Poisoned Read online

  Poisoned

  ISBN:

  Copyright 2017 JJ Liniger

  JJLiniger.com

  Kindle Edition, License Notes

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Dedication

  TO DR. TRAVIS JAQUESS

  FOR PROVING DREAMS DO COME TRUE.

  CONGRATULATIONS

  AND

  THANK YOU FOR THE INSPIRATION!

  Acknowledgement:

  Thank you to my awesome husband, patient children and loving family, I could not have done this without your support. To great Pre-Readers, Crossroads Writing Group, Creative Writing Mastermind Group, NaNoWriMo who have encouraged me through this journey. Thank you to Quinn Cameron for pre-editing, to Lois Gregg for editing, Mist for pre-cover art inspiration and Amy Queau for the amazing cover.

  Author Bio

  JJ Liniger is the author of I Am Lucifer, a Christian historical fiction novel based on the fall of Satan. JJ enjoys writing in multiple genres (thriller, romance, dystopian future, and young adult) which has lead her to indie publishing. She loves to read great books that allow her internal editor to become silent. Coffee pumps through her body as much as blood. She works hard to perfect the ability to write in a noisy and often messy home.

  ◆◆◆

  Find out more about JJ at journeywithjewels.wordpress.com and https://www.facebook.com/JJLiniger/.

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  For free stories, a sneak peek at new novels, and more, join the email list at JJLiniger.com and [email protected].

  POISONED

  CHAPTER 1

  NEGLECT

  “Great job, Trevor,” I mumbled. Only a dang fool runs out of gas. The spacious Nissan Xterra seemed like a great idea when I rented it. Now, the blue SUV coughed outskirts of Becton, Texas.

  Pulling to the side of the road, I came to a stop in front of a dry ravine. It once ran wild, water smoothing out the rocks and cutting the sides of the cavern deeper each year. It used to provide for the thirteen thousand people who called Becton home.

  I checked my cell phone. No bars. No surprise, being in the middle of nowhere.

  “This crappy thing’s useless,” I grumbled.

  Where were the gas stations? They used to litter Interstate 27 like cans of Coke around the football stadium. The last one was in Lubbock where I’d almost stopped. My father ingrained in me to support local business, so I’d tried to make it home.

  The plains of Texas boasted sprouts of dried grass and rows of cotton fields. With frustration, I kicked a rock over the ravine’s edge, sending it skittering along the dusty earth to rest against the roots of a lonely oak tree. How had it managed to survive when everything around it didn’t?

  A low growl echoed back from the cavern.

  “What the heck was that?” I looked over the edge, but saw only shadows cast by the late October sun.

  Walking along the broken pavement, I noticed a frayed billboard for Game Zone, claiming the best pizza in town. It did not exaggerate. My mouth watered twenty miles back as I remembered lights and bells from the arcades and fire-roasted deliciousness that bubbled and dared me to eat the first bite without scalding the roof of my mouth on hot, stringy cheese. On many occasions, I had tackled the challenge, then dove for my Cherry Coke to quench the burn.

  A tumbleweed rolled across what had once been a grand car lot where I purchased my first car. The old, white 1985 Ford Mustang appeared nothing like those who came before her, but she had a galloping horse branded to her side, and that was all that mattered.

  Thirteen years later, living in New York City, I rarely drove because of public transportation being the practical choice.

  A scholarship to Columbia University proved too tempting to pass up. After seven years of study, I graduated at the top of my class with a master’s in business and joined Elite SEMs. To remain the leader in digital marketing, I worked long hours and holidays. If I didn’t, someone else would take my place, and I couldn’t afford to let that happen. Dedication to work, amazing friends, and the magic associated with a city that never sleeps, made it feel like a sacrifice to trek back to Texas.

  I stumbled into a pumpkin-sized pothole, prompting me to notice several of rivaling width and depth stretching down the road ahead.

  Neglect had become Becton’s middle name by turning into homes with boarded-over windows and decorated with layers of illegible graffiti.

  “Good God, what happened to this town?” I mumbled.

  It had once been a booming city with people roaming the streets at every hour of the day. Most hid during the night except for teenagers who enjoyed drag racing on the smooth roads. Today, somebody would lose a tire if they dared to go over 55 mph on the crumbled asphalt.

  Turning down Keena street, I walked a block to Clinton’s Corner—CC’s to the locals—to buy a couple of gallons of gas and hopefully hitch a ride back to my car. An adjustment to my ball cap helped to keep the setting sun from my eyes. Khaki pants and a polo shirt were comfortable in New York but, in bone-dry Texas, the fabric felt heavy against my sweaty skin.

  CC’s had the same appearance as the road. Usable, but having seen better days. The sign tilted to the right and might’ve been used for target practice. A gust of wind banged it against the side of the brick building sending tiny plastic pieces to the ground. With gas prices being ten cents higher than Hub City it gave hope the run-down convenience store was still operational.

  Faded Coca-Cola and Texaco signs would’ve appeared like gold to antique auctioneers. To me, it made the brick building feel like home. Thank God, some things never change.

