Perfectly Toxic

by Kristine Mason

  PERFECTLY TOXIC

  KRISTINE MASON

  Copyright © 2015 Kristine Thompson

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 0986161713

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9861617-1-1

  Dedication

  For Stanley.

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to begin by acknowledging my husband and kids. I know I give them credit in each book, but if they aren’t supportive, I don’t get to play with my characters. I especially want to thank my husband for taking a tremendous amount of stress off my shoulders as I wrote this book. I love knowing you have my back. And, Jack, my oldest boy…thanks for helping me come up with a few key ideas for this story. I doubt I’ll ever let you read it—not even when you’re an adult—but I appreciate the help! Jamie Denton…what can I say that hasn’t been said before? You’re fabulous, darling! Thank you Tessa Shapcott for your editing skills, Elle Rossi, from EJR Digital Art for working with me on my covers, and Sherry Fundin for proofreading Perfectly Toxic. Finally, I’d like to acknowledge/admit one last thing…my name is Kristine Mason and I have imaginary friends—be glad they aren’t real.

  PART I

  You know, a long time ago being crazy meant something.

  Nowadays everybody’s crazy.

  —Charles Manson

  Welcome to the House of Archer

  The House of Archer, Bower, Georgia

  Monday, 5:26 p.m. Eastern Daylight Saving Time

  “I THINK I broke her.”

  Fear sickened Rodney Archer as he stared at the small bundle swaddled in the white afghan Gramma had crocheted. No movement. No sound. He looked to the baby’s mother who sat on the wooden porch step. “What did you do?” He took a jerky step away from his car and approached her.

  Adeline lifted her shoulders and shook her head. Her mess of long dark curls hid her face, her eyes. He needed to look into her eyes, to know if whatever she’d done had been an accident or if Adeline had…slipped again.

  The screen door behind Adeline groaned. He glanced up, and met Gramma’s gaze. The old woman stepped onto the weathered porch. “I think we should bury her in the family plot. No reason to call anyone about this.” She sniffed and glared at the back of Adeline’s head. “Lord knows we don’t need a minister. After all, how would we explain…this?”

  “Shut up, old woman.” Adeline let the bundle dangle over her knees. “I don’t need to hear your senile nonsense right now.”

  Rodney rushed to the porch and took the baby from Adeline. “Gramma’s right. We’ll bury her in the plot. No marking.”

  Adeline stared up at him, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “You’re a doctor. Maybe you can fix her,” she said, her tone holding no apology, no remorse. “You can fix anything.”

  His throat tightened. Rigor mortis had already set in, meaning the child had been dead for at least two to six hours. Sadness and rage settled on his filthy soul. The baby had been doomed from conception. She’d been created by the wicked, born of the depraved and had never had a chance. Even if she had survived, the child would never have left the House of Archer. No one but him, Adeline and Gramma knew of her existence. No one could ever know…especially now. Adeline’s sickness was misunderstood. It scared those who looked at anything abnormal as bad, frightening.

  Lately, Adeline frightened him. She hadn’t been able to take her medication during the pregnancy. During the three weeks since the baby’s birth, she’d gone back to the pills—or so she’d said. If she was still taking her pills, he suspected that she needed a stronger dose to combat the high level of extra hormones running through her body. Whatever she needed would have to happen fast before she did something that would send her to prison.

  Adeline stood, brushed the dust from the back of her pale-pink cotton nightgown, then poked at the bundle. “Well, aren’t you going to even look at her and see if I really did break her?” The corner of her mouth turned up in the tiniest smile. Her green eyes glittered with challenge and—damn her—amusement.

  “I checked the baby,” Gramma said, her voice strong and filled with outrage. “She’s gone. Rodney, you need to change your clothes and start digging. We can’t have her lying about, not in this heat.”

  “Put her in the cellar. It’s cool there. Right, Rod?” Adeline licked her lips. “Unless you’re down there doing vigorous activities.”

  How could he hate someone he loved so damned much? Rodney stared at her, remembered the night he’d discovered her in the cellar. Oh, God, how he’d had no willpower, no fight against her wicked seduction.

  “Enough,” he said, then looked to Gramma. The old woman scowled at him, her narrowed eyes accusing. As if this was his fault. Which it was. If he hadn’t planted his seed, the pregnancy wouldn’t have happened. Guilt weighed on his chest like an anvil. He hadn’t murdered his daughter, but he knew what her mother was—a fucking psychopath.

  Ignoring Adeline, he carried the child up the steps, then handed her to Gramma. “I’ll come for her when I’m finished digging the grave.”

  “Need any help?” Adeline asked.

  “Haven’t you done enough?” Gramma’s voice shook with outrage. “Go to your room and don’t come out until you’ve been called.”

  Adeline sauntered across the porch. The sun shone through the sheer fabric of her nightgown exposing her sexy curves. “Don’t tell me what to do, you old bitch.” She grinned. “Or I just might break you, too.”

  Gramma clutched the baby to her chest and gasped. “After all I’ve done for you? For both of you?”

