention a major mistake. I'm here alone," he insisted.

"Near as we can tell, that's right," put in Ray Vecchio. "The hotel doesn't report anybody asking for him. If somebody came in, they went right to his room, but no one saw them. I pulled up the names of some known art thieves who go for this kind of thing on the computer and he has no links to any of them."

"So you just decided it would be a nice night to start a whole new career?" Peter demanded, leaning aggressively toward his father. "Why me? Why do I always wind up in such a mess?" He sneaked a suspicious glance at Dief. "Why is there a wolf here? Aren't wolves dangerous?"

"Wolves don't eat people, Peter," Egon said with a twinkle in his eye. "That's a myth. In fact wolves possess great loyalty."

"Precisely," Fraser said, eyeing Egon with some respect. "The wolf has been much maligned both in literature and folklore as well as in the reports of the ignorant."

"Perhaps the legend of the 'Big Bad Wolf' had something to do with it," Egon theorized.

"Whoa, hold it right there," Peter cut in quickly. "No legends. No stories. No explanations." He turned to Fraser. "Don't encourage him. We try not to."

Egon cast a mildly reproachful glance at Peter, though amusement lurked in his eyes.

"I don't care about all those stories about big bad wolves. I think he's great," Stantz burst out enthusiastically, scratching Diefenbaker behind the ears. As Dief whined happily, the auburn-haired Ghostbuster leaned closer as if he could understand what the wolf was saying.

Vecchio muttered to Fraser. "I think he speaks wolf as well as you do, Fraser."

Fraser considered Stantz with interest as if he believed it, causing Ray to shake his head.

Peter ignored the distraction of Diefenbaker and turned back to his father. "Don't think I'm gonna bail you out this time," he said. "I've been picking up the pieces for too long now and I told you last time I wouldn't do it again. Besides, this is a lot more serious than your usual games, and it's not even the kind of thing you usually call me for. There's nothing paranormal about stealing from a museum."

"What about the way I got there?" Charlie Venkman demanded. "Maybe that was paranormal. Unless I was hypnotized or something. Son. I swear I never meant to break into a museum. I never planned it." He stroked his narrow mustache and reached up to pat the obvious toupee he was wearing. "Word of honor, Peter, I don't know what I was doing there."

"When you were in the museum," Fraser began, "did you hear the cry of a raven?"

To Vecchio's surprise, that made Stantz jerk up his head and regard Charlie Venkman through narrowed eyes as if he expected to see something different about him, possibly feathers. He didn't say anything, but his face was thoughtful and worried and, as Vecchio watched, the kneeling man pulled a weird gizmo out of his pocket and quietly turned it on. Ray watched him long enough to make sure it wasn't a weapon, realizing it was one of the tools of the Ghostbuster trade. Peter didn't notice, but Egon did, and his eyebrows lifted expectantly, though he didn't speak. Antennae rose at one end of the hand-held device and lights blinked faintly. Ray looked disappointed.

"Raven?" Venkman echoed. "No, just the guards yelling I was supposed to freeze. There weren't any birds in there, at least not that I saw."

"What's a raven got to do with it?" Peter asked suspiciously as if his father was on the way to being framed. "I don't think it's against the law to have a raven around. Is it, Egon?"

"Not to my knowledge," returned the blond man.

"There weren't any ravens," Venkman insisted as if that proved his innocence. "At least not after I woke up. I'm leveling with you, Peter. No ravens, and no plan to break in. I don't know how I got there. If you think that doesn't worry me, you're wrong." He gave his son a look of great sincerity. "I didn't call you to bail me out, I called because I'm scared, son. I need your help." He gazed up at the younger man; in profile they were much alike around the nose and eyes, but Peter's jaw was firmer and his smile didn't resemble a piranha's the way his father's did.

"I believe him," Fraser said unexpectedly. "I think he's telling the truth as he knows it. He isn't lying to us."

"That's what he wants you to think," Peter said, determined to be the one to find fault with his father first, before anyone else could do it. Vecchio recognized the technique. His own dad had been as bad as Charlie Venkman in a different way. He was used to dealing with an unsatisfactory father, even in spirit form, and if he'd been quick to disparage his dad, the other kids hadn't had the chance. Sometimes it even worked. But Peter also had the look of a man who has faced one too many disappointments and let himself trust one too many times. Probably his dad had cried wolf so often it was hard for his son to tell the genuine crisis from all the false ones that had gone before. As if he understood completely, Egon took a step nearer Peter, the movement an unconscious demonstration of support.

"Perhaps," Fraser replied. "That does not, however, make it untrue. There was an earlier attempt to steal the masks, though that was simply for profit."

"Not to mention the Tsimshian wanting the masks back," Ray reminded him. "Okay, how about this. Could somebody have hired your old man to break in and get them?"

Peter looked surprised. "Offer him enough money and he'd probably go for it, but why would anybody with sense offer him money for something he doesn't know how to do?"

"That's a good point, Pete," Zeddemore agreed. "He gets by on his wits, not on skills at getting past motion detectors and all that stuff, probably heat sensors and pressure plates in the floor and around the case where the masks are kept. I can't see Charlie trying anything like that, not unless he was with somebody who knew what he was doing, and who took off and left him holding the bag."

Peter shot a quick and rather resentful look at Winston for offering the most logical reason yet for the old con man's presence in the museum. Winston spread his hands apologetically. "Sorry, Pete, but somebody had to say it. I don't think that's what happened, though. What's all this about ravens anyway. Why should there be ravens anyway? You couldn't train a raven to snatch a mask and fly off with it, could you?"

"In Native American Folklore on the Northwest coast of North America, the Raven is the Trickster," said Stantz, twiddling dials on his device. "You know about this myth?" he asked, looking up at Fraser.

Ray and Fraser stared at each other. This was becoming stranger by the minute. Maybe it wasn't only greedy people and the Tsimshian tribe who wanted the transformation masks. Maybe there was another power that wanted them. Nah. Ray shook his head, though it was strange that the Ghostbuster had made that leap so quickly.

"You sound as if you expected to hear of the Trickster," Fraser said to him.

"Expected to? I sure didn't," Peter burst out. "I thought this was about a museum heist, not some kind of mystical native legend."

"Me too," agreed Winston.

"That is what it's about," Vecchio insisted.

"The guards insisted they heard a raven right before they burst into the room and found Mr. Venkman. And I saw a raven myself at the museum several weeks ago. I have friends among the Tsimshian--"

"Yeah, and they know how to make a great sweat lodge," Vecchio said enthusiastically. "But I've got a rational answer for everybody. Sometimes birds get trapped in buildings. It doesn't mean anything supernatural is going on."

Stantz held aloft his meter. "Then why am I detecting faint readings?"

Fraser tensed slightly, and so did Ray but he hoped it didn't show. That gizmo couldn't prove his pop had been hanging around him once in awhile, could it? And what was it with Fraser reacting?

"What kind of readings, Raymond?" Egon asked as Peter stuck out a hand and hauled the auburn-haired man to his feet. Dief made a faint sound of protest at being deserted.

"Mostly just faint residuals," Stantz said. "Class three. Probably the ghosts of people who were interrogated here long ago. They're not present right now anyway. That's not important."

Vecchio decided he was interested in the device and he peered at it over Stantz's shoulder. "What is that thing anyway?"

"This is a P.K.E. meter," he replied. "It detects psycho-kinetic energy. We've got them set up to report when ghosts are present, because ghosts possess ectoplasm."

"I assume it reacts to forms of non-conventional energy," said Fraser, equally intrigued.

"Precisely," Egon stepped in. "Note the readings on the screen. A positive valence indicates the presence of a ghost or demon, a negative valence reports a physical entity. We've worked out a classification of ghosts to break them down into different categories. Ray's residual readings indicate Class-3--" he pointed to the screen, "--which is an entity that was formerly a living human being."

"Indeed?" said Fraser. "Have there been reports of ghostly activity here before, Ray?"

"No, Fraser, there haven't."

"That doesn't mean ghosts weren't here, simply that they weren't reported," Stantz put in. He checked his dials. "It's interesting, but I can't find any evidence of possession, though. Or ghostly ravens."

"But you started testing at the first mention of a raven, Ray," Egon reminded him. "Which suggests you were expecting to hear there might be anomalies. Since none of the rest of us had any such indication, I'd be interested in hearing your rationale for your attempt at detection."

Fraser could sound like that, too, Vecchio thought. He looked at the other Ray with interest and thought how complicated it could get if somebody yelled the name 'Ray' and two men answered.

"Gosh, Egon, I never believed it until now." Stantz turned to the younger Venkman. "I probably should have told you a long time ago, Peter, but I didn't believe it myself and I couldn't prove it. I thought it was just one of Benny's wild theories."

Vecchio looked involuntarily at Fraser. Now there were two Bennys in the tale. And two Venkmans. Things were getting worse by the minute. Still, the odds were there would never be two Egons or two Winstons. Just as well.

"I don't know what kind of scam Edgar Benedek tried to pull on you, Ray, but I'm surprised you bought it. He's nearly as bad as my d--" Glancing at his father, Peter cut off his words abruptly but not before Charlie Venkman realized what his son had meant to say. The old man's shoulders slumped unhappily. Evidently he wanted his son's respect, even if he'd done nothing to deserve it. It made Vecchio wonder about his own dad's expectations.

"Who is Edgar Benedek?" Fraser asked, his brow wrinkling slightly as he pondered the question. "I seem to know that name from somewhere."

That really surprised Ray, because he did know the name. There surely couldn't be two of him. "The tabloid journalist. The one who writes about finding Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster and out-of-body extravaganzas? That who you mean?"

