In Sheep's Clothing (6 page)

The cell phone trilled in his coat pocket. Vicktor dug it out and flipped open the case. “Shubnikov.”

“Get over here, and don’t ever say I never did you any favors.”

“Arkady?”

“That’s still
Chief
Arkady to you. I’m at Kim-yu-Chena Street, apartment twenty-three, sixth floor. You’d better hurry if you want to beat the rest of your three-letter cohorts here and get a piece of this.”

“Piece of what?” Vicktor asked, wadding a paper napkin in his fist.

“You’re in luck, hotshot. The Wolf has struck again.”

G
racie’s keys shook as she fought with the bolts of her steel door. Flinging herself inside her apartment, she slammed the door shut behind her.

Fatigue buckled her knees and she crumpled hard onto the floor. Sweat poured down her face, into her eyes, down her chest and back. Hiccuping breaths, she fought with her buttons, then shrugged out of her coat and left it in a heap.

Get clean.
The thought pushed her forward, beyond exhaustion. Toeing off her shoes, she unbuttoned her dress, let it slide off and left it in a ring. Stumbling down the hall, she whipped her turtleneck over her head and pitched it into the corner. She slapped on the bathroom light, then reached for the faucet and cranked the water on full, hoping the city hadn’t turned off the hot water yet. She ripped off her socks and underclothes and shoved her hands under the spray. Dried blood loosened, dripped off her.
Evelyn’s blood.
She felt her stomach convulse.

Keep it together, Grace.
She fought the shakes as she climbed
into the tub, unwilling to wait for the water to warm, and grabbed her soap.

The water turned her skin to ice. Blood edged her fingernails, lined the creases in her hands. She scrubbed until her fingers were raw and wrinkled. Her eyes burned as she watched the water pool red at her feet.

Evelyn. Oh, Evelyn.

A howl, hot and painful, began at Gracie’s toes. By the time it had worked into her chest, she was shaking.

Gripping the sides of the tub, Gracie sank into a ball and wept.

Evelyn deserved better than this. After everything Evelyn had done for God, didn’t that guarantee her some safety? It felt as if Gracie had been kicked in the chest. “Is
this
how You protect those who serve You?”

What did it mean to be a Christian if she couldn’t count on the Almighty for the one thing she needed from Him—protection? Why had she poured out her life for a God who so obviously didn’t care?

Gracie curled her arms over her head, kneaded them into her wet hair and rocked. Evelyn’s face, white and horrified, stared at her. She pressed her fists into her eyes. She heard herself moan, and gulped it back.

If Evelyn’s sweet life devoted to God couldn’t protect her from a brutal murderer, then where did Gracie, a soiled failure, stand in God’s eyes?

Memory hit her like a fist and she heard laugher.

Tommy’s laughter. She pushed away the feeling of his hands on her body, his roughness. Had she seriously thought that an escape across the ocean might free her from the nightmares?

She got out of the tub, toweled off and grabbed a robe. Shivering, she realized she’d come full circle.

She was alone. Just as she had been the night three years ago when she’d gone home with the campus jock.

No wonder God had abandoned her. What a farce she lived.

Better than anyone, she knew she didn’t deserve God’s forgiveness, let alone His protection.

She pulled the robe tight, trying to warm herself, but it was quite possible she’d never be warm again.

The ringing phone sliced through her despair. Gracie’s heart stopped. Who knew she was here?

No one.

The only people who would call her now were…dead.

She dried her hair with the towel and dashed to her room, panic making her muscles pulse. She tugged her sweater over her head and was pulling up her jeans when the ringing finally stopped, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

Gracie abandoned her apartment moments later, to the sound of the murderer—she was sure it was him—again ringing her line.

Vicktor flipped on the siren. Somehow the rhythmic whine slowed his heart beat and enabled him to sling his car safely around traffic toward Leningradskaya Street.

The Wolf had returned. Vicktor’s knuckles blanched white on the steering wheel as he tried to corral his racing thoughts. The implications of the Wolf appearing again after nearly a year meant he hadn’t moved on to Moscow, as informants had speculated. Vicktor’s pulse hammered in his ears.

