As the three remaining Ghostbusters drove through New York, one thought was on their minds: rescue. Nobody crossed this team and got away with it, not even a Class-7 mega-specter with malice in mind. And nobody snatched one of their buddies without risking retaliation.

Ray Stantz checked the P.K.E. meter again before raising worried eyes from the ghost-detection device. "Nothing yet," he said, shaking his auburn head. "We have to find something quick."

"It may not be that bad, Raymond," Egon Spengler encouraged, pushing his red-framed glasses into place on the bridge of his nose. "We've certainly established where Peter isn't, after all." He studied his own meter thoughtfully, making careful adjustments on the dials. "New York is a big place and we've already covered most of it. We'll find him."

"Yeah, if he's even in New York," murmured Winston Zeddemore from behind the wheel of Ecto-1, "and not in New Jersey or Cleveland or the Netherworld." The African-American grimaced expressively. "Pete ought to have more sense."

"He only went on a date, Winston," argued Ray hastily. "He does that all the time and it's as safe as anything in the city. Try keeping Peter Venkman away from women. It's like keeping a cat away from cream. Besides, we didn't know a ghost had it in for us."

"Ghosts always have it in for us," Egon pointed out. "We can't live our lives in fear of such a crisis."

Peter had set out the previous evening to meet his newest girlfriend and never arrived. She had telephoned, asking if he'd been held up, and that was the first time the guys realized Peter was missing. But even if she hadn't called, they would have found out soon enough. While they were sitting at the kitchen table on the second floor of Ghostbuster Central trying to figure out what might have delayed Peter, their tame ghost, Slimer, had shrieked and pointed to the window, where a ghostly figure hovered. Egon's P.K.E. meter was never far from his hand and he took a quick reading. The nasty looking purple being was a Class-7 free floating repeater, dangerous and powerful with a near- human face, narrow eyes and a cold expression on his purple visage. As Egon confirmed the readings, the entity spoke, his voice so portentous it was almost hammy.

"We have your friend. If you don't stop your vicious prosecution of ghosts immediately, he will die horribly. You have one week to shut down your operation and cease busting ghosts, or Peter Venkman will be returned to you in pieces. Very tiny pieces." The ghost flung a small, brown item through the open window, faded into insubstantiality and vanished.

Slimer wailed miserably. "Peter-gone!"

"Oh, gosh, Peter's in bad trouble," mourned Ray, staring after the ghost in momentary shock.

"Yeah, and that ghost needs a new script writer," Winston retorted sourly. "That dialogue's terrible."

"True," agreed Egon, bending to retrieve the item the ghost had thrown. He picked it up it was a wallet. Opening it only confirmed his worst fears. "Peter's wallet," the blond physicist explained hastily, displaying it to his friends before he set it on the table. "Peter is in very serious trouble. I believe I recognized the demon as Chardavez, a Class-7 demon who spends most of his time in the Netherworld but who returns periodically to torment humanity. I wonder at his use of the word 'we' for he traditionally works alone. There is a listing in Tobin's Spirit Guide."

They had raced for the thick reference book, and looked up the demon in question. Egon's identification and remembrance had proven correct. Chardavez did work alone and prided in it, considering himself intelligent and crafty, and well able to outsmart humans. He was powerful but his best work was done by psyching people into genuine fear and letting their fear work for him. He had done that with the Ghostbusters because, while they didn't fear the demon in the way most people would, they feared his threat. Chardavez was entirely capable of hurting Peter badly, even killing him, and thinking nothing of it. Their advantage was that they had the proper equipment to deal with the demon, their proton packs and particle throwers to catch him, the ghost traps in which to incarcerate him and the containment unit in the basement of Headquarters in which to store him permanently, which none of his previous victims had. If they could track him down, they could stop him hopefully rescuing Peter in the process.

"What do we do, guys?" Winston asked, tight-lipped. "We can't let this creep do anything to Peter. He'd never forgive us, for one thing, and I've gotta say I'm used to him being around."

"We'll do what we did when the Crimelord took Janine," Egon said firmly, straightening up from the book, beginning to plan the rescue in his mind. "We adjust our P.K.E. meters to Peter's biorhythms and track him down with them. Now. Before anything happens to him." He carefully ignored the possibility that they might already be too late.

"But the demon will know if we don't do what he says," Ray argued. "Maybe one of us should stay here and pretend to be shutting things down."

"No, we'll need all of us to find Peter," Egon disagreed. "We'll simply refuse other jobs for the time being. That might be enough."

