Chapter 5 – Last Chances

Karen

Two more weeks passed. After the interview with Dr. Ellis was published, the "Matt Murdock is Daredevil" story began to lose traction. A few days after that, at Karen's suggestion, the Bulletin ran an article lining up sightings of Daredevil with times Matt was known to be at home in his apartment, surrounded by the media. The relentless 24-hour news cycle finally moved on to other stories. One by one, the assembled journalists left until, one morning, Karen arrived at the office to find no reporters camped on the sidewalk outside. She breathed a sigh of relief, but Matt wasn't so sure.

"The media may be gone, but the NYPD isn't," he told her, leaning against the reception desk.

"They're still surveilling you?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I've spotted them a few times, including on the way here this morning."

"Do they know you spotted them?"

"Probably," he replied. "They were following me pretty openly. It's not like they have to worry about me seeing them. And I think they want me to know they're watching. They don't care if someone tells me I'm being followed."

"They're sending you a message," Karen observed.

"Yeah," he said grimly. "We're not home free. Not by a long shot."

The door opened, and Foggy walked in. "Hey, guys, they're gone."

"Yeah. We noticed," Matt said.

"So why so glum?"

"The NYPD's still following Matt," Karen told him.

"Oh. Bummer." Foggy seemed to think for a moment, before his expression brightened. "But they can't keep it up forever, can they?"

Matt rubbed his forehead. "I don't know."

"Well, we know they're watching, and you're not gonna screw up," Foggy said. "But if the worst happens, we have your back. All of Hell's Kitchen does. And I'll be your avocado at law."

Matt smiled in spite of himself. "The best damn avocado at law."

Matt

Two days later, the Daily Bugle broke the story, based on a leak from the DA's office, of "major" indictments that would be forthcoming in the near future. The story didn't name names, but the implication was clear: Vanessa would finally be indicted.

That evening, Matt sat on the couch in his dark apartment, drinking beer and considering his legal position. He wasn't sure if he was going to be indicted, too. He hadn't been subpoenaed to testify before the grand jury. Neither had Foggy and Karen. But they wouldn't be called to testify if they were targets of the investigation. No search warrants had been executed at his apartment or their office. But there could have been other search warrants they didn't know about. The video was a problem, a big one. The reporter who released it refused to identify his source, so the grand jurors wouldn't know that it had been leaked by Wilson Fisk. Dr. Ellis's testimony could have diminished its impact, but the DA wouldn't have called the ophthalmologist to testify before the grand jury.

If Blake Tower was determined to indict Matt, he would be indicted. The old saying about a grand jury indicting a ham sandwich was a cliché for a reason: it was true. Tower knew how to work a grand jury and get them to indict. But he wouldn't be satisfied by merely getting an indictment. He would want a conviction. That was a much taller order. He would have to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that a blind man was Daredevil. To give him the best chance of getting a conviction, the NYPD had to catch Matt in the act – the act of being Daredevil. And that wasn't Tower's only option. He could go after Foggy and Karen, use them as leverage. The cases against them would be harder to make, but maybe not impossible. Tower had to know Matt would never sacrifice them to save himself. The thought sickened him. He couldn't let that happen. He finished his beer, threw the bottle in the recycling, and went into the bedroom.

"What the fuck are you doing, Murdock?" he asked himself. He was standing in front of his closet, holding the black (he hoped) shirt he was about to pull on over his head. The black or dark gray (he thought) scarf he'd found in the pocket of his winter coat was on the bed; it would serve as a makeshift mask. His Daredevil gear was still hidden at Nelson's Meats. It was out of reach, for now. There would be hell to pay if Theo noticed it was missing and told Foggy. He'd called Danny Rand, to thank him and tell him he could take the night off. Danny figured out what he was up to and tried to talk him out of it, but Matt was unmoved. He knew exactly what he was doing. This might be his last chance to be Daredevil for a very long time; he wasn't going to pass it up. There was always the risk of getting caught; he'd had some close calls, but he'd always escaped. So far. It was worth the risk. He pulled on the shirt and headed up the stairs.

Once on the roof, he scanned his surroundings. No sign of any surveillance, but he needed to be sure. He returned to his apartment. There he put on his dark glasses, wrapped the scarf around his neck, and picked up his cane. He descended the stairs and emerged onto the sidewalk. Swinging and tapping the cane in front of him, he turned right and walked away from the building. Three blocks later, he was sure: no one was following him. He doubted the NYPD had called off its surveillance; they'd probably just stopped watching him 24/7, trying to lull him into a false sense of security. It wouldn't make any difference. If he was being followed, he would know it. They couldn't hide from his senses. He darted into an alley, jettisoned his cane, and climbed to the rooftops. He took off his glasses and slipped them into a pocket, before he wrapped the scarf around his head. It wasn't long before the sounds of people in trouble drifted up to him. He ran toward them.

