It started when Joe was arrested. At first, Ryan thought it was his conscience's way of taunting him, reminding him that he'd had Joe, he'd had Joe, but chosen not to kill him even though nobody would have batted an eye. But even after Ryan convinced himself with some bullshit excuse that the system would take care of him and it wasn't necessary, Joe still kept appearing, mostly in his dreams. Ryan's new hypothesis was that he'd sacrificed so much because of his desperate hunt for Joe that his mind simply didn't know what to do without the motivation of tracking him down. It was pathetic but, unfortunately, the best he could come up with. And it only further convinced him that sparing Joe had been because he really couldn't live without him. He was purposeless. His brain had two priorities: protect the few loved ones he had left and stop Joe for good. The latter had been achieved; Joe was set to be executed. He had no hope of escape or bail. The government had learned their lesson from the first time. At least, Ryan hoped they had.
So, in theory, that should mean he had no excuse but to focus on the former. Perhaps, he should even allow new loved ones to come into his life and stop being so afraid that he was a harbinger of death to everyone he met since Joe was also largely to blame for that. That was what Gwen was supposed to be: his way of moving on and living a normal life. Marriage, kids, all the things that people usually do. The FBI would probably take any excuse to get rid of him now. He was a loose cannon. They all knew that but had had no choice but to keep him around for the sake of catching Joe. He could just take a private security job, a nine-to-five, something where he could say he'd be home for dinner and actually mean it. A job that wouldn't risk his safety and bleed into every aspect of his life. He and Gwen could have dinner dates with Mike and Max.
It could be so simple. He just had to let it happen.
But he couldn't. No matter how much he tried, there was no spark, no flutter in his chest when he looked at Gwen. She was sweet and kind and good for him in every way possible, but he just couldn't picture a future with her. He waited for the day when she realised that whatever fleeting moment of attraction had been between them was gone and left him for someone else. Someone who actually treated her the way she treated others. But for now, he would pretend. He would smile and nod when she talked with so much light in her eyes, starkly contrasting the emptiness of his soul, and go along when she led him to bed, making love in a way that seemed to do the trick for her but didn't have a shred of emotion in it. She was a smart woman. He expected her to catch on to his lack of enthusiasm, but she didn't. It painfully reminded him that most people saw the world with trust and openness and saw the best in people. The opposite of how he saw it. Not even the most seasoned, fucked-up federal agents had as much cynicism as he did.
Ryan looked at himself in the mirror. He couldn't remember how long the faucet had been running. Gwen was asleep. He, as usual, wasn't. He didn't think he would ever sleep well so long as Joe was alive.
"But even when I die, I won't leave you," Joe taunted with a smirk, appearing behind him in his reflection. "We both know that. I'm a part of you, Ryan."
He sighed, looking down at the sink, praying it might make Joe disappear, but he doubted it.
"You've been seeing her for what, six months now? And you're still trying to delude yourself into thinking she can fix you?"
"Shut up," he uttered. Most of the time, he trained himself to either ignore Joe or only respond to him in his mind. He didn't need to be caught talking to himself.
"You realise I'm a product of your subconscious, Ryan?" Joe pointed out. "I'm not the reason I'm here; you are."
Ryan's cheek twitched. "What will it take to make you go away?"
"Well, you need to move on, Ryan," he answered simply. "But… that's just not going to happen, by the looks of it, is it? How many hours have you spent thinking of me? How many times have I appeared in your dreams? How many times have you looked over your shoulder wondering if me or one of my followers is watching you?"
Joe was on his mind a lot, even in custody. He wasn't wrong.
"You need me, Ryan."
It was true. God, it was true. Without Joe, he would have to face reality, his emotions, and his grief. Properly. Not with a bottle of Jack Daniels. The thought of that not only seemed impossible and terrifying but also repugnant. He had to admit the thrill of the chase made him feel alive, like he had a purpose on this earth. A part of him — a very small part that he kept deeply buried — admired Joe. He didn't condone his actions, not at all. But he was easily the most intelligent criminal he'd ever pursued, and Ryan didn't want to lose that. The man was fascinating. He was enthralled by him. It was an intellectual attraction. He could acknowledge the man's abilities and expertise without forgiving his sins. That was all it was. Right?
Ryan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think about Gwen, trying to think about something, anything, in his life that wasn't Joe. Something that he cared enough about to override his feelings. To his relief, Joe disappeared. For now, at least. Usually, when he was distracted enough at work or talking to someone else, he could keep Joe at bay, but his return was inevitable.
He could only pray that this might stop when Joe was dead, but he wouldn't get his hopes up.
He had learned the hard way not to do that.
"Agent Clarke alleged that you murdered Lily Gray," Warren stated amongst the muttering crowd, various microphones competing for attention. "Is there any truth to that accusation?"
God, he hated reporters. They never got the story right. They always had their own agenda when they wrote their articles, and it was usually trying to get hits and loyal readers rather than telling the truth. He had seen a significant decline in the quality of journalism with the rise of social media. Anyone and everyone had a camera now. It meant people could more easily be held accountable. It also meant people could twist the truth, catch someone out of context and use that to spin lies. Most of all, he hated the internet for the way it had enabled Joe to reach out and gain a whole tribe of followers equally as fucked up as him. And now, he simply couldn't stop it. He still lived on high alert, believing anyone, anyone, could be devoted to Joe or Lily or Mark's or whoever-the-fuck's cause. He hated Mark for a lot of reasons. But now, Ryan hated that, despite the atrocity one of Mark's followers committed, he had to defend the FBI's honour and keep concealing the truth about Lily's murder.
"No, there is not."
"Meantime, the hellish tattoo of the heart increased," Joe quoted from the crowd. Ryan admitted The Tell-Tale Heart was an unfortunately accurate literary comparison. "How long will it be before you crack and tell the truth about Lily? How you allowed one of your own to slaughter her?" Joe blended in seamlessly enough that Ryan didn't have to fear people might question why he was looking at seemingly nothing but, damn it, it was hard to maintain eye contact with Warren when all he wanted to do was strangle Joe, even if he wasn't corporeal.
Ryan tried to keep his voice steady. He had to sound convicted without being defensive, despite lying through his teeth.
"Special Agent Clarke was under duress and said whatever he needed to say to stay alive-"
"If I may, he referred to a lawless FBI black op. These were questions raised in the Congressional Hearing."
"And every single member of my team was fully exonerated," Ryan reminded them before the chatter became too loud again. "I think you're losing sight of the real issue here: Jeffrey Clarke, a man who dedicated his life to protecting you and yours, was taken from his home, taken from his wife, and brutally murdered. Mark Gray. He did this. He is responsible."
