Chapter Ten

This is the dead land

This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

--T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

It was the witching hour in New York. The Big Apple might be "the city that never sleeps," but the circadian rhythm of any metropolis has its low point. With midnight past and a long, dark time until dawn ahead, this was the hour of the die-hard and the desperate. The dark underbelly of the city crawled to the surface. It reigned supreme in areas where the eternal neon had not yet reached and, even now, lurked around the edges of each decadent oasis, waiting like a tiger at a waterhole for the unwary.

And through these streets where light only served to spawn more shadows walked a man who was no longer a man.

Frump's apartment was now at least eight city blocks behind him, and Peter had slowed his break-neck pace to a walk. It was amazing how much ground a man could cover when he didn't get tired. He could keep running and be back at the firehouse long before sunrise, but Peter was reluctant to return so quickly. He needed to think. His little demonstration for the detective had been necessary and even somewhat entertaining but, now that the thrill of the moment was past, Peter found himself shaken to his soul by what he had just done. He absently fingered the slit in his shirt where he had plunged the knife in as he paced along slowly. He was back. Back from the dead, back with his friends, but at the same time, he was more separated from them than ever. He was cut off from humanity as a whole by his abilities, by the waiting darkness in his heart, by his loss of the little things that defined living itself. Simple, essential pleasures: eating, sleeping, being able to touch another without fear of the consequences.

No two ways about it. He was a freak.

The crow fluttered overhead and landed on a lamp post as Peter stopped and glared up at it. "Is this the price Dad was talking about?" he asked, bitterly. "Thanks so much for showing me the contract after I signed it."

The crow gazed down on him with a look tinged with a trace of sympathy and cawed softly as if to say, Would it have made a difference?

Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and continued stalking down the sidewalk. No, it wouldn't have made a difference. If this was the only way he could save the guys from what was surely coming, he would have taken the chance and damned the consequences. But it still burned.

With a resigned sigh, Peter turned his mind back to the important issue, finding out who the hell was responsible for the attack and fixing it so that his friends would never be threatened by them again. Frump hadn't given him anything, but the door had been opened. Once Peter had found something he could toss to the detective, he'd come around. The police did this all the time with informants. Maybe they could deal with the bastards through the proper authorities (with a little help, of course), but he wasn't counting on it. In the meantime, he needed to get home. Peter realized with a sinking spirit that he couldn't afford to move around openly once day came. After all, he was officially dead. News that a murdered Ghostbuster had risen from the grave would make headlines across the city in no time, and publicity would not be helpful in tracking down his targets.

"Great," he muttered to himself. "I'm a creature of the night whether I like it or not. Move over, Batman."

A warning cry from the crow caught his attention and, once again, the bird's vision overlaid his in a bizarre parallax. He saw himself walking down the street...and a little way behind him, two shadows emerged from the alley. Peter looked ahead and saw a stirring in the shadow of a doorway. A team of muggers, he realized, and they were moving in to surround him.

Ordinarily, it would have been time for some evasive maneuvers, but Peter found himself slowing and finally coming to a stop. The furious darkness in his heart surged forward and, this time, he let it come. Here was a legitimate target for that cold violence. Better to loose it here where it would only hurt people who had had it coming for a long time: those who preyed on the weak, the helpless, the innocents who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. A feral smile pulled at his lips and Peter knew that, hidden by the shadow he had paused in, his death-mask had come to the fore. He heard the men behind him stop a few feet away. The one ahead of him seemed to hesitate, puzzled by Peter's behavior, but took the last couple of steps to where he was a little more than arm distance from his target. The mugger gestured meaningfully with the switchblade in his hand.

"Okay, buddy. I think you know the drill," the punk said. "Time to pay your street rent."

Peter took half a step forward, just enough out of the shadows to where the mugger could see him clearly. His lips parted into a friendly grin made chillingly grotesque by the markings.

"So sorry," he said with mock regret. "I'm afraid I left my wallet in my other pants."

The punk was unimpressed. "Great, we've got a goth comedian," he sneered. "Let me put it this way, Marilyn Manson. Either you cough up some green, or you'll be coughing up your own blood."

