Chapter 7 – A New Plan
There: Matt
Matt had to resist the urge to take a step back. He gritted his teeth and stood his ground. This Fisk felt huge, looming over him and Vanessa and dominating the space around them. For this occasion, Fisk presented the polished public face of a politician, but Matt wasn't fooled. He knew the man's violence was just below that surface. But it wasn't only his violence that made him dangerous, even more dangerous than the Fisk Matt knew. In this universe, no one had been able to stop him. He was supremely confident, believing he was untouchable – with good reason. But that arrogance might lead to his downfall. Or so Matt hoped.
Vanessa was standing next to her husband, a step behind him. Her heartbeat was too fast, and she was taking in quick, short breaths. The floral scent of her expensive perfume overlaid a whiff of stress sweat. She was afraid of her husband. Or maybe she was afraid for Matt.
Matt held out his hand in the general direction of Fisk's extended hand, making sure not to find it. "Mr. Fisk."
Fisk shook Matt's hand, a politician's handshake, with both hands. His large, calloused hands were warm and dry, his grip firm but not crushing. "My wife has told me about you and your interest in her showing of tactile art," he said.
"Only good things, I hope," Matt quipped.
"Of course," Vanessa said.
Fisk held out his arm to Vanessa. "We should circulate, my dear."
"All right," she replied, then turned to Matt. "You'll visit the gallery again, won't you?"
Matt nodded. "Yes, as soon as Dr. Rand decides on the pieces he want to buy."
"Then I'll see you soon."
"Pleasure to meet you, Murdock," Fisk said.
"Likewise," Matt assured him. He stayed where he was, listening in on Fisk and Vanessa as they walked away. Vanessa let out a breath, all at once. Her heart rate slowed. The danger, whatever it was, had passed. But Matt had other things on his mind. Wesley's absence was a problem, a big one. Whenever Fisk appeared in public, Wesley was always at his side, whispering in his ear. Had Fisk somehow found out about their plan? But how? He must've gotten to one of Rand's people. That's how he operated, in both universes. Matt frowned, then turned his attention back to Fisk and Vanessa.
"Interesting fellow, Murdock," Fisk was saying. "Too bad about – " He gestured toward his eyes instead of completing the statement.
"Oh, I don't know," Vanessa told him. "He seems to be quite . . . capable"
"Is he?"
"He could be useful to us, I think," Vanessa said.
"How so?"
"With the disabled community. They vote, too, you know."
"Hmmm. Possibly."
Their conversation was cut short by the approach of a third person, who greeted Fisk and engaged him in a discussion of zoning. Matt clenched his teeth, seething at what he'd just heard. Then it occurred to him: with Wesley absent, tonight's operation was a bust. They were going to need a new plan. They would just have to hope that Fisk hadn't discovered what they were doing. If Vanessa thought he could be useful, that might be their way in. Then he picked up an intense, whispered conversation from across the room: Rand, other-Foggy, and other-Karen. He headed in their direction.
"We need Wesley, too," other-Foggy was saying, "and if we take Vanessa with us tonight, Fisk will know what's happening. We'll never get to Wesley."
"Franklin's right," other-Karen said. "Vanessa's testimony won't be enough. She won't be able to testify about everything she knows. Fisk can use the marital privilege to block some of her testimony. We need Wesley to fill in those blanks."
"You're right," Matt said. "We need them both."
Other-Foggy turned to face him. "You heard that?"
Matt nodded.
"I swear to God, you've got bat ears."
"Nope, just a good listener."
"So what do we do now?" Rand asked.
"Nothing tonight," other-Foggy said. "We look for another opportunity and come up with a new plan."
Rand sighed dejectedly. "All right."
"Let's mingle for a while, to make it look good, and then we can blow this taco stand," Matt said.
"There are tacos?" other-Foggy asked. Other-Karen punched him lightly in the upper arm. "Oof!"
"No, silly," she said, "it's just an expression."
Matt spent the next half hour following Rand around as he worked the room, but he wasn't listening to Rand's conversations. He was focused on Fisk, but the councilman didn't say anything of interest. Finally, the gathering started to wind down, and it was time to go. They thanked their host and left.
