Chapter Text
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“Agent McCall- do you have anything to say about the video released earlier today? Any idea where Theo Raeken might be now, or what his plans are?”
Scott stares blankly at the reporter for a moment too long, long enough that the recorder pushes into his face, probably catching his breathing. He tries not to wonder how many clips of just his breath are out there on random laptops. It gets weird when he does. “I am no longer in the field. That is common knowledge.” He resists the nasty comment that wants to spill out. Same purposeful mislabeling of his status to get a rise out of him. It won’t, not anymore. His choices have led him to where he is, and he has accepted that. Scott was a former FBI agent and a lecturer. Emphatic was on both counts. The minute a fresh wave of interest came about with the Raeken case, the university kindly asked him to take a leave of absence. Scott would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed. The lectures pulled a lot of interest towards the university, and seats were always filled, but Scott wasn't all that surprised. Even if the university eventually decided he wasn't worth the hassle, his bank account would not take a massive hit. If he were frugal, he could live off the income the book he wrote pulled in; it was about the Raeken case. Reporters may not receive any soundbites, but that did not mean the digs didn't hurt.
“Theo Raeken is dead. Now, if you will excuse me?” He walks around the reporter; the investigative journalist—whatever this shark wants to call itself. He maintains a steady pace, taking medium-length strides. Never too quick or too slow, as he continues to his destination: A hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. He gets the ground beans there because they taste better than the expensive crap that keeps winding up in his cabinets from Liam. He buys three different flavors this time. One he knows he likes, and two new Fall-related flavors he has not seen before. It all tasted the same after creamer, but he liked to pretend. At least he is not hitting the liquor stores or fucking around anymore. He pays for the items and adds a hot cider with sweet foam to the order on a whim. Scott's life is not exactly back together after the man he fell in love with turned out to be a criminal, who wound up killing his wife while trying to evade capture. The very same serial killer that Scott had been investigating at the time.
Adulation and charm kept him blind to the signs he should have noticed. The intense way Theo Raeken observed people, calculating, as if they were a puzzle to be solved; every detail about them cataloged and filed away for use at a later time. It was endearing when some small detail would crop up in a later conversation. He made you feel important enough to look at. However, there was always something amiss regarding his behavior. Endearing, charming, and alluring as the intensity was in the moment, it was also a warning Scott ignored.
The early murders were not something Scott could have prevented. The final one, however, was entirely on him.
Scott evades more reporters on his way home, taking side alleys to avoid other prying eyes. He meets no one on the elevator ride up. He unlocks the door to the apartment and pauses in the entryway.
The lights are on.
His drink gets set on the closest table, beside the dish where keys are kept. Quietly nudging the door closed, Scott draws his firearm. His steps around the kitchen breakfast bar are light-footed and careful until he spots the familiar navy blue jacket draped across a chair and a set of keys on the counter off to the left. Shaking his head with a soft swear, he flicks the safety back on and makes the gun disappear once more. Snagging the keys and backtracking to triple lock the door and enable the security system, he adds his and his guest's keys to the bowl. The paper cup is still blissfully warm as he picks up the hot cider concoction. Taking a sip, he makes his way across the apartment. “Any movement on known Raekenist's or the three new faces? That video is almost twenty-four hours old now.”
Just inside the door to what his friend sarcastically calls the ‘Raeken room’, Agent Liam Dunbar is reclining in one of the two chairs in the room, files spread across the table, laptop open, and a mug of coffee that still spews steam by his left hand. “No. His original Followers are likely waiting for a reaction just like this Deucalion fellow is.”
Mouth pulling into a frown as he enters the room, Scott drops down into the remaining chair. What a continuous nightmare this was turning out to be. He takes a look at the closest wall: photos of people—witnesses, victims, and suspects—all with strings connecting them to points on the map, or crossed off with a line to mark them as deceased. He grimaces as his eyes pass across Deucalion, then the twins Ethen and Aiden Steiner. Individuals who created the video that emerged out of the blue in support of Raeken two days before the anniversary of his death.
The video in question was broadcast live and ended with the very real death of a young woman who had been reported missing six days prior. Her body was found artfully posed on a park bench, as seen in the footage. Not as 'clean' as Raeken or his Followers would have done.
