Theyboth deserved to die in their sleep after another forty or so years. Life had been cruel, or maybe God had been cruel. She didn’t want to hash out her theology now. She wanted to blame someone. To hurt them. It was un-Christian, unforgiving and she knew it. Still, someone had to pay.
As if they ever could.
She put the letters aside and fingered a manila envelope protruding from the bag. It was thick, bulky and taped three or four times, with a veritable ribbon of stamps pasted in the top right hand corner. Gracie read the address, written in black marker—Karin Lindstrom, M.D., c/o University of Minnesota Cancer Center, and an address in Minneapolis. No one she knew. Gracie gathered the envelopes into a pile and tucked them between two sweatshirts in her suitcase.
“There. That’s done. Now, what else?”
“How about this stuff?” Larissa gestured to a stack of Russian memorabilia—birch-bark pictures, matroshka dolls, blue and white painted zhel china.
Gracie grabbed a sock and tossed it into Larissa’s lap. “Start wrapping.”
Two hours later, Gracie closed the second of her two suitcases, gritting her teeth as she worked the zipper. Grabbing the weathered handle, she muscled the bag off the sofa to the floor. “This thing weighs a ton. They’ll never let me on the plane.”
Larissa tested the other suitcase. “You’ll have to buy an extra ticket.”
Gracie stepped back, her hand on her hips, and scowled.
Larissa pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I know, let’s call Andrei. He can come and get us and we’ll weigh these at my office. Then you’ll know whether you should give me that Irish wool sweater and your Gap jeans.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to buy a bathroom scale and bring it here?”
“And risk having to dump out your bags in the middle of check-in? You want the other passengers to know you travel with a worn teddy bear and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol?” Larissareached for the telephone. “Aeroflot has accurate scales.” She gave a chuckle. “The last thing you need is Customs Control rifling through your baggage while you try and repack.”
Why not? The FSB had her phone number. Why shouldn’t Customs know the color of her socks? Gracie rubbed her temple with her thumb and forefinger, aware suddenly that she’d glanced at the telephone one too many times today.
FSB Shubnikov hadn’t called. Good riddance.
Except, of course, when he came to her in her rebellious dreams, concern in his blue eyes and his comforting hand on her shoulder. Had she completely forgotten that he’d treated her like a suspect? Wake up and see the bright interrogation lights in your future, Gracie. She shook free of Mr. FSB’s tempting memory.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s call Andrei.”
Vicktor leaned against the door frame, steeling his stomach against the rancid odor of formaldehyde, and watched Medical Examiner Vladimir Utuzh prod a gray cadaver. Utuzh’s assistant, a bald, spiny man named Shiroki, scurried to the coroner’s side, utensils in hand. Another man sat on a high stool, bony knees poking out between the buttons of his lab coat, taking notes in Russian shorthand.
Vicktor purposely ignored the various body parts floating in the jars lining the back wall. He had been wise to take only one semester of forensic science at the Academy. Medical Examiner Utuzh had been his teacher, and as well as making his skin crawl, he had embedded in Vicktor a healthy respect for the Sydebno-Meditsinskaya Ekspertiza —Khabarovsk Coroner’s Office. Feeling more queasy than he wanted to admit, Vicktor cleared his throat.
Utuzh glanced up, a scowl knitting his bushy blond eyebrows. Six foot four, with the girth of a small grizzly, he already had white streaks in his blond beard and his unruly hair spiked upward despite obvious attempts to make it behave. Vicktor offered a smile. Utuzh paused in his monologue,stepped away from the victim and snapped off his surgical gloves.
“What
As if they ever could.
She put the letters aside and fingered a manila envelope protruding from the bag. It was thick, bulky and taped three or four times, with a veritable ribbon of stamps pasted in the top right hand corner. Gracie read the address, written in black marker—Karin Lindstrom, M.D., c/o University of Minnesota Cancer Center, and an address in Minneapolis. No one she knew. Gracie gathered the envelopes into a pile and tucked them between two sweatshirts in her suitcase.
“There. That’s done. Now, what else?”
“How about this stuff?” Larissa gestured to a stack of Russian memorabilia—birch-bark pictures, matroshka dolls, blue and white painted zhel china.
Gracie grabbed a sock and tossed it into Larissa’s lap. “Start wrapping.”
Two hours later, Gracie closed the second of her two suitcases, gritting her teeth as she worked the zipper. Grabbing the weathered handle, she muscled the bag off the sofa to the floor. “This thing weighs a ton. They’ll never let me on the plane.”
Larissa tested the other suitcase. “You’ll have to buy an extra ticket.”
Gracie stepped back, her hand on her hips, and scowled.
Larissa pushed her glasses up on her nose. “I know, let’s call Andrei. He can come and get us and we’ll weigh these at my office. Then you’ll know whether you should give me that Irish wool sweater and your Gap jeans.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to buy a bathroom scale and bring it here?”
“And risk having to dump out your bags in the middle of check-in? You want the other passengers to know you travel with a worn teddy bear and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol?” Larissareached for the telephone. “Aeroflot has accurate scales.” She gave a chuckle. “The last thing you need is Customs Control rifling through your baggage while you try and repack.”
Why not? The FSB had her phone number. Why shouldn’t Customs know the color of her socks? Gracie rubbed her temple with her thumb and forefinger, aware suddenly that she’d glanced at the telephone one too many times today.
FSB Shubnikov hadn’t called. Good riddance.
Except, of course, when he came to her in her rebellious dreams, concern in his blue eyes and his comforting hand on her shoulder. Had she completely forgotten that he’d treated her like a suspect? Wake up and see the bright interrogation lights in your future, Gracie. She shook free of Mr. FSB’s tempting memory.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s call Andrei.”
Vicktor leaned against the door frame, steeling his stomach against the rancid odor of formaldehyde, and watched Medical Examiner Vladimir Utuzh prod a gray cadaver. Utuzh’s assistant, a bald, spiny man named Shiroki, scurried to the coroner’s side, utensils in hand. Another man sat on a high stool, bony knees poking out between the buttons of his lab coat, taking notes in Russian shorthand.
Vicktor purposely ignored the various body parts floating in the jars lining the back wall. He had been wise to take only one semester of forensic science at the Academy. Medical Examiner Utuzh had been his teacher, and as well as making his skin crawl, he had embedded in Vicktor a healthy respect for the Sydebno-Meditsinskaya Ekspertiza —Khabarovsk Coroner’s Office. Feeling more queasy than he wanted to admit, Vicktor cleared his throat.
Utuzh glanced up, a scowl knitting his bushy blond eyebrows. Six foot four, with the girth of a small grizzly, he already had white streaks in his blond beard and his unruly hair spiked upward despite obvious attempts to make it behave. Vicktor offered a smile. Utuzh paused in his monologue,stepped away from the victim and snapped off his surgical gloves.
“What
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