"Paul Preuss - Human Error" - читать интересную книгу автора (Preuss Paul)

Harold Lillard distractedly tugged a wool suit out of the closet, unwrapped it from a wooden hanger,
rewrapped it around a wire one, and shoved it into his worn, fake-Gucci garment bag. In nearly thirty
years of travel he'd never really gotten used to packing; for a man who'd been a salesman all his life, he
figured this had to be some sort of a Guinness world record.

He heard a feeble clunking from the direction of the front yard. He went to the bedroom window,
pushed it open against its warped wooden sill, and peered out. He could see the wet street through bare
elms. Yesterday's snowfall was turning grudgingly to slush under a hazy morning sun, with temperatures
barely above freezing; winter hung on in Massachusetts, antiseptic and frigid.

Down on the front lawn his oldest boyтАФthe oldest still living at home, the fifteen-year-oldтАФwas
hacking at the ice on the flagstone walk with the corner of an aluminum snow shovel.

"Anthony, you know better. Put that down and get the sledgehammer." Harold's breath puffed
visibly as he leaned from the window.

"Awww, Dad . . . " The boy's complaint sounded far away, without resonance in the still air.

"You heard me. You want to buy me a new shovel?"

The boy disgustedly let the snow shovel drop and trudged off toward the garage.

He knew his chores, thought Harold, feeling like a scold; if he'd cleared the walk before the snow
turned to moguls under all those galosheed Lillard family feet, he wouldn't be wasting his weekend.

Harold tugged the window shut and turned back to his packing. Better be safe; he pulled another
dark wool suit out of the closet and stuffed it into the bag. He heard the television set in the downstairs
family room abruptly change its rumbling tone as someone switched channels, followed by an outraged
cry from a ten-year-old girl and an angry reply from her thirteen-year-old sister. He caught his breath,
awaiting the customary stream of gruesome threats, but nothing happened. This time, apparently, Theresa
approved of Donna's choice of programming.

Behind him the bedroom door creaked open. Marian looked tireder than usual. Harold blamed her
drained appearance on the day; diffuse light from the overcast sky filled the bedroom, bleaching her
faded cotton dress and threadbare apron to pastel grays, picking out her silver hairs and illuminating each
wrinkle. Once prettily round-cheeked and dimpled, Marian's sweet face had settled many years ago into
an expression of lumpy determination.

"Shouldn't we start for the airport soon?" she prompted.

He checked his watch. "Guess I'm running late. Hope I've got everything." He zipped up the garment
bag and looked around. Nervously he jingled his pocket change. "What did I do with my briefcase?"

She smiled. "I found it by the garage door. I put it in the station wagon."

He leaned over and pecked her cheek. The textured skin was soft under his lips. He rubbed his
cheek against hers and felt the catch of a patch of whiskers he'd missed shaving. "I love you." She put her
hands on his bulky sides and gave them a reassuring pat.

Harold pulled the change out of his trouser pocket and separated the quarters, leaving them on the