Daredevil, page 8
After that, there’s a surge of panic. The body flails about, fearing the end.
Then finally it’s acceptance. Thoughts about those they’re leaving behind.
Larks can always tell when they shift into this stage of death. Their bodies sag. Their eyes shift away, refusing to look upon anything other than their own memories as they die.
He used to let them look away, but lately he’s taken a certain pleasure in grabbing their hair, making sure the last thing they see is his thin face.
His fingers grip the cop’s thick hair as he fades away. Larks leans close, peering into his eyes—and smiles.
He can tell the exact moment the cop dies. There’s something indefinable, something that just … vanishes. He wondered once whether it might be the soul departing the body, but he never came to any decision one way or the other.
He releases the cop and straightens up, looks around. The room has six beds, but only four are occupied.
McHale, Gillian, Slade, and Marcello. All of them hooked up to IVs, their bodies in various casts and bandages. Larks walks between the beds, his knife held in his hand. He knows he should get this over with—there might be another cop, one who’s just gone for coffee—but he doesn’t want to rush it.
He picks Marcello first. He leans close, studying the little man. He doesn’t look too bad. No body bandages. He has one around his head, though. Larks prods the bandage, trying to find the wound.
Marcello’s eyes snap open. He sees Larks and opens his mouth to speak. Larks puts a finger to his lips, indicating silence. Marcello nods and obeys, obviously thinking he’s here to spring them.
Larks hears a clanking sound and looks down. Marcello has been cuffed to the bed.
A smile spreads across Larks’ face. A captive audience. How wonderful. He turns in a slow circle, noting the location of each of the beds.
He starts with Marcello. A quick dig with his old man’s blade—but not a full-on throat slit. He wants something more artistic.
Marcello’s eyes widen in shock. Larks moves to the next bed. Gillian. He stabs at the throat, same way he did with Marcello. Gillian’s eyes snap open, and he gurgles in pain. On to McHale. The same again, but this time angling the cut to the right. Then on to Slade. The big man.
Larks digs the blade deep into his neck and twists. Slade comes suddenly awake, his eyes filled with pain. He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a strangled gurgle.
He hurries to the door and turns to look at his work. Four men. Two by two. Their throats pump blood at an angle inward to the aisle between the beds. Larks is tempted to walk down the aisle.
But he knows he can’t. He’s no psychopath. A psychopath would not resist the temptation.
He watches the men die on their beds, then checks himself. There’re a few spatters of blood on his right sleeve. He takes the jacket off, dropping it to the floor.
He steps over the cop’s body and into the corridor. He looks both ways. No one coming.
He sets off.
He can’t wait to tell Fisk. Larks knows he’ll be proud.
PART II
CHAPTER 9
Columbia University
Six years ago.
Move it, fatty!”
Matt stands in the snow, his breath clouding in the air, as Brad Matheson and his lackeys drive up fast behind Foggy Nelson. Franklin “Foggy” Nelson is Matt’s roommate. He’s studying law, as well. A genuinely nice guy.
You don’t see too many of those nowadays.
Brad hits the brakes just before he slams into Foggy. The wheels lock on the ice, the car skidding slightly so that it actually does bump gently into the back of Foggy’s legs, sending him staggering forward.
“Run, little piggy!” shouts Brad.
Foggy looks around, humiliated, and sees the pitying stares cast in his direction. He breaks into a waddling run, moving his slightly overweight body as fast as he can. Brad and his friends crow their laughter and set off after him again.
Matt knows Brad’s type. The kind of guy who used to bully Matt every recess. The kind of guy with a trust fund, not much of a brain, and the casual cruelty most kids grow out of. Those who don’t … well, Matt is of the opinion that those who don’t grow out of that sadistic streak either become criminals or cops.
It’s a fine line between the two.
Brad accelerates again. Foggy isn’t fast enough. The bumper hits the back of his leg, harder this time, and he stumbles, slipping on the ice and landing on his face. His books fly everywhere, spilling across the street.
Brad speeds off, shredding Foggy’s books beneath his tires. Matt follows the direction of the car as it comes toward him, his senses extending out, the air and wind forming shapes in Matt’s brain. He can see Brad laughing as he speeds past, his friends reaching over and slapping his shoulder.
Matt crosses the street and helps Foggy to his feet.
“Thanks,” Foggy says, staring forlornly at his books lying in the muddy slush.
“What was all that about?” asks Matt.
Foggy shrugs. “What can I say? The guy doesn’t like me.”
Matt bends down to pick up a few books, remembering to poke around with his stick. Have to keep up appearances.
“Guess I’ll just have to live with it. It’s not long, right? Only three years to go.”
Matt of all people knows what three years of bullying can do to someone. That night, he pulls on a pair of black jeans and a black jersey. He fishes out the balaclava he bought for this exact purpose and climbs up the fire escape onto the roof of the college.
The campus roofs are clean, well-lit. Spotlights shine all around the perimeter. Street lights illuminate the walking paths. Great for security. Bad for Matt.
Still, he needs the practice. Since that night back in Hell’s Kitchen, Matt hasn’t taken to the rooftops much. He’d put his head down, waited for Stick to call him back to training. To shout at him. To punish him. Anything. He obviously knew what had happened.
