“I’m not dating Mae or Yanna. Nor will I. I learned from Mae that dating warps friendship. Love is a game for a woman—one designed to confuse and decimate men.” He gave a mock shudder.
Roman didn’t laugh. “Nice. You’re a real walking Don Juan. I’ll bet the ladies love hanging around you.”
Vicktor ignored him and he went on. “Sorry, but that’s the truth. Remember what Sarai did to you? She led you on, then blink, walked out of your life without even a goodbye. I’d think you’d be my champion.”
Roman’s hand clamped on his shoulder, yanking him to a halt. His friend’s eyes sparked, and Vicktor recoiled, suddenly aware he’d pushed Roman too far.
“You couldn’t be more wrong, Vicktor. About God. About women. About Sarai. I regret losing her more than you can guess. But I don’t blame the entire female population for my broken heart.”
“Sorry.” Vicktor shrugged off Roman’s grip, feeling like a jerk for mentioning Roman’s first love.
Roman inhaled an unsteady breath, his hazel-green eyes scrutinizing his friend. “I don’t know what happened to you yesterday, but you need to get a hold of your fear of trusting people. Trust is a choice, pal. No man is an island, and unless you choose to believe in people, you’re going to live a pretty chilly and barren life.”
Roman’s words felt like a sucker punch. Vicktor already lived a desolate life, his best friends being online. Yes, he had Roman and Yanna, but more often than not he poured out his frustration to a dog he didn’t even like. “That’s not fair. I trust you.” He broke their gaze.
“And I trust you, my friend. But you need more than me and Yanna, Mae, and David. You need the Savior. And you need the love of a good woman.”
“Just like you do?”
Roman smiled. It eased the moment as well as the band around Vicktor’s chest. “Da.”
Roman and Vicktor fell into step, cooling down from their run with a brisk walk. The winking sun had skimmed the tops of the apartment buildings, and the wind was dissected by the wad of budding trees along the boulevard. The smell of freshly baked bread swirled on the crisp air. Vicktor’s stomach roared.
“That animal sounds hungry.” Roman smirked.
Vicktor ignored him, cut off the path, and tramped across the stiff grass toward the Svezhee Bread Factory.
Five minutes later, two loaves of bread tucked under his arm, he rejoined Roman, who waited on the sidewalk, eyebrows high, tapping his foot.
“Gotta feed Alfred,” he mumbled.
Roman laughed. “By the way, I found a woman for you. Someone honest and not confusing in the least.”
“What?” Vicktor frowned.
Roman jerked his head, indicating a blonde heading in their direction. Her hands were fisted in her coat pockets, her legs pulling against the hem of her denim dress as she strode. Her vivid scowl and blazing eyes broadcast her fury as she stalked toward them.
“Just your type, Vicktor,” Roman said, voice low, teasing.
Vicktor’s eyes roamed over the lady, for some reason empathizing with the frustration written on her face.
Five steps away, she glanced up and met his eyes. Green. Intense. Vulnerable. His heart caught at that last impression and he barely remembered to stumble backward to let her pass.
“Da. Just my type,” he echoed as he watched her march down the sidewalk.
Gracie felt the man’s stare on the back of her neck and picked up her pace. Way to go, Gracie. Ex-pat rule number one—don’t make eye contact with a man in Russia. Or anywhere, for that matter.
She distanced herself from the gawker on the sidewalk, her heartbeat slowing. Poor guy did look frayed. His pensive blue eyes, a furrowed brow, his black hair in spikes and perspiration running down his unshaven jaw. Her heart twisted in response. She knew all about feeling frayed, worn down, defeated.
A frosty wind gusted through her thin raincoat and she shivered.
The smell of fresh bread wafted after her as she bee-lined to the bus stop. She would have dearly loved to pick up a fresh loaf for Evelyn, but thanks to Leonid, her absent chauffeur, she was hoofing it all over Khabarovsk. Leonid had better have a wallop of a reason for being late three times in a row. She once again wished for Andrei, but he was already assigned a new post somewhere. Thank the Lord for Larissa, who had come into work at Aeroflot Travel early to meet her. Her travel agent friend even bumped her into first class.
