Patrick lightly giggled.
“Have I helped you at all?”
“At least for right now.” Patrick rubbed his palms against his eyes. “But if there was one thing Gary’s right about, it’s that I’ve tried to forget that my dad ever existed. It’s not like I ever even talked about him, I barely told you guys about my watch a couple weeks ago, and I’ve known you for more than two years.” he paused, shuffling more of his thoughts together. “I need to learn more about him. I should read his books. They always did seem like unique sci-fi and fantasy.”
“That’s a way to do it. You’d get to know him better through his works.”
“I should do it now. Tonight. What else have we got to do?”
Right as he finished his last words everyone’s attention was taken by a sudden tumbling coming from right outside the only door. By instinctive reflexes everyone jumped into uncoordinated fighting positions. Johnny and Patrick pathetically fell to the floor from standing too quickly. But there was no threat. Their fears were sated at the familiar cursing voice from right outside.
“Nice going you flying rat, you dropped the powdered doughnuts.” Gary exclaimed as he and Edgar eased themselves into the base. To everyone’s further surprise, Gary wore an excited look on his face. “Why are you two on the floor?”
“I uh.... dropped a penny” Johnny said. Gary reached into his pocket with the hand not cluttered with grocery bags and threw him a quarter.
“Buy yourself something nice.”
“Gary, what is all this?” Slate asked, rushing to the bulging plastic bags.
“I figured since it seems Edgar can pretty much break into any place he wants that the supermarket would be on the hit list sometime. Can you believe it? All the good stuff was all still on display in the dark.” He threw the bags onto the table. The variety of contents were spilled out before everyone. They were eyeing the food as if it were pure gold. “We had more donuts, but this guy over here had to go and drop them in the dirt.” He playfully shoved Edgar away who returned the gesture, nearly knocking the human to the ground.
Everyone hovered over the food. Each of them gradually began to pick out things for themselves.
“Hey, this is the good kind!” Johnny exclaimed, raising a bag of coffee beans proudly in the air. “Now we can make real cups of joe.”
“Gary, you know you didn’t have to do this?” Patrick said, already stuffing his face with sugar.
Their food supplier smiled to himself. He held his hand in his pockets, eyeing the floor in modesty. “Well it’s the least I could do. Anything is better than those one-dollar heart attacks at McDonalds. By the way, you guys don’t owe me this time, mostly because all of this was stolen, but I usually have a smuggling fee.”
“This is your way of apologizing, isn’t it?” Jane asked.
“Would you believe me if I said ‘no’?”
“Not at all.”
“Then yes. It is.”
With that, they merrily gathered around the table and broke sugar and chocolate infused bread together and shared things like they had never shared before, and with that came many laughs. Johnny told everyone about the time he and his family vacationed to Paris and for every meal they ate cheeseburgers. Gary explained in nearly gruesome detail about the time when his sixth grade teacher was hit in the head by a kickball and immediately slipped on a slice of cake. Hardly had he told half the story when he nearly hurled from laughter. All in all, despite what each of them had gone through before they became the raven gang or even before they had met each other, they were happy for one short evening.
After the feast that satisfied their inner ten-year-olds, they mellowed themselves down. As Patrick was gulping down the last of his sweetener drowned coffee, Gary approached him from behind. Patrick was about to make a comment on one of Gary’s stories, but he spoke first.
“Regardless of what I may think of your father or what you may now think of him, I think you should get to know him, if it isn’t too late.” From behind he slipped a familiar looking hardcover book into Patrick’s hands. “I was looking through this earlier. He knew how to tell a heartfelt tale. I think this is surely a good start.”
“It think so too.” he stared longingly into the front cover. “Thank you, Gary.”
“Don’t worry. Everyone has flaws. Everyone is bad and everyone is good. It’s a tragedy when one of those flaws immortalizes someone’s image forever.”
Without any more words, Gary left to get a refill of coffee. After several seconds of hard concentration, he flipped the front cover. Turning through the thick pages he encountered what were undoubtedly many unique stories. There were stories set in the far future about robots who refused to accept that the animals that created them ever existed, and there were many set in the past. Another one of them was about a princess who had an affinity for numbers. In order to decide whom to marry she created a mathematical problem for the whole kingdom to attempt to solve, vowing that whoever solved it would wed her. The story ended with the princess finding out that the only one who solved it was a woman. There were many others that gave Patrick joy, but perhaps the one that had the greatest impact on him was what was probably the shortest story in the entire volume. It was titled: “The Bat and the Four Ravens”. It told the story of a young orphaned little bat who found itself in the company of a group of ravens, who raised it as if it were one of them. As it got older, it realized it wasn’t a bird like the others and that it didn’t belong. It decided that it would fly away, determined to find more of its kind. But no matter where its journey took it, regardless of how happy or sad the little bat was, it knew it could always find its way back to its real family, the ravens. What surprised Patrick more than anything was the couple illustrations that were printed near the words. He took his eyes off the text for a brief moment and looked up at Edgar who was across the room. He could not help but notice the little bat in the drawing looked exactly like his friend.
Patrick shut the book as he saw that very friend approaching. He moved awkwardly, clutching something tight in his wing. It was another note.
