Free Touch-Me-Not by Cynthia Riggs Page A

with him, making her house somewhat safer. Since he’d stashed the Taser cartridge in his toolbox, he decided to leave it at Victoria’s, where no one was likely to discover it. Even if she did look inside, she wouldn’t recognize a spent Taser cartridge. That way, he could dispose of the cartridge later. He kept out a couple of tools he might need in the meantime, a screwdriver and a pair of pliers. A wrench. A flashlight.
    He then went downstairs and left Victoria a note on the kitchen table, telling her he’d made temporary repairs to the outlet but not to use it. After that, he went outside and stood at the top of her stone steps, thinking.
    Banks of lilacs—not mere shrubs, but tall trees—surrounded Victoria’s weathered house, and the branches were heavy with blossoms. He breathed in deeply and thought about his life before the death of Jerry Sparks.
    He was so tired. His eyes felt scratchy and his clothes were rumpled. If only he could go back in time and redo that confrontation. He hadn’t meant to kill Jerry Sparks. Tasers weren’t supposed to kill. That’s why he’d bought one. Guns killed people, not Tasers. He’d never wanted a gun around that his kids might play with.
    Why did he have to be the one in hundreds or thousands to kill with a Taser?
    The Taser. Would an autopsy determine how Sparks had died? He didn’t think the tiny darts had penetrated the skin. They didn’t need to. Perhaps the medical examiner would conclude that Jerry died of a heart attack, which was probably what had happened. Too many drugs, not eating right, that’s what they’d think. He had to get rid of the damned cartridge as soon as he could. No one would find it at Mrs. Trumbull’s, and if, by some chance, she looked into his toolbox, she’d think it was some piece of electrical equipment. Which it was, in a way. The Taser itself, he’d left in the top file drawer. God, how his stomach hurt.
    Before he did anything, he had to find that computer.
    He’d parked his van in Victoria’s drive. The gold lettering on the side was dusty, and he wiped it with his handkerchief before he got in.
    As he passed the West Tisbury police station, he saw a white Volvo station wagon parked out front. Could this be the guy who’d bought the computer? A lot of Volvos in the village, but not many white ones. Did he dare meet the owner face-to-face, in the police station, of all places?
    Best defense is a good offense, he thought, and made a U-turn around the triangle at Brandy Brow and pulled into the parking area, stopping next to the white Volvo.
    He went to the back of his van for his toolbox, then remembered he’d left it at Victoria’s. Lucky he’d thought to keep out a couple of tools. He put the screwdriver and pliers in his shirt pocket, brushed past the ducks squatting on the oyster shells, and went up the steps and into the station house.
    Chief O’Neill was at her desk, talking with Victoria Trumbull. A distinguished-looking guy stood up when LeRoy came in. The chief stood, too, and held out her hand.
    “Mr. Watts,” she said. “You know my deputy, Victoria Trumbull, don’t you?”
    “Of course. I was just at your house, Mrs. Trumbull.”
    “Were you able to fix the problem?”
    “I’ll have to come back when I have more time. It’s going to take some work.”
    “I was afraid of that.”
    “By the way, I left my toolbox there. Hope you don’t mind.”
    “Of course not.” Victoria nodded and said to Casey, “LeRoy and Jerry Sparks worked for me in the past.”
    Jerry Sparks, thought LeRoy. Jerry Sparks, Jerry Sparks!
    “I understand he’s not with you any longer,” said Casey. “I’m sorry about that. He seemed to do good work.” She turned to Howland. “By the way, Mr. Watts, do you know Howland Atherton?”
    “How’re you doin’?” LeRoy held out his hand.
    Howland shook hands. “The owner of Watts Electrical?”
    “Yes, sir,” said LeRoy.
    “How can we help you?” asked Casey.
    “I was