Chapter 4

As she stared into the mirror of her motel bathroom, Nica finished blow drying her hair and set the hairdryer down besides the sink, taking special care to turn it off at the switch. As she finished leaning over and returned to her normal seated position her bathrobe slipped, exposing the scarring from her life saving operation at the hands of Dr Hastelow. She ran her finger across the top of her bare breast and cringed as she felt the raised skin, the ugly texture of her stitches. She gradually pulled herself together and tried to shake off the feeling of impending doom, failure. Whatever it was that had kept her awake half the night. Leaving the bathroom, she took in the smell of freshly cooked bacon, eggs, French toast and coffee. She hadn't been too hungry when she'd finally woken, around 8am, but something had told her to eat. Probably common sense, she figured that the last thing she was going to get chance to do today was eat. Nearing the window and pulling back the curtains, she stared out into the parking lot of Alder Court Motel, the sun washing in from the east as the traffic slowly built into a steady stream of semis, station wagons, yellow cabs and limousines. Today looked like a good day, not a cloud in the sky. As she looked at the clock in her room, Nica spun and grabbed the fork from her breakfast tray, a mouthful of bacon and French toast washed down with a sip of the piping hot coffee. She still had time before her ride to Forest Hills so decided to once again go through the notes she had pieced together from her internet research. Various articles, photographs, web forums discussing the legend that was Chucky, but nothing stuck out. Nothing leapt forward, screaming at her to pay any closer attention. She figured that unless she could find some clue, some branch from which to chase up new leads, there was no point in carrying on to Chicago that afternoon. She was about to give up, her brain unable to concentrate anymore on the same pages. Until, that was, she noticed a picture. There he was, Charles Lee Ray, or what was left of him anyway. Dead, lifeless, immediately after being gunned down by Detective Mike Norris. Something hit home, at the back of her mind sparks were igniting, her memory kicking into action at last. Flipping back through her notes Nica landed on another picture, this one was of a six year old Andy Barclay, smiling, cuddling his beloved Good Guy doll. Dated December 29th 1988, the headline read:

'IS THIS DOLL CURSED?
Boy says Chucky did it!'

Nica gave the article another look over, trying to remember what it was that she had noticed. Something, there was something there, she was sure of it. Then she saw it. Both articles, the stories, both from the same paper, even better they were credited to the same reporter, Steven Coleman. Picking up her cell phone, Nica knew it was a long shot, but decided it was better to have a stab in the dark and come out with nothing. What was the worst that could happen? She phones the paper, they tell her he doesn't work there any more, big deal. After Googling the name of the paper, she finally found a phone number for the news desk and pressed the number with her thumb, the phone asking her one final time if she was sure she wanted to make the call. Agreeing to make the call she sat back and dropped her notes on her lap, stretching her free arm as she yawned again, before bringing her hand down and ruffling her hair. Suddenly the ringing was broken, the sound of an office environment immediately blaring down the line. Phones ringing, people shouting, hectic.

"Chicago Chronicle, news desk." The female voice answered with a bright, cheerful disposition.

"Hello?" Nica replied. "This is probably a long shot. I'm looking through some old articles, and I'm trying to reach a reporter. Would you be able to tell me if he still works there?" Nica politely enquired.

"Let me see." The voice came back. "How long back are you talking?"

"Erm..." Nica struggled for a moment, her mind wiped out in a millisecond. "About twenty six years?" She laughed slightly.

The woman down the other end of the phone gave a whistle, as if to say 'I seriously doubt it', before coming back with something a little more friendly.

"I wouldn't think so, but give me the name and let me ask around. What's the name you're chasing?" She asked Nica.

"Steven Coleman?" Nica answered calmly. "I know it's a big ask, but the worst you can say is no right?"

"Well honey," The voice replied. "I can tell you, without a doubt, there ain't a Coleman working here now."

"Oh," Nica felt her heart drop a little. "I see."

After a few seconds of silence, the woman spoke again, perhaps sensing Nica's disappointment, maybe just in a good mood and feeling like going out of her way.

"Tell you what. You got a name and number for me to call you back?" She asked.

"Yes, why?" Nica responded.