The bat gently handed it to him, and he read it to himself. ‘It’s my fault. Gary was right. You guys are all really nice and shouldn’t have to deal with this stuff. I can turn myself in. There doesn’t have to be a rational explanation about me, people can put some fantasy together in their heads. I’ll take the blame for everything. You guys can all go free.’
After reading he looked up at Edgar. He couldn’t possibly frown. “Oh no you don’t, buddy. You’re not going anywhere. If we get out of this, you are getting out too. End of story.”
His friend blinked, staring noiselessly at him. Edgar’s head tilted to the side like a dog trying to hear clearly, and his pink snout wrinkled. He bent forward, almost causing Patrick to flinch, and embraced him, wrapping his wings around his back. He vigorously nuzzled his nose around Patrick’s chest in the best way he knew how to show affection.
Patrick laughed. He tried to return the hug but Edgar’s wings were keeping his arms at his sides. “Don’t worry, Edgar. The ravens aren’t going anywhere.”
“En garde!” one of the masked men declared. Just as he declared the phrase the two opponents leaped into action. The art of fencing had been an honored past time between the two swordsmen. They felt the movements of lunging and parrying kept themselves always alert while keeping their minds at peace. That was really the key to having the best judgement. Perhaps it was for that reason that the man currently leading the defense and offense was also the mastermind behind the most potent underground group of scientists and architects ever based in the United States. There were definitely many scientists devoted to him, but the term ‘architect’ was not someone who designed buildings, but rather, someone who knew how to make something out of nothing. Just like a god.
As their first match was coming to conclusion a man walked in. H
e poured himself some whiskey from a bottle sitting on a neat table a safe several meters from the fighting area. None of the swordsmen noticed his arrival, so he greeted them first.
“Elder?” Patane asked. “I assume you’re under that gear somewhere?”
The white cladded man farthest from him removed his mask in one motion, confirming himself the doctor. Since it occurred to the other masked man that the sudden summoning of the doctor meant that their match was officially over, they exchanged their goodbyes and he left through the door where the captain had entered.
The two greeted each other by the small table. Elder joined his friend and removed his gripping gloves, pouring a drink for himself. “Very impressive, sir,” Patane started. “I always saw you as more of a Skeet kind of person.”
“When I was younger, maybe.” he coughed as he felt the refreshing burn of the 40 proof alcohol. “But over the years I’ve felt ashamed of firing a gun. It’s a coward’s weapon after all. Nothing brave about killing an opponent you can’t even see.”
“Very wise. I believe there’s much more of an art to the blade anyway. There’s only one way to fire a gun.”
“Exactly. The sword is more complex. A much longer history too.”
The doctor’s friend gulped down the last of his glass effortlessly. “So who was that? The guy you were sparring with?”
“A senator from Maryland. A good man. He’s been especially helpful in our movement to the next phase.”
Patane nodded in accord. Then he continued, running a hand through his uncombed black hair. “I may say this a lot, but you, my friend, have done one hell of a job with your little scheme here, and I couldn’t feel any better about having a front row seat.”
“As you should. I didn’t think I’d let someone rise as high as you have in the ranks. I may say this a lot, but congratulations to that.”
“Once this investigation is over you’ll own the FBI. I told you my contacts would never fail.”
They clinked their glasses together.
As they lowered their drinks and the liquid inside smoothed out, Elder arched his eyes to the ground pensively. His friend downed yet another gulp of alcohol from his short glass and then he exhaled a satisfied sigh. “I’m sure Mary and B.J would be proud of everything you’ve done.”
The doctor raised his head in reply. He set his glass to his lips and tilted, the lowly concentrated ethanol slipping between his teeth. After one swallow, he cleared his throat.
“Grant, there is something I’ve been hiding. It’s something that only I have known for quite a while, and I believe it’s gotten to the point where I can let you in on this without you needing to fear me.”
“Oooh, classified information.” he said, smirking like a schoolboy. “Hit me.”
The doctor tried to match Patane’s intrigued smirk, but it only came across as a wicked Cheshire cat grin. “It’s about the raven gang.”
At that time, just as the two accomplished men sipped their drinks with prideful vigor, the products of their labor were being put to good use. Everywhere, all across the miles of metropolises and rural plains of the spanning nation, their equipment was being controlled by both federal and local authorities. Since the high decision that the innovative mind behind the many brilliant works of Elder Inc was to be of valuable assistance in the apprehension of the group going by the name of the raven gang, many acts of violence believed to be schemes of the gang were wearily put to rest.
There, in the increasingly chilly Atlantic winter, just outside of Manhattan, another set of unique explosives were discovered running along far edges of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was discovered that they were identical to the ones set off in the San Francisco massacre, just days before, which put unquenchable fear into the minds of millions that the notorious gang’s power had now manifested on the opposite coast. The authorities believed that if it weren’t for the brilliant ingenuity of Elder Inc. explosive detection equipment, they would have surely gone off.
They hardly had any other choice. They needed a savior.
