My life?

24

THE SUN BEACH HOTEL is five stories tall and has the same whitewashed exterior as a dozen other beachfront hotels on the Fort Lauderdale strip. It’s several blocks up the highway from the sandbar where the airplane was found, but the rooms at the front have a clear view. This hotel is not the first place you’d look if you were trying to find a sniper or someone following the action.

The crowds along the beach have thinned since the airplane was loaded onto a flatbed truck and driven to a warehouse in nearby Port Everglades. Agents are combing it over with tweezers, looking for more clues.

On the way to the hotel, one of our local FBI escorts in the SUV said forensics had found canvas fibers under the wings consistent with the flotation balloons Lieutenant Droves mentioned. It’s a minor thing, but it helps us better understand how it was done. Or rather, how the Warlock could have done it.

So far this entire machination could be the work of one man. It’s frightening to think of what one person can do by himself. There’s some solace in that he’s probably not tied into some kind of terrorist network. But do we really know that?

We exit the SUV and Chisholm briefs us on the location as we enter the hotel. “We’ve done a preliminary sweep with the bomb unit and the dogs. Swabs and barks came back negative. Still, this guy could probably make something that will get past that. So be careful.” He hesitates in front of the elevator.

He’s trying to give me an out to pass on checking the room that raised their suspicions. It’s ridiculous. I’m not going to let someone else walk into something I’m too afraid to. Besides, what difference does it make if I’m here?

Chisholm waves to the front desk. “We’ve checked the registry and already spoken to forty-one guests in the hotel. Nothing stands out. A lot of French Canadians.”

We take the elevator to the fourth floor. Interesting that it’s not the fifth. I guess the Warlock didn’t want to stand out by taking a room on the top floor.

“How did you find this room?” I ask.

Chisholm sighs. “The name. It was registered under A. Baris. Your suggestion about a potential mythological connection gave us some ideas. We pulled all the registrations along the beach and had a computer sift through potential fake names and anything that cross-referenced with something relating to magic or mysticism. Abaris is a rather unusual name. Abaris the Hyperborean was an ancient magician. I know. Sounds like something out of a comic book. Obviously”—he pauses—“it was an intentional clue. He wanted us to find this place.”

The police officer standing guard at the door lets us inside. It’s not a large room. The bed has been pushed up against the wall to make more space. There’s a telescope in front of the large window trained on the beach in front of the sandbar.