Counterpart

By H. Schussman

Imagine a strong single woman with a thriving career as a physician. Sport calls all the shots, with no ties other than three cats and an immigrant mother who desperately wants her to get married. The male compatriot is an agent for the CIA. Sean has sworn to protect his country from foreign invasion, and he is serious about his job. Sean is Caucasian and Sport is African-Japanese. They are both fiercely American. The last thing on either of their minds is romance.
Sport witnesses the murder of a family friend, and escapes into Sean’s protective custody. When a plot by Russia to infiltrate our nation is uncovered, Sean finds out too late his direct boss is the enemy . . . Sport has the evidence to prove it. The dilemma is how to keep Sport safe and resolve the escalating danger to the country. When they realize the President is the next target, they join forces with a rag-tag team of patriots to stop the assassination.
The scene unfolds at a swift pace as Sean and Sport struggle with internal and external conflict. They bicker, yet love continues to grow in spite of their differences. With murder, romance, humor, and intense action at every turn they learn to depend on each other

• Language: English
• Publisher: H. Schussman
• Release date: Jul 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465914668

H. Schussman

Heidi Schussman Gilbert was born in a small Northern California coastal town to a police officer and a mother who gave up med school to raise a family. She was raised to think on her feet and view adventure as way of life. She starting shooting when she was five years old, and continues to practice her marksmanship. Schussman began working when she was eleven years old, starting her first business when she was thirteen selling flower arrangements at a flea market. Now Schussman's favorite past-time is traveling with her husband of thirty-five years. Travel for H. Schussman is usually a cultural immersion, actually living with families in Spanish speaking countries or in Italy and Portugal. When in the tropics, they SCUBA dive every chance they get. The rest of Schussman's time is divided between gardening, exercise, and of course writing. She carefully researches weaponry and police/military intervention. Schussman believes research is a critical component of writing conspiracy theory. All good conspiracies are based on solid facts… that is what makes them believable. H. Schussman has published five conspiracy novels. COUNTERPART is a complex Russian conspiracy. This is the introduction of the popular characters, Sean and Sport. These two captured the hearts of readers, so EL TIBURON brings them back by request. EL TIBURON is a conspiracy set in Central America, mostly Guatemala. A group of teens on a mission trip to Colombia find themselves in THE CROSSFIRE OF REVENGE. Then Schussman gives us SAVE THE GIRLS as the backstory on the beloved character, Sean McGee, as he rescues girls from human trafficking and prostitution. Her most recent book in this crime series, PIRATESSA, is a black-widow story set amongst the billionaire playboys in the yachting community of Costa Rica. H. Schussman interviewed and wrote the biography for a rocket engineer legend, Clay Boyce—BRINGING APOLLO HOME. His life leading up to being a chief engineer on the Apollo Program and beyond are written in a fast-paced story-telling style. Last year Schussman turned her hand to writing a romantic comedy with a criminal element, of course. THE TATTERED BOOK answers the question; What would happen if the main character in a book fell in love with the reader? She claims this was the most difficult book to write to date, however she is now writing the sequel; THE SECOND TATTERED BOOK. H. Schussman also writes two blogs: A Dashing Bold A...

Book preview

CHAPTER PROLOGUE

Jack moved through the dense brush carelessly, making as much noise as an elephant. His rifle snagged on the branch of a young fir, pulling back on his shoulder. Some way to shoot a deer! Jack didn't care. He hated hunting anyway. Nobody seemed to notice when he came back from these stupid hunting trips with nothing to show for all the scrapes and bruises but a pinecone.

Usually Jack considered these little excursions a nature trip. He would find a stream and lie down on his back and contemplate the towering trees above him. This time he had other, more important, things on his mind. He was going to be a daddy. A dad! He stood beneath the umbrella of nature and tried to imagine the reactions of his controlling parents. His father would be livid. He would rant and rave about the sacrifices he made for Jack Junior. Little Jack was supposed to be the politician his father could never be, which was okay with Jack Junior because he really did want to be a politician. Mother, on the other hand would be coldly furious. She hated to be embarrassed. A child out of wedlock would be unforgivable, but a wedding to an unknown hairstylist would be completely forbidden. He and Sarah would have to raise their child without the blessing of Jack's parents.

