Disclaimer: I don't own…any of these guys. If someone who does claim ownership is reading this, I believe that imitation/flattery saying is appropriate here. No infringement is intended, in any case. Kudos to Mog for creating the ATF AU.

When the phone rang on Wednesday morning at exactly 10:18 am, Chris Larabee had no idea that answering it would change his entire perception of reality. If he had known, he probably would have ripped the phone out of the wall and thrown it out the window; instead he picked up the receiver without a second thought. "Larabee."

"Mr. Chris Larabee?" a resonant bass voice inquired. When Chris indicated an affirmative, the voice told him, "Mr. Larabee, my name is Dr. Egon Spengler. My colleagues and I have been called out to a site approximately one hour's drive from Denver and I believe we may require your assistance. Would you be available to help us today? I realize you are probably busy, but I don't believe it will take long…"

Spengler, Spengler…why does that name sound familiar? Chris couldn't quite place either the voice or the name. "Dr. Spengler, there is a chain of command that has to be followed for requests like this. What agency do you work for?"

There was a moment of surprised silence, and Chris heard a smooth baritone in the background say with a laugh, "We're not in New York anymore, Spengs; welcome to the real world." He heard the phone changing hands, and then the new voice spoke into his ear. "Sorry about that, Mr. Larabee, this is Peter Venkman; I think we've gotten too used to being instantly recognized back home. We're the Ghostbusters. Have you heard of us?"

It was Chris's turn to be surprised into silence. When he found his voice again, it was angry. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

"Not at all," Venkman's voice said seriously, if a little resignedly. "It's okay, we're used to getting that reaction. We are legitimate, though, and we do need your help-rather urgently, I'm afraid."

"And why would 'ghostbusters' need help from the ATF?" Chris asked suspiciously.

"Not the ATF, you, Mr. Larabee." Venkman sighed. "We were called out here to do a bust at a construction site, a resort area going in. The Class Four that's been…"

"Class Four?" Vin stuck his head in the office door; Chris waved him in, still scowling. "What the hell is a Class Four?"

"A ghost-a ghost who used to be a person, to be specific. And this one can't pass on until he's talked to you. Unfinished business. If you could just come down here and tell him…"

"Why would I want to tell him anything? I don't believe in ghosts!" Vin raised an eyebrow and Chris shook his head. He really didn't believe in ghosts, but he was starting to get a bad feeling. "And if this guy is dead already, why is it urgent? He must have all the time in the world."

"Not anymore," Venkman said grimly. "We have to have him out of here by tomorrow morning; he's brought construction to a complete halt and the owners want him gone."

"Then 'bust' him! That's what you do, isn't it? What do I have to do with it?"

"Mr. Larabee," Chris could hear the man restraining his frustration-or was that anger? "Mr. Larabee, try to understand; this was a human being. He hasn't done anything wrong. Yeah, I could neutronize him and slap him into containment, but I don't want to do that, any more than you would want to throw an innocent man into prison! And if all I have to do to help him disperse peacefully is get you to come out here and give him permission to leave, then…"

"Wait a minute…permission to leave?" The bad feeling was stronger now. "He needs my permission to leave? Why? Who was this guy?"

The answer apparently wasn't one he expected to hear; Vin was shocked to see his normally fearless leader sit bolt upright in his chair and turn dead white. "Chris, what…"

"Vin, is Ezra…here?" Larabee almost whispered. "Is he in the office?"

Vin frowned. "Ya know he is, Cowboy; you almost tripped over him this morning." But he went back to the door and looked anyway. "Yeah, he's right there, talkin' to JD. What's up?"

Chris didn't answer; he was listening to Venkman again. "Mr. Larabee, do you mean to tell me you've got a man named Ezra Standish working in your office right now?"

"Yeah, so obviously he can't be…"

Venkman sighed again. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larabee, I never would have expected…of course it isn't your Mr. Standish. Our ghost is a nineteenth century gambler turned lawman; apparently his Chris Larabee ordered him not to run out over a hundred years ago…so he didn't. That's why we need you, you see; you're the man's descendant. If you tell Ezra it's all right to leave, he'll move on."

