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"Our playwright may show
In some fifth act, what this wild drama means."
The Play, Tennyson
"Gosh, this is weird," remarked Ray Stantz, glancing up from a letter he'd just received. At the tone of his voice the other three Ghostbusters stared at him in varying degrees of surprise. It was a lazy Saturday afternoon and there had been no jobs since morning. The team had gathered in the second floor lounge at Ghostbuster Central to relax and unwind after a busy week.
Peter Venkman set aside the power bill -- he'd deal with it when he was stronger -- and studied his auburn-haired colleague. "What's weird, Ray?" he asked.
Egon Spengler, who was deep in the innards of a new Ghostbusting gizmo, didn't stop his tinkering, but Peter could always tell when the blond man was paying attention or when he was too absorbed in his work to notice such things as major explosions or a ringing phone inches from his hand. He was listening now.
The fourth Ghostbuster, Winston Zeddemore, put down his latest mystery. "If Ray thinks it's weird, it's probably gonna win the annual bizarre award," he observed.
"No," objected Ray hastily with a quick grin. "Not weird like that. But this is a letter from my great-uncle Boris."
Peter frowned. "I thought he was dead, Ray," he said gently. "I remember you taking your Aunt Lois to his funeral last winter." Boris Stantz was Lois's uncle, born at the turn of the century. He had escaped Russia during the revolution in 1917 and emigrated to the American West, out in Arizona, where he had taken a wife and raised one son, Alexei. His wife had not survived childbirth and the son had not lived through the Battle of the Bulge. Ray hadn't met the man more than once or twice in his whole life, and his death hadn't been a tragedy. In fact, the only good thing about his passing was that he hadn't left his great-nephew anything weird or haunted. Ray's deceased relatives had a nasty habit of doing that.
Staring at the envelope Ray displayed, Peter realized that fact might suddenly change.
"Don't tell me," he said in dismay. "He left you something, didn't he?"
"Oh, man," groaned Winston. "I should have known. Any chance you can refuse the inheritance, homeboy?"
Ray frowned. "I don't know if it is one," he said. "This letter," and he held up an open one, "is from The Bard's Booty, that little Shakespeare store up in the Village. They acquired an estate collection of books last week, and one of them was evidently a collection of the plays that used to belong to Uncle Boris -- well, Aunt Lois inherited Uncle Boris's books and must have sold them to the guy. And there was a letter to me tucked in one of them. Gosh, guys, it's a message from beyond the grave!"
Egon set aside his tools. "It may be nothing of the sort, Ray, he may have simply forgotten to mail it."
"I'd better read it."
Peter eyed him measuringly. Ray didn't appear shocked or distressed, just curious, even excited. He might be disappointed if the note proved no more than old news. But he'd probably be glad of one last message from Boris, although he had hardly ever corresponded with his uncle.
Ray tore the second envelope open and pulled out a single sheet. "Dear Ray," he read aloud. "I hope Lois will give this to you when I am gone." He looked up. "Oops. I don't think Aunt Lois ever went through the books. She doesn't like Shakespeare all that much, and Great-Uncle Boris really did. He was a fanatic on the subject. He probably had hundreds of volumes. She must not have noticed the envelope when she sold the collection."
"Well, you've got it now, Raymond," Egon said.
Ray's eyes had returned to the letter. "Oh, gosh," he breathed.
"I knew it," muttered Winston under his breath. "Trouble."
"Well, I don't know if it's trouble, but it's weird. Listen." He read aloud, "I didn't add this to my will, mostly because I didn't want Jake to find out about it too soon."
"Who's Jake?" Peter prodded. He couldn't remember that name in the cast of characters of Ray's distant relatives.
"He's Great-Uncle Boris' nephew by marriage," Ray explained, gesturing with the envelope. "Jacob Michaels. I never met him, but Boris said he's the most opinionated man he ever met. He avoided him when he could but apparently the Michaels family has a huge reunion every year, and he used to go when he was younger, you know, before the war, when Alexei was still alive. Apparently they've grown into a major production since then. I think he still went occasionally. He said nobody ever revoked being a Michaels, even if it was through marriage. Even after Great-Aunt Sarah was dead, they still wanted him and Alexei to come, and then after the war when they had the ranch, he was still welcome -- by everybody but Jake. I never met the man, but Jake apparently decided that my uncle was a 'Commie bastard'."
"When he left Russia to avoid the Communist regime in the first place?" Egon asked in disbelief.
"Well, evidently this Jake guy was pretty narrow-minded. His son married a half Japanese girl, and you'd think he'd married a serial killer."
"A bigot," Winston muttered darkly.
"A jerk," Peter agreed readily, disliking Jake without even meeting him. "Go on, Ray."
Ray resumed reading. "I know you are a Ghostbuster but I don't believe I want this ghost busted -- if it actually is a ghost and not an old man's imagination. I simply want something done with the play -- authentication if possible. I could be wrong. I am a dabbler, not a scholar. But I have suspicions that have grown over the years. I have hidden it on the ranch in a place where no one will think to find it. Go out there with your friends. Take readings with your gadgets. You will find it."
"The play, Ray?" Egon asked.
"What ranch?" Peter demanded at the same moment. "You said something about a ranch before."
"Let me see." Ray perused the note in silence. "The ranch is out in New Mexico, at a place called -- uh, what was it?" He frowned. "I can't remember. It wasn't too far from Santa Fe, anyway."
"So we're supposed to show up at the front door of this bigot's ranch and wave our P.K.E. meters around hunting for a haunted play?" Winston asked. "That's crazy, man. If he didn't trust Boris, he's sure not gonna think much of us Ghostbusters."
"He'd have to be pretty old by now," Peter observed. "Uncle Boris was around 91 when he died, right?"
"Excellent mathematics, Peter," Egon approved dryly. Peter made a face at him.
"Jake's the next generation. He's the one who built the ranch. Jake could be in his sixties or seventies and still be going strong," Ray pointed out. He waved the letter. "It says, I hid it there not too many years after the war. Someone wanted it, and I knew he'd never think to look in New Mexico. I left it for years. I'd check each visit to make sure it was still there, and it was. I could feel its presence, but Jake sure couldn't. Not a sensitive man. His wife, Cassie, on the other hand, I liked, but she didn't sense it either. I think Katherine did, Jake's mother, but she died around 1980. And Jake's father didn't either. He was pretty easy going, a decent man, my brother-in-law, Steven. I went out for Katherine's funeral. The kids were there then, next generation after Jake, though he lost his boy in '65. The kids are all around 5-10 years older than you, Ray. Good kids. Couldn't tell if any of 'em sensed it, unless it was Scott, he's younger than you are -- lives in New York, I think. Anyway, go on out to Glorieta... That's the town," Ray inserted. "...and use your meters. It shouldn't be hidden any longer. Now, in my old age, I can't remember what caused the paranoia that made me hide it. Maybe the spirit did it. 'He doth bestride the narrow world like a colossus.'"
