Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (best historical fiction books of all time txt) 📗

She should have walked away—after all, it wasn’t any of her business. She could have simply paid for the gas and coffee and moved on. By now, she’d be miles away, and with no entanglements.

But that wasn’t her style—not anymore.

She didn’t know how many of the men and women she’d killed truly deserved it. A lot, she hoped. But she would often lay awake at night, wondering how many of her victims were innocent. Or at worst, guilty of far lesser crimes that didn’t justify the penalty she’d administered with ruthless efficiency.

The logical part of her mind argued that she could still leave before the ambulance arrived. She could probably trust Toby not to share her license plate number or the description of her vehicle—a red Ford pickup towing an Airstream trailer. But to be safe, she could sell or abandon the truck later—today, even—and buy a used SUV or pickup from a private seller.

As logical as the plan was, she dismissed it.

“Okay,” she said. “Why don’t you give me directions, and I’ll get away from here before the ambulance arrives.”

Toby shared her address, and then said, “You aren’t running from the law, are you?”

Danya considered how to answer. If she was truthful, Toby might feel compelled to share information with the sheriff. Besides, what would be gained by explaining that she was wanted by multiple domestic and foreign agencies?

“I just don’t think it’ll be helpful if I’m here. You know, in case Cole comes around. Just tell them exactly what I said on the phone. You found Cole unconscious, lying on the pavement, and you assume he fell on his face.”

“You think they’ll believe me? I mean, it sounds pretty lame.”

Danya smiled. “Cole doesn’t have the appearance of an overachiever. Besides, who’s going to dispute your story?”

“Cole might. He could call the sheriff.”

“Which is why I won’t be here. Besides, Cole isn’t the kind of guy who wants to have anything to do with law enforcement, or admit that a woman kicked his ass. Just stick to the story, okay? You’ll be fine.”

Toby forced a smile and nodded. “Thank you.”

Danya turned and strode toward her truck, then called, over her shoulder, “You can thank me when this is over.”

Chapter 7

Fearing that Toby’s mother may not react well to a stranger parked on her property, Danya decided to wait alongside the county road at the entrance to the long driveway. Two log posts on either side of the gravel drive supported a wood plank engraved with the words RIDDLE RANCH. She coasted to a stop on a long and wide shoulder that also sprouted a bank of mailboxes, which she took care not to block. An oak tree provided shade from the afternoon sun. If anyone bothered to ask why she was parked alongside the road, she would feign being lost and ask for directions to Lava Beds National Monument, which she knew to be many miles to the south.

Shortly after 5:00 p.m., Toby stopped at the row of mailboxes.

“You didn’t have to wait here,” she said through the open window. “The driveway is just ahead.”

“I didn’t want to disturb your mother. I’ll follow you.”

Toby led her to the barn. It was about fifty yards behind the house. The weathered structure was dark gray, with no trace of ever being painted. Two large doors provided access, one on each gabled wall at opposite ends of the barn.

“Your family name is Riddle?” Danya said.

“Yep.” Toby extended her hand. “Since we haven’t formally met, my name is Toby Riddle.”

“Danya.” She shook Toby’ hand.

“Just Danya? No last name? Mysterious.”

“Biton. Danya Biton.”

“Hmm.” Toby gazed at Danya, taking in her features.

Before her stood a woman in her late thirties, with tanned skin, a high forehead, and a long and thin face. Her hair was a few shades lighter than her dark brown eyes.

After thoughtful consideration, Toby said, “Let me guess. French?”

Danya shook her head. “Israeli. My family is Jewish.”

“Oh. I’ve never met anyone from Israel. Your name is beautiful. Does it have special meaning?”

“According to my mother, my father insisted on naming me Danya. In Hebrew, it means judgment of God. And you? I’m guessing American Indian, Modoc or Klamath.”

Toby raised her eyebrows. “Yes, and yes. My father’s side of the family traces its lineage to the Modoc, but my mother is from the Klamath tribe. We have deep roots here, going back countless generations.”

“It shows in your eyes. This land is important to you.”

“I’ve never had much interest in traveling. This is my ancestral home. I belong here. Even if there are jerks like Cole to contend with.”

“Don’t worry about him.”

Toby found comfort in her words. The woman was strong and confident.

“Park anywhere you like,” Toby said. “There’s an electrical panel just inside the door, and outlets at both ends of the barn. I’ll get an extension cord from the house.”

Danya pushed the heavy door to the side. It slid open with a screech. Inside, the barn was one large open space. The roof was easily thirty-feet high at the ridge, sloping down to ten feet at the side walls. At one time, it was probably filled with bales of hay. But now it was empty.

She flipped a switch on the wall, and three overhead lamps turned on, providing scant illumination. The empty space seemed to absorb the light, leaving the walls dark and barely visible. The floor was hard-packed gravel, with dark oil stains here and there.

She turned at the soft crunch of gravel to see Toby holding out an old, heavy-duty electrical cord.

“Looks like the barn isn’t used much anymore,” Danya said.

“There was a time when Dad grew alfalfa on the ranch. He’d harvest it and store it here to keep it dry, then sell to other ranchers during the winter months. That was a long time ago. I was just a little girl.”

“What happened?”

“Dad passed away, and Mom got ill. It cost more to hire laborers than we could make by selling the feed. So I got a job at