Jack was so deeply in thought he didn't hear the approaching footsteps until the bushes parted. He tried to swing his rifle up, but it was too late. His opponent shoved his gun to within inches of his left eye. Jack knew he was looking into the face of death, but it wasn't the face he imagined it would be. It was too familiar. His rifle was jerked free of his grasp. Run! He wasn't sure if he heard the words or if it was his own voice, but he ran nevertheless. He made it ten feet.

CHAPTER ONE

Sport pulled the shiny black Jeep Laredo into a rare shady spot at the crowded mall and hopped out. The blazing hot pavement sent shimmering undulations of heat up around the parked cars. Sport gave a little smile of satisfaction after checking the time; it was only five thirty. The game didn't start until six thirty. That left an hour to pick up Mellie. They could grab a bite at a fast food joint and still have time to stretch. What a deal! Pulling the baseball cap down even lower, Sport sauntered into the air-conditioned building.

The usual stop was made at the pet store to sympathize with the caged animals. The frazzled salesgirl smiled and waved over the crowd of children at the rabbit pen. Picking up a fluffy little Rottweiler puppy, Sport lifted it to eye level and rubbed noses with it before continuing down the mall.

Silence descended upon entering the Goldschmidt Estate Jewelry store with its thick glass doors designed to keep the noise out. Seeing Mellie in deep conversation with her boss, Frank, caused Sport's mood to slip a notch. They both looked out from the glass enclosed deal room when the door activated the electronic bell.

Frank smiled and waved while Mellie smiled apologetically. Sport mentally skipped any chance for dinner and wandered down along the jewelry cases, admiring the artistic displays. Everyone knew better than to rush Frank. It was clear Mellie was getting an earful, probably about his recent trip to Europe. Actually, he wasn’t expected back so soon. Frank usually spent four to six weeks on a buying trip. It had only been two weeks since Frank left for Moscow.

Sport paused to admire a two-foot tall bronze statue of a slender young girl with an apron full of flowers. Walking around the cabinet to see the back of the sculpture, Sport's eyes were caught by the sparkle of an antique jeweled dagger in the case below. A short history on the dagger was taped to the back of the cabinet. A French nobleman who, after a violent struggle, had been removed from his home and beheaded during the French Revolution. America didn’t seem so bad after all!

Sport's mind wandered to what it must have been like for Frank to defect to this strange new place from his homeland of Russia. He had never spoken of his past. Frank had been a good friend of Sport's father and later a mentor to Sport. He had even provided the money for Sport's college education. Frank had been so proud at the graduation ceremony.

The doorbell to the jewelry store shattered the daydream. Sport looked up from the hidden vantage point behind the dagger display as a man in a suit walked in. Oh great! Sport groaned inwardly at this new delay. The guy who was supposed to take over Mellie's shift was nowhere to be seen, and now a new customer was here.

The man walked directly toward Frank and Mellie, stopping just past the bronze flower-girl. Sport considered standing, but decided against it. Frank and Mellie's voices drifted into the room as they opened the glass door. Sport inspected the man in front of the statue. Head tipped sideways, Sport read the baseball scores on the newspaper the man held in his hand. That's when she saw the black metal protruding from the end of the paper. Sport's eyes swiftly darted to Frank who appeared to recognize this stranger. The look on Frank's face as he shoved Mellie away from him galvanized Sport into action. Reaching for the statue Sport stood and swung at the newcomer's head like a pro ball player swinging at a hard ball. The crack of the statue against skull coincided exactly with the muffled sound of a gun with a silencer. Frank and the newcomer hit the ground simultaneously.

Sprinting past Mellie, who was screaming with both hands over her mouth, Sport dropped to Frank's side.

