"The Chameleon"

Chapter Six

Jim was in a light sleep when he felt something prick his arm. He jumped, and his senses told him he was no longer in the hospital. The air smelled different, musty and damp. And he was chilled, his bare skin rippling with the cold air, causing goose bumps to spring up across his arms and chest.

Shifting, he moved to stand more squarely on his feet when his shoulders sent screaming alarms of pain racing through his body. He groaned from the sudden effect and raised his head. Glancing upward, Jim knew why his shoulders caused such pain. He was hanging with his hands bound and hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The sparse length of the rope barely allowed him to stand on his feet without being on his toes. His upright arms had been supporting his weight for God only knew how long.

"Oh, I'm glad you decided to awaken," a woman whispered into his ear, her Peruvian accent ringing with disgust and Jim recognized the voice in an instant.

He looked around the darkened room, but he didn't see anything that told him where he was, except that the room was a mess, as if someone vacated the place without worrying about getting their cleaning deposit back. "Where are we?"

The unknown killer smiled a cold smile. "In your tomb."

Jim showed no outward change, but inside his thoughts swirled like the back draft of a jet engine. When had she kidnapped him from the hospital? How long had he been out? His mind felt like day old oatmeal, thick and gooey. He shook his head to clarify his thinking, but the motion did nothing to help.

It did thrill his captor though. She chuckled without mercy. "Still disoriented? Do not

worry, I plan on keeping you off balance until I take your life, but you will suffer for days until then and it will seem like an eternity."

"You're going to get caught," Jim said as he felt the first hints of drug taking control of his mind.

"No, I'm going to kill you," she said, dragging a long fingernail down his cheek, "Just like my partner killed the guard outside your door last night."

Jim's attention was riveted on her. "What?"

He was started to gasp for air, but tried to stay alert enough to talk to her and find out the reason for her hatred of him. She smiled, but there was malice in her eyes. "He would have been . . . a bothersome hindrance to our plan, so my accomplice took care of him, and then we took you out of the hospital in a wheelchair."

"Damn," Jim uttered as the appearance of the room started to change around him, interfering with the guilt and grief that came with her announcement.

The woman laughed and Jim could smell her perfume waft over him. It seemed like the drug pushed his hyperactive senses up into yet another level of sensitivity. Maybe if he could scale back his senses, he could stay alert and not pass out. Tuning out as much as he could, Jim focused on her alone.

She was speaking to him again. "That is hard for you, is it not? Knowing others are dead because they were trying to defend you. Typical American boy scout mentality. But it is a pattern in your life."

Jim licked his lips and turned his head in her direction. He couldn't actually see her with the drug coursing through his system. It obscured his vision with a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, but Jim knew she was still standing beside him.

"What do you mean?"

"You are actually able to have a conversation with me? Well, this is very interesting, boy scout. Very interesting. I was speaking of being responsible for the death of innocents around you. Like those at Enrique's mansion. Like those at the café in Lima. And probably countless people between that time and now."

Jim's head popped up. "Enrique? Enrique Villanueva?"

"So you remember. I am glad you do, because it will be the reason for your death!" She slapped him hard on the face.

The pain of her blow helped to keep him coherent, and gave him focus. Suddenly, his senses were back within his control again. He pulled on the rope, hoping to find a weakness in it that would free him, but it remained strong. His overtaxed wrists throbbed with the effort. What little he could see revealed the skin around his wrists was red and puffed above and below where his hands were bound together by the coarse rope.

Jim shivered again and realized he was only wearing the thin pajama bottoms the hospital had given him. He bit his lip as he decided he would let her think he was out of it, so he played up his symptoms as much as possible and let her talk. His head dropped forward and he moved his lips as if he was hallucinating again.

"You ruined my life! And the lives of many others. We cannot allow you to live while Enrique is dead." She hit Jim again with a blow to his diaphragm. His breathing problems intensified, but he was determined to stay with her.

"I don't know . . . what you mean," Jim said through gasping breaths. Part of him was role-playing, but another part was definitely succumbing to the influences of the drug.

"James Ellison, you have been tried by our court and you will be executed when the time is right. But not tonight. I've already killed three times in your name today and that is enough for now."

Three times? The words echoed through his disjointed thoughts. Who else did she kill besides Torres and Caldwell? Before he could consider the mystery, his head snapped to one side as she gave him another vicious slap. He opened his eyes and glared at her, only to see her holding something up in front of his eyes.

It was a wallet. A man's wallet. His vision was too affected to read the name or even see the picture ID, but he knew in his gut who it had belonged to. Kenny McCormack. He wrestled with his ropes, pulling at fibers that dug into irritated skin. "What have you done?" he asked, his words filled with venom.

She chuckled. "Why, I've killed your old Army buddy. After all, he was an accomplice to your murdering ways."

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, grieving for McCormack and regretting the fact that he'd been the one to bring Kenny into this mess. And with his lapse in focus, the drug's effects descended upon him with full force. He felt like he was gliding through the air like a hawk soaring on a thermal updraft, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He was distantly aware of her grabbing his chin and squeezing hard, and then her voice echoed inside his head, sending him on a frightening psychedelic roller-coaster ride. "I'm not done killing yet. You took people away from me. I've taken people away from you, and soon I will kill you, but you won't die a simple death. You are a strong man, I will give you that. In fact, I hope you fight us every step of the way. It will make things so much better that way."

Jim swallowed hard, trying to reacquire the control he'd held before, but his momentum had been lost and so was he, lost in a distorted world where anything could happen and he had no control over what did occur.

In his drug-induced haze, something clicked and Jim suddenly knew who had kidnapped him. It was a ghost from his past. Anna Cordova, Enrique Villanueva's mistress and second-in-command. "I know who you are, Anna," he said through clenched teeth.