"I'm trying to help you out here honey. Give me your name and number and I'll ask around the office. Maybe some of the older staff remember the guy." She offered.

"Really? I would really appreciate that, thank you so much." Nica beamed as she reeled off her name and cell number. Not the result she was hoping for, but she wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot.

"I can't promise nothing." The woman came back. "But I'll try my best. Give me an hour or so."

"That's amazing, thank you so much." Nica gushed as she hung up the call.

With nothing else to do, she decided to climb onto the bed and spend a little time watching TV. This was the only thing she was going to hate about being on the road, the luxuries that awaited the common person at home were never to be found in motels. Everything felt sterile, yet at the same time unclean and unfamiliar. As she lay on the bed she grabbed the remote and began flicking through the channels. Nothing exciting though, boring Nica to tears within minutes as she switched it back off and replaced the remote on the bed side table. She tried another mouthful of breakfast but found it hard to swallow, her body rejecting the food as the nerves in her stomach intensified severely. She must have sat for twenty minutes, staring vacantly as she went back over her notes, trying to notice if anything else seemed odd, out of place. 'There must be something in there' she thought as she turned the pages, the same articles, the same photographs, staring back, her mind unable to take anything else in. She was suddenly roused from her catatonic state as her phone started to ring and vibrate. Reaching forward and grabbing the phone from the bottom of the bed she looked at the Chicago number and felt a surge of anticipation as she answered the call.

"Hello?" She asked as she answered the phone.

"That Nica?" The familiar voice replied.

"Yes." She closed her eyes as she waited for the news. Would it be good, would it be bad?

"Bad news honey." The woman shot her down with her sentence. "That Coleman guy ain't worked here for over fifteen years."

"Shit!" Nica silently scolded herself for getting worked up.

"There's 'some' news though." The voice replied, sensing Nica's disappointment.

"There is?" Nica asked.

"Yup. One of the old guys here knows him. Won't give me the number, but says he works for a paper called the Chicago Times. You heard of that?"

"No. I can't say as I have." Nica replied, feeling her optimism, growing once more.

"Yeah, they think they're a cut above the likes of us." The woman angrily snapped. "By all means give them a call. They'll probably put you through. Tell them Pat told you to call."

"I will do. Thanks you so much for the help."

"No worries honey." The voice quickly disappeared amidst a backdrop of office noise, pandemonium in the background of the office.

Deciding to use her laptop, Nica fired it up and waited, downing the rest of her coffee, as it picked up the motels WiFi signal and logged onto Google. Running a search for the Chicago Times, she was immediately greeted by the homepage, the 'contact us' button only just visible in the bottom left corner of the screen. After clicking, Nica flicked through the numbers, carefully finding the one for the news desk. She carefully dialled the number and waited as the connection was made, the ringing of the phone broken almost at once as the more refined voice of a gentleman answered at the other end.

"Chicago Times?" He crowed. "How may I help?"

"Hi," Nica began. "I'm trying to reach a journalist you have. Goes by the name of Steven Coleman?"

"Ah yes," The voice recognising the name. "Mr Coleman? Do you have an appointment?"

"No," Nica answered, pulling a face as she realised she may have just let her one chance slip through her fingers. "Listen, I just want two minutes of his time. Please, put me through, if he doesn't want to talk to me then he can hang up himself, I'll never bother him again."

"I'm afraid Mr Coleman operates a rather tight ship with calls and appointments." The tone of the voice becoming a little too snobby for Nica.

"I'm just wanting to make an enquiry. Some work he did a long time ago. Tell him Pat told me to call." Fierceness creeping into Nica's voice. More of a demand than a request.

Silence. The worst noise Nica had come to know recently.

"Hold please." The voice replied.

Nica heard the familiar beep of the 'hold' tone as she waited for the call to connect, finally getting to speak to the name on the reports in front of her. The phone was picked up pretty quickly, the low, growling voice of Steven Coleman filling the ear piece.

"This is Steven Coleman." He barked. "Who is this?"

"Mr Coleman." Nica started. "Hi, you don't know me, my name is Nica Pirce, and I'm so sorry for bothering you, but I need to ask a couple of questions about a story you covered twenty six years ago."

