Ghostbusters The Return (9 page)

Louis wore his usual, slightly nonplussed expression. But even Slimer, who was hovering off in a comer of the room and stuffing a family-size bag of potato chips into his mouth (bag and all), didn't look happy.

All of which seemed to go straight over Venkman's head without effect.

"...the food in the green room didn't really agree with me," he was saying, "so I said to the associate producer - now get this - I said..."

Winston poked Venkman gently in the ribs. "Uh, Peter..."

"Hang on, Winston. Let me just finish this story."

"Peter."

"Yeah, yeah. In a minute. So, anyway..."

"Peter."

"What?"
For the first time, Venkman seemed aware of his surroundings. He was silent for a long moment as he took in the sight of Ray and Egon staring back at him. Then, finally, he spoke. "You guys really need a shave."

That was all Egon could take. "Good idea, Peter," he snapped. "Maybe we could take the time to shave if half our manpower didn't disappear for five days to be interviewed on talk shows! Maybe we could even stop wearing the same clothes we've been wearing since Tuesday!"

As always, Venkman looked to Ray for support. "Ray, Egon's off again. Talk to him, willya?"

Ray shrugged. "He's got a point, Pete," he said with a yawn. "We've been stretched pretty thin all week."

Slimer blew Venkman a large raspberry, spraying his shirt with a mixture of slime and potato chip crumbs.

"Gee," said Louis, "If you guys need some extra muscle, I could always strap on one of those gadgets and join you. I mean, it wouldn't be the first time. Remember that whole Vigo thing?"

Actually, they all remembered it - all too well. Louis still believed that he blasted through the barrier that protected the ghost of a murderous, seventeenth century Carpathian madman. The truth was that he lust happened to fire at the same moment that the Ghostbusters defeated the ghost inside the barrier. In fact, when Ray subsequently checked Louis' equipment, he discovered that the accountant had turned the settings up far too high. It would only have taken a few more minutes for the proton pack to explode...taking several city blocks with it.

Not that any of that had dissuaded Louis. It took weeks before they could pry him out of the coveralls he'd grabbed and stop him from trying to tag along on their missions.

"Thanks, Louis. That won't be necessary," said Egon.

Ray continued to look Venkman in the eye. "This city is in the midst of a major psychic upheaval. Where've you been?"

Venkman tried to hold Ray's gaze at first, but then he had to look away. "Do you believe these guys?" he said to Winston. "Here we are, busting our humps to make this city a better place, and these guys - "

"It won't work, Pete," said Ray.

"What won't work?"

"That deflection tactic you use," said Egon. "Consider whom you're talking to. We've seen you do it hundreds of times."

Without missing a beat, Venkman shifted gears, swinging around to throw an arm around each of them. "Well, besides, I'm sure you guys did great without us. I mean, you're the A team. You've got it going on. We just hang onto your coattails and coast along - "

"That one won't work either," said Ray.

"Did I ever mention..."

"Oh, for crying out loud, Peter, knock it off," said Winston. "The guys are right."

'Finally," Janine said with a sigh.

"Sorry, guys," said Winston. "There's just been so much to do. It's been kind of hard to find space to breathe. But we didn't mean to leave you holding the bag."

Venkman started to say something, but then apparently reconsidered and looked down at his feet. "Yeah, like he said," he mumbled. "So, what's going on?"

"Major activity," Ray said. "That incident with the alligators was just the tip of the iceberg. Ever since then, we've been up against a non-stop series of contiguous, free-repeating, spectral manifestations. But that's not the weird part."

"Sounds weird enough to me," Winston remarked.

"Not nearly weird enough," said Egon. "What sets these apart and makes them truly unusual is that they all take the form of existing urban legends."

"Hold it," said Venkman. "Urban legends? How do you get ghosts of things that never existed in the first place?"

"Precisely," said Egon. "There must be a common source. Something out there that's creating them, or at least causing them to manifest in these particular forms. However, we've been too understaffed - "

Ray cleared his throat and shook his head slightly.

Egon caught the signal and took the point. "That is, we haven't been able to find the connection yet."

"Say, if you fellows are understaffed," said Louis, "I could always get out my gear and - "

"No thanks, Louis," said Ray. "We're okay."

Venkrnan picked up a cracked, yellowed scroll from the table where Ray and Egon were working. He unrolled it partially and glanced at the unfamiliar foreign writing. "So you're looking for urban legends in here? I don't think you're going to find a whole lot of poodles in microwaves back in the seventh century."

"No, we're looking for the name one of the ghosts used back at Madison Square Garden: 'Xanthador,'" said Ray. "I knew that blow-up at the Garden was too big to be an isolated incident. Then, less than a day later, all of this hit the fan."