  Rodney touched the woman’s arm. “Go inside.”

  Gramma raised her chin and narrowed her eyes at Adeline. “Don’t ever threaten me again, or I’ll force you to leave,” she said, the threat falling flat due to the fear in her eyes and voice.

  Once the old woman entered the house, he turned to Adeline. “Why don’t you go lie down?”

  “You know, that’s a great idea.” Her hips swayed as she neared him. “It’s been an emotionally exhausting day.” She reached down and rubbed her hand along his crotch. “I could use some comforting. Why don’t you nap with me?”

  He grabbed her wrist. “Because I have to bury our daughter.” Rodney shoved her away, then went inside. Twenty minutes later, now dressed in old jeans, t-shirt and boots, and standing at the edge of the family plot, Rodney plunged the shovel into the ground. He’d wanted to bury the baby closer to the oak tree, but knew the roots would give him an issue. Instead, he chose the vacant spot next to his mother. Matilda Archer had been a patient, nurturing woman who’d had the misfortune of loving a cold, ruthless son of a bitch. How could his mother have ever loved his father? After the first strike, she should have left Dean Archer, and Gramma should have protected her. But the old woman hadn’t. Either out of love, loyalty or fear of her son, or hatred for his mother, the woman had never once admonished Dean.

  Rodney grunted as he thrust the shovel into the earth. He should hate Gramma. He certainly didn’t love her, but since she had been the victim of an abusive husband, he supposed Gramma assumed abuse was part of life.

  He tossed dirt onto the growing pile. No matter how many times Adeline had angered
him, he hadn’t and wouldn’t raise a hand to her. He’d never bought into that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree nonsense. He was a strong believer in nature versus nurture, and would bet anything that his grandfather’s father had also had no problem hitting a woman.

  The strong scents of dirt, grass and tobacco tickled his nose. He stopped digging for a moment, expecting a sneeze that never came, and stared at the bright blue lobelia bush his mother had planted after his father had died. She had chosen the flower when she’d learned the beautiful plant symbolized hate and spite. His mother had wanted the plant’s roots to travel deep into the ground, stretch until they’d reached his father’s casket, then burrowed inside the wooden box. Matilda Archer had wanted her husband to know, even in death, how much she had hated him. That had been ten years ago and the plant, despite never being cared for through frosts and droughts, still thrived, his mother’s hatred keeping it alive.

  Rodney wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans, and picked up the shovel. Would he come to hate Adeline just as much? They were born for each other, meant to be together through good times and in bad. She was his second half, the one person who truly understood him. He loved her deeply, the bond they shared, the secrets…oh, God, the passion. He slammed the shovel into the dirt, then tossed a chunk to the side. That couldn’t happen again, no matter how much she tempted him. He refused to take advantage of Adeline’s mental state or risk impregnating her again.

  She killed our daughter.

  He should weep for the tiny soul, but he couldn’t, not when she should have never been brought into the world. The baby hadn’t been right. He wasn’t a pediatrician, but he was an M.D., and suspected lack of oxygen right after birth had done something to the baby’s brain. It hadn’t helped that the baby had been born one month early and without proper neonatal care. But he hadn’t been able to take Adeline to a hospital in time for the child’s delivery, and instead had delivered her himself during a violent storm.

  His throat tightened and he stabbed the earth again. He should have taken the baby to the hospital instead of listening to Gramma. He should have taken her there and left her, let another family have her. She could have had a chance. Or she could have ended up like her mother.

  Sick. Diseased.

  Psychopathic.

  “You’re going to have to do something about Adeline,” Gramma said.

  He tossed more dirt on the pile. “I am doing something.”

  “That’s right. You’re digging your child’s grave because her crazy mother is a murderer.” Gramma grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Rodney, I sleep with my door locked and a gun under my pillow. When you’re not home, I carry a bat with me wherever I go. I don’t trust Adeline. She hates me. The only one she loves and will listen to is you. Lord knows I’ve tried to talk sense into that girl, but she won’t have it.” Gramma drew in a deep breath. “She belongs in an insane asylum.”

  “We’ve been over this before,” he said, his patience with the old woman waning. “If she’s taken to a mental health institute, they’ll misdiagnose her and she won’t get the help she needs.”

  “I don’t think anyone can help her.” Gramma gripped him tighter, her nails digging into his skin. “Please, Rodney. I’m tired of living in constant fear. Every Sunday I go to church and pray Adeline will die, or run away and never come back. What kind of woman does that make me? I hate what she’s done to me, how she’s taken my morals and has warped them. If you’re not careful, she’ll do the same to you.”

  Rodney knocked his grandmother’s hand away. “No, she won’t. Not after I finish developing the proper medication to balance her and make her normal.”

  Gramma folded her arms over her chest. “That girl doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I know damned well she killed that college girl.”

  The police had accused Adeline of stabbing her college roommate, but they’d had no evidence to prove it. Nothing. Not a hair or minutest fiber, and the detectives had been forced to let Adeline go. The police had investigated him, too. Fortunately, he’d helped Adeline dispose of the evidence the detectives had desperately needed before they’d searched his apartment. Eight years later, the case remained unsolved, the girl’s family forced to live without closure and justice for their daughter.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rodney said.

