Chapter Two

Matt

Matt didn't go home to his apartment when he left the office. His apartment was the first place Foggy would look for him, and he didn't want to be found. He went to the Clinton Church instead. Foggy would look for him there, too, but at least, Foggy wouldn't argue with him and make a scene if he found him there. Matt sat in one of the back pews, off to the side. Slumped down and with his head bowed, he hoped no one would notice him. But he still felt too exposed. Then an idea occurred to him. He crossed to the confessional and entered, pulling the curtain closed behind him. He knew the church's schedule. It would be several hours before Father Castro started hearing parishioners' confessions.

Maybe meditation would help. He tried to clear his mind, but when he did, his thoughts drifted to Karen. Oh, Karen . . . . She would have been all over this thing, chasing down every last scrap of information on his condition, until she was satisfied she knew everything there was to know. He smiled to himself, imagining her calling the offices of prominent doctors and researchers, badgering the staff until they caved in and allowed her to talk to the doctors themselves. He loved her for her fierce determination to find the truth, whatever the cost. It terrified him, too, sometimes. But she was a fighter who always got up, and never stayed down. Until she did. She was gone, murdered by Bullseye all those years ago. His grief rose up, as fresh and raw as the day it happened. And it was mixed with guilt, as it always was. It should have been him. He was Bullseye's target. Knowing what he knew now, her sacrifice was even harder to bear. She should be here, alive and whole, instead of this broken remnant of the man who had loved her.

The years since Karen's death hadn't dulled Matt's memories of her. Or so he always told himself. But now he wasn't so sure. When he imagined conversations with her, as he often did, was the voice he heard in his head really hers? He no longer knew. The memory of her scent was elusive, too. After she died, he refused to clear out her closet and drawers for months, until her scent faded and even he couldn't detect it. Only then did he donate her clothing to the church. But he still remembered her heartbeat, strong and steady, helping him to sleep on so many nights. And he remembered the joy of losing himself in his sensations, of losing himself in her, when they made love. Yes, he remembered her, the essence of her, even as the details faded. Then he froze, chilled by the thought that had just come to him. What if this thing took his memories of her, too? What if he lost her completely, and forever? He buried his face in his hands. "Please, God, no, please," he whispered.

Footsteps approached, followed by tapping on the side of the confessional. "Matthew?" a familiar voice asked. It was Sister Maggie, his mother.

Maggie

When Matt didn't answer her, she said, "I know you're in there."

"Go away," he growled.

"Not until you talk to me," she replied, in the "Sister Maggie" voice she knew he would remember from his childhood.

Matt pulled the curtain aside and sighed wearily. Looking defeated, he left the confessional and followed Maggie to her office. They sat at opposite ends of the battered sofa that had been there for as long as she could remember. Maggie looked over at her son and smiled. She'd thought him handsome when he arrived at St. Agnes, broken in body and spirit after surviving the collapse of Midland Circle, but she thought he was even more handsome now. The lines on his face were deeper, his features more sharply defined, and his hair and beard were liberally sprinkled with gray, but these changes only gave him a gravitas he had lacked as a younger man.

She was proud of what Matthew had accomplished in his life. He and Foggy were among the most respected lawyers in the city, known for taking – and often winning – cases that other lawyers considered hopeless: the wrongfully convicted, languishing in prison with the legal deck stacked against them, or the victims of corporate greed, the disposable people who were chewed up and spat out by a system that was rigged against them.

Coexisting uncomfortably with the respected attorney was Matthew's violent alter ego, Daredevil. She couldn't deny the good he had done as Daredevil, but she was ambivalent about that part of his life nonetheless. To her continuing amazement, his secret identity was still secret after all these years, a tribute to the wilful blindness of the sighted. Matthew's business suits hid many of his injuries and scars, but not his split, bruised and calloused knuckles, his often-broken nose, and his frequent black eyes. If people noticed his injuries, they only saw the blind man; they assumed he'd fallen or collided with something. No one even considered the possibility a blind man could do what Daredevil did.

In her seventies, Maggie was still serving the children of Hell's Kitchen. The diocese had closed the St. Agnes orphanage nine years ago, finally acknowledging that an orphanage was obsolete in the twenty-first century. The children who were not adopted were placed with foster families and in small group homes. Maggie monitored their welfare closely; there would be no foster-care horror stories on her watch. A few upstairs rooms at the former orphanage had been set aside as temporary refuges for kids caught up in abuse, violence, or family crises. The rest of the building was now home to an expanded pre-school, and to after-school programs for older children. Both were essential for the many children whose parents worked long hours, just to keep up with the ever-rising cost of living.