"But the Garden wasn't even an urban legend," said Winston. "Seems like kind of a long shot, doesn't it?"

"Maybe so," Ray replied. "But right now, it's the only shot we've got."

"All right, I get it," said Venkman. "Tomorrow morning, we'll talk to the campaign boys and try to find a way to carve out some time to help you guys."

"I'll see if I can carve out some time, too," said Louis.

"Thanks anyhow, Louis," said Venkman, "but we've got it covered."

Winston nodded his assent. "What do you need us to do?"

Janine held up the note she'd written. "Well, you can start by checking out an undead grandmother on the roof of a car uptown."

"Now?" Venkman looked at his watch and winced.

Egon raised an eyebrow. "You've got to go?"

"Big fund-raising dinner. We're supposed to meet and greet the major backers of the campaign. It starts in about fifteen minutes."

Ray and Egon looked at each other; then Ray sighed. "Go ahead," he said. "Do what you've got to do. We'll handle the granny."

That was all Venkman needed to hear. He clapped Ray on the shoulder, gestured to Winston, and started for the door. "Thanks, Ray. Like I always say, you're a real friend."

Winston hung back for a moment before following Venkman. "We really will talk to the guys at the party tomorrow," he assured them. "We'll see what we can do to help you out."

"Thanks, man," said Ray.

As they watched the candidates disappear through the front door, Ray and Egon closed their books. "I'll go load up the car," Ray said, with a resigned sigh.

"So much for getting to the root of the mystery," Egon said. "Looks like Xanthador will have to wait yet another day."

"We could do it," said Janine.

"Hmm?"

"Louis and I. We could try to dig up information on Xanthador while you're out busting ghosts, or whatever you call it."

Loading a pair of proton packs into the Ectomobile, Ray started to reply automatically, without paying much attention: "No thanks, Janine. We've got - "

Egon interrupted him in mid-sentence. "No, wait. Research is something they can do."

"Can I wear a uniform while we do it?" asked Louis.

"Sure," Egon replied.

The idea registered visibly in Ray's eyes. Actually, it could conceivably do some good. The odds that Janine and Louis might stumble across something while searching blindly weren't great, but it was always possible that they might get lucky. At the very least, unlike proton packs, the books weren't likely to blow up.

Well, except for the one that Egon kept in the safe.

"Okay," Ray said. "You guys are on."

As he and Egon climbed into the Ectomobile, Ray gestured toward the various papers and books on the table. "You can start by going through this stuff, and then move on from there."

"You got it," said Janine.

"Oh, there's just one thing," Egon called from the car.

"What's that?" asked Janine.

"How's your Sanskrit?"

Mayor Arnie Lapinski wasn't happy. "The polls say
what?!"
he demanded.

The young aide reflexively pulled back and raised his hands in defense against the verbal attack. "Y-you still have the greatest percentage of s-support from the voters, sir!" he hastened to point out. "Thirty-eight p-percent say that if elections were held tomorrow, they'd vote for you! The D-Democrats only have seventeen percent! That's l-less than the number of voters who registered as Democrats! It's j-just that..."

The Mayor fixed him with a fierce, stony stare. "'Just that' what?"

The aide spoke in a voice that was so quiet, it was barely audible. "It's just that Venkman is g-gaining. He's up to twenty-three percent now, and the trends show him c-climbing."

"How is that possible?!" the Mayor shouted. "The guy didn't even exist on the political radar until a few days ago! Where is this coming from?!"

Nathan Wong, a tall Asian man in a conservative suit spoke calmly from his chair beside the Mayor's desk. "Come on, Arnie, you know exactly where it's coming from. The ghosts are coming faster and more furious than ever. Supernatural attacks are taking the front pages on a daily basis. With all of that going on, is it any wonder that people would start looking toward a Ghostbuster to keep them safe? It's our own campaign strategy, turned against us."

Lapinski could almost feel his blood pressure rising. The thing was, he hadn't been born to power. A lifelong New Yorker, he was born and raised in a tenement on Manhattan's Lower East Side. That was long before gentrification, when the neighborhood was a magnet for penniless immigrants, not the trendy hipsters who occupied so much of it today.

The young Arnie Lapinski pulled himself up the hard way. City college tuitions and Army ROTC scholarships made it possible for him to get through college and law school. It took a couple years of service to pay back the Army for the free education, but then he was back home and off to the city prosecutor's office. He didn't make a whole lot of friends on his way up the ladder; he was too busy making sure he got the high-profile cases - not to mention making sure that his name was the one that got printed in the newspapers. The friends came later, as people started to realize that before long, he'd wind up behind the big desk in City Hall. He knew full well that most of them were really just out for what they could get, but he didn't much care. After all, he was only associating with them for the same reason.

