In Sheep's Clothing

by Susan May Warren

  “Not much of a place,” Vicktor commented.

  Gracie sighed as they stepped through the gate. She wanted to curl into a ball and weep for the barrenness and pain in Vicktor’s soul. Swallowing her disappointment, she walked up the skinny path to the front door.

  It was unlocked.

  Gracie had expected that, and pushed it open. Larissa never locked her door. She said that whoever felt they needed to steal the chipped cups and the stained plates needed them worse than she did. Gracie stood in the doorway, rubbing her arms against the winter chill still lurking in the whitewashed walls. Vicktor went over to a tiny iron stove, opened the door and peered into the yawning pitch.

  “I’ll get a fire going.”

  Gracie nodded and reached for his bag. He handed it to her and she plopped the groceries onto a table shoved under a wide window. She stared at the lifeless garden. She’d forgotten that from the dacha, they couldn’t see the street.

  But no one would find them here, right?

  Was that good or bad? Especially when she glanced at Vicktor, his strong arms stacking wood into the stove, his handsome whiskered face, his beautiful eyes that had the capacity to reach down to her heart.

  Reaching into the bag, her hand closed on a soft bag. Coffee. Gracie stared at it for a moment, wondering how Vicktor had bought it without her noticing. The unexpected kindness, despite his frosty demeanor, tugged at her heart. Give me another chance, Lord, to help him see the Truth. She couldn’t give up, had to keep reaching out to him. Because the thought of going back to America knowing Vicktor was back in Russia, demons prowling his heart, was a thousand times worse than being caught by the Wolf. At least she had eternity.

  Vicktor had nothing but darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Andrei, I’m so glad I caught you!” Larissa leaned back into the sofa. Her head throbbed and she kneaded her temple as she pressed the phone to her ear. “Where are you?”

  “Pacing the floor of my kitchen.”

  She imagined him in the one-room dump where he lived. Wood floors, a green fraying pullout sofa, the smell of sunflower oil and fried potatoes clinging to the gold wallpaper. He had so little ambition. No wonder Gracie had refused to marry him.

  “I’m worried about Gracie,” she said.

  “She’s with that cop. I’m sure he’ll take good care of her.”

  She didn’t miss the strain in his voice. After all was said and done, she couldn’t accuse her cousin of acting out of anything but love.

  She could use that.

  “Andrei, she needs you. I can’t believe you’d abandon her.”

  “I didn’t abandon her. She’s safe.”

  “She’s not safe.”

  Silence. “What are you saying, Larissa?”

  “Have you forgotten everything? Need I spell it out? F. S. B.”

  The pause from him echoed with pain. She hoped she hadn’t pressed him too far. His nightmares could be helpful, but not if they paralyzed him.

  “I’m sure Mr. FezB will try, but c’mon…think. Who made up the Wolf myth in the first place? The three-letter boys.” Her voice dropped. “Go get her. She’s at my dacha, waiting for you,” she soothed. “Then bring her to the airport. I’ll make sure she gets on the plane and gets home. Safely.”

  He sighed, and she knew he was reliving the past, weighing her words against his own memories. She’d won. “Tomorrow, at the airport.”

  “What about her passport and visa? She can’t leave the country without them.”

  Larissa took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m a travel agent. You let me take care of that. You just go get Gracie.” She hung up before he could argue.

  “Are you happy?” Larissa asked, smiling sweetly to the man next to her.

  The fire snapped and chewed at the dry kindling, its light scattering the creeping shadows, bathing the cottage in a warm glow.

  Vicktor crouched by the fire and wiped his grimy hands on a rag. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gracie moving at the small kitchen table, chopping, humming. She’d thrown a blue denim work shirt over her leopard-skin top and looked delightfully comfortable, at ease for the first time all day. Vicktor watched the fire, wishing he felt her peace.

  An angry fire, as hot as the one flickering in the stove, burned inside him. Why had he brought up her religion?

  Answers. For some reason, grief had slugged him in the gut today, and, like Yanna had said, maybe Gracie knew why God had picked on him. Unfortunately, her bluntness had drilled him in the chin. It had taken all his tenacity not to turn and leave her and her merciless faith alone to fend for themselves. Surrender to God or hell. The choices hurt.

