Rye was alone in the waiting room. The bright fluorescent lighting made it seem cold and inhospitable. The irony of that didn’t escape him. He walked over to an eastern-facing window. Although Thanksgiving Day had dawned, there wasn’t a pink sunrise to admire. The density of the fog obscured it.

At this hour, it would still be full dark in Austin. Too early to call.

Which actually made it the ideal time. It was doubtful anyone would answer, he wouldn’t have to talk, but the call would be registered. He could honestly claim that he’d made an attempt.

He punched in the number. The call went through. He disconnected on the third ring. Done.

But then he realized that the number of his spare phone wouldn’t be recognized. That call hadn’t counted. He still had it to dread.

Dash would be up. Dash was always up. Rye called. Dash answered in his customary snarl, and when Rye identified himself, he said, “Well, it’s about time. I’ve been—”

“My phone was busted, and before you light into me, let me fill you in on a few details that the deputy who called you last night didn’t know.”

For once in his life, Dash held his tongue for as long as Rye talked. He concluded by telling Dash how sorry he was about the Cessna. “I did my best. Wasn’t good enough.”

“Shit, Rye. The plane’s insured. I’ll collect the money and sell the undamaged parts, and come out ahead. It’s worth more wrecked than it was intact. But if you’d’ve been killed—”

“You wouldn’t have collected a thing. I’m not insured. My life isn’t worth a dime.”

“Don’t joke.”

“Wasn’t.”

After a short, tense silence, Dash asked, “You’re sure about the laser?”

A tide of anger washed over Rye. “Don’t insult me, Dash.”

“Just asking a simple question. Don’t read nothing into it.”

Rye knew there was much more behind Dash’s simple question, but he left it alone. “The beam hit me square in the eyes.”

“All I needed to hear. I’d like to castrate the bastard.”

“Get in line.”

“Have the cops rounded up any suspects yet?”

This was going to be the dicey part. “I didn’t tell them about it. I let them think I screwed the pooch.” Rye figured Dash was too astonished to speak. He continued before he could. “Wouldn’t have done any good to tell them, Dash. They’d only have my word for it, and I can see the eye rolls now. If I’d cried laser, it would’ve looked like I made up a far-fetched excuse for missing the runway.”

“And that’s worse than having them think it was your error?”

“This time, yeah.”

“Want to tell me why?”

“It’s complicated.”

Dash snorted. “That much I know.”

“It has to do with the client.”

“Dr. Lambert, or the one who came to meet you?”

“Both, I think. This whole thing is off somehow. She protects that box like it’s the Holy Grail.”

“She?”

“Dr. O’Neal.”

“The Dr. O’Neal you’ve been talking about is a she?”

“What? You’ve got something against female doctors?”

“Actually, I prefer ’em. What I’ve got an aversion to is a pilot who gets sabotaged and damn near killed in my plane, waits hours to call me with the details, and then when he does, takes me by the hand and leads me around the mulberry bush a few times and thinks—wrongly—that I’ll be satisfied with that.”

“I share your frustration, believe me. I don’t know what’s going on, either. I’d like to hang around till I find out who was at the other end of that laser and take a dull handsaw to his dick. But the best thing for me, and for you, too, is to soft-soap that in my accident report. Say it could have been a laser, not that it definitely was. I want to get away from here as soon as possible and write this off as a misadventure.”

Dash thought it over. Then, “You saw inside the box?”

“Yes.”

“Because I don’t want Dash-It-All to get caught up in anything illegal.”

“Hear you. I don’t want to get caught up in anything, period. I’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing. Free to go.” Without trying to sound desperate, he said, “Send me somewhere, Dash.”

“Where are you now?”

“ER waiting room. I dropped by to see about the guy who got clobbered.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘writing it off.’”

“I owe him this much. Jesus.”

“Okay, okay. And then you’re ready to skip Dodge?”

“As soon as I’ve looked over the plane and talked to the FAA office in Atlanta. I doubt an agent will truck it up here before Monday, earliest. Probably he won’t come at all. Keep checking your email. I’ll send you pictures. You can forward them to your insurance adjuster.”

“Never mind what I said a minute ago. Breaks my heart to think of that 182 being junked. It was a damn good plane.”

“Breaks my heart for you. May be worth salvaging.”

“We’ll see.”