"Foggy called," Maggie began. "He told me what happened and sent me a couple of articles about what's going on with you. I'm so sorry, Matthew."

He waved his hand. "It's all God's plan, right?" he asked sarcastically.

Maggie shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. I don't want to think God had a hand in this. It's so . . . cruel."

"Don't worry, He didn't," Matt told her. "I did this to myself."

"But not knowingly," Maggie pointed out.

"No. But I would've done it anyway."

Maggie nodded. "You helped a lot of people along the way. That must make it worth it."

"No," Matt said flatly.

"You don't believe that. You can't," Maggie protested.

"I do."

"But – " Maggie began.

Matt interrupted her. "Get real, Maggie. What did I accomplish, really? What did Daredevil accomplish?" He stood up and began walking back and forth, between the couch and her desk. "Sure, most of the gangs are gone. So are the human traffickers and gun dealers. Wilson Fisk is dead. But the criminals preying on Hell's Kitchen now are infinitely worse, and almost impossible to stop. They don't care who they hurt, as long as the price of their stock goes up, and their offshore accounts keep growing."

"I can't argue with that," Maggie agreed sadly. She saw the victims of their greed, indifference, and cruelty every day. Kids coming into the daycare hungry. Sick kids whose parents couldn't afford to take them to the doctor. Families thrown out on the street. All to pad some corporation's bottom line and further enrich its already-wealthy shareholders. "But you and Foggy have stopped some of them – with the law."

"Not really. Even a seven-figure verdict doesn't stop a multi-billion-dollar corporation. To them, it's just a cost of doing business. It may slow them down, but not for long. Then they go right back to doing what they were doing. The only way to stop them is to take out the people at the top – permanently."

"You can't mean that, Matthew," Maggie objected, horrified.

"Why not?" he asked. "I can always claim 'diminished capacity.' It will even be true," he said bitterly. He stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of her desk.

"If you let them turn you into a killer, it will destroy you. Then they will win."

Matt shrugged. "It's already happening. The 'destroyed' part."

"I'm not talking about your body or your mind. I'm talking about your soul. You wouldn't let Wilson Fisk destroy who you are. Don't let them do it, either," she pleaded. She stood up and went to sit on the desk next to him.

"I'll think about it," he said noncommittally, turning his face away from her.

"You do that," Maggie said tartly. She hesitated for a moment, then continued, tentatively, "After Foggy called, I got to thinking . . . I may know someone, someone who can, uh, help . . . ."

"You mean like a therapist?" Matt asked. "Therapy isn't going to help. Not with this."

"No," Maggie replied, "not a therapist. Just someone who knows something about what it's like."

"I'm not going to some support group and listen to a bunch of losers whining about this," Matt objected.

"Just shut up and listen, for once in your life," Maggie snapped. "It's not a therapist, it's not a support group. It's someone I know, someone I think can help."

"OK, I'll listen," Matt said grudgingly.

"Her name is Rebecca, Rebecca D'Amico. She used to be one of us, here at St. Agnes, but she left the order to get married."

"Like you did," Matt interrupted.

"Yes, like me," Maggie agreed crossly. "After she left us, she continued to work in child welfare, so we kept in touch. She's about your age, maybe a couple of years younger. She's a widow now. Her husband died two months ago. Early-onset Alzheimer's."

"Jesus," Matt whispered. "That must've been rough."

"It was," Maggie confirmed.

"But I don't have Alzheimer's."

"True." Maggie nodded. "But some of the symptoms, the problems, they're similar."

"Maybe. But she wasn't the one who was sick. How's she supposed to know what it's like?"

"She told me there was a time, before the disease . . . progressed, when Bob, her husband, knew what was happening to him. He was still able to talk to her about it. So, yes, she knows."

Matt stood up abruptly. "So what?" he asked. "I don't need anyone to tell me what it's like. I already know. And it's not like there's anything she can do. You know that. You talked to Foggy, you read the articles. What's the point?" He turned and started to walk away.

Maggie stood up and reached out to him. Her hand brushed his. "Matthew, please," she said. But he kept walking. She followed him. When she caught up with him, she pressed a piece of Braille paper into his hand. "Just take this, please," she pleaded. He closed his hand around it and stuffed it into his pocket without reading it. He walked out the door and down the hall toward the exit. With tears streaming down her face, she watched him go. Then she offered up a silent prayer for her son.