Again, the reporters started talking, speculating, shocked by the name-drop.
"Excuse me. Mark Gray is responsible? He's been spotted?" Warren asked.
Ryan nodded. "We believe he's in the New York area and working with these two. He's a delusional coward and a malicious killer... but his days are numbered because I'm coming for him."
"It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage," Joe went on. "You want to sic every agent in the United States on poor Mark just to distract people from thinking Lily Gray's death was anything but justifiable. Now, Mark certainly has his… oddities, but I'm surprised you would sink so low, Ryan."
He never liked responding to Joe, even mentally. It just seemed to affirm his existence and validate his delusion. But maybe it would work this time. "He dismembered an FBI agent and put him in a box for us to find. He just did it for cheap thrills. He's doing it to get back at us for what happened to Lily. It was senseless. There was no deeper meaning."
"Oh, so you admit you like my work, then? I'm flattered, Ryan," Joe beamed.
Ryan decided to stop engaging with him and make his point. This was about reminding the public that Mark Gray was the priority here. "If he's smart, he'll turn himself in because the full force of the FBI is about to land on him and his followers."
That seemed to be enough for the reporters to go off and start preparing their stories. A witch hunt for Mark Gray ought to stop people looking into the FBI. The Congressional Hearing had been enough. What mattered now was finding the fucker who killed Agent Clarke. He owed it to Anna.
And, find him, they did.
However, with Joe constantly narrating his actions and drawing on his inner thoughts, he was so distracted that he almost got hit with the assailant's bullet. It was the sound of Max's gunshots that snapped him out of it and finally made Joe quit, at least, for today.
"You okay?" Max asked, looking him over with concern. He nodded. "That was so close. Why didn't you draw your weapon?"
He couldn't think of an answer to that, not a plausible one. But his non-response seemed to be enough for Max because, after kicking the man's gun away, she came over to hug him.
"I know you're thinking about Agent Clarke and his wife. It's okay," she said. "I am, too."
"Yeah…" He sighed. The funeral was tomorrow. He was delivering a eulogy. Not his first, and certainly not his last. But for now, he would hug Max back and convince her that, sure, he was thinking about Clarke, and that was why he was so preoccupied. But she knew him well enough to detect there was more. Perhaps she had concluded to herself he was thinking about the coverup of Lily's murder. Joe appeared over Max's shoulder with that stupid smile he just wanted to punch off his face. Ryan scowled at him, and that only widened his grin. How was he supposed to get rid of him?
"You can't. You know that, Ryan."
No matter how much he rationally knew that the Joe he heard and saw day in and day out was a manifestation of stress and grief, he still couldn't help but feel like Joe was his own living being, existing in his mind rent-free. This, he thought with a derisive laugh, was precisely what therapy could help with. But no therapist would ever understand him. Hell, most therapists never understood what it was like to see so much turmoil and destruction on a regular basis, let alone the boatload of trauma that was his past or the man he thought about more than anybody else.
But maybe that was it.
Maybe, just maybe, he needed to see Joe.
He was going to see Joe to ask him about Arthur Strauss. Ryan was glad to have an excuse. That was perfectly logical. Strauss had escaped and was incredibly elusive. The only person who would have any idea how his sick mind worked — and was at the FBI's disposal — was Joe Carroll. Ryan wondered whether physically seeing Joe would mean not hallucinating him for a while. Or maybe it would make it worse. Maybe he was enabling his own delusions. God, he needed help. At the same time, with Strauss on the loose, nothing was more important than looking for him. He might have faith that most of Joe's following was gone, but Strauss had caused a resurgence. They also still needed to find Mark. Unfortunately, from his years of experience, he had learned that if they wanted to catch sickos, they had to think like sickos. And, try as he might, no matter how much Joe might insist, he wasn't like him. Not like that, at least.
As he walked into the cell and saw Joe sitting there with an expectant smile, he felt his gut churn. Every time he looked at Joe, he saw the dozens of bloodied bodies, he heard the chilling screams, and he smelt the stench of rotting flesh. It was impossible not to. His hatred for this man could not be put into words — although the version of Joe he hallucinated often liked to try. He wasn't seeing double, at least. The only thing worse than one Joe was two Joes, Ryan supposed.
"What took you so long?" Joe asked cheerily, like he was meeting a friend for coffee. "You're looking very well, Ryan. The suit, the grooming, and you're back with the Bureau full-time, yes, and you haven't fallen off the wagon. Good for you." He smiled, scrutinising him, and Ryan had to remind himself that there were cameras in this room. "Yet there's something else about you. There's a... there's a lightness to you. Are you in love? Someone new?" He wished he could say yes. He wished it was all true, that Gwen had changed him, heart and soul, and he could finally say he was on the right path and he was sticking to it. But really, the only change had been the security of Joe's execution date and the hope that that might finally help him move on. It wasn't going to happen. He doubted it. He was beyond salvation. And he couldn't let Joe screw with his head.
"Enough," he said, but Joe brushed right past his terseness.
"You'll share. Eventually. What are you doing here, Ryan?"
What was he thinking? Was he really about to entertain this? Joe had a habit of making everything a Shakespearean monologue. Who was to say he wouldn't do that now and prevent the FBI from obtaining any useful information?
Ryan scoffed, trying to look like he was here by his own volition and not because the FBI was desperate. Then again, Joe would probably have a field day with that. The idea of him wanting to be here. He didn't. For God's sake, it was taking everything in him not to throw up. Joe eyed the files like they were somehow amusing to him. This wasn't going to go anywhere. Joe had been in prison for months. How could he possibly know where Strauss was?
"This was a mistake. You can't help me." He stood and turned to leave, not even wanting to give Joe eye contact.
As usual, Joe saw right through him. "Oh, please, spare me the theatrics. What's in the folder?"
He stilled. He did seem to be genuinely asking. He remembered how desperate the FBI was. He didn't want to see another body wash up in the Potomac.
Ryan opened the folder so Joe could see and resumed his seat. "Arthur Strauss is missing," he answered.
"Phew. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. You are in…" Joe chuckled, "such trouble."
"He's got no money, no ID. He can't have travelled far. He was last seen in the vicinity of Red Hook in Brooklyn," Ryan went on. "Where do you think he'd go?"
"Why would I help you?"
Ryan squared his jaw. Of course, it had to be a fucking game.
"What are you offering?"
Not immunity. No fucking way. But maybe a small accommodation. Something that wouldn't attract media attention and certainly not something that could risk being used as an escape tool. Ryan could live with that. Hopefully, the FBI, too.
"What do you want?" Ryan asked, still very wary.
"You know, I've made my peace with my... predicament."
Ryan squinted at him.
