Daredevil, page 18
“I want to help—”
“Then help! Get Drexel arrested. Get my home back!”
“I’m trying. Look … if it makes any difference, I’ve … things are happening.” He hesitates, doesn’t want to say too much. “It might not take months. Might not even take days.”
The punching stops. She hops out of the ring and comes toward him. “What do you mean?” she demands. She’s breathing heavily. He’s not sure whether it’s exertion or excitement.
Matt realizes she’s not going to let him go without an explanation. Idiot. He shouldn’t have said anything.
“What do you mean?” she repeats.
“I … I’ve been talking to someone. A reporter. He’s got some evidence—”
“What kind of evidence? Against the landlord? Can you arrest him? Can we move back in—”
“Wait, wait.” Matt holds up his hands, wondering how much to tell her.
“Hey!” she snaps. “I see that look. I know you, Matt Murdock! You tell me now.”
“I—”
“Now! I deserve to know what’s going on.”
Matt sighs. She’s right. She does deserve to know.
So he tells her what he and Ben have uncovered—all of it. The deaths, the flash drive, the auction. A part of him thinks he’s being stupidly irresponsible, but another part disagrees. It’s her life. Her home. Her family. No one has the right to decide what she should and shouldn’t know about that.
Hell, he used to lie awake at night wishing he had known what his old man was planning. He might not have been able to talk him out of disobeying Rigolleti, but that wasn’t the point. The point was he always felt betrayed, even though he knew Dad was protecting him. He wanted to be told because he wanted to feel included. Trusted.
He knows Mickey feels the same.
When he’s finished, she doesn’t say a thing—just walks away from him.
“Mickey?”
“So … you’re planning on going to this auction, and somehow you’re going to steal this flash drive?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think that will get me my home back?”
“We hope so.”
“What’s on the drive?”
“We don’t know yet. But people are being murdered to get it. It holds the answers, Mickey. I can feel it.”
“Then I’m coming with you.”
Matt laughs, thinking she’s joking. Then he realizes she’s not. “No,” he says. “No way.”
“Yes way!”
“No. This is going to be dangerous.”
“Exactly! Who’s going to look after you?”
This makes Matt stop. He thought she wanted to come out of some need for revenge, but she wants to come to protect him. He almost smiles, but he knows this will just annoy her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re blind, Matt! In case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Ben will be with me.”
“Oh? And who is this Ben? I’ve never met him before. Is he trustworthy? Is he strong? Is he clever?”
Again, Matt smothers a smile. “He’s trustworthy. He’s clever.”
“But not strong? That does it. I’m definitely coming.”
“Mickey,” says Matt gently. “You can’t come. I won’t be responsible for putting you in danger.”
“I—”
“Mickey, no!” Matt’s voice is sharp and loud. He hears her indrawn breath. She takes a step back, hurt. “I’m sorry, Mickey, but you are not coming. That’s my final word, okay? I came to tell you what was happening because I respect and like you. But I need you to stay here. So I don’t have to worry about you.”
“But I’m worried about you!” she shouts.
Her voice echoes around the gym. He hears her choke off a sob. “I don’t want to lose you. You’re my friend.”
“You won’t lose me, Mickey. I promise.”
She rushes toward him, throws her arms around him in a tight hug. “You better come back here, Mr. Daredevil.” Her voice is muffled against his jacket.
“I will. Scout’s honor.”
“Were you a scout?”
Matt smiles. “No.”
CHAPTER 24
Twelve hours ago.
Matt has heard of North Brother Island, but he’s never been there. Not many people have. The island is located in the East River between the Bronx and Ryker’s Island, and was first used as a quarantine center way back in 1885. Since that time it has been used as a hospital, a sanitarium, and finally a center for adolescent drug addicts before being abandoned in the ’60s. The island has been off-limits ever since, the slow grind of nature gradually reclaiming the structures, picking them apart brick by brick. It’s now home to a menagerie of protected birds, the waters patrolled by the Harbor Unit of the NYPD.
Except for today. Today the Harbor Unit is nowhere to be seen on the East River route, and Matt reckons one of the bidders at Clay’s auction has spread some cash around to make them go away.
Matt and Ben arrive early in the morning. They tie up their rented rowboat at one of the ramshackle piers, the morning mist reducing vision to a few feet. They climb out, their feet echoing on the rotting wood. Matt doesn’t like the mist. It interferes with his senses. Wraps his mind in cotton wool. Sounds are muffled, switched around. The air doesn’t move the way it should.
Beyond the pier is a small but dense swath of trees, blocking the way to the buildings in the center of the island. They move through small forest, wading through heavy drifts of snow, until they stumble upon an old watchman’s cabin halfway to the buildings.
They head inside, and Matt sits by the window, facing out into the snow and the trees. Ben sits on the wooden floorboards behind him, reading an old paperback copy of The Sword of Conan.
Hours pass. Ben grows impatient, stops reading, and paces back and forth in the tiny cabin. Matt is anxious, too, but he knows becoming agitated won’t help. Stick taught him to quiet the mind. To conserve energy. You never know when you might need it.
