Susan Warren - In Sheep's Clothing

Her eyes latched on to the phone list. Andrei. She left a trail of red on the number pad. “Be there!” she demanded, sobbing. She slammed down the receiver on the tenth ring, then grabbed up the telephone, shaking it. “Be there!”

Larissa. Gracie grabbed the handset. Crumpling to the floor, she pulled the phone into her lap and dialed. She hugged her knees to her chest as she closed her eyes and listened to the ring.

“Aeroflot Travel. This is Larissa Tallina. Hello.”

“Help.”

“Gracie, where are you?”

Thank the Lord, Larissa recognized her voice.

“Help. Evelyn…” Gracie’s voice sounded reed thin, unrecognizable. Her head spun. Acid pooled in the back of her throat.

“Are you hurt?” Larissa’s voice held panic.

Gracie shook her head.

“Are you at home?”

Gracie shook her head again, beginning to tremble.

“Gracie, talk to me! Where are you?”

Focus. Gracie steeled herself, inhaled deeply and formed speech. “Evelyn…was…murdered.” She felt a sob roiling to the surface.

Larissa gasped.

A floorboard creaked; the refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. “Larissa, don’t leave me! Are you there?”

“Da, Da, Da. I’m here.” Larissa’s voice sounded pinched, perhaps with grief. “Stay right where you are. I’m calling the police. Stay put.”

Gracie’s plea lodged in her dry throat and surfaced in a ragged whisper. “Don’t hang up.” The dead tone buzzed in her ear. Oh please, Lord, no. Please don’t leave me here all alone. She pushed the phone receiver into her cheek and blew out, fighting the panic clogging her mind.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.”

Gracie curled into a ball, ignoring the comfort that could be hers, covered her hands with her face, and wept. Her sobs echoed through the flat and drowned the rasp of the steel door as it eased open.

The Wolf had grown to like the alias. He liked to think of himself as a hunter. “Where is it?” He slammed his hands down on his desk and leaned forward in his rickety chair. The flimsy piece of laminate trembled, as did the weakling sitting in the straight chair across from him.

“I don’t know.” The man’s face paled. He turned up his fraying collar.

The Wolf saw the quiver in his hands, and rolled his gaze up to the ceiling. The ceiling fan swirled the stale air through the tiny office. Dust rose from the matted red rug and mixed with the sour smell of mold clinging to the walls of the cement and log building. The place should have been destroyed years ago. Someday it was going to come down, but he hoped to be long gone before then.

He rose, rounded his desk and leaned against it, folding his hands on his lap. His stress was beginning to manifest itself in the flesh of his knuckles. His fingers screamed as dry skin cracked and bled. He needed a bottle of Smirnoff and a good massage. But not here, not now. Pleasure would have to wait until he’d finished what he’d started. That’s what commitment meant. Putting off ’til tomorrow the delights of the flesh, staying the course until the job was complete.

That much he’d learned over the thirty years of his virtual imprisonment.

He watched the man fidget, play with his leather key chain. Idiot. The man had all the markings of a new Russian—cocky on the outside, kasha for stuffing. Flighty. Uncommitted. Men like the one before him made the Wolf physically ill. They had no idea what it meant to sacrifice for the Rodina, the Motherland. Men like him were like a virus, infecting the motherland with greediness and a lust for westernism. He despised the leather jacket, the black shoes, the clink of keys to a fancy Japanese sedan.

He despised the next generation. Their idealism, their selfish dreams. The Wolf smiled. He’d shattered some of those illusions today.

He let the kid sit in silence, watched a line of sweat drip down the angular face.

“It’s your own fault.”

The younger man looked up, eyes lined with red. “How’s that?” The tough tone was belied by an edge of horror.

“If you’d dug deeper, none of this would have happened.”

“He didn’t have it. He knew nothing!”

Weakling. “He knew.”

“He died rather than tell you?”

“Yes.”

The man rose and went to the window. “I feel sick.”

The Wolf knew just how the kid felt. He remembered the day not so long ago, when everything he built his life on dissolved like salt in water.

He’d been left to drown.

The Wolf clamped a fat hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder. The younger man jumped. Outside the grimy window, a group of blue-gray pigeons wandered through the garbage of an over-flowing Dumpster, picking at juice cans and hard bread. The wind blew a plastic bag through the rutted dirt yard. It caught in the branches of a budding lilac.

“Find what I need and you’ll feel much better. I promise.”

In the wake of Gracie’s sobs, the whine of the steel door on its hinges ignited her adrenaline like tinder.

Someone was here.

Gracie held still, letting the saliva pool in her mouth. She heard nothing but the whistle of a draft from the outside hall, yet she felt a presence slink toward the bedroom. Gracie drew in a slow, noiseless breath, trying to ignore the sound of her pounding heartbeat. The presence edged closer. Clamping down on her trembling lower lip, she moved the telephone to the floor. It jangled.

Gracie froze.

Glancing around the room for a weapon, her heart sank. The Youngs had nothing more dangerous than a couple of oversize pillows in their room. Her slaughtered body would be found clutching a feather pillow like a shield. Revulsion sent an unexpected streak of courage into her veins. She wasn’t going to let Evelyn’s murderer kill her without a fight.

Her eyes fell on the crystal vase Dr. Willie had given his wife for Christmas. Gracie eased to her feet and grabbed the vase. The faux flowers went airborne, scattering the potpourri Evelyn had tucked inside.

Gracie heard a brushing sound, as if the intruder had skimmed his jacket along the wallpaper. She gritted her teeth, willed her pulse quiet, raised the vase.

The door cracked open.

Gracie wound up.

A fuzzy white paw clawed at the invisible.

The vase crashed.

Gracie’s heart nearly rocketed out of her open mouth. Shaking, she sank onto Dr. Willie and Evelyn’s double bed and wheezed deep breaths.

She’d nearly killed a cat. What if it had been the killer? What was she supposed to do, bean him with a pot of flowers? The absurdity of her defense sent heat into her face. She was a fool. And she might be in danger.

Glancing at Evelyn’s butchered body, she pushed a hand against her pitching stomach and released a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Evelyn. I have to get out of here.”

Gracie grabbed her satchel from its landing place near the door and stepped out into the hallway. Nothing but shadow and the plink of water from the kitchen sink. On noodle legs, she ran to the door, just daring someone to leap from the kitchen or the living room. She’d send him out of the window and into the next country.

She stepped into the hallway, strode to the landing and started down the stairs. One step at a time, skipping two, then three, feeling the hem of her dress catch as she hung on to the rail and flung herself down every flight until she stumbled, breathless through the entrance and out into the clear, blue-skied day.

Her gaze landed on a babushka, still attired for January, sitting on a bench near the door. The old woman scrutinized her with a slit-eyed stare. Gracie stalked away, her strides not nearly long enough for the speed she needed. The cacophony of sirens, horns and car engines on the street played her tension like a drum.