Whether it was or not, Chardavez didn't disturb them again that night. They adjusted three P.K.E. meters to Peter's biorhythms and boosted them to maximum gain. "We'll have to go together," Egon said regretfully. "I know Peter has the best chance of being found if we split up, but none of us can take on a Class-7 on our own. Chardavez is too powerful. It won't help Peter for another of us to be captured with him."

"Do you think he's...all right, Egon?" Ray worried.

"For now," Egon returned levelly. He had no reason to assume so. Peter wasn't likely to sit still for capture. Their missing member was quick-tempered and mouthy, the worst possible combination when it came to placating demons. The entity may have already done his worst, especially if Peter fought him. They had no way of knowing.

"Pete's fine," said Winston without hesitation. "Knowing him, he's already fast-talked the demon into letting him go. You know how good he is at things like that." He didn't exactly believe it, but a pep talk wouldn't hurt. If anyone could talk himself free it was Peter.

Now, as they drove through the early morning streets of Brooklyn after a sleepless night on patrol, Egon tried to smother a yawn and the fear that they might already be too late. He had a terrible image in his mind of the three of them bursting into a room where Chardavez waited for them, gloating in his glee, and pointed out the lifeless form of Peter Venkman sprawled on the floor. It wasn't Egon's nature to anticipate the worst or to speculate futilely on what might happen, but it was hard not to. The team had been too close for them to consider the possibility of loss without anxiety and depression. Even their secretary, Janine, who didn't particularly get along with Peter, was worried and showed it when they checked in with her periodically.

"Hey! Hey, hey, I'm picking up a reading!" crowed Ray as his P.K.E. meter flared to life when Winston turned their venerable converted ambulance down a new street. "Check it out. I'm picking him up!"

"I've got him, too," Egon agreed as his own meter reacted, beeping, lights blinking. "Left at the next corner, Winston."

"You got it, my man!" Winston exulted and Ecto's tires squealed as he complied with the order. He paused and added, "Let me be sure of this. We wouldn't see readings like this if he…"

"Readings this strong mean he's alive!" cried Ray fiercely, making careful adjustments on the meter. "This is great!"

Egon studied the readings. They were, indeed, quite strong. Yes, Peter was alive, and knowing their smart-mouthed friend, probably making life miserable for Chardavez. He was good at that. Surreptitiously, Egon crossed his fingers.

The readings led them to a small, abandoned warehouse. "How come these guys always use abandoned warehouses?" Winston asked, buoyed up by the strength of the readings.

"They watch a lot of bad TV?" suggested Ray, winning a dirty look from Zeddemore.

Egon's eyes lifted from the meter that was beeping out strong, healthy life signs. "Raymond, adjust your meter for demon readings," he instructed. "If Chardavez is in there we need to go in prepared. Remember, with only three of us firing, we'll need full streams, tight beam, maximum gain and, most likely, two traps." They stopped the Ectomobile half a block from the building, sliding their proton packs onto their backs and adjusting the particle throwers with great care. Behind them, a WCBS van slid to a stop. Either it was already a slow news day and someone in the van had decided to follow the Ghostbusters in hopes of a good story or the word had leaked out that Peter had been kidnapped by a demon. Winston gestured to warn them back while Ray raised his eyes from his P.K.E. meter. "No. Chardavez isn't here right now. I've only got residual readings. He's probably out causing trouble somewhere in the city."

"Yeah, but he could come back any minute," Winston said darkly, glowering at the TV crew that hovered just out of range, ready to sneak closer the minute the Ghostbusters' backs were turned. "You keep that meter running, homeboy, so we won't have any nasty surprises."

"Right," Ray agreed, sticking the activated meter into one of the pockets on the chest of his uniform. "We've got to be ready."

The warehouse was locked, but that didn't stop the Ghostbusters. Winston made a slight adjustment on his thrower and took out the lock in a sizzle of proton energy. They didn't have time to circle the building searching out easier openings. The TV crew crept closer, but they didn't follow the Ghostbusters into the building. Even reporters anxious for a scoop were usually inclined to give the team of paranormal eliminators space while they were on a bust.

Tracing Peter's readings they made their way down a short corridor, throwers in hand. Egon juggled his proton rifle and the meter until the latter led them to another closed door. "In there," he said, pointing.

Ray flung open the door and he and Egon went through it in order, instantly going right and left, while Winston burst in to stand between them, forming a solid line.

They found themselves in a small storage chamber. A pile of abandoned crates stood in one corner, and along the far wall a small, bent figure with brown hair leaned against a dirty crate, one hand lifted above his head by a cuff that encircled his wrist and fastened to a pipe that ran across the wall. The remains of Peter's jeans and shirt lay spread around, his shoes ripped to pieces by a powerful force. The head was bent over his other arm. He had been stripped to his shorts, and there were dark places on his arms and body that might have been bruises.