Peter glanced behind him at the other two attackers. The one on his right had a switchblade of his own. The other was brandishing a telescoping, steel baton known as an Asp. Peter felt the dark tide of anger cresting within him, but decided to give the muggers at least one warning.

"Come on, guys. Believe me, you don't want to do this."

"Your funeral, retard," said the man with the Asp, and he brought it whistling down in a blow meant to smash Peter in the temple.

But Peter wasn't there. Quick as a shadow, Peter stepped toward his attacker, catching the arm and hand that wielded the weapon and driving the palm of his free hand into the man's nose with resounding crack. As the thug staggered back, blood streaming down his face, Peter deftly twisted the baton from his hand and spun to face the man's partner who was lunging in with his knife. Peter sidestepped with an ease that was almost ridiculous. He laughed out loud as he turned and gave the mugger enough added momentum to send him crashing into a lamp post.

"Owww, that's gotta hurt!" he said sardonically and turned back to the remaining mugger. "Hope you boys have a good insurance plan."

The dark fury was singing in him now, transmuting to near ecstasy. He twirled his captured baton in a small circle, then lunged forward. The punk tried to dodge but was far too slow. Peter switched his weapon to a reversed grip in his left hand and drove the butt of it into the mugger's gut. The man bent forward, all air driven forcefully from his lungs and Peter's fist met his jaw with a wicked right cross. The attacker fell to the concrete, nearly unconscious.

BOOM! BOOM-BOOM!

Peter felt something impact his back and lance completely through him with a dull, fleeting pain, followed quickly by two more of the same. He looked down to see three additional, ragged holes in his shirt and the exit wounds of some high caliber bullets in his chest. He turned around slowly and looked at the mugger he'd thrown into the lamp post. The man's right arm hung limp, likely from a broken collar bone, but his left hand held a smoking, automatic pistol. The look of smug triumph on his face transmuted to horror when Peter not only failed to fall over, but shook his head and walked toward him.

"Oh, shit," Peter said scornfully. "Please don't tell me you're that stupid."

The man panicked and tried to fire again, but Peter didn't give him the chance. He leapt forward, quicker than any of them could see, and brought the Asp crashing down on the man's forearm. The mugger screamed as the bones snapped. He dropped the gun and stumbled away. Behind Peter, the other two were beating a hasty retreat. Peter let them go. He glanced up at the lamp post where the crow now perched. The bird gave him an approving caw, and Peter smirked.

"Well," he said, "if I'm stuck being a freak, I might as well play it for all it's worth."

He started to toss the baton away, but some inner prompting stopped him. Instead, he collapsed the Asp and put it in his pocket. He glanced at the gun lying on the concrete for a moment and contemplated taking it as well.

Nahhh, he finally said to himself It's probably hot, and been used in other robberies. Last thing I need is for someone else's dirty work to be linked to me.

He looked down at the state of his clothes. The dinner jacket and slacks had definitely not been designed with street fighting in mind and probably would have been totaled without the big, gaping bullet holes.

"Looks like I need a better wardrobe if I'm gonna do this Night Avenger job," he quipped.

The crow croaked again, spread its wings and glided down to the sidewalk where it nudged something with its beak. Peter went over to investigate. It seemed that the gunslinger had been packing more than heat. A large roll of bills held together with a rubber band lay against the post. Peter reluctantly picked it up, and, after a moment, put it in his pocket. Money from thefts, drug deals, who knows what else. It would be pretty much impossible to locate the other victims and return it, so he might as well use it. He wasn't going to ask the guys to bankroll him. Not now.

A distant siren brought all his senses to full alert. Looked like someone had finally reported the gunshots.

Peter sprinted to the nearest alley and took a flying leap, snagging the first landing of a fire escape and hauling himself up. Moving with a silence which still amazed him, he scaled the stairs and took off across the top of the roofs. He hurtled the gaps between them, his fear of heights forgotten or submerged for the moment.

Overhead, the crow soared on the air currents. There was still a few hours until dawn. Just enough time to get outfitted and get home. He had more than enough money, and Peter didn't think the locks, alarms and security cameras of the stores were going to be a problem.