The Birth of Anna

By Edwin J McBride

On any normal day, the events of this day would be unimaginable…

Expecting parents, Michael and Michelle Armstrong, look forward to the birth of their first child, Anna, yet Michael finds himself captive to a crazed ICE addict, leaving Michelle to suffer an unexpected difficult delivery…

Braxton City is

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shawline Publishing Group
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9780648368663

Edwin J McBride

Edwin McBride was raised in Rural NSW on a large property, where many of his early years were spent alone in the vast landscape. Edwin has been writing since an early age with over 35 years of writing experience that includes fiction and Non-fiction, magazine articles, TV/radio and film screenplays, along with hundreds of blogs and website copy. A BA in Media Law and Marketing, he is a passionate creative who enjoys learning, dining out, wine appreciation and exploring the wonders of the spirit...

Book preview

The Birth of

Anna Armstrong

By

Edwin J McBride

The Birth of Anna Armstrong © 2020 by Edwin J McBride. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. 

Cover designed by Shawline Publishing Group 

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

Published by Shawline Publishing Group Australia

www.indieauthorsaust.com.au

Printed in the Australia 

First Printing: March 2020

ISBN Paperback 978-0-6483686-5-6

ISBN EBOOK  978-0-6483686-6-3

I would like to thank the wonderful team at Shawline Publishing Australia who worked with professional diligence and commitment to the outcome of this books production and promotion.

To Jennifer who gave wonderful editing advice and critique and to Bradley who continued with communication and updates, making the process enjoyable and stress free for me as an Author.

To my darling Jodie, who I love with all my soul, I thank her for her belief and support in my dreams of writing…and for sharing with me and enhancing all life experiences we share…I love you.

PART ONE

The pain of childbirth is not remembered…

It's the child that's remembered.

Freeman Dyson

PROLOGUE

He had apologised to her for leaving her on the side of the road. Catherine Elliott wondered if it was a ploy to soften her anxiety so he could kill her without warning. She had seen enough movies to know how these situations can work for kidnappings. He had released her from the small steel bunk bed which she had been strapped to, with no idea how long she had been restrained, but her body felt weakened. They had given her little food and kept her blindfolded for most of the time. The other man, the skinny angry one, had hit her often across her face, back and chest; he had raped her with some kind of mechanical dildo. She shivered as she recalled the thrusting pain of the soulless device; hearing him jerk off next to her face as she screamed and he would then ejaculate into her mouth and over her face; leaving his goo to dry there.

She fell to her knees on the hard-graveled road waiting for the bigger man, the kind one, to kill her as she stood, wrapped only in a blanket from the bunk which hid her nakedness. Cate cried through dry eyes and stinging cheeks. The men had argued all day until the older, bigger one had come to her and carried her away. He had put her in the car and removed her blindfold. It was dark and cold; the air stung her face. She recognised the older man as he smiled down on her in the car. She knew who he was and her knowing this made her wonder if he would leave her alive. He told her to talk to one policeman, a Paul Anderson and to tell him what had happened and who he was. Why would she do this? Because he added if she didn’t, she may be harmed again. She nodded and agreed as he drove. When he stopped to let her out, she felt panic rise but was too drained to resist him as he lifted her from the car and assisted her to stand on the road beside the car. He apologised once more and drove away; leaving her trembling in cold fearful confusion.

She remembered that he had said it was about three kilometres to a service station along the road; she realised she was now free; the terror was over. She moved forward on unsteady legs; slow at first then her pace became steadier. She would be somewhere safe soon. She breathed and focused on her pace, one foot after the other. She still felt the evil touch of the skinny man and the words he had spat at her about her being the evil one; the bitch who had killed with no concern or regret. Cate had harmed no one that she could recall. God, the skinny man had killed the others. She had heard them screaming and this had terrorized her, but worse was the silence that followed.

She was taken from her own bed weeks ago. Was this a game for them? Would they be waiting for her up ahead to run her over or shoot her as she walked into an imagined freedom? She stopped and scanned the darkness around her. Was she going to be crazy now? She felt her body edge forward and decided if she was crazy, after this experience, death would not be so bad. Hope was her ally and there was safety before her. She pushed her body further with every step towards freedom; dismissing her erratic thoughts with one conclusion. Dead or alive, she will be free.

