2
The Hot Zone
Holtzmann cursed the sudden power outage, "No, no, no…" She had installed generators for the building specifically in case of blackouts, and they hadn't kicked on. Something was wrong. In another two minutes, the containment unit would start blaring its alarm (despite her joke with Dr. Gorin that "safety lights were for dudes", the alarm really did serve a purpose-it's purpose was to warn the occupants of the building that a power outage would cause a reaction that ultimately would lead to an explosion of psychokinetic energy generated by the trapped ghosts, so they'd best turn the power on or run for their lives before the blast took down the building).
Not good.
The lab might appear cluttered to the untrained eye, but Holtzmann knew the location of every gadget and tool. She reached into the third drawer on the right side of her desk and groped blindly for her flashlight, but it was missing. Kevin probably took it to do shadow puppets again.
She paused, noticing something else strange. The drawer was almost empty. It should have been full of a precisely-organized assortment of flashlights, headlamps, and pen lights. All her hands could feel was…dirt? Broken bits of cement? She cleaned her lab religiously (dirt contaminated experiments. She might not clean her house, but her work area was another matter). She yelped when a bent piece of metal sliced her finger and withdrew her hand. It was too dark to see her hand in front of her face (literally), but she felt a trickle of blood from the cut.
Holtzmann shouted to the other occupant of the firehouse: "Mom! Stay put! I gotta get the generator going before the containment unit fails! But, be ready to leave the building in a hurry if I say, okay?"
There was no answer.
Holtzmann made her way towards the emergency exit the led out into the alley. She tripped over something and nearly fell. Groping around blindly, her hand brushed what felt like a broken board. Where did that come from? Stepping over that, she tripped over a pile of bricks.
What was going on? Had she blacked out after that dizzy spell? Had the containment unit really exploded and she had been unconscious? Was she unconscious now and this was a dream? Had Kevin put something funky in the barbeque sauce? It felt real. Was this some hallucination? The doctor said she was fully recovered from that concussion, but…seriously, what the hell?!
She finally found the door.
It was locked. Why was it locked?
She fumbled in her coverall pockets for her key. The door refused to budge, and Holtzmann had to give it a good shove to finally wrestle it open…only to find it had been chained on the outside.
If this was some kind of elaborate prank by Abby (or a revenge prank by Erin for all the tricks Holtzmann had played on her), Holtzmann was going to be…well, she was going to be very impressed. She made her way back into the dark firehouse, stumbling over debris that littered the floor, and searched for her crowbar.
Her lab was wrecked.
The shelves full of her equipment were toppled, twisted…and she could swear they felt melted. She caught her hand twice more on sharp pieces of metal. Brick and wooden beams had fallen into a pile taller than Holtzmann almost at the center of her workspace as if…
…as if the roof had collapsed. Holtzmann looked up at the ceiling.
She saw only stars through the giant hole where the roof should have been.
No, no, no…this was impossible. Her brain couldn't form any logical theory to explain how half the building could come down around her in the blink of an eye, in the time it took for the lights to go out. What the fuck was going on?!
Her first thought was that if something had taken out the roof, it would certainly have taken the second floor with it-the second floor where Janine had gone searching for tissue. "Mom? Mom!?" she yelled. Again, there was no answer.
Fighting down the urge to panic, Holtzmann groped around the overturned shelves and through the rubble until she finally found a flashlight. She shined it towards the staircase. It was there; it was in shambles and probably not safe, but it was there. Another sweep with the light revealed what she knew: the lab was in shambles, including the containment units. Not only in shambles, but covered in thick layers of dirt. She'd left tracks like snow every place she'd walked and handprints every place that she'd touched. The cubbies with the Ghostbusters' uniforms…weren't there at all. It was a melted closet with burned up lab coats. A metal panel with one of her favored radioactive symbols (a heart at the center instead of a red dot) glinted in the light.
The room had been taped off with yellow and black tape that read: DANGER.
Warning signs (with normal radioactive symbols that did not have little hearts at the center) had been posted all around the room, basically advising that the whole building was a radioactive hot zone and Holtzmann would be wise to get herself out of there as quickly as possible.
Holtzmann moved as fast as she could over the wreckage and picked her way up the broken staircase, nearly falling through missing steps. "Mom?"
There was nothing upstairs but more wreckage. The bunks were gone; Abby and Erin's work stations were gone. The kitchen was there, but the appliances (melted though they were now) were obviously nicer than anything the Ghostbusters had owned. There was no sign of Janine, not even a footprint in the dirt to indicate that she'd ever been there.
"Didn't think so," Holtzmann muttered to herself.
She pulled out her cellphone. The numbers were still programmed there. On a hunch, she started hitting the names one-by-one.
Janine's number was "not in service". Ditto for all the Ghostbusters. Holtzmann wasn't surprised. She'd used up all her surprise and panic. On a whim, she pressed Ray's number.
"This is Stantz. Leave a message."
"Uncle Ray? It's Hol-Jillian. Is mom with you? Um…listen, I'm at the firehouse. I am having a serious Twilight Zone moment. If you can come down here and help me figure out what the hell is going on, I'll buy you a beer. I was sitting at the table one minute and-"
She was wearing the ghost medallion, Holtzmann suddenly remembered. Her hand flew to her neck. The medallion was gone. It must have fallen off while she was fumbling around the mess downstairs. Hanging up the phone, she turned to head back to the staircase.
…and a ghost popped out of the broken fridge, staring right at her.
Holtzmann let out an involuntary cry and stumbled backwards. She was weaponless. Shit.
The ghost looked the little green bastard that had stolen Ecto-1 back when the Ghostbusters were fighting Rowan North and his "Fourth Cataclysm". How the heck did it get back on this side of the barrier? The slimey green apparition advanced, staring at her with those large yellow eyes of his. She backed away, not daring to take her eyes off it.
She tripped over a protruding piece of floorboard and fell on her backside. Slimer took the opportunity to float until he was nose-to-nose with her Holtzmann cringed: Ugh-he smells like rotten food and rotten flesh…
Staring in fascination, Slimer extended a fat, gooey finger and touched her…more precisely, he poked his finger through her forehead, leaving slime dripping down her face.
Holtzmann glared, "Okay, hands off, buddy!"
The ghost gave her a wide, yellow-toothed grin and cried happily: "Jil-lan!"
"What did you say?" It was garbled, but it was definitely her name.
She was wrong…she still had some ability to be surprised left after all.
Then, the damn ghost laughed (it sounded like a laugh to Holtzmann, anyway). He moved forward like he was going to hug her, but instead passed right through her body, leaving her covered with slime. So, this is how Erin feels every time the ghosts ecto-projected onto her. Holtzmann wiped the good from her eyes.
