GHOSTBUSTERS: The Return Read online

  "Can I help you?" said a young woman behind the desk.

  Dana gently detached Oscar from the velvet rope and moved him to one that was closer to the desk. She stepped up to the desk. "Hi. One adult and one two-year-old."

  "Would you like to visit the planetarium or watch an IMAX movie?"

  Dana tried to picture Oscar sitting through an IMAX movie or planetarium show. "No, thanks. Just the museum."

  "Okay, then. Our suggested donation for basic admission is twelve dollars for adults and seven dollars for children two and older."

  Dana thought about it for a minute. The Suggested donations seemed kind of steep for what was essentially going to be an hour with her two-year-old. She wondered how many people paid what they suggested, and how many made considerably smaller suggestions of their own. But then again, the museum was a good cause, and how often did she visit?

  She took a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse and handed it across the desk. In return, the young woman gave Dana one dollar in change and two small badges that bore the museum's logo. Dana attached one to her blouse and the other to Oscar's shirt.

  "Oh," she said, "Can you tell me where we can find the dinosaurs?"

  "Upstairs on the fourth floor," said the young woman. "Enjoy your visit."

  "Thanks. I'm sure we will," said Dana. She turned to Oscar and pried the velvet rope out of his grip just as he was pulling it toward his mouth. "Come on, kiddo. Let's go see some dinosaurs."

  All in all, Venkman would rather have been looking at dinosaurs.

  Come to think of it, there were many things he'd rather have been doing. Reclining in his mansion while counting his vast personal fortune was fairly close to the top of the list. So was nude shuffleboard with a quartet of international supermodels. But even if you skipped over the top of the list, plenty of other options sprang to mind, ranging all the way down to paying taxes and battling the hordes of the undead. He'd rather have been doing either of those, too.

  Because as bad as any of those things might be, at least they didn't make him feel like an idiot.

  "...And that's why I hope you'll let me serve you as the next mayor of this incredible city," he said. "Together, we can carry New York City forward, to build a better and brighter future for all of us."

  "Good," said Ted Golden. As the public relations person for the campaign, Golden and campaign manager John Fielding were the ones pretending to be reporters and peppering Venkman with tough questions. "Let's just go over a couple of points."

  "Let me guess. You want to shower me with lavish praise?" said Venkman.

  "The lavish praise will come after the debate," Fielding replied. "For now, I have a couple of corrections to make on some of your answers."

  "And I've got a few suggestions for presentation," added Golden.

  Venkrnan supposed the practice session for the debate was going well enough. Over the past week or so, he'd spent countless hours getting briefed on the issues - even if you only counted the hours when he'd been awake and paving attention. And he'd always been good at thinking on his feet and bluffing his way out of tricky corners. All of the same skills were likely to serve him well during the debate.

  But the fact remained that. of everyone in the room, he was probably the least experienced and the least knowledgeable about politics or the issues. That included Winston, who was sitting off to the side, enjoying the show... and probably even included the janitor who was standing in the corner, emptying a wastebasket. Venkman just hoped that his ignorance and discomfort wouldn't show too much during the real debate.

  "... and watch out for saying 'can' - 'we can do this,' 'we can carry the city forward,"' Golden was saying. "You need to sound more definitive: 'We will do this,' 'we will carry the city forward.'"

  "Okay," said Venkman. "I can remember that, and I will be taking a break now." He walked over to the far end of the room and collapsed into the chair next to Winston's.

  "Looking good, Peter," said Winston.

  Venkman leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. "You think so?"

  "Uh-huh. If I didn't know you, I'd never suspect that you have no clue what you're talking about."

  Venkman chuckled. "Thanks a bunch."

  "No problem."

  "Y'know, you're welcome to do the debate instead of me, if you want."

  "That's a tempting offer, but I don't think it would go over real well. This is a mayoral debate, not a 'mayoral debate plus one candidate for deputy mayor.'" Winston grinned. "Unless you want to trade jobs, that is."

  Venkrnan opened one eye and returned the grin. "I'll think about it."

  "You're going to be fine tomorrow."

  "Who, me? Yeah, I'll rock. They'll probably carve my face onto Mount Rushmore. Replace Jefferson or Bush or whoever it is up there. Nobody remembers any of them besides Washington and Lincoln anyway."

  "No, really. Look, you'll be wearing that earphone thing for Ted to prompt you if you get stuck. But that's not going to happen. You're Mister Smooth. No one's going to be able to pin you down."

