Victor was their reckoning.
He watched Leonard’s townhouse from a parked van across the street. The rain fell in silver threads, softening the glow of the streetlamps. Leonard was predictable. Every Thursday, he returned from his club at 11:15 PM, slightly drunk, humming a tune Victor recognized as an old Sinatra song. Disgusting sentimentality from a man with no heart. Red Garrote Strangler
His victims were not random. He was not a beast of impulse. Each name was drawn from a small, leather-bound ledger he kept in the false bottom of his wardrobe. The ledger contained one hundred and twelve names. Each name belonged to a man who had, in Victor’s meticulous judgment, avoided justice for the sin of cruelty against a woman. Victor was their reckoning
Tomorrow, he would open the ledger. One hundred and twelve names. Twenty-seven crossed out. Eighty-five left to go. Leonard was predictable
He placed a single item on Leonard’s chest: a small, hand-painted tile he had made in his workshop. It bore the image of a marigold. Marigolds were the flowers of the dead in Mexican tradition. A tribute to Maribel Soto.
The first five seconds were always the worst. The panic. The thrashing. Leonard clawed at his own throat, fingers finding only silk and the stranger’s gloved hands. Victor’s arms were steel cables. He had practiced on hanging dummies for years before he ever touched a living throat. He knew the angles, the pressure, the quiet music of a trachea collapsing.