Chapter Text
Fisk
Wilson Fisk was a free man again, more or less. The New York Court of Appeals had reversed his convictions and ordered a new trial. District Attorney Blake Tower immediately announced he would re-try Fisk on all charges, but Fisk’s legal team, led by Ben Donovan, convinced the court to release him on bail while awaiting his new trial. Only yesterday, he returned to the apartment above his wife Vanessa’s art gallery where she had been living during his imprisonment. He would be confined to the building, wearing an ankle monitor, but there would be no microphones or cameras tracking his conversations and activities. During the seventeen months of his imprisonment, much of it in solitary confinement, he had obsessed over his nemesis, the vigilante Hell’s Kitchen knew as Daredevil, and he knew as the blind lawyer Matthew Murdock. Finally, he had come up with a plan that not only neutralized the threat of Daredevil, once and for all, but also gave Murdock a taste of what he had suffered during his own incarceration.
Ten Days Later
Foggy
Karen and Foggy sat side by side at counsel table, exchanging worried glances. “Where is he?” Karen hissed.
Foggy shrugged. “You tried his cell?” he asked. Karen nodded. “And his landline?” Karen nodded again.
“I called Sister Maggie, too,” she said. “She hasn’t heard from him.”
“He wasn’t with you last night?” Foggy asked.
“No,” Karen replied. “After the last two days, I needed some ‘me time’ – to recharge, you know?”
“Yeah, I get it,” Foggy replied. He felt the same way. Their client’s two days of testimony about the sexual harassment and assaults she had endured from her predator-boss at Atreus Plastics, Inc. had been hard to listen to.
“God damn it,” Karen whispered. “He’s doing it again, isn’t he?”
Foggy knew what she meant. If Matt was bailing on them in the middle of an important trial, it wouldn’t be for the first time. “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he cautioned. “There may be a reasonable explanation.”
“With Matt?” Karen scoffed.
Their conversation was cut short when Judge Vogel emerged from his chambers. He didn’t take the bench. Instead, he stood in the doorway leading to the corridor behind the courtroom. “Counsel,” he said, beckoning to the attorneys.
When Foggy and Atreus’s attorney, Glenn Thompson, were standing in front of him, the judge asked, “My clerk tells me Mr. Murdock hasn’t arrived. Where is he?”
Foggy swallowed hard, then made a decision. He wasn’t going to lie to the court. “He appears to be missing, Your Honor.”
The judge raised an eyebrow. “Missing?”
“He didn’t meet us as planned at our office this morning, and he isn’t answering either of his phones.”
The judge frowned. “This is concerning. The man’s blind, after all. I’ll have my bailiff call the police to do a welfare check.”
That was the last thing Foggy wanted. If the police went to Matt’s apartment, they might see things they shouldn’t. “Is that really necessary, Your Honor? I’m sure he’ll be with us shortly.”
The judge sighed. “All right. We’ll give him until the morning recess to join us. Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Nelson? I don’t want to keep the jury waiting.”
Foggy gulped. “Yes, Your Honor.” That wasn’t entirely true. Matt was scheduled to do the direct of their next witness. But Foggy knew the case as well as Matt, probably better, and knew what they needed from the witness. He would be able to wing it.
“All right,” the judge said. He turned to the bailiff. “Bring in the jury,” he ordered.
Foggy resumed his place at counsel table, now sitting next to their client, Linda Cooper, who had returned from the rest room while the attorneys were conferring with the judge.
The mid-morning recess arrived, but Matt didn’t. After the jury left the courtroom, Judge Vogel again directed the attorneys to approach the bench.
“Well?” he asked, looking at Foggy.
Karen stood up and answered from her place at counsel table. “I can check his apartment, Your Honor.”
The judge looked at the attorneys. Both nodded their agreement.
“Very well, Ms. Page,” the judge said. “But if Mr. Murdock is not there, I’m notifying the police.”
“Understood,” Foggy replied.
Karen
Karen grabbed her handbag and hurried out of the courthouse. She hailed a cab to take her to Matt’s place. Once there, she used her keys to enter the building and his apartment. “Matt!” she called out as she stepped inside. There was no answer. She made her way down the entry hall and surveyed the apartment. No Matt. Nothing was out of place. His closed laptop, phone, and wallet were on the desk. Nothing seemed to be missing from his wallet. She checked the phone. No calls or messages since yesterday, except hers and Foggy’s this morning. The ones from yesterday were either from them or work-related. She didn’t find the burner phone he took with him when he went out as Daredevil. She tried calling it, just in case, but she didn’t hear it buzzing, and there was no answer.
To her right, the closet stood open. The foot locker inside it was also open. She checked it. No Daredevil suit. The tray that held Battlin’ Jack’s boxing robe was on the floor next to the foot locker. She placed the tray back in the foot locker and closed the lid. After shutting the closet doors behind her, she checked the bathroom and bedroom. The bed was made, and the towels in the bathroom were dry. Apparently Matt never got home last night.
