But in the evenings she walked the town. Not just walked—she studied Peters’s route from the plant to home, Kevin Gold’s daily habits, and searched for the third man with the scar. She found him after ten days.
Samuel Croft, a discharged sergeant, worked as a loader at the same packing plant. April brought the thaw and the first act of retribution. Eleanor chose Peters first for a reason.
He was the most cautious, the most calculating. If she started with the others, he might panic, disappear, or worse, strike back. For two weeks she studied his habits.
Peters lived on a routine: home, work, sometimes a tavern, home. On Wednesdays his wife went out of town for council meetings and stayed overnight. On those nights Peters relaxed, drank more than usual, sometimes brought women around.
Wednesday, April 19. Eleanor took the day off. Said she needed to go to the hospital to see her daughter.
But she did not go to the hospital. She spent the whole day preparing. Checked the knife: ordinary kitchen knife, sharp.
Prepared rope, a gag, and a bottle of chloroform she had gotten through a nurse she knew. Said it was for a home medical kit. That evening she dressed plainly.
Old coat, scarf low over her face, knife and bottle in her pocket. Peters came out of the tavern at ten that night. He walked unsteadily, whistling something cheerful.
Three blocks home across an empty lot. Eleanor knew he always took that shortcut. The lot was dark, the streetlights had been broken since winter.
She waited by an abandoned shed. The same one where Susan had been found. “Fitting,” she thought.
When Peters drew even with her, she called softly, “Mr. Peters, could you help me a minute?” He stopped and squinted into the dark.
Eleanor stepped closer, holding a cloth to her face as if she had been crying. “There’s a kitten stuck under some boards, crying something awful, and I can’t get it out by myself.” Peters was drunk and easygoing.
Besides, the voice sounded familiar. A woman from the plant, maybe. He grudgingly followed her toward the shed.
Eleanor pointed to a gap between the boards. “Right there. Hear it?” Peters bent down to listen.
At that moment she pressed the chloroform-soaked rag over his face. He jerked, tried to pull away, but Eleanor held fast. Years at the machine had given her strong hands.
Within a minute Peters went limp. She dragged him into the shed, to the same spot where her daughter had lain a month before. She tied his hands and feet with the rope she had bought at the market the day before.
Stuffed the gag into his mouth. Sat beside him and waited for him to wake up. It didn’t take long, maybe twenty minutes.
Peters opened his eyes, tried to move, realized he was tied up. Fear flashed first, then anger. He tried to say something through the gag, but only muffled sounds came out.
Eleanor crouched beside him so he could see her face. “Do you recognize me, Mr. Peters? Eleanor Carter, machinist at Plant 182, mother of Susan Carter—the girl you and your friends assaulted a month ago…”
