Daredevil, page 7
The adrenaline soars through his system, and he lashes out with his foot—straight into Slade’s knee. Slade screams as the kneecap explodes, the leg turning backward in a way it was never meant to go. Bone rips through skin, a sound like tearing cloth.
The sudden frantic breathing of a man engulfed by pain. Matt tastes blood in the air. Fear in Slade’s sweat.
Matt pulls out the special gift he has for Slade. The big man’s own favorite weapon, if the rumors are right: a roll of pennies stuffed into a sock.
Slade sees what’s coming, shakes his head. “No … don’t.”
Matt hits Slade in the face. Metal bursts skin. Once, twice, three times. Then over and over again until Matt loses count and the sock tears, spilling pennies onto the mat, into Slade’s blood. He drops the sock, uses his hands and feet to turn Slade’s ribs into broken, jagged things.
Only then does he stop. Breathing heavy. Sweating.
Unfulfilled.
Two left: Angelo and Rigoletto.
He’ll go for Angelo next, leave Rigoletto for last. Matt still has to think of something special for the boss. Rigoletto will take time.
The Magic Box is an escort agency just off 12th Avenue, and it has all the clichés anyone could expect from a place with a name like that—from the pink, neon sign and the mannequins in the windows dressed in skimpy lingerie to the heavyset bouncer standing outside. The sign says “massage parlor,” but they aren’t fooling anyone. Aren’t even trying to fool anyone.
Matt checks the place out from the building opposite. He can smell Angelo in a room on the third floor: expensive aftershave and that cream he uses in the hope it will lessen the wrinkles he sees growing deeper every day. Warm red light spills out of the room through an open window and onto a small balcony. Pink curtains occasionally flutter through the windows then settle back in place—an electric fan blowing in the room. Angelo’s not alone. Matt sniffs. Thick, cloying perfume. Four different brands.
He lets his senses roam farther afield. Male sweat. Testosterone. False declarations of love and comfort from the girls. Proclamations of undying devotion from the customers.
Matt lifts his eyes to the night sky and feels the breeze cup his face, like fingers stroking his cheeks, urging him on.
He leans over the roof. The gap between the two buildings is huge, but he’s not going to let that stop him. Angelo is in there, not 30 feet from where Matt stands. He can’t let him go.
Matt moves back a few steps. Pauses. Then runs full speed and launches off a gargoyle, spreading his arms wide. A moment of weightlessness; a feeling of freedom. Then the rooftop rushes toward him and he hits.
But he’s misjudged. His knee buckles and he falls forward, hitting his face hard on the roof tiles. He falls, dazed, and slides down the incline of the roof.
He hits the edge. His body slides halfway over, and this time, the weightlessness snaps him back to his senses. He lashes out and grabs hold of the gutter just before he drops to his death.
He hangs there by one hand, blinking and shaking his head. Stupid. He’s getting cocky. He needs to be more careful.
He looks down, sees the balcony over to his right. He shuffles across, using two hands, and drops down lightly. He presses up against the wall.
Listening.
“All I’m saying, honey, is you have to spend a bit of money if you want to look good.”
It’s him. Angelo. He’s close.
“How old you think I look?”
“I don’t know, Angelo. Forty?”
“Fifty-one.”
Matt hears the pride in Angelo’s voice as he speaks. Matt realizes he’s moving, pacing around the room.
“No way. You look too good for 51! Doesn’t he, Sammy?”
A mumbled agreement from another girl in the room.
“It’s true. But I take these supplements. And I only eat grass-fed meat. No hormo—”
Matt reaches in and grabs Angelo as he walks past the window. The man squeals and struggles like a landed fish; Matt can’t swing his other hand over fast enough. Angelo gets out of the grip, and Matt has to stumble into the room or risk losing him altogether.
“It’s a raid!” shouts one of the girls.