"Ordered him not to run out…" Chris muttered softly, staring at Vin with wide eyes. "All right, Mr. Venkman…"

"That's Dr. Venkman, Mr. Larabee. You'll help us?"

"Yeah. Least I can do," Chris said, trying to pull himself together. "Just tell me where you're at, we'll leave right now." He wrote down the location and concluded the call, then sat there staring at the phone like it was a live thing. "Vin, I…" He shook his head, clearly at a loss for words. "Get the boys together; we're going for a ride."

Vin looked at the scrawled directions and shook his head. "That's a ways out there. Mind tellin' me what's goin' on?"

Chris reached for a silver picture frame that sat on his desk, squinting down at the images of six men dressed in various styles of Old West period clothing and touching his finger to the image of the seventh, a handsome green-eyed man dressed in all the colorful finery of a riverboat gambler. "Once someone tells me," he said thoughtfully. "That's why we're goin' out there."

Peter and Egon came out of the office trailer to see Ray and Winston still playing cards with the ghost. Three pairs of eyes lifted from the game as they approached. "You get ahold of him?" the black Ghostbuster asked.

"He's coming," Peter said, a little shortly, looking at the ghost. "Ezra, are you sure you didn't have any kids?"

"As positive as ah can be," the ghost said with a grin, his gold incisor catching the light. "Of course, a man sometimes leaves an offerin' at an altar not his own…"

"An anonymous donation, huh?" Peter returned the grin and sat down next to Ray. "Well, my friend, someone might have seen you leaving the church; Chris Larabee has a man named Ezra Standish working in his office."

"WHAT?!" Ray and Winston were shocked, and Ezra dropped his cards. "Peter," Ray said. "Are you sure?"

"I scared Mr. Larabee half to death, Ray," Peter said, frowning. "You should have heard him; he went from angry to scared shitless in about three seconds, sent someone to go make sure the guy was still there. I'm guessing his Mr. Standish is a friend."

"Good lord," the ghost whispered. "This is an unexpected turn of events." He gathered up his cards absently. "Ah nevah thought that ah might have left any progeny behind. Is mah possible descendant comin' as well?"

"He didn't say for sure, but I think so," Peter told him. "You gonna be okay if he does, Ezra? This is about you, after all; we can play it any way you want."

Part of the gambler's grin came back. "Ah appreciate that, Dr. Venkman, but ah admit to bein' curious to see mah namesake; perhaps if this doesn't work out, ah can go haunt him."

"If this doesn't work out, I think you should come back to New York with us," Ray said hopefully. "You can't stay here and there's no way we're going to bust you, but we could relocate you to the firehouse."

"I'm with Ray," Winston agreed, surprising everyone. "You're a good guy, Ezra; it would be really cool to have you around. Maybe you could even help us out on busts…"

"I don't know about that," Egon began. "After all, he is a ghost; the ethical implications..."

Peter shrugged that off. "Oh, what the hell?" he said. "I mean, we let Slimer use a thrower, for god's sake. But it's up to you, Ezra; like I said, this is all about you."

The ghost's eyes sparkled with what looked suspiciously like tears. "If things do not work out as expected, ah might just take you up on your very generous offer," he said gratefully, smiling at Ray's obvious delight. "Ah've nevah been to New York, but ah always wanted to see it."

"You know what they say, it's never too late," Peter quipped. He plucked the cards out of Ray's hand and motioned for Winston's. "Hand 'em over, boys, it's my deal."

Chris was silent for most of the long drive, and his worry communicated itself to the six men who rode with him and eventually silenced them as well. They knew it had something to do with Ezra; their leader kept looking back at the Southern agent in the rear view mirror with an odd expression on his face.