PART ONE

The pain of childbirth is not remembered…

It's the child that's remembered.

Freeman Dyson

CHAPTER ONE

Four murdered girls found with a fifth girl missing for a month and most likely dead; in the bushes, pecked at by crows; mangled by blow flies and gnawed at by stray dogs. He hoped that it would not include the latest identified missing girl, Catherine, in the ensemble of victims to date but all evidence (or little of) pointed to the worst scenario of the case; given the fact she had been a known associate to the five other girls.

Detective Sergeant Paul Anderson sighed and tilted the near-empty glass to his lips, feeling the last of 12-year-old whiskey flow down his throat with little comfort to the fact he, nor his team, could find any commonality to the girls being singled out by the murderer other than they were the same age and shared a friendship. Speaking with the families had cleared that much up about the girls but little else seemed to incentivise the killer. He had been an investigator in the State Crime Command for almost fourteen years, working with his team of officers almost as long, and this present case amongst many in his career, he hated. Kidnapping, raping, and murdering of young girls with no track or trace of suspects or evidence. He further despised the modern world of media exploitation and social evaluations that rippled through his ability to do his work. The frenzied media coverage gave way to wasted leads and nutters in his investigation and he had to tolerate it all in the hopes one small thing will bring something to light.

The first girl disappeared 7 months ago, then surfaced again a month later with her neck broken; dumped in a city laneway trash bin, found by an unsuspecting garbage collector. There had been no real clues uncovered with the first girl’s autopsy, and as they investigated, the team also followed new reports of young girls that were missing. There were quite a few reports but the majority of them turned up as runaways abused or with seeded family issues. Then the second girl was found dead about three weeks later.

Paul knew from experience that the first murder for a killer was always the cleanest; they took more care, more time and put thought in the process. Yet once done and getting away with it inspires new emotions, confidence and even arrogance, to the point where they can become cocky, or believe they are some kind of God or immortal whose purpose was to select who will die at their hand. Paul sighed again, he hated the psychoanalytical bullshit they make them go through at the force, but he hated more the fact it was often right…

The third girl was found strangled, beaten, raped and dumped; same MO and no evidence found at all three girls’ crime scenes. Nothing to suggest any firm leads to suspects. Families were always top of the list, but everyone from fathers to distant cousins were cleared of suspicion. The media made public outcries and showcased the families and friends of the girls with accusing insinuations, it even made his team of investigators sick. The exploitation was unfounded. By the time they found the fourth girl, the media had reached a new ‘high’ in their reporting and had labelled the serial killer as the Braxton Strangler. The reporters became blowflies on the walls; they were fucking everywhere. The team were instructed that talking to any press about the case would be punishable from the highest levels.

Paul sat alone now in a bar in the main quarter, his haven. It was 3am and the place had shut hours ago, but Billie often let him sit and drink alone. She had a bunkbed in a small staff office area out back where she let him crash when he had over-indulged. It was a safe place and this was all he wanted, all he needed. He didn’t want to go home; besides it would be empty as his wife was on duty until the morning anyway…Jesus, his wife.

They had been married only twelve months; cases were constant and kept him involved with his team but they were nothing like the current abduction case which he had now worked on the last seven months straight. This last half year became the first year of their marriage…and both situations were not working the way he felt they should…He had married once before, when he was young and naive and it had lasted two years before things grew distant between them; maybe he changed as he progressed through the force, or her career as lawyer developed as she had wanted…whatever it was, it ended with an amicable acceptance from them both. She left to find a new happiness; he concentrated his efforts on his career and became one of the best investigators in the squad. So, it is…

The fifth girl went missing five weeks ago and again, no new evidence or indications to help the team uncover motives or suspects for her disappearance. They had even gone back over every murder and process to re-check all leads. It was futile as Paul knew they would find the girl dead. Paul hated that they must have suffered; tortured like animals under some sick person’s experiment into mortality, or God or whatever rationale made them kill or hurt others.

