Chapter Seventeen

"Death followed by eternity...the worst of both worlds. It is a terrible thought."
-- Tom Stoppard

When Peter looked up again, Charlie was gone. He shook his head ruefully; death sure hadn't changed his dad much. Unlike the number it had done on him. A whimper drew his attention to the shivering form curled at his feet and Peter's thoughtful expression mutated into a sneer of contempt. He ripped a few strips of cloth from the punk's shirt and used them to truss him up like a Christmas goose, then dumped him out of sight behind a Dumpster. If nothing else, the little creep would make a suitable peace-offering for a certain police officer.

Peter stepped away from the mouth of the alley…and suddenly realized he was standing on a busy street in broad daylight. Oops. Chagrined, he glanced around. He didn't think he could pull off that teleportation --or whatever the heck it was-- trick again so soon, and without the adrenaline rush to cancel out his fear of heights the rooftops were out of the question. With a sigh of resignation, he hunched his shoulders, ducked his head, and did his best to impersonate the Invisible Man as he hurried back to the firehouse.

For once, luck seemed to be with him and he made it back home without further incident. Once safely inside, Peter went straight to the telephone in his office. He dialed, then waited impatiently while he was connected with Frump's desk. Finally, the detective picked up. "Frump."

"Got a present for ya, Frumpy," Peter said, skipping the niceties. He rattled off the address of the alley where he had left his little 'playmate'. "Better hurry and avoid the holiday rush. Everyone's gonna want one."

"Venkman! What the hell are you talking about?"

"One of the creeps who invaded the firehouse. I left him for you, all wrapped up and tied with a bow." Peter's hand was clenched tightly around the receiver, so tightly that the plastic creaked at the abuse. "The little shit murdered my dad."

"Venkman…" Frump's voice sounded strange, almost sympathetic, before he seemed to catch himself. "This suspect... He still one of the breathing?"

"Yeah." Now that his rage had been banked once more, Peter was glad he hadn't snuffed the guy. Death, he decided, was too good for the little shit. Besides, he wanted the punk to enjoy his parting "gift" for a long time to come. Mouth curving in a contemptuous smirk, he said, "Maybe a bit worse for wear, but the little insect is definitely still among the living."

"See that he stays that way. The last thing I need is another corpse on my hands." A brief pause, then, "You got hard evidence on any of this or is it more of that ooga-booga, beyond the grave crap?"

"The murder weapon hard enough evidence for you? Just get your ass over there." Without waiting for a reply from the sputtering detective, Peter hung up the phone. He stood staring glumly at the instrument, then remarked to no one in particular, "Well, that's my good deed for the day."

"Not exactly rescuing kittens from trees or helping little old ladies across the street, is it?"

Startled, Peter nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find the speaker leaning negligently against the wooden filing cabinets separating his office from the main reception area. The intruder grinned, a quick flash of white teeth in a dark face, then opened the gate and sauntered into the office, his boot heels clacking on the brick floor. He swept the office with a curious gaze, then settled comfortably in one of the wooden chairs across from Peter. "Nice place." A beat, then, in the same considering tone, "To visit, anyway."

Peter stood frozen where he was, eying the intruder. The man was about Peter's own height, with dark, oddly knowing eyes behind a pair of round, amber-tinted sunglasses. A bowler hat hid most of his short, dreadlocked hair, and a heavily fringed, black suede jacket covered his torso. In one hand, he carried a circle of thick, ivory or bone beads, carved to resemble grinning skulls, which he worried endlessly between his long, deft fingers. He looked a bit like Baron Samedi meets Brisco County.

Sheesh. Maybe they should just ditch the damned alarm system and install a revolving door. Might as well, for all the good it was doing them Finally, Peter found his voice. "Who the hell are you? And how did you get in here?"

"Moi? No door is barred against me, kemosabe," the stranger said, flashing that odd smile again. "As for who I am… I'm known by many names, but you can call me Skull Cowboy."

"Oookay." Peter wondered if he should try for the door -- or the Asp still hidden in his desk drawer. Instead, he settled for folding his arms over his chest and raising a querulous eyebrow. "Cowboy, huh? So, what can I do for you, pardner?"

"Actually," Skull Cowboy said, "it's what I can do for you."

Peter's other eyebrow rose. "Oh, really. And what's that, exactly?"

