Karen
The new plan, as it turned out, was worse than the old one.
Karen sat on the narrow ER bed, one hand clutching the thin mattress, the other cradled in her lap, wrapped in a towel. Her legs hung over the edge, toes barely touching the linoleum floor. Blood crusted her hair, turning the yellow of it into rust-colored clumps just above her left ear, and painted her palm where she'd instinctively grabbed the knife.
She could smell it. Like dirty metal, a tinge of copper in the air around her.
Now that everything was over and she was safely ensconced into an alcove of the ER, Karen felt the adrenaline that had propelled her from the subway station just outside of Macy's all the way to safety siphon away from her, leaving her feeling hollow and shaky. A policeman stood just outside her curtain, waiting until she was treated before taking her statement.
She heard Foggy before she saw him.
"I'm okay," she said as he approached, eyes wide, face pale, hair flying. She was slightly dismayed to hear the tremble in her voice. "Foggy, I'm okay."
He stood next to her bed, hands hovering as though he weren't sure where to touch her. "You've got blood everywhere!"
"Just got two cuts," she said with a small smile. "Head wounds bleed a lot."
"What happened?" Foggy exhaled, sinking down to sit next to her on the bed. "I had just talked to you!"
"I have to give my statement to that cop," Karen nodded toward the man who was now watching them. "But they wanted to wait until I'd gotten stitched up."
"Yeah, sure, of course," Foggy nodded rigorously, trying to calm his breathing as he ran a hand through his hair. "I tried Matt—again—but got voicemail. Again."
"Hi, Karen," a new voice, friendly, warm and immediately comforting, drew close as the curtain separating Karen from the rest of the ER patients was pulled back. "I'm here to fix you up."
"Claire!"
The woman looked over at Foggy, clearly startled. "Foggy?"
Karen blinked. "You two know each other?"
"Yeah, she—"
"I'm a friend of Matt's," Claire interrupted. "From the neighborhood."
Karen nodded. "Well, any friend of Matt's," she said with a smile.
Foggy jumped off the bed as Claire stepped closer, her pretty, dark face drawing up in a sympathetic wince as she tilted Karen's chin to get a better look at the cut on her scalp.
"Any idea what they hit you with?"
"Nothing," Karen said. "They shoved me against a pillar."
Claire nodded and lifted her hand. "And this?"
"They had a knife."
"You grab it from them?"
"I tried."
Karen listened and responded as Claire ask about her last tetanus shot, tested her for concussion, then the range of motion for her fingers, and finally looked away as Claire administered shots of lidocaine in both areas before starting to clean away the blood. Behind Claire, Karen could see two teenagers strapped down to beds, both shaking and crying, one with blood running from his mouth as a nurse tried to keep his head turned to the side.
"Whoa," she exclaimed, unable to stop herself. "What's going on there?"
Claire cast a look over her shoulder, then pulled the curtain closed. "Latest drug du jour," she muttered, angrily. "Some kind of street hallucinogen they're calling Dust. Kids suck it up like a pixie stick and it triggers intense hallucinations, seizures, you name it."
"You said it's called Dust?" Foggy asked, sounding oddly breathless.
"Liquid form is twice as potent, but so far we've only seen the powder hit the street kids," Claire sighed, shifting to cleaning off Karen's hand and laying the sterile covering around the wound. "Tell you what, if I could get my hands on the maniacs who are selling the stuff, I'd shove a bunch of it in their system and lock 'em in a small room."
She glanced at the officer standing off to the side. "You didn't hear that."
"Hear what?" the officer replied, a that's not all I'd do to them look on his face.
"What's the…y'know...treatment?" Foggy asked.
"Not much except to flush the drug from their systems," Claire replied. "We keep their blood pressure down; try to keep them from having heart attacks or hurting themselves. That's the worst of it. Some of the ones we've seen in here have caused serious damage to themselves because they were trapped in some kind of…nightmare."
Karen watched as Claire readied the suture materials, tilting her head curiously when Claire looked back over at Foggy and said, "Someone found these two and brought them in before they were too far gone."
Foggy closed his eyes briefly and nodded. Karen stared at him, confused, but didn't get a chance to ask about that exchange as Claire once more turned her attention back to the cut on Karen's scalp.
"This is going to take a little bit," Claire told her. "Do you want to give your statement now?"
Karen met the woman's brown eyes and smiled gratefully. "Yeah, that'd be a great distraction. Thanks."
"It's what I'd want to do," Claire shrugged. "Foggy, you good to stay for this?"
"Not like it's the first time I've seen you stitch someone up," Foggy muttered.
Both women shot him a look; though Karen registered Claire's was less surprise and more irritation. Nodding to the officer, Karen waited until Claire finished cleaning the blood from her hair and the side of her face, exceedingly grateful for the numbing agent, before beginning.