"But I'm concerned for you. I wonder if you are quite as prepared."
He laughed derisively. "For what?"
"Do I need to remind you, Ryan? When I die, you die."
That made Ryan question whether he was looking at the real Joe, not the one in his head. Only the Joe in his head would say something like that… right? He attempted a smug expression, like he wasn't downright terrified by the thought of them being so connected. "Don't worry about me, Joe. I'm going to be just fine once you're gone."
Joe hummed. "So you say."
"What do you want?" Ryan repeated slowly. There was no point debating this.
"I want us back."
Ryan squinted at him. "Us? What us?"
"Well, you and me, bantering, laughing, shedding a few tears." Ryan rolled his eyes. "I'd like for you to come and visit me every day until D-Day. I think I deserve that much, at least."
Was he actually serious? God, it was hard enough to have to see the figment of his imagination, but now he had to agree to see the real deal? This was ludicrous. At the same time… he could at least try to make the most of the visits. He could ask Joe about the case since he would take any classified intel to his grave — literally. Joe kept looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to say the words, and Ryan hated the satisfaction he would get out of this.
"You give me something on Strauss, and if it pays off... I'll come back," he conceded.
Joe made a noise of approval. "Well, what did I do when all hope was lost? I reached out to the good doctor. He was my mentor and my ally, so one can only assume that he might do the same thing." Ryan studied his face to see if there was any tell, but there wasn't. This really did seem to be honest advice. "Oh, he touched a great many lives. I suspect that he would lean on... a friend in the neighbourhood in his hour of need."
That was a conclusion the FBI could have come to, and now he would lose credibility for having gone to Joe to 'get intel' only to come back with basic advice. Not that he had a lot of credibility left anyway. They kept him around because he, unfortunately, was the only one who understood Joe and could be trusted. Still, Joe made a good point. They should look into any of Strauss' known associates to find someone under the radar that the FBI hadn't caught yet, and they needed to do it covertly so Strauss wouldn't flee. He stood and made to leave. He'd had enough Joe for one day — at least until the Joe in his mind resurfaced.
"Tell me something, Ryan. Your dreams... am I in them?"
How in the fuck did he know that? Was he hearing things now instead of seeing them? Was this just a very accurate stab in the dark? — pun not intended. He tried not to react too strongly, knowing Joe would very much like to see him squirm, but he ultimately failed and watched the fucker smile at him. It felt like one of those dreams where he was naked, and everybody else was clothed, except it was more like someone had cut open his forehead and revealed his brain for all to see. For Joe to see. He wondered whether Joe enjoyed that, making him crack, the way a voyeur enjoyed watching two people in the act. God, now he was trying to psychoanalyse Joe. Again. He needed to get out of here. He felt like he couldn't breathe. He knocked on the door urgently, waited for the buzzer, and left swiftly. He hoped to let the feeling of intense paranoia pass, but it only seemed to build.
"Hang on just one second," he called to the guard.
He walked purposefully to the bathroom, grateful to find it vacant, before he emptied the contents of his stomach. He felt like Joe was under his skin. He felt like he needed to scrub every inch of his body with boiling water and bleach. He shut his eyes and saw Joe staring back at him. He dreaded knowing that Joe might start to appear in his delusions any second now that he wasn't in front of him. He flushed the toilet and took a few deep breaths, desperately trying to gain some control.
Ryan almost hoped that Joe's advice would turn up nothing, so he had no obligation to visit him anymore. The date of his execution was always at the forefront of his mind. Everything was a countdown. Not just to stop Joe but also anyone related to him. He wanted this to be over. He wanted the killings, the cults, the paranoia, all of it, to die with Joe. It wouldn't happen. He was sure copycat cults might come and go, but so long as none were as big as Joe, then maybe Ryan could live with it.
But what Ryan wouldn't live with was that, true to Joe's word, a part of his own soul would die with Joe, too. Because, like it or not, they were connected.
They had been in Beacon for three days now, and two more people had gone missing. It made everything feel like a ticking time bomb. If they didn't find Strauss or his followers, not only would there be more victims to find but fewer witnesses to help. He hated Strauss. It wasn't even just because he saw him as the catalyst for Joe's killings but because it made him unable to sleep at night thinking of how many of his students were out there and had the potential to be another Joe. This was all on him. Ryan took responsibility for each and every murder because he saw them as personal failures, instances where he just didn't get there in time, where he didn't do his best. The victims haunted him, weighing down his soul. He would take this guilt to his grave, even if he did put a stop to it eventually.
When Ryan woke, he immediately felt out of place. It wasn't just because he was in a hotel room — although he certainly never did well sleeping in unfamiliar places, and, even then, he was an insomniac in his own bed. He was on the bathroom floor. His back and neck ached, probably because he was half-slumped against the small basin. As Ryan blinked his eyes open, he noticed he was already dressed, not in the undershirt and boxers he had gone to sleep in. There were also a few moderately sized rust-coloured stains. They were relatively fresh, judging by their brightness. But Ryan somehow already knew they were from blood. He squinted. For some reason, he wasn't entirely surprised to see them, but he was concerned. Even someone in his line of work wasn't that desensitised to the sight of blood where blood was not meant to be. As Ryan tried to stand and get a look in the mirror, he winced at the aching of his muscles, like he'd overexerted himself. From doing what? It wasn't just from sleeping funny; it was like he'd lifted something heavy, forcing him to use his core muscles.
His head spun when he got to his feet. Had he slept that poorly? He looked himself over, hands planted on either side of the sink. There was blood under his fingernails and a few specks on his face. He couldn't figure out where it had come from. It looked like he had tried to scrub some of it off based on the reddened skin around the stains and on his hands. When and why had he done that? He racked his brain trying to think of what happened last night but came up empty. Still, he didn't have much of a chance to continue pondering because a rap on the bathroom door brought him back to the present moment.
"Ryan?"
It was Max.
"Ryan, we got a call from the Sheriff's department. They've found another body."
For some reason, that didn't surprise him. Given how much of a pessimist he was and how much bloodshed he saw on a regular basis, apathy over murder was nothing new.
"It's… it's Arthur Strauss."
He squinted. "What?"
"Arthur Strauss was murdered." She didn't sound particularly upset about it, just shocked. "He was hiding out in a cabin somewhere. We think it must have been one of his students."
Ryan let out a breath. "I'll be out in a second." He didn't have time to get rid of anything on his clothes, but he at least used some hand soap to clean his hands and cheek before coming to the door. He prayed that Max and Mike would be too preoccupied to notice the stains on his shirt. When he opened it, she was still in her pyjamas. It looked like she'd been woken by the phone.
"Oh, good, you're already dressed," she commented. "Just give me five minutes, and we can head off."
