"Linda Evans - Time Scout 2 - Wages of Sin" - читать интересную книгу автора (Evans Linda)

and so lonely he started to talk, thinking I might understand. What he told me
... Some of it I still do not understand completely, but I will try to tell it
to you in his own words. He said it began as a game, because of his father..."
The game, Skeeter had recalled through a haze of alcohol and pain, had
begun in deadly earnest. "It was my father's fault, or maybe my mother's. But
you know, even when you're only eight, you can figure the score, figure it
'bout as accurately as any bookie making odds in New York. Dad, he bought the
whole Pee-Wee League basketball team matching uniforms. Made sure our games
got local TV coverage. Did the same for my junior League baseball team. Spent
a lot of money on us, he did. And you know what, Marcus? He never came to a
game. Not one. Not a single, stinking, stupid game. Hell, it wasn't hard at
all to figure the score.
Dad didn't give a damn about me. Just cared 'bout how much prestige he
could buy. How many customers his publicity would bring in, God damn him. He
was a good businessman, too. So rich it hurt your teeth just thinking' about
it."
Marcus, only vaguely comprehending much of what Skeeter said, knew that the
young man was hurting nonetheless, worse than any resident he'd ever listened
to on a late, slow night at the Down Time Bar & Grill. Skeeter stared into his
whiskey glass. "Fill'er up again, would you, Marcus? That's good." He drained
half the glass in a gulp. "Yeah, that's good ... So, it's like this, I started
stealing things. You know, things at the mall. Little stuff at first, not
because I was poor, but because I wanted something I got by myself. I guess I
just got too goddamn sick of having Dad throw some expensive toy at me like a
bone to some flea-bitten dog that had wandered in, just to keep it quiet."
He blinked slowly and gulped the rest of the whiskey, then just reached for
the bottle and poured again. His eyes were a little unfocussed as he spoke,
his voice a little less steady. "In fac', I was at th' mall the day it
happened. After The Accident, you know, that caused the time strings,
ever'body knew a gate could open up anywhere, but, hell, they usually cluster
together, you know, like the TV said all my life, in one little area small
enough to build a time station around'em and let the big new time tour
companies operate through 'em. But, my friend," he tipped more whiskey into
his glass, "sometimes gates just open up, no warning, no nothing, in the
middle of some place ain't no gate ever been seen before."
He drank, his hand a little unsteady, and entirely without his volition,
the story came pouring out. He'd been careless, that time, they'd caught him
shoplifting the big Swiss Army Knife. But he was little and blubbered
convincingly and was slippery enough to dodge away the minute their guard was
down. He'd considered, for a few moments after the guard grabbed him, letting
the scandal hit the papers and television news programs, just to get even with
his father. But Skeeter didn't want the game to end that way. He wanted to
perfect it-then present his Dad with a scandal big enough to wreck his life as
thoroughly as he'd wrecked Skeeter's, game after missed baseball and
basketball and football game, lonely night after lonely night.
So away he dodged, into the crowded mall, with the angry guard hot on his
heels and Skeeter whipping around startled shoppers, dodging into department
stores and out again through different exits on upper levels, and skidding
through the food court while the guard giving chase radioed for backup.
It was all great fun-until the hole opened up in the air right in front of