"I went to the signing at Macy's like we discussed," she said, looking at Foggy, "and I was able to get the security guy to let me speak to Sophia for five minutes when I told her I was from a law firm. Guess the Messala's are used to lawyers asking questions."
Both the officer and Claire huffed in unison at that comment.
"Go on," Foggy encouraged.
"I did speak with her," Karen replied. "Not much to help our case," she dropped her gaze, then looked back up at Foggy hoping he'd get the hint and save that detail for later. "I was leaving when I heard someone call my name."
"They knew your name?" Foggy asked.
"So this wasn't a random mugging?" the officer inquired.
Karen shook her head.
"Easy, hold still," Claire cautioned. "You're gonna want these stitches straight."
"Right, sorry," Karen murmured. "I turned around and there were three men. They looked like every other Italian thug I'd ever seen."
"You've seen a lot of Italian thugs?" the officer commented.
Karen frowned. "Are you from Hell's Kitchen?"
She noticed Foggy and Claire giving the officer similar looks. He waved her onward.
"Anyway, dark hair, black sunglasses, dressed in black clothes. Only thing distinguishable was that the one with the knife had a tattoo on his hand—like the tail of a scorpion. Once I saw the knife," she let out a shaky breath, "I didn't look away from it."
"Did they say anything to you?"
"Said they had a message for me," Karen told him. "The one with the knife put it under my chin and said that I should tell my lawyer friends to stop digging. Henley was going to get off." She watched as Foggy turned away as if hiding his expression from Karen. "He kinda pressed me against the wall of the subway. People were moving around behind them—didn't even see what was going on—and I…I don't know. I panicked, I guess. I grabbed his hand and pushed it away, but the knife cut my hand and I shouted. He…well, honestly, he looked pissed." Karen shrugged. "He grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the pillar and they left."
"So, three guys in black, wearing black glasses, one with a scorpion tail tattoo on his right hand," the officer repeated. "That it?"
"Yes," Karen replied, feeling tears suddenly burn the backs of her eyes.
"Think you could sit with a sketch artist if we asked you to?"
"Yes," Karen said again.
"I'm assuming your friend can get you home?" the officer asked. Off of Karen's nod, he continued, "I'm going to file this, okay? You'll be hearing from us."
"Thank you," Karen replied, sighing, glad it was over.
When the officer walked away, Foggy turned around once more and she realized she was wrong, it had just started.
"I should've been there."
"Foggy, it happened so fast, I—"
"I sent you there, alone. It should have been me."
She shook her head, trying to reassure him. "I'm fi—"
"Karen!"
Three heads raised toward the sound of Matt's voice.
He was standing in the center of the ER, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, the hemline torn, and a leather jacket that had seen better days. Karen was surprised to see his hands empty; how had he been able to reach the ER without his cane? And who had let a blind man navigate the ER alone?
"She's right here, Matt," Claire called to him.
It registered with Karen then that Matt looked unsteady on his feet, his hands trembling at his sides, and there was blood on the side of his face, collecting in his eyebrow.
"She okay?" Matt asked, his voice shaking slightly, turning toward them.
"Why don't you come over here and find out for yourself."
Matt approached cautiously and as Karen watched, Claire stepped away from the bed and drew closer to him. She didn't touch him, but Matt definitely knew she was there. He gravitated toward her as though magnetized, stopping an arm's length away and holding himself so stiffly it looked like a harsh word would shatter him.
"You okay?" Claire asked him in a low voice.
"Fine," Matt replied tersely, though the closer he came the more Karen could see that he was very far from 'fine'. "Got Foggy's message."
"I'm here, Matt," Foggy told him and Matt flinched, darting his head toward where Foggy stood. That was curious, Karen thought; typically Matt seemed to just know Foggy was in the room. He was definitely rattled. "Question is, where the hell have you been?"
Matt moved to the edge of the bed and Karen reached out a hand to him, letting him grab her wrist, the touch of her skin seeming to settle him. The blood streaking down from a cut on his forehead was old, she could now see. Dried. The bruise forming there looking as though it would cause him a headache to rival the one she was feeling right now.
"How bad?" he asked her, ignoring Foggy's question. His chin lifted and he seemed to be…breathing her in, somehow. As though assessing the damage for himself.
"Just a few cuts," Karen said. "I'm okay, really. Claire's fixing me right up."
"This is because of the case?" Matt asked.
A sharp cry of fear or pain from one of the Dust victims skimmed across the tension in their curtained alcove like a stone across a deceptively smooth pond.
"Yes." Foggy practically snarled, his upper thigh bouncing against the bed as he stepped closer.
Karen saw Matt draw up and away, releasing her wrist as he did so. There was something immediately dangerous about his stance; he clearly didn't like to feel cornered, but Foggy was apparently past caring.
"I've been calling you, Matt. All day. Both phones."
"I know, Foggy, I just—"
"You know?" Foggy stepped closer and Claire reached out a hand to draw him back.