By now, Lapinski had been mayor for the better part of a decade. In that time, he'd been accused of a lot of things - micro-managing where he didn't belong, using his office to settle personal grudges - but no matter how many picketers carried protest signs with Hitler moustaches scrawled on his photo, he never really imagined it would cost him the election. The fact was that plenty of New York's most influential people thought he was doing a great job, as long as the graffiti was cleaned up, crime was down, and tax shelters were available for the asking. With their backing, and an occasional supernatural threat to the existence of mankind to keep the rest of the voters grateful, the election should have been in the bag.

Of course, that was before Venkman jumped in, and the whole campaign strategy got blown out the window. Yet, he couldn't let that make a difference. He'd worked too hard for too many years to let some penny-ante spook-chaser take his office - his power - away from him. He needed to crush Venkman in the election. And once he was safely ensconced back in office for another term, he'd grind Venkman into the dirt.

"You're supposed to be my campaign manager, Nate," the Mayor told the tall man. "So if they've taken my
old
campaign, then give me a
new
one!"

"We're working on it," he assured the Mayor. "But you know full well that it takes time."

"What 'time'? The guy's appearing on talk shows already! We don't have time!"

"If we rush into a brand-new direction for the campaign, and we pick the wrong campaign, it could flush the whole election down the toilet."

"Fine, you want a campaign? Here's a campaign for you: Venkman's got no experience! I know what I'm doing, he doesn't. Boom, end of campaign."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it is! The guy's as slick as a game show host at a televangelist convention. He's gotta be hiding all kinds of dirty secrets. Let's hammer 'im!"

"We're already pursuing all of that as part of our strategy. Suze's team is preparing debating points on the most obscure, convoluted issues we can find. If there's an issue that can trip Venkman up and show that he has no clue about government, we'll find it. And the results of our background check on him should come in any time now. But we both know there are no guarantees."

"Why not?"

"For the same reason the strategy was working for you. All it'll take is one big supernatural attack before the election, and people will forget about everything else. They'll just fall in love with the person who saves them."

Lapinski took a deep breath. For all his bluster, he knew Nate was right. But he was also starting to get an idea.

"Okay," he said. "Well, I, for one, do not intend to concede defeat right now - especially when we're in the lead and we've still got this much time before the election."

"Do you have something in mind?"

The Mayor nodded slowly. "I'd say there's only one thing we can do..."

CHAPTER 8

So far, Antonia Salazar was having a pretty good day. Her supervisor, whom she affectionately referred to as The dipstick, had called in sick that morning. His bout of the flu cleared the way for a peaceful, relaxing day of personal phone calls and computerized solitaire.

At precisely 11:30, she picked up her bag and headed out for a leisurely two-hour lunch break. Not a second more than two hours, she promised herself. After all, she didn't want to take advantage.

She waited a couple of minutes for the elevator, then descended the seven floors to street level and stepped outside for the four-block walk to her favorite deli. As usual, the walk took her right past the front entrance of City Hall. The scene outside it was far from typical, though. A long line of people stretched out of the entrance, down the steps, and all the way down the block, where it almost reached clear around the corner.

Now, what's this all about?
she wondered.

She continued to wonder about it as she walked along, making her way down the line. It wouldn't be tax day for ages yet. For that matter, it wasn't even the first of the month.

If all of these people weren't there to pay money, maybe City Hall was giving something away? Rebate checks? Toasters? Whatever it was, it looked like a lot of people wanted it.

Of course, she could have satisfied her growing curiosity fairly easily by simply asking one of the people who were standing there. But she had a New Yorker's instinctive aversion to making eye contact, let alone conversation, with total strangers in the street Besides, it seemed to her that some of the eclectic bunch of people standing in line put the "strange" back in "stranger."

Is that a possum on that guy's shoulder?
she thought.

Still, she continued to walk. More and more, she was becoming intrigued by the line of people. What if they were giving something away - something really good - and she didn't find out until the next day, when she read the newspaper? What if it was too late by then, and she missed any chance she might have had?

As she fell deeper into thought, Antonia didn't notice that her pace was slowing. By the time she took a few more steps, she was standing still.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained,
she thought.

She approached a nearby man who was wearing a turban and some sort of large amulet on a chain around his neck. "Excuse me? Hi," she said.

He looked at her but said nothing in reply.

"I don't mean to bother you, but I was just wondering. What's this all about?"

He continued to stare silently. With a touch of discomfort, Antonia realized that he still hadn't blinked.

"What's going on?"