Three figures wearing composite masks of Theo Raeken’s face stood behind her in the video. One by one, they removed the masks. Uncaring if the world saw their faces. Or perhaps the reveal was making a point as they called out for Theo’s return. A new chapter, they had said, in the legacy already built.
The thought that Theo might not have died, instead having survived the truck explosion during his prison transport a year ago, was not a new one to Scott. A theory his peers would say was paranoid and brought upon by trauma, if he ever mentioned it to anyone other than Liam; the younger man had his reservations regarding said theory. Not an accepted theory, but one that stayed at the back of his thoughts regardless. It was one of the reasons Scott has maintained his sobriety and stayed healthy as of late. To be ready. Just in case.
Liam tosses the current file onto the mess already on the table, the Manila folder smacking the table with a sharp slap. “I hate to say it, but we may just have to wait.” An ankle hooks around Scott’s under the table.
He looks over to burning blue eyes and a cheeky grin, “Whatever could we do to pass the time?”
Scott breathes out a laugh, downs the rest of his cider, and thinks, why not?
An indeterminate amount of time later, Scott is leaving Liam to nap in his bedroom, moving once more to the Raeken room as if called by a Siren’s song. What Liam said earlier was true, in that waiting was likely all they could do for the moment. Waiting sets his teeth on edge. Waiting means more deaths.
So while he could still be curled up in bed with Liam, he would feel useless if he did. As useless as he will feel combing over weeks-old leads, old files, and staring at the information boards that cover the walls of the room, and still coming up with an abundance of nothing. He thumbs through the pages of the folder left open from earlier and flips between the top sheet and the third page, almost desperate to spot a new clue, to prove his time here is not wasted, and better spent with the naked body wrapped in slate grey sheets instead.
Scott has Liam's support and would not be where he is in recovery if not for him. Has his friendship. Maybe his love, too, if Scott could find it in himself to do more than fuck him. The words on the case file blur before him, making less and less sense as his thoughts stray. He cares for Liam. Truly.
Yet... Theo Raeken was an aggressive virus. Once he infects you, the sickness spreads, overtaking any healthy cells in its path until there is nothing left of the host.
So, while he does care about Liam, there is still the possibility of an escaped serial killer to catch, or at the very least, the rest of his cult. Scott will not stop until all of them are dead or behind bars. It is the only way he will be able to rest again. No one else may believe him, rightfully shouldn’t, but Scott knows the qualities of the man who fooled so many people. His cunning, brilliant mind had found a way to deal with prison, the place that should have been the end of it all, and not a hurdle to jump. The prison transfer had been unexpected at the time. Part of a plan not yet revealed, something Scott can feel in his bones.
Eyes drift to the board on the far wall where a grinning photo stares back, “What are you up to, T?”
Inevitably, his gaze dips lower to another set of photos. The first set of victims was murdered by Theo’s own hands, and not by crazed Followers enamored by the expressive way Theo spoke and taught his classes. He ensnared young and old minds alike to give in to violent tendencies. It was a nightmare.
A single photo with a single red string connects to Theo’s, crossed off with a line marking the subject as deceased.
Allison Argent-Raeken had been a high school friend of Scott’s. A budding agent in her own right before she left law enforcement behind to support her then-fiancés writing career. They kept in touch through text and sites like Facebook, where they would comment on a photo or wish each other a happy birthday. No longer the teenagers who spent all their time together, part of a friend group that meant the world to each other.
A case of gruesome murders was eventually assigned to Scott, which landed him in the same state as Allison, investigating the surrounding college areas in hopes of catching the killer before they struck again. And it appeared they would, given the inspirational source material: That being, the writer and poet, Edgar Allan Poe.
He reconnected with Allison by pure accident while hunting down a flimsy lead. By that point, any lead had been worth pursuing.
She directed him to her husband, who taught classes at the local college and was well-versed in the writings of Poe.
What Scott had not expected was to come face to face with a devastatingly handsome and charismatic man, one who was eager to discuss the intricacies of his chosen subject, grim as it was, being connected to the deaths of young women.