  Except, could it be that simple? Tired, Vicktor hung his head in his hands. Roman was forever dogging him to trust in the unseen God. Roman simply didn’t understand that Vicktor would never be worthy to receive forgiveness. Sorry, but he just didn’t buy this “free gift” stuff. Sins had to be punished. Christianity seemed too easy. Where was the justice? More than that, how could he trust a God that had no reason to save him? Surely the God of the universe would have a few prerequisites for acceptance into His kingdom?

  “Do you want coffee or soda?”

  Vicktor snapped his gaze to Gracie, who stood with one hand on her hip, holding a teakettle. Her face shone, her eyes sparkled; no trace of fear remained. It was balm to his heart to see her change in demeanor after her horrific morning.

  “Yes,” he answered in a thin voice.

  Gracie laughed. “Okay.” She plunked the kettle on the one-burner hot plate and cranked it up. Then she turned back to the table and began slicing bread.

  Vicktor swallowed a lump in this throat. “Why aren’t you angry at me? Obviously I don’t agree with you.”

  She angled him a frown, but softened it with a smile. “No, you don’t. But that’s okay. I’m hoping, though, that you’ll learn to trust me, like I trust you.”

  Oh. He looked away, not ready for the sudden rush of feelings. What was it about her that made him feel…clean? She had a transparency that sucked him in, that made him feel alive, even at peace.

  He sighed and sat down in a worn armchair. Peace was the last thing he should feel if he hoped to keep her safe. Peace was the last thing he deserved after his mistakes.

  “Suppertime.” Gracie’s cheery tone threaded through him and produced a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Gracie. You’ve been working so hard, I should have helped.” He gestured to the bunk she’d made up for him. “I take it you’re sleeping upstairs?”

  Gracie smiled, but he spied a tinge of embarrassment rise in her eyes. He took the plate. “It’s a great idea. The last thing I want is for you to spy on me while I sleep.” He smiled, hoping it eased her discomfort.

  And was rewarded with a grin…Oh, he’d have to be on his best good-boy behavior tonight if he hoped to be worthy of that smile.

  She returned to the table and Vicktor set the plate on a towel she’d spread out on the swept wooden floor. Her resourcefulness and spunk in the face of terror had bolstered his respect for her.

  Maybe, in fact, her words about God hearing her mourning and meeting her in her darkest place had some merit. A believing man might admit that her God had plucked her out of a few painful tussles the past few days.

  Gracie returned with two glasses of soda. The fire crackled, spicing the air with the pleasant scent of birch and oak. Vicktor pulled up two armchairs. “Your table, milady.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  And how was he supposed to concentrate on eating when she wore that delicious smile?

  Where were Roman and Yanna when he needed them?

  “Let’s see what is on the menu tonight.” Vicktor lifted the plate. “I see salmon sandwiches, and a dill and cucumber salad.”

  “Only the best for my bodyguard.” Gracie’s eyes were turned toward his, curious, delighted.

  The look on her face made him weak. Hastily, he continued. “So,
um, do you want to pray?”

  She gaped. “Pray?”

  “Roman likes to pray before we eat. I just thought—”

  “I’d love to.” She bowed her head. “Lord, thank You for this supper. Thank You for this dacha and the safety it offers. Please surround us with Your angels and protect us this night.” She paused, and her voice turned hoarse. “Lord, thank You for my friends—for Larissa, and Nickolai and especially Andrei. Please protect him, wherever he is. Keep him safe and fill him with Your wisdom.”

  Vicktor’s eyes flickered open, but Gracie’s head stayed bowed, her fingers clasped tightly on her lap.

  “Lord, thank You for Vicktor. Thank You for his patience and his protection. Please help him to find the Wolf or whoever killed Evelyn and Dr. Willie. Please give him wisdom to help me get home safely.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And please, Lord, help Vicktor to find the answers he is searching for. Amen.”

  Vicktor’s mouth went dry. He tore his eyes off Gracie and stared at the plate of sandwiches. She’d prayed for him, been thankful for him. Asked God to help him.

