Chapter 5

February 10th 1999

"Car seventeen come in." The voice echoed through the speaker. Charged with static, the silence quickly sucked from the cockpit of the patrol car.

"Car seventeen please respond." Again the voice called, the pause between calls a matter of seconds. No more, no less.

"Car seventeen," The voice repeated, tone turning stern. "respond!" Demanding, pleading, the operator's anger becoming noticeable as she tried one more time.

'They could do this all night.' Bob thought, a smugness exuding from within as he smiled contently into the rear view mirror, lifting a hand and running it through a head of thick blonde hair. 'Let them.'

Casting a glance through the open window of the car and plucking the burned out cigarette from his lips, he unleashed a long, thick plume of smoke, the nicotine hit reaching the crest of a wave before dying slowly, the expended butt finding itself tossed through the open window of the patrol car and towards the gravel beneath. The moon sitting in the sky, clear and full, illuminated the open countryside for miles around as the cool midnight breeze floated gently across the highway and lent the evening a hint of freshness. Did good to get out of town now and again. Call at a fast food place, maybe find a quiet stretch of road, then just take in the tranquility that Lockport's more rural areas had to offer. Reaching to the passenger seat by his right hand side, Bob hastily grabbed the McDonald's bag and lifted it to his lap, the paper rustling as he began to tear through and expose the burger hidden within. Still piping hot, he unwrapped the burger and took a bite, the explosion of tastes making him close his eyes and take a deep breath as he chewed. Ketchup, mustard, onions, pickles too, all what went into a good burger as Bob sank back in the comfort of the driver's seat and experienced heaven. Two bites in and getting the taste for it, Bob allowed his eyes to drop to the open bag still sat safely on his knee, the second burger waiting in the wings, calm and serenity instantly shattered as the patrol car's radio squealed once more and the voice made a frustrated return.

"Unscheduled breaks are in violation of your contract car seventeen!" The voice snapped, Bob gritting his teeth and hissing through a full mouth.

"Fuck!" The response rapidly came, involuntary as Bob dropped the burger in the bag and swallowed hard, catching his breath.

"Seventeen here." He calmly replied, squirming in his seat as he sat forward and awaited the operator's response with trepidation.

"There you are seventeen." The sarcasm from the operator's end not lost as she continued. "What is your status? Please advise."

"Just out by the old Richards place." Bob answered honestly, looking across the fields, the stretch of highway cutting straight through. Rumour had it that old man Richards had declined all kinds of stupid offers for his land, the highway proposed creating a bypass between Lockport and Cheektowaga. Eventually the powers that be found a loophole that not only allowed them to lay the groundworks, but cut a path straight through the old man's farm land.

"Disturbance?" The operator enquired. "Nothing on the system."

"Just cruising." Bob replied, lying as best he could, radio cradled in his hand as he took a glance through the window. "Thought I saw that pickup reported stolen last night. Must have been mistaken."

"Very well." The operator replied. "We have reports of a possible disturbance over at the old Franklin Transport Depot across town. Do a drive by, maybe give the place a once over."

"The old depot?" Bob queried. "You mean the place over on Grand Street?"

"Correct seventeen."

"That place is derelict." Bob said, dismissing the call with a sigh. "Probably just kids."

"Either way, please respond." The operator snapped back.

"En-route now."

Lifting the bag from his knee, half eaten, luke-warm burgers within, Bob cast it aside with more than a touch of regret and pulled the seat-belt across his chest, snapping it into the housing by his hip and twisting the key in the ignition of the patrol car. Engine quietly firing into life, the car lurched slowly from the gravelly layby and turned towards the illuminated horizon, a cloud of dust filling the air as car seventeen slowly accelerated towards the town up ahead.

Lockport, New York.

Killing the lights and slowing to a crawl, the patrol car quietly turned from Grand Street and into the long abandoned parking lot of Franklin Transport. Years ago this place would have been bursting with life. Morning, noon and night, smoke billowing from the chimney stacks as the depot worked twenty four seven, round the clock to provide transport to the town, the assortment of drivers, fitters, engineers. Mechanics, fabricators and office staff swarming the depot at any one time. It had all gone pear shaped more recently though. Contracts between the state and the company dying a slow death and the many depots disappearing slowly. Workers laid off. Some young enough to re-train, take up other professions. Others not so lucky. Knowing nothing else since school and left to rot on the sides as potential employers quickly dismissed applications for employment. Bob's father had indeed been one of these. A real old time labourer, happily rolling up his sleeves and getting to work between the pistons and cylinders of the old engines, the soaring temperatures within enough to draw the last drop of moisture from the body. In fact, Bob couldn't be too sure, but it was somewhere over this part of the town that his father had worked. Fifty years hard service, leaving school Friday, then starting what nowadays would be referred to as an apprenticeship the following Monday, a process literally unheard of by today's standards, and not without reason, Bob's father given nothing other than a notice of redundancy and a half-hearted handshake as he left that final shift a broken man. Unable to find work, Bob had a sneaking suspicion that it was the redundancy that had proven to be the final nail in the coffin for his old man, the heart attack that would claim his life six months later attributed to the stress of it all. Turning the key in the ignition of the patrol car the engine spluttered and died as Bob reached to the passenger seat and grabbed his hat, pulling it over his thick spiky hair and pulling the handle on the patrol car's door. The concrete was silent under foot as Bob stepped into the mild evening air and slammed the door closed behind him, lifting the torch from his pocket and lifting it to shoulder height. The car park was clear alright. Overgrown due to the years of neglect, weeds sprouting from the cracks in the floor as a pack of rats scuttled from the glare of the light.