"My god." He seemed taken aback. "Twenty six years is a damned long time. You know how many stories I've covered in that time?" He gave a laugh as he spoke.

"Charles Lee Ray!" The words left Nica cold as her icy tone travelled down the line, the laughter stopping immediately.

"Jesus." Coleman whispered. "Who did you say you were again?"

"Listen Mr. Coleman." She interrupted.

"Steven, please." He requested.

"Steven," Nica corrected herself. "I'm trying to piece together a whole heap of files here. I've been through everything. The internet, archives, paper clippings, Wikipedia..."

"You don't wanna pay any attention to Wikipedia." Steven immediately replied calmly.

"I know." Nica agreed. "It's just that nothing adds up. No two reports seem to be the same, there's no consistency, everybody's telling it from a different point of view."

"I getcha Nica." She could hear him taking another drag from his cigarette as he spoke. "Nobody knew what was happening around that time, the reports were thin on the ground. I know exactly what you mean."

"You do?" Nica was astonished.

"Sure I do. You're on about the doll right?" His voice turned to a whisper, a seriousness taking over his tone.

"Yes." Nica replied quietly.

"I remember that all too well." He carried on speaking quietly, as though he were afraid somebody would be eavesdropping.

"What happened? I need to know." Nica begged.

"Nobody took it seriously. I didn't to be honest. But I was young, that was one of my first big stories, helped get me where I am today." He carried on. "I knew nobody else would be running with the rantings of some insane mother and her troubled kid. That's what made me chase it. Made me take advantage of the fact nobody else would be competing with me on it."

"How do you mean?" Nica began to get confused.

"That story about Charles Lee Ray. Everybody ran that, my reports hardly raised an eyebrow. He was the god damned Lakeshore Strangler. You know the kinda curfews, roadblocks and random searches that were carried out trying to catch that guy?" Steven explained. "Naturally when Norris shot him dead, the whole thing blew up, his face was everywhere. But then a week or so later, that kid, his mom. Nobody cared, nobody covered it. But to me it stood out. Something that could help me up the ladder."

"I see," Nica realised. "Is that why your articles are the most popular from after the death of Charles Lee Ray?"

"I guess so. I didn't even know they were still out there." He answered honestly. "But I guess with all this archive stuff and the worldwide web, you can find just about anything now."

"One question. You seemed to have a lot of information. Do you mind me asking where you found all this out?" Nica asked, hoping not to push too far and offend.

"I'm gonna be honest... What did you say your name was? Nica?" He struggled.

"Yes, Nica." She replied immediately.

"I'm gonna be honest with you Nica. When you're just starting out in this game, you need all the help you can get. So... You know... Occasionally, you might have to grease a few palms. Know what I mean?"

"You mean bribes?" She asked.

"Basically yeah." He sighed as he admitted it. "But that was a long time ago."

"Who did you bribe?" She asked, feeling herself nearing yet another milestone in the ensuing research.

"It was just a cop that was pretty involved. I slipped him a few dollars, he managed to pull me Ray's file. There wasn't anything about no doll in that though. What he told me about that was basically face to face, after everything went to shit with the woman and her kid."

"This file. Do you still have it?" Nica cut in, panic in her voice.

"Hell no. I got rid of that as soon as the story went to print. To be honest the whole thing scared the shit outta me." Steven Coleman replied.

"I need a copy. Not just the file either, I need to know everything he knew from back then. This guy, this cop. Is he still on the force?" Nica asked, urgency streaking through her words.

"Last I knew he was. See his name down at the courts from time to time." Steven answered. "I can't tell you his name though Nica. As far as I'm concerned, this is something I don't want to get too close to. I figure you'd be wise taking the same approach."

"Believe me Mr Coleman. I've had this entire thing up to here. I'm doing this with or without your help. Even if I have to visit every police precinct in Chicago and ask for the cop that accepted a bribe from you twenty six years ago. Do you understand?" Venom now injected, her words flowing down the lines and arriving in Steven's ears with a knockout blow.

"Listen, let's not be too rash." He pleaded. "I didn't say I wouldn't help you. But I want one thing."

"What's that?" She asked.

