The Third Victim by Collin Wilcox

think.
    Think how it had happened—how simply, secretly, slyly, it had happened. It had been a Saturday. He’d gotten his Yamaha and ridden to her house. He’d taken the same streets he’d taken before, turned at the same corners. It was important, he knew, to do everything the same—to never change anything, never give them a chance to slip between. He’d parked where he always parked, walked where he always walked.
    But then, in front of her house, he made the change—the change he’d been planning so carefully. He hadn’t walked past, as he’d always done. Instead, he’d turned left.
    Turned left.
    He’d walked down the narrow, broken sidewalk with grass tufts growing up through the cracks. He’d approached the building’s service door. He’d imagined that he was a meter man. Because, if he imagined it, then it was so. As he saw himself inside his brain, so everyone saw him from the outside. He was a magic lantern, projecting himself for all the rest to see. So he’d been a meter man, ipso, dressed in a poplin jacket, carrying a pad of paper and a long yellow pencil. He’d walked straight to the door and immediately stretched out his hand, to touch the padlock.
    Master padlock.
    Number 0939.
    He’d written down the number, turned, retraced his route—all the way to the Yamaha, all the way home, until he was locked in his room. On his desk, he had everything ready: ballpoint pen, paper, envelope, stamp. He’d written to the Master Lock Company, as the hardware-store man had told him. He’d explained that he’d lost his keys. He’d given them the number of the lock. He’d enclosed a dollar bill.
    And so, tonight, he would have the key in his pocket when he got on the Yamaha and rode to the blind alley a block from her house and secretly parked the motorbike and walked to her house. When he turned left, as he must, the key would already be in his hand. Eyes straight ahead, he would walk to the service door, open the lock, slip inside. He’d be in the basement, beneath her flat. Directly, precisely beneath her flat. He’d…
    His mother was turning away from the counter.
    He quickly lowered the Seven-Up, pushed away from the wall, and stepped through the archway into the living room. Behind him, he could feel the weight of his mother’s stare striking him squarely in the back. He crossed to the TV, pushed the “on” button, sank into a red plastic armchair. Beneath his fingers, cotton stuffing trailed like white intestines bulging from slashed red flesh.
    But the opposite was true: flesh was white, and…
    “…are keeping their own council concerning what progress, if any, they’re making on the Tarot case.” It was the static-scratched voice of a newscaster, who now slipped into stretched-out focus. The voice and the eyes were serious. “However, the police do confirm that this latest communication from Tarot appears to be genuine. Just minutes ago, our reporter spoke to Sergeant Matthew Connoly, head of the so-called Tarot Squad. This is what Sergeant Connoly had to say…” For a moment the newscaster’s face blanked expectantly; then the picture changed. A heavyset man with wiry, close-cropped hair and a wide, heavy jaw was staring directly into the camera. A tiny hand-held microphone was close in front of his face. Offstage, someone asked how the police were dealing with the “Tarot menace.”
    “Well,” the new voice grated as the thin, stern lips began to move, “we can’t divulge everything we’re doing, of course. But we do have several leads that we’re following up. Plus, we’re getting a lot of tips this time, just like we did when we got the last letter. Of course, most of the tips are worthless. Worse than worthless, because they send our men out on wild-goose chases.”
    The off-camera voice was asking another question. Frowning, the thickset detective was answering.
    The Tarot menace…
    All over the city, they were frightened. Terrified. All over the country, they