'Seems quiet enough.' Bob thought, taking his time and checking in all directions, the eerie sound of silence slowly beginning to make his hairs stand on end. The stillness of the night, the moon hanging low and full in the sky, did nothing to alleviate the feeling of trepidation as Bob slowly began to stride towards the old building before him. Centre of the building sat a huge shutter door, the steel panels linked together as one and slowly rusting as nature took its toll, Bob's flashlight working over the area and again finding no existence of a break in. Round the other side of the building, light flitting from here to there as Bob continued to inspect the perimeter, sat a door. Nothing wide, nothing tall, nothing fancy, but a door, hanging slightly ajar as Bob came to a stop and examined the opening with curiosity. The windows high above had been smashed, glass littering the floor as Bob's immaculately polished shoes crunched along, entering the building with a feeling apprehension as he felt his spare hand fall to his waist and grip his sidearm, silently unclipping the holster as he readied himself for whatever lurked beyond the threshold, Bob breathing a deep sigh of relief as he cast his eyes across the interior. All clear, the huge, wide open space before him laying dormant of life, the moonlight filtering in through the windows high above the door and bathing the interior of the old depot In a dusky blue. Taking a deep breath, Bob continued on, examining as he walked, pointing his flashlight here, there and everywhere as each and every time he found the building to be empty. Crossing the huge open room, once a busy workshop, he noticed another door and allowed his light to hover over the writing brandished upon the wood, the writing simply stating the room to be a locker area of some description as he came to a stop and ever so gently pushed with the tip of his flashlight, the rows of rusted, neglected lockers sitting open and empty as Bob stepped in and strode the length of the area, the darkness cloaking the locker room as his light fell upon one of the doors and forcing Bob to do a double take, examining the name with a smile and a little laugh.

'D. Bailey'

"I'll be damned." Bob grinned, the familiar name of his late father staring straight back at him, Bob oblivious to the burning red tip of the cigarette floating in the shadows behind him as a voice calmly spoke.

"Officer Bailey."

Spinning in shock, Bob almost tripped over his own feet, the beam of his flashlight flying off in a multitude of directions as the curvy blonde stepped from the shadows, a smile adorning her face as Bailey found himself face to face with the last person he had expected to find. Here of all places.

"Jesus Christ!" He gasped, the woman before him dropping her expired cigarette to the floor and swiftly moving to extinguish the embers with the sole of a well placed heel, the stiletto twisting as the red hot ash worked into the cold concrete floor.

"What's the matter Bailey?" Tiffany asked, a tiny fit of laughter at Bob's reaction. "You seem tense."

"I hate it when people do that!" Bailey snapped, taking a moment to catch his breath before asking a perfectly valid question. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Thought I'd arrange a little get together." Tiffany answered seductively, stepping towards Bob. "After all, you're not returning my calls."

"You think I've got nothing better to do?" Bob asked, his heartbeat still frantically pulsing away. "I told you alright, be patient."

"Oh I am being." Tiffany answered. "Believe me Bailey, I'm being incredibly patient with you. I just wanted an update."

"There's nothing to tell." Bob replied honestly with a shake of the head. "That thing - whatever it is you're after - it's locked up tight. Now I've told you, I will be able to get it. But not until forensics are done with it."

"I hope so." Tiffany said, lifting her hand and examining her nails, retrieving her knife/nail file from thin air and proceeding to file down the tips. "Because believe me Bob, I don't entertain failure lightly."

"I'm not gonna fail you." Bob replied. "What the hell is this thing you're after anyway?"

"Nothing you'd be interested in." Tiffany replied flatly. "Call it - an obsession. A puzzle I've been working on for a long time now."

"And this thing is the final piece huh?" Bob asked inquisitively.

"'Pieces', would be a more accurate word." Tiffany said with a smirk, Bailey narrowing his eyes in a curious manner, taking a deep breath before chancing his luck.

"In that case, I guess you'd be desperate to get your hands on it then?" He asked, Tiffany freezing and allowing Bailey to continue. "About our little deal... I want more."

Lifting her eyes, stepping forward and finding her face inches from Bob's, Tiffany looked longingly into his eyes and spoke through her thick, luscious lips, the air around them crackling with a tense sexual undercurrent.

"You'll get whatever you want." She whispered, lifting a hand and pushing her hair back behind her ear. "Whatever you want and more believe me."

"Nice try," Bob started, stepping back. "But I could nail a skank like you any night of the week sweetheart. It's the money. I want more. I need more."

"Oh?" Tiffany asked, uninterested as she returned her attention to her impromptu manicure.

"Twenty thousand…" Bob began. "It's all well and good, but I'm putting my career on the line for you. You have any idea what happens to me if I get caught with whatever it is you're after? I'm done."

"So you want more money?" Tiffany asked, Bob's reply coming in a silent manner, a nod of the head all he could muster. "That may be tricky."

"Not my problem." Bailey smiled mischievously. "But it could be yours, Valentine."

The very mention of her name caused Tiffany to freeze on the spot, lifting her eyes as Bob continued.

"Yeah, I know who you are." He grinned. "We're good at that, us cops. Way I understand it, some colleagues of mine in Chicago wouldn't mind having a word with you."

"Wouldn't they now." Tiffany's reply was soft, quiet and flat, no emotion what so ever.

"Like I said." Bob smirked, stepping forward and pushing his face into Tiffany's, smugness exuding from every wrinkle. "Twenty grand. Or I tip them off."

Without saying another word, Bailey allowed the uneasy silence to engulf the abandoned locker room, pushing past Tiffany as she continued to vacantly file her nails, allowing his shoulder to send her spinning as an arrogance streamed from every pore. Tiffany, suddenly finding herself spun on the spot, the impact enough to do so, sensed a chance and grasped it with both hands. Before Bailey could look back, Tiffany threw her arms forward and wrapped one around his neck, pulling him instantly close to her as the knife suddenly appeared by his throat, her face next to his as she craned over his shoulder and felt the anger rise from within.

"What's the matter Bailey?" She asked, feeling the police officer tremble in her grasp, his cocky demeanour suddenly disappearing as he held his breath and remained as still as possible. Lowering her hand and fishing around in the pocket of Bailey's jacket, Tiffany gave a satisfied smile and pulled the wallet from within, opening it and allowing her eyes to wander over the pictures within. A woman, most probably Bailey's wife, sat by a waterfall flanked either side by two children, no older than seven or eight as Tiffany felt Bailey's heart pounding furiously in his chest. "Such a pretty family."

No response as Bailey tried to control his breathing, his eyes also fixed on the pictures before him, looking out from beyond the cellophane of his wallet.