“Your flight is at four p.m. Be there by one p.m. and don’t be late,” Larissa had said, melancholy in her eyes. “There’s only one flight a month out of here now, and it’s packed.”
Friends like Larissa and her cousin Andrei would be difficult to replace.
Especially since she was leaving. Forever.
Gracie’s throat closed and she didn’t dare look at heaven. She knew she’d blown it. The reality was mortifying—a missionary who had never led someone to the Lord. Why, she couldn’t even convince one of her closest friends, let alone the masses. Larissa’s heart was as hardened to the gospel as a rock on the Lake Superior shoreline.
With four days left, the time bomb of a ticket in Gracie’s pocket ticked away.
She joined a handful of old women waiting for the bus, their wide faces peeking out from fuzzy gray scarves wound twice around their heads. Their desolate eyes matched their headgear. Life took all the guts the elderly could muster, especially on gray spring days.
As a grimy orange bus chugged up to the curb and coughed exhaust, Gracie fished around in her coat pocket and unearthed five rubles for fare. She climbed aboard and squeezed in beside a grizzled old man. The vodka on his breath nearly knocked her to her knees as she snared an overhead bar.
She hoped Evelyn was still home. Her boss wasn’t expecting her, but Gracie dearly needed a fresh email from her mother to ward off the feeling of dread that hovered over the morning. She gritted her teeth against the breath of the toothless rummy and hung on while the bus lurched toward Victory Square. The bust of Lenin towered over the cobblestone parade grounds, a heap of bouquets wilting at the base.
Only four days earlier she had shivered on the balcony of the Youngs’ sixth-floor apartment and watched Russia revel in the old days of the might and power of the Cold War. They’d pushed out the old arsenal, including tanks and Katusha rocket launchers, and had assembled them in the square, crushing the stones to dirt. She had to admit the sound of a thousand or so male soldiers singing the Russian national anthem had sent pangs of patriotism through her. Indeed, there were times she dearly missed America.
Ten minutes later, she felt nearly soused herself, courtesy of the wino beside her. She gulped fresh air as she stumbled off the bus. Approaching the Youngs’ building, she noticed Leonid’s blue Zhiguli was not parked in front. She’d held out a slim hope he’d actually check in with Evelyn, not relishing the day hiking around town. Still, as much as she needed a lift, she had to admit to some relief. The guy gave her the creeps. He ogled her like a starved lion. Her irritation died in the face of the alternative. Hoofing was definitely safer.
Gracie shuffled into the dank corridor and called the Youngs’ lift. It wheezed to life and lumbered down six floors. Shivering, she wondered why someone didn’t clean the cobwebs hanging Spanish-moss–fashion from the dark corners. A pile of old cigarette butts, crushed juice boxes, and plastic bags added a musty odor to the shadows. She smirked as she read the new chalk graffiti on the already well-decorated walls—“Natasha loves Slava.” Some things were the same throughout the world.
The elevator doors wrenched open, and a buzzing fluorescent light beckoned her to enter. Gracie hesitated and waged her familiar self-debate. She’d been imprisoned twice in an elevator in Russia, and the experience had left scars on her psyche, not to mention her olfactory glands. Still, six flights of stairs waged a compelling case. She pushed the sixth-floor button, charred black from a vandal’s lighter, and ascended in the tiny box stinking of dog urine. Perhaps she would walk back down.
The lift stopped on t
he sixth floor. Gracie stepped out and froze.
The black metal door protecting the Youngs’ flat, a standard for foreigners, hung slightly ajar. Talk about creepy—it groaned as Gracie eased it open. “Evelyn?”
The inner wooden door gave easily. Gracie stood there, her stomach coiling into a cold knot. Evelyn was a zealot about locked doors.
“Dr. Willie?”
Silence oozed from the apartment. Gooseflesh rose, pricked her neck.
“Evelyn? Dr. Willie?” Alarm pitched her voice high and it added to the gnawing fear in her gut. Stop. It. She took a deep breath. There were simple explanations. Like, they’d gone out shopping and forgotten to lock the door.
She nearly jumped through her skin when she closed the door and found the Youngs’ coats neatly hung on the hallway hooks. From the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on and buzzed.