Call 911, Sport yelled to Mellie. Frank! Frank! Sport shouted into his ashen face. Pressing a hand over the small hole in Frank's chest, Sport already knew it was hopeless. Frank took a gurgled breath through his punctured lung.

His eyes fluttered open. Sport . . . the box . . . take it and . . . run!

Sport glanced at the black box lying on its side next to him.

Hurry . . . give it . . . to, he gasped, choking on his own blood, Sean McGee. Frank feebly pushed Sport away before going limp.

Mellie was still screaming at the top of her lungs as Sport attempted to take Frank's non-existent pulse. The bell rang again as someone else came in. Sport was about to ask the newcomer for help when a raspy voice demanded to know where the box was. A vicious slap to the face of the first man, who was still on the floor, caused Sport to retreat further out of sight. Sport tried to get Mellie's attention, but Mellie now had her eyes covered as she continued screaming and screaming.

Shut up! the second man shouted at Mellie. The muffled thud of a silencer was followed by Mellie flying backward into the glass case. Thank you, he said into the thundering silence.

Knowing who would be shot next, Sport scurried silently into the stock room with the box. Once out of sight Sport started running through the cluttered room, bursting out the back door into the brilliant daylight. Sport sprinted across the black pavement towards the fences backing up to the mall's parking lot. The metal door slammed against the brick wall as Sport leaped for the fence at a full sprint. The fence shook as the small athletic body scrambled over the top, landing like a cat on the other side. The wood splintered from a bullet blasting through the fence.

Sport was through the bushes and running within seconds. Every alley and pathway led further into an old abandoned neighborhood. Huge trees hung over unkempt yards. The occasional shouts faded. An elderly man sitting in a rocker on his back porch watched with surprise as Sport burst through the bushes which acted as a back fence. Several cats darted out of the way when Sport squeezed through the front fence consisting of broken boards held together by blackberry vines that ripped flesh.

While crossing the lawn of an old Victorian mansion, a broken front door hanging at an odd angle beckoned. Vaulting across the porch and through the door, Sport hadn't gone more than two steps when the floorboard snapped. One foot went through the floor scraping Sport’s shin painfully on the way. Struggling free of the wood, Sport continued at a more cautious pace down the hall. Climbing the first flight of stairs and hugging the wall, Sport skirted a gaping hole in the floor. The second flight of stairs appeared to be sturdier so Sport took them two at a time only to trip on the last step and hit the dusty floor with a thud.

Rolling away from the stair well, Sport scooted out of sight from below while sucking air in through constricted lungs. Even though breathing became easier, blood still pounded in Sport's ears, making hearing almost impossible. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Accustomed to bursts of adrenaline, Sport's heart rate rapidly slowed down. Everything was completely silent. Sport's eyes had just focused on the ceiling when a voice came out of nowhere.

Hello.

Letting out a small yelp, Sport leaped back and dragged the box backward in a protective gesture. The fear was deafening, as the blood once again pounded through temporal veins. It took a moment to realize the voice came from a little elderly lady seated at an old scarred table. She appeared to have been sorting through a collection of junk spread out in front of her. Both elbows were set on the table with an incredibly wrinkled face propped on interlocked fingers. Faded blue eyes were fixed on Sport's face. Sport backed up cautiously, glancing down the stairs trying to determine which was more dangerous, staying here or continuing to run.

You can stay, the old lady answered Sport's unasked question.

Sport finished a rather in-depth self-argument and answered, Thanks. I won't stay long. Sport looked around the attic. Several boxes were stacked neatly against the walls. I'm sorry, I didn't know anyone lived here, Sport added as the woman continued to stare. Sport couldn't seem to stop the flow of words, babbling, I’m being chased.

So I gathered, the lady replied dryly.

Sport smiled tremulously and made a decision. I'll just stay 'till dark. Sport took in the jaunty angle of the lady's crushed yellow hat. A fresh flower had been stuck into the band and her faded clothes appeared to be clean.

That will be fine. She stood as she added, My name is Mrs. Duavay. She stopped in front of Sport and asked politely, Do you have a name young man?

