I remember…meting out justice

 

I AM A thief. I freely admit it.

Just this once.

I stole from Disney. And O’Donnell, Sheen, Sutherland, and Platt.

Do you remember when O’Donnell, the young D’Artagnan, arrives in town, annoys one of the three musketeers—not knowing he’s a musketeer, and I don’t remember who was who—and winds up agreeing to a duel at one o’clock? He annoys the second, sets up a duel for one thirty, and annoys the third, resulting in a two-o’clock duel. There is much shock and amusement when the three musketeers, in uniform, all show up at one o’clock and realize they’re dueling the same man. If you want to know anything else, watch the movie.

“Ah, ha!” some of you might say, having read ahead. “What about the phones?” you ask with that liar-pants-fire tone.

The phones weren’t stolen. They were just gone for a while, a longer-than-usual temporary loss of service. Nothing more than a short-term absence of all those little bars.

Ravens are clever. Devious. And when you, in all your Raven Princeness, can talk to them, though without words, and ask for their help, things happen.

Such as borrowing four cell phones in four cities and towns ranging from fifty to a hundred or more miles away from me. Really, people. If you’re going to leave your bright and shiny phones out where ever-inquisitive ravens might find them, you have only yourself to blame.

When I was done with each phone, the birds on the four relay teams passed the baton back to the original borrower bird, with the same precision they’d used on the inbound route. Each borrowing bird put his phone back as near as possible to the place it was picked up.

I thanked each one by pointing them toward some very fine food sources.

Remembering my TV training in forensics from police procedurals and courtroom dramas, the plan was a separate phone for each of the Four. I shifted and carried a bag with all four phones—off, location tracking off and history erased, battery removed—to a cell phone tower a fair distance from my house. Actually, it was to a place as close to the tower as I could get, and still have naked me concealed while I made the first two calls. Gloves in the bag, of course. I reassembled a phone, called, disassembled, repeated with a second phone.

I flew to a different tower and did it all again.

Then back to the clearing where Raven Himself and I made our deal, getting dressed, checking all the phones were back together but off, and then starting them on their way home.

I probably shouldn’t have enjoyed the calls as much as I did, considering what I was planning for the outcome.

I pissed them off and rattled their confidence with knowledge of things they needed kept secret if life as they knew and enjoyed it was going to continue.

Sheriff’s Son: The very long, very wide, dildo he used on his eager, skinny ass with his second-story curtains open, unaware of the owl watching from the tree. Unaware of me watching through the owl’s eyes. Preacher’s Son: Sneaking out at night to get far enough away from the rectory and the church so his getting high on weed wouldn’t be detected. Nor would his jacking off to a stash of hardcore straight bondage porn.

Banker’s Son: The boy with a gambling problem, who distributed drugs but only through middlemen…middle boys, in truth…who didn’t know who he was.

Principal’s Daughter: The boyfriend her father didn’t know about. And the second boyfriend, who didn’t know about the first. And the third boyfriend who didn’t know about the other two. And the diary where she fantasized about all three of them doing her at once.

I upped the ante with hints I had even more damaging information.

About their responsibility for what happened to Johnny.

I said I didn’t want to believe even they could be such fucking rotten bastards, or an unvoiced one singular bitch sensation—they’d never have believed me if I’d been nice—and I was so broken by everything, I only wanted to talk. To find out the truth.

Once they got over the shock of knowing I knew a very particular secret, they each, in not very different ways, enjoyed the fairy boy, who caused so much trouble begging to talk to them. In each call there was a moment when some important facts broke through the wall of “How did he know that?” Fairy boy was asking for a secret meeting. At night. In private. Where his little fairy boy body would be vulnerable, and if he or she was careful, no one would know he or she had been anywhere near him.

I begged them, too, not to tell any of their friends—with each knowing I meant the rest of the Four—as what I knew involved only them, and they wouldn’t want their friends to know what I knew.

My best guess about the aftermath of my call? Cogitation. (Notebook entry, check!)

Fairy boy was probably calling the other members of the Four. Whoa. I bet he knows something really bad about the others, if he knows that about me. I wonder what he knows about them? Is he going to tell them my secret? No. No, he wouldn’t. He was talking about stupid Johnny who fell down stairs ’cause he was too stupid not to. He only mentioned that to get my attention.

