CASEY IGNORED THE CHATTER OF passengers on the M6 bus while she scanned the sidewalk for anyone who might be carrying a fist-sized rock. The last hit happened on September twenty-seventh and she’d worked this route several times since without incident. Today was October fifteenth. The rockhound had either found a new hobby or had had few opportunities.
Casey rubbed her freezing hands. The temperature had dropped since the rain began and Wesley again refused to switch on the heater. It didn’t help that she was sitting right behind the center door where cold air wafted in every time it opened, but if she needed a quick exit, this was the place to be.
The M6 approached the Columbia Street and Blackwood intersection, which was the beginning of the rockhound’s turf. Casey sat up straight and took a deep breath. Two young women ate McDonald’s fries, offering a welcome change from the usual rotten banana smell.
Behind Casey, a group of teens burst out laughing, presumably at some joke. After the rockhound’s last strike, management had tried eliminating passenger pickups along this stretch of Columbia until further notice, but dozens of complaints had forced David Eisler to change his mind. He had insisted, however, that notices be posted throughout the M6, stating that the company wouldn’t be liable for personal injuries.
Unfortunately, riding the M6 had become some sort of sport for thrill-seeking teens who—despite Wesley’s warnings—chose seats next to the sidewalk. Tonight, six annoying boys and three girls joked and laughed behind her.
Casey studied pedestrians’ clothing, height, weight, bags, purses, and umbrellas. She looked for hands in pockets. Wesley slowed for a man waiting at the stop just beyond the Fourth Street intersection as four males sauntered down Columbia. Two wore tuques, another wore a wide-brimmed hat, and the fourth man was hatless.
Casey slid to the edge of her seat, and her muscles tensed up. No one in the group lagged behind. As Wesley eased the bus to the stop, a dozen people exited the SkyTrain station a few strides away. Some headed for the M6 while others walked down Columbia Street.
Through the stream of people, Casey noticed a man with a long beard standing in front of a closed shop. The dark hoodie was pulled low over his forehead. Witnesses had never mentioned a bearded rockhound, but descriptions were varied enough to make her think the perp wore disguises.
As the doors opened, the bearded man headed back toward the Blackwood intersection. Casey watched his retreating back and studied his loping gait. The guy was tall, his shoulders slightly stooped. He removed his hands from his pockets. The doors closed. A half second later, the sound of tinkling glass made her duck.
“Shit!” a passenger shouted.
More voices erupted with “What the hell?” Nearly everyone jumped to their feet.
“Damn!” Casey raised her head enough to see if the perp was running up Fourth like he had last time.
No one was running or even turning up Fourth, but the group of four guys was now three. The man with the wide-brimmed hat had disappeared, and where had the bearded guy gone?
She straightened up. “Anyone see anything?”
People shook their heads. There was no time for more than a quick glance at the window. Casey rushed down the steps, crunching glass fragments under her feet. This was new. No rock had done this much damage before.
“Hold it, Casey!” Wesley shouted. “That sounded like a gunshot.”
She hesitated. The noise had sounded different from the last strike, but a gun? She looked up and down the street. No one seemed in a hurry. She rushed up to the group of three who’d stopped and were now staring at the small hole in the window. God, it looked like Wesley was right. She turned to the guys.
“MPT security.” She flashed her ID. “Where’s your friend?” The men, all twenty-something, gave her blank stares. “There were four of you together, and he had a wide-brimmed hat.”
“He wasn’t with us, but I saw him,” one of them replied. “I thought he was going to pass us, but I guess he dropped back.”
Casey wished she hadn’t focused on the bearded guy. Another bloody mistake.
“He ran into the station,” another replied.
Casey looked at the SkyTrain entrance. The perp could have cut through the station and left through the Fourth Street exit. If he’d done so, it would be nearly impossible to find him.
“Did any of you see his face?”
They shook their heads.
“His hat was brown,” one of them said, “and the coat was either dark blue or black.”
“Casey?” Wesley called out. “We’ve found the bullet.”
“The suspect went into the SkyTrain station, so I’m going to check it out.”
“Don’t. He could still be there.”
“The transit police or security will be around.” She turned to the guys. “Could I grab your names and phone numbers in case we need a written statement?”
It took only a few seconds to scribble down the info and then enter the SkyTrain station. Several steps beyond, a narrow escalator led up to second floor offices. Ground floor shops were closed for the night. She rushed past the stores, farther into the station. Two men in suits were using the ticket machines, but there was no sign of any transit police. Casey ignored a sign prohibiting entrance without a ticket. As she jogged to the escalator, her phone rang.
“Hello?”
“That was your last warning,” a male voice whispered. “Stop investigating Jasmine’s murder.”
The blood rushed to her face. “I’m not!”
Was the freak stalking her? She heard traffic noise at his end of the line, and then nothing. She looked up and down the escalator. No one was on a cell phone. Sweat trickled down her sides and she shivered. Desperate to make sure Summer was okay, she speed-dialed Barb’s number, but Barb was on another call.
Casey stepped onto the platform. Two lines ran through this station. The shooter might have already hopped onto a train, but in which direction? It was after ten, and at least a dozen passengers were waiting for the automated rail cars. Two women chatted near the steps.
“Excuse me, ladies. I’m with MPT security.” She showed them her ID. “Did either of you see a man in a dark coat and brown, wide-brimmed hat come up here?”
The women looked at each other. “We followed someone like that up the escalator,” one of them said. “He stayed on the platform about two seconds, and then headed back down.”
“Did you get a look at his face?”
Both shook their heads.
A SkyTrain security attendant approached Casey and she again displayed her ID. “Did you see a man who might have come up here less than five minutes ago? He was wearing a dark coat and brown, wide-brimmed hat.” She spotted an elderly couple edging closer to her. Both were short, their wrinkled faces curious and apprehensive.
“I saw him come up here then leave right away,” the attendant replied. “I didn’t get a good look at him. What’s he done?”
“Excuse me, but we couldn’t help overhearing,” the elderly woman said. “We saw the man with the hat, too. He seemed rather flustered, didn’t he, Fred?” She glanced at her companion who nodded his bald head.
“Could you be a bit more specific?” Casey asked.
“Well, he was turning every which way, and his hands were in his pockets,” she replied, reaching for Fred’s hand. “He left almost as soon as he got here.”
“Did you see his face?”
“Just a bit, really.” When she turned to her companion, her loose plastic bonnet hat didn’t quite move with her. “He could have been young, couldn’t he, Fred?”
“Young.” Fred nodded.
“Was he light skinned, dark skinned?” Casey asked.
“He was a tall, white fellow,” she replied. “Clean shaven.”
“Tall,” Fred agreed. “Clean shaven.”
“He was shorter than me,” the attendant said.