"Leave me out of this. The whole thing stunk back in 1988, and it still stinks today. That's one episode I don't wanna revisit any time soon."

"Fair enough. How exactly do you plan on helping me out?" She calmly replied.

"Leave me your number. I'll get in touch with the guy and ask him to give you a call. Whether he does or not, is up to him. You know that, it's nothing to do with me." Steven spoke in a relaxed manner.

"Well let's hope for your sake that he does." Nica responded. "You want my number then?"

"Well that'd be a start," He nervously laughed. "Be warned though. If he does anything for you, it'll be at a price, and it won't be cheap."

"Don't worry Mr Coleman." Nica looked out of the window as the traffic roared past. "Money won't be a problem."

With that, Nica left her number before hanging up the phone and proceeding to pack her things ready for the trip to Forest Hills Cemetery.

Hopefully she'd now have some idea where to start looking when she reached Chicago

Another avenue to explore.

The cab turned off highway 46 and down the dirt track leading up to Forest Hills cemetery, gently, slowly making its way, the dirt parting gradually under the wheels as they rolled. Nica was surprised at just how beautiful it was. The luscious green forest surrounding the grave yard bestowed a mellow and tender feeling to visitors as they swung in to the run down car park, wildlife everywhere the eyes could see. Squirrels climbed trees, scampering along branches with nuts, no doubt intended for hibernation as the winter rapidly approached. In the distance of the forest, Nica made out a deer, a young buck, grazing in the clearing beyond the barrier of trees lining the car park, birds flying from one tree to the next, swooping, whistling and hopping along the ground, desperately searching for food. Nica turned, taking in the view from the opposite window in the back of the yellow cab, the car park practically empty, just a solitary station wagon parked up beside the log cabin, presumably the caretaker's. The cab crept to a halt, the brakes whining a touch, a ratchet-like noise coming from the underneath as the driver applied the handbrake. As Nica looked over the white picket fence and into the graveyard, she felt a shudder wash over her as she noticed the rows and rows of headstones. She'd never liked these places, not since she was a kid. She'd been taken to see her father's grave for the first time, ever since finding out from Barb that he had indeed passed away, and had become overwhelmed with emotion. Hyperventilating and panicking as she took in the mass of headstones, the fact hundreds of corpses lay beneath her, she had almost blacked out, her mother having to calm her. Ever since that day she had an uneasy relationship with them, seldom visiting, and that was the way she intended for it to remain. She was shaken out of her day dreaming stupor as the cab driver yanked open her door, once again stepping aside to reveal her wheelchair. The cold steel prison to which she had been sentenced since birth, in fact no... Before that, sat before her, waiting to make her complete. She shuffled over the back seat and grabbed the wheelchair, lifting herself from the back of the cab and into the soft leather seat she had become so accustomed to. The cab driver slammed the door behind her and struck a match, lighting the already half smoked cigarette gripped between his lips. Nica turned to look at him. Old, short and grey haired he'd obviously had a hard life, smoking just one of few enjoyments available to him as he worked whichever hours he could to make an honest living. He noticed Nica looking and removed the cigarette from his lips.

"What's the plan then?" He asked, removing the cigarette butt and flashing Nica a nicotine stained smile.

"Are you okay to wait?" Nica asked.

"As long as the meter's running, I'll be here all day." He answered, shuffling his scruffy feet, kicking up a cloud of dust as he leant back against the cab.

"That's fine with me. I don't know how long I'll be." She replied. "I don't even know what I'm looking for if I'm being honest."

"Friend of yours in there?" The cab driver enquired diligently.

"No." Nica smiled, shaking her head and closing her eyes as the sun hit her face. "More a ghost that needs exorcising really."

"I hear ya." The driver laughed. "Ya know a lot of people say 'don't speak ill of the dead', all that stuff. But ya know what I say?"

"What?" Nica asked, her curiosity taking over slightly.

"Fuck that. If you'll pardon the language Miss." He held his hands up. "Way I see it, we all start off a blank canvas. If somebody chooses to be an ass, then that's their call. If they were an ass when they were alive, then they'll still be an ass long after they're dead. Say it as you see it."

Nica laughed.