Scott had always heard ‘I never meant to’ or ‘it snuck up on me’ during interviews and statements from witnesses or suspects regarding adultery. And it was always a lie. Scott was no better. He'd noticed the oncoming betrayal of Allison’s trust as a slow-moving car crash he did nothing to avoid. In multiple instances, he fell into bed with her husband, with each one being ‘the final time’ until the next time. Scott could no more stop than Theo could, entangled in each other and the case that brought them together. Seeing Theo brightened his days, and caused a tightening in his chest, he did not recognize at the time.
Allison had also been his friend.
Someone happy with her life.
Sleeping with her husband was the worst thing he could have done to her, and part of him thought she knew early on what was happening, but chose to ignore it to hold onto the relationship she cherished. That might have also been around the time she began to suspect her husband of having more than an affair; that he could have ties to the local murders. The charisma that attracted her was possibly weaponized against others.
When she brought up her concerns to him, Scott wanted to immediately dismiss the idea as ludicrous. It was Theo— he was a harmless literary, not a killer. Could never be. Allison had looked at him with sad, understanding eyes.
“Scott,” she had said, “Trust me when I say that I know my husband better than you. I think we have both been so very blind about this whole investigation.” After all he had done to her and her marriage, the least he could do was humor her.
They went through his case binder together. Every piece of evidence. Every literary reference made, and what they could mean. While Theo was not the only one in the immediate area who knew or revered Poe, he was one of the best.
In the end, there had been no real proof, and they agreed to speak with Theo first. Scott had his firearm and backup on standby and ready to move in on his say-so; he had not mentioned the specifics, except that there may be a solid lead they could not afford to spook.
Theo had been a step ahead.
He took the accusations too calmly, humming and nodding his head as he poured them all glasses of wine.
“Theo, please. Tell me we are off base.” Allison’s glass was mostly empty, having taken a gulp, before pleading with her husband, reaching across the table to hold his hands. Theo had cupped her smaller ones in his, smiled gently, and shook his head. “You always were so willfully blind when it came to me.”
Scott was certain in that moment their expressions matched: dumbfounded. The casual way Theo had admitted their worst fears made him feel insane. How could he be the killer?
Allison began to sway, head bobbing in an attempt to keep her eyes open. Scott had stood to help her, only for his vision to grow fuzzy. Looking from the wine to Theo’s strained smirk, he understood. They had been drugged. Scott hit his head on the way down, with Allison already passed out across the tabletop.
He'd woken up tied to a chair with Theo setting the final touches to the crime scene.
Tongue heavy in his mouth, he managed to speak after a few tries. “What have you done?”
“Oh. Finally awake?” Theo had barely looked up from how he arranged Allison’s limbs. “Not my finest work, but, well, I was not exactly expecting to be doing this today.” Theo sighed. “In my haste to be ready for the two of you, I confess I did not properly monitor the dosages in the glasses. Hers was a tad too strong. Stopped her heart, poor thing.” Theo reached out for his cheek, cupped it, even when Scott tried to jerk away from the touch. Theo tsk'd. “I really wanted us to have more time.”
The lips on his had been warm, Scott remembers that clearly. The eyes that had always pulled him in, that he had come to love, hazel favoring a pretty green, had been devoid of emotion.
How had everyone missed that?
It was anyone's guess what Theo's original plan had been. If he intended to leave Scott tied up by Allison's body as he escaped, or add Scott to the gruesome display. Agents had flooded the house only minutes later to disrupt the proceedings and Scott’s futile attempts at freeing himself. Someone must have tried to contact him multiple times and decided to move in when there was no reply.
Theo had looked at his unfinished work, at Scott, and the closed door that separated them from law enforcement. Theo became enraged. Impulsive. He plucked the knife from the table and drove it into Scott’s chest. Part of him had been astounded, in full disbelief that this Theo was the same one he had fallen into bed with, that had touched him so gently and intimately. The rest of him had been in excruciating agony. As his eyes shuttered closed, he'd watched the raven-haired man attempt to flee through the second-story window.
Waking up in the hospital and being told Theo Raeken had been arrested had been the best and worst news.
On one hand, the fifteen women killing streak—fourteen college-aged, and then his wife Allison—was over. Theo is in custody and unable to hurt anyone else. On the other hand, there was the collateral left behind; so many families were left broken, with the only resolution being a man behind bars. Their loved ones remained dead, and nothing would ever change that. Scott refused to count himself a part of that grieving category, as his misery had been self-manufactured by terrible choices that affected more than himself.