"Of course. The man who did the articles about primitive man and folklore last year," Fraser said, snapping his fingers as if he'd finally made the connection. "I was skeptical of him because I'd seen some of his earlier articles. Over the years I've been stationed in places with little to read, and often found the National Register one of the few examples of journalistic extravagance at hand. I occasionally amused myself by writing letters to refute some of the more outrageous articles, and one of them was written by this man, Benedek. He wrote back with all kinds of questions about Inuit mythology. You asked me about Hob Anagarok this morning, Ray." At the name, Diefenbaker whined. "It was Mr. Benedek who asked me questions about the legend. He telephoned me about it. I related some of the old stories my grandmother had told me. These days his writing is far more legitimate than it was. I was mostly pleased with his work."

"Well, Benny used to live in New York, and when we first got into business, he was always hanging around looking for a good story," Winston explained. "He automatically bought into everything paranormal. If there was a sane and sensible explanation and a paranormal one, you could bet which one he'd pick. At least if he hung out with us, he picked up some genuine ghosts to write about. Then he linked up with some college prof down in D.C. Benny wanted to tie his name to a prestigious institution, but he got hooked. He's actually working on a higher degree now. When did he tell you whatever he told you, Ray?"

"It was right after we stopped Hob Anagarok," Stantz replied. Diefenbaker lay down in the most remote corner he could find, making Vecchio study him thoughtfully. Stantz eyed the wolf in surprise then looked at Fraser and Vecchio. "Do you know about Hob Anagarok? You mentioned the Hob," he said, gazing at Fraser.

"I know the legend, and Ray is familiar with the incident in New York," Fraser replied. "It came up on Mr. Venkman's rap sheet."

"Figures," Peter muttered without enthusiasm. "So what's the Hob got to do with this? I thought we sealed him up nice and safe in that magic ice of his and stashed him in cold storage. Don't tell me he got away again?"

"No, we'd have known about it if he had," Stantz replied. "Gosh, Peter, I wish I'd said something now. Right after we busted the Hob, I was talking to Benny about it, and he said he'd done some research on the legends about the Hob and about the ritual we used."

"He did," said Fraser in surprise. "He telephoned me. We had been in contact at that point. I remember he phoned to ask about the Inuit rituals and I relayed to him what I could. Since I had no idea he was questioning me regarding a specific incident, I simply told him what I knew and then forgot about it. I would have been astonished to hear a claim that the Hob was running amok in New York City and would most likely have discounted the entire story as pure fabrication. The ritual does present a danger to the actor portraying the Trickster. It is, however a slight danger, and presumably not of longstanding duration." He paused and considered Charlie Venkman with great interest, his classic features thoughtful as he pondered the implications of Benedek's phone call.

"Then you must have been the one he'd been talking to when he met me," Ray Stantz said. "I think that's great. He said he'd heard the powers at play in the ritual could, well, sort of stick to the person representing the Trickster. In essence he would be possessed. Not like a normal demonic possession, but as if he'd halfway turned into the Trickster."

"And who better than my pop to be the Trickster?" Peter said with a combination of exasperation and pride.

"But I'm not possessed," Charlie Venkman insisted. "That was nearly ten years ago. Don't you think I'd have noticed?"

"Hmm," said Egon Spengler, rubbing his chin in thought. "Don't you think you would have noticed walking into a museum where the guards heard a raven moments before they found you?"

"An astute question," Fraser said.

"Oh, now, wait a minute," burst out Vecchio. "You're trying to tell me it wasn't Venkman who tried to steal the masks. It was the Trickster? Then why didn't he just fly away with them instead of getting caught? Didn't somebody say the Trickster had some supernatural powers? I don't think he'd have let himself get caught."

"Wait a minute," exploded Peter. "My dad's not possessed. That was nearly ten years ago, and I know there have been times we've taken readings around him. Ray must have after he talked to Benedek. Wouldn't the Trickster set off the meters some way or another? What do you say, Spengs?" He propped his elbow against the tall blond's shoulder and leaned on him companionably.

Egon frowned, shifting position slightly to maintain his balance as if Peter's pose were habitual. "Evidently not. I assume you made the proper tests, Ray?" He turned to Stantz.

"I did. I checked him off and on for years, whenever he'd show up. I even went to Mexico with him treasure hunting that time partly because of what Benny had said."

"I thought you headed down there because you wanted to play Indiana Jones in the jungle," Winston teased, and Stantz flushed slightly.

"Well, that too. But the point is, if there'd ever been anything in the readings to indicate possession or influence, I would have told everybody. There never was. I thought Benedek was just going on the way he always does, until I heard Mr. Venkman had broken into a place and was trying to steal a Native American artifact."

"Maybe the ritual only formed a link," Fraser said thoughtfully.

"Formed a link," scoffed Vecchio. "Come on, Fraser, this is getting a little crazy here. The guy tried to rob the Natural History Museum, that's all there is to it. He doesn't turn into a raven at the dark of the moon or anything like that. You tried to claim the Trickster was there before. Is this some Canadian thing?"

"No, Ray. It is a matter of belief but also one of proof. Mr. Venkman claims he does not remember what happened to him, what led him to the masks. If we assume his avowal is true, the influence of the Trickster is one possible solution."

"Yeah, and Welsh is gonna put me to work as a crossing guard if I even suggest such a thing to him," Vecchio moaned. "He's not very happy to have the Ghostbusters here, let alone you and Dief. The last thing he wants is another international incident and I bet you dollars to doughnuts he's been on the phone with Thatcher to make sure we play this one straight and normal."

"Excuse me." Egon drew himself up to his full height; he was the tallest man in the room. "If we can prove, scientifically, that Peter's father was under the influence of the Trickster and we can remove such possession, would it be possible for the charges to be dropped?"

"Prove it? How the heck could you prove it?" Vecchio demanded, as Peter turned to stare at Egon with the beginning of hope in his eyes and a considerable degree of gratified respect. That was the minute Ray realized what good friends the Ghostbusters were. They'd all rallied around Peter when it wasn't even his own trouble that had brought him here and now Egon was working to find a way to rescue Peter's father, even though he had displayed no particular fondness toward the old con man.

"Egon'll prove it," Peter said with utter confidence. "If anybody can do it, he and Ray can."

"But I can't get any readings, Peter," Stantz said mournfully as if he were letting his friend down.

"Not now, Ray," Egon returned. "Because I don't believe such a possession is constant. I don't believe he's possessed at all in the conventional sense of the word. Perhaps it's simply that when he's handy for the Trickster to use, he falls under its influence. Evidently the Trickster is interested in the transformation masks. What exactly are transformation masks, Constable Fraser?"

"They are a pair of carved masks, designed to be interlocking," Fraser replied. "The Tsimshian are famous for the quality of their carved wooden masks but these are made of basalt. The inner one has open eyes, the outer one has its eyes closed. The primitive peoples believed that reuniting them would make the gods permit the return of the sun, allowing spring to come. Until recently the masks were separated. They were originally confiscated from the Tsimshian by a missionary sent to convert them."

"William Duncan," agreed Egon. "He eventually moved to Alaska with a number of his converts and they settled on Annette Island."

"You are well versed in Canadian history," Fraser said approvingly and in some surprise. Vecchio knew he was always finding things out about Canada that he'd never known before or never even thought to wonder about before his life had included a Canadian best friend.

"Egon knows something about everything," Peter praised. "He's a genius. Of course he doesn't remember to take out the trash when it's his turn, so maybe it all balances out." He gave Egon a friendly nudge with his elbow and turned to face Vecchio. "So do we take my dad over to the museum and see if he sets off any meters or what?"

"That would be an excellent way to test Ray's theory," Egon confirmed.

"Well, I don't know if it's a theory so much as a possibility," admitted Stantz. He still had the meter going, but it wasn't doing anything at all now, no blinking lights, no faint beeping, and the antennae had lowered dejectedly as if the device was disappointed to find so little to interest it.

"Oh, now, just a minute," Vecchio objected. "You mean you want me to take him--" he jerked his thumb at Charlie Venkman, "--back to the scene of the crime? That's not such a great idea."

"We'd all go with you, Ray," Fraser explained. "He'd be well guarded."

"Yeah, right, by four Ghostbusters, a Mountie, and a wolf. If he decided to take off, it'd be my butt in a sling."

"He won't take off, Ray," Fraser persisted. "If he did, I'd be able to track him."

"You called that one right," Vecchio admitted. He turned to Charlie Venkman. "I've seen him do it, too, so you better not get any wild ideas about breaking away. Maybe I should bring Huey with me and a couple of uniforms." He shook his head. "Now you've got me planning it."

"The last thing I want is for him to escape," Peter said. "He'd only get into more trouble than he's in already. I don't know if Ray's right about this Trickster thing, but I do know if there was ever any entity that was in tune with my pop to begin with, it would be this Trickster dude. He couldn't tell the truth about which way the sun comes up, never could." There was an element of pride buried deep in the frustration and resentment that filled his voice. "And when it comes to keeping promises" his voice trailed off and he frowned at his father. Egon automatically dropped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed before letting go.

"There is one other thing we should consider," Fraser said half-apologetically. "The fact that the legend of Hob Anagarok is not part of Tsimshian culture. It's an old Inuit tale."

Diefenbaker, who had returned to Fraser's side, glanced up at him with a resentful look and retreated again to the far corner of the interrogation room. Vecchio hoped this Hob dude was really trapped, if he existed at all, or Dief was going to take off and never look back.