"Sure would be a shame to deprive them of the bread winner." Tiffany continued. "Especially over such a small matter like money. Maybe a more effective course of action would be to curb this gambling habit of yours. What do you say Bailey?"

"Okay." Bob agreed, exhaling and lifting his hands in a calming manner as he did so. "Okay. I'm sorry. Look I can get what you want. Whatever it is. But what ever it is, forensics have never seen anything like it. They're running test after test and they still can't figure it out."

"Meaning?" Tiffany hissed, knife pulled tight towards Bailey's throat as her lips glanced his ear.

"Meaning it could be weeks before they release it. Months even." Bailey reasoned, trying his best as the snarl by his face sent a shiver down his spine.

"I don't give a fuck.' Tiffany growled, the playful facade slipping as she spoke. "If you know even half of what you claim to know about me then you'll do as you're told. Now you get me my evidence, or I deliver you to that pretty little wife of yours in boxes. You understand?"

Nodding furiously, the radio adorning Bailey's jacket crackled into life, the voice of the operator once more exploding across the dark, empty locker room and reverberating along the rows of empty lockers.

"Seventeen, come in." The operator's voice called, pausing before repeating herself once again. "Seventeen! Come in, over."

"Seventeen here." Bailey replied, slowly lifting his hand and pressing the button on the side of the radio, Tiffany still holding tight, the knife still firmly against the skin of his throat. "Go ahead control."

"What's the deal over at Franklin's seventeen?" The voice crackled away, a squeal of static echoed through the room.

"False alarm control." Bailey lied, trying to remain calm as the blade dug into his skin. "Couple of broken windows, but nothing else. My guess is kids fooling around."

"Copy that seventeen." The operator replied, a touch of dismay to her voice. "Obviously don't have anything better to do."

"Copy that control, you'd be amazed how some people get their kicks." At that, the knife pulled tighter around Bailey's neck, his voice straining as he continued. "Just doing one more sweep and then I'll write it up."

"Copy seventeen. I'll make a note, over."

And with that, the radio died as quickly as it had sprung into life, the silence between the two even more noticeable, Bailey about to speak, suddenly feeling the wind ripped from his lungs as Tiffany relinquished her grip and planted a stiletto in the small of his back, the kick from her long, well toned leg sending him stumbling across the floor of the locker room. Attempting to stand, he looked back as Tiffany gave one final warning, the moonlight shining through the windows and illuminating her body, curves and all.

"I mean it Bailey." She calmly returned to her manicure. "Don't let me down, or…"

A slow, playful slashing motion across the neck was more than Bob needed to see, bolting through the door and racing back on to the abandoned shop floor of the depot and towards the sanctuary of his patrol car. As she stood, alone and silent, Tiffany lifted her hand and spread her fingers evenly in the moonlight, admiring the smooth, rounded edges of her finger nails, glossy and perfectly manicured as she gave them a quick blow and looked towards the door, Bailey's route of escape.

"Cops." She sighed. "Why can't they just play ball?"

Rain seeping through the rotting window frames of the locker room, Tiffany slowly stepped over the broken tiles by her feet and strolled towards the door, passing through and entering the depot floor in no time at all as she passed through the almost empty space, passing the rusted, stripped chassis of an old Lockport Transport coach and towards one of the many fire exits on offer. Gripping the handle and shoving firmly, the night air hit her instantly, an icy chill upon her skin as she emerged into the now showery evening and headed towards the mesh fence encircling the perimeter of Franklin Transport. Finding her gap and squeezing through, taking time to glance back and ensure Bailey hadn't stirred up a fresh batch of courage, she proceeded to head across Grand Street and towards the alley, situated between two apartment buildings, the brickwork of the derelict structures crumbling as they began to sag across the load bearing walls, the mortar crumbling visibly as Tiffany inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, allowing herself time to consider just how fortunate she had been since leaving Chicago. The last couple of years being quiet, but recent events instilling a fresh sense of optimism in what had become a flagging existence. Life losing what little meaning it had, the excitement of 1996 disappearing abruptly as Tiffany vanished into thin air, seemingly overnight, leaving the authorities at a loss. If she were completely honest, Chicago had proven to be something of an anti-climax. In Tiffany's opinion anyway. No sooner had she accidentally stumbled upon the holy grail that was Sarah Pierce than she had been forced to flee, the police presence coming instantly and without warning as Tiffany forfeited her prize, her heart instead telling her, begging in fact, to leave Sarah Pierce be. That something more suitable would present itself in future, allowing both her and Chucky the vengeance they so desired. Fleeing across the city as the storm kicked up a literal hell on earth, she had passed by her old neighbourhood and approached the heavily guarded Play Pals factory, bravely sneaking inside for one final look. A last goodbye as she fought back the tears and hit the road, the radio by that point buzzing with news reports, her name in all its glory screaming from millions of television sets and car radios. Unmasked as images obtained from the lobby of both the Regency Hotel and Chicago Police Department were released to every media outlet imaginable, an old mugshot also included as the cold, spindly fingers of justice attempted to tighten around her throat and suffocate any remaining fight from within. True she'd had a head start, but that hadn't allowed her to pass by the city limits unscathed. The decision had been difficult to sacrifice her car. The beautiful Plymouth Fury left abandoned at a bus terminal as Tiffany caught a Greyhound out of the city and to god knows where, adrenaline subsiding as the enormity of her situation dawned, promising herself to acquire a new vehicle at a later date, the heat destined to become too much as the police tracked both Tiffany and her vehicle. Her first port of call had been Kansas, picking up not only a new vehicle, the similarities between a more recent victim's candy red Pontiac Catalina and her much loved, ever reliable Plymouth instantly striking a cord, but also a waitressing job and continuing to go by the pseudonym Tiffany Hendricks, an identity lovingly obtained from her former friend, the now deceased Selena Thomas, as she attacked her hair with a pair of freshly obtained scissors and created a refreshing, blonde bob. She still had her papers naturally, good enough to withstand even a thorough examination, but she had never need use them. The trick, she had found, was to never settle down. Resist the urge to get comfy. Let the grass grow under her feet, don't speak. Besides which, over the years she had found access to the internet has become an increasingly common thing. Internet cafes and libraries offering everything she needed as she spent hours, night and day, searching for leads on her quest. Reading, learning, researching whatever she could regarding her former lover and the urban legend surrounding his death and beyond. Soon enough though, the well of information had began to run dry. Within months, it seemed she had exhausted every website going, the same information appearing time and again as she took one final throw of the dice, never once imagining the possibilities at her fingertips. That one last throw of the dice, you see, had proven to be rather fateful. A website appearing, the name 'Charles Lee Ray' mentioned somewhere within, and grabbing Tiffany's attention from the very start. Offering something more than she had known up until this point, the site was actually a forum, something new it would seem, dedicated to the history and legends of serial killers past and present, the sheer size of the thing making Tiffany gasp in pleasant surprise as she read through the posts and found the hours slipping by. Soon enough, hours turned into days, time rapidly consumed as Tiffany registered with the site and began making acquaintances, plunging headfirst into conversation with other members, stunned at the amount of activity on the macabre forums. Not just domestically either, but globally. Records were updated daily. Conversation and debate sparked instantly, at the click of a button. It was only six months following her registration, working the register at a gas station in Ohio that the site she had become so accustomed to would serve up the mother of all updates. Tiffany's heart jumping up her throat and into her mouth as she logged on and checked the most recent news, the words burning bright upon the screen of the computer as she shrieked in joy. Loud and shrieking, the song had made the other customers of the internet café turn in surprise as Tiffany allowed a pleasant smile to grow from cheek to cheek. According to the news, there had allegedly been a series of murders at a military school out Missouri way, the name at the centre of the article belonging to a now teenage Andy Barclay. The very same Andy Barclay from 1988, only now telling a new story, attempting to convince the authorities that Chucky had once again risen from the dead and pursued him to his new home. The news article didn't say much more, but it didn't need to, Tiffany now with a renewed energy fizzing through each and every vein as she grabbed her belongings and threw everything she owned in the trunk of the Pontiac, including her confused and slightly aggravated pet tarantula Charlotte, crossing her fingers and praying that she may be one step closer as she settled into the luxurious seat of her new wheels and set course for Missouri. Now though, the exhilaration of that day had slowly given way, wheels turning on her grand plan, but patience at an all time low as she turned the corner of one of downtown Lockports seedier looking alleyways and headed into the shadows. Although dark, Tiffany could see perfectly well as her heels skipped along the wet tarmac beneath her feet, kicking up the rainwater as she approached the car waiting in the miserable evening, the candy red paintwork of her Pontiac a far cry from seering, bright red of the Plymouth that had served her so well years ago, now most likely sat in a police compound in the city of Chicago, nothing but a memory as Tiffany yanked the Pontiac's door open, jumping inside and finding herself more than a little deflated at the sight that met her eyes. Was it really so long since Kent Military School?