Chris knew he was worrying his men, but he couldn't help it; the phone conversation had shaken him more than he was willing to admit. He took another glance back at his undercover agent; Ezra was sitting beside Nathan in the back seat, his brown head leaning against the passenger-side window, his eyes closed. The white sling that cradled his left arm against his chest looked crudely out of place against the tailored lines of his gray Armani jacket; Larabee wondered if the man was dozing off because of his pain medication or simply out of boredom. Green eyes suddenly slitted open and met his turquoise ones in the mirror, then closed again. "Mr. Larabee, this constant surveillance is beginnin' to wear on my nerves; ah assure you ah do not plan on bein' ill in your vehicle."

Yep, it's his meds, Chris thought; the man's thickened accent was a dead giveaway. "Didn't think you would," he said as casually as he could manage. "How you feelin?"

Another flash of green, followed by a drowsily disgusted snort. "Watched."

The comment broke some of the tension and elicited chuckles from the other five men. Vin leaned over the back seat to meet Chris's eyes in the mirror. "You gonna tell us what's goin' on, Chris?" he asked. "Who was that you were talkin' to on the phone and what's it got to do with Ez?"

"And why'd you need to drag everyone out here in the middle of nowhere?" Buck kicked in. "I don't think any of us appreciate bein' kept in the dark here, pard. Is somethin' wrong?"

Larabee checked the mirror again and bit his lip. "I don't know, Buck." He spotted the side road he'd been looking for and turned onto it. "Guess we'll find out soon enough; we're here."

Here turned out to be a construction site tucked back into the trees, with a half-finished building on one side and a small company trailer on the other; a rental car was parked beside the trailer, and Chris pulled his black Explorer in behind it. Five men were sitting in a loose circle on the concrete foundation; four wearing bulky uniform coveralls, the fifth in a brilliantly red jacket. The fifth man looked at them with a flash of green eyes and vanished from sight. "Chris…" Buck said, swallowing. "I don't think I like this little surprise of yours."

Beside him, JD's eyes were wide; suddenly, he grinned. "Hey, those are the Ghostbusters!"

I should have known, Larabee groaned silently, seeing the shine of hero worship in his youngest agent's eyes. He turned in his seat and scowled at his team, all of whom were showing various expressions of shock. "Everyone out, and stay together. Ezra, you stay where I can see you, got it?"

Was that a flash of hurt he'd just seen on the younger man's face? It was quickly swallowed up by the imperturbable mask that made the Southern agent so good at his job, but a small, slightly bitter smile creased the man's lips. "Don't worry, Mr. Larabee, I won't run out on you."

Chris flinched in spite of himself. Shit, why'd the little bastard have to take that so much to heart? But of course, he knew why; the outwardly cocky Southerner was frighteningly insecure, and he had latched onto that long-ago and completely undeserved tirade as some kind of twisted guarantee that he would be allowed to stay with the team even though they would never trust him. They did trust him, of course; they just hadn't been able to convince Ezra of that. He sighed. "I didn't mean it like that," he said, frustration evident in his voice. "You just need to stay were I can see you, okay? If this is on the level, you'll see why."

The seven ATF agents piled out of the truck and met the Ghostbusters in the center of the cleared area that would one day probably be a circular driveway. A dark-haired man with eyes almost as green as Ezra's extended his hand to Chris. "You must be Mr. Larabee; I'm Peter Venkman and this is Egon Spengler, Ray Stantz, and Winston Zeddemore. We're glad you could make it."

Chris shook the man's hand firmly, but his eyes were darting around the barren area. "Was that man we saw…"

Venkman grinned. "Yeah, that was…" His eyes suddenly widened as he spotted Ezra. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "I don't believe it. Egon…"

The tall, blonde Ghostbuster pushed his red-framed glasses up and pulled a complicated-looking instrument out of his belt. He aimed it, made some adjustments and frowned, shaking his head. "No, that one's alive, Peter; I'm reading nothing but normal human biorhythms."

"Man, that's just eerie," Winston said. He saw a look of surprise pass across the face of the very young man in front of him and smiled, shaking his head. "Yeah, kid, that's right; some stuff even surprises us." He held out his hand. "I'm Winston."