Maybe he could finally put right what went wrong and atone for his mistake. And it all hinged on him finding a woman covered in blood, stumbling around Khabarovsk.

How hard could that be?

Vicktor screeched onto Leningradskaya, nearly dropping his cell phone. “Yanna, you still there?”

“We just got the file from Passport Control, Vicktor. It’s loading. Hold on to your shirt.”

Vicktor slowed and turned into the rutted courtyard of Grace Benson’s apartment.
Please, please let her have returned home.
He’d spent the last hour walking through the crime scene with Arkady, reliving every crime that bore the Wolf’s mark. The
Wolf’s first victim had been a girlfriend of a KGB colonel. Ten years hadn’t erased from Vicktor’s memory her glassy eyes, or the wound across her throat. No forced entry, no obvious struggle. Medical Examiner Comrade Utuzh had dubbed the killer “the Wolf,” like the Siberian dogs who stalked their prey, then pounced without mercy. This was a lone wolf, however—cruel, maybe desperate.

And an American woman might be Vicktor’s only lead. While Vicktor scoured the scene with Arkady, Yanna had pulled the FSB file on the victims—Dr. and Mrs. William Young. Evidently, they had one emergency contact, a woman who just might match the description offered by the local neighborhood watch, an elderly babushka sitting outside the apartment building. Vicktor had tracked down the American’s address, and after calling her flat three times, he’d had to concede that Miss Grace Benson was not going to answer.

But…maybe she was holed up inside, hiding. He eased his car over a pothole as he struggled to think like an American.

“Yanna?”

“The file is still loading,” Yanna snapped. “That’s what we get when the government siphons funds for parades instead of equipment.”

Apparently Yanna still nursed wounds over the city’s penchant to re-do the streets every time Putin came to town, leaving her with ancient paperweights for computers. No wonder she did so much of her work at home.

Vicktor softened his tone. “I’m sorry, I’m just in a hurry.”

“Blond, five foot two, green eyes.”

“Thanks, Yanna. You’re a prize.”

“I forgive you.”

Five minutes later he was leaning on the American’s doorbell. “I know you’re in there,” he muttered to the closed door. “I see the footprints.” Her steps were outlined in mud, and a wad of fresh dirt stuck out from a groove in the metal door. She’d scuffed her shoes stumbling over the frame.

No answer.

He buzzed the neighbor. A wide-faced babushka cracked open her door and peeked her nose over the chain.

“Did you see your neighbor come home—an American lady?” Vicktor asked.

The babushka ran a wary gaze over him. She shook her head. Vicktor leaned close and lowered his voice. “Did you hear anything?”

“Nyet.”
The woman slammed her door. Vicktor tried not to kick it and sucked in a hot breath.

Think, Vicktor. Preferably like an American.

Vicktor ran down the stairs two at a time to his car. What would an American do when faced with the murder of a friend? What would David do?

Call the cops. Americans believed in their judicial system and their police force. In the absence of cops, she would call soldiers, or maybe American friends in town.

Or the U.S. embassy.

Vicktor climbed into his car and slammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The
Zhiguli
screeched out of the courtyard, scattering a flock of pigeons.

The nearest American consulate was in Vladivostok. She’d have to take the Okean train. Vicktor checked his watch. He had forty minutes before the next train left.

The
voxhal
teemed with travelers toting children and suitcases. The Trans-Siberian Railroad remained Russia’s best and most efficient method of transportation, especially after the fall of communism when the ruble plummeted to new, despairing depths. People could barely afford bread, let alone an airline ticket. The train, however, could transport a person to Vladivostok and back for the price of a McDonald’s Happy Meal.

Vicktor flashed his ID and hustled past vendors hawking wares in the dank underground passageway that burrowed under the train tracks. Ascending to the platform for the Okean train, he squeezed past a soldier holding an AK-47 and surveyed the crowd.

