The Blade Man

by Debra Purdy Kong

  THE BLADE MAN

  Debra Purdy Kong

  Gypsy Moon Press

  Port Moody, British Columbia

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  THE BLADE MAN

  PRAISE FOR CASEY HOLLAND MYSTERIES

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  BOOKS BY DEBRA PURDY KONG

  THE BLADE MAN

  (Casey Holland Mysteries #6)

  Copyright © 2020 by Debra Purdy Kong

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or printed editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Gypsy Moon Press

  www.debrapurdykong.com

  ISBN: 978-1-9991987-0-1

  Editor: Joyce Gram

  www.gramediting.com

  www.gramediting.com

  Jacket Design: Deranged Doctor Design

  www.derangeddoctordesign.com

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

  PRAISE FOR CASEY HOLLAND MYSTERIES

  “A traditional mystery complicated by the characters’ desires to keep secrets and the self-serving manipulations of others . . . A good read with urban grit and a spicy climax.” —The Hamilton Spectator

  “A mystery that fits the bill.” – National Post

  “The novel’s short, punchy chapters whisk the story along to a thrilling climax, while the characters’ relationships and rivalries provide a strong emotional anchor.” – Quill & Quire

  “This is truly a fast-moving, action-packed thriller . . . Great story with strong plot!” – Nightreader

  “The modest but resourceful Casey is a perfect heroine for our times, a combination of thought and action.” – Lou Allin, Crime Writers of Canada

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  A huge thank you to former transit operator Veronica Laurel Greer, whose experiences and insights taught me a great deal about the difficult encounters bus drivers often face. The bus company and situations in this book are my own creation, but Veronica’s thoughts provided plenty of inspiration.

  Also, many thanks to writing colleagues and members of Port Moody Recreation’s Creative Writing Program, whose input and support have helped me become a better writer.

  Thank you again to editor Joyce Gram who is always a pleasure to work with. The same is true for the talented book jacket designers at Deranged Doctor Design.

  Of course, heartfelt thanks to my husband who never complains about the amount of time I spend at the keyboard, and who joins me at many bookselling events. It means the world to me.

  ONE

  “Wesley, look out!” Casey Holland ducked behind the bus driver’s seat and glanced over her shoulder. “Everyone down, now!”

  A Molotov cocktail bounced off the driver’s window next to Wesley Axelson’s head, but Wesley merely revved the idling bus engine and blasted the horn. “Candy-ass punks!”

  Casey didn’t know why Wesley bothered with the yelling or the horn. Minutes ago, a mob of teens and young adults had overtaken the road, ignoring his earlier blasts. Why would they listen now?

  The Molotov cocktail exploded on the road, rocking the bus slightly. Somewhere outside, a woman screamed. Casey peeked out the window to see a woman running from the flames flaring up just a few feet from the bus. If they had to evacuate, she’d make damn sure that the half dozen passengers who’d decided to stay on board got out of here safely. A decade of security work had taught her to stay calm in tense situations. She’d be deceiving herself if she wasn’t worried, though. A drunken mob was a new experience she’d rather live without.

  “That was too damn close!” A middle-aged passenger glared at Casey. “I thought you called the cops.”

  “I did.”

  “Then where the hell are they? The RCMP detachment’s just two blocks from here.”

  “Manpower shortage, most likely. From what I hear there’s trouble at the rally in the park.”

  “Then they should have called for reinforcements by now,” the woman grumbled as she opened a window. “It’s too hot in here. Don’t you have air conditioning on this bus?”

  Casey admitted it was unusually warm for mid-May. “Sorry, no. This is an older model.”

  “Stupid company,” the woman muttered. “This is the last time I’ll ride an MPT bus.”

  Casey hoped so. She stood and used her phone to record the broken glass and burning rag on the road. She zeroed in on the five culprits in ball caps, hoodies, and bandana-covered faces who were laughing and high-fiving one another. The stench of gasoline and smoke made her cough. She’d closed all the windows when the trouble started, but she wasn’t going to make anyone close them again in this heat, at least not right away.

  “Is the ambulance here yet?” a tentative voice asked.

  Casey turned to the injured teenaged girl slouched in the seat across from her. She was holding a bloodied gauze pad above her right eye. “Soon.”

  The girl had waved them down just after they turned onto Glen Drive. She said she’d fallen on the sidewalk and cut her forehead on broken glass. Casey could still smell beer on the girl’s breath.

  God, how had things unraveled so quickly? Based on what she’d heard from passengers, a union rally at the stadium in Town Center Park had somehow turned into an angry protest, thanks to a bunch of punks who started a bonfire and began throwing things at the crowd.

  Wesley had cruised into the area just as families began running from the park, ignoring traffic lights in the rush to reach safety. The panic had created a major traffic snarl, forcing Wesley to take another route. Many of the families were parked at the mall four or five blocks away. News reports said there were so many attendees at the rally that the park’s lots had filled quickly. Besides, parking was free at the mall. Most of the families were now safely away, which left a younger, bolder, and tougher crowd anticipating—even wanting—mayhem.