Matt

Late that afternoon, Matt ended up at O'Shaughnessey's, a bar on a Hell's Kitchen street that had not yet experienced the benefits of urban renewal. He'd never been there before, but with the peanut shells on the floor and the smells of spilled beer and long-ago (or maybe not so long-ago) cigarette smoke, the place felt like a real Hell's Kitchen bar. For a moment, he forgot where he was; he was back at Josie's, with Foggy and Karen. But Josie's was long gone, forced to close when a developer coveted its site for an office tower. Matt and Foggy refused to set foot in the upscale bar on the ground floor of the new building.

He stayed there for hours, sitting at the far end of the bar, sipping one Scotch after another. That was one thing in O'Shaughnessey's favor: the Scotch was better than anything Josie ever served. And the other customers, all of whom seemed to be serious drinkers, left him alone with his thoughts. There were plenty of them. He pondered what Maggie had said, about not destroying himself. Maybe she was right. Maybe not. If he had to sacrifice what was left of himself to prevent innocent people from becoming victims, that seemed like a reasonable trade-off. Matt Murdock was already being destroyed, every day, as his mind failed him. But his body wasn't failing him, not yet. He could still throw, and take, a punch. In the past, he had chosen to leave Matt Murdock behind. Not now. It wasn't a choice, this time. There was no Matt Murdock anymore. Only Daredevil remained.

That evening, Matt pulled his father's battered foot locker out of his closet. He opened it, lifted out the tray, and set it aside. He stood in front of the foot locker, contemplating its contents. Then, his decision made, he pulled out his devil suit, a new one that was all red (or so he had been told). He wanted people to know, without a doubt, that Daredevil was back. And the helmet would provide some head protection, not that it would do much good, now. Melvin Potter had made the suit for him, not long before Wilson Fisk manipulated the system to get himself released from prison for the last time. Melvin disappeared, along with Betsy Beatty, soon after Fisk's release. Matt hoped they were living under the radar in a city or town far from New York. But he feared the reality was grimmer: Fisk probably had them killed.

In the early morning hours, Matt was crouched on the roof of one of the few warehouses remaining in Hell's Kitchen. The light wind off the river was cool, with a hint of rain to come. With New York – the whole East Coast, in fact – in the grip of a six-year-long drought, any rain would be welcome, despite the flooding that inevitably followed the infrequent but increasingly severe storms. Even when the rains didn't come, parts of Lower Manhattan and Brooklyn were sometimes flooded at high tide. Hell's Kitchen had escaped the tidal flooding, for now, but the low-lying areas would be affected, sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

The night had gone well, so far; he had stopped a would-be mugger and an attempted robbery at a bodega. Now raised voices, a man's and a woman's, drifted up to him. The woman was yelling, "Get your hands off me, you idiot!" Matt descended the fire escape and jumped the remaining distance to the ground, landing solidly on both feet. The man was gripping the woman's wrists, trying to pull her toward him and pleading with her to "C'mon, honey." He seemed unsteady on his feet. The woman was swearing at him and calling him an idiot as she tried to get away. Matt ran over to the couple and pulled the man away from her. He went down when Matt landed a single uppercut to the jaw.

Matt turned to the woman and asked, "Are you OK?"

Instead of thanking him, as he expected, the woman turned on him. "What the hell d'you think you're doin', man?" she demanded shrilly. "I wasn't in no danger, not from that idiot," she said, gesturing toward the man on the ground.

"Uh, just tryin' – " Matt started to respond, but she cut him off.

"He's an idiot, but he's my idiot. I know how to handle him – better than you. I've been married to the guy for sixteen years. We don't need no do-gooder butting in where you're not wanted or needed. Get lost, asshole!" Having no answer to that, Matt jogged to the nearest fire escape and climbed to the building's roof, bewildered by the woman's response and his own misreading of the situation.

The next night was better. A father who had lost custody attempted to take his twelve-year-old daughter as she walked home with her mother after performing in a school play. Matt pulled the girl from her father's grasp and put him down with a flurry of punches to the midsection and head, then returned the girl to her grateful mother. Encouraged by that night's success, Matt went out as Daredevil every night that week.

Over the ensuing days, he fell into a routine of sorts: O'Shaughnessey's in the afternoons, Daredevil at night. Sometimes people were happy and grateful when Daredevil showed up. At other times, not so much. A few times, he'd raced toward what sounded like trouble, only to find a couple of loud drunks or a bunch of noisy kids. Nothing that needed Daredevil's attention. At other times, the cops arrived and handled the situation before he could get there. He'd heard that police response times had improved, ever since Captain Brett Mahoney took over at the 15th Precinct. Apparently it was true. Still, there were a few times when Matt thought Daredevil had actually helped: scaring away a group of teenaged boys with overactive hormones who were harassing a woman walking down the street alone; stopping the wanna-be gangbanger who thought he could impress the OGs by beating up a homeless man; and preventing a robbery at his favorite Thai restaurant.

