One bomb tech is on a ladder looking into the cockpit, while another is examining the engine behind the propeller shaft with a mirror. With that metal casing, the whole plane looks like a bomb to me.

I don’t know what to say to Knoll. I decide on just being honest. “I’m not sure. If the Warlock thinks he could be exposed, he’s going to destroy the evidence. And if that’s not one of the missing planes, then I think we’re in a bad situation.”

All of us are thinking about the duplicate Chloe bursting into flames. We’re afraid that this could end even more spectacularly. Besides the fuselage and wings, he could have buried something in the sandbar. The bomb squad is sweeping the area with handheld metal detectors and chemical sensors.

Knoll leans into me and half whispers. I can tell he’s embarrassed to ask the question. “Could it be the real thing?”

I’ve been wondering too. Unlike a girl coming back to life, it’s theoretically possible someone found the long-lost plane. But still. “Maybe. Maybe.”

The naval officer disagrees. “That can’t be one of the planes. Maybe something else pulled off the floor of the ocean, but it’s a million to one it’s from Flight 19.”

Knoll takes the cautionary approach and radios over to the head of the bomb squad. “I think we should pull back for now. There’s a chance the whole thing could be set to explode in our faces.” He pauses, then adds, “Again.”

16

THERE ARE MORE than a thousand people observing us from the highway along the beach. The wide sidewalks are packed with locals and tourists. Everyone is here to witness the miracle they saw on television, waiting to find out if it’s a hoax. Crowds have filled the area between the water and the streets on both sides of the barrier. News helicopters are flying around in a circle, covering the scene from all angles.

It’s a sunny day. That water is sparkling and a nice breeze fights back the heat of the sun. If you ignore the airplane on the sandbar, news crews and law enforcement, it could be the crowd that shows up for a Fourth of July display or air show. A great day to pull off something like this. I look at the faces observing us. The Warlock has to be among them somewhere. He’s enjoying every minute of the show. He watched us pull back the bomb squad and congratulated himself on making us overthink everything.

Him. I keep thinking of the Warlock in the singular. I look back at the plane sitting on the sandbar. Could one man pull that off?

“Lieutenant, how much does one of those planes weigh?”

The naval officer answers without hesitation. “Unloaded, ten thousand pounds.”

“Could one man get that out there by himself?” Local police had been checking for witnesses, but so far none have shown up.

“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering that myself.”

I rephrase the question from the abstract. It’s always been a good trick to get people to think of the possible. “If you had to do it, how would you?”