“The plane could be real and it’s still a trick. Maybe the Navy records for the plane were tampered with too,” I reply.

“So it’s always a trick?” he asks.

I’ve known enough highly educated men to realize that almost all of them want to believe that there’s some magical part of life we can’t explain. Psychologists especially. “If it’s packaged like a trick, there’s probably a reason why.”

“Does the idea of being fooled bother you?”

“No.” I’ve had to deal with this question all my life. “Not if we catch this guy. I mean, that’s why we’re here? That’s why I’m here?”

“Yep.” He sticks a hand into his pocket and pulls out a photograph of the pilot. “We just processed a bunch of stills the techs took. Nobody else has seen a good close-up of the face. What do you see?”

He looks like he stepped out of a Life magazine from the 1940s. Unlike Chloe’s double, his face is almost peaceful, as if he died in his sleep. On a closer examination I can see abrasions on his face. The kind my grandfather and uncle had from years of alcoholism. “Burst blood vessels.”

Chisholm takes the photograph back from me and points out the discoloration in the cheeks and around the eyes. “I won’t know until forensics gets a closer look, but it looks like he died in a vacuum. Some might say it’s as if he and the plane were transported into the middle of space.”

“So why does he look recently dead while the plane is like something Columbus flew over on?” The Warlock is giving us too much proof.

I see his eyes twitch at my metaphor. “Maybe because this void or wherever he’s been makes things age differently.”

I don’t think Chisholm believes. He’s testing the limits of my belief. “Maybe because if the plane showed up looking brand-new, nobody would believe it was the original artifact. If he had an old corpse in there, people might just assume it washed up from below. It’s an inconsistency. Like a tell in poker. It’s like in a card trick how I might flip a card over in a way that doesn’t make any logical sense if you think about the action. But taken as a whole, it makes sense.”

Chisholm nods his head. “Keep reminding us how it could be done. Maybe we can figure out who did this.”

He hands the photograph to me again. I try to imagine the mind that would go as far as killing a man in a vacuum chamber to create an illusion.

I’m glad that Chisholm and his group are the ones who have to get inside the Warlock’s head. I only have to take apart his handiwork.

I just hope he’s not as clever as I’m afraid he might be. I’m still having nagging thoughts about the cemetery murder. We reached a convenient explanation. Too convenient for a man capable of making the world think he just ripped a hole through space and time to produce a long-lost mystery.