The little potato-shaped specter floated right out through the exterior wall, still babbling her name excitedly.
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"Uncle Ray? It's Hol-Jillian. Is mom with you? Um…listen, I'm at the firehouse. I am having a serious Twilight Zone moment. If you can come down here and help me figure out what the hell is going on, I'll buy you a beer. I was sitting at the table one minute and-"
Ray Stantz dropped his phone.
It clattered noisily onto his worktable, coming to rest among the engine parts, circuit boards, wires, and tools. Cursing, he retrieved it. Old message. It had to be an old message. Ray hit the 'replay' button.
"Message received December 23, 2016 at 6:05 p.m…."
Ray frowned. Mentally, he listed the possible explanations for what he'd just heard.
He didn't like any of them.
If someone was playing a joke, Ray was going to personally track them down and, if they were lucky, he wouldn't break any of their bones.
If it wasn't a joke-he felt a surge of dread over the implications.
Ray pulled a burner phone from his desk and thumbed a number he'd memorized. When the prompt for a text message popped onto the screen, he typed one word: Firehouse.
A few seconds later, the familiar Ghostbusters logo briefly appeared on his screen in answer.
He took a hammer and smashed the burner phone, sweeping the pieces into the garbage can.
"Raymond? Is everything okay?"
Naturally, his actions had caught the attention of the trio seated at the kitchen table in the warehouse. They'd been absorbed in a game of cards until the sound of the hammer had distracted them. Three worried sets of eyes stared at Ray now, awaiting an explanation.
He forced a shrug. "Telemarketer."
Egon Spengler raised an eyebrow, clearly in doubt but accepting his friend's word. Winston Zeddemore snapped his fingers to return his friend's attention to the poker game. "C'mon, Egon, are you in or what?"
"I am," Egon answered.
Janine Spengler tossed her cards onto the table. Her husband never stayed in the game unless he was holding at least three of a kind. The only player who was worse at bluffing was Ray. "I'm out," she said.
They forgot about the odd phone call. Neither did they notice that Ray anxiously watched his cell phone as he resumed his work on Ecto-1's carburetor.
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Holtzmann clamored down the stairs as fast as she dared and followed the ghost to the front door. It was bolted and chained. She searched for an ax and broke out the boards that covered the windows so she could climb out.
The streets were all but deserted. Holtzmann noticed that the surrounding buildings had power, but not many lights were on. What illumination there was seemed to come from trash can fires in the alleys as homeless men and women tried to keep warm on the December evening.
The surrounding buildings had damage as well. Whatever blast had taken out the top floors of the firehouse had obviously affected the nearby structures. The buildings adjacent to the firehouse had the same flyers posted that declared the area a radioactive hot zone.
Slimer was floating down the street, still babbling happily: "Jil-lan! Jil-lan!"
She chased the ghost for several blocks. "Hey, wait!"
Finally, it circled around, spreading his arms for another "hug". Holtzmann shook her head, "Oh no…."
Seconds later, she was coated in a second layer of slime. "Ugh, that's never washing out."
Slimer cackled. "Jil-lan! Jil-lan!"
He glided up into the sky, floating in lazy, joyful loops.
Holtzmann sighed. Clearly, trying to get answers from the little booger was going to get her nowhere. She glanced around, getting her bearings. It looked like the radioactive zone only extended a few blocks. This section of New York City was a slight improvement-it could be described as a 'slum', which was an improvement over 'fallout zone'. At least, there were more signs of life here. A few people walked down the streets, cars passed by, and a few shops were actually open.
Slimer bobbed down at a cart where a vendor sold hot pretzels and devoured his inventory. The man produced a baseball bat and swung uselessly at the apparition.
The ghost's antics drew the attention of the people on the street. When the ghost flew to Holtzmann and dropped a slime-soaked pretzel into her hands, the pedestrians noticed the blonde woman for the first time.
There were gasps. All activity came to a stop as passer-bys began to gather, staring at her with wide-eyes. Some looked fearful…some looked of hostile. They whispered to each other. Some of them pointed to her Ghostuster uniform.
Holtzmann was instantly on edge. Her hand instinctively reached for the proton wand that wasn't there. "Yeah…" She patted her slime-soaked coveralls, trying to defuse the tension with a joke. "It was one helluva sneeze. Anyone got a tissue? No?"
"Jil-lan!" Slimer called to her, floating lazily overhead. She threw the pretzel at him, wishing the damn thing would shut up.
Gasps from the crowd turned to anxious whispers and more hateful, fearful glares cast in Holtzmann's direction. She heard a few distinct words:
"It's her."
"How can it be her?"
"She brought the ghost."
"Are there more?"
"How'd she get here?"
"It is her. It's Spengler."
"That's not possible."
Spengler? Holtzmann blinked.
The crowd was growing more agitated with every comment and question they exchanged.
A Latina woman runs over and grabbed Holtzmann's arm, urging her to start walking. "I'm on your side, baby, but you can't be here! It's not safe!"
Holtzmann had already figured that out. She hurried her step, wishing that a police car would appear and wondering if ducking into one of the mom and pop stores that lined the street would save her if the crowd started getting violent. She doubted it.
A man in a leather jacket pulled a phone from his pocket. "I'm calling the S.D.A.," he told his girlfriend.
The kindly Latina woman gave him the finger. "Why would you do that?!" She pushed Holtzmann now. "Seriously, girl, you need to run…."
The man returned the woman's rude gesture. "I don't want the S.D.A. on my ass!"
Another man, a burly body-builder type, was taking off his coat. "Screw them! She's a hero. Spengler, sign my bicep!" He held up his bare arm and flexed a muscle, hoping to impress Holtzmann.
The rude man's girlfriend heard sirens in the distance. "I do not want to get caught with her. Do a citizen's arrest!" she urged her boyfriend.
A man with a head shaved bald jumped into the debate. "Let's see if she's real. Maybe she's a ghost, too." He picked up a beer bottle.
"Girl, run!" the Latina woman stepped between Holtzmann and the mob.
Holtzmann turned away, which she decided was the wrong move when something struck her in the back between her shoulder. The object fell at her feet. It was someone's shoe.
She glared at the mob. "Really?!"
The sirens were getting closer. Holtzmann just had to keep them from killing her before the police arrived. Some of the crowd ran away, not wanting trouble with the cops. The skinhead was relentless. He hefted the beer bottle and threw it at Holtzmann. She ducked out of its path.