He nodded and decided to act like he'd been up for hours thinking about the case rather than solving the mystery of the stains on his shirt. Ryan gave himself a proper look in the mirror again and found that strategically placing his scarf did the trick. Max and Mike were full of theories on the ride there, reciting names of Strauss' known students and their whereabouts. Ryan just hummed in agreement where appropriate. For some reason, he didn't view this as a mystery. But it wasn't like his gut was suggesting it was someone in particular. No, it was like he'd accepted that Strauss was dead before Max had told him. Even when the sheriff pulled back the tarp to reveal Strauss' corpse, his head nearly severed from his body, he didn't react. He brushed it off indifferently, and he was, but not for the usual reasons.
"I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him," an irritatingly familiar voice said. Joe stood there, looking over the corpse with what Ryan could only describe as genuine pity. He'd seen Joe break very few times in his life. Usually, it had been when Claire or Joey was involved, but not since.
Ryan had to admit he'd read more than his fair share of Poe ever since the FBI concluded that there was a pattern to his murders. Maybe in another life, he would have been a scholar who engaged with Joe in healthy, philosophical debates about the varying interpretations of Poe. But right now, unfortunately, that quotation was his brain's way of concluding that Max's initial suspicions were correct. Strauss must have been killed by one of his students, perhaps the very student who had housed him and welcomed him with open arms while he had been on the lam. They went through their list of suspects again, concluding it couldn't be anybody they already knew based on physical capability, last known whereabouts, and plausible motives. He supposed they could go through a list of everyone Strauss had ever taught, but that would take a while and would never be exhaustive.
"What do you want, Joe?" Ryan replied mentally, trying to keep his eyes on Strauss' body in the hope that the pair of feet standing near him might disappear.
"Ryan, remember I come from your mind. If you want to blame someone for my quotations, blame yourself."
"Maybe… maybe Joe would know something," Mike suggested, biting his lip. "I know you probably don't want to see him again, Ryan, but…"
"Oh, if only dear Mike knew how often you let me visit you!" Joe chimed in. Unfortunately, Mike had a point. If anybody knew Strauss' students, it was Joe.
"No, you're right," he admitted, still not giving Joe eye contact. "He saw Strauss recently, and he has no reason to lie, so…" He nodded. "I guess I'll go see him again."
It was only once Ryan was alone again that he realised… he was relieved that Strauss was dead. Happy, even. Yes, he had plenty of reasons to be. They'd killed the beast at its head. If it was one thing he'd learnt about all the followers, be they of Joe, Mark, or Strauss, they were — for the most part — incredibly codependent. They needed a leader. Try as they might, they would never be as good as their maker. They would fail. They might try to rekindle the spark but ultimately lose purpose and stop. They might be perfectly capable of taking human life, but they lacked the stability and charisma to actually lead and take the position of their mentor. But Ryan couldn't just describe his happiness as a career success or a reason to sleep a little better than usual. As he started to think about visiting Joe, he realised he would be the one to tell him. Ryan was curious to see how the real deal would react. But, somehow, he didn't think it would be very different from how the imaginary Joe pouted over Strauss' body. He had to give his brain credit for conjuring such an accurate portrayal.
Ryan also knew that it wouldn't be long before the media had a field day with Strauss' death, and likely brought Joe back into the limelight. Ultimately, Strauss had gained popularity not for his actions but for being Joe's creator. He rode on the coattails of Joe's loyal and devoted fans. Joe had what Strauss never achieved: praise. It almost made Ryan want to laugh. There would never be anybody who got as much attention as Joe. His love by his deranged fans had lasted over a decade. His execution might mean it lasted several more. After all, Ted Bundy and John Wayne Gacy certainly still had their fanatics, even in death. Joe would be immortalised through his execution. Strauss would simply cease to exist once the initial hype passed.
"The idea is not to live forever but to create something that will," Joe uttered in his mind. "And I dare say I've achieved that, Ryan, wouldn't you agree? Although I suppose you could say the same about the dear old professor here."
Ryan furrowed his brow. "That's not Poe," he pointed out.
"I'm afraid not: it's Warhol. But they're not bad words to live by."
He sighed. Today had raised so many questions. It was overwhelming. He still didn't have an answer for how he'd woken up. He doubted anybody could answer that, and, if he was being honest, he didn't really want anybody to know. It felt like a secret. Like he'd been caught with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. There was something that felt familiar but, at the same time, wrong. The blood was not his own. He could not find any kind of cut or graze on his body to indicate otherwise.
So, to stop himself from spiralling, all Ryan could do was hope that Joe would lead the FBI to Strauss' killer because the only thing worse than a follower was a follower who was already angry.
It felt eerie traversing the death row block so late at night. Especially when he was so sleep-deprived and already felt a little paranoid. Ryan had decided he wasn't sleeping until he figured out why he had woken up in a bathtub with bloodstained skin and clothes. His best working theory was that he had sleepwalked and stumbled into something. That used to happen a lot when he was still drinking and came home from a bar at some ungodly hour. But being sober… he had to believe it was some bizarre stress response. However, what negated this theory was the lack of bruising or marks.
This time, Ryan was directed straight to Joe's cell. Something about that felt… intimate. It was like he had been invited to his home. The FBI had concluded that Strauss was murdered by whoever had given him refuge and that they were highly skilled. The killer had to be capable of surpassing their master and catching him by surprise. Not just any of Strauss' students but one of his best. The only student of Strauss they could contact was, well, Joe. Ryan prayed he would have some decent insight. His lead technically had paid off last time. It all added up. Joe knew the man. The FBI could admit that. But Ryan also prayed he wouldn't have to sit there and let Joe psychoanalyse him.
Joe looked incredibly happy to see him. "Ryan, you kept your promise!"
He decided not to acknowledge that. "Who's Strauss' best student?"
The chains on Joe's cuffs rattled slightly. "You're looking at him, obviously."
"Yeah. Not according to Strauss."
Joe furrowed his brow.
"He considers you a failure," Ryan explained. "Too reckless, too desperate for publicity."
He seemed almost offended by that. It was almost humorous to think a man who had taken so many lives could be so easily bristled by criticism from his mentor.
"I was having a perfectly lovely dream before you barged in here and woke me up-"
"You can sleep when you're dead," Ryan said bluntly.
Joe sputtered. "Well, if you're gonna be like that, Ryan, you can go and find Strauss and ask him yourself."
"Oh, I found him... or what was left of him." Ryan smiled and took a seat to be closer to Joe. "Somebody tried to remove his head. Word is it was his star pupil."
He hummed with interest. "The king is dead. Long live the king."
"Screw the king." Ryan kept his fake smile of sincerity. "I need a name."
