Chapter Sixteen

A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies.
-- Oscar Wilde

An instant later, the Crow stepped from the shadows at the back of the recessed doorway. The lurker had his back to the Crow. His attention focused on the firehouse across the way, he didn't react to the Crow's silent steps as the Ghostbuster slipped up behind him and hooked an arm around his neck.

"Hey! What--!" the lurker began, only to have his shout (and his breath) cut off by the Crow's arm. Choking, he struggled in the Ghostbuster's grip.

"Uh-uh, Blondie," the Crow said cheerfully. "You're not goin' anywhere. In fact, you and I are gonna have a nice, friendly chat."

"Fuck you!" The newly-dubbed 'Blondie' clawed at the Crow's arm, then rammed an elbow back into his stomach. It was a move that would've had more impact on a man who actually needed to breathe. To the Crow it was simply a minor irritation scarcely worth noting. He tightened his grip, reaching around the other man for the gun.

Blondie beat him to it, freeing the pistol from his waistband and slamming his boot heel down on the Crow's instep in the same movement. Startled by the unexpected stab of pain, the Crow's grip loosened enough for the guy to pull free. Blondie spun on him, pale eyes made dark by pupils so dilated they almost swallowed up the watery blue of his irises. He gaped at the sight of the Crow's painted features.

"It can't be you," Blondie exclaimed, then swallowed hard. "You're dead!"

"Got it in one, smart guy."

With hands that shook, Blondie aimed the gun at the Crow. "Back off, man! I mean it!"

"You want to shoot me?" The Crow spread his arms in invitation. "Go ahead."

He took a single step forward -- and Blondie's finger tightened on the trigger. Before the thug could fire, the Crow launched a powerful kick that sent the gun flying. "That's enough of that," he said, advancing again. "Ready for our chat, now, bunky?"

Bug-eyed with terror, the other man scrambled after the gun, grabbed it, then took off at a dead run.

"Guess not." Without a thought, the Crow sprinted after him.

The Crow caught up with his quarry a few seconds later as the latter dodged into an alley, obviously hoping to lose his pursuer. Blondie had latched onto a fire escape and was trying desperately to scramble up onto the ladder. The Crow grabbed the dangling legs and yanked. Blondie tumbled back to earth with a satisfying thud. He recovered quickly enough to aim the gun in the Crow's general direction and fire once. Hot lead seared through the Crow's body, a momentary distraction before he reached out almost casually and slapped the gun from the punk's shaking hand. Then the Crow swiftly grabbed the punk's arm, flipped him onto his stomach, and planted a knee in the small of the punk's back.

"You know," the Crow said conversationally, applying a modest amount of pressure to his captive's spine. "You're only making this harder on yourself."

Blondie's only contribution to the exchange was a muffled moan of pain.

"No, really." The Crow eased up, though not enough for his captive to wriggle free. "I'm actually a very reasonable man. Answer my questions to my satisfaction and I probably won't kill you."

The thin body pinned beneath him went taut as a whip and a breathless voice quavered, "W-what d'you want, man? I wasn't doin' nothin'!"

"I don't call staking out the Ghostbusters while carrying a concealed weapon 'nothing'. Want to tell me what you were really up to?" He leaned his weight into the knee. "Before you need a chiropractor?"

His captive made an inarticulate grunt in response, then sucked in enough air to spit, "Fuck you, man!"

The Crow made a buzzer noise. "Wrong answer." He grabbed the guy's arm and twisted it up between his shoulder blades as an added incentive. "Want to try for the bonus round?"

Blondie yelped and renewed his efforts to buck the Crow off his back. The Crow used his free hand to snag a handful of blond hair and yank Blondie's head back until he stopped struggling.

"Let's start with name, rank and serial number." When Blondie just gaped like a drowning fish, the Crow hissed out a frustrated breath and tried again. Through clenched teeth, he demanded, "What's your name, smart guy?"

"T-tyler. It's Tyler!"

Now they were getting somewhere. "Okay, Tyler ol' buddy. Now tell me what you were doing casing the firehouse."

"Look, man, I didn't do nothin'! Some dude paid me a c-note to keep an eye on the place for a few hours. That's all I know!" Tyler squirmed, but the Crow's hold was too secure. "Lemme go!"

"This 'dude' got a name?" the Crow asked in a tightly controlled voice. The hands that held Tyler pinned to the asphalt were stark white, the nails streaked with black. "C'mon, how much loyalty does a hundred bucks really buy these days?"