Lunging, he grabbed her arm. Holtzmann did not like to be manhandled that way. Her foster dad had grabbed her that after she accidentally set her bed on fire…right before he smacked her in the head.
Holtzmann groped through her pockets for anything to use as a weapon and came up with one of her ghost grenades. It wouldn't hurt humans but it would hopefully scare the crap out of the mob long enough for her to escape. She set it off, and the crowd scattered.
Unfortunately, when they realized they weren't dead, they were that much angrier. She didn't get much of a head start before they were on her tail again.
She ran down the street towards the sirens. Passing motorists swerved and had collisions seeing her as she ran by. The chaos was drawing more attention as she moved into more densely populated streets. People joined in the chase, some without even knowing why the mob was pursuing the blonde woman.
Holtzmann heard a whistle and reflexively looked over her shoulder; the skinhead pitched another bottle that struck her in the temple.
She saw stars. Holtzmann had a horrible déjà vu of the ghost of Arthur Klein upending the furniture and shelves in her apartment, cornering her in her bathroom, and knocking her unconscious with the toilet lid. She distantly knew she was falling. Her limbs suddenly would not work, and her knees gave way. She felt something running down her face (beer or blood, she didn't know which).
Holtzmann hit the sidewalk with a bone-jarring thud, idly noting the pieces of brown glass at her feet. She saw people swarming around her—above her—reaching to drag her up…
…then there was an inhuman screech.
And another. And another.
The mob let go her, looking up at something in the sky. Holtzmann couldn't turn her head to see what they were staring at. Fuzzily, she noticed glowing green and blue blobs flying in circles. The glowing blobs charging the crowd, chasing them away from her.
Ghosts, her brain supplied the word. Dozens of them. The ghosts were forming a ring around Holtzmann, a barrier between her and her attackers.
Protecting her?
Slimer was suddenly there, staring mournfully at her. Worried? "Jil-lan?" He sniffed at the bloody wound. Grunting a noise akin to a growl, the ghost whirled and angrily doused the mob with bombs of slime. They threw rocks and bottles, which passed uselessly through the specter.
A third ghost-sickly yellow with a tiny head, long neck, and rotund body- shrieked as it circled the mod, emitting a cloud of fog that reeked of sulfur. The noxious substance sent Holtzmann's attacker reeling, covering their faces against the acrid odor.
A blue ghost floated into Holtz's fading vision. She knew him, but her brain was shutting down and wouldn't identify him.
"Jagannath is friend," the blue ghost told her. Then, he snarled at her assailants, slashing with his considerable talons and fangs and forcing them to flee. "Protect Honored One!"
The other ghosts fell in behind him, poised for another attack from the mob.
The sirens were very close now. Before she lost consciousness, Holtzmann saw several black SUV's pull up to the sidewalk. The ghosts glanced from the crowd to the imposing vehicles and finally back at Holtzmann, and then reluctantly headed for the sky.
The last thing she saw was proton beams streak through the sky, narrowly missing the ghosts.
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The black SUVs rolled up on a mob scene.
It was typical December in New York. The combination of the holidays and the normal stress of city life made the people volatile. Throw in a few ghosts and-well, shit like this happened, Patty Tolan supposed. This section of New York City had been dubbed 'the Hot Zone' due to the radioactive fallout that still made it just short of safe to inhabit (the government would not consider removing the warnings or condoning occupation of that five-block area for at least another five years).
These people shouldn't be in this area, Patty frowned. It was pretty sad that the homeless people preferred to risk live in a radioactive area to keep from being harassed. The rest look like teenagers, who liked to sneak in the hot zone for kicks. It looked like there were a few passing motorists who had stopped to join in, maybe some out-of-towners, conspiracy theorists and gawkers who just wanted to see the infamous firehouse. Patty counted about a dozen people gathered in tight knot, shouting and searching for items to use as weapons. Something had them all agitated. The way they were gathered, she knew things could escalate into a riot if the situation wasn't not contained right then and there.
Obviously, the half-dozen ghosts who appeared to be attacking wasn't helping with the mood of the crowd.
She got out of the vehicle, drawing her proton pistol and authoritatively: "All right—clear a path! S.D.A.!"
At the arrival of the authorities, the glowing blobs suddenly streaked for the sky. She squeezed off a shot with her pistol, just to warn off the spirits. Her concern that night was not busting ghosts. Her attention was on the crowd and whatever-or whoever—was at the center of the commotion. A few of the civilians stopped their attack and ran at her shout. The more stubborn of them decided to do what damage they could to their prey before the authorities physically stopped them. Between the tightly-packed bodies, Patty could see one person on the ground, unmoving. That was enough to piss her off.
She thumbed her Bluetooth earpiece, connecting to the main office: "This is Agent Tolan, confirming multiple specters on site. There is a civilian down. Send a med team." She waved a hand at the crowd, flashing her badge. "You all need to move your asses out of the way! About three blocks that way! Go!"
Agents Hawkins and Rorke fell in beside her, adding their warnings to hers when the crowd failed to obey Tolan's instructions. They fired their weapons—called 'safe weapons' (Patty considered that an oxymoron) because they were designed not to hurt humans, only ghosts-at the fleeing specters.
She doesn't know why the crowd wouldn't move, but she was losing her patience. Clearly, the ghosts had hurt someone, but these idiots were preventing the agents from helping. Why? Patty guessed the injured person on the ground had to be some kind of ghost-hugger. The anti-ghost mentality was so pervasive nowadays that just being seen in the company of a specter could get a person killed.
The opposite could also be true: Ghost-huggers could do some damage to a person who made sport of using illegal weapons to dispatch a specter. They frequently picketed the S.D.A. headquarters and the field offices, lobbied the state and federal government for laws to protect the specters, and broke into warehouses where anti-spectral weapons were stored.
It didn't matter. Patty had to help whoever was on the ground. Taking a closer look, Patty could see the injured person was a blonde woman. Blood matted her hair on the right side of her head. No wonder she'd pissed off the crowd, it looked like she was wearing some kind of anti-ghost logo on the sleeve of her coveralls. The ghost-huggers would not have a sense of humor about that kind of thing.
Hwkins and Rorke physically dragged a few of the uncooperative aggressors away, which discouraged others in the mob. Though most of the ghosts had scattered, a couple hesitated like they didn't want to give up their unconscious prize.
A blue one bared sharp fangs at Patty as she approached. "Protect Honored One!"
Patty paused. What is that supposed to mean? Who's the 'Honored One'?
Then a civilian threw a brick, luckily missing the woman. The blue ghost snapped at that man, nearly biting his arm off. Patty tackled him, putting her knee between his shoulder blades as she cuffed him. "Are you crazy? You're going to hit her, not the ghost!"