"No," Egon argued, eyeing the wolf with considerable interest. "But the Trickster is a universal myth. He simply takes different forms in different lands. He is a raven in Inuit folklore as well as in Tsimshian legend. And there is this to consider. Hob Anagarok--" he paused and glanced Diefenbaker, who whimpered faintly. "Fascinating," murmured Egon in a spot-on imitation of Mr. Spock. "The Hob," he continued, "brought warmth to the land. The north became cold when he was trapped, according to the myth. The Tsimshian masks, when united, were supposed to draw back the sun, returning warmth to the land after a long, cold winter. There is a parallel."

"Indeed there is," Fraser replied, his eyes alight with interest.

"Oh, now wait a minute here," Vecchio objected, waving his hands to get the others' attention. "I may not know everything there is to know about this Hob character or even Tsimshian legends, but I do know that myths like these were used by primitive people to explain natural phenomena they didn't understand."

"Quite correct, Ray," Fraser told him approvingly. "But that doesn't mean a belief could never have sprung up from actual events or that a belief based on such explanations could not have drawn energy from the very fact that people believed it."

"Precisely," Egon agreed. "Belief made manifest. We've encountered it before. The belief by millions of fans in his reality created a quasi-ectoplasmic version of Sherlock Holmes, as well as Dr. Watson and Holmes' arch-rival, Moriarty. They existed in our world as free-roaming archetypes. Belief in the Trickster was widespread among primitive peoples. Who is to say that all the energy engendered by that belief could not have created the entity itself."

"So you're saying all these various tribes around the world believed in the Trickster and made him real?" asked Winston.

"Sure, it makes a lot of sense," Ray Stantz burst out excitedly. "Because it would give people someone to blame when little things went wrong. You know, like 'gremlins' in World War II. All that energy had to go somewhere."

"And you're saying it went to my pop?" Peter asked, staring at his father with narrowed eyes as if there should be a visible difference. "I'd like to buy into it because it would maybe let him off the hook this time, but if Ray can't get readings"

"I want to try again, after I make some adjustments," Stantz explained and bent his auburn head over the device. Then Egon produced another one from the inside pocket of his sports jacket and began to fiddle with it, too.

"Egon never goes anywhere without a P.K.E. meter," Peter explained to Fraser and Vecchio. "I think he even takes them along on his dates."

"Before you do anything more," Charlie Venkman interrupted, "don't you think you should ask me about all this possession stuff?"

All six men and the wolf stared at him as if the table had suddenly spoken. They'd become so involved in the weird theories the Ghostbusters and Fraser had bought into they'd almost forgotten the reason they were here, at least, thought Vecchio, all but Peter, whose face was wary.

"Come on, Pop, are you gonna tell me you know about all this?"

"No, but there were a couple of times when I sort of blanked out the way I did in the museum."

"You never told me," Peter accused as if it were one more fault to add to the tally he kept against his father.

"I wasn't anywhere around you at the time," Charlie defended himself. "First time, I was down in Taos, hoping I could score with all those New Age Uh, well, I had a project going, let's say. One minute I was in a bar having a cold beer on a hot day and the next thing I knew I was back in my hotel room, and didn't remember getting there. I thought I'd got drunk and somebody hauled me back, though I don't let myself have more than a beer or two when I'm working. Next morning it was in all the papers that some priceless Kachina doll was missing." He saw their expressions and said hastily, "I didn't take it. I swear it. I even half wondered but I didn't have it in any of my stuff. Nobody ever associated me with it. I forgot about it until now."

"You think the Trickster is making you steal Native artifacts?" Fraser asked, intrigued. "Why would he do that, precisely?"

Venkman spread his hands wide in innocent confusion. "I don't know. Not a clue. And if he's doing it, why didn't he let me get away with it this time?"

"Well, um, that is an interesting question," Fraser said. "But you are a human being and the museum security equipment is excellent."

Vecchio looked at Fraser suspiciously, wondering, not for the first time, if the real masks were actually in the museum. Fraser had told him, after the attempted theft, that the masks were where they belonged. If he believed they belonged with the Tsimshian he would have said the same thing. Maybe, assuming Ray believed any of these wild theories, the Trickster had lost interest if the masks were forgeries.

As if he sensed the look, Fraser turned to face Ray, and met the questioning expression with a completely bland one of his own as if defying Ray to say anything. Vecchio held his tongue. The museum could have the masks examined by experts whenever they wanted to. Besides, if they were copies, they looked just the same. Maybe they'd even work the same in Tsimshian rituals, unless something in the making required its own rituals.

"So what are we gonna do?" Peter asked impatiently. "Haul my dad over to the museum and see if he sets the meters off? If that happens, can the charges be dropped?"

Vecchio hesitated, knowing it would take more than that. "I'm not sure they'll even let us take him over there," he admitted.

"Then perhaps we should go over first and take readings," Egon volunteered. "If we find any trace readings or residuals, we'd have grounds to do a more thorough investigation."

"With those little things?" asked Ray.

"We brought our proton packs and a lot more equipment," Stantz volunteered eagerly. "With Peter's dad, you never know--sorry, Mr. Venkman, but it's true--and there was always the chance he was messing in something way over his head. Ever since Peter became a Ghostbuster his dad has been trying to"

"Make a buck of me, is what you're trying to find a polite way to say, aren't you, Tex?" Peter asked him.

Stantz ducked his head, a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I guess so. But I still think he's great."

"Thank you, my boy," Charlie Venkman said, nodding to the youngest Ghostbuster. "I know you'll plead my case better than I could do it myself."

"We all will, Mr. Venkman," Stantz assured him. "If any of this is true, we'll find out all about it. Wow, isn't it great," he burst out, caught up in the excitement of discovery. "If the Trickster is really involved I mean we've found out about other things people only thought were legends that turned out to be real, like the Bogeyman."

"Oh, come on," exploded Vecchio. "Give me a break here." In spite of Spengler's learned tones and Stantz's eager excitement, not to mention Winston's practical comments and Peter's fierce and ambiguous desire to clear his dad, Ray had doubted the possibilities, though Fraser seemed to espouse them. But then Fraser wasn't like other people and Ray had not only learned to live with that fact but to delight in it. The mention of the Bogeyman, however, made him eye the Ghostbusters with great suspicion. Maybe they were really scam artists after all.

All four men stiffened as if their honor had been impugned. Egon said stiffly, "If you doubt our veracity, you have only to contact the NYPD. They will vouch for us."

Privately, Vecchio decided it might well be a good idea.

* * *

"I don't believe it," Ray griped as he and Fraser got into the Riviera to head for the museum. "This is the craziest thing you ever got me into. Next time something weird and Canadian comes along, remind me I have a dentist appointment."

"You don't believe in ghosts, Ray?" Fraser asked, placing his hat carefully on the seat behind him. Diefenbaker settled into the back seat again and rested his muzzle on the seatback once more.

Ray was tempted to mention that Hob character again just to see how consistent the wolf was about reacting to it. He didn't want to mention it, though. Next thing he knew Fraser would probably start talking about the Lupine Collective Unconscious or something. As for ghosts, well, that was another matter and one he didn't especially want to talk about.

"Welllll," the detective let his voice trail off. "Do you?"

"Certainly," Fraser replied. "I've seen my share of unusual things that could not be explained otherwise in the Territories."

"I'll just bet you have. I don't know about these guys, though. Insisting Pop Venkman was possessed by the Trickster is about as lame an alibi as I ever heard, and I've heard 'em all."

"That part of it may actually be logical," Fraser said.

"Sure it is. You'd think their gizmos would have started beeping like a car alarm if Raven was lurking around ready to do dark deeds."

"Then why did you ask Elaine to run a computer check for unsolved thefts involving Native artifacts?" Fraser asked.

"To see if Venkman Pere could be tied to any of them," Ray returned, "and to check out that little list he gave us."

"That presupposes the fact that Raven only uses one agent, Ray."

"I don't believe this conversation. Before I knew you, I used to have normal conversations about prior convictions and arrest records when I was on a case. Now it's flooding bank vaults and talking wolves."

Diefenbaker put in a comment, causing Fraser to turn and face him. "Quite right," he informed the wolf before turning back to Ray. "You solve your cases, Ray. Does it matter how?"

It was a good point, and a better one was the way Ray enjoyed Fraser, when he wasn't being maddened and exasperated by him. The Mountie had even gotten himself arrested once to help Ray out. He was loyal to his friends but his mind ran on a different track from anyone else's the cop had ever met. Mostly he liked that, but right now he wasn't sure. Ghostbusters, for Pete's sake! He was willing to bet the museum wouldn't drop the charges, and if it came to that, he didn't want to have anybody examine those masks too closely. Fraser's comment that they were back where they belonged was one he had carefully tried to ignore. After growing up in the Northwest Territories, Fraser might well think the masks belonged with the Tsimshian. Maybe the reason Venkman had come awake in the museum was because Raven had discovered that. Oh, god, now he's got me doing it, Ray thought with wild irritation.

"I don't think it's gonna work," he replied.

"Oh, it may work, Ray. But I fear it will necessitate bringing the masks together."

"Let me get this clear, Benny. You want to put them together? Aren't you afraid that will do some mystical, magical thing? Bring back Spring or something? Not that it would be a bad idea," he added with a glance at the piles of snow on the curbs.

"It might release energy the Ghostbusters could detect."

"What do you think of them anyway?" asked Ray, shaking his head at the memory of the four men who had been nothing like he had expected.

"Dr. Spengler and Dr. Stantz are very well informed and very intelligent," Fraser replied immediately. "Diefenbaker likes Dr. Stantz very much."

"I suppose he told you that?"

"Of course. Mr. Zeddemore appears to be a practical man of much common sense and a healthy sense of skepticism."

"And Peter Venkman?"