  “I absolutely do. And don’t even get me started on your cousin.”

  There had been times over the years when he regretted not turning Adeline over to the police. One of those times had been four years ago when his fifteen-year-old cousin, Geoffrey, had gone missing. The last person seen with him had been Adeline. Since Geoffrey had been a troubled kid, taking the divorce of his parents hard and dealing with bullying at school, local police assumed the boy had run away.

  “No one knows what happened to Geoff,” he lied.

  During a hot, summer day the year after Geoffrey’s disappearance, Adeline had taken him for a long walk on the vast fifteen hundred acres that now made up the Archer property. Over two hundred years ago, the acreage had quadrupled in size, and the Archers had been one of the wealthiest families in the state. Although land had been lost, the house his ancestors had built had survived the Civil War, the Great Depression, storms, droughts and murder. Natural bogs, forests and tall grasses now covered the once thriving plantation. Adeline had walked him through the pine forests they’d at one time explored together, until they’d reached a small pond. She’d stopped him there and had pointed to the pond, which was an abnormal shade of blue, as if someone had scooped buckets of the Caribbean Sea and filled the chasm with its turquoise waters. He’d been so mesmerized by the odd, yet beautiful shade of the water, he hadn’t noticed the stark white bones lying near the bank until Adeline had pointed to them.

  “I guess Geoffrey didn’t run away after all,” Adeline had said with a tsk.

  Terrified, petrified, he’d stared at the skull of his aunt’s son, at the large gaping hole at the temple, and had fallen to his knees. He’d asked her why, and she’d simply answered, “Why not?”

  “Why do you continue to defend and protect her?” Gramma asked. “She is evil. From the moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she wasn’t right. Just like the baby she killed today. Don’t get me wrong, my heart goes out to the child, but in a way, Adeline has done the world a favor by taking the baby’s life and—”

  “Stop it,” Rodney shouted. He threw the shovel to the ground and gripped his grandmother by the upper arms. Through the haze of his grief and rage, the thinness of her skin, her boniness, registered, but it hadn’t erased the urge to snap her arms, then her neck. “Adeline was right. You are a stupid old bitch. And you need to mind your place. I will fix this.” The shock and fear in Gramma’s eyes had him loosening his grip and regretting his outburst. “Just stay away from Adeline.” He patted her arms. “I’ll take care of everything.” He stepped away, then bent for the shovel.

  “How? With your experiments?” Gramma moved toward his daughter’s grave. “You tried and failed. Your drug killed people and your reputation.”

  He clenched the shovel. “Those people killed themselves.”

  “After they murdered others.” She clutched her neck. “Your drug turned crazy people crazier.

  “The tests were inconclusive,” he argued. But deep down he knew Gramma and anyone else who had pointed fingers at him were right. Something had gone wrong. The drug had worked during the final testing phase. The chemical combination he’d created had proved to deaden certain urges—lust, the need to hurt, to dominate. The drug had made the test subjects empathetic toward others, not violent, and the pharmaceutical company who had backed him and paid him handsomely for his concoction had been thrilled. Medizen Pharma would, thanks to Dr. Rodney Archer, help rid the world of violence, one psychopath at a time.

  When certain members of the U.S. government had heard about Rodney and his findings, they’d become interested in the drug, and testing had been permitted at a f
ederal prison. Five convicts, who were known to have psychopathic tendencies, were chosen. These men would have taken Rodney from the unknown, unobtrusive M.D. and pharmacologist that he was, and had him featured on the cover of Time magazine. He’d been featured all right, but not because the masses had praised him for his brilliance, or for helping those who couldn’t stop the need for violence eating at their brains. No. Reporters had trashed his reputation. They’d called him Frankenstein or compared him to Joseph Mengele, the Nazi doctor who’d famously performed horrific experiments on Jewish prisoners. It hadn’t helped that Medizen Pharma was a German-based company.

  After the convicts who’d taken the drug had murdered fellow inmates and guards before killing themselves, Medizen Pharma had been sued by the prison. Rodney had been immediately dismissed without severance. He’d been forced to work at his hometown’s local clinic treating scraped knees and the occasional broken bone. In a way, he should be grateful he could still practice medicine, and that the civil suits originally brought against him had been dropped. But he wasn’t. He was determined to prove the drug worked. For Adeline’s sake, he had to.

  “Stick with what you know and stay out of my business,” he finally said to his grandmother.

  “As long as Adeline lives in my house, your need to fix her is my business. I know you’re experimenting again. You need to stop this nonsense at once. You can’t change what the devil has created. I’ve talked at great length with Pastor Landen about this, and about you.”

  Screw Pastor Landen. The man was a hypocrite who could probably use a dose of his drug. Rodney had seen the bruises on Landen’s wife and their son. Either the two of them were the clumsiest people to walk the Earth, or the good pastor was beating them.