###
The next morning, Matt was making coffee (yes, real coffee) when someone knocked on the door to his apartment: Rand. Puzzled about why Rand would be coming to see him at this hour, Matt made his way to the door and opened it to admit his visitor.
"I just got some news," Rand said, not bothering with any pleasantries.
Matt raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"George Russman's cleaning lady found him in his apartment this morning, stabbed to death."
Rand's words were like a sucker punch to Matt's gut. "Fuck," he swore.
"The cops think it was a burglary gone wrong."
"Yeah, right," Matt scoffed. "It has to be Fisk."
"Agreed." Rand turned and walked into the living room. He took a seat on the couch. Matt followed him and pulled up a chair to sit facing him.
"He must've gotten wind of our plan," Matt said. "He couldn't get to you, so he found a softer target. It's the only possible explanation."
"But only a few people knew what we were planning," Rand protested, "and they're all trustworthy. I chose them myself."
"Doesn't matter. Fisk is a master at finding, or creating, vulnerabilities and exploiting them. He could've gotten to one of your people."
Rand shook his head. "I can't believe that. And there's another possibility."
"What's that?"
"According to what I've been told, Russman let Vanessa and Wesley use his apartment for their, ahem, trysts. Fisk could've found out and made Russman pay."
"Could be," Matt said. "Russman despised him and wasn't shy about saying so. But why kill Russman and not Wesley or even Vanessa?"
Rand shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe they're next."
"We've gotta find a way to get to them, and soon."
"I know. But it's also possible he was using Russman for some other purpose," Rand observed.
"Like what?"
"To send a message, maybe. Or maybe he suspects a threat but doesn't know who it's coming from, and this is his way of drawing us out."
Matt nodded. It wasn't all that different from the way Fisk used the murder of Elena Cardenas to draw him into a trap. "Could be." He slammed a fist down on the coffee table. "God damn it!" He got to his feet and began pacing back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists. "This is my fault," he muttered under his breath.
Rand heard him. "You don't know that."
Matt stopped pacing and turned to face him. "I do know it. I'm the one who got him involved in this." He jabbed a finger into his own chest. "Me. This is on me. I have to – "
Rand interrupted him before he could finish. "You don't have to do anything. Remember, I've been watching you. I know what happens when you go all 'Daredevil-to-the-rescue.' It doesn't end well. You can't fix this, not by yourself. We can, and we will."
"How?" Matt demanded.
"I don't know, not yet. But we will come up with a plan, all of us. And until we do, you will stand down."
Matt gave Rand his best approximation of a glare, then resumed his pacing, swearing under his breath. Finally, he returned to his seat. He gritted his teeth before he nodded and said reluctantly, "All right. We'll do it your way. But if it doesn't work, all bets are off."
Rand turned and walked out of the apartment. Matt stayed where he was, not bothering to accompany him to the door. As soon as Rand's steps faded away, Matt pushed himself to his feet and started pacing again, clenching his fists. His fingernails bit into his palms. He wanted – no, he needed – to hit something or someone. Not just anyone. He needed to go after Fisk, to make him pay for what he'd done. It was eating at him, in his gut. It was a familiar sensation. The devil inside him was clawing to be let out. It had been bottled up for too long.
Matt stopped his pacing abruptly and headed for the bedroom closet, in search of a piece of clothing he could fashion into a mask. He was about to open the closet door when he stopped himself. He'd never be able to get to Fisk, he was too well protected. Then a voice in his head reminded him, "That never stopped you before." He opened the closet door and ran his hands over the hanging garments until he found a hoodie. That would work; he could rip off the hood and use it as a mask. He started to pull it off of its hanger, but Rand's words started replaying in his head. Rand was right, damn him. He couldn't do this alone. He'd tried that before. "And look how well that turned out," he told himself, absently running his fingertips over a scar on his flank, the scar left by Nobu's blade.
He let the hoodie fall to the floor and slammed the closet door. When he first arrived, Rand said he needed Daredevil's help to take down Fisk. Now, not so much. Well, Rand was wrong about that. Maybe Matt couldn't do it alone, but he couldn't do it as Matt Murdock, either. They needed Daredevil. And Matt needed to let the devil out. His frustration erupted in a howl of rage. He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands.
