Chameleon

by E. R. Torre

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  CHAMELEON

  By

  E. R. Torre

  The novel contained within this volume is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  Chameleon, Corrosive Knights, and all characters within this novel were created and are Copyright © 2011 E. R. Torre

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover and Interior Artwork by E. R. Torre

  Please visit my website: www.ertorre.com

  Comments or questions? Email me at: atrocket@aol.com

  ISBN: 0-9729115-6-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9729115-6-6

  PROLOGUE

  THE BLUE MOUNTAINS, ARIZONA

  October, 1925

  He awoke to the bitter taste of blood in his mouth and a searing pain coming from somewhere –he wasn’t quite sure where– below his chest. He tried to move his hands but couldn’t. He tried to move his feet and they wouldn’t. For a second, despair mixed with confusion filled his mind. Had he fallen? If so, was his neck broken? His spine? Was he paralyzed? He tried to remember what he was doing just before…just before the darkness.

  He tried to remember where he was.

  It was a little before ten in the morning. Even at that early hour, the desert sun was beating down hard and he was on his horse following a faint trail leading away from town and into the desert. He was thirsty and scared. Someone else, someone he cared for deeply, was also subjected to these unbearable conditions.

  The fear took a lifetime to lift. The pain below his chest eased, until he knew it was nothing more than a heavy bruise. His breathing grew more relaxed. He opened his eyes and, unwittingly, let out a moan. As he did, he detected movement from a few feet away. Beyond that moving shape laid the night sky and the stars. A vivid full moon looked down upon him and his companion. It was nearly midnight. There was the smell of rot in the area, of flesh baking in the sun…

  “You’re up, Sheriff?”

  The words came from the moving shape. The voice was ancient, timeless.

  The figure crouched before a small camp fire. In its flames, he saw the skeletally thin man. The smell of rot came from him. The skeletal man eyed the Sheriff for a few seconds, as if checking on livestock, before his attention returned to the fire.

  The Sheriff leaned back, exhausted. A cool breeze washed over the makeshift camp. It sent a prickly cloud of sand over him. The Sheriff closed his eyes, but just a little too late. Sand leaked into his watery eyes. He pulled forward, instinctively trying to bring his hands to his face. He couldn’t. The Sheriff tried again, harder. Still nothing. His hands were pinned, somehow stuck behind his back. No, not stuck. He was tied up.

  For a moment, the Sheriff felt an odd sense of relief. He was not paralyzed after all. Instead, he was a prisoner. He blinked several times, until his eyes were clear and he could see again. He stared down the length of his body and saw a thick rope tied around his legs, as well. The last of the fog lifted from his head. The painful memories returned in full.

  “Where is she?” he yelled.

  The winds shifted once again, sending smoke from the fire in his direction. He smelled cooking meat. The old man didn’t turn. His focus was on the meal. He was confident of how well he roped his captive.

  The Sheriff rolled to his left, pulling his body into a sitting position. He took a long, close look at his surroundings. He was lying at a corner of a cul de sac made up of enormous boulders. The Sheriff was somewhere in the Blue Mountains, of this he was sure. At some point, the old man ambushed him. The Sheriff was taken here, to the old man’s hiding place.

  The Sheriff moved his head, trying desperately to see more of the area. He spotted the old man’s camping gear laid out beside the fire. A sad, gnarled piece of wood lay to one side. A canteen, the Sheriff’s, sat on it. Off to either side of the campfire were deep crevasses in the rock, the way into and out of the cul de sac. Pitch black shadows marked each opening. The rest of the area consisted of walls of black rock.

  She was nowhere to be seen.

  His panic grew. The Sheriff stared hard at the old man, noting the crudely sown patchwork of fur covering his body. In the old days, when he was a little boy, he saw a few prospectors wear these crude, handmade clothes. None were quite this grotesque. Stitched into the left shoulder of the old man’s clothing was a raccoon’s head. Its eyes were hollow; its mouth open, as if delivering one final, horrible scream.

  “Where is she?” the Sheriff repeated. Though his voice was weak, there was plenty of venom left in his tone. He wanted the old man to turn, to acknowledge him. To say something. Anything. But the old man remained where he was by the campfire cooking his meal.

  The Sheriff shook his head. He could do little. He thrust his body up as high as he could while fighting the pull of the ropes. He caught more glimpses of area around the campfire. He saw shadows behind boulders and cracks in the stone walls. His daughter had to be near. She was tied up just like he was. She was hidden away. Somewhere close by.

  The smell of cooking meat grew stronger. Very dark thoughts came to the Sheriff’s mind.

  “Where is she?” he repeated a third time. His voice no longer carried any fury. There was more than a hint of fear.

  The old man stood up. In his withered hand was a long, thin twig. Speared through it was a strip of meat, freshly cooked. He faced the Sheriff.

