The victims’ faces appeared in sequence on the screen.
“Frank McKay died before he could be unmasked. He killed nineteen women and two men, and is a suspect in fifteen other murders. Not even a modern tracking program such as ViCAP could have established a common pattern.”
A circular maze was projected on-screen.
“I told you earlier that perhaps no one saw the real Frank McKay other than his childhood friend Andrew Dobbins. But that may not be entirely true. It is possible that his first wife, Kristen McKay, who had to put up with his beatings and abuse for years, had glimpsed the evil that dwelt in her husband’s inner being. But Kristen had psychiatric problems, and her condition became severe during the years they lived together. McKay’s child Ted, however, also witnessed his father’s erratic behavior. Young Ted, a chess prodigy who became a successful businessman, held the key to the mystery.”
Randall pointed to the center of the labyrinth.
“A key that would remain hidden for years, and whose fascinating trajectory you will have the opportunity to learn at first hand.”
The image of the labyrinth receded slowly, until it was revealed to be the image on the cover of a book. The Only Way Out was the title. Underneath, in large red letters, was the author’s name.
“Ladies and gentlemen, without any further ado, I present to you the woman who finally brought these facts into the light of day. I give you Dr. Laura Hill.”
Loud applause greeted Laura, who dashed to the front of the room and took her place at a table beside the screen. It was her third book presentation, but she was still as nervous as she’d been the first time. She sought out Deedee in the front row, and the mere sight of her sister there, clapping effusively, gave her strength. Her sister had always been important in her life, but in recent months, since her dismissal from Lavender and her subsequent breakup with Marcus, Deedee had become her main support. Deedee and Walter, of course. But Deedee was the only one who had encouraged her to finish her book when things got rough at Lavender. “The manuscript is excellent. If your bosses at the hospital gave you an ultimatum, I say the hell with them. And as for that boyfriend of yours, it wouldn’t surprise me if he washed his hands of it all. You know I never did like him.”
Deedee was not mistaken.
“Welcome!”
“Thank you, Randall.”
For this night, Laura had picked out a mustard-yellow skirt and a long-sleeve white blouse. Always long-sleeve. It hugged her figure, and when she sat down and laid her hands in her lap, she made sure her right wrist was not exposed. Only a thin strip of burnt skin could be seen peeking out from the cuff.
“First off,” Randall said, “let me say what a tremendous pleasure it is for me to have been invited here tonight.”
Laura nodded.
“Thank you for your wonderful introduction.”
“You’re very welcome.”
The reporter turned to look at the screen, on which the cover of Laura’s book was still projected. As if the question had just occurred to him, he asked, “Tell us: why a labyrinth, Laura?”
“Oh, I’ve always found labyrinths fascinating. I grew up in Hawks Nest, North Carolina, and there was a little amusement park there. The owner, Mr. Adams—a charming man—kept the park running for years, in spite of everyone’s predictions that a small local attraction was doomed to fail. Its main feature was a huge circular labyrinth.”
“Like a corn maze?”
“No, not corn. It was a labyrinth of stone and wood, and what made it special was that it could be reconfigured on the go. It had a series of doors that opened and closed, and every time you entered it, the maze had changed. Mr. Adams said there were more than a thousand configurations, but perhaps he was exaggerating. A guy in a Minotaur costume roamed around inside, making it even harder to escape. When we were little we were terrified to go in. And the fact is, I rarely saw anybody discover the way out. I used to go there with my sister—who is here in the audience tonight—almost every day during the summer. A boy we liked worked there.”
Deedee pointed at her from the first row and mouthed the words, “A boy you liked…”
Laura couldn’t help smiling.
“I’ve always been attracted to labyrinths,” she went on. “There’s something about the way we think that is like escaping from a labyrinth.”
“Or like being trapped inside one, I suppose,” said Randall.
“Exactly! For example, you entered the Hawks Nest labyrinth through a passageway that took you directly to the center of the maze. And for some reason, I always thought that if I chose the path that took me away from the center, I’d be able to get out. And of course I never succeeded.”
“Because sometimes we have to backtrack in order to get out. Is that why?”
“Yes, exactly. When Ted McKay was sent to Lavender Memorial, it was as if he were trapped in a labyrinth created by his own mind.”
“Being the brilliant man he was, I imagine his maze was quite complex.”
“Definitely. He spent weeks trapped in cycles, spinning round and round and never getting anywhere. When I tried to force things, tried to lead him outside the labyrinth in the wrong direction, the way I did as a young girl trying to escape the Hawks Nest labyrinth, he’d end up lost again. It was like starting all over.”
“Ted McKay perished in the fire in the abandoned factory,” Randall said, imbuing his voice with a certain gravitas. “A fire which you, Laura, were lucky to survive. In a sense, this story has been your own labyrinth. Is that how you see it?”