"I know." JD took the offered hand and shook it numbly. "I never thought I'd get to meet you guys! I'm JD Dunne..."

"JD?!" The familiar Southern voice came out of thin air, which abruptly thickened into a wide-eyed gambler right beside Winston. "Ah thought ah'd nevah see you again!"

Six men caught their breath; the seventh went almost as pale as the ghost himself. It made their resemblance even more uncanny. Chris fumbled at his pocket and pulled out the picture he'd taken off his desk, staring at it for a moment before almost shoving it into Venkman's hands. "Explain this," he ordered.

Peter looked at the photograph of seven men in Old West clothing and bit his lip, waving his companions over to show them. "This is recent?" he asked.

"Last year, at a festival at Four Corners. It was a spur of the moment kind of thing."

Ray touched the picture with a cautious finger and shook his head. "They must be related," he said. "It can't be a resurfaced memory of a past life because Ezra never really passed on, but it could be a genetic memory manifesting in his subconscious."

"I'd say genetics were definitely involved," Egon agreed, looking over Peter's shoulder. "The resemblance alone…I wonder just how similar the two of them are?" Stepping away from his friends, the physicist moved closer to the man in question and looked him over carefully, noting that while his face was an expressionless white mask, his emerald eyes were wide with shock. "Mr. Standish, could I ask you a few questions?"

"Certainly," the Southerner said, his eyes never leaving his ghostly double-who was now studying the other six men with an equally unreadable expression. "What did you want to know?"

Egon frowned; even their voices were the same, down to the accent. "Your…ancestor has already told us some of the details of his life; I merely wanted to obtain the same from you. What is your mother's name?"

"Maude Standish-for the moment, anyway."

"And the state you are from?"

"Georgia, originally, although I was born in Virginia."

"Do you ever gamble, Mr. Standish?"

That produced a reaction, a faint smirk. "I abhor gambling and as such leave nothin' to chance."

"Fascinating," Egon muttered. "The ghost said exactly the same thing, word for word. I don't suppose you knew about the former Mr. Standish, did you? Has anyone in your family ever mentioned a relative who came West after the Civil War?"

"No." Ezra glanced up at the tall scientist, frowning. "I would certainly remember if they had; I have always loved history from that period, and explorin' ghost towns is a particular hobby of mine."

"Hmm, interesting." Egon tucked his PKE meter in his belt and pulled out his notepad. "I made notes of some of the people and places Ezra mentioned, and I think," he looked around at the other six men with a frown of his own, "that many of them would be familiar to you. According to his account, he served as a peacekeeper and hired gun for the town of Four Corners along with six other gentlemen of diverse backgrounds; he was gunned down in the street by outlaws after knocking out the current sheriff, a Mr. JD Dunne, and taking his place in a confrontation that he had correctly assumed to be an ambush-the other five lawmen having been drawn away from the town the day before under false pretenses. I was planning to do further historical research into the matter once we returned home; perhaps we could collaborate on the project?"

The ATF agent smiled. "I would like that very much," he said slowly. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a business card. "Phone, fax and e-mail."

Egon traded it for a card of his own. "Ditto," he said.

While the two men were talking, the ghost had grown increasingly confused; he knew these men, even if their clothes were strange. Ezra moved back when a curious hand was extended in his direction. "Sorry…uh, Ezra," JD said, snatching his hand back. "I just, uh, can't believe it's you…I mean…"

"Mr. Dunne…" The ghost looked troubled. "Have you forgiven me, then? Ah didn't want to hurt you, you must know that; ah simply couldn't stand idly by and let you be gunned down in the street. You had your whole life ahead of you…"

"But I'm not…" JD looked up at Buck, who draped a comforting arm around him. The younger man squared his shoulders. "Ezra, I'm sure your JD understood; I would have."

The ghost shook his head. "He was quite angry; to his way of thinkin', ah had usurped his authority as sheriff." His expression became even more remorseful, and he tugged absently at the tin star on his lapel. "Of course, that is exactly what ah did."

