In Sheep's Clothing by Susan May Warren

he calls?”
    Vicktor grimaced. “A driver.”
    “This chauffeur fella didn’t show up for his morning appointment, and for some reason the girl expected him to report to the Youngs. Maybe they were his boss, or scheduled his appointments. Whatever the reason, I think he did go there. They let him in, expecting him to leave in a moment…and, well, there’s your perpetrator. Find the chauffeur and you’ll find the Wolf.”
    “Oh, that’s too easy. The chauffeur had to know we’d suspect him.”
    Nickolai fingered his teacup. “You didn’t.”
    Thanks, Pop. Yet another reminder that he would never fill the shoes of the cop who sired him. “Well, I would have, in time.”
    “But maybe not before he hid himself in some remote village. You haven’t found him yet, have you?”
    “We just started looking. I don’t even know if Arkady put out a warrant for him.”
    Nickolai stabbed his fourth blini. Vicktor wondered what he’d eaten for dinner last night. Maybe a can of sardines.
    Vicktor swallowed the last of his tea. “I gotta go.” His appetite had disintegrated.
    Nickolai shrugged. The spark in his eyes died to an ember.
    Vicktor pushed his stool away from the table.
    “By the way, what were these Americans doing here?”
    Vicktor ran tap water over his plate, the water beading on the grease. “Besides smuggling?”
    Nickolai harrumphed.
    “They were missionaries. Working with the Russian church.”
    Nickolai stared at him for a moment before he blinked and looked away. “Be careful, Vicktor.”
     
    “So, I called Yuri and he said he’d call your organization. He told me to tell you not to worry.” Larissa sat cross-legged on the living room floor watching Gracie pace the room, clutching socks in one hand and a Grisham book in the other.
    “Funny they haven’t called yet,” Gracie said. But to have to talk about it, explain the story, voice the words— “The Youngs have been murdered.” No, maybe it would be better to hop on a plane and do the explaining in America. Far, far away from the crime scene, the memories, the failures…
    “Have you heard from the Consulate? Are they sending someone?”
    Gracie shrugged, staring first at the socks, then at the empty suitcase. “I don’t know. I figure the cops will call the Consulate.” Did it really matter who they called? It certainly wouldn’t change reality.
    Evelyn and Dr. Willie had been murdered.
    “You have to pack something, Gracie. You can’t go home naked.” Larissa’s cat-eye glasses slid down over her nose, making her appear a disapproving schoolmarm. She sounded like one, as well. “Pack the socks and give me the book.”
    Gracie plopped both in Larissa’s lap.
    “I don’t care what I bring home…everything I care about is here.” Was here.
    Larissa stared at the socks.
    Gracie cringed at her words. What was wrong with her? Here, Larissa had taken the day off to help her and Gracie had the sensitivity of a lizard. She sat and squeezed Larissa’s knee. “I’m sorry.”
    Larissa’s eyes glistened. “I understand.”
    Tears stung Gracie’s eyes. She bit her lip and forced them back.
    “I need to pack the mail, at least.” Gracie crawled over to her satchel and pulled out the plastic bag of letters Evelyn had given her only two nights before.
    “Can you mail these for me? It’ll take a decade from Russia. I’m terrified of the Russian mail service.”
    The irony made Gracie’s throat tighten. Evelyn had certainly known real terror in the last moments of her life.
    Gracie wrestled the thought into captivity lest it consume her, and flipped through the letters. One to Des Moines, the Youngs’ daughter and son-in-law, two to relatives in Georgia and one to a son in college in Ohio. The last was an oversize bright blue envelope, addressed to “Cowboy Tyler” and his parents, from Grandma and Grandpa.
    Sorrow tightened like a fist. The Youngs had lived a good life—honest, hardworking, devoted to serving the Lord.