  The old man’s face was smeared with mud and greasy filth. His stringy gray hair was pasted down. It looked like he hadn’t seen a bath in years. The old man’s eyes, however, were bright blue and almost glowed in the darkness, as if they possessed an inner light. The old man rubbed his free hand in the fur covering his chest. There, stitched into his clothing, was another animal’s head.

  A possum? The Sheriff wondered. Or perhaps a rat?

  This creature’s head was stretched beyond recognition. Its expression was also one of despair.

  “Your daughter’s not here,” the old man said. His voice was so bland it lacked any emotion at all. He pulled a small strip of meat off the twig and placed it into his mouth. As he did, the Sheriff realized the old man’s teeth were, unlike everything else about him, almost perfect. They were remarkably straight and spotless. Given his age and hygiene, it didn’t seem possible the teeth were natural. But where would a desert rat like him get such a set of well-made false teeth?

  “Why did you take her?” the Sheriff demanded.

  The old man smiled. He spit o
ut the strip of meat he had placed in his mouth moments before and pulled another strip off the stick. He leaned in closer to the Sheriff.

  “You hungry?”

  The Sheriff didn’t reply. Despite his despair, despite his fury, and despite the dark thoughts swirling in his mind, he was hungry. He was also very thirsty. He last ate early in the morning. Right before…

  It was unusually cool and windy that morning.

  The Sheriff finished his breakfast and put his plate away. Normally, he’d walk little Jessie to school, but today she awoke late and was taking her time getting ready. She looked unusually tired.

  “Catching something?” the Sheriff asked.

  Charlotte ran her hand over Jessie’s forehead.

  “She’s running a little warm,” she said. “But nothing terrible. Let’s give her a little time.”

  The Sheriff eyed his daughter with great suspicion.

  “You can make it to school?”

  “I don’t know, Pa,” she replied.

  “It’s bad to miss class. Any class.”

  Little Jessie frowned.

  “I really was sick last time,” she insisted.

  The Sheriff couldn’t help but smile. It was an old argument, the circumstances of the “big fever” she supposedly suffered a little over a month before. Her illness happened to coincide with a math test Ms. Fitzpatrick was giving.

  “You have any tests today?” the Sheriff asked.

  “None, Dad.”

  “Next big test is in a couple of days,” Charlotte said. “Ms. Fitzpatrick told me so.”

  “See Dad?” Jessie said. “I’m not making up anything.”

  The Sheriff thought about that while Charlotte folded her hands.

  “If she goes to school and she feels worse, she can always tell Ms. Fitzpatrick to take her back home,” Charlotte said.

  The words momentarily brightened the girl’s face. So much so that she had to force herself not to look too happy. Her efforts made the Sheriff laugh.

  “There you go, giving her ideas,” the Sheriff said.

  The happiness on Jessie’s face turned into a pout.

  “Daddy, I’m not well,” she insisted.

  “Ok, Ok,” the Sheriff said. He took a look at his watch before eyeing Jessie’s cereal bowl. She wasn’t even halfway done with her breakfast. “You gonna finish that anytime soon, Jessie? I got to get to work.”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte patted the girl on her head.

  “Tell you what, dear, I’ll take her to school,” she said. “You best get to the office before you’re late.”

  “I’m the boss you know.”

  “Not ‘round here,” Jessie said while looking up at her mother.

  “Our daughter’s wise beyond her years,” Charlotte said.

  The Sheriff chuckled. He walked to his wife’s side and gave her a hug.

  “Yes ma’am,” he said. “I’m just the lowly servant of this humble abode.”

  “My mama always told me it was good to know your place in this world,” Charlotte said.

  The Sheriff gave his wife a passionate kiss.

  “Even better when you’re at ease in it,” he said.

  The Sheriff released his wife and leaned down to kiss his daughter on the cheek. He paused before doing so.

  “This won’t make me sick, will it?” he said.

  “You’re never sick, Daddy,” Jessie said.

  “That’s not true,” he said and kissed his daughter on the cheek. “We all get sick now and again. Next time we tell you it’s time to go to sleep, it’s time to go to sleep.”

  The Sheriff ruffled Jessie’s amber hair and winked at his wife before stepping out into the street.

  The Sheriff drove a dusty 1920 Chevrolet Model T truck around town. It was his usual routine, checking up on the small town’s hot spots for any sign of early morning disruptions. He paid particular attention to the area in and around Johnson’s Bar. The place could be lively, even at this hour. He was relieved to find that the very few people milling about the streets were doing so quietly and minded their own business. He recognized and knew each and every one of them for it was difficult not to in a town this size.

  A little over a half hour later, when he was done with his rounds, the Sheriff parked his truck before his office on Main Street. The truck’s engine was still rattling while he exited.

  “Take it easy,” he told the noisy vehicle. “You’re gonna wake everyone up.”

  The engine let out one final gasp before shutting down. The Sheriff shook his head.