"Well, that's..." She paused. "... Some way to think. I'll bear that in mind."

"Trust me. That's the only way to think." He carried on. "I had this neighbour a few years back. Asked to borrow my lawnmower. A few months later I say to the wife, 'Hey. That jerk still has my lawnmower.' So she tells me to go ask for it back. Which I did. Know what the jerk says?"

Nica shook her head, her smile growing as the tale spun on.

"He says, 'That's my lawnmower.' Now I know this guy's lying his ass off. So I call him on it. Call him a thieving piece of shit."

"Wow." Nica said, struggling to grasp the significance to her situation.

"Two weeks later, the guy drops dead. Has a connery, or something like that." The cab driver went on.

"Oh my god." Nica was shocked. "You mean he had a coronary?"

"Yeah, one of those!" The driver lifted a long vein covered arm, pointing in agreement at Nica. "You know the moral of the story?"

"Not really..." Nica replied, now well and truly confused.

"He was a lying piece of shit when he was alive. Just because he died didn't make him a damned saint. So he's now a 'dead' lying piece of shit!" He paused a second, thinking. "Come to think of it, his wife still has my lawnmower!"

Nica had to laugh. Not so much at what the driver had said, but more the way he said it. Argue as much as she could, Nica did have to concede that there was indeed some logic to the cab drivers thinking.

"I'm going to..." She pointed over her shoulder to the entrance to the graveyard.

"No problems. I'll be waiting right here." He replied.

Turning, Nica made her way over the uneven dirt and to the paved path leading into the cemetery, the sign above the arched entrance displaying a 'Welcome To Forest Hills Cemetery' to all visitors. She wondered where to start looking as she entered, the vast area suddenly seeming much larger than she had originally envisioned. Luckily there was a plan beside the gate, displaying the various rows, columns and sections of the graveyard. As she carefully ran her finger along the list of occupants, she stopped as she found the line in question.

Ray, Charles L – Row 16, Line 3

Looking up and taking a deep breath Nica began to move, her chest feeling tight as she rolled, trying not to exert too much force. It took her a while before she noticed the numbers delicately placed along each of the rows of graves. She casually looked around, gently wheeling herself forward, taking in the sight of the hundreds of graves and headstones. Many were topped with fresh flowers, pictures of the deceased person as they would have looked in their prime, some had candles, long burnt out, the wick running to the end, fading and leaving nothing but a smouldering memory of a once bright flame. Nica reckoned that was a perfect analogy for life really. Starting off with sudden, instant, ignition and burning bright. Sometimes brighter than others but more often than not, constantly in peril, danger of being extinguished prematurely. Only a few managing to hold the flame until the very end and fading in a natural death. Before she knew it, Nica had reached row 16 and looked along to the third grave. The huge slab of cement, cracked and protruding from the earth like a vile tribute to one of hells rejects, all the while bearing the name of none other than that sick son of a bitch Charles Lee Ray. Nica didn't know what to think exactly as she came to a stop at the foot of the grave, the grass under her wheelchair making it incredibly hard to manoeuvre. She crossed her hands across her chest and started rubbing her forearms, a chill spreading over her, despite the unusually warm weather. There was nothing here. Just a head stone with the name and date of death. November 9th 1988, the day before Nica's birthday, which was exactly as he had told her months ago as she lay prone on the floor of her vast hallway back home. Chucky standing over her, knife in hand, relaying the tale of his rejection by Nica's mother, teasing her as he took full responsibility for her condition, the paralysis, everything. He had sickened Nica to her very core as he spat his vile version of events, all the while Nica waiting for a chance to get away, the lights flickering into action at the vital moment, Chucky slipping on her blood as he gave chase. Nica was so lost in her thoughts that she jumped a mile as the caretaker came to a stop alongside her, his wheelbarrow hitting the dirt with a dull thud. She jumped a mile and instantly reached for her chest as she felt her heart begin to race, the stitching above her left breast beginning to feel tighter and tighter, shock rippling through her.

"Woah," The old man turned, putting his up his hands in a gesture of friendship. "You alright there?" He gasped.