But there’s just been … silence. It has hung over Matt’s days, tinged with the disappointment he knew his mentor must have felt in him.
There’s nothing Matt can do about it now. But there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t think about that girl, her terrified scream, the sickening, wet thump as she hit the ground.
He shakes his head even now, shying away from the memory. He pulls on the balaclava. Takes a deep breath of the cold winter air, then sets off across the roof.
He finds Brad a couple of hours later. A couple of hours of Matt freezing his ass off waiting for the idiot to show his face. When he finally does, it’s with a girl. Matt recognizes her voice—she’s in one of his classes. He thinks her name is Sally. Matt follows them from above as Sally tries her best to outpace Brad, heading back toward her own dorm room.
“I said no, Brad. Just drop it.”
“Come on, Sally. Just come back to my room. I’ve got beer. Some pills—”
“Are you crazy? You get caught with that kind of stuff, they’ll call the cops.”
“So what? My dad knows the chief of police.”
“Good for you. But the rest of us don’t have the same connections, you know?”
Brad’s voice turns wheedling. “I’ll protect you, babe. You hang with me, I’ll make sure you never get into trouble.”
Sally stops walking. Her feet scrape in the snow as she turns to face him. “Brad. Listen very carefully, okay? I would rather spend a year in jail that ‘hang with you.’ Understand? You and me? No chance. Not gonna happen. Stop even entertaining the thought. Because it will never—ever—happen.”
Matt grins. He hears another scrape of shoes on the icy ground. Then the sound of a slap.
“You … you hit me!” Brad sounds amazed.
When Sally speaks again her voice has changed from contempt to anger. “Brad, if you even think about trying to kiss me again, I won’t bother calling the cops. I’ll hunt you down myself. Understand?”
She turns and hurries away.
“Cow!” shouts Brad.
Okay, thinks Matt. That’s just about enough from you.
He drops down directly behind Brad. He hooks his foot around Brad’s leg and yanks back, sending Brad face-first into the snow. Matt kneels on his back.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Matt whispers. “You’re going to turn over a new leaf. You’re going to be nice to people. You’re going to realize that people are not here just for your amusement. Got it?”
“Y—you realize how much trouble you’re in? I’m gonna—”
“Wrong answer.” Matt grinds his knee into Brad’s kidney. Brad cries out in pain. Matt leans forward, putting more weight on his spine. “You know what else you’re going to do? You’re going to be nice to Foggy Nelson.”
“W-who?”
Matt pauses, staring at the back of Brad’s head. He has to fight the impulse to start punching him right there and then.
“He’s the guy you nearly ran down with your car today. The guy you’ve been hassling since the start of the semester.”
“Him? Why do you—”
Matt digs his knee in deeper.
“Okay! Okay! I’ll leave him alone. Jesus!”
“I don’t know,” says Matt. “Not sure what it is, Brad, but something tells me you might not be telling the truth. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to teach you a lesson. Something that will make you remember what happened tonight every time you get the urge to take a shot at someone.”
Matt pulls the balaclava off and shoves it over Brad’s head so he can’t see.
Then he gets down to business.
A couple of girls find Brad the next morning while they’re out for an early morning jog. Ten minutes later, half the school is standing outside, laughing at the naked guy tied to the fountain. After being there for five hours, he has to be taken to hospital for mild hypothermia.
Matt hadn’t been too worried. He’d been keeping an eye on Brad through the night. The lack of sleep is worth it, because Matt knows that every time Brad thinks about hassling someone, his thoughts will turn to this night, and he might reconsider.
Matt wishes Stick was still around so he could see what Matt did. Matt thinks he’d be proud.
It was the weirdest thing,” says Foggy, lying back on his bed with his hands behind his head. “There I was, trying to get some soda out of the machine—you know the one? By the media room? Stupid thing sticks all the time. You gotta get your hand right up there and pull on this—”
“Skip to the end,” says Matt, lying on his own bed.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Sure. There I was, my hand stuck inside the stupid machine, and who comes walking up to me? Brad Matheson! I think, ‘Well, that’s it now. He’s gonna have a field day with this.’ But you know what happens?”
“What?”
“He says, ‘Let me help you with that, Nelson.’ And he tilts the machine so I can get my hand out. I’m standing there thinking, ‘What’s happening? Where’s the punchline?’ But it doesn’t come. He just says, ‘You okay?’ And I say, ‘Yeah, thanks.’” And he claps me on the back and says, ‘No problem, Nelson. See you ’round,’ and walks off. You believe that?”
“A changed man.”
“Yeah. We’ll see. Hey, was that Cathy I saw talking to you today?”
Matt frowns. Cathy. She’d come to him after Professor Lynch’s class on ethics.
“Yeah. Asked for help with notes on the lecture. Said she thought her ethics need work. I think she was joking.”
Foggy bursts out laughing. “Oh yeah? You gonna help her out, then?”
“No.”
“Seriously? Why not?”
Because giving in to your emotions is dangerous, thinks Matt. It gets people killed.