They must have waited until they figured I was through calling everyone before cyberspace, or wherever cell phone calls travel, lit with calls to each other. Gleeful, vengeful, “Guess what just happened” calls. Ones confirming I called all of them. Threatened all of them. Asked all of them to meet me, at half-hour intervals, at the same place.

Stupid, stupid, stupid fairy boy.

Stupid, stupid, stupid—I so very much hoped—Four.

Several birds followed the three boys, and I—shifted me, of course—followed Principal’s Daughter, to a meeting at the school. She waltzed them through night-shift security with ease.

I couldn’t follow them in, but I could imagine the conversation. “What the fuck is fairy boy trying to pull?” They must have said to

each other.

“It wasn’t my fault stupid, clumsy Johnny fell down some basement steps.”

“The only things he could say about me would be lies.” “He needs to be shut the fuck up.”

“Yeah.”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Fuck, yeah!”

Three days later, they showed up at the gym together. Surprise.

They showed up before the time for Preacher’s Son—the first one scheduled.

Surprise.

I watched from the shadows as they walked—swaggered, really—through the doors.

I had to sneak in, though it wasn’t much of a challenge to get past security cameras which had been bird-pooped on so many times in recent days even the conscientious day guards stopped rushing out with ladders to wipe them clear. “Conscientious” was a word I’d have to put into a special notebook for the night shift; I wasn’t sure they’d understand the definition.

The day poopings, and the previous night ones, were random, each bird selecting his or her favorite one or two. That night’s poopings were intentional. They covered every camera which might have recorded me coming in with the stuffed duffel bag.

Entering and leaving was the only potential problem. All the security cameras inside the school—the only things not covered by a camera were toilets, locker rooms, showers, and offices—were turned off at night. Having hired alert night watchmen, and given them the aid of all those external cameras, there was no way anyone could get past them and into the building without them knowing and acting. So why confuse them, and possibly lull them to sleep, with hours of video showing nothing in the darkened hallways, gym, et cetera?

The Four being the Four, they didn’t sneak into the building this time, either. The scenario I imagined was Principal’s Daughter telling the guards, whose livelihood depended on keeping the principal happy, her daddy had a special project he wanted her to do; she’d forgotten all about it; now she needed to get in—see, she had Daddy’s office key right in her big hand—and get the job done so Daddy wouldn’t be mad. And they wouldn’t want Daddy mad at them for not letting her in, would they?

They didn’t.

Or wouldn’t have if that was the scenario.

She could just as well have pulled the “Do you know who the fuck I am? Open the fucking doors and let us fucking in” routine.

It’s amazing what you can find online if Google is your friend. Such as the schematics for our school. Including fuse boxes and circuit breakers. Like the ones which controlled the brilliant ceiling lights which lit up the gym like better-than-day for night games. Or powered the security cameras inside the building in case the security guards got some wild hairs wriggling around up their collective asses and tried turning them on while I was…doing what had to be done.

Turning on the cameras, not the guards.

“What the hell?” was the voice of Sheriff’s son when he flipped the switches beside the hallway door they’d just opened, and no overhead lights went on.

How odd.

A way-up-there steel I-beam bisected the gym, directly above the center line on the basketball court. A theatre department spotlight hung down from the center of the beam, the focus creating a sharp bright circumference (notebook entry, check!) matching the circle on the floor. A modern version of a theatre’s ghost light, perhaps, though there were no ghosts to appease in this school. Or perhaps there were. The ghosts of bullies past?

The light didn’t bounce off the shiny wood, so much as spread across it in all four directions. Sideways, moving up the bleachers until fading away into near dark at the top row. Forward and back, up and down the court to the baskets and backstops, up until their tops were dimly lit and shadows were above.

I figured they wouldn’t notice all those way-up windows running the length of each side of the gym were open. I was right.

I’d entered through the now-open double doors at the end of the gym opposite the Four, and with no lights on in that hallway leading to locker rooms, athletic offices, storage, the loading dock, they didn’t notice me. The Four pushed open two more doors and paused in a boy-boy-girl-boy line, their backs to the spillover from the hallway lights they’d turned on. Did they think outlining themselves in brightness, hiding their fronts in shadows sharply demarcated (notebook entry, check!) on

the floor, made them more intimidating?