"Good!" He spat at the unconscious woman before Hawkins could grab him and haul him to one of the SUVs.
"Get these people back!" Patty ordered.
She stared down the blue ghost. It wasn't moving, in fact it licked its lip as if to say it would happily take a bite out of Patty next. "Look, I don't know about your 'honored one', but your ass is going to be a tiny blue puddle of slime in ten seconds if you don't get away from that woman now." She aimed her proton pistol at the apparition.
The ghost balked, looking at the fallen woman. "Protect Honored One."
Patty finally understood. The crowd had been throwing things at the woman, not the ghosts. The crowd had caused her injury. Was this ghost protecting that girl? Ghosts didn't do that. Did they?
Rorke and Hawkins pointed their weapons at the blue ghost. Patty gestured for them to stand down. "Wait!"
Hawkins raised an eyebrow. "Agent Tolan…"
"It's not going to hurt her."
Patty holstered her weapon and slowly approached, lifting her hands to show the ghost that she meant no harm. "You didn't do this. I get it. I just want to help her. Is that okay with you?"
The ghost hovered, but backed off a bit, granting her access.
Patty knelt by the unconscious woman, still keeping one eye on the ghost in case it changed its mind. When she starts to roll the woman over, the specter uttered a warning hiss. Rorke took that as a sign of aggression and fired at it. The ghost fled.
"Rorke, you idiot!" Patty yelled.
"What is your problem, Agent Tolan?" he challenged.
Patty flipped him off, but returned her attention to the injured woman. "Ma'am, if you can hear me, I'm Agent Tolan with Homeland Security, Spectral Defense Division. Medical help is on the way…"
While she spoke, she patted the woman's pockets, searching for a wallet or some form of identification. It was a fairly elaborate costume, Patty noted, maybe meant to be an off-shoot of the old Ghostbuster uniforms. It came complete with burns and she'd even doused herself with slime for good measure. Cosplay people sure knew how to commit…
Then, she found something that closely resembled a proton grenade…one that was clearly not a Cosplay mock-up. Where did she get her hands on this? Maybe she wasn't play acting. Maybe she fancied herself an actual Ghostbuster and had broken into one of the S.D.A. storehouses. "Okay, ma'am, I'm just going to take this. If you have any more weapons on you, please don't melt my face off or blow me up or anything."
The woman groaned and turns her head towards the voice, moving enough that Patty could finally see her face.
Patty felt the urge to throw up. "Oh, damn…" This is impossible. No wonder the mob tried to kill her. Scrambling, she fished a handkerchief from her pocket and used it to staunch the flow of blood from the woman's head wound, mumbling reassurances. "…you'll be okay. Hang on." She keyed her headset. "Dispatch-where the hell is my ambulance?!"
"Three minutes out," was the calm reply.
"Get them here! Now!
She gestured to Rorke, directing him to the lingering crowd. "Secure the area! I want those civilians at least four blocks back. Then call the Deputy Director and tell her to get her ass back from Martha's Vineyard."
Hawkins hovered over Patty. "Who is it?"
"It's Jillian Spengler."
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Rowan North was pondering the city that morning. It was December 23rd, Christmas Eve eve. The holiday lights cast such a warm glow on the rats and the garbage (of the literal type and the human kind). Beautiful displays in the store were meant to lull the citizens into a warm, buying stupor. "Last Chance" and "Deep Discount" and other signs counterbalanced the calm stupor and whipped procrastinators into a last-minute buying frenzy of excessive, unwise spending. The psychology of it all was fascinating.
He supposed the basic idea of giving a bauble to show affection for the important people in one's life started out innocuously, before society and greedy merchants perverted it into this manifestation of mankind's underlying gluttony and self-preoccupation. Rowan's father had sat the boy at his knee when Rowan was only four and methodically explained the preposterous myth of Santa Claus and flying reindeer, of a covert toy factor in the harsh arctic climate, and the pointed fact that his family lacked the financial means to waste their money on piles of flimsy plastic toys and bags of sugary treats. From that Christmas forward, the holiday morning was heralded by a stocking stuffed with a new bow tie, tangerines, books, and other practical items.
Young Rowan had mourned at first, until he slowly began to understand his father's point. While the neighborhood children frittered away their time with bikes (and inevitable crashes and scraped knees) or playing empty video games, Rowan sharpened his mind.
Still…
Adult Rowan was sometimes forced to comply with social convention. This was one such occasion. Still, he detested the idea of spending his hard-earned cash to line the pockets of department store billionaires. He instead perused the wares of the sidewalk merchants.
A man with a suitcase of vintage, museum-looking wares (and, not surprisingly, wearing dark shades and a baseball cap, the better to hide one's identity while procuring said museum-looking wares) had caught Rowan's attention. He watched with palpable impatience as the scientist made a selection.
Finally, the vendor spoke: "It's all good, man."
Rowan flashed him a cheerful smile. "Yes, very impressive. All legitimately acquired, I'm sure. Do you know why I'm purchasing from you rather than these monuments to human greed?" He gestured to the department stores. "Because we are cut from a similar fabric, my friend. We each attempt to earn a living on the fringes of society while the world slogs along in its stupor of self-absorption."
"Umm…you buying something or what?" the man demanded.
Rowan blinked. He'd had more stimulating chats with petri dishes of fungus. "Indeed." He picked up a large silver medallion that seemed to depict a celestial scene. A green stone was inlaid at its center. "Would you happen to remember which museum is missing this piece?"
"I told you, my stuff is legit."
"Then you can tell me what this item is?" Rowan pressed him.
The vendor made a face. "It's a necklace."
Rowan stared, unimpressed.
"Look at it-it has a picture of the solar system. Ten bucks or put it down and go away." The man didn't appreciate feeling stupid.
Rowan pursed his lips. "That is not the solar system. But, if for no other reason that your complete lack of appreciation for this piece, I'll pay you five dollars."
"Done. Just go. You're creeping out my other customers."
Rowan paid the man and pocketed the trinket. "Yuletide greetings, my friend."
The man, Rowan decided as he made his way down the street, was as unworthy of Rowan's time-or of living-as the rest of humanity.
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Abby Yates couldn't afford to go on the Yates' family annual holiday cruise to Ensenada, but that was fine. Her father would puke for the entire cruise, and her mother would spend all her money in the on-board day spas. Her passive-aggressive cousin Barbara would drop hints about Weight Watchers and gym memberships while Abby waited to see if all the Botox injections finally made Barbie's face explode.
