Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

a cascade of orange sparks, before sliding forward and into Leonard’s fingers. He cried in pain and released his grip. The muzzle of the riot gun drooped, and he drew his injured hand to his chest. With several fingers nearly severed, he was bleeding profusely.

Both warriors stood facing the other, sizing up the opponent, seeking vulnerabilities.

“You,” Leonard said. “You attacked my men on Alcatraz. How did you know to find me here?”

“Wasn’t hard to piece together. You talked a lot. Told Toby about your home here, your connection to family that lived here.”

“The FBI ordered the murder of my aunt and her children at their home only a mile from here. They burned them alive.”

“Your allegations are just that. The investigation—”

“The investigation was a joke. A coverup.”

“It was a tragedy. And you let it consume you with anger and hatred, like a cancer. This sciamachy you’ve been waging against imagined conspirators has led you to ruins.”

“I’ll kill you!” he screamed, and raised the shotgun barrel, one-handed.

But not fast enough. Danya seized her advantage and whipped the machete downward. The Kukri, designed as a combat knife, performed as expected. The steel bit into his shoulder, just missing his collar bone. It slashed diagonally across his chest, leaving an eighteen-inch laceration down to the ribs.

In an agonized scream, he pulled the trigger, even though he knew the shot wouldn’t connect. He staggered, but stayed on his feet. His eyes burned with hatred.

“Where is she?” Danya said.

Leonard laughed. “You’re too late.”

“Where is she? Or I’ll cut you up piece by piece until you tell me.”

A spasm of pain choked off his amusement, rendering his countenance a grimace.

“Not here,” he said.

“Where?”

“Gone. Poof.”

“Drop the gun.”

“This?” He summoned the strength to raise the barrel and grasp the foregrip with his bloody hand. “No.” He jerked back the foregrip to chamber a shell.

She swung the blade horizontally, which cut deep into his arm and knocked the gun aside. She pivoted. A glint of light flashed off the polished blade just before it sliced through his neck. With wide eyes, Leonard stared back at her. As the blood drained from his carotid arteries, he collapsed to the shag carpet and bled out in seconds.

Chapter 31

Looking down on Leonard’s lifeless body, Danya picked up the shotgun. It had a shell in the chamber, but the tubular magazine was empty. Still, even one shot was better than nothing if she encountered other associates of Leonard’s.

She proceeded to finish clearing the house, room by room. It didn’t take long. After checking the bathroom and closet, she passed back through the front of the house and stopped in the kitchen. Before her was the door to the garage.

Leading with the twelve-gauge, she kicked the chair aside, freeing the door, and yanked it open. Although she’d hoped to find Toby confined there, the garage was empty, other than an assortment of tools and equipment.

A bank of overhead lights illuminated the windowless space as if it were open in broad daylight. Even better, the lights were arranged so the rays didn’t cast any shadows. The walls were clad in galvanized corrugated sheet steel, the reflective surface adding to the brightness of the large room.

Curious, she rapped her knuckles against one of the rippled metal sheets. She expected it to flex where it spanned the space between studs. Surprisingly, the sheet felt rigid. She ran her fingernail over the edge and examined it. She discovered that multiple sheets were overlaid and fastened securely to the wall. That’s odd.

Continuing her inspection, she was drawn to a metal overhead hood—like the type used in residential kitchens to draw smoke and hot air from above a cooking range—suspended in a rear corner of the garage. A blower was fixed to the ceiling above the hood to assist with drawing air up and discharging it outside, above the roof. Beneath the hood was a brick furnace, open at the top. Propane tanks fed gas to two torches inserted in opposite sides of the masonry cube. And suspended within the open top was a large ceramic crucible. By all appearances, it seemed Leonard was operating a small foundry. But absent were foundry sand and flasks for making molds.

What were you up to, Leonard?

In another corner, she discovered a pile of black plastic husks from old car batteries. And nearby were two metal buckets. One was empty, but the other was a quarter-full of lead wheel weights. Hanging on the wall behind the buckets were several rectangular metal frames. They’d been fabricated from steel bar stock, and welded at the four corners. Each frame was about twelve-by-six inches, and an inch deep.

A well-used workbench was against the wall, cobbled together from scraps of mismatched plywood and dimensioned lumber. Scattered across the surface of the bench was a collection of hand tools, most marred by rust. A cheap MIG welding machine sat underneath the bench. In contrast to the other tools, it appeared to be in new condition.

As she took it all in, understanding dawned on her. This is where they prepared the cannisters of radioactive material. She tapped the steel-clad wall again. Of course. The steel sheets would attenuate the radiation, confining it more or less within the garage. And the old car batteries—they stripped the lead sheets out and melted them down with the wheel weights. Then cast sheets within the steel frames.

She gazed upon the concrete floor, searching for proof of her theory. And there it was—two markings identifiable because of their slight discoloration, a gray-brown appearance. Easy to miss.

She grabbed one of the frames from the wall hanger and laid it down—a perfect fit to the rectangular mark, the concrete having been scorched when the molten lead was cast into each frame.

It all made sense. The furnace in the corner for melting the scrap lead, which was then cast into thick sheets. It was easy to imagine the lead shapes being screwed to a steel frame, no doubt assembled using the welding machine. The resulting lead box