  Technology.

  He removed his hat before stepping up to the door to his office.

  It was ajar.

  The Sheriff stiffened. Very few people had keys to his office. There was his Deputy and the Mayor, but neither was known to come by this early in the morning. There was also Gertrude Smith, but she came in during the night to clean the place. She never left the door open and she never stayed much beyond ten P.M.

  The Sheriff couldn’t help but think he was dealing with an intruder.

  But who would break into his office? There was nothing of value inside and no prisoners in any of the four cells.

  Doesn’t matter. The door is open and it shouldn’t be.

  The Sheriff cautiously pushed the door fully open and entered the front office area. He kept his hand close to his gun belt, alert for any danger. Inside, he found all was where it should be and nothing out of place.

  Nothing obvious, as it turned out.

  For when the Sheriff finished his quick search for any mysterious strangers or stolen items and sat behind his desk, he spotted the folded piece of paper. Unlike his Deputy, the Sheriff was a neat man. When he left the office late last night, his desk was clear. The Sheriff picked up the paper. Had the Deputy come in early and left him this note? Was there trouble outside of town?

  As the Sheriff unfolded the paper, he noticed how dirty it was. Smudges of mud made the writing on it nearly illegible. Before reading the note, the Sheriff grinned. The Deputy was a young man with a wicked sense of humor. Perhaps this note was a prank he was playing to get back at him for that disastrous blind date he arranged a fortnight ago with Mrs. Allen’s daughter.

  The Sheriff shook his head and laughed at that memory. The laugher died the moment he read the letter’s contents.

  I have your daughter. I’m taking her to the Blue Mountains. If you want to see her again, meet me there. Come alone. I will see you coming. If you don’t come alone, your daughter dies. I will wait only until 9:00.

  The Sheriff frowned. If this was a prank, it was in poor taste. He folded the paper and glanced at his wrist watch. 8:15 A.M. There was no way he’d reach the Blue Mountains’ eastern edge by 9:00 A.M. Maybe by 9:30, but not by 9:00. Whoever had his daughter wanted him out of town. Quick.

  He felt a thin, ice cold trickle of sweat roll down his cheek. When he reached to wipe it away, his Deputy arrived.

  “Good morning,” the young man said and walked to his desk. After sitting, he pulled a folder from a drawer and skimmed over its contents.

  “I said good morning.”

  “Good morning,” the Sheriff replied.

  “You’re awfully quiet today.”

  The Sheriff said nothing.

  “Case in point,” the Deputy muttered after a few seconds. “Hey, did you see him?”

  “Who?”

  “That old prospector,” the Deputy replied. “What’s his name? You know, the one that comes around town once a month or so to pick up supplies and sell whatever gold or junk he finds out in the boonies. Foul smelling dude. He practically threw himself on me at the Cantina. And I was enjoying such a nice breakfast—”

  “What did he want?”

  “Not all that much, really. Just to see you is all. I got the feeling it was important, whatever it was. I told him if he hurried he might catch you at school, with your daughter.”

  The Sheriff nodded. It took every last bit of inner stre
ngth to keep from jumping out of his seat and running from the office.

  Come alone. I will see you coming. If you don’t come alone, your daughter dies.

  “I…I have an errand to run,” the Sheriff said. He pocketed the muddy paper. “I’ll be back later.”

  The Deputy nodded.

  “I’ll hold the fort,” the Deputy said. “Not that there’s ever all that much to worry about around these parts. I’d say we’re in for another easy day.”

  On the street, the Sheriff jumped into his truck and drove directly to his daughter’s school.

  Jean Fitzgerald, the school’s superintendent, was outside waiting for the last of the children to show up before closing the school’s front door. She waved as the Sheriff approached and exited his truck.

  “Good morning, Sheriff,” she said. “How’s Jessie?”

  “She…she isn’t here?”

  “No sir,” Mrs. Fitzgerald replied. “Your wife brought her a half hour or so ago, and she and the other kids were playing out back. Then one of them comes to me and says Jessie wasn’t feeling well and was heading back home.”

  The Sheriff digested that information.

  “She was feeling a little sick this morning,” he said, his voice barely calm. “I…I came by to see if she would make it through the day. I guess she didn’t.”

  Mrs. Fitzgerald gave the Sheriff a warm smile.

  “Well, you tell Jessie we miss her. I hope she’s back tomorrow.”

  “She will be.”

  The Sheriff returned to his car and raced away. He drove to his house, but stopped a little way down the street for he spotted his wife tending the garden in the front of the house. Charlotte’s mind was clearly on her work and there was no sign of Jessie. Charlotte wiped sweat from her forehead. She had obviously been working outside for a little while.

  You wouldn’t be tending to the garden if Jessie was inside the house, sick, the Sheriff thought. His eyes turned down, back to his wrist watch.

  I will wait only until 9:00.

  His watch read 8:25.