What there was instead was procedure, the patient unglamorous machinery of statements and evidence and charges, the plastic vial cap and the falsified records and the recovered components and the testimony of a captain and a passenger who had each done their jobs, all of it assembling itself into a case that did not need her anger to stand.

He was charged with crimes that matched the scale of what he had tried to do, sabotage and attempted mass murder and the long corporate fraud beneath them, and in time he was convicted of them, and he was sentenced to spend the rest of his life in a federal prison.

Maya read about it from a distance, in Texas, with a cup of coffee going cold at her elbow, and she waited to feel the thing she had assumed she would feel, the hot satisfaction of a debt collected.

It did not come.