  Okay, that round hit way too close to his heart. Gooseflesh raised on his skin. He didn’t know what rattled him more—that Gracie would pray for him, or that God might answer.

  Gracie picked up a salmon sandwich, contemplative as she peered into the flames.

  “That was a nice prayer. Thank you,” he said, feeling like a spiritual idiot.

  Her expression didn’t change when she turned to face him. He suddenly felt vulnerable, and grabbed a sandwich. “This is delicious.”

  She grinned, but he wondered if she could see right through him to the terror inside.

  “Thank you. My friend Larissa taught me.”

  It just felt way too good to have someone care…that much. And it felt about a billion times different than Roman’s or Mae’s spiritual nudges.

  This one nearly brought tears to his eyes.

  And wouldn’t that be great? A FSB cop breaking down into a soggy mess in front of the woman he’s supposed to protect?

  He suddenly wondered just who was doing the protecting.

  His cell phone jangled. Vicktor scrambled to his feet and reached for his coat. He wrestled the phone from the pocket and flipped it open. “Slyushaiyu.”

  “You were right,” Arkady’s tired voice barked from the other end.

  “Come again?” He felt Gracie’s eyes on him and regretted having to speak Russian in front of her. Invariably, she would think he was hiding something.

  Arkady chuckled. “Sending Roman to interrogate Strakhin.”

  Hope filled Vicktor. He turned and smiled at Gracie, whose eyes lit up. “And?”

  “The Youngs may have been framed. Strakhin has never even heard of them.”

  “What about the signature—the wad of paper up their noses?”

  “It’s textbook Korean mafia, but the COBRAs ran Kim Jung and his gang back to the border over a month ago and Strakhin says the hit looks like a copycat.”

  “Still, maybe the Youngs were into something tyomni and simply escaped the COBRA net. Maybe they got cocky with Jung gone and he decided to take them out?”

  “The passports and visas were plants. I showed Strakhin the stamp. He gave it the once-over and pronounced it fake.”

  “Fake?”

  “Da. This guy’s a real class act—he’s smuggled in everything from drugs to females, but he knows his paperwork.”

  Vicktor watched Gracie as she picked up her empty plate and brought it to the tiny table. He had the sudden desire to pull her into his arms.

  “Our unfortunate missionaries couldn’t have gotten a dog license in Korea with that stamp, let alone smuggle drugs across the border,” Arkady said.

  Vicktor turned decisively away from Gracie, wincing in his effort to focus. “So it was a setup.”

  “Looks that way.” Arkady sounded tired. “Now what, hotshot? Our Russian smuggler just flushed our leads.”

  Vicktor grimaced. “I don’t know. Gracie’s flight leaves tomorrow. I guess I’m going to get her to the airport and put her on the plane, and then maybe I can sort this thing out.” He rubbed his forehead with his palm. “I hate to ask, but how did you squeeze all this information from Strakhin?”

  Arkady’s tone chilled. “Just be glad that in this country, the laws are still gray.”

  Vicktor cringed. Arkady’s methods of interrogation weren’t pretty, at best. “Watch out for my pop, Chief.”

  “I’m eating cutlets with him at the moment.”

  Vicktor managed a slight smile. “I’ll be in touch. Thanks.” He closed the phone and turned back to Gracie, tapping the unit against his leg. She stood beside the stove, holding the teakettle.

  “Who was that?” Her cheery tone eased the dread fisting his stomach.

  He smiled at her, masking the bad news. “One of my men, following up on a lead.” He sat back down in his chair. “Evidently your friends, the Youngs, weren’t smugglers. The visa kit we found was a fake.”

  He couldn’t miss the triumph that lit Gracie’s face. He allowed her the moment, unutterably glad she’d been right. Somehow it restored his faith in the salt and light of society.

  But now their only lead had shattered. Whoever killed the Youngs, Evgeny and Leonid was after something, and although it had been unlikely, the possibility of the Youngs’ involvement in some kind of drug smuggling had been the perfect solution. Somehow, with them as cohorts in their own death, Vicktor could argue away the idea that someone wanted Gracie. He could coerce himself into believing the attacks on her had been random. That she didn’t have the Wolf tracking her.

