Lone Wolf #2: Bay Prowler (15 page)

Wulff drove. He drove through Nevada and he drove through Wyoming. He drove through Utah and then into the plains states. Night and day, dark and light chased their way across the windows, but he ignored them. When he was tired he pulled the car off to the side of the road and slept. When he was hungry he pulled off the road and ate. When the Continental needed gas he fed it. It had turned out to be a good car after all. Opened up to the eighty and ninety miles an hour of the highways, it had shaken off all of its debilities and roared as it must have in its youth. It was a road car.

He drove. The broken spokes of the wheel that was America spread out before him and he laid it down that pipe. The suitcase, locked and double-bolted into the trunk behind, now jiggled occasionally, bringing back memory but only in flashes. San Francisco was behind him. He blanked his mind.

San Francisco was done; it would never be the same again. Now it was back to the Northeast and Boston. He had his ticket; it lay in the trunk. He had his purposes, they had been assembled months before. And now, as never before, he knew his goal.

He drove and drove through the night of America, thinking every now and then of the girl—but whatever she was or could have been, the thoughts were only an aimless sea-lapping. She remained outside of him.

He drove on to Boston …

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Copyright © 1973 by Mike Barry
All rights reserved.

Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

eISBN 10: 1-4405-4235-X
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4235-0

Cover art © 123rf.com/Susan Leonard