Distilled Vestiges

By Jennie L. Morris

Former Royal Navy diver Imogen Waide's job thrusts her into people's lives on their worst days. Called to Brandywine Lake in Kentucky to search for a missing child, she finds the idyllic resort town far from ordinary.

 

During a routine dive, she discovers a horde of discarded bones. Among the animal remains is a distinct human skull marred by a traumatic and bizarre injury.

 

Maxwell Rue, a native hunter and conservationist, aids in the rescue efforts. Rue has lived in the Appalachian Mountains his entire life, trapping and relocating dangerous animals. His inability to identify the markings is an ominous sign.

 

During a torrential storm, a second child goes missing.

 

Waide and Rue are on the hunt for a creature moving unseen in Brandywine Lake. Will they find the lost children, or will the beast add two more skeletons to its collection?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennie L. Morris
• Release date: Dec 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215183878

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Cassie Crane drank her coffee at the scuffed kitchen table while staring out the front window of her small mobile home. Trucks and cars passed. She noted the time, curious why Jim Greenly was a half-hour late for work.

Sure, her family called her Nosey Nancy, but she ignored them. Living with three males gave her high amounts of stress. Her husband drank, watched sports, and went fishing on the weekends. The twins, seniors in high school this fall, had no time for their tired old mother.

Here she waited, crossword puzzle book open, watching the small dramas in Crossroads Mobile Home Park. She was full of secrets, a secret collector, she called herself. JoAnne, the perfect Christian woman, had two running affairs—juggling a man and a woman. Their neighbor on the left, Mrs. Kimmer, scammed money with a false disability claim. Dubs dated a new woman every three months. Cassie knew his six abandoned kids around Brandywine Lake boasted the same coppery hair color.

An odd shadow moved across the street between the trailers. Cassie went to the door, hoping to find Mr. Rodger’s wayward black lab.

Basil! Cassie cried out. A misty morning, the dog headed to Brandywine Lake. He liked to prowl the shoreline. Come here, boy. She stumbled down the rough ground, the slight decline slippery.

Cassie reached the muddy bank. There was no sign of Basil. She called for the dog several times and paused to listen for the tags on his collar. Then, a strange rustle in the underbrush scared her. Bears, uncommon this close to town, lived in the mountains. A few months ago, Maxwell Rue caught a male black bear in the county.

Twigs snapping, leaves crunching, too much noise for a dog. Cassie scrambled back up the low embankment. Her left foot slid on a patch of wet debris. As she fell, from the corner of her eye, she saw red, soulless eyes and screamed.

CHAPTER ONE

Where the fuck am I? Imogen maneuvered the extended cab truck and trailer down the winding country road.

A gruff male laughed over the truck’s speakers. Aren’t you using GPS?

Thomas, get tae fuck. She glanced at the map in her lap, not trusting electronics. She’d navigated the wilds of the 537-mile-long Scottish National Trail with a compass and paper map. She could find a resort town off the Kentucky highway. Wait, I see something ahead.

An ornate sign welcomed visitors to Brandywine Lake Resort. She had clear directions from the resort to the sheriff’s department. Once in town, she planned to meet with Mayor Bostocks and Sheriff Lyster. Yesterday morning, the sheriff called Thomas asking for help. Imogen volunteered for the solo job, requiring immediate action. Though reticent to send her, Thomas agreed. Everyone else on staff was out on another site.

Be safe, Imogen. Call if you need help with the red tape, Thomas said. His way of reminding her to watch her language and temper.

Aye, boss. She respected Thomas. The retired Navy SEAL and owner of Depth Gauge Search and Rescue was her mentor. I’ll keep mah mouth shut, only fur ye.

Keep in touch, lass. A click sounded, ending the call.

She chuckled. It annoyed Thomas when she played up her Scottish accent. She grabbed her fourth energy drink and downed it in three gulps. The drive from south-eastern Florida to Eastern Kentucky left her drained. She had no time for jet lag. A snaking road through thick trees brought her by an expansive body of water to the gussied-up town of Brandywine Lake.

Families in bright summer clothes strolled down the sidewalks in loud conversation. A line of shopfronts boasted quaint hand-painted signs. Items in the windows tempted potential customers with local wares and homemade goods. She saw copious signage for a local type of Brandywine, a form of distilled wine. She guessed the brew gave the lake its namesake.

The number of people surprised her. She’d never heard of the resort town, but it seemed to be a thriving summer destination.

She loathed tourists.

With no room in the municipal parking lot, Imogen pulled the truck and trailer onto the shoulder of a nearby side road. She likely broke a town ordinance. Southern heat, with its muggy stickiness, clung to her skin outside the air-conditioned cab. She grabbed a button-up shirt with the organization logo on the pocket to cover her white tank. She tugged on the short sleeves, trying to conceal her forearm tattoos, but realized it was futile. From experience, some southern communities gave her the cold shoulder when seeing them.

Sweat dripped down her back during the quick trip to the sheriff’s department. Inside, a middle-aged woman with flamboyant red glasses glanced up from her desk. The soft rumble of unseen men speaking mixed with the whooooossshhhh of the central air unit.