"Oh. Need." He chuckled. "Such a vulnerable word, Ryan, and so very dangerous when you... when you need something from me."
Did he have to make everything an innuendo? Could he ever just talk to Joe without it turning into some kind of amusement for him?
"You got a name for me or not?"
"I'm not your trick…" Joe went to gesticulate somehow but was halted by his cuffs. He relaxed, consciously trying to keep himself still. "I'm not a trick pony. I'm not just here to do your bidding, at least not without a little foreplay first. So, go on. Tell... tell me about this new love of yours."
He didn't even want Joe to know about Gwen, regardless of how little he actually felt for her — at least, romantically. Somehow, Ryan felt that not letting people like Joe, Strauss and Mark know about the people he cared about kept them distant. It protected them. Sure, they could use their connections to infiltrate government databases and discover their identities. But they wouldn't know just how much he cared about them. They couldn't hold it against him. Not as much as they wanted to.
"Have a nice death." Ryan got up. He was done here.
"Oh, don't pout, Ryan."
He stopped in his tracks. God, was he that desperate for answers that he was still going along with this?
"Arthur had rules." Joe exhaled sharply. "He was very careful to keep us isolated from each other."
Ryan started walking back over to him.
"He... he claimed it was for our own protection. I always suspected it was because he wanted us to depend solely upon him."
"But he threw all that away when he forced his students to free him from jail," Ryan pointed out.
"And this best student of yours clearly hasn't taken it terribly well."
Before Ryan could speak again, he heard a buzzer and turned to see the warden enter with a stern expression.
"Evening, Deputy Warden," Joe said, beaming.
The warden was not amused. "It's 12:01 am. Your official death warrant has been issued. Your execution will take place exactly fourteen days from today. As mandated by the state of Virginia, you will get to choose the method of your execution: death by lethal injection or the electric chair." He then left promptly, leaving him and Joe in silence again.
"Well, that certainly puts a... a damper on things, doesn't it?" Joe commented, and Ryan took that as his cue to leave.
It was a difficult situation. Finding Strauss' students was hard enough, but trying to find his best, who had the means to not be on the FBI's radar, was another issue. He had to splash cold water on his face before he left the prison, too afraid to drive home when he was so occupied with his thoughts. As the warden's words replayed in his mind, Ryan felt panic set in. It didn't feel right. Certainly not now when he was the only person able to give the FBI intel about Strauss' students. As much as a part of Ryan knew death was the only necessary way to end Joe's treachery, he couldn't bear to part with him. It felt like it was happening so suddenly, even though the date had been on his mind for what felt like forever. Ryan wished he could say this urgency was driven by Strauss' death and the unknown number of students, but the truth was he was looking for an excuse to make these days count. He would never consciously acknowledge that, but it was true.
Ryan found himself unable to resist sleep anymore and collapsed, fully clothed, on his bed. His neck would hurt like a bitch, but he was too bone-tired to care. To his relief, he woke in the same position he'd fallen asleep in. That being said, he hadn't slept for very long. He doubted he had slept deeply enough for it to be of any value. He had been woken by Gwen's keys opening the door. She looked at him with worry and seemed surprised by his presence.
"Are you alright? Did you… sleep in your clothes?"
He nodded, running a hand over his face. "Yeah, I… I was just exhausted."
"Why didn't you tell me you were back in Virginia?"
Shit. He'd neglected to tell her that he was going to see Joe. He'd made the decision so quickly. Everything that had happened after finding Strauss' body had been quick. They'd packed up and gone back to Virginia, and Ryan had decided seeing Joe was of the utmost importance. He hadn't even called Gwen to let her know.
"I'm sorry. Everything… everything just got hectic."
It was a poor excuse, one he had given her many times before. But even though she didn't seem happy with it, she didn't seem to want to start a fight either.
"I was going to clean a few things up in here. Why don't you get some more sleep?"
"Sleep, those little slices of death — how I loathe them." Joe's voice seemed to come from behind him this time. It was like he could actually feel Joe breathing down his neck. The visions always felt more real when he'd seen Joe more recently.
Ryan closed his eyes. "Yeah, I might do that."
Gwen bent down to kiss his forehead. "Sleep well."
"Yes, Ryan… sleep well," Joe echoed.
It was funny. When Gwen said it, it sounded like a genuine wish, a hope for him to get the rest his body deserved.
When Joe said it, it sounded like a threat. Ominous. Foreboding.
Like his slumber would be anything but.
It took Ryan a few days to get back into something of a routine. He couldn't let himself relax. He'd hear not just Joe's voice but other voices. A lot of them sounded like they were screaming. It took everything in him not to drown it out with the alcohol calling to him like a siren. He found himself pacing around his apartment like a zombie, feeling like he couldn't risk doing anything if he slept in spurts. Finally, in a flash of logical thinking, he realised that what had happened the night in Beacon couldn't happen again. He'd just been sleepwalking because of the unfamiliarity. That was all it had been.
But after his first night of regular sleep, he discovered he had been wrong to assume this would just disappear.
He was in the bathtub again. His clothes were damp from the dripping shower head above him, but also the large spatter of crimson on his grey t-shirt. He jolted, trying to look at it, but knocked his head on the cold tiles behind him, making him wince. Ryan muttered something to himself. What the fuck had happened? This couldn't be a self-inflicted injury; he would have pain or a wound somewhere. However, he also knew that was far too much blood to be a trivial injury. He didn't have a way of explaining this to Gwen or anybody else. Adrenaline got him to his feet, although he nearly slipped on the smooth surface of the tub. The bathroom door was shut. He kept the cleaning supplies in the bathroom cupboard. He could fix this. Ryan grabbed the bleach and garbage bags. There was no salvaging his shirt, but he could make sure it didn't smell. He was almost manic with his movements. The stain came out but left a faded patch in its place. He gagged at the stench of chemicals but persevered until he'd successfully gotten rid of everything.
"Ryan?" Gwen called through the door. "Are you alright? Why can I smell Clorox?"
"Just… cleaning the tub," he responded.
"At six in the morning?"
"I, uh, I woke up early. I wanted to go for a run, but then I realised I wanted to clean up first." He didn't even sound convincing to himself.
There was a pause. "Ryan, are you sure you're alright?"
He hated lying to her. He really did.
Ryan sighed, pressing his forehead against the door.
"I just… I just needed a minute, Gwen."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
He wished he could. He wished he actually felt like he was being his authentic self around her, but he wasn't. If he confessed any of this, she would either run away screaming or have him committed. And she very much had the authority for the latter. But maybe he didn't have to say the words. He opened the door and saw her concerned expression. He was on the verge of tears. He was so tired. He was so scared. Gwen cupped his face, looked him in the eyes, and, at that moment, he broke down. She took him in her arms and hushed him. God, there was so much wrong with him. There was so much he wanted to say but he knew he would take it to his grave. No priest, no shrink, no loved one would ever be ready to hear about his delusions. He half-expected Joe to appear now to mock him, but he didn't, to his relief.