She startled, turned, and braced her hand on the wall. Stupid girl. Maybe they were next door. Gracie hung her back on the hook and stepped into the kitchen. A fresh, wet rag dripped into the sink next to the drying rack, which held the clean breakfast dishes. Bacon grease glistened in a cast-iron pan on the stove. On the ledge, an African violet sparkled, freshly sprayed.
“Evelyn?” Maybe she was in the bathroom.
Gracie stalked down the hallway, noticing the French doors to the family room were closed. If Dr. Willie was studying, he wasn’t answering. A light streaming from the bathroom urged her down the hall. Gracie stuck her head in, a smile on her face, ready to catch Evelyn hanging laundry. A stepladder and a fresh batch of laundry drying from a line above the bathtub cast gloomy shadows on the white tile.
No Evelyn. Gracie flicked the light off and stood in the hall, listening to her heart beat.
Stop. Gracie held up her hands as if to halt the ridiculous fear cascading over her. She would not let the unknown push her beyond the cradle of common sense. Evelyn and Dr. Willie had obviously left and forgotten to lock their door. Odd, but not impossible. Besides, weren’t they safely tucked under the protective wing of their heavenly Father? Gracie bowed her head, shame dissolving her fear. Forgive me for my lack of faith, Lord.
Gracie checked her watch. She still had time to download her mail and send her mother a note. She headed for the bedroom office.
Knocking on the bedroom door, she laughed at her silliness. If Evelyn were in the bedroom, she would have heard her long before Gracie’s timid rap.
As she pushed open the door, the moment slowed like an old movie on creased film. Horror filled her—starting at her gut and building until it emerged in an all-out howl. Her bones turned to rubber. Gracie collapsed to her knees and fought for breath.
No, no!
She whimpered as she pulled herself across the bloody floor toward Evelyn’s unmoving body.
3
Toweling off after his frosty two-minute shower, Vicktor caught his cell on the third ring.
“Slyushaiyu.” He rubbed a hand over his clean-shaven skin and winced at a raw spot. The clock hands inched toward eight-thirty.
“You have some explaining to do, Shubnikov.” Comrade Major Mikhail Malenkov’s voice grated Vicktor’s already throbbing nerves.
“Come again?” Vicktor folded his towel and hung it over a straight-backed chair.
“Maxim. He’s supposed to be your partner. Yet you didn’t have the courtesy to call either him or me and let us know that one of your best informants is stone cold in the morgue?”
“He was a friend, sir, and unless I missed a memo, my understanding was Maxim just shares my office space.”
“Don’t get smart. You know he’s assigned to you.”
Vicktor’s eyes narrowed as he surveyed his closet. His voice grew cold. “I was walking my dog. I found Evgeny by accident.”
“Right. Next time call your own guys for backup. We don’t need the goats in the militia sniffing around our dela.”
“Since when are local murders our business?”
“Since they are mafia hits.”
Vicktor scrambled for balance, his sock halfway on. “Mafia hit?” Hope lit inside him. That meant the case would head to the COBRA force of the FSB. Roman’s division. Vicktor schooled his tone. “Sorry about the oversight, sir. Old habits die hard. I’ll call our guys next time.”
Malenkov’s voice softened to a cultured tone. “Aren’t you supposed to be here by now, Captain?” The phone hummed in Vicktor’s ear.
He slammed it onto the cradle and smirked. With Roman on the inside, maybe Vicktor wouldn’t have to kowtow to Arkady. He’d happily shove the raw memories and unending penance behind him.
He tugged on his black suit pants and white oxford. Straightening his tie in the mirror, he caught a glimpse of Alfred, sprawled on an armchair, tearing into the last of his loaves of bread.
Vicktor crossed the room in two strides. “You’re a menace, you know?” He tried to wrench the bread from the dog’s mouth, then gave up and scratched the dog behind his pointed ear. “Try not to eat me out of house and home, huh? No furniture, no pillows, no shoes, and I promise to take you home tomorrow morning, okay?”
He thought he heard the dog sigh with contentment as he slammed the door behind him.
The sun had peeled off the initial chill of the morning. Vicktor flipped up the collar of his tweed sports coat while he coaxed his forest-green Zhiguli to life. He felt like flicking on his siren and parting traffic on his way to work. As it was, anticipation sent his accelerator into the floorboard, and he soon found himself in the back parking lot. Screeching into his regular space, Vicktor hopped out and shut the door.