No blond American. He fought frustration and strode through the crowd. She had to be here. The train had rolled in and layered the air with diesel fumes. Vicktor wrinkled his nose and tried not to sneeze. A baby began to wail. The crowd murmured as it shifted toward the tracks. Vicktor backed away, took a deep breath and stared at their shoes.

Americans could always be identified by their footwear—sensible, low, padded and expensive. Russians wore black—black heels, black loafers, black sandals, black boots.

He spotted a pair of brown hiking boots and trailed his gaze up. Smart girl. The American had wrapped her head in a fuzzy brown shawl like a babushka and now clutched it as if a hurricane were headed in her direction. She held a nylon bag in the other hand, a black satchel peeking through a tattered corner.

She joined the throng and shuffled toward a passenger car. He clenched his jaw—he had to get her before she boarded that train. Pushing through the crowd, he worked toward her, but the passengers tightened and packed him in. He felt an elbow in his side, didn’t search for the owner, and plowed forward. The crowd split into two lines and he suddenly found himself propelled toward a car entrance. He scanned the other queue and glimpsed the American handing over her ticket.

Gotcha!

Stepping up to the conductor, he flipped open his identification, weathered her annoyed expression, and took the train steps in two strides. Taking a left, he edged into the car and peeked over the tops of embarking passengers until he saw Miss Benson’s fuzzy, shawl-covered head duck into a compartment.

Vicktor pushed past a family stowing suitcases and reached the
Americanka’
s door just as it was sliding shut. He rammed his foot in the gap and curled a hand around the door, intending to slam it back.

Her boot crunched his loafer. “No!”

Pain speared up his leg. He yanked his foot back, unable to stifle a grunt.

“Get away!” she yelled, and started to yank the door shut.

He wedged his arm into the crack, banged it open and plowed into her compartment. She stumbled back, clutching her bag.

“Get out!”

Her startled, fearful look stopped him cold. Rattled him.

She flung her satchel at him. He caught it. What was her problem?

She gasped and scurried back into the corner, looking as if he were going to eat her alive. “Get out!”

Okay, he could concede he might be a bit scary—big man, no identification. He reached into his pocket, scrambling for English.

She nailed him in the shin with her boot.

He winced and couldn’t keep frustration from contorting his face. “Calm down!” he ordered. Yes! His language skills hadn’t defected.

Only… “Get away from me!” she shrieked. Her face blanched, as if his English had stunned her.

Shoot. He didn’t want to scare her, but most of all he wanted to get off the train before it started rolling.

“Are you Grace Benson?”

Her eyes went wide.

Bull’s-eye. He smiled at his sleuth work. “I’ll take your silence as a ‘yes.’”

Fury filled her green eyes. She glanced past him, into the hall, as if hoping for reinforcement.

He had to make her understand. “I’ve been searching all over for you.”

Oh joy, she went white.

He turned and slammed the door shut behind him. He didn’t need an audience, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to go quietly. Sighing, he weighed his options as he ran a hand through his hair. Now what? An ugly picture of him throwing her over his shoulder, fireman style, and hauling her from the train filled his mind. No, bad idea.

Turning back, he caught the warning expression on her face a millisecond before she went berserk. She pounced on him, clawing at his face.

What was
wrong
with her? He grabbed her forearms. “Stop it! Please. I’m not going to hurt you, trust me.”

She ripped her arms from his grip and sat down, hard. Her breath came in gusts.

“Perestan!”
he hissed, both to her and his thundering heartbeat. “My name’s Vicktor. I’m with the KGB and I’m trying to help you!”

S
hock turned her numb. Gracie drew her legs into a ball and stared at the officer. He blinked at her and smiled, as if suddenly he’d solved her every problem. He was a
KGB
officer?

“Is that supposed to inspire confidence?”

His smile dimmed.

“I mean, the KGB isn’t exactly a foreigner’s best friend. So, excuse me for my hesitation.”

His eyes darkened, and she called herself a fool for her sassiness.

“Actually, it’s the FSB now,” he said, “and you’d better start to trust me. I
am
trying to save your skin. You’re not leaving Khabarovsk until you answer some questions.”