Since Chucky finally rose again?

One Month Previous

Remembering the success of her journalist role at Chicago State Mental Facility, sneaking undercover and interrogating Karen Barclay at length, Tiffany had come to the decision way in advance that this may be the best plan of attack upon arrival at Kent Military School. Pulling the Pontiac into the heaving parking lot and noticing the age of the buildings springing up around the vast estate, she quickly found one of the few remaining parking spaces and killed the engine, twisting the key in the ignition and turning her attention to the rear view mirror positioned centre of the cars windshield. Her hair had taken quite a bit of punishment over the course of the last couple of years, the blonde not settling on top of her dark roots as quickly as she'd envisaged and so many products and dyes turning the once strong and silky lockes weak and fragile. Now as she allowed it to hang loosely around her shoulders she checked her makeup and, once happy, pushed open the Pontiac's heavy steel door and stepped into the afternoon sun flooding the surrounding fields, forests and buildings with light. Strolling across the parking lot and reaching the front door to reception, she pulled it open and stepped inside, the antique style decor quite surprising as she noted a sign and hung a left along the corridor towards the reception area. Each wall was covered from roof to ceiling in heavily stained oak, the pictures of past service personnel, each judged to have left their mark on the old academy, hanging parallel with one another as Tiffany walked the length of the corridor and admired the neatness in their positions. Military precision. Up ahead there seemed to be some work going on, approaching steadily and noticing the latest in the long line of personnel to be given his own spot on the wall, the picture apparently belonging to a certain Colonel Cochrane, his thick grey hair and almost emotionless eyes staring out at Tiffany as the workman struggled to lift the beautifully framed picture into position, the frame rocking side to side as he lifted, yet the Colonel's eyes never leaving Tiffany for a second as she carried on and found herself approaching a desk labeled 'Reception', the clicking of her heels on the oak flooring alerting the receptionist to her presence as she looked up from a mountain of paperwork and gave Tiffany a confused smile.

"May I help you Miss?"

"Hendricks." Tiffany greeted the receptionist with a warm smile. "Tiffany Hendricks. I'm with the Herald and was hoping to get some information."

"I see." The receptionist answered, her confusion evident as she removed the glasses from the end of her nose. "What kind of information are you wanting exactly?"

"I was curious about the events you had here a few weeks ago." Tiffany answered with a polite smile. "From what I've heard you've had quite a time of it. Is there anybody that would be willing to speak with me?"

"I'm not sure what exactly you've heard Miss Hendricks." The receptionist said, firmness to her tone. "But any stories surrounding Kent Military School, possessed doll's or otherwise are completely unfounded. Any situation arising from within this school is a private matter and will be dealt with internally. We don't go just splashing any old rumours across the media. No I'm afraid at this time Miss..."

"Hendricks." Tiffany snapped.

"I'm afraid Miss Hendricks that the school will be declining to comment. Just because you've heard a rumour or two surrounding a couple of unfortunate events doesn't give you licence to manipulate the facts and turn our school, our name, into some cheap attraction."

"I've travelled quite a way though." Tiffany pleaded.

"Well I'm afraid you've had a wasted trip Miss." The receptionist replied with a stubbornness. "I have nothing more to add. And I'm definitely not interrupting the Major with this. No we've got quite enough to deal with as it is thank you. Now I think it best that you leave before I have you removed."