"A very loyal man, not only to his father, whom he distrusts, but to his friends, whom he trusts completely."

"Does Dr. Joyce Brothers pay you for these off-the-cuff analyses?"

"I call them as I see them, Ray. Besides, you liked them."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I trust them."

"They will hardly bust Mr. Venkman out of jail."

Ray pulled up at a stop light. "I didn't think they would."

"I could see you could relate to Peter. Did his experience remind you of that with your own father?"

Ray stiffened. Even for Fraser, who knew exactly how much and how little his pop had ever done from him, the question was pushing it, but he suspected the Mountie had put his finger on the heart of the matter. He'd been sympathetic to Peter from the word go, enjoying his wisecracks. Of all the Ghostbusters, he was the one Ray could relate to best, though Winston wasn't far behind. As for the two eggheads, Ray was out of his depth there, though Stantz's enthusiasm kept surprising him, and once he'd noticed unexpected humor lurking in Egon's eyes. Yet they wanted to go off with their ray guns and start blasting at the museum. You'd think to talk to them they were four normal guys--well, reasonably normal--but then you remembered the proton packs and particle throwers and the fact that they kept a tame ghost at home back in New York.

And I keep one here, though not because I want to.

"So do you think this will actually work?" he asked again as he pulled the Riviera up in front of the museum.

* * *

"What did you think of all that, Egon?" Peter Venkman asked as the four men assembled in the entry hall of the museum, clad now in their Ghostbusters jumpsuits. They paused there to shed their coats and don their proton packs, checking their particle throwers before reholstering the weapons.

"All of what, Peter? You do realize police forces in other cities don't have the long history with us that NYPD does. They'd be inclined to doubt us. Detective Vecchio did call to obtain a good report of us, or we wouldn't be here."

"I know that, Egon. I meant the Mountie and the wolf. I thought we did things weird enough in the Big Apple."

"Diefenbaker was great," Ray Stantz burst out. "I think he's the smartest wolf I ever saw. Did you know Constable Fraser says he's deaf."

"Sure, deaf, but every time anybody mentioned the Hob he went for cover," Winston remarked.

"Constable Fraser says Dief reads lips." Ray fastened the restraining strap of his proton pack and straightened it on his back. New York museums weren't especially fond of the Ghostbusters. The portable nuclear accelerators were powerful and when the team was running about blasting ghosts, damage was bound to occur.

"Reads lips?" Peter exploded. "Yeah, right. A deaf wolf reads lips, and those two don't believe in what we do. Our stuff is scientific and we've shown it works over and over again. You ask anybody who called us in to bust a ghost and they'll tell us we're on the up and up. Anyway, the Mountie buys what we say. He's a little surprised; I don't think he ever heard of us before. I'm gonna have to make sure I send some PR material to Canada one of these days. But he believed in the Trickster thing right away, even before I did. And he was the one to mention ravens, after all. So the Trickster tried before though they're not keen on admitting it, and now he's using my pop to do it. From what Dad said, he's done it before."

"I did notice the list your father gave us just before we left was strongly geared to native artifacts. Maybe the Trickster doesn't like museums," Egon offered, twisting dials on his P.K.E. meter.

"I don't think Detective Vecchio likes us," Peter said with pretend mournfulness.

"I think he likes us just fine," Winston disagreed. "I think he just doesn't know what to make of us."

"What interested me," Egon offered, looking out the main door in hopes of seeing the Mountie and detective arriving, "is the fact that both men were uncomfortable when they learned the function of the P.K.E. meter."

"Hey, you're right." Peter's eyes widened. "That's pretty suspicious if you ask me. You think they know what's going on here and don't want us to find out?"

"Gosh, why would they do that?" Ray asked. "If they were trying to keep secrets, Fraser wouldn't have asked us about the Raven. If he hadn't, I wouldn't even have taken a reading until we were alone with Mr. Venkman."

"Maybe not, Ray, but they did look suspicious," Winston concurred. "They relaxed right away when nothing happened but something's going on we don't know about."

"Like what, they have ghosts following them around?" asked Peter skeptically. "Nah, they just don't like us."

"I don't think this museum likes us, either," Winston offered, pointing at a guard who was rushing toward them, making shooing motions with one hand, the other firmly gripping the holster of his gun. "So what do we do now, guys? Reach for the sky?"

Peter spread his hands to indicate he was peaceful. "Easy there. We're here officially. Didn't you hear from Detective Vecchio about us? We're the Ghostbusters."

The guard didn't look very happy. "He didn't say nothin' about all those weapons. We got patrons in here and they won't be happy if you run around blasting things."

"They'll be even unhappier if a ghost goes after them," Peter reminded him. "We're only here to run tests. The packs are a precaution, right, guys?" He eyed them encouragingly.

"Right, Peter."

"Of course."

"You got it, m'man."

"You see," Peter said smoothly, gesturing at the doorway. "And here are Detective Vecchio and Constable Fraser who will vouch for us." He grinned at them engagingly, winning a polite greeting--Fraser--and a dubious look--Vecchio--in return. Diefenbaker hurried to greet Ray Stantz before returning to the Canadian's side.

The Mountie and Chicago cop reassured the guard, then they led the way to the Tsimshian mask exhibit, Diefenbaker confidently at Fraser's heels. He must have pull to get a wolf into places like this, thought Peter enviously. He knew how hard it was to get Slimer, the Ghostbusters' tame ghost, into places with them, not that Peter wanted him along in the first place.

Ray and Egon descended upon the exhibit in delight, not even bothering to turn on their meters as they admired the carved masks. Peter had to admit they weren't too shabby, though they bore the same primitive look as many of the other items displayed nearby. One of the masks had eyeholes and the other did not.

"The Tsimshian generally work in wood, and carve beautiful masks, feast dishes and rattles," Fraser said, spouting his facts like a tour guide. "They also work with horn. These, however, are basalt. Do your readings tell you anything, gentlemen?"

Egon whipped out his meter, causing Peter to mutter, "Fastest P.K.E. meter in the West," though Stantz was only seconds behind. That was because he'd paused to sneak a cookie to Diefenbaker, who took it carefully and edged around the corner of another display case to devour it at his leisure.

"He is on a diet," Fraser said, his words intended more for the wolf than the occultist.

"Gosh, sorry."

"A dieting wolf? Now I've seen everything," muttered Winston.

Activating the meter, Egon passed it over the case that held the two masks, his face thoughtful. The antennae lifted faintly and wheezed out an asthmatic beep or two, no more.

Ray waved his meter around the room, getting a more positive reading than Egon had. "Residuals," he exulted. "At least Class-7, too, not like the Class-3s I picked up at the police station. This isn't reacting to ghosts of human beings. Wow! Maybe the Trickster was here. I think he'd be Class-7, don't you, Egon?"

"You can distinguish between the various types of spirits?" Fraser asked. Vecchio eyed the two scientists doubtfully before nudging Fraser with one elbow.

"Don't encourage them," he murmured.

"I heard that," Peter said triumphantly. "Don't worry. Egon and Ray don't need encouragement when it comes to science."

"I wasn't encouraging them per se, Ray," Fraser informed the cop. "I merely wanted to know. These meters are useful tools."

"All they're doing is blinking and beeping. After that, it's just a question of interpretation. And what does it tell us? Maybe something's been here. For all we know it's ionization in the air or a gas that comes out of the furnace."

"An imaginative suggestion," said Egon a little stiffly. He hated it when someone suggested he was a fraudulent scientist. "However, if you would care to look at this meter, I can show you exactly what I'm speaking of."

Vecchio went reluctantly as if he feared he'd be contaminated by the experience and Fraser smiled a little knowingly. Peter wasn't sure he liked the Mountie. No guy should be that good looking; it might even put Peter in the shade and he hated that. Then there was the uniform. The bright red jacket and the fancy hat were a lot classier than a baggy brown jumpsuit. Peter tugged at his collar and looked down at himself, unhappy with the wrinkles his uniform had acquired in his suitcase. He'd long accepted that he was the ladies' man of the Ghostbusters and took it for granted women would swoon over him when the four of them went out on a job, never mind that some of them appeared to find Egon appealing. But now he had a gorgeous Mountie to contend with. There had to be a way to even the odds.

"Hey, Egon." Ray had moved his meter back to the mask case. "I wonder what would happen if we put them together."

"That happened on the opening night of the exhibition," Fraser remarked. "Nothing happened at all. They were then separated and returned to the places where they stand now. No spirits appeared."

"At least not visibly," Ray countered, edging still closer to the glass case until his snub nose was nearly pressed against it. "Gosh, I think we ought to give it a try."

"I shouldn't, Raymond," Egon cautioned him. "The museum is open and there are innocent people here. Such an experiment should be conducted after hours. Though it did no harm on opening night, evidently the Trickster was not then present. It could make a difference."

"If you mean my dad, he's not present now either," Peter reminded them.

"No, but he was here last night," said Vecchio. "What do you think's going to happen anyway? The earth will stop revolving on its axis? The stock market crashing? The Polar Caps melting?"

"I'm actually not certain anything would happen," Egon replied. "But it would be a valuable experiment. Can you arrange for us to visit after hours? To make it a valid test we should bring Peter's father. With, of course, proper safeguards."

"It'll probably take until closing time to get permission for a stunt like that," growled Vecchio. "I knew I wasn't gonna like this."

* * *

It didn't take that long, but it did take a good portion of the afternoon. They passed the time by returning to headquarters and checking out the list of robberies Elaine had produced for them. "Remember," she said, "this is only the American list. From the pattern I found, I wouldn't be surprised to see similar thefts in both Mexico and Canada."