“Spit it out—the train has already whistled,” she retorted with false bravado. Behind her sassy mouth lived a coward whose brain was screaming,
Run!

His jaw dropped like he’d been slapped. She saw shock flicker in his blue eyes, then he stepped up to her and held out a hand. She stared as if it were a bomb.

“C’mon. We’re not having our chat here.”

“I—I’m an American citizen,” she stammered. “I want a lawyer.”

“Why? Do you need one?”

Gracie’s heart slammed into her ribs. “No,” she squeaked, swallowing hard. His hand remained outstretched.

“I could stay on the train. You can’t make me get off.”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. His presence filled the compartment—wide shoulders, thick arms that strained the material of his jacket. He was tall enough to scrub his head on the door frame, and he looked as fit as a soldier and in no mood to argue. His eyes latched on to hers and sent a streak of fear into her bones. She raised her chin, hoping to appear strong and defiant.

“I could make you get off, but I won’t.” His tone was low, calm. “If this train moves, however, I stay here, in this berth with you all night until we get to Vladivostok.” He paused. “Your choice.”

Gracie ignored his outstretched paw, stood, grabbed her bag and brushed past him just as the train lurched. She felt his presence closing behind her as they wobbled down the corridor. The train had already begun easing forward. She paused at the door, watching pavement glide by.

He touched her elbow. “Jump.”

She shot him a glare and made the easy leap to the platform. He swung down right behind her. His hand again curled around her elbow.

“Unless I am your prisoner, please unhand me,” she snapped.

He withdrew his hand, but stayed close enough to rein her in, obviously to ward off any impulses she might have to ditch him in the tunnel back to the parking lot.

Gracie seethed all the way through the station, refusing to make room for cold fear.

The KGB. She didn’t know what was worse. Being chased by a killer or interrogated by the KGB. Where was a decent hiding place when a person needed one?

They climbed into his greasy rattletrap of a car and Gracie huddled on the smooth vinyl seat, shooting a glare his direction. He ignored her. Motoring into traffic, he said nothing.

“Some interrogation,” she muttered.

He kept his eyes forward, but she noticed his whitened grip on the steering wheel.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to the scene. We need you to walk through what happened with us.”

“What? No!” She grabbed the door handle. “Let me out! I’m not going back there.” She began to shake, her composure unraveling. Tears bit her eyes. Where was Miss Sass and Courage when she needed her?

He pulled over and she braced herself, poised to fly out of the car and run until she hit the Chinese border, or beyond. Let him try to catch her. She didn’t care if they had to run her down with a tank—she wasn’t returning to the scene of her friend’s murder.

He grabbed her arm, reached across her and held her door shut.

Was she that transparent? “Get away from me.”

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Benson. I’ll be there with you.”

She stared at him, at his eyes and the way they looked so incredibly blue, surprisingly tender for the situation, and suddenly, hot tears were running down her cheeks. “I don’t even know you.” Agony stretched her voice thin. “I just want to go home.”

He continued to hold her arm, but loosened his grip on the door. “I know,” he said. His words were a salve on her raw emotions. Oh, how she wanted to unravel into a puddle of pain.

“I know you don’t know me. But I mean you no harm. All I want to do is find your friends’ killer.”

His voice had turned soft, and even with the accent, she could hear a man trying to soothe a woman’s fears. He might have tried
that
approach when he was breaking into her train compartment. She looked away from him.

“You must have been horrified to find them. I’m sorry you had to see it,” he said.

“Them?” she croaked, then realized he meant Dr. Willie. So…Evelyn’s kind, handsome husband had also been murdered. A moan ripped through Gracie, and she covered her face with her hands.

The cop put his hand on her shoulder. Warm, strong, a presence that she should probably shrug off. But it seemed so…kind. She just closed her eyes and let herself cry.

The sounds of her anguish filled the car. She didn’t even think to be embarrassed; she just let her grief spill out. The cop didn’t move, didn’t pull her into an awkward, polite embrace, but didn’t remove his hand, either. Somehow that balance felt comforting.