Not enough, apparently. Tyler yelped as the Crow gave his arm a twist, forcing it higher. Joints creaked under the strain, bone rubbing painfully against bone. "It was, uh, Lawson. Or Dawson. Something like that! Man, I don't know! I just do odd jobs for the dude, I don't ask for his life story or nothin'."

That caught the Crow's attention. In a silky voice, he asked, "You've worked for this guy before?"

Tyler went completely still, as if realizing he had made a serious mistake. He chewed on his split bottom lip, adding blood to the sweat and tears running down his face. "N-no…?"

"Not smart." The Crow's voice was without inflection. Face expressionless, he grasped Tyler's wrist firmly and bent it to the breaking point. "Last chance. And remember--You lie, you die."

"It was a few months ago, man! B-and-E, capped some old dude," Tyler babbled hastily, trying desperately to get away from the Crow's punishing grip. "Me and this other dude --I don't know his name, I swear! Never seen 'im before!-- and a couple …Well, they looked like ghosts, man. I ain't lyin' and I wasn't trippin'. Much."

Ghosts? Suddenly the Crow knew where he had seen that skinny mug before. In a flash of red, he saw his father fall, saw Janine valiantly struggling to reach the alarm button on her desk. The Crow's entire body trembled with rage; he could barely force the words out. "Where was this 'job'?"

"Uh…"

With a sound like a green stick breaking, the Crow snapped the punk's wrist. "That jar your memory, bunky?"

"God!" Tyler screamed and thrashed, but the Crow's grip was too firm. "Mott and Pell! The Ghostbusters' firehouse!"

The rage flowed free in a delirious rush. The Crow released Tyler's broken wrist and grabbed both shoulders, tossing the guy over onto his back. So he could see the end coming. The punk seemed paralyzed, staring up into the murderous face of the Crow, and the acrid smell of urine stung the Crow's nostrils. He wrapped both hands around Tyler's neck and squeezed--

"Son, no!"

Black mouth stretched in a rictus grin exposing clenched white teeth, green eyes shadowed and wild, the Crow jerked his head around to glare at the speaker --and froze. The last thing he had expected to see stood before him in a loud plaid suit. "…Dad?"

Charlie Venkman eased a few steps closer until he could lay a hand on the Crow's taut shoulder. The Crow was trembling with the effort it took not to simply snap the creep's neck. "Don't do this, son."

"Why not?" the Crow snapped, his pale fingers digging into the flesh Tyler's neck. "This piece of trash doesn't deserve to live! He killed you--"

"I know, Peter. I know!" Charlie's own grip tightened. "But he's not worth what killing him will do to you. Please. You gotta trust me on this one."

Trust? That was a laugh. The Crow snarled, staring down into the terrified eyes of the thing that had killed his father. He might have learned the hard way not to trust Charlie, but he still loved him, and knowing his father was dead --and that Peter hadn't been able to save him-- still hurt. He squeezed harder.

"Peter! Listen to me," Charlie pleaded. "You don't want to do this."

"That's where you're wrong!" The Crow dragged his furious gaze up to meet his father's concerned one. "Give me one good reason not to ice this little punk, right here and now."

"You want a reason? I'll give you a reason!" Charlie was shouting, now. "Your immortal soul, Peter. You willing to risk that for a moment's worth of revenge you'll regret for the rest of your… That you'll regret as soon as you calm down?"

For what seemed like an eternity, neither of them moved. Then, with a feral snarl, the Crow yanked his hands away from the punk's throat. Tyler's head smacked into the asphalt, but he was too busy sucking in air and coughing violently to even flinch at the additional pain. The Crow stared down at his father's killer, the fury inside him urging him to finish what he had started. His hands clenched impotently…and, then, he remembered. Remembered what these hands could do, now. And that there were worse things than death.

He looked around briefly, located the gun, and gathered it up in both his stark white hands. Cradling the weapon, he let the violent, blood-drenched images it held flood his mind. Storing them.

Then he looked again at the killer lying on the ground before him.

The dark smile that curled the corners of his mouth was far more frightening than even the snarl had been. Catching a glimpse of it, the punk whimpered and tried to crawl away, broken wrist tucked protectively against his chest. The Crow cut the creep's legs out from under him, then knelt over him. Almost tenderly, he reached down and caught the punk's face between his open palms.

"I have something for you," the Crow whispered, still smiling as he unleashed his gift directly into the murderer's mind. "All his pain. All for you."

Charlie Venkman's murderer screamed.