When Ryan came out of his despair, he realised there was only one thing he could do to find reprieve. He had to get to the bottom of this.
"Those who dream by day are cognisant of many things which escape those who dream only by night."
It was an appropriate Poe quote, but not one that Joe recited, rather, one that came to his mind, only affirming that this version of Joe was a product of his own thoughts.
His investigation also meant keeping Gwen at arm's reach in case she was endangered in any way. She wasn't happy about his request for space. He told her it was because of Joe's impending execution, but she clearly knew there was more to it. However, she respected it, and that was what mattered. For the next week, he tried a myriad of strategies, from filming himself to sleeping pills to cuffing himself to the bed. He somehow managed to delete every recording (even with fail-safes), resist his medication (probably from being so desensitised to alcohol), and unpick his cuffs or, when he flushed the key down the toilet, break straight out of them. The bloodstains he'd wake up to find were bigger and bigger. The skin on his hands was raw from scrubbing. He swore that even when he'd cleaned everything, he could still see the crimson splatters wherever he went. His body felt weak, and his core muscles seared like they were being overused. Like it was a routine. He was actually running out of casual clothes, and he had to go buy a handful of cheap t-shirts, even though his pessimism expected them to end up in the fireplace along with the rest of his bleached garments.
So, when Gwen called to ask him how he was, he lied and invited her back. Perhaps one night, she would be awake to see him get up and maybe stop him. He doubted it. Somehow, this subconscious version of him seemed elusive enough to be able to get past her. Ryan hated to think it might stem from the same part of him that conjured Joe when he needed him the least.
"That which you mistake for madness is but an over acuteness of the senses," Joe said to him one night when he was sitting up, spiralling about how he couldn't trust himself. "You're just exhausted, Ryan. You're perfectly sane, I assure you."
He rolled his eyes. "Says the figment of my imagination," he muttered.
"I think with a good night's rest, you'll realise just how brilliant you are," Joe suggested with a smile, which made Ryan want to keep himself awake even more.
Ryan didn't lie back down there, too stubborn to let Joe be right about something. He did, however, continue to tease him about his insomnia, commenting on the dark circles beneath his eyes and his jitteriness. But he was only human. So, again, he succumbed to his fatigue and fell asleep. When he woke, he wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he felt… different. Less troubled. Refreshed, even. Like he had nothing to worry about. Joe stood over the bed, smiling and holding a knife out to him like an offer. Ryan took it without hesitation. It was almost like he'd expected it. It was something he needed. They stood together beside the bed, watching the rise and fall of Gwen's chest. He supposed he should cherish it. After all, it was the last time he'd see it.
"So, how do we do this?" he asked Joe.
But Joe simply shook his head and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You already know. You've learned so much since you let me start teaching you."
It felt like he'd been splashed with cold water. What the hell was he doing? Why was he indulging him? The hand holding the knife started to shake, but it seemed to move autonomously. The more he resisted, the stronger the urge was. This was a dream. It had to be. He'd probably fallen asleep supine and started lucid dreaming. The TV had been on before he'd gone to bed. Maybe there was a news report of Joe playing. That had to be it. He was hearing things. He was seeing things. He was delirious. He needed to wake up. Wake up. Snap out of this. Joe wasn't real. This wasn't real. He felt like he was being choked, manhandled, moved around like a rag-doll. The knife inched dangerously close to Gwen, but he didn't want it to. God, was this some twisted metaphor for keeping secrets from her? Why did his mind have to work in such fucked-up ways?
When he woke, a scream escaped his hoarse throat. He was dripping with sweat. But not just sweat. Dirt. Blood. He reeked of it. It wasn't just on his clothes this time but the sheets, too. When he looked beside himself frantically, Gwen was gone.
He didn't need to try to entertain himself with some excuse.
Wherever she was, she was already dead.
And, in sixteen hours, Joe would be, too.
Ryan noticed that everyone around him was very skittish, not meeting his eye. That was fair enough, he supposed; his girlfriend was missing, yet here he was watching an execution. He could practically hear Gwen's voice criticising him for choosing Joe over her again. But he had spent years trying to bring Joe to justice, and there was only one chance to see it happen. It had to end. Not only would this give him solace that Joe could never hurt or inspire anyone again, but he also prayed that seeing him die, the symbolism of it all, would make him stop seeing Joe for good. It would mean actually facing the crumbling state of his life. But he could always throw himself into obsessively chasing down Mark or any of Strauss' students the FBI was aware of. There was still work to be done. He would find an excuse. He always did.
He watched the sight before him like a hawk, terrified at any moment that the executioner would free Joe from his restraints and let him escape, but he didn't. The FBI had done a background check (Ryan had done one, too), and it seemed they had no relation. But as things proceeded to finality, he felt so many emotions rise in him. If Joe knew that, he would be very intrigued, Ryan was sure.
"Joe Carroll, the State of Virginia has sentenced you to die for your many crimes. Do you have any final words?"
Joe sighed, like he was replying to a student's umpteenth question. "Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore'."
As he said this, Ryan felt like he could hear the words not just aloud but inside of him. Within minutes, Joe was dead. He put up a good fight. The man did not go willingly. But go, he did. Ryan stayed in the room until Joe's body was covered with a sheet and wheeled away. He wordlessly followed the coroner to the crematorium, keeping his expression stoic to prevent anybody from questioning his presence. Before the cremation, Ryan asked to see the body again. Joe was dead. At no point could this have been faked.
All was silent as he drove home. In a way, he almost missed having Joe nag him. He felt empty. Like a part of his soul had died, true to Joe's words. And with Gwen gone, he didn't have anybody to keep up a good reputation for. Mike and Max might care about him, but they knew not to expect miracles, unlike Gwen, whose optimism that he could heal had been almost suffocating. So, Ryan found himself in a dive bar and ordered two shots of whiskey like second nature. He intended to down one and then the other, but as he reached for the second, Joe's hand stopped him. Ryan had never been optimistic that Joe would disappear. But to see him dressed casually and smiling like he was an old buddy put paid to any small hope that he might be able to get rid of him. To hell with it, he thought as he indulged him, even toasting their glasses together. God, he was delirious.