"But you couldn't let the kid die!" Buck exclaimed. The ghost nodded and sighed, shoulders slumping; the familiar self-negating gesture almost brought tears to the ladies' man's eyes. "Jesus, Ez, you gotta know that that was a damn noble thing you did. You sacrificed yourself for JD."

"That's why they was angry," Vin agreed softly. "Ya know how these guys are, Ez; when somethin's upsettin' 'em, they just deal with it by flyin' off the handle. They must've been mournin' you like crazy."

"And feeling mighty guilty as well," Josiah rumbled. "Son, they left you and the kid there alone knowin' full well that those outlaws were in the area. That alone probably damn near killed Chris; I bet he blamed himself for your death."

"I'm sure he did," Chris said slowly, his eyes never leaving the distraught ghost. He suddenly knew what he needed to say, what Ezra-both of them-needed to hear from him. "Ezra," he said seriously, pitching his voice so it would carry. "I know you didn't run out on us. I should have found out what happened before I jumped to conclusions. Can you forgive me?"

The resultant gasp came out in stereo; one from the astonished ghost in front of him, the other from the stunned undercover agent behind. Then the ghost broke into a delighted grin, gold tooth flashing in the light that suddenly made him look much more solid. "Ah forgave you years ago, Mr. Larabee," he said cheerfully. "Before ah died, if the truth be known." The light intensified and his eyes widened. "Does this mean ah can go?" he asked Peter wonderingly. "Ah'm free?"

"It's about damn time," rasped a gruff, familiar voice. The ghostly gambler spun around as a forbidding figure dressed all in black appeared beside him. "We been waitin'."

"We?" Ezra's grin widened as five other men materialized around him. He zeroed in on one of them, a younger man wearing a battered bowler hat. Removing the tin star from his coat, he held it out. "Mr. Dunne, I believe this belongs to you; my apologies for borrowin' it without askin'."

The young sheriff smiled and shook his head. "Don't need to apologize, Ezra," he said fondly. "And you can keep it. You more than earned the right to wear it, and besides," he pulled aside his own coat to reveal the badge of a Texas Ranger on his vest. "I got me a new one, thanks to you."

"You made it," the gambler breathed. He suddenly darted forward and enveloped JD in a crushing embrace. "By God, ah knew you could do it! Ah just knew you could!"

"He couldnt've if it hadn't been for you, Ez," the mustached cowboy said softly, dropping a hand on a red-coated shoulder. "You gave him the chance."

"But it weren't the same without ya," said the long-haired tracker in the worn buckskin jacket, shaking his head. "Missed ya, Ez."

"We all missed ya," grunted a younger, leaner version of Nathan. "Damn fool Southerner, who was supposed to cheat us at cards with you gone?"

The gambler pulled himself away from JD and glared at the tall healer, his eyes once again sparkling with tears but his grin still firmly in place. "Ah do not cheat, Mr. Jackson."

"No, he don't cheat," chuckled the grizzled preacher, reaching out a large hand to ruffle the protesting gambler's hair. "He just decides who'll win before the game starts."

Ezra swatted the offending hand away. "Even after all this time, y'all are still sore losers," he scolded, laughing. With one arm slung around JD's shoulders he turned back to their living, openmouthed audience. "Gentlemen, your assistance was much appreciated," he told them. "Please tender mah apologies to the owner of this property-as recompense for the damages, tell him that there is a hot spring just beggin' to be opened up directly under the spot his vehicle usually occupies. Ah'm sure it will increase the value of his holdings significantly."

"I'll let him know," Peter promised. "It was a pleasure, Ezra. I'm glad we were able to help you."

"So're we," said the ghostly Chris Larabee. "You boys ever need anything, we owe you one. We won't forget." He gave them an eerily familiar two-fingered salute, slapped the gambler on the back and then the whole group vanished.

The seven ATF agents stayed frozen in place. "They're gone?" Chris asked quietly. "They're all…gone?"

Peter looked at Egon, who frowned at his PKE meter. "They appear to have departed, but I'm picking up a slight surge that appears too strong to be residual."