Just then the Dust patients began screaming, a high-pitched wail, and Karen saw three nurses hurry past the opening in her curtain toward the sound. Matt shuddered, crossing his arms over his chest in a protective motion. As though he were trying to catch bits of himself before they fell and shattered completely.
Claire used the opportunity to push Foggy aside. "Matt, how about you let me look at that cut?"
"It's fine," Matt practically growled at her. He shifted his stance to face Foggy and Karen wished she could see him without his glasses. Even though she knew his eyes wouldn't be focused, wouldn't give away his emotions, the glasses felt like a mask between the Matt she knew and the man standing before her. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to answer, Foggy."
"You were busy, that it? Too busy to let me know you're still alive? Too busy to keep Karen from getting attacked?"
"That's not fair," Matt snapped.
"Isn't it?" Foggy's voice pitched lower as he stepped close enough to Matt their foreheads were practically touching. "Maybe she just didn't yell loud enough."
"Foggy." It was Claire who snapped. Not Karen.
Karen watched Matt's face drain of color at Foggy's words and his hands—the right one slightly scuffed, knuckles swollen—curled into fists. Claire grabbed Foggy's arm and pulled him around with surprising strength.
When he was facing her, his eyes on hers, she practically snarled at him. "That is enough."
Karen saw Matt leaving before anyone else, but with her hand trussed up in the sterile guard and a suture kit, couldn't get off the bed to chase after him.
"Matt! Wait!"
Foggy turned but Matt was already through the pneumatic doors.
"What the hell?" Claire demanded, shoving at Foggy slightly.
Foggy darted a guilty look at Karen, then his face crumpled a bit and he shoved a hand through his hair, bowing his head. "Jesus, I'm sorry. I shouldn't've…."
"It's him, isn't it?" Karen heard herself saying, her voice hollow, heart trembling with a sudden surge of truth. Listening to them, seeing Matt beat up once more, she realized that on some level…she'd always known.
"Daredevil," she whispered, drawing their eyes. "Somehow…it's him."
Foggy paled and Claire covered her mouth, turning away. Neither of them spoke. So Karen decided to fill in the gap of silence.
"I was thinking some kind of…of Fight Club, to be honest," she kept her voice pitched low, hating the tremble she could still hear. "No way someone's that clumsy. The man is constantly bruised. And he's got a hero complex bigger than all of us combined. Doesn't know how not to help."
Claire tipped her head at that, still silent, and turned her attention back to the sutures on Karen's hand.
"I just can't figure out how…I mean, he's really blind, right?"
"Yeah," Foggy choked out. "In a manner of speaking." He chuckled thinly at that, but continued, "It happened when he was a kid. Says he sees a world on fire. The…uh, the chemicals that blinded him…they kinda super-charged his other senses."
"So, what? He's like…hyper-vigilant?"
"He can hear a heartbeat across the room," Foggy continued. "Cotton feels like sandpaper on his skin. He can smell if you showered in the last three days and taste every ingredient in a scoop of ice cream."
"Oh my God," Karen whispered, thinking of the bruises, the blood. "How does he not…I mean, with all the bruises? How does he bear it?"
"I ask myself that same question every time I see him," Claire replied.
"So who all…I mean, how does he—" she caught her breath, suddenly remembering that night in the office, the way he'd held her, his tears hot on her neck.
I can't take one more step alone.
"Claire and I both found out by accident," Foggy said. "He would have kept us out of it forever if he could."
"He's not going to be happy that you know." Claire finished her stitches and began to wrap her hand.
"Maybe he should have thought up some better excuses for his black eyes, then," Karen scoffed, sitting up straighter. "I mean, boxing at least."
Foggy chuffed. "He's a bad liar. Good Catholic boy and all."
"Okay, keep these stitches dry for at least 24 hours. I used dissolvable ones and glue on the outside, so you can shower tomorrow," Claire told her. "You can take ibuprofen for the pain. If you need something stronger, see your Primary Care doc. I'm going to sign you out, but, uh…," she glanced at Foggy. "Something tells me I'll be seeing you soon."
"Thanks, Claire," Karen said, sliding off the bed and standing in front of Foggy. "Come on. We've got a superhero to save."
Convincing Foggy that she didn't need to go directly home and to bed was a small feat. She hadn't wanted to, but he forced her to fight dirty as they rode the subway from the ER back toward Matt's apartment.
"Foggy, he was already on edge and then you pushed him over by insinuating he didn't save me," Karen pointed out. "We're in this together."
"You can be in this from the safety of your home and bed with a phone," Foggy argued, though the guilt in his expression was painful for her to see. "You just got jumped, Karen! By men with weapons!"
"No, I just got used to send a message," Karen retorted, her voice low, eyes hot as she stared at Foggy. "Besides, this is hardly the first time I've dealt with men holding weapons on me."