  "That's Doctor Smooth to you. But thanks."

  Fielding ambled over to the two candidates and handed Venkman a paper cup of water. "We have enough time for one more round before lunch. You ready?"

  Slowly, Venkman rose to his feet and stretched. "Sure. Doctor Smooth is in the house."

  "'Doctor Smooth?'"

  Venkman's only reply was a smirk. He draped an arm around Fielding and started the walk back to the podium. "Hey, by the way, how are you guys doing with digging up dirt on that Goodraven guy?"

  "No dirt yet," said Fielding. "In fact, so far, we haven't found any information at all, but we're still looking We should have something in time for the debate tomorrow."

  "I hope so," said Venkman. "Wouldn't it be a kick in the pants if he was clean?"

  Whatever else it might have been, the Ghostbusters' arrival wasn't subtle. The Ectomobile's siren echoed for blocks as it roared up the street toward the sporting goods store, and its tires squealed as it screeched to a halt behind the police cars that had converged on the scene. Ray and Egon started to assess the situation before they even got out of the car.

  From outside the building, it wasn't immediately obvious that anything supernatural was going on, but it was clear that something was wrong. Half a dozen police officers were watching the store with guns drawn, taking cover behind anything that presented itself: mailboxes, bus stop shelters, their own cars. The windows and doors of the store were riddled with holes. Some were large and jagged, where parts of the windows had shattered. Others were round and about an inch or two in diameter, with cracks in the glass that radiated from the holes in spiderweb patterns. To Ray and Egon, the holes looked too big to be from bullets, but then again, conventional weapons weren't exactly their area of expertise.

  They climbed out of the Ectomobile and started toward the police officers. But before they could take more than a single step, one of the officers shouted, Get down!"

  There was a crash of breaking glass, and Egon caught a glimpse of something small and white hurtling toward him. Reflexively, he jumped back. The projectile whizzed past his face and shattered against the wall of a building behind him.

  He and Ray stopped what they were doing, and turned to examine the point of impact. Something had splashed against the wall where the projectile hit. What was more impressive, though, was the fact that the wet bricks were sizzling and starting to dissolve.

  That was enough to convince the pair that the officer had the right idea. They crouched down, making themselves into smaller targets as they stepped over toward the wall.

  Egon reached up and extended a finger to touch the wet spot, but then moved his finger away as he thought better of the idea. Tentatively, he rose partially out of his crouch. He leaned in close and sniffed the wet spot on the wall.

  "Acid," said Egon.

  "Golf balls," said Ray.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Golf balls. Anoth
er urban legend Supposedly, if you unwind the elastic cord inside a golf ball, there's a small rubber ball full of acid at the center. That's how the story goes, anyhow."

  "But it's not real."

  "Nope."

  There was something about the certainty in Ray's tone. "You checked," said Egon.

  "Where else is a ten-year-old going to get his hands on acid?"

  "I used to use mail-order chemical companies."

  "I was thirteen by the time I thought of that." Ray tapped him on the arm and beckoned him to follow. "Come on, we don't have a lot of time. Let's get to work."

  Still crouching down, they jogged over to a young policewoman who was taking cover behind her car. Only her head and arms extended above the hood of the car, so that she could see what was happening and keep her gun trained on the building. Egon wondered if she realized that the gun would be useless against intangible phantoms, or if she was just pointing it because she didn't know what else to do.

  Suddenly, there was another crash, louder this tirne. A barrage of golf balls erupted from the store, smashing into buildings, cars, and pavement.

  Everyone on the scene ducked down behind something to take cover. Distracted by the deadly volley, the policewoman didn't notice Ray and Egon approaching. She did a double-take when they plopped down beside her. "What do you think you're doing?" she barked. "Get outta here! This is a restricted area!"

  "Ray Stantz, Ghostbusters." said Ray. "How many entities are inside the building?"

  "I don't care if you're the Amazing Renaldo and Miriam!" she replied. "Get outta here!"

  Ray and Egon looked at each other. They weren't used to this sort of reception. "We're scientists," Ray explained. "We're here to help."

  "Not today you're not. We're under strict orders not to request or accept assistance from you guys. The situation here is under control."

  Egon peeked over the car to survey the area. "This is under control?" he said, a little incredulous. "How are you planning to disperse the presence that's inside that store? Tell it to come out with its appendages in the air?"

  "We're not going to disperse anything," she said. "He is."

  Ray and Egon exchanged another look, then rose up to peer over the car. "Is that... ?" Egon asked.

