In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May
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!”