People noticed that Daredevil was back, but not everyone was happy about it. Walking down the street, in line at the coffee shop, even at O'Shaughnessey's, he overheard comments:

"Who the hell does he think he is?"

"What does he think we pay the cops for?"

"It's not the Wild Wild West."

"We don't need vigilantes in Clinton."

But there were some people – not as many, maybe – who remembered the good he'd done and applauded his return. No matter what people thought, Matt was determined not to stop. It was satisfying, feeling that he was doing something, the only thing he could still do. It wasn't only the "helping people" part. He relished the feel and the sound of his fist connecting with a miscreant's jaw and putting him down on the ground, and the smell and taste of blood – his and his opponents' – in the air. He wasn't going to lie to himself; he had missed that. He didn't want to give it up.

True to form, Foggy wasn't leaving Matt alone. He'd lost count of the many calls he'd received from Foggy – and ignored. After the first couple of days, he stopped listening to Foggy's messages, most of which were of the "What the hell, Matt?" and "Don't be an idiot" variety. He deleted all of them. When Foggy went to his apartment, looking for him, Matt refused to answer the door. He knew how their conversation would go, and he wanted no part of it. It wouldn't change anything.

It was early Saturday morning, a week after Daredevil's return. It wasn't a typical Friday night in Hell's Kitchen; things had been relatively quiet. Matt climbed to the roof of an apartment building and sat down to catch his breath, leaning back against the low parapet wall with his legs stretched out in front of him. After a few minutes, he stood up and started to leave. He was halfway across the roof when he stopped short. Where was he? On a roof, somewhere. But where? Shit. He couldn't remember. Fear stabbed at his gut. "God damn it," he muttered under his breath. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. No reason to panic.

He tried to remember what he'd been doing, just before he climbed to the roof. He'd heard – something – that sounded like something bad was happening. But by the time he got to the place where it was happening, the cops were already there, handling . . . whatever it was. So he left and ended up on this roof. Maybe. He thought that was what happened, but he wasn't sure. He went down to his knees. Prayer wasn't going to help, not with this. He needed to hear or smell or feel something that could identify his location, but he couldn't pick up anything specific. All he sensed was the city swirling around him.

Finally, after God-knows-how-long, he heard sirens converging on a nearby location, followed by the clacking of gurneys unfolding and rolling over uneven pavement, and paramedics reporting ("GSW to the leg," "BP 90 over 68," "sats 87," "intubated in the field," "GCS 3"). A hospital, some of the night's casualties arriving at the ER. Must be Metro-General. He took a deep breath. He knew where that was. And now he knew where he was. He made his way back to his apartment. But he was too shaken to sleep that night.

In the morning, Matt was getting ready to head out for some much-needed coffee when he noticed something in his jacket pocket. He pulled it out and examined it: a piece of Braille paper, slightly crumpled. He smoothed it out and ran his fingertips across the top line of raised dots: "Rebecca D'Amico." Who was she? Oh, right. She was Maggie's friend, the former nun Maggie thought could "help" him. Automatically, he started to crush the paper in his hands. Then he reconsidered. Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea, talking to someone who knew what was going on with him. What the hell, it couldn't hurt. He shrugged. It wasn't like he had anything better to do. He smoothed the paper again and read the phone number below the name, then pulled out his phone to call her.

That afternoon, he stepped off the elevator and made his way down the hall to Rebecca's tenth-floor apartment in one of the new buildings that had replaced many of Hell's Kitchen's tenements. The door opened as soon as he rang the bell. The woman who opened it was petite, with medium-length hair that he could hear just brushing her shoulders. He picked up a subtle scent of sandalwood and musk. Her voice was warm and welcoming. "You must be Mr. Murdock," she said.

"Matthew, please," he replied, holding out his hand. "And thank you for seeing me. I'm very sorry for your loss."

She shook his hand. Her hand was cool and dry, her grip firm. "Thank you. I'm Rebecca," she said. "Come in, please."

Matt folded his cane, then took her arm and allowed her to guide him to an armchair. "Coffee?" she asked. "Or maybe something stronger?"

"Coffee would be good."

"Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back." Her footsteps left the room, apparently in the direction of the kitchen.