Without saying a word, he reached into his jacket and produced a sheet of newspaper. He extended it toward her.

Hesitantly, Antonia took the newspaper from his hand. She smoothed it out to see that it was a full-page advertisement. It read:

OPEN CALL FOR EXORCISTS

THE MAYOR'S OFFICE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK ANNOUNCES OPEN AUDITIONS FOR QUALIFIED EXORCISTS, TO BE HELD FROM 10:00 A.M.THROUGH 3:00 P.M. ON FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 13 AT CITY HALL.

APPLICATIONS ARE ENCOURAGED FROM EXPERIENCED PSYCHICS, SHAMANS, NECROMANCERS, PARAPSYCHOLOGISTS, MEDIUMS, ASTROLOGERS, HOUNGANS, MYSTICS, OCCULTISTS, INVESTIGATORS OF THE SUPERNATURAL, AND PERSONS OF THE CLOTH.

SALARY AND BENEFITS TO BE COMMENSURATE WITH THE QUALIFICATIONS OF THE WINNING APPLICANT.

THE MAYOR'S OFFICE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK IS AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER.

"Oh," Antonia said. "Thanks." Because what else could she say?

Gingerly, she handed the paper back to the man, who took it without a word. He folded the sheet neatly and returned it to the inside pocket of his jacket.

Apparently, the conversation was over. Antonia resumed her walk to the deli, although perhaps she walked a little more quickly now.

She shook her head and thought,
Only in New York. . .

The Mayor sat in a small, plain room at a heavy steel table that had probably been in the room since the Lindsay administration, back in the 1960s. To one side of Lapinski sat his campaign manager, Nathan Wong; to the other side was the commissioner of New York's Office of Emergency Management. A tall but neat stack of applications lay at one end of the table, so that an aide could pass around the appropriate paperwork as each interviewer entered the room.

"Prepare yourselves, gentlemen," said the Mayor. "We've just sent an open invitation to every whacko, weirdo, and nutjob in New York City."

"Heaven knows we've got no shortage of those," said the commissioner.

"Still, let's keep an open mind. It could work," Wong said. "How hard could it be to find someone more effective than the Ghostbusters?"

"Well, we may as well get started," the Mayor said to the others at the table. He called out to an aide who was stationed at the door: "Send in the first applicant!"

To be honest, Lapinski wasn't entirely sure what a prospective exorcist would look like. He assumed it would be either a pseudo-scientist like the Ghostbusters or some kind of New Age mystical-crystal-reading Gypsy flake.

The first applicant was a middle-aged woman dressed in numerous layers of colorful scarves and cloths. Her fingers and ears were adorned with rings of silver and gold, and her hair was tied back in yet another colorful, patterned scarf.

Well, at least she looks the part,
thought Lapinski.

The aide passed copies of an application to the men at the table. The Mayor looked at the name at the top of the page. "Madame...Elena?"

"Madame Elena," she confirmed, in a rich, thick European accent. "Madame Elena sees all, tells all. Madame Elena holds the power to help with all of life's problems. Visa and Master Card accepted."

"What's your background?"

She held out her hand. "Cross my palm with silver, and all your questions will be answered."

"What?" asked the Mayor. He couldn't possibly have heard her correctly.

"Cross my palm with silver, and all your questions will be answered," she repeated.

"You're not serious?" said Lapinski.

She nodded again.

"You, uh, you do know this is an audition, don't you?" said the commissioner.

Her hand was still extended.

"Well, uh, traditionally, people ask questions in auditions."

She nodded again.

"And, uh, they don't usually pay for the answers. Not, uh, usually."

She nodded.

The men at the table looked at each other, not sure where to go from there. The request had taken them completely by surprise, and they didn't quite know what to say.

Finally, Wong spoke up. "You know what," he said, "If it'll speed things up..." He pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Thank you," she said with a bow. By the time she stood up straight again, the five dollars had disappeared somewhere into her clothes. The Mayor shuffled his papers, buying himself time to regain his composure. Clearly, he'd lost control of the situation for a moment, and it was time to take back the driver's seat. "Okay, you've got your money. Fine. Now then, what's your background?"

Madame Elena gestured broadly as she launched into her tale. "I was born beneath the moon in the hills of Romania. The wolf howled and the wind sang with the voices of the spirits on a late Summer's night. My mother cried out from her caravan - "

"Yes, yes," said Lapinski, with more than a little impatience in his voice. "Let's cut to the present. What techniques do you use to deal with ghosts?"

Madame Elena held out her hand. "Cross my palm with silver, and all your questions will be answered."

Once again, the room was silent as everyone checked to make sure they'd heard correctly.