An hour or two after midnight (he'd lost track of the time), Matt was in an alley somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, standing over the would-be mugger who lay at his feet, out cold. The woman he'd saved was thanking him profusely, but he was only half-listening. Someone had called 911, and the cops were close, too close. The alley was open only at one end, and the cops would be there soon, blocking it. The woman apparently realized his predicament and whispered, "Go, go! I'll handle the cops."

She didn't have to tell him twice. He couldn't make it out of the alley before the cops arrived, so he sprinted toward the closed end, in search of a place to hide. A dumpster stood next to the building on his right. If it was dark enough, he could probably hide behind it. Or in it. At the other end of the alley, the woman was talking to the cops. "He took off," she was saying, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "I didn't see where he went."

Matt started to squeeze behind the dumpster. Then a door behind him and to his left opened. A man hissed, "Over here!" Matt slipped inside just as he heard heavy footsteps on the worn pavement, heading toward the closed end of the alley. He hoped his Good Samaritan had had the presence of mind to turn off the lights before opening the door. Apparently, he did; the footsteps didn't come any closer. Matt followed the man down a hallway. "Thanks, man," he said.

The man in front of him stopped and turned around. "No, I'm the one who should be thanking you. You showed up when a couple of gangbangers were beating up my brother-in-law last year. Some sort of extortion racket. You saved his life."

Matt didn't know what to say, so he settled for, "Oh, uh, you're welcome."

The man turned to his left and opened a door. "My apartment," he said. "You can hide out here until the cops leave."

Matt followed the man inside. "Got it. Thanks."

"No thanks necessary. Hell's Kitchen needs you, man." The man held out his hand. "Demetrius Walker."

Matt shook his hand. "Um, Daredevil."

Walker chuckled, then asked, "Want a beer?"

Matt nodded gratefully and sank into the nearest chair.

An hour later, when both Matt and Walker had confirmed (in their own ways) that the cops had left the alley, Matt thanked Walker again and made his way back to his apartment.

After a few hours of restless sleep, Matt dragged himself out of bed, showered, and got dressed in a business suit. He wanted to be ready. If the NYPD was coming for him, they'd show up in the early morning hours. That was their preferred time for executing arrest warrants. He wasn't going to be half-dressed when they perp-walked him out of his apartment, not if he could help it. And the business suit would make a statement. He made himself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch, waiting for the hammering on the door and the shouts of "NYPD! Open up!" They never came. When he was sure the cops weren't coming for him, he left for the office. No indictments were announced that day.

That evening, he decided Daredevil should make another appearance. He'd gotten a reprieve that morning, but who knew how long it would last? He had no illusions about what was in store for him if he was arrested. He'd visited plenty of in-custody clients and spent a night in jail himself, as "Mike Murphy." The assault on his senses would be unpleasant, but that was far from the worst of it. Riker's was full of men who were highly motivated to take him out. He wasn't gonna kid himself; if he went in, he didn't like his chances of coming out alive. If it came to that, he promised himself he would go down fighting. He was a Murdock, after all.

The sound of footsteps ascending the stairs intruded on his thoughts. As they got closer, he recognized them: Karen. He got to his feet and was waiting just inside the door when she knocked. He opened the door and stepped back to let her pass. "Hey, Karen," he said.

"Hey, yourself." She followed him into the living room and took a seat on the couch. He remained standing.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asked. She nodded. He turned and went into the kitchen. He returned with two glasses of wine and set them on the table before taking a seat next to her on the couch.

Karen took a sip of wine and put her glass down. She seemed to want to say something but remained silent. She took another sip of wine but still didn't say anything. Finally, Matt asked her, "Why are you here, Karen?"

She pressed her lips together and swallowed before she answered him. "I just . . . ," she began, sounding uncertain. "Do you think you're gonna be indicted?"

So that's what this was about. He held out his hands and let them drop to his sides. "Honestly, I don't know. But, yeah, it could happen. We need to be prepared for that."

"But if you go to jail . . . ." Her voice faded away, as if she couldn't finish the sentence.

"Yeah. I know," he said quietly.

She turned to face him and took his hands in hers. "If you do . . . get arrested, there's something I want to give you, to remember me by. Just in case, you know."

He held out a hand to receive . . . whatever it was, but she shook her head and said, "It's not a thing. It's something I want to do for you. And, well, for me, too."

