In Sheep's Clothing. Susan Warren May
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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