“Perhaps. But it was Ted McKay who bore the brunt of it, not only because he lost his life, but because he had to struggle with such a heavy burden for so many years. This book, Randall, deals with that traumatic experience and tells the story of how he escaped from a trap set by his own mind. If it hadn’t been for his strength, I wouldn’t be here today, and none of these terrible crimes would ever have been cleared up.”
A scattering of applause spread through the auditorium and grew into an ovation. Laura and Randall joined in.
“One of the last things Ted told me before he died,” Laura said, “was that for him, none of this made sense now that his father was dead. But you and I have seen how important it is to know the truth.”
“Oh, absolutely. I’ve had the opportunity to talk with members of the victims’ families, and for many of them, knowing that the person responsible for these crimes no longer walks among us has been a great relief.”
“And also for Ted’s former wife and his daughters, who’ve had to face the loss of a loved one. I can’t even imagine what that must be like. But at least they’ve been able to see him as he really was: a man with a great heart, who was forced to bear up under a burden not his own.”
The presentation continued for another half hour. Randall was an excellent interviewer, and their exchange sounded like two friends having a deep conversation.
Afterward came the book signing, when Laura could finally relax and enjoy the affections of her readers. Some sneaked a look at the hint of a scar around the cuff of her right sleeve; others made comments about the book or asked questions. The most frequently asked questions were about Justin Lynch. Laura knew from news reports that he had woken from his coma but not much more. She politely replied that she wasn’t in contact with Lynch and that the permission she had been granted by Lynch’s family to reveal information had ended with the last page of the book.
At some point Laura glimpsed a short man in thick horn-rimmed glasses lingering at the back of the room; he wasn’t waiting in the line for books to be signed. He looked to be about fifty, or maybe a bit younger, and he had her book under his arm and a half smile on his face.
With every book she signed and handed back, Laura stole a glance and found the stranger in horn-rims still standing there, always in the same place. The auditorium was emptying out when one of the organizers, a tall fellow named Matthews, returned to the table where Laura sat. She asked him if
he wouldn’t mind sitting there with her. He agreed, of course. That was when Horn-rims left his spot and got in line. At the end of the line.
A colossal woman planted herself in front of the table, and Laura lost visual contact with Horn-rims. She was one of those people who are always smiling and brimming over with energy: “I’m sooooooo glad to meet you. I loved your book sooooooo much.” Laura made an effort to focus on the woman, who really was charming and had obviously gone to some lengths to be present that night. “I drove here from Vermont—I have family here, but I came especially to see you, Dr. Hill. You have so much talent.” Laura nodded and wrote a few words on the title page. She looked up to see if the man was still there, but she couldn’t see past the woman’s stomach. “Thank you sooooooo, sooooooo much. Keep writing, please. Can I tell you something?” Laura kept smiling, but she was afraid her smile might be turning into an uneasy grimace. Where was Horn-rims? She pictured him jumping out from behind the woman, knife in hand. Why was she thinking that such a thing might happen? It wasn’t as if serial killers had a club and they were all angry with her. Yet it wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind. “I’ve fallen in love with Ted, a little bit.” The woman was talking, and her cheeks blushed as red as glowing coals. “Oh, you must think I’m silly. I don’t really mean ‘in love’—only the way one falls in love with good characters.” Laura told her she understood perfectly what she meant and thanked her for coming. She handed the woman her signed book, and at last the woman left. Horn-rims was still waiting at the end of the line.
Ten minutes later, Laura signed two copies for one couple, and then it was the little man’s turn.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
His voice was musical and measured. If this man was a serial killer, he was the world’s most charming one. Laura relaxed.
“I’m sorry. I don’t,” she said. But no sooner had she said it than her mind made the connection.
“My name is Arthur Robichaud,” the man in the horn-rimmed glasses confirmed.
Laura had found a photograph of the lawyer on the Internet but had never met him. They had talked briefly over the phone, and the conversation had not been exactly pleasant.
Robichaud looked in both directions. A few people remained in the auditorium, conversing in small groups, but they were all far from them. The only one who could hear them was Matthews, and Laura asked him to step away for just a moment.
“Thank you for changing my name,” the lawyer said.
“You asked me to.”
“Yes, of course, but even so, you might have refused. I apologize if I was a little rude when we talked by phone that time, but you must understand how something like this could affect my practice.”
“No worries.”
Robichaud seemed uneasy. He still hadn’t handed her the book he was carrying under his arm.
“I didn’t want to interrupt you earlier. I’ve read your book, and I think it’s very good. Congratulations.”
He set the book on the table.
“Thank you. I get the sense, though, that something else has brought you here. Am I mistaken?”
Robichaud shook his head in silence. He looked up at the ceiling as if the words he was looking for might be written there.
“I’ve been thinking over what I’m going to tell you, and still I find it so hard…”
Laura didn’t understand. She had reduced Robichaud’s role in the book to the minimum, partly at his own request. What might he have to tell her that could be so important?