"What the fuck?" he asked himself. Then the awful truth dawned on him. He wrenched his other hand from her grasp and pulled away from her. "So, what, Karen, you want to give me some kind of pity fuck? Is that it?"

He stood up and stalked to the window. He stood with his back to her, his fists clenched.

"What?" she cried. "No! Not pity. Never pity."

Her heartbeat said she wasn't lying. What the hell? This wasn't what he thought it was. He clamped down on the anger that had flared inside him and turned toward her. "What're you saying, Karen?"

Her heart fluttered, but not from dishonesty. She was nervous, but also determined – and maybe a little desperate. "When you were . . . gone, after Midland Circle, I mean, and everyone thought you were dead, I didn't want to believe it, but I was grieving, too. I wasn't just grieving for you. I was grieving because we'd lost the chance to find out what we could be, you know, together."

"Because I fucked up," he said quietly, walking toward her.

"This isn't about blame," she said firmly. He took a seat next to her.

"Then you were gone again, being 'Mike Murphy'," she continued, "and I didn't think you were gonna make it out alive. And I felt we'd lost another chance. I can't . . . I don't think I can do that again."

"Karen, I'm sorry."

She cut him off with a shake of her head. "No blaming, remember?"

"OK."

"And now, you may be going to jail . . . and, and not coming back. I feel like it's . . . it's our last chance, for you and me to, you know, figure out what we are . . . to each other. If you want to."

He scooted closer to her. "I do," he said, holding out his arms to her.

She kicked off her shoes and tucked her legs under her. He wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder. There was a dampness on his shirt: her tears. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. He couldn't believe this was happening. She had been through so much in her life – most of it because of him. Yet she still came to him as a friend and now, it seemed, as a lover. "It's not me," he told himself, "it's her." He didn't often feel blessed in his life, but he felt blessed now. Blessed that she had chosen him, in spite of their turbulent and often painful history. Presently, she raised her head and wiped her eyes. He kissed her cheek, where he could still sense the salt of her tears, then held her close.

He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the mint of her shampoo and the lavender of her soap. But his doubts persisted. "Are you sure?" he murmured.

"Yes."

"You said you weren't ready."

"I know. I wasn't, when I said it."

"And you are now?"

"Yes," she replied. "The thought of you going to jail . . . it made me realize what really matters."

"Karen, I – " She hushed him with a finger to his lips.

"You don't have to say anything," she said, and kissed him. The remembered softness of her lips awakened other memories. Memories of what felt like another life, when he was a different man. A life where Foggy had once "warned" him to be careful, he might actually be happy – with her. For a long time, he hadn't allowed himself to think about the possibility, believing she was lost to him. But she'd given him another chance, their last chance.

He wrapped his fingers in her hair and pulled her closer. Her heart fluttered. He traced her jaw line with a fingertip, then cupped her face in his hands and leaned in to kiss her. When they finally pulled apart, she brushed his hair back from his forehead and caressed his cheek. He raised his hand and caressed her cheek, mirroring her action. Then he let his hand drift lower, until it rested on her breast. She shivered and gave a little gasp. Something awoke in him. It wasn't memories, this time. He lowered his head to her breast. Her heartbeat quickened. Her breaths were short and shallow. A new scent, musky and unmistakably female, underlay her scents of mint and lavender.

He stood up and held out his hand. She took it and followed him into the bedroom. They undressed each other slowly, savoring the moment. After she pulled off his shirt, she ran her fingertips over his chest. He drew in a shuddering breath at her touch. Then she kissed the scar on his left shoulder, the one from the scissors thrown by Poindexter.

When their clothes lay in a heap on the floor next to them, he pulled her gently toward him, and they fell onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs. He was drowning in his senses, until he focused on her. He lost himself in her: her breathing, her scent, the taste of her, the softness of her skin, the little frisson or whispered "oh, yes" when he did something that pleased her. Then, finally, they were one; they moved in unison, breathed in unison, until her heartbeat told him she was reaching the peak, and he went there with her.

Afterward, they lay side by side, holding hands. He didn't deserve it, but she was here, with him, after everything . . . . No. That was about the past. This was about now and, he hoped, a future. He rolled over onto his side and reached out to caress her cheek."I'd say you succeeded, Ms. Page," he said. "That was . . . memorable."

She hummed contentedly, then rolled onto her side, facing him. "Not only for you, Mr. Murdock," she said, her smile coming through in her voice.

He smiled back at her. Then he remembered. They had finally found each other again, only to be ripped apart. "I don't want to leave you, but if I have to . . . ."