"Who does?" Peter asked blankly.
"It's a quote, Peter," Egon explained.
"Julius Caesar," Winston offered. "Shakespeare."
"I knew that," Peter said unconvincingly. "But what does it mean, anyway? Who's he talking about? Uncle Jerk? The ghost?"
"I don't know," Ray replied, turning the sheet of paper in hopes of finding additional clues. "That's all he says, except for love, Boris."
"So what are we supposed to do, go out there to Glorieta, wherever that is, and tell this Jake character we've come to take readings of his house?" Winston asked. "He'd never let us in. We don't even know what we're looking for."
"The play," Egon said, a frown puckering his brow. "He wants us to find the play."
Peter waved his arms in excitement. "Hey, hey, I saw this program on TV about Shakespeare the other night. Maybe that's what he means, that he found a lost play -- or at least a copy of a known one in Willie's own writing."
"You watched a program about Shakespeare?" Egon asked him in considerable astonishment, lifting an eyebrow at Peter.
"Heck, I was over at Cheryl's and she likes that kind of stuff," Peter defended himself self-righteously. "But what about it, Egon, do you think it could be that? A... a first folio or whatever they called it? Or maybe one with his margin notes."
"Whatever it is, it's haunted," Ray reminded them. "Gosh, what if it really is a lost Shakespeare play? Wouldn't that be great!"
"Doubt it, homeboy," Winston said, sounding regretful to dampen his enthusiasm. "I don't know a lot about it, but if there was a play no one's ever found, there would have been references to it and Shakespeare scholars would known about it... even if they'd never found it, right, Egon?"
"Yes, most likely. I would be inclined to support Peter's second theory, that he's acquired a copy Shakespeare actually penned... one of the extant plays -- one still in existence, Peter," he translated.
"Hey, I'm not ignorant. I know what extant means, and anyway, I said it first. It'd be worth a lot of money, right?"
"If we can de-haunt it first. Gosh, what if it's Shakespeare's ghost?" asked Ray.
"In New Mexico?" Winston shook his head in disbelief.
"But we've gotta go out there," Ray cried excitedly. "Even if it's not the Bard himself, and even if Uncle Jake is nasty, we can't let him be bothered with a ghost. Anyway, Uncle Boris liked the rest of the Michaels clan."
"And who's going to pay us for this little venture, Ray?" asked Peter, who considered himself the voice of reason in financial matters. Just because he hadn't sent the power bill in fast enough a couple of times...
"We could call it a vacation," Ray offered. "There's nice country out there around Santa Fe. It's high, and the climate's good, low humidity, and even if it's hot by day, it cools off at night. We haven't had any time off for a long time. And if there's money in the play, whatever it is, it'll pay for our expenses."
The idea operated powerfully on Peter, and the thought of Uncle Jerk didn't daunt him. He thrived on confrontation. He just thought it might be awkward, that was all. But if they couldn't get in, they couldn't get in. They could still get some good Mexican food and the women out there might be thrilled to meet the Ghostbusters. "I'm up for it," he said.
"You're always up for vacation," Egon pointed out.
"So are 99.9% of the people in the known universe," Peter argued. "Not everybody is obsessed with the lab or with molds and fungi."
"In actual fact, I believe I would enjoy a holiday myself."
"And I'm always up for a mystery," Winston declared. "Let's do it."
"Great. I'm gonna call Aunt Lois and tell her all about it," Ray began, then caught himself. "No, wait. I'm gonna surprise her when we get home."
"Okay, then you can figure out what this colossus stuff means," Peter said as he headed for the spiral stairs up to the third floor. He wanted to get packed right away. A vacation, he told himself excitedly. We're going on a vacation. Okay, so it included a nasty character and a possible ghost, but they could wrap that up in one afternoon and spend the rest of the time doing whatever people did in New Mexico. Trail rides? Campfire sing-alongs? Meeting women?
Having doors slammed in their faces seemed more likely. Clad in their jumpsuits and wearing their proton packs and throwers, the four men arrived at the Michaels ranch in a rented car. Glorieta had proved so close to Santa Fe, they drove out there in next to no time at all. Peter had to admit it was beautiful country, the air tangy as wine, the sun warm on his shoulders but not too hot. Mountains, piñon pine, juniper, cactus, just like a scene in a John Wayne movie. Egon said it was high desert climate; he'd noticed that people weren't as likely to have lawns with grass as they were back in New York -- not that there were a lot of lawns in the City.
It was a landscape Peter's favorite author, Dewey La Mort, would have loved, and Peter instantly switched into cowboy mode. The Ghostbuster uniform felt unbearably conventional; he longed for chaps, boots, and spurs, with a ten gallon hat perched atop his head and a six gun slung low on his hip. Mentally clothing himself with these esoteric garments, he wished they'd stopped at the Western clothing shop next to their motel. He felt a swagger take possession of his walk.
The ranch consisted of a main house, two stories high, with various barns and outbuildings around it, probably bunkhouses for the cowboys. Peter fell for it heavily. A real working ranch. He was as excited as Ray.
The man who answered the door dampened his enthusiasm instantly. He was around seventy years old. Jake, Peter decided, especially when the man's eyes narrowed in disapproval.
"Is this a joke?" he demanded sourly.
Peter found himself glad to be taller than the legendary Jacob Michaels and managed to stand even straighter at the confrontation.
"No joke, Mr. Michaels," Ray said hastily. "I'm Ray Stantz. Boris Stantz was my great-uncle." He stuck out a friendly hand.
Any enthusiasm Michaels might have had -- and Peter doubted there'd been one shred of it before -- dropped completely. He ignored Ray's hand as if he'd encountered a snake in his path. "And your point?" he asked.
"Guess you were wrong about the famed Michaels hospitality," Peter murmured in an undertone as Ray lowered his hand, abashed.
"You're the Ghostbusters," Jake realized. "I shoulda known any kin of Boris would be up to something crazy and weird."
"Hey, Jack, Ghostbusting isn't crazy and weird," Peter said hotly, ready to take on this character and ten like him. Nobody treated Ray like that and got away with it. "It's a necessary service. We've saved the world, after all, and we even have medals to prove it. Check us out with the NYPD if you doubt it."
"Since there ain't no ghosts here, I'll ask you to leave now."
