Chapter 6 – Coming Up With a Plan
There: Matt
The morning after his visit to the gallery with other-Foggy and other-Karen, Matt climbed the stairs to Russman's apartment. As he approached the top-floor landing, he heard the sound of a power tool, probably a drill driving the screws for the artist's latest work. Matt hesitated for a moment, wondering if he should interrupt him when he was working. No, he decided, he had called, and Russman knew he was coming. He took out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. Then he knocked on the door, and the sound of the drill faded away, followed by muttered curses and the artist's footsteps coming closer. The door swung open.
"Michael!" Russman exclaimed.
"Hey, I, uh, I hope it's OK," Matt stammered. "I, uh, I can come back if, if you're working."
"Come in, come in," Russman said impatiently. "I need to take a break. I wasn't getting anywhere, anyway."
"Oh." Matt stepped into the apartment, breathing in the wood dust and the fumes of paint and solvents.
Russman turned and walked to the sink in the galley kitchen along one wall. He filled two glasses with tap water and handed one to Matt. "Genuine New York City tap water."
Matt took a drink. The water tasted like the water that came out of his own kitchen faucet. That, at least, was the same in both universes. "Thanks." He drained the glass and handed it back to Russman.
"You said you wanted another look at some of the pieces I showed you the other day?" Russman asked as he set the two empty glasses on the counter.
"That's right. I think Dr. Rand might be interested in some of them, too."
"Help yourself," Russman said. He led Matt to the other side of the apartment, where the finished works were leaning against the wall.
Matt squatted down to examine them. When he reached the third one, he stood up. It was a portrait of a dog, looking up. Matt couldn't interpret the expression on the animal's face, but it gave off a protective vibe. Something that felt like a cloud was above its head. The cloud was descending. "This one," he said.
"My tribute to Roxy," Russman told him.
"Roxy?" Matt asked.
"A guide dog," Russman explained. "She guided her blind owner out of the World Trade Center, all the way down from the 54th floor, on 9/14."
"What the hell?" Matt thought. "9/14? Was that this universe's 9/11?" He couldn't ask Russman. He had to fake it. "Oh. Right," he said. "I remember now. I think Dr. Rand would like this one. It really captures . . . something . . . about that day."
Matt squatted again and continued his examination of the works lined up against the wall. When he reached the last one, he stood up. "This one," he said, gesturing toward it, "it isn't finished yet, is it?"
Russman barked a short, sharp laugh. "No. And it may never be. It's what I was working on when you arrived."
"What is it?"
"You tell me."
Matt ran his fingertips over the unfinished work for a second time. "It seems, I don't know, kind of abstract . . . and, uh, phallic?"
Russman laughed again.
"What's it supposed to be?" Matt asked.
"It's inspired by a famous photograph, called 'The Pillars of Creation.' You wouldn't have seen it. It was published after you lost your sight, I think. It's a photograph of a star nursery, taken by the Kepler Space Telescope."
Matt shook his head. "No, I don't remember it. But 'pillars,' yeah, now I get it."
"The photograph is quite stunning, visually," Russman told him, "but you just proved it's not gonna work as tactile art. I don't want people getting all hot and bothered, feeling it up."
Matt grinned. "I dunno, a little soft porn for the blind, what's not to like?" He chuckled. "And you could always charge a premium for it."
"Maybe I could, at that," Russman agreed. "Come, sit." He led Matt to the couch and took a seat next to him. He turned toward Matt and seemed to study him. Then he asked, "Now that we've finished with the art, are you gonna tell me the real reason you're here?"
"What, um, I don't know, uh, what you're, uh," Matt spluttered. Shit, was he that obvious?
"Cut the crap," Russman snapped.
"I really do work for Rand Enterprises," Matt asserted.
"Of course you do," Russman countered, "but buying art is not your real job."
Matt took a deep breath. He was always going to have to trust Russman with the truth, sooner or later. Apparently now was the time. "Tell me about Vanessa," he said.
"So that's what this is about."
"Yes."
"All right. What do you want to know?" Russman asked.
"How do you know her?"