  Wesley turned off the engine.

  “This bus needs to move!” the middle-aged woman shouted. “We’ve been stuck here for fifteen minutes! The M28 bus shouldn’t even be on this street. You bloody well should have stayed on Pinetree Way.”

  Casey struggled to keep her annoyance in check. “Ma’am, I’m sure you saw the police officer gesturing for us to turn away.”

  “You can see how well t
hat’s working.” The woman ran her hand through graying hair brightened with red streaks. “You said you’re security for this company, so can’t you do something? Mainland Public Transport should be taking better care of its customers!” She pointed to the teenager. “That poor girl could bleed to death!”

  “Head wounds bleed a lot, but the cut isn’t large or deep. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

  The woman scowled. “So you’re a doctor now? Are you even qualified to touch her?”

  Casey told herself to remain calm. “I have enhanced first-aid training.”

  And what did the woman expect her to do about the mob? Make a citizen’s arrest one punk at a time?

  “Tell your driver to nudge the idiots with the bus!” the woman barked. “That’ll get them moving. They have no right to treat us this way! It’s disgusting.”

  Casey understood that some people reacted to fear with rage, but this passenger was going too far. None of the others were acting out and all were just as inconvenienced. Trapped midway between High Street behind them and Pacific Avenue in front, the bus had nowhere to go on this narrow block. With only one lane each way, they were hemmed in by the cars parallel-parked in front of retail shops and condos.

  Wesley made his second call to MPT’s dispatchers. “We’ve gotta get out of here. Some moron just tried to throw a Molotov cocktail into the bus,” he said. “Situation’s gettin’ ugly and it’s about to turn into a freakin’ riot.”

  As far as Casey was concerned, ugly had already swooshed by and calamity was setting in. She couldn’t hear dispatch’s response, but Wesley looked even unhappier than he had before. She worried about her fiancé Lou, who’d been attending the rally with coworkers and might still be there. As an MPT bus driver, Lou still resented the company’s president for squashing his and coworkers’ efforts to unionize employees eighteen months ago. It had cost Lou a promotion. Today, he’d hoped to connect with people who could help them find a more effective way to achieve their goal.

  “It was a dumb idea to host a rally in Coquitlam,” the complaining woman said. “Those gatherings belong in Vancouver. They’re used to this crap.”

  It would be pointless to argue that thugs, crime, and violence surfaced in every municipality in Metro Vancouver, and beyond. After the riot debacle in June 2011, following the Vancouver Canucks’s loss in the final Stanley Cup hockey game, Vancouver officials seemed to fear any emotionally charged, large-scale gathering. Given that Coquitlam was only a half hour east of Vancouver, it had seemed a good alternative, until now.

  “If your driver moved the bus just a few more yards,” the woman went on, “he could turn onto Pacific and get us out of here.”

  Casey sighed. Pacific Avenue was more than a few yards away. “We don’t want to hit anyone.”

  “So you’ll keep law-abiding paying customers who aren’t causing trouble in danger? Well, that’s just great. Who’s in charge of MPT? I’m sending an email.”

  “Gwyn Maddox is the president.” After reciting his email address, Casey turned away to hide the smile. Good luck, lady.

  Gwyn used to go out of his way to accommodate customers, sometimes at the expense of employees, but that had changed as MPT grew deeper into debt. These days he wasn’t overly friendly or accommodating to anyone. Complaints from the public wouldn’t improve his perpetual irritability.

  Wesley stood and crossed his beefy arms. “I can open the door for ya anytime, ma’am. You’re not a hostage here. Lots of riders have already left.”

  “But this bus runs right by my house, or it’s supposed to.”

  “Door-to-door service ain’t happening tonight,” he replied, “so deal with it.”

  Not that Casey blamed Wesley, but she wished he’d keep quiet. Known as Rude Wesley Axelson, people skills weren’t his strong suit.

  The sound of shattering glass made Casey flinch. Laughter and joyful shouts clashed with cries of dismay. Three doors down, a goliath in shorts and a muscle shirt swung a sledgehammer through a boutique’s plate glass window. Oh dear lord, how many thugs had brought tools and weapons? Too bad that none of the shop windows around here had bars. In the frenzy to loot the store, two young women were knocked down. Assholes trampled right over them.

  “Damn,” Casey murmured and began recording the scene.

  Since it was just after 7:00 PM on a Saturday night, most of the shops were closed.

  “What’s happening?” the injured girl asked as she sat up and peered out the window.

  “They broke into a store.”

  “I feel kind of sick.”

  Casey reached into the first-aid kit by the girl’s feet. Drunks and motion-sick people had taught her to keep barf bags handy.