Sport smiled again at the schoolmarm tone used. "My name’s Sport and I’m a young woman. Sport was unfazed by this slander to her gender. She was used to people thinking she was a boy, especially when she wore her baseball uniform. Do you have a phone, by any chance? The lady's eyebrows lifted an inch at the unlikely idea of having a phone. No? I didn't think so." Sport mentally kicked herself for leaving her cell phone in the Jeep.

Is Sport really a name? the lady asked, making it clear she disapproved of nicknames.

Yes, Sport responded. Mrs. Duavay didn't need to know her given name. Having acquired the nickname at the tender age of two, Sport found it difficult to answer to anything else anyway. After a brief clash of wills, the two came to a silent truce.

"Well . . . Sport. Come downstairs. It appears to be safe now." Mrs. Duavay led the way down the attic steps.

Do you live here? Sport asked.

Of course I do. She looked back up at Sport as though that were the stupidest question ever asked. My mother and father built this house, and I was born here. Now my husband, Orville, and I, along with our two boys, live here. I was just sorting through their toys in the attic when you came along.

Sport looked at the wispy white curl hanging down behind one wrinkled old ear, and tried to imagine how she could possibly have boys young enough to still play with toys. Sport gave up the brief struggle to understand.

This is their room.

Sport stopped and peered into the neat and clean room. Two double beds were up against the wall, leaving plenty of room to play. The peeling wallpaper was patterned with racecars. The curtains were almost transparent they were so ancient and sun damaged. Something seemed wrong, but Sport was too preoccupied to figure it out.

Mrs. Duavay continued down the hall past the gaping hole at a dignified pace. You can stay in the Green Room, she said over her shoulder.

But Mrs. Duavay, I'm not staying all night. Sport followed the old lady into the next room. Really, Sport added, "you don't understand. I’ve gotta call the police. My girlfriend’s been shot. She could be . . . oh God, she could be dead. What do I do? One friend is definitely dead and Mellie is either dead or hurt! I don't know what's in this stupid box, or who the man is who shot at me, or anything.

So maybe I'll stay here, okay? I'll just wait until dark. I wish I knew where the man with the gun is. I hate this! I’m so scared! I couldn’t stay there ‘cause I was too scared. She paused in this one-sided conversation. Mrs. Duavay was preparing a bed, which looked as though it would collapse if one so much as touched it. Sport watched in disbelief as the elderly woman dusted off the pillowcase and shook out the bedspread. As the cloud of dust moved toward the door Sport sneezed.

Looking about the room she could see this was indeed the Green Room. The walls were a faded cracked green and the curtains hanging in tatters appeared to be green and white flowered. The pictures attached by spider webs all depicted garden scenes.

I don't usually use this room, Mrs. Duavay interrupted the silence following Sport's sneezing fit.

Oh.

Yes, well . . . make yourself at home. I’ll be downstairs. Mrs. Duavay turned to go.

Mrs. Duavay?

Yes? She stopped with her back to Sport.

Thank you, Sport said.

Mrs. Duavay turned around and gave Sport her first smile; You're welcome child.

CHAPTER TWO

Sport gingerly walked through the mouse droppings and dust balls to the faded green bed. Testing the mattress, she found it to be surprisingly sturdy. Sport sat down, put the box on both knees and jiggled the latch. It didn't budge. There was what appeared to be a slot for a computer-chip key and a little LED light showing red.

The sun slanted into the room as it descended in the sky. She absently stroked the handle of the box, wondering who the thieves were, and how they knew Frank was back in town. Why would they want to kill Frank? Why not just steal the damn box and run? There didn't seem to be any answers to the questions. Sport shuddered. I could have been killed too. Is he going to hunt me down and finish the job?

The room blurred as she swallowed past the fist of pain. Frank had been like a father during Sport's teens, especially after her father was killed in the line of duty as a police officer. She just couldn't believe Frank was dead too. To never hear his funny accent again or see his crooked smile seemed impossible, but looking down at her hands Sport knew it was true. She scrubbed her blood stained palms vigorously back and forth against the worn pants until it hurt.