  His appetite died. He rubbed his forehead, fighting despair.

  “Are you all right?” Gracie’s victorious look had evaporated, replaced with one of genuine concern.

  “Yep, just thinking about how you were right.”

  Gracie smiled again and handed him a hot cup of coffee. “Well, then, this is your reward for seeing the truth.”

  Vicktor cradled the cup in his hands. Steam spiraled from the surface and soothed his fraying nerves.

  “Pravda,” he mumbled as he blew the steam away.

  “Truth,” she translated as she sat on the armchair.

  He met her eyes and their warmth melted another layer of his defenses. “Da, truth. It seems a bit beyond my reach, as if it’s out there but I just can’t seem to grab it.”

  “Vicktor, you know the truth—you just need to believe, to open your eyes and see it.”

  Vicktor frowned slightly, confused, then chuckled wryly. He sat back in his chair. “I was talking about the case.”

  “Oh,” Gracie said.

  “But,” Vicktor continued, drawing a breath for courage, “I am curious about something you said. Why would God choose to save us? I mean, you’re—well, yes, I can see him wanting someone like you. But me, I’m not…” Oy, this was harder than he had thought, especially with her staring at him, compassion in her eyes. “I’m not a saint.” He looked away “I’ve made mistakes. Mistakes that cost lives.”

  Silence.

  He hazarded a glance at her and winced when he saw Gracie’s eyes glistening. She looked stricken, as if he’d wounded her. He was right; he read it on her face. God wouldn’t want a sinner like him in heaven. His sins were too terrible to forgive. A fist closed over his heart and for the first time in his life he hoped he was wrong.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away, just stared at him, her eyes darkening to a deep green.

  He felt like crying, too. He focused on the fire. So it was all for naught. There was no salvation for him.

  But then she was on her knees before him. She took his coffee from him, then held his hands in hers.

  “You listen to me,” she said softly. “No one lives a life without mistakes and sin. And God knows that. But he has chosen to love us, to demonstrate just how deep and wide his love is. You can’t out-sin God’s grace.”

  V
icktor frowned. “Grace?”

  “Getting what you don’t deserve. As opposed to mercy, which is not getting what we do deserve. God’s really good at both. In fact the entire point of the Bible is that we don’t have to get it right. Because He already did.” Her voice fell. “All we have to do is need Him. To ask for salvation.”

  He wondered if she could see right to his soul, to the darkness, the nightmares and regrets. Yes, he needed forgiveness. Maybe even salvation.

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Do you want to ask for it?”

  Oh man, for the first time in his life, he wondered. He chewed her words, feeling as if his were trapped in his chest. Why couldn’t he just reach out and grab on to this God that Roman and David and Mae and Gracie seemed to embrace?

  Because, on the other side of surrender was discovery. Despite Gracie’s words, Vicktor knew that once God got a good look at the things buried deep inside him, well, redemption just wasn’t available for a guy like him.

  Vicktor slowly shook his head.

  Sadness crept into her eyes. “Okay, Vicktor.” She moved back to her chair and stared into the fire.

  Despite the warmth, Vicktor shivered.

  Gracie wrapped her arms around her waist and wandered out into the barren garden. The moon was a perfect sphere in a velvet sky, spilling a carpet of light upon the coal-black dirt. Gracie listened to a sightless breeze rustle the half-clothed branches of a nearby pear tree and raised her eyes to heaven. “Why, oh Lord? What keeps Vicktor from embracing Your grace? What am I doing wrong? He seems so close, so open.”

  Gracie closed her eyes, fighting the tears burning her eyes. “Why can’t he trust in Your love?”

  “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Gracie saw the words of the psalm in her memory. “O my God, I cry out by day, but You do not answer.” Hadn’t she cried out, wanting God to forgive her? She saw herself, tattered, broken, dirty, clinging to the shower stall in the bathroom, crying.

  Gracie’s throat thickened. “All who see me mock me.” Yes, she’d mocked herself. Let herself believe condemnation. “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint.” She’d felt poured out, emptied. Useless.