"What?" Foggy looked at her strangely. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Karen looked away, her mind's eyes focused not on Foggy, but on Wesley's arrogant expression slipping to disbelief as blossoms of red spread across the white of his shirt, the gun almost weightless in her grip. "The point is, I'm coming with you. We're finding him together."
"Son of a bitch," Foggy groaned as the stepped off the subway. "I really fucked this up."
"You were just worried about your friend," Karen countered, thinking of the way he hadn't quite known where to touch her.
"Yeah, but I'm worried about him all the time," Foggy replied.
Okay, yeah. Karen blinked. Of course he's worried about Matt.
"He lives like he doesn't care how badly they hurt him as long as he takes a few of them out with him and I want him to…," he took a breath, hanging his head a bit as if realizing the significance of what he was about to say, "to live like he's made of glass."
"Maybe you should tell him that."
They stepped out of the subway tunnel into the brisk winter air of the New York night. Karen could smell snow, though the storm had held off thus far. The street lights illuminated their dark walk from the station to Matt's apartment building and she pressed close to Foggy out of need for warmth and lingering fear of solitude, even that of a few inches.
"I have, Karen. So many times. But he's…. There's something driving him. Like it's…burning him up or something." Karen started at that, suddenly remembering Sister Angelica's words from earlier in the week. "It's not that he can't stop. It's that he doesn't want to."
"Then we have to help him, Foggy," Karen declared as they started up the stairs. "If he won't stop, we have to help him survive."
"I've been trying," Foggy said softly. "But I don't…I don't handle fear all that well."
"Not many people do," Karen sighed, stepping back as Foggy pounded on Matt's door.
When no one answered, they exchanged a look and headed to the roof access. The apartment was dark and quiet. She breathed deep, trying to imagine what Matt smelled when he entered a room, how it helped him determine who was there, what had happened, if there was danger or if he was in the clear. She could detect only wood from his recently repaired bottom step and the lingering scent that was Matt: earthy…and slightly intoxicating, if she were honest with herself.
"He's not here," Foggy muttered.
"I worked that part out on my own, thanks," Karen replied. "Where do we look?"
"I've been everywhere," Foggy sighed, kicking the side of Matt's couch lightly. "Everywhere Matt usually goes, everywhere we've gone together…."
"Okay, well, what about Daredevil?" Karen asked, looking out toward the glaring neon billboard that illuminated Matt's living room. It had finally started snowing, giving the billboard light an ethereal effect. "Where would he go?"
"The hell am I supposed to know that?" Foggy asked. "Rooftops? Bad guy lairs? The heart of darkness?"
He was flailing his arms at his sides, but then abruptly turned and headed toward a large cabinet gracing one of the brick walls. As Karen watched, he dug out a key from the folds of a firehose fixed to the wall next to the cabinet, opened the large doors, then drew out an old steamer trunk, lifting the lid and setting aside a wooden insert.
"It's still here," he breathed, sounding puzzled.
"What is?"
"The Daredevil suit," Foggy explained. "I don't get it—he's been out dealing with all of this…as just himself?"
Karen knelt next to him, carefully drawing out the suit and running her fingers along the material. She felt a tacky substance along one of the arms and down the torso.
"Not the whole time," she said, showing Foggy the blood she found. "Maybe just today?"
Foggy sank back on his heels. "To figure out where he would have gone, we gotta figure out where he's been," he said, drawing out his phone and simply holding it for a moment. "He tried to tell me yesterday, but I was too busy being pissed off at him for not doing this all lawyer-like. I wasn't listening. Dammit."
"What do you mean?" Karen asked, gingerly rubbing at the stitches in her scalp.
"He said that he thought the Messala family was part of getting that Dust drug into Hell's Kitchen from some point along the Hudson. And that we needed to stop looking into who killed the Henleys and focus on why they were killed."
"Foggy," Karen put her hand on his shoulder. "Sophia Messala was terrified when I told her we were representing Bobby Henley."
"Wait, what?"
"I didn't get a chance to tell you back at the hospital," Karen apologized, "but yeah, she heard his name and went pale. Her bodyguard even stepped forward. She said that they'd never been friends when they were young; he'd bullied and tormented her. I guess he was a real asshole at twelve."
"Kinda runs against Sister Elisa's wouldn't hurt a soul defense," Foggy frowned.
"She didn't cop to anything her father's family was involved in," Karen continued. "It's one reason she decided to go by just 'Sophie' when she started modeling—leave the name behind. But she's definitely a Messala, complete with the Italian goon entourage."
"Same kind of goons who attacked you?"
Karen frowned, biting her bottom lip in thought, then shrugging helplessly. "When I told her that it looked like we had a slam-dunk case and we were just trying to cover any bases the prosecution might put in play, she looked like she was going to be sick."
"She give you anything specific on Bobby?" Foggy frowned.