Great shuddering sobs tore through her slim body as she huddled on the bed. What am I supposed to do now? I need to get home! Sport had to get home somehow. A phone call to the police would have to wait until then. Several minutes passed before she sat up and looked across the room blankly. A sloppy sniffle prompted her to go in search of tissue or toilet paper. Sport left the room to go hunt down the eccentric Mrs. Duavay.

She found her in the kitchen looking out the window. Sport paused in the doorway to look at the elderly lady dressed in rags, once again wondering what to think of this woman who obviously lived like a street person. Sport sniffed again.

Mrs. Duavay turned at the sound. Without a word she handed Sport a delicate handkerchief. Sport blew into the soft fabric before joining her at the sink. They looked out the window at the street. Mrs. Duavay’s home faced the street that came to an end in front of her house. The effect of the overgrown trees was of a lush green tunnel. She thought about how much easier it would be to spend the rest of life right here, watching the seasons change. A yellow cat looked at Sport curiously from its curled up position on the drain board before stretching out full length, its long tail flopping into the sink.

They should be home any time now, Mrs. Duavay said quietly.

Who? Sport asked in confusion.

Orville and the boys.

Oh. Sport thought for a moment then asked, Where are they?

The silence following her simple question was a little too long. Sport noted the woman's glazed look, but before she could change the subject Mrs. Duavay answered with her chin up.

They are away at Sly Park. Orville went to pick them up and bring them home. They're not back yet, but they will be soon. We'll have a grand time then, she smiled at Sport brightly.

Sport smiled back, thinking she's nuts and then had a sudden inspiration. Maybe the boys were not children, but mentally disabled.

How old are your boys?

Jonathan is eight and Thomas is ten. Her wrinkled face lit up when she talked about them. She described their favorite activities and all of their special talents. Orville Duavay also received her praise. Sport's mind spun with frustration. Sport had taken enough psychology courses in college to know something was definitely amiss.

Is that your man? The lady pointed down the street at a man in a suit walking along at a brisk pace looking at all the houses.

Sport dropped to the faded orange linoleum, knees bouncing painfully. Do you have a back door? she whispered as though he could hear.

Down the hall, turn left, turn right. Mrs. Duavay watched the man come right up to the sidewalk in front of her old Victorian and look at her broken door. He walked up the weed-infested pathway as Sport scurried out the back. He was already in the entry hall by the time Mrs. Duavay got there. He looked up from the freshly splintered floorboard. Mrs. Duavay smiled a flirtatious smile, blinking her eyes rapidly.

Hello, he said while trying to determine the level of her sanity. He pulled his wallet out and showed her a badge. I am with the Sacramento Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions, would that be okay?

Mrs. Duavay nodded eagerly. Her hat bobbed up and down wildly.

She's nuts, he thought as he looked down the hall away from her simple eyes. She followed him into the kitchen. When he turned around he almost tripped over her she was so close. She grinned and scratched her neck.

Have you seen a black male in his mid-teens wearing a baseball jersey and cap? he asked patiently only to have the old bat shake her head vigorously.

Sport pulled an ear off the wall from the backyard and glared through the wood. A boy! She wondered why it seemed more insulting coming from him.

Are you absolutely certain? the familiar raspy voice asked. He is wanted for armed robbery. This time Sport flipped him off through the wall separating them. He was last seen in this area at around six thirty. May I look around? he asked her still nodding head.

Sport listened to his footsteps as he went from room to room. She could tell Mrs. Duavay was irritating him by the tone of his voice. Hoping he didn't get angry and kill the old lady, Sport sent up a silent prayer.

Sport pressed deeper into the bushes as the back door opened and the man in the suit stepped out onto the porch. He wrinkled his nose in disgust as the smell of human waste hit him.