Matt tries to pull Angelo, but the man yanks his arm and forces Matt farther inside. Matt swears, then lashes out and punches Angelo in the nose. Angelo crumples to the floor with a howl of pain, but Matt keeps hold of him and starts dragging him back to the window.
“He’s not a cop! Look at him,” shouts another of the girls, this one with thick, red hair. “Bastard’s trying to kidnap Angelo. Grab him!”
Then Matt is surrounded by a mass of limbs. Nails gouge his skin; high heels dig into his body. He shields his head, stumbles back against the wall. But still they come. Pummeling, kicking, biting. Screaming, right in his ear. Everything is too loud. The stench of perfume overwhelms him. He can’t get away. They’re on top of him, driving him to the thick carpet.
No. It can’t end like this. He still has to get Rigoletto.
Matt thrashes and surges suddenly to his feet, throwing bodies off his own. One refuses to let go. She’s wrapped around his neck, trying to gouge his eyes out. He whirls around and slams her into the wall—and she still doesn’t let go. She’s shrieking insults and abuse into his ear.
His foot catches in the thick carpet and he stumbles forward. His legs slam against the window frame and he tumbles through onto the small balcony, smashing into the railing. There is a feeling of sudden lightness and a cry of terror.
“Oh, please—no!”
He lunges forward, throws his hand out. Feels his fingers brush the girl’s leg.
Then she is gone.
A second later he hears the sickening thud of flesh hitting the ground.
Shouts from below. Shouts from behind him. The girls screaming her name. “Mary!”
He barely hears them. He’s leaning over the balcony, imagining the scene below him. Horns blare, panicked shouts echo back and forth. He hears quick, desperate footsteps from the room behind him: Angelo, getting away.
Matt turns in a daze. He can feel the stares of the girls. He wants to say it was an accident, that it wasn’t his fault, but he can’t. He turns back to the window, numb with horror. He steps out onto the little balcony and pulls himself up onto the roof, walks slowly away.
He killed her. He didn’t even know her, and he killed her.
He lets his feet take him across the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen. He keeps thinking it isn’t real. It didn’t happen. The same feeling he had when Dad was killed. Everything slows down. Reality shifts, becomes new again, as if he’s experiencing everything for the first time, but through a filter of pain and horror.
He returns to Stick’s basement gym. He needs comfort. Someone who might understand.
He stumbles down the stairs.
“Stick?”
No answer.
“Stick?”
He enters the gym and knows instantly he’s alone. The place feels empty. Abandoned.
“Stick?”
Pleading. Hoping.
But there is no answer.
Matt curls up on the floor, pulls his knees up to his chest, and cries.
Terminal Hotel.
A fitting name, thinks Stick. He always wonders whether Stone picked it just for the name, or if there’s some other, more esoteric reason for holding their meetings here.
It certainly isn’t for its class or cleanliness.
More likely it’s because the staff—if you can call them that—knows when to look away.
Stick enters the foyer. He extends his senses, probing the area for enemies. Habit. There will be no enemies here.
He moves past the old reception desk, tempted to bang his stick on the wood to wake the slumbering clerk. He decides against it. He knows himself well enough to realize he just wants to lash out. To hurt. It isn’t the clerk’s fault, what happened tonight.
If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s his. He misjudged the boy. Badly.
That’s two now. Two in a row that have come up short of expectations.
He sighs and presses the elevator button. He hopes Stone has some ideas, because he is empty. He has nothing left.
The doors slide open with the crunch of gears and a scrape of machinery. He steps inside. The smell of piss and vomit almost overwhelms him. Old fast-food wrappers are piled up in the corner, the stench of old grease and stale fries thick in the air.
The elevator lurches, dragging itself upward to the third floor. An ancient carpet leads the way, dated and threadbare.
The door is unlocked. He pushes it open and waits while it creaks slowly inward.
“It’s just me, Stick. No need to be paranoid.”