  As I entered the structure, a bell chimed from above. I dusted my feet on the strips of blue and green cloth tied together to make a rug. The colors of the Becton Bears and like any respectable Texas town, they lived for Friday night lights.

  “Can I help you?”

  Either Clayton Hardy hadn’t aged since the day I left, or his son, Heath, was now old enough to run the store. I remembered him as the pimply preteen who spent his day sitting high in the trees. He had convinced himself he could magically look down a girl’s shirt from the precise angle. If it worked, I would’ve sat right next to him, but it never did. Somehow, Heath managed to become a responsible adult.

  “I need a two-gallon gas tank and fuel,” I answered.

  “‘Splains why I didn’t hear nobody pull up.” He reached beneath the counter. The cans clattered as a plastic bucket smeared with black residue plopped on the glass surface. “$4.86. And bring the can back.”

  No problem!

  To the left rumbled a refrigerator full of bottled water and sodas peering through the glass.

  “Add a water.” From my back pocket, I pulled out my wallet and handed him a credit card.

  He did a quick look at the card, Trevor D. Powell embossed across the bottom. After a double take, he snorted and handed the card back. “Cash only.”

  Something about the exchange made me doubt him. The register clearly had a place to swipe plastic. Maybe it wasn’t working. I pulled a twenty from my wallet.

  “Anyone heading back to I-27?” I asked. “I could use a lift.”

  “Nope.” His eyes narrowed as he pursed his lips together. He seemed irritated. With brisk movements, he counted out the change. The coins clanked against the glass as he dropped them over the bills. “Keep the bucket.”

  Might as well have slammed the door in m
y face and yelled, “Don’t come back!” It would’ve had the same effect. Apparently, the light-hearted kid had grown into a grumpy man.

  What made him stay while everything collapsed around him?

  After filling the gas can, I walked back to my rental. Wanting to see more of the city, I meandered down Cotton Lane. Homes from the 1940’s and 50’s snuggled close with small backyards and wide-open fronts. The houses reminded me of my neighborhood where I played with friends.

  One lawn spilled into the next. I never noticed whose yard the pig skin landed in, unless it were unfortunate enough to be in old Walter Buck’s. He was the grouch all other grouches aspired to be. Mom said he didn’t like kids but was otherwise a pleasant man. At thirty-one, I was tempted to test the theory and see if he’d be nice. But, I had my fill of sour moods and decided to give the SUV its needed fuel and move on.

  With each step, the contents within the bucket threatened to slosh through the narrow spout. The gas can appeared better suited for a garden, and I imagined my second grade teacher slowly portioning out water to her leafy babies. I switched the can from left to right every couple of houses to give me something to do and kept one arm from getting overly tired.

  The rumble of metal bouncing along a broken road brought my attention to a red Chevy truck whose engine huffed and puffed, reminding me of the big bad wolf. It could knock me over based on the cloud of black smoke billowing from its muffler.

  I waved to the vehicle, hopeful to acquire a ride.

  “Hey!” I gestured again and grinned as it came to a stop. “My SUV died a few miles down I-27.”

  Alligator boots and a black cowboy hat made their way out from the driver side and walked around to the back. Blonde locks draped across her low cut tee-shirt. It took my eyes longer than it should’ve to find her face.

  Tiffany King! Seriously? I scowled.

  Of all the people to check out, why her? She had certainly filled out in the right places, but I doubted that kept her from being annoying.

  Her same blood-red lips curled into a smirk. “Well, well, Trevor Powell. I never expected to see you again.” She crossed her arms under her breasts. “No guy should have blue eyes so gorgeous. It’s gotta be a crime or—”

  “So… a ride?” I asked to stop her rambling.

  Being a petite human pretzel made her a shoo-in for captain of the cheerleading team. Her father being the football and basketball coach also helped.

  “Will it get you out of here?”

  I nodded.

  “Then jump in the back.” She marched to the front, mumbling expletives beneath her breath.

  She prided herself on being the smartest in school, but one B from Mrs. Goodgion kept her from being Valedictorian. Instead, I won the position, which she claimed to be a conspiracy. Like Mrs. G and I would work together to destroy her life. Ha!

  Our feud hadn’t lessened with time. If anything it seemed to have grown roots and became a permanent fixture.

  Using her back tire as a step, I easily swung my legs over the side of her truck. She slammed on the accelerator before I fully sat and bumped the can into me, knocking it over. Gas spilled down my pants.

  “Dang it!” I smeared the pungent fuel with my hand, but it had already absorbed into the fabric.

  Was it my imagination, or did I hear giggling over the rumble of the truck’s engine? The annoying sound could be heard as the vehicle bounced from one pothole to another, bruising my rear in the process.

  Once in sight of my disabled Nissan Xterra, she slammed on the brakes. My body lurched forward, almost upsetting the gas can again. She must’ve decided she’d taken me far enough. I agreed and hopped from the back with the plastic bucket in hand.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I grumbled.

  The smirk on her face told me she enjoyed the short bout of torture she’d given. “You getting gray already, old man?” She gestured to the dirt along my hairline. Black hair inched its way from beneath my ball cap.

