In Sheep's Clothing

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.

If it hadn’t been for Captain Shubnikov’s presence, she would have been afraid. The captain’s voice bolstered her courage. She had the oddest feeling she was safe with him in the room.

Behind her the two cops argued in Russian, probably about her. Then, strangely, they left her alone in the kitchen with only a cloud of smoke as a reminder of her showdown with the KGB. That and the quiver she’d somehow managed to hide. But she hadn’t collapsed. That counted.

Where were Andrei and Larissa? Four hours had passed since her phone call. A horrifying thought struck her—what if the murderer had already pounced? How much danger were they in? She shuddered, remembering the eerie phone call unanswered in her flat. Five days left on her visa suddenly seemed like an eternity.

Gracie rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger and scanned her memory for anything that might help Captain Shubnikov find the Youngs’ killer. It was doubtful that anything she learned in Russia would be valuable to anyone with an appetite for murder. Her memories were of sweet children singing praise songs, the weird advice of well-meaning babushkas and friends laughing over tea. Nothing in that batch seemed suspect.

She heard a knock at the door. More cops, then a Russian voice calling her name. She turned, and in strode Andrei. Worry knotted his face.

“Gracie?”

He hesitated before her, as if suddenly unsure what to do. Tears rimmed his eyes.

Then, wordlessly, he held out his arms.

“Oh, Andrei, it was just so awful,” she whispered, and walked into his embrace. She rested her head on his shoulder, wrapped her arms around his waist and let herself cry.

His arms tightened around her. She’d never been so grateful for his friendship.

After a few moments, he put her away from him, scanned her from head to toe. “Are you okay?”

Gracie managed a shaky smile, not sure how to answer.

“Kto eta?”

Blue-eyed Captain Shubnikov stood in the doorway.

Andrei answered in English. “Andrei Feodorvich Tallin.” He hesitated, then stepped forward and extended his hand, eyes wary. “I’m a friend of Gracie’s.”

Shubnikov fired off a question in rapid Russian.

“Speak English, please,” Gracie muttered.

The investigator ignored her.

Andrei looked at Gracie as if confused. Then he replied in an even quicker staccato.

What was Shubnikov’s problem? The shift in his demeanor astounded her. Only moments before, he’d seemed a friend. Now she’d been sucked back to the Cold War.

“What does he want?” Gracie asked, and frowned at him. He met her gaze with cold eyes that felt like a slap.

She’d been duped by the KGB. She should have kicked him harder.

From this angle, he looked every inch KGB menace. His neatly clipped army-style haircut did nothing to soften high cheekbones that slanted to his square, pure tough-guy jaw. A hint of dark stubble punctuated otherwise smooth skin and he had folded his arms across a sturdy-looking chest, rumpling his sports coat. Arrogance in his dark blue eyes gave him a dangerous look. He started to drum his fingers on his arm, as if waiting for an answer.

Andrei leaned over and translated. “He says he has to ask you more questions.”

“What? We’ve already talked. You tell him whatever he has to ask, he’ll ask it now.” Wait, who was she kidding? Mr. Games knew how to speak English. She glowered at him.

Andrei closed his eyes and grimaced. She waited for him to translate, but instead he breathed wisdom into her ear.

“Gracie, he’s with the FSB. They don’t understand the word no. They’re like your FBI—above the law.”

“The FBI is not above the law.”

Andrei shrugged. “Believe what you like, but here the FSB doesn’t answer to anyone.”

Gracie dug her fingers into Andrei’s arm. “Don’t you dare tell him where I live.”

“He probably already knows.”

Gracie felt like a child with a giant name tag around her neck, the type they gave her in kindergarten to help her find her school bus. She had absolutely no control over her own life.

Acting like she didn’t exist, Andrei and Investigator Shubnikov talked a moment longer. Gracie turned away and sulked.

Andrei finally settled a hand on her shoulder. “He’ll call you if he needs anything. You’re supposed to stay in town. I think we can leave now.”

She shrugged off his touch. Oh, sure, she’d stay. Long enough to pack a carry-on for her trip south. “I need to get Dr. Willie’s computer.” She whirled and leveled a piercing glare at the two-faced captain. He blinked as if shocked, but she jutted her chin and brushed past him, hoping her cold shoulder sent him frostbite.