All things considered, Abby was better off-financially and mentally-spending her Christmas holiday in her laboratory at the Higgins Institute. Her assistant had decorated the room with strings of Edison lights and a shoe tree with "ornaments" of tools, tape, bolts, washers, and tiny flashlights. An old cassette player on her worktable cranked out music.
Of course, spending Christmas alone in the lab would probably depress Abby if she dwelled on the idea too long.
Then, she heard the click of a key in the door lock and changed her mind. Being alone in the lab would be preferable.
Her lab assistant breezed into the room, and Abby hid her cringe. If Rowan weren't a brilliant engineer-or if anyone else at all had applied for the job-she would never have hired him. The man was simply too creepy (even for a woman who pursued ghosts for a living).
Rowan breezed into the laboratory, greeting her with a cheerful: "Abigail! I hope you approve of the decorations?"
Abby managed a smile. There was no reason to hurt his feelings. She appreciated creativity (and it wasn't like they had money to buy lights and a real tree). It was her place as the employer to be encouraging and supportive. "Very nice. You stayed last night and did this?"
Rowan gave a slight bow in confirmation.
"Well, that was…thoughtful."
"Social convention." He shrugged off his coat and hung it on a nail in the corner, swapping it for a lab coat.
"Fine work." Abby turned her attention back to the old motorcycle helmet that she was fitting with wires and sensors, hoping it would one day prove to enhance telepathic abilities. "And you tweaked your centrifuge?"
Rowan was pleased. "I'd hoped you'd notice." He picked up the round device and moved to her table to show her. "I had this idea that placing these reactors at strategic points along the city's ley lines might ionize any spectral entities-force them to visually manifest."
"Yes, yes…it might. Here's my concern: It might also start to supercharge the ley lines."
Rowan nodded brightly, pleased. She was indeed a person of above average intellect.
Abby sat at her work table, fidgeting with an acetylene torch. "That might have the side effect of-I don't know-weakening the spectral barrier? I'm not sure we want to be responsible for opening a ghost floodgate."
Rowan leaned against the table. "Abigail, may I make an observation?" He was irked, but trying very hard to be patient with her. Abby was kinder than most people Rowan had encountered in his life. She had given him a job otherwise he'd be waiting tables or assisting the technologically inept as an Apple Store "genius" or a member of the Geek Squad. Worse still, he might have taken that maintenance man job at the Hotel Mercado.
"Please."
"You've been trying since childhood to prove what you and I both know to be true: The spectral plane is very real. But, tell me-have you found one single shred of evidence to prove your genius to the world? No. You, like me, are mocked for your insight. Your genuine insights are spurned by the narrow-minded who cling to their simplified preconceptions of the world, trusting only the evidence of their senses. It's the visionaries who change the world…but they don't do it by being safe, Abigail. Socrates, Marie Curie, Rhazes, Servetus…they pursued their convictions…"
"They died, too," Abby pointed out.
"You don't deserve their scorn." He picked up Abby's book, pointing at Erin's picture. "We don't deserve the scorn of our peers, people we trusted, or the whole of humankind. You and I are the only ones who fully appreciate each other's intellect. I believe in you. I can help you prove yourself to the world if you will believe in me."
"And that's some real outside of the box thinking. I'm proud of you, Rowan. That's why I hired you." Abby took another stab at being supportive…if only because Rowan was between her and the door if she needed to do something like run for her life. "I'm just not sure I want to start the Apocalypse to prove a point to the world. Maybe we can put a pin in the charging the ley lines idea until we get the PKE meters up and running and do some field tests? If we can't prove the existence of ghosts after that, we can talk about ionizing ghosts."
Rowan seethed, but kept his expression carefully neutral. Her timidity disappointed him. "I suppose you're right, Abigail."
Abby smiled brightly. "And, you know what? It's Christmas Eve eve. We shouldn't be talking shop. Here. I got you something." She disappeared behind her plastic shower curtain and re-emerged with a present.
He was surprised. No one had given him a present since…well, he didn't remember when, unless the Christmas wedgies in high school could be counted as 'gifts'. "For me?"
"Of course. Just to show you that I appreciate your work."
His work. Hmm. This day promised to be a disappointment on many levels. "Indeed. Thank you."
Abby perched on her desk, grinning eagerly. "Open it."
He did. It's a pen and calculator.
Rowan nodded. "How practical. Again. Thank you."
"You don't like it?"
"On the contrary, I will put it to good use." Rowan tucked it into the breast pocket of his lab coat. "In the tradition of the day, I also purchased an item for you."
His thought briefly of the necklace, which he'd intended to give her after expressing his affection. But, since she simply missed his point…
Abigail and he were kindred souls, bullied and spurned for their genius. Rowan knew this, but she didn't seem to understand if she had no genuine appreciation for his work after two years of working together. They would be already discussing strategic points on the ley lines if she did.
Instead, she was giving him the same nervous, disapproving stare as anyone else Rowan mistakenly trusted.
He went instead to his desk and retrieved a small tool set he'd purchased for use in the lab. He handed it to her, leaving it in its paper bag. "I apologize. I had no time to wrap it. I just wanted to give you a token of my esteem. I almost gave up on science before you brought me here. You've changed my life in ways you will never imagine."
Abby was so freaking relieved it wasn't jewelry that she didn't care if was wrapped or that it was tools. "This is going to come in very handy. Thank you. Merry Christmas."
"Yuletide Greetings, Abigail."
"Merry Christmas, Rowan. Now, let's see what we can do with that PKE meter…"
"Indeed."
GBGBGBGBGBGB
Director Erin Gilbert was in a foul mood by the time her driver pulled the sedan into the parking garage of the Homeland Security field office in New York City. All she'd been told when the phone call interrupted her family weekend was that Agent Patricia Tolan was waiting to brief her on a matter of highest priority. Her fiancé, Phil, had taken the opportunity to heap guilt upon Erin for leaving him stuck with the duty of entertaining their relatives. Her mother had congratulated her for her dedication to her career and reminded her that she still had a few years to have children and, if not, there was always adoption.
Fifteen minutes, mood soured in every way, she'd been bundled into a small commuter plane at a tiny private airfield and taken off in a snowstorm for New York. The perpetual fear that they'd fly into the side of a building in the blinding snow or that the engines might fail in the arctic storm sufficiently distracted her from sulking over passive-aggressive relatives, though it did little to improve her mood.
In the section of the field office reserved for the Spectral Defense Agency, Erin was directed to Sublevel DX-4, which housed the medical unit and research laboratories. Agent Tolan was waiting for her at the entrance to the medical wing.