Stick takes a step into the room, closes the door behind him. “Paranoia is our friend. You’d do well to remember that.” Exasperation creeps into his voice. “You left the door unlocked.”
“If the Hand wanted to find me here, you really think that door would stop them? A child with a rubber hammer could break it down.”
The window is wide open. Stick can feel the cool breeze wafting into the room, bringing with it the stink of car fumes and humanity.
“What is it?”
Stick sighs heavily. “We’ve lost him.”
He feels Stone tense. “No. I don’t believe it.”
“Whether you believe it or not, it’s true. Matt Murdock is not the one we seek.”
“He has to be!”
“No. He took the law into his own hands tonight. He took my teachings and used them for personal gain.”
“What kind of personal gain? Robbery?”
Stick pauses. “Revenge. Against those who killed his father.”
A moment of silence. Then, “Are you insane?” Stick can hear the barely controlled rage in his former student’s voice. “The boy got revenge on his old man’s murderers, and this is why you say we can’t use him?”
“He’s undisciplined. Emotional. I thought I could … teach him to control it. I failed.”
“You didn’t fail. You created a weapon. Tonight that weapon tasted first blood. It was the blade’s quenching.”
“No. I misjudged him. He can’t help us.”
“Stick, you’ve said this to me so many times I’m sick to death of hearing it: The Chaste are all that stands between this world and the forces of darkness. But we’re growing old. We need young blood, and in the past 20 years you’ve found two—two—possible candidates. Matt Murdock and Elektra—”
“Don’t talk to me about her,” snarls Stick. He turns away.
“I have to. The girl failed. Or we failed her. Either way, there’s already a chance the enemy has got to her. If we don’t find a new champion—”
“I know!” Stick shouts. “You think I don’t know? Why the hell do you think I spend my life traveling around looking for someone worthy?”
“Stick, no one is ever going to be worthy. You hold everyone up to a standard no one can meet.”
“You did.”
“Forty years ago. And no one since. We must give the boy one last chance. One more test.”
“No. It’s done.”
“Stick—”
“Enough!” barks Stick. “I won’t discuss this anymore. We can’t let our order be compromised. You know that.” Stick heads back to the door. “The boy has failed. He is useless to us.”
CHAPTER 8
Six years ago.
Larks is good at waiting.
It’s a skill not many can nurture, and one he finds useful. He can sit still for hours. It’s like meditation. The world flows through him, thoughts drift through his mind, and he comes out the other end feeling rested and peaceful.
He can’t find peace right now, though. Something is up. Something is happening.
Fisk sits opposite him in a booth in Frankie’s, a bar Fisk likes to use when he wants to make sure they’re not being followed. He told Larks once it was because when he was a kid and he wanted to get away from his old man, he would come and wash the dishes here. Frankie would give him money and one beer—but only if he drank it on the premises. Larks thinks it’s a dump, the kind of bar you see on every block in the city. Irish scarves on the wall. Beer signs proudly displayed. Locals stuck to the bartop, peeling their arms up from spilled booze every time they need to take a leak.
But Fisk feels safe here. He knows he can talk without any of Rigoletto’s men overhearing.
“This is an opportunity, Larks. A great opportunity.”
An hour ago, Larks told Fisk about Slade and the others winding up in the hospital, hooked up to drips, pins pushed into their broken bones. He also told him how Gillian had gone snitch, screaming about turning state witness if the cops protected him. ’Course, that meant the police had arrested the others, too.
Fisk stares over Larks’ shoulder.
“Yes,” Fisk finally says. “I think it’s time I made my first move. I’ve waited long enough.”
Larks waits. Calm. He knows he’s going to be asked to do something bad, and he’s fine with that.
Larks has a lack of morality that bothered him at one point in his life. He couldn’t understand why he didn’t give a crap about people, didn’t feel anything the first time he twisted a bird’s head clean off, its tiny legs scratching at his wrist for a full minute while its head sat a few feet away. A few years later, he found a book for shrinks in the library. It talked about sociopaths and psychopaths and that kind of thing. He read the book with great interest because it described him almost exactly. Not a psychopath, no. A sociopath. That’s different.