"That's easy. We've both been knocking around the art world for years, me for longer than her, of course. We'd cross paths every few years – she moved around a lot. She always liked my work. I mean, really liked it, not just because she was trying to sell it."
"So she said," Matt murmured.
"She did, did she?" Russman asked, sounding thoughtful. Then he continued, "I've seen her fairly often, the past five years or so, since we've both been in New York again. She's had a few of my paintings, not the tactile art, in the gallery. They all sold, thanks to her."
"And Wilson Fisk?"
"He's a real son of a bitch. As you probably know already. When Vanessa married him, a lot of her so-called 'friends' claimed to be shocked. I wasn't."
Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically. "You weren't?"
Russman shook his head. "Not at all. There has always been a part of her that's attracted to the bad boys. Fisk's power, his ruthlessness, they were like catnip to her."
"And now?"
"And now you tell me the rest of it. What, exactly, are you and Rand doing?"
Time to come clean. Either Russman would help them, or not. "We're going to take down Wilson Fisk. We think Vanessa is the key. Well, Vanessa and James Wesley."
Russman scoffed. "Take down Fisk? Is that all?"
"We can do it," Matt declared.
"We'll see. But you're not wrong about Vanessa and Wesley. They're the keys. They can take down Fisk, if they want to. And if they can stay alive long enough to do it."
"Rand has the resources to keep them safe. But we need to know if they're ready to turn on Fisk and how to bring them in if they are."
"That's where I come in, I suppose," Russman said thoughtfully.
"Exactly."
"The answer to the first question is, yes, Vanessa wants out. The catnip has worn off. As I said, she was attracted to his brutality, but not anymore. What he's done to amass power isn't pretty, and she's seen it all, up close. She hung on, thinking he would stop when he got power, but he hasn't. If anything, he's gotten worse. And he's not finished. He's aiming to be the next Mayor, and anyone who stands in his way doesn't stand a chance. He will destroy them. Vanessa wants no part of it. And she can bring Wesley with her. So what do you want me to do?"
Matt stood up and walked over to the row of windows along one wall. He leaned on the window sill while he considered his answer. Then he turned to face Russman and said, "Vanessa knows you, she trusts you. If you can persuade her and Wesley to come here, Rand's people can take them to a safe place, somewhere Fisk can't get to them."
Russman leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. "All right. It might work. Might not. It's worth a try." He studied Matt silently for a moment. "There's something . . . ," he said quietly, as if talking to himself. Then he asked, "There's more to you than meets the eye, isn't there?"
"I'm not – " Matt began, but Russman cut him off, speaking over him.
"Forget it," the artist said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I believe you when you say you're going to take down Fisk, or try to. That's all that matters. But do not underestimate what Fisk is capable of."
"Never," Matt assured him. He unfolded his cane and crossed the room to the door. He stopped there and turned back toward Russman. "I'll be in touch," he said as he left.
###
That evening, Matt, Rand, other-Foggy, other-Karen, and other-Matt gathered in Rand's office. After everyone was seated around the glass-topped conference table, Matt explained his plan to extract Vanessa and Wesley using a gathering at Russman's apartment. When Matt finished his explanation, other-Foggy asked, "Are you sure about James Wesley?"
Matt nodded. "The rumors of an affair are true. If Vanessa leaves Fisk, Wesley will go with her."
"But how can you be sure?" other-Karen asked.
"When I was at Vanessa's office yesterday, Wesley showed up," Matt replied. "As soon as he walked in the door, Vanessa jumped up and went to him. She basically fell into his arms, and they kissed – passionately. Trust me, it wasn't just a peck on the cheek."
"And you know this – how?" other-Foggy asked.
"I heard them."
"You heard them?" other-Foggy asked incredulously.
"I'm blind, not deaf," Matt snapped.
Other-Foggy threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Whatever. If you say so."
"I do."
"Look, folks," Rand said, cutting off any further discussion about the affair and how Matt knew about it, "we need to decide on the details – exactly how we get them away from Russman's and where to stash them. I have some ideas about that."