Control everything. Keep a tight rein on your feelings, your desires. It’s the only way to keep people safe. He’s already violated his agreement with himself by dealing with Brad. He doesn’t want to do it again.
“I don’t have the time,” says Matt. “I’ve got too much studying of my own.”
A pause.
“You realize she doesn’t actually want you to help her study, right?”
“Go to sleep, Foggy.”
“Sure. I’m just sayin’. You understand what she’s asking you?”
“Yes, Foggy.”
“You sure? Because I have a feeling you really don’t.”
Springs creak as Foggy leans over on his mattress to look at Matt.
“Like … what I’m trying to say is, the only thing she wants help studying is biology.” Matt still doesn’t react. “Human biology.”
Matt throws a pillow at him.
He waits for Foggy to fall asleep, then climbs out of bed. He pulls on his black tracksuit and sneakers. If anyone ever asks, he can just say he can’t sleep and is going out for a run.
Which is true.
To a certain extent.
Not that he has much choice. A good night’s sleep is out of the question when sharing a room with Foggy Nelson. Foggy’s snoring is off the scale—a snorting, rasping, phlegm-filled rattle that even has the guys next door banging on the wall.
Matt doesn’t mind. Even if he had a room of his own, he still wouldn’t be able to sleep. How can he, with the wind calling out to him?
It speaks to him, carrying the news of the day. It charges in off the ocean, fierce and bitter and freezing cold, carrying hints from the cargo boats and fishing trawlers. It rattles satellite dishes and sets power lines thrumming, leaving swirling snow in its wake. It roars down the concrete canyons, winter-naked branches clattering in combat. Old leaves and dried-out husks rustle and skitter through the air like fairies.
And he follows, leaping across rooftops to watch the world unfold below him.
A baker gives some fresh-baked bread to a homeless guy shivering in his doorway.
Music from car radios and taxi cabs—a hundred different languages talking the slang of the city.
Packs of dogs yip and bark, scavenging for food, battling each other in eternal wars for territory and dominance. A fight to the death, and the triumphant hound howls at the moon, perhaps feeling the stirring of ancient blood, of a time when wolves roamed the steppes.
And above it all, Matt Murdock opens himself to the wind, and he joins the celebration.
He sails across the space between buildings. Lands, rolls, and is up and running again, his footfalls light. Over a chimney, pushing off into the sky. Arms outstretched—flying, soaring. Above everything.
He moves gracefully.
He lands and keeps running, no pause, to the next building, this one higher. Catches hold of the fire escape. The metal’s cold beneath his grip. Shoulder muscles bunching, pulling him over the fire escape and onto the ledge.
Sprinting again, somersaulting between roofs, tight-walking over power lines—easy, calm.
And then …
… a sudden movement in the corner of his eye. Matt stops. Frozen. Alert.
He moves quickly into the shadows.
Someone else is here. Matt extends his senses all around him.
There—a scent. Human and fragrant. Perfume: jasmine, citrus. Like a fresh summer’s day. A woman. He moves his head slowly, trying to gauge where it’s coming from.
There. The drumbeat of a pulse, quickened with excitement. It appears, then vanishes, passing him by like a train in the night.
A breath, a sigh. A smile on the wind.
He steps out of the shadows, into the open. Feels the wind brush across his face.
There, again. The light patter of feet sweeping across the rooftop. A challenge.
Matt sets off after this intruder into his world. She’s moving fast. Looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes are on him, a smile still on her face. She’s flying over the rooftops, pulling away from Matt.
He can’t believe it. It shouldn’t be possible. This is his world. His terrain. No one should know it better than he does. And yet here’s someone running away from him as if they’re out for a Sunday-morning jog in the park.
And then the figure drops away over the edge of a tenement.
Matt’s stomach sinks. A mistake. She’s fallen to her death.
He stops at the edge of the building and reaches down with his senses. Nothing. She’s disappeared. He tries to catch her scent, but it’s masked by the garbage in the dumpster directly below him. Matt drops down into the alley, slips on some congealed grease, and lands on his backside.
Laughter.
He turns sharply.
A soft foot on the asphalt. He whirls around, realizes it’s a cat staring at him. The cat arches its back and rubs itself against his leg.
He reaches down and absently strokes its fur, wondering where the girl has gone.
The laughter comes again, a soft chuckle. He hurries to the alley mouth—and waits.
There. The hint of jasmine on the wind.
She’s heading for the park.
He locks onto her scent: old perfume still clinging to her skin and a not-unpleasant hint of sweat. She won’t get away from him now. He yanks off his mask—it’s getting in the way.
He keeps chase. She’s playing with him, toying with the blind man. She crosses a busy street in the hope that he’ll back off.
He doesn’t—and realizes his mistake too late. A car, too close. He hears the blaring honk of a horn, the skid of tires in slush, and instantly flashes back to that fateful day, the day that started all this.
Distracted. Stupid. He leaps into the air, for a moment thinking he has easily cleared the roof—only for his foot to hit the cab indicator on top. He’s knocked sideways and sails through the air, hitting a snow bank on the sidewalk. His breath explodes from his lungs.