"May I, Elaine?" Fraser held out his hand for the printout and she relinquished it to him with a smile. He skimmed over it, then turned to her again. "Is there any way to produce a list sorted by the date of the robbery?"

"I'll get right on it." She hurried away, pausing to cast a lingering look over her shoulder at the Mountie.

"Sickening," Peter muttered under his breath.

"You wouldn't think so if she was casting melting looks at you," Egon pointed out.

"That's different," Venkman replied as if Egon was referring to the natural order of things.

Fraser returned to the list. It wasn't a long one, only twelve artifacts, but all of Native American origin, and all valuable. Not only that, he could see that the items in question might well be culturally very significant to the tribes of origin. There was an Iroquois false face society mask, an elaborate Omaha Indian headdress, the Kachina doll mentioned by Mr. Venkman, a Seminole necklace made of beads, shells, claws, and pottery, a variety of other items, all valuable. He could see no specific pattern to the thefts other than the fact of their Native origin. Yet each of them had vanished without a trace. In addition to the Kachina doll, two of the items had been taken during Mr. Venkman's so-called blackouts, which might well prove to be moments of possession. He explained what he had reasoned so far.

"Interesting," Egon responded. "While it is possible the other incidents were accomplished in such a way that Peter's father didn't notice the blackout, this implies he may not be the only person involved."

"You saying my dad's part of a gang?" Peter asked suspiciously.

"Of course not, Peter. It's hardly his style."

"An interesting fact," Fraser said, still studying the list. "Each item stolen was the most valuable Native artifact in the museum in question. Which explains the wide range in the value of the items on the list. Hmmm."

"He sounds like you, Egon," Peter said, giving the physicist a nudge.

"He makes an excellent point," Egon replied. "In fact I suspect that may be the focus of the exercise. The Trickster, by his very name, plays tricks on human beings. What better trick than to thumb his nose at us by proving we can hold nothing against him, certainly not even the most valuable and closely guarded of our treasures."

"'Our' treasures only by default, I'm afraid," Fraser said. "Though the original owners of the artifacts may be long gone, perhaps the legitimate owners should be the tribes."

"But archaeology and the collection of artifacts is the way we learn about the past," protested Stantz. "People can come to museums and see items like these and be inspired to want to learn more about the people who made them. It's not grave-robbing. It's a way of increasing knowledge. Things in a museum belong to everybody. And it's a form of respect, too. It shows that people respect and value the work of the people back then."

It was a valid argument, though Fraser could also see the other side, that the tribe's possession had been stolen away.

"The point is, the museums did own the items," Vecchio put in. "And these thefts are still unsolved. Did you get the list, Elaine?" he asked as she entered.

She passed it to him. "I hope it helps."

"I'm sure it will be very helpful," Fraser told her. "Thank you kindly."

The second list was very useful. It proved the first theft had taken place in Los Angeles only ten days after the ritual that had confined Hob Anagarok in his block of black ice. When Peter said so, Diefenbaker, who had been trying to wheedle another cookie from Ray Stantz, shot a reproachful look at Peter and took himself to safety beneath Fraser's chair.

Peter confirmed his father had gone directly to Los Angeles from New York, and that particular burglary was the first time Charlie Venkman had reported a 'blackout'.

"He was supposed to go back to Iowa and keep out of trouble," Peter lamented. "I'd just paid his fine, about cleaned out my account, too. Good thing Madison Square Garden was insured, is all I can say. But he didn't go to Iowa. He didn't stay out of trouble. He never stays out of trouble. And who gets to run around after him putting things right? Me."

Egon patted his shoulder. "Perhaps some of it was not his fault."

"Right, but you can't detect possession with the meters, Spengs."

"Not apart from the intended articles to be stolen. That is why I think it important to take him to the museum tonight. I want to make certain the readings are valid."

"They'll only let us do it if we use enough police protection to guarantee the safety of the museum and make sure he doesn't get away," Ray reminded them. "I'm putting my neck in a noose here, even suggesting it. I thought steam was gonna shoot out Walsh's ears."

"But he bought it?" Winston asked.

"He talked to a couple of police friends of his in New York, and they vouched for you. And it turns out his grandkids love the Ghostbusters. So he's gonna let us go, but he's not happy about it and if one thing goes wrong, I'm gonna be a crossing guard for the rest of my life." He turned to Fraser. "And he's probably gonna get Thatcher to do the same to you."

"Understood, Ray." He looked at the lists again. "None of these items have ever been seen again, so unless they vanished into the hands of private collectors for a considerable fee, their location remains a mystery. "

"Not much of one, I bet," put in Peter. "If this Trickster of yours is really behind it all, what do you bet every single item is now back with the tribe in question?"

"But wouldn't they report it?" Winston asked.

"There'd probably be people there who felt like they should have had the artifact in the first place," offered Winston.

"Yeah, and if they admitted it, they might look like receivers of stolen goods," said Ray Stantz. "I bet that's what happened. And I bet we could find out."

"Not without great difficulty, Dr. Stantz," Fraser argued. "The Tsimshian wanted the transformation masks back rather badly. Should they have managed to acquire them, they would never have allowed outsiders to know it." Though certain outsiders might well have guessed.

"So you're saying nobody's ever gonna see any of these items again?" Vecchio asked. "And if we go to the museum with Peter's dad, he might get possessed again and steal the masks."

"It's possible, Ray." Fraser doubted it. He suspected the real reason Venkman had 'revived' in the museum was because Raven had discovered the masks were merely superb reproductions. That did not, however, prevent Raven from trying again, once returned to the setting, where other valuable artifacts remained. "However, he will be quite thoroughly guarded."

"And that means you four better guard him too," Ray told the Ghostbusters. "I know you'd just love to get him off, but don't turn him into a fugitive."

"Are you kidding?" Peter demanded hotly. "Pop's not a young man any more. You think I want him running around living underground like the A-Team?"

"Who is the A-Team, Ray?" Fraser asked Vecchio.

"You don't want to know. Okay, listen up, everybody. We're gonna do this, even if I think it's crazy. Ghosts, maybe I could buy, but ancient Eskimo spirits and Ravens turning into men and back again, no way."

"Actually the Northwest Coast Tribes believe that animals all have souls and that they can transform into humans and back again," Fraser informed him.

"And as for ancient spirits, we've seen more than our share of 'em," Ray Stantz burst out enthusiastically. "We even stopped Cthulhu. It was great."

"I bet you haven't heard of Cthulhu either?" Ray asked Fraser.

"Of course I have, Ray. There was a complete set of Lovecraft's works in my grandparents' library."

Ray nodded wryly. "Of course there was. What was I thinking?" He turned to the Ghostbusters. "Just so you guys don't try to tell me you ever busted Santa Claus," he accused.

"No, just the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future," replied Peter. "We had to let them go, though, because it was screwing up Christmas."

"I'm sorry I asked."

* * *

They returned to the museum later in several cars, Peter and Egon riding with Ray, Fraser and Diefenbaker in the Riviera and Winston and Ray riding with Detective Huey and two uniformed officers in a patrol car. Charlie Venkman was escorted by two additional uniformed officers, which kept him separate from any of the Ghostbusters until they actually reached the Natural History Museum.

Once there, the museum's night guards admitted them. Charlie Venkman, in handcuffs, was brought into the building and turned over to Vecchio and Huey, the dark detective taking possession of the key to the cuffs, while the uniformed officers spread out with the museum guards to protect the various exits of the building.

"Now listen, Pop," Peter said sternly to his father. "If you don't behave on this one, I wash my hands of you and that's a promise. Detective Huey doesn't owe you anything and he's not gonna let you go, no matter what kind of cons you pull, right?"

Huey nodded. "Believe it."

"Son," said Mr. Venkman, his face full of the sincerity he could evidently manufacture at a moment's notice. "I give you my word."

"Interesting," Egon said into the momentary, and strongly doubtful, pause that followed. "I'm getting readings now, stronger than before."

Vecchio whirled around to stare at him, pulling off his knit cap and rubbing what little remained of his hair. "I knew I wasn't going to like this."

"What type of readings?" Fraser asked, as fascinated as Egon. "Class-7?"

"What's a Class-7?" Vecchio demanded though he remembered all too well. Class-7s were more powerful than ghosts of humans, that much he did know. Somebody along the way had even said demons rated a seven classification. Not that he believed a word of it, but Ray didn't like this one little bit. He shifted a nervous step closer to the Ghostbusters, hoping no one had seen him do it.

"We theorize Raven has a Class-7 reading," Ray Stantz put in. "Wow, this is great. I knew It would work if we only got Mr. Venkman on the premises." He waved a meter in the old con man's face and it began to beep with increasing fury. "Look at this! Hey, Mr. Venkman. Can you feel anything different?"

Charlie Venkman looked at Stantz, and suddenly his eyes were remote and eerie, like those of a stranger. Peter gave a strangled yelp of dismay and grabbed his father's wrists, only to have Charlie jerk free of his grip and pull his hands apart so hard the handcuff chain snapped clean in two. Huey blurted an astonished and wordless protest, Winston yelled, and Stantz and Egon took readings like crazy. Peter reeled back a step or two, his face gone white as a ghost.

"Pop?" he murmured in the tones of a man who doesn't expect a positive answer.

Diefenbaker howled and raced madly for the door.

"Now I know I don't like it," Vecchio burst out, looking sideways at Fraser, but the Mountie was already braced to move and when Charlie Venkman took off running like a much younger man in the direction of the exhibit, only Fraser and Peter were running in instant pursuit, though the others collected themselves and followed immediately.

"Is this what they call returning to the scene of the crime, Pete?" Winston asked.