She finally pressed her fists into her eyes, trying to stem the tears. “I didn’t know Dr. Willie had been killed.”

“I’m sorry.”

His tone went straight to her battered soul.

Okay, so maybe she’d misjudged him. Or, more likely, she again was falling victim to her own abysmally bad judgment.

She glanced at him. He didn’t betray any inkling that she might look a mess, with blotchy skin and bloodshot eyes.

Raising dark eyebrows, he smiled sadly. “Ready?”

She shook her head, then nodded, completely confused.

“Okay.” He eased the car out into traffic and they rode in silence until he pulled up to the Youngs’ apartment building. Gracie felt emptied. The front door hung open and she recalled with pain the suspicious gaze the old babushka had sent her when she had tumbled outside.

Of course. She’d been covered in blood. No wonder the old woman had gaped at her. Thankfully, now the bench outside the building was empty.

The FSB agent—whatever his name was—got out, came around the car and opened the door. He held out his hand, and after a second she took it. He held it a second longer than was necessary, it seemed, to help her out of the car.

“Thank you…”

“Captain Vicktor Shubnikov.”

He smiled, and the warmth in his expression helped her rally.

“Ready to go up?”

She nodded.

They rode up the lift. Dread pushed down on her with every passing flight. The doors bumped open on the sixth floor and she shuffled out, Captain Shubnikov on her tail.

The Youngs’ door hung open. She heard voices inside—gruff, angry Russian.

“This way,” Captain Shubnikov said, and pointed to Evelyn’s kitchen.

Gracie obeyed, greatly relieved not to have to enter the room where her best friend lay murdered.

“She’s not there.” Larissa hung up the telephone and sat back in her office chair, folding her arms over her silk blouse. “Are you sure she’s not at the Youngs’?”

Andrei fiddled with his car keys and shook his head. “I went up there, peeked in. The place is a cop circus. She’s nowhere to be found.”

Larissa had never seen her cousin so…shaken. She knew he was in love with the American, but Gracie’s disappearance had him unglued. His hair was mussed, his jacket hung on slumped shoulders. Had he even shaved today? His jingling car keys frayed her nerves.

Where was Gracie? Larissa chewed her lip. They had to find her, fast. Before the FSB got to her. The last thing Gracie needed was a day with the FSB to force her back inside her turtle shell. The poor thing was just getting used to taking public transportation. The sooner she was out of Russia, the better—for all of them. Even if it did rip a hole through Larissa’s heart. She’d come to truly care about the American with the obsession about God that matched that of the rest of her mother’s family. Religion was the opiate of
the masses. Of the Tallin family, for sure. Look what it had done to Andrei.

Larissa stood up and crossed to the front of her desk, grabbing Andrei by the collar of his coat. “Find her. Make sure she’s safe. Bring her back to her place and I’ll meet you there later.”

Andrei’s brow furrowed. “You’re not coming with me?”

She circled back to her desk chair, pausing for a moment to give him a frown. “I have work to do.”

Vicktor strode in behind Grace Benson, feeling sorry for the lady every step of the way. It seemed utterly unfair that she should have to face the horrific scene twice in one day. That had never seemed clearer to him than in the car when she nearly shattered before his eyes.
Oy,
he had to admit, he’d never seen a woman so completely wear her feelings on the outside of her body. And when she looked at him with so much fear in her eyes, well, he’d had to fight the weird desire to pull her into his arms.

Her wounded expression had reached out to him in the train and turned him into some sort of cream puff.

He felt like a jerk for suspecting her, but that was his job. He shoved his hands in his pockets and fought to harden the soft places she’d touched in his heart.

Grace crossed her arms and stared out the kitchen window. Her erect posture gave her dignity, but Vicktor had seen the slight quake of her shoulders and the two deep breaths she’d gulped as she entered the kitchen.

“Ask her what she knows,” Arkady said, following them both into the room.