“Vicktor!” A feminine voice, high and smooth, sailed over car tops to greet him. Yanna strode over to him, hitching her leather computer bag and gym bag up her right shoulder. The satchels dwarfed her lean body, but she was crisp and pretty in a black leather skirt, hose, and matching jacket. Yanna knew how to pull off European fashion.
“Do you have a game tonight?” he asked, melting into her stride.
“Against the Vladivostok Torrents. They’re still unbeaten.”
“Until tonight.” He winked at her. Yanna’s volleyball team had taken the championship for the city and was smoking their way toward nationals. Yanna’s serve was scorching, and her spike sent him to his knees in terror and admiration. He didn’t have a prayer when they played one-on-one down at the beach.
“Come and watch the game tonight. It’s at Dynamo Stadium.” Yanna flicked back her silky brown hair and looked up at him, those brown eyes so clear and genuine. His heart twisted. Why couldn’t he find a girl like Yanna? Roman was right—his life was desolate. Never mind about the Savior garbage, but maybe he could be persuaded to let someone quiet into his life. Someone supportive. Forgiving.
Yeah, that was likely. Especially if he let them close enough to get a glimpse of the real Vicktor.
He returned Yanna’s smile. “I’ll try and make it to your game.”
“Great!” She bounced through the door he held open.
They fell silent, walking in the back entrance of FSB headquarters. The mustard-yellow building covered nearly a city block and loomed five stories tall. The rumors ran as deep as the dungeons, but few people had involuntarily ventured lower than the first floor and lived to tell about it. Vicktor and Yanna walked through the gray corridor in silence, their feet echoing against the cement. They passed abandoned interrogation rooms and doors that led to the secrets below. Vicktor wondered at the wisdom of the FSB occupying the same building its predecessor, the KGB, had occupied for sixty years. Fear was embedded within the walls.
They climbed the stairs and entered the lobby. “I’m ducking into Personnel,” Yanna said. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yanna, wait.” He caught her arm, a lump rising in his throat. His voice stayed low. “Sorry about missing the chat last night.”
She blinked twice at him, as if he’d dashed her with a bucket of ice. She gave a furtive look around the lobby. “No problem.” Whirling, she nearly
sprinted away from him.
Vicktor stared after her. He was making all sorts of friends this morning.
He took the steps two at a time to his office on the second floor, then threaded his way through a minefield of desks to his office.
Vicktor snorted as he rounded Maxim’s desk, buried somewhere under an avalanche of paper. Yesterday’s teacup soiled a stack of notes and Snickers wrappers littered the floor, but the desk chair remained empty. Annoyance flooded him as he recalled the major’s words. The rookie was slightly difficult to mentor when he never showed up for work. Partners. The word made him cringe. Maxim didn’t have a clue what it meant, and Vicktor didn’t have the time or desire to teach him. Vicktor shrugged out of his coat and hung it in his wardrobe.
Grabbing his coffee mug, the one with Mount Hood glinting off the side in gold etching, he scooped in a generous amount of instant coffee, added a spoonful of cream, and plugged the samovar in, waiting for it to boil.
He turned on the ancient paperweight they assigned him a month ago, aka his desktop PC, coaxing it with a few sweet words. While it eased to life, he weeded through his phone messages. Two distraught families from cold cases who would never know what happened to their mafia-connected kids, and a call from Arkady. Filing the other two in the Maxim pile, Vicktor flicked his fingers on Arkady’s note while he dialed his father.
Nickolai caught it on the sixth ring. Vicktor didn’t know if he should be glad or brace himself for the inevitable.
“Slyushaiyu!”
Vicktor forced a cheery tone. He thought he’d make a great undercover cop. “Privyet, Pop. How are you?”
Silence.
“Do you need anything?”
“What would I need? A son who stops by and visits once in a while, maybe?”
Right. Okay. Nickolai had his happy face on today. “I’ll stop by later. Do you need some bread?”
He supposed he should be grateful his father still spoke to him after the accident a year ago. The old man hadn’t assigned blame, but he didn’t have to. The Santa Barbara reruns and the constant tapping with his metal cane turned the knife with precision.
Watch Over Me Page 3