"I don't know, but that's not my Dad. No way could he snap handcuffs like that. He may be sneaky but he doesn't have super strength," Peter hollered back as they pelted down the corridor toward the exhibit.

"Don't let him out of your sight," Vecchio yelled at Fraser. "He goes and it's both our butts in a sling."

"Understood, Ray," Fraser called over his shoulder, running full tilt in pursuit of Charlie Venkman--or whatever it was that Charlie Venkman had become.

"Class-7 readings are emanating from him, Raymond," Egon shouted breathlessly at Stantz, though he cast a very worried glance at Peter, who tensed at the words.

"I know," the occultist returned. "He's possessed. He wasn't before. The ritual must have just formed a link," Stantz panted. "It's there, so whenever the Trickster needs him, he can just, well, slip in and make himself at home."

"I hope he slips out as quick," Vecchio declared. "This isn't my idea of a fun evening."

"Wait for me, Pop," Peter screeched, putting on a burst of speed and drawing even with Fraser. "Don't do this. You don't have to do it. I know you're still in there. Listen to me. It's Peter."

As they reached the entry to the mask room, Fraser put out his arm abruptly to stop Peter, who halted beside him, glaring at the Mountie and trying to push past his arm. "Wait," Fraser instructed. "Let's see what it is he intends to do."

Everyone else arrived in a body, and they edged into the large room carefully, fanning out along the walls. Charlie Venkman glared at them, his eyes glowing unnaturally in the dimness of the room. Automatically Winston ran his hand along the wall, searching for a light switch and in a moment the lights sprang up, though not bright enough to dim the unnatural gleam in the possessed man's eyes.

"Come on, Dad," Peter pleaded, holding out an uneasy and hopeful hand to his father. "You don't have to do this. Fight it. I know you can fight it. I know you're still in there. We're here to help you."

"I don't believe he's strong enough to fight it, Peter," Egon said, his voice practical yet highly sympathetic, "any more than you could fight the possession of the demon Watt when it attempted to shut down our containment grid."

Peter flinched, either at the memory or at the danger to his father. "Then can you guys pull the entity away from him the way you did with me?" he asked hopefully, turning to cast a beseeching look upon Egon. "You've got his biorhythms on file, don't you?"

"Yes, however I don't have the exact reading of the Trickster yet," Egon replied. "Ray, try to correlate the readings we're getting now. We need to adjust them to filter out Mr. Venkman's biorhythms."

"Gotcha," cried Stantz and bent over his meter. "Don't worry, Peter," he vowed earnestly. "We'll save your dad."

"If somebody's possessed," Winston explained quickly to Fraser and the two cops, "we can sometimes unpossess them by setting one thrower at the person's exact biorhythms and the other at the frequency of the ghost. The biorhythm reading stabilizes and strengthens the victim, and we can draw out the entity with the other beam. It needs exact settings, though, and we don't have any of Raven separate from Charlie. It will take time to find the precise setting. If you can think of a way to stall, now would be a very good time to do it."

Automatically, Charlie Venkman raised one hand as if he didn't control it, the movements jerky and spasmodic, and used the loose chain from the handcuffs to smash the glass of the display case. Alarms went off, splitting the air with a cacophony of wails, but Charlie didn't appear to notice the sound. He reached in both hands, ignoring glass fragments and jutting edges, and closed one around each of the transformation masks.

"I shouldn't," Fraser muttered warningly under his breath, but Charlie--or Raven--didn't choose to listen to the admonition. Lifting the masks free of the case, he shook them to rid them of fragments of broken glass, then he studied them carefully, and put them together, fitting them into place, one against the other. They merged perfectly.

The air in the room seemed to shudder and the lights flickered, though the alarms went on bellowing, making it hard to think. Huey glanced nervously at the Ghostbusters as if he hoped they'd do something right away. "I don't think that's Venkman any more," he said under his breath, rolling his eyes in dismay.

"It is not," Fraser confirmed.

Raven smiled. The sneer bore no resemblance to any of Charlie Venkman's normal expressions. Then he lifted the joined masks and put them over his face. Somehow they fitted there, too, and when he pulled his hand free, they did not fall away but instead clung, as if they had been meant to be there from the very beginning of time.

Then the worst thing yet happened. Raven turned to face the uneasy watchers and the masked face smiled as if the very basalt the joined masks were carved of could melt and flow and reform into living tissue. In the distance, Diefenbaker howled miserably, the evocative sound weaving around the wails of the alarm siren in unhappy counterpoint.

"Oh, shit," muttered Winston succinctly. As a cold finger traced up and down his spine Vecchio thought that said it all.

"You will no longer interfere with me," Charlie Venkman cried, only his voice was deeper and more resonant than it had ever sounded before. "I have no time and no patience to deal with humans."

The sightless eyes of the mask seemed to bore into each man's soul. Vecchio shivered and edged closer to Fraser, who stretched out his hand and clasped Ray's wrist, whether to reassure or to take reassurance wasn't clear. "Let me talk to him," he said in an undertone.

"Talk to him. Go ahead. I don't want to talk to him," Vecchio muttered in return. "And he's not listening to Pete."

Peter had kept up a stream of reassuring babble the whole time in hopes of breaking through to his father, none of which had made any impact. When the mask molded itself to his father's face, he'd let out a wail of pure anguish and launched himself at the older man, only to have Egon and Ray grab his arms to restrain him. As Fraser started forward, Peter struggled free of their grip--probably operating on pure adrenaline--and went flying to his father, grasping the older man's arm.

"Dad?"

The masked face turned, regarded Peter without eyes, then put a hand against the Ghostbuster's chest and gave a gentle push. Peter flew across the room, the place where the hand had rested smoking faintly, and collided abruptly with the far wall with an audible thud. He cried out then slid limply down to lie in an unmoving sprawl on the floor. Vecchio couldn't tell if he was breathing. Raven didn't appear to notice, though the other three Ghostbusters cried Peter's name in alarm, and Vecchio could see their struggle not to go to him as they worked on their equipment, knowing, as they all did, that it wouldn't do any good to help Peter if everyone died. Winston did go, dropping down beside Peter and feeling for a pulse and Huey edged nervously past Raven and went to help him.

"Uh, Benny, I think you want to watch out how you talk to him," Vecchio warned the Mountie in an urgent undertone. "This character's got a real short fuse."

"I will not touch him, Ray," Fraser said and strode forward two steps until he was face to face with what Charlie Venkman had become.

"Hello, Raven," he said.

"So. One of this pitiful number knows me. It is no more than my due."

"We all know you," Fraser continued. "As we know the human you have possessed. I have seen you before in many forms, so among those here I know you best. You are the Trickster, the one who delights in malicious mischief. But mischief is not the same as deliberate murder."

"You are only humans," returned Raven. "You are easy to manipulate, easy to fool. What rights do you claim against me?"

"Good, very good," Egon murmured in the background. "Draw him out. That will clarify the readings."

If Fraser heard that, he gave no sign of it. Raven ignored Egon's comment as if it were beneath his notice.

When Winston called, "Pete's alive, only knocked out," the blond physicist's breath whooshed out in relief and Ray Stantz let out a joyous whoop.

Raven ignored them. He stood glaring at Fraser, the mask forming into a menacing expression, as if he believed the Mountie to be his real threat. Realizing that, Vecchio edged up beside Fraser, prepared to face the threat at his side, even if all he could do was offer moral support. Fraser flashed a quick sideways look at him and smiled as if he understood and accepted the gesture of loyalty and was grateful for it, then he returned his concentration to Raven.

"We have the rights we have earned over the centuries, Raven," he said firmly. "Yes, you have powers, but to use them to do harm is a weakness. Harming those less powerful than you only proves you are able to do it, a fact you have long known. What is the gain in that? You can push a human being across a room. You can deceive human beings. You can control their minds. Fine. To what purpose do you continue? Why do you steal artifacts?"

"I take back, not steal, artifacts that belong to those who honor me. Here among the white man, I am a quaint legend, a myth. Those who come to look at the items I have taken have no part of them, no part of the earth, no understanding of what they see. The makers of such artifacts have always known me. Yet very few of the white man understand me or even know of my existence. I am tired of being regarded as picturesque and amusing. So I strike back. I want no part of the white man's world."

Huey gave a snort and Raven looked at him and Winston. "Or the black man, though your ancestors knew of me in Africa, under a different guise, perhaps as Anansi, the spider." He waited a second to see if Winston or Huey would acknowledge that and when they only stared, Raven turned away.

"In fact there are Trickster stories throughout the world," Fraser countered. "Even gods such as Hermes and Loki bear the mark of the Trickster. And in this continent, Coyote and Raven. And yet it was Jung who said the Trickster represented the inferior traits of individuals, in fact a collective shadow figure. You are not a god, you are not even supernatural, though you have powers. Your name tells what your power is, trickery. You use and deceive, and I do not believe you steal artifacts, using humans to do your dirty work, simply to reward the peoples who once made you a part of their legends."

"You dare much," snarled Raven. "Too much. I will not permit it." He thrust out his hand and gave Fraser a shove, the way he had Peter and, although the Mountie braced against it, he staggered backward and would have fallen if Ray hadn't been right at hand to grab him and break the impetus of his motion. He got an arm around the shaken Mountie and looked him up and down.

"You okay, Benny?"

Fraser stared down at himself and both of them discovered a smoldering patch in the middle of his chest. Steam rose from the place where Raven had touched him and there was a hot sting of overheated metal from the buttons under Ray's hasty, checking hand. "Ow," he muttered.

"I am unharmed, Ray," Fraser said and turned back to Raven, though he did not pull free of the support Vecchio offered.