Skull Cowboy shrugged languidly, moving the worry beads through his deft fingers with unhurried grace. "You have questions, no? Maybe I have answers." When Peter didn't rise to the bait, he added, "Most people in your position can't stop asking 'what am I? Why am I here? When can I go back?'"

"Most people in my position aren't Ghostbusters," Peter countered. "We're getting a handle on it fine on our own. So… thanks, but no, thanks."

The entity spread his hands. "Fair enough." He hesitated. "I should tell you, though… Your friend Janine is in danger."

Now, he had Peter's undivided attention. Peter's eyes narrowed, and he demanded, "Are you threatening her?"

"Peace, brother!" Skull Cowboy shook his head, holding up his hands to ward off Peter's anger. "Threats are not my gig."

"Then how do you know she's in danger? For that matter, how do I know you're not in league with the asshole who shot my dad?" With every word, Peter was growing angrier. He could feel the Crow stirring within him. "Maybe your good buddy Tyler was supposed to distract me while you snuck in here and did something to…" Peter bit off his tirade, mid-sentence. The last thing he wanted to do was to draw attention to Ray, who he fervently hoped was still safely upstairs in the lab.

"I am not here to hurt anyone," Skull Cowboy assured him, calmly. "I'm… a go-between. A messenger, of sorts, if you will."

Peter snorted derisively. "You tryin' to tell me you're an angel?"

"No."

When nothing more was forthcoming, Peter finally said, "Why should I listen to a word you're saying?"

"Why not?" Skull Cowboy made himself more comfortable in his seat. "It's not like listening costs anything..."

"I could always charge you office rates," Peter said shortly. As either Ghostbuster or psychologist, his time didn't come cheaply. He scowled at the intruder. "So talk, already. What do you mean 'Janine's in danger'?"

"Just what I said." Skull Cowboy fussed with his cuffs, smoothing them down over his wrists. "She's been in a coma since that night. The doctors don't know why she hasn't woken up."

"And I suppose you do?"

"Could be."

Peter's glare seemed to have no effect on his visitor; that realization did nothing to improve Peter's mood. He tipped his head back and demanded of the universe in general, "Is there some cosmic requirement that all supernatural entities speak in cryptic nonsense?"

"I'm pretty sure it's in the handbook somewhere," Skull Cowboy agreed, dark eyes amused behind his amber lenses.

"Must've lost my copy." Peter dipped his chin, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "And I never had much patience to begin with, so let's cut to the chase. What's threatening Janine and what can I do about it?"

"What you do is up to you," Skull Cowboy said somberly, all traces of amusement vanishing from his demeanor. "As for the danger... Have you ever faced a wraith, Peter?"

"I'm assuming you're not talking about a bad 80s movie starring Charlie Sheen and a souped up sports car?" Peter deadpanned.

Skull Cowboy merely raised one eloquent eyebrow and waited.

A wraith? Peter wracked his memory, turning over the myriad cases the Ghostbusters had tackled over the years. Had any of them involved that particular supernatural menace? What, exactly, was the difference between a wraith and, say, a nether entity or a plain old ghost? Ray would know, but there was no way in hell that Peter was going to call his buddy down here, right now -- not with a supernatural critter of unknown classification and power sitting in his office.

Memory finally tossed up the relevant card. A wraith was a particularly nasty gooper with a penchant for stealing...

"... Souls." The word hissed out between his lips. Barely aware that he had spoken aloud, Peter settled the weight of his sudden fear in the narrow gaze he directed at the other man. "Are you telling me that Janine tangled with a damned soul stealer?"

Skull Cowboy nodded. "Perhaps it's more apropos to say it tangled with her -- That is one tough lady."

"What do you mean?" Peter asked, though he silently agreed with the assessment.

"I mean it didn't get all of her soul, only a portion of it."

"And if I can get it back..."

Another slow nod.

"Where do I find this thing?" Peter demanded. He could feel the Crow stirring eagerly inside his own soul. "And how do I kill it?"

"I suspect your feathered friend will help you on that one," Skull Cowboy said. "I've said all that I am allowed to..."

"Yeah, you're a regular fount of information, buddy."

An elegant shrug set the suede fringe on his jacket to dancing. "I do what I can." He leaned back more comfortably in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and resting his ankle on his knee. "You care about your friends?"