Over the following week, the FBI recovered a record-high number of bodies, including Mark and Gwen. All were found in the Potomac with multiple stab wounds and their eyes gouged out. They weren't Strauss-style murders. They weren't even Mark-style murders. No, they were classic Joe-Carroll-style murders. Ryan took count of the number of corpses and the number of times he had woken up someplace strange covered in blood, and the numbers were very close. But correlation was not causation. He couldn't have had anything to do with this, right? He couldn't have killed these people, especially not Gwen. The notion that he had not just been sleepwalking but able to leave the house, drive, kill someone, and dispose of the body before coming home, was ludicrous, especially when he considered Gwen. He would have woken to her screams and cries of pain. It just didn't make any sense. For starters, he had no reason to kill these people. Certainly not Gwen. The others were followers of Mark and Strauss, but also several innocents. He didn't even know these people. No. He wasn't a killer, nor was he a sleepwalking killer.
"There are some secrets that do not permit themselves to be told," Joe warned.
Ryan was sitting in his office alone, but there were cameras, and he didn't want to look like he was talking to himself. Although the FBI probably didn't consider him a suspect, he was the last person to see Gwen, and they probably already doubted his ability to focus on the case rationally.
"Shut up," he replied without moving his lips. "Just shut up and leave me alone. Why won't you disappear?"
"Because I'm a part of you, Ryan. The reason you keep seeing me is you. You want me here."
"No, I don't," he refused stubbornly.
Joe sighed. "Convinced myself, I seek not to convince. You are a real arse when you want to be, aren't you?"
Ryan didn't know what about that did it for him, but he couldn't take it anymore. He slammed his hand on the desk.
"What do you want?" he asked, gritting his teeth.
"Well, to help you, of course." Joe moved to stand behind the desk, looking over the screen. "I want to catch this killer as much as you do, especially since it seems they're not a student of Strauss but rather a student of mine. That is some of the tidiest eye gouging I've ever seen."
Ryan decided to ignore that and try thinking aloud about the case. "Why dump the body in the river? They took the time to clean up the scene but then rushed to the river when their profile tells me they would have burned or disintegrated the bodies. They knew it would have only been a matter of time until someone found them. Unless the river is symbolic somehow..."
Joe hummed in approval. "Oh, how I love watching your mind at work. In another life, perhaps we could have been colleagues at an Ivy League university."
The coroner had summarised that the same kind of murder weapon had been used for each murder: a sharp but wide blade, possibly a utility knife. Nothing special. It was similar to the proposed murder weapon for Strauss — whose murder was also unsolved. But Strauss had not been killed Carroll-style, so maybe it was a coincidence. Ryan started to look for nearby hardware stores. Most talented killers were smart enough to use a generic weapon but add their own flair to the method. It was easy to do with knife wounds. The location, the intensity, the number of stabs, could all be orchestrated to convey just the right message. He found a handful of relatively cheap and popular utility knives. When he brought up the purchase history for those knives over the last month, he was unsurprised to see hundreds of names listed. Most of these people were probably innocent. Owning a knife wasn't a crime. He decided to cross-reference it with a list of known aliases of their suspects, but who was to say they hadn't used a new one? Ryan also couldn't deny the possibility that someone at the FBI was involved. He'd never stopped thinking about that being a possibility. How else were any of the followers able to be so elusive? Feeling like no harm could be done, he decided to throw in the list of FBI personnel in DC for referencing, and only then did he get a match.
Mike Weston.
He had purchased one of the contenders for a murder weapon about two days before they had gone to Beacon. Maybe he killed Strauss. He shook his head. What was he thinking? Mike couldn't have done this. It had to be a coincidence or a set-up, a distraction to deter the FBI from the real killer.
"Or maybe he really did it, Ryan," Joe suggested, making him scoff. "Think about it. After you, I dare say he's the second-best scholar of my work. If anybody wanted to go along and do all these wonderful killings to honour me… they would have to be well-informed, and Mike certainly is."
Ryan hadn't really thought of it that way, the killings being a tribute to Joe, a way to honour him one last time before his execution. Given that the killer had started by eliminating Strauss, then the last of Strauss's students, then Mark, and now innocents, it made sense. The killer wanted to eliminate all imposters, everyone who had tried to reach Joe's infamy but failed. They wanted to prove that the only worthy serial killer was Joe.
"Awful quiet, aren't we?" Joe said with a chuckle. "I don't hear you defending dear Mikey."
He rolled his eyes. "Because there's no point. It's stupid. I'm not entertaining this with you."
"But the fact that I'm even suggesting it means you must not think it's impossible, Ryan. Years of love have been forgot in the hatred of a minute."
"Mike isn't the killer!" he snapped, no longer caring about keeping up appearances. Yelling at himself was probably not the craziest thing people might expect of him. "This is insane. No matter how desperate we are to find the people who did this, I'm not going to suspect Mike."
"Then why would he buy the knife?"
Why would he? Was he really letting Joe get in his head and create doubt? For all he knew, Mike could have bought the knife for self-defence (as if he didn't have one, being an FBI agent), or for hunting (although he didn't have a life outside of work, so hollowed out by the grief over his father).
Mark was one of the bodies they recovered.
Could Mike have killed Mark, then killed others to make it look like a straggling follower of Joe's?
He had the means to. He had the anger. He had the kind of pain to make him go insane enough to do so. Ryan wasn't the only one who had been slowly spiralling into madness. This was crazy. He couldn't possibly be considering that Mike was the killer here. He needed more evidence. Or did he? If this were another suspect, the credit card record would be enough to go on.
But before he could talk himself out of it, another quote came out of Joe's mouth. "Science has not yet taught us if madness is or is not the sublimity of intelligence. Think about every regret you've ever had, Ryan. You could argue those instances came from not trusting your gut. But you know what your gut is telling you now: to listen so you can make the right choice even if it goes against what you want to believe."
He didn't want to admit it, but Joe was right. He couldn't rule this out. He had to get to the truth.
However, the FBI wouldn't sanction this. Which meant it was up to him.
Did he trust himself right now? Not really.
But was he going to let this go? Absolutely not.
Ryan watched Mike slowly blink his eyes open. In the years he'd worked at the FBI, Ryan didn't ever think he'd be interrogating him, let alone doing so off-book by drugging his coffee and dragging him to a restricted access area. Was he really about to do this? Question Mike about buying the knife? If he was wrong, he would never forgive him. But if he was right… well, then he could end this all for good. The possibility of being able to do so was precisely why he was letting this happen.
"I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results," he quoted to himself.
"Very good, Ryan. I really am rubbing off on you, aren't I?"
"Ryan?" Mike breathed, his words a little slurred. "What's going on?"
He folded his arms. He had to keep a straight face here. "One month ago, you bought a utility knife at Davis Hardware. Why?"
Mike squinted at him. "What?"