Ray Stantz edged closer. "You're forgetting something, Mr. Raven," he offered, his fingers busy on the device he held, though his eyes were raised to the masked countenance of the figure who had once been Charlie Venkman. "When artifacts like this find homes in museums, people who didn't know you before can come to know you and understand and respect the beliefs of the people who made them. It's a way to keep the old customs and traditions from being lost entirely. People who never knew of you might come here to look at the artifacts and learn things they hadn't known. They might develop interests--"

"But not beliefs!" thundered Raven. "To them, the tools, regalia, weapons, pottery, basketry, icons and devices they study are charming, representing the folklore of cultures no longer in ascendance. They look and they feel smug because their own culture endures, forgetting it might vanish in the blinking of an eye, destroyed by their own failure to know the earth and be one with it. Some may learn, but most will pass through here as if wearing blinders."

"Isn't even one person's raised consciousness worth the effort?" Stantz persisted. "Doesn't it matter that someone looks beyond his complacency and finds something to make him think and wonder?"

"He's right," Fraser said quickly. "To remove the artifacts is to deny that chance. Think about it. Our kind needs help to learn to see past the superficial and to think past our own immediate, selfish needs."

"And items like the masks do make people think," Stantz said in hasty agreement. "Maybe these masks were wrongly confiscated from the Tsimshian, but that happened long ago. Now they're here, together after a century apart. And every day people come to see them and wonder. Some of those people never even heard of the Tsimshian before this exhibit opened. Now they go away with knowledge. You may be the Trickster, but you have to admit that knowledge is the thing that makes people grow."

"Yet you would deny that knowledge," Fraser continued. "You say the items you stole should be with people who appreciate them, but here they can be appreciated by so many more." He and Stantz were working well together, Fraser because he knew his subject so well, had lived it all his life, and Stantz because he, too, had some knowledge but he also valued learning for its own sake and found it exciting. He edged another step closer until he stood on Fraser's other side.

Raven pantomimed wiping away a tear from his eyeless mask. "I am not impressed. And I will continue to do as I choose, no matter what you tell me."

"Then humans have a greater strength than your own," Ray Stantz burst out. "They can learn and grow, while you cling to the past and close your mind."

"Indeed, Dr. Stantz. He is trapped in a vicious cycle, never changing, never learning, never growing," Fraser concurred.

"Don't make him mad," Vecchio muttered urgently, but he was too late.

Raven seemed to swell and grow, stretching out a hand, palm forward, and the mask intensified with anger and rage.

"Get down, Ray!" Egon yelled.

Stantz and Vecchio flung themselves flat in perfect synchronization. Then, still working together, they reached up and yanked Fraser down beside him just as Raven's hand would have struck him and flung him across the room. Above their heads power sizzled and a burst of energy shot across the room to dig a hole out of the wall

"Oh my," muttered Fraser as he realized that, two seconds earlier, it would have made an even more impressive hole in the middle of his chest. "Thank you, Ray--and Ray."

"Look out!" Huey warned as Raven bent to look down at their huddled forms. He had drawn power to him and seemed to expand as if great, shadowy wings had sprouted from his back. "He's coming after you."

Vecchio grabbed Fraser's arm and tried to roll back, tugging at the Mountie to draw him to safety, though there was no cover, not against a being that could dig holes in walls without touching them. Fraser and Stantz had made the entity angry, and Vecchio didn't have any means of stopping him short of shooting him but that would mean shooting Charlie Venkman, who was not Raven, and who would probably die of the experience. Reaching for his gun, Ray lunged up far enough to shield Fraser with his own body in the futile hope that Raven would not take revenge against someone who had not angered him, expecting at any moment to feel the heat of Raven's blast in the middle of his back.

"Now!" yelled Egon Spengler, his voice fierce with urgency, and energy sizzled overhead, bright against Vecchio's closed eyelids.

"Smokin'," Winston cried, and a second sizzle joined the first.

Raven shrieked in a voice that must have torn at Charlie Venkman's vocal chords.

Fraser hunched his back to lift Ray off him, and Vecchio rolled away, yanking at Fraser to get him out of range of the Ghostbusters' proton rifles and the energy they projected. Stantz let out a whoop of triumph. "Get him, guys!" he egged them on, a one-man cheering section.

Vecchio tugged at Fraser who tugged at Stantz, and gradually the three of them wiggled away from Raven and the power that hummed and crackled overhead. Fetching up against a nearby display case, Stantz whipped up his P.K.E. meter and took a quick reading.

"You're on the money, Egon," he encouraged. "Go for it!"

Raven spread out his hands again as if he could catch the energy in his palms and deflect it; for a moment he did deflect one of the beams and it ricocheted off his hand to shatter a distant case, shooting glass in all directions. Vecchio ducked, but it didn't reach far enough to hurt him, Fraser, or Stantz. Off to the side he saw Huey impose himself between the glass and the still-supine Peter, who was stirring faintly as he began to revive, and shards bounced harmlessly off the detective's back.

"Oh, no you don't!" yelped Winston and angled his shot, causing his beam to strike Raven again. The entity writhed in the scream, the masked face twisted into a rictus of agony.

"No!" he bellowed. "No! You will cease this attack immediately or I will destroy you."

"Sure you will," scoffed Zeddemore, his knuckles gripping the thrower tightly as it pitched and bucked in his hand at full power. "Eat protons!"

"Ray, the trap," Egon called out. "Be ready. Not yet."

Stantz whipped a ghost trap from its mounting on his proton pack and swung it out on a cable toward the writhing form of Raven. Spotting it, the Trickster lashed out with fire at Stantz.

Fraser, noting the entity's intent, lunged at Stantz and knocked him flat seconds before he would have been blasted. The Ghostbuster's breath went out in a whoosh and he struggled vainly to draw in oxygen.

Above Vecchio, a shadowy explosion of great wings beat fiercely as if Venkman's body was being transformed to a giant raven. A cry of pain rent the air that sounded more like the old con man than the threatening voice of the Trickster, and at the sound, Peter jerked and tried to fling himself upward, gasping, "Dad!"

Light exploded in all directions, the wings flapped loudly, whipping at Egon's hair as the physicist moved in, weapon in hand. The shadow of feathers cut across the light, shrank, materialized into a normal sized bird, and soared away out of the streams toward the ceiling.

Golden light oozed from Charlie Venkman's body.

"Now, Ray!" Egon cried, and Stantz tried to struggle up, still wheezing for breath.

Peter slid across the floor, diving feebly for the trap's trigger button but he was not operating on all thrusters yet, and it was left for Fraser and Vecchio to lunge for the trailing button and slap their hands against it in unison to trigger open the trap.

"Don't look into the trap," cautioned Winston hastily as brilliant white light shot up to envelop Charlie. Vecchio looked at him instead, astonished when the golden light poured off him like water and flowed down into the trap, guided by Egon's proton stream. The minute the last of it left him, Winston shut down his thrower, but Egon kept pouring on the power until the trap's twin doors snapped shut, making the room unnaturally dark.

Charlie Venkman stared at them blankly through the twin masks for two full seconds, then the masks flowed, melted, and reshaped into their normal appearance, dropping away from his face, leaving it reddened as with sunburn. The masks would have shattered against the marble floor but Fraser skidded forward on his stomach and caught them, one in each hand, just before they would have struck. Then he rolled over on his back and stared up at the ceiling, taking deep, shuddering breaths, the masks clutched against his chest.

Peter pushed himself to his feet and staggered unsteadily toward Charlie. "Pop?" he called.

"Peter!" That was Egon, instantly at Peter's side, supporting him when he would have sagged. He caught Peter's chin in his hand and looked directly into the psychologist's eyes, probably to make sure his pupils were equal and reactive. "Are you okay?" the physicist asked.

Peter nodded then looked as if he regretted the motion. "Just dizzy," he admitted, probably something he wouldn't have confessed if his mind hadn't been on his father. But he didn't pull away from Spengler's support, simply dragged the blond man along with him as he headed for his father. Egon positioned himself at one side, holding him upright, though Peter looked as if adrenaline would do the job, at least for the moment.

Charlie Venkman stood, hands resting on the edges of a display case, body hunched over, drawing in great, shuddering breaths, his head dangling between his shoulders. He didn't move or react when Peter's hand fell upon his shoulder, but when Peter blurted out a worried, "Dad?" his head came up slowly as if it weighed more than Ray's Buick. He squinted at Peter, blinked to clear his vision, then what little color he had in his face leached away.

"Son! I thought I'd killed you."

"It wasn't you, it was Raven," Peter insisted quickly. He caught his father by the arms and pulled him away from the cabinet. "And he's gone now, right, Egon?"

"The possession is gone," Egon replied, as Peter lunged at his father and hugged him. Charlie didn't return the hug; he must have remembered what had happened when he was Raven this time, and he tried to pull away as if he didn't deserve the grip, his face dark with shame.

"I couldn't stop him hurting you," he told his son. "I never meant that."

Peter's arms had tightened around his father, holding him like a trophy, but at those words he drew back and stared at his father, face to face, from a distance of about a foot. "Never meant that?" he echoed, his voice rising. "Never meant that? You knew about this along, didn't you? You knew you were possessed! You conned us, all of us, made us think you were just the poor victim, and all the while you've been gloating with your treasure." He let go of his father and backed up a step, his face contorted with anger, hurt, and pain. Egon moved right along with him, still holding him up as if he'd had plenty of practice.

"I don't believe it was a conscious awareness, Peter," Fraser said, still holding the masks very carefully apart from each other. "In fact I don't believe he could remember until the essence of Raven was drawn from his body. He didn't lie to you about this. It's only now that he is free that he can remember."