"Stupid question."

Skull Cowboy made a lazy "fair enough" gesture with one hand. "Enough to hurt them to help them?"

"What?"

"You gotta be cruel to be kind, mon frere."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter demanded angrily. "You're outta your mind if you think I'm gonna deliberately hurt the guys--"

"Your leaving hurt them," Skull Cowboy interrupted with quiet certitude. "How do you think they'll feel when you have to go away, again?"

The anger drained out of Peter like water from a broken pot. His shoulders slumped. "So...This is a two-way ticket. I wondered." He pushed his fingers roughly through his hair, mussing the thick brown mass. "...Express train to hell."

"Your final destination's not up to me, amigo." Skull Cowboy watched him closely over the tops of his amber-tinted lenses. "That's between you and your..." he waved an airy gesture ceilingward, "...travel agent."

"And just how will my leaving help my friends?"

Skull Cowboy shrugged. The worry beads in his hand clacked and rattled as he played them through his fingers, again. "You really think hanging out with your new 'soul mate' would be good for them in the long run?"

Peter conceded the point. But... "I'll control it. Him. Me. Whatever!" He straightened, determination showing in ever taut line of his body. "I won't let the Crow --or anyone else-- hurt them!"

"Big talk, bro." The beads rattled again, carved skull faces grinning madly from between nimble fingers. "But how long can you walk the walk?"

"As long as I have to."

"Forever is a long time." Skull Cowboy's expression was somber, but his dark eyes gleamed with compassion. "Take it from one who knows."

"...Forever?" Peter said faintly.

The smirk was back. Skull Cowboy arched an eyebrow. "Eternity? The long haul? You know. A very long time?" His expression softened into something like compassion. "You don't age when you're dead."

Realization hit Peter with all the subtlety of an Acme anvil from on high. "Oh."

Slim, dark fingers stilling on his worry beads, Skull Cowboy watched him closely. "You get it, now? Everyone around you will grow old and, in the fullness of time, die..."

"Everyone except me."

"We have a winner!"

Dully, Peter asked, "So... What do I have to do?"

"Do I look like 'Dear Abbey' to you?" Radiating an air of offended dignity, Skull Cowboy drew himself up to his full height and adjusted his threads. The worry beads resumed their restless cycle through his fingers. "Sorry, cuz. You'll have to burn that bridge when it falls on you."

Peter blinked. "That may be the most mixed metaphor I've ever heard. Do you try to confuse all your victims or did I just get lucky?"

"Victims? No, no. I prefer to think of it more as services rendered." Skull Cowboy spread his arms in an elegant shrug. "I'm just a messenger, compadre. I don't make the rules."

"Then who does?"

"Ah. That's beyond my pervue, I'm afraid. When you get back to the Other Side..." A smaller shrug, then, as enigmatic as the tiny smile that accompanied it. "Perhaps all your questions will be answered. Or not."

Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Don't you know?"

"Moi?" Skull Cowboy spread one hand over his heart and contrived to look surprised. "Man, I just work here."

"You'll forgive me if I hope I don't see you again," Peter said flatly.

Skull Cowboy's knowing smile was tinged with sadness. "Everyone meets me sooner or later, cousin." He waved lazily as he sauntered toward the wall, then through it, fading as he went. Finally, there was nothing left of him but the gentle clacking of his worry beads and a whispered farewell on the wind. "Don't forget about your friend..."

Peter stared at the spot where the apparition had vanished. He shook his head. Looked like Egon would have to tweak those security settings, again…

"Peter?"

Peter's head snapped around. Ray was standing rather sheepishly on the other side of the wooden file cabinets, and peering around the corner to fix Peter with a wide-eyed stare. Peter's own eyes narrowed. "How much of that did you hear, Ray?"

"Um… Most of it, I think. Sorry." Ray came around the corner, into the office. "Peter -- Do you think what he said was true? About… Janine?"

"I don't know," Peter said truthfully. A part of him would rather have believed Skull Cowboy was lying -- about Janine, and about Peter's future. But the greater part of him was forced to acknowledge that, if it were the truth, then Janine at least had a hope of recovery. And there was one way he knew of to find out if Skull Cowboy had been telling the truth about what had happened that night.

Before he could change his mind, he stalked past Ray out into the reception area, and slammed his hands down flat on Janine's desk.

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