"No, just…a general overall impression. And a flat-out denial of knowing anything about the Messala family's involvement with Bobby's parents."
Foggy dialed a number and pressed speaker. Karen waited patiently, a little surprised when Brett Mahoney answered. She listened as Foggy revealed a bit of their case to Brett, setting it up like they thought they might be onto something a bit more than just closing a twenty-year old cold case and asked if he'd heard anything about the Messalas being connected to that new drug that's wiping out all the street kids.
"You psychic or somethin', Nelson?" Brett muttered. "You meet up with your friend with the horns recently?"
Foggy exchanged a look with Karen. "Not in the last few days, no."
"Dude brought in three of the Messala family and a packet of Dust last night—liquid Dust, too, not that cheap street stuff. Heard he managed to get four people to the hospital afterwards, too."
"He's…been busy," Foggy commented, a softness to his voice that caught Karen's attention.
"Yeah, no shit Sherlock. I also got two would-be arsonists and a street purse snatcher in my holding cell, all tagged for me to process. I'm getting a rep as this dude's personal paper-pusher."
"He trusts you, Mahoney. Don't take that lightly."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Foggy sighed. "Listen, I think we might be onto something with this Henley-Messala connection. Anything you can give me?"
"Just this, tox screen came back on Tosky."
"And?"
"Looks like there were high levels of anthracyclines in his system. Whatever the hell that is."
"That cause the heart attack?"
"I look like a doctor to you? But M.E.'s saying yeah, maybe."
"So Tosky was murdered, there was a connection between the Messalas and the Henleys twenty years back, and the Messalas are suddenly alive and kicking out drugs on the streets of Hell's Kitchen," Foggy counted off three fingers. "That about sum up the shit storm we're sitting in?"
"Think you need to talk to your buddy the devil," Brett stated before hanging up.
"We gotta find him, Foggy," Karen said softly, suddenly feeling the fingers of panic at her throat. "He looked rough when he left the ER and if he doesn't have the suit…."
"What the hell is he doing?" Foggy muttered, pushing to his feet and moving over to the window. "He's just…just a guy, y'know? Why does he think this lands on him, all this…this pain? It doesn't make any sense."
Karen compulsively bit at her bottom lip, watching Foggy as he paced a tight circle.
"Y'know…a week ago?" Foggy continued. "He was fine. I mean, not, y'know fine. But he was the Matt version."
"A week ago, you went to St. Agnes," Karen pointed out.
Foggy nodded. "We're going back."
The night seemed to collect against the corners of the buildings and just past alley entrances like cobwebs. Karen tried not to outwardly shudder, irrational fears not so unheard of after being attacked in public with lights glaring down—no one stopping, no one even looking twice at her—slid into her subconscious like smoke.
People say when you call for help in Hell's Kitchen…someone hears you.
Foggy was right: she should have shouted louder. He would have heard her. She knows he would have heard her.
The night he fought off the man from Union Allied, the fire escape and scaffolding outside her apartment both weapons and instruments of torture, she'd been staggered by his endurance, his brutality, his bravery. She could still recall at will the image of him pushing himself up from the ground, rain soaking his black vigilante clothes, blood pouring from his mouth.
And that had been Matt. The same man who offered her a shy smile when she brought him coffee in the morning. Who stood in front of a jury and pleaded the case of the innocent. Who wrapped his arms around her, needing simply to know he wasn't alone.
By the time they'd reached St. Agnes, Karen was out for blood. This place may have offered him food and shelter, but it had also cut him off from love and support. From companionship. It had taken a frightened boy suddenly alone in the world and pushed him into a life of solitude. A life he'd somehow found a way to navigate until he'd found them.
And with their confusion and frustration, they'd essentially cut him off as well, proving the sum of his life experiences true: people leave.
"Something's wrong," Foggy muttered as they approached the same front door Karen had entered before.
Karen immediately agreed; the door was open. They pushed it further inward and headed cautiously inside the darkened lobby entrance. Foggy called out a quiet hello.
"The children. Get the children. Hide them. Hide."
Karen looked around at the sound of the frantic, disjointed words. The voice sounded familiar.
"Sister Angelica?"
"Hide them. Keep them away."
Following the sound of the manic-sounding words, Karen led Foggy down a hall to a section of small, round-topped doors, all closed except one. Sitting huddled in the far corner of what appeared to be a sparsely decorated bedroom was Sister Angelica, her cornette askew, strands of gray hair spiraling free. Karen hurried forward, grasping the thin, wrinkled hand that tugged at the edge of her wimple, nails scratching red lines down the side of her face.
"What the hell?" Foggy muttered.
"Sister Angelica, stop," Karen implored. "You're hurting yourself!"
"Hide them! You must hide them!"
"We will, we'll hide them," Karen reassured, holding the old woman's hand in both of her own. She looked over her shoulder. "We have to call someone!"