"Fraser is quite right, Peter," Egon said reassuringly. "We were able to withdraw the link that had bound your father to the Trickster ever since we used the ritual to entrap Hob Anagarok. I suspect he can give us information now about more of the robberies over the years, because he will recall them when he could not before."

Peter stared at his father doubtfully. "Is that true, Dad?" he asked, though not as if he expected honesty from his father. It was a condition Vecchio could identify with.

"It's true, son," Charlie replied. "I always knew at the time, but once it was over, the Trickster took the memory away with him. Each time I remembered the other times, but any resistance I might have felt was washed away in the Trickster's emotions. I became Raven tonight. I didn't care what happened to any but myself--until he made me hurt you. Then I tried to fight, but it was too late. I couldn't stop myself. Son, I'm sorry. I never meant that." He gazed earnestly at his son and Vecchio, who was hardened against this kind of appeal from way back, found himself believing him.

Peter did, too. He pounced on his father a second time and hugged him tightly, scolding him a mile a minute. "If you ever pull a stunt like this again"

Winston came over, holstering his thrower, and hauled Stantz to his feet. "All right, Ray?" he asked.

"Gosh, yeah. I had the wind knocked out of me."

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser told him. "It was purely accidental."

"You saved my life," Stantz told him. "You were really great. You knew just what to say to Raven to distract him until we were ready. We probably couldn't have gotten a good shot at him without you."

"Quite true," Egon confirmed, smiling at Fraser though he still had one hand at Peter's back.

Diefenbaker arrived then, poking his nose around the corner before he edged into the room. Fraser at once bent over him. "There you are. I could have used your help."

Dief offered a wolfly explanation, causing Fraser to shake his head. "No. Hob Anagarok was not here. There was never any possibility that he would be here. You are in no danger from him."

Diefenbaker looked ludicrously chagrined, edging over to Ray Stantz, who petted him anyway and said, "Never mind, Dief. Have a cookie," and offered him one quite openly, under Fraser's disapproving glare. Dief looked up at the Mountie, back at the cookie, then at Fraser again. He almost grinned. Then he snatched the cookie and retreated.

"That's not on your diet," Fraser called after him in exasperation.

* * *

"So what actually happened?" Huey asked half an hour later after the guards and police had gathered and security had been reinstated in the museum. Fraser had spent much of the intervening time placating the new curator of the museum and Inspector Thatcher, who took a very dim view of the evening's activities and had told Fraser so in no uncertain terms no less than five times. Fraser followed her as she paced around the room, saying, "Yes, sir," and "No, sir," when appropriate.

The paramedics had arrived and looked over both Peter and his father. The Ghostbuster was not concussed, though he had a lump on the back of his head that caused him a massive headache, and bruises all down his back. His teammates were urged to watch him and make sure he didn't display any of the classic symptoms of a serious head injury. As for Charlie, he had regained possession of his health when he had regained possession of himself. His blood pressure was slightly elevated, but he'd been through a stressful few days, and the paramedics simply urged him to have it checked by his own doctor within a day or two to make sure it wasn't an ongoing condition.

"What happened?" Egon echoed. "Quite simply the Trickster had forged a psi link with Peter's father, enabling him to take over Mr. Venkman easily and at will. We removed the link. Mr. Venkman is no longer an easy target for possession."

"And you trapped Raven, right?" Vecchio asked hopefully.

"No, we didn't do that," Egon replied.

"Raven is free," Fraser confirmed.

"But I saw something go into that trap," protested Vecchio. "I thought that was what this was all about."

"So did I," Winston concurred. "So what did we do? And what's to prevent it happening again if Raven is free?"

"The Trickster is not a ghost, per se," Fraser began.

Egon nodded approvingly. "Quite right, Constable. The Trickster is a universal archetype."

"And that means in English?" Peter asked suspiciously.

"Perhaps the easiest explanation is to say that he is a form of universal energy that can be personified in many forms," Egon began to explain.

"Yeah," said Ray Stantz, grinning. "That's why the Trickster has different forms and different names in various cultures. That energy can be personified wherever there is a belief in it, and it doesn't take away from an alternate personification in another place. So Raven and Coyote can exist simultaneously. Look on what took over Mr. Venkman as just a part of the whole."

"So in other words, we didn't trap him, we just made him mad?" Peter asked, grimacing unhappily at the possibility.

"Yeah, that's not something I want to hear," agreed Vecchio, casting a suspicious glance at Fraser to see if he had known about this possibility ahead of time.

Peter rubbed his temples as if to combat his headache, and Vecchio noticed with amused delight that Thatcher was watching him with great interest. Peter noticed it too, and he contrived to look pale and weak and miserable. Gradually Thatcher moved in his direction. Ray caught Fraser's eye and nodded at the phenomenon.

"She wants him," he told the Mountie.

"For what?"

They had been through this same routine once before and Vecchio heaved an exasperated sigh. "Get with it, Benny."

"Oh." Fraser actually looked embarrassed. If Thatcher heard any of that she pretended not to, as she sat beside Peter.

"Are you sure you're all right, Dr. Venkman?"

"Fine, if you don't count the agony." Peter batted his eyes at her. She was going to fall for it. Vecchio and Fraser exchanged amused glances, while the Ghostbusters rolled their eyes in disgust.

"So what about Raven?" Huey persisted. "I can't believe any of this happened or that I'm buying into it, but can we expect Raven back?"

"Not vindictively," Fraser replied. "And perhaps not realistically, either. The link that bound him to Mr. Venkman is gone. Whether Raven will think of anything Dr. Stantz and I told him and consider it, I do not know."

"Wouldn't it be great if he did?" Stantz cried in excitement, rubbing Diefenbaker's ears.

Peter shook his head, nearly dislodging Thatcher's sympathetic fingers from the lump on his skull. "I wouldn't count on it, Ray. Bad enough my pop has been half-snowing everybody with his 'I don't remember' game."

"It wasn't a game," Egon corrected. "He genuinely couldn't remember until we removed the link. What will happen to him now?"

"The curator dropped all charges when he heard exactly what had happened," Fraser explained. "I suspect his interest in the artifacts displayed here has led to an open-mindedness about the cultures involved."

"Either that or he's a Ghostbusters groupie," said Winston with a grin. "So does that mean Charlie's free?"

"Free on one condition," Vecchio said. "I just got off the phone from talking to Welsh. He says okay, he can go, but he has to leave Chicago within twenty-four hours or there'll be hell to pay."

"I'll leave first thing in the morning," Charlie agreed.

"So will you come to New York with us?" Peter asked hopefully.

"No, Son, I've got to head out to Seattle. I've got a new job lined up out there."

"Another scam," Peter retorted. "Well, I don't want to know anything about it. And I don't want you messing around with--what was it, Egon?--universal archetypes, again."

"Son, I guarantee it," Charlie Venkman promised. Vecchio suspected that not even Diefenbaker really believed him.

* * *

"Well, that was interesting, Ray," Fraser said as they stood in a window at Ohare and watched the Ghostbusters' plane taxi away. Diefenbaker's eyes were on the jet as if he realized his source for cookies was moving further away every second.

"Interesting. You can take interesting! Next time you come up with any native legends or universal archetypes or anything else with weird names like that, you can forget my phone number. I never want to go through anything like that again."

"But, Ray, consider how it broadened your concept of the possible."

"My concept of the possible was fine before anybody tried to broaden it," Ray snapped. Then he grinned. "They were quite a team, though, weren't they? Even if they do have the world's craziest job."

"I liked them, Ray."

"You would," Vecchio retorted, though he had liked them too.

"And so did you."

"So are there any other native customs you know of that could get up and attack us?" Ray asked quickly.

"I promise you I will give you proper warning, should I think of any," Fraser vowed. "At least an hour's worth."

"Somehow," Ray replied as they turned to leave, "that makes me feel real secure."

* * *

"Wow, that was great, wasn't it, guys?" Ray Stantz asked as the plane taxied away from the gate. "We got your dad off, Peter--"

"Yeah, so he can go pull some new scam in Seattle," Peter said wryly.

"You can console yourself with Inspector Thatcher's phone number," Winston reminded him.

Peter beamed. "She's tough and feisty, isn't she? I like that in a woman."

Winston rolled his eyes. "Even when you're down, you're on the make. I can't believe it."

Peter ignored that. "So is Dad really okay, Egon?"

"Well, I don't know if 'okay' is precisely the correct terminology," Egon said sententiously.

Peter pretended to strangle him. "You know what I mean."

"Then yes, Peter. The possession is gone. There were no residual readings when I tested him, just before he boarded the plane. That's not to say he won't show up six months from now deep in a new paranormal crisis but--"

"Residuals!!" Ray exclaimed, snapping his fingers in disgust. "I knew there was something I forgot."

"What, Ray?" Peter asked in alarm. "Is Dad--"

"Not your dad, Peter. Fraser and Ray. When we first saw them in the interrogation room, I was getting faint residuals off both of them, like they'd been around ghosts, and when they realized it, they both looked kind of worried."

"You're right, Ray," Egon recalled. "They did appear alarmed at that moment. In the heat of the crisis I let that slip away."

"So what does it mean?" Peter asked. "That they hang out with ghosts as a general rule?"

"For the residuals to be so strong, I think they'd have to," Ray cried. "Wow, this is really neat. Next time we run into them, we're gonna have to find out what's going on."

"The haunted Mountie," Peter mused thoughtfully. "Sounds like a good name for one of Winston's mystery books."

"Well, next time, I'm gonna find out what's going on," Ray vowed. "Besides, we have to go back." He grinned. "I need to take Diefenbaker a good supply of cookies.