Vicktor shot a look at him. The chief leaned against the counter, watching the American’s body language like a psychiatrist. After a moment, he turned his gaze to Vicktor, a hard edge to his brown eyes.

“Zdrastvootya,”
he said with a biting tone, “you can still speak English, right?”

Vicktor glared at him. “Miss Benson, could you please tell us what happened here?”

She breathed a sigh of palpable sorrow, but she tucked a stray blond hair behind her ear and lifted her chin.

“I came this morning to check e-mail. When I arrived, the doors were open.”

“Both of them?”

“
Da.
Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

She nodded. “It was creepy. Evelyn is very careful about keeping her doors locked, so I knew something was wrong. I never guessed…” Her voice plunged to a whisper and Vicktor fought the urge to take a step toward her. His face must have revealed pity, however, for Arkady shot him a scowl.

Vicktor fisted his hands in his pockets. “Where did you find her?”

“The bedroom. I checked the house and decided to do e-mail before I left.”

“Do you often check your e-mail here?”

Her eyes sparked. “I don’t have my own computer.”

He couldn’t imagine life without his laptop. Odd for an American.

“What did you do when you found her?”

Gracie’s shoulders shook, but her voice emerged steady. “I untied her hands. Then I called my friend Larissa. She told me she would call the police.”

Vicktor translated her answer for Arkady, who lit a cigarette. “Ask her why she took off.”

“Why did you leave, Miss Benson?” He wanted to cringe at the sight of her red-rimmed eyes.

“I was afraid. I thought the murderer might still be in the flat.”

“Smart,” he said, and was instantly glad when he saw one side of her mouth tug up.

Arkady scowled at him. “Did you ask her what these Americans were doing here? What organization were they with? Did they have any enemies?”

Vicktor waved him quiet. “This doctor and his wife—what did they do here?”

Her eyes aged before him, and he found himself wondering how old she was.

“They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked mostly with the leaders of the church, but sometimes he would help out a few doctors he knew.” She shook her head as if anticipating his next question. “No, I don’t know any names. It seemed like Dr. Willie knew just about everybody, but I can’t tell you whom.”

“Did they have any enemies?”

Her eyes locked on his. “No.”

He turned to Arkady. “She doesn’t know anything.”

“Tell her to stick around.”

“She’s headed for the border, Chief. I pulled her off the Okean to Vladivostok.”

“Take her into custody.” Arkady let the ash from his cigarette fall to the ground.

“Right. And have the U.S Consulate hound me for the next decade? No thanks. She doesn’t know anything.” Vicktor glanced at her. “Let her go home.”

“She’s hiding something.” Smoke puffed out of Arkady’s mouth with each word. “Did she see anyone? Ask her again.”

Vicktor shot Arkady a crippling look. “Is there anyone else that could have come here today?” he asked in English.

She frowned, as if the possibility hadn’t occurred to her. Then she closed her eyes and rubbed her index finger between her pinched brows. The gesture seemed so forlorn, it made him want to take her home, lock the doors and
dare
the Wolf to come hunting.

The Wolf. He’d nearly forgotten that these weren’t just any murders—these were Wolf attacks.

“Please, anything,” he said, flinching at the earnestness in his voice.

“Well, maybe,” Gracie replied.

He raised his eyebrows, fighting hope.

“My driver, Leonid, didn’t show up today, and I thought maybe he would come here.” She scowled and shook her head.
“But probably not. His car wasn’t here, and he hasn’t been very dependable lately.”

“This Leonid…what’s his full name?”

She gave him a pitiful look. “I don’t know. We call him Leonid the Red.”

Vicktor frowned.

“His hair. It’s red.”

Gracie’s wretched answer sounded hollow even to herself. She was useless. She turned back to the window before the captain could see her crumple.

It didn’t help that the other cop studied her as if she were evidence. She crossed her arms and glowered at him over her shoulder. Let him try to push her into a corner. She might be a foreigner, but she was still an American citizen. She knew her rights. She watched him wrap his fat lips around his foul-smelling cigarette, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. The cop glared back at her as if she had the answers and was hiding them.