Matt sat down and took in his surroundings. The room was a generous size, by New York standards. It felt open and airy and was, he guessed, filled with light from the large windows he sensed along one wall. Footsteps approached, accompanied by the aroma of coffee. Rebecca set a mug down on the coffee table in front of him. "I'm assuming I don't have to tell you where this is," she said lightly.

"Thank you," Matt replied absently. Then he did a mental double-take, as the full significance of her words sank in. "You know?" he asked. "About me?"

"Yes," she confirmed. "We all know, those of us who were there, at the orphanage, when Father Lantom brought you there to recover. But don't worry, none of us would ever reveal your identity. Maggie swore us to secrecy. And you know Maggie."

"I do," he agreed with a half-smile. He sipped his coffee. It was good, hot and strong without being bitter. He took a second sip and set the mug down. Sitting on the sofa opposite him, Rebecca leaned forward to put down her own mug,

"How can I help you, Matthew?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I thought you would tell me."

She sat silently for a minute, then said, "There was a time, before Bob's, my husband's, disease . . . progressed, when we both knew what was happening to him."

Matt sensed moisture and tasted salt in the air. Tears. Damn. This was a mistake. "I'm sorry," he said. He stood up hurriedly and picked up his cane. "I shouldn't have come. I'll go."

"No," she said firmly. "Please stay. I want to talk about this. It makes me sad to remember that time, but only because of what we lost. You probably won't believe this, but it was the happiest time of our whole marriage."

Matt set his cane on the table and sat down again. "Please, go on," he said.

"As I said, we both knew what was happening, and we didn't know how much time we had left, until . . . until Bob wasn't Bob anymore." She sniffed. "We knew we couldn't stop it, so we found ways to live with it. We did it together, and it brought us closer together, closer than we'd ever been before." She picked up her coffee cup and drank. "I think some of the things we did might work for you, too."

Matt listened as Rebecca described how she and her husband had learned to compensate for his failing mind. He was already doing some of the things she mentioned, like meditation and exercise. Some of the others, like getting enough sleep and cutting back on the Scotch, not so much. He wondered if going out as Daredevil counted as exercise. He doubted it.

"One other thing," Rebecca continued, "you need to get checked out medically."

"I can't."

"But this might not be what you think it is. It could be something treatable."

"Not likely," Matt scoffed. "You know who I am, what I do. I've been doing it for years. What else could this thing be?"

"I don't know. But neither do you," Rebecca retorted. "That's the point."

"I can't," Matt repeated.

"Why not?"

"They – the doctors, that is – could find out . . . about me."

"Find out you're Daredevil?"

Matt considered this. "Maybe, maybe not. But they might find out about my abilities. I can't let that happen."

Rebecca sighed. "Maggie told me you were a stubborn s.o.b., but I had to see it for myself. I guess you really are her son."

"That bad, huh?" Matt asked dryly.

Rebecca chuckled softly. She fell silent, apparently thinking. Then she spoke again. "When I talked to Maggie, she said you had resigned from your law firm."

"I did."

"You probably won't listen to me about this, either, but I think you should reconsider."

"Why is that?" Matt tilted his head toward her.

"It helps if you use your brain. Bob and I, we noticed, when he first got sick, that his good days were always the ones when he was mentally active – reading, doing crossword puzzles, things like that."

"Practicing law isn't like doing crossword puzzles," Matt replied scornfully. "We handle high-stakes litigation. There's no margin for error. We can't afford mistakes. If I lose it again in court, it could be a disaster for our clients. And for us."

"But you don't have to do it alone. Sit down with Mr. Nelson, talk to him, figure out what you can do, how you can make it work. Maggie told me he wants to. He's not the only one. There are people who care about you. Let us help you, Matthew."

"I don't know," Matt muttered doubtfully.

"I do," Rebecca replied firmly. "Look, Matthew, no one knows how your condition will play out, how much worse it may get, or even if it will get any worse. But I know what someone looks like when they go . . . well, when they go wherever it is that the disease takes them. You aren't anywhere close to that. And maybe, just maybe, you'll never get to that place. I hope you won't."

"So, what, that makes me one of the lucky ones?" Matt asked bitterly. Then he realized how that must have sounded. "I apologize," he said. "That was uncalled-for." He picked up his cane and stood to leave.

"Apology accepted," Rebecca replied stiffly. She stood and walked with him to the door. "But, please, Matthew, think about what I said. You aren't this disease, this condition. You still have yourself. You still have your life. You need to live it. I want to help you with that, if you'll let me."

"I'll think about it," he said shortly. "Good-bye, Rebecca – and thank you." He took her hand and held it, just for an instant, then walked away, down the hall. He didn't hear her door close until he stepped into the elevator.