“I haven’t even told my wife,” the lawyer now said with genuine regret. “I haven’t told anyone, but you’ll understand me, or I hope you will.”
“I’m listening.”
“Ted came to my house one afternoon, just as you describe it in the book. It was my birthday, though of course he was unaware. It isn’t true that all our old schoolmates were there, but some of them were. I mean, what you describe in the book is pretty close to what really happened that day. He and I…We met in my office to discuss topics related to his will.”
Laura studied him.
“All of his cycles had their basis in actual episodes,” she said. “I was able to talk with other people and confirm it.”
Robichaud nodded.
“I’m sorry I didn’t talk with you before. I…If I’d only known.” Robichaud placed his hand on the book, as if he were going to swear an oath.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“In the book, you write about a possum. What exactly does it signify?”
Laura leaned back in her chair, taken by surprise. She hadn’t really delved into the theme of the possum. Ted had barely talked about it, and most of her references to it came from speaking with Mike Dawson, who hadn’t been very generous with details when he spoke with her, either.
“For some reason Ted was afraid of it,” Laura said with an understanding smile. “He must have gone through some traumatic incident, or so I infer. I never asked him.”
Robichaud nodded.
“But in those ‘cycles,’ what role did the possum play, exactly?”
“Mr. Robichaud, is this important to you somehow?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?”
“On that day, in my backyard, Ted thought he saw a possum, just as you describe it in your book. Well, not exactly: he didn’t see it inside an old tire, but hiding among some flowerpots my wife keeps.”
Laura couldn’t hide her bewilderment. She had assumed that the part of the story in which the possum appeared hadn’t been real but only part of the cycles.
“I’m surprised.”
“I can imagine. So, what is the role of the possum?”
“I can’t be certain, Mr. Robichaud, but I think it was Ted’s way of staying inside his cycles. Whenever things began to spin out of control, the possum was there. I know that Ted dreamed of it at times, and it’s possible that its representation in the cycles was as a kind of guardian.”
Robichaud paused in thought.
“Like the Minotaur in the labyrinth in your hometown…”
Not bad for a lawyer.
“Something like that, I suppose.”
Now the auditorium was empty.
“I saw the possum that day,” Robichaud suddenly said.
Laura kept silent.
“Ted started shouting that there was a possum in the backyard, and some of my friends ran out to try and catch it. They couldn’t find anything. But I was in my office, watching out my window—and I did see it. I saw the exact moment when it ducked in among the flowerpots.”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Possums really do exist. It must have escaped.”
“There must have been thirty people there, and nobody saw the possum leave. The flowerpots sit on a brick porch in the middle of the yard, and there was no way it could have run out without being seen. Ted saw it. I saw it. Nobody else.”
All Laura could do was stare at him. He held out his hand and Laura shook it.
“Now you understand why I couldn’t talk to you earlier, don’t you?”
Arthur Robichaud didn’t wait for an answer. He picked up the book he had set on the table, smiled, and sauntered away, as if a great weight had been removed from his shoulders.
Acknowledgments
This book was not written overnight. Ted McKay remained in his study for a long time, waiting for the author to grasp the true reasons behind his decision. Fortunately I was able to rely on a number of people for help.
To my mother, Luz, who listened attentively to the early ideas for this book, absurd as many of them were. She and my father, Raúl Axat, have always been by my side throughout my writing career.
To Patricia Sánchez, who heard about this story when it was just starting to take shape and who, in trust and friendship, built the bridges that have made it a reality today.
To Maria Cardona, my agent at Pontas Agency, who read the original manuscript and suggested some important changes to t
he plot. Thanks, Maria, for pushing me in the right direction!
To Anna Soler-Pont, the captain of the most incredible literary ship, and to her whole crew, for achieving the impossible with this book.
To Anna Soldevila and to the editorial team at Destino, for working tirelessly on the original manuscript.
To my sister and brother, Ana Laura Axat and Gerónimo Axat, and to my nephew, Ezequiel Sánchez Axat.
To Ariel Bosi and María Pïa Garavaglia, for reading the original manuscript and sharing their thoughts.
To the colleagues I admire and respect who have helped me with their advice and their example: Raúl Ansola, Paul Pen, Montse de Paz, and Dolores Redondo.
About the Author
Federico Axat was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, in 1975. He is the author of the novel Benjamin, which was published in Spain, and El pantano de las mariposas (The Meadow of the Butterflies), which was translated into German, Portuguese, French, and Chinese. Kill the Next One (La última salida), an international phenomenon, is Axat’s U.S. debut; translation rights have been sold in twenty-nine countries.
Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
To receive special offers, bonus content, and news about our latest ebooks and apps, sign up for our newsletters.
Sign Up
Or visit us at hachettebookgroup.com/newsletters
Kill the Next One Page 35
