His mouth dropped open, and Hunter slapped the back of my leg. “Oh, we’re going to get along really well.”
I tilted my head at him. “I’ve got to get going. The party page won’t write itself.”
With that, I left. Back to my big, cold apartment to hang out with Old Faithful, my laptop.
Chapter Four
At nine o’clock on Tuesday evening, only Hannah, the chief, and I occupied theScribe’s offices. The bright fluorescent lights flickered tiredly above us, as if complaining about the long day. My fingers ached from typing, but I still had tasks to accomplish. I could work from home, butI cringed at the idea of hearing my clacking fingertips echo in the emptiness; at least there was a coziness here that absorbed the silence.
After rewriting my third party page piece a fourth time, I submitted the print-ready version to the chief.
One thing down, now on to the next: telephoning Beckman Hall.I was going to find out everything I could about The Raven and make one heck of acolumn out of it.
Hannah startled, drawing my attention to her. “Liam!” She tucked a strand of mahogany hair behind her ear and bit her bottom lip as she glanced at a piece of paper in her hand. “Come take a look at this.”
I stretched out of my chair and moved around to her desk. Peering over her shoulder, I read the typed letter addressed to the editor of the opinions page.
The Raven’s gonna lose his wings
We’ll smile while he sings and sings
Then we’d love to watch him fly
Through a deep, dark, angry sky
“Who sent this?” I asked, grabbing the torn envelope. No return address or postage. Whoever wrote it had to carry it intoScribe’s offices.
“I cannot and will not publish this,” Hannah said as I lifted up her phone and dialed the chief’s extension.
He answered gruffly, and I briefly summarized the threatening letter.
“Bring it in,” he snapped, “and I’ll take a look.”
I hung up the phone. “Chief wants to take a look. Can I take it to him?”
“Yes, of course.” With trembling hands, she handed it over and I scanned it for clues. Surely the police would have some tricks to figure out who wrote this? They’d dust for prints and record the threat, should anything ever happen to...
I shook off the thought and strode into the chief’s office.
He took one look at the letter and sighed. “It’s not the first threat that has made its way to the opinions page.” He stroked his beard as he read it over once more. “I’ll file a report with the police, and we’ll do whatever we can.” Looking up at me with regarding eyes, he said, “It isn’t just these guys”—he hit the letter with the back of his hand—“that want to find the vigilante. Thepolice do as well. Whoever The Raven is, if he doesn’t stop what he’s doing, he will eventually be caught and brought to justice.”
“Justice!” The cry came sharply, and my stomach clenched. “He’s saved people’s lives. Protected them. He has a cause and he’s standing up for it. The Raven’s a hero.”
Chief Benedict sighed. “He’s a hero that has sent quite a few students to the emergency room.”
“Only because they asked for it.”
“No one asks for it, Mr. Davis.”
“So you think it’s better that innocent guys get beaten to within an inch of their life? That bats get taken to them and they end up crippled for the rest of their lives?” A hiccup rose up my throat, and my eyes stung with unfamiliar heat.
The chief rounded his desk. I flinched when he drew an arm around my shoulder and gently moved me to a seat.
My whole body shook, and my teeth clenched so tightly that my head ached.
Chief Benedict crouched at my side, one hand still firmly on my shoulder. “No, it’s not better,” he said. “It really, really isn’t. But we must work on other ways of stopping senseless violence. Because violence against violence... it will go wrong. What happens to the criminals when The Raven swings just a little too hard? Or lands a kick at just the wrong angle? What happens when blood stains his fingers for good? He won’t be the guy with the good cause anymore, and he won’t be admired; he’ll become a killer and his life will never be the same again.” The chief shuffled on his feet as he pushed himself back up. “And what if one day he’s outnumbered, and he ends up in the hospital—or worse?”
At some point I’d started clicking my pen, comforted by the rhythm. But there was nothing I could say to the chief. Nothing at all. He was right, and I hated that.