Horrified, the three gasped, "PETER!"

At the sound of their voices, Venkman's head came up. He made a few ineffectual brushes at himself as if to clean away the traces of what had happened to him, and the 'bruises' revealed themselves to be no more than smears of dirt from the long-uncleaned room. His face was taut with anger, relaxing now as he recognized his friends.

"It took you long enough!" he retorted, his mouth beginning to relax into a hugely-relieved grin at the sight of them. "You don't know what I've been through in here! Locked away, threatened with things too terrible to talk about, missing my favorite reruns of WKRP and Diane will probably never talk to me again for missing my date. So what the heck took you so long to find me, anyway? That nasty dude was due back any minute. He told me he was gonna pull out all my toenails and then he was gonna carve cabalistic designs in my chest, and it turned really nasty after that. I don't like this kind of treatment. It's just not appropriate for young, upwardly mobile Ghostbusters." Still complaining about the long hard hours he'd spent in durance vile he straightened up so easily it was obvious to the other three that he was unhurt certainly his mouth was working fine and stood facing them, massaging his entrapped wrist.

That brought the full splendor of his remaining attire into plain sight.

Peter was only wearing a pair of valentine briefs. As a general rule, this wasn't too unusual. Girlfriends often gave him such items as gifts and Peter wore them quite happily around the firehouse in full view of his buddies. But this pair went them one better. They had only one giant heart on them, and it was very carefully positioned directly over the fly and surrounded with sequins. Emblazoned in huge purple letters across the heart were the dramatic words, "Love Machine". Peter's pose as he faced them, intact and relieved to be found, indicated he had completely forgotten the briefs and their less-than- subtle message.

Egon wasn't sure who started it, but he thought it might have been Ray. The occultist's eyes widened and he made a choked noise as if he had swallowed wrong, or as if he were struggling with all his strength not to laugh. A moment later a snicker from Winston burst out and when he heard it Ray abandoned his attempt to hold back his giggles. He collapsed in mirth and Winston joined him. Egon struggled against his own urge to laugh. It had been so close... But then the sight of the exotic briefs struck him as he suddenly remembered the way Peter had carefully vanished into the bathroom last night to dress, and he realized Venkman had wanted to conceal just this particular sight from his buddies, knowing how they would ride him. Peter was safe, he was intact and he looked ridiculous! Egon started to laugh so hard he had to lean against Ray to stay on his feet.

At the first sign of their jocularity, Peter's eyes had widened in shock and quickly-suppressed hurt, but then an expression of startled recollection flashed across his face and he glanced hastily down at himself, remembering all too well what he had clearly forgotten while he imagined himself to be demon-fodder. He could hardly conceal the evidence now without looking even sillier than he already did, leaving him with no choice but to bluff it out. "Shit," he muttered to himself, "Shit, shit, shit." To the other three men's delight a surge of hot red ran up his face. This was a unique occurrence Peter hardly ever blushed. Egon longed madly for a camera.

"Being chained up... ha ha ...hasn't improved your vocabulary, Pete," Winston pointed out, rubbing gleeful moisture from his eyes.

"Or his temper," chortled Ray, waving a hand at his friend's exotic garb. "Gosh, Peter, if you could only see yourself... Is this a bondage ritual or something? Pretty kinky if you ask me, the shorts and the chains and all. If the press ever gets wind of how you spend your spare time..."

"Die, Stantz," Peter retorted, a flash of humor beginning to lighten his embarrassment at being caught in such attire. "And I'm shocked at you. Shocked! I didn't know you even knew about S&M."

"Is that anything like M&M's, Peter?" Egon teased, his chest aching from laughter.

"No, but unless you want it to be real, look out!" Peter's voice rose on the last two words and his unchained hand stabbed out dramatically as an all-too-familiar roar echoed through the larger room behind them. "The Purple People Eater's back and is he pissed!"

Training took over at once, as the three armed Ghostbusters formed a human shield between their shackled comrade and the ghost. Three throwers powered up, the deep hum of sound resonating through the dust- laden air, and three streams of energy shot out dead on target, full strength. Chardavez howled with rage and fury as he was pinned in the streams and struggled to free himself.

"He doesn't want to lie down," Winston complained after a few moments of wrestling with the demon. So fierce was the pull on their throwers none of them could free a hand to grab a trap without risking the demon's escape.

