THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS (Volume 1 of The King Trilogy)

CHAPTER 2, (The Bridge To Caracas)

Mike King'd had it made. A third generation medical candidate, he had been voted, almost unanimously, as most likely to succeed. His near-perfect smile, robin's egg-blue eyes, blond, wavy hair, and tall, athletic frame had qualified him as campus heartthrob. He played first line center for the Meds' inter-faculty hockey team and played bridge on Saturday nights, while managing to maintain a satisfactory academic performance. He, like his father before him and his grandfather before that, was going to be a doctor. There was never any question about it.

Then, like the first snows of winter, everything changed.

His decision appeared sudden, but in reality was the culmination of months of growing discontent. He first refused to write his final exams, and became a de facto dropout. Then he disclosed his decision to his parents and, after a bitter-sweet last night with Karen, left Toronto for good.

For six cold and lonely months he worked on board a filthy fishing vessel off the coast of British Columbia. The sabbatical at sea afforded him the opportunity to reflect on his past and ponder his future. He was delighted by the freedom and sense of independence the life afforded him, but the isolated existence eventually began to wear, and he knew that a fishing career was not his destiny. He slouched over the starboard railing and covered his face with his hands. "What the hell am I doing here?" he shouted into his unyielding palms.

A light rain fell on Mike's dilapidated green Chevrolet when it arrived at the customs checkpoint on the Canadian side of the Ambassador Bridge. Delighted that his car had survived the journey to his home country, he savored the last bite of a chocolate bar while he relaxed and waited. He glanced down at the stained and wrinkled T-shirt and blue jeans he had been wearing for the past three days. The dark blue Lincoln in front of his car at last moved forward, allowing Mike's car to pull up to the kiosk. He stopped and rolled his window down, looking apprehensively up at the man behind the customs checkpoint.

A middle-aged customs officer gave him a bored glare. He was dressed in the sinister gray uniform of all customs officials who spent each day questioning thousands of traveling motorists. His primary function was to identify smugglers, and he could always tell when someone was lying. He could see it in the eyes. "Where were you born?" the officer asked in a deliberate, icy monotone, continuing his relentless stare.

"Toronto, Ontario," Mike answered. Even though he had nothing to hide but the expired license plates on his car, he experienced an immediate sensation of guilt.

"What is your citizenship?"

"Canadian."

"How long have you been out of the country?"

"Four months."

"What was the purpose of your visit to the United States?"

"Pleasure."

"Do you have anything to declare?"

"No sir."

The customs officer scanned the rear seat area of Mike's car, and then his lips quirked into a microscopic smile. He waved his hand. "Welcome back," he conceded, his eyes sliding over toward the car behind Mike's.

Mike moved his car forward and rolled up his window. The exhilaration of being in his home country for the first time in four months overwhelmed him. He accelerated to the speed limit and squinted slightly to focus through the downpour that splattered on his windshield.

The rain subsided within five minutes, allowing him to relax and again turn his thoughts to home. He thought of Karen—he'd missed her desperately. Where was she now?