Ryan started to pace around, trying to avoid looking at his face. "You bought the knife that was used to kill Strauss, Mark, Gwen, and every other body that washed up in the river. It was all you, wasn't it?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked, a little more firm this time. "What- What knife? I didn't buy a knife, and I definitely didn't buy the murder weapon."
"Then why was your credit card on file? You also bought garbage bags, bleach, gloves... I could go on, Mike."
He sputtered. "You're interrogating me over a credit card record? Did you check anything else, or did you just decide to run with that?"
Ryan was so focused on his theory that he didn't notice the sound of his voice. Mike repeated what Ryan had said, emphasising the words. "You've been spending time with Joe, haven't you?" Mike concluded. "God, you're sick, Ryan. You kept visiting him over and over again, and now you're talking like him, too," he said with disgust. "Why the hell am I in a holding room? Who authorised this?"
"Ah, even Mike can see how much of an influence I've had on you," Joe mused.
"Oh my God… nobody knows you've got me here, do they? You've gone completely rogue."
"I need to know who killed Gwen, Mike. And so far, you're the only lead," he replied coldly.
Mike's shoulders slumped. "I'm your friend, Ryan. I've the one who's had your back all these years. Not Joe. Me."
Joe pouted. "Well, that's just rude, isn't it? I am the only one who has ever understood you. You know that, Ryan."
"Shut up," Ryan muttered. "I need to focus."
"Who are you talking to?" Mike demanded. "Are... are you drunk? No, I've seen you drunk. Are you high?"
"You've been sober for so long, but he doesn't trust you at all, does he?" Joe pointed out. "A real friend would have a little more faith in you, Ryan."
Ryan clenched his fist. "You haven't been the same since your father was killed." He pointed at Mike, his voice hardening with anger. "You've been off the rails. You've been distant-"
"Says the man who drugged me and tied me up!" Mike roared.
"R… Ryan?" a familiar voice sounded. It wasn't in the room but over the loudspeaker from the vestibule.
"Max?" Mike asked. "Max, you have to help me!"
Ryan didn't even have to listen to Joe's instructions before he found himself standing behind Mike, pulling his head back by his hair, and pressing a knife to his throat.
"Excellent technique, Ryan," Joe praised with a purr.
Within seconds, the door opened. Max held up a gun but didn't seem convinced she would use it.
"Ryan, what's going on? Why… why are you doing this to Mike?"
"Doing what?" he said, acting like he had no idea what she was talking about.
She gestured to Mike. "You kidnapped him!"
"He's the killer, Max. He's the one trying to honour Joe. He killed Strauss, Mark, and Gwen."
Max didn't seem to believe that, but she didn't dismiss it either. She looked at Ryan, then down at Mike.
"Something's wrong with him, Max," Mike rasped. "Don't listen to him. He… someone's trying to set me up. They used my credit card to buy the murder weapon. Or maybe there isn't a record at all. Maybe he's seeing things. I-I don't know, but you can't trust him."
Her eyes widened.
"G-Get the CCTV footage. If you line it up, you'll see I wasn't there," Mike postulated desperately. "There has to be an explanation."
"Don't even think about leaving, Max. Or he dies," Ryan threatened, drawing blood as he pressed the blade against the hollow of Mike's throat, feeling him shake.
"Ryan, please, talk to me," Max begged. "What are you doing?"
Max bit her lip. It seemed she was tossing up between leaving him and going to check out Mike's story. Mike had a point. Ryan hadn't seen the CCTV footage. He'd just taken the credit card footage at face value. Even then, with everything he'd been seeing could he really trust that? What was wrong with him? The hand holding the knife started to drop, reality returning to him as the image of Joe next to Max faded, too.
"Trust yourself, Ryan," Joe said, almost commandingly, strengthening the image of him.
"N-No," he dared to say. "I can't. No, Joe, I'm not listening to you anymore."
"Joe?!" Max and Mike exclaimed in unison, but Ryan didn't even care to try to explain himself. He needed this to stop. He had seen the light, the truth, and realised he didn't want to do this anymore. At the same time, when he looked at Joe, everything faded into the background, his mind could quiet, and he felt like he was on the single, righteous path he was meant to be on.
There were only three voices, but they became so loud. Ryan dropped the knife, covered his ears and started yelling for it to stop. Max came to tend to Mike, and only then did Joe's voice boom over the rest.
"Stop them, Ryan," he warned. "This is all part of the plan. You need to honour me, and if they leave the room, that's not going to happen."
All of those moments where he'd woken up covered in blood came back to him. Of course. How could he have been so blind? He was the one behind all of this. He had been so unwilling to let Joe go that he had decided to murder people in his honour, just to keep the case alive, just to keep him alive. But Joe had a point. He was too far gone to let Mike and Max leave. He didn't want to hurt them, but he would if it made them understand that they couldn't turn him in. Mike was trying to break free from the rope binding him, and Max was trying to help him. In one swift motion, he grabbed Max by the collar and shoved her against the wall. She looked at him with such terror, an emotion he should never elicit from the woman who considered him a father.
"Max!" Mike yelled, grunting as he tried to break free.
She tried to fight him off, but Ryan knew she was holding back, still conflicted in her heart.
"It was you. All of this was you, wasn't it?" Max accused harshly. "Joe got in your head and made you start doing his bidding. How could you? You killed Gwen, Ryan. You loved her."
"No, I didn't," he admitted, meeting her eye so she knew he meant it, and her face screwed up in disgust, even as his hand wrapped around her throat.
"Silence her, Ryan," Joe instructed. "It's the only way."
Mike still hadn't escaped his bonds, judging by the frustrated noises he was making behind him.
"Shoot him!" Mike begged. "I know how important he is to you, but you have to do this."
Still, she hesitated. She couldn't. She wouldn't.
"Max, if you don't, he'll kill you! Please!" Mike sounded almost as crazy as he did.
Mike continued to beseech her as Joe continued to beseech him until a single gunshot rang out. Max looked horrified. Joe gasped. Ryan looked down at the hole in his shirt with amusement. Well, he had raised her right, after all. Perhaps she had some of the same darkness in her, too. She'd aimed well. It had fired straight into his heart. He would bleed out and succumb to his injury in seconds.
So, the only thing he could do was laugh.
"To die laughing must be the most glorious of all glorious deaths!"
He watched his fingers come away sticky with blood from the gaping wound in his chest before he collapsed to the ground. When he spoke, it didn't even sound like his own voice. It sounded like Joe's. It was Joe's.
As everything started to go black, Max's screams of regret ringing in his ears, Ryan realised one thing.
Joe had been right: his execution had sealed his fate.
Because Joe was dead, and, in just a moment, he would be, too.