Egon considered the problem, but before he could do more than acknowledge its existence it was resolved. He felt the trap plucked from his proton pack and heard it thud out into place beneath the writhing entity, followed almost immediately by a second trap, then a third one. With a triumphant, "Ya ha!" Peter must have jumped on the three triggers at the same time because the old warehouse glowed with brilliance at the light from all three traps opening at once.

After that it was a sure thing. Still fighting and cursing them every step of the way, Chardavez sank struggling into the traps, his essence divided between the three of them. As a team, the Ghostbusters had everybody beat, and all four of them knew it. The doors closed over the demon and there was a brief period of silent relief.

"Way to go!" lauded Winston, spinning around to give Peter a high five that the others copied. This time their laughter was that of sheer relief, broken only by Peter's wistful, "Can we go home now?"

Winston picked the lock on Peter's manacle. "My dad taught me how to do this," he said as he worked.

"Get arrested a lot, Winston?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow. He was being high-handed now, determined to carry off his rescue with as much savoir faire as possible, though Egon doubted it would be quite enough.

"No. I didn't practice on handcuffs, m'man. I could leave you here, you know. That way, I wouldn't have to listen to you singing in the shower every morning."

"Tone deaf," Peter muttered in an instructive aside to Ray.

"Then all of us must be," Egon responded, settling his glasses into place. "Are you hurt, Peter?"

"Only my dignity," Peter returned mournfully, striking a dramatic pose. "Trapped and imprisoned, and scorned by my friends."

"Or by anyone with good taste," Ray retaliated, judging from Peter's words that he was fine aside from the discomfort and anticipation of what might have been. Ray knew as well as Egon did that their friendly banter would do more to restore Peter to himself than anything else could.

"Some of us have it and some of us don't," Peter cried gleefully. "Don't worry, Ray, I think you can take lessons."

"I wouldn't push too hard, Peter," Ray replied, his eyes twinkling in sudden mirth. "The press found out you'd been snatched by a demon. They've been following us around all morning. They're outside now and they've got TV cameras!"

Peter's face went white and then red as he considered the possibility of winding up on TV in his present attire. He would never live it down. "Well, sure," he said uneasily. "I'm famous, after all. Winston, good buddy, old pal, lend me your jumpsuit."

"Last time you borrowed it, you got grease all over it," Winston replied, folding his arms across his chest, his eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth. "Not me, m'man! I just got it back from the cleaners."

"Ray...." the psychologist wheedled, dropping a hand on his friend's shoulder and giving him his patented pleading look.

"Come on, Pete. You're taller than I am." Ray's grin widened as he refused to be suckered in. "It wouldn't fit you. You'd look silly with your wrists and ankles sticking out, and on live TV, too. I wouldn't do that to a friend."

"Egon," Peter pleaded, starting to panic. "Give me a break and I won't tell Janine about that little blonde you met at the Paranormal Conference at MIT last month." He draped his arm around Egon's shoulder. "We wouldn't want her mad at you, now would we? Course not."

Egon didn't really mind the threat. The blonde had been a pleasant diversion, a way to while away a slow evening and she had even been interested in fungi. But perhaps one of them should take pity on Peter. After all, the Ghostbusters were public figures who had a reputation to maintain. Considering those shorts and the chain and everything, stories might start appearing in the National Enquirer and some of the gossip might rub off on Egon. Imagine if his mother read it! With a much-put- upon sigh, the physicist removed his pack and started to unzip his jumpsuit. "Very well, Peter, but remember you owe me for this. And I'm sure I can think of an excellent way to collect...." He let his voice trail off suggestively as he finished stripping down to his street clothes.

"EEEEGONNNN!" Peter wailed, but he snatched the jumpsuit with obvious relief before the physicist could change his mind. "Egon, you're a buddy. I knew I could count on you." He wiggled quickly into the blue coverall and zipped it up with sheer relief, even though the cuffs slid down over his hands and the pant legs bagged around his ankles, his grin expanding until it filled his whole face. "Hey, Ray, are the TV cameras really out there? Lend me a comb, somebody. I've gotta make a good impression." After he settled his hair into place to his satisfaction, he started for the door, jumping over the traps without a second thought, starting to whistle tunelessly as he hurried toward his moment of fame and glory. "My public awaits," he called back over his shoulder.

The other three stared after him then at each other, shaking their heads. "He'll never change," Winston muttered, eyes alight with humor.

"Well," said Ray fondly now that Peter was out of earshot, "did we ever want him to?"

They hurried off in Peter's wake. Maybe they could arrive in time to stop him before he said something really outrageous.