"Who is it, Jake?" A woman much his age appeared in the doorway, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of the team in full regalia.
"You must be Aunt Cassie," Ray said quickly, offering the woman a big smile. "I'm Boris' great-nephew, Ray Stantz."
Her face lit. "Then you and your friends must come in. We don't turn away family here, Jacob Michaels," she added pointedly.
"He's not family. Boris wasn't a Michaels."
"No, but he married one. You can't say Alexei wasn't a Michaels. You liked Alexei."
Jake's face darkened. "But I can say this clown and his circus ain't related to us."
"We're the Ghostbusters, Ma'am," Egon explained. He held up his P.K.E. meter and pointed to the antennae with the other hand. "Boris left a message for Ray, about a potential ghost here."
"That Commie bastard's been dead for six months," Jake pointed out. If his wife hadn't been in the doorway with him, he would have slammed it.
Peter put a restraining hand on Ray's arm. "Boris left Russia to avoid Communism," he said smoothly. "I think you've got your world history a little bit mixed up."
Cassie laid her hand on Jake's arm in unconscious mimicry of Peter's action, the touch too gentle to be a restraint, but it reined him in -- slightly. "Come in, gentlemen. Ray, your cousin Skip and his wife are here for a few days." She pulled the door open wide and the four of them entered. Conscious of Jake's disapproval, Peter couldn't help a smug smile at the older man as they went in. Jake glared back.
"I don't know any of my cousins," Ray said. Peter was sure he knew they weren't really relatives, but his face lit up anyway. Most of Ray's relations were so distant, he didn't know them well, if at all, and the thought of meeting an unknown cousin made him smile.
They were shown into a room where a man and his wife were having coffee. At the sight of him, Winston blurted, "Omigosh, it's Skip Carmichael. The astronaut!"
Skip stared back, jumping to his feet. "It's the Ghostbusters!" he declared excitedly.
"You did it, you really went to the moon," Winston enthused, sticking out his hand. "Winston Zeddemore. I've been in space a couple of times but never that far. This is great."
Jake muttered with irritation, but Skip didn't seem to mind. "Mel, these are the Ghostbusters," he introduced, naming each of them -- Peter was tickled to death that he identified them correctly. "My wife, Mel."
"You went to the moon, too," Winston said, pumping her hand. Clearly he was in hero-worship heaven.
"I think Ray is sort of a Michaels by marriage," Skip explained to his wife. "I remember Boris. Great guy. He didn't come around very often when me and the guys were growing up, but when he did, he always took time for us. We were sorry when we heard he died."
"Thanks," Ray replied.
Mel registered their coveralls and proton packs. "I thought at first you'd just stopped by because you were in the neighborhood," she said. "All the Michaels do. But you're dressed for business."
"And I am getting readings," Egon observed, nodding at his activated P.K.E. meter which was beeping so softly as to be a subliminal sound. "Although they are faint, as if they were residuals."
"What kind of readings?" asked Cassie, intrigued yet undaunted by the thought of a ghost. Well, she probably was, thought Peter. What ghost could be nastier than her husband? "Are you saying Boris has come back to haunt us?"
Ray's mouth fell open at this unlikely possibility. "Gosh, no, I never even thought of that."
"I know you scam artists," Jake insisted. "Show up, claim we need you, put on a razzle-dazzle light show and hand us a big bill. You won't get one red cent out of me, and that's my final word."
"We didn't come for money," Ray denied in shock, pausing only long enough to elbow Peter, who might have let the mercenary side of his nature take advantage of the situation -- and alienate Jake further. "Boris wrote me a letter; it was delayed and I didn't get it 'til the other day. He left an item here -- and he was afraid it might be haunted and cause you trouble. He asked me to come and help. We wouldn't charge family."
"If he left anything on my property, it belongs to me now."
Was that a gleam of avarice in Jake's eyes? Peter understood greed. Now how could he use it to the Ghostbusters' advantage?
"Even if it's haunted, Jack?" Peter asked. "You'd be better off rid of a haunted artifact. That's why we're here, get rid of it, take away the ghost, save you the hassle."
"My name is not Jack," Jake growled. "And nothing leaves this ranch without my permission."
"Why don't you find out what it is first, Uncle Jake?" Skip asked. "If it's going to cause trouble, you'd be better off without it."
Jake threw him a suspicious frown. "Boris left it here without telling anybody 'cause he didn't mention whatever it was in his will."
"Didn't leave you anything, did he?" Peter taunted sotto voce.
Jake ignored that. "What are residuals?" he asked, harking back to Egon's earlier comment.
"Residuals are lingering readings after the entity has moved on or become quiescent," Egon explained. "They need mean nothing except the ghost is not present now. We don't know where Boris concealed his property. It's possible its hiding place has been moved -- a building torn down, a box thrown away -- so that it is no longer here. Or it is possible the ghost is simply dormant and may awaken if we disturb it."
"If you cause any damage to my property, I'll see you in court," threatened the rancher.
"Oh, come on, make nice, Uncle Jerk," Peter said. "We're here to help..."
"What did you call me?" Jake thundered, turning a diabolical glare on Peter, who stood his ground. He saw Skip struggling to hide a grin at the appellation before Egon elbowed Venkman firmly.
"Mr. Michaels," Egon said in haste, "why not let us track down the readings? We can be out of your way much sooner. If the ghost is no longer here, then we will depart at once."
Jake would probably have enjoyed throwing them out bodily, but curiosity, greed, or simply a desire to watch the Ghostbusters screw up, held him back. Either that or he knew he was outnumbered by four men bigger than he was. "I'm not paying for this," he said, favoring Peter with a scowl that would have had Venkman writhing in agony if glares held that power.
"You don't have to," Ray soothed. "Come on, guys, let's track it down."
"Can we come too?" Skip asked, delighted at the very idea. He had the appearance of a man who didn't turn his back on an adventure.
"Yes," Egon agreed. "At least until there are indications of danger. If we have to blast a ghost, you'll need to move out of the line of fire, but that may not happen."
"Where do we head, m'man?" Winston asked.
Jake narrowed his eyes at Winston, and Peter felt himself growing angry. He recognized bigotry when he saw it, and nobody was gonna treat Winston like that while he was around. Winston caught his eye and shook his head. Falling into step with Peter he said in a undertone, "Don't worry about it. You suppose I care what this character thinks of me? I think I'd be worried if he liked me."
"He better not say anything," Peter replied. Suddenly a beatific smile crossed his face at a truly wonderful idea. "We could always send for Slimer." He wasn't fond of the little spud and had been glad to leave him behind for the trip, but Slimer did have his uses.