Nica nodded, taking a moment to compose herself, her chest banging, as though somebody was trapped inside, attempting to break through with a hammer. As she caught her breath, she gave the caretaker a once over. Early to mid sixties, scruffily dressed in his torn jeans, checked shirt and Yankees baseball hat, he had a weathered face, half hidden behind a wealth of grey stubble, his sun glasses perched on the end of his crooked nose. Nica knew a victim of a broken nose when she saw one, and this guy definitely fit the bill. He didn't look the kind to go looking for fights though, small and wiry, probably no more than 140lbs wet through. His look was one of shock as he had seen Nica's reaction to his sudden presence. As the beating and throbbing pain began to subside, Nica grimaced, it had seriously felt like she was being stabbed again.

"I'm okay." She finally whispered as she pulled her hands from her chest. "You just caught me by surprise that's all."

"Well if it makes you feel any better you almost gave me a heart attack too with that reaction." He laughed as he removed his baseball hat, wiping his brow as he ran the sleeve of his checked shirt across it, sweat trickling down his forehead from his ruffled, spiky grey hair. He replaced the hat and carried on chewing his gum.

"Yeah, I just had no idea anybody was there." Nica explained.

"I know what you mean." He replied with a smile, turning to look at the head stone. "This a friend of yours? Family member?" He asked.

"No." Nica quietly answered. "Just paying a visit. Trying to get my head around things really."

"I see." The old man sighed as he lifted his hand to Nica. "Ted Langford, Forest Hills caretaker. Ain't a grave in this place I don't know."

"Really?" Nica asked with a smile.

"Yep. All except one really." He continued as he chewed his gum and placed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "That being this one."

"How do you mean?" Nica asked. "Besides knowing the name and a date of death, what is there to really know?"

"You'd be surprised." Ted swung the top half of his body to look at Nica again. "Lots of visitors here, usually happy to sit and talk with an old fool like me. Never get anybody to this one though."

"I can't imagine why." Nica turned to look at the head stone again, a chill once again falling over her shoulders.

"Used to get the odd gang of kids come up here sometimes." He carried on talking. "They'd fetch a few beers, smoke a cigarette, some used to fetch these ugly little dolls, lay 'em across the grave. Always the same time of the year too, around about the time the guy died."

"Are you shitting me?" Nica spat before she could think again.

"No ma'am. They don't do it so much nowadays. Never did understand what the hell it was all about. I know one thing though. Those kids used to leave a damned mess. Beer cans, cigarette butts."

"I can imagine that being a pain. Especially when you keep the place so lovely. It really is beautiful up here." Nica complimented Ted.

"Well that's nice of you to say. I'm sorry I didn't catch your name..." Ted asked.

"Nica." She replied.

"Nica?" He seemed taken aback. "Never heard that one before. That really is a peach of a name though Nica." He smiled.

"So," Nica started. "You say nobody ever comes up here?"

"Nope. You're the first I've seen in..." Ted leaned back, hands in pockets as he exhaled, his lips rippling as he struggled to think. "... Probably about fifteen years. Give or take a year or two."

"Really?" She looked confused, her eyes flitting from the grave, then back to Ted. "Somebody else used to come up here?"

"Yup, every year for about nine or ten years." He replied. "Pretty little thing, blonde hair, beautiful figure, had legs that went all the way..." He stopped, forgetting he was addressing a female. "Well, you get the picture. Always figured it was a girlfriend or something like that."

"What makes you say that?" Nica asked.

"Just the way she was at the burial. Then every year when she came up here to pay her respects. Never during the day either, always last thing on an evening, just before I locked up for the night. Snappy little thing too. Asked her if she was alright and she damn near bit my head off one time." Ted explained.

"But I thought you said kids came up here during the night?" Nica enquired. "If she wanted to come up here as late as possible, be alone, wouldn't she just have come up here after everybody had gone?"

"They did." Ted answered Nica. "But they came over the fences down the bottom. The way that girl dressed, she'd have been in no state to climb any damned fence, let me tell you that."

"Did she ever tell you her name?" Nica asked again, hoping this may lead to another branch for her to grasp as she landed in Chicago.