"Removed?" Tiffany asked with a ripple of laughter.

"Yes young lady, removed." The receptionist spat, a handful of cadets turning as they passed, the odd giggle as they continued on. "Why is it the press never turn up to cover any good news? Yet the second you get wind of tragedy you can't move for them. No I would appreciate it if you would leave."

"Wow." Tiffany replied with a sarcastic smile.

"Good day Miss Hendricks." The old girl said, placing her reading glasses back upon her nose and returning to the paperwork scattered across her desk.

"Fair enough." Tiffany replied, defeat something she was unfortunately expecting, but far from willing to accept. "Before I go, do you have a bathroom I could use?"

Silently, as though speechless, the receptionist lifted her head and stared at Tiffany in disbelief, the young blonde before her squirming slightly as she stood in the spot.

"Like I said, it's a long drive." Tiffany added.

"Down the hall, back the way you came." The receptionist returned to her work. "On your left Miss."

"Thank you." Tiffany replied, slowly turning and beginning to make her way back along the corridor, the line of military portraits awaiting as she once again passed by, her mind racing as she attempted to put together a plan of some description. She needed to know more. She needed to find out what exactly had happened here. Like it or not, this was her best chance, her only chance, to find out for herself. Straight from the horses mouth, so to speak. Making her way along the corridor, her strides getting shorter with every step, she soon enough arrived at a door, the sign placed just above eye level indicating it to be the ladies restroom. No sooner had Tiffany reached out and grasped the handle of the old, heavily lacquered, oak door than a hand suddenly appeared from behind and gripped her wrist, spinning her on their spot as she found herself pulled across the empty corridor and towards another door, opposite the restroom. Unable to react, the arm gripping her long, the fist curled round her strong and tight, Tiffany suddenly found herself pulled through a similar oak door and into an office of some description, the door slamming closed behind her as the power of speech disappeared momentarily. Coming to a stop, the whirlwind of power suddenly releasing her from its grasp, Tiffany found herself face to face with a man of considerable height. His shoulders broad and hulking from beneath his pristine white shirt. His straight, perfectly chiselled jaw beginning to move as he now spoke, quietly as he locked the door to the office behind him.

"Which rag are you with?" He asked.

"Sorry?" Tiffany asked, slightly afraid. This guy was huge. If he didn't want her leaving this place, then that would be that.

"Newspaper." The man asked again, hissing as he tried to keep the noise down, keen to get his answer.

"The Herald." Tiffany lied. "Why?"

"Because." The man answered. "That old bitch out there might not want you talking to anybody, but I sure as hell don't mind filling you in."

"Really?" Tiffany asked, relieved.

"Anonymously though." He answered. "No names, otherwise I'd be finished. We have a deal?"

"I can live with that." Tiffany beamed, finally able to relax as she pulled a chair from the desk before her. "Mr Charlstone."

"How did you..." He began, Tiffany interrupting with a playful giggle.

"Next time you wish to remain 'anonymous', may I suggest you remove your name tag?"

"Shit." He allowed his eyes to sweep to the name tag adorning the left hand side of his chest. "I can trust you right?"

"You can trust me." Tiffany nodded, taking a seat and making herself comfortable, First Lieutenant Charlstone striding behind the ornate oak desk and taking the other seat on offer, clasping his hands together as he pulled himself up to the desk and addressing the stranger now sitting opposite.

"Let me make this clear." He began, his enormous arms flexing beneath his jacket. "This place, Kent I mean. I won't have its reputation tarnished. You don't drag it through the mud, you don't mention any names. You think you can manage that?"

"It shouldn't be a problem." Tiffany replied, reaching below her chair and into her bag, notebook at the ready as she placed it on the desk and opened it to page one, the blank canvas before her just waiting to devour every word, every revelation as Tiffany prepared herself.

"Okay." Charlstone continued, eyes rolling in their sockets as he tried to find the best starting point. "The things, that happened here? I've never seen anything like it."

"How do you mean?" Tiffany asked inquisitively. "You mean the doll?"

"No." Charlstone shook his head. "Before that. But not much more. Before Barclay turned up with his ghost stories and freak show, this place was a dream. Practically ran itself. Top of the class in every department. That's how little disruption we had."

"I see." Tiffany answered.

"Then one day we get this new kid. Barclay. In and out of foster homes, few troubles at home, the usual stuff, happens quite a lot. Kids go off the rails, they end up here, we straighten them out. As Colonel Cochran used to say, 'we take bed wetters and turn them into men.' It's what we do here. It's what we've done for a long time. And believe me Miss, we are very good at that."

"But Andy Barclay was different?" Tiffany asked, pen tapping delicately on the surface of the desk.

"Something like that." Charlstone nodded. "He was wet behind the ears alright. They always are. But any insubordination quickly gets snuffed out. Now not long after Barclay gets here, there's an incident. One of the garbage men, making his weekly trip and emptying the dumpsters out by the training fields. Some how, some way, he climbs in the back without isolating the hydraulics and the motor engages. As far as I know they're still awaiting results. Checking out the truck. They say that maybe a wire shorted out, set off the drive motors while the poor son of a bitch was up there digging around for god only knows what."

"Jesus." Tiffany replied, shock etched on her face, although a twisted fascination quietly applauding deep within. "Poor guy."

"I'll say." Charlstone nodded once again. "Later that same day, Barclay was discovered fooling around with some doll in the dorms. One thing led to another and the doll ended up confiscated by a Junior Officer, Shelton his name was-"

"Was?" Tiffany interrupted. "You mean-" A nod from Charlstone as he continued his tale.

"Now that same night, this doll goes missing from Shelton's room. Barclay was literally found at the scene, with a knife in his hand, stood over Shelton's bed."

"He'd gone for the doll?" Tiffany interrupted, Charlstone offering the palms of his hands, asking for patience as he continued.