Winston choked on an involuntary chuckle at the thought of the Ghostbusters' resident green ghost 'haunting' Jacob Michaels -- not to mention covering him with unpleasant green slime. "Hard to resist, isn't it, Pete?"
"Gentlemen!" Egon called them to order. He led the way to a fireplace in another room and was standing before it, his meter lifted to a large family photograph that hung there. It had obviously been taken at a fairly recent family reunion because Skip and Mel were there, looking much as they did today. Mel had her arm around a teenaged girl, while Skip held a toddler in his arm, his other hand on the shoulder of a boy of about five.
"This can't be haunted," Ray said in disappointment. "The meter isn't reacting to it at all. It looks pretty recent."
"It was taken two years ago," Cassie explained. "It was a good picture of everyone so I had it hung last year."
"If you don't mind my asking, what was up there before?" Egon inquired, twiddling dials on his P.K.E. meter.
"A moose head," Skip remembered. "A big, old scruffy one that had been up there forever. I used to love that moose. My grandfather shot it on a hunting trip a long time ago, way up north. I'd forgotten about it. What'd you do with it, Aunt Cassie?"
"That old thing? It looked like a reject from a flea market," she replied. "I think it's in the attic."
"You think he hid the play in a moose head?" Peter asked in disbelief.
"Hey, maybe that's what that quote meant," Ray volunteered. "You know. 'He doth bestride the narrow world like a colossus.' A moose is pretty big. Maybe that was a hint about where to search."
Peter had figured the quote meant Shakespeare himself, being the world's greatest playwright, but he didn't want to mention the possibility in front of Jake. He had visions of Ray discovering the play to be an unpublished Shakespeare play, and the Ghostbusters raking in major bucks. Besides, it would impress the heck out of Cheryl, his current girlfriend.
"Possibly," Egon conceded without looking up.
"What play?" Jake asked suspiciously.
"Did Boris write a play?" Cassie asked with every evidence of delight. "Maybe he wrote it about the Russian Revolution. I'd like to read a play that Boris wrote. He was a good man, and Alexei was a wonderful boy."
Jake's face darkened again. "Alex didn't mess with plays," he said coldly as if only sissies were writers. The nickname interested Peter, who narrowed his eyes and studied the older man as if he could get a better handle on him. "And his father didn't either. I never saw him write anything except letters the entire time I knew him, and that was almost 70 years."
"Hey, wait," Skip said excitedly, gesturing for attention. "Boris was a Shakespeare buff. You don't think he had an early copy of one of Shakespeare's plays?"
"Or an undiscovered one?" Mel cried, caught up in her husband's enthusiasm. "That would be wonderful."
"If you find it, it's mine," Jake reminded them flatly. "It's on my property."
"We're postulating the existence of a Shakespearean manuscript on the basis of nothing but wild hypothesis," Egon cautioned. Peter hoped the string of big words would confuse the old rancher. "Before there is any dispute of its ownership, we must establish its existence. Mrs. Michaels, would you take us to the attic, please?"
"Certainly, Egon." She smiled. "Come with me." Falling into step with him, she said warmly, "Until I met you, I thought Andrew had the most extravagant head of hair I'd ever seen."
"Andrew?" Egon asked, one hand going up automatically to touch the blond flip.
"Andy Travis," Skip explained. "One of my cousins. I wish he was here. He'd really be enjoyin' all this."
"Do you think there's really a play here, Peter?" Ray asked excitedly. He had his own P.K.E. meter in hand. "Gosh, this is neat. Meeting Skip and Mel -- gosh, Peter, I've got cousins-in-law who have been to the moon. And Aunt Cassie seems really nice."
"Uncle Jerk might have a point, though, Ray," Peter said reluctantly, gesturing at the suspicious old man. "Whatever is in the moose, if anything really is, wasn't mentioned in Boris's will. The letter talks vaguely about a play. I bet any court in the world would say the play belonged to Jake. Sickening, isn't it?"
"If it's haunted, he might not want it," Ray said cheerfully. "But all that really matters, if it's a lost play, is getting it found. I don't want to get rich off it, though I wouldn't mind the money. But I'd like to let the world have it. And I don't know if Jake would."
"Boris didn't want Jake to have it," Peter reminded him.
"I know, Peter, but look around," said Ray in an undertone. "I don't think there's a lot of money here. It wouldn't be Jake's play, really, it would be the world's. And we'd be the ones who found it. Besides, how can they ever figure out its provenance? It could be just another Elizabethan play. Or even a rip-off of one."
"What about the ghost?" Skip said, falling in beside Ray. "Is it dangerous?"
"How could it be dangerous?" Mel asked. "It's been here a long time, probably at least forty years, and nobody's ever even seen it. This place isn't haunted."
"I don't know. Scott said he saw something once," Skip argued. "Only he was about ten at the time. Scott's another cousin," he explained to Ray.
"Boris mentioned him. I'll have to show you the letter once we find out if there's a ghost or not."
The attic was a big, open area, full of the usual boxes, trunks, junk that had gradually accumulated over the years. Peter saw a Radio Flyer wagon just like one he'd had as a kid and thought fondly of those days. A dressmaker's dummy, shrouded in a sheet gave them a bad moment until Winston went over and whipped the sheet aside and revealed what it really was. While they prowled Jake stood, arms folded against his chest, watching them as if to make sure they didn't steal anything.
"Oh, look at all this stuff," Mel breathed. "I bet there are real treasures up here."
"You want to call in Harry?" Skip asked, giving her a quick grin.
"Well, Harry usually operates on a grander scale than attics," Mel replied. "But he'd love to salvage it in his spare time. You never know when you'll find a valuable object that the owners didn't know was worth anything. And if anybody could find anything valuable here, Harry could."
"Harry Broderick, we work for him at Jettison Salvage," Skip explained to Ray.
"He's the one who wanted to salvage the moon," Ray said. "I remember reading all about it. Wow." He revolved in a slow circle, stopping when his P.K.E. meter suddenly beeped more loudly. "I bet he could find some good stuff up here."
Egon's meter went off simultaneously, and the two men found themselves facing a shrouded shape that was big enough and bulky enough to be the moose-head in question. With the tip of his thrower Winston lifted the covering and revealed a slightly moth-eaten, fur-covered object with spreading antlers.
"Hey, somebody killed Bullwinkle," Peter objected.
"Gosh, Peter," Ray said in his ear with a faint edge of worry that Peter just might be right. "That's not Bullwinkle."
"No, but it's giving off readings that are growing stronger by the moment," Egon said warningly. "Please, everyone," He motioned to the civilians. "Move over to the doorway. This could be dangerous."