"I'll find Sister Elisa," Foggy promised, then ran from the room.
Sister Angelica reached for Karen, grabbing her long hair and pulling her face forward with a yank. "He's dangerous. Dangerous. He'll hurt them. You have to hide them!"
Karen pried her hair out of the woman's grip. "I will, I promise I will." She twisted to the side and wrapped her arms around the old woman's thin frame, slightly in awe that this was the same woman who had rattled her five days ago. "Who is dangerous, Sister Angelica? Who did this to you?"
"The devil. He's the devil, child. The devil."
The woman shook in her arms and Karen felt herself go cold. Could Matt have—?
"Sister Elisa is unconscious," Foggy declared, breathless, as he rounded the corner back in Sister Angelica's room. "Looks like someone tore up her office. She's breathing but…. I'm calling an ambulance."
"She said the devil did this, Foggy," Karen said, rocking slightly with the motion of the old woman's tremors.
Foggy shook his head. "No. No possible way."
"Lantom," Sister Angelica muttered. "Lantom."
"Shh-shh, it's okay," Karen soothed as Foggy called for an ambulance and asked for the police to follow.
"What did she just say?" Foggy asked, crouching down as ended the call.
"Lantom?" Karen shrugged, holding the old woman close.
"Oh, shit."
"What? What is it?"
"That's the name of Matt's priest."
"Oh, Foggy, no. He couldn't!"
Foggy shot her an agonized look. "This place was a trigger, Karen. Maybe he just—"
"He never cried." Sister Angelica clutched at Karen's hair again, tugging hard. "Never cried. Nothing there, nothing."
"Who never cried, Sister?" Karen asked. "Are you talking about Matt Murdock?"
Sister Angelica slowly released Karen's hair and began to moan, a low, devastated sound that rattled Karen's heart. Her eyes burned with unshed tears and she held the old woman tightly, trying to figure out what brought on such mania.
"Karen," Foggy called suddenly and held up something before her eyes.
"Is that a…a syringe?"
"I think we both know what was in this." Foggy snarled, looking at Sister Angelica's trembling form.
"Oh, Foggy," Karen gasped. "If that's Dust…." A thought occurred to her and she reached out to grab Foggy's wrist. "Where's Bobby?"
Without a word, Foggy took off again. Karen waited, listening. When she heard the bang of the front door and the call of Police! She shouted directions to lead them back to her. Brett Mahoney was the first through the door and stayed next to Karen until the EMTs found their way back. She told one of the paramedics about Sister Elisa, then stood up, stepping back and out of the way. Moments later, Foggy came back through the door.
"I can't find Bobby anywhere," he gasped, out of breath. "None of the other teachers have seen him."
"Lantom," Sister Angelica moaned. She reached for Karen. "Told him. Told him."
Karen crouched down at the woman's side, grasping the reaching hand and staying out of the way of the paramedics. "What did you tell Lantom, Sister?"
As though she'd fought for one moment of clarity, Sister Angelica surged forward, one hand grasping Karen's jaw, blue eyes bright, and said, "I told Father Lantom!"
"Ma'am, we need to move her now," one of the paramedics told Karen, gently removing the old woman's hand and placing it under the straps of the stretcher.
Nodding, Karen stood and backed away. Foggy was leaning against the wall, watching the activity with vacant eyes.
"It wasn't Matt," he shook his head. "I questioned his…moral compass once. I won't do it again."
"She said the devil, Foggy," Karen reminded him. "That's what she said about Matt when—"
"Oh, shit," Foggy interrupted suddenly. "Lantom. Whoever did this is headed over to St. Pat's."
"Guys," Brett broke in, heading over to them with his notebook flipped open. "I'm really sorry to tell you this, but Sister Elisa came to."
"Why are you sorry to tell us that?" Foggy asked.
Brett shot him a barely-patient look. "She told us that Bobby Henley attacked her."
"Oh, my God," Karen and Foggy replied in shocked unison.
"But how…?" Karen looked at Brett in complete confusion. "He was so…I mean…. She took care of him! All this time."
Brett shrugged. "Said he just lost it and started tearing up the office. He hit her with a book."
"C'mon," Foggy grabbed Karen's arm. "We, uh…got some phone calls to make."
Karen allowed herself to be pulled from the room. "Phone calls? Foggy, we don't—"
"Shh," he silenced her, waiting until they were outside of the children's home before he turned to face her. "I think Bobby pulled a Keyser Soze."
Karen opened her mouth, then clicked it shut, eyebrows up. "A…what?"
"You know, Verbal Kent? Usual Suspects?"
Karen shook her head.
"Jesus, you're as bad as Matt," Foggy frowned, pulling his coat tighter against the cold. "I think Frank Tosky was right—Bobby's been faking it."
"You think Bobby did this?"
Foggy frowned at her. "You'd rather believe it was Matt?"
He had her there.