Another thing Paul hated (and he had never been much of a hater but he often felt contemptuous of the world he wanted to help) was that killers knew most of the police investigative processes, thanks to the fucking internet, movies and books on the subject. Hell, he didn’t know half the shit killers knew if they had the time and discipline to learn the art of being forensically invisible. Paul wiped his face and sighed again. He felt dejected, alone and lost. His wife would leave him, he was sure. They had not been together in the same bed for almost four months, He was deeply involved with his work and she was the same with hers. They were great at the start and it was no one’s fault. Paul just felt different in himself; this case made him different. She would be better off without him; may even have a chance of happiness instead of being coated in the blackness of his work, of his life…

He finished his drink, placing the glass on the table before him. He looked around the bar area from his booth at the back; lights were out in front, a few night lights on over the bar and no one was in the place. It was quiet and he realised he had been sitting for hours alone in his thoughts; the murmuring of the crowd had faded earlier and he had not noticed. He shook his head, recalling earlier the small groups in the bar that had watched the news and then spent time in discussion about the murders, the investigation and world affairs most of them knew nothing about, only what the media fed to them. The fucking media and the fucking bar-stool courthouse. He hated them also. He contemplated leaving but he felt no inclination to do so. He was okay to sit longer, and then wondered if Billie would mind him getting another drink. She appeared from the back of the bar as he had the thought and looked over to him as she placed a cloth down on the fridge behind the long bar. He picked up his glass and waved it at her; she smiled and shook her head as she moved to make him another.

He smiled and sat back in the seat. After a moment she appeared before him with the drink and placed it down in front of him. She slid into the booth opposite him; studying him. She liked him, as far as what she knew of him. He had been coming to her bar for three years of her owning it and he always kept to himself. Sometimes he came with a lady or a small group of officers, yet even then he was always quiet. He was tall, which she liked and lean with broad shoulders and he had a strong jaw. His eyes were ocean blue and intense; he was always watching but seeming not too. She liked his rugged worn looks and his age fitted him well. His unkempt beard, short and shadowed to his jaw line with a scar on his left cheek which stretched from the side of his eye to below his left ear. It was very sexy.

She liked him with curious attraction, yet tonight he seemed sadder than usual; more alone and distant than other times. She enjoyed having him stay in the bunk bed, made her feel safe upstairs knowing a cop was camped in the bar. He lifted the drink and sipped. He looked back at her. She was looking at him with an intent gaze. He wasn’t uncomfortable by this, more curious. What was she thinking?

Billie Dean Ashmore owned the Beer & Beef hotel off Main Street with her father and brother. She lived upstairs in the residence above the hotel and was always on duty to serve and manage. Her father and brother were sometimes visitors and financial back-up to the operation. She was 24 years old, studying law and was the best-looking young woman in the place, even on lady’s night. She had big brown eyes and dark long hair with full lips that pouted or smiled depending on her mood. She was beautiful…Paul sat as she surveyed him. There was nothing to be said and he did not feel like talking. She would ask him a question as her curious nature had often asked him probing questions. She was interested in people; her patrons, her staff…but she never revealed much of herself.

She reached out and touched his hand; this surprised him but he did not show it. Her hand was soft, young, unlike his wife’s hand. His eyes dropped to her cleavage; firm soft breasts of a 24-year-old curved under a white tight tee. He looked back to her eyes and she had a small smile on her lips; had he flattered her by looking at her breasts, he thought with mild amusement. He was 44 years old and she was the age of a daughter he may have had with his first wife if the opportunity had arisen, yet her brown eyes had a look of knowing and age he had seen often in the young generation of today. They were a different culture than when he had been their age.

May I ask you something detective? she asked.

Call me Paul, he answered. And you just did.

True, she smiled and licked her lips. How did you get the scar on your cheek?

Ahh, the scar question… he mused, she not being the first person to ask. Well, it was not an exciting good guy versus bad guy saga where I came out with this token of heroism…unfortunately, it was a mere car accident when I was seventeen. he sighed. My best mate and I took my dad’s car for a spontaneous joyride one night and we rolled it twice out on Twindale road. The passenger window and my face had a smashing encounter…all else was unharmed but dad’s car was a write off… he gave a sigh and sipped his drink, knowing he had lied about the summary of the incident which had left him scarred for life. The truth was unnecessary to this conversation, as it often was, when he explained the scar on his cheek because no one needed to know that his best mate had been driving drunk and at excessive speed. Paul did not need to tell anyone that his friend died when the car crashed into a tree; folding the car like an accordion. Or indulge in the fact that the scandal of the incident caused his complete relationship failure with his father for the past twenty years…No, they did not need it mentioned. He sighed again, always regretful of the fatal night.