It was Preacher’s Son who yelled, “Hey, fairy boy? Ya here? Ya said ya wanted to talk.” He made his voice a mockery, calling for a recalcitrant cat (notebook entry? No, not bothering anymore). “Heeeeere, fairy, fairy, fairy, fairy.”

The Four laughed.

They stopped when I stepped out of the shadows, much closer than they expected, given the way their heads jerked in my direction. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Perhaps they shut up out of politeness. Or surprise I showed up.

Or maybe it was the gun in my hand. The gun with what anyone who’s ever seen a cop show, cop movie, lawyer show, lawyer movie knows is a silencer.

Paul was not happy when I asked him if he could get me a gun with a silencer. My promise no one would be harmed by the gun was more persuasive, but not enough for agreement. Especially since he could see I could see he was remembering his “on city streets” caveat to the question about how fast I drove. Remembering and applying his caveat to my harmed-by-the-gun caveat.

He stared at me, and I remained quiet and fidgetless. Displaying nerves would damage my cause, not help it.

When he finally said one word, I thought he was a little impressed I hadn’t broken.

“Justice?”

I nodded. Gave him two words back. “Shifter justice.”

No shifter could not know I was now the Raven Prince on meeting me, no matter how annoyed some, many, most, might be about Raven Himself allowing a sixteen-year-old to become the Prince in truth. I had acquired an air of authority and power shifters could sense, which humans fortunately couldn’t feel, and I made sure on the few occasions I’d dealt with other shifters since our agreement in the clearing, I did not push myself forward.

Quiet. Respectful toward my elders. Unassuming. I would be all of it…until I had reason not to be.

He considered my words and then asked for my word. Not the word of the nephew he loved so much, but the word he had a right to demand.

I gave my word as the Raven Prince, the gun would be used to mete out justice.

“For Johnny?” My uncle-by-parental-fiat is too damned perceptive. I said nothing.

He nodded as if I’d agreed and found me the gun. When we met, in almost spy movie secrecy, to give it to me, he held the cloth-wrapped gun and looked at me again. “Are you sure?”

There were so many endings to that question.

…sure this is necessary?

…sure this is right?

…sure this is justice?

…sure you can handle the consequences?

It was the last possible ending I was in turn sure he was most concerned about.

I was concerned with all of the possibilities, but even a teen can know there comes a time when you stop second-guessing. You either decide and act, or you back off.

I decided, acted. I said, “Yes,” and held out my hand. He put the gun in it.

He told me not to bother returning it. He would go this far, but no more. Safe disposal of the gun when I was done was my responsibility.

I knew he wouldn’t tell my parents. Had I not become what I was, he likely wouldn’t have gotten the gun in the first place, and if he had, he would have felt honor-bound to tell Mom and Dad.

I brought my momentary lapse of attention back to where it was supposed to be.

They swiveled toward me, making a new Four wall.

Sheriff’s Son: “You stupid little fag. Threatening us with an unloaded gun you’re too scared to use even if it had bullets. My dad is gonna—”

We never found out what his dad was gonna do. Or what the sheriff mighta, woulda, shoulda, coulda done.

After you pull the trigger, a 9 mm Beretta 92 FS, with a YHM QD Wraith silencer, really makes hardly any noise at all, just like in the movies. Though you could hear the click when the shell casing popped out and the skittering sound when it hit the floor behind me and rolled. I heard it; they heard it.

I didn’t bother with the casing then or later. No fingerprints on any of the bullets.

I had difficulty not reacting when Sheriff’s Son pissed his jeans as the bullet went over his shoulder. Although he wasn’t hit, the bullet whispered distressing, disturbing bad nothings in his ear in passing. He managed to regain control fast enough to keep from emptying his bladder, but the stain wasn’t a small one, like a spurt of pre-come. Anyone seeing him would know.

We all knew.

The shot humiliated him. Made him more dangerous. And afraid.

I used my left arm to point toward the three open doors, telling Sheriff’s Son, “Go over there, shut them, and bring the duffel bag to center court.”

I waggled the gun at the others. “The rest of you, center court, now.”

Bullies don’t have great minds, but when you’re as attuned to each other as the Four, they can get on the same track.

