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

CHAPTER 63

As the gray Cessna roared into the sky the following morning, the passengers' anxiety escalated with each passing minute. Soon they would be in a country neither had ever seen. Soon they would be looking for a man who would be delighted to kill them.

When Casey landed his plane at La Guaira, the mid-day sun had heated the air to just over ninety degrees. All four emerged from the plane and walked briskly to the air-conditioned refuge of the terminal. Liz, Karen, and Mike waited in the airport coffee shop while Dale telephoned his old friend.

"Did you talk to him?" Mike asked the second Dale reappeared.

Dale nodded, then wrote Adi Blankenship's telephone number and address on a paper place mat. "I told him as much as you told me about your situation," he said, handing the place mat to Mike. "This is Adi's phone number and address. He said he would be happy to help. He's invited you and Karen to have dinner with him at his house tonight. At six. He also suggested that you stay at the Residencias Anauco Hilton. It's an apartment hotel in Parque Central—your taxi driver should know where it is."

Karen frowned. "Aren't you and Liz staying?" she asked.

"Unfortunately, we can't. We have to go to New York and pick up more passengers. Sincerely, we both wish we could stay here and help you. It looks like you're going to need all the help you can get."

"We have no right to ask more of you," Mike said, extending his hand to Dale. "You've already done far more than we—"

"Forget it," Dale interrupted. "Liz and I enjoyed this trip more than any we've ever taken. Good luck to you."

Liz hugged Karen. "I hope you find your son," she whispered.

"So do I."

After leaving the terminal and returning to the stifling La Guaira heat, Mike gazed eastward at the haunting and beautiful beaches lined with coconut palms, hotels, and the warm, turquoise water of the Caribbean Sea. "God it's hot!" he complained, swiping beads of sweat from beneath his eyes.

A decaying purple Chevrolet taxi screeched to a halt beside them. The driver honked his horn twice, leaned out of his window, and waved frantically. "You go to Caracas?" he shouted.

"Yes," Mike replied. "How much?"

"Twenty dollars."

"Let's do it." Mike jumped into the back seat and shut the door, with Karen close behind.

"Where you go in Caracas?" the driver asked.

"Residencias Anauco Hilton," Mike answered.

"Si." The driver spun his rear wheels and accelerated from the curb.

Thirty minutes later, the taxi arrived at the Residencias Anauco Hilton. Located in Parque Central on Avenida Bolivar, the hotel was a large, modern thirty-story building surrounded by numerous mature trees and other contrived plantings. Mike paid the driver, and then he and Karen climbed out, reveling in the cool, dry breeze. At three thousand feet above sea level, Caracas enjoyed a constant spring-like climate, with warm sunny days and cool nights.

A loud recording of Frank Sinatra's "Strangers in the Night" greeted their ears when they entered the lobby. Behind the reception desk was a tall, elderly gentleman with thinning gray hair, dressed in a light beige summer suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. The sight of prospective guests caused him to remove his spectacles, jump to his feet, and set his newspaper down. "Buenos dias," he said, a warm smile spreading across his wrinkled face.

Mike shrugged his shoulders. "Do you speak English?" he asked.

"No problem," the gentleman replied with a deep, Southern drawl. "You folks here for a holiday?"

"Business," Mike replied.

"Stayin' long?"

"No longer than necessary. We would like a one bedroom apartment. Do you have one available?" Mike asked.

"Sure do. It'll cost you one hundred and twenty-three dollars per night. Seven hundred a week."

"We'll take it for a week," Mike said without hesitation. He signed the registration card with falsified names.

The elderly man smiled warmly. "Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Kendall. I'm sure you'll enjoy it here. My name is Clifford."

"Could you show us the apartment, Clifford? My wife and I are anxious to get cleaned up and get some rest."

Clifford led his new guests from the lobby. They climbed a flight of stairs and walked to a one bedroom apartment at the rear of the building. He opened the door and led them in. "You'll like this one. It's got a real nice view." He hurried to open the drapes.

The apartment was clean and neat, with white broadloom on the floors of the living room and the bedroom. The kitchen and bathroom floors were covered with glossy white ceramic tile. There were large windows in the kitchen, living room, and bedroom, all facing a well-treed park.

Mike turned to Karen. "What do you think?"

"It's fine," Karen said. She began a thorough examination of the contents of the kitchen cabinets.

"I guess this is home for a week," Mike said, smug in the knowledge that Servito's stolen money would pay for it. "This is for your trouble." He gave Clifford a huge tip, shook his hand, and thanked him.

"Thank you, sir. You be sure to call me at the desk if you need anything," Clifford said before he closed the door behind him.

Mike reached into his pocket and removed a quarter. He flipped it in the air and caught it in his right palm. "Call it, babe," he said with an impish smile. He sandwiched it between his right palm and the back of his left hand. "Heads or tails?"

"Why?"

"To see who gets the shower first."

"Screw the call, King. I'll see you in there."

Mike awoke and bolted upright. After a moment of disorientation, he glanced at the watch he had left on the night table beside the bed. It was four o'clock. He turned to Karen and kissed her forehead.

Karen's lips formed a perceptible smile. "Go'way," she mumbled.

"It's four o'clock, babe," Mike said, planting a more lasting kiss on her lips. "We have to be at Adi Blankenship's by six."

Karen turned and pulled Mike down on top of her before he could finish. "Make love to me first," she demanded, reaching between his legs. "It improves my appetite."