In Sheep's Clothing by Susan May Warren Read Free Book Online

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 goodmassage. 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