Gracie bumped past the cops dusting the room, kept her gaze off the sheet-draped body and walked over to the coffee table where the black laptop hummed. With a jerk, Gracie unplugged the computer from the wall. It died with a gasp. She was putting her hand on the cover to push down the screen when a hand clamped her wrist.

“Let me go!”

“That’s evidence, we need it.” Shubnikov’s English seemed fine now.

Games, games, Mr. KGB. So very typical of all men.

“I need it. I have to write to America, tell them what’s happened.”

“Call them.”

Gracie snatched her arm out of his grasp. She tugged her coat around her and knotted the sash. “When can I have it?”

His gaze roamed over her face. She felt it burn, but kept her expression neutral. He turned and barked at one of the techs, who mumbled something in return.

“Tomorrow.”

The air puffed out of her. “What?” She licked her lips and scrambled for an answer. “Well. Fine. Tomorrow, then.”

For the briefest moment she thought she saw him smile. Arrogant jerk. Brushing past him, she joined Andrei standing by the door. Her satchel dangled from his hand.

“Take me home, please.”

Andrei hung the satchel over her shoulder, then crooked his elbow. She slid her arm through his and left the Youngs’ apartment for the last time.

Chapter Seven

A muscle knotted in Vicktor’s neck as he watched Miss Benson leave with her chauffeur. But he didn’t realize his teeth were clenched until Arkady sidled up behind him.

“She’s a looker, eh?”

Yeah, looks like trouble. What was with her sudden about-face in demeanor, as if he was the one who’d dragged in reinforcements? He didn’t lead her on with a smile. He’d been warm, kind, supportive.

She had all but kicked him in the teeth. So much for his feelings of pity. Vicktor turned, and nearly plowed into Arkady behind him.

Arkady smiled. “She got to you.”

“Not a chance.” Vicktor stalked past him to the bedroom.

“You know what this means,” Arkady called after him. “You’ve just inherited problems. You know Americans can’t keep their noses out of anything.”

Vicktor stopped. “She’s got other things to worry about. Her boyfriend, for one.”

Arkady drew in on his cigarette. “Chauffeur.”

“Yeah, right. I saw the grip he had on her, and from the expression on her face, I don’t think she minded.”

Arkady’s cheek twitched in another smile.

“I gotta work,” Vicktor mumbled. He strode into the bedroom, Arkady’s chuckle ringing in his ears.

The faster he solved this crime and washed his hands of the blond American, the better. Arkady had her pegged. If Grace Benson were anything like Mae or David, he’d have to beat her away from the investigation with a stick. Americans never let anything lie.

The woman’s body had been outlined and bagged. Two techs were taking blood samples from around the room, from the comforter, the carpet, a nearby bookshelf and even the hallway. A scant trail of brownish red led from the bedroom to the front door. Vicktor stared at it, rubbing an irritating whisker on his cheek.

“Why did he kill the two separately?” Arkady’s question voiced his thoughts.

Vicktor glanced at him and watched Arkady blow smoke from his nose like a medieval dragon.

“Why didn’t he just tie them both up and torture them until they got what they wanted?”

“Maybe he came in, killed the husband and then surprised the wife. Or vice versa,” Vicktor suggested.

“What about motive? If it were a burglary, the computer would be gone.”

“Seems that way.” Vicktor cupped the back of his neck with one hand and leaned his head back, stretching his taut muscles. Two Americans, from all outward appearances living like their Russian neighbors, here on goodwill visas, victims of a Wolf attack. Why would the Wolf murder missionaries?

The Wolf always attacked key players—FSB agents, informants, even mafia brass. But missionaries? Tyomnaya Delo. They had to be up to their elbows in something nasty. Vicktor strolled around the bedroom. He stopped at the tall bookshelf next to the door, squinted at dusty books, Bibles and commentaries, and nearly pulled out an English version of The Last of the Breed, by Louis L’Amour. On the night table sat a photograph of a small boy wearing a cowboy hat. Cute. Chubby cheeks and blue eyes, with a patch of tawny brown hair.

