More Twisted

Carole snapped at him, “What is going on? I want to know. Now.”
    And, as Eberhart and Lampert walked toward them from the chopper, he told her the whole story.

    No weekend vacation, Carole announced.
    “You, like, might’ve mentioned it up front.”
    Showing some backbone for a change.
    “I didn’t want to worry you.”
    “You mean you didn’t want me to ask what you did to somebody to make them want to get even with you.”
    “I—”
    “Take me home. Now.”
    They’d returned to Scottsdale in silence, driving in a rental car; the Mercedes had been towed away by the police to look for evidence of tampering and repairs. An hour after walking through their front door Carole left again, suitcase in hand, headed to Los Angeles early for the family visit.
    York was secretly relieved she was going. He couldn’t deal both with Trotter and his wife’s crazy moods. He returned inside, checked the lock on every door and window and spent the night with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and HBO.

    Two days later, around five p.m., York was working out in the gym he’d set up in a bedroom—he was avoiding the health club and its deadly sauna. He heard the doorbell. Picking up the pistol he now kept in the entryway, he peered out. It was Eberhart. Three locks and a deadbolt later, he gestured the security man in.
    “Got something you should know about. I had two teams on Trotter yesterday. He went to a multiplex for a matinee at noon.”
    “So?”
    “There’s a rule: anybody under surveillance goes to a movie by himself . . . that’s suspicious. So the teams compared notes. Seems that fifteen minutes after he goes in, this guy in overalls comes out with a couple of trash bags. Then about an hour later, little over, a delivery man in a uniform shows up at the theater, carrying a big box. But my man talked to the manager. The workers there don’t usually take the first trash out to the Dumpster until five or six at night. And there weren’t any deliveries scheduled that day.”
    York grimaced. “So, he dodged you for an hour. He could get anywhere in that time.”
    “He didn’t take his car. We had it covered. And we checked cab companies. Nobody called for one in that area.”
    “So he walked someplace?”
    “Yep. And we’re pretty sure where. Southern States Chemical is ten minutes by foot from the multiplex. And you know what’s interesting?” He looked at his notes. “They make acrylonitrile, methyl methacrylate and adiponitrile.”
    “What the hell’re those?”
    “Industrial chemicals. By themselves they’re not any big deal. But what is important is that they’re used to make hydrogen cyanide.”
    “Jesus. Like the poison?”
    “Like the poison. And one of my guys looked over Southern States. There’s no security. Cans of the chemicals were sitting right out in the open by the loading dock. Trotter could’ve walked up, taken enough to make a batch of poison that’d kill a dozen people and nobody would’ve seen him. And guess who did the company’s landscaping?”
    “Trotter.”
    “So he’d know about the chemicals and where they were kept.”
    “Could anybody make it? The cyanide?”
    “Apparently it’s not that hard. And with Trotter in the landscaping business, you’d have to figure he knows chemicals and fertilizers. And remember: He was in the army too, first Gulf War. A lot of those boys got experience with chemical weapons.”
    The businessman slammed his hand down on the counter. “Goddamnit. So he’s got this poison and I’ll never know if he’s slipped it into what I’m eating. Jesus.”
    “Well, that’s not exactly true,” Eberhart said reasonably. “Your house is secure. If you buy packaged food and keep an eye on things at restaurants you can control the risk.”
    Control the risk  . . .
    Disgusted, York returned to the hallway, snagged the FedEx envelope containing a delivery of his cigars, which had arrived that morning, and ripped it open. He stalked into the kitchen, unwrapping the cigars. “I can’t even go outside to buy my own smokes. I’m a prisoner. That’s what I am.” York rummaged in a drawer for a cigar cutter, found one and nipped the end off the Macanudo. He chomped down angrily on the cigar, clicked the flame of a lighter and lifted it to his mouth.
    Just at that moment a voice yelled, “No!”
    Startled, York reached for his gun. But before he could reach it, he was tackled from behind and tumbled hard to the floor, the breath