She climbed the stairs to the roof. No sign of him there either. Trying to contain her rising anxiety, she went back downstairs and sank onto the couch. She took a few minutes to consider her next step, then pulled out her phone to call Brett Mahoney.
“Detective Mahoney,” he answered.
“Hey, Brett, it’s Karen Page.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“Matt’s missing,” she said.
“Missing?” he asked. “Since when?”
“Since last night, I think,” she replied. “I’m at his apartment now. It looks like he went out last night, as you-know-who, and never came back. He didn’t show up at the office or in court this morning.”
“Damn,” Brett swore. “You sure this isn’t just him doing another disappearing act?”
Karen sighed. “It could be,” she admitted, “but it doesn’t feel like it. Not this time.”
“OK,” Brett said, “I’ll get on it. You know we’re not gonna be able to keep this quiet, not if we want to find him.”
“You don’t have to. The judge and his staff and opposing counsel already know he’s missing. And everyone who was in the courtroom this morning knows he wasn’t there.”
“Good. Can you stay at the apartment? I’ll round up a couple of uniforms and get there as soon as I can. We’ll say we’re doing a ‘welfare check’.”
“OK. See you soon.” She ended the call, then called Foggy. “He’s not here,” she told him.“Nothing out of place. No signs of a struggle or break-in. Nothing incriminating.”
Foggy sighed heavily. “OK. I’ll tell the judge. He’s gonna want to call the cops, you know.”
“I already did. Brett Mahoney is on the way.”
“Good. You coming back?”
“Yes, after Brett’s done here.”
Matt
Matt woke up in a dark place. That was nothing new. For him, everywhere was dark. But this was . . . different. It was quiet, too quiet. Panic rose in his gut. He snapped his fingers and breathed a sigh of relief. He could hear the snap, but it sounded . . . wrong, muffled somehow. What the fuck? He tested his other senses. He could feel a slight, very slight, movement of the air around him. The temperature was neutral: not too hot, not too cold. He found himself thinking, ridiculously, of “Goldilocks and the Three Bears.” He ran his hand across the surface on which he was lying: carpet. There was a faint odor, tinged with chemicals. Probably outgassing from the carpet. There was something between his skin and the carpet, something smooth. He ran his hands over his body and discovered he was wearing a one-piece garment, probably a jumpsuit, made of some slick material, with buttons up the front. His crucifix, a gift from Sister Maggie, was gone. His feet were bare.
He got to his feet, fighting off dizziness and nausea. Holding his right arm in front of him, across his body, and snapping his fingers, he explored his surroundings. There wasn’t much to find. It was a room, about ten paces by twelve paces, with a carpeted floor. He stubbed his toe on a pallet or thin mattress on the floor in one corner. Trailing his hand along the wall, he found a combination sink and toilet in the opposite corner. When he turned on the faucet, water flowed. He cupped his hands and drank, wiping his hands on his jumpsuit afterward. Then he examined the walls more closely. They seemed to be covered in some kind of fabric. He guessed it was sound-dampening material of some kind. He did a second circuit of the room, looking for an exit. There wasn’t one, as far as he could tell, but it might be hidden behind the soundproofing. There was a small flap in one wall, about two feet by ten inches. He tried to open it, but it didn’t budge. If there was a way in or out, he reasoned, it might be in the ceiling. The slight movement of air he’d felt had to come from somewhere, like a vent in the ceiling. But if there was an opening, he couldn’t sense it. Even if he could, it was out of reach; the ceiling was too high.
He was sure there must be cameras and microphones somewhere, but he couldn’t detect them. The soundproofing was too effective. But no one would build a room like this and not want to watch what happened inside it. His skin crawled at the thought of being observed like some kind of lab rat.
Still feeling slightly groggy, he made his way to the pallet in the corner and sat down on it. He must have been drugged before he was brought here. Meditation would help clear his mind. Maybe then he could come up with a plan.
His meditation was interrupted by the sound of a click. Must be the flap in the wall opening. Then the sound of something sliding over a surface, followed by the click of the flap closing. He crossed the room to check it out. A tray of food was sitting on a shelf that apparently had extended when the flap was opened. He picked up the tray and sniffed its contents. It was food, but it didn’t smell like much of anything. At least it didn’t smell rotten. It might be poisoned, he cautioned himself. But, he reasoned, if they (whoever “they” were) wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of building this room and bringing him here. And he was sure the room was recently built; the new-carpet odor told him that. The food could be drugged, he supposed, but his sense of smell didn’t detect any of the obvious possibilities. He decided to risk it. Who knew how long he was going to be here? He needed to keep up his strength. The food was bland, almost tasteless, but he ate it all.