I derailed the train before it got very far, before anyone moved, in fact.

“Not a good idea, guys. Here I am; there you are; Sheriff’s Son one way, you three another. All that space, I can’t possibly watch all of you. Think again.”

I ticked off the points.

“First, fourteen rounds left. Yeah, yeah, the law says ten rounds max, but I’m with the NRA. Fuck that.

“Second, if you try to run, Sheriff’s Son, what are the odds I can pop you before you get out or get far, and turn around and shoot a couple of your pals? Although, since the motto of the Four is probably ‘all for one, and one for none,’ you could take a chance on chicken-shit running and see what happens to your pals.

“Third, once Sheriff’s Son gets a little way towards the doors, and you three a little way towards center court, and you have me turning my head back and forth, you could rush me. But there’s that whole ‘one for none’ thing going on. You have to figure I’m going to shoot at least one of you before you get to me. Maybe two. So which one of you is willing to risk being a sacrifice?

“Especially knowing I’m not going to be shooting any of you unless I have no choice. Like if you run, or if you rush me. So. What’s it gonna be?”

Banker’s Son: “How do we know we can trust you? Uh, not to shoot us, if we don’t try anything.”

“Gee, Banker’s Son, you guys have a real problem, don’t you? You all lie so well and so often—” I lifted the gun again, pointed it directly at the face of Preacher’s Son. “—especially you, with your parking-lot lies, you must have a hell of a time detecting truth. Guess you’re gonna have to gamble.”

When I moved the Beretta to a general pointing-at, Preacher’s Son, who had gone as pale as I usually was, got some color back. He spread his arms, as if to say, “Not moving. Not running. Not rushing.”

“Well, boys ’n’ girl?”

They did as they were told. They flinched when the doors shut and the bright hall lights disappeared. I stayed at the top of a changing-shape triangle—Sheriff’s Son one point, clustered bullies the other—as Sheriff’s Son joined the other three under the bright center light and dropped the duffel bag to the floor.

With a few words and gestures, I moved the pieces on the board where I wanted them. Sheriff’s Son and Principal’s Daughter together by the bag. Preacher’s Son a few feet away. Banker’s Son a few feet further. I moved closer to Preacher’s Son, not within grabbing distance, and pointed the gun at his chest. No sense in risking a head shot, was the

implication of the aim.

“Take the ropes out of the bag and tie her hands behind her,” I told Sheriff’s Son. “Tight. When you’re done, she gets on the floor and you do the same with her ankles. If they’re not good and tight, so she can’t get out without help, I shoot you. If your friends rush me, I shoot you.”

Preacher’s Son gasped and went even whiter than before. “You said you wouldn’t shoot us.”

“Only if I didn’t have to. Are your good friends going to make me?” Sheriff’s Son: “You lousy, little fa—”

“Yes, I’m little. I’m also a faggot. But I’ve never had lice so I can’t be lousy. Get on with it.”

Banker’s Son began looking a little stronger, a little more assured, when the Beretta was pointed at him, while Preacher’s Son tied Sheriff’s Son.

He was even more so, when the gun remained on him while he tied Preacher’s Son. When his three…not friends, but comrades in bullying…were on the floor he smirked at me.

“The only way you’re going to get me down there is if you do it.” His smile was broad and mean. “Which means putting the gun down. I’m bigger than you, stronger than you, you little fag, so unless you lied about shooting us, you can just walk away, and we’ll all pretend this was a fucking stupid game, a joke, no harm, no foul, it never happened.”

I always give credit where credit is due, even when credit is due to an arrogant, bullying asshole. His analysis was succinct and…almost… accurate, considering the information he didn’t have. His proposal was a lie which stunk as much as whatever it is that stinks a lot.

I let him see me hesitate, as if I was considering his words, realizing their truth. I let him see a hint of consternation, as I am not as bad an actor as Raven Himself might have you believe.

He bought it.

Ha! to my non-skills at acting.

But there was still the missing information. Raven shifter. Raven Prince.

Sometimes humans call a group of our wild brethren an unkindness of ravens. Or a conspiracy. But there’s another, older word. One with connotations of justice. So I summoned the waiting constable of ravens.

And a few of their friends, and mine.