"Barclay said he'd gone for the doll. But it was already missing. So Shelton took the men outside and put them through a series of exercises, a regime if you will, in order to weed out the thief. None comes forward though. The next thing everybody knows, all hell broke loose and Colonel Cochran was found dead in his office. Two tours of 'Nam and the poor guy ended up going out with a heart attack, just like that." A click of the finger from Charlstone. "I mean, he was getting on, maybe nearing time to take a step back, let somebody younger step up, but he wasn't an ill man. Nor was he unhealthy. It just didn't make sense, but that's life I guess."

"Things like that can happen to anybody I guess." Tiffany offered a sympathetic smile as she finished scribbling. "Only takes a second."

"After that we were unsure what to do." Charlstone continued. "With the war games you see. They were scheduled for the next day."

"War games?" Tiffany seemed dumbstruck. "I'm sorry, you'll have to explain, I'm not familiar with all this-"

"Every year, we take the seniors out into the surrounding woods and forests. There's literally hundreds of square miles. We divide into two teams, and whichever team can successfully retrieve the other team's flag and bring it back to base is the winner."

"Sounds fun." Tiffany smiled, her heart racing as she envisioned the many ways this conversation could go. "I take it there were problems?"

"You can say that again." Charlstone sighed. "Everything was fine until somebody tampered with the weapons. Exchanged the paint cartridges for live ammunition. By the time we found out, it was too late.."

"I'm sorry." Tiffany interrupted. "Paint cartridges? Live rounds what are you saying?"

"The cadets taking part in the war games are all assigned a rifle and a number of paint cartridges. The paint cartridges are used instead of bullets. They fire the same, but rather than cut through you, they shatter on impact and stain the target with paint. You get hit, you're unharmed, but in the game you're dead and make your way back to the school."

"And you're claiming somebody swapped the paint in one teams rifles for real bullets?" Tiffany asked, pen working furiously.

"That's what the report says Miss." Charlstone answered. "Not long after the two teams left the school grounds, our resident barber was found dead in his own chair. An internal investigation came to the conclusion that there was an axe to grind, so to speak. That Botnik, the barber I mean, swapped the red teams ammunition for live rounds, watched them on their way, then cut his own throat."

"But you don't buy that theory?" Tiffany asked with a shake of the head. "How come?"

"Botnik was known to be erratic at times. Maybe I'd go as far as to call him eccentric." Charlestone paused as he took a deep breath. "But I don't see it. It just doesn't add up to me. He didn't have access to the armoury for a start. I voiced my concerns, but let's just say that the powers that be seemed happy to lay the blame. Have their scapegoat."

"So what happened out in the woods then?" Tiffany pressed further. *When did it become clear that one team had live ammunition?"

"When the blue team found themselves ambushed by the red team and completely exposed, up by the old jeep, those were real bullets that went flying. Cut Shelton straight down where he stood, the poor bastard. The statements are all over the place, but somehow, somebody threw a grenade into the mix. One of the lesser experienced cadets took it upon himself to throw himself over the device. Kid saved a lot of lives by doing so, but he died on the spot. By the time we get wind of all this and race up there Barclay's nowhere to be seen. Neither were cadets Tyler and DeSilva. We searched, and searched but the next thing we hear is from the Sheriff's office. Barclay was arrested at a fairground down the road. Tyler and DeSilva end up in hospital. Tyler with a concussion, DeSilva with a gunshot wound. Now, nobody knows for sure what in the name of god happened out there that night, but Barclay claims that this doll that arrived at the school was alive. Can you believe that? A fucking doll?"

"I guess it does sound pretty unbelievable when you put it like that." Tiffany sighed.

"Wasn't the first time either." Charlstone continued. "After all this commotion, I checked Barclay's file. This isn't the first time he's claimed this. Turns out he's been churning out this bullshit for the last ten years now. Claiming the doll was evil. Possessed by the soul of some whack job from back in Chicago."

"Is that so?" Tiffany asked as she forced a smile, her finger tips turning white as she allowed the anger to drain through the pen clenched firmly in her grip.

"I was going to recommend sectioning the poor kid." Charlestone added.

"But?" Tiffany asked, sensing a reason for his failure to do so.

"But as it turns out there were several eye witnesses from the incident in the woods that actually backed up Barclay's claims."

A silence fell over the room as Tiffany's pupils dilated. Her hearing suddenly became submerged by the thumping of her own heartbeat as she inhaled at the words. Her fingers trembled as her arms began to visibly shake, her mind racing now as she allowed what Charlstone had just said to sink in.

"You alright miss?" Charlstone leaned forward and gave her a quick look up and down. "You've gone drip white."

"I'm fine." Tiffany replied. Her head swimming with the thoughts this recent revelation had conjured up.

Other people witnessed it. They saw him. Actually saw him. A relief swept through Tiffany's very soul as she allowed a tingle to travel the length of her spine, a nauseous feeling, yet butterflies fluttering across her stomach.

"You sure?" Charlstone asked again. "I'd offer you a drink, but the less people that know about this little meeting the better. You sure you're alright?"

"Seriously," Tiffany smiled, a hint of colour returning to her face as she straightened up in her seat. "You were saying other people were willing to back up Andy Barclay's claims? About the doll I mean."

"That's correct miss." Charlstone continued. "The only explanation we can attribute it to is the shock. Considering what went on out there that's not an impossible explanation. I mean, suddenly finding themselves in the middle of a situation like that? The chaos? The young kids cut down, just like that? Myself, I can't think of any other explanation."

"You can't?" Tiffany seemed shocked. "Even though everybody gave the same account?"

"I'll rephrase that Miss." Charlstone lifted the palms of his hands as he spoke, the calming effect allowing him to finish. "I can't think of another 'logical' explanation. The main ones spouting from Barclay's hymn sheet seem to be DeSilva, and the younger cadet, Tyler. Although DeSilva was running a fever from an infection in her wound and Tyler's concussion could be making his version of events a little hazy. For all I know he's just agreeing with Barclay because it's easier."

"I can't believe this isn't being taken a little more seriously to be honest." Tiffany seemed stunned. "It seems improbable, sure, but..."

"Kids of Tyler's age are young and impressionable Miss Hendricks." Charlstone interrupted. "If Andy Barclay has somehow influenced him, then I don't know. Maybe he sees Barclay as a role model of some sort."