Phew, that's disgusting, he waved a fly away from his face and turned back in after a quick glance around. Here's my card. He pulled a business card out of his wallet while walking to the front door. He stopped and looked at the hole in the entry hall again. Mrs. Duavay tried her best to look half-witted while his eyes searched her face. He handed her the card. Call me the minute you see him. With that, he stepped onto the front porch.

Mrs. Duavay walked into the front room and watched him walk down the overgrown path. She sensed when Sport entered the room. They both stood in the evening shadows and watched him pause in the middle of the street, while pinching the bridge of his sharp nose. He tipped his head back to stare in frustration at the leafy canopy above. Sport took the opportunity to really look at him. He was a powerful looking man, though of average height. His silver hair was cut stylishly short, almost military style. His suit was similar to the man whom she had hit with the statue. He looked out of place on the uneven street amongst the jungle of overgrowth and dilapidated homes.

Several minutes passed before he slowly turned his head toward Mrs. Duavay's house. It seemed as though he was looking directly at Sport. Shit! He can't possibly see me. Her intuition, however, said differently.

His attention was diverted when an elderly bum shuffled into the house across the street. Sport sucked in a breath when the raspy voiced man abruptly turned and took several determined steps toward Mrs. Duavay's house.

Ohmygod! He's coming back. Sport reached down, grabbed the box, and was already heading to the back of the house when Mrs. Duavay stopped the flight.

Wait! Look, Sport.

Sport peeked back around the corner to see a squad car with two uniformed officers pull alongside the man in the street. He stepped up to the open window, putting both hands on the doorframe. They carried on a three-way conversation for a few moments before the officer in the passenger seat handed him the radio. After a brief moment the raspy voiced man handed the radio back, pointing in the opposite direction of the house. The patrol car slowly pulled away in the direction he had pointed. He waited until the unit was out of sight before turning back toward the house and raising his hand to point his index finger at them like an imaginary gun. Sport flinched when he jerked his hand up like a gun kicking back before he spun around on his heel and stalked down the street.

That's so weird, Sport looked confused. How come he sent them in the wrong direction? It doesn't make sense.

He certainly thinks you’re here though doesn't he? Mrs. Duavay commented.

Sport silently watched the retreating figure before answering; It would appear so. What did he say when he was towards the front of the house? I couldn't hear him. She turned to the old lady.

He said he was a police officer. Strain pulled at the corners of her mouth making her appear even older than she was.

Did he show you a badge? Did it look real? Sport asked.

I think it was real. Mrs. Duavay watched the play of emotions cross Sport’s expressive face. Would you care to tell me about it?

Sport gave a short harsh laugh. I don't know much myself. But, hey . . . what's new! Sport shoved her hands into her back pockets and grew serious. Sketching a circle in the dust with an unlaced tennis shoe, Sport described the day’s events.

I still don't know what's in this, Sport concluded, indicating the black leather box, sitting next to the sketching foot. "I guess I thought I was doing Frank and Mellie some big favor by saving the box. Both of them are probably dead now." Sport's foot scraped harshly across the dusty designs.

I seriously doubt you could have saved either of their lives by being there, Mrs. Duavay commented.

They looked at each other for a moment. Sport's irrepressible optimism came to the surface. I sure hope Mr. Raspy Voice believed your act!

CHAPTER THREE

The fading sunlight filtered in through the tattered curtains. They sat at the warped kitchen table, staring at the locked box in disappointment.

Oh well, Mrs. Duavay sighed. She slowly began putting the array of makeshift tools away.

Yeah, Sport slouched back in the seat. Darn.

A few more minutes passed in silence as they both tried to think of another way to open the box. Short of blowing it up, Sport was nonplused. Sturdy little bugger isn't it?

Mrs. Duavay nodded her head.

So . . . I have a box of jewelry and a trail of thieves who are trying to kill me . . . who claim to be policemen I might add. Sport bravely tipped the chair back on two weak legs. Now, do I call the police or call this Sean McGee character. Heck! I don't even know how to get a hold of him. I guess I could start with the yellow pages.

I'm glad you're going to follow Frank's wishes. I think it would be the wise thing to do. The elderly lady returned to her seat.