"Hmmph," Jake said, planting his feet and refusing to budge, though he gestured peremptorily toward the stairs at Cassie. "If it becomes dangerous now, I'll know you four caused it. That thing hung over the fireplace for years and never gave us any trouble."
Skip pulled his aunt and his wife toward the safety of the staircase while Egon approached the moose, adjusting the dial of his meter. Peter and Winston fell in on either side of him, Peter drawing his thrower. He and Winston powered up.
Ray and Egon stood over the mounted creature. "We have to take the backing off," Ray said and bent to turn the colossal creature on its side, balancing it on its spreading antlers.
Egon's meter went into overload, the antennae rising, lights on the tips blinking faster and faster, while the beeping rose to such a shrill whine that even Jake clapped his hands over his ears. "If your device makes me go deaf, I'll sue you," he bellowed.
Egon turned down the sound. "Ray, be careful," he said. "The entity is no longer quiescent."
"Blast it, blast it," Peter cried.
"No, you'll blast the play. Wait," urged Ray. Bracing his foot against the shield-shaped backing, he pulled with all his strength while in the background Jake grumbled about property damage. The moose resisted, then abruptly it came free, causing Ray to tumble over and land on his posterior, the moose perched on his chest, antlers spread out on either side of him, pinning him down.
"Ray!" Peter and Winston jumped to free him, lifting the taxidermist's nightmare off his chest. As they did, a package fell out of it and hit Ray in the stomach. It was wrapped in silken cloth and covered with a wax coating that had crumbled here and there. Peter didn't know how big a lost play would be, but Ray had a copy of the movie script from Star Wars and this was a little thicker, a little wider, and a little taller. It must have barely fit inside Bullwinkle.
"The play," exulted Jake, darting toward it with a speed that belied his years. Peter snatched it up just before he would have grabbed it.
"Oh, no, you don't," he warned. "It's haunted, remember."
"Haunted? It's not haunted," spat the older man, withdrawing his hand only because it was obvious he'd have to struggle to pull it from Peter's grip.
"I beg to differ," Egon corrected him. "The meters are reading a powerful class four. Hmm, this is interesting indeed. I suggest you put it down, Peter!" he concluded, his voice rising in alarm.
Peter obeyed instantly, depositing the play on top of a steamer trunk as far away from Jake as he could get it in a split second.
"Now back away," Egon instructed. He tucked the still-activated meter into his chest pocket and drew his thrower. "These readings are not normal," he said.
"Wow, no, they're sure not," agreed Ray, lifting his eyes from his meter's screen to stare at the slightly-quivering bundle. "Gosh, there's been occult tampering somewhere along the line, hasn't there?"
"You mean like a demon?" Winston's face fell.
"Demon!" scoffed Jake. "Ridiculous!"
"No, but... like there'd been some kind of ritual," Ray said thoughtfully. "It's a class four, all right, but there's a dark overlay, as if somebody performed a ritual, not on the play but maybe on the ghost. As if there was something nasty going on. Gosh, this is great!"
"This is not great," Peter insisted. Leveling his thrower at the waxed package, he demanded, "So what happens next?"
"Absolutely nothing except that you turn over my property to me and leave," Jake insisted.
"It is not your property!"
The unexpected voice was eerie, sepulchral. As Peter jerked around to stare at the mysterious package, a cloud of mist drifted out of it, hovering above it in a vaguely human shape. That was the source of the voice.
"Omigod, it really is a ghost," Skip blurted from the top of the stairs. Peter could hear him urging his wife and his aunt to back away, and Mel insisting she wasn't leaving unless he was. Jake's eyes were huge, but he was also angry as if he suspected a trick. Quickly he studied each Ghostbuster as if to search for hidden wires or projectors.
"Any good stage magician could produce an illusion like that," he claimed scornfully.
"Quite true," Egon replied. "But a stage illusion would not trigger a P.K.E. reading."
Jake scowled. "You could be fudging it with your gadgets."
"It's materializing!" cried Ray.
As they watched, the mist solidified, not enough for them to get a clear image of the ghost's features but enough to recognize the Elizabethan garb he wore. Peter didn't know much about the history of clothing, but he vaguely remembered a picture of Shakespeare dressed just like that. What if it really was the bard's ghost? There would be major bucks in it. Had to be.
"Hmm," Egon mused. "Late Sixteenth Century, I believe."
"Didn't Shakespeare die in the Seventeenth Century?" Winston asked. He always knew things like that.
"Early in the century," Egon replied. "Sixteen-sixteen, I believe."
"So the clothes fit," Peter said. "Hey, is that you, Willie?"
The ghost turned toward him and Peter felt a sense of malice descend upon him, icy cold and utterly unfriendly. "Uh, no offense," he said hastily. "I didn't mean to get personal."
"You will not have my play," the ghost said. He sounded like that character Hieronymous they'd met in the Netherworld, the one who had lived there for hundreds of years. He'd been a wizard or alchemist, Peter remembered. The accent might mean this character was from the same time period.
"I hate to break it to you," Peter said cautiously, "but you've been dead a long time. Your play belongs to history now."
"You will not have my play. He will not have it. I will not cede it to him, not again. Never. Never!" His voice rose to a shriek of rage. Stretching down a ghostly arm, he snatched up the play and clutched it against his ectoplasmic chest.
"Blast him," Peter cried.
"No, you'd blast the play," Egon warned him, putting out an arm in front of Peter to keep him from firing.
"Let me talk to him," Ray said.
"Don't get too close," Peter warned. "I know you, you like to play buddy-buddy with a lot of ghosts, but this one's not friendly."
"I know, Peter. But I have to talk to him." He went closer. "Hi, I'm Ray Stantz. My uncle Boris hid your play so it would not fall into the wrong hands."
"He was a fool," spat the ghost.
"He meant you no harm," Ray insisted earnestly.
"You know nothing of what you speak. I would not permit him to come back for my play. I made him forget, every time he returned, I made him forget. I tampered with his dreams. Only when he knew himself to be dying was he free."
"And that's when he wrote the letter," Winston realized. "I always kinda wondered why Boris would have left the play here all these years. It didn't make much sense--not unless he was influenced."
"But why did you want to hide it from him?" Peter asked, becoming interested in spite of himself.
"Because it is mine. Mine! Mine! MINE!"
"I think that's already been well established," Peter murmured to his team in an undertone. "We know it's yours. That won't change. But what good does it do, hiding in Bullwinkle here? Wouldn't you rather it be produced, so you could hover in the background and watch it on the stage? Just think, fame, glory, your name in lights."