"Afraid not. Only name I ever got out of her was Chucky." Ted responded as he crossed his arms. "And that was only because she had it tattooed over her right tit, along with one of those damned tacky heart things."

"Chucky?" Nica's eyes wandered as she tried to figure out who this woman could be.

"Yeah. Always figured it was a nickname for this guy right here." Ted nodded in the direction of the grave.

"You said she stopped coming. Can you remember when?" Nica asked, pumping Ted for more answers.

"Oh I dunno." He closed his eyes and massaged his temples with his thumb and middle finger. "Maybe about 1998, 1999. Before the turn of the millennium. I know that much."

"And did you say she was at the burial?" Nica asked again. "How do you know that?"

"Well that's an easy one." He laughed as he answered the question. "I was the guy that buried him!"

Nica leaned back, surprise written all over her face.

"Don't be too surprised." Ted carried on. "I've been here thirty four years Nica. Figure the day I go they won't have to carry me far. Hell they could probably just roll me a few feet and drop me in one of the fresh graves down the far end." He laughed again.

"Was there anything unusual about the funeral?" She frantically begged. "Anything you can remember?"

"Come to think of it the flowers were pretty freaky." Ted looked up as he tried to dig in to his memory. "Kinda like two snakes, intertwined or something. Very peculiar. Almost like they were eating each other. I remember thinking that was one hell of a wreath."

"Anything else?" Nica continued to interrogate Ted, her flight for Chicago looming in the next few hours, her time scarce.

"Just the turn out really. Nobody there except the blonde girl. All she did was cry. Threw a single flower on the coffin after I'd lowered him in." He looked at the grave again. "A white one if I remember right."

"A white what? A flower?" Nica enquired as she pulled her cell phone from her purse, the time later than she had thought.

"Yeah." Ted noticed her looking at the time. "Figured it had some special kinda significance. Couldn't tell you what though."

"Nothing else except the flowers?" She asked again.

"Not for the funeral. It was probably about the time Blondie stopped showing up that things started to get weird." His eyes widened as he spoke.

"When was this again?" Nica had to ask, struggling to remember.

"Late nineties like I said." Ted answered. "Yeah, we got a call one day saying we'd to get ready for some federal guy coming down here. Police wanted to exhume the grave, never said what for though."

"Exhume?" Nica repeated to herself.

"Means to dig him up." Ted cheekily responded, leaning over and smiling.

"I know what it means Ted." Nica laughed. "I was just curious why. I'd read something about this on the internet but there wasn't much. In fact I'd forgotten about it to be honest."

"That's on the interweb, or whatever you kids call it?" Ted looked alarmed.

"Only a little." Nica replied with a smile. "What happened after that?"

"Well," Ted began. "We come down the day after, there's police, ambulances. The grave's wide open, coffin open, the damned skeleton of this guy staring up at us all. That was some weird shit."

"Why so weird?" Nica looked confused. "Aren't all exhumations pretty similar?"

"Not this one it wasn't." Ted continued. "There was a damned doll in there with the body, somebody had fired a few rounds into it. Ugly little thing it was. Ginger hair, stitches all over it. The guy that was digging the grave had been shot, lord only knows why."

"That is a mystery." Nica sighed.

"Then over there." Ted lifted his arm and pointed over to the other side of the graveyard. "That was where we found the other doll."

"Other doll?!" Nica was shocked. What did he mean?

"That's right. Over there, near the oak tree." He answered as he lowered his arm and returned his gaze to Nica.

"Had that been shot too?" She asked.

"Hell if I know. It'd been burnt pretty bad though." Ted finished.

"So what happened then?" Nica looked at the time again. She'd have to get moving soon.

"Last I knew, the cops took pictures, carted away the dolls, we filled the grave in and the rest was history. We never heard another word about it. In fact, that's the first time I've spoke about that in years." Ted replied.

Sensing their time had come to an end, Nica opened her purse and removed twenty dollars. She casually lifted her arm and extended her hand.

"Well Ted. It's been a pleasure, but I've got a flight to catch. Thank you so much for the chat."

"What the hell's that for?" He asked, noticing the money.

"Just get yourself a beer or something. It's for the information. You've been more than helpful." She replied.