You're right, but what do I do with this? They both stared at the offending box. It would look pretty suspicious if I were to drag this along with me.

I know just the place to hide it, Mrs. Duavay stood abruptly. The children's tree house!

Ten minutes later a slight figure jumped the back fence and made its way through the jungle of the neighboring yards. Sport tried to follow the original route as closely as possible. After several wrong turns she found her way to the fence with a fresh bullet hole in it.

Sport glanced at her watch and marveled that Mickey's little gloved hands had only moved to eight twenty. It seemed more like a lifetime.

Standing on a tree stump, she peeked over the fence into the parking lot of the mall and smiled. The parking lot was jam packed with teenagers cruising the perimeter of the mall. Thankfully she would blend right in. Sport waited until a bright metallic purple mini-van came parallel to the fence. She hopped over, scraping the injured shin again. A dark stain appeared on her pants. Walking alongside the van, Sport got close to where her Jeep was parked. As soon as she was seated in the Jeep, a sigh of relief escaped. One hurdle over! Now all she had to do was get home in one piece, and hopefully call the right person.

Turning on the radio, she tuned to a news station while driving through the evening heat. A political commercial came on for the presidential primaries, followed by a sports talk show. Sport impatiently changed to a country western station and listened carefully for any news about the attempted robbery.

The disc jockey's rambunctious voice blared into the night; It's eight-thirty and still ninety degrees. Here's Tom with the weather report. Sport listened with interest. Like most Sacramentans she had some kind of sick fascination in finding out just how hot it was going to be the next day. Hello Carl. The temperature reached a scorching high of one hundred degrees today. Tomorrow we can look forward to a couple degrees cooler at about ninety eight. Sport listened attentively as the newscaster listed all the day’s events and recalled all of the latest mud slinging from various political factions. She was stopped at a light when the story blared from the radio.

There was a fatal shooting this afternoon at the River City Mall. The gunman was attempting to rob Goldschmidt Estate Jewelry. The owner was pronounced dead upon arrival and an employee was seriously wounded. The young female assistant is listed in critical condition. Apparently the police were in the mall at the time, and they have given a description of the suspect as; a young white male, about five foot ten, last seen wearing a green baseball cap and white T-shirt. Sport stared at the radio in puzzlement. What the hell? Why would the police officer report her as being a five foot ten, white male? He gave Mrs. Duavay the more correct description. The blaring horn from the impatient motorist behind the Jeep jarred her back to reality. Mechanically going through the green light, Sport listened as the woman's voice warned that the young man was on foot, armed and considered dangerous.

*****

The key turning in the lock started a crescendo of meowing from within the condominium. Sport stuck a foot through the opening before any of the cats could make a run for it. Once on the inside, she shut the door and locked it.

Sport scooped up the nearest fur-ball and cooed, Hi Boxer. What's the fuss huh? Did you miss me? The large male cat in her arms purred in satisfaction while the other one howled with jealousy. Sport knelt down on the peach entry tile to greet the huge downy white feline who was trying to rub another hole in her much-abused pants. Hi Bunny Rabbit. She scratched his chin while setting the twenty-pound cat named Boxer on the floor.

Sport stood and kicked off the dirty tennis shoes before stepping onto the thick moss green carpet. Her purposeful stride seemed at odds with the delicate beauty of the peach and green decor. The plants hanging from every available space made the room feel like a greenhouse. A large forest green leather couch dominated the room, with a glass and wrought iron coffee table placed in front of it.

The answering machine showed there were four messages recorded. She pushed play and walked across the cool tile floor to the refrigerator while listening to the messages. The first was from a blind-date-turned-disaster whom Sport's mother had insisted she go out with. The slightly whining tone made Sport's eyes narrow considerably. The next message was from the receptionist with the information that Sport's first appointment in the morning had been canceled, therefore she didn't need to be in until ten o'clock in the morning. Sport smiled at this bit of good news, while pouring milk into a bowl for her ravenous felines.

Well, hello Scaredy Cat, Sport