She looked nervous, Erin noticed. One would expect composure from an agent accustomed to dealing with the paranormal.
"Agent Tolan, I just left twenty-three relatives and an unhappy fiancé to fly to New York," Erin said in greeting. She placed her thumb on the keypad for the doors. There was a click and the doors slid open. Patty led the way past the rows of exam rooms while Erin lectured. "I didn't see any cataclysms or trans-dimensional cross rips on my way here. Unless whatever ghost you've found is farting cupcakes and made of gold dust, I'll be issuing a reprimand-"
Hawkins and Rorke guarded an exam room at the very end of the hallway. Patty stopped before the two-way mirror to the room, inviting Erin to take a look at what was happening inside. She couldn't resist commenting: "In about ten seconds, that dainty foot of yours is going to be leaving little high heel prints on your tongue."
Patty didn't much care if Director Gilbert fired her or not, so she had no compunctions about expressing her honest opinions.
Erin was about to follow through on her threat-until she looked through the two-way mirror out of sheer morbid curiosity. When she saw who was laying on the gurney in the med room, her mouth dropped open.
Patty smirked, wishing she had her cell phone camera to capture the moment.
Erin breathed, "That's not possible."
"Oh, it's her, all right. DNA tests confirmed it."
"Not possible! She's dead. Not just dead…" Erin was doing mental somersaults, her brain rejecting what her eyes were telling her. She simply could not be seeing what she was seeing. "…every atom in her body would have been ripped apart and disintegrated. She can't be alive. We saw her die."
Patty wasn't sure if the Director was talking to her or just thinking out loud (or was maybe having a tiny seizure as the logic circuits in her brain had a meltdown). Whatever it was, she didn't need to be reminded of that night by Erin. The night the firehouse had exploded, taking one of her precious few close friends with it, was permanently etched into her memory. She relived it in her nightmares.
"No, we saw a big old explosion underneath a-what did you all call it? A trans-dimensional cross-rip? You got a lot of first-hand experience with dimensional portals to say that cross rip couldn't have saved her from the blast? Cause there she is." Patty pointed to the blonde woman on the other side of the glass.
Erin would not tolerate being lectured about physics by a subordinate who lacked a single scientific credential other than a distant connection to the former Ghostbusters. If Erin could prove a connection between the Ghostbusters and the ghost-huggers that deviled the S.D.A., she would have gladly fired Patty as a security threat.
She had to settle for rebuking the field officer. "Leave the physics to the scientists, Agent Tolan. I want a complete press blackout on this…"
"Already done. And the spectral barriers around the building are running just in case her ghost buddies try to come rescue her. One of the ghosts was calling her the 'honored one'," Patty informed her.
"Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it?" Erin snapped. "Double the number of guards at every entrance and exit…"
Then, Erin noticed which doctor was examining Spengler. "Sonuvabitch! What's Dr. Yates doing in there?!" She rushed to key open the door.
Patty defended Abby. "She's checking-"
Erin whirled on her. "What were you thinking?! Obviously, you weren't thinking. Dr. Yates is not to have access to this prisoner, am I clear?" The lock beeped, and Erin slammed open the door.
Patty scowled at her. "Clear-"
Satisfied that she'd made her point, Erin left her, descending upon Dr. Yates and the unconscious prisoner on the gurney.
"-you soul-killing she-beast sucking the joy out of every minute of my damn life," Patty added. She caught Rorke's eye and jutted her chin in the direction of the Director and the doctor. "You might want to go in there in case Abby finally stabs her in the throat with one of them big ol' needles."
Rorke decided Patty was right and ducked into the room.
GBGBGBGBGBGB
"The goggles took the brunt of the impact from the bottle. She's lucky she was wearing them; they kept glass shards from getting into her eyes. She has a small laceration on her temple, but no sign of a concussion."
Abby managed to keep her tone clinical as she dictated into the microphone that was clipped to the collar of her lab coat. The intern who watched her treating their patient's injuries would not see the tremble of Abby's hands as she cleaned and bandaged the bloody scalp wound. When she laid her hand briefly on the sleeping woman's forehead, it would appear the casual gesture of a doctor passing comfort to a patient.
Or so Abby hoped. Her mouth was on autopilot, reporting whatever readouts popped up on the medical scanners and reciting whatever test results were handed to her by lab technicians. After one such technician had passed her a paper that informed her the patient's DNA positively identified her as Jillian Spengler, Abby's brain had completely shut down.
This was Jillian…college roommate Jillian…lab partner Jillian…best friend Jillian…
…dead Jillian.
How could she be here?
Abby had studied the case files of the Ghostbusters as a child. She grew up playing ghost hunters with her friends. She and Erin had sneaked into abandoned hospitals and old warehouses where teenagers had no business playing on such hunts. They'd taken a stab at recreating the PKE meters and other gear used by the Ghostbusters with limited success. M.I.T. offered the best program in Paranormal Physics, so Abby had enrolled there. She'd memorized Tobin's Spirit Guide. She and Erin had penned "Ghosts from Our Past", which was required reading for every Paranormal Studies program at every college in the nation. Her mantra to every intern she worked with at the Spectral Defense Agency was simple: "With the paranormal, nothing is impossible."
None of it had prepared her to see a trans-dimensional cross rip form above New York City or to glance across its barrier at the multi-verses on the other side. It had been horrifying and breathtaking…until it had torn Abby's friend from her life.
None of it had prepared her to see a gurney roll into her med center bearing her friend back from the dead not as a ghost (thank God) but in the flesh, heart beating and lungs breathing. Abby felt like she no longer understood one thing about the paranormal.
"Dr. Yates?"
Abby didn't realize she'd fallen silent until Benny the intern tapped her shoulder. She withdrew her hand from Jillian's forehead, mentally kicking herself for the lapse. "I think she passed out due to shock from temporal displacement. I took a scan and she's doused with temporal radiation."
Erin was suddenly standing on the opposite side of the gurney. "Thank you and good-bye, Dr. Yates. This is a conflict of interest. You need to excuse yourself from this case."
"Erin, I'm just trying to help—"
The Director was unimpressed. Under other circumstances, Erin would have trusted Dr. Yates scientific perspective on any matter concerning the paranormal. But not this time. She knew Abby too well. Her emotions would overshadow her judgement. Abby was seeing her friend, miraculously reincarnated. She would not see the more sinister possibilities-that this could be a shapeshifter or some other kind of dopple-ganger (which would explain the DNA results). Gozer or Voga Ra'El or some other demigod could have pulled Jillian Spengler from that cataclysm to become a host body for their next invasion of Earth.