"Yes," said the ghost with great satisfaction. Then its form shifted, grew. "No. It will not be his. I will not permit it!"
"I don't think it likes you, Uncle Jake," Peter said with a grin.
Jake started toward him, only to have Winston restrain him. Jerking free of Winston as if he'd been contaminated, Jake took a second look at the looming specter and restrained himself with considerable effort. He wasn't a believer even yet, but he was starting to wonder if this haunting might be real.
"Could I see the play?" Ray asked gently. "Please?"
"No. For centuries have I protected it, giving thanks to the School of Night for the knowledge I gained that enabled me to guard it."
Ray's mouth dropped open. "Oh, gosh, I didn't know you had anything to do with that," he blurted.
"What's this School of Night crap?" Winston asked in an undertone, giving Ray a nudge with his elbow.
"An occult society of the late sixteenth century," Egon replied equally quietly. "I believe Sir Walter Raleigh was a member. There are those who say it never existed but others claim it was real. They dabbled in alchemy and the occult, and the organization was considered sacrilegious."
"And sacrilege was a big scandal then. I think it may have been real, but it was covered up," Ray put in. "I've heard about it. But that would mean..." He stared at the ghost in openmouthed surprise.
"My play," the spirit shrieked. "Mine! Mine! Mine!"
"He sure has a one track mind, doesn't he?" Peter asked. Maybe if we watch where we aim..."
"You can't bust Shakespeare," insisted Mel. "History would hate you for it."
"If he played with the occult while he was alive, his spirit may be strengthened by those rituals," Egon explained.
"Hey, yeah, that would be why you detected those weird readings," Winston agreed. "But I don't understand the obsession. Shakespeare not only wrote plays, he had a theater company and even acted in them. He didn't mind people seeing his plays. He wanted them to."
Ray edged closer. "Please," he begged the ghost. "May I see the play?"
"Never! You would believe the foul tampering. I will not permit it." Suddenly he lashed out at Ray with a cold blast of energy that splatted against the occultist's chest and sent him reeling. Ray gave a blurted moan of surprise and landed hard on the attic floor.
Cassie screamed and Skip yelled, "Get back, get back." Peter had to give Jake credit for standing his ground, but he didn't spare time to think of that. Instead, he whipped up his thrower, leveled it at the ghost and fired a careful blast so as not to strike the play.
The spirit shrieked and shrank to minimize its size, using the play as a shield. "Power down, it's okay, I'm not hurt," Ray cried urgently, struggling to get to his feet. Peter complied, but not before the thrower had run across the package.
"You damage my play and you pay," hollered Jake.
But the play was intact. Only the wax covering melted, causing the tattered silk to slide free, leaving the cover page exposed. Peter stared at it as it hovered in midair, shielding the vengeful ghost. Squinting he tried to make out the elaborate scrawl of writing on its surface. "Uh... Loren -- Lorenzo the Maga -- Magnificent, a tale of the Medi -- Medi--"
"Medici, Peter," Egon completed. Trust him to have all the answers. He usually did. "Lorenzo the Magnificent was a fascinating historical figure. He governed Florence until his death in 1494. He was a patron of such artists as Botticelli, Leonardo Da Vinci, and Michelangelo. He was ruthless and exterminated his enemies, but he was popular."
"I'll bet. Everybody would try to be his buddy rather than his enemy," Peter returned. "It wouldn't do to tick him off."
"He is actually a rather fascinating subject for a play," Egon replied. "And Shakespeare did write historical plays. However..."
"No, no, NO!" screamed the ghost.
"Hey," Peter cried, squinting at the page. "It says, "a play by Will Shaxper." He hesitated. "Shaxper? You'd think if he was smart enough to write all those plays, he'd be smart enough to spell his name right. I betcha it's a forgery after all."
"Tudor spelling was quite creative, Peter," Egon explained. "They didn't often worry about the spelling as long as the meaning was clear."
"Then how come you get on my case when I do it?" He brushed that aside. "You sure you're okay, Ray?" he called over his shoulder.
"I'm not hurt, just surprised," Ray replied. "Boy, he's not a very friendly ghost, is he?" Staring at the play that hung suspended in midair, he said, "The Shakespeare part is in a different handwriting. I bet it is a forgery. A plagiarist jumping on old Will's bandwagon."
"NO," insisted the ghost with hot anger. Dropping the play onto the steamer trunk again, he suddenly expanded to triple his normal size and lunged at the Ghostbusters. Operating strictly on instinct, Peter dropped his thrower -- there wasn't time to fire anyway -- and grabbed at Egon and Ray, yanking them down before it could cast energy at them as it had done at Ray before. Winston yelled and jumped for Jake, the two of them going down in a tangle, but not before the old man had cried out in disgust.
Peter reeled in his thrower as fast as he could, conscious of Ray and Egon beside him doing the same thing. Investigating Winston, he saw Zeddemore and Jake sitting up, both dripping in ectoplasmic residue. Experienced as he was, Winston had far less of it on him than Jake did. A slimed Jacob Michaels was one of the most beautiful sights Peter had ever seen. He smiled beatifically. From the stairwell, Skip Carmichael struggled to restrain his delighted chuckles as he pushed at Mel to keep her out of range of the giant spirit.
"I can't wait to tell Andy about this," he muttered under his breath.
Peter found the play lying right beside him and he stared at it with interest out of one eye while trying to judge what the ghost would do. "Egon, this play can't be by Shakespeare," he said. "Even I can tell it's not the same writing--or even the same color ink. Boris must have known that, if he was such a great Shakespeare buff."
"Probably trying to perpetrate a fraud," Jake spat, wiping frantically at his face to rid himself of the traces of the ghost. "I never trusted Boris."
"I don't think it's a fraud," Ray mused. He was right next to Peter, squinting at the play. "Because I think this was written centuries ago; even the 'Shaxper' part. I bet Boris believed somebody found it after Shakespeare was dead and added his name."
"Someone did," boomed the ghost. "He did not long survive."
"We're not gonna hurt your play," Peter reassured the ghost, measuring the angle of the shot he'd have to take. "You can't make us all forget the play is here. And even if you dabbled in dark powers, you're a ghost now, Jack. We don't let ghosts kill people. We're gonna survive, so don't get any funny ideas. Get him, guys!"
"No," screamed the ghost, casting energy at Peter, who ducked but not quite in time to avoid the icy blast that struck his shoulder and neck. He blurted out a cry of surprise and collapsed to the dusty floor as if his energy had been drained away, or frozen out of him.
"Peter!" Egon's voice held alarm, then he raised his thrower and fired. With a yell of grim determination, Winston joined in. Peter felt Ray's fingers fumble for his pulse.