“Slade and the others,” says Fisk softly. “They must not leave the hospital.”
That’s all he says. All he has to say.
Larks finishes his beer, gets up, and leaves the bar.
He steps outside. There’s a chill in the air. A coldness that hits him in the back of the throat when he breathes in, tingles his nostrils every time he inhales.
He likes the winter. Everything’s dead; the sky is gray. The trees are black and damp, the streets coated with ice. But it makes him feel more alive than summer. Summer suffocates him, pummels him down with heat and heaviness so he can hardly move. But winter … he comes to life in winter. The cold wakes something in him. Something primitive.
It’s the best time to kill. It feels right, murder in wintertime.
He waits till after one in the morning. He knows that’s when the hospital is busiest. Kids spilling out of bars and night clubs, getting into fights, breaking bottles over heads. Harmless stuff, but it keeps the doctors busy.
Larks enters the hospital by the back entrance. Inside, he passes huge plastic bins filled with dirty sheets lined up in front of an industrial-sized elevator. He could just walk straight up to the wards. He doesn’t think he’s going to be challenged. But there’s something he’s always wanted to do.
He climbs the stairs to the next floor, walks past offices, peers inside until he finds what he’s looking for: a doctor’s white coat, hanging over a desk chair. Larks slips inside and grabs it, disappointed not to find a stethoscope lying there, too. Still, beggars can’t be choosers.
He pulls on the coat and checks the name tag: Dr. Slater. A minuscule smile touches his lips. He likes that.
Larks checks for the knife he keeps in the back of his jeans. He can still get to it with a quick flick of the coat, so he leaves the office, satisfied.
He changes his stride: straightens his shoulders, walks with the kind of casual arrogance that doctors have. That I’m too important for any of this walk.
He heads to the ward where he knows Slade and others are holed up. As he turns the corner, he’s surprised to see a cop sitting there reading a magazine.
He doesn’t stop walking. Doesn’t miss a step. Always act like you belong, and no one will question you.
The cop glances at him. He’s young. Bored. But there’s something behind his eyes as he takes in Larks’ coat, then his longer-than-average hair. He frowns slightly, trying to join up his image of a doctor with what he sees approaching.
“Evening, officer,” says Larks.
The cop nods at him, still uneasy, but not sure why. Larks marvels at how much confusion a simple white coat can cause.
“You have a family waiting at home?” asks Larks.
“Why?” Defensive.
“No reason. Not easy doing the night shift for a bunch of crooks.”
The cop relaxes slightly. “Oh. Yeah. I do. Have a family, I mean. Truth is, I’ll probably get more rest here than at home.” When Larks doesn’t respond, he adds, “New baby. Doesn’t sleep through yet.”
Larks nods in understanding. Then his hand flashes out, slices the blade across the cop’s neck. The man blinks. For a moment it’s as if nothing has happened, so sharp is Larks’ knife. A fish-gutting knife—the only thing he has that belonged to his old man. Then the cop shifts slightly, and the wound opens up, peeling wide like a bloody smile.
Larks moves quickly: He pushes the door open, grabs the cop, and drags him inside. He manages to get the body into the ward before it makes a mess on the floor outside.
He dumps the still living cop on the floor. The cop’s reaching up, grasping at the air. Larks squats close to him, watching. He’s always fascinated by the moments of death. Every single person he’s killed—if it’s not an instant death, and he works hard to make sure it never is—they all go through the same series of emotions.
First it’s disbelief. They fight, not even acknowledging what’s coming. Then it’s fury at their approaching death. Absolute, primitive anger that they are about to be extinguished, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it. That powerlessness must be the worst part, Larks muses. That feeling that your fate has been taken out of your own hands. Your future has been stolen.