"I see your detective skills are still functioning even if your body is not. I am glad you know who I am because it will be even more satisfying this way."

She laughed again and her laughter resounded in his head, almost drove him to madness with its incessant ring. He was filled with fear and dread, blending with his guilt of three lives lost for nothing. The overall effect sent him plummeting into the abyss, and thankfully he passed out.

Blair was asleep on the sofa when the insistent ringing of the phone woke him up. Grumbling, he sat up, looking around for the telephone and found it on the coffee table. "Damn, I just fell asleep."

He rubbed his face and looked at his watch again. "Three in the morning. This is not good news. Nothing good calls at three A.M.."

He caught the call before its next ring. "Sandburg," he said curtly.

"Blair, it's Simon."

"What's happened?" Blair asked in a rush.

"Jim's gone from his hospital room. They can't find him anywhere on the hospital grounds."

Blair swallowed hard and put on his glasses as if they would clear the cobwebs from sleep and make him more alert. Simon continued, "And Carl Caldwell was found dead in a supply room."

Sandburg rubbed a hand over his face and cursed under his breath. "She's got Jim."

"That's the only possible conclusion. I've upgraded the APB for her to include the kidnaping of a police officer and sent it out to all of the law enforcement agencies."

"What do we do now?"

There was a pause on the telephone. "Wait. And pray that someone somewhere comes across the bulletin and contacts us with information."

"God, Simon, isn't there someth-"

"No, Sandburg, there's nothing else to be done at the moment. I'm sorry I had to awaken you, but I knew you'd want to know."

Blair responded with some off-the-cuff comments before saying good-bye, but they were only words to Blair and words didn't equal the fist in his gut that was squeezing his insides. He wandered aimlessly around the living room until his gaze paused on a picture Jim had displayed on his entertainment center.

Blair recognized Kenny McCormack first, and sighed with sadness as he picked up the photograph. McCormack had been found dead the previous evening the apparent victim of a mugging. The man's wallet and rings were missing.

Licking his lips, Blair stared at the other men in the photo before finally coming to a stop at Jim's face. "Jim, maybe there is a way I can help you," he said in a rush as he carried the picture with him and headed up to Jim's bedroom. Soon, he returned to the sofa with Jim's address book and the color photo in hand.

As he flipped through the pages, Blair made notes of the names Jim had said were with him at the café. Kenny, Butch, Joey, Karl, and Jake. They were all there, spread out across the pages of Jim's address book as a visual trail of the people who were woven into the fabric of Jim's life.

He tapped his notes with his pencil. "Jim might not be able to remember everything that happened, but I bet one of these guys has information we can use."

He splashed some water on his face, ran a towel over it, and grabbed his jacket. He was now on a mission. A mission to save Jim's life. He could only pray his mission would be successful.

A blow to his stomach brought Jim back from unconsciousness. When Jim opened his eyes, he saw it was a man who had hit him, repeatedly if the overload of pain signals in his body were any sign of his current condition. Jim glanced around for Anna, but she wasn't to be seen. Jim watched his new adversary with a wary gaze. He saw another blow coming, but was unable to do anything about it except to brace himself. It was followed by another and another.

When there was a break from the constant blows, Jim studied the young man before him. He appeared to be in his twenties, strong and sinewy, but lean. He could have been a candidate for a Golden Glove award gauging by the complaints ringing throughout his body.

"Why . . . why are you in this?" Jim asked breathlessly.

The young man began hitting him again with gloved fists, now using Jim's body as a human punching bag. The wannabe boxer danced around him, striking different areas as he went. Jim closed his eyes and suffered in silence, except for an occasional grunt when he was hit by a particularly painful blow.

"You want to know why I am in this, murderer?" Jim's assailant asked with hate flashing from his dark brown eyes.

His accent revealed his Peruvian roots along with his darker skin tone and broad nose. Jim spat out spittle mixed with blood, but he didn't say anything. His opponent looked like he was going to answer him and he did.

"You are the reason! In your quest to make a name for yourself, you killed innocent women and children, including my father, my sister and most of my friends." The man was so emotional his chest was heaving and he was covered in sweat. He stopped to catch his breath before he stood in Jim's face and ranted.

"My home became a battle ground and my whole world was transformed into a morgue with your raid. The lesson I learned from that living nightmare was to use hatred as my best weapon. You taught me that. You brought me here. No one else. You chose the method of your death the minute you attacked that compound and I assure you it will not be a pleasant one."

"I guess it doesn't matter that your people killed two of our men."

The young man grunted as he adjusted his gloves. "Have you ever heard of self-defense? Please, do not make me laugh, senior."

"What's your name?"

"Ramon."

"Well, Ramon, I don't think you fully considered your mistake in kidnapping me. Grabbing a cop is like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Every able member of law enforcement will devote themselves to the task of finding me."

Again, Ramon chuckled as he drew a fist across his forehead to brush at his sweaty face. "If they can find us here, then we deserve to be caught."

Without warning, he spun around and kicked Jim in the chest with a crushing blow. Jim slumped in the aftermath. The only thing keeping him upright was the rope he was hanging from.

"That is enough for you now," Ramon whispered to Jim's closed eyes. Jim was trying not to take in large breaths, but instead used a series of rapid inhalations. His chest felt like it was caved in, but it was probably only a couple of ribs.

"Enough for the physical torture, that is."

Jim tensed in response. He knew what was coming. More drugs.

"Now it is time for the psychological pain," Ramon said as he approached Jim with a syringe.

Jim closed his eyes again and prepared for the worst. He wasn't disappointed as he heard himself screaming from a sudden burst of sensory overload moments after the needle pierced his skin.

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