"Why didn't you want Brett to know?"
"We don't know where Matt is," Foggy said. "I don't want to send a ton of police over to St. Pat's if he's…well, Daredeviling it. Sans suit."
"So, what do we do?"
"We get the hell over to St. Pat's," Foggy declared. "Damn you, Murdock. First it's a gym, now it's a church."
The storm picked up during their subway ride and when they stepped out onto the sidewalk from the station, Karen gasped at the bite in the air. Snow pelted her aching head and face like tiny daggers, turning her bare fingers into instant popsicles.
"I hope he's there," Foggy muttered, burrowing deeper into his coat. "This storm is going to be hell on his senses otherwise."
"Foggy?" Karen called as she took two steps for every hurried one of Foggy's. "I gotta say, I'm scared."
"Yeah," Foggy looped his arm through hers to link them together. "Me too."
They reached St. Patrick's and hurried up the steps. Karen half expected the big main doors to be locked this late at night, but Foggy push against the handle and it gave easily. Stepping inside left Karen breathless; the difference between the frigid air of the storm and the warmth of the sanctuary had her swaying against Foggy for a moment, feeling her skin prick back to life. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the front two alcoves where prayer candles had been lit.
They headed down the center aisle, shoes clicking noisily against the stone floor. Karen almost knelt to cross herself as they drew closer to the altar, but stopped as Foggy veered toward the confessional.
"Look," he said, his voice pitched soft and sounding almost reverent.
Karen followed, gasping slightly at the sight of the destruction that had been hidden by shadows. The door to the priests' compartment had been completely shattered and the curtain to the left was ripped from its moorings. Foggy bent forward, his fingers swiping at something on the frame.
"Tell me that's not blood."
"Can't do that," Foggy replied.
A crash followed by a harsh shout echoed toward them from the rectory at the front of the sanctuary. They didn't even bother exchanging a glance; they simply ran toward the sound, finding their way around behind the pulpit and altar to a small door. It was cold and dark in the alcove, but a light glowed above them—from what appeared to be an opened rooftop door—and shone down on a flight of stairs.
At the top of the stairs, a body lay crumpled, partially on the landing.
Karen didn't even think; she ran to the body. Foggy was seconds behind her, helping her roll the figure to its back. The unconscious visage of an older man—his priest's collar plainly visible—shown pale in the light from the doorway. Karen pressed her cold, bare fingers against the man's throat and sagged with relief when she felt a pulse.
"Think this is Father Lantom?" Karen asked.
"I'm going to go with yes," Foggy said, peering up at the door. "Looks like a roof access."
What seemed to be illumination from a security light shone down the narrow hall and Karen could see another body crumpled against the wall. She didn't recognize that face, either, and he had no priest's collar. He did, however, have a gun. And on his outstretched hand was the tattoo of a scorpion's tail.
"Look," Karen called, pointing to the tattoo.
"Guess you won't need to sit with a sketch artist," Foggy commented.
More shouts could be heard through the doorway.
"Foggy," Karen said, her voice strangely steady considering how hard her heart was beating. Father Lantom groaned, stirring beneath her hands. "We need to get him out of here."
"We haven't found Matt yet," Foggy snapped.
"He's…up," Father Lantom managed, his voice weak. "Up on the roof."
"He's out there?" Foggy repeated.
"Four men," Lantom swallowed, blinking his eyes open, his gaze unfocused, "attacked. Matt tried…tried to get me out."
"Shit," Foggy started forward.
"Wait!" Karen cried, then nodded toward the unconscious man across the small hallway. "Gun."
"I can't believe I'm doing this," Foggy muttered, grabbing the gun from the floor and heading up the other flight of stairs toward the roof access.
"Go with him," Father Lantom ordered. "Help Matt."
"I'm not going to leave you," Karen protested. "You're hurt!"
"Child, if the Lord wanted me, he would have taken me already," Father Lantom told her, his voice growing stronger. "I'll be okay. Matt won't."
Karen swallowed, nodded, and headed up the second set of stairs after Foggy. What she saw when she reached the doorway wasn't something she would forget anytime soon. Standing in the semi-protection of the doorway, Karen stared out onto a miniature battlefield. The storm was raging – wind howling around the corner of the squared-off roof, battered pieces of what might have been bird cages at one time strewn across the cracked cement surface. A security light mounted to the side of the building shone like a theater spotlight on the battle waging below.
A man lay sprawled near the doorway, his face covered in blood, not moving. Two more moved in terrifying unison toward a figure standing with his back to the edge of the roof, the stone wall at his hips. The man lifted his face and Karen gasped, grabbing Foggy's arm instinctively when she realized the man was Matt.
He was battered; blood streaking one side of his face and streaking his throat where it had been pouring from a split lip. He was listing slightly to the side, his arm tight against his ribs, both hands up in a posture of defense. His hair was plastered to his head with snow and sweat and his glasses were missing, the skin that was not blood-covered pink from the cold.