  "Must be," said Ray. "Jonathan Goodraven."

  Sure enough, a man in period clothing was emerging out of an alleyway, a few doors down from the sporting goods store. Like the Ghostbusters, Goodraven was keeping his substantial frame crouched over. But in his case, it didn't seem to be a defensive posture; rather, he was pouring something onto the ground from a box in his hand.

  Goodraven's other hand held the neck of a large canvas sack that was slung over his shoulder. When the substance in the box ran out, he tossed the empty container on the ground and simply continued with a fresh one from the sack.

  Just then, a fiftyish police captain joined the Ghostbusters behind the car. "What's going on here, Burke?"

  "These civilians approached me, Captain Poole. I have informed them that we are under orders not to accept their assistance, and instructed them to leave the area."

  "She's right, fellas," the captain said. "The order was announced during this morning's roll call at every precinct in the city."

  "But that's insane, Captain!" Egon protested. "We're fully trained to - "

  Poole held up a hand. "I know. I was there when you guys took out that marshmallow thing a few years back. You guys aren't exactly neat, but you do get results."

  "So why - "

  "Because we have orders. If you were to offer to assist me or any of my men, or request any inforrnation, we would have to turn you down."

  Egon started to say something, but Ray laid a hand on his arm to stop him. He studied the captain with a thoughtful look. "So we can't offer any assistance to you or your men."

  "Exactly," said Poole. Egon noticed that the edges of his mouth twitched slightly, as though he was suppressing a smile.

  "But if we were to go ahead on our own, or offer help to Goodraven directly... "

  "Not my affair. That would be up to him."

  "And if we were to ask you for inforrnation, like how many entities are inside..."

  "We would not be able to supply you with any information about the four perpetrators. Or the two clerks and three customers we haven't been able to extract from the store."

  Ray smiled. "Sorry you can't help us, Captain."

  "Just doing my job."

  With a mutual nod, Ray and Egon peeked through the car windows to make sure the coast was clear. Then they took off, running as best as they could while crouching and wearing proton packs.

  They caught up with Goodraven while he was still in front of the building next door to the sporting goods store. As they got closer, they could see that the substance he was pouring on the ground was salt - a long neat line of it stretched out of the mouth of the alley. As he poured, Goodraven mumbled, "... in nomen impius. Amen."

  Not surprisingly, Ray decided to give the friendly approach a try. "Mister Goodraven," he said, with a smile and an outstretched hand. "Good to meet you. I'm Ray Stantz. This is Egon Spengler. Ghostbusters."

  Goodraven gave no sign of hearing Ray as he continued to work. He connected the line of salt to the end of another that stretched down the block. Apparently, the whole thing formed one huge ring.

  "Um, hello?" said Ray.

  Only after the job was complete did Goodraven rise to his full height and look at them. Egon suppressed a shiver as his dark gaze fell upon them. Somehow, when Goodraven was crouched down, he hadn't looked quite so... big.

  Again, Ray extended a hand, although his smile was a little more forced this time. "Ray Stantz?" Ray repeated, in a tentative voice. "Egon Spengler? Ghostbusters?"

  "Ah, yes. I have heard tell of thee," said Goodraven, without taking Ray's hand. He looked them over with an evaluating eye. "Thou hast not the mien of those who do the Lord's work."

  As far as Egon was concerned, that was enough to touch a nerve. "Perhaps that's because we're scientists, rather than slaves to some antiquated notion of - "

  "Whoa, whoa." Ray quickly stepped between them with an ingratiating, if uncomfortable, smile. "I can assure you that we all share the same goals. Can we be of any help?"

  "I have no need of thine assistance, nor that of any other. I have performed a binding ritual to contain the dark forces that lurk within this structure."

  Ray looked along the ground. "That's a lot of salt."

  Egon was still feeling too testy to be impressed. "Binding them is only fifty percent of the task," he said. "Do you have a plan for removing them, too, or were you planning to leave them there indefinitely?"

  "Once bound, it is a simple matter to cleanse their foul taint from off this mortal plain."

  "Um . . . good. Good," said Ray. "Mind if we... observe your technique?"

  "Do as thou wilt."

  Without so much as a further glance in their direction, Goodraven walked along the outside of the ring of salt until he stood directly in front of the sporting goods store. He laid his sack down on the ground. He bent down, reached inside it and pulled out the largest flamethrower that Egon had ever seen. He pointed it at the store window and released a tremendous bolt of flame that instantly transformed the store into a blazing inferno.