###
That afternoon, Matt was working at Nelson & Page, helping to write a summary judgment motion that had to be filed in a couple of days, when his phone (one with accessibility features, supplied by Rand) announced an incoming call: "Vanessa, Vanessa." He pushed the button to answer it.
"Vanessa, I'm so sorry," he said, "about George."
He didn't need enhanced hearing to recognize the sadness in her voice. "Thank you, Michael. It was a . . . shock."
"Yes, it was," Matt agreed. "I didn't know him as well as you did, but you were right. He really was one of a kind. I'll miss him."
"So will I."
"Do you know when the, uh, service is going to be?"
"There isn't going to be one," Vanessa told him. "That's the way George wanted it."
"Oh. I see." Matt was secretly relieved. He'd attended too many funerals of people who should still be alive, whose deaths he could – should – have prevented.
"But I'm thinking of doing a retrospective of his work, something to remember him by," Vanessa continued. "You'll come, won't you?"
"Yes, of course," Matt said, then changed the subject. "Have the police found who did it?"
"No, not yet," Vanessa replied. "But Wilson is on it. He'll make sure they find the lowlife who did this."
There was no mistaking the venom in her voice when she referred to the killer. So she didn't know – or suspect – that her husband was responsible. Then again, maybe she did. "They still think it's a robbery?" he asked.
"Yes, as far as I know," Vanessa said. Then she took a breath and continued, "But that's not why I'm calling. I spoke with Wilson this morning, and we want to offer you a job."
"A job?" Matt asked. "What, in the art gallery?"
That brought a subdued laugh from her, as he'd hoped. "Another blind joke, Michael? You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"Apparently not," he replied dryly.
"But, no, not a job in the art gallery – in Wilson's district office."
"I already have a job," Matt pointed out.
"A job you don't like," she reminded him.
"The job is OK. I mean, I'd rather be practicing law, but I'm doing good work for Rand."
"I'm sure you are," Vanessa said, "but you could do more good for more people, working for Wilson in his district office, than you could ever do working for a single private company."
"Doing what?"
"Outreach to the disabled community, making sure the city is doing all it can to meet their needs."
Matt's heart sped up. This could be his chance to get in with Fisk and find a way to get Vanessa and Wesley out of his orbit and talking to the DA. He didn't much care for the idea of being the token blind man, only useful because of his disability, but if that's what it took, he'd do it. "Sounds interesting, but it's a big decision," he said. "Can I have a few days to think about it?"
"Of course."
"You know, I still think I'd make a hell of an art salesman."
"That's something I'd like to see," Vanessa observed.
"Me too." He fell silent for a beat, then continued, "But, seriously, thank you for the offer. And, again, I'm so sorry about . . . about George."
"Thank you, Michael. And thank you for trying to cheer me up." A beep signaled the end of the call.
Matt put his phone down on the desk and leaned back in his chair. He needed to finish up the section of the motion he was working on, then find Rand.
###
Finding Rand took longer than he expected. It was after 11 p.m. when he finally arrived at his lab, where Matt had been waiting all evening.
"Hey, Matt," Rand said, "what's up?"
"Vanessa offered me a job."
Rand strode to the far corner of the lab and took a seat behind his desk. "Sit," he said, waving a hand at a chair next to it. "A job?"
Matt followed him and lowered himself into the chair. "Yeah," he replied, "working in Fisk's district office. I think it's our way in."
Rand stroked his chin. "Perhaps," he said, "but it could take weeks, maybe more, for you to create an opportunity to get them out. I'm not sure we have that much time."
"You're right. Vanessa and Wesley may not have that long," Matt said grimly. He shook his head. "Damn. If Fisk suspects . . . ."
"We can't risk it," Rand declared. "And you may not have much time left."
"What d'you mean?"
"The serum is almost ready. The woman I brought over is desperate to get back. She's already volunteered to be the first to try it. Are you willing to stay here long enough to finish what we've started and take down Fisk?"
Matt considered this. The desire to get back to his own world, to Foggy and Karen, was a constant dull ache in his chest. He didn't want to put it off any longer than necessary. But he had a job to do. He was a Murdock, after all. And Murdocks weren't quitters. "Yes," he replied quietly. "I'll stay. It's our only option."