The most shocking thing of all, however, was the maniacal grin that split his face. As though he was waiting for the men to get closer, drawing them in with an appearance of weakness. How his attackers didn't see that and heed the warning, Karen didn't know. Before either she or Foggy could say anything, shout a warning, offer a distraction, Matt was moving.
It was the same as that night in the rain: a dance of motion, grace, and violence. Karen was exhausted simply watching him. He was brutal, danger radiating from each swing of his fists, each duck of his shoulders. He slammed his forearm into the throat of one attacker while simultaneously kicking the legs out from beneath the other. Flipping his body over Throat Guy's shoulders, he landed with is arm wrapped around the man's neck keeping him as a shield against the weapon in the other man's hand.
Karen couldn't see what it was—a gun? Knife?—but Matt's human shield kept him safe for the moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Foggy lift the gun stolen from the man in the hallway, his hand shaking, his aim wavering. With this storm and his nerves, he was just as liable to hit Matt as anyone else. Without saying a word, Karen grabbed the weapon from Foggy, checked the safety, checked the clip, then raised it, her wounded hand acting as the support for her grip.
In that time, Throat Guy—who outweighed Matt by about thirty pounds—had tossed Matt over his head and was proceeding to slam his fist against Matt's jaw and cheekbone. Karen aimed. Matt flipped up, out of reach of the man's meaty fists, and right into her line of fire. Karen exhaled, lowering the barrel of the gun.
"Do something!" Foggy demanded as the second assailant moved in, slamming Matt in the small of the back with a violent punch and causing him to cry out as he went to his knees. "If you're gonna shoot, then shoot!"
"I'm trying not to shoot Matt," Karen snapped, feeling as though with the roar of the storm she was shouting into a hurricane.
Matt swept his foot out, knocking the second man down, but before he could rise, Throat Guy grabbed him by his torn T-shirt and slammed him back against the cement floor hard enough Karen felt her teeth rattle. Throat Guy stood, raising his large fist to strike Matt another time and Karen fired, hitting the man in the shoulder and causing him to stagger back toward the roof's edge.
Twisting his body once more, impossibly, Matt was again on his feet, grabbing the flailing man and pushing him slightly to the side—as though he were aiming him—just before he allowed the man to tumble from the edge of the roof. Foggy cried out in instinctive protest and Karen released her breath. Matt stood, staggering back away from the edge of the roof, but just as he turned, his second assailant stepped forward, brutally shoving something into his side.
Karen had forgotten about the weapon.
Apparently, so had Matt.
His mouth opened in a wordless cry, his gasp of pain lost to the snowstorm. Karen saw the attacker lean forward and whisper something in Matt's ear before pushing him away and turning to face them.
"Holy shit," Foggy breathed.
Karen couldn't even swear.
The man who'd stabbed Matt was Bobby Henley.
And the weapon, she now saw as he held them up before dropping them to the rooftop, was two syringes. Her stomach twisted as she guessed what had been in the now empty tubes. She stepped forward, rage burning so brightly inside of her that she barely felt the bite of the wind. Bobby tipped his hand in a mocking wave and ran for the edge of the roof and the fire escape.
She tore her watering eyes from Bobby's escape to stare at Matt. A small burst of red now blossomed where the needles had ripped into his skin. Karen covered her mouth, unable to even choke out a cry of dismay.
The snow swirled around him like a miniature cyclone, wind gusting without mercy as they stood facing each other on the barren rooftop. He was breathing hard, shoulders heaving with the effort, mouth slightly parted as though trapped between gasping for air and trying not to scream. His hands—half curled into fists, blood-crusted knuckles visibly swollen in the pale light—shook at his sides, the motion a confession of vulnerability his lips would never utter.
He was swaying, not just from the force of the storm, but from his rapidly weakening body, yet he refused to move. It was as though he'd frozen there, trapped in a world that betrayed him by suppressing the fire that had always guided him. His expressionless eyes darted, fear drawn in blood and bruises on his face.
Foggy started to reach out, to offer a hand and guide his friend to safety. The storm surged then and turned the snow into icy pellets that sliced and burned. Matt stumbled forward, hand out in a helpless gesture of defiance against the forces buffeting him from outside and within.
"Foggy?"
A world of questions captured in a word.
"Here, buddy." The emotion in Foggy's voice was practically a living thing, stepping forward and standing between them, demanding to be recognized.
"I can't…."
Whatever Matt was going to say was lost to the storm. He wavered, his legs buckling. Foggy was out of the doorway and across the roof before Matt's knees hit the surface, his friend collapsing against him in a tangle of trembling limbs.
"I gotcha," Foggy promised. Karen felt tears blend with the sting of snow across her cheek. "I gotcha, buddy."
Matt said nothing, as if he already knew this was going to be one of the longest nights of his life.