But finally, Matt feels the light closing in around him. He leans back in the old chair, and stretches. “What time is it?”
“Five,” says Ben, stifling a yawn.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
The sky is dark gray when they leave the cabin, the clouds heavy and low. A few fat snowflakes drift softly out of the sky. That’s good. It means their tracks will be covered.
They set a cautious, steady pace. The cold air burns in Matt’s nostrils, freezes his cheeks as they make their way through the trees. He lets Ben lead the way, Matt’s hand resting on his shoulder even though he doesn’t need to be guided. He just does it to stop any questions.
As they draw closer to the buildings, Ben turns to say something, but Matt quickly holds a hand up to stop him.
“What?” whispers Ben.
“I can hear something.” Matt points to the side, and Ben turns slowly around.
Moments later a guard appears, walking at a leisurely pace through the trees. He’s no more than 15 feet from them, dressed in a thick, winter trenchcoat and hat.
The guard pulls out a small silver flask and takes a long drink. He smacks his lips, puts the stopper back in the flask, and blows a satisfied, clouded breath into the freezing air. He starts walking again—heading in their direction. Matt squats down, sticks his hands beneath the snow, and pulls out a stone. He straightens up and throws it off to the side.
Thunk.
The guard whirls around, scanning the trees to their left. Then he sets off deeper into the woods.
After he has vanished, Matt whispers to Ben, “Keep in his footprints.”
Matt follows Ben as he steps into the guard’s prints, which lead them out of the heavy foliage. The first of the old buildings comes into full view—a huge, stone structure that nature has almost totally reclaimed. Matt can sense the crumbling decay, the straight edges rippling with nature’s growth. Vines of ivy twist through bricks and windows, slowly prying everything apart. Small trees grow in overflowing gutters. Years of leaves form a damp carpet of mulch, piled up in openings and against the walls.
They pause against the wall of the next building. Red bricks, a huge chimney jutting from the top.
“What’s the time?” he asks.
“Twenty minutes to six.”
Matt nods. The auction is to be held in the old hospital itself. A main road leads through the center of the island directly to the front doors, but there will be guards watching the approach. Matt and Ben have to go the long way round, skirting the buildings. They move past the nurse dormitories, past the offices, and finally around to the rear of the hospital. Matt moves through the thick shrubbery, barely making a sound. But Ben, stumbling and muttering behind him, snaps twigs and rustles every branch he passes.
“Sshh!”
“How the hell do you do this?” complains Ben. “You know what? I don’t think you’re blind at all. I think it’s a trick.”
Matt turns and takes off his glasses, letting Ben get a good view of his destroyed eyes.
“I was actually kidding,” Ben says.
Matt replaces his glasses. “You ready to go in?”
Ben takes a deep breath, then fumbles for his phone, setting it to record. “Ready.”
They climb in through a window, dropping into a room covered with gray-and-black books, the damp having leached them of all their color. Matt waits at the empty doorway, listening: footfalls off to the left, deep inside the building. And the echo of distant voices.
“Follow me,” whispers Matt.
“Shouldn’t I be leading the way?”
“We’re using my ears now. But holler if you see anything I miss.”
They move slowly along the corridor. The paint on the walls hangs in long, discolored strips. Leaves litter the floor, covering abandoned items. An old suitcase lying open—inside, a photograph of a nurse standing with her hand on the shoulder of a man in striped pajamas. A broken wheelchair, on its side. Medical files so damp and wet they fall apart when Matt’s feet touch them. They pass through a wing of the hospital where every surface is covered with small white tiles, cracked and stained with time. Then through examination rooms with slanted floors leading to drains.
The voices are getting louder. Matt can already tell there are 10 people waiting for the auction. He expected more. Clay spoke to at least 15 on the phone last night.
They come upon a spiral staircase and climb to the second floor. Still no guards. They keep on down the corridor, drawing closer
Then, when they are no more than 50 yards from the voices, a figure turns a corner into the passage and spots them. He stops in shock. Matt doesn’t. He takes off at full speed while the guard attempts to swing his gun up from his waist. Matt slams into the guard’s chest with his shoulder, sending the man sailing through the air, then falls on the man’s chest, grabs his head, and slams it into the floor. Tiles crack from the impact.
Ben hurries up behind him. “How did you do that?” he whispers in amazement.
“No time. Come on.”
They hurry along the corridor. Matt senses the space opening out ahead of them, and they slow down. The corridor ends at a balcony that overlooks the entrance hall of the hospital. They crouch down and creep forward. They can hear the voices clearly now, joking, laughing. Wondering what the big secret about the councilman is. What the auction is really all about. Ben gets down on his stomach and slides forward. He positions his phone so that it’s tilted down, recording everything taking place below them. Then he slides back to join Matt, out of sight of those below.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says a familiar voice. “Thank you all for coming.”
Clay, thinks Matt.
The other voices die down.
“I apologize for all the cloak-and-dagger theatrics. But I sincerely hope, once we’re done here, that you’ll all agree it was worth it.”