"But the girl?" Tiffany asked. "Surely, with her being older..."

"And running one hell of a fever." He interrupted again. "Maybe DeSilva has ulterior motives, I don't know. That one's from the same mould as Barclay. Not been an easy day since she signed up here. One thing I do know though, is that life is not going to be a walk in the park for either of them when they return to Kent."

"What do you mean?" Tiffany asked. "Where are they?"

"DeSilva's still in the hospital." Charlstone answered. "Tyler meanwhile? Well we thought it was maybe a good idea for him to take a little time out. Till this whole thing blows over."

"But what about Andy?" Tiffany pressed on.

"Barclay is here. Although for how long? Well your guess is as good as mine. Like I said, it's not going to be easy. Not if he keeps on telling these tales of killer dolls. I'd be surprised if he saw the semester out."

"What exactly is he telling people then?" Tiffany asked, intrigued.

"Just what I said." Charlstone answered. "That the doll was evil. Been after him for the last decade. That it was after him and Tyler and that he managed to get rid of it. For good this time."

"For good?" Tiffany gasped. "How?"

"According to Barclay, they ended up in some ghost train down at that carnival I mentioned earlier. Barclay says he managed to destroy the doll by throwing it into an industrial sized fan. Or something like that. You can only listen to Barclay's version of events so many times before you start believing it all."

"Jesus." Tiffany seemed shaken.

"We've been liaising with the Sheriff's office over this and it's fair to say the entire thing spooked them out. So much so that they ended up shipping whatever they fished out of that fan across to a place in New York. Apparently our own police department were unable to provide a conclusive verdict. Under-equipped to deal with a case this bizarre. This place in New York specialises in cases like what we have with Barclay and his doll. The evidence I mean. Very peculiar indeed."

"You mentioned New York?" Tiffany asked as her wrist came to a dramatic stop, the pen scratching against the paper of her notebook as she looked up and fixed Charlstone a determined stare. "That's a pretty big place. Any idea whereabouts?"

"Not off the top of my head." Charlstone replied, swivelling in the chair and turning to the computer sat quietly humming to itself on the desk, jabbing at a few keys as the screen before his very eyes flickered into life and bathed his face in colour, his eyes narrowing as he seemingly read something quietly to himself, lips moving as he finally turned his attention back to his guest.

"Lockport." He smiled, his teeth perfectly aligned as he allowed his smile to grow.

"Excellent." Tiffany muttered under her breath, scribbling that one final word and fixing First Lieutenant Charlstone a satisfied smile of her own. "I think I have all I need here."

"Just remember what I said." Charlstone's tone cut the air as Tiffany snapped her notebook closed and returned it to the handbag stowed by her feet. "This meeting. Me. We never happened."

"Mr Charlstone, you have my word." She answered as she stood from her seat and lifted the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. "Kent Military School will come out of this unscathed I assure you."

"I sure do appreciate that Miss." Charlstone answered as he too stood from his seat. Rounding the desk and reaching for the door handle as Tiffany followed, pulling open the door and ushering her into the quiet corridor beyond. "I know the rumours going around there. On this internet thing they have now. This affects Kent in any way then we're done. They're already pulling the plug on schools like ours. If we so much as lose a fraction of our funding then I don't know what would happen to Kent."

"Relax." Tiffany beamed as she stepped into the corridor and turned to thank her host, the sudden holler reverberating along the wood panelled walls. The voice loud and barking, the authority within enough to make both Tiffany and Charlstone spin on the spot, the two figures along the corridor creating quite the scene. A boy, no more than sixteen, knelt upon the immaculately polished floor, gathering up the papers and text books that lay spread out before him. The officer standing, towering in fact, over him appeared to be the source of the noise, his voice bellowing out as he reprimanded the young cadet at the top of his voice, Tiffany's ears almost ringing as the sound echoed along. The young cadet's arms furiously worked away as he stacked his books and papers one atop the other, the strict, incredibly firm and merciless voice of the officer overlooking bounced along the corridor and caused anybody within earshot to turn their attention towards the pair.

"Just what in the name of god are you doing boy?" The officer continued to scold.

"Sir, I tripped-" The cadet attempted to explain, his reply cut off as the officer intervened.

"Tripped?" He hollered. "Dear god Barclay, you must be the sorriest excuse for a soldier this school's ever had the misfortune to spit out!"

Unable to help herself, Tiffany drew the deepest breath she could, the name of the cadet causing her mouth to fall open as her eyes widened and her pulse began to escalate. The boy now kneeling on the floor only twenty, maybe thirty yards away none other than Andy Barclay. Narrowing her eyes and taking as good a look as she could, Tiffany could scarcely begin to believe this boy, this child, was capable of fending off the rampaging, homicidal tendencies of her one true love, the figure he cut right now being a pathetic and sorry one at best. It was as she stood, slack-jawed and mesmerised, that the cadet still knelt upon the floor felt the eyes burning into him and lifted his head, his eyes landing on Tiffany without a second of hesitation. Powerless, frozen to the spot, Tiffany panicked as she struggled to engage her brain, Barclay's brow furrowing as he fixed her an inquisitive look and paused. Time seemed to slow remarkably as the two faced each other down, the officer still bellowing out as his voice became nothing more than a far away drone, lost in the ambience of the moment. A discomfort creeping over her body Tiffany knew she had to leave, and quickly, the cogs inside Barclay's head already turning, only a matter of time before he managed to put a name, place and date to the familiar looking woman along the corridor, Tiffany all too aware of such facts and spinning on the spot. Eight years may have passed since she briefly interrogated a bemused and cowardly eight year old Andy Barclay at Midtown Children's Crisis Centre, but rest assured the wheels were turning, Barclay's memory surely just a matter of time before revealing the answer and igniting a fuse that could cause a million problems. No, she had to leave, while she still had chance, completely missing First Lieutenant Charlstone's goodbyes as she turned and began to race along the corridor, leaving the commotion in her wake as the wood panelled walls passed quickly by, a blur of military men lining the walls as Tiffany reached the hall of Kent Military School and burst through the exit and into the parking lot. Her car was just a brief stride away, the concrete disappearing beneath her feet in a hurry as she quickly reached the Pontiac and yanked open the door, climbing inside and wasting no time as she inserted the key in the ignition, hearing the untamed beast beneath the hood growl and kick as she worked the stick and gave the car some gas. Rounding the row of parked cars to her right Tiffany allowed the car to glide across the smooth asphalt beneath as she passed the entrance to the building, the doors flying open as she cruised past, a quick look in her rear view mirror showing the lone figure of Andy Barclay, watching as the car disappeared through the gates of the parking lot and joining the road and the inevitable flow of traffic.