Matt listened intently as Rand outlined his plan. He would be present, along with Matt, other-Foggy, and other-Karen. Other-Matt would not be there; they didn't want people to notice the resemblance between him and Matt. Rand would find, or make, an opportunity to speak to Vanessa and Wesley privately and offer them a chance to escape. If they accepted, Rand's people would be waiting for them when they left Russman's apartment. Rand had several locations in and around the city where they would be safe; it was probably better if the others didn't know where they were.
When Rand finished, Matt leaned back in his chair, running through the possible scenarios, looking for ways the plan could go wrong. Then he nodded. "Yeah, it could work. We need to keep it simple. Less chance of something going sideways. You're not gonna let Vanessa and Wesley in on the plan in advance?"
Rand shook his head. "No. Too risky. One of them might let something slip."
Matt nodded. "Agreed."
"You'll talk to Russman, get him on board?"
"I will." Matt started to rise, then sat down one again. "One other thing. It can't be just us, There should be others there, you know, for cover."
"Good point," other-Matt said. "Russman knows a lot of people in the art world. He could invite some of them."
"Yeah," other-Karen agreed, "and maybe some of the other artists from the tactile art show."
"Good idea," Matt said, "I'll let him know. But the number of people who know about the plan has to be kept to the absolute minimum. We all know what Fisk will do if he finds out."
"You got that right," Rand said grimly.
On that note, the meeting ended. Other-Foggy, other-Karen, and other-Matt said their goodbys and drifted away. Matt began to follow them, but Rand called him back. "There's . . . uh, something else we need to discuss."
"All right," Matt said as he resumed his seat at the table. "I'm all ears."
"We've analyzed the blood samples we took from you and the others from your universe and compared them with samples from people from this universe."
"And?" Matt prompted.
"And you were right. There are subtle differences in the samples from the two groups. They're not simply individual variations. There is a consistent pattern across all of the samples."
"What does that mean?"
"We think we can develop a 'cocktail,' you might call it, a mix of electrolytes and hormones that mimics what we found in the blood of people from this universe. It shouldn't have any adverse effects on people from your universe, because the differences are so small. But it might be enough for a node to recognize you and the others as people from this universe. That would allow you to travel back to your own universe." Rand's breathing changed, but he didn't continue.
"But that's not all," Matt said, sensing the other man's reluctance to speak.
Rand let out his breath all at once. "No, it isn't," he finally replied.
"Just say it."
"Your blood is completely different from the others', both the people from your universe and those from this one. Our scientists are baffled. They've never seen anything like it."
Matt nodded. Of course he was different. Why did he not see this coming?
"It must be the chemical exposure from your accident," Rand continued. "Do you know what the substance was?"
"No."
"Well, whatever it was, it changed you."
"Yeah, tell me something I don't know."
"Even if the 'cocktail' works for the others from your universe, I don't know if it will work for you. That's the bottom line," Rand concluded.
"And if I try to go back?" Matt asked.
"I don't know. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't, and nothing happens. Or maybe you end up stuck between the two universes."
"That could happen?"
"I think so, yes," Rand told him. "If you're not recognized as someone from one universe or the other, you might not be able to travel in either direction."
Damn. Matt didn't like the sound of that. But he would have to risk it, if it was the only way to get back to Foggy and Karen. "How long before you're ready to try it?" he asked.
"A week, maybe two."
Maybe that would be enough time for Rand to figure out how to make the 'cocktail' work for him. He hoped. "You'll let me know how it's going?" Matt asked.
"You got it," Rand assured him.
"Thanks." Matt turned and walked out of the office.
###
It took three days to pull the plan together, but on the evening of the third day, Matt, other-Foggy, other-Karen, and Rand gathered at Russman's apartment. Russman had invited a motley group of people from the art world. Matt was talking to an artist who created sculptures out of rusty auto parts salvaged from wrecking yards when he picked up the scent of Vanessa's perfume and the rustle of silk as she stepped into the apartment. But Wesley wasn't with her. Her escort was her husband. Fisk made his way across the room, greeting people and shaking hands like the politician he was. Among other things. Matt's grip on his cane tightened as Fisk approached. Then he was standing in front of Matt with his hand extended. "Mr. Murdock."
Author's Note: Rand's solution to the problem of returning Matt and the others to their universe is unscientific and totally made-up.
