Chapter 3

Paul pulled the station wagon to a halt at the gas pumps, and climbed out, stretching elaborately. While the station attendant filled the tank and checked under the hood, Paul glanced into the rear window and satisfied himself that the interior betrayed no trace of his illegal cargo.

He went into the rest room, and by the time he had returned, the bronzed, wrinkled old operator had finished with the vehicle and was sucking at a can of beer by the battered old desk in the office.

Paul spotted the clipboard and signed the invoice, waited while the old character took a final sip of beer, then accepted his copy of the paperwork and the plastic credit card.

"Keep cool, Pop," he said. And he walked out, taking the long way around the station wagon to get another peek into the back of the vehicle. The rear glass was just as dirty as when he came in. He grinned to himself. Few operators would have spent the time to clean a rear window on a scorching day like this. And he wasn't eager to improve the visibility of that glass.

As he headed back out onto the freeway, he was thankful that he had no glass in the sides of this salesman's special wagon. He had to wait on traffic for a while, before he could get into the flow of the slow lane. While his rear wheels were still in the driveway of the service station, a motorcycle patrolman swerved in beside him. The bike moved very slowly across the sidewalk area of the drive, and the officer glanced toward the side of Paul's vehicle.

A momentary chill traveled up his back, but he told himself it wasn't fear of discovery. There was nothing basically suspicious about his car, and he knew that even if someone took a look inside, there was little chance that the unconscious Pal would be found.

A hole opened in the traffic, and he slipped out onto the highway with normal speed. He watched in the mirror as the motorcycle moved on into the service station and pulled up in the relative coolness of the shade beneath the service canopy. He grinned and picked up speed, gradually working over into the faster lanes, until he was barreling along at seventy in the speed lane.

He reassessed the shuddering tingle that had run through him, and decided that the brief glimpse of the officer had merely reminded him of his virginal passenger. And the anticipation of what he would do with her when he got to his destination had brought on a thrill of physical excitement.

When he found himself ahead of the mainstream of traffic, he eased up to sixty-five and relaxed, resting his dark hair back against the cushioned headrest, and letting the smoothly running car almost drive itself.

He was extremely pleased with his final swing over this large territory. Not only had he accomplished his personal goals, but he had actually reaped a larger amount of orders for Boswell than had ever been previously recorded for the four-state district.

He could resign with an unbeaten record and the gratitude of the company. Especially when they learned that he would himself be a potential buyer of their products.