Plus two unexpected passersby who agreed to drop in, in the interests of justice, when they learned a member of my flock had been badly injured by these four, and there was a risk he might not survive.

As the Raven Prince, I could have compelled them all. But I only asked.

They answered.

The sound of wings flapping outdoors, for a single bird, or a few, is negligible. The sound of a large flock, from close up, as they leap from the ground and push themselves into the sky is noticeable.

The sound of hundreds of ravens and crows in the enclosed, echo-filled spaces of a high school gym, was overwhelming, as they flew through the open windows, down the hall and through the double doors I’d pushed open behind the scoreboard. Circling, flapping, the sounds bouncing from ceiling and walls, magnifying with echoes. The noise died as they found places to perch and stared in un-cawing silence at the tied predators on the floor.

The pair of golden eagles naturally chose to make an entrance, hugging the ground as they arrowed through the double doors, then soaring into a wide, tightening spiral which ended with their landing on the crossbeam—unsurprisingly left empty—at the center of the room.

Banker’s Son did a fine imitation of a statue. The three on the floor imitated him.

“I have a new word for you, Banker’s Son. ‘Stooping.’ It’s what birds of prey…eagles, say?…do when they drop on prey from high in the sky, talons out, ready to gouge into the little body and lift it up and away. They can’t get much height in here, and they certainly can’t lift you. But I wonder what would happen to you if they tried. You wanna find out?”

“N-no! God, no!”

The riskiest moment was when the gun was down, away from both of us, and I was behind him, starting to tie his hands. He tensed for a moment as if he might overcome his fear. I murmured, “Did you know golden eagles are the largest predator bird in North America? Wingspans up to seven feet eight inches the books say. I’d say these are least eight. Maybe nine. Wanna closer look?”

He remained quiet while I tied his hands. Cooperated in getting on the floor so his ankles could be tied. I checked the others’ bindings. Fear is a great motivator for tying tight.

They seemed surprised at how little I had to struggle to grab their ankles and drag them around until their legs were pointed to the center of the circle, and their heads were in the cardinal directions.

They weren’t happy when I stood in the circle’s center, and put the extra ropes back in the duffel, and the gun, too. It made them a little more bold, with a mixture of threats and pleas, waffling back and forth. But always kind of quiet, as if getting too loud, too angry, might cause those damned eagles to stoop. Might cause all those goddamn black-feathered birds to do whatever they might do as well.

The Four were less than happy when I cut them off. Good old duct tape across the mouth like all the movies suggested.

And then I walked away, duffel in hand.

I didn’t try to imagine what the noises behind the tape might be, whether words or howls.

In the hallway, out of sight through the open doors, I stripped, clothes again as neat as if a Mom-inspection was imminent, and shifted.

You don’t have to do this.

I felt the presence of Raven Himself though he didn’t appear. My wild brethren in the gym felt him, too.

I could not use words with my brethren, whatever my shape, but I could with him. Who knew? Will you forbid me?

No.

Will you tell them—and he knew I meant my brethren—to go? No.

You’ve frightened those four. Far more than they ever could have expected to be frightened. They will remember this for a long time, perhaps even the rest of their lives.

When I was almost decided I would in fact do everything laid out in my head with careful precision, though I wasn’t quite to the point of committing myself, I was certain a moment like this would happen. With or without the presence of Raven Himself, I knew there would be a moment of final choice: walk away or go through with it.

Raven justice, the justice of my brethren, is swift, immediate, and done. It is not planned out. Human justice…human revenge, too…most often takes time, and planning, and dedication to achieving the goal.

A leader sometimes has to do things he wouldn’t do if it was a personal decision.

Raven Himself agreed.

Here though, both parts of me agree. Just Mike—merely Mike?—and the Raven Prince. I don’t want to be the one to do it, but I wouldn’t ask or command our brethren, even if you’d let me. But if I stop now, what’s really happened to them?

They have words, a gunshot which did no harm, a whole bunch of birds who did no harm, and ultimately a fairy boy who threatened but did nothing more than humiliate them. A humiliation they will figure they can repay tenfold if I’m stupid enough to come back to school.

I paused, considered, continued. Nothing will change if nothing more is done. They will convince themselves I somehow drugged them and the birds were hallucinations; they’ll decide I was too afraid of them to do real harm. And after a short period of inaction, they’ll go back to the way they were. I won’t let it happen. They have to feel pain; they have to remember this, with no way of forgetting or sloughing it off.