As he ate, he pondered the twin questions of who had brought him here and why. The answer to the first question was simple: Wilson Fisk. Matt, and Daredevil, had many enemies, but Fisk had the strongest motive. And it was less than two weeks since his release on bail. It had to be Fisk. The “why” was less clear. If Fisk wasn’t going to kill him right away, which seemed to be the case, well, Fisk was a master manipulator. So he probably wanted to manipulate him. But to what end? Matt frowned. He didn’t know. Maybe the room itself was a clue. It seemed to be designed to limit sensory input. If Fisk wanted to fuck with his mind, messing with his remaining senses was one way to do it. Except he didn’t think Fisk knew about his senses. Maybe it was just a lucky guess. He shrugged. He supposed he’d learn Fisk’s intentions soon enough. In the meantime, meditation and exercise would help him to be ready to deal with whatever Fisk had planned for him.
When his meal, such as it was, was finished, Matt set the tray on the shelf. He moved to the center of the room and did a series of push-ups. He wondered if Fisk was watching, counting the number of repetitions along with him. He decided to test his theory. He stood up and yelled at the ceiling, “I know you’re there, Fisk. What’s your game?” There was no response.
Fisk
In a nearby room, Fisk watched Murdock doing push-ups on several video screens. No surprise there. Fisk expected Murdock would try to keep himself in fighting shape. He hadn’t expected to see Murdock meditating. He didn’t know the lawyer practiced meditation. Fisk didn’t meditate himself, but he had learned something about its benefits, during his time in Asia. That wouldn’t help Murdock here, he told himself confidently. Chuckling at Murdock’s verbal challenge, he turned and strode out of the room.
Karen
It was after 7:30 by the time Karen and Foggy got back to the office. Foggy flopped wearily on the reception room sofa. Karen sat next to him, equally drained. It had been a long day in court, even though the judge had cut them some slack and adjourned for the day a half hour early. No doubt he had seen the drawn and anxious expressions on both their faces. After that, they still had to go to the 15th Precinct to give their statements to Brett Mahoney. Then Karen insisted they had to search the area where Brett said Daredevil was last seen, in spite of Brett’s assurances that his officers had done a thorough search. Now they had to prepare for the next day’s witnesses. But first they needed to talk.
“He’s doing it again, isn’t he?” Foggy asked bitterly. “Going out on his own, doing God-knows-what, shutting us out.”
“I’m not so sure,” Karen said.
“Why not?” Foggy countered. “He’s done it before. Remember the Castle trial?”
“I know,” Karen admitted, “but now that I’ve had time to think about it, this feels different.”
“How so?”
“The Castle trial and what happened later, after Midland Circle, those were at times when Matt was in a bad place, lying to us and pushing us away. That’s not the case now.”
“That we know of,” Foggy replied pointedly.
“Maybe. But I think we’d know – I’d know – if he was keeping something from us. I may not have Matt’s abilities, but I can usually tell when he’s hiding something. He gives off that shifty vibe. You know what I mean.”
“I do,” Foggy agreed. “But that’s who he is, what he does. He hasn’t changed, not really. You don’t know him like I do.”
“Maybe not, but you don’t know him like I do, either. I’m the one who’s there in the middle of the night, when he comes back from being Daredevil. Believe it or not, he talks to me. I’m telling you, there’s nothing going on that would cause him to up and disappear like this. I’d know if there was.”
“OK,” Foggy replied, “let’s say you’re right. What are the alternatives?”
“Well, Brett checked the hospitals and the morgues, and he hasn’t turned up at any of them.”
“So far,” Foggy pointed out.
“Right,” Karen agreed, suppressing a pang of fear. “But if he didn’t take off like he did before, maybe he didn’t disappear voluntarily.”
“You mean, like a kidnapping?” Foggy asked.
Karen nodded.
“But there hasn’t been a ransom demand.”
“Maybe it’s too soon for that,” Karen said. “Or it’s not about money. Maybe someone took him for some other reason.”
“Like what?”
“No idea.” Karen fell silent, considering the possibilities. After a minute or two, she frowned and said, “Oh, shit.”
“What is it?”
“Do I need to remind you who just got out on bail?”
“Wilson Fisk. Damn, I should’ve thought of that,” Foggy said. “But what about Matt’s deal with Fisk? Matt’s kept up his end, why wouldn’t Fisk do the same?”
“This is Fisk we’re talking about,” Karen said. “Do you really think we can trust him?”
“No.”
“I only hope Matt isn’t learning that the hard way,” Karen observed grimly. She blinked back tears as she stared into Matt’s empty office, as if she could will him to appear.
Matt
Meditation, food, and exercise helped. His mind clearer now, Matt tried to reconstruct what he was doing before he ended up here. He went out as Daredevil last night, or the last night he remembered. He was planning on making it a short night, then going back to his apartment to prepare . . . oh, shit. The Cooper trial. Karen and Foggy must be pissed. They must be thinking he bailed on them again in the middle of an important trial. He couldn’t blame them if they did. He’d done it before. If he didn’t make it out of here, they might never know what really happened. They’ll never forgive him. He’s fucked, in more ways than one.