Erin had to consider those possibilities. If Spengler's reappearance was preamble to another Apocalyptic event, Erin would have to take all necessary actions to prevent it. That's why she was in the Director's chair-because she could make the hard decisions. Abby would be too soft-hearted. Not only did Erin not want her interference, she didn't want Abby deceived by this imposter. She didn't want Abby to relive her grief and loss. After all, they had been friends once.
"Now, Dr. Yates, or I'll have Agents Tolan and Rorke escort you out of the building," Erin was firm. She snatched the clipboard from Abby's hand to prove she wasn't kidding.
Abby stared back as if she were seriously debating ripping Erin's arm off. Through gritted teeth, she grunted, "Ma'am."
She glanced at Jillian hesitantly, stepped away from the gurney. On her way out, Abby gave the finger to Erin's back.
"You realize I can see your reflection in the monitors, right?" Erin asked her.
"Good." Abby gave her the finger with the other hand, too, and smiled before she left the room.
Erin beckoned for Benny to take Abby's place and passed him the clipboard. When he frowned at the scientific jargon on the printouts, Erin sighed and took the clipboard back. "Is Ms. Spengler in any danger if you wake her?"
Benny scratched his head indecisively. "I think…no?"
"Wake her up."
The intern shrugged, reaches down, and shook the patient's shoulder. "Ma'am, wake up!"
Erin blinked at him, wondering how the hell this man had passed the S.D.A. screening process. Was he some senators kid or something? She'd have to check. "Seven years of medical school teach you that, Benny?"
He shrugged again. Erin shooed him away.
Spengler-or whoever the hell she was, whatever the hell she was—was stirring. "Ma'am? Hello? Can you hear me? I'm Director Erin Gilbert of the Spectral Defense Agency. I need to ask you some questions."
Holtzmann opened her eyes to the glare of a spotlight in her eyes. Her hand automatically felt for her glasses, which had disappeared while she was unconscious. She squinted against the light. Where was she? The last thing she remembered was being chased by an angry mob.
She saw a familiar face staring down at her. "Erin?"
Erin faltered at the familiarity underlying the word.
Holtzmann craned her neck to glance around the room, wincing when her aching head protested the movement. Her right arm wouldn't move. That turned out to be due to the handcuff that was securing her wrist to the rails of a hospital gurney.
"Aw, crap, not again…" She recognized the room. This was the med center in the Homeland Security field office. She remembered this place. Automatically, her unfettered left hand went to her chest, feeling the front of her shirt above her heart. No bullet hole this time. That's good.
But, how did she get there?
She had no intention of hanging around this place. She was sick of hospitals. Holtzmann reached to pull a bobby pin out of her hair and started picking the handcuff lock.
Seeing this, Agents Rorke and Tolan entered the room, reaching for their weapons.
Erin shook her head at them. It wasn't time for force…not yet. "You know where you are, Dr. Spengler?"
"Sub-level four of Homeland Security—special holding area for prisoners deemed category DX-4. Really tired of waking up in this place." Holtzmann answered, concentrating on the lock.
The answer surprised Erin. How did she know about Level DX-4?
Holtzmann spared her friend a quick glance, finally figuring out what was weird about her. "Erin-why are you blonde?"
"Excuse me?"
'I'm Director Erin Gilbert of the Spectral Defense Agency', Erin had said. So, the whole business with the demolished firehouse and the angry mob wasn't some sort of hallucination. Holtzmann was really stuck in some kind of parallel or alternate timeline…which was all the more reason to get out of this Homeland Security holding area and get back to finding that ghost medallion. She'd have to play along for now. "Spectral Defense Agency? Is that what you call Ghostbusters in this universe?"
Erin latched on to that last word. "This universe? Are you saying you're from a different universe?"
"I narrowed it down to hallucination or parallel timeline. Alternate universe. I'm just not sure how I fell through the door to the Twilight Zone. 'Director'? Good for you."
"Thank you." Erin grabbed the hairpin out of her hand before she succeeded in picking the lock. "Dr. Spengler, I'll need you to leave those cuffs on and stay on the gurney for now."
Holtzmann batted her eyes at Erin. "Whatever you have in mind, I'm going to need dinner and a lot of sweet talk first, Director."
That sufficiently flustered Erin for a second. She could swear she heard snickering on the other side of the two-way mirror. This woman was certainly as cheeky as the real Dr. Spengler. "So, you remember what happened to you?"
"I was having Christmas Eve with my mom. The lights went out. I went to check the generator…and I was here in Wonderland."
Erin had heard something that interested her, though she tried to be casual when she asked: "Where is your mother now?"
Holtzmann's good-humor vanished in an instant. She didn't care for how 'Director Erin' had asked that question. "Back in my universe wondering where I am, probably. Now, I have questions: Why is everyone calling me 'Spengler'? Why were those ghosts acting like my own personal flying monkeys-not that I couldn't roll with that-and why are you blonde? It's not to impress Kevin, is it?"
Blushing bright red, and positive now that she heard laughter from at least one agent in the hallway, Erin asked Benny, "Will an injection of sodium pentothal hurt her?"
"Does it matter?" Benny countered.
"Not really. Proceed."
Holtzmann watched the injection, frowning at Benny when it took him three tries to find her vein. She'd been given enough shots during her various hospital stays that she could have done the job better. How messed up was this universe if Benny had a medical degree? "Erin…you can ask me anything. You know that."
Erin accepted the offer. "Fine. State your name for the record. Your real name."
"Dr. Jillian Marie Holtzmann."
"'Holtzmann'? So, you're saying that you are not Doctor Jillian Spengler?"
Holtzmann smiled at her like she was being ridiculous. This sodium pentothal stuff wasn't so bad. It's rather a nice buzz in combination with the blow to the head. "Not 'Spengler'…technically, yes. Same DNA. I told you I'm from a different universe."
Erin chuckled. "You're correct about that. All right, Dr. Holtzmann: How did you survive the explosion of the Trans-Dimensional Portal Generator?"
"Is that what blew up the firehouse?" Holtzmann asked.
"You know very well it was. How did you survive?"
"I wasn't there…dif-"
Erin knew what she was going to say. "Different universe, that's right, I forgot. You're a time traveler-"
"Trans-Dimensional traveler."
"Supposing I believe that you really came from an alternate universe, Dr. Holtzmann. You must surely have a theory how that happened?"
She had a feeling she shouldn't give 'Director' Erin that information. Blonde Erin was definitely not to be trusted. Holtzmann would have guessed as much even if Erin hadn't handcuffed her to a gurney and shot her full of truth serum.