Very well.

Raven Himself didn’t go away, precisely, but he withdrew. I felt his observation, though I don’t know whether our brethren did.

So. We’re at that point. The point of raven justice, not human. The point of pain given back.

You can close your ebook reader now, or skip the rest of this chapter, and start the next. It’s your choice, freely made, with a fair warning given.

I lifted my wings, took flight. In the gym I circled high above the Four, cawed for their attention, caught it, held it, as I circled lower.

I landed on the belly of Banker’s Son with no attempt at a soft landing. Shifted ravens have far more mass than our brethren. Air puffed out of his nose. I walked up his chest until I could loom over his face. I leaned close, tilted my head right, then left, to look into his terrified eyes. When I lowered my beak toward his left eye, he squinched both shut.

I lifted my head, stood on my left leg, and said, “Johnny!” as three claws on my right leg gouged down his left cheek, marring his beauty forever.

He opened his eyes, which filled with tears, thrashed his head back and forth, noises coming out his mouth that might have been howls of pain but for the tape.

The other three heads were raised at the sounds which they had to know were ones of pain. But they couldn’t see what happened. What they could see was me, flapping my wings, rising and landing on the plump belly of Principal’s Daughter. Only she could see me walking up her chest, balancing on the flesh between her breasts, and clawing her left cheek as I said, “Johnny!” Her post-slash thrashing was enough to toss me off of her.

This time, Sheriff’s Son emptied all of his bladder before I even landed. So there was nothing left to spurt when I said, “Johnny!” and clawed his left cheek.

I think Preacher’s Son might have been trying to beg me not to, but even if he was, he, of them all, wasn’t getting off the hook…or claw. He was the one who made up the parking-lot blow job, the tipping point for Johnny’s hateful, bigoted father. I said “Johnny!” to him, too, and clawed his face.

He screamed through the gag, but then held very still when I stared at him. He stayed still as I moved back and down and shifted into position. He didn’t stay still or silent for long when I said “Johnny!” a final time, and my beak punched a hole in his right shoulder. The arm he used for throwing baseballs.

Johnny might never wake up, and if he did, he might never wrestle again. I gave Preacher’s Son a chance. He might, or might not, throw well enough to be a star again. It was up to him if he wanted to work hard enough.

I rose into the air and said a silent thanks to my brethren. With a thunder of wings, they departed. The only sounds in the gym were from the mouths of the bleeding Four.

I shifted again in the hallway. Re-gloved my hands, and pulled a fifth phone from the zippered pocket of the duffel, plus a small recorder I had from when I was a little boy. There were seven words from seven movies, none of them old, strung together on the tape. I dialed nine-one-one, and when the man answered, I played the recording. When he asked more questions, I played the recording again and hung up.

Four. Students. Injured. In. The. School. Gym.

The phone came apart into component pieces. I put it back in the duffel, along with my clothes and sandals, lifted it, ran for the exit door, peeked out, and although I heard sirens, no one was there. The cameras were still poop-covered. I shifted, and all anyone might have seen, if anyone was watching, was a large raven, or some other large black bird, oddly carrying a duffel bag in its claws as it flew away from the school.

I flew to the old Cooper’s Quarry, and after landing at the water’s edge, kept my curses to myself about how cold it was for washing off—a consequence of my choices, I reminded myself.

I packed the bag with enough stones even I had trouble getting airborne, flew to the center, and let it fall. The splash wasn’t big or loud; there wasn’t even a moment of floating as it headed to a bottom some said was five hundred feet down.

I flew home. Shifted. Told my parents I would talk to them in the morning and went to bed.

I may have slept, but not for long. Consequences.

Mine to select, mine to bear.

It didn’t matter what others might say—very well, it mattered—but words couldn’t alter what was done.

I would put my life back together.

I would be Mike Nelson again, and only Mike Nelson, unless Raven Himself required services of me.

My damn life was going to be as ordinary as I could make it.

I might even pray to some human deity to safeguard Johnny, and bring him back.

Although, on further consideration, there were still a few things which needed to be done. And the very nice, very understanding Raven Prince might help me do them.