His job had been in limbo by that point. The actions he'd taken, including the affair he had with Theo, were under scrutiny. Not that Scott would have been able to go back anyway. A knife to the chest had consequences. Career-ending ones separate from his fuck-ups.
Scott had been in a hospital bed at the start of the trial, and doing physical therapy when the jury finally found a verdict. Guilty. On all charges. Theo would get the death penalty. The news overshadowed Scott’s recovery progress, the visits from his mother, and calls from his high school friends he had kept in touch with. Like Stiles, his best friend, and Liam, who had been two years younger than all of them but no less important a fixture in their group. As with Allison, life got in the way once they graduated. Unlike with Allison, Liam kept in frequent contact and had even visited on occasion when time permitted. Between his own training and job commitments, it was not nearly as often as either of them liked. The insanity of their hometown of Beacon Hills created an abnormal number of teenagers wanting to go into law enforcement. Four from his friend group alone. They had both promised—Stiles and Liam—that when their caseloads lessened, they would visit. The sentiment was nice. And if a large portion of Scott had not felt hollowed out, he would have appreciated the gestures more at the time.
Instead, after physical therapy, he hit rock bottom.
His career imploded as the ‘medical’ leave was a nice way of letting him go, and everyone knew it. Just as they knew what he’d done. The whispers and stares when he made it to the office for a meeting were uneasy, as were the loaded opinions of him. Shame kept him from bringing attention to the comments, instead taking every harsh word and locking it away to inspect later on. Alone.
Scott had found solace in a bottle. Then another. And another. Until liquor was more common in his apartment than water. If he drank a little more, if his vision blurred more fully, maybe he could forget the image of Allison lying out on the table, a drugged glass of wine knocked over by her reaching fingertips.
The last moment he saw her alive.
A preventable death that has only one person at fault.
Scott is not proud of how badly he allowed himself to fall apart in the span of only a few years. The only consolation was that he was never tempted by drugs, not that the alcohol did his heart any favors. Palpitations. Chest pain. General weakness. All the time.
At least until Liam helped him crawl out of the hole he’d put himself in. The younger man went above and beyond what any friend should ever need or have to do to get him sober. The care shown was not something Scott could ever hope to repay, though now, at least, Scott does try.
The chosen execution date for Theo Raeken eventually snuck up on him in the worst of ways, giving his hands the shakes for days as he'd awaited the end of that long month. Liam had been by his side as much as possible, though Scott would like to believe he could have managed on his own by that point.
News of multiple inmate attacks involving Theo made the news, as did his impending transfer to another facility. Liam had been at work when that news broke, dealing with his cases whilst also trying to scrounge up information about the security details, and why it mattered if a death-row inmate was murdered by his ‘peers’ in the first place.
In the end, Theo Raeken did die. Just not how anyone thought he would. A fiery, explosive-filled one was in the middle of a transfer when a stolen truck filled with gas collided with the lead car escorting him during the transfer. Law enforcement concluded his death was accidental, coincidental even. His DNA was compared with that of what was on file. It matched.
Scott should have been relieved.
Except a small part of his mind had urged him to search for an exploit, proof that Theo was not gone. That was around the time the Followers, also called Raekenist's, cropped up. Individuals who took up the mantle of a recently deceased murderer. But that happened to be the first of many strings Scott was able to pull on, to delve deeper into a case he should have let burn to ashes months ago.
The FBI had ruled Theo Raeken’s death an accidental byproduct of his Followers trying to free him, and the subsequent string of murders using the imagery of Poe was a way to memorialize him.
Scott disagreed then and still does now. Immortalize, not memorialize. The Raekenist's were too well organized.
At first, Liam had been unimpressed, worry buried under a thin veil of incredulity.
"So what? Raeken left them instructions to follow before his untimely death. Case closed." Scott had shaken his head. "That's too simple."
"Not everything has to be a master plan."
"It does when Theo is involved."
Into the deep they went, combing through every file Liam could get his hands on.
Now here they are, still searching, still trying to understand what plans may be going on in the background, unseen.
For all the success he has had with recovery, with the book he wrote as part of that journey, Scott continues to feel as useless as when he first woke in the hospital.