"I'm okay, Ray," he said hastily, scrabbling weakly for his weapon. Already his energy was returning. "Really, guys. Just had a shock for a minute." Ray nodded and fired at the spirit, too.
"NO!" shrieked the ghost, writhing and struggling to free himself from the confining force of the energy streams. Realizing how powerful he was, Peter willed strength into his shaky limbs and grasped his thrower, helping to pin the entity in the confinement field.
"Yahoo, we got him," cried Winston in sheer delight. "Somebody throw out a trap."
"Got it," called Egon, reaching up one-handed to yank a ghost trap from his proton pack and toss it out under the thrashing specter. "We will not hurt your play," he said to the ghost. "Don't worry. I do understand. I know the truth. I give you my word I will make certain justice is done."
The ghost hesitated, then went very still in the confinement beam. Abruptly, his features solidified and he stared Egon right in the eye. "You must," he said. "You must." Then he nodded as if recognizing the inevitable. "Do as you will. But if you fail, I will find my way back from the prison you have created and revenge myself upon you."
"My word on it." Egon triggered the trap open, a wedge of brilliant light filled the attic, and the ghost slid down into the pulsing glow as if Egon's words had released him from a dungeon of his own making.
"Don't look into the trap," Ray warned the civilians hastily.
The doors closed over the ghost, and suddenly the attic seemed very dark in spite of the electricity from the one 60 watt bulb and the sunshine tracing patterns across the attic from the dust-coated windows.
"You got him, you got him," exulted Skip, charging up to clap his 'cousin' on the shoulder. "Nice work, men! I'm glad I was here to see it."
"Just a fancy light show," grumbled Jake, climbing to his feet and making ineffectual brushing motions to rid himself of the slime. Cassie joined him, touching the substance in distress. "I'm not hurt," he said to her, almost impatiently. "Just this nasty stuff. I'm going to sue."
"Gosh," said Ray, picking up the play and stroking the cover lightly with his thumb. "This is so great. But I never knew Shakespeare had anything to do with the School of Night."
"You mean the ghost was strong because he was involved in occult practices when he was alive?" Mel asked. For a scientist, she was pretty willing to believe. But encountering a ghost usually helped people develop faith in the spirit realm. And, too, she'd walked on the moon. That must have expanded her concept of the possible.
"Evidently," Egon replied. "He must have taken part in rituals, and then of course the manner of his death had something to do with it."
That made Winston eye him in surprise. "The manner of his death? What the heck are you talking about?"
"Give me the play," Jake interrupted, holding out his hand for it. "It's here, it's on my property, and it's mine."
"Even if it's not what you think it is?" Egon asked.
"What kind of a trick is that?" Jake asked with great suspicion. "You're trying to convince me it's a hoax so I'll let you walk out of here with it, and then you'll claim it's Shakespeare and make a fortune."
"We will certainly not do that," Egon replied. "And in any case, it is not yours. It belongs to Lois Stantz, Boris's niece and closest living relative. Look." He picked up a sheet of paper that had been stuck inside the moose head with the play and unfolded it. "Ah, excellent. It's even notarized. 'I, Boris Ilyia Stantz, being of sound mind, write this holographic will as an addendum to my regular will, simply to cover one item. I bequeath the play, Lorenzo the Magnificent, a tale of the Medici to my niece, Lois, with the understanding she will share any profits from same with other members of my family including my great-nephew, Raymond Stantz, and my wife, Sarah's, kin. Lois must have half of any profit, Ray one quarter, and the remainder will go to the Michaels family of Glorieta, New Mexico, as mentioned in my main will.' He signed it and it is witnessed by a Robert McCall and a Michael Kostmayer. It's dated September 1, 1984, and apparently signed in New York City. It was notarized there on the same date." He turned to Jake. "You see, you will not be denied your rightful share of any profits. The play is now for the hands of the lawyers."
"I plan to call my lawyer immediately," Jake insisted and started abruptly for the stairs.
"What's a holographic will?" Peter asked, glancing around in surprise, half expecting a hologram to appear before him.
"It means he wrote it in his own handwriting, Peter," Winston explained. "I don't know about legal stuff, but if it was witnessed and notarized, then I'd bet it's legal even if it gives lawyers nightmares."
"Do you know the witnesses?" Ray asked Skip.
"Robert McCall is my cousin by marriage," Carmichael said. "He married my aunt Kay. They're divorced now. I bet Boris couldn't have a Michaels sign it or it would be a conflict of interest. Mickey Kostmayer -- I think he works with McCall. The name is familiar. Boris must have added the will later on. I know he was out here a couple of years ago for Grandpa Michaels' funeral."
"So what happens now?" Cassie asked as Jake stomped down the stairs in high dudgeon.
"Now we give it to a neutral attorney, one with high ethical standards," Peter said. "A real nineties battle, lawyers at twenty paces."
"I still think it's weird about the School of Night," Ray persisted. "I mean I know that's why the ghost was strong and the readings were weird, but what did you mean, Egon, about the way he died having something to do with it? Gosh, he was nasty. I never thought Shakespeare would be like that."
"You called it," Peter agreed. "I can't believe we busted the Bard. Cheryl will never forgive me."
Egon smiled. "The ghost was very adamant about the play," he said.
"You told him you knew the truth," Peter said, staring at Egon. "Is there something you aren't telling us, big guy?"
"There's something I'll tell all of you," the blond physicist replied. "Ray, you should understand. Consider the subject of the play. Lorenzo the Magnificent, a man of great power, but with considerable humanity in his love of the arts. A fascinating subject, and I will wager the play is particularly fascinating. Then, consider the ghost, and his furious insistence he would not get the play."
"I thought he meant Jerky Jake," Peter said, casting an apologetic smile at Cassie.
"No," Egon replied. "He didn't."
"Then what did he -- oh gosh!" Ray's eyes widened. "I get it! I get it! You're right, Egon, it makes perfect sense."
"Well, I don't get it," Peter complained.
"Neither do I," said Skip Carmichael, sharing an understanding look with the psychologist. "But I didn't think he looked like Shakespeare after all. So does that mean the play's a hoax?"
"With any luck at all, it could be a masterpiece," Egon replied. "Even with the forged signature. But Skip is right. We didn't trap the Bard's ghost. The play wasn't written by William Shakespeare after all."
Peter felt a surge of disappointment, although Ray's face was still excited. "Then who did write it?" he asked.
"A man who evidently participated in occult rituals in a secret society, Peter. A man who died by murder -- which of course can affect the way a ghost reacts. A man who was evidently angered over fair credit for his writing."