  “No.”

  “Just remember your promise,” she said.

  “My what?”

  “To go. Don’t come back!” Her eyes narrowed, and she gestured down the road away from town.

  I raised the gas can. “This’ll allow me to go, but I never said I’d leave.” I grinned at her glare, enjoying that I could annoy her after all these years.

  Without a word, she spun her tires, creating a whirlwind of dirt and dried grass. I coughed and waved at the dust, trying to breathe. It wasn’t exactly the welcome home I’d expected.

  CHAPTER 2

  RETURNING HOME

  Seven years ago, my father, Mathew Porter, went from successful businessman to politician when he ran for mayor. He employed most of the town at Twin Oaks Mall. Eight years before, he took a risk when he financed the construction of the building, using money he obtained from the oil fields. The primary income for the area consisted of oil and farming until local businesses flourished in the 1960’s.

  With the introduction of mega-malls in the 80’s, my father hoped a smaller version would be successful in Becton. His vision allowed businesses to be centralized and help one another. It worked. Everyone had the convenience of easy shopping but kept the small town pride of families owning their own businesses. Soon, Twin Oaks became the place for everything from barber shops to auto mechanics, furniture to fine clothing.

  Maybe the mall had survived when so much else hadn’t. Being on the other side of town, everything could’ve shifted. Businesses and homes were distraught because they were abandoned for something better.

  “That’s better than the place simply dying out,” I mumbled.

  Opening the SUV’s gas tank door, I lifted the can, and poured the fuel inside. It gurgled down the spout to revive the thirsty engine. After returning the cap and closing the tank, I reached inside the driver side door to fish out a napkin. My hands reeked of gasoline, and the smell flooded the rental car. I set the can on the floorboard, trying to keep as much grime as possible off the gray upholstery.

  Pulling up in front of the gas station, I walked around to swipe my credit card, bringing the pump to life. I huffed at Heath and his “cash only” policy. After thirty-five dollars flushed down the drain, I clicked off the pump, anxious to get home.

  My bright blue ranch-style home had once been surrounded by cotton fields for miles until expansion brought the city to it. By the time I left, the town of Becton had circled the home like a warm hug.

  I drove through town, turning off the main road onto my street. The house on the left’s wooden door had a crack down the middle as if it had been sledged with an ax several times. The hinges creaked as it swayed back and forth, sounding like nails scraping against chalkboard, adding anxiety to my homecoming.

  What happened here?

  Chills slithered down my spine as the carnage that initially seemed sad and pathetic turned horrific with every passing house. Where were the people I used to call friends? I had played football in these carefully manicured yards, now overgrown with weeds. Why were these homes abandoned? What forced them to move?

  Hopefully my mother, Carole, would have the answers I needed. Her phone calls had once been weekly, sharing Dad’s accomplishments and the success she felt as being the mayor’s wife. The role gave her freedom to set aside her part-time job as a veterinary assistant and serve her community. She petitioned Cingular to place a cell tower to give the residents a much desired resource but failed. When budget cuts made her question their long distance phone bills, letters became a more affordable option.

  I ran my hand over the envelope dropped in the passenger seat. In the document, she explained that they were busy and requested I call them. Over the years, we became less involved with one another but, when my previous three phone calls went unanswered, it led me to determine I needed to go home!

  Initially, I planned to take a long weekend, make sure everything was okay, and return to work Monday. But, after not requesting time off in three years, my boss deter
mined I needed the whole week off.

  Something was wrong, but things were worse than I’d imagined. My concern magnified with each neglected home I passed. Increasing my speed, I drove by the house of my best friend, Alex, who lived three doors down. The old, peaceful tire swing hanging from his large oak tree appeared out of place, surrounded by overgrown weeds and boarded windows. My mind raced with irrational scenarios to explain the condition of my childhood block.

  As I pulled into the driveway, my eyes scanned the speckled house I had once called home. The chipped paint looked more gray than cobalt. At least the windows remained intact, which couldn’t be said for the homes on either side. After knocking on the front door, it jarred open.

  Should I let myself in?

  “Mom? Dad!” I yelled. Pushing the door open, and a slow groan left the hinges.

  Inside, it was like being transported back in time. Shag carpet as brown as the day it had been installed greeted my Nike sneakers. It smelled musty and stale. Mother, with severe allergies, never allowed the home to be unkempt. I never remembered it being so quiet.

  Dad loved music and had a radio playing all the time. He believed the CD player with the option to repeat was one of the greatest inventions of his lifetime. I didn’t mind the noise unless the song got stuck in my head. Singing Shania Twain was a good way for a guy to get his butt kicked. Somehow, Dad got away with it.

  “Dad! Mom!” I yelled again, this time with urgency.

  Bolting past the kitchen plastered with yellow sunflowers and navy blue cabinets, I made my way to their bedroom. Everything appeared normal with family photos hung on the walls. Between the next frame, I smiled at my own image. Standing in my Master’s graduation gown, the three of us grinned with our arms around each other. It was the only time they had flown to New York. Realization made me stare in dismay. I hadn’t seen my parents since that day. Six years ago.