Erin saw the twitch of Holtzmann's jaw. She pounced on that slip. "So, you do have a theory? You said I could ask you anything, so please share."
Holtzmann bit her tongue against the truth serum, trying very hard to keep that to herself. "Hate you blonde," she mumbled.
Erin ignored that. "I'm waiting, Dr. Holtzmann. How did you cross into this timeline?"
"Fuck yourself, Director."
That was progress, Erin thought. She'd hit a nerve. A little more of that, and the imposter was bound to let a vital bit of information slip. Her gaze traveled to the shredded coveralls lying on the chair beside Holtzmann's gurney and the logo on its sleeve. Erin knew what it represented, obviously, but she asked: "What does the logo on your sleeve mean, Dr. Holtzmann?"
"I'm a Ghostbuster."
"So, you're admitting to treason? How many ghosts have you helped escape from this facility?"
"This facility? None."
"Other facilities then?"
Holtzmann stared at the ceiling. "Ghostbusters don't rescue ghosts," she pointed out.
"I'll play along. How many ghosts did you 'bust' in your universe, Dr. Holtzmann?"
Holtzmann honestly didn't know the answer to that question. "Lost count during the Fourth Cataclysm. Fifty or sixty maybe."
Erin was surprised at the mention of the Fourth Cataclysm. A psychopath named Rowan North had been planning an attack by that name a few months earlier. Agent Tolan had received a tip from the receptionist at the Hotel Mercado about the plot. Tolan had arrested North for conspiracy. None of this information had been made public.
"How many other Ghostbusters are working with you?" Erin asked.
"Three."
"Names?"
Holtzmann would have loved to tell her…but she had no idea where Patty or Abby were in this dimension. Were they evil government goombahs like Erin? If being a Ghostbuster was 'treason' in this universe, were Abby and Patty fugitives? She wouldn't put them in danger. She'd chew her damn arm off and bludgeon Director Gilbert with it should that be the only way to protect her friends. "Alvin, Simon, and Theodore."
Erin accused Benny: "Did you gave her the proper dosage of sodium pentothal?"
"It doesn't work the same on everyone, Director," Benny answered.
"You might have mentioned that sooner." Erin repeated her question to the prisoner. "What are the names of the Ghostbusters?"
Holtzmann glanced sidelong at Erin. The director didn't notice her left hand balling into a fist.
"Names," Erin demanded.
The answer was so quiet, Erin nearly missed it.
"I'm sorry," Holtzmann said.
Erin was confused. "Sorry-?"
"I hate you blonde." With that, Holtzmann's left fist lashed out and struck Director Gilbert squarely in the nose. She had to really remind herself that this was Evil Blonde Nazi Erin and not her dear friend Erin. It didn't make her feel any better.
Erin was sent reeling. Blood gushed from her nose.
Agents Tolan and Rorke rushed into the room. Tolan grabbed Holtzmann's free arm before she could take another swing at Erin. Patty worked to hold in a laugh as she did so.
Erin glares at the agents. "One restraint? Really?!" Benny tried to help with her nose; she took the towel that he offered but batted his hands away. Erin looked at Patty. "Where was Dr. Holtzmann found?"
"Just outside the Hot Zone, about five blocks from the accident site," Patty answered.
"Take a team and search that area…start at the firehouse." It was a hunch, Erin knew, but she trusted it.
"Are we looking for something specific?" Rorke wanted to know.
"Temporal radiation to indicate a point of origin. And anything not coated in five years of dust. Keep me informed. Doctor Holtzmann is well enough to move to a holding cell. Agent Tolan, if you would." She gestures for Patty to take Holtzmann away.
Still half-loopy from the effects of the drug and the headache from her injury, Holtzmann still greeted the familiar face with a smile as Patty started unlocking the handcuffs. "Patty?"
Patty returned the greeting, "Dr. Holtzmann." The woman was too unsteady on her feet to walk, so Tolan guided her into a wheelchair.
Holtzmann sulked. "Blonde Erin is a bitch."
Patty nodded, whispering back: "Tell me about it."
Abby was waiting to come back into the room, trying to mask her distress as Patty and Rorke led Jillian away.
With them out of the room, Abby starts tending to Erin's smashed nose. "This is not possible, right? I mean, she's-"
"-not Jillian Spengler back from the dead, no," Erin said firmly.
Erin forced herself to remain composed, though she felt anything but calm. After Abby had bandaged her nose, Erin rummaged through the box of items that the agents had found on Holtzmann.
The grenade was of particular interest. Erin studied it. She may not be Jillian Spengler, but, Holtzmann definitely had Spengler's knack for weapon's design. Erin fished out the woman's wallet and driver's license. It read: "Dr. Jillian Holtzmann". Obviously, that was a fake identity.
"I want an absolute press blackout on this whole incident until we figure out why she's impersonating Dr. Spengler and what to do about it." Erin told Abby. "I don't want to have to worry about is who is going to tear down this facility to get to her first: A pack of ghost huggers thinking she's Jillian Spengler come back to life...or a lynch mob thinking she's Jillian Spengler back from the dead. There'll be mass hysteria if word about her gets out. Absolutely no one goes into the cell without my explicit permission. Understood?"
Abby was still looking quite petulant. Erin stared her down, trying to assess whether she had another potential problem brewing with this one. "Understood, Dr. Yates?"
"Of course, Director," Abby said.
"Good. Are you finished?" Erin was already pulling out her phone. She had to call Senator Gorin before the woman found out through the bureaucratic grapevine and called her.
GBGBGBGBGBGB
Patty Tolan had excused herself to make a pit stop at the ladies' room while Rorke and Hawkins brought the SUV around to the front of the building. It was one of few places in the building that Tolan could be certain there were no hidden cameras. Ducking into one of the stalls, she pulled a pager from her pocket.
She only needed to key a few buttons for the device to send out a message that would appear to be white noise to any surveillance equipment that might pick up the signal. It needed the matching pager (which was currently resting on a work table full of engine parts) to decode the message. Should unfriendly eyes see the message, it's meaning would be difficult to decipher.
She debated sending the full message. This was going to be a shock to them if she didn't warn them what to expect. However, she knew that they'd be skeptical, regardless of how much they knew about the paranormal. Tolan barely believed it herself and she was seeing it with her own eyes. If they thought this was a hoax or an S.D.A. trap, they'd pull up roots and disappear and it would be months or years before she could regain their trust. No, it was better to keep the instructions simple.
"Bad karma—Dr. Holtzmann"
Seconds later, a familiar logo of a ghost in a circle of red briefly flashes on the screen of Patty's device in answer.