Slowly, and gradually, Tiffany smiled and felt the adrenaline subside, bit by bit. She now had fresh information. A location that held her prize. The pot of gold at the end of the rainbow as her decade long search appeared to reach the home straight. The end finally in sight. But with little money, and no time to spare, Tiffany now needed somewhere to stay on her arrival. Her best chance only an internet connection away as she floored the gas pedal and felt the Pontiac's engine growl.

'Lockport here I come.'

The internet cafe had been quiet that evening as she parked the Pontiac outside, the gale force winds battering the weathered street and almost sweeping Tiffany off into the night as she raced from the car and threw herself through the doors of the establishment. Choosing the furthest computer from the door, the shadows of the area giving her the privacy she desired, she had successfully managed to log in to the website she had become so accustomed to of late, the forums swimming with activity regarding the likes of Ed Gein, Charles Manson and so on as followers of the macabre subject at hand chatted back and forth, a message here, a reply there as they discussed at length. The mouse zipping around the screen, Tiffany tried to compose herself as best she could, trying to put her thoughts into words as she clicked on the 'New Subject' box and opened up a new thread of her own, a shout out for assistance as she aptly named the thread 'Anybody in Lockport, NY?' and posted. It took a while, the cafe becoming quieter as time went on, the owners clearing tables and tidying around Tiffany, continuously doing her best to hide the screen each time her privacy was invaded. But within the hour she had been delighted to see the notification pop up. A reply waiting, buried somewhere deep within the site as Tiffany clicked and found herself taken directly to her freshly opened discussion, the reply beneath her query coming from a user she had come to know well throughout her time on the forums. Somebody seemingly as ruthless and bloodthirsty as herself. Tiffany finding it hard to believe her luck as he invited her to stay with him in Lockport, at least until she had gotten herself sorted.

The name of the ever present member of the site that had become Tiffany's new friend?

One Damien Baylock.

It had all been bullshit of course. She had realised that long before tonight. Before Damien insisted on accompanying her to the mystery meeting she had planned with Officer Bailey. Which was why now, strolling down the dark, wet Lockport alleyway and climbing into the seat of the Pontiac fresh from her meeting with Bailey, she felt a deflated sense of achievement. The man sitting opposite being anything but the bloodthirsty monster she had envisioned on the drive to New York. Sitting before her now, his arms curled around his shivering torso in a valiant effort to keep warm, his long black hair soaking wet and clinging to his pale, heavily made up face Tiffany realised exactly what she had let herself in for. A kind hearted guy. But needy, annoying and lacking any independence what so ever, nothing more than a bumbling sidekick, destined for the shadows. Or worse. She had only stayed the two nights with him, the front that had been built up over the course of their online interactions immediately eviscerated as the front door opened to reveal a silver haired old woman supported by a walking frame, Damien appearing seconds later and briefly introducing his mother before hurrying her out of the way and showing Tiffany to the spare room, Tiffany finding it amusing as he squirmed at the sight of Charlotte in her glass box. So much for the fearless and unrelenting Damien Baylock. The two nights had been enough however, and Tiffany had quickly managed to find alternative accommodation, finding vacancies as she passed a trailer park on the outskirts of town and quickly enquiring. She had been fortunate enough to move in the following day, the previous occupier vanishing overnight, skipping rent and leaving the trailer practically fully furnished. Tiffany's increasingly good fortune staggering her, although the long, drawn out battle to make it feel more like home had taken some doing over the following month or so. Dolls, framed photos and archive print outs surrounding Chucky now took pride of place on every shelf. The stained and ageing wooden bed sacrificed to make way for new. Something more 'her'. A black, metal frame lending her new home a home Gothic touch. A curtain now separated the bedroom from the living area, which had given Tiffany a more homely feel, the open plan of before feeling cold and empty as she settled in and got used to the place. The neighbours seemed fine too. The van parked alongside Tiffany's Pontiac belonging to a handsome young man by the name of Jesse, a nice enough guy, but maybe a little dim. There was however still the annoying and constant presence of Damien to deal with however, and Tiffany had already wondered whether he would be of any use whatsoever, considering it may be better to deal with him herself and get down to business as soon as possible. The idea had been quickly shelved though, an idea forming as Tiffany planned a way to make the money she needed.

Because like it or not, these police officers weren't cheap.

"Come on Damien." Tiffany lifted a cigarette to her lips and sucked as the flame of her lighter hovered around the tip. "Let's get you home."

Emerging from the front entrance of Franklin Transport Depot, Officer Bailey stepped into the parking lot and bent forward, hands on his knees as he sucked in a huge lungful of air and attempted to catch his breath. That building was a death trap. Hard to find a safe path through with the help of his trusty flashlight, let alone in the dark and sprinting at full speed, the psychotic Tiffany Valentine putting the fear of god into him with the stroke of a knife. But now, he breathed deeply again and felt his heart begin to slow. His chest literally pounding from within his chest as he composed himself and let his eyes wander to the incredibly large moon, hanging vividly in the night sky. Casting its glow across the concrete floor of the parking lot, the shadow of the patrol car streaking out towards the perimeter, Officer Bailey approached his vehicle and pulled open the door, the light within instantly firing into life as he climbed inside and locked the doors. A shake of the head Bailey sank back into his seat, oblivious to the constant snapping of the camera lens from a car buried deep in the shadows of an alleyway across the road. The photographer within placing a disfigured hand upon the steering wheel and giving a laborious, painful smile.

"Gotcha."