Winston slapped his forehead in realization and Cassie nodded as if she now understood too.
Egon nodded. "Yes. Our ghost and author of Lorenzo the Magnificent was none other than Christopher Marlowe," he said and, still holding the play, he led the way to the stairs.
"A lot of people credit Marlowe with a varying number of the plays purported to be written by William Shakespeare," Egon lectured as they sat in the living room drinking lemonade. Jake was there, but he wasn't sitting with them. He stood over by the fireplace glowering down at them, unwilling to join in the conversation. He'd spoken once, to insist he had no plans of paying for the bust. Ray had assured him he didn't have to in the typically friendly tones he used with almost everyone. Jake's face hadn't eased.
"Yeah, but he didn't, did he?" Winston objected.
"That's for the scholars, not for us. But Marlowe's plays were likely to deal with characters like the renaissance 'overreacher', a man who achieved a great deal, but possessed an element of humanity in spite of his ruthlessness. A Medici might have interested him very much. He usually drew plots from historical sources, except possibly The Jew of Malta. More, all his plays were published posthumously. He was born, or at least baptized, the same year as Shakespeare's birth, but was murdered in a tavern."
Peter shook his head. Egon always knew obscure facts, even if they weren't connected to physics or ghosts or any of his other pet interests. He must have memorized a whole set of encyclopedias when he was growing up. "I think you missed your calling, Spengs," he said with a grin. "You could have cleaned up on Jeopardy."
"Marlowe was once arrested for counterfeiting," Cassie volunteered suddenly, causing everyone to stare at her. "I read about it," she concluded. Peter couldn't help wondering if life with a man like Jake had made her long for a refuge, and reading might have been a good one.
"So he had a pretty colorful life -- and death," Peter said. "Ghosts traditionally stick around because things are unfinished in their lives, more than just normally dying, I mean. Here's a guy who was into the occult, was murdered, and then, maybe, found out his plays were credited to another dude, and worse, one who's even more famous. Who do people talk about when they remember the good old days? Old Willie Shakespeare, not Chris Marlowe. I bet he got madder and madder as time went on."
"And this one play evidently was never found, never published," said Ray, all excited. "I bet eventually the ghost's entire existence became focused on it, and he was determined not to let Shakespeare get the credit. Somebody tried to do just that, writing the Bard's name on it. I bet after that Marlowe haunted this one play. His ghost was bound up with it. He even said he made Great-Uncle Boris forget about it whenever he was here and might have taken it away with him. Marlowe would rather the play never be made known than have Shakespeare get credit for it. And he had to know Boris was a Shakespeare buff."
"You're not walking out of here with that play," Jake insisted.
"No, we're not," Egon replied. "It must go to a lawyer. But preservation is the prime concern here. I think this dry climate may have been good for it. To remove it to a location with a different weather pattern without proper means of preservation might destroy it, and no one wants that to happen. I suggest we contact a museum and ask them to send an expert. The lawyer can supervise its removal." He faced Jacob Michaels. "None of us wants to do you out of your legal right to a share of this play." He nudged Peter with his elbow before Venkman could speak.
"Don't you understand, Uncle Jake," Ray tried earnestly. "It really belongs to history. That's what Boris wanted. That's what Alexei would have wanted. You'll get a place in the history books, well, a footnote anyway, for letting the world have it. I don't know what money there would be but that'd help too."
Jake's face didn't soften. "You can't make me believe this wasn't all a scam to get the play. I don't believe in ghosts."
"We all saw it, Uncle Jake," Skip reminded him. "Some of us just got closer to it than others."
His uncle's eyes fell upon him. "And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Just that only a -- a fool doesn't believe in what he can see and touch."
"Are you calling me a fool?"
Skip shook his head hastily, too long experienced with his uncle to persist. "No. But the rest of us saw it and believed it, and we'll say so to the lawyers, too. Even Aunt Cassie."
"I don't know what it was," Jake's wife agreed, "but I did see it. It wasn't a trick. I'd vouch for that."
"So you're all ganging up on me?" Jake strewed impartial glares around the room. "Fine. But it's on my property and any lawyer worthy of his salt is going to say it belongs to me." He folded his arms across his chest and frowned, and Peter couldn't help thinking he resembled a cocky little bantam rooster. For a moment, Peter almost felt sorry for him. Over the years he'd dug himself a hole so deep he probably could never get out of it on his own. Jake destroyed the budding sympathy immediately.
"You did what you came to do. Out. The lawyer may have to take the play but I don't want unwelcome visitors on my property one second longer than this. Leave, now, or I'll throw you out."
Ray tried. "Uncle Jake, can't we talk."
"No," said the old man, sneering at Ray, whose face fell. Any trace of sympathy Peter might have still had for him vanished in an instant.
He found himself in Jake's face. "Listen up, Uncle Jerk. Yeah, you heard me. Best name for you. I don't know what your problem is, but I'm a psychologist and I know you have one. We'll go; it's your property, you've got the right. But you have to live with yourself. Ray came out here in good faith; he's a good man, a loyal friend, and one of the best people going." Clapping Stantz on the shoulder, he continued, "I don't have much family, just my dad -- and the guys -- but I know family's important. Keep on like you're going and when you die your family won't hold a wake -- they'll throw a party to celebrate. But it doesn't have to be like that if you don't want it to be. Learn to give a little."
Jake's face didn't show one ounce of giving. Peter shrugged. "Okay. Your choice. Come on, guys. I'd like to get some fresh air."
"I'll hold onto the play until the lawyer gets here," Skip offered.
Peter nodded. He felt he could trust Skip to do that.
Jake crowded them toward the door. As the four Ghostbusters spilled out onto the stoop, followed by Cassie's regrets and Jake's unfriendly frown, Peter stopped and looked the old man right in the eye. "Just remember," he said with a broad grin, "if the play should vanish, there's someone right here who can find it again." He gestured at Egon's full trap. Jake's face fell. He clearly didn't have any trouble believing Peter's threat. Behind his back, Skip raised his clasped hands over his head in the traditional victory symbol.
"You shouldn't have said that," Ray told him when they were in their rental car heading for Santa Fe. "We wouldn't let a ghost loose, especially that one. It wouldn't be ethical. Not even to scare Uncle Jer... Jake."
Peter shared a grin with the other three Ghostbusters. "He doesn't know that," he said. "Besides, it'll keep him honest. So what do you say, guys? We're out in the old west. Just like a Dewey LaMort book. I want a cowboy hat. I want chaps. I want boots."
Egon pretended to shudder. "The sight of you in the traditional accouterments of a cowboy will put the seal on my day."