Matt gestures to Ben, and they slide forward so they can see over the balcony. Matt’s senses show the position of everyone below: the vast round room; the double doors leading outside; the windows; the clump of people all turned toward Clay, who stands on top of an old reception desk.
“I called you all here because I have a very hot item I want to sell. An early Christmas present for the right bidder.”
“Get on with it!” shouts someone from the crowd.
Mutters of agreement.
“You know what a pain the ass it was to get here?” calls another.
“I know, I know. But believe me, it was for your own protection. When word gets out of what’s being sold today … well … let’s just say New York’s Finest will be very interested, and they have access to the city’s CCTV systems. Out here, the only witnesses we have are some stupid birds. Feel free to take a few potshots at them on the way out, by the way. Consider it a perk. Sally? If you’d be so kind?”
A girl appears from a door leading off the reception area. She’s accompanied by a tall, skinny youth. Matt realizes it’s the two kids Clay was talking to in the parking lot. Sally and Sylvio. Sally hands something to Clay.
“The flash drive,” whispers Ben.
Matt nods as Clay hops down and inserts the flash drive into a laptop sitting on the desk. Light flickers to life on a back wall. A projector of some kind. The whole room is tense with anticipation. Matt can hear the rise in heartbeats, the prickle of sweat, the nervousness, the excitement.
“They’ve put the flash drive in the laptop,” whispers Ben. “It’s video footage. Shot in … It looks like the apartment where Eddie Boyd threatened Clay. Where you saved me.”
Matt nods.
“There’s a girl on a bed. She looks like she’s been drugged. Some guy has entered the frame. He’s got a gimp mask on. Can’t see his face. He’s getting on the bed, crawling toward the woman.”
Ben stops talking, but Matt can hear his increased breathing, his heart rate spiking in distress. “What?”
“He … the guy. He’s … they’re … it’s violent.”
More silence.
“Ben?”
“He’s stopped. He’s … picking up a syringe. Injecting it into her arm. But … something’s wrong. The woman’s having a fit or something. There’s foam and stuff coming out of her mouth.”
“What’s the guy doing?” whispers Matt.
“Watching her. He’s freaking out, looking around. The camera’s shaking—I think the cameraman is freaking out, too. Oh … oh my god.”
“What?”
“She’s stopped moving. The guy in the mask is checking for a pulse. I … think she’s dead. The guy is talking to someone off-camera. Now he’s walking out of the shot.”
Matt hears a series of indrawn breaths.
“What is it?” he whispers.
“The guy. He … he took off his mask before he got off-camera.”
“And?”
“It’s Eddie Boyd.”
Clay pauses the video file on that exact frame.
A moment of silence, then chaos breaks out. Bids come at Clay from all sides. One hundred thousand. Two hundred. Three hundred. Half a million!
Clay grins. He opens his mouth to speak, raises his hands in the air, ready to conduct the auction that will change his life forever.
Larks despairs of people. He really does. They are so stupid. Take Clay, for instance. Even now Larks can see him through the window of the rundown hospital, standing atop a desk in the abandoned entrance hall, thinking he can get away with double-crossing Mr. Fisk.
Clay is so limited in his thinking that his plan never even got off the ground. His co-conspirator betrayed him within hours! You wouldn’t find that kind of person working with Fisk. He knows how to read people. Knows how to get rid of the dangerous ones.
Larks looks around, nods at the five other men he brought with him to the island. (Again, the stupidity on display. Clay didn’t even try to disguise his trail. Just walked right out of his apartment and went straight to the docks. A child could have followed him.)
Larks takes his gun out. Aims it through the window at Clay.
He fires.
One second Clay’s standing there, his arms raised in the air. The next, his throat explodes, and he topples off the back of the desk.
And all hell breaks loose.
CHAPTER 25
Two hours ago.
The thing about Mickey—the main thing about her—is that she’s fiercely protective of her friends. Like, insanely so. So if she thinks one of her friends is in danger, she doesn’t just sit back.
She gets involved.
She intervenes.
She knows Matt is going to need her help. Of course he is. He’s blind, he’s coming to this unknown island with some reporter she’s never even met. And he’s being a typical guy about it. Acting all tough. Like he can take care of himself.
Screw that. She’s not going to let him charge into danger without backup. Especially since he’s doing all this to help her.
Hell, she even beats him to the island. As soon as he left the gym last night, she packed a bag with her warmest clothes; threw in some dried noodles, potato chips, a two-liter bottle of soda, and lots of chocolate; and headed down to the river to find a way across to the island.
Of course, that way across happened to involve her stealing an old boat that had been pulled up onto the shingle. There were torn nets and a rusted tin of tar beneath the upturned boat. Mickey reckoned someone had been patching up some of the larger holes in the hull. She inspected it, and there were a few small holes still visible, but it was good enough to get her across.
She got to the island at about four in the morning and waited on the shore. No way was she traipsing through the creepy woods in the dark. She’d seen enough movies to know that was a bad idea. No. She stayed on the shore with the lights of the Bronx close enough to settle her nerves.