So, you were a law breaker once...?

Yeah, once…

Are you doing okay Paul? she asked and this question caught him off-guard. He looked at her; her intense brown eyes filled with genuine warmth and concern.

I guess as well as I can with all that is happening, he answered and knew he did not have to spell anything out to her as the news had given her more than he ever would about the case and his life. She nodded in thought.

Are you going to sleep in the bunk? she asked, and he felt like she was mothering him. He liked the moment of intimacy they were having, and this also surprised him as their relationship to date had been general chit-chat or modest flirting between barmaid and patron with mere innocent undertones. This was the first time she had looked at him and spoken to him beyond that.

Would it be okay? he answered. Not expecting much sleep though.

You won’t if I join you, she stated matter-of-factly. He blinked at her and lifted his drink to his lips, sipping it and placing it down; her eyes never left his.

I am a bit old for you darling… he sighed, feeling his thoughts wonder about her naked body, her taste and feel against him, the smell of her wetness over him. Her lips on his… I may disappoint…

You carry this city on your shoulders and it weighs you down… she said with a genuine admiration. You need to feel…I want to make you feel good…you are this tall brooding, mysterious detective who drinks alone like some broken hero from mythical books… she paused, unsure if she should continue. She had never felt this vulnerable to a man before; her hands trembled. In her roles as publican to her patrons and employer to her staff, she had many advances, offers and flirtations from guests and staff alike, and she could always maintain her elusive indifference, unless she so decided on few occasions with men who caught her interest but it was rare. Her father had brought her brother and her up well when their mother had died 12 years ago; her father trusted her professional integrity to give her this bar. Why was she feeling so intense for this man before her? She asked herself, knowing she had always found him intriguing as he had slept over many times in the back cot yet over the last few months, the media had been unfair to him and he had seemed quieter and more solemn than before.

I want to make you feel good…that is not a bad thing, is it? she stopped silent, staring at him; into him. He sat for a long moment, not sure of his next word or action. He was married but was that a reason to say no to this young woman, his wife made no tries to this offering. Even her words were surprising, as though she had rehearsed them. Besides I may also disappoint, so we can only explore the experience together to find out… she let a smile curl over her teeth.

Yes, he whispered. Yes, we can.

She stood and slid around to his side of the table. She eased herself in beside him and pressed her firm breasts into his chest. Her breath had bourbon and ash on it but smelt amazing to him. Her lips were wet and plump as she moved closer to him, dropping her hand into his lap and moving it over the crotch of his pants, feeling as he did, him firming up. He could not remember when he had ever felt so turned on…

Then his phone rang. He cursed as he fumbled for it in his jacket pocket. He had to answer it because only his team had the private mobile number, so it would not be a wasted call at 3am. He had the sudden thought of the fifth girl; found dead as he feared…or the sixth girl. The killer had two girls to play with presently which was interesting. He had not done this before with the other girls’; usually they found girls after a month allowing the killer to play with them until he tossed them away. He pulled the phone out and looked at the screen but he didn’t know the number. He looked at Billie, who had not moved from her proximity nor had she stopped rubbing his crotch. She smiled and nodded to him to answer, seeing in his eyes his urgency.

Detective Sergeant Anderson.

Detective, its Daniel Pike from Pike and Gale legal, how are you?

Paul was about to answer the generic reply of fine when Billie had somehow removed his erection from his pants and now had a firm hold. He looked into her hungry eyes with surprise, and then with absolute approval.

Detective, are you there?

Yes, sorry Pike, all good, he answered with held breath as Billie lowered her head, placing her moist mouth onto him. Her warmth was like a wave of bliss he had only imagined as she moved along his shaft with definite intent. He raised his free hand to his forehead and took a slow breath to keep focused on the conversation.

What