  “Use this if you need it.”

  The girl took the bag from Casey. “I still don’t get it. One minute we’re listening to speeches and the next people are throwing shit and losing their minds. What’s wrong with standing up for workers’ rights?”

  “Nothin’,” Wesley answered. “The problem is the idiots who only came to stir things up.”

  More glass shattered, this time from a coffee shop beside the boutique. Casey gasped as a fifty-something man with a broom frantically tried to keep looters from coming in. Three guys dragged the poor man from the entrance. The crowd roared. Beer bottles flew through the air.

  Wesley stood and opened the bus door. “That guy’s gonna get killed. I gotta stop him.”

  “Don’t, Wes!” Casey hurried up to him.

  She should have known that Wesley would want to jump into the fray. The man was also an amateur wrestler who spent his free time either working out or competing in matches.

  “If the Bandana Boys see you leave, they could commandeer the bus,” Casey whispered. “I can’t take them all on.” She turned back to the commotion in front of the coffee shop. “Look, the victim’s getting help.”

  A group of guys were taking on the three bullies while others assisted the coffee shop owner back inside. Shouts escalated. Fists flew as more people dived into the melee.

  “Call Stan again,” Wesley said. “See what he wants us to do.”

  “He’ll say the same thing he did ten minutes ago. As long as passengers are on this bus, their safety comes first, so we stay with them.”

  Wesley glared at the brawlers. “Your supervisor doesn’t know how violent it’s getting.”

  “I know him, Wes. Stan won’t change his mind.”

  “Easy for management to sit in their comfy chairs miles away and tell us what to do.” Wesley scanned the sidewalk. “Hell, they’re going after another store.”

  “This is insane,” one of the passengers said.

  The injured girl moaned.

  Wes glanced at the girl. “This crowd ain’t movin’ and the ambulance is takin’ too long. If we’re gonna keep these people safe, then we gotta leave the area.”

  Although Wesley had a point, his plan made Casey nervous. If the mob tried to stop them, there could be more injuries. People were still wandering all over the road. Some were so wasted that they were staggering. Others had stopped to record whatever action caught their attention. Wesley closed the door, sat down, and started the engine.

  “About time,” the angry woman said with a huff.

  Wesley blasted the horn. A handful of people hurried out of the way, but most didn’t. Inch by inch, he eased the bus forward and honked again. Those forced to move gave him the finger. A few slammed the palms of their hands against the bus.

  “For crying out loud!” the angry woman yelled. “Those delinquents are coming back!”

  As the Bandana Boys rushed toward the bus, Casey spotted the baseball bat one of them now carried. Where on earth had that come from? He raised the bat.

  “Everyone get down and cover your heads!” she shouted.

  The M28 wasn’t moving nearly fast enough to escape the jarring thwack against the window right behind Wesley. In short order, the window gave way. Breathing heavily, her face burning with ang
er, Casey crawled to the first-aid kit where she kept a can of mace. Not legal, but sometimes necessary.

  The injured girl threw up in the paper bag. A Bandana Boy kicked the front entrance.

  “I’ve got mace.” Casey spotted the strobing lights of an RCMP cruiser turning onto Glen Drive a block ahead of them. “Might not need it, though.”

  “Wanna bet? We’re inside and protected. The cops’ll be way more interested in the looters than getting us out of here.”

  Another blow rattled the door. The Bandana Boys whooped and urged their buddy to kick it in. A second bus window shattered next to the back entrance. The only passenger who hadn’t taken cover was the angry woman. Gripping the seat in front of her, she glowered at the boys.

  “Screw this!” Wesley jumped to his feet. “If they want in that badly, then fine.”

  “Not a good idea, Wes.”

  Wesley clenched his fists and didn’t look at her. At six-foot four and built like a refrigerator, Wesley Axelson could spar with the best of them. Known as the Bear in the wrestling circuit, he was fond of emitting a menacing growl before going after opponents. Casey had seen a couple of his matches, which were both amazing and horrifying. If sufficiently provoked, he could break bones or damage a spinal cord.

  “Wes, no!”

  Wesley opened the door. The noise level ramped up, as did the stench of smoke.

  Damn it, why wouldn’t he listen? A Bandana Boy leapt onto the platform. Before he could take another step, Wesley yanked down the blue bandana, knocked off his ball cap, and spun him around, pinning the guy’s arms behind his back.

  “Take a photo of this loser.”

  “Fuck you!” the guy yelled.

  Casey snapped a headshot of the scraggly black hair and acne on a kid of about twenty. She stepped back and took a full-length shot. “Done.” Figuring Stan would expect a full account of events, she began recording the action.

  As Wesley pointed Bandana Boy toward the exit, he lifted his size-fourteen, steel-toe boot and slammed it against the kid’s butt. The kid flew off the platform and into his buddies who were either too stupid or too stoned to get out of the way. They went down like bowling pins.