Though, where there were stopped attacks, there were ones that went unnoticed until flames went up, or any form of deadly destruction occurred. As the potency of each attack grew, so did national awareness of the raven gang. What was once a small murder of a state recognized philanthropist had begun to swirl the nation into fear and chaos.
Among the many other potentially destructive disasters that plagued every corner of the country, there were several shocking murders happening on the individual level, making them seem like isolated incidents. The day after the attack in San Francisco a ship came in to New York, nowhere near where it was supposed to be. The crew had all been slashed to death, save for one drown. Those on the case had made the valid assumption that the captain had sliced up each of his crew members in a murderous frenzy, dumped the weapon into the water, then chose to end his life. However, they couldn’t have been more incorrect. It also would have been great for them to know that the package the ship had been lavishly paid to deliver contained the many explosives used in certain areas in the country, including right outside the police station in San Francisco. What ended up spooking them the most was the word stained in dry blood inside the rear of the ship which plainly read ‘NEVERMORE’. They instantly connected it with the raven gang. But no local authorities could fathom the source of the crimes. They were like toddlers trying to reach a kitchen cabinet.
Another random case stumbled upon was the case of university student Lauren Goodwell. Her friends had found her body not more than fifty yards from their camp. She’d stepped away for only seconds before her violent death. There was a single ragged cut through the front of her body, where a softball could possibly have flown through. Besides her life, her heart had been thoroughly cleaned from every artery. And, of course, stained on what was left of her clothes was the same hauntingly poetic word associated with the increasingly feared raven gang. Nevermore.
These were only a fraction of a fraction of everything the country thought they had on the gang. With the increase in the violent news, American citizens feared for their safety more than they had in a long time. Riots were thrown, and there was chaos in streets and schools everywhere. The only thing certain was the that illusion of the raven gang threat was destroying the population’s sense of safety. The one radiant entity easing them at all was the great Doctor Samuel Bingham Elder, now more of a nationally acclaimed icon than Uncle Sam. Police and federal bodies at every corner consistently thanked him. Every day since the unfortunate massacre, his company’s work was detecting new threats involving explosives or guns. From the high-energy blast in the bank in a previous attack, it was obvious the gang had access to high tech weaponry, which Elder’s equipment could detect.
He became a national hero.
Unfortunately, for the people’s own sake, only a few bothered to wonder how Elder initially knew how to detect the many forms of advanced weapons being used. That question would have gone nowhere fast, considering they were all functioning under the operation of one single elementary chemical. DNA.
It was safe to say that John Hunter was not having the best day. Ever since the FBI relieved the department of their authority on the case, he was struck with restless fury. Even with all the new cases being slapped onto his desk, he couldn’t maintain focus on any of them. He’d been briefed of the many strange and violent events circling the nation. Most surely involved the raven gang. He didn’t need to be told twice. He could see the increasing unrest among his own community, the place where the gang was born. More and more crime was being committed every day, and with one of the SFPD’s best detective’s mind still uselessly stuck on a former case, no work was getting done.
And his least favorite part was the media’s saintly portrayal of Samuel Elder. Whatever great work the late Jefferson Black did that qualified him as a philanthropist was being insultingly overshadowed. The people may
as well had forgotten him. The raven gang had become much more than a simple murdering clan. With the word ‘Nevermore’ being bannered like a trophy over crimes across the nation: ranging from robberies to literarily horrifying deaths. There was an answer somewhere in the crime web, and he wasn’t going to be a fly that got stuck.
His partner in crime eradication entered his office without reserve. Her eyes were weak from lack of rest. “Have you done any work today?”
“I brewed some more coffee. And it’s for everybody. What’s up?”
“I was actually just on my way out for lunch, but I wanted to drop by to let you know that after we forwarded all our crime scene reports from Black’s murder to the bureau-”
“You gave them all those!” he whined, coming off like a child.
“We had to.” Guajardo shrugged. “And apparently they’ve already found something that we overlooked.”
“What could that be?”
“All of the reports noted there was a camera set up in Black’s garage at the time of his death. When we got there, everything from the projector to that whole table he set up were laying broken against the wall. The murderer must have really wanted to clean the scene. Anyway, we just assumed the camera had been broken along with everything else, but they think they can recover the film.”
Hunter stayed silent. He knew the implications.
“They think the murderer might have been on camera.”
His thoughts were fueled by jealousy, so by reflex, he chose to not accept it. “But we already know who the killers were. It was those four Weller students. Didn’t you tell the FBI that?”
She sighed. She had been in business with Hunter for a long time. And she never liked to disagree with such a bright man.
“But what if we’re wrong?”
“What could you possibly mean by that?”
“John,” she began, striding closer to him. “You’re probably the best detective I’ve ever known, and you’ve closed I don’t even know how many cases in your time. But look around us! Look at everything that’s going on in this God-forsaken country! Do you honestly believe that all this unrest, all this strangeness, and all this chaos was really started by a small band of liberal arts delinquents?” The detective’s muscles grew tense. She ungracefully rubbed her eyes from strained attention. “No, I don’t believe it. There’s something much bigger going on here. Something that’s right in front of our eyes that we can’t perceive.”
The Raven Gang (Noble Animals Book 1) Page 17