"Actually, there's another option," Rand told him. "I've been invited to a fundraiser for Fisk this coming Saturday night. It's being held at the Van Leer mansion, a huge place that's like a maze inside. If we can get Vanessa and Wesley out of the main ballroom, where the event's being held, we should be able to lose their security details and get them out of the building."
"Can we be sure they'll both be there?" Matt asked, remembering Wesley's absence from Russman's gathering.
"Probably," Rand said. "But I think we have to let them in on the plan in advance, this time. What I have in mind will require their cooperation."
"But how do we let them know?"
"That's where you come in," Rand replied. Matt inclined his head toward the other man and listened carefully as he outlined his plan.
Two days later, Rand showed up again at Matt's apartment. This time, it was to report that the first volunteer, the woman who was desperate to get back to her husband, had been returned safely to her universe – Matt's universe.
Here: Foggy
Foggy scowled at the deposition transcript on the screen in front of him. The witness was a lying sack of shit – he didn't need Matt to tell him that – but he was also a slippery son of a bitch. It would be difficult to catch him in a lie. Resisting the urge to slam the laptop shut, Foggy went over to the window and looked out. What he saw drove all thoughts of the lying witness from his mind. Brett Mahoney was walking up the steps of the brownstone that housed the law office of Nelson & Murdock. If Brett was coming to see them in person, he wasn't bringing good news. Dread knotted his stomach. He turned away from the window and yelled to Karen.
By the time Brett opened the door and strode into the office, both Foggy and Karen were waiting for him in the reception area. Foggy dispensed with the pleasantries and asked the only question he needed an answer to. "Is it Matt?"
The detective frowned. "Yes and no."
"Stop trying to be cute, Brett. What the hell does that mean?"
"I'm not being cute. I just . . . I don't know."
"C'mon, Brett, spill," Karen urged him.
Brett sighed deeply. "Like I said, I'm not sure of anything. But – you remember the woman I told you about, the one who disappeared?"
Karen and Foggy nodded.
"Well, she came back. He husband called me yesterday and said she'd returned, safe and sound."
"Returned from where?" Karen asked.
"They're not saying."
"Can't or won't say?" Foggy asked.
"I'm not sure," Brett replied, "but if I was a betting man, my money'd be on 'won't.'"
"Damn," Foggy swore under his breath.
"She did let something slip," Brett continued. "There were others there – wherever 'there' was."
Foggy's heart raced. He couldn't seem to catch his breath.
"So I showed her a photo of Murdock. At first, she said she didn't recognize him. Then she took another look and asked me if he was blind. I told her he was. She said she'd seen a man who looked like him on TV while she was . . . gone. He was an assistant DA, announcing the indictment of some gangbangers. But he wasn't blind."
"But that makes no sense," Karen protested. "Matt's not a DA, and he hasn't been on TV lately. And he's definitely blind. So what're you saying, Brett?"
"I'm not saying anything. I'm just telling you what she told me. That's all she would say. She clammed up after that."
"Can't you get anything else out of her, like do a polygraph or something?" Karen persisted.
Brett shook his head. "No. She went missing and came back unharmed. She's not claiming any crime was committed. There's nothing for me to investigate."
"So, what," Karen asked, "you think Matt was taken somewhere . . . for a cure?"
Brett held his hands out, palms up. "I don't think anything." Then he turned to Foggy and asked, "Is it possible, do you think? A cure?"
Foggy had remained silent while Karen interrogated Brett. An idea was forming in a corner of his mind, but he dismissed it as too improbable – crazy, really. He set it aside to answer Brett's question. "I don't think so, no." He tried to remember everything Matt had ever said on the subject. "I mean, we never talked about it much. It was just a given, you know, that he's blind. I never got the impression that there was anything that could be done about it, uh, about his sight."
Brett stood to leave. "Well, now you know what I know."
"Yeah, but what does it mean?" Foggy asked.
"Damned if I know," Brett replied as he walked out the door.
Foggy took a seat on the couch. He rested his chin on his hands and tried to make sense of the questions swirling in his brain. If Karen was right and Matt had been taken somewhere for a cure, what did that mean? Would Matt have to stay . . . wherever it was, for the cure to be effective? Or could he come back, too, like the woman who returned? Or was there some other explanation, like the seed of an idea that had taken hold in a corner of his mind? Would he ever see his best friend again? "Where are you, buddy?" he whispered. There was no answer.