He lifted the edge of the bedspread and found dust balls, sunken suitcases, a broken pencil and a pair of crumpled black dress socks.

Rubbing a thumb and forefinger over his eyes, he tried to recall what Grace had said. They were missionaries. Dr. Willie worked with a few doctors in town, but I don’t know who. Oh, that was helpful. Then again, that was during the cooperative stage of the interrogation. Perhaps she hadn’t been worth the effort of yanking off the train. His shin began to throb. Next time he had to apprehend her, he would wear his hockey gear.

Next time? No, thanks.

Stepping over the woman’s corpse, he crossed the room and noted a pair of glasses, a thin book and a medicine bottle on the floor next to the bed. Sighing, he pulled back the lace curtains and stared out the window. Outside, children ran in a wild game of tag, their school backpacks propped against rotting wooden benches. Laughter and games. Life skipping by while inside the building that shadowed their play, two human beings lay slain, their lives spilled out like spoiled milk.

Senseless. He wondered whom the victims had left behind.

An angry and frightened blond Americanka for one.

He was about to let the lace fall when he noticed a curling photograph, covered with a translucent film of dust, wedged between two ceramic pots of blooming African violets. He pulled it out. A tanned and smiling version of the victim in the family room stood in the middle, his arms draped around the shoulders of two men. On the left stood a Russian with a wide face, a bushy salt-and-pepper goatee and a mustache. Set against steely gray eyes, his smile could have been a wince.

The other man was not Russian. He was small with straight dark hair, brown eyes and a bright smile. Vicktor guessed Korean.

Vicktor turned over the picture, hoping for identification. Nothing. Disappointed, he slid the photograph into his pocket.

“Vicktor!” Arkady hollered from the family room.

Vicktor found Arkady standing beside an opened sofa.

“A storage drawer,” Vicktor said starkly. “With contraband?”

Arkady snapped on surgical gloves and lifted a piece of manila paper. “Empty visa forms from the Russian embassy.” He handed Vicktor a black metal box. “Look in here.” His expression betrayed his knowledge of the contents.

Vicktor found a black inkpad and two rubber stamps, one with the Russian seal and the other from the DPRK—Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. North Korea.

He felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut.

“It seems our American missionaries were into something a little more ‘humanitarian’ than just preaching the Bible,” Arkady muttered.

“Tyomnaya Delo.” Vicktor slammed the cover down. He just hoped he wouldn’t have to be the one to tell Gracie Benson.

Gracie sat with her back propped against her living room sofa, the phone between her feet. She wound the cord around her finger as she listened to the line ring.

“No one?” Larissa asked.

Gracie shook her head.

Taking off her glasses, Larissa rubbed a red spot on the bridge of her nose. “You would think they would give you the director’s home number.”

Grace set the receiver back in the cradle. “Dr. Willie probably has…had it. I’m just a missionary peon. Dr. Willie and Evelyn were the team leaders.” The caretakers. The winners-of-souls. The missionaries who mattered.

And God had let them be slaughtered, like sheep.

The low sun striped her brown rug with the hues of twilight, and the chill of a spring evening crept into her noiseless flat. Sitting on the sofa, Andrei looked dazed, and his occasional deep, agonized sighs did nothing to assuage her grief.

God had so vividly abandoned all of them, and she had not one word of hope to offer her friends.

“We should call your Pastor Yuri,” Larissa mumbled. Andrei gave her a sharp look.

Gracie cringed at her oversight. Of course Pastor Yuri should know. He was Dr. Willie’s coworker and friend, and the closest thing she had to a supervisor. “I’ll call him.”

Andrei put his hand over hers as she grabbed the receiver. “Wait, Gracie. Is there anyone else in the States you could call? Your brother? Anyone else from the mission? How about your mother?”

Gracie eyes burned. “No, I can’t call her.” A lump balled in her throat. “She doesn’t need to worry.” Her mother would only panic and send her brother, or worse, her cousin and all his FBI buddies, after her. No, she had to keep this horror close to her chest until she disembarked from the plane. Then, she’d hide in the safety of her own bedroom overlooking the harbor on Skyline Drive in Duluth. They’d have to pry her out with a two-by-four. “No,” she repeated.