The Mayor was aghast. "But - but we already did that! You said you'd answer all our questions!"

Madame Elena held up her index finger. "Five dollars crosses only one of my fingers. Another question, another five dollars."

That did it. "You're supposed to be psychic, right?" said the Mayor.

Madame Elena nodded.

"So tell me what I'm thinking."

Madame Elena stared deeply into his eyes. Then her lip curled in disgust.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," she said.

Wong breathed deeply as he tossed the application on the pile. "Well, that's the last of them."

When they started, none of three men had fully appreciated just how grueling the process would be. But after seven hours - a full two hours longer than they stated in the ad - and well over one hundred applicants, they most definitely understood it now. Their ties had come off after the second hour, and their jackets followed not long after. They'd lost count of the cups of coffee they'd consumed, and by now, the only thing that each of them really wanted was a good, stiff drink.

And the thing was, it was all for nothing. An endless parade of paranormal misfits, and there wasn't a single decent candidate in the bunch.

The Mayor ran his hand through what was left of his thinning hair. "So," he said, leaning forward to rest his head on his hands, "what do we do now?"

They were quiet for a bit.

"I guess we could try launching an intensive supernatural training course for existing emergency services personnel," offered the Commissioner. "Maybe we could create sort of a paranormal SWAT team."

"Would that work?" asked Wong.

"I dunno. Maybe," said the Commissioner.

"And who would run this intensive training of yours?" asked Lapinski.

The Commissioner pondered that for a moment. It wasn't a standard training course that was likely to be offered in another state. Nor had he come across a lot of potential instructors today. Finally, with a shrug, he said, "The Ghostbusters?"

Lapinski shot him a look that ended the discussion.

"It's always possible," said Wong, "That there won't be any more ghost attacks between now and Election Day. That would negate the whole issue. It'd be a moot point."

"After everything that's happened in the past week?" said Lapinski. "That sounds like an awfully big longshot."

"Thy pardon, good fellows. I pray thee, a moment of thy time."

As one, they looked toward the door to see the source of the deep, rumbling voice.

Lapinski almost gasped. The figure that filled the door stood at least six and a half feet tall, with a massive build that could have been sculpted out of rock and a hat that lent almost an additional foot to his height. On anyone else, his archaic Puritan garb would have looked out of place, or even comical. But on him, it looked as natural as his stern, craggy face and graying beard.

As distinctive as all that might have been, though, the feature that stood out the most was his eyes. They were as black as the darkest night, but seemed to burn with a nameless, unyielding force.

The Mayor wasn't used to feeling intimidated; he was usually the one doing the intimidating. But the new arrival's mere gaze sent a chill through him, piercing straight through like an arrow - no, like an eight-foot-long spear. Suddenly, Lapinski felt like he was back in the third grade, withering beneath the stare of Sister Theresa when she could tell he'd done something wrong...even if he didn't remember doing anything wrong himself.

The Puritan crossed the room in long strides, coming to a halt before the table. "I am given to understand that thou art in need of a champion to smite the unholy hordes of darkness that do plague thy city."

With some effort, the Mayor managed to stammer out, "A-and you are...?"

"Goodraven. Jonathan Goodraven, at thy service."

"You - you're an...an exorcist?"

"I have been honored to do the Lord's work for lo, these many years." As he spoke, his sonorous voice rose, becoming even deeper and more resounding. It seemed to shake the very walls themselves. "Though the forces of evil are legion, they are but chaff before the light of glory. The Devil of Windsor, the Bloody Coven of Knightsbridge, the Banshee of Schenectady - all have fallen 'midst blood and fury at my hands. As they have shown no mercy, so too have I given no quarter. One and all, they have found themselves cast back to the sulfurous pits of Gehenna that spawned them."

"How...do you do that, exactly? Cast them back to the pits, I mean."

"I have been known to employ means both mystical and mundane. Some might confine themselves to their personal tried and true, but I have found greater success in pursuing whatever path might prove most expeditious to the matter at hand. I must confess that I have little use for niceties, However, the results of my handiwork have yet to provoke complaint."

Lapinski felt as though he'd just fallen in love. Now, this was an exorcist! And not just that - Goodraven sounded like an exorcist after his own heart, to boot. He cast an awed, inquisitive glance to either side. Wang and the Commissioner were looking back at him with slack jaws. Each of them managed just the faintest of nods in reply.

Not that it mattered much. Even if they hadn't agreed, the Mayor's mind was made up. He rose to his feet and extended a hand over the table. Goodraven enveloped his hand in a powerful, bone-crushing grip.

"Mister Goodraven," he said, "on behalf of the City of New York, I'd like to offer you a job."