"Hell Nica. If I took money from everybody I talked to, then there'd be no need for me to be here." He laughed waving the money away.

"Are you sure?" Nica asked.

"Hell yeah." He replied.

With that Nica said her farewells to Ted, fully unaware that from the far end of the graveyard, a figure lurked in the shadows of the forest, binoculars raised watching her every move. As he watched them shake hands he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket and dialled a number, the ringing of the line instantly blaring from the speaker. As Ted grabbed the handles of his wheelbarrow, Nica carefully wheeled herself back onto the path and towards the waiting cab. The driver opening the rear door and throwing his cigarette to the ground as she approached. The figure stood, waiting for the ringing to end, for somebody to finally answer his call, his broad shoulders and huge 6' 4" figure finding it hard to lurk without being spotted. His Caribbean, possibly Haitian, origin not only evident in his appearance, but also in his thick West Indian accent as the ringing finally stopped and a voice quietly spoke down the line.

"Speak." The voice said. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Tell the old man he was right." The shadowy figure exclaimed as he spoke into the phone. "She is here."

Nica had no idea she was being followed as she was dropped at the departure gate of JFK International airport, paying the cab driver and once more giving him a rather generous tip for the service he had offered throughout her very brief stay in New York. The Caribbean gentleman stood in departures, looking for Nica, finding it incredibly difficult with her short stature, but suddenly spotting her at the departure desk. His eyes quickly flicked up towards the display above the check in desk, searching her destination. He couldn't believe it as the sign flicked over from the time to reveal his next destination as he continued following Nica, just as he had done lately.

Chiacgo.

He was going home.

As Nica passed through security, she grabbed her personal belongings from the tray as it was gradually fed along the conveyor belt, taking her time to put her phone in her pocket and her purse on her lap before returning the tray to the end of the conveyor where a security guard sat, monitoring all manner of 'carry on' items as they passed slowly through the x-ray machine. She hated security control at the airport. Her chair made her a prime target for the metal detectors as she passed through. The majority of security officers took pity and simply waved her through. But there was always one that decided to be an ass. Luckily she hadn't encountered that guard tonight and was happy to finally be through to the departure lounge where she could relax before the few hours flight it would take to reach Chicago. As she stopped outside a Starbucks, she heard her phone ringing. Placing her hand in the pocket of her jeans, she also felt it vibrating, reminding her of an angry wasps nest Barb had once thrust into her lap when she was just a kid. The caller's number was withheld, which Nica figured could only mean one thing.

This was the call she had been waiting for.

"Hello?" She answered the call, lifting the phone to her ear, struggling to hear amidst the throngs of people racing left, right and centre through the terminal.

"Miss Pirce?" The rough voice asked, quiet, yet somehow very vocal.

"Yes," She replied, trying to block out the noise around her. "Who is this?"

"This is your friend from Chicago." The voice shot back. "I've been asked to call you by our mutual friend."

"Yes, that's right." She was thrilled to finally be getting somewhere. "Can you help me?"

The voice took on a hint of nastiness, turning suddenly stern.

"Listen." The rough voice barked down the line. "I don't know why you're sniffing around this thing. I seriously don't. There's no need. Just leave it!"

"No," Nica gasped. "I just want to know..." She was immediately interrupted.

"You don't want to know anything. From what I hear you already know more than you need to. Just leave it. You don't know what the fuck you're getting into with this thing. What you're letting yourself in for!" The voice seemed desperate to dissuade Nica.

"Believe me I do." She spat back, trying to get a word in. "Charles Lee Ray is the..." Cut off again. The voice getting angrier as it spoke.

"Charles Lee Ray is dead. He's a damned ghost." The voice hollered at her, startling her. "Leave it Miss Pirce. That's a warning!"

With that the line went dead. Whoever it was had decided before even making the call that they were in no mood to help. Now with no new lead, nothing to cling onto, Nica sat and lost all hope as she patiently sat and waited for her flight.

She had nothing.

Nothing except dead ends.

But that would change.

Back in the departure terminal the Caribbean stranger stood in line. His freshly purchased ticket to Chicago gripped in his fist as he patiently waited to pass through the departure desk and into security.

Next stop home.