That, my dear detective, was the other San Francisco. You've probably seen it before, just out of the corner of your eye. You've probably dismissed it all your life. Maybe you always told yourself you'd just had too much to drink." She paused, her ga...
Are you here about the infestation?" MacMillian stiffened. "I don't... We aren't-" Lena cleared her throat. "I'm afraid bugs aren't really our specialty." "Not bugs." The woman shook her head vigorously. "Ghosts. Whole place is crawling with 'em.
Do you have protection?" "Sure do." Durbin flipped up his jacket to reveal the M9 in his shoulder holster. "You people can keep your superstitious mumbo-jumbo. I have all the protection I need.
MacMillian groaned again, and sat up. "Clients?" "Yeah. You know, people who'll give us money in exchange for work.
The Toyota plowed headlong into the boy. But there was no impact. No screams, no blood, no bending metal. The boy simply dematerialized in a swirl of white light.
Lena scowled at the empty space in her living room. "Oh sure, thanks, I had fun too." She'd stayed awake, spilled a cup of perfectly good tea, and for what? A spirit with the noncorporeal equivalent of erectile dysfunction. Mostly she was fine being ...
I should hex the IRS.
MacMillian steepled his fingers on the head of his cane. Anticipation rose in his chest. Lena and Cyrus Alan might have an advantage over him when it came to hunting ghosts, but this was where he excelled. This part of the game was all about patterns...
Durbin's sunglasses were gone, and his gray eyes sparkled up at her. He winked. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Venkman." Lena bit back a grin. "You too, Dana Barrett.
MacMillian pinched the bridge of his nose. Conspiracy theories, secret societies... what the hell had he gotten himself into? What was next? Vampires? Werewolves?