"What does that…shit!" Chris yelped as a bolt of shimmering energy blew past him and impacted dead in the center of Ezra's chest; the Southerner dropped like he'd been shot. "Ezra!"

"Definitely not residual," Egon muttered quietly, adjusting his meter. "Odd, the surge has an energy signature almost identical to that of Mr. Standish-the deceased Mr. Standish as well as the living one."

Ray checked his own meter and raised an eyebrow. "Backlash," he said confidently. "I've read about it but never seen it happen; it's a statistically rare occurrence, an equalization of psychokinetic energy between a living person and a departing spirit who share virtually identical energy signatures. It causes…"

Peter's hand clamped down on his arm. "It causes what we just saw," he said firmly, giving Ray a quelling look. He let go of the occultist's arm and moved to the edge of the knot of worried men clustered around the fallen agent. "The power surge basically blew his fuses, overloaded his nervous system. He'll be all right, but at least some of you are going to have to stay with him until the excess energy dissipates, probably some time tomorrow morning."

"But shouldn't we take him to a hospital, let them run some tests?" Nathan asked worriedly. "His pulse is kind of fast. If this is like being shocked by regular electricity…"

"It isn't," Egon said dryly. "And since you could probably not convince an emergency room physician to accept the facts as we know them to be true, the treatment Mr. Standish would receive would be useless if not downright deleterious to his physical and mental health."

"He'll be all right," Peter reiterated, dropping to his haunches beside the worried men. "Listen, what you'll need to do is really simple; just take him home, put him to bed, and stay close to him until he comes out of it-the one thing you don't want to do is leave him alone, not even for a minute. Try to maintain a constant reassuring presence, because he's bound to be disoriented and a little frightened."

"He may also experience muscle spasms as the charge works its way out," Egon added. "The application of heat and gentle pressure to the affected muscles should ease the discomfort and could possible hasten his recovery."

"I think we can handle that," Chris said seriously, a very determined look on his face as he stood up, gesturing for Nathan and Josiah to pick up the unconscious man. "Boys, let's get everyone situated in the Explorer, we'll go to my place. You guys want to come with us?"

The last question was directed to the Ghostbusters, and Peter shook his head. "I don't think we need to," he told the worried agent. "Our flight doesn't leave until tomorrow morning, though, so you can call us at the hotel if you have any questions. Okay?"

"Sounds good," Chris replied. He shook hands with the each of the four Ghostbusters before getting into the Explorer and driving away.

As soon as the vehicle was gone, Ray turned on Peter with a frown. "Pete, why didn't you tell them? You know he's conscious…"

"Yeah, I know," Peter said, a satisfied smile on his face. "Agent Standish is wide awake inside a body that won't do anything he asks it to and his friends have absolutely no clue. Isn't it great? It'll probably be the best thing that ever happened to him!"

Ray looked mystified, and Winston clapped him on the shoulder. "I'm just as lost as you are, buddy. Egon?"

"I believe I understand," the physicist told them. "Agent Standish was obviously making a very great effort to maintain his composure and not attract attention to himself, although it would only be logical that he should require some emotional support due to the situation; I'm sure you noticed the physical distance he kept between himself and the others. By keeping the man's exact state of consciousness from his friends, Dr. Venkman has ensured that he will receive the help he needs and quite probably desires without having to relinquish his dignity."

"In other words," Peter chuckled. "Ezra is going to spend the next six hours receiving all the comfort and reassurance he needs in a way that he has to accept but doesn't have to be embarrassed by-they'll never know he was awake, unless he tells them. By the time he regains his motor control he'll be feeling a hell of a lot better about all of this and hopefully the lines of communication between him and his friends will open up a little more." He scuffed the toe of his boot against the hard-packed dirt and shrugged. "I just didn't want someone a hundred years from now to be standing here trying to figure out how not to bust him."

A chill little breeze wound around the four men, kicking up a few dead leaves. "My sentiments exactly," a soft Southern voice whispered. "Thanks again, Dr. Venkman."