In Sheep's Clothing

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.