She rubbed his shoulder gently. "Shhh. Let's not talk about it."

"I'll come back."

"You can't know that," she said, suddenly serious.

"I know," he said quietly. "But if there's a way, I'll find it. I promise."

"I'll hold you to it." She ran her hand through his hair and caressed his cheek. "I'd like to stay," she said, "if that's OK with you. I want to be here in the morning, if . . . ." Her voice trailed off.

He finished the sentence for her. "If they come for me." He kissed her. "I'd like that."

Eventually, they slept, spooned together, until the alarm on Matt's talking clock told them it was 5:30 a.m. He kissed Karen and slipped out of bed to get ready, but no one came for him.

Later that morning, Foggy, Matt, and Karen gathered in the conference room for their daily firm meeting. The television mounted on the far wall was turned on, tuned to NY1, but the sound was muted. About halfway through the meeting, Karen glanced up. When she saw what was on the screen, she grabbed the remote and unmuted the sound.

"Guys," she said, "it's Tower." Matt felt a stab of fear in his gut. Suddenly, his mouth was dry, and it was hard to breathe.

"The District Attorney's office has this morning unsealed multi-count indictments against Vanessa Marianna Fisk and several of her associates," Tower was saying. "The charges include murder, conspiracy, money laundering, drug trafficking, extortion, fraud, tax evasion, and enterprise corruption, commonly known as racketeering. These indictments are the result of an intensive and exhaustive investigation by organized crime specialists in my office and the NYPD, working together. We are also indebted to members of the Hell's Kitchen community, who provided invaluable information to our investigators. Several individuals named in the indictments have already been taken into custody."

Tower got that far before a reporter yelled out a question. "Is Vanessa in custody?"

"Mrs. Fisk's present whereabouts are unknown. We have received information indicating she may have fled the country to avoid prosecution. We will find her, wherever she is. When we do, every legal means available will be utilized to return her to this country to answer the charges against her."

"What about Daredevil?" another reporter asked.

"At this time, no charges have been filed against anyone for crimes committed by Daredevil," Tower replied. "However, I have a message for him: Whoever you are, you will not escape justice. You will be apprehended, sooner or later, and when you are, we will prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law."

"That's it," Karen said, for Matt's benefit. "He's walking away, not taking any more questions." She muted the sound on the TV. "So what happens now? If Vanessa's out of the country, does Fisk take over and run things from prison, like he did before?"

Foggy shook his head. "I don't think so. He's in Attica supermax. His outside contacts are limited, very limited. Brett told me all the prison employees who come in contact with him have been vetted, and even they are being watched closely for signs that Fisk has gotten to them. The state isn't making the same mistakes the feds made."

"You were right about that," Matt said.

"Yes!" Foggy exclaimed, pumping his fist. Then he turned serious again. "I don't like the sound of Tower's message to Daredevil."

Matt shrugged. "It's nothing new. They were always going to prosecute me. But they have to catch me first." He smirked.

"You're going out as Daredevil again?" Foggy said. "You can't be serious."

"Why wouldn't I?" Matt asked.

"God damn it, Matt, we just dodged a ginormous bullet. And now you're gonna put us in the crosshairs again?"

Before Matt could answer him, Karen stepped in. "Remember what we talked about, Foggy," she said, the warning tone clear in her voice.

Foggy's head whipped around toward her. "Oh. Right. Whatever." He turned and stomped out of the room.

"What was that all about?' Matt asked. "You two are talking about me again, behind my back?"

"It's not like that," Karen said. "You're kind of important to us, you know, so, yes, sometimes we talk about you."

"Oh."

"And look on the bright side. We don't have to worry about the cops showing up tomorrow morning."

"We." Matt liked the sound of that. He made sure Foggy was back in his office before he kissed her.

On his way home from work, Matt stopped at Nelson's Meats to pick up his Daredevil gear. At first, Theo was reluctant to hand it over, but he came around after Matt assured him he'd handle Foggy if he got on Theo's case about it. A little before midnight, Matt put on the armored leggings and shirt made for him by Melvin Potter, then pulled on a black shirt and pants over them. He picked up his mask, kissed Karen, and climbed the stairs to the roof. He stood at the corner of the roof, holding his mask in one hand, feeling the breeze ruffling his hair, taking in the sounds and smells of the city. The NYPD's watchers were gone, for now. He thought of Karen in the apartment below him. She would be there when he returned. That was something . . . different. He smiled to himself. He could get used to it. Then he heard another woman's voice, a block away. He pulled on his mask and ran toward her call for help. Daredevil was back.