Can I help you, ma’am? asked Ms. Glasses. Her lipstick, a peculiar shade of orange, clashed with her purple cheetah print shirt.

Imogen played up her charm. I hope so. A’m here tae speak with Sheriff Lyster.

Ms. Glasses placed her pen down with a firm hand. And who are you, ma’am?

For fuck’s sake. Imogen hated small-town politics. "A’m yer search and rescue diver. Let’s not make it a recovery diver, huh? Go get the sheriff, darlin’."

With a great huff, Ms. Glasses went to the back, disappearing behind a door boasting a worn Personnel Only sign. Less than a minute later, two grim-faced men and Ms. Glasses entered the lobby.

Miss Imogen Waide? A man, with a real sheriff star on his shirt, held out his hand. I’m Dan Lyster, pleasure. I spoke with Mr. Paine on the phone. He said you were one of his best divers.

She shook his hand, noting his steady grip. Sir. We like tae dive in teams, but ye’ve seen the news. The big effort going on in the Keys after the storm.

Terrible business, he agreed. Our prayers go out to those affected—damn global warming, changing weather patterns. We contacted several local organizations, but they’d already headed south. An old friend recommended your boss. I’m straightforward, Miss Waide, but why aren’t you in the Keys?

A smug, almost feline pleasure glowed on Ms. Glasses’ face.

I returned from Scotland yesterday, sheriff. I was at a reunion of sorts. She straightened her back, unsure how much was too much information. I go every year tae visit former members of mah Royal Navy unit.

Gravid silence filled the room. Lyster adjusted his tie. Then we’re damn fortunate to have you here, Miss Waide. We have a lost little boy, over four days now, and we need to find him. Alive—or dead. I don’t want to postpone any longer. Do you need to rest before diving? That was a long drive and—

Give me the details. A’m ready. Time, the thief, was ever the enemy.

They gathered around a marked-up map. Notes, circles, and squiggles covered the paper. Jayden Allen disappeared from his home here, at the Crossroads Mobile Home Park, around midday. We located his shoe here, he pointed across the map, at Cove Premier Homes.

The second man, a tall deputy with sandy blonde hair and a youthful face, motioned to the empty swath of land around the lake connecting the different economic demographics. The area is rough terrain. Caves, old mines, the Brandywine Falls. No way an eight-year-old boy walked to the Cove.

How long between when he was reported missing and when ye found the shoe? Imogen asked and used the map’s key to calculate distances.

That’s where it gets strange. It was less than two hours into the search. Mrs. Fowler found the shoe. She took her children to the lake to distract them while her husband assisted our efforts. The deputy, Weston from his name tag, put a finger on the Allen trailer and one on the Fowler house. A child can’t swim it, and it’s impossible for a grown man to use the trails and walk it in two hours.

She didn’t want to say it, but the chances of finding Jayden Allen alive were minuscule. Her best guess was he fell into the water, drowned, and all the commotion on the lake caused his shoe to drift in the waves. The first rule, dunna lie but dunna give up on hope, not yet.

Anything else? Do ye have any proof of life besides the shoe?

Well, I never, Ms. Glasses accused. He isn’t dead, you know. The Good Lord hears our prayers.

Ruffled, Lyster cried out, Goddammit, Maureen, leave it be for once. I haven’t slept in three days. We’re doing everything we can to find Jayden. Do you think I want him to be dead? Miss Waide has a job. She has to ask these questions, irrespective of our religious views.

Maureen turned an exciting shade of mulberry. On cue, Weston put his long arm around the woman and led her out of the office, mumbling about coffee.

I apologize, Miss Waide. Lyster raked his hand through his thinning brown hair. Weary lines creased the corners of his eyes. I shouldn’t have done that to her.

It wilnae matter when we find the boy. Proof of life? Because, between us, I believe ye already know what happened tae Jayden Allen. Imogen hated giving bad news.

Back at the map, he tapped at Brandywine Falls. A searcher found a stuffed dinosaur close to here. We’re waiting for Mrs. Allen to confirm, but I believe it belonged to Jayden. Miss Waide, the dinosaur was damp but not soaking wet.

She took it as a positive sign. Then I should get in the water.

The two discussed a diving plan for fifteen minutes. First, he wanted a search near the mobile home park, including the Fort Fraley Ruins. Then, if she had time, a dive by the premier homes. In the morning, depending on the weather, she’d start by the waterfalls.

As Lyster handed her a basic map of the area, one meant for the tourists, Maureen and Weston returned. The woman toted a large iced coffee with a mountain of whipped topping overflowing from the cup. Ignoring them, as if it mattered, she went to her desk and slurped her drink.

Weston brought over three coffees in a paper carrier. He set one out for Lyster and handed one to her. It’s black. I grabbed sugar, creamer, and sugar alternatives. Not sure what you like.

Black is fine. She sipped the hot coffee, happy to find the brew better than expected. Can I steal Weston? I need someone tae keep the locals back.

After a long drink of coffee, Lyster agreed. Radio if you find anything.

Imogen followed Weston in his marked vehicle to the mobile home park. Along the way, she made a quick call to Thomas. She gave a brief description of the